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Genocide in the United States: Probability and Prevention

 

Genocide in the United States: Probability and Prevention

 

Contents

  1. Trump and Fascism
  2. Fascism and the Republican Agenda
  3. Genocide Defined
  4. Historical Insights into Genocide
  5. Warnings: Leading Edges of Genocide
  6. Exclusionary Culture
  7. Psychology and Genocide
  8. Trump and…
  9. Stopping Genocide
  10. Reaffirming American Values

 

 

Introduction

This is the first draft of a book that my wife Barbara Anderson and I are writing.  We need to get this draft out in hopes of saving the country.  The final draft should take several months.

 

The United States is facing the possibility of genocide.

Thanks to advances in social science in the last 10 years, it is possible to predict quite accurately when and how genocide occurs.  It occurs when a highly exclusionary, negative ideology finds a charismatic leader who can win popular support, take over, and slowly erode democracy (or whatever traditional form he faced).  With autocracy—dictatorship or corrupted and compromised democracy—the leader will begin by consolidating his power through political killings.  Then, especially but not only if he is challenged by economic chaos or civil unrest or international war, he will resort to full-scale genocide.  This is the pattern seen in the rise of Hitler, Stalin, Mao Zedong, Suharto in Indonesia, and dozens of other genocidal heads of state.  It is confirmed by independent analyses by several scholars working with different data.

The United States has now elected a classic charismatic “populist” on a platform consisting almost entirely of ethnic, class, and religious attacks.  Trump ran against Muslims, Mexicans, immigrants, poor people, students, refugees, China, NATO, liberals, feminists, and many other groups.  He had no positive planks in his platform at all, except the reasonable but hard-to-achieve goal of keeping jobs in America.  His cabinet and his performance as president fit perfectly with this platform.  This is a level of exclusionary ideology rarely seen even in genocidal leaders.

He is currently moving in ways that resemble the early behavior of Hitler, Mussolini, and others who took total power.  If he takes power, his economic policies will certainly bring major economic dislocation, and his foreign policies are not reassuring.  With consolidation of power in his hands, genocide becomes more and more probable.

At present, the likelihood appears to be about 25%.  If Trump (or someone following him) seizes autocratic power, the likelihood rises to 100%.  This is a prediction as confident as predicting the sun will rise in the morning.  There is no case in our database of well over 100 cases of a situation like this failing to lead to mass murder.

Thus, we need to unite to make sure that Trump or his followers do not take full power, and that the exclusionary ideology identified with his rise is repudiated by Americans.

 

 

Chapter 1.  TRUMP AND FASCISM

 

The Trump Election

 

We have to spend the next four years (or more) working as hard as we can on unity, solidarity, and reconciliation.

Donald Trump was elected president by a considerable minority of voters, but a majority of the Electoral College.  With him came Republican dominance of the House of Representatives, majority in the Senate, and governorship and control of the legislatures in most states.

Several studies confirm the obvious point that racism and sexism account for much more of the Trump vote than any economic factors do (Lopez 2017).  In general, traditional Republicans and many former Democrats voted for Trump.

There are more, and sadder, factors.  The counties that switched from voting Democratic to voting for Trump are, in most cases, also counties that have rapidly rising rates of suicide, drug addiction, and alcoholism among less educated whites (see Case and Deaton 2015).  There are now over 33,000 deaths a year from opioid overdoses, an estimated 467,000 heroin addicts, and rapid increases in opioid abuse and death (Weir 2017).  Methamphetamines and related hard drugs are also a huge problem.  All these are heavily concentrated in poor rural areas.  Decline of good jobs is the biggest problem, but declines of environment, folk society and community, and local supportive religion (as opposed to faceless radio shows and vast, bland storefront churches) make life much harsher and less rewarding and encouraging.

Bitter alienation, despair, and resentment characterize these regions.  The modern economy has passed them by.  This modern economy—globalization, hi-tech, and all—is identified to a substantial degree with the Democrats.  The Republicans are more identified with the old economy: industrial agribusiness, oil, coal, and other mining, and to an extent the oldest forms of manufacturing.  Older and less educated workers, being more identified with this older world than with the modern (or postmodern) one, resentfully vote Republican.  Indeed, the modern hi-tech economy directly threatens oil and coal, and leads to loss of old-time manufacturing jobs via automation (which is more important than job exporting).  The Democrats have, by and large, responded by appealing to educated, urban citizens rather than finding out how to reach the disaffected.

Ever since World War II, there has been a widening gap between the more backward-looking primary production sectors, especially oil, and the increasingly hi-tech, high-research, high-skill sectors, especially communications and electronics.  Giant industrial firms usually side with the dinosaurs, out of tradition or out of immediate self-interest (the long run is not so hopeful for them).  This split has affected voting and policy in the obvious ways.  As oil and coal see the threat from solar and wind power, the great oil and coal billionaires wax ever more extreme, anti-change, and anti-democratic, whether in the US, Saudi Arabia, Russia, or Sudan.

Trump exploited a form of defiance typical of alienated working-class white culture.  Traditionally, the segments of that demographic that upper-class people call “rednecks” and “poor white trash” (Isenberg 2016) talk about public events in the way Trump does: in exaggerated, confrontational style, with overstatements, outright lies, militant attacks, deliberately provocative racist and sexist rhetoric, and denial of uncomfortable truths.  Above all, this discourse style forbids admitting one’s own weakness or wrongness, and forbids giving any credit to opponents.  Any opponent has to be utterly contemptible.  Bullying, showing off, and being tough are high virtues.

This is a way of dealing with personal weakness.  The people that act this way are often on the bottom, and they know it.  The louder the noise, the more obviously they are trying to deal with both their own weakness and bottom-dog status.  Trump appealed with surgical precision to these voters, using their classic rhetorical styles.  Hillary Clinton and her core voters—highly educated, genteel, and often snobbish toward rural workers—had no clue how to deal with it.

The working-class whites, and most political observers, were fooled.  The real power has gone not to Trump or the workers, but to the giant oil corporations, lobbyists, and right-wing campaign donors.  Also, Trump is also in league with, and apparently to some extent a pawn, of, Vladimir Putin, who is using fascistic politics to weaken the west and especially to weaken NATO and other anti-Russian organizing (see thorough account in Foer 2016).

The success of voter suppression, without which the Republicans would not have won the presidency, may have emboldened them (Wolf 2017).  Attempts to block taking office by the Democratic governor-elect of North Carolina were followed by Trump’s rushing through Cabinet appointments on the day that Obama gave his farewell address.  The Republicans attempted to shut down the independent House ethics investigative body.  Republicans have shut down videotaping in Congress.  They have threatened Planned Parenthood workers at local and national levels.  They have threatened widespread use of the dangerously ill-defined label “terrorist organization”; there is nothing to keep them from labeling the Sierra Club or Planned Parenthood as terrorist organizations.  (One recalls that about ten years ago one George W. Bush appointee semi-seriously referred to the National Education Association as a terrorist organization.)

 

The New Administration

 

The “REINS” act, introduced in Congress as soon as Trump was inaugurated, proposes to make Congress vote on all federal regulations, even on rules blocking poisonous substances in the food supply (Pope 2017).  Several other moves indicate a direct program of undermining standard democratic (small-d) institutions.  The Senate has suspended filibustering on appointments, including the designation of Neil Gorsuch to the Supreme Court; this suspension of democratic (small-d) traditions indicates that the Republicans expect to have their way, and will ignore any ordinary procedures.  Their willingness to spend huge sums for security for Trump and his family and his hotels is part of that picture.

On the economic side, most Americans do not realize the enormous scale of direct and indirect subsidies, tax breaks, and other giveaways that go to big oil and other giant firms.  Direct subsidies to oil firms alone run over $37 billion a year.

Class still does matter.  Poverty in America is increasing, as wealth concentrates at the top.  In the 2% worst-off counties in the US (heavily nonwhite, outside of Appalachia where they are heavily white), median household income is $24,960.  In the richest 2% it is $89,723.  Smoking is twice as common in the poor ones, obesity 50% more prevalent.  Life expectancy for women is 75.9 years, for mean 69.8; corresponding figures for rich counties, 83 and 79.3.  Fortunately, relatively few people are in the poor counties: only 14,000, vs. 362,000 in the richest 2% (Kaplan 2016.)  All these poor counties are rural: Black in the deep south, Native American in the northern plains, Hispanic on the border, and lily white in Appalachia, where the very poorest and least healthy are concentrated.  Those Appalachian counties voted about 90% for Trump; the other poor counties were largely for Clinton.

An anonymous teacher calling herself “bkamr” (2017) writes from Kentucky about the desperation and pain in this heaviest of Trump-voting areas.  She points out, among other things, that no Democrats—not even the state legislator from the area—ever come near the place to help.  People desperately need the services that even the poor get in cities.  She explains the self-destructive anger born of hopelessness.

A related problem is the attack on labor.  The Republicans have long pushed for “right-to-work laws” that would make it hard to unionize.  They are now trying for a nationwide right-to-work law, as they have many times before.  They will probably refuse to recognize unions of federal workers and contractor firms.

The Republicans not only refuse to acknowledge or do anything about global warming; they now have weighed in to oppose regulating pesticides and pollutants.  They are trying to repeal the Wilderness Protection Act, Clean Air Act, Clean Water Act, Endangered Species Act, and the rest, and to sell off or give away the national lands.  The movement to privatize national lands is particularly long-lasting and powerful, including things like the “Sagebrush Rebellion” that has been ongoing since the 1970s.  Trump imposed a ban on speaking to the public by the EPA and USDA.  Fortunately, this attracted so much criticism that it was soon rescinded (but it may come again in more insidious form).  Most chilling of all is the long-standing Republican attempt to ban, or at least reduce to the vanishing point, class-action suits.

In the United States, white right-wingers are hoping they will take down nonwhites, women, and liberals such that white right-wingers will prosper, or at least go downhill less rapidly than they would otherwise.  In fact, Trump’s policies will ruin almost everyone except oil billionaires.  The reality is that the Trump voters, especially the less educated rural and working-class ones who really put him in, will almost all be terribly hurt financially and physically.  Their real hope appears to be to make the “others” hurt even worse.  (For full details on Trump and his cabinet, see John Bellamy Foster, “Neofascism in the White House,” 2017; it covers the new administration so well that we can be summary here.  See also Gerber 2017 for small clues that add up, showing Trump is moving rapidly toward autocracy.)

Trump ran an extremist campaign, and has picked the most extreme right-wingers in the United States for his cabinet.

Rex Tillerson, Trump’s Secretary of State, not only deals heavily with the Russians, but was CEO of ExxonMobil during its long period of denying there was any link between human action and greenhouse gases, while its own internal memos showed it knew perfectly well about the links.  Decisions made under Tillotson were clearly based on knowing that the world would warm.  Many deal with issues like the rapid decrease of ice in the Arctic Ocean, and similar global-warming issues.  Yet, through it all, ExxonMobil funded organizations denying climate change and attacking legitmate science (Wasserman 2017).

Jeff Sessions, Trump’s Attorney General, was regarded in his Senate years as to the right of any other senator.  He has a long record of racism, opposition to civil rights and to civil rights laws, and connection with extreme right-wing white-supremacist organizations.  His first moves as Attorney General were to stop six-year-long legal proceedings against Texas’ openly discriminatory voter suppression laws, and to stop all investigations of police killings of unarmed persons.

Full details of his personal closeness to Stephen Bannon, Trump’s openly neo-Nazi head of staff, are reported by Baker (2017).  Bannon and Sessions have expressed mutual admiration on many occasions, and Sessions has granted several exclusive interviews and other favors to Breitbart’s, later Bannon’s, Breitbart News.  These have involved expectable enthusiasm for Breitbart’s racist and anti-feminist reporting.

Scott Pruitt, now head of EPA, is an oil publicist.

Julie Kirchner, Trump’s head of U.S. Customs and Border Protection, was executive director of the white-supremacist and anti-immigrant group FAIR, which opposed all immigration but especially “nonwhite” immigrants as inferior and prone to outbreed “whites” (Piggott 2017).

Elimination of public education and the defunding of a lot of science will cripple the US economically for the long term.  The new Secretary of Education, Betsy DeVos (Tabachnik 2011) is the most visible of the extreme critics of public education—those that want to eliminate it completely.  It is probably safe to say that only a few Republicans actually want to eliminate public education entirely.  But she is not only opposed to public education, but is committed to a “Christian” education that countenances anti-evolutionist, anti-science, racist, anti-gay and similar teachings.  She advocates vouchers so parents can send children to private schools, but voucher-funded private schools provide very inferior education—much worse than public schools—where this program has been tried on any scale (Hiltzik 2017).  She is married to the heir of the classic pyramid scheme Amway, and her brother was the head of the notorious Blackwater firm that indulged in large-scale torture, killing of civilians, and other war crimes in Iraq in the Iraq War (see Edwards 2016).  Clearly she is connected to much more than just opposition to education.  Yet the future of the American economy over the long term may depend on her.

Trump’s voters were less educated than Clinton voters, and his cabinet is much less educated than Obama’s—only Ben Carson has a doctoral degree, and that in a field irrelevant to his charge. Formidably important in Trump’s victory was the plummeting level of public and popular culture in the last few decades.  Trump won and Clinton lost partly because he was a reality TV star and she was a policy wonk.

 

The Changing Republican Party

 

Part of the background is the shift of the Republican Party from one of small local businessmen and to a party based on a few big firms, largely representing what may be called the dinosaur economy—big oil, big coal, big agrochemical, and similar sunsetting industries.  They fight to prevent change and progress, since it would plow them under.  They thus oppose science and education across the board, as well as environmental protection.  They protect the enormous subsidies that keep them alive.  They get votes by ever more strident appeals to racism and religious bigotry.   This was the product of the “Southern Strategy,” developed by Lee Atwater and Karl Rove under Richard Nixon, and used with full success by Ronald Reagan.  Slowly, the racists and bigots took over, partly because small businesses and local firms declined relative to the power of giant centralized corporations.   The small businessman—often community-spirited, and pro-education—was replaced by dinosauric corporations appealing to a “base” of bigots.

Spending on education is a good tracker.  California built up its world-class university system under Republican governors.  Some Republican-dominated states still spend considerable money per student: Nebraska, Wyoming, Utah, and (to a lesser extent) a few other high-plains and western states.  Most, however, have devastated educational spending.  Kansas is the most extreme case (as of 2017).  In transition from Democratic to Republican governors, Kansas cut its education spending by an enormous amount.  Tennessee, Florida, North Carolina, Texas, and several other marginal-south states spend very little.  Others never spent much in the first place.

This shift on education can stand as a good proxy for attention to minorities, handicapped people, veterans, women—any population that can use some assistance.  Old-time Republicans took some care of these.  New ones cut assistance to the bone, or into the bone.

The US has shifted far to the right since the 1940s, especially since Nixon’s victory in 1968.  This has been reflected, for example, in falling or stagnant real wages, and steadily increasing tax cuts to the rich, many of whom (apparently including Trump) now pay no taxes at all.  Bill Clinton’s, and now Hillary Clinton’s, policies greatly resembled Eisenhower’s and Nixon’s; Trump’s are to the right even of Joseph McCarthy, Strom Thurmond, and other extreme right-wingers of the 1950s.

The Obama presidency brought out racism, which led to election of openly racist Republicans and drift toward racism of the whole party.  Finally, Trump’s campaign—based on racial, religious, nationalist, and gender hatred—was successful, and the rest of the Republicans quickly came to his support, with the exception of a few traditional conservatives such as John McCain.  The racism of Trump’s campaign greatly exacerbated by his campaign advisor and later chief of staff Stephen Bannon, openly neo-Nazi.  The combination of the Trump-Bannon campaign agenda with the party’s increasing drift toward corporatism has now produced full-scale fascism.

One major part of it is a shift from class politics—the old poor-Democrats, rich-Republicans model—to race, religion, and gender politics.  The center and left has, unfortunately, become narrowly focused on the racialization of politics, increasingly seeing politics as a fight between “whites” and others and between heterosexual males and others.  Of course, in the immediate future, we have to fight hatred and bigotry above all things, but we also have to get back to politics based on actual economic, environmental, and social issues, before politics in the US reaches the stage of actual race war and genocide.

The oldest stratagem in politics is to win by dividing the opposition.  The Republican oligarchy used that trick well in the election, and the Democrats and the left fell for it.  Sanders vs. Clinton, black vs. white, women vs. men, every imaginable division was exploited by the Republican high donorship.

The Sanders vs. Clinton war, waged largely by its followers (Sanders and Clinton remained solid in mutual support), was the worst.  There is a Chinese story of a heron that seized a clam.  The clam clamped its shell on the heron and trapped him.  Neither would let the other go.  A fisherman came and took them both.  That was the 2016 election.

The right is always solidary.  They closed ranks immediately and almost totally behind Trump the minute he was nominated.  The left never could get behind Clinton, and thus helped Trump instead.  The best advice now is to reach out to anybody and anybody, particularly if they are in the crosshairs of the right wing—gay, Muslim, black, transgender, or otherwise directly and immediately menaced.

Johan Galtung, a sociologist who coined the term “structural violence” and who correctly predicted the collapse of the USSR and other states from his research on empires, predicts the US will collapse now that Trump has won and begun his program (Galtung 2009; Gettys 2016 for his latest views).

 

World Rightward Shifts

 

Parallels from elsewhere continue to accumulate.  Hungary elected a fascist government recently, under the Trump-like Viktor Orbán.  Hostility to refugees, Muslims, Jews, Roma, and others has increased.  The government is now engaged in a massive suppression of the media, most recently a shutdown of the left-wing paper Nepszabadsag (Johnson 2016) and an attack on the Central European University funded by George Soros.  This follows Turkey’s increasingly savage crackdowns on media and academics, including firing of thousands of academics after a failed coup in 2016.  Turkey under Recep Erdogan has also been moving in a more and more openly fascist direction, whipping up more and more hatred against Kurds and non-Muslims.  As Ana Friedman (2016) put it after traveling in Europe recently, “popular support for liberal dermocracies around the world is on the decline—and support for autocratic alternatives is rising, even in many stable Western nations long thought to be beacons of freedom.”

Causes include dissatisfaction with globalization, but there is obviously much more to it.  Increasing devotion to extremist ideologies, from Chinese Communism to violent right-wing Islam and Narendra Modi’s reactionary Hinduism in India, is clearly involved.

The current wave of extremist right-wing electoral victories is very consistent.  Elected extremist regimes now rule the Philippines, India, Turkey, Hungary, Poland, England (and its Brexit vote), Venezuela, and a few other countries.  The elections were like those in the US: the rural, less educated, and economically backward sections of the populace elected the extremists, often with a plurality rather than a majority.  Moreover, in every case, the dinosauric sectors of the economy—oil, coal, mining, chemical-based large-scale agriculture—funded the extremists.

What is happening is a worldwide change from “progress” to ratfight.  In technical terms, we are seeing people shift from seeing politics and economics as at least potentially a positive-sum game to seeing them as a negative-sum game.  A positive-sum game is one in which everyone can win—in this case, political economy can produce a situation in which everyone gets better off.  A zero-sum game is a typical “game”:  One person or team wins, one loses.  A negative-sum game is one in which everyone loses.

Worldwide, it seems that negative-sum gaming is now the rule.  With populations rapidly rising and resources rapidly shrinking, this makes all too much sense.  It is, however, a strategy that will do nothing but destroy.

 

We—the rest of us, from radicals to conservatives—can deal with this only by having a clear vision of the alternative and a united front.  It is time for any real conservatives left in the US—that is, people who actually want small government, patriotism, and individual responsibility—to join with liberals against big government used to crush the weak, suspiciously close cooperation with Vladimir Putin, and refusal to take any responsibility or face any accountability.  Many factors lost the election for Clinton, but certainly one of the biggest was the failure of Sanders and Clinton partisans to unite, while the Republicans, after much initial resistance to Trump, united solidly and enthusiastically behind him.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 2.  FASCISM AND THE REPUBLICAN AGENDA

 

Fascism Defined

 

Fascism is defined by the Oxford English Dictionary as “an authoritarian and nationalistic right-wing system of government and social organization.”  Wikipedia (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Definitions_of_fascism, retrieved Jan. 7, 2017) gives dozens of definitions, by fascists, Marxists, humanists, and others.  Benito Mussolini coined the term (at least for its modern use), and variously defined it; one classic definition reads “Fascism includes supremacy of the military, the need for perpetual war and a disdain for pacifism, a  merging of corporate and state power, dismantling the unions, indirect control of the media, national security and patriotism as a motivational tool for the masses, government corruption, candidates appointed by the party command, and an erosion of voter rights.” (Quoted by Rainer Bussmann on Facebook, 2016.)  Several amplifications are provided by Wikipedia.   Anti-woman and anti-gay bias is also characteristic.  It is anti-individual and devoted to the state, again in contrast to classic conservatism.  It practices strong, dominating, often totalitarian government as opposed to the small government of earlier conservative thinking in the United States.

The Republicans in the United States show this shift clearly.  The GOP was always “patriotic” and statist more than individualist, but now patriotism in the old sense is shifting toward creation of new autocratic governance, and sheer obedience to an autocratic leadership is demanded.  Trump demands, and the whole Republican establishment agrees, that he should be above the law—not accountable to laws, traditions, or rules.

Fascism is an authoritarian and anti-democratic system.  Over time, in Italy, Germany, and later other countries, it fused government with giant corporations.  Everywhere, it used ethnic and religious hate to persuade the masses to go along.  It could count on militant bigots to supply its goon squads, usually essential to its operation.  These are represented in the US by the Ku Klux Klan and similar organizations.  Fascist government acts through heavy subsidies and special favors from government to corporations, while the corporations set the policies on industry (including such issues as pollution and labor) for the government.

Fascism draws much more on ethnic, gender, and religious hate, much less on classism, than either conservatism (which favored the upper classes) or Marxism (which favored the working classes).  It is also characterised by militarism and war, strict and highly unequal law enforcement, and restriction of targeted minorities.  It is one expression of capitalism (many have seen it as a natural consequence thereof), but it differs from classic capitalism in that it is the antithesis of a free market.  Instead, it colludes with giant firms to dominate the economy.  This was the outcome of Hitler’s “national socialism” (national sozialismus).  Neoliberalism has an uneasy relationship with fascism; neoliberalism is supposed to be “free market” oriented, but its founder Ludwig von Mises supported Hitler, his disciple F. Hayek supported Pinochet in Chile, and Hayek’s definition of fascism (see Wikipedia, “Definitions of Fascism”) is notably sympathetic.

Hitler’s Nazi variant was extreme, but still an example of a general tendency in culture:  “National Socialism has no faith in society and partidularly not in its good will…. This is the first principle of National Socialist social organization.  The second principle is the atomization of the individual.  Such groups as the family and church, the solidarity arising from common work in plants, shops and offices and deliberately broken down” (Neumann 1944:400).

The word “fascism” derives from the Latin word for a bundle of sticks bound together.  Hiter attacked not only Jews but also Slavs, Roma, gays, liberals, socialists, and others, even to science done by Jews such as Einstein (“Jew physics”), and modern art (“degenerate”).  The dominance of hatred in the fascist ideology has persisted, with modern fascists and neo-Nazis generally identifying it with racism and religious exclusion.

 

Republican Fascism

The combination of indiscriminate hatred and giant-firm domination of government makes the new Republican Party fascist by this or almost any definition.  The alliance with giant primary-production firms is now well out into the open with Trump’s designation of oil millionaires and oil-related businesspersons for his cabinet.

Republicans in states that the party dominates have indulged in massive voter suppression, gerrymandering, commandism in such matters as reproductive health, and other anti-democratic acts, as well as massive favoring of large firms.  Republican states have posted many cases of police shootings of unarmed African-Americans who were doing no harm, the police being praised or at least let off unchallenged.  Legislation against women’s health has been general and has gone far beyond issues of abortion.

The real fascist nature of modern Republicanism, however, is shown in the combination of Trump’s campaign—little beyond hatred of minorities, Jews, gays, feminists, and many other categories—and the domination of the Republican Party by giant firms, largely oil, and especially the Koch brothers.  Trump ran against minorities, China, Mexico, and Islam; his stated plans to ‘make America great again” were largely limited to breaking the power of those groups.

Also classic fascist is the rapid defunding of anything and everything that could possibly improve lives—health care, arts, education, food stamps, public radio, museums, and all–and shifting the funds to war and to brutal crackdown on undocumented immigrants.  Deliberately singling out aid workers, teachers, and other doers of good was an earmark of the CIA-backed fascists in Guatemala and El Salvador in the 1980s, as well as of fascists from Hitler to the Argentine colonels.  It also characterized the Communist crackdowns by Stalin, Mao, and the Khmer Rouge.  It seems to be a well-known aspect of genocide, apparently taught deliberately at the School of the Americas (where the butchers of Guatemala, El Salvador, and other Latin American regimes of the 1980s were trained; cf. Stoll 1993, Timerman 2002).

Trump’s administration has actually been more extreme than any other regime outside of Hitler’s and Mao’s, in turning against science (all science) as well as the United Nations, international treaties, and the usual list of good things.  Trump’s deliberately conspicuous diversion of money to fund his getaways at Mar-a-Lago is in the grand tradition set by Roman emperors and perfected by Louis XIV:  crush the populace by rubbing into them the fact that the ruler is using their money for his personal glory.

The most reactionary of the giant corporations are always the real architects and backers of authoritarianism.  In the US, that means especially big oil.  “The big oil companies made over $135 billion in profits last year” (Storm Is Coming, Nov. 30, 2016).  The brothers Charles and David Koch, oilmen at heart though Koch Industries has become diversified, have recently been the most consistent and important leaders of the farthest right in the United States.  Other oil, coal, and chemical corporations are on board, as well as some financial and gambling interests.  Bernie Sanders revealed on his Facebook page that the top 25 hedge-fund CEO’s made 11.6 billion last year, while the total pay of all the kindergarten teachers in the US was 8.5 billion.

The rich backers of Republican fascism include, most notably, the right-wing billionaire Robert Merton as well as the Kochs.  High Country News looked at 236 leading early appointments and transition-team members and found 72 of them had ties to the Koch brothers, including most of the Cabinet appointees as well as Vice-President Pence (Gilpin 2017).  The Kochs are well known for their background; their father carried out major projects for Hitler, they were raised by a pro-Hitler nurse, and their agenda all their lives has been straight from that playbook (see Jane Mayer, Dark Money, 2016).  Their policies are allegedly free-market and libertarian, but actually they have backed (strategically or tactically) every right-wing extremist agenda from opposition to birth control and abortion to suppression of minority voting.  Their deepest interest, however, is in removing regulations that affect big oil—notably pollution controls—and winning support for government subsidy and backing of giant firms, especially oil firms.  Via the Tea Party, and their ALEC project, the Kochs have supported voter suppression, massively attacked labor unions, amd fought against all environmental protection and other restrictions on large-scale primary production.

The Koch brothers started the Tea Party, ALEC, and several other organizations, and became dominant in funding several more traditionally conservative venues.  George Monbiot (2016) has revealed the web of liars and lying thinktanks, mostly funded by the Koch brothers, behind the Republican political machine.  The article is sobering, to put it mildly.

In old-time fascism, there was always a split between militarists, who focused on a strong military and frequent deployment in local wars, and traditionalists, who were concerned with legislating morality in ways not always popular with other conservatives.  It is not solely the media stereotype of anti-Semitism and micromanaging.  This is no longer the case; today the militarists and bigots have fused, and traditionalists are either swept along or exiled from the movement.

The Republican administration is following a well-known, well-trodden path.  Trump started his presidency with an inaugural address written by two racists with strong neo-Nazi connections, Stephen Bannon and Stephen Miller.  It included the phrase “America First,” which was the slogan of pro-Hitler Americans in the 1930s and 1940s.  Trump’s group also made use of the phrase “lying press,” the same as Hitler’s lugenpresse.  Trump’s publicity director Kellyanne Conway retitled lies as “alternative facts,” giving a new name to Joseph Goebbels’ Big Lie.  Trump said he was in a “war” with the press: “As you know, I have a running war with the media” (Memoli and Bennett 2017:A1).  In this, he follows authoritarians from Hitler to Putin and Recep Tayyip Erdogan in declaring war on the media.  In all cases, this rhetoric from a head of state has been met with increasing suppression of the press, and indeed Trump has banished reporters from the White House and pulled back from press conferences.  Similarities to China’s dictatorship are evident (Langfitt 2017).  Even the right-wing obsession with eliminating birth control and banning abortion is shared with Hitler and the Nazis (Neumann 1944:148), not with Christianity, in spite of the claimed religious background.

This comes after far more sinister rhetoric in Trump’s campaign.  He demonized a wide range of group and nations: Muslims, liberals, gays and other LGBTQ people, the disabled, the poor, Mexico and Mexicans, Latinos in general, African-Americans, China, and many more.    Many of them—ranging from the Muslims to Mexicans to China—were blamed directly for the problems.  Since election, he has, among other things, blamed the Jews for the desecration of Jewish cemeteries and the burning of synagogues—they are supposedly “false flag” operations to get sympathy.  This is exactly Hitler’s tactic in the 1930s, and seems to be case of outright copying.

Republicans have shut down filibustering on more and more issues, and are trying to cut debate on issues to eight hours maximum.  Republican states are moving to ban public protests—clearly unconstitutional bans, but probably enforceable anyway, given the climate of the times.

The new Republicans “base” of far-right business interests, overwhelmingly dominated by Big Oil and their financiers, white supremacists; and the far-right-wing “Christian” elements has put the Republican leadership in a difficult position.  The white supremacists and religious extremists do not necessarily love big business.  The businessmen are aware that rule by the other two groups would ruin the economy, and as businessmen they are not enthusiastic about that.  The result seems to be, so far, accommodating all by giving in to their most extreme and damaging wants.  Since the most extreme wants of the racists and bigots are literal genocide, we are in danger.

Each group has a different opponent group: giant firms want to shut down opposition, especially scientific challenges; racists want to eliminate minorities (or at least minority leadership); right-wing religious groups have proposed exterminating gays, and giving the death penalty to doctors that perform abortion and even to the women themselves; these religious groups also oppose Islam, atheism, and other challengers, and have made threats.  The choice is clear:  big government crushing minorities and women, with minimal concern for the economy, and opposed to small government and economic priorities (see e.g. Michael 2016).

America’s fascist streak comes largely from the deep south, an area where support for Hitler was strong in the 1930s.  It traces back to the plantation system: rent-seeking owners using slave labor.  Southern fascist and racist politics expanded nationwide from the 1970s as actual business (including actually working for one’s money) was replaced by monopolies or oligopolies, and by rent-seeking in the form of lobbying for subsidies, tax cuts, and exemptions from laws and rules.  This change is the real driver of the whole shift to racial politics and the rise of fascism that led to Trump.

The eagerness of the Republican Party to embrace genocide is proved by their attitude to health care.  They are repealing the Affordable Care Act (“Obamacare”).  They plan to repeal or drastically scale back Medicare and Medicaid.  Finally, Trump, reinstating the famous “gag rule” that forbids US funding for NGO’s that talk about abortion, vastly expanded it, to extend not only to reproductive-health NGO’s but to all NGO’s—including, for instance, those that advise on HIV-AIDS (Goldberg 2017).  This expansion will lead to large increases in deaths from AIDS and from reproductive disorders and pathologies.  There will probably be more deaths than all the abortions that would have resulted from unfettered advice.  Also, Trump (though not all his appointees) has said he plans to bring back torture, hidden prisons, and the deaths involved in those war crimes.  Taken together, the Republican Party under Trump is already verging on genocidal.

As one case in point, Texas’ maternal mortality rate increased from around 17-18 to 33 per 100,000 births as a result of defunding pregnancy clinics as part of a war on abortion and birth control.  Most of the clinics providing pregnancy clinics in the state were forced to close.  Nationwide, not counting California (which reduced its rate) or Texas, the US rate increased from 18.8 to 23.8 from 2000 to 2014.  Texas shared in the national rate, around 18, until 2010, after which it closed the clinics and the maternal mortality rate soared.  Texas now has the highest rate in the developed world, comparable to some African states (Redden 2016).  By contrast, Iceland has had no maternal mortalities for decades.  Rates across Scandinavia are around 1 to 3.

The far-right Breitbart News has emerged as the voice of the Trump administration.  Ironically, the service nests in Westwood, a liberal part of a liberal urban area (Ng 2016).

 

Fascist Economics

 

The giant firms that back the Republicans depend heavily on direct and indirect subsidies.  From the average American’s taxes, $4000 go to subsidies, tax breaks, and giveaways, largely for primary-production corporations.  As noted above, big oil gets over $37 billion in subsidies, including money spent by the US government to clear up oil spills, and for roads, ports, rail, pipelines, etc., for big oil.  These firms also obtain tax writeoffs and special tax breaks, such as the oil depletion allowance, which are far greater than the direct subsidies.  The total cost of food stamps and US government welfare for the poor is $7.4 billion (American NewsX, Dec. 15, 2016).

The enormous profits earned with the help of these heavy subsidies are to a great extent either invested overseas, or simply hoarded there—banked in the Cayman Islands, Bermuda, Switzerland, and similar gopher holes for finance.  Most of this wandering money is not invested in the United States, if it is invested at all.  A great deal of it simply disappeared—taken out of circulation for the indefinite future, which is in practice the same as burning stacks of bills.

This is “low-velocity money”—in fact, it may have zero velocity.  Giant corporations are incentivized to invest in increasing efficiency, productivity, and even in production only when hoarding is taxed heavily.  Otherwise, they will be forced by immediate financial considerations to jack up prices for quick high profit, keep production minimal, and hoard the profits.  This freezes the money in numbered bank accounts, where it rarely, if ever, moves to productive investments.

By contrast, the fastest-velocity money—that which is most immediately spent and put in circulation in the economy—is money given to poor people for survival needs.  They have to spend it right away.  The places they spend it usually spend it immediately themselves—for instance, stores have to re-stock.  Medicare, Medicaid, Social Security, food stamps, all such income goes out into circulation and recirculation right away, or even before it arrives (thanks to buying on credit).  Much government transfer payment money goes to active workers who simply do not make enough to live on.  So it is a productive investment, even to those cold-blooded souls who do not see keeping old people and young children alive as productive.

The Republicans plan to give enormous tax cuts to the rich.  They plan to end whole categories of tax (such as inheritance taxes).  They plan to cut corporate taxes to effectively zero—to a level so low that normal deductions will bring effective rates to zero.  They plan to cut income taxes such that few rich would pay.  This will be made up for—partially—by ending the transfer payments.  Social Security taxes will go to the general fund.  Also, the National Endowments for the Arts and the Humanities are proposed for elimination—saving the average taxpayer $0.46 each per year.  The Corporation for Public Broadcasting—best known for NPR—is also slated to be defunded, saving the taxpayer $1.37.  Trump’s projected cuts to these and environmental, civil rights, and arts programs would save the average taxpayer only $22.36 per year; ending the home-ownership mortgage deduction, also proposed, would at least save more—some $296.29 (Tepper 2017).  And of course cutting oil subsidies would save another $11, and cutting waste by the Pentagon (which takes well over $500 of the average person’s taxes) would save hundreds.

Anyone doubting the effects may examine the recent history of oil-dominated countries from Saudi Arabia and Equatorial Guinea to Bahrain and Brunei.  Wealth is amassed and hoarded by the tiny oil-rich and rentier elite, while the people do poorly, and investment stagnates except in increasing oil production.  The governments are also free to indulge in harsh and cruel repression of whole sectors of their population, in ways that would be economically suicidal in a country that needed skilled labor.  Saudi Arabia, for instance, virtually removes women from the work force.

As has often been pointed out, racism, sexism, and similar bigotries are luxuries.  A working economy cannot afford them.  They are found where a rentier elite needs to keep large sections of the population crushed in order to maintain its own predation.  Slave economies like the old cotton south and sugar Caribbean, oil economies, and a few economies based on heavy industry are the economies that succeed that way.

The Republican “right-to-work” and other laws would virtually eliminate labor unions as significant forces.  Republicans are also moving to end workers’ protection of all sorts, from anti-discrimination to health and safety rules.  All this would reduce wages across the board.

Meanwhile, housing prices are rising in most of the US, insurance and health costs are rising, and people are being forced by current economic realities to buy all manner of electronic gadgets.  It is no longer possible to find public phones, so for emergencies we have to carry cellphones.  A house without a home computer is seriously handicapped in many ways.  Expenses for everyone are thus rising fast.  All this impacts consumption of all the goods and services that are not absolutely necessary.

The effect of falling wages, disappearing transfer payments, and “necessity creep” in a consumption-driven economy can easily be imagined: depression.

The Republicans will probably respond like most economically-illiterate regimes challenged with the bad results of their experiments: by printing money.  The resulting inflation will finish the job of wrecking the US economy.  It will never be able to recover; commitment to primary production in a world of rapidly depleting resources and rapidly rising temperatures is suicidal.

In short, we may be in for genocide in the service of an agenda more murderous than any genocide.  The Republicans will exterminate their oppoinents to allow them to pursue the repeal of Medicare, Medicaid, Social Security, all food aid, all environmental protection, and all support to science.  This would lead to literally hundreds of millions of deaths, since the effects of measures like permitting unlimited carbon emissions would spill over into the rest of the world.

Henry Giroux, in a very important article in Truthout (2017b), lists several characteristics of totalitarian regimes that are all visible in the Trump administration’s policies: a rhetoric of irresponsibility and violence; “survival-of-the-fittest discourse [that] provides a breeding ground for…hypermasculine behaviors and hypercompetitiveness”; alternative realities, the famous “alternative facts”; labeling whole groups as dispensible, criminal, and dangerous; ignorance and a positive value, with anti-intellectualism written into school policies; regarding the weak as worthless losers; a “language of borders and walls”; violence as the prime solution, with police and arrest as the solution for homelessness, drug addiction, and misfortune.; rejection of democracy (Trump avoids the word) and democratic institutions; opposition to public education and to everything that leads people to “think critically and act responsibly”; fears of others within society as an alternative to personal responsibility; ending of the welfare state and safety nets; increasing inequality; ultranationalism and militarism; oppression of mainstream media and control of them when possible.  One might add that any and all beauty and loveliness, from art to nature, is utter anathema, to be destroyed when possible.

Giroux has written several books on America’s problems, the latest being America at War with Itself (2017a).  This book recounts the Trump campaign with full details on its racist ideology, then contexts it in the history of racism, racist violence, and structural violence in general.  Giroux also looks at the militarism and idealization of guns in American culture.  The book is an excellent analysis of the whole background of right-wing hatred, violence, and hate ideology that permeates the current political climate.  Unfortuantely, like many others who examine such issues, he has little to say about cures.  He recommends teaching with “critical pedagogy.”  This is certainly a desirable thing (as he describes it: combatting lies and hate with facts and critical analysis, rather than with more lies and hate, as is too often the case).  But it is only one needed thing among many.

 

Wider Perspectives

 

A foretaste of the US under conservatives is provided by Guatemala and El Salvador.  The CIA installed dictators trained at the School of the Americas, the CIA’s secret school for autocratic rulers.  The leading ones were Efrain Rios Montt in Guatemala, who was responsible for a genocide that claimed 200,000 innocent lives, and Roberto d’Aubuisson in El Salvador, responsible for politicide that killed several tens of thousands.  A subsequent coup in Honduras in 2009 has added it to the club.  Since these regimes were installed, constant repression and countless further deaths have led to stalled economies with extreme poverty and unemployment, and domination of society by drug gangs, which now rule El Salvador almost totally.  This is the result of regimes installed by American conservatives and faithfully carrying out American conservative policies, including repression, closing of quality public education, repression of private education as well, reducing health care to the bare minimum, pulling back on law enforcement and civil society, and above all allowing giant multinational firms a free hand.

Recent histories of fascism, such as Michael Mann’s Fascists (Cambridge University Press, 2004) and Robert Paxton’s The Anatomy of Fascism (Knopf, 2004), provide background.  Both books define fascism very narrowly—basically as popular, militaristic movements with wide support across classes, and with paramilitary organizations that glorify, and use, violence.  This restricts the term to Germany, Italy, and a few neighboring countries in the 1930s and 1940s, though the authors are quick to see similarities with modern movements like Milosevic’s in Serbia in the 1990s.  Mussolini himself had a wider definition, emphasizing the corporate connections.  Hitler and Mussolini came rather slowly to make these, but depended on them once they were fully in power.

The rise of Mussolini and Hitler was exactly like the rise of Trump, with one major exception—so far:  The Republicans have not (yet) mobilized the KKK and other paramilitary groups to create violence.  Mussolini’s Blackshirts and Hitler’s Brownshirts were critically important to the rise of fascism in Europe, and were widely imitated.  Ironically, the KKK was the world’s first right-wing uniformed paramilitary group.  It could be—and may be starting to be—the source of a militia arm of the Republicans.

Yet these books also provide hope. Fascist movements did not win except when orthodox politicians were disunited.  Civil society in countries like Hungary and France prevented the rise of fascism until Hitler actually took them over.  Civil, peaceful protests have brought down many military and even fascist regimes since.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 3.  GENOCIDE DEFINED

 

Genocide may be the defining crime of the 20th century, and is maintaining itself in the 21st.   Not only genocide itself, but indifference to it by the international community, remains a huge problem for the world (Apsel and Verdeja 2013; Hinton 2005; Hirsch 2014; Power 2002; Totten 2012, 2014).

Recently Barbara Harff (2012) and E. N. Anderson and  Barbara A. Anderson constructed models for predicting genocide (see Anderson and Anderson 2012; Doughty 2015; Harff 2012; Heying 2013).  The Andersons’ book followed the original definition by Raphael Lemkin: “the destruction of a nation or of an ethnic group” (Lemkin 1944:79; see Lemkin 2013).  He included cultural destruction through forced assimilation, and also partial or attempted genocide that did not totally succeed.  (Indeed, few totally succeed.)   He further defined genocide as murder by a government of its own citizens or subjects, when they are accused of nothing consequential other than belong to a particular demographic category.

Subsequent research on Lemkin’s papers, including the beginnings of a history of genocide (unfinished), show that he expanded his definition to include other defined groups, and came more and more to stress cultural destruction as well as physical, seeing them as part of the same process (Short 2016:20).  His stress on culture, and his concept of it, came from anthropology, especially from the writings of his fellow Pole, Bronislaw Malinowski (Moses 2010:24-25).

As he wrote. “genocide…is intended to signify a coordinated plan of different actions aiming at the destruction of the essential foundations of the life of national groups, with the aim of annihilating the groups themselves.  The objectses of suh a plan would be disintegration of the political and social institutions of culture, language, national feelings, religion, and the economic existence of national groups…” (Lemkin 1944;79; also quoted and discussed in Short 2016:23-24; Short’s is, at this writing, the most recent of many detailed and thoughtful discussions of the definition of genocide).  However, political extermination—genocide of “liberals” or “conservatives” or some other politically defined group—is now usually counted as genocide also, though it does not really aim at cultural extermination.  It is now often called “politicide.”

By Lemkin’s definition, at least 100 million and possibly more than 200 million people were killed by genocide in the 20th and early 21st centuries, in at least 67 countries (Anderson and Anderson 2012; De Dreu et al. 2010; Rummel 1994, 1998; Tilly 2003:55).  This makes it as potent a killer as malaria or tuberculosis.  Genocides and related mass murders “killed more than 210 million people during the twentieth century alone and since 2000 more than thirty thousand people have been killed by terrorists” (De Dreu et al. 2010:1408).  Wars probably killed about as many (de Waal 2005:5; Pinker 2011).

The category can be a religion or sect, a political philosophy, a “race” (however defined by the genociders), an ethnic group, or any other essentialized cultural category.  It is usually an existing one, but genociders have been known to invent categories.  They use their power to impose their definitions on the victims—often extending the “Jews” or “Tutsi” or “Indians” far beyond normal use of such labels (Short 2016:14).

Killing of actual enemies in declared war, however general and ruthless, does not count.  This means that Lemkin (at first) and we are using a quite different definition from some authors.  However, Lemkin later came to use the term for any mass murder of noncombatants, even enemy noncombatants in an active war (Moses 2010:26).  Since virtually all wars involve this, he studied war in general, throughout all history.

Ben Kiernan, in his magistral work Blood and Soil (2007), defines it as broadly.  He found that most involved “blood and soil”—descent groups, and land to appropriate, conquer, or loot.  Martin Shaw, in his recent book Genocide and International Relations (2013), also critiques much of the usage of the term for being too restrictive; like Kiernan, he would expand it to include almost any violence against defined groups, and also sees  it as typically an ongoing process.  Shaw provides an excellent and thoughtful discussion of the whole concept.

However, Kiernan’s and Shaw’s usages makes genocide virtually universal.  It eliminates the close link between genuine mass violence and dictatorial regimes based on exclusionary ideologies.  It eliminates the vitally important distinction between killing of enemy-side noncombatants in actual international war and killing of one’s own minorities.  The term “genocide” has also been loosely used for all manner of small-scale, though usually serious, killings and abuses (see Totten and Bartrop 2008:167).

These authors, and most of those in The Oxford Handbook of Genocide Studies (Bloxham and Moses 2010), give us two broad definitions of genocide that go well beyond Lemkin’s original one.  First, it can mean any mass killing of enemy civilians in time of war, in which case it is synonymous with war, since every consequential war in history—everything beyond the Soccer War and the War of Jenkin’s Ear—involves that.  For instance, the oft-cited Roman destruction of Carthage was simply normal warfare as practiced in the day.  By this standard, the US carpet-bombing of Dresden and Munich was as bad as—indeed, no different from—Hitler’s genocides.  A few pacifists and rather more neo-Nazis maintain that, but the vast majority of scholars see a basic difference.

Second, it can mean specific killing in wartime of enemy troops, prisoners, and civilians, with a deliberate intention of exterminating their ethnic or religious group.  This clearly blends into genocide by the stricter definition.  When a nation conquers an enemy and subjects the enemy population, what at first is simply killing enemies soon becomes killing one’s own (newly-acquired) subjects.  Then, it is impossible to draw a clear line between actual wartime killing and deliberate peacetime genocide.

This happened in many early religious wars, especially the various crusades.  In those wars, the intent was typically to exterminate as many of the “others” as possible, and mass murder of innocents—even in thoroughly conquered territory—was routine (see Runciman 1987; von Wees 2010).  The same thing happened very frequently in early American history when Native American tribes were conquered.  The Cherokee, for instance, put up a hot fight, but by the time Andrew Jackson sent them on the Trail of Tears, they were a conquered and subject population (Brown 1971; Debo 2013), and his policies were genocidal by the strictest definition.

These and the third, narrowly defined, type of genocide all have different predictors.  War is generally over land and resources or over ideology (religion or politics), less often over traditional ethnic animosity—hence Kiernan’s title Blood and Soil.   War with attendant massacre of civilians caught in the crossfire is almost universal among human societies.  Violence almost endless in many of them; the United States has been at war almost continually since 1776.  England, France, Spain and other countries have been at war more often than not.  Humans are violent animals.

Genocide of conquered enemies is frequently a matter of getting rid of them to clear the land for the conquerors, who want to take it and settle it; this is also a very important factor in peacetime genocides.  It motivated genocides as diverse as  Hitler’s clearances in Eastern Europe and the Anglo- and Latin-American extermination of Native Americans.  Sometimes such genocide is simply an extension of wartime hatreds.

Restricting genocide to murder of a government’s own, peaceful subjects is a different thing.  It indicates some degree of serious fear or hatred, or both.  A large, apparently inoffensive group of citizens or subjects has somehow scared the government into full-scale eradication.  It cannot be explained by need for land if the government already has the land.

Ideology remains a factor, and ethnicity or comparable identity is a factor by definition.  It is often precipitated by war, but often takes place in peacetime, sometimes out of what seems to be a clear blue sky.  As Michael Mann says: “Murderous cleansing has been modern. In earlier times it sometimes resulted when conquerors seized the land but did not require the labor of the natives, while monotheistic salvation religions later attempted forced conversions.  But the pace of murderous ethnic cleansing quickened greatly when modern people sought to establish rule by the people in bi-ethnic environments” (Mann 2005:502).  Indigenous people worldwide would surely object to the “sometimes”—they know settler genocides were more rule than exception—but Mann is broadly correct:  mass murder of one’s own peaceful subjects is largely a modern phenomenon.

The important thing here is that we can take steps to end this type of genocide.  Ending war is probably hopeless, but ending mass murder of innocent subjects is possible.

The strict definition eliminates most of Kiernan’s cases and many of Shaw’s.  It leaves us with two quite different types of genocide (both discussed by Kiernan, but a minor part of his huge sample):  Settler genocides (Wolfe 2006), and modern total genocide.  In the former, an ethnic group takes over an area and clears the land, once the people are subjected, by methodically exterminating them.  This occurred in the New World with many Native American groups (see e.g. Madley 2016), and in Australia with Aboriginal groups (Short 2016).  It differs from simple extermination of conquered people in that the people in question have already been conquered, made subjects, and frequently already deprived of their land.  They are killed out of desire to finish the land-clearance work permanently, or fear that they might rebel, or revenge for actual rebellion, or sheer hate.  These are invariably coupled with discrimination, often including dehumanization.

In modern total genocide, a government picks on long-established citizen or subject groups and exterminates them for what appear to outsiders to be arbitrary or inadequate reasons.  The classic case is Hitler’s extermination of Jews, Roma, homosexuals, handicapped and mentally ill persons, political dissenters, modern artists, and other categories.  Other well-studied examples include the massacre of Armenians and other Christian communities by the “Young Turk” government of Turkey (Akçam 2012) and the genocide in Cambodia in the 1970s (Frye 1989; Hinton 2002a, 2002b, 2005; Kiernan 2007).

It is critical to recognize that the victims are very often subjects who are not citizens.  Genocide of Native Americans in the United States was done when they were not citizens.  Citizen groups were spared.  Genocide stopped just about the time they became official citizens, in 1924.  Hitler killed many Germans, but the vast majority of his six million were in occupied lands in eastern Europe; here he had effectively destroyed the states or ceased recognizing state governments in occupied lands.  Anyone with a passport of an existing country could often escape, and faking passports was frequent.  Many other genocides are similar; people lose citizenship rights and can be killed at will (Snyder 2015:339).

Lemkin’s (initial) definition rules out, for instance, most of the extermination campaigns against Native Americans in the United States.  Most were either actual wars against genuinely combative enemies not under control of the United States Government, or were informal massacres carried out by local people without government authority.  Relatively few actual genocidal massacres had official government blessing.  Those few included the Cherokee Long March, a number of local campaigns in the 1850s, the Shoshone-Bannock “war” of the 1870s, the Sioux campaigns of the 1890s (Mooney 1896), and several other cases, but not, for instance, the mass murders committed in missionization and later de-missionization in California (which have often been called genocide).  Throughout the western hemisphere, the vast majority of deaths were from disease, and these were normally not intentional—indeed they were often much regretted.  However, sometimes the settlers deliberately infected Native populations with disease, or denied them aid and care during epidemics, and this blended into true genocide (Madley 2016; Robins 2010).

Intermittent campaigns that were genuinely genocidal did occur (Cameron et al. 2015; Robins 2010).  For instance, in California in the 19th century, Benajmin Madley finds that there were at least 3,000 killings in government campaigns of extermination, and 6,840 murders by unofficial but often covertly government-accepted settler groups bent on eliminating Native Americans (Madley 2012, 2016).  There were many more killings that were part of actual wars or were simply ordinary crimes; Madley, using the strict definition of genocide, does not count these.  Desperate attempts by Indigenous or enslaved people to fight back have been called “genocidal” (Robins 2010), but this clearly does not meet our definition here.  Random massacres by disorganized, and doomed, people driven to suicidal action is not even remotely comparable to systematically planned annihilation of the powerless by the powerful.

These settler genocides occur when an area occupied by one group is newly settled by another more powerful one.  They are common throughout history, but far more common since the rise of seaborne empires in the 16th century.

Slavery, too, is a different matter.  The slaving wars of the 17th and 18th centuries may have killed more people than all the genocides of the 20th century, but they were not about exterminating groups—quite the reverse.  The killings were an unfortunate by-product of the desperate attempts by colonial powers to get more people to work in their new lands.  On the other hand, slave-taking was an almost universal part of premodern genocides: the able-bodied men and the “useless” old people were killed, while the women and children were enslaved and forcibly acculturated into the conqueror’s society.  Slavery thus presents an ambiguous case (Johnassohn and Björnson 1998:20-22).  Significantly, no one proposed eliminating slavery until the 18th century, and significant moves to eliminate it appeared only in the 19th (Davis 1966,  1971; Pinker 2011).  Before that, it was accepted as part of life.  Christians pointed to Biblical acceptance, until the Quakers protested.

Lemkin was defining a real and extremely important type of killing, and one that vastly and explosively increased in the 20th century, making it exceedingly important as a factor in world history.  Overgeneralizing his term loses us a category that needs serious study.  The other forms of mass destruction, from ordinary international war to California missionization, deserve their own explanations and studies.  This is not to belittle them, but simply to say that they are different phenomena.  Genocide—murder of peaceful subjects by government, without any reason that would convince a bystander—is a special phenomenon, highly predictable as to occurrence, course, and results.

Genocide does include “wars” in which a vastly disproportionate percent of the killing was government extermination of innocent noncombatants, such as the Guatemalan terror of the 1980s, in which over 200,000 people died.  War (including civil war) is often defined as armed conflict with 1000 or more deaths, between recognizable sides, the sides being at least remotely close to equal and thus with at least five percent of deaths on each side (Collier 2007:18).  In Guatemala, the government called this a civil war, but the government was responsible for at least 95% and possibly 97% of the killings, and virtually none of those were combat deaths (see e.g. Stoll 1993, 1999).  Of course this means that there will always be boundary phenomena: things such as civil or national wars with killing just one-sided enough to be debatable as to whether they constitute genocides, and hot pursuit of hated ethnic groups across national boundaries (like the continuing Hutu-Tutsi war in Congo after Rwanda and Burundi are relatively pacified).

Taking people’s land and resources—what Amartya Sen calls “affordances”—without directly killing the people in question must also be seen as genocidal if it clearly leads directly to the death of the people in question.  Here again there are boundary phenomena: where does all-too-ordinary bureaucratic callousness—memorably termed “structural violence” by Johan Galtung (1969)—grade into deliberate mass murder?  In such cases, what matters is clear governmental intent to exterminate defined groups of peaceable people.  This is what we have examined from the point of view of prediction.

Damien Short (2016) links genocide and ecocide.  Ecocide usually means destroying nature or ecosystems, but Short is here referring to scorched-earth methods of destroying people.  He points out that this has been done by Israel in Palestine, with more than 1.5 million trees destroyed, most of them profitable olive trees that were the mainstay of the rural Palestinian economy, and with major damage to water resources (Short 2016:69-92).  Sri Lanka also devastated Tamil agriculture in its long war with its Tamil minority (Short 2016:93-126), and there are many attacks on Indigenus ecologies.  The destruction of the buffalo by white Americans in the 19th century was done partly to destroy Native American cultures and economies.

Governments invoke genocides, often coldly and with advance planning, but depend on mobilized citizenry to carry them out.  This requires creating a mood of extreme fear and/or hate of the people to be eliminated.  People after a genocide often recall feeling out of their minds—either crazed with blood lust or feeling like automatons (Anderson and Anderson 2012 review a long literature; see also Staub 1989, 2011).  From a considerable literature on evil and human hate, especially valuable are Scott Atran’s Talking to the Enemy (2010), Roy Baumeister’s Evil (1997), Aaron Beck’s Prisoners of Hate (1999), and Erwin Staub’s The Roots of Evil (1989).

An important point is made by S. I. Wilkinson, as quoted by Martin Shaw (2013:160):  “’…the constructivist insight that individuals have many ethnic and nonethnic identities with which they might identify politically.  The challenge for politicians is to ensure that the one that most favours their party is the one that is most salient in the minds of the majority of voters…in the run-up to an election’ (Wilkinson 2006:4).”  Shaw adds:  “By the same token, the challenge for activists mobilizing riots and other…violence is to stigmatize the ‘enemy’ through the most lethal combination of identities that can be ascribed to it” (Shaw 2013:160).  Trump in the United States appealed to white women who might otherwise have voted for a fellow woman (Clinton) and appealed to working-class whites who clearly voted against their economic self-interest.

 

 

Chapter 4.  HISTORICAL INSIGHTS INTO GENOCIDE

 

Genocidal Origins

 

Genocide on a vast, nationwide scale is relatively new, really beginning with the Turkish genocides of 1895 and 1915.  However, genocide has a long history.  Tribal groups throughout history exterminated each other.  That was usually done in war and was done to people eager to do the same to their opponents, so it is outside our definition here.  Sometimes, however, cold-blooded extermination of a group was carried out simply to get their land or to take slaves.

Empires routinely involved killing by the emperor or his group of anyone that opposed them, especially open rebels.  Typically, not only the individuals in question but their entire families were exterminated, since kinship loyalty forced any surviving family members to try for revenge.  Empires often suffered from succession wars, also.  In these, heirs fought each other for the throne, or one heir preemptively killed all the others (a practice routinized in the Turkish Empire).  These events were kin-structured, not ethnically or religiously or ideologically structured, and so are only somewhat comparable with modern genocides.

More comparable are the conflicts in old China between advocates of conflicting policies.  Sometimes the winning faction would persuade the Emperor to execute the membership of the opposing one, thus presaging modern politicide.

Small-scale massacres of one’s own, for religious and similar reasons, are recorded from early times.  The Bible includes several horrific descriptions of genocide, mostly in wartime but done to already-conquered people (for these and other cases see von Wees 2010).  The one most often cited is particularly notorious because God ordered the Israelites to be so cruel that they could not go through with it.  He ordered Saul to smite the Amalekites, not only all the humans but all the livestock.  The Israelites smote most of the humans, but kept the better livestock, for which God punished Saul (1 Samuel 15:2-28).

Closer to a modern genocide was the episode that made “shibboleth” a watchword today.  The word means “ear of grain,” but its significance here is that it was hard to pronounce for an unfortunate group who did not use the sh sound.  Jephthah, judge of Israel, and his Gileadites were at war with Ammon.  The Ephraimites refused to help, so Jephthah conquered them too, after which “…the Gileadites took the passages of Jordan before the Ephraimites: and it was so, that when those Ephraimites which were escaped said, Let me go over; that the men of Gilead said unto him, Art thou an Ephraimite? If he said, Nay; Then said they unto him, Say now Shibboleth: and he said Sibboleth: for he could not frame to pronounce it right.  Then they took him, and slew him at the passages of Jordan: and there fell at that time of the Ephraimites forty and two thousand” (Judges 12:5-6; the number of slain is surely exaggerated).

In later times, Roman repression of Christians comes to mind, but was not as constant and serious as Christian traditions often allege (Gibbon 1995; Jonassohn and Björnson 1998:191-195).  In Rome and other early empires, only rarely was genocide in the modern sense practiced, though there were settler genocides and occasional exterminations of enemy populations.

 

Religion, Exclusion, and Genocide

 

Serious mass extermination campaigns of one’s own peaceful citizens may be said to begin with the rise of monotheistic religions, with their notorious intolerance of “heresy.”  Jews were targeted by Christians from the very first, with huge expulsion and extermination campaigns punctuating European history, especially in the west—the region that now, ironically, prides itself on being the birthplace of the Enlightenment.  It is doubly ironic that much of the thinking that led to the Enlightenment was done by Jews such as Spinoza.  Central and East Europe was usually more tolerant, except for pogrom-ridden Russia.  The Islamic world was far more tolerant, serving as the great refuge area for Jews expelled from Europe.  (Islamic intolerance and European tolerance are both relatively recent.)

The wars and suppression campaigns against heretics involved true genocide on modern scales.  The Catharist crusade in France in the 13th century became particularly famous for this, partly because at the siege of Béziers in 1209, the conquering French general, Simon de Montfort, wished to spare as many people as he could, and asked his Cistercian field chaplain Arnaut Amaury how to tell the heretics from the faithful.  Amaury reportedly replied caedete eos, novit enim Dominus qui sunt eius (Totten and Bartrop 2008:11), memorably translated as “kill ‘em all, let God sort ‘em out” (or in French, tuez les tous, Dieu reconnaîtra les siens).  It is not certain if those were his exact words, but in any case that is what happened, and the city was put to the sword (Anderson and Anderson 2012:91; O’Shea 2002:269; Roux-Perino and Brenon 2006).  Since it had fiercely resisted, this was more an act of war than actual genocide, but what matters here is that Amaury’s instructions were taken far beyond Béziers, and the Cathars were exterminated, even those who were peaceable shepherds and farmers.

After that, not only were other groups wiped out, but the witch craze gathered momentum in the 15th  and 16th centuries, and at least 40,000 to 60,000 innocent people—some estimates run as high as 100,000 to 200,000—were put to death as witches (Totten and Bartrop 2008:54).  Meanwhile, the Spanish Reconquista became more and more bloody, leading to outright genocide after the final fall of the last Muslim stronghold in 1492.  The Spanish crown consolidated power by driving out hundreds of thousands of Muslims and Jews, but then cracked down on survivors, and especially converts suspect of being insincere .  Thousands were killed, often by burning at the stake.  This was true genocide by the narrowest definition.  Techniques of genocide, from systematic insults, cultural destruction, child removal, and forced humiliation to torture, terrorization, and mass murder—were perfected in the Spanish Inquisition.  For one example, Jews and Muslims were forced to convert or die (or leave Spain) and were then forced to eat pork and were called marranos, “swine.”  Betrayal was encouraged and rewarded; goods were seized from suspected backsliders and sometimes given to the betrayers.

The Protestant Reformation and subsequent wars of religion in the 16th and 17th centuries led to hundreds of thousands of deaths of innocent noncombatants.  Also at this time, anti-Jewish pogroms spun out of control in Russia and east Europe.  The historic massacre of some 100,000 Jews under Bogdan Chmielnicki in the 1640s and 1650s (see Totten and Bartrop 2008:70) set the tone and became immortalized in Jewish lore.  (Isaac Bashevis Singer’s novel Satan in Goray, frequently reprinted, gives a dramatic picture of the period).  The Russian state winked at such massacres, if it was not in collusion, and thus set the stage for modern genocides.

The Treaty of Westphalia was signed in 1648, ending the age of religious wars and of dominance by the Pope over much of European politics.  Nation-states took their modern form.  The nation-state then set about insuring loyalty by force.  A final religious war but also a birthing war of the nation-state was the English civil war of 1642-1649, involving genocidal murder of Catholic Irish and of religious dissidents in general.

Other countries had their own religious massacres, including India’s multisided warfare of Vaishnavites, Shaivites, Sikhs, Muslims, Jains (Jonassohn and Björnson 1998:219), and others.  These gave rise to the ironic Indian story of the blind men and the elephant; the blind men are the religions of India, the elephant is God.  The fight between the blind men over their ridiculous misunderstandings of the elephant, and the acute embarrassment of the sighted spectators, was the wise thinker’s comment on religious war.  The Chinese had occasional campaigns against Buddhism and Daoism, but these were more political and economic than religious.  Some at least were shamelessly open ploys to seize the monasteries’ wealth.

 

Ethnic and Political Murder

 

By contrast to religion, extermination of ethnic groups was apparently rare until recently, except in settler genocides or actual wars.  The Mongols killed countless thousands of people, but (in most cases) only actual enemies.  They would often decimate conquered cities to prevent or punish rebellion.  Still, their bloody reputation has been exaggerated.  This was largely because they used a tactic known from ancient Mesopotamia to Inca Peru: they sent agents out to circulate vastly inflated stories of punishments to cities that resisted, scaring many cities into submitting without a fight (Buell 2008; Weatherford 2004).

Politicides were common, but usually structured along kinship lines.  Emperors and kings killed their individual enemies and the families thereof.  Princes killed each other—brother against brother, cousin against cousin—in succession wars, but such episodes are not genocide.  Now and then a paranoid or psychopathic leader of a successful revolution might kill vast numbers of conquered subjects without real cause, and this should count as genocide; in China, Zhu Yuanzhang at the start of Ming in the 1300s was one striking case (Mote 1999:576-578).  This was a true consolidation genocide, a type of genocide very common since 1900.

Tamerlane, the Mongol-Turkic warlord of the 15th century, was more murderous and cruel, obliterating whole populations with little excuse; his campaigns certainly verge on the genocidal by even the strictest defintion.  China’s expansion to the south and into central Asia often involved settler massacres of minority groups in the same way that Europeans overwhelmed and eliminated Indigenous peoples in the New World (see e.g. Perdue 2005 for western China; Wiens 1954 for the south).  Thai clearances of Cambodians from much of what is now east-central Thailand was at best “ethnic cleansing,” at worst genocidal.  There were many other cases of settler genocides; few expansions into previously occupied territory have ever been merciful.  Massacres by governments of their own established minorities are considerably fewer in the record.

Settler genocides accompanied the rise of modern seaborne colonial empires, which had really begun with the Portuguese and Spanish conquests in the 15th and 16th centuries.  England, the Netherlands, and France weighed in.  Seaborne empires exacerbated the age-old problem.  Especially in the New World, settlers cleared the land of Indigenous peoples.  Disease did most of the killing, but far from all of it; massacres were routine and appalling (see Anderson and Anderson 2012:95-100; Cameron et al. 2015; Hemming 1978; Las Casas 1992).  The Spanish, English, Dutch, and later other colonial powers unleashed mass extermination campaigns to clear the land (Kiernan 2007).  The Chinese in central Asia ocasionally did this too (Perdue 2007).

Labor shortage thus developed in newly conquered lands, driving the slave trade.  Colonial wars were at first about control of trade, especially the slave trade, which led to tens of millions of deaths over 300 years.  It was slowly shut down (though incompletely) in the 19th century.  It was not true genocide—the slaves were not from the slaver nations’ citizenry—but it certainly was mass murder of innocent people.  Treatment of enslaved people in the Colonies, and of escaped groups (“Maroons”), did reach genocidal levels on many occasions.  In the 18th century, planters were accused of not bothering to keep enslaved workers alive because it was cheaper to buy new ones (Watts 1990).

The lands and especially the home countries soon filled up, and by the 20th century the problem was excess labor power, not labor shortage.  This excess did not cause, but did allow, genocide.  In earlier centuries, no sane ruler would have killed millions of his own people without good reason; he could not have afforded the loss of workers and soldiers.  In the 20th century, with public health and high birth rates, finding jobs for the rapidly increasing workforce has been the key and chronic problem.  There is no incentive for a ruler to preserve all his subjects.  If he can consolidate his power by whipping up hate of one or another group, nothing stops him from doing it, and eventually acting on the hate.

 

The Rise of Exclusionary Ideologies

 

This, however, does not happen in most countries; it happens under only very specific circumstances.  One of them is the extremist exclusionary ideology mentioned earlier.  Very often, rich elites whip up hatred in order to consolidate their own position.  Often the hatred takes over, and the elites are harmed or even destroyed (along with many others) when the leaders of the hate agenda take over.  This happened most conspicuously in the case of Hitler’s Germany.  Hitler was put in power by the conservative political and economic elite of Germany.  They were ruined along with him.  The most motivated and emotionally driven will often win, in political battles, and in times of extremism that means the leaders of hate.  Hugh Gusterson (2007) pointed out that genocides tend to take on a life of their own, drifting from targeted groups to wider and wider circles of victims.

The long and sorry history of genocide in the 20th century has been told so often that there is no need to recapitulate it here (see especially Jones 2011, Kiernan 2007, and Mann 2005 for comparative analytic histories; also, among specially interesting and distinctive analyses are Charny 1994; Kuper 1983; Levene 2005; Rummel 1998; Semelis 207; Totten et al. 1997; many others).  The first genocide on a vast scale was that carried out by the Turkish government against the Armenians and other religious minorities, especially in 1915 (see Akçam 2012; G. Balakian 2009; P. Balakian 2007; Mann 2005; Hofmann 2015; Kaiser 2010; Smith 2015, introducing a whole journal issue on this genocide; other sources cited in Anderson and Anderson 2012).

Hitler’s Holocaust has been the subject of tens of thousands of books and articles, and the standard of scholarship has been high, from Franz Neumann’s great Behemoth (1944) and The Democratic and Authoritarian State (1957) through William Shirer’s classic The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich (1960) to Timothy Snyder’s brilliant Black Earth (2015).  Many have pointed out that the initial appeal of Hitler and Mussolini was surprisingly wide—not just the small businesspeople and better-off workers.  Many intellectuals and perhaps most academics were pro-fascist.  Poets from e.e. cummings to T. S. Eliot and William Butler Yeats were early sympathizers; Ezra Pound remained pro-Nazi all his life (on the wide appeal of fascism, see Mann 2004, 2005; Paxton 2004).  So did Martin Heidegger, the Nazi’s pet philosopher (Bourdieu 1991).  His philosophy of individual, will, and somewhat solipsistic perception of the world fit all too well with the thought of Hitler and Carl Schmitt.  D. H. Lawrence’s novel Kangaroo describes his flirtation with a fascist movement in Australia.

Stalin’s purges in the USSR have received less attention, but are still well covered, as are the major later genocides.  He resorted to deliberate starvation—at least three million died in the Ukraine famine of 1932-33 (Mann 2004)—as well as imprisonment in death camps, along with more ordinary methods of extermination.  Mao’s appalling death campaigns in China have received attention (e.g. Dikötter 2010, 2013, 2016).  Cambodia has inspired a particularly extensive and excellent literature (especially the work of Alexander Hinton 2005—an exemplary work—and Ben Kiernan 2004, 2008).  There seems little need to go over the detailed history of these well-documented cases.  These are only the most extreme of the Communist genocides; in fact all Communist regimes have resorted to mass murder in consolidating and maintaining control.  Communism adds itself to fascism as the two truly great exclusionary ideologies.

Since these early and enormous mass murders, genocide has become a routine tool of statecraft in authoritarian nations.  Among major ones are such disparate countries as Guatemala (Stoll 1993) , India (during the break with Pakistan), Indonesia, Nigeria, Rwanda (Dallaire 2003; Prunier 1995, 2007; Straus 2006), Serbia, and Sudan (Prunier 2007).  Dozens of smaller campaigns have occurred (see Appendix).

The effects of genocide on culture are permanent.  Christians still remember the persecution under the Romans.  Our Maya friends talk of the Spanish Conquest and the psychopathic murders by Bishop Diego de Landa as if these had happened last year instead of 500 years ago.  Other Native Americans have similar memories, and of course memories of slave days are fresh and bitter among formerly enslaved populations.  Armenians remain deeply traumatized by the Turkish genocide of 1915 (see Whitehorn n.d. for some particularly evocative evidence).  Jews have certainly not forgotten the Holocaust.  We need every memorial, book, and symbol that we can find, to remind people how terrible genocide is.  Never again is a watchword that has, alas, not worked so far.  We need to take that charge seriously.

 

 

Chapter 5.  LEADING EDGES OF GENOCIDES

Genocide Preconditions

 

As we have seen, modern genocide was predicted by 1) authoritarian government; 2) a major challenging situation to it, almost always either consolidation after it just seized power, or civil or international war in which loss by the government was very likely.  Often there is a “trigger” (Totten and Bartrop 2008:429): a single event that sets off, or provides an excuse for, government crackdown and genocide.  This can be an assassination, a coup attempt, or an external or internal attack.  The great genocides of the Young Turks, Pol Pot, and others emerged in wartime conditions.  Minor civil war or unrest triggered others, as in Guatemala, Sudan, and Peru.  On the other hand, the great genocides of Stalin in the USSR and Mao in China, and many lesser genocides, came out of a fairly clear sky with little triggering.  Mao’s Great Leap Forward and Great Cultural Revolution, in particular, were without real provoking incidents. Hitler’s genocide began by 1938 (Snyder 2015), though it grew much worse after he went to war in 1939.

The oft-mentioned link of genocide and war is based on the wide definition of genocide, which makes it universal in wartime.  By our narrow definitions, genocide occurs in peacetime or only slightly disturbed times as often as it does during war.  Communist regimes usually do it in peacetime, to consolidate control.  The genocides under Milosevic in former Yugoslavia, under the Interahamwe in Rwanda, under the Dergue in Ethiopia, and universally in Latin America in the bloody 1970s and 1980s (Feierstein 2010), all came in peacetime or in times of trivial civil disturbance.

Settler genocides, and conquest genocides if they are similar, are not so dependent on triggers, though they often follow killings by target (victim) populations.  Settler genocides are always expected when a government of settlers (conquerors) is consolidating control, and has reduced the conquered people to subjects but is still afraid of rebellion or outbreak.

Barbara Harff (2012), a student of conflict and civil unrest, developed this model, and it was independently found by Anderson and Anderson (2012) and later Hollie Nyseth Brehm (2017).  Harff and her husband Ted Gurr were leading authorities on conflict and on risk assessment for conflict (Harff and Gurr 2005).  Gurr had identified “risk factors” for conflict in general, including “salience of group identity…group incentives for collective action…group capacity for collective action…domestic opportunities…and international opportunities” (Totten and Bartrop 2008:369).  Summing up, Timothy Snyder noted that “social scientists have shown that ethnic cleansing and genocide tend to follow state collapse, regime changes, and civil war” (Snyder 2015:339).

Harff used Lemkin’s definition.  She followed the United Nations definition, elaborated from (and partly by) Lemkin (but she and we follow Lemkin and not the UN where they differ, basically in Lemkin’s inclusion of political-ideological massacres).  She defines genocide as governmental attempt “to destroy, in whole or in part, a communal, political, or politicized ethnic group” (Harff 2003:58, her italics).  She does not make a point of noncombatant status, but she sympathetically cites others who do; she does not deal with the possibility that religion, gender identity, or modern art could be definers, but they sometimes or often are.  She specifically includes politics, thus including “politicide,” a term she coined (see also Tilly 2003).  Her sample in 2003 was genocides from 1955 to 1997 (Anderson and Anderson’s was 1900 to 2007).

In her predictive model of genocide, Harff (2003, 2012) summarized the direct correlates of genocide succinctly: “almost all genocides of the last half-century occurred during or in the immediate aftermath of internal wars, revolutions, and regime collapse”  (2003:57).  Ben Kiernan, in spite of his far wider definition of genocide, is aware of the same phenomenon:  “By 1910…a new phenomenon emerged: genocides perpetrated by national chauvinist dictatorships that had seized control of tottering, shrinking, or new empires…” (Kiernan 2007:393)—difficult to define but similar to Harff’s findings.

Consolidation of power by a totalitarian regime almost always includes political killing, and often goes into full-scale genocide almost immediately, as in Cambodia, Rwanda, and other modern cases.  Otherwise, wars and political unrest are often precipitating events.  Economic disruptions can be triggers also.  However, many genocides have no obvious triggers.  Timothy Snyder’s recent history, Black Earth (2015), painstakingly records the rise of murder of Jews, Poles and other Slavs, Roma, disabled persons, and other categories; murders began by 1938, and were moving into six-figure totals by the time Hitler was fully engaged in war in 1939.  Similar rapid onset of mass murder is seen in many other cases.  In China’s Cultural Revolution in the 1960s, in spite of a lack of trigger event, mass murder broke out almost immediately once the campaign was under way.

Harff also, and perhaps more importantly, identified the critical role of exclusionary ideologies (Harff  2003, 2012).  Hollie Nyseth Brehm, in a major recent paper (2015), uses this term and finds it inseparable from genocide.  Gregory Stanton (2013) and others write of progressive dehumanization, and others (Anderson and Anderson 2012; Beck 1999; Staub 1989, 2003, 2011) talk more bluntly of  hate ideologies, hatred, and evil.  Helen Fein, another leading theorist and generalist in this field, has referred to more extreme forms of such ideologies as “ideological genocide”; this refers to the extreme case in which “religious traditions of contempt and collective defamation, stereotypes, and derogatory metaphor” treat subjects as “inferior, sub-human (animals, insects, germs, viruses),..Satanic,…” and so on (Fein 1990:27).  Fein has also evaluated revolutionary and antirevolutionary ideologies as frequent contributors to genocide.  Ideological genocide would certainly include Donald Trump’s continual outpourings on the subjects of Muslims and Mexicans, especially if he does indeed begin mass killing, as seems likely.

The key principle of exclusionary ideology is rejection of some groups on the basis of imagined essential badness.  They are differentially judged; they are inferior, unworthy, beneath consideration (see Sen 1982, 1984, 1992).  In a relatively mild form, this is seen when certain populations are displaced to make way for projects that benefit other, “more deserving” populations; the classic case is displacing poor rural people to make way for dams and reservoirs that benefit rich urban people (Scudder 2005).   Far more serious is denial of health care to the poor, and the subsequent “death gap” (Angell 2017).  As such exclusionary ideology becomes more serious and hateful, it leads to killing, and eventually, at worst, to genocide.

The progress is the same: regimes that come to power through exclusionary ideology get trapped by their own rhetoric and forced to deliver.  When they face serious challenge, they respond by launching mass killings of targeted groups.

Ideologies of this type, however, are not confined to genocides or genocidal leaders.  They are widespread, and create much killing outside of actual wars or genocides.  Harff points out that all genocides must have, underlying them, some ideology that not only legitimates mass murder, but makes it seem like a noble cause.  Leaders manipulate existing hatreds, and must make the murders seem necessary and virtuous.  (This will be examined in the following chapter.)

Broadly similar ideas have recently surfaced in genocide scholarship (see e.g. Aijmer and Abbink 2000;  Charny 2016; Jones 2011; Lewy 2012; Mann 2005; Meierhenrich 2014; Stanton 2013; an anonymous posting on Motherboard, 2015, notes that the use of words like “cockroaches,” long known to be associated with genocide, are actually predictive of it).

Harff stresses the role of autocratic governments, and also “political upheaval” (Harff 2003:62; her italics) as the near-invariable immediate cause.  She emphasizes the frequency of prior genocides in a nation’s record.  Anderson and Anderson did not find this, due to working with a larger sample over a longer period of time, which washed out this variable by including almost all the period of modern genocides.  She discusses the existence of “ethnic and religious cleavages” Harff 2003:63) and found no correlation; all nations have diversity but only some have genocide.

“Low economic development” (Harff 2003:64; cf. Harff 2005, 2008) also bought her little variance, and again the Andersons’ wider sample confirms this, indeed to the point of destroying any correlation.  Major genociders included Germany at a time when it was one of the three or four richest countries in the world, and within her time frame there were genocides in middle-income Argentina, Chile, China, Serbia, and elsewhere, as she notes.  More recently, Israel has engaged in genocidal activities in Palestine (Short 2016:68-92), with calls by major government figures for outright extermination of Palestinians (Robinson 2014; Short 2016:75).  Several other affluent nations have hovered on the brink.

There is no correlation between genocide and environmental problems and very little relationship with poverty (Anderson and Anderson 2012; Harff 2012).  Even today, claims that genocide follows geography are not unknown.  Alexis Alvarez has recently analyzed possible genocide due to climate change in the future, when  some 200 to 700 million people may be refugees from climate change.  He notes that conflict over resources is inevitable and conflict typically accompanies genocide: “In point of fact, genocide scholars have long identified tough times as one common factor leading up to the genocidal impulse” (Alvarez 2016:31).  However, the tough times accompanying genocide are civil or international war, not resource conflicts, which—if not exacerbated by pre-existing political tensions—are generally resolved by negotiation and treaties, not war (see e.g. Wolf 2007).  Several other false leads in explaining genocide have been address by Anderson and Anderson (2012:67-78).  Warlike nations are at no special risk; “agrarianism” is totally unrelated; many other “causes” are genociders’ excuses, not actual causes.

An important recent article by Hollie Nyseth Brehm (2017), based on a study of fully 150 nations, finds that “economic upheaval…does not influence the odds of genocide.  Instead, political upheaval that enables a repressive leader to come to power (including coups, assassinations, civil wars, and successful revolutions) and political upheaval that directly threatens those in power (including coup attempts, campaigns against the state, unsuccessful revolutions and civil wars that do not coincide with regime change) have the strongest influence on the onset of genocide.”  Her research also “highlights the role of discrimination and exclusion” (Nyseth Brehm 2017:61), but notably fails to find other risk factors important.  This all fits perfectly with the Harff and Anderson models.

Ecological damage is not closely correlated.  Poverty is closely tied to civil war (Collier 2003; Collier and Sambanis 2005), and thus has some link to genocide, which often results from civil war.  Yet poverty is not predictive of genocide.  Rich nations kill too.

Wealth derived from primary commodities, especially fossil fuels, minerals, and plantation agriculture, is associated with violence, mass killing, and genocide, though it is not predictive.  The reasons have been well analyzed.  Basic is the fact that these primary-production industries involve simple extraction of crude materials from a generally rural context.  This makes them easy to control.  Dictators tend to emerge in such situations, and maintain their power by rent-seeking coupled with brutality (see Anderson and Anderson 2012:79-82; Bunker and Cicantell 2005, an excellent review; Collier 2007, 2010; Collier and Bannon 2003; Juhasz 2008; Ross 2012).  Wealth from such sources is also associated with hate ideologies, ranging from militant Islam to fascism, and thus contributes indirectly to genocide.  Wealth from oil, gems, and other minerals naturally fits well with kleptocratic or frankly psychopathic dictators, contributing to genocides in Chile, China, Congo (D. R.), Indonesia, Iraq, Nigeria, Sri Lanka, Sudan, and many other countries.  This has led to references to the “resource curse” and the “oil curse” (Ross 2012).  This said, many genocides took place in countries with diversified and modernized economies.

Daniel Chirot and Clark McCauley (2006) showed in detail that trade, capitalism, and mercantile action are not preventive or even particularly related.  The great bugaboos of modern leftists, “capitalism” and “neoliberalism,” are problematically related.  The greatest genocides—those of Stalin and Mao—took place under communism.  The greatest genocide in terms of percentage of population killed—that in Cambodia under the Khmer Rouge—did also.  Hitler’s fascism was a distinctive economic form, “national socialism,” that was capitalist in a very inclusive sense, but not in a strict one.  (The state controlled too much of the means of production to make it fit Marx’ model of capitalism.)  Conversely, many genocides were carried out by militant champions of capitalism and neoliberalism, attempting to exterminate socialists; this was the case in Chile, Guatemala, Indonesia, Peru, and many other countries.  One can only conclude that a hate-driven dictator will use any economic excuse that presents itself.  Thus fixing “capitalism,” whatever it is, will not stop genocide.  Nor is capitalism exonerated from blame for genocide.  It was involved as a key ideological claim in many of them.  But so were fascism, communism, religion, and any other available ideology that could be commandeered for hate.  Exclusion, not specific philosophy, is what matters.

Harff found that recent genocides are more likely in countries that were relatively isolated or independent of the world-system (Harff 2003:65).  Again this does not hold for older genocides.  Even in her sample, it is difficult to defend.  For instance, China’s genocides have recently been in remote western areas (Tibet, Xinjiang), but China was thoroughly open to the world at the time (Harff 2003:69).

Her final result (2003:66) was that autocratic government and prior genocides were both correlated at .9 with genocides that occurred.  Autocracy has also existed in countries without genocide, but only very rarely in the last 100 years; most autocratic governments kill.  Prior genocide is somewhat predictive, but Germany is only the most obvious of a large number of exceptions.  Other political upheaval correlated only .47, but “exclusionary ideologies” and rule by members of a self-conscious ethnic minority both correlated .69.  Openness to trade, a proxy for world-system incorporation, correlated .7.  She admits that the model did not predict genocides in rich, trade-involved countries (e.g. Chile), or even poor but trade-involved ones (Philippines, El Salvador, several others).

In 2012 she reaffirmed her risk factors, and predicted serious troubles in several countries.  First on the list was Myanmar, which in fact has had genocidal attacks on Rohingya Muslims since she wrote.  As she pointed out, it was rather a simple prediction, since the country was a military dictatorship with almost continual war against minorities.  Second was Syria, and we know what has happened there.  Third was China, and indeed the Uighur genocide has come up since she wrote.  Fourth was Sudan, but the breakaway of South Sudan damaged the government so much that it has not had the energy to do much more than harass Darfur and Nuba, though that long-running bloody action continues.  Meanwhile, South Sudan has had genocides of its own.  Less successful predictions were the next few:  Pakistan, Ethiopia, Zimbabwe, Rwanda, and Iran, though the first two have had a great deal of violence and repression.  Then comes a partial hit, D. R. Congo; violence was already ongoing there when she wrote, and the rampant ethnic killings there have not been government-sanctioned.  A number of lower-risk countries follow, of which only Central African Republic has had a genocide, and there—for once—the international community moved fast to damp it down (Brown 2013).  The others include very stable countries like Saudi Arabia.

Anderson and Anderson’s and Nyseth Brehm’s models have the advantage of breaking regime consolidation out from response to disruption, and also noting that economic and military disruptions are causative and predictive.  One may also add that the presence of specific militias or guard units for carrying out the exclusionary ideology are a very significant warning sign (see Paxton 2004 on European fascism).

Harff and others have independently come to stress more and more the ideological side.  Governments that live and maintain themselves by mobilizing hatreds are almost always forced sooner or later to exterminate the people they say they hate.

The level and indiscriminateness of hatred is highly predictive of the level of genocide.  The extreme hatred ideology of Hitler was associated with far greater killing than the much less hate-driven fascism of Franco or Mussolini.  Pinochet in Chile was brutal enough, but did not single out whole groups; Efrain Rios Montt in Guatemala killed far more people, in a smaller country, because he targeted whole groups, ranging from aid workers to Mayan Indigenous groups.  Fidel Castro in Cuba displayed less hateful rhetoric than Stalin, and accordingly killed fewer people.  Great genociders are men of their word in one way:  they promise to exterminate their citizens on a vast scale, and they do it.

In one well-studied case, exclusionary rhetoric did not lead to genocide: Mahathir bin Muhamad’s Malaysia in the 1970s (see Mahathir bin Muhamad 1970—a particularly neat and concise statement of extreme exclusionary ideology).  That case may be instructive.  Mahathir was elected Prime Minister on a ticket of hatred and suppression of the Chinese, after several years of ethnic rioting and violence in which Bumiputera (Malays) and Chinese battled (E. N. Anderson, personal research and observation during and after residence in Malaysia in 1970-71).  Under Mahathir, the Chinese gave as little cause as they could for actual repression, tolerated a great deal of impact, and meanwhile they and other Malaysians worked terribly hard to build up the economy and make sure Mahathir and his group were beneficiaries of this.  His position softened in direct proportion to his own and his political group’s economic success.  Thus hate ideologies are real and dangerous, but enough economic success may convince haters to be more quiet.  Critical was Mahathir’s failure to close down democracy.  Malaysia remained relatively democratic through it all, inhibiting any killing that Mahathir might have intended.

It is noteworthy that the neighboring nations of Thailand and Singapore were also free from genocide, in spite of multiethnic populations and fairly authoritarian regimes.  Similarly, in Africa, multinational countries with histories of communal violence, such as Cote d’Ivoire and Mali, avoided genocide by avoiding extreme exclusionary rhetoric and ideology in government (Straus 2015).

A list of steps toward genocide is found in “The Ten Stages of Genocide,” posted by Gregory Stanton (2013) on his Genocide Watch website—a very useful resource.  The ten stages are classification, symbolization, discrimination, dehumanization, organization, polarization, preparation, persecution, extermination and denial.  They are indeed stages to watch for, and Stanton gives quick definitions and suggests countermeasures, including things for governments and the United Nations to do.  Dr. Stanton maintains on his website a list and map of countries that are genocidal or threatening to become so: http://genocidewatch.net/alerts-2/new-alerts/.  The assessments are similar to Barbara Harff’s (whom he cites).  His earlier posting, “Twelve Ways to Deny a Genocide” (2005), neatly summarizes that unpleasant aspect of mass murder.

With Harff and Stanton actively predicting risks and advocating preventive measures, and with other new work summarized below, knowledge about genocide prevention has been revolutionized.  One hopes that this will translate into action, but continued fecklessness of the world community in the face of ISIS and Boku Haram indicate that the lessons are not being learned.

Umberto Eco listed 14 points that, to him, identified a fascist leader; as an Italian, his experience was largely Mussolini.  The fourteen, as recently listed in AlterNet, include:  cult of tradition; rejection of modernism; cult of action for action’s sake; opposition to analytical criticism—disagreement is treason; exacerbating natural fear of difference; appeal to frustrated middle class; obsession with plots; permanent warfare as natural; sexual aggressiveness.  All fourteen seem relevant to Trump (Holloway 2016).

Samuel Totten, veteran student of genocide and especially of mass murder of Indigenous minorities, has added his own more immediate warning signs—signs that genocide is ongoing, not just that it is potential:

–A specific groups is “demeaned, ostracized, marginalized, segregated, excluded, or isolated”;

–“mass deportations and forcible transfer”;

–Government forces “kill unarmed civilians at will” [hardly a warning sign—it is really the genocide itself!];

–“test massacres are carried out”;

–“mass rape and enforced pregnancy are taking place.”  (Totten 2014:24).

Totten takes a long view, stressing hatred and ideology.  He states: “There is no single set of preconditions that always and definitely leads to the perpetration of genocide” (Totten and Bartrop 2008:340).  But he is referring only to the ideological back story, not to a direct set of triggers such as Harff and others identified.  This entry continues with a discussion of “radical racist ideology…cleavages…extreme nationalism…a group targeted…tribal power…struggles for power; and consolidation of despotic power.”  These do form the back story to genocide, but indeed do not predict it.  When they combine, however—when extreme ethnic hate leads to a regime based on hatred and exclusionary ideology taking totalitarian power and consolidating it under challenge—they always lead to genocide.  There are no exceptions in recorded history.

Ambiguity occurs when a regime is only partly hate-based, or has autocratic but not totalitarian power; such regimes may or may not commit genocide, based on contingent factors, especially the level of hate among the leaders at the time.

This is perhaps most clearly shown in the erratic genocides of Native Americans in the 19th century in the United States.  A theoretically “democratic” government—but one in which the Native Americans were not citizens and were governed in an autocratic manner, without real civil rights—committed genocide when the President (Andrew Jackson, for one) or the state governors or the generals (notably under Grant’s presidency) had extreme racial views.  Mexico had a similarly mixed record, but the worst genocides were under Porfirio Diaz’ dictatorship.

 

Genocide Typologies and Questions

Helen Fein has created some typologies of genocide (Fein 1990, 2007).  She recognized “developmental,” i.e. settler genocide; “despotic,” basically political; “ideological”; and “retributive,” going after perceived enemies.  Most modern genocides could well be fitted under all the last four heads.

Some other typologies of genocide are listed in Samuel Totten and Paul Bartrop’s Dictionary of Genocide (2008:433-434).  They report that Leo Kuper noted ethnic, terrorizing, and ideological genocides, with decolonialization and secession or independence as frequent factors.  Roger Smith recognized ideological, monopolistic, institutional, and utilitarian (settler) genocides.  Vahakn Dadrian noted cultural, retributive and, again, utilitarian, as well as what he sardonically called “optimal,” i.e. total extermination.  Again, it is hard to imagine classifying the great genocides (Germany, Turkey, Cambodia, and so on) under only one or even two or three heads.  A concept of “utopian genocide” has been added (Totten and Bartrop 2008:452), for the perverse grand visions of men like Hitler and Pol Pot.  Most genocides have a utopian component, if only the notorious desire to “purify” that runs through almost all of them.

Kristin Doughty (2015) identified several needs for future work.  These include “the political and moral economy in which violence and humanitarianism occur,” and looking more at “recent anthropological work on violence, the state, collective belonging, and human rights” (Doughty 2015:175).  She notes that when genocide is defined as state murder of its own citizens, there may also be genocidal pursuit of people across national boundaries.  (This is also noted by Martin Shaw, 2013).  This occurred most notably in Hitler’s massacre of the Jews and others; he murdered all he found in any country under his control.  It is seen more recently in the hot pursuit by Tutsi and Hutu of each other into the D.R. Congo.  She asks “how the act of labeling violence is political and…mobilized within specific historical trajectories of global configurations of power” (Doughty 2015:175).  Ben Kiernan, Taner Aksam, and others have dealt with this issue at length.

Much more serious is her other question: “What are the warning signs that the human tendency toward group hate is being exploited by powerful people for violent ends?”  (Doughty 2015:175).  The appalling failure of the world at large to spot this in Hitler’s early speeches, the Koch brothers’ manipulation of the Tea Party (Mayer 2016), the Saudi Arabian manipulation of extremist Islam over many decades, the oil industry’s machinations in Nigeria, Sudan, and several other countries (Juhasz 2008; Ross 2012), and many other individuals’ and governments’ exploitation of hate shows this is indeed a particularly pressing problem.  It remains the most troubling question for the future.

Civil war is quite different from genocide, epidemiologically and otherwise.  Economics is clearly associated with civil war (Collier and Sambanis 2005).  In contrast, genocide is countereconomic; eliminating a large percentage of one’s workers and taxpayers cannot really be beneficial.  Civil war usually occurs when a region feels oppressed and wishes to break away, or when a huge rebellion seriously threatens a regime (Collier and Sambanis 2005); genocide occurs when the regime preempts such situations by exterminating the groups that might so act.  A link with newly independent nations that arise from the collapse of empires has been traced for civil war (Wimmer and Min 2006), and holds for genocide also; the two tend to merge into each other in such situations.

 

The Progress of Genocides

 

In modern genocides, the progress is typical:  A leader seizes total power, abolishing or suspending the constitution or equivalent, and almost immediately begins killing those who opposed him.  (All genocidal leaders in our sample are male.)  Consolidation genocides are well recognized in scholarship, and are essentially universal in totalitarian societies.  They have a long history; political killing of potential opponents was normal when new dynasties took over in the Roman Empire, imperial China, the Ottoman Empire, and other early societies.

If the leader was democratically elected—as Hitler and Mussolini were, and later many other genociders—he always starts by demonizing the free media and the political opposition, and cracks down increasingly on them.  He also demonizes minority groups that are vulnerable and unpopular.  He then begins arresting leaders in the media and in the minority groups.  By this time, his policies—generally ill-conceived—have hurt the economy or at least failed to grow it, and he escalates blame of his political foes.  Hitler’s increasingly strident demonization of the Jews, whom he blamed for everything from communism to diseases, is only the best-known case of a universal practice.  Stalin blamed the rich peasants (among others), Mao blamed the landlords and intellectuals, the Interahamwe in Rwanda blamed the Tutsi, Slobodan Milośevič in Serbia blamed the Muslims, and so it went, throughout history.

Once in power, a totalitarian leader will almost invariably launch a genocide when threatened seriously by civil war, rebellion, or international war.  Sometimes, mere economic and social problems are enough.  Then the level of killing is dependent on several factors, but the most important one seems to be the level of indiscriminate hatreds the leader invoked in his campaigns.  Leaders like Trump, who attack any and every available group, are rare in the historical record.  Particularly dangerous is a situation in which the leader is backed into a corner by inability to deliver on promises of economic progress or military might.  At this point he increases his rhetoric against the “others,” seizes dictatorial power, and begins killing opponents.  If challenged by violent conflict, he escalates the killing into large-scale mass murder.

The key moment is the time when an autocratic rulers sees his best chance of getting or consolidating rule as coming through whipping up fear and hate.

Once in office, the persons who deployed the campaign consolidate power by promising security and prosperity if repression of the hated groups is increased.  Often the regime consolidates power at this point by massive political killings.  Finally, a crisis—economic or military or both—makes it impossible to deliver on that promise.  Very often, this is a civil war, since the temptation to exterminate the “other” side is great; civil wars and local guerrilla outbreaks have been the breeding grounds of many modern genocides (Anderson and Anderson 2012; Totten and Bartrop 2008:73).

The regime seizes total power and begins genocide as the only way they see clear to maintain power and deliver on their promises.  It makes little or no difference whether the regime was democratically elected (like Hitler in Germany and Efrain Rios Montt in Guatemala) or seized power in a coup (like Pinochet in Chile) or won a war or revolution (like Franco in Spain and Mao in China).  A serious hate-based ideology, combined with autocratic power, always leads to genocide.

 

A final note on cause is another epidemiological one: how genocide spreads.  Rudolph Rummel (1998) documented in great detail how it spread with Leninist-Stalinist Communism, occurring in essentially all countries that adopted that particular form of Marxism. (Marx himself did not, of course, advise any such thing, however much he may have counseled the elimination of ruling-class elements.)  Rummel also documented the spread of genocide under fascism, especially, of course, Hitler’s particular form of fascist doctrine.

A point somewhat missed by Rummel was the degree to which the United States spread genocide, via its CIA operations in Latin America, the Middle East, and Southeast Asia.  How much this was foreseen—let alone deliberately planned—is controversial.  However, genocide followed CIA-backed takeovers in Chile, El Salvador, and Guatemala.  Mass killing of dissident followed coups by covertly CIA-supported military men in Ecuador, Paraguay, Uruguay, and several other countries (Feierstein 2010).  Worst of all was the true genocide committed under Argentina’s military dictatorship  from 1976 to 1983, which eliminated at least 30,000 people and probably more.  It was, however, less directly related to United States initiatives.

Often, the genociders had been trained at the School of the Americas operated by the U.S. Department of Defense.  It began in Panama in 1946, but was ejected from there as a destabilizing force, and relocated in Fort Benning, Georgia.  It was renamed as “Western Hemisphere Institute for Security Cooperation” in 2000, and its mandate reduced, but it continues.  This school trained Rios Montt of Guatemala and Roberto D’Aubuisson of El Salvador, as well as participants in the genocides in Haiti and Argentina (AlJazeera 2012; Feierstein 2010). It taught a range of techniques and established a values system based on exterminating perceived enemies of military regimes.

The Guatemalan and Argentine armies it trained and allied with had long-standing relationships with Hitlerian fascism; the Guatemalan army had been trained in the 1930s and 1940s by pro-Hitler Germans, and Mein Kampf was required reading for Argentine military officers in the years before the genocide of the 1970s there (see e.g. Lewis 2001; Timerman 2002).  In some countries, including Paraguay, actual ex-Nazis who had served under Hitler were recruited to organize mass murder (Feierstein 2010).  Thus, many of the 20th century genocides can be traced to three origin points and to a very few men.

 

 

 

Chapter 6.  EXCLUSIONARY CULTURE

 

Back Story: The Rise of Exclusionary Ideology

 

“Genocide has two phases, one, the destruction of the national pattern of the oppressed group; the other, the imposition of the national pattern of the oppressor” (Lemkin 1944:xi, quoted by Shaw 2013:55).

This quote reminds us that genocide is definitely about culture; it is about the elimination of a lifeway as well as a people.  The most extreme form of exclusionary ideology, when open extermination of the group is advocated, has been called “eliminationism” in Daniel Goldhagen’s intense history of genocide (2009).  Jacques Sémelin has written a very sensitive history of extreme ideology, using Foucault among other sources, under the significant title Purify and Destroy (2007).

Exclusionary ideologies are those that teach that society is a bundle of contending groups, in conflict or competition with each other, such that one group benefits only by keeping another down or forcing it down.  Society becomes a zero-sum or negative-sum game.  This is not a rational matter: it is inevitably highly emotional.  It mobilizes people’s deepest fears and hates.

The common exclusionary ideologies are extremist religion, fascism (Neumann 1944, 1957), racism (Sussman 2014), and the more extreme and radical forms of communism.  These ideologies are defined simply: they all advocate indiscriminate violence to eliminate or terrify by mass killing some particular large group of people, defined such that men, women, children, old people, the sick, and noncombatants in general are all equally targeted.  The roots of all these in religious killings have been explored (Rubinstein 2004).

Exclusionary ideological movements are generally splinter movements within splinter movements.  Radical terrorist Islam, for instance, is an extreme offshoot of Wahhabism and Salafism, themselves extreme offshoots of Hanbali Sunni, which is itself the most rigid and narrowly legalistic of the Muslim law interpretation schools.  The terrorist form is almost universally condemned by Muslims and Muslim scholars and religious figures (see e.g. Schewitz 2015); even the arch-advocate of Salafism, Sayyid Qutb, repeatedly condemned murder of noncombatant women, children, and old people (Sayyid Qutb 2007, passim).

The extremist Christianity that leads to murdering abortion clinic workers, gays, and Muslims is similarly far from the teachings of Jesus.  Stalinist-Maoist communism is extreme by communist standards.  Fascism, by definition, is a murderous hate ideology, but there has been considerable variation in how bloody the fascist regimes have been.  Hitler was far more murderous than Franco, for instance.  Much more general ideologies, like “socialism,” “religion” (in general), and “capitalism,” are even less relevant.  Blaming such grand generalities for the murderous behavior of ISIS or the anti-abortion bombers and murderers is no more accurate than blaming democracy, or, for that matter, blaming bread (the staple food of the relevant groups).

Hollie Nyseth Brehm (2015) studied the history of 159 nations from 1955 to 2009 to find correlates of the rise of exclusionary ideologies—ethnic privileging (as in South Africa under apartheid), Stalin-Maoism, radical Islam, and similar movements.  She scored 1537 country-years as having been spent under such rules.  “Irregular regime change”—coups and revolutions—was particularly dangerous.  Exclusionary ideologues rise to the top in violently unsettled times, following the common principle that in a ratfight the most vicious rat wins.  Alternatively, a civil war often precipitates not only genocide but the rise of exclusionary ideologies on all sides.

Decolonialization was also dangerous, specifically in countries where the colonial powers had resorted to divide-and-rule strategies, favoring some groups over others to maintain control.  The longer a country was a colony, the worse the odds.  This, of course, works for the United States in its much earlier case, as well as for post-1955 cases like Indonesia.

Oddly, and paralleling Mann’s (2005) findings on earlier regimes, democratization was dangerous; the transition from authority to democracy was often aborted by an exclusionary group taking over, or an autocratic-leaning “democratic” regime showing its true colors.  Even so, democracy is usually protective, and even exclusionary ideologues may be softened and neutralized by democracy, as in Malaysia.  Large drops in income can be dangerous.

In general, these countries took off-the-shelf ideologies: Stalin-Mao communism, Hitlerian fascism, extreme Wahhabi or similar Islam, or military dictatorship (albeit sometimes “democratic” on paper) based on ethnicity or political crackdown.  Working out new ideologies seems rare.  On the other hand, working out particularly violent and ruthless variants of the traditional ones is seen in Khmer Rouge Cambodia, Rwanda under the Interahamwe, and a few other cases.  Iran’s murderous regime is based on Shi’a Islam, rather than the Hanbali Sunni of Wahhabism, and represents an extreme form of Shi’a militance. Venezuela’s current unique brand of “socialism” is now moving toward genocide, as is Duterte’s Philippines, and these might represent relatively original forms of exclusionary thought.

            The clear theme in all this is direct threat to a shaky but autocratic regime.

An important point made by surprisingly few students of such movements is that they cannot promise only hate (or exclusion) and gratification of hate.  They cannot succeed if they simply call for indiscriminate mass murder.  They need some professed high ideals.  Most often, these are the most exalted ideals of all: those of world religions.  Secular ideologies, however, must have equivalents.  Fascism and racism promise purity, prosperity, and safety from hordes of criminal and inferior minorities. Communism professed ideals of equality, progress, social justice, and welfare that it did indeed deliver in some of its milder manifestations, but failed to deliver when it drifted into genocidal extremism, as in Stalin’s USSR and Mao’s China.  Genocidal movements in Rwanda, Burundi, Uganda and elsewhere promised prosperity, peace, homogenous societies, and similar benefits if the enemy ethnic groups were eliminated (Shaw 2012).  These were essentially the same promises Trump made in connection with deporting Mexican immigrants and preventing Muslim immigration.  He would “make America great again” by crushing Latinos, Chinese, Muslims, immigrants, refugees, gays, liberals, and on through a long list.

This provides the key step in developing exclusionary ideology: it makes it moral to hate.  Normal people in normal life have plenty of angers, frustrations, and even hatreds, but they know that acting on those always brings trouble and rarely brings benefit.  They know that “a house divided against itself cannot stand”—turning a nation into a mutual-destruction game hurts everyone.  If, however, they are convinced by their leaders that hatred of certain groups is a moral duty, they will usually accommodate.  Many otherwise decent human beings in the United States hate homosexuals simply because preachers tell them to and they believe it to be a genuine religious duty.  British and French felt it necessary to hate, or at least scorn, each other for hundreds of years, because of national rivalry and “patriotism.”  Studies of terrorism routinely show that terrorists are usually fairly ordinary people swept up in a moral but violent cause (Atran 2003, 2010; Horgan and Kazak 2017, passim).  They may be more often disturbed psychologically than the general population, but the difference is not striking (Gill and Corner 2007).

Morality not only justifies the hate; it makes it worse.  It lays guilt on individuals, making them feel they should be ever more hateful.  It makes them hate opponent groups for being “immoral” as well as different or competitive.  It makes people feel good about themselves when they do the moral act of taking down an opponent-group member.

This provides a simple, direct place to attack potential genocide:  Exclusionary ideology.  If it is shot down, ordinary social controls—cultural conventions for normal civility—will take care of ordinary hatreds.

As pointed out by Ben Kiernan in Blood and Soil (2007), similar ideologies animated settlers taking over land from Indigenous peoples; they would have peace and prosperity if they could take over the land, eliminating its rightful owners in the process.  Concepts like “Manifest Destiny” were created to justify this.  However warped and twisted all these benefits may seem in retrospect, they provided excuses for eliminating or decimating vast numbers of ethnic groups worldwide.

Thus, a hate ideology must have more than hate going for it.  Even Hitler managed to promise progress, purity, virtue, superiority, and other goods, promises still associated with fascist leanings in some parts of German society (Voigtländer and Voth 2015).

Rios Montt’s fascist rule in Guatemala may have failed to eliminate the targeted groups partly because of his failure to tell a convincing story.  In spite of his deployment of evangelical Christianity, he provided thin promises.  Christians in Guatemala were not convinced that mass murder of innocent people is a Christian act; the evangelical churches there are not (on average at least) as right-wing as United States ones.  Partly because of this, Rios Montt and other rulers of the country could not mount as effective a genocide as they apparently wanted (Shepherd 2016).  He has been judged guilty of genocide (Fausset 2014; Sanford 2013) but the judgment was annulled, and many Guatemalans still yearn for a mano dura (“firm hand”) rule (Torres 2016).

By contrast, ISIS sells itself by offering the revival of the Caliphate and the glories of Islam.  Its publicists can sound downright utopian.  Scott Atran and other investigators have found that it is these utopian calls, not the murder and bloodshed, that attract young Muslims, especially those facing prejudice and discrimination in Europe and America (Atran 2015a, 2015b).

On the other hand, direct, unsubtle hate appears to be necessary to make people torture and kill.  Subtlety does not work well in hate ideologies when they play out on the ground.  Kteily, Bruneau et al. (2015) found that hate ideologies tend to compare people either to disgusting animals (rats, cockroaches) or to unfeeling machines (robots).  These can be ideologically represented, and always seem to be in hate ideologies, especially the animal comparisons.  The authors noted a tendency for richer groups to be “robots,” poorer minorities to be compared to animals, but there was substantial overlap, especially in the animal insults.  Following up on this, Kteily, Hodson and Bruneau (2016) found that these stereotypes get mutually applied: stigmatized groups return the favor by dehumanizing their oppressors, and a vicious cycle emerges in which groups demonize each other more and more.  This has occurred over the years in the Israeli-Palestine conflict.  It now appears in the widespread mutual dehumanization of each other by Muslims and right-wing Europeans and Americans.   It leads to escalation of terrorist bombing by extremist Muslim groups, and that in turn leads to indiscriminate air strikes by European powers and the United States in Iraq and Syria.

Dehumanization, however, is only one part of a continuum that extends from simple dislike and devaluing to contempt, callousness, deliberate irresponsibility, bigotry, and ultimately real hatred.  The common theme is rejecting people as people.  Structural violence (Galtung 1969) can be as bloody and total as genocide.  Corporations that simply take no notice of pollution-caused deaths, dam-builders that do not plan to resettle displaced persons, and oil companies that allow local militias to “protect” company operations by indiscriminate violence are on a very slippery slope toward genocide (Anderson 2010; Ross 2012).  It is possible that this type of murder-by-neglect has actually killed as many people as genocide in the last 100 years, since famines are now essentially all due to government action, not to natural disasters (Sen 1982).  The Bengal famine of 1942-43, the Chinese famine of the Great Leap Forward, the Ethiopian famine of the 1970s, and other such government-created events each killed tens of millions.

Hatred ideologies win over countries through military coups, elections (Hitler was democratically elected—by a bare plurality; see also Nyseth Brehm 2017), or outright revolutions.  Sometimes an already authoritarian state turning suddenly more extreme, almost always when challenged by stresses, but sometimes simply through normal succession practices that happen to bring a brutal ruler to power, as has happened today in Xi Jinping’s China.

 

Funding Exclusion

 

Someone has to fund extremist ideology.  Hitler had his giant corporations: Krupp, Volkswagen, I. G. Farben and others.  Farben, Krupp, and Bayer (of aspirin fame) used Nazi prisoners as slave labor (Totten and Bartrop 2008:396-397).  Elie Wiesel, among others, was incarcerated in the Monowitz concentration camp and forced to work for Farben (Totten and Bartrop 2008:143, 289).  Mussolini had corporate backing. ISIS lives by selling oil on black or gray markets, with added income from looting anquities and from selling Yazidis and Christians into slavery.  Fascism and similar military dictatorship in many African countries, from Sudan to Nigeria (in the 1970s) to Equatorial Guinea, has been funded and supported by the giant multinational oil corporations.  The right-wing genociders in Guatemala were beholden to United Fruit.

Of course, big firms do not explain communist genocides, or such ethnic outbreaks as the genocides in Rwanda and Burundi.  Nor—contra a widespread belief—was Hitler actually put in power partly by the giant firms (Mann 2004, Paxton 2004).  Mussolini, similarly, got the giant firms on his side only after seizing power and shifting well to the right in his politics (Mann 2004).  Both leaders were economically and ideologically eclectic, glorying in individualism and arbitrary responses.

On the other hand, Hitler and Mussolini quickly formed close links with giant firms.  Hitler developed a whole fascist economics, based on government collaboration with cartels, which Neumann (1944:261) described as “totalitarian monopoly capitalism.”  The extremely authoritarian structure of giant conglomerate corporations was eminently friendly to fascism (Neumann 1944:284-288).  The government interfered in the economy, but not with the thoroughness and care that the United States government does via subsidies and tax breaks.  Government promises of free market were highly qualified by government linkage with, or even creation of, giant oil firms and the like.

Neumann translates an editorial from a 1941 source on the oil economy (Neumann 1944:356-358) which is chillingly close to current oil policies in the United States, especially when one remenbers that the father of the oil millionaires Charles and David Koch was a contractor for Hitler at the time.  Neumann’s summary is:  “Four distinct groups are thus represented in the German ruling class: big industry, the party, the bureaucracy, and the armed forces” (Neumann 1944:361).  These were theoretically fused, but the situation was evolving rapidly when war struck.  Fascism created monopoly capitalism, in which law was almost irrelevant, partly because of the concentration of power, partly because the regime simply acted arbitrarily.  “The…legal system is nothing but a technique of mass manipulation by terror” (Neumann 1944:458).  The US Supreme Court under Trump appears to be moving in that direction.

Neumann’s description of this economy remains necessary to an understanding of fascism.  It is ominous for the United States, since the fusion of giant oil and banking firms with government, and the primacy of the military within government, under Donald Trump have re-created Hitler’s economy.  The Nazi background of the Koch brothers make it highly unlikely that this resemblance is merely fortuitous.

Also, the US subsidy and tax structure has been carefully engineered by the giant oil, coal, chemical, and agribusiness firms (among others) to benefit them at the expense of their competition.  This is a major factor in American politics, since these firms donate heavily to politicians who support them and keep the subsidies high, while working against politicians who in any way inhibit oil, coal, agribusiness, and other older industries.  These firms are primary producers of bulk commodities, often those rendered obsolete by modern research and development.  They are what we may call the paleoeconomy, as opposed to a neoeconomy of sustainable farming, renewable energy, hi-tech, high efficiency, and the like.

The psychological effects of increasing domination by giant firms are profound.  They not only dominate economic life; they control most congresspersons, they control much of Trump’s white house, and they control the media and thus popular culture.  The steady and rapid deterioration of popular culture. from Mozart to gangsta rap over the last couple of centuries, is hard to miss, and of clear origin.  Psychologically, people are weakened and infantilized by the sheer lack of control and the aridity of popular cultural forms.

In the last analysis, exclusionary ideologies, not giant firms, make genocide, but giant firms are all too often happy to have their critics and challengers exterminated, so firms can almost always be found to back genocide.

The costs of genocide are enormous.  Wars—mostly genocidal—cost Africa an estimated $284 billion from 1990 to 2006 (Bengali 2007).  One can only imagine the costs of greater genocides.  One aspect of this is that educated people are often singled out for elimination, as in Cambodia under the Khmer Rouge and Guatemala under Rios Montt.

The linkage of giant firms and hate ideologies must be broken.  We need laws to prevent corporations from deliberately stirring up hate.  We need to be vigilant and always call them on it, never allowing it to hide in the shadows.  Hate plus greed cause genocide—always, if they are both strong. Greed can serve good causes; we need to convince the corporate elites that they can only lose, in the end, from fascism.

In particular, the paleoeconomy—the dying, unsustainable economy of fossil fuels, industrial farming, big mining, and deforestation, with cooperation from certain financial firms—has been the major source of funding and political effort for the extreme right.  This economy must be cut adrift to die, rather than subsidized and supported.  Above all, its influence in politics must be countered by all legal means.  It is the real root source of our trouble.

We have to strengthen and enforce antitrust laws.  Tax and financial laws must be changed to end subsidies to giant corporations, to tax them at full and fair rates without special breaks or favors, and to ban them utterly and completely from offshoring capital in tax havens or designating headquarters outside the United States.  Doing those things must be criminalized, with the CEOs and CFOs jailed for such behavior.  Also, pollution laws must be strengthened and enforced, with—again—CEOs bearing full responsibility for endangering public health by massive release of dangerous pollutants.  As long as giant firms are rewarded for antisocial and dangerous behavior, they will fund fascism.  The economic order of fascism must be broken.  Evil firms always reinvent it otherwise.  Simply dealing with hatred is not enough.

Everybody except the right-wing rich seems to agree that their tax breaks and special favors are a bad thing.  Extreme inequality is bad enough in itself, but it also gives very disproportionate political power to the rich, especially in this post-Citizens-United world.  Indeed, overturning the Citizens United ruling and getting sane regulations on campaign spending should be another immediate priority.

            “Neoliberalism,” in the United States, is a misleading term.  It originally referred to the extreme laissez-faire economic teachings of Ludwig von Mises, Franz Hayek, and Milton Friedman, especially as applied by autocratic politicians in the 1980s.  Those three economists already flirted with fascism.  True neoliberalism persists as basic policy in the UK, where it regularly denounced by The Guardian.  It flourishes in some other countries.

It is part of Trump’s economic agenda.  However, it has been largely replaced in the United States by fully fascist economics: government cooperation to the point of fusion with giant right-wing firms, and repression or discriminatory policies against other businesses.  The Trump administration is basically ExxonMobil, Goldman Sachs, Koch Industries, and the Mercer combine writ large, along with Trump’s own business empire and a few collaborators.  These firms have become part of government.  Koch Industries dominates politics in several states, including Wisconsin and Kansas.  All these firms are de facto parastatals.  They run the government for their benefit, via subsidies, tax breaks, giveaways, and special policies.  Innovative technologies are targeted for demolition, and small business is cut adrift.  This is the extreme antithesis of laissez-faire.  Even communist economies (except perhaps North Korea’s) are less driven by government interference and autocratic meddling.  China, for instance, has giant state firms very comparable to our government-favored firms, and a good deal of government meddling in other firms, but apparently not the extreme distortion of the economy that we see here.  At least, their private sector continues to flourish.

David Harvey has recognized the general phenomenon, and redefined neoliberalism in his recent works (see Harvey 2007), to include government collusion.  However, this and other redefinitions have left the word so general that it lacks meaning.   Attacking neoliberalism deflects attention from the real problems.

The ideal mix of government and free enterprise has not yet been found (nor is it likely to be), but a very good mix has been achieved by Scandinavian countries, as shown by their stunning economic and social success.  Compared to the United States, they have single-payer government-managed health care, more investment in public education, higher taxes on corporations, and other trappings of “socialism,” but the real difference from the US seems to be that their free-enterprise sector actually is free enterprise, rather than a creation of intense government meddling to favor a few giant firms at the expense of everyone else.

 

 

 

Chapter 7.  PSYCHOLOGY AND GENOCIDE

 

Human Unreason

 

The challenge to social science in these models is clear.  Social science has overwhelmingly assumed that people were rational, and acted in their rational self-interest.  Such is clearly not the case; humans are often creatures of irrational hate (on emotion, including fear and hate in politics, see Marcus 2002; Westen 2007).  Many are psychopaths, out of the reach of normal economic or social restraints.

The Harff, Totten, and other models have extremely high success in predicting and explaining behavior based on two assumptions–implicit in Harff and Gurr, explicit in the Anderson model.  First humans are primarily social.  Second, they are primarily creatures of emotion, not reason; in the words of David Hume, “Reason is, and ought only to be the slave of the passions, and can never pretend to any other office than to serve and obey them”  (A Treatise of Human Nature, p. 462).  Third, since ignoring a threat can be deadly, the emotion of fear tends to get priority.

Fear, if not dealt with by rational means, often leads to hate.  When it does, and fear and hatred combine, there is no amount of self-interest that people will not abandon to kill their rivals, and even their friends and neighbors.  The entire history of war and suicidal terrorism proves that people will happily sacrifice their lives if they can take a few enemies with them.

Fear comes most often and most seriously from social threat—from attacks by valued members of one’s social world.  Fear also comes from threats to life and livelihood, to future benefits, and to well-being.  Many people fear more for their loved ones than for themselves; extremist leaders often find that followers who refuse to kill for their own benefit will do anything in defense of family, home, and community.

Social science will have to start over from the ground up.  Rational material self-interest has very little explanatory power—certainly nothing like the explanatory power granted to it in most social science models.  Fear and hate are far more prevalent.  Love and solidarity also occur, to say nothing of unreasonable levels of greed, power-madness, and desperate need for control.  Rational self-interest certainly does occur, but usually in the service of one of these emotions.  People are wholly rational about their war planning, suicide bombing, and genociding.  As Captain Ahab put it, “all my means are sane, my motive and my object mad” (Melville 2001:202).

One other area of exploration is the connection of genocidal ideology with individual crises.  Loss of personal control—self-efficacy in a broad sense—is evidently associated in many cases with individuals taking up extreme and hateful belief systems (Baumeister 1997; Beck 1999; cf. Bandura 1982, 1986 on self-efficacy in general).  On the other hand, too much can be made of this.  Scott Atran’s work shows that many reasonably well-adjusted young people can be captured by radical suicide-bomber ideologies, especially if they have lost family members or otherwise been traumatized.  It would appear, however, that such traumatization manifests the sort of uncontrolled situation that might lead to individuals falling into a psychological space of the sort that precipitates hate and violence.

Fascism and genocide in the 20th and 21st centuries tracked conflict between highly traditional societies (including their authority structures) and new ones: democratic, postcolonial, technocratic, and other new and rising social fractions.  Traditional social fractions facing rapid change and erosion were the sponsors:  old white males in today’s US; comparable groups in 1930s Europe; farmers and aristocrats in 1930s Japan; ethnic groups losing from decolonialization in 1970s-2000s Africa; fast-changing traditional fractions in today’s India and Turkey; etc.  The traditional fractions are both losing their former stability and cohesiveness, and losing out economically and politically to newer fractions.  National cycles, immediate crises, and other possible alternative structural causes do not predict fascist movements or genocidal ideation.

 

Basic Psychology of Mass Killing

 

This allows us to examine the back story in human psychology.  Israel Charny, a veteran psychologist of genocide, lists the foundations as projection and scapegoating, need for power and addiction to it, dehumanizing others, doing what is expected or what everyone does, “going with the flow,” being a bystander, conforming for acceptance or adulation, enjoying a controlling role, “total commitment to a divine call of ideology,” sacrificing others, denial, and self-delusion (Charny 2016:32-33).  He is particularly thorough and analytic in dissecting the role of going along with others—conforming, getting caught up in a collective agenda, and being passive in the face of horror (Charny 2016:71-103).

These are too often minimized or unconsidered in analyses of genocide.  Genocidal policies are usually invoked by a single leader or a small extreme movement; they use extreme exclusionary ideologies to whip up mob hate; but then the enormous force of social conformity, going along with it all, passivity, and fear of being different take over.

Timothy Snyder documents this at length in Black Earth (2015).  The vast majority not only of Germans but of Poles, Hungarians, Russians, Lithuanians, and every other nationality went along with exterminating Jews and also killing their own co-ethnics over trivial political matters.  The Nazis ordered it; the people did it.  The few exceptions, Snyder notes, were typically nonconformists (Snyder 2015:250-297).  Similar findings are virtually universal in genocide research.  The Hutu in Rwanda described being caught up in national hysteria.  Otherwise mild, tolerant Cambodians and Indonesians reported the same thing after genocides.  Indeed, it seems likely that the ordinary perpetrators of genocide are usually brought into it by conformity and obedience to authority, and then by communal hysteria or breakdown, rather than by sheer hatred (Anderson and Anderson 2012; Charny 2016; Shaw 2013; many other sources).

The famous experiments of Philip Zimbardo, which had to be terminated after only a few days, involved students playing prison guard and others playing prisoner.  Even in a tightly supervised role-playing situation, violence and cruelty got out of hand within days (Zimbardo 2008).  Zimbardo, a normally decent person, was horrified, and has spent years trying to deal personally and professionally with what he found.

Charny reports the same thing on a mass scale: prison guards who were perfectly decent people and still are when not in their role, doctors who do what they are told even when it involves torture, soldiers who are at first literally nauseated by their killing and later find it “just a job.”  All accounts of genocide agree that these are the typical genociders; they do what their leaders tell them, even when the leaders are clearly demented.

This is especially true if there are real dangers in nonconformity.  Being denounced and given over to the torturers and death camps is a feature of all the more extreme genocidal societies.  Speaking out requires more and more courage as the process accelerates.  Today, many commentators after Trump’s election warned of the danger of “normalizing” him.

We have already noted that all well-reported genocides were presaged and accompanied by a great deal of name-calling.  The victims are “cockroaches” (this seems the favorite worldwide), “germs,” “cancers,” “insects,” “savages,” and so on for pages of documentation (Charny 2016:64; Totten and Bartrop 2008:103-104).  Ethnic slur terms are routinely used.  Victim groups are accused of being liars, cheats, criminals, thugs, rapists, and so on.  Trump in his campaign used a whole dictionary-worth of such terms to describe Mexicans and Muslims.  Conversely, genociders refer to their own activities with euphemisms (Totten and Bartrop 2008:137-138).

Another important point Charny makes is the degree to which people get sucked into these extreme movements by emotional appeals, charismatic leaders, media hype, and general social pressure (Charny 2016:112-124).  Many of these movements are specifically religious, incliuding, of course, the original genocides—persecution of heretics and dissidents in ancient and medieval times.  Today, extremist Muslim terrorism, Buddhist persecution of Hindus in Sri Lanka (Short 2016) and Muslims in Myanmar, Jewish calls for genocide of Palestinians, and Trump’s evangelical “Christian” support indicate that religion is far from dead as a factor.

However, they are put in the shade by the religion-like ideologies of fascism and Leninist Communism.  As Charny says:  “many scholars regard Nazism as a secular religion with ‘religious’ pinciples that included blood, race, land, and nation.  At least three Communist regimes (Soviet, Chinese, and Cambodian) adopted similarly quasi-religious forms.  Interestingly, although all three of these regimes were Communist, they did not necessarily emulate one another.  Rather, each underwent individual processes that developed ideologies that were like religions in their totality and absolutism” (Charny 2016:116).

The resemblances to religion are the total commitment required, the degree to which these are total social forms and ideologies with their own moral codes, and the degree to which they whip up emotions to get the public involved in the ideology.

Just as people get swept up into killing, they get more and more swept up into extremist ideologies.  Trump’s movement grew like a snowball.  He eventually convinced virtually all Republicans, as well as many Democrats and independents, to vote for him—in spite of early doubts.  Accounts of full genocides, such as in Rwanda and China, regularly involve long quotes from people who were initially cold to the movement but got increasingly caught up in it and eventually committed violence.

We are also all too familiar with the phenomenon of the sweet old lady who loves her pet cat and her porcelain figurines but who wound up voting for Trump—or, earlier, for Hitler, or Mussolini, or Rios Montt, or other elected genociders—because she feared the “others.”  People who are otherwise not only good, but exceptionally good, are not at all immune to the rhetoric, because they are fearful.  Their very goodness may make them especially worried about their loved ones, or their country, or their faith.

There is a sad record (noted above) of literary and cultural figures who espouse extremism.  Fascism in Europe was viewed with favor, and even enthusiasm, by people such as T. S. Eliot and W. B. Yeats, though they quickly cooled.  Stalwarts like Ezra Pound and Martin Heidegger remained fascists all their lives.  Similar support for communism  by leading figures is well known.

Perhaps the most horrifying, in retrospect, were the truly dedicated and devoted social activists who wound up defending genocidal regimes.  Stalin had diehard defenders in the west. Another example is found in the “two-hundred-percenters”:  The foreign non-Chinese apologists for Mao’s Communism, who wrote passionately in favor of it even when it drifted into genocide that was insane and uncontrolled even by other genocides’ standards.  The peaceable, socially idealistic New Zealanders Rewi Alley and H. W Youren (a politically moderate farmer) make fascinating cases—they were model citizens, lovers of social justice  They supported the early Mao for the best of reasons, and got caught up in denial once Mao turned pathological (Beattie and Bullen 2014).  They, like many others, were ultimately disillusioned and regretful.

Few, if any, good people sympathized with Rios Montt or the Rwanda Interahamwe, but the point is made:  even the best people can get swept up in even the worst genocide.

Denial is also well known.  We still have countless Americans that deny the Holocaust happened.  Turkey still denies the Armenian genocide.  This being the case, it is easy to see how Trump supporters can walk back on his inflammatory remarks, and how Republicans can deny the mass murder implicit in their across-the-board repeal of health care, food for the poor, and even Meals on Wheels and similar programs.

Hate is fed by lies, the bigger and more obvious the better.  This is Joseph Goebbels’ famous Big Lie technique, not his invention but certainly perfected by him, and used by many since.  Trump has fed white racism, and also a wider white backlash against “political correctness” and perceived favoring of nonwhites by media and liberal Democrats (see e.g Kaleem 2016).

Exclusionary ideologies everywhere depend on divide-and-conquer strategies, splitting people by race, ethnicity, language, religion, class, occupation, place of origin, political opinions, anything—if one divider fails, exclusionists will simply turn to another set.  There is no way to combat all these hatreds one by one.  We have to preach overall tolerance.  Exclusionists also love violence, oppression and bullying, so violent protests tend to bring a more violent return, and merely make things worse.

 

Human Innate Aggression?
To this psychological back story, there is an even further back story: the question of how violent and hateful humans are.  This has been debated since long before history (see, again, Pinker 2011).  The most obvious point is that humans vary from incredibly murderous to incredibly peaceful.  There are societies where killing is almost unknown, and societies that almost or quite exterminated themselves through violence.  There are people who seem irredeemably violent—psychopaths—and others who never hurt a fly.  Over history, there seems a tendency for alternating peace and war in most societies, but this is often due to one or two warlike societies (such as the Germans in Europe, the Turks in Asia) forcing others societies to defend themselves.  The vast majority of societies have faced war rather often (Bowles 2008, 2009; Guilaine and Zammit 2001; Keeley 1996; LeBlanc and Register 2002), but there is plenty of evidence for usual peacefulness and preference for peace; the Hobbesian picture of humans does not stand (Dentan 1966, 2008; Gusterson 2007; Robarchek 1989a, 1989b; Robarchek and Robarchek 1998; Roscoe 2007).

Humans are naturally cooperative (Bowles and Gintis 2011), with altruism and mutual aid typical.  Such traits, rare in nature, evolved in a world of shared hunting and defense.  This usually makes for peace, but when the group is threatened, violence in its defense is common.   Humans probably evolved in groups of 50 to 150 (see e.g. Dunbar 1993, 2004; Van Vugt  et al. 2008).  These may have warred from the start (Bowles 2006).  In any case, they compete.  Within the group, people usually display loyalty and solidarity, but large groups are apt to break up.  Both contingencies can set the stage for tribal massacres, and in modern times—when groups are far larger—for genocide.

In particular, segmentary bonding and segmentary breakdown is a continual source of problems.  It is captured in the Arab proverb “I against my brother, my brother and I against our cousin, our cousin, brother and I against the village, and our village against the world.”  (Scott Atran, 2010:256, gives an Afghan variant.)  Classically, uniting against a common enemy has been the easiest way to unite people (Arrow, 2007; Bowles 2006; Choi and Bowles 2007; Nowak 2006).

People also routinely misperceive risks (Beck 1992; Douglas and Wildavsky 1982).  They overemphasize large, dramatic risks over ordinary ones.  They displace fears, especially social fears, onto inappropriate topics—such as harmless minority groups.  They scapegoat these.

Violence, in general, is controllable, is getting less (over the long term), and is not a universal trait of humans (not even of young men).  Genocide is not explained by human nature.  It is explained, to some degree, but the tendency of psychopaths to rise in the system.  They lead; people follow in so far as the psychopathic leaders are charismatic, persuasive, and good at touching on deep fears.  Leaders of genocidal regimes seem to fall into four types: outright psychopaths, religious zealots, Communist extremists, and cold, brutal, bullying military men.  However, more studies of actual leaders are needed; no one seems to have stepped forward to evaluate them comparatively.

Aggression, when it occurs, is always socially controlled and manipulated (Geen and Donnerstein 1998).  It is not some free-floating, inevitable part of human nature.  It is structured and culturally managed.  Young men tend to be relatively violent, but it is older men and women that instigate genocide, and, usually, war.  Genocide, above all, is a calculated policy, not a random outbreak (Anderson and Anderson 2012).

We can thus assume that people are basically “good,” in the sense that they want warm, supportive sociability as well as some independence and control of their lives.  The problems come when those two basic drives come into conflict—when sociability causes stress and fear of rejection and ostracism, or when the need for control makes people too independent and defiant.  Fear, weakness, and threat then produce defensiveness.  Defensiveness with still further fear typically makes people lash out irrationally.  Alternatively, it can scare them into passivity and conformity, including following orders to exterminate “threats.”

In war, it is reported that four out of five soldiers in combat never fire their weapons (Pinker 2011).  Steven Pinker (2011) holds that people have been getting progressively less violent over time, as civilization moves to higher moral levels.  This has been strongly questioned (Fry 2013); Pinker exaggerated the levels of pre-civilization war, and certainly understates the extent of killing in the last century.  Still, Pinker seems to have the best of it: the diminution has been much less than he thought, but it is there.

However, the biggest reason he is close to wrong is, in fact, genocide.  This crime has exploded in the last century and a half—from extermination of small local groups to get their land to extermination of entire populations for no sane reason at all.  Pinker counts the openly violent genocides, but ignores the structural violence that killed hundreds of millions of people over the last century through deliberately-invoked famines, displacement, denial of medical care, and the like.  When these were targeted at specific populations (like the Ukrainian famine of 1933 which killed 3.3 million people) they were genocidal.  Even when not so targeted, if food supplies or resettlement or medical care were deliberately withheld from one segment of the citizenry, we can talk of genocide.  The Great Leap Forward, for instance, led to about 45,000,000 excess deaths in China (Dikotter 2010).

On the other hand, the killing in the last century or two has been rather localized.  It has been common in empires—from imperialist and colonialist regimes to the USSR empire of 1917-1989.  Temporally, it had a huge peak from 1914 to 1945.  Clearly, people are not born killers, or we would not see the secular decline and local fluctuations.  Most people today, at least outside the Middle East, go through life without seeing much in the way of violence.  The truly violent are often obviously abnormal psychologically, in the sense that they are well outside the usual distribution of mental traits.  They are psychopaths or have trouble controlling aggression.

Unfortunately, they function all too well in society; studies hold that a very disproportionately high number of CEOs and politicians are psychopathic.  This makes society as a whole more violent.  The reason is simple: cutthroat competitiveness usually succeeds.  Rare is the competitive situation where one loses through having no morals and no conscience.  More typical is the success of fighting dirtier than anyone else.  It works poorly in marriage, but well in politics.

This is especially true when competition is zero-sum or negative-sum.  A positive-sum game, as business is supposed to be in a growing economy, can attract better souls and weed out the hard cases.  Politics is usually zero-sum: one party loses when another wins.  War is, of course, negative-sum in most cases; even if “we” win “their” land, we lost so many men and women and so much money in the process that we are worse off.  This is truer all the time, as wars get more expensive, and is one reason for international wars becoming less common.

Destructive competition feeds and fuels genocide.  Dominant groups must feel seriously threatened by the “others” for genocide to be truly popular.  Hitler had to work hard to make Germans believe that the Jews were keeping the Germans down and making them poor; the Great Depression helped Hitler in this.  The Interahamwe in Rwanda had a similar task convincing the Hutu that the Tutsi were the villains.  Mao could convince many Chinese that landlord elements were ruining the whole country.  Trump convinced millions of Americans that it was Mexicans, Asians, and gays that were causing America to suffer from a purely-imaginary crime wave and an equally unreal economic decline.

 

Basic Evil

 

There is a small but excellent literature on human evil.  The major titles are Simon Baron-Cohen,  Zero Degrees of Empathy (2011); Stephen Bartlett’s The Psychology of Man (2005); Roy Baumeister, Evil:  Inside Human Cruelty and Violence (1997); Aaron Beck, Prisoners of Hate (1999); Zimbardo’s book already noted; and above all Erwin Staub’s great trilogy The Roots of Evil (1989), The Psychology of Good and Evil  (2003); and Overcoming Evil (2011).  Amartya Sen’s Identity and Violence (2006) is important for showing how hate is copuled with identity.  Carolyn Nordstrom (1997) has applied many of these ideas to genocide and mass killing.  We have already discussed the psychological backgrounds of genocide in some detail elsewhere (Anderson and Anderson 2012).  All define evil more or less the same way: as gratuitous physical harm to people.

The main conclusion of these works is that anyone, anywhere, can be induced to be evil—to do perfectly horrible things in an indefensible cause.  All agree that the typical evil-doer is an ordinary person coerced by his military superiors, or genocidal government, or criminal gang, or religious body, or other such unit.

All these sources also agree that domestic violence, sexual abuse, torture, criminal gang activity, and genocide are all linked.  The exact nature of the links is unclear, but all are related to need for control in situations where loss of control is feared.  Men beat their wives because they fear being abandoned or cheated on; governments exterminate their minorities because they fear minority cultural power.

However, these are followers, coerced or ordered.  The actual instigators are a different case.  Some are psychopaths.  Some appear to have started as ordinary rabble-rousers and then gotten carried away with their own rhetoric.  Some are merciless military men whose training led to callousness and a belief that dealing with “enemies” meant extermination.  Some were motivated by hatred from the beginning; Hitler’s hysterical hate of Jews is evident from his earliest writings.  Many, however—possibly most—were swept away by hateful rhetoric, those “exclusionary ideologies” in their most direct manifestation.   We still lack full biographies of most genociders.

Also relevant is the literature on domestic violence (see B. Anderson et al. 2004), which shows striking similarities to genocide—it is, almost, genocide miniaturized, or, more accurately, genocide is domestic violence on a huge scale.  Domestic violence has everything to do with maintaining control when the perpetrator feels a desperate need to control family members and yet feels threatened and inadequate.  Dictators in similar situations act similarly, on a vast scale.  Challenges to one’s reference group brings out even worse behavior (Atran 2003).

Psychologists have long known that being raised in erratic, unpredictable, violent surroundings makes troubled children, as opposed to children raised in warm, stable homes (Werner 1989; Werner and Smith 1982).  Data on genociders is inadequate to tell whether leaders had problematic backgrounds.

One conclusion from all these works is that the concept of “dehumanization,” so often cited in regard to genocide, needs considerable unpacking.  Baumeister points out at length that victims of the worst evil are tortured psychologically and physically in ways that make sense only if the torturers realize the victims’ fully human nature, and know exactly how to make a human being suffer.  Calling people “lice,” “cockroaches,” “rats,” and other terms distances them somewhat, but no one designs extreme and carefully calculated tortures to kill insects or rodents.  One simply squashes them or traps them.  Barroom brawlers call each other “son of a bitch” to insult them, not dehumanize them; nobody calls a male dog a son of a bitch, though it would be the literal truth.  Works like David Livingston Smith’s Less Than Human (2011) undermine their own case.  Smith, and others, describe horrible tortures done to people who were first called by humiliating names.  However, the tortures are exactly and specifically those used by domestic abusers and brutal bullies on their victims, not things anyone would really do to a cockroach or rat.

On the other hand, structural violence—allowing millions to die simply out of bureaucratic callousness—does involve dehumanization.  However, the victims are not called cockroaches or rats; they are called “collateral damage” or “displaced” or are simply not mentioned at all.  The people displaced by large dam projects are notoriously invisible to developers, bureaucrats, aid workers, and others, though they die by the tens of thousands (Scudder 2005).  The same is true of victims of preventable famines and epidemics (Angell 2017).  These people are victims of genocide by many definitions.  However, within our narrow definition, genocide victims are fully human, and their oppressors know it.

 

Grounding All This in Common Humanity

 

Particularly valuable for understanding both good and less ideal human behavior is Albert Bandura’s Social Foundations of Thought and Action (1986).  Bandura has shown over decades that people’s sense of self-efficacy is basic to their psychological functioning.  Knowing one can control one’s life, or at least some of it, is critically important to humans.  Knowing what can be done, especially about fears and threats, is most important of all.  People need a sense of control over their lives and surroundings (Langer 1983; Schulz 1976), and challenge to their control is one of the surest ways to make people violent.

From these and the sources on genocide we can construct a theory of hate and killing.   We have seen (with Israel Charny) that most perpetrators are driven by society and culture, but someone has to start the ball rolling.  Someone has to devise the hate ideology, declare the dictatorship, start the murders.

In short, weakness, or—more accurately and generally—perceived lack of self-efficacy in a situation, lead to overnegativism and overreaction.

Fear is critical in all this.  Fear is a normal human emotion (LeDoux 1996).  It must be prioritized, because threats can be deadly if not addressed immediately.  Fear leads to a fight-flight-freeze reaction that can easily slide over into violence.  Among mammals, humans seem particularly prone to violence when threatened or stressed.  Even humans are usually peaceable, solving problems as reasonably as possible, but can easily be moved to violent outbreaks.  This is especially true in social situations where the group is stressed.  When a majority is afraid of a minority, disaster is likely.  This is why genocides are often against minorities perceived as “rich” and “powerful”:  Jews in Germany, Tutsi in Rwanda, landlords in China.  On the other hand, most genocides, especially settler genocides, target the weak; this is often scapegoating and displacement.

Hatred is due to fear, threat, and stress—to real or dreaded harms.  There are many ways to deal with fear and threat; one can take rational steps, or run away, or fight directly against it.  Group hate and exclusionary ideologies are usually the result of a fourth coping strategy: displacing the anger onto a weak, vulnerable group.  In the 2016 elections, millions of genuinely suffering working people gave up trying to vote their class interest and simply voted against weaker groups: Latinos, Muslims, the poor.  There was a perception that these groups were “causing the problems,” but there was also a clear tendency to try to take down rival groups.

It is natural for people to defend their group; defend their place in the group; and defend their standing in the group.  If they are ordinarily strong and resilient, they will usually do that without resorting to hate crimes.  We can be proud of our groups and identities without cutting others down.  We can feel entitled to get what we deserve from society without letting entitlement turn into “white privilege” or other privilege or special favors.  However, vulnerable people with low self-efficacy often feel driven to desperation.  This emerges strongly from, for example, Scott Atran’s recorded narratives of Islamic terrorists.

At some level, taking this bully option requires a certain sense of one’s own weakness and vulnerability, and consequent defensiveness.  Abuse, hatred, and genocide are a weak person’s ways of defending his or her social place.  If one feels that control over one’s life is slipping away, one often becomes desperate.  This is where understanding of domestic violence becomes useful, since that is the key finding of domestic violence studies; typically, men very unsure of their worth and social position will try to control women by violence.

Another useful individual-level model is the extreme concern with personal “honor” found in certain societies (notably including the rural and southern United States; see Baumeister 1997; Henry 2009).  Individiuals are so concerned about their social standing that the slightest hint of disrespect will cause outbreaks of verbal or physical aggression.  Family “honor” leads to “honor killings” in many societies around the world.  As these grow in number during bad times, they begin to look more and more like genocide (on gender violence and genocide, see Totten 2008).

Prejudice (Allport 1954) and group hatred stem from these emotions.  Displacement of anger, prickly “honor,” fear of superiors, excessive concern for social place, and other aspects of social weakness and fear support hatred.  People hate opponent groups within their own societies.  They also worry about anyone within their own groups that is conspicuously “different” in thought or behavior (Pinto et al. 2010).  Even conspicuously good people are disliked (Parks and Stone 2010).  Envy of their goodness is part of it, just as envy of success is a problem for successful minorities such as the Jews in Europe.

 

The ultimate common sink of all these evils is essential rejection: regarding certain humans as beneath consideration simply because of what they are, rather than because of what they do.  Certain people are worthy only of being shoved out of the way: displaced, exiled, rounded up in reservations, and, ultimately, eliminated completely.  They are not so treated because they have done anything, but because they are poor, or different-looking, or different in religion, or different in lifestyle, or different in politics.  Simply being poor or rich, black or brown, Muslim or Christian means that they are to be moved out of the way by the most expedient means.

Feelings of entitlement often make this worse.  White supremacists feel threatened by the very existence of African-Americans, let alone their success.  Muslims and Christians each claim to have the exclusive truth, and see each other as a challenge to that.

This essential rejection—rejection because of essence, not because of action or behavior—usually comes from one of four things: weak fear, psychopathic hatred, sheer distancing (especially bureaucratic callousness), or longstanding enmity.  Usually “longstanding” here refers to many generations, not just a few years.  German anti-Semitism and Japanese antagonism toward China surfaced in WWII, but had a long prior history.

All four can be culturally constructed.  Weak fear is the most apt to be turned over time into a cultural thing.  It is the result of being genuinely frightened when one is in a position of low self-efficacy: personal weakness or loss of control.  Fear of Jews in Germany, African-Americans in the southern United States, Tibetans in China, Armenians in Turkey, and so on through the long list is coupled with guilt about how those groups were treated over time.  They are frightening because of what they might do, with full justification, if they could.  Guilt, shame, and regret can be mutated into scapegoating and bullying.  “I’m better than you” and “I’m worse than you” are bad enough, but the worst is “I’m worse than you so have to pretend I’m better, and if in power I have to bully you.”

Often revealing is the hatred of beauty, enjoyment, and good that we have noted before as a telltale sign of genocidal mentality in some autocrats.  Thus the decline of folk society with its traditional art forms, and the decline of arts in the schools and universities in recent years, are dangerous and unfortunate.

The opposite of rejection is acceptance—specifically, the moral decision to accept the world as it is, enjoy it as much as possible, and deal coolly and rationally with the rest.  Never just “bear”; if one cannot fix a problem, one can at least analyze it, try to understand it, and figure out what should be done if opportunity permits.

Cowardly defensiveness and cowardly aggression are behind the barroom-brawl attitude that seems so general among genociders, hateful leaders, and participants in cultures of exclusionary ideology.  Other corollaries of weak fear are failure to take or show responsibility, and failure to oppose leaders who are clearly on a wrong track. Most serious is a tendency to react negatively and irrationally to challenge or perceived threat.  Weak fear goes with unreason, and coolly rational response to challenge is the focal way to cope with it.  One explanation is that even small slights and personal cuts can be deadly to a weak person.  They not only hurt feelings, but can go with real threats that a weak person cannot handle.

On the other hand, weak fear is hard to combine with genocidal leadership, although the deep insecurities of Hitler, Stalin, Mao, and others have been the subjects of much speculation.  Leaders have managed to turn what fears they have into open, vocal hate.  They are also apt to be more directly motivated by lust for power, self-absorption, culturally learned hatreds (like Hitler’s Austrian hate of Jews), and even outright psychopathy.

People can see that we are all in this together, and that long-term, wide-flung calculations of good must be invoked if we are to survive.  However, they naturally tend to more short-term, narrow calculus (see e.g. Kahneman 2011).  This can, and often does, lead to playing the world as a negative-sum game.

 

Hate Comes to Government

 

A government that claims total power, but is really facing a crisis that brings out its weaknesses, resorts to extreme violence.  Mass murderers who lasted long in office, such as Stalin and Mao, constantly reiterated their fears for the Revolution.  Always, some huge number of innocent people had to die, because the Revolution was under imminent threat from dark and frequently unknown forces.  On the right, Rios Montt in Guatemala constantly reiterated his claims that the nation was under constant attack from all manner of leftist elements that had to be utterly eradicated to preserve even mininal order.  The extreme intolerance of ISIS for even the most trivial differences within Islam, let alone for other religions, verges on (if it does not actually become) paranoia.

This frightened negativity is reflected also in the opposition to general humanistic values that characterize so many totalitarian regimes.  They outlaw or at best de-fund the arts.  They drastically curtail medical care.  They eliminate famine relief.  They deny science and invent their own “facts.”  Such regimes are characterized by a general fear, and consequent hate, of the creations of the human spirit.

Violence is especially likely if that is the one thing that the leaders are reasonably certain that they control.  Again, domestic violence is strikingly informative:  physical abusers tend to be those who are physically powerful and/or trained to fight using weapons, but who fear they are at a disadvantage in other ways.  Experience with schoolyard bullies is the same: physical abusers are “big kids” who have little but strength going for them; verbal abusers are physically less impressive but verbally fluent; and so it goes.  At the national scale, an elite confident of its ability to solve economic crises will not invoke genocide if the economy turns sour; that recourse is left to regimes that have military strength but no economic competence.

This leads to the prediction that totalitarian societies with poor perceived control over their citizens’ violence will be the most genocidal.  On the whole, this is the case.  It explains why genocides are so concentrated just after dictators take over and, again, when civil or international war occur.  Peacetime genocides are, however, common, and one must have recourse to the apparent paranoia of the dictators in those cases, with Stalin and Mao coming to mind once again.

Thus the real conflict in society is always tolerance, harmony, and getting along versus hate, intolerance, and rejection.  The extreme form of the latter is seen not only in Hitler’s Nazism, but in the bigotry and hysterical mob hate that dominated the 2016 election (and was not confined to the right wing).  Class differences are difficult enough, economics and rational economic concerns are serious enough and motivating enough—we cannot ignore them—but we have to work on them from an underlying platform of unity, solidarity, cooperation, accommodation, and mutual aid.

 

 

 

Chapter 8.  GENOCIDE PROSPECTS IN THE UNITED STATES

 

Donald Trump was elected by a coalition of three groups: Big Oil and their cooperating interests, the racist and sexist right, and the right-wing “Christians.”  The latter two are motivated by extreme hate, Big Oil only by ordinary everyday self-interest (“greed”).  If history holds, the racists and religious extremists will take over, and start a campaign of genocide that will devastate capitalist interests, including Big Oil.

In all history, very few political campaigns have consisted so strictly as Trump’s of demonizing so many opponents.  Those few always ended in huge genocides.  Hitler’s Germany is the obvious case, but the USSR under Stalin, China under Mao Zedong, Cambodia under the Khmer Rouge, Turkey under the Young Turks in 1915-1916, Ethiopia under the Dergue in the 1970s, and Indonesia under military rule in the 1960s provide other examples.  Even targeted hate campaigning, with only one or two groups demonized, has led to mass genocide in countries such as Serbia, Rwanda, and Burundi in the 1990s and Sudan in the 2000s.

How much Trump is consciously following the playbook is not clear, but Stephen Bannon at least is known to be well aware of Hitler’s steps to power, and appears to be copying them quite faithfully.

However, there is hope in the current situation.  Constant peaceful protest, and exposure of lies, will succeed against Trump if pressure is kept on but no violence is allowed in the process.  There are several cases of successful peaceful resistance—though disturbingly few—in the international record of the last century (Chenoweth and Stephan 2012).  There are even a few cases were autocratic regimes—generally relatively mild ones, but some quite murderous ones—were turned out by massive continued protest and international pressure, as in Chile, the Philippines (under Marcos), South Africa, South Korea, and Taiwan.  Depressingly, the great genocidal regimes usually ended only when forced out by war, though the most murderous country of all, the Soviet Union, slowly declined into relatively peaceful mildness in the 1950s, before collapsing completely in 1989.

Thus, applying prior experience to the United States, we can specify the especially frightening possibilities ahead.  First, armed militias—the Black Shirts and Brown Shirts—were instrumental in the rise of fascism in Italy and Germany, and comparable militias or armed groups (from the Red Guards to the Interahamwe) arose in virtually all other major genocides.  The United States has the Ku Klux Klan, the White Aryan Nation, and other groups, all of which militantly supported Trump and are ready to serve him.  If they are put into service, the risk of genocide goes sharply up.  Second, attacks on the mainstream media and academics are already daily events.  If they lead to actual imprisonment or other suppression, the risk is again much higher.  Third, demonization of the opposition by the hard-right is constant and becoming more strident.  Fourth, the current rush by the Republican Party to abolish or avoid traditional democratic institutions and balances appears to be a deliberate move toward authoritarian control.  Fifth, economic problems, threats of terrorism, and serious multifront war (currently focused in Syria) are providing excuses for crackdowns.  Finally, an actual coup, or suspension of the Constituion in a “state of emergency,” would make genocide virtually certain.

In short, all the danger signs that foretold prior genocides are already visible, but in early forms.  This progression can still be nipped in the bud.

The best way to predict a genocidal future is to see what was done by dictators trained, put in place, and instructed by the American right wing.  These range from Rios Montt in Guatemala to Pinochet in Chile.  Pinochet was relatively moderate, and confronted a well-developed civil society that eventually prevailed and forced him out; he killed a large number of opponents and suspected opponents, but no more than ten to twenty thousand.  Rios Montt took over a more troubled country with less civil society, and began a campaign of mass murder that targeted Maya Indigenous communities, teachers, aid workers, community organizers, and other good-doers, as well as political opponents.  His genocide claimed 200,000 lives—2% of the total population.

Given the extreme levels of hatred that the Republicans have aroused, a Republican genocide would probably kill at least 2%, six and a half million people.  This would be in a consolidation genocide: the initial campaign to insure control once dictatorship has been declared.  The next steps would lead to more.  A Republican government would eliminate corporate and estate taxes and cut all taxes for the rich.  If present trends are any indication, the resulting enormous infusion of cash to the rich would be banked in offshore accounts or invested in other countries—not invested in the United States.  It would be a huge drain on the economy.  Also, the Republicans currently propose to eliminate Medicare, Medicaid, Social Security, and indeed all transfer-payment programs, leading to extreme poverty in the US.  The resulting decline in consumer spending would devasstate the economy.  Resulting unemployment and disruption would lead to a further genocide to suppress dissent, probably eliminating another 2%.  Targeted groups of these genocides would be political opponents and Democrat leadership in general; minority leadership; feminist leadership; gays in general (many Republicans have called for exterminating them); and probably other groups.  Republicans are also proposing a new constitution for the United States, to eliminate the measure making any child a citizen if born in the US; such a new constitution would certainly eliminate the Bill of Rights (except the second amendment), the 14th Amendment, and other protections.

All historical genocides have moved very rapidly once started.  Killing escalates within months or days.  We will have no time to stop it if we do not start now.

A scenario for permanently eliminating Democrats from power is clearly taking shape in the GOP:  National right-to-work law and other measures to destroy labor unions, plus gerrymandering and voter suppression.  Unions are not only the biggest single source of Democrat funding and the way to mobilize the working class; they are also the main counterbalance to the rich urban liberals who want to restrict politics to debating “neoliberalism” and “intersectionality.”  We have to get back to uniting for economic justice and stop dividing over meaningless verbiage.  Only the workers can keep the Democrats on that track.

The United States, before Trump, was well placed to stop genocide, because it had evolved the exact opposite: a system based on liberal democracy.  Guaranteeing basic human and civil rights expanded fairly steadily up until 2016, and in spite of many obvious problems, the US had worked out a solid, well-constructed plan for fair treatment, justice, and inclusion.  That plan is now in ruins.  It can and must be restored and strengthened.

Our enemy is hate. It was the reason for the Trump vote—the sole real issue in his campaign.  It takes the forms of bigotry, bias, intolerance, exclusionary ideology, cowardly and fearful resistance, and irrational anger.  The outrageous amoral greed of Trump and his cronies succeeds only because their supporters and voters are motivated by hate to vote and act against their own self-interest.  Most of the hate was directed downward socioeconomically—to the pooor and to poor minorities—but intellectual elites and the Washington “establishment” came in for their share.

Trump supporters apparently think of the United States not as one country where people work together to move forward, but as a set of hopelessly antagonistic blocs, fighting each other in a declining economy, each one surviving only by taking down the others.  Unfortunately, this view is not confined to Republicans; many disaffected leftists hold it.

The counter is not to be angry or hateful toward Republicans.  The only counter is solidarity, reasonableness, mutual respect, and personal responsibility.

Trump’s victory shows that, unfortunately, people vote their hate—not really news to many political scientists, but apparently news to the Democratic Party.  Hatred is a far more important motive than any other, at least in politics.  There is a worldwide context, rooted in increasing resistance to democracy because it is associated with globalization and rising inequality everywhere (Fukuyama 2016).

This led to the sad fact that millions of otherwise perfectly good, decent, honorable people voted for Trump, simply because he tweaked their one spot and got them to vote against not only their economic self-interest but also against the 90% of their moral and emotional compass that was not hateful.  Democrats, and especially intolerant liberals, should remember this.  Hatred is no nicer in a liberal who rejects any and all Trump voters than in a “redneck” racist.

Hatred is also the cause of motivated belief in lies.  The astounding propagation of blatant, obvious lies—there is no global warming, all Muslims are terrorists, and so on, things that anyone could see were false—is explained by people believing anything that justifies and shores up their hates.  There is also cognitive dissonance to consider; the more one has personally invested in a belief, the more one believes it when it is disproved.  This will lead many to become even more hateful to minorities and Muslims when Trump’s presidency fails to deliver (as it certainly will).

We thus need a specific attack on the Great Lies—the ones that just go on and on and are apparently universally believed by the right wing:  Racism, religious bigotry (especially against Jews and Muslims), the nonexistence of global warming, and the unworthiness of the poor (the idea that the poor are all lazy—not working, and that because of laziness and stupidity).  Fake news, lies in general, and the Republican acceptance of lies is bad enough, but these four are really especially awful, and they never go away.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 9.  STOPPING GENOCIDE

 

The most ambitious plan for curing hate and genocide is Ervin Staub’s life work, epitomized in Overcoming Evil (2011).  This book summarizes all the causes of genocide and terrorism.  It then gives an extremely comprehensive and detailed account of what can be done by ordinary people to damp down the vicious cycles of hate and violence that lead to mass murder.  The methods range from getting people from the different sides to talk to each other and work out their problems (the classic group therapy techniques) to active-bystander intervention, and on up to political, media, and educational approaches.  The latter will certainly be needed, since encounter groups can never be comprehensive and widespread enough to do the job—though they are surely desirable, even necessary.  Staub emphasizes the need to see others as ourselves—to see that we are all in the same boat, all humans together (see summary point, p. 515).

Ultimately, and especially for those individuals low in self-efficacy who might otherwise be tempted by violence, the only cure is tolerance.  We must teach that, including valuing diversity and valuing solidarity and community.  This cannot be expected to do all the work, however.  Yugoslavia had a good program of teaching mutual tolerance and appreciation, because of the country’s bitter past of genocides and ethnic hatreds.  The program was not enough; the nation dissolved into warring and genocidal splinter countries in the 1990s.  Relative peace has now come, at the cost of tens of thousands dead, millions with shattered lives, and whole nations ruined.

Above all, we have to make hatred socially unacceptable, and confront hatred and bigotry directly.  Hate is an emotion that hugely dominates the human animal when it is aroused, and it can be dealt with only by patient, rational discourse kept up with constant pressure.  We have to teach ordinary egalitarian civility and politeness—not showing dislike of others, simply as a matter of decency.

That said, no really effective campaign of fighting hate has worked without giving people something to unify them.  Conquest worked in the bad old days, but the Mongol hordes are not an ideal model for today.  Defense sometimes works in a threatened country, as it did for the United States in WWII, but surprisingly often it fails to unify people against a common enemy.  Uniting to fix an economic mess saved the United States in the 1930s.  A charismatic, visionary leader is often necessary.

An ethic of helping people, not hurting them, is obviously an essential component to all the above.

Another, quite different, agenda is addressing the claims that the country, or the world, is getting steadily worse off, and that the Jews, gays, Latinos, Chinese, or other entities are to blame.  The surest cure to genocide may be convincing people that we are all getting better off, or could get better off, and that the way to do this is for us all to pull together.

In short, the cure for genocide is the realization that we are all in this together, and that we progress in so far as we all work for the good of all.

A major part of this is remembering the old American watchword:  My rights stop where yours start.  “Your freedom to swing your arm ends at my nose,” as folklore puts it.  One of the most deadly rhetorics in the modern United States is the idea that “religious freedom” means freedom for right-wing “Christians” to bully, oppress, and brutalize those who do not follow that faith.

Prevention of genocide and bringing genociders to justice have moved forward.  Governments are more aware of international sanctions.  Some years ago, John Heidenreich (2001) gave us a number of ways that diplomacy and political resolve could stop genocide.  Leo Kuper (1985) suggested a number of cultural methods and diplomatric initiatives to stop genocide.  Unfortunately, time has not been kind to these.  Laws, diplomacy, international courts, and other due process means have been unable to stop genocide or bring more than a very few genociders to justice.  Typically, the mills of justice grind so slowly that genociders die of old age before they can be convicted.  Notable cases include Slobodan Milosevic and August Pinochet.

Thus, Alex Bellamy (2010), among others, forthrightly states that only superior military force can stop genocide, at least once it is in progress.  Since he wrote, this has indeed been successfully done in the Central African Republic, where religious war between Muslims and Christians was nipped in the bud by an international force.  Conversely, genocides in Myanmar and elsewhere have gone on, unstopped by diplomacy in spite of international protests.  ISIS continues to exterminate Yazidis without much notice (Travis 2016), though liberation of some ISIS areas has occurred as of 2017.

On the other hand, we have seen that Mali and Cote d’Ivoire avoided genocide in spite of communal violence, by avoiding exclusionary ideology (Straus 2015).

These and subsequent additions are conveniently summarized by Samuel Totten and Paul Bartrop (2008:342):  “conflict resolution efforts…mediation…diplomacy…sanctions…radio/television jamming…signing of peace agreements…peace-enforcement troops; establishment of effective safe havens…no-fly zones…outright combat by outside forces to prevent genocide from being carried out.”  Of these, safe zones, and troops on the ground, have proved effective.  Little else has.  Economic sanctions, for instance, have no detectable effect at all, positive or negative (Krain 2017).  Calling out hate speech and propaganda is obviously necessary and important, but more to alert good people than to stop the evil ones.  It awakens the world to the problem, but usually merely hardens the evildoers in their ways.  One remembers the astonishing resistance of Trump supporters to every proof that Trump and his backers had lied outright.  However, calling out hatred sometimes persuades the undecided to decide against evil.  Immediate international diplomatic sanctions against hate-based political action is clearly warranted.  In the end, prediction followed by troop deployment is probably necessary for serious threats.

 

Confronting Prevention

 

We will all have to confront the crimes of genocide and mass murder at national and international levels, and throw the whole weight of citizenry behind ways to reverse vicious spirals and get people to see each other as all in the same lifeboat, and not fighting over the provisions on it.

One other essential thing, however, is to have real, unified, dedicated counterleadership, to give the vast mass of reasonably well-meaning people some leaders to follow and conform to. If conformity and morality are indeed the overwhelmingly most important drivers in the followers of genocide, as appears to be the case, then having a higher and more moral counter-standard to conform to is obviously basic.  As noted above, we need to attack exclusionary ideologies, above all the moralizing of hatred and exclusion.  We can do this only if we also advocate replacing them with ideologies of inclusion, tolerance, mutual aid, and solidarity.

This would involve, most obviously, insistence on tolerance and truth: no “alternative facts” or fake news or racism or climate change denial.

That would require some serious changes to American educational systems.  We too often teach falsehoods.  Worse, we do not teach critical thinking and analysis.  There is also a wider concern: unless we teach genuine appreciation of people, cultures, arts, nature, and the world in general, the gullible and passive will still be seduced by the psychopathic.  Only positive good can truly counteract positive evil.

From the above, it is obvious that at any point, a concerted movement could stop genocide, except in cases where an extremist government had taken total power in war.

All that is required is for ordinary citizens to face what is going on, and refuse to play.  But this means keeping a clear vision in mind of human good, and of the really good people in the world.

Treating fear is clearly a priority.  Fear, and above all irrational behavior due to fear, is due in large part of loss of feelings of self-control, self-efficacy, and control over one’s life (Bandura 1982; Beck 1999; Kemper 2006; LeDoux 1996; many others).  It also involves giving up on controlling that which one cannot control; the Serenity Prayer remains a key ideal to strive for, however hard to reach in practice.  More directly, comprehensive medical care, assurance of food in times of want, reasonable hope of jobs for workers, and above all security of life, identity, and property are essential.  Genocidal leaders thrive on whipping up fear for livelihood.  On the other hand, they are adept at whipping up hatreds even among the affluent and self-assured, so security is ancillary to direct opposition to hate and its ideologies.

Again, there is a back story.  We in the United States have been beneficiaries of the Enlightenment—the visionary program devised in the 18th century that invented such new ideas as participatory democracy, liberty of conscience, a slavery-free society, equal justice for all, and equal opportunities for people of all classes.  These were completely new ideas at the time—as strange to most people as computers and the Internet were to my generation.  They rode a wave of exploration, trade, commerce, prosperity, and adventure.  Unfortunately, it was also a wave of colonialism, war, slavery, oppression, and, of course, genocide.  The Enlightenment leaders were largely reacting against this, but one must remember that some of them profited from it, directly or indirectly.

In any case, we now live on the basis of a program that proved not only very good for people but also stunningly good for the economy.  Democracy and freedom of opportunity paid off, at least as well as any investment in history.  Steven Pinker (2011) argues that the Enlightenment reduced both interpersonal violence and international war.  The jury is out.  In any case, we are now seeing a massive turning away from the Enlightenment program—in the United States, in China, in Turkey, in India, in Hungary, and indeed worldwide.  We need to save the old Enlightenment ideals, and add to them now ones targeted at mass killing.

Human rights remain the key. The rights developed in the Enlightenment—freedom of speech, assembly, religion, and conscience; freedom from torture, oppression, arbitrary “justice”—remain necessary for the world if we are not to fall into mutual destruction.  The governments that deny these and regard them as mere western constructions pay the price in evrything from lost wealth (through destroying their most thoughtful and productive citizens) to total war.  There will always be those who defend genocide as a good thing, but they are basing their vision on hatred and on lust for power, not on any beneficial results.

We need to work on a morality based on helping others, not hurting them.  One would think this was simple and straightforward, but common experience shows otherwise.  We now live in a world where religious leaders preach hatred and mass murder, and sometimes nothing else.

Next comes countering hatred.  This basically requires education, not only in school but in public media.  Clearly dishonest claims of racial difference and of religions that call for murder of innocent people need to be continually refuted at all levels and by all media.  More ambiguous propaganda requires more nuanced approaches.  Meeting extremist Islam (Salafism) with even more extremist intolerant Christianity merely makes things worse.  Meeting racism with generic attacks on white people is no help (though sensible, reasonable critique of white privilege is sorely needed in this day and age).

Economics courses should teach about the link of genocide with special breaks for giant firms.  History courses should include material on how Hitler, Mussolini, and Stalin got whole nations to go along with them in missions of hatred and mass murder. Philosophy, psychology,, literature all have their role.  Science courses should not only debunk lies, but also teach how to evaluate claims in the media.  And there certainly should be comparative religion courses, including the full story of the corruption of religion by demagogues for evil ends.

Child-rearing should focus very solicitously on raising children to be civil, polite, and considerate to everyone, and to talk out their problems with parents, siblings, and peers.  Children need to be taught to take responsiblity for everything from daily chores to their own feelings.  They need to respect others, but not give in to others.  A correlation of harsh, repressive child-rearing and genocide has been raised in much of the literature (see the cited works on Evil, above); it does not hold up robustly, but has some support.  Empowerment should be a major goal. In this imperfect world, sensitivity and self-confidence from actual support by parents and others should be combined with actual testing and developing self-efficacy.

In the wider society, we need to unite economic policies that bring fairness with media arguments for decent treatment of all and a wider morality of tolerance and mutual aid.  Failed, vacillating, or grossly unfair economic policies are a genocider’s dream.  Even more closely connected, usually providing the actual economic base of genocide, are paleoeconomic forms: obsolete industries, crude extractive industries (especially oil), highly traditional sectors (agriculture is notorious), and other basic industries challenged by new, higher-technology sectors.

Again, responsibility is vitally important.  This seems rarely stressed in the literature, but reading accounts of hate ideologies and resulting genocides makes it clear that progressive shrinking from responsible behavior is one common theme.

By far the worst problem is deliberate circulation of all manner of hate propaganda, from flat racist lies to carefully nuanced and disguised bigotry, by the giant firms and super-rich business owners.  The Koch brothers and Robert Mercer have carved out a special niche in funding hate propaganda (see detailed analysis of the Mercer empire, which includes Stephen Bannon; Gertz 2017).  They are not the only ones.  This needs to be continually daylighted.

Of course, most obvious of all is the need to teach that the combination of autocratic government, hate ideology, and economic or violent disruption is almost inevitably deadly.  One therefore hopes for more effort to prevent situations that bring out the worst in people.  Steven Pinker said it well:  “The decline of genocide over the last third of a century…may be traced to the upswing of some of the same factors that drove down interstate and civil wars: stable government, democracy, openness to trade, and humanistic ruling philosophies that elevate the interests of individuals over struggles among groups” (Pinker 2011:342).  Of course we have seen genocides among societies with those traits.  The Weimar Republic that nourished Hitler had them all.  Conversely, conspicuously lacking them all has not brought genocide to a few of the smaller dictatorships like Qatar or Bahrein.  In general, though, they stand up under scrutiny.  Rudolph Rummel was right: autocracy kills, and the more oppressive it is, the more deaths follow when any disruption perturbs the system.

International scrutiny of autocratic states in troubled times must therefore take a high priority, with threat of direct multinational intervention made very real.  Experience suggests that nothing else works when genocide is under way, and even armed intervention does not always have any effect, since dictators may simply keep killing until they themselves are forcibly removed from office.

Attacking hatred in general and the specific correlates of genocide are thus both equally necessary.  Generic attacks on intolerance have never been enough.

Finally, the worst failing of the international community has been in condemning genocide and bringing genociders to justice.  Accountability is absolutely necessary.  The mills of trial and sentencing move so slowly that genociders brought to trial often die of old age before final sentencing.  The international community has been far too comfortable with genocide, human rights abuses, and oppression of minorities.  (For much more detail on all these issues, see Anderson and Anderson 2012:127-156 and Staub 2011.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 10.  REAFFIRMING AMERICAN VALUES

 

Immediate Basics

 

We need to get people to stop seeing American politics as a negative-sum game, in which “my” group hurts itself just to do worse damage to “their” group.  This is clearest and worst in race and gender politics, but is unfortunately common.  Obama did an amazing, though far from perfect, job of bringing us together to work together to build.  Trump, Sanders, and Clinton unfortunately ran quite divisive campaigns; Trump made no pretense otherwise.  Trump, Fox News, and the far-right media whipped up a level of hatred not seen in the United States for decades, possibly not since the Civil War.  A huge anti-hatred civic action movement is absolutely necessary.  But, also, since hate comes from fear, we need to encourage people in the literal sense of the word:  Give them courage.  Fear, and weakness caused by facing the giant corporations in all their power, is the ultimate source of the outbreak of hatred, now so cynically manipulated by the most reactionary of those corporations.

The real problem now is developing solidarity among those opposed to Trumpism.  One way is uniting people around classic conservative virtues—patriotism, loyalty, respect for the Constitution, honesty, personal honor, and courage—as well as the liberal ones of tolerance, fairness, and justice.  Above all, we need simple acceptance.  Love is not the opposite of hate; the opposite of hate is acceptance of people as they are.  Tolerance, valuing diversity, and above all mutual respect are the basic values.  This does not mean tolerating or accepting evil behavior; it means evaluating people as human beings, not as representatives of groups.  In particular, they are not merely parts of imagined, invented, or socially constructed groups.  They are not mere fragments of their religion or their ethnicity or their political party.  They are human beings.

We need a program that has wide support but sharply defines the sane majority against the extremists (see Mounck 2016).  Having no program beyond opposition to Trump and his administration will not work.  Neither will having an extreme or exclusionist “progressive” program.  We have to have clear goals.  These should be both immediate and for the farther future.  Immediate goals should be steps toward utopia.  Any progress in that direction helps, and if we do not have a clear vision of the good society, we will not know where to start or how to evaluate what efforts we make.

The longer-term issues are health and environment.  American life expectancy, infant mortality, and maternal mortality are a disgrace—far worse than in any other developed country, and down with much poorer countries like Cuba, Costa Rica, and China.  Our environmental situation is deteriorating fast.  Global warming threatens to get out of control and devastate the planet.  We have to fight anti-scientific nonsense on all these fronts.

We want an economy that produces jobs but not subsidies, breaks, giveaways, and getting rich through crime, corruption, and cheating.

We want collective goods like free public education, a functioning infrastructure, and a beautiful and healthy environment as well as a sustainably productive one.

We have to have good public health.  One thing conservatives forget is that we cannot have individual good health; it has to be public or nothing.  Epidemics do not know about race, religion, or, on the whole, gender.  They are worse for the poor but the rich do not escape them. The health gap between rural and urban America is increasing, with death rates declining less rapidly or actually rising in the rural areas (Frostenson 2017).  This is directly due to rural choice: they have been voting more and more consistently for Republicans and against health care.  The greatest gap is in maternal and child mortality, because of the rural bias against abortion and indeed against women’s health care in general.

Above all, we want, or should want, a society where civil rights and voting rights are real, equal, and enforced.  We want a society where collective goods allow individual “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”

 

One thing to do right away is to document everything we can.  We may have to make sure that documentation in stored out of the United States to be protected in other countries.  We will probably face suppression of the press and legitimate radio and TV.  Trump has already started it.  His admired friend Vladimir Putin has killed many reporters, as well as shutting down opposition media.  We can expect that.  The legitimate media are already weak enough in this world of Twitter and Fox News.  They will collapse, leaving us without honest news, if real suppression happens.  So, we have to get the word out, by conventional media, social media, word of mouth.  Let the light shine.

Robert Reich identifies four syndromes to avoid:  normalizing, outrage-numbness, cynicism, and giving up (AlterNet, Dec. 20, 2016, http://www.alternet.org/election-2016/robert-reich-4-signs-you-may-have-lost-your-will-fight-coming-tyranny-trump).

Loss also comes from having too broad and vague an agenda—something people cannot relate to.  Supporting “capitalism” or “socialism,” in this day and age when those words are defined any which way, will not work.  We have to be specific.

The civil rights struggle is perhaps the most relevant, if only because many of the same people—the same individuals—that are backing Trump now were leaders of the anti-civil-rights forces, or were coming of age under them.  Jerry Falwell, for instance, was a vocal opponent of civil rights.  His son is still with us, backing Trump.  Guns, attack dogs, tear gas, water cannons, and the whole force the south could muster was thrown against the civil rights activists.

Another very relevant case was the labor movement.  From the 1870s and even earlier, workers fought bosses for minimal pay and rights.  Labor largely lost until the 1930s, but the workers kept up the fight, against incredible odds and with many martyrdoms.  “Solidarity forever” was the watchword, and almost 100% of the variance as far as success went, though having a clear and not too unreachable agenda (the eight-hour day, for instance) was also important.  It really is time to revive the old song “Solidarity forever.”

We need activists who know exactly what we’re in for:  fighting over the long term, against a full-scale, merciless fascist movement.

On the other hand, all polls agree that the vast majority of Americans, including most Republicans, are not on board with Trumpism.  We have to have an actual platform, or at least solid ideas of what we want, and it has to be based on saving America—maintaining democracy and freedom, stopping and reversing the rapid trend toward inequality not only in wealth but also before the law.  We have to get back to demanding real public education, medical care available to all, voting rights for all adult citizens, protection of life and liberty, and other obvious matters on which there is broad agreement.

So, first, unite against hate.   Vote!  Organize! “The best solution is old-fashioned organizing, focused on the issues of the most pressing concern to voters: healthcare, jobs and wage” (Zimmerman 2017).

Second, recognize the level and depth of the threat, especially the way that cynical and evil people are deliberately whipping up the hate to get votes and support for their side and to divide our side.

Third, stop ignoring working-class and rural whites.  Stay with the real grassroots, anywhere and everywhere.  Find out what is happening there.

Fourth, do everything possible to maintain solidarity, including steady advocacy for civil rights and equality before the law.

Fifth, support legitimate media!  Anyone against Trump should subscribe to a (real) newspaper, support networks that carry real news, support websites that carry real news and expose lies.  The honest media are our best hope, and, if the Trump regime is consistent with other fascist regimes, will be the first target.  The first and hardest battle will be to maintain civil rights and access to truth.  Trump will surely attempt to follow the examples of Hitler, Putin, Erdogan and others, and shut down “hostile” media, i.e. those that report truth.  By the same token, avoid and call out the lying media that exist only to serve evil bosses:  Fox News, Breitbart, and the like.

Sixth, join the major civil rights groups and send them money when possible.  In the end, they are probably our next best hope.  The most stalwart and persistently rights-defending groups in the US are the ACLU, Amnesty International, and the Southern Poverty Law Center.  There are other worthy organizations.  Similarly for the environment, where the Sierra Club clearly has the best track record.  Natural Resources Defense Council has also done a consistently fine job.  Beware of “astroturf organizations” (phony grassroots organizations). Do not waste money on hopeful startups too small to accomplish anything consequential.

Seventh, hold Republicans’ feet to the fire.  Stop using euphemisms.  This is fascism and hatred, not politics as usual.  The extreme and pervasive anti-Jewish hate speech of Trump, Stephen Bannon, and others makes clear the fascist roots of it all.  It is not “white nationalism” or “populism.”  Confront that.  Force every Republican in Congress to defend or cut loose the anti-Jewish hatred of people like Bannon.  Stop crediting the Republicans with wanting “small government”; they are instituting tyranny.  (Look at voter suppression, the crushing of women’s reproductive rights and other rights, and indeed almost everything the Republicans currently favor.)  Stop saying they want the “free market”; they want subsidies and government/giant firm cronyism.  They give us not free enterprise, but fusion of government and big business, as seen in Trump’s cabinet.   Stop crediting them with wanting to help the poor or the working people or the sick; they want to hold those groups down or cut them adrift.  They know perfectly well that their plans to “help” actually harm.  We have hundreds of years of evidence on the effects of lowering wages, breaking unions, and eliminating public health care.  Democrats and ordinary Republican voters may be fooled, but no congressperson or cabinet member could possibly be under the illusion that such measures do anything but harm.  If they seriously try to repeal Medicare and Medicaid, call them mass murderers.  If they eliminate regulations on banking and finance, tell them they know perfectly well that that leads to depression.  And so on down the list.

Eighth, protest unendingly and noisily.  Phone and write your representatives.

Ninth, work to change attitudes.  Michael Shermer (2017) has provided simple rules for this:  “1.  Keep emotions out of the exchange, 2 discuss, don’t attack…, 3 listen carefully and try to articulate the other position acurately, 4 show respect, 5 acknowledge that you understand why someone might hold that opinion and 6 try to show how changing facts does not necessarily mean changing worldviews.”

So, get the word out, by conventional media, social media, word of mouth, anything.  Let the light shine.  We need to document everything, especially deaths from refusal of health care, suppression of the press and media, and job losses from Trumpist policies.  We desperately need good reporters and media.

We need a serious leader,  or leaders, with a clear, consistent ideology, the opposite of Trump’s.

 

Reaffirming Values

 

One thing is sure:  the United States must go either up or down.  Continuing on the path of Trump and the Republican Party leads to fascist dictatorship, genocide, and national destruction.  The only alternative is to create a better, more fair, more honest, better educated society than we have had before.  Going back to the days of Clinton and Obama is impossible.  In any case, it would almost certainly lead to a repeat of what happened before: set the United States up for fascism.

The only good that can come of the Trump administration would be forcing Americans of the left, center, and traditional right to get together, reaffirm classic values, and fight these fascists down.  That would, however, be a monumentally good thing.  It happened in the Depression.  It could happen now.  Germany, Italy, Japan, and several other genocidal countires emerged from fascism with far more democratic and free regimes than the ones they had before.  On the other hand, de-communisation did not notably help Russia or most of the former USSR (with the conspicuous exceptions of the Baltics).  Only lack of will makes the difference.

We will have to start over from scratch with the classic American project of creating a fair society, with justice consisting of equality before the law and rights consisting of freedom to act in so far as it does not inhibit another’s welfare or freedom.  Under Trump, the rich, the white, and the fundamentalist-Christian have enormous special privileges before the law and in economic and rights-based terms.  The whole idea of “we’re all in this together” has been lost; the Trump administration, including the Republican congress, are engaged in a single-minded war on weaker Americans.

For the future, the key is to learn and rationally understand instead of hating; act and fight on instead of giving up and falling into passivity; be independent instead of conformist!  These self-disciplines have to underlie and be the foundation for restored tolerance, civility, and solidarity in American life.  It will take hard work for all of us to buck the system and do this.  Just do it.  America and all of us Americans are fighting for our lives now.

Psychologists inform us that values clarification makes one happier, healthier, and more successful in everything from exam-taking to courtship.  We need to get serious about restoring American values of liberty, equality, solidarity, and democracy.

Recently, the United States has been losing its traditional values.  Both the right—now ruling—and the more extreme and vocal end of the left have abandoned a good deal of what most Americans agreed on until recently.

Civil rights have priority, since they are most essential to the American vision and they are most under attack.

Freedom of speech is most at risk.  The Trump administration is attacking the media in exactly the way Hitler did in the 1930s.  Unfortunately, some of the misguided “progressive” camp is going after the media too, in the name of suppressing “hate speech.”  There are classic problems with this, all identified by the Founding Fathers, and also by Tom Paine and John Stuart Mill:

Hate speech is in the eye of the beholder.  No definition can be tight enough to stop people from insisting that what they say is not hate speech, and what their opponents say is always hate speech no matter how nicely phrased.  (Politeness can be a way of subtly maintaining white privilege, for instance.)

Hate speech can be educative–if not the speech itself, then from the fact that people say it, believe it, and act on it.

Suppressing speech drives it underground, where it spreads like wildfire—as censored things always do—and is attractive simply because it was suppressed.  There is an Arab saying that “if you forbid people from rolling camel dung into little balls with their fingers, they would do it, because if it is forbidden there must be something good about it.”  Moreover, suppressing speech makes the suppressed people into instant martyrs, no matter how unsavory they seemed before.

Since the people in power will naturally be the ones doing the censoring, all opposition to those in power will soon be censored, and everything that supports them will be permitted, no matter how vile it is.  This is, in practice, the greatest reason why censorship is generally bad.

Last, it is immoral to shut other people up because you happen to dislike what they say.  They have a right to their opinions and their mouths.

If what they say is downright libel, or a direct call to violence, or a lie that directly leads to physical harm to people (like the anti-vaxx lies), that is something else.  Freedom is not a matter of absolute freedom; it is a matter of considering others’ rights.  Speech that actually and directly causes physical harmful is not defensible.  However, the wise activist errs on the side of liberty.

All this we learned in the Free Speech Movement in Berkeley in the 1960s, but it has all been said before, ever since Voltaire and Jefferson.

On the other hand, there are limits.  Libel is properly outlawed.  Yelling “fire” in a crowded theatre is too, and inciting to riot is dicey; some hate speech falls into that category.  Above all, lying under oath is properly forbidden.  It has been suggested that campaign speech should be sworn testimony, at least when facts are stated, and thus lies like Trump’s would be illegal.

Similar conclusions apply to freedom of press, assembly, and religion.  However, religion has now been so thoroughly abused as a cover for political campaigning and even for money-laundering and profiteering that it will have to be protected from these abuses.  Taxing the churches seems an inescapable necessity if the US is to flourish.  Politics is probably protected speech, up to a point, but outright campaigning—with donations of laundered or illegally-gained money—must be stopped.  Preachers who are clearly in it for the money rather than the souls are all too common, and tax laws have to recognize this.  The problem is not just one of politics; the rapidly escalating religious hate that has swept the world, and notably the United States, in the last generation is to a very large degree a product of preaching for money.  Corrupt and evil men posing as preachers find that the easiest way to make it pay is to preach hate and right-wing politics.  This is the story of ISIS and the Taliban as well as of Trump’s preacher claque.

Thus, cleaning up the institution of religion would seem to be a part of assuring liberty of conscience.  Above all, though, liberty of conscience must be preserved.

 

Second is tolerance, which is also under an astonishing amount of attack from the left as well as the right.

It really should need no defense.  Many of the same considerations as those above will apply.

If you do not tolerate others, they will not tolerate you.  They may not even if you do tolerate them, but, in general, hate breeds hate, acceptance breeds acceptance.

We are all in this together.  A functioning society has to grow, change, and build, and can do that only by unified effort, mutual aid, and solidarity.  The alternative is mutual destruction.  The dominant group may win for a while by doing others down, but it merely hurts itself—first by losing those other groups and whatever they have to offer, but second by starting a spirit of hate and rivalry that inevitably tears up the dominant group itself, in due course of time.

As usual, there are limits.  Obviously, we do not want to tolerate rape, murder, or robbery.  The argument is for tolerating people as individuals—the essential personhood behind whatever unacceptable behavior they may sometimes present.  They deserve fairness and consideration.  If they are acting to harm others, they have to be stopped.  Toleration of ideas is a good, but we need to argue and negotiate and work them out.  Toleration of particular behaviors is allowable only in so far as those behaviors do not actively and unnecessarily harm people.  Not all harm to people is bad—Plato and Aristotle were already pointing out 2400 years ago that surgeons “harm” people for their own good.  One wants to minimize hurt, but some pain is necessary.

In short, tolerance is a major goal, but has to be qualified by common sense.  None of this affects tolerating people as human beings, or, for that matter, tolerating other life forms.  Essential acceptance of living beings, simply on the basis of being fellow travelers on the planet, is the basic and essential need of a functioning society.

It is therefore unacceptable to hate or reject anyone on the basis of skin color, ethnicity, language, history, or the like.  No morality can justify that.  Total personal rejection of anyone for any reason is unacceptable.  We may have to kill a person in self-defense, but we are not given license to hate that individual simply for being.  We know that “races” are not biological entities, and that all human groups are pretty much identical in potential, but even if we did find a group that was—say—less intelligent by some measure than the average, we would morally have to pay them the same respect and treatment as everyone else.

This is the real underpinning of the classic Enlightenment virtues: liberty, equality, fairness, justice as fairness, and civil behavior in civil society.  Never mind that the Enlightenment was financed by slavery and colonialism.  The point is that much of its content was explicitly directed against slavery and class discrimination.  No one in the history of the world had opposed slavery in general until 18th-century religious thinkers, largely Quakers, did so.   Fairness has to mean serious attention to disadvantaged groups, not just even-handed treatment of all.  Equality before the law has been in sorry shape under Trump, with flagrant favoring of whites and rich people ove the rest.  With the Attorney General an open racist, nothing but trouble can be expected.  That way lies genocide and nothing else.

 

This brings us to solidarity:  Mutual aid, mutual support, mutual empowerment and strengthening.             It worked for the labor movement and for the old-time Democrats; disunion, carefully nurtured by the right wing, has led to the decline of both those institutions.  The war between Clinton and Sanders supporters took down Clinton in 2016, and will guarantee a Republican gain in the congressional elections of 2018 if it is not resolved.

A major part of this is civility.  We are getting farther and farther from civil discourse.  The right wing is usually the leader and always the most successful in extreme, exaggerated, intemperate, and insulting remarks, and we should leave that to them.  We always lose if we try that tactic.

We can move on to the four C’s—civility, caring, compassion, and considerateness—and the three R’s: Respect, reasonableness, responsibility.  Those last three alone would fix the US’ problems if applied consistently. Thus there is some need to be beyond tolerance.  Compassion and caring for others is a learned skill that should be taught.  They too do not just happen, nor does modern life encourage them.  They have to be taught in schools, workplaces, and elsewhere.

Another value in extreme danger under the Trump administration is education.  His Secretary of Education opposes the whole idea of education, in the usual sense, and totally opposes public education.  She is systematically planning to minimize schooling and turn it into indoctrination in right-wing views.  We need the exact opposite: education to produce genuinely better people—people who are not hateful bullies, but who actually want to help others.

Americans are not getting the type of education they need.  This would be one that 1) teaches civics, including the Constitution and a non-whitewashed US history; 2) teaches actual science and how one can tell falsehoods and investigate truth; 3) actually teach the young about the depth and complexity of human emotions.  Humanistic education these days runs too heavily to comic books and other media that may be well enough in themselves, but do not have the sustained engagement with human feelings and thoughts that one gets from Shakespeare, Cao Xueqin, Dostoievsky, Mann, or Toni Morrison.  Serious music seems to have disappeared from most people’s lives; again, whatever is true or not about “quality,” music of Victoria or Beethoven engages much more deep and complex emotions than the popular stuff.  Whatever one likes or feels is appropriate, people need more insights into humanity than they get from American popular culture.  A reasonable order of teaching children would be starting them with civil behavior (considerate, respectful, sharing; responsible reasonable), then going on to teach compassion and helpfulness because we are all in this together and must follow something like the Golden Rule.  This really has to be done along with reading, writing, history, and math, if we are to survive.

 

This brings up science and environment.  The Trump administration, including the Republicans in Congress, have launched a full-scale war against both.  They do not stop with dismissing science that is embarrassing to their corporate donors, such as research on climate change and pollution.  They have attacked everything from conservation science to Darwinian evolution.  This is perhaps the area where the Republican base—giant primary-production firms, racists, and right-wing religious extremists—shows itself most clearly.  “Scientific” racism and creationism are now supported; the genuine science that disproves these is attacked.  Budget cuts to basic science and to science education are planned; they are serious enough to virtually destroy both.  Republicans realize that promoting such a wide anti-scientific agenda—climate change denial, claims that pesticides are harmless to humans, anti-vaccination propaganda, anti-evolutionism, racism, and so on—can only succeed if the entire enterprise of science is attacked.  The whole concept of truth is a casualty, with the calls for “alternative facts.”  Ideas of proof, evidence, data, and expertise are regarded as basically hostile to Republicanism.

Clearly, it will be national suicide ot allow this to go on.  Not only is further scientific research necessary to progress; a government that makes policy in defiance of the facts of the case will not survive.  We have already been afflicted with Zika, MRSA, and a host of other germs because of indifferent attention to public health.  Rising sea levels are eating away at coastlines.  Bees and other critically important insects are disappearing.  Foreign policy made in a fact-free environment has devastated the Middle East.  The future will be incalculably worse.  Attention to science education, moral education, and humanistic education remains small.

Part of this is environmental concern, and there we need to draw on traditional moralities.  Most cultures, worldwide, have solved the problems of sustainability—usually by teaching respect for all beings.  Children absorb this at a very young age.  They go on to remember that trees, fish, grass, and future humans all need to be regarded as worthy of consideration—to be used only as necessary and to be protected for future uses or simply to keep them alive.  The western world has long been an outlier, worldwide, by treating resources as things to destroy without a second thought.

With a proper spirit of respect, we will be able to preserve species and environments and to avoid destroying the environment with pollutants and excessive construction.  In the short run, we will have to fall back on laws.  The framework existing as of 2016 was inadequate but was a good start; it is now lost, and we will have to start from scratch, hopefully with better laws to be designed in future.  There are countless books on solving the environmental crisis, and to go further into it here would be tedious.  What matters is recognizing that we have to think of sustainability and respect.

 

All the above are what may be called “process goals.”  These are goals that we will never fully achieve, but should keep trying for, because any progress in that direction is pure good.  We will never be perfectly healthy, but any progress toward health is good.  Sustainability is another such case, though this one has to be qualified with the point that achieving sustainability by drastically reducing incomes and welfare would not be good.  Justice, fairness, truth in politics and public life, and civility are all process goals.  Fairness means giving everyone a fair chance, not making everybody equal in a mindless, mechanical way.

We can go on to plan Utopia, but we have to reaffirm and restore the classic American values first, at least as a platform to build on.

 

The key is to learn and rationally understand instead of hating; act and fight on instead of giving up and falling into passivity; be independent instead of conformist!  These self-disciplines have to underlie and be the foundation for restored tolerance, civility, and solidarity in American life.  It will take hard work for all of us to buck the system and do this.  Just do it.  America and all of us Americans are fighting for our lives now.  Choose life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

APPENDICES

 

Appendix 1.  Background, Data on the Election, 2016

 

It is fairly easy to see what most mattered in Trump’s victory, by looking at which counties flipped from voting for Obama in 2012 to voting for Trump in 2016.  They were largely small-town and rural counties.  They were concentrated in the northern Midwest, but there were quite a few in the rural northeast and border south.  This is the pattern expected if Trump held the Republicans and added most of the formerly Democratic working-class whites—including women—in those areas.

If Clinton’s main problem had been left-wing defections, the difference would have showed up in the cities, not the rural areas.  Her weak campaigning was clearly a factor, but if it had been deadly there would have been a decline in voting overall.  There was a slight decline, due to general lukewarmness and more specific voter suppression.  However, the overwhelming main difference between 2012 and 2016 was in the votes cast by the rural and small-town interior of America.  Trump appealed most of all to the white male working-class voters who have seen their lives steadily eroding in recent decades.  He also appealed to the women; white women voted for Trump, and many who did not were supporters of Sanders or Stein.  Feminism did not make many vote for Hillary.

The problems have been offshoring of jobs, automation, and giant corporations forcing speedups and other exploitative moves, but it proved very easy for Trump to shift the blame to the weak:  Minorities, “illegal aliens,” the poor, women, gays, anybody that seemed weaker than the white males.  Given rising population, shrinking opportunities, rapidly increasing inegality, and above all a sense of losing control over their lives, the working class voted against their self-interest.  Even the Republican middle class clearly voted against themselves.  No one benefits from the Trump presidency except the giant primary-production corporations—the most reactionary, dinosauric segment of society.

In 2012, Obama got about as many votes as Hillary did in 2016, Romney got about as many as Trump.  And about 125,000,000 eligible voters did not turn out at all.   Only 55.6% the eligible voters turned out, and Democrats suffered far more than Republicans, as usual.  That means that the 20% of voters who were hateful represent only a bit over 10% of the general population.  (Accusations of illegals, dead people, and duplicate-voters for Clinton have not turned up a single case.  On the other hand, many faked votes for Trump have been disclosed.)  Clinton won fewer than 500 counties, but they included almost all the large urban ones; Trump won the rest of the 3141 counties in the US, but these were overwhelmingly rural.

Men and women were almost mirror image: Men broke 53-41 for Trump, women 42-54.  People under 30 voted 37-55, over 30 52-43.  (Other votes went to third party people, with little effect on overall results.)  Whites broke an amazing 58-37, probably a record.  Hispanics were 29-65, blacks 8-88 (!).  College-educated people, especially women, broke for Clinton; less educated whites broke very heavily for Trump.  The most economically productive counties in the US voted overwhelmingly for Clinton, giving her 64% of the economy (going by counties); of rich, economically active counties, Trump won only Maricopa County, AZ (Phoenix and suburbs) and Tarrant County, TX (Fort Worth area) (Tankersley 2016).  The economically less successful counties Clinton carried were almost all minority-dominated.  This economic breakdown is rare at best, and unique in Democrat history.

Evangelicals broke 81 to 16% for Trump, a record.  In all, the GOP constituency turned out in force and was loyal.  There was also a reversal of the recent trend for rich to vote Democratic.  Most of the press and many giant corporations supported Clinton, but the traditional Republican constituency—well-to-do whites, suburbanites, farmers—went as heavily Republican as they did in the 1980s, unlike their shift toward Obama in 2008 and 2012.  The poorer whites broke for Trump, slightly, but overall 52 to 53% of less affluent voters went for Clinton—largely because the number of minorities is so high in that income category.  Even so, Trump got 15% more of the less educated and less affluent (under $30,000/year) white vote than Romney got in 2012.  People under 30 broke heavily for Clinton, but not so heavily as they had broken for Obama.  In all, the pattern was a return to the George W. Bush years.

Trump voters tend to believe that whites are more discriminated against than blacks, Hispanics, or Muslims—in contrast to the US average and especially Clinton voters.  A Huffington Post-YouGov poll revealed that 10% of Clinton voters and 45% of Trump voters thought there was” a lot of discrimination” against whites (the US average was 24%).  Clinton voters were far more prone than average to see more discrimination against the other named groups, reaching a high of 88% for Muslims (Edwards-Levy 2016).

Interesting are the huge changes in the last 50 years, even in the last 30.  The cities are now so heavily Democratic that, for instance, the whole Los Angeles Basin was a sea of blue when the precincts were counted, with only a few tiny pink (not red—the pink districts were barely carried by Trump) spots in the most traditionally rich and conservative areas.  Even San Marino, former home of the John Birch Society and a city that went approximately 90% for Reagan in 1980 and 1984, was split into a pale pink ward and a blue one.  Pasadena and La Canada-Flintridge, formerly major Republican strongholds, were deep blue.  So were millionaire strongholds like Malibu and the Westside.  Other cities all over the state, and indeed all over the country, showed the same trajectory.

By contrast, rural areas that were solidly Democratic as recently as 1980, and in some cases even 2012, were solidly red all over the country, including California.  The only exceptions were rural counties that are overwhelmingly minority-populated.  Idaho was the most liberal-voting state in the country in the 1960s.  It is now the second most Republican, after Wyoming.  The Dakotas and Montana were solidly Democrat then; they are now Republican strongholds. Of course the deep south switched because the Republicans replaced the southern Democrats as the party of racism, but the border south was generally liberal Democrat through the 1960s; it is now second only to the northern interior west in Republican dominance.  Among other things, this thoroughly disproves theories of “innate” and “genetically determined” politics and party affiliation—bits of nonsense that reappear every election.

The result was that Clinton carried 88 of the most populous 100 counties in the US, but lost virtually all the rural and suburban counties—essentially all of the ones that were not dominated by nonwhite minority populations.

Voter suppression since 2010 had a huge amount of effect in this, and several other games were played.  Russian hacking of voting machines clearly benefited Trump, to an uncertain degree.  Republican voter suppression and intimidation cost Clinton Wisconsin, North Carolina and Ohio, and possibly Arizona,.  Some 1,100,000 voters, mostly poor and nonwhite, were disqualified, or their ballots somehow disappeared; reporter Greg Palast traced the story and found out how Republicans had managed it (Palast 2016a, 2016b).  Google counted voter incidents reported to them, and found a clear and enormous pattern of repression and corruption of many kinds, from rigged machines to long wait times, often from closed polling places (Garland 2016). There was also apparent gaming of voting machines.

Bill Palmer has noted that there was an astonishing decline in Black turnout even from the primaries, let alone 2012.  There were other mysterious declines of minority voters, in states with voter suppression laws.  He also noted that Clinton carried the early vote in Florida, where most people voted early, but then Trump won the state—requiring a vote of 70% for Trump by the election-day voters.  Florida, Wisconsin, Pennsylvania and Michigan turned in late-breaking Trump wins with 1% or less of the vote—consistently.  Polls were mysteriously far wrong (with one or two exceptions).  Voter turnout was surprisingly light, and mysteriously much lighter than expected in precisely the states where suppression was already ongoing and registration therefore down.  Any one or two of these anomalies could be chance, or late-breaking changes of mind by the voters, but all of the anomalies put together look highly suspicious.  Further detailed analysis of the numbers by Bob Fitrakis and Harvey Wasserman (2016) and Greg Palast (2016a, 2016b) prove Palmer right, and reveal many other suspicious matters.

Of course the Koch brothers were intensely involved at all levels.  They did not like Trump and refused to support him directly, but poured over $750 million dollars into Senate and other races and general build-up of Republican agendas.  They are now poised to tell the solidly Republican congress exactly what to do (Skocpol et al. 2016).  It took them no time to accept Trump and work with him.  Their operator Marc Short is now Trump’s liaison to Congress (Eskow 2017)—a group he knows well from prior work for the Kochs, who are huge donors to the most right-wing congresspersons.

 

Many of the Democrat nonvoters were disaffected supporters of Bernie Sanders.  They refused to vote for Clinton, and that was one of the things that cost her the election.

Democrats often fail to turn out large percentages of their typical “base demographics.”  Democrats did better in 2008 and 2012, but their turnouts in 2010 and 2014 were derisory.  Only a very small percentage of registered Democrats turned out in those midterm years.

So, there were many causes of Clinton’s loss.  The biggest was clearly the failure of turnout, especially the disaffected voters.  Clinton’s lack of charisma and personal touch, and Trump’s abundant endowment with both, was clearly and heavily decisive.  These two together led to massive loss of working-class white votes (see e.g. Maslin 2016).  Possibly even more important was Clinton’s establishment ties and her inability to escape them.  She always embodied the Washington establishment so clearly and unmistakably that voters weary of that enterprise voted against her, no matter what they thought of Trump.

Clinton’s one really hateful remark—calling the most racist of Trump supporters “a basket of deplorables”—may have cost her the election, but Trump’s hundreds of hateful remarks merely fed his supporters.  They came on top of decades of Republicans deliberately whipping up racial, gender, and religious hatred, to divide the voters and set them against each other.  Lies (especially on talk radio and Fox News) and dirty tricks did the rest.  The Clinton campaign blamed especially the tricks played by James Comey, head of the FBI and a Trump Republican, in the last month of the campaign.  He apparently timed email investigations and his letters about them to do maximal damage.

Part of the back story included progressive distancing of the Democrats from working-class and rural voters over three decades.  This has thrown an increasingly desperate and miserable group of people to the wolves (as “bkamr” 2017 notes, Democrat representatives did not show up in desperately troubled eastern Kentucky).  An excellent account of their problems and the exploitation thereof by the hate-merchants is given by Chris Hedges (2016).  Part of the problem is a hard-to-define but easy-to-see difference between traditional American rural and working-class culture—defiant, independent, but loyal to charismatic leaders—and the urban intellectual culture that dominates the Democratic Party today.

Even worse was the rapid decline of newspapers and serious news magazines, and their replacement by biased and “clickbait” sites, hate propaganda, non-print media (especially on talk radio and Fox News), and trash entertainment.  The media both eliminated serious coverage of news and set people up to believe any story or to disbelieve all stories, including climate science and other vitally important truths.

Reversal of any one of these many causes would have meant a win for Clinton.

In the days after the election, everybody seized on his or her pet cause as “the” cause, and flayed anyone who thought differently—guaranteeing problems with fixing the situation in future.  The leftists and liberals revealed their fondness for what many refer to as their typical “circular firing squad.”

The basic fact, though, is that people voted their hate—or hatred of all the alternatives led the  not to vote.  Trump and Clinton had the lowest approval ratings of any candidates in the history of polling—Trump was the worst ever, Clinton second.  Trump’s savage hatemongering gave him this reputation; Clinton was the victim of a huge and systematic Republican smear campaign, but if she had been more personable and less connected with big banks and big business she could have blown that off, as Obama did and as her own husband did when they were subjected to similar treatment.  She appeared elitist; that made her connection with the banks and firms seem deadly serious rather than mere ordinary politics.

 

This election is unique in the history of the US, and rare in the history of the world.  In most elections, the candidates at least pretend to discuss real issues.  This one was entirely about hate, from Trump’s side—even his “positive” proposals were all things to be done by getting rid of Mexicans, Chinese, Muslims, anyone.  Sanders avoided hate, but his followers did not; they circulated lies about Clinton, often recycled from the Trump propaganda mill.  (Some “pro-Sanders” lies may have been Russian hack jobs, however.)  Clinton did not run a very positive or hopeful campaign either.  One kept hoping and expecting her to give a clarion call for national unity and solidarity—everyone standing and working together.  She never did.  She appealed to every demographic in the country except white males.  It didn’t work.  She had no real proposals for major change; she ran far too much on Obama’s record.  It was a record of global trade deals, support for hi-tech, and other moves that proved anathema to rural and working-class whites, who felt left out by the latter and genuinely harmed by the former.  They understandably felt that the new economy was being constructed at their expense.  Almost all commentators since the election have agreed that Clinton should have appealed to this traditionally Democratic group of voteres by promising economic reforms that would benefit them.  Instead, what little she promised in the way of economic reform was of interest largely to affluent urban voters.  Part of the context is the decline in manufacturing jobs in the US from 17 million as recently as 2000 (after already huge job flight) to 11 million at the depth of the 2008-9 recession.  It recovered to over 12 million by 2016, but one can certainly see why blue-collar America is disaffected.  The Clinton wing blames automation, but exporting jobs to low-wage, labor-suppressing countries may be the real problem.  It was certainly the problem salient to the white working class, and to many other workers too.

Previous US elections—all of them—highlighted solidarity and national unity (even while working cynically against it, as many presidents did).  Even Calvin Coolidge, previously the most right-wing president, ran more upbeat campaigns and made more solid contributions than Trump.  Earlier campaigns also invariably included numerous proposals for change and growth—again, often to betray them all later, but the promise was important.  Most of our elections have matched one pleasant stuffed suit against another, with no vast outpouring of hateful rhetoric and no huge difference in programs.  Not in 2016.

Worldwide, elections with this breadth and depth of hate on the part of the winner have been confined to fascist takeovers, especially Germany in 1932-33, of course, but also Mussolini’s victories, and hard-right victories in various Latin American countries over the decades.  Modi’s win in India involved much hatred, but had many promises too (still to be fulfilled).

Several studies confirm the obvious point that racism and sexism account for much more of the Trump vote than any economic factors do (Lopez 2017).  In general, traditional Republicans and also racist and sexist former Democrats voted for Trump.

The Los Angeles Times (Lauter 2016) reports that the clearest demographic difference between Trump and Clinton was education: whites without college education broke overwhelmingly for Trump.  No other demographic did.  Young people, as usual, did not vote in large numbers, and given their well-documented support for Clinton, that low turnout itself doomed her.  Blue-collar white voters and counties that went for Obama in 2008 and 2012 went heavily for Trump; conversely, relatively conservative educated whites flipped the other way.  The biggest change was in the northern midwest, formerly a solid Democratic stronghold, now—and not only in the presidential race—almost as right-wing as the deep south.

One reason the final result—Trump’s solid win nationwide—was so surprising was last-minute voters breaking for Trump.  These seem to have been partly Republicans who had trouble stomaching the man, and partly independents and traditional Democrats who both disliked Hillary and wanted a more aggressive change agenda.

A long, excellent article in the Washington Post (Hofmann 2016) describes Shannon Monnat’s research on 3106 counties.  Trump’s vote surpassed Romney’s by 10% in downwardly mobile, largely white counties with high rates of drug, alcohol, and suicide deaths, especially if such deaths have been increasing.  These are counties where farming, manufacturing, and mining formerly provided good livings, but have declined or died out.  Trump did worse by 3% in better-off counties.  Typical was Scioto Co., Ohio: Trump ran 33% better than Romney—and drug, alcohol, and suicide death rates have doubled in that time, as pill-pushing clinics came in and manufacturing went out.  Mingo Co., WV, the drug, alcohol and suicide death rate rose from 53.6 to 161.1 in the years 1999-2014.  In Coos County, NH, Manufacturing shrank from 38% of jobs to 7%, and pay for it from 49% to 9%, from the 1980s.  It went heavily for Trump.  All across the northern Midwest, Trump did better than Romney, especially in rural and small-town counties.

Clinton should have opposed hatred from the start—hatred in general, across the board.  Instead, she joined in (with her infamous “deplorables” remark) or, at best, protested against hatred of specific groups, notably women.  Clinton could have and should have talked more to economic issues, especially those that concern less educated workers.  Derek Thompson (2016) points out that she did in fact focus on those matters.  However, she did not highlight it.  The media did not cover it, which is yet another proof that the media were hypnotized by Trump and thus did much to elect him.

Clinton ran far worse than Obama did in 2012.  Trump also ran worse than Romney in most places.  The World Almanac for 2017 gives county-by-county totals, making research easy. For a random example, Shawnee County, Kansas, returned 33,074 votes for Clinton, 35,260 for Trump, as opposed to 36,975 and 97,782 for Obama and Romney respectively.  Leslie County, KY, one of the most pro-Trump counties in the US, returned 400 and 4,015 vs. 433 and 4,439.  (This county, with which I am quite familiar, is one of the poorest in the US, with extremely high unemployment, mortality, and substance abuse rates.)  The state of Mississippi ran 457,569/668,987 vs. 562,949/710,748 (reflecting a tendency of Black voters—almost the only Democrats in the state—to stay home in 2016).

Notable was that, as James Hohmann (2016) reports, Trump did best in the counties with the highest alcoholism, drug abuse, and suicide rates.  These are the areas of white working-class hopelessness: worked-out coal-mining areas, ruined industrial cities, small towns ruined by big agribusiness.

Part of the reason was voter suppression.  The shift in Wisconsin was about 300,000 total, and that is exactly the estimated number of votrs forced off the rolls by Governor Scott Walker’s policies.  In Michigan, the Clinton shortfall almost exactly equaled the mysteriously missing or misrecorded 75,000 votes from Detroit, apparently uncounted for very dubious reasons (Palast 2016).

Sometimes,Trump picked up many votes that must earlier have gone to Obama.  To pick a random but typical county, Buchanan County, Iowa, reported 3,966 votes for Clinton, 5504 for Trump, vs. in 2012 5,911 for Obama and 4450 for Romney.  This was a very typical pattern across the northern midwest—the Rust Belt and especially its rural environs.  Even Minnesota, which Clinton carried handily, had voted far more strongly for Obama.  It seems more than unlikely that all these Trump voters were racist, since so many had gone for Obama only four years earlier.  A few urban areas reported more votes for Clinton than Obama, but the increase reflects population increase fairly accurately.

Overall, rural areas, especially in the Appalachians and Plains (where many counties went over 10-1 for Trump), reported lopsided wins for Trump; many urban areas reported lopsided wins for Clinton (Berkeley, CA, reported 3% for Trump—even Jill Stein got more).  In Oregon, Multnomah County (Portland) went 4-1 for Clinton (and both candidates got fewer votes than Obama and Romney, respectively, got in 2012); Harney County, in the remote ranching east, more than 4-1 for Trump.  There is an extreme split in the US.

The Democrats will never win again unless they reverse the rapid swing of rural and small-town areas away from them.

More and more evidence shows a full-scale conspiracy involving James Comey, head of the FBI, and Clinton’s emails (Abramson 2017).

However, Trump most certainly lost the total vote.  The final count was 62,979,879 for him, 65,854,954 for Clinton, and several million for others, totaling 74,074,037 against him. The final count shows Clinton got 2,864,974 more votes than Trump, without rechecking states like Florida and Michigan.

 

In state-by-state breakdowns (World Almanac 2017):

Clinton won more votes than Obama, Trump more than Romney in

FL, IA, NV, TX—basically only in states with large population increases, except for Iowa.

Clinton more than Obama, Trump less than Romney:

GA, MA

Clinton less than Obama, Trump more than Romney

AL, AR, CT, DL, HI, IN, KY, LA, MN, MI, MN, MO, NB, NH, NJ, NY, NC, ND, OH, PA, RI, SD, TN, VT, WV, WY—note this includes most of the old Democratic strongholds, which should absolutely terrify Democrats.  Even New York and Vermont.

Clinton less than Obama, Trump less than Romney:

AK (quite huge difference), AZ, CA (but not all votes had been counted when the World Almanac was published), CO, DC, ID, IL, KS, MD, MS, MT, NM, OK, SC, UT (huge drop from Romney to Trump vote because of the popularity of Evan McMillan and Gary Johnson as alternate right-wing candidates), VA, WA, WI.  Note many of these are solid Red states, where disgust for Trump was widespread, but also several Democrat strongholds.

 

For the future, minimally, the Democrats must:

Fight hate.  Preach unity, solidarity, tolerance, valuing diversity, civil behavior, politeness, responsibility.

Deal with an economy that has been incresaingly distorted and corrupted by giant firms and their enormous subsidies and tax breaks.

Stress classic American values, especially egality, genuine freedom (as opposed to the freedom to bully weaker people), opportunity, and public goods.

Attack corruption, gerrymandering, voter suppression, and violence.

Tactically, first, stop trying to win by mobilizing demographics that don’t vote!  There is no hope of getting the turnout of Latinos, Asian-Americans, or, above all, young people up to the point where they can turn an election.

Go for grassroots.  Ask ordinary people what they want.

Attack dark money and everything connected with it.  Daylight it.

 

 

 

Appendix 2.  A PROFESSOR’S ACTION PLAN FOR THE POST-ELECTION ERA

Pierce Salguero

In the wake of the 2016 election, the core values I hold as an individual and that I believe are emblematic of the academic professions (e.g., multicultural inclusion, critical inquiry, and pursuit of truth) have come under direct attack. I believe that this situation necessitates a coherent and strategic response from any of us who are in a position to speak out. Below is my own personal action plan for the post-election era. I have arranged these ideas, compiled with the goal of maximizing my impact within the limitations of my power, from the personal to the community to the national level:

  1. MICRO-LEVEL ACTIONS
  2. SELF-EDUCATION. At the personal and individual level, I plan to educate myself about the deep historical roots as well as the more recent factors that have led to the rise of right wing populism in the US and around the world. I plan to reach out to colleagues in history, political science, economics, sociology, and other fields, to ask for help identifying readings and resources. Although this critical inquiry does not necessarily relate directly to my own academic field, I plan to make time for this and to integrate it into my weekly schedule.
  3. INTERROGATING PRIVILEGE. I plan to continue to understand, reflect on, and critically interrogate my own privilege as a white, straight, cisgendered, able-bodied male. I need to identify and work to break down my own inherent biases. Where I can, I should leverage my privilege in order to intervene on behalf of those who do not share it. I plan to keep reading, attending workshops at conferences and on campus, and learning from colleagues in who are engaged in this field of study. While these conversations may sometimes be uncomfortable, I need to remain open, engaged, and moving forward in this area.
  4. RESPONSIBLE USE OF SOCIAL MEDIA. Part of my surprise about the results of this election was no doubt due to my being comfortably ensconced in a heavily left-leaning social media bubble. I plan to break out by reading more widely and seeking out a more diverse circle of contacts. Responsible use of social media also means recognizing its limitations. I need to know when to set down the computer and engage in the real world.
  5. SELF-CARE. I’ve noticed that this crisis has weighed more heavily on me than I would have anticipated. Stress, anxiety, and depression are not productive for critical inquiry. I am also finding myself in a very judgmental space right now. I need to be able to cultivate empathy in order to understand other people — especially when I strongly disagree with them. For all of these reasons, I need to continue to tap into my spiritual community, and to engage in activities for physical and mental wellbeing. Although it feels like copping out, knowing when to step away to care for myself will make me a stronger advocate in the long tun.
  6. MESO-LEVEL ACTIONS
  7. CAMPUS ORGANIZATIONS & EVENTS. In addition to my own private life and personal space, I also know I can be an agent for diversity, equity, and inclusion within the communities of which I am a part. On campus, I have the opportunity to engage with these issues through committees and faculty senate. I can also continue to be involved in mentoring for student clubs, organizing or attending multicultural celebrations, and participating in other opportunities that bring me into regular contact with our diverse student body. I can also organize reading groups, small discussion groups, or public lectures on related issues, both on campus and locally where I live.
  8. PUBLIC STATEMENTS. I can draft a declaration opposing hate and bigotry, and propose this to my campus administrators and my faculty senate. I can also work to introduce a similar statement as legislation in the townships where live and where my workplace is located, as well as in organizations with which I have a connection. (Note that I must engage in this activity as a private citizen and not as a representative of the college where I work, cognizant of my employer’s policies regarding engagement in politics or media.)
  9. PROFESSIONAL ASSOCIATIONS. I was pleasantly surprised with the proactive stance on dealing with post-election climate taken by several of the professional associations I am affiliated with. Where such efforts are being made, I can support them, and I can utilize the resources and community that such associations provide in order to expand my circle, connect with people who have expertise I need to tap into, and keep myself informed. Where such efforts are not already being made, I can advocate for these issues to be taken up by writing letters to association officers.
  10. BECOMING A BETTER ALLY. I need to challenge myself to learn more about being a trustworthy ally for my most vulnerable friends, colleagues, students, and community members. I need to continue to read up on this, to reach out to colleagues who are more knowledgable than me, and to engage with the Office of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion on my campus. I can also prioritize mentoring underrepresented faculty, staff, and students on campus, through my professional associations, at conferences, and in other professional settings.
  11. PEDAGOGICAL DEVELOPMENT. As my courses do not focus on the modern period, I do not often have the opportunity to directly engage in classroom discussions related to contemporary politics. When I do, I need to focus on the analytical tools my discipline brings to the discussion, taking pains not to present an unbalanced account or to state my own opinions as fact. I also need to remain cognizant that students have varying viewpoints and backgrounds, and not abuse my position of power at the front of the classroom. I need to continue to develop inclusive pedagogical methods that actively bring all students into the conversation. An openness to all perspectives is especially important since I want my classroom to be a safe space for dialogue and growth — both for students and myself. I need to seek out knowledgable colleagues who can help me to develop pedagogical methods that ensure I am doing this well and responsibly.
  12. MACRO-LEVEL ACTIONS
  13. ENGAGE IN POLITICS. It’s in this arena where I feel the most helpless, but I am recommitting to supporting organizations that promote higher education, multicultural inclusion, civil liberties, and investigative journalism, as well as public academic and cultural institutions. I need to stay involved at the local, state, and national level, and not let myself get complacent in the interim between elections. My support cannot be limited to social media posts, online petitions, and private conversations; I need to contribute materially to the causes I believe in. I am unlikely to be able to support all of these causes financially, but I should do so where I can and seek out other means of supporting where I cannot.
  14. PRIORITIZE PUBLIC SCHOLARSHIP. Finally, as a professor, scholar, and author who cares about critical inquiry, multiculturalism, and the future of higher education, I need to reach more diverse audiences, across disciplines, both inside the academy and beyond. In this “post-truth” and anti-intellectual climate, the burden is on me to demonstrate why what I do is relevant and important. With this goal in mind, I can write up my methods and findings in accessible ways in blogs, websites, popular magazines, and other outlets with further reach than scholarly journals. I can contribute to the circulation of academic humanities and social science research more widely, which in the long run may lead to deeper public understanding of critical thinking, the role of education, and the importance of the academic professions for civic life in the US.

I am an interdisciplinary humanities scholar interested in the role of Buddhism in the crosscultural exchange of medical ideas. See more at piercesalguero.com.

Appendix 3.

 

Timothy Snyder’s twenty lessons, from On Tyranny (Snyder 2017).

  1. Do not obey in advance.
  2. Defend institutions.
  3. Beware the one-party state.
  4. Take responsibiloity for the face of the world.
  5. Remember professional ethics.
  6. Be wary of paramilitaries.
  7. Be reflective if you must be armed.
  8. Stand out.
  9. Be kind to our language.
  10. Believe in truth.
  11. Investigate.
  12. Make eye contact and small talk.
  13. Practice corporeal politics.
  14. Establish a private life.
  15. Contribute to good causes.
  16. Learn from peers in other countries.
  17. Listen for dangerous words.
  18. Be calm when the unthinkable arrives.
  19. Be a patriot.
  20. Be as courageous as you can.

 

Appendix 4. A constitution for a united world:

FIRST, the standard freedoms, including all human and civil rights, guarantee of impartial justice (especially impartial to dollars) and rights to organize.  Explicitly, money is not speech.

Next, full rights to a decent environment—minimal pollution and waste, no subsidies for primary production, preservation of as much of nature as possible given the need to maintain a decent standard of living.

Next, no offensive war; war only to defend the country from direct attack, but that can cover going after terrorists abroad.

Then, firm graduated tax rate, written into the constitution  No tax exemptions except for legitimate business and work expenses, and actual, effective charities. No exceptions for churches, for “charities” that do not spend >80% of their incomes on actual charity work, or political outfits masquerading as “non-profits.”  Offshore tax havens, offshore headquarters of firms with 98% of their activities far from the headquarters country, and the like absolutely illegal, with extreme penalties.

No subsidies, no favoring particular businesses, minimal restriction of business and trade, but firm regulations such that harm and cheating don’t happen.

Free universal health care (free up to a point—small deductibles possible, and no free plastic surgery to conform to fashion).

Free universal liberal-arts education.  National educational policy guaranteeing accurate content, attention to differentially abled students, strict equality of opportunity, and quality literature and arts.  Private schools allowed, but not doctrinaire religious schools.  Content of education strictly monitored; disproved or effectively disproved material not allowed.

Savage penalties for corruption, including for donating campaign funds beyond a set limit.  Campaign fund regulations, especially in sensitive things like judicial elections.

Universal national service: a year in the military, a year doing environmental work, then a year of social work.  Lifetime emergency call-up, as in Switzerland.

Discouragement of hate and hate speech.  Citizens see their duty as opposing it and damping it down.  No penalties, but extreme, savage penalties for violating civil rights and for hate crimes.

Aesthetics encouraged; national conservation in natural and historic sites, museums, galleries, and the like; art, music and literature important in schools.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Articles

Career Guide for Anthropologists: Student to Professor, and How to Publish

Career Advice for Anthropologists:  Student to Professor, and How to Publish

  1. N. Anderson

Department of Anthropology

University of California, Riverside

 

My student Jenny Banh suggested I might write a book guiding graduate students on the academic path.  I don’t have a book’s worth of knowledge, but after 50 years teaching for the University of California system, I have some tips.

 

General Basics

 

The place to start is by recycling advice from Alex Lightman (web posting):  Figure out what you’re best at, what you like best to do, what you can do that actually helps people, and what you can actually making a living at.  If you are lucky, there will be a sweet spot that optimally fits all four.

For an academic, the item about actually helping people should have priority.  If you are not particularly interested in helping people, you’re in the wrong field; with your education, you could make much more money doing almost anything else.  The only reason to be an academic is that it’s your Calling, in the old sense.  You feel a need to do it to help the world, or at least your students.

Anthropology, in particular, is a fantastic field not only for understanding people, but also for helping people and understanding how to help them more.  It is great for dealing with those wonderful goals that are unachievable, but that really matter in the world: perfect peace, health, justice, environmental sanity, and the rest.  Ideally, it will allow a real predictive science of history, in which we can (within limits) predict troubles ahead and figure out how to solve them.

In my case, the sweet spot was the question of how humans and (the rest of) nature interact, and how we can fix that so people and nature can be one functioning system instead of a continuing fight.  I found the right places to study this, too:  China, Southeast Asia, the Northwest Coast of North America, and the Yucatec Maya world of southeast Mexico.  In all these areas, people coexisted for thousands of years with the rest of creation without totally trashing it—until the modern colonial world intruded and messed everything up, usually without helping the local people in the process.

Your sweet spot may be kinship theory, or classic films, or amoeba behavior.  Just find it.  At worst, if there isn’t an overlap between all four of the above, make the best accommodation you can.

Of course you won’t get to do your favorite thing all the time.  Definitely do it for your grad work including Ph.D. thesis, but don’t expect it in a first job.  Keep working at it and progressing toward it.

Do your best at what you do best.  Don’t waste your time on anything else unless you have to.  Life is too short.  For most of us, that means focusing on one thing.  There are true renaissance figures out there who can do great jobs at several different demanding fields—I have known some—but such people are so rare that unless you know you are one, don’t try it.  Stick to your best shot and work it to death.  (This does not mean that you should stick to one theory or subject.  Some of us—myself included—are best at generalizing and integrating across fields rather than at laser-like focus on one idea or thing.  If what you do best is integrate across theory-fields, go for it.)

On the other hand, if you are a renaissance scholar, go for that too.  One of my colleagues is a first-rate biological anthropologist and a first-rate concert pianist.  And the ethnomusicologist and ethnographer Steve Feld is also a professional jazz musician. But they focus awfully hard on their fields.  Still fewer people can handle three or four.  I doubt if anyone ever handled five.  Incidentally, it occurs to me that in almost all cases I know where someone is a genius in two or three fields, one of those fields is music.  Must be a theory there….

Third, once you’ve found the ideal research focus, know everything about it.  Become the world’s expert.  But also maintain a broad knowledge of your whole field.  Scan the major journals, go to the main conferences and check things out, keep on top of what’s currently considered “hot stuff” even if it’s just faddish nonsense.  In other words, laser focus on your specialty and very broad overview of your whole discipline.  Often you will be doing interdisciplinary work, and need to keep some competence in another field too.

This is difficult, but possible.  However, you can’t spend too much time outside work.  Academic scholarship is an 80-hour-a-week job.

Finally, recent psychological studies show that a very good way to get yourself out of a funk and get something done is to reaffirm your core values.  Several experiments, for instance, involve students writing short essays on their core values—they then do better on tests, and shed test anxiety.  At least meditate on your core values if you don’t actually write an essay.

 

Studenting

Few comments are needed here.  You know how to study and learn or you wouldn’t be reading this.

First, almost all grad students who wash out do so because of failure of will.  No grad program admits incompetent students (unless somebody on the intake committee was asleep).  Conversely, many (many, many) of the very best students give up because they just can’t take the pressure or because they get irrationally discouraged.  Saddest is giving up when ABD (all but dissertation).  Don’t give up—you have important things to tell the world.  If you want to switch fields, or find anthro unsatisfying, fine, but don’t just waste ten years of work because you hit a depressed spell.  Carry on!

On the other hand, if you find anthro isn’t for you, get out quickly, before you run up a huge debt and/or waste years of your life on it.  Most students do this—they recognize within a year that they’d rather do something else—but a few will stick it out.  Still, it’s worth repeating: my considerable experience with “permanent students” and students who drop out ABD is that they all had the intelligence, the calling, and the research competence.  They just got despondent.  This is a tragedy, and it’s preventable, if you have a sympathetic advisor and a sympathetic counselor—professional or friend-and-family.

Second, find a sociable advisor.  An advisor who knows nothing about your area but loves to talk and share about the field in general is better than an expert in your area who won’t talk to you!  If you have a non-responsive advisor, change advisors if at all possible.  I have some real horror stories in my files—careers set back for years by a nonresponsive advisor.  Get someone who will talk and be responsible and be on time with paperwork and actually give you good advice.  Be careful in picking a committee, also.  You have to be able to work with these people, often under tense circumstances (deadlines, etc.), for years, often for a lifetime.  Pick people who are friendly, available, prompt, and interested in your stuff.  This seems obvious, but you wouldn’t believe how much of my professional time has been taken up dealing with problems between students and advisors, or giving the advice that their advisors were supposed to give but weren’t giving.  Conversely, I remember one famous biologist telling how much he had learned while going fishing with his advisor; they apparently talked shop more than they fished.  You may not get that kind of relationship, but at least try.

 

Never ignore good advice, even if it sounds trivial.  One of the best tips I got from my grad advisor was to carry 3 x 5 index cards at all times, to write down whatever happens.  I did this in the field and I keep doing it—I write down thoughts on my pocket cards every day of my life.

 

The lone-wolf anthropologist is an extinct species.  All work is now collaborative at some level.  You depend on fellow scholars, and/or your field contacts: subjects, consultants, assistants, friends.  Getting along with people is basic, and interpersonal skills matter.  You do not need to be suave and charismatic (though it does help) but you need to be aware of the need to get along with all sorts of people.  Being able to work with others is now more important than sheer brilliance.

Also, more and more projects are interdisciplinary (a very good trend), so prepare to work with people from other fields.  If in environmental anthro you’ll have to work with biologists; in medical, with medical experts; in psychological anthro, with psychologists; and so on.  To do this you have to know enough about those fields to be an “informed consumer” (as Dave Kronenfeld puts it), though not necessarily any more than that.

Form as many close bonds with your fellow students as you possibly can.  This may be the best advice in my whole set.  A cohort is a wonderful thing.  Student cohorts often stick together for life and form mutual support and back-scratching networks—citing each other, writing about each other’s work, etc.  I still depend on my undergrad network for a lot of career help, and this is after more than 50 years.

Go to meetings and keep networking there.

Networking is NOT all the game, and NOT a substitute for your own hard intellectual work, but it is VERY important and is typically essential to success in the field.  Brilliant loners make it, but not-so-brilliant loners rarely if ever do.

 

My only comment on actual learning is that students in anthro these days are not always well taught (to put it mildly) in the area of theory.  Read on your own.  The one critical necessity is to read THOROUGHLY the theory you do read—whole books and articles, not bits and pieces and short takes.  Short excerpts from the classics are not enough.  Worse:  many of the secondary sources and canned history-and-theory books are just plain wrong.  Core or “boot camp” courses are often terrible (mine at Berkeley was) and are sometimes not given at all.  You absolutely have to learn basic theory, and you may be on your own.  Read, and find someone to ask about it.

Anthropological theory is derived, directly or indirectly, from the writings of Kant, Marx, Weber, Durkheim, Boas, and a very few other people.  (At a much more distant remove, it goes back to Plato and Aristotle, like the rest of western thought; there are still clearly identifiable Aristotelian and Platonic traditions in the field.)  It really pays to know where anthro theory started, so you might read at least one book by each of those seven.  Note, among other things, that Kant enormously influenced the other four—they all read him in detail in the original German.  His influence survives accordingly.

Durkheim and Boas, especially, have suffered from gross misrepresentation in the secondary sources.  Don’t believe the textbooks!  READ the original work!

Of more recent major influences, Foucault is another notably worthwhile thinker who has suffered a lot of inaccurate summarizing.

One endless problem is separating a brief fad from a real trend.  Use your judgment.  If a guy is clearly an airhead but writes sententiously and impressively, he’s sure to be popular, but only for a while:  a fad.  If a guy writes well and gets popular but ALSO has surprising, exciting, evidence-based things to say, he’s got staying power.  Some recent cases would be Deleuze and Derrida in the fad set, Latour and Sahlins in the set with staying power.

On field work, including ethics, read my “Methodology” post on my website, www.krazykioti.com. It has citations to the literature.  The one indispensable reference is H. Russell Bernard, Research Methods in Anthropology (latest edition—new editions appear regularly).  Take a copy to the field.

 

On writing:  Every area has its styles.  Read the journals for your area and see how they do it.  Many have specific directions.  The only general advice is write clearly and concisely—but even this is wrong for certain theory journals that require contorted, jargon-laden, postmodernist prose.

Grant writing, though, is an art that has to be learned.  Most grant agencies are interested primarily in why they should give you money rather than your competitors for the very limited funding now available.  This means you have to have a clearly stated problem that can be solved in finite time—ideally a problem that you can show is genuinely important to the field.  Fard, far more important, though, you have to prove that you know the best way to solve that problem, and can explain it clearly.  In the lab sciences, including lab anthro, this means you even have to list the brand names of the equipment and reagents you will be using.  Field anthro usually isn’t that demanding, but if you intend to make films or record music you have to state what equipment you will use!

In general, minimally:

–you have to cite the major current literature that actually contributes to the question (as opposed to general stuff that merely mentions it)

–you have to know the methods currently used in this area

–you have to show that you know exactly which methods are best for your particular case (this is in italics because it tends to be the make-or-break ingredient in a grant proposal)

–you have to explain how you will interpret results (data) to prove your case.

Agencies now typically require you to explain how you will work with people on the ground, share results with them, and credit them properly.  This is important, and is required because people on the ground—over the decades—have insisted on it.  Read Vine Deloria in extenso if you wonder why.

Most rejections of grant applications are based on either (1) the problem is not stated clearly, (2) the problem can’t be addressed in the real world in finite time (so don’t ask for funding to bring peace on earth or to solve the question of where culture came from), or (3) the methods are not shown conclusively in the writeup to be state-of-the-art, adequate, and pertinent.  #3 is the real killer.

Be as concise as possible and don’t waste much time doing anything other than the above.

IRB’s are usually not a terrible problem for anthropologists; see my Methodology writeup.

 

Job Hunting

You will notice that in what follows I am not lamenting the awful job market or telling you that you have a one-in-a-million chance at a job.  We at UCR have an excellent placement record, because we are still a four-field department that teaches basic theory, professional skills, and a range of courses, and because we have good advisors.  We also feature applied fields and research!  If you want to be one of those bitter grad students who can’t get a job, go to a university or department or advisor that specializes only in a currently faddish area of anthro.  Especially if it’s High Theory.  By the time you get your Ph.D., that fad will be over and done, and you’ll be left on the beach by the receding tide.

Most of these guidelines are for people seeking jobs as university professors, because that is the only work world I know well, but today most anthropologists find jobs outside of academia.  More and more areas of work are finding that anthropologists—if adequately trained—have several particularly valuable and distinctive skills:

–they know how to ask questions—not just questionnaires but depth interviewing, etc.

–they know how to listen

–they have learned as second nature to attend to differences in people’s outlooks, backgrounds, and viewpoints

–they know what culture, ethnicity, and religion are and aren’t.  They don’t believe everybody has the same “rational choice” behavior, but they also don’t assume that all Hispanics like hot sauce or all Generation X’ers are selfish or all Chinese are “collectivist”

–they can, as a corollary, get along with different types of people

–they can usually write well; they can write research papers, grant applications, do comprehensive plans, do research statements, etc.  If you aren’t trained in these things in your grad program, complain loudly and find training in those areas somehow! All major universities have workshops on grant applying.

–they are good evaluators and program critics

–they are comfortable in the field, and adjust to even quite rough situations

–and so on.

Because of this, anthropologists are now in demand—in fact, in rather desperate demand—in health care and medicine.  This includes, most importantly, public and global health, maternal and child health and care, and environmental health.  Also golden are environmental planning, development work of all kinds, and any and all international enterprises.  Anthropologists are in demand in personnel and marketing departments.  They are in extreme demand for grant-writing and field work for small NGO’s and such.  All these take some special training beyond anthro, but usually not much.  My anthropologist daughter got a master’s in public health and promptly got six job offers.  (She went on to a nursing degree and research nursing work.)

The standard places to look for jobs are ads in the journals and newsletters, but note that listservs routinely post job openings.  The Eanth-L listserv in environmental anthro, for example, posts pretty much every environmental anthro job opportunity.  There are medical, agricultural, and nutritional anthro listservs that routinely post job openings in those fields.  I assume the same is true for other sub-sub-fields.

 

One major problem that has to be faced is that products of the snob schools already have a leg up.  Partly it’s the name—a Harvard or Chicago product will almost always be hired over a UCR product with comparable brilliance and knowledge.  Partly it’s the contacts and the inside knowledge; the snob school kids are more apt to know that Richard Roe has just replaced John Doe as the Big Fad in your field.  So, get to conferences, pick people’s brains, don’t be left in the dust—know who’s the big name and what’s the “happenin’” theory.  But, more to the point, the snob schools actually do, on average, a good job of teaching.  I have certainly known plenty of exceptions—people who got through Berkeley or Chicago or wherever without learning a thing, presumably by playing political games.  But usually the Ph.D.s from those schools really are well trained.

Given those realities, FACE IT: YOU HAVE TO BE BETTER THAN THEY ARE, AND THAT TAKES A TERRIFIC AMOUNT OF WORK.  And you have to make sure you get the theory training and find out who the latest big names are.

 

On the market, my cynical but absolutely essential advice is: sell yourself shamelessly but appear to be modest.  Write a good CV with detail but not too much detail.

Get out publications—it is now almost impossible to get a tenure-track job in archaeology or biological anthro without publications, and even cultural anthro is getting there.  One of my students was told it now takes 5 publications to have a shot at a job.  That would be true only at major research universities, and not always at them.  One or two is enough for most places.  But the more the better.

More serious is grant-getting.  I have heard people in the lab sciences cut to the chase on hiring committees with the coldest of cold lines: “How much money is he bringing with him?”  Anthro is not so crass, but any grants sure do help, and the more—and more prestigious—the better.  Universities today survive on grant money, and if you aren’t going to contribute….

In your application letters and in interviewing, your whole game is to explain, very deferentially and politely, why the people offering the job need YOU rather than your competitors.  The surest way to NOT get the job is to ask what they can do for you (salary, leaves, etc.)  The only way TO get the job, usually, is to read the job description with obsessive interest, and pounce on every detail.  If they emphasize teaching, stress your qualifications as a teacher.  If research, talk up your research.  If there is a line in there about potatoes, highlight your knowledge of potatoes and your fascination with them.  If there is a line about critical theory, read up on it and comment intelligently on it.  If the ad is for a North Americanist with special interest in spruce trees, become an instant expert on that.  Also, and this is absolutely critical, study up on the members of the department, and talk about how well you would relate to their interests and how much you want to work with them.  You have to know who they are and what they do.

Then be careful not to get your letters mixed up.  It is all too easy on a computer to recycle a form letter for every application.  Then we who are hiring can get some hilarious amusement when—as one applicant actually did—you start out addressing UCR and talking about UCR’s concerns, but slip in the middle of the letter into talking about how well you’d relate to the profs at UC Irvine and how much you want to work with them.  We all understand—this poor soul just forgot to change the application letter—but, alas, such an application goes straight into the circular file (or “file 13” as the Mexicans call it).  Sorry.  If you’re that careless, we don’t want you.  Yes, that sounds cold, and it is, but it’s reality.

You will be required to get three people to write letters of reference for you.  These should, other things being equal, be your dissertation committee, or your major professor plus some employers who know your teaching record.  Obviously, the former is generally the better set for a research job, the latter for a teaching or nonacademic job.  It should also be obvious, but for some reason never is, that you should solicit letters only from people who know your work, can comment intelligently on it, and—this is critical—are known to be prompt with letters.  Only a very few professors are dilatory about writing these letters, but they can ruin you.

Being a “freeway flier” or temp for years is generally not a good place to be, unless you were a temp at one place and did well there; if that is the case, they are morally bound to give you a good opportunity at any job that comes along.  Outright “insider hiring” is illegal.  By law, the place has to advertise widely.  But in fact a well-qualified temp will often be hired over a more or less equally qualified outsider.  If you are the outsider in this case, it hurts like hell—but you must understand it and realize that it is fair and even necessary.

On the other hand, laws now prohibit discrimination on the basis of “race,” ethnicity, age, and everything else not directly related to job performance.  Religious schools can give preference to people of their religion, at least for teaching theology and the like, but otherwise you can expect fairness, and sue the socks off anybody that doesn’t deliver it.

My general experience is that of 100 applicants for a position, only about 20 actually fit the ad; 15 of them don’t talk about how they would relate to the faculty; 1 or 2 of the rest are obviously a bit out of the loop; so our short list of 3 or 4 people is very easy to generate.  Then, usually, only one of those 3 or 4 interviews well.

 

If you make it to a job interview, again tailor your interview presentation (normally an hour-long talk) to the audience.  If it is a teaching school, focus on giving a vibrant, exciting presentation, with beautiful visuals and clear explanations.  If a research place, focus on your present and future plans and projects (remember, they want to know what you will do for them).  Subtly but very, very clearly emphasize any grants you got, and, above all, what major grants you plan to go for and expect you will actually get.

Be polite.  Be prepared for anything.  I recall one job candidate whose talk was interrupted by an earthquake.  She fell apart and couldn’t go on.  She did not get the job (but luckily got a better one).  Things like that really do happen.  Be prepared, above all, for hard questions; most hiring committees just happily listen to anything, but there are those that really test you by asking searching questions.

A minor point, very annoying to me personally, is that the more prestigious eastern schools essentially require women to dress in very expensive, stylish clothes for interviews.  No such thing for the men.  This bit of sexism and classism makes me sick, but you have to deal with it if you are female and apply to one of those schools.

 

Otherwise, if your application letter and subsequent interview and interview talk have a lot of really interesting detail about your research, and a lot of serious thinking about how you would mesh with the department you’re applying to, you have a very good chance of being hired.  My experience is that no more than one or two candidates per job opening do this.  If your letter is short and lacking detail and doesn’t speak at length to the department and people you’re applying to, you don’t stand much chance.

 

When starting a new job, expect to have to teach (or do) the stuff nobody wants to teach or do.  Bear it.  This phase ends quickly.

 

Money and other nonsense

I can’t advise much here, except to think seriously before running up a huge debt.  You won’t make much with an anthro degree, even in the best possible job.  You will never have a house and may never have a kid if you get too deep in debt.

If you do get a job and have some money, get a house as near work as possible.  Commutes are death.  Also, get a small house, in good repair, with a small yard.  House repairs and “fixing up,” and yard work, are far more deadly to careers than anything else outside of a bad marriage.  Think maintenance.

Otherwise, usual consumer advice.

 

Teaching

FIRST rule:  Respect the students.

First corollary: Spare us the crap about this new generation of students being history’s worst, dumbest, least prepared, and—above all—the most disrespectful of professors.  The oldest documents in ancient Egyptian, Sumerian, Chinese, and Greek all have this stuff already, and the crap hasn’t changed since.  Many of the people I hear saying this stuff are people I knew as students, and I remember their professors (sometimes including me) saying the same things about them!  For the record, the best class I ever had, in terms of overall performance, was in 2000, and one of the best was my very last class, in 2006.  Some of the worst classes I ever had were back in the mythical 1960s—yes, everybody was thinking, but up to half of them were too stoned for it to matter.

Second rule:  Go where the students are if you want to find them.  This should be elementary advice, especially for anthropologists, but few of my colleagues think about this.  There is, for instance, the fact that most of our students at UCR come from families without much college background.  A large percentage of our students are the first members of their families to go to college.  Also, virtually all our students at UCR and local colleges come from “minority” or immigrant backgrounds.  The traditional student—white, middle or upper class, from an educated family—practically doesn’t exist here.  Thus you can’t expect students to act like the “proper university student” of old-time novels and movies.

Remember that students are individual human beings (not mere representatives of an ethnic group, let alone of a worthless generation) and have their human concerns and their very different personalities and experiences.  Use your ethnographic skills to find out where they are.  I recently read an “education expert” airily dismissing the existence of different learning styles.  I wondered what planet he was on—certainly not this one.

Therefore, third rule:  Learn basic counseling techniques!  You’ll have plenty of students sobbing in your office, over everything from flunking a quiz to being beaten up and deserted by Significant Other.  You will certainly encounter suicidal students and will probably face mentally ill ones, some of whom might be threatening.  Know how to deal with these problems!  Ask the counseling center and read a book or manual on crisis counseling.  Know when to stop:  it is NOT appropriate, safe, or legal for you to deal with genuinely hard cases like mentally ill or severely troubled students.  Get to know people in the counseling center so you will know where to refer such cases.

 

Students, especially graduate students, do most of their learning outside of class.  It is absolutely essential for good teaching to have a lot of out-of-class contact, including social contact.  So much for MOOCs and such.

As to the nuts and bolts:  Common sense should tell you to organize lectures in advance, write up notes, and post them online.  Also, if you use PowerPoint or other visuals, don’t make them so crowded that students can’t read them.  I once saw a grad student do this and actually say “I realize you can’t read this slide….”  So why on earth did he show it?  Needless to say, his committee did not love his presentation.

Worst of all is giving a “lecture” by just reading off your PowerPoints.  If you ever do that, my ghost will haunt you and drive you to madness and death.

It is far better to put your course notes on line and/or hand them out than to give dismal text-only PowerPoints.  In fact, many of us always put our course notes online.

Most anthropology departments have serious problems planning curricula, because the field (and often the department too) is so diverse and disunited.  Think very seriously about this.  Plan your dream sequence of courses and options for the students, and talk it out with the department.  Hopefully, the department will come up with some sort of plan.  We had a model schedule and selection of options in the 1970s through early 90s.  Unfortunately, we let it fall apart after that.  This was an enormous disservice to the students.  Finally things got so bad that courses that had been dropped (and were never taught any more) were still listed in the university catalogue, because nobody was bothering to take them out.

A department plan or curriculum has to change as new people are hired, old ones retire, or middle-career ones change their focus.  Such changes should be made fast and cleanly.  Planning is really make-or-break for a department.

 

Student evaluations are now routinely used to evaluate professors.  Don’t be lulled into being a crowd-pleaser.  Promotion committees know all about this, and may distrust a prof with all-good evaluations.  She may be a true Great Teacher—there really are such—but she may be a crowd-pleaser and easy grader.  To paraphrase the old movie cliché, promotion committees have ways of finding out which you are.  Promotion committees like to see a prof with good evaluations in literate, judicious style and BAD evaluations in stupid, nasty style.  Confucius was once asked:  “If everyone likes a person, does that mean he’s a good person?”  Confucius answered “Of course not.  If the good people like him and the bad people hate him, then he’s probably a good person.”  Promotion committees generally have a similar idea.  Personal confession: my all-time favorite eval said, simply, “Too much work for too little grade.”  YES!  I was not an easy grader and I did require college-level work.  I’d infinitely rather have that eval than be stroked for giving crowd-pleasing lectures and easy A’s.

 

Publishing

When I was a grad student at Berkeley, there was a sign by the grad office with a quote from A. L. Kroeber, who founded the department and ran it for more than half a century.  He advised scholars to publish anything they had to say as soon as possible, so people could “shoot at it.”  In other words, don’t be a perfectionist.  This was dynamite advice, and I have always followed it.  Kroeber got hit by plenty of shots, many deserved, but he got a lot of wonderful and accurate data out too, and the debates triggered by his mistakes greatly advanced the field. (Remember what Darwin said about “false views” greatly advancing science because everyone takes such pleasure in proving them wrong.)  I admit, I have published a lot less than Kroeber and been a bit more careful, but still that advice truly made my career.

Writer’s block is the classic worst problem for academics.  It is purely psychological, but horribly annoying.  I once gave it up for Lent.  To my surprise, this worked.  At the end of Lent I figured, Why should I let it back in?  I’ve never had serious writer’s block since.  Basically, the lesson is, you can get out of the writer’s block trap by devoting yourself to whatever you believe will let you transcend it.

Procrastination is closely related and almost equally crippling.  Same advice.  Just do it.  As a friend of mine who wrote a book on procrastination pointed out to me, there is no easy answer, since—if there is a perfect cure out there—a true procrastinator will put off trying it.  Watch out and don’t get trapped into this mind-set.

Search diligently for the ideal place to publish your stuff, and then write in their style with their format.  Find their style guide.  Every journal and publisher has one online now.  There is always some journal, often new or obscure, for which your paper on the left nostril of the red-backed vole is ideal.  Another one will yearn for your paper on the early films of Roy Rogers.  Not the same journal.  And probably neither of them the flagship journal of your field.  And there is almost always a book publisher for even the most arcane topic (though I never could publish my guide to gardening in the tropics). Just LOOK.  Go online, use keyword searches, and find every journal on earth that publishes your kind of work.  Check each one out (50 or 100 if you need to) and send off journal articles accordingly.  Be warned, though, that there are now countless fly-by-night journals that publish anything for pay.  Publishing in these is the kiss of death.  If a journal starts off by saying how much you have to pay to publish with them, promptly delete it from your list.

For a book, you have to write up a prospectus, and then send it off to all possible publishers.  This prospectus is a document with a set form, though each publisher has a slightly different version (posted online at their website).  You have to give the title, main theme, abstract (100 to 300 word summary), and a thorough account of who might buy it—what the target audience is—and where to advertise it.  The publisher wants to know what conventions to show it at, what journals to advertise it in, what journals to contact for reviewing it, what professional societies would be interested in it, and so on.  Some publishers want a table of contents and even chapter summaries, and most want a sample chapter.  They also want your short CV.

Think seriously about how you can reach the maximum number of readers.

You can NOT send a full ms of an article or book to more than one publisher at a time.  This is highly immoral, and if a publisher finds out you do it they will never deal with you again.  On the other hand, you are expected to saturate everybody with prospectuses.  The best way to do this is to go to your professional convention (the American Anthropological Association annual conference for anthropologists) and talk to the publishers’ representatives there, and drop off prospectuses with them.

Finally, there are those anonymous reviews.  All journal and book mss of any scholarly quality get sent out to 2 or 3 reviewers.  About 90% of the resulting reviews are helpful and fair—though often fairly harsh in the way they say it.  The other 10% are taking out on you their problems with their spouse or chair or substance abuse or something.  They will give you a mean and unfair reading.  Often they make it clear that they never read the ms.  For instance, they will attack you for things you didn’t say—even when you said the opposite.  The eminent psychologist Roy Baumeister got so fed up that he wrote a savage but hilariously funny screed about this: “Dear Journal Editor, It’s Me Again….”  You can probably find it online.  Look it up.  It’s consoling to know that even one of America’s leading psychologists gets this same treatment.

Do NOT take these reviews personally.  Think of all your written work as evolving and never perfect.  You can always use some critique.  If that critique is phrased civilly, be deeply thankful.  If it is uncivil, use what you can of it and disregard the rest.  Never protest to the editor or waste your time ranting.  Complaining to colleagues is merely annoying; they’ve all been through it too, and are apt to answer you the same way the old bear answered the young wolves in Kipling’s Jungle Book:  “We knew it ten seasons before.”

 

Getting Tenure

Little to say here, since every institution has its own wants and rules.  In general, there are teaching schools and research institutions.  Teaching schools want evidence of superior teaching, usually in the form of student evaluations plus peer observations.  Research schools want publications and grants.  They expect a major article in a refereed journal per year, plus a book for tenure (not just your thesis—unless you have massively rewritten and added to it).  Some expect even more.  The big ones most certainly expect funding—you have to get grants, if only small ones.  Small ones may lead to large ones, and show you are making progress.

Department and community service is theoretically taken into account, but in reality the best it can do is be decisive in a very close case.  If you are barely making it in teaching and research, good service can save you.  Normally, however, it does no good, and young professors are usually advised NOT to invest much time or effort in service when they could invest it in teaching and research.  A responsible department, department chair, or dean will place you on minimal-work committees so it looks like you are doing something but in fact you are not worked too hard.

Denying tenure if you do the above is VERY rare.  Now and then someone gets into serious political trouble.  There is recourse, if you were unfairly treated: the law, plus the American Association of University Professors—the latter has no legal authority to do anything, but can provide very bad publicity for a school.  Normally, if you don’t alienate people, and do publish, you’re OK.

 

Working

            Just be nice to everybody and look for the good in everybody. Use your ethnographic skills: figure out where people are coming from, why they are there, and how to be nice to them and get along with them given those various standpoints.

Keep your office door open (see below), be available, keep your office hours.  Nothing ruins a college student’s experience like unavailable professors.  If you’re in the private sector, nothing ruins your work like being unavailable and unlocatable. Use the social media.

Being nice to people includes being as good as you possibly can to department and university staff: secretaries, administrative assistants, MSO’s, etc.  These people do everything for the school, usually work terribly hard at very long hours for terrible pay, and are almost invariably really good, dedicated individuals.  (Yes, I’ve known some exceptions, but really few.)  They also control all the minor but vital details, like access to the copier and instructions on how to use it, filling out forms for grants, and getting help scheduling.  So they can make your life wonderful if you’re good to them—or, if you aren’t…you get the idea.

Throw a lot of parties.  I used to have an open, informal party at the end of every quarter.  These were fondly remembered—much more so than my teaching.  Academics are sociable beings, and need to unwind and talk shop, but seem rarely to be party organizers.

Never believe gossip.  Most academic gossip reduces to one of two formulas: “X doesn’t like Y” or “X is screwing Y.”  Experience teaches that these claims, and other gossip, are wrong at least 90% of the time.  As to the other 10%, who the hell cares?  Stop worrying about it.

On the other hand, if you actually know something bad is going on,  do not trust or deal with said people, if possible.  If it’s actually illegal behavior, report it to the appropriate administrator.

Be aware of who might stab you in the back or screw you out of a good thing (very few colleagues really do this, but there is always someone).  Be nice anyway, but watch your back.  The way to spot such people is that they are always complaining about others.  Complaining about the sorrows and ills of the world is one thing—it can merely mean the complainer is an idealist.  But constant complaints about one’s family and work associates mean trouble.  Such people cannot be trusted.

Nothing is served by the endless squabbles and gossip that mess up universities and other workplaces.  This does NOT mean you should put up with everything.  If you need to state an opinion that differs from others’, do so.  Just do it civilly and politely.  I had to learn the hard way that 60s-style “confrontation” is purely bad and never does anything but harm.

Though the vast majority of academic conflicts are trivial personality issues, there are always a few—thankfully a very few—genuine skunks in any workplace, including universities.  They tend to rise in the system, too, because they love power and because they play games that honorable persons do not do.  Thus they get ahead at the expense of others.  Unless you are their department chair, or on a relevant committee such as Personnel, there is not usually much you can do about them except be unfailingly courteous, avoid them as much as possible, and wait them out.  They generally get fired or else move on.  (One species of skunk is the one who’s always looking for a better job, and thus never bothers to do anything for his or her university—s/he doesn’t expect to be there long.  And usually isn’t there long, thank God.)  Again, be warned, but do not think this is at all a norm.  Such people are rare and don’t usually last—though they do unfortunately take over the university in certain tragic cases.

Keep a detailed written record of events at your university or other workplace, and of your department.  Nobody seems to keep workplace histories.  In a university, where there is a complete turnover of students every 4 years or so, this leads to real disconnect.  Even if you’re not in the know, keep a record, for fun, for ultimate writeup as group history, for political improvement of it all, and other reasons.  Budgets especially need to be recorded.  You will find these records increasingly useful after several years at a place.

If you’re at a university, do everything you possibly can, politically and personally, to shore up the core academic functions: library, classes, professor contact time, remedial learning, research facilities including labs, and so on.  In the current economic climate, this means defending them against the administration’s desire to divert money to athletics, flashy projects, luxurious facililities (especially for the administration), and other nonacademic matters. This latter tendency is sometimes called the “business model” of administration, but any real business that neglects its core mission for flashy stuff promptly fails.

The worst problem currently, nationwide and at my university, is the library.  Administrations have found that the library is a long-term concern that can always be defunded “just for this year” without damaging much.  Librarians are politically weak at most schools, have few faculty advocates, and are regarded as “mere” support staff even if they are actually highly-trained professionals.  Most US universities have inadequate and declining libraries, even if they are otherwise rich.  We once had a chancellor at my university who one year redirected the library’s special book budget to redecorating his office.  At the University of Missouri they recently cut 100% of the library’s funds for the year—but the football coach makes over $2 million a year.  Libraries are the absolute basis of the research function of the university, and this is true for freshmen and Nobel prize winners alike.  As a student or professor or other academic, make helping the library your first priority.  If you aren’t an academic, you still depend on local university libraries for all kinds of public data functions, so you need to concern yourself very seriously with local academic libraries.

All places now have zero tolerance for sexually harassing students, or bullying.  This means you don’t dare do anything even remotely suspicious.  I always kept my office door open (unless I was napping in there) and my whole body visible from the corridor.  It has come to the point where a male does not dare compliment a female on her appearance.  Hugs are apparently taboo in some areas, though, thank God, not yet in California, where we hug all the time for no reason.

 

Administrating

As with other matters, there is a first rule:  Consult with everybody, then do what you believe is right, then thank everyone for their advice—whether you took it or not.  If you didn’t use it, just thank them and tell them you found their advice helpful—no need to go on and point out that it helped you know what to avoid.  People in academia, and elsewhere, desperately want to be consulted, listened to, and recognized.  Nobody is more deservedly hated than an administrator who won’t consult and won’t thank.  But as to following their advice:  Get all opinions but then make your own judgment. Of course you have to go with the majority or the consensus if it’s a democratic situation, but very often you will have to make the choices, either because it’s your responsibility or because no one else will help or be decisive.

In my administrative positions, I always asked for input, then flew a trial decision, then followed the qui tacit consentit rule:  “Who stays silent has consented.” In other words, anyone who does not protest by a given deadline time is considered to have voted in favor of your choice.  This amazingly expedites decision-making.

Another rule is that whoever DOES protest has thereby volunteered to fix the situation or at least propose the solution.  Establish zero tolerance for whining-but-then-not-helping.  If somebody routinely doesn’t like your way of doing X, put him or her in charge of X forthwith (if it’s possible to do so).

Assume that all conflicts are the fault of ALL the contestants until PROVEN otherwise.  The “he started it” blame game is an invitation to lying and to dodging responsibility.  Get the parties in question to settle it.  Listen to the full stories of all sides, with care and sympathy, but don’t believe a word of it.  People in the midst of conflict almost invariably distort their stories.  Listen to all sides and note the differences.  Thus, when you’ve heard all sides, do what YOU think best.

Sexual harassment:  This is scary.  If it’s real, you as administrator have to get on it instantly with 100% attention, and immediately contact university counsel.  On the other hand, there are students who will make false accusations.  They can ruin a faculty member’s career.  Obviously there is no simple way to tell true from false, but if a clearly desperate student breaks down in your office, chances are almost 100% that it’s real; if, in contrast, a clearly angry and vicious student just takes a high moral ground on it without seeming very upset, you want to watch out.

Detail is the soul of good administration.  The best administrators have broad vision but are ALSO superb detail persons.  They keep track of every paper and file and data point.  They organize their information and USE it.  Think of health care, and the need to keep data available, and how frightening it is to you as a patient to discover that your HMO always loses your drug allergy data.  (They always used to lose mine, and of course this is life-threatening.)  Details matter.

All universities have a vast number of good, diligent, scholarly, caring faculty members; a few troublemakers; and a few manipulators.  The good, diligent ones rarely get any recognition.  They get taken for granted.  Always be sure to thank people like that for their good work, and do small things for them.  They usually hate the embarrassing public recognition that bad administrators love to get.  Quiet personal thank-yous and dinner invitations are much better.  The troublemakers, by contrast, can be endured, but don’t reinforce them.

The real problem is the manipulators.  Every university has a few people who never work but continually play politics instead.  Fortunately there are very few, but they always manage to rise rapidly in the system and often wind up running it.  Then they do incalculable damage. Manipulators can ruin the library, gut programs that are vitally important but not “flashy” enough, sell out the business school to corrupt businesses, and ultimately wreck the university.  These people start by getting themselves into all kinds of cushy positions that involve no responsibility, like running “centers” and being on committees that look important but don’t actually do much.

If you are running a department and have one of these people, fire him or her.  Period.  This can be done even if they’re tenured.  They always slip up and take another job on the side, or harass a student, or fake data in a study, or do something else for which firing over tenure is required.  I’ve had a role in firing several such people and I’m proud of it.  Wish I’d done it more.

Much more common are professors who are good scholars but also suave and sociable and thus successful at politics.  They can easily drift into playing politics more and more, and working less and less.  This will annoy you, but such people are valuable and can be salvaged.  Get them to do the scholarship, and also get them into useful, responsible political positions where their skills are used for good purposes:  things like the honors program, the library committee, or editorship of a journal.

 

Having It All

Many women are now concerned about “having it all,” which seems to mean having a demanding job, raising kids, keeping up on movies and TV, running a model home, and sometimes dressing stylishly too.  No, you can’t have all that.  Men long ago resigned themselves to having to work full time, and thus sacrifice some of the childrearing and home care, and all or most of the rest.  The realistic hope is a demanding job, some time with the kids, a sort-of-clean but not very orderly and decorative home, and not much else.

I was a single parent for five years, while managing some of the more difficult years of my career.  Everything went fine (though it was a rough ride).  But the house was a very small minimal-care place, and of course things like movies and vacations went over the wall.

In most fields it is perfectly possible to have a career AND have kids—I’ve done it—but in the lab sciences, where you may have to spend very long hours in the lab, there are special problems.  I often wonder why biologists, in particular, don’t read Darwin; they seem to take a perverse delight in wrecking their younger colleagues’ reproductive chances.  Still, with a cooperative partner and good local child care, a lab scientist can do perfectly fine as a parent.  Lots do it.

Finally, to repeat a line above, one of the most important things I have learned in life is that the greatest goals in a career are those where any progress is good, but absolute success is impossible:  World peace, perfect health for all, justice for everyone, a thoroughly protected yet profitably used environment, and so on down to a perfect marriage and perfectly raised kids.  Keep trying.  The journey truly is the end.

So, plan your life realistically.  Think what you really want.  Give up other things accordingly.

 

Thanks very much to Jenny Banh for suggesting this guide and helping with it.

 

Administrators

In my years at UC Riverside, I have seen administrators come and go, and have learned a little about the world of higher-level university administration.  My own administrative duties have been low-level, but ongoing and educative.

Administrators tend to be of two types.  One hopes for dedicated, competent, academically trained administrators who can and will deal with crises and keep the system running well.  I have served under many such.  Unfortunately, one often encounters career administrators, many of them trained in business or educational administration rather than in an academic subject, who are neither competent managers nor interested in becoming so.  They are driven by ambition to rise in the system, not by desire to help it.

The two are easy to tell apart.  Administrators of the first type are rarely noticed by the wider public.  They show themselves through the coming of many new books in the libraries, new labs in the science buildings, new hires who win the Nobel Prize a few years later, new donations from rich alumni, and new computers in the  computer labs.  Above all, they show themselves through making sure that teaching and research faculties are paid decently and not worked impossibly hard (but are not allowed to laze on the job either).

Administrators of the second type are very visible.  They are seen in expensive suits and flashy ties, or female-equivalent garb, at every high-level meeting, major social event, and public photo-op.  They are featured on all the university’s publicity fliers.  They are seen at sports events and at the openings of new gyms, stadiums, sports fan facilities, and student unions.  However, a university run by them is singularly lacking in new books, new labs, new research, good new faculty, and new (or even old) instructional improvement projects.

Though some people are intermediate, administrators tend to cluster at one or the other pole of this continuum.  This is because a real scholar or scientist, even if also politically ambitious, finds it difficult to ignore the scholarly side of the university.  Only the academically hopeless or resentful will willingly trash the entire research and education functions of their universities.

Administrators of the first type manage the old way:  They allocate scarce resources for maximum overall benefit, and they inspire and encourage their workers, from senior professors to gardeners.

Administrators of the second type manage according to the latest fad.  Today, that is the “business model.”  The businesses used for a model are Enron, Madoff, and Wal-Mart, however, not Costco, Subway, or even Starbuck’s.  (Lest you think I am exaggerating…one of the people I am as a model for a Type II actually had us read a book on “successful” businesses that had become “great.”  By the time we finished the book, half the cases in the book were in court for illegal practices leading to financial disaster.)  Put another way, the businesses used are McDonald’s and Burger King rather than Chez Panisse and Spago; we are talking mass consumption with minimal nutritional (educational) value, not specialized top-quality experience.

The business model is a model in which the goal is to process more bodies cheaper.  We of the faculty are under continual pressure to teach more students and get them through the system faster, and at less cost.  This, of course, drastically impacts the quality of education—but that is not a concern.  The ultimate in efficiency is the MOOC (Massive Open Online Course), in which thousands of students can tune in to a single course of lectures—ideally given by a world expert who is also a great teacher.  The rest of us are too inferior to be of use.

Of course, no one would use a MOOC to teach anything they actually wanted people to know.  No one would be mad enough to teach driving, or nursing, or brain surgery, or the all-important sports by way of a MOOC.  Even administrators know that those things require actual one-on-one teaching, practice, apprenticeship, hands-on training, and feedback.  MOOC’s, like standardized tests, are used only for things nobody cares about, such as literature, philosophy, and basic science.

Actually, in an ideal world the mindless rote side of driving, nursing, and so on would be taught by some such method, though with thoughtful essays rather than standardized tests as the evaluation tools.  This would leave real teachers free to concentrate on the hands-on side.  Some online courses and universities do teach this way, with great success.  But all that is far too expensive and complicated for the business model.

The business model, as applied to academic employees, means, first of all, less power and less pay for the teaching staff.  (Ironically, this has led to unionization in many public universities, including mine, and thus to more confrontation and management problems.  But there is really no alternative: without unions, our lower-level teaching staff would be so poorly paid and overworked that they would frequently have to drop out, leaving us with even worse staffing levels than we have now.)  Second, it means more and more highly paid administrators.  My university went from one vice-chancellor to six in a few years, and is moving on up.  UC’s systemwide administration absorbs as many resources as a major campus, but does little to earn it (they do provide useful legal services).  Third, it means not wasting money on such inconspicuous things as labs, computers, or libraries.  Money must go into something visible to the public.  We at my university in the early 2000’s had lots of beautiful new signs, a lovely student union, all manner of sports activities, and even new and very expensive uniforms for the students who help with orientation at the end of summer…but no new books, no new labs, no instructional improvement, worse and worse faculty/student ratios, fewer remedial courses, more overcrowded classes, fewer classes in total.  Fortunately, the scoundrel that chose all that went on—unfortunately, to bigger and better things.  We are now doing better.

This is not to say that universities can’t be cut, but the cutting should be entirely in upper-level management and their folly projects.  Spending on administration has soared in American universities in the last two decades—doubling in many—while everything else has been cut to the bone, and in the case of libraries even the bones are going fast.

For some reason, strange and unimaginable to most administrators, measures of quality such as student graduation rates (especially in the recommended four years instead of five or six) remain poor at most universities.  Cheating has increased.  The job market for graduates is not steller; students clearly know less than they used to, and their employment fates prove it.  In short, career administrators using the business model have succeeded as well as did their models in Enron and Lehman Brothers.  Like the latter, university administrators can always count on generous governments to bail them out.  Universities are “too big to fail,” and their administrators always make the case that higher-paid higher-level administrators are the only hope.  Legislators, being what they are, usually sympathize—especially those many legislators who depend on an ignorant and uninformed citizenry to stay in office.  Legislators love Big Men.  They do not love professors, still less students.

A sure sign of Type II administrators at work is the proliferation of “centers” that accomplish little.  The easiest way for an ambitious but incompetent academic to move up is by starting a center—say, for the investigation of research on centers.  UCR has countless centers that either do nothing or duplicate existing faculties.  (It also, in fairness, has a few real centers that actually do work.)  All the centers absorb considerable resources; they are supposed to get grants that more than offset the cost.  It would be interesting to see how many of our centers do that.

Type II administrators sometimes steal outright.  More often, they have final say over the budget, and can move funds according to discretion.  Thus, one of our chancellors once used the year’s book-buying budget to redecorate his office.  The library, and thus the university’s teaching and research mission, never recovered—but you should have seen the chancellor’s office door.

The problem, then, is not so much the business model as the type of administrator who invokes it.  They are the people who early-on decided that rising in power through social ability and political skill was the way to win in academia.  (A catty writer might say that they tend not to have the intellectual skills to rise any other way…but two of our very worst chancellors at UCR were actually quite eminent scientists.)

Probably the biggest problem with Type II administrators is not their laziness—though most of them indeed do little except posture in public—but their constant scheming to get ahead.  A second-string university like UCR is merely a place to polish their vitas and jockey for a better position.  Often, they show their competence the same way that bad CEO’s do: by cutting the work force and shrinking the budget, no matter how much it damages education.  Since they had already risen to their Peter Principle “level of incompetence,” we of the faculty have often wondered how they did in their later postings.  Sometimes we hear, and reflect that our gain is the later postings’ loss.  (Modern readers may not remember Lawrence Peters’ classic work [1969], in which he pointed out that managers tend to rise till they reach a job level they can’t handle, and then stick there—leaving the world mismanaged.)

Since Type II administrators spend their time playing social and political games, they, not the Type I administrators, are the ones that are visible to politicians and donors.  Those politicians and donors who love game-playing, fancy suits, and sports events will be impressed, and will steer some money to the university.  Unfortunately, politicians and donors who actually care about education and research will go somewhere else.  I would like to know how many hundreds of millions UCR has lost this way over the years.  I do know that one gift to UCLA’s medical school in 2012 was almost a third of our entire annual budget.  UCLA’s medical school has competent administration.  (Very fortunately, we have managed to get a medical school with an extremely competent Type I dean here at UCR.  Maybe we have a chance at last.)

 

Modern universities are incredibly complicated, and face diverse political and legal challenges.  Therefore, they actually do need administrators.  We do not need six or eight vice-chancellors, but we do need one, probably more than one.  We may not need as many deans as we have now, but we need several.  We do not need the “business model,” but we do need some genuine business management: cutting waste (i.e. high-level administrative spending), inviting comments from employees, constantly upgrading quality, allocating resources where they are needed (rather than where they make a show), and attending to the final product above all.

The problem, then, becomes one of finding Type I administrators.  Currently, university administration is so difficult and demanding that people who seriously want to work at it are daunted.  We at UCR used to have a hard time getting competent people to apply for chancellor and vice-chancellor positions.  We had to “wash” a vice-chancellor search a few years ago for sheer lack of qualified applicants.  With rising prestige, we are currently fortunate in having found a number of really good people.  Still, the problem continues, and the Chronicle of Higher Education reveals we are not alone in this.  One important step would be to give “service” a much higher place in promotion.  Encouraging people to rise through the ranks—where their capability can be judged—would produce a cadre of competent, decent administrators, rising within each school.  We could then dispense with the need to hire Type II people from other schools.

A competent administrator will, first of all, listen to what people say: students, faculty, staff, public, everyone.  He or she will then think seriously about what’s the best thing to do—not just take the most widely popular suggestion.  He or she will then thank everybody for their input, whether or not it was adopted!  Nothing is more valuable than input, and if people aren’t thanked they won’t provide it.

He or she will be perfectly clear about the core functions of a university:  Education and research.  These come first.  Other functions come last.  Sports are an unsavory, wasteful luxury—they do nothing for most universities except waste a lot of money.  (It has been repeatedly shown that only the places with major established programs make money off sports.)   Fine food, beautiful dorms, beautiful student union buildings, and the like have their place—but their place is elite private schools, not struggling public universities that have to starve the library and the computer bank even without such luxury spending.

He or she will recognize that faculty and staff are human beings, and deserve not only fair pay but also respect.  Even Type II administrators usually know enough to be civil to senior faculty, but they have a reflex need to cut pay and resources for teaching and research personnel, and to be arrogant about it whenever possible.  Type I administrators try to get fairer shares of the state’s money and the university’s money for the people who actually do the heavy lifting, especially the overworked and exploited temps, teaching assistants, and junior faculty.  But if they fail in getting more state money, they at least try to soften the blow by being respectful and listening to the faculty.

He or she will work seriously with the community, addressing local needs as well as possible and thus hopefully getting donations.  Type II administrators, if they work with the “town” at all, tend to work only with the high-level business community.

He or she will work with the state and other powers-that-be to focus on quality teaching and research, cut other expenses, and above all not allow universities to become top-heavy with highly paid administrators.

He or she will strategically build on the strengths of the campus, and will also try to fix obvious weaknesses.  Type II administrators, by contrast, often hate and fear strong units and programs.  The most insane thing done by administration in my 47 years at UCR was summarily terminating the agricultural research program and firing the entire research staff—because the chancellor in question “did not want UCR to be seen as a cow college.”  This gutted one of the three or four leading agricultural research programs in the world, a program that was making enormous differences in poorer nations.  Of course, the researchers were not cow tenders, but world-class geneticists, entomologists, plant pathologists, cell biologists, and soil and water scientists.  Quite apart from devastating the intellectual and academic life at UCR—it had depended heavily on the ag scientists—this move, and all too many similar cuts at other universities, contributed to millions of people starving to death in Africa and Asia.  Decline in agricultural research is one of the major reasons why one and a half billion people are hungry and about one to two million die of malnutrition every year.

Make no mistake:  Type II administrators kill.  At thousands of universities, they have run down cutting-edge medical research, agricultural research, environmental research, crime studies, war-and-peace research, and other life-and-death agendas—all to feed their egos by redirecting the money to sports, fancy nonacademic buildings, glossy brochures, country-club dorm facilities, and, above all, lavish parties for each other.  Their natural allies, the legislators and boards of directors who want only to save money in the short term, bear even more of the guilt.  In a world where forward knowledge is the most important way of saving lives, this mischief is murder.

 

 

 

 

Peter, Lawrence.  1969.  The Peter Principle: Why Things Always Go Wrong.  New York: Bantam.

 

How to Get an Academic Book Published

I am frequently asked by young scholars how to start out in the publishing world.  Usually, the specific question is how to turn a Ph.D. thesis into a book.  The time has come to write down some tips.

First, the basics.  Publishers want a prospectus.  This is a summary of the book, with special attention to its main points and its distinctive findings and insights.  Different presses have slightly different requirements, which they conveniently specify on their websites.  The general formula is the same:  about four pages summarizing the basic message of the book; quick summaries of the specific chapters; and information on marketing it.

This last is basic and important—the publishers have to know the details.  First and most important is the target audience.  Who is actually going to read this book?  Interested “laypersons”?  All anthropologists?  Only experts in kinship?  Only experts in Chinese village studies?  What types of students will read it?  Will it be accessible to freshmen, or only to upper-level students, or only to Ph.D. candidates?  Should this book be in every bookstore, or only in specialized bookstores, or only offered online?

Publishers naturally want to reach the widest possible audience, and you should too, since you have really valuable and important findings to share. Write the book and the prospectus accordingly.

Your prospectus will have to include not only this information, but also the competition.  You will have to list other books with similar content, and often give details on who buys them and how many copies they sell, but the really important question is how your book is different from theirs—why people should buy yours instead of, or as well as, theirs.  Then you will be expected to say where the book should be marketed, what journals would be good places to advertise it, and so on.  This is really important.  My food book Everyone Eats was published by an academic press with little trade-book experience.  It did not occur to them to market it in cookbook stores, gourmet food stores (almost all of which carry books), and places like that, and it did not occur to me to tell them.  I lost probably 50% or more of my potential sales because of that.  If you write a book that potentially has wide appeal, you have to think TV and other media as well as print media.

The best thing is to write a generic prospectus—covering things that all the publishers’ webpages ask for—and send it out as widely as possible.  Saturate the publishing world.  However, so as not to waste effort, do your homework first on who actually publishes the sort of book you are writing.  Academic and trade presses are specializing more and more now.  If you’re writing about Mexico, look first to University of Arizona and University of Texas.  If political ecology, go for Duke University Press.  For Northwest Coast studies, University of British Columbia and University of Washington.  Commercial presses are often just as prestigious; Brill for history and social science, Elsevier for hard science, Routledge for general books, Edwin Mellen for specialized scholarly works, and so on.

Do not confine yourself to these—anybody may publish anything—but start with the most likely venue.  A corollary is: do not be discouraged if the first 50 publishers turn you down cold.  You may just not be within their specialized profiles.  The 51st may well see your ms as just what they’ve been desperately seeking for all these years.

Simon Batterbury adds that there are also book series to watch for, and other plans and programs.  Duke’s series in political ecology is now a particularly prestigious publishing venue for that area of research.  Series tend to appear and disappear, or change profile, without warning.

Increasingly, book deals are made at conferences.  All the major publishers have representatives at the American Anthropological Association meetings, and many send reps to SfAA, SAA, and other smaller associations.  If you seriously want to publish your book, you have to go to these meetings, bring copies of your prospectus, talk at length to the publishers’ reps about what they want, and drop off a copy of the prospectus with each one who shows any interest at all.  Forget all shame—sell yourself and be persuasive!  You have an ms that you invested a lot in, that you care about, and that you believe in (I hope and trust).  Say so.

If you have a choice, always go with the largest and most prestigious press!  Beware of excessively small presses.  One-man outfits are often desperate for mss. and will cut good deals, but then you get poor marketing—or worse.  A coworker and I once had a book accepted by a good but tiny press—basically a one-man operation.  Things were going well till we started getting strange emails.  Finally one said (roughly) “Are you aliens from another galaxy?”  We had no idea what to make of this until we got a letter saying (more or less), “We are the receivers for ***.  The editor has unfortunately suffered a nervous breakdown and is resting in a mental hospital.  We plan to bring out the books accepted by this press…”—which they did, in a timely and professional manner, but we quickly brought out a second edition with a large, reliable publisher!  I’ve had small publishers go broke on me, editors die or change jobs, and so on.  Be warned.  (Of course, it goes without saying that you do not publish it yourself.  Self-publishing is great for family cookbooks and memoirs, but gets you nowhere in academic publishing.)

Publishers currently want books in the 70,000-100,000 word range.  Anything much over 100,000 to 120,000 words has to be a Blockbuster (capital B) to get much traction.  Such books do, however, exist, and are not even all that rare, so feel free if you have really important data.

Illustrations are now very cheap to produce, so use lots of them.  But getting permission for commercial ones is another matter, so take good photographs.

One final issue: anything major and important that goes in a published book has to be there with the full permission of the people you are writing about.  You have to get their signed permission, after seriously explaining what you are going to do with the material (i.e., publish it).  Then you should provide the people in question with the fruits of your labor.  Bring copies of the book back to them when it’s published.  I worked hard to get my main work on the Quintana Roo Maya published in Quintana Roo and in both English and Spanish (I would have done it in Maya too if I had found a good translator).  Think seriously about coauthorship and other means of insuring that intellectual property rights are respected.  And—this really should not be necessary, but unfortunately it is necessary, to spell out—anything confidential, or anything that could endanger your consultants, should NOT be published.  I once wound up in an unexpectedly very hairy situation that prevented me from publishing anything for 7 years and prevented me from ever publishing a great deal of the data I got!  Remember, the various anthropological codes of ethics emphasize that your first duty is to the people you work with—not to serve them or argue for them, necessarily, but certainly to protect them by not publishing highly sensitive material, or ripping off material that they want to keep for themselves.

Simon Batterbury has very usefully added that Australia has somewhat different rules (no “tenure,” but same requirements for publishing if you want promotions) and that there is a whole world of e-books I have not mentioned.  I don’t know the differences between that universe and regular publishing.  Clearly, it helps sales to have your publisher do both e-book and print versions.

So much for the grubby business side.  Now to the serious stuff.

First, believe in your work.  If it isn’t what you deeply feel and care about, change it.

Some thesis committees, with the best will in the world (I hope), really insist on having their personal views, ideas, and citations represented at enormous length in the thesis.  Others insist that you cover the entire history of anthropological theory (or whatever branch of it you are using).  Publishers dread this, and the larger academic presses actually say right out on their website that if you are submitting a thesis book be sure and take out all that stuff first!  So, the main thing to do in turning a thesis into a book is usually trimming down the stuff the committee made you put in, and focusing on what YOU want to put in.

Alternatively, some students are shy about putting their deeply held views and their favorite facts and stories into academic books.  Forget that.  A book is SUPPOSED to be about your deeply held and valued material.  Obviously you have to confine your views to reasonable statements for which you have evidence, and you have to be properly dignified and civil in writing style.  No strong statements about the evils of this or that.  But you need to have enough passion for your work to motivate you to write it and then sell the ms.

That said, the next step is to write for the widest possible audience.  If you are doing the cognitive aspects of mother’s brother’s daughter marriage on the Upper Nowhere River, this may be only 20 people worldwide, but at least write for all 20 of them.  The horrible jargon that polluted anthro in the 1990s is mercifully gone, and not lamented.  Stick to normal English words in their normal English meaning.  (No, “imaginary” is NOT an English noun!  And cultures do not hybridize, they naturally blend; “hybridity” used for cultural matters is a racist term that should be absolutely unacceptable.)  Use six-syllable words only if they are genuine technical terms, not cover terms for ignorance and sloppiness.  (Prime examples of the latter: “neoliberalism” and “globalization.”)  Write in clear English and try to reach all the people who would naturally be interested in your findings.

Actually, even the Upper Nowhere River marriage lore may be of very wide interest.  Ideally, a piece of scientific or humanistic research is intended to provide the key finding that will unlock a whole area of knowledge, or the key insight that solves a very wide problem.  Maybe the Upper Nowhere case is the criterial case that shows the entire field of anthropology needs to rethink everything.  At the very least, it may confirm one view and disconfirm a rival view.  Such dramatic findings are rare, but they do happen.  One recent case in anthropology was the serendipitous discovery of the Denisovan lineage of humans.  Another was the finding of Göbekli in Turkey, a large, complex site with monumental architecture several thousand years older than such sites were supposed to exist.

However, general, “popular,” Jared Diamond type books are not the way to go unless you’re a Famous Senior Scholar.  Pop books are not respected, and there are reasons for that (see any review of Diamond).  However, they can be perfectly good if done by a seasoned scholar with a lot of perspective on the field.  In general, for a beginning academic, the way to go is a thorough case study, but one with very wide implications that you trace out and spell out in detail, with full awareness of and citation of the relevant wider theoretical and practical literature.  It is also quite possible to do a good short overview book on a specific field or area, like Don Joralemon’s Exploring Medical Anthropology (2004).  We need more books like that.

 

So, think about what you found, and see just how big a deal it is in the wider picture.  Chances are that it is a very big deal indeed, and you should be seeing it and writing it as a major breakthrough in a large field, not a humble “thesis book.”  Do a good deal of original thinking about this.  Professors often do not teach students to see how important their stuff is.  Alas, some thesis committees seem dedicated to preventing that; they think of students as followers and helpers, mere contributors of bricks to the great building that the full profs are putting together. I am the opposite—I can think of nothing I like better than having my students succeed right off and eclipse me in the field.  It gets my good ideas out in ways I never could have done by myself.  Also it makes me pretty proud of having done well at teaching!

 

How much of your own experiences and feelings should go into the book?  That depends on the book and what is necessary for it.  There are reasonable limits.  Saying nothing about your experiences in the field is not a good idea; we readers seriously need to know what you actually did, whether it worked out, and how you dealt with issues of objectivity, privacy, confidentiality, intellectual propery rights, sensitivity, and so on.  At the other extreme, an anthropology book is supposed to be about the people studied, not about the ethnographer—unless it’s a deliberate autobiography.  Telling stories about your naïve early field experiences is particularly unworthy; every anthropologist knows about that and has gone through it, and there is no profit in saying it again.  I am always reminded of what the old wolves say to the young wolves in Kipling’s Jungle Book:  “We knew it three seasons before.”

In short, write what you feel is necessary, and no more; but if you have to err, err on the side of inclusion, because matters of rapport maintenance, intellectual property rights, and so on need more discussion than they have had heretofore.

 

In lieu of more extended discussion, let me list a few books (randomly selected—not a complete list!) that I think exemplify the best in anthropological writing—i.e., that are clear, decently written, and make extremely important general points on the basis of thorough but narrowly focused case studies.  (This list runs heavily to ecological anthro, because that’s what I do, but I try for a mix of humanistic, political, and biological studies, and of old as well as new ones.)

 

Cruikshank, Julie.  2005.  Do Glaciers Listen?  Local Knowledge, Colonial Encouinters, and Social Imagination.  Vancouver:  University of British Columbia Press.

 

Dove, Michael.  2011.  The Banana Tree at the Gate:  A History of Marginal Peoples and Global Markets in Borneo.  New Haven:  Yale University Press.

 

Feld, Steven.  1982.  Sound and Sentiment.  Princeton:  Princeton University Press.

 

Firth, Raymond.  1936.  We the Tikopia.  London:  George Allen & Unwin.

 

Gonzalez, Roberto.  2001.  Zapotec Science:  Farming and Food in the Northern Sierra of Oaxaca. Austin:  University of Texas Press.

 

Greenfield, Patricia Marks.  2004.  Weaving Generations Together:  Evolving Creativity in the Maya of Chiapas.  Santa Fe:  School of American Research.

 

Hunn, Eugene.  1991.  N’Chi-Wana, The Big River.  Seattle:  University of Washington Press.

 

Lansing, Stephen.  1984.  Priests and Programmers.  Princeton:  Princeton University Press.

 

Li, Tania Murray.  2007.  The Will to Improve:  Governmentality, Development, and the Practice of Politics.  Durham:  Duke University Press.

 

McCabe, J. Terrence.  2004.  Cattle Bring Us to Our Enemies:  Turkna Ecology, Politics, and Raiding in a Disequilibrium System.  Ann Arbor:  University of Michigan Press.

 

McCay, Bonnie.  1998.  Oyster Wars and the Public Trust:  Property Law, and Ecology in New Jersey History.  Tucson:  University of Arizona Press.

 

Mooney, James.  1991.  The Ghost-Dance Religion and the Sioux Outbreak of 1890.  Lincoln:  University of Nebraska Press.  Originally appeared in the Bureau of American Ethnology annual report #14, for 1892-93, published in 1896.

 

Netting, Robert.  1991.  Balancing on an Alp:  Ecological Change and Continuity in a Swiss Mountain Community.  Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press.

 

Rose, Deborah.  2000.  Dingo Makes Us Human:  Life and Land in an Australian Aboriginal Culture.  New York:  Cambridge University Press.

 

West, Paige.  2012.  From Modern Production to Imagined Primitive: The Social World of Coffee from Papua-New Guinea.  Durham:  Duke University Press.

 

 

 

 

Categories
Articles

Climate and China’s Dynastic Cycles

 

Climate and China’s Dynastic Cycles

 

  1. N. Anderson

Dept. of Anthropology

University of California, Riverside

gene@ucr.edu

www.krazykioti.com

 

Abstract

 

With climate change very much in the news, historians have sought correlations between climate change and the rise and fall of Chinese dynasties.

This contrasts with traditional explanations by Chinese historians of those eras, who explain rise and fall as the result of human decisions and actions.  Resolving these two reasonable, but inevitably partial, explanations requires looking at the ways people respond to large-scale stressors.  Climate change is indeed one source of problems that rulers and masses must consider—along with wars, diseases, population changes, and other large-scale phenomena.  Climate change does not “cause” dynastic change, but it does force people to respond in ways that may produce dynastic change.

*****

Climate change is much in the news these days.  Given the exaggeration and polarization of debate, it is no surprise to find that the role of climate change in Chinese history has come in for its share of debate (on environment in imperial times, management, see Anderson 2014a; Elvin 2004, but Elvin considerably too harsh on the traditional system; Marks 1998, 2009, 2012; Menzies 1994).

Climate change significant enough to make major differences in human affairs is now well understood.  Climate after the last Ice Age quickly became warmer than today, up to a very few degrees C, and stayed very warm from about 7000 BCE to about 3000.  For instance, in the loess plateau around 4200-3600 BCE, conditions were more than 1 degree C warmer than now, and precipitation comparable to current conditions in nearby mountains (Sun et al. 2016).  Warm climates make China wetter, because they not only make the monsoon more powerful, but they shift northward the intertropical convergence zone, meaning that the monsoon starts closer to China.  The same move takes it farther from tropical Asia, and thus is associated with droughts in southeast Asia.  China derives almost all its rain from the summer monsoon, though the cold, dry winter monsoon can pick up enough moisture over China to bring drizzling, chilling rain to the south.  Warmer weather dries up central Asia and brings warmer and thus more drying conditions to Tibet, but only western Xinjiang and the highlands of Tibet are much affected by this.

Following the cooling after 3000 BCE, conditions were rather like today, until a very sharp drying trend hit central Asia in 1500-500 BCE.  It does not seem to have affected China greatly.  (What follows is synthesized from Brooke 2014; Kidder et al. 2016; Lin et al. 2016; Wei et al. 2015; Yin et al. 2016; D. Zhang et al. 2007; P. Zhang et al. 2008; Y. Zhang et al. 2016; Zhao et al. 2016)  Then a pleasant, warm, moist period, known in the west as the Roman optimum, helped both the Roman Republic and Roman Empire and the Chinese Empire between 200 BCE and 200 CE.  This gave way to cooler conditions, and then a sharp cold and dry period from 550 to 650.  This modified to conditions much like today’s, or a bit more warm and wet, in Tang.  A weak monsoon 910-930 seems to have occurred (P. Zhang et al. 2008).  In 950 to 1300 came the Medieval Warm Period, also known as the Medieval Climatic Anomaly.  It brought warmer and wetter conditions to China, but with sharp fluctuations, especially in the 11th and 12th centuries, when sudden returns to more average (i.e. colder) conditions hit China hard.  The early 12th century seems to have been especially cool.  After 1300, the Little Ice Age slowly came on, producing extremely cold, dry conditions, especially at certain times in the 1400s, 1600s, and 1700s.  This was followed by a slow warming after 1800 or 1850, which gave way after 1900 to more steady warming as human-released greenhouse gases added themselves to natural warming and eventually took over the major warming role.  (Human-caused global warming appears clearly only about 1850.  Alleged human-caused warming by rice agriculture in dynastic times is not credible.  Among other things, the allegers forgot that the rice largely replaced marshes and wetlands that already released methane.)

Otherwise, minor to substantial fluctuations in the record appear, but are largely in the category of “weather” rather than “climate.”  Also, the magnitude of these climate changes should not be overestimated; a few degrees C was the greatest amplitude.

The major confounder in studying the effect of climate change on dynastic cycling is the well-known fact that China exacerbated or even created its own problems.  Walter Mallory’s classic study China: Land of Famine (1926) stressed the role of deforestation, erosion, badly managed river dykes, wetlands drainage, and other environmental ills on China’s horrific history of droughts and floods.  Recent studies have gone on to confirm this (Elvin 2004; Marks 2012).  Shiba Yoshinobu has made this point, most recently for the Song Dynasty (McDermott and Yoshinobu 2015), which engaged in massive deforestation for iron smelting, ceramics making, and printing (pines were burned for ink), with the result that enormous and uncontrollable floods devastated the country and threatened the dynasty.  Like so many modern disasters in China and elsewhere (Muir-Wood 2016), these were not acts of God but acts of man; they do not show that dynasties fell because of climate change, they show that the environment was stressed and dynasties fell because of human mismanagement.

 

The dynasties in question are as follows:

Xia Dynasty (assumed equivalent to the Erlitou culture on the middle Yellow River): ca. 2000-ca. 1500 BCE.

Shang Dynasty: ca. 1500-ca. 1050 BCE.

Zhou Dynasty:  ca. 1050-250 BCE, the last 500 years being a time of disunion when the Zhou had control over only a tiny area; the rest of China was divided into “warring states.”

Qin Dynasty:  221-207 BCE.

Han Dynasty:  206 BCE-220 CE, with a break 9-23 CE when an affine of the royal family briefly took over after a series of child-emperors, to be overthrown in a countercoup by the Han dynasts; major rebellion ca. 180.

Time of disunion: 220-581.

Sui Dynasty: 581-618.

Tang Dynasty: 620-907.  Once again, the fall of Tang saw several weak or child emperors.  Very important rebellions in 754 and 880 almost brought down the dynasty, forcing major changes in government.

Time of disunion: 907-960.

Song Dynasty: 960-1279, interrupted by loss of the entire north, including the capital, in 1127, with capture of the Emperor; the dynasty had to re-form in the south.  It collapsed, again under very young boys, and after savage factional fighting and corrupt ministers, in the 1270s.

Liao Dynasty:  Began ca. 960 in far north, took over most of north China after 1000, fell 1126.

Jin Dynasty:  Conquered Liao in 1126, took the rest of north China from Song in 1127, fell to Mongols in 1234.

Yuan Dynasty (Mongol Empire): 1279-1368.  Last few emperors accused of alcoholism.

Ming Dynasty: 1368-1644.  Major corruption and imperial failure at the end.

Qing Dynasty: 1644-1911, with major near-fatal rebellion 1844; once again with child-emperors at the helm toward the end.

 

All the longer dynasties suffered from coups, countercoups, major rebellions, and the like, as well as constant palace intrigues and jockeying between candidates for royal succession.

This brings us to other destabilizing factors besides climate.  A dynasty is subject to several well-known problems.  First is foreign invasion.  China was so much the biggest power in the east that it rarely had to worry about that, but the medieval period saw the rise of powers—Liao, Jin, and above all the Mongols—that overwhelmed China.  This was partly due to climate, as will appear.  Second is bad luck in imperial demography.  Often an emperor died childless, or left a young child as the only heir.  Child emperors had to have regents—often mothers or grandmothers, sometimes an uncle or high court official.  The results were usually poor and often disastrous.  Other problems with palace politics included extremely powerful but corrupt officials, irresponsible or downright deranged emperors, and overly powerful generals who thought they could do a better job of running the empire.  A weak emperor following an unpopular one was a particularly fatal combination, directly responsible for the falls of Qin and Sui.

Over all this play the great cycles of resilience theory, Ibn Khaldun’s theory, and Peter Turchin’s work.  These all postulate a rising phase when a population or system grows and increases its power (the r phase of resilience theory), a high (K) phase when it consolidates control and may have a golden age, a downward (omega) phase when it loses coherence and falls apart, and a down (alpha) phase when it is depopulated, ruinous, but regrouping for the next rise.  Resilience theory does not suggest a time frame, since it is meant to apply to everything from bacteria to whales.  Ibn Khaldun (1958) saw the cycle in human dynasties playing over three or four generations, about 100 years.  Turchin (Turchin and Zefedov 2006) saw longer cycles of up[ to 200-300 years: the time frame of Chinese dynasties.  Ibn Khaldun’s theory predicts major crises; coups or rebellions that shook the dynasty profoundly happened about every 60 years within the great dynasties (Han through Qing).

The dynasties, even the short-lived ones, conform to Ibn Khaldun’s classic scenario.  A charismatic military leader, not only bold and intrepid but charismatic and generous enough to inspire genuine loyalty and affection (‘asabiyah in Ibn Khaldun’s Arabic), becomes what the Chinese call the High or Great Emperor, founding the dynasty.  He is followed by a brilliant age—often started or marked by coup and coutercoup—when the dynasty is powerful, expanding, and rich.  The economy grows through conquest, settlement of abandoned or thinly populated lands, rising production, and positive feedback loops—the more economic activity, the more production, the more crafts and trade, the more innovation and intensification.  Then follows a period in which the land is filled up and heavily populated but innovation is stalling, leading to Malthusian squeeze.  Often, previous economic activity is now demanding that costs be paid.  Deforestation and erosion lead to devastating floods.  Levees and dykes have confined the rivers too much, so they aggrade their beds with silt.  The floods make them burst their beds and drown the area, inevitably densely populated because of the ease of river access.  Overcultivation makes every dry summer a drought.  Taxes keep rising, or at best stay steady, but there is now no economic growth, so the taxes bite hard.  Discontent leads to banditry.  Neighbor states start raiding.  All this forces more and more military buildup, but there is now no conquest to provide more land and loot.  The resulting feedback loops of increasing environmental damage, increasing military spending, and increasing tax bite lead to, or at least are associated with, corruption, factional fighting, and paralysis in the high levels of government.  Collapse is by now inevitable.  What Tristram Kidder et al. say of the Han Dynasty is perfectly typical of all: the collapse of a dynasty occurs when “the disjunction between rules and resources reaches a threshold so stark that agents at all social levels stood to gain more by challenging the status quo than they did by conforming to it” (Kidder et al. 2016:86).

It is astonishing to see how perfectly the Chinese dynasties recapitulate this formula.  The Chinese knew it, too.  By the Han Dynasty they already recognized the cyclic nature of dynasties, the necessary charisma of the founder, and the inevitable degeneration of governance at the end.  Not having a worldwide perspective, they naturally saw it in terms of the morality of the individual actors, but they recognized that floods, droughts, invasions, and other catastrophes exacerbated the problems.

Our next step is to correlate climate change with dynastic events.  The prediction (mine and that of Yin et al. 2016) is that better times—warmer and wetter, with stronger monsoons—will predate or accompany the rise of dynasties, while worse times—colder and drier—will predate their fall.

The Xia, Shang, and Zhou Dynasties are too poorly known and dated for meaningful correlations.

The rise of Qin and Han accompanies the Roman Republic/Empire Optimum.  The interregnum of 9-23 CE followed some bad years that may partially explain it (Kidder et al. 2016).  The fall of Han tracks the beginning of the end of the Roman Optimum.  This fits our prediction well.  But then the spectacular rise and Sui and Tang, and the beginning of Tang’s glory days, coincide with a sharp deterioration in climate.  Yet, not only did China rise, but the conquest by the founders of Sui and Tang came from the hardest-hit area, the northwest edge of China where it fringes into Central Asia.  The fall of Tang accompanies drought and heat associated with the very uneven beginning of the Medieval Warm Period.

The rise of Song is somewhat associated with a more strong and reliable monsoon.  The Liao, Jin, and Yuan (Mongol) Dynasties rose during the Medieval Warm Period, which made it far easier for these originally nomadic, horse-riding peoples to increase their herds and manpower, increase their food supply, and conquer outward.  There is now no question that this took place in the Mongol case (Anderson 2014b).  But the reduction of Song and its eventual fall took place in relatively cool times, which should have weakened the northern regimes in relation to Song.

However, Song was facing another problem: the devastation caused by centuries of deforestation and overgrazing.  This is a classic point, often made, and more recently extended and elaborated by Ling Zhang (2016) in a brilliant recent study drawing on earlier work by George Cressey (1955), Robert Hartwell, and others.  She focuses on the Yellow River and its steadily rising ability to produce devastating floods.  The rise of iron smelting, printing, and other industries created a huge demand for fuel, thus causing massive deforestation, even on slopes too steep to farm and therefore very susceptible to erosion.

This reminds us of the obvious fact—notably stressed by Jared Diamond in Collapse (2011)—that people create their fates and landscapes.  Climate does not act on a blank, empty world.  It acts on a world people have built, for better or worse.

Yuan took power when the Medieval Warm Period was still in its favor, but it declined as that good age gave way.  The succeeding Ming Dynasty had a horrible situation to face: running the empire during a period of unprecedented cold and dry conditions.  It succeeded astonishingly well, not losing power for centuries.  Even worse cold and drought probably hastened its fall (Brooke 2014; Parker 2013), but we are left needing to explain the long run of Ming.

Then comes the strangest thing of all.  Ming was conquered not by a powerful regime, not by internal unrest, but by the tiny Manchu state—a state that was based in China’s frigid and snowy northeast, an area that sufferend inconceivable miseries from the exacerbation of the Little Ice Age in the early 1600s.  Outside of traditional ascriptions of success to the personalities of the early Qing emperors, there is no way to explain this.  In fact, we have many writings by the Kangxi Emperor, the real architect of Qing power, and he was exactly the type of leader calculated to maximize ‘asabiyah—a brilliant, driving, single-minded man, able to be generous to allies and utterly ruthless to enemies (Spence 1974).

Similarly, the decline and fall of Qing took place during a period of steadily ameliorating climate, though it must be admitted that this warming trend both produced more floods (the monsoon strengthened) and more droughts (heat exacerbated dry weather when that occurred).

Several recent groups have attempted to synthesize these data.  Recent books by John Brooke (2014) and Geoffrey Parker (2013) marginally discuss China, largely its hard times.  These authors write as if climate directly caused events—people were mere machines, programmed to do what climate told them.  This greatly underestimates human agency.

Yin et al (2016) looked at imperial China from Qin on through Qing.  They find that social rise was associated with warming (which normally meant wetting too) 57% of the time, and decline with cooling and drying 66.6%.  (The very few warm-dry and cool-wet periods did not correlate with anything in particular, but they were exceedingly rare and short.)  This is not compelling; the first is not statistically much better than chance.  We shall have to look for other explanations here.  They gathered 1586 data points from the standard histories of China (saving me a lot of work), and parceled out even such things as particularly dynamic reign periods when China expanded its power, e.g. under Han Wu Di (140-87 BCE), who conquered neighboring areas during a relatively warm period.  They miss the fact that the warm period should have, and in fact did, benefit his enemies as much as it benefited him, forcing him to fight hard and spend the empire’s wealth.  (They also find that records of good and bad times are particularly good for Han, bad for the Tang-Song interregnum and the Song Dynasty—fitting the history of war and conquest in the latter cases.)  They find that China was peaceful 68.4% of the time, turbulent otherwise.

Chen Qiang, on the other hand, thinks drought and cold did it.  Cold was associated with more wars—a claim that does not explain the violent Medieval Warm Period or the long, peaceful Ming Dynasty.  He finds that the main correlates were age of dynasty (older ones were weaker; that is true of nomad regimes too) and drought.  This does not check with the warlike but pleasantly warm period from 220 to 581, though it does coincide with the rise of Sui and Tang.  It does not work for the Mongols.  It works for the Manchus, in that they came in during a cold dry period, but the people of the Manchu state were largely settled agriculturalists and not nomadic (in spite of frequent mistaken claims).  Warfare shows correlation with cold periods (Zhang et al. 2007).  Shortly after the start of cold periods came the falls of Northern Song, Southern Song, Yuan, and Ming, as well as the Taiping rebellions.  Early Ming was still warm—the Little Ice Age became serious in the 1400s and then made the 1600s one of the worst periods in China’s history, with (resulting?) war and chaos.

Wei et al (2015) find that climate events are related to dynastic cycles.  They provide a careful, methodologically interesting assessment of troubles, with a very full bibliography.  They use Holling’s resilience cycle.  They find a fair correlation of moist warm periods with good times, and vice versa, but note the obvious Ming exception.  They do find a major crash in post-1420 Ming, though with a fairly quick recovery.  They, like Kidder et al, focus on the Xin Dynasty interregnum in the Han Dynasty, this attaching more importance to it than do most historians.

Another approach is to look at local regions, which often had quite different climate histories from the rest of China.  Harry Lee and his colleagues looked at dry and drought-prone northwest China (Lee and Zhang 2010; Lee et al. 2015, 2016).  They found that wild fluctuations in rainfall characterized the Little Ice Age, with many droughts, but that the famously peaceful period of the middle Qing Dynasty from 1700 to 1820 saw a lack of famines and a rise in population, because of successful land management and the coming of New World crops (Lee et al. 2016).  In far northwestern China, westerlies and north winds dominated, totally decoupling that region from the rest of China and making its climate countercyclic (Y. Zhang et al. 2016).

In northeastern China, it was the Medieval Warm Period that was problematic, causing many floods, often alternating with horrific droughts in wild swings (Lee et al. 2015; L. Zhang 2016).  Ling Zhang (2016) has written a brilliant, major work about the consequences:  progressive breakdown in management of the Yellow River and other water sources and wetlands.  Her work interestingly fits with Peter Turchin’s findings on cycles; during the disintegration cycle of Northern Song, politics got more and more polarized and acerbic, and one result was failure to come up with coherent, consistent policies for the Yellow River. As Turchin says, “During the disintegrative phases…it is very difficult to generate the cooperative action needed to win a major war” (Turchin 2016:106).  That was true of Song’s war with the conquest dynasties, and it was also true of Song’s war with the Yellow River.

One could, of course, come up with contrived post-hoc explanations for the perverse rises of Sui, Tang, and Qing, and the perverse weakness of Song, but I fear there is no way to save climatic change as a really necessary or always-important driving variable.  Warming certainly helped the Mongols, at first, and cooling hurt them later.  Warming almost certainly helped Qin and Han initially and cooling hurt Han later.  Cooling days contributed to the woes of Song and Ming.  On the other hand, the rise of Sui and Tang, the rise and long continuance of Ming, and the whole course of Qing go directly contrary to predictions.  Thus we can conclude with Kidder et al. (2016) and Wei et al. (2015) that climate can help or harm, but does not make or break.  Charismatic leaders, well-trained armies, and plain luck are the direct incident causes of dynastic rises.  Weak leaders, child-emperors, rampant corruption, unstoppable invasions, and factional fighting are direct incident causes of dynastic fall.

So here we have several theories of dynastic rise and fall.  The Chinese saw the Mandate of Heaven—either actual heavenly decisions, or their incarnations in floods and droughts, or the result of factional fighting, dynastic politics, bad luck (childless emperors or child emperors or mad emperors), and the like.  Cycle theorists see a general trend toward rise and fall, or a more specific one driven by shifting loyalties—from the dynastic head to one’s own group or faction or to one’s own self.  Marxian and other economic and political-economic structural determinists had their own theories (not considered here for reasons of space).  Now climate change has added itself to the mix.  No doubt all these theories have their value.

In fact, climate acts indirectly.  It is one cause—along with human idiocy and incompetence, among other things—of floods, droughts, and other catastrophes.  These catastrophes put major stresses on the dynastic government.  A strong, upwardly moving government can directly address these matters with relief measures and remedies.  Also, it commands the loyalty and support of the people.  The weaker and more incompetent the government, the less it can directly address problems, and the less it can get the broad masses to help.  Weakness and incompetence of government, in turn, depends on the emperor personally, his family, his ministers, and the rest of the high elites.  If the emperor is a boy in the care of a corrupt chief minister, the empire is in trouble.  If the appalling infant mortality rates of the time leave the emperor childless, as often happened, intra-elite feuding over the succession is sure to occur, and sure to weaken the dynasty. China grew steadily more autocratic over time, which meant the emperor’s person was more a factor as time went on.

I might add a comparison with the Maya at this point.  Maya civilization grew and achieved greatness in the rather optimal climate between 500 BCE and 500 CE,  It survived with a hitch—a noticeable pause—the cold, dry period from 550 to 650.  It then collapsed in the Medieval Warm Period, which brought massive and long-lasting droughts to the area.  These droughts not only devastated agriculture, they even removed drinking water; much of the Yucatan Peninsula and Maya Lowlands is without surface water.  People had to store water, dig wells, or find caves with permanent sources.  These all proved inadequate in drought times (Gill 2000).  Also, hotter weather led to more plant diseases, and probably more human diseases as well.

Warfare was also a factor.  Some areas had already been devastated by war, and collapsed before the droughts (Demarest 2004).  Not all the Maya world collapsed, only the central portions; the northern Yucatan Peninsula and the southern highlands continued to be urbanized and civilized, while cities, literacy, and high culture disappeared in the central lowlands.  The claim that the Maya collapsed because of sheer ecological folly (Diamond 2005) and the counterclaim that they did not collapse at all (McAnany and Gallareta N. 2010) do not bear close investigation.

Mayaland would have recovered with the return of cooler, moister weather in the 1300s, but by then the trade routes had shifted to the coast.  This is certainly one reason, possibly the only really important reason, why the central lowlands never recovered.  Trade, contact, and communication had focused around the geographical center of the lowland world.  After that center collapsed, trade shifted to the coasts, and stayed there, carried by canoes.

In this case, we cannot see the micropolitics—we have no way of knowing what went on in the cities, or what people said and thought as agriculture became increasingly unsuccessful.

Many other New World societies collapsed or suffered sharp setbacks during the Medieval Warm Period, which seems to have been dry very widely.  It devastated the Four Corners, hit the Mississippi Valley, ruined much of the Andes, and generally caused woe.  One major reason was maize.  Maize is exceedingly susceptible to drought and heat.  This contrasts rather dramatically with China’s grains: millets and rice love heat, while millets, wheat and barley can handle very appreciable drought.  China was thus relatively buffered, and could produce higher populations.

Causation is a complex topic, but simple principles underlies much of it.  First, all events have multiple causes.  Second, these can be big, broad, and indirect, or very specific and immediate; the big, broad causes can act only through specific, immediate ones.  In human affairs, big, broad causes act through individual decisions added up into collective decisions.  The special cases of northwest China in the long 18th century and northeast China in the star-crossed decline of Northern Song show how different adaptations can be.  In the one case, horrible weather was mitigated by political-economic action, and people flourished.  In the other, good but fluctuating weather led to nothing but problems, because of political-economic chaos.

From this I extract a core principle for diachronic social studies:  large-scale forces act indirectly, through people.  Direct causes of social events are personal decisions, and the resulting actions.  These do not always play out as the actors intend.  All manner of constraints prevent people from doing what they want. Government and economic necessity restrict behavior, or, more often, discourage people from trying.  Sheer chance, faction fighting, and amoral individual actions that mess the system can all intervene.  But, in the end, it is human decisions and actions that make cultures and societies.  Individual actions play out in interpersonal space, which generates both short-term and long-term social structures or interaction dynamics that add up to systems that take on a life of their own.  (I am using—and here briefly summarizing—Anthony Giddens’ “structuration”; Giddens 1984, which is fairly Weberian; see also Bourdieu 1977, 1990; Latour 2005.  The basic insight is that people do things—climate doesn’t, culture doesn’t, society doesn’t—but people do things in response to climate, culture and society.)  Climate and weather are simply some of the things those individuals and systems have to take into account.

In terms of cultural evolution, we may say that people’s most basic needs and wants are genetically enough “given” to pass as a biological substrate.  From them grow desires and intentions, which lead to actions, variously constrained.  We often find that people react in comparable ways to comparable stimuli.  We often, however, find they do not—they may react in violently conflicting ways, as the Song officials did to the environmental problems of the Medieval Warm Period.  Just as biological evolution often takes very unexpected ways to adapt, so do human societies.

 

 

This post was delivered as a paper at the California Sociological Association, annual meeting, Riverside, CA, Nov. 5, 2016.  Thanks to Christopher Chase-Dunn and Hiroko Inoue for advice and help.

 

 

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Categories
Articles

Developing Mexican Food: Globalization Early On

Developing Mexican Food:

Globalization Early On

E. N. Anderson

University of California, Riverside

 

Abstract

Mexican food today is extremely diverse, and has a complicated background.  My view is that of a Mayanist who has worked in southeast Mexico and traveled widely in the country.  Already long before Columbus, Native American foodways were spreading widely; the Maya were powerfully influenced by South American foods from chocolate to manioc.  The Spanish Colonial period brought not only Spanish foods but also Arab and African foodways, all diverse in themselves.  Modern influences have not been less complex.  This all tests current theories of “culture” and “appropriation,” and makes a world-systems approach to anthropology more useful and predictive.  Some comparative notes on folk music are added to show the extent of cultural borrowings, since they track foodways closely.

 

*

My work in Mexico has largely been with the Yucatec Maya of the Yucatan Peninsula, but I have traveled all over Mexico, visiting every state and major region.  I am a food anthropologist, so I have sampled everything from ant pupae at a fine upscale restaurant in Guanajuato to wasp larvae on a remote rainforest back road in Quintana Roo.  In two years of living and traveling in Mexico, spread over 40 years of my life, the only bad meals I recall were in United States-type restaurants.

Much of what follows is sourced from K’oben, forthcoming book by Amber O’Connor and myself (2017; see also Anderson 2010).  Much is from, or in, Jeffrey Pilcher’s classic Que vivan los tamales! (1998), which is by far the best, most thorough, and most authoritative work in English on Mexican food.  There are other good histories in Spanish.

The incredible richness and variety of Mexican folk culture never ceases to amaze me, and food is not the least of its manifestations.  Mexican culture today is a product of many Native American cultures interacting with Spanish culture.  It is much more than that, however.  Three things are not often appreciated about Mexican culture.  First, Mexican Indigenous cultures were extremely varied and were constantly influencing each other.  Second, Spain in the 1500s and 1600s was itself a region of cultural mixing.  Third, Spain was by no means the only Old World country that influenced Mexico.  Mexico has had very substantial immigration from Africa, Ireland, Lebanon, Syria, Philippines, China, France, Germany, and elsewhere, to say nothing of the United States and most parts of Latin America.  All these areas contributed to foodways.

The Native American heritage is the really basic one.  Mexico still depends on the classic maize, beans, chiles, and squash.  The commonest species of these are all Mexican domesticates.  Maize (Zeo mays) was domesticated about 7000 years ago in the Balsas River drainage; geneticists have run it down to an origin in the wild teosinte grass of middle elevations in that drainage area.  At least three species of beans were domesticated in central Mexico; these are frijol beans (Phaseolus vulgaris), teparies (P. acutifolius), and scarlet runner beans (P. coccineus).  The tepary bean is famously drought-resistant and has been used in drought-prone parts of Africa as well as Mexico.  The fourth common species, the lima bean (P. lunatus), was certainly domesticated in Peru, but a different form, the sieva bean, may have been independently domesticated in Mexico.  The sieva bean is now rare and little known, but my Maya friends in Quintana Roo grow several delicious varieties that seriously need saving and propagating.

Squash also come in many species.  Pumpkins (Cucurbita pepo) were domesticated in Mexico and probably independently in what is now the southern United States.  Winter sqush (C. maxima, C. moschata), chayote (Sechium edule) and spaghetti squash (C. ficifolia) also occur; C. maxima is probably South American, but got to Mexico early.  With bottle gourd (Lagenaria vulgaris), of uncertain origin, these gave Mexican Indigenous people plenty of choices.  I should point out that the tender leaves, vine tips, and flowers of the squash are also eaten and are incredibly good as well as vitamin-rich.

Chiles also come in multiple forms.  The common, ordinary varieties of chile, from which the non-hot bell pepper was recently developed, is Capsicum annuum and is native to Mexico.  It is a small annual plant.  The Tabasco chile (C. frutescens), by contrast, is a large perennial bush.  It is known by its Maya name of maax in southern Mexico, including Tabasco.  The habanero (C. chinense), as its name shows, came from Cuba to Mexico; it is originally South American. Yet another species, the most flavorful and meaty of all and one of the hottest, is the rocoto or manzano (C. pubescens), another South American.  It somehow got from Peru to Oaxaca and around there, probably after the Spanish conquest.  There are other species of chile in South America.  It is highly interesting that so many species were separately domesticated in different areas.  The reason is not just their delightful warmth; they are also highly antibiotic and antifungal.  They may have been domesticated for medicine or for use in preserving food—chile powder or crushed chile is a good preservative.

With these four species, you can live a happy life.  Maize provides basic calories, beans provide good protein, squash and chiles provide vitamins, and chiles in particular provide incredible quantities of vitamin C and the B complex.  One problem is that maize contains phytic acid, which bonds with mineral nutrients and with niacin (vitamin B3) making them unavailable to digestion.  So the Mexican people learned very early to process maize with limewater—not from limes, but CaO made by burning calcium carbonate—thus producing nixtamal.  The lime neutralizes the phytic acid.  The limewater processing was probably originally used to tenderize the maize, but then seen to help nutrition (Katz et al. 1974). The maize needs tenderizing in the first place because soft kernels get eaten by bruchid weevils.  So weevils cause civilization: they made people select for hard corn, but then the people had to tenderize it, which made it nutritionally adequate to support cities.

These many species were only the beginning.  Mexican Indigenous people domesticated so many plants that it would take me much of this hour just to read off the names.  One triumph was the avocado, a fantastic source of oil, protein and vitamins that grows like a weed in central Mexican mountain conditions.  The poverty diet of the central Mexican people at the time of Spanish conquest was noted as tortillas and guacamole, then made of just avocado, chile, and salt.  This is a perfect diet—it has all the essentials—and I think it’s the tastiest poverty diet I ever found.  (It beats the European equivalent of stale bread and water.)  Among the hundreds of other species are amaranth, chia sage, and millets.  Amaranth, chia, and chenopod species provided seed crops that were much more nutritious than maize.  They grow easily and were essential staples to many Indigenous groups.  In addition, chocolate, sweet potatoes, and manioc came up very early from South America.  There are proto-Maya words for them—at least the last two—which means the Maya had them 5000 years ago.

Domestic animals were few.  The dog came over the Bering Straits with the humans.  It was eaten by some groups.  The turkey was domesticated in Mexico.  The muscovy duck (Cairinia moschata), native from Mexico south but domesticated in Peru, seems to have come up fairly early.  Why Mexico never domesticated mountain sheep remains a mystery.  Javalis (known in English as peccaries) are locally tamed and farmed on a small scale, but they compete with humans for food—unlike pigs, they can’t eat garbage; they have to have maize and other quality fare.  So they were not domesticated, which is sad, because they are delightful pets (at least as smart as dogs) as well as very good eating.  If I were young I’d go domesticate them.

All this was only the beginning.  The Indigenous people developed great cuisines from the many domesticated and wild foods they had.  Early Maya paintings show vast amounts of tamales, evidently baked in earth ovens, as they still often are in Mayaland.  Also shown are fish, deer, and many other animal foods.  Chocolate was an elite drink; the Maya may very well be the people who developed it as a tasty drink by learning how to ferment the seeds.  The unfermented pulp and ground seeds are very pleasant, but fermenting is necessary to bring out the actual chocolate flavor.  It is fitting that our word “cacao” is taken straight from Maya.  Around many Classic Maya cups is written a line of Maya hieroglyphics.  When I was a student, we learned that the Maya were deeply religious, and this line must have been a powerful spell or sacred prayer.  Well, we can now read Maya writing, and that line turned out to mean “This is so-and-so’s chocolate cup.”  So much for romance.

The Aztecs and other central Mexican Indigenous people spoke Nahuatl, a beautiful and expressive language.  It is not related to Maya, but is related to the Indigenous languages of southern California.  Many of our familiar food words today are “Nahuatlismos”:  Chile, tamale, chocolate, tomato, chayote, achiote, camote (sweet potato), chia, jicama, and more.  In Nahuatl, there was a three-part division of the major foods:  tamalli (tamales), tlaxcalli (tortillas), and taballi (food to eat with the tortillas, such as beans and guacamole).  Other Indigenous languages of the Mexican realm gave us abalone (California Costanoan), and many more.

The Aztecs loved good food.  One story says it all.  Fray Diego Duran compiled a history in the mid-16th century, based on Azec accounts.  They told him of a war with a city named Coyoacan, which means “coyote place.”  The Aztecs besieged it but it would not yield, and had fierce warriors.  So the Aztec monarch said: “’Let the guards take ducks, waterfowl, fish, and other creatures from the lagoon that cannot be obtained in Coyoacan.  Let them be…cooked or toasted in such a way that their rich odor and the smoke that rises from these delicacies will penetrate the city….  Old men and old women will become feeble and die of longing for the food they cannot have.’  The king’s orders were carried out: they prepared many loaves of ezcahuitli, a type of small red worm….together with ducks, fish, and frogs….” They cooked these upwind of Coyoacan, and the scent drove the people there to distraction.  They made a desperate sally, were defeated, and their city was taken (Duran 1994:92).

Other sources tell of equally mouthwatering dishes made from acociles (crustaceans), axolotls (salamanders; the name literally means “water monsters”), and other aquatic foods.  The Aztecs grew all sorts of fruit, from all over Mexico and elsewhere in Latin America, and had large botanical gardens (Duran 1994:205).  Duran also tells of Motecuhzoma (“Montezuma” to moderns) feasting on game, fish, chocolate, and so on, including flesh from human sacrifices, and then ending the feast with hallucinogenic mushrooms, which put them “out of their minds and…in a worse state than if they had drunk a great quantity of wine” (Duran 1994;407; take note and stick to wine and forget those Psilocybe mushrooms).  Bernardino de Sahagun and other early chroniclers also describe Aztec food.  Sahagun describes merchants feasting on turkey, dog, tomatoes, chiles, chocolate, and occasionally human sacrifices (Sahagun 1979:48, 67, 75).  However, it is clear that very little human flesh was eaten; it was not a significant protein source.  Sahagun also went into detail on all the incredible variety of foods available in markets and elite kitchens (1979:69) and on varieties of maize, beans, and other crops (1963:279-290; see also Sahagun 1959, 1961).   They all agree that it was an incredibly rich, varied diet, even for the relatively poor.  Some of the dishes described by Sahagun are “turkey with a sauce of small chilis, tomatoes, and ground squash seeds” (patzcalmolli, what we would now in Nahuatl call mole pipian); “white fish with yellow chili…newt with yellow chili…winged ants with savory herbs; locusts with chia; maguey grubs with a sauce of small chilis…a sauce of unripened plums with white fish….tamales stuffed with amaranth greens…small tuna cactus fruit with fish eggs…” and on for many pages (Sahagun 1979:37-38).  A major aspect Indigenous Mexican cuisine is the use of insects and other invertebrates.  Over 300 kinds of insects are eaten (Ramos-Elorduy 1991, 1998; Ramos Elorduy and Pino Moreno 1989).

Drinks, besides water, consisted largely of atoles of various sorts.  Atole (Nahuatl atolli) is finely ground seed meal beaten up in water.  It was usually made from maize, but also from beans, fruit, and so on.  Pinole (pinolli) was another seed meal drink, often made from wild seeds.  Atole could be flavored with chocolate, chile, honey, and other substances (Sahagun 1961:93).  It is still common.  Pozole (pozolli) was, in those days, probably just nixtamal beaten up in water, as it still is in Maya Mexico.  That wonderful pozole you get in restaurants now, with pork and hominy and chiles and more, is probably a recent invention from west Mexico, especially Jalisco.

It is said that a true civilization has to have its alcohol, and Mexico had various types of maize beers, as well as honey mead and combinations of the two.  Central Mexico had pulque, the fermented sap of the flower stalks of agaves (Agave spp. which are not cacti).  There is some chance that they had learned to distill alcohol.  Very simple stills are found in remote areas of west Mexico.  Some Mexican ethnobotanist friends of mine argue that the stills go back to pre-Columbian times.  However, they resemble Philippine stills, and most of us think they probably came over on the Manila galleon in the early days.  Sailors early learned in the Philippines to make these simple stills, and probably brought the technology with them.  Mezcal is distilled not from pulque, but from the juice extracted by slow-cooking the flowering stem bases of agave and related plants, and then fermenting and distilling that.  Tequila is mezcal made from the blue agave (Agave tequilana), originally from the Tequila area of Jalisco, but now widely planted, to the annoyance of residents of the actual Tequila area.  Incidentally, a word of warning:  Don’t try to drive in the town of Tequila.  The old, steep, cobblestone streets are filled with drivers who have been sampling pretty freely at the many distilleries in town.

Other parts of Mexico had their own Indigenous foods.  Heavy seafood dependence along the coast of the Gulf of California lives on in Sinaloa’s incomparable seafood cuisine.  Similar pre-Columbian traditions give us excellent seafood in Campeche and Veracruz.  In northeast Mexico, the Teenek Maya—called Huastec by the Nahuatl—baked very large tamales (as some Yucatec Maya do).  These Huasteca tamales were known as zacahuil, and still exist.  In this age of Guinness records, towns vie to produce ever larger ones, and some now weigh a hundred pounds.  They are one of the few dishes in the world to be immortalized in folksong; every traditional Huastecan singer can perform “Zacahuil,” often in the wonderful folk style of the region, influenced by Scots-Irish fiddling styles learned from nearby Texas.

A final Native American influence came from the Antilles, but it appeared mostly with the Spanish.  Outside of habanero peppers, the Spanish introduced few if any foods from the Antilles, but they brought several words from the Arawak language there: maize for corn, yuca for manioc, and a few others.  Our word “barbecue” comes from Arawak barbacoa, the frame on which meat was smoked for preserving it.  Hammock, tobacco, and cigar are also Arawak.

The Spanish were amazed at the productive maize fields.  They had read in the Bible about grain that returned a hundredfold on seed; they had never seen such a thing—Spanish wheat in the middle ages returned about three or four for one.  So when they saw maize literally returning a hundredfold, they were duly impressed.  Their diet back home had often been limited to bread, olives, wine, and cheese; now they could have game, fish, vegetables, spices, everything.  They soon began bringing the best New World foods back home.

Merchants in Spain tried hard to keep wheat, almonds, olives, wine, and other specialties from being produced in Mexico.  Wheat soon got away from them, since it grows extremely well in northern Mexico and in the Bajío (the high, beautiful center of Mexico).  In northwest Mexico, the Indigenous people either died out or mounted heroic resistance to the Spanish.  The Seri and Yaqui resistance movements against genocide stand as some of the most amazingly heroic stories in the entire history of humanity.  Maize was thus hard to get, so wheat became the staple.  In these areas the wheat tortilla—which, unlike the maize one, requires shortening—became staple food.

Olives, grapes, and almonds were hard to grow in central and south Mexico, and remained Spanish monopolies for a long time.  The main contribution of the Old World, in most of Mexico, was domestic livestock.  This proved a very mixed blessing.  It provided cheap and abundant meat and cheese, but the flocks multiplied, overran Indigenous cultivation, ate crops, caused horrific erosion, led to massive deforestation, and generally ruined much of the landscape, causing untold misery and environmental damage that is still getting worse all the time (Melville 1997; Painter and Durham 1995).  Those who deplore Native America’s lack of domestic livestock (e.g. Diamond 1997) need to explain why enormously reducing the food production and potential of Mexico is somehow a good thing.

Bread and domestic-animal meat soon became core parts of the Mexican diet, and grapes in the dried form of raisins became rather common.  Olives, almonds, capers, wine, and so on remained luxuries for the Spanish rich.  However, the real excitement came when converted Jews and Muslims were sent to Mexico.  The Spanish spent 800 years fighitng the Moors—Muslims of Arab and Berber ancestry—for control of Spain.  (“Moor” and “Morocco” both derive from Arabic maghrib, “sunset” or “far west,” because the area in question is the farthest west of the Arab lands.)  The Moors had developed an exceedingly elaborate and sophisticated cuisine.  They had also introduced oranges, sugar, dates, rice, and many other foods to Spain (Watson 2008).  The Romans had begun introducing spices, but the Moors really popularized them, especially the Arabic signature mix of cumin, coriander, black pepper, and (often) cinnamon.  Sesame seeds are also a Moorish item.  Also Moorish are the limes that are now so totally basic to Mexican food, and the bitter oranges that partially replace limes in Yucatan.

The Spanish finally conquered the last Moorish stronghold in 1492.  Yes, the date is significant, because it was the loot from conquest that financed Columbus, and the luxury of having finished the Reconquista that made possible a new conquest on a far larger scale.  But after the conquest the conquered Muslims and Jews persisted in rebelling, since they were subject to appalling oppression, brutality, and exploitation.  They were forced to become nominally Christian, but many held out in secret.  Those that would not convert were killed or forced to flee, finding refuge in Morocco, Tunisia, and Turkey.  Even conversos were not trusted, and vast numbers of them were sent to Mexico to get rid of them.  Here they were often sent to the more isolated areas, at first Puebla (it was isolated then!) and later New Mexico, where Moorish culture persisted until very recently.  Some years ago I noted a classic Mesopotamian Arab recipe in a traditional New Mexican cookbook by Cleofas Jaramillo (1981).  Gary Nabhan, an authority on these connections, found that the Jaramillo family did indeed have a Moorish converso background (Nabhan 2014).  As so often, foodways are mirrored in musical styles; New Mexico is a living museum of Moorish songs, even today after many centuries.  Older Hispanic singing styles are pure Moorish, and all the Hispanic traditions of the southwest are at least somewhat influenced, however indirectly, by that part of the heritage (see Robb 1980, but writing in the mid-20th century Robb did not realize the extent of Moorish influence in New Mexico, which was established largely in the 1980-2010 period).

One product of this was classic Puebla cooking.  The famous mole poblano is the perfect fusion of Aztec and Moorish haute cuisine.  It is basically a Moorish chicken dish fused with an Aztec turkey dish.  From the Moorish side we get the spices, sesame seeds, onions, and basic overall technique.  From the Aztec side we get the chocolate, tomato, and chile.  Stuffed chiles and stuffed squash simply classic Moorish stuffed vegetable dishes that use Mexican instead of Near Eastern vegetables.  They have gone home to Spain; you find them especially in Estremadura, the source of a large percentage of the original conquistadores and settlers.  Countless other Mexican dishes, including essentially all the ways of cooking lamb and mutton, are Moorish.

Another interesting Moorish dish is migas, basically stale bread soaked in broth, the tharid of Arab cuisine.  This is commoner in Spain than in Mexico, but it has found a home in Tepito, a rough working-class area of Mexico City.  The people there took to making cheap migas by salvaging bones from butchers and restaurants and cooking them into stock, then making migas with stale bread and tortillas.  With the inevitable Mexican (and especially Chilango) pride in making do, this got idealized as a marker of the tough, resourceful Tepitan, and thus called “vita-migas,” from vitaminas, Spanish for “vitamins” (Hernández 2009; he cites a wonderful Tepito saying that cannot be repeated in polite company but is all the better a life guide for that).

Another important derivative of Spanish and Moorish culture fusing with Native American culture was the belief that certain foods are heating to the body while others are cooling and still others are neutral.  Heating foods include high-calorie and spicy ones; cooling foods are low-calorie, often green vegetables, and tend to seem cool to the touch; neutral foods are basic starch staples.  This idea comes largely from ancient Greek medicine, but was developed largely by the Arab and Persian doctors in the early medieval period.  In Mexico it fused with similar Indigenous ideas.  One interesting and still locally important Indigenous idea is that wild areas, being cooler and moister than the hot sunny villages and fields, are cooling to the body and to foods produced there, while people and foods in the hot, dusty villages become hot.  Either way, chiles, strong alcohol, and fried foods are heating; green vegetables are cooling; tortillas and rice are neutral.  Many of you have encountered this belief.  It is fossilized in the English language in the term “to catch a cold.”  Within my lifetime, Americans almost all believed that colds came from experiencing cooling foods or from getting a chill or from similar cooling influences, not from catching a virus.  This is only one of many Mexican and New World beliefs that come from fusion of Spanish and Indigenous worldviews (or ontologies, as anthropologists say).

The Spanish favorite animal was the pig.  This stems from Celtic and Roman traditions.  The pig also found a happy home in Puebla, to the point where I heard there a bit of lousy poetry:  “Cuatro cosas come el Poblano:  Cerdo, cochinito, puerco, y marrano.”  “Pueblans eat four things: hog, pig, pork and boar.”  Notably exaggerated, but too good to leave out of this talk.

Anyway, the Spanish became the world’s master sausage makers (along with the Portuguese and Italians), and they introduced a pretty full range of it to the New World, where it thrives best in rather dry highland areas like Mexico City and the Altos de Chiapas.

Another influence at this time was African.  The Spanish imported an all too large number of enslaved Africans to the Caribbean and its coasts and shores, because the Native Americans died out from disease and overwork.  The entire Antilles were virtually depopulated within 50 years.  The biggest reasons included smallpox, malaria, and yellow fever, to which the Africans had some resistance.  The dreadful toll of disease hit Mexico more slowly and with less horrific effect, but by 1700 the Indigenous population had been reduced 90 to 95%, locally to 100%, and replaced in large party by people of African origin.   Unlike the situation in the United States and in Brazil, Africans did not enormously influence the actual dishes, but they introduced a range of foods: black-eyed peas, yams, okra, African rice, watermelons, and many more.  They made important foods out of the Native American peanut and sweet potato (both South American but introduced to Mexico before Columbus), which resemble African indigenous foods.  The most African-influenced regions are the area around Veracruz and the Costa Chica of Guerrero, both of which preserve highly African-influenced musical styles, including the amazing Jarocho music of Veracruz.  (“Jarocho,” originally a “racial” term for mixed African-Indigenous-Spanish locals, has become a general term of pride for Veracruzanos.)  Both areas preserve some minor but interesting African foodways, including a fondness for fried foods.             Meanwhile, the Manila Galleon kept Mexico in constant touch with the Philippines.  The galleon ran every year, going east on the trade winds in the tropics, then coming back on the westerlies, taking something like a great circle route through the north Pacific.  It coasted California on this run, and occasionally paused briefly.  It ran to Acapulco, which thus was influenced by Filipino culture.  Everything from distilling (see above) to the local names of some dishes (including black beans mixed with rice) came thus to Acapulco.  Chinese immigrants occasionally appeared.

Thus by the 18th century, Mexican food was, quite literally, a total melting pot.  Moving away from food a minute, we can learn from the story of Santiago de Murcia.  He was a musician to the Queen of Spain at the start of the 1700s, playing French and Spanish guitar music, but she died, and the new queen liked only Italian music.  So Santiago went to Mexico to seek his fortune, and there became fascinated with the local folk music, setting down many Native American and African dances (O’Dette 1998).  The African dances included the world’s first recorded cumbias (or “cumbas’)—predating the 1990s cumbia boom by 250 years.  All these were getting more and more Spanish-influenced, and vice versa.  Spain and Mexico were musical melting pots as well as literal ones.

The 19th century brought yet more influences.  The French arrived and briefly conquered Mexico before being expelled again (part of the process being the actually inconclusive battle celebrated on Cinco de Mayo—not a holiday in Mexico, which is much more concerned with its actual independence day, Sept. 16).  Even before French rule, the prestige of French food had influenced Mexico.  With French rule, it took the urban areas by storm, and the elites consumed little else for years.  French bread influenced the Mexican bolillo and other wheat flour items.  French cakes and pastries, French ways with meat and fish, French menus, and French table manners were general (Pilcher 1998).  Meanwhile, other European influences accumulated; beer, more German and United States-style than French or Spanish, slowly replaced pulque and other home brews as the alcoholic drink of choice, and now Mexico is one of the world’s major brewers and consumers of that beverage.  Otherwise, heavy German and Irish immigration in the 19th century has had surprisingly little obvious influence, but it certainly colors Mexican food and consumption habits.

After the French were expelled, but mostly in the 20th century, Indigenous Mexican food slowly came back into style.  However, in the meantime, another huge influence had appeared.  Chinese immigrants flooded into Mexico in the late 19th century, brought in as cheap labor on railroads, in mines, in new agribusiness plantations, and so on.  They formed local Chinatowns, where typical foods of the poorer rural parts of coastal Guangdong Province were found: chop suey, chow mein, egg fuyong, noodle soups, white rice, soy sauce, pickled vegetables, preserved eggs and fish, Chinese sausage, and stir-fried dishes using small bits of boneless chicken or pork stir-fried with vegetables cut into small cubes.  My generation remembers this well from California Chinatowns as well as from Chinatowns in Mexicali, Mexico City, and elsewhere.  The Chinatown in Mexicali, now about gone, was a fascinating time machine when I was young; you could visit it and go back to the early 1900s.  The Chinese had been brought in as laborers on the new fields created with large-scale irrigation, or had come as tradespeople and urban workers, and had remained fairly conservative in foods and other ways.  Chinese food is now widespread in Mexico, and has slowly diversified, so one can now find Sichuan food and other non-Cantonese specialties in the bigger cities.  One Chinese introduction that has become widely known in ordinary Mexican society are the little salted plums or apricots called saladitos in Mexican Spanish.

A bigger influence was a renewed burst of Arab food borrowing.  This was due to the sudden tide of repression that swept the previously tolerant Turkish Empire in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.  The empire was dying, and looking for ways to shore up power; also, German advisors counseled more firm and culturally homogenizing policies.  The results included savage repression and local massacres of Christian Arabs and full-scale genocide of Armenians.  Today we think of Arabs as Muslims, but in 1900 about 10% were Christian, with a huge concentration in Syria (then including Lebanon) and Palestine.  Thousands of them fled to Latin America, especially if they were Catholic—whether Roman rite or Syrian rite.  They introduced the foods of their home region.  Possibly the most widely known now is the semita (Arabic simit), a ring-shaped bread covered with sesame seeds.  It is widely sold in Mexico as a street vendor snack.  Another food that caught on was kibi, ground meat and bulgur wheat combined in a pointed-ended meatball and fried.  These have now become a “traditional Maya” food, having spread from the Merida city market area.  A new boom in stuffed vegetables was also apparent.  Baklava, raw onions, Greek-type salads, and other foods became known.  Perhaps most interesting was the new form of tacos al pastor.  Previously probably just made with meat hung up to roast over a fire (the carne al pastor of old-time cookbooks), this now became the Greek- and Turkish-style gyro:  meat is sliced, marinated, and impaled on a vertical spit; bits are shaved off from the turning mass of meat and wrapped in a soft tortilla.  Many cities had Arab restaurants.  Merida used to have a range of incredibly wonderful Lebanese-style restaurants, ranging from very cheap to very expensive and luxurious, but I think only one is left now.  Gary Nabhan, who is Lebanese-American, has been increasingly involved in documenting Arab foods in New World folk traditions (Nabhan 2014).  Another huge influence came from the Arab immigrants starting supermarkets.  The two major Mexican supermarket chains, Chedraui and San Francisco de Asís, were both started by Christian Arab immigrants from the old Turkish Empire.  Mexico’s richest man, Carlos Slim, is also descended from Arab immigrants.

Smaller groups of immigrants had more local influence.  The extent to which Mexico is a melting pot, like the United States, is not always appreciated.  Huge numbers of Irish and large numbers of Germans went to Mexico in the 19th century.  The Irish left little trace, but the Germans included many Mennonites, from the German-Dutch border country, speaking a different language somewhere between German and Dutch.  They set up farming colonies in remote areas, and often live by selling cheese, including a high-fat white cheese that has come to be known as menonita.  Another fascinating group was made up of mascogos, descended from escaped African-American enslaved persons from Texas, who maintained a strikingly traditional lifestyle in remote parts of north Mexico well into the 20th century, combining Mexican rural foods with African and African-American foods like soski bread and tetapun, a Mexicanized spelling of ‘tater pone—sweet potato pie (del Moral and Siller 2000).  More generally, southern US cooking influenced other parts of Mexico.  Yucatan state, especially Merida, is fond of strictly southern-US-style pecan pies and cheese pies, called pie de nuez and pie de queso respectively; this leads to some puns, since pai is Maya for “skunk.”

 

As of 1900, and even 1950, village Mexico was still Indigenous as far as foodways went.  Maize, beans, squash and chiles remained the staples.  Tortillas, tamales, tacos, moles, and other pre—Colombian dishes were the norm.  Pulque and tepache or tiswin (homemade beers) were the alcoholic drinks.  All sorts of domestic and wild greens were eaten, under the old Nahuatl name of quelites (Nahuatl quilitl).  Most of them are very healthful, and they have been studied in detail by ethnobotanists recently.  An interesting case is verdolagas (purslane in English; Portulaca oleracea).  It is a domesticated crop with selected varieties in central Mexico, an enthusiastically consumed weed in the rest of Mexico, and a mere weed—pulled out when seen—in the United States.  Several other crops show this pattern of being appreciated in Mexico but ignored elsewhere.  Mexican culture is much more appreciative of the plant world than are many others.  A large percentage of our favorite domestic flowers were domesticated by Indigenous Mexicans, from marigolds and dahlias to zinnias and cosmos.

Many foodways are extremely health-promoting; many foods have medicinal values, and many herbal medicines have come from Mexico.  The most dramatic finding was the birth control pill, which was developed from wild yams used in local medicine.  The story of how the pill was developed, and how Mexico lost out on the financial bonanza, has been told in a superb book, Jungle Laboratories by Gabriela Soto Laveaga (2010).  Since then, Mexico has been very careful about letting anyone patent its plant medicines—far too careful, from a humanitarian point of view, since it will not allow much research.

 

My own experiences with Mexican food have been largely in Maya lands of southeastern Mexico.  I have done food ethnography in Yucatan and Quintana Roo, and fairly extensively in Tabasco, Campeche, and Chiapas.  They are culturally very different indeed from the Nahuatl-dominated center.  Tortillas are now basic, but they are a fairly recent introduction, probably becoming staple food within the last few centuries.  Before that, the Maya ate tamales, pit-roasted meats, and large maize breads baked in the pit oven (pib).  Also baked in the pit oven are whole pigs, cochinita pibil.  Many soups and stews were made.  They also ate manioc, sweet potatoes, and other root crops.  They eat an enormous range of tropical fruits and vegetables.  I piublished a long article on my work (Anderson 2010) and self-published a book of recipes (Anderson 2008, recipes available online at www.krazykioti.com under the title “Mayaland Cuisine”), and I am currently finishing up a book with food ethnographer Amber O’Connor on Maya foodways (O’Connor and Anderson 2017).

Maya food also includes a range of ceremonial dishes for the many ceremonies to worship and thank spirits and gods for rain, harvests, game, and other blessings.  These would traditionally be based on the sacred maize, and include squash seed meal.  Humans were made of maize by the gods, and then animated by blood that the gods shed to give life to the maze dough.  The squash seed meal symbolizes the blood (at least to some traditional ritualists).  Turkey was the traditional meat; chicken is now used.  One set of stews made of turkey and maize (with vegtetables and chiles) is colored according to the four directions.  North is considered to associated with white, and the stew is colored with white maize flour.  South is yellow, colored with yellow maize and with a little achiote.  East is red, colored with more achiote.  West is black, and is colored with burned chiles.  The chiles are toasted black and then ground.  The center is green, the color of vegetation and life, symbolized on the traditional altars by green leaves rather than food.  Homemade cigarettes of native tobacco are also offered to the deities.  Many deities have been equated with Catholic saints, and in particular the all-important Maize God was early equated with Jesus.

Maya food was probably always influenced from central Mexico, but after the Spanish conquest there was more influence, including Nahuatl dishes like chilmole and pipian as well as tortillas.  Later, the usual Caribbean and Arab influences found their way in.

 

The 20th and 21st centuries have seen the floodgates open, in so far as they were not open already.  Most obvious has been the spectacular increase in Italian restaurants, especially since about 1960.  Pizza joints, spaghetti houses, sub sandwich spots, and more upscale Italian restaurants are now as common in Mexico as in the US.  The quality of food at these places is generally very low, I am sorry to say, but they provide cheap, quick, easy-to-eat meals for hurried working-class and middle-class people.

The United States has inevitably had an enormous influence, much of it highly negative from the point of view of health and food quality.   Mass production of low-nutrient breads and snack foods came early, and has only increased over the years.  Soft drinks are the most universal borrowing.  Coca-cola® is so universal that the Mexican idiom for utter remoteness is “where even the Coca truck doesn’t go.”  United States food companies have bought many Mexican ones.  United States soybeans, maize, and other bulk crops flood the market. NAFTA ensured that protected, heavily subsidized US agribusiness could flood the Mexican markets; less subsidized, the Mexican producers cannot compete.  This has ruined many dairy, maize, and bean farms.  More recently, United States chains, from McDonald’s to Pizza Hut, have become universal; even US pseudo-Mexican-food chains like Taco Bell are widespread, especially in tourist areas.

Not all the influence is bad (though finding the exceptions takes searching).  United States innovations in agricultural production have been largely beneficial to farmers, though with important recent problems.  US investment, especially in agricultural research and development, has often been valuable and sometimes decisive.  US culinary trends have spilled over into Mexico, leading to renewed interest in traditional, regional, and folk dishes and ingredients, and renewed interest in freshness and quality of ingredients.  Returning migrants to el norte, as well as tourists and other visitors, have made sure that any new styles in New York or Los Angeles or other centers are quickly tried out in Mexico

Meanwhile, not only has Mexican food continued to be popular in the United States, but also Mexicans have become the backbone of the US restaurant industry.  Fans of Anthony Bourdain will know that even in New York the kitchen staffs of fancy French restaurants are heavily immigrant Mexican (see e.g. Bourdain 2000).   There is a Chinese type of noodle that is stretched by swinging it out like a skipping rope, which really develops the gluten and makes a very chewy noodle.  The technique is incredibly difficult to master, but I have seen it done in Los Angeles by a Mexican cook.  Zacatecas in particular is the source for a slarge percentage of Los Angeles’ greatest chefs.

A food event worth major attention is the development of high-yield varieties of wheat and other grains at CIMMYT, the international research center in Texcoco, now celebrating its 50th birthday.  This center was set up by the Mexican government and Rockefeller Foundation, later getting help from various governments and foundations during the 1960s, when food shortages were common and world famine loomed.  Crash programs of research at CIMMYT and the International Rice Research Institute in the Philippines produced high-yield, easy-to-grow grains that saved the world.  Other centers dealing with other crops have arisen since.  The resulting “Green Revolution” has had a bad reputation with scholars, because it tended to encourage overuse of pesticides and fertilizers, but that need not happen.  Recent varieties use much less chemical input.  About the only downside, really, is that the new wheats don’t taste as good as the old ones.  We used to stock up on bolillos when we went to Mexico, back when I was young, because the wheat (and therefore the bolillos) was so much better tasting than wheat in the US.  No longer.  It would be easy to breed back the taste into modern wheats, but no one seems to care.

CIMMYT did not make dramatic breakthroughs with maize, for the very good reason that the Mexican people had bred such incredibly tough, diverse, and high-yielding maizes that there was little they could do.  (I have this on direct authority from former CIMMYT personnel I have interviewed, notably Edgar Niederhouser, to whom thanks.)  In any case, the great success of CIMMYT was the high-yield, short-straw wheats developed by Norman Borlaug and his team; he won the Nobel Prize for this.  These wheats have the additional advantage of growing well in Mexico’s hot climate, unlike most high-yield wheats.  They totally revolutionized wheat-raising not only in Mexico, but in India and Pakistan.  Borlaug, in his Nobel Prize speech in 1970, warned that he and his colleagues had only bought the world some time to get population growth under control:  “There can be no permanent progress in the battle against hunger until the agencies that fight for increased food production and those that fight for population control unite in a common effort.” (Nobel Peace Prize speech, as quoted by Jeffrey D. Sachs, 2009, “Transgressing Planetary Boundaries,” Scientific American, Dec., p. 36.)

Alas, the world did not listen, and now is food-short again.  Worse, agricultural research has been run down and often left to pesticide companies (Pardey 2016).  The traditional, hardy, disease-resistant varieties and species of crops and animals are rapidly going extinct, though CIMMYT and other centers are desperately trying to save at least the seeds.  Recent GMO crops and other highly disruptive influences are coming into Mexico.  Mexico has banned GMO maize, but it has come via returning migrants to the US, and is now not uncommon.  This presents a huge danger to traditional varieties.  They could be genetically swamped by hybridization.  Some hybrids of wild and local maize with GMO varieties have turned up, but fortunately farmers have become more careful, and this is no longer being reported (information from my colleagues and students, especially Norman Ellstrand).  GMO’s also require more (and more, and more) chemical and mechanical inputs, thus getting increasingly out of range of local less affluent farmers, who are driven off the farm.  The ironic result of these new, very inferior “improved” crops is rural decline and the abandonment of millions of acres that were fertile and productive until recently. Once abaindoned, they do not even return to wilderness.  In fact, they often erode away, leaving a moonscape.  Or they become cattle range, increasing erosion and biological degradation as well as rural inequality.

Fortunately, Mexican farmers are tough and independent people, and this process of rural decline has not progressed so far as it has in many areas of the world.  Many parts of Mexico, including Quintana Roo where I do research, are strongholds of independent small farming by local families.  These and other traditional Indigenous farmers are very skill-intensive, and we really need to document the skills and knowledge before they are lost to modernization.

Even so, Mexico’s curse since the Spanish introduced giant estates has been huge-scale farms, either cattle ranches or agribusinesses, with landless laborers reduced to starvation wages and horrible living conditions.  This plantation-style agriculture came to Spain with the Romans.  It was later imposed by the Spanish on the Moors.  Then the Spanish from heavily Moorish parts of Spain used the same institutions to reduce the Indigenous population to serfdom.  This large-scale, landlord-dominated type of agriculture is increasingly a curse to rural Mexico, and now many of the plantations are owned by giant international agribusiness firms.  Dvera Saxton here can tell you more about it; she is one of the leading experts on this problem.

Today, unless there is a new effort comparable to CIMMYT’s, but dedicated to saving small farms and traditional varieties and to farming without deadly chemicals, you will probably all live to see mass starvation worldwide. 

All too predictably, another main event of the 21st century has been the swamping of Mexico by fast-food chains and giant food corporations.  Most are US-based, of course.  Even the iconic Bimbo bakery company has been taken over.

The result of this is horribly predictable.  Besides cutting the pleasure of eating, it has the more tangible and measurable effect of sending diabetes and other diet-related disease rates to unprecedented heights.  Native Americans are particularly susceptible genetically to diabetes and metabolic syndrome (see e.g. SIGMA Type 2 Diabetes Consortium 2014), but anyone would succumb to the mix of bleached white flour, refined white sugar, and soybean oil that is now the standard diet in much of Mexico.  Sugar in commercial soft drinks is now actually the main source of calories for Mexican children.  Worldwide, diabetes rates are soaring, and 422 million people now have this condition (Sonnenburg and Bāckhed 2016).

Traditional diets are protective.  In Mexico, nopales (cactus pads from Platyopuntia spp.) are known to reduce blood sugar and inflammation and alleviate diabetes, and buds of Cecropia spp. appear to, also.  Many other folk remedies are used, with varying effectiveness.  Certainly several Maya people I know have sent their diabetes into remission by using traditional remedies.  Diet is the best cure, though.  Refined carbohydrates, especially sugar, are notorious risk factotrs, but so is soybean oil, because the body quickly converts much of it into prostaglandins, which are inflammatory.  Obesity also causes diabetes directly, through inflammatory mechanisms.  It would be hard to imagine a better diet than the traditional Mexican one of whole grains, wild greens, seed atoles, nopales, avocados, fruit, beans, vegetables, and some lean meat and fish.  Unfortunately, contemporary supply chains and food marketing venues are set up to maximize the marketing of comida chatarra—“junk food.”  It would be perfectly easy to develop supply and marketing chains that would do the opposite; all it would take is going back to the old open markets, still flourishing in many areas.  (Don’t miss the one in Oaxaca.  It’s worth a special trip to the city.)

 

Mexican food may be especially complex and diverse in its origins, but it is fairly typical of food systems worldwide.  No food system developed without massive borrowing from others.  Borrowing goes on all the time.  No food system remains static for more than a generation or two.  Foods fall out of favor, come in from outside, get modified, get substituted.  Fads rise and decline.  The idea of stable, long-continued folkways is nonsense.  Mexico has had some astonishingly long-running food traditions, notably the ever-wonderful tortilla and its frequent accompaniment of boiled beans and chile sauce.  However, little else remains unchanged.

Even after 150 years of cultural anthropology, many people believe that “cultures” and “ethnicities” are steel-walled spheres that are completely independent of each other and do not affect each other except through aggression.  No.  Culture and ethnicity are abstract concepts that cover a realty of constantly shifting, changing practices.  People constantly borrow, negotiate and renegotiate (Bourdieu 1977), and decide to change.

This puts in a rather ironic light the recent protests against “white men,” meaning Anglo-American yanquis, cooking Mexican food.  I occuasionally have nightmares of trying to sort out the mess if we carried this principle to its logical conclusion.  Only Nahuatl speakers would be allowed to make tortillas.  Only Maya would be allowed to make chocolate.  And so on….

There is a huge difference between normal cultural borrowing and actual offensive appropriation.  If cultural appropriation is deliberately insulting (like stereotypic caricatures) or is outright ripoff for profit, it is as bad as any other insult or ripoff.  If it is done more creditable reasons, it’s not only normal, it’s inevitable and necessary.  Think if Norman Borlaug had refused to share those wheat varieties—as, in fact, modern seed companies do refuse to share theirs, insisting on purchase at very high profit rates.  Instead, the wheat was made freely available worldwide, saving tens of millions of lives.  Mexico today has thousands of species and varieties of useful plants and animals.  They could revolutionize farming worldwide.  We need to be able to get them into circulation and feed the world.  But abuse by giant firms and outdated, poorly formulated patent laws make this impossible at the present time.  Reform is seriously needed.

When Western medical researchers were looking for quinine in the forests of the Amazon Basin, they explained they needed it as a cure for malaria, a disease from the Old World.  One local assistant commented:  “God put the fever in Europe and the quinine in America in order to teadch us the solidarty that should prevail among all the peoples of the earth.”  (Quoted Whitaker 1954:58).  Whether God did it or it happened naturally, the point is made.  We all need each other’s knowledge.  We all need each other’s foods and foodways.  We all need each other.

 

 

 

 

Acknowledgements

This article is based on a talk given at California State University-Fresno, Oct. 19, 2016.  Thanks to Jen Banh and Dvera Saxton for initially seeking me out to give this talk.  Thanks to my coworkers in Mexico, especially Felix Medina Tzuc and Aurora Dzib Xihum de Cen, as well as colleagues and students too numerous to mention.

 

Anderson, E. N.  2008.  Mayaland Cuisine: The Food of Maya Mexico.  Self-published.

—  2010.  “Food and Feasting in the Zona Maya of Quintana Roo.”  In John Staller and Michael Carrasco (eds.), Pre-Columbian Foodways:  Interdisciplinary Approaches to Food, Culture, and Markets in Ancient Mesoamerica.  New York:  Springer.  Pp. 441-465.

 

Bourdain, Anthony.  2000 .  Kitchen Confidential: Adventures in the Culinary Underbelly.  New York: Ecco/HarperCollins.

 

Bourdieu, Pierre.  1977.  Outline of a Theory of Practice.  Tr. Richard Nice.  New York:  Cambridge University Press.

 

Del Moral, Paulina, and Alicia Siller V.  2000.  Recetario Mascogo de Coahuila.  Mexico City: Conaculta.

 

Diamond, Jared.  1997.  Guns, Germs and Steel: The Fates of Human Societies.  New York:  W. W. Norton.

 

Duran, Fray Diego.  1994.  The History of the Indies of New Spain.  Tr. Doris Heyden [Spanish orig. ca. 1570].  Norman, OK:  University of Oklahoma Press.

 

Hernández, Alfonso.  2009.  “The Vita-migas of Tepito.”  Tr. Laura Roush.  Ethnology 47:89-93.

 

Jaramillo, Cleofas M.  1981.  The Genuine New Mexico Tasty Recipes.  Orig. 1942.  Santa Fe: Ancient City Press.

 

Katz, S. H.; M. L. Hediger; L. A. Valleroy.  1974.  “Traditional Maize Processing Techniques in the New World.”  Sci 148:765-773.

Melville, Elinor G. K.  1997.  A Plague of Sheep:  Environmental Consequences of the Conquest of Mexico.  New York:  Cambridge University Press.

 

Nabhan, Gary.  2014.  Cumin, Camels and Caravans: A Spice Odyssey.  Berkeley: University of California Press.

 

O’Connor, Amber, and E. N. Anderson.  2017.  K’oben.  Lanahm, MD: Rowman and Littlefield.

 

O’Dette, Paul.  1998.  Jácaras!  18th Century Spanish Baroque Guitar Miusic of Santiago de Murcia.  (Liner notes to CD recording.)  Harmonia Mundi (recording company).

 

Pardey, Philip G.  2016.  “Agricultural R&D Is on the Move.”  Nature 537:301-303.

 

Painter, Michael, and William Durham (eds.).  1995.  The Social Causes of Environmental Destruction in Latin America.  Ann Arbor:  University of Michigan.

Pilcher, Jeffrey.  1998.  Que vivan los tamales!  Food and the Making of Mexican Identity.  Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press.

 

Ramos-Elorduy, Julieta.  1998.  Creepy Dcrawly Cuisine: The Gourmet Guide to Edible Insects.  Rochester, VT: Park Street Press.

 

Ramos Elorduy de Conconi, Julieta.  1991.  Los insectos como fuente de proteínas en el futuro.  Mexico: Limusa.

 

Ramos Elorduy de Conconi, Julieta, and José Manuel Pino Moreno.  1989.  Los insectos comestibles en el Mexico antiguo.  Mexico: AGT Editor.

 

Robb, John Donald.  1980.  Hispanic Folk Music of New Mexico and the Southwest: A Self-Portrait of a People.  Norman, OK:  University of Oklahoma Press.

 

Sahagun, Bernardino de.  1959.  Florentine Codex.  Book 9: The Merchants. Tr. Charles Dibble and Arthur Anderson. [Spanish-Nahuatl orig. ca. 1570.]  Santa Fe and Salt Lake City: School of American Research and University of Utah Press.

 

—  1961.  Florentine Codex. Book 10: The People.  Tr. Charles Dibble and Arthur Anderson. [Spanish-Nahuatl orig. ca. 1570.]  Santa Fe and Salt Lake City: School of American Research and University of Utah Press.

 

—  1963.  Florentine Codex.  Book 11: Earthly Things.  Tr. Charles Dibble and Arthur Anderson. [Spanish-Nahuatl orig. ca. 1570.]  Santa Fe and Salt Lake City: School of American Research and University of Utah Press.

 

—  1979.  Florentine Codex.  Book 8:  Kings and Lords.  Tr. Charles Dibble and Arthur Anderson. [Spanish-Nahuatl orig. ca. 1570.]  Santa Fe and Salt Lake City: School of American Research and University of Utah Press.

 

SIGMA Type 2 Diabetes Consortium.  2014.  “Sequence Variants in SLC16A11 Are a Common Risk Factor for Type 2 Diabetes in Mexico.”  Nature 506:97-101.

 

Sonnenburg, Justin L., and Fredrik Bāckhed.  2016.  “Diet-microbiota Interactions as Moderators of Human Metabolism.”  Nature 535:56-64.

Soto Laveaga, Gabriela.  2010.  Jungle Laboratories: Mexican Peasants, National Projects, and the Making of the Pill.  Durham, NC: Duke University Press.

 

Watson, Andrew.  2008.  Agricultural Innovation in the Early Islamic World:  The Diffusion of Crops and Techniques, 700-1100. 2nd edn.  Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press.

 

Whitaker, A.  1954.  The Western Hemisphere Idea.  Ithaca: Cornell University Press.

Categories
Articles

Mayaland Cuisine: Campeche, Chiapas and Tabasco

CAMPECHE

 

Recados, sauces, and minor snacks and market foods in Campeche are generally the same as in Yucatan, so refer to recipes in the previous chapter.

 

 

SEAFOOD

 

Black Rice Soup (a “dry soup”)

 

1/2 lb. rice

1 oz. lard or vegetable oil

2 garlic cloves

1 onion

2 quarts stock from cooking black beans (one could use the liquid from a few cans of black beans)

2 serrano chiles or other good green chiles

4 epazote leaves or a small branch of epazote

Salt to taste

 

Soak the rice; drain; fry in the lard or oil.  Add the garlic, onion and chiles (chopped), the bean stock, the epazote and the salt.  Cook over a very low flame.

Alternative method (not traditional but good): fry the onion and garlic first, then add the rice.  This requires more lard or oil.

This can be made with seafood—crab meat, shrimp, squid—in which case one can leave out the black bean liquid.

Compare the similar recipe in the Yucatan chapter.

(modified from Conaculta Oceano 2001a:24)

 

 

Bricklayer’s Dogfish (cazón de albañil)

 

1 roast dogfish

3 sprigs epazote

Salt

4 tomatoes

1 onion

2 xkatik chiles

Oil for frying

 

Boil the dogfish with the epazote.  Bone and shred.  Fry up the shreds with the vegetables (chopped).  Add the stock in which the dogfish was cooked–enough to make a sauce rather than a soup.

I admit I included this dish only because the name is irresistible.  Still, it’s great if you use a more palatable fish.  Actually, it is a version of a common Caribbean dish using salt cod (presoaked and washed to remove the salt), and I recommend cod—salted or not—for it.

 

 

Campeche Caviare

 

Roes from one esmedregal, a large mackerel-like fish with very good, large roe sacs

1 tbsp. oregano

8 garlic cloves, mashed

1/2 tsp. ground pepper

Salt to taste

2 onions

1 head of garlic

4 large tomatoes

1/2 cup olive oil

 

Boil the roes with some oregano, garlic and salt.  Chill.  Peel the membrane off the roes.  Roast the onion, garlic head, and tomatoes, blend them, and fry them in the olive oil.  Season.  Add the roes and boil 15-20 minutes.

Fish roes are widely used in mixed seafood dishes in eastern Mexico.

 

 

Fried Flaked Dogfish

If you are not into the cult of cazón, try this with any firm white-fleshed fish, such as cod.  It is then really excellent.

 

2 lb. fresh dogfish, in pieces

1 tbsp. salt

1/2 green onion

Epazote

Lime

1 lb. tomatoes

1 chile habanero

1/2 regular onion

oil

 

Cook the dogfish in water to cover, with the salt, green onion and epazote.

Bone and skin the dogfish.  Rinse and break up into small pieces.  Season with the lime, and with more salt and epazote.

Roast the tomatoes, chile and onion.  Blend up.  Fry this salsa in oil.

Add the dogfish to the salsa and fry till this sauce thickens.

 

 

Dogfish Bread (pan de cazón)

This universal Campeche delicacy is even more an acquired taste than its main ingredient.  I present a recipe purely for ethnographic interest.

 

2 lb. roasted dogfish

1 tbsp. salt

Epazote to taste

½ -1 lb. lard

1/2 onion

2 lb. tomatoes

About 1 cup refried black beans (boil the beans; mash; fry in lard)

Tortillas

4 habaneros

½ c bitter orange or lime juice

 

Wash and cut up the dogfish.  Boil with salt for thirty minutes, adding some epazote.  Remove skin and bones and fry.

Stir-fry the onion and the rest of the epazote, chopped, in lard.  Add the tomatoes, cut up, and the pieces of dogfish.

Cover and cook for fifteen minutes.  Retire from the flame.  Break up the fish into flakes and mix all ingredients thoroughly.

Heat the tortillas and the beans.  Moisten the tortillas in the dogfish sauce.  Cover with a layer of beans.  Cover this with the dogfish mix.  Then add another layer (tortilla, beans, sauce).  Keep building, by layers, as much as desired.  (About six layers is typical.)  Serve with the salsa.

Make habanero salsa:  chop up the habaneros, preferably with some onion or garlic, and marinate in the citrus juice.

Variants abound, but the basic model above is pretty standard.

This is more or less the national dish of Campeche.  If it is made (as it usually is) with the dogfish that has been sitting in the marketplace for a while, outsiders may find it reminiscent of school-cafeteria tuna casserole.

 

 

Esmedregal in Orange Juice

Esmedregal is a term for various large fish with firm white flesh.  Anything from albacore to red snapper works well for this one.

 

2 lb. esmedregal fillets, or other firm, juicy, white-fleshed fish

Parsley, 1 bunch

Garlic, 2-3 cloves

Oregano, about 1 tsp dried

Cumin seeds

Black pepper

Salt

1 cup bitter orange juice

1 cup olive oil

1/2 white onion

1 sweet chile

1 lb. tomatoes, sliced

1 hot chile

Juice of two sweet oranges

 

Cut the fish in small pieces.  Wash in water with a bit of lime juice added.

Blend the herbs and spices into a paste with the bitter orange juice (see substitutions in introduction).  Marinate the fish in half of this, for an hour or so.

Fry lightly.

Separately fry the vegetables, cut up.  Add the fish.  Cook, adding the rest of the herb paste, and finally the sweet orange juice.

(modified from Conaculta Oceano 2001a:36)

 

 

Fish casserole

 

2 lb. white, firm-fleshed fish

Juice of 2 limes

1/2 cup oil

1 onion, in thin slices

3 garlic cloves, chopped

1/4 lb. bell pepper, chopped

1 lb. tomato, blended

2 peppercorns, crushed

1 tsp. cumin seeds

1/2 tbsp. fresh oregano (dried oregano can be substituted, in which case use less, about 1 tsp.)

1 tbsp. parsley, chopped

1 tsp. nutmeg

Salt and pepper to taste

 

Wash the fish, cut in medium-sized pieces, and marinate in the lime juice for 15 minutes.  Heat the oil.  Fry in it the onion and garlic.  Then add the bell pepper, blended tomato, pepper, cumin seeds, oregano, nutmeg, parsley and salt.  When this has cooked a short time, add the fish and cook till done.

 

 

Fish Makum

A classic favorite, also very popular in Yucatan.

Cherry Hamman explains:  “The words mak, ‘to close’ and kum ‘cooking pot,’ explain the title of this ancient hearthrite.”  (Hamman 1998:251; her recipe is for a meat makum, also an excellent dish).

 

6 garlic cloves

2 roasted onions

1/2 tbsp. cumin seeds

1/2 tsp. or more of oregano

1 tbsp. achiote paste

5 cloves

8 black peppercorns

1/2 cup vinegar

1/2 cup oil

Juice of 2 limes

Salt to taste

Oil for oiling the dish

1 banana leaf

2 lb. fish fillets (snapper, pompano or the like)

3 tomatoes, sliced

4 whole güero chiles (medium-sized, hot, yellow chiles) or comparable chiles

1 red bell pepper or 1-2 fresh red chiles, roasted, peeled and sliced

 

Blend the garlic, one of the onions, and the cumin seeds, oregano, achiotes, cloves, and peppercorns.  Mix with the vinegar, some oil, and the salt and lime juice.  Alternatively, you can just use a cube of red recado dissolved in lime or bitter orange juice.

Oil a casserole dish and line with the banana leaf.  Put on some of the sauce (above), then the fish, then the rest of the sauce, well rubbed onto all the fish.

Decorate with the tomatoes and the other onion, sliced; the whole chiles; and the strips of bell peppers or chiles.

Bend the banana leaf around to cover all.  Bake, or cook over slow fire, till done.

Parsley or cilantro for garnish is allowed.

Serve with white rice and black beans.

Variant: Nutmeg (pinch) and bay leaves are sometimes added.  More tomatoes can be used.

(modified from Conaculta Oceano 2001a:34 on the basis of a good deal of field experience)

 

 

Pampano in Escabeche

Pampano is a medium-sized, roundish fish with firm white flesh and a very delicate flavor.  Red snapper would work (but the real thing is better). I  can even imagine doing this dish with trout.

 

1 grilled or fried pampano

1 large onion

1 carrot

1 jalapeno pepper

2 bay leaves

1 tsp. cumin seeds

Few black peppercorns

1/2 cup vinegar

Salt and other spices to taste

Oil

 

Chop and fry the onion.  Add the other vegetables and spices.  Cook briefly (a few minutes).  Pour this sauce over the pampano.

 

 

Pampano in Green Sauce

The medieval Arab-Andalusian green sauce appears yet again.  This is a particularly good form of it.

 

2 lb. pampano fillets

Lime

1 bunch parsley

1 bunch cilantro

1 green chile (xkatik preferable)

Black pepper

Oregano to taste (about 1 tsp.)

1/2 tsp. cumin seeds

Salt

Vinegar to taste (a small amount)

6 cloves garlic

Lard for frying

1 small onion

2 tomatoes

2 mild yellow chiles

 

Wash the fish and rub with lime.

Blend the parsley, cilantro, green chile, oregano, pepper, cumin seeds, salt, vinegar and garlic.

Marinate the fish in this sauce.

Fry all in lard (or oil).  One way to do this is to put the fish in, then cover with the sauce.  Another way is to fry the sauce first, then put the fish in (this works only with quite thin fish, or fillets).

Then add the onion and tomatoes, chopped, and the chiles, chopped or whole.  When all has fried somewhat, add water and cook till sauce is thick.

Variants:  One can dispense with either the parsley or the cilantro, or even the green chile, and use instead hojasanta leaves, or tomatillos (green husk-tomatoes).  In fact, any combination of green, flavorful herbs is good.

 

 

Pampano Pohchuk

 

1 pampano, ca. 1 lb.

1 tbsp. achiote paste

1/2 tsp. black pepper

1/2 tsp. oregano

1/2 tsp. cumin seeds

24 garlic cloves

2 tbsp. olive oil

 

Stuffing:

Oil, for frying

1 lb. cooked small shrimp

1 lb. chopped octopus

3 garlic cloves

2 chopped tomatoes

2 laurel leaves

Salt and pepper

Banana leaves

 

Wash the fish and marinate for two hours in a marinade of the achiote, pepper, oregano, cumin seeds, garlic and olive oil (plus enough water to make a thin paste).

For the stuffing, stir-fry the onion, chopped.  Add the shrimp and octopus.  Then add the rest and boil briefly.

Stuff the fish with this.  Wrap all in banana leaves, put in a casserole dish and bake in a moderate oven for 25 minutes.

The stuffing can be varied according to what is available; stuffing without any seafood at all is not unknown.

(modified from Conaculta Oceano 2001a:33

 

 

Panuchos, Campeche style

 

2 lb. masa

4 oz. flour

Salt to taste

1 lb. cooked black beans

1 lb. fried dogfish (see above in introduction to section)

1 onion, quartered

2 bitter oranges

Habanero chile, to taste

 

Mix the masa, flour and salt with enough water to make a dough.  Make small tortillas (two for each panucho).  For a panucho, cover one tortilla with beans, one with shark meat, put them together (beans and fish inside), and seal around the edges.  Fry (either deep fat or in a bit of oil in skillet).

Chop the onion and habanero and mix into the juice of the bitter oranges.  Eat as topping for the panuchos.

 

 

Seafood Rice

 

1 onion

1 garlic clove

1 tomato

1 lb. rice

2 bay leaves

Sprig of thyme

Sprig of oregano

Mixed seafood: shrimps, clams or other shellfish, cut-up octopus, and bits of fish

Fish stock

2 oz. peas

Oil

Salt and pepper to taste

 

Chop the onion and garlic.  Fry in a bit of oil.  Add the tomato, chopped.  Add the rice and herbs.  Fry till rice begins to stick.  Add the seafood.  Then add enough fish stock to cover all to a depth of 1/2 to 3/4″.  Add peas and cook.

Chopped peppers can be added too.  In fact, almost anything can be added.  This dish naturally calls for improvisation and substitution.  You can use any odd bits of seafood available.  Important is to achieve a contrast of textures, such as that produced by fish, clams, and octopus bits.

 

 

Seafood Salad

 

Shrimp, conch, octopus, bits of fish, shredded carrot, chopped onion, cilantro, sliced cucumber, sliced tomato, sliced avocado, salt, and pepper, in lime juice.

 

Basically a glorified fish cocktail.  As with the foregoing, the critical thing is to achieve a contrast of textures as well as tastes.

 

 

Snook in Mole Sauce

The snook is a large silver fish of warm Caribbean and Atlantic waters.  It has white flesh and a unique, rich taste that can become addictive.  A snook cooked this way is truly unique and unsurpassed, but, lacking a snook, you can use any white-fleshed fish.  Relatively firm, oily ones work best.

 

1 snook, ca. 3 lb.

Salt

4 tbsp. lard

8 ancho chiles (dried)

2 cups water

1/2 lb. cooked potatoes, cut up

Sprig of epazote

 

Clean the fish.  Rub with lard.  Roast on a grill.

Soak the chiles to rehydrate them.  Then blend and fry in lard.  Add salt to taste.

Add in the water, the fish (cut in pieces), and the potatoes and epazote.  Cook till flavors blend.

(modified from Conaculta Oceano 2001a:37)

 

 

 

 

MEAT

 

 

Pork Loin with Black-eyed Peas

A rather striking recipe with a distinctly Cuban flavor.  I suspect Campeche’s long, close trade connections with Cuba are behind this dish somewhere.

 

2 garlic cloves

10 black peppercorns

1 onion

1 tbsp. achiote seeds

1/2 lb. tomato, chopped

10 sprigs epazote

1 1/2 lb. pork loin, cut in small pieces

1 quart water

Salt to taste

3/4 lb. black-eyed peas

2 lb. masa

1 habanero chile, green (unripe)

1/3 lb. lard, melted

1 banana leaf

 

Grind the spices.  Miix with the tomato, epazote and meat.  Make a soup with the water and salt, and cook till meat is done.  Cook the peas separately.

Mix the chile (cut up) and the lard into the masa.  Add the meat stew and the beans.  Cook till it forms a solid paste.  Grease a baking dish and line with banana leaf.  Add in the paste and bake at 350o till golden.

 

 

Tamales, Campeche feast style

 

4 lb. masa

4 quarts water

Salt to taste

3/4 lb. lard

3 sprigs of epazote

10 banana leaves

 

Filling:

1 lb. jowl of pork (or other relatively firm, meaty cut)

1 1/2 lb. pork loin

1 chicken

Salt to taste

8 cloves garlic, roasted

10 black peppercorns

1/4 tsp. cumin seeds

1 tsp. achiote seeds

1 quart broth

1 1/2 lb. tomato, chopped

6 leaves or sprigs of epazote, chopped

 

Mix the masa with water.  Add salt, lard and epazote (chopped).  Simmer, stirring constantly, till thick.  Turn off flame and let stand 15 minutes.

Cook the meats in the stock, cut into small pieces, and add salt and garlic.  Grind the peppercorns, cumin seeds and achiote seeds.  Add to the stock.  Mix in the chopped meat and boil again till reduced.  Add the tomato and epazote.  Retire from the flame when cooked fairly dry.

Toast lightly the banana leaves and cut in quarters.  (Of course, you can always use foil, kitchen paper, or corn husks.)  Cover with a layer of masa dough.  Put on a chunk of stuffing and roll up.  Steam for half an hour.

 

 

 

VEGETABLES
Black Rice Soup (a “dry soup”)

 

1/2 lb. rice

1 oz. lard or vegetable oil

2 garlic cloves

1 onion

2 quarts stock from cooking black beans (one could use the liquid from a few cans of black beans)

2 serrano chiles

4 epazote leaves

Salt to taste

 

Soak the rice; drain; fry in the lard or oil.  Add the garlic, onion and chiles (chopped), the bean stock, the epazote and the salt.  Cook over a very low flame.

Alternative method: fry the onion and garlic first, then add the rice.  This requires more lard or oil.

This can be made with seafood—crab meat, shrimp, squid—in which case one can leave out the black bean liquid.  Chopped tomatoes, various herbs, and other vegetation can all be used.

Compare the similar recipe in the Yucatan chapter.

 

 

Campeche Salad

 

1/2 lb. chickpeas, cooked

1/2 lb. green beans

3 carrots

2 turnips

3 potatoes

2 tomatoes, chopped

1/2 cup olive oil

1/2 cup vinegar

Salt and pepper to taste

 

Boil the carrots and turnips.  Boil the potatoes separately.  Do not overcook–they should be firm.  Cool.  Chop and mix with the tomato and seasonings.

A very standard restaurant dish, and thus subject to infinite variation.  It is possible to add cooked rice to this.  It is also possible to add almost anything else interesting; corn kernels are particularly welcome.  The creative cook will want to experiment with herbs, chiles, and even flaked fish (this salad often accompanies fish, and there seems no reason not to add some fish in).

 

 

Vegetables in Marinade

 

 

1 cauliflower

1/2 lb. green beans

4 summer squash

4 carrots

1 red onion

4 small potatoes

Jalapeno chile (optional)

2 tbsp. olive oil

Vinegar

Herbs

Oregano, salt, and pepper to taste

 

Cut up the vegetables.  Blanch them by putting in boiling water, turning it off and leaving for 15 minutes (i.e., till the vegetables soften a bit but do not actually cook).  Wash them and put in vinegar to cover.  Add in the other ingredients and marinate at least 12 hours.

The herbs would typically be powdered thyme, marjoram and perhaps others.  One can easily use fresh herbs instead.  Be creative.  The irrepressible will no doubt want to add a habanero.

Cooked sea foods, especially shellfish and octopus, can be added.

 

 

 

DESSERTS
Preserved ciricotes

The ciricote is the small fruit of a tree (Cordia sebestina) also noted for its incredibly beautiful wood.  The value of the wood leads to cutting many a ciricote tree, and the fruit is correspondingly rare.  Tough and even woody, like small quinces, ciricotes have to be cooked.

 

4 lb. ciricotes

Juice of 4 limes

1 lb. sugar

2 quarts water

3 fig leaves

 

Cook the ciricotes.  If tough, use some baking soda–or, to be really traditional, ashes–to tenderize and sweeten.

When the ciricotes are cool, peel and put in water and lime juice.  Wash, soak and drain.

Make a syrup with the sugar, water and a bit more lime juice. Add the ciricotes and fig leaves, and boil half an hour.  Bottle.

Campeche is famous for its fruit preserves and liqueurs.  This recipe will have to stand for all of them.  The recipe is standard, except for the fig leaves, which are used only when their tenderizing and thickening action is desirable, as with the tough ciricote.

Ciricote wood is yellow and brown, with a richly figured grain.  There is a great future for this tree.  If the better varieties were propagated, they could produce fruit until the tree was mature; the tree could then be harvested for its wood.

 

 

 

CHIAPAS

 

An important plant in Chiapas is chipilín (Crotalaria longirostrata), an alfalfa-like plant grown for its edible, mild-flavored leaves.  Alfalfa sprouts make a reasonable (though not terribly close) substitute.  One could even use pea tendrils (available at Asian markets).  These are similar in texture and flavor, though not looking much like chipilín, and are in fact often used in Chiapas.

Arrayán leaves are called for in several recipes; the arrayan is a bush endemic to the area.  The name means “myrtle” in Spanish, but the Chiapas arrayan is not much like a Spanish myrtle.  Bay leaves make a good substitute.  Another useful flavoring herb is avocado leaf.  I have seen a kettle of chile and beef simmering with a whole branch of avocado leaves thrust in. Mexican mountain avocado leaves have a wonderful spicy taste.  Closely related to bay leaves, they have a similar flavor and culinary use, but must be used fresh rather than dried–hence their absence from markets.  In the United States, most California avocados have spicy-flavored leaves, but Florida and Gulf Coast avocadoes are derived from Caribbean ancestry with virtually tasteless leaves.  If you don’t live near a Californian or Mexican avocado orchard, use bay leaves.  Conversely, if you do have access to such avocado leaves, try them in the following recipes.

 

 

 

TAMALES AND RELATIVES

 

Green Corn Tamales

 

20 ears of green corn

1 1/2 lb. sugar

1 lb. butter

2 tsp. ground cinnamon

1 tsp. baking powder

1 tsp. salt

 

Shuck the ears, but be careful not to damage the shucks.  Grind the corn.  Beat in the other ingredients.  Wash the corn shucks, trim off the tips, and make tamales–two tablespoons of mix per leaf of shuck.  Steam for 45 minutes.

The corn in question would be regular eating corn: firmer and less sweet than United States sweet corn.  If using sweet corn, cut down the sugar considerably, and the butter somewhat.

 

 

 

Green Corn Tamales, II

 

18 ears of sweet corn

1/2 lb. cream (get Mexican-style sour cream if you can find it)

8 eggs

1/2 lb. butter

Sugar to taste

Cinnamon

Mexican white cheese

Salt to taste

 

Make as above.

A common variant saves you from so much cholesterol: leave out the eggs and butter, cut down on the cinnamon, and use fairly soft cheese.  This produces, basically, a cheese tamale.

Both forms are common market fare, and excellent.

 

 

 

Rice Tamales

 

2 lb. rice

1 lb. butter

1 lb. sugar

1 quart water

2 tsp. baking powder

Corn leaves

 

Cook the rice.  Dry it out and grind it.  Beat the butter until creaemy.  Beat in the rice powder and baking powder.  When it is thoroughly beaten up, add a bit of warm water, and then beat in the sugar.  Meanwhile, soak the corn leaves to soften.

Put two or three tablespoonfuls of mixture on each corn leaf, wrap, and steam 3/4 hour.

 

 

Tamales with Saffron

 

4 lb. masa

2 lb. lard

2 lb. chicken meat, shredded

1 tsp. pepper

1/2 tsp. cinnamon

15 highland Chiapas chiles (or less, or even more, to taste)

2 pieces of French bread, toasted (optional)

6 garlic cloves, chopped

1 onion, chopped

2 lb. tomatoes, chopped very fine

20 saffron threads

1/2 tsp. ground clove

Almonds, plums and/or pimento strips (optional)

Salt to taste

Banana leaves

 

Grind all the spices (together with the toasted bread, if wanted).  Fry the onion and garlic in a few ounces of the lard; take out and discard if you want.  In the oil, fry the tomatoes, then add the spices and cook down to a sauce.  Add in the chicken.  Some sugar can be added if desired.

Mix the masa with the rest of the lard.  Add the salt.  Anoint the leaves with this.  If wanted, add to each tamale an almond, a plum, and/or a pimento strip.  Then add the sauce and cook as usual.

 

 

Tamales with Hojasanta (hojasanta is generally called “mumu” or “momo” in Chiapas)

 

2 lb. masa

1 lb. lard

1 lb. beans, cooked, mashed and fried

20 small highland chiles–seeded, fried and ground

2 tbsp. dried shrimps, ground

2 tbsp. ground squash seeds (sikil)

30 hojasanta leaves

6 bunches of maize leaves

Salt to taste

 

Mix the masa with the lard and salt.  Mix the beans, shrimp, squash seed meal and chiles.  Soak the corn leaves.  Make tamales on the hojasanta leaves, wrap up, and wrap these in turn in the corn leaves.  Steam half an hour.

A variant recipe uses far more squash seeds–two cups.  This makes a much richer tamale.  Suit yourself.

 

 

Vegetable Tamales

 

4 lb. masa

2 chicken breasts, shredded

3 carrots

3 summer squash

2 lb. tomatoes

1/2 cup chickpeas (cooked)

1 onion

2 garlic cloves

1 tsp. pepper

2 tsp. baking powder

2 lb. lard

Salt to taste

Corn leaves

 

Mix the lard, baking powder and salt with the masa.  Fr the garlic and onion, cut up, then add the other vegetables, all chopped finely.  Then add the meat and spices.  Then make and cook tamales in the usual way, steaming for an hour.

 

 

 

 

SOUPS

 

 

Bread Soup

A thoroughly Spanish recipe, but too popular in Chiapas to leave out.

 

6 sweet rolls (any kind of Chiapan-style sweet bread: rolls with a little sugar and shortening)

4 French rolls

2 carrots

Handful of green beans

6 baby summer squash

2 hard-boiled eggs

1/4 cup cooked chickpeas

1/2 onion

2 tomatoes

1 sprig thyme

sprig oregano

4 tbsp. lard

2 quarts chicken stock

2 plantains, sliced (and fried if you want)

3 oz. raisins

3 tbsp. sugar

A few threads of saffron, and/or a cinnamon stick

A few peppercorns

Salt to taste

 

Cut the breads into small slices and toast.  Cut up and cook the vegetables separately.  Grease a saucepan.  Alternate slices of bread with cooked vegetables; scatter in the herbs and raisins.  The last layer should be bread, with slices of egg on top to decorate.  Then pour on the stock and cook just enough to make the whole dish piping hot.

The stock should be just enough to cover the bread and be more or less absorbed by it.  This is one of those “soups” in which the spoon will often stand up by itself.  It is interesting in that it is the only soup I know from south Mexico that resembles the migas (crumbled bread) dry-soups so extremely common and important in southern Spain.  These migas are yet another class of dishes with a Moorish heritage; they are related to the tharid of Arabic cooking.

Variants exist with other spicing; with parsley, mint, or epazote; with wine; with different vegetable mixes; etc.  Creativity is the watchword.

 

 

Chipilín Soup

What would Chiapas do without chipilín?  It’s a vital source of vitamins and minerals in the diet.  A simpler form (without the dumplings) of this superb soup is particularly popular–more or less a daily food.

 

2 quarts water

1 green or maturing onion with stem

1 green chile such as xkatik

Grains from two ears of sweet corn

1 large bunch young, tender chipilín

1 lb. masa

3 oz. lard

1/2 lb. fresh Mexican white cheese, crumbled

2 avocadoes

2 limes

 

Cut up the vegetables and put in the water.

Mix the masa, lard, and salt.

Make dumplings of this, stuffed with the cheese.  Add to the soup.  Boil all, quickly.

Serve with slices of avocado, more cheese, and lime wedges.

 

 

Cream of Chipilín Soup

A basic soup in south Mexico.  Many great minds have expended noble energies in creating variants, some of which are listed below.

 

2 cups chipilín leaves

1 tbsp. butter

4 very young, tender summer squash

Grains from 4 ears of sweet corn

1/2 cup cream

1/2 quart boiled milk

1 small onion, cut in quarters

Salt and pepper to taste

 

Start the soup by cooking the leaves in water.

Meanwhile, fry in butter the onion (chopped).  Take out when golden.  Put the cut-up summer squash and fresh corn into the oil and fry quickly.

Add in the milk, pepper and salt.  Cook a minute or less.

Turn off the flame, and add the cream, stirring constantly.

The really traditional, indigenous form of this soup leaves out the butter and milk.  Fry the onion in oil or lard.  Use corn meal, or toasted corn meal (atole), instead of milk.  In this case, mix the corn meal into the water first. Then add the leaves, and proceed otherwise as above.  Add some white cheese, crumbled or in chunks.

Variant:  The fresh corn is left out when not in season.

Variant (upscale):  To the basic soup, add maize dumplings.  Cook.  Near the end, add white Mexican cheese squares.  Serve with a dollop of Mexican sour cream poured in.  Variant of the variant:  put the cheese in the dumplings—i.e., make a half-inch-thick ball of corn meal with a bit of cheese in the center.

Variant, or closely related soup (“squashvine soup”):  Add the tender tips of squash vines–butternut squash is a good pick for this.  The tendrils at the end, plus the very smallest leaves (under an inch wide), are used.  Reduce the chipilín accordingly, or eliminate it altogether and just use squashvine tips.  Good, garden-fresh, tender squashvine tips are among the most delightful of all vegetables.

 

 

Covered Rice

A “soup” although the rice absorbs all the liquid.  Such dishes are sopas secas, “dry soups,” in Spanish.  This is not oxymoronic; no one expects sopas to be soups in the English sense.

This is a rather elaborate restaurant dish.

 

1/2 lb. rice

1 chicken breast, shredded

4 eggs: two raw, two hardboiled

2 large chorizos, sliced and fried

1 onion

1 tomato

3 large summer squash

33 carrots

1 can chickpeas

1 tbsp. flour

1/2 stick butter

3 oz. sugar

1 1/2 oz. capers

Almonds

Raisins

Saffron

Oil or lard

Salt and pepper to taste

 

Like Chinese fried rice, this dish is better with leftover rice–cook the rice well in advance.

Cook the rice with the saffron and, by preference, some of the raisins, almonds and capers.  Chop the vegetables and cook briefly with salt.  Take out and fry with the chicken.  Butter a casserole dish.  Layer rice with almonds, raisins, capers, slices of hard-boiled egg, and chorizo slices.  Then top with the vegetables and chicken, then a last layer of rice.

Separately, beat the whites of the other two eggs till they form peaks.  Add the yolks, flour and sugar.  Cover the casserole with this and bake till all is thoroughly heated.

Naturally, simpler variants or relatives exist, grading downward into rice refried with vegetables and whatever bits of meat are available.

 

 

Dried Shrimp Soup

In contrast to the preceding, this is a typical household recipe.

 

2 lb. large dried shrimp

4 chilpotle chiles

3 guijillo chiles

1 1/2 lb. tomatoes

onion

2 carrots (optional)

2 potatoes (optional)

2 garlic cloves

Salt to taste

Water

 

Soak the shrimps in hot water, shell, and clean.  Boil the shells for stock; strain.  Add the shrimp to this–a total of 1 1/2 quarts water–with the chiles (seeded), garlic and onions.

Roast the tomatoes and grind.  Add to the soup, along with vegetables as desired.

Variant:  add a small can of pimento strips and grind these with the tomatoes.

 

 

Flower and Shoot Soup

 

2/3 lb. squash flowers

1/3 lb. tender tips of squash vines

2 ears sweet corn

2 large summer squash

1 tomato

1 serrano chile

1 quart water

Oil or lard

Salt and pepper to taste

 

Cut the grains off the corn ears.  Separately, blend the tomato with the chile and fry the paste.  Add the water, then the squash (cut up in thin slices), then the rest of the ingredients.  Cook till vegetables just begin to soften.

It would be hard to imagine a more refreshing summer soup.  For an even lower-calorie variant, don’t fry the tomato.

Young pea tendrils are also popular in Chiapas, and are even better than squash vine-tips.  They should be stir-fried or steamed.

 

 

Green Rice (another and particularly good “dry soup”)

 

1 cup rice

4 poblano chiles

2 cooked eggs

1 piece (size according to taste) of onion

1 sprig of parsley, and/or any other green herbs, such as cilantro or chipilín

1/3 lb. lard or oil

2 cups milk

2 cups water

2 garlic cloves

Salt to taste

 

Wash the rice and dry in the sun.  Seed the chiles.  Toast them and wrap in plastic or towel, then peel them.  Grind them in the milk.  In the lard, fry the rice.  When it begins to color, add the onion and garlic, chopped.  When these are transparent, add water, parsley, and salt; cover and boil.  When it begins to boil, turn down flame to a very low simmer.  Add the milk-chile mix toward the end and simmer till it is absorbed.  Decorate with slices of cooked eggs.

A more folk variant leaves out the milk and eggs.

 

 

Juliana Soup

 

2 quarts chicken stock

1 chayote

3 summer squash

2 carrots

3 potatoes

Slice of cabbage, or few leaves of kale

1/2 cup cooked chickpeas

1 threads saffron (optional)

6 French rolls, sliced

Oil, if wanted

Salt to taste

 

Chop the vegetables finely and put to boil.  Fry or toast the bread slices and put in bowl.  Serve the soup over these.

A local version of standard French or Spanish vegetable soup.  Kale and mustard greens are at least as typical of Chiapas as cabbage; try it with them.  Naturally, this is another dish of a basically “open city” sort, and any seasonal vegetable can be used.

 

 

Shuti Soup

“Shuti” is an Indian name for large river snails, popular in Chiapas.  This soup is included mainly for ethnographic interest, but it would be good with more or less any seafood.

 

“Shuti

1/2 lb. tomato

2 quarts water

1 onion

1 hojasanta leaf

l/2 lb. toasted squash seeds

2 ancho chiles, seeded and soaked

 

Quickly cook and trim the snail.  Cook all for 15 minutes.”

(translated from Conaculta Oceano 2000a:17)

 

 

Soup to Raise the Dead (Caldo Levanta-muertos)

 

1 tongue (veal or beef; whole tongue, untrimmed)

1 brain (ditto)

1 oxtail

1 chicken

3 large tomatoes

1 large onion

1 head garlic

1 large sprig thyme

1 large sprig oregano

Achiote

Small highland chiles

Salt to taste

Water

 

Boil and skin the tongue.  Cook the brains briefly with salt.  Cut up the chicken and boil.  Separately, fry the achiote, then add in the tomato, onion, garlic, thyme and oregano (the vegetables being chopped).  Add these into the pot with the brains; then add the meat, cut up.  Cook till done.  Fry the chiles and blend; add at the last minute.

This may or may not raise the dead, but at the worst it will do as well as anything else for the purpose.  It is the sort of thing people love to recommend for a cold or a hangover; I think this is the source of the name.

 

 

Squash-flower Soup

 

1/2 cup cream

1/2 lb. squash flowers (trimmed of stems)

8 summer squash

4 poblano chiles

2 sweet corn ears

1 tbsp. chopped onion

1 tbsp. epazote, cut up

1 quart boiled bilk

1/2 stick butter

Salt to taste

 

Fry the onion in the butter.  Cut the flowers into 3-4 pieces each and add.  Seed, roast and peel the chiles; cut up and add.  Then add the grains from the corn ears; then the squash, cut up.  Stir-fry all.  Season and cover.  Boil for a few minutes, then add the milk and the epazote and simmer briefly.  Finally add the cream.

 

 

Sweet Corn Soup

 

8 cobs sweet corn

3 tomatoes

1 1/2 oz. butter

1 onion

1/2 tsp. pepper

Salt to taste

Water

 

Cut the corn off the cobs.  Blend up some of the grains and add to some water.  Blend up the tomato and fry in the butter with the rest of the corn, the pepper and the onion (chopped).  Combine all and cook very briefly.

 

 

Tapachula Soup

Tapachula, the market city of far southeast Chiapas, has its own cuisine.

 

1 lb. squash flowers

2 tbsp. lard

1 onion

Grains from 2 ears sweet corn

2 quarts milk

2 oz. butter

2 tbsp. flour

1/2 cup cream

2 summer squash

3 tbsp. flour

2 eggs

Salt and pepper to taste

 

Wash the flowers and remove stems.  Cut up and fry in lard.  Separately fry the onion (cut up).  Add the corn.  Add half the milk and combine all the above.

Blend all.  Add the rest of the milk.

Fry the flour in butter.  Mix in some milk (i.e., make a standard white sauce).  Season with salt and pepper.

Meanwhile, separately, cook the squash; cut up; fry quickly.  Then dip these slices in a flour-egg batter and deep-fry.

Put the cream in a soup tureen.  Pour in the soup.  Add the fried squash and serve immediately.

 

 

Tortilla Soup

A Chiapan variant of a universal Mexican staple.

 

1/2 cup cream

18 tortillas, toasted and cut into wedges

2 oz. grated Mexican white cheese

1 tomato

1 small chile (fresh, or, if dried, seeded and soaked)

3 cups chicken stock

Sprig of mint

2 garlic cloves

Pinch of black pepper

Salt to taste

 

Peel the tomato (after immersing in boiling water for a minute to make this possible) and blend up with the chile and garlic.  Combine this with the other ingredients and bring to boil.

Here, too, anything and everything goes.  Leaving out the cream; adding some of the chicken meat; using other herbs; adding more vegetables–No two soups need be alike.

 

 

MEAT

 

 

Asado

 

2 lb. meat (pork or lamb, preferably)

4 ancho chiles

2 garlic cloves

1/2 tsp. pepper

Sprig of thyme

Sprig of oregano

1/2 tsp. ground cinnamon

2 bay leaves

2 arrayán leaves (a local Chiapas plant, rather similar to bay, so just use more bay leaves if you are not near a Chiapas market)

1 tbsp. sugar

1 tsp. vinegar

1 oz. lard

Salt to taste

 

Seed the chiles and fry.  Blend up.  Separately, grind the garlic, thyme, and oregano.  Cut up the meat and fry it in the lard.  When it is half done, add the other ingredients and cook another 20 minutes.

Variants on this theme involve marinating beef or pork steaks in the recado and cooking them in a pan, etc.

 

 

Chanfaina

Chiapas version of a classic Iberian dish.

 

2 lb. sheep tripe and/or assorted variety meats of sheep or goat

Piece of sheep’s liver

2 tomatoes or 1/3 lb. tomatillos

1 ancho chile

1 small French roll, toasted

1 sprig parsley

1/2 tsp. achiote

1/2 tsp. pepper

1/2 tsp. ground cinnamon

Oil

Salt to taste

 

Wash the tripe and cool with salt.  Separately, blend the tomatoes, chile (soaked and seeded), toast, liver, pepper and cinamon.  Fry the achiote and then add in the blended vegetables.  Then add the tripes and parsley, all cut up.  Boil.

 

 

Chanfaina a la Chiapa de Corzo

Chiapa de Corzo is an old, tranquil market town in central Chiapas.

 

1 1/2 lb. beef variety meats: liver, heart, tripes, kidneys

1 tomato

1 onion

Sprig of thyme

2 cinnamon sticks

2 cloves

2 black peppercorns

1 tbsp. breadcrumbs

1/2 cup liver paste (homemade; cook and grind the liver)

2 tbsp. achiote

Lard

2 tbsp. vinegar

Salt to taste

 

Cook the beef parts in salted water.  Take out the meat; save the stock. Cut up the meat.

Chop the tomato and onion and fry in lard.  Add the cut-up meat and stir-fry.  Then add the stock from the meat.  Dissolve the ground liver and breadcrumbs in some of the stock.  Add the vinegar, achiote, and spices.   Combine all and cook ten minutes.

 

 

Chojen Salad

A common Highland Maya dish with a Maya name.

 

1/2 lb. cold roast beef

1 onion

2 tomatoes

3 bunches of radishes, cut up

Juice of 2 limes or bitter oranges

Green chiles

Salt to tasste

 

Cut up all ingredients finely.  Mix.

A standard variant uses a beef stomach, cooked, cooled, and cut up.  This may not be to the taste of all readers.  Like the Yucatan counterpart, this dish used to be made with deer meat.

 

 

Cocido

 

1 lb. beef, cooked and cut up

1 lb. pork ribs, ditto

1 lb. pork back meat, ditto

1 lb. beef brisket, ditto

2 tomatoes

1 onion

1 garlic clove

1 bunch cilantro

11 tsp. achiote

Longaniza, sliced

3 chayotes

Handful of green beans

6 small potatoes

4 carrots, cut up

1 small cabbage, cut up in chunks

2 corn ears in chunks

1 quince, cut up and cored

3 small sour apples, whole

6 peaches (fairly hard ones)

1 plantain

6 summer squash

Water

Salt to taste

 

Put in a large pot enough water.  Add salt, onion, garlic and tomato.  Separately, fry the achiote; throw out the seeds and add the oil to the pot.  Then add the meats and vegetables.  Simmer for about half and hour.

 

 

Cold Pork Leg

Another of the cold meat dishes so popular for lunch in Chiapas.

 

1 pork leg

Sprig of thyme

Sprig of oregano

2 bay leaves

2 arrayan leaves (or 2 more bay leaves)

2 limes

Water

Salt to taste

 

Spice mix:

2 ancho chiles

1 tomato

Sprig of thyme

Sprig of oregano

2 bay leaves

2 arrayan (or bay) leaves

2 garlic cloves

1 tbsp. sugar

1/2 tsp. pepper

Oil

Salt to taste

 

Marinate the leg in the lime juice with water and salt for 3 hours.  Then take out of this liquid and boil in water to which the herbs are added.

Meanwhile, seed and fry the chiles.  Blend with the other ingredients (except the leaves).  Fry the resulting mix quickly, adding the whole leaves.

Cover the leg with this, bake half an hour, chill, and serve sliced.

Variant: Make more recado, slash the leg, and rub the extra recado into the slashes.  This is less authentic but spicier.

 

 

Grilled Ham

 

1 smoked ham (Virginia ham will do)

5 onions

4 heads garlic

Sprig of thyme

Sprig of oregano

6 laurel leaves

5 arrayan leaves

1/2 lb. brown sugar

1 large piece of pineapple

1 stalk of fennel (finocchio)

7 quarts or more of water

 

Boil the ham for two hours or more with all the ingredients except the sugar.  Cool and skin it.  Slice.  Sprinkle the slices with sugar and grill them.

 

 

Fiambres

 

Fiambres just means “cold cuts” in Spanish.

 

1 veal tongue

1 chicken

8 pig’s feet (that is, 8 feet, not the feet of 8 pigs)

1 lettuce head

6 tomatoes

6 onions

3 avocados

8 radishes

2 oranges

3 tbsp. vinegar

1/2 cup oil

Salt to taste

 

Boil the meats.  Make a salad with the lettuce (cut up), tomatoes (in strips), onions, oil and vinegar.  Cut up the meats and mix into the salad.  Garnish with radishes, orange slices and wedges of avocado.

It is good to make this in two parts: first mix the meat and dressing, then leave it to marinate for a few hours, then add the vegetables just before serving.

As the name suggests, you can really use any cold boiled meat for this.

 

 

Mixed Meats with Beans

Variant of the pork-and-beans dish (probably of Celtic ancestry) known everywhere in the Hispanic/Iberian world.

 

2 lb. black beans

6 oz. salted meat

6 oz. chicharron (fried pork rinds)

6 oz. longaniza sausage

6 oz. pork short ribs

1 onion

1 head garlic

Pickled serrano chiles

Salt to taste

 

Wash and soak beans.  Cook with garlic and onion.  After half and hour, take them off the fire and add in the meats.  Cook another half hour.  Add the chiles and cook ten minutes.

We recommend that the salt meat be soaked and drained first, and the sausage fried to get rid of excess oil.

 

 

Mole Chiapas Style

A local variant of the Mexican staple.

 

1/2 lb. mulato chiles (dried)

1/2 lb. ancho chiles (dried)

Oil

Chicken or turkey boiled with an onion; save the stock

1 plantain

3 oz. raisins

5 oz. sesame seeds, toasted

3 pieces of sweet bread, toasted or fried

1 tortilla, toasted or fried

1/4 onion, cut up and fried

2 lb. tomatoes, cut up and fried

Salt and pepper to taste

 

Seed and fry the chiles.  Soak in the stock.

Fry the onion, then the tomato.

Blend the chiles and stock; separately, the onion and tomato; then the other ingredients, all in the stock.

Cook till the mix thickens.  Pour over the fowl.

Variants: cinnamon and garlic can be added to good advantage.  Other spices are possible but less traditional.  (Chocolate is not used in Chiapas moles.)

(modified from Conaculta Oceano 2000a:44)

 

 

Ninguijuti

Interesting for the indigenous name, from Zoque.

 

1 lb. pork chops

1 lb. pork loin meat

2 tbsp. lard

2 tomatoes

3 garlic cloves

Hot chile to taste

2 tbsp. achiote paste

Juice of 2 limes

3/4 cup masa

Salt to taste

 

Cut up the meat, removing bones.  Cook in a little water till getting done.  Then fry in lard.

Blend the tomato, garlic, chile and achiote.  Add to the meat.  Add the stock, beating in the masa and lime juice.  Cook briefly.

(modified from Conaculta Oceano 2000a:45

 

Picadillo

 

1/2 lb. beef

1/2 lb. pork leg

3 potatoes

1 tomato

1 chayote

2 carrots

2 ears of sweet corn

4 oz. string beans

1 quince

Large sprig of mint

1 lb. cabbage

1 tsp. achiote

3 garlic cloves

1 quart water

Oil

Salt to taste

 

Cut the meat up finely.  Chop the onion and garlic.  Fry in oil in the saucepan.  Add the tomato, finely chopped.  Then add the water, salt and achiote.  (If you use the grains, not the paste, fry separately and take the seds out.)  When it begins boiling, add the meat, then the quince, then the vegetables–the sweet corn last, toward the end.  Finally add the leaves from the mint, just before serving.

 

 

Pork and Sausage with Scarlet Runner Beans

Another variant on the pork-and-beans dish.  See above, Mixed Meats with Beans.

 

2 lb. scarlet runner beans (or any dried bean)

2 ancho chiles

1 slice of bread

1 tomato

2 chorizos

1/2 lb. short ribs of pork, cut up

1/2 lb. longaniza sausage

Sprig of thyme

Sprig of oregano

Salt to taste

 

Wash, soak and cook the beans till tender (if dry, they will take a couple of hours or more).  Seed and fry the chiles.  Grind the bread and fry it up with the cut-up sausages and meat.  Combine all and simmer.  Arrayán or bay leaves make a very good addition.

Pretty much the same thing is made with lentils, which take much less time to cook and thus can be cooked with the meat.

 

 

Pork Leg

 

1 bone-in pork leg (3 to 5 lb.)

1 onion

1 bunch parsley

2 chorizo sausages

2 garlic cloves

3 oz. ham

3 oz. butter

3 large tomatoes

Juice of 5 oranges

1 tsp. pepper

1 cup water

Salt to taste

 

Rub the leg with butter, salt and pepper, and the juice of the oranges.  Marinate in the orange juice overnight.

Bone the leg and stuff the resulting hollow:

Chop the ham, onion, parsley, chorizos and one tomato finely. Fry all.  Drain thoroughly and stuff into the pork leg.

Add the water and the other two tomatoes, blended up, to the marinade.  Bake the pork in this, basting occasionally.  Serve decorated with lettuce leaves and other garnishes.

 

 

 

Puchero with Chaya

 

2 lb. pork chops

1/4 lb. rice

Oil

6 peppercorns

Sprig of thyme

3 tomatoes

1 onion

3 garlic cloves

1 large bunch chaya leaves

 

Cook the chops in 2 quarts of water with the onion and one garlic clove.  Separately, roast and peel the tomatoes, and blend with another garlic clove.

Fry to color a strip on onion and the last garlic clove.  Add the rice, fry golden, and add in the tomatoes.  Add the spices.  Precook the chaya if it is tough.

Cook quickly, add 3/4 cup water, and then the pork and chaya.  Cook til rice is done.

(modified from Conaculta Oceano 2000a:28)

 

 

Siguamut

An indigenous dish, originally made with game.  Also known as “siguamonte.”  Any meat with bone in can be used.

 

2 lb. meat

1 tomato

1 onion

6 small potatoes

3 carrots

2 garlic cloves

1 tsp. achiote

1 sprig epazote

10 small highland chiles

2 tbsp. oil

Salt to taste

 

Cut up the meat and roast it.  Then cook in salted water for an hour if using  venison–otherwise, omit or reduce this step.  Fry the achiote; then, in the oil, the garlic, onion, and tomato, all chopped.  Add all to a baking dish with potatoes, carrots (cut up), chiles (toasted and ground), the epazote and the salt.  Cook 15-20 minutes.

Variants exist; any game can be used, and the vegetables can be adapted as you wish.

 

 

Stuffed Chiles

 

1 lb. pork

10 poblano chiles

2 small onions

5 tomatoes

1 carrot

2 summer squash

1 1/2 oz flour

Few raisins

4 eggs, separated

1 tsp. pepper

4 garlic cloves

Sprig of thyme

Sprig of oregano

Oil

Salt to taste

 

Seed the chiles, fry, leave in a towel for a while, and peel.

Cook the meat with the garlic, onion and tomato.  Cool and cut up.  Fry the onion and tomato.  Cut up the other vegetables and add in, along with the meat, raisins and seasoning.

Cut up the rest of the tomatoes, onion, garlic and herbs.  Fry and blend.

Stuff the chiles; powder with flour.   Beat the whites of the eggs to peaks.  Add in the yolks and a tablespoon of flour.  Cover the chiles with this and fry in hot oil, then add the sauce and simmer.

 

 

Stuffed Onions

 

6 oz. cooked pork leg

3 large onions

2 oz. flour

3 tomatoes

3 eggs, separated

Sprig of thyme

Sprig of oregano

1/2 tsp. pepper

2 garlic cloves

Oil

Salt to taste

 

Cook the onions with salt for 15 minutes (or less).  Take out and carefully remove centers.  Chop these.

Cook the pork and chop finely.  Fry with the onion centers, one garlic clove (mashed) and one tomato (chopped).

Beat the egg whites to peaks. Add in the yolks and flour.  Cap the onions with this and fry them in a good deal of oil.  Set on paper towels to blot up excess oil.

Meanwhile, roast, peel, chop and fry the other tomatoes, with the other garlic clove and the herbs.  Blend all.

Put the stuffed onions into this sauce and simmer 10-15 minutes.

 

 

Stuffed Pork Loin

One of the most popular dishes, existing in countless variants.

 

1 pork loin

1/2 lb. ground pork

1/2 lb. ground beef

2 eggs

4 summer squash

1 strip of pineapple

4 carrots

1 oz. lard

2 lb. tomato

3 oranges

1 head of lettuce

2 tbsp. chopped parsley

3 pickled jalapeno chiles

3 garlic cloves

1 tsp. pepper

Salt to taste

 

Open out and flatten the loin.

Mix the salt, pepper, garlic (crushed), ground meat, orange juice and beaten eggs.  Cover the flattened loin with the ground meat.  Put on this slices of the vegetables; then roll up the loin in such a manner that every slice of the final roll will be slightly different. Tie it into a log shape, with the stuffing in the center.

Fry it, adding the tomato (roasted and blended), pepper, parsley, juice of one orange, and salt.  Cover and simmer for an hour.

Chill.  Serve cold, adorned with its sauce and with lettuce leaves and jalapenos.

Variants are mostly in regard to the vegetables used in the stuffing and the manner of their display.  For instance, they can be cut into long thin strips, such that they go all the way through the loin, making each slice the same.  Of course, various herbs and seasonings are used to create other variations.

Also, one can oven-roast the loin instead of frying and then simmering.  This isn’t quite as good, but may be necessary if the loin is very large.

 

 

Tasajo

A Chiapa de Corzo dish, traditional in festivals.

 

2 lb. tasajo

2 heaping tbsp. rice, soaked

1/4 cup achiote

1/3 lb. squash seeds, toasted and ground (sikil)

2 tomatoes

1/4 onion

4 oz. lard

 

Cook the meat a long time in a lot of water.

Then grind the rice with the achiote, in water, for a thick sauce.

Blend the tomato and onion.  Fry in lard.  Add the rice and achiote.  Then stir in the sikil, dissolved in stock.  Cook, stirring.

Serve as sauce on the meat.  (Or—untraditional—cut up the meat and finish cooking in the sauce.)

 

Tzotzil Radish Salad

 

Radishes

Freshly made chicharrones (fried pork rinds) in 1″ squares

Cut up equal amounts of the above.

Season with chopped mint and parsley, and enough lime juice to thoroughly wet all.

 

 

 

POULTRY AND RABBIT

 

Chicken in the Pot

A relatively Spanish-style dish.

 

1 chicken

4 potatoes

4 chayotes

1/2 cup olives, optional (very Spanish, but I prefer without)

3 tomatoes, cut up

1 onion, cut up

1/2 tsp. ground thyme

1/2 tsp. ground oregano

3 cloves

3 peppercorns

2 bay leaves

2 arrayan leaves (or two more bay leaves)

1 tbsp. ground cinnamon

1 pinch saffron

Salt to taste

1 Spanish canned pimento, cut up, or some pimento strips (optional)

1 cup cooked chickpeas (optional)

1 cup vinegar

1 cup white wine

 

Cut up the chicken.  Peel and slice the vegetables.  Combine all except the pimento and chickpeas.  Cover the pot and cook in the oven.  Adorn with the pimento and chickpeas at the end.

(Conaculta Oceano 2000a:40)

 

 

Chicken with Chorizo

 

1 chicken

4 chorizos

1 onion

2 garlic cloves

1/2 lb. potatoes

1 quart chicken stock

Oil

Salt to taste

 

Chop and fry the garlic and onion.  Add the chorizo meat (taken out of the skins).  Drain.  Fry well, then add the stock.

Cut the chicken into pieces.  Add to the stock with the potatoes and cook all.

 

 

Pressed Turkey

Otherwise known as “stuffed turkey.”  Another passionate favorite.

 

1 turkey (8-10 lb.)

3 lb. ground pork

1/2 tsp. nutmeg

1/2 tsp. pepper

1 small can of chopped pimento

3-4 oz. almonds, finely chopped

1/4 cup vinegar

1 cup sweet wine

1 green onion with stem, cut up

Sprig of thyme

Sprig of oregano

1 head of garlic

Salt to taste

 

Cook and bone the turkey.  Wash and rub with salt and pepper.

To the ground meat, add the other ingredients, except the herbs.  Mix well.  Stuff the turkey and sew it up.  Cook in a large pot with the herbs and salt.  Take out and press by wrapping it in a towel and leaving a heavy object on it; leave all night in the refrigerator to chill, thus weighted down.  Serve cold, sliced, with lettuce leaves and radish for garnish, and red sauce.

 

 

Rabbit a la Zihuamonte

 

1 rabbit

2 potatoes

5 cloves

2 green chiles

3 tbsp. oil

2 garlic cloves

1 onion

2 tomatoes

1 ancho chile

1/4 cup masa

Sprig of epazote

6 peppercorns

 

Cut up the rabbit.  Bake till golden.  Then put in a pot with water.  Add the potatoes, cloves and green chiles.

Cut up and fry the garlic and onion.  When colored, add the tomato and the rabbit.  Fry separately the dried chiles (seeded and ground).  Add some of the stock, thickened with the masa.  Stir.  Add the epazote and peppercorns.  Then add to the rabbit.

This dish is perfectly good made with chicken.

(modified from Conaculta Oceano 2000a:38)

 

 

 

Charcuterie

 

If you are totally compulsive, here’s how to smoke meat Chiapas style: Build a box about 5′ square with a grill at the bottom.  Suspend hams and sausages within.  Put hot charcoal on the grill and cover with damp sawdust of pine and/or oak.  Leave till the meats take on the color of old gold.  This is a minimalist description.  I haven’t tried it.  Only someone who knows the tricks of the trade should make the attempt.  Naturally, the charcutiers have more elaborate equipment.

 

 

Chorizo

 

4 lb. pork leg

6 ancho chiles

Sprig of thyme

Sprig of oregano

2 tsp. pepper

1 head of garlic, peeled and mashed

Small cup vinegar

Salt to taste (a good deal is necessary)

Sausage skins

 

Grind the meat fine.  Seed and soak the chiles; blend and add.   Add the herbs and garlic, all ground, and the salt and vinegar.  Stuff the sausage skins thoroughly, making sure there are no air pockets or loosely filled places.  Dry or smoke the sausages.

As usual, you can just fry up the mix instead of making sausages with it.

 

 

Longaniza

 

4 lb. pork

3 heads garlic

2 tbsp. pepper

2 large tomatoes

Salt to taste (a good deal is necessary)

Sausage skins

 

Separate lean and fat pieces of pork.  Chop up.  Peel and mash the garlic; chop the tomatoes fine.  Mix all and stuff the sausage skins, making sure they are thoroughly stuffed (no air pockets or loose places).  Dry or smoke.

 

 

Moronga

 

2 quarts blood

1 large onion

2 tomatoes

1 piece of pork fat, ground

1/2 cut cooked rice

Fresh chile, to taste

Mint leaves

Salt to taste (a good deal is necessary)

Sausage skins

 

Heat the blood.  When thoroughly hot, add the other ingredients, all chopped fine or ground.  Stuff the sausage skins.  Boil the sausages half an hour.  Dry (best done in slow oven).  Even without drying, they will keep, refrigerated, for a long time.  Do not store unrefrigerated (even if dried).

 

 

Simple Paté

 

1/2 lb. liver

1/2 lb. pork

1/2 lb. beef

2 chicken breasts

1/2 cup milk

2 eggs

1 bread roll

4 oz. lard

Salt and pepper to taste

 

Cook and grind the meats.  Fry the bread in the butter and soak in the milk; grind up.  Beat the eggs.  Mix all the ingredients and put into a greased mold that can be fitted into a bain-marie arrangement (easily jury-rigged with a couple of nesting saucepans).  Cover and simmer till cooked solid.  Chill, unmold, and serve sliced.

 

 

 

VEGETABLES
 

Baked Chayote

 

Scoop out the meat of a cooked chayote.  Mash with sugar, cinnamon, allspice and raisins.  Return to own shell.

 

 

Chiles in Escabeche

The same basic recipe is wonderful for wild mushrooms and other vegetables.  For these others (and even for the chiles, if you prefer), leave out the ginger and perhaps the cloves and cinnamon, and add more aromatic herbs and leaves.

 

2 lb. serrano chiles

1 quart vinegar

1 onion, cut up

1 oz. salt

10 cloves

1 stick cinnamon

10 peppercorns

Sprig of thyme

Sprig of oregano

Small piece of ginger

5 garlic cloves

4 bay leaves

5 tbsp. olive oil, preferably extra virgin (though that is rare indeed in Chiapas)

 

Wash the chiles and pierce them with a fork.  Boil the vinegar with the spices, adding the chiles when the liquid begins to boil.  Cook till they are olive-colored.

Fry the onion, garlic and bay leaves in the oil.

Put this in a jar and add the chiles and vinegar.

If this is to be sealed and stored, sterilize as with any canned vegetables; but it’s a great deal easier to leave it in the refrigerator.  Covered, it keeps indefinitely.

 

 

Scarlet Runner Beans

“Botil” to the Tzotzil Maya, for whom these beans are an important food.  These are large, mottled beans with a distinctive flavor.  Ordinary beans or dried limas can be substituted.  Use large beans that cook up soft but not mushy.

 

1 lb. scarlet runner beans

1 onion, chopped

2 garlic cloves

2 tbsp. flour

10 highland Chiapas chiles

5 tbsp. oil

Salt to taste

 

Wash the beans and soak overnight.  Cook for an hour.  Separately, fry the garlic and onion.  Separately (again), fry the chiles, adding the flour slowly.  Then combine all with the beans and simmer 15 minutes.

Any good dried chile will do.  The highland ones are small and hot, so adjust quantities (one really big New Mexico chile can equal to ten highland ones) and hotness.

 

 

Vegetables in Escabeche

 

1/2 lb. fresh chiles

1/2 lb. carrots

1/2 lb. summer squash

1/2 lb. onions

1 cauliflower

Sprig of thyme

Sprig oregano

4 bay leaves (or 2 bay leaves and 2 arrayan leaves)

1 quart vinegar

1 cup water

1 tbsp. sugar

5 tbsp. olive oil

15 black peppercorns

5 cloves garlic

Salt to taste

 

Cut the garlic and onion into strips and fry.  Cut up the other vegetables.  When the garlic and onion are fried golden, add the vinegar and herbs.  When this begins to boil, add the other vegetables.  Cook briefly; stop when vegetables are still firm.

This dish can be eaten as is, or kept to marinate.

Any mix of vegetables can be used.  Wild mushrooms are marinated the same way, and it is perfectly good for cultivated mushrooms as well.

 

 

White Beans

A nice vegetarian dish.

 

1 lb. white beans

1 ancho chile

1 small French bread roll

2 tomatoes

1 onion

3-5 serrano chiles, canned or fresh

1 small head of garlic

12 tsp. pepper

1/2 tsp. ground oregano

1/2 tsp. ground thyme

Oil and salt as needed

 

Wash beans and soak overnight.  Cook with the garlic and onion for 45 minutes.  Break up the bread and fry it with the chile (seeded and soaked), the onion and the tomato.  Add these to the beans, then add the spices.  Cook 15 minutes more.

 

 

Wild Mushrooms

 

2 lb. wild mushrooms

1/2 onion

2 lb. tomato

2 bell peppers

1 jalapeno chile, seeded

1 plantain, peeled and cut up

Lard

2 hojasanta leaves

Salt to taste

 

Wash the mushrooms and take off tough or spoiled parts.  Chop the ingredients.  Mix with lard and salt.

Lightly toast a banana leaf and lay the other ingredients on it.  Wrap all in a sheet of aluminum foil and steam 45 minutes.

The original recipe specified the local cusuche mushroom, but any flavorful mushroom does fine.  One can also leave out the plantain.

(based on Conaculta Oceano 2000a:49)

 

 

DESSERTS

 

Fruit Cheese

Peaches, apples, quinces, guavas and other fruit are preserved thus.  See Guava Paste recipe in Yucatan section.

 

Cut up, peel, core or seed and bring to boil.

Put in a colander and leave overnight.

Weigh the pulp.  Mix in sugar, equal to 2/3 of the weight.  (Use the remaining juice, strained out, for making jelly–or just drink it.)

Cook down, stirring constantly, till it begins to separate from the sides of the pot.  (Do this is a Teflon pot with a wooden spoon, unless you want  a fearful mess.)  Turn out into a pan, plate or dish, and cool till solid.

 

 

Sandy Cookies a la Chiapas

 

1 lb. flour

3/4 lb. sugar

3/4 lb. butter

6 eggs

1/4 cup lime juice

1 tbsp. lime zest

11/4 cup milk

1/2 tbsp. baking soda

 

Cream the butter, mixing in the sugar and then the flour.  Beat in the eggs, one by one.  After this, add the lime juice and zest, and, finally, the baking soda dissolved in the milk.

Butter a cookie dish or a mold and bake till golden.  This recipe is for little cakes made in molds, but is fine for cookies.

 

 

 

DRINKS

 

The favorite local drink is raw rum, known as aguardiente (“burning water”) in Spanish, and in Highland Maya as pox, which means “medicine.”  (As in Yucatec, x is pronounced sh.)  It has the color and taste of water and the kick of a team of Chiapas mules.  Alcoholism is a problem, so some of the Maya communities have been shifting from pox to cola drinks for ceremonial occasions.  A myth has been duly elaborated that cola has magic powers.  This has led to a new political tension: competition between suppliers of rival cola brands.

One of the great delights of San Cristobal is the punch, locally pronounced bonche, sold piping hot around the cathedral in the evening.  It dispels the mountain cold.  It consists of fruit cooked in water with spices, with pox added to taste.   Bonche may be basically hot pox with a bit of fruit, or a whole lavish fruit cocktail with just a splash of hot pox, or anything in between.

A mescal is made around Comitan from the local agaves; it is something of an acquired taste, being reminiscent of soap.

 

 

Anisette

 

1 quart aguardiente (vodka will do)

1 lb. sugar

1 oz. anise seeds

Heaping tbsp. fennel seeds

Ten drops of anise essence

1 tsp. nutmeg

 

Mix and leave three days (more if you want it stronger, but it gets bitter).  Strain and rebottle.

This makes a traditionally sweet, syrupy product.  There is no reason not to cut the sugar way down, to make it bearable to those with a less sweet tooth.

 

All of Chiapas’ many wonderful fruits are made into liqueurs by similar methods.  Take any fruit, macerate a bit if necessary, and steep in rum or vodka for a few days with a lot of sugar.

 

 

Bonche de Piña

 

1 pineapple

1/2 lb. sugar

1 stick cinnamon

1 piece ginger

10 allspice berries

2 1/2 quarts water

 

Mash the pineapple with water.  Add the other ingredients and cook.

Lace well with pox (or equivalent–any sort of rum is great).  Serve hot.

It is traditional to crumble up panque–pound-cake–into this, but the result is possibly a bit much for most non-Chiapans.

 

 

Bonche de Frutas

This is the fitting end of a Chiapan meal!  There is nothing like warming up with bonche on a cold, drizzly night in front of the Cathedral in San Cristobal.

 

As above, but instead of pineapple, use finely cut up fresh apple, guava, pear, and perhaps a peach; also prunes, raisins, and bits of sugarcane.

The fruits and spices vary a lot.  A cinnamon stick and some apple, guava and prunes are basic.

 

 

Chocolate with Egg

 

2 lb. cacao beans

2 lb. sugar

2 egg yolks

1 tbsp. ground cinnamon

 

Toast the beans on a comal till golden.  Take off the skins.  Grind in a metate with the sugar and cinnamon.  When finely ground, add the yolks, mix well, form into cakes and store.

If you aren’t cooking with a comal over an open fire, oven-roast the beans and grind them fine in a food processor (blenders don’t work for this).

Many people add finely ground almonds along with, or instead of, the yolks.

 

 

Sour atole

A Maya ritual drink.

 

2 lb. maize

1/2 lb. sugar

8 cloves

Cinnamon to taste

Water

 

Soak maize in water for three days, enough to produce some souring.  Then drain, grind, and mix with 3 quarts water.  Add the spices and cook, stirring constantly, till the atole thickens.

 

 

Tascalate

 

This is the traditional chocolate drink of south Mexico.  It is my personal favorite way to absorb chocolate.

 

Mix toasted corn meal, chocolate, achiote paste, and chile powder or cinnamon, to taste, in water.  Drink hot or cold.

This can be sweetened with honey or sugar, but traditionalists (among whom I number myself) prefer it with only the sweetness of the toasted corn meal.  Usually, the chile is used in the unsweetened version, the cinnamon in the sweetened.

 

Local pozole (maize drink) is made with chocolate and is similar.  (Pozole in the southeast is usually just cornmeal and water–not a rich stew as it is in north and west Mexico.)

 

 

TABASCO

 

 

BASICS

 

Pozol or “Chorote”

The staple food of much of Tabasco.  This recipe is given here for ethnographic interest, since few readers will be likely to prepare it.

 

2 lb. dried corn kernels

1/2 lb. cacao seeds, toasted and peeled

 

Cook the corn with lime (calcium oxide, not the citrus fruit) for a few minutes.  Try a grain to see if it peels easily by rubbing in the hands.  If not, continue cooking.  If so, take the corn and wash it several times, then return to flame and simmer.  This corn is known in most of Mexico as “nixtamal” (a Nahuatl word) but in Tabasco as “chegua.”

Grind the chegua.  Grind the chocolate very fine.  Add both to water.  Strain, using the strainer to beat the mix at the same time to make it foam up.  Cook, stirring constantly.  This can be flavored with achiote, vanilla, and the like.  Various tree flowers are used in Tabasco and neighboring regions.  In Tabasco and Chiapas there are flowers that create a marvelous foam when beaten with the chocolate.

 

 

Tostones de Platano

 

Boil plantains, mash, add some flour to hold together.  Let stand 20 minutes.  Flatten into potato-chip-thin cakes and deep-fry.

This makes a great appetizer, used like tortilla chips to spoon up dips.

 

 

Totopos

 

A large corn cake.  Shape masa into a cake a foot across and a finger thick, and grill.  This is a staple food.

 

 

 

TAMALES AND RELATIVES

 

Chaya Dumpling Soup

 

1/2 lb. chaya leaves

2 oz. bacon

1 small onion

1 egg (or 2 egg whites, if watching cholesterol)

1 small bread rolls or 2 slices bread, soaked in milk or water

Grated cheese

1 tbsp tomato paste

Oil

Parsley, and other herbs as desired (thyme and oregano recommended)

Stock (chicken or meat)

Salt and pepper to taste

1 1/2 cups cooked rice

 

Chop the chaya and the onion.  Save some of the onion.  Fry the rest, with the chaya, till soft.

Grind up the bacon, bread, herbs, and the rest of the onion.  Mix with the egg, cheese, tomato paste and chaya-onion mix.  Season and form into balls.

Set the soup stock to boil.  Add the rice and chaya balls.  Warm up.  Or, even better to my taste, you can serve the soup over the rice.

Simpler, commoner variant:  just mix the chaya-onion mix with nixtamal or bread crumbs to make the dumplings.

 

 

Chipilín Tamales (simple folk form)

 

2 lb. masa

1 bunch chipilín

1/2 lb. lard

Salt

Banana leaves

 

Prepare the masa as in the other recipes.  Wash, chop and mix in the chipilín leaves.  Proceed as in other recipes, cooking the masa-chipilín mix first (stirring constantly), then making tamales and steaming them for an hour.

 

 

Chipilín Tamales (festive form)

 

1 lb. masa

1/2 lb. chipilín leaves

1/4 lb. lard

Banana leaves (or functional equivalent)

1 lb. pork

2 tomatoes

1 bunch chives

1 small onion

 

Cook the pork in a little water, chop, and fry with the tomato, chives and onions, finely chopped.

Take the pork stock, stir in the masa, chipilín leaves and lard, with salt to taste.  Cook over low heat.  When thick, stir in the fried ingredients.

Wrap pieces of this mixture in banana leaves.  Steam ca. 20 min.

Serve with tomato sauce.

 

 

Garfish Tacos

 

1 roast garfish (or 1-2 lb. cod, baked till not quite done)

1/2 lb. tomatoes

1/2 lb. onions

Lime or bitter orange, cilantro and tabasco chile to taste.

Tortillas

 

Flake the fish and fry with the chopped tomato and onion.  Frying here means stir-frying or sautéing, not battering and deep-frying as for the Baja California fish tacos that have recently become popular in the United States.

Make tacos, adding the other ingredients to taste.  (The above are the Tabasco traditional add-ins, but of course you can add whatever you find necessary in a fish taco.)

 

 

Garfish Tamales, I

 

1 small roast garfish (2 lb.; or substitute 2 pounds of cod or similar fish)

1 onion

Vinegar

1/2 lb. tomatoes

1 chile güero (a hot yellow fresh chile), or other hot chile, chopped

1 large sprig of epazote

Salt to taste

4 1/2 lb. masa

2 lb. lard

3 bunches of banana leaves (or substitute)

Oil for frying

 

To roast a gar in the true Tabasco manner, pass a stick through the mouth and out the cleaning slit, and roast over a fire.  Failing that, grill or bake.

Flake the fish.

Chop the onion; marinate in the vinegar.  Add the tomato, flaked fish, chile, and epazote sprig.  Season with salt and leave to marinate.

Mix the lard (melted) into the masa.  Add enough water to make a rather thin paste.

Cook this, stirring constantly, until a drop of it put on a banana leaf holds together and flows down the leaf.

Make small tamales: spread a tablespoon of masa on a leaf, add a tablespoon of the fish mix, roll up, tie or fold to seal.  (If lazy, make bigger tamales.)

Steam the tamales for an hour.

 

 

Garfish Tamales, II

 

1 medium-sized garfish

1 lb. tomatoes

2 bell peppers

2 green onions or bunches of chives

1/2 tsp. oregano

2 lb. masa

1/2 lb. lard

2 tbsp. achiote paste

Salt and pepper to taste

Leaves for wrapping

Tabasco chiles (if you can stand them; mild chiles if you can’t)

 

Roast the garfish over charcoal or wood fire.  Skin and bone it.  Chop up a tomato, a bell pepper, and some of the green onion or chives.  Mix the salt, pepper, 1 tbsp. achiote and oregano with this.  Fry all, then add the fish and fry till all is integrated.

Mix the masa with lard and the rest of the achiote, and some salt and soup stock, till it makes a soft, smooth paste.

Carefully add in the fish mixture.  Wrap.

Steam for about two hours.

Make a salsa by chopping together the rest of the tomato, onion, bell pepper, and green onion and the Tabasco chiles.

 

 

Pork mone

Mone is a type of steamed meatball.  This one is traditional in wakes for the dead in the area of Torno Largo.

 

1 lb. ground or well-chopped pork

1 large tomato

1 small onion

1 mild chile

2 hojasanta leaves

Banana leaf

Salt to taste

Lard and water for cooking

 

Cut up the vegetables and one hojasanta leaf.  Mix with the meat and a little lard.

Lay out the other hojasanta leaf on the banana leaf.  Spread the mixture on it, roll up, and tie.

Put in water and simmer for an hour and a half.

Serve with roasted plantains.

Variants can be made using beef, variety meats, etc.

(Several other mone recipes are in Conaculta Oceano 2001c:18.)

 

 

Tamales in the Pot

 

1 lb. pork chops

1 chicken

1 tortilla

3 chiles

3 cloves garlic

4 tomatoes

1 onion

8 or 9 leaves epazote

Oregano, cumin seeds and achiote to taste

3 lb. masa

1 lb. lard

1 bell pepper

6 Tabasco peppers

1/2 lb. pepitas (pumpkin seeds)

Salt

 

Cut the meat into 10 portions.  Boil, putting in the pork first, later the chicken, till almost done.

Brown the tortilla.  Seed and roast the chiles and soak in hot water.  Cut up the garlic, two tomatoes, and half an onion and fry them with the seasonings.  Add the tortilla and chiles and blend, using some of the broth.

Cook the meats a bit more in this soup.

Mix the masa with the rest of the broth, the lard, and some salt.  Cook, stirring constantly.

Roast and peel the bell pepper, roast the rest of the onion, toast the Tabasco peppers, and blend with the rest of the tomatoes, for a salsa.

Toast and grind the pepitas, i.e. make sikil.

Take ten small pots.  Put in each a banana leaf.  Add a bit of the masa.  Put on this the meat mixture.

Bake for 20 minutes.

To serve, turn out on a plate, remove the leaf, and cover with the sauce and ground seeds.

 

 

 

SOUPS

 

Cowboys’ Stew

This uses the dried and salted beef of Tabasco, which cowboys carry for rations while riding the range.  The hot, humid climate depletes the body’s salt in short order, hence the need for extremely salty food.

 

2 lb. tasajo (dried salt beef, like jerky but saltier and a bit moister)

2 plantains

1/4 small winter squash

10 chaya leaves

1 mild green chile

1/4 onion

1 tomato

Parsley, chives, salt to taste

 

Boil the meat till tender.

Add the plantain (peeled and cut up), the squash (in pieces) and the chaya leaves (separately, and in that order, letting them cook a bit before adding the next item).

Roast the chile, onion and tomato.  Peel.

When all is cooked, add the chile, onion, tomato, parsley and chives.  Cook very briefly.

Those not riding the Tabasco range will want to soak the salt out of the meat first–or just substitute fresh meat.

 

 

Fish Soup with Hojasanta, I

 

In rich fish stock, cook a chunk of snook belly meat with one hojasanta leaf.

Tomatoes and Tabasco parsley make good additions.

 

 

Fish Soup with Hojasanta, II

“Mojarra” can be used for this, but it’s better with belly meat or steak of snook.  Any good firm white-fleshed fish will do.

 

1 tomato

1 bell pepper

1 xkatik chile

3 lb. white fish (whole, or fillet with bone and skin)

4 tender hojasanta leaves

6 black peppercorns

Oregano, salt and oil to taste (the oil is optional)

 

Chop very fine, or blend, the tomato and peppers.  Fry for sofrito.  Add water, the fish and hojasanta leaves and the other ingredients.  Boil till fish is just done.

 

 

Fish Soup with Hojasanta, III

Ingredients as above, plus one more tomato and an onion

 

Chop and fry the tomatoes, onion and peppers.  Put with fish in 3 cups water.  Add the spices.  Cut up the leaves and add.

 

This is especially recommended as a truly incomparable and extremely simple dish.  Almost any fish will do; a mixture of seafood is wonderful.  This is a recipe in which hojasanta can be readily replaced by finocchio, in which case you have something similar to Italo-Californian cioppino.

 

 

Fish Stew

 

2 lb. whole fish

3 cloves garlic

1 laurel leaf

3 carrots

3 small summer squash, preferably Mexican gray sq uash

1 tomato

6 small potatoes

1 chayote

1 small head cabbage

1 medium-sized onion

1 bunch cilantro

4 or more chaya leaves

2 small ears sweet corn

Salt to taste

Oil

 

Fillet the fish.  Make a stock by cooking the heads and bones for 20 minutes in water, with salt to taste.  Strain.

Chop the garlic and fry in 2 tablespoons oil.  Mash the tomato (in a blender or the like) and add.

Add in the vegetables, cut into chunks except for the potatoes, which should be whole and unskinned.  Cook till getting soft.

Add the fish fillets; cook for ten more minutes.  Mix in the mashed garlic and tomato.

Serve with white rice.  On the side, serve chopped green chiles, cilantro and onion.

(modified from Conaculta Oceano 2001c:22)

 

 

Garfish soup

 

l large garfish

1 bitter orange

2 plantains

1 tomato

1 onion

1 bell pepper

2 garlic cloves

Oregano, cilantro, achiote, salt and oil to taste

 

Scrub the fish with the bitter orange, squeezing the juice out as you do so.

Set the plantains (peeled and chunked) to boil.  When almost done, add the fish, the tomato (cut up and fried in the oil), and the other ingredients.  Simmer till fish is done.

 

 

Plantain Soup

 

3 plantains

1 tbsp. vinegar

1 tomato

1 bell pepper

2 green onions (scallions)

10 peppercorns

Lard or oil

Salt

Chicken stock

1 small ranch cheese (a fresh, white, rather dry and salty cheese.  Look for queso ranchero at a Hispanic market, or substitute feta)

 

Boil the plantains and mash.

Blend the vinegar, tomato, bell pepper, and onions, and fry.  Grind the peppercorns and add in.

Mix in the plantain and salt.  Fry the paste again.

Mix in a bit of chicken stock to make a thick creamy texture.

Cut up the cheese and top the soup with it.

Variant: By using a vegetable stock, this becomes one of the few really good vegetarian dishes in the Tabasco file.

 

 

Seafood Soup

 

1/2 lb. tomatoes

1 onion

1/2 head garlic

1/2 lb. snook

1/2 lb. crabs in shell

1/2 lb. raw shrimp

1/2 lb. clams

1 tsp. oregano

1 1/2 quarts water

2 bay leaves (or more)

5 tbsp. olive oil

5 white peppercorns

Few capers and green olives

 

Blend the tomato, onion and garlic. Fry in the oil.

Add the water and boil.

Add the sea food and seasonings.  Cook till done.

When cooked, add in the capers and olives.

Serve hot with quartered limes on the side.

(It would be possible to shell the shrimp and crab first and make a stock with the shells.)

 

 

Shrimp Soup

 

In stock made by boiling many shrimps and shrimp shells, etc., cook shrimp, bits of chile, summer squash, and herbs (parsley, Tabasco parsley, cilantro, others to taste).

 

 

Snook Stew

 

4 large steaks of snook

4 garlic cloves

Oil or lard as necessary

1 small onion

1 bell pepper

1 tomato

2 hardboiled eggs (optional)

2 leaves of Tabasco parsley

1 tbsp. vinegar

Croutons (made from 8 slices of bread, cut up, toasted; optional)

Salt and pepper to taste

 

Boil a quart and a half of water.  Add the fish; cook for five minutes, take it out, remove bones and skin.

Cut up, and fry, the garlic, onion, bell pepper, and tomato.

Add these to the water and boil.  Return the fish and seasonings to same and cook five more minutes.  Slice the eggs, add, cook five more minutes.  Serve with the croutons.

 

 

Soup for the Bridegroom

 

The Moors brought pilaf to Spain.  In Spanish it became known as a “sopa seca,” literally “dry soup.”  This is a Mexican development of the recipe.  The Moorish flavor–chicken with clove, cinnamon, pepper and so on–has been supplemented by characteristic Tabasco ingredients.

 

1 lb. rice

Breast meat, and (if you want) liver and gizzard, from 1 chicken

1 large tomato, cut up

1 bell pepper, cut up

3 garlic cloves, crushed

1 tbsp. cilantro, cut up

1 tbsp. Tabasco parsley, cut up fine

1 clove

10 peppercorns

1 stick cinnamon

1 sprig oregano (or 1 tsp.)

1 tbsp. achiote paste

1 tbsp. vinegar

Stock

Lard or oil

Salt to taste

 

Wash and soak the rice.

Boil the other ingredients and chop fine.

Fry all with the soaked (but uncooked) rice.  Add stock, to 1″ above the level of the rice mix.  Simmer till rice is done.

 

 

 

SEAFOOD

 

 

Bobo

“Choco” dialect for “catfish.”

 

1 large catfish

1 lime

2 leaves of hojasanta

4 leaves chaya

3 shallots

1 tomato

3 Tabasco chiles

1 garlic clove

Salt

Leaves of banana or the like, to wrap

 

Clean the catfish.  Rub with salt and lime.  Put on the hojasanta leaves.  Chop finely the chaya.  Blend the garlic, shallots, tomato and chiles.  Wrap all in the hojasanta leaves, rub with some lard, and wrap in the banana leaves.  Bake in moderate oven (350-375o) for half an hour.

 

 

Ceviche

 

2 lb. freshly caught fish (raw)

4 limes

1 tbsp salt

2 tomatoes

1 onion

1/4 cup cilantro

1 Serrano chile

1 tbsp olive oil

10 olives

2 avocados, sliced

 

Cut up the fish.  Cover with the lime juice and salt and let stand in a cool place for 4 or 5 hours.  Chop the vegetables finely.  Mix them and the other ingredients.

Ceviche is, of course, a universal Mexican delicacy; this is a Tabasco variant.  Any fresh sea food can be used (the more the better–a contrast in textures is desirable).  However, be absolutely certain the sea food is really fresh and from uncontaminated water.  Pollution has rendered Mexican seafood very dangerous when raw.  Sadly, Tabasco is one of the worst-polluted areas.

 

 

Drunken Fish

 

1 tomato

2 Serrano chiles (remove seeds and membrane)

4 allspice berries, powdered

Oregano to taste

2 or more bay leaves

1 glass of sherry

3 tablespoons vinegar

1/2 stick butter

1 onion

3 garlic cloves

Salt to taste

1 large snook or other fish (whole or in steaks)

 

Blend the vegetables.  Add the wine, vinegar, bay leaves and spices, and a little butter.  Marinate the fish in this for half an hour.  Then add the rest of the butter, and the fish, and simmer (or bake) in a covered dish till sauce is mostly absorbed.

 

 

Fish in Adobo

Any firm but delicate white-fleshed fish is good for this.

“Adobo” is cognate with French “daube.”  It refers to a cooking process in which pieces of meat or fish are highly spiced and then simmered, or cooked in a casserole.

 

1 bream or similar fish, ca. 2-3 lb.

3 limes

1 onion

6 garlic cloves

10 cumin seeds

1 piece achiote (cube of paste or small bag of powder)

2 cloves

1/2 tsp oregano

8 peppercorns

2 oz. vinegar

1/2 cup oil

 

Clean the fish.  Slash diagonally.  Marinate for an hour in water with juice of one lime.  Then scrub the fish.  Blend the onion and garlic; add the achiote, and the spices, powdered.  Mix these with the oil and juice of the other 2 limes, and enough vinegar to make a paste.  Rub this over the fish.  Let stand one hour, then bake at 350o, basting with the sauce occasionally.

 

 

Fish in Hojasanta Leaves

 

2 lb. seabass or similar fish

1 tomato

2 (or more) laurel leaves

1 onion

1 bell pepper

2 tsp. oil

Parsley leaves

Cilantro leaves

Tabasco parsley leaves

Chipilín leaves

Hojasanta leaves

Pepper, oregano and salt to taste

 

Rub the fish with the pepper, oregano and salt.  Add the tomato, bell pepper, and onion, all cut into strips.  Add the chipilín, chopped, and the oil.

Wrap in the hojasanta leaves.  Wrap the whole bundle in foil.   Bake at 350o till done (20-30 min.).

 

 

Fish in Paper (a simpler variant of the above)

 

For six persons:

6 pieces fish

6 cloves garlic

6 leaves of hojasanta

Salt and pepper to taste

10 green chiles

1 further clove garlic

1 slice of onion

 

Crush the garlic and spread it on the fish.

Roast the chiles and blend with the garlic clove and onion slice.  Briefly fry the mix in a little oil.  Spread this too on the fish.

Wrap each fillet in an hojasanta leaf, wrap the result in aluminum foil (or cooking paper), and bake at 350o.

 

Fish with Tabasco Parsley

 

1 fish or fillet, ca. 2 lb.

1 lime

Oil

1 large bunch of Tabasco parsley

3 peppercorns

1 garlic clove

1 cinnamon stick

1 slice of breaad

Salt and pepper to taste

Water to cook

 

Wash the fish and rub with lime, salt and pepper.  Cook in moderate oven, covering with the Tabasco parsley, pepper, garlic, cinnamon and moistened bread, blended, and fried in a little oil.

This dish is perfectly good with ordinary parsley.  Indeed, it is similar to dishes of Spain and other parts of Mexico that use ordinary parsley.

(Conaculta Oceano 2001c:31

 

Garfish in Chirmol

If you can’t get a garfish–or maybe even if you can–you might try this with any other firm-fleshed fish, whole or filleted.

 

1 garfish of ca. 3 lb.

3 thin tortillas

4 garlic cloves

1 large tomato

5 shallots

3 dried chiles

1 piece achiote (small cake or cube, or a small bag of achiote powder)

5 allspice berries

1/2 lb. masa

1/4 cup lard or oil

1 bunch epazote

A little oregano

Salt

 

Wash and clean the fish.

Toast the chiles; remove seeds and membranes.  Toast and crush the tortillas.  Roast the tomato, onion and garlic.  Fry and mash these together.  Grind the chiles and spices, and mix in.  Simmer to thicken.  Add the fish and enough water to cover.  Thicken the soup with the masa, add the lard, epazote, and oregano, and cook.

(Conaculta Oceano 2001c:32)

 

Fish with Tabasco Parsley

 

1 fish or fillet, ca. 2 lb.

1 lime

Oil

1 large bunch of Tabasco parsley

3 peppercorns

1 garlic clove

1 cinnamon stick

1 slice bread, moistened

Salt and pepper to taste

Water to cook

 

Wash the fish and rub with lime, salt and pepper.  Cook in moderate oven, covering with the Tabasco parsley, pepper, garlic, cinnamon and moistened bread, blended, and fried in a little oil.

This dish is perfectly good with ordinary parsley.  Indeed, it is similar to dishes of Spain and other parts of Mexico that use ordinary parsley.

(modified from Conaculta Oceano 2001c:31

 

Garfish in Chirmol

If you can’t get a garfish–or maybe even if you can–you might try this with any other firm-fleshed fish, whole or filleted.

 

1 garfish of ca. 3 lb.

3 thin tortillas

4 garlic cloves

1 large tomato

5 shallots

3 dried chiles

1 small cube achiote, or achiote powder made up into paste

1 tsp allspice

1/2 lb. masa

1/4 cup lard or oil

1 bunch epazote

A little oregano

Salt

 

Wash and clean the fish.

Toast the chiles; remove seeds and membranes.  Toast and crush the tortillas.  Roast the tomato, onion and garlic.  Fry and mash these together.  Grind the chiles and spices, and mix in.  Simmer to thicken.  Add the fish and enough water to cover.  Thicken the soup with the masa, add the lard, epazote, and oregano, and cook.

 

 

Garfish in green sauce

 

1 garfish, ca. 3 lb.–or any other fish; this will work for anything, and almost any firm white-fleshed fish is better than a garfish unless you are a loyal Tabasqueño.

This recipe is a much-transformed descendent of a medieval Hispano-Moorish delicacy (see Introduction).  One wonders what the refined gourmets of old Grenada or Cordova would have made of a garfish—a living fossil biologically, and looks and tastes like it.

 

4 oz. chipilín leaves

4 oz. chaya leaves

2 oz. Tabasco chile leaves

1 chile xkatik

1 onion

5 cloves garlic

4 tsp. lard or oil

water

1/2 lb. masa

 

Wash the gar and cut in pieces.

Blanch and blend the leaves.  Take a slice off the onion and one from the chile; reserve for a minute.  Blend the remainder of these two items with the leaves.  Put the blended vegetables in pot with the gar, add salt (and water if necessary), and cook over a fairly low fire.

Fry the slice of onion and the slice of bell pepper.  Add to the rest.

Stir in the masa.  Cook till the whole turns from green to yellow; this should indicate doneness.

Tabasco chile leaves are widely but uncommonly used as a vegetable in Mexico.  (I have also seen them as a vegetable in parts of East Asia.)

 

 

Garfish Roasted

Possibly not the world’s most sophisticated recipe, but one of the very commonest in use in Tabasco.

 

1 garfish

5 shallots or onions

20 Tabasco chiles

Salt

2 limes

 

Roast the gar over coals.  Make a salsa of the other ingredients.

 

 

Piguas roasted

Recall that piguas are giant crayfish-like prawns.

 

2 lb. piguas, peeled

Juice of bitter orange

Salt, tabasco chiles, garlic, pepper.

 

Blend the condiments.  Paint the piguas with it; leave half an hour.  Cook in a covered pan or casserole dish till they become dry and golden.

 

 

Piguas with Garlic

See note on piguas, above.

 

4 large piguas

10 garlic cloves

10 ground peppercorns

2 limes

Salt to taste

 

Shell the piguas.  Mix the other ingredients and marinate the piguas half an hour.  Proceed as in previous recipe.  Cook very quickly.

This should be intensely garlicky.

Any large prawn or langostino will do as substitute.

 

 

Shrimp in Escabeche

 

2 lb. fresh shrimp

1/2 cup olive oil

4 tomatillos or tomatoes

6 yellow chiles, chopped

1 large onion

10 black peppercorns

6 laurel leaves

6 allspice leaves (if you can’t find any, use some ground allspice)

1/2 tbsp oregano

1 cup vinegar

10 garlic cloves

 

Peel the shrimp.  Fry in a bit of oil.  Add the other ingredients (except the vinegar), the spices ground, the leaves and vegetables chopped fine or less so according to taste.  Fry a bit more, then add the vinegar and boil till seasoned (a very brief time).

 

 

Shrimp in Green Sauce

That medieval green sauce again.

 

2 lb. shrimps

30 chaya leaves

4 garlic cloves

1 small onion

1 lb. masa

1/2 lb. lard

Leaves of chipilín

Salt to taste

 

Shell and clean the shrimp.

Blend the vegetables and cook with the shrimp.

Meanwhile, mix the masa with water to make a paste.  Mix into the shrimp.  Then mix in the lard and salt.  Cook.

 

 

Snook Casserole

 

Large snook (6 lb.)

1 laurel leaves

1 lime

Salt

2 onions

10 allspice berries

2 cloves

2 tomatoes

6 tbsp olive oil

Parsley, 1 bunch, chopped

1 jalapeno chile, cut up

2 tbsp lard

 

Boil the fish briefly with one laurel leaf, half a lime, salt, onion, allspice and cloves.  Pour off and save the water.  Fry the fish in a little oil in the same dish.  In a separate pan, take 4 tsbp oil, a chopped onion, then add the tomato, roasted and mashed.  When fried, add chopped parsley and 2 tbsp of the fish broth.  Add the fish and chile.  Put in a pan greased with butter.  Breadcrumbs can be added on top.  Bake for 10 minutes.

 

 

Snook steaks

 

2 lb. snook steaks

2 limes

1 1/2 tomatoes

2 sweet red peppers or, better, mild and flavorful red chiles

1 onion

Butter

Olive oil

Bottled chile pepper sauce (Mexican or Caribbean) if you can stand it

Allspice

Oil for frying

 

Season the steaks with lemon and salt.  Fry briefly in a little oil.

Slice the vegetables.  Fry in oil with chile sauce and ground allspice to taste.

Cover the steaks with this, wrap in aluminum foil and bake for 7 minutes.

 

 

Snook Stew

 

2 onions, sliced

3 garlic cloves, chopped

2 cups tomato, blended

1 bunch parsley, chopped

1 bunch oregano

1 bunch marjoram

Salt and pepper

2 cups water

2 lb. snook

 

Blend the vegetables and herbs, and fry.  Add to the water.  When they have boiled five minutes, add the snook, cut in pieces.  Cover and simmer 15 minutes.

 

 

Sole

 

1 sole, ca. 1 lb

3 tomatoes

1 onion

Cilantro

2 habanero chiles

Juice of 2 bitter oranges

Salt

 

Clean the sole, rub with salt and pepper, and grill.  Make the other ingredients into a sauce by chopping finely and adding the salt and orange juice.

 

 

Stuffed Snook Fillet

Wrap a thin snook fillet around shrimp, octopus bits, parsley.  Cover with local white cheese, crumbled.  Mask with a sauce of onion, tomato and chile, chopped and fried.

 

 

 

MEAT

 

 

Barbecued Ribs a la Tabasco

 

2 lb. pork rib slab

2 bitter oranges

Salt to taste

4 oz. black pepper

1 head garlic

1 onion

1 clove (or more)

1 pinch oregano (or more)

 

Marinate the slab in the juice of the oranges, and salt, for 8 hours.

Then mix in the other ingredients and marinate overnight.

Bake in oven till done.

Traditionally a dish of Jalapa, Tabasco, served with thick corn cakes of green corn.

(modified from Conaculta Oceano 2001c:40)

 

 

Chanchac

Tabasco variant of a traditional Maya dish (Ts’anchak; see Yucatan section) made with deer when available.

 

2 lb. stewing beef or venison

2 oz. chives

2 oz. cilantro

2 oz. Tabasco parsley (or ordinary parsley)

1 small onion

1 bell pepper or mild chile

2 garlic cloves

3-5 whole allspice berries (or more to taste)

 

Cut the meat into cubes, for soup, and boil till meat is tender.  Chop the vegetables.  Add these and the seasonings to the soup and cook till just done.  Eat with relish of chopped cilantro, onion and hot chile marinated in lime juice.

 

 

Chile pepper stuffed with meat

 

1 lb. lean pork

2 garlic cloves

6 cloves

2 onions

2 oz. oil

15 black peppercorns, ground

1 stick cinnamon

3 tbsp vinegar

1/2 tsp sugar

2 oz. raisins

5 egg whites, beaten to meringue

Ca. 5 bell peppers to stuff

1 bell pepper or mild large chile

1 large tomato

1/2 tsp oregano

Small bit of achiote

 

Boil the meat with one of the garlic cloves and the 6 cloves.  Take out, saving the water.  Mince the meat fine.  Chop the other garlic clove, and one onion, very fine and fry.  Add in the meat.  Grind the spices and add, along with the vinegar and sugar.  Mix these and the raisins into the meat.

Roast, peel and seed the stuffing peppers.  Stuff them, roll in the egg white and a bit of flour, and fry.

Meanwhile, make a soup of the water by blending up some onion, bell pepper, tomato and oregano, frying, adding to the water, and seasoning to taste with achiote or the like.  If desired, add masa to thicken.

Pour this sauce over the peppers and finish cooking (very briefly; just warm them up together).

If you don’t want to fry these, you can treat these as they would be treated in the Near East: leave off the egg whites and bake these in a casserole dish.

(In this case, they are baked in the sauce.)  This is healthier and, to our taste, better.

This is originally a Near Eastern dish, made with Mediterranean vegetables.  The Spanish brought it to Mexico and adapted it to local ingredients.  Variants of it are found all over Mexico.

 

 

Chirmol

 

Meat (beef, pork, deer…), marinated in bitter orange juice, garlic and salt 2 hours

5 dried ancho chiles

2 tomatoes

1 onion

1 piece achiote

8 allspice kernels

10 black peppercorns

1 pinch oregano

5 toasted tortillas

6 tbsp lard

1 spring epazote

8 roasted garlic cloves

 

Briefly roast the meat over charcoal or flame.  Then add to water and boil.

Vein and seed the chiles.  Roast these, the tomato and the onion; peel.  Blend.  Fry these in the lard.  Grind up the other ingredients.  Add these and the boiling stock from the meat.  Add the epazote.  Simmer till somewhat thick.  Add the meat and serve.

The Tabasco version of a Maya classic.  No doubt some form of it—without the black pepper and garlic—was central to feasts in Palenque and Yaxchilan in their glory days.

(modified from Conaculta Oceano 2001c:43)

 

 

Chocolomo

“Choco lomo” is a “mestiza-Maya” name: choko means “hot” in Maya, while “lomo” is the Spanish for “loin roast.”  This is basically a Yucatan dish (see Yucatan section), but has spread all over southeast Mexico.

 

2 lb. beef, cut up

1 beef heart, cut up

1 beef brain

1 beef kidney, prepared (see below)

2 garlic cloves

1 purple onion

1 bell pepper

20 black peppercorns

1 tsp. oregano

2 tsp. vinegar

1 tomato

 

For salsa:

1 bunch radishes

Cilantro

White onion

Bitter orange juice (or lime juice or vinegar)

 

Prepare the kidney: soak overnight in refrigerator; discard water; cut up the kidney, trimming off and discarding all membranes and white fibrous parts.

Boil the meats with the garlic, onion (quartered), bell pepper, tomato, and peppercorns.  When meat is close to done, add the oregano and vinegar.

Add the brains toward the very end of the cooking process, and simmer a while.  (If cooked too long or on too hot a fire, they fall apart.)

For the salsa: cut the ingredients fine.  Add the juice.

Kidneys are hard to get and rarely prepared now, in Mexico or the United States.  This is a pity; they are very good if prepared correctly.

 

 

Green Sauce (for use on any boiled meat)

 

Cilantro

Chipilín (or alfalfa sprouts or pea tendrils)

Chile leaves

Tender hojasanta leaves

1 onion

2 tomatillos

1 bell pepper

2 garlic cloves

Meat

Masa to thicken

 

Use equal quantities of all the leaves–weight of each about equal to the weight of the onion.  Blend all the ingredients.  Add to the broth of whatever meat is being used.  Cook, stirring to prevent sticking and burning.  Cut up the meat and add, allowing it to boil once more.  Serve immediately, or it may lose the green color.

Tabasco or regular parsley can be added, or other green leaves that work well.

It is desirable to blanch the chipilin before blending up.

 

 

Meatballs

 

2 lb. beef

1 lb. pork

1 tomato

1 onion

l bell pepper

2 garlic cloves

2 eggs

4 leaves of Tabasco parsley

1 ball of masa (i.e. about half a cup)

1 piece of achiote (cube of paste, or small bag of powder)

1 tbsp viinegar

Salt and pepper to taste

 

Grind the meats (or just use ground meat from the store) and mix with the garlic, pepper, salt and vinegar.  Leave a while.  Meanwhile, blend the tomato, onion, bell pepper, garlic and salt.  Fry this in lard or oil.  Add a pint of water to form a broth.  Add the achiote and masa.  When boiling, mix two raw eggs with the meat mixture and forming the meatballs.  Add these to the broth, with the parsley leaves (whole, separate).  Boil about half an hour.

 

 

Planked Pork Leg

 

1 pork leg (fresh ham), ca. 6 lb.

1/2 lb. Spanish-style ham

1/4 lb. prunes, soaked and mashed

1/4 glass vinegar

1 pint red wine

1 tomato

1 onion

1 bell pepper

1/2 head garlic

10 black peppercorns

1 spring thyme (or a good deal of powdered thyme)

1 bay leaf

8 allspice berries, or 1 tsp allspice powder

Marjoram, salt, and cinnamon to taste

 

Remove fat from the leg.  Chop or blend up the other ingredients and rub into the leg, sticking it with a fork to allow the spices to penetrate.  Bake.  Then sprinkle with sugar and roast in a hot fire.

The original recipe called for sodium nitrate to preserve the pork in Tabasco’s tropical climate.  No need for that now.

 

 

 

Tabasco Stew

 

1 lb. stewing beef

1 lb. beef ribs

1 lb. soup bones

1/2 head of garlic

1 bunch fresh oregano

1 tomato

1 bell pepper

1 onion

1 bunch cilantro

2 ears of sweet corn

2 chayotes

2 macal tubers

1 manioc tuber

1 summer squash

2 plantains

6 chaya leaves

Salt

 

Cut the meat in pieces.  Put in plenty of water and boil.  Add salt and garlic.  Skim the broth.  When the meat is tender, chop and fry up the garlic, oregano, tomato, bell pepper and onion; peel and cut up the other vegetables; add all to the soup.  Cook till nearly done, then add the cilantro and simmer a bit longer.  Serve with white rice.

Macal is a Maya root crop similar to taro.  Potatoes are perfectly good in this in place of macal and manioc.

 

 

Tasajo with Chaya and Plantains

 

1 lb. tasajo (dried salted meat)

4 oz. chaya

2 plantains, peeled and chunked

3 tomatoes

1 bell pepper

1 small onion

1 bitter orange

Oil for frying

Water

 

Soak the meat in several changes of water.  Then boil it till it softens.

Separately boil the chaya and plantains.

Cut the meat finely, as for hash, and fry till browning.  Add the tomato, pepper and onion, all finely cut up, and then the chaya and plantain, also finely cut up.

Add the juice of the bitter orange.  Cook a little longer.  (The earlier in the process you add the orange juice, the less orange flavor it retains but the more it adds sourness to the whole.  Thus, you can vary the final product to taste.)

 

 

 

POULTRY

 

 

Black-bellied Whistling-duck

 

2 ducks

2 garlic cloves, mashed

1 tomato

1 onion

1 Tabasco chile

10 peppercorns

1 cloves

Oregano

Salt to taste

1 cube achiote

Juice of 1 bitter orange

3 tbsp lard

 

Boil the ducks with salt and garlic till they become slightly tender.

Chop the vegetables and grind the spices.  In a casserole dish, heat the achiote till it softens, then add the orange juice.  Add the lard, fry the other ingredients.  Add the ducks; cover and simmer till they are golden.

As noted above, use ordinary duckling for this.

 

 

Polish chicken

A festival dish in Tabasco.  The connection with Poland seems pure fantasy, though a tenuous connection via the cabbage and tomato sauce may be implied.

 

2 chicken breasts

A quarter of a cabbage head, chopped fine

1 garlic clove, chopped

Oil

3 tomatoes

2 peppercorns

2 cloves

1 (or more) laurel leaf

1 sprig of thyme, or 1 tsp ground or crushed thyme

1 small can of chipotle chiles

1/2 onion, sliced

Salt to taste

Tomato sauce–just blend up a tomato and spice it

 

Fry the chicken, cabbage and garlic until lightly browned.

Blend the tomato, spices, and chipotle.  Add to the chicken.  Add the onion, and salt to taste.  Cook dry, then add the tomato puree and cook till done.  Serve with tortilla chips.

 

 

 

VEGETABLES

 

 

Chaya Salad

 

2 lb. chaya

1/4 onion, sliced

Salt, pepper and lime to taste.

 

Boil and cut up the chaya.  Mix with the other ingredients.

One can add other vegetables, and/or herbs.

 

 

Chaya with Squash

Special recognition for a superior vegetarian dish.

 

1 lb. chaya

1 lb. Mexican summer squash

1 chopped onion

3 chopped tomatoes

1 cup sweet corn kernels

Salt, pepper and chile to taste

 

Cook the chaya and chop.  Cut up the squash.  Fry the chaya, squash, onion, tomato and corn for about 20 minutes or till well cooked.

(modified from Conaculta Oceano 2001c:48)

 

 

Chayote Stew

 

3 chayotes

1/2 onion

1 garlic clove

1 tomato

1 chile

Bunch of cilantro

Oil

 

Wash and peel the chayotes.  Cut in quarters.

Heat oil in a pan.  Add the onion, garlic and tomato.  Fry a while, then add the chayote.

Cover and cook till the chayote is done, then add the chopped chile and cilantro.

 

 

Chaya with Plantain

 

1 lb. pork rib roast or other cut, for boiling

Chaya to taste (1/2 to 1 lb.)

4 plantains

3 tomatoes

1/2 onion

Achiote to taste (1-2 tbsp. recommended)

 

Cook the pork.  When tender, add the chaya and plantain (cut up).

Cut up the onion and tomato and fry, adding in the achiote.  Then add to the meat and boil.

A rib slab is good for this dish in south Mexico, where pork is meaty and not always tender.  Americans will probably want to save the rib slab for barbecue and use a tougher, more boiling-oriented cut here.

 

 

Chayote Torta

 

10 chayotes

5 eggs

2 oz. raisins

2 tbsp. butter

1 cup lard (this can be cut down, or even left out, for a low-fat version)

2 cups sugar

Salt to taste

 

Boil, peel and mash the chayotes.

Mix the other ingredients into this paste.

Bake in a greased mold at 350o for about 20 minutes (until browning on top).

“Torta” is cognate with French “torte,” but the Spanish word means several quite different things: sandwiches, omelets, and baked egg dishes like the following.  These egg dishes are of Moorish origin (compare the Persian kuku dishes).

 

 

Guacamole a la Tabasco

 

2 avocados

4 hot chiles

Juice of 1 bitter orange or 2 limes

2 tbsp olive oil (optional)

1 onion, chopped fine

6 peppercorns, ground

 

Peel and slice the avocados.  Roast, peel, seed and mash the chiles.  Mix these with the bitter orange juice, and then mix in all the other ingredients.  Serve, garnished with raw onion rings and the like.

 

 

 

DESSERTS

 

Atole

A version of the standard Mexican corn drink.  Various atoles and pozoles are the staple food of much of Tabasco.

 

1 lb. masa

3 pints milk, scalded

3 pints water

Pinch of cinnamon or anise

Sugar to taste

 

Dissolve the masa in the water.  Strain through a colander.  Add the milk and spices.  Simmer, stirring constantly, for 10 minutes.  If too thick, add water to dilute.

This can be made with chocolate also: dissolve one tablet of Tabasco chocolate in the atole as it cooks.

Variants can be made with cooked corn meal or sweet corn.

 

 

Champurrado

 

1/2 lb. masa

3 pints water

1/2 lb. brown sugar

4 oz. chocolate

 

Make as for atole.

 

 

Chaya and Plantain Upside-Down Cake

 

1 1/2 cups butter

2 1/2 cups sugar

2 plantains

8 pitted prunes

5 eggs

2 cups flour

3 tsp. baking powder

1 can evaporated milk

Vanilla

3 cups cooked and chopped chaya

 

In a cake mold, put 1/2 cup butter, 1 cup sugar, slices of plantain, and prunes.

Beat a cup of butter with the rest of the sugar, mixing in the eggs one by one.

Mix the flour and baking powder.  Mix this into the above.  While mixing it in, add slowly the milk (mix the vanilla into the milk) and the chaya.

Turn the mix into the mold.

Bake at 325o for 1 hour.  Let stand till cool.  Turn out onto a plate.

If worried about cholesterol, you can use half as much butter, and 7-8 egg whites (discarding the yolks).  Do not, however, use margarine or oil instead of butter.  It won’t work.

 

 

Chocolate Made at Home

This recipe is offered for interest.  It’s too much work for a result that is inevitably inferior to good commercial chocolate (unless you have industrial equipment).  It would almost be easier, and certainly more fun, to go to Tabasco and get chocolate there.  It is sold there in many forms, from raw seeds to pure bitter chocolate to the elaborate, spiced chocolate tablets described here.  I prefer the straight bitter chocolate.

This recipe is a standard way to make the chocolate tablets typical of Tabasco.  However, for real chocolate tablets, you have to ferment the beans, and that is an expert technical job out of the reach of the ordinary cook.  You can get raw beans in Central American markets and try this yourself, roasting the beans like almonds in an oven, till they are just brown.  Raw beans are hard to work with–the line between too raw and too burnt is a fine one, and only an expert can roast them properly.  Also, they have a different taste from processed chocolate.

 

2 lb. cacao beans (seeds of the cacao tree)

1 lb. English-style biscuits (similar to nonsalty crackers or not-very-sweet cookies)

4 oz. almonds

1 1/2 lb. sugar

4 oz. cinnamon sticks

5 egg yolks

 

Heat a griddle.  On this, heat the cinnamon and then pulverize it.  Then toast the cacao beans until browned.  Peel and grind up.  Soak the almonds in hot water, peel, and toast till golden.

Blend the yolks, almonds, sugar and biscuits.

Mix all the above and pass through mill again.

Form into the characteristic Mexican chocolate tablets: flat disks 2″ to 3″ across and about 1/8″ to 1/4″ thick.

Break up one of these and mix with hot water, for cocoa.

 

 

Cocoyol fruits

The hard, sour fruits of a local palm tree.  They are only marginally edible even after this treatment, but they were often the only fruit around; they crop in the worst droughts, and were a famine staple in the old days.  They remain popular.  This product is thus of solely local appeal, but is added for ethnographic interest.

 

50 cocoyoles

4 cones of raw sugar (i.e. about 2 lb.)

 

Wash the cocoyoles a long time.  Cook in water.  Add the sugar and cook down to a thick syrup.

 

 

Grapefruit Conserve

 

6 lb. grapefruit

3 or more lb. sugar

 

Grate the peel, separating the white inner part.  Remove, but save, the membranes, seeds, etc., saving the pulp and juice.  Mix these latter with the sugar.

Boil these.  Put the white peel, membranes and seeds in a cheesecloth bag and cook with the rest until the syrup starts to thicken.  Then take out this bag and squeeze the juice out of it, back into the pot.

Add the peel and cook 10 minutes.

Put into jars, seal and label.

If properly canned (check that the seal is tight) this will last three months.  Of course, you can store it in the refrigerator for quite a long time without an airtight seal.

 

 

Guava ears

 

2 lb. lemon guavas (guayavas)

2 lb. sugar

Juice of 3 limes

1-3 fig leaves

 

Cut the guavas in half and remove the seeds.  As this is done, put each guava half in the lime juice, to prevent browning and add flavor.

Meanwhile, prepare a syrup: boil a quart of water with the fig leaves.  (These make the syrup thicker and stickier, but can be dispensed with.)  Then add the sugar.

When this syrup thickens, add the guava halves.  Cook down till syrup is thick, stirring frequently.

(cf. Conaculta Oceano 2001c:52, which adds 4 cinnamon sticks)

 

 

Monkey Ears

 

Same recipe as above, but using small wild papayas instead of guavas, and panela (Mexican brown sugar) instead of white sugar.  The fig leaves provide an enzyme that tenderizes the papayas.  The cinnamon can be omitted.  This is a very characteristic Tabasco sweet.  The wild papayas are sharp and sour, counteracting the sweetness of the syrup.

 

 

Orange Cake

 

1 lb. cake flour

Grated peel (zest) from 1 orange

Zest of 1 lime

2 tsp baking powder

10 oz. butter

6 oz. sugar

4 eggs + 4 egg whites

1/4 tsp salt

6 oz orange juice

Orange marmelade

1 packet of confectioners powdered sugar

 

Mix the flour, zests and baking powder.

Separately, beat the butter and sugar until creamy.  Add in the whole eggs one by one.

Beat in the flour, salt, and orange juice, adding alternately, little by little.

Grease two cake molds and pour in the batter.  Bake 45 minutes at 350o.

Use the orange marmelade between the two layers.

Top with meringue of the beaten egg whites and powdered sugar (or any other frosting desired).

 

 

Tascalate

 

3 large tortillas, without salt

2 tablets of Tabasco chocolate

Cinamon stick

Water

Small amount of achiote powder or dissolved paste (optional, but usual)

Sugar or chile powder to taste

 

Toast the tortillas in low heat until very crisp but not brown.  (Beware–they go from moist to burned with almost no intermediate stage.  Watch them like a hawk.  In South Mexico they are often just sun-dried.)  Then crush them with the chocolate and cinnamon.  Add to water and sweeten to taste.  This can be drunk as is, but is better cooked a minute and cooled.

An easier variant, universal in Chiapas and southwest Mexico, uses toasted corn meal.

The combination of chocolate and chile is traditional, and I much prefer chile powder to sugar in this recipe.  Tascalate is a very refreshing drink, and making it too sweet ruins it.

 

 

 

 

Categories
Articles

Mayaland Cuisine: Yucatan

MAYALAND CUISINE

E. N. ANDERSON

 

Dedicated to

Doña Elsi, Doña Zenaida, Doña Noemy

Doña Aurora, Doña Elide and Don Felix,

and all the other teachers

 

 

Table of Contents

 

Yucatan and Quintana Roo                               3

 

Campeche                                                       85

 

Chiapas                                                           97

 

Tabasco                                                           128

 

 

 

Preface

This work consists of the recipes lying behind the book K’oben by Amber O’Connor and E. N. Anderson (Rowman and Littlefield 2017).  Originally, the present work (Mayaland Cuisine) had a large component of regular text, introducing and explaining the Maya world and Maya food.  All that material was updated, fleshed out, and incorporated in K’oben.  The recipes, however, were very thinly represented, so here they all are together.  Enjoy!

Gene Anderson, Riverside, CA, 2016

 

YUCATAN AND QUINTANA ROO

Culinary Specifics

An important characteristic of Yucatecan cuisine is that onions and garlic often roasted.  The distinctive taste of thoroughly roasted and mashed onion or garlic is one of the real “signature flavors” of Yucatan.  Traditionally, they are roasted over an open flame till the skins begin to blacken and the inside begins to soften.  It should be soft enough to mash easily—no more than that.  In the kitchen, the broiler does the best job.  You can also bake them, or roast them in a covered frying pan.

The other recipe chapters of this book are arranged in a traditional cookbook fashion, but I have taken the liberty of arranging this chapter according to local thinking, since it makes the task of explaining everything a good deal easier.  I begin with basic maize staple foods.  Then follows a section for recados.  Then come relishes and salsas.  Then tamales and related foods.  Only then do I move on to the traditional soups, fish, flesh, fowl, desserts, and drinks.

Critical to Yucatecan food are recados (from Spanish recaudo, “collection”), called xak’, “mix,” in Maya.  These are homemade or bought in the market in bulk or in cubes.  These cubes are sometimes found in North American markets that have a Caribbean clientele, but should be avoided unless you know your spices well.  In the United States, cubes of recado and of achiote paste are sometimes adulterated or stale.  Thus, in the following recipes, when the recipe calls for a cube, use a cubic inch of homemade recado.

A special section of the following is devoted to recados.

 

One recipe needs to be here, as it is basic to tamales and much else that follows:

 

Maya Lard

Take fat cuts of pork.  Chop fine and fry over low heat, adding some water.  Stir to avoid sticking.  Or: cut into larger chunks and bake (adding water) in moderate oven till the drippings are rendered out and the meat is quite dry.  In either case, enough water must be added so that the meat juices do not cook out or dry up.  The goal is a mix of fat and meat juices, not just fat.

 

 

BASIC MAIZE FOODS

 

Bread of the Milpa

 

This is a ritual dish for the Food of the Milpa (janlikool) and Praying for Rain (ch’a’ chaak) ceremonies.  The number 13, the masa, and the sikil were all sacred to the ancient Maya.  The thirteen layers represent the thirteen layers of the cosmos.  These breads are sometimes marked with sacred designs in achiote-colored oil or stock, as well as with sikil.

The dish is included here for ethnographic interest.  The culinary interest is slight.

 

2 lb. masa

2 cups cooked beans (black-eyed peas or black beans) (optional)

6 oz. sikil

Salt

Banana leaves

 

Make thick tortillas of the masa.  Stack them with layers of sikil and beans in between, till they are seven tortillas high (13 layers in all).  Wrap in banana leaves and cook in pib.

 

Variant:  Piim waj

Maya for “thick corncake.”  Sometimes reduplicated (pimpim) or translated into Spanish as gordita.

 

Make a giant tortilla: 1 foot across and 1/4″ thick.  Wrap in leaves and bake in pib.  Or it can be cooked, unwrapped, on a griddle.

This is much better if the masa is mixed with lard, as for tamales, especially if you are cooking it on the stovetop.

It is even better if mixed with cooked beans (black-eyed peas are the traditional ones), including their liquid.  In this case it has to be wrapped and baked (in oven, about 350o, if no pib is at hand).  It is then eaten with Tomato or Chile Sauce.

 

 

Is Waj (“Corncake of New Maize”)

 

Market version:

Grind up new maize (cut from ears of sweet corn) and leave standing for a few days until very slightly sour.  Add salt and make into very thin tortillas.  Cook till crisp.

More sophisticated version:

1 cup white flour

1/2 cup lard

Kernels from 3 roasting ears, cut off close

1/4 tsp. baking soda

Salt

 

Grind kernels.  Mix with other ingredients.  Make into very thin tortillas and cook on griddle.

Kernels from really young, tender sweet corn are really too soft for this; one needs kernels with some substance.  The Maya eat young corn at the stage that in my youth was called “roasting ears”—the kernels still tender, but somewhat more starchy than the sweet-corn stage.  One can use tender sweet corn kernels, however, by reducing the quantity somewhat, so the resulting dough is firm enough to make good tortillas.

Variant: common is a sweet version, using sugar instead of salt.

 

 

Saka’ (Sak ja’, “white water”: Corn gruel)

The other staple food–along with waj.

The ancient saka’ is just corn meal or mashed new corn in water.  Today, the word usually means pozole:  Wash nixtamal kernels (available in Mexican markets).  Boil till they break open.  Drain.  Grind and form into a ball the size of a tennis ball.

Variant:  Fry or toast the nixtamalized kernels before grinding.

For consumption, the ball is dissolved in water, stock, or soup.  The simple rural method is to dissolve in water with salt and chile.

To approximate saka’: Cook a small amount of “Maseca” or other prepared Mexican corn meal in good stock, stirring constantly.

Similar preparations are made by processing the maize in slightly different ways.  Sikil can be mixed in and the resulting atole cooked.

Fancy pozole or atole: Grind fresh green corn.  Mix with sugar.  Coconut cream can be mixed in if desired.

Ground toasted corn kernels, made into a drink, are pinole.  (Pozole, pinole and atole are Nahuatl words; saka’ is the basic Maya word.)

 

 

 

RECADOS

 

These are the soul of Yucatecan cooking.  It is essential to make your own recados, unless you can get to a major public market in Yucatan.

To make a recado, grind all the ingredients very fine, and moisten with enough vinegar or bitter orange juice to make a solid paste, adding salt to taste.  Failing bitter orange juice, use lime juice or a mix of orange and grapefruit juice (do not use bottled bitter orange juice preparations).

In Yucatan, you can get a spice mix called xak’. (This just means “mix” in Maya, and is also used for the recados themselves.)  The pre-made spice mix typically involves a cinnamon stick, 1 tsp. cloves, 1 tsp. pepper, 2 tsp. oregano, 1/4 tsp. cumin, and 1 tsp. allspice.  (Naturally, these ingredients are variable.)  All these are ground fine.  Then all you have to do is add achiote paste and you have your recado.

 

 

Achiote Paste

 

Bring achiote seeds to boil, in water.  Drain and soak overnight in vinegar, bitter orange juice or lime juice.  Blend.  It takes a tough blender to make these hard seeds into a paste.  A stone mortar and pestle is preferable, but then the preparation takes a strong arm and a lot of pounding.

 

 

Black Recado

 

2 ancho chiles or other dark dried chiles

1 tsp. allspice

1/2 tsp. cumin

1 tbsp. black pepper

1 tbsp. achiote paste

2 garlic cloves

2 tsp. oregano

Citrus juice or vinegar

 

Roast the garlic cloves.  Seed and toast the chiles.  They should darken enough to make the recado quite dark.  Grind all.  In Yucatan the chiles are actually burned to a glossy black, but this kills the taste of the chiles.  It also has to be done outdoors, standing upwind, since the vapors of burning chile peppers are seriously dangerous to eyes.

Variant: the garlic is not always roasted.

 

 

Hot Recado

 

2 tbsp. dry chile

4 allspice berries

8 epazote leaves

1/2 tsp. black pepper

2 garlic cloves

1 tbsp. achiote

Vinegar or bitter orange or lime juice to make thick paste

 

 

Mole Recado

 

2 ancho chiles

3 pasilla chiles

1 tbsp. black pepper

1 small piece of cinnamon stick

3 cloves

Half tbsp. sesame seeds

3 garlic cloves

Bitter orange or lime juice to make thick paste

 

 

Recado for cold meat

 

3 allspice berries

1/2 tsp. black pepper

3 cloves

1 small piece of cinnamon stick

1 roasted head of garlic

Pinch of saffron (optional)

Ground dry chile to taste

Vinegar, bitter orange juice, or lime juice to make paste

 

Spread on the meat or mix in with it.

 

 

Red Recado

This is the standard–the Universal Seasoning of Yucatan.

 

1 tbsp. achiote paste (more in Quintana Roo, often 3 tbsp.)

1 tsp. (or more, to taste) black pepper

1 tsp. dry oregano leaves, crushed

1/4 – 1/2 tsp. cumin seeds

2-4 cloves

1 small piece of cinnamon stick

3 garlic cloves, slowly roasted till soft

Bitter orange juice (or substitute) to make thick paste

 

Prepare as with above.  Variants:  Allspice is often added—about 4 berries.  Garlic can be unroasted.  Coriander seeds (very few) can be added, but are rare in Yucatan.  Naturally, everyone varies the amounts slightly.

A village recado would be heavier on the achiote, garlic, and oregano, which everyone grows in the yard, and much lighter on the expensive store-bought spices (cloves, cinnamon, cumin, pepper).

 

 

Roast Garlic Recado

 

20 large garlic cloves

1/2 tsp. ground cumin

1 tsp. black pepper

1/2 tsp. cloves

2 tsp. oregano

Bitter orange or lime juice

 

Roast the garlic (broiling in oven, or over open flame).  Peel and mash. Grind the spices.  Mix with enough bitter orange juice or equivalent to make a paste.

Variant: use some unroasted garlic, and/or a roasted onion.

 

 

Steak Recado

 

1 tbsp. black pepper

3 garlic cloves

2 tsp. oregano

Vinegar (recommended for this one) or bitter orange juice or lime juice, to make thick paste

 

Some steak recados add allspice, cinnamon and cumin—very little of each, say about 1/4 tsp.

 

 

Spicy Recado

 

1 tbsp. pepper

1 small stick cinnamon

4 cloves

3 garlic cloves

1 tsp. oregano

1 pinch saffron

Bitter orange juice or lime juice, to make thick paste

 

 

Tamale Recado

 

1 tbsp. black pepper

3 allspice berries

5 epazote leaves

2 garlic cloves

1 tbsp. achiote

ground dry chile

Vinegar or bitter orange juice or lime juice to make thick paste

 

 

White Recado

Not called for in any of the following recipes, but great in soup or stew, especially with turkey.

 

1 tbsp. black pepper

3 garlic cloves

1 tsp. oregano

2 cloves

1 pinch cumin seeds

1 pinch saffron

1/4 tbsp. cilantro seeds

Coriander seeds (optional)

Vinegar (white vinegar is ideal here; citrus juice is not recommended for this one)

 

 

APPETIZERS AND SALSAS

 

Basic relish to eat with Maya food:

 

1 bunch radishes

Few leaves cilantro

Chopped onion and/or garlic, to taste (optional)

1 fresh green chile or one habanero chile (if you can stand it–the taste is much better, but habaneros are almost unbearable to the uninitiated)

Salt and pepper to taste

 

Chop the radishes and other ingredients and marinate in bitter orange juice or lime juice.

Chopped tomatoes can be added.

 

Botanas (snacks to eat with drinks)

A typical selection might include:

onion, garlic and tomato stir-fried and then mixed with cilantro and sikil

Cucumbers, onions, cilantro, radishes, cut up, in vinegar

Boiled potato cubes with onion, cilantro, vinaigrette

Ceviche (raw fish and shellfish bits marinated in lime juice with cut-up chiles and tomatoes and onions, with salt and black pepper)

 

 

Ha’ Sikil P’ak (“Water, sikil and tomatoes”—a nice descriptive name)

 

2 tomatoes

1 red onion

Few sprigs cilantro

Juice of 1 bitter orange

1/2 cup sikil
Chile habanero to taste

Salt to taste

 

Roast and peel tomatoes.  Chop these with cilantro and onion.  Add the bitter orange juice.  Stir in the sikil, then the habanero.  This should be a thick paste.  Serve for dipping up with tortilla wedges.

 

 

Habanero Salsa

 

1 onion

5 garlic cloves

2 lb. tomatoes

1 habanero

1 tbsp. oil

1 pinch oregano

1 pinch salt

 

Chop all.  Fry the garlic and onions first, then the chile and finally the tomato, stirring constantly.  Add the oregano late in the process.

 

 

K’utbi Ik (Chile Sauce)

 

Seed and toast fresh chiles.  Wrap in cloth for a few minutes so skins steam loose, and then peel.  Blend or mash with similarly roasted tomato, and garlic or onion.  Herbs may be added.

 

 

K’utbi Ik, dry chile version

 

Toast and grind dry red chiles.  Roast garlic, green chiles, and onion.  Mash all with lime juice.

 

 

K’utbi p’ak (Tomato Sauce)

 

Same as above, but with little or no chile.

Or: Chop and fry onion or  garlic.  When colored, add chopped tomato, salt, and herbs (epazote, cilantro, oregano) if desired.  Bitter orange juice or lime juice can be mixed in.  Mash somewhat—it should be chunky, not a paste (see below).

Or: Roast and peel tomatoes.  Blend with some cilantro, salt, bitter orange juice and habanero chile.

It can also be yach’bij (mashed more thoroughly—to a paste—with a pestle in a molcajete—a small mortar), or suut’bij (the same, but with a revolving motion, not smashed down), or just licuado—blended in a blender!

 

 

Little Dogs’nose (Xni’-pek’)

 

This is the standard Maya salsa.  It gets its name because it makes your nose run and become cold and wet like a dog’s.

 

Seed and chop a habanero chile.  Add chopped onion, garlic, tomato, and any herbs, to taste.  Marinate in bitter orange juice or lime juice, with salt.

It is important that all the ingredients be absolutely fresh for this.  Xni’-pek’ can marinate for a day or so, but no more than that.

 

 

Marinated Onions

This is the universal accompaniment for many cooked meat dishes, including pok-chuk and turkey.

 

1 large red onion

10 peppercorns

3 allspice berries

2 cloves garlic, minced

1 tsp. oregano

1/4 cup bitter orange juice

As much habanero chile as you can stand

Salt to taste

 

Cut onion into slices.  Add the peppercorns and allspice.  Let stand very briefly in boiling water.  Drain.

Add garlic, oregano, orange juice and chile.  Let marinate briefly.

Variant: use vinegar and some water instead of bitter orange juice.  In this case, everything is combined, brought to a boil, and left to marinate for a day or more.

 

 

P’uybi Ik (Ground Chile)

 

Toast dried chiles till slightly colored.  Then (not before) seed them and grind fairly fine.

 

 

Rooster Beak (pico de gallo)

 

5 jicamas

5 sweet oranges

3 bitter oranges

Ground chile, to taste

Cilantro, to taste

Salt, to taste

 

 

Peel and cut up the jicamas and sweet oranges.  Mix with the juice of the bitter oranges and add the seasonings.

“Rooster beak” is a name generally given to salsas that have a bite like the peck of an angry rooster.  This is a mild one, somewhere between a salsa and a salad.  It need not be; you can use chopped fresh habanero chiles.

The pieces should be small and even, but definitely separate.  This is not a blended sauce.

 

Rooster Beak II

 

1 tomato

1 small white onion

1-2 cloves garlic

1 jalapeno chile (or whatever chile you prefer)

Bitter orange or lime juice

 

Chop first four ingredients into quite small but distinct pieces, and marinate in the juice.

 

 

Wasp Larvae

 

Toast wasp larvae and eat with relishes.

Or just smoke a wasp nest to drive away the adults and more or less cook the larvae, then open the nest and eat the smoked larvae from it.  They taste like smoked bacon (at best). (I have tried this one.)

 

 

Wolis

A mixture of masa, cooked black-eyed peas, sikil, ground dried chile, chopped cilantro and chopped onion.  These are not mashed up—just mixed, so the peas and onions remain chunky.  The mixture is wrapped in hojasanta leaves, then in a second wrapping of banana leaves, and cooked in the pib or steamed to make tamales.

Without the masa, it is a standard quickly-improvised relish to put on tortillas or other corn cakes.  For this, take cooked black-eyed peas; drain; mix in the other ingredients, to taste.

 

 

Xek’

The term just means “mixed,” but one standard “mix” is a salad of orange sections and chopped jicama with salt, chile, chopped cilantro, and lime juice.  This is traditionally served on the Day of the Dead, November 1.

 

 

Xub Ik (Superhot Chile Sauce)

 

30 dried chiles

2 lb. tomatoes

6 allspice berries

A few peppercorns

4 cloves garlic

8 or more oregano leaves

Branch of epazote

 

Seed the peppers.  Toast them (optional, but typical).  Boil.  When soft, add other ingredients.  Blend all.

Meat can be cooked in this, or it can used simply as a sauce.

Prepare with all windows open.  Use rubber gloves if your hands are sensitive.  Avoid touching eyes or other sensitive parts of the body.

 

 

Some other typical garnishes and relishes:

Tomato, sikil, coriander, garlic, onion, salt–chopped fine, fried and blended to a smooth paste

Cucumbers vinagreta (thin sliced with onion, cilantro, habanero chiles, garlic, vinegar, oil)

Potato slices vinagreta

Cabbage, chile and cilantro, chopped, vinagreta

White beans cooked with tomato, onion, spices, bits of ham and bacon

Chicharrones stewed with onion, tomato, chile

 

 

 

TAMALES AND RELATIVES (including antojitos—substantial snacks—and tortilla-based items)

 

 

 

Black-eyed Pea Tamales

 

A standard market snack.

 

1 lb. pork (shoulder is good; loin or other cuts perfectly all right)

Water to cover, 4-6 cups

6 tomatoes

1 clove garlic, roasted or not

1 chile, toasted

1 branch epazote

1 oz. masa

Juice of 1 bitter orange

1 cup cooked black-eyed peas

Masa for tamales

 

Put the pork in water with the tomatoes, garlic, chile, and epazote.  Cook till very tender.

Remove the pork from the broth.  Save the broth.  Shred the pork into small pieces; chop up the other items, leaving out and discarding the garlic and epazote.

Now cook the broth down with the 1 oz. masa and the bitter orange, till thickened, so it has a high percentage of fat.

Mix this and the black-eyed peas slowly into the masa.  Cook down very slowly till hot.  The result should be thick enough not to stick or collapse; it has to be the main substance of the tamales—a firm, solid mass, largely maize dough.

Let cool.  Then make tamales by putting a layer of masa about ¼” deep on a corn husk, banana leaf segment, piece of foil, or kitchen paper.  The big tough corn husks sold for this purpose in Mexican markets are best, but foil will very often have to do.  Put a heaping tablespoonful of pork filling on the masa and roll up into a tamale:  a sealed, stuffed corn-dough item some 4-6” long.

Steam.  The Maya traditionally seal them tightly in a closed vessel and bake them for anywhere from an hour on up in a pib.  The classic method otherwise—for those of us without a pib—is to crowd them vertically into a pot with an inch or so of water or stock at the bottom, and steam them on the stove top.  They also do fine in the oven, on a rack over water in a pan, the whole being sealed with tinfoil; or vertically in a casserole dish in the oven.

A very cheap version leaves out the pork, but in that case you still have to boil down a fatty cut of pork to get the “Maya lard” to make the tamales.

 

 

Chanchamitos (simple tamales)

 

Yucatecans love multiple diminutives.  “Chanchamitos” means “little little little ones”–Maya chan, “little,” is doubled, and the Spanish diminutive ending added for good measure.

 

1/2 lb. pork or chicken meat

1 spring epazote

1 1/2  lb. masa

1 square of recado rojo

1 tbsp. lard

Salt to taste

Corn shucks

 

Chop up the pork.  Boil with the epazote.  Then dissolve some masa in the stock to thicken it to thin sauce consistency.

Mix the rest of the masa with the recado, lard, and salt.

Using this masa, make tamales in the usual way, but only 1/4 to 1/3 the size of regular ones.

Variants:  These can be made with any sort of meat that will do for a filling, including leftovers.

 

 

Chaya Tamales (also called “Braza de Reina”—“Queen’s Arm”–or sometimes “Braza de India”)

 

Boil chaya leaves.  Roll any kind of tamale or similar food in them, using the same technique as for stuffing grape leaves or cabbage leaves.  Eat the whole thing, chaya leaves and all.

As the name implies, these are usually made long and rather slender, like a girl’s forearm.

One good filling mix: 1 kg chopped tomatoes

½ onion

3 small chiles or 1 chile xkatik, chopped

Oil for frying

Salt

Hardboiled eggs, chopped

 

Fry up the tomatoes, onions, and chiles (to a sofrito).  Mix with the eggs.  Use for stuffing the tamales.

 

Hojasanta is very often used instead of, or even with, chaya.  Chard leaves work perfectly well.

 

 

Chaya-stuffed Tamales (Ts’otobij Chay; “Dzotobichay” on restaurant menus)

As the name suggests, this very popular dish is thoroughly Maya, surely pre-Columbian.  The name means “chaya stuffing” or “chay with filling stuffed into it” (Maya ts’ot, “to stuff something into a hollow space”).

 

1 lb. chaya (swiss chard if you can’t get chaya)

3 lb. masa

1 lb. lard

8 eggs

¼ – 1/2 lb. sikil (ground squash seeds)

Salt and pepper to taste

Chaya leaves for wrapping

6 small tomatoes

1 onion

2 garlic cloves

Some chile, optional

 

Chop the chaya and mix with the masa, lard and salt.

Cook the eggs and chop finely.  Mix with the sikil.

Make tamales the usual way (the egg mix inside the chaya-masa mix), steaming for an hour.

Roast the tomatoes, onions and garlic.  Add whatever chile is desired.  Mash.  Serve as sauce for the tamales.

This recipe invites creative interpretation.  You can stuff it with anything, as long as the stuffing is not strong-flavored enough to kill the delicate chaya taste.

 

 

Chulibuul with sikil

Chulibuul means “stewed beans.”

 

2 lb. young fresh beans from the field (substitutes: frozen limas or black-eyed peas)

2 lb. masa

3 onions

Branch of epazote

4 garlic cloves

1 lb. sikil

Salt to taste

 

Cook the beans.  Mix the masa with a little water.  Chop finely the onions and epazote.  Grind the garlic.

Mix all, and cook slowly and carefully.  Add half the sikil.  Serve with the rest of the sikil sprinkled over it and with tomato sauce poured over it.

Fresh variant:  Use sweet corn kernels instead of masa.  Cook the beans first; add the corn and just bring to boil, no more.  The result bears a great resemblance to succotash, except for the sikil.

Toksel variant:  If this is made without any maize–just the beans and sikil–it is “toksel.”

Out in the fields, farm workers heat stones in the campfire and drop them into this stew to cook it.  Stone soup?

 

 

Codzitos

Another mestiza-Maya word: Kots’ (codz in the old spelling), “something rolled up,” with the Spanish diminutive ending added.  These are the simple, finger-food version of enchiladas.

Roll fresh or freshly-fried tortillas around tomato sauce with Mexican cheese or ground or shredded meat.

A fancy version I noted at the wonderful Hacienda Teya–a restaurant in a restored henequen estate east of Merida–rolls the codzitos around shredded boiled chicken, then covers them with k’utbi p’ak, then crumbles fresh white cheese over all.

 

 

Eggs a la Motul (Huevos Motuleños)

Motul is a large, historically important town in central Yucatan.  This dish is a standard breakfast all over the Peninsula.

 

2 tortillas

Lard

1 tomato

1/4 onion

2 oz. ham

2 eggs

Oil

Salt to taste

1-2 oz. refried black beans

Several green peas (necessarily canned in Yucatan, where peas don’t grow, but much better if fresh)

Tomato sauce

 

Fry (saute) the tortillas in the lard.

Cut up the tomatoes and onion in small pieces.  Fry.

Cut up the ham into small pieces.  It can be fried also (but usually isn’t).

Fry the eggs.

Now cover the tortillas with beans; the beans with the eggs; the eggs with the tomato, onion and ham; and the whole thing with tomato sauce.  Garnish with the peas (or mix them in with the tomato and onion, earlier step).

Chickpeas or other vegetables can be used.  Various garnishes exist.  Much of the quality of the dish depends on the ham; get the best.

Of course, the true Yucatecan eats this mammoth breakfast with habanero sauce–the perfect wake-up at seven in the morning!

 

 

Empanadas

 

Make small tortillas from masa.  Fold them around any filling—beans, chopped meat, chicken, k’utbi p’ak, etc., in any combination.  Moisten the edges to seal them.  Then shallow-fry (sauté) in a pan, or deep-fry in hot oil (but shallow-frying is better).  Serve with sliced cabbage, onions in lime juice, or other topping over them.

 

 

Enchiladas a la Quintana Roo

 

10 tortillas

1 cup shredded cooked spiced chicken

3 oz. Mexican sharp white cheese, crumbled

1 onion, chopped

2 ancho chiles

2 pasilla chiles

1 oz. almonds

1 oz. peanuts (optional)

1 cup chicken stock

1 tbsp. lard

Salt to taste

 

Shallow-fry the tortillas in lard (basically, just put them in some oil in the skillet and move them around till they soften and begin to toast at the edges).  Roll them around the chicken.  Top with cheese and onion.

Seed and toast the chiles.  Grind with the almonds and peanuts.  Blend with the stock and season.  Cook quickly to thicken and pour over enchiladas.

 

 

Fish Tamales

 

3 garlic cloves

1 tsp. cumin seeds

3 tbsp. achiote

Salt and pepper to taste

1/2 lb. fish fillet

4 tbsp. lard

1/2 onion, chopped

2 tbsp. cilantro, finely chopped

1 tomato, chopped

1/2 cup bitter orange juice

2 lb. masa

Banana leaves

 

Grind up the garlic, cumin, and one tbsp. of the achiote with the salt and pepper.  Cut up the fish and rub this recado into it.

Heat half the lard.  Fry the vegetables in it.  Add the fish and then the bitter orange juice.

Mix the masa with the rest of the lard and achiote, and some salt.

Make tamales the usual way.

 

 

Green Corn Tamales with Chicken

 

Grains from 30 sweet corn ears

1/2 lb. lard

1 tbsp. sugar

1/2 cup milk

1/4 tsp. baking soda

1 lb. pork loin meat, cooked

Meat from 1 small chicken, cooked

5 chiles

1/2 tsp. black pepper

2 cloves

2 garlic cloves

1 small piece of cinnamon stick

Salt to taste

 

Grind the kernels.   Mix in the lard, sugar, salt, milk and soda.  Beat.

Shred or cut up the meat.  Seed and toast the chiles.  Grind all the flavorings.  Mix all, and make tamales in usual way.

Variant: red recado has been known to work its way into these, though it is a fairly strong flavor for green corn tamales, and tends to kill the delicate flavor of the green corn unless very small amounts are used.

 

 

Hojasanta Tamales

 

Make as for Chaya Tamales, above, or wrap any tamale in hojasanta (mak’ol or mak’olam in Yucatec Maya) and then in banana leaves.  Steam or bake in pib.  The hojasanta leaves are edible, but not the banana leaves.

 

 

Joloches (joroches)

From Maya jooloch, “corn shuck, dried corn leaf”–presumably from the appearance of the dumplings, like corncobs in the shuck.

 

1/2 lb. ground beef

1/2 lb. ground pork

1 lb. tomato

1 onion

1 bell pepper

3 garlic cloves

Red recado

1/2 cup vinegar or bitter orange juice

1 1/2 lb. masa

2 tbsp lard

Salt to taste

1 lb. cooked black beans

3 oz. sikil

 

Cook the meat with the tomato, a strip on onion, half the bell pepper, three garlic cloves, salt, some water and the recado diluted in vinegar or juice.

Mix the masa with lard and salt.  Form cones, and stuff them with the meat mix.  Close the tops with masa.

Chop and fry the rest of the onion and bell pepper.

Warm up the beans and add the fried vegetables.

Add in the cones and cook 15-20 minutes.

This is one of those common, standard recipes that is infinitely variable.  Almost any ingredient can be left out or decreased in quantity, and other common ingredients sometimes find their way in.

For instance:  A quick-and-easy village form of the above is simply:

 

Squash flowers

Onion

Salt

Masa

 

Boil the flowers with the onion and salt.  Form the masa into little cones and add in.  The cones should look like the flowers; presumably this is the original inspiration of the dish.

Or we can have:

 

Joloches with Longaniza

 

1/2 lb. longaniza

2 tomatoes

1 onion

1 xkatik chile

1 lb. masa

Lard

Salt to taste

Kabax beans

 

Cut up the longaniza and vegetables.  Fry the longaniza, and then the vegetables in its oil.  Make small masa dumplings filled with this mixture.  Flatten and fry.  Add to the beans and serve.

 

 

Panuchos

 

As popular as salbutes (for which see below).  A typical workers’ breakfast, using up the remains of dinner from the day before.

 

2 lb. masa

1 lb. mashed black beans (cooked with two branches of epazote; left over from yesterday)

3 red onions

Leftover breast meat from a turkey roasted in red recado

Juice of 4 bitter oranges (or 8 limes)

Tomato and chile sauces

Lard

 

Make small tortillas.  The Maya way is to put an ounce or so of masa on a banana leaf—or, today, a plastic sheet—and press the masa gently into a tortilla.  These have to be homemade and 3-4” across (about half as big as regular ones), so they will puff up.

Toast on griddle or frying pan.  Hopefully, they will puff up, leaving a hollow center (like pita bread or Indian puris).   This hollow center is known as saay in Maya.

Stuff the hollow with mashed beans.

Fry (sauté) the bean-stuffed tortillas in lard.

Shred the turkey meat and put on top.  Shredded lettuce or other vegetables can be added.  (Chicken or other meat can be used, though turkey is traditional and particularly good.)

Cut up the onion and marinate in the salt and orange juice.  Serve separately.  Also serve separately the k’utbi p’ak and chiles.  Panuchos are very much an eaters’-choice type of food.

 

 

Papadzules

 

Papa ts’uul means “rich people’s food.”  (Ts’uul, or “dzul,” is now used to mean “foreigner,” but seems originally to have meant “rich person.”)  This may, however, be a folk etymology; Cherry Hamman explains it as “papak’, to anoint or smear, and sul, to soak or drench” (Hamman 1998:94).  Either way, economic progress has come, and this is now a relatively humble staple dish, typically found on the breakfast menu.

 

1 egg

1 tomato

Bit of habanero chile

1 sprig epazote

Oil

4 tortillas

2 oz. sikil

Salt to taste

 

Hardboil the eggs.  Chop or mash up.

Boil the tomatoes, chiles and epazote.  Drain, but save the water.   Blend.  Fry in oil.

Dissolve the sikil in the reserved cooking water.  Mix half of this with the oil.  (This is what people generally do now, and I have watched it many a time, but Hamman tells you the ancient way: roast and grind the squash seeds yourself, mix with water, and knead till they produce some oil.  See Hamman 1998:94).  Spread on the tortillas.  Then spread on these the egg mix and roll up.

Pour over the roll-ups the rest of the sikil sauce, and the tomato sauce.

Variant: a much more elaborate version involves mixing the sikil with stock, epazote, onion, garlic and chile, and serving the whole with marinated onions:  red onions cut up, blanched, and marinated in vinegar or bitter orange juice with spices and chopped habanero chiles.

Another variant involves boiled chaya (or spinach, one bunch) and 3 tbsp of cut-up chives.

 

 

Polcanes

 

Maya pool kaan, “snake head,” with a Spanish plural.  The name comes from the resemblance between the opened-up dumplings and a snake’s head with mouth open.  Another common and cheap market snack.

 

2 lb. black-eyed peas (fresh or briefly cooked to soften)

1/2 lb. sikil

1 tsp. ground chile

1 lb. masa

3 tbsp. lard

Salt

 

Cook the beans.  Drain.  Mix with sikil and chile.

Mix the masa with the lard and salt.  Stuff with the beans.  (Or mix flour and masa, make a thin skin and stuff like ravioli.)

Steam or pib-bake in corn husks like tamales, or deep-fry like hush-puppies.

For eating, split and fill with tomato sauce.

 

 

Salbutes

 

Something of a national dish of Yucatan.  The name is from Maya tsajil but’, “fried minced meat.”  As with such “small eats” the world over, the best place to get these is down at the marketplace in the morning, where the working people are stoking up for a hard day’s work.  Salbutes become a powerfully nostalgic flavor for those who regularly eat them in such circumstances.

 

Make small tortillas from fresh masa.  Deep-fry in very hot lard.  While these are still as hot as possible, pile on them shredded cooked chicken or turkey (preferably cooked in red recado), chopped cabbage or lettuce, marinated onion (see above), tomato slices, radish slices, and/or anything else desired.

This is often accompanied by the chicken or turkey stock; black beans; and lime slices.  As the Maya name implies, they are often topped with fried minced pork instead of poultry.  In fact, they are topped with just about anything: beans, tripe, chorizo, etc.  A good market stall will have alternatives, the eaters choosing what they want.

 

 

Sopes

 

Fry small, thick tortillas.  Top with anything interesting.

Some toppings noted at Merida markets and fiestas include:

Nopal salad (prickly pear pads cooked, cut up, and marinated in oil and vinegar with spices)

Nopal cut up in chocolate mole (made by cooking and mixing chocolate tablets and ground chiles)

Any and all meat, preferably cooked in red recado, shredded

Beans or beans and meat, usually refried black beans

The sopes are then usually further topped off with lettuce or cabbage, various sauces, etc., over the meat.

 

 

To’obi joloch (Sweetbread Tamales)

 

Boil sweetbreads until tender.  Chop; eliminate tough membranes.  Mix in a handful of chopped shallots and 2 cups sikil.

Use to fill tamales in the usual way.

 

 

Vaporcitos (“little steamed ones”)

A very common, minimalist sort of snack.

 

Mix masa, lard and cooked black-eyed peas.  Make this mix into tamales—no filling added—and steam.  Eat with Tomato Sauce.

The same thing baked in a pib is called xnup’.

 

 

Wedding Tamales

This is the full-scale tamale of Yucatan.  The main ingredients can, of course, be varied, according to what is available.

 

1 chicken

1 lb. pork

1 cube red recado

1 tbsp. steak recado

2 lb. tomatoes

1 tbsp. ground allspice

1 small head of garlic, roasted and bashed

Branch of epazote

1 lb. lard

Chile and salt to taste

Masa

 

Cook the meats.  Dissolve the spices in vinegar and add.  Add other ingredients.  Bone the meats and make tamales in the usual way, using the stock, or grease skimmed from it, for the lard.

 

 

 

SOUPS

 

 

“Barriana” soup

Silvia Luz Carrillo Lara, in Cocina Yucateca (1995:17-18), reports that this is a true “mestiza” soup, found in many old cookbooks.  This is an adaptation of her recipe.  It is a relatively “Spanish” dish, preserving the flavors of the Spanish Colonial world.  Like all such recipes, it seems to be dying out in Yucatan, but variants of it can still be found.  The Spanish ancestors of this dish are still around in southern Spain, and use leftover bread instead of masa, the latter being an obvious Mexicanization.

 

1/2 lb. masa

1 tomato

1/2 red onion

1 bell pepper

1/4 cup lard (“Maya lard” recommended)

3 pints chicken or beef stock, freshly made

12 olives

2 tbsp. capers

2 tbsp. raisins

2 tbsp. chopped almonds

Salt and pepper to taste

Pinch of saffron (optional)

 

Break the masa into small pieces and fry them in the lard.  Chop the tomato, onion, and pepper, and fry them separately.  Add the masa.  Then add the stock and cook ca. 10 minutes.  Add the other ingredients and cook until all is heated.

Variants without the masa, often with different thickenings, exist.

 

 

Chaya Soup

 

8 or more fresh chaya leaves

1 chayote

1 summer squash

1 onion

3 garlic cloves

1 tsp. ground oregano

6 cups water

1 chipotle chile in vinegar or marinade (canned marinated chipotles are fine)

Salt to taste

 

Chop the chaya finely.  Cut up the other vegetables.  Cook all.

Obviously, this recipe can be varied at will.  The basic idea is chaya plus other vegetables—a mix of starchy and crunchy ones—and standard Yucatecan spicing.

 

 

Covered Soup

This is what Mexicans call a “sopa seca,” a “dry soup.”  This isn’t an oxymoron, just the standard term for a soup that includes enough starch to absorb all the free liquid.  Such dishes have a Moorish origin; they are related to pilaf.  This one is thoroughly Spanish, and thus out of place in a book about the true mestizo cookery, but it is far too typical of Yucatan to leave out.  It represents a large class of popular recipes transported from Spain to Yucatan virtually without change.  It also provides insight into what was imported from Spain in the old days: capers, saffron, oil, vinegar, wine, and olives were staples of trade.

 

For the “stuffing”:

A large chicken cut up, or any small poultry

3 garlic cloves

1/2 tsp. oregano

2 bay leaves

1/2 tsp. cumin seeds

1 stick cinnamon

2 cloves

6 allspice berries

1/4 cup vinegar

 

For the rice:

1/2 lb. rice

5 tbsp. oil

2 xkatik chiles

2/3 lb. tomatoes

1 onion

2 garlic cloves

1/2 tsp. saffron

1 bunch parsley

1 banana leaf

3 oz. lard

 

For the final assembly:

1 oz. lard

2/3 lb. tomatoes

1/2 cup stock

2 oz. bottled green olives, optional

1 tbsp. chopped parsley

4 tbsp. sherry

1 oz. capers

3 oz. Mexican white cheese

 

Cut up the poultry.  Grind the onions, garlic and spices, rub onto poultry, and marinate overnight.

Soak the rice for an hour or more.  Drain and fry in the oil.  Add chopped chiles.  Roast the tomatoes and blend with the onion and garlic.  Soak the saffron in 1 oz. water.  Add all these to the rice, cover, and simmer over very low heat for a while–not till fully done.

Spread the banana leaf with lard, in a baking dish.  Put half the rice mix on this.

Then fry the poultry in the final 1 oz. lard.  Add tomatoes (roasted and chopped) and stock.  Then add olives, parsley, sherry and capers.

Cover with the rest of the rice mix, fold the banana leaf over, and bake 10-20 minutes at 375o.

Sprinkle with broken-up white cheese for serving.

 

Much simpler variants exist, converging on the familiar “Spanish rice” of Mexican restaurants everywhere.  This is basically a pilaf with peppers and tomatoes instead of Moorish ingredients.  Rice is fried with chopped onion, then spices and other ingredients are added, then liquid to cover ½-1” deep, then all is simmered at the lowest possible heat till the liquid is absorbed.  Standard in Yucatan are simple “Spanish rices” with chicken cooked in red recado, or other variants, added to the tomato-onion-pepper basic formula.

 

 

Lentil Soup

 

1 lb. pork

1 tbsp oregano

2 cups lentils

3 cloves of garlic, crushed

1 onion, chopped

Red recardo, 1 oz.

2 mild chiles

1 carrot

1 chayote

1 platano

2 potatoes

Salt

Pepper

 

Boil the pork and lentils till the lentils are tender but not quite thoroughly done.  Add other ingredients and finish cooking.

 

 

Sopa de Lima (Bitter Lime Soup)

This soup requires a strange lime-like citrus fruit, the lima agria, with a unique flavor.  Note that it is a lima, not a limón (lime or lemon).  It is fact the Thai lime, easy to find in any Oriental market.  (No one knows how it got to Yucatan.)  The Yucatecan bitter lime should be fresh for this soup, but I get acceptable results with dried Thai lime and a bit of fresh ordinary lime.  It is also possible to use ordinary lime only.  This is done even in Yucatan if bitter limes are not available. The real lima is preferable, though.

This is probably the most famous single Yucatecan dish, after cochinita pibil.  Yucatecan restaurants far from Yucatan all carry it.  They often can’t get the real lima agria, so don’t judge this soup by versions you may have had outside Yucatan.

 

For the stock and meat:

1 chicken

Salt and pepper, to taste

4 cloves

1 tbsp. dried oregano

4 garlic cloves

1 tsp. cumin seeds

Enough water to produce 8 cups stock

 

For the soup:

2 tomatoes

1 onion

1 xkatik chile (or other mild chile according to your preference)

1 tsp. vinegar

1 lb. tortillas, cut in strips or wedges and fried in lard

1 bitter lime

 

Cook the chicken with the other stock ingredients.  Eat the dark meat (cook’s privilege).  Shred the white meat.

Blend the tomatoes, onion, chiles (seeded and soaked), vinegar, and salt.

Combine all: into the stock, mix the blended vegetables; the shredded chicken; the fried tortilla strips; and the cut-up lime.  A few sqeezes of ordinary lime juice are good too.

Variants: Chicken cooked in red recado is often used, and adds to the flavor.

A couple of tablespoons of beer find their way into some versions.

The fried tortilla strips are dispensable.

 

 

Squash Soup

 

1 tomato

1 bell pepper

3 oz. butter

6 small summer squash

6 or more squash flowers

Salt and pepper to taste

 

In a saucepan, chop the tomato and pepper and fry in the butter.  Add water and the cut-up squash and flowers.

Variant:  a couple of ounces of chopped ham can be fried with the tomato and pepper.  I prefer the vegetarian form, however.

 

 

Tortilla Soup

 

1 lb. beans

6 tortillas

Oil for frying

1/2 onion, chopped

1 serrano chile, chopped

2 sprigs epazote

2 tomatoes, roasted and skinned

1/2 lb. chorizo, taken out of its casing and fried

Grated Mexican sharp white cheese

Salt and pepper to taste

 

Cook the beans in enough water for the final soup.

Cut the tortillas in wedges and fry.  Fry the onion, chiles, and epazote.  Add the beans and tortilla strips.

Blend the tomatoes with salt and pepper.

Combine all ingredients–sprinkling the chorizo and cheese over the top.

 

 

White Bean Soup (Yucatan form of a very popular Spanish dish)

 

1/2 lb. white beans (traditionally small white limas, but ordinary white beans will do)

1/2 white onion

2 tomatoes

1/3 lb. of chorizo sausage, or 1 small chorizo and 1 longaniza sausage

1/4 head of cabbage (optional)

1 green pepper

1/4 lb. Spanish, Virginia or similar flavorful ham

Salt and pepper to taste

Cayenne pepper to taste (optional)

1/2 lb. potatoes

 

Wash the beans.  Then soak, and boil in the same water until beginning to be tender.

Chop and fry the tomatoes, onions, pepper, cabbage, and ham.  Add seasonings.

Combine these and the sausages with the beans.  Cut up the potatoes, add, and cook all till the beans are tender.

A sprinkling of marjoram and oregano–fresh or dry—is good.  One can also decorate with chopped parsley, or even (untraditional but good) cilantro.

 

 

SEAFOODS

 

 

Baked Fish I

 

1 large fish (preferably fairly oily)

3 garlic cloves

1 onion

3 oregano leaves

5 bay leaves

1 glass white wine, optional (it’s good but the Maya would never have it)

1/2 tsp. pepper

1/2 tsp. cumin seeds

1/4 cup olive oil

Salt to taste

 

Marinate the fish in the other ingredients for an hour.  Bake.

This can also be done on the stove top in a heavy saucepan.  Try adding xkatik chiles.

The fish is often even better if rubbed with red recado or otherwise marinated beforehand.

 

 

Baked Fish II

 

1 large fish

3 oz. olive oil

1/2 lb. potatoes

1/2 cup vinegar

6 tomatoes

1 onion

2 xkatik chiles

1/2 tsp. ground cumin or cumin seeds

6 leaves oregano

4 bay leaves

Salt and pepper to taste

Chopped parsley

 

Grind the spices (except the bay leaves) and blend with vinegar and some oil.  Rub into fish.

Cut up the vegetables.  Put the fish on the bay leaves and cover with the vegetables mixed with the rest of the oil.  Bake.

Variant: Lard is used in the villages instead of olive oil.  Butter can be used.

This can be done on the stove top also, in a heavy saucepan.

 

 

Chiles Stuffed with Dogfish

See also following dish.

 

1 piece, ca. 1 lb., of roast dogfish

Branch of epazote

4 tomatoes

1 onion

6 xkatik chiles

Vinegar

1/2 lb. lard

1 cube red recado

 

Boil the dogfish with epazote.  Flake and fry with onion, tomato, and epazote (all cut up).  Separately fry some of the onion and tomatoes.

Roast the chiles, wrap in a cloth and leave for a while, then skin and seed.  Stuff with the dogfish mix.  Fry.

Add the rest of the onion and tomatoes, with the recado, to the boiling stock.  Cook down and pour this sauce over the chiles.

A much more elaborate version of this occurs in Patricia Quintana’s wonderful book The Taste of Mexico (pp. 274-275).

However, only a true dogfish addict would go to the trouble of making even the simple form with real dogfish, and I strongly recommmend using regular shark, or (still better) codfish, or some other firm white-fleshed fish.  I always do.  I admit it—I am not fanatical about dogfish.

 

 

Chiles Stuffed with Seafood

Quintana Roo variant of a universal Mexican dish.

 

6 large poblano chiles, or bell peppers

1 lb. mixed seafood: shrimps, crabmeat, fish, shellfish

Lard

2 cloves garlic, chopped

Oregano to taste

3 tbsp. cilantro, finely chopped

2 lb. tomatoes

1 onion

1 xkatik chile

1 habanero chile (if tolerated)

 

Sear the large chiles or bell peppers.  Seed.  They can be peeled also.

Cut up the seafood (the more variety the better).  Fry quickly with the spices.  Stuff the chiles.  Sauté and serve.

Separately, chop the tomatoes, onion and other chiles, roasting any or all if desired.  Fry quickly.  Serve this sauce over the chiles.

Tomatoes or other vegetables can be stuffed similarly.

 

 

Conch in Escabeche

Conch is, alas, getting rare due to overfishing and pollution, and this magnificent dish may not be with us long.  However, the loss is not total, for any seafood can be cooked this way.  Abalone or other relatively chewy sea food should be particularly good, but now abalones are rare too.  One reader suggests scallops—not very close, but perfectly acceptable.

 

1 lb. conch meat

Juice of 2 bitter oranges or 6 limes

1 onion

5 oz. oil

1/2 bottle vinegar

2 xkatik chiles, roasted and seeded

6 oregano leaves

1/2 tsp. toasted cumin seeds

1 roasted head of garlic

4 bay leaves

Pinch of nutmeg

Salt and pepper to taste

 

Boil conch till tender.  (For a conch, that can vary from several minutes to an hour, depending on the maturity of the conch, but for scallops a very few minutes is quite enough.  Small scallops need little more than being brought to the boil.)  Leave to cool in the orange or lime juice.  Cut up.

Fry the onion lightly in the oil.  Add the other ingredients.  Boil quickly.

Marinate the conch in this.

 

 

Dogfish Pudding

 

1 1/2 lb. dogfish

1/4 tsp. oregano

2 branches epazote

1 onion

2 large chiles in vnegar

1 lime

4 eggs

1 tbsp. lard

1 oz. breadcrumbs (optional)

Salt and pepper to taste

 

Sauce:

2/3 lb. tomatoes

1 onion

1 tbsp. lard

1/4 cup dogfish stock

 

Garnish:

2 avocados

1 head of lettuce, preferably buttercrunch or red leaf

1 bunch radishes

 

Boil the dogfish with the oregano and epazote; save the stock.  Shred the fish.  Chop and fry the onion.  Add the fish with the epazote leaves.  Chop and add the chiles.  Fry quickly.

Beat the eggs with some lime juice, salt and pepper.  Blend into the fish mix.  Put all in mold.  Top with breadcrumbs if desired.  Bake at 350o.

For the sauce, roast the tomatoes.  Blend with the onion.  Fry in the lard.  Add in the stock.  Put over the pudding.

Garnish with avocado and radish slices and lettuce leaves.

I have not brought myself to using dogfish (see Chapter 2) in this.  Use any white-fleshed fish, cod being probably best because it has enough flavor and texture to stand out in this pudding.

 

 

Fish a la Celestun

 

1 onion

1 bunch parsley

2 tomatoes

Fresh chile, to taste

1 red snapper or similar fish

4 cloves

1 tsp. pepper

Pinch saffron

Frozen peas (optional)

1/4 cup vinegar

Salt to taste

 

Chop the onion and parsley.  Fry.  Add the tomato and chile, roasted and blended.  Add the fish and spices and vinegar; cook in the sauce till nearly done, about 15 minutes.  Add the peas (if wanted) and finish cooking, 5-10 minutes.

In Celestun, a charming old fishing village famous for its flamingoes, the fish is usually fried first, sometimes grilled, and then covered with the sauce after it is cooked.  The Celestunians use canned peas, having no frozen ones available, but frozen ones are better.

 

 

Fish Fajitas

 

A creative response to the fajita craze.  This version is an elaboration of that created by the Faisan y Venado restaurant in Felipe Carrillo Puerto, Quintana Roo.

 

1 lb. white fish fillet (not too delicate a species), cut into strips

Salt and pepper

Juice of 2 limes

4 oregano leaves

Pinch of cumin powder

2 cloves

Ground dried chile

1 onion

1 green pepper

1 tomato

 

Marinate the fish in the spices.

Cut vegetables into strips.  Stir-fry with the fish.

 

 

Fish in Green Sauce

A classic Arabo-Spanish recipe, which has evolved into countless variations in southern Mexico.  Compare variants in Chapters 2 and 4.

 

1 large bunch parsley

1 sprig oregano

1 bunch green onions with tops (trim off the ends)

1 bunch cilantro

6 tomatillos

2 xkatik or other mild green chiles

2 garlic cloves

1/2 tsp. black pepper

1/2 tsp. ground cumin

6 tbsp. vinegar

1 onion

Salt to taste

Oil

1 fish

 

Blend up the greens and flavorings in the vinegar.  Fry in oil.  Add the fish and cook.

Variants:  This may be the most variable dish in the Yucatan Peninsula.  Everybody has his or her own version of it.  You can use any mixture of the green ingredients, in any quantity.  You can vary the spicing at will.  You can fry, grill or boil the fish first.  Sometimes, people don’t fry the green sauce first, but just fry or bake the fish in the sauce.  In fact, you don’t even have to have a fish.  This sauce is used for other seafood and even for pork.

Here, for instance, is another version:

1 fish, ca. 2 lb.; or 2 lb. of fillets or fish steak

5 garlic cloves, roasted

1/2 tsp. cumin seeds

1/2 tsp. oregano

1/2 tsp. black pepper

Salt

4 tbsp. chopped Italian parsley

1/3 lb. tomatillos

2 xkatik chiles

2 green onions with the leaves except for the very tips

1/2 cup vinegar

1/2 cup oil

 

Clean the fish.  Grind the spices and rub into the fish.  Leave for an hour in cool place.  Blend the other ingredients (greens, vinegar and oil).  Put over fish.  Cook in a covered dish over a slow fire.

Note that in this version the green sauce is not fried.

Yet another version, almost unbearably good, uses some hojasanta leaf.

 

 

Octopus in Its Ink

 

3 large octopi

6 garlic cloves, chopped

2 lb. tomatoes, chopped

1/2 cup olive oil

2 large onions, chopped

2 serrano chiles, chopped

Lard

3 bay leaves

1/2 tsp. ground pepper

1 pinch ground cumin

1/2 tsp. ground oregano

1 tbsp. parsley, chopped

2 tbsp. vinegar

Salt to taste

 

Take out the ink (remove ink sacs from octopi) and save it.  Wash the octopi and rub with 1 clove of the garlic, mashed.  Simmer, with a tomato, one onion, and lard, till octopi are tender.  Then clean off membranes etc. and cut up.

Chop and fry the rest of the garlic, the chiles, and the other onion.  When colored, add the bay leaves, the rest of the tomato, the pepper, cumin, oregano, parsley and the octopus ink dissolved in vinegar.  When this begins to boil, add salt and the octopus. Boil a few minutes, till done.

Squid in its ink is made more or less the same way.

At this point I cannot resist mentioning a dish from Tampico’s great seafood restaurant, the Restaurante Diligencia:  seafood petrolera.  This is basically the above recipe with other seafoods–shrimp, fish roes, some fish, clams or oysters–cut up and added.  The name is a sick joke; Tampico has offshore oil, and thus oil spills at sea.  This dish looks exactly like the aftermath of an oil spill.  However, it tastes heavenly.  The roes in particular “make” the dish.

 

 

Rice with Seafood

Another of those infinitely variable recipes.  More typical of Campeche than Yucatan.

 

6 garlic cloves, chopped

1 onion, chopped

Oil

1 lb. seafood (mixed, or cut-up squid, or shrimp, or other)

1/4 cup vinegar

Several sprigs parsley, chopped

2 roasted tomatoes

2 cups rice

Salt and pepper to taste

 

Fry the garlic and onion in a little oil.  Add the seafood.  Add the vinegar.  If octopus or squid are among those present, mix in the ink.

Add the parsley and tomatoes, chopped finely.

Separately, fry the rice.  Add water and simmer over very low heat.  When almost done, add the seafood.

Variant:  This is the minimal recipe.  Most people would add bay leaf, oregano, green peas, and bell or chile peppers (chopped).  Many would add spices including clove, cinnamon, cumin and allspice–all in very small amounts.  Some would throw in a carrot, or summer squash, or chayote, or anything else interesting and available.

 

 

Salpicon de Chivitos

Tiny sea snails with shells like curled goat horns (hence their name—“chivitos” means “little goats”).  This is good with any shellfish.  I first encountered it in a tiny cafe on an isolated beach on the north coast of Yucatan.

 

Boil the shellfish.  Mix with their own weight (or a bit more) of raw chopped tomato, onion and cilantro.  Dress with salt, pepper, dried oregano, lime juice and a bit of oil.

 

 

Samak Mishwi

 

Arabic for “roast fish.”  I have seen it Yucatecanized to “samik mishul.”  This is one of the relatively recent Lebanese contributions to the Yucatan world.  It is as un-Maya a recipe as could be imagined, but I find fascinating the adoption of Lebanese culture in the Yucatan Peninsula.

 

2 fish

Olive oil

1 garlic clove

2 limes

4 oz. tahini (ground sesame seed paste)

6 sprigs parsley

 

Brush the fish with olive oil and grill.

Serve with sauce:  Mash the garlic cloves with salt and mix with the lime juice and sesame paste.  Thin this with water as needed.

Garnish with chopped parsley.

This sauce is a version of the famous taratur sauce of the Mediterranean,but substituting Mexican limes for lemon or vinegar.

 

 

 

Shrimps in Chirmole (or Chilmole)

Chilmole (Nahuatl for “chile sauce”) is a very widespread recipe type, deriving from central Mexico, and based on a rich sauce of ground dried chiles, usually thickened with masa.  In central Mexico there is a whole conoisseurship of dried chiles, but in Yucatan there is not much choice.

 

1 lb. fresh or dried shrimp

4 oz. dried chile (ancho, morron or the like)

1 onion

3 garlic cloves

3 Tabasco peppers

6 peppercorns

1/2 tsp. achiote

4 large oregano leaves (or 1 tsp. ground oregano)

2 cloves

1 lb. tomato, chopped

1 branch epazote

2 oz. masa

3 eggs

Salt to taste

 

Boil the shrimps, peel and clean.

Toast the chiles and grind with the onion, garlic and spices.  Combine with the shrimps, the stock they were boiled in, the tomato, the epazote and the salt.

Dissolve the masa and cook down the whole into a thick sauce.  Serve decorated with slices of hardboiled eggs or other garnishes.

Warning: note that this recipe uses lots of chile.

(modified from Conaculta Oceano 2000b:33)

 

 

Snook in Escabeche

 

As explained in the Introduction, robalo in southeast Mexico is what is called “snook” in the southern US.  It’s a flavorful, slightly oily, white-fleshed fish.  Any equivalent fish will do; even salmon works fine for this one (texture and richness being more important in this case than flavor and “white fish” qualities).

 

4 robalo steaks

1 tsp. steak recado

1/2 tsp. ground coriander

1 pinch ground oregano

1 pinch cinnamon

1 pinch ground allspice

2 garlic cloves

2 heads of roasted garlic

4 bay leaves

Vinegar

Salt to taste

 

Fry the steaks till not quite done.  Cool.

Dissolve the spices in the vinegar and some water.  Add the fish steaks.  Boil quickly.

 

 

Snook in Orange Juice

 

Fish:

2 lb. snook fillets

Juice of 1 bitter orange or a few limes

1/2 tsp. black pepper

1/2 tsp. oregano

Juice of 3-4 bitter oranges (or equivalent)

 

Sauce:

1/4 cup oil

2 cloves garlic

2 onions

2 bell peppers

2/3 lb. tomatoes

Salt and pepper to taste

1 sprig or more parsley

 

Marinate the fish in the orange juice, to which the ground spices are added.

Roll the fillets and fry very lightly.  Cover with bitter orange juice.  Bake at 350o.

Meanwhile, make the sauce:  Fry the garlic and onions, chopped, in the oil.  Add the chiles and tomatoes, roasted.  Add the salt and pepper.  Then add the chopped parsley.  Cook.

Serve the fish with the sauce poured over.

 

 

Tik’in-xik

A very widespread traditional Maya fish dish.  Its ancestry must go back to ancient times.

 

1 fish (2-3 lb.)

3 garlic cloves

1/2 tsp. oregano

1/2 tsp. cumin seeds

Juice of 1 bitter orange or 2 limes

2-3 tsp. achiote

1 tomato, sliced

½ small white onion, sliced

1-2 xkatik chiles, seeded, roasted and cut in strips

Salt and pepper to taste

Hojasanta and/or banana leaves

 

Clean the fish and slash its sides.  Blend the spices, garlic, achiote and orange juice.  Rub this recado well into the fish.  Marinate for several minutes to overnight, according to preference.

Line a baking dish with banana leaves (or substitute).  Wrapping with hojasanta leaves and then banana leaves gives better flavor.  Put the tomato, onion and chile slices on it.  Wrap well in the leaves and bake in a slow over for 30 to 45 minutes.

Originally, of course, this would have been made in a pib, and you can still do this if you are very good at wrapping.  It is also made on the grill, which is easier.

Fish steaks marinated in the recado and simply grilled (without the wrapping) are also excellent.

If you can’t find banana leaves, wrap in any flavorful leaf, or put some fennel or bay leaves around the fish, and wrap all in aluminum foil.

Variants:  Cinnamon can be added to the recado.  All quantities can be, and are, varied according to what’s cheap, available, or preferred.  This is a notably variable dish; every restaurant has its own recipe.

 

 

Worker’s Shrimp

 

1 lb. tomato

1 onion

3 garlic cloves

1 tsp. achiote

1/2 tsp. cumin seeds

5 allspice berries

1 oz. bottled green olives

1 oz. capers

A few raisins

1 sprig parsley

6 tbsp. oil

2 bell peppers

2 xkatik chiles

4 summer squash

2 chayotes

1/2 lb. potato

2 platanos

3 tbsp. vinegar

1 1/2 lb. shrimp (shelled and cleaned)

 

Roast the tomatoes.  Blend with the onion, garlic, spices (ground), olives, capers, raisins, and parsley.  Fry this sauce in the oil.  Cut up and add the vegetables and cook ca. 20 minutes.  Add the shrimp and cook till done, about 10 min.

Workers have more appetite than money, so a great quantity of vegetables are used here to stretch the shrimp.

The olives, capers, and raisins were originally elite Spanish ingredients, and are optional here.  Leaving them out gives a more Maya dish—more like what workers really eat.

 

 

Fish in Vinegar

A variant of fish in escabeche—the classic Spanish sour sauce, from the Arabic as-sikbaj for a vinegared dish.

 

2 lb. fish, preferably robalo steaks but any firm-fleshed fish will do

4 bay leaves

1/2 bottle cider vinegar

1 onion

1 carrot

1 bell pepper or mild chile

4 potatoes

Oil

4 tomatoes

Oregano

Few sprigs parsley, chopped

Pinch of nutmeg

Salt and pepper to taste

 

Set a bit of water to boil, with the spices.  Cook 10 minutes and take out fish.  Chop the vegetables and cook in the vinegar and stock.  Add a biot of olive oil.  Pour over the fish and serve.

 

 

 

 

MEAT

 

 

Ajiaco, Yucatan style

 

A rather spectacular elaboration of a standard Mexican recipe.  This is another dish that stretches the meat with lots of vegetables.  It is thus notably healthy.

 

1 lb. pork loin

1 lb. pork short ribs

8 allspice berries

2 cloves

1 small cinnamon stick

1/2 tsp. coriander seed

1/2 tsp. oregano

3 garlic cloves

6 tsp. vinegar

1 onion

1 plantain

1/2 lb. tomatoes

2 bell peppers

3 xkatik chiles

1 chayote

1/2 lb. potatoes

1/2 lb. sweet potato

2 summer squash

1/3 cup rice

Pinch of saffron

 

Cut up the meat.  Grind the spices and garlic, mix with vinegar, and rub into the meat.  Cook for a few minutes.  Then add the vegetables, in the order listed.  The rice can be added with them or cooked and served separately.

Add the saffron at the very end (last 5 minutes of cooking).

 

 

Ajiaco, Quintana Roo style

 

2 lb. pork

4 leaves of oregano

4 garlic cloves

1 tbsp. black pepper

1 pinch cumin seeds

2 summer squash

2 carrots

2 chayotes

1 sweet potato

1 plantain

2 potatoes

1 cup rice

1 onion

2 tomatoes

1 green chile

4 oz. lard

Juice of 1 bitter orange

1 pinch saffron (optional; rare)

Salt and pepper to taste

One is tempted to add: 1 kitchen sink.

 

Boil the meat.  Add the spices.  As it cooks, cut up the vegetables and add them in.

Separately, chop up and fry the onion, tomatoes and chile.  Add the rice.  Add enough stock to cook and simmer slowly.  As it cooks, squeeze in the bitter orange juice.  Add the saffron at the very end.

Variant:  This is a typical Quintana Roo dish in that it is delicately spiced.  Most ajiacos use a great deal more chiles than this, with dried chiles being notably evident.  Adjust accordingly.

The saffron is an exotic touch; in the villages it would not be found.  But the other ingredients would.  Dishes like this are typical of Maya village cooking, because the dooryard garden is apt to produce, each day, one squash, a couple of tomatoes, a few chiles, and so on—not a lot of any one thing, but an awful lot of different things.

 

 

Balinche Salad

Compare the Chojen Salad of the Chiapas highlands.

 

Cold boiled meat—deer preferred, beef common.  It is shredded or chopped, with bitter orange (or lime) juice, chopped radish, cilantro, chile xkatik, and onion.  Half a bitter orange is served on the side to squeeze on it.

Other names are used, and ingredients are mixed and matched according to taste.

This is one of those simple dishes that vary according to the creativity of the maker.

 

 

Beef in Broth

 

2 lb. beef, cut up

3 tomatoes

1 bell pepper

1 xkatik chile

1 onion

Half of 1 bunch cilantro

1 tsp. oregano

3 leaves mint

1 head of garlic

1 tsp. black pepper

4 tbsp. red recado

2 chopped summer squash

2 chayotes, cut up

 

Relish:

6 radishes

Rest of the cilantro

Juice of bitter orange

Salt

Habanero chile (optional)

 

Boil the meat.  Chop and fry the tomatoes, bell pepper, chiles and onion.  Add to the meat.  Late in the cooking, add the herbs.

Roast the garlic and add it in.

Dilute the recado in some of the stock, and add in.  Put in the squash and chayote.  Cook till done.

Meanwhile, chop up the radishes, cilantro and chile and marinate in bitter orange juice.  Eat as relish for the meat.

 

 

Bistec

In spite of the name (which is, of course, “beefsteak”), this dish is usually made with pork in Yucatan and Quintana Roo.  However, it is made with beef too, especially rather tough cuts like flank steak.

 

2 lb meat, cut into thin steaks (1/8-1/4” thick)

Cinnamon stick

1 tsp oregano

1 tsp cloves

1 tbsp peppercorns

3 cloves garlic

Juice from 4 bitter oranges and 2 limes (or just 4-6 limes)

1 carrot

1 onion

2 tomatoes

1-2 potatoes

Salt to taste (traditionally this is an extremely salty dish, to restore salt lost in working in the blazing Yucatan sun)

 

Grind the spices together, and thin with the citrus juice.  Marinate the pork in this for an hour or two.  Fry in lard till done.

Meanwhile, peel the vegetables.  Boil with salt.  Serve the boiled vegetables separately from the bistec.

For sauce (separate):  Roast the habaneros.  Mash with salt.  Add cilantro and onion, and a bit of lime juice.  Or serve with limes, radishes and k’utbi p’ak.

Variants:  The vegetables can vary according to taste, except that the tomatoes, onion and potatoes must be there.

 

 

Bistec (Steak with Potatoes) II:  Urban Form

 

2 lb. tender beef or pork steak, cut thin

1 cube steak recado

Vinegar

Oil

3 tomatoes, sliced

1 onion, sliced

1 bell pepper, sliced

4 potatoes, sliced (in rounds)

Salt to taste

 

Dissolve the recado in a little vinegar and rub into the meat, with a lot of salt.  Put a little oil on the bottom of a casserole or saucepan.  Layer meat and vegetable slices.  Cook over low heat.

Variant: with more onion and some garlic, instead of the tomatoes and potatoes, this becomes “steak and onions.”

 

 

But’

 

Maya for “minced meat” (not rump steak!).  But’ is translated into Spanish as relleno, “stuffing,” which is confusing when it is not being used to stuff anything.

 

1 lb. ground pork (ideally, finely minced meat of fresh leg)

1 tsp. steak recado

1 pinch ground clove

1 pinch ground cinnamon

1/4 cup vinegar

2 tsp. sugar

4 tomatoes

1/2 onion

1 green chile (or bell pepper)

12 or 15 olives

1 tsp. capers

Raisins to taste

Almonds (to taste; optional)

4 hardboiled eggs

Salt to taste

 

Mix the spices into the meat.  Chop the vegetables.  Chop the whites of the eggs (reserve the yolks for garnish).  Mix all ingredients and cook in a frying pan, stirring.

This is usually used as a topping or stuffing.  It is used to stuff turkey or to make meatballs cooked with cut-up turkey.  Either way, the turkey is often boiled in a richly spiced stock (see turkey recipes).  But’ is also used in tacos or on sopes, etc., and of course for stuffing vegetables.

A very characteristic use:  wrapped around hardboiled eggs and fried, like Scotch eggs.

Traditional village versions leave out some or all of the classic Spanish imports:  olives, capers, raisins, almonds.

In fact, the very traditional, all-local form of it is:

 

But’ Negro

 

2 lb. ground pork

1 cube red recado

1 cube black recado

1/2 cup vinegar

4 tomatoes

1/2 onion

1 xkatik chile

 

Proceed as for previous recipe.  The same comments apply.

 

Variant:

8 tomatoes

1 xkatik chile

2 lb. ground pork

1/2 cube steak recado

1 cube achiote paste

1 pinch cumin

1 onion

3 garlic cloves

 

Roast and peel the tomatoes and chile.  Dissolve the spices in water.  Add to meat.    Cook all in a frying pan, stirring.  Chop the onion and garlic and add; they should fry up in the fat from the meat.  Eat with tortilla chips.

 

 

Chocolomo

The name is “mestiza Maya”; choko is Maya for “hot,” lomo is Spanish for “loin.”  Supposedly, the name comes not from the heat of the cooked dish, but from the fact that this was, and is, the traditional way to cook a freshly-butchered animal whose meat is still warm.  The purpose of this dish is to use the more delicate parts of the animal—loin and innards—before they spoil.  It is the standard “variety meats” dish in much of south Mexico.

 

Pork or beef heart, and small pieces of tripe

1 lb. pork or beef loin

Liver, kidney

Brain (optional)

Soup bones

Cube of steak recado

1 head of garlic

Juice of 1/2 bitter orange

4 tomatoes

1 onion, cut up

Sprig of cilantro

Sprig of mint

Chiles to taste

 

Clean the various meats well.  Before cooking, the meat of the kidneys has to be trimmed of fat and thoroughly cut away from the tough white tubule system, and then soaked in water for a while.  Discard this water after soaking.  This process makes kidneys taste good instead of gross.

Cook the meat with the recados.  Start with the heart, tripe, bones, and any tough cuts.  Cook for an hour or more.  Add the loin and cook a while longer.  Then add the liver and kidney; cook for a little more.  Add the brain (it is very delicate and cooks fast), vegetables and herbs.  Serve with Basic Relish, lime wedges, xni-pek, and other garnishes; it is traditional to have a fairly full board of relishes and garnishes with this dish.

Variants:  People use whatever mix of “variety meats” is available.  If you don’t like the innards, it is perfectly possible to make this dish with just pork loin (as the name implies).

Cabbage, chayote, xkatik chiles, radishes, and other vegetables are added to this dish, according to taste.

 

 

Chorizo

 

2 lb. pork

1 tsp. pepper

5 allspice berries

1 glass sherry

1 cup vinegar

Nutmeg

1 dried chile, seeded, toasted and ground

 

Grind the pork twice.  Grind the spices and add.  Mix all ingredients and knead well.  Let stand a while, then stuff into sausage skins.  Smoke over smoldering fire including aromatic leaves such as guava, allspice or avocado.

It is possible to make patties and cook directly, without the sausage skins and the smoking process.  In this case, try forming the patties around some aromatic leaves (bay leaves, herbs, etc.).

 

 

Cochinita Pibil

With this, we reach the crowning glory and fame of Yucatecan cuisine.   It goes back to pre-Columbian times; the pit barbecue, a worldwide cooking method, was sacred to the Maya–or at least was used to prepare the sacred foods.

Unfortunately, this is also the easiest Yucatecan dish to ruin.  I confess I have tried it only with pork roast, and only in the oven.  I have ruined a few roasts even with this simplified form.

 

This recipe is adapted to a very small piglet.  For a larger animal, you have to scale up the ingredients proportionately.

 

1 piglet, cleaned (ca. 10 lb., or up to 20), with all its innards, or a large pork roast (plus a pork liver, if you like liver)

3-4 cubes red recado, or mix equivalent amount of achiote with clove, cumin, black pepper, oregano, cinnamon and bitter orange juice to make up a paste.

Juice of 5 bitter oranges

Ground chile

Salt and pepper to taste (traditionally, a lot)

Mint leaves

2 xkatik chiles, cut up

Chives (or green onions)

Salt

 

Banana leaves, for wrapping

 

Relish:

2 red onions, finely chopped

Juice of one bitter orange

Chopped chiles

 

Dilute the recado in the juice of 5 of the oranges.  Rub this well into the meat and let it marinate overnight.  If using a pork roast, slash it and rub the marinade into the cuts.

Now, dig a pit about 4′ by 4′ by 3′ or more.  Heat rocks as hot as you can get them in a fire of very hot-burning wood.  Transfer these into the pit.  Put over them a layer of wet leaves.

Put the pork in a large, high-sided roasting pan and wrap thoroughly with banana leaves.  (If none is available, use any flavorful, safe leaves and wrap the whole thing in aluminum foil.)

Separately wrap the brain (or leave it out).  The liver should be wrapped separately, with chopped-up mint, chives, green chile and salt.  (If liver is not liked, do this with some of the meat.)

For a really thorough job of using all the pig, chop up the fat, mix with the blood and some spices, and pack into the carefully-cleaned small intestines, thus making blood sausage.  Cook with the rest.

Put the pork in the pit.  Cover carefully with a fitting metal cover.  Bury under a good foot of dirt.

Leave overnight.  (Times range from four to twelve hours, but the longer the cooking, the better the result.)

Serve with the raw onions, chopped, marinated with chopped chile (and sometimes tomato) in the juice of the remaining bitter orange.  Naturally, fresh habaneros are the chile of choice, but milder forms can be substituted.

Tomato or chile sauce is also often served.

In the Chetumal market, where many stalls sell cochinita pibil, the accompanying sauce is quite different, and wonderful with the dish: a simple guacamole made by mixing avocado and xkatik chiles, about half and half.  (Some stalls use more avocado, some use more chile.)  These are mashed to a smooth paste.  Some lime juice can be added, to good effect.  This is a really outstanding sauce for cochinita.

 

Fortunately for apartment-dwellers (and lazy people like me), this dish is perfectly easy to make in a regular oven, though it never tastes quite so good as when made in a pib.  The secret is to wrap it thoroughly and cover it well, so that no liquid or steam escapes, and then cook it VERY SLOWLY–200o–for several hours, until the pork is very thoroughly done.  A lot of liquid should result.

It is possible to wrap it thinly and roast at regular temperature (375o).  Indeed, this is what almost all restaurants do, especially Yucatecan-style ones that are not in Yucatan!  This produces perfectly good roast pork, but it isn’t cochinita pibil, any more than orange soda is Dom Perignon.

The best cochinita pibil is found before dawn in the village marketplaces, where the farmers are getting a quick breakfast before going off to their milpas–cornfields–for a day’s work.  The cochinita, prepared by one of the country folk the night before, is freshly dug up and still hot and juicy.  The cool air, wood smoke scent, and quiet Maya conversation add much to the experience.

 

 

Gopher

A traditional Maya dish.  So far, I haven’t tried it.  You are welcome to do the experimenting with this one.

 

Trap a gopher.  Roast (don’t skin, don’t clean, just roast).  Rub the carbonized hair off.  Take all the meat, innards included, off the bones.  Mix with salt, bitter orange or lime juice, and chile sauce (or use these as a garnish).  Make tacos of this with fresh tortillas.  (The true outback thing to do is to pick the meat off the bones with the tortilla pieces.)

This is sometimes referred to, with more rhyme than reverence, as baj yetel u taj, “gopher with its dung.”

 

 

 

K’ab ik (“Chile Stew”)

 

2 lb. beef with bones

2 cubes red recado, and a bit of extra achiote paste

1 cube steak recado

Pinch of allspice, or allspice berries

2 to 4 dried ancho chiles (I hope no one reads that as “24 dried chiles”)

2 sprigs epazote

Bitter oranges

1 head garlic

4 tomatoes

1 onion

 

Cut up and boil the meat.  Add the recados, with a pinch of allspice powder or a few allspice berries.

Seed, toast and soak the chiles.  Grind and add.

When the meat is soft, add epazote, juice of 1/2 bitter orange (or 1 lime), and a head of roasted garlic (peeled and mashed).

Add the tomatoes and onion, cut up, and finish cooking.

Serve with salsas.

 

 

Kibi

This is by far the most popular of the Lebanese contributions to Yucatecan food.  Kibis are sold on every busy street corner.  They have become so thoroughly Yucatecan that they appear on the menus of Yucatecan restaurants in Mexico City and Los Angeles!

The standard street kibi is uninspiring: ground lamb, bulgur, chopped onion and mint, formed into a depth-bomb (fusiform) shape and deep-fried.  It is often served with a relish of chopped cabbage, chile and cilantro in vinegar.

A more authentic Yucatan Lebanese kibi recipe (from a booklet of Lebanese cooking in Yucatan, by Maria Manzur de Borge, that I have lost and that is no longer available) gives a better product:

 

2 lb. beef

2 lb. leg of lamb meat

1 lb. fine bulgur

Bunch of mint

3 onions

Handful of pine nuts (pinon nuts, pignolias)

Oil

Salt

Black pepper and chile, if wanted

 

Separate the fatter from the leaner bits of meat.  Mince the meat and the onions.  Soak the bulgur for an hour.

Mix the leaner meat with the bulgur and one of the chopped onions.  Fry the fatter meat with two of the chopped onions.  Add the pine nuts.

When the fat is fried out of the meat, drain and mix with the lean meat.  Form into depth-bomb shapes and deep-fry.  A lower fat alternative (perfectly traditional) is to bake in a baking tray.

 

 

Lomitos

 

2 lb. pork, cut up

1 cube red recado

Juice of 1 bitter orange

1 onion, chopped

2 tbsp. lard

1 lb. tomatoes

2 xkatik chiles (or other fresh chiles, even to habaneros)

1 roasted head of garlic

 

Rub the pork with the recado mixed with the juice.

Chop and fry the onion in the lard.  Add the tomato and chiles.  Put in the pork.  Add water and simmmer.  Add in the garlic and cook till done.

 

 

Old Rags

Ropa vieja–so named from its appearance, like old shredded rags–is a classic dish known throughout Mexico and the Spanish Caribbean.  This is the Yucatan version.

 

1 lb. leftover stewed pork or beef (if starting from scratch, stew the meat a LONG time, till it is “boiled to rags”)

1 onion

4 cloves garlic

5 tomatoes

1 bell pepper and/or 1 xkatik chile pepper

1-3 sprigs or small branches of epazote

1/2 cup bitter orange juice

1 cube red recado

2 tsp. black pepper

Salt to taste

 

Shred the meat into small fibres.

Chop up the vegetables and fry, starting with the onion and garlic.  Add the meat and fry all.

Many variants of this recipe exist.  Tomato sauce, other spicing, etc. can be tried.

In much of the Caribbean this dish is served with “Moors and Christians” (cooked black beans mixed with white rice).

The famous Cuban version of this dish is much spicier.  It uses much more garlic, and really hot chiles instead of mild ones.  You can vary this recipe accordingly.  3 dried ancho chiles, ground, is a good start.

 

 

Om Sikil (Pipian I)

This is a village recipe, extremely conservative–basically pre-Columbian (note lack of frying and lack of any nonnative ingredient except black pepper).

The Nahuatl word “pipian” has almost displaced the ancient Maya name om sikil, but the latter is still heard.

 

2 cups sikil

6-8 cups water

1/2 red onion, chopped

1 tomato, chopped

2 cloves garlic, mashed

1 tsp. ground pepper

2 achiote cubes dissolved in water

1 tsp. dried oregano leaves

2 red chiles

2 lb. meat or fowl

1 cup sour abal (Yucatan “plum”; substitute sour plums)

1 tbsp. lard

4 oz. masa

 

Mix the sikil with the water.  Strain.  Bring to boil and add the chopped vegetables.  Cook ten minutes.  Add in the meat and spices.  Cook till meat is tender, about 1 hour.  Toward the end, add the abal or sour plum fruits.

Take out 2 cups stock.  Slowly work into it 1 tbsp. lard and 4 oz. masa.  Return this to the soup to thicken it.

It is perfectly possible to dispense with this thickening step.

 

 

Pipian

Compare Om Sikil, above.

 

4 oz. sikil

3 dried chiles

2 tbsp. achiote

2 garlic cloves

2 lb. meat (any sort), cut up

1 branch epazote

4 tomatillos

1 tbsp. masa

2 tbsp. lard if using lean meat (pan drippings here, definitely not commercial lard)

Salt and pepper to taste

 

Mix sikil with water and bring to boil.

Seed, toast and soak the chiles.  Grind them with pepper, achiote and garlic.  Add to the sikil.

Add the meat, epazote and salt.  Let boil.  Add the tomatoes, blended up.

Thicken the sauce with the masa.  Add the lard.  Cook till done.

 

 

Pok Chuk (Maya for “pork chop,” usually spelled “poc chuc”)

This dish was created by the restaurant Los Almendros of Ticul.  Los Almendros has an old Mérida branch, and now is developing branches elsewhere.  This dish is widely imitated and varied.  What it lacks in complexity, it more than makes up in popularity.  One of the reasons is the beautifully artistic arrangements that can be made with the separate sauces and beans on the plate.

 

Rub a thin-cut pork chop with steak recado or red recado.  Grill.

Serve with Tomato Sauce, K’utbi Ik, roast onion, cooked black beans, and bitter orange or lime quarters—each served separately in neat piles around the plate.  Avocado slices and other garnishes are often added as well.

 

 

Pork and Chaya

 

2 lb. pork

2 tsp. oregano

4 garlic cloves

1/2 tsp. cumin powder

20 chaya leaves (if no chaya is around, substitute 1 bunch Swiss chard)

1/2 cup rice, pre-soaked

1 pinch saffron

 

Relish:

1 red onion, chopped

3 tbsp. chopped cilantro

Juice of 2 bitter oranges

 

Boil the pork.  Add the spices.  When well cooked, add the chaya, rice and saffron.  Simmer till rice is just done, ca. 15 min.

Prepare a relish with the onion, cilantro and bitter orange juice.

This is a very Moorish-style recipe; Moorish cooking often involves cooking the rice or other starch in with the meat (as well as the addition of saffron).  It produces a rather stodgy dish, especially if overcooked.  Thus, you might well want to cook the rice separately and serve the stew over it.

 

 

Pork and Beans I (Frijoles con Puerco)

This dish is the local variant of a dish universal in the west Mediterranean world:  south France, Spain, Portugal.  Always, it involves beans of one or another type, with various tough parts of the pig.  This black-bean version is a sacred Yucatecan tradition.  It is often served regularly on a particular day of the week (the day varies from place to place) as the Daily Special.  Whoever said neck bones were low?  They’re among the best parts of the pig.  Also, true Yucatecans are sometimes militant about the tail and ear, but non-Yucatecans can be forgiven for leaving them out!

 

1 lb. black beans

1 lb. pork meat, cut up

1/2 lb. pork neck bones

1 pig tail, cleaned

1 pig’s ear

1 tbsp. black recado

1 tbsp. red recado

4 chopped tomatoes

1 branch epazote

3 oz. lard

1 tbsp. masa

 

Cook the beans.  Cut up the pork and add.

Dilute the recados in half a glass of water and add to the above.

Fry the tomatoes and epazote in lard.  Add in the masa and half a glass of water and cook till thick.  Add this to the stew.  Cook a minute more and serve forth.

Serve as is, or remove the pork from the beans and serve them separately.  Either way, a full range of relishes and garnishes should be provided, but must always include chopped radish with onion and cilantro in bitter orange or lime juice; and Tomato Sauce or K’utbi Ik on the side.

Rice is often cooked in the cooking liquid (after initial frying) and served separately.

“Red” variant:  Use more red recado (2-3 tbsp. or even more) and some ground allspice.

 

 

Pork and Beans II

This is a Yucatecan variant of a more Peninsular-Spanish version of the same dish.  In Spain the beans would be white–originally fava beans, now white frijoles.  In Yucatan red beans are sometimes used, and are very good in this dish.

 

1 lb. white or red beans

1 lb. pork

1 lb. pork ribs

6 cubes red recado

Vinegar

1/4 cabbage

1 summer squash

2 plantains

1 lb. potatoes

3 oz. raw ham

2 oz. bacon

2 Spanish chorizos

4 tomatoes

1 onion

1 bell pepper

4 green chiles

1/2 lb. lard

Salt to taste

 

Cook the beans.

Cut up the pork and ribs.  Add the red recado dissolved in vinegar.

When the pork is mostly done, add the beans, and the squash, cabbage, plantains, and potatoes (all cut up).

Separately, fry the chorizo, bacon and ham.  Add the tomatoes, onion, bell pepper, and chiles.  Fry.  Add a bit of vinegar.  Mix into meat and beans at last minute and simmer a while.

Variation comes by adding or subtracting different sorts of preserved pork products.

 

 

Pork and White Beans

By contrast, this is a very traditional, very Maya recipe.  White navy beans, dried limas or black-eyed peas may be used.

 

2 lb. white beans

2 lb. pork, preferably leg meat and ribs

1 onion, chopped

1 bell pepper, chopped

2 tomatoes, chopped

1 tbsp. red recado

Water

1 xkatik chile

1 head garlic, roasted

Salt and pepper to taste

 

Cook the beans.  When mostly done, add the pork, previously fried in its own fat (i.e. cook, preferably in stickproof pan, till some of its own fat renders out to fry it; you may have to add some water at first).

In this fat, fry the chopped vegetables with red recado dissolved in water or bitter orange juice.

Combine all ingredients and cook till done.

 

 

P’uyul de Chicharron K’astak’an (“small pieces of thoroughly-cooked chicharrones”)

A very Maya dish.

 

Take bits of pork skin attached to fat and meat–i.e. like chicharrones but with the meat attached, not just the skin.  Deep-fry for a very long time, till thoroughly crisp.  Eat in tacos with Basic Relish or similar garnishes.

Low-fat variant: pan-fry or grill bits of pork.

 

 

Steak a la Valladolid (Bifstek vallisoletana)

A simple but wonderful and deservedly popular recipe.  Valladolid (Yucatan) is the center of the highly traditional maize-growing region of eastern Yucatan state and neighboring Quintana Roo.  It is a homeland of simple, filling, but superb foods.

 

Rub a thin steak or pork fillet in recado of black pepper, garlic, lime juice and salt.  Then rub on red recado made of one cube achiote paste, lime juice, ground cumin and a little ground clove, dissolved in bitter orange or lime juice.  Marinate an hour or more.  Grill.

 

 

Stuffed Chayote (“Chayote Slippers”)

A manifestation of the classic stuffed vegetable dishes of Middle Eastern cooking—another Moorish legacy in Spain; note the distinctive suite of Spanish ingredients, the olives, capers, and raisins, appearing yet again.

Basically a variant of Stuffed Squash, below.

 

1 lb. ground pork

1 onion

1 bell pepper

2 garlic cloves

1 tomato

4 chayotes

1/2 tsp. oregano

1/2 cup oil

Olives, capers, and raisins (optional)

Salt and pepper to taste

 

Cook the chayotes.  Cut in half lengthwise, removing the central seed.  (The result looks like a slipper.)

Meanwhile, cook the meat in a frying pan.  In the rendered fat, cook the tomato, onion, and pepper, chopped.  Add the olives, capers and raisins.  Cook this mixture down till dry.

With this, stuff the chayotes.  Bake in a pan for a few minutes till it all holds together.

 

 

Stuffed Cheese

A thoroughly Spanish-style dish, with Moorish antecedents, now thoroughly nativized in the Yucatan Peninsula.  Large Dutch Goudas–alas, often of a quality too low to be seen in the home country—used to be sold everywhere, wrapped in red wax and red plastic wrap.  Recently, however, the balance of payments has made them expensive, and they are no longer village food.

There may still be a few proper ladies who refer to these cheeses as chak chi, Maya for “red edge,” since queso, “cheese,” is one of the many, many, many words that have a double meaning in Yucatan.  (The same ladies refer to brown sugar as piloncillo, never panoche, and refer to eggs as blanquillos–“little white things.”)

These large cheeses are often sold by the slice in rural markets.  Only the rich can afford the luxury of using a whole ball for a single dish.

Unlike most Yucatecan specialties, this dish is a cholesterol-avoider’s nightmare.

 

1 ball of Dutch cheese

2 lb. pork

14 eggs, 12 of them hardboiled

3 cloves garlic

Dried oregano to taste (use a lot)

1 clove (or more)

Oil

Raisins, olives, and capers, to taste (a lot)

Lard

Saffron, to taste (optional)

1 cup flour

2 cups of tomato sauce

Salt and pepper to taste

2 xkatik chiles

2 serrano chiles

1 bell pepper

1 lb. tomato

1 lb. onion

 

Unwrap the cheese, remove the wax, cut in half and hollow out.

Cook the meat.  Save the stock.

Peel the boiled eggs.  Chop up the whites.

Prepare a recado by grinding together the garlic, oregano, clove and saffron.

Mince the pork.  Mix in the egg whites.  Fry with a bit of the recado.  Add generous amounts of raisins, olives, capers, and 3-4 oz. of the scooped-out part of the cheese.

Take off the fire and mix in the two raw eggs and the saffron.  Stuff the cheese with this mixture.

Seal the cheese shut with the flour (made into paste with a bit of water).

Wrap in a cloth and steam (or boil, but the water coming up only an inch or so) for an hour (adding water if necessary).  Don’t worry if it falls apart.  It often does.

Serve with a sauce, as follows:

Roast the chiles, tomatoes and onion.  Skin.  Chop fine and fry in lard.  Add the meat stock and the rest of the recado.  Add more capers, olives and raisins.  Thicken with a bit of flour.

Cut the cheese in quarters and cover with the sauce.

 

The flavor of this recipe depends heavily on the use of a lot of recado, capers and olives.  Otherwise, it is bland and greasy to a serious degree.

Variant:  Shrimps and other sea foods are sometimes used for the stuffing.

 

 

Stuffed Squash

A dish with Spanish and, ultimately, Moorish roots, adapted to New World squash.  Very similar dishes are prepared by more recent Arab immigrants, especially of the Lebanese community that developed in the late 19th century in Yucatan; see below.  Moreover, this dish has rebounded to the homeland; stuffed Mexican summer squashes, prepared with recipes very similar to this one but substituting lamb for pork, now universally join the original stuffed eggplants and so on, throughout southern Spain, the Middle East, and the Arabic world.

 

6-8 summer squash

1/2 lb. ground pork

4 cloves

Small stick cinnamon

6 leaves oregano

4 cloves of garlic, roasted

Vinegar

Pinch of saffron

Around 20 raisins

1 tsp. capers

Olives, as desired

Almonds, as desired

4 tomatoes

1 onion

2 xkatik chiles or 1 bell pepper

Lard or oil (olive oil is traditional, and best)

Pork stock

Salt and pepper to taste

 

Blanch the squash and hollow out.

Fry the ground pork.  If it is fat, enough fat will render out to fry it; if it is lean, add a little lard or oil.

Grind the spices, except the saffron, and make into a recado paste with a little vinegar.  Add to the pork.

Add the vegetables (chopped finely; the onions first), then the saffron (not all of it), raisins, olives, almonds and capers.

Stuff the squash with this mix.  Bake, or cook on stove top in a pan with a little water, until squash is soft.

Prepare a sauce by cooking down the stock with some vinegar, saffron, salt, and, if wanted, a little flour to thicken.  Pour over the squash.  Some form of tomato sauce is often used with or instead of this sauce.

Variants: the raisins, olives, almonds, and capers can be left out.  The sauces can also be dispensed with.

Variant:  A Lebano-Yucatecan version uses lamb, pine nuts, tomato and cinnamon as the basic stuffing.  It can be modified by adding the chiles, etc.

 

 

Tablecloth Stainer (manchamanteles)

One Yucatan variant of a very widespread and popular Mexican dish.  The sauce is brilliant red and leaves an almost permanent stain, hence the name.

 

2 lb. pork loin (or other meat)

Lard for frying

Meat stock

4 dried ancho chiles

2/3 lb. tomato

1 onion

2 cloves garlic

1/2 tsp. cumin seeds

1 stick cinnamon

2 cloves

8 allspice berries

1 tsp. oregano

1 tsp. sugar

1 plantain

1/2 lb. potatoes

1 sweet potato

 

Cut up the meat.  Fry in lard.  Toast the chiles.  Roast the tomato, onion, and garlic.  Blend these with the chiles.  Grind the spices and mix in.

Add these to the meat.  Add the stock.  Simmer till meat is done.

Separately, boil the plantain, potatoes, and sweet potato.  When done, add to the meat.

In central Mexico this dish would usually have a lot more chiles, of 2, 3 or even 4 varieties.  I prefer that to the Yucatan form.  But the Yucatan form has more subtle, harmonious spicing and more vegetables, and the wonderful roasted tomato-onion flavor.  Nobody says you can’t have it all….

 

 

Tasajo with Chaya, I

 

2 lb. tasajo (salted air-dried beef), soaked and cooked for a very long time

3 cubes red recado

1 lb. chaya leaves

2 summer squash

1 bitter orange

1 roasted head of garlic

Juice of 2 limes

3 habanero chiles

 

Tasajo is the Spanish and Central American equivalent of jerky (which is originally Peruvian—our word comes from the Quechua Indian word charki).  Tasajo is saltier and not quite so tough as real jerky.

Soak the tasajo for a long time in several changes of cold water.  Then wash and cut up.

Boil with the recado for a couple of hours.  Then add the squash (cut up), garlic and chayas.  Cook another 15 minutes.

Take the ingredients out of the stock.  Squeeze the bitter orange (or a couple of limes) over them.  Serve the soup separately.

Seed and roast the chiles.  Mash with salt and lime juice.  Serve on the side.

Variant:  The meat and chaya can be taken out of the stock before quite done, chopped finely and fried with onion or garlic.  I like this better.

This recipe would work with corned beef or even with a tough cut of fresh beef.

 

 

Tasajo with Chaya, II

 

2 lb. tasajo (salted dried beef), soaked and cooked for a very long time

1 lb. chaya leaves

2 oz. bacon

2 oz. chopped ham

4 cloves

4 bay leaves

Salt and pepper to taste

 

Fry the meat, bacon, ham and flavorings.  Add water and cook 30 minutes.

Boil the chaya leaves and blend.  Fry this in a little oil.  Put over the meat and cook.

Variants:  This sauce is also ideal with fish.  Add any other greens to the chaya.  More or different spicing can be used.

 

 

Ts’aanchak (familiar as dzanchac in older spelling)

A traditional way to cook deer, from long before the Europeans came.  Now adapted to Spanish-introduced animals.

 

1 lb. beef, any cut (this is a good way to use tough or bony cuts, etc.)

3 garlic cloves

1 onion, chopped

6 ears sweet corn (optional)

2 summer squash, cut up (optional)

2 limes

Salt and pepper to taste

 

Relish:

1 bunch radishes, cut up very finely

1 habanero chile, cut up

1 onion, cut up finely

1/2 cup cilantro, cut up

Juice of 1 bitter orange

Salt to taste

 

Boil the meat till tender.

When almost done, add the vegetables (if wanted—this is often just a meat dish).

Serve with the relish–the cut-up ingredients marinated in the citrus juice.  Slices of bitter lime can be used as flavorful garnish, if you can get them.

The vegetables are optional; any combination can be used.  The Maya village version is simply boiled deer meat with the relish.

The stock is critical here.  Tough, lean, flavorful meat should be used, and simmered slowly for a long time, to produce a really good stock.  It is eaten as soup, accompanying the meat, like the ancestral peasant form of French bouillon et bouilli.  Naturally, this is also accompanied by a constant stream of fresh-made tortillas from home-grown corn.

There are many variants.

 

 

Ts’ik

 

1 lb. venison, cooked (any other meat can be substituted)

2 tomatoes

1 onion

Several radishes

10-20 sprigs cilantro

1 jalapeño chile

Juice of 4 bitter oranges

 

Cut up and boil the venison.  Cut up the other ingredients and serve with the cooked meat.

This is better if the venison is marinated before cooking, and better still if it is cooked in an earth oven (pib) rather than boiled.

A very simple standard.  This is the way ordinary Maya prepare the leaner types of meat—traditionally, venison—for a quick lunch.

By shredding the meat and mixing it with the relish, one creates the dish known as “balinche salad,” above, or by other names.

 

 

White and Gold Stew

A superb, elegant dish, this stew is thoroughly Spanish in origin, and thus out of place in this book—but too good to leave out!

 

1 lb. meat (anything will do)

4 cloves

Small cinnamon stick

1/2 tsp. cumin seeds

2 packets saffron, dissolved in a little water

1 tsp. ground oregano

1 tsp. ground thyme

1 head garlic, roasted

Salt to taste

2 oz. vinegar

Olive oil (or lard or vegetable oil)

1 bunch green onions, roasted

Green chiles, to taste

Sugar to taste

 

Grind the spices (or use ground ones to begin with).  Rub into the meat, with the salt.  Brown the meat over low heat.  Add water, vinegar, oil, the sugar (if desired) and the vegetables.

Variants: a little sherry can be added.  Red recado can be used.

 

 

Xakan jaanal

Maya for “mixed food,” which this certainly is.  It is a particularly good and easy dish.  In contrast to the foregoing, this is a solid village dish.

 

2 lb. pork ribs

1 10-oz. package frozen lima beans or black-eyed peas

3 garlic cloves

1-2 tsp. oregano

Salt and pepper to taste

Branch of epazote

2 chayotes

1 kohlrabi

1 head cabbage

1 onion, chopped

2 tomatoes, chopped

1 xkatik chiles, chopped

1 cup rice

 

Cook the pork.  When it is nearly done, add the beans, garlic, oregano, salt, pepper and epazote.

Cut up the chayote, kohlrabi and cabbage.  Add into the pork and beans.

Separately, fry the chopped onion.  Add in the tomato and chiles.  Add in the rice and fry a while.  When it begins to stick, add in enough broth from the pork and beans to cover to depth of 1/2 to 3/4 inch.  Simmer over very low heat till the liquid is absorbed.

Serve the pork and vegetables over the rice.

Variants: this dish is infinitely expandable.  It can also be contracted perfectly well by leaving out the chayotes, kohlrabi and cabbage, or replacing them with any appropriate vegetable.  Eggs are sometimes added to hardboil in the stock.

 

 

Yucatan Stew

 

1 lb. meat

1 head of garlic, roasted, mixed with juice of one bitter orange

1/2 tsp. pepper

1-2 cloves

1 pinch cumin seeds

Sprig of fresh oregano or tsp. dried oregano

1 small bunch cilantro

3 tomatoes or 6 tomatillos

1 large green chile

1 onion, chopped; and/or a whole green onion, leaves and all except the tough top ends

 

Cook the meat.  When it comes to boil, add the spices.  When it is soft, chop or blend up the vegetables, fry, and add.

Eat with Basic Relish.

 

 

POULTRY

 

Chicken Adobo

 

1 chicken

3 cloves garlic

1 ½ tsp oregano

Large stick of cinnamon

1 tbsp peppercorns

1 oz. red recado

1 lb potatoes

½ onion

2 mild chiles, chopped

1 lb tomatoes, chopped

 

Cut up the chicken and boil.  Mash the garlic, oregano, cinnamon, and peppercorns together.  Add these and the potatoes, cut up, and cook till chicken is nearly done.  Then mix recado with some of the the stock.  Fry the onion, chiles and tomatoes.  Add these to the mix and finish cooking quickly.

 

 

Chicken Asado

This dish is great as is, but is far, far more commonly used as the start of something else.  This is the cooked chicken that is used in panuchos, salbutes, tamales, and countless other snacks and made dishes.   It was originally made with turkey, and often still is.

 

1 chicken

1 oz. red recado mixed with lime juice, lard or chicken stock, and more salt

½ onion, chopped

2 tomatoes, cut up

1 hot chile

Cut up and boil the chicken until almost but not quite done.  Take it out of the stock; save the stock.  Rub the chicken with most of the recado mix and roast it in a hot oven (ca. 375o).  At this point, if you are making this chicken only to use in panuchos or the like, set the chicken out to cool and then pull the meat off it.

Then, mix the rest of the recado into the stock.  Add the onion, tomatoes, and chile to the stock.  Cook and serve as soup with the chicken if you still have it, or, if the chicken’s destiny is otherwise, add noodles and/or potatoes and  other vegetables and a little of the dark meat of the chicken to the soup and finish cooking.

This dish has to be carefully made if you use United States chickens, which are very tender.  They tend to fall apart if boiled very long.  This dish requires that the chicken be boiled only enough to tenderize it and sterilize it.  If it falls apart, it can’t be roasted properly.

Variant:  this is made with black recado, too, especially if one is using turkey.

 

 

Chicken a la Motul

 

2 chickens

1/2 cup red recado

Juice of 2 bitter oranges

Lard

10 fried tortillas

3 large tomatoes

1 lb. refried beans

4 oz. cooked ham

Canned peas for garnish (or 1 10-oz pack frozen peas—untraditional but far preferable)

3 oz. grated Mexican sharp white cheese (if unavailable, use feta)

Salt to taste

 

Rub the chickens with salt and recado dissolved in the orange juice.  Boil in a little water.  Drain; fry.  Take the meat off the bones and shred the meat.

Boil the tomatoes in a very little salted water.  Blend and fry in the oil.

To serve:  Layer beans on a plate.  Put a fried tortilla on this.  Add the shredded chicken.  Then add the tomato sauce.  Cover with another tortilla.  Pour sauce over all.  On the top of this stack, put the ham, peas, and grated cheese.

Variants:  Turkey is more traditional, but very rarely found now in this dish.

The chicken can be cut up, and used bone-in, rather than boned and shredded.

This is only one of the architectural marvels of Motul cuisine.   Motuleños love to pile foods on a tortilla and top with some peas.  Possibly the Maya pyramids inspired it all.  It is cooking for the eye as well as cooking for the palate.

 

 

Chicken a la Ticul

Ticul is a large town in southern Yucatan, famous for its pottery, shoemaking, and food.

 

1 chicken, cut up

Lard

2 oz. ham, chopped

2 heads lettuce, chopped; optional (I prefer it without)

2 potatoes, cooked, chopped

1 stick cinnamon

6 peppercorns

2 cloves

4 large oregano leaves (or 1 tsp. ground oregano)

1 onion

3-4 garlic cloves

4 tbsp. vinegar

Grated Mexican sharp white cheese (or feta)

Green peas (traditionally canned, but briefly-cooked frozen peas are far better)

Salt to taste

 

Boil the chicken.  Drain, saving the stock.  Fry in the lard with the ham, lettuce and potato.

Grind the spices, onion, garlic and vinegar.  Add this to the stock and boil till it thickens.

Serve the chicken with this sauce poured over it.  Top with grated cheese and peas.

Variant:  The chicken can be breaded and fried.  Fried beans are often an accompaniment.  Other garnishes include red pepper strips, fried platano, etc.

(modified from Conaculta Oceano 2000b:45)

 

 

Chicken Chirmole

 

1 chicken

5 mulato chiles (or other dried chiles; mulato specified because the common ancho is a bit sweet for this recipe, but mulatos are rarely seen in Yucatan, so ancho is very often used)

1/2 cup sikil

5 toasted tortillas

5 peppercorns

1/2 onion

1 garlic clove

¼ tsp allspice

2 tbsp. lard or oil

Salt to taste

 

Cut up and boil the chicken.

Blend the chiles (seeded, toasted and soaked), sikil, tortillas, pepper and onion.  Note: the quality of the tortillas matters a lot in this dish.  Get good, fresh ones.

Fry this sauce in the lard.  Add two cups of the chicken stock.  Add the chicken and cook till sauce thickens somewhat.

Variant:  Ground blanched almonds make a very good substitute for sikil in this recipe.

 

 

Chicken in Bread Crumbs (Fried Chicken)

 

Not the most exciting dish, but too universal in Yucatan to ignore.

 

1 chicken, cut up

Lime juice

Salt and pepper

1 egg

Flour

Breadcrumbs

Oil

 

Boil the chicken.  Then take out and marinate in lime juice, salt and pepper.  Meanwhile, make a batter by beating the egg with flour.  Dip the chicken in this, then roll in breadcrumbs.  Deep-fry.

The advantage of this village method is that, since the chicken is already cooked, one leaves it in the boiling oil only long enough to crisp the outside into a shell.  The result should be very crisp and not even slightly greasy.

 

 

Chicken Pibil

 

1 large chicken

1 cube red recado

2 tsp. pepper

1/2 tsp. ground allspice

1/2 tsp. ground cumin

Pinch of ground oregano

6 cloves garlic, roasted and mashed

Juice of 2 bitter oranges (or 4 tbsp. cider vinegar)

12 leaves of epazote

4 pieces of tomato

Chopped onion

Chopped chile

1 tbsp. lard

Salt to taste

 

Cut up chicken into quarters.  Rub with spice mix (the spices dissolved in the bitter orange juice).  Anoint banana leaves (or foil) in lard and wrap the chicken quarters–with a few epazote leaves, a slice of tomato, and a some chopped onion and chile on each quarter.  Cook in a pib.

If baking in an oven, use a covered dish.  The idea is to hold in all the steam, so none of the aroma is lost.  Many a chicken pibil has been utterly ruined by baking without proper attention to this detail.  One warning:  If you do this, be sure the orange juice and the tomato don’t supply too much liquid, or you’ll get chicken soup instead of chicken pibil.

Naturally, one can vary the spice mix.  Unauthentic but good is to add powdered chile pepper to the recado.

 

 

Chicken with Potatoes a la Quintana Roo

A very standard dish in the area where I lived and worked, out in central Quintana Roo.

 

1 chicken, cut up

Oil

5 oregano leaves

5 allspice berries

1 slice of onion

1/2 tbsp. black pepper

2 garlic cloves

1/2 cube red recado or achiote paste

Juice of one bitter orange

3 tomatoes, roasted and blended up

1 xkatik chile

1/2 bell pepper (optional)

1 jalapeno chile

1 lb. potatoes (small new potatoes, or cut-up larger ones)

 

Fry the chicken lightly in the oil, with the spices.

Blend up the onion, garlic and recado in the orange juice.  Add to the chile and add just enough water to cook.

Separately, fry the tomato and the peppers, chopped.

Add to the chicken.  Add in the potatoes and finish cooking.

Like many Quintana Roo dishes, this is very delicately spiced, and you may want to raise the amount of oregano, allspice and black pepper.

 

 

Chilmole

A relative of the “Turkey in Black Sauce” below

 

1 chicken, cut up

1 tsp oregano

4 cloves garlic

1 tbsp pepper

2 oz black recado, or make or approximate your own (see recipe above)

2 tomatoes

2 onions

Several dried chiles (1-2 anchos, or a few smaller chiles)

4 oz masa

½ c white flour

 

Boil the chicken.  Grind the spices and garlic together, add to recado, add to stew.  Roast the onion in the ashes.  Add it and the tomatoes to the stew.

Toast the chiles (traditionally until completely black).  DO THIS OUTDOORS, STANDING UPWIND; the smoke is intensely irritating.  Add.  Cook 45 min. Knead the masa and flour together.  Add to stew, mix thoroughly to thicken stew, and cook for 10 min.

Variants:  Pork can be added to this.  The black recado can be left out, since it merely adds more to the toasted chiles and spices.  Fresh chiles, roasted, can be used (but are not traditional).

 

 

Cuban Rice

A Quintana Roo dish, reminding us of the links between the Mexican Caribbean and Cuba.  The Quintana Roo version seems generally to use more lime and herbs, less achiote and oil, than the Cuban.

 

1 chicken, cut up

Oregano, to taste

1 cube steak recado

7 garlic cloves

2 tomatoes

1 slice onion

1 bell pepper

3 cups rice

Lard

1 cup green peas (traditionally canned, but fresh or frozen are far better)

Juice of one lime

Salt and pepper to taste

 

Boil the chicken with oregano, the spices, and 5 of the garlic cloves.

Blend or chop finely the tomato, bell pepper, and onion.  Fry.  Add to stock.

Fry the rice with the other two garlic cloves.

Add the stock to this and simmer.  When partly cooked, add the peas, chicken, and lime juice.  Cook till rice is tender.

 

 

K’oolij blanco (“white stew”)

1 chicken or (more traditionally) small turkey

White corn meal, stirred into stock to whiten it

1 small xkatik chile

2 cloves

Few cumin seeds

Few allspice berries

1 cinnamon stick

Head of garliic

1 tsp crushed oregano leaves

2 sprigs epazote

Salt

Pepper

Sprig of mint

1 onion, chopped

2 tomatoes, chopped

 

Roast chicken unitl almost done, on grill.  Boil with corn meal and xkatik or bell pepper.  Mash the spices and garlic together and add to stew.  Add oregano and epazote.  Add mint at end.

Separately fry the onion and tomato to sofrito.  Add to stew near end of cooking, and cook just to get all mixed.

 

 

Mukbipollo

“Mestiza Maya”–Maya for “buried” (mukbij) and Spanish for “chicken.”

John Stephens’ account from around 1840 is classic:

“A friendly neighbour…sent us a huge piece of mukbipoyo.  It was as hard as an oak plank, and as thick as six of them;…in a fit of desperation we took it out into the courtyard and buried it.  There it would have remained till this day but for a malicious dog which accompanied them [the friendly neighbours] on their next visit; he passed into the courtyard, rooted it up, and, while we were pointing to the empty platters as our acknowledgment [sic] of their kindness, this villanous [sic] dog sneaked through the sala and out the front door with the pie in his mouth, apparently grown bigger since it was buried.” (Stephens 1843:21-22.)

Alas, all who travel in rural Yucatan, now as in Stephens’ time, encounter these oak-plank mukbipollos.  They are the result of skimping on the fat chicken broth when you mix the masa for the crust, and perhaps of also baking too long.

 

The following is an elaborate village version.

 

1 chicken

2 lb. pork (optional)

1 cube red recado

1-2 tsp. steak recado (or just another half cube of the red)

Branch of epazote

Few oregano leaves

5″ stick of cinnamon

Tsp. ground allspice or several allspice berries

2 cloves

5 roasted garlic cloves

4 tomatoes

3 onions

2 xkatik chiles

8 lb. masa

Salt and pepper to taste

 

Cut up and boil the meat in a lot of water.  Grind the spices and add.

Separately cook the tomatoes and onions in a very little water with 1 tbsp. lard, and boil 10-15 min. till a sauce is formed.

Take out a cup of stock.  Mix one fourth of the masa into the remaining stock and meat—slowly and carefully, so that lumps do not form.

Work the reserved cup of stock into the rest of the masa.  If the stock isn’t rich and fatty, you will have to add lard or oil, typically about ¼ cup, or you will wind up with the oak plank.  Again, work slowly.

With this mix, shape small pie shells like the familiar little chicken or steak pot pies of European and American cooking.  Fill with the meat.  Top with the tomato sauce.  Cover with a top crust of masa.  Rub over with thinned masa to seal.  Wrap in several layers of leaves.  Tie tightly to make a bundle.  Bury these in the pib.

The feast from which this recipe comes was cooked in a pib 3′ by 3′ and 1 1/2′ deep.  My next door neighbors in Quintana Roo, Elsi Ramirez and her family, dug it in their front yard.  Good firewood (the local equivalent of oak or mesquite) was put in, with large cobble-sized rocks on top of it.  The wood was burned till it became ash and the rocks changed color.  Then palm leaves were put over these until they were thoroughly covered.  The mukbipollos, wrapped in banana leaves and then in palm leaves, were then put in.  A metal cover was put over all, and dirt piled over it.  It was left for 3 hours.

In urban realms where you can’t dig up the yard:  Line a baking dish with banana leaves or foil.  Put the pies in, or just make one huge pie by pressing the masa against the banana leaves or foil.  Bake in a slow oven, around 350o, for 3-4 hours.  The exact heat must vary with circumstances.  The idea is to get a soft bottom crust and tougher, somewhat crisped and toasted top crust.

Variants:

Ch’a-chaak waj (bread for the ceremony of praying for rain) is made as above, or one can fry achiote in the lard used in the recipe.  The sauce should be thick so that the whole thing is more a cornbread than a pie.

The chicken can be shredded off the bones before use in the pie.

Dried chickpeas or lima beans, boiled till tender, can be added.

Spicing changes with the cook’s taste at the moment.

 

 

Chekbij waj

Similar to a mukbipollo, but, instead of making yellow corn meal into a solid piecrust, one uses a very soft, wide, round cake of white masa with a lot of chicken-grease-rich-stock worked into it (making it quite red).  The chicken is wrapped in this so the result is more like a tamale than a pie.  It is baked or steamed in leaves like the preceding.

 

 

Pabixa’ak’ (grilled or roast chicken)

Marinate chicken in red recado dissolved in bitter orange or lime juice, or in the spice mix for Cuban Rice, above.  Marinate for an hour or two, then grill or roast.

 

 

Puchero

 

1 chicken

Lard

Black pepper

1/2 tsp. cumin

2-3 cloves

1 tsp. cinnamon

1 tsp. oregano

3 garlic cloves

1 white onion

2 tomatoes

1 small summer squash

2 chayotes

2 carrots

2 small bell peppers

2 potatoes

1 or 2 plantains

Cabbage

1 package (8 oz.) fideos noodles

Salt to taste

Sprig of mint

 

Cut up the chicken, scrub with lime, and fry in lard.  Add salt, 1/4 of the onion, 2 tomatoes.  When all have colored somewhat, add water.  Make recado of the spices; add.  Then add in the vegetables (the plantains cut up but not peeled).  The cabbage goes in only when the other ingredients are fairly thoroughly cooked.

Saute fideos (thin angel-hair pasta) in a little oil.  Add stock to cook them.

Angel hair pasta may be substituted, but look for Mexican fideos (thin noodles—from Arabic fidaws, old Andalusian pronunciation fideos, meaning “noodle”).  They are thinner, cook faster and have more flavor.

Serve the puchero over these.  Serve with Basic Garnish or close relative thereof.

Variants:  The main one is that puchero is made with meat as often as with chicken.  Pork or beef neck bones are particularly common and good.  Pork ribs and pieces of stewing beef are also excellent.  Pork and chicken, or pork and beef, are routinely combined in pucheros.

The vegetables, of course, are an open set.  Garbanzos, sweet potatoes and other root crops are typically added.  Sometimes turnips and kohlrabi (the latter surprisingly common in the Yucatan) find their way in.

Thai lime, cut up, is very good in this–served in the bowl, not cooked with the chicken.

Rice is also used.  Any meat can be used instead of, or along with, chicken.  Chicken and pork make a good—and frequent—combination.

Garbanzos are sometimes added.

 

 

Rice and Beans

A dish native to Belize—some would call it the national dish there.  It has spread just across the border, and nativized in the Caribbean city of Chetumal, the capital of Quintana Roo.

 

1 chicken

Coconut oil

1 cube achiote paste

2 cloves garlic

Salt and pepper

1/2 cup rice

1/2 cup cooked red beans

1 plantain

1 onion

 

Cut up the chicken.  Make a recado of the spices.  Rub into chicken.  Cut up chicken and roast the pieces or fry them in coconut oil.

Sauté rice in coconut oil.  Add coconut cream thinned with some water and cook.  Mix with the beans.  (Excellent canned coconut cream may be found in any Asian-food market.  If you feel compulsive, here’s how to make it:  Grate the meat of a very ripe coconut.  Soak the gratings in warm water.  Pack in a cheesecloth and wring out.  This is great for developing the arm muscles.)

Cut plantain into thin strips and fry.  Serve on the side.

Separately, slice and fry the onion.  Serve over the chicken.  Alternatively, make Marinated Onions (see above) and briefly fry them.

Serve the chicken separately from the rice-bean mix.

Accompany with boiled local vegetables (such as chayote), sliced; chopped cabbage marinated in vinegar, salt and pepper; sliced raw tomatoes; salsa cruda of onion, tomato, cilantro; and xni’pek’ (habanero salsa; see above.  Habaneros are just as popular in Belize as in Yucatan.  In Belize they go by the English Caribbean name of “Scotch Bonnet” peppers.

 

 

Salpimentado (“salted and peppered”)

 

2 chickens

1 lb. pork, lean, cut up

2 summer squash

2 potatoes

1 chayote

1 plantain

3 cloves

1 stick cinnamon

1 tbsp. oregano

1 red onion

3 bunches of spring onions (scallions)

2 heads of garlic

2 mild chiles

Salt and pepper to taste

 

2 white onions

1 cup vinegar

Pinch of salt

1 habanero chile

2 Thai limes (bitter limes)

1 bunch cilantro

 

Cut up the chickens.  Set to boil with the pork.  Skim, then cook for 15 min.  Chop and add the vegetables  Grind the spices and add.  Cook 20 minutes or more, until all are done.  Meanwhile, roast the red onions, spring onions, chiles, and garlic.  Add them into the soup at the end; cook a minute or so.

For the relish:  chop the white onions very fine; add the vinegar

 

 

Turkey in Black Sauce

Here follow the traditional dishes of the four sacred colors.  Turkey, the only large domestic animal in pre-Columbian times, was the ritual food, and still is to some extent.  Chickens usually replace it now, being easier to raise.

 

1 turkey

1/2 lb. dried chiles

1 tbsp. black pepper

1/2 tsp. cumin seeds

1 tsp. oregano

15 cloves

1 1/2 tsp. achiote

4 oz. lard

2 onions, chopped

20 leaves epazote

3 lb. tomatoes, chopped

4 lb. ground pork

2 raw eggs

10 hardboiled eggs

2 limes

Salt and pepper to taste

 

Seed the chiles.  Then toast them till they burn (literally catch fire).  DO THIS OUTDOORS, STANDING UPWIND; the smoke can seriously damage eyes.  Be sure no one is downwind.  When the chiles begin to burn, stop the fire by throwing water over them; let them just blacken.  Wash and grind with the spices.  Then blend all in water.

Heat the lard.  Then chop the onions and fry.  When they color, add six epazote leaves and a pound of tomatoes (chopped).  When fried, add the ground meat and half the ground chile mix.

Add the raw eggs and the chopped-up whites of the cooked eggs.

Meanwhile, clean the turkey and rub with salt, pepper and lime juice.  Stuff the turkey with the meat sauce and the egg yolks.

Cook in a closed pot over a low fire.  Add the rest of the ground chile, the tomatoes, the rest of the epazote, and some lard.  Cook till turkey is done.

To make sure the chiles aren’t overburned (producing bitter, scorched or sooty tastes), make them a day or two ahead of time, soak them, and discard the water.

Variant:  The village form of this uses a lot of masa (about 6 lb.), stirred into the soup to lengthen it and make it suitable for pib uses.  This makes a pretty stodgy dish, though.

Allspice berries can be added.

 

 

Turkey in Red Sauce

The red version of this quartet of traditional ritual turkey dishes.

 

1 turkey

1 tsp. black pepper

1 tbsp. oregano

8 cloves

¼ tsp. allspice

2 tbsp. achiote

2 oz. dried chile

10 tomatoes

3 onions (and/or several cloves garlic)

10 leaves mint

3-4 oz. lard

½ -1 lb. masa

 

Rub the turkey with salt and leave for several minutes.  Soak the dried chile.

Grind the spices (including the soaked chiles and the achiote) in a little water.

Roast the turkey till browned but not fully cooked.  Cut in pieces.  Simmer with the pork in 5 quarts water.  Add the recado.

Chop the tomatoes, onion and mint.  Fry in lard.  Add to the above.

Thicken with masa.  Cook till sauce thickens.

(modified from Conaculta Oceano 2000b:46)

 

 

Turkey in Yellow Sauce

The recipe for the brilliant yellow k’ool is about the same, with half the achiote and without the tomatoes and mint.  Or use the very similar chicken stew from the mukbipollo recipe above.

 

 

Turkey in White Sauce

 

1 lb. pork ribs

1 turkey

1 branch oregano

10 peppercorns

3 garlic cloves (or more–up to one or two heads)

1 tsp. steak recado

1 tsp. red recado

Vinegar

Sliced onions

1 cup white corn meal

1 tsp. cumin seeds (optional)

1 tbsp. dried oregano

 

Boil the pork ribs in a large pot.  Add the turkey, cut up.  Add the spices, dissolving the recados in the vinegar.

Separate a few cups of the stock and dissolve the flour very carefully in it.  Cook slowly till it thickens.  Serve the turkey with this sauce poured over it.

Variants: it is possible to add quartered tomatoes, bay leaves, etc.

A much fancier version uses the classic Spanish combination of olives, capers, almonds, raisins, and a pinch of saffron.

A very interesting, and common, variant uses ground pork.  It is fried, and when the fat has rendered out, the spices are mixed into it.  (Some even chop tomatoes, onion, and chile peppers, and fry them in the mix, adding some of the almonds, capers, etc., but by this time we are dealing with a Spanish pork dish rather than a Maya turkey dish.)

If you can’t find white corn meal, yellow will do.  Some use white flour, but it merely thickens the sauce and makes it gluey, rather than adding the delightful texture and flavor of corn meal.

 

 

Turkey in Escabeche I:  Simple Form

In most of the Spanish world, escabeche—from Arabic, and originally Persian, as-sikbaj, food cooked in vinegar—is something one does with vegetables and sea food.  In Yucatan, it is first and foremost a poultry dish.

 

Marinate a turkey or chicken in a recado of cloves, cumin seed, cinnamon, black pepper, allspice, oregano, and garlic, mixed with a little vinegar (variants:  water, lime juice, bitter orange juice).

Boil with salt and a chile or bell pepper.

Serve with sliced onions (as in recipe following).

 

 

Turkey in Escabeche II:  Classic Escabeche Oriental

No one seems to have a conclusive account of what is “oriental” about this dish.  One theory is that the name comes from the fact that the dish is typical of Valladolid in the eastern part of Yucatan state.  However, a similar dish is called “oriental” in Spain, and it seems unlikely that influence from Valladolid (Yucatan) got that far, so I suspect “oriental” means “Moorish” or “Near Eastern” in this case.

 

1 turkey

1 tbsp cumin seeds

1 stick cinnamon

20 oregano leaves

8 cloves

1 tbsp. peppercorns

1 bottle vinegar

1/2 cup lard

8 xkatik chiles

2 lb. red onions

6 habaneros (!! Or fewer—or, if you can’t deal with even one habanero, one mild chile)

4 roasted heads of garlic

 

The turkey can be cut up or whole.  For the pib, it should be whole.  Boil the turkey.

Grind up the spices and make a paste with the vinegar.  Rub into the turkey.  Put the turkey in large pot with the lard, garlic, and xkatik chiles (roasted).  Bury in pib, or roast in the oven.

Cut up the onions and habaneros.  Marinate in vinegar or lime juice, salt, cumin powder and toasted oregano leaves.  Add some of the turkey stock.  Serve as garnish.

 

 

Turkey Escabeche III

A variant, which I prefer, of the above.

 

3 lb. turkey parts, or 1 chicken

1/2 stick cinnamon

3 cloves

3 black peppercorns

4 cloves garlic

3 tsp. dried oregano

1 cube achiote paste

1 tbsp. lard

Juice of 6 limes

3 purple onions

 

Boil the turkey (or chicken) with a little dried oregano.

Grind the spices (including the rest of the oregano).  Add 1/2 of the achiote cube and mix with juice of 1 lime.  Score chicken and rub in this recado.

Slice the onions.  Let sit for a while, then pour boiling water over them.  Leave a few minutes, then drain and add juice of 5 limes and 1/2 tsp. salt.  Or make the full Marinated Onions recipe with them.

Roast the turkey in a hot oven for 15 minutes, till skin is crisping.  Or, if you have a pib, wrap it and cook it in the pib.

Add the rest of the achiote cube to the stock.  Add 3 xkatik chiles (seeded and roasted) and a head of roasted garlic.  Then add an onion, quartered.

To serve, chicken can be cut up and returned to stock.  But, if one is eating it all with tortillas, the method is to take the meat off the bones, return the bones to the stock to boil some more, and eat the meat and soup separately.  The onions are a side dish to add onto the meat.

Serve with jalapenos in escabeche or habanero chile sauce.

Variant:  The above is a village form.  Urban forms are apt to include canned green Spanish olives, capers, tomatoes, bay leaves, etc.

Fanciest of all is to use a turkey stuffed with but’ (ground meat) and garnished with hard-boiled eggs.  Increase spices accordingly.

 

 

Turkey San Simon

This dish is Yucatan food history in a nutshell.  The turkey, tomatoes, chiles, and most of the spices are indigenous.  The recado using bitter orange is Caribbean, specifically Cuban (itself a mix, about which I know far too little, of African and Native American elements).  The bread thickening and the rest of the spicing is classic Moorish-Spanish.  The plantains are a solidly African touch.  The peas are a 19th-century Mexican garnish, derived probably from French usage.  The roasted green peppers are a standard modern central Mexican garnish.  And so on….

 

Recado:

1 tbsp. black pepper

1 tbsp. cumin seeds

1 tsp. cloves

1 tsp. allspice

1 stick cinnamon

1 head of garlic, peeled

1 tbsp. oregano

 

Dish:

1 turkey (ca. 10 lb.)

Lard for frying (1-2 tbsp)

2 heads garlic

1-2 tbsp. oregano

1 branch mint

Juice of 5 bitter oranges (or 1 cup vinegar)

1 oz. achiote

3 plantains, cut into long thin strips

10 slices French bread (or less—or even leave out)

1 10-oz. package of frozen peas

6 tomatoes, roasted and peeled

2 xkatik chiles

2 bell peppers, roasted and peeled

Salt to taste

20 green onions, roasted till beginning to brown

 

Grind all the recado ingredients together, dissolve in the bitter orange juice, and rub into the turkey.  Marinate in refrigerator overnight.

Then, cut up and brown the turkey in lard with a roasted head of garlic, the oregano, mint and salt.   Add water and cook, covered, till the turkey is almost done.

Separately, fry the plantains till soft; toast the bread; fry the tomatoes (chopped), and the chile and bell peppers (cut up).

Blend the tomatoes with the roasted head of garlic.

Now combine all ingredients except the plaintains and bread.  Cook 10 minutes.  Then take the turkey pieces out of the sauce; serve the pieces and the sauce separately.  Garnish with the peas, cooked and put over the turkey.

Serve with the plantains and toast on the side.  Roast the green onions till soft and serve them on the side also.

(modified from Conaculta Oceano 2000b:47)

 

 

 

VEGETABLES

In general, the vegetable section of a Mexican cookbook is the shortest, if it exists at all.  Yucatan is no exception.  Vegetables are eaten as part of mixed stews, with meat, or they are garnishes.  Still, there are a few vegetable dishes.  Chaya, in particular, has been monographed by Jose Diaz Bolio.  Some of the recipes below are inspired by his.

 

 

Alboromia

Another Arab dish–using Yucatecan recado! According to legend, Burun was a queen of old Baghdad, the wife of Caliph Al-Ma’mun, and she liked mixed vegetable dishes.  Her name, variously distorted, applies to such, all over the Arab and Spanish worlds. She is especially associated with eggplant.  Alboromia in countless forms is universal in Andalucía and Extremadura, and presumably came to Mexico very early, but one suspects, also, later Lebanese influence in this dish.

Such vegetable recipes as exist in Yucatan frequently turn out to be Lebanese.  They are ideal for a vegetable course in a Yucatecan dinner, because they make an interesting contrast to the Maya and Spanish dishes.

 

1 eggplant

1 summer squash

1 lb. potatoes

1/2 tbsp. red recado

2 tomatoes

2 onions

2 garlic cloves, roasted

1 bunch parsley

1/2 bell pepper

2 tbsp. vinegar

Oil

 

Chop and fry the vegetables, starting with the onions, garlic and parsley.  Add in the flavorings.

Variants: More spices and herbs can be added.

In both Spain and Lebanon, the ancestors of this dish lack the recado.  In Lebanon, they usually have more herbs–mint in particular, and sometimes tarragon.  These do not go particularly well with the recado.  Leaving out the recado and using mint, tarragon and oregano or marjoram makes a good variant, similar to ones found among the Lebanese communities.

 

 

Bean Chirmole

 

1 lb. beans

25 small dried chiles or 4 dried ancho chiles

1/2 onion

1 lb. masa

2 cloves garlic

6 tomatoes

1 tsp. oregano

Cloves, to taste

Allspice, to taste

Lard (optional)

Salt and pepper, to taste

 

Cook the beans until almost done.

Toast and boil the chiles.  Wash.  Grind them with the spices.  Add to the beans.  Add the other ingredients.

Meat can be added to this, as can abal fruits (sour plumlike fruits; substitute sour plums).  Both improve it quite a bit.

 

 

Black Rice

Chop and fry an onion and some leaves of epazote, and chile if wanted.  Fry in a little oil.  Add ½ cup rice and stir-fry.  Then add liquid from cooking k’abax beans (enough to cover the rice to depth of 1 inch), and simmer, covered, over very low heat till done.

This is one of those simple but wonderful recipes.

 

 

Chaya basics

Chaya is much like spinach or swiss chard, and these leaves can always be substituted for it or combined with it.  (Incidentally, “spinach” in south Mexico usually turns out to be New Zealand spinach or some other heat-resistant green, not “real” spinach.)

Boil chaya leaves.  Chop and fry with onion.  Salt, bitter orange juice, garlic, etc. can be added.

Variants:  Scrambling eggs in with this mix is wonderful.  Or an omelette can be made thereof.  Adding chorizo, cut-up (previously soaked) salt meat, chopped ham, or comparable flavorings is even more wonderful.

Chaya is also good in any bean dish.  Combining beans and chaya enormously increases the nutritional value of the dish, and tastes better, too.  Chaya can also be put in any soup or stew, especially the ones with mixed vegetables such as puchero.

 

 

Chaya and Plantains

 

1 lb. chaya leaves

1 large plantain

1 bell pepper

2 garlic cloves

1 onion

2 tomatoes

1 tsp. cumin

Juice of 1 bitter orange

Salt and pepper to taste

 

Boil and cut up the chaya.  Peel and boil the plantain and chop it up.

Chop up and fry the onion, garlic, pepper and tomatoes.  Then add the chaya and plantain and the other ingredients and cook till hot.

This is a wonderful dish, very good with tender young Swiss chard or even turnip greens.

 

 

Chaya Rice

 

Fry onion in a bit of oil.  Add the rice and fry.  Add chopped chaya leaves (raw small ones or blanched larger ones), chopped tomatoes, and any other flavorings desired.  Finally, add water to cover to depth of 1/2 “-3/4” and simmer.

Chaya Seafood Rice:  Add shrimp and/or other seafood to this, along with the chaya.

 

 

Chaya Salad

 

Boil the chaya, chop, and eat with sliced onions and vinagrette dressing.  Other vegetables can be added.

 

 

Chaya with Bacon

That old reprobate, Bishop Landa, when he was not torturing Maya to death in the Inquisition, was enjoying their food.  (It is to the credit of the Spanish that Landa’s cruelty earned him formal censure, even in that dreadful age.)  Among other things, he noted that chaya was “good with much fat bacon.” How did he cook it?  History does not record, but here are some worthy possibilities:

  1. Parboil chaya. Meanwhile, fry chopped-up strips of bacon.  Drain off some of the fat.  Then fry the chaya in the remaining fat, with the bacon bits.

Adding garlic and dried chiles to the frying bacon improves this version.

  1. Boil the chaya with bacon strips, garlic cloves, and dried red chiles.
  2. Boil slab bacon. Skim off as much of the fat as you can.  Add chaya, garlic and chiles.

Being a Spaniard of his time, Landa probably went much more heavily into the bacon than we would do.

 

 

Chaya with Cheese

 

Boil chaya leaves in chicken stock.  Sprinkle crumbled sharp white Mexican cheese over them.

 

 

Chaya with Eggs

 

1 large bunch chaya

1 onion

2 tomatoes

1 egg

 

Boil the chaya and cut up.  Cut up the onion and tomato.  Stir-fry the onion; add the tomato; then add the chaya; then add the egg.  Stir-fry all.

 

 

K’abax Beans (“Frijoles kabax”)

K’abax implies ordinary food without special seasonings.  This is the everyday bean dish of Mexico.  Cooked over a good wood fire on a Maya hearth, it is as fine a dish as anyone could want.

 

Put beans in water and bring to boil.  Turn off and soak a few hours.  Then (in the same water) boil till tender, adding salt, an onion, a sprig of epazote and perhaps some achiote.  Eat with a relish of lime or bitter orange juice with chopped onion, cilantro, radishes and habanero chile.

Further manipulations include:

Blended beans:  Cook beans as above.  Blend, with their liquid.  Add lard (Maya lard: see above) to taste.  Or, fry in lard chopped onion, epazote and chile, and add into the beans.  Boil.  (This produces something very like the black bean soup of traditional United States cuisine.)

Refried beans:  Mash the k’abax beans but without the liquid.  Fry in lard.  Add in above ingredients as desired.

 

 

Poor People’s Paté

One of the Lebanese contributions to Yucatan’s food.  It is a variant of the “poor man’s caviare” of the Near East and East Europe.

 

4 small eggplants

2 tbsp. chopped onion

6 chopped garlic cloves

1/2 cup chopped olives

2 bay leaves

3 tomatoes

2 cups cabbage, chopped

1/2 cup vinegar

1 cup yogurt (to serve separately)

Salt and pepper to taste

 

Peel and slice the eggplants.  If you dislike the bitterness, leave in salted water for 20 minutes and then drain, but you lose some flavor doing this.

Fry the onion and garlic.  Then add the eggplants, olives, pepper and one bay leaf.

Put the tomatoes in boiling water for a minute, to loosen the peels, and skin them.

Blend all the above (discard the bay leaf) with some olive oil.

Separately, make a cabbage salad:  Cook the cabbage.  Add vinegar, pepper and another bay leaf.

Serve, separately, the pate; cabbage salad; and the yogurt.  Eat on pita bread.

Variants:  infinite.  Try leaving out the olives.  The yogurt is optional.

 

 

Squash with Squash Flowers

 

Cook very small summer squash for a very few minutes.  Add squash flowers and then maize kernels cut from fresh sweet corn ears.  Boil for a very short time, until all ingredients are just tender.  Serve with lime wedges.

 

 

 

DESSERTS

Fresh fruit and the universal Latin American flan are the commonest desserts in Yucatan, but they need no recipes here.

Yucatan produces excellent sorbets from local fruit; the best are guanabana, mamey, and chicosapote.  They are just fruit pulp, sugar, and water.  Use any sorbet recipe.

 

Candied ciricote

The ciricote is a small fruit that has to be cooked to be edible, rather like a small quince.  It grows on a large tree whose wood is among the most beautiful of all tropical woods, but now cannot be legally cut because of the rarity of these important food-producing trees.

 

2 lb. ciricotes

2-3 limes

1 lb. sugar

Domestic fig leaves

 

Cook the ciricotes in water with some wood ash (a handful or so, to tenderize them).  When cook, take out and grate.

Mix with lime juice.

Cook down in sugar syrup with some lime juice and the fig leaves.  (The fig leaves produce an enzyme that further tenderizes the fruit.)

Simmer for half an hour.  Take out the fig leaves and bottle.

This recipe will work for any firm, sour fruit.  It is similar to that for orejas de mico (“monkey ears”—preserved wild papaya), etc.

 

 

Chayote Pudding

 

1 chayote

3 eggs or 4 whites + 1 yolk (untraditional but healthy and good)

2 oz. butter

2 oz. sugar

1 tsp. vanilla

1 tsp. ground cinnamon (or less if preferred)

 

Cook the chayotes, peel, and blend with the eggs, butter, sugar, vanilla and cinnamon.

Butter a mold.

Cook in the oven till done.  (For a softer texture, some use a bain-marie.  Basically, this is a dish of water in which the custard dish is set high enough so that the water does not come in, but rather steams the custard.)  Doneness is indicated by a generally firm appearance.  Don’t wait till a knife stuck into the center comes out clean–if you do, the pudding is overdone.

In Reunion Island in the Indian Ocean, where apples cannot grow, nostalgic French cooks have found that chayotes make a very good substitute (if you use enough butter and spices).  I have had excellent French apple cake, apple tart, and so on, using chayotes.  There is even a restaurant totally devoted to the chayote.  Admittedly, this is far from Yucatan, but the tip is too good not to pass on.  Yucatan, like Reunion, is a tropical land where apples do not grow.

 

 

Cheese Pie (Pie de Queso)

Another very common dish, especially in Merida.  Ancestrally, it is some unsung American’s variation on cheesecake, but is in fact much better than cheesecake.  The English word “pie” is invariably used.  Sometimes the spelling is localized to pay, which just happens to be the Maya word for “skunk.”

 

1 can condensed milk

4 eggs

1/2 lb. cream cheese or Cheddar cheese

1/2 cup sugar

Vanilla to taste (optional)

Piecrust (see below)

 

Blend the milk with the egg yolks, sugar and vanilla.  Beat in the cheese.  Beat the egg whites to peaks and add in.  Fill into a regular piecrust and bake till firm.

Low-cholesterol version of the pie filling:  1 ½ cup regular milk, 6 egg whites, 1 package cottage cheese, 1/2 cup sugar, vanilla.  Blend all.  Not very authentic, but good enough.

One might also try Jack cheese in this.

Piecrusts:

Standard version:  1 cup flour, 1 stick butter, tiny bit of sugar, ice-cold water.  Cut the butter into the flour and sugar; rub in a while.  Mix in the water–just enough to moisten–and roll out.

A Yucatan version:  1 cup flour, 1/2 stick butter, 1 tsp. baking powder, 1 egg, bit of cold water.  Proceed as above.

Another Yucatan version: 1 cup flour, 1 tsp. baking powder, 1 stick butter, 1 cup condensed milk.

Low-cholesterol version:  1 cup flour, 1/2 stick butter, 1 oz. sugar, cold water.

 

The other classic Yucatan “pie” is “pie de nuez,” but it is just ordinary American pecan pie, migrant from the American south.

 

 

Coconut Flan

 

1 lb. sugar

1 can coconut cream

8 eggs

1/2 quart milk

1 tbsp. lemon juice (optional)

Vinegar

 

Simmer 13 oz. sugar with coconut cream (cans of it can be found at any Asian-food market) till slightly thickened.  Cool.  Separately, beat the eggs.  Beat in the milk and lemon.

In a nonstick pan, melt 3 oz. sugar with a small amount of vinegar till the sugar begins to caramelize.  Pour into a buttered flan dish and pour int he ingredients.  Cook in a bain-marie till almost firm (about an hour).  Refrigerate.

Simple way (not to say cheating):  Throw milk, coconut cream, eggs, and sugar into a blender.  Blend for several seconds at high speed.  Line a pan with dark brown sugar (so you don’t have to caramelize it).  Pour the blended liquid into this and bake in the oven at 325o till almost firm.  Take out and cool; it will finish firming up as it cools.  Leaving it in the oven till firm, as most cookbooks advise, overcooks it.

 

Cocoyoles

An impractical recipe for anyone outside of a Maya village, but ethnographically too interesting to miss.  Cocoyoles—t’uk in Maya—are the fruit of a palm.  They are too hard to eat without treatment.  They are boiled with water and lime—not the citrus, but the result of burning limestone—to soften them.  The outer part becomes soft and sweetish.  It is then boiled down with sugar (traditionally, honey) until candied.  It takes very slow simmering for 12 hours to do this perfectly.

 

 

Corn and Squash Sweet

 

1 cup sweet corn kernels cut from very young ear, cooked very quickly

1 cup cooked meat from butternut or other sweet winter squash

Sugar to taste

 

Mix all while hot.

Allspice, cinnamon, vanilla and other appropriate flavorings can be added.  Brown sugar gives more flavor.

This very traditional Maya sweet would originally have been made with honey, or simply relied on the sweetness of the young corn.

 

 

Fruit Salad with Xtabentun

 

Cut up tropical fruits.  Melon, mango, papaya, mamey, banana, and citrus make a good combination.  Squeeze lime or orange juice over them and sprinkle liberally with Xtabentun, the Yucatan aniseta liqueur.  Of course you can use any liqueur, or dark rum.

 

 

Guava Paste

A universal Latin American delicacy, developed from the quince paste of Spain.  Quinces don’t grow in the tropics, but settlers quickly found that guavas are a perfect substitute.

 

1 lb. sugar

1 lb. guava juice (cook lemon guavas; strain.  Force some of flesh through sieve)

 

Cook slowly, stirring constantly, till the mixture forms a paste (soft ball stage).

 

 

Mamey Paste

Local version of the above.

 

1 lb. sugar

1 lb. mamey flesh

 

Mix sugar and mamey meat.  Simmer, stirring constantly, for several minutes.

This can also be made as in preceding recipe, but-unlike the guava–the mamey does not really need the cooking and straining.

Mamey is quite sweet enough without sugar, so this recipe is for preserving the fruit.

 

 

Posole with Coconut

 

1 lb. nixtamal kernels (corn kernels boiled in lime)

Juice of 2 limes

Meat of 2 small coconuts

½ c sugar (or less, to taste)

 

Boil the kernels in water with juice of 2 limes added.  Grind these with the meat of the coconuts.  Boil this with sugar, till thoroughly hot and sugar thoroughly dissolved.

Nixtamal kernels are available canned at any Hispanic market.

 

 

Queso Napolitano

The “national dessert” of Yucatan–the one you actually see everyone eating.

 

2 cans of milk

10 eggs

Vanilla extract

3 oz. sugar

 

Blend all except the sugar.  Caramelize it.  Turn out into a baking dish and pour in the liquid.  Cook in bain-marie for an hour (or bake till firm–this one you don’t take out early, as with the preceding).

It is possible to use only egg whites in this, and thus keep the cholesterol down to virtually nil.

 

 

Ruined Dessert

Atropellado means “totally messed up.”   The name honors the appearance of the dish.  Fortunately, its taste is as good as its looks are messy.

 

1 lb. sweet potato

Meat of 1 coconut

¼ lb. brown sugar

1 stick cinnamon

1 tsp. ground allspice

 

Cook the sweet potato.  Peel and mash.

Blend up the coconut.

Mix the sugar with some water and add the cinnamon.  Put on fire.  When it begins to boil, add the sweet potato and mix into the syrup.

Add in the coconut.  Chill.

I’m usually too lazy to grate coconut.  Canned coconut cream works fine!  Store-bought grated coconut is okay too.  Best is to use both.  Standard in Yucatan is to soak grated coconut in a can of condensed milk.

 

 

Squash with Honey

The traditional Maya sweet.

 

1 winter squash

1 lb. honey

 

Cut small holes in the squash.  Pour in the honey.  Bake in pib or oven for 2 hours.

This dish is sickeningly sweet.  A tiny amount is quite enough.  More than that can produce severe hypoglycemia after a sugar “rush.”

 

 

Spanish Cream

 

1 quart milk

6 eggs

1 lb. sugar

2 oz. cornstarch

1 tbsp. vanilla extract

 

Blend all.  Cook in a nonstick saucepan over a low fire, stirring constantly.

Low-cholesterol variant:  leave the eggs out.  (Yes, this is traditional.)

 

 

Yucatan Marzipan

 

1 lb. sikil

1 lb. sugar

10 oz. water

Flavorings as wanted

Food coloring

 

Dissolve the sugar in the water.  Simmer until a syrup forms.  Slowly work in the sikil, stirring constantly.  Add any flavorings.

Cool thoroughly.  Now, model into small animal, fruit and vegetable shapes and paint with the food coloring.

This recipe is of purely ethnographic interest, to show the ingenuity of the Yucatecan culture.  Almonds were far too rare in the old days to waste on marzipan-making.  Thus, this form was evolved.  It finds its chief use in providing pretty modeled toys and small items for children—something the ordinary person can buy for practically nothing in the market, to pacify a young child.  This sikil marzipan is only marginally edible, like the flour-and-water marzipan of the rest of Mexico, and is more the equivalent of Play-Doh than a food.

 

 

DRINKS

The usual round of licuados (fruit smoothies) and alcoholic drinks occur, but are as elsewhere in Mexico.

 

Atole nuevo (green corn drink)

Kernels from an ear of fairly well matured sweet corn, soaked a day, then blended with a bit of sikil.  This is often sweetened with honey, or otherwise flavored.

 

Baalche’

The sacred ritual drink–still as important as in ancient Maya times.

 

Water

Honey, preferably of native stingless bee (much more flavorful than European bee honey)

Bark of baalche‘ tree (Lonchocarpus longistylus; sometimes closely related spp. are used)

 

Mix ingredients, bottle, and let stand until honey ferments.

Today, the drink is often made with regular honey cut with sugar, and the bark is reduced to a bare minimum.  The gods are said to be highly annoyed with this, and some would say the results are such events as Hurricane Gilbert and the droughts of the early 2000s.

If you are not given to brewing, but want to put on a Yucatecan dinner, be advised that Ethiopian t’ej is basically the same thing (flavored with Ethiopian hops instead of baalche’ bark, but the difference is not earthshaking) and can be bought in markets carrying Near Eastern or African products.

 

 

Chaya Drink

This is a very common, popular drink.  It is made quite sweet.

 

20 chaya leaves, boiled but not too soft

Juice of 3 limes

Sugar to taste

Water

 

Blend in a blender till a thick drink is produced.  Serve cold.

 

 

Chocolate

 

2 lb. cacao (chocolate) beans

2 oz. cinnamon sticks

1/2 lb. flour

1 package sweet biscuits

 

Toast the beans till they begin to color.  Heat the cinnamon stick.   Toast the flour till golden.  Grind up the cacao and cinnamon, and the biscuits.  Form tablets and store.  For drink, beat up in water, with sugar to taste.  Note that commercial Mexican chocolate tablets are mostly sugar, while these tablets are unsweetened.  Moreover, the taste will not be much like commercial chocolate; fermentation is needed to bring out the “chocolate” flavor known to the world outside Mesoamerica.

 

 

Coconut Pozole

 

1 kg. nixtamal kernels

Juice of 2 limes

Fresh meat of 4 small coconuts

1 cup sugar

Water

 

Cook nixtamal (whole kernels) for one hour with juice of limes.  Grate the meat of the coconuts.  Add this and the sugar to the mixtamal.  Chill.

 

 

Tan Chukwaj (“thick chocolate drink”)

 

The traditional Maya ritual drink, still served at festivals, often with mukbipollos.

Tan Chulwaj is almost certainly what was in those Classic Maya chocolate cups with the owners’ names on the rim, but it would have had chile then—if anything—instead of the modern cinnamon and sugar.

 

1 tablet Mexican chocolate

1 lb. toasted corn meal, or ground-up sweet corn kernels

1/2 tsp. allspice powder (or more)

Cinnamon stick

Sugar to taste (traditionally, none was used; today there is usually some sweetening)

 

Mix up the tablet with the corn and spices.  Heat.  Serve hot or cold.

Variants: Other flavorings can be added; anise is traditional and good.  The ancient Aztecs used chile powder, and one supposes the ancient Maya did too.

Categories
Articles

Water

 

Water:  Sacred Trust or Resource to Waste

 

  1. N. Anderson

Professor Emeritus, Dept. of Anthropology,

University of California, Riverside

 

“Bless the Lord….

He sendeth the springs into the valleys, which run among the hills.

They give drink to every beast of the field:  the wild asses quench their thirst….

He watereth the hills from his chambers:  the earth is satisfied…..

The trees of the Lord are full of sap; the cedars of Lebanon, which he hath planted;

Where the birds make their nests: as for the stork, the fir trees are her house.

The high hills are a refuge for the wild goats; and the rocks for the conies [rock hyraxes].”

Psalm 104:1, 10-18, based in part on Egyptian originals such as Akhenaten’s Hymn to the Sun

 

“For the mountains will I take up a weeping and wailing, and for the habitations of the wilderness a lamentation, because they are burned up, so that none can pass through them; neither can men hear the voice of the animals; both the fowl of the heavens and the beast are fled; they are gone….

The word of the LORD that came to Jeremiah concerning the dearth [drought].

Judah mourneth, and the gates thereof languish…

And their nobles have sent their little ones to the water: they came to the pits [wells], and found no water; they returned with their vessels empty; they were ashamed and confounded, and covered their heads.

Because the ground is chapt, for there was no rain in the earth, the plowmen were ashamed, they covered their heads.

Yea, the hind also calved in the field, and forsook it, because there was no grass.

And the wild asses did stand in the high places, they snuffed up the wind like dragons; their eyes did fail, because there was no grass.”

Jeremiah 9:10, 14:1-6 (the sad touch of the deer deserting her young is based on solid observation, as is so much of Biblical natural history; the “dragons” sound impressive, but are probably jackals mistranslated, and jackals do sniff for water)

 

“Whiskey’s for drinking, water’s for fighting.”  Mark Twain

 

“You don’t miss your water till your well runs dry,

You don’t miss your sweetheart till she says goodbye.”

Traditional blues verse

 

“Demand for water is projected to grow by more than 40% by 2050.  By 2025, an estimated 1.8 billion people will live in countries or regions in which water is scarce, and two-thirds of the world’s population could be living in conditions in which the supply of clean water does not meet the demand… 750 million people do not have access to safe drinking water.  Roughly 80% of wastewater is discharged untreated into oceans, rivers and lakes.  Nearly 2 million children under the age of 5 die every year for want of clean water and decent sanitation….  Two and a half billion people do not have adequate sewage disposal.”  (Eliasson 2015; imagine it in 2050, with 10 billion people and all fresh water resources tapped out or depleted.)

 

The quotes give several views of water.  In abundance, it gives life.  Drought is the starkest and most terrifying symbol of death and loss.  Water is for fighting, and for cold economic calculations that imply all the horrors Jeremiah saw.

The western United States has a water problem.  Its water resources are exceedingly limited by climate and geography.  It is expanding rapidly.  Its citizens love lawns and gardens.  All models show that the American Southwest will be one of the most drastically drought-stricken areas of the world as global warming progresses (Overpeck and Udall 2010).  The climate we now associate with Arizona’s southwest border will move northward.   Arizona’s reservoirs will run dry.

Groundwater is overdrawn in Arizona, as elsewhere (Glennon 2004).  There is little recharge of Arizona’s groundwater basins today; the water is essentially fossil water, left over from the Pleistocene.

Arizona’s water is seriously overcommitted already.  The Colorado River is overcommitted by at least 50%.  It does not reach the sea; in fact, it is essentially dry below the Arizona-Mexico line, in violation of treaties with Mexico.  The Gila, Arizona’s major tributary of the Colorado, no longer comes even close to the Colorado except during abnormal flow.  Indeed, most of Arizona’s rivers are now dry washes for at least part of their length.  I remember when the Santa Cruz River still ran through Tucson, feeding mesquite thickets and the occasional cottonwood.  No longer.

At least Arizona is not, so far, forced to draw on poisoned wells, like the citizens of Bangladesh whose wells are increasingly contaminated with arsenic from groundwater.  Development has forced people to dig deeper wells, diverted and spread out aquifers, and introduced alkalinity and carbon that mobilize the arsenic, making water deadly in Bangladesh and parts of Vietnam (Daigle 2016).  Everywhere, though, agricultural and industrial wastes, including extremely toxic ones, are percolating into groundwater.

Arizona and drought-stricken California are typical of an emerging problem.  Worldwide, the situation is bleak.  Several excellent reviews of the situation exist, The best include Fred Pearce’s When the Rivers Run Dry (2007) and Peter Gleick’s biennial reviews of world freshwater resources (e.g. Gleick 2006; see also De Villiers 2001; Fagan 2008; Glennon 2004; Oki and Kanae 2006; Postel 1999; Rogers 2008; Shiva 2002; Strang 2013.)

The Colorado River is not the only major river that no longer reaches the sea.  The Nile, the Yellow River of China, and many other rivers now share this dubious distinction.  The drying of the Yellow and other rivers in China has left 300 million people without adequate water for irrigation, sanitation, or locally even drinking (Smil 2004); there as in more and more parts of India, water must be trucked to villages.  Deforestation led to huge floods in China and elsewhere (Laurance 2007).  The Chinese belatedly tried to stop logging, but were too late; illegal logging is rampant (according to many reports I have heard, including studies ongoing by my students).  The Three Gorges Dam, in addition to its countless other problems, is already silting up because of deforestation (Stone 2008).  Droughts have brought down civilizations, including the ancient Maya (Gill 2000).  They have also depopulated whole areas of the United States, as in the dust bowl or the Oregon desert (Jackman and Long 1967).  Agriculture now uses 2/3 of the world’s available fresh water, and population is growing; desalination is still expensive in money and energy (Schiermeier 2014).

A recent review in Nature (Vőrősmarty et al. 2010) finds that river overuse and misuse is leading to a collapse of freshwater biodiversity.  Only 0.16% of the world’s rivers do not show this deterioration, and they are in isolated Arctic areas.  No area with water overdraft has avoided biodiversity problems.  Areas where dams and water systems have enabled consumers to have enough water in spite of short supply have done so at the expense of biodiversity; the dams and diversions dry up wetlands and distort the ecology.  A huge percentage of the world, including most of the United States, and virtually all of Mexico, China, India, and the drier parts of Africa, is now stressed.  As is expectable, the Nile is a particularly scary situation, with 180 million people depending on one relatively small (if long) river.  Most of its course is degraded, and from Cairo downstream it is basically a sewer.  Some short rivers now flow entirely within urbanized areas and have become urban drains (e.g. the Ogun River in Lagos, Nigeria) (Vőrősmarty et al. 2010:557).  Vast water transfer projects have dried up rivers.  The biggest of all, in China, transfers water from the Yangzi drainage to the north.  It is inadequate, but is causing major ecological and social disruption including displacement of millions of people (Barnett et al. 2015).

Deltas are also in extreme danger (Cooper et al. 2015).  Global warming is adding to existing problems by raising sea levels and causing more intense storms.  Groundwater withdrawal, pollution, poor dyke maintenance, poor erosion control, and similar problems are endangering the world’s deltas, in which a large percentage of the world’s population resides.

Global warming increases rainfall—rain has increased about 1% already and will increase 5% more before the end of this century (Smil 2008:401).  However, this rain will be largely over the ocean or in already-rainy areas.  On average, global warming is already drying up the land, worldwide (Jung et al. 2010).  It will increase drought in areas like the American Southwest.

Indeed, in spite of overall rain increase, the dry parts of the world are rapidly getting drier.  This is already happening in western North America and the Middle East.  The driest rainfall year in southern California history, as of 2000, was a year in the 19th century that gave Los Angeles about five inches and Riverside three.  Since 2000, 2001-2 gave Los Angeles four and Riverside less than three, and then 2006-7 only three and two respectively.  The winter of 2014-2015 was virtually rainless throughout the whole states of California and Nevada (figures from ongoing daily totals in the Los Angeles Times).  Projections of enormous rains the following winter were not fulfilled; southern California was drier than ever.

Population is rapidly expanding.  Agriculture is taking more and more.  The really productive agriculture of the world is typically irrigated.  The world’s best soils, irrigated ornot, are being rapidly urbanized and rendered unavailable for farming.  Cities have naturally been located where agriculture was most productive; in this age of urban sprawl, that has become, ironically, a recipe for disaster.  Urbanization pushes more and more agriculture out into increasingly marginal irrigated lands.

Some 66% of the world’s people do not have reliable access to fresh water (Bellware 2016), and the number is growing.  Extreme cases include Egypt, wholly dependent on the Nile, with a rapidly growing population not only in Egypt itself but in the upriver countries from whence the Nile comes.

Water use for agriculture is far greater than most people realize.  Agriculture takes 80-90% of California’s water, though supplying only 2% of the state’s monetary wealth; of course it provides food, something impossible to do without, so it is far more important than that 2% figure indicates.  A single almond requires 1.1 gallon of water; of course this can all come from rain—almonds are not irrigated in much of Spain or northern California—but almonds are heavily irrigated in much of California.  A head of broccoli takes 5.4 gallons, an orange 13, a single walnut 4.9, a tomato 3.3.  One strawberry requires only 1.9.  Only a grape is lower, at 0.3.  Again, these figures refer to products 100% irrigated (Park and Lurie 2014; see also Appendix).

Smil (2008) reports that rice requires 2300 kg (liters) of water to produce 1 kg of rice; beans, 2000; wheat, 1300; corn, 500; vegetables, 100 up; chickens, at least 4000; pork meat (muscle tissue—not whole pig) 10,000; beef 15,000.  Cotton and coffee are in the range of pork and beef, not in the range of grain.  Smil also notes that Americans “waste” 35-45% of the food available in the US.  (This is a bit harsh.  A lot of the “waste” is spoilage and other storage loss, which could be avoided but only with difficulty.)  This is a huge waste of water.

Households use a lot of water also, and they use much more if they are rich.  Rich people like huge lawns and water-sucking landscaping, as well as large swimming pools.  Thus communities differ.  In California overall, households and their outdoor landscaping use 360-400 gallons per day on average.  Turfgrass covers an estimated 11,000 square km of the state, consuming incredible quantities of water in California’s extreme drought of recent years; the water could all be saved by substituting dryscaping (Lees and Bowler 2015).

Consumption strictly within the house varies greatly.  In southern California, north Tustin’s Golden State Water Co. reports that its domestic user households (apparently not counting outdoor watering) average 281 gallons per day.  Next is La Cañada-Flintridge, with 191; East Orange County, 174; Arcadia, 173; Malibu, 165.  At the other end is Covina, 27; Vernon, 35; and Santa Ana, 38.  The Los Angeles overall figure is 70, the United States average 98.  Of course, the water use in southern California communities generally tracks wealth, but Covina is an interesting standout; it is a pleasant middle-class community that simply has economical landscaping.  Vernon, by contrast, is a desperately poor industrial ghetto, and Santa Ana is largely apartments.  A problem with the water economy in poor neighborhoods is that they are covered with asphalt and concrete, so the rain that falls on them goes directly into the sea instead of sinking into groundwater.  Thus, ironically, they waste far more than they consume.

Manufacturing takes more and more water.  Contamination is very rapidly increasing everywhere, and includes some horrific problems unknown till recently, including an explosive increase of drugs in the water.  Everything from cocaine to birth control pills is contaminating water supplies, with rapidly mounting serious effects.

Cities are rapidly expanding and using more and more water.  Much is lost to storm drains, leaky pipes, and evaporation (Larsen et al. 2016).  Sewage goes untreatred in much of the world.  Most of Africa lacks improved drinking water sources (Larsen et al. 2016:930).  Updating the world’s water systems simply to eliminate massive leakage would take billions of dollars and more will than current governments seem to have.  The problems of water supply take a back seat compared to war, crime, disease, and political conflict.

 

Peter Gleick, with Meena Palaniappan (2010), has shown that the world has plenty of fresh water, but not where people want it and not always in usable form or situation.  About 70% of it is tied up in ice sheets (rapidly melting with global warming).  Most of the rest is in groundwater, much of it too saline or deep-down to use.  These two authorities describe three types of peak water.  Renewable peak water refers to river flow and renewable groundwater.  This will reach peak when drafts on the water equal inflow, as on the Nile and Colorado now.  Nonrenewable peak water will occur when withdrawal of fossil groundwater becomes more expensive than the water is worth.  This is close to occurring in much of the world, including parts of the Ogallala Aquifer in the United States.  Ecological peak water occurs when damage to ecological services exceeds benefits from the water.  This is a sliding economic scale and very hard to calculate.

Also typical is waste of water by the rich, for trivial purposes, to the ultimate suffering of everyone.  Vast lawns and golf courses take up a huge percentage of the water in urban and developed areas.  In California, water withdrawn by giant agribusiness for very low-value agriculture (irrigating wild hay, potatoes, and the like) has destroyed extremely productive and high-value fisheries as well as wetlands that had less quantifiable but no less real values.  California now faces a huge water crisis that will send water prices sky-high for everyone—though no one really benefited from the hay and potatoes.

Water use for cities and irrigation tends to remove the water from the aquifer recharge system, thus leading to faster reduction of aquifers.  Where irrigation causes buildup of groundwater instead of drawdown, the buildup is often salty, making the water unusable.

 

Access to water should be about the most basic matter of environmental justice, and thus has been addressed by Meena Palaniappan et al. (2006), and by Wutich and Brewis (2014) in a long and important article.  They raise the usual cases of big dams, water privatization, and water waste by large-scale schemes, in the context of environmental justice, particularly for minorities and people of color (see esp. pp. 120-122, a statement on environmental justice).

Ismail Serageldin, former World Bank vice-president and a leading resource economist, said in 1995—as reported by Wendy Barnaby in an article in Nature—that “the wars of this century were fought over oil, the wars of the next century will be fought over water” (Barnaby 2009).  This was overstated on both counts.  As of 1995, the main war over oil was still to come: the Iraq war in the next century.  And there has still never been a war over water.

Wendy Barnaby started out to write a book on the coming water wars.  Her research showed that no country has come even close, as of 2009.  Countries will deal over water.  It is not nearly so limited as oil; most countries have plenty of it.  The few dry countries can import water-demanding products (from fresh fruit and meat to paper).  She thus predicted that there will not be wars over water in the 21st century.  Many are not so sure.  Several letters to Nature about her article argued against her position.  Since her book appeared, there have been more and more dire predictions, but still no war over water.   Countries find treaty-making far preferable to fighting.  But local conflicts have erupted, and, as one letter says, “the potential for water conflict is on the increase, as populations in water-stressed areas continue to grow and the demand for water increases to improve living standards with better sanitation and a water-intensive diet” (Kundzewicz and Kowalczak 2009).

Detailed and thorough studies of transboundary water conflicts, now and in future, by Aaron Wolf and his group (Di Stefano et al. 2012; Wolf 2007) come to the same conclusion.  They emphasize the fact that even countries in serious conflict—and not just a few, but many—have managed to come to agreements about transboundary rivers.  They foresee a world of much more conflict, with at least 61 river basins short of water by 2050 and in potential conflict (Di Stefano et al. 2012), but provide full details on how new treaties could be negotiated to solve the immediate problems—though not the longer-term one of sheer exhaustion of freshwater resources.

Some countries are truly desperate:  Tunisia, Afghanistan, Jordan, and many others.  Some are very close to the edge, and will not be able to carry out current development plans without extremely major changes in water management; this includes China, India and Iran.  Some are in desperate straits because they are downstream:  Egypt, Syria and Iraq depend almost entirely on river flow from other countries.  Barnaby points out that Egypt has treaties with its upstream suppliers, but those are Sudan and Ethiopia, countries with no history of honoring such scraps of paper.  At present, Egypt has its armed forces on the ready.  Syria and Iraq are in worse shape, since their supplier, Turkey, has a military that could beat both of them (and several other countries) at once with ease, especially given their current chaotic state.  Big dams under construction in Turkey could cut off water to those nations.  My interviews with experts in Turkey in 2000 indicated that the government had little or no concern over that.  The same appears to be still the case.

 

The world’s fresh water is exceedingly limited.  Almost all of it is used to capacity.  Much of it, including the Colorado River, is overcommitted.  Much of the United States is under some form or other of English common law, variously adapted.  This guarantees riparian rights: people on a watercourse have rights to the water.  In this context, it is well to remember that the English word “rival” derives from Latin rivus, “riverbank,” as does the word “river.”  Twain’s famous comment on water in the west, quoted at the head of this paper, emphasizes the point.

This has been widely extended to water allocation, including a “first in time, first in right” principle that is the greatest bane of California water law.  Agricultural interests that descend, legally, from those established in the 19th century dominate the state, and sell, rent, or otherwise profit from their rights.

This leaves groundwater in a legal limbo.  Normally, anyone who owns the surface of the land owns the right to pump the water—in striking contrast to the rules concerning oil and minerals.  As a result, groundwater reservoirs are rapidly being exhausted.  Global warming is causing drought in arid parts of the world, including California and the southwestern US, and this has led to massive withdrawals of groundwater—many times more than could be recharged even in a good year, let alone in the horrible droughts that have followed on global climate change.  Until 2014 California (unlike other western states) had no regulations on groundwater use.  In late 2014, the Legislature finally recognized that catastrophic drought was forcing their hand and was here to stay, so even the most obstructionist Republicans agreed to pass a groundwater regulation law (George Skelton, 2014, decribed the micropolitics).

We cannot easily get more water.  Towing Antarctic glaciers north and desalting sea water are the only possibilities. This being said, more efficient use of water is imperative.  This is especially true of drylands agriculture (Cleveland 2014; Rockström and Falkenmark 2015).  There are two particularly fine books about how to do this:  David Cleveland and Daniela Soleri’s Food from Dryland Gardens (1991) and Gary Nabhan’s Growing Food in a Hotter, Drier Land (2013).

Sewage treatment is the most obvious and immediate need worldwide.  It would free up a great deal of water for better use.  Another need is dealing with waste of water in irrigation.  Drip irrigation instead of sprinklers, natural landscaping instead of lawns, and control of golf courses are familiar themes.  Common now is the use of dryscaping in place of grass lawns.  The total area of lawns and related water-demanding landscaping in the United States is greater than the area of Pennsylvania.  Lawns and ornamental gardens take a wholly disproportionate amount of water, pesticides, and fertilizers.

Few people seem to realize that human use of water for drinking and bathing is utterly insignificant relative to the use in agriculture and industry.  Personal use is less than 1% of all water use.  We should all take short showers, but it won’t matter much in comparison to even very water-sparing industrial processes, let alone agriculture.

Meat and milk are the worst problems (see Appendix).  Cows are fed on irrigated feed, and demand huge amount of water themselves for drinking and washing; then processing their meat and milk takes yet more water.  I have seen a wide range of figures for the water requirements of this process, but all are in the range of hundreds to thousands of gallons for a pound of beef or bottle of milk.  We need to go back to eating cactus fruit, mesquite beans, and prickly pear pads.  Or at least feeding them to the cows—there are areas of the world, including south Madagascar, where cows get along with essentially no water by living on spineless varieties of prickly pear.  Cotton is probably second; it is grown in dryland areas by irrigation, and is an incredibly thirsty crop.

People are very poor estimators of their water use.  Shahzeen Attari (2014) found that people underestimate household water use; they use about twice what they think they use.  Moreover, they think of saving waters in terms of curtailment (shorter showers and the like) rather than more efficient devices (low-flow shower heads, better toilets), though the latter would make far more difference, in most households.  Thomas Dietz (2014) placed this finding in a context of human cognition and decision-making, noting that it is all too typical of human understanding of environment and of factors influencing environment-affecting decisions.

Water experts are now talking about “virtual water,” a concept developed by John A. Allen in the 1990s (Barnaby 2009; Smil 2008).  It takes into account the water needed to produce goods.  All agricultural commodities and all manufactured goods require large amounts of water.  My consumption of such goods uses water indirectly.  If I buy a cotton shirt, I am probably not using any American water to speak of, but I am using enormous quantities of Egyptian and Chinese water—assuming, as if often the case, that the cotton is grown in Egypt and the shirt is made in China.  The horrific case of cotton in Uzbekistan is entirely export-driven.  Whoever gets the good quality cotton items made from Uzbeki cotton is ruining that desperately stressed nation, but is probably quite unaware of the fact (see Globalization of Water [Hoekstra and Chapagain 2008])

On the other hand, Barnaby (2009) points out that a dry country can spare its limited water resources by importing food and not growing crops with high water requirements.  Most of the water used to produce grain and coffee comes from rainfall, but most of that used to produce meat, cotton, and many vegetables is irrigation or piped water.  Thus, by eating lower on the food chain, and by wearing clothing more economically, we could save enormous amounts of water.

In China, water could be saved most easily by giving up irrigation in really water-short areas like Inner Mongolia and around Beijing, where groundwater is depleting at dramatic speed.  Agriculture drives 65% of water withdrawals in China, 59% worldwide (and 80 in California).  Inner Mongolia loses the most virtual water, in the form of agricultural products exported to the rest of China.  China imports 30% of its virtual water in the form of soybeans, beef, and similar products from other countries (Dalin et al. 2015).

An example of unconventional solutions comes from Peru.  Lima is essentially rainless, but very foggy (especially in winter), because of the cold water of the Humboldt Current just offshore.  In ancient times, this fog sustained lomas—areas of dense vegetation, even forests, inhabited by animals as large as deer.  Today, there is an attempt to restore these.  Large, dense nets have been set up, on which the fog congeals into water.  This is directed down to young trees.  When the trees are old, they will strain their own fog, thus restoring the old lomas forests.  The drought-tolerant local tree Caesalpinia spinosa is being tried, because of its useful fruit and timber (Vince 2010).  This idea could be used in many other places where cold currents run along desert shores:  Baja California, Morocco, South Africa and elsewhere.

 

Governments mismanage water because of incompetence, corruption, and bureaucratic paralysis (see Ascher 1999 for the best discussion of the general problem of government mismanagement of resources).

Mismanagement of water resources not only leads to loss of water; it leads to poisoned soil.  Salts of all kinds leach out from upstream or leach upward from deep in the earth.  I have seen thousands of acres in Australia rendered unusable because farmers cleared off the forest and planted wheat.  Without the deep roots of the trees, the groundwater from deep underground moved upward, carrying salt.  The ground over millions of acres of Australia is now white with salt and will be unusable for millennia.

Public relations campaigns endlessly “spin” the benefits of pollution, the need for rampant and unregulated economic growth, and the inexhaustibility of fresh water and other resources (Stauber and Rampton 1996).  The western United States has been repeatedly fooled by inflated figures, using, for instance, far-above-average river flows as baselines.  Agriculture has changed from careful management of water to considerable waste, partly due to the rise of big agribusiness (see Monks 1998 for a rare critique of this).  There is some hope of changing back.  Meanwhile, Arizona and California cities buy water rights from farmers.

 

The poster child for water mismanagement is the Aral Sea (Kobori and Glantz 1998; Micklin and Aladin 2008; Varis 2014).  The Aral Sea is a vast lake in a closed basin in central Asia.  For millennia, it was sustained by model water management.  Some of this management was developed by unlikely heroes, including Genghis Khan and Tamerlane the Conqueror.  A rich economy producing wheat, barley, silk, melons, vegetables, and livestock developed along the Amu and Syr Rivers.

The Soviets changed all that.  They planned to turn the whole basin into a vast cotton source.  The resulting monocrop agriculture has been a disaster.  It takes many times as much water as the old economy did.  Also, cotton uses more artificial chemicals than any other crop; one-third of all the pesticides in the world are used on cotton.  Wheat is also intensively irrigated.  The result is that the nations in question use more water per capita than any others on earth; Turkmenistan is far ahead of others, followed by Iraq and rice-growing Guyana and then by Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan, the United States,Tajikistan, Estonia, Canada (water-rich), Azerbaijan and Kazakhstan (Varis 2014).  In water use per dollar of GNP, the situation is even more extreme.  The nations that use the most water per dollar of GNP are, in order, Tajikstan, Kyrgystan, Madagascar, Uzbekistan, Afghanistan, and Turkmenistan.  All are central Asian and dependent on the Amu Darya drainage, except for rice-dependent, impoverished Madagascar.

The Amu Darya now does not get even close to its former mouth into the Aral Sea.  A toxic mix of natural salts and accumulated pesticides and fertilizers blew over the desert plains.  Infant mortality in the Amu delta reached 10% and locally 50% (Micklin and Aladin 2008; Paul Buell, pers. comm. on basis of wide reading of the Uzbekistan press).  The huge fishery of the Aral Sea disappeared as the sea dried.

There remains a small salty puddle in the lake basin.  Most of the basin is now owned by Uzbekistan, which is trapped in a vicious circle:  it cannot stop growing cotton, the source of most of its income, and cannot make enough from cotton to do much.  The north end of the Aral Sea is more fortunate; it is owned by Kazakhstan, which is richer and has a more diverse economy.  Kazakhstan has dyked off its end, which includes the Syr River delta, and is slowly restoring that end of the sea (Micklin and Aladin 2008).  But there is no hope of real restoration.  The Aral basin is ruined forever, and will never produce more than a tiny fraction of the wealth it produced in Tamerlane’s time.  Meanwhile, the irrigated lands become ever more salty and poisoned by pesticides, so they will soon go out of production permanently.  The other rivers that water Turkmenistan and Afghanistan are in the same situation.  How long irrigation will last in these formerly rich lands is an open question.

Lake Urmia, in northwest Iran, is rapidly following the Aral Sea into oblivion.  Only 10% of it is left.  The irrigation is this case is for sunflowers and other water-demanding crops.  These replaced water-sparing vineyards when Iran’s extremist government banned wine production in 1979.  Religion has strange side effects, and, as will appear, it is particularly strange when Islam is the religion in the case.

Humans not only tolerate large amounts of salt but must have it to live. Plants, however, cannot stand more than tiny traces of it in the soil, with the exceptions of certain highly specialized forms.  The only major cultivated crops that tolerates much salt are barley and sugar beets, and even they do not tolerate much.  The world needs to think seriously about domesticating edible forms of saltbush, salicornia, and other marginally-edible salt-loving plant species.

Arizona’s current scene has an unpleasantly suggestive antecedent in the fall of the Hohokam civilization.  The Hohokam and their neighbors constructed an incredible network of canals in the Gila and Salt drainages.  Some of these were as large and long as major modern irrigation canals.  They fed an intensive agriculture based on maize, beans, squash, agaves, and many other crops.  Sophisticated terracing and check-damming added to the water management picture.  Yet, after devastating droughts in the 1200s, the Hohokam fields dried up or salted up (Abbott 2003; Redman 1999).  The Salt River deserves its name, and thus was not a good river to use for irrigation.

The Little Ice Age came, and the rivers refilled.  The Pima arrived and made the land fertile and well-irrigated again.  Unfortunately, the Spanish and then the Anglo-American settlers devastated this blissful scene by developing intensive irrigated agriculture, with increasingly severe water drafts.  As in the Aral Sea case, the Pima had been using the land carefully and sustainably, with drought-tolerant crops.  The early-day anthropologist Frank Russell and the contemporary botanist Amadeo Rea have provided possibly the best accounts of traditional small-scale plant and water management in the entire world (Rea 1983, 1997; Russell 1975).  Thus we have a solid baseline of knowledge here.  The Anglo-Americans planted a great deal of moncrop cotton.  Finally,

the Gila River went dry from Phoenix onward (Dobyns 1981; Rea 1983; Webb et al 2007).  The Pima were left high and very, very dry, in violation of treaties as well as common decency (Russell 1975).  Ironically, Phoenix takes its name from the Hohokam ruins.  The English developer and “character” Darrell Duppa, seeing huge ruins there, planned a city that would rise as the phoenix bird rose from its own ashes.  The settlers were better prophets than they knew.  The phoenix cyclically burns up and has to rise again.  We are about to witness the next fire.

An even more incredible part of the story of water mismanagement is the great beaver massacre.  Hats made of beaver-fur felt were the fad in 1820s England.  It is estimated that as many as a million beaver were taken out of the lower Colorado drainage (including the Gila drainage) in the early 19th century (see e.g. Hilfiker 1991; Pattie 1962 [1831]; Rea 1983).  The result was arroyo cutting, floods, and general disaster.  The Gila and its tributaries had been sluggish streams draining through vast beaver ponds, sloughs, and water meadows, with scattered trees growing from lush mesquite, rushes, grasses, and sedges (Rea 1983).  Much of the damage to Arizona’s hydrology and soils that has been blamed on overgrazing, climate change, and so forth was actually done by beaver trapping.  The beavers had controlled flooding by their thousands of dams.  The damage each year from flooding alone, let alone loss of water conservation, in Arizona is probably greater than the value of all the beaver skins.  There is now no going back; the rivers are dry and the land is urbanized.

Peter Skene Ogden was paid to wipe out the beaver totally in eastern Washington and Oregon, so as to deny the resource to American trappers (Ogden 1987 [1827]).  Of course the result was billions of dollars in damage every year in most years since, though at least the beavers are coming back in some of that area.  Similar things happened in Colorado’s Front Range (Wohl 2005).  And all this so some rich men could wear funny hats for a few years, until the style changed to sustainable silk.

Beavers are incredible water engineers (Hilfiker 1991; Morgan 1868). If people were as good at water management as beavers, there would be no world water problem.  The 18th-century French zoologist Charles Bonnet half-seriously and half-wistfully expected that evolution would produce beaver architects as great as Vauban, the leading architect in Bonnet’s time (Foucault 1971:153).

Lewis Henry Morgan, who invented modern anthropology, also in his spare time invented modern animal behavior studies.  He got interested in beavers and produced what is still the best monograph on their behavior (Morgan 1868).  Of course he did not fail to compare them to humans.  He pointed out that they are not very bright; instinct guides them.  Modern studies confirm this.  At least according to biologist folklore I have heard, biologist tested a beaver by playing the sound of running water.  The beaver carefully covered the sound-system speakers with mud.  This must have been cute to watch, but it certainly shows blind instinct rather than rational calculation.  Still, I have seen beavers show considerable ingenuity at working sticks into their dams.

The point is that simple beavers manage water infinitely better than smart but foolish humans.  Humans that make dams frequently make a bad job of it (Chamberlain 2008; Giles 2006; Scudder 2005; Stone 2008).  Ellen Wohl has done a particularly superb, sensitive, and historically sophisticated account of the superiority of beavers and the idiocy of humans in managing Colorado’s water (Wohl 2005).

The Aswan high dam brought schistosomiasis to all Egypt, wiped out the fisheries of the Nile and the eastern Mediterranean, and loses 25 to 40% of its water to evaporation (Chamberlain 2008:96). Most desert-country dams are similarly wasteful.  It is doubtful if any big dams in the Third World have positive cost-benefit accounts (Scudder 2005; W. Partridge, pers. comm.).  They drown good farmland, displace millions of farmers and other productive citizens, spread disease, waste water, and destroy fisheries.  The benefits they supply are often illusory, or confined to the rich.  Benefits of undammed water can range from 50 to 400 times as high as those from the same water, dammed (Katz 2006:41).  These are probably extreme cases, but, in the Third World, no clear cases of even slight advantages for big dams have been reported to balance them out.  In the First World, many dams are now clearly costly rather than beneficial, and many older and smaller dams are being removed.

The fashion for large dams owes everything to one man, John “Jack” Savage.  A Wisconsin farm boy who rose to become the world’s expert on dams, he designed the Hoover…, Grand Coulee, Parker, and Shasta Dams and the All American Canal system” (Sneddon 2015:29), and then went on to further designs and to world efforts when the “Cold War” between the US and the USSR made it expedient for the US to “help” other countries by building big dams (Sneddon 2015).  Fortunately, in those days the US had a conscience, so few of these were actually built; the social and economic costs were actually taken into account (as they have rarely been since).  Savage’s dams in the US were in fact seriously needed for flood control and irrigation, did not displace many people (none in most cases), and did not cause huge immediate effects (though the Colorado in Mexico was ultimately dried up).  The next great step in dambuilding was the TVA, far more ambitious, organized, and region-wide; it has had a mixed legacy.  It initially paid, in flood control, electricity generation, and transportation (allowing rivers-turned-lakes to bear heavy shipping traffic), but at current prices the value of the enormous amounts of prime farmland and world-class hardwood forests drowned would probably outweigh the benefits.

Unfortunately, the US found it expedient to design and build more and more dams, and many of the countries where the US pulled out found other backers to do the dubious work.  Thus vast numbers of countries now have huge dams inspired by US efforts, but not judged by US standards of cost-accounting.  Whether any of these dams are a benefit is a very open question.  The politics behind them, and the whole political economy of dams, is a complex and involved subject (Sneddon 2015).

Perhaps we should take the big dams out and bring the beavers back.  They have been reintroduced to Scotland—the first beavers in Britain since the 17th century.  The common name Beverly means “beaver meadow,” and was originally the name of an estate based on one such in England.  That estate now has no beavers.  Hopefully there will soon be as many real beverleys as girls bearing the name.

Fish, of course, suffer even more than beavers.  Wild salmon are now a rapidly disappearing resource everywhere except Alaska.  The steelhead runs of southern California are down to a few fish; the only one south of Los Angeles is in San Mateo Creek, and it was down to one female fish in a recent drought (Hovey 2001; this run will surely not survive the current droughts).  Many, if not most, of the freshwater fish, amphibia, and shellfish of America are threatened or endangered.  Caviare will soon be a thing of the past; fishing for it is out of control, and sturgeons are succumbing to pollution and dams even where they are not fished.  The only healthy sturgeon populations in the world are in the major rivers of the Pacific Northwest, and even here they are declining fast.  Aquatic birds are also declining fast.

 

However, anthropologists and other social scientists have recorded many success stories in water management around the world.  They reveal very clearly what is wrong with our system in the world today, and what we can do about it.

Most of the interesting work has revolved around questions of common property resource management.  Water, by its very nature, is usually owned in common.  One would think that it would be thus wasted, because people so often treat a common property resource as something to use without care—Garrett Hardin’s classic “tragedy of the commons” (Hardin 1968).  However, as Hardin saw (Hardin 1991), if a common resource is owned by the group as a corporate entity, and managed by them, it can be excellently managed and sustainably used.

Water is an open-access free good only in situations of extremely low and transient population.  Otherwise, water is almost always owned by communities—tribes, villages, cities, states.  In the ancient Near East, irrigation was life, and thus many excellent irrigation systems and methods were developed (Drower 1954—still an excellent source).  Mesopotamia had to build canals, some hundreds of miles long.  Egypt could simply wait for the Nile flood, but it varied from very low to very high.  The ideal was a 16-cubit rise as measured at Memphis.  There is “a Hellenistic statue of the Nile god in the Vatican” with 16 children, each 1 cubit high (Drower 1954:539).  Under 12 cubits—a cubit is about 32 cm—meant devastating famine; over 18 meant devastating flood.  Yet, normally, the Nile was reliable, and made canal irrigation necessary only in small, marginal areas.  In China, most agriculture was rainfed or fed by very local streams, but eventually—once the empire was established, and locally even before—large canal systems were developed to control whole river systems.

Governments and rulers worked out various bureaucratic systems for managing all this.  All had to have specialized water managers.  In sharp contrast to the famous “irrigation hypothesis” of Wittfogel, this rarely led to absolutism.  Irrigation has to be managed locally, and top-down control of anything except major basic canals merely interferes with necessary local decisions.  In Mesopotamia, China, and the Indian subcontinent, absolutism really came from conquest of irrigation societies by hordes sweeping down from rainfed or very locally irrigated areas.  In China, conquests and absolutism were more apt to come from nomadic herding societies.  In Egypt, absolutism developed within an irrigation society, but the pharaoh had little real control over the river.

In the Middle Ages and locally since then, lords owned streams and lakes, but they could be said to be owning them as feudal lords—that is, administrators—rather than as private citizens.  Recently, a drive to privatize water has allowed corporations, large and small, to control water sources as well as sales, but this is an unusual development from the point of view of history.  It is an exceedingly ominous development (Chamberlain 2008).  It often drives up the cost of water severalfold, while lowering availability.  If there were actual competition this might not be the case, but such schemes involve governments cutting deals with big firms to have local monopolies.  Corruption is endemic.  All the abuses of monopolies and mercantilism immediately surface.

Thus, water has been prudently maintained as a common-property good until now, even in the most capitalistic societies, and especially in the Middle East.  Water thus becomes a fascinating study.  Traditional and more recent Jewish spiritual attitudes toward water, and the world in general, have been introduced in the service of water management in a brilliant article by Aaron Wolf (2012).

Some of the most interesting researches on water in the Middle East refer to Muslim or Muslim-influenced local irrigation systems.  This is in large part because Muslim law, developed in arid lands, is quite specific about water.  Gary Chamberlain, synthesizing a number of sources, reports:  “Muslim law codes…forbid private ownership of water, at least in its natural state.  There is a hierarchy of uses…first is the right of thirst…no one can be denied the water necessary to drink…then all are allowed water for their daily needs of bathing, cleaning, cooking, and so forth.”

This is a priority partly because Islam enjoins cleanliness, making thorough washup and bathing a religious duty.  However, even ritual cleaning must not be wasteful.  Muhammad once saw his early follower Sa’ad “performing the ablutions…using a lot of water, he intervened, saying:  ‘What is this?  You are wasting water.’  Sa’ad replied asking: ‘Can there be wastefulness while performing the ablutions?’  To which God’s Messenger replied:  ‘Yes, even if you perform them on the bank of a rushing river.’”  (Cited Özdemir 2003:14.)

Then “next comes the right to provide water to livestock; and last comes the irrigation of crops, which consumes the most water.  Only when water has been placed in a vessel…is water considered a private good” (Chamberlain 2008:54).  “Water distribution has very clear-cut legislation in Islam.  In general terms its rules are based on the principle of benefiting all those who share its watercourse” (Dien 2003:116; details following).  The duty to provide water for livestock is taken very seriously, Islam having originated among desert travelers.  Accounts describe careful management of flocks at the wells, with the most water-needing animals drinking first.

This emphasis on common property led to intricate but efficient and enforceable common property regimes being established in Muslim lands.  The Muslims could build on earlier systems that were often extremely intricate and highly developed.  South Arabia—today’s Yemen—had a vast system involving a huge dam across the major wadi; this system died when weather patterns shifted, drying the wadi except for occasional damaging floods (Scarborough 2003).  The Nabatean system in the Negev Desert had harvested water by incredibly sophisticated means in Roman and pre-Roman times.

Most spectacular of all were the qanat systems of Iran and neighboring areas, including the slopes around Mesopotamia.  A qanat is a long tunnel dug back into an alluvial fan.  It is set at a very slight upward slope.  Water percolates in from the alluvial material, so the qanat produces a live stream that can be directed to irrigation.  Otherwise, the water would evaporate through the porous fan material and be lost.  Qanat systems extend east as far as west China (Xinjiang), where they are called karez.  Major innovations in qanat irrigation, dam-building, and integrated irrigation system engineering were made in Central Asia in the medieval period (Hill 2000).  This was a little-known golden age of engineering innovation, especially in systems design.  The Persians and Mongols introduced this technology to the western world, and it may lie behind some of our modern “systems thinking.”

The Arabs brought them to Spain, Italy, and elsewhere.  They grade into ordinary water tunnels that merely convey water to cities with minimal evaporation.  Qanat systems are maintained by local communities.  A fee is charged for the water.  Specialists maintain the water tunnels.  It is a dangerous job, since cave-ins are hard to prevent and generally fatal.

Arab systems survive everywhere in the Middle East and in much of North Africa.  I have observed them in Morocco, where they have blended over many centuries with indigenous, related Berber traditional systems.  The latter in turn may go back to the Roman Empire, when North Africa was a key part of the empire, producing agricultural products of all kinds.

Excellent systems survived till late.  The Arab irrigation systems of Yemen (Varisco 1996) and elsewhere are legendary.  Egypt’s superb irrigation system long predated the Arabs, having been developed in ancient Egypt (see Butzer 1976), but it was continued by the Arabs, later by the Ottomans (Mikhail 2011), and finally by independent Egypt, up until the extremely ill-advised Aswan Dam destroyed the old system.  Today, slow but sure salinization is adding to global warming, delta subsidence, and other ills.

The Arabs supplied Palermo, Sicily, through aqueducts cut into rock in the 9th and 10th centuries (Maurici 2006); these still supply Palermo today.  Sicily still uses them to irrigate crops, especially those the Arabs brought, such as lemons, sugarcane, eggplants, and high-quality melons (Pizzuto 2002).

In Spain, the “Reconquista” conquered Spain from the Moors after 800 years of Moorish rule.  Most of the Moors were expelled, to Spain’s permanent and major loss.  However, a few villages hung on in areas so remote that they could avoid exile by superficial conversion to Christianity.  The most significant of these for our purposes were in the Sierra de la Contraviesa area southeast of Grenada, studied by Gaston Remmers (1998) among others.  Remmers describes an incredibly sophisticated system for making sure that everybody has fair access to irrigation water, no matter how wet or dry the year.  The village social organization is based on water management.  (Spain has other successful irrigation systems without obvious Moorish ancestry, too; Grove and Rackham 2001, Guillet 2006.)  Another important study, from Morocco, was carried out by Hsain Ilaihine on the Ziz River (Ilaihine 2004).  It describes careful maintenance of canals and allocation of water in a dry drainage from the Atlas Mountains.  I have examined almost exactly similar systems above Marrakech.

Many of the Moors converted to Christianity but were not quite trusted, and were sent to remote parts of Mexico, where they could not do much damage by rebelling. Converted Moors and Spanish who learned from them gave us qanats in Tehuacan, where they flourish—or did when I was there in 1996—in the dry Tehuacan Valley.

From here they were introduced to San Bernardino, California, and until not long ago San Bernardino was supplied by this ancient Iranian technology. The ditch that brings water to Redlands, California, is still called “the Zanja” (the old Moorish term), and the city water manager is officially the Zanjero.

San Bernardino, the neighboring city, also benefited from ancient Chinese technology, via “Pedley dams,” huge sausage-shaped bundles of rocks done up in ropework (or wire) and used for instant levees.  Pedley was a 19th-century water engineer.  He had seen them in China, where they were invented in the far past.  (At least this is what locals told me when I was young.)

In New Mexico and extreme south Colorado, Arab systems flourish.  A local farmer turned anthropologist, Devon Peña, is not only studying them anthropologically but also using them to irrigate his own farm in a Hispanic community there.  He has used water management as a natural symbol, or entry point, for his excellent discussions of environmental justice (Peña 1998, 2000).

Perhaps the most remote extension is into Zuni Pueblo.  The famous waffle gardens of Zuni are indistinguishable to my eyes from those of Sicily, and are often used to grow the same crops (melons, cucumbers, etc.).  The Zuni are creative and brilliant gardeners and water engineers in their own right, and surely there is some parallel innovation here; one wonders if the Zuni gardens were influenced by conversos—converted Moors—in northern New Mexico.

Moorish systems also went to South America, where they fused with the ancient and formidably competent systems of the Quechua and Aymara.  The Incas and their predecessors in Peru had constructed canals up to dozens of miles long, through some of the harshest and most difficult country in the world.  They had terraced mountain slopes up to two miles high, and run irrigation systems throughout these terraces, perfectly controlling the flow of water on slopes up to 45% or so.  They had integrated water systems all the way from glacier snouts 18,000’ above sea level down to the edge of the Pacifc.  The Nazca, around 500 CE, constructed systems to tap groundwater, similar to Old World qanats, but with the added sophistication that they built spiral excavations that caused the wind to spin round, creating a low-pressure zone that brought water to the surface (see Proulx 2008).  These nonliterate people, with little metal, no wheeled vehicles, and limited animal power, had carried out some of the most spectacular water engineering jobs in the world.

Naturally, they quickly saw the value of metal tools and European draft animals.

They also saw the value of  Moorish technology and organization (Gelles 1995, 2000; Trawick 2001a, 2001b, 2002).  Traditional Quechua society is organized dualistically:  there is an uphill group and a downhill group, or some comparable split, in every village.  This has had a real but uncertain amount of influence from Moorish and Spanish customs.  The water hierarchy in a village is more clearly influenced by Moorish-Spanish usage, with water officials and titles similar to those elsewhere in the Hispanic world.  Each half of the village has its water organization, and the two must cooperate and distribute water fairly.  They tend to keep each other honest.  Also, typically, the two halves of the village are not really separated; plots belonging to members of the uphill half are scattered through the downhill side, and vice versa.  This is partly a matter of inheritance and marriage, but partly also a matter of geographic necessity.  Warm-weather crops have to be downhill, cold-weather crops uphill, in canyon villages.  Some villages have fields extend for a vertical mile, for instance in the Colca Valley, a canyon twice as deep as Grand Canyon (Gelles 2000).

Critical to the operation of the system are the fiestas.  Every village has, or had, its huge party, usually in the summer.  This brought everyone together and allowed everyone to have a good time.  It also allowed some working out of conflicts, because both sanctioned competitions and unsanctioned fights naturally occur at fiestas.  Occurring in a public, mostly happy gathering, such fights are quickly stopped and mediated.  This would not be the case if the fights occurred on a dark night out in the watershed.  Better have them in the open, at the fiesta.

The astonishing level of honesty in these village systems would certainly be devastating to any disciples of Thomas Hobbes, the 17th-century Englishman who saw humans as individuals in permanent conflict.  Honesty depends on several factors.  First, the water managers are vigilant.  Second, neighbors too are vigilant.  However, all a water thief needs is a dark night and a spade.  It is very easy to turn the village canal into one’s own fields for a couple of hours.  This can help one’s own prospects greatly, but, of course, at the expense of others’.  Yet people rarely do it—intimidated not only by popular opinion and the revenge of gods and spirits, but also by their consciences.  Humans want to cooperate, and will sacrifice a lot to do so.

Paul Gelles’ village had to cooperate beyond usual levels back in the 1990s (Gelles 1995, 2000).  The Peruvian government built a water project that brought water to lowland cities, but, apparently inadvertently, preempted the water supply the village.  The town faced disaster.  So the most intrepid young men went out and tore a hole in the water project canal, directing the village’s proper flow back to it.  They did not wreck the whole project or the canal.  The government came with warrants and police, but the entire village stood up against them.  Arrests, threats, cajoling, and bureaucratic foot-dragging all failed.  The village got its water back.  Quite a few similar stories could be told, from Spain to New Mexico (see e.g. Chamberlain 2008).

Another system maintained by religious organization holds in Bali.  Stephen Lansing studied this system over many years (Lansing 1987, 1991, 2006).  Irrigation on that Indonesian island is derived from water coming from the crater lake at the top of the island, which is a single giant inactive volcano.  The water is sacred.  The head priest of the island, the jero gde, lives at the lake outlet, and oversees the water system.  Apparently he is appointed more for his hydrological expertise than for his religious devotions.  A hierarchy of priests, progressively farther and farther downstream, oversees the breakup of this stream into tens, hundreds, and finally tens of thousands of channels.  These feed a vast system of rice paddies; the island is one huge farm, growing mainly rice but also dozens of tropical crops.  Water is timed so that there is no one pulse of irrigation.  That would not only take too much water; it would allow insect pests to multiply out of control.  Instead, each field has its schedule of irrigating and drying off.  The World Bank came in with sophisticated technology in the late 1980s to improve this system, and promptly caused disaster.  Their computer-assisted plans led to water shortages, local floods, and insect outbreaks.  Control promptly went back to the jero gde.  Lansing modeled the traditional system with his own computers, and found it to be about as perfect as could be achieved in the real world.  (Criticisms of his scenario exist [Vayda 2008], but are sufficiently refuted by Lansing’s material.)

Similar, if less comprehensive and perfect, local systems of terracing and water control are well documented from elsewhere in Indonesia, as well as from the Philippines, pre-American Hawaii, New Guinea, and indeed most of Oceania and the rest of the montane tropical and subtropical world (Scarborough 2003).  Usually, religion is marshalled to help maintain them.  Often they are also maintained through kinship systems, as in Luzon and among the Toba Batak of Sumatera (studied by my former student, the late Richard Lando, in the 1970s).  Often they produce fish and other animal protein as well as staple plant foods.  India has countless religiously maintained irrigation systems too (a particularly superb account is by David Mosse, 2003, 2006).

The irrigation systems of south China are well known (the best descriptions are in Marks 1998 and Ruddle and Zhong 1988, but see also Anderson and Anderson 1973 and Wen and Pimentel 1986a, 1986b).  They too have religious representation, via the guardian spirits and gods of the localities involved, though they are largely secular concerns.  They are usually administered by village elders.

Typical in this area are lineage villages, where all males are related by direct descent from a single founding ancestor.  The lineage elders are then all kin.  Such villages can have thousands of people and be hundreds of years old.  They can thus manage irrigation on a substantial scale.  However, much more impressive were the vast water systems that the Imperial governments maintained.  The most famous was the one in the Chengdu Plain of Sichuan, designed by the Li family of engineers more than two thousand years ago.  Their advice—“keep the dykes low and the channels deep”—should be learned by every water manager.  They split the Min River into three channels, so that the river could be directed into two of the channels in order to allow local people to clear rocks and silt out of the other one to keep it deep.  This system has been maintained and repaired over the centuries, and is still in use.  A fine and very old temple to the Li engineers has survived even Communist abuses.

Where water fails, people are incredibly innovative about doing without it.  The Chinese of dry north China were as sophisticated in water harvest as the south Chinese were in water management, and many incredibly sophisticated techniques were known more than 2000 years ago (Anderson 1988).   We of western North America have a lot to learn.  Some of my colleagues at the University of California, Riverside proudly and helpfully told a group of West Africans, many years ago, that UCR had developed crops that could grow on 12 inches of rain.  The West Africans calmly answered that their crops grew on four inches of rain.  We of UCR thought we would be the teachers, but we became the learners.

Among Native Americans, the Tohono Oodham of Arizona also had crops that grew on four inches of rain.  They also shared with the West Africans a trick of following recent runoff channels, making fields in areas recently flooded.  By the time the water has dried up and the soil is dry, fast-growing crops have yielded a harvest.  The Hopi had varieties of maize that were planted a foot deep to take advantage of soil moisture.  The Hopi and most other traditional maize cultivators hilled up soil around the growing stalks, saving yet more water.  The ancient cultivators of the Muddy and Virgin River area of Nevada allocated and managed water carefully, maintaining a dense population without salination (Haines 2010); they were probably the ancestors of the Southern Paiute, who maintained successful intensive agriculture in that area well into the historic period.  Haines compares their water management with Near Eastern systems noted above.

This sort of agriculture did not develop in a laboratory.  Like other traditional, efficient management strategies for water, it required people to take water and crops very seriously.  It was religiously represented.  The Hopi, like almost all other Native American corn farmers, worshiped the maize god.  Saving water requires reverence for water, for the irrigation process, and for crops.  It will require planning based on respect for people and for water resources.

Common property management works in today’s world.  Elinor Ostrom (1990) studied water management in my home area, the Los Angeles basin.  She found that the dozens of cities sharing the basin had been forced to work together to manage the small rivers that provide water and carry away sewage.  I well recall the days when Riverside’s water was unsafe to drink and the city sewered into the Santa Ana River.  Orange County cities were richer and more powerful, however, and thus forced more and more treatment on Riverside, till its sewage is now safer than its drinking water used to be!

Without such powerful downstream users, however, upstream users can progressively degrade the water resource (Murphy 1967), and by ruining the downstream users they can de-fang their political power, and thus prevent any recourse from affecting them (Wilkinson 1992).  Elinor Ostrom also studied the Mojave River, just outside the Los Angeles Basin.  Here, powerful mining interests control the headwaters.  Next downriver are the relatively well-off towns of Hesperia and Victorville.  The river dies in the desert just past Barstow.  This unfortunate town, always poor, has become poorer and poorer as its water source is sucked away.  Having less and less political-economic clout, it progressively loses to the mines and the richer towns.  Barstow is slowly strangling to death.

Even people who do not plant or irrigate may have an important and valuable water ideology, religiously supported.  Katherine Metzo (2005) reports on the ideals of pure water among the indigenous peoples of the area around Lake Baikal in Siberia.  These ideals are now the main thing standing between this deepest and most copious of all lakes and its ruin by Russian pollution.

 

It is, indeed, hard to avoid worshiping water if one has any religious regard for nature.  One of the striking facts about humans is that, everywhere, they seem to honor and revere waterfalls.  Major falls are parks and pilgrimage spots in the United States and China and elsewhere.  Traditional small-scale societies everywhere seem to have worshiped them.  The Shuar (“Jivaro”) people of Ecuador and Peru call themselves the “people of the sacred waterfalls” (Harner 1972).  In my research in China and with Native Americans in the Pacific Northwest I found that these disparate peoples still have high religious regard for waterfalls, eddies, rapids, and other areas where the power of water is evident.  Native Americans often went on vision quests at such places.

The sheer force of the water at such points is hypnotizing.  One can stand looking in a sort of trance for minutes or even hours.  Lakes and deep pools, and above all the vast ocean, have a different kind of spiritual sense:  peaceful and calm, yet evidently extremely powerful.  The power is latent.  One knows that a storm or a break in a water barrier could unleash it at any moment.  Legends of lake monsters, maelstroms, and bottomless pools seem to express some of this feeling.  The Greek god Triton and the Roman Neptune are more explicit statements of it.  Yemaja, the mother goddess of the Yoruba of West Africa (and many of their descendants in Brazil), is a sea goddess and can be stormy at times.

The Chinese see the ocean not so much as a god but as a vast universe in which or on which gods, dragons, and other supernatural beings play.  The Chinese were aware from very early times of islands forming from deltas, and of fossil seashells on mountaintops, so they early developed a story that the seas and lands had changed places many times.  The seas had been mulberry fields, as they expressed it.  They were aware that life-giving rains came from the sea, and were all too aware that these could come in the wake of typhoons (ta fung, “great wind” or “striking wind” depending on what character is used). The Chinese thought that dragons caused these storms.  Some of my fishermen friends had seen dragons in the rolling, boiling stormclouds.  Indeed, in the dim light and driving rain of a typhoon, one can easily imagine one sees these giant reptilian beings riding the wild winds.

It is also hard to avoid seeing the contrast of land and water, or land and sea, as one of those basic dichotomies around which people love to organize their thought.  Claude Lévi-Strauss (1962, 1963, 1964-1972) discussed this in great detail.  Often, such dichotomies symbolize the dichotomy of male and female, which in turn may involve wife-giving and wife-accepting groups.  The Northwest Coast peoples contrasted land and sea, and many of their stories turn on progress from one to the other.  This can symbolize creation, or marriage, or a hero’s journey to wisdom, or tribal trade and interaction, or anything else involving such moving through landscapes.  Of course, salmon and other sea-run fish are the staple of subsistence there, and they run from fresh waters to the sea and then back again.

Animals that easily cross the boundary between water and land, like river otters, are sacred and powerful.  Otters are believed to lure humans to come into the water with them; the people then drown and are converted into otter-men, as scary to the Haida as werewolves were to medieval Europe.  The fear of otter-men (gagitx or “gogeet”) has actually spread to some Whites on Haida Gwaii (Queen Charlotte Islands; I discovered this during my research there).  Otters are playful creatures, and do, in fact, try to lure humans into the water to play with them.  There is no mistaking their intent; they are as obvious about it as any puppy.  I have personally observed this several times.  I resisted the temptation.

Most powerful are those beings that can interact between water, land, and air:  the raven, eagle, and kingfisher (Jonaitis 1981).  The kingfisher nests in a burrow in the underground—or underworld, flies in the air, and fishes in the water.

Not only the Northwest Coast peoples attribute special power to anomalous creatures that are able to live in two different worlds.  It is a worldwide characteristic.  Consider the scary, uncanny nature of frogs, toads, and newts in Shakespeare.  African and South American peoples have similar attitudes toward lungfish.  And scientists show great fascination with the perfect intermediates between fish and land life-forms that have recently emerged from Chinese fossil beds.

Whales and porpoises are naturally uncanny, since they look and act like fish but breathe air and are obviously intelligent.  My fishermen friends on the Hong Kong waterfront would not touch them, for these reasons.  A recent fascinating book, Trying Leviathan by D. Graham Burnett (2007), tells of a trial in New York in 1818.  New York State enacted an inspection fee on fish oil.  Inevitably, a shrewd New York fish-oil dealer refused to pay on whale oil, since the whale had recently been declared by science to be a mammal.  This led to a trial.  The dealer called to witness the leading American ichthyologist, Samuel Mitchill, a genuinely great scientist.  However, the trial went against him, since it was pretty clear that the law had been intended to cover whale oil as well as other “fish” oils.  The law was, however, subsequently rewritten.

In any case, the controversy was not easy to settle.  This was long before Darwin, and there was really no obvious reason to privilege lungs and live birth over fins and aquatic lifestyle.  The trial played ordinary people, with their functional view of the world, over laboratory scientists, with their structural and abstract view.

The whale remains anomalous among water creatures.  Americans want to save whales because they are intelligent mammals.  Many Japanese still see whales as essentially fish, and see American attempts to stop whaling as an imposition on fish-eating peoples.  It is, however, worth noting that most Japanese will not touch whale meat any more, and the government has to store in freezers the whale meat its fleets bring home.

 

It would be very hard to imagine a moral or religious code that denied water to those dying of thirst.  Yet, modern governments do exactly that, by wasteful and corrupt development schemes, privatization of water, permitting contamination, displacement of impoverished people, and many other practices.

Gary Chamberlain (2008) reviews the status of water in all the world’s major religions, and finds that all of them are quite specific about enjoining us to treat water as a common good to share with all who need it.  Certainly, of all human needs, water is second in immediate importance only to oxygen.  Water is needed every day, in fairly large quantities, by every human.  It is needed directly for drinking and washing, indirectly in much greater quantities for food production and manufacturing.  It is irreplaceable; the economists’ notion of “infinite substitutability” breaks down totally here.  Water has to be reasonably pure to be useful—the purer the better.

This being the case, all religions have made a point of insisting that water be made available.  All seem, also, to have used it as a symbol.  Water is soft and flowing, yet wears away rock.  It is pure, yet can be contaminated.  It is meek and unprotesting and always ready to serve, yet it is arguably the most valuable thing in the world.  It is often ignored and devalued, yet is absolutely necessary to life—every faith seems to have made the obvious comparison with religion here!  Probably nothing else has been such a universally used symbol and metaphor, for so many things.  Rivers are goddesses in India, and had a human feminine form before they descended to earth.  (Chamberlain quotes a wonderful story of the sea and the Ganges on p. 17.)  In Indian art, rivers such as the Ganges, Narbada and other rivers are beautiful women in the prime of life.   Their long, flowing hair and supple bodies recall the flow of the rivers.  In Bangladesh, Islamic norms prevail, but local water culture involves much management and associated ideology about water (Hanchett et al. 2014).

Water is most notable in religion for its cleanness and its purifying qualities and for its tremendous power, but Zena Kamash (2008) has recently emphasized its terrifying aspects.  Floods, whirlpools and fast rivers kill countless people.  Religions recognize this, and pray for protection, but also see water and the water surface as liminal.  They are boundaries between life and death, and water is both lifegiver and deathbringer.  Kamash’s own work is on the Roman Empire, and from Anatolia to England she has found Roman shrines that link these two aspects.  She finds similarities elsewhere, and I certainly saw plenty of this in China, where my fishermen friends lived by the sea but often died by it.  They loved it and feared it.  Cultivators in land villages had a similar view of fresh water; it kept them alive and irrigated their crops, but floods were frequent, and killed millions by starvation as well as hundreds by direct drowning.  Temples took full note of this, and so did prayers and ceremonies.

Religions have also insisted on the moral necessity of giving water to those who need it. Chamberlain reviews a wide range of sources.  I have mentioned the most graphic—the Islamic injunctions—above.  Chamberlain goes on to give us a powerful call to renew our faiths, whatever they may be, and work to make water freely and universally available in today’s world.

Even if one is not religious, any concern for anything outside one’s own narrowest self-interest simply has to include concern for water.  Even one’s narrowest self-interest, in fact.  The future for all of us is bleak unless immediate action is taken on a global scale.

Indeed, we need to bring religion and ethics into the picture.  At the very least, we need to see that water is literally and figuratively the water of life.  Denying it is murder.  Polluting and wasting it are potential murder.  I doubt if anything short of a concerted effort by all religions will save the world from a water shortage that will be catastrophic beyond imagining.

 

 

 

Based on a talk at the Sharlot Hall Museum, Prescott, AZ, 2008; amended since.  Thanks to Sandy Lynch and Gary Chamberlain for help.

 

 

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Appendix

“…On average, the water we use in our households is about 98 gallons a day, says a U.S. Geological Survey. The industrial goods we use — paper, cotton, clothes — that’s about another 44 gallons a day. But it takes more than 1,000 gallons of water a day per person to produce the food (and drinks) in the average U.S. diet, according to several sources. More than 53 gallons of water go into making 1 cup of orange juice, for example.

Just to get a sense of how much water goes into growing and processing what we eat, here’s a list of the water footprint for some common foods, via National Geographic:

A 1/3-pound burger requires 660 gallons of water. Most of this water is for producing beef (see below).

1 pound of beef requires 1,799 gallons of water, which includes irrigation of the grains and grasses in feed, plus water for drinking and processing.

1 slice of bread requires 11 gallons of water. Most of this water is for producing wheat (see below).

1 pound of wheat requires 132 gallons of water.

1 gallon of beer requires 68 gallons of water, or 19.8 gallons of water for 1 cup. Most of that water is for growing barley (see below).

1 pound of barley requires 198 gallons of water.

1 gallon of wine requires 1,008 gallons of water (mostly for growing the grapes), or 63.4 gallons of water for 1 cup.

1 apple requires 18 gallons of water. It takes 59.4 gallons of water to produce 1 cup of apple juice.

1 orange requires 13 gallons of water. It takes 53.1 gallons of water for 1 cup of orange juice.

1 pound of chicken requires 468 gallons of water.

1 pound of pork requires 576 gallons of water.1 pound of rice requires 449 gallons of water.

1 pound of sheep requires 731 gallons of water.

1 pound of goat requires 127 gallons of water.

1 pound of corn requires 108 gallons of water.

1 pound of soybeans requires 216 gallons of water.

1 pound of rice requires 449 gallons of water.

1 pound of potatoes requires 119 gallons of water.

1 egg requires 53 gallons of water.

1 gallon of milk requires 880 gallons of water, or 54.9 gallons of water for 1 cup. That includes water for raising and grazing cattle, and bottling and processing.

1 pound of cheese requires 600 gallons of water. On average it requires 1.2 gallons of milk to make 1 pound of cheese.

1 pound of chocolate requires 3,170 gallons of water.

1 pound of refined sugar requires 198 gallons of water.

1 gallon of tea requires 128 gallons of water, or 7.9 gallons of water for 1 cup.

1 gallon of coffee requires 880 gallons of water, or 37 gallons of water for 1 cup. ‘If everyone in the world drank a cup of coffee each morning, it would ‘cost’ about 32 trillion gallons of water a year,’ National Geographic notes” (Hallock 2014).

 

Categories
Articles

A Power of Good, Gone Bad

A POWER OF GOOD, GONE BAD

 

Rough expressions carefully excluded by my modest wife from our book A POWER OF GOOD.

TRIGGER WARNING:  NOT SUITABLE FOR ANYONE UNDER 18 OR EASILY OFFENDED BY OBSCENE MATERIAL!

 

 

 

Putdowns and general negatives

 

Full of beans.  (Usually, angry, as if from indigestion; also, full of energy; can also be a euphemism for “full of shit.”)

 

I don’t take no shit.

 

Shit fire!  (All purpose exclamation.)

 

Screwed the pooch.  (Totally messed up.  As in “so-and-so screwed the pooch.”)

 

Cold as a witch’s tit

 

Cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass baboon (or “monkey”)

 

Colder than a welldigger’s ass (thanks to Chris Chase-Dunn for this one)

 

They’d steal Christ off the cross if He weren’t nailed down.  (Said of chronic shoplifter types, of employees who “liberate” supplies from the company, etc.)

 

Up shit creek without a paddle

 

RF  (Short for “rat fuck”; means a practical joke or similar goofy action—as in “I RF’d the psychologists’ questionnaire by answering the craziest way I could.”)

 

He’s so low he’d have to stand up on his hind legs to kiss a snake’s ass.

From an Okie ex-Marine friend of mine.

 

He’s so low he’d have to use a ladder to harvest potatoes.

 

He’s so low he sucks earthworm dicks.

He’s got a wild hair up his ass.  (He has an attitude–i.e. he is being irrationally negative or aggressive.)

He’s lower than a snake’s navel.  (Classic putdown, leading to the use of “Snakenavel” to mean “the middle of nowhere,” as in “I was offered a job but it was in Snakenavel, Idaho, so I turned it down.”  Compare the use of Podunk—a real town in Iowa—and the academic equivalent, Slippery Rock State, to mean “nowheresville.”  Slippery Rock State is actually quite a good school, and the term is dropping out of use.  Spanish equivalents include “en las Batuecas” in peninsula Spain—the Batuecas are a group of insignificant towns in a backwoods region.  In Mexico, it’s donde no va el Coca—“where even the Coca-Cola truck doesn’t go”; such a place is almost unimaginably remote in that soft-drink-dependent country.)

 

Kiss my ass and growl like a fox.  (our student Matt Des Lauriers quoted this from his grandfather’s usage)

 

Every little bit helps, as the whore said when she pissed in the ocean.

 

Feisty.  (Full of fight, from “feisting,” an old word for farting.  Similarly, a small mutt was called a “feist dog” or just “fice,” especially if it had an attitude.)

 

Brown-nosing.  (Kissing ass.)

 

Snafu.  (Acronym for “situation normal, all fucked up.”  Military slang, satirizing the military’s fondness for acronyms.)

 

That ain’t worth a pee-hole in the snow.  (Very common.)

 

“My daughter thinks the world of him, but, to me, he’s a sluffed-up sack of Siberian sheep shit.”  (Recorded by a folklorist in Texas.  Typical Texan putdown.)

 

I wouldn’t give you the sweat off my balls if you was dyin’ in the desert.  (Learned from my dorm neighbor Richard Sylla in college; he used it as his comprehensive summary of economic theory.  He was summa cum laude in Economics and became a very eminent historian of economics.)

 

Can’t tell shit from Shinola.  (Proverbial stupidity; a phrase notably associated with the military, who had to shine their shoes regularly)

 

Doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground.  (Possibly the commonest term in my youth for incompetence and stupidity.)

 

So dumb / incompetent he can’t find his ass with both hands and a flashlight.

 

I’m gonna tear him a new asshole.  (Common threat.)

 

A German story too good to miss, and known in the Midwest where there was German settlement:

The soldier Götz von Berlichingen, a real person who lived from 1482 to 1562, was trapped in a house surrounded by his enemies.  History (not totally unquestioned…but at least written) records that they called to him that his situation was hopeless and he should surrender.  He hung his bare ass out the window and said “Leck mich in arsch” (lick my ass)…and proceeded to fight his way out, single-handed, and survive to fight again.  He became the German national hero, and his line is the German national putdown.  (See Alan Dundes, Life Is a Chicken Coop Ladder, for more.)

 

 

Animal Metaphors

 

When you’re up to your ass in alligators, it’s hard to remember you set out to drain the swamp.  (I prefer to say “…to conserve the wetland.”)

 

Chickenshit   (a common extension of “chicken.”  This is a word used focally for a very common and typical state of mind, the results of childhood abuse, VERY common in the old Midwest.  The abused kid was often weak, isolated, resentful, cowardly, and alternating between placating and nastiness.  With maturing, this often took the form of touchy defensiveness and excessive concern for “honor.”)

 

To goose someone  (to strike at the genital region, as an angry goose does to drive people away from its young)

 

Smells like two skunks fucking in an onion patch.  (Black American—at least in so far as I know it—but probably more widespread; alternatively “fighting in an onion patch”)

 

In a pig’s ass.  (I.e. something that won’t happen, or something that’s bullshit.  Bars used to post signs saying “your credit is good here” –with a pointer pointing to the back end of a pig.  Cleaned-up variants:  In a pig’s ear; in a pig’s eye, when pigs fly; when pigs fly to the moon.  “Ears” was and sometimes still is a standard euphemism for “ass,” dating back to the 18th century, when ass was still “arse” and “ears” was pronounced “airs,” so the words were near-homonyms.)

 

Up a pig’s ass:  same as “up shit crick.”  In a hopeless position.  Note that “crick,” not creek, was and is the universal Midwestern pronunciation.

 

Piss like a racehorse  (copiously)

 

Faster than a cat can lick its ass.  (Usually said of unpleasant things, as in “If he gets mad he’ll be on you faster than…”).

 

Hotter’n a fresh-fucked fox in a forest fire.  (Texanism.)

 

I don’t give a rat’s ass.

 

About as much use as tits on a boar.

 

(Not from our childhood, but too good to miss, is a Malay proverb:  “Even if ten ships come, the dogs have no loincloths but their tails.”  [The ships are understood to be bringing fancy imported fabrics, the Great Luxury of old Malaysia.  The proverb is a comment on the hopelessness of the poor.])

 

 

Euphemisms

 

Today’s forthright speech has cost the English language a vast range of ridiculously creative euphemisms.  Midwesterners needed strong and pungent speech to express their emotions, but were too inhibited to use the blunt words, at least in mixed company.  Children actually got their mouths washed out with soap for “cussin.’”  I was threatened with this periodically, but I was usually too careful to get the actual washing.  This resistance to blunt verbiage led to a lot of nonsense.

Besides the obvious “Gosh!” “Golly!” “Jeez!” “Darn!” and so on, there were more arcane ways to modify taboo words:  “Bushwah!” for “bullshit”; “shucks” and “shoot” for “shit”; “asset” and “yes-yes” (pron. “yas-yas”) for “ass” (“arse”); “for cryin’ out loud” for “for Christ’s sake”; “foot” for “fuck” as an expletive (oh foot!); “Lor’ love a duck” for “fuck” (this is a Cockney one); “peter” for “penis”; and so on.  “Spend a penny” was universal British slang in the first 2/3 of the 20th century for “go to the toilet,” with reference to the cost of the pay toilets in old-time London.  A toilet is a “loo” in England, from French l’eau, “the water.”   The name “John” developed unfortunate connotations, first in French, especially in the nickname form Jacques, whence English “Jack” and Scottish “Jock.”  So “jakes” (from Jacques) and later “John” was used for the toilet.

“John” and “jock” also became standard euphemisms for the penis, whence “jockstrap” as slang for a supporter strap to protect a man’s groin.  “John” was lengthened to “Johnson” for a while in the mid-20th century (when “-son” was a slangy lengthening of anything—“Jack” and “Jackson” were slangy terms of address to men).  “Johnson” inspired a line of double entendre T-shirts (the “Big Johnson” line) that were, for a change, really witty rather than just gross.  “John” gave way to “Dick” (from rhyming slang for “prick,” and not so much euphemistic as universal, in many American dialects).  It seems that the English language requires a boy’s name for the organ in question; I have heard “Aleck,” “Tom,” etc.  (British slang includes excusing oneself to go take a leak by saying “Must go point Percy at the porcelain,” etc.)  And “to roger” was a very standard euphemism for sexual intercourse.

The general lack of intelligence, taste, and good judgement of the organ in question has caused “dick,” “dork,” etc. to be words for a stupid person, like “pendejo” (thing that hangs on) in Spanish.  However, the male genitalia were very commonly referred to as “the family jewels,” so clearly there were more favorable judgments out there.

Other common terms for the penis included dong, tool, joystick, rod, and so on.  In addition, almost anything can be used, as limericks and dirty jokes prove.  There was a similarly vast corpus of euphemisms for sexual intercourse, but most of the ones that were widely used are still around.  Anal intercourse in the Midwest was “cornholing,” from “corn hole” for anus.

There is a whole genre of English and American folksong that uses rural metaphors for sexual intercourse, beginning with a medieval one in which our hero grafts his pear tree for his ladylove, and more recently a song in which “I showed her the works of my threshing machine” (an implement of modern invention).  Studies show that metaphors involving tools and weapons can be constructed right back to Proto-Indo-European.  Other languages (notably Spanish and Cantonese, from my experience) have equally complex vocabularies and metaphors.

“Cock” was never a euphemism.  It is a translation gloss from various European languages.  Several languages over the world use the male chicken as a metaphor.  The euphemism came in when Americans coined “rooster” for the bird!  The British really laugh at us for that one.

Meanwhile, in deep southern US English, “cock” means the female genitalia, not the male; it’s a completely different word, from French coquille, “shell,” via New Orleans French.  “Poontang” is another southern localism for the female parts.  I know it only from Virginia and the Appalachians, but it may be elsewhere in the south.  It centers on Black English, so is probably an African word originally.

Another set of euphemisms surrounded teaching kids about sex.  Parents were often too ashamed to discuss human sexuality directly, so referred to it as “the facts of life.”  They had recourse to explaining the sex lives of animals first.  This gave rise to the expression “tell them about the birds and the bees,” and thus to “the birds and the bees” as a euphemism for human sex in general.

Yet more terms referred to courting (itself a term covering a wide range of activities).  Most of these were teenage slang referring to stages of intimacy.  “Necking” was kissing and other above-the-neck action.  “Petting” and “spooning” covered more bodily contact.  “Making out” was definitely more serious: foreplay-like activity that could, and often did, lead to what was known in that euphemistic age as “going all the way.”  Somewhat similar, later in time (somewhat after our day), were baseball images—variously defined, but the following seems fairly typical:  “first base” for kissing and the like, “second base” for fondling breasts (these days it covers fellatio too), “third base” for genital touching or digital sex, and, significantly, “home base” or “getting home” for sexual intercourse.

Not so much euphemisms as folk speech were various words for male erections (bone, boner, hard-on, rod-on, stiff, etc.) and words for masturbation.  Teenaged boys being often fascinated with both masturbation and colorful speech, there were plenty of phrases.  Standard was “jacking off” (equivalent to British “frigging” and “wanking” or “whanking,” which can be either male or female).  “Jerking off” was also heard, but “jacking off” comes from “Jack” for penis (see above) rather than from “jerk.”  More poetic were “beat your meat” (as common as “jacking off”) and  “flog your log.”  Some Southernisms that I never heard in youth, but learned in early adulthood, were “jerk your jewels,” “slam your ham” and “choke your chicken” (as in “chokin’ his chicken”; there was actually a blue grass band called the Blue Ridge Chicken Chokers).  Masturbating was not considered particularly intelligent, hence use of “jerk,” “wanker,” etc. to mean a dumb person.  Compare Spanish “freguer” and “joder” (rub, i.e. masturbate or, sometimes, have sex) and the countless phrases derived from it, e.g. the folk rhyme “La ley de Herodes: o te fregues o te jodes” (“the law of Herod: either you fuck up or you screw up”—one of a vast number of Spanish rhyming “laws,” but in this case one that achieved immortality when “La Ley de Herodes” became the title of a short story that was made into a successful film).

Prostitutes were “ladies of the evening,” “soiled doves,” “in the trade,” “in the oldest profession” (incidentally a wildly inaccurate claim), or just “professionals.”  “Floozy” could mean a prostitute or just a loose woman who looked or acted like one.

Pissing and shitting got their share: taking a leak, taking a crap, taking a squat, etc.

There is also “I’ve got to see a man about a horse” (said to excuse self from present company, usually to go to the toilet).  Another was “Gotta drain the water off the potatoes.”  Another common politeness (if such it can be called) was “Your barn door is open,” meaning your fly is unzipped.  Of course, all these were man talk or boy talk.  I confess to ignorance of specialized female terms.

In addition to the above, there were the usual obscenities and ethnic, religious, and other insults and offensive words, but most are still around, and to list them would be tedious and unedifying.

 

There were literally thousands of dirty jokes, songs, and limericks in circulation.  Most of them, but not the rawest, were captured by Gerson Legman in his series of books of erotic folklore and in Vance Randolph’s book Pissing in the Snow.  Good dirty song collections include Ed Cray, The Erotic Muse, and the pseudonymous Snatches and Lays for British/Australian material.  I fear the heavy-duty stuff I know is so raw that I would never repeat it even in unmixed company.  I have even, alas, found it necessary to remove some wonderfully colorful short standard phrases from the above list.

A POWER OF GOOD, GONE BAD

Rough expressions carefully excluded by my modest wife from our book A POWER OF GOOD.
Putdowns and general negatives

Full of beans. (Usually, angry, as if from indigestion; also, full of energy; can also be a euphemism for “full of shit.”)

I don’t take no shit.

Shit fire! (All purpose exclamation.)

Screwed the pooch. (Totally messed up. As in “so-and-so screwed the pooch.”)

Cold as a witch’s tit

Cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass baboon (or “monkey”)

Colder than a welldigger’s ass (thanks to Chris Chase-Dunn for this one)

They’d steal Christ off the cross if He weren’t nailed down. (Said of chronic shoplifter types, of employees who “liberate” supplies from the company, etc.)

Up shit creek without a paddle

RF (Short for “rat fuck”; means a practical joke or similar goofy action—as in “I RF’d the psychologists’ questionnaire by answering the craziest way I could.”)

He’s so low he’d have to stand up on his hind legs to kiss a snake’s ass.
From an Okie ex-Marine friend of mine.

He’s so low he’d have to use a ladder to harvest potatoes.

He’s so low he sucks earthworm dicks.

He’s lower than a snake’s navel. (Classic putdown, leading to the use of “Snakenavel” to mean “the middle of nowhere,” as in “I was offered a job but it was in Snakenavel, Idaho, so I turned it down.” Compare the use of Podunk—a real town in Iowa—and the academic equivalent, Slippery Rock State, to mean “nowheresville.” Slippery Rock State is actually quite a good school, and the term is dropping out of use. Spanish equivalents include “en las Batuecas” in peninsula Spain—the Batuecas are a group of insignificant towns in a backwoods region. In Mexico, it’s donde no va el Coca—“where even the Coca-Cola truck doesn’t go”; such a place is almost unimaginably remote in that soft-drink-dependent country.)

Kiss my ass and growl like a fox. (our student Matt Des Lauriers quoted this from his grandfather’s usage)

Every little bit helps, as the whore said when she pissed in the ocean.

Feisty. (Full of fight, from “feisting,” an old word for farting. Similarly, a small mutt was called a “feist dog” or just “fice,” especially if it had an attitude.)

Brown-nosing. (Kissing ass.)

Snafu. (Acronym for “situation normal, all fucked up.” Military slang, satirizing the military’s fondness for acronyms.)

That ain’t worth a pee-hole in the snow. (Very common.)

“My daughter thinks the world of him, but, to me, he’s a sluffed-up sack of Siberian sheep shit.” (Recorded by a folklorist in Texas. Typical Texan putdown.)

I wouldn’t give you the sweat off my balls if you was dyin’ in the desert. (Learned from my dorm neighbor Richard Sylla in college; he used it as his comprehensive summary of economic theory. He was summa cum laude in Economics and became a very eminent historian of economics.)

Can’t tell shit from Shinola. (Proverbial stupidity; a phrase notably associated with the military, who had to shine their shoes regularly)

Doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground. (Possibly the commonest term in my youth for incompetence and stupidity.)

So dumb / incompetent he can’t find his ass with both hands and a flashlight.

I’m gonna tear him a new asshole. (Common threat.)

A German story too good to miss, and known in the Midwest where there was German settlement:
The soldier Götz von Berlichingen, a real person who lived from 1482 to 1562, was trapped in a house surrounded by his enemies. History (not totally unquestioned…but at least written) records that they called to him that his situation was hopeless and he should surrender. He hung his bare ass out the window and said “Leck mich in arsch” (lick my ass)…and proceeded to fight his way out, single-handed, and survive to fight again. He became the German national hero, and his line is the German national putdown. (See Alan Dundes, Life Is a Chicken Coop Ladder, for more.)
Animal Metaphors

When you’re up to your ass in alligators, it’s hard to remember you set out to drain the swamp. (I prefer to say “…to conserve the wetland.”)

Chickenshit (a common extension of “chicken.” This is a word used focally for a very common and typical state of mind, the results of childhood abuse, VERY common in the old Midwest. The abused kid was often weak, isolated, resentful, cowardly, and alternating between placating and nastiness. With maturing, this often took the form of touchy defensiveness and excessive concern for “honor.”)

To goose someone (to strike at the genital region, as an angry goose does to drive people away from its young)

Smells like two skunks fucking in an onion patch. (Black American—at least in so far as I know it—but probably more widespread; alternatively “fighting in an onion patch”)

In a pig’s ass. (I.e. something that won’t happen, or something that’s bullshit. Bars used to post signs saying “your credit is good here” –with a pointer pointing to the back end of a pig. Cleaned-up variants: In a pig’s ear; in a pig’s eye, when pigs fly; when pigs fly to the moon. “Ears” was and sometimes still is a standard euphemism for “ass,” dating back to the 18th century, when ass was still “arse” and “ears” was pronounced “airs,” so the words were near-homonyms.)

Up a pig’s ass: same as “up shit crick.” In a hopeless position. Note that “crick,” not creek, was and is the universal Midwestern pronunciation.

Piss like a racehorse (copiously)

Faster than a cat can lick its ass. (Usually said of unpleasant things, as in “If he gets mad he’ll be on you faster than…”).

Hotter’n a fresh-fucked fox in a forest fire. (Texanism.)

I don’t give a rat’s ass.

About as much use as tits on a boar.

(Not from our childhood, but too good to miss, is a Malay proverb: “Even if ten ships come, the dogs have no loincloths but their tails.” [The ships are understood to be bringing fancy imported fabrics, the Great Luxury of old Malaysia. The proverb is a comment on the hopelessness of the poor.])
Euphemisms

Today’s forthright speech has cost the English language a vast range of ridiculously creative euphemisms. Midwesterners needed strong and pungent speech to express their emotions, but were too inhibited to use the blunt words, at least in mixed company. Children actually got their mouths washed out with soap for “cussin.’” I was threatened with this periodically, but I was usually too careful to get the actual washing. This resistance to blunt verbiage led to a lot of nonsense.
Besides the obvious “Gosh!” “Golly!” “Jeez!” “Darn!” and so on, there were more arcane ways to modify taboo words: “Bushwah!” for “bullshit”; “shucks” and “shoot” for “shit”; “asset” and “yes-yes” (pron. “yas-yas”) for “ass” (“arse”); “for cryin’ out loud” for “for Christ’s sake”; “foot” for “fuck” as an expletive (oh foot!); “Lor’ love a duck” for “fuck” (this is a Cockney one); “peter” for “penis”; and so on. “Spend a penny” was universal British slang in the first 2/3 of the 20th century for “go to the toilet,” with reference to the cost of the pay toilets in old-time London. A toilet is a “loo” in England, from French l’eau, “the water.” The name “John” developed unfortunate connotations, first in French, especially in the nickname form Jacques, whence English “Jack” and Scottish “Jock.” So “jakes” (from Jacques) and later “John” was used for the toilet.
“John” and “jock” also became standard euphemisms for the penis, whence “jockstrap” as slang for a supporter strap to protect a man’s groin. “John” was lengthened to “Johnson” for a while in the mid-20th century (when “-son” was a slangy lengthening of anything—“Jack” and “Jackson” were slangy terms of address to men). “Johnson” inspired a line of double entendre T-shirts (the “Big Johnson” line) that were, for a change, really witty rather than just gross. “John” gave way to “Dick” (from rhyming slang for “prick,” and not so much euphemistic as universal, in many American dialects). It seems that the English language requires a boy’s name for the organ in question; I have heard “Aleck,” “Tom,” etc. (British slang includes excusing oneself to go take a leak by saying “Must go point Percy at the porcelain,” etc.) And “to roger” was a very standard euphemism for sexual intercourse.
The general lack of intelligence, taste, and good judgement of the organ in question has caused “dick,” “dork,” etc. to be words for a stupid person, like “pendejo” (thing that hangs on) in Spanish. However, the male genitalia were very commonly referred to as “the family jewels,” so clearly there were more favorable judgments out there.
Other common terms for the penis included dong, tool, joystick, rod, and so on. In addition, almost anything can be used, as limericks and dirty jokes prove. There was a similarly vast corpus of euphemisms for sexual intercourse, but most of the ones that were widely used are still around. Anal intercourse in the Midwest was “cornholing,” from “corn hole” for anus.
There is a whole genre of English and American folksong that uses rural metaphors for sexual intercourse, beginning with a medieval one in which our hero grafts his pear tree for his ladylove, and more recently a song in which “I showed her the works of my threshing machine” (an implement of modern invention). Studies show that metaphors involving tools and weapons can be constructed right back to Proto-Indo-European. Other languages (notably Spanish and Cantonese, from my experience) have equally complex vocabularies and metaphors.
“Cock” was never a euphemism. It is a translation gloss from various European languages. Several languages over the world use the male chicken as a metaphor. The euphemism came in when Americans coined “rooster” for the bird! The British really laugh at us for that one.
Meanwhile, in deep southern US English, “cock” means the female genitalia, not the male; it’s a completely different word, from French coquille, “shell,” via New Orleans French. “Poontang” is another southern localism for the female parts. I know it only from Virginia and the Appalachians, but it may be elsewhere in the south. It centers on Black English, so is probably an African word originally.
Another set of euphemisms surrounded teaching kids about sex. Parents were often too ashamed to discuss human sexuality directly, so referred to it as “the facts of life.” They had recourse to explaining the sex lives of animals first. This gave rise to the expression “tell them about the birds and the bees,” and thus to “the birds and the bees” as a euphemism for human sex in general.
Yet more terms referred to courting (itself a term covering a wide range of activities). Most of these were teenage slang referring to stages of intimacy. “Necking” was kissing and other above-the-neck action. “Petting” and “spooning” covered more bodily contact. “Making out” was definitely more serious: foreplay-like activity that could, and often did, lead to what was known in that euphemistic age as “going all the way.” Somewhat similar, later in time (somewhat after our day), were baseball images—variously defined, but the following seems fairly typical: “first base” for kissing and the like, “second base” for fondling breasts (these days it covers fellatio too), “third base” for genital touching or digital sex, and, significantly, “home base” or “getting home” for sexual intercourse.
Not so much euphemisms as folk speech were various words for male erections (bone, boner, hard-on, rod-on, stiff, etc.) and words for masturbation. Teenaged boys being often fascinated with both masturbation and colorful speech, there were plenty of phrases. Standard was “jacking off” (equivalent to British “frigging” and “wanking” or “whanking,” which can be either male or female). “Jerking off” was also heard, but “jacking off” comes from “Jack” for penis (see above) rather than from “jerk.” More poetic were “beat your meat” (as common as “jacking off”) and “flog your log.” Some Southernisms that I never heard in youth, but learned in early adulthood, were “jerk your jewels,” “slam your ham” and “choke your chicken” (as in “chokin’ his chicken”; there was actually a blue grass band called the Blue Ridge Chicken Chokers). Masturbating was not considered particularly intelligent, hence use of “jerk,” “wanker,” etc. to mean a dumb person. Compare Spanish “freguer” and “joder” (rub, i.e. masturbate or, sometimes, have sex) and the countless phrases derived from it, e.g. the folk rhyme “La ley de Herodes: o te fregues o te jodes” (“the law of Herod: either you fuck up or you screw up”—one of a vast number of Spanish rhyming “laws,” but in this case one that achieved immortality when “La Ley de Herodes” became the title of a short story that was made into a successful film).
Prostitutes were “ladies of the evening,” “soiled doves,” “in the trade,” “in the oldest profession” (incidentally a wildly inaccurate claim), or just “professionals.” “Floozy” could mean a prostitute or just a loose woman who looked or acted like one.
Pissing and shitting got their share: taking a leak, taking a crap, taking a squat, etc.
There is also “I’ve got to see a man about a horse” (said to excuse self from present company, usually to go to the toilet). Another was “Gotta drain the water off the potatoes.” Another common politeness (if such it can be called) was “Your barn door is open,” meaning your fly is unzipped. Of course, all these were man talk or boy talk. I confess to ignorance of specialized female terms.
In addition to the above, there were the usual obscenities and ethnic, religious, and other insults and offensive words, but most are still around, and to list them would be tedious and unedifying.

There were literally thousands of dirty jokes, songs, and limericks in circulation. Most of them, but not the rawest, were captured by Gerson Legman in his series of books of erotic folklore and in Vance Randolph’s book Pissing in the Snow. Good dirty song collections include Ed Cray, The Erotic Muse, and the pseudonymous Snatches and Lays for British/Australian material. I fear the heavy-duty stuff I know is so raw that I would never repeat it even in unmixed company. I have even, alas, found it necessary to remove some wonderfully colorful short standard phrases from the above list.

Categories
Articles

Floating World Lost

 

FLOATING WORLD LOST:

A HONG KONG FISHING COMMUNITY

 

Eugene N. Anderson

 

Published by University Press of the South, New Orleans, LA, 2007

Copyright held by University Press of the South;

any reproduction of this work, or part of it, requires their written permission.

 

 

For my children:

Laura, Alan and Tamar, who were there

Amanda and Robert, whom I wish had been.

 

 

 

Acknowledgements:  I remain always deeply grateful to the people of Castle Peak Bay, especially Choi Kwok-Tai, Cecilia Choi, and Chow Hung-fai, and to Marja L. Anderson and to Laura, Alan and Tamar.  A long list of friends and scholars who contributed to this effort includes Hugh Baker, Stanley Bedlington, Paul Buell, William Chan (special thanks for identifying the fish), Louis Cheung, Wolfram Eberhard, George Foster, Hill Gates, Greg Guldin, Ho Kaak-yan, Dell Hymes, William Jankowiak, Graham and Betsy Johnson, Hiroaki Kani, Arthur Kleinman, Rance Lee, John McCoy, James and Helen McGough, Jack Potter, Edward Schafer, G. William Skinner, Ambrose Tse, Barbara Ward, James and Rubie Watson, Arthur Wolf, Yan Yunxiang, and others.  David Akers-Jones, James Hayes, David Robertson, and Major and Mrs. A. M. McFarlane provided much help in the field.  Derek Davies and Nick Ludlow helped with photography.  Last but not least, research was supported by the U. S. National Institute of Mental Health, the World Health Organisation, and the University of California.  This book draws on an earlier work, The Floating World of Castle Peak Bay, about half of the present book being a reprint of that effort, and I am grateful to the American Anthropological Association (which published the earlier book) for granting permission.  That book was dedicated “to the boat people and those who have studied them,” and I wish here to make special note of the late Barbara Ward, superb ethnographer and wonderful colleague.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 1.  PEOPLE ON THE WATER

 

1

Castle Peak Bay, in the Western Territories of Hong Kong, was once home to a teeming population of fishermen and cargo carriers who lived on their boats and rarely came on shore.  They made up a separate community, calling themselves seui seung yan, “people on the water.”  They, and the shore-dwellers around them, considered themselves to belong to a separate ethnic group, defined by residence on the water more than by language or culture.  They dwelt in boats, or in pile houses built over the water.  They were part of a vast array of boat-dwelling people who wandered widely over the rivers and seas of China.

Most human cultures are divided into subcultures, which may be defined by class, caste, occupation, or anything else important.  The boat way of life was based on a subculture was defined by ecology.  This book explores the structure of this subculture, and the practice of life by the people who were the bearers of it.  The subtitle Variations on Chinese Themes speaks to this focus.  I describe the ways in which boat life varied from life on land, and then explain what this all means for the study of Chinese culture.

Today, the boat community is no more.  The boat families moved on shore and merged with the general Cantonese population of Hong Kong.  The bay itself no longer exists.  It was filled in, providing level space for high-rise apartments.  Descendents of sea captains now live twenty floors above the rocky fill, and commute to jobs assembling electronics or programming computers.  The bay, formerly isolated, has become part of the vast urban agglomeration that is modern Hong Kong.

It has been the lot of most anthropologists to see their communities change.  Some communities even disappear.  Few ethnographers, however, have seen the disappearance of even the physical setting of their field experiences.

In 1965-66 and again in 1974-75, my family and I lived at Castle Peak Bay, studying the fishing community.  I return to Hong Kong every few years—most recently in 1999—and revisit the fate of the world I once shared.   Every year, more bays are filled, fewer boats go out.  The same transformations have now taken place in nearby parts of Guangdong Province.  Even more remote areas are seeing the fishermen come to shore, often encouraged or forced by government programs.

In Hong Kong as a whole, virtually no one still lives on the water.  Even by 1974, most had already gone on shore to work in local factories and shops.  Since then, fishing has succumbed to pollution and overharvesting.  Lightering—carrying cargo from large ships to shore—has disappeared with the construction of deepwater container port facilities.  A tiny group of people is still employed in fishing, local cargo carrying, and ferry work.  The floating restaurants of old are now tourist venues, piered to the sea floor and staffed by people of land origin.

This book, then, records a vanished way of life.  Boat-dwelling fishermen still number in the millions in China, southeast Asia, and elsewhere, but the boat people of the Hong Kong area had their own special ways of being human.  I became deeply involved in these.

A political scientist reading one part of this book dismissed it: why bother with a vanished way of life?  A student recently commented on one of my classes that the class wasted his time with discussions of “extinct, out-of-date societies.”  Such comments (even when phrased in a tactlessly biased manner, as in the latter case) require an answer.

The first part of the answer is that the boat people have much to teach us.  Their knowledge of fish and fishing was unsurpassed.  Their society was well-run in spite of lack of government and police.  Their social values and ethics were striking and original, and suggest to me important possibilities for the human future.  I have drawn at length on their social theory.  Their songs were beautiful, their food was exquisite, and their boats were superbly engineered.  All this they managed in the face of incredible poverty and uncertainty.

Simply knowing that humans could create so much beauty and happiness under such conditions is perhaps the most valuable lesson the boat people have to teach.  Any creation of the human spirit deserves serious consideration, simply because we are all human, and we need each other.  We need to know and understand.  Quite apart from the scientific merits of cross-cultural comparison, the human value of appreciating human achievement needs to be served.

Above all, the boat people recall to us the ancient virtue of humility.  The boat-dwellers created lives of beauty, glory, and satisfaction in the face of overwhelming challenges.  They “raised a Heaven in Hell’s despite.”  They deserve to be remembered.

I shall generally describe the bay as it was in 1965-66.  This will be a freeze-frame—a single picture in a long record of change, flux, and uncertainty.  I shall use information from 1974-75 only to supplement the picture—to flesh out the story, and sometimes to record the beginnings of basic change.

In 1965, Castle Peak Bay spread a flat sheet of shallow water over the mudflats and shallows that separated Castle Peak itself from the mainland.  The peak, with the ridge north of it, had formerly been an island.  Tang Dynasty travelers sailed through the channel between the island and the mainland.  It had shrunk to Castle Peak Bay in the south and Deep Bay in the north.  The rest of the channel had filled with alluvium, becoming some of the most fertile farmland in China.

The bay was fringed with small, traditional-style houses and shops, wherein lived fish-dealers, farmers, craftsmen, and merchants.  The town of Tuen Mun San Hui (“fortified strait’s new market”) at the head of the bay was already invaded by a few multistorey buildings, and there were unostentatious—but horribly polluting—factories there.  However, much of the town preserved the appearance and economic structure of a Qing Dynasty village.  A Buddhist college just north of it, and a major Taoist temple complex halfway up Castle Peak, provided ties with elite religious traditions.  Far more important to the local people were the countless temples and shrines that enshrined folk deities and folk conceptions of divinity.

The bay was home to several thousand boat people.  In 1965-66, most of these lived by small-scale artisanal fishing.    The larger boats were trawlers; medium-sized boats lived by long-line fishing, purse-seining, or gill-netting; the smallest practised local hook-and-line fishing.  The largest boats might hire a few hands, but almost all boats were strictly family operations.  A big boat might hold an extended family, while a small one was normally a nuclear-family operation.  Brothers who owned separate boats typically cooperated, operating what were in effect family fleets of two, three or four boats.

Major fish and shellfish caught included groupers, soles, pomfrets, croakers, sharks, shrimp, squid, and crabs (see Anderson 1972 for the whole list).  The inordinate fondness of Cantonese for sea food guaranteed high prices, at least for good quality products, and made fishing a highly lucrative occupation for the fortunate.  However, it was difficult and dangerous.  Nets and lines were still drawn by hand.  Many boats were nonmotorized; handling the gear and rigging was a major task.  The boats were extremely well-built and seaworthy, but managing them in a winter storm on the open sea required both great strength and great skill.

Moreover, a long spell of poor luck or stormy weather could wipe out a family.  Most people were in debt to fish-dealers.  The government had introduced cooperatives that worked well and eliminated the worst of the economic danger.  However, all older fishers could remember times when debt burdens had been crushing.  Indeed, in 1965-66, many families had been ruined, and had moored their boats for good and sought shore jobs.  Elders remembered World War II as the most difficult time in their lives; many people, especially children, had starved to death.

Difficult times and demanding work bred independence and resourcefulness.  Also, fishing, unlike at least some kinds of farming, requires major decisions on a day-to-day basis.  A boat captain (invariably also the father of the family) had to decide whether to put out in rough weather; where to go; how many times to cast the gear; when to pull in; and much else.  He has to make life-and-death decisions on a regular basis.  A captain could not stay in port on every rough day, since that would court economic suicide; but going out in clearly worsening weather was even more dangerous.   He would therefore consult all adults in the family.  They would help with any decision.  This meant that women were sharers not only of all work activities but also of all major decision-making, and gave them a degree of equality and power very different from that typical of the local land-dwellers.  This, in turn, led to major differences in family and child-rearing behavior (Anderson 1970b, 1992, 1998; Ward 1965, 1966, 1969).

Inevitably, families operated as independent units.  Lineages did not exist; they could not be maintained.  Leadership in the boat communities was informal and weakly developed (Anderson 1970b).  Individuals emerged as local leaders in so far as they could resolve disputes, deal with shore authorities, and organize community activities; such people enjoyed informal power in proportion to their success in these activities.  Life on the water was thus notably libertarian–in some contrast to the more tightly organized life on shore, controlled as it was by lineage and government.

These environmental and social factors lie behind many of the cultural and religious practices of the boat people.  They faced an uncertain and risky world, a scattered population organized largely at the family level, and a terribly hard and demanding life.  Common sense would lead one to expect that religion would address those issues, and that they would find solace in active, devout religious practice.  Such was indeed the case.

 

2

Over the last several years, I have been reanalysing data from this field work.         My interaction with the boat people and their world is somewhat significant to this analysis.  Though I am rarely excited by “reflexive” ethnography, most of which strikes me as narcissism, I have to establish some bare facts at the beginning.

In 1965-66, I was a graduate student in anthropology at the University of California, Berkeley.  I spent 14 months in the field.  My interest in all aspects of Chinese life went back to my parents, who had talked to missionaries and other travelers.  I wanted to look especially at fisheries development and at knowledge of fish and marine life—what we now call “traditional ecological knowledge.”  In the field, I learned most about fish, fishing methods, fisheries development, and the fishing business, but religion came in a close second.  Boat religion was fascinating to me.  Moreover, more than any other aspect of boat life, it challenged my rather simple paradigms of social structure.  Medicine and medical problems, food, and nutrition came into the picture too, and dominated later field work.

I went into the field with my wife, Marja Anderson, who worked with me on nutrition and medicine (Anderson and Anderson 1973, 1975, 1977; Ho, Anderson and Anderson 1978).  Thanks to her tireless energy, we were able to find out a considerable amount about these matters, and also about women’s lives, so often unstudied in those days.  The first year, we had with us our baby daughter Laura.  We all returned in 1974 with two more children, Alan and Tamar.  Everyone was delighted that we had had a son.  The boat people were about equally delighted with the girls, but the land-dwellers sometimes esteemed sons well above daughters in the scheme of things.  Everyone, however, adored all three of our children.  The children themselves were happier and healthier in the field than at home, a tribute to this caring environment as well as to outdoor living and good food.

I was not a totally green hand at field work, having done short field research projects in Panama, Tahiti, and California.  However, I was inexperienced, and had not been in East Asia before.  I made the usual mistakes, and had some minor adventures.  One of the more printable mistakes I made in Cantonese was asking the “name” of a fish.  The people I questioned looked at me as if I were insane, and I quickly learned that the word for “name” (Cantonese meng) applied only to personal given names.  I had to ask:  “What fish is that?”  Also, I started off wrong by using the textbook greeting “Are you well?” (nei hou ma in Cantonese, ni hao ma in Putonghua.)  Older people were offended.  I learned the greeting was a translation from English, and was offensive to traditionalists, since the Chinese implication was “Are you all right!?”—implying that you look sick.  I learned that the proper Cantonese greeting was “Have you eaten?” around mealtimes, or “Where are you going?” to people moving around.  This last had its own pitfalls.  We had to buy water at a standpipe well.  So, when asked the question, I at first sometimes answered “I’m going to buy water.”  Again I got The Look.  It turned out that one uses the two words “buy water” (maai seui) only when getting water to wash the corpse of a deceased family member!  Just one of those idioms….

Our living conditions were not easy.  In 1965-66, after an initial pleasant but detached period in a house on land, we moved down into the midst of things.  We lived on a sampan, a small residential boat.  We never went far; the boat usually remained moored to a fish dealer’s floating business.  The fish dealer and his family became fast friends and great helpers.  In 1974-75 we lived on shore.

Sam paan means “three boards,” and a sampan is a boat built up three boards from the waterline—in other words, a very small boat indeed.  Ours was 15’ long and about 7 wide, with a cabin not quite 5’ high.  It was by no means the smallest inhabited boat—far from it.  We slept, dressed, and wrote in the cabin, cooked and laundered on the deck, but otherwise spent most of our time off the boat.  We bought food every day at the local markets, and cooked for ourselves on the boat’s built-up stern.

Both practicality and personal taste made us live strictly local style, learning from those around us how to cook, dress, wash, and care for the boat.  Marja became a superb Chinese cook.  We took baths in a basin in the cabin, heating the water over the little kerosene stove on which we cooked.  We had a tape recorder, useful for field work but also useful for playing music from home.  Marja soon adopted the loose black cotton clothes of the boat women, which proved the only garments comfortable and tough enough to be serviceable on the boat.  Little Laura put up with it all, and reveled in the constant contact with us and our neighbors.  By the time we left, her Cantonese was better than her English, but she forgot it all when we left the field.

In general, life on the boat was comfortable, and the bay was so beautiful and fascinating that we rarely found the time wearing except when we were sick.  However, we had our problems.  We were living on limited means.  We were not fluent in Cantonese.  During prolonged rains, the boat was cramped and uncomfortable, and staying clean became difficult.  June 1966 brought history-making rains and floods, and we looked and felt like drowned rats.  Typhoons passed through; one in fall of 1965 drove us to a typhoon harbor and kept us awake all night.  I had to hold down the heavy cabin hatch and other portables.  We left the boat in July 1966, just in time to avoid another storm.

Such minor problems aside, we had successful field sessions at Castle Peak Bay.  This was thanks largely to our wonderful field assistants, Choi Kwok-Tai (and in 1974-5 his daughter Cecilia), and Chau Hung-fai.  They were always ready for anything, incredibly tough under field conditions, unfailingly helpful, and full of knowledge of boat and shore ways.  The boat people themselves were hospitable and supportive, and the few who tried, rather naively and innocently, to cheat me provided more humor than trouble.  (Minor cheating was a game in Hong Kong, and we would all have a good laugh over it, whether I won or lost.)  Some land people were not so friendly, since I was identified with the despised water folk, but unfriendliness never went beyond an occasional dirty look or refusal of minor help.  In general, we were well accepted—a fact made clear by the rapid fall in prices charged to us in the markets; we were paying local-customer prices after the first few months.

The food at Castle Peak Bay was truly memorable.  In those days, the waters were clean, and rich in fish and shellfish.  Fish were kept alive in well-smacks—small old rafts with the bottoms knocked out and replaced with wire.  These floated along the shore of the bay.  Diners—most of them city folk who came out on weekends to enjoy the seafood—would shop around, buy the fish they wanted, and take it at a run to the nearest good restaurant.  That seafood was incredible.  I have never tasted anything so good since, except among the Native Americans on the Northwest Coast, who are equally blessed with a combination of superb fish and superb cooking skills.  I have since eaten in some fine restaurants in Paris, Rome, and Los Angeles, but they could not touch Muk Choi’s Garden of Delight or any of a number of other places at Castle Peak.

In 1974-75, we rented a house from an old friend, a boat person who had moved on shore some years earlier.  It was a humble structure of boards and stone, informally built.  It consisted of a downstairs room and a sleeping loft.  Almost all our living was done on the covered patio.  Here we set up our tiny kerosene stove, washed food and clothes, and did most work.  We were viewed as returning locals, and welcomed accordingly.  We were out for a shorter time, and I spent a fair amount of it doing library research or research in other settlements, so the field situation was not quite as of old; but we had close friendships all the same.

A veteran field worker, or a more industrious one, would have gotten vastly more data than I did.  Still, we learned much, and we had a wonderful time.

 

2

Then as now, I was primarily interested in human ecology:  how people relate to their physical and cultural environments.  I am primarily interested in how people understand these environments.  Thus, in Hong Kong, I studied everything from catching methods and names for fish to the relationship of boat-dwelling and boat size to kinship and family structure.  I had to know something about cognitive psychology, and a good deal about wider social relationships, including relationships of power.

I was becoming involved in what later came to be called political ecology (Robbins 2004).  Basically, political ecology is the study of how the above-mentioned relationships of people and environment are structured and influenced by relations of power—by politics.  My research was largely on knowledge—on cognition and its relationship to practice—but a good deal of political ecology emerges in the present book.  Andrew Vayda and Bradley Walters (1999) have criticized political ecology for tending to be too much politics and too little ecology; I take a holistic approach, trying to look at economics, biology, politics, psychology, religion, and other anthropological categories without prejudging which one is most important.  Perhaps, in the end, they are not separable in communities like Castle Peak Bay.  One must simply look at how people get along.

And one must look at culture, as adaptive mechanism and as expressive form.

Anthropologists agree that culture is that which is learned and shared in groups.  As such, it is shared behavior.  In so far as humans can share knowledge, it is shared knowledge; it is the set of facts, ideas, and rules that people have to have to operate in their society and to be accepted as functioning members of it.

Beyond that minimalist definition, anthropologists have seen culture as many things.  Culture has been portrayed as a ragbag of traits, “a thing of shreds and patches” (Lowie 1947:441, quoting Gilbert and Sullivan’s Mikado; he later described the remark as a sour comment on modern civilization, not a generality about culture—Lowie 1947:x).  Culture has been regarded as an ironclad set of unchanging rules (White 1949).  Others see it as consensus, universally shared knowledge.  Alternatively, ecological anthropologists often see culture as adaptation (McElroy and Townsend 1996).  Others describe culture as a set of rules or structures that allow people to order their lives and anticipate what others will do (Lévi-Strauss 1958; Frake 1980).  Many of us now see culture as general patterns or apparent regularities arising in and from practice (Bourdieu 1977, 1990).

Anthropologists have also differed as to what constitute the wellsprings of culture.  Marvin Harris held that culture was entirely determined by the exigencies of making a living (Harris 1968).  Boas saw culture as mainly about communication, thus focally a matter of language, art, literature, and communicative ritual.  (He never quite said this, but it emerges clearly from studying his works.)   Clifford Geertz (1973) sees culture as about constructing and sharing interpretive meanings.  Marxists, functionalists, and other theorists all have their views.

Commonly, today, culture is interpreted rather than simply recorded.  Geertz and his followers see culture as a text or series of texts whose meanings must be understood (Geertz 1973).  For them, one cannot merely list “culture traits” or cultural knowledge points.  It is the web of meanings that matters.

For the boat people, the first three theories in the list above—ragbag, ironclad, and consensus—will not stand.  Boat culture was no ragbag; it was well integrated around fishing and around Chinese traditions.  It was not ironclad; rather, it was highly variable, each family posessing its own ways and truths.  Finally, consensus would have been disastrous, since life depended on having available a cultural knowledge base that was far greater than that which one person could possibly learn, and also on every captain (i.e., normally, every head of family) being able to sail—independently—his or her ship. Some individuals were knowledgeable or expert in one thing, some in another, and the community drew on these different sorts of expertise.

The last four theories, however, all apply.  Culture was most definitely a web of shared meanings, and interpretation is necessary if one is to make sense of life on the waterfront.  Culture was adaptive, as proved by its constant reconfiguration to meet economic and environmental circumstances.  Culture included sets of rules and expectations that allowed one to behave appropriately and to anticipate what others would do.  And it most definitely guided and emerged from practice.  It could not be reduced to that set of rules; it was renegotiated daily.

Charles Frake (1980) called for an ethnography that would allow one to behave appropriately in the society in question—or at least to anticipate what others would do and would think appropriate.  His model was linguistic; he was thinking of a good language textbook, which should teach the student to use the language correctly and more or less fluently, in order to get food and shelter and friendship.

An ethnologist may need more than that from an ethnography, but certainly the ethnologist will need at least that much. If one cannot use the ethnography as a guide to how to get along in the society, or at least what to expect in the segment of society analyzed, what value can it have?  A specialized ethnography may be a guide to only one specific aspect of life (kinship, fishing, ritual…), but at least it should be a guide to something.  The result can be minimalist—a brief ethnography, an introductory language book—or detailed and advanced.

Most anthropologists hope that an ethnography will do more; ideally, it will provide insights into the human condition, enabling us to advance the general theory of society.  Cross-cultural comparison and resultant theory-builiding (Harris 1968, arguing against Frake) needs to be done, to allow us to understand the deeper roots of behavior and extracting the “story behind the story.”  It may also be desirable to critique neocolonialism or globalization or other wider matters.  Some ethnographers simply aspire to produce literary work (presumably for entertainment; Clifford and Marcus 1986).  Others, “reflexive” ethnographers, write out their own angst with the “ethnographic subjects” there only for backdrop.  These last two goals seem beyond the pale of descriptive ethnography.  The other goals are more relevant here.

Returning from the field, I wrote a simple Frakian ethnography, one that would give the rules for behavior. It would let the reader act like a boat person, or at least would let the reader know what was going on if she was watching the excitement, confusion, and activity of a Hong Kong waterfront.  No one was interested in publishing such a vast creation, or even the short and summary version of it that eventually resulted.  The American Anthropological Association did eventually make that summary available (Anderson 1970b).  The present book, however, does more and less; it adds wider and more theoretical considerations, but does not tell the reader all.  There is no sense learning the rules for a world that no longer exists.

There are, however, reasons to continue to work within a broadly Frakian mode.  Culture is practice, but not all practice is culture.  The same can be said for meaning.   Everything we notice is meaningful for us in some way, and thus saying that culture is “meaning” is not really saying anything.  Culture is adaptation, but not every adaptive behavior is cultural.  Moreover, not every culture trait is adaptive, except in the trivial sense of marking the bearer as “one of us.”  Millions of rules for ordinary behavior are purely arbitrary—even if they were adaptive once.  In the western world, sleeve buttons on coats were once for glove attachment, but this has been forgotten for so long that an urban legend has arisen to the effect that they are there to discourage the young from wiping their noses on their coat sleeves.  Chinese culture has similar “vestiges” (and similar legends to explain them!).

Frake’s approach seems the best at capturing what culture really is and really does.  Culture is the knowledge that allows us to do what we have to do, should do, or should want to do, within our reference groups.  It is the knowledge that allows us to understand what others are doing in those groups—and why we cannot always do the same things that they can do.  A good deal of cultural knowledge is not clearly or directly related to this goal, but it can still be regarded the background knowledge needed to allow us to perform.  The boat people’s fish taxonomy, for instance, not only allowed them to identify and talk about fish, it also allowed them to deal with markets and marketing.  Culture is not just knowledge or meaning; it is knowledge that is useful, or at least could be useful in the right context.

This approach allows us to speculate on how knowledge, rules, and ethics enter a culture’s repertoire, and get stored and encoded there.

In my early field work, in spite of considerable awareness of history and process, I followed the tradition of synchronic structural-functional analysis in which I had been trained.  Synchronic analysis focuses on one point in time, abstracting it from ongoing processes.  Structural-functional analysis seeks to discover social structures, and if possible cognitive structures too.  It then analyzes them in terms of the functions they perform within the society being studied.   This, of course, assumes that there are structures—social institutions that can be neatly described and mapped, like crystal patterns.  Individual dynamics, emotion, dialogue, argument, negotiation, conflict, and creativity—all the exciting actions that makes human affairs so absorbing—tend to be dismissed as “noise” in the system.  Indeed, it is “noise,” but it is what the Chinese call “heat-and-noise” (re nao)—the stimulating intensity of a healthy social scene.  It is not what electronic engineers call “white noise.”

Hewing to a structural-functional line led me to produce a rather thin, even skeletal, account of the social structure of the Castle Peak Bay community.  It was not that I was unaware of the other issues; I simply did not have a good theoretical language to talk about them.  I made use of history in my analyses, but not as much as I might have done.  I also remarked on the free-wheeling, individualist quality of boat life (as had all other writers on them), but I had no way to work it into an analysis.

Since then, like many of my generation, I have fallen under the influence of Pierre Bourdieu (1977, 1990), Barbara Rogoff and Jean Lave (Rogoff and Lave 1984) and other theorists of practice, dialogue, and negotiation.  For Bourdieu, in particular, structure emerges from interacting individuals’ practice. Kabyle Berber culture as described by Pierre Bourdieu (Bourdieu 1977) is very different from Castle Peak’s in many ways, but Bourdieu’s description of the ways that culture kept re-emerging from ongoing political and social game-playing is a perfect description of life on the Castle Peak waterfront.

Anthony Giddens’ concept of “structuration” (Giddens 1984) has also provided an extremely helpful guide to my thinking.  As all these scholars point out, human beings interact and engage in political (and other social) activity in pursuit of individual and family goals.  Overarching social institutions set boundaries but are themselves constantly being changed and reconstructed.  Instead of a smoothly running machine that magically keeps itself perfectly tuned (the structural-functional fallacy), society is a shifting, constantly varying “field” (Bourdieu’s term) in which individuals seek to maximize their welfare and success within the context they perceive.

Students of Chinese religion have been quick to apply practice models (often without explicitly saying so—e.g. Dean 1993).  Several recent studies of gifts and gift exchange (Yan 1996; Yang 1994), courtship (Jankowiak 1993), religion (Weller 1987), and other social institutions have incorporated practice theory, though not always making a point of it.

In particular, ethnicity has been analyzed by countless recent writers, almost all of whom contrast the shifting, flowing nature of ethnicity-in-practice with the rigid, essentialized categories beloved by bureaucrats, racists, and many earlier-day anthropologists.

I have thus re-examined boat-dwellers’ social patterns with this in mind (Anderson 1992, 1998; Anderson, Wong and Thomas 2000).

One problem with practice theory as presently found is that it is often thin on motivation.  Writers like Bourdieu and de Certeau were interested in establishing the approach.  Bourdieu’s motivational theory was simplistic; he seems to have felt that people act only to get wealth and power.  At least, he explained artistic taste, academic life, cultural reproduction, and similar phenomena from that point of view.  This gave his work a narrowly functionalist quality; institutions served the interests of power.  Art, for instance, was about snobbery, not about aesthetic experience (see the brilliant, highly critical review by Jon Elster, 1981).  Other practice theorists have simply not addressed the question; they seem generally to be interested in describing the practice, not in constructing broader theories of what lies behind it.

This does not give a satisfactory account of life on the water, where real-world concerns were immediate and often desperate.  One had to fish to survive, and one often faced life-or-death choices.  Motivation could not be ignored.  On a more broad theoretical level, practice is not done in a vacuum, and it is not always about power or wealth.  People want many things—social connectedness and security above all, and perhaps, now and then, a bit of fun as well.

One must thus draw on the literature describing culture as adaptation (see e.g. the review by Bates, 2004).  Humans need security first of all.  They must feel safe, and able to defend their group.  They must be able to make a living—to be reasonably sure they can get food without being killed in the process.  Once this is assured, they can go about the business of eating, sleeping, enjoying themselves, and dealing with everyday conflicts and problems.  But, also, to have an ongoing society, they must reproduce.  This involves far more than sex; children need care for many years.

Culture provides a storehouse of ways for doing all this.  It provides alternatives; humans are not locked into instinctive patterns.  Above and beyond that, culture typically integrates livelihood, group defense, emotional coping, and social rules into one system.  Usually, the system is loose and flexible, able to change fast when change is necessary.  This openness and flexibility is important.  The Chinese say that the flexible bamboo survives the storm that breaks the greatest pine.

Humans are creatures of emotion, and thus one cannot understand culture in purely rational terms (Milton 2002).  It is, among other things, a way of dealing with emotions.  Ideally, it can bring forth emotional harmony and satisfaction while providing ways of dealing with emotional clashes, tensions, and problems.  In the real world, where such tensions continually arise and shift, no culture can do more than provide some alternate possibilities for dealing with them.  No group reaches Émile Durkheim’s ideal of society as emotional union (Durkheim 1995).

Thus, any strong pressure from economic, military, emotional, or social factors can dynamically deform a cultural system and its social and cognitive structures.  This has happened to the boat people, as to others in this world.  Their history is a history of adapting to continual change.

 

Another thing one could learn on the Hong Kong waterfront is that culture is located in individuals.  Contra the classic Leslie White (1949) position, there was no ideal Culture floating in space (mental or otherwise).  As so often, Max Weber said it best:  “Interpretive sociology considers the individual and his action as the basic unit, as its ‘atom’…. [T]he individual is also the upper limit and the sole carrier of meaningful conduct….  [S]uch concepts as ‘state,’ ‘association,’ ‘feudalism,’ and the like, designate certain categories of human interaction.  Hence it is the task of sociology to reduce these concepts to ‘understandable’ action, that is, without exception, to the actions of participating individual men” (Gerth and Mills 1946:55; “men” is used, of course, in the old gender-neutral way, to mean “people”).

Each individual had his or her own take on Cantonese boat ways, was aware of it, and could get defensive about it when challenged.  Culture was shared understandings, shared meanings, shared rules—but the sharing was never 100%.  No one knew all the rules, and no one had quite the same knowledge base or set of opinions.  The result was something of a happy anarchy.  Sometimes the anarchy was not so happy, but always it defended as preferable to a tight rule-based social order of the sort attributed (often with exaggerated, negative comments!) to the land-dwelling Punti.  Some boat people were less anarchist, and wistfully envious of the good order on shore, but they were resigned to their society’s freewheeling code.  Above all, they were aware that it was different from other codes found nearby.  Those who genuinely wanted a more “grounded” order left the boats and moved on shore for good.

Yet the realities of boat-dwelling enforced some conformity.  A good simple example of rules and practice is provided by clothing.  The boat  people traditionally wore black cotton pants and shirts, and a basketry hat shaped like a mushroom (and often called a “mushroom hat”).  Marja Anderson quickly adopted this style, for the very good reason that no other available women’s clothing would allow easy movement and stand  the hard usage of life and laundry on the water.  I did not, because ordinary California male work clothes did the job well.  The vast majority of the boat people, including essentially all the women who actually lived on board, dressed in black cottons, but a large percentage of the men dressed in ordinary western-style work clothes, as I did.  (In those days, Hong Kong made a good deal of the world’s clothing, and cheap factory seconds in western styles were always available.)  Younger boat women who did not sail the open sea often dressed in western-style clothing.  The traditional outfit was adaptive, and also a culture marker; when it was not adaptive, it tended to get sidelined, and culture was left unmarked.  This nonmarking itself could be adaptive, when one wanted to avoid the stigma of being a “boat person.”

With all this play between adaptive conformity and preferred independence, the community was tight, most knowledge was shared, and people seemed strikingly uniform to the outsider.  The differences between people and families showed up in thousands of little ways, but in no one big way.  One could make generalizations about clothing, food, kinship, morals, fishing methods, and everything else, and these generalizations would be reasonably adequate as Frakian rules. They would miss something vitally important: the role of individualism and adaptability.  But they would let a raw outsider get along on the boats without too much trouble.  We know this is so, because we did it; participant observation works!  Many land people had moved to the boats in living memory, and did a better job than we did.

Culture is not about uniformity or about set rules.  It is about making individuals (within a reference group) act similarly enough that they can get along and get their jobs done.  It comes from the need of people to work and live together.

It works partly because of the broadly imitative tendency of the human animal.  People (and other primates) like to “ape” each other. In particular, humans like to imitate their immediate superiors—their parents, older siblings, and slightly older neighbors, to say nothing of movie stars and other high-status strangers.  No doubt this tendency evolved to make mutual aid more successful in primate groups, but today it keeps much of culture alive.

Yet one cannot make too much of this, and it certainly cannot explain cultural differences.  The specifics of a culture can be explained only through examining the history of the social group that bears it, especially their adaptive needs.  They have had to face threats and dangers, and to take advantage of economic and political opportunities.  How they deal with these has everything to do with the final outcome: the pragmatic rules for acting in the everyday real world (de Certeau 1984).  Anthropologists take a holistic view, and I certainly follow that practice, but “holism” does not mean that culture is seen as some sort of harmonious whole.  To look at the whole means to look at a shifting, diverse, protean pattern; one feels like William James’ newborn baby, confronted with a “blooming, buzzing confusion.”  Imposing a bland uniformity on it would be a hegemonic act (as Gramsci saw), and no boat person would do it.

However, culture is also about maintaining solidarity in the face of threat.  The boat people had to be uniform enough to present a fairly solid front to the hostile shore-dwellers.   In earlier years, they had had to resist much worse threats, climaxing in the Japanese occupation in World War II.  This defensive aspect forced on the boat world a degree of organization and uniformity that it would not otherwise have had.

Conversely, the needs of boat life kept culture flexible and individual.  Boats and fates were different.  Every head of household was a captain whose crew was his (or, occasionally, her) family.  Every day, in this region of storms, disasters, and human troubles, their lives depended on the captain’s decisions.  Every day, livelihood was at stake.  Life was chancy in a way it was not for even the most risk-taking of land people.  Even in the United States, sea fishing is a close second to mining, and far ahead of all other occupations, in physical danger.  The boat people had no radios, no radar, no phones on their fragile wooden boats.  They had to be able to make their own decisions, quickly, accurately, and without much chance for second thoughts.  They had to run their own ships.              For this, culture was the great guide—the repository of knowledge. But it had to be a storehouse of all sorts of knowledge, including all manner of alternative plans and planning methods. It could not be a bank of cut-and-dried rules.

 

Cognitive anthropologists today discuss such issues in terms of “cultural models.”  Throughout the history of anthropology, scholars have proposed knowledge structures of this kind.  The tradition goes back to the original “anthropology” book, Immanuel Kant’s Anthropology from a Pragmatic Point of View (1976/1796).  Kant saw anthropology in terms of what we now call social cognition.  (In fact, social cognitive psychology, like anthropology, stems from Kant’s work.)  He developed phenomenology, the study of the ways people perceive and experience the world and then organize it in their thinking.  Anthropologists and ethnologists, as well as psychologists, sociologists, and philosophers, subsequently developed more and more complex models of thought, based on Kantian ideas.

Much of the modern concern with such systems can be traced to the thoroughly Kantian writings of Claude Lévi-Strauss, especially the essays collected in his book Structural Anthropology (1958).  Lévi-Strauss differentiated the “conscious models” held by the people themselves from the models the ethnographer makes of their thought.  These were highly useful concepts, applied to the boat people by Barbara Ward (1965, 1966).

For Lévi-Strauss, as for most writers, kinship systems have been the archetypal models.  Kinship systems are widely shared and widely understood within a culture.  Every English speaker, even young children and recent immigrants, knows what “father,” “mother,” “daughter,” and the rest of the common terms mean.  They know that “mother” means “female parent”—the woman in one’s lineal family who is one generation above oneself.  They also know that “mother” is supposed to be loving, nurturant, caring, and so forth.  The conscious models tend to run heavily to these role expectations and emotional cues, while outsiders’ models (especially the statistical models that Lévi-Strauss described) tend to be more formal, cut-and-dried, and rigid.  They are often more formal and neat than any conscious model would be.  As Lévi-Strauss pointed out, this is not a weakness; outsiders’ models are not supposed to reproduce the whole messy reality, but to do a particular job.  Often, they are made to facilitate quick and easy comparison between languages or cultures.  They represent reality the way an airplane model represents a real airplane.

This means that outsiders’ models (and insiders’ too, for that matter) differ, according to what one wants from them.  A child’s toy airplane and a Boeing engineer’s test model can be equally good models—in that they serve their purposes equally well.

Barbara Ward pointed out that there are many “varieties of the conscious model”—each ethnic group had its own set (including unflattering stereotypes of the other ethnic groups!), and even each individual had his or hers.  From this diversity of models, the ethnographer must come up with an overall model that works for outsiders.

The outsider may wish to understand the other culture deeply, or may wish only to know how to say “hello” and ask for food.  There are, therefore, different outsiders’ models too.

Subsequent writers on cultural models have tried to define widely-held, widely-shared structures.  Kinship systems and other semantic systems remain the archetypes (see Kronenfeld 1996).  However, everything from “scripts” for entering an American middle-class restaurant (Schank and Abelson 1977) to love and marriage (Strauss and Quinn 1997) is fair game (David Kronenfeld 1996 and work in progress).  My own work has been largely on classification systems for plants and animals, and indeed the Ph.D. thesis resulting from my Hong Kong work was a study of naming systems for fish and other sea life (Anderson 1972).

Models may be highly structured and widely-shared domains like kinship systems.  They may be areas where the vast web of connections in the brain are tighter and closer—where one idea typically calls up a particular set of others (Naomi Quinn, personal communication; see also Strauss and Quinn 1997).  A model may be a set of rules for a particular bit of behavior; it may be a particular canonical story-line or program.

The farther such models get from kinship, the more heavy water they encounter—to use a marine metaphor.

Restaurant scripts vary much more.  Schank and Abelson’s pioneer study vastly underestimated the need for improvisation and local adaptation in restaurant scripts.  There are quite different ways of entering different kinds of American restaurants; fast-food-joint etiquette is quite different from that proper to a pizza parlor, a white-tablecloth gastronomy palace, or a buffet.  But at least we can still specify these.  One could write rules for all of them, such that a foreigner reading the rules could act appropriately.

Love and marriage are different matters.  There are, indeed, broad and vague expectations that most Americans share.  My student Kimberly Hedrick (unpublished data) has found that a wide variety of ordinary Americans were familiar with the standard stories—the age-old fables once known from folktales, now from Hollywood plots.  But they did not expect any real love affair to follow those scenarios.  They referred back to the stories for orientation and sometimes for understanding, but they knew that no one really lives that way, and that every love affair is a new, unique, surprising phenomenon.

Are there, then, cultural models for love and marriage?  Yes, but they are not at all the same kind of model as that we see in kinship systems.   Knowledge of English kinship allows one to label properly, every time, everybody to whom one is related.  Knowledge of love and romance clichés does not give that much advice.  They are mere skeletons of plots—sometimes suggestive, but no more than that.  Even a wider knowledge of love and romance—knowing, for instance, all the self-help literature on “communication,” “talking about feelings,” and so forth—does not help much with the wild, woolly, and thoroughly unique ride that is a real love affair.  One has to improvise.  There are cultural models telling musicians how to improvise—every jazz musician knows a whole set of them—but a lover is often on her own.  And, even in jazz, is a model-for-improvising really like a model for how to label kinfolk?

At this point, we have come full circle, and are back to practice.  Bourdieu, a sometime student of Lévi-Strauss, reacted strongly against the latter’s structuralism.  For the Kabyle Berbers, the house had to be structured in a quite specific and particular way, but no two houses looked alike.  Politics—including kinship politics—was even more improvisational.  People negotiated.  They developed Machiavellian tricks.  They created new and fluid ways of doing business.  Kabyle Berbers—and Hong Kong boat people—treated the informal political rules (yes, there were rules) as obstacles to be avoided or finessed.

If one wishes to use kinterms or fish names appropriately, one needs a simple, cut-and-dried model.  However, if one is trying to deal with an actual living kinsperson, manage a love affair, or play politics, one needs a model that specifies not only the rules (such as they are) but also the standard ways around them.  Not only that; one needs to know a great deal about the methods in which all the above are deployed, strategized, and adapted to particular situations.  To keep with the musical parallel, we have gone from “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” to Dizzy Gillespie.

Cultural models thus blend insensibly into the whole web of thinking, planning, and acting.  No one can specify the point at which a bunch of ideas is organized enough to be a “model” rather than mere typical human woolgathering.  One can say only that some realms of human action are tightly organized around very well-structured sets of knowledge, while other realms must be the domain of improvisation, negotiation, and continual re-creation.  (The resemblance of “re-creation” to “recreation” is one that an English-speaking boat person would truly appreciate!)

Cultural models could include the various knowledge structures we all know:  classification systems, plans, strategies, goals, beliefs, vague ideas, tendencies, poems, songs, stories, routines, repertoires, dance patterns, canonical scripts, and so on.

Anthony Giddens (1984) coined the word structuration for the process by which negotiation of this sort leads to new structures.  Douglass North provided a broadly similar—but very differently phrased—account of how economic institutions come into being (North 1990).  Giddens sees social interaction as key.  North focuses on people’s efforts to reduce the costs (monetary or otherwise) of interaction by creating institutions that make it easier.  The boat people did not create any dramatically new social institutions, but they did create, and constantly rebuild, cultural institutions ranging from fishing methods to song styles.  Thus the cultural models were always changing, as the result of agency (Giddens 1984) taking shape in practice.

Obviously, I am creating observer’s models, though I try my best to stay close to the conscious models of my friends (see, again, Ward’s wonderful treatment of the relevant problems).  Unlike many interpretive anthropologists, I do not hope to get inside their heads.  However, unlike the more extreme postmodernists, I do not believe that all ethnography is fiction, or that cultures are hermetically sealed from each other.  I know I can still enter a boat community in southeast China and act appropriately; if I brush up my Cantonese, I can sit at a feast and talk about fish and fishing and the evils of government.

That may be a small accomplishment, but it is a real one.  It tells us that people can understand each other reasonably well, even across enormous cultural walls.  Perfect understanding is not a possibility; but, then, perfect understanding of anything—even of our own selves—is not for this world.

 

One example of cultural models in practice, and one very salient to the boat people, was response to oppression.  The boat people were near the bottom of Cantonese society.  This, in turn, was dominated in Hong Kong in the 1960s and 1970s by the British colonial system.  It is not too much to speak of the “British raj,” since many British colonial administrators were reposted to Hong Kong after India and other British colonies in Asia became independent, and many South Asians followed them as soldiers or tradespeople.

The Cantonese were not exactly under the yoke of colonial oppression—they had a great deal of freedom and opportunity—but they were not the rulers of their land, nor did they have much power to make policy.  The boat people, being the lowest-ranked Cantonese in the social hierarchy, had especially little opportunity in that regard.  On the other hand, the British system protected them from the worst of the oppression they had known under Chinese governments; at least that is what I heard from all parties.

In any case, they had need of the full panoply of “weapons of the weak” and “arts of resistance” (Scott 1985, 1998).

These did not exclude the use of force.  Two old cannons lay in tidewater by our boat.  When I asked about them, I was told:  “In the old days we used cannons to defend ourselves from pirates and the government.”  The equation of those two categories was noteworthy.  All older people had tales of defense through force of arms.  Pirates were the worst and most constant problem, but Nationalist government vessels in the old days acted like the pirates, as far as the boat people were concerned.  Then came the Japanese war, when the boat people had served heroically in resistance.  The Communists who then took over most of China were sometimes supported, sometimes opposed.  Life in Hong Kong had been peaceful since order was restored after World War II, but no one really expected this to last forever.  The violent and unsettled times of old had given the boat people a fatalistic expectation of change and upheaval.

The boat people resisted prejudice and oppression by retreating into their water world.  Barbara Ward has discussed at length their common self-description “dragons on water, worms on shore” (Ward 1965).  On land, the boat people were exposed to humiliation, abuse, and exploitation.  Not many years earlier, they risked physical attack, and even in 1966 most older women and younger children would not go more than a few feet from the water’s edge.  On the water, however, the boat people were the masters.  Their consummate knowledge of seafaring and the water world made them independent and powerful.  Any land-dweller who ventured onto the water was at the mercy of the boat people, on whom he or she had perforce to depend.

Also, the boat people were essential to the waterfront merchants, who lived either by buying fish or by selling goods to the boat-dwellers.  This did not stop abuse and insults, but it kept those unsavory features of life down to a minimum.  Also, the merchants had to help in defending the boat people against serious threats.  There was no love lost on either side between the boat people and the fish merchants, but both sides knew they depended on each other.

As James Scott would expect, resistance to prejudice was normally shown through a constant background noise of criticism and restatement of core beliefs.  Usually, this consisted of a stream of sour remarks about land people and self-praise of boat people.   Most commonly, land people were said to be mean, stingy, prejudiced, unfair, and rigid.  Boat people, in contrast, were honest, open, fair, reliable, and independent.  These particular stereotypes are interesting, both because they reveal boat values, and because they contrast with the boat people’s stereotypes of other ethnic groups (see Anderson 1967 for wider discussion of ethnic stereotyping in Hong Kong in the 1960s).

Rarely, however, were these biased statements worked up into actual “arts of resistance.”  The boat people’s rich folk song tradition included only few lines on the issue.  Proverbs and verbal art also stayed close to broader ideals.  In fact, the boat people were rather idealistic and general in their verbal art; bitter commentary was reserved for ordinary conversation.

This was, at least in part, because of fear.  Until recently, they could have been in serious trouble if land people had overheard negative songs or proverbs.  Like the blues of African-Americans in the early 20th century, boat folk songs sometimes had a covert critical agenda that took some digging to ferret out.

More serious was the need to make a living.  Fishing is, at best, a chancy occupation.  Available alternatives were few, and usually not much of an improvement; cargo-carrying, passenger ferrying, boat vending, and smuggling all had their own insecurities.  The land people had the boat people in economic thrall, as will be seen.  The boat people had to protect themselves economically as best they could.  Whatever subsistence they got had to be gained from, and on, the water.

The theme of resistance occurs throughout this book, though not always stressed.  The boat people’s senses of self, their psychological integrity, depended on maintaining their sense of independence on the water.  This led to serious problems for those who had to move on shore.  They coped by swiftly assimilating to Punti society, but during the transition they often had troubled lives.

Thus the real defense of the boat people—not only physical self-protection, but defense of self-image and self-esteem—was retreat to the boats (or the pile-house communities built over tidewater).  Here, the boat people were in their own world, a world they understood and dominated.  It was closed to outsiders, and had its own ways and celebrations.  In it, they could ignore or cope with the outside.

 

Working with these perspectives allows me to do what I have always dreamed of doing:  Actually using the boat people’s own ideas and theories in my analysis.

However much anthropologists have been willing to learn from their subjects, they have rarely taken seriously their subjects’ views on society and culture.  There is a long roll of honorable exceptions, going back to early days.  A notable landmark was Paul Radin’s book Primitive Man as Philosopher (1957).  Radin not only documented serious philosophy among the traditional small-scale societies of the world, but he even suggested (timidly—one usually has to read between the lines) that modern philosophers had something to learn from the “primitives.”

Thus it came about that, in previous reanalyses of my boat-borne data, I have made deferential suggestions that we of the modern world could learn much from boat-dwellers’ family behavior (Anderson 1992), child-rearing (Anderson 1998), and ethics (Anderson, Wong and Thomas 2000).  I now wish to add politics and social theory to the list.  Anthropologists have been quick to appreciate the contributions of their subjects to the world’s store of art, music, economic plants, and medicinal lore; they have usually ignored the value of local social theory.  Yet, every group on earth has its theories of human interaction and group functioning.

Unlike Bourdieu’s Kabyle Berbers, the Cantonese talked about their society with self-consciousness and with an ability to pick out basic principles.  Bourdieu portrays the Berbers as uncommunicative about their social order.  They lived it, but they did not talk about it.  They did not have explicit folk theories of society.  By contrast, the Cantonese—not the least verbal people on the planet—talk much about society, both its realities and its ideals.  I suspect that the Berber are silent because of a kind of linguistic beheading; the language of learned, abstract discussion in Berberland was Latin in ancient times, Arabic from the 8th century onward, and French (in addition to Arabic) for the last century or so.  The Cantonese have always used their own language, or a closely related Chinese language, in learned discussion.

China possesses a huge and venerable literature on social questions.  Much of it was accessible even to the illiterate, because it was constantly being recycled through proverbs, plays, storytellers’ tales, and ordinary speech.  A reader of a manuscript of mine once commented on how preposterous was my claim that the boat people were aware of Confucian thought—because the boat people were “illiterate.”  Leaving aside the fact that many boat people were perfectly literate, this remark showed serious ignorance of Chinese folk culture.  The words of Confucius and Mencius were at least as familiar in old China as the words of the Four Gospels were in Europe and America a century ago. Every child who got through school memorized the Analects and the book of Mencius, and every community had enough educated people to guarantee that everyone, literate and illiterate alike, knew the more famous quotes from these sages.  Ideas of Confucius and Mencius, as well as of their most famous commentator, Zhu Xi (13th century), and their legendary rival Laozi, were common knowledge.

Confucian thought is social.  Unlike religious discourse, it cannot be dismissed as referring to another world, or to ideals impossibly lofty for this world.  The social theory of the Four Gospels is real enough, and sophisticated.  However, it is generally ignored, even by the most learned Christian writers, because Jesus is supposed to be talking about God and Heaven, not about this world.  Christian discourse has generally been about either individual morality or the abstract nature of Jesus and the Three-in-One.  No one could dismiss Confucian social thought this way.

Also well known at Castle Peak Bay were the basic tenets of Buddhism and Daoism, at least in so far as those influenced ordinary practice; the many Buddhist, Daoist, and folk-syncretist priests and temples in the vicinity made sure of that.  Much of this lore concerned the supernatural realm, not the human, but—as we shall see—the difference between these realms was not always seen as great, and discourse on the one often had much to do with the realities of the other.  Much of Buddhist and Daoist thought, like Confucianism, speaks quite explicitly to social questions.

Thus, the boat people had at their fingertips a quite impressive body of social philosophy.  They were not learned inquirers into the details of Mencian or Daoist thought, but they knew enough of the basic principles to argue them in everyday, pragmatic affairs.   I found their social thought to be liberating, exciting, and important.  It and its Mencian, Buddhist and Daoist roots have continued to influence me since.

Inevitably, the boat people had their own individualistic take on the Confucian-Mencian canon.  Land-dwellers tended to see Confucianism—via the thought of Zhu Xi and the Neo-Confucian tradition—as imposing rigid rules on society, especially the family.  The boat people did not see things that way.  They saw the Confucian tradition as imposing a set of general guidelines for social interaction:  be fair, be honest, defer to elders, be faithful to friends, and above all be responsibly independent.  They were aware of the many statements in the Analects and especially in Mencius that question authority or limit its scope.  They were quite aware that Mencius had not only advocated overthrowing bad rulers, but had defended this idea in public discussion with dukes and kings.  They saw the Confucian code as creating a social world that could dispense with government—a world in which internalized morality, enforced by informal means, could take the place of formal authority.  They were quite prepared to live with formal authority if it brought them benefits and was not too corrupt, but they reserved the right to rebel—or at least to pull up anchor and sail for better shores—if formal authority did not deliver.

Buddhist and Daoist ideas were interpreted similarly.  The relevant teachings counseled good behavior: probity, integrity, fidelity, honoring commitments, helping, and not imposing one’s will on others.  They held much wisdom anent getting along with the supernaturals.  They also taught independence and self-reliance, and strengthened the concept of a moral order as opposed to a forcibly imposed one.

Following Mencius, the boat people said that humans are basically “good,” in the sense of “eusocial.”  A person who did well by his family and neighbors was only doing the natural thing.  However, again following Mencius, they saw good upbringing as necessary too; like modern psychologists, they recognized that both genetics and environment are necessary to create the adult.  A bad person was clearly a badly-raised person.

This is, of course, not to say that the boat people were angels.  Like most  people and like all cultures, they had ideals and standards that were higher than anything they could practice.  Ideals were for emulation; one tried to be good, but recognized that the flesh was weak and that everyday needs meant frequent compromises.

In fact, a combination of high ideals with relaxed realism about practice was itself a part of the moral code.  Some ideals (such as utterly peaceful behavior) were only for the most self-sacrificing.  Other morals, such as sexual fidelity, were for ordinary good people, but the lack of them was not grounds for absolute ostracism.  Yet other moral stands, including honesty in financial dealings and generally peaceable behavior, were required of everyone, and failure to conform means expulsion from the community (or worse).

Similarly, the extension of a particular moral varied; treating everyone with equal warmth and friendliness was a high ideal; treating everyone so unless they were downright offensive was an expectation, but one very often honored in the breach; treating one’s own nearest and dearest with warm friendliness unless they very seriously offended one was an absolute standard.  Respect for this threefold division was one of the lessons I learned on the waterfront.

In short, I learned to see culture as a matter of rules.  These included explicit ideals, explicit rules for actual practice, vague rules of thumb, and areas where limits were set on possibilities but free play was expected within those limits.  I learned to see cultural knowledge as something that was learned and deployed for pragmatic reasons—not because it was “the culture.”  I learned to expect improvisation.

From this, I can here go on to speculate, more generally, about cultural systems.

 

3

Practice is what an ethnographer sees and records.  Structure, however, is real too.  Practice builds on it, and, over time, builds it (Bourdieu 1977; see also Bourdieu 1990; Piaget 1963; Rogoff and Lave 1984).  Cultural structures, systems, models, are dynamic things.  They never stand still.  Interaction is the direct means by which they form and re-form—a perception first (and best) enunciated by Wilhelm Dilthey (1985), but followed up by his student George Herbert Mead (1962), and subsequently by many others.  Jurgen Habermas’ work on discourse, interaction, and negotiation in politics (Habermas 1984) and especially by Emmanuel Levinas’ interactive morality (e.g. Levinas 1969) have influenced this book, as well as discussions with David Kronenfeld over the years (see Kronenfeld 1996).

Interaction between adults changes cultural institutions as people feel needs so to do.  Interaction also changes culture when the rising generation learns from their elders.  The young never quite reproduce what they hear; they must adapt, meeting new challenges and creating new ways of doing business.  Even if the objective situation does not force such a change, the need of young humans to rebel is certain to make itself felt.

Some cultural structures are hard, solid, firmly fixed, and almost changeless over time.  Basic kinship systems, basic grammar rules (the ones learned by age 10), basic terms for everyday objects such as body parts and rocks, and basic structures of food are particularly inflexible.

On the other hand, some things change with revolutionary speed.  Women’s fashions are particularly notorious for this, though they have certain underlying continuities and follow at least some rules (Richardson 1940).  Sexual behavior, gender roles, and related matters have changed profoundly in the United States since I first went to Hong Kong.  Political and economic life has altered, being progressively distorted by the growth of giant corporations, the progressive squeeze on natural resources, and the rise of state power, not only in the United States but throughout the world.

One can study structures of thought and action in such arenas only by keeping a very dynamic view of structure.  Kinship systems may seem frozen in beautiful crystalline arrays, if one looks at the short or even medium term; political systems are more like whirlwinds, created and maintained by dynamic forces and subject to sudden and dramatic shifts.  The wind-shear that creates whirlwinds has its metaphoric analogy in the political strife that creates political action .  Wind-shear, and human competition over resources and power, are always with us, providing underlying structure; the ways they play out in whirlwinds and politics are impossible to describe or predict accurately.

Language is the classic place to find fairly permanent structures.  Grammatical rules (the basic ones being firmly set) and vocabulary (all found in the dictionary) are combined to produce an unbounded set of new sentences.  These sentences, in turn, range from dully predictable (“How are you?” “I’m fine”) through moderately new but still conforming to a model (“I’m basically OK, but I have a headache that’s killing me, and I’m taking aspirin”) to completely new and weird (the famous example is Chomsky’s “colorless green ideas sleep furiously” [Chomsky 1957]).  Grammatical structure is preserved as sentences become more and more original, but meaning becomes more and more a factor of individual agency until eventually it is so idiosyncratic that communication fails.

Even kinship systems are subject to continual negotiation, but in regard to behavior and usage more than in regard to the basic structure of the system.  The boat people did not know all the words for different classes of kin, and did not usually behave according to “proper” Neo-Confucian principles, but they did all agree on and use the basic kinterms, and they did all agree on the basic expectations of support and deference that went with these.  Similarly, English has added “sibling” as a routine, universally used kinterm within my lifetime, and “parent” became standard usage only a generation earlier.  The people I called “parents,” and others of their generation, still spoke of their “fathers and mothers” or their “people” or “folks.”

We can establish a continuum, from kin terminology to local politics.  Lévi-Strauss concerned himself mainly with kinship terminologies and secondarily with other long-lasting systems, while his rebellious student Bourdieu concerned himself largely with local (and, later, national) politics.  Our theories first shape our field work and then are shaped by it—yet another example of interaction affecting systems of thought.

In realms where stability lasts over generations, we can speak of “tradition” and of “cultural models.”  In realms where change is faster than generational succession, we are better advised to speak of “rules of thumb.”  People learn from each other how to act and what to expect, but they cannot transmit much of this to the rising generation.

Music provides a good example of structuration.  Psychologists have written:  “The emergence of the human mind can be thought of as the magic of the symphony, with the biological substrates analogous to musical instruments, the information-processing operations analogous to the musical score, and the orchestration of these production components and the modulation by the social context as analogous to the conductor and musicians and the influences of the symphony hall itself” (Cacioppo et al 2004).  The anthropologist may add that culture determines what kind of score is found (concerto or Daoist ritual), how much the rules can vary with practice (singing-school rigidity or jazz improvisation), and how expert the musicians are (folk amateurs or New York Symphony).

For the last century or two, in Hong Kong as in the west, every generation has insisted on having its own music, different enough from the last generation’s to drive Mom and Dad into spluttering fury.  Yet the standard scales, and the basic structure of a tune, have persisted, in spite of several desperate attempts to displace them.  Chinese music maintains its systems; the west maintains its major and minor modes.  Twelve-tone music, Indian ragas, and the more African elaborations of the blues each had a season in the sun, but it was not a long or hot season.

Consider the evolution of one type of western music.  Scottish music clings to the pentatonic scale, the “Scottish snap” (syncopation on the lead notes of certain subphrases), and a whole set of grace notes, but otherwise has evolved from song to fiddling to rock band to concert music.  In all these cases, we see a basic structure that goes on and on and serves to define a tradition, and, building on it, an infinite and kaleidoscopic variety of practice and innovation.

Jazz melodies, chords, and note and chord progressions are fairly set.  On this minimal framework, jazz musicians built infinite variation.  The variation, in turn, is usually created by applying a few relatively simple rules and devices.   However, a very great or very insane jazz musician will break out of the mold, and do completely “impossible” and “illegal” things, to the frequent delight of audiences.

 

The questions to ask of any cultural system are, then:

What is the consistent, slow-changing, structured base?

How important is it relative to the rest?

What is built on top of it—a small, compact improvised system, or a huge loose one?

In this topwork, how does trivial, relatively rule-bound variation blend off into the wild and new?

At a deeper level, cultural structures have to build on biological capabilities.  Relatively specific neurobiological programs can usefully be called biological primes.  Humans naturally recognize close kin (as do all mammals), and tend to give them special care and attention but avoid having sex with them.  Humans clearly have some innate programming for language, though whether this involves a Chomskian “language organ” or a more general capacity for higher-order planning of symbol strings (coupled with throat and tongue adaptations) is a moot question.  Humans have an innate ability to classify things (Atran 1990; Berlin 1992), though, again, no one knows whether this is a true “classifying organ” in the brain or just a highly adapted ability to see detailed similarities and differences in things.  (Kant’s arguments about the latter were central to his invention of anthropology; see Kant 1978.)   Basic emotions and motivations are biological primes.

Individuals must deal with the world by using such biological primes to start off their processes of thought and action.  However, no one acts because of genetic orders, except in simple matters like breathing and eye-blinking.  Action requires building structures of thought on the biological bases.  Pace the sociobiologists, humans do not have instincts, above a very lowly level.  Human genes specify abilities to learn and adapt—not locked-in plans for behavior.  The genes guide us, vaguely, toward certain broad enterprises or courses of action, but mainly they guide us in learning how to deal with all manner of different, unexpected challenges.

Once individuals have developed thoughts, they interact.  This can lead to cultural construction; culture then systematizes widely-shared thought-patterns into cultural models.  Cultural models are most likely to occur where biological primes provide a reasonably specific ground, as in kinship, language, and probably music.  However, cultural models are also universal and intricate in the realm of religion, whose biological base is at best dubious and murky.

Thus, we can add yet another question to those above:             Do biological primes underlie a cultural institution, and, if so, how did people get from genetic plan to cultural rule?

 

Predicting practice is difficult; predicting it from structure is particularly so.  On the one hand, much of the practice that practice theorists have identified is merely a set of short-cuts and approximations (and even sloppy attempts at) more structured things.  On the other hand, practice, in a given situation, may simply take existing structures of the relevant system as one input—with the other inputs being anything and everything else, such as hunger or the weather.  Moreover, the boat people not only varied such things as religious ritual and kinship behavior according to immediate situational factors (rain, poverty, political worries, anything), but they would very often vary them just to be different!  Being known as an Individual was a point of pride on the waterfront.

To do this, however, one had to know something about the underlying structure, and one had to know when to stop.  Getting too far from the canonical ritual made it ineffective, and one had to know what could be varied and what could not.  Burning at least three sticks of incense, for instance, was mandatory in essentially every ritual.  The gods would not even recognize it as a ritual without that.  In kinship practice, one could get away without knowing the term for mother’s father’s elder brother, but everyone had to know the term for father’s elder brother, and had to know, also, that it was the proper polite address for any unrelated male friend of one’s father’s generation.

Other matters, however, were loosely structured simply because there was no close structure known, or because the cost of getting the requisite information was much greater than the benefit from having it.  Much interpersonal behavior with strangers, much casting of nets in new places, was done quite improvisationally, because one had to try in the absence of good information.

 

4

The problem of cultural models is made more interesting and complex in the present case by the reality suggested in the subtitle.  The boat people of Hong Kong were quintessentially Chinese.  They spoke a Chinese language, ate Chinese food, dressed in Chinese style, and certainly thought of themselves as Chinese.   In many ways, they fit the classic stereotypes that Chinese have of themselves and that Westerners have of Chinese:  family was extremely important, tradition was strong and lively, Confucian and Mencian taglines graced numerous occasions, group welfare was explicitly held more important than the welfare of individuals.

Yet, their culture was different—to many, astonishingly different—from other stereotypes of China.  They lacked lineages or large-scale family organizations of any kind.  They had relatively free, egalitarian marriages, usually contracted by—or at least with the knowledge and consent of—the couples getting married.  Their women were strong and independent.  Their men did not till the soil.  They had no fixed address.  The stereotype of Chineseness includes obedience to law and order, but the boat people were a rough lot, in both speech and action.  Some even slid over into piracy (Murray 1987, Antony 2003; the latter book is a superb source for negative stereotypes held by land people of the boat-dwellers).

Above all, they were strongly individualistic.  If there is one thing agreed on by all stereotypists, it is that the Chinese are communitarian, Americans individualistic (see Bond 1986; see also Turiel 2004 on the problems of such stereotyping).  Some celebrate the Chinese for this; Tu Wei-Ming, in particular, has devoted his life to a brilliant and insightful exposition of a Neo-Confucian (or Neo-Neo-Confucian) position (see e.g. Tu 1985), while many Americans yearn nostalgically for community (see Turiel 2004 for review), sometimes citing the Chinese as exemplary.  Others find it problematic; some East Asians are critical of the patriarchal family, and Chinese-American novelists such as Maxine Hong Kingston and Amy Tan have provided nuanced but essentially negative views of the the family-and-community world.  Asian-American family therapists Stanley Shon and Davis Ja were worried enough to write at length on how to mollify patriarchy and Westernize the family in immigrant Asian communities in America, to provide what they believe will be better family environments (Shon and Ja 1982).

Yet, at Castle Peak Bay, we lived with thousands of Chinese who were actually more individualistic and independent than Americans we knew.  This was not a difficult call or hard to assess; the gap was impossible to miss.  Most of the older boat people resisted the very idea of government, let alone communitarianism and conformity.  They had lived under Nationalist, Japanese, Communist, and British regimes, and they knew the workings of different forms of government very well indeed.  I once asked a group of men:  “Which of those governments did you find best?”  An elder in the group said:  “The Nationalists—because they couldn’t control us.”  The rest agreed.  This was only one of hundreds of remarks, by dozens of people, putting opposition to authority in the most thoroughgoing terms.

They set a high value on independence, ranging from the freedom to sail and fish wherever they pleased to the ideal of being (and being known as) a Real Character, as a unique and distinctive individual.  Unlike Americans, they did not set a high value on cultural conformity (cf. Turiel 2004, only the latest to note the contradiction of Anglo-American “individualism” with slavish conformity in matters of popular culture).  In fact, they set a low value on it, except for the basic morality of mutual aid and mutual support that served as the foundation of their social philosophy.  It was no accident that most of their songs were improvisational rather than learned by heart.

Families were a partial exception; the patriarchal family was alive and well.  But even there, patriarchy was observed to varying degrees.  One could observe a range from families almost as patriarchal as the stereotype (a stereotype that many land families actually approximated) to families where everyone had a voice, where punishment of children was unknown, and where everyone seemed to cooperate happily in spite minimal order-giving.  Children had to defer to adults, and adults barked commands in proper sailor fashion, but in most families no one ever seemed to lean on anyone else (Anderson 1992, 1998).

All observers not fooled by the “tribal” myth seem to agree that the differences between Cantonese boat people and Cantonese land people were due strictly and solely to ecological adaptation, and could be predicted therefrom (Anderson 1970b, 1972; Antony 2004; Ward 1965, 1966; and many references in all these sources).  Independence came from boat-management, just as food—although typical Chinese food—ran heavily to fish and shellfish.

However, the differences, ecological in origin though they might be, had gone on to become markers of a true subculture.  Thus, they were more standardized and generally shared than individual environmental adaptations would have been.  On the other hand, many of the adaptations disappeared rapidly when the boat people moved on shore.  I would guess that their descendents still lack lineages, but have otherwise been absorbed into the Cantonese mainstream.

Sailors who manage their own boats and have to be highly mobile simply cannot be as communitarian as rice cultivators.  Even on land, lineages routinely disappear in Chinese communities that lack large-scale landholding with intensive agriculture.  The patriarchal family, in so far as it produced the stresses and strains immortalized by novelists and sociologists (see Chapter 5), could not possibly have existed on the boats; people had to be mutually supportive, and had to be free to make split-second decisions.  When a father washed overboard, his wife or sons could hardly stand around waiting for a command decision on what to do.  Wives who were not free and equal managers of the boats were not fully effective in the fishery.  Defiance of government was natural for people whose livelihood depended on free travel, and often on “free trading” (what some would call smuggling).

Thus, Chinese culture proves highly changeable, according to immediate ecological needs.

What, then, are we to make of cultural generalizations and stereotypes?  Can an ethnographer state rules in such a universe?  The short answer is yes.  However, the rules have to be properly qualified, and grounded in more basic realities.

Lineages provide the clearest example.  All the local land-dwelling Cantonese had lineages.  None of the boat people did.  In the New Territories, this was a perfect open-and-shut matter.  (It was not in some other areas; at least some boat people nearer Guangzhou had lineages [Wu 1937], and many land-dwelling Chinese in other parts of China lack lineages.)  The explanation is simple and straightforward:  lacking land to administer, resources to manage, and even the possibility of having lineage halls or keeping records, the boat people neither needed lineages nor could maintain them.

Matters of individuality and family relationships are far more difficult to define.  The difference between land people and boat people was not open-and-shut.  There were gradations; in fact, the reality was a continuum.  Richer and more settled boat people often emulated the land-dwellers—arranging marriages, developing patriarchal relations with children, and working with government.  However, just as often, successful individuals simply used their money to maintain themselves in an even more flamboyantly individual and free-spirited lifestyle than they had had before!  Many of our friends and acquaintances boasted to us of doing exactly this.  Conversely, many far-from-affluent people had thoroughly conservative personal lives.

Particularly interesting was the ways that Neo-Confucian philosophy was used to justify individualism.  Tu Wei-Ming would have been fascinated to hear how the boat people could quote Confucius and, especially, Mencius to justify their lifeway.  Mencius’ writings include many passages about individual conscience, defiance of tyranny, and the individual and internal locus of morality.  Older and more experienced boat people knew these by heart.  Teik-Aun Wong, Lynn Thomas, and I (Anderson et al. 2000) have discussed at some length the ways in which philosophy can be bent to differing interpretations, according to the bias of the interpreter.

What are we to make of such matters?  How can anthropologists interpret and understand such subcultural and individual differences?

Many Chinese of the old school saw these boat people lifeways as deviant in the bad sense.  The stereotypes of boat people heard by Ward and myself, and found by Antony (2004), Kani (1967), and others, in traditional Chinese literature, speak to that.  For many land people, the boat people were just plain bad Chinese.

Many American anthropologists today might see the boat people as proving that culture is a mere invention of ethnographers, and that individual agency is all there is.

As the subtitle of this book suggests, I prefer to see the boat ways of life as variations on Chinese themes.  Culture is certainly real.  The boat people did conform when it was ecologically rational.  They had long ago discovered the most efficient clothing style, and they had all kept to it within recent memory.  They all ate Chinese food, drank Chinese alcohol, and spoke good if distinctive Cantonese.

Their ways of varying from more typical Cantonese patterns were all not only ecologically driven, but were also found, in a kind of latent or seed form, in mainstream (hegemonic?) Cantonese culture.  Other Chinese see the Cantonese as rough, independent, spontaneous, and prone to idealize an “original” character; the boat people merely took this a few steps farther.  And the boat people were certainly not the only Chinese in history to find in Confucian (especially Mencian) and Daoist thought a charter for independence and even defiance of government.  China’s literary history is studded with thousands of highly original individuals, many of whom justified their stubbornness in the same terms and from the same passages.

We are dealing with variation at several levels.  There were some open-and-shut differences between land and boat society.  Other differences are only differences of degree, or present a continuum from a land extreme to an occasional boat extreme.  Then, within the boat world, there were differences from community to community.  Finally, families and individuals all had their own interpretations and their own practice.

Of course, all this is deadly to the classic stereotypes, whether positive (as in Tu Wei-Ming’s writings) or negative.  Most Chinese do indeed act and think in a relatively communitarian manner, privileging society over the individual, as literally thousands of sober studies and analyses have demonstrated (Bond 1986 provides good, balanced reviews of some of them).  However, this communitarianism does not even begin to exhaust the cultural repertoire.  It is merely an aspect of the culture that happens to be preferred at one time and place.  Changing circumstances can cause a totally different interpretation of the culture, especially if already present in a latent or local form, to take over rapidly and dramatically.  (The “sexual revolution” in the United States in the 1960s was not a sudden new thing appearing; it was merely the elevation of a previously minority lifestyle to cultural dominance and hegemony.)

If one wishes to stereotype, I would suggest that Chinese culture really is defined and described by an individual-in-society perspective; sometimes the individual side comes out more strongly, sometimes the social side.  But this makes the cultural model so general and broad that it is no use as a stereotype.  One can generalize about subcultures and situations, but, even then, one must properly qualify the generalization.  Practice need not follow belief and ideology, and no two people think or act quite alike.

I have elsewhere pointed out practical applications of this (Anderson 1992, 1998).  Family counselors need not go outside Chinese culture to find egalitarian family models.  Educators need not go outside Chinese to find individual-tailored, nonpunitive, empowering education strategies.  Tu Wei-Ming need not worry about a tradeoff between Confucianism and individual rights; he can draw on an authentic and ancient Chinese tradition that combines them harmoniously.

 

A culture, then, is a set of plans for acting, not a rigid crust.  It is a set of useful ideas to draw on at will.  It is a tool kit, not a tool.  It has a structure, but the structure is that of a rather messily arranged toolbox.  Everything is in there, somewhere, but perhaps not in perfect shape and not in the expected spot.  Claude Lévi-Strauss’ image of the bricoleur—the shade-tree mechanic—is deservedly famous.  Not only the traditional consultant, but everyone, has to be a shade-tree mechanic when using his or her cultural tool kit.  The boat people found it necessary to draw on the shipboard tools—the fishhooks, spars, rigging-mending equipment—rather than the plough or the bricklayer’s trowel.  (And France’s counterpart to Home Depot calls itself the place for bricoleurs.)

One must, also, imagine a tool kit that blends at the edges into other, slightly different kits (Vietnamese, Thai…).  Moreover, the tools have the useful property of expanding or shrinking at will.  As every AI expert would agree, cultural tools are more like computer software than like hardware.  They can be stored in zipped files when not needed, or expanded by all sorts of patches and supplements and individual tinkering.

Or, to return to another metaphor, culture is indeed a “thing of shreds and patches.”  But the shreds and patches are woven into a wonderful patchwork quilt—one with the miraculous quality of changing to fit the needs and tastes of anyone who lies under it.  Somehow, it keeps us all warm.

 

5

A final note on cultural modeling, to remind us to be sober and modest, is the question of ethnographer authority.  Throughout the history of anthropology, and especially in the last couple of decades, scholars have questioned the right of ethnographers to produce “the” account of “their” people.  Who am I to talk about the boat people?  I spent something over two years in Hong Kong, including nine months living on a sampan, but I am, obviously, not a seui seung yan by birth.  I have no right to speak in an authoritative or authorial voice.

This book is not in any way “the ethnography” of the Hong Kong boat people.  It is a personal text, an account of one man’s experience in a few boat communities.  It is not intended to be a definitive or canonical text.  On the other hand, I know a great deal about the boat world, and I was there during a critical time: the period of its decline and disappearance.  This gives me not only the right, but (I think) the obligation, to record what I know of the brilliance and troubles of the bay’s last years.

I offer, then, what is, and can only be, a personal view, the view of a sympathetic and experienced outsider.  I was not there long enough to become an insider, but I was there too long to be a coolly “objective” outsider.  Thus, I cannot pretend to speak ex cathedra on boat society.

I tried my best to remedy the lack of boat people’s own voices by recording the boat people’s songs in some detail (Anderson 1975), and by recording life accounts (Anderson 1970b:226-248).  Unfortunately, in those days, publishers were not interested in such materials, and I did not follow up as I should have done.

I have also tried to stick as closely as I can to factual matters that could be objectively verified:  fish species, dollar amounts, number of people on a boat, actual behavior at religious ceremonies.  In this book and in my previous publications, I have used the boat people’s own concepts, ideas, and often exact words.  In particular, I have tried to keep interpretation as close to my boat friends’ own words as I could; I am too uncomfortably aware of my own limitations to indulge in Geertzian flights.  This has gotten me criticized in the past for not imposing enough “theory” (whatever that might mean) on the “raw data.”  Today, I hope that the many critiques of the “authoritative voice” have made us more sensitive to the aridity (if not immorality) of presenting ex cathedra theory and interpretation in one’s own authoritative voice, while silencing one’s subjects and denying them even the exiguous existence of “aggregated statistical data.”

I wish I could present my friends as living, breathing human beings.  The generation of boat men and women who remember the old ways is now as old as I am, and—to my knowledge—none has stepped forward to write the great novel or great memoir we need.  My own few words can be no more than a stopgap, while we await that hoped consummation.

 

 

 

CHAPTER 2.  THE STRAIT THAT DISAPPEARED

 

1

The Cantonese fishing people of coastal Guangdong Province maintained until recently a highly distinctive and highly traditional form of life.  For centuries, they have been regarded as a distinct minority within Cantonese culture.  Until recently, most of them lived entirely on their boats; virtually all the rest lived on huts built over tidewater.  They lived by fishing, shellfish and seaweed collecting, cargo-carrying, and small-scale trade.  Their speech often differed slightly from that of land neighbors (McCoy 1965).  Their clothing and foodways also varied slightly from land norms.  Last, but not least, their religious practices differed substantially from those of the land people.

The lifeway of the boat people is dramatically different way of being Chinese.  In current usage, they are typical “Han” Chinese, though the Cantonese traditionally called themselves “people of Tang” rather than “people of Han.”  The terms refer to the Han and Tang Dynasties; the Chinese Empire took its mature form in Han (206 BC-220 AD), but the Cantonese feel they were not really Sinicized until Tang (607-960), although Guangdong was actually conquered and occupied under Han.  (And Han tomb models of boats show the boat people were living then pretty much as they are now.)  The “Tang” label is so persistent that Grant Street, the main thoroughfare of San Francisco’s Chinatown, is known throughout the Chinese world as “Tang people’s street.”  (This is T’ong Yan Kai in Cantonese.  Usage has changed, and now Cantonese, along with others who traditionally speak languages of the Chinese family, tend to call themselves “Han” Chinese.  On the ethnically diverse history of south China, see Eberhard 1942.)

The boat people fit squarely into that universe.   They merely presented a set of variants, bearing a Wittgensteinian family resemblance (rather than a simple set of changes in one pattern).  Each family had its own way of being Chinese and of being seui seung yan.  Also, each family changed and adapted over time, so today’s range of knowledge and practice might be varied tomorrow as circumstances altered.

 

The land people called themselves Punti (pun tei), “locals,” meaning Cantonese-speakers in contrast to the Hakka, Hokkien, and other non-Cantonese groups .  The boat people were generally not considered  Punti, because of their lifestyle.  However, the boat people were Cantonese-speaking locals, and were thus Punti on the dotted line. I avoid the word because of these confusing webs of meaning.

In imperial times, boat people were legally constituted as a separate ethnic group.  They were subject to discrimination; until late Qing, they were not allowed to sit for the Imperial examinations.  They were not allowed to move on shore, though they could, in many locations, build houses on piles over tidewater.  This had been done for centuries at Tai O, on Lantao Island, across a narrow strait from Castle Peak.  Castle Peak was following suit in the 1960s, with a rapid rise of handmade shacks built over the mudflats.

Boat people probably provided many of the sailors, and much of the expertise, that made China a great sea power in dynastic times.  Contrary to a myth of China’s maritime insignificance, Gang Deng (1999) has shown that China was a leader in seafaring, marine technology, and exploration, especially in early Ming but also at other times in history.

In spite of this, land-dwellers have generally regarded boat people with prejudice and contempt.  Boat people suffered discrimination in Imperial times and subsequently.  Antony (2003:12) summarizes the traditional stereotype of boat culture:  “It did not share in the traditional Confucian values of honesty, frugality, self-restraint, and hard work; rather, it espoused deception, ambition, hedonism, recklessness, and getting ahead by any means.”  Of course, the boat people reversed this; they had the exactly same stereotype, but with themselves as the honest workers, the land-goers as the devious amoralists.  Boat people frequently expressed this to us at very considerable length.  The one place they agreed with the old stereotype was on “recklessness.”  The boat people admitted they were more risk-taking, less cautiously routine-bound—but, instead of “reckless,” the words they used were “courageous,” “free,” and “on our own.”

For decades or centuries, the boat people have been claimed as more “aboriginal” or “tribal” (in some sense) than the land people.  This belief was shown to be false decades ago (Anderson 1970a, 1970b, 1972; Ward 1965, 1966; both these authors review a great deal of earlier work), but it still surfaces on occasion.  In fact, the boat people clearly have some “aboriginal” brackground, but non-Han ancestry is general in China’s far south (for a qualified view of the boat people from this perspective, see Ho 1965).  Linguistic, historic, and cultural evidence suggests that southeast China was largely Thai—with many other linguistic groups, such as Yao and Miao—before, and for a long time after, the Chinese conquered it in the Han Dynasty (206 BC-221 AD).  For instance, the delayed transfer marriage still practised in the Guangzhou area (Stockard 1989) is a Zhuang custom (Jeffrey Barlow, unpublished ms.; the Zhuang are a Thai-speaking group now dominant in much of the Guangsi Zhuang Autonomous Region just west of Guangdong).  It has probably been retained by former Zhuang who have become Cantonese, rather than having been borrowed by Chinese migrants (see Stockard 1989).  In Cavalli-Sforza’s studies of human genetics, southeast Chinese were found to sort genetically with southeast Asians, not with northern Chinese (Cavalli-Sforza 2001).  This being the case, contrasting “aboriginal” boat people with “Han” land people is completely wrong.

Often, unfortunately, “tribal” claims for the boat people are coupled with the use of the highly offensive ethnic slur “Dan” (or Danjia; Cantonese Tanka; see e.g. Siu and Faure 1995; Ye 1995).  This is supposedly a “tribal” or “ethnic” name of the boat people.  It goes back to imperial times, but it seems purely an outsiders’ term with an insulting connotation.  It is not always insulting, and lately it has been rehabilitated by boat people from Tai O and elsewhere, following the rehabilitation of “Black” and “Chicano” in the United States.  This fascinating bit of sociolinguistics was conveyed to me (in an email of May 15, 2002) by a young Hong Kong sociologist, Ho-fung Hung, who studied Tai O and its recent conflicts and activist politics (Hung 1998, 2001a, 2001b).  There are several folk etymologies purporting to explain why the word tan, “egg,” came to be an ethnic slur word for Cantonese boat people:  Their boats look like eggshells, “Tan” was a “tribal” name, “tan” is their pronunciation of some other word (various words are suggested), and so on.  These speculations are no doubt as valid as most folk etymologies.  The boat people referred to themselves as seui seung yan (Putonghua shui shang ren “people on the water”; seui seung yan was pronounced soi song yan in Hong Kong boat dialect) or by similar descriptive phrases.  In English, the people in question have always been called “boat people.”  In the 1970s, this term came to be used for the Vietnamese refugees who fled by boat from Vietnam.  Many of these came to Hong Kong, and obvious confusion followed.  In this book, of course, the term “boat people” applies to the boat-dwellers native to the Hong Kong area, not to the Vietnamese.

In fact, there was continuous movement from land to water and from water to land.  The water people were never a separate group.  My interviews and life histories revealed that many people traced their descent back to shore-dwellers who had taken to the boats during periods of unrest over the last couple of centuries—often within the last two to three decades.  World War II, in particular, drove many land people to the boats, where life was safer than on shore.  Conversely, boat people have been moving onto shore for millennia, often in substantial waves, when opportunity or local decree encouraged them (see Antony 2003 for the most recent historical treatment of these millenia-old patterns).

They did, however, maintain a separate lifestyle with many cultural features with linked them with other boat people in China, and differentiated them from the land-dwellers.  Most of these features can be understood as adaptations to a seafaring, boat-dwelling life (Antony 2003; Ward 1965, 1966).

However, successive governments, both local and national, constructed them as a separate ethnic group—greatly oversharpening and exaggerating a real subcultural difference.  The boat people became a “separate tribe,” as if they were as culturally distinct as the Tibetans or Mongols.  The only real difference, howeever, was that the boat people lived on boats (or pile houses over water) and worked at water occupations.  Even such clear cultural markers as lack of lineages, special accents, and independent ideology were not hard-and-fast distinctions from the land world; some land groups lacked lineages and had similar accents and attitudes.  Costume, folk songs, and a few other such usages did set the boat people apart, but not very dramatically.

Yet the boat people received prejudice; often they had been forbidden to live on land or—locally at least—to sit for imperial examinations.

They came to see themselves as “dragons on water, worms on shore” (Ward 1965, 1966).  The double terminology is critical here:  they were held down, victimized, and unable to control their destinies when on land, but on the water they were unquestioned rulers.  Land people could travel on water or ship cargoes only through boat-people agency.  On the water the boat people were fully in control of the human or social side of their lives, though the weather and seas were still out of their control.

Thus, much of boat culture and discourse was about control and its negotiation.  A sense of control over one’s life is a powerful human need (Anderson 1996), and the boat people had it on water, lost it on land.  Their lives had to deal with that constant negotiation of a major, basic human psychological mainstay.

The boat people of the central Guangdong coast formed a large social network, united by constant shifting back and forth.  Until the rise of the Communist government, local and national borders meant little to them, and even after 1949 it was always fairly easy to weigh anchor and move.  The Hong Kong border was permeable.  Tens of thousands of boat dwellers had fled at one time or another from the unrest and poverty that were endemic in China during the 20th century.  Particularly large waves came to Hong Kong during the famine years of 1958-61, when millions of Chinese starved to death.  A steady trickle came through after that, until prosperity and the call of shore life made China more attractive during the 1970s.

The main source area of Hong Kong boat people, both long-established and newcoming, was Hong Kong’s immediate neighbor region:  the two-county area of Baoan (Po On in Cantonese, and so called henceforth in this book) and Dongguan (Tung Kun).

The distinctive boat-dweller accent of Hong Kong seems to be, basically, the accent of that area.  It is very close to standard Cantonese (the urban accent of Guangzhou and Hong Kong).  There are some patterned differences.  Most obvious is the substition of  –o– for –eu– (as in soi song yan, above).  “Hong Kong” probably got its English name via boat people, because it is Heung Kong in standard Cantonese.  (Poetically “Fragrant Harbor,” literally “incense port” because sandalwood was once shipped from it, Hong Kong is Xiang Gang in Putonghua.)  The boat people changed initial ng- to something like a w- (ngo “I” becomes wo).  Some final consonants were dropped or assimilated (all final nasals became –n).  As in colloquial Hong Kong Cantonese generally, unaspirated ts before vowels is sounded like English j (tsai “little one” is pronounced jai).  There were also some tonal quirks.  I have not indicated boat pronunciations in this book; I simply use standard Cantonese forms (see Anderson 1970b and McCoy 1965 for full technical descriptions).

Many boat people came from farther upstream, around Guangzhou city.  A few came from still more distant counties.  In Tai Po Kau, on the east side of Hong Kong’s New Territories, there was a large community of boat-dwellers speaking a dialect of Southern Min (Hokkien), a completely different language from Cantonese.  Their dialect was spoken from northwest Guangdong Province into neighboring Fujian.  These people kept to themselves, and had their own style of boats, their own foods and customs, and their own fishing techniques.  They disappeared as a community in the 1970s and 1980s, with their dialect and culture still unrecorded (see Anderson 1970b:257-259 for what little is known).  They constituted no more than 3% of the boat people of Hong Kong; the rest, including all those I knew at Castle Peak, were Cantonese.

In Hong Kong, the boat people were concentrated in a number of good harbors.  The biggest and most famous concentration was at Aberdeen, on the outer side of Hong Kong Island.  (The main city is on the inner side, facing the mainland.)  Others were at Kowloon Harbor, Deep Bay, So Kwun Wat in Hong Kong, and elsewhere.  Barbara Ward, the only other person to do prolonged participant-observation research on the Hong Kong boat people, worked at Kau Sai, a small settlement on the east side of the New Territories; Castle Peak Bay, a larger settlement on the west side, was a quite different place.  Outside of the British colony, there were huge concentrations of boat people all around the Pearl River estuary.  In 1966 we visited Macau, then a Portuguese colony, where we observed huge concentrations of boat-dwellers.  In 1978 I visited Guangzhou, and saw what little was left of the boat culture there; by then, most of the boat-dwellers had moved on shore there (as in Hong Kong).  Smaller concentrations existed all along the coasts and major rivers of Guangzhou and Guangxi.  Elsewhere in China were perhaps three million boat people, speaking the languages of their own areas (see e.g. Worcester 1959).  Almost everywhere, the boat-dwellers spoke the same dialects and languages as the shore people nearby.   Nowhere did they have their own language.

This is true throughout Asia; almost every country with rivers and coasts has its own boat people, all local, all speaking local languages or at least languages derived from home ports not too far away (Sopher 1965—eked out by my own observations and conversations all round southeast Asia).  The boat-dwelling adaptation is clearly something that appeals to all sorts of people; representatives of many of the ethnic groups of Asia have taken to the sea.  Some, such as the Sama (Randall 1977) and certain Bugis trader groups, have become long-distance voyagers and merchants.  Humans are usually creatures of the land, but here they have become as bound to the water as are the fish that supply much of their livelihood.

Speculations that the boat-dwellers are some sort of distinct “tribe” or “tribal group,” or otherwise have separate origins from the land people, have often been entertained (see Sopher 1965).  All the evidence suggests otherwise:  that they are simply representatives of the shoreline groups whose languages they speak.  (The Moken “sea gypsies” of the Malayan peninsula, who speak a distinctive dialect, are a partial exception; see, yet again, Sopher 1965).  The Sama have dispersed from the south Philippines to Sulawesi and elsewhere, but their origins are clear and they know their homeland.  Vietnamese boat people speak Vietnamese.  Japanese ones spoke Japanese when they existed as an identifiable group.

In Hong Kong, the boat people are clearly Cantonese in language, culture, and—usually—origin.  We talked to many who knew from family tradition that they were recently land-dwellers, only a couple of generations away from rice farming.  However, the boat lifestyle predates the Sinicization of the south.  Archaeology reveals that there were boat-dwellers as early as 1500 BC in Hong Kong (as I learned from archaeologist William Meacham, while observing with him the ongoing excavation at an obvious boat-dweller site on an isolated island).  These would probably have been Thai-speaking.  On the other hand, Austronesian voyagers from south China apparently settled Taiwan and later the South Seas (Bellwood 1997), and it is tempting to see them as related somehow to early boat people.  Doubtless these early boat-dwellers represented many linguistic communities.

Boat people much like modern ones were certainly present by Han, as we know from tomb pottery.  People throughout the Han empire had the custom—incomparably useful to archaeologists—of making small pottery replicas of the things of this world, to accompany the dead into the other one.  From this we know that the Han world had woks, pagodas, “sharpei” (sha pi) dogs identical to modern ones, and sampans almost exactly like the one on which we lived.  Even minor details of style are the same.  These models show the oldest fore-and-aft rigging and watertight compartments in the world; evidently the South China Sea was an area of maritime innovation, and the lack of subsequent change indicates early perfection rather than late conservatism.

After Han, we get occasional flashes of light in what is usually a profound darkness.  Boat people are known to have existed all over the major rivers and coasts of China from a very early time.  Their folk songs, often clearly related to modern songs, were recorded by poets.  In the 16th century, Feng Menglong recorded some boat folk songs similar to ones I recorded in 1965-66 (Anderson 1975).   Even earlier, the boat folk songs of the lower Yangzi inspired Tang Dynasty poets to imitate them in elite style.  Cui Hao (704-754) gives us an exchange between a girl and a young man, of a type that could still be heard on Castle Peak Bay in 1965.  The girl sings the first verse, the boy the second.  Hengtang and Longpole (Janggan) are near Nanjing.

 

“Where are you from good sir

this maid is from Hengtang

I ask while our boats are moored

perhaps we’re from the same place

 

My home overlooks the Great River

I travel along the Great River’s banks

I’m from Longpole too

but I’ve never seen you before.”  (Red Pine 2003:36-37).

 

In the 18th Century, the poet and writer Shen Fu lived in Guangzhou for a while, and had a romantic affair with a boat girl.  He describes it in one of the most exquisite and heartbreaking short accounts, in Chinese or any other language, of a lost love.  This account was published in a small book titled Six Records of a Floating Life (Shen 1983); only four of the chapters ever saw the light.  He includes some general ethnography, including the significant note that the word for “what?” was mie (Putonghua for “rice grain”).  Mi ye is still the boat pronunciation of the Cantonese mat ye? (“what?”).  The title of this book and its predecessor The Floating World of Castle Peak Bay (Anderson 1970b) are both based on Shen’s, whose title, in turn, refers both to literal floating and to the Buddhist image of this transient life of ours as a “floating world.”

After Shen, accounts get thicker, and have been synthesized in historical studies by Ho (1944), Kani (1967), Ye (1995), and others.  These are generally marred by a too-literal reading of local gazetteers and similar sources that allege “tribes” of boat people.  The boat people do not have tribes, or anything similar.  The “tribes” were probably followers of a particular local leader, or people who came from a certain area and named themselves from it.

In the early 20th century, sociologists discovered the boat people.  Wu Yuey-len (Wu Yuelin in modern transcription) and Chicago-trained Chen Suching (Chen Xujing), and later their student Ho Kaak-yan (Ho Ge’en), were associated at Lingnan University in Canton.  They carried out extensive descriptive sociology of the sort done at the University of Chicago in those days; in fact, it was excellent ethnography.  They described everything from economics to folksongs (Chen 1933, 1935, 1946; Ho 1944, 1965, 1966; Wu 1936a, 1936b, 1937).  Ho later moved to Hong Kong and taught at the University of Hong Kong, where I interviewed him; Chen and Wu stayed at Lingnan; Chen survived the Maoist era and lived to a venerable old age.  Barbara Ward carried out major research on the boat people of Kau Sai, Hong Kong, in the 1950s and 1960s (Ward 1955, 1958, 1966, 1965, 1966, 1967, 1969).  The economist Frank H. H. King (1955) and the linguist John McCoy (1965) worked with her there for short periods.  Ward’s pathbreaking, brilliant, and richly theorized ethnography was tragically cut short by her untimely death, before she could publish more than a few articles.  Her interests ranged from child-rearing to livelihood to history.  She was instrumental in showing that the boat people were not a separate group but were simply Canontese on boats.  More challenging to theory was her work on the boat people’s own ideas about their social system (Ward 1966), of which more below.

Many popular writings and photographs were devoted to the boat people.  Col. V. R. Burkhardt published a long series of columns in the South China Morning Post, later compiled into three volumes (Burkhardt 1953-58), that contains much excellent material.  Less excellent were the vast numbers of photographs, film, paintings, transient writings, and other materials that exploited the “picturesque, quaint” boat people.  The old sailing junk was a photogenic craft, and became a symbol of Hong Kong.

After that, the research reported in this book is the major published material.  (See also Hung 1998, 2001a, 2001b, and references therein.  Anderson 1970a, 1972 provide full bibliography of boat people studies through 1970.)  The boat people no longer exist as a major community in Hong Kong, but many remain along the rivers and coasts in more remote parts of Guangdong.  The opportunity for studying the traditional culture is now gone forever, but opportunities now exist for studying the modern vicissitudes of those who make their living on great waters.

 

2

Like the boat people, Castle Peak Bay has a long history and a controversial past (Balfour 1941; Lo 1963; Ng 1961).  When Castle Peak and its environs were first noted, in the Tang Dynasty (618-907 AD), Castle Peak was separated from the mainland by a strait that connected the present Castle Peak Bay with Deep Bay.  Later, the strait filled, and Deep Bay became shallow.  Finally, from the 1960s onwards, Castle Peak Bay progressively shrank, as more and more fill encroached on it.  By 1990 it had disappeared.

The strait was known in ancient days as Tun Mun (or Tuen Mun, “Garrison Strait”; mun, literally “gate,” means “strait” or “passage” in Cantonese nautical usage).  This name may have been used later for the strait on the other side of Castle Peak, a still-open channel separating it from Ling Ting Island.  The area was once of the utmost strategic importance; it guarded the north corner of the Pearl River estuary, while Macau guarded the south.  Thus, in the Tang Dynasty (620-907), a garrison was established in the area. The great Tang writer Han Yu supposedly passed through the area, though details are shadowy.

According to local legend, a mysterious monk, Pei Tu (“Cup Measure”), who sailed in a winecup and could disappear at will, founded Castle Peak Monastery in the fifth century.  In fact, the monastery was founded in the early 20th century.

During the Nan Han Dynasty in the 10th century, records speak of “Tan” people in the area, using the same character as that in “Tanka” (dan jia; Lo 1963:23).  In the Song Dynasty (960-1279), the area remained a port and checkpoint.  Local legends once again take us farther:  the last boy emperor of Song passed through and found brief refuge on Lantao Island, where his guardian and uncle is still revered as divine patron of the community of Tai O.  More securely attested is the passage of Jorge Alvares in 1513; this Portuguese navigator touched at Ling Ting Island and was the first European to see castle Peak.  The Portuguese fortified Lantao, but the Chinese drove them out, and they consolidated their position in Macau instead (Braga 1956).  The local gazetteer recorded that the Portuguese raided the surrounding countryside, capturing and eating children (Ng 1961).  Such claims of cannibalism occur again and again in Chinese history, with no factual evidence presented; the view of “barbarians” as cannibals merely a standard trope, as it is in European and Euro-American travel lore (see Chong 1990).

Piracy increased, notably at the fall of Ming (1644), when Ming loyalists took to the sea and harassed the coasts for years (Anthony 2003; Murray 1987).  Some were theoretically under the direction of the Ming loyalist leader Coxinga.  (The name is a European rendering of kok sing a, Southern Min for “Imperial Surname Kid,” a slangy reference to his being granted the Ming imperial surname for his services in trying to save the dynasty).  Japanese, local boat people, and shore people turned pirate were also involved.  From 1662 to 1669, the Qing government depopulated the whole coast, the people being forcibly resettled inland.  The local economy never recovered until modern times.

The British leased the New Territories in 1898.  The area remained rural and agricultural, raising high-quality rice and fruit, until after the Japanese devastated it in the Second World War.  From 1950 onward, urbanization spread explosively from Hong Kong and Kowloon.  By 1997, when the New Territories reverted to China, the southern New Territories, including Castle Peak Bay, were a vast sprawling city.  The northern New Territories were still rural, but no longer agricultural; the labor force had gone to the city or to England and Europe to work.

Much of the urbanization of Castle Peak was driven by refugees from China.  These came largely in three waves:  1949 (during the civil war that brought Mao Zidong to power), 1957 (initial communization of rural lands), and 1960-61 (famine following the failure of the Great Leap Forward).  The last of these was by far the largest as far as Castle Peak Bay was concerned, for it brought floods of desperate people, most of them boat people, to the bay.  Most of these were from nearby, especially from Po On (Bao An), the Chinese county (xian) just across the border; most of its boat people had fled, according to informants.  Many more came from Tung Kun (Dong Guan), the next one north, and from other counties around the Pearl River estuary.  Many brought functional boats and kept fishing, but most had fled in aging and decrepit craft, and had no capital.  They could only squat in houses built of scrap lumber on the waterfront, often on pilings in the water.  They were destitute, and many children died of malnutrition.  Finally, from 1965 and especially from 1970, expansion of factories and shops in the area provided employment.

The town of Tun Mun Kau Hui (“Garrison Strait Old Market”) was a gray-brick town on the old creek entering the bay.  An eastward extension, Tun Mun San Hui (“Garrison Strait New Market”), began life about 1945 on a mudflat at the head of the bay.  It grew with spectacular speed.  By 1965 it had a government clinic, a market, a school, and other amenities.  By 1974 it had expanded onto bay fill and acquired many factories and high-rise apartment blocks; by 1997 it was a huge city.

In the 1960s and 1970s, there were several thousand boat people in the bay area.  No exact figures can be given, for people were always moving in and out, shifting to shore life, shifting back to boat life, or otherwise acting as a truly “floating” population.

 

The boat people were dependent on the natural world for life and livelihood.  Earning their income from the sea and much of their food from local land, a the mercy of weather, and required to navigate dangerous passages, they had to know a great deal about their surroundings.  This section provides a brief introduction to those surroundings.

The New Territories and Kowloon comprised a peninsula.  Most of it is low but rugged granitic mountain land.  Castle Peak is just under 2000’ high.  Overall, the coast of the region had been sinking, producing many bays and islands.  The islands are drowned mountains.  Largest was Lantao, across a strait from Castle Peak.  Most flat land is recent alluvium, deposited by runoff from slopes deforested by human activity over the last two thousand years.  In the torrential rains that follow typhoons and summer storms, topsoil washes in floods from cleared land, leaving gullies and bare half-decomposed granite.  The granitic soil, under tropical conditions, rapidly loses fertility, and becomes laterite or simply bare rock.  Attempts to reforest—usually with pine (Pinus massoniana)—were rarely successful, since even this almost-indestructible tree could barely hold on in such conditions.  Moreover, farmers regularly burned the mountains, to clear brush and eliminate snakes and other wild animals.  Where this did not go on—as in fengshui woods and forest reserves—the natural semideciduous tropical forest eventually reasserted itself.  A magnificent wood at Tai Po Kau Forest Reserve now reminds Hong Kong of what it has lost.

The peninsula is tilting slowly from northwest to southeast, so new lands are emerging from Deep Bay.  Because of this and siltation, the bay is no longer deep.

Hydrology is dominated by the distant but powerful Pearl River, whose waters pour in a vast muddy stream through the estuary to the west.  The complex pattern of islands and rivers causes strong currents.  Narrow straits constrict the flow, forcing tidewater to race through fast and powerfully.  Turbulent currents boil up where they collide, as in the “Meeting-Waters Strait” east of Castle Peak.

Hong Kong has a classic monsoon climate.  Rainfall is concentrated in summer.  Annual rainfall is 70”-80” per year, but variations are substantial.  Hong Kong (average 86”) had 35” in 1963, about 160” in 1966.  About 25 typhoons and tropical storms affect the area per year, with one or two hitting dead on, producing violent winds and rains that may deposit 25”-30” of precipitation in two or three days.  Temperatures range from freezing (Hong Kong is the only place in the world’s tropics to have freezing temperatures on the coast) to nearly 100<o> F.  Summers are unbearably hot and humid.  Storms keep fishermen in harbor; it is a time of boredom, worry, and misery from soggy clothes that never get quite clean or quite dry.  Late falls and winters are dry and clear, usually delightful, though cold drizzle may go on for a day or two.  Fish run, and there are few storms to keep fishers in harbor.  This is the time for festivals, weddings, and general enjoyment.  Spring is a time of fogs and of sudden temperature shifts as the dry north wind and wet southeast wind battle for control.  Sickness is rampant at this season, and the boat people blame this wild fluctuations in weather, as well as the relative lack of green vegetables at this time.  Early fall brings typhoons.

Farm villages, built of hard-fired gray brick with gray tiled roofs, had changed relatively little since the Qing Dynasty.

The rural lands around the bay produced, in the 1960s and 1970s, rice, Chinese cabbages, ducks, pigs, chickens, and fruit.  More specialized crops included sugar cane, sweet potatoes, eggplants, peppers, papayas, lotus, water spinach, and much more.  Geese and water buffaloes provided a distinctive local touch.  Cantonese cultivators grew the high-quality rice and many of the vegetables, but Hakka farmers in the higher and hillier areas were also important, especially as vegetable and fruit gardeners.  The more level areas were incredibly productive.  Chinese cabbage yielded eight or more crops a year; rice two or three.

Rice yields were up to 2500 pounds or more per acre per crop, a substantial yield in those days.  Good yields in the Pearl River area today are closer to 10,000 pounds per acre per crop.  But rice is no longer grown in the Castle Peak area.  Saddest of all, when I was last in the area, I was told that the distinctive, flavorful, salt-tolerant rice of the northwest New Territories had become extinct.

Thanks to all this farming, food was abundant, cheap, and superb.  Farmers took enormous pride in the quality of their meats, grains, and vegetables.  Good quality brought high price; a pound of tender, succulent mustard greens brought about four times the price of a pound of old and tough ones.  The pork and rice of the area were deservedly famous.  Eggs were fresh and came from chickens and ducks fed on natural, varied diets—often largely weeds and bugs, since these birds were the main pest control agents on the farms.

 

3

The cultural ecology of south coastal China is a complex, elaborate system, brilliantly effective at producing human food, miserably unsuccessful at preserving forests and wildlife (Anderson 1988; Anderson and Anderson 1973; Elvin 2004; Marks 1998; Wen and Pimentel 1986a, 1986b; we, with Wen and Pimentel, emphasized the benefits to humanity, but Marks and Elvin emphasize the damage to wildlife).

Farmers directed rainwater and stream water into irrigation channels—vegetables higher up, then rice lower down.  The rice requires exquisite control of water levels, so it can be grown only where water is always available but can always be turned off or drained off.  Burning the hills and fields released nitrogen fixed by legumes and other plants.  More nitrogen was fixed by blue-green algae growing in the paddies.  This nitrogen was constantly recycled through animals and concentrated in their manure, used for fertilizer.

Still lower, where water was more difficult to drain, were buffalo and duck farms.  Below them, where water never drains away, were lotus and fish farms.  Then came brackish shallows, with shrimp and oyster farms.

At every stage, composting and recycling of all wastes—from human and animal dung to old ropes and sandals—continued to enrich the system.  Over the millennia, this process has massively transferred soil and nutrients—especially nitrogen—from the uplands to the deltas.  The mountains are eroded, often to bare rock, while the delta lands build rapidly outward to sea, and become ever richer with accumulated silts.  Much of the Pearl River Estuary area is sa tin (sha tian), literally “sand fields,” but, in local usage, “polder land.”  These fields have been reclaimed from the sea, as shallows fill up with silt.  This process continues actively today.   My friend Hugh Baker, with his inimitable turns of phrase, summarized my findings by saying that “it must make nitrogen atoms unfortunate enough to be in other parts of the world feel unloved” (Baker 1989:661-662).

Inevitably, some nutrients escape this almost perfectly closed system.  These do not escape for long.  They go to feed the fish that, until a generation ago, produced one of the greatest and most diverse fisheries in the world.  The boat people were those who caught these and brought them to land—thus closing the final loop in this endless chain.

The South Chinese rice agricultural system is certainly one of the wonders of the world.  Pace Mark Elvin and Robert Marks, south China was better than other areas even in its dealings with elephants and tigers; Native Americans seem to have exterminated the American equivalents without maintaining much population density or supporting a civilization.  There are still tigers and elephants in southern China, in spite of the hundreds of millions of people, but the last American elephant died (probably by spear-point) thousands of years ago.

The South Chinese system does not, however, reflect a society of rich farmers.  It was the product of a dictatorial imperial system that encouraged farming and farm technology but discouraged radical change (whether ecological, economic, or social).  Given the impossibility of getting ahead any other way, the farmers had to work harder and harder to wring a livelihood out of tiny parcels of land—parcels that got steadily smaller as population grew.  (The system survived by the growth of land seaward, but population growth usually ran faster than land area growth.)

As pointed out by Philip Huang (1990), this resulted in something rather similar to the “agricultural involution” that afflicted colonial Java (Geertz 1963).  Lack of capital and lack of legal opportunity led to “biological” innovation rather than mechanical or technical (Hayami and Ruttan 1985).  Farmers had to develop what they could develop without much cash and without any political freedom to experiment with new political-economic institutions.  Moreover, farmers had to have many children, to provide a labor force for the farms.  The typical completed family was around seven children (our data, but they are quite representative of old China; see e.g. Eastman 1988; Huang 1990).  With so many children, a family could not save or get ahead without some special circumstance.

Moreover, the ecological damage highlighted by Elvin and Marks was real enough.  Constant burning afflicted the high uplands.  This was terribly destructive to forests and terribly causative of flooding and erosion, but it did release nutrients in the form of ash and mineral salts.  Rains washed these nutrients off the high hills.

This is not to say the system stagnated; it did not.  It steadily grew, changed, and improved.  But the changes and improvements were small, and were of a “biological” and involutional nature, so they did not greatly help the burdened peasantry.  They enabled more and more people to live, but not many lived better.  Any catastrophe (such as the Taiping Rebellion and the wars of the 20th century) pushed millions over the brink into starvation.  Millions more died of endemic diseases such as malaria and bubonic plague (Carol Benedict’s superb work on plague, 1996, now a classic of medical history).

The system was at once a masterpiece and a deathtrap.

Within it, the boat people played a key role.  They caught the fish that provided 90% of the animal protein along the coast (Anderson 1988; Buck 1937).  They provided the water transport, essential to the system at all levels.  They were, thus, one group within a tightly-locked ecological and economic system, not a separate and independent people.  Yet, they had the independence of the free drifting life.  They were fully aware of the contradiction between these two aspects of their reality, and they felt the resulting tension; this fueled their constant talk of “independence.”  Cognitive dissonance was audible in many a waterfront discourse on such matters.

As the world runs out of resources, we all will have to return to something like the south Chinese system—intensive, sustainable, self-renewing.  One hopes we can do it without the ecological devastation of the wild, the totalitarian central government, and the local problems of violence and conflict.   Realistically, we probably cannot.  If we can, it will be because we learn from the south Chinese experience.

 

CHAPTER 3.  STRUCTURES OF EVERYDAY LIFE

 

 

1

Castle Peak Bay, as of 1965, was a triangular bay, the head being at the north end.  This end was largely mudflats.  Wrecked boats settled on it, and a typhoon shelter (a mudflat except when typhoon waves filled it, and adequate only for small craft) took up part of its space.  By 1974, all this area was filled, but the rest of the bay—from the center south—was still a fairly deepwater harbor, with boats ranked in neat rows after the day’s fishing.  A small island, Mouse Island on maps, lay in the east central part of the bay.  Much beyond it, the roadstead was too open for anchorage.  The boat people called this island “Little Ghost Island,” because they abandoned dead children on it—not from poverty, but from adherence to an ancient tradition that no one seemed to want to talk about, partly because there was a rumor that in the past the children had not always been completely dead.  By 1965, most children were buried on shore.

The waterfront was lined with settlements.  On the remote and roadless south part of the west shore, and on around to the west side of Castle Peak, only a few houses and tiny communities existed.  They were as much as five miles from a road, and were isolated and highly traditional, often without electricity or other modernizations.  By contrast, the east side of the bay, on the main road from Kowloon through the western New Territories, was densely settled.  Shops, restaurants, and temples clustered around the wharf, which extended from the middle of the east shore out a few yards into the bay.  It provided mooring only for sampans.  To reach regular boats, one hired a sampan, rowed by a boat woman (very rarely a man).  These water taxis were a highly distinctive feature of life in all the boat settlements of those days.  The sampan women were in a position to know everything about everyone, and were prime sources of gossip.

Around the head of the pier, a cluster of shops, restaurants, and daily market stalls catered to the ordinary needs of the boat people.  Above the head of the pier, on a rocky hill, stood the Three Sages Temple, the main temple for land-dwellers.  The main one for boat people was the Tin Hau temple across the bay; another Tin Hau temple, near the Three Sages, was built in the late 1960s.

Along the bay southward were the fish dealers’ huge barnlike buildings.  More will be said of them.

 

2

The standard greetings in Cantonese are heui pin tou a? “Where are you going?” and sik jo faan mei? “Have you eaten yet?”

Where did people go, and what did they do and eat there?

Well before dawn the big boats slid out of harbor.  One by one the diesel engines roared into action, or, on sail-driven boats, creaking and heavy thuds showed that men and women were hoisting the rigging and the huge five-sided sails.  The cries of sailors giving orders waked sleepers.  If the weather was fair, hardly a boat is left in harbor by 6:00 a.m.

On the boats, each person began his or her appointed tasks.  The head of the family—normally the oldest man who is still actively working—directed the whole operation.  He guided the boat around other boats, rocks, and dangerous eddies.  If the boat was big and modern enough to have a regular captain’s wheel, he was at the wheel.  The second-in-command was usually the head’s eldest son or younger brother, but often his wife or even his mother.  He or she operated the rudder.  The other adults worked with the engine or raised the sail, and put gear in order.  A child was entrusted with the necessary task of placing three burning sticks of incense in the bow for the Bow Spirit, at the side of the boat for the Sea Surface Spirit, and at the mast for the Sky Spirit.

By dawn the boat was well out of harbor.  The women prepared breakfast, the senior woman directing the others.  People drifted to the cooking area; a bowl was sent aft to the tillerman at the rudder.  Breakfast was boiled rice with soy sauce, and, unless times are hard, with steamed or leftover vegetables and some sea food from yesterday’s catch.

Then the long day began.  Fishing went on without intermission till late afternoon.  Some time between 4:00 and 7:00 p.m. (depending on season and weather), the boat was back in harbor.  The catch of the day was loaded in a rowboat and brought to the laan.  The fisherman would be paid off—usually getting very little, for the laan kept most of the money to pay off the debts that inevitably accrued, at very high interest rates, from the fishermen’s needs for loans for boats and repairs.  The fisherman would go shopping at the pier head.  The man would buy small necessities for dinner and the household, return to his rowboat, and go back to the main boat.

The women would cook dinner—rice, vegetables, sea food.  Always, some of the catch was too small and misshapen to bring a good price, and this became the featured dinner dish.  Both men and women were expert at picking out fish and shellfish that were small and unlovely but exquisite-tasting.  They were also expert at cooking them by whatever method brought out the very best flavor.  I have never had anything like the fish dishes they cooked; no four-star restaurant can touch them.  (I have given extensive accounts of local food in Anderson 1970b:33-36; Anderson 1988; Anderson 2003.)

Everyone would then relax.  They might make nets, buy snacks from rowboat-plying hawkers, or tell stories.  They would certainly talk over the day’s affairs and waterfront news.  By 9:30 all were asleep.

 

This was the normative day.  By 1965, it was already only a memory for many:  the impoverished refugees who had to work at odd jobs, beg, or simply sit and pray and starve.  By 1974, the vast majority of the boat people were working shore jobs, mostly in the factories that sprang up after 1960 in San Hui.  By 1999, when I last visited the area, the boat way of life was a fading, nostalgic memory of people my age.

Even in its time of dominance, it was not the universal order.  Storms kept the boats in port all too often, especially in late summer and early fall.  Emergencies—especially engine repair—did the same.  Major festivals gave people an excuse not to fish.  At New Year the boats were idled for days.  Even the industrious knocked off three days, and many of the less industrious took off two weeks.

There were also those boat people who were not fishermen.  There were cargo handlers and lightermen.  There were boat hawkers and sampan girls.  There were shoreline workers:  longshoremen, restaurant workers, entertainers, small-scale fish retailers, odd jobbers—people who lived on boats still, but did not fish.  There were even some teachers and skilled repair workers who lived on boats.

This was no new thing.  History records not only that there has been constant movement back and forth from shore to boat, but that boat people have worked longshore jobs since time immemorial.  The boat people of nearby Shanam, in the 1920s, worked largely in salt-making (Wu 1936a, 1936b, 1937) and related shore jobs.

Boat people in harbor or on shore could indulge in the greatest of Cantonese pleasures, yam cha (“drinking tea”).  This ritual, now well known in California, involves going to a restaurant to drink tea and eat snacks.  In urban restaurants, it involves whole families sitting for hours around a table, gorging on wonderful tim sam (“dim sum,” small snacks).  “Tim sam” literally means “dot the heart”; compare the English “hits the spot.”  Drinking tea on the Castle Peak Bay waterfront was a different world.  The restaurants were small, rough, and built out on piles over the water.  (Castle Peak had a “floating restaurant,” actually moored on piles, but—like other, larger floating restaurants—it catered more to tourists than to local people.)  Yam cha was largely a man’s world, and largely about drinking tea—no one could afford snacks beyond minimal ones.

The senior man of a family would have his regular table.  A senior man might have his grown sons or other family members, including his wife or other senior women, but young women and girls were not allowed.  For a community leader, his regular table was his office.  A leader would be at his table at a well-known time, and anyone wishing to speak to him would know when and where to find him.

Land and water people came together over tea, signed contracts, made deals, discussed economics and weather and pleasures, planned coming festivals.  The fishermen talked endlessly of how the fish were running, and who was catching what.  Drinking tea was thus part of work, not just a pleasure.  The Cantonese rule that deals had to be closed over drinks and food was one of those cultural rules that brooked no exceptions, and so a negotiation too small to be worth a dinner had to go on and to close over tea.

While the man drank tea, his wife went to market.  Crowds of women rode the local bus (never the fancier long-range bus, though it stopped at all the right places).  Within recent memory, shopping had been a senior man’s job, for women and young people were afraid of the prejudice and harsh treatment they got on shore.  Some still left it to the men.  Most, however, were willing to go as far as the public market in San Hui; it was safely near the bay.  However, boat women who were loud and volatile on the water became quiet and reserved.  Children clung close and tried to be invisible.  This was land people’s territory.

At San Hui, the boat people bought vegetables, hardware, clothing, and, very rarely, meat.  (More routine needs like rice, eggs, oil, and medicinal herbs could be bought on the pier.)  Such local items as papayas, roasted chestnuts, and other fruits and nuts were rare treats.

Everyone then returned to the boats, to spend the day washing, cleaning, and mending or making nets.  Children played, often swimming in the harbor.

 

3

Food was important to the boat people, not only as sustenance but as marker of social occasions and as one of life’s greatest pleasures.  The boat people ate well, and spent a great deal of time cooking, eating, and talking about food.  Like other Cantonese, they spent a good deal of their discretionary income on dining out.  This was not, however, merely for pleasure; dining had major social functions.

The ease of getting fish in those good years meant that few active fisher families lacked for basic sustenance and for high-quality protein.  Valuable fish were sold for many times their weight in rice; less valuable catches were the family dinner.

This was fortunate, for the caloric needs of the boat people were enormous.  Anyone fishing on the winter sea faced horrific conditions.  Fishers had to draw nets by hand, handle awkward rigging and rowboats, and move heavy equipment and heavy fish-baskets around the deck—all on a pitching, rolling boat in freezing wind and soaking cold spray.  Summer, with its enervating heat, frequent diseases, and constant thunderstorms, was not much better.  Under such circumstances, an adult man needed at least 5,000 calories for a long day’s work, and we saw people eat more.  I was once challenged on this by a critic who had looked up “fishing” in a table of nutritional needs and found it required only 3,000 calories.  Of course, the table-maker was thinking of recreational fishing.  I had to point out, patiently, that dangling a hook and line in a lake was not quite the same thing as facing a winter storm on the South China Sea.

One typical breakfast for an adult man facing a winter day was fat pork ribs, heavily sugared, and washed down with raw alcohol.  This tasted to the men as awful as it sounds, but it was often the only way they could choke down enough calories in the few minutes available.  Work without breakfast could easily mean death from hypothermia and exhaustion.  Lunch and dinner involved several bowls of rice, with sea food, soy sauce, ginger, and perhaps a bit of something else.

Vegetables were in short supply; they were expensive (especially in late winter) and hard to store.  The boat people knew all too well the result of going for weeks with almost no vegetables or fruits:  sores that did not heal, sore mouths, infections, and all the other symptoms of scurvy—the sailors’ eternal scourge.  Knowing nothing of vitamin C, they believed it was caused by yit hei (“heating qi”), but they knew the cure well enough; experience showed which vegetables and fruits were most effective.  They saw this as proof that the foods had cooling qi.  We noted that the foods were those highest in vitamin C content.

Serious food was divided into faan (cooked rice) and sung (prepared items to put on it).  In addition to these came ko or kuo (fruits and nuts), tim sam, noodles (min), and other snacks; children away from home were the main snackers.

Social occasions were marked by special foods, usually high in animal protein.  First in importance were the choice sea foods of the area.  These were readily available.  Castle Peak Bay had the reputation of having some of the best—the water was clean and the fish abundant.   The standard shore dinner included shrimp, crabs, and fish; the favorites among the latter were the groupers (sekpaan, Epinephalus spp.), with the pomfret second.  Other fish, as well as fish roes, cuttlefish, squid, and other sea creatures, followed in order, with the lowly sharks and rays being among the least choice.  Good seafood was kept alive in clean water.  A dead fish or shrimp was a second-rate commodity.

These foods were usually used in feasts that were primarily to entertain and interact.  Feasts for more structured occasions, especially religious ones, demanded certain specific land foods.  Chicken was the most general of these, being virtually a marker of ritual or ceremonial occasions, from weddings to ancestral sacrifices and from store openings to community gatherings.

Pork was virtually universal at all land people’s meals above the plainest level.  The boat people got far less of it (and far more sea food), but still had it on the table at every special occasion of any great importance.  However, unlike the land people, they did not so often have it at dinners that were merely fun and good fellowship.  Moreover, the land people often had large hunks of roast pork, by itself; the boat people usually stretched it by cutting it into small pieces and cooking it with less expensive vegetables.  Duck, rare and exceptional for everyone, was also rarer on boat decks than on land tables.  Finally, expensive, choice vegetables were definitely a land luxury; the boat people had few enough of even the cheap kinds.  Only at large weddings and other truly exceptional feasts did mushrooms or blanched chives or small cabbages enter the boat world.  Certain foods, such as shark fin, duck with cashew nuts, and steamed freshwater mullet, were especially expensive, and thus marked truly exceptional occasions.

A boat feast, then, was usually of sea food with chicken dishes and a dish or two of cut-up pork with vegetables.  A land feast was largely chicken and pork dishes, with some expensive sea food and some expensive, luxurious vegetables.  The actual code was far more complex than this, and one could write a book on the specifics of social-occasion marking through food in Cantonese culture (see Anderson 1988, Watson and Watson 2004).

For the boat people, fish had to be cooked a certain way.  Groupers were steamed and eaten with ginger and other flavorings.  Pomfret was steamed and usually covered with a white sauce.  Sea bass was chunked and stir-fried.  Yellow croakers went into sweet-and-sour sauce (the only time anyone made sweet-sour sauce on the waterfront, sweet-sour pork being considered uncouth).  Crabs required black bean sauce or red vinegar.   Fresh shrimp were generally simply boiled, or stir-fried with various flavorings.  People were surprisingly conservative about these methods.  A diner choosing to cook a fish in a non-canonical way had to explain why he had “wasted a perfectly good fish.”

 

Patterns of clothing in rural south China distinguished different ethnic groups.  The boat people wore loose black cotton pants and shirts, and mushroom-shaped hats made of hard bamboo slips or palm leaves.  The black cotton cloth was light but incredibly tough, withstanding salt water and heavy wear.  In winter, people adopted the layered look, with thin undergarments and wadded jackets.  For formal occasions, dark blue often substituted for black.

In the mid-1960s, most people still wore traditional clothing.  By the 1970s, cheap western-style clothing had become rather common.  It had to be very cheap to compete, because the old-fashioned outfits outlasted western-style garments by months or years.

Children wore brighter colors, and young ones added many protective charms, including tiny models of floats.  Most women and many men wore jade bracelets, because in an accident these would shatter instead of one’s arm bone (a religious belief, not a scientific fact; most people could recite counter-cases).

 

Recreation usually involved socializing, eating, drinking, and relaxing.  The young engaged in horseplay—chasing, swimming, pickup ball, and miscellaneous energetic activity.  Land people included in their stereotype of boat people an odd belief that the boat people could not swim.  Anyone who visited the bay on a warm sunny day could see the error of that.

More serious time-killing usually took the form of gambling; older women in particular played mah-jongg and related games by the hour.  A standard way of saying someone was living the easy life was to say “he/she can play mah-jongg all day.”  Mah-jongg was a noisy game, usually played on a table of thin, resonant wood.  It was an older adults’ game; playing it was a privilege of seniority.  Younger adults did not play.  No one won or lost much money; now and then someone would win HK $100, but this would be lost again in a few days.

On the other hand, the boat people were largely a sober lot.  Robert Antony in Froth Floating on the Sea (2003:140-150) provides lurid accounts of the activities of South Chinese pirates—boozing, whoring, gambling, and otherwise acting like pirates.  (Those of the Caribbean, however idealized by Disney, were, in reality, the same or worse.)  The boat people of Castle Peak Bay told the same stories of such rough elements, but they were quick to distance themselves from such lifestyles.  Their difficult life, demanding not only hard and dangerous work but also extreme thrift, honesty, and mutual aid, allowed very little recreation.  Almost all profit went to pay off loans.  True, what little was left very often went to gambling and alcohol, but that was more about maintaining social ties than about debauchery.  Tiny sums of money, a few days a year, hardly permitted debauchery.  Even the relatively well-off could not indulge often.  The boat people carefully calculated feasting and drinking, and gambling to a lesser extent, to maximize social ties.  These activities were not mere amusement.

Music delighted everyone.  Radios, festival music, instrument solos, and folksinging all made the waterfront a vibrant, wonderful cacophony that could be heard a mile away.  During the day, one was usually able to listen to several radios, each playing at top volume, each tuned to a different station—and often someone was singing over it all.

Well into the 1960s, the boat people were known for their “salt water songs” (haam seui ko; Anderson 1975; Wu 1937). These songs had been famous throughout south China for centuries.  These included some traditional folksongs and poems (with set texts), but most were freely improvised, blues-like sequences.  Singers, usually young, displayed great musical and poetic ability.  Singing was a typical feature of courtship (usually of the “light love” variety), but salt water songs also included funeral laments, marriage songs, complaints about hard life, and simple time-killing songs for dull hours on the water.

In 1965, when I began to record salt water songs, many people knew a rich selection, but radio music had already made great inroads.  By the 1970s, salt water songs were dead, and only a few people remembered them.  One of the greatest folk song forms in the world, a tradition fully comparable to American blues or Scottish ballads, had disappeared without trace.  To my knowledge, my recordings, done on a wretched old tape recorder that barely played, are all that survives (the tapes are deposited in the Hong Kong Museum).

The salt water songs were a true expression of boat culture: beautiful, intense, personal, and usually highly improvisational.  They combined classic themes and images in ever-new ways, the better to express deep truths in a language that was at once highly metaphoric and strikingly direct.  They ranged from gloriously ribald to delicately sensitive.  They treated the full emotions of the singers, revealing much that could never be spoken.  They focused boat life and experience into a single rich form.  They were one of the great achievements of the human spirit, and they should never have died.  Nothing like them will ever appear again.

 

4

Predominantly fishermen, the boat people had an amazing knowledge of marine life.  Dr. William Cheung, the Stanford-trained fisheries expert who generously provided most of the identifications for me, had kept a running record of the knowledge, and we estimated that the boat people of Hong Kong knew over 1,400 named taxa of marine life.  I recorded about 400 names at Castle Peak Bay.  These covered everything from seabirds, sea snakes, and sea turtles to shrimps, sea cucumbers and even humbler bottom fauna.  (All the names can be found in Anderson 1972; I will stick largely to English here.)

Like most people, they recognized life-form categories:  birds (jeuk), snakes (se), turtles (kuai) fish (yu), decapod crustacea (ha, including shrimps, prawns and lobsters), crabs (hai), and snails (lo).  These were basic large divisions of the animate world.

They also had a range of smaller but comparably basic divisions—small life-form categories, or merely the residual taxa that Berlin called “unique beginners.”  (No one has ever really solved the question of how to regard these terms.)  These included Cantonese categories exactly equivalent to English labels: clams, squids, cuttlefish, octopi, sea cucumbers, oysters, roaches, horseshoe crabs, starfish, jellyfish, and sea urchins.  Except for squids with a very few categories, these taxonomic units were not further subdivided.  There was only one marine type of each.  (The roach had a land exemplar, however; water roaches—seui jaat— were crustacea, Lygyda spp., but seen as marine forms of the cockroach, kak jaat.)  Porpoises and dolphins were often called “sea pigs,” which would make them another sea exemplar of a land category.

Cantonese had no categories equivalent to “shellfish,” “crustaceans,” “mollusks,” or “cephalopods.”  The boat people simply saw no reason to lump highly disparate creatures under broad headings of that sort.  English keeps “squids” and “cuttlefish” separate, as Cantonese does, though the learned scientific term “cephalopod” has gained some currency.

One category somewhat problematic to me at first was lung, “dragons.”  The boat people knew, and claimed to see on occasion, three or four types of these.  Most of these remained invisible to me, but one, the cham lung (“sinking dragon” or “deep-diving dragon”), was quite visible; it was the sturgeon.  The tentacles and distinctive scales of this strange, primitive fish made it seem more dragon than fish, though it was uncomfortably intermediate between these two categories (see Chapter 7).

In general, Chinese classification is strikingly similar to English, and thus very different indeed from many classification systems around the world.  Not only does it have more or less the same structure and categories; it is also rather complex, with many terms at each level.  It has many folk species, for instance.  This contrasts sharply with North American Native systems, including the Haida, Nuu-chah-nulth, and Yucatec Maya ones I have studied.  To my knowledge, all Native American systems are very heavy on folk generics, very light on life-form categories and folk specifics.  They are “shallow” taxonomies.  Apparently it is easier to learn a simple list of names until the list becomes overwhelmingly large (Hunn 1990).

I suspect the deeper and more complex Chinese system results from China’s long history as a mercantile civilization.  I think that this history has produced particular pressures to name certain beings in certain ways—as a similar history certainly did in Europe.  Plant names can be more easily traced than fish names in Chinese history (Anderson 1991), and thus provide a valuable comparison.  Sources from the earliest period of Chinese history show a Native American type of plant taxonomy, with many one-word terms comprising folk generics.  Folk specifics were added steadily over time, as the Chinese discovered more and more plants that were obviously related to familiar plants.  For instance, the familiar willow lent its name to the Near Eastern pomegranate, which arrived in the early medieval period and was labeled “stone willow.”  Then the Portuguese brought the guava from South America in the 16th century; the guava was called the “barbarians’ stone willow” because of its similarity to a pomegranate.  The Portuguese were “barbarians” not just because of Chinese prejudice, but also because of less-than-lovable behavior; more than a few were smugglers and swashbucklers.

Brent Berlin points out that people classify under one terminological head those organisms that appear to make up a “natural” group to members of the culture (Berlin 1992).  Berlin, like Scott Atran (1990), tends to think such groups are natural—they are typically biological groupings, given by shared evolution and genetics, and people see them as such.  Where the folk are clearly not doing this, as in classing whales with fish, it is because of understandable mistakes; numerous similarities link whales and fish.  The boat people realized that porpoises and whales are “like pigs” internally.  They classed them with fish on the basis of surface similarities, but also called them “sea pigs.”  As in the case of the sturgeon, this appearance of belonging to two opposed basic categories made these mammals anomalous, and thus uncanny (see Chapter 7).

Other anthropologists, especially those who have studied systems radically different from English or Chinese, see taxonomy as much more arbitrary, much less grounded in “real” biology (e.g. Ellen 1993; Forth 2004).  Obviously, the anthropologists’ experience matters here[1].

Looking over world systems, one cannot miss a universal tendency to “carve nature at the joints” (as taxonomist folklore has it)—to see real biological divisions.  Such divisions tend to make sense; they capture useful truths.

However, when other, even more useful truths are captured by a quite different classification system, people may ignore whatever joints nature may have.  For instance, some systems noted by Ellen and Forth class bats with birds, but class flightless birds as something else entirely.  This makes perfect sense if flight is a key characteristic but other obvious biological markers (feathers, beaks, etc.) are not.

More interesting are basic differences that these and many other systems make between spiritually powerful creatures and other, lesser ones.  We shall see below that the boat people have such a division, but they do not make it part of their basic taxonomic system.  Many other peoples do.  However, Native North American groups such as the Haida made a far more serious issue of spiritual-power classification.  One cannot understand their system without knowing both local biology and Haida religion.  This did not keep them from having an enormous and biologically very sophisticated taxonomy and knowledge base for marine life.

Even scientific taxonomists provided us with some groupings that seemed reasonable, but turned out to be genetically far off base.  Fungi were included with plants (they are genetically closer to animals).  American vultures were lumped with African ones (American vultures are storks; African vultures are close to eagles).  So, when a society finds it expedient to recognize ceremonial value, fightlessness (of birds), or stem shape (of plants) as basic, we should not be surprised, even if it means “carving nature at joints” totally different from the joints recognized by scientists or folk English speakers.

The boat people found it to their advantage to develop a classification system close to the scientific one.  This interested me, and I asked them to explain.  They said that not only do all sharks, all groupers, all squids look alike, they also act alike and often taste alike.  If you want to catch new species, you can make certain predictions based on the behavior of the ones you know.  If you want to sell them, you can expect to get about the same price, or at least be in the same pricing universe; sharks are very cheap except for the valuable fins, groupers are all valuable, squid are in between.

Broad, basic terms of the sort described above were broken down into what my teacher Brent Berlin calls “folk generics.”  These are the basic terms of reference to animals and plants:  one-word or two-word, easily-learned names that can be applied to a group of very similar organisms.  These are sometimes broken down into “folk species.”  In American English, “trout” and “shark” are folk generics.  Folk species within these categories include brook trout, brown trout, rainbow trout, white shark, sand shark, and so forth.  Normally,  a folk species name is made by adding an adjective to a folk generic.

Such categorization is dynamic.  Most Americans have “salmon” as a folk generic, with chum salmon, pink salmon, and so on as folk species.  These Americans see salmon as very similar, and probably very few can distinguish the species.  By contrast, the Northwest Coast Native peoples never recognized such a generic.  They have always seen the many species of salmon in their waters as totally different fish.  They find it preposterous that anyone should lump them.  This pattern has spread to Anglo settlers, who now use “chum,” “pink,” “sockeye,” and so on as folk generics, and use the word “salmon” only when referring to aggregate economic data and the like.  They laugh at tourists and other ignorant folk who cannot instantly see that a sockeye is totally different from a pink.  (This paragraph is based on my field work in British Columbia, 1984-1987.)

The boat people’s fish terminology turned out to be as neat, straightforward, and well-organized as kinship, but there were huge differences in people’s knowledge of it, leading to smaller but real differences in people’s classification systems.  Some were experts in one thing, some in another.  Trawlermen knew all sorts of small, scruffy marine items that hook-and-line fishermen ignored.

Hook-and-liners knew the fine distinctions between the many grouper species (or rockfish; sekpaan in Cantonese; to scientists, Epinephalus spp. and close relatives).  Trawlermen just called them all “red” or “green” or “spotted groupers.”  This was one case where one could see why nature was carved at the joints.  The hook-and-liners explained to me that each sekpaan has its own behavior:  its own favored habitat, depth, wariness of the hook, favorite bait, and so on.  They could give excellent species-specific accounts of these matters.  The trawlermen caught groupers in huge net hauls, and did not have any occasion or reason to know the differences between different species.

In all cases, folk generics corresponded to scientific taxonomic units, but the units varied in size.  Sekpaan corresponded almost perfectly to the scientific genus Epinephalus, but sa yu, “sharks,” corresponded to several families—all the fish we call sharks, hammerheads, and guitarfish in English.  The boat people were aware of real biological relationships, but they were not concerned with making folk genera comparable in extension.

They were equally well aware of real biological differences.  For instance, they recognized that the almost exactly similar mudskippers and walking gobies were quite different biological entities.  The hook-and-liners recognized different species of sekpaan that biologists could barely distinguish; the hook-and-liners knew, moreover, that one species occurred on very rocky and rugged bottoms, while another virtually indistinguishable one preferred pebbles and sand.  Marine biologists, if they knew this, knew it only because they had learned it from the fishermen.

Clearly, Berlin is right about at least some folk biologists.  They do know “nature” very well indeed, and know how to carve it at joints that are biologically real .

Folk specifics usually corresponded closely to biologists’ species, but sometimes a folk specific lumped a whole set of biological species, especially in the case of small organisms whose biological species look much alike.  Shrimps and small, worthless fish were the main examples.

Unlike the Maya (whom I have worked with since), the boat people had many folk generics divided into folk species.  In addition to groupers and sharks, there were species of rays, croakers, soles, seabass, and many other common types. They coined many names that were, or functioned as, folk specifics by adding adjectives to life-form categories:  “spotted shrimp,” “dragon shrimp” (lobster), and so on.

Turning a term like sa yu into a folk species term involved dropping the life-form category yu and adding an adjective, as in pak sa, “white shark,” apparently identical to the western white shark (Charcharodon carcharias).

 

This biologically-grounded taxonomic system was the basic system—what Berlin calls a basic or general-purpose taxonomy.  It was the one always used when what one wanted to do was simply give a name to something.  It was the system always used to supply a name when I asked “what’s that”?  (Not, you remember, “what’s its name?…”)

However, the boat people used other ways of classifying fish.  These were all ad hoc, functional systems.  They cross-cut the biological taxonomy.  I recorded the following:

–Price.  The price mattered a great deal.  So everyone knew which were the high-priced fish, and even the exact prices that the better ones brought from the dealers and in the markets.  Many were worthless, or good only as “duck feed fish.”   Some fish were good only for salting as haam yu “salt fish.”

–Catching method:  trawler fish, hook-and-line fish, gill-netter fish, and so on.

–Life cycle stages.  Amazingly common and uniform around the world is a tendency for fishermen to divide common fish into life cycle stages.  In English, for instance, salmon are fry, then parr, then smolt, then finally mature salmon.  Eels begin as elvers.  Similarly, for the boat people, tiny fry were “flowers” (fa), and there were size terms for sole and a few other species.

–Life type.  Oysters were differentiated by where they grew:  rock oysters, tile oysters, and so on.

–Metaphor.  Very rarely, a human was called a shark or a dragon.  One might have thought the boat people would more often use marine metaphors, but they did not.

–Religious importance.  Several species were san yu, “sacred fish.”  This very important category will be discussed in Chapter   .

These ad hoc functional schemes were never used to produce ordinary conversational or formal names.  They arose only in context.  On the other hand, they were important, formalized, and frequently discussed—especially the price system.

The boat people certainly recognized that the basic taxonomy was grounded in nature—in the reality of the fish and their obvious relationships or similarities.  They recognized that this was a totally different classification method from that used in the cross-cutting systems, which were based entirely on human concerns.  The boat people thus paralleled the thinking of Claude Lévi-Strauss (1962) in his differentiation of “scientific” thought and “wild” thought.  Scientific thought tries to understand the nonhuman world in its own terms.  Wild thought understands the nonhuman world in strictly human terms, projecting human categories onto it, seeing it only as a site for human use-values and metaphors.  The boat people’s sharp distinction between the basic taxonomy and the ad hoc cross-cutting systems closely parallels this division.

The Yucatec Maya, whom I have studied since, have a similar distinction, but it seems less sharp.  In fact, recording the related Itzaj Maya language, C. A. Hofling and the Itzaj Maya scholar Felix Tesucún (1997) do not distinguish a basic from ad hoc, special-purpose systems.  They provide only one taxonomy, incorporating functional, human-centered categories as part of the whole system.  The human-centered terms are subcategories within a basically nature-centered taxonomy.  Since one of the two is a fluent native speaker, this must be psychologically real to the Itzaj.  It would certainly not be psychologically real for the Yucatec, who do distinguish basic from special-purpose taxonomies.  However, even among the Yucatec, the division is not as clear as among the Cantonese.

The whole nomenclatural system provides a wonderful simple case of a cultural classification system.  The terms hang together neatly, are organized in sharply defined cross-cutting categorization modes, and apply quite precisely to the natural world.  People use the terms in a flexible, adaptable, but straightforward fashion, to talk about fish.  Practice enters, especially in the cross-cutting ad hoc systems.  These change rapidly according to felt needs in interaction and discourse.  On the other hand, the basic structure of Chinese fish taxonomy has remained the same for thousands of years, as we know from classical texts.

This makes a very neat model of culture:  long-lasting structural framework, shorter-term changes and adaptations, and instant accommodation to the much more fluid, rich, complicated world of actual discursive practice.  (On the general theory all these matters see Hanks 1990.)  This may be one of the most important theoretical conclusions I learned from my boat friends.

It also makes clear the degree to which traditional people know their environment.  The boat people’s system was biologically sophisticated and knowledge-rich.  I could give only a brief summary of their incredible working knowledge even in my more detailed books, and will not even attempt it here.  Suffice it to say that one could easily fill an encyclopedia with Cantonese fishermen’s knowledge of sea life, to say nothing of ships, winds, waters, and the rest of their environment.

Comparing the boat people’s system with modern biological knowledge helps appreciate how much they knew, and also what we can learn from it, but the comparison is also interesting for what it tells us about human thought.  This being the case, we need comparisons of the boat system not only with the biological, but also with the Maya, the Haida, the various systems studied by Ellen and Forth, and, last but far from least, with classical Chinese fish lore.  Such comparisons will have to await further research.

The currently popular myth that “indigenous knowledge” is “culturally constructed,” and thus not similar to or close to modern biological knowledge, does not stand up under investigation.  Most fishermen’s knowledge of marine environment and biology was scientifically impeccable, and modern marine biologists learned a great deal from the boat people.  The boat people sometimes phrased it differently, but it could be translated into bioscientific terms with ease.  Cultural classification systems are, of course, culturally constructed (by definition), but that does not mean they are out of touch with reality.  Many anthropologists seem to think that there is an opposition between cultural construction and “reality” (whatever that is).  Of course not.  Culture is adaptive; it is the knowledge we need to live our lives.  It has to be realistic.  It is never a perfect reflection of reality; that would require perfect information, and humans never have that.  Culture provides useful knowledge, not perfect knowledge.

Yet, equally interesting, and common in China as elsewhere, is the combination of highly perceptive and expert biology with a number of beliefs that seem flagrantly and obviously counter-evidential.  Dragons and sacred fish were important to the boat people.  The boat people sometimes saw dragons writhing in the clouds of a typhoon or violent storm; fear made the vapor seem malignantly alive. Classical Chinese biology—like folkbiologies around the world—includes many other strange creatures, ranging from phoenixes to crane-riding Immotals.   The sacred fish were real enough, but were fish that seemed anomalous in some way, and thus uncanny; they were thus out of the normal realm.

Very often, such “mistakes” arise by logical extension of reasonable beliefs that approximate reality.  I have described elsewhere (Anderson 1996) how Chinese ideas of nutrition and of landscape evolved naturally from correct observations.  Such beliefs as are incompatible with modern bioscience were logically deduced from correct observations; the logic was imperfect only because the observations were limited by the investigative and theorizing capacities of a premodern society.

We need more and better analyses of how such knowledge systems arise, and how they serve to mediate between people and environment.

 

5

To live, the boat people had to make money.  Chinese society has been market-oriented for millennia, and much ink has been spilled over the question of why China did not develop capitalism before the west did.

The boat people had an ambiguous view of money.  This showed clearly in a proverb they very often cited:  “Money is like dung; honesty and goodness are worth a thousand gold.”  Money is dung—but is the measure of value and goodness, too!  The ambiguity is, however, less real than appearance suggests.  In fact, money per se is like dung; misers and penny-pinchers got no respect.  Money used for sociability, community, and mutual aid was a different thing.  Using money thus was the very soul of honesty and goodness.

The proper boat person, especially the male, thus immediately converted any spare wealth into social capital (a phrase I used in my original Castle Peak monograph, before Bourdieu made it famous [Anderson 1970b:83]; maybe I should claim credit).  He throws feasts, supports festivals, cultivates friendships, enjoys himself, and helps others out.  Such a man is gaining min, “face,” of which more anon.  Actual behavior ranged from almost complete indifference to money to grasping skinflint attitudes, but most boat people, especially leaders, stood close to the ideal.

Poor people had mixed standing.  Unfortunate or hard-working ones were pitied.  Lazy, dishonest, or incompetent ones were despised—not so much because they were immoral as because, in the words of one land-dweller, “the poor can’t help you.”

Rich people did not get automatic respect.   They would have to deal with gossip to the effect they got their wealth dishonestly, especially if they did not spread it around.

The ideal, then, was to get money industriously; grasping or too-clever tactics were acceptable.  But, however the money came, one should share the good fortune with as many people as possible, and in as helpful a way as possible.  Helping with religious festivals was perhaps the most prestigious.  The believers saw these festivals as the best hope for guaranteeing good weather, good health, and good luck to the whole community.  The skeptics saw that at least the festivals brought the community together as nothing else could.

Traditionally, the boat people of the western New Territories made their living on the water and from the water.  Most of them were fishers (for full detail on fishing, too specialized to cover here, see Anderson 1970b, 1972).  The rest made their living as cargo-carriers, longshoremen, fish market workers, and other shoreline occupations.  A large number, often women or older people with limited options, made their living carrying passengers in sampans.  Many others lived as boat-based vendors.  They rowed among the moored fishing boats during the evening, selling everything from vegetables and oil to firecrackers and incense.  Like vendors in Elizabethan London, they had beautiful, musical calls to advertise their wares; these calls were among the most characteristic and nostalgic sounds of quiet evenings on the water.  Cries were more numerous and varied in the past, said the fishermen, who added that they deeply missed those old sounds.

At Tai O, but not at Castle Peak, some boat girls made their living by singing songs and otherwise entertaining young men.  Sex was not necessarily involved, nor was it excluded.  No one considered these girls to be prostitutes, and no stigma attached to their occupation.  Quite the reverse; by singing folk songs and sometimes classical Chinese poems, they brought highly valued cultural delights to the waterfront.

Within recent memory, smuggling and piracy had also been important occupations (Antony 2003; Murray 1987).  Piracy was long extinct in 1965, but smuggling opium and running refugees out of China were still side occupations for a few fishermen.  I had no opportunity to investigate this, for obvious reasons, but I was told by reliable friends that it was rare at Castle Peak.  Most such activity was concentrated in the bigger, more urban ports.

At Castle Peak, all these nonfishing boat people, whatever their occupation, lived on sampans or on stationary craft.  At Tai O, most boat people lived on houses—built and maintained like boat cabins—on pilings over tidewater.  The tidal “streets” left between rows of houses became mud at low tide, neither navigable or walkable.  These streets were known as chung (no character known), a word that sounds to me suggestively like the Thai equivalent klong.  (There is a theory that klong is cognate with jiang, the traditional Chinese name of the Yangzi River.  Central China still has some Thai speakers, and, as noted above, the Hong Kong area was probably Thai-speaking—in the broad sense of the word “Thai”—within early historic times.)

Life on the old boats was wonderful, vibrant, and fascinating.  It was even beautiful, for the boat people kept their boats clean, varnished, and shipshape.  The old craft were striking enough to show up in every tourist photograph of Hong Kong—even long after they had disappeared except as photographers’ props!  Many of the furnishings—jars, tackle, pans, altar sculptures—were true works of art.

By 1965, unsuccessful fishermen and poorer refugees from China were moving out of the fishery to work in the factories, shops, and cafes that were opening in San Hui.  No one we talked to did this voluntarily; all were forced into it by being unable to raise capital to maintain a boat.  After that time, decline set in, until the fishery ended.

In 1965 and 1966, the fishery still employed the largest number of people of any activity around the bay.  Some 400 species of marine life were more or less commonly found, and another several hundred potentially occurred somewhere in the area.  I recorded about 100 species commonly taken and sold at Castle Peak Bay.  Most important commercially were groupers, soles, croakers, goldenthread, and shrimp.  Pomfret, crab, and flathead made up a more specialized group of species.

Huge old hand trawlers—magnificent sailing-junks from another era—dominated the skyline.  The newer, sleeker, diesel-powered trawlers, net-hauling booms lowered for fishing or raised out of the way, moved around them like wolves among bears.  Trawlers drag huge nets over the bottom, or close to it, and catch mostly trash fish and larger but less valuable species; the slow hand-trawlers specialized in catching vast masses of tiny sea life used for duck feed.

Below and around and among these were the small gill-netters that stretched long curtains of nets from the water surface, blocking the paths of migrating schools of fish.  They made most of their money in spring, when the yellow croakers (Pseudosciaenia crocea) ran north to breed in the Yangtze area and the China Sea (on this fishery, see Chu 1960).  By 1975, the yellow croakers were declining, victims of pollution and overfishing.  Gill-netting was a dying art.  Sweet-sour yellow croaker, one of the superb signature dishes of Castle Peak Bay restaurants, was almost a thing of the past.  A few purse-seiners, similar to gill-netters but using smaller nets that surrounded fish, worked the shallows; they caught small amounts of small fish.  This was a chronically low-paying fishery; purse-seining paid much better in the eastern New Territories.  (Barbara Ward’s community, Kau Sai, in the east, was largely a purse-seiner port).

Smaller still were the hook-and-line boats that specialized in catching high-quality larger fish for the fresh-fish market.  Some of these boats were no more than sampans, but they had cabins and housed families.  Many of these were not mechanized.  The ancient five-sided mat sail, amazingly adaptable for sailing close to the wind, held its own among the aging bus engines and other retooled motors that drove most of the fleet.  One reason was that the engines constantly broke down, and the trouble and expense of repairing them ruined many a family.  Therefore, less affluent or more traditional families avoided them.

In the fresh fish market, hook-and-line fish took pride of place, since net-caught fish were dead on arrival.  This allowed the tiny hook-and-lining sampans to make a living.  What they lacked in catching power and range they made up in value of product.   Some species fetched many times as much as others, and fashions tended to change; the fishers had to keep up on fickle tastes.

 

The number of people on a boat was a function of its size.  The hand-trawlers had, by my census count, up to 47 people living on them.  I heard of junks with 60 to 80 residents.  Often there were passengers as well.

One other type of boat was the houseboat.  In addition to old wrecked trawlers and other craft still used for housing, there were many houseboats, some large enough to serve as schools and meeting halls.  They had large square cabins, and could not travel; they were anchored in place, except when ponderously towed to shelter during typhoons.

One important type of houseboat was the live fish boat.  Several of these lined the southeast shore of the bay, where they sold live seafood to gourmets.  Tied to the boats were small, low barges with the bottoms replaced by chicken wire; sea water circulated freely for the fish, shrimp, crabs, and lobsters.  (Such boats are known as “well-smacks” in England.)  The live fish boat owners lived in their small houseboats, surrounded by these well-smacks, and bought the fish from specialized small fishermen (mostly hook-and-liners) for resale to the connoisseurs.

Life on the boats was not necessarily poor or uncomfortable.  Medium-sized ones had chickens and a dog or cat.  Big ones might add ducks, geese, and even a pig for New Year.  Flowering plants and medicinal herbs in pots graced the stern, and many sterncastles were magnificent floating gardens.

 

The fishermen sold most of their catch to the fish buyers.  Here and elsewhere, when talking about sales and economic interaction, I use the term “fishermen,” because dealings with the buyers and similar powerful shore folk were invariably carried out by the senior men.  The women had a full share in decision-making and fund allocation on the boats, and did their share of the fishing; indeed, the boat world was the least patriarchal in Hong Kong.  But land people, especially big businessmen, were dangerous; women avoided them.

Castle Peak Bay was especially interesting as a last holdout of the Imperial Chinese merchandising institution of fully private fish-buying.  Elsewhere in Hong Kong, and of course in China, government had stepped in to market the fish.  Only at Castle Peak did the fish buyers still control the industry.

The fish buyers’ dark, barnlike structures lined the southeast part of the shoreline.  The sheds, and by extension their owners, were known as laan (“pen,” and by extension “dealing place, auction shed”).  The backs of these structures projected over the water, raised on high pilings.  Boats came in and offloaded fish in baskets, which were carried up flights of steps (underwater at high tide) to the main shed floor.  The other end of the laan opened on the main road. These dealers—there were 18 of them in 1965, fewer in 1974—bought fish directly from the fishermen, packed and graded them, and resold them to middlemen from the cities, who came out at evening to buy lots of fish.  These they would put in baskets and leave on the curb, there to be picked up in the wee hours by the dealers’ trucks.  These city buyers, in turn, sold the fish to retailers in the urban markets.  Caught between the powerful laans and the sharp urban retail dealers, and forced to drive trucks in the wee hours, these city buyers did not have an easy life.  The laans took 6% of the city buyers’ price for themselves, remitting the rest to the fishermen—but only after debt repayments had also been extracted.  Debt repayments were calculated such that the fishermen’s usual margins were barely enough to buy fuel and food.  Anything beyond that required borrowing still more from the laans.

Laans preferred loyal and honest customers, and gave much better terms to such, to hold them.  On the other hand, they quickly stopped all credit to deadbeats, driving them out of the fishery.  The laan owners knew the credit-worthiness of every established fisher family on the waterfront.  Newcomers had a hard time of it unless they could establish a reputation.  Conversely, a fisherman with a reputation as both a good fish-catcher and a thoroughly honest man could get special terms from the laans.

The laans were cordially hated by the fishermen, who uniformly accused them of colluding to fix prices.  They also supposedly gave short weights; a proverb said that “a laan’s catty is eighteen ounces.”  (The normal catty has sixteen ounces.  This proverb was not restricted to the waterfront—it was a “frame text,” and producers all over Hong Kong used it to describe purchasers of every stripe.  But it was not a hollow figure of speech.  I personally saw some rather shady weighing carried out; see King 1955 for a study of pricing in a more free-market boat community).  Laans often sold fuel and other needs, and, like many other merchants on the bay, they charged top prices[2].   Also, the laans were not friendly to boat people.  In 1965, one lost his temper and said “I can whip you dirty Tanka like dogs.”  The fisherman sued him for abuse, and won, but that was something that could not have happened even three or four years earlier.

Moreover, the laans were the fishermen’s source of capital, and charged high interest rates—theoretically 20% per year, actually higher, though terms were flexible (they did not want to put fishermen out of business permanently).  In practice, fishermen in debt to laans almost never escaped.  The interest rates were too high, the capital needs too great and too oft-recurrent.  Engines, in particular, constantly needed fixing, and the boat people—unlike some groups I have worked with—were not “natural-born” mechanics.  They tried to repair their engines, but rather than working with the cool efficiency of the people I know in south Mexico, the typical fisherman sweated, cursed, cut corners, became angry and threw bolts, tinkered without much enthusiasm, and eventually had to buy a new engine.  Even without this, expenses constantly added up, and prices stayed low.

A fisherman could not normally change laans.  The laans had a strict rule that they would not pick up another laan’s fisherman, unless said fisherman was thrown out by his usual laan.  Since no laan would do this unless the fisherman was a deadbeat, fishermen did not switch laans.  Once in a great while an extremely lucky and honest fisherman could get away with a switch, but normally this was impossible.

The fishermen therefore pressured the government to put in a free auction market, which was done around 1970.  By 1974 it was in full operation, but was not as revolutionary as hoped.  The laans gave slightly lower prices than the market; however, they made up for it by giving easier credit to well-known clients (known to be good risks) than the government loan programs did.  Moreover, the laans were only too happy to loan money for weddings and other festivals, which the government found too frivolous.  Therefore, at first, many fishermen stayed with the laans.  This slowly changed, but before the laans could die out, the fishery ended.

In the 1940s and 1950s, the British colonial government became convinced that producers’ cooperatives were the best way to develop small-scale rural production in the colonial world.  Producers would join coops, pay a small fee for handling fish, and also pay 6% of their income into the general fund.  They could then borrow such money as was available, and pay it back at low interest rates.  Gradually, coops could get larger and better off, if managed well.  Throughout the British Empire, they became something of an article of faith, but, alas, the sun set on them when it did on the Empire itself.

In Hong Kong, the movement to cooperativize farmers and fishermen was most identified with G. A. C. Herklots, a biologist and agronomist.  Herklots had written a useful book on fish, which we used in the field both for reference and to study boat people’s ability to recognize the fish from the black-and-white drawings (Herklots and Lin 1961).  Among other things, Herklots saved many lives by managing to grow vegetables while interned in a Japanese death camp in Hong Kong in World War II (Herklots 1972; Herklots and Lin 1961).  By 1965, many farmers and fishermen were in savings-and-loan coops for developing production, and in “better living societies” (coops for developing housing and other amenities).

Such activity was only beginning at Castle Peak Bay.  The government had been slow to move in, and the laans were implacably hostile.  Fishermen who went with the coops found the laans stonewalled them when they requested credit.  This kept the coops poor (very few fishermen could join), and thus kept the threat credible.  By good fortune, we were in Castle Peak Bay when things turned around.  Thanks to a great extent to the tireless and self-sacrificing work of Choi Kwok-Tai, at first clerk and later director of the cooperative office at the bay, the coops finally turned a corner, and acquired enough successful members to have significant money to loan.  Fishermen—again, only men engaged in coop business—rapidly turned away from the laans.  Between coops and the new market, the laans found themselves badly squeezed, and they were a shadow of their former selves in 1974-75.  Even the advantage of providing loans for festivals was not so significant, for secularization and declining fish catches were combining to reduce festival activity[3].

Fishing was a living; the Hong Kong market was almost infinitely large, exports were developing by 1974, and Cantonese love good fish better than all other foods.  However, fishing did not pay well.  In general, a fishermen either caught great amounts of poor-quality, low-priced fish (hand-trawlers, purse-seiners), or small amounts of high-priced ones (gill-netters, hook-and-liners).  A top-value grouper weighing a kilogram brought as much as a ton of fish sold for duck feed.  Only the power trawlers had the chance to make a real killing, as when one man got impossibly lucky and caught a whole shoal of shrimp at one shot—“netting” $30,000 Hong Kong dollars, almost all of which went to pay off his debts.  But even the power trawlers barely survived, because of the high costs of fuel and engine repairs.  Also, China charged taxes and license fees for fishing on their waters (or fines for poachers—poaching was common), and these could be substantial.  Above all, repaying the laans for loans took most of the profits, unless one was in the coop.

Worse was the steady decline of the fish.  Pollution and overfishing eventually destroyed the Hong Kong fishery.  From 1965 to 1975, the loss was spectacular; the bottom had dropped out of the fishery.  Local seas were virtually sterilized by chemical wastes from industries.  Migrant schools—even the vast runs of yellow croakers, streaming north in millions to breed near the Yangzi mouth—had been fished to extinction by boats all along the China coast.  The high-seas fishery had been exhausted everywhere within reach of Castle Peak boats; fish for the markets of Hong Kong now came from farther away, from the waters reached by the huge, powerful boats out of Aberdeen and out of Guangzhou.  By 1990, there was virtually nothing left in the waters once plied by the Castle Peak fleet; a few boats caught minnows in the polluted waters.  The few surviving Hong Kong fishermen ran out to deep water, in the South China Sea and beyond, there to catch fish that sat on ice (or, at best, stayed alive in dirty tanks on board) for hours or days before reaching the restaurants.  This, of course, caused sorrow among old-time gourmets.  There is certainly no comparison between the fish of Castle Peak Bay in the old days and the so-called “fresh” fish of modern Chinese restaurants.

The lack of fish conservation stood out as an anomaly in rural Hong Kong.  Management of the rice agricultural system was incredibly careful, precise, and fine-tuned (Anderson 1988; Anderson and Anderson 1973; Marks 1998).  The system was sustainable over the long term (though probably not indefinitely), and involved conservation and recycling of a highly sophisticated order.  It was very hard on the forest environment and the large animals therein, as Robert Marks (1998) and Mark Elvin (2004) have pointed out, but otherwise it was a model of sustainable agriculture, and as such has much to teach the world (Anderson 1988).  A fully integrated part of it was the exceedingly sophisticated management of pond aquaculture and of oyster-farming in shallow bays.  So, fisheries management and conservation was no new or radical idea.

In Malaysia in 1970-71, we studied an area where Chinese fishermen had parceled out the shore and shallow waters, and enforced their community fishery space with savage thoroughness, burning boats and killing fishermen who poached (Anderson and Anderson 1978).  The Malaysian government ended this system—it was too violent, as well as being too much an independent and uncontrolled regime in a centralizing nation—but did not substitute anything effective in its place, so the fishery collapsed.  However, the system worked very well indeed for a long time, showing that Chinese fishermen are no less able than others around the world to establish sea tenure.

Why, then, did the south Chinese boat people not do this?  The answer is simple:  their drifting and politically powerless life.  Under modern governments as under the Qing Dynasty, they had had no political power, no way of establishing ownership, and no way of enforcing communal tenure.  Moreover, they had had to move at a moment’s notice from port to port, depending on the political situation.  Subjected to erratic clearances from the shoreline in Qing (Antony 2004; Murray 1987), and to chronic violence and governmental change in the 20th century, they had rarely had opportunities to develop stable communities, let alone conservation.  Even the stable communities, such as Tai O, had limited power over their own resources.

As I slowly accumulate more ethnographic experience, I wonder more and more at the ability of some writers to generalize about the environmental wisdom—or any other attribute, for that matter—of “the Chinese,” “indigenous people,” or even “all humanity.”  Examples like the present one show that the same people, under different conditions, can be superb (though never perfect) managers, indifferent managers, or not managers at all.  I have found this range everywhere that I have worked.  The huge literature on fisheries management, ranging from ethnographies (such as Maria Luz Cruz Torres’ superb Lives of Dust and Water, 2004) to conservation and comanagement work, documents similar things all over the world.  Moreover, many boat communities—Tai O included—depended on fish runs.  Vast fish schools migrated from the South China Sea along the coasts and up the rivers.  No one community could exert any meaningful control over these.

Formal national and colonial governments failed because they did not really care deeply about the boat people; because they were ideologically committed to other styles of governing; and because they too faced instability and violence.  Still, one must fault these governments for their indifference to conservation.  China’s Communist government has drawn down the conserved and accumulated wealth of thousands of years, wasting it in a few decades.  China faces a bleak future (Brown 1996; Chetham 2002; Edmonds 1998; Smil 1984).  Capitalism in Hong Kong proved no better; the market never internalized the costs of pollution, resource depletion, and destruction of producer livelihoods.  A truly free market should do these things, but somehow no market is perfect enough.

At any time, the barest minimum of investment in fishing regulation and pollution control could have saved a fishery and a way of life.  Hong Kong’s relentless commitment a chimerical “free market,” and China’s Communist commitment to maximizing immediate production whatever the future cost, were equally effective at wasting a multi-million-dollar resource that could have been saved for a trivially tiny sum.  Thus does political correctness, capitalist or communist, destroy everyone’s benefit, sooner rather than later.

 

 

CHAPTER 4.  FAMILY AND KIN

 

1

The household of the boat people was, of course, the boat.  When the boat people used the term ka (jia, “household”) it was the boat and its occupants that they meant.  The live-fish boats and the huge old trawlers often had an employee or a few employees, on board, but in other cases the occupants of a boat were close familial kin.

Boats of friends and relatives anchored or moored together.  As Ward (1955) found in Kau Sai, the question of which boats moored together was an important consideration.  The boats did not anchor randomly in the harbor.  They formed neat rows, neater in fact than village streets, and the patterns of anchoring were significant.

Most boats were isolated by water, but they moored near friends and relatives.  Some boats tied up to each other, so that groups became, in effect, one enlarged household.  Brothers, in particular, not only moored together but warped in so that the decks became one single living space.  When five or six trawlers were thus joined, the space was as large as a suburban house lot.   Father-son groups also fused this way, and so, less often, did uncle-nephew groups, brothers-in-law, and other close kin by birth or marriage.   At a festival, boats from outports gathered at Castle Peak, and long-lost kin came together; the united deck space might include 20 boats—true family fleets.  After their father’s death, brothers usually “drifted” apart eventually, but they reuinted at such occasions.  However, no fleet was more than two generations deep.

In the everyday unions of two to six boats, women cooked together; men ate together and discussed fishing and fishing grounds and financial details far into the night.  Children formed one playpack, swarming over all the craft.  The boat people, agile sailors, climbed with ease over and among the gunwales, rigging and tackle piles, barrels, and other impedimenta, or leaped small gaps between craft.  Important business transactions took place over dinner on the boat of the eldest man—the father or oldest brother.  The boats went out to fish together, and often fished close to one another, ready to help in an accident.

As a man’s sons grew up and married, he was expected to help them obtain boats.  This involved considering not only finances, but labor power.  A hook-and-liner could break off on his own as soon as he married.  (Single-person management of a boat was essentially impossible.)  A trawler needed a larger crew; a son had to have enough sons of his own to run a big boat, or an elder brother might split off with his younger brothers for crew.  Labor power, as well as space, determined the fact that small boats held nuclear families but big ones held extended ones (statistics are found in Anderson 1970b:88).  Only the smallest trawlers held nuclear families, and then only as a temporary expedient—at least, so the families hoped.

Families on the largest boats consisted of parents, children, sons and their wives, and grandchildren.  After a father’s death, brothers stayed together on the same boat only long enough to marry and branch out on their own.  Polygamy was theoretically possible, but found on only about 6% of boats, and never involving more than two wives.

Boat families were large in the old days.  Crew members were precious, and, as one person put it bluntly, “it costs less to raise crew members than to hire them.”  In 1965-66, the average family had five children, and the average completed family had about seven.  By 1975, this was falling fast; many young families were stopping at two, and few indeed were having more than four.  I was watching a demographic transition happen before my eyes (as I have since done, again, in southern Mexico).

 

The wider circle of kin remained important to boat people, though apparently less so than to the land people in the huge lineage villages nearby.  Boat kin beyond the immediate family tended to wind up in different ports, far away and out of touch.

However, kin ties were as strong as the exigencies of a “floating life” would allow.  Kin in general were hingtaai (xing di, “older and younger brothers”).  This phrase meant, metonymously, all kin.  No one used the formal Chinese words for extended families or kindreds.  Relations within the kindred were, indeed, like those between siblings—close, warm, and supportive.

Unlike the land people, the boat people had no lineages (tsou, Putonghua tsu; see Ward 1965, 1966; in some other parts of south China, however, boat people did have lineages; Wu 1937).  Within sight of some boat settlements were the huge lineage villages of the New Territories, famous throughout the anthropological world as perhaps the largest, deepest, and most formalized kinship groups found at ordinary-folk level (see Baker 1968, 1979; Freedman,1965, 1966; Potter 1968; Watson 1975; Watson and Watson 2004).

The boat people gave as reasons the facts that they had no land or equivalent estate to administer; no place to put lineage halls; no fixed address to call home; and neither a reason to group hundreds of kin together nor a way to do it.  Some mentioned also that they were generally illiterate, and so could not keep records.  (Being illiterate, they had not read the British Africanists, and so did not know that many lineage-based societies are nonliterate—the elders keeping track, in their heads, of thousands of kin.  Ancient China, before writing became common, was such a society—though its lineages were simpler than, and different in structure from, the huge lineages that grew up with widespread writing, printing, and middle-class society in and after the Song Dynasty; see Chang 1986.)

The basis of the great lineages is communal estate-holding—especially land, but also other wealth (Baker 1979; Cohen 1976; Pasternak 1972).  The foci of such great lineages are their ancestral starting-points and ancestral halls.  Lacking all the above, and lacking any need for lineages, the boat people did not bother.  Other Chinese fishermen often lack lineages (e.g. Diamond 1969), and, as all social historians of China know, north China lacks the huge, deep lineages of rural Hong Kong.  Indeed, even the other minority ethnic groups of Hong Kong tend to have small, shallow lineages.  Pasternak (1972) provides a land-based tale of lineage loss due to land ownership changes.  He called it “agnatic atrophy” (Pasternak 1968, 1972).  It may have been the original state of his sample village, rather than a derived condition, but, in any case, it was clearly more functional than historic—more a matter of present needs than of historical contingency.  As noted in Chapter 1, many boat people trace their descent to recent land-dwelling families that gave up their lineage identification to go on the water.

The Chinese fishermen we studied in Penang, Malaysia, maintained their ancestral lineage connections only if they were politically and socially active, and then they would pay a fee to join a “lineage association”; ordinary fishermen did not do this, and their lineage connections gradually declined into forgetfulness.  We were watching agnatic atrophy in process.

The limits of the family—the hingtaai unit—are therefore impossible to define.  A family blends off into a realm of forgotten distant cousins.  The patrilineal ancestry will be remembered as far as living memory goes.  An elder will remember his grandfather, perhaps his great-grandfather.  Beyond that, there is only haze.  Only one man in my sample knew much about his patrilineal family six generations before, and that only because his ancestors had left the land for the water in that generation.  Matrilineal kin are even more quickly forgotten.

Therefore, hingtaai rarely included anyone beyond one’s grandfather’s brothers and their children, and even they were usually a rather shadowy lot.  Father’s brothers, by contrast, were intensely involved in one’s life, and mother’s brothers often were.  The boat people were strongly patrilateral, but lack of lineages and closeness with in-laws made matrilateral kin more important than they were among many land-dweller families.

Ancestor images (or tablets, for a few highly literate families) were thus not stored in a temple indefinitely, let alone in a lineage hall (as among the land people).  The ancestors were commemorated on the boat shrine until no one was left alive who remembered them.  Then they were “sent to the sky”:  the images or tablets were ritually burned.  Memory of them faded out in another generation or two.  We later found the same thing in Malaysia and elsewhere; it is, in fact, a general rule for Chinese families that are not closely enmeshed in lineage affairs.

A consequence of this was that boat knowledge of Chinese kinship terminology was limited to these close relatives.  More distant relatives have their own names in Chinese, but the boat people simply extended the terms they knew.  If they needed to be more accurate, for ritual purposes (usually at weddings or funerals), they consulted an expert; a few elders knew the entire system, and shared their knowledge at need.

The Chinese kinship system is the limiting case of a descriptive system.  There are separate terms for father’s elder brother, father’s younger brother, mother’s elder brother, mother’s younger brother, father’s father’s elder brother, father’s father’s younger brother, and so on, for a total of well over 100 terms (see e.g. Feng 1948).  The boat people knew terms for lineal kin, brothers and sisters of direct patrilineal kin, and usually brothers and sisters of matrilineal direct kin too.  They knew terms for in-laws only for the spouse’s immediate nuclear family.  Beyond this limited circle, they knew few or no terms.  Two factors made this simplification desirable.  First and most obvious, the boat people lived in a world of small linear families, not the world of huge lineages where one dealt routinely with distant kin.  Second, the boat people tended to assimilate any distant relative to close-relative categories, as a conscious or “preconscious” way of building solidarity.  The Chinese saying “all men are brothers” was  well known, and considered highly relevant, on the waterfront.

Actual terms of address and reference were not the formal kinterms.  Hingtaai, the formal term for one’s older and younger brothers, was almost always used to mean “relatives,” not brothers.  In ordinary address and reference, brothers were taai lou “big fellow” and sai lou “little fellow.”  One’s son was sai lou tsai “little fellow-let”.  One’s wife was addressed by her familiar name and referred to as lou p’o “old woman”; husband was “old man.”  And so on.  Meanwhile, as in almost all societies around the world, respectful kinterms were liberated for use to any respected adult.  A man of one’s father’s generation was politely called “father’s elder brother”; of grandparental generation, “father’s father’s elder brother”; and so on.  See Anderson 1970b:94-96 for fuller account.

More equivocal was mui tsai “kid sister” (mui “younger sister,” tsai affectionate diminutive particle).  This could be an affectionate term for an unrelated girl or a very unrespectful term for a female servant or slave.  In Hong Kong, as in Imperial China, girls, often boat girls, were still (illegally) sold to wealthy people as “maids”—de facto slaves.  On the waterfront, however, mui tsai was affectionate enough that in the 1960s our little daughter was kuai mui tsai “kid sister foreign devil” (lit. “ghost kid sister”) to everyone.  By the 1970s language was more polite but less colorful.

 

A proof of this desire to be solidary with one’s immediate world was the network of fictive kinship.  Sworn blood brotherhood (of the sort widely found in China) was one form of this, though it was fairly rare.  More often, was contract (k’ai) kinship, an equivalent of godparenthood in the United States or compadrasco (coparenthood) in Mexico (Foster 1961).  Among the 47 families of my 1965-66 sample, 12 individuals had k’ai relatives, and three of these were in one family.  Most were boys.

Usually, a child would get a k’ai ye (godfather) or k’ai maa (godmother) if the child’s health or other fortune was poor.  The child would then inherit his luck or good fortune from the k’ai parent instead of his or her own parent, whose fortune was presumed to be incompatible with the child’s.  This did not mean the parent’s or child’s fortunes were necessarily bad.  Fortunes could be both perfectly good, but mutually incompatible—as blood types can be, in biomedicine.  The reasons were usually, but not always, astrological.

The k’ai parent would, therefore, be someone with notably good health, or luck, or astrological compatibility.  Such matters were beyond the knowledge of most fishermen; spirit-mediums diagnosed the need, and selected possible k’ai parents.

However, normally, friends and close associates of the child’s parents received the call.  The institution thus formalized and secured links of mutual aid.  It was not so explicitly an institutionalization of this as compadrasco is in Latin America (Foster 1961 and my own experience), but it certainly had the same effect.  For the fishermen, contract parenthood was symmetrical in Foster’s terms; it was always contracted with social equals.  Among the land people, it was usually asymmetrical; more powerful people, and even gods, were called.  In the Chinese Malaysian community where we did research in 1970-71, though the people were fishermen, contract parenthood was not only usually asymmetrical, it was usually religious; gods were the main k’ai parents, with Kuan Yin being by far the most popular.

Once a spirit medium or similar authority suggested contracting fictive kinship, the family selected a likely candidate.  Then the child’s mother went to the woman of the selected household to negotiate.  If all went well, the families worshiped ancestors together and drew up the contract.  For the boat people, a verbal contract sufficed.

Unlike a Latin American compadre, a k’ai parent had little formally to do.  He or she had to give the child lucky money at festivals, and offer presents and receive respect at the child’s marriage.  The child had to pay respects, and mourn as regular kin did at the k’ai parent’s funeral, then continue to worship the parent’s soul (usually by leaving a tablet in a paper-goods shop to receive prayers).

The contract relationship was a mixed bag.  It was not quite real kin, and seemed somehow to compromise family.  A symptom of tension was the use of k’ai taai (fictive younger brother) as a term of abuse, an obscene term for a passive homosexual.  This was a deadly insult.  In actual reference to fictive kinship, one spoke only of father, mother, son, and daughter, not of siblings, so this particular kinterm had no legitimate use.

 

Since the lack of lineages and need for support heightened the importance of affinal kin, it follows that marriage was the consummately important social act (in more ways than one).  Typically, a family would seek a spouse for their child from the circle of neighbors, good friends, and coworkers.  More than in fictive kinship, parents explicitly wanted to shore up social linkages by thus formalizing them.  There was rarely a shortage of candidates.  Exogamy did not extend beyond the family line, many different families lived close together, and the boat people moved around enough to have friends in many ports.

Marriage among the boat people was so far from the traditional Chinese model that half the marriages in our immediate experience were contracted “for love” (though parental approval and help was always sought eventually).  Moreover, many of the marriages “arranged” by parents, in the classic Chinese form, turned out to have been suggested by the young people in question!  The parents duly formalized the negotiations over dowry and other payments.  Even genuinely arranged marriages—arranged, that is, without the couple’s suggesting them first—rarely involved strangers.

Still less were valued sons and daughters married off to children or aged rich men.  Such things had, indeed, happened in the past, when families had been reduced to starvation and had had to marry off a daughter or send her off as concubine or as a servant to be married off by her masters.  But by 1965 everyone was well enough off to avoid such dreaded circumstances.  The endlessly repeated literary and movie cliché of the bride who meets her husband at the wedding, only to find that he is a child, an ancient, or a madman, was far from boat experience.  Still farther was the concept of “minor marriage”—marrying young children to each other and raising them together (A. Wolf 1995; M. Wolf 1968, 1972).

Given the free and easy lifestyle of the boat people, and the completely accepted institution of “singing girls” at Tai O and elsewhere, virginity was by no means required or universal.  It was theoretically preferred.  I have no reliable data on how common virgin brides actually were.  My data on the sex lives of the boat people are extremely extensive and extremely unreliable!  Among sailors, whether in southern California or in southern China, jokes, insults, teasing remarks, stories, gossip, wild generalizations, and rank speculation about sex, and about individuals’ sex lives, are the classic theme of conversation over a drink or two (or more).  Castle Peak Bay certainly fit (and overfulfilled) that stereotype.  Unfortunately, the resulting excruciatingly detailed and extensive picture was only accidentally in contact with reality.  Not only did people exaggerate, dissemble, and invent; they had an elaborate tradition of erotic folklore to draw on.  Many stories told as fact could be traced to Chinese novels and classic short-fiction collections.  Even without running down specific stories, one could easily find in such literature the rules for insults, boasts, and other relevant folk forms.

We did get enough reliable data to know that sex was fairly free, uninhibited, and joyous among most couples, including at least some unmarried ones.

A double standard existed; men often visited the Tai O girls after marriage, but wives were expected to remain faithful, and usually did so in our experience.  One couple close to us produced a son when the man was 58; his wife was substantially younger, but still well over 40.  We were aware this man was not averse to a visit to Tai O on occasion, also.

Once a young person finally decided to settle down and commit to marriage, the search for a suitable partner was usually not long or difficult.

Some people said that arranged marriages were the rule until recently.  Rich boat people, in particularly, supposedly contracted economic relationships such that the bride and groom were strangers.  We knew of cases of runaways (see above), including some in which brides fled from arranged marriages that did not work.  However, boat society has always been free and open, with love liaisons not involving marriage being well known (recall Shen Fu’s Six Records of a Floating Life; Shen 1983).

Mothers usually negotiated arranged marriages.  Men would lose too much face if the negotiations fell through, so they did not deal with such matters.  Here, as in many other cases, women were by no means unaware of the power this gave them, and sometimes gloated openly about it.  We recalled the equally neat trick by which women convinced men that higher-status people ate last—thus insuring that the “low status” women and children got the food when it was hot and freshly cooked.  The men were rather ruefully appreciative of the dodge.  They worked similar tricks on the land people, using “low status” to excuse a number of irregular behaviors.  Truly, low status has its rewards, especially if the low-status individuals can outsmart the higher ones, as James Scott reminds us (Scott 1985, 1998).

The boat people did not usually use go-betweens, since there was not enough money to reward them.  Sometimes, a relative served as go-between, or at least alerted a family with a marriageable youth of the existence of an available and desirable potential mate at such-and-such a port.

Chinese traditional families were supposed to take horoscopes into account in deciding whether a match was suitable.  Nobody at Castle Peak seemed to take horoscopes very seriously.  Wolfram Eberhard (1963) found that in Taiwan people tended to use horoscopes as excuses to set up, or break off, engagements, when the real reasons were personal.  I suspect the boat people did the same, but people we knew simply did not take the horoscopes seriously enough for this to become an issue.

Within the boat community, almost all marriages linked families in the western New Territories ports.  People married fairly often within the Castle Peak community, but were just as apt to find spouses in Tai O or other nearby ports.  Much more rare was a marriage to Aberdeen or any other more distant bay.

The boat community was almost strictly endogamous.  People tended to marry individuals from the same general category of the boat world.  Trawler boys usually married trawler girls, and gill-netters married gill-netters.  However, this was very far from a strong rule—merely a result of differential knowledge and networks.  More serious was a tendency for people of similar economic status to marry.  A marriage of rich and poor did not seem a good bet for lasting success, according to waterfront opinion, borne out by alleged cases.

A few marriages of boat girls to land-dweller’s sons had recently taken place.   Only one land woman had married a boat man, and she promptly left him—the life was too hard.

Once married, a girl moved to her husband’s boat or house.  She then became part of the family.  She was still something of an outsider, however, till she bore a son, and thus contributed to the patriline.  This was less an issue than among most Chinese (including the fishermen we studied in Malaysia; see also M. Wolf 1968, 1972), but was still a very serious matter.  However, a wife who bore only girls was thoroughly accepted after a few years, though the family would always be somewhat regretful of lacking a son.

After marriage, relations with in-laws were close, often coming to approximate parental relations even for men—let alone for women, who, in China’s patrilineal and virilocal world, almost always came to live with their husbands.  Exceptions occurred when women had large, independent money pools—something that normally could happen only if the woman in question had been a successful singing-girl.  The close, supportive ties of in-laws were a point of difference from the land people, who found in-laws a frequent cause for tension and distancing (see e.g. Baker 1968, 1979; Freedman 1966).  In fact, we knew several cases in which a man’s closest friends, coworkers, and allies were his wife’s immediate kin.

The stated ideal of boat families—described to us repeatedly, in rather set terms, by dozens of people—was for everyone to get along.  In-laws in particular had to be supportive and warmly helpful to each other.  Clear lines of authority should be maintained, but an elder should listen calmly, respectfully, and attentively to everyone’s opinion—expressed in due order of seniority, and with due consideration and temperateness.  Everyone was supposed to be even-tempered, calm, and thoughtful.  Aggressive and impatient behavior endangered everyone on a boat in rough waters, or even in the harbor.

Some families really did live up to this irenic ideal.  We had tea every morning (in 1965-66, and frequently in 1974-75) at a tiny café-cum-residence near our boat.  It was the home of a widow—of land origin—and her boat-born daughter-in-law.  (The latter’s husband usually worked outside the home).  The two women were both gentle, affectionate, retiring souls who adored each other and adored the daughter-in-law’s children (who were, indeed, model children by any standards).  In the hundreds of hours we spent absorbing tea, we never saw anything but affectionate and gentle behavior in that household.

However, families with such close relationships represented one end of a continuum, the other end being represented by dysfunctional families with considerable fighting, abuse, and even illegal violence.  In between were the normal families, usually harmonious but often argumentative or burdened with one or two distant and suspicious members.

Some families even exemplified the tense, distrustful relationships between in-laws described by Hugh Baker.  The lack of lineages and lineage villages, however, meant that in-laws were never real enemies.  They often were real enemies in the old walled lineage villages that Baker studied, because lineage exogamy forced men to find wives in other villages, and neighboring villages were almost always competing over land.  This often led to violence.  Wives were suspected of, and sometimes clearly guilty of, helping their natal families in enemy towns.

The dynamic was exactly the opposite among the boat people.  One needed all the helpers and allies one could get.  One never knew when one would need to be rescued in a storm, helped with a large catch of fish, or helped with a quick small loan to fix an engine.  One did know that all these needs would arise, sooner rather than later.  Therefore, the pressure was all on the side of being as solidary as possible with in-laws—and with anyone and everyone else nearby.

At first, though, the plight of a new daughter-in-law was hard, often very hard.  As junior woman, she had to do the heaviest and dirtiest work, and patiently accept criticism from her husband’s mother.  As noted above, in-laws were much closer on the boats than among many land people, but this was still no enviable situation.  It was the subject of several of the boat folk songs (Anderson 1975; Wu 1937).

However, the tendency to marry among close friends and neighbors usually reduced the tensions innate in the Chinese family between an in-married girl and her parents-in-law (cf. Baker 1968; M. Wolf 1968, 1972).  Therefore, the classic Chinese drama of the wronged and abused daughter-in-law played itself out only occasionally among the boat people.

Still, it did happen.  Brides fled back to parents to escape impoverished, wastrel, or abusive husbands.  The boat people of Castle Peak Bay being a notably non-abusive lot, all the runaway cases known to us involved economic problems.

We heard of at least one case of attempted suicide—a more socially tense case involving a girl from a poor family married into a rich one and thereafter insulted and hounded.  Suicide of a daughter-in-law is probably the commonest type of suicide in China, and occurs as a trope throughout the history of Chinese literature.  Such a suicide is not just a tragic act; it directly damages the abusive offender—usually the husband’s mother.  Not only do abusive individuals lose face; the unfortunate girl becomes a “wronged ghost,” haunting those that have driven her to death, driving them to madness and misfortune.

A woman’s lot was hard work, but fairly equal partnership.  On the fishing boats, she was high in the command chain, and she had to manage boats and haul nets or lines with the men.  If not in a fishing family, she would still be actively engaged into economic activity; no one could afford a nonworking wife.  This gave her considerable power and independence.   She could not be relegated to the shaky status of fishing wives in some parts of the world (Cruz Torres 2004).  Even among boat families that had forsaken the water to live and work on land, women had to work—not only around the house, but usually for cash—to make ends meet.  They had to have decision-making power, and they had it.  The Confucian ideal of women obeying “fathers when young, husbands when married, and sons when old” had less to do with reality than in some, probably most, Chinese spheres.  In particular, obeying sons when old was conspicuously absent; sons deferred to mothers throughout life.

 

Each boat family was theoretically an independent and sovereign unit, regulating its affairs with little interference from anyone.  Even brothers could only suggest, advise, and agree.  Only a father with a fleet of sons could genuinely command other boats, and even he had that right only as long as his sons allowed it; very often, they did not.  All they had to do was sail to another port, or even another side of Castle Peak Bay.

On the boat, there were strict rules of authority, which made life very much easier.

First, each boat had one senior man who served as captain.  This was the eldest man on board, unless the eldest was too old and frail, in which case he would give over command of his boat to a son, or live on a son’s boat with the son as commander.  Since the eldest son would normally have long ago gone his own way, the caretaking son was often a younger one.  The transition from captain to elder was a gradual one, managed with a minimum of friction, but—be it noted—not totally without friction.  A man who was losing control and wanted to maintain it would try hard, sometimes tyrannizing his sons, who would in turn try to maneuver him—usually with great tact and gentleness, but sometimes with blunt frustration—into giving over command.

Occasionally, the strict seniority rule was broken by an older brother deferring to a younger and more assertive or competent one.

Second, other adult men and women advised, in order of seniority and gender.  A son listened to his mother until fully adult, after which the mother was supposed to defer.  As long as the father was alive, father and mother stood together in authority, but once a father died, his widow was supposed to defer to her son, unless he was still quite young.  This was, of course, the classic Confucian pattern, and it was universally followed.  However, it provided plenty of room for play; how old is “still quite young”?  And a mother with strong character made her will known quite emphatically, no matter how old her son was.

A wife, especially a captain’s wife, had considerable real authority, and many of them “twisted their husband’s ear” thoroughly.  (The idiom, of obvious derivation, is the standard Cantonese phrase for the condition.)  A man with an ear-twisting wife got compassion and some sympathetic joking from his peers; most of them knew how it felt.

Third, a captain was expected to listen to advice and counsel from other adults, and take it when it was good.  They, in turn, had to respect his final decisions, as well as commands that he had to make without consultation when faced with the need for immedate action—a daily event on the open sea.

Fourth, women controlled cooking, child care, and related aspects of home life.  They did not take the lead in off-boat matters (politics, economic transactions, and so on), but they provided advice and back-up assistance.

The women’s status hierarchy, like the men’s, was a matter of seniority, but here confusion reigned.  Theoretically, an older son’s wife ranked above a younger son’s wife, but if the older son’s wife were (herself) younger than the younger son’s wife, or (much more serious) if the older son’s wife had not born a son and the younger son’s wife had, a real problem in rank presented itself!  Such contingencies virtually guaranteed that the couple in the anomalous position would get their own boat.

On a large fishing boat, the senior man would be stationed at the wheel or on lookout on the cabin roof.  The next senior man (the oldest son, in the normal situation where the captain was the father of the family) would take the wheel when the senior man was otherwise occupied.  Otherwise this second-senior man would be managing the rudder, rigging, or fishing tackle.  The third man would be in charge of the engine.  The fourth would be the usual manager of fishing tackle.

The senior man’s wife would direct cooking and mending; the next woman in line would do the least unpleasant cooking and cleaning operations; and so on down to the youngest adult woman, who would swab decks, do heavy laundry, haul water, and help fish.  Children and oldsters would be mending nets, washing vegetables, and looking out for younger children.  Everyone knew his or her exact place and task responsibiilities, and if there were any question, a council of seniors would resolve it.  Sometimes this council was convened when a family fleet moored together in the evening, and brother captains discussed the issue.

Boats, whether in Newport Harbor or Castle Peak Bay, have to be managed with exquisite and thorough order and care.  Loose lines of authority, poor task management, and shirking were immediately disastrous.

On the other hand, inflexibility was even more rapidly fatal.  Discussions over dinner were an institution never ignored.  Consultation, along proper lines of authority, was not only real but universal.  People followed the Confucian virtues of harmony, cooperation, and respect, not only because they came from a Confucian tradition, but—much more importanly—because they lived and moved in the world that produced Confucius and his ideas.  China had changed in the 2500 years since the sage taught, but some aspects of it had changed very little.  The need for a household to regulate its affairs stood high on this list.

Naturally, this allowed much variation.  Some boats were run in a quite patriarchal and authoritarian style; others were so democratic that we wondered how anyone ever decided anything.  The vast majority were somewhere between these extremes, but the spread was great, and no obvious central peak presented itself.

As people became too old to work, they slowly faded from the world of the living.  Death, like maturation, was a gradual process.  Command devolved increasingly on the next generation.  The elder slowly sank into quiet.  He or she did the shopping on shore, takes care of young children, tells stories, dreams, and waits patiently for the afterlife.

 

CHAPTER 5.  EMOTIONS IN THE HOUSEHOLD

 

 

Child-rearing on the boats turned out to be one of the most interesting and thought-provoking things we studied.  Having children of our own, and spending two full years in local households with local families, we had a unique opportunity to observe.  Our two older children were old enough in 1974-75 to be real field workers, and both were (and still are) first-rate observers and judges of humanity.  They were well accepted into local playpacks, and became treated more or less like any other neighborhood kids.

This was one of the areas where one could learn important data from a society now gone.  The distinctive family behavior on the waterfront challenges stereotypes—both Chinese and western—of “the Chinese family.”  In household behavior as in much else, the boat people had a quite distinctive way of being Chinese.  I have told the full story elsewhere (Anderson 1992, 1998), but some repetition will be useful here.

Much of the literature on Chinese families presents a picture characterized by authoritarian patriarchy, distant and stern communication, and silent obedience alternating with wild break-out.  Chinese novels often present this picture, from Cao Xueqin’s great 18th-century novel Hong Lou Meng (translated as The Story of the Stone; Cao 1973-86) to Ba Jin’s 20th-century classic Jia (“The Household,” translated as The Family, Pa Chin 1964).  Western accounts are usually conformant to this image.  Some even stress violent wife and child abuse and other pathologies, maintaining they are typical and inevitable consequences of the patriarchal family (Eastman 1988 is particularly dramatic, but there are many other examples, both Chinese and western).

As one might expect from all that has gone before, the boat people were as far from this stereotype as one could be and still remain identifiably Chinese.  The patriarchal Confucian family was alive and well, but in a very open and even nurturing form (Anderson 1992, 1998).

Picking up from the last chapter, I can begin by continuing the account of child-rearing on the water.  Children slowly and gradually got more rights and more responsibilities.  Every new task responsibility meant more freedom, authority, and ability to act independently.  This process started when toddlers were old enough to help mend nets.   It ended only when a man finally took over from his aging father; the two could be 60 and 80 years old by this time.  The man would still be learning from his father.  Thus, there were no sharp breaks: no initiation rites at young adulthood, no sudden changes at marriage.

An eight-year-old could mend nets or bring water and bait.  A twelve-year-old did simple fishing.  A sixteen-year-old boy would get a chance to steer the boat, while a girl would be cooking.  Usually, children were ordered to do something; parents expected them to know, from helping and from observation, how to do it.

The plan produced the most problem-free adolescence I have ever seen.  Teenagers had a physically difficult and demanding life, but at least did not have to face the trauma of being child and adult at the same time.  They moved rather tranquilly up the ladder of command, pushing to have more authority, but aware that they would get it only when they could do more responsible tasks.

Boys got more freedom, less discipline, and better care than girls.  They also got less work; girls had to help fish and manage the boat and had to help with women’s tasks.  The disparities were not as great as in many or most Chinese communities (see e.g. Croll 2000), but they were certainly real and obvious.  Some parents dressed boys in girls’ clothes to make them less attractive to deities that might want to steal them.  Boys got more good luck charms to wear:  tiny models of life-saving floats; sea horse eyes; jade bracelets; tiny strings of old coins.  Boys were more outgoing; girls turned inward and expressed less emotion; this was the expectation, generally fulfilled, though to varying degrees.

Education was intensely moral.  Actual verbal instruction was heavily focused on moral training.  Learning about fish took place within this moral discourse.  From birth, a child learned that he was part of a wide family group, and that his or her will was more or less subservient to its collective interests.  Most of the people in the child’s world taught this more or less consciously.  Mothers passed babies around to be held by everyone.  All the women and girls on the boat or in the household “mothered” all the children.  From toddler age, children are involved in playpacks that included everyone in the extended family, and, on shore, in the whole neighborhood.  Except on the smallest and most socially isolated boats, the child has close relationships with many persons, but no single outstandingly close one-to-one relationship.

Life on the boats, or in any traditional Chinese household, cannot center on the will of the baby.  A mother nurses when she has time, not when the baby is hungry.  She, or any other caregiver, dresses, washes, puts down for sleep, gets up, plays with or quiets the baby when time is convenient—not when the baby wants it.  The baby soon learns to be philosophical about all this; crying does no good, and smiling or cooing does rather little.  This does not mean the baby gets little care; quite the opposite.  Usually, several female caregivers are around, and the father and his close male relatives often do their share.  The baby most often cries in a desperate and totally futile attempt to be left alone.  Wu (1937:812), describing the same syndrome, reported that boat children were “spoilt.”  Wu’s value-judgement shows that a traditional Chinese male was as surprised by the high level of caregiving and low level of punishment as we were.  The actual effect of this system is not to “spoil” the child but to teach him or her that his or her will is subservient to that of elders.

The pattern continues with age.  Boat children could not develop exploratory and independent abilities early; they would fall overboard and drown if they did.  They could also get caught on fishhooks or other deck gear.  They were thus tied to the mast and kept as quiet as possible.  Caregivers discouraged early walking.  Someone was always around to pick up the child.  When a child fell overboard—which happened often, in port; people were more careful on the open sea—everyone within 50 yards, whether related or not, instantly went to help.  (A strange story among land people held that boat people would not save a drowning person.  This was no more true than the other common tales told about the boat-dwellers.)

Mothers nursed babies for about two years, never less than eighteen months and sometimes up to four years.  Caregivers fed children solid foods from eight months on.  Children did not feed themselves until three or four.

A distinctive and vitally important feature of child-rearing among south Chinese was the meitaai or “carrying belt.”  This was a square of cloth that held the baby to the mother’s back.  It was tied on by ribbons, starting from the four corners, and tied together in front.  This left the mother (or other caregiver) free to do anything and everything, while producing no special strain on her.  Babies were carried in the meitaai until three or four.  All south Chinese used this device, but the boat people used it much more than the land people, since they needed to keep the child immobilized as much as possible.

The meitaai gave the child a tremendous sense of security and reassurance.  A baby or toddler crying inconsolably would always quiet down immediately if backpacked.  This was true even when the crying was due to real hurt, physical or psychological  Weaning from the meitaai was, strikingly and very obviously, more traumatic for the child than weaning from the breast[4].  Thus, severely troubled children were sometimes backpacked when they were six or seven years old.

Girls recently weaned from the meitaai almost always got toy meitaais, which they used to carry dolls and stuffed toys.  By the time they were five or six, they often had a real baby—a new younger sibling—to carry.

The age from three to six was traumatic and difficult; the child was weaned from breast and meitaai, but had no freedom yet.  Crying and aggressive behavior increased.  By six, however, the child was undertaking the simpler adult tasks.  Boys began to fish; girls began to care for siblings.  With this came a vast increase in freedom and opportunity to learn, explore, and interact with the wider world.  Crying and aggression dropped off, in proportion to the steady increase in rights and duties and in playpack involvement.  With age, playpacks got larger, more diverse, and more cheerful.  The playpack, inevitably mixed-age because older siblings are taking care of younger ones, became a major focus of socializing and learning.

Playpacks were not very gender-segregated.  Boys and girls played with dolls, girls and boys explored and scuffled.  Both improvised elaborate games with bits of string and wood and paper.  Somehow almost everyone managed to find a kite to fly in spring.  Teasing and taunting were common, and, in all innocence, boys and girls alike used the rough waterfront language in perfectly ordinary settings.  Children knew an amazing range of songs, rhymes, chants, and other folklore.  All this is lost without trace; we could not record it, partly because the subjects would never hold still.

Many boat children were notably less aggressive, less noisy, and generally better behaved than most land-dwelling children of the area.  This was especially true of the recent refugees from mainland China, a very traditional population.  However, a substantial minority of the boat children were toward the other extreme; they resorted to begging, yelling insults, and otherwise acting bad, as long as they were out of parental control.  This earned them the sobriquet of “water rats” from the better behaved.  Overall, one can see, in this range, the independence and individual difference so visible also in adults.

The boat people reacted with horror and with immediate community intervention to threats of genuine abuse.  Senior family members stopped it in no uncertain terms.  Failing the availability of senior family members, bystanders would quietly, tactfully distract and calm a parent who appeared to have lost his or her temper to the point of physically harming a child.

By the age of eight or ten, a child rarely needed punishment.  The message of overwhelming family dominance had penetrated.  A simple verbal command almost invariably received rapid compliance.  If it did not, a most impressive verbal fireworks display could result, and no one ignored that.  Physical punishment, reserved for the most serious cases, consisted of a light slap, or in extreme situations a light but painful spanking across the backs of the calves with a flat board or thin stick.  Parents inflicted this for only three situations:  fighting, extreme insubordination (very rare), or dangerous neglect of a younger sibling.  Girls got more punishment than boys, partly because of patriarchal bias, but partly because girls usually did most (though far from all) of the sibling care, and thus were at risk of committing neglect.  If a girl neglected a baby brother, she was in real trouble, worse than anything that happened when she neglected a baby sister.

We saw such punishment about once a week, and in an average day our research and marketing rounds took us past hundreds of households, where life was mostly lived in the open.  The lack of conflict was striking.  Moreover, such conflict and parental problems as occurred were concentrated among certain families, mostly boat people who had failed at fishing but had not fully moved onto shore, and who lived in wrecked boats in the typhoon shelter.  One group in particular made up something of an outcast colony, and had continual (though usually minor) problems with children.

The land people, though somewhat stricter than the boat people, followed the same principles of childrearing.  Far from the beatings alleged in some Western literature on China, corporal punishment was almost unknown at Castle Peak, beyond the spanking on the backs of the legs previously noted.  British colonials frequently commented to us on how amazing it was that “Chinese children are so well-behaved” when they were so “spoiled” (and sometimes added it was proof that the Chinese were an inferior race, naturally docile).

In fact the secret was the deliberate ignoring of the infant’s will, discussed above.  The land people saw this as simply part of socialization for civic life.  The boat people, with their value on independent agency, saw a contradiction, but dealt with it by saying that young children had to be restrained or they would have accidents, such as falling overboard.  Thoughtful parents went on to say young children did not have and should not have much agency, and, in any case, they were part of the family, a structured world where order had to reign.  The famed independence of the boat-dweller had to be earned, by growing in responsibility over the years.  With independence as a promised reward for clear evidence of responsible behavior, children were motivated to take on more duties.

It is not hard to see how such a child-rearing method produced well-behaved young without harsh discipline.  This was especially true on the boats, where a child had no escape.  Land people had to be more disciplinarian because their children roamed the whole neighborhood in playpacks.  But even the land people of Castle Peak Bay were, by Chinese or world standards, gentle parents.  They made up in constant supervision what they lacked in harshness.  Adults or older children were always around, and would discipline any local child that was out of line, sometimes even perfect strangers.  This certainly had much to do with maintaining tranquility and keeping children socialized.

Some particularly articulate parents put the matter in philosophical context.  The independence of an adult had to be won.  It was not something that came with the turf (as it does for many American teenagers).  It came only with demonstrated competence and responsibility.   The road from restrained infancy to free senior adulthood was a gradual progression.  Each stage had to be won by demonstrating the ability to handle more duties with responsibility.

Crime and trouble were not teenage specialties.  Crime was very rare at Castle Peak in any case, but when it occurred, adults were the ones involved; some families were pirates by trade and tradition.  Teenage gangsterism was, however, not unknown (and not even rare) at some more urban ports.

Few children got to school in 1965, but the number was rising, and by 1974-75 all children got primary education.  Some were beginning to go on, and boat people in more urban ports were beginning to go to college.  A government survey of 187 Castle Peak children in 1964 showed most had no schooling, and very few girls got to school at all.  By 1965, people recognized the need for education.  A rapid increase in the numbers took place.  The major reason to move on shore was to get access to schools, and those who moved on shore took in countless related children whose parents were still on the boats.  Bright girls sometimes got to school instead of duller brothers—a really dramatic new turn.  At this time, school was cheap or free, but parents had to buy uniforms, supplies, and books.  We knew families in which everyone went essentially without food for days in order to buy these for the brightest children.  Those bright ones had hope; their siblings had nothing but hunger.

Cultural reproduction thus took place through a variety of informal channels, and occasionally the formal one.  Most education was through practice (cf. Bourdieu and Passeron 1990; also Chaiklin and Lave 1993, Lave 1988; Lave and Wenger 1991; Rogoff and Lave 1984).  Children learned not through formal instruction but through watching and involvement—what Barbara Rogoff now calls “intent participation,” a process which “involves observing keenly and pitching in to shared endeavors” (Rogoff 2004).  She defines this as “horizontal and collaborative….  Experienced people guide while participating, and learners take initiative….  Motivation revolves around the chance to contribute to important activities….  Assessment occurs during shared endeavors, to aid learning.”  This description of learning among the Maya of Mexico is perfect for the boat people of Hong Kong—and, for that matter, for the Maya that I too have lived with in Mexico.

Going beyond that literature, I speculate that the boat people are typical humans in their embedding of instruction in a moral framework that stresses the virtue of the learning.  People want to learn only when they think the data are important socially.  They must be emotionally involved in the process, and they must think it is in some sense “right” or valuable.  So, when the boat people went on shore, they immediately dropped the old knowledge, forgetting even what they knew; it had ceased to have meaning for them.

 

For a few decades in the late 20th century, a debate arose between those who felt emotions were innate and shared by all higher animals and those who saw human emotions as complex, basically learned, and subject to heavy cultural conditioning.  Most earlier psychologists fall into the former category.  Many anthropologists fell into the latter.

Freud and other early psychologists introduced many new ideas that made emotions look less than simple and straightforward.  Freudian theory forced social scientists to look at even the simplest emotions as highly conditioned by early experience.  By the 1930s, anthropologists were studying “culture and personality” (Wallace 1970), basically the interactions of innate feelings with cultural norms and structures.

A later generation of anthropologists, often those trained by such culture-and-personality theorists as Beatrice and John Whiting, concluded that the feelings might not be innate.  They held that some, or even all, emotions were culturally constructed.  Richard Shweder (1991), Catherine Lutz (1988), and their associates were leaders in this field.  Lutz argued for the utter strangeness to westerners of the Micronesian emotion of fango.  However, she weakened, if not destroyed, her case, by doing a perfectly good and clear job of explaining it.  It turned out to be much like ordinary familial love as practiced in the world at large.  (It seems to me to be a social construction of parent-child love.  Having done field research in Tahiti, I have some experience with the closely related Polynesian concept of arofa.)

Others drew from other theoretical perspectives.  The Polish linguistic anthropologist Anna Wierzbicka argued for the uniqueness of such cultural states as Polish feelings of nostalgia (Wierzbicka 1999), but her description makes it sound like other cultures’ ideas of nostalgia.  Sociologist Rom Harré insisted on the fundamental difference of French, Spanish, and English emotions (Harré 1986), but his evidence is not convincing.

Time seems to have softened radical claims.  Few if any cultural anthropologists believe now in purely innate feelings unmodified by culture.  A few biological anthropologists probably still do, but certainly the evolutionary psychologists and those influenced by them have moved beyond such a position (Barkow, Cosmides and Tooby 1992).  On the other side, few have followed the extreme social constructionists.  Most scholars now allow innate feelings to exist.

To make a long story short, the intermediate position turns out to be correct.  Clearly, people do have deep innate feelings.  Rage, affection, loyalty, fear, interest, and parental affection are shared with all mammals and are clearly genetically specified in a reasonably tight way.  Feelings like guilt and disgust may require human intellect, but are arguably panhuman.  However, humans are thoughtful animals, and highly social ones too.  So one expects to find differences in the subtleties and in the cultural interpretation of emotions.  Shorn of their extreme rhetoric, Shweder, Lutz, Harré, and others certainly show that people in different cultures, and for that matter different individuals within the same cultures, have different phenomenological worlds.

Psychologists have long studied the interaction of emotion and reason.     From the 1950s onward, Albert Ellis had built up increasing mountains of evidence for the success of rational-emotional therapy (RET; Ellis and Blau 1998).  This method depends on the recognition that people are creatures of both reason and emotion, and that human action involves integrating these.  Many life problems come from mistaken cognition leading to misdirected emotion.  Aaron Beck’s cognitive therapy (Beck 1999 is perhaps the most anthropologically interesting, if not the most focal, of his many books) and several variants of it essentially follow Ellis’ perception.

Experimental psychology followed in due course, teasing out the neurological pathways that link emotion and reason.  It turns out that these are closely integrated in the brain (Damasio 1994).  Social perceptions, and all normal social functioning, depend utterly on successful performance of this integration task.  It also appears that some degree of feeling—“emotions” in a very basic sense, or at least moods and animal reactions—influence all cognition, even the most apparently neutral (Zajonc 1980).  A constant low-level play of interest and disinterest, evaluation for good or ill, and responses of affection or fear color all thought.  Reactions thus involve cognitive evaluation of situations, but also emotional reactions to them, combined in often predictable ways; fight-flight response, for instance, turns on evaluation of a threat and of how best to cope with it (Bandura 1982, 1986).  The situation at hand is evaluated in the light of prior experience; one flees, cowers down, or fights back.

Culture and individual cognition can thus influence emotional states, and the experience of emotion.  Mental action is a constant, shifting, rich fabric in which knowledge, feeling, and will are interwoven and color-mixed as in a Chinese textile.  However, predictable basic human reactions provide the warp, supporting and defining the whole.  Culture weaves patterns over the warp strings, and holds the fabric together.

 

All this is preface to a consideration of some claims made by western observers about Chinese emotional states.

First, westerners, and some Chinese as well, often claim that Chinese are among the peoples who are so intensely social that they do not experience the world the way “westerners” do.  According to a stereotype that goes back to the ancient Greeks, “Asians” are group-oriented, in contrast to the individualistic, freedom-loving peoples to the west of them.  These western individualists were first the Greeks, then “Europeans,” finally the ambiguous and unbounded “westerners.”  In the modern version, as espoused by scholars such as Richard Shweder, “Asians” are group-oriented, think mostly of the welfare of the collectivity, and do not stop to analyze and think independently about their cultural rules.  “Westerners” are “individualists,” verbal, self-conscious, self-analytic, and well-contained.  (See Shweder 1991 and references therein; see Anderson 1998 and Anderson et al. 2000 for China citations. For the general case of Western and Chinese stereotypes of their culture and of Chineseness, see the very important historical study by Lung-Kee Sun, 2002.)

My professor in these matters, John Pelzel, a superb teacher, used to say (in lectures, 1961) that, according to this view, westerners are like steel-plated balls, while Chinese were like amoebas, extending pseudopods till “there is more of them in the pseudopods” than in their own selves.

An interesting question is just who these “westerners” are.  The term is very general, but in most cases the scholars obviously mean urban, university-educated Americans and West Europeans.  Small-town Midwestern Americans, or East European villagers, might make a very interesting comparison set.

Be that as it may, there is no doubt that Chinese, in general, are indeed more strongly social in their values and behavior than such urban educated western folk, and are less self-consciously individualistic.  Michael Bond (1986), for example, assembled many data-rich papers that prove this beyond reasonable doubt.

However, the contrast between “westerners” and “Chinese” is clearly overdrawn in much of the literature, as Sun (2002) shows in extenso.  The Hong Kong boat people prove that Chinese can be reasonably individualistic.  They do not, to be sure, inhabit steel-plated balls, but neither do westerners outside of cultural psychology books.

Scholars of such matters would do well to consider Chinese literature.  On the one hand, it almost uniformly describes highly prosocial values, and reflects a patriarchal order.  This order seems alien and oppressive to most westerners.  However, it also seems oppressive, though not alien, to the Chinese writers themselves.  Modern novels, in particular, usually criticize it.  Their criticism proves they take it seriously.  (See, for instance, the writings of Lu Xun, Ba Jin [Pa Chin 1964], or Maxine Hong Kingston.)

Yet, on the other hand, Chinese literature reflects an emotional world strikingly familiar to the western reader, once he or she adjusts to the unfamiliar order imposed by kinship and family structure.  The most revealing single example is Cao Xueqin’s great 18th-century novel The Story of the Stone (Cao 1973-1986).  Cao describes in exquisite detail the lives of teenagers growing up in a particularly strict Neo-Confucian family.  They have to conform to norms particularly rigid even by traditional Chinese social standards.  Yet, they are all individuals, and they are all highly self-analytic and self-conscious.  They experience a whole range of emotions familiar to American readers, including the desperate urge to rebel against family strictures.  They resemble American teenagers closely enough that anyone spending time with a group of bright American young can soon find close matches for Cao’s characters.

One might also consider the relation between rhetoric and reality.  Certainly, Chinese rhetoric, from classical literature down to village discourse and beginning school classes, favors the Confucian position.  Obedience, prosocial behavior, conformity, and hierarchic relationships of deference receive constant attention.  But historians know that when a government continually passes laws against some particular behavior, that means the behavior is commonly problematic, not that it is eliminated.  Many Chinese literary works, notably Wu Chingzi’s novel The Scholars (Wu 1957) and Pu Songling’s short stories, dissect the enormous disparity between rhetoric and behavior.

A reader of these or any of thousands of other Chinese novels, stories, plays, operas, and poems cannot escape feelings of great familiarity.  China certainly produced its share of dour advocates of conformity.  However, it also produced its share of selfish and amoral people.  Perhaps most interesting, it also produced prosocial but highly independent thinkers—classic “individuals” as idiosyncratic as anyone westward.  One recalls literary figures such as Mencius, Tao Yuanming, Li Bai, Zheng Xie, Yuan Mei, and countless more.

Even the hypersocial preachers of conformity and dogma often turn out to be rather misconstrued.  Zhu Xi in the 1100s taught, and to a great extent originated, the strict Neo-Confucian rules that often seemed (in future centuries) to be an enormous leaden weight on Chinese civilization.  Yet Zhu himself was a loner and outsider, rulemaking from a social-critical position based on Mencius’ rebelliousness.  He spent a good deal of his life in a hut perched partway up a thousand-foot sheer cliff in the remote mountains of Fujian.  One wonders what he would have thought of the rules’ latter-day petrification.

Ethnographies of China that focus sensitively on feelings (e.g. M. Wolf 1971; Gates 1987) seem, in general, to conclude that the human feelings of Chinese in Chinese families seem to be what one would expect of ordinary people subjected to such realities.  The differences between Chinese and American life are clear and sometimes deep, and usually in the postulated directions.  Chinese family structures have their effect on human relations.  On the other hand, humans are indeed siblings beneath the epidermis.

Rhetorics of conformity and individualism may also outrun people’s realities.

Chinese of the old school—including literally everyone in Castle Peak—loved to justify anything they did by recourse to the words of Confucius, Mencius, Zhu Xi, or any other ancient authority who might be relevant.  Doctors quoted ancient medical works, educators quoted old education manuals.  However, we noted that people justified quite different, and even opposite, courses of action by recourse to the same sages, and even the same passages.  Clearly, more directly relevant reasons had some bearing here.

Conversely, Americans love to justify anything they do by some directly functional reason, especially an economic one.  However, much of what is so justified is so far from economically sensible that one must look for other reasons.  One often finds that the reason is sheer cultural tradition.  For instance, Americans continue to wear Northern European clothing styles in southern California; the Native Americans sensibly went almost naked in that hot land.  Frequently even the American pretense of “rational self-interest” breaks down, and Americans admit that they are seeing an admittedly awful movie, or following an admittedly ugly and uncomfortable fashion, solely because “everybody’s doing it.”

Chinese concepts of intelligence foreground not only intellectual competence, but also “interpersonal intelligence” and rote memory, while American folk concepts of intelligence feature verbal skills more than Chinese concepts do (Sternberg 2004:335).

One should not confuse the rhetoric of folk explanation with the reality of emotional and intellectual experience.

 

Another problem concerns privacy and space.

A small fishing boat provides a minimum of space and privacy.  Even on shore, a fisher family’s simple home is little better.  A one-room hut, designed like a boat cabin or built as a square block, jams up against many others on a crowded shoreline.

Humans are amazingly social creatures, but such conditions tax their abilities to get along.  Formerly, some authors suggested that humans are territorial, or cannot tolerate crowding, and I found in Hong Kong an ideal test of that theory, since obviouisly people were forced into a minimum of space (Anderson and Anderson 1973).  The boat people had it easy.   In 1965, when recent refugees from China jammed the city, I visited a room in the oldest part of Kowloon that had 57 people living in a space of approximately 750 square feet.  They had decked the room into two storeys (each about 4 feet high) and they slept in shifts.  Yet they got along.  In Malaysia, fisherman friends of mine who had gotten relatively affluent built large houses—and used the opportunity to bring all their families in.  The result was as much crowding as in any hut.  They were proud of it.

Yet, inevitable stresses occurred.  Children played noisily.  Competition for scarce deck space was inevitable, as people worked on critically important projects—net-mending, trap preparation, bait-cutting.  Cooking filled the air with smoke, which dispersed on an open boat but was difficult to bear in a small house.  The bathroom of a boat was the starboard side of the sterncastle—a hole allowed wastes to escape—and small boats had no way for bathing or defecating individuals to hide completely.  No one looked; people condemned any staring.   Sex could hardly be private on a rocking boat.  Couples were very quiet, often sitting up (in the position of Tibetan yab-yum figures) to avoid noise.  But, inevitably, a small boat would sometimes shake and creak, conspicuous in the still night.  People studiously ignored this, or sometimes teased a particularly amorous couple.  Privacy was respected as much as possible, but no one was under the illusion that total privacy was possible.

Beyond these, rules for respecting space and privacy were clear and sharp (Anderson 1973—I have benefited since that date from discussions with Rance Lee, Robert Moore, and Ambrose Tse):

First, functional subdivision of space.  Sleeping space was inviolate.  Other activities have their defined areas.  Socializing was in neutral space:  front room of a house, center or aft deck of a boat.

Second, time was loosely structured; people worked around each other, negotiating.

Third, people tolerated almost any amount of noise.  The bay was quiet, but life on shore, especially in the towns, was very noisy.  People adjusted, learning to sleep through everything from crying children next door to firecrackers at New Year.  Thus, the constant pressure to “quiet down,” typical of American towns, did not occur.

Fourth, children could be disciplined by anyone, as noted above; this was necessary for close-quarters living.

Fifth, emotion was warm and passionate, but kept quiet except in its proper—usually private—place.  People did not tolerate either coldness nor promiscuously open emotionality.

Sixth, family and public rules of deference, respect, and leadership (discussed in the preceding chapter) clearly had much to do with living in close quarters.

These and other mores allowed people to live together in harmony and cooperation, and to enjoy social life without undue stress.  The rest of the world could well learn from these simple rules.

 

Another question currently debated is that of maternal sentiments.  Is mother love a human universal?  Do the Chinese feel it?

Nancy Scheper-Hughes (1992) denied the existence of innate feelings of mother love or motherly attachment, seeing these as pure cultural construction.  (No one seems to have even considered fathers.)  Scheper-Hughes saw mother love as a western bourgeois idea.

Darwinian theory requires us to think seriously about this.  Even before Darwin,  scholars observed that raising children is so difficult and demanding that essentially no one would raise a child without a powerful innate drive to do it.  In view of the fact that the human population is six and a half billion and increasing at an explosive rate, it seems rather strange to conclude that parental love is a fiction.  Moreover, the western bourgoisie are almost the only group in the world who are at “zero population growth.”  One would expect that if mother love were a western bourgeois notion, only the western bourgeois would go to the trouble of raising children; surely no one else would.  As Nasir ad-Din Tusi put it in (or about) 1235 C.E., long before Darwin:  “An example of natural love is that of the mother for the child:  if this class of love were not innate in the mother’s nature, she would not give nurture to the child, and the survival of the species could not conceivably be effected” (al-Tusi, tr. Wickens, 1964:197).

Feelings, however, would naturally be expected to vary in strength between individuals.  On the genetic level, Darwinian theory leads us to expect variation in all genetically guided traits.  At the phenotypic level, Scheper-Hughes is surely right (and has a long line of forebears) in maintaining that poverty, alcohol and drug abuse, chronic sickness, and general desperation often play against any maternal instincts, hardening many women toward their young.  Bowlby’s attachment theory, and other attachment-through-experience theories, add that mothers who have little contact with their children, such as the elite mothers of Europe in ancien regime days (Hrdy 1999), have little chance to bond and thus to develop full maternal sentiments.

Arthur Wolf, who has written some of the best, most thorough, most insightful, and most psychologically informed ethnography of China, has argued that “maternal sentiments” are not strong in at least some parts of China, and may be nonexistent for many women (A. Wolf 2003).  This conclusion is based on his research on minor marriage:  giving of child-brides or even infant-brides, to be raised by the child-husband’s family.  Working in a part of Taiwan where minor marriage was common, he found that mothers usually gave up their daughters without undue stress or apparent emotion.  From this he concluded that mother love in humans is at best fickle, if it exists at all:  “…bearing a child, nursing it, and caring for it are not alone sufficient to arouse maternal sentiments….  [other authors] may be wrong in arguing that maternal sentiments are ‘a major component of human nature’” (A. Wolf 2003:S40; the scare quote is from John Bowlby, who argued for strong attachment between mother and infant; Bowlby 1988:165.  It is well to remember Bowlby’s point that bonding depends on good circumstances around and after birth.)  Wolf argues that even well-to-do women gave up babies, apparently only for calculated financial advantage, and appeared to do it without concern:  “To be confident that Taiwanese women did not find giving a child away particularly distressful one would need to have observed their concurrent behavior.  I never had an opportunity to do so because by the time I arrived in Taiwan in 1957 adoptions were not common and no longer handled in the traditional manner.  But I have talked to many women who gave their daughters away, and my impression is that this was not a wrenching experience” (A.Wolf 2003:S39).  Wolf was dealing with memories of a long-distant past, and apparently did not make detailed psychological enquiries.

Wolf takes a consciously strong position, stronger even than such questioners of mother love as Nancy Scheper-Hughes (1992) and Sarah Hrdy (1999).  Unlike Scheper-Hughes, who documents the horrific lives of her apparently uncaring mothers, Wolf (like Hrdy) dismisses poverty and harsh life as an explanation.  Wolf and Hrdy maintain well-to-do women were just as guilty—a claim for which one might wish for some direct ethnographic evidence (Hrdy cites only historical records, many of them polemics of exceedingly dubious veracity).

To be sure, many well-to-do women gave up girls in old China and Europe, and Croll shows that many well-to-do women abort girls today.  However, the vast majority of abandoners were either desperately poor or in danger of becoming so.  Wolf (and Croll) somewhat downplay the uncertainty of life in the old days.  Unlike East Asia today, East Asia two or three generations ago was a land of falling economies and falling expectations.  The poor could not afford to give dowries for their daughters, and might let girls die if they could not—as the boat people did—reform the dowry rules.  Even the rich feared the effects of multiple dowries—on top of revolutions, market crashes, wars, famines, and epidemics.

A classic European stereotype, common in the 19th and early 20th centuries, alleged that the Chinese, like other “inferior races” suitable for colonial takeover, were deficient in human feeling, notably mother love.  Writers such as Arthur Smith (1894, 1899) held forth on the callousness and cruelty of the Chinese.  The 19th century authors (Smith is typical) spoke more of infanticide, extremely common in those days (and far from unknown today; Croll 2000) and almost always directed against girls.

Infanticide (usually or always female) and selling off of excess girls had been done in the past, to the enormous heartbreak of the parents, who did it only under family pressure (in cases we knew; see below).  Selective neglect of girls existed in the 1960s.  Girls got less food and more trouble.  However, in many families, a promising girl got more care than a not-so-promising boy.  By the 1970s, girls got full care.  The economic situation had improved; easy access to education had guaranteed that a girl could potentially be as productive as a boy (or more productive if she were brighter).  Gender differences had by no means disappeared, but they had become less obtrusive; they were no longer dangerous to health.

The horror stories of “typical Chinese” callous infanticide and neglect of girls (Croll 2000; Smith 1894; Wolf 2004) certainly did not apply at Castle Peak.  Children were universally loved and valued.  Some families were certainly better and more caring parents than others, and indeed a few parents (there as elsewhere) beat or starved or abused their children, but literally no one among the thousands of people we knew exhibited the callous attitudes that westerners so love to attribute to all Chinese (see e.g. Eastman 1988; Smith 1894).  This is not to say that the sober data recorded by Croll are incorrect—they are, alas, all too true.  Patriarchy was alive and well at Castle Peak.  However, the flamboyant stereotyping by writers like Arthur Smith take the worst of Chinese behavior as the rule.

The Cantonese boat people (and even the Castle Peak Bay land people) may, however, have been unusually far in the other direction (see further discussion in Anderson 1992, 1998).  Certainly, intensive ethnography of some other Chinese communities shows far more severe attitudes toward women—especially in-laws—and children (see e.g. Gates 1987; A. Wolf 2004 and references therein; M. Wolf 1968, 1972), and ethnographic novels like Ba Jin’s, provide an insider’s view that is no less revealing.  Marja Anderson and I ourselves studied a Chinese community in Malaysia that was much more like those harsh communities than like Castle Peak Bay (Anderson and Anderson 1978).  Perhaps significantly, it was largely Hokkien, thus linguistically and culturally closer to the communities known to Gates, Smith, A. Wolf, M. Wolf, and others.

Like minor marriage, infanticide was essentially a way of dealing with the fact that girls marry out, and require dowries.  The parents must not only pay to raise a girl who will never do much for them, but must then pay to get her married off.  Many families cannot afford this, and many more could do it only at the price of substantial economic stress.  They thus kill the girls if they are desperate, or, if less desperate, sell them or adopt them out.  This gave rise to the muitsai (“little sister”) system, in which the girl goes out as a servant or concubine.  More charitable (at least in theory) was minor marriage.

Wolf is, of course, aware of the social-structural and economic reasons for these practices, and his nuanced and comprehensive ethnography is the antithesis of Smith’s crude racism.  He is careful to add European data to show that Europeans too (at least in the past) got rid of children at a high rate[5].

Scheper-Hughes allows poverty and hardship as causative of lack of maternal feeling, but still insists on the reality of the lack.  She appears not to have interviewed her cases according to standard psychological or psychotherapeutic interview methods.  Comparable research by trained psychotherapists known to me (who would wish anonymity here), as well as my own research in clinical settings, in the United States and Canada, indicates that many women do indeed so respond to poverty and substance abuse.

However, concealment or even suppression of real and intense feeling is also common, apparently much commoner than actual callousness.  Often, such hiding of emotion is related to extreme depression.  Therapy can release the hidden emotion in a dramatic, explosive way, as I have repeatedly seen in both clinical and nonclinical contexts.

The sort of brutalization described by Scheper-Hughes makes people withdraw more and more from relationships and emotional engagement, because of fear and stress (Bandura 1982, 1986 explains the general case).  Maternal attachment is probably the last to go, but it too must go eventually, in a few cases.  It is possible that the Taiwanese mothers of whom Wolf speaks were brutalized much more than they cared to admit.  It is also possible that hiding emotions had simply become second nature to them.

Barbara Tuchman (1978:51-52) has commented on the apparent lack of deep attachment of elite parents to their young in medieval Europe—though her claims are somewhat belied by the assumptions of maternal love in medieval literature such as the Lays of Marie de France.  Medieval fathers, though not mothers, tended to be absent much of the time, and often had little chance to bond with children.  So they may indeed have had little parental concern—and of course they were the ones writing the books (with rare exceptions, such as Marie).  On the other hand, Tuchman’s book and other sources document great kin solidarity in those times.  It extended even to adopted, illegitimate, and distant relatives.

In short, the picture of attachment is not simple; attachment varies with personal and cultural conditions, as Bowlby discusses in detail. Bowlby does not have the last word on attachment, but his findings from thousands of data points gathered by meticulous and psychologically informed research can be qualified only by superior data.  On the one hand, it now seems that bonding is a slower and chancier process than Bowlby thought (see esp. Hrdy 1999).  On the other hand, an absolute lack of maternal feeling in a large percentage of otherwise normal women seems beyond Darwinian possibility, and is certainly beyond ethnographic demonstration.

There certainly was a horrific prevalence of female abandonment, infanticide, and neglect in eastern Asia.  Elisabeth Croll, one of the best and most seasoned ethnographers of that tragic region, has summed up the facts (Croll 2000).  Croll establishes that many families, even in the affluent and secure present, still allow girls to die.

However, the questions of who makes the decisions and how the mothers feel remain to be answered.  Marja Anderson and I had many conversations with women who had given up young daughters, and a few with women who had seen their daughters summarily eliminated.

Usually, the boat people strongly oppose the open expression of negative emotions, particularly grief, and most particularly grief over a hopeless situation.  They have an extreme aversion, backed up by sanctions, against expressing such emotions openly.  However, boat people, in many situations, do feel it appropriate to open up.

Our interviewing was informal, private, detailed, sustained, and gentle.  We provided a calm, quiet situation and got the women to talk—minimizing actual questions.  This eliminates the possibility that we led the women into emotionality by our questioning pattern.  Actually, we tried with considerable success to get women to talk on their own, without questions intruding.  We also were privy to several interactions in which we did no questioning at all.

In such situations, after several minutes to hour, all women without exception would become highly emotional, and these interviews almost invariably ended in sobs.  These women, especially those involved in infanticide, had clearly never even begun to resolve the grief and pain.  They kept silent, dealing with it as best they could.  One saw why silence about grief was so necessary in old China.  No one could have borne the suffering otherwise.  Explicit statement of this truth is, in fact, a standard trope in classical Chinese literature.

We observed one dramatic, and thoroughly public, confrontation between a mother and her adult daughter whom she had given up shortly after birth.  Being public, this had to be managed through improvised folksong, the appropriate vehicle for expressing grief (e.g. at funerals and wakes, as well as situations like this one).  It went on for about two hours.  The singing broke into rough chanting, alternating with weeping and sobs.  Quite apart from the emotion of the two participants, the watching crowd all clearly recognized the emotions as normal, and empathized thoroughly; many of the women joined in the tears[6].

In these cases, the decisions to give up or kill girls had been made by the family as a whole—which usually meant, in reality, the husband’s parents.  They would persuade or force the husband and wife.  Some wives and mothers stood steadfast, but more often economics intervened; one had to face the fact that keeping one more child could mean that all went without, and all were in danger of dying.  We knew families where this was a genuine and serious concern.  They usually kept all the children anyway, and took their chances—but that was in the expanding Hong Kong economy of the 1960s and 1970s.  Even so, we saw children die of malnutrition.

One can only conclude, from this and other evidence (including the comments by other scholars appended to Wolf’s article—those by Chinese scholars in particular), that maternal sentiments are usually real and powerful, in China and elsewhere.  People bear what they can, and often bear in silence.

George Bonanno (2004) has recently reviewed a vast amount of evidence and concluded that people may feel grief very deeply and yet survive through sheer grit:  “Resilience to the unsettling effects of interpersonal loss is not rare but relatively common, does not appear to indicate pathology but rather healthy adjustment, and does not lead to delayed grief reactions” (Bonanno 2004:23).  Even post-traumatic stress disorder is much less common than the incidence of traumatic stress would lead us to expect.  Yet, Bonanno makes it clear that for these resilient copers the grief and suffering are real.

One might expect that parents would engage in psychological distancing if they expected the child to die.  Scheper-Hughes found this in Brazil, and I have observed at least the attempt to do it not only in Hong Kong, but also in Mexico and elsewhere.  However, parents’ success at this is generally (though far from always) poor.  Folk wisdom in Mexico holds that women have to tough it out (aguantar) as best they can, and for their own sakes and others they need to hide emotion.  The fact that hiding is deliberate, forced, and difficult is universally recognized in folksongs and other popular culture (Anderson 2005).

Certainly, culture can fine-tune or even create emotions.  Human feelings are subject to all manner of modifcations, cultural and otherwise.  The point here is not that culture is irrelevant or that emotions are some essential quality in the human animal; extreme innatism simply does not stand up under research.  However, it seems doubtful, if only on Darwinian grounds, that any large segment of the human race is without parental sentiments.  Certainly, we never encountered Chinese mothers lacking in maternal concern.  No doubt some Taiwanese women stifled any feelings thay may have had; perhaps some were indeed without feelings.  Taiwanese society is different enough from Cantonese that it may be less emotional, more disengaged—but the many ethnographies of Taiwan, including those by Wolf and his group, do not seem to show this.

People are tough.  They survive.  Hurts can be stuffed down, even more effectively than Freudians and Bowlbians knew.  Chinese mothers, and many more in this imperfect world, must often make horrible choices deliberately and with clear eyes, and keep their mouths shut about the consequences.  So does an animal that coolly gnaws off its leg to escape a trap.

I wish all social scientists knew Bertolt Brecht’s long and wrenching “Ballad of the Infanticide Marie Farrer.”  It ends:

“…her sin was heavy, but her pain was great.

Therefore I beg you not to fall in scorn;

We all need help from every creature born”  (Brecht 1947:26, my translation more or less following H. R. Hays’ on p. 27).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 6.  FISHERMEN IN A WIDER WORLD

COMMUNITY AND POLITICS

 

1

The boat people moved in a wider world, in which political identifications of various kinds cut across the boat-land distinction.

Whether maritime or land-based, a person from the Castle Peak area identified himself or herself as a Ching Saan yan, a person of Green Mountain (Castle Peak).  The area so labeled was defined by marketing structure.  As William Skinner pointed out (Skinner 1964-1965; see also the papers in Skinner 1977), China’s market geography was and is a complex set of polygons, each polygon fitting with its neighbors in theoretically neat tiling-patterns.  These polygons are centered on marketing areas.  They form a nested hierarchy, from local markets to national capitals.  Hugh Baker (1979) pointed out that, in reality, the polygons were often more like circles, separated by splinters of unused and uninhabited land; these slivers served, quite literally, as grounds for competition.  Villages tried to expand cultivation into these debatable zones.  Before the 20th century, neighboring villages often fought over the right to expand into such borderlands.

People marketed at a certain town, and within its sphere they contract marriages, transact business, find cooperation and sociability, and organize festivals.  Skinner’s use of “marketing” as the defining term betrays a certain economic determinism; a sociologist might speak of “interaction.”  But “marketing” was the Chinese term, too, as the name of San Hui (“New Market”) makes clear.  San Hui was a typical “standard market town,” center of such an area.  As such, it could supply everything that anyone needed daily or weekly, and almost everything that ordinary people ever needed.

Above it in a hierarchy of markets was Yuen Long, the central town for the western New Territories.  (Skinner’s student John Young, 1974, provided a superb study of its marketing functions.  This book must be read by anyone interested in Chinese marketing in earlier times.)  Yuen Long supplied the few things that ordinary people occasionally needed but that San Hui was not big enough to provide.  These included special government services, full emergency medical care, major manufactured and crafts goods, and such specialized services as poultry-castration (only on market days!).  As a large town, Yuen Long was part of a rotating series of major markets.  It was, if I remember aright, a “1-4-7” town:  major markets were held, in a huge open space at the edge of town, on the 1st, 4th, 7th, 11th, 14th, 17th, 21st, 24th, and 27th days of the month.  The nearest towns would then be a 2-5-8 and a 3-6-9 town.  Thus, a triangle of coordinated markets was established.  The poultry castrator, and other specialized vendors of goods and services, traveled around the circuit, resting or going to ordinary everyday markets on the zero days.  Such towns supplied things that ordinary people needed only once or twice a year (as well as all the ordinary needs).

Still higher on the scale of markets was the great Kowloon-Hong Kong metropolis, valuable to Castle Peak residents as a place for rare, exotic recreation and as a place to sell fish.  In the 1960s, many people had never been there, or had been only once.  Travel was much more common by 1974.  Such great centers had not only daily and yearly needs, but everything anyone might ever need.  To the goods and services available at lesser market towns, they added the goods and services that a normal person needed only once in a lifetime, and goods and services that special people (big businessmen, political leaders, and the like) needed more regularly.

Below San Hui in the hierarchy came local markets like the bay pier.  Here, one found items like rice, oil, salt, and tea, as well as incense and religious services, restaurants and cafes, and fish dealers—in short, the things that everybody needed every day, but nothing much beyond that.

Smallest in the marketing hierarchy were the informal daily gatherings of people at crossroads, to trade or haggle over a few vegetables, fish, or herbs that their gardens had provided, and to sell home-made snacks.  Pedlars brought folk medicines and cheap cloth.

The local markets defined three sharply separate subsections of the Castle Peak residents:  the east bay, the west bay, and the San Hui area itself.  The fishermen almost all lived in the east bay, focused on the pier.  Boat people in the other two areas had given up fishing.  They found work in the factories and service jobs around San Hui.  By 1974, the factories were booming; the bay had already been half filled.  Public apartment housing had been constructed on the former tideflats.  Private houses decorated the higher ground.  All the unfortunates living in wrecked boats or shacks in the 1960s were now well housed, usually in the new public housing, and well employed.  One exceptionally bright girl we befriended when she was a starving child in 1965 was a waitress in a restaurant in 1975, and moving up toward better opportunities.

The outcaste community described in the previous chapter had also disappeared by 1974.  Its people found homes on land, and joined the factory and service workforce.

Within the fishing community, boat type influenced sociability.  Trawlers socialized with trawlers, hand-liners with hand-liners.  Religious associations, coops, and informal leadership groups cut across these lines, and everyone met in the shops and restaurants of the pier area.

The boat people were highly mobile, and had constant interaction with people of Tai O, Ma Wan, and a couple of dozen other small or large ports of the western New Territories.  If the fishing were good or if relatives were there, a family might temporarily move to one of those ports.  Land people were more apt to have ties with other land communities, and with the larger centers, Yuen Long and Kowloon.

A community was thus less a matter of physical residence than of social interaction, and social interaction was defined, in large measure, by marketing and commercial links.

However, this did not quite exhaust the structuring of community.  Skinner tended to see religious structures as simply mirroring the marketing ones.  Some did, notably the cult of the “Earth Gods” (spirits of the locality) and, of course, the gods of the towns themselves.  However, other cults cross-cut the marketing grain, and provided another way of linking people.  At Castle Peak Bay, not only the local boat people but all the boat people from Kowloon westward came to the Tin Hau temples.  Land-dwellers from wide-flung areas came to the Three Sages Temple near the pier, and land-dwellers often worshiped Tin Hau, also.  Devout or desperate worshipers traveled farther afield, to famous temples at Tai O, Kowloon, and elsewhere.  Conversely, urbanites came to the great Taoist and Buddhist establishments in the area—but locals rarely did, for these were more sophisticated temples, for the well-educated.  Religion also integrated boat and land people, and was the only institution that did so (see following chapter).  Thus, religion served to weave the social strands into a fabric, by integrating people otherwise separated by ethnicity and market boundaries.  Judging from my experience and reading, this finding holds true throughout China.

In addition to the impersonal ties of marketing and temple membership, the world outside the family was bound by a spiderweb of friendship links.  The Cantonese word p’ang yau, generally translated “friend,” actually means “acquaintance.”  At Castle Peak, at least, it meant anyone that one knew well enough to engage in conversation without some special occasion to serve as an excuse.  By contrast, “friend” is hou p’ang yau (“good acquaintance”).  These are people with whom one trades, has tea, celebrates birthdays, talks endlessly, plays mahjongg, and generally enjoys good fellowship.  Friends were expected to look after each other; mutual aid and care were universal.  Borrowing was usually from kin, because neighbors might not be neighbors long in this mobile world, but still a great deal of borrowing and mutual favor-exchanging took place between unrelated friends.

Acquaintances and friends could be quite shameless about asking for favors, but this was reasonable in the “floating world.”  The asker knew that the chance might never come again.  The person asked knew that he or she might desperately need the other’s aid in a day, or a month, or a year.  One needed all the contacts one could get.  One never knew whose boat would be the nearest when one’s own boat wrecked.

 

2

Leadership in the boat community was a matter of some ideological ambiguity.  In nothing did the boat people agree more totally and thoroughly than in their rejection of all top-down control.  They resented government, police, and domination by local powers, whether legal (town officials) or informal (fish-dealers, local rich folk).

Of course, necessarily, they did not live as anarchistically as they talked.  They submitted to the British government, because it generally facilitated their life and fishing, rather than interfering with those.  They recognized that some sort of government was necessary to maintain markets, mark harbors, and so forth.  But they did not submit quietly or eagerly.  They talked nostalgically of unsettled times in the 1930s and late 1940s when they were outside effective control by any government.  They justified such opposition by quoting the more libertarian passages of Mencius.  That philosopher justified rebelling against evil rulers, and argued for liberty of conscience to a degree very rare in world literature.

Often, the boat people sounded strikingly similar to China’s home-grown anarchist philosophers of the early 20th century (Scalapino and Yu 1961).  The boat people had never heard of Kropotkin or Emma Goldman, but Mencius was quite enough.  Surely, few people in human history were so uncompromisingly against all hierarchy, all top-down control, and all interference with personal liberty.  This was not the American “libertarian” philosophy, which opposes big government but idealizes big business, including government support thereof.  The boat people opposed big business, big government, and anything else above the grassroots level, with equal fierceness.

A long history of free-trading, smuggling, and outright piracy lay behind all this, but it was primarily the result of the needs of the fishery.  A boat had to be a little republic.  People had to be self-sufficient, self-reliant, and self-determining.  They had to be able to fish where they wanted, and to control their own fleets.  They had to be able to defend themselves against pirates and rivals, without waiting for distant and sluggish government agents to do it.

Almost equally important, in the minds of the boat people, was the eternal and inevitable dominance of government by land-dwellers.  Even those boat people who did not hate and fear the land people were most unenthusiastic about this dominance.  The land people had always used their position of authority to impose unfair terms, and the boat people thus wished to escape land-based control as much as possible.

However, no human community can really function or survive without a leadership structure.  Consistency thus could go only so far, and stated principles that sounded anarchic had to be qualified strongly in the real world.  The boat people made use of government when it suited them, as in the cases of the cooperatives and the government fish market.  Increasingly, they came to rely on government schools, government harbor and channel controls, and other infrastructure services.

Most of the fishermen at Castle Peak had come as refugees from Communist China.  Almost all came for economic, not political, reasons.  They described rations of two pieces of cloth a year and a catty of rice a day; neither were remotely close to adequate for a fisher’s life.  They continued to fish in Chinese waters, under license, paying a small tax.  However, in late 1965, just as we moved onto our boat, the Communist government closed all waters.  The fishermen thought is was largely an attempt to make them come home.  They did not; they simply poached.  Rolex and other imported watches began to appear, and the following dialogue took place between myself and one fisherman:  “Oh, nice new watch.”  “Yes, it’s for the cadre.”  “But I thought there was no bribery in Communist China…?”  “Oh, yes, but this is only a little gift.”  So fishing went on.  “But doesn’t this mean money is more important than government policy?”  “Of course, what else?”  The cadres did insist on the boats having Chinese licenses.

The boat people were neutral about the political philosophies of Communists, British imperialists, Americans, and others; they disliked all governments and liked all people.  In spite of the years of anti-American propaganda, we had little difficulty with the refugee community.  Only those who maintained active Chinese Communist party membership and organizing enterprise saw us as dubiously desirable.

The boat people viewed Hong Kong’s marine police with fear and loathing.  These police interfered with smuggling, collected the high license and harbor fees required by Hong Kong, and had to enforce the countless minor maritime laws adapted for bigger and more demanding vessels:  laws requiring formally trained personnel, special equipment, etc., to be on board.  The boat people accepted gladly an increasing range of government services, however:  typhoon signals, typhoon shelters, land-based police who maintained order and stopped gangsters from abusing boat women on shore, public health measures, public education, and other trappings of the modern state.              More important than these, at least in 1965-66, was the actual leadership within the boat community.  (By 1974-75, boat life was in decline and government power on the rise.)  Needless to say, boat community leadership could not be formalized, or even overtly recognized.  It was none the less real.  People recognized certain fishermen as leaders, using the terms a yat, “number one,” or taai yan, “big man.”  Marshall Sahlins, theorist of the “Big Man” (Sahlins 1972), would have been pleased.  Sahlins used the term exactly the way the boat people did:  for a man who waxed large in the social picture through his own efforts.  (Sahlins further noted that such a man was often literally big, thanks to many a feast.  The boat people, hard workers that they were, almost never got fat, even when socially considerable.)  Such terms were more often used for powerful land people, and with no friendly implication, but the boat people admitted that they too had their big men.  I found it sometimes difficult to get them to admit this, even when no one had the slightest question that the phenomenon was real.

Many women had real political and social power, but all recognized leaders were men, and the public sphere was a male realm.  On the other hand, everyone knew which women had power, and everyone knew that the wives of male leaders were often full or nearly-full partners in much of the leaders’ decision-making.

The path of a boat leader was of a strictly grassroots order.  A successful boat captain—that is, male head of family—would find himself sought out by relatives and neighbors for help.  If he succeeded in solving their problems, he gained a reputation, which could spread.  Most such grassroots leaders remained known only to close friends and immediate kin, but some rose higher.

The boat community of Ma Wan Island, a small, isolated island a few miles from Castle Peak, recognized as leader and spokesman the dynamic young Yip Yautaai.  He had begun as a particularly caring and attentive solver of neighbors’ problems.  He soon found himself spokesman for the community—a very poor and remote one, poorly served in all respects—in its attempts to improve.  He organized a coop and a Better Living Society that involved all the fishermen.  He got government services and assistance.  He then succeeded in finding nongovernmental charitable organizations that would help with housing and livelihood.  Soon the fishermen moved from their boats into well-built apartments on shore, built with the help of Canadian and other charitable associations.  Throughout all this, Yip remained modest, friendly, and unassuming. Yip’s leadership and ability in all this made him known and respected throughout the boat communities of the western New Territories.  He was widely held up as a living model of a boat leader.

Yip’s achievements were unusual, but effective leaders could be found in many ports.  Castle Peak remained somewhat unorganized; there were many small leaders but no powerful ones.  This had much to do with the divisions of the fleet and the lack of major community-wide problems to solve.  There were many boat types and many sub-communities.  Leaders rose to the level of representing 20 or 30 boats, but rarely could find much scope to move higher, or much competitive advantage over other leaders.  Of course, it also had much to do with the fact that a leader of 20 or more boats attracted many attempts to cut him down to size!

A leader had to deal with issues of face (min, Putonghua mian).  This Chinese term has developed a quite wrong connotation in English.  English-speakers have adopted the word to refer to purely superficial, often hypocritical, social slickness and prestige.  This is not how the term is used in Chinese, or at least in Cantonese (see Moore 1981).  For Cantonese, the term refers to social reputation based on actual skill at negotiating with fairness, honesty, and competence.  To be sure, a well-to-do individual with competence, honor, and connections can have face and still be a shady operator.

However, a boat person—lacking wealth, important connections, and chances to develop suaveness—could only rely on native honesty, reliability, and social skills.  He also had to have considerable courage.  He had to be level-headed, thoughtful, and judicious.  The risks—social and even physical—were not inconsiderable.  A man who blew his cool would never be a leader; he would be more apt to lose his boat.  Also, a leader had to be a good listener, since he had to deal with all sorts of people from all social spheres.  The boat world had its shady dealers and people who cut moral corners, but they had little face.  Many feared them, but few respected them.

In so far as “face” implied a slick surface as well as an integrity beneath, the term lin (lian) was pressed into service, to refer more specifically to the latter (see Moore 1981, 1988).  Face was a social quality, lin a more personal one.

Face comes from successfully navigating the difficult and slippery world of social interactions and transactions.  It is a quality that emerges from those.

To gain face, a leader had to resolve social dealings, conflicts, and disputes in such manner that others also gained face.  The typical case was a conflict among the leader’s followers, or between a follower and an outsider to the circle.  If the leader could resolve such a conflict to everyone’s satisfaction, leaving no one feeling wronged and embittered, all parties—especially the leader himself—gained face.  If the leader left the parties unsatisfied and angry, he lost face.  Negotiating non-conflict situations, such as marriage negotiations, government dealings, and organizing for festivals, also involved the opportunity to gain or lose face.

Losing face also came from any public shame, especially being discovered in a dishonorable or compromising action.  Deadly, also, was being played for a fool—wan pan chat, “played for a stupid prick,” in the blunt language of the waterfront.  A pan chat was one who had tried to pull off a social deal, but had been outsmarted because of his own stupidity.  This was even worse if he had tried to cut moral corners in the process.  Even trivial matters like not being able to respond cleverly to an insult, or being cheated in a minor transaction that anyone should have handled, made one a bit of a pan chat.

Being a running dog (informer), cheat, or deadbeat were also sure ways to lose all face in short order.  Being chou, “coarse,” here meaning “socially insensitive,” was costly to a leader, though not necessarily face-losing to an ordinary person.  A leader had to have sensitivity and polish, and had to keep calm and balanced.  General bias and uncontrolled anger were disliked in everyone and fatal to a leader’s position.  By contrast, bias in favor of one’s clients and carefully stage-managed anger in defense of them were desirable.  (It gave one face to display obviously stage-managed anger, but genuinely losing it and getting seriously angry was a face-losing proposition.  Few facts give more insight into waterfront sociability than this one.)

Crumbling under pressure was always fatal to leadership.

Honesty and fidelity to one’s followers was obviously desirable, but honesty in land-based terms was not necessary.  Yip Yautaai and many other leaders were model citizens by any standards, but many leaders were, or had once been, smugglers, pirates, and the like.  Such men were feared and not always trusted, but they were often leaders all the same; land-people’s standards of good behavior did not necessary mean anything one way or another.

Finally, a boat leader had to have something not at all related to face:  he had to be a distinctive “character.”  An ordinary, conformist, pleasant sort would never be a leader.  A leader had to have a reputation for something distinctive:  pungent wit, great knowledge of and insight into people, great knowledge of folk songs and stories, hard drinking, bonhomous feastmanship, or the like.  He had to stand out as an exciting, interesting person, revelling in life and in originality.

In short, a leader was subject to countless democratic pressures.  He had to be successful and yet not proud or haughty.  The boat people took delight in cutting down to size anyone who overreached himself.

Someone who could successfully deal with such issues soon became the spokesman for his group in dealings with outsiders, be they other boat people, government workers, businessmen, or wandering anthropologists.

A small-time leader tended to be trapped by the size of his operation; he could do only so much with his resources.  Yip, a less than affluent member of a modest community, was exceptional in being able to parlay sheer personal skill into a great deal of improvement for his people.

Leaders developed regular patterns of morning tea-drinking, so that they could be found by anyone needing their help.  A leader would have regular hours at a particular table in a particular restaurant.  Morning was the time for this, because the leader would usually have to go out to fish, or else would be taken up with social and political dealings later in the afternoon.  Part of the responsibility of a leader was attending weddings, religious festivals, and other rituals involving group members, so he had a busy life after morning teatime.  Certain tea shops and restaurants attracted leaders, others did not.  The attractive ones were those that were large, open almost all the time, and welcoming to boat people.  Boat leaders knew the restaurants to visit in Yuen Long and Kowloon as well as in all the western New Territories ports.

The exigencies of a world of highly independent people, who valued their agency and took no orders from anyone, inevitably and necessarily elevated such negotiation-experts to leadership positions.  The situation created a specific morality:  one valuing conflict resolution above almost all other things.  Independence and autarky guaranteed that conflicts would be frequent.  The needs of mutual aid and mutual dependence, and of harmony, guaranteed that solutions to those conflicts would have to be found.  This in turn guaranteed that good problem-solvers would be the pillars of the community, and their social skills would be highly valued.  The boat people were quite aware that an independent community of independent people needs more, not less, self-conscious harmony-maintenance than a community of policed conformists.   The dangers of a Hobbesian meltdown were obvious.

Thus, the boat communities of Hong Kong were amazingly orderly; of course, the efficient colonial government was also responsible, but the boat communities were largely self-regulating.  However, without the police and other trappings of modernity, leadership might not have had such beneficent consequences.  Antony (2003) describes the rise of several pirate leaders in the South China Sea who seem to have risen by similar means—in addition to ruthlessness and predatory savagery.

Other ethnographies of China have described somewhat similar processes.  In particular, the excellent, sensitive accounts in Kipnis (1997) and Yan (1996) relieve me of the necessity of giving a complete account of networking in Chinese communities.  However, in more ordered, hierarchic communities the focus shifts to drawing on “connections” (see below) and manipulating hierarchical relationships and formal political rules.  This was true of land-dwelling communities in Hong Kong as well as in Kipnis’ and other communities.  This gives a very different flavor to the process.  At best, it is more tightly bound to formal political and social rules (see Kipnis’ account).  At worst, it becomes corruption and manipulation (Yang 1994).  As in other cases, one can see the boat people of Castle Peak Bay as set within a continuum:  from accommodation to formal political rule, with corruption and favoritism as the pathological extreme, to complete grassroots autonomy, with piracy as the pathological extreme.

Leaders, of whatever sort, had to build up networks of friendship and acquaintanceship (pang yau), obligation (Putonghua guanxi, a word rare in its Cantonese form), and mutual good feeling (kamching, Putonghua ganqing).  These were the common coin of interaction.  A leader would throw feasts, invite friends and other leaders to dinner, help with religious rituals, provide charity, help in construction or engine repair, and otherwise share.  Most critical were feasts—celebratory dinners, often in restaurants.  (See Sahlins 1972 on the worldwide importance of special food in such matters.  Ordinary dinners would not count.)  More directly useful to clients were such matters as bringing a problem to the attention of the proper powers, and using one’s authority to make sure they attended to it.  An ordinary person could not get a permit to build a shack on shore, for instance, but a leader might.  A leader had to be able to travel to Yuen Long and elsewhere to represent clients too poor or occupied to travel far.  Dealing with the authorities in Yuen Long was frightening to the boat people.  I have seen veteran leaders shake and turn pale in a Yuen Long office.

A boat leader thus had to have some money, but surprisingly poor people got very far.  Yip Yautaai started with little more than a tiny boat and a change of rather worn clothes.  Our sample of leaders disclosed no correlation with wealth.  Better-off boat people had usually accumulated enough enemies to offset the advantages of money.

Perhaps commonest of all, though most unobtrusive, was providing information.  A leader was a node in the vast communication network that linked the whole boat world, from Guangzhou to Aberdeen and Macau, into one great linkage.  Clients expected their leader to be the main source of valuable information about the wider world.  Other leaders expected him to be the source of new and important items that his client network had discovered.  This could be anything from new fishing grounds to an impending marriage or a threatened government crackdown.

Sometimes leadership was courted, sometimes shunned.  In neither case was success automatic.  Leadership was negotiated with the potential clients.  They would not put up with an unskilled social dealer.  Conversely, they would force a consummately skilled man into the role, whether or not he wanted the rather onerous responsibilities.

Leaders we knew varied from people who were simply outgoing, friendly, and cheerful to people who were quietly competent—people who could talk a suspicious official into giving an honest, sympathetic hearing to problems that would have normally been beneath notice.

A trivial and thoroughly typical case exemplifies leadership at work.  A trawler from Castle Peak accidentally ran over the nets of a gill-netter from Ma Wan, ruining them.  They argued over payment; it was a clear accident, but the nets were a major loss.  The trawler was a friend of a minor Castle Peak leader, Leung Taai; the gill-netter was part of Yip Yautaai’s community.  Thus, the conflict went right to those two men.  For days they became more and more edgy, seeming to look for trouble with each other while dreading the possibility of finding it.  Both these leaders were good friends of my field assistant and myself, so we arranged a feast and invited them.  Over drinks (and they could drink as only sailors can), they worked out a compromise deal, “to give you [my field assistant and I] face.”  They were helping us become leaders too, by letting us provide the excuse for them to settle their grievance.

Grassroots leadership of this sort was successful at reducing trouble, and the local police (land-dwellers) told us that the boat people gave them less trouble than the land people did.  But grassroots leadership proved totally helpless in the face of overfishing.  The fishermen told us explicitly that they knew the fish were disappearing, but simply could not stand to put themselves under the control necessary to stop overfishing.  Unlike so many grassroots communities round the world (Anderson 1996; Berkes 1999), the fishermen could not agree on limiting their fishing.  It was a suicidal liberty.  Within a generation the fishery was destroyed, and the boat world was gone forever.

 

3

All this brings up the question of moral behavior.  Since that has been treated in great detail elsewhere (Anderson et al. 2000), I will be brief here.

A good person (hou yan) had the characteristics given above for a leader, but did not need to have—and did not normally have—so much social skill or personal courage.  He or she was responsible, first of all:  a good fisher, good family man or woman, good participant in the endless small exchanges of mutual aid that held the waterfront together.  A good person incurred obligations and discharged them faithfully.  Intelligence got praise, but more praise went to the person who thought carefully and judiciously through problems, listened to others’ opinions, and came to a sensible conclusion.  Respect of others, especially one’s elders, was absolutely essential.  On the other hand, the boat people only modestly favored the Confucian virtue of filial piety.  Deferring to elders in the family was assumed; blind obedience or excessive deference to them brought no praise (see previous chapter).  A good person was not somebody who did anything blindly.  Goodness lay in actively, thoughtfully helping others.

Goodness also involved tolerance.  People lived at close quarters.  They had to tolerate a sometimes overwhelming amount of noise, smoke, and other human annoyances.  They had to have firm rules for dealing with behavior that was completely out of line; everyone would intervene in cases of real danger, but everyone would leave everyone else alone otherwise.  This meant not noticing a most impressive range of human behaviors.  Not only defecation, but also sex, frequently could not be hidden on rocking boats or in thin-walled, close-packed houses.  The hou yan was imperturbable and tactful.

A bad person was an m hou yan, “not good person.”  People carefully avoided using words that literally meant “bad” and “evil.”  Such words were too insulting, but, also, using them could call up dangerous supernatural evil forces.  If the politely circumspect “not good” was inadequate—i.e., if the speaker were truly angry—the villain in question became a “rat,” “dog,” “devil” (kuai), or other nonhuman.  Only truly evil deeds (not persons or things) were “evil.”

“Not good” people were aggressive and tactless, but above all irresponsible, untrustworthy, and unhelpful.  They did not play their part in the endless round of incurring and discharging obligations.  Perhaps the ultimate badness was to fail of an obligation.  Any dishonesty, faithlessness, laziness, and violently aggressive behavior attracted extreme negative judgement.  Acts of this sort became known to the entire waterfront within hours of taking place, a fact which certainly had a major effect on social order.

A different kind of badness was “ignorance” (mou man “lacking culture,” or equivalent words).  An ignorant person was rude, disrespectful, and mean.  He or she was openly intolerant, insulting, or shameful.  He or she carried gossip, said stupidly tactless things, and hurt others’ feelings for no reason.  This, of course, loses face.  At first I wondered at the term “ignorant”—what did education have to do with it?  I learned that mou man refers not to schoolbook education, but to learning proper social behavior.

Illegal behavior did not necessarily make one bad.  Smoking opium and other criminal behavior led eventually to ostracism, though a bit of such was tolerated in some quarters.  Running snakes (smuggling refugees out of China), however, could make one a good person, not a bad one, though it was a crime; everyone believed boat people in China were suffering and needed any help they could get.

Heavy drinking received no censure.  It went with the sailor’s life, and people put away incredible quantities of alcohol at feasts.  (At other times, alcohol on the boats was  rare.)  An alcoholic would have been censured, but we literally never heard of or saw an alcoholic among the boat people, and we knew over a thousand people.  We knew one alcoholic shore-dweller very well; in 1965-66 he was seriously alcoholic, but just before we returned in 1974, his doctor told him to stop, and he stopped—just like that.  We knew, barely, a few other alcoholics, but the number was incredibly small for such a large community.

The secret of this low incidence of alcoholism in a hard-drinking town was simple; it lay in a set of rules that were enforced by unanimous and condignly enforced social opinion.  Drinking was absolutely confined to adults.  Heavy drinking was confined to senior adults.  Drinking, beyond an occasional beer with dinner or peg of raw alcohol on a cold morning, was confined to feasts, and these had to be for a serious occasion (religious or personal).  Drinking had to be with a large amount of fairly oily food, and both the drinking and the eating had to be spaced out over several hours.  These rules sufficed.

Far more serious was sorcery.  Everyone feared it above almost all things.  It was correspondingly rare. We knew two people seriously accused of it.  Both of them gladly admitted to the charge (see following chapter).   They were clearly mentally deranged, but people called them m hou yan rather than song (“crazy”), because their sorcery defined them.

Cynical proverbs, recited when someone let someone down, may be a good way to show values in action.  “Feelings are thinner than paper,” said one.  “Cantonese have no pity” occurs in a song.  Conversely, “even thieves have morals” reminds us that even bad people can be good; the Mencian idea that everyone was good deep inside, however much education they needed to bring it out, was the most widely known, widely cited, and widely held of Mencius’ teachings.  Even those who were unclear about his name knew that the sages held that “people are good.”

All this is very Confucian, but it is not the Confucianism of modern elite discourse.  It is, in fact, a quite different construction of the morality discussed in Confucius, Mencius, and other classic Confucian writers.  Since the days of Zhu Xi (1130-1200), the great Neo-Confucian philosopher who did much to define Chinese moral culture, elites have often interpreted Confucianism to mean obedience of inferiors to superiors.  Yet, the classics spent at least as much time discussing fairness, justice, mutual aid, community spirit, civic culture, and integrity.  They also couch deference in terms of mutual support and good (virtuous) order, not in terms of blind obedience to any and every order.  As in matters of family, the boat people had a perfectly valid, thoroughly Confucian, and thoroughly Chinese way of being good—but it is, once again, very far from the stereotypes promulgated in certain books, both Chinese and western, in recent decades.

 

4

In recent decades, ethnicity has been as overwhelmingly central a topic for ethnography in China as kinship was in the 1960s and 1970s.  Especially important has been study of the differences between the highly formal and often arbitrary “minority” codings and discourse of China’s Communist government and the far more fluid, diverse, complex relationships that the ethnographers find on the ground.  This issue has led to the production of an enormous literature (e.g.—and this is only scratching the surface—Blum 2001; Brown 1996; Constable 1996; Gladney 1991, 1998; Harrell 1995, 2001; Litzinger 2000; Mueggler 2001; Schein 2000).  These studies have been important far beyond the boundaries of China, because they provide, collectively, such a superb picture of the ways an arbitrary top-down bureaucracy makes a simplified, authoritarian grid from a rich and intricate net of actual relationships.

Ethnic relations in waterfront communities in old Hong Kong were characterized by great fluidity.  It is no accident that the modern performative, anti-essentialist concept of ethnicity was pioneered by Fred Blake in his brilliant and pathbreaking studies of ethnic relations in Hong Kong (Blake 1981).  Blake’s pioneer work came well before the “postmodernists” and their ilk “discovered” this notion, and deserves more recognition than it has received.  Blake, in his studies of a Hakka town and its relations with Cantonese and other Hong Kong groups, found that individuals could and did “pass” as members of various different ethnic groups by manipulating symbols:  clothing, food, accent, association, and so on.  Often, ethnicity was a role like a role in a play, to be assumed when strategically useful.

In general, the findings of all these scholars fit with the views of James Scott (1998) and George Orwell: the power state simplifies not only for ease and convenience, but also to maintain control through a type of mental brutality.  All the authors see ethnicity as emerging from interactive practice, not as some sort of essentialist bred-in-the-bone reality.  Most see the Communists as using ethnicity for control, and being highly arbitrary in their application of ethnic labels.  For instance, the same people may be classified in two totally different ethnic groups when divided by a state line; it may literally happen that brother is set against brother, officially.  Native Americans may recognize parallels along the US-Canada border.

In China, as elsewhere, “ethnicity” is a political thing, not a cultural reality.  Ethnic groups are defined by politics.  Usually there is some cultural basis.  In China, most “minorities” and Han Chinese groups are linguistically defined, or are supposedly so.  Obviously, speakers of the same language who are classed separately on different sides of a province boundary may have something to say about that.  At least China seems free of such monstrosities as the American ethnic group “Asian-Pacific Islander,” which lacks any cultural, linguistic, political, or genetic unity, and was established purely for convenience by the U. S. Census Bureau.

The boat people are, of course, an “ethnic group”—not recognized as a minority—defined by residence and subculture.  One is reminded of the “gypsies” or “traveling folk” of the British Isles; the ethnic labels include not only Roma but other, quite unrelated, traveling groups.  Only the mobile lifestyle provides a unity.

Within the recent literature on Chinese minorities and ethnicity, there is a range of opinions.  Some scholars, such as Harrell, have a general sense that ethnicity is real, but much more complex and linked to real-world practice than the Communists allow.   Other scholars appear to see ethnic labeling as inevitably arbitrary, a reductionist classification that may or may not have any basis at all.  Certainly, languages, costumes, and other cultural markers differ, but they may not covary, and they may not go with locally recognized ethnic labels.

Many, perhaps most, are critical, explicitly or implicitly, of the zoo-like exhibitions of “minority culture” that the Communists have long favored.  On the other hand, these shows may at least having some value in keeping cultural arts and expressive means alive, and even allowing survival of minorities that might otherwise be suppressed.

I have little to add to these excellent studies, partly because I have not done much research in Communist-controlled China.  I have already touched on the nature of boat people ethnicity, and on relations with other ethnic groups, and with governments (see above; also Anderson 1967, 1970b).  Suffice it to say that the boat people are among the least marked and most arbitrarily defined of ethnic groups, and that the classification of them as a “tribe,” the “Tan,” with a long “history,” is a particularly extreme case of ethnic essentialization and the invention of an “imagined community” (Benedict Anderson 1991).

Studies of such groups, defined by geography, ecology, village, or other identities, are much rarer than studies of ethnic groups marked by truly different culture.  An excellent comparative volume edited by Tao Tao Liu and David Faure (1996) does consider occupational and geographic subcultures along with “minorities.”   Also relevant are Dru Gladney’s studies of Chinese Muslims (Gladney 1991, 1998).  These have no linguistic, social, political, or cultural unity.  They are not even necessarily Muslims, since those who have fallen away from the faith may still count, for an uncertain number of generations.  Yet they are properly bureaucratized as the “Hui Minority,” with all the appropriate formalization.  Gladney supplies much detail on the inevitable problems that arise as the government tries to deal with this amorphous group, while the Hui try to revitalize their Islamic faith and society.

Chinese essentialization of ethnicity began long before the Communist government.  Labeling and arbitrary bureaucratic classification of ethnic groups has a tradition thousands of years long in China, going back to the Zhou and Han Dynasties’ attempts to label the “Rong barbarians,” “Hundred Yue,” and so forth.  It has gotten more rigid over time, the Qing Dynasty being a watershed period for ethnic sclerotization.  (A masterful, but alas unpublished, manuscript by Jeffrey Barlow on the Zhuang makes this point particularly well.)  The Communists merely continued an age-old tradition, adding Stalinist “nationality”-classification methods to the pool.

In general, it is probably safe to say that one labels people in order to deal with them in batches.  They become nameless, faceless exemplars of their ethnicities, and can thus be consigned to particular places, roles, castes, statuses, or other assigned seats.  Ethnic labeling in China always went with a certain degree of hierarchic thinking.  The old imperial system referred to minorities as “barbarians,” who could be “raw” (least like Chinese) or “cooked” (closer to, ideally assimilating to, Chinese).  The Communists substituted a Marxist-Leninist-Morganian rhetoric of stages in cultural evolution.  In practice, it seems to be little different from the old classification system.  The Han defined themselves as the highest on the Marxian evolutionary scale, so “raw” morphed into “backward.”

One therefore expects, and finds, that labeling sailors, fishermen, and longshore folk as “Tan” or “boat people” would have much to do with administrative and social convenience.  Indeed, it allowed land people, especially governments, to deal with the boat people as a separate, specific, unified population, one that could be dealt with as a unit.  It allowed the whole floating population to be held down, forced into one uniform low-status category.

This, of course, led to resistance, and thus to constant tension between land and sea.

Relations with the land-dwelling Cantonese—the Punti—continued hostile until the boat people disappeared as an identifiable group.  All boat people old enough to talk to us remembered a time when women and children were not safe on shore.  They would be beaten or even carried off and raped or sold.  (This was rare in Hong Kong, but said to be routine in pre-Communist China.)   In 1965, most women and children still refused, out of fear, to come on shore, except to walk in broad daylight along the most fisher-frequented parts of the immediate waterfront.  Almost none dared a trip into San Hui town.  In 1965-66, land children (of the sort described as mou man—this is, in fact, how I learned the phrase) still yelled taan ka lou (“Tanka guys”) after boat people, and sometimes threw pebbles or small sticks at them.  (The same bad children acted the same to foreigners, in which case the cry was faan kuai lou.  Literally “foreign ghost fellow,” this is the phrase translated as “foreign devil” in the older literature.  The phrase may refer more to ghost-like pallor and wide pale eyes than to demonic behavior.)

By all accounts, the situation by 1965 was already better than it had been a few years previously.  The change from 1965 to 1975 was dramatic.  However, even in 1975 boat women still stayed close to their menfolk or to a group of other women.  In spite of the waning of extreme tension, hostility between land and boat people—and other ethnic groups as well—was obtrusive, and warped behavior along the waterfront.  Otherwise gentle and kind people, of all ethnicities, became tense, irritable, and verbally aggressive when walking the narrow line of the beach.

The land people held the boat people to be coarse (chou), holding up their sailors’ language and hard drinking as proof, as well as the rather free and easy sexuality of the floating world.

A point of more historic significance was that the boat people lacked fixed addresses, lineages, or other marks of proper order.  Not only boat people throughout China, but also other Chinese groups, received prejudice and discrimination if they had no fixed address and no lineage base.  Strolling actors, muleteers, migrant laborers, and even wandering holy ascetics all came in for their share.   All such people had been subjected to discrimination in early Imperial Chinese times, being forbidden to take the imperial examinations, marry proper citizens with fixed addresses, go to government schools, or hold official posts; they were a true caste in those days.  Such discrimination was already waning long before the Qing Dynasty fell, but it survived locally into the mid-20th century.

Finally, the boat people suffered prejudice and discrimination because of poverty and lack of education, as well as a history of wandering and piracy.

The boat people’s corresponding negative stereotype of the land people was that they were mean, money-grubbing, snobbish, and out to take the boat people for anything they had.  Friendship between land and boat people was correspondingly rare, but it did happen, because there was clear and inescapable economic dependence; the land economy depended on the fishery as much as the boat people depended on the land for rice, oil, and incense.  The boat people had to sell their fish through land people, and the land people had to buy those fish and hire boat people to handle it.  The religious life of the community depended on harmony and cooperation between the groups.

Tai O had much better relations between boat and land people than Castle Peak; in fact, it was hard to see any tension at all, though some existed.  Conversely, relations were worse in some eastern New Territories ports we knew.  We visited ports in which we saw boat men (let alone women) attacked verbally and threatened physically.  This very rarely happened at Castle Peak, where mutual dependence, legal protection, and the presence of a very large number of very tough boat people inhibited such behavior.

Relations with Hakka and Hoklou were tense and distant, but those groups had few representatives around the bay.  A number of Teochiu lived in the area, but they spoke Cantonese as well as Teochiu, and the boat people did not see them as a separate group.  The Teochiu (called Chiuchau in Cantonese, Chaozhou in Putonghua) came from the hinterland behind Shantou in northeastern Guangdong province.  They had a reputation like that of the Scots in the British Empire: rough highlanders, fond of emigrating to make their fortune through hard work and extreme thrift.  Their music was high-pitched and played on small instruments, which caused the Cantonese to say that it sounded like tsi kei kau tsi kei—“each one for himself.”  Thus, asking for separate checks in a restaurant—a rare phenomenon in Cantonese society—was called “Teochiu music.”  Needless to say, this stereotype was no more true than others.

 

The land people differed among themselves more than the boat people did; land society had much greater extremes of wealth and poverty, conservatism and liberalism, education and illiteracy, openness and intolerance.  Many land people showed absolutely no prejudice against boat people or anyone else.  Certainly, few if any were as harsh and greedy as the boat people’s stereotype.  In many ways, the land people of Castle Peak Bay differed only in degree from the boat-dwellers.  Like the boat people, they were an independent, friendly, cheerful, sociable lot, with a society based on mutual aid, and with an amused cynicism about government.  They were, on average, closer to the Neo-Confucian ideal of order, law-abidingness, and patriarchal family relations than the boat people were, but even here one saw considerable overlap, and very little indeed that was close to the extreme conservative ideal.  Most of the land-dwelling Cantonese of the Castle Peak area lived far from lineage villages or other conservative centers.  Correspondingly, Castle Peak was a very open place, on land as on water.

I observed this continually as boat people and Teochiu “passed” with success and aplomb, thinking nothing of the matter.  The ones I knew in the 1960s were perfectly clear about their root ethnicity, but by the 1970s many were not so sure.  Young people growing up did not know whether they were more Teochiu or Cantonese, more boat or Punti—and many, probably most, of them did not care.  They were content to be members—not necessarily very focal or typical members—of two or more ethnic groups.  Younger boat people who had moved on shore in the 1960s, as children, often thought of themselves as ordinary Cantonese.  Older Teochiu who maintained their ethnicity with some militance found that their older children were saying “well, I’m really Teochiu, but I have become pretty much Cantonese,” while their younger children were not even that sure of their roots.  This was disconcerting to the old, but they adjusted.  Similar processes slowly dissolved the Shanghainese and other groups in Hong Kong, and have gone a long way toward dissolving the various mainlander groups in Taiwan[7].

As previously noted, Teochiu reaffirmed their identity by getting together to eat traditional Teochiu food.  The boat people had no such resort.  Their foods were either widely shared or impossible to get without catching them oneself.  In any case, they had no incentive to maintain an ethnic identity once they were on shore working land jobs, so they gradually merged into the Cantonese mainstream.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 9.  CONCLUSIONS:  VARIATIONS ON CHINESE THEMES

 

Adaptation to a floating life has profoundly shaped the maritime subcultures of East Asia.  None has become more distinctive or more marine-adapted than the south Chinese boat-dwellers.  Whether we examine food, clothing, kinship, or social relations, all the differences between boat and land people seem clearly due to immediate ecological factors.  One need not invoke mythical tribal origins.

One could, in fact, predict, or at least explain, all of boat life by considering how traditional Cantonese society—a family-oriented, rural, tough, self-reliant Chinese social order—had to adapt to accommodate long-range traveling and fishing in a highly mobile world where people had to shift, frequently and irregularly, from port to port.  As such, the floating world provides a sort of limiting case of Chinese society.  It reinterpreted Confucianism, and to some extent Taoism, Buddhism, and the broader Chinese folk religious ground from which those grow.  It managed without land or buildings.  It was self-governing, even to the neat rows in which the boats moored every night, without duly constituted authority of any kind.  It created its own songs and peddlers’ cries and children’s rhymes.

The boat subculture was basically defined by residence and occupation—by cultural ecology.  Power relationships—political ecology—took over in making the boat people into underdogs.  Chinese prejudice always cut against anyone of no fixed address:  anyone who drifted, who did not have a proper lineage hall or residence.  The boat people tended to be less educated, more rough, more vocal and violent than “proper” land people.  Thus, they became a despised minority, and suffered accordingly.

They resisted, in all the ways described by James Scott (1985, 1998).  They developed their own world and ways.  They developed an ideology of independence and self-reliance.  This, however, could not be maintained when they had to deal with the world of fish dealers, police, and other land powers.  Thus, their self-image was of “dragons on water, worms on shore.”

Thus, from them, we learn yet another sad lesson in the endless story of human intolerance and inequality.  Yet, we also learn a more hopeful—if far from totally hopeful—lesson of resistance to those most evil of all human evils.

The Cantonese boat subculture provided real ethnic identity.  As in other ethnic cases, no one could put a boundary around the ethnic group in question, or say for sure where it began and ended.  The subculture had its own structure and principles, but these were flexible and were constantly modified by practice.

As we know from the vast literature on ethnicity and identity in China, ethnic groups are politically defined, and are defined in and by opposition to other ethnic groups.  The boat people’s structural opposite was the land Cantonese (“puntei”) cultural group.  The boat people were also situated in a wider grid, where they contrasted not only with their immediate structural opposite, but also with Teochiu, Hoklo, Hakka, British, Portuguese, and other Hong Kong groups recognized in popular speech and popular cultural awareness.

On the other hand, the boat people were not merely the figment of some bureaucrat’s imagination.  Their culturally distinctive ways were real, important, and salient.  Most were, in fact, matters of life and death:  knowledge of fishing and boatcraft, knowledge of seafaring and swimming, knowledge of community dynamics in a community lacking formal leadership.  Other cultural ways were not so obviously vital, but certainly had a major adaptive function; the worship of Tin Hau, for instance, was essential to hold the community together.  To regard the boat people’s cultural distinctiveness as mere political discourse would be to deny the boat people their record of stunning success at adapting to a terribly difficult and demanding world.  Their modern definition and status may indeed have been due to bureaucrats asserting power, but their wider worldview and behavior were not.

The same may be said for all China’s ethnic groups; those who analyze their definition and existence solely in terms of modern politics deny them a history and a record of accomplishment.  Minority people are not merely names or bureaucratic categories; they are living people, and they do have distinctive ways of living.  These groups have a long, complex record of achievement, and it should not be trivialized—whether by governmental reduction to tourist amusement or by anthropological reduction to mere “discourse.”

The boat subculture thus provides a powerful argument for culture as adaptation, and against cultural irrationalism, especially the postmodern form that sees everything as arbitrary “cultural construction” formulated without feedback from a real world-out-there.  People make decisions, and the boat subculture is the result of thousands or millions of choices; but the choices are not made by airy intellectuals in a dream-world.  They are made by people trying to make a living in a highly demanding environment.

The nature of ethnographic generalizations then concerns us.  I attempted in my previous works on the boat people to give a set of rules that would allow an outsider to anticipate appropriately (Frake 1980) what he or she might see—to know the general rules everyone was more or less expected to follow, and to understand, in a minimal way, what the boat people were thinking when they invoked those rules—why they saw the rules as appropriate in general and in the specific situation.

In the present book, I have tried to summarize, from those earlier works, some conclusions of possible interest.  Such generalizations are, broadly, true—they describe the life of most boat people, and the life of the community.  They do not take into account such matters as variation by income, boat type, personality, and, above all, gender.  I have, at least, been able to say something about that last, and about male-female relations in a world very different from that of the stereotypes of  “China.”  Male-female relations were complex among the boat people, but, broadly, more egalitarian than in any other traditional Chinese community I know through experience or description (though the Hakka studied by Fred Blake come close).  No could mistake the boat people for feminists—the patriarchal family was alive and well—but women had a great deal of independent power and agency, and men had to take women’s ideas, views, and independent behavior into account.  Children, too, started with rights equivalent to their duties, and continued to acquire both together as they grew.

The boat people, and for that matter the Cantonese, put all generalizations about China to the test.  Social historians and cultural psychologists need to consider individual and subcultural variation in their own models.

I have thus made several kinds of generalizations.

Some are universally true for all boat people, and more or less distinguish them, such as the lack of lineages.  The boat people are only one of many Chinese groups that lack lineages.  The extensive literature on Chinese kinship has focused largely on lineage dynamics.  Historians have studied the rise of lineages in the medieval period, and the sudden and rather dramatic way that lineages took their final form in the Song Dynasty (see Mote 1999).  Ethnologists have written vast tomes on the lineage.  A brief flurry of excitement arose in the late 1960s and early 1970s, as Chinese subcultures without lineages led scholars to consider why lineages might arise and disappear, fairly rapidly, because of economic and ecological circumstances (Anderson 1972; Cohen 1976; Pasternak 1972).  This solved some major questions, but the wider issue awaits treatment by contemporary theorists, who can draw on advances in the study of cognition and practice.

Others are statements about typical or modal behavior, and in this case I have tried to indicate that many boat people did not conform; for instance, I can say that children were generally very obedient to parents, but there were families where this was most conspicuously not the case.  Their quarrels were impossible to miss on the crowded waterfront.

Other generalizations are statements of what the boat people themselves said—their discourse, in Foucauldian terms.  Such statements might or might not reflect objectively verifiable behavior.  A case in point is the personal independence that has been a theme of this book.  The boat people and land people all agreed that this truly distinguished the boat world from the land world.  The boat people stressed it in discourse.  Visible reality was a more qualified, nuanced situation—not an open-and-shut difference, but a continuum, with broad overlapping.  Certainly, many boat people not only were independent and nonconformist, but openly revelled in acting that way, sometimes with the explicit goal of shocking the land people!  These swallows may not have made a summer.  Many boat people were as sober and deferential as any land Cantonese, and were not particularly independent.   Psychological research, however, did confirm the general claim (Anderson 1992, 1998).

Barbara Ward saw the boat people in terms of cultural models (Ward 1965, 1966).  Again, one may question the generalization involved in defining a “cultural model.”  Each person has a loose network of rules, defaults, more or less organized facts, and, in general, guiding principles for action.  How much these are systematized into a model—one that could be formalized in mathematical statements—may be doubted, and, indeed, Barbara Ward saw models as rather rough-and-ready affairs.

The boat people certainly had their conscious models, as Ward reported.  Observers—ethnographer, land-dweller, government agents—had other models, often very different from each other.  And one could, with Lévi-Strauss, contrast statistical models with structural ones of all sorts.  All such models are generalizations, and, as we know, “all generalizations are false.” In short, cultural models do not exist in external reality.  They exist as conscious models in the heads of the culture-bearers or the ethnographer.

Each individual has a loose collection of more or less structured lore in his or her head, and this lore includes cultural knowledge, more or less systematized.  However, this “model” may be rather different from the model held by a next-door neighbor, and still more different from the model held by a spouse (of different gender) or teenage child.  The external observer’s model is yet more distinct.

One can make statements that are well supported and well documented, and that are beyond reasonable debate.  These never make up a cultural model, however; we have to resort to tentative formulations.  I have tried to keep these to a minimum in this book, with the result that I can stand confidently behind each statement.  It also means I cannot sell my work as an example of insightful, exciting, or brilliant interpretation or insight.  However, in documenting a way of life that has vanished, one is well advised to stick to clearly accurate data.  No one can check claims (except with the few other published sources that are actually based on ethnographic study).

Discourse—what people say to each other—may or may not reflect real basic values.  Ethnographic questioning and observation can go a long way to finding the differences, and understanding what values really animate behavior, but can never completely resolve the differences.  Conflicting values—Confucian morality, immediate wealth maximization, divine protection, community welfare, and many more concerns—are variably and contextually expressed in behavior.  In the end, the ethnographer can only record what people say and how well that predicts what they do.

Boat society fits perfectly into Anthony Giddens’ view of structuration (Giddens 1984).  Individuals make choices.  They make these with constant attention to their environment, both natural and human.  Class, caste, gender relations, historical contingency, and other social facts influence—and often determine—their choices.  Society changes according to how those choices are made.  Structure emerges, but it is a dynamic system.  It may stay very fluid. If it crystallizes into a frozen array, it may recrystallize in a very different pattern in a few years.

One can describe a social system, or a subculture, at one point in time:  Castle Peak Bay from 1965 to 1975, for example.  But this short passage is not the story.  The story is a longer one, a long tale that goes back at least 3500 years, to the sites on Cheung Jau and other islands.  One part of the story ended in the late 1980s and early 1990s, when Castle Peak Bay was filled, ending forever its floating world.  But boat people still endure, along more remote coasts and rivers of China.

 

The ideology expressed by almost all boat people at Castle Peak was one of independence, but also of mutual aid, mutual reliance, and mutual support, growing from a dense and continual webwork of interactions, but all done without compulsion.  Kinship and spatial relations structured most of these interactions, but one attempted to maintain the widest network possible, especially if one had aspirations to leadership.  One needed to interact with land people of all sorts as well as with other fishers.  However, everyone strongly opposed the fell hand of authority.  People should do all this on their own.

We watched this ideology change in the face of reality.  The cooperatives were beginning to achieve acceptable status in 1965.  By 1975, cooperatives, schools, the government fish market, public health clinics, and other facilities had transformed waterfront views of government.  No longer was government an unqualified evil.  In fact, people admitted that they needed it.  The ideology of independence and self-reliance persisted, but in qualified form.

We might have foreseen, in this, the end of the boat world.  Perhaps it could not survive once it admitted that land-based organizations could be powerful forces for good.  In any case, almost immediately after the boat people came to depend on government economic and social arrangements, they moved on shore, blended into the Cantonese mainstream, and disappeared as an identifiable group.  Fishermen persist as a separate group at Tai O and elsewhere, but may assimilate in the near future.

A theory of society lay behind the older view.  Obviously, to summarize it and generalize it is to do violence to it, because it was based so much on individualism and individual interpretation.  Yet, discourse on the waterfront had common themes and common agreements.  Everyone took as true a few well-known claims, and followed similar paths in deducing the rest of the theory from these.

First, humans were held to be preeminently social.  The extreme form of American individualism—the self-made man alone against the world—would not have been widely accepted; the boat people knew such individuals, but did not like or respect them greatly, seeing them as too antisocial.  People loved to be around each other.  Life’s greatest joy lay in relaxing, drinking, feasting, celebrating, or just talking over tea, with one’s friends and fellows.  The love of humans for ordinary casual socializing seemed self-evident.  No one would think of denying it.  The loneliness, isolation, and monotony of life on a small boat was enough to drive some people mad—literally—and few indeed were the people who enjoyed that.  When—as often happened—mutual aid began to shade off into exploitation and using, moral alarm bells rang, and waterfront gossip dealt with the issue as best it could.

Second, people depended on each other, quite apart from joy in company.  On the water, every man’s or woman’s life depended on instant, caring, thoughtful, responsible action by others.  It is really difficult, at this remove, to provide the reader a sense of just how fast a tranquil fishing day could turn into a desperately dangerous situation.  Small boats, rather round-bottomed to increase maneuverability, were at immediate and total risk if a storm came up suddenly.  Storms on the South China Sea were sudden, unpredictable, and violent.

Thus, reliability and responsibility were the keys to all virtues, the basis of ongoing human interaction.  One could, and did, celebrate at New Year with anyone and everyone, but one’s everyday life had to be spent with people one could implicitly and absolutely trust.  This fact alone made a command-based society impossible to envision. When a typhoon hit, or when pirates attacked, no one could wait around for government mandates.  No one could rely on people without a long-standing claim of friendship and relationship.  Even the slower emergency created by a run of bad luck—several days of bad weather, a broken engine, a mast swept away—required prompt, responsible, cooperative action.  One had to rely on family and friends for loans and support.

Third, given that, people had to have tremendous autonomy and agency.  They had to be free agents.  A leader, especially, had to achieve a reputation for being a bit unpedictable, even a bit crazy.  If he were too predictable, he would seem like a dull stick.  Worse, others would soon figure out how to take advantage of him.  If they never quite knew what he would do, they never quite dared to risk a bad encounter.

On the other hand, independence had its very strict limits.  For one thing, the boat world enforced a type of surface conformity by ecological necessity.  Everyone had to dress pretty much alike, because there was, in traditional times, only one best way to dress; loose black heavy-cotton clothes and straw eye-shading hat were so superior to anything else that no one really had much option.  Everyone had to eat about the same, run a boat in similar ways, and talk the same dialect.  Thus, to stand out, one had to be self-conscious about cultivating idiosyncracy.

For another, independence could not extend to life within the boat household.  There, the senior man had to be able to command, and everyone had to know his or her station.  On the other hand, the extreme value on individual agency made it unthinkable for a senior man to command in an arbitrary fashion, without consultation.  Still less would he be able to make people do what was not in their station.  Tradition governed the roles of each person.  Seniority and gender defined these, and led to a smooth order that worked well and could not reasonably (let alone arbitrarily) be challenged.

In short, independence and firm order both derived from a deeper principle:  Life depended on reliability, responsibility, and mutual respect.  It also depended on a certain amount of grassroots solidarity, since people had to unite to deal with emergencies and to oppose the land people.  (Tension with the land people was a fading memory by 1974, but not entirely gone.)

Thus, as we have seen, the boat people adopted a form of Chinese traditional culture that fit their needs.  In doing so, they created a thoughtful alternative to many Confucian and other ideas.  They followed Confucianism in seeing basic human “goodness”—eusociality—and in a political philosophy of personal integrity and of rebellion against tyranny.  They followed Daoism in their awareness of the inevitability of change, and their flexible, sometimes fatalistic, but always creative way of dealing with it.  They followed Buddhism in seeing a need to build merit with beings beyond human and visible realms.  They failed to control overfishing, defeat poverty, or to build stable communities; they succeeded in creating a flexible, consciously planned social order that enabled them to survive.

The extreme individualist morality that follows from rational choice theory and its relatives would thus not have been acceptable.  It would not have worked.  People sometimes asked us how American society could hold together with its constant shootings, divorces, and sexual peccadilloes.  The view of American society here implied was derived entirely from Hollywood movies, so it bore little resemblance to reality; the point is that genuinely anarchic personal relationships seemed completely beyond the pale.

And, in fact, I cannot see how theories of “rational self-interest” can stand up under the test of explaining life on the boats.  Individual competition of the sort postulated as panhuman by the more extreme sociobiologists (e.g. Ridley 1996; Dawkins 1976) would have made the boat world quite impossible.  Evolutionary ecologists who study fishing have learned to accommodate cooperation in their models; Michael Alvard and David Nolin, for instance, provided a superb account of just how far rational choice and evolutionary psychology can take one in explaining cooperation in a fishery (Alvard and Nolin 2002; Aswani 1999.)  Alvard’s observations provide what seems to be a perfect simple model of how a complex network of undirected cooperation could become established in a fishery.  Aswani shows that highly competitive people can still figure out how to control and regulate their fishery.

Ironically, the boat people of south China never had the opportunity to regulate their fishery; they had to make do with creating a complex, intricate adjustment to the reality of multi-stock fishing without hope of rational management.  Other Chinese fishermen (e.g. in Malaya; Anderson and Anderson 1978) were luckier, and could invoke sea tenure, privatization of beds or lagoons, and regulation of offtake.  Once again, adaptation to local political and ecological circumstances was the rule.  Instead of broad generalizations about behavior, we can generalize here only about the vectors and motives that lie behind, and modify, behavior.

Conversely, the boat people’s social theory, like their social reality, was far from the extreme communitarianism of Leslie White (1949), Talcott Parsons, or others who see Culture or Society as a glorious, perfect, beautifully structured machine that reduces individuals to mere moving parts.  The boat people rejected—vocally—the more extreme forms of Neo-Confucianism.  Many shore-dwellers strongly advocated the family in which a wife was utterly subservient to her husband, a son to his father, and a younger brother to an older.  As common in the area, and as strongly advocated, were the communitarian ideologies of Maoism, Chinese nationalism, and the like.  The vast majority of boat people had no use for any of these moralities.  They were willing to tolerate such ideas, so long as no one tried to impose them on boat households, but they were not converted.  Even the few Communist boat people were a notably independent group, and we were not the only ones who wondered how they would fare under an actual Communist government[8].  Suffice it to say that all of them had fled from China.  Perhaps those left behind were more communitarian.

 

Today, Chinese traditional society, even the relatively loose manifestation of it seen in the boat world, seems oppressively patriarchal to many people in the western world and in modern China itself.  Indeed, it often was oppressive even by the standards of its own practitioners.  People told stories of model households in which everyone worked together in harmony without friction or oppression.  The reality was almost never so smooth.  And things had been worse in the past, when female infanticide or sale occurred (only under desperate circumstances, however, according to all our sources).  Hong Kong today has rejected the more stern variants of the Confucian order; the boat people blend in partly because society has come to meet them, and even passed them, in its move to a more liberal order.

The boat world was also subject to evils that followed from autarky:  overfishing, piracy, lack of services, lack of any certainty to life.  The boat people realized that these were the costs of autonomy, but fatalistically bore them, regarding the benefits of autonomy as more than offsetting.  Yet, given the conditions of China in the early and mid-20th century, torn by famine, war, and government rampages such as the Great Cultural Revolution, the costs seemed high indeed.

In short, the boat life was not without enormous problems and costs.  Romanticising it is a temptation, at this late date, but one that must be resisted.

Yet, the possibility of learning from the floating world, and benefiting from its achievements in everything from maritime technology to song, is certainly clear.  The world has benefited greatly from fore-and-aft rigging, watertight compartments in the holds, and the compass—all inventions of Chinese sailors.  We can now learn from the boat view of society and from its useful practical corollaries in such areas as child-rearing and dealing with close crowding[9].

They followed their own way in creating a social order, a folk song tradition, an aesthetically exquisite world of polished wood and carefully arranged tackle, a cuisine that used common ingredients to produce the best food I have ever tasted.  It was a beautiful, valid, exciting, rich, full way of life.

Without that richness, they might not have survived.  The mysteries of why we need beauty and song are locked in unexplored regions of the brain.  Perhaps, when these are unlocked, we will learn that the salt water songs and the careful arrangement of dark wood and earthenware tones on the foredeck were as necessary to life as the mutual aid and respect that they facilitated.

Through it all, the boat people of south China remained their own persons—brave in the face of constant danger, tough in the face of incredible hardships, friendly and open in the face of endless war and oppression.  A bluff, cheerful man would tell me soberly of watching people starve and of fleeing under fire from the Japanese.  A poised, gentle, centered woman would break into hysterical sobs as she talked of watching her children starve to death one by one until she finally gave up and let someone abandon the latest baby on a deserted island.  Somehow, people survived, and created from centuries of terror and suffering a valid, beautiful, indomitable lifeway.

All that is gone now, and a new and less adaptable world must face the unimaginable horrors of the future.  Population growth coupled with resource waste has destroyed the fishery.  These same forces now doom the vast majority of humanity to the conditions the boat people faced in the mid-20th century.

Perhaps the example the boat people set will not be totally lost.  Perhaps their creativity and thoughtfulness in the face of adversity will give some meaning and some inspiration in the hard years.  In the end, the human spirit endures.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

APPENDIX 1.  SALT WATER SONGS

 

 

I recorded several traditional songs (Anderson 1972).  Especially important were the “salt water songs,” the traditional folksongs unique to the boat people.  These contrasted with several other song types:  classical poems, funeral laments, children’s songs, popular songs, and so on.  I published the Chinese texts and literal translations of my collection, with detailed commentaries, in Chinoperl News (5:8-114, 1975; see also Anderson 1972 for further detail, including some translations of songs recorded by Chinese investigators in the 1930s).  I have retranslated a few of the songs—less literally, more idiomatically than in 1975—for this book.  Many songs turn on tedious dissection of characters, or were badly sung, or were formless dialogues, and have been left out of this selection.

Most lines ended with a long-drawn-out aaaa, not indicated here.

The words give little indication of the beauty of these songs as sung on a quiet night on the still bay, with huge stars overhead and almost no other light.  Fung Sam-Jau in particular had a beautiful singing voice.  The experiences were unforgettable.

Most of the songs were recorded from Fung Sam-Tsau and Cheung Ngau-Tsai.  These were highly intelligent, paradoxical men.  Both were proud, independent, and difficult—standard boat characteristics, but ones they they took to extremes.  Both loved to display their knowledge of the old songs, but also demanded more and more money for less and less singing.  Both were unreliable about times and amounts of work.  Many boat people had a very flexible sense of obligation to set appointments, since they often found it necessary to race to another port because of a fish run or a family emergency; they might not return for days.  But Fung and Cheung were exceptionally hard to pin down.  In the end, they loved their songs, and we heard their repertoire.

We heard many women singing, and women were traditionally the main bearers of the tradition, but, tragically, women refused to record.

No one else seems ever to have recorded salt water songs, and my few tapes, miserably recorded on a cheap reel-to-reel tape recorder, are now all we have of a vanished tradition.  My original tapes are deposited in the Hong Kong Museum.  I understand that boat folk songs still exist in remote parts of south China, but, if other Chinese folk material gives any guide, the songs have probably been vastly changed by Communist policies, radio and TV singing, and other external influences.

One stray line, from an otherwise hopelessly untranslatable song, is too good to miss:  “A man of roads and villages can’t claim the sand and dust.”  A wanderer can’t be too proud; he owns not even the dust he treads.  This beautiful saying, which harks back to classical poetry, may stand as a final word on the boat people’s world and its poetry.

 

The Vegetable Song

Sung by Fung Sam-Tsau and Ng Kam

 

The hollow-hearted water spinach grows on the water.

The falling eggplant splits like a mouth breaking into a smile.

The water caltrop is solid as a fool’s block head.

Watercress and spinach cool the heart.

An onion has a head without a tail;

With a head but no tail, how can a man be called a hero?

Mustard and collards are both greens;

Avoid wrong, don’t gamble, don’t fight.

Celery and celery shoots:  Work hard and win,

Work diligently and then rely on your sons.

Ivy-like bitter melon doesn’t climb beanpoles.

After it’s picked, the vine remains.

Get pork when fresh; get a girl when she’s young.

If you want her, take her this year.

Like onions chopped on a block, you won’t last long.

Water to voyage on, none to drink;

But in the cabin, the lovely girl is a barrel of fresh water.

The foreign month is four weeks;

People without money are never mentioned.

Take a water chestnut, skin it, leave the stem,

Cantonese people have no human feelings.

 

The hollow stems of the water spinach symbolize an open mind here, in contrast to the stuffed-up mind of the blockhead.  Watercress and spinach are cooling in humoral medicine, and remind us to keep cool in trouble.  “A dragon’s head, a snake’s tail” is another variant of the next couplet; it means that one starts bravely on an enterprise, but peters out.  The next couplets turn on puns:  kaai “greens” and kaai “avoid,” kan “celery” and kan “hard.”  (The tones do not match, but tones are not sung in salt water songs.)  The bitter melon is self-reliant.  The foreign month and water chestnut seem to be used only to make up a rhyming line.  “Cantonese” here means “people in general,” though it is also a bit of a slap at the land people.

 

 

Fragment of a Courting Song

Sung by Cheung Fuk-Luk

 

Because I have no money I’ll float to another place;

The poor always have to drift and wander.

Because I have no money, I have to struggle all night for a living,

Yes, through the night, because I am poor.

Corn has layers of silk, you can’t see its face.

A Buddha-image has a mouth but speaks no words.

It’s an old saying:  Without money, you suffer wind and sun.

I am too poor for us to unite.

My hat is full of holes; I put it on.

My clothes are dirty and ragged, but I make do.

Take a cross, add a hook, join a left stroke,

If I had many helpers, I’d get wealth and property.

Yesterday I made a friend and we talked together;

Even a thousand gold won’t buy a real friend on the boat.

 

The cross, hook and left stroke write the character for “wealth.”  This song would be sung by a man courting a woman, wishing he could have her as a “real friend” on his boat.  She would sing an answer, either rejecting him or saying money is mere dung and she loves him too much to give him up.

 

 

Salt Water Song

Sung by Fung Sam-Tsau

 

Once more I ask the girl to go with me;

When she’s ready, she rows the boat here.

A new abacus and you pinch the wood;

You’re a sweet girl but you’re counting wrong.

“Up the bay to buy a carp, down the bay to steam it,

Steam it with bean paste and bean sauce, give me money too, I still won’t love you.”

The dried oyster opens as wide as Tai O channel.

If you want to “fire the gun,” row your boat here.

Step up and cut flowers, the boy over here,

But if he’s broke, the girl stays on her own side.

I start out to fish, see great waves,

The waves strike and sink the boat.

People have to grab the boat rail.

I buy a bowl of chicken soup for the girl,

As long as I live I will not forget.

The north star faces south.

The moon darkens, dark clouds cover silence.

The Sky God says “Open”!  Through the dark clouds we can see the sky.

Row with the sweet, pull the hand lines!  No good working too hard;

The dragon boats are tied, but we will soon know who loses and who wins.

 

An “abacus-pincher” is a penny-pincher; the girl—a professional entertainer in this song, not a prospective wife—cares only for his money.  The quoted lines are supposedly sung by the girl; she would reject even his best cooking attempts.  The dried oyster is her vagina, not at all flatteringly described; “firing the gun” and “cutting the flowers” are phrases for sexual intercourse, the violence of which makes the great waves.  The opening sky refers to hope that the courtship will lead to something.  Dragon boats race on the fifth day of the fifth lunar month; till then they remain tied up.  The implication here is that the girl has many competing suitors, and we will soon know who wins her.

 

 

Salt Water Song

Sung by Tam A-Kau and Fung Sam-Tsau

 

The girl has sea snails in her boat.

Her lover goes there, attracted.

He likes the sound of her voice;

All through the night he doesn’t interrupt her.

Buy salt-hay to tie big crabs;

If they escape, the hay’s wasted.

Little sister, go to the temple to cast lots.

The lot tells you to go with me.

It says you are still strong.

A new bamboo pole, seventeen or eighteen feet long:

First test the water, then see the girl’s heart.

I buy good pork but can’t afford two pieces,

And my little Castle Peak boat has no engine.

Miss Kam Tai goes out to fish, gets seasick and throws up—

Drop her off at Castle Peak with me to look after the house.

 

The lot in question is a stick that stands up, phallically, when several sticks are shaken together; the symbolism is obvious.  The pole for pushing the boat along is also a phallic symbol, so obvious that boat songs have used it for centuries.  Classical Chinese poets immortalized several examples.

 

 

Fish Name Song

Sung by Fung Sam-Tsau and Cheung Fuk-Luk

 

The flounder has eyes on only one side.

The mud flathead’s body wriggles.

The goldenthread has a red body and white belly.

The long-tube fish swims backwards or upside down.

The hairtail comes up all rubbed with white powder.

The yellow croaker’s head wears silver and gold.

The anchovy becomes extremely large.

The sawfish becomes king.

The white-rice fish and silver fish, cut open, have no blood.

The stonefish, salted, gets its scales and head cut off.

The barracuda leaps out like an arrow.

The flying fish is a flying boat on the sea.

The purse-seiner catches minnows near shore.

Shad and ginkgo-fish swim in open sea.

Sea mullets, gray mullets, stay near shore,

Little croakers come up from stony duck-mud.

 

Just fun—few double meanings here.  The fish are well described.  The sawfish, a sacred fish, is the most powerful of all sea creatures.  The huge anchovy is probably a joke—an ironic “fish story.”

 

Ten Women Floating on the River

Sung by Fung Sam-Tsau

 

The first old girl floats up to Hang Mei,

The water dries up slowly, and she asks a young man to push.

The second good woman floats to the fast current,

The fast current breaks her water jar.

On the water she uses her hand to hold it,

On the bank a cook uses his bamboo pole to carry it.

The third woman floats to San Kei,

The water dries out where the bottom is stony.

The fourth floats to San Sa,

Where some go to sea and others sstay home.

The sixth old girl floats to the First Channel,

Where some houses are on stone piles and some on wood stakes.

Of course behind the shops is a stream.

The seventh floats to Tai O pier,

Where once Miss Twenty would really give you something!

She’d ferry you at any hour, no matter how late.

The eighth floats to Tai O mooring,

Where a ferry poles to and fro.

 

The places are in or near Tai O, famous for its singing girls.  The obscene double-entendres should be obvious enough.  The drying water is the lubrication on the woman’s vagina, and so the song begins.  The “fast current” that “breaks the water jar” means just what Freud would have said it meant.  And so on.  Unfortunately, Fung could not remember all the song.

The word used for the women literally means “elder brother’s wife,” a somewhat respectful but very colloquial term for older women.

 

 

The Seasons

Sung by Cheung Ngau-Tsai

 

In spring, soon, people get married.

Spring color, flower scent, spread far off.

Spring wandering on fragrant grass is delightful.

“Spring Girl” teaches her son clearly and rightly.

The spring swallow in the roofbeams builds its nest.

In a spring hut, beadwork grows like jade fruit.

In the Spring and Autumn Period, countries fought with spears.

Spring love achieves happiness, but you pay for it later.

In the spring curtains and decorations the bridegroom meets the lovely lady.

 

Summer potted-plant leaves droop and doze,

On the summer mountain hay dries in heaps.

The Xia Dynasty’s Emperor Yu made channels and stopped floods.

Summer is very hot, people take their clothes off.

Sume days are long.  In the house

Summer makes one go as slowly as possible to the kitchen!

Summer lotuses grow, all flowers open.

 

Fall tangerines fill their branches.

Fall night rain is just the right time.

Fall colors come once a year.

The fall wind blows, stirring up clothing.

Fall exams come; people tell stories

Of “Fall Fragrance” and other famous things.

Fall moon rays shine, rain can still fall.

Fall sorrow: a stranger on the road—but he might still meet a friend.

In fall, girls smile as they walk, thinking secret thoughts.    The fall chrysanthemum grows with no thorns.

 

In winter, potted chrysanthemums look to the clear moon.

Winter makes all fresh and bright.

The East Mountain is red, its top purple and firm.

Winter cold freezes hardest in Beijing.

The eastern household lays out its lineage graves, small tower, and wall.

From winter solstice it’s 106 days to the spring festival.

Winter fruit, at the New Year, stands piled high.

In winter sun the apricots flower proud in snow and ice.

Winter-mushrooms are soft and smooth, everyone likes them;

Here’s joyful wine hidden till winter—Show what you can do with it!
Every line here starts with the season’s name, or a homonym (Xia for summer, east for winter).  The plants and animals are auspicious and thoroughly conventional.  This song is notably more refined than the preceding ones; Cheung Ngau-Tsai knew some classical poetry and preferred fairly literate diction.  But sexual references are far from absent.  Cantonese maintain that fall rain is an ideal time for lovemaking.  The colors (“color” can mean “sex”) and wind-lifted clothing drive the image.

 

 

Teasing the Bride

Sung by Fung Sam-Tsau

 

He new bride, veiled, makes bridal tea very hot,

Her left hand holds the cup, her right hand pours.

The first cup for her father-in-law to drink,

The second for her mother-in-law.

The third is for her husband’s elder brother,

The fourth for his elder brother’s wife.

The fifth and sixth are for the husband’s younger brother and his wife.

The seventh for friends and relatives.

The eighth is for her husband—

On the bed very good, mandarin ducks rose one.

The new bride makes tea with Tai O river water

and offers cakes for her father-in-law.

When mother-in-law instructs you, don’t answer back.

As for your husband, if you don’t care about him, whom will you care about?

 

The italicized words were sung in English.  This song is a straight instruction to the girl on how to serve—until the last lines.  Mandarin ducks are a symbol of wedded bliss.

 

 

The Bridal Feast

Sung by Fung Sam-Tsau

A pair of chopsticks iin the middle;

Next year when you have a son, invite me to eat ginger.

Pure sweet crisp meat on the bones of a fat chicken.

If you know what I mean we’ll all eat together.

The girl is pretty and good, a worthy match for the gentleman,

A properly raised girl with all the virtues.

Four sweet oranges grow on one branch,

The wife picks them and the husband peels them.

He gives them to her,

They eat and drink without separation.

If they mention separation, their parents are sad at heart.

The kite has sons, but they desert him;

When full-grown they fly off to the sky.

 

A feast with ginger celebrates a son’s birth; ginger is stimulating and healthy for a new mother.  The kite (the predatory bird is meant here, not the paper imitation thereof) is, of course, a contrast to the faithful pair.  Kites were an abundant pest in the harbors of Hong Kong.

 

 

Wine and Vegetable Song (another wedding feast song)

Sung by Fung Sam-Tsau

 

The mushrooms are delicious, sweet in the bowl.

The good-hearted Jen Gui went and conquered the east.

Di Qing had only three arrows left;

With them he shot three heroes. Fried dry shrimp look like gold tidbits.

Take up the bowls and stir all together.

This truly is the work of a master chef;

When people eat this, they cannot worry.

The whole duck is delicious in the bowl.

The wholly pure phoenix marries the gold dragon.

They will have sons, educate them, make them valuable men.

The whole household eats; all will be heroes.

In fall the tangerines are green and tender,

In fall comes the night rain; sons are made easily.

In fall fine scenery appears:  range after range of mountains.

In fall come the tangerines, and more babies will be born.

In summer the little tangerine grows buds;

In summer comes the dragon boat festival, and flowers open.

In summer days the wind comes, pearls fall in showers.

Next year there will be tangerines, and also clear tea.

 

A description of the feast segues into a short version of the following song.  The tangerines and tea in the last line are thank offerings for a son’s birth.  The sexist preference for “sons” is all too clear in this song, and all too typical.  Other wedding songs, not translated here, express the Cantonese ideal of “five sons, two daughters.”  (At least, a few daughters are desirable.)  Indeed, completed families in our sample did have seven children.

 

 

The Tangerine Song

A praise poem for a girl.  Sung by Cheung Ngau-Tsai.  (Mistranslated “orange” in Anderson 1967 and 1975, foolishly following Hawkes’ 1959 mistranslation; at least Anderson 1975:47 supplied a corrective note, thanks to editorial help.)

 

In spring the little tangerine tree’s roots grow below ground.

Spring comes with moderate rain.

In spring warmth, last fall’s branches bloom like brocade.

The spring tangerine flowers out like a phoenix lute.

 

In summer the little tangerine grows shoots. On Dragon Boat Day it puts out flowers.

The summer moon shines, the wind comes, branches and leaves sway—

Next year the little tangerine will need supporting stakes.

 

In fall the little tangerine has green fruit.

In fall in the night rain the seed should put forth shoots.

In fall after wind, the moon shines lovely on the hills.

When fall comes again, the tangerine will again grow larger.

 

In winter the little tangerine’s fruit is perfectly red.

At winter’s end, rain comes with festivals.

Winter months are cold; the flowering-apricot needs special care;

In winter the tangerines fill the whole orchard with red.

 

The tangerine is so auspicious that its colloquial name is “lucky fruit” in Cantonese.  Its red color is the perfect color of life, love, good fortune, and all wonderful things.  The tree is considered so exquisitely beautiful that people try to grow them in pots in the house.  This is why “orange” is a sorry mistake; the orange does not have these strong associations, though oranges too are auspicious.  Here, the tree is a metaphor for a young girl, marrying, making passionate love, and getting pregnant; see the “fall night rain” above.  The tree needs supporting stakes because of its heavy fruit—a lovely image for a pregnant woman.  “Flowering apricot” is a homonym for “little sister,” a pet or colloquial term for any young woman.  The flowering apricot flowers in midwinter, and needs protection from extreme cold.  Here, the special care implies care for a woman giving birth.

A famous poem in the Songs of the South, from around the time of the Han Dynasty, praises a young man using the tangerine tree as an image (Hawkes 1959:76-77).  The present poem is strikingly close to that one in imagery and rhetoric.  Since the boat people frequently learned classical poetry, via educated patrons of boat singing-girls, this is not as surprising as it might seem.  Cheung Ngau-Tsai, in fact, knew and could chant poems by Li Bai and other classic poets.

 

 

 

APPENDIX 2.  LIFE HISTORIES

 

 

These life histories (except for #3, which I collected, in English) were collected by Choi Kwok-tai, with or without my assistance.  Mr. Choi worked with the fishermen and was a trusted friend to most of them.  Mr. Choi, Chow Hung-fai and I translated them.  Mr. Choi put them in third person, because he shortened them somewhat in recording, but they were almost word-for-word.  We all edited them slightly for the initial, almost verbatim translations in Anderson 1970b.  I have now re-edited considerably, to shorten them and disguise identities, but I have tried to keep the narrators’ turns of phrase, such as “fac[ing] the challenge of sexual desire.”  All names are pseudonyms.  All the participants must now be long deceased, or, if not, impossible to trace.

 

  1. The Nouveau Riche

 

Yat was a native of Po On [a county just north of Hong Kong].  His family has been fishing at least four generations.  His father ran a gill netter, and he lived happily under his parents’ care.  He gradually came to work more and more with his father.  His father employed a private tutor, teaching the four children on the boat, when Yat was 14 years old.  He had only a few months of study, because his father decided to retire early, being sick of fishing.  Yat took over the boat when he was 15.   His parents arranged his marriage the following year.  He then built a shrimp trawler, with some money borrowed from a fish dealer.  The family fished at Po On, Tung Kun, Macau, the Pearl River, and elsewhere, and especially they came to fish the yellow croaker runs at Tai O.

At that time Tai O had a great yellow croaker fishery.   When the fishermen came ashore, they could enjoy themselves.  The restuarants were crowded, and plenty of singing girls were there.  Yat was strong and well off, so he faced the challenge of sexual desire.  It was difficult for him to resist.  Fishermen in port would form groups, wandering among singing establishments, enjoying whatever happened.  His wife became worried, and got a concubine for him, but he still visits his old friends in Tai O when there on business.  Fortunately, he could keep his business up and work hard.

Hong Kong was occupied by the Japanese in 1941.  Seeing that war had broken out, thieves and robbers appeared like forests [as thick as trees in a forest].  It was hard to survive.  Yat, with his family, went to Tung Kun and hid in a small channel.  In two months he returned, and fished successfully in spite of pirates, which he discouraged by means of guns and cannons.

After the Japanese surrendered, the British government organized the Fish Marketing Organization.  Yat supported this and helped develop a unit at Tai O, but the unit went bankrupt.  In 1958, he mechanized his boat.  He then handed over his fishing business to his second brother and came to Castle Peak to buy a wooden hut and set up business on shore.  He sold rice, groceries, and salt fish, but went bankrupt soon because of lack of capital and experience.  But he had made contacts, so switched to selling diesel oil.  He started selling only a few drums of oil; lacking capital, he did badly, but he built up trust.  He could borrow some money.  More and more boats were mechanizing.  In the 1960s and 1970s, he and his family sold diesel, water, kerosene, and related products.  He became rather well off, and eventually moved to more urban parts of Hong Kong to retire in modest comfort.

 

  1. The Child Buyer

 

Yi was born in Tai O to a Po On family.  Of his three sons and one daughter, two sons were bought.  In traditional times, if a couple had no son after three to five years, people would ridicule them.  There was a saying:  Thirty no wife, forty no son—alone half your life!  So when Yi’s wife had no son after three years of marriage, he bought two sons.  The price of a baby boy at that time [mid-1940s] was very high.  Sons came from poor families who had more children than they could support, or from gamblers or opium addicts.  Intermediaries obtained a commission for selling these sons.  Another source was women whose husbands were away for long periods, leaving their wives, who were sometimes tempted.  They would escape to distant areas, and sell their illegitimate children.

Yi’s father ran a large sailing trawler.  The family fished around the Pearl River, catching croakers, shrimp, and the like.  Living was not too good, but he enjoyed his childhood.  He went to school for five years, from 11 to 16.

One cold night when he was a young man, the Japanese attacked.  Bombs and shots were everywhere, making the whole fishing port a battle scene.  The fishermen were living peacefully and did not know what was going on, since they did not read newspapers from one year to the next and knew nothing of the outside world.  They thought the war was a punishment from the Sky.  They had to flee for their lives, many being separated from their families.  Luckily, Yi was not asleep. He raised anchor and fled under the shots.  He passed a night on a deserted island, then fled to Tai O.  Japan occupied south China; the ports and markets were closed to him.  Killing, shooting, and robbing went on and on.  The fishermen could survive in Hong Kong Colony, fishing south of the main islands.  But soon the Japanese took Hong Kong.  The family moved to Castle Peak.  His father got him to marry, in spite of the war, because he was of age.  The boat was too large to opearte safely, so they bought a gill-netter and fished pomfret, goldenthread, and croaker.  Fish were common, prices low.  Once the Japanese police caught him, assuming he was a secret agent.  Only the lucky appearance of an interpreter allowed him to explain himself.

After the Japanese surrender, Yi’s mother got cholera.  At that time the fishermen did not understand this disease.  Cholera was thought to be a stomach ailment, and was treated by Chinese doctors.  With the help of the Sky, his mother survived.  She was so weak that other sicknesses came, and she lay in bed for ten months.  He had to stop fishing and pay medical fees.  His living was very bad. He went into debt and could not mechanize.  Eventually he got a mechanized boat on a loan, but repairs ruined him.  He stopped fishing and worked for a live fish dealer.  His wife and daughters-in-law made nets.  Eventually, with hard work, savings, and a network of loans from extended fammily members, they saved enough to get a bouat and get back into fishing.

 

  1. The Educated Man

 

Saam was from Cheung Chau; the family believes it came from Toisan five or six generations ago.  His mother had some education and insisted on living on land to send Sam to school.  His mother died in 1942.  The family did not do well, and turned to the land about 1950.  His father stayed at Aberdeen, while the children were raised at Cheung Chau.  From 1952 to 1955, when his grandfather died, Saam studied in Hong Kong.  Scholarship, encouragement, and a lack of opportunities for the uneducated kept him in.  He began to read enormously, for “escapism, amusement, and necessity.”  In 1955 he became the support of his family, thanks to a small scholarship.  He got tuberculosis but recovered, went through the university, and earned a BA and diploma in Education in 1961.  He then went to teach in Yun Long.  In 1964 he was able to go to England and study for a year at the University of London.  Returning, he got a post training teachers in Kowloon, which he was still doing in 1966 [I did not find him in 1974].

Saam thought that he and a lawyer of whom he knew were the only boat people to graduate from university.  He thought Chinese “overprotect” children and do not expose them to emotional conflicts, but that the carrying belt gives the children emotional satisfaction and thus helps prevent juvenile delinquency.  England convinced him that shouting at and frightening children can harm them permanently.

 

  1. The Fish Seller

 

Sei was local born.  He was the eldest of eight.  His grandfather fished and also carried fish for Macau and Hong Kong dealers.  He took to running a small ferry.  When Sei’s father was grown, small motor-powered boats took over the industry.  His father could not carry on the ferry business, and returned to fishing.  At that time [1910s-1920s], boats were few, so fishing was not bad.  At Castle Peak Pier, fish dealers and shops were scattered around the area.  Sei’s father was cheated and oppressed by his dealer, so switched to another, and eventually wnet into dealing for himself.  He and his brothers and cousins knew only the first ten numbers, so they had to draw pictures of the fish when they wanted to list fish.  Eventually, at 12, he got to school.  Schools taught by rote and were oppressive, so he tried to escape, but his father needed business help and made him stay.  Eventually the fish dealership began to pay, and the family moved on shore.

The Japanese then occupied the colony.  Pirates and rascals took the opportunity to rob and raid.  Lives and properties were in danger.  Their dealership failed.  The Japanese destroyed the pirates, but “spies” for the Japanese could raid and murder.  The family went to isolated islands to fish for a living from  small hand-liners.  They barely survived.  They lived on rice gruel and sweet-potato meal [the most despised of foods].

Finally, the Japanese surrendered; everyone rejoiced.  Sei’s father became a fish dealer on the far side of the bay.  Sei’s younger brother—the second son in the family—became a seaman; his third worked in a shop in Yun Long.  Sei and his unmarried elder sister carried on the father’s old business.  The seaman came home and joined in.  They succeeded, and threw a celebration that “set a record” for local display.

In 1947, the smuggling business was very active.  It increased steadily.  Sei started a live fish business for the smugglers.  He got capital, and began to loan it out.  He used crooked scales.  His income was “like a waterfall.”  He became creditor on more than a hundred boats.  They celebrated many weddings and feasts.

[He took to gambling and other shady pursuits, got a disease—tuberculosis or sexually transmitted disease—and came to a sad end.]

 

  1. Misfortune

 

Ng was a native of Po On.  He had a younger brother and five sisters.  Around 1960, the brother was arrested in China and jailed for interfering with economic policy.  He died in prison two years ago.

Ng had eight sons and two daughters, and fished with a motorized trawler.

Ng’s father’s business had not been good.  Ng went to school for a short time, but the boat was short of hands.  His lack of schooling made him feel the pain of ignorance, so he was sending his sons to school in the 1960s and 1970s.  The family worked hard, but their boat was wrecked in bad weather.  They joined an informal savings-and-loan group and got their boat back to functional state.

They were out fishing one day when they saw an ordinary-looking hand trawler.  They came near it.  Suddenly gangsters from it leaped onto their boat and stole all their money and equipment.  Once more they were penniless.  Relatives loaned them money and they set up again.

Before they could get ahead of debt, the boat wore out.  At this time Japan conquered China.  Ng borrowed money from arms-runners and ran arms from Hong Kong to loyalists fighting the Japanese in Guangdong.  As soon as he got enough money, he stopped this dangerous business, married, and went back to fishing.

Then the Japanese took Hong Kong.  The Japanese controlled the land and knew that spies and arms had to come by sea, so they terrorized the boat people, stopping boats to search, rob, and in suspect cases kill families and burn the boats.  Sometimes they would stop a boat, rape the young women, tie everyone with barbed wire, and set the boat afire.  The fishermen were “as frightened as birds scared by arrows, and could only sit and wait for death.”  When the fishermen saw Japanese boats, they would cut their nets and flee.

Once Ng was at a small island.  The Japanese came up suddenly.  The fishermen had no time to escape.  The Japanese charged with rifle and bayonet.  Ng had been asleep.  He was wakened by the noise.  He forgot his own life and fired a pistol.  The Japense—two soldiers—jumped into a sampan and fled for shore.  The fishermen could not follow them into the shallows.  The Japanese fired a machine gun. Ng and his family swam for shore and hid in a paddy field.

The family mended the boat once again—it was full of bullet holes—and went to Macau.  They did not know the waters.  They lived on bare rations.  Fortunately, the Japanese surrendered before Ng and his family starved to death.  They had no equipment left for fishing; they lived by carrying rice.

China closed its waters to unlicensed boats in 1957.  Ng mechanized, but his engine was constantly going out of order, so poverty came again.  A fish dealer loaned him money.  “The bad fate was the will of the Sky, but at least the spirits stretched out a hand to me”:  In the third lunar month [just before I met him] he caught a school of whte croakers worth $30,000 Hong Kong dollars.

But misfortune was not finished.  In 1965 he was secretly reported to the Chinese government as having poached on their waters.  He was caught in China, taken before a people’s court, and told to confess the amount of fish he had “stolen.”  He refused, and was jailed for a month and fined ten barrels of diesel fuel.  But he went back to fishing, did well, paid off his debts, and married off a son.  Finally, after being despised for poverty, he was respected.  [Mr. Choi here quoted one of the Chinese proverbs he loved so much: “The success is called king, the loser is called thief.”]

 

  1. The Orphan

 

Luk came from Pun Yu near Guangzhou.  His father was a very poor fisherman who could never succeed, so shipped out as a crewman.  Luk was one of three sons; the other two died of hunger and disease.  His mother died of starvation when Luk was ten.  His father could no longer fish, so Luk was taken as a boat hand by an uncle.  He was thus completely alone; he got no care or attention, and was laughed at by the other boys.  He had no one.  He saw his father only at a few festivals; when they met they would embrace and cry loudly, expressing their emotions.  His uncle then came into difficulties.  Sick and unable to support his own family, he sent Luk on to another uncle.  At 13, Luk began to serve this man; his wages were a silver dollar a month.  He sorted fish, swabbed decks, and mended equipment, working up to 18 hours a day.  After two years his wages went up to two silver dollars, then three.  Finally, another relative hired him at a good wage. He married at 23 and kept working.  Eventually, he saved enough to buy a boat, fish, carry rice, and otherwise work his way up.  His father grew sick and died; Luk spent all his savings for treatment and then for the funeral.  After that, he came down to Caastle Peak and mechanized his boat.

 

  1. The Shady Dealer

 

Chat came from Chungshan.  His father was a poor farmer and foodseller. When he was eight months old, Chat was adopted out to a childless boat family.  At 17 he married and took over the business.

The Japanese came, and he shifted to Castle Peak.  Illegal gangs terrorized fishermen.  But Chat associated with them and became friendly so was not bothered.  In the war, he set himself up running arms.  The Japanese cracked down, but Chat’s underworld contacts informed him and he escaped to Tung Kun.  He anchored at a different place every day, returning to Castle Peak after the war.  He went into dynamite fishing, another shady occupation.  When the Communists took over China, once again arms-running was profitable, and Chat smuggled arms from Hong Kong to rich merchants and mobsters.  He moved on land, built a wood hut, and sold firewood, rice, and groceries, but went bankrupt.  He fell back on carpentery, building illegal squatter structures.  Eventually he got his old shop back, and turned it into a café.  He then started to make dubiously valid identity cards, and otherwise deal less than legally.  He was made a representative for the local fishermen and for the Nationalists (on Taiwan).

His wife worked the café while he worked construction. He drank heavily and took a concubine.  His wife objected, and just at this point he lost his money in a bank failure.  [Chat was one of the least stable and most “hard” boat person I knew—a strange, troubled, dark personality.  When we interviewed him, he was living in poverty in a small room, spending much of his time dreaming of the past.]

 

 

  1. The Leader

 

Pat was a Po On man who lived most of his life at Tai O and Castle Peak.  When Pat was eight, his father died.  At 16, Pat took a job as boat hand.  He took part in the great seamen’s strike of 1925.  After that, he borrowed money and fished the Pearl estuary.  At this time he married.

By then he was already respected among fishermen, and served as local representative.  When the Japanese came, his fishing was ended.  Loyal to China, he was hounded by the Japanese and reduced to starvation.  For six years he and his family lived on sweet potato stems, rice husks, and rarely some sweet potatoes or thin rice.  His wife and two of his three daughters starved to death.

After the war, he remarried, and carried grass for mats from Chinese areas to Hong Kong, returning with salt or sugar, not bothering with minor formalities such as customs duties.  The Communist government pursued him for this and for his role in Nationalist local government, so he came to Hong Kong with a new boat, and mechanized there.

He worked his way up as representative as a group of relatives and anchorage neighbors.  He got into a conflict with land people when an outhouse was built in front of his mother’s grave, ruining its fungseui and endangering the living.  Eventually, after sharp conflict, he found a place to move her body.

[As of 1966, Pat, one of my most constant companions and superb consultants, was a bluff, powerfully built, extraverted man of 59.  He was a good talker,and had a Rabelaisian capacity for food, sex, alcohol, jokes, folksongs, and living in general.  Unfortunately, his fortunes declined, and by 1975 he was frail and living in poverty again.  He died soon after.]

 

 

  1. The Beaten Man

 

Kau was from Pun Yu.  His family ran an old sailing trawler.  Living got worse as China restricted its waters after 1957.  Men of his surname and home area built up a network of large trawlers.  (Another, intermarried surname group lost some membership to opium smuggling and smoking.)  In the Qing Dynasty the “Kau” trawlermen were rich and powerful, and some highly educated.  Their large, capacious boats proved good for smuggling.  More honest ones turned to mullet, caught when these fish run down from the rivers at the first cool weather.  The trawlermen could throw huge festivals, educate their children (“even the girls”), and marry well.  Many men went on shore and invested in land businesses, while the more beautiful girls could marry well-off land-dwellers.

The Japanese conquest drove Kau’s family to Macau.  Search for food forced them to sail back to Japanese-controlled areas, where they were once accused of smuggling arms and tied up.  Only the fortunate appearance of another Japanese ship with an interpreter on board saved them [the second case in our narratives of this common situation].  Sailing trawlers were suspect.  For one thing, they carried dynamite for fishing, and could sometimes use it on pirates or smuggle it to loyalist soldiers.  The experience with the Japanese was thus frightening; “when you talk to the tiger, you are frightened right then.”

Times were bad.  They sold their gold ornaments for food.  Kau’s elder brother got into fish dealing, was caught in China, and sent to a distant camp for reeducating such capitalists.  Others also went into fish dealing.  Kau and one brother carried on the fishing.  A typhoon destroyed the huge old boat, and Kau survived on tiny Mouse Island.  His wife prayed all night to the Sky.  They went on shore, but could never get money together to get a new boat or start a business.  They survived from relatives’ incomes, and Kau retired.  [Still fairly young and in good shape, Kau had given up; he spent his time brooding.]

 

 

  1. The Restauranteur

 

Sap was a young man, born locally to a Po On family.  In the late Qing Dynasty, unrest was severe in Po On.  Violence, piracy, feuding, and crime were common. Deserted islands became criminal hangouts.  So Sap’s grandfather came to Castle Peak, where he fished with a casting net [a small net thrown from a sampan—an exceedingly humble way to make a very slender living].  At that time, Castle Peak Bay was almost deserted.  The family caught good fish and sold them at the old market at the foot of the Peak.  Their living was stable, but the boat was overcrowded.  The grandfather erected a small wooden hut on shore.  The youths went out to sea often, but were better off than living on the boat.  Some of the family took up shore occupations.

The Japanese occupation of Hong Kong came when Sap was very young.  His father could not get hemp to make nets.  He sailed to occupied territory to find some, was caught by pirates, and was killed.  Three rival pirate gangs feuded over the extortion racket in the area; Sap’s father paid off one, and was killed by another.  Sap’s mother worried at her husband’s failure to return, and eventually got the story from an eyewitness, a fisherman.  The body was found and buried.

She continued fishing with the help of the children.  They were reduced to sweet potato meal, and even that did not always come.  Family solidarity saved them; relatives supported each other.

After the war, tourists began to come to Castle Peak.  There was no road around the bay, and visitors to Castle Peak Monastery had to be rowed across from the pier.  Sap’s mother took to rowing them.  By this time the sisters were old enough to attract many young men to the boat, and the mother, too, met many gentlemen from the land.  [In short, they became singing-girls, not necessarily a low-class occupation and not necessarily involving sex.]  Under the influence of educated tourists, the mother sent Sap to school for a full seven years.  He then worked as an employee on a live fish boat.

At this time, “high-class” urban men liked to hire boats to go out fishing.  The better boats prepared food and had pretty girls to serve it.  Sap’s two sisters—who by this time had friends in high places—got enough in this way to build two small houses on shore.  Sap sold firewood.  When local wood became scarce, he thought of converting his woodyard to a restaurant.  Business was not bad, but some of the customers were rough.  He had lived on the waterfront all his life, and [modestly put, with no boasting] “I can handle such people.”  [Sap was small and wiry, but quick and strong, not a man to fight against.]

A year later he formed a partnership with a cook who had run a movable food cart for some years.  The two opened a fish shack.  Slowly, it grew in reputation, and became a highly successful restaurant, the “Garden of Delight.”  Eventually it moved to much more capacious and showy quarters, up the bay.

[By 1965, it was already famous as far as the urban areas of Hong Kong for the incredible quality of its sea food.  By 1974, the quality of the “Garden of Delight” was showing the effects of volume feeding and the decline in local sea food quality, but the restaurant was still far above the sea food palaces of Hong Kong today.]

 

 

  1. The Convicted Man

 

Yau came from a hand-lining family.  He had no education, and his family had always been poor.  He worked on other people’s boats and on ferries.

In 1959, the Chinese government across the border called on fishermen to celebrate the Midautumn Festival and see the wonders of the new regime.  Yau went and enjoyed himself thoroughly the whole day.  In the late afternoon he was seized without warning, driven to the local town, and kept overnight.  He was brought to court the next morning and charged with murder.  This was the first time he heard anything to indicate why he was held.  The fishermen of the area had charged him, as he understood it.  He admitted that he had killed pirates during the unsettled times of World War II, but said he had never hurt anyone else.  He was questioned off and on, day and night, by different courts and officers, for nine days.  Sometimes he was interrogated seven times a day.  No on ecould establish his guilt.  He was kept in the charge room of the local police station for two months.  He was told that this was to allow fishermen to bring charges or petition for his release on grounds of innocence.  No one appeared with either of these, so he was  held till declared guilty.  He was locked in an old hut north of Guangzhou, and made to work, managing a fish-rearing pond.  Twice a day there were “re-education” meetings.  He was moved frequently to different places.  He became sick, with vomiting and pallor, and was treated in hospital.

In 1962, he was released, and returned to Castle Peak.  He held his wife tightly and kissed her.  He felt he was in another world.  He was so miserable and weak that it took him five months to recover, and the medical treatment almost ruined the family.

[This story is strange; murder would have drawn a much harsher punishment.  The tale remains inexplicable, and how much is true must be left to speculation.  He was certainly imprisoned, but why and under what circumstances remains unclear.]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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[1] The Yucatec Maya lump certain orioles that nest at the tips of branches, while separating others that look the same but nest in the crowns of palms.  Genetic research has just confirmed that the relationships do indeed go with nesting behavior, not with appearance.  The Yucatec were ahead by about 3,000 years.

 

[2] The Hong Kong fishermen could have said, with my Maya friends in south Mexico:

“Es la ley de San Garabato,

comprar caro y vender barato.”

“It’s the law of St. Hook:

buy dear and sell cheap.”

St. Hook may not be in the Catholic Encyclopedia, but his law is, sadly, much truer than a great deal of religious or economic teaching.

 

[3]  Producers’ cooperatives have a long and honorable history; we in California have known Del Monte (fruits and nuts), Sunkist (citrus), and Calavo (avocados) for decades.  Similar coops continue to flourish in many parts of the world, but have become less important with the rise of agribusiness and the cult of the “individual” in economics and economic development.  In the 1970s, microlending appeared on the scene, thanks to Bangladeshi economist Mohamed Yunus, and more or less replaced cooperativization as the popular thing to do in the world of development aid.

An interesting comparison emerged when Marja Anderson and I studied cooperatives in Chinese fishing villages in Malaysia in 1970-71 (Anderson and Anderson 1978).  Here, coops were less successful.  First, the fish buyers there were in fierce competition, which forced them to pay top dollar to the fishermen, extend credit on reasonable terms, and shave their own profit margins to the minimum; therefore, the cooperatives could not improve terms for the fishermen.  Second, the cooperatives were not always free from corruption.  Third, the government used the cooperatives as one way of managing and controlling the fishermen.  These being (like the Hong Kong boat people) a less-than-docile group, they did not take kindly to such control, and thus distrusted the coops.  Withal, coops worked, not spectacularly, but well enough to keep the fishery alive until it succumbed to the same forces that destroyed it in Hong Kong.

 

[4]  This was, interestingly, no less true of our own children than of the Cantonese; we used hikers’ baby-backpacks, not meitaai, but the real issues were doubtless more complicated.  Marja and I concluded that much of the trauma of weaning—from breast or meitaai—is the loss of contact involved.

Nothing proves the utter irrationality of the human animal better than the disappearance of the meitaai in the last 30 years.  It has gone from universality to extinction in Hong Kong, having been replaced by the baby-stroller.  Part of the reason is probably sheer laziness (babies are heavy), but most of it is clearly emulation of the west.  A custom that combined total convenience for the mother with tremendous psychological benefits for the child has been sacrificed out of abject adulation of all that is foreign.  The pattern reprises Hong Kong’s replacement—fortunately less total—of Chinese food by hamburgers and of Chinese classical music by rap.

Meanwhile, the brief career of baby-backpacks in the west has also run its course.  Today, babies suffer in strollers, unable to touch the mother, or at best are carried in frontpacks, which are as inconvenient as they are hard on the parental back and neck.

 

[5] Compared to Near East studies, China studies are relatively free of Orientalism in its more obvious forms, but Orientalism at its worst does raise its head.  Regrettably significant is the constant republishing of Arthur Smith’s Chinese Characteristics (1894), one of the most viciously racist books to come out of British imperialism.  It is still in print.  Even Smith had a conflicted, self-contradictory affection for the Chinese (Smith 1899, right from the first page), but in general he was a strong critic.  No books today approach his, but Lloyd Eastman’s Families, Fields, and Ancestors (1988) included a few unguarded remarks about the brutality and callous viciousness of Chinese families.  These were, however, buried deeply in an otherwise well-done survey of Chinese society, and I do not mean to imply that Eastman is in any way close to Smith ideologically.  Elisabeth Croll’s book Endangered Daughters is a still different work, a superb, insightful, deeply moving book about the tragic wastage of girls’ lives throughout Asia.  It tells no more than the sober truth, in a sympathetic and humane tone.  The point here is that all three give us worst-case stories, and perhaps the most important thing my work can do is provide a story that may balance them out a bit.

We never saw at Castle Peak the dragooning behavior and harsh discipline that characterizes “the Chinese family” in western stereotype.  As noted elsewhere, this is clearly not because we were self-deluding romantics; we had no difficulty seeing such behavior—the local people saw it as deviant, but it was quite common—in the Malaysian Chinese communities we studied in 1970-71.  There, our children participated in the general unhappiness, though of course they were shielded from any direct abuse.

Castle Peak was a very, very good place to grow up.  My children were never happier, healthier, or better behaved—to a great extent because they were treated very much better than by the wider community at home.  This was not because we were foreign; quite the reverse; as foreigners, we were subject to prejudice and some hostility.

 

[6]  For the record, my adopted son recently and quite accidentally located his birth mother, who gave him up for adoption at babyhood in 1967.  The reunion was emotional.  She had never ceased thinking of him, with all that “thinking of” implies in such cases.  We glady incorporated her in the family.

 

[7] I set off a daunting outbreak of screaming anger in Taipei in 1975 when I addressed in Taiwanese (Hokkien) an elderly man who turned out to be a mainlander.  I believe this would never happen today.  Younger Taiwanese I meet now seem to be the offspring of “mixed” marriages as often as not.

 

 

CHAPTER 7.  RELIGION AT CASTLE PEAK BAY

 

 

1

Religion” is a western European concept that is rather unusual in world perspective.  Traditional China recognized no break between the “supernatural” and the “natural”; gods, fate, and good and evil spiritual forces were as real as the wind and the scent of incense.

Indeed, it is difficult to classify such Chinese concepts as hei—the famous “qi” or “Ch’i” of martial arts and medicine—as “supernatural” or “natural,” or to classify fungseui into any of the three classic categories of “Magic, Science and Religion” (Malinowski 1948).  Qi and fungseui seem “supernatural” to a westerner, or to a western-influenced Chinese who does not believe in them, but they are “natural” to a believer.

The Chinese do recognize approximately the same category as the western idea of “worship,” in the verb paai (Putonghua bai).  The root meaning is “to pay respect with folded hands.”  On the whole, the word is equivalent to the western idea of worshiping supernaturals, and thus to the western idea of religious behavior.  Conceptually, the invisible world of beings and forces addressed by and used in paai was a single world, Heaven or Sky (t’in/tian).  However, one can paai venerable living elders, as well as ghosts and spirit-inhabited rocks, so the paai category too is different from western concepts of “religion.”  Moreover, such forces as qi are generally outside of the realm of paai.  However, qi and fungseui are associated with such entities as dragons and rock spirits, which are given paai, and which are in the realm known as “supernatural” in ordinary English.

The western opposition of “religion” and “science” is rather similar to the Chinese contrast of intentional, willed action by a single supernatural agent vs unintentional, automatic action by impersonal forces.  However, qi, as well as such things as ch’e, impersonal evil force (see below), would certainly be seen as “supernatural” by western scientists, and were certainly assimilated by Castle Peak Bay Chinese into the realm of paai and spirit mediumship as well as the world of natural, pragmatic, rationally understood forces.

In fact, “magic, science and religion” are western categories, and are notoriously unclear even to the most self-conscious western writers[7].  They represent one way to parcel out the knowledge space.  They do not represent the only way, and perhaps not the best way.  They are useful for some analytical purposes, but not for others.

This chapter concentrates on the realm of paai—the realm in which nonvisible persons and uncanny forces are contacted through the rituals and ceremonies that are the specific concrete referents of the verb.   That realm is close enough to what anthropologists mean by “religion” that I can simply use the English word without much confusion.  However, we are really dealing with two concepts here—the western concept of religion that I use for comparative purposes, and the boat people’s concept of paai and the realm of beings that people could contact only through paai rituals.  The differences between the two concepts will appear through this chapter.

Since the pioneering book by Rob Weller (1987), China scholars in all disciplines have focused on practice as well as doctrine.  The age-old concern with “the classics”—with religious texts, especially foundational ones—is still very much alive, and going through its own revolutions, but the study of actual religious practice—either through ethnography or through available documents that can be analyzed to reveal behavior—has flourished (see e.g. Dean 1993)  Even text-based historical scholarship now takes serious account of practice (von Glahn 2004).

The boat people displayed a form of Chinese religion that was unusually loose, non-doctrinaire, and otherwise adapted to the world of wandering seafarers.

Belief in supernaturals, and in a fundamental cosmic order sustained by them, is universal among humans, and has at least some biological roots (Atran 2002).  Among these roots is the human tendency to see behavior as consciously and deliberately willed unless proven otherwise.  Intentionality is the default option in human inference about actions and states.  Therefore, without evidence to the contrary, humans everywhere seem to assume that the world and everything in it is (to at least some extent) the product of deliberate actions by conscious beings.  These beings may be gods and goddesses, local spirits, animals and plants, ancestors and other deified humans, disembodied forces, or cosmic flows of energy and power (which may or may not be conscious).  For the Chinese of Castle Peak Bay, they were all of the above.

Another clear biological root is the desperate need of humans to feel in control of their lives, or at least to understand what is happening.  Religion often serves as a back-up in this regard; when all attempts at control and understanding fail, people cling desperately to hopes of a deus ex machina.

Humans must necessarily relate emotionally and intellectually with radically different others:  the world and its natural forces, the wind, the fish and stars.  This relationship, often intense, is another wellspring of religion, as pointed out by Thomas Csordas (2004).  Religion is, in part, a way to construct socially and culturally such attempts to deal phenomenologically with what Csordas calls “intimate alterity.”

No individualist or psychological account of religion is adequate.  Countless people go to the temple, church, or mosque solely because it is the social thing to do.  Such people outnumber mystics by at least a hundred to one.  Similarly, for every penitent desperate for a thin simulacrum of control from the supernatural realm, there are a hundred seeking more immediate and social validation from their congregations.  Religion differs from individual spirituality in being inescapably communal.  It involves a communion of believers, united by beliefs and rituals.

Therefore, I follow Durkheim (1995, Fr. orig. 1912) in regarding religion as a social relationship with supernatural beings, mediated through rituals and ceremonies, and sustained by a moral system.  Religion in this sense is an emergent phenomenon of society.  It is, in Durkheim’s terms, the collective representation of a social unit.  For people who believe that fish and mountains and winds are or have intelligent spirits, society does not stop at the human border, and, as Csordas points out, this socialization of the truly different is a wellspring of religiosity.  Human society remains the focal, best-known part of one’s society, but one’s society also includes gods, demons, sacred fish, tree spirits, and spirit-inhabited rocks.

Other classic explanations for religion (explanation of origins, failed science, psychological aberration, “opiate of the masses,” etc.) do not explain or adequately account for religious practice, in China or anywhere else.  One problem with them, especially with psychological explanations (which range from “temporal lobe epilepsy” to “awe”—see reviews in Atran 2002 and Csordas 2004), was classically noted by William James (1903):  “the varieties of religious experience.”  As James found, and as common experience confirms, even a small American mainstream Christian congregation typically has a range of types—from rational intellectuals to passionate mystics, from cheerful optimists to guilt-wracked sinners desperate for forgiveness, from hardheaded skeptics (who go because their spouses or parents make them) to devout believers, from seekers to unquestioning loyalists, and from subtle folk-theologians to persons of simple faith.  Claims that “religion is X,” where X is some one psychological thing, must be rephrased:  “For some people, religion appears to be X, as shown by behavior 1 and statement 2—but the same congregation has people for whom religion appears to be W, Y, Z….n.”  The waterfront of Castle Peak Bay had all James’ types of individual-level variation, and more.

At the social level, the commonest source of variety was difference in the gods worshiped.  Each community had its own set.  Individuals might add particular devotion to a particular deity.  Women were often particularly fond of the Goddess of Mercy, while men often selected more martial patrons.

The western world often deploys an argument for religiosity known to Christians as “Pascal’s Wager” and to Jews as “Spinoza’s Wager”:  better to believe, because if you are wrong you lose nothing, and if you’re right you gain Heaven; but if you do not believe, and are right, you gain nothing, while if you are wrong, you get eternity in Hell.  Castle Peak Bay residents I interviewed gave this as by far the commonest reason for worshiping, but they had many more gods to believe or disbelieve in.  They burned incense and sacrificed food to any gods and spirits that were popular or salient, in the hope that at least one might be moved to help them.   Repeated disappointment, conversely, often convinced a worshiper that the god in question was ineffectual or indifferent.  The worshiper would then turn to a different god.  Alternatively, he or she might try other pragmatic methods of getting the god’s attention.  In times of drought, a god’s image might be taken out of the cool, humid temple and stood in the hot sun, to suffer along with the disappointed faithful.

 

Religion is universally used as a carrier for moral teachings or other basic principles of the society’s order.  Chinese religion has often been analyzed from this perspective (A. Wolf 1974).  It is not adequate to provide simple equations of Chinese society with that of the “other world,” since, at the very least, there is much slippage; the “other world” still reflects Qing imperial reality, not the state organization of  Communism.  Durkheim works at a broader level; people inject not only their image of society, but all their social concerns and social fears, into their beliefs about supernaturals.  Symbols become “multivocal” and complex (Sangren 1987; von Glahn 2004:8-9).  Actual religious practice draws on a range of meanings and ideologies, usually in the service of some immediate practical end.  However, the whole framework—the belief system, the symbols that express it, the practice that uses these symbols in ordinary life—is a social representation system, and cannot be understood any other way.

Traditional spoken Cantonese has no word equivalent to the English word “religion.”  The term “religion” in standard anthropological usage refers to the social construction of reverential belief in supernatural entities:  spirits, gods, ancestors, etc.  Religion is, by definition, a structured cultural system.  It may be loosely structured and individually interpreted, but it does not include purely idiosyncratic spiritual views.

The word kaau (jiao), “teaching,” is often translated as “religion,” but actually it refers to any organized body of doctrine.  This both excludes the folk religion and includes some philosophies that are not religious in the English-language sense.  In Castle Peak Bay Cantonese, the term kaau was often expanded to tsung kaau, “ancestral teachings.”  These were, focally, Confucianism, Taoism, and Buddhism—conveniently combined in the Three Sages Temple, the main temple for land-dwellers on the Castle Peak Bay shore.  It was dedicated to Confucius, Lao Zi, and Buddha, worshiped together.  Confucianism is considered a philosophy, not a religion, in standard academic and elite discourse on China, but at the folk level Confucius was a deity and Confucianism had, at the very least, a religious side, related to ancestor worship.  Christianity was also a kaau.

The religion of the boat people was a variant of Chinese folk religion.  In the past, Chinese folk religion was sometimes mistakenly considered a fusion of Confucianism, Taoism, and Buddhism, but it is now widely recognized as a separate thing in itself.  Archaeology has revealed that its roots are in ancient Chinese religion, which long predates any kaau.  The folk religion was a vast congeries of rites and beliefs.  Eventually, it incorporated much from the three kaau, and overlapped with them in many ways, but it had an independent existence with its own rituals and entities.  The kaau were separate from each other and sometimes competing; by contrast, the folk religion paid reverence to leaders of all three.

Some have questioned whether there is a “Chinese religion” at all, given the diversity and lack of definition.  Stephan Feuchtwang titled an article “A Chinese Religion Exists” (Feuchtwang 1991).  A Buddhist might argue against this; for Buddhists, nothing exists.  Most others will be convinced by Feuchtwang, to whom I leave the issue.  Suffice it to say that the boat people saw a single unified body of worship, sharply demarcated from, say, Christianity.

The verb paai begat the verb-object forms paaipaai (“to perform a worshiping act”) and paai san (bai shen) “to pay reverence to, or worship, deities.”  Theoretically, living elders can be reverenced, but normally the word in Castle Peak Bay Cantonese referred to sacrifice rites performed for deities and spirits.  Such beings are “supernaturals” in English, but both land and water people of Castle Peak Bay explicitly stated on many occasions that such beings were part of the order of the cosmos just as humans and animals were.  The English word “supernatural” can be used only with the understanding that it covers beings that are “above nature” to the average reader of this book, but not to its subjects.  San (shen) are supernaturals, especially gods, but by inclusion any supernaturals.  They are usually invisible and intangible, but real.  (A few—the sacred fish—are visible and tangible, though perhaps the invisible in-dwelling spirit that makes them sacred is what is really intended by the term.)  They are firmly within the natural order.  In fact, they corresponded closely with the human social order—specifically, the Qing Dynasty social hierarchy.  The Jade Emperor ruled Heaven, and had his ministers and local governors, and so it went, on down to the lowest.

Supernaturals were defined, however, by the paai rite.  Supernaturals differed from ordinary mortals in that they could be reached only through special types of rituals.  These opened communication with the other world, the realm of Heaven and Hell and of ghosts and spirits.

Usually, communication was invoked in order to obtain something, such as curing of illness, good weather, or safe fishing on the stormy sea.  The boat people extended the rule for human society:  dealing with a powerful person or agent necessitates building up relations of good feeling and mutual obligation.  One sacrifices to the gods—giving them food and wealth—so that they will reciprocate by dispensing what they control, especially health and luck.

The worshiper hoped to make the gods sifuk—happy or comfortable—so that they would be disposed to help.  (I rather irreverently titled a paper “The Happy Heavenly Bureaucracy” [Anderson 1972].)  Paai rites defined folk religion; it was the set of activities defined by the need of these rites for opening and maintaining communication.   At least a minimal paai rite—burning three sticks of incense and bowing reverently—had to occur if any contact was to be made and any communication effected.  For important transactions, far more elaborate rites were performed, including sacrifices of many pigs, whole logs of sandalwood, and much else.

“Magic, science and religion” came together in the quest for long life, numinous power, mystic enlightenment, paranormal powers such as invulnerability, and, above all, good fortune.  Fungseui and much of folk medicine (the minor traditions, such as herbs to chase ghosts away) were conspicuous examples of this realm.  Some practices were clearly magical by modern western standards; sympathetic magical practices were typical, such as serving lotus seeds (lin ji, Putonghua lianzi) to encourage the coming of abundant descendents (lin ji).  Few people took this sort of magic seriously.  They were more apt to call it “trivial” or “superstitious” (mixin in Putonghua).  However, it graded upward into serious and frightening rituals like the invulnerability cults.  Some practices were rational and empirical, and thus science-like.  Others were frankly paai.

This realm is abundantly attested in older literature.  One historical maestro of it was Ge Hong, whose writings on immortality and transcendence can be analyzed as religion, science, or magic with equal ease and equal inadequacy (see Campany 2002).  Another was Tao Hongjing, the great polymath of the 6th century, who was far more seriously involved in both science and religion, but who also devoted much of his effort to this intermediate realm.

One is reminded of the endless debates over whether Chinese classical thought—the thought of Confucius, Zhuang Zi, and their contemporaries—was “philosophy” or not.  In fact, it partakes somewhat of philosophy, somewhat of political science, somewhat of descriptive psychology.  By modern western definitions, it is not any of the three; yet, at the same time, it is all of them and more.  Chinese categories of knowing, and especially Chinese knowledge of nonordinary and uncanny matters, do not fit well into western categories.  Trying to make them do so has been the bane of sinology.

 

2

Religion in the sense of paai, and religious space, were rather sharply defined by incense.  Just as the minimal paai focused on burning three incense sticks, any paai performance was spatially defined by the incense smoke.  The sacred zone was established by the aroma, which was pleasing to the gods and necessary to any interaction with them.  In outdoor rites, incense (often, as noted, whole logs of scented wood) was constantly burning, and any ritual regulations were enforced within the area defined by constant scent of the smoke.  The secular world began at the boundary of the smoke pall.

Religious space could be anywhere.  Temples, necessarily on shore, provided the most secure and defined space (see Anderson 1970:168-171 for a detailed description of temples in the area).  The major temple for the boat people was that of the goddess Tin Hau (T’in Hau, Tian Hou, “Heavenly Queen,” known also as Ma Tsou, Putonghua Ma Zu).  This temple was in a relatively unpopulated area just under Castle Peak.  In 1965, a more venerable image of Tin Hau was brought from China by boat refugees.  This image remained on the large boat of the refugee family until a small temple was built for her; this temple was a second focus of the cult as of 1974-75.  The land-dwellers had other, quite different temples, including the Three Sages Temple noted above.  There was also a Taoist temple of the formal Taoist religion—the Tou kaau (Dao jiao)—near the Bay, but it appealed to an educated, urban clientele, and had virtually nothing to do with Bay social life.

Other defined religious spaces were small and humble.  On shore were small shrines on and near piers, wells, rocks, large trees, and other landmarks.  More important were the tiny but vital religious spaces on the boats themselves.  These consisted of the shrine of the Bow Spirit—the boat’s tutelary deity—in the bow, the Sky God (t’in san, who is in charge of weather) at the foot of the main mast, the shrine of the Sea Surface Spirit at the stern, and the boat’s main family shrine in the cabin.  Of this more will be said later.  In addition to these, at New Year, firecrackers were fired from the main masts, and red paper strips (for luck) were affixed to the stern of the boat.  The entire boat was thus guarded by strategically placed shrines.

 

In looking over the record of religion in Castle Peak Bay, one is first struck by the sheer extent of it.  About a fourth of my field notes are descriptions of religious beliefs and ceremonies.  Religion took an enormous percentage of time, money, and effort.  Following orthodox traditions of thought in anthropology, I attribute this to two things:  the great uncertaintly of life and wealth, leading to a need to assert control (Malinowski 1948); and the great difficulty in building community, leading to a need to invest heavily in the Durkheimian construction of society through collective representation.

Indeed, religion at Castle Peak Bay fit perfectly with Durkheim’s view of religion as the collective representation of the community (Durkheim 1995, French orig. 1912).  More literally and directly than most cultures’ lists of supernaturals, China’s heavenly bureaucracy mirrors the earthly one.  The major difference is that the heavenly one never faced the depressing and “disenchanting” (cf. Weber 1950) political turmoil of modernity; it retained the beauty, splendor and glory of an idealized Qing Dynasty imperial system.  It had its emperor, officials, and ordinary citizens.  However, it was more perfect, more wondrous, more numinous than anything on earth.  Its beings had special powers, fantastic appearances, mysterious natures.  It worked in strange ways, as befitted a world with more power and more access to knowledge than ours.  Yet, in the end, it was definitely a Chinese imperial order.  It differed from the earthly one primarily in having the special traits it needed to carry out its different mission.

This mission consisted of controlling those matters that we on earth cannot control, such as weather, illness, and fate.  We humans control worship rites and the goods they provide, through paai rites, to the supernaturals:  incense, food, and paper representations of all sorts of worldly material items.  The paper goods, when burned, turn into the real things in the other world.  Our earthly role in religion is to provide these things, in a reverent and structured context, for being who will, in return, be “comfortable” enough to want to provide us with good weather, good health and good luck.

The whole system was structured down to the last detail—a Lévi-Straussian dream.  This was a realm of Castle Peak Bay culture in which structuralism was particularly valuable as a way of looking at a domain.  Yet, as in other realms, structure was dynamic.  It was constantly re-negotiated and re-created by practice.

Everyday worship forms varied little between individuals or households.  For instance, everyone burned incense sticks at morning and night to the protectors of their boats or houses.  The differences became more and more apparent as rites became more spectacular.  No two weddings were alike, because of different personalities involved and differential borrowing of western customs.  No two demon-quelling ceremonies were alike, because the demons differed—or, in outsider view, the demon-haunted people and their circumstances differed.  No two spirit-medium sessions were alike, because the questions differed according to the needs of the petitioners.

The degree of structuration of particular religious rituals varied.  The great Tin Hau ceremonies, which involved tightly coordinated effort by thousands of people, were subject to countless rules, but were never the same across time and place.  At the opposite end of the spectrum of complexity were consultations by individuals with spirit mediums.  These too had tight rules, but many fewer of them.  The dynamics of the people involved, and the nature of the requests, made every consultation a different case.  Consulting with a self-admitted master of evil powers about a bewitchment was by no means similar to consultation with a worship-woman about a son’s failure in school, let alone consulting Tin Hau—in the form of a possessed fisherman at the great Tin Hau Day rite—about ill luck in the family.

 

The logical place to begin an account of Castle Peak Bay religion is with the most stable and fixed structural order: the classes of the inhabitants of the other world.

The supernaturals recognized in folk religion were many and various.  Proverbially, Chinese folk religion recognizes “gods, ghosts and ancestors” (A. Wolf 1978).  The truth, for the boat people, was more complex.

The term san, often translated “gods” in English, covered beings that were relatively powerful, at least potentially benevolent, and willing to respond to paai by broad classes of people.  At the top of the hierarchy of san was the Jade Emperor, the Emperor of Heaven, equated with the North Star (and thus locally known as pak tai, “North Emperor”; he is called Zhen Wu in some parts of China; see von Glahn 2004, esp. 157-161; his elevation seems to be a Song contribution).  The Jade Emperor was the imperial dynast.  He was worshiped in a huge old temple on Cheung Chau Island, but he was not of much note at Castle Peak.  Under him were various courtiers and officials.

Locality spirits, t’ou tei (tudi, “earth locality [spirits],” often miscalled “earth gods”), corresponded to governors of particular places, and patron deities corresponded to heads of particular communities. T’ou tei kung  (Lord of the Earth) was the “earth god”—the god of the whole world as a location.  Under him were local t’ou tei (kung), who ranged from gods of provinces and districts down to the little locality spirits worshiped in tiny roadside shrines.  Often these shrines contained phallic stones (natural or roughly carved), which were once described to me as the “airports” of the t’ou tei.  He would enter and inhabit the local stone when visiting his territory.  Large, strangely-shaped rocks and trees were homes of powerful t’ou tei, showing it by their odd forms, created—the believers said—by roiling and powerful flows of qi.  Thus these natural features were worshiped with incense morning and night and frequent offerings of tea and wine.

There were also gods of particular communities and occupations.  Most important among these, to the fishermen, was Tin Hau.  A separate and self-contained hierarchy was comprised of san for particular locations.  Tin Hau was not only patroness of fishermen in general; she was the specific patron of Castle Peak’s boat community.  Hau Wong Ye (“Marquis King Father,” the deified uncle of the last boy-emperors of Sung) was the parton of Tai O, where—according to highly dubious local tradition—he had fled from the Mongols with the last fated lad.  Hung Sing (“Great Sage”) was worshiped in some places, and reportedly was the principal patron of Shanam, up the estuary (see Burkhardt 1:19-23).  A god named Taam Kung received occasional reverence, being useful in sending good weather.

The boat people also revered the deities more popular among local land-dwellers, especially Kun Yam (Kuan Yin, the Buddhist “Goddess of Mercy”).  She was the most popular san, overall, in the area, addressed—especially by women—when any mercy, compassion, or aid was needed.  Boat people went far afield to her temples, especially the huge one in Shau Kei Wan on Hong Kong Island.  She often possessed spirit mediums.

Next most commonly seen was Kuan Kung, the former general under Lau Pei (Putonghua Liu Bei) in the 3rd Century.  Kuan Kung is one of the best-known Chinese san; his loyalty made him a symbol of fidelity, and thus he evolved into a patron of businesses, which—ideally!—rely on honesty and trust.  (It also made him a patron of soldiers, but, pace a classic mistake in western literature, he is not the “God of War.”)  Essentially all businesses, no matter how tiny, had a shrine with his image in the back of the shop.  Usually, a red bulb illuminated his ruddy features and scarlet and gold robes.  No san is more conspicuously associated with the color of blood, life, strength, and activity.  He was sometimes shown with his comrades Lau Pei and Cheng Fei (Jiang Fei); they are the Three Loyal Worthies.

There were innumerable other gods, but very few of them were important. Yama, the (originally Buddhist) King of Hell, was among the important ones, since he controlled the destiny of the sinful.  He was wined and dined at his festival, in hopes that he would relent and release one’s family’s black sheep from his punitive clutches.  The three Door Guards were pasted anew—in paper form—on every set of house doors, at the New Year.  Na Ja (Nazha), the Firewheel Prince, a possessing spirit of the most wild and disturbed spirit mediums, was, like Kuan Yin, a Buddhist borrowing.  The Kitchen God was of little note to the boat people, who had no real kitchens, but was worshiped in the stove (or equivalent) by land-dwellers.  The heroes of the famous Buddhist tale told in the novel The Journey to the West (Yu 1977-1983), Monkey and his merry crew, got attention at major festivals.  Countless other san existed in Chinese worship, but the boat people rarely considered them.

The Sky Spirit or Sky God, Sea Surface God (Hoi Hau, Putonghua Hai Ho, “sea mouth”), star gods, and other more strictly Chinese rulers of natural phenomena were also important.  Boats were protected by a Bow Spirit, who was called into the bow of the boat when it was launched; they burned incense to him in the bow.  He was the boat equivalent of the door spirit worshiped by land-dwellers at the right-hand side (as one enters) of the house door.  The Sea Surface God was worshiped at the side of the boat, the Sky Spirit at the mast foot, or, in a mastless boat, the inside wall of the cabin.  The Sky Spirit watches over the real sky, not Heaven.  These were, conceptually, very different places, though the word t’in was used for both.

Boats also had shrines in protected places—deep in the cabin, usually—where Tin Hau, Kun Yam, and other deities were worshiped.  Confucius, Lao Zi, the Buddha, and—for Christian boat people—Jesus, Mary, and God the Father were often among those present.  The few Christians simply added these last to their collections of san, and were quite mystified when Western missionaries objected. Christianity had come to Castle Peak, but the few missionaries in the area were not liked or trusted; they were considered an impoverished and foolish segment of the hated colonial rule.  They were sometimes even said to be people exiled from their homelands.  Christian converts were few, and those we talked to were more interested in free medical care and other aid than in doctrine.  Indeed, they kept images of ancestors and gods on their boats, adding images of Jesus and Mary.  When the missionaries objected, the boat-dwellers replied:  “But, they are all good people, aren’t they?”

At the stern of the boat were gold-flecked red papers, which warded away bad spirits, and sometimes a shrine as well.   The boat was thus defended on all sides from evil.

Some san had always been san, including the Jade Emperor and the t’ou tei spirits.  Others were deified humans.  Tin Hau was one of these; she had been a Sung Dynasty fisherman’s daughter who saved her father and brothers, and later other people, from storms, eventually dying in one of these salvific missions.  (At least that was one common story; several variants could be heard; see Burckhardt 1953-1958, von Glahn 2004:174).  Her festival day was the 23rd of the 3rd lunar month.  This rivalled Chinese New Year as the major festival at Castle Peak.  At least 100,000 persons were in the bay for the 1966 Tin Hau festival (see below).  Her cult is extremely popular throughout southeast China—she is the most popular deity in Taiwan, for instance.  Kuan Kung and Hau Wong Ye were other former humans.  The omnipresent door gods, posted on the two leaves of the front door and on the back door, had been the bodyguards of the great second emperor of Tang, who killed his father and brothers in a palace coup and then lived in terrror of their ghosts.  His bodyguards protected him, and came thus to be the guards of houses forever after.  Many other such saintly figures were known in local stories.

Two quite different types of patron deity reveal themselves here.  The t’ou tei are patrons of an actual area—a geographic entity.  By contrast, guardian gods like Tin Hau and Hau Wong Ye are patrons of a social group—in these cases, the boat people of Castle Peak Bay and of Tai O.  The land people there had different patrons (the Three Sages and the god Kuan Tai, respectively).   These latter have helpers; the Kuan Tai temple at Tai O had a Tin Hau image in a side alcove, showing, among other things, the unusual social closeness of land and boat people in that harmonious village.

Second in importance after san were tsou sin or tsou tsung:  ancestors.  These differed from san in that they had been ordinary people, and thus were worshiped only by their families.  For the land people, who had huge and ramified lineages, all ancestors in the lineage were worshiped collectively and sometimes separately.  These ancestors were worshiped in the form of tablets bearing the name (and if possible the photograph) of the deceased.  Ideally, these would be stored in the great ancestral halls that formed the centers of the old lineage villages of the New Territories.  Lineages without the money and space to build lineage halls rented rooms or corners in local temples.

The boat people, on the other hand, worshiped their immediate family ancestors for about five generations—in practice, until no one could remember anyone who had known them in life.  They were then “sent to the sky,” by ritual burning of their images or tablets.  Among the land people, individual families within lineages did the same with their household tablets, but then their ancestors were still available for reverence, as tablets in the lineage hall or local temple.  The boat people, lacking lineages and halls, forgot their sky-sent dead forever.  Among fishermen in Malaya, we found the same contrast:  those who maintained lineage ties could travel to a lineage hall, but those without ties sent their ancestors to the sky after four or five generations.

Being almost all nonliterate, the boat people usually had small images rather than tablets.  Particularly characteristic were the images of children who died young; the boys rode tigers, the girls rode white cranes.  (If the family uses ancestor tablets instead of images, the children’s faces were painted on the tablets, instead of names.) The land people had no such commemoration of young children, since such children contributed nothing to lineage continuity.  They found the boat images uncanny and a bit disturbing.

The ancestors worshiped in these rites were the more ethereal, heaven-related components of the human soul, the uan (hun).  The soul has several components, which cluster into the ethereal uan and the earthly p’ak.  These soul-terms have been aptly translated as “cloudsoul” and “whitesoul” respectively (Bokenkamp 1997); the words are homonyms of, and probably cognates of, words for “cloudy” and “white.”  Cloudsouls and whitesouls had subdivisions or parts, about which no one was clear.  In practice, they were treated as units.  The cloudsoul goes to Heaven at death, where it is judged.  If reasonably good, it becomes a citizen of Heaven.  If bad, it is sent to Yama’s care for a purgatory period, or even for all time.  The whitesoul stays with the body, and slowly decays with it.  As the uan was worshiped on the house altar (and, for land people, in the ancestral hall), so the p’ak received food, clothing, and graveside rites, especially on the third day of the third lunar month, the Clear and Bright Day.  On that festal spring occasion, those who could do so would visit ancestral graves and perform major sacrifice rites there.  They would then hold a picnic to consume the earthly remains of the sacrificed foods and liquors.

Components of the souls can get displaced from the body during life, thus causing blackouts, “blanking” on exams, and the like.  A spirit medium may need to invoke a spirit to recover such a missing soul-piece.  Many individuals knew only that a deceased person became an ancestor but also stayed in the grave or became a ghost.

The term kuai (kuei) included both ghosts and demons.  Ghosts were the p’ak of humans who had died unnaturally or violently, or whose bodies had not been properly buried.  (The equivalent shades of those who died peacefully stayed with the body.  There was some disagreement as to just which components of the overall soul became the ghost.)   Of particular concern to the boat community were the ghosts of those lost at sea.

During 1965-66, a mentally ill young fisherman leaped overboard and was lost.  His father, who should have been responsible for him (and who was also somewhat deranged), became more and more depressed, and eventually threw himself overboard at the same spot.  This father’s elder brother (the next up the chain of responsibility) then held a major and very expensive ritual, with Taoist officiants, to placate the ghosts, since he felt them pulling him down in turn.  These ghosts were particularly fearful since they were suicides, and drowned, and lost—any one of which three conditions would have rendered them extremely dangerous, especially to family members in positions that made them ritually responsible.

Similarly, a young wife tormented by her mother-in-law could threaten (and, very rarely, actually commit) suicide; such a suicide was a “wronged ghost,” and would follow the mother-in-law and hound her to madness and death.  This was taken very seriously, and was a major sanction.  Not only did mothers-in-law genuinely fear this, but for a wife to make such a serious threat would alert the whole extended family—and, inevitably, the whole neighborhood—to her problems.  This led to pressure on the mother-in-law to be more merciful.  This dynamic is known throughout much of China.

Many demons were of obscure origin, and may or may not have been ghosts; some were ghosts or spirits of nonhuman presences.  Animals and even inanimate objects could have ghosts.

In addition to these “gods, ghosts and ancestors,” there were many spirit beings that were harder to classify.  Dragons of many species had a role in controlling rain and storms, and thus were feared.  There were also several species of san yu, “sacred fish” (see below; also Anderson 1970, 1972).

These various dragons and fish were not focal san, because they were not conscious human-like beings.  They exercised their powers naturally, not by conscious will.  The status of the indwelling spirits of trees and rocks was more ambiguous.  Such spirits had some power, but, again, were not usually thought to have the full human-like will and agency of san.  The dragons and tigers that dwell in hills, according to fungseui (fengshui), had this same character.  They worked not through deliberate agency but through natural if subtle qualities; how much actual intention they had was debatable.

There were also completely disembodied supernatural forces.  One was ling “numinous force,” which inhered in spirit-medium equipment, temples, and other religiously charged inanimate objects, and also in natural forces.  Another was disembodied evil (ch’e or ch’ei in Cantonese).  This was a force that could be controlled by witches.  There were suspected to be other, less-known forces.  Hei, the famous qi, “breath, energy, vital force,” which seems supernatural to the Westerner, was seen as a purely natural force, and thus a different sort of energy.

Finally, as a common proverb held, “even the gods are subject to fate.”  Fate, meng (ming), was the ultimate determiner of all things.  There were various types of fate. Individuals had a particular fate assigned to them; some people, for instance, were fated to have a “hard” (ngang), bitter, aggressive nature, while others were fated to be gentle.   Major natural forces, from typhoons to the cosmos itself, were ultimately in the hands of fate.  And the proverb meant what it said:  the gods, even the Jade Emperor, could go only so far in overriding set fates.  Fate had a course of its own, incomprehensible and mysterious.  One could always seek to know it, via spirit mediums or predictive texts such as the Chinese almanac, but knowledge was always cloudy and imperfect.  It required interpretation by experts, and everyone knew they were often wrong.

Interestingly, the above structure is almost exactly the same as that described by Richard von Glahn (2004, esp.164-168) as originating in a major reorganization of religious cults the Song Dynasty.  Many paragraphs of von Glahn’s account of the new Song organization could be simply carried over without change as descriptions of reality in the 1960s and 1970s at Castle Peak Bay.  The relationships of Confucianism with Daoism and Buddhism, the hierarchic organization of tudi spirits, and the relations of demon-quellers and their demons are particularly noteworthy examples.

 

3

A religious rite required three kinds of people:  those who wanted to communicate with the gods or spirits; the gods or spirits themselves; and the religious functionaries who managed the communication process.  These last were a diverse lot.

Most prestigious, but least involved in the lives of ordinary people, were the priests of the major Taoist and Buddhist temple complexes of the area.  These highly respected people dealt largely with urban elites who visited the temples.  The boat people hardly ever saw them.

Much more visible and relevant to ordinary lives were the caretakers of the local temples, notably the Three Sages Temple on the main waterfront and the Tin Hau temple across the bay from it.  In the late 1960s, a new Tin Hau temple was built near the Three Sages Temple, providing three main temples.  There were also several minor shrines without permanent staff.

A temple caretaker’s main job was to guard, clean, and maintain the temple.  Often, he transformed it into a small local art museum, arranging the various paintings and religious sculptures that were donated from time to time by worshipers.  This was common in urban areas, but rare in isolated and impoverished Castle Peak.  He maintained the ancestor tablets of land people’s lineages that had no ancestor halls and used the temple as a virtual hall.

He also cast lots.  This involved throwing two comma-shaped blocks of wood.  When they came up favorable, he would shake, in a cup, several slips of wood with fortunes written on them.  Eventually one would work its way up, projecting above the others.  This would convey the fortune of the client.  The fortunes on the slips were written in cryptic and ambiguous style.  The caretaker’s job was to interpret.  He did this very freely, using his knowledge of the client’s actual problem and situation.  Thus, in reality, the slip merely prompted the caretaker to give his own advice.

Another major category comprised the naam mo yan, “chanting people.”  Their name comes from the Buddhist mantra nam mo o mi to fat—though in fact none of the nam mo yan were Buddhist, nor did they normally chant Buddhist mantras.  (See J. Watson 2004c; he uses the slangier term naam mo lou, “chanting guys.”)  These came in two sorts.  One was the local folk-level Taoist priesthood, the tou si (dao shi, “Taoist teachers”).  They were members of more or less organized Taoist orders (“red hat” or “black hat,” usually the latter).  They held spectacular ceremonies, usually to exorcise kuai.  Their robes were vividly colored: red and black with gold and green designs.  They performed very loudly on gongs, woodblocks, drums, cymbals, and sona (a shawm, the “Chinese oboe”), alternating this with loud chanting.  Some of the ceremonies involved dramatic rites, such as slitting a rooster’s comb, whirling the unfortunate bird around to drive away demons with its powerful blood-spray, and then sacrificing it.   These Daoists were apparently members of one of the more obscure and irregular branches of the Mao Shan tradition; they had little in common with the elite Daoists of the Castle Peak temple.  Daoism, like Buddhism, is a highly diverse religion, with many sects and levels (see Bokenkamp 1997).

More common were the naam mo yan who worked in the large barnlike establishments known as paper-goods stores.  The main business of these shops was selling religious goods:  incense sticks, red candles, paper representations of money and wealth, and the ever-present firecrackers that made even the smallest ritual audible all the way to Heaven.  However, the paper-shop men (all employees were male) doubled as chanters and spirit mediums.  As chanters, they were the ordinary staff of weddings, funerals, boat-launching rituals, shop-opening celebrations, and all the other daily events that brought color and excitement to the waterfront.  Red was the dominant color.  I often reflected that Stendhal’s color system was reversed here:  “the red” was the religious sphere, “the black” was the ordinary one of the black cotton clothes and the dark wood tones of boats and buildings.  There were three shops on the waterfront, and several more not far away.

The chanting men had to know a vast range of folk chants, spells, invocations, and other texts.   Some of these came from the Daoist canon; others, probably most, were unrecorded and are probably now lost forever.  The chanters knew how to make the huge and complex paper and foil constructions that were obligatory for all major ceremonies.  They also had to put on really artistic performances; otherwise the gods would not be sifuk.

Their activities bring us to spirit mediumship.  Spirit mediums are well known in China (especially full accounts are found in de Groot 1892-1910 and Elliott 1955; see also Potter 1978, Weller 1987, and almost any older ethnography of China).  Spirit mediumship is a worldwide phenomenon, much studied by anthropologists (there are literally thousands of references; see e.g. Sharp 1993.)   As elsewhere, a medium’s role is to put themselves into a trance state, in which he or she receives a spirit from the Other World.  This spirit speaks through the medium’s mouth, writes through his or her hands, dances and sings and acts with the medium’s body.  The medium’s own person is absent or cryptic during this séance, and the medium reports no memory of the event after the spirit leaves.  At Castle Peak Bay, trance was achieved through ritual and self-hypnotic techniques:  dancing, hyperventilating, gazing fixedly at a point of light, chanting, and the like.

The paper-goods stores each had a spirit medium.  These men had very modest power, and used their abilities to call up rather low-level spirits for minor purposes.  I watched as a woman called up her dead grandmother to ask for a cure for a sick child.  The medium quickly went into apparent trance, spoke with an old woman’s voice, and produced a perfectly good—and conventional—symptomatic remedy.  I was once present when a medium was possessed by an English-speaking spirit.  I was asked to translate, but the man was producing pure glossolalia.  I explained that “it was a different dialect of English from mine,” and everyone was satisfied.

More serious spirit work involved involved sing kung (“awakening dukes” or “star dukes”; usually male) and paai san p’o (“worshiping women,” the female counterpart).  These were older men and women calling up fairly minor spirits for small fees.  One older lady would dance and do Qi Gong in a dynamic, light, graceful manner, sustaining it for many minutes; she claimed she could not do this much forceful activity when not possessed, but she was in fact very light and active at all times.  She called up ancestors, returned soul-components scared out of child minds by hard schoolwork, told fortunes, and did minor curing.  Sing kung and paai san p’o usually served in such minor curing roles, finding lost objects, and locating strayed persons.  They did not practice black magic or officiate at ceremonies.

The really serious spirit work was done by mou si (wu shi, “shaman masters”)[7].  Very few of these individuals operated in or near Castle Peak, and those few were viewed with fear and awe.  The most prominent of these was an older fisherman who became possessed by Tin Hau every year on her festival day.  He went into a trance at dawn and stayed in it till night, speaking in a feminine voice and acting like an elite woman of olden times.  During this time he had the needle-sharp point of a long magical iron stuck through his cheek; sometimes he had one through each cheek.  The iron was heavy, and was carried by several men when the mou si moved.  The mou si spent most of the day slitting his tongue and writing charms with the blood on yellow paper; this was to be burned and the ashes drunk with herbal medical tea.  Hundreds of people lined up for this curing service. The mou si allegedly felt no pain and showed no scarring.  He did, however, visibly wince when the iron was moved.

Other mou si included two—a man and a woman, not related—who were known for black magic, and made no secret of their belief in their ability to curse people.  They had started falling into trances spontaneously in childhood.  Both appeared to us to be frankly paranoid schizophrenic; they were unable to live normal lives, and were cared for by their families.  They spent their time communing with dark forces, including some highly idiosyncratic spirits.  The woman had as one familiar the “Heavenly Police Commissioner,” worshiped in the form of a small wooden sculpture of a British policeman in shorts and pith helmet.

Mou si were, in general, supposed to be “hard” (ngang) persons, able to control ch’e (evil force; see above).  Their power depended on the san preserving the mou si’s sin kuat (“immortal bone” or “fairy bone”; see Potter 1978).  If this is lost, the mou si would die.  Mou si are apt to die early in any case.  Mou si were regarded as extremely powerful, being able to take soul journeys (like Tungus and Mongol shamans), make themselves and others invulnerable, send good or evil onto others, control the behavior of women and children, and make themselves invisible.  However, they were not genuinely terrifying, nor were they involved in seriously problematic behavior, as they sometimes are in Penang, Malaysia (Anderson and Anderson 1978; DeBernardi 2004), and elsewhere.  They were rather few and weak at Castle Peak Bay, with little of the power they have in the Chinese communities of Malaysia and of Singapore (Elliott 1955).

Spirit mediums have long been regarded as uncanny and disturbing characters in China.  Donald Sutton (2004) has recently reviewed a large literature on this topic, especially the decline of spirit mediums in status after Yuan Dynasty times.  He finds exactly what we found at Castle Peak:  spirit mediums were regarded as “wild,” unregulated, outside the bounds of ordinary hierarchic society.  He points out that a few elite scholars really doubted their abilities, but most saw their abilities as real enough; the problem was that they were free, wild spirits, not subject to the tight control of the elites and of elite ritual and religious culture.  All his conclusions fit perfectly with what we heard from relatively high-status individuals on the waterfront.  Ordinary people, however, respected the spirit mediums, feared them, and saw them as necessary.  In spite of elite opposition, spirit mediums flourished in Hong Kong, as in Malaysia and Singapore and most other well-studied Chinese areas.

Thus, the traditional religious practitioners in the area were diverse, but classified into a neat order, ranked in prestige (temple priests first) and in power (mou si first).  They formed a texture of control, management, and soliciting of powerful unseen forces.

 

4

People must supplicate, wine, and dine the officials of the other world, and give them paper imitations of money, clothes, houses, and other wealth goods.  These paper items are burned and thus sent to the Sky; the food and wine are real, but the san and kuai consume only the spirit, while the worshipers consume the material remainder.

Minor magic attempted to insure against fate.  Boats often grew medicinal herbs in the stern area, and some of these plants were there to keep away kuai.  Children wore minature life-preservers, old copper cash, sea horse eyes, and other charms.  Everyone who could afford a jade bracelet wore one, and those who could not afford one often wore a glass or soft-stone copy.  Everyone knew stories of people who had fallen and broken the jade bracelet instead of an arm bone.  Our old friend Leung Taai had experienced this himself.

Humans and supernaturals (to use the western term) are complementary.  Humans can supply food and wealth goods, and entertain the supernaturals with festivals including dances, music, and Chinese operas.  Supernaturals have control over the things that humans do not control:  luck, weather, getting sick, getting a good haul of fish.  Humans must maintain an ongoing warm relationship; the gods should stay “contented.”  If they are not, they will not send good, and may even send evil.  Life’s dramatically unexpected bad fates, such as losing a man overboard in a typhoon, result from this.  However, just as people do not always completely control food and paper wealth, so the gods do not fully control fate, as we have seen.  Moreover, people, fate, and gods all have some share in managing the world.  People can live healthy lifestyles, and thus resist or partially resist any illness that fate or the gods throw at them.  Readers of imperial Chinese texts will know that Chinese officials were supposed, at least by the “common people,” to have some power over winds, waters, crocodiles, and other phenomena.  Imperial officials were expected to read edicts to locusts or rain-dragons to bring successful protection to crops.

Thus the supernaturals were far from all-powerful.  The boat people thus viewed them with less than total awe or reverence.  Humans, for their part, had some power over things usually in the spirits’ realm.  Religion was rather pragmatic—serious, but not abject or terrifying.  People had to be self-reliant; they could not entrust themselves to an Almighty.  The gods might shower favor—the man who made $30,000 HK in one net-cast went to the Tin Hau temple to thank her—but the world was always an unpredictable place.  (On fatalism and its limits in Chinese thought, see Eberhard 1966.)

Fishermen everywhere engage in magic and religion, because of the danger of their occupation.  Malinowski (1948) noted that lagoon fishing, which is safe, had less magic associated with it than the dangerous open-sea fishery.  The boat people, fishing rough and treacherous waters, secured themselves as best they could.  They were, however, a hard-headed and pragmatic group.  They were certainly no more religious than people I have fished with in other seas, including California’s.

 

5

All this knowledge came to a focus in the actual paai rites—the practice of religion.  Rites established, maintained, or re-established good relations with the supernaturals.  They also kept away evil beings.

Simplest and most universal was a small rite, universally practiced at dawn and dusk.  The female head of household, or designated replacement (usually a daughter or daughter-in-law), burned incense at each household shrine.  She made a circuit; at each ritual point, she lit three sticks of incense, bowed with them toward the shrine, and placed them below it to provide fragrant smoke[7].

A typical circuit of the boat might begin with the bow, move to the sides and then the mast foot, and end at the household shrine in the cabin.  This corresponded with the land people’s frequent circuit from door guard shrine to main household shrine.

Common for the land people, but much less so for the boat people, was burning a trio of sticks at the local t’ou tei shrine—tree, rock, or small structure.  These often received three tiny cups of tea or Chinese wine in addition to the universal trio of incense sticks.

Above this level were more elaborate offerings, including those that might periodically occur at temples, to insure luck or give thanks for it.  A minimum sacrifice rite—for an ancestor’s birthday, a blessing received from Tin Hau, or the annual day of a minor san—included not only incense, tea, and wine, but minor food offerings.  Oranges were always present, and other citrus might occur, for these native south Chinese fruits have been sacred and ritually necessary for thousands of years in the area.  The bright red-gold color of oranges, and especially of tangerines, symbolizes religion, luck, and good things in Chinese culture, even where traditional culture has faded[7].  Nuts (generally peanuts in the period under consideration, and also often melon seeds) symbolized descendents, especially sons, and thus one tried to provide an abundance of them to the gods and ancestors, in hopes of the implied return gift.  Red jujubes often accompanied these.

Larger rites included rites of passage—marriage and death ceremonies and such lesser rites as birthdays.  Still more impressive, being at community level, were calendric rituals:  New Year, gods’ days, and other festivals.  Another class of rite was apotropaic:  rites to drive away kuai or to atone for mistakes.  This was rare above the family level on the waterfront, but nearby land communities had rituals to sacrifice to the san to get their favor back if a village leader had done wrong, or sacred sites had been cultivated or profaned, or a san had been neglected.  Normally, stages were set up in front of temple doors, facing in, so the main images had a clear line of sight.  Once, on Tin Hau’s day, the opera had inadvertently been located where Tin Hau’s image in the local temple could not see it.  Three leaders of the community died soon afterward—so said local tradition, at least.  The community had to perform a whole new ceremony.

Rites of passage may be said to start with birth, but birth was little noticed.  The baby was too apt to die, or poverty might make the family give it up.  Sheer pain had led China’s ordinary folk to the consoling belief that the soul was not fully assembled until the 49th day—seven times seven days after birth.  Before that, a baby was not really human yet, and infanticide before that time has been called “postnatal abortion” in some of the relevant literature.  At Day 49, the soul was completely formed.  A small family sacrifice rite took place, and the baby was welcomed as a member of the family and the human community.  Thereafter, birthdays were virtually unnoticed, New Year being taken as “everybody’s birthday.”

The most complex and dramatic life-passage rite, by far, was marriage.  Marriages reflected economic situation.  Many occurred in early 1966, a good time following some hard years.  Few took place on our second visit; times had grown thin once more.

No two weddings were alike; families tried to make each one unique and memorable.  However, rules tightly constrained the variation.  A go-between of some sort theoretically arranged the match.  The boat people lacked money or opportunity to hire a professional, and usually used a friend or relative with high status.  Theoretically, matches were arranged by the men in consultation with the go-between.  Actually, the women of a given neighborhood formed a tight network, constantly discussing eligible young people.  They frequently did the real arranging.  Actual matchmaking usually involved much prior discussion by all concerned, climaxing with the mother (or other older female relative) of one party seeking out counterparts in the other party’s family.  They usually arranged a suitable match, involving compatible young persons.  Moreover, the young people themselves had a say in the matter.  Very often, a couple fell in love, or even developed a sexual relationship, and then asked their parents to make the arrangements.  Usually, parents respected this.  The sight-unseen marriages and child marriages that are stock themes in foreign writings on China were rare indeed on the water.

A rapidly increasing series of events, visits, and exchanges preceded the wedding.  Ritual gifts flowed back and forth (see Yan 1996 on gift-giving in a north Chinese community).  Among the boat people, the groom’s family was expected to contribute as much as, or more than, the bride’s.  This seems to be a genuine boat-dwellers’ cultural trait; it was noted by Wu for the Guangzhou boat community in the 1920s and 1930s (Wu 1937).  It stood in sharp contrast to the land people, for whom bridal dowry was all-important, with the result that girls were a drain on the family, and therefore disfavored (see Croll 2000).  Complicated rules governed the disposal of the gifts; the couple got much of it, their families got some.  In practice, this was a matter for protracted negotiations.  At least part of the reason for the difference between boat and land customs was the fact that the bride was not leaving her lineage and family forever; first, she had no lineage to leave, and, second, she was rarely moving more than a few boats away.  She would be back for visits—sometimes daily ones.  Even moving to a different community did not cut her off, since the boat people were constantly plying their craft back and forth.

Arrangements being done, a date was set, in consultation with the almanac and the temple experts.  The almanac may provide more pretext or excuse than real advice (Eberhard 1963).  More serious was the need to set the date in fall or winter, when fish are running, the weather cool, and typhoons unlikely.

Senior men of the families officiated at a wedding, along with their wives and the chanters from a local paper-goods store.  The bride and groom received attention, but focus of the actual ceremony went to the senior relatives, because marriage cemented two families—not just two persons.

A wedding took three days.  (Sometimes, the poor shortened it to two.)  The first day was spent in preparations.  The groom and his family readied the ceremonial arrangements and gifts for the bride’s family.  The latter readied their “counter-prestations” (Mauss 1990) and devoted as much attention to the bride’s dress and makeup as families do elsewhere in the world.  Finally, on the first night, the chanters would come.  The second day began with gifts from the groom’s family to the bride’s, brought by the groom’s brothers and friends..  The bride spent the morning with her family, saying goodbye.  Traditionally—as at Tai O in 1965-66—she, her mother, and other close women relatives sang long improvised chants to each other.  These were extremely emotional and moving.  Long-suppressed feelings came out in full force.  The performances were musically superb and were heart-wringing.  The songs concerned family closeness, griefs, hurts long hidden in silence, and above all close familial love.  These sessions certainly destroy any lingering credibility in the classic colonialist stereotype of the “unfeeling” or “impassive” Chinese.  (On these laments, see the excellent studies by Blake 1978 and R. Watson 2004.)

At some point in all this, the gifts would arrive from the groom’s family.  Usually some ritual foods such as peanuts and oranges were included, as well as more valuable goods.  Preparation started for the main event, the second-night celebration.

This feast varied from strictly religious observances to huge feasts with fifteen courses (many of them sea food) and hired bands.  No two second-night celebrations were alike; creativity reigned.  The bride wore a red dress, symbolic of fertility and life.  A few well-to-do families were beginning to use western-style white lacy gowns for part of the ceremony, soon changing back to the safe red to make sure of good fortune.  (Gowns of white, which is the color of death in China, were still a matter of intense discomfort for older guests.)  The groom dressed in best-quality black clothing of traditional boat style.  At this point or earlier, he took a new name; this was a religious necessity.  Feasts typically included symbolic foods, such as long noodles for long life.  Foods of ritual sacrifice, notably chicken, duck, and roast pig, were requisite.  Lotus rhizomes were boiled to develop their sticky, glutinous character; then, during the feast, someone would break a rhizome and pull the two pieces apart, to show how they remained connected by the sticky bands, “just as the couple will stick together no matter how much they may be pulled apart!”  Many foods concerned sons, or descendents in general.  Thus one might serve duck eggs for fertility, lotus seeds for abundant descendents, taro leaves for the same reason (many grow from one root), big tubers so the sons would grow big,  pig intestines for cleverness.  At this feast or at some other point on the second day, guests, relatives, and friends were expected to contribute “red packets,” red envelopes containing presents of money.  The money had to be in multiples of two (two dollars or twenty or two hundred were especially favored).  Such packets were a feature of all major ceremonial occasions, from birthdays to New Year.

On the third day, the bridge goes to her new home, atfter a long morning of farewell festivities at her own parents’.  Her final gifts and dowry come with her or close behind her.  Then comes the final feast.  Ceremonies end in time for food in late afternoon.  As usual, the women and children eat first, the senior men after them.  Women joke about the advantages of this way of showing respect; it gets them the best food when it is hot.  The senior men get cold leavings.  Women would sometimes allege that this was the intent of the ancients who founded the custom.  The bride hands round tea and wine, getting a small present from each person as she does so.  When everyone is full and happy from alcohol (or at least tea), the entertainment begins.  The heart of this is “playing with the bride.”  She has to sing, perform, answer toasts, and withstand teasing.  This last is usually good-natured, but can be barbed and even vicious.  (This was very well described in Eileen Chang’s novel The Rice-Sprout Song [1955], in the description of a Hong Kong land-dweller wedding).  At a typical boat-dweller wedding, the teasing is thoroughly good-natured, and soon merges into a long night of singing, drinking, talking, and quiet enjoyment.

Two or three days afterward, the couple would return to the bridge’s home with a few last gifts and thank-yous.  The bride would return every few days thereafter for a quick breakfast or friendly visit.  By this time she was thoroughly married, and expected to stick with her husband.  (Calling off the marriage just after it occurred was not unknown, and was accepted.)  But she did not sever ties as thoroughly as land people often did; families remained close.  After all, the marriage had been contracted, more often than not, with an eye to cementing family relationships.  Even a love match created real family ties.

Relations between the bride and her husband’s family were generally good among the boat people, who do not have the lineage-based tensions of the land-dwellers.  However, the husband’s mother inevitably has to adjust to a new situation involving some competition for the man’s support and sympathy (M. Wolf 1968, 1972).  A range of adjustments could be found, from idyllic to seriously dysfunctional (Anderson 1992).

The other major rite of passage was the funeral.  The deceased was washed in water in which pomelo skin had been soaked.  (This was the water one had to “buy”; see Chapter 1.  For this and the whole formal funeral process, far more elaborate than the boat version, see J. Watson 2004d.)   The corpse was then dressed, pillowed in the coffin, covered with a cloth, and combed.  A woman in particular had to be carefully combed and arranged, or she would become a kuai.  Then the descendents worshiped gods and ancestors, with the eldest son officiating, and the chanters from the paper shops providing ritual texts and music.  The coffin lid was nailed on with four nails.  The deceased may lie in state for varying amounts of time, but among the boat people the coffin was very soon borne to the grave.  Among the land people, reburial in a more auspicious site would often follow after some years.  Indeed, the dead might be temporarily buried, then dug up and kept in a large jar until an auspicious site could be found.  The boat people rarely had the opportunity to perform this filial act.

The family dressed in mourning:  unbleached and undyed cloth (off-white) for the closest kin, white for the next, blue and green for collaterals.  They offered food and drink at the grave.  Animals were killed later, and a solemn and often fearful feast took place.

Seven days later, paper clothes and money burned on the grave.  At this time the soul of the dead was being judged in the Court of the Sky, by the sober judge who is shown in every Chinese temple (usually in the process of watching dancing girls—possibly not the most sombre of occupations).  Again the chanting men officiated; the ceremony required seven of them, which meant that two or three shops pooled their manpower.  They held up a red banner with the name of the deceased.  They directed their attention to the “filial piety idea hall,” a tiny shrine set up near the ancestors’ shrine in the boat hold.  Pigs’ heads, indicative of sacrifice, lay before it.  At this time the women began their laments.  These were wild keening, expressive and powerful.  The women improvised the words from traditional formulas that asked the dead why he or she had left, and praying for the soul to return.  These laments came at subsequent commemorations as well.  A major part of boat folk song, they were extremely moving and powerful (see Anderson 1975), with rapid heavy rhythms alternating with long-drawn-out vocal lines.  Like lamentations in many cultures, they were a formalization of weeping sounds and rhythms.  Relatives and friends came with candles and paper goods for offering.  Red packets were not appropriate.

Smaller but similar ceremonies followed this one for six more weeks, until a final sendoff on the 49th day.  As the baby’s soul required seven weeks to assemble, so the soul of the deceased required seven to disperse.  In cool weather, the corpse was not buried until this time, since revival before it was always possible.  A ten-day cycle (memorials at the tenth day up to ten times ten) also existed, but no one seemed to celebrate it in our immediate neighborhood.  After the 49th (or, alternatively, the hundredth) day, mourning went into a lighter grade, but immediate family continued to mourn and hold special memorial ceremonies until the beginning of the third year after death—carrying on a classic Chinese pattern.

A child, especially one dying before the 49th day, was sometimes simply wrapped up and abandoned in a basket on “Little Ghost Island,” a small island in the bay.  This island was carefully avoided by everyone.  Very small children were seen as too young to bury.  Their kuai would haunt the living, however, unless their families properly cared for them.  There they remained, therefore, on the small lovely island, looking out over the bay they had inhabited for their short lives.

Once dead, a family member is an ancestor.  Memorials then shift to the san kung, a family festival held every few years to renew ancestral connections.  This was much more important to land people, with their lineages and lineage halls, than to the boat-dwellers.  The latter had only their family members to maintain, and these received a small, unobtrusive ceremony.

In one full ceremony we observed, chanters and a minor spirit medium came.  Chanting wen ton all night.  A virgin cock was brought, its comb cut by the head chanter, and its blood scattered about periodically to drive off ghosts.  The head chanter also blew consecrated water from his mouth.  The chanters summoned the spirits, then set up a paper model of Yama, and images of Kun Yam and T’in Hau.  The usual paper goods flamed before them.  One less usual paper representation was a horse-and-rider figure, a messenger summoning Yama and his cohorts.  A pole hung with red-painted tin cans guided them to the boat.

The eldest son held a censer for the chanters all night.  The second son lit candles and incense.  The wife of the family head gave a cloth, representing her own family and its contributions.  The chanters read a paper with a list of ancestors; images or tablets of these were touched with consecrated water, to brighten their way in the dark afterworld.  Then the family read out the names of the living.  The spirit medium prayed over a range of feast dishes; these went to Yama and his legions, as well as the ancestors and the chanters’ and medium’s own spirit guides, before being enjoyed by the living.  Finally, at dawn, the suffering rooster was killed, and the ancestors and spirits sent away to the Sky.

 

6

Calendric rites began and climaxed with the great New Year celebration, a ritual that, in those days, united virtually everyone of East Asian background throughout the world.  New Year normally occurred on the second new moon after the winter solstice.

Two to three weeks before the day, the boats stopped fishing.  Not only was this a holiday; there was danger of piracy.  All debts had to be paid by New Year, and desperate debtors resorted to crime, making the last two weeks of the year a dicey time to be alone.  So the boats jammed the harbor, a solid wall of weathered brown timber.  Navigation became difficult.  Shops also began to close; every business was shuttered for the first two or three days of the new year.

Weddings and other celebrations went on everywhere.  Particularly in 1966, the sounds of firecrackers and ceremonial music came every night from some part of the water.  People bought new clothes to wear at the new year.  The new year itself began at 11:00 p.m. with a spectacular firing of firecrackers.  Chains of these, hundreds of feet long, hung from masts and tall buildings.  The noise continued uninterrupted, on all sides, for the rest of the night, and sporadically through the day.  People wandered around, visited, enjoyed themselves, and above all feasted.  Tangerines, the red-gold “lucky” fruit, piled everywhere in vast arrays.  Peach flowers graced the houses and boats of those affluent enough to afford them.  The richest land people had narcissus in pots, as well.  Afternoon was spent nibbling sweets—the new year had to be sweet—and seeds, symbols of abundant descendents.  These formed merely an appetizer for the huge feasts to come, involving whole roast pigs with gold-red sugar glaze, masses of pink buns, chickens and ducks glazed or dyed red, and other foods of the fortunate colors.  These and all the minor accompaniments were washed down with seas of beer and Chinese liquors.  People had to lay down a food reserve, since they could light no fires lit until the end of the third day; food was cold leftovers till then.  (This was all right at Castle Peak Bay—Hong Kong has perhaps the coldest winters of any tropical coastal area in the world—but our experiences in Malaya with long-leftover food were harrowing.)   On the 15th day of the year, a small festival took place, but with little attention.

The next serious festivity, then, was the day of the t’ou tei, on or around the 20th of the first month.  It could involve full-scale Cantonese opera performances, as well as the inevitable firecrackers, incense, and feasting.

This and other sans’-day fairs were largely organized by religious societies, ui (hui “society”).   Von Glahn (2004:168) found cases where the word hui was generalized to mean the god’s day itself; I did not hear this particular metonymy at Castle Peak Bay, but sometimes heard pao so used.  Normally at Castle Peak the days were simply called “gods’ days” or “temple fairs.”  Secular ui were savings-and-loan associations, similar to one found all over the world (e.g. the tontines of Europe and credit rings of Mexico).  Almost all ui, however, were religious.  Religious ones saved and invested to acccumulate money for the big day.  Sometimes this was done by straight savings—a monthly sum pledged and donated.  Other ui loaned out money in rotation, as secular ui did, but charged interest of a few percent, the proceeds going to the fair.  Religious ui often integrated both boat and land people, and thus served as the only significant corporate social bodies that cut across that boundary.  The ui organized the lion dances, operas, major sacrifices, and other performances (I provided much more detail on ui in Anderson 1970b:81-83).

Next on the calendar was a different sort of festival, ch’eng meng (Qing Ming).  This ancient spring festival, on the third day of the third lunar month, commemorated the dead.  Supposedly, it was once a fertility festival, but was later toned down and regulated into a simple visiting of tombs (Eberhard 1958).  Families visited graves and picnicked there, sharing food and the usual accompanying goods to the dead.  The waiting lines at the Kowloon bus stations were a mile long on the day morning, as virtually every urbanite tried to get to family graves.  However, the occasion was not as all-important as in Malaysia, where grief over racist oppression led Chinese to develop a real cult of the dead (Anderson and Anderson 1978).

Then, on the 23rd, came the boat people’s own festival:  the day of T’in Hau.  Castle Peak Bay, with a major temple in 1965 and two after that, was a focus second only to the great temples on Hong Kong Island and at Macau (whose name is A Ma Kau, Ma Tsu’s Temple).  In early 1966 an old fisherman in a huge, majestic, decades-old sailing trawler escaped from Communist China, bringing with him a T’in Hau image over two centuries old, which he spirited away from an ancient temple near Guangzhou.  This image was on his boat for the great festival of 1966, making it—and the whole bay—an unprecedented attraction.  Worshipers soon built a temple for this image, across the bay from the other T’in Hau temple; both survive now, many decades later.  It was on the boat with the venerable image that the mou si described above spent most of the day, writing charms; for the afternoon temple festivities, he threw ritual rice about him, and then moved, with pain and difficulty, to the temple on shore.  Here he stayed, in the dense, blinding incense smoke, writing more charms.  (James Watson [2004e:296] reports that T’in Hau cults in the old lineage villages of the western New Territories lack self-torture and spirit mediumship.  This reveals another major difference from the boat world.)

The day passed with firecrackers, lion dances, and a great deal of miscellaneous “hot noise” (or “heat and noise”; the Chinese term for festive, exciting, noisy activity).  Almost everyone visited the temple and the image boat.  The pier and waterfront were spectacularly ornamented with huge red-and-gold signboards and decorations.  Cantonese operas in a huge temporary opera hall, in front of the T’in Hau temple, blared loud enough to be heard across the bay through the firecracker sound[7].

For days, the paper shops had been working overtime, constructing large frameworks of bamboo and covering them with red paper, foil of all hues, and brilliant decorations in the most vibrant colors.  These they hung with metal rings, papier-mache sculptures, bangles, and live ginger roots.  Finally, they ornamented these with figures of mythic divinities, especially Monkey and his friends.  These objects were ritual creations known as p’au, “cannons” or “rockets.”

The festival climaxed in the afternoon.  A vast crowd gathered at the temple.  Huge logs of sandalwood were burning in great bonfires, scenting the whole shore and thus making it sacred territory for the time.  A tall bamboo platform stood in the middle of the great courtyard before the temple.  Leaders of the temple organization shot rockets from this platform—one after another to the number of sixty.  As these fell to earth, the strongest young men from the T’in Hau uis leaped up to vie for the spent rocket-heads.  Whoever got the first one to fall got the best p’au sculpture, and with it the best of T’in Hau’s blessing and good fortune for himself and his whole ui for the coming year.  He was then disqualified, and the remaining uis’ men leaped up for the next.  A good deal of fighting developed, and police had to intervene several times.  So it went, until the last, most miserably unfortunate ui got its feeble final rocket.  The p’au sculptures—magnificent works of art, built to last but a day—were disassembled at the uis’ subsequent feasts and celebrations.  Parts were auctioned off.  Getting a jade(-like) ring or a ginger root guaranteed that one would have a son that year. Everyone knew of exceptions, but there were always ready explanations for these:  the man wasn’t faithful enough to T’in Hau, the jade was really glass, the p’au was the 58th instead of the first….

The money earned this way—and it was substantial, especially if several couples wanted sons badly—went to fund the next year’s activities.

After the last rocket, as dusk began to fall, everyone dispersed to an evening of feasting and drinking.

The next major occasion on the bay was Taam Kung Day, a major occasion at Taam Kung’s temple on Hong Kong Island, but minor at Castle Peak (see Burkhardt 1953-1958, esp. vol. 1: 19-24 and vol. 3: 155-156).  At a variable time in the fourth month came the Bun Festival of Cheung Chau Island, nearby; this provided huge mountains of buns for the unfortunate dead—lost to pirates or in war.  It drew many visitors from Castle Peak, Cheung Chau being another boat center where many people had relatives.

Then came the Dragon Boat Festival, the fifth day of the fifth lunar month.  This centers around boat races in light, thin boats propelled by paddles and energized by drum-beating.  The festival is formally said to commemorate the ancient poet Qu Yuan, who drowned himself to protest bad government, but the people of Castle Peak Bay denied all knowledge of this worthy, and saw the day and its races as purely a matter of placating the dragons and water ghosts.  (This is clearly the real origin of the festival, which once involved human sacrifice; see Eberhard 1958.)  Naturally, the boat people generally win the boat races, which in the main Hong Kong areas involved all ethnic groups—even the Gurkha soldiers and the colonial British.  Waterfront wisdom held that the British usually came to grief, upsetting their craft.

Hau Wong Ye, noted above as the patron of Tai O, was celebrated there on the sixth of the sixth, with a festival that was a much smaller and milder version of T’in Hau’s.

The seventh of the seventh brought unmarried girls out to celebrate the yearly meeting of the Weaving Maid (the star Vega) and the Cowherd Boy (Altair).  These stars are separated by the Sky River (the Milky Way), but every year on this date the Birds of Good Luck (hei tseuk, magpies) fly to the Sky to build a bridge with their wings, and the lovers can meet.  This festival was almost invisible at Castle Peak.  More serious was the Feast of Hungry Ghosts on the 14th of the seventh.  This Buddhist ceremony involved placating the hungry ghosts and other unfortunate spirits—the homeless, the wronged, the drowned, the wandering.  Families and religious groups provided food and goods for them.

The Moon Festival on the 15th day of the eighth lunar month was celebrated with feasts that focused on moon cakes, those round moon-like pastries stuffed with eggs, seeds, sweets, and other fertility symbols.  No one seemed to like them much[7].

Minor details of festivals differ, but much carries over from one to another.  The festivals are great religious structures, constructed not only from visible materials but also from scent, sound, timing, juxtaposition, and flow.  They manipulate and direct emotions, so that they become, at a second remove, huge constructions of emotionality—Durkheim’s intense rituals on a vast scale.  They are assembled from rather simple blocks.

The most basic of these is the paai rite, and the minimal sacrifice, building up from incense to tea to wine to fruit, peanuts, paper goods, and chicken.  In the biggest rites, worshipers offer whole roast pigs, then divide and eat them.  They are covered with a brown sugar glaze that makes them turn red-gold when roasted:  kam jyu yok, “golden pork.”  In all ceremonies, red and gold are stressed, and other brilliant colors complement them.

Silk banners and paper-and-bamboo constructions dominate the festal skyline, and range from small family-level decorations to huge “flower boards” 50 or 60 feet high.

The soundscape is dominated by endless firecrackers, but loud music dominated by gongs and drums drives the lion dances, temple ceremonies, spirit-medium performances, and ghost-expelling rites.  Scent of incense—sometimes whole sandalwood logs burning—defines sacred space and wafts through the whole landscape.  Intense flavors of wine, beer, and festive foods eclipse the bland, crisp flavors of everyday rice and vegetables.  Succulent meat and fat are the foods of a “red time.”

Activities from fighting over p’au to summoning spirits and driving off ghosts are common to most of the bigger festivals of particular gods.  In fact, spirit mediumship seems blind to the particular spirit involved, except for the minor mannerisms of the summoner.  The same questions are asked, the same charms written, the same behaviors invoked.

Each festival has its special traits, and some—such as Ch’ing Ming and “double seven”—are truly distinctive, with little shared above the basic level.  However, in most festivals, a recognizable general flowchart plays itself out with only enough variation to identify the particular san involved.

One festival that sums everything up, and brings everything together, is a world renewal.  Every sixty years, a village must throw a huge festival to renew the cycle—to begin its small world anew.  No such thing happened in Castle Peak, which had no traditional villages dominated by single lineages.   In 1974, Ha Chuen, a small village north of Castle Peak, put on such a fair.  (Actually, Ha Chuen does it every ten years, though I was told this was a special sixty-year rite.)  James Watson was studying Ha Chuen at the time, and gives a wonderful account of this 1974 fair, which I too attended (J. Watson 2004a).  It lasted over a week, after a full year of work to prepare the village and the offerings.  Huge red constructions, visible for a mile around, dominated the skyline.  Lion dances, spirit medium performances, and sacrifice rites went on day after day.  Mounds of pink-dyed buns reached high above the heads of the worshipers.  Huge groups from other villages came to worship Buddhas and Chinese gods in a vast temporary shelter set up at the village gate.  Men cooked huge caldrons of sik pun, a meat stew; cooking the proper ritual stew for such an occasion is a men’s prerogative (J. Watson 2004b).  There was a not-very-friendly rivalry between the old New Territories villages for the honor of putting on the biggest and most expensive world renewal.  The larger village of Kam Tin swore it would outdo Ha Chuen when the time came.

 

7

In addition to these relatively standard Chinese festivals and patterns of action, the boat people had a number of specific ideas of their own.

Most important and interesting were the sacred or divine fish (san yu).  These were fish that were large and powerful, and that usually seemed to be more than just fish.  They fit perfectly Mary Douglas’ concept of the anomalous (Anderson 1970; Douglas 1966, 1970).  Douglas found that animals tabooed in religion usually turn out to be those that do not fit comfortably into major, basic categories in the relevant culture’s classification system.  This was true of the sacred fish.  There were several such fish.  One the sturgeon (Acipenser sinensis, locally known as ch’am lung, “sinking dragon”), a rare and weird-looking creature thought to be both a fish and a dragon.  Another group consisted of whales and porpoises (including a mysterious “linked fish”—chun yu—that makes a pilgrimage to the Hung Sing temple up the river near Canton, and that once nodded its head when a girl offered it tea).  The boat people recognize that cetaceans, though they look like fish, behave like mammals, and are like mammals internally (“the meat and organs are like a pig’s,” as some fishermen told me).  Another sacred fish is the sawfish (ku yu, Pristiophorus sp.), which not only has its bizarre tooth-fringed snout but which also was seen as the most powerful and dominant of fish.  Finally, sea turtles were sacred fish, explicitly because “they are both turtles and fish” (in one man’s words), and because they are highly revered in Buddhist and Taoist thought.

A standard explanation for loss of a boat at sea was that the family had caught a san yu and had not treated it properly.

Fishermen tried to avoid catching such creatures.  If they did, by mistake, they immediately released them, or, if the fish had died, they took it to the Tin Hau temple and left it there as an offering.  Ancient, long-desiccated sawfish and sturgeons decorated most local Tin Hau temples.

Some other anomalous water creatures were not san yu but still had uncanny powers.  Both boat and land people shared a fear of the walking catfish or snakehead, known as seng yu (“living fish”) because it could survive out of water (it breathes air with a modified, lung-like swim bladder).  Made into soup, it could cure cancer and other degenerative diseases, but one had to be sure to cook it with pork; if the pork disappeared, the fish was not a snakehead but a “bone-transforming dragon,” and anyone who ate it would disappear, even to the bones.  Another supernaturally curative animal was a small parasite that lived in the gills of large groupers.  When the grouper was caught and died, its qi passed into the parasite, which thus concentrated all the power of the huge fish, thus becoming powerful medicine.  Conversely, the boat people did not use cormorants in fishing, because some thought the rings put around the birds’ necks to prevent them from swallowing fish would also constrict the fishermen’s flows of wealth.

Less visible to the uninitiated, but far more important, were the dragons who controlled rain and storm.  Ordinary beneficial rain was in the claws of ordinary dragons, lung.  Violent storms and typhoons were often blamed on the more savage dock-tailed dragon or dragons (kuat mei lung), whose tails the gods cut off as punishment for bad behavior.

In addition to these, ghosts sometimes took the form of fish, disappearing suddenly.

 

8

As we have seen, the boat people saw religion as primarily a matter of providing the gods with feasts and wealth in hopes of making them favorably disposed enough to send exchange goods:  luck, health, birth of sons, good weather, runs of fish.  The idea was exactly and explicitly the same as the plan for dealing with ordinary humans in positions of power.  One tries to create good feelings through doing favors (this is the classic concept of creating ganqing through guanxi, as described in Yan 1996 and Yang 1994), and one tries to use the proper social forms.  Some relations with the other world were much more mechanical and formulaic.  Others were more antagonistic, especially the great exorcistic rites.  Still others were minor and whimsical customs, like the play with lotus rhizomes at the wedding feasts.   Some festivals were deadly serious and almost universally believed to be desperately important; marriages, funerals, and exorcisms came into this category.  Others suffered general disregard and skepticism.

Religion was a social matter, and was invoked for direct and immediate pragmatic reasons.  In spite of a genuine and strong ethical component, popular worship often involved behavior toward the supernaturals that the boat people did not tolerate in the secular world.  The supernaturals were subjected to bribery, hypocrisy, favor-currying, and manipulation.  This was a pragmatic game.  It was judged on its successes.  A god who consistently failed to deliver good fortune, even after proper sacrifice rites, was a god who soon found himself or herself ignored.

On the other hand, “even the gods are subject to fate,” and so occasional failure was expected.  Moreover, in the words of Ge Hong, “Because the size [of this divine administration] is large and its network loose, they may not always respond automatically with precision” (Campany 2002:50).  This view, which seems so wonderfully off-the-wall to a western believer, was echoed almost word for word on the Castle Peak Bay waterfront, more than 1700 years after Ge Hong’s time.  Like human powers, divine powers were far from omnipotent or infallible.  Sometimes they even failed to hear a plea, or were lazy or corrupt, and one had to deal with that.

When all is said and done, it is hard to manipulate fate, hard to change the world.  The popularity of almanacks was due to the determinateness of fate.  A man or woman is born with an allotted life course, and the gods can change it only a bit—less, many said, than one can change it oneself by hard work and honest behavior!

As usual in boat life, any individual was free to manage worship and belief as she saw fit, as part of a detailed, practical, personal way of handling the world.

No one was foolish enough to rely on prayer and worship alone, when human action could affect the outcome.  Fishermen prayed to Tin Hau, but kept their sails and nets in good repair, and followed the government’s weather forecasts assiduously.

Conspicuously absent in most of this were the sense of awe, the mystical or transcendent experience, the ineffable peace and bliss, and the other fabled psychological roots of religion.  Some individuals did have such feelings; most gave no evidence of them.  Feelings were irrelevant to the rituals and ceremonies, which were done in a cut-and-dried, routine manner, though usually with a great deal of drinking, eating, and fun.

However, the great festivals aroused strong emotions.  By and large, ordinary enjoyment was paramount.  Deeper emotions arose from more serious rites.  Being in the presence of a spirit medium in possession trance could not fail to move even the most skeptical and sober viewer.  Funerals and other rituals for the dead aroused intense and unfeigned grief.  Religion served not so much to inspire unusual emotions as to synchronize and socially invoke ordinary, but deep and serious, ones.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 8.  FISHING PEOPLE’S MEDICINE

 

 

1

In a brilliant and insightful book, Judith Farquhar (1994) described Chinese medicine as “knowing practice.”  Farquhar worked with practitioners of Traditional Chinese Medicine—current forms of China’s classical elite tradition.  She describes in detail the ways in which doctors invoked a wide and deep knowledge of traditional texts and methods in dealing with particular cases.  The doctors did not mindlessly plug in this knowledge; they considered each case at length, tried approaches they thought would work, and let empirical findings drive their ways of using their skills.  They saw each case as to some extent unique, requiring its own variant of  “practice.”  Traditional medicine was not a set of rigid rules or cookbook recipes, but a vast storehouse of possibilities.

The boat people knew far less of the traditional medical system than did Farquhar’s Chinese medical teachers, but the boat people still knew a great deal of medical lore, and their application of it was “knowing practice” in exactly the same sense (cf. Anderson 1988, 1996; Anderson and Anderson 1975).  They too did the best to apply what they had, with a strong awareness of each case and of the need to use medical knowledge pragmatically in a given setting[7].

The boat people had led hard lives, with little access to medical care.  As a result, they suffered seriously from malnutrition, and even starvation.  On the other hand, in relation to the land people, the boat people got more protein and iron, but much less vitamin C, leading to characteristic patterns of deficiency.  The hard life on the water led to high rates of exposure and accidents.  The boat people had high rates of tuberculosis, and suffered from frequent bouts of measles, diarrheas, leptospirosis, and other contagious diseases.  Within living memory, smallpox and malaria had been terrible scourges, though these were mercifully eliminated by 1965.  Minor respiratory and digestive ailments, and parasite infestations, were constant companions.

The boat people relied for all specialist medical services on shore-dwellers.  They did not have a full or complete medical system of their own.  They rarely went for medical care until they were almost dead.  The shore was a dangerous environment, and medical care there was expensive by boat-people standards.  Thus, the boat people used home remedies when possible.  They tended to deny illness as long as possible, and then “tough it out” until absolutely forced to act.  This led to much chronic illness.

The boat people’s explanatory model—to use Arthur Kleinman’s (1980) term—held that, ultimately, all illness was due to fate.  One suffered according to one’s destiny.  However, this highly abstract concept broke down in practice into two possible types of direct causation: personalistic and naturalistic (sensu Foster 1998).  By far the more important of these was naturalistic.

It makes sense to dispose of personalistic afflictions first, since they were less important.  If an illness could not be successfully treated or alleviated by ordinary medicne, supernatural agency seemed likely.  This could be confirmed by going to a spirit medium, who would enter trance and diagnose the condition.  In supernaturally caused illnesses, control was outside the power of ordinary mortals, but could be gained through ceremonies.  In witchcraft-caused illness, magic could be invoked to counter the curse.

Personalistic causation could be categorized according to the agent inflicting the illness.  Gods (san) and ancestors could punish people for sin, usually the sin of neglecting proper sacrifices to the god in question.  In particular, if one caught a sacred fish and did not offer it up immediately to Tin Hau, one would suffer disaster.  Ghosts (kuai) sent sickness or other affliction to those who had wronged them.

Problems ranged from a simple cold, which might necessitate a temple prayer, to genuine crises—persistent attacks by ghosts, or real outrage of a neglected or inadvertently wronged god—that required full-scale services by Taoist priests.  These involved chanting, instrumental music, sacrifices of animals, vast amounts of incense, and much more, and cost thousands of dollars.

Normally, people assumed illnesses were natural.  Even mental illness was so considered if it was either inborn (in which case it was simply one’s fate) or explained by reference to obvious causes, as in the case of major depression following the death of a loved one.  More often, minor mental illness followed from fear, which could disrupt one’s hei or drive a part of the soul out of the body.  The boat people explained shock the same way.   Chronic neglect or abuse of children could make them insane.  Mentally abnormal people were often shunned, but sympathetic people thought (I think correctly) that this at least sometimes led to more serious mental illness.

Accidents—from getting wrecked in a typhoon to tangling with a shark—were usually just bad luck.  However, they were sometimes sent by an offended god, or caused by bad fengshui.  Clearly physical conditions, like broken bones and sprains, were usually natural accidents in everyone’s view, and were treated by physical methods.  Doctors set bones.  Sprained ankles rested.  Excellent massage was available for sore muscles.

The vast majority of illnesses were purely natural, and treated naturalistically.  In Cantonese medicine, ordinary illnesses were imbalances of heat, cold, wetness and dryness—the classic four qualities of Hippocratic-Galenic medicine.   The Hippocratic-Galenic tradition reached China early (perhaps in the 4th or 5th centuries AD, certanly by the 14th, when texts mention Galen by name).  It fused with China’s indigenous yang/yin theory, but yang and yin were rarely (if ever) invoked by the boat people in talking about illness.  Wetness was invoked rarely, and dryness even more rarely.  As in most of the world (Foster 1993), these two qualities had sunk to a minor role.

Other, more strictly Chinese, factors filled out the Hippocratic picture.  Sheer weakness—depletion of energy or hei—was a common, serious problem.  This came from overwork, exposure, and serious illness, but most of all it came from childbirth (see below).  Blocked, disarranged, disordered, or stagnant hei was vaguely recognized as problematic, but consideration of such subtleties was left to professional Chinese doctors, who were deeply concerned with such issues.  In addition, actual pathological forces were also mentioned:  Poison, dirt, wind, fright, contagion, and occasionally other qualities (Anderson and Anderson 1975; Martin 1978).  “Poison” (tuk/du) meant two or three different things, carefully distinguished by knowledgeable consultants.  First, there was actual poison, as in puffer-fish liver and sea snake venom.  Second, there was a certain mysterious quality in male poultry (and perhaps some other foods, but no one was sure) that could exacerbate cancer and similar illnesses; this was referred to as “poison,” though strictly speaking it merely potentiated or activated preexisting conditions.  Yet another poison was the womb-poison introduced by the pregnancy and birth process; it came out in measles, viewed as inevitable and necessary (Topley 1970, 1974, 1975).  This latter belief led to some opposition to measles vaccination (Topley 1970, 1975).  Wind—one speaks here not of ordinary wind, but of a wind that strikes inside the body—was a problem in itself and because it introduced cold, or cold and wet; rheumatism was due to such drafts.  Dirtiness inside the body was produced by various stresses and illnesses, and had to be cleaned away by herbal teas.

Normally, though, heating and cooling hei explained any ordinary illness.  Actual hot or cold weather, especially too much sun or too much cold and wet air, was a risk factor, but more often the problem was heating and cooling foods.  I have dealt with this system extensively elsewhere (Anderson 1987, 1988, 1996) and need not go into it here.  Suffice it to say that foods were heating (it or yit, Putonghua re) if they were high-calorie (thus literally high in heat energy); if they had been exposed to high heat in preparation; if they felt hot, like chile and ginger; or if they were hot colors—red or orange.  Foods were cooling (leung/liang—foods were very rarely hon/han, “cold”) if they were low-calorie, if they had been cooked at low heat in a lot of water (water is cooling), if they were cold-looking (icy white or pale green).  The perfectly balanced food, exactly in the middle, was, of course, cooked rice (faan); throughout the world, Hippocratic-Galenic traditions brand as “neutral” the major staple.  Other foods similar to it—medium calorie content, dead-white color—were also neutral:  noodles, white-fleshed fish, potatoes, and so forth.  Sugar was heating if brown (“red”), slightly heating if ordinary granulated white sugar, and cooling if “ice” sugar (rock sugar, which does look like ice).  Alcohol was normally heating, because it gave an instant feeling of warmth on cold days, but beer was considered cooling. Not only did it cool the body; it also was seen to be the only thing that the British consumed in enough quantity to offset their heating diet of bread and meat.  The boat people jokingly called it “Westerners’ cooling tea.”

Excess of heat caused illnesses that resembled burns in some way, such as reddening, rashes, dry skin, sores, sore throat, irritation, fever.  Also, any drying or constriction, such as constipation, was a hot condition.  This meant that “hot” diseases included what we in English call “colds.”  (English doctors once used the same Hippocratic tradition, but attributed the origin to cold draughts, and focused on the flow of mucus, rather than on the fever and sore throat.)  More focally “hot” was scurvy, the “hot” condition par excellence.  Vitamin C deficiency leads to rashes, pain, sores, dry flaky skin, constipation, and other burn-like conditions.  Another classic “hot” condition was the aftereffects of a big feast: hangover, bloating, feeling of heat, and so on.  In all these cases, it was observed that eating plain boiled vegetables and drinking herbal teas was curative.  This validated the system.

Excess of coolness led to lowered body temperature, pallor, weakness, and other signs resembling the effects of hypothermia.  The classic “cool” ailment was anemia.  In this case, eating gently warming foods—basically, lean meat, organ meats, red beans, ginger, Chinese wine, black vinegar, and a few other standards—was curative.  Again the system was validated; the iron in the meats, perhaps made more available by the wine and vinegar, cured the anemia.

Venereal diseases were considered hot and wet (sap/xi), and thus hot-wet foods like shrimp and marine catfish were avoided.  No diseases were due to dryness (kon/gan), but eating drying foods like dry-roasted peanuts led to a dry, scratchy throat.

Thus, therapy for ordinary mild illness was food.  Minor hot ailments were cured by eating cooling foods, and vice versa.  More serious or chronic cases required herbal teas.  Cleaning or purifying the body, eliminating poison, and the like required medicinal herbs, often cooked along with special soothing foods like Job’s-tears and barley.

Especially important was building strength after major crises.  Most typical and important of these was childbirth. Given the chronic poverty of the boat people, pregnant women rarely got enough good food, and childbirth left them terribly weak and malnourished; anemia in particular was essentially universal.  They thus were careful to “do the month,” as the Chinese say (Pillsbury 1976): spend at least a month (and often 40 days) lying in bed, keeping warm, and eating strengthening foods.  These were foods that were warming, but also strenghtening and repairing; pou (bu) was the term used.  Commonest of these were pork, pig’s liver, pig’s feet, chicken, and similar foods very high in protein and iron. These were usually cooked with ginger and Chinese “wine,” which are warming, and often with black vinegar, which was believed to be strengthening and nourishing.  Also important was a small red berry known as kau kei ji (koujizi, the fruit of Lycium chinense).  This fruit is literally a multivitamin pill; it is so rich in all the vitamins and minerals that a handful of the berries is roughly equivalent to a modern multivitamin supplement.  Herbal medicines such as astragalus and angelica could be added by the affluent.

An important point, frequently made, was that diet therapy had to be tailored to the individual.  People differ in their response to food.  Modern bioscience explains this as being due to allergies, personality, personal history, and metabolic or biochemical differences due to genetics or early experience.  The boat people had no such explanations, but they realized that people were different.  Often, a food that was “cool” for most people was experienced as “heating” by some; this was usually due to allergies, since allergy reactions are often classic “heating” symptoms such as rash, stuffed sinuses, and itchiness (see Anderson 1987 and references therein).  Individual experience over time, and immediate environmental context, both affected nutritional therapy.  Any caregiver would take these factors into account.

The eldest woman in the household was normally the chief caregiver; others acted under her orders.  She would often defer to, or discuss with, her daughter or daughter-in-law when these women were treating their own children, but, as grandmother, the eldest woman still was the final arbiter.  In more serious cases, she was expected to consult with the whole family—not just her household, but the extended family, often scattered over a number of boats or other residential units.  The only exception to this rule occurred when someone else in the family had special medical training or experience.   Sometimes the senior male would intrude.  He might be listened to, but just as often he was ignored, or even told to stay out of the scene.  Theoretically the leader of the family, a senior male had almost no authority in matters such as household health care.  Sometimes, women “saved the man’s face” by telling him that he need not consider himself with such lowly household matters.

When household knowledge and skills were inadequate, the second recourse was local herb-sellers.  These ranged from grocery store owners and sidewalk peddlers to trained traditional pharmacists and herbal doctors, working with Li Shijen’s Bencao Gangmu and related or derivative texts.  High-quality herbs and the services of formally trained pharmacists lay outside the economic range of most boat people.

Western medicine was a common recourse, becoming rapidly more available, more successful, and more important.  In 1965, western medicine at Castle Peak Bay was represented by a few practitioners who gave shots (sometimes mere normal saline, given for effect), antibiotic pills (usually chloromycetin, because it was the cheapest), aspirin, and sometimes worm medicine.  More elaborate Western care required travel outside the immediate waterfront area.  By 1966 this condition was changing, and by 1975 there was quite good medical care available from a number of local hospitals and clinics.  Most of these were free or reasonably priced.  This had led the boat people to use them when food and simple home herbal remedies failed.  Traditional Chinese medicine was neglected, though by no means gone.  There was little knowledge of acupuncture and other specialized systems.  I never heard of acupuncture being practiced.  Moxibustion was practiced fairly often, however, most often using arm and head points.

 

2

Individuals and family units took control of their lives.  The family unit was the normal locus of control.  People did not meekly place oneself under care of a healer.  Instead, they immediately took charge of the situation, and did everything they knew to alleviate it.

When I worked to explain Hippocratic medicine in the 1980s (Anderson 1987), I was somewhat aware of the importance of this aggressive stance in the success of the tradition, but I was more impressed by the other virtues of the system.  Most obviously, humoral medicine actually worked at Castle Peak Bay.  It made people eat vegetables when they were short of vitamin C, eat liver and meat when short of iron, drink liquids when sick, and take countless other perfectly sound empirical steps.

On the other hand, it was obviously very far from perfect, so a full explanation had to take other matters into account.  Further research in Mexico has shown me that one of the most solid pillars in the foundation of Hippocratic medicine and its success is its no-nonsense, take-charge attitude.  Of all the medical traditions in the world, it is the one that most clearly directs the patient and her household to act, now.  It works primarily through regimen:  modification of ordinary life activities—eating, drinking, exercising, resting.  It works through common sense, supplemented with a framework that is simple, straightforward, and easily learned.  Even the most humble and least educated can modify diet according to heating or cooling properties inferred in the foods.  Anyone, anywhere, can modify activity.  One does not give up control to an alien, impersonal medical establishment.

Humans need to feel in control of their situation; this is an actual physical need, and can be a life-or-death matter in cases of illness (see Anderson 1996).  The value of a take-control medical belief system is evident.  The boat people were close to the bottom of traditional China’s vast social hierarchy.   They needed to assert control whenever they could, and they did so, in no uncertain terms.

Their explanatory models and medical recourse systems were designed to maximize this.  As they were forced by experience to give up control, they moved down a predictable scale: from home care to herbalists to Chinese doctors to ritualists to full-scale rituals.  This was also a hierarchy of ease of understanding.  Nonexperts did not know the herbal formulas, but they understood herbal medicine as merely a more sophisticated form of food therapy.  There was no line separating foods (sik pan, Putonghua shi pin) from medicines.  All foods had health-relevant humoral properties.  Some foods were particularly medicinal, such as ginger.  Some foods were almost solely medicinal, such as gaugeiji, black vinegar, and foxnuts (Euryale ferox).  These merged imperceptibly into items that were considered purely medicines, such as astragalus and ginseng.  It was impossible to tell whether snow fungi and birds’ nests were “medicines” or “foods.”  The medical formulations used on the waterfront routinely mixed such medicinal foods with items considered solely medicines.

Elite medicine and religious ritual were progressively more difficult to understand and less easy to control.  They drew on explanatory models that were poorly known to the boat people, and that minimized the chance of control by laypersons.  The complex logic behind traditional Chinese medicine, involving links to cosmology, vessel theory, qi theory, yin-yang and five-phases philosophy, and much else, was beyond them.  (It still defies full analysis by scholars.)  The logic of ritual, drawing as it did on Durkheimian collective representations, was more easy to understand, but supernaturals were notoriously difficult to handle.

By 1975, Western medicine had largely replaced the latter three steps, but only in so far as it demonstrably worked better.  Its logic of germs, contagion, immunization, antibiotics, and surgery was beginning to penetrate the local medical system, but was still very poorly understood.  To local people, “shots” were more a magical practice than a scientific measure.

All students of ordinary popular Chinese medicine have found rather similar hierarchies of recourse, no matter where they were working (see Kleinman 1980).  The boat people were probably even more committed to home treatment, and even less prone to put themselves under care of a physician, than most Chinese described in medical studies.  This was partly because of poverty, partly because they wanted to retain full control.

Practice, in Farquhar’s sense, is an assertion of control, and is “knowing” because the practitioners realize that more knowledge allows more control.  Explanatory models are as logical and commonsensical as possible; only when the simpler ones fail does one proceed to the more arcane.

Thus the boat people and their world, seen in wider perspective, point up this issue of control.   The ill desperately need to have a sense of control of their situation; they need to understand it and to assert some agency within it (Langer 1983).  Ellen Langer showed that having control over one’s environment actually improves health.  For people like those of Castle Peak Bay, control is a life-and-death matter (cf. Anderson 1996).  They were at the bottom of the social scale, and needed all the sense of efficacy (Bandura 1986) that they could get.  They met the challenge; as in other aspects of their lives, they took charge assertively.  When they could do nothing else—as was all too often the case—they could at least make the patient feel that family, neighbors, and community cared and were acting to help.

 

3

In 1974-75 we carried out a focused study of cancer among the boat people.  Cancer is a hard disease to conceptualize, in any culture.  The real problem is that it is not one disease.  It is a congeries of conditions that have different causes, different courses, and different effects.  The only thing they have in common is that they take the form of uncontrolled multiplication by cells that have lost the natural restraints, checks, and balances that keep the body functioning smoothly.  This loss of restraint can be due to tobacco smoke, hard radiation, viral infection, random mutation, toxic or mutagenic chemicals, and many other environmental stressors.  Often, a given stressor causes cancer in a given site or set of sites, while leaving all others undamaged.

This conceptualization of cancer is of very recent origin.  Until cell physiology and mutation were well understood, and epidemiology had discovered many chemical stressors, no one could conceive of cancer that way.  The modern definition is a child of the cellular-biology revolution of the mid-20th century[7].

Traditional China had no concept of “cancer” equivalent to or similar to the modern English concept.  Visible cancerous growths were called by various terms simply meaning “lump” or “swelling.”  I have no idea what people would have made of things like leukemia or lymphoma or pancreatic cancer; they had no way of knowing what kind of pathology these involved.

We cooperated with Dr. John Ho in a small project on the epidemiology of cancer of the nasopharynx (Anderson, Anderson and Ho 1978).  This cancer was 100 times as common among Hong Kong boat people as among the world population at large.  Cantonese in general had a high rate, but Cantonese raised in the United States had the same low rate as Americans and world citizens in general.  Dr. Ho directed it; Cecilia Choi worked with us.  We were largely working to check out a theory of Dr. Ho, to the effect that nasopharyngeal cancer causation involved nitrosamines created by decay processes in poorly salted fish.  Nitrosamines were suspect of causing cancer when inhaled.   Dr. Ho theorized that antioxidant vitamins in fruits and vegetables would destroy these chemicals.  The boat people were typically very short on such vitamins.

This hypothesis checked out, but—to make a long story short—turned out to be part of a longer causal chain.  Many boat people were more genetically susceptible to nasopharyngeal cancer than most humans are; an allomorph of the HLA-2 antibody gene caused this.  Males were more susceptible than females, in Hong Kong.  Smoking was sometimes involved, but not with our population, few of whom smoked, and none of whom smoked much.  Infection with the Epstein-Barr virus was a major risk factor, but in those days in Hong Kong everyone, or virtually everyone, got that virus early in life, so it was not a very meaningful variable.  Living on salt fish and rice, without many vegetables or fruits, was indeed typical of all our cases except one, and that one individual had had a malabsorption syndrome that prevented her from absorbing nutrients well.  We also observed that the “cancer personality,” retiring and shy and depressive, was a major risk factor, but were maddeningly unable to get enough control data to prove it.

We found that cancer was considered to be a condition somehow involving poison (du).  Cancer sufferers avoided poultry unless they saw it killed and cut up, because, according to Cantonese folk medicine, the hei of male poultry somehow potentiates poisons in the system, making them worse.  Eating a rooster or drake would make the cancer flare up and probably become fatal.

Unfortunately, our interviewees were young and getting westernized, and if they had more knowledge about cancer than that, it was international biomedicine that they knew.  Very likely cancer would prove to have a folk etiology involving hot and cold—as it does among the Maya, who believe that a sudden cold shock to an overheated body can cause it.  (Maya beliefs about hot and cold are strikingly parallel to Chinese; both had a pre-existing medical belief system involving hot and cold that was then impacted by Galenic humoral theories.)   Certainly, disturbed or contaminated qi was involved in cancer.  I think that in earlier times a growing and pathological swelling would be considered the result of blocked or stagnating qi.

In both traditional Chinese and traditional western medicine, then, cancer was anomalous and hard to classify, since no one could see or understand what was really going on.   It did not fit well in either paradigm.  Western medicine developed from a number of practical fields, notably military medicine and sports medicine.  So it had a lot to say about bodily integrity, injuries, and surgery, to say nothing of devils attacking people.  This led to the famous (or notorious) military language that is still with us:  the body “defends” itself against “invading” germs that are “the enemy” of good health, etc.

In addition, early western medicine was much like Chinese in that it stressed the balance of heat, cold, and other qualities or influences.  From ideas of heat, cold, wetness, dryness, and the necessity of balancing these in the body, Galen and his intellectual relatives constructed humoral theory.  The Chinese fused it with earlier yin-yang ideas and with Indian medical theories brought along with Buddhism in the early Common Era.

Contagion became more and more obvious to people in both civilizations, over the centuries, and eventually led to theories of insect transmission; the Chinese began to understand the role of mosquitoes and other pests in premodern times (Elvin 2004), and, eventually, so did westerners. But cancer was not a wound or injury, was not contagious, was not related to insects, was not obviously related to diet, and did not fit any humoral paradigm.  No one could figure out what to do with it, or even how exactly to characterize it, until modern times.

 

4

All the facts in the history of medicine argue for a very specific view of how people develop medical theories.  First, people are good observers; they recognize symptoms and syndromes, and can see the more obvious causation links.   For example, lack of green vegetables produced “hot disease,” what we now call vitamin C deficiency.  Second, people are scared by diseases, and the less they understand these the more scared they are.  Third, this puts people under great pressure to come up with explanatory theories—“explanatory models” in Kleinman’s terms.  Fourth, they look for the most plausible, reasonable explanation possible.  In China, that was often a nutritional one, since the links between poor nutrition and poor health were so tragically obvious to all.  Fifth, failing a good sensible theory, metaphor would always do.  Warfare was the obvious source of these for the military medicos of the west.  In the east, flows of breath and energy in nature and the body became the metaphor field.  Chinese medicine could pile metaphors, layer on layer:  wind moves the air, breath is vital to people, so the earth too much have veins of hei energy running through it, the whole human body also has hei channels, hei can get blocked and stagnant just like air, and then make you sick just as stagnant foul air does….

Once a plausible explanatory model is in place, only overwhelming counterevidence combined with a better model can dislodge it (Kuhn 1962).  Thus, a long history of observations that did not fit dominant theories could be dismissed in both east and west, until the mid-19th century brought international biomedicine into sudden meteoric rise.  Then biomedical paradigms in turn became overextended; infection by “germs” seemed to answer all questions, until lifestyle diseases became overwhelmingly obvious after 1950.

The countertheory to my common-sense theory of medical explanations is shared by most positivists and most postmodernists:  people just pick any arbitrary idea that enters their heads.  The positivists say that this is true of all medical notions except international biomedicine; the postmodernists say it is true even of that.  This countertheory is destroyed by even the slightest acquaintance with traditional medical literature, in context, especially if one works in a society still using those traditional  ideas.  One soon learns that such people have a logical system, and that it is based on shrewd and correct observation.  The problem is that the observation is limited by lack of modern laboratory equipment. In the absence of the ability to observe bacteria and the like, one must infer spirits or winds or other invisible agents.  Once that is done, plausible logical extension does the rest—usually bringing people farther and farther from what we would now think is the “real” story.

Western views of Chinese medicine have been diverse, to say the least.  (A particularly thoughtful, insightful review of the more moderate views is found in Sivin 2000).  Many westerners have simply dismissed Chinese medicine, and indeed all Chinese thought, as a fantastic farrago of nonsense and superstition (most recently, Wolpert 1993).  Others have adulated it, seeing it as the key to the future and the great hope of the world.  Various forms or derivatives of Chinese medical traditions are extremely popular throughout the world today, comprising a large proportion of the “alternative” medicine of the United States and other countries (Bowen 1992).  Such extreme views are even held by reputable scholars, though rarely if ever by scholars of Chinese medicine[7].

The latter have, however, taken strong positions of their own.  Some have even doubted if there is such a thing as “Chinese medicine.”  At least in private debate (I find no published source that is this extreme), some have seen “medicine” as a word covering a strictly western concept, so different from yao that there can be no meeting ground.  The implication is that the word “medicine” should properly refer only to international biomedical science, which is, indeed, different from Chinese yao.  However, such restriction clearly flies in the face of ordinary English usage.  “Chinese medicine,” under that name, is widely known in the west now, along with faith-healing, naturopathy, Native American herbalism, and countless other forms of “alternative medicine.”  And restricting the term “medicine” to contemporary bioscience would force us to rename the Greek and Roman traditions that were the original “medicine”!  “Medicine” and “yao” both refer to a wide spectrum of treatment modalities, and are close enough in denotation and connotation to be good translations for each other—not perfect, but neither is any other translation-gloss.

Others have argued that the various Chinese medical traditions are so different from one another that one must speak of Chinese medicines.  As we have seen, demon-quelling, witchcraft, orthodox religious ceremonies, herbalism, acupuncture, regimen, and other modalities are all part of the healing arts in China.  This has been the case for at least 2500 years (Uschuld 1986), and presumably was true long before that.  One can only agree that there are  many different traditions in Chinese practice.  However, on the other hand, they are often combined by one individual in treating self or others.  Moreover, once again we must face English usage:  “medicine” in standard English means all healing traditions, taken collectively.

Still other scholars follow, to varying degrees, the modern practice (especially typical of China’s government today) of defining a Traditional Chinese Medicine—often capitalized and acronymized “TCM”—to separate it from the traditional therapies not included in the concept.  This modern restriction of Chinese practice consists of acupuncture, moxibustion, and much of the herbal therapy, and the formal or elite theories behind these.  It relies heavily on certain classic texts, such as the Yellow Emperor’s Classic (Unschuld 2003) and the Shang Han Lun.  It excludes folk practices and religious or magical medicine.  These latter were widely dismissed in 20th century Chinese sources as superstition (Putonghua mixin—the word is a recent coinage, probably originally Japanese).

It is possibly useful to define such an entity as “TCM,” but it is a modern concept.  Pre-20th-century Chinese were self-conscious to varying degrees about the differences of elite and folk traditions and of the differences between naturalistic and religious treatments, but did not separate them strongly at any period (see e.g. Harper 1998, Hinrichs 1998; cf. Sivin 2000; Unschuld 1986, 2003).  They certainly did not have a widely-shared, tightly-defined subset of medicine corresponding to contemporary TCM.  The Castle Peak Bay waterfront was genuinely traditional—not Traditional!—in this regard; no one except the few elite doctors separated TCM as a practice.

The Castle Peak Bay waterfront may well be reasonably typical of ordinary Chinese society for the last 2000 years or so, in regard to the broadest outlines of a sense of “medicine.”   As we have seen, they followed a hierarchy of recourse.  All the treatment modalities were seen as ways to deal with, and hopefully cure, illness.  The word yao usually covered only the fraction of this world that was specifically medical in the western sense:  herbalism, acupuncture, and the like.  Regimen was too much a part of ordinary life to be marked as yao.  Religious healing came under categories such as paai san (“worshiping supernaturals”) and the like.  Healing practice was defined by verb-noun constructions: “treating illness” and the like.

However, all these practices graded into each other.  We have seen how food graded into herbal medicine.  Herbal medicine graded into religious medicine too, because the religious officiants often provided herbal prescriptions.  Even the gods did this; spirit mediums routinely wrote herbal prescriptions while in possession-trance.  Usually, the possessing god, acting through the medium, would write a charm to be burned and the ashes drunk in herbal tea; prescriptions for the tea were a part of the process.  Healing by spirit mediums may actually have been more effective than most of the more naturalistic Chinese medicine.  All were about equally dubious in biomedical terms.  The spirit mediums’ spectacular performances evoked strong placebo effects—especially since the illnesses they treated were often neurotic, depressive, or hysterical conditions, eminently susceptible to the power of suggestion (at least in the short run).  Naturalistic medicine was less psychologically compelling; moreover, the herbal remedies often had side effects.  (The myth that herbs do not have side effects is one of the stranger bits of western medical folklore.)

Significantly, though, herbal therapy was the great mediator—the common ground, the center around which other forms clustered, and the modality that overlapped most widely with other modalities.  Western observers often think that acupuncture or hei management or some other system is the core of Chinese medicine.  Even Chinese observers may dismiss herbal practice as mere empiricism of no interest to students of theory (see e.g. Hsu 2001a:8).  Yet, throughout history (e.g. in the Mawangdui manuscripts; Harper 1998), herbalism has occupied the central place in practice that it occupies today.

From the point of view of an anthropologist talking about ordinary people trying to keep healthy, “medicine” in the singular is the more sensible usage.  When a mother is trying to save her child, or a son is caring for his aging father, they think systematically and comprehensively.  They consider all possible recourses, and decide on the basis of expected benefits and costs (see Young and Garro 1994 for a classic account of medical decision-making in a traditional society.)  They plan, in short, as if all the medicines were one.

 

Another tension among western observers of Chinese medicine has been over whether to evaluate Chinese medicine in terms of its actual curative value as tested under modern conditions, or to study it as a purely intellectual system.  The late Joseph Needham agreed with almost all modern Chinese medical researchers in preferring the former view (Needham and Lu 2000; Sivin 2000).  These parties differed in the nuances:  Needham saw the history of Chinese medicine as part of the history of world medical science, and tended to evaluate it in terms of its contribution to modern international biomedicine, whereas modern Chinese researchers tend to view it as a separate tradition, but one that is valuable in and of itself and also as a source of specific drugs and techniques for the world.

Excessive eagerness to mesh eastern and western medicine has led in the past to embarrassing mistakes.  Hsu (2001b) records two confidently-rendered and completely contradictory diagnoses (one by Needham) of an illness recorded in an early case study.  The case study is fragmentary, and both diagnoses clearly go far beyond the evidence.  This sort of guesswork has discredited the biological approach in many circles.

Thus, the vast majority of contemporary historians of medicine prefer to consider Chinese medicine purely as an intellectual creation (Hinrichs 1998; Sivin 2000).  It is a thing to study, not a thing to validate.  It is a tradition to understand as one understands a religion—not a part of world science.

This view is especially popular with those (such as Hinrichs) who study the religious side of medicine.  By definition, supernatural healing cannot be tested and verified, and cannot be explained in this-world terms.  If one believes it is a deeply basic part of Chinese medicine, as Hinrichs does, then one tends to write off the whole system.  It is seen as an intellectual curiosity, and explained purely by recourse to bookish traditions, cosmologic parallels, religious belief, or arbitrary cultural construction.  It is not seen as having any relationship with reality.

Studying boat people’s medicine allows one to take a more comprehensive view, in which both of the above approaches are useful but neither is sufficient.

Above, I have described the system in its own terms.  In general, any discussion of a medical system must begin with such a description, if one is to understand it and properly evaluate parts of it.

On the other hand, Chinese medicine had an appreciable success rate.  Many of the drugs are now internationally used in biomedicine.  Artemisin, from the herb qinghaosu (Artemisia spp.), is now the drug of choice for malaria.  Chinese massage is widely used as well.  Acupuncture shows promise in some areas, though it remains controversial.  Chinese medicine has indeed been influencing modern practice, and has influenced western medicine for a long time (Needham and Lu 2000; many of Needham’s claims have been discounted, but a large residue remains).  Chinese medicine will remain a source of practical wisdom for a long time to come.

There is, moreover, a third way to look at Chinese medicine.  It is the “synthesis” to the above thesis and antithesis.  It involves explaining the actual theories and ideas of Chinese medicine.  This involves, first, understanding the system on its own terms.  But, then, one must understand which of its components actually work—in the sense of producing effective treatment over and above the placebo effect.  Many herbs and techniques do not work well enough to compete with modern biomedical drugs, but do work well enough to have been the best things available in earlier centuries.  The most striking example is chaulmoogra oil, which for centuries was not only the best Chinese drug available for leprosy, but was the best in the world, and the drug of choice in west and east; only recently has biomedical research developed a better drug.  Some other drugs work for a few specific conditions but were vastly oversold; “dragon bones” (fossil bones) were valuable sources of calcium, but they did not have the panacea values ascribed to them in some Chinese herbals.

Once one has some sense of what actual physical effects Chinese medicine has or may have, one can go farther toward explaining it.  I have argued above, and shown at greater length elsewhere (Anderson 1987, 1996), that the heating/cooling (yin/yang) theory of foods succeeded because it was genuinely valuable in practice.  It was not scientifically correct as a theory, but it led to actual practice that did work; this validated the system and kept it alive.

The same sort of analysis, applied to vessel, correspondence, and hei theories, would surely make them more comprehensible.  These theories are “wrong” in international biomedical terms, but just as certainly they were “confirmed” in some sense by the practice of thousands of Chinese doctors, hundreds of whom recorded their findings.  To be sure, these records reflect the selective bias inevitable in true believers who do not use strict case/control experimental methods.  But there must have been a great deal of correct, well-observed medical observation that seemed to confirm the classic theories.  Needham’s attempts to explain them in these terms were premature; he knew neither the details of the Chinese theories nor the biomedical systems to which they might correspond.  Today we might succeed.

Even religious practice has some value.  Not only does it provide ideal conditions for the placebo effect; it also, in many cases, involves long, intimate, personal conversations or consultations between patient and religious healer.  These are comparable to the “talking cure” in western psychotherapy, and seem effective as such.  (My experience in this is confirmed by more trained observers:  Bowen 1992; Arthur Kleinman, personal communication over many years.  Kleinman, a highly expert psychotherapist, was struck by this in his field research.)  Many of the chronic conditions brought to religious healers are, in fact, psychological problems, ranging (at Castle Peak Bay) from “blanking” on exams to major depression over loss of loved ones.  (See also Kleinman 1980, 1986.)  The “talking cure,” as delivered by a sensitive and empathetic spirit medium, is convincing to the patient, and presumably beneficial.22222222223

As Thomas Kuhn (1962) pointed out, a scientific theory is usually underdetermined by facts.  Traditional medicine, in any culture, tends to be an extreme case of this.  People are desperate for cures, and they are desperate to understand illness.  Theorists are thus under enormous pressure to come up with the best possible systematization of observations.  On the other hand, there are facts underlying all theories, and the facts guide thinking even if they do not wholly determine it.

In a culture without organic chemistry laboratories, humoral theories of foods—notably including the Chinese humoral theory—are probably the very best combination of simplicity and utility that the human brain can devise.  Similarly, in a culture without neuropsychology labs but with a widely-believed religious system, the success of psychotherapeutic counseling can best be explained supernaturally.

Many matters are so obvious that they require no leaps of explanatory imagination.  Broken bones are hard to miss, nor is the method of dealing with them.  Arrowhead wounds and dog bites are of obvious causation and straightforward treatment.

On the other hand, infectious disease defies all attempts at explanation unless one has not only microscopes and laboratories but a few hundred years of scientific observation using same.  Leeuwenhoek first saw bacteria, but not until Koch and Pasteur did anyone seriously maintain that they were the agents of infectious disease, and not until the 20th century did further investigation turn up viruses and other tiny agents.

It is to the credit of the Chinese that they did not simply write off infectious disease as supernatural, but tried their best to come up with credible explanations for it.  If those explanations froze early and became fossilized in the literature—and they did—this was not so much a matter of “Chinese conservatism” as of the well-known fact that only a better theory can replace a widely-held theory (Kuhn 1962).  No better theory came forth until the 19th century.  So China continued to reprint the Yellow Emperor’s Classic.

This leaves us with countless questions.  Why, for instance, did Chinese theories so completely silence anatomy?  China developed a science of anatomy and forensic medicine (see e.g. McKnight 1981), but orthodox doctors took little account of the findings.  The standard explanations are either “Chinese conservatism”—a myth summarily disposed of by Hsu and others (Hsu 2001a, 2001b)—or the more reasonable point that a dynamic flow theory needs no static structural base in anatomy.  There is probably more to be said.  Why, also, did Middle Eastern medicine have rather little effect on China?  It was imported in literally encyclopedic proportions under the Mongols (Kong 1996—a modern edition of a Mongol Empire work).  Western Asian veterinary medicine came at about the same time, and almost totally replaced China’s indigenous veterinary tradition.  Why did medicine for humans not have a similarly transformative effect?  Part of the answer is that some of it was already there; another part is that medicine for humans was presumably not as deficient—in the eyes of Yuan and Ming practitioners—as veterinary practice.

The greatest problem facing our analysis is that we know too little of “practice” in past times.  We cannot observe doctors at work.  However, recent historical research often focuses (to varying degrees) on reconstructing practice, rather than solely on analyzing texts (see e.g. Furth 1999, as well as the above-cited works).  Another promising source that has only begun to be studied is the body of literature that China produced over time.  Novels such as the Hung Lou Meng record vast amounts of realistic description of actual medical practice.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[8]  From what I have been able to glean from limited personal observation and from only slightly fuller observations by Ho-fung Hung and others, the boat people of China have indeed maintained a running low-key resistance to Communist collectivism and dragooning, and they have, in the end, been successful.  Many, probably most, have followed those of Hong Kong onto shore and merged with the general population, but some still live quite independent lives on the rivers and seas.

 

[9]  One exceptionally brilliant and experienced ethnographer of China has frequently commented to me that she cannot deeply value any of the art, literature or music the Chinese created, because the society was so cruelly abusive to women.  This seems to me a sad self-limitation.  Yes, the evils were real, but so were the achievements.  Many of the writers and artists were women, after all.  Many others were champions of women, treating them as equals or reasonably close; one thinks of Mei Yaochen and Yuan Mei.  I fear that if one condemns a society’s arts, or anything else, because of that society’s worst features, no one will ever be able to enjoy anything from any society.

 

Categories
Articles

Poems: Nature and Environment

Some Poems

 

A selection of poems about nature, the environment, and closely related concerns.  Most of my favorite poems are in here, but the message is really about the less humanized environment as experience, subject or backdrop, symbol or metaphor.  Many of these poems achieve the goal of late-medieval European verse: a poem should be a brilliant and clear direct image, but that image should be a symbol, the symbol a metaphor, and the metaphor an allegory.  The very first cut below—a traditional Delta Blues verse—does this perfectly; decode if you can.

 

 

LEADING OFF

 

 

I Got the Key to the Highway

 

I got the key to the highway, I’m booked out and goin’ to go,

Gone to leave here running, walkin got too doggone slow.

Gone walk the cold highway, until the break of day,

You don’t do nothin but drive a good man away.

When the moon gets over the levee, I’ll be on my way,

Gone roam this cold highway until the break of day.

Traditional blues song

 

The train done gone, and the Greyhound bus is run,

But walkin’ ain’t crowded, and I won’t be here long.

Traditional blues

 

I been down on the river in the year nineteen and fo’,

You could see a dead man, Lord, at every turnrow.

Traditional blues

 

I lay down, trying to take my rest,

My mind got to rambling like the wild geese from the west.

Traditional blues verse

 

On the Birth of His Son

 

When you were born into this world, my child,

Loud you did weep while all around you smiled;

So live that, going into your last sleep,

Calm you may smile while all around you weep.

Abu Said ibn Abu ‘l Khayr, medieval Arabic; tr. William Jones, modernized; I thought of this a lot when my grandchildren were born.

 

 

EAST ASIAN

 

 

From the Book of Songs (ca 500 BCE):

The brown-pepper plant’s fruits

Spread and go out so far;

That gentleman over there,

He is great without equal.

(Karlgren 1950:75, 76, again retranslated; the brown-pepper plant’s fruits look exactly like miniature male genitalia, and were a standard euphemism for same in old China.  This type of gently erotic poetry, using natural symbols, is extremely common in Chinese tradition, far more so than the very proper translated anthologies suggest!)

On the Book of Songs: See Karlgren 1950 for scholarship and literal but hard-to-read translations.  It is worth explaining the actual title, Shi Jing.  “Shi” means a short lyric poem that is sung or chanted.  “Jing” means a basic text; the root meaning of the word is the warp of a fabric.  “Warp” books were the foundational classics in a given area of literature.  “Weft” books were commentaries and secondary literature.

 

 

 

The Best Advice

 

The clever man wears himself out,

The wise man worries.

But the man of no ability

Has nothing he seeks.

He eats his fill and wanders idly about.

Drifting like an unmoored boat,

Emptily and idly he wanders along.

Zhuang Zi (tr. Burton Watson, 1968, p. 354)

 

 

Tao Yuanming on Nature

 

I built my hut in a zone of human habitation,

Yet near me there sounds no noise of horse or coach.

Would you know how that is possible?

A heart that is distant creates a wilderness round it.

I pluck chrysanthemums under the eastern hedge,

Then gaze long at the distant summer hills.

The mountain air is fresh at the dusk of day;

The flying birds two by two return.

In these things there lies a deep meaning;

Yet when we would express it, words suddenly fail us.  (Waley 1961:105)

Literal translation: I built my hut     among people’s dwellings,

Yet lack     horse coach sounds.

You ask    how can this be?

My heart is distanced     from the world.

I pick chrysanthemums    under the east fence,

Look far     to the south mountain.

Mountain air     freshens with evening,

Flying birds     together come home.

In this     lie thoughts of truth;

Want speak   Can’t remember words.

(Note the deliberate ambiguity: who wants to speak?  The poet?  The reader?  And has he forgotten just the words for this, or all words, or all language?)

 

Here are a few of the “Three Hundred Tang Poems,” a set of classical verses memorized by every educated Chinese, and some other Tang poems.  (The Tang Dynasty ran from 618 to 907 CE.  Westerners never realize just how widely known Chinese “elite” culture was.  I heard a semi-literate fisherman chant one of the 300 in Hong Kong in 1966, and the audience, most of them totally illiterate, recognized the poem and saw nothing unusual in the feat.)

The monk from Shu [Sichuan] with his green silk lute-case,

Walking west down O-mei Mountain,

Has brought me by one touch of the strings

The breath of pines in a thousand valleys.

I hear him in the cleansing brook,

I hear him in the icy bells,

And I feel no change thought he mountain darkens

And cloudy autumn heaps the sky.                         (Tr. Witter Bynner and Kiang Kang-hu, 1929:57; free—“thousand” should be “myriad,” for instance—but captures the spirit better than other translations).

 

 

Liu Zongyuan:  The lonely boat

 

Thousand mountains     no bird flies

Ten thousand paths     no human track.

Solitary boat    old man, split-bamboo raincloak,

Fishing, alone   cold river snow.

My translation, to give some sense of the Chinese.  This poem is telegraphic and ambiguous even by classical Chinese standards, and I have tried to preserve that.  The anonymous figure (the poet?) is invisible; we see only his raincoat.  The doubled loneliness of “solitary” and “alone” is notably intense in the Chinese text, and became a famous image.  There are probably literally millions of Chinese paintings of this scene; a particularly beautiful one showed up in an exhibit at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art around 2012.

 

Liu was a great statesman, a major reformer of the Tang Dynasty.  Here is a longer poem by him, explicitly political—and the bad governance of the forest is intended to stand for the whole government:

“The official guardians’ axes have spread through a thousand hills,

At the Works Department’s order hacking rafter-beams and billets.

Of ten trunks cut in the woodlands’ depths, only one gets hauled away.

Ox-teams strain at their traces—till the paired yoke-shafts break.

Great-girthed trees of towering height lie blocking the forest tracks,

A tumbled confusion of lumber, as flames on the hillside crackle.

Not even the last remaining shrubs are safeguarded from destruction;

Where once the mountain torrents leapt—nothing but rutted gullies.

Timber, not yet seasoned or used, left immature to rot;

Proud summits and deep-sunk gorges—now brief hummocks of naked rock.” (Elvin 2004:18).

 

The Empty Room

 

In the morning I leave my empty room

And ride my horse to the censorate.

I spend the day there, working at trivial jobs,

Then return again to my empty room.

Bright moonlight glimmers through cracks in the dark wall.

My lamp burns down, the ashes crumble.

And I think of the road to Hsien-yang—

Her funeral hearse returning last night.

Yuan Zhen, tr. Jonathan Chaves

(Yuan Zhen is one of the most striking characters in Chinese history, a fearless defender of the right during a corrupt time.  He rose to very high position in government but was constantly in trouble for fearless and forthright criticism of the Emperor or anyone else who did wrong.  His devotion to his wife, and his poetry on losing her, stand as one of the emotional peaks in all world literature, and refute all the nonsense about the universality of Chinese male chauvinism.  This poem captures perfectly the complete devastation of having one’s whole life and world utterly destroyed.  One goes on automatic pilot, doing the “trivial jobs,” completely empty inside [the room is both real and metaphoric].  I’ve been there.  Believe me.  Some have asked how Yuan Zhen could write a perfect eight-line poem in that state.  The answer is: as one of the three or four greatest scholars in China in his time, he was so trained in poetry that it was like breathing.  He couldn’t not do it.)

 

Later, remembering, still devastated:

Remembering My Dead Wife

 

Oh youngest, best-loved daughter of Hsieh,

Who unluckily married this peniles scholr,

You patched my clothes from your own wicker basket, and I coaxed off your hairpins of gold, to buy wine with; for dinner we had to pick wild herbs

And to use dry locust-leaves for our kindling.

Today they are paying me a hundred thousand

And all that I can bring to you is a temple sacrifice.

Yuan Zhen, tr. Witter Bynner and Kiang Kang-hu

 

 

Checking on a painting

This time I think

I got it:  one pine real

As the real.

 

Think about it:

Search in memory, is it

Real, or not?

 

Guess I’ll have to go

Back up the mountain…

South past Stonebridge,

The third one on the right….

(Ching Yun, late 9th century, tr. Jerome P. Seaton; Seaton and Maloney 1994:76).

 

 

Life and Death

 

If you want an image of life and death,

Look to ice and water.

Water cools, turns to ice,

Ice melts and again becomes water.

Whatever dies must be reborn,

Whatever is born must then die.

Ice and water do each other no harm;

Life and death are both beautiful.

Han Shan, 8th century; my translation.

 

More Han Shan

 

The Tiantai Mountains are my home

Mist-shrouded paths keep guests away

Thousand-meter cliffs make hiding easy

Above a rocky ledge mid ten thousand streams

With bark hat and wooden clogs I walk along the banks

With hemp robe and pigweed staff I walk around the peaks

Once you see through transience and illusion

The joys of roaming free are wonderful indeed.

(Tr. Bill Porter, “Red Pine.”  Zhuang Zi mentioned the pigweed staff—a walking stick made from a pigweed [=goosefoot] stalk—as a symbol of poverty and noble rustic life; it was, inevitably, picked up and replayed as a symbol, not only by Han Shan but by Du Fu and others, and even by Basho in Japan and by a self-pitying Korean singer who said it was his “only friend” (O’Rourke 2002:132).  Of course I had to make one, and I have it by me right now, wrapped in a Mongolian blue sacred cloth.)

 

Another translation of the same poem:

 

My home base is in Heaven’s Terrace;

Misty paths, foggy depths, cut short guests’ arrival.

Thousand-foot cliffs and crags, where I can hide deep inside,

Ten thousand streams and torrents, stone towers and ledges.

In bark hat and wooden clogs I walk beside brooks,

With hemp robe and pigweed staff, I go round the mountain and return.

Once you see through floating reality, illusion and change in all,

The sharp joys of roaming the Way are truly marvelous indeed.

 

 

Passing through South Lake Again:  A Buddhist Prayer

 

Approaching South Lake, I already begin to dread the journey.

A place of old memories; each corner reopens a wound.

Watching plum blossoms in a small courtyard could be but a dream fulfilled;

Listening to rain in a quiet room is like entering another life.

Autumn waters are bluer for reflecting my graying temples;

The evening bells sound crisper for breaking a sorrowful heart.

Lord of Emptiness, take pity on this homeless soul—

Out of this incense smoke make me the City of Refuge.

Anonymous, 18th century Chinese, tr. Shirleen S. Wong

 

 

The Woodpecker

 

Where is the woodpecker?

Far in the high trees.

Fragile, he works so hard;

All day I hear his sound.

He works so the woods will flourish,

No worms gnawing trees away.

Woe to the crowds of humans—

Never a heart like this bird’s.

Ni Zan (a great Yuan Dynasty artist and writer)

 

This inspired a much more famous, but (sadly) anonymous, Korean poem:

 

Can tiny insects

devour a whole great spreading pine?

Where is the long-billed

woodpecker?  Why is he not here?

When I hear the sound of falling trees

I cannot contain myself for sorrow.

(Trans. Richard Rutt, 1971, poem 15.  In both poems the insects are symbols of evil courtiers, the trees are the country’s welfare.  This is not just metaphor, it is ganying, resonance or homology: the insects are exactly the courtiers in their desires and actions, the trees really are valuable.)

 

 

Anchored Overnight at Maple Bridge

 

Crows caw the moon sets frost fills the sky

River maples fishing fires care-plagued sleep

Comgimn from Cold Mountain Temple outside the Suchou wall

The sound of the midnight bell reaches a traveler’s boat.

Chang Chi, tr. Red Pine (Bill Porter); wonderful example of how a literal translation, lack of punctuation and all, can really work

 

 

Drinking Wine on Grave-Sweeping Day (Qing Ming Day)

 

North and south of the mountain peak, many graves in the fields,

Qing Ming sweeting graves, much mess and noise.

Paper ashes fly, become white butterflies,

Tears from broken hearts stain azaleas red.

Sun sets, foxes and wildcats sleep in the tombs,

Night, going home, boys and girls play in the lamplight.

Everyone born, if you have wine, drink till drunk—

Not one drop reaches the Nine Springs.

Kao Chu, tr. Red Pine but heavily modified.  The Nine Springs is the Other World.  The poem is a bitter parody of the sappy sentimentalism of most Qing Ming poems, but it goes far beyond bitterness.

 

Daoist Poem

 

Stone pools and pure water are my mind.

Spreading and all-covering peach flowers: their reflections sink down.

One road to Gui Mountain, the office left empty,

In leisure or red dust, the seven-string qin.

Attributed to Lu Dongbin (not even close to believably); see Mark Halperin, Journal of Song-Yuan Studies, p. 117

 

Fish

 

I fish for minnows in the lake.

Jiust born, they have no fear of man.

And those who have learned,

Never come back to warn them.

Su Dongpo, tr. Kenneth Rexroth, One Hundred Poems from the Chinese, p. 84

(The west sees big fish eating little fish as its classic fish metaphor for people; this is the classic Chinese metaphor, in its greatest poetic statement)

 

 

Planting Trees

 

Seventy, and still planting trees….

Don’t laugh at me, my friends.

I know I’m going to die.

I also know I’m not dead yet.   (Yuan Mei, 18th century; tr. J. P. Seaton, 1997:92; I planted an almond on my seventieth birthday, reciting this.)

 

Chan Master Whitecloud:
A fly drawn by the light bumps the window paper

Uanble to pass it tastes much suffering

Suddenly it chances on the route it came by

And knows its eyes have fooled it all through life.

cited by Yuan Mei; tr Denis Mair; V. Mair et al, p 571.

 

And by Li Xiaocun:

Garden Gone to Waste

 

Whose courtyard consummates its own spring?

Moss on windowsill, dust on desk

At least the dog next door still cares

Over the fence barks at a flower thief.

Denis Mair in V. Mair et al., p 570

(The first line means that the garden left to celebrate itself, no one else being there)

The Song Dynasty (960-1279) produced enormous amounts of superb nature poetry, but it broadly followed Tang patterns.  Song travel literature has been beautifully described and translated by Cong Ellen Zhang (2011).  Chinese loved to travel and enjoy the scenery, and especially to visit places made famous by earlier poets, to share the experience.  Chinese officials were reassigned to new posts every three years or so, and also were subject to exile for being too outspoken.  They thus had many opportunities to travel—more than they wanted, since going to a remote and isolated post could take months and could be dangerous.  Most of our information on Song travel comes from poems and accompanying literary accounts, which gives a skewed but still revealing view.

Interestingly, the most productive poets were also some of the greatest moral teachers in Song.  Let Su Shi, generally considered the greatest poet Song, sum it up:

The old monk has already died, they’ve already built a new pagoda.

There is no way to see the old poem on the ruined wall.

The rough going of that past day, do you still recall?

The road was long, the people in difficulty, and the lame donkey brayed.

(Zhang 1997, p. 97.)

The old monk’s poem is lost, the rough trail forgotten.  What remains is Su’s warm and compassionate identification with the suffering people and the suffering donkey, the latter a symbol for Su himself.  (Su’s compassion morality came from Buddhism and Confucianism, but went well beyond the usual teachings.  He may, in fact, be recording here one of his exiles for emphasizing the costs of imperial policy in terms of the sufferings of the common people.)

 

Japanese

 

Japan followed Chinese conventions in much of its poetry, but from the beginning there was a split between Chinese poetry—written in Chinese and imitating Tang styles—and Japanese poetry, often in much less regular patterns.  The Japanese developed an even more direct, fresh, intense way of viewing nature than the Chinese usually achieved.  Contemporary with the Song poets of China, Saigyö, hearing a cricket when he was in a sad mood, combined Japanese love of insects with recognition of the brevity of life:

“At that time

on my pillow

under roots of mugwort

then too may these insects

cheer me with friendly notes”

(tr. Burton Watson, Saigyō: Poems of a Mountain Home, Columbia University Press, 1991, p. 129).  This poem requires some ecological unpacking; medieval Japanese would have known that mugwort is edible but intensely bitter, and that it grows on ground that has been disturbed and then abandoned—such as neglected graves.

 

However, ossification occurred in Japan as in China.  Tanka, haiku and other poetic forms became so forced into conventional modes that they could be, and were, endlessly generated by formulas like those of modern computer-generated music.  The cherry blossoms signal spring, the hawk-cuckoo cries for sorrow.  Bush-clover, miscanthus grass and spring rain are even commoner in haiku than in reality.  Possibly the greatest haiku writer, Matsuō Bashō, wrote in 1686:  “Like a rootless plant without flower or fruit, [poetry] today is merely vulgar banter and sporting with words” (Bashō 2005:103).  He was able to bring real originality to it, but even his work sometimes gives us layer on layer of references to older poets and shopworn images.  Still, his genius in turning a cliché into a spark for a striking new image revived poetry for another century.  The old Chinese proverb, “a bird in a whole forest can perch on only one branch,” inspired him:

“Wren on a single branch:

fragrance of its apricot flowers

throughout the world”

(Bashō 2005:101, tr. David Barnhill, slightly corrected).

 

Written on a Painting of the Chinese Zen Master Raisan (ca. 8th century)

(Landscape art and poetry came together in paintings with poems inscribed on them, and here the philosophy of Buddhism, nature mysticism, and nature appreciation was combined.  A Japanese example in the Los Angeles Museum of Art shows a Chinese Buddhist sage meditating in mountains, with the verse–in Chinese, though by a Japanese author):

Deep in the emerald cloud of Meng Peak

The recluse Raisan dwells alone.

Emperor Te-tsung himself addressed words to him

But the Zen master never even rose.

Imperial messengers came and urged him repeatedly;

Not once did he answer them.

His face glistening with cold tears,

His world was that of the wild yam;

Beyond that he did not seek enlightenment

Nor did he shun birth and death.

Nothing whatever bothered him,

No vexatious matter entered his ears.

There was no self and no others;

No troubles. No good.

No shouts issued form his mouth,

No blows from his fists.

He was one dark hard old man.

(Takuan Sōhō [1573-1645], tr. Stephen Addiss in notes to this painting in Los Angeles County Museum of Art)

 

 

On the Chinese proverb “A bird in a forest can perch on only one branch”:

 

Wren on a single branch:

fragrance of its apricot flowers

throughout the world  (Bashō 2005:101, translation slightly corrected).

 

 

Cherry blossom

Most loved when it falls

Nothing is meant in this world

To last forever

Medieval Japanese, from the Tales of Ise

 

 

The mountain wind

 

Akikaze ya!

Hyoro hyoro kama

no kageboshi

 

The mountain wind!

It shakes

the mountain’s shadow

Issa (my favorite haiku; my translation; the image is a symbol of worldly power and what it is worth)

 

 

Also from Barnhill, p. 58:

The Takekuma pine was a noble pine tree.  The monk Nōin saw it, came back to find it cut down by a boorish governor to use for bridge pilings, and wrote:

“Pine of Takekuma:

at this time 

there is no trace of it;

have a thousand years passed

since I last came?”

 

It was replanted, and Kyohaku wrote, thinking of Noin:

“The Takekuma Pine:

show it to him,

late-blooming cherries”

 

Which caused Basho to seek it out (it had probably been replanted yet again by then):

“Since the cherries bloomed,

I’ve longed to see this pine:  two trunks

after three month’s passage.”

 

This poem exhibits fūryū, “’all art,’…an extraordinarily complex term, including associations of high culture, art in general, poetry, and music, as well as ascetic wayfaring and Daoist eccentricity.”  Barnhill, Basho’s Journey¸ 159

 

 

Korean  (The Koreans adopted Chinese civilization but with a distinct and frequently cynical eye, evaluating, so that when they state Chinese goals they have thought harder and do better than the Chinese ever did; or they can be world-class skeptics about it all.  Many of the best poems are anonymous.  Remember these are really songs: they rhyme, have meter, and have beautiful tunes in the original.)

 

I live at the foot of the mountain;

Even the cuckoo embarrasses me.

It laughs at the size of my cooking pot when it peeks into my house.

Believe me, bird,

It’s plenty big in terms of my interest in the world.                                     Anonymous, tr. Kevin O’Rourke (2002:166.)

 

Red-necked mountain pheasant over there,

Duck hawk perched on the branch,

White egrets watching for the fish

In the watered paddy field out in front,

If you were not around my grass roof

It wouldn’t be easy for me to pass the days.

Anonymous, tr. Jaihiun Kim (1994:190.)

 

Night falls

 

Night in a mountain village;

A dog barks far away.

I open the window and look:

The moon is a bright leaf.

Be still, stop barking at the moon

Drifting alone over the face of the mountain.

-Chungum, unknown woman poet, ca 1568; redone from a couple of translations

 

Old age (a poem with a very personal ring these days….)

 

Bamboo stick, the sight of you

Fills me with trust and delight.

Ah, boyhood days when you were my horse!

Stand there now

Behind the window, and when we go out,

Let me stand behind you.

Kim Kwang’uk, tr. Peter Lee

 

And another:

Even fools can know and do

Is it not easy then?

Yet even sages cannot know all.

Is it not difficult then?

Pondering whether it’s easy or hard

Makes me forget I grow old.

Yi Hwang (16C), tr. Richard Rutt  (What is “it”?  The Way, the Meaning, the Answer?  Or maybe just the question?  The point is the last line.)

 

 

The Koreans are the only people who seriously explored old age in poetry—here’s another:

 

Wine, why do you redden a white face?

Instead of reddening a white face why not blacken white hair?

Should you really

Blacken white hair, I’ll drink and drink, I’ll never sober up again.

Tr. Kevin O’Rourke

 

And another:

 

My ageing affections

I’ll beguile with chrysanthemums,

My tangled skein of worries

I’ll beguile with ink drawings of grapevines,

The white hair tarying under my ears

I’ll beguile with one long song.

Kim Sujang, tr. Richard Rutt; the grapevine is a “plant dragon,” and therefore paintings of it are protective and give good luck.

 

Getting away from old age, here is the world’s finest poem on tolerance:
Is the crow black because someone dyed it?

Is the heron white because someone washed it?

Are the crane’s legs long because someone pulled them out?  Are the duck’s legs short

because someone cut them off?

Black, white, long, short, what’s the point in endless wrangling?

Tr. Kevin O’Rourke

 

This anonymous woman’s poem just has to be the greatest love poem in the world:

 

Pass where the winds pause before going over,

Pass where the clouds pause before going over,

High pass of the peak of Changsong

Where wild-born falcons and hand-reared falcons,

Peregrine falcons and yearling hawks,

All pause before going over,

If I knew my love were across the pass

I would not pause a moment before I crossed.

Tr. Richard Rutt

 

Chong Ch’ol, a fearless political poet, writing the world’s absolutely greatest poem on loyalty to a movement:

 

We’ll strain sour wine and drink

Till we can’t abide the taste.

We’ll boil bitter greens and chew till they become sweet.

We’ll stay

On the road till the nails that hold the heels to our clogs are worn away.

Tr. Kevin O’Rourke

 

Yun Sundo, another political classic, referring to the age-old East Asian metaphor of measuring tools, correctly used, as symbols of good government:

 

How is a house built?

It is the work of a master carpenter. Why are the timbers straight?  They follow the line of ink and ruler.

Knowledge

Of this home truth will bring you long life.

Tr. Kevin O’Rourke (the poem refers to the Confucian use of architects’ tools as concrete examples of how to regulate the world)

 

But the inimitable Chong Ch’ol savagely satirized this theme:

 

Huge beams and rooftree timbers

Are rejected and thrown away;

While the house is falling down

They argue with one another.

Carpenters, when will you stop

Running around with your ink-cups and rules?

Tr. Richard Rutt

 

More loyalty, from Yu Huich’un:

 

A little bunch of parsley,

Which I dug and rinsed myself.

I did it for no one else,

But simply to give it to you.

The flavor is not so very pungent;

Taste it, once more taste it, and see.

Tr. Richard Rutt.  The parsley is a very modest gift; Yu offers his talents, such as they are, to the nation.  (In the event, this poem was probably his finest offering; it has inspired literally millions of Koreans since he wrote it in the 16th century.)

 

Another anonymous love poem, so understated that it’s ten times as powerful for the low key—I reread it after some deaths in the family and found it the most heartbreaking poem I could find, and it remains the greatest poem on age and grief that has ever been written.

 

In this world medicine is plentiful

And sharp knives abound, they say:

But there’s no knife to cut off affection, no medicines to forget true love.

So be it:

I’ll leave my cutting and forgetting till I go to the other world.

Tr. Kevin O’Rourke

 

Vietnamese

Vietnam also produced great environmental poetry, usually but not always in Chinese style.

 

Less Chinese than most is a farmers’ folk song:

 

“Some folks transplant rice for wages,

But I have other reasons.

I watch the sky, the earth, the clouds,

Observe the rain, the nights, the days,

Keep track, stand guard till my legs

Are stone, till the stone melts,

Till the sky is clear and the sea calm.

Then I feel at peace.”

Tr. Nguyen Ngoc Bich (1975:40).

 

The Vietnamese were freed from the archaic, long-forgotten ancient pronunciations of Chinese.  Writing in Vietnamese, women could revive rhyme and tone schemes that actually sounded as they were supposed to sound, and they created world-class poetry.  Thus Ho Xuan Hu’o’ng in the early 19th century:

Dung cheo trong ra canh hat hiu

Du’o’ng di thien theo quan cheo leo

Lo’p leu mai co gianh xo xac

X ke keo tre dot khang khiu

Ba gac cay xanh hinh uon eo

Mot giong nu’o’c biec co leo teo

Thu vui quen ca niem lo cu

Kia cai dieu ai gio lon leo.

 

Leaning out, I look down on the valley,

path winding to a deserted inn,

thatch roof tattered and decayed.

Bamboo poles on gnarled pilings

bridge the green stream uncurling

little tufts in the wavering current. Happy, I forget old worries.

Someone’s kite is struggling up.

(Tr. John Balaban, 2000, 40-41)

Tone marks are left out here, because they are simply too confusing to a non-Vietnamese-speaker, but tone patterning was as complex and effective as the rhyme and alliteration visible in the transcription above.

Ho Xuan Hong, after her husband died, was supposedly reduced to being a high-class courtesan for a while, and seems to have taken to the role.  The double meaning of this poem should be easily penetrated (if you get my drift).  Again the tones carry half the beauty of the sound-poem, especially in the spectacular sound-cascade of the last line, but sadly must be ignored here.

Mot deo, mot deo, lai mot deo,

Khen ai kheo tac canh cheo leo.

Cua son do loet tum hum noc,

Hon da xanh ri lun phun reu.

Lat leo canh thong con gio thoc,

Dam dia la leiu giot suong gieo.

Hien nhan, quan tu ai ma chang…

Moi goi, cho chan van muon treo.

 

A cliff face.  Another.  And still a third.

Who was so skilled to carve this craggy scene:

The cavern’s red door, the ridge’s narrow cleft,

The black knoll bearded with little mosses?

A twisting pine bough plunges in the wind,

Showering a willow’s leaves with glistening drops.

Gentlemen, lords, who could refuse, though weary

And shaky in his knees, to mount once more?

(Tr. John Balaban, 2000:46-47.  I do not know Vietnamese, but the poem is in Chinese characters, and I might respectfully suggest that the second line could read “Who could be so skilled as to delineate this craggy scene?”)

 

Ho Xuan Huong’s lament for her husband, who died after only a few months of marriage; tone marks left out, but the tone harmonies are as beautiful as the vowel sounds; together they make this one of the most devastatingly beautiful laments in the world.  Also, this gives you an idea of the incredibly complex and beautiful rhyme, internal rhyme, recurrent rhyme, rhythm, vowel harmony, and other poetic tricks that are lost in modern translations of classical Chinese and Korean songs.

 

Tram nam ong phu Vinh-Tuong oi

Cai no ba sinh da gia roi

Chon chat van chong ba thuoc dat

Nem tung ho thi bon phuong troi

Can can tao hoa roi dau mat

Mieng tui can khon that chat roi

Hai bay thang troi la may choc

Tram nam ong phu Vinh-Tuong oi

 

One hundred years.  Oh, prefect of Vinh-Tuong,

Now your love debt is all paid off.

Your poetic talents buried three feet down.

Your fine ambitions windstrewn.

The heavenly scales got dropped and lost.

The mouth of earth’s bag is cinched up.

Twenty-seven months seemed so short.

On hundred years.  Oh, prefect of Vinh-Tuong.

                        (Tr. John Balaban)

 

 

Love Poem

 

In our next life, we will take care to be born again as male and female,

But we will be two wildgeese flying high in heaven.

The blinding snow, the seas and waters, the mountains and clouds, the dust of the world

We will see from afar, but we will never fall.

Nguyen Khac Hieu   (early 20th C; from Huard, Pierre, and Maurice Durand.  1954.  Connaissance du Viet-Nam, p. 274.  Hanoi:  École Française de’Extrème-Orient; Paris: Imprimerie Nationale.  My trans. of their French trans.  My second favorite love poem.)

 

CELTIC

(As with the Asian poems, the translated ones below are masterpieces of rhyme, internal rhyme, off-rhyme, phoneme harmony, and so on in the original—If at all interested, pick up enough Celtic languages to get it)

 

Promise

 

Oh King of the starry sky,

Lest Thou from me withdraw Thy light,

Whether my house be dark or bright,

My door shall close on none tonight.

Irish, 9th century, tr. Sean O’Faolain

 

 

Creide’s lament for her husband Cael, drowned at sea:

 

The harbour roars out

over the fierce flow of Rin Dá Bharc.

The hero from Loch Dá Chonn drowned;

the wave mourns it against the shore.

 

The heron is crying

in the marsh of Druim Dá Thrén.

She cannot guard her young:

the two-colored fox is stalking them.

 

Mournful is the whistle

of the thrush on Druim Caín.

And no less mounrful is the call

of the blackbird on Leitir Laíg.

 

Mournful the music

of the stag on Druim Dáa Léis:

The doe of Druim Silenn is dead

and the great stag roars at her loss.

 

My grief

that hero dead, who lay with me,

that woman’s son from Doire Dá Dos

with a cross set at his head.

 

My grief that Cael

is fixed by my side in death,

that a wave has drowned his pale flank.

His great beauty drove me wild.

 

Mournful is the roar

the ebbing wave makes on the strand.

It has drowned a fine and noble man.

My grief Cael ever went near it.

 

Mournful the sound

the wave makes on the northern shore,             rough about the lovely rock,

lamenting Cael who is gone.

 

And mournful the fall

of the wave on the southern shore.

As for myself, my time is over,

my face the worse, for all to see.

 

There is unnatural music

in the heavy wave of Tulach Léis:

It is tellings its boastful tale

and all my wealth is as nothing.

 

Since Crimthann’s son was drowned

I will have no other love.

Many leaders fell at his hand

but his shield on the day of need was silent.

Tr. Ann Dooley and Harry Roe.

Creide’s lament for her drowned husband is one of the truly great poems in the Irish (Gaelic) language, and it’s very well worth learning to read it in the original, pronouncing it more or less correctly—we aren’t quite clear how it was pronounced in its own time, but one can get the idea.  Of course it’s always interesting that she could spontaneously mourn in perfect, extremely complex and high-styled Irish prosody…well, with a little help from a later writer (it is not even clear if Creide existed in the first place, since this poem is from a basically fictional work).

 

 

Muireadhach Albanach Ó Dálaigh’s lament for his wife, ca 1200 AD.

 

Last night my soul departed,

a pure body, most dear, in the grave,

her stately smooth bosom taken

from me in a linen sheet,

 

a lovely pale blossom plucked

from a limp downcurving stem,

my heart’s darling bowed low,

heavy branch of yonder house.

 

I am alone tonight, O God.

It is a crooked, bad world you see.

Lovely the weight of the young flank

I had here last night, my King.

 

That bed there, my grief,

The lively covers where we swam

–I have seen a fine lively body

and waved hair in your midst, my bed!

 

One of a gentle countenance

Lay and shared my pillow.

Only the hazel bloom is like

her womanly dark sweet shade.

 

Maol Mheadha of the dark brows,

my vessel of mead, by my side,

my heart, the shade who has left me,

a precious flower, planted and bowed.

 

My body is mine no longer.

It has fallen to her share:

a body in two pieces

since she left, fair, lovely and gentle

 

–one foot of mine, one flank

(her visage like the whitethorn;

nothing hers but it was mine):

one eye of mine, one hand;

 

half my body, a youthful blaze

(I am hjandled harshly, O King,

and I feel faint as I speak it)

and half of my very soul.

 

My first love her great slow gaze;

curved, ivory white her breast;

nor did her body, her dear side,

belong to another before me.

 

Twenty years we were as one

and sweeter our speech each year.

Eleven babies she bore me

–great slender-fingered fresh branch.

 

I am, but I do not live,

since my round hazel-nut has fallen.

Since my dear love has left me

the dark world is empty and bare.

 

From the day the smooth shaft was sunk

for my house I have not heard

that a guest has laid a spell

on her youthful brown dark hair.

 

Do not hinder me, you people.

What crime to hear my grief.

Bare ruin has entered my home

and the bright brown blaze is out.

 

The King of Hosts and Highways

took her away in His wrath.

Little those branched locks sinne,d

to die on her husband, young and fresh.

 

That soft hand I cherished,

King of the graves and bells,

that hand never forsworn

–my pain it is not beneath my head!

 

Tr. T. Kinsella , The New Oxford Book of Irish Verse (1989:95-97; note the level of passion after 20 years and eleven children).  The original Celtic of this poem is incredible—a torrent of rhyme, internal rhyme, half-rhyme, alliteration, sound progressions, and every other word-music device, all with an extremely lamenting sound.  Only a handful of the greatest poets can make their sounds unite in driving the full emotional message of the poem, and this poem does it to a supreme degree, unique in the world to my experience.

 

 

Mad Sweeney’s Song of the Wild

 

There was a time when I preferred

the turtle-dove’s soft jubilation

as it flitted round a pool

to the murmur of conversation.

 

There was a time when I preferred

the mountain grouse crying at dawn

to the voice and closeness

of a beautiful woman.

 

There was a time when I preferred

wolf-packs yelping and howling

to the sheepish voice of a cleric

bleating out plainsong.

 

You are welcome to pledge healths

and carouse in your drinking dens;

I will dip and steal water

from a well with my open palm.

 

You are welcome to that cloistered hush

of your students’ conversation;

I will study the pure chant

of hounds baying in Glen Bolcain.

 

You are welcome to your salt meat

and fresh meat in feasting-houses;

I will live content elsewhere

on tufts of green watercress.

(Tr. Seamus Heaney, 1983:72-73.)

Kenneth Jackson memorably translates the last two verses:

“Though you think sweet, yonder in your church, the gentle talk of your students, sweeter I think the splendid talking the wolves make in Glenn mBolcáin.

“Though you like the fat and meat which are eaten in the drinking-halls, I like better to eat a head of clean water-cress in a place without sorrow…”  (Jackson 1971:255).

The “wolves” are actually “hounds” in the text, as translated by Heaney, but I think Jackson is right in assuming that “hounds” here is used, as it is in some other texts, to refer to God’s hounds—the wolves.

 

 

Mt. Cua

 

Sliabh gCua, haunt of wolves, rugged and dark, the wind wails about its glens, wolves howl around its chasms; the fierce brown deer bells in autumn arund it, the crane screams over its crags.

Early medieval Irish; traditional; tr. Kenneth Jackson.  Sliabh gCua means “Mt. Cua” and is pronounced “sleeve cua” or “sleeve gua”

 

 

Love song

 

She’s the white flower of the blackberry, she’s the sweet flower of the raspberry, she’s the best herb in excellence for the sight of the eyes.

She’s my pulse, she’s my secret, she’s the scented flower of the apple, she’s summer in the cold time between Christmas and Easter.

Traditional song (rhyming in Irish), tr. Kenneth Jackson, A Celtic Miscellany (1971); this just has to be the most beautiful of men’s love songs

 

 

Mythic encounter

 

“Another beautiful shining island appeared to them.  Bright grass was there, with spangling of purple-headed flowers; many birds and ever-lovely bees singing a song from the heads of those flowers.  A grave gray-headed man was playing a harp in the island.  He was singing a wonderful song, the sweetest of the songs of the world.  They greeted each other, and the old man told them to go away.”  (again from Kenneth Jackson, 1971:162).

 

Celtic

An Irish poem from the 18th century uses a dead bittern as a symbol for the poet, Cathal Buidhe MacElgun.  The bittern is more than metaphor; it is an alter ego.  This is no raffish drinking song.  The poet is destroying himself by drink and he knows it.  He is trapped in grief—for the bittern, for himself, and and for a great deal of unspecified tragedy that the bittern symbolizes. The poet drinks in a notably unsuccessful attempt to drown the sorrow.  One reason to quote this poem here is that the translator successfully approximates the complex internal rhyme and alliteration of the original, thus giving readers a sense of what Irish poetry really sounds like.

 

The yellow bittern that never broke out

In a drinking-bout, might well have drunk;

His bones are thrown on a naked stone

Where he lived alone like a hermit monk.

O yellow bittern!  I pity your lot,

Though they say that a sot like myself is curst—

I was sober a while, but I’ll drink and be wise

For fear I should die in the end of thirst.

 

It’s not for the common birds that I’d mourn,

The blackbird, the corncrake or the crane,

But for the bittern that’s shy and apart

And drinks in the marsh from the lone bog-drain.

Oh! If I had known you were near your death,

While my breath held out I’d have run to you,

Till a splash from the Lake of the Son of the Bird

Your soul would have stirred and waked anew.

 

My darling told me to drink no more

Or my life would be o’er in a little short while;

But I told her ‘tis drink gives me health and strength,

And will lengthen my road by many a mile.

You see how the bird of the long smooth neck,

Could get his death from the thirst at last-

Come, son of my soul, and drain your cup,

You’ll get no sup when your life is past.

 

In a wintering island by Constantine’s halls,

A bittern calls from a wineless place,

And tells me that hither he cannot come

Till the summer is here and the sunny days.

When he crosses the stream there and wings o’er the sea,

Then a fear comes to me he may fail in his flight—

Well, the milk and the ale are drunk every drop,

And a dram won’t stop our thirst this night.

(trans. Thomas MacDonagh; Kathleen Hoagland 1947:235-236.  This is a song, sung in both Irish and English today.)

 

The medieval Scots were Irish.  In ancient times Scotland was inhabited by the Picts, who spoke a Briton-type Celtic language.  The Scoti, an Irish tribe, invaded and took over in the early middle ages.  So their early Gaelic poetry was thoroughly Irish in background and quality.  This has persisted, in attenuated form, and much folk material demonstrating it has been collected.  Notable is Alexander Carmichael’s huge collection of folk charms (1992).  Carmichael provides countless charms involving plants, animals, and natural phenomena, and showing close relationships with them.  The sun, plants, and the sea are addressed personally (as St. Francis of Assisi did).  Carmichael notes that a young man going hunting was consecrated, and instructed not to kill wantonly or unnecessarily, nor “to kill a bird sitting, nor a beast lying down,…the mother of a brood, nor the mother of a suckling,” or young animals in general (Carmichael 1992:601).

Early Welsh poetry known to us is largely battle verse, rather thin on natural images, but in the high middle ages Welsh nature poetry explodes in pyrotechnic variety and virtuosity.  Usually, nature is merely a backdrop for light love.  However, wisdom literature, teaching texts, passages in long narratives, and sharp images in historical sources all indicate that Wales must not have been very different from Ireland in its early concern with forests and waters.  We have several early poems indicating this quite strongly (Jackson 1935).

In the meantime, there is one medieval Galician poem that sums it all up.  Galician (Gallego) is a language very close to Portuguese.  The word“Galician” is, however, cognate with Gaul, Gallic, Gaelic, and Galatian.  The language resulted from Celts learning proto-Spanish; it carries over Spanish innovations like borrowing the German plural –s from the Visigoths in place of Latin plurals.  But Galician and Portuguese maintained the Celtic fondness for complex vowel systems and for nasalization.  Also, they maintained a number of Celtic words, many of which—specifically tree names—migrated into Spanish.  A great deal of beautiful romantic poetry was written in Galician, which in fact became the language for romantic songs throughout the medieval Iberian Peninsula.  Richard Zenith (1995) has given us a study of this phenomenon, with translations.  The one that captures the spirit of Celtic poetry best, for me, is a brief, simple song (alas, we have lost the melody) titled “Song about a Girl’s Beloved Who Hunts.”  Most readers of the present work will be familiar enough with one or another Romance language to appreciate the wonderful prosody and rhyme of this work.  Since, alas, Gaelic poetry is impossible to read or sound out without some knowledge of the language, this is probably the reader’s best chance to get some sense of  Celtic word-music.  The poem is by Fernand’ Esquio, around 1300.

 

Vayamos, hirmana, vayamos dormir

Nas ribas do lago, hu eu andar vi

A las aves, meu amigo.

 

Vaiamos, hirmana, vaiamos folgar

Nas ribas do lago, hu eu vi andar

A las aves, meu amigo.

 

E nas ribas do lago, hu eu andar vi,

Seu arco na mano as aves ferir,

A las aves, meu amigo.

 

E nas ribas do lago, hu eu vi andar,

Seu arco na mano a las aves tirar,

A las aves, meu amigo.

 

Seu arco na mano as aves ferir,

E las que cantavan leixa las guarir,

A las aves, meu amigo.

 

Seu arco na mano a las aves tirar,

E las que cantavan non nas quer matar, a las aves, meu amigo.

 

(Come with me, sister, and we’ll go sit

Alongside the lake where I have seen

My beloved hunting for birds.

 

Come with me, sister, and we will walk

Alongside the lake where I have watched

My beloved hunting for birds.

 

Alongside the lake where I have seen

His arrows shooting birds in the trees,

My beloved hunting for birds.

 

His arrows shooting birds in the trees,

But he never aims at birds that sing,

My beloved hunting for birds.

 

His arrows shooting birds on the water,

But he never aims at birds that warble,

My beloved hunting for birds.

Tr. Richard Zenith, 1995:234-235.)

This poem perfectly captures, in very short space, three pillars of medieval Celtic life:  love, hunting, and song.  The focus on love and nature, the love of hunting, and the implied equation of all three, is pure Celt.  The equation of birds and young women is a standard Celtic and Germanic linguistic trope, seen in “bride”—originally the same word as “bird”—and of course in the endless slang uses of “bird” and “chick.”  Hunting for birds is still a metaphor in English.  The lover’s sparing of songbirds is also very Celtic.    The Irish and other medieval poems speak of hunting deer and other game, but never of killing a songbird. By contrast, many European peoples hunted songbirds assiduously.  Mediterranean people still do.  North Europeans such as the French and English did also, in the middle ages, and indeed until quite recently.

 

 

Now the holy lamp

 

Now the holy lamp of love

Or unholy if they will,

Lifes her amber light above

Cornamona’s hill.

Children playing round about

Decent doors at edge of dark

Long ago hve ceased to shout.

Now the fox begins to bark.

 

Cradling hands are all too small

And your hair is drenched with dew; Love though strong can build no wall

From the hungry fox for you.

Holy men have said their say

And those holy men are right,

God’s own fox will have his way

This night or some other night.

Patrick MacDonogh (20th century)

 

The Ballad of Sir Patrick Spens

 

The king he sits in Dumferling town,

Drinking the blood-red wine;

“Oh where shall I get good sailors

To sail this ship of mine?”

 

Then up and spake an elder knight,

Sat at the king’s right knee:

“Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor

That sails upon the sea.”

 

The king has written a broad letter,

And signed it with his hand,

And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens

Was walking on the sand.

 

The first line that Sir Patrick read

A loud laugh laughed he;

But the second line Sir Patrick read

The tear did blind his eye.

 

“Make haste, make haste, my merry men all,

Our ship it sails the morn.”

“Oh say not so, my master dear,

I fear a dead ly storm.

 

Last night I saw the elder moon

With the new moon in her arm,

And I fear, I fear, my master dear,

That we will come to harm.”

 

The Scottish nobles were ich laith                  [very loath]

To wet their cork-heeled shoon;

But long long e’er the play were played

Their hats did swim aboon.                             [above their bodies]

 

Oh long long may their ladies wait

With their fans into their hand,

Awaiting for Sir Patrick Spens

Come sailing to the land.

 

And long long may their ladies wait

With their gold combs into their hair,

Awaiting for their own dear lords,

For them they’ll see nae mair.

 

Half oer, half oer, to Aberdour,

It’s fifty fathom deep,

And there lies good Sir Patrick Spens

With the Scots lords at his feet.

 

(Scottish traditional.  According to legend—unconfirmed—the king wished to get rid of Sir Patrick Spens and other nobles, and was too cowardly to do it directly, so he sent them on a death-voyage to Norway in winter.  This ballad was supposedly composed to rebuke him.  The old sailor in Verse 6-7 knows that the only time it is clear enough to see “the old moon in the new moon’s arms” on the foggy North Sea is when a howling north wind is blowing; such a wind can easily raise 50-foot waves, and to put out in such conditions in medieval sailing craft was frank suicide.  Dumfermline Castle—“Dumferling town”—still exists, a darkly brooding medieval ruin, and you can actually stand there and see the hall where the king sent Sir Patrick to death.  The tune is magnificent and mournful.  See Child 2:17.)

 

 

The Unquiet Grave

 

The wind blows cold today, my love,

And a few small drops of rain.

I never had but one true love,

In cold grave she was lain.

 

I’ll do as much for my true love

As any young man may;

I’ll sit and mourn all on her grave

For twelve month and a day.

 

The twelve month and a day being o’er,

The dead began to speak:

“Oh who sits mourning all on my grave

And will not let me sleep?”

 

Tis I, my love, sits on your grave,

And will not let you sleep;

I crave one kiss of your clay-cold lips

And that is all I seek.

 

“You crave one kiss of my clay-cold lips

But my breath smells earthy strong;

If you had one kiss of my clay-cold lips

Your days would not be long.”

 

Tis down in yonder garden green,

Love, where we used to walk,

The finest flower that ever was seen

Is withered to a stalk.

 

“The stalk is withered dry, my love,

So will our hearts decay;

So many yourself content, my love,

Till God calls you away.”

 

(British Isles, traditional ballad, in many versions.  The tune to this one is sad and resigned, and incredibly beautiful.  See also Child 2:234.)

 

 

Poems by Edward Thomas (Welsh poet, early 20th century, died on the battlefield in WWI)

 

Adlestrop

 

Yes. I remember Adlestrop—

The name, because on afternoon

Of heat the express train drew up there

Unwontedly.  It was late June.

 

The steam hissed.  Someone cleared his throat.

No one left and no one came

On the bare platform.  What I saw

Was Adlestrop—only the name

 

And willows, willow-herb, and grass,

And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,

No whit less still and lonely fair

Than the high cloudlets in the sky.

 

And for that minute a blackbird sang

Close by, and round him, mistier,

Farther and farther, all the birds

Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.

(Note, for rhyme, the last word is pronounced “glostershur”)

 

 

The Ashgrove

 

Half of the grove stood dead, and those that yet lived made

Little more than the dead ones made of shade.

If they led to a house, long before they had seen its fall:

But they welcomed me; I was glad without cause and delayed.

 

Scarce a hundred paces under the trees was the interval—

Paces each sweeter than sweetest miles—but nothing at all,

Not even the spirits of memory and fear with restless wing,

Could climb down in to molest me over the wall

 

That I passed through at either end without noticing.

And now an ash grove far from those hills can bring

The same tranquillity in which I wander a ghost

With a ghostly gladness, as if I heard a girl sing

 

The song of the Ash Grove soft as love uncrossed,

And then in a crowd or in distance it were lost,

But the moment unveiled something unwilling to die

And I had what most I desered, without search or desert or cost.

 

 

Old Man

(The plant is southernwood,  Artemisia)

 

Old Man, or Lad’s-love: in the name there’s nothing

To one that knows not Lad’s-love, or Old Man,

The hoar-green feathery herb, almost a tree,

Growing with rosemary and lavender.

Even to one that knows it well, the names

Half decorate, half perplex, the thing it is:

At least, what that is clings not to the names

In spite of time.  And yet I like the names.

 

The herb itself I like not, but for certain

I love it, as some day the child will love it

Who plucks a feather from the door-side bush

Whenever she goes in or out of the house.

Often she waits there, snipping the tips and shrivelling

The shreds at last on to the path, perhaps

Thinking, perhaps of nothing, till she sniffs

Her fingers and runs off.  The bush is still

But half as tall as she, though it is as old;

So well she clips it.  Not a word she says;

And I can only wonder how much hereafter

She will remember, with that bitter scent,

Of garden rows, and ancient damson trees

Topping a hedge, a bent path to a door,

A low thick bush beside the door, and me

Forbidding her to pick.

As for myself,

Where first I met the bitter scent is lost.

I, too, often shrivel the grey shreds,

Sniff them and thin and sniff again and try

Once more to think what it is I am remembering,

Always in vain.  I cannot like the scent,

yet I would rather give up others more sweet,

With no meaning, than this bitter one.

I have mislaid the key. I sniff the spray

And think of nothing; I see and I hear nothing;

Yet seem, too, to be listening, lying in wait

For what I should, yet never can, remember:

No garden appears, no path, no hoar-green bush of lad’s-love, or Old Man, no child beside,

Neither father nor mother, nor any playmate;

Only an avenue, dark, nameless, without end.

These poems are from The Works of Edward Thomas (Thomas 1994), a book I treasure, and I hope it goes to someone who cares.  This particular poem is intensely personal for me; I have the same responses to the plant, and my daughters had the same early experiences with it as Thomas’ daughter—because I planted it by our door in honor of the poem.

 

 

OTHER CULTURES

 

The Last Kamassian Poem

The Kamassian language (distantly related to Finnish and spoken by a tiny group of reindeer herders) died out in the early 20th century.  In 1914 one old man was located who still spoke it fluently, in a tiny community of speakers in the arctic Yenisei River area of Russia.  He gave a few word lists, then sang this song and would say no more.  (The final lines refer to coverings of the traditional lodge; they curl when long abandoned.)  So this is all we have of Kamassian.  It is a lament not only for his language and his people, but for the entire world, as much as he knew it.

 

My black mountains

Where I used to wander

Have remained behind.

The soil I walked on grew

A belt of golden grass.

My black mountains

Have remained behind,

My white mountains

Have remained behind,

Our strength

Has remained behind.

From many families

Have I remained behind.

I have gone astray from my kinsmen,

And I am left alone.

My lakes where I was wont to fish

Have remained behind.

I do not see them now.

The poles in the middle of my tent

Have gone rotten,

The birch-bark slices that were sewn together

Have all curled up.

(Tr. T. Vuorela 1964)

 

 

Permanence

 

The crest of the mountain

Forever remains, forever remains

Though rocks continually fall

Paiute, tr. J. W. Powell (1970:123; many other almost as good Paiute songs there)

 

 

Ancient Greek:  Small farms immortalized

 

Here is Klito’s little shack.

Here is his little cornpatch.

Here is his tiny vineyard.

Here is his little woodlot.

Here Klito spent eighty years.

(Translated by Kenneth Rexroth; in Jay 1981:102.)

 

Dear earth, take old Amyntichus to your heart,

Remembering how he toiled upon you once:

Fixing in olive-stocks, and slips of vine,

And corn, and channels where the water runs.

He made you rich with herbs and fruit: in turn

Lie soft on his grey head; and bloom for him.

(Anonymous epitaph, trans. Alistair Elliot, in Jay 1981:327; “corn” means “any grain” here, the possibilities being wheat and barley, not maize.)

 

Spare the mother of acorns, man.  Cut down some paliurus,

old mountain pine or sea-pine, or ilex or dry arbutus.

But keep your axe out of the oak: remember our forefathers

said that once upon a time the oaks were our first mothers.

(Diodoros Zonas, ca. 100 BCE; trans. Alistair Elliot; Jay 1981:169.)

 

Medieval Provençal

In the late 12th century, the Provençal troubadour Bernart de Ventadorn perfectly summarized the new mood in a transcendently impulsive outburst of song:

 

Ca l’erba fresch’ e.lh folha par

E la flors boton’ el verjan,

E.l rossinhols autet e clar

Leva sa votz e mou so chan,

Joi ai de lui, e joi ai de la flor

E joi de me e de midons major;

Daus totas partz sui de joi claus e sens,

Mas sel es jois que totz autres jois vens.

 

(When fresh gass-blades and leaves appear

And flowers bud the branching plants,

And the nightingale most loud and clear

Uplifts its voice and song descants,

I joy in it, and in the flowered air

And take joy in my self and lady fair;

All round I’m wrapped with joy and girt indeed,

But this is a joy all other joys exceed.

Translation by Hubert Creekmore (1952:578.)

 

 

SPIRITUAL

 

Easter

 

Most glorious Lord of life that on this day

Didst make thy triumph over death and sin,

And having harrowed hell didst bring away

Captivity thus captive, us to win:

This joyous day, dear Lord, with joy begin,

And grant that we for whom thou diddest die

Being with thy dear blood clean washed from sin

May live forever in felicity.

And that thy love we weighing worthily,

May likewise love thee for the same again;

And for thy sake that all life dear did buy

With love may one another entertain.

So let us love, dear love, like as we ought;

Love is the lesson that the Lord us taught.

Edmund Spenser

 

The Song of the Sky

I will sing the song of the sky.  This is the song of the tired salmon panting as they swim up the swift current.

I go around where the water runs into whirlpools.

They talk quickly, as if they are in a hurry.

The sky is turning over.  They call me.

Traditional Tsimshian song as sung by William Beynon (Tsimshian chief); tr. by Beynon and Benjamin Munroe, early 20th century.  Recall that the salmon give birth and die.  The sense of sacrificing one’s life for one’s people is clear in the poem.

 

 

Education is all right, I’ll tell you before you start,

Before you educate the head, try to educate the heart.

Washington Phillips, Texas bluesman (recorded 1930)

 

 

Life and Death

 

My heart is a lamp, moving in the current,

Drifting to some landing-place I do not know.

Darkness moves before me on the river,

It moves again behind,

And in the moving darkness

Only ripples’ sounds are heard,

For underneath the ripples moves

The current of the quiet night.

My lamp, as if to seek a friend, goes drifting

By the shore.  Both day and night

My drifting lamp moves searching

By the shore.  My Friend is ocean to this river.

My friend is the shore to this shoreless river.

The current bends again.

At one such bending he will call to me,

And I will look upon his face,

And he will catch me up in his embrace,

And then my flame, my pain, will be extinguished.

And on his breast will be extinguished, in my joy,

My flame.

Bengal folk song (Tr. Edward Dimock 1966)

 

 

On the story of how the tale of the Buddha’s conversion to religion got into the Christian world, and the Buddha and his charioteer wound up being considered Christian saints, Sts. Barlaam and Josaphat (saints’ day Nov. 27):

Was Barlaam truly Josaphat,

And Buddha truly each?

What better parable than that

The Unity to preach—

 

The simple brotherhood of souls

That seek the highest good:

He who in kingly chariot rolls,

O wears the hermit’s hood.

 

The Church mistook?  The heathen once

Among her saints to range?

The deed of that diviner dunce

Our wisdom would not change.

 

For Culture’s pantheon they grace

In catholic array.

Each saint hath had his hour and place

But now ‘tis All Saints Day.

Israel Zangwill (a great Jewish author), 1895 (quoted Lang1966:7)

(This is, in the end, my favorite religious poem)

 

 

The Slidin’ Delta

 

The Slidin’ Delta run right by my do’,

I’m leavin here, baby, honey don’t you want to go.

I’m leavin here, baby, honey don’t you want to go,

I’m goin somewhere I never been befo’.

My bag is packed, my trunk’s already gone,

I can’t see, baby, honey what you waitin on.

I’m leavin here, baby, don’t you want to go,

I’m goin up the country and I ain’t comin back no mo’.

John Hurt (blues singer; from traditional material, elaborated by him.  The Slidin’ Delta was a local train.  The train is a standard symbol in blues for parting, and thus for death, and thus for mystic experience—all of which are fully invoked here.  The Medieval “image, symbol, metaphor, and allegory” all perfectly captured.  Hurt’s performance of this song on his record “Worried Blues,” 1963, is to my mind the greatest blues performance ever recorded)

 

 

A Young Girl’s Tomb

 

Wir gedenkens noch.  Das ist, als muste

Alles dieses einmal wieder sein.

Wei ein Baum an der Limonenkuste

Trugst du deinen kleinen leichten Brüste

In deas Rauschen seines Bluts hinein:

 

–jenes Gottes.  Und es war der schlanke

Flüchtling, der verwöhnende der Fraun,

Süss und glühend, warm wie dein Gedanke,

überschattend deine frühe Flanke

Und geneigt wie deine Augenbrau’n.

 

(We think of it still.  It is as if

All of this must be again.

Like a tree on the lemon coast

You raised your small light breasts

Into the rushing of his blood—

That God.  And it was the slender

Fugitive, ravisher of girls,

Sweet and glowing, warm like your thought,

Overshadowing your free flank,

Arched above you like your eyebrows.)

Rainer Maria Rilke (my translation, but be sure to read the exquisitely beautiful German.  Compare “The Unquiet Grave” and the laments by Yuan Zhen and O’Dalaigh, above.  Love drives the hardest grief, and the greatest poems about it do not hide the sexual loss.)

 

 

Robinson Jeffers

 

Bixby’s Landing

 

They burned lime on the hill and dropped it down here in an iron car

On a long cable; here the ships warped in

And took their loads from the engines, the water is deep to the cliff.  The car

Hangs half way over in the gape of the gorge,

Stationed like a north star above the peaks of the redwoods, iron perch

For the little red hawks when they cease from hovering

When they’ve struck prey; the spider’s fling of a cable rust-glued to the pulleys.

The laborers are gone, but what a good multitude

Is here in return: the rich-lichened rock, the rose-tipped stonecrop, the constant

Ocean’s voices, the cloud-lighted sspace.

The kilns are cold on the hill but here in the rust of the broken boiler

Quick lizards lighten, and a rattrlesnake flows

Down the cacked masonry, over the crumbled fire-brick. In the rotting timbers

And roofless platforms all the free companies

Of windy grasses have root and make seed; wild buckwheat blooms in the fat

Weather-slacked lime from the bursted barrels.

Two duckhawks darting in the skiy of their cliff-hing nest are the voice of the headland.

Wine-hearted solitude, our mother the wilderness,

Men’s failures are often as beautiful as men’s triumphs, but your returnings

Are even more precious than your first presence.

 

Nova

 

That Nova was a moderate star like our goo0d sun; it stored no doubt a little more than it spent

Of heat and energy until the increasing tension came to the trigger-point

Of a new chemistry; then what was already flaming found a new manner of flaming ten-thousandfold

More brightly for a brief time; whjat was a pin-point fleck on a sensitive plate at the great telescope’s

Eye-piece now shouts down the steep night to the naked eye, a nine-day super-star.

It is likely our moderate

Father the sun will sometimes put off his nature for a similar glory.  The earth would share it; these tall

Green trees would become a moment’s torches and vanish, the oceans would explode into invisible steam,

The ships and the great whales fall through them like flaming meteors into the emptied abysm, the si-mile

Hollows of the Pacif sea-bed might smoke for a moment.  Then the earth would be like the pale proud moon,

Nothing but vitrified snad and rock would be left on earth.  This is a probable death-apssion

For the sun’s planets; we have no knowledge to assure us it may not happen at any moment of time.

 

Meanwhile the sun shines wisely and warm, trees flutter green in the wind, girls take their clothes off

To bathe in the cold ocean or to hunt love; they stand lughing in the white foam, they have beautiful

Shoulders and thighs, they are beautiful animals, all life is beautiful.  We cannot be sure of life for one moment; We can, by force and self-discipline, by many refusals and a few assertions, in the teeth of fortune assure oiurselves

Freedom and integrity in life or integrity in death.  And we know that the nermous invulnerablle beauty of things

Is the face of God, to live glady loin its presence, and die without grief or fear knowing it survives us.

(1937:111-112)

 

Hooded Night   [at his house at the tip of Monterey Peninsula]

 

At night, toward dawn, all the lights of the shore have died,

And a wind moves.  Moves in the dark

The sleeping power of the ocean, no more beastlike than manlike,

Not to be compared; itself and itself.

Its breath blown shoreward huddles the world with a fog; no stars

Dance in heaven; no ship’s light glances.

I see the heavy granite bodies of the rocks of the headland,

That were ancient here before Egypt had pyramids,

Bulk on the gray of the sky, and beyond them the jets of the young trees

I planted the year of the Versailles peace.

Bnut here is the final unridiculous peace.  Before the first man

Here were the stones, the ocean, the cypresses,

And the pallid region in the stone-rough dome of fog where the mooon

Falls on the west.  Here is reality.

The other is a spectral episode; after the inquisitive animal’s

Amusements are quiet:  the dark glory.

(1929:129)

 

Oh, Lovely Rock

 

We stayed the night in the pathless gorge of Ventana Creek, up the east fork.

The rock walls and the mountain ridges hung forest on forest above our heads, maple and redwood,

Laurel, oak, madrone, up to the high and slender Santa Lucian firs that stare up the cataracts

Of slide-rock to the star-color precipices.

We lay on gravel and kept a little camp-fire for warmth.

Past midnight only two or three coals glowed red in the cooling darkness; I laid a clutch of dead bay-leaves

On the ember ends and felted dry sticks across them and lay down again.  The revived flame

Lighted myh sleeping son’s face and his companion’s, and the vertical face of the great gorge-wall

Across the stream. Light leaves overhead danced in the fire’s breath, tree-trunks were seen:  it was the rock wall

That fascinated my eyes and mind.  Nothing strange:  light-gray diorite with two or three slanting seams in it,

Smooth-polished by the endless attrition of slides and floods; no fer nor lichen, pure naked rock…as if I were

Seeing rock for the first timde.  As if I were seeing through the flame-lit surface into the real and bodily

And living rock.  Nothing strange…I cannot

Tell you how strange:  the silent passionk the deep nobility and childlike loveliness:  this fate going on

Outside our fates.  It is here in the mountain like a grave smiling child.  I shall die, and my boys

Will live and die, our world will go on through its rapid agonies of change and discovery; this age will die,

And wolves have howled in the snow around a new Bethlehem: this rock will be here, grave, earnest, not passive:  the energies

That are its atoms will still be bearing the whole mountain above:  and I, many packed centuries ago,

Felt its intense reality with love and wonder, this lonely rock.

 

Robinson Jeffers (1937:124-125.)

 

One who sees giant Orion, the torches of winter midnight,

Enormously walking above the ocean in the west of heaven;

And watches the track of this age of time at its peak of flight

Waver like a spent rocket, wavering toward new discoveries,

Mortal examinations of darkness, soundings of depth;

And watches the long coast mountain vibrate from bronze to green,

Bronze to green, year after year, and all the stream

Dry and flooded, dry and flooded, in the racing seasons;

And knows that exactly this and not another is the world,

The ideal is phantoms for bait, the spirit is a flicker on a grave;

May serve, with a certain detachment, the fugitive human race,

Or his own people, his own household; but hardly himself;

And will not wind himself into hopes nor sicken with despairs.

He has found the peace and adored the God; he handles in autumn

The germs of far-future spring.

Sad sons of the stormy fall,

No escape, you have to inflict and endure; surely it is time for you

To learn to touch the diamond within to the diamond outside,

Thinning your humanity a little between the invulnerable diamonds,

Knowing that your angry choices and hopes and terrors are in vain,

But life and death not in vain; and the world is like a flight of swans.

 

1935

 

 

DOGS

 

How cruel it is, I think, that men will take the name of “dog” in vain,

When of all creatures dogs will least forget good deeds.

Surely, if some person makes you cross enough to curse,

The proper insult is “You man, son of a man”!

 

(and in another poem)

I set off with Qatmir, my dog, a fellow traveler

Whose presence warmed my heart along the way.

For every time I paused to rest, he’d pause by me,

Regarding me with looks of love and tenderness.

Fulfilling all the dues of good companionship,

As if he were of all friends the most true.

And this while my own people—of the human race—

All treat me with a meanness that’s insatiable….

Abu’l-Barakat al-Balafiqi, medieval Andalusian; tr. Tim Mackintosh-Smith (in Saudi Aramco World, 2013.  I have a big dog named Kitmir, a variant of Qatmir.  I didn’t know about this poem when I named him!)

 

The Hare Hunt (excerpt)

In his several-volume poem Polyolbion, Michael Drayton (ca 1600) describes a rural hare hunt.  He says of the hare:             She riseth from her nest, as though on earth she flew,

Forced by some yelping cute to give the greyhounds view.

He explains “cute” as a local dialect word for a mongrel dog.  It has no connection with the modern word.

 

FINAL CYNICISM

 

The good old days (Mexican folksong)

 

Este es un son que bailaba Carmelita

Aquellos tiempos, los tiempos de don Simón,

Que amarraban los perros con longaniza

Y ni siquiera les ponían atención.

(This is a song that Carmelita danced

Back in the days of Don Simón,

When they tied up the dogs with sausages

And they didn’t even pay attention.)

(My tr.  Times were so good the dogs didn’t even notice the sausages.  For exaggeration of the goodness of the old days, this is rivaled only by a line heard by Alan Beals in India:  “Yeah, back then if you needed rain you just reached up and pulled down the edge of a cloud.”)

 

The World

 

I asked of the Sage the nature of this world.

He said:  “As long as you live it is wind and incantation.”

I said:  “What do you call him who sets his heart on it?”             He said:  “He is either intoxicated, or blind, or mad.”

Medieval Arabic (from a history of Oman in the old days)

 

Knowledge and wealth are like narcissus and rose,

They never blossom in one place together;

The man of knowledge possesses no wealth,

The wealthy man has scant store of knowledge.

Medieval Persian song verse, trans. A. J. Arberry (probably from his Persian Poems; I’ve lost the reference)

 

Two poems on gratitude:  Great minds run in the same channels (no chance of mutual influence here)

 

Medieval India:

 

You gave me feet to tire of travel,

A wife to leave me, a voice for begging

And a body of decrepitude.

If you never are ashamed oh God,

Do you not at least grow weary of your gifts?

Rajasekhara (medieval India), tr. W. Ingalls (1968)

 

Nineteenth-Century Russia:

 

My thanks for all Thou gavest through the years:

For passion’s secret torments without end,

The poisoned kiss, the bitterness of tears,

The vengeful enemy, the slanderous friend,

The spirit’s ardor in the desert spent,

Every deception, every wounding wrong;

My thanks for each dark gift that Thou has sent;

But heed Thou that I need not thank Thee long.

Mikhail Lermontov (tr. Babette Deutsch; in Creekmore 1952)

 

 

Anonymous Daoist Poem; the most absolutely cynical poem I know

 

The grain cart enters, the manure cart exits,

They take turns coming and going.

When will it come to an end?

Even if (people can) cause their life to span over a hundred years,

That is only 36,000 days.

Tr. Erlandson 2004

 

 

Partial List of Sources (for this and Environment Poetry; many of my sources are long lost and range from personal communications to field recordings)

 

Balaban, John. 2000.  Spring Essence: The Poetry of Ho Xuan Hong.  Port Townsend, WA:  Copper Canyon Press.

Bashō, tr. David Landis Barnhill.  2005.  Bashō’s Journey.  Albany:  SUNY Press.

Basho, Matsuo.  2008.  Basho:  The Complete Haiku.  Tr. Jane Reichhold.  Tokyo:  Kodansha.

Bynner, Witter, and Kiang Kang-Hu.  1929.  The Jade Mountain.  New York:  Knopf.

Child, Francis James.  1965 (orig. 1885).  The English and Scottish Popular Ballads.  Vol. 2 (of 5 v).  New York:  Dover.

Creekmore, Hubert (ed.).  1952.  A Little Treasury of World Poetry.  New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons.

Dimock, Edward.  1966.  The Place of the Hidden Moon.  Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Elvin, Mark.  2004.  The Retreat of the Elephants:  An Environmental History of China.  New Haven:  Yale University Press.

Erlandson 2004:  God only knows where I found this one.  Some anthology of Chinese writing.

Han-shan.  2000.  The Collected Songs of Cold Mountain.  Tr. Red Pine (Bill Porter).  Revised edn.  Port Townsend, WA:  Copper Canyon Press.

Hoagland, Kathleen.  1947.  1000 Years of Irish Poetry. New York: Welcome Rain.

Huard, Pierre, and Maurice Durand.  1954.  Connaissance du Viet-Nam, p. 274.  Hanoi:  École Française de’Extrème-Orient; Paris: Imprimerie Nationale.

Ingalls, W. H.  1968.  Sanskrit Poems.  Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

Jackson, Kenneth Hurlstone.  1935.  Studies in Early Celtic Nature Poetry.  Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press.

—ururls  1971.  A Celtic Miscellany.  Harmondsworth, Middlesex:  Penguin.

Jay, Peter (ed.).  1981.  The Greek Anthology.  Rev. edn.  Harmondsworth (England):  Penguin.

Jeffers, Robinson.   1929.  Dear Judas.  New York: Horace Liveright.

—  1937.  Such Counsels You Gave to Me.  New York:  Random House.

Karlgren, Bernhard.  1950.  The Book of Odes.  Stockholm:  Museum of Far Eastern Antiquities.

Kim Jaihiun.  1994.  Classical Korean Poetry.  Fremont, CA:  Asian Humanities Press.

Kinsella, Thomas.  1989.  The New Oxford Book of Irish Verse.  Oxford:  Oxford University Press.

Lang, David M.  1966.  The Balavariani (Barlaam and Josaphat): A Tale from the Christian East.  Berkeley:  University of California Press.

Lee, Peter.  1974.  Poems from Korea.  Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press.

Mackintosh-Smith, Tim.  2013.  “A Menagerie.”  Saudi Aramco World, Jan.-Feb., 10-13.

Mair, Victor; Nancy Steinhardt; Paul R. Goldin (eds.).  2005.  Hawai’i Reader in Traditional Chinese Culture.  Honolulu:  University of Hawai’i Press.

Nguyen Ngoc Bich.  1975.  A Thousand Years of Vietnamese Poetry.  New York: Knopf.

O’Rourke, Kevin.  2002.  The Book of Korean Shijo.  Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

Rutt, Richard.  1971.  The Bamboo Grove:  An Introduction to Sijo.  Berkeley:  University of California Press.

Seaton, J. P.  1997.  I Don’t Bow to Buddhas: Selected Poems of Yuan Mei.  Port Townsend, WA:  Copper Canyon Press.

Seaton, Jerome P., and Dennis Maloney.  1994.  A Drifting Boat:  Chinese Zen Poetry.  Fredonia, NY:  White Pine Press.

Thomas, Edward.  1994.  The Works of Edward Thomas.  Ware, Hertfordshire, England: Wordsworth Editions.

Vuorela, Toivo.  1964.  Finno-Ugric Peoples.  Tr. John Atkinson.  Ind. U. Res Center, Uralic and Altaic Series, Vol. 39.

Waley, Arthur.  1961.  Chinese Poems.  London: George Allen and Unwin.

Wong, Shirleen (alas, lost the ref, an obscure article years ago)

Zenith, Richard.  1995.  113 Galician-Portuguese Troubadour Poems.  Manchester, England:  Carcanet is association with Calouste Gulbenkain Foundation and Instituto Camões.

Zhang, Cong Ellen.  2011.  Transformative Journals:  Travel and Culture in Song China.  Honolulu:  University of Hawai’i Press.

Zhuang Zi.  1968.  The Complete Works of Chuang Tzu.  Tr. Burton Watson.  New York: Columbia University Press.