The Cosmic Serpent (24 page)

12
Bourdieu (1977) was the first to explain the pernicious effects of the objectivist gaze and the immobilization of time it implies. See also Bourdieu (1990 p. 26) on the limits of objectivism. Lévi-Strauss (1963a, p. 378) writes that “the anthropologist is the astronomer of the social sciences.”

13
Tsing (1993) talks of “disciplinary conventions that link domination and description” (p. 32). See also Lewis (1973) and Saïd (1978). Foucault (1961) first pointed out the will to power inherent in the clinical gaze of the social sciences. For the “unbiased and supra-cultural language of the observer,” see Bourguignon (1970, p. 185).

14
Lévi-Strauss (1991a, p. 2).

15
The word “shaman” comes from the Tungusic word
saman,
the original etymology of which may be foreign. Different authors have proposed a Chinese origin (
sha-men
= witch), a Sanskrit origin (
sramana
= buddhist monk), and a Turkish origin
(kam)
—see Eliade (1964, pp. 495-499). Lot-Falck (1963, p. 9) gives an indigenous etymology which she presents as “universally recognized nowadays”: the Tungusic root
sam
-, which signifies the idea of body movement. She concludes: “All the observers of shamanism have therefore been justifiably struck by this gestural activity which gives its name to shamanism” (p. 18). However, Lot-Falck goes on to write ten years later: “The term ‘shaman' was borrowed from the Tungusic
saman,
the etymology and origin of which are still doubtful” (1973, p. 3). Meanwhile Diószegi (1974, p. 638) proposes the Tungusic verb
“sa-”
(= to know) as the origin of the word
saman,
which would therefore mean “the one who knows.” Surprisingly, several authors base themselves on Lot-Falck's first text to claim that the word
saman
is etymologically linked to the idea of movement—see, for example, Hamayon (1978, p. 55), Rouget (1980, p. 187), and Chaumeil (1983, p. 10).

16
For summaries and bibliographies concerning the anthropology of shamanism in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries see Eliade (1964, pp. 23-32), Lewis (1971, pp. 178-184), Delaby (1976), and Mitriani (1982).

17
Devereux (1956, pp. 28-29).

18
Lévi-Strauss (1949b), published in Lévi-Strauss (1963a, pp. 197-199).

19
Lewis (1971): “The shaman is not the slave, but the master of anomaly and chaos. In rising to the challenge of the powers which rule his life and by valiantly overcoming them in this crucial initiatory rite which reimposes order on chaos and despair, man reasserts his mastery of the universe and affirms his control of destiny and fate” (pp. 188-189). Browman and Schwarz (1979): “Anthropologists use the term ‘shaman' to refer to persons encountered in nonliterate cultures who are actively involved in maintaining and restoring certain types of order” (p. 6). Hamayon (1982): “On the other hand, what can distinguish the shamanic system is that it defines itself in terms of disorder, which is to be avoided, and not in terms of order, which is to be maintained” (p. 30). Hoppál (1987): “Shamans as mediators create order and reestablish balance within their groups such that their role is socially embedded in their cultures” (p. 93).

20
In his 1967 article entitled “Shamans and acute schizophrenia,” Silverman writes that shamans and schizophrenics both exhibit “grossly non-reality-oriented ideation, abnormal perceptual experiences, profound emotional upheavals, and bizarre mannerisms” (p. 22). Since then, the view that shamans are mentally ill has withered, but has not entirely disappeared. Lot-Falck (1973) writes that “one can hardly contest that shamans are abnormal beings” (p. 4); Hultkrantz (1978) writes: “Our conclusion is, then, that the shaman has a hysteroid disposition which, however, does not provoke any mental disorder” (p. 26); Perrin (1992a) writes: “In other words, the first shamans would have been ‘real hysterics' before the system they created became entirely accepted as a logical and formal representation, made up of elements of hysterical nature, but which are now semi-independent of their psychological origin” (p. 122). Finally, Noll (1983) provides a demonstration of the fundamental differences between shamanism and schizophrenia.

21
Browman and Schwarz (1979, p. 7). See Halifax (1979, pp. 3-4) for a similar jack-of-all-trades definition of the shaman.

22
Taussig (1987) writes: “But what would happen if instead of this we allow the old meaning to remain in the disorder, first of the ritual, and second of the history of the wider society of which it is part? My experience with Putumayo shamans suggests that this is what they do, and that the magical power of an image like the Huitoto lies in its insistently questioning and undermining the search for order” (p. 390). Brown (1988), in discussing the “anti-structural world of the Aguaruna shaman,” considers the latter's work to involve “struggle, uncertainty, ambivalence and partial revelation.” According to Brown, the function of the shaman's revelations is to “shift disorder from the human body to the body politic” (pp. 115, 103, 102).

23
See Eliade (1964), p. 5 (“specializes in a trance”), pp. 96-97 (“secret language”), pp. 126ff. and 487ff. (vines, ropes, ladders), and p. 9 (“spirits from the sky”).

24
See Hamayon (1990, pp. 31-32—latent mysticism), Delaby and Hamayon quoted in Chaumeil (1983, p. 16—detaching symbols from their context), Hamayon (1978, p. 55—Eliade's mysticism mutilates and distorts the facts, obliterating the sociocultural aspect of the shamanic institution and practice), and Chaumeil (1983, p. 17—the mystical dead end into which Eliade locks the phenomenon). All these references are cited by Chaumeil (1983, pp. 16-19). Taussig (1992, p. 159) calls Eliade's work “a potentially fascistic portrayal of third world healing.”

25
Geertz (1966, p. 39). Furthermore, Taussig (1989, quoted in Atkinson 1992, p. 307) writes that “shamanism is . . . a made-up, modern, Western category, an artful reification of disparate practices, snatches of folklore and overarching folklorizations, residues of long-established myths intermingled with the politics of academic departments, curricula, conferences, journal juries and articles, [and] funding agencies.” The first anthropologist to criticize the concept of shamanism was Van Gennep, who protested, in 1903, against the use of an obscure Siberian word to describe the beliefs and customs “of the semi-civilized the world over” (p. 52).

26
See Lévi-Strauss (1963b).

27
Luna (1986, pp. 62, 66).

1
See Swenson and Narby (1985, 1986), Narby (1986), Beauclerk, Narby, and Townsend (1988), and Narby (1989).

2
Until recently, and for unknown reasons, Spanish speakers have called the Ashaninca “Campas.” The etymology of this word is doubtful. As Weiss (1969) writes: “The term ‘Campa' is not a word in the Campa language” (p. 44). According to him, the word probably comes from the Quechua “tampa” (“in disorder, confused”) or “ttampa” (“disheveled”) (p. 61). However, there is no agreement among specialists on the word's exact etymology—see Varese (1973, pp. 139-144). Renard-Casevitz (1993) justifies her use of the word “campa” as follows: “The term campa is not appreciated as an ethnonym, though it does present a certain convenience.... I use campa for want of a term with a comparable reach to designate the totality of the Arawak subsets who share a notable cultural trait: the prohibition of internal war, among all except the Piro” (pp. 29, 31). In the 1980s, one of the first demands put forth by the different Ashaninca organizations was that people stop designating them by a name that they do not use in their own language.

3
See Weiss (1969, pp. 93, 96, 97-100, 201).

4
See Weiss (1969, pp. 107-109, 199-226). The quote is on page 222.

5
Weiss (1969, p. 200).

6
For a more detailed account of this experience, see Narby (1990, pp. 24-27).

1
Eight indigenous land-titling projects were carried out successfully, covering a total of 2,303,617 hectares (23,000 km
²
or 5,692,237 acres). Details concerning these projects can be obtained from “Nouvelle Planète,” CH-1042 Assens, Switzerland.

2
The Rio Declaration states: “Indigenous people and their communities . . . have a vital role in environmental management and development because of their knowledge and traditional practices. States should recognize and duly support their effective participation in the achievement of sustainable development” (Principle 22). The Agenda 21 underlines the importance of the territorial rights of indigenous peoples and of their self-determination in matters of development (Chapter 26). The Statement of Forest Principles points out the importance of respecting the rights and interests of indigenous peoples and of consulting them on forestry policies (Points 2d, 5a, 13d). The Convention on Biological Diversity considers the importance of the knowledge and practices of indigenous peoples and calls for their equitable remuneration (Points 8j, 10c, 10d). The Rio conference was a spectacular turning point for indigenous rights. Just five years beforehand, the question of these rights remained largely ignored by most international organizations concerned with development or environmental matters.

3
For example, The Body Shop and Shaman Pharmaceuticals, whose vice-president declared: “Shaman [Pharmaceuticals] is committed to providing direct and immediate reciprocal benefits to indigenous people and the countries in which they live” (King 1991, p. 21).

4
These figures come from, respectively, Farnsworth (1988, p. 95), Eisner (1990, p. 198), and Elisabetsky (1991, p. 11).

5
Estimates of the number of “higher” (that is, flowering) plant species vary from 250,000 to 750,000. Wilson (1990) writes: “How much biodiversity is there in the world? The answer is remarkable: No one knows the number of species even to the nearest order of magnitude. Aided by monographs, encyclopedias, and the generous help of specialists, I recently estimated the total number of described species (those given a scientific name) to be 1.4 million, a figure perhaps accurate to within the nearest 100,000. But most biologists agree that the actual number is at least 3 million and could easily be 30 million or more. In a majority of particular groups the actual amount of diversity is still a matter of guesswork” (p. 4).

6
The Convention on Biological Diversity mentions the importance of “equitable” remuneration for indigenous knowledge, but fails to provide a mechanism to this effect. According to the Kari-Oca Declaration signed by the delegates of the World Conference of Indigenous Peoples on Territory, Environment and Development (May 1992): “The usurping of traditional medicines and knowledge from indigenous peoples should be considered a crime against peoples” (Point 99). Furthermore: “As creators and carriers of civilizations which have given and continue to share knowledge, experience and values with humanity, we require that our right to intellectual and cultural properties be guaranteed and that the mechanism for each implementation be in favor of our peoples and studied in depth and implemented. This respect must include the right over genetic resources, gene banks, biotechnology and knowledge of biodiversity programs” (Point 102). See also Christensen and Narby (1992).

7
Tubocurarine is the best-known active ingredient of Amazonian curare preparations, but, as Mann (1992) points out, C-toxiferine is twenty-five times more potent. However, “both drugs have been largely superseded by other wholly synthetic neuromuscular blocking agents, such as pancuronium and atracurium. Like tubocurarine these have a rigid molecular structure with two positively charged nitrogen atoms held in a similar spatial arrangement to that found in tubocurarine. This allows them to bind to the same acetycholine receptor and thus mimic the biological activity of tubocurarine, because the distance between the two cationic centres (N
⁺
to N
⁺
distance) is approximately the same” (pp. 21-23). Concerning the initial use of curare in medicine, see Blubaugh and Linegar (1948).

8
See Schultes and Raffauf (1990, pp. 265ff. and 305ff.) for a relatively exhaustive list of the different plant species used across the Amazon Basin for the production of curare. As Bisset (1989) points out, the chemical activity of Amazonian curares is still poorly understood. Most of these muscle-paralyzing substances contain plants of the
Strychnos
or
Chondodendron
genus, or a combination of both, to which a certain number of admixtures are added, according to the recipes. The exact role of these admixtures is obscure, even though they seem to contribute to the potentiation of the main ingredients. Moreover, Manuel Córdova (in Lamb 1985) provides a first-person account of the production of curare destined for medical use, in which he repeatedly mentions the importance of avoiding “the pleasantly fragrant vapors” (p. 48)—giving the example of a German zoologist who died for lack of care (pp. 97-98). First-person accounts of curare production are rare, as curare recipes are often jealously guarded secrets.

9
See Reichel-Dolmatoff (1971, pp. 24, 37).

10
For examples of texts that illustrate the value of the botanical knowledge of Amazonian peoples with multiple references to curare,
Pilocarpus jaborandi,
and
tikiuba,
see the special issue of
Cultural Survival Quarterly
(Vol. 15, No. 3) devoted to the question of intellectual property rights of indigenous peoples, and in particular the articles by Elisabetsky (1991), Kloppenberg (1991) and King (1991). On the more general question of these rights, see Posey (1990, 1991). See Rouhi (1997) for references to
Couroupita guienensis
and
Aristolochia
. For recent work on the unidentified plants of the indigenous pharmacopoeia, see Balick, Elisabetsky, and Laird (1996), in particular the article by Wilbert (1996), as well as Schultes and von Reis (1995).