Choice in Economic Contexts, Volume 25: Ethnographic and Theo Enquiries (Research in Economic Anthropology) (Research in Economic Anthropology)

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CHOICE IN ECONOMIC CONTEXTS: ETHNOGRAPHIC AND THEORETICAL ENQUIRIES

RESEARCH IN ECONOMIC ANTHROPOLOGY Series Editor: Donald C. Wood Volume 20: Volume 21: Volume 22:

Volume 23:

Volume 24:

Research in Economic Anthropology Edited by B. L. Isaac Social Dimensions in the Economic Process Edited by N. Dannhaeuser & C. Werner Anthropological Perspectives on Economic Development and Integration Edited by N. Dannhaeuser & C. Werner Socioeconomic Aspects of Human Behavioral Ecology Edited by M. Alvard Markets and Market Liberalization: Ethnographic Reﬂections Edited by N. Dannhaeuser & C. Werner

RESEARCH IN ECONOMIC ANTHROPOLOGY

VOLUME 25

CHOICE IN ECONOMIC CONTEXTS: ETHNOGRAPHIC AND THEORETICAL ENQUIRIES EDITED BY

DONALD C. WOOD Department of Social Medicine, Akita University School of Medicine, Japan

Amsterdam – Boston – Heidelberg – London – New York – Oxford Paris – San Diego – San Francisco – Singapore – Sydney – Tokyo JAI Press is an imprint of Elsevier

JAI Press is an imprint of Elsevier The Boulevard, Langford Lane, Kidlington, Oxford OX5 1GB, UK Radarweg 29, PO Box 211, 1000 AE Amsterdam, The Netherlands 525 B Street, Suite 1900, San Diego, CA 92101-4495, USA First edition 2007 Copyright r 2007 Elsevier Ltd. All rights reserved No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publisher Permissions may be sought directly from Elsevier’s Science & Technology Rights Department in Oxford, UK: phone (+44) (0) 1865 843830; fax (+44) (0) 1865 853333; email: [email protected]. Alternatively you can submit your request online by visiting the Elsevier web site at http://elsevier.com/locate/permissions, and selecting Obtaining permission to use Elsevier material Notice No responsibility is assumed by the publisher for any injury and/or damage to persons or property as a matter of products liability, negligence or otherwise, or from any use or operation of any methods, products, instructions or ideas contained in the material herein. Because of rapid advances in the medical sciences, in particular, independent veriﬁcation of diagnoses and drug dosages should be made British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN-13: 978-0-7623-1375-4 ISBN-10: 0-7623-1375-7 ISSN: 0190-1281 (Series) For information on all JAI Press publications visit our website at books.elsevier.com Printed and bound in The Netherlands 07 08 09 10 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

CONTENTS ix

LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS INTRODUCTION Donald C. Wood

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PART I: MIGRATION AND LABOR MIGRATION IN TIMES OF GLOBALIZATION: THE CENTRAL VALLEYS OF OAXACA, MEXICO Martha W. Rees

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SOCIAL CONDITIONS OF FOREIGN LABORERS IN A MEATPACKING FACTORY IN RURAL SOUTHERN TAIWAN Winston Tseng

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TO HIRE AN ‘‘ALBANIAN’’: HOUSEHOLD ECONOMY AND IMMIGRATION IN RURAL GREECE Christopher M. Lawrence

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PART II: MARKETS AND MARKETING ‘‘THIS IS DIFFERENT, THIS IS THE PLAZA’’: SPACE, GENDER, AND TACTICS IN THE WORK OF MOROCCAN TOURIST SECTOR HENNA ARTISANS Patricia L. Kelly Spurles

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CONTENTS

ECONOMIC ANTHROPOLOGY OF BANGKOK GO-GO BARS: RISK AND OPPORTUNITY IN A BAZAAR-TYPE MARKET FOR INTERPERSONALLY EMBEDDED SERVICES Jumpei Ichinosawa

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TRANSNATIONAL CONSUMER GOODS CORPORATIONS IN EGYPT: REACHING TOWARDS THE MASS MARKET Michaela Kehrer

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CONCEPTUALIZATIONS OF DEATH IN A COMMERCIAL CONTEXT: THE FUNERAL BUSINESS IN PRESENT-DAY JAPAN Daisuke Tanaka

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PART III: LOCAL RESPONSES TO MARKET SHIFTS AND EXPANSION IN LATIN AMERICA THE EFFECT OF INFRASTRUCTURE DEVELOPMENT ON FICTIVE KIN CHOICE PATTERNS IN RURAL PARAGUAY Christina Turner

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WAYU´U CRAFTS: A DILEMMA OF CULTURE AND DEVELOPMENT Andre´s Marroquı´n Gramajo

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PART IV: KARL POLANYI AND THE CRITIQUE OF FORMALISM IN ECONOMIC ANALYSIS KARL POLANYI ON THE LIMITATIONS OF FORMALISM IN ECONOMICS James Ronald Stanfield, Michael C. Carroll and Mary V. Wrenn

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CHOICE AND THE SUBSTANTIVIST/FORMALIST DEBATE: A FORMAL PRESENTATION OF THREE SUBSTANTIVIST CRITICISMS Justin A. Elardo and Al Campbell

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THE END OF POTLATCH: AN ANTHROPOLOGICAL APPROACH TO NOSTROMO Tama´s Juha´sz

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LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS Al Campbell

Department of Economics, University of Utah, Salt Lake City, UT, USA

Michael C. Carroll

Center for Regional Development, Bowling Green State University, OH, USA

Justin A. Elardo

Department of Economics, Ohio State University, Columbus, OH, USA

Andre´s Marroquı´n Gramajo

Department of Economics, George Mason University, Fairfax, VA, USA

Jumpei Ichinosawa

Department of Cultural Anthropology, The University of Tokyo, Japan

Tama´s Juha´sz

Department of English, Ka´roli Ga´spa´r University, Budapest, Hungary

Michaela Kehrer

Institute for Social Anthropology, Free University, Berlin, Germany

Patricia L. Kelly Spurles

Department of Anthropology, Mount Allison University, Sackville, NB, Canada

Christopher M. Lawrence

Department of Sociology, Anthropology and Social Work, College of Staten Island, City University of New York, USA

Martha Woodson Rees

Department of Anthropology, University of Cincinnati, OH, USA ix

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James Ronald Stanfield

LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS

Center for Regional Development, Bowling Green State University, Bowling Green, OH, USA Department of Economics, Colorado State University, Fort Collins, CO, USA

Daisuke Tanaka

Department of Cultural Anthropology, The University of Tokyo, Japan

Winston Tseng

School of Public Health, University of California, Berkeley, CA, USA

Christina Turner

School of World Studies, Anthropology Program, Virginia Commonwealth University, Richmond, VA, USA

Mary V. Wrenn

Department of Economics, Weber State University, Ogden, UT, USA

INTRODUCTION Donald C. Wood Although Research in Economic Anthropology (REA) actually hit the quarter-century mark in 2003 with the publication of Volume 22, the series has now done so also in terms of the number of volumes. Twenty-ﬁve seems like an important milestone, and perhaps this edition can be noted for passing that, but it also marks the third editorial change in the history of REA. When a new editor takes over, it seems prudent to offer a summary of the book series’ evolution to date. As many know, George Dalton was the original editor – beginning in 1978 (REA was then published by JAI Press). Dalton subsequently handed the reins to Barry Isaac, who produced Volumes 6 through 20, along with a number of supplemental publications that focused on speciﬁc topics or regions and contained only chapters of an archeological or ethnohistorical nature. In fact, Isaac is still recognized for his efforts at granting archeology an equal footing with ethnology in the study of human economic behavior.1 While Dalton included previously published material in the pages of REA and welcomed works by nonanthropologists, Isaac considered only original manuscripts and generally limited his selection of chapters to those written by anthropologists. Since Volume 20, REA has been published by Elsevier. A new chapter in the story of REA began in 2001 when Norbert Dannhaeuser and Cynthia Werner, both of Texas A&M University, took over the editorship. Together, they produced Volumes 21 (2002) through 24 (2006), although Michael Alvard stepped in as Guest Editor for Volume 23. The new editorial team gave a unique title to each volume. Regarding

Choice in Economic Contexts: Ethnographic and Theoretical Enquiries Research in Economic Anthropology, Volume 25, 1–23 Copyright r 2007 by Elsevier Ltd. All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0190-1281/doi:10.1016/S0190-1281(06)25001-7

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content, they adopted Dalton’s policy of welcoming chapters by nonanthropologists, provided that those chapters were very closely related to economic anthropology, and they also adopted Isaac’s policy of accepting only previously unpublished manuscripts for consideration. In addition, reﬂecting Isaac’s inﬂuence on REA, the editorial team also made it clear from the start that they would be happy to consider chapters from anthropologists in other subﬁelds of the discipline, including archeology, and biological anthropology. As editor, I intend to continue the general policies of Dannhaeuser and Werner (2002), essentially keeping REA on its current tracks. In their introduction to Volume 21, they deﬁned economics as ‘‘processes and institutions involved in the production, distribution/exchange, and consumption of goods and services’’ (p. 1). They also declared that their editorial goal was ‘‘to advance the comparative study – through space and time – of economic systems in their broader socio-cultural context’’ and expressed their policy of welcoming ‘‘empirical and theoretical articles, as well as contributions that review recent developments in particular ﬁelds of economic anthropology’’ (ibid., pp. 1–2). I agree with Dannhaeuser and Werner’s deﬁnition and share their goal and their vision. Finally, I plan to continue their policy of subjecting all submitted manuscripts to a peer review process. On this note, I would like to express my deepest appreciation to the many scholars who were kind enough to ﬁnd time in their busy schedules to read and comment on the chapters for this volume. Their recommendations and suggestions contributed greatly to the improvement of the ﬁnal product. In addition, I am especially indebted to Barry Isaac, Cynthia Werner, Jeff Cohen, and Lee Cronk for advice and assistance in my new role as editor, and I also thank Kari Polanyi Levitt for advice regarding chapters in Part IV. Finally, I must express my heartfelt gratitude to Norbert Dannhaeuser for his tireless and generous support. This volume contains 12 original chapters – 9 studies based on data derived from recent or ongoing ﬁeldwork and 3 theoretical essays – divided into four parts. All chapters, in one way or another, address the issue of economic choice (individual or group) within particular social and/or cultural environments, hence the title of the volume. The nine empirical studies draw on ethnographic evidence to address a broad range of themes (such as agriculture, tourism, factory work, and mass markets) in a variety of geographic locations – Mexico, Columbia, and Paraguay in the New World; Morocco, Egypt, and Greece in the Northern Africa/Mediterranean region; and Thailand, Taiwan, and Japan in Asia. The three non-empirical chapters,

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all of which share, to some degree, a reliance on the writing of Karl Polanyi, are grouped together in a ﬁnal part. The opening part of this volume is comprised of three chapters dealing with different aspects of migration – a social issue that has received much attention of late in economic anthropology (see Cohen, 2004; REA, 2006; Trager, 2005). Although not a new phenomenon by any means, the voluntary movement of people to new locations – both temporary and permanent – is a major issue today among social scientists, politicians, and the general public. It would seem an easy solution to simply close off borders and intensify immigration surveillance, but it cannot be ignored that noncitizen migrants (both legal and illegal) make signiﬁcant economic contributions to communities, regions, and countries all across the globe. Besides, remittances they send are often crucial for their families back home (Matejowsky, 2006) and help feed those economies, thus linking local economies of various types and scales with one another in myriad unrecognized ways – even people or households that do not participate in out-migration may be strongly affected by the phenomenon (Bever, 2002; Cohen, 2005). Migration can be conveniently divided into two primary types – internal and external. The former takes place within the borders of a single state or nation, while the latter involves emigration and immigration. This is not to say that single cases of migration cannot include a mixture of both. Generally it is external migration that receives the most attention. This is understandable, for when people move over national borders a variety of legal and cultural issues arise, and the number of people engaged in such relocations around the globe is very great.2 Tofﬂer and Tofﬂer (2006) invite us to imagine the country of ‘‘Migratia,’’ in which 200 million immigrants – who have lived away from their country of citizenship for at least 1 year – currently reside. The ﬁrst chapter of this part takes us to a starting point for work-oriented migration, a logical place to begin. Here, Martha Woodson Rees focuses on a major place of origin for labor emigration in Central America, Oaxaca, Mexico, to discuss both internal and external movement of Zapotec women residents over the course of ﬁve decades. She utilizes primarily quantitative data derived from a geographically broad sample area, which allows for extension of the ﬁndings across more than only one single ‘‘community.’’ Rees’ ﬁndings show much ﬂuctuation over time in out-migration across her study area. They also indicate that choices on when and where to go on the part of both individuals and households are inﬂuenced strongly by speciﬁc opportunities in particular destination areas learned of through various

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social networks – labor opportunity appears to be a powerful driving force. Next, Winston Tseng investigates the lives of migrant factory workers in Southern Taiwan. Although based on a fairly limited sample, this chapter, grounded in world systems theory and social network theory, well illustrates the patterns of international movement and the living and working conditions that are typically found with this kind of low- or unskilled work migration. It complements the previous chapter by looking as a similar process from the destination side. The image Tseng presents seems not unlike recent news reports about North Korean women working in garment factories as far away as Eastern Europe – their movements being closely monitored and tightly restricted (Demick, 2006). Tseng shows how regional inequalities can be reinforced by highly exploitative labor migration systems, yet also how early migration from one area serves to help improve information ﬂows between there and the destination, thus helping later migrants decrease their opportunity costs and lower overall risk. In the third and ﬁnal chapter of this part, Christopher Lawrence takes a look at recent developments in Greek agriculture. Much as in Japan, plot consolidation has progressed slowly there, and farming has become largely a part-time operation – at least at the household level – propped up by government support and off-farm wages. However, unlike their Japanese counterparts, Greek farming households have come to rely heavily on migrant labor in their agrarian activities – much of it ﬂowing in from Albania, and much of it illegal. Lawrence’s chapter shows how deeply reliance on this new, much-exploited, ethnic labor class has become ingrained in the nation’s farming sector, and that the relationship between small farm continuity and disposable Albanian workers is very complex. It appears that many Greek agricultural households are now dependent on cheap immigrant labor not only in order to maintain a higher standard of living commensurate with what they might expect as new members of the European Union (EU), but also in order to secure an heir and perhaps even to remain solvent. Lawrence places these developments within the context of Greece’s participation in the EU, which entails increasing farm subsidization and international labor ﬂows. Whether or not Albanian immigrant laborers in rural Greece will eventually blend into the Greek population – either in the countryside or in the cities – and how it happens deserves greater attention in the coming years. The second part of this volume consists of four chapters that deal with market development and expansion, and also marketing, in a general sense. First, Patricia L. Kelly Spurles investigates the world of certain female henna artisans who struggle to sell their services in Moroccan public square

Introduction

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environments, amid conﬂicts between each other, with more stable male henna artists, and with representatives of the state. She also shows how the henna artisans have developed reciprocal relationships with outdoor vendors and even trusting relations with police ofﬁcers – many of whom, it seems, do not truly care to persecute the women as they must occasionally do in accordance with their orders. The women, seemingly caught between social concepts of how ‘‘real’’ Moroccan women should be and the realities of life, also have developed many ways of subverting state and male authority, and the market itself, through relations with vendors and with other women, and also by taking advantage of the complicated Moroccan currency situation. Being concerned very much with social allocations and uses of public space, Kelly Spurles’ chapter relates to recent work on the topic (Low, 2000; Low & Lawrence-Zu´n˜iga, 2003). Next, Junpei Ichinosawa analyzes a bazaar-like economy in Bangkok’s red light district, focusing on risk behavior among individual players in the notorious sex/companionship industry (see also Rende Taylor, 2005). In this environment, unlike the Moroccan public squares described previously by Kelly Spurles (where only the tourists are signiﬁcantly handicapped regarding knowledge), actors on both sides of the service negotiations are lacking in crucial information needed for maximization of reward and for loss avoidance – information, of course, being the very ‘‘lifeblood of markets’’ (McMillan, 2002, p. 44). One recent trend in the study of this worldwide industry, which generates untold millions of dollars annually but is also responsible for great suffering through bondage, servitude, and general abuse, especially outside of North America and Western Europe, is for female participants to write about their own experiences (see Eaves, 2002; Frank, 2002 on the North American strip club scene). Ichinosawa, however, takes a more distanced approach and concentrates on the interactions between young women and male clients in the Bangkok red light district in order to illustrate the ways in which the situation resembles a bazaar-like economy – the subject of much economic anthropology research to date. He shows that compared to typical bazaar economy participants appearing in the general literature the actors in his market of study appear to be far less risk-averse, resulting in much disequilibrium in their relationships as opposed to equilibrium. Nevertheless, the study also serves to draw connections back to more intimate studies, such as those by Eaves and Frank above, in which some individuals seem to vacillate between risk-averse and risk-taking behavior. The stakes are simply higher in the Bangkok environment, where power relations between male (especially foreign) clients and local ‘‘bar girls’’ are less equal, and where the chance of

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taking a female worker away from a bar for a private encounter is much higher. Contrasting somewhat with the generally stronger focus on consumption in anthropological studies of mass marketing and globalization, Michaela Kehrer presents a case from Egypt in which she places greater emphasis on the production/marketing side of the issue. Also contrasting with many similar studies, she ﬁnds evidence in Egypt of a process that does not necessarily seem to be one of unidirectional homogenization through the market intrusions of global corporations. Large, powerful producers appear to be locally engaged to a greater degree than one might otherwise expect – even when seen from within the society. In addition, it is clear that transnational corporations operating in Egypt have been forced to evaluate and reevaluate their marketing strategies not only for relatively static, internal cultural reasons but also due to rapid changes in the local socio-political environment inﬂuenced by external geopolitical situations – the 2003 invasion of Iraq, for example. Furthermore, the emerging importance of rural marketing is highlighted (see also Prahalad, 2006). Finally, whereas the previous chapter concentrated on the local appeal of mass-produced products, the fourth chapter of this part focuses on individual appeal for very personal mass-produced (but custom-tailored) services. Here, Daisuke Tanaka turns his attention on his native country of Japan and examines changes in funerals, and in the funeral industry, there. Indeed, with its rapidly aging population and very small proportion of young people (the fertility rate hit a record low of 1.25 in 2005) aging and mortuary affairs are popular topics – the former, of course, more so than the latter. As for the former, the problem has already attracted the attention of numerous social scientists (Hashimoto, 1996; Plath, 1980; Traphagan, 2000, 2004). The latter, mortuary affairs, as Tanaka explains, has attracted far less such attention. But services and ﬁnal resting arrangements are changing (including new types of grave markers – even trees – and also video-equipped mausoleums) and the funeral business is booming. Over the last year, the number of funeral halls in the immediate vicinity of the medical school where I work, in the northern region of Akita, has increased from one to three. One of these was originally an electronics store. In his chapter, based heavily on his own experience as a funeral company employee, Tanaka makes a concerted effort to explicate the dynamics of the industry as an institutionalized, economically driven force – a ‘‘social machine’’ of sorts – that serves to consistently redeﬁne social conceptions of death. This includes discussing the topic with the living in the present, and also reﬂecting publicly on the life of a deceased person in the future. Tanaka concentrates on dynamism and customer-oriented,

Introduction

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unique, services over mass production, homogeneity, and anxiety over modernization. Central to his argument is the conversion of information to knowledge in the business environment (see Nonaka & Takeuchi, 1995). The third part of this volume consists of two chapters that are similar in their focus on local responses to larger market forces in relatively bounded Latin American communities. This is not to say that the people studied here are ‘‘without history,’’ but only that these two cases differ from those investigated by Kehrer or Kelly Spurles in the previous part of this volume, for example, in that these groups of people are more akin to the ‘‘closed corporate communities’’ identiﬁed by Eric Wolf (1955, 1957, 1986) and which have been major objects of concern among anthropologists for decades.3 Of the two communities represented here, the ﬁrst – which Christina Turner has been investigating for over 20 years – probably bears less similarity to the closed corporate type in that is a frontier farming community that was founded less than a century ago. Turner relies on ethnographic data she has been collecting since the mid-1980s (and which extends back further) in her analysis of ﬁctive kin choice patterns in the Paraguayan community since its creation as it has become increasingly (but slowly) connected to the outside world. Interestingly, she ﬁnds that an increase in vertical connections with elites outside the community through ﬁctive kin ties – which one might expect to ﬁnd along with the recent infrastructure development – is nearly absent. Instead, residents are intensifying internal horizontal ties. Next, Andre´s Marroquı´ n Gramajo utilizes the concept of social capital in analyzing development (or lack thereof) within an indigenous community – The Wayu´u of the Guajira Peninsula, Columbia – who are subsisting largely by marketing their crafts both to other Wayu´u and to non-Wayu´u. The subject of much attention in recent years, the idea of social capital dates back at least to its use by L. J. Hanifan in 1916 in a warning against decreasing community involvement in his native state of West Virginia (Putnam & Goss, 2002, p. 4). Researchers in economics (Gramajo’s ﬁeld), and also in sociology (see Tseng, this volume), have been more interested in social capital than anthropologists, who have generally been rather leery of the idea. According to Durrenberger (2002) social capital obscures class relations, confounds capital itself, and leads to the formulation of ‘‘absurdities’’ such as ‘‘good’’ and ‘‘bad’’ social capital. He contends that social capital is not capital at all, advises that anthropologists avoid assuming the ‘‘rhetorical forms’’ of economists, and ﬂatly rejects the concept as ‘‘a bad idea.’’ In response to Durrenberger’s charges, Natrajan and Ilahiane (2003) agree that many ways in which the concept has been used has in fact

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downplayed ‘‘the heterogeneous nature of society,’’ and more, but they also point to Bourdieu’s use of social capital, arguing that there one may ﬁnd a sufﬁciently sophisticated application of the term for ethnographic analysis of complex societies and change. More recently, Schneider (2006) has offered her evaluation of Durrenberger’s opinion. Acknowledging that the concept has the potential to obfuscate class and relations of power, she articulates a necessity for more direct engagement on the part of anthropologists in extra-disciplinary discussions over the topic. Primarily concerned with applied research and policy decisions, Schneider speciﬁcally calls for ‘‘claiming the concept in anthropological terms, grounding the concept in ethnography, and using our (anthropologists’) consciousness of power relations in social systems to promote effective social change.’’ Anthropologists may not be completely united in their attitudes toward social capital, but there is an unwillingness to embrace the concept – especially at face value – for clear reasons. This does not only apply to anthropologists; sociologists have also voiced concern over whether social capital is problematic because it might be seen as being always good – something that can simply be added to any social situation in need of betterment (Krippner, Grannovetter, Block, Biggart, Beamish et al., 2004, p. 124). Indeed, although the expression has a nice ring to it, social realities may necessitate caution – but the use of the social capital concept by Putnam and his associates (2002) has resulted in some rather telling studies on state societies, democratic institutions, and civic engagement. Furthermore, anthropologists have used the concept in ways that do not appear to have clouded micro-level class and ethnic relations (e.g. see Gardner, 2002). In his present contribution, Gramajo seeks to extend the general body of ethnographic research on social capital into ‘‘legal informal frameworks that shape the structure of social interactions,’’ and suggests that the formation of new, stronger types of social capital among the Wayu´u of Columbia might help them overcome certain moral and legal problems he sees as impediments to greater solidarity and stronger market power – and, ultimately, more ability to control their own destinies in a relatively unstable economic environment. Hopefully Gramajo’s and Tseng’s uses of social capital in their respective analyses here will help move anthropological discussions about social capital in a more positive direction. The ﬁnal part of this volume contains three chapters that are tied together by the common thread of Karl Polanyi and, to a lesser overall degree, the critique of formalism in both anthropology and economics. While only the ﬁrst of the three is expressly concerned with Polanyi’s personal ideology, the other two deal with important elements of his general argument in

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drawing upon his work. The ﬁrst two of these chapters have been authored by economists who (1) are challenging the dominant formalist paradigm in their ﬁeld and (2) are interested in presenting some of their issues to economic anthropologists. The third chapter would probably be best characterized as literary criticism – it is certainly neither anthropology nor economics – but the author’s analysis of Joseph Conrad’s 1904 novel Nostromo brings up an interesting hypothetical case of market (and individual) change under colonialism and draws attention to the issues of reciprocity and redistribution, which played major roles in Polanyi’s criticism of capitalism, formalism, and neo-liberalism. An internal struggle evident today in the ﬁeld of economics bears similarities to the brief formalist–substantivist debate in economic anthropology (Isaac, 1993, 2005; Plattner, 1989, pp. 12–15; Wilk, 1996, pp. 3–13). Today, a signiﬁcant number of ‘‘heterodox’’ (or perhaps ‘‘post-autistic’’) economists are attacking the dominant paradigm (i.e., formalism) of their ﬁeld.4 Their argument is a powerful one, even if their undertaking – questioning the universal validity of the neoclassical approach to studying human behavior employed by most economists – is not exactly new in the social sciences. It has been done in different ways at least since the early institutionalism of Thorstein Veblen and institutional feminism of Charlotte Gilman in the 1890s (see Cohen & Dannhaeuser, 2002, pp. xxiii–xxiv; Dannhaeuser & Werner, 2003, p. xx; Ensminger, 2002; Jennings, 1993, p. 112, pp. ix–xiii; Wilk, 1996, pp. 64–70). Declares Hodgson (2004), ‘‘[T]he victory of technique over substance is a chronic problem in modern economics.’’ Indeed, economics has been largely concerned over the past 50 years or so with building formal mathematical models, often with supposed universal applicability, of human economic behavior (Carrier, 1997, p. xi). When everyday, practical applications of the models and predictions do appear, the economists are recognized and often heralded (Irwin, 2006) or their ﬁndings become the material for best-selling popular books (see Levitt & Dubner, 2005). The formalism of economics that is being questioned today is the application of broad laws to the entire spectrum of human economic decision-making and behavior. These laws are, as is generally known, based on a concept of individual maximization under conditions of scarcity and complete market freedom – basically the core of economic theory (see Stiglitz, 1997, pp. 9–10, 28). Where do these critical assumptions about human nature come from? Adam Smith is of course generally credited as the man who painted the ﬁrst portrait of the rational, self-interested individual (in England, where it all began – see Hobsbawm, 1968), but Smith did not create the very concept

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itself out of thin air, nor was he the ﬁrst to extol the virtues of the English businessman and his role in building and maintaining a wealthy and moral state. Writing near the end of his life in ﬁrst decade or two of the eighteenth century – approximately 65 years before the appearance of Smith’s seminal Wealth of Nations – Gilbert Burnet penned the lines: As for the men of trade and business, they are, generally speaking, the best body in the nation, generous, sober, and charitable: So that, while the people in the country are so immersed in their affairs, that the sense of religion cannot reach them, there is a better spirit stirring in our citizens; more knowledge, more zeal, and more charity, with a great deal more of devotion. There may be too much of vanity, with too pompous an exterior, mixed with these in the capital city; but upon the whole, they are the best we have y (Burnet, 1753, pp. 436–437).

The virtue of business – proper buying and selling – codiﬁed economic behavior in a ‘‘market’’ above and beyond the kind of barter and trade that Polanyi went to great pains to depict as non-markets (that is, nonself-regulating, state-controlled, etc.) appears evident.5 The seeds of the formal model had already been sown in London by the seventeenth century. Burnet did not question the market itself. Of course, the socio-economic environment he knew was quite different from that which Marx had in mind while writing in the nineteenth century – there was no open market for labor in England while Burnet lived (from 1643 to 1715) because workers were still bound to their parishes. The Speenhamland Law was still 80 years away at the time of his death, and its overhaul, which Polanyi identiﬁes as the creation of a true labor market in the kingdom, was even more distant (see Polanyi, 1970, pp. 77–85; 1947, p. 113). Furthermore, the waves of industrialization were still little more than ripples at the time. The market was, however, addressed in great detail by Smith. Although Wealth of Nations was not his only notable publication, in it he most cogently laid the groundwork for the science of economics. The individual, self-interested economic actor is revealed (in a much-quoted passage): ‘‘It is not from the benevolence of the butcher, the brewer, or the baker, that we expect our dinner, but from their regard to their own interest’’ (Smith, 1874, p. 11). It was necessary, according to Smith, to have a free, open and liberal market in which people could seek their own best interest (under the guidance of the ‘‘invisible hand’’) – he devoted many pages and much energy to making this argument. In essence, Smith’s formula consisted of two main points: (1) humankind’s ‘‘economistic’’ nature and (2) a need for free markets. These had already become deeply ingrained in the minds of English socio-political thinkers by the time Herbert Spencer wrote the following in the middle of the nineteenth century:

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Thus, all which the State does when it exceeds its true duty, is to hinder, to disturb, to corrupt. As already pointed out, the quantity of credit men will give each other, is determined by natural causes, moral, and physical – their average characters, their temporary states of feeling, their circumstances. If the Government forbids one mode of giving credit, they will ﬁnd another, and probably a worse. Be the degree of mutual trust prudent or imprudent, it must take its course. The attempt to restrict it by law is nothing but a repetition of the old story of keeping out the sea with a fork. (Spencer, 1865, p. 347)

Burnet, Smith, and Spencer all appear to have shared a similar view on humankind’s natural tendency to barter, trade, and haggle with ultimate concern for one’s own welfare – to look out for ‘‘number one’’ – even to the point of moral bankruptcy.6 As for Smith, however, it is worth drawing attention to another recent movement in economics (or in economic history) – a reevaluation of his position on the self-centered individual. Sayer (2005) argues: The last 30 years of Smith scholarship demonstrates Smith’s lifelong attachment to a thoroughly social conception of individuals, as beings who are psychologically dependent on the approval of others, capable of (and indeed requiring) fellow-feeling, concerned for others in themselves and not merely in relation to their own self-interest, hence capable of benevolence and compassion as well as selﬁshness, susceptible to shame as well as vanity, and as having a sense of justice.

Healthy economic activity, after all, was according to Smith supposed to bring prosperity, social cohesion, and happiness – not only for the individuals but also for entire states. He drew up a complex model, and lamented that reality did not ﬁt that model: ‘‘Commerce, which ought naturally to be, among nations as among individuals, a bond of union and friendship, has become the most fertile source of discord and animosity’’ (Smith, 1874, p. 377). He also derided powerful elites who regulated or cornered the market for their own ends: ‘‘Their interest is y directly opposed to that of the great body of the people’’ (ibid.). Smith, like Burnet before him, realized that people were not perfect in their reasoning, and he acknowledged that individuals could harm others by focusing too much on personal gain. But Smith was deﬁnitely ethnocentric, and he lacked the beneﬁt of empirical, cross-cultural evidence in building his formal model. It is worth noting that Marx would later formulate a completely different model, and also that even though he did have access to some ethnographic material, his model was no less ethnocentric and has yet to prove a greater practicality. The interpretation of Smith’s writing is a very interesting topic, deserving of further exploration, but the matter at hand is not exactly what Smith himself meant but the formalist paradigm, and heavy reliance on mathematical

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models and deductive reasoning, in the ﬁeld of economics today. Referring to Blaug (1997), Hodgson (2004) writes: I suggest that the problem with formalism is not the general inappropriateness of formalism itself, but it is the problem identiﬁed by Blaug [who] sees the kind of formalism in modern economics as ‘‘an intellectual game played for its own sake’’ rather than for its use in explaining and engaging with the real economic world. Blaug complains that in modern economics ‘‘analytical rigour is everything and practical relevance is nothing’’. Again the solution here is not necessarily to conﬁne formalism to the very rare conditions of actual or approximated closure, but to ensure that concerns for practical relevance come to the fore. Formal techniques should be the servants rather than the masters of scientiﬁc enquiry.

Polanyi has been brought into the fray by certain economists for his institutional focus, much as he was embraced by George Dalton – originally an economist – and the other substantivists in economic anthropology in the 1960s. Polanyi’s writing still offers a (more practical and applicable) Marxist alternative to the lingering dominance of neoclassical reasoning inherent in formalist models (see Halperin, 1984, 1988; but see Bell, 2002; and also Dalton, 1981). Halperin compares Polanyi’s institutional concept with that of Marx. [Polanyi’s] idea of ‘‘instituted process’’ y is much more elaborate than Marx’s general notion of the social, because it deals with the relationships between speciﬁc kinds of units and speciﬁc kinds of economic processes. For Polanyi, ‘‘instituted’’ means organized in the sense of something which is not idiosyncratic or random. The principles of organization and the relevant units vary enormously across cultures, however. For Polanyi, economies must be analyzed as parts of cultural systems. (1988, p. 33)

Polanyi in fact used ethnographic evidence collected by Malinowski, Firth, and Thurnwald in order to build a new framework, founded upon Marx’s basic ideas, that was ‘‘potentially cross-cultural’’ (Halperin, 1984, p. 247). This is probably why Polanyi had a stronger effect on economic anthropologists early than on any others in the social sciences – he took them from Marx to a place much closer to reality, and gave them a framework that was neither overtly nor strictly Marxist at the same time (it was, after all, the height of the Cold War). However, the introduction of Polanyi to economic anthropology by way of George Dalton, the leading spokesman for the substantivists, gave rise to the infamous formalist–substantivist debate in the 1960s. Not only did the debate itself rage brieﬂy only to die out in the 1970s, but substantivism itself steadily declined thereafter because the efﬁcacy of Polanyi’s original argument – the inapplicability of formal microeconomic theory (because it is a modern, capitalist construct) to each and every human society now and in the past – became limited to only a narrow

Introduction

13

range of pre-industrial societies by Dalton’s interpretation of Polanyi and his concessions to the formalists. Dalton (1960, 1961) and the substantivists argued that ‘‘the difference between Western-type market and primitivesubsistence economies y is one of kind’’, as opposed to ‘‘one of degree’’ as did the formalists (Cook, 1966, p. 326). This seems to contradict Dalton’s mentor Polanyi, who stated that ‘‘differences existing between civilized and ‘‘uncivilized’’ peoples have been vastly exaggerated, especially in the economic sphere’’ (1970, p. 45). In the end, as ‘‘pristine’’ or even ‘‘traditional’’ societies (or the recognition of societies as such) dwindled, so did substantivism. Furthermore, Dalton’s continuing denial of any links between Polanyi’s work and that of Marx brought about an eclipse of the substantivist position by a separate Marxist school that emerged in economic anthropology and which did seek the development of a cross-cultural comparative economics – Polanyi’s actual intention (Isaac, 2005). Meanwhile, even though the formalist–substantivist debate lost its steam years ago, its lingering inﬂuence – and tendency to pop up now and then – is probably at least partly attributable to the fact that it centered on fundamentally irresolvable issues that are much larger than anthropology or economics (ibid., p. 20). In the ﬁrst chapter of this part, Stanﬁeld, Carroll, and Wren call for a remarriage of the economic to the social within the ﬁeld of economics in the form of a more substantive social science. They begin by recalling Polanyi’s goal of establishing a universal economic theory not grounded in neoclassical thought – a theory that would apply not only to modern, capitalist systems but also to archaic or ‘‘primitive’’ pre-capitalist systems. They argue for closer relations between economic anthropology and comparative economics – which currently concentrates more on the comparison of capitalist economies than ever before (Djankov, Glaeser, La Porta, Lopez-de-Silanes, & Shleifer, 2003), but which also has a tendency to focus on key institutions in different economies rather than on entire systems (Pryor, 2005). The authors then consider Polanyi’s concept of the two meanings of ‘‘economic’’ – the substantive and the formal (see Polanyi, 1957, pp. 243–270; see also Isaac, 1993, p. 215) – and address the conspicuous omission of the latter in formal economic analysis, which can result in ethnocentric conclusions to rival those of Smith himself – hence, the ‘‘economistic fallacy’’ (see Polanyi, 1977). When Stanﬁeld et al. reveal their vision for a more substantive science of economics, the work of Polanyi emerges squarely in the forefront. The authors argue that in any investigation of the place of economy in society: (1) the presence of economy necessitating an economistic mindset (i.e., maximization in the face of scarcity) must be conﬁrmed rather then assumed and (2) if such an economy does exist, it needs to be

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recognized as an institution in and of itself, and also that it will be linked to other institutions in a hierarchical manner, in the substantive sense. In the second chapter, Justin A. Elardo and Al Campbell address the formalist–substantivist debate in economic anthropology as a parallel case to the current primacy of formal modeling in economics, with which they are dissatisﬁed. The authors present the standard neoclassical choice-making model (that lies at the core of formal analysis) in mathematical form and demonstrate its inability to successfully incorporate three key factors – the question of choice-making under conditions of scarcity, the matter of isolation of individuals in their economic decision-making, and the ultimate selﬁshness of each actor in a market – without effectively ceasing to be neoclassical. They conclude that the model cannot, in fact, be extended to ﬁt every economic choice in all contexts. Finally, as I noted above, the next chapter is not an empirical case study, but it wraps up the ﬁnal part of the volume with a different kind of economic model – a model not of what will likely be, or what probably was, but rather of what might be (or might have been). It offers a kind of ‘‘what if’’ question not usually posed by economics or anthropology – probably because it is too difﬁcult to answer scientiﬁcally.7 Much as Robert Heinlein did many years later in The Moon is a Harsh Mistress with politics and economics in a lunar colony (and a rebellion against Earth’s control), Joseph Conrad in 1904 released a novel in which he created a political economy in a ﬁctional land (somewhere in colonial South America, in this case). For those who have not read Nostromo, Tama´s Juha´sz’s analysis may not be easy to follow, but Polanyi’s handling of reciprocity and redistribution – themes that ﬁgure prominently in the archaic (and collapsing) political economy Conrad has fashioned – is clearly visible. There also appears to be a personal transformation taking place – the main character of the story can perhaps be seen as allegorical to increased interest in personal wealth and pleasure as traditional forms of exchange break down under the pressure of what could be characterized as forced globalization. Returning to Polanyi’s introduction of ethnographic evidence to historical (and comparative) economics, all three chapters in this part address his greater discussion of reciprocity and redistribution. Polanyi upheld these often as examples of non-market (i.e., non-economic) trade in which humans have engaged for millennia – as equalizing institutions deeply embedded in any socio-economic system (see Halperin, 1993). In The Great Transformation, he addresses them in terms of symmetry and centricity. Here, again, Polanyi’s (albeit functional) reliance on Malinowski is evident; he refers to symmetrical relationships that seem to have a leveling effect in

Introduction

15

non-literate societies – Malinowski’s discussion of Kula exchange, for example (Polanyi, 1970, p. 49). Centricity, on the other hand, involves the funneling of goods to a central location (or various locations) for collection and eventual redistribution. To Polanyi, these institutions are universal and will serve to bring about increasingly effective divisions of labor within societies with greater territorial size and more varied production (ibid.). Potlatch, of course, is probably the most well-known of such types of practices (Adams, 1973). Engaging in public redistributive activities may bring one prestige (see Mauss, 1990) and this in fact happens to the main character in Conrad’s novel, as Juha´sz points out. To him, prestige is more valuable than material goods themselves, at least until he begins to change. Elardo and Campbell draw attention to non-cooperative game theory models that have been developed by economists in order to address questions raised by the existence of reciprocal and redistributive institutions in an economic system (see Henrich, Boyd, Bowles, Camerer, Fehr et al., 2004, and also Chibnik, 2005). They argue that such models cannot successfully account for cooperation and communication between actors without abandoning their essential neoclassical character. Stanﬁeld et al. point to Polanyi’s view of state protective responses to detrimental processes of market capitalism that may undermine the security of individuals – responses that, they note, are supposed to help maintain reciprocity and redistribution as institutions guaranteeing a healthy division of labor in a society. Ultimately, the critical implication of the fourth and ﬁnal part of this volume is that anthropology has something to offer the ﬁeld of economics (and perhaps vice versa). Polanyi made this clear. Stanﬁeld et al. call for closer ties between economic anthropology and comparative economics. As stated above, the latter is marked by a focus on individual institutions in separate economic systems. On the other hand, anthropologists prefer concentrating on separate systems in their entirety. However, over the past 30 or 40 years, economists and anthropologists have indeed made notable efforts at sharing methods and concerns (Plattner, 1975), and at venturing outside of the ‘‘rows representing particular societies and columns standing for such entities as ‘‘economy’’ and ‘‘religion’’ as Salisbury emphatically described the two camps’ differences (1968, p. 477). Furthermore, just as comparative economics has moved further into the contrastive study of capitalist economies, so has anthropology increased its concern with them as well (see Acheson, 2002; Boulianne, 2006; Carrier, 1997; Dannhaeuser, 1996; Halperin, 2002; REA, 2006, Pt. II; Wood, 2003).8 This is one area in which the paths of the two ﬁelds (or, subﬁelds) will probably inch closer together.

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Another path is in the area of what ‘‘formal’’ means; there seems to be some confusion over its meaning in the social sciences. The term often is taken as ‘‘universal’’ but it does not necessarily have to be used that way. Like a chameleon, formal tends to change color in the presence of one or another theoretical outlook. Halperin (1985, p. 360), explains: [W]hen formal is opposed to substantive in Weber’s framework, formal means quantiﬁable. When it is opposed to the substantive meaning of the economy in Polanyi’s framework, formal comes to mean universal. When formal is opposed to descriptive in the current parlance, it means ideal.

Here Halperin refers to differences in the ways in which Max Weber and Karl Polanyi employed the terms ‘‘substantive’’ and ‘‘formal,’’ and also to more recent uses for formal heuristics in economic anthropology that were largely inﬂuenced by the publication of Plattner’s 1975 edited volume. For most economists, formal has been used in opposition to Polanyi’s ‘‘substantive.’’ Hence, Polanyi’s works – especially The Great Transformation – rank high in importance among so-called ‘‘heterodox’’ economists. In speciﬁc reference to this particular work, Polanyi’s daughter, Kari Polanyi Levitt (1990, p. 116–117), writes: It has not been sufﬁciently appreciated that Polanyi’s research in economic anthropology was directly motivated by the problems he sought to address throughout his life: how to organize the economy of our modern technological society in a manner that would make production subordinate to man’s societal and cultural needs; how to ‘‘re-embed’’ the economy in society, to use his terminology; how to institute a social and political order in which personal responsibility of man for his fellow man, and man for his natural environment, can supersede the dictates of impersonal market forces and impersonal state technocracies.

This position seems to summarize rather well many economists’ feelings toward the powerful mathematical formalism (or, ‘‘universalism’’) of their ﬁeld today. In the past, substantive economic anthropologists tended to focus largely on Trade and Market in the Early Empires for their arguments under the leadership of George Dalton, and they also used the term ‘‘formal’’ as did economists (which Dalton actually was), but this no longer need be the case today. Halperin (1985, p. 361) argues that formal models used as ideals – which should in fact be able to accommodate ‘‘institutions and processes as the units of analysis’’ – need to be carefully tested through comparative means and in a consistent fashion. It may appear to be too lofty a goal, but perhaps certain economists and economic anthropologists can work together in this endeavor in order to change the concept of the formal in economics.

Introduction

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Another idea that tends to carry a variety of meanings is ‘‘neo-liberalism’’ (see Dannhaeuser & Werner, 2003, pp. xiv–xv, also see Stanﬁeld et al., this volume), the critique of which might also beneﬁt from increased interdisciplinary understanding. One aspect of neo-liberalism is the privatization of public services and government functions. In (formalist or neoclassical) theory, this should beneﬁt consumers, who will have more choices and pay lower prices. It is not difﬁcult, though, to demonstrate that privatization can have negative – even disastrous – effects when hastily or carelessly implemented (Chomsky, 1999; Finn, 2006; Newling, 2003, pp. 110–113; Stiglitz, 2002, pp. 54–59). Whereas economists, as a whole, are apt to support privatization, economic anthropologists may more likely be tempted to demonize it and its associated processes and effects. However, anthropology might sometimes ﬁnd greater objectivity by paying attention to economics if it leans too far in the direction of subjectivity and personal bias. Write Dannhaeuser and Werner (2006, p. 5): Yes, neoliberal economic policies are often damaging to local economic interests, especially if they have an impact on populations and institutions that are competitively not prepared. Anthropologists are well placed to study this and to try to devise means to reduce the pain of this impact. This is one thing. It is altogether another matter to argue that neoliberalism is always a destructive and unethical economic process, which must be replaced.

In addition, comparative economics (and people with heavy inﬂuence on policy decisions, for that matter) might also learn from evidence carefully gathered and objectively presented by economic anthropologists. Finally, one more way in which the paths may cross appear when economists employ ethnographic methods and a more inductive approach to better understand relations between economy and society (e.g. see Gramajo, this volume). Declares Salisbury (1968, p. 485): Anthropologists should study Economics and vice versa. I do agree y that this should be done not to make the anthropologist an economist, but a better anthropologist. Given economic tools, he will improve anthropology. Give an economist the anthropological tools of sensitivity to what people say and of readiness to try to see order in different conceptual systems, and he may improve economics.

On the other hand, the superiority of inductive or deductive reasoning is an area in which anthropologists (especially those of North America – who tend to favor the former) and economists (who tend to favor the latter) often differ (but not always – see Gladwin, 1989). It is not surprising to note that the formalists in economic anthropology upheld the latter as a better method while Dalton and the substantivists insisted that the former was supreme. Although a certain brand of formalism (‘‘kinder and gentler’’ than

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that of most economists) prevailed in economic anthropology as a generally recognized universal tool for comparative pan-human study, it is safe to say that anthropologists share a common belief in the importance of the inductive method. ‘‘Show me the facts’’ is the likely response from most anthropologists when faced with the conclusions to which most formal (deductive, mathematical) economic models lead. And yet, part of the struggle in economics today revolves around the value of these facts when economists try to generate heuristics to be used in policy decisions. There appears to be a general reluctance to embrace them, even among unconventional economists. Writes Caldwell (2004): ‘‘The main reason why making the jump from the empirical results of a study to policy conclusions is so difﬁcult is that a given set of facts always give rise to multiple plausible interpretations as to why the facts are as we ﬁnd them.’’ Let it not be said that anthropologists have never considered this issue. They have been aware of the Rasho¯mon problem with the interpretation of ‘‘facts’’ for many years, and have grappled with the consequences time and time again – consider both professional and international disagreements surrounding Oscar Lewis’ Mexico research, exchanges in the 1960s between Brown and Nakane over the nature of do¯zoku (various main and branch household) arrangements in Japanese villages, or the infamous Mead–Freeman debate. But as with archaeology, ethnographic anthropology is a ﬁeld science – we can only work with what we dig out of the ground, as it were. In the end, trust in, and reliance on, empirical facts that forms the backbone of the science of anthropology is one of the best things that the ﬁeld can offer economics. Polanyi’s lasting appeal, after all, is largely due to his effective use of ethnographic material. All of this is not to say that economic anthropology and comparative economics must necessarily ﬂy closely together. They are certainly both birds, but are not exactly of the same species. At least, however, they may beneﬁt from ﬂocking more with one another – learning from each other to a greater degree. In this regard, the pithy observation of Clifford Geertz (1963, p. 5) provides appropriate closure to this Introduction: ‘‘Like two tunnel builders working on opposite sides of the same mountain, each must dig in his own spot with his own tools and approach the other step by step.’’

NOTES 1. A volume of chapters assembled in honor of Isaac is undergoing editing at the University of New Mexico Press at the time of this writing.

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2. It is also not uncommon for immigrants (especially those with no legal status) to make the news for involvement in crimes – when I lived in Texas it was usually about illegal Mexicans, and in Japan it is usually about illegal Chinese or South Americans (also see Lawrence, this volume). Also, inability to prosecute due to the absence of an extradition agreement between governments can prevent the dispensation of justice. 3. Coincidentally, both chapters concentrate on people who have migrated in the past en masse. 4. This is not to say that all economists associated with this movement would label themselves ‘‘heterodox’’ economists – a somewhat uncertain label in and of itself (see Stanﬁeld et al., this volume). 5. The diary of Samuel Peepys, Burnet’s contemporary, gives a very detailed view of the virtuous amassing of wealth, and personal attempts at striking a balance between calculated, rational consumption and Protestant morality (Dixon, 2001; Peepys, 1871). 6. Hobbes and Montesquieu also come to mind. 7. Yet, the ﬁctional model might possibly be taken as a kind of formal (ideal) model. 8. Although the author is actually a sociologist, Grannovetter’s (1985) inﬂuential paper is also notable.

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Newling, C. (2003). Mixe responses to neo-liberalism: Questioning sustainable development as a remedy to free trade and global capitalism in Oaxaca, Mexico. Research in Economic Anthropology, 22, 107–144. Nonaka, I., & Takeuchi, H. (1995). The knowledge-creating company: How Japanese companies create the dynamics of innovation. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Peepys, S. (1871). The diary and correspondence of Samuel Pepys, Esq., F.R.S. London: Alexander Murray & Co. Plath, D. W. (1980). Long engagements: Maturity in modern Japan. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Plattner, S. (Ed.) (1975). Formal methods in economic anthropology. Washington, DC: American Anthropological Association. Plattner, S. (1989). Introduction. In: S. Plattner (Ed.), Economic anthropology (pp. 1–20). Stanford: Stanford University Press. Polanyi, K. (1947). Our obsolete market mentality. Commentary, 13, 109–117. Polanyi, K. (1957). The economy as instituted process. In: K. Polanyi, C. Arensberg & H. W. Pearson (Eds), Trade and market in the early empires (pp. 243–270). New York: Free Press. Polanyi, K. (1970). The great transformation. Boston: Beacon (Original 1944). Polanyi, K. (1977). The economistic fallacy. In: H. W. Pearson (Ed.), The livelihood of man (pp. 5–17). New York: Academic Press. Polanyi Levitt, K. (1990). Origins and signiﬁcance of the great transformation. In: K. L. Polanyi (Ed.), The life and work of Karl Polanyi (pp. 111–124). Montre´al: Black Rose Books. Prahalad, C. K. (2006). The fortune at the bottom of the pyramid: Eradicating poverty through profits. Upper Saddle River, NJ: Wharton School Publishing. Pryor, F. L. (2005). Market economic systems. Journal of Comparative Economics, 33, 25–46. Putnam, R. D. (Ed.) (2002). Democracies in flux: The evolution of social capital in contemporary society. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Putnam, R. D., & Goss, K. A. (2002). Introduction. In: R. D. Putnam (Ed.), Democracies in flux: The evolution of social capital in contemporary society (pp. 3–19). Oxford: Oxford University Press. REA. (2006). Part I. Migration and new market opportunities. Research in Economic Anthropology, 24, 9–59. REA. (2006). Part II. Socioeconomic impacts of the oil and gas industry market on the Gulf Coast communities. Research in Economic Anthropology, 24, 61–204. Rende Taylor, L. (2005). Dangerous trade-offs: The behavioral ecology of child labor and prostitution in rural Northeastern Thailand. Current Anthropology, 46(3), 411–431. Salisbury, R. F. (1968). Anthropology and economics. In: E. E. LeClair Jr. & H. K. Schneider (Eds), Economic anthropology: Readings in theory and analysis (pp. 477–485). New York: Holt, Rinehart & Winston. Sayer, A. (2005). Adam Smith – the father of post-autistic economics? A reply to Edney. Postautistic economics review, 32. Retrieved April 27, 2006, from http://www.paecon.net/ PAEReview/wholeissues/issue32.htm Schneider, J. A. (2006, March). Anthropological relevance and social capital. Anthropology News, 4. Smith, A. (1874). An inquiry into the nature and causes of the wealth of nations. London: Alex Murray & Co (Original 1776). Spencer, H. (1865). Essays: moral, political, and aesthetic. New York: D. Appleton & Co.

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Stiglitz, J. E. (1997). Economics. New York: Norton. Stiglitz, J. E. (2002). Globalization and its discontents. New York: Norton. Tofﬂer, A., & Tofﬂer, H. (2006, March 19). Migratia, a country of the future. Daily Yomiuri, 4. Trager, L. (Ed.) (2005). Migration and economy: Global and local dynamics. Walnut Creek, CA: Altamira Press. Traphagan, J. W. (2000). Taming oblivion: Aging bodies and the fear of senility in Japan. Albany: State University of New York Press. Traphagan, J. W. (2004). The practice of concern: Ritual, well-being, and aging in rural Japan. Durham: Carolina Academic Press. Wilk, R. R. (1996). Economies and cultures: Foundations of economic anthropology. Boulder, CO: Westview Press. Wolf, E. R. (1955). Types of Latin American peasantry. American Anthropologist, 57, 452–471. Wolf, E. R. (1957). Closed corporate peasant communities in Mesoamerica and central Java. Southwestern Journal of Anthropology, 13, 1–18. Wolf, E. R. (1986). The vicissitudes of the closed corporate peasant community. American Ethnologist, 13, 325–329. Wood, D. C. (2003). Fragmented solidarity: Commercial farming and rice marketing in an experimental Japanese village. Research in Economic Anthropology, 22, 145–167.

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PART I: MIGRATION AND LABOR

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MIGRATION IN TIMES OF GLOBALIZATION: THE CENTRAL VALLEYS OF OAXACA, MEXICO Martha W. Rees ABSTRACT Immigration reform, anti-immigrant fervor and pro-immigrant protests in 2006 make the causes of Mexican migration an important political issue. In this chapter, survey data and interviews with Zapotec- and Spanishspeaking female household heads from Oaxaca, Mexico examine the relation between migrant destinations and labor demand in Mexico and the US. The goal of this piece is to assert the importance of structural and world economic processes (e.g., demand for labor) in the configuration of historically specific migration patterns.

BEGINNINGS ‘‘Alien invasion’’ claims New Nation News (2006), a ‘‘personal non-commercial site focusing on immigration, crime, corruption and National Integrity. Searching for consensus, toward ethical solutions, for family, kindred, clan and tribe – a new nation under God’’. A number of antiimmigrant web sites, linked to conservative groups’ sites, use key words, Choice in Economic Contexts: Ethnographic and Theoretical Enquiries Research in Economic Anthropology, Volume 25, 27–50 Copyright r 2007 by Elsevier Ltd. All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0190-1281/doi:10.1016/S0190-1281(06)25002-9

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including ‘‘clan,’’ and images of dark-skinned men accused of various crimes. In the early twenty-ﬁrst century, the US labor force came to be increasingly staffed at the lowest levels by undocumented immigrants, mainly Mexican men and women. Pro- and anti-immigration movements, combined with tension over terrorist threats and partisan politics, produced a number of proposed reforms to US immigration law. The proposals run the gamut from creating legal guest worker programs to criminalizing any support for undocumented workers, including social service agencies. As a result of anti-immigrant fervor, Latinos1 across the US protested: in Los Angeles millions marched, in Atlanta, Washington, DC, even in Cincinnati, thousands took to the streets. These historical, massive, exuberant demonstrations and work stoppages by undocumented workers made visible the numbers of Latino workers in the US workforce. These political issues are important elements of contemporary discourse, but it isn’t politics alone. Racial and ethnic stereotypes, and their political manipulations reinforce labor market segregation (Worsley, 1984). It is more than ideology, though. The economy, in this case, the labor market, is a key part of the story. A basic assumption of many pro- and anti-immigration groups is that Mexican immigration is temporary and tied to crisis in Mexico. Most migration studies explain Mexican migration in terms of poverty and crisis in Mexico. This perspective does not take into account the close ties between the Mexican, the US and the world economies. Migrant destination data for migrants from the southern Mexican state of Oaxaca for the period 1950–1998 illustrates the relationships between the Mexican and US economies. This chapter looks speciﬁcally for economic correlates of Mexican migration.

The Problem Mexican men and women have been migrating for a long time, although at different rates and to different places (early work includes Gamio, 1930 and, more recently, Nolasco Armas, 1976). Are these historical shifts in migrant destination random? Or, are they related to speciﬁc economic activities at the destination? This question is important in light of political and academic debate in the early twenty-ﬁrst century over Mexican migration, labor rights and, ultimately, culture. Many studies describe the poverty – lack of land, jobs and credit – that encourages people in Mexico to use their vast US networks to land a job in the US. Migration and migrant destination

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29

correlate with existing networks: if you have a family member in the US, you are more likely to migrate (Cohen, 2004). Although with 18 million people identifying as Mexican in the US in 2000 (18% of the total population of over 100 million in Mexico), almost everyone has some kind of network and not everyone has migrated. Networks explain speciﬁc individuals’ destinations, but not why the migrant stream shifted from Mexico City to California to Florida. Although many studies look at migrant communities at their destination, few look at speciﬁc labor demand at that destination. The importance of Mexican migrants in the US economy is part of this phenomenon and must also be part of the public conversation on this topic. This chapter describes the theoretical effects of economic crisis, domestic cycle and labor demand on migration and migrant destination. Expectations in terms of these perspectives are confronted with survey data from Oaxaca. Economic crisis is the main theory used to explain Mexican migration. Crisis, in economic terms, is a decline in the rate of proﬁt caused by the breakdown of systems of wealth accumulation, not the cyclical ups-anddowns of the market. Boyer (1984) describes these accumulation crises, e.g. the Great Depression of 1929, and concludes that they bring major reshaping of the world economy – a restructuring. Crisis causes wages to fall and often brings technological shifts that reduce the labor component of production, as producers seek to maintain or recover their former rates of proﬁt. Boyer concludes that a world economic crisis on a par with the Great Depression began in the 1970s, but that the effects were less noticeable because of state intervention to ameliorate its effects, put in place after the 1929 crisis. These include controls over the stock market and social programs such as unemployment insurance. In the 1970s, the pattern of accumulation prevailing since World War II broke down, bringing lower rates of proﬁt and economic growth (Brenner, 1998; Nash, 1994, pp. 10–11; Portes, 1989, p. 9). Production moved to areas where labor is cheaper, e.g. from the US to Mexico. In the US and Canada, new jobs were mainly in the minimum wage service sector, creating a high demand for cheap (often immigrant) labor and a deepening wage polarization (Bourque, 1992; Levine, 1995; Moody, 1995; Smith & Tardanico, 1987). The crisis resulted in a new international division of labor in which immigrants make up the working underclass in the primary industrial nations (Castells, 1980; Portes & Walton, 1981; see also Rees & Smart, 2001). These changes come with new technologies dramatically increasing the speed of movement and ﬂow of people, ideas, information and wealth.

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Globalization Globalization, that increased, faster, interconnectedness, is not such a new thing (Rees & Smart, 2001), new technologies have made the world a smaller place and increased the intensity of contact between previously separate regions many times in the past, e.g. horses, the wheel and electricity. Historically the speed of the movement of artifacts, ideological and production systems has increased contact between extra-local systems (Mintz, 1998; Mittelman, 1997). At each historical period, changes in communication and transport dramatically reduce transportation time between populations, and this brings about production and demographic changes – ‘‘globalization’’ – as the boundaries and interactions of systems change. But this is not a linear process, a continuum that runs from isolated (the past) to connected (the present). In Oaxaca, communities that were isolated in the fourteenth century became closely tied to global markets when cochineal dye became important in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries only to slip into isolation once aniline dyes put the red, insect-based dye out of business. Often globalization is thought of in terms of the ‘‘free’’ movement of information and goods (trade), but we cannot separate the globalization of markets, products and capital from the movement of human beings. Crisis, then, is a world economic phenomenon and is not tied to one region, although its effects are felt differently in different places and at different times. This most recent crisis, followed by structural adjustments put in place by state and supranational governments, has come to be called globalization, but is not that different structurally from previous crises (Rees & Smart, 2001). If this crisis explains current migration patterns, then I expect to see migration at speciﬁc time periods – as the effects of crisis are felt locally. Overpopulation, having too many mouths to feed, is one manifestation of economic crisis because lower earnings mean that households need more workers in order to survive. This may encourage population growth. While overpopulation is partly a product of population policies (e.g., access to birth control) and reproduction practices (e.g., lactation and birth spacing), it affects households at speciﬁc points in the domestic cycle.2 Chayanov (1966) describes the household3 as the unit of production and reproduction that responds to external conditions in the distribution of those resources at its disposition (typically labor in Mexico). Chayanov was interested in understanding the economic rationale of the peasant4 sector in early twentieth century Russia, and in explaining its continued existence under capitalism. One of Chayanov’s main conclusions was that peasant household

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31

production is determined by the composition and structure of the domestic unit over the cycle. In other words, more dependents require more work to produce enough to feed everybody. In this perspective, peasant households are oriented toward satisfying needs, not the market, so they can continue to exist in the face of apparent economic irrationality (loss). External factors, such as land, other resources, state intervention or the action of the market, may inﬂuence the level of well-being of the peasant household without substantially affecting the organization of the peasant productive unit.5 His model, therefore, only explains the existence of peasant economy, not its dynamics.6 It is not adequate for understanding the reproduction of the peasant economy,7 under conditions in which external socioeconomic factors may play a decisive role, as is the case in Mexico today. Today, the expansion of the market is so extensive that no community, household or individual is exempt from its effects – in the valorization of remunerated and non-remunerated labor, in information and perception of alternatives and in terms of consumer and other cultural values (although these values differ in space and over time). In looking at households, factors such as stage in the domestic cycle (gender and age of household members) and consumer/ worker ratio describe how stress on workers to provide for consumers may affect household distribution of labor, without any assumption about the equitable division of resources.8 Household manipulation of their composition (number of members or workers) in response to external conditions is well-documented (Berkner, 1973; Gonza´lez de la Rocha, 1994; Hackenberg, Murphy, & Selby, 1984; Maclachlan, 1983; Murphy & Selby, 1985; Murphy, Rees, French, Morris, & Winter, 1990; Nag, White, & Peet, 1978; Rutz, 1989; Weismantel, 1989). Number of children, marriage age, number and kind of workers (including migrants) and household extension (including non-nuclear members) are among the variables that households alter in response to external conditions.9 When the economy contracts, household production and income may not be enough to meet the demands and needs of their members. Responses may include expelling or retaining working members by encouraging or postponing migration or marriage and/or putting more members to work. If domestic cycle explains migration, I expect to ﬁnd that people migrate at certain points in the cycle, when households have too few workers or too many consumers, namely, during the early years of household formation, before children are old enough to help. The other side of the crisis coin looks at conditions at the migrant destination – labor demand. Worsley (1984) describes the history of segmented labor markets and their ideological components. Migrant destinations

32

MARTHA W. REES

change over time, just as demand for different kinds of workers (gender, ethnicity, training or education) changes over time. Speciﬁc forms of production, e.g. industrial production in assembly plants, technology intensive industries, industrial agriculture, dessert crops such as strawberries, and others, all require speciﬁc forms of labor. Just as electronics needs both highly educated engineers and low-skilled chip assemblers, so does agrobusiness use mechanized harvesting equipment for some crops and handpicking for others. As demand for products rises and falls, and as the technological organization of production changes, the labor demands for each sector change. Speciﬁc labor demands often require coerced, docile or otherwise controlled labor forces. In these cases, ideological discourse legitimates these labor conditions (ibid.). Racial, gender and ethnic stereotypes have been called on to justify these often unjust structures, e.g. African inferiority, female precision and Mexican hard work. Stereotypes reinforce speciﬁc labor needs and create niches in a segmented labor market (Massey, Arango, Hugo, Kouaouci, & Pellegrino et al., 1994). If labor demand explains migration, then I expect to see migration to speciﬁc destinations. In summary, these data examine the relationship between decade (in terms of the crisis), stage in domestic cycle, production and migration destination. These are crude indicators of dynamic and complex processes, but this scheme permits a simple contrast of existing data. By looking speciﬁcally for structural and economic correlates of migration, this chapter locates migration behavior in broader social and economic processes. Oaxaca The state of Oaxaca has one of the highest rates of rural migration to other destinations in Mexico and the US (Kearney, 1995; Nolasco Armas, 1976). Ever since the 1940s, or even before, migration has mainly taken the form of men migrating alone to the work site, leaving wives and children back home, where they largely support themselves with their own, domestic, production (Rees & Coronel Ortiz, 2005). The central valleys are an ideal site for comparative study because they are made up of a large number of communities in close proximity to the urban center, the city of Oaxaca (Fig. 1). These communities are characterized by a wide variety of ecological conditions (soil, irrigation and rainfall) (see de Avila, 1992), accompanied by a wide variety of economic specializations (Cook & Binford, 1990) in a dense market network (Beals, 1975; Cook & Diskin, 1976), as well as ethnic diversity (Zapotec and Spanish speakers).

Migration in Times of Globalization

Central Valleys of Oaxaca. Fig. 1.

33

34

MARTHA W. REES

In the valleys (excluding the city of Oaxaca), 30% of the population speaks an indigenous language (INEGI, 1995), although 53% of female household heads speak Zapotec (see Table 1). Because of ambiguity in the use of ethnicity and language use, I deﬁne individuals, households and communities by the language they speak (Zapotec or Spanish), without claiming that Spanish-speaking households are culturally distinct, because, in terms of cultural practices and basic demography, they are not. The Study Data from a random survey of 386 female heads of household from 11 randomly selected communities describes their and other household members’ activities including migration (see Table 1). Migration is deﬁned as absence for more than a month – excluding the many male and female migrants who go to Oaxaca City to work or sell, either daily or weekly. Jefes are self-designated male heads of household. Jefas are the females designated as the head of the household. Households are tallied by decade – there are fewer jefes in the 1950s than in the 1990s. Data on jefas’ migration is limited by the fact that, because of the nature of the survey process itself, it is impossible to get data on those jefas who are currently migrants. Likewise, entire households who have migrated do not appear in this data. Table 1. Municipio

La Compan˜ı´a San Jero´nimo Sosola Trinidad De Zaachila San Felipe Tejalapam San Agustı´n Yatareni San Andre´s Ixtlahuaca Magdalena Ocotla´n San Antonino El Alto Magdalena Teitipac Asuncio´n Ocotla´n San Bartolome´ Quialana Total

Sample Communities.

Population>5 Years of Age (1990)

Zapotec Speakers>5

Zapotec Speakers (%)

Jefas Speak Zapotec (%)

4,174 2,620 2,833 5,815 2,910 1,474 959 1,866 3,299 3,982 2,534

2 9 11 43 438 260 214 640 2,599 3,420 2,189

0 0 0 1 15 18 22 34 79 86 86

0 0 0 7 31 3 76 71 100 100 100

32,466

9,825

30

53

Source: INEGI 1995; ethnographic data.

Names and ﬁgures for Spanish majority communities, the top six listings, are set in italics. The

lower ﬁve are Zapotec majority communities.

Migration in Times of Globalization

35

Nevertheless, this design permits generalizations about the region as well as a look at variation within the region.

MIGRATION HISTORIES About half of the sample (ﬁve) communities have a signiﬁcant number of Zapotec speakers, the other half have mainly Spanish speakers (six) (Table 1). There is no signiﬁcant variation between communities with respect to demographic characteristics such as median household size (six), number of workers (three) or number of children (four).10 But there are signiﬁcant differences between communities in terms of certain resources – number of female workers (one), hectares of land (median ¼ 1.3), monthly food expenditures per capita ($125 pesos ¼ $12 USD) and months the (1997) maize harvest lasted (four) (see Table 2).11 These differences result in different patterns of labor allocation, especially migration. There is signiﬁcant stratiﬁcation in resources between households and communities in the sample, mainly along the language axis, and this also results in differential allocation of labor. Zapotec and Spanish speakers have similar demographic characteristics, but Zapotecs are poorer on most measures. Crisis and Domestic Cycle If overpopulation causes migration, then larger families will send more migrants. Households in Oaxaca don’t control much in the way of resources – with an average of less than two hectares of rain-fed land and unpredictable climate, it is the rare household and the rare year that produces enough maize for self-sufﬁciency. The main resource, following Chayanov (1966),12 that households do control is labor. Where children are still a source of labor, on the farm or as migrants, high birth rates continue. Data from four communities in 1990–1991 shows how the mean number of migrants per household changed over time, really taking off in the late 1970s (Fig. 2). Migration to Oaxaca City and to Mexico City is indirectly related: when migration to Mexico City increased to its maximum in the late 1970s, migration to Oaxaca City dropped. US migration increases since the 1970s. This data, from year-by-year work histories of household heads, shows that migration increased with the onset of the crisis in the 1970s (see Rees, 2006).13 Migration doesn’t change with household age (in households over 35-year old, more children migrate), but jefes’ migration does change, leading to the

36

Table 2. Community

Household Characteristics.

Children

Household Size

Workers

Female Workers

Jefa’s Education

Migrants

Hectares

Maize Production (K)

Months Harvest Lasted

Monthly Food Expense/Capita

Median Median Median

4.0 5.0 3.0

6.0 6.5 5.0

3.0 5.0 3.0

1.0 1.0 1.0

2.0 2.0 3.0

1.0 1.0 0.0

0.5 2.5 2.0

125 200 530

5 6 5

160 100 133

Median

4.0

6.0

4.0

1.0

0.0

0.0

1.3

138

4

100

Median

4.0

6.0

4.0

1.0

3.0

0.0

0.5

0

0

233

Median

4.0

5.0

4.0

1.0

4.0

1.0

1.1

0

3

155

Median

4.0

6.0

3.0

1.0

2.0

0.0

1.0

196

5

57

Median

4.0

6.0

3.0

1.0

3.0

1.0

1.5

232

9

100

Median

4.0

6.0

3.0

1.0

4.0

0.0

1.0

48

1

140

Median

5.5

5.0

3.0

1.0

2.0

1.0

2.0

130

5

137

Median

3.0

5.0

3.0

1.0

3.0

0.0

1.6

0

1.5

137

Total

Mean SD Median

4.4 2.5 4.0

5.8 2.5 6.0

3.7 1.8 3.0

1.0 0.0 1.0

2.8 2.7 2.0

0.8 1.2 0.0

1.7 1.5 1.3

264 449 100

4.5 4.1 4.0

168 160 125

Signiﬁcant differences between communities are set in italics (>0.000).

MARTHA W. REES

Asuncio´n Ocotla´n La Compan˜ı´ a Magdalena Ocotla´n Magdalena Teitipac San Agustin Yatareni San Andres Ixtlahuaca San Antonino El Alto San Bartolome´ Quialana San Felipe Tejalapan San Jero´nimo Sosola Trinidad Zaachila

Migration in Times of Globalization

Fig. 2.

37

Migration History.

conclusion that it isn’t domestic cycle (consumer/worker ratio) that drives migration. Larger families send more migrants. But, whether larger families cause migration or whether demand for workers encourages larger families remains to be seen. Domestic cycle does not correlate with migration patterns. Review of migration in different historical periods shows that destination correlates with labor demand. 1950s: Afterglow The post-WWII period in Mexico was one of economic boom. The bracero program in the US imported Mexican agricultural workers. Although there were few jefes in the 1998 sample who reported migration in the 1950s (11

38

MARTHA W. REES

out of 156), they not only migrated mainly to the US (33%), but also to Chiapas (29%) and Veracruz (13%). Of those who migrated to the US, at least 75% went to California. Most (55%) women migrants (who may have been single at the time) went to Mexico City, the rest followed their husbands to Veracruz (27%) and other destinations. Migration to the US in the 1950s is easy to explain: the bracero program, supplying US agriculture with those strong, willing, Mexican arms was in full swing. The highest numbers of migrants to cotton-producing areas in Chiapas was in the 1950s, when the number of hectares and production was at its maximum (in 1955, 1,058,990 hectares produced 508,743 metric tons – INEGI, 1986). Sugar is another piece of this story. In the Papaloapan Basin (in Veracruz and Oaxaca) sugarcane was the most important crop from 1950 to 1970, an intensive agriculture that needed lots of labor (Barkin & King, 1970). The demand for labor in cotton explains migration to Chiapas, sugar explains Veracruz and the bracero program explains the US destinations (mainly California). Economic boom and growth of the urban middle class correlates with women’s migration to Mexico City.

1960s: Boom In the 1960s the Mexican boom continued. The main destinations for jefes were still Chiapas and cotton (36%), construction in Mexico City (17%) and agriculture in the US (28%). US migration was mainly to California (69%) – all migrants reported that they worked in agriculture. Jefas (60%) migrated to Mexico City as single women in the 1960s where they worked in domestic service, but the rest followed their husbands to Chiapas. So in the 1960s cotton in Chiapas, the US bracero program and the Mexico City boom called for agricultural, construction and domestic service workers.

1970s: The Beginning of the End The 1970s saw the beginnings of the crisis in Mexico, but many of the effects were diminished, at least in the cities, by government subsidies. Jefes still migrated to Chiapas (29%), Mexico City (29%) and the US (26%), but other destinations grew in importance, including the ﬁelds of Baja California, Sonora and Sinaloa (8% of the total). When cotton production fell in the south, migrants shifted to tomatoes in the Northwest. Mexico City was still in the construction boom until 1976, and even after, supported by

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39

subsidies and inﬂationary government policies. US migration was still important, even though migrants didn’t enter the US legally, as the bracero program ended in 1964. It is an interesting comment on US immigration laws that the change in legal status (from documented to undocumented after the end of the bracero program) didn’t stop the proportion of Oaxacans who migrated to the US in this period. This illustrates that immigration laws are minimum wage and labor control laws – they don’t control migration. I expected Veracruz to remain an important destination because sugar was still an important crop and annual production was high: in 1970, 546,713 hectares produced 34,651,422 metric tons of sugar (INEGI, 1986). Sugar is a very proﬁtable agricultural product, superior to basic grains. But migration to Veracruz dropped in this decade, a fact explained not by the importance of sugar production, but by government intervention in the industry to supply cheap calories to the poor, causing crisis in the sugar industry and Mexico had to begin importing sugar (US Department of Agriculture, 2004). Loans funded Mexico’s spectacular growth in the 1970s when New York banks, ﬂush with petrodollars, rushed to lend and Mexico signed up. But soon debt and falling oil prices exacerbated the effects of the world crisis. The Mexican government responded, as mandated by its creditors, by cutting public spending and lowering subsidies for agricultural production (especially in the peasant sector). Development programs stopped loaning seed, fertilizer and technical assistance to rural groups, increasingly leaving peasants and their communities on their own. A policy of ‘‘triage’’ cut off support for non-proﬁtable (e.g., non-irrigated, small, indigenous) agricultural production units. Barkin (1992) notes that the government talked of those peasants who will have to move into other sectors. The middle class didn’t start to feel the pinch, because salaries increased on a par with inﬂation, but prices rose and the economy contracted. In conclusion, in the 1970s Chiapas decreased and Mexico City increased as migrant destinations.

1980s: La Crisis Debt and falling oil prices led to continued downturn in the 1980s, but this time without the support of loans from international lenders, now leery of the possibility of a catastrophic Mexican default (ibid.). In 1982, Mexico was unable to meet its debt payments – only emergency ‘‘bridge’’ loans allowed Mexico to save face and avoid the international panic a default would have caused. Debt emerged as a new form of international domination – the

40

MARTHA W. REES

company store on an international scale. Then in the fall of 1986 the price of oil collapsed. For the ﬁrst time in three decades Mexico suffered negative economic growth. Factories closed and inﬂation rose to an annual rate of over 100% (INEGI, 1992). Real incomes declined. People could no longer build houses or afford domestic service. The Mexican miracle had ended and this is reﬂected in the shift from Mexico City to export labor in the ﬁelds of the Northwest and US. In the 1980s, the US became the main destination for migrants (54%), while Mexico City, suffering from the crisis, fell to 19%. Sinaloa made its ﬁrst appearance, drawing migrants to the export agricultural ﬁelds (11%). In the US, most migrants still went to California (76%). Women followed their husbands, 8% of female migrants went to the US in this decade, although many still went to Mexico City (38%), and a new group headed off to pick tomatoes in Sinaloa (38%). Vegetable production took off in Northwestern Mexico (Sonora and Sinaloa), as a result of state support for roads and irrigation systems that beneﬁted large producers (Hewitt, 1978), as well as US demand for year-round salad.

1990s: Structural Adjustment The 1990s saw adjustment to the crisis. In 1994, the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA) came into effect, the response of the US, Canada and Mexico to the crisis, to which Mexico brings a virtual guarantee of low wages to transnational producers. Wages in Mexico are 1/8th of those in the US, job category by job category. It’s been this way since 1974, was still that way in 1987, and is still that way in 2006: US hourly minimum wage (about $5) is roughly equivalent to the Mexican daily minimum wage of about $50 pesos. The US economy counts on (low) Mexican wages to supply cheap labor. These low wages don’t just encourage US migration, but also support US production in Mexico – the maquiladora industry, where components are shipped to Mexico and put together by Mexican workers, then shipped back up north in a sealed, bonded, container. NAFTA facilitates the movement of products across political boundaries (Stanford, 1994), which makes it easier to produce under the least expensive conditions (where labor is cheapest). Since many producers had started up their maquiladora (in-bond assembly) plants in Mexico way before NAFTA (e.g., US automobile manufacturers), NAFTA didn’t bring more production to Mexico, but it does facilitate the movement back-and-forth of raw materials and products. For the rural population, NAFTA means that

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cheaper agricultural products from the US compete with (high-cost) peasant production in Mexico (one of the complaints of the Zapatista Liberation movement in Chiapas (see Stephen, 1994)). Together with changes in the agrarian reform law in 1992 that permit privatization of communal lands (DeWalt, Rees, & Murphy, 1994), NAFTA works to ‘‘free’’ (i.e., expel from the land) Mexicans to migrate to maquiladoras (Cornelius, 1992) or to the US. The crisis and Mexican responses to it affected local communities and the households and individuals that make them up. Intensiﬁed political struggle reﬂects the diminished legitimacy of the state in the eyes of the peasants and working class previously tied to it through subsidies and patronage (see Campbell, 1990; Dı´ az Montes, 1987). Legitimacy has been further weakened by violent state response to protest. The Zapatista Liberation Movement in 1994 is just the most famous example, brought to the world eye thanks to globalization in the form of Internet access (Stephen, 1994). In the 1990s, jefes stopped migrating to Mexico City (down to 10%) and moved to Sinaloa (13%), where a new kind of slavery developed – inhuman living conditions in tin huts, no water breaks, and, despite guarantees against child labor in NAFTA, increased child labor, injury and disease (Lara Flores & deGrammont, 2000). Migrants in our sample do not earn enough to remit any money or bring home any savings. They earn enough to eat during their stay. But the real increase in migration was to the US (67%). Most US migration was to California (67%), but less than the 76% to 86% of the 1970s and 1980s. New destinations appeared, including Florida (2%), Georgia (2%), and New York (14%). A few more women migrated to the US in the 1990s, but most went to Sinaloa (45%), where they ﬁll speciﬁc niches in the vegetable business (mainly packing). These changes in migrant destinations reﬂect changes in the US labor market (Mosisa, 2002; Rees, 2001; Rees & Nettles, 2000). These data support the idea that people migrate in response to economic crisis, more and more during the 1980s and 1990s, and that they go where they are needed – including new destinations as the California economy fell off and the Southeastern US grew. Migrant destinations follow the demand for labor nationally and internationally: to Chiapas and Mexico City in the 1960s and 1970s, to the US, Sinaloa and Baja California starting in the 1980s. Although the main correlate of migrant destination is social networks (Cohen, 2004), almost everyone has a network and networks are not random, but grow up in places with jobs. Agricultural production in Mexico in the 1950s and 1960s was complemented by seasonal agricultural migration within Mexico, and migrants returned home to plant and harvest. But from the 1970s on, the

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demands of agricultural work at home did not necessarily bring migrants home, or mean that men could or would return. Legal and political barriers to crossing the US–Mexican border mean that more migrants cannot return home, weakening ties between migrant and home. Those who do cross risk their lives as they seek ever more isolated crossing points.

Language Most people in Oaxaca are indigenous in origin. In my research, I use language that the jefa speaks, instead of ethnicity, to avoid the emotional reaction that this concept incites. About half of the jefas in the sample are mono- or bi-lingual in Zapotec (Table 1). Even though language does not correlate with so-called ‘‘traditional’’ or indigenous practices such as tequio, guelaguetza and the cargo system,14 it is related signiﬁcantly to resources such as jefas’ education (less for Zapotecs) and maize production (more for Zapotecs) (sig. >0.000). These differences are reﬂected in labor distribution, including migration. There isn’t much specialization by language in migration destination, but more women Zapotec speakers work in agriculture than Spanish-speaking women, while Spanish-speaking women migrate more, mainly to urban centers where they work in domestic service or petty commerce. Likewise, jefes who speak Spanish migrate more than Zapotec speakers (Fig. 3), although slightly more Zapotec speakers migrated within Mexico (mainly to Oaxaca City) from the 1950s through the 1980s. In the 1990s, the rate of Zapotec men’s US migration surpassed that of Spanish speakers. Zapotec migrants work mainly in the lowest paid agriculture jobs in the US.

ENDINGS These data show the historical relation between local conditions (crisis and demographic pressure) and the external demand for labor in determining migrant destination. In terms of the original questions, migration increased as the crisis took hold in Mexico in the 1970s. Household size, but not domestic cycle, correlates with migration. Households that produce more maize and have more children send signiﬁcantly more migrants, apparently supporting the relationship between overpopulation and migration. But the direction of the relationship is not clear. Do families with too many children send migrants to relieve demand on their budget? Or do women produce

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Fig. 3.

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Zapotec Jefes Destinations, 1998.

more children in order to assure enough migrants (and remittances) to make a signiﬁcant contribution to the household? It isn’t just internal factors like population, migration destination also relates to labor demand. Fluctuations in the production of cash crops (cotton, tomato and others) encourage migration to different geographic destinations during different historical periods, making up an important segment of the US labor market today. Zapotec speakers, with other indigenous groups, concentrate in agricultural activities in the US. Women have a long history of migration, and, with the exception of migration to cities for domestic service, they follow their husbands. Spanish-speaking migrants have more diverse migratory paths; Zapotec migration was mainly to the US in the 1990s.

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Mexican workers are speciﬁc kinds of workers. They grow and harvest salads, pack chicken wings, build houses and trim golf courses. They are close at hand and are largely undocumented – roughly 75% in Atlanta, for example (Rees, Garcı´ a, & Saldan˜a, 2002). This makes them cheap and wellbehaved. Stereotypes and anti-immigrant policies make them feel even more insecure and reinforce the structure of this labor market. That the antiimmigrant movement does not aim to stop Mexican migrants, but to scare them, is highlighted by the fact that anti-immigration proposals aim at workers, not producers: build a wall along the border, deny health coverage, education and access to social security funds, but don’t boycott the cheap lettuce, houses and chickens that they produce. Migrants aren’t just pushed out of their homes because of the crisis, they are pulled to speciﬁc places. Speciﬁc demand for workers by ethnic, racial and gender categories affects where migrants go – construction workers, chicken pluckers and house cleaners. Not every Mexican migrates, only speciﬁc kinds of workers come. They migrate because of low wages and economic and political conditions at home; but they answer a call. Migrants go where they have friends and family, but their friends and family are where the jobs are. The future holds a global labor force segregated by borders and segmented labor markets, staffed by migrants ready to pack up and move where the jobs are. On the way, they transform, adapt to and subvert processes that are beyond their control.

NOTES 1. By Latino, I refer to people of Latin American descent, regardless of their ethnicity, nationality, language or legal status. Many Latinos refer to themselves as Hispano, which generally is used to mean people who speak Spanish. 2. Domestic cycle refers to the stages a household goes through from formation when a couple starts a family, through growth and consolidation, as more children are born and the oldest begins to work, to replacement, as children marry and leave or stay to take care of elders and form, in turn, a new household. 3. Household or domestic group includes three types of units: residential, reproductive and economic or productive. The productive unit is the generic term to describe mutually committed people in production and consumption. In industrial society, these three groups are distinct, whereas in peasant society, they are often the same or overlapping groups (Laslett, 1972, p. 10). 4. Peasants are small agriculturalists who mainly produce with (unpaid) household labor for their own consumption (Wolf, 1966). 5. In early twentieth century Russia, land was not a critical resource as in many parts of the world today. Chayanov argued that the state and the market (for crafts

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and for labor) had little inﬂuence on peasant producers; others have argued to the contrary (Lenin, 1961). Certainly this is not true in Mexico today. 6. Various authors have criticized Chayanov for his lack of dynamics and for considering the household as an isolated unit. Using similar data from Russia in the early twentieth century, Shanin (1972) presents a dynamic picture of peasant economy. He also criticizes the biological determinism implicit in the model. Harris (1981) has analyzed the implications of representing the household unit as an isolate. Others have applied Chayanov to foragers (Sahlins, 1972), and to peasants and farmers (Durrenberger, 1984). Others, notably Wolf (1966, 1982) have consistently dealt with peasants not as isolates, but as integral parts of the world economy. Worsley (1984) presents a synthesis of the debate. 7. The term ‘‘reproduction’’ includes three dimensions or levels: (1) biological reproduction, including both bearing children and socio-demographic processes that relate to fecundity (marriage customs, age, contraception, etc.); (2) economic reproduction, the maintenance of the existing population through the production and labor (both productive or non-productive) of household members and (3) social reproduction, or those extra-productive activities dedicated to the maintenance of the social system (Edholm, Young, & Harris, 1996). 8. The household is not a homogeneous unit (Rapp, Ross, & Bridenthal, 1979). Members do not share resources equally. Neither is migration necessarily a household, but may be an individual decision (Hondagneu-Sotelo, 1994, p. 55). However, households do affect the behavior of their members, as the $8 billion that Mexican migrants send home every year attests. Women often manage households as if they were the only decision-maker. 9. I use the household, focusing on the female head of household, to examine the relationships between individuals, their households and larger social phenomena. I recognize the debate over whether households can be deﬁned as co-residential units (Weismantel, 1989), but since households are dynamic, I use the ‘‘emic’’ unit (hogar in Spanish) and, unlike other researchers, include non-resident members who pool resources. Today, so many households are truly internationalized with contributing, migrating members all over the world, that the concept of ‘‘co-residence’’ may no longer be valid (see Nash, 1994), especially for this study. To paraphrase Schmink (1984), the study of household behavior is a way to bridge the gap between social and individual levels of analysis. The domestic unit mediates the effects of broad historical and structural processes on individuals, through changes in labor-force participation, consumption and migration. The household in turn changes in response to these external conditions. Households provide the missing link ‘‘capable of connecting the global to the local level of analysis’’ (Smith & Tardanico, 1987, p. 87). The study of households describes different responses to general structural conditions as well as changes speciﬁc to subgroups of the population (ibid.). 10. Research was supported by the National Science Foundation, grant 9729824. Instruments were designed and survey research was carried out by Martha Rees, Dolores Coronel Ortiz (IIS-UNAM) and Isabel Pe´rez Vargas (Chapingo), with support from Danyael Miller, Shaunda Blackwell and Michelle Patterson (supported by an NSF REU grant). Limitations to the study include the fact that only municipal head towns were selected. We suppose that smaller, non-head towns have different characteristics.

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11. I use median because of squewed data. 12. The consumer/worker ratio, designed by Chayanov (1966), describes the number of consumers (total household members) supported by each worker. The higher the ratio, e.g. 6/1, the more stress on each worker, although this often indicates that that one worker earns a lot. Lower ratios, approaching 1, mean that everyone is working. 13. Data from 1990–1991 collected with support from the Fulbright Foundation, Agnes Scott College and the National Science Foundation (INT # 9002515). 14. Tequio is a labor tax. Households must supply a day’s labor (one worker or one salary) to fulﬁll a community obligation. Often considered to be a traditional way of mobilizing labor for community projects, it is probably a product of state demands for labor tribute, either during the classic period in Oaxaca or from the colonial period. Today, a community that needs to build a road, paint the school, or dig a well used tequio (rich, urban communities get the municipality to pay for most of these, but paving, sewage, etc. is still paid for). Guelaguetza is organized reciprocal exchange, often done in a ceremonial context, but often related to production. Whoever receives the goods is obligated to return the favor in kind, when the giver asks. Most people depend on guelaguetza to mobilize resources when they confront extraordinary expenses, including the celebration of the patron saint, in fandangos (weddings). Each guelaguetza book has a detailed list of the rights (loans given) and obligations (loans received). These obligations are hereditary and transfer even to migrants. Guelaguetza is a savings strategy, a way of accumulating and investing capital. The cargo, or burden, system is a hierarchy of community service positions, rising from messenger to mayordomo, or patron of the community ﬁesta. Like the tequio, the cargo system is mainly a post-independence development. The cargo system functions as a mechanism for internal redistribution as wealthy individuals are forced to ﬁnance ﬁestas. (Today some municipal positions (secretary-treasurer) in some municipios are salaried.)

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS A previous version of this chapter was presented at the 2003 meetings of the Society for Economic Anthropology in Monterrey, Nuevo Leo´n, Mexico. Thanks to Michelle Anderson, Department of Anthropology, University of Cincinnati, for helpful comments. Anonymous reviewers made this chapter substantially better.

REFERENCES Barkin, D. (1992, November 6). Agrarian counter-reform in Mexico. The new shape of the countryside: agrarian counter-reform in Mexico. Seminar of the program in agrarian studies, Yale University.

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SOCIAL CONDITIONS OF FOREIGN LABORERS IN A MEATPACKING FACTORY IN RURAL SOUTHERN TAIWAN Winston Tseng ABSTRACT The growing foreign labor population has become a major political issue in Taiwan. However, there has been a lack of understanding about foreign laborers in Taiwan from foreign laborer perspectives. This ethnographic case study focuses on foreign laborer perspectives and examines social contexts, conditions, and support for Filipino and Thai laborers at a meatpacking factory in rural southern Taiwan. The findings suggest that foreign laborers are pushed by family financial needs and pulled by higher wages and labor shortages in Taiwan meatpacking factories. Also, these laborers work and live under difficult conditions and lack social welfare and support.

INTRODUCTION Transnational labor migration is situated within the larger contexts of globalization and development (Massey et al., 1998; Sassen, 1998; Stalker, Choice in Economic Contexts: Ethnographic and Theoretical Enquiries Research in Economic Anthropology, Volume 25, 51–73 Copyright r 2007 by Elsevier Ltd. All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0190-1281/doi:10.1016/S0190-1281(06)25003-0

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2000). The imbalanced forces of global economics have led to the growing concentration of global capital, increasing economic disparities between rich and poor countries, rising foreign labor market demands from domestic labor market shortages in capital rich countries, and rapid technological innovation. As a result, there has been a rapid contemporary expansion of transnational labor migration and growth of transnational social networks that have led to even greater global labor ﬂows. As a newly industrialized country, Taiwan only began opening its doors to foreign or migrant laborers in the mid-1980s due to a shortage in the domestic labor market as a result of declining fertility rates and rising educational status of the native population (Chen, 1999; Lin, 2005; Stalker, 1994). Taiwan’s experiences and concerns with foreign laborers are similar to other Asian industrialized countries (Lee & Park, 2005; Nonini, 2002; Stalker, 2000). Currently, foreign laborers (e.g., labor, domestic, professional) in Taiwan primarily come from Southeast Asia, account for over one percent of the total Taiwan population, and are rapidly increasing (Lin, 2005; Stalker, 2000). The manufacturing of global skilled and unskilled laborers from Philippines and other parts of Southeast Asia across the Paciﬁc region has been promoted and brokered by government and private institutions to advance ﬂexible accumulation and migrant exploitation (Guevarra, 2004; Ong, 1987; Tyner, 1999, 2000, 2004). Also, there has been a gendering of migrant labor ﬂows embedded in the global capitalist structure and facilitated by government and private labor recruitment agencies (Guevarra, 2004; Tyner, 2004). A major consequence to this steadily growing foreign laborer population in Taiwan has been the increasing political tensions between anti-foreigner policies to protect native labor interests and corporate interests seeking to hire more foreign laborers to cut labor costs and to maintain maximal efﬁciency to keep up with operation and production schedules (Chen, 1999; Lin, 2005). In addition, there have been growing cultural conﬂicts and language communication issues between natives and foreigners having been brought together by compelling economic interests to work and live in the same environments. There has been a lack of research about international migrant labor in Taiwan. In particular, no research has been conducted that assesses these issues from factory migrant laborer perspectives and focuses on their social conditions in the country. The very little past and current research literature on international migrant labor in Taiwan has tended to be concerned with the perspectives and interests of the native population (Lin, 2005) and with foreign domestic laborers (Cheng, 2004; Young, 2004), not factory foreign laborers. A few studies have been conducted about the increasing

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international migrant laborers in the meatpacking industry in the United States (Cooper, 1997; Dalla, Ellis, & Cramer, 2005), but none in Asia. Foreign or migrant laborer literature has primarily focused on domestic laborers and the impact on native workers, and has not included factory laborers. Factory foreign laborers are not passive players and also play a critical role in the global economy. Over time, some have established and sustained ethnic and labor networks within the global economic system to protect and promote their interests and have reshaped transnational power arenas at local and regional levels (Stalker, 2000). The purpose of this study is to focus on foreign laborer perspectives and assess the social conditions and support networks of foreign laborers at a meatpacking factory in rural southern Taiwan. This chapter addresses the gap in the existing literature concerning factory foreign laborers in the country and contributes to broader international development frameworks about factory foreign laborers in meatpacking industries.

THEORETICAL FRAMEWORKS World systems theory (Portes & Walton, 1981; Sassen, 1988; Simmons, 1989) and social network theory (Massey et al., 1998; Portes, 1998; Portes & Rumbaut, 1990) are the major theoretical perspectives that frame this research study.

World Systems Theory World systems theory proposes that unequal distribution of power based upon politics, economics, and ideology has served to perpetuate social inequality, maintain a socially stratiﬁed economic hierarchy, expand global capitalist markets, and promote international population ﬂows. The basic structure of this expanding global capitalist system known as the world system (Wallerstein, 1974, 1980, 1989) is a system based on dependency relations of power with historical roots from imperialism, colonialism, and capitalist development. Within this structural framework, dominant and subordinate capitalist power relations between nations within the capitalist system are divided into the core, the semi-periphery, and the periphery. Nations outside of the capitalist system in the external arena slowly become incorporated into this developmentally stratiﬁed global economy as it expands. World systems theory proposes that international migration

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dynamics are situated within this world system and are fought out primarily between the macro-economic forces, international division of labor, and political systems of power (Sassen, 1988). Some speciﬁc outcomes or consequences resulting from such unequal global power relations have been the emergence of international labor ﬂows in terms of both brain drain (Adams, 1969; Glaser, 1978) and cheap labor (Portes & Walton, 1981; Sassen, 1988). Modern capitalist power dynamics have reshaped traditional and regional conceptions and processes of land production, raw material uses, labor organization, and transportation of goods and services (Massey et al., 1998). In addition, these dynamics have served to sustain unequal global political power relations across nations, maintain international security systems to enforce stable economic development, and concentrate capital in global cities where the most powerful elites, political institutions, and multinational corporations are based (Sassen, 1988, 1991, 1998). These basic features of capitalist industries along with the attached economic, political, and ideological forces have ultimately led to a dramatic rise in contemporary global migration ﬂows. Overall, world systems theory (Massey et al., 1998; Sassen, 1998; Skeldon, 1997) proposes that capitalists in core nations driven by proﬁt motives penetrate poor nations in the periphery and external arenas to seek capital productive instruments and resources such as land, raw materials, consumer markets, and sources of labor. In the past, colonial regimes have served as mediating forces to global capitalist expansion and maintenance of capitalist power relations. Today, multinational corporations and post-colonialist regimes have continued to sustain such processes. International migration has been a fundamental consequence of global market penetrations and capitalist development. Government policies to limit overseas corporate investments and international ﬂows of goods and capital can help reduce the immigration rate. However, such policies require international consensus that is often difﬁcult to implement. Also, such policies tend to lead to trade disputes between countries and often clash with multinational corporations. In addition, refugee movements particularly towards core nations are a major outcome of unsuccessful state interventions by capitalist countries and peripheral countries to protect corporate investments and sustain global market growth.

Social Network Theory Within the context of transnational migration and social networks, migrant networks and migrant supporting institutions that develop subsequent to

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primary migratory movements serve as social capital linkages that generally help to perpetuate international population movements between origin and destination countries (Boyd, 1989; Choldin, 1973; MacDonald & MacDonald, 1974). This model focuses on micro-structural levels of migration such as family and community networks as sources of social capital. Social capital is deﬁned as ‘‘the ability of actors to secure beneﬁts by virtue of membership in social networks or other social structures’’ (Portes, 1998, p. 6). Once the initial trigger for migration from economic, political, cultural, and/or other factors occurs, a self-sustaining migration process develops through increasing family and community density of immigrants in the country of destination along with strengthening transnational linkages across geographical space at family and community levels between the lands of origin and destination. The expansion of such transnational migrant networks and institutions leads to a reduction of costs and risks and further movements over time until a saturation point where persons that wish to migrate have complete ﬂexibility over choices and capacity for international movements. Once international migration dynamics have become institutionalized through intricate global networks, they become quite different from the original movements and are decreasingly impacted by the initiating factors for migration. Government policies to control international migration ﬂows in core regions or advanced capitalist countries have limited effects because transnational migrant networks and institutions are ﬂexible entities that often utilize channels largely external to such restrictions (Hagan & GonzalezBaker, 1993). As these networks and connections grow and become well established, regulation of migration becomes more and more difﬁcult. On the other hand, some government immigration policies such as family reuniﬁcation and special occupational quotas for professional skilled labor have served to promote certain types of immigration ﬂows that have strengthened transnational migrant networks and institutions.

METHODOLOGY This is an ethnographic case study of social conditions and networks of foreign laborers at the meatpacking factory of an agricultural and livestock company in rural southern Taiwan. The ﬁeldwork was conducted during July and August 2000. The case study ﬁeld sample consisted of this company, its factory foreign laborers and management staff, and the surrounding region. The recruitment of this company was facilitated with the help of

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the school of social sciences at the local university. The study procedures included: (1) ﬁeld observation of the company site and the surrounding region, (2) formal and informal interviews of factory foreign laborers and management staff, and (3) literature search about foreign labor and social welfare. Field observations were conducted to get a better sense of the work and living environment for foreign laborers and the context of foreign labor at the company. The sites included the meatpacking factory, the company dormitory for the foreign laborers, other company facilities, and surrounding regions where foreign laborers would visit outside of work time. At the meatpacking factory, two separate tours of the facilities (e.g., hot rooms, cold rooms, meatpacking rooms, storage rooms, management facilities, research labs) and the neighboring foreign laborer dormitories were given by a factory manager who also helped to explain the comprehensive operations of the factory from food production to food distribution as well as the role of foreign labor for the company. The tours took place during different site visits and each lasted approximately two hours. In addition, ﬁeld observations of the meatpacking factory and foreign laborer dormitories as well as other company facilities nearby and the surrounding region were conducted independently without company staff accompaniment through multiple site visits over a two-month period. The formal interviews consisted of one Taiwanese male company manager at the meatpacking factory and six Filipino (ﬁve male and one female) and two Thai (one male and one female) laborers. The manager was in his 30 s and had worked at the company for more than ﬁve years. The company manager was interviewed in Mandarin Chinese and Taiwanese a number of times over multiple visits totaling eight hours. The manager interviews focused on the company’s rationale for recruiting foreign laborers, recruitment and contract issues, working and living contexts for these laborers, and major labor management challenges. The foreign laborers interviewed were recruited with the help of this manager and other company staff. The mean age of foreign laborer participants was 32 and the mean length of time working in Taiwan was 23 months. The laborers were selected based on a combination of: (1) English or Mandarin Chinese language ﬂuency and (2) availability to participate during work hours. Filipino laborers were interviewed in English and Thai laborers were interviewed in Mandarin Chinese. Each interview took approximately one hour. A brief social demographic questionnaire was given to the foreign laborers at the start of each interview to ﬁll out. The foreign laborer interviews concentrated on prior migration context, rationale for coming to

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Taiwan, the navigation process of planning the journey and arrival to the factory in Taiwan, the factory working and living conditions, the laborer needs and support while in Taiwan, and plans after the end of the labor contract in Taiwan. There were some limitations about how much information the company manager and the foreign laborers were willing to openly share. First, the manager tended to discuss his company’s work conditions in a favorable light and avoided discussions about problems they encountered with foreign laborers. Second, the foreign laborers were recruited with the assistance of native company staff and not recruited directly. All the laborers interviewed were pulled out of their work schedule, not knowing in advance they would be interviewed. Also, the laborer interviews took place at pre-arranged rooms by the meatpacking factory ofﬁces determined by the native company staff, not at a place of their own choosing. However, getting approval from company management was the primary and only means for gaining entry to the company facilities and facilitating interviews of factory foreign laborers in Taiwan. In addition, there were some communication difﬁculties. As explained above, Filipino laborers were interviewed in English and Thai laborers interviewed in Mandarin Chinese. However, these languages were second languages for the interview participants, not their primary languages. As a result, there were some inter-cultural communication problems with the comprehension of questions and clarity of responses for both the interviewers and interviewees during the interviews. Furthermore, all interview participants were from the same meatpacking factory. The inclusion of a comparative analysis would have strengthened the research study.

ANALYSIS The analysis and interpretative processes were based on a constant comparative approach (Glaser & Strauss, 1967) in which the research/ﬁeld work, analysis, and interpretation were parts of the same integrative process where emerging themes from the analysis and interpretation processes could add, change, or shift the direction of how the research work was conducted. At the same time, new ﬁeld data collected might also add, change, or shift the direction of the analysis and interpretation processes. Transcribed interviews and ﬁeld notes from the interviews and ﬁeld observations were analyzed using a qualitative coding approach (ibid.; Strauss & Corbin, 1990). Coding analysis was conducted throughout the data collection

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and analysis processes on all interview transcripts and ﬁeld notes until data saturation had been reached. Phrase by phrase coding was conducted as opposed to line-by-line coding. Also, in recoding the transcripts, ﬁeld notes, and other documents several times, new parts and concepts from the transcripts and ﬁeld notes were sometimes discovered that had been missed. In addition, throughout this process, memos about theoretical concepts and linkages were written whenever signiﬁcant thoughts or concepts came up that the researchers felt might be related to the study in interesting or important ways. First, upon coming up with an idea, a short memo was quickly written down to describe and explain the idea that came up at the time. When there was more time, the short memo was then lengthened to explain in more detail and elaborate more on the idea or thought. These memos were critical tools in organizing concepts about the study and adding to the research process and analysis in creative and constructive ways. Furthermore, as key concepts and themes evolved from the analysis and interpretation, diagrams were drawn to explore the relationships, linkages, dimensions, and gaps across the various interpretive and analytical concepts within the contexts of local community and transnational processes. Diagrams were drawn throughout the research study to help organize thoughts and frame ideas from the analysis, interpretation, and write-up. In summary, in going through and back and forth in a forward spiral in the research processes of conducting ﬁeld observations, interviews, keeping ﬁeld notes, analysis of interview transcriptions and ﬁeld notes, writing memos, drawing diagrams, and writing up of the data and analysis, the research process was constantly transformed and expanded. From this active on-going research cycle of exploration, discovery, and analysis, major concepts and theoretical frameworks were constructed and developed about the conditions, experiences, and trajectories of foreign laborers in Taiwan.

RESEARCH FINDINGS The case study ﬁndings suggested that (1) there has been a growing demand and need for factory foreign laborers by the Taiwan food industry, (2) Filipino and Thai factory foreign laborers have compelling family ﬁnancial motives to seek work outside their native country due to poor economic conditions at home, (3) these factory foreign laborers work and live under difﬁcult conditions, (4) they have few rights and privileges as temporary foreign settlers, and (5) they primarily depend on ethnic and kinship

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networks for support, according to the observations, interviews, and literature review. Foreign labor ﬂows to the Taiwan food processing corporation in this study came from Southeast Asia (e.g., Indonesia, the Philippines, and Thailand) and continued to be relatively small due to stringent foreign labor and immigration policies, according to the company manager. Over time, with fewer native laborers wanting to do meatpacking and other labor work, the need for and ﬂow of Filipino, Thai, and other Southeast Asian laborers will likely increase, in the opinion of the manager and also the foreign laborers interviewed. In addition, adverse economic conditions in the Philippines and Thailand will probably encourage the continuing ﬂow of working adults in those countries to seek out much better transnational ﬁnancial work opportunities such as in Taiwan to support their families in the home country. The social conditions for factory foreign laborers in Taiwan were poor according to the Filipino and Thai laborers interviewed. Upon arrival in Taiwan, the foreign laborers were directly transported to the rural factory site from the airport. The company or government labor agency did not provide any language or cultural orientation. The foreign laborers worked very long hours under very cold or hot factory conditions, lived in poorly maintained company dormitories next to the factory, and had strict curfews that dramatically restricted their leisure time to explore beyond the factory site. In terms of community support, the major sources were through informal family networks in the home country for emergencies and ethnic friendship networks with fellow foreign laborers for assistance with daily needs. No formal ethnic speciﬁc (e.g., Filipino or Thai) migrant community organizations have been established in Taiwan and will not likely develop in the future due to weak prospects for long-term residence and persisting language/cultural barriers and discrimination against foreign laborers in Taiwan. Although there have been some mainstream formal organizations (e.g., Taiwan government labor agencies, economic/trade ofﬁces representing the countries of origin, and faith-based organizations) that provide social and legal assistance for foreign laborers in Taiwan, the public assistance these organizations could provide was minimal and these organizations were far away from the isolated rural factory environment where the laborers worked and lived. However, all foreign laborers receive health care coverage equivalent to natives given the provisions and services under Taiwan’s universal health care system. Nevertheless, access to health care was difﬁcult given the lack of language and cultural capacities of local health care organizations to serve foreigners and the lack of adequate health care facilities in rural regions.

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Causes of Transnational Migration I have a family and I think I can’t support my family living with not much salary a month in the Philippines, so I decided to work here in Taiwan. I was convinced. My friend convinced me and they told me you can earn more than that, so I decided to work here. And I think of my family, my young kids will grow and much money willyyou know, be better for them. I have two kids. And my wife was pregnant that time when I came here, so my last kid I don’t see him because she gave birth last February and I am here (a Filipino laborer).

Transnational labor ﬂows to Taiwan have been a consequence of both macro and micro global economic forces. First, the transnational ﬂows have been in large part initiated by multiple dynamics of globalization: economic imbalances across Asia and the growing demands by multinational corporations for cheap labor especially in newly industrialized countries such as Taiwan (Chen, 1999; Lin, 2005). Second, according to the foreign laborers interviewed, the major impetus for seeking work outside their home countries has been a result of poor economic conditions back home, family ﬁnancial responsibilities and needs that cannot be fulﬁlled there, and personal economic motives to seek better life opportunities than available in their home environments (Fig. 1).

Work Seeking and Labor Recruitment Processes The processes of seeking work abroad were facilitated through a combination of informal and formal channels. Often the foreign laborers ﬁrst found out about jobs abroad with the help of a family member or friend having knowledge of and/or experiences with work abroad. At the same time, Taiwanese companies and companies in other destination countries actively sought out foreign laborers with the help of labor recruitment agencies. All of the laborers indicated they found their jobs through home country labor recruitment agencies that were recommended by a family member or friend. The following typical explanation was given by a Filipino laborer: ‘‘My friend was planning to work in Taiwan, and asked if I’d like to go together to try. I had no job at the time. So I decided to go and see. Everyone says can make lots of money if go to Taiwan, so I decided to go and try it.’’ These recruitment agencies assisted them through the process of international job placement. The agencies provided job lists with brief descriptions from a range of companies seeking foreign labor, and some choices of countries. By requirement, destination countries listed must have labor exchange

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Foreign Labor Market Demands in Taiwan

Poor Economic Conditions in Philippines/ Thailand Transnational Family Financial Needs in Philippines / Thailand Not Met

Labor Migration

Higher Wages/ Income in Taiwan

Personal Drive to Seek Better Opportunities Not Available in Philippines/Thailand

Fig. 1.

Causes of Transnational Labor Migration: Philippines/Thailand to Taiwan.

agreements with potential migrants’ home governments. Laborers made choices about which job to pursue with suggestions primarily from their family and/or friends, submitted applications, and upon approval waited for their applications and work visas to be processed. At the same time, home country recruitment agencies coordinated with recruitment agencies in the destination countries to update their job lists and contacts. These agencies typically charged a commission for their services and the laborers usually were offered two payment options – to pay the full commission fee up front (which many could not afford to do), or to put down a percentage of the total commission and then pay off the rest with salary deductions from their monthly wages during the ﬁrst year of their work abroad (the choice most of them made). Once the work visas were processed, the laborers were ﬂown by airplane in groups with those going to the same countries and companies placed together. Upon arrival at the destination airport in Taiwan, they were met by the broker of the local Taiwan labor recruitment agency and taken directly to the company where they would be working and living, typically for two to three years (Fig. 2). The foreign labor contracts were for two years with an option by the Taiwanese company to renew the laborer’s contract for another year according to the company manager. Taiwan federal regulations in 2000 did

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HOME COUNTRY (PHILIPPINES / THAILAND) Government Labor Ministry

Extended Family Network

Labor Recruitment Agency

Friend Network

DESTINATION COUNTRY (TAIWAN)

Fig. 2.

Government Labor Ministry

Ethnic Laborers/ Friends, Faith based Organizations

Labor Recruitment Agency

Agricultural and Livestock Company

Foreign Labor Social Structures: From Philippines/Thailand to Taiwan Factory.

not allow for foreign laborers to seek a second term after their ﬁrst contract expired or terminated early. Then, sometimes with assistance from labor recruitment agencies and/or Taiwanese companies that formerly employed them, ‘‘good’’ foreign laborers favored by a company found ways around ofﬁcial limitations, such as signing another labor contract using a false name and passport. Also, the government sometimes looked the other way to allow for such illegal transnational labor movements in order to satisfy the critical needs for cheap labor by multinational corporations for maximizing operational and production capacity. Currently, given the growing demands for foreign labor by Taiwan companies, ofﬁcial policy regarding foreign laborer contracts is more relaxed; the original three-year contract term for foreign laborers can now be renewed, allowing them to work up to six years.

Working Conditions in Taiwan Working conditions at the meatpacking factory were physically demanding. With increasing socioeconomic standing for native laborers nationwide, there were increasingly fewer native Taiwanese laborers who would accept meatpacking work and other types of labor-intensive low pay work,

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according to the company manager. He indicated that his company preferred to hire foreign laborers in part because they were willing to work harder than native laborers and accept low wages. Foreign laborers in the meatpacking factory were asked to do dirty and overtime work in addition to the typical daily work that native Taiwanese laborers were expected perform do in the same factories. Native laborers have family and ﬁnancial concerns that contribute to their general refusal to work overtime and also at low wage levels: The environment inside – it is very cold because of ‘‘air-con’’ and cloth is wet because every time we touch meat, we wash our hands. So, cloth is wet. We have our own job. For example, like me, I was assigned to hot dogs, so I have one Filipino with me. And another one, they also work. The production is many, I think many meat, many ingredients. Back and forthyYou sleep on the ﬂoor because sometimes we have many production, sir. So like to have a rest, but we just move and move and move every hour. And you’re tired and you’re working. You just put yourself and wait for the time. And when the time comes, then you can rest (a Filipino laborer).

On the other hand, with no family around, foreign laborers were willing to accept extra work and do overtime consistently for the company to be able to keep up with production deadlines according to the company manager. In addition, the foreign laborers found the wages in Taiwan to be substantially better than wages in their home countries, even if they were only minimum wage by Taiwan standards. For the same meatpacking work the foreign laborers were doing in Taiwan, they would have earned approximately ﬁve to ten times less in their home countries, in the words of the foreign laborers. They indicated that the wages they were earning in Taiwan were equivalent to being a manager or supervisor in their home countries. Most were quite satisﬁed by the ﬁnancial opportunities in Taiwan, even though they were paid less than native Taiwanese for doing the same work. The work conditions were fairly harsh, according to the meatpacking foreign laborers. They typically worked ﬁve to six days a week from 9 am to 5 pm each day, not including overtime hours. There was a lunch break for one hour from 12 pm to 1 pm and also 10-minute coffee/tea break at 10 am and again at 3 pm, but no bathroom breaks during work hours. In addition, there were no vacation days for foreign laborers throughout the year. The foreign factory laborers operated meat production machines in teams and were expected to produce a set volume of products each day. In terms of the factory environment for meatpacking, it was usually very cold and in some parts very hot. Workers worked for long hours under very cold conditions day after day due to the need to keep the meat fresh during processing and often led to freezing physical and numbed mental states. Also, sometimes,

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these laborers also had to work in very hot conditions such as in boiler rooms when cooking the meats. In addition, many laborers complained that it was hard to keep pace with the non-stop and overtime work schedules, the repetitive meat machine work was exasperating, and sometimes due to exhaustion they might fall asleep on the job. One of the laborers interviewed had a machine accident in which one of his ﬁngers was cut off. However, his ﬁnger was quickly reconnected, and everything was fully covered under Taiwan’s universal health care system. Other laborers said that because of the tough working conditions some of their fellow factory laborers decided to return to their home countries early. Most of the laborers interviewed saw few alternatives to improving their working conditions given the machine operational mechanisms and company production schedules. However, from the foreign laborer’s perspective, the longer they worked, the more money they could make to support their families and reduce the family ﬁnancial burden in the home country. Also, some of them felt the extra money they made from longer work hours could be utilized one day for fulﬁlling future career prospects upon return to their home countries such as starting up a small business. In addition, beyond their factory work, some even found work part time on Sundays at nearby farms or residences to add to their earnings. Furthermore, a few at the factory have even run away to seek better wages and worked illegally at other companies (Fig. 3). Given the difﬁcult working conditions in Taiwan and family ﬁnancial hardships in the home country, according to the foreign laborer interviews, some fellow laborers also organized strikes to seek higher wages for their hard labor at the factory (Fig. 3). However, due to their actions as ‘‘problematic’’ laborers, they were subsequently deported by their employers. Foreign laborers have little power or recourse against companies, which have their own government labor agency and labor recruitment agencies on their side and can readily recruit more cheap foreign labor at any time.

Living Conditions in Taiwan Living conditions were quite poor and isolating. The foreign laborers interviewed were required to live in badly maintained company dormitories within the factory compounds and dwelled in rooms that housed anywhere from two to twenty people, or even more. Toilet and shower facilities were shared per ﬂoor and there was no air conditioning or heater. The living quarters were divided by gender and by nationality. There was a shared TV/

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Run Away and Look for Higher Pay Work Elsewhere as Illegal Dissatisfied with Wages at Meatpacking Factory in Taiwan

Fig. 3.

Laborers Strike To Demand Higher Wages

Laborers Sent Back to Home Country Early

Filipino/Thai Laborer Dissatisfaction and Actions at Factory.

video room where the laborers could watch movies or other programming together. There were also some basketball courts near the dorms. However, there were no kitchen facilities. The laborers were not allowed to cook. All their meals were prepared by company staff. There were set times each day for breakfast, lunch, and dinner at the factory cafeteria. There was also a curfew of 10:30 pm seven days a week and the gates of the factory compound opened at 7 am each morning. The laborers needed to get permission from company management each time they planned to stay overnight outside the factory compounds. Some of the laborers interviewed complained that they lacked freedom in Taiwan. The reasons they gave included the restrictions on their movement outside of the factory compounds by the company management, not being able to communicate with the native Taiwanese at the company and outside because they could not speak the language, and the native cultural norms and rules were very different from their own. Foreign laborers sometimes went out on weekends to go to a church or a temple, to meet with friends, and/or to go sightseeing. However, some laborers indicated that they could not go out much given the high costs of living and transportation in Taiwan and also because they needed to save money. For much of the extra time outside work, the foreign laborers just stayed in the dorms, whether in their rooms, doing laundry, watching TV, chatting with fellow laborers, or just resting. Said a Filipino laborer, ‘‘If you ﬁnish work in Taiwan, you stay in the room, listening to music, watching TV and some movies. In the Philippines, your family is around – big difference.’’ In addition to poor and isolating living conditions at the factory compound, most of them were separated from family members and missed them a lot. A few laborers interviewed had family or relatives working in Taiwan as well. But most laborers did not have families in Taiwan and kept in

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contact with their family members in their home countries on average of two to four times a month by telephone and by mail. In addition, most foreign laborers interviewed sent remittances regularly back to their families in their home countries. Reported another Filipino laborer, ‘‘Sometimes upset. Because no friends and I can’t speak your language in Taiwan. Yes. When I came here ﬁrst month. I had homesick. I want to go home.’’ In sum, as a result of the multiple challenges they faced with their work and living situation, such as tough working conditions, the lack of freedom, life being too isolating, cultural/language barriers, and family separation, even with the substantive ﬁnancial incentives for working in Taiwan, some laborers indicated that a few of their fellow laborers had decided to terminate their contracts early and return to their home countries to be with their family than continue working in Taiwan (Fig. 4). Help Seeking and Support Networks My friends. I have a lot of friends here. If we ﬁnish going to the church, we go to the parkyI just ask my friends. If don’t understand some thing, I would ask my friends (a Filipino laborer).

When the foreign laborers needed help or had certain concerns, they would usually seek help from one of their fellow laborers or friends that had more Tough Working Conditions in Factory

Lack of Freedom / Living Environment Too Isolated

Laborers Decide to Return to Philippines / Thailand

Poor Adjustment to Native Culture and Language Unable to Cope with Family Separation

Fig. 4.

Causes of Early Return Migrations: From Taiwan back to Philippines/ Thailand.

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experience and had been in Taiwan longer. There was also a company coordinator that was responsible for caring for the foreign laborers and to address their needs and concerns. However, the foreign laborers found the company coordinator inattentive to most of their needs, except for helping laborers that became ill or met with some emergency. Some laborers also added that other channels they had to ﬁnd help included contacting their families, their embassies in Taiwan, or the labor recruitment agencies in their home countries. At the time of the ﬁeldwork, there were still very few formal resources available to assist foreign laborers with their needs and concerns in Taiwan, except for health care where they were fully covered under Taiwan’s universal health care system. For the most part, the laborers depended on ethnic friendship and family networks and secondarily local faith-based organizations for help with their concerns and needs working and living in Taiwan.

Returns and Second Transnational Migrations When the foreign laborers at the factory completed their contracts for two or three years or were terminated early, all of them indicated they planned to ﬁrst return to their home countries and be united with their families. Upon returning home, some laborers indicated they planned to begin looking for another factory or domestic job abroad. For many foreign laborers, this was not their ﬁrst experience working abroad. Many of them had already worked in other countries prior to Taiwan. For some others, their plans upon return to their home countries were to start a new family business utilizing the money they earned in Taiwan. Overall, over multiple cycles of transnational labor migration, most of them ultimately looked forward to returning permanently to their home countries with sufﬁcient ﬁnances to comfortably support their families one day and to be fully united with them. Also, the young, unmarried laborers indicated that they planned to start a new family of their own living under much better ﬁnancial circumstances in their home countries than before they ﬁrst left to work abroad: It depends on the situation. If they have a vacancy in Saudi Arabia, I’d like to go back there again after Taiwan. But if I can earn 200,000 peso for starting my own business, for buy and sell rice, I think I’ll stay in the Philippines. I like to see my kids also. I just feeling not like a father (a Filipino laborer).

In addition, a number of foreign laborers’ perspectives about life and work in their home countries changed due to their experiences working abroad.

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Once the trigger to seek work abroad was initiated and the laborers encountered more prosperous economic environments and higher living standards, the cycle to seek better ﬁnancial and life opportunities just kept spiraling forward. A few laborers also indicated they were no longer satisﬁed with the former wages they were earning and their way of life in the home countries prior to going overseas. As a result, they might likely decide to look for another job abroad as soon as they returned to their home countries with new thoughts and plans of seeking more permanent opportunities to live and work abroad together with their families.

DISCUSSION AND CONCLUSIONS This Taiwan meatpacking factory foreign laborer case study has illustrated three major transnational migration cycles occurring at the same time through the Taiwan food processing company and for its factory foreign laborers: (1) the foreign laborer work migration cycle (Fig. 5), (2) the foreign laborer family relationship cycle (Fig. 6), and (3) the corporate labor recruitment cycle (Fig. 7). First, the foreign laborer work migration cycle began with a potential migrant looking for work abroad as a result of poor economic conditions in the home country, continued with migration leading to labor abroad at higher wages, and was followed by return migration after work completion or early termination. Finally, the cycle ended when the laborer returned to his home country to stay or to look for another job abroad (Fig. 5). Second, the foreign laborer family relationship cycle began with family united in the home country, continued with separation from family as a result of transnational labor migration, and led to new transnational family networks and better family ﬁnances with remittances from abroad. This cycle ended with a return to the home country leading to the family being reunited and/or to possible new family formations as a result of work abroad encounters (Fig. 6). Third, the corporate labor recruitment cycle began with corporations in destination countries seeking to hire cheap foreign laborers as a result of native labor shortages and problems. It continued with the corporations relying on their governments to negotiate labor agreements with countries abroad that have pools of cheap labor available and the utilization of labor recruitment agencies to facilitate the process of foreign labor ﬂows, and was followed by the corporations asserting control and making full use of foreign laborers over the course of their contract. The cycle was ﬁnally repeated by ﬁrst sending the foreign laborers home after completion or

Social Conditions of Foreign Laborers in Rural Southern Taiwan

Seeks work abroad due to poor economic conditions in home country

69

Goes to work abroad with higher wages than in home country

Foreign Laborer Work Migration Cycle

Stays with improved financial conditions or seek next opportunity abroad

Fig. 5.

Returns to home country after work contract completion / termination

Foreign Laborer Work Migration Cycle from Philippines/Thailand to Taiwan.

United with family in home country; Planning work abroad

Work abroad and families seperate; global kinship networks; remittances for family

Foreign Laborer Family Relationship Cycle

Reunited with family in home country; improved family finances

Fig. 6.

Return to home country to be with family; new family formations from work abroad

Foreign Laborer Family Relationship Cycle from Philippines/Thailand to Taiwan.

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Labour shortages in Taiwan; corporations seek out cheap foreign laborers

Foreign labourers hired thru recruitment agency; work at corporations

Corporate Labor Recruitment Cycle

Corporations seek to replace foreign laborers returned to home country

Fig. 7.

Bad laborers sent home early; Good laborers stay for full contract before return migration

Corporate Labor Recruitment Cycle from Philippines/Thailand to Taiwan.

termination of their work contracts and then recruiting more foreign laborers from abroad (Fig. 7). Like other international migrant laborers, meatpacking factory foreign laborers in Taiwan were exploited as cheap, hard working migrant labor in the context of the world system and capitalist accumulation. However, it was unclear whether there has been a feminization of the labor force at this factory and other meatpacking factories in Taiwan. Further examination of this and other meatpacking factories in Taiwan need to be conducted to assess whether the Taiwan case reﬂected gendering migrant labor trends of the American meatpacking industry. In addition, there were little or no legal prospects for permanent resettlement in Taiwan for these factory foreign laborers even if born in Taiwan. In comparison, for advanced capitalist countries across the Paciﬁc such as the United States and Canada, some immigration and resettlement prospects were available for migrant labor by quota (Cooper, 1997; Hossfeld, 1999; Stasiulis & Bakan, 2003). These stringent legal contexts and policies against the incorporation of foreign laborers in Taiwan were clearly more reﬂective of the cultural politics and development trajectory of East Asian newly industrialized countries. At the same time, as the global migrant labor ﬂows dramatically rose across core or advanced capitalist Asian regions, transnational migrant networks and institutions that have been established and sustained along the

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way in these regions have taken root across both periphery and core regions and built up local and regional infrastructures that have sustained and perpetuated these foreigner/migrant populations more permanently in new destination countries such as Taiwan. These continuing developments also have the long-term potential to transform racial politics in Taiwan and other newly industrialized Asian countries. The future of global labor migration holds much promise to advance global capitalism and increase economic prosperity for both natives and foreigners in Taiwan and beyond. However, it also has the potential of increasing the global economic gap across nations. It is important to continue to tackle the issues of human and labor rights and challenge the increasing economic inequities and cultural barriers across nation-states that restrict the potential of expanding global prosperity and sharing the gains of capitalism with more people in the world rather than following the current international trends towards the concentration of global capital. In Taiwan, government policies about foreign labor continue to serve to advance corporate and native laborer interests with little or no policies that adequately address foreign laborer welfare and rights (Chen, 1999; Lin, 2005). There is a crucial need for Taiwan to be much more open to foreigners than at present because the world is becoming smaller and more economically and culturally interdependent as a result of globalization and technological innovation. Taiwan’s political survival depends on strong economic and cultural relations with surrounding countries in Southeast Asia and East Asia. Global economic development and technological innovation can only lead to increased foreign labor migrations and will continue to drive diverse global cultural forces closer together whether in cooperation or conﬂict with one another. Within this context and with foreign laborer populations rapidly increasing in Taiwan, there are compelling inter-cultural communication issues that Taiwanese corporations and laborers will have to face. The prospects for economic growth and cultural prosperity of Taiwan in part will depend on the willingness of the government, corporations, and the general public in Taiwan to become more accommodating of foreign laborers from neighboring regions such as the Philippines and China becoming a permanent part of the Taiwanese economy, more open to multicultural understanding and collaboration in the workplace and in their homes, and more sensitive and resourceful to foreigner concerns and needs as they adapt and incorporate into the Taiwanese society. At the same time, learning to adopt the structural ﬂexibility of transnational labor networks and institutions could help play an important role in

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advancing Taiwan’s economic development. The capacity to promote and expand transnational Taiwanese business and cultural networks and take advantage of the strengths of the capital and labor-intensive skilled Taiwanese workforce beyond Taiwan in other advanced capitalist regions like the foreign laborers that come to work in Taiwan and their transnational labor networks have fostered for building up their home countries may possibly have vital implications to the future prosperity of Taiwan.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS This research was supported by the National Science Foundation, Division of International Programs, East Asian and Paciﬁc Program.

REFERENCES Adams, W. (1969). The brain drain. New York: Macmillan. Boyd, M. (1989). Family and personal networks in international migration: Recent developments and new agendas. International Migration Review, 23, 638–670. Chen, J.-F. (1999). Laogong xingzheng yu laogong wenti (Labor administration and labor problems). Taipei: Wunan tushu quban gongsi. Cheng, S.-J. A. (2004). Contextual politics of difference in transnational care: The rhetoric of Filipina domestics’ employers in Taiwan. Feminist Review, 77, 46–64. Choldin, H. M. (1973). Kinship networks in the migration process. International Migration Review, 7, 163–176. Cooper, M. (1997). The heartland’s raw deal: How meatpacking is creating a new immigrant underclass. Nation, 264(4), 11–17. Dalla, R. L., Ellis, A., & Cramer, S. C. (2005). Immigration and rural America: Latinos’ perceptions of work and residence in three meatpacking communities. Community, Work & Family, 8(2), 163–185. Glaser, B. G., & Strauss, A. L. (1967). The discovery of grounded theory. Chicago: Aldine. Glaser, W. (1978). The brain drain: Emigration and return. Oxford: Pergamon Press. Guevarra, A. R. (2004). Manufacturing the ‘‘ideal’’ workforce: The transnational labor brokering of nurses and domestic workers from the Philippines. Dissertation Abstracts International, A: The Humanities and Social Sciences, 64(11), 4226-A. Hagan, J. M., & Gonzalez-Baker, S. (1993). Implementing the U.S. legalization program: The inﬂuence of immigrant communities and local agencies on immigration policy reform. International Migration Review, 27, 513–536. Hossfeld, K. J. (1999). Hiring immigrant women: Silicon Valley’s ‘‘simple formula’’. In: F. L. Pincus & H. J. Ehrlich (Eds), Race and ethnic conflict: Contending views on prejudice, discrimination, and ethnoviolence (pp. 162–179). Boulder, CO: Westview. Lee, Y. W., & Park, H. (2005). The politics of foreign labor policy in Korea and Japan. Journal of Contemporary Asia, 35(2), 143–164. Lin, J.-P. (2005). A critical review of problems associated with population and labor migration in Taiwan, 1980–2000. Taiwanese Journal of Sociology, 34, 147–209.

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MacDonald, J. S., & MacDonald, L. D. (1974). Chain migration, ethnic neighborhood formation, and social networks. In: C. Tilly (Ed.), An urban world (pp. 226–236). Boston: Little, Brown & Co. Massey, D. S., Arango, J., Hugo, G., Kouaouci, A., Pellegrino, A., & Taylor, J. E. (1998). Worlds in motion: Understanding international migration at the end of the millennium. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Nonini, D. M. (2002). Introduction: Transnational migrants, globalization processes, and regimes of power and knowledge. Critical Asian Studies, 34(1), 3–17. Ong, A. (1987). Spirits of resistance and capitalist discipline. New York: State University of New York Press. Portes, A. (1998). Social capital: Its origins and applications in modern sociology. Annual Review of Sociology, 24, 1–24. Portes, A., & Rumbaut, R. G. (1990). Immigrant America. Berkeley: University of California Press. Portes, A., & Walton, J. (1981). Labor, class, and the international system. New York: Academic Press. Sassen, S. (1988). The mobility of labor and capital: A study in international investment and labor flow. New York: Cambridge University Press. Sassen, S. (1991). The global city: New York, London, Tokyo. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Sassen, S. (1998). Globalization and its discontents. New York: New Press. Simmons, A. B. (1989). World system-linkages and international migration: New directions in theory and method with an application to Canada. Paper presented at the International Population Conference, New Delhi. Skeldon, R. (1997). Migration and development: A global perspective. Harlow: Addison Wesley Longman Limited. Stalker, P. (1994). The work of strangers: A survey of international labour migration. Geneva: International Labour Ofﬁce. Stalker, P. (2000). Workers without frontiers: The impact of globalization on international migration. Geneva: International Labour Ofﬁce. Stasiulis, D. K., & Bakan, A. B. (2003). Negotiating citizenship: Migrant women in Canada and the global system. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Strauss, A. L., & Corbin, J. (1990). Basics of qualitative research. Newbury Park, CA: Sage. Tyner, J. A. (1999). The global context of gendered labor migration from the Philippines to the United States. American Behavioral Scientist, 42(4), 671–689. Tyner, J. A. (2000). Migrant labour and the politics of scale: Gendering the Philippine state. Asia Pacific Viewpoint, 41(2), 131–154. Tyner, J. A. (2004). Made in the Philippines: Gendered discourses and the making of migrants. London: Routledge. Wallerstein, I. (1974). The modern world system: Capitalist agriculture and the origins of the European world economy in the sixteenth century. New York: Academic Press. Wallerstein, I. (1980). The modern world system II: Mercantilism and the consolidation of the European world economy, 1600–1750. New York: Academic Press. Wallerstein, I. (1989). The modern world system III: Second era of great expansion of the capitalist world economy 1730–1840s. New York: Academic Press. Young, K. (2004). Globalisation and the changing management of migrating service workers in the Asia Paciﬁc. Journal of Contemporary Asia, 34(3), 287–303.

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TO HIRE AN ‘‘ALBANIAN’’: HOUSEHOLD ECONOMY AND IMMIGRATION IN RURAL GREECE Christopher M. Lawrence ABSTRACT The expansion of the European Union into southern Europe calls for a reexamination of the anthropological analysis of rural Greek society. This chapter examines some of the changes that have affected rural households in the Argolida region of Greece, and how households have adapted. It is argued that the household continues to be an important site for constructing relations of production. However, there has been a significant shift from forms of stratification and exploitation based on gender, kinship and patronage to new forms based on nationality and ethnicity. The dependence of households on (mostly illegal) immigrant labor has both subsidized their rising standard of living and trapped them in a new regime of social inequality.

INTRODUCTION Greece, like other societies of southern Europe, has been profoundly shaped by the push and pull of more powerful economies in Europe and America. As a result of its geo-political position, the history of modern Greece has Choice in Economic Contexts: Ethnographic and Theoretical Enquiries Research in Economic Anthropology, Volume 25, 75–95 Copyright r 2007 by Elsevier Ltd. All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0190-1281/doi:10.1016/S0190-1281(06)25004-2

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been characterized by chronic underdevelopment, large-scale emigration, institutionalized political violence and widespread dependence on subsistence agriculture. This political–economic context conditioned the development of a particular form of southern European social structure characterized by complex gender and kinship ideologies (Vernier, 1984), patronage networks (Campbell, 1964) and urban–rural exchange (Friedl, 1959). From a historical perspective, one effect of the incomplete incorporation of southern Europe into the core capitalist economies was to preserve and shape non-capitalist relations of production as a way of structuring subsistence for a vast rural population that also acted as a reserve labor force. Recent trends toward economic and political globalization have challenged the model of southern European society as a part of the ‘‘semiperiphery’’ of the world economy, particularly as represented by the expansion of the European Community (later European Union, EU) into southern Europe in the early 1980s. In rural Greece the post-war model of social organization based on gender, kinship and patronage relations is no longer very accurate.1 Younger generations no longer feel bound by the old rules. Younger women are managing to evade patriarchal controls as they have taken advantage of expanded educational opportunities and entered the formal workforce. Families have dramatically reduced their size,2 and children rarely participate in agricultural production. The old networks of patronage have withered under the long arm of the EU bureaucracy. For many rural residents and observers alike, this has often been seen as a form of liberation achieved through a rise in living standards. However, while rural development since incorporation into the EU has served to resolve many problems in rural Greek society, new social problems and contradictions have arisen. In many ways, these problems reﬂect a continuing state of chronic underdevelopment, despite the advances of the EU. As I will argue, while many non-capitalist relations of production that were previously employed to organize household production have been transformed or dismantled, new ones have sprung up to take their place, calling into question the degree to which Greek rural society has truly transcended the problems arising from its semi-peripheral position in relation to European capitalism. These new forms of social stratiﬁcation, based on ethnic and national difference produced through the widespread dependence on illegal immigrant labor, are potentially more rigid than the old forms they replace. In this chapter, I focus on changes in rural household economy in an agricultural region of southern Greece. Rural households have been profoundly affected by the political and economic changes entailed in Greece’s

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incorporation into the EU. Massive subsidies under the Common Agricultural Policy (CAP) have altered rural production strategies. The expansion of the service sector and greater access to consumer goods has encouraged a redeployment of household labor. However, I argue that this transformation has been incomplete and uneven. The social and political changes stimulated by EU membership have not been supported by an economic transformation would enable rural Greeks to participate in the European capitalist economy at a level they have come to expect. In fact, despite the beneﬁts of EU membership, rural Greeks express widespread skepticism of the EU project, largely because of the devaluation of agricultural production under the inﬂuence of free markets. Farmers have been pressured by falling prices and rising costs, but, with the exception of tourism in some areas, there have appeared few viable economic alternatives to agriculture. This crisis has been resolved in two main ways. The ﬁrst are the agricultural subsidies of the EU (which in many ways constitute a form of neo-liberal patronage). The second, and the focus of this chapter, is the widespread exploitation of illegal immigrants, the majority of whom come from neighboring Albania, for agricultural production.

HOUSEHOLD ECONOMY IN ARGOLIDA Between 2001 and 2004 I carried out ethnographic research in Midea Township of the Argolida region of southern Greece. Agriculture still provides the foundation for the local economy in Midea Township, although in some parts of Argolida other industries play important roles. The nearby coastal villages from Epidavros to Tolo have a signiﬁcant tourist industry, and the towns of Nauplio and Argos rely mainly on service industries, commerce and light manufacturing. For the interior towns and villages, however, agriculture remains the main productive activity. In Midea Township, 57% of employed persons claim agriculture as their main source of income. For many others, agriculture is a secondary source of income.3 While there is signiﬁcant production of other crops, such as apricots, olives, grapes, vegetables and others, the dominant crop in Midea is citrus, mainly oranges. Virtually all agricultural production is carried out on small familyowned plots. Like the rest of Greece, landholdings tend to be small. The average plot size in Midea Township is 6.4 stremmata (1 stremma ¼ 1,000 square meters or 1/4 hectare), but farming families tend to have multiple plots, a result of the trajectories of inheritance. In the citrus growing valley of Midea Township the largest landholding is 60 stremmata. However, a few

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families actually control more, since ownership is often spread out among household members. For example, one wealthy family works 150 stremmata. Many families produce on less than 10 stremmata. The agricultural economy is diffused through most of the households of Midea Township. Indeed, there are few families that do not participate directly in agriculture. At the same time, there are few families that live exclusively from agriculture, and these tend to be among the poorer families in the area. But while agriculture is the foundation of the local economy, agricultural labor has a very low status. Local residents attribute this to the low proﬁt levels of agricultural production, which are seen as inadequate for contemporary needs. Commodity consumption has risen steadily in the villages. Market prices for agricultural products on the other hand have generally declined as a result of pressures to provide the lowest cost to urban consumers.4 Subsidies from the EU help to improve the low proﬁtability of agricultural labor, but in order to maintain proﬁts labor costs are squeezed. In addition, traditional pools of low-cost agricultural labor, particularly women, children and land-poor peasants, are no longer available. The solution to this labor crisis has been the massive immigration of eastern European laborers. The household has historically been the basic unit of production in rural Greece, both in terms of subsistence and production for markets. In the household, the politics of production have been governed by the elaboration of strong ideologies of kinship and gender that have both organized the division of labor and deﬁned social relationships. Despite the modernization of the Greek economy in the post-war period and the changes initiated since accession to the EU, the household continues as an important unit of production, particularly in agriculture. This can be seen in Argolida where there is an almost total absence of large-scale production. Farms are family owned and operated. Yet while the household has remained the basic productive unit in agriculture, its nature has changed. Household production today is oriented almost exclusively to the market, at the expense of subsistence production. Families still produce a substantial part of their own consumption. Many families have small kitchen gardens or a few chickens. But in the majority of households I observed, most consumption needs are ﬁlled through markets. The increased dependence on markets has been accompanied by increased need for cash income, and thus a redeployment of family labor. In Midea Township today there are three basic patterns of household economy. Each of these has been affected by processes of globalization in slightly different ways. I distinguish between these three patterns by using the terms elderly household, pluriactive household and agriculturalist

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household in order to illuminate the different interests of each. There is of course signiﬁcant variation within the categories, as well as overlap between them. Over the last generation, since the late 1980s, each type of household has become dependent on immigrant labor to varying degrees. This largely reﬂects the diminishing ability of households to call upon family labor, in particular women and children, to ﬁll their needs. Elderly households are generally made up of retired couples with children who no longer live in the area. I estimate that in Midea Township such households make up around 30% of the total.5 Elderly households depend on a combination of pensions and agriculture for survival, and sometimes small amounts of aid from grown children. Pensions tend to be low. This is particularly so in the case of agricultural pensions, which average around 400 euros per month. Agriculture is thus often an important source of supplementary income. Because their children are far away, usually working in Athens, labor is in short supply. Sometimes elderly households rent out their lands, but it is common for people to work their land into their seventies and even eighties. They can sometimes count on help from friends and relatives, but this is rare. For difﬁcult work such as harvesting, it is necessary for these households to hire labor, almost always immigrants. Elderly households vary most signiﬁcantly in the amount of pension they receive. Those who have retired from high-paying jobs in Athens live relatively comfortably with their pensions and spend little effort in farming, sometimes renting out their land. Those who retire on agricultural pensions face more economic difﬁculties and generally must continue to farm. The large number of elderly households in the village, and elderly persons in general, often gives the impression that it and other villages are dying out. Declining birthrates and urban migration both act to push the average age of village residents higher. However, on closer inspection the situation is more complex. In many of the elderly households I interviewed – almost half in fact – members reported that they had spent substantial parts of their lives outside the village, returning for retirement. Many for example had worked in Athens for at least part of their lives. Upon retirement these couples had decided to return to the village for several reasons. Peace and quiet was the most common, but residents also cited the sociality of the village and the ability to live more cheaply. Thus, the high proportion of pensioners is not necessarily indicative of a quickly aging population, but is also partly a reﬂection of urban–rural movements over the life span. Pluriactive households make up the majority of households in Midea Township. These households combine agriculture with other activities, such as wage-labor in the service sector and small businesses.6 In pluriactive

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households, agriculture tends to be the domain of the older generation. Children, even if they live at home, usually do not take over management of ﬁelds until their parents are incapacitated. For example, a civil servant, who supplements his income with 40 stremmata of oranges, tangerines and olives, complained to me that his grown son who had graduated from university and was looking for a position as a teacher ‘‘doesn’t even know where all the ﬁelds are’’. These households also vary greatly in the degree of dependence on agriculture. For those heads of household with high-paying jobs such as professionals, agriculture adds only a small supplementary income while for others the wage-labor of wives and children in service industries supplements the main income from agriculture. In general, the less dependent a pluriactive household is on income from agriculture, the more likely it is to use immigrant labor for farming. Those who are more dependent on agriculture are loath to spend money-hiring workers, and will only do so at times of peak labor demand such as the harvest. In most pluriactive households I visited, members cited the need for consumer goods as the driving force behind pluriactivity. Commodity consumption has increased among most rural Greeks as European markets have expanded and goods have become more available and affordable. In the villages, the most conspicuous consumers tend to be pluriactive families. As family members venture out into the service industries and professions, the need for automobiles, brand-name clothing, electronics and other consumer commodities increases. This is especially true for families with children, who are perceived to require great expense. While children in all households are encouraged to go into the professions and service industries, this is particularly true for pluriactive households, whose status rests on their foothold in such activities. Pluriactive families are more likely to spend money on after-school tutoring (frontistiria), fashionable clothing, motorbikes, and also to supply their children with an allowance. Finally there are agriculturalist households, those that depend exclusively or nearly exclusively on agriculture and its subsidies for a living. These households are more common in the higher elevation, traditionally poorer villages, where they account for around 30% of households. In the wealthier valley they account for only around 15% of households. A few families live almost exclusively from oranges, but these are the exceptions. Most agriculturalist households are involved in truck farming for the farmers’ markets of Athens or herding, both occupations that require steady, intensive labor. Depending on their circumstances, truck farmers make between one and ﬁve trips to Athens per week. Some operate hothouses. Hothouses require labor that is especially difﬁcult and uncomfortable, and immigrants

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are used almost exclusively. In the upper villages there are fewer hothouses. There vegetables are grown in ﬁelds and trucked to farmer’s markets. In this type of truck farming more family labor is used. Most of the work is done by the husband and wife, sometimes aided by sons. I found only a few cases of daughters working in agriculture. Truck farmers will often hire immigrants for day-labor, sometimes on a steady basis. As one farmer noted, ‘‘with a [immigrant] worker, I can make an extra trip to Athens’’. Herders are found almost exclusively in the higher villages where there is adequate land for grazing and planting of feed crops. Among all households, herders tend to rely the most on family labor, generally a husband– wife team sometimes helped by grown children, and the direct producer subsidies administered through the CAP for meat and milk production. Immigrants are rarely employed.7 Herds require milking twice a day during most of the year and the average herd takes two people several hours at each milking. With such labor requirements the hiring of day-labor is difﬁcult, as it is often not a full day’s work yet precludes other employment. Herding families also tend to be among the poorer households in Midea Township, along with some of the pensioners. Of all the households, herders tend to have the most difﬁculty ﬁnancing their children’s status consumption. Their children are less likely to attend private after-school tutoring and lack many of the luxuries enjoyed by other village children. The gendered division of labor varies between the types of households. In households that depend heavily on agriculture, such as the poorer elderly households and agriculturalist households, women participate and often take on the bulk of the farm labor. In pluriactive households and the wealthier elderly and agriculturalist households, women are less likely to participate in agriculture. In most pluriactive households women (except the older generation) work outside the home in service jobs. Most are wagelaborers in the local service industries, civil servants or professionals such as teachers, medical professionals, etc. At the same time there is a strong feeling, expressed by both men and women, that the primary responsibility of women should be with child-care. The education and care of children receives a great deal of attention from families, and it is generally the mother that spends the most time in child-caring tasks such as preparing food and helping with homework. Thus women often take on a ‘‘double duty’’ of wage-labor and the bulk of housework and child-care.8 Men, on the other hand, generally replace their household labor by hiring immigrants if they work in jobs outside the household. The departure of women and children from agricultural labor is generally seen as a mark of upward mobility. Among the households of Argolida,

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agricultural labor is granted low status. Even unemployed Greeks will avoid agricultural labor if possible. Wages, at 25–30 euros per day, are low by local standards, and the work is considered dirty and difﬁcult. Farmers argue that the low wages are a result of low market prices for agricultural products. From their perspective, proﬁts have been squeezed. From the data I collected, I estimate that a worker harvesting oranges produces 150–180 euros per day for the farmer at the peak season, and up to twice this much in a good year. Of this sum, 30–35 euros go to the worker at the present rates. I estimate that another 15–20 euros go to maintenance costs such as pruning, fertilizing, water, etc. on average. The rate of proﬁt for the farmer is then somewhere around 100–130 euros per worker day. Per stremma proﬁt rates for local oranges average around 400–500 euros on expenses of 180–220 euros, although this can vary widely depending on weather, age of trees, etc. However, the logic employed by farmers also seems to reﬂect rising consumption pressures on households. Attempts by both the EU and the Greek state to ‘‘rationalize’’ agriculture in Greece by diversifying production and/or increasing farm size have mostly failed. Various programs provide incentives for ‘‘professional’’ (i.e. full time) farmers, mechanized production, ‘‘organic’’ production, etc., but relatively few farmers have taken advantage of them. Most Greek farmers are skeptical of the long-term viability of agriculture as a profession and are reluctant to risk the time and money needed to diversify or expand production. Instead, they prefer to keep land as a reserve to fall back on, and agriculture as a supplementary income to other possible endeavors in a pluriactive household. Greeks claim that agricultural wages are very low, well below what is needed to live, especially given the seasonal nature of the work. Based on interviews with young people and the underemployed, wages would have to be at least double in order to attract Greek laborers. For the Greek farmer, such an increase in the cost of labor would signiﬁcantly reduce proﬁts, reducing the ability of the household to keep up with consumption demands. The solution to this dilemma has been the large-scale immigration of Albanians and other eastern Europeans, who are willing to work for much less due to their poverty and the lower costs of maintaining families in their homelands. Through a variety of pressures, immigrants have been ‘‘accustomed’’ to a much lower standard of living. The squeezing of the farmer by low market prices on the one hand and increased production costs on the other has thus been accommodated through reducing the price of labor by the use of immigrants. The perception of the declining proﬁtability of agriculture and the availability of immigrant labor has encouraged families to reallocate their labor

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into other areas, such as skilled wage-labor, small businesses and professions while maintaining agriculture as a secure economic base. Most parents I spoke with actively discourage their children from going into agriculture. This redirection of family labor is strongest in pluriactive households. As one farmer in Agia Triada told me, No, I don’t want my sons to go into farming. Let them do something else. There’s no future here. It is impossible to make a good living here and in a few years this will all be gone, it will disappear. If they can’t get in anyplace else, OK, they always have farming to fall back on, but I wouldn’t wish that even on my enemy.

In many households I interviewed even unemployed grown children were discouraged from helping out in the ﬁelds. For example, a civil servant with orange groves said he was giving his 24-year-old son an allowance for spending money, but did not ask him to help in the ﬁelds since he was inexperienced and had no interest in agriculture. In agriculturist households children were encouraged to work in the ﬁelds only if they were unsuccessful in school. When I asked a herder about the future he foresaw for his children, he responded, It depends on school, how well they study. My older boy does not like to read. School, zero. So I have him working the herd with me. Maybe I’ll be able to put him in a civil service position, otherwise he will be a shepherd.

In addition, there is a demographic aspect to the exclusion of family labor from agriculture. The average number of children in the families I interviewed was under two, a signiﬁcant change from just a generation ago. Parents told me that having fewer children allowed them to use more resources, such as social connections or money for private lessons, in establishing their children in well-paying jobs. The strategy of excluding family members from agricultural labor encourages the formation of pluriactive households, but it is only possible because of the presence of a large number of immigrants willing and able to work. Immigrants subsidize the pluriactive household by providing labor at a cost that enables such families to continue to make a proﬁt from agriculture while pursuing other more lucrative occupations. Given the smaller family size, the low prices of agricultural products and increased opportunities for jobs in the commercial, service and government sectors, it is difﬁcult to imagine how agriculture would be possible without immigrant labor. And yet agriculture still provides the foundation of the local economy. Thus immigrants, who are marginalized and denigrated by Greeks, have become a necessary part of the local economy and instrumental to the functioning of local households.

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EASTERN EUROPEAN IMMIGRATION Since the early 1980s, Greece has been experiencing an increasing ﬂow of immigrant labor, reversing its former status as an exporter of labor to more developed countries. Immigrants come from many countries in eastern Europe, particularly Albania, as well as from more distant countries like Pakistan and India. While accurate numbers are difﬁcult to obtain because many immigrants are illegal, estimates place the number of immigrants at around 1 million, making up around 10% of the population of Greece and over 15% of its labor force (Fakiolas, 2000; Lazaridis & Poyago-Theotoky, 1999). Today immigrants live in almost every part of Greece and make up the lowest strata of workers in both urban and rural areas. Immigrants are concentrated in agricultural (Kasimis, Papadopoulos, & Zacopoulou, 2003) and ‘‘informal’’ (Droukas, 1998) sectors of the labor market. Statistics gained from working permit applications give a broad picture of the characteristics of immigrants (Lianos, 2001).9 The largest number of immigrants are from Albania (65%) followed by Bulgaria (6.5%) and Romania (4.5%). Smaller numbers come from as far away as Pakistan, India and the Philippines. The recent immigration pattern to Greece has been spurred by both ‘‘push’’ and ‘‘pull’’ factors related to the expansion of the EU and the reorganization of global capitalism (King, 2000). On the one hand the collapse of socialist economies in the 1980s created social instability and poverty in eastern European countries that encouraged the mass emigration of many toward the west, including Greece. The political and economic victory of the capitalist west over the Soviet Union and its eastern European periphery at the end of the Cold War both opened the previously militarized borders and created a huge supply of surplus laborers searching for work. At the same time the accession of Greece to the EU made it an attractive destination for migrants. Economic development spurred by EU investments and subsidies, as well the opening of eastern European markets for Greek agricultural products, led to a rising standard of living and a growing middle class while at the same time creating a need for ﬂexible and exploitable labor. This was particularly true in rural areas, where a declining birth rate and urban migration had precipitated a labor shortage as early as the 1950s, although it was for several decades offset by increasing mechanization (Pepelasis, 1963). In Midea Township, the recent history of immigration is tied to the orange. Recent patterns of labor migration may be new, but they are not unprecedented. The valley of Argolida has long depended on migrant labor for harvesting. Migrants have traditionally provided needed labor at periods

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of peak demand. As orange cultivation expanded from the 1950s onward, migrant labor was often used to make up for local shortages. In the past, migrants came primarily from other areas of Greece, although periodically waves of immigrants from more distant lands have settled. In the 1980s orange production was further stimulated by the opening of markets in the Soviet Union and eastern Europe. The EU aided this development by negotiating trade agreements and providing subsidies. Trade agreements were portrayed as a form of humanitarian assistance, but were also clearly efforts to colonize new markets. For the farmers of Argolida, this was a huge windfall. At the same time, however, labor was in increasingly short supply. Greek migrants and local workers became scarcer and family labor was inadequate. Hippie backpackers and Gypsies were used as a stopgap measure, but the real solution to the problem came with eastern European migrants. The ﬁrst migrants to arrive in the early 1980s were Poles (Romaniszyn, 2000). By the end of the 1980s the majority of migrants were Albanians. Thus, by the end of the decade a curious circle had been completed, similar to the privatization and expropriation of peasant lands in the early Industrial Revolution. The products that had been used to help destroy the economies of eastern Europe were now being produced with the human ﬂotsam from that same destruction. In the early 1980s most Greeks saw immigrants as both a temporary problem reﬂecting social upheaval and a temporary solution to the labor shortage. Many Greeks in Midea Township continue to hold this view. As one farmer explained to me, These Albanians, they don’t want to stay. They are all trying to get some money and return home. That’s natural; everyone wants to live in their homeland. Besides, they don’t ﬁt in here. They are too different. They won’t stay.

Since the early 1980s however, immigrant labor has become institutionalized in Greece, and many sectors of the economy, agriculture in particular, are now dependent on it. In retrospect it is the temporary nature of the immigrants that has facilitated their exploitation. In the beginning virtually all immigrants were illegal. The Greek state did not regulate labor immigration until 1997 when a system of residency permits was instituted. Up to that time all labor migrants were subject to immediate deportation if caught. After the 1997 law, it is estimated that approximately 70% of immigrants have ﬁled applications for legal status (Tzortzopoulou, 2002, p. 47). The exploitation of immigrant labor, which has become necessary for the survival of Greek agriculturalists, is facilitated by a resurgence of ethnic nationalism and racism among Greeks (Lawrence, 2005). Immigrants have

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been marginalized not only politically, through their lack of access to rights of citizenship, but also socially through a process of ‘‘othering’’. Despite the historical links and ﬂexibility of ‘‘Greek’’ and ‘‘Albanian’’ identity, most rural Greeks consider Albanians (as immigrants are generically known) to be culturally and socially incompatible. A discourse of cultural difference has appeared among Greeks that emphasizes essentialist notions of Greek identity based on both history and genes. Albanians are widely though to lack ‘‘civilization’’ (politismos) and ‘‘culture’’ (kultura). They are also thought to be physically different, for example in head shape and genealogy. Greeks use these notions of culture and race to naturalize Albanians’ inferior social status and to exclude them from village sociality. Indeed, immigrants are largely invisible, restricted in their movements and excluded from most social relations, in the villages. In addition, a moral panic of immigrant criminality is prevalent among Greeks. Immigrants are widely considered to be the perpetrators of crimes, including burglary, theft, drug trafﬁcking and prostitution. These views have been shown to be exaggerated (Eleutherotipia, 2004; Kourtovik, 2001; Mouzelis, 2002), but have nevertheless led to robust policing and surveillance of immigrants as well as vigilante activities. Immigrants make up roughly 15% of the local population and a much higher percentage of the local labor force. When one takes into account the fact that the majority are male workers, we can see that immigrants make up about one-third to one-half of the local agricultural labor force, depending on the time of year. At certain times and places, such as the orange or the olive harvest, immigrants make up the largest percentage of the labor force. I estimate that the total number of immigrant laborers that reside in Midea Township is approximately 1,000. During 2003 the township had 914 immigrants registered as residents. Since the introduction of a work permit system in the late 1990s, most immigrants have legal, even if precarious, status. However, a small percentage, I estimate around 10%, continues to live illegally for various reasons.10 Either they are waiting to get employment, cannot pay the required fees, are wanted by the police, or have some problem with their documents. During the orange harvest the number of immigrants roughly doubles, although exact ﬁgures are hard to obtain because most who are there temporarily do not register as residents. In recent years, more and more immigrants have come as families, with children, but the overwhelming majority, around 80%, continues to be single males.11 Single female immigrants are rare in the villages. A few older women come as farm laborers, but most female immigrants work as prostitutes, either arriving on their own ﬁnding work in local bars or trafﬁcked

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by prostitution rings. In addition, some immigrant women have come to the villages as wives, particularly for lower-status Greek males such as shepherds. With lowered birthrates and expanded opportunities for women, lower-status men have increasing difﬁculty ﬁnding wives. Immigrant women are considered harder workers and their marriage to Greek males is seen as a step-up in status. In short, immigrants have come to constitute an economic class of labor that is at the same time politically and socially marginalized. In the villages immigrants are virtually invisible. They live dispersed in older dwellings and outbuildings and rarely congregate in public spaces. Most are transient, either working as part of contracted crews managed by local Greeks for harvesting or hired in early morning ‘‘shape-ups’’ in the village squares by individual farmers. Some immigrants work regularly for agriculturalists or small business owners, often receiving housing in return. Resident immigrants, in particular those who work for elderly or agricultural households, often establish ongoing social relations with individual Greek families. These relations sometimes include baptismal sponsorship or other forms of ﬁctive kinship, but never lead to inheritance or other forms of economic collectivity. They more closely resemble patronage relations, since immigrants are dependent on employer sponsorship for working and residence permits. As a group immigrants are excluded from the public social and political life of the villages. Those who transgress these boundaries, for example by frequenting local cafes or organizing other immigrants to demand higher wages, are met with hostility and even overt violence. In one case I witnessed, a long-term Albanian resident of the village who had rented a ﬁeld and began to hire other immigrants to work it became the object of rumors concerning his supposed criminal past in Albania. When he bought an old car with his earnings he was publicly accused of being a dangerous driver and threatened with death if he should ‘‘hit any kids’’. In another case an immigrant who was rumored to be courting a local young woman was beaten and expelled from the village. There are signs of change in the status of long-term resident immigrants. An increasing number of immigrant families reside in the villages, and in the local primary schools 10–20% of students are from immigrant families, although relatively few have advanced to secondary school. Given their precarious legal status and their lack of property, their long-term outlook is unclear. Some families have been able to assimilate, but in most cases their assimilation has been socially justiﬁed through their public recognition and acceptance as Orthodox Christians and thus of ‘‘Greek’’ heritage.12

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THE INCOMPLETE TRANSFORMATION OF THE RURAL ECONOMY Changes in transnational relations have had a profound impact on relations of production at the village level. In the past, the surplus labor and agricultural production of the Greek peasantry was a valuable reserve for both the industrial societies of the foreign capitalist centers and urban Greece. The production of this surplus was predicated on a complex web of noncapitalist, ‘‘traditional’’ social relationships, most prominently of gender and kinship. The advent of new globalized labor markets and the increasing centrality of market economies in village life have both disrupted these traditional relationships and shifted the techniques by which the social inequalities and labor discipline necessary for rural production are reproduced. In short, the characteristic of Greek farmers as a class has undergone a signiﬁcant transformation. Rural Greeks no longer form a reserve proletariat and the position of rural society as peripheral to the development of capitalist relations of production is diminishing. The conditions under which rural communities are incorporated into the global economy have changed. Rural development and changing demographics have altered the ways that labor is controlled and reproduced, as well as the old relationship between rural and urban producers. In fact, it is now problematic to think of rural Greeks as a class of labor at all. What the EU has made possible, it seems, is the incorporation of Greek peasants, not as an urban or rural proletariat, but as something close to a petty-bourgeoisie (Tsoukalas, 1987). Today, Greek farmers in Argolida often characterize themselves as ‘‘lower middle class’’ (mikro-mesai). They use this term in two senses. In one sense they refer to a perception of social equality, of belonging to the same social class. There is a strong sense that social differences between Greek farmers have declined in the post-war period. Families that were wealthy and had large landholdings slowly sold much of their land to ﬁnance their children’s moves to urban businesses, and land-poor peasants who did not relocate to the city were able to slowly gain land or small businesses. Today in Midea Township I could not ﬁnd a single Greek family that subsists entirely on wage-labor with no property or business of its own. In another sense, ‘‘middle class’’ refers to a perception of having land and property as capital to be monetized, invested in and exploited. Most of the land held by villagers is exploited for market production. Farmers are constantly strategizing for market success and their goal is to produce a return on their investment, to live off the proﬁts of their production rather than labor.

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Orange farmers for example constantly strategize to obtain the maximum returns from their land. They choose species depending on location of the land and availability of water. They invest in fertilizers and labor to maximize production. They also choose when to harvest by weighing the risks of bad weather against the rise of market prices. Most farmers carry out little of the actual labor themselves, preferring to hire day-laborers to harvest and often even to prune and fertilize. Instead they concentrate on managing their investments in order to maximize returns. Other farmers operate in a similar manner. Truck farmers choose what crops to plant based on location and market prices. Even olive producers select species to maximize proﬁts, as one olive producer explained to me: After high school I didn’t make it into university so my father set me up with 45 stremmata. I decided to plant olive trees because they need very little work and I have conﬁdence that there will always be a demand for oil. I picked a species that produces very high-quality oil that gets a good price. This type of tree needs watering though, so I had to invest in a well and pump. Now the trees are 7 years old and produce well, but I take good care of them too, I don’t just leave them to chance. Still, it’s not much work, regular watering, a little fertilizing in the spring. The only hard work is harvesting in the fall, but I just get a few Albanians to do it. I clear about 13–15,000 euros a year, plus the subsidy from the EU. That’s enough for me to live on because my wife has a job.

For the villagers, land is capital. The returns come not from the labor, which is generally purchased and considered a business expense, but from the management of the investment. This is somewhat less true for truck farmers and herders, where the labor of the farmer plays a more direct role in the generation of proﬁts. At the same time, there has been a notable resistance to the ‘‘professionalization’’ of farming in Greece (Papadopoulos, 2001). For the most part this resistance comes from the farmers themselves. One of the explicit goals of the agricultural policies of the EU and Greek state has been the reduction and specialization of the agricultural labor force and a transition to ‘‘professional’’ large-scale farming. In Greece as a whole, it is estimated that around half the agricultural land and around one tenth of the farms qualify as ‘‘professional agriculture of large scale’’ (ibid., p. 13). In the Peloponnesos however, where small farms predominate, this proportion is much lower. In Midea Township professional large-scale agriculture is the exception, found only in few of the larger orange producers, truck farmers and hothouse operators. One indication of this is the relatively low number of full-time farmers enrolled in the EU-funded New Farmers program. The widespread strategy of maintaining agriculture as an important economic activity while resisting the ‘‘professionalization’’ or ‘‘rationalization’’

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of production arises from the perception that while the value of agricultural production is declining there are few viable alternatives. With the exception of tourism, there are few occupations in rural Greece that are able to support families at a middle-class standard of living and these jobs are in short supply. In addition there are community pressures against rationalized production, as farmers are well aware that such a move would beneﬁt some at the expense of others. As a result, the ideal situation for most Greek farmers is the pluriactive household, where agriculture is an important but supplementary income. With the availability of immigrant labor, agriculture can be maintained with relatively little investment of time or money and family members can be freed up to pursue other, potentially more lucrative, occupations. Immigrants have helped rural households to increase their standard of living without seriously challenging the underlying problems of declining agricultural proﬁts and lagging economic development. Thus, the social transformation of rural Greece remains incomplete, at least as it was envisioned by European and national planners. Despite the increased importance of market production and non-agricultural wage-labor, the household continues to be an important unit of production. Damianakos (1997) argues that Greek farmers as a whole have retained many qualities of a peasantry, and that even today ‘‘for most Greek ‘farmers’, agriculture is not an occupation: it is a condition to which they submit because the economy provides no credible alternative’’ (p. 192). In his view, the mass of Greek smallholders has basically retained a rationality of subsistence production, but with social relations that have been distorted by the expansion of capitalist markets. Control by transnational capital has increased, but the basis of their incorporation into world markets has not provided the foundation for a transformation of either class-consciousness or the structural conditions of their exploitation. The pluriactivity, high debts, shifting relations of production and continued dependence on subsistence production of Greek farmers thus represent a disorganized reaction rather than a step-up on the class ladder. Greek family farms employ a complex and heterogeneous set of productive relations between labor and capital. They are sites for both external and internal relations of production. They have also followed diverse and contradictory paths of integration with respect to global markets (Kasimis & Papadopoulos, 1997). To lump them together as a petty-bourgeoisie glosses over the contradictory nature of their involvement, as neither labor nor capital, and the incompleteness of their transformation. It does, however, highlight the degree to which Greek rural families have decreased their direct role in production and shifted their attention to ownership and

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management, even if this has been accompanied by more direct control by transnational institutions. The incomplete and contradictory process of ‘‘petty-bourgeoisiﬁcation’’ of the Greek peasantry has produced a number of problems and contradictions. The process has been limited by the inadequate structural conditions. Land is limited and existing landholdings are inadequate for the basic capital needed by household economies, given current market conditions and prices. Furthermore, other economic sectors are still unable to provide enough economic opportunities for local residents, leading to a relatively high rate of rural under- and unemployment. This problem has largely been held in check by the existence of a program of state subsidies that allows families to maintain a high standard of living while propping up many unproductive rural businesses. The dependence on subsidies and bank loans, together with the control exercised by global markets, has meant that perceptions of increased autonomy and freedom, and of a corresponding rise in class status, are somewhat illusory. At the same time, the attempt to raise the peasantry into the ranks of the petty-bourgeoisie as a class, which has been necessary to preserve the political legitimacy of the shift toward neoliberal market policies, has created a labor shortage. Rural Greeks, expecting a certain standard of living, no longer want to work as agricultural laborers. This has created the paradoxical situation in which a high level of unemployment co-exists with a shortage of agricultural wage-labor. Farmers can no longer afford to pay the wages demanded by Greek laborers and can no longer call on other means for mobilizing the necessary labor, such as kin and gender obligations. The solution to the labor crisis in rural households has been to ‘‘outsource’’ labor through immigration, a process that has disguised the class contradictions in rural Greece and obscured the ongoing problems of development.

CONCLUSION Southern European rural society has undergone signiﬁcant transformation in recent decades.13 Large-scale labor immigration into regions that were once important sources of emigrant labor is one key change that has occurred. While signiﬁcant differences exist in the patterns of immigration and the degree of agricultural modernization found in Greece, Italy and Spain,14 similar pressures have emerged as rural households have sought to re-organize themselves within the shifting political economy of southern Europe. Even within Greece, different regional economies share a growing

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dependence on immigrant labor (Kasimis & Papadopoulos, 2005). In all these societies the incorporation of immigrant labor has become a key aspect of local economic development, even as the immigrants themselves have been subject to social and political marginalization. The long-term implications of these developments have yet to be fully understood, but the case of rural Greece suggests that immigration is complexly tied to a whole set of social changes that are unfolding in rural society as a result of European integration. For rural Greeks, incorporation into the EU offered increased prosperity and an opportunity for social transformation. The political consent of rural Greeks to EU accession, which was crucial to the process, was largely predicated on their elevation from rural poverty and liberation from the old elites that enforced their political, social and economic subjugation. In the early years of EU membership, these goals were largely carried out through the use of ﬁnancial subsidies that did much to develop local and national infrastructure and raise living standards. However, the price for this aid has been paid in the form of market deregulation, through which the economic basis of village life has come under new pressures. The mitigation and in some cases elimination of older forms of social subordination, based on kinship, gender and class has given rise to new forms of subordination and new processes of class formation. The integration of Greek agriculturalists into the EU has brought about the reorganization of rural relations of production, most notably through the creation of a new class of immigrant labor. At the same time the household continues to act as the basic unit of production. The exploitation of immigrants has subsidized the integration of Greek agriculturalists by resolving the conﬂict between political promises of upward social mobility and the economic reality of the declining proﬁtability of agriculture and limited alternative employment possibilities. This process of class formation and conﬂict has been carried out through the development of transnational relations of production in which classes of labor are deﬁned and conditioned by citizenship and nationality. It thus embodies an essential paradox. While Greeks have been increasingly ‘‘Europeanized’’ politically and economically, they are also increasingly dependent on the policing of ethnic borders between themselves and immigrant laborers within the arena of household production. These ‘‘ethnicized’’ class boundaries create new points of social cleavage and conﬂict within the household that are potentially more volatile than the cleavages they have superseded. In the past, cross-cutting ties of gender, kinship and patronage were able to mediate the stark realities of class conﬂict and exploitation. Today Greeks have become dependent on a

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labor force that is necessarily transient, disposable and highly exploited. The gulf between prosperous EU citizens and impoverished immigrant laborers can only be maintained through rigid, well-deﬁned forms of social exclusion. The ‘‘liberalization’’ of the Greek countryside has, in reality, been carried out by the construction of a marginalized class of labor that has been incorporated into the household even as it has been excluded from the nation.

NOTES 1. Similar developments have been documented in other areas of southern Europe, see for example Collier (1997). 2. From 1960 to 1981 the birthrate in Greece was fairly stable at around 2.3. Since 1981 the birthrate has declined signiﬁcantly, to 1.3 in 1998 (Simeonidou, 2002). 3. These ﬁgures are based on the 2001 census published by the National Statistical Service of Greece (http:/www.statistics.gr/gr_tables/s1100_sap_5euro38%20lau%201. htm). 4. Figures published by the Greek Ministry of Agriculture show that citrus production and prices rose steadily from the 1970s and peaked in the mid-1990s. Since then prices have declined by 25–35% while production has remained ﬂat (http:/ www.minagric.gr/en/agro_pol/SERIES/TREES/Orange_tree.htm). 5. According to the 2001 census, 40% of households in Midea Township have one or two members (http:/www.statistics.gr/gr_tables/S1100_SAP_1_nik2001_mon.htm). Based on my observations, the majority of these are elderly households with children who live elsewhere or retirees from urban areas. My estimates are somewhat lower because my own survey of the villages revealed a tendency among some elderly to live separately but adjacent to grown children and thus functionally part of a larger household. 6. For a more extensive discussion of pluriactive household in rural Greece, see Zakopoulou (1999). 7. However, it is becoming more common for herders to marry immigrant women. Herders tend to have difﬁculty ﬁnding Greek wives, due to the ‘‘dirty’’ and uncomfortable work of herding. Immigrant women, particularly Albanians, are thought by Greek men to be less adverse to the working conditions of a herder’s wife. 8. There are some exceptions to this pattern. In some households men contribute to cooking, light housework and (more often) child-care. In general though, village men avoid such tasks. 9. These ﬁgures should be taken as approximate. They are based on applications for working papers after the implementation of the 1997 regularization program (Lianos, 2001, p. 6). Applications numbered 352,632 representing (depending on estimates of illegal population) between 30% and 50% of total immigrant population. 10. Due to the risks involved for the subjects, I did not collect data on immigrant’s legal status. My estimates come from the estimates offered me by immigrants and local residents. The actual number may be well above 10%. In some cases I suspect that immigrants who claimed to have permits in fact did not, or had incomplete,

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expired, etc. papers. Keeping one’s papers in order is an arduous and expensive task for immigrants, given the complex bureaucracy that must be navigated and the multiple permits that are required (Tzilivakis, 2004a, 2004b). 11. Overall, 70% of immigrants to Greece are male (Tzortzopoulou, 2002, pp. 47–48), but female immigrants tend to be concentrated in urban and touristic areas, a reﬂection of the gendered patterns of migration in southern Europe today (Anthias & Lazaridis, 2000). 12. Religious afﬁliation in the Balkans was often used to establish national identities as the Ottoman Empire declined. For example, Orthodox Christians were considered to be Greeks and Muslims were considered to be Turks regardless of the language they spoke. Albania is a traditionally Muslim country with a sizable Christian minority. In Midea Township I saw little evidence of religious practice among immigrants, but most claimed to be Christian, something local Greeks viewed with skepticism. 13. See, for example, Collier (1997) for an analysis of changing patterns of kinship and gender. 14. For a comparison of immigration between Greece and other southern European countries, see Cavounidis (2002). Greece is notable for the relative homogeneity of the immigrant population and the historical relationship between Greece and eastern European labor-sending societies. Also, in many regions of Spain and Italy immigrants have been incorporated into a more modern, mechanized system of agricultural production (see Corkill, 2005).

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Research for this chapter was carried out with a generous grant from the National Science Foundation. I am also indebted to Gerald Sider, Donald Wood and two anonymous reviewers for their comments and suggestions.

REFERENCES Anthias, F., & Lazaridis, G. (2000). Introduction: Women on the move in southern Europe. In: F. Anthias & G. Lazaridis (Eds), Gender and migration in southern Europe (pp. 1–14). New York: Berg. Campbell, J. K. (1964). Honour, family and patronage. New York: Oxford University Press. Cavounidis, J. (2002). Migration in southern Europe and the case of Greece. International Migration, 40(1), 45–71. Collier, J. (1997). From duty to desire: Remaking families in a Spanish village. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Corkill, D. (2005). Immigrants and a regional economy in Spain: The case of Murcia. International Journal of Iberian Studies, 18(1), 23–36. Damianakos, S. (1997). The ongoing quest for a model of Greek agriculture. Sociologica Ruralis, 37(2), 190–207. Droukas, E. (1998). Albanians in the Greek informal economy. Journal of Ethnic and Migration Studies, 24(2), 347–365.

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Eleutherotipia. (newspaper) (2004). Ta metallia tis egklimatikotitas. July 27, p. 54. Fakiolas, R. (2000). Migration and unregistered labour in the Greek economy. In: R. King, G. Lazaridis & C. Tsardanidis (Eds), Eldorado or Fortress? Migration in southern Europe (pp. 57–78). New York: St. Martin’s Press. Friedl, E. (1959). The role of kinship in the transmission of national culture to rural villages in mainland Greece. American Anthropologist, 61(1), 30–38. Kasimis, C., & Papadopoulos, A. (1997). Family farming and capitalist development in Greek agriculture: A critical review of the literature. Sociologica Ruralis, 37(2), 209–227. Kasimis, C., & Papadopoulos, A. (2005). The multifunctional role of migrants in the Greek countryside. Journal of Ethnic and Migration Studies, 31(1), 99–127. Kasimis, C., Papadopoulos, A., & Zacopoulou, E. (2003). Migrants in rural Greece. Sociologica Ruralis, 43(2), 167–184. King, R. (2000). Southern Europe in the changing global map of migration. In: R. King, G. Lazaridis & C. Tsardanidis (Eds), Eldorado or fortress? Migration in southern Europe (pp. 1–26). New York: St. Martin’s Press. Kourtovik, I. (2001). Metanastes: anamesa sto dikaio kai sti nomimotita. In: A. Marvakis, D. Parsanoglou & M. Pavlou (Eds), Metanastes stin Ellada (pp. 163–198). Athens: Ellinika Grammata. Lawrence, C. (2005). Rebordering the nation: Neoliberalism and racism in rural Greece. Dialectical Anthropology, 29(3–4), 315–334. Lazaridis, G., & Poyago-Theotoky, J. (1999). Undocumented migrants in Greece: Issues of regularization. International Migration, 37(4), 715–737. Lianos, T. (2001). Illegal migrants to Greece and their choice of destination. International Migration, 39(2), 5–25. Mouzelis, N. (2002, July 7). Poios fovatai tous metanastes? To Vima, p. A45. Papadopoulos, A. (2001). Farmers and ‘‘rurality’’ in Greece: The evolution of their strategic relationship and their responses to European integration. EKKE Working Paper 2001:14. National Centre for Social Research, Athens. Pepelasis, A. (1963). Labor shortages in Greek agriculture. Athens: Center of Economic Research. Romaniszyn, K. (2000). Clandestine labour migration from Poland to Greece, Spain, and Italy: Anthropological perspectives. In: R. King, G. Lazaridis & C. Tsardanidis (Eds), Eldorado or fortress? Migration in southern Europe (pp. 125–144). New York: St. Martin’s Press. Simeonidou, H. (2002). Gonimotita. In: A. Mouriki, M. Naoumi & G. Papapetrou (Eds), To Koinoniko Portraito tis Elladas (pp. 27–30). Athens: National Centre for Social Research. Tsoukalas, K. (1987). Kratos, koinonia, ergasia stin metapolemiki Ellada. Athens: Themelio. Tzilivakis, K. (2004a, July 9). The ‘ensima’ question mark. Athens News, p. 15. Tzilivakis, K. (2004b, June 18). Frustration, injustice, insecurity. Athens News, p. 15. Tzortzopoulou, M. (2002). I thesi ton metanaston stin Ellada. In: A. Mouriki, M. Naoumi & G. Papapetrou (Eds), To Koinoniko Portraito tis Elladas (pp. 45–62). Athens: National Centre for Social Research. Vernier, B. (1984). Putting kin and kinship to good use: The circulation of goods, labour and names on Karpathos (Greece). In: H. Medick & D. Sabean (Eds), Interest and Emotion: Essays on the study of family and kinship (pp. 28–76). New York: Cambridge University Press. Zakopoulou, E. (1999). Poliapasholoumenoi kai georgia: Pros mia nea anihneusi enos poludiastatou fainomenou. In: C. Kasimis & L. Louloudis (Eds), Ipaithros hora: I Elliniki agrotiki koinonia sto telos tou eikostou aiona (pp. 115–147). Athens: Plethron.

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PART II: MARKETS AND MARKETING

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‘‘THIS IS DIFFERENT, THIS IS THE PLAZA’’: SPACE, GENDER, AND TACTICS IN THE WORK OF MOROCCAN TOURIST SECTOR HENNA ARTISANS Patricia L. Kelly Spurles ABSTRACT Henna, a vegetable dye made from ground henna leaves that is used by Moroccan women to create temporary designs for the hands and feet, has become a profitable tourist sector service in the past decade. The social organization and relations of tourist sector henna artisans in the Marrakesh area are closely tied to how the spaces where they work are socially constructed and re-constructed. The artisans’ assertive public behavior directed at strangers is socially disapproved, and highlighted in interactions between the artisans and representatives of the state as well as guides and shopkeepers. Artisans working in public squares organize into multi-function cooperative groups in order to preserve claim to a given space, share supplies and skills, and provide a peer group in and through which reputation is maintained. Alternative spatial arrangements, such as work in herb shops and independent henna shops, correspond with greater conformity to gender norms. Choice in Economic Contexts: Ethnographic and Theoretical Enquiries Research in Economic Anthropology, Volume 25, 99–123 Copyright r 2007 by Elsevier Ltd. All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0190-1281/doi:10.1016/S0190-1281(06)25005-4

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INTRODUCTION An early incident stands out in my ﬁeldwork among henna artisans in Marrakech.1 I was not yet well known by the Jemaa l-Fna tourist sector workers, and a young woman approached me and asked if I wanted henna (see Fig. 1). We chatted for a few moments. I introduced myself and ex-

Fig. 1.

Typical Tourist Sector Henna in the Khaliji (Gulf) Style. Source: Drawing by Stephanie Weirathmueller, after photo by Patricia Kelly Spurles.

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plained that I was doing research about contemporary Moroccan henna practices and artisans. I agreed to her proposal to do some henna for me, and also agreed that it didn’t have to be black, since, as she said, she would have to get ‘‘a product’’ whose hazards I was already familiar with.2 Zohra3 immediately began to draw a line from the ﬁngernail of my index ﬁnger down to the second knuckle and diagonally across the back of my hand to the outside wrist bone. Equipped with an 18-gauge needle whose sharp beveled tip had been removed, Zohra used a large (10 ml) plastic syringe ﬁlled with paste made from purchased ground henna leaves, water, and a little paint thinner. This produces a temporary reddish dye when applied to the skin’s surface and allowed to dry for several hours. Did I want tea or orange juice, she asked. ‘‘I’m ﬁne,’’ I said. No, she insisted, it would be from her. Finally I agreed to a glass of tea, and she asked a young man standing nearby to get us some. The young man was an herb seller who worked in one of the stalls that spring up each evening, a square 10 feet by 10 feet marked out by carpets and neatly placed bottles and bags of herbs, spices, and cures. A few boards placed over some wooden crates made a comfortable seat to one side, and a stool was pulled up next to it. We sat and chatted as Zohra worked, quickly emptying the henna syringe and asking the herb vendor again to run and ask for some. ‘‘From whom?’’ he asked. ‘‘Ask them, over there,’’ Zohra said and motioned toward some artisans standing some distance off, identiﬁable by their characteristic face veils as much as by their intermittent interaction with passing tourists. He came back empty-handed; they would not give Zohra henna. She begged him to ﬁnd someone to give her enough to ﬁll the syringe just once more. A soldier patrolling the plaza looked at us as he walked by. Zohra said to me quietly, ‘‘Say you are buying spices.’’ He did not approach us, but looked pointedly at Zohra. Shortly after, one of the artisans came over and, taking my hand in hers, inspected Zohra’s work in progress before rebuking her in Arabic, saying that her work was not good, and then, ﬁnally addressing me, repeated her criticism in French and left. Zohra said not to pay attention to people who say the henna is not good. ‘‘Marrakshis are jealous; tell them you paid nothing.’’ It wasn’t particularly ‘‘good,’’ in fact, according to the esthetic system that determines the quality of henna work done in the local sector. The lines were of unequal thickness, and wiggly where they should have been straight. The motif seemed lop-sided, as the repeated central elements were markedly unequal in size. There were none of the doubled parallel lines that create the negative space that characterizes local sector work (see Fig. 2). She added a few six-armed stars to ﬁll in the design a bit more. Even so, compared to the dense and complex geometry executed by local sector artisans, this was

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Fig. 2. Typical Local Sector Henna in the Marrakshi (Marrakesh) Style. Source: Drawing by Stephanie Weirathmueller, after photo by Patricia Kelly Spurles.

inept, though not quite a scribble. When she was done, I asked how much. ‘‘One million dollars.’’ I laughed, ‘‘Oh, I am not rich.’’ She laughed also – derisively, I thought – and said, ‘‘Neither are we.’’ Then she waited for me to give a price. ‘‘10 dirhams,’’ I said. ‘‘You can have both hands and feet for 40, but you did just part of one hand, so I’ll give you 10. You are getting a good deal.’’ She said, ‘‘No, but this is different. This is the plaza. Look at how detailed the work is; look, it is the best quality; it will last three weeks; look at all the designs there are.’’ This moment captures several of the key features that distinguish tourist sector henna work from local sector. Most notably, the artisan explicitly drew my attention to the unique physical and social context in which our interaction took place. In fact, over the course of our twenty-minute interaction, she reversed the customary roles of henna specialist and customer, calling out to me (rather than waiting to be engaged by a client), seating me in an outdoor space (rather than coming to me at home) dominated by men generally, and by the male allies and representatives of the state speciﬁcally (rather than by women), offering me refreshments (instead of receiving them

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as my guest), and overtly bargaining for her fee (rather than, through language and action, framing the money changing hands as a gift that confers a blessing on the giver, i.e. the henna customer). Finally, while her technical henna skills were not highly developed (or, like a few of the artisans, she chose not to do ‘‘good’’ henna for unacquainted customers at the plaza), she was quite competent in the valuable skill of ‘‘talking to tourists,’’ in the words of many of my research participants. Unlike most of the artisans, however, this young woman worked alone rather than as part of an informal cooperative group. She relied on a loose reciprocity with a male herb seller for favors such as a place to sit and apply henna, especially relying on him as an assistant to fetch refreshments and extra henna when she ran out in the middle of a design. (I learned later that the herb seller received a variable but generally small cut from each sale.) Finally, groupmates would also have fended off the criticism of the disparaging interloper who tried to jeopardize the sale and, quite likely, to discourage Zohra from working again in the plaza. In this chapter, I explore the relationship between social organization of work, gender, and space in the context of tourist sector henna work in the Marrakesh area. The distinctive cooperative groups formed by Moroccan women selling henna services to domestic and foreign tourists in outdoor urban spaces engage both economic and social functions as workers seek to resolve business challenges including competition over territory, on one hand, and conﬂicting interpretations of local gender norms on the other. The cooperative group provides a medium through which the household is ‘‘translated’’ to the market (Seligmann, 2001, p. 3), as a durable but ﬂuid unit of reciprocity (as well as calculation and conﬂict), as a location of apprenticeship and specialization (Coy, 1989), and as a location for communal performances of emerging interpretations of female gender roles (Freeman, 2005) as artisans assert their presence in a contested space. In its emphasis on cooperative relations within a conﬂictual setting, this case contrasts with Little’s (2003, 2004) research on Mayan women who, as ambulantes or mobile vendors, sell textiles primarily to international tourists. Little states that cooperation between vendors may occur when economically beneﬁcial. My case study expands the analysis of cooperation, introducing the idea of tactics (de Certeau, 1984) as female artisans, operating from a weak base and lacking institutional power, aim to expand and solidify their use of public space. Socially constructed space is engaged here as both a context that reveals power relations and structures women’s actions and as a process in which they participate, as their actions alternately reinforce and resist it (Erdreich & Rapoport, 2006; Low, 1996).

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Like analysis of the organization of women’s work outside the household in other regions, studies of work among Muslim Arab women have often explicitly engaged culturally variable gender norms (Moghadam, 2003). While there is considerable cultural diversity among Muslim Arabs, patriarchal social norms tend to inﬂuence women’s experience in the economy as well as in the family. Both Hoodfar (1997) and Kapchan (1996, 2001) for instance, depict women employing discursive strategies that emphasize their ‘‘traditional’’ identities to legitimize their unconventional public roles. In both cases, working class social norms regarding female behavior emphasize modest public behavior to a greater extent than seclusion. Drawing on research in several newly urbanized Cairo neighborhoods, Hoodfar shows how some women began to employ religious idiom in dress (adopting the ‘‘veil’’ or hijab) as they took up work outside the household. This strategy, she argues, defused criticism of their divergence from behavioral norms, and prevented husbands from decreasing their own contributions to the family economic unit by reminding them of their Islamic duty as husband to support the household. She notes, however, that this religious turn in selfpresentation was not otherwise accompanied by an increase in religiosity, most notably prayer. Like Hoodfar, Kapchan has studied how women engage in performative strategies that recast rule-breaking behavior into a publicly recognized and valued model. Her research on women who sell medicinal herbs at periodic markets reveals how they skillfully use the formalized style of men’s market discourse in their call-and-refrain speech and rhetorical exposition of the seller’s credentials, while using motifs drawn from a pool of female rather than male symbols of authority and knowledge. While male merchants display and refer to diplomas, for instance, to establish their authority, Kapchan’s female herb sellers emphasize their statuses as elder, mother, neighbor, and afﬁne, which they know are shared with their audience. Like Kapchan’s and Hoodfar’s, my research illustrates how women resist and reinterpret restrictive gender norms in order to maximize their social and economic options, particularly in terms of using spaces that are associated with a dense array of social meanings. Henna artisans who offer services to domestic and international tourists are often dismissed (by Moroccans as well as outsiders) as culturally insigniﬁcant because of the dramatic differences between their behavior and techniques and those of the local sector henna artisans, whose work is located in households and whose painstakingly detailed designs are produced for local residents’ life cycle and religious celebrations as well as for occasional adornment (Combs-Schilling, 1989, 1991; Diouri, 1997; Field, 1958; Kapchan, 1993, 1996, 2001; Messina, 1991; Vonderheyden 1934a, 1934b;

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Westermarck, 1911, 1914, 1926). In contrast, not only do tourist sector artisans seek out customers and actively market their services, as described above, but they also respond to both the proﬁt-driven marketplace and to cosmopolitan ﬂows of ideas and practices by modifying social norms that regulate henna application with respect to form and esthetic, gender, and marital status. Hence, ‘‘tourist henna’’ incorporates new motifs (such as scorpions, though they are part of local culture in other ways, Frembgen, 2004) and forms (armbands, bracelets, anklets, stomach, back, and shoulder medallions) that are not present in local henna production (see Fig. 3). While local sector henna acts to create social dichotomies on the basis of abstinence versus participation in henna practices, separating unmarried

Fig. 3.

Domestic Tourists with Tourist Sector Henna Artisan. Source: Drawing by Stephanie Weirathmueller, after photo by Patricia Kelly Spurles.

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from married, male from female, non-family from family, and mourning from non-mourning (Diouri, 1997), these novel forms of henna separate clearly only between those who are engaging in tourism and those who are not. In this chapter, I describe how Moroccan women working as henna artisans in the tourist sector employ cooperative groups as a tactic that aims to address social as well as economic challenges embedded in these spaces. In its attention to individual and collective action, this work also responds to critiques that tourism studies have not viewed local participants as active players (Chambers, 2000; Stronza, 2001). These cooperative groups are part of artisans’ strategies for coping with spatialized gender norms that are manipulated in particular interactions with representatives of the state as well as by male shop owners who are increasingly participating in the henna trade. The stakes are higher than many realize. The social organization of artisans in these public marketplaces reﬂects their complex experience as individuals who value their membership in the wider community that espouses this restricting ideology, as women who are economic agents with responsibilities for the complete or partial provision of a household’s cash needs, and as sellers in a competitive but highly proﬁtable market.4 While local sector artisans estimated that they earn 50–1,000 dirhams5 each month, depending on time of year as well as the extent of their networks and reputation, most full-time tourist sector artisans earned 1,500–3,000 dirhams monthly, depending on the season.

COOPERATIVE GROUPS Most full-time henna artisans who provide services for tourists are part of cooperative groups composed of three to ﬁve women with shared values (often corresponding with marital status), overlapping work schedules, and, to a lesser extent, kin or neighborly ties. These informal groups have a stable membership and recognized roles. From an economic perspective, cooperative groups introduce a degree of specialization while reducing both ﬁnancial risk and competition between vendors. By pooling their income and dividing it equally among group members, artisans said, they always earned something, instead of doing well some days and poorly on others. This structure also reduces the number of artisans with whom each competes for customers, while increasing the number of allies who can be depended on for help in the frequent arguments with competitors.

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Cooperative groups play an important role in spatial tactics as groups and individuals compete with each other for access to highly valued locations. When newcomers move into an area, for instance, group members defending space from an encroaching group increase the space between their stools, so as to take up more room than usual. As members of another group try to settle in these spaces, they are told they are too close, and to sit a bit further away. By spacing stools four or ﬁve feet apart along the edge of the ﬂow of foot trafﬁc, cooperative groups push newcomers away from desired areas. Because of the necessity to occupy a space (thus maintaining the group’s claim to an area) even when there is little likelihood of getting a customer and earning income, group members use their participation in strategies to defend group space to bargain for other beneﬁts when necessary. Layla, for instance, worked alone one afternoon in the blazing sun without a single customer. She later reminded other group members that she had done them a favor by staying out in order to keep other artisans from moving into their space. Although established groups may have respected custom and recognized use patterns of that area, newcomers were looking for places to work and may have argued that Layla’s group had abandoned the area. Thus, group membership allows women to successfully maintain their rights to a particular space while allowing them the ﬂexibility of occasional or regular absences in order to perform household and social obligations, or to enjoy some leisure time. Other advantages are linked to speciﬁc traits of henna work. Women share some supplies, such as albums of henna designs (purchased from photo studios or shops that sell cosmetics and other beauty items) and the extra stools that are needed for customers who arrive in groups. Expensive to compile (containing 10 or more photos that cost 3 dirhams each), albums are used primarily to display designs before a sale is made. These albums also contribute to the establishment of the product’s and artisan’s ‘‘authenticity’’ (Spooner, 1986) as many of the photos show the embroidered edges of ﬁne caftans, perhaps some gold rings, and often a setting of velvet and brocade pillows. Many potential customers ask if the artisan herself applied the henna depicted in the images; the artisans consistently and quickly respond yes. Since they rarely work with a picture in front of them while applying the design itself, three or four artisans often share an album or two. Other supplies, such as henna and paint thinner, are purchased in larger quantities than are used up quickly by one worker. Henna, in particular, is usually purchased as ground powder in sealed boxes of 125 grams, and loses potency as it absorbs humidity after opening. Once mixed with water, it must be used within a day or so before it loses its strength as a dye. Artisans share these purchases as described below.

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Cooperative groups sitting together provide opportunities for learning and informal apprenticeship. The most apparent form of learning is the mastery of the henna techniques. Through asking and observing, artisans learn to prepare needles and syringes, mix henna with the proper ingredients, knead it to a smooth paste of the right consistency, and to hold the syringe steadily and draw recognized designs against the skin with threads of paste. Non-technical knowledge is equally important, and learned through observation and questioning (Coy, 1989). Group members become familiar with tourist behavior and consumption patterns, listen to each other interact with potential customers, learn the range of prices for both international and domestic tourists, and practice set phrases in French and Spanish. Trager’s study of Nigerian market women indicates that social knowledge relating to sales is highly transferable. Like the Nigerian yam sellers who moved into beer distribution (Trager, 1985), several of the henna artisans had initially been basket sellers, and learned henna techniques in order to make more proﬁtable use of their specialized skills in sales to tourists. There are also disadvantages to group participation. Disagreements with other artisans, including group members, sometimes escalate into arguments that may become violent. One group experienced two permanent changes in membership over the course of several years, as conﬂicts became more frequent and serious. Each time, the group split. The three resulting groups maintained cold and occasionally conﬂictual relations but recognized mutual rights to the proﬁtable space the original group had claimed. This situation highlights the durability of claims to space established by the artisans through continued use. Cooperative groups are initially formed in several ways. Some are composed of women from the same family. In one case, a woman, her daughter, and pre-adolescent granddaughter worked together. Another daughter was part of a different group, however. This highlights an important aspect of group structure: group members share similar work habits and schedules. The daughter who was part of a different group worked much longer hours, and so joined one of the full-time groups. With the exception of very young girls who accompany a family member (usually the mother), groups also tend to be composed of women of similar marital status. Married, divorced, and widowed women usually work together, while never-married women have their own groups. This characteristic reﬂects the social component of women’s cooperative work groups. Possible conversation topics are mediated by the status of others present – married, divorced, and widowed women do not discuss sexuality in front of never-married women of any age (l-banaat, ‘‘girls’’), and vice versa.

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While Seligmann notes the importance of the neighborhood as a site for market women’s networks (2001, pp. 12–13), the artisans in my sample only occasionally worked in cooperative groups based on residence in the same neighborhood. While this form of organization allows women to return home together late at night, many regularly walk home alone as late as midnight. By contrast, other Moroccan women frequently asserted that it was dangerous for a woman to walk alone after dark. Fatima, who worked in a local shop, warned me against returning from the plaza alone, as the artisans usually did. She said, ‘‘[After] ten, maybe 10:30, it’s too dangerous. You could get killed.’’ ‘‘There are people out there, though,’’ I said, ‘‘I’d scream.’’ ‘‘No one would help you,’’ she responded. While women often described groupmates as friends or neighbors, I slowly learned that they initially came to know each other through selling in the same area. Over time, the details of their acquaintance were replaced by a relationship of ﬁctitious kinship or neighborliness that aimed to establish a more appropriate context for meeting. Khaddouj shook her head as she told me about one of the group members. ‘‘She just came one day,’’ she said, ‘‘and said that she needed to learn to do henna. She was divorced from her husband.’’ Sabira sat with the women every afternoon and evening for several months, learning how to do henna, some French phrases, and various prices for tourist sector henna. Finally, she began to work herself, and shared the daily tally.

SPECIALIZATION WITHIN THE GROUP Specialization within the group occurs in several forms, including cash management (making change and dividing the pool), selling and bargaining in foreign languages (as well as in Arabic), and good quality henna application. A highly functioning group has not only a pool of shared physical resources, but also one or more members who are proﬁcient in these roles. Henna artisans in the tourist sector have two primary customer bases: domestic tourists and Moroccan expatriates (known as MREs, or Marocains re´sidant a` l’e´tranger) returning on vacation, on one hand, and foreign tourists, on the other. Older artisans are sought by domestic tourists and MREs, who perceive them to be more skilled, while younger artisans and those with more ﬂuency in foreign languages focus on describing their services and prices to international tourists. Money is managed collectively. After completing a henna design and receiving money from the customer, an artisan gives the entire amount to

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the group treasurer, and obtains change from her if necessary. Money is divided equally among group members before leaving the worksite at the end of an evening or any time a member joins or leaves the group for the day. First, the treasurer pays back amounts disbursed by one member for group purchases. Then she goes around the group, ﬁrst giving each the same kind of bill, going from the most to the least valuable. If a bill is left over, it is put aside, and the next kind of bill is divided evenly among the group members. The same process is carried out with coins. After these have been divided equally, the remaining bills are changed by one of the group members or taken to another person who changes it. The process is repeated until all the money has been divided. While one woman may keep the money, agreeing on a price, collecting money, and giving change, particularly to non-Moroccan customers may be a separate role. While this function relies on basic foreign language skills, the disparity between actual units of Moroccan currency and the way people count money and quote prices suggests that money handling is much more complex. The basic unit of currency in Morocco is the dirham, which consists of 100 centimes. While prices are always rounded up to the nearest dirham for tourists, goods that are purchased by most people on a daily basis are priced in a combination of dirhams and centimes. The use of such combinations of units is avoided, however, through different ways of speaking about money that persist alongside the formal currency regime. Centimes are also called francs, and so a price of 1 dirham and 30 centimes can be said to be 130 francs. However, in Marrakesh, many people think of currency in terms of riyals, equivalent to 5 centimes. Sellers may switch between dirhams, riyals, and francs in a single interaction without ever specifying the unit of currency, relying on an understanding of market values that is shared (or not) by interlocutors.6 Although most women I observed are skilled at bargaining, calculating sums, and determining change due in riyals, each group has one member who can give prices in French and, equally importantly, in dirhams for tourists, who are (rightly) presumed to be unfamiliar with riyals.

OTHER COOPERATIVE ARRANGEMENTS A second tactic links artisans to other vendors who have a more securely recognized claim to space in the tourist plazas. Most artisans establish, individually rather than in groups, another kind of informal relationship in the form of a friendly agreement with one or two (male) vendors who sell

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herbs, orange juice, or dried fruit and nuts.7 The vendors have stationary carts with a small amount of storage space underneath, where artisans sometimes store their stools and henna kits overnight or during breaks, as well as when they anticipate police raids. The carts, which are arranged in an established order around the perimeter of the square and display a decorative card that bears a one or two digit number, also serve as a ﬁxed address that could be located by strangers. While these reciprocal relationships are less stable than those shared among cooperative group members, women value them and try to maintain these relationships through friendly conversation as well as the daily exchange of goods and services with the vendors or, in some cases, through neighborly exchanges with vendors’ relatives. Because of the possibility of police involvement, however, and the frequency of mix-ups and missed appointments as well as the necessary and frequent shufﬂing through the stall, vendors sometimes aim to limit these exchanges.

CONTROL AND RESISTANCE Along with organization into cooperative groups and weak but valuable links with male vendors, another primary feature of the organization of artisans’ work is the presence and intervention of the state, which is represented by several different policing branches. These features are linked, as cooperative groups provide members with greater resources in dealing with the police, with one member often dealing with the police on behalf of others, paying a small sum each day on their behalf and intervening as necessary. The relationship between the state and tourist sector henna artisans in Marrakesh is moderated by the ambiguous status of the artisans, particularly in terms of their access to public space. Many kinds of street work,8 including shoe shining, portering, as well as trades (such as snake and monkey handling) speciﬁc to the plaza where many of the tourist artisans work, are regulated by the city. These trades are all exercised by men. Henna work, on the other hand, is traditionally practiced at home, not in the street, and street licenses are not issued to artisans. In fact, several police ofﬁcers asserted that these women were not henna artisans at all, and cited the fact that they did not provide henna services in the local home-based sector as proof. On the other hand, the artisans framed the legitimacy of their access to this space in terms of continued use, rather than the speciﬁc category of activity they exercise. The most senior henna artisans reminded me and each

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other that they have been present in the square ‘‘since it was full of tents,’’ said one, pointing to an old spice seller, who she said knew her then. Another artisan said, ‘‘She and I were here together and we sold baskets.’’ The tourist sector artisans operate in a gray area, subject to periodic pressure from the state representatives who are mandated to reduce crime and harassment directed at tourists. Several distinct government branches are involved in policing the area. The most signiﬁcant of these is the Brigade Touristique, created to improve the city’s image by reducing the number of unlicensed merchants and guides targeting tourists in the city center. Shopkeepers explain that the artisans are thieves who try to cheat tourists. It is true that prices in the tourist sector are high; they reﬂect, like almost all market prices, tourist sector artisans’ estimation of the an individual buyer’s means and knowledge (Geertz, 1979), as well as the level of ﬁnancial and social risk the artisans bear as informal traders. The municipal police and members of the national guard (l-’assass) also patrol the areas where henna artisans work. The artisans consider the guards the least helpful and the least powerful, although they are the ones most often patrolling the square and frequently harass the women. ‘‘The guards can’t arrest you,’’ Sana corrected me, after I had used the terms boliisi (police) and ‘assass (guards) interchangeably in conversation one day. ‘‘They have to bring the police. And if the police shut you up in jail, the guards can’t help you.’’ Artisans’ relationships with police and other representatives of the state are most regularly established through bribes. Each woman who worked in the square had a guard whom she paid off daily. ‘‘Kul wahid andu wahid,’’ (everyone has one) Sana said to me after several months, when I ﬁrst saw and understood what was happening after a guard came to demand his daily bribe. The usual amount was 5 or 10 dirhams daily (for a guard) to 20–40 dirhams daily (for a policeman) paid by each artisan. Artisans cultivate relationships with the ofﬁcers who patrol the square or can be called upon when necessary to intervene. One evening, I was sitting with Sana when a man came over and spoke quietly to her. ‘‘Na’am,’’ she responded – a very respectful afﬁrmative. After a few seconds, she said to me, ‘‘Nodi’’ (get up), and indicated that we would go in the opposite direction. I said, ‘‘That is a policeman in plain clothes?’’ ‘‘Yes,’’ she said. ‘‘He is very nice. He told me to go for a walk and come back tomorrow.’’ As we walked, we passed another man and Sana spoke to him brieﬂy. She explained later that he was the police chief, and had said earlier that if he saw the ofﬁcer who took her equipment the previous day he would tell him to return it. She said that she was telling the police chief that she had received her equipment.

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Besides bribes, henna artisans gained the consideration of an ofﬁcer in other ways. One policeman brought his wife to the square one evening and asked for an artisan to do henna for her because she was attending a wedding the next day. Khaddouj, after spending an hour doing an intricate design, complained to me that the ofﬁcer was a himaar (donkey). She said that she was doing his wife’s hands and ‘‘stinky feet’’ for only 30 dirhams, which was a reasonable price in the local market, but much less than tourist sector artisans charged. While this favor strengthened Khaddouj’s relationship with her police contact, she resented it. Only a few women avoided paying bribes entirely. Sana said that she didn’t pay bribes because she knew the policemen from when she had been in jail, and she later relied on this relationship when her equipment had been seized and she hoped to get it back by bringing them breakfast. Another woman did not pay bribes, but instead had an intimate relationship with a policeman, which assured that she would not be harassed by his peers. Others who did not pay bribes could work only on the margins of the square, and when it was so busy that they could quickly slip into the crowd and out of sight when necessary. Bribes are part of an informal system maintained by ofﬁcers and artisans in which the ofﬁcers agree to tolerate the women’s presence, and the artisans agree to pay daily bribes. During the period of my ﬁeldwork, raids were periodic, however, and coincided with the height of the tourist season as authorities attempted to reduce congestion in the square. While the daily payment of cash to the ofﬁcers is covert, and was for several months described to me by the artisans as ‘‘holding money’’ or ‘‘returning money,’’ the raids are uncommon but visible to outsiders. Ofﬁcers shout at the artisans, and in the most violent incidents, throw and break the artisans’ equipment and stools. I witnessed three forms of interaction between the ofﬁcers and the artisans. The ﬁrst is the unofﬁcial tolerance of the artisans’ presence in exchange for the payment of a daily bribe. At this level, actions to clear the artisans are half-hearted, non-violent, and motivated only by diffuse job requirements. Ofﬁcers ignore the artisans, or tell them to leave but take no action. On some days, the general atmosphere is relaxed and humorous. Some occasionally make small talk, and ask about the artisans’ children. I was sitting with Khaddouj one afternoon when a man approached from behind and tickled her on the back. Khaddouj lunged with a ﬁst in that direction, hitting me instead, then noticed the man looking back over his shoulder as he walked away. They both laughed, and she apologized. It was a plain-clothed policeman, she explained.

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The second form of action against the artisans occurs when pressure on the guards and tourist police increases as their superiors demanded that the square be cleared. A raid begins with a demonstration of aggression by one or two guards, who reach for the stools or photo albums of one of the women. Other artisans circle, usually with one of the women trying to negotiate with the ofﬁcer. If this fails, the artisans take their equipment and run. On these occasions, they prohibit women from working, although they often allow them to return several hours later, the next day, or rarely, after several days. These interactions are not violent, and are sometimes almost apologetic in tone, as they explain that the women have to leave. The women cooperate reluctantly, and sometimes refuse to pay on subsequent days since they had been unable to work. The artisans’ refusal to pay bribes provokes the third kind of interaction, which is characteristically violent as the ofﬁcers resent their lost income. When artisans are banned entirely from the square, they either retreat to the perimeter, or stop coming to the square all together. Those who move from their habitual work areas to outlying areas work in spaces that are otherwise occupied by drunks and drug addicts. These places – dirty and poorly lit – receive no pedestrian trafﬁc, and are used only to apply henna after ﬁnding customers in the central area and bringing them outside. Customers, however, recognize these areas as potentially dangerous and are generally reluctant to go. Moroccan customers who have already agreed on a price and are looking for a particular artisan have difﬁculty ﬁnding the artisans during these periods. Furthermore, the presence of artisans in these dim, seedy areas that are otherwise used only by hashish smokers and alcohol drinkers contributes to negative perceptions of the artisans, regardless of their lack of participation in such activities. Another effect of ofﬁcial harassment is price inﬂation. Tourist sector henna artisans argue that they have to charge more than local sector artisans because they have to pay bribes, and because there are many days when they cannot work because of problems with the police.

CHANGING THE RELATIONSHIP TO SPACE The interplay of gender and space draws not only ofﬁcials and orange juice merchants into the lives of the henna artisans, but also other actors. Several times per hour in the afternoon, large groups of international tourists follow their state-licensed guides, almost exclusively male, through the square. As they pass henna artisans, some tourists slow down or stop to look. This is

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discouraged by the guides. Several times, I heard guides remind the group that they would stop later at a place where they could have henna done in a nice atmosphere, by better henna artisans. Another guide, speaking French to his group, said, ‘‘Look how they are! Real Moroccan women are not like that, sitting outside. They are prostitutes, practically.’’ His group stared, but walked quickly by. The trope of ‘‘real Moroccan women’’ was frequently invoked by those who wished to express their displeasure with women’s public behavior. While tour guides’ subtle control over tourist purchasing power represents an obstacle for artisans in the public squares, it directs business to other tourist sector henna artisans whose work is controlled by male patrons. Many of the guides brought their groups to medicinal herb shops that have been set up especially to accommodate large tour groups. Here, henna artisans work as independent contractors, earning cash directly from customers, and giving a portion of their sales to the owner. Nassima told me that she had been working outside, on the plaza, when her present boss came to her and said that it would be better for her to work in his new shop. I asked how. She said that she was too modest to work outside, and that there were lots of arguments among the women and with the police. While Nassima said that working inside was more pleasant, both because it was more private and because it was cooler and there were comfortable places to sit, she lost some of her income as a result. In Marrakesh, where two of the primary ﬁeld sites were located, these shops are all owned by men, who draw proﬁt from the general belief that it is inappropriate as well as uncomfortable for women to work outside. A discussion among several artisans of Hurriya’s decision to begin wearing the face veil (only while working, as is typical of the tourist sector artisans) highlights these factors: Hurriya said that she started to wear it ‘‘because people take pictures,’’ while her groupmate said, ‘‘No, it’s because it’s summer and she doesn’t want to get black.’’ While working on commission in a comfortable shop decreases women’s income, in a small town near my primary research site, a small number of women – all with considerable family resources – have opened their own henna shops where they do henna inside and keep the proceeds themselves. In each case, they work in shops that belong to their natal or afﬁnal families. The legitimacy of their access to these valuable spaces is undisputed. These shops had previously been run by male family members, but when the henna market emerged as a new high-proﬁt sector, women asked for and received shop space. Two of ﬁve artisans have converted the shop entirely to henna use, while three have acquired space for henna in a shop that continues to

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sell other tourist-oriented goods. These artisans have professionalized. They have business cards, and shops with unique signs. Some dress in new European-style suits without a jellaba as outer garment. Several have their own cell phones. Several engage in a formal division of labor, where they assign customer scouting and henna application to different workers hired speciﬁcally for these tasks. In these cases, they emphasize their managerial labor as an aspect of their professionalization: these women do not ‘‘do’’ henna work, instead they organize it. Sihame, who has a university degree and works in her father’s shop, sees herself as a businesswoman and an artist. She resists stereotypes of henna artists as marginal women, who are divorced, badly married, or poor, and rebuffed my argument that henna provides a resource for women who have few others. ‘‘No, it is an art,’’ she said. She conceives of herself as a smart entrepreneur whose earnings buy luxuries for her family, and a new motor scooter for herself. Sihame’s activities in her father’s shop represent an alternate form of organization that attempts to meld the proﬁtability of the tourist sector with the respectability of private work. She washes her hands with bleach in the evenings to get rid of henna stains that would turn her palms and ﬁngertips maroon or black, turning her hands rough and raw instead. The capacity to draw on family resources is not the only marker that distinguishes the shopkeeper artisans. While all the twenty outdoor artisans for whom I had this data are illiterate, two of the ﬁve shopkeeper artisans in the secondary site have university diplomas. The low-status associations of henna work are not entirely eclipsed by their income-earning capacity, yet these larger-scale artisan-entrepreneurs are proud of their work, and of their status as businesswomen. These cases are atypical and few, but important as outlying cases in which capital (both cash and social resources) has offered increased ﬂexibility and legitimate access to space. Yet concerns remain. Umm Hani told me one day that neighboring shopkeepers, men, sometimes gossiped about her, insinuating that she could be receiving strange men in her shop. She said to me, ‘‘What can I do here, with customers coming in? Really – if a woman wants to have a boyfriend, he should come to see her in her home while her husband is out and they will have some privacy.’’ Also atypical but noteworthy are two male henna artisans in this town. Both apply henna occasionally, inside small herb shops on which they have inexpensive long-term leases. Abdelghani, who was also an unlicensed guide, said that the female henna artisans were making so much proﬁt that they were ‘‘manufacturing money.’’ Having learned about henna from his mother, he said that he knew more than the young women who were doing it

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in the street outside his shop. Although both of the men had freshly used henna syringes in their shops on different occasions when I visited them, they attracted far fewer customers than the female artisans. These men are low status and, compared to the ofﬁcials who collect daily bribes and the large-scale herbalists who take a percentage from the sales of women operating out of their shops, much less successful at diverting proﬁts from the female artisans. Increasing male participation (in these different guises) in highly gendered and highly proﬁtable henna work is located within a widely reported general trend for lucrative trades to be dominated by men (Chant, 1997; Lessinger, 2001).

MOBILITY AND MORALITY I have described henna work as an activity that moves through time and space. I mean by this that work is mappable physical activity that changes, often in a patterned way, over time on micro and macro levels, such as in terms of daily and seasonal cycles and ﬂuctuations. Like other tourist sector workers, henna artisans are conscious of tourist ﬂows, commenting on them constantly, and deploying saving and spending strategies that take these ﬂuctuations into consideration. The ﬂow of trafﬁc through the plaza also orders women’s work throughout the day. Some groups of artisans are displaced from the center to the periphery when their places are taken over each afternoon by male merchants and entertainers. Other groups move throughout the day according to a predictable schedule, sitting in one spot then moving to another as different locations in the square are occupied by succeeding groups, and as the patterns of tourist trafﬁc shift away from the souq entrances and toward the temporary stalls. This scheduled movement through and ownership of locations/territories that are bounded and conceived in time as well as in space recalls the ‘‘tribal road’’ of the Basseri nomads described by Barth (1965). These spatial and temporal movements are undertaken not singly, but by groups. The physical setting has bearing on the actions and strategies of women who work within it, as well as on the attitudes of those who observe and interact with them. At my primary research site, these outdoor artisans worked primarily in two locations, both open market-like plazas permanently occupied by vendors and ringed with shops. During the day, when the area is much less congested with pedestrians, mopeds and bicycles cross the square willy-nilly, emphasizing how local trafﬁc ﬂows across the square as residents go to and from daily chores in this densely populated area of the

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city. Tourists also cross the square as they travel a well-established route that takes them from one popular site to another, and ﬁnally back to their hotels or buses after an afternoon of shopping in the souqs, whose entrances are located along the square. Several groups work in adjacent locations near one of these entrances, where shoppers, workers, and tourists pass through a gap at the corner of the square, placing their stools along the initial stretch of this stream of tourists, which is also close to the shade and conviviality of the carts with their awnings and umbrellas. When the square is sparsely populated in the afternoons, artisans respect the territory close to established groups, and do not approach tourists who walk near another group without asserting a prior agreement with the customer. In the evenings however, when the square is more crowded with tourists and space is limited, artisans work much closer to each other, in the spaces between and around other vendors. Groups collectively maintain an area that has been transformed by the addition of several low stools and a few bags of equipment, but also by the sedimented actions of the artisans who regularly occupy this space, turning it into a named and identiﬁable area. They arrange their bags of equipment and stools to exclude competitors and strangers, and speak of each other’s habitual area as ‘‘theirs’’ – saying, for instance that someone has gone to ‘‘Khaddouj’s place’’ as ind Khaddouj, in the same fashion whether they are referring to her home or to her place on the pavement. Women enjoy being in groups and talking among themselves. Being alone, even to work, is described by many of the Moroccan women among whom I work as unpleasant and likely to bring on bad health. Thus, women who are the sole female members of their household seek the company of friends, neighbors, young family members, or household employees; similarly, visiting is considered a good deed performed by the visitor to the beneﬁt of the one visited.9 Work life is no different, and women seek company to pass the time, either talking, or just sitting together. In addition to the desire for amusement and company is the advantage of having a witness to one’s behavior. Since women’s reputations are constantly put into question, the presence of a reliable witness to one’s actions can be used when necessary. Khaddouj often called attention to this, saying that different people could testify to what she did all day, and to how ‘‘reserved’’ she was in her relations with others. Meneley’s (1996) study of women’s visiting patterns in a Yemeni community contends that women establish social identity and status through practices of hosting and visiting strategically selected others. The full-time henna artisans in the present study, generally deprived of regular opportunities to engage in neighborhood-based

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networks of this kind because of their absence from the household, instead employed their work-based contacts in much the same manner. While most of the artisans considered in this chapter would be considered mobile in the sense of not working from a shop or stationary cart (Little, 2003), the artisans themselves distinguished between those who walked and those who sat, getting up and walking over to customers but always returning to the same place. While a small number of artisans walked about, scanning for clients, and working quickly and standing up after concluding a sale, most of the full-time artisans were ‘‘sedentary,’’ by contrast, moving their stools throughout the day along a known trajectory. Emphasizing the extent to which their daily activities were regularly observed by workmates and neighboring merchants, they often contrasted their behavior with that of the mobile artisans. Amal, a ‘‘sedentary’’ artisan said, ‘‘How can I be dishonest, when everyone knows where to ﬁnd me? The ones who are always going in circles, no. If someone has a problem with them, they run. Fsst!’’ Amal’s comparison demonstrates a strategy through which artisans recognize and deﬂect criticism of their business practices as well as their moral standing.

CONCLUSION Like male tourist sector workers, tourist sector henna artisans adopt a mode of behavior that is active and assertive in its attempts to capture a portion of the global ﬂow of capital that makes its way through Morocco’s historic cities. While men’s interactions with tourists were rarely subject to criticism, a recurrent theme in my interviews with male research participants was the artisans’ behavior, and particularly their unchaperoned and unregulated presence in these market- or carnival-like plazas, was inappropriate for Moroccan women. Three suggested, in nearly identical terms, that it would be better if the artisans wore lab coats and worked in a distinct area, together on a platform. The notion that women’s transgressive use of space can be rectiﬁed by simultaneously marking them and adding another external covering is reinforced by similar practices in other arenas. Moroccan schoolgirls, for instance, must wear short-sleeved smocks over their dresses or pant outﬁts (boys do not), and many (though not all) working class women employed in indoor formal sector jobs where they have contact with the public choose to wear their jellaba (an outer garment) while working. Engaging in practices that draw attention to the body and the intimate life cycle events henna is most often associated with, offering henna services

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out-of-doors clashes with conventional understandings of Moroccan women’s behavior. Much like the female herb sellers in rural Moroccan markets (Kapchan, 1996, 2001), tourist sector henna artisans engage in performances that entwine gender, national identity, tradition, and public space, afﬁrming the continued salience of these ideas as networked symbols that engage multiple meanings and statements of value, and contributing to the development of new possible interpretations. These new-style henna artisans, however, who earn a signiﬁcant income from doing henna for domestic and international tourists, exist in uneasy relation to Marrakesh’s public spaces, whose ofﬁcial allure is their timelessness. The tactics engaged by tourist sector henna artisans to maintain and solidify their capacity to carry out business in these places include creating social relationships. The cooperative groups in which most artisans participate are alliances that offer ﬁnancial security, resource sharing, companionship, training, and protection. Relationships with representatives of the state reﬂect both the tension that underlies women’s contested access to a space that has both economic and ideological value, as well as possibilities for maintenance of access.

NOTES 1. This research is based on 18 months of participant observation in Marrakesh and several smaller towns between May 1998 and August 2001. During this period, semi-structured interviews with henna artisans in the tourist (30) and local (15) sectors were also conducted in Moroccan Arabic and French. See Kelly Spurles, 2004. 2. Zohra could have used one of several methods Marrakshi artisans employ to achieve black henna on skin. Most popular is a two-step process in which a cement and ammonium chloride (shnadr) mixture (both available at hardware stores) is applied for several minutes to the design after removing the dried henna paste; a rapid chemical reaction quickly turns the dyed skin black. The cement mixture is fairly caustic, and repeated exposure causes irritation of the skin. A one-step method using prepared black henna containing PPD or paraphenylenediamine was gaining signiﬁcance in Morocco in 2000 and 2001 as a one-step method for achieving ‘‘black’’ henna, however. This product relies on a highly allergenic black dye that is added to the henna paste; it is considered unsafe because of reactions that include blistering and scarring of the immediate area as well as a delayed systemic allergic response (Ashraf, Dawling, & Farrow, 1994; Marcoux, Couture-Trudel, & Riboulet-Delmas, 2002). Formulas that aim to make henna darker if not actually black and more durable are widespread in Morocco. Very dark henna can be safely achieved on highly keratinized or calloused skin through repeated henna application with no other dye or catalyst. In this process, henna is applied, left to dry overnight, scraped

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off, and reapplied one or more times. A simple mixture of lemon juice and sugar (sqwa) repeatedly applied to partially dried henna is the most common. As a very weak acid, this mixture works by increasing the duration of contact between the paste and the skin. This step is omitted by most tourist sector artisans. However, both local and tourist sector urban artisans add a small amount of paint thinner to the paste, supposedly to make the color deeper and more durable. The slight burning when the paste is applied to the skin is said to indicate the strength and efﬁciency of the paint thinner. Paint thinner is, in theory at least, omitted from henna mixed for children – whose skin is considered too tender – and for brides, for whom the desired color is not deep brown but rather ruby red which is described as joyous. Before having henna applied to children, domestic and expatriate Moroccan tourists diligently ask if paint thinner has been added; the artisans duly respond, ‘‘Just a little’’ before proceeding. In fact, in households, the presence of paint thinner in the henna was cited in negotiations with young children who wanted more elaborate henna designs than the adults desired. 3. All research participants are referred to by pseudonyms to preserve anonymity. 4. While women can legally and morally rely on male kin for economic support, unemployment often nulliﬁes this claim. The US government estimates Moroccan unemployment at 24 percent in 1999 (http://www.cia.gov/publications/factbook/ ﬁelds/2172.html). Ofﬁcial Moroccan statistics are much lower, placing overall unemployment in 2002 at 10.8 percent, urban overall unemployment at 18.4 percent, and urban female unemployment at 24.3 percent (http://www.statistic-hcp.ma/). 5. In 2000–2001, 1 dirham was roughly equivalent to US$0.10. Three thousand dirhams is approximately a teacher’s or policeman’s monthly salary, about US$300. 6. Buyers and sellers also shorten numbers when it is understood that they are multiples of a hundred. For instance, 70 dirhams may be stated as ‘arbatash or ‘‘fourteen,’’ that is, fourteen hundred (1400) riyals. 7. Like Chennai market women described by Lessinger (2001), younger henna artisans often addressed unrelated men as khuya, ‘‘my brother.’’ This is a common practice among young men and women alike, as it invokes mutual rights and responsibilities as well as the legitimacy of interaction noted by Lessinger. 8. See Salahdine (1988) for more on men’s informal work (petits me´tiers or ‘‘small trades’’) in Fez. 9. Kanafani, 1983; Meneley, 1996; and Hoodfar, 1997 report similar attitudes among women in the UAE, Yemen, and Egypt respectively. My neighbors and research participants frequently asked if I was lonely or upset from spending time alone in my apartment. After I mentioned one day that several families offered to ‘‘lend’’ me a child to keep me company, Hind explained that it was common for newly wed brides to ask for a child to stay with them so that they would not be lonely during the period before they had their own.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I am indebted to Donald Wood and to the two anonymous reviewers for their challenging, helpful, and encouraging comments. Laura Turnbull

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provided able research assistance as I wrote, while my partner Ron Kelly Spurles provided invaluable but unpaid research assistance in the ﬁeld. The research was sponsored by grants from International Development Research Council, Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council, and Fonds d’aide aux chercheurs et a` la recherche. This short piece is dedicated to one participant who, upon hearing that I wanted to learn and write about their lives, insisted that I learn to do henna properly so that I could, in her words, buy a house.

REFERENCES Ashraf, W., Dawling, S., & Farrow, L. J. (1994). Systemic paraphenylenediamine (PPD) poisoning: A case report and review. Human and Experimental Toxicology, 13, 167–170. Barth, F. (1965). Nomads of South Persia, the Baseri tribe of the Khamseh Confederacy. New York: Humanities Press. Chambers, E. (2000). Native tours: The anthropology of travel and tourism. Prospect Heights, IL: Waveland Press. Chant, S. (1997). Gender and tourism employment in Mexico and the Philippines. In: M. T. Sinclair (Ed.), Gender, Work, and Tourism (pp. 120–179). London: Routledge. Combs-Schilling, M. E. (1989). Sacred performances: Islam, sexuality, and sacrifice. New York: Columbia University Press. Combs-Schilling, M. E. (1991). Etching patriarchal rule: Ritual dye, erotic potency, and the Moroccan monarchy. Journal of the History of Sexuality, 1, 658–681. Coy, M. W. (1989). Apprenticeship: From theory to method and back again. Albany: State University of New York Press. de Certeau, M. (1984). The practice of everyday life. Berkeley: University of California Press. Diouri, A. (1997). Marquage au henne´. In: A. Diouri (Ed.), Les puissances du symbole (pp. 141–159). Casablanca: Editions Le Fennec. Erdreich, L., & Rapoport, T. (2006). Reading the power of spaces: Palestinian Israeli women at the Hebrew University. City and Society, 18, 116–150. Field, H. (1958). Body-marking in southwestern Asia. Cambridge, MA: Peabody Museum. Freeman, A. (2005). Moral geographies and women’s freedom. In: G.-W. Falah & C. Nagel (Eds), Geographies of Muslim women: Gender, religion, and space (pp. 147–177). New York: Guilford Press. Frembgen, J. W. (2004). The scorpion in Muslim folklore. Asian Folklore Studies, 63, 95–123. Geertz, C. (1979). Suq: The bazar economy in Sefrou. In: C. Geertz, H. Geertz & L. Rosen (Eds), Meaning and order in Moroccan society: Three essays in cultural analysis (pp. 123–244). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hoodfar, H. (1997). Between marriage and the market: Intimate politics and survival in Cairo. Berkeley: University of California Press. Kanafani, A. (1983). Aesthetics and ritual in the United Arab Emirates: The anthropology of food and personal adornment among Arabian women. Beirut: American University of Beirut. Kapchan, D. A. (1993). Moroccan women’s body signs. In: K. G. Young (Ed.), Bodylore (pp. 3–34). Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press.

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Kapchan, D. A. (1996). Gender on the market: Moroccan women and the revoicing of tradition. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Kapchan, D. A. (2001). Gender on the market in Moroccan women’s verbal art: Performative spheres of feminine authority. In: L. J. Seligmann (Ed.), Women traders in cross-cultural perspective (pp. 161–183). Stanford: Stanford University Press. Kelly Spurles, P. L. (2004). Henna for brides and gazelles: Ritual, women’s work, and tourism in Morocco. Unpublished doctoral dissertation, Universite´ de Montre´al. Lessinger, J. (2001). Inside, outside, and selling on the road: Women’s market trading in South India. In: L. J. Seligmann (Ed.), Women traders in cross-cultural perspective (pp. 93–100). Stanford: Leland Stanford. Little, W. E. (2003). Selling strategies and social relations among mobile Maya handicrafts vendors. Research in Economic Anthropology, 21, 61–95. Little, W. E. (2004). Mayas in the marketplace: Tourism, globalization, and cultural identity. Austin: University of Texas Press. Low, S. M. (1996). Spatializing culture: The social production and social construction of public space in Costa Rica. American Ethnologist, 23, 861–879. Marcoux, D., Couture-Trudel, P. M., & Riboulet-Delmas, G. (2002). Sensitization to paraphenylenediamine from a streetside temporary tattoo. Pediatric Dermatology, 19, 498–502. Meneley, A. (1996). Tournaments of value: Sociability and hierarchy in a Yemeni town. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Messina, M. G. (1991). Celebrations of the body: Female spirituality and corporeality in Muslim Morocco. Unpublished doctoral dissertation, State University of New York. Moghadam, V. M. (2003). Modernizing women: Gender and social change in the Middle East. Boulder, Colo.: Lynne Rienner. Salahdine, M. (1988). Les petits metiers clandestins. ‘‘Le business populaire’’. Casablanca: Eddif Maroc. Seligmann, L. J. (2001). Women traders in cross-cultural perspective. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Spooner, B. (1986). Weavers and dealers: The authenticity of an oriental carpet. In: A. Appadurai (Ed.), The social life of things: Commodities in cultural perspective (pp. 195–235). New York: Cambridge University Press. Stronza, A. (2001). Anthropology of tourism: Forging new ground for ecotourism and other alternatives. Annual Review of Anthropology, 30, 261–283. Trager, L. (1985). From yams to beer in a Nigerian city: Expansion and change in informal sector trade activity. In: S. Plattner (Ed.), Markets and marketing (pp. 259–285). Lanham: University Press of America. Vonderheyden, M. (1934a). Le henne´ chez les musulmans de l’Afrique du Nord. Journal de la Socie´te´ des Africanistes, 4, 35–62. Vonderheyden, M. (1934b). Le henne´ chez les musulmans de l’Afrique du Nord (suite et ﬁn). Journal de la Socie´te´ des Africanistes, 4, 179–202. Westermarck, E. (1911). The popular ritual of the Great Feast in Morocco. Folk-Lore, 22, 131–182. Westermarck, E. (1914). Marriage ceremonies in Morocco. London: Macmillan. Westermarck, E. (1926). Ritual and belief in Morocco. London: Macmillan.

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ECONOMIC ANTHROPOLOGY OF BANGKOK GO-GO BARS: RISK AND OPPORTUNITY IN A BAZAAR-TYPE MARKET FOR INTERPERSONALLY EMBEDDED SERVICES Jumpei Ichinosawa ABSTRACT Economic anthropology of bazaar-type markets for material goods has developed a model of markets under uncertain conditions through microscopic analyses of seller–buyer relationships. The model implies that serious lack of information makes the individuals highly risk-averse and leads to long-term, balanced clientelization. Presented in this chapter is another model of uncertain market conditions. In a bazaar-type market of interpersonal service the individuals are likely to be both chance-seekers as well as risk-averters. Such an attitude derives from a combination of unique service characteristics and uncertain market conditions. Transactions of commodified sexual services (termed here ‘‘interpersonally embedded services’’) among chance-seekers in bangkok go-go bars often result in disequilibration, rather than equilibration, of the seller–buyer relationship.

Choice in Economic Contexts: Ethnographic and Theoretical Enquiries Research in Economic Anthropology, Volume 25, 125–150 Copyright r 2007 by Elsevier Ltd. All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0190-1281/doi:10.1016/S0190-1281(06)25006-6

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INTRODUCTION: THE BAZAAR-TYPE MARKET AND INTERPERSONAL SERVICE Through studies of bazaars in economic anthropology, a market model of asymmetrical imperfect information has been developed by focusing on the role of information and communication in seller–buyer relationships. Although agrarian markets are the predominant examples in the literature, the analysis of bazaars appears to yield some signiﬁcant heuristics that can be applicable to some types of markets in industrial societies (Plattner, 1983). This chapter aims to examine transactions of interpersonal services in a bazaar-like market situation so as to expand the general academic perspective on ‘‘information game’’ (Geertz, 1979) transactions between a seller and a buyer. In reality, most economic transactions are more or less characterized by imperfect information. Markets in developing countries, where anthropologists have tended to do their ﬁeldwork, are typical examples of such a situation. Goods sold in markets do not have price tags and consequently price negotiation between buyer and seller is necessary. In addition, buyers often cannot fully assess the reasonable price of the goods because buyers are not given enough information on their quality. Transactions in traditional bazaars for food, livestock or durable goods, in Morocco or Indonesia for example, are basically carried out under market conditions in which buyers (and often sellers as well) must cope with a lack of necessary information for decision-making. In his famous analysis of a Javanese town, Geertz idealized the traditional market as a distributive and productive apparatus and call it a ‘‘bazaar’’ where ‘‘ﬂow of goods and services is fragmented into a huge number of unrelated interpersonal transactions’’ (1963, p. 28). Geertz describes the bazaar in contrast to the other ideal economic type, namely the modern ‘‘ﬁrm’’-type economy where economic activities tend to be more organized and operationally effective. His term ‘‘bazaar’’ means a certain type of local economic system rather than a mere place of selling goods. Geertz summarizes the unorganized and ineffective nature of the bazaar as follows: In the bazaar information is poor, scarce, maldistributed, inefﬁciently communicated, and intensely valued. Neither the rich concreteness or reliable knowledge that the ritualized character of nonmarket economies makes possible, nor the elaborate mechanisms for information generation and transfer upon which industrial ones depend, are found in the bazaar – neither ceremonial distribution nor advertising; neither prescribed exchange partners nor product standardization. The level of ignorance about everything from product quality and going prices to market possibilities and production costs is

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very high, and a great deal of the way in which the bazaar is organized and functions (and within it, the ways its various sorts of participants behave) can be interpreted as either an attempt to reduce such ignorance for someone, increase it for someone, or defend someone against it. (1979, pp. 124–125)

When we observe a market with the above characteristics, we can regard it as a kind of bazaar, or more speciﬁcally a bazaar-type market, whether or not it is commonly called a ‘‘bazaar.’’ Considered unfriendly to neoclassical economics, this type of market is noted for being extremely imperfect regarding information availability, which causes individuals to scramble for information that might bring them an advantage in price negotiation. In many cases, both sellers and buyers learn that peaceful coexistence is much more fruitful than antagonism, and seller–buyer relationships under uncertain market condition tend to become arrangements of long-term clientelization (Geertz, 1978, 1979; Plattner, 1985). A bazaar-type market is a typical example of such an uncertain market condition mainly because of the following environmental attributes (cf. Geertz, 1979, pp. 213–217): 1. Buyers and sellers are concentrated in a market space which is relatively small and consequently each participant can choose a transaction partner from many alternatives. 2. Transactions are interpersonal and carried out privately, through face-to-face negotiations of price and terms usually between two persons. 3. Actors participate in the market as individuals and are not under the control of other people or organizations. 4. Products (goods and services) are unstandardized and inhomogeneous in terms of function, quality and price. 5. Reliable information about product quality and a transaction partner’s credibility is scarce and difﬁcult to obtain. 6. No formal rules, or overall integrative control and authority, having to do with market transactions are established. Anthropological study of bazaars (Alexander & Alexander, 1987; Geertz, 1963, 1978, 1979; Kapchan, 1996; Khuri, 1968) has been successful in describing the selling and buying behaviors of individuals and the way in which economic functions are ‘‘embedded’’ in sociocultural institutions (cf. Granovetter, 1985). It also presents very clear portraits of the individuals, by focusing on his or her way of thinking and behavior, in the bazaar as a unique market system. According to Geertz (1978, 1979), bazaar participants are highly rational and well versed in the ways of managing their businesses. To avoid transactional uncertainty derived from a lack of

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information and market governance, buyers and sellers tend to develop long-term and reciprocal relationships through which each can increase his or her trust in the other. Clientelization results in the socialization of economic transactions and the institutionalization of the market sphere. Although this is quite a compelling explanation, I suggest here some other possibilities beyond Geertz’s model. Existing studies of bazaar-type markets assume that the commodities sold are material goods. However, in reality there exist service markets which are clearly comprised of some of the most important features of bazaar-type markets. From a business administration perspective, the production and distribution of services is basically different from that of material goods. Of course, it is common sense that the marketing activities and general operations of service-providing ﬁrms are heavily orientated toward interaction between employees and customers. We can also expect that the bazaar-type market for interpersonal service will show some considerable differences from the traditional bazaar for material goods, especially regarding the nature of transactions and seller–buyer relationships. The literature treats uncertainty in a bazaar-type market as a risk and economic transactions as the art of risk reduction. From such a viewpoint, clientelization is explained as a process of equilibrating the seller–buyer relationship. Focusing on the market of services rather than material goods, I would like to present another model of clientelization formed from people’s inclination to explore opportunity rather than to avoid risk, which has the potential for disequilibrating the seller–buyer relationship. Interpersonal service is a unique product of which communication between seller and buyer forms a part, and therefore it is not a rare case that the selling/buying process of interpersonal service takes on a highly sociopsychological character. So-called ‘‘red light districts’’ can be considered bazaar-type markets for such a highly sociopsychological interpersonal services (deﬁned as ‘‘interpersonally embedded services’’ below). Sexual intercourse, sold in any red light district, can be provided only through physical contact between buyer and seller and its trade is marked by informality, uncertainty and a notable lack of product standardization. This nature of sexual services seems to bring a noteworthy insight into economic transactions under certain market conditions. Commodiﬁed sexual encounters in Southeast Asia have been studied as a social problematic in the ﬁeld of sociology – especially in gender studies (Heyzer, 1986; Lee, 1991; O’Connell Davidson, 1998). Many scholars in gender studies regard prostitution as a manifestation of the system of patriarchy in which women are forced to sell their bodies (for example Barry,

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1991, 1995; MacKinnon, 1998). As long as researchers premise that female sex workers are given no agency in their activities, it is impossible to talk about their business or economic activities because those who sell women’s company to male customers are usually men (for example brothel owners and pimps) and not individual female sex workers themselves. Prostitution is considered one form of male (including customers) exploitation of female sexuality. Accordingly, gender studies tend to focus on the macro sociopolitical structure of inequality, such as the sexual double standard between men and women. Given this tradition, and possibly also for moral reasons, the market aspect of sex business has hardly been taken up as a subject of social science. A few exceptions are macroscopic supply–demand analyses in the ﬁeld of political economy, which explain ‘‘why prostitutes are promiscuous and why prostitution is wherever large numbers of men congregate temporarily’’ (Edlund & Korn, 2002, p. 183). However, it is notable that not a few female sex workers have chosen (of course under certain social, economic and political restrictions) to sell sexualized services at their own will (Delacoste & Alexander, 1998; Jenness, 1993). Here, I adopt the normalized standpoint on sex work (Weitzer, 2000), the view according to which we admit that at least under certain conditions not only male customers but also female sex workers are more or less able to control service prices and business terms through a face-to-face negotiation. Bar workers in Bangkok, to a certain extent, have secured autonomy in their occupational lives (Ichinosawa, 2003; Odzer, 1990, 1994; Phillip & Dann, 1998; Steinfatt, 2002). It is true that sexual service is a special and extreme instance of interpersonal service, but in many cases sex worker–customer liaisons show unique and thought-provoking features as economic transactions. Based on my ﬁeldwork,1 I present a microscopic analysis of the buying and selling activities within the transactions of interpersonal sexual services. One of the red light districts in Bangkok, the capital city of Thailand, is taken up as a typical example of the bazaar-type market where interpersonal sexual services are provided. Today, ‘‘sex tourists’’ who travel for the purpose of having sexual relationships with local people, can be found all over the world (Carter & Clift, 2000; Oppermann, 1998). In Thailand international sex tourists are both men and women, young and old. Their interests and behaviors have become more and more diversiﬁed and complicated. Many of them are unsatisﬁed with packaged sex tours and expect to fall into emotional relationships with Thai sex workers (Cohen, 1996; Ichinosawa, 2003; O’Connell Davidson, 1995). Sex workers notice such a tendency among current sex tourists and try to meet customer needs in various ways so as to increase their opportunities for proﬁt. We can identify a chance-seeking

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nature in them, which is intensiﬁed by environmental characteristics of the bazaar-type market. An analysis of seller–buyer relationships in Bangkok go-go bars can help us to understand bazaar participants in a new way. We can see ﬁgures who are rather different from the risk-averse bazaaris appearing in much of the literature of economic anthropology.

SEX TOURISM IN THAILAND AND GO-GO BARS IN BANGKOK The rise of communism in Indochina after the Second World War resulted in the rapid growth of American military aid to Thailand. Especially during the war in Vietnam, Thailand served as an entertainment center for American military personnel, as well as a supply base. Many rock & roll bars catering to American soldiers were established in Bangkok and also around army bases, located especially in the east and northeast parts of the country. Internationally famous go-go bars, noisy and brightly lit with naked or near-naked dancers available as lovers for the night, are the legacy of this time. By the early 1980s, many go-go bars had opened along Patpong Road, forming the most famous go-go bar concentration in Bangkok. Soi Cowboy and Nana Entertainment Plaza (Nana Plaza) in Bangkok arose next, and some beach resorts, such as Pattaya and Phuket, also became armed with go-go bars. Nowadays, the go-go bar is certainly one of the most well-known elements of the Thai sex business. The sex sector in Thailand is extremely diversiﬁed. It is true that ‘‘the segmentation of the commercial sex sector in Thailand clearly makes it difﬁcult to generalize about prostitution in Thailand’’ (Boonchalaksi & Guest, 1994, p. 50). Although the go-go bar segment is the most visible prostitution venue, it actually accounts for only a small portion of the Thai sex sector as a whole. The segment of the sex industry catering to foreigners (mainly Westerners and Japanese) is actually very small compared with that catering to Thais. Traditional brothels are found virtually everywhere in Thailand and customers are exclusively Thai. The sex scene in Bangkok targeting foreigners can roughly be divided into six main types: go-go bars, massage parlors, beer bars, karaoke bars, call girls and freelancer hangouts (ibid.; Phongpaichit, Piriyarangsan, & Treerat, 1998). Go-go bars and beer bars cater exclusively to foreigners (especially westerners). The other business styles or venues are basically for both foreigners and Thais. The dominant ethnicity of the target market of each business style largely depends on the establishment’s location and price range.

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In Bangkok, there are two areas of go-go bar concentration. Internationally famous Patpong Road is located right beside the business center of the city. Patpong refers to the short (some 200 meters) street connecting Silom and Sriwong Roads, both of which form the heart of Bangkok’s primary commercial district. The Silom/Sriwong area attracts a lot of tourists these days. Especially in the night time, the area is full of tourists of all generations partly because of a busy night market at the Silom area, including Patpong Road. In the Silom/Sriwong area virtually all styles of sexual establishments are available. There are more than 20 go-go bars in Patpong. The bars located on the ﬁrst ﬂoor tend to be large: each probably has 80 to 100 bar workers. Large bars tend to be well operated, and attract many tourists who pop in just to take a look. The other famous sex tourism area is Sukhumvit Road (Fig. 1) which forms a ‘‘downtown’’ newer than the Silom/Sriwong area. Nana Plaza, a go-go bar arcade, has become very popular since the 1990s. It is located on Sukhumvit 4 Street and forms a sex shopping center in a three-story horseshoe-shaped building. There are more than 40 bars (go-go bars and beer bars). Soi Cowboy is a 100-meter long street connecting Sukhumvit 21 and 23 Streets. Relatively small bars line both sides. At the time of my ﬁeldwork, a recently developed entertainment complex named Clinton Plaza with several go-go bars, beer bars and counter bars was located between Soi 15 and 17. However, it has since closed. Soi 3

Soi 15

Soi 21 (Asoke)

Soi 23

Glace Hotel Clinton Plaza

Nana Plaza

Nana Hotel

Sukhum

Soi Cowboy

vit Roa

d

Soi 4

Fig. 1. Diagram of the Sukhumvit Area.

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The number of female workers per establishment is hard to grasp, for it varies by place and also over time. Generally, the workers are not unionized and can freely skip from one bar to another. In addition, those who work for a group-owned bar are shufﬂed between several different ones so that each establishment can always introduce some ‘‘new faces.’’ These conditions make it very difﬁcult to estimate the total number of bar workers working in the Sukhumvit area at any one time. However, I estimate that there were at least 2,500 female bar workers in this area during in the year 2000. Steinfatt’s survey research (2002) indicates that a typical bar worker starts her career around the age of 18–20 and continues to work for 1–3 years. Go-go bars in Bangkok offer alcoholic beverages, such as beer and whiskey. Generally, a go-go bar is independently owned, although in some cases one person owns a number of bars. Owners are often Westerners living in Bangkok, but Thai-owned bars are not uncommon. Most bars have four walls adorned with large mirrors, loud pop/rock/disco music and disco lights (mirror balls and dazzling colored lights) ﬂashing around. Overall, they are fairly dark inside. Common to each is a stage or dancing platform with several shiny metal poles, on which bikinied women stand and dance for prospective customers (Fig. 2). Typically, a counter with stools surrounds the stage. Most bars have an approximately 20-centimeter raised platform running along the walls, which supports shabby bench-like sofas and small tables. Go-go bars vary in size, from small, cramped dives with a narrow stage allowing only two or three dancers on it to large disco-like bars with several dance stages, on which dozens of women stand at the same time. The dancers are usually organized in several operational groups and get on stage by rotation at intervals for around four or ﬁve songs. Thus, one-half to one-third of the working staff are always on stage. Every bar has a spirit house2 set on the wall near the ceiling, and most workers quickly make a salute to this when they get step onto the stage. Bar workers are clustered into several different role groups. The majority are dancers, who go on the elevated dancing platform or, if required, attend to customers. Waitresses – who wear ‘‘school girl’’ uniforms – take orders, serve drinks and bring bills to customers. Outside each bar, there are several women (‘‘barkers’’) who try to lure customers inside with broken English, barking out ‘‘Hello welcome,’’ ‘‘Welcome mister,’’ etc. Go-go bars in the Sukhumvit area do not usually employ many men. Although some exceptional bars have waiters, men’s jobs are typically limited to disk jockey and barker. One of the most important characteristics of their go-go bars is the nocover system. Competition is severe among the bars and has driven them to make free entrance standard. Customers do not have to pay anything to

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Sofa

Table

Table

DJ box

Table

Table

Table WC

Sofa

Steps Table Pole

Stage

Table Drink Counter Entrance

Table

Cashier Table

Table

Table

Table

Table

Table

Sofa

Fig. 2.

Diagram of the Typical Go-Go Bar.

walk in the door. Because of this system, keeping customers inside so they will order more drinks is crucial for bar revenues. Drinks are in the 80 to 120 baht range (1 US dollar is around 40 Thai baht) and payment is made when the customer leaves. Some bars even serve food and most are willing to bring food to customers from the vendors outside. A ‘‘lady drink’’ is a device by which bar owners motivate customers order more drinks. This is usually a small glass of soft drink (although some bar workers prefer alcohol), which a customer gives a bar worker in exchange for spending some time sitting with him. The price of a lady drink is set around 100 to 120 baht per glass, whether alcoholic or not. Bar workers always get a cut of the lady drink price – usually about 20 to 40 baht per glass. Buying a lady drink is not obligatory (even though some bar workers sit in advance and solicit these drinks) so customers content to sit alone do not need to spend their money on them. What makes go-go bars unique is the bar ﬁne system – another important source of revenue for bar owners. By paying a bar ﬁne, a customer can take a woman off-site for extra services, often including sexual intercourse. In

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general, not only dancers but also waitresses and barkers are available, and paying the ﬁne is also necessary for taking one of them away from the bar. The bar ﬁne can be considered a fee for the privilege of, or compensation for, removing one income source (in terms of lady drink) from the lineup. Doing this is conventionally called ‘‘off.’’ Bar ﬁnes range from 400 to 600 baht but many bars charge as much as 1,000 baht or so for waitresses and barkers. Bar ﬁnes for non-dancers tend to be higher than those for dancers in order to keep more workers inside to serve customers, and also to give dancers more chances to get ‘‘off.’’ Since dancers are more important for the management of the bar, they deserve preferential treatment. Generally, a woman can always refuse a customer’s offer of ‘‘off’’ if she is not in the mood or simply does not like him, usually with a fabricated excuse. The income of a bar worker can be classiﬁed in two categories: (1) her salary from the bar (typically 5,000–8,000 baht per month) plus commissions on lady drinks and (2) payments and other rewards received from customers not through the intermediacy of the bar. They are employed by a bar as dancers (or waitresses, barkers or cashers) who if required cater for and entertain customers through conversation. The employment contract requires bar workers to provide neither services outside the bar nor commercial sex. However, for most, the charges for commercial sex and other miscellaneous gains directly received from customers account for a signiﬁcant share of their total income. In this respect, each bar worker can be regarded as the owner of a small business (and the bar is tenanted by them). In principle, bar operators do not meddle in bar worker–customer relationships or their activities outside the bar as long as the bar ﬁne is paid. Bar workers are generally ready to cater for their customers in various ways. Their service menu outside the bar includes dining out, shopping together or even accompanying a customer like a tour guide and, of course, besides commercial sex. One of the essential factors in being a successful bar worker is an ability to develop and maintain liaisons – often far more complex than simple commercial sex – with various customers in a wider context. What to do outside the bar and how much she will be paid fully depend on negotiations between the woman and the customer. Usually women try to charge as much as they can for their services. Current quotations for normal sexual intercourse are 1,000 to 2,000 baht for a short time (typically 1 or 2 hours) and 2,000 to 3,000 baht for the night. Women can pocket the entire amount – the bar is completely unconcerned. Because of the market mechanism, the more attractive the bar worker is, the more opportunities to have customers she has. It is possible for some popular bar workers to sell sex several times within one night.

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Despite the ‘‘sex slave’’ image often found in the literature on the Thai sex sector (Heyzer, 1986; Lee, 1991; O’Connell Davidson, 1998), Thai female sex workers are diversiﬁed in terms of ‘‘the underlying motives which propel them to enter the market and the conditions under which they operate’’ (Phongpaichit et al., 1998, p. 208). There is a certain number of women ‘‘who have entered the trade of their own free will because of the ﬁnancial incentive’’ along with those who are under ‘‘some form of restraint’’ or ‘‘heavy economic compulsion’’ (ibid., p. 209). Although it is very difﬁcult to clearly distinguish between these categories, it seems reasonable to say that most of the women in foreigner-oriented sex sector are ﬁnancially motivated and have freedom to exit (and possibly re-enter) the market.3 Bar workers are not forced to work at, or come to, a go-go bar. Just like an ofﬁce worker, bar workers always have a possibility to choose another job (for example work in local restaurant, grocery shop, small factory and so on) even though alternatives do not seem to offer as good salary as a bar. As a matter of fact, bar workers usually reserve the option of leaving a bar, and many of them repeatedly change their workplace to seek better work conditions. Typically, bar workers ﬁrst enter the bar scene in Bangkok through the medium of friends who are working at or have worked at a bar. They sign a written labor contract with a bar, usually without specifying how long they will work there. The contract includes job category (dancer or waitress, etc.) and payment terms (monthly salary, commissions and ﬁnes for tardiness and absence).4 They can quit their job whenever they like (salary for the last month is paid by the day). It is very easy for a woman to gain reemployment at another bar or even at the same workplace (as long as she has caused no trouble with the manager, of course). Once they ﬁnd a better job opportunity, they do not hesitate to take it. A woman’s decision to work at a bar is a matter of choice even though most do not have broad options. Usually bar workers consider their job more preferable than other available jobs especially in terms of income and work conditions (Ichinosawa, 2003; Steinfatt, 2002). Steinfatt’s survey research indicates that most bar workers choose their current job for based on ﬁnancial reasons, but only one-third of the respondents referred to distress over money to live on. The rest answered that they would like to enjoy a (ﬁnancially and materially) better life than the ordinary standard. Work conditions are the other important selling point of bar work besides income. Bar workers often say that working at a bar is much more interesting than monotonous and boring work in a factory. They also tend to consider the bar worker lifestyle to be more attractive than that in rural villages. Similar ways of thinking are commonly found among young female migrant

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workers from rural areas to Bangkok in general (Mills, 1999). Many female bar workers in Bangkok are in fact mothers who have left their children in the care of their families back home (typically in the northeastern or northern regions of the country), and who send remittances as well. Generally, though, they remit relatively small portions of their income.

UNCERTAINTY AND RISK IN GO-GO BARS The go-go bar concentrations in Bangkok seem to be typical examples of bazaar-type markets. Many bars are concentrated in limited areas such as Patpong and Nana Plaza. Bar workers, who are sellers of services, wait for customers in bars. A customer can freely choose one as a partner, usually from among dozens of women. A transaction is made through face-to-face negotiations between the bar worker and the customer. As explained above, there exists no formal system or mediator to administer the business between bar workers and customers – all decisions regarding the transaction are fully theirs to make. Thus, every male customer a woman encounters, and conversely every woman in the bar, is theoretically a potential trading partner. Both bar workers and customers take part in transactions based on personal concerns and incentives. As explained in the previous section, working at a bar is also not compulsory. Revenue generated from the transaction between a bar worker and a customer belongs completely to the former. Aside from these attributes, what really makes a go-go bar seem like a bazaar is an extreme uncertainty in the transaction, especially regarding the problem of quality. Expanding on an argument by Nelson (1970) about consumer information searches, Plattner (1983, 1985) explains that product quality has two aspects – search quality and experience quality: [Search quality] denotes obvious attributes – the style, size, or color in clothing, for example. The consumer’s problem is to locate the preferred bundle of attributes in the market. ‘‘Experience’’ quality refers to those attributes revealed only through use, such as durability in clothing. The buyer’s information problem is to ﬁnd out any particular good’s ‘‘experience’’ quality before purchase, when that quality is not apparent. (1985, p. 139)

When a male customer takes a bar worker ‘‘off’’ and purchases her extra services away from the bar, he needs to pay far more of his attention to experience quality rather than search quality. The search quality of a bar worker’s service is ultimately synonymous with her appearance. It is, of course, very easy to evaluate this at ﬁrst glance, even in a dimly lit bar setting. On the other hand, the experience quality of her service is very difﬁcult to evaluate before

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purchase. The services provided by bar workers are not nearly as standardized as mass-produced industrial goods, or even as most material items in general. Because of a lack of external control over bar workers, their services are highly varied in terms of function and quality. There is neither an established service manual for bar workers nor pressure on them to standardize their services, and they are given no incentives to do so, either. In addition to these general bazaar-type ‘‘disorders,’’ some unique characteristics of their service product make the situation even more problematic for customers. According to Kotler, Bowen, and Makens (2003, p. 42), there are four characteristics peculiar to service products in terms of marketing and selling operations: 1. Intangibility: Services cannot be seen, tasted, felt, heard or smelled before purchase. 2. Inseparability: Services cannot be separated from their providers. 3. Variability: Quality of services depends on who provides them and when, where and how. 4. Perishability: Services cannot be stored for later sale or use. Among these four service characteristics, intangibility, inseparability and variability are the factors that bring about an increase in the relative signiﬁcance of experience quality over search quality throughout the purchasing process for male customers. Service intangibility means that ‘‘unlike physical products, services cannot be seen, tasted, felt, heard or smelled before they are purchased’’ (ibid.). Due to service intangibility, a customer cannot really examine the quality of service which he is going to purchase. When a male customer takes a bar worker out from the bar, he does not know what service he will actually receive until he has experienced it. It is extremely difﬁcult for him to predict the behavior of an unfamiliar bar worker. Required to pay much attention to experience quality of the product, purchasers inevitably face a serious uncertainty in decision-making. As Geertz (1978, 1979), Plattner (1983, 1985) and other scholars point out, uncertainty deriving from experience quality of a product is a matter of information, as long as the products sold are material goods. What comes under scrutiny here is the product quality that is already determined at the time of purchasing. For example, tourists willing to buy antique Persian carpets always have difﬁculty evaluating an experience quality like durability among hundreds of carpets sold in a bazzar. We can call this quality problem ‘‘informational uncertainty.’’ Informational uncertainty is a matter of both experience and search qualities, with which one can cope by gathering

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appropriate information before making a purchase decision. In the case of Persian carpets, informational uncertainty can be practically eliminated if the purchaser is able to obtain enough information about invisible factors such as types of dyes, grade of materials, weaving techniques used, vintage and so on. This is the case of the usual bazaars seen in the literature, and the effort of buyers to settle quality problems hinge on obtaining reliable information relating to indiscernible – but not negligible – quality factors. However, at least in the instance of go-go bars in Bangkok, even though informational uncertainty arising from insufﬁcient information for decisionmaking is reasonably reduced through buyers’ efforts in the information search, the other type of uncertainty still troubles them. In other words, no matter how good the customer is at gathering information about a bar worker’s past behaviors, personality and way of thinking, he still cannot thoroughly predict how good her service (sexual intercourse, etc.) will be. As long as a bar worker’s service includes continuous sociopsycological interaction between herself and a customer, it is inevitable that attributes and quality of service change elastically as their relationship develops and the situation is changed. This remaining uncertainty, which I term ‘‘emergent uncertainty’’ as opposed to informational uncertainty, is relevant to the variability and inseparability of service products in general (Fig. 3). Emergent uncertainty is another possible aspect of experience quality. Progressive interaction and communication between seller/buyer may strongly affect the quality (content, feature, cost performance and so on) of service but the change associating with selling/buying process is difﬁcult to predict exactly at the time of purchase decision-making even though perfect information is given. predetermined quality

quality formed through seller/buyer interaction experience quality

search quality informational uncertainty

emergent uncertainty time

process of selling/buying (production/consumption) moment of purchase decision-making

process of information search

Fig. 3.

Information Uncertainty and Emergent Uncertainty.

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Service inseparability means that, ‘‘in most hospitality services, both the service provider and the customer must be present for the transaction to occur. Customer-contact employees are part of the product’’ (Kotler et al., 2003, p. 43). Services of bar workers are produced and consumed by customers at the same time and place. Bar workers cannot produce their service in advance of selling, and customers cannot consume them without interaction between bar workers. The process of selling/buying (production/ consumption) of a bar worker’s service outside the bar takes a certain period of time, at least a few hours up to several days or even longer (of course with intervals). What is different from the exchange of material goods in a bazaar is that not merely prices and other transactional conditions but also quality, or even attributes of the product, are subject to the dynamics of face-to-face interaction between seller and buyer. Service variability is a natural result of service inseparability. The quality control of interpersonal service tends to be limited since ‘‘the high degree of contact between the service provider and the guest means that the product consistency depends on the service provider’s skills and performance at the time of the exchange’’ (ibid., p. 44). Service variability is extremely high in the case of go-go bars because, in addition to the simultaneity of service production and consumption, customer expectation is highly heterogeneous and the intentions of bar workers are often very confusing and not at all uniform (Ichinosawa, 2003). It is difﬁcult for both bar workers and customers to perfectly control the process of service production/consumption and therefore the quality of service is a highly stochastic outcome of host–guest interactive dynamics. Bar visitors in Bangkok make a great point of knowing the experience quality of bar workers’ services in advance because buying outside the bar is full of uncertainties. The situation male customers are confronted with is somewhat similar to the market for used cars that Akerlof (1970) describes – it is crucial for the customer to avoid the risk of getting a ‘‘lemon,’’ namely a car with hidden problems. Buyers of new cars, on the other hand, usually do not have to be concerned since new cars are highly standardized products. On the contrary, in the market for used cars (especially in one-shot deals), a seller has a strong incentive to overcharge or even to palm off a defective product on a buyer. Of course, characteristics and behavior of bar workers are much more complex and diversiﬁed than used cars. What is more, services of bar workers tend to show high emergent uncertainty, about which used car buyers do not have to worry. Even one who behaves as if she is willing to leave with a customer may become hopelessly uncommunicative once she has gotten ‘‘off.’’ Taking out a bar worker from the bar is not as simple as catalog shopping.

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Male customers always face the risk of purchasing an unsatisfactory service for an unreasonably high price. As Nelson (1970, p. 311) puts it, ‘‘information about quality differs from information about price because the former is usually more expensive to buy than the latter.’’ This is true for bar workers’ services. Usually, a bar worker’s charge for sex does not show much price dispersion. As explained above, the asking price of their extra service (mainly to have sexual intercourse) is basically stable and ﬂuctuates only within a certain range. Customers cannot do much about changing the initial asking price by negotiating because bar workers tend to feel looked down on or undervalued if they are offered a lower price than the standard (Ichinosawa, 2003). Therefore, information about the quality of a bar worker’s service becomes much more scarce than information about price. It is very easy for customers to know the price of service but not for them to know the quality before purchase, so their concern is concentrated on whether or not they will be able to avoid undesirable outcomes. The risk by which male customers are confronted is not simply limited to the possibility of failing to get high-quality service commensurate with the unavoidable cash outlay (ibid.). Having relationships with bar workers entails the risks of contracting venereal disease, being robbed by bar workers in hotel rooms, or even getting involved in criminal troubles brought on by a bar worker’s lover/husband, drug dealers or corrupt police ofﬁcers. Similarly, in their business transactions with customers, bar workers always run the risk of non-payment, being physically harmed and of damaging their own health (Cohen, 1996; Ichinosawa, 2003). Bar workers are fully independent regarding their business outside the bar, but this means that they cannot expect any assistance or protection from the bar operator. In addition, since prostitution is illegal in Thailand,5 neither formal rules nor regulatory authority is established. Not only bar workers, but also customers, are outside the protection of the law and have no insurance when they do business outside the bar. It is often difﬁcult for them to get support from the police even if they get into serious trouble. The participants must bear all the risks in these highly uncertain transactions.

RISK REDUCTION THROUGH INTENSIVE INFORMATION SEARCHES AND CLIENTELIZATION The literature on bazaar-type markets in economic anthropology more or less pays attention to seller–buyer relationships and face-to-face price negotiation between them (Alexander & Alexander, 1987; Cassady, 1968,

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1974; Kapchan, 1996; Khuri, 1968). Especially, Geertz (1978, 1979) points out that buyers and sellers in bazaars seem to devote themselves to an information game played out within direct and interpersonal negotiations. On the part of buyers, efforts are made to reach the correct going price (or a lower price) of the merchandise, while sellers may try to gain information on the trustworthiness of a customer, although this will likely not be important if payment is made in cash. Sellers often attempt to camouﬂage the fair price by withholding relevant information, such as product quality and cost price, from customers. Geertz explains: (T)he level of ignorance about everything from product quality and going process to market possibilities and production costs is very high, and much of the way in which the bazaar functions can be interpret as an attempt to reduce such ignorance for someone, increase it for someone, or defend someone against it. (1978, p. 29)

Indeed, Geertz devotes much attention to a scramble between seller and buyer for information that may bring them an advantage in price negotiation and deems it (and the entire system) an information game. Winning an overwhelming victory in the information game is basically desirable for both bar workers and customers, but in reality it is not easy. At the ﬁrst moment of transaction, which typically consists of chatting inside the bar, the credibility of the (prospective) trading partner is almost unknown. The information needed most is scarce, latent and difﬁcult to obtain. The male customer does not know how the service of the women of his interest will be. Similarly, the bar worker does not know if the customer is really trustworthy as a partner of economic transaction and, sometimes more importantly, sexual intercourse. These uncertainties about credibility are further confounded by poor communication stemming from differences in language and cultural background: bar workers do not speak ﬂuent English or Japanese but male customers’ ability to speak Thai is usually almost zero. Geertz (1978, pp. 31–32), referring to Rees (1971), emphasizes that individuals in such a situation are inclined to rely on the ‘‘intensive’’ or ‘‘clinical form’’ of search rather than the ‘‘extensive’’ or ‘‘survey form’’ of searching for information. The search for information in any market has both an extensive and an intensive margin. A buyer can search at the extensive margin by getting a quotation from one or more sellers. He can search at the intensive margin by getting additional information concerning an offer already received (Rees, 1971, p. 110). A purchaser of a used car, for example, theoretically has two alternatives; one is to spend his or her limited time resource to ask as many car brokers as possible so as to obtain broader price information (the intensive margin) on many models, and the other is to

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doggedly hang on to one shop for getting detailed and in-depth information (the extensive margin) about the current condition, or the background, of one particular car. The prominence of bargaining is thus a measure of the degree to which the market is more like a used car market than a new car market: one in which the important information problems have to do with determining the realities of the particular case than the general distribution of comparable cases. Further, it is an expression of the fact that such a market rewards a ‘‘clinical’’ form of search (one that focuses on the diverging interests of concrete economic actors) more than it does a ‘‘survey’’ form (one that focuses on the general interplay of functionally deﬁned economic categories). The search is primarily an intensive one because the sort of information a person needs most cannot be acquired by asking a handful of questions of a large number of people, but only by asking a large number of diagnostic questions of a handful of people. It is this kind of questioning, exploring nuances rather than canvassing populations, that bazaar bargaining represents (Geertz, 1978, pp. 31–32). In addition to certain service characteristics (intangibility, inseparability and variability), participant heterogeneity often spoils the effectiveness of any extensive search for information. Each individual is unique in her/his expectations, preferences and personality. Hence, generally distributed information about bar worker–customer transactions – easily found on the Internet – is not fully pertinent to the speciﬁc potential trade partner with which an individual is confronted. Even the individual’s own personal experiences with other bar workers (or with other customers) cannot serve as much beyond ancillary information sources for decision-making at the moment. What is worse, market prices do not reﬂect differences in the content and quality of service, which prevents customers from inferring quality level from the asking price. The intensive search of information, thus, carries weight for them. Bar worker–customer transactions generally start when a customer calls for a bar worker he fancies. The phase of conversation in the bar, which directly follows the ﬁrst encounter, provides the basic information about the potential trading partner. Male customers’ diagnostic efforts are not limited to direct questions – they are embedded in conversations and in the other communicative acts. Bar workers also utilize this phase to explore the value of each male customer. Usually they have contact with dozens of men in some way in the course of one night, and decisions on which customers to target are very important. Wasting time on an unpromising customer automatically entails a high opportunity cost on account of service perishability. If a bar worker loses the chance to go

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with a good customer one night, she cannot go with him twice the following night. From a security perspective, the general principle that Geertz (1978, 1979) and Plattner (1983, 1985) induce from ethnographic examples is fully applicable to the bar worker–customer relationships. Seller–buyer relationships under uncertain market conditions tend to become one of long-term clientelizations. This dramatically decreases transactional cost by making information searches easier and reducing credibility problems in the example of bar worker–customer relations in Bangkok as well. Even though neither the bar worker nor the customer can carry out even the simplest conversation in the mother tongue of the partner, they can develop a certain level of mutual understanding and trust by taking time. Although a considerable portion of the male customers of go-go bars in Bangkok consists of short-stay tourists rather than long-term tourists, or foreign residents, continued, long-distance bar worker–customer liaisons are becoming more possible today through the use of new communication tools such as the Internet and mobile phones (Ichinosawa, 2003). Long-term clientelization contributes to increased security for both sellers and buyers. Repetitive transactions between the same trade partners reinforce a social tie between buyer and seller, and can serve as a device to overcome negative reciprocity (Sahlins, 1972), namely, the zero-sum game in which players aim to take the wind out of the trade partner’s sail.

EMERGENT UNCERTAINTY AND MARKET OPPORTUNITY Geertz and others generally concentrate on the tendency of a trader to focus ‘‘on security before income’’ (Plattner, 1985, p. 139). Above, relying on Geertz and Plattner, I presented a portrait of risk-averse players operating under uncertain and informal market conditions. Indeed, it seems to be quite a reasonable description of bar workers and male customers, but common sense tells us that there always exist gamblers who feel compelled to pursue the chance of striking a bonanza. As a matter of fact, both bar workers and customers are also chance-seekers as well as with risk-averters. The bar worker–customer transaction often develops into a situation in which the actors’ goals shift from ensuring security to achieving extremely preferable results. Some service characteristics also become important factors in the appearance of aggressive and adventurous dispositions over risk aversion. Under conditions of high emergent uncertainty deriving from

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service characteristics and bazaar-type market conditions alike, the bar worker–customer relationship does not always remain an information game described in the literature on bazaar-type markets. Economic anthropologists report that in the bazaar-type market, a buyer’s intensive information search tends to manifest itself as tenacious price negotiation. On the other hand, in Bangkok go-go bars serious bazaarstyle bargaining is almost never seen. Conversations between bar workers and customers can be characterized by cheerfulness and intimacy rather than severity and hostility. Seemingly friendly interchange between bar workers and customers is, however, somewhat different from bargaining etiquette based on cultural norms in, for instance, the Middle Eastern bazaar where, it has been said, the ‘‘bargainer, whether seller or buyer, aims to eliminate suspicion of commodity and price establish instead an atmosphere of trust’’ (Khuri, 1968, p. 704). Here, the social aspect of seller–buyer interaction is a subordinate part of bargaining. Indeed seller and buyer try to maintain a conversation with a polite attitude but are still keen on price negotiation. By contrast, in the verbal communication between bar worker and customer, price negotiation does not play a major role. Conversation is, from an economic viewpoint, chieﬂy for an information search, such as assessing the partner’s credibility or personality, and not for bargaining. Bar workers generally feel that discounting their service is a dishonorable act. Hence, they are hostile toward being asked to do so and do not become actively involved in price negotiation. It is common for them to discontinue interaction with male customers who stick to money talk. In addition, bar workers share a cultural norm that prostitution is disgraceful and that talking loudly about commercial sex is inappropriate behavior. Price offers and/or negotiations having to do with commercial sex – usually discrete unwritten transactions – should be carried out as tacitly as can be. It is possible for a bar worker, or a customer, to exploit this practice in order to cheat the other by securing a promise to pay an unusually high price (for the former) or running away without paying after having sexual intercourse (for the latter). What makes bar worker–customer communication different from bazaari–customer relations in the Middle East is not limited to the lack of explicit bargaining. Communication between a bar worker and a customer is, for both of them, a necessary process for an intensive information search but at the same time it is inclined to deviate from the context of a business transaction. This is fundamentally because cheerful conversation between a bar worker and a customer is virtually integrated into the process by which her service is simultaneously produced and consumed. Simply stated, the price and other terms negotiation itself – is part of the service product that

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the bar worker provides and the customer expects. Most male customers view a bar worker’s intimate attitude and response as a substantial attribute of the service for which they may pay. Knowing this, a bar worker tries to create a joyful and friendly, and if necessary a romantic atmosphere, whenever she attends to customers. Moreover, bar workers are usually willing to make customer interactions enjoyable (Cohen, 1996; Ichinosawa, 2003). Since it is not easy for bar workers to forget about their precarious lifestyles from day to day, and partly due to cultural norms of Thai society, making great efforts to be sanuk and sabaai (joyous and comfortable) during business hours is beneﬁcial for them in maintaining quality of life. Sexual intercourse (and sexual contact in general) is a primary interest of male customers, but it is not always the sole expectation. In fact, it is actually uncommon for a customer to do nothing but merely take a bar worker to his hotel room and have sexual intercourse in a business-like manner. After a customer takes a bar worker ‘‘off,’’ they generally at least have a conversation (in broken English, Japanese and/or Thai) to keep a friendly mood – otherwise both bar workers and customers may feel embarrassed. Activities outside the bar include dining out, drinking alcohol, hanging out around the bar, visiting discotheques, shopping, traveling to other cities, etc. – behavior that has been termed ‘‘open-ended prostitution’’ (Cohen, 1996). ‘‘Off’’ without commercial sex is a matter of frequent occurrence. Therefore, it is somewhat misleading to deﬁne a bar worker’s job as mere prostitution. What male customers usually spend their money on is amusement and (physical and psychological) pleasure, including communication, in a broad sense. Indeed, communication between service provider and consumer (and its emotional effect) is a necessary element for customer satisfaction in usual interpersonal services such as nursing (cf. Smith, 1992) and also in the work of ﬂight attendants (cf. Hochschild, 1983). However, it seems that the relative importance attached to verbal and non-verbal communication is much greater in the transactions between bar workers and male customers in Bangkok go-go bars. The bar worker–customer relationship itself is a central part of the merchandise (service) the bar worker provides and, from the viewpoint of the customer, the level of enjoyment in the relationship with the bar worker is the primary criteria for satisfaction. The service the bar worker provides is embedded in the sociopsychological relationship between herself and the customer. In this sense, it can be said that what bar workers sell to male customers is not only interpersonal service but also, at least in one dimension, ‘‘interpersonally embedded service.’’ Even in a well-controlled setting, interpersonal service in general has a certain degree of variability because it is co-produced by provider and

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consumer. Nevertheless, the packaged service products provided by large enterprises are indeed variable but not likely to deviate much from a uniform pattern or routine that is considered reasonable and proper. In contrast, the interpersonally embedded service that bar workers provide (and customers expect) is characterized by high variability on a different level from the majority of interpersonal services. The high variability of bar worker–customer relationships can swing not only in undesirable but also in desirable directions. A male customer may be disappointed by dreary commercial sex but may have an enjoyable time with an affable worker. A bar worker may be bored to death when she accompanies a particular customer, but may also encounter a sophisticated and generous man. Development of sociopsycological liaisons with customers may bring bar workers expensive presents, such as pure gold necklaces, continuous remittances from foreign countries or even a chance of marriage. Hence, the high emergent uncertainty as a consequence of the high variability in bar worker–customer interaction yields not only risks but also glorious opportunities. Faced with this emergent uncertainty, an individual’s strategy is highly subjective and depends largely on the situation. Because of its strong sociopsychological nature, interpersonally embedded service is ambiguous and has the potential to give rise to long-term personal and social liaisons that, at least superﬁcially, appear to be friendly and/or romantic even if they were initiated due to short-term self-interest of the individuals. This is another mechanism, besides the struggle to reduce market risk and inefﬁciency of long-term clientelization development through repeated transactions. From the viewpoint of both bar workers and customers who want to assess the transactional risk, the effectiveness of intensive information searches before actually providing/consuming service is considerably restricted. As a matter of fact, clientelization between bar workers and customers has two important aspects: risk avoidance and capitalizing opportunities. Which aspect becomes dominant depends on the situation, and especially on emotional factors such as congeniality between the bar worker and the customer. The bazaar-like environmental factors, such as the lack of formal rules and administrative authority, can invigorate the aspects of risk and opportunity alike. It should be noted that the variability of the bar worker–customer relationship does not necessarily imply that it is completely beyond control by the individuals. How the partner reacts is to a considerable extent contingent on the individual’s own attitude just as in a typical love relationship. It is often possible for them to take the initiative in developing a relationship with a partner, by attracting him or her through dialogues with ﬂattery and ﬂirtation. This plasticity of the interpersonally embedded service makes the individuals aware of favorable possibilities, and

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not only risks. The individuals in the go-go bar setting turn the high emergent uncertainty into a resource for achieving favorable results. Especially from a bar workers’ point of view, the service perishability, which makes it impossible for them to have inventories, escalates their disposition to aggressively exploit each given occasion to land a potentially lucrative customer.

CONCLUSION Geertz (1978, 1979) and Plattner (1983, 1985) conclude that individuals situated in the bazaar-like market show a disposition to develop, often based on personal and social networks, a long-term clientelization in order to get around problems of informational uncertainty and transactional inefﬁciency. Plattner calls such a long-term trading partnerships ‘‘equilibrating,’’ marked by ‘‘the predominance of long- over short-run goals and the ﬂexible, continuing process of reciprocating value in a relationship that is explicitly instrumental’’ (1985, p. 136). Equilibrating is probably the optimal solution for the security-conscious individuals in a bazaar-type market. My observations of bar worker–customer relationships in Bangkok go-go bars strongly support Plattner’s model of equilibrating market relationships. However, at the same time, many examples of bar worker–customer liaisons imply that, at least in this particular setting, equilibrating is not an inevitable consequence of the seller–buyer interaction. The optimal solution in a usual information game in the bazaar-type market is not the only (or the best) strategy for both bar workers and male customers. Because of extremely high emergent uncertainty within the process of providing/consuming (or co-producing) interpersonally embedded service, there always remains a considerable market opportunity for both bar workers and customers. When the buyer–seller relationship itself forms an essential part of service, its features and quality are given a considerable plasticity and can be changed by intentional efforts or unintentional behaviors of transaction participants. Given such a condition, the individuals in the bazaar-type market of interpersonal service often behave as chanceseekers rather than as risk-averters. Since a massive beneﬁt can be achieved only through disequilibrating the relationship with the trade partner, bar worker–customer interactions always contain a potential for open-ended development beyond an equilibrating relationship. When a bar girl or a customer is successful in advantageously and continuously disequilibrating the relationship with the trade partner, he or she usually achieves strong emotional attachment from the partner. Strong

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sociopsychological characteristics of buyer–seller relationship often compensate economic imbalance yielded by repetitive transactions (that can continue even though there is no such compensation). Equilibration of the seller–buyer relationship in a bazaar-type market for interpersonally embedded services is a matter of something beyond economic rationality interpreted in a narrow sense.

NOTES 1. The analysis presented in this chapter is based on qualitative ﬁeld research conducted from September 1999 to December 2000. At that time I was a master’s degree student at Chulalongkorn University and the research was carried out under the supervision of Dr. Amara Pongsapich, the director of the Chulalongkorn University Social Research Institute. In addition, some supplementary follow-up research was conducted up to 2003. The main research method was direct observation and interviews (both informal and semi-structured). Throughout the research period, I visited go-go bar concentrations in the Sukhumvit area in Bangkok regularly as a customer of a bar and spent 7 to 8 hours, from around 7 pm to 2 am (the general business hours of a typical go-go bar), per day for sitting inside so as to observe the behavior of bar workers and male customers. Interviews with informants were basically held outside the bar, usually before or after their work. The language used for communicating with bar workers was Thai but Japanese and English were also used for talking with male customers. The number of people I considered to be informants was about 80, but I had conversations with several hundred bar workers throughout the research period. 2. It is believed that each bar has a guardian spirit. As with common Thais, bar workers pay their respects to various Buddhist or Hindu spirits, along with the royal family and Buddhist monks. 3. It must not be overlooked, however, that a considerable portion of both female and male sex workers in Thailand exist under severe work conditions with no alternatives. 4. The relationship between a bar and bar workers (dancers, waitresses, etc.), can be regarded as the usual exchange of labor for money. In this transaction, the exchange rate of labor and money is usually strictly ﬁxed. The basic salary for dancer is 7,000 or 8,000 baht a month and this is reduced as a dancer fails to serve for the ﬁxed amount of time. They are assumed to work for 28 days a month and if they are absent without the payment of the bar ﬁne (of 400–600 baht), a certain amount of money is subtracted from their basic pay of, for example, 7,000 baht. The amount of deduction for absence is 200 baht per day, but on Friday or Saturday, this would be 500 baht. If a dancer does not work much (which is acceptable) her monthly salary might be very low. Similarly, when a bar worker is tardy, around 60 baht per hour is deducted from her monthly pay. Therefore, if she is more than 4 hours late (Sunday through Thursday), she might choose to simply take the day off because the ﬁne for absence is only 200 baht. 5. Although prostitution is illegal, bar workers and customers are essentially never charged with participating in prostitution. The police exhibit no tendency to view transactions between the two parties as a problem.

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REFERENCES Akerlof, G. (1970). The market for ‘‘lemons’’: Quality uncertainty and the market mechanism. Quarterly Journal of Economics, 84, 488–500. Alexander, J., & Alexander, P. (1987). Striking a bargain in Javanese markets. Man (N.S.), 22, 42–68. Barry, K. (1991). The Penn State report of sexual exploitation, violence and prostitution. UNESCO & Coalition Against Trafﬁcking in Women. Barry, K. (1995). The prostitution of sexuality. New York and London: New York University Press. Boonchalaksi, W., & Guest, P. (1994). Prostitution in Thailand. Bangkok: Mahidol University. Carter, S., & Clift, S. (Eds) (2000). Tourism and sex: Culture, commerce and coercion. London: Cassell. Cassady, R. (1968). Negotiated price marking in Mexican traditional markets: A conceptual analysis. America Indigena, 28, 51–79. Cassady, R. (1974). Exchange by private treaty. Austin: University of Texas Press. Cohen, E. (1996). Thai Tourism: Hill tribes, islands and open-ended prostitution. Bangkok: White Lotus. Delacoste, F., & Alexander, P. (1998). Sex work: Writings by women in the sex industry (2nd ed.). Pittsburgh: Cleis Press. Edlund, L., & Korn, E. (2002). A theory of prostitution. Journal of Political Economy, 110(1), 181–214. Geertz, C. (1963). Peddlers and princes: Social change and economic modernization in two Indonesian towns. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Geertz, C. (1978). The bazaar economy: Information and search in peasant marketing. American Economic Review, 68(2), 28–32. Geertz, C. (1979). Suq: the bazaar economy in Sefrou. In: C. Geertz, H. Geertz & L. Rosen (Eds), Meaning and order in Moroccan society: Three essays in cultural analysis (pp. 123–313). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Granovetter, M. (1985). Economic action and social structure: The problem of embeddedness. American Journal of Sociology, 91, 481–510. Heyzer, N. (1986). Working women in South-East Asia: Development, subordination, and emancipation. Milton Keynes: Open University Press. Hochschild, A. R. (1983). The managed heart: Commercialization of human feeling. Berkeley: University of California Press. Ichinosawa, J. (2003). Go-go ba¯ no keiei jinruigaku [An anthropological study of go-go bar business]. Tokyo: Mekong. Jenness, V. (1993). Making it work: The prostitutes’ rights movement in perspective. Hawthorne: Aldine de Gruyter. Kapchan, D. (1996). Gender on the market: Moroccan women and the revoicing of tradition. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Khuri, F. I. (1968). The etiquette of bargaining in the Middle East. American Anthropologist, 70(4), 698–706. Kotler, P., Bowen, J., & Makens, J. (2003). Marketing for hospitality and tourism. Upper Saddle River: Prentice Hall. Lee, W. (1991). Prostitution and tourism in South East Asia. In: N. Redclift & M. T. Sinclair (Eds), Working women: International perspectives on labour and gender ideology. London: Routledge.

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MacKinnon, C. A. (1998). Desire and power: A feminist perspective. In: C. Nelson & L. Grossberg (Eds), Marxism and the interpretation of culture (pp. 105–121). HoundMills: Macmillan Education. Mills, M. B. (1999). Thai women in the global labor force: Consuming desires, contested slaves. New Brunswick, New Jersey and London: Rutgers University Press. Nelson, P. (1970). Information and customer behavior. Journal of Political Economy, 78, 311–329. O’Connell Davidson, J. (1995). British sex tourists in Thailand. In: M. Maynard & J. Purvis (Eds), (Hetero) sexual politics (pp. 42–64). London: Taylor & Francis. O’Connell Davidson, J. (1998). Prostitution, power and freedom. Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press. Odzer, C. (1990). Patpong prostitution: Its relationship to, and effect on, the position of women in Thai society. Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, New School for Social Research. Odzer, C. (1994). Patpong sisters: An American women’s view of the Bangkok sex world. New York: Arcade Publishing and Blue Moon Books. Oppermann, M. (Ed.) (1998). Sex tourism and prostitution: Aspect of leisure, recreation and work. New York and London: Routledge. Phillip, J., & Dann, G. (1998). Bar girls in central Bangkok: Prostitution as entrepreneurship. In: M. Oppermann (Ed.), Sex tourism and prostitution: Aspects of leisure, recreation and work (pp. 60–70). New York, Sydney and Tokyo: Cognizant Communication. Phongpaichit, P., Piriyarangsan, S., & Treerat, N. (1998). Guns, girls, gambling, ganja: Thailand’s illegal economy and public policy. Chiang Mai: Silkworm Books. Plattner, S. (1983). Economic custom in a competitive market place. American Anthropologist, 85(4), 848–858. Plattner, S. (1985). Equilibrating market relations. In: S. Plattner (Ed.), Markets and marketing (pp. 133–152). Lanham: University Press of America. Rees, A. (1971). Information search in labour markets. In: D. M. Lamberton (Ed.), Economics of information and knowledge (pp. 109–118). Harmondworth: Penguin Books (Original 1966). Sahlins, M. D. (1972). Stone age economics. Chicago: Aldine. Smith, P. (1992). The emotional labour of nursing. London: Macmillan. Steinfatt, T. A. (2002). Working at the bar: Sex work and health communication in Thailand. Westport and London: Ablex Publications. Weitzer, R. (2000). Why we need more research on sex work. In: R. Weitzer (Ed.), Sex for sale: Prostitution, pornography, and the sex industry (pp. 1–13). London and New York: Routledge.

TRANSNATIONAL CONSUMER GOODS CORPORATIONS IN EGYPT: REACHING TOWARDS THE MASS MARKET Michaela Kehrer ABSTRACT This contribution analyses marketing strategies of transnational corporations operating in the field of consumer goods in contemporary Egypt. Using anthropological methodology, I explore the interrelations between rural marketing and consumer intifada, and note that in contrast to commonly held views about the homogenisation of local consumer cultures, in the sense of a Coca-Colaisation process, corporate communications strategies and product policies over the past decade have been increasingly taking cultural spheres of meaning into account in their effort to penetrate the Egyptian mass market. Various indicators show that the relevance of producing and marketing standardised goods has been diminishing as compared to the key importance of adapting global products to the local setting with its various cultural and political components.

Choice in Economic Contexts: Ethnographic and Theoretical Enquiries Research in Economic Anthropology, Volume 25, 151–172 Copyright r 2007 by Elsevier Ltd. All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0190-1281/doi:10.1016/S0190-1281(06)25007-8

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In an age in which concepts such as ‘‘God,’’ ‘‘Love’’ or ‘‘Happiness’’ differ from land to land and from one language to another, ‘‘Coca-Cola’’ means the same everywhere and in all languages (Ibrahim, S. (1987). Die Pru¨fungskommission. Basel: Lenos [Arabic version: (1981) Al-Lagna, Cairo; English version: (2002) The Committee. Cairo: American University Press]).

INTRODUCTION Current assumptions with respect to the relationships between transnational corporations (TNCs)1 and local cultures are often based on homogenisation scenarios in the sense of a ‘‘Coca-Colaisation’’ or ‘‘McDonaldisation’’ of local cultures. With the equalisation of consumer culture and the transfer of the values associated with this, the signs of a coming ‘‘global culture’’ are outlined. This scenario, which assumes a weakening of local cultural spheres of meaning, is frequently justiﬁed by reference to the factual predominance of the TNCs regarding their global expansive strategy and philosophy, their global organisational structure and their available ﬁnancial, human and technical resources. Because the ‘‘gigantic corporationsymake use of the whole world, and transform workers into tools, consumers into numbers, states to markets’’ (Ibrahim, 1987, p. 27) the Egyptian author Sonallah Ibrahim, who in numerous novels has opposed the inﬂuence of TNCs in Egypt, feels that local cultures worldwide are threatened by global standardisation.2 This widely-held assumption will be scrutinised more closely in this chapter, taking the marketing of TNCs in the consumer goods sector in Egypt as an example.3 Using qualitative and ethnographic methodology,4 and in opposition to the hypothesis of standardisation, I will argue that in view of their resources and their multi-local access, TNCs are in fact extremely well equipped to respond to the diversity of local cultural spheres of meaning within their diverse markets. Furthermore, in the case of conquering the Egyptian mass market, the main focus is no longer on mass production of standardised goods, but rather on local adaptation at the level of the product and communications instruments.5 In this chapter, examples are presented to show that the asymmetry of power between the TNCs and local consumers is present at a much more subtle level than a perpetrator–victim model would suggest. In theoretical contexts this chapter is located in the analytical intersection of studying the economic and cultural dimensions of globalisation. Often just one of these components can be found to be well investigated.

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Marxist-oriented writings tend to examine the global setting as an outcome of a uniforming Western capitalism, where the nation state appears as the main actor and other collectives or individuals are subjugated (Harvey, 1990; Wallerstein, 1990). By contrast, contributions focusing on cultural dimensions often show disdain for global economic conditions. The heterogeneous processes of globalisation are scrutinised and the cultural autonomy of the periphery comes to the fore. Instead of uniforming mechanisms, the creativity of singular collectives and individuals is interpreted as a result of ‘‘glocalisation’’ or ‘‘hybridisation’’ (Hannerz, 1996; Robertson, 1994).6 Interestingly, looking back on the few ethnographic accounts dealing with worldwide operating companies a similar polarisation can be found. In the 1970s the ‘‘anthropology of the multinational corporation’’ primarily focused on corporations’ negative inﬂuences in the periphery. Manipulation of governments and consumers was observed (Hunt, 1984; Idris-Soven, IdrisSoven, & Vaughan, 1978) and the internationalisation of production construed as an instrument to consolidate the economic power of the (Western) centre and the dependence of its (non-Western) peripheries (Caulﬁeld, 1978; Nash, 1979, 1981). Until the mid 1980s the consumer with his/her rich cultural repertoire and ability to appropriate and emancipate was largely neglected by anthropologists. Then, consumer research began to grow (Featherstone, 1991; Friedman, 1994; Miller, 1987) and developed into what Arnould and Thompson (2005) recently termed ‘‘Consumer Culture Theory (CCT).’’ Since then, regarding TNCs, local constructions of ethnicity and identity have been examined in more detail (Costa & Bamossy, 1995; Ong, 1988; Sherry, 1995). But having deﬁned CCT as ‘‘a family of theoretical perspectives that address the dynamic relationship between consumer actions, the market place, and cultural meanings’’ (Arnould & Thompson 2005, p. 868) it is striking that the producers’ perspectives rarely enter the picture today. There are only a few ethnographic examples of where the ring between economy and culture, between producers and consumers, is closed again and where it is also acknowledged that TNCs go through processes of ‘‘localisation’’ (Watson, 1997) or ‘‘domestication’’ (Tobin, 1992).7 It is therefore not surprising when Miller asserts: ‘‘We ﬁnd it relatively easy to see diversity in consumption but we constantly use words such as ‘capitalism’ to describe production and fail to see the way this masks an increasing diversity of commercial practice’’ (Miller, 2003, p. 87). One aim of this chapter is to shed more light on the diverse culture-sensitive capabilities of the TNCs, taking the marketing of TNCs in the consumer goods sector in Egypt as an example.

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The ﬁrst step in my approach considers examples of so-called ‘‘rural marketing.’’ Although the marketing activities of foreign TNCs in the Egyptian market through the early 1980s had been targeted primarily at consumers in higher-income groups, there was a marked reorientation in the period until the 1990s, and a trend towards focusing on lower-income groups and rural sectors. Leading the way in this development was the American consumer goods corporation Procter & Gamble (P&G). Alongside the more Western-oriented ‘‘premium market,’’ increased attention was now paid to the Egyptian ‘‘mass market,’’ making it necessary to take localcultural specialities into account to a greater extent.8 Second, I consider the movement to boycott Israeli and American products, which met with a broad public response in Egypt in the wake of the AlAqsa Intifada uprising (2000) and the Iraq War (2003). This too only gains in relevance with the opening up of the mass market. The broadly-based consumer boycott led to considerable falls in sales for the corporations that were affected, with far-reaching consequences for them. Here too it is possible to show that, under the shadow of regional political tensions, the marketing strategies of the TNCs do reﬂect local cultural spheres of meaning; that is, the patterns of cultural difference are explicitly registered by the TNCs.

TNCS AS THE TRAILBLAZERS FOR MODERN MARKETING IN EGYPT Through the 1970s, Nasserite economic policies in Egypt led to widespread state regulation of the market, with restrictions on the dynamics of a free market. The production of consumer goods was largely subject to state monopoly and served primarily to satisfy functional needs. There were hardly any competing companies, only a limited range of products, and thus very restricted choice for Egyptian consumers. Classic tools of modern marketing such as quality improvement, advertising, product design, and competitive pricing were thus largely irrelevant. It is only possible to identify the timid beginnings of modern marketing, in the sense of a consumer-oriented approach combined with production optimisation, after the arrival of the foreign TNCs in the course of the 1980s. To be sure, the open-door economic policy (infitah) under President Anwar el-Sadat had already stimulated the import of goods in the 1970s. However, because the TNCs found the markets of the Gulf region more attractive due to their crude oil reserves and their higher consumer purchasing power, only a few companies initially decided to invest in Egypt and

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construct production plants or set up marketing departments.9 The obvious distance from Egyptian consumers and the lack of knowledge about the special characteristics of the Egyptian market meant that marketing initially involved transferring Western advertising strategies more or less unchanged. With the more attractive investment legislation of the 1980s and 1990s, which included protection against nationalisation and also guaranteed the right to repatriate capital, TNCs were increasingly prepared to settle in Egypt.10 From the start and in contrast to local corporations, the consumer goods marketing of the transnationals showed a much stronger orientation towards the local consumer. Interviewees in this study emphasised that TNCs have, to date, shown much more ability than local corporations to respond to special local conditions (‘‘the market taught them what culture is’’), while the local corporations, in contrast, frequently worked with a product-led strategy (‘‘they think their product is the best’’). This surprising contrast can also be demonstrated for the establishment of the ﬁrst Egyptian market research institutes.11 Whereas these companies initially worked almost exclusively for TNCs, local corporations for a long time were solely relying on their ‘‘gut feelings,’’ without going into market research at all. It is therefore possible to claim that it was only with the presence of TNCs that market research was able to establish itself in Egypt as a ﬁeld of professional activity. Right from the start, the externalised knowledge about local consumption and consumer cultures was therefore one of the strengths of the foreign TNCs, which these days cooperate by means of global framework contracts with equally transnationalised market research institutes and advertising agencies in each location. With the establishment of, or participation in, a local production plant, TNCs frequently put up local marketing departments. Initially, the specialist personnel were expatriates from other countries, but their numbers have declined markedly, or they have been reduced to central key positions such as chief executive, or head of ﬁnance. A central remit of the marketing department is to make global campaigns ‘‘locally relevant’’ for the Egyptian market. And even Egyptian personnel have to familiarise themselves with the special cultural features of the market, as an Egyptian product manager explains, In a market like Egypt, we are studying all the habits and attitudes of the consumers, consumption patterns and so on amongst the locals. And we adapt whatever global campaign to the local needs. [y] So we make locally relevant campaigns. Through research we understand the local habits and we have a standard brand positioning, that you communicate with local relevance. (Product Manager, Coca-Cola)

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DELTA TESTIMONIALS With the establishment of good rail and road networks, the infrastructure of Egypt nowadays offers opportunities for the safe transport of goods from the production centres of Cairo and Alexandria12 to the rural areas such as the southern Upper Egypt and the northern Delta region. Distribution problems arise mainly from storage difﬁculties and inefﬁcient wholesaling structures, so that in consequence the TNCs in the food industry deal primarily in products with long shelf-lives. Into the 1990s, the TNCs paid little attention to rural areas in their marketing and in particular in their communications strategies. This was mainly because it was assumed that the rural populations would not have any genuine interest in the products of Western TNCs, nor would they be able to buy them. Implicitly, it was assumed that with time there would be a spillover effect, and that the rural people would gradually begin to orient themselves towards the consumer habits of the town and city dwellers. More widespread attention was paid to the potential, and also the specialities of the rural areas as markets for transnational consumer goods, after P&G began ‘‘rural marketing’’ of its Ariel washing detergent in 1993. After P&G had already adapted the properties of the product to the needs of poorer customers in the rural areas (with more foam for hand washing, because very few rural households had washing machines), the adaptation was extended into the advertising, promotion and packaging sizes. This approach has come to represent a model for other TNCs in Egypt – including the main competitor Henkel (Persil), the conglomerate Unilever (Omo, Lipton Tea), and also their competitors in the food sector, such as Nestle´ (Maggi, Nescafe´). In advertising it is common to ﬁnd different communications strategies for two target groups, which a German market researcher described as follows, You have a special spot which is targeted towards the rural sector, and a spot which addresses the upper social strata. The one features a woman who is dressed religiously. The other shows a woman dressed in Western clothes in a Western-style family setting, with a fully-equipped kitchen, which is certainly a relevant idea for the consumers and the culture, including the Arab region and Egypt. But you deﬁnitely cannot sell it to rural people with ﬂoors of beaten earth in their home. (Senior Market Researcher, Henkel)

Advertising therefore picks up the speciﬁc conditions in which the rural people live by choosing their imagery to refer to speciﬁc elements of everyday life, such as the clothing and interior furnishing and decorations. Whereas this approach aims superﬁcially at setting the ‘‘right’’ image signs,

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it is above all the levels of the language and emotionality that are intended to establish intimacy with the rural consumers. In so-called testimonial advertising, ‘‘real people’’ are used for this – Upper Egyptian housewives, or housewives from the Delta region speak out in favour of Ariel washing powder in broad local accents. The managing director of the advertising agency responsible for this campaign explained euphorically: ‘‘Ten years ago, we were the ﬁrst ones to introduce this new concept for the Egyptian market, because we got real people to talk about their experiences. [y] Later we started to use testimonials, we actually went to these people and asked them to give us their testimony in their own language’’ (Managing Director, Saatchi & Saatchi). It is interesting that this approach – which is immediately associated with P&G by marketing experts in Egypt – has itself developed into a sort of ‘‘brand’’ and has already been developed and adapted for other markets. This development seems to provide a way of avoiding conﬂict between the principle of locality on the one hand and the global positioning of a corporation on the other. This is because as long as the stereotypical image of ‘‘real people’’ appears instead of a creatively presented variety of worlds of existence, the company is conforming to a uniform approach and is freed from addressing questions of conscience, such as whether they should commission an advertising spot with a fullyveiled woman for the Yemeni market. Also in Yemen authenticity is served by means of stereotypic presentations of rural people (uneducated, poor, warm-hearted, honest, etc.).13 Television is used by P&G and its German competitor Henkel, as they sponsor their own TV programmes on Egyptian state television. For example, the programme ‘‘Kalam min Dahab’’ (Words of Gold), which was launched in 1994 and ran for 6 years with Ariel advertising, was aimed ‘‘yat fulﬁlling the hopes, dreams and needs of ordinary Egyptians by meeting requests for ﬁnancial help, medical treatment and educational opportunities’’ (Procter & Gamble Egypt, 2006). In the course of the programme, fortunate candidates from the poorest parts of Egypt received a gold coin if they were able to recite a slogan about Ariel. According to the company, the programme ‘‘As-Sitt di Ummi’’ (This Woman is my Mother), which has been broadcast since 1999 was aimed at ‘‘ypromoting family values by recognising the mother’s crucial role in society.’’ On the web site of P&G it goes on to say: ‘‘The sincerity and emotional appeal of the programme made it one of highest rated programmes in Egypt and continues returning by popular demand.’’ Since 1999, the washing powder manufacturer Henkel has been producing the programme ‘‘Bain An-Nas’’ (Among the People), in which current events are discussed with people on

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the streets, often including racy topics such as kidnapping, rape or murder, with a short introductory ﬁlm and a discussion with people on the street. It is noticeable that the topics for these programmes are chosen carefully so as to avoid political or religious references. Social topics are discussed heatedly, but these usually remain contained within the conservative framework of the Egyptian society. Political and religious topics would threaten to burst the consensus carefully set in place by the government. For example, despite considerable interest, public discussions do not address questions such as minority rights (Christian/Coptic minorities, homosexuals), freedom of expression (e.g. people imprisoned for criticising the government), or presidential powers (arranging succession, ruling by decree). The fact is that the TNCs in their television programmes, as an extension of their communications strategies, subordinate themselves to the taboos established by the government. This shows, on the one hand, that they largely avoid placing themselves in the spotlight as independent actors. On the other hand, they do not wish to endanger the symbiotic relationship they enjoy with the Egyptian government, which is characterised by tax beneﬁts and direct foreign investments. Keeping away from ﬁelds of conﬂict and controversy, the TNCs therefore aim above all to establish a harmonious ‘‘emotional bond’’ with the consumers, I think the show tries to make an emotional bond. Trying to show that there is more than just washing the clothes, when you use Persil. It’s a human being, it’s someone that cares for you, it’s someone that tries to get involved in your life. So that you create some sort of an emotional bond and enhance loyalty in the end. (Marketing Manager, Henkel)

Although TV advertising is clearly a much better way of reaching poorer target groups than print advertising because of the high rates of illiteracy, some TNCs attempt to adopt communications strategies which offer even more direct contact with rural consumers. With so-called ‘‘road-shows’’ they set up their promotion stands at rural weekly markets, and distribute samples of their products, sing the Ariel-song together or run a lottery, offering a washing machine as ﬁrst prize. And while information is provided at the Nestle´ stands about the contents of baby food and how to prepare it properly, on the Persil-stage a colourful clown explains the previously unknown advantages of the ﬁrst colour washing powder in Egypt. The considerable attraction of the events is explained by a marketing expert with reference to the monotony of everyday life, particularly for women, For rural women this is the only time they go out of their homes. Imagine, if you are a woman in your house for seven days and you go out for one day, this is the shopping day. For you it’s not only shopping, it’s entertainment, it’s having fun. Because

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you don’t go to the club, you don’t work out, you don’t go to the movie or go and have coffee with your friends. [y] Your life is not really that nice. And the only day that you go out, you meet Ariel. It’s not only that Ariel will tell you something about the product; it’s not only that they will sell you a cheaper product at discount of the time, based on the promotion. But they will also entertain you; they will show you some nice things that you have never seen in your life. That’s why you love Ariel. (Brand Manager, P&G)

These examples clearly show that this access route to the rural consumers chosen by the TNCs makes use of a structural negative framework. In other words, where the people are not able to share the many possibilities of the urban centres, the TNCs step in and satisfy the corresponding needs of the people – often instead of state organisations, or sometimes in cooperation with them. In this way, in the place of cultural institutions such as cinemas or theatres the commercial weekly markets do provide entertainment. Public health education mixes with product-oriented sales interests, as is demonstrated by cooperation between the Egyptian Ministry of Health and P&G or Nestle´ in hygiene and health campaigns. The important point here is that the TNCs are trying to serve a doubly neglected consumer segment: the women with control of a household budget in the rural periphery. The examples from advertising, TV programmes and promotions show that the communications strategy is characterised by particular cultural sensitivity, but marketing experts also adapt packaging and price strategies to meet the special needs and situations of the low-income groups and the rural population. For example, because some consumers are unable to afford the products of the TNCs, which are much more expensive than local no-brand products, the introduction of smaller packets with lower unit prices has represented a real breakthrough in rural marketing. Since the early 1990s, small sachets, tubes or blister packs have been used to sell washing powder, toothpaste or shampoo, but also chicken stock cubes, instant coffee or chips: ‘‘Of course, a lady who earnsywhatevery30 pounds a month – she can’t afford to pay for the full package or tube or whatever. So if you are only speaking A-class, you are limiting yourself. Where the greater proﬁt margin is, this is the mass market’’ (Chairman Assistant, Market Insight). In addition to the immediate increase in sales, this strategy also aims at encouraging long-term customer loyalty, so that consumer habits will be established which would then make it easier as average and personal incomes rise to switch over to the ‘‘normal’’ product. The temporal omnipresence envisaged in this way is frequently augmented by a spatial ubiquity, with the sachets-strips used in masses even in the smallest of shops as decorative advertising material.

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SOMETHING COLA In the autumn of 2000, various calls went out to boycott Israeli and American goods. Lists of products were disseminated, mainly through informal channels, and the Egyptian public were urged to stop supporting the ‘‘Zionist project’’ with their ‘‘pro-Western’’ consumer habits. The lists not only included companies with a clearly American identity such as Coca-Cola, but also in many cases companies such as the Swiss company Nestle´ or the British-Dutch Unilever. The background to this was the uprising in the Palestinian occupied areas, the so-called Al-Aqsa Intifada, which generated a great wave of solidarity among the Egyptian public and at the same time also a feeling of powerlessness. Although voices warning of possible damage to the domestic economy were growing louder and support for the boycott had already begun to ebb, it was revived by the American–British invasion in Iraq in Spring 2003.14 The dissatisfaction of the general public with the pro-Israeli foreign policies of the USA, and the perceived passivity of their own government, was ﬁrst expressed in late 2000 in a closely deﬁned setting. The ﬁrst demonstrations, for example, took place on the grounds of the Egyptian Lawyers Association, where symbols of ‘‘foreign dominance’’ were burned, such as a large-format Marlboro logo. At the schools, notes and text messages were passed around saying that Pepsi stood for ‘‘Pay Every Penny to Save Israel.’’ Ofﬁce workers no longer took their lunch-break at Kentucky Fried Chicken, and even students of the American University of Cairo began to avoid frequenting the nearby McDonald’s restaurant. Taxi-drivers in the throbbing metropolis of Cairo proudly explained that they were no longer smoking Marlboro and from now on would only buy Egyptian Cleopatra cigarettes. It seemed as if every individual was ﬁnally becoming active and using the long-desired opportunities for political expression. And because consumption is never a purely private affair, the boycott became a regular mass phenomenon, and the dynamics of consumption behaviour were energetically discussed and closely observed among friends and relatives. Sharing common goals, left-wing and nationalist NGOs came together. For example the nascent Anti-Globalisation Egyptian Group (AGEG) was in the ﬁrst row of the boycott movement alongside the Egyptian Federation of Chambers of Commerce (EFCC). Whereas the former took exception to the increasingly neo-liberal agenda of Egyptian economic policy, the latter feared the excessive intervention of foreign businesses in the economy. However, the impact of the initiatives was in fact mostly indirect; although AGEG declared in its agenda that it was explicitly against the globalisation

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of businesses (AGEG, 2006), regarding speciﬁc actions against TNCs in Egypt its hands were tied because of the repressive state apparatus.15 And according to the Chairman of the EFCC Khaled Abu Ismail, the call not to import any Israeli products was not binding for his members. However, it was widely assumed that even though no direct inﬂuence can be exerted on the entrepreneurs, this decision would at least heighten the awareness of Egyptian consumers, and they would in turn be able to exert pressure.16 Religious authorities, such as the since deposed Egyptian Mufti Nasr Farid Wasel, had already been calling on the entire population since 2000 to boycott Israeli products. Sheikh Muhammad Sayed Tantawi, head of the religious al-Azhar Institution, initially also adopted this stance in December and emphasised when talking to a group of Egyptian entrepreneurs: ‘‘Every foreign product that helps the enemy and causes harm to the Palestinian people must be boycotted – wherever it comes from’’ (Menareport, 2000). Whereas representatives of the religious establishment only referred to Israel speciﬁcally by name, charismatic religious ﬁgures with inﬂuence beyond national borders expressed what the common people felt. The Lebanese Sheikh and Shiite spiritual leader Muhammad Hussein Fadlallah, for example, demanded that all Arab consumers switch from American products to European and Asian ones. In this way they could express appreciation for the political support provided by these countries. The Egyptian religious leader Yusuf al-Qaradawi, who lives in Qatar and distributes his views via his homepage and the Arabic satellite news station al-Jazeera, was even more clear. At Friday prayers he said: ‘‘From the Pepsi bottle to Boeing planes, we call on the governments and the public to boycott these goods’’ and ‘‘we demand from the whole Islamic community that they do not buy these American products’’ (Al-Qaradawi, 2006). The initiated boycott was very different from the state-controlled boycott in the 1950s and 1960s. Then there was consensus among the governments of the countries of the Arab League and an explicit ban on importing goods and services from Israel, or doing business with American or foreign companies that provided Israel with military and economic assistance. With the nationalisation measures under Nasser, the major corporations withdrew from Egypt. It was only with the peace treaty of 1979 – which Sadat negotiated unilaterally with Israel, and which subsequently led to a boycott by the rest of the Arab countries – that Egypt became the ﬁrst country to break out of this front.17 Since then, Egyptian–Israeli and Egyptian–American trade relations have been fairly friendly.18 Whereas the boycott initiated by the Arab League was ofﬁcially supported by the governments, it is noticeable how reserved or even averse present-day Arab governments are

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concerning the boycott question. After former Prime Minister Atef Ebeid visited the Egyptian works of P&G and was featured in a photo-opportunity holding a packet of Ariel for the cameras, President Mubarak also adopted a more decisive tone. He described the boycott movement as ‘‘a negative act that could harm the national economy’’ and warned: ‘‘We import technology from the advanced North to achieve prosperity for our people. The boycott would close the doors to cooperation and development’’ (Business Monthly, October 2002). This clearly showed that today’s actors consisted of left-wing and nationalist intellectuals who equally received support from Islamist intellectuals and religious authorities. But the boycott was supported and implemented by the general public, by the Egyptian and Arab ‘‘masses,’’ who are often referred to in the Western media under the generalisation the Arab street or the coffee shop. The heterogeneous spectrum was uniﬁed in their feeling of political impotence, the search for methods of political participation, and implementation within new contexts. The explicit disappointment with Egyptian foreign, domestic and economic policies brought them together, and let them to seek scapegoats and a release valve for the building head of anger. And what was a more inviting target under a repressive regime than foreign, American TNCs, whose national roots and global connections feed the conspiracy theories that are so widespread in the Arab world? When dealing with the boycott activists, the Egyptian government was meanwhile largely interested in damage limitation. It did not wish to endanger the country’s international reputation as a guarantor of stability, or its role as an important trading partner, and also wished to retain desirable investments by foreign companies.19 Since the government could not afford to exert too much pressure on the Egyptian NGOs and was only able to intervene punctually, attempts were made above all at the level of the religious organs to check boycott activities. Therefore Mufti Nasr Farid Wasel, who had moved over to support opposition positions, and with his support of the Palestinian suicide bombers had threatened to cast a bad light on the government position, was replaced by the conformist Ahmad Muhammad Al-Tayib. After Sheikh Tantawi, head of the prestigious and stateconformist Al-Azhar institution, called for a boycott in 2000, he was brought back into the government position 2 years later. At a conference of Muslim religious scholars in April 2002 in Cairo he opposed the pro-boycott stance of Yusuf al-Qaradawi, arguing that only experts in this ﬁeld should reach a judgement, or give instructions for others to follow. So how did the TNCs react when affected by such boycotts, and when ﬁnding themselves facing the massed opposition of the Egyptian people?

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Market research institutes found that the rumours had fallen not only on fruitful ground in the rural regions or among consumers with a low level of education. When asked if and when they had stopped buying a particular product, almost half of Egypt’s consumers said that they had meanwhile bought other products. The Ariel-producer P&G was hit particularly hard by this, because their product found itself on many boycott lists due to the similarity between its name and the ﬁrst name of the Israeli prime minister Ariel Sharon. With the additional rumour that the six-ended rosette on the packaging was a hidden reference to the Star of David, the company was said to have ended up losing almost one-third of its sales of Ariel. Due to the threatened losses in turnover, numerous CEOs had contacted government representatives, and they complained about the initial reservation and passivity. In the marketing departments, however, the general view for a long time was that not too much should be made of this matter, because TNCs had to expect political turbulence in the region: ‘‘Do people actually stop drinking the brand completely? We are facing a period where, yes, we have declining sales because of the boycott. [y] But it’s gonna pick up again. So it just peaks only with these boycotts’’ (Brand Manager, CocaCola). The same marketing employee was also certain that local companies did not offer the same quality, and that therefore consumers would soon come back to the products of the TNCs, I think some local companies will probably take advantage of this and try to launchymaybeyI don’t know, ‘‘something-Cola’’. [y] On the other hand, how is the product quality? At the end of the day, the people would look at the quality. Is this really the Cola I want to drink? It’s a matter of taste. So, I think it’s just currently being done on a very political basis, not really on a market need, but for a political reason.20

But after a phase of playing things down, many TNCs decided to go on the offensive, in particular at the level of their communications strategies. It is only possible to speculate about the extent to which turnover had actually declined, because such ﬁgures are closely guarded secrets, but it was necessary to adopt measures to counter such trends and also to prevent considerable, long-term damage to the images of the corporations. In the marketing departments, therefore, the objective was the improvement in the short and medium term of the ‘‘corporate image,’’ while taking into account the politically volatile situation. The ways chosen to do this were intended to target the collective soul of the people and above all the Egyptian national consciousness. In order to smooth the troubled waters, speciﬁc strategic changes were introduced to the product design and to the product range. By highlighting the concept of ‘‘corporate citizenship,’’ under which many

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TNCs see themselves as having responsibility to the Egyptian society, charitable and welfare actions began to feature ﬁrstly in public relations activities, then marketing activities, and then in the advertising campaigns of the TNCs. The examples of P&G and Coca-Cola are typical of a trend which has to a greater or lesser extent also been picked up by other TNCs. P&G, present in Egypt since 1986 with its own production plant, and thus one of the longest established TNCs there, responded to the boycott by drawing on its achievements and its contributions for the development of the local market. A company brochure rapidly published in spring 2001 in Arabic explains that 99% of the workforce is of Egyptian origin. A marketing employee commented: ‘‘We are always trying to show that we are Egyptian and that Ariel is Egyptian. I am Egyptian, my manager is Egyptian, the marketing director is Egyptian, the people working in the plant are Egyptian, so it’s not an American company anymore, it’s multinational’’ (Assistant Brand Manager, P&G). The television advertising at the end of 2000 included the message sun’a Arial misriyya miyya bi-l-miyya (Ariel products are 100% Egyptian). The advertising spot featured workers from the Egyptian plant who reported on their many years of working for the company, its export orientation, and the valuable contribution in the ﬁeld of research and development. With the second boycott wave following the Iraq War, P&G ﬁnally felt obliged to change the Ariel logo (because of the above-mentioned perceived similarity to the Star of David). Due to the high rate of illiteracy, imagery plays an extremely important role, and now the front of every packet of Ariel features a double-looped rosette (with only four ends rather than six).21 On the back is a large emblem with highlighted Egyptian production locations and the words sun’ia fi misr bi-iday misriyya (made in Egypt by Egyptian hands). Almost at the same time, very similar words appeared on Coca-Cola cans: masnu0 bi-l-id al-misriyya (Made by Egyptian hands). A study by a local market research institute showed that Egyptian consumers ranked CocaCola ﬁrst in the boycott. In the spring of 2000, the company had already had to deal with a pernicious rumour that the name of the product in Roman letters, when viewed in a mirror showed the Arabic la Muhammad, la Mekka (there is no Muhammad and no Mecca). This rumour, spread from mouth to mouth, by e-mail and by text messages, put the company management under such pressure that they ﬁnally sought a religious ruling (fatwa) from the Mufti Nasr Farid Wasel. He certiﬁed that the logo of the American company, which had only been re-privatised in 1994 and since then has been run again from the headquarters in Atlanta, ‘‘does not defame in any way the religion of Islam’’ (Ahram Weekly, 2000).

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But whereas 5 years ago every second shop sign in Cairo seemed to feature a Coca-Cola logo, it was noticeable how little public visibility the brand suddenly seemed to have. Large numbers of signs were destroyed by angry protestors, but the underlying reason for the change laid in a shift in emphasis in the product portfolio policy of the corporation. In the summer of 2003, after Iraq had been occupied and the ﬁrst protest movement was underway, the refreshment drink ‘‘Fruitopia’’ was introduced on the Egyptian market. Because the beverage was hardly associated with the name of Coca-Cola, the company thought that it would be possible with this deviation strategy to make good some of the losses it had suffered. But such a strategy is only available for those companies who have a varied, global product portfolio. A marketing employee at Coca-Cola explained the advantages of already having registered products which can be launched on a local market at short notice: There is a whole portfolio of registered trademarks that you can use for the company. [y] We have a huge global range, for example I can have Fanta with six different ﬂavours. If you decide to launch any one of them, they are registered and you can go ahead with it. (Brand Manager, Coca-Cola)

A further characteristic of the communications policies of the TNCs was the increasing emphasis on ‘‘corporate citizenship,’’ which was expressed in the concepts ‘‘community work’’ or ‘‘community-building investment.’’ Since the start of the second intifada and the Iraq War, numerous TNCs markedly increased their involvement and at the same time began to communicate this more actively to outside observers. For example on the entrance doors of American fast food and restaurant chains (like McDonald’s and Chili’s) there were signs that a certain percentage of takings would be donated for building a hospital in Palestine. A marketing manager from Nestle´ commented, I perceive that we have a role to play socially. It’s not because of the boycott that we have to do something differently. There is a role, because we are a member of the Egyptian community, therefore we have a social role to play. We play it, maybe the only difference [after the boycott] will be that we communicate more what we do. (General Manager, Nestle´)

P&G and Coca-Cola had obviously stepped-up their activities in not-forproﬁt community projects in Egypt and allowed this to be effectively featured in their communications strategies. For example, P&G donated 500,000 Egyptian Pounds in June 2003 to the NGO ‘‘Awladi’’ for an extension annex to an orphanage. The Contributions Report from P&G declares,

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Under the umbrella of its ﬂagship brand Ariel, P&G has entered into a partnership with Awladi to develop a new facility intended to host 250 orphan and/or homeless boys. The project is intended to take those boys off the streets, protect them from abuse and provide them with a new opportunity: a safe and clean home, care, education and vocational training. P&G is also pioneering a public awareness campaign aimed at fundraising for future Awladi expansions. (Procter & Gamble 2003, p. 4)

The advertising spots for television and the print media advertisements included calls to make donations under the (altered) Ariel logo and at regular intervals information was provided about the project goals, donors and the donations given. Since then the Egyptian P&G web site has included the claim that viewers had voted the advertising as ‘‘one of the best public service announcements ever produced for television’’ (Procter & Gamble Egypt, 2006). Coca-Cola was also prominent with its ‘‘corporate citizenship.’’ In 2001, the company made a donation of 200,000 Egyptian pounds and became ofﬁcial partner of a new Children’s Cancer Hospital of the Association of Friends of the National Cancer Institute (AFNCI). During Ramadan, 50 piastre was donated for each bottle of Coca-Cola sold. In the following year, the company paid for the redecoration of 20 youth centres in Cairo’s poorer quarters. In addition, from July to September a football championship was sponsored between numerous youth centres in and around Cairo, and more than 1,600 young people took part (Coca-Cola 2002; Coca-Cola Egypt 2006).22 In particular, Coca-Cola is the main sponsor of the NGO ‘‘Future Generations’ Foundation,’’ which was established under the initiative of Gamal Mubarak,23 and which provides support for the vocational training of young people.24

CONCLUSIONS On the basis of the above it is possible to draw the following conclusions. Because of their organisational capacity and the resources at their disposal, TNCs are well positioned to respond to the diversity of cultural and political spheres of meaning in Egypt. Above all, it becomes clear that their focus when tackling the Egyptian mass market is not on the production and marketing of standardised goods, but on the adaptation of global goods to the local living conditions and the emotional and political needs of the Egyptian consumers. On the basis of the communications and product strategies of the TNCs it is clear that the capitalist orientation of the companies to the local culture is not one of an antagonist, with cultural variety being eliminated in a process of Coca-Colaisation. This scenario assumed on

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the one hand passivity on the part of the consumers – which cannot be conﬁrmed in the light of the Egyptian boycott as described above – and on the other hand, it also drew on a cultural immunity of the corporations, which a closer scrutiny of the ‘‘rural marketing’’ shows is also not the case. Thus despite the fact that the relationship between the capitalism of the TNCs and the local cultures exhibits a very real power asymmetry, it is important to consider the complementary character of the relationship, because both the adaptive strategies of the TNCs and also the protest strategies of the local consumers in their reference to cultural spheres of meaning draw on exactly the same pool. ‘‘Complementary’’ here does not mean that there is a balance of forces between the two. TNCs may draw on elements of local culture, but these are subjected to effective simpliﬁcation and generalisation, as shown by the example of the ‘‘real people-testimonials’’ of P&G. A similar conclusion can be drawn for the political framework conditions of the Egyptian market. Of course, the TNCs have to cope with the political dynamics of the market, but they do not wish to become obviously political in their activities. A way out of this dilemma is offered by a show of commitment within the framework of corporate citizenship. The fact that this involves taking on welfare activities of general interest which are more usually the responsibility of the state (orphanage, hospital for children with cancer), whereas no support is given, for example, to NGOs from the human rights’ movement, indicates the eclectic nature of the selection made by the TNCs. This clearly shows that the recurrence to the naturally dynamic and therefore unpredictable cultural and political contexts of local markets seems to demand that TNCs adopt strategies that actually stabilise the existing system. And it is precisely to this aspect that greater attention must be paid in the future, because it is possible to determine one-sided inﬂuence, for example by the dissemination of cultural stereotypes or the stabilisation of political regimes. In other words, images of rural consumers can be generated and disseminated by means of advertising which originate from the accepted cultural frame of reference and which therefore cause no irritations among local consumers. However, because they are one-sided and above all because they feed back into the spheres of meaning, these images support and promote existing and new forms of prejudice and racism. Furthermore, the involvement in social welfare projects may superﬁcially seem to address the needs of the impoverished, neglected and marginalised social groups of Egypt. In reality, however, the efforts and the ﬁnancial funds for the advertising campaigns do not relate at all to the actual structural deﬁcits of the country. By merely raising these topics, the TNCs manage to cast a positive light on themselves without coming into conﬂict with the hegemony of the

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political regime and its individual areas of responsibility. On the contrary, it can be argued that the ‘‘Made by Egyptian hands’’ campaign was really able to divert attention from the on-going topics of regional politics (Palestine and Iraq), to promote national unity, and to weaken criticism of the Egyptian regime. Whether the responses in the marketing departments of the TNCs to the boycott movement will in the medium term have an equally palliative effect and thus again increase turnover remains very much to be seen.

NOTES 1. In contrast to the organisational strategy of multinational corporations, which have hierarchical structures with a central headquarters and local branches and production units, the internal structure of TNCs is not characterised by a clear centre-periphery relationship. TNCs still have a central headquarters, but they also have a number of specialised sub-centres, and in the global company network these have strategic regional or product-speciﬁc tasks in management, production or marketing (Altvater & Mahnkopf, 1996, pp. 249–251). 2. In his criticism of the ‘‘open door policy’’ of the former Egyptian President Anwar el-Sadat in his novel The Committee published in Arabic in 1981, Ibrahim depicts a volunteer in front of a military committee who attempts to show the interconnections and dealings of global corporations, taking Coca-Cola as an example. 3. For the Arab world there is a limited number of similar studies (see e.g. Zirinski, 2005, who in an in-depth semiotic analysis looks at TNC advertisements in the Saui Arabian market). 4. The results are extracts from my doctoral thesis, which is based on a series of interviews carried out in Spring 2001 and Autumn 2002 in Egypt with a total of 35 interviewees: 15 of these worked for the marketing departments of TNCs based in Egypt, 10 worked for cooperating advertising agencies and 10 were from supporting market research institutes. TNCs: Fromageries Bel, Procter & Gamble, 3 M, Unilever, Colgate-Palmolive, Nestle´, Henkel, Coca-Cola Company, Cadbury-Schweppes. Advertising agencies: Lowe/Look, Grey, Saatchi & Saatchi, Creation Team, Impact/ BBDO, Public Graphics, Tarek Nour/DDB, Strategies, TMI/J. Walther Thompson. Market research institutes: Euromonitor, NFO World Group, Market Insight, Rada Research, Pan Arab Research Center, AC Nielsen AMER, Directions, Insight, Integrated Marketing Solution, MEMRB. 5. In international marketing studies a continuing debate can be found about the beneﬁts of standardising versus adapting the corporate marketing tools. For an early version see Buzzell, 1968. Also see noted arguments of standardisation advocates (Levitt, 1983, 1988) and proponents of adaptation (Kotler, 1986, 1991). 6. Appadurai (1990, 1996) in his description of overlapping and disjunctive global ﬂows of people, technology, capital and ideologies combines the cultural and economic aspects of the globalisation process. Based on empirical research, Jackson, Lowe, Miller, and Mort (2000) also connect the production and consumption process and thereby close the ring between commerce and culture.

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7. For an in-depth ethnographic study see Burke (1996). 8. With a population of 67.9 million in 2000, Egypt is the most populous country in the Arab region, accounting for 25% of all Arabs. In 2003, 57.9% of the Egyptian population lived in rural areas, especially in southern Upper Egypt and the northern Delta region. According to UN predictions, in 2015 Egypt will have the secondlowest urbanity quotient among Arab countries after Somalia (UN Department of Economic and Social Affairs, Population Division, 2004). This means that rural marketing will continue to play a key role in the coming decades. 9. As one of the ﬁrst companies, Philip Morris began production of 7up in Egypt in 1978. 10. According to UNCTAD (1999), 26 of the world’s 100 largest TNCs were present in Egypt in 1999. According to lists of the Egyptian General Authority for Investment (GAFI) in 1998 a total 147 TNCs were operating there (Schindi, 1999, p. 58). 11. ‘‘Rada Research’’ founded in 1982 under the CEO Loula Zaklama was the ﬁrst Egyptian market research institute. 12. The industrial zone ‘‘6th of October City’’ on the outskirts of Cairo is the location of Procter & Gamble, 3 M, Unilever und Nestle´ factories. Unilever has production plant in Alexandria, Henkel in Port Said, Coca-Cola in the ‘‘Public Free Zone’’ in Nasr City/Cairo. 13. In stark contrast to Egypt, the complete covering of face and body is widespread for women in northern Yemen, and since the reuniﬁcation in 1990 also in southern Yemen. 14. In the run-up to the conﬂict the Egyptian Medical Council placed advertisements in the leading daily newspaper al-Ahram calling for a boycott of all goods from countries involved in the war. 15. An example is the protest against the visit by World Bank President John Wolfensohn in December 2000. In this context, founding member Samir Amin attacked the globalisation of businesses, which ‘‘served the exclusive interest of maximising proﬁts for a limited number of corporations and ignored all other social and national interests.’’ The protest meeting itself, behind the fences of the EFCC, was attended by hundreds of activists and intellectuals. However, although Wolfensohn met with representatives of the TNCs, these were not criticised explicitly within the context of the demonstration (Business Monthly, November 2002). 16. Similar positions were held by other non-governmental organs, such as investment groups or the Egyptian Pharmaceuticals Association. The various grassroots initiatives are meanwhile coordinated by the ‘‘Egyptian General Committee for the Boycott of Zionist and American Goods and Products,’’ which produces lists of companies to be boycotted and checks whether there are contacts with Israel through production, commerce or donations. 17. Since the 1990s, Morocco, Jordan and some Gulf states have explicitly maintained economic ties with Israel. Only the Syrian government, which in contrast to Egypt and Jordan did not conclude a peace treaty with Israel, stands ofﬁcially by the boycott appeal of the Arab League from 1951. In April 2004, the 72nd Conference of the Israel Boycott Ofﬁce of the Arab League was convened under Syrian guidance, and in response to the Arab boycott movements a ‘‘strengthening’’ of measures was demanded. In fact, the boycott appeal of the Arab League has never been withdrawn.

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18. This is shown by the QIZ (Qualiﬁed Industrial Zone) treaty between Egypt, Israel and the USA signed in December 2004, which was heavily criticised by Islamist parliamentarians and left-wing intellectuals. 19. Direct foreign investments peaked in 1999/2000 at $1.6 billion. They then fell year on year to a level of only $407 million in 2004 (Ahram Weekly, 2005). 20. After ‘‘Mecca-Cola’’ was launched at the end of 2002 by the French entrepreneur Tauﬁq Mathlouthi, initially on the European market, there was considerable demand from Muslim consumers. It has also been available since July 2004 in Egypt. However, like ‘‘Arab-Cola’’ (which has been developed and is produced in Egypt) ‘‘Mecca-Cola’’ has not yet been able to establish itself among Egyptian consumers. Unfortunately, no precise information is available about market presence and sales of these products, or of the Iranian ‘‘Zam-Zam Cola’’ and the British ‘‘Qibla-Cola.’’ 21. A search of the local web sites of Procter & Gamble showed that in Pakistan, Morocco and Algeria this image was changed, which according to the management shows the orbit of electrons in an atom. In Europe, Latin America, etc. the image was not changed. 22. The company’s local web site was developed in 2003. 23. Son of Egyptian President Husni Mubarak and his probable successor as president. 24. In October 2002, Coca-Cola therefore received the Secretary of State’s Award for Corporate Excellence (U.S. Department of State, 2006).

REFERENCES AGEG (Egyptian Anti-Globalisation Group). (2006). Man nahnu [Who are we]? http:// www.ageg.net Ahram Weekly. (2000, May 25). Newsreel. http://weekly.ahram.org.eg/index.htm Ahram Weekly. (2005, January 13). Briefs. http://weekly.ahram.org.eg/index.htm Al-Qaradawi, Y. (2006). Khutab wa muhaadaraat [Lectures and sermons] http://www.qaradawi.net Altvater, E., & Mahnkopf, B. (1996). Grenzen der Globalisierung: O¨konomie, O¨kologie und Politik in der Weltgesellschaft [Limits of globalisation: Economy, ecology and politics in a global society]. Mu¨nster: Westfa¨lisches Dampfboot. Appadurai, A. (1990). Disjuncture and difference in the global cultural economy. In: M. Featherstone (Ed.), Global culture: Nationalism, globalization and modernity (pp. 295–311). London: Sage. Appadurai, A. (1996). Modernity at large: Cultural dimensions of globalization. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Arnould, E. J., & Thompson, C. J. (2005). Consumer culture theory (CCT): Twenty years of research. Journal of Consumer Research, 31(4), 868–882. Burke, T. (1996). Lifebuoy men, lux women: Commodification, consumption and cleanliness in modern Zimbabwe. Durham: Duke University Press. Business Monthly. (2002, October). US products, and some Egyptian ones, still feeling boycott. http://www.amcham.org.eg/publications/BusinessMonthly/Business_Monthly.asp Business Monthly. (2002, November). Protesters deride World Bank as business leaders talk development. http://www.amcham.org.eg/publications/BusinessMonthly/Business_Monthly.asp

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Buzzell, R. D. (1968). Can you standardize multinational marketing? Harvard Business Review, 46(6), 102–113. Caulﬁeld, M. (1978). Taxes, tourists and turtlemen: Island dependency and the tax-haven business. In: A. Idris-Soven, et al. (Eds), The world as a company town: Multinational corporations and social change (pp. 345–374). The Hague: Mouton. Coca-Cola. (2002). http://www2.coca-cola.com/ourcompany/hal_active_egypt_include.htm Coca-Cola Egypt. (2006). http://www.egypt.coca-cola.com Costa, J. A., & Bamossy, G. J. (Eds) (1995). Marketing in a multicultural world: Ethnicity, nationalism, and cultural identity. London: Sage. Featherstone, M. (1991). Consumer culture and postmodernism. London: Sage. Friedman, J. (Ed.) (1994). Consumption and identity. London: Harwood Academic. Hannerz, U. (1996). Transnational connections: Culture, people, places. London: Routledge. Harvey, D. (1990). The condition of postmodernity. Cambridge: Blackwell. Hunt, E. S. (1984). Social scientists and the multinational corporation: A critique of the anthropological literature. Washington: Center for Multinational Studies. Ibrahim, S. (1987). Die Pru¨fungskommission. Basel: Lenos [Arabic version: (1981) Al-Lagna, Cairo; English version: (2002) The Committee. Cairo: American University Press.] Idris-Soven, A., Idris-Soven, E., & Vaughan, M. K. (Eds) (1978). The world as a company town: Multinational corporations and social change. The Hague: Mouton. Jackson, P., Lowe, M., Miller, D., & Mort, F. (2000). Commercial cultures: Economies, practices, spaces. Oxford & New York: Berg. Kotler, P. (1986). Global standardization: Courting danger. Journal of Consumer Marketing, 3(2), 13–15. Kotler, P. (1991). Marketing management: Analysis, planning, implementation, and control. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall. Levitt, T. (1983). The marketing imagination. New York: The Free Press. Levitt, T. (1988). The pluralization of consumption. Harvard Business Review, 66, 7–8. Menareport. (2000). Sheikh of Al-Azhar: Boycott products favoring Israel. http://www.menareport. com, Newsletter December 3. Miller, D. (1987). Material culture and mass consumption. Oxford: Blackwell. Miller, D. (2003). Advertising, production and consumption as cultural economy. In: B. Moeran & T. D. Malefyt (Eds), Advertising cultures (pp. 75–90). Oxford, New York: Berg. Nash, J. C. (1979). The anthropology of the multinational corporation. In: G. Huizer & B. Mannheim (Eds), The politics of anthropology: From colonialism and sexism toward a view from below (pp. 421–446). The Hague: Mouton. Nash, J. C. (1981). Ethnographic aspects of the world capitalist system. Annual Review of Anthropology, 10, 393–423. Ong, A. (1988). The production of possession: Spirits and the multi-national corporation in Malaysia. American Ethnologist, 15, 28–42. Procter & Gamble. (2003). Contributions Report, 1 July 2002 to 30 June 2003. Procter & Gamble Egypt. (2006). http://www.pg.com.eg/community.cfm Robertson, R. (1994). Globalization: Social theory and global culture. London: Sage. Schindi, U. (1999). Ash-sharikaat muta0 addida al-ginsiyaat wa dauruhu ﬁ’l-iqtisad al-misri [The multinational companies and their role in the Egyptian economy]. Bank Misr: an-nashra al-iqtisaadiyya, 42(2), 43–71. Sherry, J. F. (Ed.) (1995). Contemporary marketing and consumer behaviour, an anthropological sourcebook. London: Sage.

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Tobin, J. J. (Ed.) (1992). Re-made in Japan: Everyday life and consumer taste in a changing society. New Haven & London: Yale University Press. UN Department of Economic and Social Affairs, Population Division. (2004). World urbanization prospects: The 2003 revision. New York: UN. UNCTAD. (1999). Investment policy review Egypt. Geneva: UNCTAD. U.S. Department of State (2006). Remarks at award for corporate excellence ceremony. http:// www.state.gov/r/pa/prs/ps/2002/14071.htm Wallerstein, I. (1990). Culture as the ideological battleground of the modern world-system. In: M. Featherstone (Ed.), Global culture: Nationalism, globalization and modernity (pp. 31–57). London: Sage. Watson, J. L. (Ed.) (1997). Golden arches east: McDonald’s in East Asia. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Zirinski, R. (2005). Ad hoc arabism: Advertising, culture, and technology in Saudi Arabia. New York, Bern, Berlin: Peter Lang Publishing.

CONCEPTUALIZATIONS OF DEATH IN A COMMERCIAL CONTEXT: THE FUNERAL BUSINESS IN PRESENT-DAY JAPAN Daisuke Tanaka ABSTRACT In this study I explore how practices and creativity in the commercial context conceptualize death in the changing styles of funerals by depicting the supply of contemporary funeral services. The cases are primarily based on ethnographic accounts derived from my fieldwork in Japanese funeral homes. I focus on the work and efforts of the funeral industry that make innovative services to shape and shift a set of cultural values and practices in the funerals of today.

INTRODUCTION The central aim of this paper is to analyze the mechanism of the conceptualization of death through observations of contemporary funeral services and the funeral industry in Japan. Through an ethnographic investigation of a speciﬁc funeral business, I focus not only on routine work in a funeral home, but also on creativity in the provision of new services as the fruits of Choice in Economic Contexts: Ethnographic and Theoretical Enquiries Research in Economic Anthropology, Volume 25, 173–197 Copyright r 2007 by Elsevier Ltd. All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0190-1281/doi:10.1016/S0190-1281(06)25008-X

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the successful conceptualization of consumer images, attitudes, values, and norms associated with death. Although I concentrate on funeral practices, or death rituals, I will largely avoid ritual studies in anthropology and keep historical observations on transitions of the funeral industry to a minimum. This is not because I deny the signiﬁcance of these related works, but because I do not want to consider rituals merely as culminations of history and folk customs. Instead, I want to shed light on these rituals as dynamic social and commercial interactions between suppliers and consumers that are subject to rapid change at any time. Taking a macro view, I present the question: ‘‘How do commercial practices reify certain contemporary ideas dispersed in a society?’’ But as I set my focus on this question, I intend to limit myself and delve into a consideration of the relationship between contemporary funeral services and the concept of death as a semimicroscopic issue. In the past, funerals were centered on static and numerical characteristics of the ontological cycle, where to a considerable extent public philosophy was predetermined and restricted. On the other hand, today’s commercial funerals have plastic and dynamic characteristics – they are a means of the positive embodiment of death and an expression of speciﬁc concepts. The funeral industry is today a provider of concept-oriented services. This phenomenon not only reveals the dynamics of the industry, which permeates even the most signiﬁcant aspects of death, but also provides an effective key to overcoming the dichotomous scheme that would vaguely categorize the proble´matique of death and industry into physis (nature) and techneˆ (technology/culture). The funeral homes of today not only mediate between culturally constructed values and repugnance for secularization, but also sometimes provide a set of renewed or customized concepts and practices for their customers just as other service industries do. This means that they demonstrate industrial driving forces to absorb, converge, and shift the cultural styles of death through the bilateral relationship between suppliers and consumers, which can be seen as one social circuit to embody certain and visible styles of death. This is what I wish to pursue in this paper: industrial power to conceptualize and make state-of-the-art styles of death in the form of commercial services.

STUDYING THE FUNERAL INDUSTRY Before proceeding further, I would like to brieﬂy discuss the genealogy of studies on the funeral industry, in order to place my arguments within its

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broader ﬁeld. Strictly speaking, the academic study of the funeral industry virtually originated not in neutral inquiries, but in the active criticisms of North American and British consumers who felt they were paying too much for funerals. The pioneering ﬁgures of critical studies on the U.S. and U.K. funeral industries began to appear in the ﬁrst half of the 20th century (for instance, see Bowman, 1959; Gebhart, 1928; Wilson & Levy, 1938). Although some studies focused on pure academic implications from a fairly neutral stance,1 they generally reﬂected a kind of apprehension or uneasiness regarding the secularization of death which surged among people as the inﬂuence of the funeral industry increased. This uneasiness had become linked with a trend toward thinking more positively about death. In academic trends other than the funeral industry studies, such thoughts stimulated scholars in various disciplines to classify not only their behavior, but also their attitudes, images, and meanings of death based mainly on medical and terminal phases. For example, Ku¨bler-Ross’s (1969) On Death and Dying probably exercised the most sensational inﬂuence on the formation of the so-called Death Awareness Movement among both the academics and the nonacademics. The core of her research was to formulate clinical knowledge and practices for both dying persons and medical professionals by classifying psychological attitudes according to terminal processes, such as ‘‘denial,’’ ‘‘anger,’’ ‘‘bargaining,’’ ‘‘depression,’’ and ‘‘acceptance.’’ And indeed, it was also an academic trial to shape a more desirable, acceptable, and practical concept of death and dying by gathering clinical data. As for the funeral industry studies, Mitford’s (1963) best-seller book, The American Way of Death was published in the middle of the Death Awareness Movement in the 1960s with the consumeristic criticisms of invented traditions and expectations of a more desirable death. Both Mitford and Ku¨bler-Ross encouraged society to consider death in new ways, and the former coherently appealed to her readers to reﬂect on both the mode of death and the way of living by the use of a critical perspective that made the point that Americans had been carrying out a custom referred to as traditional without realizing it (1963, p. 17). However, as journalistic criticisms based on a ‘‘commercialization-equals-secularization’’ premise came to the foreground, the idea that the industry was worthy of objective scientiﬁc study faded. General books that pursued Mitford’s consumerist perspective subsequently appeared, but scientiﬁc efforts themselves tended to rely on sophisticated analyses designed to counter the blatant criticisms of the funeral industry. This role was mainly assumed by sociologists, and such studies in the 1970s and 1980s largely shared the focus on organizational structure or internal communication from a labor-sociological perspective.2

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Several studies attempting to minutely grasp the work of funeral homes through long-term ﬁeldwork have appeared more recently, with the emergence of a new trend aiming at the exploration of a broader ‘‘sociality of death’’ (for instance, see Charmaz, 1980; Clark, 1993; Howarth & Jupp, 1996; Kearl, 1989). The interesting point is that these works were completely new efforts, not continuations of themes and approaches taken by earlier studies, and they did not entertain dogmatic criticisms of commercialization and secularization that had prevailed until the 1960s. Howarth (1996) carried out ﬁeldwork in London’s East End by becoming a funeral home employee and carefully documented the ways in which attitudes toward death become manifest in modern funerals. She gave priority to funeral professionals’ perceptions and organization of death rituals and did so in a way that made sense of their roles (1996, p. 7). In other words, she paid more attention to the subtleties of internal labor than to the interactions between funeral professionals and customers. On the other hand, Suzuki (2000), who conducted ﬁeldwork in a mutual-aid cooperative (gojokai)3 in northern Kyush % u, % Japan, analyzed standardized modern funerals (which she later termed ‘‘McFunerals,’’ or ‘‘McDonald-ized funerals,’’ 2003), various funeral services that have arisen in response to such standardization, and the changes in human relationships in funerals.4 The notable point in her work is that she paid attention to tripartite interactions between consumers (or social relationships), producers (or commodities and services), and cultural values as models with which to investigate the changing concepts of dying, death, and the deceased in contemporary Japan (2000, pp. 6–7). I fundamentally share Suzuki’s perspective and model, yet my focus here is especially on practices to make services in commercial relationships between consumers and producers. Namely, here I abstract the effect of a diachronic transition of social relationships, such as the change in kinship community and its reciprocal network, and concentrate my analysis on industrial forces to shift cultural values and conceptualize death. This is partly because Suzuki’s concluding analysis centered on the process of the construction of new forms of dependence in social relationships (2000, pp. 203–221), though she suggested that there are some inﬂuences from the above tripartite interactions on the changes of the practice and meaning of funerals. Suzuki did not fully clarify the range of concepts of death values in contemporary situations, and her analysis of cultural values in today’s Japanese funerals is, ultimately, neither more nor less than the following description in her concluding chapter: ‘‘What makes a good funeral is the beautiﬁcation of the deceased’s life; honoring their contributions; appreciating their kindness, their generosity,

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and their social achievements; and learning from their good deedsy The dead are now at the mercy of the living, because it is the living who evaluate the deceased’s life’’ (2000, p. 214). In regard to this point, I am paying greater attention to what is goodness/beauty and how these are constructed in funerals by trying to account for the relationship between the contents of cultural values of death and commercial practices.

GENERAL OPERATIONS From August 2004 until the time of this writing I have been carrying out ﬁeldwork by serving as an employee of Nichihoku Co., Ltd., which has its head ofﬁce in Suginami Ward, not far from central Tokyo. Nichihoku is listed on JASDAQ, the Japanese version of NASDAQ, but a listing on the stock market in the funeral industry is very rare. I chose this large company as the subject of my study to balance out my earlier research in a small-scale community-based funeral home before 2004. I joined this company as a new member of its Funeral Department and worked as a ‘‘sub,’’ an assistant to the funeral director who oversees the staging of funerals. Namely, subs are apprentices learning the operation of a funeral business. Once they are satisfactorily accepted by the others, they will progress through other stages, gradually being entrusted with a more across-the-board job as a director. Image Strategy The work of a funeral home does not quiet down with the completion of a funeral. It continues without break on a 24-hour, 7-day-a-week mode, and the schedules of the respective jobs overlap. This is because in principle funeral homes never refuse client requests, and the job starts as soon as an employee speaks with a client to provide an estimate, regardless of when a death occurs. As such, many funeral home personnel are on duty even late at night. Furthermore, because funeral homes with ‘‘designated funeral home’’ accreditation from hospitals are generally required to arrive at the hospital mortuary within a half-hour after a death, many have a night-shift rotation system. Today’s hospitals, especially public hospitals, often decide on a designated funeral home by public bidding, but until fairly recently the main business of funeral homes was conducted directly between them and the hospitals, and maintaining relationships with hospitals was at the heart of management.

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However, the trend of trying to get orders by paying frequent visits to hospitals has rapidly decreased in the past 10 years. Mr. Ko¯ ichiro¯ Watabe,5 one of the funeral directors of Nichihoku, comments, It was said in earlier days that a funeral home would never go broke if it had been designated by a hospital. Butywe all know that in this day and age, business cannot be stable with only that. It’s just not worth the money because it requires personnel costs for the night-shift. That’s why even Nichihoku does no business like that, and many funeral homes are doing the same, you know. In place of that, Nichihoku is spending at leastywelly50,000,000 yen6 each year on advertising. This is a very large amount! Small funeral homes are probably just hanging out tiny billboards or listing themselves in the telephone book, but Nichihoku even does TV commercials. At any rateyyes, a funeral home is a hard business to operate.

Indeed, there are difﬁculties in operating a funeral home that are different from other businesses. This is because directly and actively appealing to clients to ‘‘have a funeral’’ can be seen as an act of asking the client to die soon. Until the late 1980s, an exposure of the funeral industry through the media other than obituaries was almost a tacit taboo. But the situation has changed. Even from the time when many funeral homes were community-based, and in particular since the 1980s, funeral homes and mutual-aid cooperatives with much capital have arisen, and the technique of appealing to a large, unspeciﬁed number of clients, rather than only to a narrow range, gradually took precedence. At the same time, as did Nichihoku, many companies decreased, or even discontinued, business with hospital practices that ran up operating costs. Instead, they tried to spread the image of their companies, aiming for mass appeal. In that sense, Nichihoku emphasizes image strategy and regularly takes out large newspaper ads, airs TV commercials, and also has produced and broadcast its own introduction show on cable television. It has even developed an advertisement appealing to consumers with images of sweet little girls, ﬂowers, and such words as ‘‘sincerity’’ and ‘‘just for you,’’ without showing the somber aspects of death and also by gently pleading, ‘‘Let us take care of everything if anything should happen.’’ These images mediate between the commercial solicitation and the beautiﬁcation of death. Networking and Accumulated Knowledge As with other business categories, countless elements must be mastered. Besides the types and handling of funeral accessories, the location of temples, ceremonial halls, and crematoriums, the knowledge of religious

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doctrines, the difference of funerals by religious sects, regional customs, how to host, and how to treat clients in such traumatic situations as the loss of loved ones, there are myriad items of importance that must be recognized, and it is hard to deﬁne what is important and what is not. But I would say that the ability to coordinate many services at once is one of the most important abilities of a funeral home staff member. For instance, the usual roles for a funeral include the caterer, the ﬂorist, the taxi company and the photographer. At times a funeral home is required to ﬁnd and negotiate for a service that is not usually associated with funerals, such as audio equipment services, if requested by a client. There are many other responsibilities, and a funeral home must maintain relationships with local authorities who are involved in the procedures for submitting the death registration and also with religious personalities, mainly the priests of Buddhist temples. In a Buddhist funeral, the priest is formally regarded as the ultimate authority regarding the funerary ritual, though the funeral staff and the mourners’ sadness are other matters. Yet the disintegration of relationships between the general public and Buddhist temples appears to be progressing, and it is thus safe to say that the overall authority of Buddhist priests has generally diminished. Because of this transition, it has become fairly common for funeral homes to give working opportunities to priests, though opposite situations seem to exist, especially in rural areas. The relationship between funeral homes and Buddhist priests has become somewhat of a give-and-take relationship. I have not attempted to delineate the entire range of funeral industry work, but we cannot classify any of it as unskilled labor. Besides, knowledge of the enormous variety of jobs that are carried out in day-to-day affairs is passed down from the director to the subordinate or from a skilled to an unskilled worker in accordance with the legitimate peripheral participation theory of Lave and Wenger (1991). Just as funeral homes assume the quality of an apprentice system, it is also possible to think of their organization as a community of practice with shared objectives. However, there is an extra sense that must be developed by the individual funeral professionals because it is often necessary to provide on-the-spot services, such as giving suggestions to the bereaved on the type of funeral and ﬁnding a style that matches the many needs of the client by relying on highly personal experience and knowledge. The accumulation of such information by trial and error shapes a consumer’s abstract needs into certain beautiﬁed concepts and styles of death that are gradually but constantly renewed and reﬂected in the business of funeral homes.

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NEW PRACTICE, NEW SERVICES The Altar: Innovating Visions and Concepts What kind of new services, then, have been produced or innovated? In other words, what kinds of funeral practices have evolved, been renewed, received innovation, and formed into new styles? Probably the most noticeable transformation in the form of funerals in recent years is the change to a funeral altar, and this also means a shift in the spatial dramaturgy of the funeral. Before Japan’s high-growth period, the center of activity – the focal point – in a funeral was actually the funeral procession; it was not practiced in a closed space with an altar installed in the center. However, as human relations within local communities gradually attenuated and as the meaning of funeral shifted from ‘‘sending off by the community’’ to ‘‘visit of condolence’’ (Murakami, 2001, p. 144), the ritual space also shifted from a lineal scene of movement through the funeral procession to a point scene, that is, a ﬁxed space such as a home or a funeral hall. A person’s death came to be observed in a ﬁxed place in which an altar takes center stage. When more importance was attached to the funeral procession, most funeral accoutrements were associated with the procession; thus the altar hardly had any decor (Yamada, 2001, p. 120) and was considered to simply be another funeral item of an importance considerably lower than that of today. However, funeral homes ‘‘rediscovered’’ the altar as a good with the potential to become a very symbolic item, and by giving it a sense of luxury a new practice was developed. Placing an altar, an item with low importance among funeral items, at the center of the funeral came to be by the originality and ingenuity of the funeral industry, and once the new style of altar had become sufﬁciently accepted by people, consumers started to demand more luxurious altars. To fulﬁll these demands, the funeral homes created altars that were more ﬁnely crafted and sculpted. Over time, these items have come to constitute the motif of rebirth to the world after death through visual representation. Fig. 1 shows a plain wood alter (shiraki saidan), which is still the most popular altar today, with its characteristic design combining the image of death leading to the afterlife, and traditional and religious images. However, the ‘‘innovated’’ version of the plain wood altar has recently emerged and is becoming widely popular. It is a ‘‘fresh ﬂower altar’’ (seika saidan – Fig. 2). Nichihoku has handled only fresh ﬂower altars from the

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Fig. 1.

A Plain Wood Altar (Shiraki Saidan) (Photographed by the Author).

Fig. 2.

A Fresh Flower Altar (Seika Saidan) (Photographed by the Author).

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time it ﬁrst entered the funeral industry, and it has set up a special division within the company so that the production of ﬂower altars would not be subcontracted to vendors. With these business efforts, the chance Nichihoku took in becoming specialized in ﬂower altars has so far turned out to be successful. This is not a mere conversion of materials from wood to ﬂower. As far as Nichihoku is concerned, from the beginning the company was sensitive to increasing criticism that plain wood altars were old-fashioned and that the high price per altar, as if they were disposable goods and could not be reused (even though they could), was an indication of a money-driven business. At the same time, many bereaved families I have met, and also people who have begun to consider their own funerals, wished to crown their departure with ﬂowers. Some cite reasons such as ‘‘they’re pretty’’ or ‘‘they’re natural’’ for wanting a ﬂower altar, but the ability to customize an altar with ﬂowers of their choosing is also a strong factor in the popularity of such altars. Namely, ﬂower altars not only strike a fresh note, but also provide the potential for greater ﬂexibility than plain wood altars to match preferable aesthetic tastes, to reﬂect private metaphorical motives, and to shape the concept of death desirably in the form of customized services. Today, not only through the display of fresh ﬂowers, but also in playing the favorite music of the deceased, funeral homes are striving to meet client needs by constantly developing new ideas to make the entire ceremonial representation of ‘‘a death that is uniquely me (or him, or her)’’ which is now almost cliche´ in funeral homes’ advertisements. Commercializing Exchanges: Between Professionalization and Secularization However, new funeral practices are not limited to arranging space. There are also other more promotional innovations in the industry today. For example, many facilities have introduced funeral prebooking and also membership systems. For example, Nichihoku has a membership system called the Flower Club, and for people who join (by paying an initiation fee of 30,000 yen)7 the company will provide free estimates in advance that are decidedly lower than what it would cost to arrange a funeral postmortem. Also, members receive newsletters and free invitations to various events. They can therefore clarify their wishes for their own funerals. A membership system in Japan handled by mutual-aid cooperatives rapidly expanded after World War II. Each member would save a prescribed amount of money each month, and in return a funeral equivalent to the savings would be provided

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on his or her death. But the prebooking service of today is different because it seeks to retain clients with a membership fee and without the saving system. With this strategy, the consumer’s desire to choose the contents and form of the funeral before death coincides with the client-retaining strategy of the funeral home. For example, Mr. Masakazu Abe, a salesman of Nichihoku’s funeral division, gave a sales talk in negotiations of funeral prebooking with his customer as follows, You might think such money talk is quite indecent behaviorybut I’d like you to simply consider what kind of funeral is suitable, and it is exactly the same as you deciding your own way of handing miscellaneous affairs in daily life. It is a bit unreasonable and nonsensicalyif you can decide and make good with your life EXCEPT with your funeral, isn’t it? I think now you can seize a good opportunity to think about your own life by choosing what style of funeral matches you the most. You don’t have to be tied down by stereotypes. You don’t have to be interrupted by someone. Plus, you can avoid giving your family or someone else worry. We will seek it together and offer the best. Butyit’s a bit late after you have passed away.

These cases of innovations in more commercial aspects provide intricate problems for us. How does the funeral industry mediate consumers’ mental rejections of involvement with money talk in death and funerals? As one potential answer, we may indeed be able to attribute it to an institutional but obscure inertia within the monopolized forces of the industry under the process of professionalization. However, we perhaps must argue again whether we can regard today’s funerals as ‘‘Mcfunerals,’’ conceptualized by Suzuki as having strong rationalization and professionalization at their cores (2003, p. 51), mentioned above. Funeral home personnel are often very professional, almost like artisans, especially if they are particularly skilled or experienced, and surely they do try hard to sell package plans to customers and to stay on schedule. But this does not mean that funeral homes as suppliers completely determine the delivery and quality of their services. There are actually numerous, ﬂexible, and fragmented options in one package set up by a funeral home. They do not mind breaking the ﬁxed frame of the package service, and they sometimes strategically suggest such deviation as acquiring consumer satisfaction and additional proﬁt. Furthermore, perhaps it is helpful to consider another essential factor in commercial transactions: the price. According to statistics compiled by the All Japan Federation of the Societies of Funeral Businesses (Zen-Nihon So¯saigyo¯ Kyo¯do¯ Kumiai Rengo¯kai) and the Japan Consumer’s Association (Nihon Sho¯hisha Kyo¯kai) in 2003, the average expenditure to a funeral home is 1,504,000 yen8 (2003, p. 26) per funeral, though funeral prices are showing a tendency to decline today because of severe competition. Due to

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the amount of money involved and contemporary consumer sentiments, semipermanent and high-handed standardization will never be permitted. Whether there is an interrelation between the level of prices and the extent of standardization is a difﬁcult question, and we surely can ﬁnd some examples of relatively expensive commodities and services like cars, houses, and communications in which contents and lineups are somewhat standardized. But as I explained above, the core of funeral services is different from such tangible, material, and inﬂexible services. Therefore it is not very appropriate to solely adopt the concept of rationalization and standardization with a nuance of Fordism. If these elements are the only driving forces behind the creation of new funeral practices, fresh ﬂower altars and prebooking services both should not have shown such a tendency to expand. A plain wood altar can be reused, and it can always be prepared in a warehouse. On the other hand, it requires considerable time to make a fresh ﬂower altar and efforts to obtain ﬂowers to meet a customer’s request. Prebooking and membership systems also require efforts and expenditures to manage the system. However, we cannot hastily conclude that customers now can make all choices freely. In general, consumers have pecuniary limits. And they sometimes cannot help depending on suggestions from a funeral home, especially when they have only a vague conception of death and funerals or when they fall into confusion caused by deep grief. On the other hand, there are also some styles of funerals such as living funerals (seizenso¯) and nonreligious funerals (mushukyo % ¯so¯) which have appeared due to the initiative of consumers in their reactions to the current tendency of funeral professionals to possess and control the knowledge of funerals (Suzuki, 2003, pp. 64–68). What we must do is not give a privileged position to either supply or demand, but to recognize their variable and situational power relationship. From this viewpoint, the renewal of services and the concepts of death indeed come from unremitting collision and mediation between supply and demand forces. Although this is in a sense contradictory, it means that the major source of innovations in funerals comes from the fact that ‘‘death’’ and ‘‘money talk’’ are ultimately irreconcilable while today’s broader cultural framework of mental rejection against secularization of death will survive. In this sense, laying stress on the private domain of consumers in today’s funeral services is not only the result of transitions in social relationships, but also a commercial strategy to diminish the odor of pecuniary aspects, as Mr. Abe’s painstaking sales talk shows.

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HANDLING THE REMAINS Deathwork and Professionalism Thus the work of a funeral home is paradoxical because the hints of any service considered commercial must be carefully concealed while the company representative sincerely expresses his presence as being solely to serve the client. The prime example of that skillful concealment is when the remains of the deceased are handled. In any event, being an industry that handles death and remains highlights the great difference between the funeral industry and other industries. Funeral homes must treat the deceased and the bereaved family in a matter-of-fact way. Their conduct must be both objective and respectful, and they must express quiet sympathy with no loss of control in the face of death, qualities demanded of them throughout their dealings with relatives and friends of the deceased (see Unruh, 1979). This can be regarded as the kind of work in which arbitrarily manipulating or oppressing emotions to raise the satisfaction level of a client is deeply embedded in the work itself, what Hochschild (1983) terms emotional labor. However, it is premature to simply conclude that the stress caused by oppressing the fear and disgust felt in regard to a dead body, along with the struggle to execute the work, is especially troubling for funeral home personnel. Handling a dead body does indeed elicit an emotion that differs among people, but the matter is much more complex. Even as an employee, I have not yet found the words, or even the thoughts, to express the emotion. However, the constant, undeniable awareness of death in daily work sets the funeral business apart from other industries, and I have observed in my ﬁeldwork that this shared awareness and the practice of dealing with death and handling corpses are important elements that build the professionalism of funeral home personnel. Again in regard to their professionalism, Howarth, referring to Millerson (1964), states that ‘‘skill based on knowledge,’’ ‘‘training and education,’’ ‘‘demonstration of competence by passing a test,’’ ‘‘maintenance of integrity by adherence to a code of conduct,’’ ‘‘a professional organization,’’ and ‘‘the provision of a service for the public good’’ are of major importance in the industry (1996, p. 18). Although I do agree in consideration of my own experiences, the greatest source of professionalism for funeral home personnel seems to be handling death itself. In a way it is absurd, and though they half-jokingly mock themselves by describing their professional status as death-handlers, they also derive a feeling of pride from their profession. For

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them, handling death is undertaking the body itself, and they must deal with the bodies as everyday work. There exist not only negative or dark emotions, but also a mix of complex emotions, such as somber respect for the dead body, reactions to prejudice against them and their co-workers, and pride as the people who control death beyond the mortuary. And these emotions also lead to conﬁdence that the work can be carried out only by them and to their sense of achievement in creating a funeral by steadily managing duties that have been broken down into segments. However, these emotions are not automatically or instantly built within an individual. They are gradually cultivated through the routine of services within the network of staff and clients, between the staff and service providers, and also among the personnel. Moreover, the conceptions of ‘‘to die,’’ ‘‘dead person,’’ and ‘‘a desirable way to die’’ are endemic aspects of the day-to-day work, and these are constantly exchanged in the work area. Embalming The above-mentioned description is about their internal work to handle the deceased. Because this is indeed the core of deathwork, diverse knowledge and information have been accumulated on how to handle the remains in their history of 140 years. Then how are their efforts crystallized into new services? Among relatively new methods,9 embalming is an interesting practice. In Japan, where most bodies are cremated, embalming has not been as widely practiced as in the United States. Nichihoku also does not include embalming in its basic package, but some of the other major funeral homes have established special embalming departments, and this is gradually spreading across the industry. However, there are very few Japanese embalmers, so specialists are sought in the U.S. for work in Japan. For North Americans, embalming is probably nothing new and is a practice almost incidental to a funeral service. But this is not so in Japan. The practice of decorating and cleaning, such as washing or applying makeup to a dead body (see also Suzuki 2000, pp. 179–202) has been a long-honored tradition in Japan. On the other hand, embalming basically comprises the extraction of blood from the body, injection of a compound liquid with a preservative and other drug solutions in it, and adjusting the skin color. At times a damaged part of the body will be restored with putty. At least for most Japanese, embalming is not only a state-of-the-art technique, but also something scientiﬁc and even medical that has been introduced to Japan from different areas. Yamada (2003) remarked on this point as follows,

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Globalization of culture is not an exception, even in the funeral ﬁeld. As funerals are done as part of an economic act of using the funeral home, various technologies, information, and ideas are becoming easily accessible, and these started to cross the bordery.Embalming may not sound familiar to many of you, but it is a technology of the antiseptic preservation treatment of the corpse that is conducted as part of the funeral process in the United States, Canada, and Europe. Embalming has been practiced in Japan since 1988, and in the year 2000, a total of 10,187 remains were embalmed. Because deaths total up to a million people or less per year, the number of embalming cases has come to account for 1% of the number of all deaths. Embalming is not just something related to the funeral, but it is a direct treatment technique on the body of the dead, which is the true basis of funeral ritual and the concept of life and death. Traditionally, the funeral industry in Japan has considered the spread of embalming in the United States to be due to the background of the idea of revival in Christianity, or burial under the earth, and it was generally believed that embalming would not be embraced in Japan. However, when embalming was actually introduced, it came to be practiced in 1% of the total annual deaths in just over 10 years. (pp. 37–38; author’s translation)

In Japan, almost all remains are cremated. Therefore even if the remains are embalmed, they will later be incinerated. We can say that the cremation and the burial are basically the same in the sense that the remains go to a place where they cannot be seen. However, the ‘‘viewing’’ as done at Americanstyle funerals, a practice in which a beautifully groomed dead body is laid where it is visible for the family members and mourners to greet and say their farewells, is not often seen in Japan. At most, the face can be seen through the window of the cofﬁn. Then why is there a need for embalming? Many bereaved family members I encountered in my ﬁeldwork research showed their interest clearly not in ‘‘preservation,’’ but in ‘‘restoration’’ of the body. At the same time, I realized that most of them use surprisingly almost the same expressions: ‘‘I simply want to get back his (or her) real and natural ﬁgure.’’ Of course these responses include situations where a person has became so weak through a long-term struggle against disease and his or her appearance has drastically changed, or where the body has become so damaged that people cannot bear to view it. But, in other words, they all wish to make the deceased look as if he or she is alive until the moment of becoming bones and ashes. For clients who request embalming, the reality of death and the dead person should be adjoined to the horizon of a life that secured his or her naturalness. In this respect, embalming in Japan is not only an imported know-how, but also a new technology to provide reality and naturalness, both of which are conceptualized as the desirable way of death, through a restoration of the remains. And this naturalness does not mean a naked, damaged, and ugly ﬁgure of the dead body, but a created, desirable, and beautiful appearance of what he or she should be.

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DISCUSSION Dignity, Aestheticism, Authenticity, and Scarcity I have described the work of the funeral home and the modern aspect of the funeral services regarding the formation of commercial network, advertising strategy, visual production, customer acquisition, form of contract, handling of the remains, and embalming. And the value that has been manifested in these cases was reiﬁed in verbal expressions such as ‘‘beautiful,’’ ‘‘new,’’ ‘‘real,’’ ‘‘natural,’’ ‘‘unique,’’ ‘‘customized,’’ ‘‘private,’’ ‘‘my (your, his, her) own,’’ and so on. Because these expressions are simple, they might give impressions that are less dramatic than expected. But the problem is not simple, considering that they accompany the value judgment that speciﬁes an ideal form of both death and commercial service. These expressions of value are not separate from one another; they are often united and used synonymously. However, as an appropriate classiﬁcation for discussion, I divide them into four groups: ‘‘dignity,’’ ‘‘aestheticism,’’ ‘‘authenticity,’’ and ‘‘scarcity.’’ This classiﬁcation is not to show that the funeral service in practice will need to converge into one of a categorical one-to-one relationship, but is a model for discussing the issue stated at the beginning of this paper on the relationship between contemporary funeral services and the concept of death. Let me describe the contents of the four groups, referring to the presented cases. First we will start with dignity. This is a classic problem in the study of death and of course has been a major aspect of human death rituals and arrangements for far longer. It can be seen as a prohibitive norm connected to the ethics of death. This is the same in the present, and the consumer side’s rejection of secularization, seen everywhere in the presented cases, typically indicates this. Therefore, the elements where funeral homes have the most difﬁculty in bringing out creativity also exist in this point. The friction caused by this, however, sometimes becomes a driving force in the creation of new funeral services. For example, with fresh ﬂower altars, the fact that the ﬂowers are used only once appeals to the customers. Also, prebooking systems appeal to the public because they can be used to avoid suspicions of having been sold an especially expensive funeral service amidst confusion in a moment of grief. These were innovations for customer satisfaction. By considering the dignity of death and the dead, and also of the customer as well, the funeral industry mediates the friction of death and industry. In both, past practices are far better in terms of efﬁciency (as mentioned before): compared with fresh ﬂower alters, plain wood alters not

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only save a lot of time and money – no need to purchase and arrange ﬂowers each time – but they can also be reused almost indeﬁnitely, and prebooking systems need extra manpower and an electronic system to manage. However, these innovations tap into new sources of proﬁt by introducing a new aesthetic sense – beautifying death – and by promoting the idea that thinking of death while alive is not ethically wrong. Second, there is the matter of aestheticism. In past funerals, the aesthetic sense was mainly exercised in aligning funeral items according to religious principles, or in correctly carrying out the ritual practice according to a traditional regional order. Therefore, the manifestation of aestheticism in the past was realized through an impulse similar to correctly placing together the pieces of a puzzle, one by one, instead of actively searching for creativity. On the other hand, the focus of aestheticism today is to display that the ‘‘practice is actively selected.’’ A typical example of this is the active presentation of the funeral space, and by allowing the consumer to select which ﬂowers to be used and how the positioning of the lighting will be and what songs will be played, the consumer’s aesthetic sense will be stimulated. These aspects, in some sense, indicate the quality of the funeral industry as a cultural industry. Normally, a cultural industry usually has a category related to art at its core, but if we look at this industry in a wider perspective, as an industry that focuses on creativity and whose output qualiﬁes as a cultural commodity (Throsby, 2001, pp. 112–114), then the funeral industry clearly contains the qualities needed to be considered a cultural industry. Third, I consider authenticity. Two elements are closely united. First, is the dependability of occupational knowledge possessed by expertise. The funeral industry has obtained traditions and practices that have historically been the property of communities, and it has been growing by utilizing them as knowledge rather than by accumulating them simply as information. This cycle has further improved the expertise of funeral homes and encouraged differentiation between the supplier and the consumer. In other words, the present situation, in which holding a funeral without a funeral home is quite difﬁcult, is signiﬁcant not only in a practical sense, but also at the mental (knowledge) level. The other element is the value of the reality and naturalness of death and the remains, as shown in the case of embalming. This does not refer to the ‘‘gruesome’’ aspect of death, but to the restored and desired form of death. In this respect, we can say that there is an increase in the tendency to actively relate the life experiences and the death of a person to one another. Finally, we must consider scarcity. If we simply interpret this value as uniqueness, it is true that the value of scarcity was expressed in funerals

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before the development of the funeral industry, in terms of rewarding the dead. However, in today’s funeral this value is expressed in the commercial context of ‘‘a customized service just for me.’’ In reality, the customization of service is not conducted randomly without constraint. However, although consumers are afraid of derogating from socially appropriate common sense because they are conscious about funeral trends around them, they try to gain satisfaction in feeling that ‘‘it is not off-the-shelf, and that I (or we) have in fact selected it.’’ As stated in the presented cases, this sense is related to a strong desire for self-expression in funerals. Furthermore, this sense can also be regarded as a desire to actively express the scarcity value of ‘‘invaluable self’’ in the ﬁnal phase of life. However, before the funeral industry emerged as an industry with knowledge and ability, or when it was a source of goods and manpower, we should be aware that funeral was not a place to manifest self-expression. Knowledge and Ability These four values not only closely relate to one another as stated above, but they create a certain style of funeral practice by interchanging the meanings or by prioritization. Moreover, not only are these concepts the source of desired concepts that can be reﬂected in the funerals, but they also play the role of regulating the range of the concept. However, to sufﬁciently answer the question this paper raises and to highlight the present qualities of the funeral service, we need to further consider the elements stated above, especially on the quality of knowledge possessed by the funeral professionals. This is because without having their knowledge and its utilization – in other words, expertise as a basis – there would be no differentiation between consumers, and as a result it is impossible to gain proﬁt, and the industry would not have been formed. Regarding authenticity, I explained above that the funeral industry not only absorbs information, but also uses it and actively converts it into knowledge. Information and knowledge are often discussed as synonymous words, but I would like to clearly separate the two and position information as an intermediary form of knowledge. As Bateson (1979) stated, ‘‘Information consists of differences that make differences’’ (p. 5), information is an accumulation of vaguely perceived content, but it also includes an element that allows for further differentiation. The task of transforming information to knowledge could be called a task to add order, value, and meaning (Burton-Jones, 1999, pp. 5–7). Therefore knowledge reiﬁes a concept that has a certain direction by closely relating to behavior with a

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purpose, or playing a role as a belief (Dretske, 1981; Nonaka & Takeuchi, 1995, p. 57–58). However, this is only a general scheme of information and knowledge, and thus we must further deepen the implication of this scheme to impact the context of commercial activities related to the funeral services. In the time before the funeral industry was developed, the people who provided the authenticity of the knowledge on funeral practice were mainly Buddhist monks and the elders of the local regions. According to the terminology used by Giddens, they were positioned as ‘‘the guardians of tradition,’’ and the reasons why they had great power in the maintenance and updating of traditional knowledge were because they were believed to be the agents, or the essential mediators, of its causal powers (1994, p. 65). Are experienced funeral workers, then, the guardians in the present age? In modern Japan, it is difﬁcult to ﬁnd a grand old man of the region, but religious people – Buddhist monks for example – still exist, and these are nearly always present at funerals. About 95% of services in Japan today are ‘‘Buddhist rites,’’ with monks reading the sutras and ritually following dogmatic interpretations (Zen-Nihon So¯ saigyo¯ Kyo¯ do¯ Kumiai Rengo¯kai, 2003, p. 4), and concerning this point, the religious belief or the tradition itself is still associated with the funeral practice. In consideration of this, it is difﬁcult to think that the funeral professionals obtained the positions of guardians, but it is more appropriate to regard them as standing in line with one another even to this date. However, a commercial context now surpasses a traditional context with regard to creating a new funeral practice and a new concept of death. In a sense, it is based on a very natural difference of the two. In other words, the commercial context, especially in the service industry context, has a ﬂexibility to constantly encourage the ﬂow from information to knowledge, or to provide the knowledge in the form of updates of the concept and the service. Referring to Giddens once again on this point, he states that ‘‘expertise is tied not to formulaic truth but to a belief in the corrigibility of knowledge, a belief that depends upon a methodical skepticismyexpertise interacts with growing institutional reﬂexivity, such that there are regular processes of loss and re-appropriation of everyday skills and knowledge’’ (1994, p. 84). I agree with this perspective and believe that there is a clear difference between knowledge of tradition and knowledge possessed by present funeral professionals in terms of context, authenticity, and utilization. The funeral industry has the ability to spread a new concept of death not because it took the role of providing formulaic truth as monks and elders did in the past, but because its activities assume the corrigibility of knowledge to provide segmented truth for each customer. We can thus assume that the funeral

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industry will continue to provide an innovative practice and styles of concept that match the era, instead of creating a tradition or a custom. However, this does not mean that the funeral industry is separated from tradition. It absorbs even traditions as information and transforms them into knowledge in a commercial context. This point is graphically indicated in the case of the transition of the funeral altar, for instance. On the other hand, it takes into account past traditions, practices, and information separated from religion (such as information about embalming in North America or a new customer acquisition strategy) on the same level. The power to take in such nonconforming elements one after another and to connect them to service can be considered as the core ability of funeral businesses today.

CONCLUSION We have been looking at the various types of innovations in the funeral industry and the environment in which they have been created. If we observe this on an extremely superﬁcial level, commercial innovation may simply refer to the creation or updating of some type of consumer product, but innovation in the funeral industry, as explained earlier, is deeply related to the level of a quite private motif and belief that a customer carries. This is because the funeral industry handles death, one of the critical events in life. However, it is necessary for us to once again recognize that funeral workers are indeed commercial experts. Regarding the implications of ‘‘being an expert,’’ the following three points can be said. First of all, as stated above, what the funeral industry proposes and provides is not formulaic truth, but a propositional truth. Second, when that is reﬂected in the funeral service, its basis is performative concept, not referential concept. And third, on the basis of the legitimacy of funeral experts, there is an active trust rather than a passive trust on the part of consumers – in other words, a trust that is formed on the basis of a sense of actively selecting, and reﬂecting (see Lash, 1994, p. 202). I do not wish to put any arbitrary priorities on the four main values mentioned above, however, but most strongly related to this ‘‘sense of wanting to actively select and reﬂect’’ are the above-mentioned values of scarcity and a strong desire for self-expression in a funeral. In past studies on increased desire for self-expression or privatization in death and funerals, discussions frequently focus on an overall social transition based on an assumed classiﬁcation of traditional/modern/postmodern (for instance, see

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Mellor, 1993; Suzuki, 2003, pp. 53–54; Walter, 1994, 1996) and are usually grounded in the idea of reﬂexive modernity or ontological security (Giddens, 1990, 1991, 1994). Furthermore, these approaches are basically applications of the following propositions, concisely expressed by Beck (1994), to such events as deaths and funerals: ‘‘The more societies are modernized, the more agents (subjects) acquire the ability to reﬂect on the social conditions of their existence and to change them in that way’’ (p. 174). They use the same framework in the discussion of ‘‘chaos/nomos/cosmos’’ by Berger (1967, pp. 23–24, pp. 79–80) to acknowledge that there is more anxiety in death today than in the past. The point of an argument by Berger concerning this can be summarized as follows. The order of meaning as the common standard that is shared in everyday life, i.e., nomos, always stands back to back with chaos, where creating meaning will be impossible at all times, and especially death as an event brings instability to nomos. In a traditional society, a ‘‘meaning world’’ (i.e., cosmos) generally uses something sacred as a shield against chaos, but the weakening and dismantlement of cosmos as a result of modernization also raises fears of ‘‘meaninglessness’’ (Berger, 1967, pp. 22–23; Beckford, 1989, p. 90). These discussions do not shortsightedly assume that some type of Zeitgeist exists autonomously, completely separated from individuals, nor do they simply force the issue of death into a thin veneer of a scheme of ‘‘the past was good and the present is bad.’’ But their investigations are largely based on an extreme macro perspective of industrialization, modernization and social transformation. Thus it is difﬁcult to directly address their discussions with a micro subject, such as the commercial context of the funeral industry and the funeral service, and it is not the object of this paper to do so. However, if those explorations have any inﬂuence on this paper, it would be in the following two points. One is that if, as they indicate, anxiety for death is relatively high compared to the past, then the funeral industry plays the role of providing meaning, value, and concepts to counter that anxiety. The other is that the provision and consumption of modern funeral services is, as repeatedly stated above, conducted on a teleological level to construct a ‘‘desirable death’’ concept rather than just on the level of an exchange of goods and manpower. These two points are not only about self-expression; they can also be related to all the values attached to the funeral service. In the background of these funeral industry activities, we can see the satisfaction of a need for selfactualization through the consumption of a desire that Lears called therapeutic ethos (1983). The pursuit of fulﬁlling life and continuous growth in consuming behavior and the existence of a desire to maintain the sense of self

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by obtaining new products and services are certainly evident in the funeral service situation we have been discussing, though I hesitate to make the claim that death has become a fashion, such as clothes or music, especially considering the importance of the event of death. But if a funeral service is what reﬂects the concept of the way of life and death, the aforementioned cases obviously show that the concept of death did not come to exist a priori, coincidentally and ambiguously, and that it can also be generated through a causal relation with creativity in active commercial practices.

NOTES 1. For example, Kephart (1950) tried to analyze relationship between class divisions and behavioral differences in funerals that were described in connection with sociological themes in those days, such as drinking habits, sexual behavior, and so on (p. 635). 2. A study by Pine (1975) shed light on the role of a funeral director and the complex and informal human relationship that surrounds funerals by fully utilizing his own position as heir to a funeral home. Turner and Edgley (1976) tried to place funerals in a framework of sociological dramaturgy analysis and developed an argument that the behavior of expression in various aspects roughly deﬁnes human relationships (p. 389). Furthermore, Barley (1983) focused directly on the occupational codes of funeral directors, which inform their attempts to counteract complications they believe might thwart the presentation of a ﬂawless funeral (p. 4). Such investigations of the funeral industry appearing from the 1970s to the early 1980s are unique because the authors tried to actively incorporate major sociological paradigms of that time, such as the AGIL schema of Parsons (Parsons, Bales, & Shils, 1953) and the dramaturgy theory of Goffman (1959). 3. Mutual-aid cooperatives (gojokai) are also private companies that provide comprehensive funeral services, and they are almost the same as funeral homes in this regard. In this paper, ‘‘funeral home(s)’’ is almost synonymous with ‘‘mutual-aid cooperative(s),’’ unless I do not mention especially the latter. What mainly sets mutual-aid cooperatives apart from funeral homes is that the former usually have not only a section for funerals, but also one for weddings, and they fundamentally rely on their depositors, that is, members who pay a monthly reserve. See also Suzuki (2000, pp. 53–55). 4. Further, two exhaustive historical examinations of the establishment of and transitions within the funeral industry in the United States carried out by Laderman (1996, 2003) shed much light on the general public view of life and death from the aspect of modern funerals. 5. This is a pseudonym, as are all other personal names of company employees appearing in this paper. 6. About US$430,000 at an exchange rate of 116.41 yen to US$1 in 2006. 7. About US$250 at the above rate. 8. About US$12,920 at the above rate.

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9. The popularity of ash scattering (sankotsu) is also a new trend. This was originally carried out by various civic societies without the help of the funeral industry, but nowadays it is also often incorporated as a service.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS I owe my deepest gratitude to Donald C. Wood, the editor of REA, for his extraordinary editorial support, persistent encouragement, and creative comments. I am also grateful for the thoughtful critiques of an anonymous reviewer for REA and Hikaru Suzuki. However, the ﬁnal responsibility for any inaccuracies and shortcomings is mine. Equally invaluable has been the support provided by the staff of Nichihoku Co. Ltd, and all the bereaved families in my ﬁeld research. Fieldwork upon which this article is based was funded by a Research Fellowship of the Japan Society for the Promotion of Science (17-10954), The Toyota Foundation (D03-A-100), The Matsushita International Foundation (03-305), and The Shibusawa Foundation for the Promotion of Ethnology.

REFERENCES Barley, S. R. (1983). The codes of the dead: The semiotics of funeral work. Urban Life, 12(1), 3–31. Bateson, G. (1979). Mind and nature: A necessary unity. New York: Bantam Books. Beck, U. (1994). Self-dissolution and self-endangerment of industrial society: What does this mean? In: U. Beck, A. Giddens & S. Lash (Eds), Reflexive modernization: Politics, tradition and aesthetics in the modern social order (pp. 174–183). Cambridge: Polity Press. Beckford, J. A. (1989). Religion and advanced industrial society. London: Unwin Hyman. Berger, P. L. (1967). The sacred canopy: Elements of a social theory of religion. New York: Doubleday & Company. Bowman, L. E. (1959). The American funeral: A study in guilt, extravagance and sublimity. Washington, DC: Public Affairs Press. Burton-Jones, A. (1999). Knowledge capitalism: Business, work and learning in the new economy. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Charmaz, K. (1980). The social reality of death: Death in contemporary America. New York: Random House. Clark, D. (Ed.) (1993). The sociology of death: Theory, culture, practice. Oxford: Blackwell. Dretske, F. (1981). Knowledge and the flow of information. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Gebhart, J. (1928). Funeral costs: What they average. Are they too high? Can they be reduced? New York: G.P. Putnam’s Sons. Giddens, A. (1990). The consequences of modernity. Cambridge: Polity Press. Giddens, A. (1991). Modernity and self-indentity: Self and society in the late modern age. Cambridge: Polity Press.

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Giddens, A. (1994). Living in a post-traditional society. In: U. Beck, A. Giddens & S. Lash (Eds), Reflexive modernization: Politics, tradition and aesthetics in the modern social order (pp. 56–109). Cambridge: Polity Press. Goffman, E. (1959). The presentation of self in everyday life. New York: Doubleday Anchor. Hochschild, A. R. (1983). The managed heart: Commercialization of human feeling. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Howarth, G. (1996). Last rites: The work of the modern funeral director. New York: Baywood Publishing Company. Howarth, G., & Jupp, P. C. (Eds) (1996). Contemporary issues in the sociology of death, dying and disposal. New York: St. Martin’s Press. Kearl, M. C. (1989). Endings: A sociology of death and dying. New York: Oxford University Press. Kephart, W. M. (1950). Status after death. American Sociological Review, 15(5), 635–643. Ku¨bler-Ross, E. (1969). On death and dying. New York: Macmillan. Laderman, G. (1996). The sacred remains: American attitude toward death, 1779–1883. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Laderman, G. (2003). Rest in peace: A cultural history of death and the funeral home in twentiethcentury America. New York: Oxford University Press. Lash, S. (1994). Expert-systems or situated interpretation?: Culture and institutions in disorganized capitalism. In: U. Beck, A. Giddens & S. Lash (Eds), Reflexive modernization: Politics, tradition and aesthetics in the modern social order (pp. 198–215). Cambridge: Polity Press. Lave, J., & Wenger, E. (1991). Situated learning: Legitimate peripheral participation. New York: Cambridge University Press. Lears, J. (1983). From salvation to self-realization: Advertising and the therapeutic roots of the consumer culture, 1880–1930. In: R. W. Fox & J. Lears (Eds), The culture of consumption: Critical essays in American history, 1880–1980 (pp. 1–38). New York: Pantheon Books. Mellor, P. A. (1993). Death in high modernity: The contemporary presence and absence of death. In: D. Clark (Ed.), The sociology of death: Theory, culture, practice (pp. 11–30). Oxford: Blackwell. Millerson, G. (1964). The qualifying associations: A study in professionalization. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Mitford, J. (1963). The American way of death. New York: Simon and Schuster. Murakami, K. (2001). Kindaiso¯ saigyo no seiritsu to so¯ gikanshu% no hensen [Establishment of modern funeral business and the changes of the customs on funeral rituals]. Kokuritsu Rekishiminzoku Hakubutsukan Kenkyu% Ho¯koku [Bulletin of the National Museum of Japanese History], 91, 137–149. Nonaka, I., & Takeuchi, H. (1995). The knowledge-creating company: How Japanese companies create the dynamics of innovation. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Parsons, T., Bales, R. F., & Shils, E. A. (1953). Working papers in the theory of action. New York: Free Press. Pine, V. R. (1975). Caretaker of the dead: The American funeral director. New York: Irvington Publishers. Suzuki, H. (2000). The price of death: The funeral industry in contemporary Japan. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press.

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Suzuki, H. (2003). McFunerals: The transition of Japanese funerary services. Asian Anthropology, 2, 49–78. Throsby, D. (2001). Economics and culture. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Turner, R. E., & Edgley, C. (1976). Death as theater: A dramaturgical analysis of the American funeral. Sociology and Social Research, 60(4), 377–392. Unruh, D. R. (1979). Doing funeral directing: Managing sources of risk in funeralization. Urban Life, 8(2), 247–263. Walter, T. (1994). The revival of death. London: Routledge. Walter, T. (1996). Facing death without tradition. In: G. Howarth & P. C. Jupp (Eds), Contemporary issues in the sociology of death, dying and disposal (pp. 193–204). London: Macmillan Press. Wilson, A. T., & Levy, H. (1938). Burial reform and funeral costs. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Yamada, S. (2001). Si wo Dou Ichizukerunoka [How to value death: Consideration on changes of the funeral altar]. Kokuritsu Rekishiminzoku Hakubutsukan Kenkyu% Ho¯koku [Bulletin of the National Museum of Japanese History], 91, 119–136. Yamada, S. (2003). Ekkyo¯ suru So¯ gi: Nihon ni okeru Emba¯ ming [Funerals Crossing Borders: Embalming in Japan]. In: T. Shinohara (Ed.), Gendaiminzokushi no Chihei I: Ekkyo¯ [Horizon of Modern Folklore Ethnography I: Crossing the Border]. (pp. 37–53). Tokyo: Asakura Shoten. Zen-Nihon So¯ saigyo¯ Kyo¯ do¯ Kumiai Rengo¯ kai [All Japan Federation of Societies of Funeral Business] & Nihon Sho¯ hisha kyo¯ kai [Japan Consumer’s Association]. (2003). Dai 7 kai So¯ gi ni tsuite no enqueˆte cho¯ sa [The 7th questionnaire survey of funerals]. Tokyo: Nihon Sho¯ hisha Kyo¯ kai.

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PART III: LOCAL RESPONSES TO MARKET SHIFTS AND EXPANSION IN LATIN AMERICA

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THE EFFECT OF INFRASTRUCTURE DEVELOPMENT ON FICTIVE KIN CHOICE PATTERNS IN RURAL PARAGUAY Christina Turner ABSTRACT This chapter is a comparison of fictive kin choice patterns in an interior frontier community in Paraguay over the history of that community. I gathered the data in 1984–1986, 1990–1991, 1995, and 2003. At each stage of the research, I assumed that there would be some measurable shift to fictive kin choices from horizontal local choices to vertical choices outside of the community due to infrastructure changes and increased access to markets.

STATEMENT OF THE RESEARCH The focus of this research is ﬁctive kin practices, or ritual kinship relations, between individuals and families in a rural community in Paraguay. As in other Latin American countries, ﬁctive kin ties (through the medium of Choice in Economic Contexts: Ethnographic and Theoretical Enquiries Research in Economic Anthropology, Volume 25, 201–215 Copyright r 2007 by Elsevier Ltd. All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0190-1281/doi:10.1016/S0190-1281(06)25009-1

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Catholic rituals of godparentage or compadrazgo) are of primary importance in social relations. Changes in ﬁctive kin practices correlate with changes in the social and economic structure of different ethnic groups and people throughout Latin America. My work concentrates on the secular motivations for establishing ﬁctive kin relationships and their manifestations. Several aspects of ﬁctive kinship require consideration. These include whether the ties were extended vertically outside the community or horizontally within the community (Mintz & Wolf, 1950), whether the ties are between friends or relatives and their number and type (Foster, 1969), and whether the ties are made for extension or intensiﬁcation (Paul, 1942). In the literature on ﬁctive kinship, the term ‘‘vertical’’ refers to ﬁctive kin ties that extend beyond a community’s geographic area as well as to individuals who belong to a higher social and economic class. Typically, this is a unidirectional bond from lower to upper class. Upper class individuals almost exclusively make horizontal bonds with each other, but accept requested ties from lower class individuals for the status it confers. ‘‘Horizontal’’ ties describe ﬁctive kinship ties that link together members of the same social and economic class in the same community (Mintz & Wolf, 1950, p. 342). Individuals may also want to ‘‘intensify’’ ties with the same ﬁctive kin choices or they may practice ‘‘extension’’ choice patterns to include a wider array of potential ﬁctive kin depending on social necessity. The literature suggests that a population with a pattern of horizontal ties will shift choice preferences as they become fully articulated with a national economy and capitalist mode of production. The motive for the change is to forge connections with outsiders who will be able to help the offsprings with a job or possible connections at some time in the future. There is little expectation of regular interaction in the local community. Extensive ties are preferred when there is little need to intensify relationships and the participants perceive a larger circle of ﬁctive kin as desirable. In Paraguay, the speciﬁc rituals used to create ﬁctive kinship relations are baptism, conﬁrmation, and marriage. The baptismal bond is the strongest and most serious. The godparents are agreeing to help the newborn should any ill befall the parents and to care for the child as their own if the need arises. Young people get their ﬁrst experience in making social relations by helping with the choice of godparents for conﬁrmation. Frequently, young people choose intensiﬁcation at this point and repeat the relationship with their baptismal godparents. Others choose extending their relationships into new areas. The married couple chooses their own wedding sponsors. This last relationship serves primarily to bond with a couple who can give good advice to the new couple as well as to provide a nice gift for the wedding.

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The people of N˜u Pyajhu Guazu´, where this study was conducted, state repeatedly that their choices revolve around someone who is a good neighbor, a good person, and a good role model for the children. Having a generous nature and having a willingness to contribute to community projects are qualities that ﬁt with the idea of being a good, moral person. This is more important than whether the potential godparents are regular service attendees, whether they are married in the Catholic Church, or even whether they are Catholic.1 This and the readiness to fulﬁll godparent responsibilities is the most frequent reason given for making a particular choice. Financial gain, social connections, and gifts are never mentioned in regards to ﬁctive kin choice except occasionally by crass young people getting married. The most common reason for denying potential ﬁctive kinship is lack of good moral behavior. This would include the failure to fulﬁll a moral and ethical godparent role. The result of these compadrazgo norms in actual practice is that everyone in the community has access to land whether they own any or have rights to any in their own name because they can access land use through actual kin or ﬁctive kin. Compadres (co-parents or godparents) help each other in large and small ways and the bonds are taken seriously. When a pig is butchered, compadres send part of the meat and fat to their compadres. When a cow is butchered, compadres show up to help with the work. There is constant interaction among ﬁctive kin. In fact, the godchildren are considered to stand in the same structural position as one’s own children. There is a community taboo against dating or marrying the godchildren of your own parents or the other godchildren of your godparents. This would be a vaguely incestuous act, not done by people with moral standards.

HISTORICAL BACKGROUND N˜u Pyajhu Guazu´ is an internal frontier community in the Department of Caazapa´ that subsistence farmers seeking virgin land founded around 1914. While contact with the outside world has always been maintained, the distance of the community from any urban areas and the lack of infrastructure have kept N˜u Pyajhu Guazu´ isolated for most of its 100-year history. My original hypothesis was that the number of vertical ties with non-relatives had increased over the past 50 years because of directed change, such as the completion of a road capable of supporting motor trafﬁc (1975), the building of a primary school (1973), and intensive development work by the Peace Corps (1982–1993) and local extension agency personnel. This

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expected increase in ties would be due to a desire to maximize potential ﬁnancial, social and political gain through elite, urban ﬁctive kin relationships. My original data did not indicate this pattern; rather they indicated a much subtler interplay between material infrastructure and social infrastructure within the community that adds subtle nuance to the ﬁctive kinship literature. The earliest inhabitants of N˜u Pyajhu Guazu´ emigrated from urban areas. They were participants in a fully developed class system and market economy that included different degrees of access to, and control of, material goods and productive resources (primarily land), different degrees of access to and inﬂuence over the public aspects of government decision-making and policy implementation, and different degrees of status and prestige in the society at large. However, as a spontaneous squatter settlement, N˜u Pyajhu Guazu´ grew with no merchants, bureaucrats, or professionals among the population. For many years, it was almost entirely a subsistence economy.2 There was no road near the settlement and the population grew slowly due to its isolation and absence of any infrastructure. There was a lack of economic differentiation, or status differences, that can be attributed to the wealth of land available for those who were willing to live ‘‘beyond the Ricardian margin’’ (Gudeman, 1988, pp. 213–216) of non-proﬁtability and subsistence farming, the slow in-migration rate, and the lack of capitalist ventures or wage labor in the area. During this early period most of the growing population consisted of family members of the early colonists or ﬁrst-generation offspring ready to start their own homesteads. Immigration accelerated slightly during the Chaco War with Bolivia (1932–1935). Some men were seeking to escape war service by hiding out in the desierto, where the land was still primarily forest. After the Revolution of 1947, there was another inﬂux of colonists due to political persecution by the victorious Colorado Party over its Liberal Party counterparts. Many of these were relatives of residents whose family members had opposed the government and were in exile in Argentina. The Movimiento 14 de Mayo guerilla operations aimed at overthrowing former dictator Alfredo Stroessner in Itapu´a and Caazapa´ were felt in N˜u Pyajhu Guazu´ in 1960. This was called ‘‘the killing time’’ when ‘‘the Argentines came.’’ The nearby town of Gral Eugenio A. Garay (ex-Charara´) was the center of repression of Liberals and suspected guerrillas. Prisoners were tortured to force denunciations of their neighbors. Some were reportedly then thrown live from planes over the Yvytyruzu´ mountains. The thenMinister of the Interior, Edgar L. Ynsfra´n, has been accused of directing the

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repression from a ranch near San Juan Nepomuceno. In N˜u Pyajhu Guazu´, it meant ‘‘against the Liberals,’’ and is an example of social and political uncertainties and lack of control of political events that adversely affected the community throughout its history. Two comisiones garrotes were formed by Colorado irregulars out of Boquero´n. The commissions would arrive in large groups of eight or so looking for guns and would ‘‘search every corner and under every thing.’’ If only two or three came, the house owner might overpower them, so they came in large, heavily armed numbers. They generally harassed Liberal families with threats and robberies. Three men were arrested and taken to Charara´ (an infamous prison) and there was one death that has been commemorated with a kurusu´, or cross. This same pattern of in-migration from individuals and families seeking asylum from poverty and politics continued throughout the community’s history. Each new inﬂux brought individuals who were politically out of favor or whose family members were being actively persecuted. The only local connection with the political power and the local elites was through the Colorado Party Sub-Section appointed by the section leaders in Caazapa´. This individual was and is a subsistence farmer just like his neighbors and he gains no obvious economic advantage from this position. He is protected politically but historically the Sub-Section appointee has frequently been in trouble with the party for being too soft on his neighbors and compadres in N˜u Pyajhu Guazu´. This was particularly true in the late 1970s and early 1980s when the local branch of a regional cooperative took over the cooperative by successfully accusing the governing board of corruption. The men from the cooperative beneﬁted for a brief period before the national secret police swept through the community and jailed a number of the cooperative members. After several months and protests from human rights activists, these men (among others nationwide) were charged with being communists of the pro-Chinese line (Turner, 1998). N˜u Pyajhu Guazu´ suffered another serious economic setback in 1986–1987 because of political events. Two Caazapa´ caudillos, Roque Sarubbi and Neris Da´valos, were competing for the position of Colorado seccional president. Most of the Colorados in N˜u Pyajhu Guazu´, and even some Liberals, supported the loser, Da´valos. After Sarubbi won, he suspended the Sub-Section ofﬁce in N˜u Pyajhu Guazu´ for several years. The minor political jobs that remained were given to the one Colorado who supported Sarubbi. The mixto, an open-air truck that was the only means of transport to N˜u Pyajhu Guazu´, was forced to discontinue its route. The truck’s owner supported Da´valos in the election and had carried subsistence farmers to the polls. His truck was found in violation of ‘‘special’’ rules of transport that were

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formulated in Caazapa´ after the election. There was no transportation between N˜u Pyajhu Guazu´ and Caazapa´ for nine months, until a younger member of the Sarubbi family took over the route with a Brazilian bus. There was a change in personnel at the Caazapa´ agricultural extension ofﬁce, and extension agents stopped working in N˜u Pyajhu Guazu´, even with the Peace Corp volunteers. N˜u Pyajhu Guazu´ was denied permission to hold fund-raisers (i.e., public gatherings) so work stopped on the new school and the health post. The economic development of the community historically has been stymied by both irregularity of weather patterns and lack of reliable transport or an all-weather road. Economic development of N˜u Pyajhu Guazu´ suffers, as do all interior agricultural communities, from the typical Latin American pattern of elite intermediaries supplying farm inputs such as cottonseeds and pesticides and setting the price for cotton and other cash crops (B. Turner, 1993; C. Turner, 1998). The state sets the annual farm gate price for cotton and soy but the farmers cannot access it without transportation as the nearest processing plants for any product are 85 kilometers distant. The acopiadores, or intermediaries/buyers, set their own price depending on how much the farmers owe and how desperate they are to sell. Many years the farmers have been cheated out of all proﬁt with no recourse. Finally, economic development has been blocked for political reasons in various manifestations, as the community, as already mentioned, is a well-known Liberal holdout in a country where the Colorado Party has been in power for over 50 years. Because of the continued geographic isolation of N˜u Pyajhu Guazu´, its history of political and economic repression, the vagaries of both the market and the environment, and the lack of an original, in-situ class system, the settlers found it expedient to produce and maintain an egalitarian, community-based social system.

RESEARCH FINDINGS N˜u Pyajhu Guazu´ has a long history of local ﬁctive kin choices in a predominately ‘‘extension’’ rather than ‘‘intensiﬁcation’’ pattern. This, plus the relatively small number of early settlers, has created an interwoven system of consanguineous and ritual kin that includes all members of the population to some extent. This is important to their sharing of access to land, goods, and services. The utilization of strong ﬁctive kinship ties for baptism and conﬁrmation with familial extension patterns highlights a further integrative function for community-wide solidarity (Nutini & Bell, 1980, p. 409).

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Substantial transformations occurred in the 1980s. The amount of land available in the immediate area reached its limits in the late 1970s, outsiders began to take a new interest in the community, and various development projects were implemented. Cash cropping not only become possible; it became a necessity for most families. This, along with an improved transportation infrastructure, allowed increased contact and integration with the larger Paraguayan society. ‘‘Improved infrastructure’’ is a relative term. N˜u Pyajhu Guazu´ is bounded by three major rivers with low-lying swampy land that ﬂoods regularly and gradually slopes upward to wooded and fertile land. At this time, ‘‘improved infrastructure’’ meant that a low-lying dirt road reached the community by stretching across an intervening swampy area that historically helped maintain the isolation of the community. There was usually reliable transport once a day when there was no rain (the road was closed for eight months in 1983 and for two months in 1985 due to heavy rains and transport was suspended for over a year for political reasons in 1986). However, the community had direct access with motorized transport for the ﬁrst time and this constitutes a substantial difference. Fig. 1 is a map representing the community location surrounded by the Pirapo´, the Capiibary-Guazu´, and the Capiibary-mi Rivers and road system as it developed historically. New colonization across the Capiibary-Guazu´ started in the mid-1970s due to land pressure in N˜u Pyajhu Guazu´. Because of all these changes, my 1990–1991 research was designed to investigate whether there was a correlation between new social institutions, improved infrastructure, and development projects implemented in N˜u Pyajhu Guazu´, and ﬁctive kin choice patterns. I assumed that there would be some shift to vertical ties outside the community. In 1990, with some minor exceptions, most people in N˜u Pyajhu Guazu´ preferred ‘‘extension’’ to ‘‘intensiﬁcation’’ when creating ﬁctive kin ties, although they might ask special friends more than once to stand as godparents. The average family size shifted to less than ﬁve children (families with 10 or more children were common in the preceding generation). Other than a small handful of unusual cases, ﬁctive kin choice preferences in 1990–1991 had not changed perceptibly between those from the 1960s and the 1980s (Turner, 1992). The few exceptions to this were all very recent (most around the time I was doing dissertation research in 1990–1991).3 These new ﬁctive kin ties involve people who might be considered honorary members of the community and who spend a fair amount of time in N˜u Pyajhu Guazu´, such as my husband and me as well as two friends that we introduced to the community. This couple has visited N˜u Pyajhu Guazu´ regularly since 1986.

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Fig. 1.

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History of Colonization – Central Caazapa (Redrawn from B. Turner, 1993, p. 160.)

There were a number of rapid changes in N˜u Pyajhu Guazu´ during the 1990s. Because of a new World Bank-funded road, regular contact with the outside world became possible and reliable. The community was still isolated, however, as the improved dirt road bypassed it by several kilometers. The improvements consisted of more substantial bridges over the rivers and creeks and elevation of the road through the swampy areas. Trafﬁc between two towns to the west and south of the community increased dramatically. Electricity was being brought closer to the community; it became feasible to run lights and television sets from car batteries due to the new possibility of recharging them in Caazapa´. National events (including the fall of long-time dictator Alfredo Stroessner in February 1989) made the land valuable at the same time that ‘‘ofﬁcial’’ land titles were ﬁnally obtainable. At the same time, land in the N˜u Pyajhu Guazu´ had reached carrying capacity and there were stresses on crop production and pasture to the point that food production was affected seasonally by low productivity. The new scarcity of

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land and the opening of land colonies in distant areas was increasingly scattering consanguineous and ﬁctive kin around the country. The ‘‘move to democracy’’ after the fall of Stroessner gave people new expectations of advantageously accessing the market economy. More and more young women were working and achieving an education outside the community by working as maids during the day in exchange for being allowed to attend school at night. For many of the same reasons, Spanish language skill was increasing, especially among the school age children (the majority of the rural population is monolingual in Guaranı´ ; the majority of the remaining population is bilingual in Spanish and Guaranı´ ). In economic terms, differences within the community were minimal into the 1990s. In the absence of differences in wealth, prestige was based on the evaluation of an individual by his or her contemporaries. Personal status depended on the communities’ perception of the individual’s moral worthiness and social contribution to his or her community. These status differences were not immediately obvious to someone from outside the community. Furthermore, there was an element of verticality in the ﬁctive kin ties within N˜u Pyajhu Guazu´ in 1990. This verticality is based on perceived moral worthiness demonstrated through community service and generosity to ﬁctive kin and neighbors. Fictive kin ties were proffered, accepted, and refused based on participation in community norms and ‘‘moral’’ behavior. Therefore, a paradox materializes whereby an individual gains status by having many ﬁctive kin ties, but may refuse to make such ties with lower status individuals that someone from a higher economic and social class would accept without question because of the status it confers. The source of this paradox lies in the fact that N˜u Pyajhu Guazu´ is a relatively homogeneous society of subsistence farmers where ﬁctive kin ties are taken very seriously because of the community’s need for cooperation and solidarity. This early analysis of ‘‘verticality’’ within an egalitarian population is important and contributes to the continuing analysis of social and economic change in rural Paraguay. The concept of ﬂexible, rapidly changeable ﬁctive kinship choice preferences due to social necessity, as argued by Sidney Mintz and Eric Wolf (1950), is not only supported, but also reﬁned. We need to know the individuals involved and their social/economic realities to understand the ﬁner permutations in preferred ﬁctive kin ties and the building of social networks (Foster, 1969); we also need to know the historical pattern of socio-economic change and the inﬂuences of the larger social system. The data on ﬁctive kin practices in N˜u Pyajhu Guazu´ in the early 1990s indicated that the subsistence farming population devised a ritual kin system that promoted maximization of social status within the community while

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avoiding risks. As with farming practices, individuals attempted to maximize the advantages of the ties without ‘‘gambling’’ on a tie that may bring no beneﬁt. People were cautious and traditional in their choices, but were willing to manipulate the rules if it suited their needs. Studies also indicate that those peasants with more economic means are more likely to take the risk of uncertainty, being less devastated by failure (Cancian, 1972; Ellis, 1989). The very low percentage of true vertical ﬁctive kin ties in N˜u Pyajhu Guazu´ (0.3%) in 1990–1991 highlights the ‘‘risk’’ constraints on the population and the general lack of economic means, despite ownership of land. We can discern the same phenomenon in the social relations of N˜u Pyajhu Guazu´ as demonstrated by their ﬁctive kin choice patterns. In the mid-1990s, there were indications that the egalitarian fabric of the community was being rent in some respects and that there was a movement toward pursuit of individual beneﬁts and motivations to the detriment of community solidarity. This was most visibly documented by the beginnings of land fencing and the outrage and consequent tragic outcome such anticommunity behavior sparked. Under cover of night, new wire was cut until a death one night when a godfather accidentally shot his godson cutting down his fence. The man and much of his family left the community and are no longer welcome, but the fencing continued. Peggy Barlett (1982, pp. 163–164) documents a similar outcome, albeit more advanced, in Paso, Costa Rica, as a result of increased land values, the arrival of electricity, a new all-weather road, and greater market access. In Paso, the result has been an egalitarian system going through a process of emerging internal stratiﬁcation within a 10-year period, but not entirely losing its community-based ethos of generosity and welfare concerns for neighbors, relatives, and ﬁctive kin. My data indicate that an analogous process was in its incipient stages in N˜u Pyajhu Guazu´ and that national events were contributing to a realignment of social values. My prediction for the near future of N˜u Pyajhu Guazu´ accords with Barlett’s (1982, p. 164) own for Paso: As yet, interactions between the strata do not reﬂect the deference and distance due to outsiders. Intermarriage among the landed and landless families continues to be common, and visiting patterns among the strata are ﬂuid. Nevertheless, the increased contact with outsiders will strengthen the awareness of stratiﬁcation within the community and will continue to present a challenge to Paso’s traditionally egalitarian ethos. Paso can thus be seen as an example of emerging stratiﬁcation in which many egalitarian, atomistic, and cooperative patterns remain strong.

What I discovered in 2003 in N˜u Pyajhu Guazu´ adds nuance to the local ﬁctive kin choice strategy. Although there are increased land values (since

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1990), electricity (since 2001), an all-weather road within two kilometers (since 1994), and greater market access, there is not yet the expected ﬁctive kin verticality patterns outside the community. There is, however, a marked pattern of local emerging elites establishing verticality in local economic structure and ﬁctive kin choice patterns. The demography has changed signiﬁcantly. The average fertility in young families continues to decline. The families that are most well off are older generation with many children who went to work in city jobs in Buenos Aires or Ciudad del Este (a frontier city across the Parana´ River from Brazil) who are remitting money and supplies to their parents. In my data set, many of these offsprings had not married or had no family of their own. There are three young couples that are prospering economically with capitalist ventures of small stores with collateral services. These include paying the local electric bills in the town for a small fee and serving as a local and trusted middleman for cotton production and sales.4 Butchering is a new economic activity individuals can access, which is connected to store ownership. One store has a specialized open-air area devoted to butchering that included running water, a winch, and a concrete base. Despite these improvements and the availability of refrigeration, butchering is still accomplished in the traditional manner. Another noticeable demographic change is home location. There has been a noticeable and dramatic shift to living closer to the road. People are relocating from the far reaches of the community either to new land colonies or to areas along the new road, especially in Fa´tima, the neighboring community through which the improved road traverses. Many people have moved their house from their agricultural land to the road, although previously this was a less than prime location as it indicated a lack of land ownership. This has to do with transportation rather than electricity; as I ascertained by walking the extent of the community, all areas had access to electric lines (although the homeowner pays for extending the line away from the road). Homes now have clearer economic and status markers in the form of housing construction (materials like concrete and tile compared to wood and thatch), improved plumbing (generators for running water and ﬂush toilets), and consumer goods (irons, refrigerators, televisions). There are more motorcycles but there is still a scarcity of motorized vehicles. Two storeowners have pick-up trucks (and thus are able to be cotton middlemen). The ﬁctive kin literature suggests that at this point in the history of the community, residents would be making vertical ties outside of the community, but this is not the pattern found. There were a number of different strategies in evidence. Three families who previously experimented with

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‘‘vertical’’ ties with Peace Corps volunteers serving in the community did not extend this concept outside the community and therefore did not continue the pattern. One family that originally made ﬁctive kin ties with my husband and me continued to reinforce those ties in an intensifying, binding pattern, no doubt, because we continue to return to the community. The other Peace Corps choice turned out to be more of a gamble as contact has not been maintained. Despite the various new strategies, I found there was no real increase of ﬁctive kin ties outside the community except by the most marginal individuals who lack efﬁcacious internal ties. There is one exception to this. The ﬁrst family to make ﬁctive kin ties with us (through their son’s choice at conﬁrmation), then began to make intensive and extensive vertical ties with well-placed Paraguay friends of ours (mentioned previously as maintaining their history in the community since 1986).5 Many of their ﬁctive kin choices over the past 20 years have been with this same couple (or their family members), who have become wealthy and now have two teenage daughters. This pattern of intensiﬁcation with outside elites has proven to be beneﬁcial. The family has not succeeded in gaining a reciprocal tie, however, as they have not been asked by this couple or any of their relatives to be ﬁctive kin for their daughters. No one from N˜u Pyajhu Guazu´ has been asked to stand as ﬁctive kin for an outsider. This is the expected pattern for vertical ﬁctive kinship. The average community member had similar ﬁctive kin choices and the distribution as before, only there are fewer ties overall (due to fewer offspring). Of the subset of 254 ﬁctive kinship choices that I investigated in 2004, only six have been made with ‘‘outsiders,’’ one with my husband and me and ﬁve with our Paraguayan friends – all made by the same family who originally made the ‘‘outsider’’ choice. All other ﬁctive kin ties were between friends and relatives from the community or close by. However, there was an increase in internal verticality and horizontality, i.e. a bi-polar effect of two primary strategies; one to make ties only with family and neighbors who are most clearly traditionally and morally ‘‘correct’’ and one to make primary ties with family and neighbors who have ‘‘made good’’ in the new economy, but who still reside in the community. This pattern was clear by the large numbers of people asking a limited number of people to stand as godparents. In the population subset, this was four families, two who are prospering ﬁnancially and two who are living very traditionally and poorly. These four couples are all young and all had over 20 godchildren and were proud of that fact. This many godchildren would have been limited to well-respected older couples in the previous generation. The more common number of godchildren would be around ﬁve or less, with the number increasing until a couple

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reaches about 50. Older people are not considered eligible due to the possibility that they may become inﬁrm or not live to fulﬁll their responsibilities. Two families who have no economic means but who are most clearly traditionally and morally admired are being asked by and accepting a wide range of neighbors and family members as ﬁctive kin. For their ﬁctive kin choices, they are asking their extended family members to be their own ﬁctive kin. The change is not a change from an extension pattern, but it is a change to relatives rather than a mix of relatives and friends/neighbors. Two families who have succeeded ﬁnancially are accepting ties with a wide range of ‘‘others’’ from the community, but not necessarily immediate neighbors or relatives.6 For their own ﬁctive kin choices, they are asking their extended family members to be their own ﬁctive kin in a horizontal, intensiﬁcation pattern.

CONCLUSION This is the most fascinating ﬁnding. Rather than making their own vertical ties with urban elites who might help them in their businesses, these families are choosing their family and intensifying the bonds in a traditional elite pattern designed to protect the limits of obligation and for a tight, small circle of kin. At the same time, these families are following the status norm of not reciprocating with ﬁctive kinship ties, but rather with some presumed future beneﬁt for their accepted godchildren. This might indicate incipient class formation within the community itself. These very interesting and informative ﬁndings need to continue to be monitored and investigated. The next decade in N˜u Pyajhu Guazu´’s history should prove to be important and enlightening with respect to the process of social and economic development in peasant societies. The long future for N˜u Pyajhu Guazu´ can only include further integration in the national social life and capitalist economy, with concomitant changes in the community’s egalitarianism and ﬁctive kin choice patterns.

NOTES 1. This, of course, violates Catholic Church norms but people are clear that the violation is justiﬁable if the person elected is a good, reliable individual who will be a superior role model. They do not mention the deviations to the priest (baptism and marriage) or bishop (conﬁrmation) that perform the ceremonies. For a full discussion of compadrazgo practices in the community, see Turner, 1992.

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2. Young men seeking cash in order to marry and set up a household would leave the community to work as loggers or to do similar work. 3. Of the total of 2,873 compadrazgo ties that I recorded that year, only threetenths of a percent were with non-residents, counting myself as a non-resident, although I had lived in the community over three years by that point. 4. This is an important improvement from needing to rely on outsiders to be middlemen, although it presents its own problems for the local store owner in negotiating with town intermediaries. 5. Interestingly, this family has not intensiﬁed ties with my husband and me although we are all very close, including the family with whom they are making intensive ties. The son did intensify the conﬁrmation bond by asking us to stand as godparents for his wedding. I attribute this to his admiration for our marriage, as he is an example of a serious, upright, moral person. 6. There are three families doing well ﬁnancially in the community, but the third family has no new data and are an older couple, relatively speaking.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS The ﬁeldwork for this chapter was funded by the Fulbright-Institute of International Education Dissertation Research grant and a Fulbright-Institute of International Education Teaching/Research grant and I gratefully acknowledge their receipt. I would also like to thank all of my friends and neighbors in N˜u Pyajhu Guazu´, especially our ﬁrst godson, Orlando.

REFERENCES Barlett, P. (1982). Agricultural choice and change: Decision making in a Costa Rican community. Rutgers, NJ: Rutgers University Press. Cancian, F. (1972). Change and uncertainty in a peasant economy. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Ellis, F. (1989). Peasant economics: Farm households and agrarian development. Wye studies in agricultural and rural development. New York, NY: Cambridge University Press. Foster, G. (1969). Godparents and social networks in Tzintzuntzan. Southwestern Journal of Anthropology, 25, 261–278. Gudeman, S. (1988). Frontiers as marginal economies. In: J. Bennett & J. Bowen (Eds), Production and autonomy: Anthropological studies and critiques of development. Monographs in Economic Anthropology (Vol. 5, pp. 213–216). New York, NY: The Society for Economic Anthropology and University Press of America. Mintz, S. W., & Wolf, E. R. (1950). An analysis of ritual co-parenthood (compadrazgo). Southwestern Journal of Anthropology, 6, 341–368. Nutini, H. G., & Bell, B. (1980). Ritual kinship: The structure and historical development of the compadrazgo system in rural Tlaxcala (Vol. 2). Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.

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Paul, B. D. (1942). Ritual kinship, with special reference to godparenthood in Middle America. Unpublished doctoral dissertation, Department of Anthropology, University of Chicago. Turner, B. (1993). Community politics and peasant-state relations in Paraguay. Lanham, MD: University Press of America. Turner, C. (1992). Kith and kin where the jaguar roams: Changing compadrazgo patterns in a Paraguayan peasant community. Unpublished doctoral dissertation, Department of Anthropology, Tulane University. Turner, C. (1998). The world system and cooperative development in Paraguay. Human Organization, 57, 430–437.

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WAYU´U CRAFTS: A DILEMMA OF CULTURE AND DEVELOPMENT Andre´s Marroquı´ n Gramajo ABSTRACT This chapter claims that there are characteristics of the institutional structure of some indigenous societies that in some cases prevent economic development by complicating the emergence of extra-family networks (social capital), and the transition from personal to impersonal exchange; this is illustrated in the context of the Wayu´u people from the Guajira Peninsula of Colombia. They have a strong tradition of craft production, which has changed much in recent years due to exigencies of Wayu´u and non-Wayu´u consumers. Foreign elements, such as commercial brands, are commonly included today in their traditional crafts, sometimes even replacing conventional motifs. However, artisans behave strategically – selling different designs to different markets. The main economic difficulties of the Wayu´u artisans are related to the lack of commercialization of their products. From an institutional analysis perspective, the absence of extra-family social and commercial networks in locations relatively far from markets, it is argued, is one of the factors explaining these problems. It is suggested also that the promotion of cooperatives should be attempted from the bottom-up given the particular legal characteristics of this society.

Choice in Economic Contexts: Ethnographic and Theoretical Enquiries Research in Economic Anthropology, Volume 25, 217–238 Copyright r 2007 by Elsevier Ltd. All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0190-1281/doi:10.1016/S0190-1281(06)25010-8

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Those who know it, believe it Those who don’t know it, don’t believe it We who know, believe it – Old Wayu´u proverb

INTRODUCTION Economic development is a process that takes place when certain circumstances of a human group (health, education, living conditions, among others) improve. For the purpose of analysis economists usually translate these conditions into monetary income. In terms of monetary income, there are more or less objective measures of poverty and development. The World Bank, for example, estimates that a person is absolutely poor when her daily income is less than one US dollar a day. This deﬁnition is based on the assumption that an income of less than one dollar is not sufﬁcient to properly cover basic needs such as food, education, health care, and living conditions on a daily basis. Although I recognize that the World Bank’s measurement is problematic because it lends itself to discretionary valuations, and because it has to be carefully applied in contexts where the cash economy is less prevalent, I also think that it is useful since it approximates an individual’s (community) well-being. My analysis relies on this standard. In the context of the Wayu´u I argue that economics and tradition are linked.1 By traditional I denote those elements that are part of the Wayu´u culture and history, such as a legal system that can only be found in the Wayu´u territory, and Wayu´u dresses and crafts that are associated by Wayu´u and outsiders with the Wayu´u past and cosmology. One of the essential components of development at the rural level is social capital (Pretty & Ward, 2001). The concept of social capital is associated with norms, which could be formal or informal. The notion of social capital includes the concept of trust but it also refers to the norms that shape the levels of trust in a particular social group. Pretty and Ward (ibid.) identify social capital with four central aspects: relations of trust; reciprocity and exchanges; common rules, norms, and sanctions; and connectedness, networks, and groups. Fukuyama (1999) deﬁnes it as ‘‘[a]n instantiated informal norm that promotes cooperation between two or more individuals.’’ This deﬁnition suggests the desirability of cooperation; in fact the same Fukuyama argues that ‘‘y [c]ooperation is necessary to virtually all individuals as a means of achieving their ends’’ (ibid.). In this regard, low social capital, or negative social capital, is the norm or set of norms that impedes

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or complicates the emergence of trust and the achievement of a goal considered collectively as good.2 On the other hand, when cooperation exists and social capital is high it is usually said that there is a large radius of trust (ibid.). More precisely, high social capital, or the prevalence of norms that promote trust and reciprocity, reduces transaction costs. Simultaneously, as it lowers the costs of working together, social capital facilitates cooperation (Pretty & Ward, 2001, p. 211). Portes (1995, p. 12) deﬁnes social capital as ‘‘[t]he capacity of individuals to command scarce resources by virtue of their membership in networks or broader social structures.’’ Although the concept of social capital can be equated to the concept of ‘‘trust’’ in some instances my analysis uses the concept of ‘‘social capital’’ to emphasis the importance of rules and informal norms highlighted by Pretty and Ward, and the role of social capital in reducing transaction costs highlighted by Portes; more speciﬁcally, trust represents the base or foundation of social networks, and social networks an element to mobilize scarce resources. The level of social capital has important implications for the modern or technologically developed economies (‘‘new economies’’ or modern economies), as well as for less developed economies (‘‘old economies’’ or indigenous economies). In fact, the absence of social capital might lead to excessive state intervention (Pretty & Ward, 2001); or to underdevelopment in the case of rural societies. High social capital emerges due to repeated interaction of agents who care for their personal reputation (Axelrod, 1985) or to the existence of increasing returns to scale (Grabowski, 1999). The literature on social capital, however, has not deeply investigated the importance of the legal informal frameworks that shape the structure of social interactions and how this structure affects social capital. This chapter discusses the origins of low social capital and its negative effects on rural development; it describes the legal framework that determines the initial conditions of human interactions and its effects on the consolidation of social capital in the context of the Wayu´u people of Colombia.

THE WAYU´U The Wayu´u people of the Guajira Peninsula of Colombia preserve a beautiful artisan mosaic of colorful chinchorros3 (hammocks) and mochilas (bags). Its mythological origin can be traced back to the spider Walekeru¨, who taught the ﬁrst artisans how to weave and crochet. According to the Wayu´u mythical world Walekeru¨ passes on her teachings through dreams. The art and work of weaving and crocheting constitute rich and important

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manifestations of cultural identity. Wayu´u women often say: ‘‘the woman who doesn’t weave isn’t really a woman.’’ Crafts are the only means of subsistence in most of the rancherı´as in the rural Guajira.4 In fact, the semiarid conditions that impede intensive agriculture make craft production, stockbreeding (mainly of goats and some cattle) and commerce, the main economic activities among the Wayu´u.5 The Wayu´u artisans of the rural Guajira sell mostly in local markets and their limited sales generate a very low income. These families live in conditions of ‘‘subsistence-craft-production,’’ so to speak; in other words, they produce crafts and sell them for an income that is only sufﬁcient for survival; more precisely, the income might be enough to buy food, but not enough to pay for medicine in cases of illness, or for transportation costs to a hospital. This situation is more common in the rancherı´as of the high Guajira.6 Although for the majority of artisans in the rural Guajira craft production is only a means of subsistence, it generates higher income than other frequent economic activities in the area such as selling coal, or working as a housecleaner in nearby towns. ‘‘The income I make from my work is not enough, but it is sufﬁcient to send my children to school,’’ said an artisan from Nazareth.7 On the other hand, craft production contributes to the autonomy and independence of women. Most of the artisans interviewed manage their money and decide the destiny of their income. In this regard an artisan said: ‘‘My husband works in the mine but he only provides us with food, I pay for other expenses [y] [h]e has two wives and lives more often with the other one.’’8 In fact, women generate more income than men. When men work, they work in the coal mine, otherwise they have temporary jobs but not real labor stability. Cash ﬂow problems are frequent and some artisans keep inventories for very long periods, months, or even a year. In some cases, however, artisans get credit to buy provisions from local store owners who know that artisans will eventually sell their crafts. The anthropological literature on craft production is extensive, and the paradigm that distinguishes its analysis is different from that of economics. Anthropologists usually study petty commodity or single commodity production through the applications of center–periphery, modes of production, or world systems models.9 These models are generally based on a labor theory of value, although there are exceptions (see for instance Milgram, 2005). Economists on the other hand use microeconomic tools for the study of the rural and usually apply neoclassical theories, which are based on the subjective theory of value. In the dominant anthropological literature on single commodity production the idea of unequal exchange prevails; in the economic literature, on the other hand, exchange is conceived as a positive

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sum game. This chapter, however, does not deal with the philosophical issues of theories of exchange, but with the social dynamics that prevent ﬂuid exchange, which happen in the context of the rural or what anthropologists would call the ‘‘periphery.’’ This chapter is intended to furnish a dialog between economics and anthropology. It is relevant for economists who explore the elements that might complicate the emergence of markets; and it is relevant for anthropologists who explore the elements that keep cultural diversity.10 This chapter explores the dynamics between culture and rural economic development in a microcosm represented by an indigenous group in Colombia. It combines an analytical narrative approach and economic anthropology methods to describe important aspects of the Wayu´u craft industry. I analyze its socio-economic situation and claim that there are characteristics of the social and legal structure of the Wayu´u society that in some cases prevent development by complicating the emergence of social capital. Indeed, their traditional way of solving conﬂicts based on the palabrero (mediator), which has allowed this society to subsist for hundreds of years, has at the same time the negative consequence of impeding the emergence of trust, cooperation, and reciprocity. Based on a diagnostic, I suggest some avenues to improve their socio-economic conditions taking into account the cultural heritage that crafts represent for the Wayu´u. This chapter is based on six weeks of ﬁeldwork done mainly in rural areas of the high Guajira (Nazareth) and low Guajira (Barrancas and Hato Nuevo), and also in Riohacha, Maicao, all in Colombia, and additionally in Maracaibo, Venezuela. I conducted approximately forty semi-structured interviews.

SETTING The Wayu´u, numbering around 127,00011 in the Colombian territory, is one of the few indigenous groups in the country that still conserves its language and traditions. There are approximately 173,000 Wayu´u in Venezuela located in the Paez District in the Zulia State, with a high density in the Ziruma neighborhood in the city of Maracaibo (Escobar, 1996). The Wayu´u think of themselves as members of a single cultural unit and regard the political border between Colombia and Venezuela an artiﬁcial separation, and most of them have both nationalities. The Wayu´u, sometimes called Guajiros, constitute more than ﬁfty percent of the total population of the Guajira Peninsula (located mainly in the municipalities of Maicao, Manaure, and Uribia) and occupy almost exclusively

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seventy percent of its territory. The origins of the Wayu´u can be traced back to the Amazon region of Colombia and Brazil. From there they migrated to their current location. The migration process represented a dramatic change from a humid tropical rainforest in the Amazon to the Peninsula. The archeologist Gerardo Ardila describes the Wayu´u’s impressive adaptive capacity: Nothing can be more stimulating than the study of the history of the Guajiros, the Wayu´u from the Guajira, people undoubtedly originated in the Amazon region that in a short time adapted to the extremely dry environmental conditions of the peninsula through alliances, links of solidarity, and maybe wars against other peoples that arrived in different times and to different places of the peninsula. Their adaptive capacity led them, around the 16th century, to become pastoralists and cattle herders, which gave them an advantage to survive the processes of transformation and destruction that came with the conquest. (1996, p. 15, A. Gramajo, Trans.)

The importance of alliances in the form of confederations or clusters of indigenous groups for their survival or expansion, although the member groups were not always loyal, has been identiﬁed in different times and parts of the world. Two of the most illustrative cases are the Iroquois confederation in Northeast America in the ﬁfteenth century, and the cluster fostered by the Zulu in Southern Africa in the eighteenth century (Wolf, 1982, pp. 165–166, 349–350). In a more recent example it has been suggested that the conformation of networks and alliances among African slaves in the USA explains why they reached higher survival rates compared with their counterparts in the Caribbean and South America (Gutman, 1976; cited in Wolf, 1982, p. 281). In the case of the Wayu´u it is likely that conﬂicts between them and other indigenous societies in the Amazonian region caused their migration to the north in the second half of the ﬁfteenth century. This suggests that they made a journey from the southernmost toward the northernmost part of the territory currently occupied by Colombia, which must have been possible only through the establishment of alliances with other indigenous groups. Their arrival to the dry Guajira Peninsula must have coincided with the advent of the Spaniards, from whom the Wayu´u adopted cattle herding. It must have been difﬁcult, if not impossible, for the Wayu´u to settle in the arid Peninsula without the economic subsistence that cattle provided. In this sense the Spanish inﬂuence introduced elements that marked the Wayu´u history in the post-conquest period up to the present; paraphrasing Wolf’s words: the Wayu´u history is part of the history of the European expansion itself (Wolf, 1982). The Wayu´u were hunters and gathers during pre-colonial times. Fishing, and some agriculture complemented their economic and social universe during this period (Goulet, 1981, p. 3; cited in Go´mez, 1988). The Wayu´u

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are well known for their tenacity and strong disposition to defend their culture and values; and the Spaniards did not settle in their territory,12 but inﬂuenced their economic system in signiﬁcant ways. As Ardila notes, less than thirty years after the beginning of the European conquest, the Wayu´u became pastoralists, adopted different agricultural products as the base of their subsistence, and acquired countless cultural elements of European and African origin. These practices still exist today where goat breeding represents one of the main occupations among Wayu´u men, for example. In fact, goat meat is an important component of the daily diet. La Guajira Peninsula, measuring about 15,000 square kilometers, has tremendous climatic and ecological diversity – from green forests in the relatively high areas in the south (also called ‘‘the low Guajira’’), to the dry deserts of the low regions in the north (also called ‘‘the high Guajira’’). The extremely arid conditions and constant droughts in the high Guajira partially explain the migrations that the Wayu´u make yearly to the lowlands in search of fertile soils and water. Even in the low Guajira there are only two small rivers. Due to these conditions the high Guajira is the region with the driest climate and the most arid soil in Colombia – characteristics that make agriculture very difﬁcult with the technology available.13 The Guajira, which historically has been one of the poorest regions in Colombia and Venezuela,14 in terms of income and access to basic services, contains a high proportion of the Wayu´u population. In fact the Wayu´u living in rural areas also consider themselves as poor.15 In recent years, with the beginning of the largest mining project in Colombia, the coal project of El Cerrejo´n, and the gas and salt extractions, the Peninsula acquired economic strategic importance for national and international corporations (Pe´rez, 1990, p. 25). Geographically, the Wayu´u mythological origin is located in the high Guajira, particularly in an area where the present-day small town of Nazareth is situated.16 Nazareth is probably the largest settlement in the high Guajira. It has a hospital, a catholic and several protestant churches, an electrical plant, and two schools, including the Nazareth Catholic Boarding School. The Capuchins created the boarding school to introduce the Wayu´u children into the Christian faith. The Capuchin nuns who currently manage it pay special attention to the teaching of craft making, their technical aspects and cultural meaning. In fact, several renowned artisans in the Guajira have learned in the boarding schools. To the south of Nazareth are the Makuira Mountains. The green vegetation of the Mountains and the existence of small rivers of clean water make a clear contrast with the surrounding desert environment. According to the Wayu´u mythology it was in the Makuira where the spider taught the ﬁrst woman artisan the art of weaving.

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LIVING CONDITIONS There are substantial differences in living conditions between the Wayu´u who live in urban areas and those who live in rural areas. In the former, for example, the Wayu´u experience different degrees of acculturation. Some of the women have abandoned the manta, or traditional female dress. The male traditional dress was abandoned at least twenty years ago. Generally, teenagers do not speak Wayuunaiki any more. In the cities the houses of Wayu´u families are generally built with cement and bricks, they have electronic devices, such as televisions, radios, microwaves, refrigerators, toasters, etc., and they usually buy supplies in supermarkets or grocery stores. Also in urban areas Wayu´u parents send their children to schools and colleges in cities like Riohacha, Valledupar, Bogota´, Barranquilla, or Cartagena. In the rural areas it is a different story. The rancherı´as do not have electricity, and there is no running water; in fact, in some cases women need to walk for hours to the closest well. The diet consists of chicha (a cold beverage made of corn), mazamorra (a hot beverage made of corn and milk), arepa (a type of tortilla), rice, and sometimes goat meat. The lack of a diet rich in vitamins and its excessive cholesterol explain the common health problems even among the young population and malnutrition among children. The high Guajira region, along with Ecuador’s Carchi, and Panama’s Darien, are the regions with the lowest human development indicators in Central and South America (UNICEF, 2005). Although children in the rancherı´as attend school, their parents are usually illiterate and do not speak Spanish. Access to some rancherı´as is also difﬁcult. People walk, sometimes women ride mules, and men in a few cases use bicycles.17 A situation that aggravates the difﬁcult conditions in the rural areas is the large size of Wayu´u families; it is not surprising to ﬁnd families of twelve children. In fact, Wayu´u society is partially polygamous, some men – caciques – have forty to ﬁfty children. Polygamy, which has a mythological explanation (see Perrin, 1987), is not frequently practiced these days, and it is more prevalent in the high Guajira.18

CRAFTS Weaving and crocheting are the main expressions of Wayu´u crafts. According to Artesanı´ as de Colombia, the public ofﬁce in charge of promoting development in the craft sector, around sixty-ﬁve percent of the artisans in the Guajira weave and crochet.19 In earlier times, until the mid-twentieth

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century, Wayu´u crafts were made for utilitarian purposes or self-consumption. The market trends and the introduction of industrial thread foster craft making as an activity to produce for others. Women artisans begin weaving at an early age, some of them when they are six or seven years old. They usually learn from their mother or sisters in the household, and in some cases they pay to learn. But generally the household becomes a sort of ‘‘silent school’’ where children learn from their parents’ examples. In other words, since the early years children develop, so to speak, real expectations about their practical occupations in life. The importance of crafts in a woman’s life increases during the seclusion process that constitutes her initiation, or rite of passage. In seclusion, a girl learns how to weave and crochet, and many improve their skills and excel as artisans. This process used to last as long as one year, during which time the girl interacted only with her mother, her aunt, or/and her grandmother. Nowadays however the seclusion is not practiced as before. In the past there were only a few women that attended school; now Wayu´u parents put more value on their children’s formal education, and the time a girl used to devote to seclusion is currently dedicated to attending school. Today seclusions last only a few days, sometimes a week, and only in rare occasions does it lasts several months. Usually Wayu´u woman make hammocks and bags. Men, on the other hand, make guairen˜as (traditional shoes), hats, and bracelets. There are three types of hammocks: simple ones (chinchorro sencillo), de tripa, and double-faced. The prices vary signiﬁcantly depending on the quality and place of sale. The bags also have different prices depending on the location of their making, their size, and their quality (Tables 1 and 2). These ﬁgures can be put in perspective by considering that the minimum wage in Colombia is approximately 381,000 CP, or US $191 a month.

Table 1.

Simple De Tripa Double-faced

Chinchorros or Hammocks: Average Prices in US$, Production Time, and Approximate Proﬁts. Chinchorros, Average Prices

Average Time to Finish

Approximate Range Monthly Proﬁt

75–150 125–200 350–700

1 month 1 month 3 months

41–116 91–166 105–222

This includes the cost of labor and assumes a price of US $7.5 for 1 kilogram of thread. It

takes approximately 4.5 kilograms to make a chinchorro.

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Table 2.

Small Medium Large

Mochilas or Bags: Average Prices in US$, Production Time, and Approximate Proﬁts. Mochilas, Average Prices

Average Time to Finish

Approximate Range of Monthly Proﬁt

10–15 15–25 30–80

2 days 4 days 1 week

66–140 52–122 75–275

This includes the cost of labor and assumes a price of US $7.5 for 1 kilogram of thread. It

takes approximately 1.5 kilograms to make a large mochila, 1 kilogram for a medium one, and 0.75 kilograms for a small one.

THE INFLUENCE OF MARKETS The poor living conditions of the Wayu´u, and their subsequent need to sell, help explain why artisans modify their traditional designs to make their products more attractive to both Wayu´u and non-Wayu´u costumers. In fact, the Wayu´u artisans, and mainly the leaders, behave strategically. They know very well their target markets and design their products taking into account the preferences of each market. For example, in the case of bags, the combinations of dark or light colors are used for the non-Wayu´u market; and combinations of more intense (even ﬂuorescent) colors are commonly used for the Wayu´u market (Fig. 1), these however are not rules carved in stone. In their efforts to sell and subsist some artisans substitute western logos and brands (Tommy, Guess, and Coca Cola, among others) for their traditional geometric designs (Fig. 2). This trend is stronger in the high Guajira, and is also observed in traditional shoes. An artisan who makes traditional shoes noted that ‘‘white’’ consumers buy Wayu´u designs, and Wayu´u consumers buy designs with western brands.

NORTH–SOUTH MIGRATION: CLIMATE AND CONFLICT The Wayu´u crafts originated in the high Guajira, speciﬁcally in the Nazareth area. The south of the peninsula, on the other hand, has become Wayu´u territory due to constant migrations and movements of families looking for more favorable climatic conditions, access to goods and services, and job opportunities. The high Guajira is a remote region, very poor, mostly rural,

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Fig. 1.

227

The Mochila on the Left has Colors that Wayu´u Consumers Like; The One on the Right has Colors for Non-Wayu´u Consumers.

Fig. 2.

A Wayu´u Mochila with a Non-Wayu´u Design.

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and of difﬁcult access, especially during the rainy season. Another reason for the constant migrations from the north is conﬂicts between different families, or among the members of the same family.20 Regarding conﬂict resolution, the Wayu´u, mostly in rural areas, but also in urban areas to a lesser extent, do not depend on the Colombian police, instead they use an institutional mechanism to solve conﬂicts based on direct compensation – through a palabrero or mediator. When this system is not effective, or it is not used, families take revenge. Vengeances can cause a chain of deaths that in some cases exterminate entire families in wars that can last several years. Therefore, to escape from wars, families in conﬂict sometimes move to the low Guajira and to Maracaibo, Venezuela. The craft situation in the north reﬂects an important problem: the lack of demand and commercialization, which reinforces the migration trend. Regarding this trend, one of the most prestigious artisans from the north said: ‘‘I used to have approximately one hundred artisans [working for me]. Nowadays I have only sixty-ﬁve. They are leaving for Maracaibo, Venezuela. Sometimes I don’t have money to buy materials and they leave [y] this is understandable.’’21

MAIN ECONOMIC PROBLEMS The main problems Wayu´u artisans face are related to the lack of sales. The commercialization of crafts in the rural Guajira is mainly an informal economic activity. Artisans usually sell to friends and people they know. In other words, the crafts commerce is based on ‘‘personal exchange.’’ One view of economic development claims that the key for development is not only personal exchange but ‘‘impersonal exchange’’ as well (Grabowski, 1999; North, 1989, 1990). Although personal exchange, it has been argued, is the default monde of economic behavior (McCabe, 2003, p. 66; Smith, 1998, p. 11),22 both personal and impersonal exchange are necessary for human betterment (Smith, 2004, p. 12; but see Sahlins, 1972, and Polanyi, 1968, for a different view).23 This means that while Wayu´u artisans keep selling only to friends or acquaintances their small businesses will not grow. It is therefore the lack of impersonal exchange, or lack of extended commercialization, that is the main problem faced by Wayu´u artisans. This was an observation but also a situation that they explained over and over, which indicates that they value commercialization because it provides monetary income. Below I explain the reasons for the lack of commercialization.

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How Have Other Artisans Solved Commercialization Problems? The lack of sales is not an exclusive problem of the Wayu´u artisans. In fact, the general issue concerns the majority of indigenous artisans in both developed and underdeveloped countries. There are, however, some exceptional cases that help to put in perspective the Wayu´u problem: artisans of Otavalo, Ecuador, indigenous Nahuas of southern Me´xico (Cowen, 2005; Good, 1988), and West African artisans and merchants in the United States (Stoller, 2002). These examples are successful because high sales not only have improved artisans’ living standards, but have also fostered their culture. It is important to emphasize that in these cases social networks emerged endogenously; in other terms, artisans organized themselves.24 Why did these cases succeed? The three of them have a common denominator: the existence of social and business networks among artisans. Indeed, artisans unite to commercialize their products and to buy raw materials. This allows them to reach distant markets where buyers consider the products more exotic. Also, social networks have been instrumental for them in being able to pay less for raw materials. When there are social networks, artisans can save transportation costs because a few people can sell in distant cities the crafts that belong to an extended group of artisans. The more integrated the social structure the more likely that exchange across great distance and time can be carried out in an impersonal manner (Grabowski, 1999). This is due to the fact that isolated groups of individuals are likely to lack the economic, political, and social resources necessary to carry out viable economic activities (ibid.). Additionally, social networks save time and effort by allowing artisans to sell in strategic locations while others dedicate themselves to creation and innovation. Networks are the channels through which patrons seek potential markets and advertise crafts from developing countries to international buyers. In one of the above examples, global marketing networks have been instrumental in the proliferation of certain West African crafts in the United States and western Europe (Stoller, 2002). When social networks exist, economies of scale emerge. This means that artisans working together work faster and improve quality by competing and cooperating with each other, and this at the same time leads to greater trust, conﬁdence and capacity to innovate (Pretty & Ward, 2001, p. 214). The impressionist painters illustrate the importance of social capital in artistic creation. Indeed, impressionists established a group that shared common features and rebelled against the existing cultural trends of the time (classicism, romanticism, and realism). Part of their success has been

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attributed to the synergies that emerged from their close collaboration (Farrell, 2001). In fact, impressionist painters took advantage of their peers’ ideas and incorporated them into each other’s work. They built on those ideas to create new ones, generating increased creativity and productivity. In this sense, creative networks cooperate. Competition was a second force that contributed to the increase of ideas and productivity among impressionist painters. Professional competition motivated impressionists to look for new ways and ideas, as well as to work harder to improve their techniques and knowledge. Collaboration and competition do not exist when artisans work in isolation. With some exceptions, it takes longer for lone artisans to fully develop their talents. Collaborative circles usually go beyond mere acts of creation and consist of groups of friends who share cultural and social values (ibid.). Social and Commercialization Networks Among Wayu´u Artisans The need of commercial networks does not exist in a vacuum; they are necessary because of objective or exogenous circumstances. Networks have been essential in the fostering of commerce in inhospitable areas and conditions; commercial links in West Africa, for example, furnished the transSaharan trade in the ﬁfteenth century (Wolf, 1982, pp. 37–41). For the Wayu´u, the existence of networks is important due to elements such as the long geographic distance to markets especially from the high Guajira. Unfortunately, social and commercialization links among Wayu´u artisans are weak, and in some cases non-existent. This is so particularly regarding extra-family links. The few Wayu´u artisans who have experienced weaving together say that they ﬁnish their crafts faster, and they like very much that they can talk and learn from each other.25 In terms of commercialization, the few Wayu´u who travel to cities such as Barranquilla, Bogota´, Bucaramanga, Medellin, and others mention that ‘‘sales are good,’’ which suggest that demand do exists in this urban centers. The market is very competitive in Maracaibo and prices of crafts tend to be homogenous in the main selling areas, for example a simple hammock is around US $150, and intermediaries usually buy products available for that price, which leaves around US $115 for rural artisans to cover family expenses, labor, and transportation costs. Production and commercialization in the rural Guajira is mainly a household activity, and in several cases it is an individual activity. A community leader illustrated this point: ‘‘[w]e have the problem of organization,

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everybody is doing her own thing.’’26 In fact, only 7 out of 100 artisans in the Guajira belong to some type of organization.27 This limits the selling capacity and impedes the evolution of scale economies. It is costly and difﬁcult for an individual artisan to produce and travel separately to sell her products and buy cheaper materials in distant cities. One kilogram of thread costs 25,000 CP in Nazareth (approximately US $12), but it costs only 15,000 CP (US $7), in the southern city of Maicao. Assuming a competitive price of 150,000 CP (US $75) for a simple hammock, and given that it takes 4.5 kilograms of thread to make it, an artisan will make a proﬁt of nineteen dollars if she buys the thread in Nazareth, and around forty dollars if she buys the thread in Maicao, not including the cost of labor and transportation. Therefore, without social networks the transportation costs and the time to sell in other cities become prohibitive; consequentially, the selling points are close to the location of production.28 Considering that the clusters of commercialization are essential for the economic and esthetic success of Colombian crafts, the governmental ofﬁce Artesanı´ as de Colombia has worked steadily in the generation of productive chains in la Guajira, and other regions of the country. My ﬁeldwork suggests, however, little evidence of the existence of productive chains in the rural areas. If we consider that networks and social links are necessary and/ or sufﬁcient conditions for the success in craft commercialization, as suggested by the cases of Ecuador, southern Mexico, and West African merchants in the USA, then their absence partially explains the problem of Wayu´u artisans, and their deprived living conditions. The question of why these networks have not emerged is complex, but it is possible that the answer is related to the Wayu´u social and legal structure. Lack of Trust and Low Social Capital Trust is a fundamental element for the emergence and maintenance of social networks among the members of a community, and according to our analysis social networks are also necessary for the emergence of impersonal exchange. Impersonal exchange, on the other hand, can be supported if each member of the society is a member of a community that can establish an intra-community contract enforcement institution and the individuals’ community afﬁliation is commonly known (Greif, 2001). Some Wayu´u artisans have had negative experiences regarding trust and reciprocity. In several occasions materials were not bought and the money was not retuned, or the money from sales was not returned either. A part time artisan, who is also a nurse, mentioned that her mother does not trust other artisans: ‘‘My mother

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had a bad experience in the past,’’ she said. ‘‘She gave six bags to a friend to sell in Maracaibo, but we never heard from her again.’’29 Obviously, these experiences deteriorate trust and reciprocity because artisans do not want to take the risk of loosing their scarce capital in subsequent interactions. In fact, if we consider that most of the transactions are on credit, in a framework of low trust, it is not surprising that artisans prefer to sell only to friends and acquaintances – otherwise they take the high risk of loosing their money. In the case of the few workshops in the Guajira, eighty percent of them produce only when they have orders.30 This problem suggests that policies devised for the improvement of the Wayu´u living conditions should target the formation and consolidation of trust and social capital. It is plausible that some Wayu´u artisans in rural areas do not know the network model that seems to be so obvious. On the other hand, there are reasons to believe that Wayu´u do have experience in working together. In fact, although it is not very frequently used nowadays, the yanama model, or communitarian work, is used for different tasks such as the building of rancherı´as, wells, or in agricultural work. Low Trust Explained by the Wayu´u Social and Legal Structure To understand the lack of trust among artisans in the Guajira it is necessary to consider the Wayu´u social and legal structure. The Wayu´u possess a matrilineal society and the social structure is based on the maternal family. It is through the mother that the clan denomination is passed on. The maternal uncles are fundamental in the education of their nephews and nieces, and in several cases they have more inﬂuence than the father. For example, if for some reason the compensation mechanism does not work, the offended family (the maternal family) usually takes revenge not only against the direct offender but also against any of his relatives in the maternal side, although vengeances do not generally harm women. In this manner, the legal Wayu´u system is not based on personal responsibility, as are most western legal systems, but on the collective responsibility of the maternal family.31 In addition, historically, the Wayu´u society is very sensitive toward offenses. In past centuries, for example, certain attitudes that would have been considered ordinary by other societies were serious matters among the Wayu´u. For instance, some actions such as turning the back on a person or asking for the name or personal information of a dead relative were considered harmful because they caused emotional pain. The offended side had the right to ask for compensation.32 The Wayu´u pay the compensations with

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goats, necklaces, and cash, among other things. Besides its purpose to rescind harm (and not without some exceptions), Wayu´u currently use the compensation as a way to get material resources and may take advantage of every single opportunity. Therefore, the Wayu´u are very careful about their social interactions because the minor frictions, discussions, and arguments, can lead to demands for compensation.33 The legal and social structures have implications in the way the Wayu´u behave toward their neighbors, and the way members of relatively homogenous groups, such as artisans, interact with each other. More speciﬁcally, it is possible that artisans are so careful about their social interactions that they avoid being involved in many social networks. Besides, social networks are highly unlikely to emerge among artisans who belong to families in conﬂict.34 An argument between two artisans that happened in a cultural encounter between an NGO and different artisans helps to illustrate this point. The disagreement was due to misinformation about the purpose of the meeting. The dispute between the two artisans reached a point where I thought the event would end. Fortunately another artisan addressed the audience in Wayuunaiki and calmed the situation. Afterwards I found out that there had been a conﬂict between the families of the two artisans who were arguing. In fact, one artisan’s son had killed the other artisan’s brother. On the other hand, the emphasis on collective rather than on individual responsibility, in a context where personal exchanges prevail, generates incentives for cheating in production and business interactions, which impedes the emergence of sustained cooperation. Indeed, it is possible that social links are weak among the Wayu´u because when an artisan receives money to buy materials, or merchandise for sale in other cities, she has a low incentive to comply with her duty because the consequences might not fall on her but on any member of her maternal family. A system of cooperatives, which performs better in collective responsibility environments, and which usually creates and consolidates social networks, is a plausible mechanism for contributing to the generation of extra-family social networks and commercial links among the Wayu´u. However, as suggested by the successful cases, it is desirable that such a system emerges from the artisans’ own initiative. For this to happen it is necessary that the artisans learn the beneﬁts that come out of the cooperation with their peers in such a way that they consider themselves owners of the cooperative project. Therefore, the role of NGOs and the government should be that of showing artisans the high social and economic beneﬁt of networks. Artisans should accept and recognize that the beneﬁts of working together exceed the costs of doing it. There are some illustrative cases of the positive role of cooperatives creating trust and economic

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improvement. For example, Milgram (2005) describes a case of artisans in Banaue, Ifagao, Philippines. A cooperative led by the artisans themselves, and based on church links and pre-existing relationships established through reciprocal labor exchanges, was instrumental in reaching markets and NGOs. The cooperative also allowed artisans to travel to sell in distant cities.

CONCLUSION Wayu´u crafts are instrumental in the maintenance of their cultural heritage. Despite the difﬁcult conditions of poverty and relative isolation, artisans do not stop weaving and crocheting. Most of them want their children to become artisans; but the traditional meaning of the Wayu´u crafts is vanishing, especially in the low Guajira, where artisans do not seem to know the meaning and origin of the traditional symbols or kannas. The Wayu´u cosmology and culture are experiencing interesting mutations, such as occidental designs included in traditional products. This shows how the market is transforming their cultural expressions. On the other hand, artisans want better lives, and higher incomes to build better houses, buy a bicycle, and also decent clothes. In other words, the perceptions of development among the Wayu´u women coincide with western perceptions of development. For the Wayu´u this raises the difﬁcult dilemma that indigenous peoples of the world face: ﬁnding a way to improve their living conditions while maintaining at the same time the traditions that link them with their ancestors. Regarding economic development, the social and legal structures of the Wayu´u society might be obstructing the formation of social networks through their negative effect over social capital. If the Wayu´u want their crafts to continue as a cultural manifestation that can also improve their socio-economic condition, it is necessary for the artisans to acknowledge the advantages of cooperation and the conformation of social and business networks. In the case of the Wayu´u society this process should not be implemented in a top-down manner. From this analysis old grand questions emerge: What would be an adequate legal system that supports impersonal exchange among the Wayu´u? Can the current system be modiﬁed so that the formation of networks is facilitated? Will a new institutional system emerge spontaneously, or will an external inﬂuence (of the Colombian State, for example) arise, as suggested by Platteau (1994)? Is the current body of rules and institutions the ‘‘best attainable scenario’’ given the Wayu´u history, current geographic circumstances, and the cost of change (Hayek, 1945, 1978)?

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NOTES 1. The concept of ‘‘tradition’’ has been questioned by anthropologists like Judith Friedlander (1975) who claims that to be Indian in Hueyapan (Mexico) is to have a negative identity which refers to what indigenous people do not have vis-a`-vis nonindigenous people. 2. For illustrations of the beneﬁts of social capital manifested in groups see (Pretty & Ward, 2001). 3. A chinchorro is the common name Colombians give to a hand weaved hammock. In Wayuunaiki, the language of the Wayu´u people, chinchorro is sui – equivalent to oulaa – which comes from achounlaa, meaning uterus. Therefore oulaa is the baby’s chinchorro while she stays in her mother’s uterus. When a child is born she has to also have an actual chinchorro. Old Wayu´u used to be buried in a chinchorro, too. According to these mythological symbols a Wayu´u spends most of his or her life, and death, in a chinchorro. 4. Strictly speaking there is no Wayu´u ‘‘village’’ (Perrin, 1987, p. xiv). A rancherı´a is a traditional Wayu´u house for a family unit. 5. In 1993 (the year of the last national census) after goat breeding, craft production represented the second most important economic activity among the Wayu´u, employing almost 18% of the economically active population. Pastoral activities and crafts combined employed 55% (DANE, 1993). 6. The Guajira Peninsula is usually divided between high and low Guajira, which responds to the differences in the geologic and climatic conditions between the two areas. 7. Interview CA20. 8. Interview CA8-PT. 9. For reviews of this literature see Smith (1974), O’Laughlin (1975), Nash (1981), Nugent (1988), Kahn (1985), and Roseberry (1988), just to suggest a few. 10. Although some economists argue that in some instances the market promotes cultural diversity (Cowen, 2002, 2005, 2006). 11. Repu´blica de Colombia: Departamento Administrativo Nacional de Estadı´ stica (DANE, 1992). 12. In spite of several Spanish attempts at conquest, the Wayu´u remained outside of Hispanic dominance. Besides, the inexistence of precious stones, metals, etc. (with the exception of pearls), contributed to an absence of Spanish settlements in the Guajira (Ardila, 1996, p. 35). 13. Information taken from Pe´rez (1990). 14. High childhood mortality rates are presented by NGOs working in rancherı´as in the high Guajira, see for example http://www.wayuutaya.com/ 15. Interestingly this situation contrasts with my experience in the Colombian Amazon where indigenous Ticuna consider themselves well-off when my ﬁrst impression was that they were poor. 16. In Wayuunaiki the region is called Ishoulu (land of cardinals). 17. Bicycles according to some Wayu´u are better than mules. Bicycles, they say ‘‘are cheaper and convenient, they don’t get tired, don’t drink water, and don’t get lost in the bush.’’ 18. The French anthropologist Michel Perrin, who did his ﬁeldwork among the Wayu´u during the late 1960s, explains that one Wayu´u men out of ﬁve practiced polygyny at that time.

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19. Ministerio de Desarrollo Econo´mico: Artesanı´ as de Colombia S. A. (1998). 20. The Wayu´u society is organized in matrilineal, non-exogamous clans, each of them associated with a totemic animal. 21. Interview IA24. 22. Leeson (forthcoming) offers an alternative explanation. 23. Economists however are not sure about how the transition occurs (McCabe, 2003). 24. Greif (2001) presents another historical example of how community links emerged from the bottom in pre-modern Europe. 25. Interview IA21-T. 26. Interview CA14. A Wayu´u woman who works for the government even said: ‘‘The association doesn’t go with our culture.’’ Field notes: October 2, 2005. 27. Ministerio de Desarrollo Econo´mico: Artesanı´ as de Colombia S. A (1998, pp. 219–221). 28. In the Guajira almost ninety percent of the craft selling points are located in the same municipality where the workshops are located (ibid., p. 250). 29. Field notes, September 22, 2005. 30. Ministerio de Desarrollo Econo´mico: Artesanı´ as de Colombia S. A (1998, p. 255). 31. A Venezuelan organization produced a video to show and explain the Wayu´u culture. The video describes a woman visiting her family and friends asking for contributions to pay compensation for a crime a relative committed. The process is narrated by young Wayu´u women who openly say ‘‘[f]or us individual responsibility doesn’t exist.’’ 32. See Candelier (1994), who did ethnographic work in the Guajira in the late nineteenth century. 33. A local leader in Nazareth said: ‘‘[i]t is very difﬁcult to deal with Wayu´u people, if something happens they look for a little thing to send the word.’’ To ‘‘send the word – putchi’’ means to send the palabrero or mediator to ask for compensation. The same leader indicated that their justice system has been essential for the survival of the Wayu´u people. Field notes, September 25, 2005. 34. It is possible that an imposed attempt will create a social network that includes artisans who belong to families in conﬂict.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I acknowledge the help and collaboration of the Wayu´u people; especially of Rafael and Irma Iguara´n in Nazareth; Maritza Gonza´lez in Maicao; and of Aura Robles and her husband Armando, who as good parents provide me with a cordial family environment in Barrancas. I also acknowledge ﬁnancial support from Francisco Marroquı´ n University in Guatemala, and logistic support of Aid to Artisans, Colombia. I also thank Tyler Cowen for his advice, and Michele Greet, Carrie Meyer, Jon Rundle, Pedro Romero, and Phyllis Puffer for their comments; and especially to Donald Wood and one anonymous referee for extensive and valuable comments. I retain responsibility for any errors.

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REFERENCES Ardila, G. (1996). Los tiempos de las conchas. Bogota´: Editorial Universitaria Nacional. Axelrod, R. (1985). The evolution of cooperation. Jackson, TN: Basic Books. Candelier, H. (1994). Riohacha y los Indios Guajiros. Bogota´: Eco Ediciones Translated from the French by Max Fauconnet. Cowen, T. (2002). Creative destruction: How globalization is changing the world’s cultures. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Cowen, T. (2005). Markets and cultural voices: Liberty vs. power in the lives of Mexican amate painters. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Cowen, T. (2006). Good and plenty: The creative successes of American arts funding. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. DANE. (1992). Encuesta nacional de hogares. Bogota´, Colombia: Departmamento Administrativo Nacional de Estadistica. DANE. (1993). Encuesta nacional de hogares. Bogota´, Colombia: Departmamento Administrativo Nacional de Estadistica. Escobar, P. (1996). Los Wayu´u se tejen a sı´ mismos. Monografı´a de Grado. Bogota´: Universidad de Los Andes. Farrell, M. (2001). Collaborative circles: Friendship dynamics and creative work. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Friedlander, J. (1975). Being Indian in Hueyapan: A study of forced identity in contemporary Mexico. New York: San Martin Press. Fukuyama. F. (1999). Social capital and civil society. International Monetary Fund Working Paper WP/00/74. Go´mez, A. (1988). Los Wayu´u. Boletı´n de historia. Bogota´ (5), 9–10, 78–90. Good, C. (1988). Haciendo la lucha: Arte y comercio nahuas de Guerrero. Me´xico: Fondo de Cultura Econo´mica. Goulet, J. G. (1981). El Universo social y religioso Guajiro. Revista Montalban. Caracas-San Cristo´bal, Universidad Cato´lica Andre´s Bello (11). Grabowski, R. (1999). Markets evolution and economic development: The evolution of impersonal markets. American Journal of Economics and Sociology, 28, 699–712. Greif, A. (2001). Impersonal exchange and the origin of markets: From community responsibility system to individual legal responsibility in pre-modern Europe. In: M. Aoki & Y. Hayami (Eds), Communities and markets in economic development (pp. 3–42). New York: Oxford University Press. Gutman, H. G. (1976). The black family in slavery and freedom, 1750–1925. New York: Pantheon Books. Hayek, F. (1945). The use of knowledge in society. American Economic Review, 35(4), 519–530. Hayek, F. (1978). Competition as a discovery procedure. In: F. Hayek (Ed.), New studies in philosophy, politics, and economics and the history of ideas (pp. 179–190). Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Kahn, J. (1985). Peasant ideologies in the Third World. Annual Review of Anthropology, 14, 49–75. Leeson, P. Social cooperation and the apparent tension between personal and impersonal exchange. Ama-Gi, forthcoming. McCabe, K. (2003). Reciprocity and social order: What do experiments tell us about the failure of economic growth? Forum Series on the Role of Institutions in Promoting Economic Growth. Directed by the Mercatus Center at George Mason University and the IRIS Center, Washington DC Available at: http://www.neuroeconomics.net/pdf/materials/453.pdf

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Milgram, L. (2005). Fair(er) trade for global markets: Capitalizing on work alternatives in crafts in the rural Philippines. In: A. Smart & J. Smart (Eds), Petty capitalism and globalization: Flexibility, entrepreneurship, and economic development (pp. 227–253). Albany, NY: State University of New York Press. Ministerio de Desarrollo Econo´mico: Artesanı´ as de Colombia S.A. (1998). Censo econo´mico nacional: Sector artesanal. Santa Fe de Bogota´. Nash, J. (1981). Ethnographic aspects of the world capitalist system. Annual Review of Anthropology, 10, 393–424. North, D. (1989). Institutions and economic growth: An historical introduction. World Development, 17, 1319–1332. North, D. (1990). Institutions, institutional change and economic performance. New York: Cambridge University Press. Nugent, S. (1988). The ‘‘peripheral situation’’. Annual Review of Anthropology, 17, 79–98. O’Laughlin, B. (1975). Marxist approaches in anthropology. Annual Review of Anthropology, 4, 341–370. Pe´rez, A. (1990). Evolucio´n paleogeogra´ﬁca y dina´mica actual de los medios naturales de la penı´ nsula de la Guajira. In: G. Ardila (Ed.), La Guajira, de la memoria al porvenir: Una visio´n antropolo´gica (pp. 23–28). Bogota´: Universidad Nacional de Colombia. Perrin, M. (1987). The way of the dead Indians. Paris: Eitions Payot Translation of Le chemin des Indiens morts: Mithes et symbols guajiro. Platteau, J.-P. (1994). Behind the market stage where real societies exist, Part I: The role of public and private order institutions. Journal of Development Studies, 30, 533–577. Polanyi, K. (1968). Our obsolete market mentality. In: K. Polanyi (Ed.), Primitive, archaic, and modern economies: Essays of Karl Polanyi (pp. 59–77). New York: Anchor Books. Portes, A. (1995). Economic sociology and the sociology of immigration: A conceptual overview. In: A. Portes (Ed.), The economic sociology of immigration: Essays on networks, ethnicity, and entrepreneurship (pp. 1–41). New York: Russell Sage Foundation. Pretty, J., & Ward, H. (2001). Social capital and the environment. World Development, 29(2), 209–227. Roseberry, W. (1988). Political economy. Annual Review of Anthropology, 17, 161–185. Sahlins, M. (1972). Stone age economics. Chicago: Aldine. Smith, C. (1974). Economics of marketing systems: Models from economic geography. Annual Review of Anthropology, 3, 167–201. Smith, V. (1998). The two faces of Adam Smith, distinguished guest lecture. Southern Economic Journal, 65(1), 2–19. Smith, V. (2004). Lessons of experience: Markets, capital markets, and globalization. Paper prepared for the Annual World Bank Conference on Development Economics. Washington, DC, May 3–4, 2004. Stoller, P. (2002). Money has no smell: The Africanization of New York City. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. UNICEF. (2005). Humanitarian action report 2005: The Americas and Caribbean. http:// www.unicef.org/emerg/ﬁles/TACRO.pdf Wolf, E. (1982). Europe and the people without history. Berkeley and Los Angeles, CA: University of California Press.

PART IV: KARL POLANYI AND THE CRITIQUE OF FORMALISM IN ECONOMIC ANALYSIS

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KARL POLANYI ON THE LIMITATIONS OF FORMALISM IN ECONOMICS James Ronald Stanﬁeld, Michael C. Carroll and Mary V. Wrenn ABSTRACT This chapter examines Karl Polanyi’s critique of formalism in economics and his case for a more institutional economics based upon a reconstitution of the facts of economic life on as wide an historical basis as possible. The argument below reviews Polanyi’s argument with regard to the relation between economic anthropology and comparative economics, the contrast between the formalist and substantive approaches to economic analysis, the notion of an economistic fallacy, the most important limitations of the conventional formalist economics approach, and the nature and import of the new departure that Polanyi envisioned.

Why must [economists] reject being vaguely right in favor of being precisely wrong? —A. K. Sen I suppose it is tempting, if the only tool you have is a hammer, to treat everything as if it were a nail. —A. Maslow Choice in Economic Contexts: Ethnographic and Theoretical Enquiries Research in Economic Anthropology, Volume 25, 241–266 Copyright r 2007 by Elsevier Ltd. All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0190-1281/doi:10.1016/S0190-1281(06)25011-X

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In this chapter, we examine Karl Polanyi’s critique of formalism in economics, which was meant to contribute toward the formation of an economics which is more institutional, more historical, and more relevant to the largest problems of democratic industrial society. Polanyi’s two basic concerns were methodological and historical. The historical problem was the social or political economy of capitalism – the interaction of the capitalist market economy with political and social life. The methodological issue turned on the distinction between the formalist and the substantivist notions of the economy. Polanyi thought only the latter could provide an adequate approach to the economic process. In many ways Polanyi returned to the problematic of Marx, that is, to economic sociology and the historical tendency of capitalism. Economic sociology is concerned not simply with the observation of current behavior but also with how people came to behave in that way (see Marx, especially the introduction to the Grundrisse in Marx & Engels, 1975, Vol. 28, and the discussion of primitive accumulation in Capital in Marx & Engels, 1975, Vol. 35, Part 8). Weber emphasized similar concern in his important [General Economic History (1961)] and the long theoretical chapter on ‘‘Sociological Categories of Economic Action’’ in [Economy and Society (1978, chap. 2).] All would insist that the individual exercises discretion but that she does so within an historical context. Polanyi’s task was to develop a theory of the economy that is applicable to systems that existed before market capitalism and systems that grow out of market capitalism. He insisted on the need for a substantivist approach because only such an approach could keep an open mind so that the ethnographic record could be carefully compiled and interpreted without ethnocentric prejudice. Polanyi was convinced that such a wider frame of reference for economic inquiry is a necessary basis for understanding the characteristic social problems of the modern age, thus enabling democratic society to break through the impasse created by industrialism as instituted via market capitalism. In the following, ﬁrst, we discuss the relation between economic anthropology and comparative economics. Second, we present Polanyi’s contrast between the formalist and substantive approaches to economic analysis. In doing so, we shall frequently allude to Marx’s methodological discussion in the Grundrisse, because it largely parallels Polanyi’s argument. Third, we review Polanyi’s argument that the conventional view commits an economistic fallacy, and, fourth, we examine the most important limitations that this imposes upon the conventional formalist approach. In the ﬁfth and concluding section, we outline the nature and import of the new departure that Polanyi envisioned.

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ECONOMIC ANTHROPOLOGY AND COMPARATIVE ECONOMICS Polanyi recognized the essential theoretical afﬁnity between economic anthropology and comparative economics. Any theoretical approach shapes the investigator’s perceptions and therefore the assembly and interpretation of the facts of the matter at hand. Veblen (1898) long ago recognized that it was the matter of interpretation more than the presence of contending facts that separated the major schools of economics: ‘‘The difference is a difference of spiritual attitude y, it is a difference in the basis of valuation of the facts for the scientiﬁc purpose, or in the interest from which the facts are appreciated.’’ George Dalton (1968, p. xxxviii) makes the same point in his observation that the ‘‘ethnographic record is large and detailed. What is in doubt is the most useful theoretical approach to organize the many descriptive accounts.’’ The research program on primitive and archaic social economies can go forward only if it is not contaminated by ethnocentric prejudice. All human material production involves the same elements of human beings actively applying tools to transform natural objects into forms more appropriate to human use (see the Grundrisse in Marx & Engels, 1975, Vol. 28). Since in all cases this process involves some degree of subdivided labor, it is also universal that some socially structured transactions for integrating the division of labor be present. These instituted transactions will have some similarity to each other in otherwise very different cultures. The market capitalist exchange process will therefore bear some resemblance to the reciprocity processes of primitive society. If careful comparative analysis is undertaken, understanding the function of exchange may help understand the function of similar functional processes in earlier societies (Dalton, 1968, p. x). But as Marx insisted, this comparative analysis requires attention to the differences in the processes of earlier and modern systems, which cannot be accomplished if these differences are glossed over by ethnocentric prejudice. The bourgeois economy thus supplies the key to the ancient, etc. But not at all in the manner of those economists who smudge over all historical differences and see bourgeois relations in all forms of society. One can understand tribute, tithe, etc., if one is acquainted with ground rent. But one must not identify them. (Marx & Engels, 1975, Vol. 28, p. 42)

The socially structured transactions for integrating the division of labor have at least superﬁcial similarities (Dalton, 1968, pp. xli–xlii). The presence of these categorical generalities simultaneously makes it fruitful to undertake trans-cultural comparisons and establishes the need for methodological discipline so that fundamental and instructive differences are not swept

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under the rug of hasty generalizations and ethnocentrism. There is much to be learned from comparison of primitive and modern social economies if oversimpliﬁcation and neglect of concrete cultural contexts is avoided. The danger of ethnocentric neglect of differences is present even in the organizational comparison of the economic systems of a given epoch; it is present with much greater force in the consideration of social evolution. The actually existing capitalisms of America and Europe have much in common with one another. Even the former socialisms of the Soviet bloc, viewed in relation to these capitalisms, shared important similarities because all the systems under comparison were modern, industrial economies with similar concerns and problems of efﬁciency, growth, urbanization, and social psychology. Comparative analysis of one with the others nonetheless reveals critical historical and cultural differences which have implications for economic organization narrowly conceived. In comparative economics, care must be taken not to neglect such signiﬁcant differences (see Menz, 2003; Rhodes, 2005; Whitley, 1998). These differences and the concomitant methodological issues are greatly increased in the comparative economic analysis of primitive and archaic social economies. It becomes even more important to avoid the neglect of the cultural context which surrounds and motivates the production and distribution of goods and services. In addition to the need for totality and cultural context, another instructive lesson to be learned from these categorical similarities is the need for a holistic process or evolutionary focus. Socioeconomic categories or institutions have concrete life processes of origin and development. Their functional importance in a given society is not given by their mere existence but by their relation to other institutions in that society. Concrete institutional analysis is necessary to determine if an institution is peripheral or predominant in a given society. In capitalism, wage-labor and capital and commodity production for market exchange are dominant institutions, but one cannot assume that they have always been so important historically simply because evidence of their existence is found. Polanyi insisted that although the market institution was ‘‘fairly common since the later Stone Age, its role was [commonly] no more than incidental to economic life’’ before the rise of modern capitalism (Polanyi, 1944, p. 43). Lynn White Jr., has made a similar point with respect to the essential feudal relationships that fused the ancient practice of vassalage to the newer practice of beneﬁce. History records many instances of inventions and relationships ‘‘which have remained dormant in a society until at last y they ‘awaken’ and become active elements in the shaping of a culture to which they are not entirely novel’’ (White, 1964, pp. 5, 10, 28).

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The point is that the methodology of economic anthropology should contain or be part of comparative economic analysis. As Dalton (1968, p. x) observes, ‘‘a theory of economic anthropology becomes possible only when primitive and archaic economies are regarded as part of comparative economic systems. To understand what is special to the economies anthropologists deal with and what they share with all other economies requires comparative analysis of the kind Polanyi provides.’’ Polanyi saw not only the need to treat economic anthropology as a component of comparative economics but also the importance of economic anthropology to comparative economics. Speciﬁcally, he found a vital defect in the methodology of comparative economics which could be corrected only by the incorporation of the insights of economic anthropology into comparative economic analysis. Comparative economics is primarily concerned with organizational comparisons of modern industrial economies and these comparisons are usually made in terms of the formal, economizing models of a market economic culture. This approach is to a considerable extent inaccurate on its own turf because the industrialized economies display important differences due to their cultural and historical heritage. Accordingly, notwithstanding their exhibiting common traits such as concern for rationality, efﬁciency, stability, and growth, many facets and problems of their economic behavior are shaped by their cultural differences. Polanyi sought to overcome this limited vision by ‘‘the linking up of economic history with social anthropology’’ (Polanyi, 1944, p. 45). In his view, open-minded contemplation of the place of pre-capitalist economies in society would provide the basis for a new examination of the place of capitalist economy in society. This would in turn assist in counteracting the formalist neglect of the historical dimension and the cultural totality of human behavior by providing an open-minded general economic history. Thus the economic history of pre-capitalist economies becomes a vital area for the comparison of economic systems (Dalton, 1968, p. x). Obviously, the open-minded approach must be one that does not prejudge the empirical aspects of pre-capitalist economies. When the scope of transcultural comparative analysis is historical rather than simply spatial, the economizing viewpoint may rob the analysis of precisely those insights that Polanyi considers essential. The prevalent notion that self-interested participation in exchange is ubiquitous is especially important in this regard. Such calculated individual behavior may be negatively sanctioned or otherwise unimportant in these earlier societies and this implies that ‘‘nothing less than a fundamentally different starting point for the analysis of the human economy as a social process is required’’ (ibid., p. 118).1 This new point of

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departure must view the pursuit of gain through exchange as an institutionally enforced pattern of behavior which may or may not be present in an empirical economy and which therefore must be analyzed as a result rather than as the antecedent of the historical process. Once again, Marx put the matter well in his criticism of classical political economy, when he criticized Smith and Ricardo for starting their analysis with what modern economists refer to as ‘‘economic man.’’ Marx (in Marx & Engels, 1975, Vol. 28, pp. 17–18) argued that Smith and Ricardo posit this abstract individual ‘‘as an ideal whose existence belonged to the past. They saw this individual not as an historic result, but as the starting point of history; not as something evolving in the course of history, but posited by nature, because for them this individual was the natural individual, according to their idea of human nature.’’ Marx was objecting to the mystiﬁcation that made the institutions of market capitalism seem inevitable because of their consistency with an invariant human nature – Smith’s ‘‘natural propensity to truck, barter, and exchange.’’ Modern economists carry on this institutional ﬁxation by embedding the cultural traits of market capitalism into their analysis as universal human nature. The limits thus placed on analytic effort is precisely what Polanyi sought to express by the term market mentality. Polanyi was convinced that this narrowness of economic theory could be overcome only by the availability of a wider empirical basis for economic theory, and that the integration of economic anthropology, economic history, and comparative economic systems into a comprehensive universal or general economic history was the way to achieve this wider basis.

THE TWO MEANINGS OF ECONOMIC To open the way for the development of a wider empirical basis for economic analysis, Polanyi developed and frequently used a distinction between two meanings of the root term economic. He saw that two very different approaches to the study of economic behavior stem from these two deﬁnitions and that clarity in this regard was fundamental to a more openminded approach to empirical economies. He referred to these as the formal and substantive meanings of economic. We summarize the formal and substantive approaches to economic analysis in Fig. 1. The point of departure for the formal connotation is axiomatic scarcity. Inevitably, insatiable human wants to exceed the ﬁnite capacities of their productive resources.

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Formal Approach

Substantive Approach

Basis

Axiomatic Scarcity

Axiomatic Material Need

Unit of Analysis

Individual

Society

Assumed Economic Objective

Efficiency

Sufficiency

Instituted Economic Behavior

Implicit: Economic Man

Explicit: Place of Economy

Fig. 1.

Formal and Substantive Views Compared.

The formal meaning y [s]temming from the means-end relationship y is a universal whose referents are not restricted to any one ﬁeld of human interest. Logical or mathematical terms of this sort are called formal in contrast to the speciﬁc areas to which they are applied. Such a meaning underlies the verb maximizing, more popularly, economizingy. (Polanyi, 1977, p. 20)

The formal connotation is the basis of mainstream economists. Its ethnographic hallmark is that of gain-oriented, maximizing choice or calculative, economizing behavior. Faced with the ineluctable fact of scarcity, human societies also confront the inevitable necessity of choosing. Any society and, indeed, especially its constituent individuals, must by one means or another make priority decisions on the allocation and distribution of productive capacity. Coupled with the further postulate or ideal typology of rationality, economics becomes the science of choice, and its typical concern is the deductive exploration of the logic of maximizing under the constraint of scarcity. Coupled with the liberal ethos of individualism, this formalist framework virtually eclipses the traditional social setting of economic activity. The liberal values of individual self-reliance, initiative, self-sovereignty, and personal development take on an untoward narrowness.2 Indeed, society becomes but the aggregate of the decisions made by economic men with given preferences and capacities in the face of market situations. No important conception emerges from the formalist perspective of social value as anything more than the sum of private values. The formalist orientation was the predominant focus of mainstream economics in the twentieth century, especially for three decades after World War II, when a formalist revolution

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occurred in methodology that led to the ever more sophisticated expression of the formalist, economizing approach to economics, despite growing recognition of its substantive shortcomings.3 These shortcomings have much to do with the static character of formalist analysis and its not being equipped to consider social change (Stanﬁeld, 1979). Polanyi countered the formalist conception with the substantive connotation of economic as material. The substantive connotation centers on the necessity that humanity, in order to get its living, must interact with the rest of nature. The substantive connotation refers to the material function of the economy. The latter means no more, no less than the nature-imposed necessity that all its natural species must get a living for themselves. As material beings, humans require material reproduction. As social beings, they require social reproduction. The substantive focus is placed upon material reproduction within speciﬁc historical social relationships. Humanity reproduces itself through institutionalized social interactions that pattern the interaction between humanity and the rest of nature. Not surprisingly, the two connotations of the root term economic provide the basis for two different deﬁnitions of the economic system and two perspectives from which to approach economic analysis. The formal approach to deﬁning economic systems turns, of course, on the axiomatic basis of scarcity, rationality, and choice, which appears: to establish the range of the formal meaning as comprising the economy in all its manifestations. For the economy, however instituted, would then consist of scarce means under conditions that induce acts of choice among the different uses of the insufﬁcient means, and, consequently, be capable of description in the formal terms of the scarcity deﬁnition. (Polanyi, 1977, p. 25) [E]conomizing action, the essence of rationality – is, then, regarded as a manner of disposing of time and energy so that a maximum of goals are achieved out of this man–nature relationship. And the economy becomes the locus of such action. (Polanyi, Arensberg, & Pearson, 1957, pp. 239–240)

The formal meaning then ‘‘denotes the economy as a sequence of acts of economizing, i.e., of choices induced by scarcity situations’’ (ibid., p. 247). Statements to this effect abound in conventional economics textbooks. The economy is less a matter of work, production, technology, products, and consumption than it is a matter of choosing. Not classes of workers, capitalists, and rentier, engaged in economic activity in a variety of ways and with diverse motives, populate the economic system, but instead the economy is peopled by decision-making individuals singularly intent upon maximum gain.

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Polanyi sharply dissented from this reduction of economic activity to a process of sentient choice with its own internal logic. He argued that ‘‘we must rid ourselves of the ingrained notion that the economy is a ﬁeld of experience of which human beings have necessarily always been conscious’’ (ibid., p. 242). The substantive economic function, material provisioning, has, of course, always been present, but it does not necessarily follow that societies have a conception of a distinct subsystem, the economy, with its own distinct logic and governing principles. In other words, the substantive economy is universal, the calculative economy is not. This much is clear from Polanyi’s insistence that the vital typological condition for the substantive economy is that ‘‘so long as the wants depend for their fulﬁllment on material objects, the reference is economic.’’ Emphatically, the relation between the wants and the material objects need not involve choice in the formal sense. Neither scarcity nor maximization is crucial to the substantive conception of the economy. Not choice but livelihood or provisioning is the vision underlying the substantive deﬁnition of the economic system. This vision is expressed in Aristotle’s ‘‘concept of the economy [as] an institutionalized process through which sustenance is secured’’ (Polanyi, 1977, p. 30). The economy as an instituted process of interaction serving the satisfaction of material wants forms a vital part of every human community. Without an economy in this sense, no society could exist for any length of time. The substantive economy must be understood as being constituted on two levels: one is the interaction between man and his surroundings; the other is the institutionalization of that process. (ibid., p. 31)

Nature imposes upon humankind the necessity of interacting with the natural environment. For the isolated Robinson Crusoe, the economy would be reduced to this engineering level. Crusoe would have to have some engineering competency with regard to his island’s ecology in order to carry out his economic activity. In a true social economy, however, the individual’s ecological judgment is not sufﬁcient per se. It is also necessary that the individual have a working knowledge of other participants in the social economy. This is the social problem of integration or institutedness of economic behavior. As Adolph Lowe (1977) insists, it is essentially a system of communication and sanction. Individuals need to know what is expected of them and what they can expect of others. They also need to know what sanctions will be applied to ensure expected behavior. This system of communication and sanction, spanning the spectrum from personal moral

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responsibility to social accountability, is the institutedness of the substantive economy. The economic system, or the economic function of social activity, is therefore a more or less systematic and orderly pattern of social behavior which functions to provision the material wherewithal necessary to support social and individual life. The materiality conception of the economy refers to the instituted process by which society provisions itself, and this connotation emphasizes technology, change, and society, and the comparison of the institutional patterns of different economies. The market economy and its institutions of calculative behavior and the search for personal advantage through exchange is one such pattern, but only one such. Moreover, even at this, the predominance of calculativeness over caprice, habit, and empathy in the market economy is sufﬁciently lax to delimit the economistic conception in some regards. At any rate, calculative behavior is not spontaneous; it must be instituted through acculturation in the same way as any other social trait. Obviously, two such very different visions of the economic system must lead to two very different approaches to economic theory. Robbins argues that four conditions must be met if a phenomenal situation is to provide a problem for economic science. There must be various ends or goals, limited means for achieving these ends, these ends must be capable of alternative applications, and the ends must be of varying importance (1969, p. 12). Moreover, for Robbins, if these conditions are met, ‘‘then behavior necessarily assumes the form of choice.’’ Hence economic science may not be concerned with given productive and consumptive activities at all if the activities do not meet these conditions. Conversely, any activities which do meet these conditions provide scientiﬁc problems for economics whether or not the activities are generally conceived as economic in a material sense. Robbins’ conception of economic science: focuses attention on a particular aspect of behavior, the form imposed by the inﬂuence of scarcity. It follows from this, therefore, that in so far as it presents this aspect, any kind of human behavior falls within the scope of economic generalizations. We do not say that the production of potatoes is economic activity and the production of philosophy is not. We say rather that, in so far as either kind of activity involves the relinquishment of other desired alternatives, it has its economic aspect. There are no limitations on the subject-matter of Economic Science save this. (ibid., p. 17)

The substantive approach conceives of the economy ‘‘as a component of culture rather than a kind of human action, the material life process of society rather than a need-satisfying process of individual behavior’’ (Sahlins, 1972, p. 186n.). Polanyi insists that economic theory must include

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non-calculative motivations and material activity whether or not scarcity exists or is believed to exist. Thus, the substantive view insists that material means are the prime concerns of economic analysis (Polanyi, 1977, pp. 26–27). In a passage in which Polanyi laments that, although there have been many substantivist economists, they have been brushed aside by the predominance of the formalist bent, he also elaborates the contrast between the two approaches: These thinkers emphasized the substantive meaning of economic. They identiﬁed the economy with industry rather than business; with technology rather than ceremonialism; with means of production rather than titles to property; with capital goods rather than capital – in short, with the economic substance rather than its marketing form and terminology. (ibid., p. 6)

It is useful perhaps to insert a parenthetical remark on the relation of the two approaches to ideology. Adherents to the substantive approach, notably in its outcroppings in German Historicism, Marxism, and American Institutionalism, tend to support more in the way of political control of economic activity than their formalist colleagues. The formal framework focuses on the relations of given means to given ends in an atmosphere of individual maximization. As a result, the market determination of relative prices tends take on an air of inevitability, invariance, and immutability. The categories of power, socioeconomic class, and social change are singularly absent in the formal depiction of the economy. The substantive view tends to afford far more attention to historical experience and social change, and to power and culture in relation to the economic process. To suggest that matters were once different is to suggest that they could be different again, and to emphasize power is to emphasize discretion in the ordering of economic matters. This outlook serves to refute any sense of immutability of present institutional arrangements. Polanyi underscored this conclusion with his concept of the economistic fallacy.

THE ECONOMISTIC FALLACY Polanyi contended that the formal approach to economic theory commits the economistic fallacy, which ‘‘consists in a tendency to equate the human economy with its market form. Accordingly, to eliminate this bias, a radical clariﬁcation of the meaning of the word economic is required’’ (Polanyi, 1977, p. 20). This is again the problem of raising to universal status the speciﬁc historical character of a given time and place. Also again the

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contrast of the two meanings of economic is the starting point for overcoming the ethnocentric error of ‘‘joining a formal category of action, economizing, with an empirical entity, the economy’’ (Pearson, 1957, p. 313, italics omitted). Polanyi chose the word fallacy with care; formalism or economism constitutes a logical error: The fallacy itself is patent: the physical aspect of man’s needs is part of the human condition; no society can exist that does not possess some kind of substantive economy. The supply–demand–price mechanism, on the other hand y , is a comparatively modern institution of speciﬁc structure y To narrow the sphere of the genus economic speciﬁcally to market phenomena is to eliminate the greatest part of man’s history from the scene. On the other hand, to stretch the concept of the market until it embraces all economic phenomena is artiﬁcially to invest all things economic with the peculiar characteristics that accompany the phenomenon of the market. Inevitably, clarity of thought is impaired. (Polanyi, 1977, p. 6)

The economistic fallacy commits the logical error of misplaced concreteness. Alfred North Whitehead deﬁned the fallacy of misplaced concreteness as ‘‘identifying abstract conceptions with reality’’ (Whitehead, 1925, p. 101), or again, as ‘‘neglecting the degree of abstraction involved when an actual entity is considered merely so far as it exempliﬁes certain categories of thought’’ (Whitehead, 1929, pp. 11, 321). It is precisely Polanyi’s point that the economistic fallacy identiﬁes an abstract model with reality, and especially that it considers empirical economic behavior only insofar as that behavior corresponds to the postulates of the formal, maximizing model. This is precisely Veblen’s (1898) central point in his classic article on the non-evolutionary character of the conventional economics of the time. The point retains its force: ‘‘It is beyond dispute y that the sin of standard economics is the fallacy of misplaced concreteness y’’ (Georgescu-Roegen, 1971, pp. 320–321). The pernicious legacy of economistic thinking is seen most clearly in its eclipse of institutional analysis. Institutional analysis consists of ‘‘those conceptual tools required to penetrate the maze of social relationships in which the economy’’ has been implanted (Polanyi et al., 1957, p. 242). The concern of institutional analysis is the systematic, comparative study of those social arrangements and habits of mind by which human society institutes its economic function, i.e., by which it vests economic activity with meaning and stability. In Polanyi’s view, the tool kit of concepts for institutional analysis has yet to be established. Such concepts cannot in any event be brought to fruition without the penetration and transcendence of the economistic fallacy.

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The economistic fallacy preempts institutional analysis by presupposing the psychology of economic activity and preﬁguring the nature and task of economic institutions. The formal approach, with its assumption of economic man, implicitly assumes a particular mode of instituting the economic process, that being, market exchange. In this economistic approach, ‘‘the economy, however instituted, [consists] of scarce means under conditions that induce acts of choice y’’ (Polanyi, 1977, p. 25). Robbins makes crystal clear the eclipse of institutional analysis: But it is one thing to contend that economic analysis has most interest and utility in an exchange economy. It is another to contend that its subject-matter is limited to such phenomena y It is clear that behavior outside the exchange economy is conditioned by the same limitation of means in relation to ends as behavior within the economy, and is capable of being subsumed under the same fundamental categories. The generalizations of the theory of value are as applicable to the behavior of isolated man or the executive authority of a communist society, as to the behavior of man in an exchange economy– even if they are not so illuminating in such contexts. The exchange relationship is a technical incident, y subsidiary to the main fact of scarcity. (Robbins, 1969, pp. 19–20)

All doubt is removed by Robbins’s insistence that ‘‘scarcity of means to satisfy ends of varying importance is an almost ubiquitous condition of human behavior’’ (ibid., p. 15). For economic analysis of the economistic ilk, there is no call to delve into the concrete aspirations, powers, and foibles of the lives of given people. Economic analysis knows a priori what it needs to know about their lives; it knows in advance what constitutes their economic problem. In effect, formal economic analysis has no need to know the people whose economic activities it is intent on studying. This ethnocentric eclipse of institutional analysis has serious consequences for social science and philosophy. It virtually guarantees that the actual needs, wants, motives, and interests of any given people will not be ferreted out, described, and analyzed. Of particular importance is the universal attribution of motive of individual gain. On the broad historical record the motive of gain and the calculative categories are neither always present nor are they often predominant even when they are present (Polanyi, 1944, chap. 4). Yet the formal approach gives the impression that gain or deprivation are universal economic incentives despite ethnographic information that ‘‘ranging over human societies, we ﬁnd hunger and gain not appealed to as incentives to production, and where so appealed to, they are fused with other powerful motives’’ (Polanyi, 1968, pp. 64–65). Far from being universal economic motives, deprivation and gain are no more economic than other motives and they are not widely instituted as incentives to engage in productive activity.

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Of course, this is not to deny the necessity of food provisioning. The point is only that hunger per se need not provide the psychological impetus to food provisioning: Assuredly, if we do not eat, we must perish y But the pangs of hunger are not automatically translated into an incentive to produce. Production is not an individual, but a collective affair. If an individual is hungry, there is nothing deﬁnite for him to do y With man, the political animal, everything is given not by natural, but by social circumstance. What made the nineteenth century think of hunger and gain as ‘‘economic’’ was simply the organization of production under a market economy. Hunger and gain are here linked with production through the need of ‘‘earning an income.’’ For under such a system, man, if he is to keep alive, is compelled to buy goods on the market with the help of an income derived from selling other goods on the market. (Polanyi, 1968, p. 64)

In other words, food must be provided, but how it is provided is a matter of how the division of labor is instituted. Individuals may be socialized to sell and buy to satisfy hunger, but they may instead be taught to petition a political ﬁgure or to depend upon a relative for it. If one assumes productive activity must be gain-oriented, then one closes one’s mind to other motives. This is the fallacy of misplaced concreteness in the formal context. Under its thrall, primitive and archaic economies must be viewed as quasi-market economies and such actual motivations as reciprocal gift-giving or customary tithe-offering are then mistakenly rendered as exchange-for-gain activities (ibid., pp. 120–122). Veblen (1898, p. 389) forcefully makes this point in his classic essay on the need for an evolutionary economics, when he laments that the hedonistic man of mainstream economics ‘‘has neither antecedent nor consequent,’’ which is to say that the economic agent, thus conceived, has lived no history and lives no history. He continues by noting the hedonistic conception neglects the fact that ‘‘it is the characteristic of man to do something’’ because he is ‘‘a coherent structure of propensities and habits which seeks realization and expression in an unfolding activity’’ (ibid., p. 390).

THE CONSEQUENCES OF THE FORMALIST VIEW The economistic fallacy robs society of a large part of the advantages to be gained through the comparison of economic systems, speciﬁcally, to know one’s selves and situations better by coming to understand the character and situations of people in different circumstances. Ethnocentric error and the neglect of concrete and comparative institutional analysis severely limits the

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capacity to make use of this advantage of comparative economics. The comparison of economic systems can contribute to the resolution of both theoretical and policy problems because it enables economists to widen their ﬁeld of vision beyond their own limited institutional experience. But the ethnocentrism of the economistic fallacy severely limits the ability of economists to realize this beneﬁt of comparative economics. The contrast between the formal and substantive approaches becomes critically important in terms of modern political economy when consideration turns to the problem of imagining alternative future institutional arrangements. This was ultimately Polanyi’s point. It was his view that society was spontaneously delimiting the reach of the market economy and that care should be taken not to overlook the signiﬁcance of ‘‘the gradual institutional transformation that has been in progress since the First World War’’ (Polanyi, 1957, p. 270). The implication of this receding market hypothesis is that a substantive approach is needed to guide inquiry into the evolving socioeconomic process. However, Polanyi continues, ‘‘the market cannot be superseded as a general frame of reference until the social sciences succeed in developing a wider frame of reference to which the market itself is referable.’’ Polanyi sought to explain the social change of modern capitalism in order to open the way for a vision of the future. His model of market capitalism is that of a double movement in which the ever increasing application of the market mentality to social life is met by a protective response directed at limiting the socially dislocating effects of the putatively self-regulating market system (Polanyi, 1944). The protective response has been very diverse. Governments have intervened to protect labor with legislation regulating the employment of children and women, working conditions, and the length of the workday. Wide-ranging income maintenance programs have been enacted, along with measures aimed at land use planning, resource conservation, pollution control, and modern comprehensive environmental protection. Central banking, capital market regulations, and aggregate demand management have been introduced in an effort to stabilize the macroeconomy. Regulatory agencies have been established to assure consumer product safety and service standards for those providing care for the young and old. Trade unions and other voluntary associations such as civic, historical preservation, or naturalist societies have played a major role. Even the modern corporation can be viewed as part of the protective response since its principal animus is the urge to stabilize and control the uncertain exigencies of the market mechanism. The protective response essentially restores and protects reciprocity and redistribution as socially structured transactions for integrating the division

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of labor. This protection is necessary because the expansionary character of commodity production and the pecuniary myopia it breeds tend to destroy these social processes and the social bonds upon which they are based and which they in turn foster. This pecuniary myopia obscures the protective response, which is in any case spontaneous, driven not by ideology but by social exigency. Spontaneous and obscure, ill understood and haphazardly fashioned, the protective response adds to the political economic instability of modern life. Crisis becomes endemic. In light of the receding market hypothesis the limitations of the formal approach become acutely problematical. If, for reasons of social protection, society is reducing the scope of social control by the market process, then clearly a focus on the interaction of economy and society is needed to understand the dynamic involved. Polanyi insisted that actually existing welfare state capitalisms and formerly existing socialisms are the culmination of protective response. If so they are thus fundamentally guided by the logic of social protection, and the formal view has no facility to guide inquiry into the explanation and character of their existence. In a sense the formal view lacks the capacity to come to grips with the twentieth century. This is related to the formalist view’s lack of openness to the nature of pre-capitalist society. These societies, lacking market exchange, were obviously integrated by transactions placed differently in society than market exchange. Polanyi was convinced that reciprocity, redistribution, and exchange are the principal if not the only processes humanity has invented to integrate the division of labor. If so and if the market is now receding, then society must again be making resort to these reciprocal and redistributive transactions which are placed differently in society. The economistic fallacy also obscures important considerations by its presumption of scarcity. The formal perspective leaves no room to consider empirically whether or not an insufﬁciency of means exists, or whether or not insatiability does in fact characterize the material appetites of given people at a given time and place. The substantive perspective emphasizes material need and sufﬁciency and leaves open the questions of scarcity and insatiability. Indeed, as Aristotle emphasized, the substantive orientation must reject insatiability because nothing in nature is boundless (Polanyi, 1977, p. 30). The scarcity and insatiability prejudice is important because it limits the imagination with respect to the future. Lowe observes that ‘‘the notion of unconditional scarcity turns a deaf ear to the promise of this revolt – the eventual y conquest of the stinginess of nature’’ (Lowe 1977, p. 13). Other economists, including J. S. Mill, Simon Nelson Patten, J. M. Keynes, and

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J. K. Galbraith have questioned the wisdom of the presumption of insatiability and held out the view that the so-called economic problem might someday be solved, if only humankind is capable of recognizing its solution when and if the time comes. These and others regard the question of insatiability in terms reminiscent of Veblen’s invidious comparison or Marx’s commodity fetishism. To cite but one example: Now it is true that the needs of human beings may seem to be insatiable. But they fall into two classes–those needs which are absolute y , and those which are relative in the sense that we feel them only if their satisfaction lifts us above, makes us feel superior to our fellows. Needs of the second class, those which satisfy the desire for superiority, may indeed be insatiable. (Keynes, 1963, pp. 364–365)

The needs for social esteem and even invidious distinction may be insatiable but it is not inevitable that they be expressed through an endless treadmill of commodity consumption. Moreover, insatiability based on envy is probably best viewed as a neurotic deviance, more to be cured than celebrated and legitimated as a primary social force. This is clearly the critique that Marxists, Veblenians, and Galbraithians make concerning a mature capitalist economy which is unable to put its vast productive power to use satisfying reasonable human needs and raising the scale of human freedom. The essential discussion in our view is still William Leiss’s (1976) remarkably incisive and provocative discussion on the relation of human needs to commodities. The problem is not merely the methodology of economic history and anthropology. To the extent that modern economic behavior is performed under non-gain impetuses, or a mixture of gain and non-gain motives, the economistic fallacy provides incorrect or incomplete guidance to economic policy. One of the themes of Lowe (1977) is that contemporary economic policy is hampered by the unrealistic behavioral assumptions of mainstream economic analysis. Speciﬁcally, Lowe argues that the extremum, or maximization, principle which orthodoxy assumes and which corresponded well to early competitive capitalism, is no longer enforced by socioeconomic conditions. Policy based on the assumption that the extremum principle is operative is therefore misguided. In an earlier book, Lowe gave a more speciﬁc example, that of the so-called Rentenmark in Germany in 1923 (Lowe, 1935, pp. 19–22). The treasury, desperately seeking to control inﬂation, pressed ahead with a policy that the best economic minds were convinced would fail and, indeed, make matters worse. The policy was successful! The key to the success was an appeal to patriotism and solidarity, psychological ingredients that economists were not equipped to include

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in their deliberations because of their assumption that people would respond to the policy initiative by seeking as much as possible on an individual basis. Lowe (1988) later elaborated his point by raising the threat posed to freedom by the decline of spontaneous conformity, the extent to which people operate according to certain basic rules of conduct without being commanded or paid on the spot to do so. This spontaneity is not immanent; it must be learned and it is learned in close knit social relationships as a process of reciprocity. One conforms to the code of behavior because one can reasonably expect others to so and because one realizes that the social order cannot function if incessant negotiation is required as to who can talk when, smoke where, or pass through ﬁrst. Once learned, the lesson of reciprocal spontaneous conformity must be reinforced throughout the life course. Persistent violation of reciprocal expectations reduces an individual’s sense of social bonding and cooperation. The virtuous circle of positive reciprocity must be actively reinforced lest it degenerate into a vicious circle of neglect and revenge. Baran and Sweezy (1966) also indicated that a cultural crisis was in the making owing to the obsolescence of the doctrine of scarcity with its axiomatically necessary principle of quid pro quo. From their pattern model of late capitalism, they predicted growing psycho-cultural dysfunctionality that would threaten social stability (Stanﬁeld &Carrol, 1997). This theme of an obsolete conventional wisdom that has not been updated in light of the vast expansion of productive capacity shows up also in the work of the American institutional economists, notably Veblen and Galbraith (Stanﬁeld, 1996).

TOWARD A NEW DEPARTURE Polanyi’s methodological concern is now clearly in hand. Recognition of the primacy of society in human life, that economic activity is social activity, necessitates a new departure in economic thought: Approaching the economic process from the vantage point of the new knowledge we have gained of the reality of society, we must say that there is no necessary relationship between economizing action and the empirical economy. The institutional structure of the economy need not compel, as with the market system, economizing actions. The implications of such an insight for all the social sciences which must deal with the economy could hardly be more far-reaching. Nothing less than a fundamentally different starting point for the analysis of the human economy as a social process is required. (Polanyi, 1957, p. 240)

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The basis of this departure is also clearly in view: It is our proposition that only the substantive meaning of economic is capable of yielding the concepts that are required by the social sciences for an investigation of all the empirical economies past and present. (ibid., p. 244)

The substantive approach to economic anthropology, economic history, and comparative economics is necessary if the essential institutional analysis is to be made possible. Lowe has offered a very apt and succinct way of posing the essential question of institutional analysis: ‘‘What must we know in order to gain systematic understanding of the economic activities of a human group, and by what intellectual techniques can such ‘economic knowledge’ be obtained?’’ (Lowe, 1977, p. 6, emphasis added). Lowe’s question aptly captures Polanyi’s insistence that we need to examine the place of economy in society. For the Polanyi Group this inquiry was a matter of considerable urgency: The scholar’s endeavor must be, ﬁrst, to give clarity and precision to our concepts, so that we be enabled to formulate the problems of livelihood in terms ﬁtted as closely as possible to the actual features of the situation in which we operate; and second to widen the range of principles and policies at our disposal through a study of the shifting place of the economy in human society and the methods by which civilizations of the past successfully engineered their great transitions. Accordingly, the theoretical task is to establish the study of man’s livelihood on broad institutional and historical foundations. (Polanyi, 1977, p. liv)

The ‘‘broad institutional and historical foundations’’ are, in Polanyi’s view, to serve as the basis of a truly universal economic theory. A universal economic theory must have an empirical basis which is as close to universal as possible. To preﬁgure comparative institutional analysis in the manner of the economistic fallacy is to render impossible the development of this broad empirical basis. The narrow empirical basis of economic science has been a recurrent theme of discussion of the post-1970 crisis of economics (Hutchison, 1977, retains its force; see also note 2). The argument of the Polanyi Group is that rectiﬁcation of this empirical neglect will require a substantive focus that will enable open-minded empirical examination of as wide a ﬁeld of vision and experience as possible. The substantive connotation of economic is universal because all human groups must somehow secure their livelihood by turning nature’s laws to their advantage. Provisioning is universal but the added stricture that provisioning be efﬁcient or maximizing is a question of empirical fact. Economy, in the formalist sense of calculativeness in the face of scarcity, may or may not be present. For the substantivist, like the economic sociologist,

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economic rationality must be considered as an institutionalized value (see Smelser, 1976, p. 36). Moreover, even if it is present, and widely so, in a given society, economic rationality does not exist in a vacuum but is ﬁtted into the overall institutional complex. A society may place great store in efﬁciency and be solidly committed to the economizing organization of its economic aspects, yet still ﬁnd this value to be subordinate to other conﬂicting values. Society may not like the character of its people if they are calculative and acquisitive, even though these traits serve the value of efﬁciency. This was, after all, a large part of the focus of the Romantic reaction to the dismal science of classical political economy (see Grampp, 1972). Such questions necessitate a societal perspective in economics. Only a focus on economy and society can reveal such critically important questions about the economy and human character. Polanyi’s conviction of the necessity of a universal economic theory founded upon a universal economic history is thoroughly practical in its inspiration. He was convinced that the great problems of modern times will yield to nothing less than such a universal perspective; or, better, that if democratic industrial society is to have any chance against the magnitude and multitude of its social problems, it must approach them with as wide a range of instruments as possible. It would be foolhardy and probably tragic if contemporary society were to neglect any possible tool of thought and action that might serve humankind in its hour of crisis. Polanyi sought to warn of perilous adjustment and the pitfalls of avoidable difﬁculties, the dangers of which are greatly exacerbated, if not in part caused, by an obsolete wisdom and a paralytic mentality. He argued that a total reconsideration, from a substantive paradigm, is needed to overturn the ‘‘obsolete notions’’ and ‘‘grievously incomplete understanding of the nature of the human economy’’ which are inherent in the economistic fallacy. The fallacy leaves the way clear for a ‘‘marketing mind’’ or ‘‘obsolete market mentality’’ which is problematic across the full range of theoretical and practical problems. Polanyi’s intent, through the contrast of the formal and substantive meanings of economics, and through the universal economic theory to be built on the substantivist reconstruction of the facts of economic life, was to sweep away economism and clear the way for social or institutional economics. The need for a new departure in economic thinking is especially critical at present. For nearly two decades there has been a resurgent market mentality which seems to negate the force of Polanyi’s receding market hypothesis. Polanyi’s analysis neglected the difﬁculty of developing an international political structure for the protective response (McClintock, 1990). In the

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absence of global coordination, the managed, welfare state capitalisms have collapsed under the force of the globalization of capital ﬂows. The neoliberal counter-revolution has ushered in a Great Capitalist Restoration in the global economy. The democratic welfare states have retrenched their social welfare programs, reduced taxation, deregulated corporate activities, and opened their borders to import penetration and exchange rate ﬂuctuations. The formerly existing socialist economies have embarked on transitions to capitalism, often employing so-called shock therapy to the near total neglect of the social costs of the adjustment process. Many Third World countries have become emerging market economies, often under the guidance of ‘‘conditionality’’ imposed by neo-liberal minded ofﬁcials of the IMF or World Bank (see Stiglitz, 2002, chap. 2).4 In the wake of the Great Capitalist Restoration, one might have occasion to doubt Polanyi’s central hypothesis of a spontaneous protective response and receding market (North, 1977). But this may be only a temporary interruption of the long-term tendency Polanyi had in mind. It may indeed be an attempt at revitalization by a nativistic return to the nostrums and moral beliefs of the past. Cultures that are disintegrating because their central canons of meaning are failing to provide accurate expectations must revitalize in order to stop the disintegration. Faced with such a critical situation, cultures do on occasion attempt revitalization by a return to the principle of a real or imagined golden age of the past (Stanﬁeld, 1995, chap. 8). But such nativistic reactions are not likely to succeed. If so, the Polanyi thesis may seem more plausible in the near future. There is already an evident Nurturance Gap in the American case, at least (Stanﬁeld & Stanﬁeld, 1997). Increasingly harried by economic stress and obsession with pecuniary achievement, the American people appear to lack the time to nurture each other in intimate family relationships or to attend to the needs of their communities. The Nurturance Gap is, we suspect evidence that the endemic problems of deregulated capitalism will return and will do so with a vengeance. Social dislocation, environmental destruction, macroeconomic instability, and microeconomic insecurity will, we think, worsen and lead to a renewed spontaneous effort to establish social control of economic activity. If and when this occurs, then the need to re-examine the place of economy in society will be all too evident. And then also will the substantive view come into its own again. The formalist view cannot guide inquiry into the place of the economy in the past and it cannot raise the issues about the place of the economy in the present which are needed to re-place the economy in the future. Unable to comprehend the past, the formalist view is in no position to help

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in the task of imagining the future. For this reinterpretation of the past and imagining of the future, society will have to draw upon substantive social science.

NOTES 1. It should be noted that by drawing upon Dalton we do not assert he would have agreed with the present argument or with our conviction that Polanyi’s substantive perspective is potentially the basis of a comparative economics that applies with great force to modern market-based industrial economies. Indeed in conversation with the one of the authors, Stanﬁeld, Dalton drew a sharp distinction between the argument of The Great Transformation and Polanyi’s later work with the Columbia group. We do not agree with this distinction and see great continuity between these phases of Polanyi’s work and we know others within the Polanyi group who disagree with Dalton in this regard. Isaac (2005) comments on this disagreement within the Polanyi group (see also Isaac 1993); he also discusses the curious anti-Marx attitude of some members of that group (see also Halperin, 1984, 1988). As is clear in the text we see a lot of continuity from Marx to Polanyi. Both were concerned with the need for an economic sociology or evolutionary economics that went beyond mere observation of current behavior to the need to explain how people came to behave as observed at a given time and place. Both were insistent upon the need for this evolutionary approach to break through the stultifying logic of market culture, Marx’s commodity fetishism, and Polanyi’s market mentality. Both saw the need for this breakthrough in order for a reinterpretation to emerge of the place of economy in society, of lives and livelihood. Both saw this reinterpretation as the basis of a re-viewed and newly imagined future. We do not entirely discount Polanyi’s insistence that Marx’s historical materialism commits an economistic fallacy of its own. But there remains much disagreement over the authority of Marx versus Engels for much of the historical materialism associated with the Second International. Second, Marx’s economic determinism, however pronounced, referred to the importance of the social relationships of material reproduction, not to economic calculation in Polanyi’s formalist sense. True, Marx foresaw the objective conditions of capitalist competition as a severe disciplinary force that would drive capitalists toward proﬁt maximization in order that they survive, but this and all laws in Marx were tendential. This includes the clariﬁcation of class structure that would leave a social landscape of stark class conﬂict. In this regard, it is important to note that even Engels insisted upon a ‘‘kickback effect’’ of some sort, by which historical and cultural forces inﬂuenced the material basis. It could also be added that Polanyi’s concept of protective response implies that capitalism would not develop in the way Marx deduced from its pure form (see Brown, 1987). 2. It should be noted that much is happening in recent economic thought that recognizes the complexity and social basis of economic action (for a discussion, see Stanﬁeld, 2006). In this literature, the economic agent is seen as acting from a limited cognitive basis to pursue ends which are more complicated than those of

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‘‘economic man’’ because they embody ethical and relational concerns. To reduce these concerns to aspects of utility maximization may be logically unassailable up to a point, but in so doing must be said to largely miss the point (see Etzioni, 1988). Much, but not all, of this literature is explicitly labeled heterodox economics, though there is apparently no agreement on what this term means (Wrenn, 2006). 3. To avoid confusion, further elaboration of Polanyi’s use of the term formalism and the use of the word in the notion of a formalist revolution (on which see Stanﬁeld, 1979, chap. 2; Ward, 1972). The latter usage refers to an increase in mathematical formality in economics expression. As explained in detail below, Polanyi’s reference was to the reduction of the economy to rational action in respect to scarcity-induced choice. This approach is consistent with a high or a low degree of formality in terms of mathematical expression. However, it is difﬁcult to imagine the degree or the type of rigorous expression that characterizes modern mainstream economics without the simplifying assumptions that emerge from formalism in Polanyi’s sense. Moreover, while formalism in Polanyi’s sense can be applied with low or high degrees of mathematical expression, we submit that the same cannot be said of the substantive view, for it requires holistic and comparative empirical content. The necessity of this substantive content would seem in practice to place substantial limits on the degree of abstract, mathematical reasoning (see Gordon, 1976; Rutherford, 1996, chap. 2). At any rate, it is well established that relaxing the simplifying assumptions of perfect competition is a gate way to an institutional economics that is more realistic in content but less formal in expression. This has been the root cause of methodological debate that runs back at least as far as the much bally-hooed methodenstreit of middle to late classical economics, and probably back to Smith and Steuart in the early classical period. This ‘‘battle of methods’’ continues to the present day in a substantial literature about the crisis of economics and the need for realism in economic reasoning (Maki, 2007, promises to be a quick way to catch up with this literature). 4. There is a vast literature critical of neo-liberal globalization, some of which makes use of, and more or less demonstrates the continuing relevance of, Polanyi (see Birchﬁeld, 2005; Corbridge, 2001; Gray, 1998). Recent literature has begun the task of imagining a global economic regime that utilizes a managed-trade regime toward genuine, just and sustainable economic progress (DeMartino, 2000; Stiglitz & Charlton, 2005; O’Hara, 2006, & van Tulder, 2006). In the past 20 years, there has grown up a substantial secondary and tertiary literature on Polanyi, which reﬂects the vitality of his work with regard to contemporary concerns. In addition to the references in note 1 above, see also Stanﬁeld, 1986; Polanyi Levitt, 1990; Mendell and Salee, 1991; Duncan and Tandy, 1994; McRobbie and Polanyi Levitt, 2000. Many of the scholars just cited are associated with the Karl Polanyi Institute for Political Economy. In 2006, the Canadian Broadcasting Company broadcast and later rebroadcast a week-long, one-hour nightly prime time discussion of Karl Polanyi, of which a compact disc and transcript are available. Some of this growing literature is critical, notably with regard to the meaning and use of Polanyi’s concept of embeddedness and disembeddedness (see Granovetter, 1985; Krippner, Granovetter, Block, Biggart, Beamish et al., 2004); and, the empirical basis of some of his speculations, such as those regarding Ancient Greece (see the ﬁrst three chapters in Duncan & Tandy, 1994).

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS The authors would like to thank Donald Wood and three anonymous reviewers for comments and suggestions which vastly improved this chapter, but for which they, of course, shoulder no fault for remaining errors.

REFERENCES Baran, P. A., & Sweezy, P. M. (1996). Monopoly capital. New York: Monthly Review Press. Birchﬁeld, V. (2005). Jose´ Bove´ and the globalisation countermovement in France and beyond: A Polanyian interpretation. Review of International Studies, 31, 581–598. Brown, D. M. (1987, March). A Hungarian connection: Karl Polanyi’s inﬂuence on the Budapest School. Journal of Economic Issues, 21, 339–347. Corbridge, S. (2001). Beyond developmentalism: The turn to cultural anthropology. New Political Economy, 6(1), 81–88. Dalton, G. (1968). Introduction. In: G. Dalton (Ed.), Primitive, archaic, and modern economies: Essays of Karl Polanyi (pp. ix–liv). Boston: Beacon. DeMartino, G. F. (2000). Global economy, economic justice. New York: Routledge. Duncan, C. M., & Tandy, D. W. (1994). From political economy to anthropology. Montreal: Black Rose. Etzioni, A. (1988). The moral dimension: Toward a new economics. New York: Free Press. Georgescu-Roegen, N. (1971). The entropy law and the economic process. Cambridge: Harvard University. Gordon, R. A. (1976). Rigor and relevance in a changing institutional setting. American Economic Review, 66, 1–14. Grampp, W. D. (1972). Classical economics and its moral critics. History of Political Economy, 5, 359–374. Granovetter, M. (1985). Economic action and social structure: The problem of embeddedness. American Journal of Sociology, 91(3), 481–510. Gray, J. (1998). False dawn. New York: New Press. Halperin, R. H. (1984). Polanyi, Marx, and the institutional paradigm in economic anthropology. Research in Economic Anthropology, 6, 245–672. Halperin, R. H. (1988). Economies across cultures. London: Macmillan. Hutchison, T. W. (1977). Knowledge and ignorance in economics. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Isaac, B. L. (1993). Retrospective on the formalist–substantivist debate. Research in Economic Anthropology, 14, 213–233. Isaac, B. L. (2005). Karl Polanyi. In: J. Carrier (Ed.), A handbook of economic anthropology (pp. 14–25). Northhampton, MA: Edward Elgar. Keynes, J. M. (1963). Essays in persuasion. New York: W. W. Norton. Krippner, G., Grannovetter, A., Block, F., Biggart, N., Beamish, T., Hsing, Y., et al. (2004). Polanyi symposium: A conversation on embeddedness. Socio-Economic Review, 2, 109–135. Leiss, W. (1976). The limits to satisfaction. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Lowe, A. (1935). Economics and sociology. London: Allen and Unwin.

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CHOICE AND THE SUBSTANTIVIST/ FORMALIST DEBATE: A FORMAL PRESENTATION OF THREE SUBSTANTIVIST CRITICISMS Justin A. Elardo and Al Campbell ABSTRACT This chapter will address (only) one issue from the 1960s substantivist/formalist debate, the treatment of choice. The substantivists rejected the economic universality of the neoclassical axioms of choice under scarcity and the isolated and selfish nature of the choice process. A common formalist response was that their model based on these axioms could be modified to include whatever specific conditions economic choice was being made under. This chapter rejects that claim, based on a consideration not included in the debate. It is argued that the mathematical structure of the standard formal neoclassical model prevents it from incorporating the substantivist criticisms, and that to modify it in accord with these criticisms would necessarily result in a model that is outside the neoclassical approach to economic decision-making.

INTRODUCTION This chapter is not intended to review, much less evaluate, the substantivist/ formalist debate from the 1960s.1 Our concern is much more narrowly Choice in Economic Contexts: Ethnographic and Theoretical Enquiries Research in Economic Anthropology, Volume 25, 267–284 Copyright r 2007 by Elsevier Ltd. All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0190-1281/doi:10.1016/S0190-1281(06)25012-1

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focused. A broad range of current schools of economic thought, who are collectively often referred to as ‘‘heterodox economics,’’ reject the mainstream neoclassical economic model for a number of reasons. One of the many reasons is the claim that human economic choice very often does not occur as modeled by neoclassical economics. In re-reading the substantivist/ formalist debate, we noted that this was one (of the many) issues involved in that debate. Speciﬁcally, the substantivists2 challenged (as being universal for economic choice) both the notions of implied choice under scarcity and the necessarily isolated and selﬁsh nature of the choice process. Hence this chapter should be understood to be both a comment on one particular issue in the substativist/formalist debate as presented and, at the same time, a reﬂection of the current debate between mainstream neoclassical and heterodox economists on this same issue. A common response by the formalists3 to the charge that their model incorrectly modeled economic choice was that their model was general in the sense that it could be modiﬁed to include whatever speciﬁc conditions economic choice is being made under. That is, they argued that utility maximization really only says that people choose what they prefer,4 and then the formal neoclassical approach understood broadly allows one to put any constraints one wants on that process of economic choice of what goods one consumes and what work one does. The following illustrates this general position: y it is well to point out that the theory of maximization, which is at the heart of neoclassical economic theory, says nothing about what is maximized. Neoclassical theory generally assumed that proﬁt was maximized, but this represents an application of maximization theory, not maximization theory itself. An individual maximizes something, or different things at different times – presumably those things which he values. General maximization theory could be applied in any case. (LeClair & Schneider, 1968, p. 8)

A secondary response, essentially unique to the formalist Scott Cook (1968), is that the substantivists were not critiquing the neoclassical model but, instead, the arguments of classical economists.5 This chapter attempts to achieve two goals. First, it will formalize the substantivist criticisms just indicated concerning the nature of choice. Second, still relating to the debate, we will show that the mathematical structure of the standard neoclassical model necessarily implies much more concerning the nature of the economic choice process than is generally acknowledged or even recognized. We will argue that some types of economic choices that people make cannot be modeled by the standard neoclassical model and, further, that the standard model cannot be modiﬁed to reﬂect such choices without ceasing to reﬂect the neoclassical approach to economic decision-making.

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Concretely, we will consider three criticisms of the neoclassical model of economic choice that were brought up by the substantivists: (A) economic choice is not necessarily choice making under conditions of scarcity, (B) people are not always isolated economic decision-makers: communication and coordination of activities occurs in economic decision-making, and (C) people are not always selﬁsh economic decision-makers:6 some economic decisions involve goods consumed by other people. From this point we proceed as follows. In the second section we conceptually establish the explicit criticisms concerning choice leveled against the formalist/neoclassical model by the substantivists. We do not intend this section to be a review of all of the substantivists’ writing on this topic, but rather a brief synopsis sufﬁcient to establish the asserted substantivist criticism of the formalist/neoclassical model on these issues concerning choice. Then in the third section we consider how these conceptual criticisms can be formalized within the framework of the neoclassical model. Critics of the neoclassical approach have long asserted that defenders of that approach often use mathematical formalism, sometimes complicated, as a substitute for clear economic reasoning to defend their approach. But of course any mathematical model necessarily reﬂects the assumptions that underlie it, in this case the economic assumptions. We will see speciﬁcally in what ways the formal structure of the neoclassical model reﬂects exactly the three issues on choice discussed in this chapter, on which the substantivists attacked the formalists. Further, we will see how an extension of the standard model to address these concerns on choice would result in a fundamentally different model than the standard model, a model that would reﬂect something different than the neoclassical approach to economic choice.

THREE SUBSTANTIVIST CRITICISMS OF THE FORMALIST/NEOCLASSICAL MODEL OF ECONOMIC CHOICE Economic Choice is not Necessarily Choice Making Under Conditions of Scarcity The substantivists characterized the neoclassical model, typically referred to as the ‘‘formal’’ economic model, as a model of choice under scarcity: The economistic approach which separated out economy from society and created a body of theoretical analysis of market industrialism received more reﬁned expression later in the 19th century in the works of Stanley Jevons, Carl Menger, John B. Clark, and

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Alfred Marshall. What is important for our purposes is that the neo-classicists made theoretical reﬁnements also derived, it seemed, from universal truths: that the condition of ‘‘natural scarcity’’ (insufﬁciency of resources relative to unlimited material wants), necessitated marginal choice if maximum fulﬁllment of wants was to be attained. (Dalton, 1968, p. 147) The formal meaning of economic derives from the logical character of the means–ends relationship, as apparent in such words as ‘‘economical’’ or ‘‘economizing.’’ It refers to a deﬁnite situation of choice, namely, that between the different uses of means induced by an insufﬁciency of those means. If we call the rules governing choice of means the logic of rational action, then we may denote this variant of logic, with an improvised term, as formal economics. (Polanyi, 1957, p.122)

The substantivists argued that the problem with this approach was simply that not all economic choices are made under conditions of scarcity. As an example, they note that, Choice may be induced by a preference for right against wrong (moral choice) or, at a crossroads, where two or more paths happen to lead to our destination, possessing identical advantages and disadvantages. (operationally induced choice) (ibid.)

These non-scarcity determinants of economic choice, shaped by many institutions other than markets, could be as or more important for determining how an economy functions than the market institutions or general choice under scarcity – hence the great importance of understanding institutions, other than the market, that are important to inﬂuencing and understanding economic choice: Special analytical concepts are necessary because social organization and culture – kinship, political organization, religion – affect economic organization and performance so directly and sensitively in non-market systems that only a socio-economic approach which considers explicitly the relationships between economy and society is capable of yielding insights and generalizations of importance. A special set of questions should be put to primitive economies and non-commercial sectors of peasant economies: questions about the social aspects of economic organization. (Dalton, 1969, p. 65) What are in the received wisdom ‘‘noneconomic’’ or ‘‘exogenous’’ conditions are in the primitive reality the very organization of the economy. A material transaction is usually a momentary episode in a continuous social relation. y A speciﬁc social relation may constrain a given movement of goods, but a speciﬁc transaction – ‘‘by the same token’’ – suggests a particular social relation. If friends make gifts, gifts make friends. y material ﬂow underwrites or initiates social relations. (Sahlins, 1965, pp. 139–140) The outstanding discovery of recent historical and anthropological research is that man’s economy, as a rule, is submerged in his social relationships. He does not act so as to safeguard his individual interest in the possession of material goods; he acts so as to safeguard his social standing, his social claims, his social assets. He values material goods only in so far as they serve this end. Neither the process of production nor that of

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distribution is linked to speciﬁc economic interests attached to the possession of goods; but every single step in that process is geared to a number of social interests which eventually ensure that the required step be taken. These interests will be very different in a small hunting or ﬁshing community from those in a vast despotic society, but in either case the economic system will run on non-economic motives. (Polanyi, 1957, p. 46)

If one limited oneself to considering scarcity constrained choice as in the neoclassical model, one would fail to understand a given economy if it was something other than the prototype scarcity constrained economy – a market economy. Not only are ‘‘primitive’’ economies and centrally planned economies not organized by price-making markets, but a tremendous amount of the economic decisions made by people who live even in modern capitalist economies are also not determined by price-making markets. In the following quote ‘‘economic analysis’’ means neoclassical analysis: ‘‘Outside of a system of price-making markets economic analysis loses most of its relevance as a method of inquiry into the working of the economy’’ (ibid., p.125). People are not Always Isolated Economic Decision-Makers: Communication and Coordination of Activities Occur in Economic Decision-Making The well-known prisoners’ dilemma presents the suboptimal result for two neoclassical maximizers pursuing their individual interests and constrained to not communicate and coordinate their responses, as implied by the neoclassical approach. The well-known ‘‘tragedy of the commons’’ likewise results from economic decision-makers pursuing their interests without communication or coordination with other economic actors. Small groups historically have overcome both these problems by communication and coordination, generally through speciﬁc social practices and/or institutions. The substantivists’ broader frame for economic analysis prominently featured the concepts of reciprocity, redistribution, and exchange, with the latter of these central to the analysis of markets and the former two important for analyzing many non-market economies that have existed throughout history. These represent coordination, again often culturally and/or institutionally executed. Here we will note their interest in reciprocity, and will consider redistribution in the third point below: The Bergdama returning from his hunting excursion, the woman coming back from her search for roots, fruit, or leaves are expected to offer the greater part of their spoil for the beneﬁt of the community. In practice, this means that the produce of their activity is shared with persons who happen to be living with them. Up to this point the idea of reciprocity prevails; today’s giving will be recompensed by tomorrow’s taking. (Polanyi, 1957, p. 51)

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‘‘Generalized reciprocity’’ refers to transactions that are putatively altruistic, transactions on the line of assistance returned. The ideal type is Malinowski’s ‘‘pure gift.’’ Other indicative ethnographic formulae are sharing,’’ ‘‘hospitality,’’ ‘‘free gift,’’ ‘‘help,’’ and ‘‘generosity.’’ (Sahlins, 1965, p. 147)

It should be noted that neoclassicals have responded to this criticism by taking steps to incorporate some aspects of communication and coordination into their approach in a way that they had not when the substantivists made their criticisms. We argue below, however, that the neoclassical model by its essential nature continues to be unable to model other aspects of communication and cooperation as they actually occur much of the time in economic decision-making. People are not Always Selfish Economic Decision-Makers: Some Economic Decisions Involve Goods Consumed by Other People The Substantivists argued that, especially in ‘‘primitive’’ societies, one tended to think in terms of how one’s economic decisions would affect the welfare of ‘‘the community.’’ Take the case of a tribal society. The individual’s economic interest is rarely paramount, for the community keeps all of its members from starving unless it is itself borne down by catastrophe, in which case interests are again threatened collectively, not individually. (Polanyi, 1957, p. 46)

People incorporate the well being of others into their considerations for economic decision-making so completely that the very concept of self, in regards to some (but not all) choices, essentially disappears: ‘‘The premium set on generosity is so great when measured in terms of social prestige as to make any other behavior than that of utter self-forgetfulness simply not pay (ibid.).’’ Furthermore, Polanyi continues, Such a situation must exert a continuous pressure on the individual to eliminate economic self-interest from his consciousness to the point of making him unable, in many cases (but by no means in all), even to comprehend the implications of his own actions in terms of such an interest. (ibid.)

At least for those who are the ‘‘givers’’ in the redistribution process, the historically important process of redistribution falls into this category of economically acting on the basis of the welfare of others or the community: Redistribution occurs for many reasons, on all civilizational levels, from the primitive hunting tribe to the vast storage systems of ancient Egypt, Sumeria, Babylonia, or Peru. In large countries differences of soil and climate may make redistribution necessary; in other cases it is caused by discrepancy in point of time, as between harvest and consumption. With a hunt, any other method of distribution would lead to disintegration of

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the horde or band, since only ‘‘division of labor’’ can here ensure results; a redistribution of purchasing power may be valued for its own sake, i.e., for the purposes demanded by social ideals as in the modern welfare state. The principle remains the same – collecting into, and distributing from, a center. Redistribution may also apply to a group smaller than society, such as the household or manor irrespective of the way in which the economy as a whole is integrated. The best known instances are the Central African kraal, the Hebrew patriarchal household, the Greek estate of Aristotle’s time, the Roman familia, the medieval manor, or the typical large peasant household before the general marketing of grain. (Polanyi, 1957, pp. 130–131)

In the third section we will see that the issue involved in formalizing the above point C is much like the issue in point B. However, we will also see that the issues involved in point C go beyond the isolated individual approach of the neoclassical model much more quickly than the issues involved in point B.

A FORMAL CONSIDERATION OF THE THREE CRITICISMS The well-known standard neoclassical model of economic choice is that a person i facing a price vector p will choose a vector x of goods and services in a way that maximizes her utility function ui(x1, x2, ..., xN) subject to the constraint that p1 x1 þ þ pN xN ¼ p1 o1 þ þ pN oN ; where the oN are her initial endowments of each of the N goods.7 Here we want to reconsider the implications for this mathematical problem of the three criticisms discussed in the last section. Economic Choice is not Necessarily Choice Making Under Conditions of Scarcity Consider the example raised in the last section, where a person can obtain the same goods and services in two different ways. To be concrete, consider that one can obtain food either by growing it or stealing it. Using the standard utility maximizing approach, if one only had food as an argument in the utility function, then the model would fail to be able to indicate why most people will make the economic choice to grow the food instead of stealing it. If one includes leisure as an argument as neoclassicals often do, then the model would perform even worse, falsely indicating that most people will prefer to steal the food instead of growing it. If we consider the real world as the substantivists indicated, we know most people will not choose to steal instead of work because they feel that would be wrong, that it would be immoral.

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Some defenders of the claim to the broad generality of the neoclassical model assert that one can always put some other good into the utility function to represent such choice problems, such as ‘‘one’s social reputation’’ or ‘‘fear of incarceration’’ in this case. For example, Mas-Colell, Whinston, & Green assert, We should also note that in some contexts it becomes convenient, and even necessary, to expand the set of commodities to include goods and services ... that may be available by means other than market exchange (say, the experience of ‘‘family togetherness’’). For nearly all of what follows here {that is, the whole one thousand page book – J.E. & A.C.} the narrow construction introduced in this section sufﬁces. (Mas-Colell, Whinston, & Green, 1995, p. 18)

Such an inclusion of something like ‘‘one’s social reputation’’ or ‘‘fear of incarceration,’’ however, would completely change the mathematical structure of the problem, and move outside the neoclassical approach to the choice problem, as we will now elaborate on. The mathematical structure of the standard neoclassical economic choice problem is a constrained optimization problem, with the budget as the constraint, as indicated at the beginning of this section. What it means economically is that a person must choose how much of each of the goods available to her she will take, while not exceeding her budget. Given markets and prices for the goods, she hence faces a tradeoff among the goods – if she takes more of one she will have to take less of some other. This is the way markets reﬂect scarcity: if prices were all zero, she could have as much of any good as she wanted, but that could only happen for all of the society if there were as much of each good as the total people would want if they were unconstrained in the amount they could have. We have to insert here an aside on a few confusions that sometimes arise from the word ‘‘constrained.’’ There are at least three different ways the word can be used in relation to the formal neoclassical choice model. First, anyone is constrained to choose from whatever ‘‘the individual can conceivably consume given the physical constraints imposed by the environment’’ (Mas-Colell et al., 1995, p. 18). Used this way, all choice could be said to be constrained choice. But in the neoclassical formal model, this limitation is reﬂected in the requirement that the choice come from the choice set. As formal mathematical procedures, both constrained optimization and unconstrained optimization face the constraint of having to choose from the choice set. This meaning of the word constrained is not the meaning that the word has in the neoclassical choice problem of choice under scarcity and its formal modeling as a ‘‘constrained optimization’’ problem. A second meaning of the term ‘‘constrained’’ could refer to the act of choosing itself as constraining. This arises sometimes from a misinterpretation of statements like the following that one often sees at the beginning of

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microeconomic textbooks: ‘‘The starting point for any individual decision problem is a set of possible (mutually exclusive) alternatives from which the individual must choose’’ (Mas-Colell et al., 1995, p. 5). It is true that if you can go to either the opera or the ﬁghts which are both happening tonight in different places, then consuming one constrains you from consuming the other. Again, the key here is this has nothing to do with the budget constraint and therefore the issue of scarcity, and this use of the word constraint holds for both the formal models of constrained and unconstrained utility maximization, and is not the way the word constrained is used in the neoclassical approach and its formal model of ‘‘constrained utility maximization.’’ In the neoclassical model the word constrained is used to indicate the formal constraint that reﬂects a scarcity, and based on that scarcity establishes a tradeoff of what one can buy before any purchase is made. In the standard textbook apples–oranges tradeoff example, the constraint that reﬂects the neoclassical nature of the problem is not that one cannot have six apples and two oranges if one buys four apples and three oranges, ‘‘because the choices are mutually exclusive’’ (i.e., because once you buy one thing you have not bought another so you at that point cannot consume the other). Rather, the constraint that reﬂects the neoclassical nature of the problem is due to a scarcity of apples and oranges in the sense that supplies do not reach the satiation levels. Therefore one faces a tradeoff of how many apples one can have for how many oranges one can have because each has a price, the wellknown budget constraint. We take this deﬁnition of ‘‘constraint’’ because it captures the economic concept of ‘‘choice under scarcity,’’ which is an essential aspect of the neoclassical approach. Hence, formally, a constraint means having a constraint function on the goods one can obtain, and it is not an issue of the choice set and it is not an issue of the act of choosing itself. While one could in theory imagine all sorts of constraint functions (the total amount of embodied energy, the total amount of embodied water, etc.), only two constraint functions have been seriously offered by neoclassicals for describing the behavior of economic choice under scarcity: the budget constraint (where the goods involved must all have prices), and a time constraint (offered loosely, though never extensively developed, as a constraint that would establish tradeoffs among goods for ‘‘primitive non-market’’ societies). With this understanding of the use of ‘‘constrained choice,’’ we now return to consider the idea of inserting things like ‘‘family togetherness’’ or ‘‘reputation’’ or ‘‘fear of incarceration’’ into the neoclassical utility maximizing model to allow it to represent economic choices that involve these ideas. In order to properly address this issue it is useful to reﬂect on a criticism put forth by another school of thought in economics, the

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institutionalists.8 In the ﬁeld of economics the institutionalists represent in many respects the equivalent to that of the substantivists in economic anthropology. In evaluating the institutionalists we ﬁnd that some among them have incorrectly formulated the correct criticism of the neoclassical constrained utility maximizing model by arguing that there is no such thing as utility and so people cannot be utility maximizers, and hence one cannot represent choice in general by utility maximizing. Neoclassicals have responded to this as follows: Why is it called ‘‘utility maximizing’’? Is there something called ‘‘utility’’ – something like weight, height, wealth, or happiness – that people are really trying to maximize? No. ... It is now simply an indicator for comparing options and showing preferences among them. Thus, it is now a matter of convention to say that if a person chooses option A rather than B, option A has more utility for him. (Alchain & Allen, 1967, p. 18)

This is the standard neoclassical position on the meaning of utility maximization, and it is developed in any advanced microeconomics textbook:9 any choices between options indicate what people prefer, and one can build a utility function whose maximization would yield the given choices. They are correct in this claim. Subject to the standard issues concerning completeness and transitivity referred to in Note 7, unconstrained utility maximization indeed can ‘‘model’’ any choice. It is, however, a tautology, and as such it is vacuous – one might just as well say that ‘‘a person will choose what they choose.’’ The proper institutionalist, as well as substantivist, criticism of the neoclassical utility constrained maximizing model is that people’s economic choices are not universally made under constraints, which is the same as saying that not all economic choices are made under scarcity. Mas-Colell et al. (1995) suggest that we could include ‘‘family togetherness,’’ or ‘‘reputation’’ or ‘‘fear of incarceration.’’ However, these cannot be included in a neoclassical model because they do not have prices. This means they cannot be included in the constraint, and hence be part of the choice-under-scarcity tradeoff that is the essence of the neoclassical problem. Sometimes, similar to the substantivists, the institutionalists also refer to this problem by saying the neoclassical model was developed to represent choice in markets, and is not necessarily appropriate for choice in non-market economies.10 Though the following quote by Mas-Colell et al. does not speciﬁcally say one could not extend the model, it makes clear that the neoclassical model in a market economy is concerned with things involved in the budget constraint, not things without prices – it is exactly such things that are called ‘‘commodities,’’ which is what the neoclassical models always refer to.

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The decision problem faced by the consumer in a market economy is to choose between consumption levels of the various goods and services that are available for purchase in the market. We call these goods and services commodities. (Mas-Colell et al., 1995, p. 17)

Let us return to consider further our hypothetical problem from above. We could indeed include a variable in the utility function and call it ‘‘social reputation,’’ and give it two states: one that results from stealing and one that results from growing one’s food. We could choose to assign utility values to the two states so that the person, in maximizing their utility, chooses the ‘‘not steal’’ state option. Hence, we would have built a utility function that ‘‘explains’’ the person’s behavior (of course as the construction makes clear it is a tautology and vacuous as an explanation, as we argued above). But, we have done so by introducing a variable that does not enter into the budget constraint. We have also done so by stepping outside the neoclassical concept of a tradeoff among scarce commodities. We cannot introduce the needed thing as a commodity – a scarce good for which, as one chooses a certain level of consumption, there is a tradeoff with other scarce goods, and which is the subject of neoclassical economic choice theory. To the extent that we need to introduce many such things to model how people really make economic choices, each of these needed things lies outside of the neoclassical choice problem. The substantivists argued that many (but not all) aspects of economic choice, such as the example of moral choice for economic behavior, in fact, are not choice under scarcity, and so the neoclassical model is inappropriate for modeling them. The important point here is that it is not utility maximizing per se that implies unrealistic economic behavior, as is sometimes claimed by opponents of the neoclassical paradigm. Utility maximizing is largely tautological (and therefore vacuous) – whatever people chose to do, one can always say there was a utility function in the background that had a peak there, since utility functions are ﬁctitious constructions. Rather, it is constrained utility maximization that is the structural aspect of the formal neoclassical model that reﬂects its economic inappropriateness, its assumption that all economic choice is choice under scarcity. People are not Always Isolated Economic Decision-Makers: Communication and Coordination of Activities Occur in Economic Decision-Making The standard neoclassical model for choice outlined above clearly suffers from this weakness. Each decision-maker considers only commodities he

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can consume given his budget constraint, with no role in the procedure for considerations of how what others consume will affect what he can consume. For many economic decisions that are not made through markets, people consider in making their decisions what others decide to do. Consider the substantivist category of reciprocity, which was intended to capture one type of such interaction. If others with whom one had reciprocal relations arbitrarily chose to cease carrying them out, one would very possibly change one’s decisions on what to give them. The standard neoclassical model outlined above, which was the only mathematical model of neoclassical economic behavior that existed when the substantivists did their work, was widely criticized even then for its assumed ‘‘isolation’’ of decision-makers – its failure to account for interaction between economic decision-makers. In response, neoclassicals developed non-cooperative game theory models. We argue here that the mathematical assumptions of non-cooperative game theory, while suitable for a ﬁrst step toward modeling some economic decision-making problems such as the interaction between non-collusive ﬁrms, speciﬁcally forbid the more extensive communication and coordination that occur between people involved in many non-market economic decision-making situations. It is this assumption of ‘‘almost completely isolated’’ decision-makers that makes non-cooperative game theory compatible with the neoclassical approach to decision-making, and at the same time leaves it susceptible to the same criticism as the substantivists directed against the standard neoclassical model, that it fails to reﬂect the nature of the interactions between decisionmakers in many non-market economic decisions. We will consider the following problem in order to see what sorts of assumptions on economic choice making are built into non-cooperative game theory. The scenario will likely immediately strike the reader as unrealistic, and that is exactly because people in non-market economic interactions often do not behave as stipulated in non-cooperative game theory, as we will discuss. Suppose that there is an inlet in a bay in which every morning there are 12 units of ﬁsh. There are two ﬁshing groups that each operates a canoe. Each group can either cooperate or not cooperate with the other group. If a group does not cooperate, they simply go down to the inlet and start ﬁshing. If they do cooperate, they ﬁrst spend time driving other ﬁsh from the bay into the inlet before they ﬁsh there. If the two boats work together driving extra ﬁsh into the inlet, they will drive in four extra units of ﬁsh. If only one boat works to drive ﬁsh in, it will drive in an extra unit of ﬁsh. The following

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presents this standard ‘‘prisoners’ dilemma’’ problem: 2 3 c nc 6 c 8; 8 4; 9 7 4 5 nc

9; 4

6; 6

If both groups choose to not cooperate, they both go down to the inlet and ﬁsh, and they each get half the ﬁsh there, six units of ﬁsh each. If they both decide to cooperate they ﬁrst drive in four extra units of ﬁsh, and then each ﬁsh out one half of the ﬁsh now in the inlet, each getting eight units of ﬁsh. Finally, if either group decides to go out and drive in ﬁsh while the other goes and directly starts ﬁshing, the latter will ﬁsh ﬁve units of ﬁsh out of the inlet while the other is driving in the extra unit, and they will then both ﬁsh out four more units while ﬁshing at the same time. The well-known result of non-cooperative game theory is that don’t cooperate/don’t cooperate is the dominant strategy solution: the ﬁshermen will not cooperate, and both groups will end up worse off than if they cooperated. The rules of non-cooperative game theory are the key to this result. Both players must ‘‘move simultaneously.’’ That means, both must commit themselves to what behavior they will take without knowing what the other will do. One could motivate this by saying they could not communicate, or one could allow them to communicate but say they could not trust the other person and would assume the worst. Either way, one sees that the result rests on ruling out exactly what the substantivists argued was important to much nonmarket decision-making: communication, coordination, and cooperation. As noted above, this example immediately strikes one as unrealistic. One imagines the ﬁshermen would talk over the situation, and agree to both cooperate and thus both groups would end up better off. And of course they would, but that would involve acting in a non-neoclassical way, as humans in such situations frequently do. Built into the mathematical structure of this neoclassical model is the neoclassical economic assumption about the selﬁsh and isolated nature of humans. To modify this model to reﬂect the cooperative way people solve many economic problems would take one outside the neoclassical approach to choice. As an aside to this point, note that there is some confusion propagated by neoclassical advocates about ‘‘cooperative solutions’’ that can arise in non-cooperative games. For example, if one has an inﬁnitely repeated prisoners’ dilemma (and providing both players give enough weight to the future as opposed to the present and near present), some strategies such as tit for tat or trigger strategies can be considered that

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allow players to not directly communicate, in favor of indirect communication where one observes the other person’s moves, and still achieve the cooperative solution in every stage. The limitations of such ‘‘cooperation’’ are immediate: for example, there is no such cooperative solution for neoclassical players for any ﬁnite repetition of the game, even if the game is repeated one million times. But beyond that, this is just not how people work out such situations: instead, they talk to each other and reach agreements, and that cannot be modeled within the neoclassical approach of the selﬁsh and isolated economic decision-maker. People are not Always Selfish Economic Decision-Makers: Some Economic Decisions Involve Goods Consumed by Other People In all presentations of the standard neoclassical model above (or even in the payoff functions in non-cooperative game theory), the commodities are things consumed by the decision-maker. A substantivist criticism argues that sometimes decision-makers take into account the economic effects (the level of consumption or other effects) of their decisions on others (family, tribe, community, etc.). Consider modeling the following situation. For simplicity, consider just two people and a single good in unlimited supply at a given price (say, p ¼ 1 for notational simplicity). Let xi i ¼ 1,2 be the amount of the single good consumed by each person. Each person i ¼ 1,2 has money mi with which to buy the good. The key is that each person i cares about how much the other person j consumes, so their utility function can be represented by ui(xi,xj), where i,j ¼ 1,2, j 6¼ i. Each person can consume any part of what they buy their self or give it to the other person to consume. Let the superscript s denote goods one buys for oneself and the superscript o denote goods one buys to give to the other person. Hence, mi ¼ xsi þ xoi : The total consumed by each person is xi ¼ xsi þ xoj ; where i,j ¼ 1,2, j6¼i. Each person i ¼ 1,2 then faces the problem of choosing xsi to maximize ui ðxsi þ xoj ; xoi þ xsj Þ; or equivalently just in terms of the self purchases chosen, ui ðxsi þ mj xsj ; mi xsi þ xsj Þ: Here one has for each of the two i ¼ 1,2 maximization problems one choice variable xsi ; and mi, mj and xsj are parameters for the ui maximization problem. But this takes us formally back to a game as in the last section since xsj is set by the choice of the other person, and we end up with the following problems if we try to execute the neoclassical choice procedures. To begin with, a person cannot even do her own maximization if she does not know how the other person is dividing their money between spending on their self and spending on her. Real people would solve a problem like this

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by communicating, contrary to the behavior that is speciﬁed in the standard neoclassical maximization approach. In attempting to avoid the need to model communication for problems like this, advocates of the neoclassical approach often argue that if there is a single Nash equilibrium and if each player plays that, then there is no reason either of them would want to change from that. While that is true, it does not really solve the problem. A ﬁrst difﬁculty with this approach is the well-known weakness of Nash equilibriums – they are static, they only say that if such an equilibrium exists no one has an incentive to change, but they do not show why people would move to such an equilibrium if the system starts from any other state. However, the problem is deeper than that in connection with the issues this chapter is addressing. As in the example in the last section, even if there is a Nash equilibrium, there is no reason that the two players by communicating and coordinating could not possibly both do better than the Nash solution. We conclude, then, that when one allows for non-selﬁsh human behavior one gets the same result we observed in the last section when one allowed people to recognize that they are not isolated: many times people will see that they can do better through communication and cooperation, and will act in those non-neoclassical ways.

CONCLUSION This chapter concerns itself with only one part of the substantivist/formalist debate of the 1960s. The substantivists rejected the formalist/neoclassical claim that their model of economic choice, a model built on economic decision-making in a (stylized) market context, is appropriate as a universal model of economic choice. In particular, they maintained that not all economic choices are choices under scarcity, and that not all human economic choices are isolated and selﬁsh. Part of the reason that the formalists rejected their arguments was because the substantivists did not mathematically formalize their criticisms. The formalists, like contemporary defenders of the neoclassical model, asserted that while in its standard form their model reﬂects market decisions, in principle it could be extended to represent any economic choice (and some argued all choice). In this chapter we have demonstrated that three aspects of some non-market decision-making, choices that are not scarcity constrained, not isolated or not selﬁsh, are in fact incompatible with the mathematical structure of the neoclassical decision-making model. The substantivists’ assertions with regard to these three issues concerning choice are sound, not only for the standard

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neoclassical, but for the essence of the neoclassical approach to economic decision-making. To incorporate the types of extensions needed to address these criticisms into the standard neoclassical model of choice would necessarily change the mathematical structure of that model to the extent that it would take one outside the neoclassical approach to choice.

NOTES 1. Because we will address only one of the many parts of that debate, and on that one issue we will argue that the concepts of the substantivists were generally correct, in an effort to prevent any misconceptions regarding our position on this one point we will very brieﬂy state the following points concerning our overall view on the debate. We hold that (a) both sides of the debate made valid criticisms of some positions of the other side, (b) there was no ‘‘winner or loser’’ in the debate (though we recognize there are current scholars who disagree with this, and argue either one or the other side ‘‘essentially won’’), (c) on many and perhaps most of the issues, notwithstanding the importance of some of the issues, the participants frequently talked past each other, and (d) as Barry Isaac stated a decade ago, ‘‘Mercifully, that debate is not part of present-day economic anthropology’’ (Isaac, 1993, p. 213). A number of useful reviews of the debate over the years that share some of these ideas (and of course develop them and other ideas much more deeply) are Godelier (1972) and Meillassoux (1972), Halperin (1988), Isaac (1993), Wilk (1996), Elardo (2003) and Isaac (2005). Again, our concern in this chapter is, contrary to all of these, to consider just one issue in the debate. 2. Three of the leading substantivists were Polanyi (1968), Dalton (1968) and Sahlins (1965). 3. Five of the leading formalists were LeClair (1968), Schneider (1974), Cook (1966), Burling (1968) and Cancian (1968). 4. And since we can only assert what people prefer by what they choose (‘‘revealed preferences’’), it really only says that people choose what they choose. 5. In fact, in economics itself today there is a debate about what should still be called neoclassical when one modiﬁes some of the basic assumptions of the orthodox neoclassical model. Is the work of Stiglitz, which is centrally built on the elimination of perfect information, still neoclassical? Is the work of the neo-institutionalists like Williamson and North, that is built on transactions costs, still neoclassical? On the issue of this chapter, however, choice modeled based on the standard of the isolated utility maximizer (without the issue of incomplete information being part of the discussion), we believe it is fair to maintain that the formalists were adhering to neoclassical economics and hence we will refer to them accordingly on this issue. For this chapter there is no reason to make any claim one way or the other about the complete neoclassical nature of the full formalist position. 6. This in itself implies that the decision-makers are not isolated, but in a different way from the last point. 7. Proponents acknowledge that their model can only represent choices that result from preferences that are complete and transitive, and they assume continuous

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preferences to give continuous and differentiable utility functions. In addition, they assume non-satiation or monotonicity, and diminishing marginal rates of substitution. In this sense they admit their model is less than a general model of choice. In some choice situations these can be important restrictions – for example, the wellknown issues of framing, chains of indiscernible differences, and addiction. We accept, however, that for many economic choice problems these restrictions are not unreasonable for modeling the real world (see Mas-Colell et al., Chapters 1–3). The point of this chapter, however, is that there are additional important restrictions on the nature of choice being modeled implied by the structure of their model that they do not discuss or acknowledge. 8. Polanyi is categorized in the economics literature as an institutionalist. 9. For example, see Varian (1992) or Mas-Colell et al. (1995). 10. The problem for the neoclassical model is actually deeper than that – it requires all goods to be involved in the tradeoff, so even in a predominantly market economy it is not able to model in a neoclassical way a person who chooses to work for a living instead of steal.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS The authors would like to express their deep gratitude for the extensive comments by Donald Wood, which, beyond their contribution to enriching the chapter as such comments generally do, allowed the authors, both trained economists, to re-express the ideas the chapter attempts to convey in such a way that they will be (hopefully) understandable and meaningful to anthropologists whose training in economic issues in general, and whose reading of the substantivist/formalist debate in particular, differ to a degree that we believe is generally not understood until one tries to write for the other (economists for anthropologists or anthropologists for economists) audience.

REFERENCES Alchain, A. A., & Allen, W. R. (1967). University economics. Belmont, CA: Wadsworth Publishing Company, Inc. Burling, R. (1968). Maximization theories and the study of economic anthropology. In: E. E. LeClair Jr. & H. K. Schneider (Eds), Economic anthropology: Readings in theory and analysis (pp. 168–187). New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, Inc. (Reprinted from American Anthropologist, 64 (1962), 802–821.) Cancian, F. (1968). Maximization as a norm, strategy, and theory: A comment on programmatic statements in economic anthropology. In: E. E. LeClair Jr. & H. K. Schneider (Eds), Economic anthropology: Readings in theory and analysis (pp. 228–233). New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, Inc. (Reprinted from American Anthropologist, 68 (1966), 465–470.)

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Cook, S. (1966). Maximization, economic theory, and anthropology: A reply to Cancian. American Anthropologist, 68(6), 1494–1498. Cook, S. (1968). The obsolete ‘anti-market’ mentality: A critique of the substantive approach to economic anthropology. In: E. E. LeClair Jr. & H. K. Schneider (Eds), Economic anthropology: Readings in theory and analysis (pp. 208–228). New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, Inc. (Reprinted from American Anthropologist, 68 (1966), 323–345.) Dalton, G. (1968). Economic theory and primitive society. In: E. E. LeClair Jr. & H. K. Schneider (Eds), Economic anthropology: Readings in theory and analysis (pp.143–167). New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, Inc. (Reprinted from American Anthropologist, 63 (1961), 1–25.) Dalton, G. (1969). Theoretical issues in economic anthropology. Current Anthropology, 10(1), 63–102. Elardo, J. (2003). Reformulating the debate between the substantivists and formalists in economic anthropology: Is the neoclassical model suitable for describing conditions in nonmarket economies? Unpublished doctoral dissertation, Department of Economics, University of Utah, USA. Godelier, M. (1972). The object and method of economic anthropology. In: M. Godelier (Ed.), Rationality and irrationality in economics (pp. 249–319). New York: Monthly Review Press. Halperin, R. (1988). Economies across cultures. New York: St. Martin’s Press. Isaac, B. (1993). Retrospective on the formalist – substantivist debate. Research in Economic Anthropology, 14, 213–233. Isaac, B. (2005). Karl Polanyi. In: J. Carrier (Ed.), A handbook of economic anthropology (pp. 14–25). Cheltenham, UK: Edward Elgar. LeClair E. E. Jr., (1968). Economic theory and economic anthropology. In: E. E. LeClair Jr. & H. K. Schneider (Eds), Economic anthropology: Readings in theory and analysis (pp.187–207). New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, Inc. (Reprinted from American Anthropologist, 64 (1962), 1179–1203.) LeClair, E. E., Jr., & Schneider, H. K. (1968). Introduction: The development of economic anthropology. In: E. E. LeClair Jr. & H. K. Schneider (Eds), Economic anthropology: Readings in theory and analysis (pp. 1–15). New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, Inc. Mas-Colell, A., Whinston, M. D., & Green, J. R. (1995). Microeconomic theory. New York: Oxford University Press. Meillassoux, C. (1972). From reproduction to production: A Marxist approach to economic anthropology. Economy and Society, 1(1), 93–105. Polanyi, K. (1957). The great transformation. New York: Holt, Rhinehart and Winston. Polanyi, K. (1968). The economy as instituted process. In: E. E. LeClair Jr. & H. K. Schneider (Eds), Economic anthropology: Readings in theory and analysis (pp. 122–143). New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, Inc. (Reprinted from The Free Press, (1958), 243–270.) Sahlins, M. D. (1965). On the sociology of primitive exchange. In: M. Banton (Ed.), The relevance of models for social anthropology, ASA Monographs I (pp. 139–236). London: Tavistock Publications. Schneider, H. K. (1974). Economic man: The anthropology of economics. New York: The Free Press. Varian, H. (1992). Microeconomic analysis. New York: W.W. Norton & Co. Wilk, R. (1996). Economies and cultures. Boulder: Westview Press.

THE END OF POTLATCH: AN ANTHROPOLOGICAL APPROACH TO NOSTROMO Tama´s Juha´sz ABSTRACT This study contends that the various forms of archaic trade that anthropologists have reconstructed on the Northwest Coast of America are explanatory of plot-construction and characterization in Conrad’s SouthAmerican novel. My thesis is that Nostromo is a figure defined by the practice of potlatch, and that his key presence in the plot entails the representation of a culturally dislocating transition from archaic transactions to modern commerce. The theoretical framework of this chapter hinges on the insights of Marcel Mauss, Claude Le´vi-Strauss, Karl Polanyi, and Georges Bataille.

INTRODUCTION In a 1902 letter to John Galsworthy, Joseph Conrad uses a surprising comparison to describe his novel-in-progress, Nostromo. Namely, he suggests that the emerging text is best seen as part of ‘‘the ‘Karain’ class of tales’’ (Conrad, 1983, p. 448). Conrad’s drawing of this parallel has been Choice in Economic Contexts: Ethnographic and Theoretical Enquiries Research in Economic Anthropology, Volume 25, 285–298 Copyright r 2007 by Elsevier Ltd. All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0190-1281/doi:10.1016/S0190-1281(06)25013-3

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interpreted by one critic as the author’s recognition of the usefulness of a distanced narratorial position (Ambrosini, 1991, p. 202). However, further links between ‘‘Karain’’ and Nostromo have gone unnoticed. In fact, the same critic declares that what they ‘‘have in common’’ is ‘‘[c]ertainly not the subject matter or the setting’’ (ibid.). Yet there must be a deeper link between the two texts, given that the novel is about ‘‘the slave of the San Tome´ silver [mine]’’ (Conrad, 1990, p. 440), and the shorter piece has, as its ﬁrst quoted speech, the phrases ‘‘Your slave’’ and ‘‘All mine’’ (Conrad, 1997, p. 37). The continuation of Conrad’s letter is helpful. In it, the author explains that the symbol ‘‘K’’ has to do with a classiﬁcation of cruisers, thus recalling the core motif of trading ships and praus in the Malay piece, and evoking the equally central image of the shipping out of silver from Sulaco. Moreover, both voyages possess a revisory dimension: Karain fares the seas to reclaim a woman ‘‘who had been promised to another man’’ (ibid., p. 52), and in Nostromo, the Capataz will want more substantial compensation for his efforts than mere personal prestige. Thus, engagement in exchanges and the need to modify the basic terms of the existing agreements become the thematic elements that connect the two narratives. In order to unravel the complexities of these processes in the novel, it is useful to isolate a few more aspects of ‘‘Karain’’ as anticipatory of Nostromo. First of all, the very plot owes its existence to forceful commerce imposed on the Malays by non-native powers. At the plot’s center is an account of abused trading privileges and ensuing revenge; the plot, in turn, is framed by two telling scenes. In the opening, the narrators are busy ‘‘furthering’’ their ‘‘illegal trafﬁc’’ (ibid., p. 41) in ﬁrearms; and, at the end, they have their ﬁnal dialog in front of a shop window displaying riﬂes. Another of the story’s peculiarities is that its two tribal characters, Karain and Matara, react not, as one might expect, principally by refusing Western types of trade but by embracing these modes of commerce. Structurally, they repeat the behavior of their enemy the Dutchman when, swearing vengeance, they prepare for retaliation through a long sequence of services to white men. They ‘‘toiled,’’ ‘‘swept the decks of big ships’’ (ibid., p. 54) and made a quick transition from the world of tribal transactions to commodity exchange. Disaster follows, and the chosen remedy for the title character’s alienation from his tribe is an inversion of what caused the original crisis. Conrad has Karain given a supposedly magic coin (emblematic of the Dutchman’s money that triggered the initial crisis) whereby the chieftain, who once dropped out of his archaic community because of ‘‘things of earth’’ (ibid., p. 68), is now restored to his original status by ‘‘[g]ifts of heaven’’ (ibid.).

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It is this alternatingly disruptive and socially cohesive power of treasure that has perhaps the greatest relevance for the ensuing novel. Both texts reﬂect on the exchange of gold, silver, and other possessions in emphasizing the individual’s attachment to, loss of, and reintegration into a given social formation. In Nostromo, Captain Mitchell is appropriately ‘‘astonished at the importance of transactions y on dry land’’ (Conrad, 1990, p. 121). As the cross-cultural, jealousy-ridden, and always trade-centered conﬂicts in ‘‘Karain’’ show, these are processes that subsume the multiple levels of social, sexual, and economic belonging. Cultural displacement occurs in all these categories. If the once splendid warrior Karain becomes an ‘‘actor’’ with a ‘‘horrible void’’ to ‘‘hide’’ (Conrad, 1997, p. 35), a comparable change in basic transactional models renders Nostromo what F. R. Leavis called ‘‘hollow’’ (Leavis, 1954, p. 200). This essay addresses this transition. It turns from the site of a ﬁctional Malaya to America and argues that the intertribal form of giving and taking that anthropologists reconstructed along the North Paciﬁc Coast is explanatory of plot-construction and characterization in Conrad’s SouthAmerican novel.1 Practiced by native chiefs and their groups, potlatch designates a combined process of feasting and gift giving, during which large quantities of property are distributed and, occasionally, destroyed. This elaborate and competitive event involves much more than mere material loss or possession. In return for their large mindedness, the contenders secure the real gain of enhanced ‘‘social status and prestige’’ (Kottak, 1994, p. 320). For this reason, one can consider this famous ritual a kind of transaction: as Georges Bataille observes, potlatch is the ‘‘typical form’’ of ‘‘the archaic organization of exchange’’ (Bataille, 1989, p. 67). Thus, the present thesis hinges on two closely related assumptions. While the essay argues that Nostromo himself is a literary ﬁgure deﬁned by the practice and motivation of potlatch, it also discusses his character within the broader, general context of archaic trade. This chapter concludes with a consideration of the inevitable disintegration of this particular economic-anthropological model.

NOSTROMO AS A NATIVE HOST Riding a ‘‘silver-grey mare’’ with ‘‘silver plates’’ on the saddle, and wearing ‘‘silver buttons’’ and a ‘‘sombrero with a silver cord’’ (p. 131),2 Nostromo is closely associated with the treasure of the mine from the very beginning of the novel. This link is clearly more than a mere atmospheric element in the narrative design. Nostromo is represented not only as the very incarnation of

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the landscape–where his general ‘‘aloofness’’ (p. 47) appears to be a version of the divine, presiding and ‘‘aloof’’ (p. 56) Higuerota itself–but also as a focal point of the various economic activities that center on the precious metal. The most signiﬁcant parallel between the two is that both are embedded in their respective environments; and for this reason, Conrad could not have used, for example, some pirate’s hidden, artiﬁcially planted but equally valuable, treasure from another region to substitute for the motif of an indigenous material. Whereas for the silver itself the condition of embeddness derives from its physical presence inside the earth and its function as a currency, Fidanza’s identiﬁcation as an ‘‘embedded’’ character hinges on Karl Polanyi’s concept of archaic economies. According to Polanyi, one can talk about the embeddedness of transactional models when ‘‘man’s economy, as a rule, is submerged in his social relationships. [Man] does not act so as to safeguard his individual interest in the possession of material goods; he acts so as to safeguard his social standing, his social claims, his social assets’’ (Polanyi, 1968, p. 7). In this phase, there is no ‘‘institutionally separate and motivationally distinct’’ (ibid., p. 84) ﬁnancial sphere; transactions have to do with ‘‘being born into a particular kinship/ethnic group’’ (Landa, 1994, p. 107), and they involve the ‘‘exchange of inalienable objects’’ (Gregory, 1983, p. 109) as well as ‘‘reciprocity and redistribution’’ (Polanyi, 1968, p. 82). This sense of interconnectedness is best captured by Le´vi-Strauss, who describes, in a paraphrase of Mauss, all-encompassing and inescapable exchange mechanisms as a ‘‘total social fact,’’ one whose ‘‘signiﬁcance y is at once social and religious, magic and economic, utilitarian and sentimental, jural and moral’’ (Le´vi-Strauss, 1969, p. 52). If in a problematic way, Nostromo is a ﬁgure who stands, initially at least, for this inseparability of social and economic functions. ‘‘[T]he cohesion of the local economy depends’’ (Land, 1984, p. 95) on him, both in the literal and tribal sense of the word ‘‘economic.’’ If the silver of the mine is inscribed into the foreman’s body, he will, in turn, penetrate into his subordinates’ homes to make them work (p. 108). Being a ‘‘great man’’ for both the ‘‘immigrants and natives’’ (p. 122), and rising to the rank of Capataz within the clannish organization of an ‘‘unruly brotherhood’’ (p. 109), Fidanza fulﬁls a narrative role of social uniﬁcation. Thus, Elizabeth Langland appropriately observes that Nostromo’s oneness with his milieu ‘‘explains not only the subject matter but the narrative choices’’ (Langland, 1982, p. 360) as well. Indeed, several details of novelistic representation demonstrate how thoroughly Fidanza exempliﬁes the link between primitive trade and social prestige, and how deeply he is ‘‘embedded,’’ like the silver itself, in an archaically conceived society.

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Since potlatch, this ‘‘extravagant y type of total prestation’’ (Mauss, 1967, p. 5), is practiced by native hosts in order to ‘‘determine their position’’ (ibid.), it is relevant that Nostromo is introduced into the novel as a chieftain-like, aristocratic ﬁgure. He confronts his opponents from the back of his horse, and is addressed as ‘‘worship’’ (p. 132) and the ‘‘lordly’’ (p. 135) Capataz. No wonder Teresa always ‘‘offer[s] up a lot of candles in the church y when Nostromo [is] away ﬁghting’’ (p. 57). As a rule, the silverbestrewn, ‘‘phantom-like horseman’’ (p. 108) reigns among his subjects the way the powerful, equestrian Gould does, and, in spite of his own distrust in the church, he is endowed with a quasi-religious, mythical, and even royal quality. As Conrad puts it later in the novel, Nostromo can function in society only if ‘‘seen’’ (p. 435; emphasis added), only in a ‘‘reﬂection from the admiring eyes of men’’ (p. 434). But while he is above the local populace, Nostromo is also one of them. Beﬁtting his name and self-description, the ‘‘man of the people’’ (p. 261) makes his ﬁrst extended appearance at a festivity to celebrate the inauguration of the train, and is presented as freely mixing with the town dwellers. He allows the music to ‘‘draw’’ him to ‘‘its source’’ (p. 132), appears absorbed in the swaying rhythm of ‘‘[h]undreds of hands clapping y in unison’’ (p. 133), cooperatively laughs ‘‘in response to the grins of the crowd’’ (p. 134), and engages in a ‘‘witty’’ (p. 133) as well as highly formulaic dialog with a ‘‘pretty’’ but nameless ‘‘Morenita’’ (ibid.). As critic David Ward notes, Nostromo is an individual with a ‘‘strictly public nature’’ (Ward, 1992, p. 296). In line with the logic of archaic trading structures, it is Nostromo’s relaxed yet ritualistic interaction with the public that accounts for his privileged position. The resolution of his playful tension with the Morenita is a prime example: Nostromo performs a gift-giving ritual by cutting off his silver buttons for the enamored girl. In keeping with the competitive and reciprocity-bound spirit of archaic exchanges, his sole reason for transferring these objects is that he does not want the Morenita to ‘‘put [him] to shame’’ (p. 135). No other reward, not even sexual privilege, motivates him, and this scene of rising social esteem through an act of giving away provides an explanation for Nostromo’s puzzling generosity in the whole novel. Georges Bataille’s essay on the competitive rituals of gift-giving explicitly links the issue of leadership and participation in exchange rituals: ‘‘Doubtless potlatch is not reducible to the desire to lose, but what it brings to the giver is not the inevitable increase of return gifts; it is the rank which it confers on the one who has the last word’’ (Bataille, 1989, p. 71). In Polanyi’s words, a ‘‘headman or other prominent member of the group y receives and

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distributes the supplies y [W]hether the redistributing is performed by an inﬂuential family or an outstanding individual y they will often attempt to increase their political power by the manner in which they redistribute the goods’’ (Polanyi, 1968, p. 13). If done on a higher scale–that is, with many valuables involved–such ceremonies are linked to aristocracy, with ‘‘the sole purpose of acquiring rights in the course of the exchange rites’’ (Le´vi-Strauss, 1969, p. 63). In Mauss’s now relevant formulation: ‘‘The rich man who shows his wealth by spending recklessly is the man who wins prestige’’ (Mauss, 1967, p. 35). Though not rich in material terms, Nostromo, what with his ‘‘resplendent’’ (p. 133) and ‘‘magniﬁcent and carelessly public’’ (p. 134) nature, certainly acts as if he is. And the prestige he gains by his generosity makes him, proportionally, the kind of chieftain ﬁgure described above. He serves Mitchell and Gould for not much more than ‘‘words’’ (p. 227), and it is this broad-minded ﬂexibility about payment and rewards that, combined with efﬁciency, makes him the ‘‘Capataz de Cargadores’’ (p. 46). He serves not only his employers but also his community. When ‘‘[h]e had given his last dollar to an old woman moaning with the grief and fatigue of a dismal search’’ (p. 348), the act was performed ‘‘in obscurity and without witnesses’’ (ibid.), but it still ‘‘had y the characteristics of splendour and publicity, and was in strict keeping with his reputation’’ (ibid.). Therefore Nostromo’s portrayal as a royal ﬁgure is appropriate. He serves others, and those others must honor him for this; for it is through services, the distribution of goods or other acts of generosity, that ‘‘[t]he chief y is recognized and acknowledged by the people’’ (Mauss, 1967, p. 39). Ambitious but ‘‘lackey’’-like (p. 328) Pedrito Montero vainly tries to rise to such a position, although he shares his speech with his listeners as if it were ‘‘some sort of visible largesse’’ (p. 330). In Nostromo’s gestures of donation, the archaic notion of compensation unfolds. As observed by anthropologists, tribal organizations are characterized by ‘‘the absence of the motif of gain; the absence of the principle of labouring for remuneration’’ (Polanyi, 1968, p. 9). This is a crucial point drawn partly from the ﬁndings of Malinowski, Thurnwald, Firth, and, most important, Marcel Mauss. Having no ‘‘distinction between ritual, law and economic interest’’ (Le´vi-Strauss, 1969, p. 55), archaic organizations operate in such a way as to reﬂect their ‘‘best y procedure[s] not y in the calculation of individual needs’’ (Mauss, 1967, p. 75). As Polanyi argues, ‘‘[n]either the process of production nor that of distribution is linked to speciﬁc economic interests attached to the possession of goods; but every single step in that process is geared to a number of social interests which eventually ensure that the required step be taken’’ (Polanyi, 1968, p. 7).

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The above insight by Polanyi has particular relevance for Nostromo. The Capataz, whose contribution to the creation of a prosperous Sulaco is indeed vitally important, is an archaic character who, initially at least, does receive proper compensation for his efforts, but not in material terms. As Monygham tells him, ‘‘nobody that I know ever suspected you of being poor,’’ yet at the same time Monygham observes that constantly giving away his possessions is ‘‘not the way to make a fortune’’ (p. 229). A dialog between Gian Battista and Teresa sets the two ideals in clear opposition. According to the woman, the Capataz takes his ‘‘pay out in ﬁne words’’ (p. 224) only, but to Nostromo’s mind, a ‘‘good name y is a treasure’’ (p. 227). Therefore, he resents the very idea of ‘‘selling watermelons on the market place or rowing a boat for passengers along the harbour’’ (ibid.) for money only. ‘‘[R]eputation’’ (ibid.) and ‘‘the praise of people’’ (p. 226) are the only forms of payment that he expects ‘‘in exchange for [his] soul and body’’ (ibid.). ‘‘His prestige is his fortune’’ (p. 277), says Monygham. In these terms, Nostromo’s compensation is reciprocal because, according to Polanyi, ‘‘[r]eciprocity’’ in primitive systems of exchange demands ‘‘adequacy of response, not mathematical equality’’ (Polanyi, 1968, p. 89); which is to say, not ﬁnancial remuneration in its modern sense. The sphere in which the exemplary foreman exists, and which he believes to exist, is clearly a ‘‘supra-economic one’’ (Le´vi-Strauss, 1969, p. 55). Beyond mere fame, there are further rewards for Fidanza. In his outlining of archaic trade, Polanyi turned to the economic insights of Aristotle’s Politics and Nichomachian Ethics, and isolated the ‘‘three prizes of fortune’’ in the following paraphrase: [H]onor and prestige; security of life and limb; wealth. The ﬁrst stands for privilege and homage, rank and precedence; the second ensures safety from open and secret enemies, treason and rebellion, the revolt of the slave, the overbearing of the strong, and even protection from the arm of the law; the third, wealth, is the bliss of proprietorship, mainly of heirloom and famed treasure. (Polanyi, 1968, pp. 93–94; emphasis added)

Later deﬁned as ‘‘rank, immunity, and treasure’’ (ibid., p. 94), the so-called agatha is described as available only to a selected few (ibid.) who, for all their privileged standing within the community, are bent on ‘‘the continuance of the group’’ (ibid., p. 96). As the italicized phrases indicate, Polanyi’s reading of Aristotle has further implications for Nostromo’s standing in Sulaco. While representing so much of the locals’ life and culture (as Monygham says, ‘‘that fellow has some continuity,’’ p. 424), Nostromo is also set apart from them, and his uniqueness derives from the rare possession of the ‘‘three prizes.’’ Holding undisputed prestige, being physically

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and professionally associated with the wealth of the mine, ﬁghting back rebellions, and about to come into a symbolic bequest by marrying into Giorgio’s family, Giovanni Battista has secured a position for himself at the top of an ancient trading society. The notion of immunity is also part of Aristotle’s deﬁnition of success, and it has additional bearings on Nostromo’s presence in the novel. Until the ﬁnal shooting accident, Nostromo enjoys near miraculous physical protection that cannot be explained by his strength alone. Instead, it is something that he has earned by way of his services to society. As a child, he was ‘‘habitually and severely beaten’’ (p. 350) by his guardian, but once he establishes himself as economically useful to the Sulacan community, one prodigal feat follows another. As Captain Mitchell puts it, ‘‘[h]e had the gift of evolving safety out of the very danger’’ (p. 436), and on a symbolic level, this is so because Nostromo contributed signiﬁcantly to the ‘‘[s]ecurity’’ that the San Tome´ mine caused to ‘‘ﬂow upon this land’’ (p. 120). Nostromo himself couches this relationship in an ominous statement to Decoud: ‘‘You are as safe as the silver’’ (p. 245). Equally ominous are his words, ‘‘a chance shot sent after you in the dark’’ poses ‘‘no great y risk’’ (p. 245). But before this shot is actually ﬁred, his body, so closely related to the mine, sustains immunity, and can effectively offer it to others, because ‘‘[t]here is no one y brave enough to attack Gian’ Battista’’ (p. 211). In an interesting verbal correspondence to Polanyi’s texture, Nostromo guides Sir John on a dangerous route that poses ‘‘a risk to life and limb’’ (p. 63).

FROM POTLATCH TO LUXURY Yet even during this phase, Nostromo’s commitment to this particular social role is not genuine, as he inhabits a ‘‘border zone where worlds collide’’ (Mallios, 2001, p. 370) from the very beginning. Although he is efﬁcient and magniﬁcent like Tuan Jim, the self-appointed, white chieftain in Lord Jim, the very conditions under which he exists are so affected by modern commercial practices and institutions that to preserve the otherwise convincing tribal mask becomes increasingly difﬁcult, and the effort less and less rewarding. Inevitably, Nostromo undergoes a process of ‘‘detribaliz[ation]’’ (Grifﬁth, 1995, p. 206), becomes dissatisﬁed with his social standing, and, like most other characters in the novel, revises the contractual ties that make up this position. The theft of the silver can be seen as his ﬁrst manifest move in this respect, but several other markers of the instability of his status as archaic trader

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precede and complete this change. There is, for example, his very name. By making it a title, Conrad suggests that the narrative will concern itself with, among other things, the way in which Giovanni Battista became, is, and continues to be, ‘‘our [man]’’ (p. 53). At the same time, we are informed that this name is the result of Captain Mitchell’s mispronunciation of nostro uomo for nostromo, an Italian term for ‘‘boatswain.’’ This way Fidanza’s self-image as a ‘‘man of the people’’ (p. 261) is shown to be accommodating a conceptual falsity from the very beginning, and the error raises the question: to what extent is the famous foreman really representative of the locals, and from whose viewpoint is he ‘‘theirs’’? There is also the issue of his emphatic singularity. ‘‘[A]t once everyman and no-man, everything and nothing’’ (Dodson, 1998, p. 36), Nostromo is called ‘‘incomparable’’ (p. 434), yet his uniqueness is conveniently ignored when, as a simply ‘‘useful fellow’’ (p. 68), he is literally ‘‘lent’’ (ibid.) to Gould. The ‘‘invaluable’’ (p. 69) individual himself may cherish the idea that no material measurement can ﬁt the usefulness of his services, yet, in a shift from his earlier, symbolic and ritual communications, Nostromo ends up being deﬁned by the non-metaphorical, strictly economic aspect of Mitchell’s praise, according to which he is ‘‘a man worth his weight in gold’’ (p. 437). For the Gould Concession, he is undoubtedly of great value, but this is so because he is ‘‘needed’’ (p. 380) for corporate efﬁciency. Throughout the text, his ‘‘reputation is bound up with the fate of y silver’’ (ibid.), but increasingly, silver is an alienable economic asset, and no longer a fundamental, unifying element of the local culture. This, in turn, affects Fidanza’s interpersonal relationships. Anthropologist Kate Fox’s analogy between ‘‘corporate bonding’’ (the ‘‘good social relationships between business contacts’’; Fox, 2005, p. 1) and the sense of belonging within a non-utilitarian, comprehensive ‘‘Potlatch ritual’’ (Fox, 2005, p. 6) is applicable to the gradual fading of a truly broad-based social support for Nostromo. Throughout the whole narrative, Nostromo possesses the traits of both social commitments, but he becomes increasingly deﬁned by the notion of ‘‘corporate bonding.’’ In a scene that is reminiscent of a Native American cultural practice, Conrad has Mitchell narrate how in the ﬁnally safe, modern Sulaco a prominent trader meets Nostromo, who is ‘‘loaﬁng y everlastingly cadging for smokes’’ (p. 404), and who is denied the man’s ‘‘rather special,’’ expensive ‘‘cigars’’ (ibid.). Apparently, the new market players do not share the Capatazas’s famous readiness to share. The rich supplier doesn’t ‘‘mind’’ (p. 403) the soliciting as long as the loafer is ‘‘still the Capataz of [Mitchell’s] cargadores’’–that is, the interpersonal bonds suggested by this evocation of a broken smoking ritual are only

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possible if the parties involved belong to the same corporate sphere. Otherwise, things in modern Sulaco are no longer ‘‘tied together’’ (Mauss, 1967, p. 45) and transactions are no longer parts of a ‘‘moral economy’’ (Frow, 1997, p. 124)–as Mitchell points out, the trader ‘‘never even saw the point’’ (p. 404) about the indebtedness of all town dwellers to Fidanza. That Nostromo has also dissociated himself from the dictates of ‘‘supreme generosity’’ (p. 446), and from tribally organized schemes of exchange in general, is made most apparent by the theft of the valuable sea-cargo. ‘‘[P]otlatch,’’ notes Bataille, ‘‘remains the opposite of y an appropriation of possessions’’ (Bataille, 1989, p. 37). Even if related studies record cases where ‘‘native hosts y resorted to illegal means [such as] theft to produce the goods they could not afford’’ (Loo, 1992, p. 130), this opposition remains true because illegality is practiced not for individual possession but in order to accumulate wealth for the host’s ‘‘proposed ‘Potla[t]ch’ ‘‘(ibid.). Because Nostromo was earlier established as an inherently authoritative leader ﬁgure, what is expected from him is not collection but redistribution. Moreover, in sharp contrast to Nostromo’s act of hiding the silver, a chief’s obligatory redistributive act is, in some archaic cultures at least, accompanied by the necessity of exhibiting certain items: ‘‘Another remarkable form of exchange takes the form of display. This is y a great and frequent distribution y made to groups that have given their service to the chief or to his clan,’’ writes Mauss (Mauss, 1967, p. 28), noting, ‘‘[T]he transactions are group affairs’’–and he adds, prophetically for Nostromo–‘‘at least so long as the chief restrains himself’’ (ibid.). By the end of this story, the Capataz ‘‘could not restrain himself any longer’’ (p. 443). It is remarkable how closely the physical loss of the silver cargo reads as a structural opposite of, and therefore a variant on, the destruction of property in the potlatch ritual. During the shipping out from Sulaco, ‘‘the principle object of [the] expedition’’ (p. 256) is ‘‘destroyed’’ (ibid.), and although the silver does not literally sink, its near-sinking and eventual burial on an uninhabited island is evocative of the way native hosts, in Bataille’s account, take ‘‘bars’’ of metal that are ‘‘worth a fortune’’ and ‘‘throw them into the sea,’’ or, graphically recalling the collision that Nostromo’s boat suffers, ‘‘break their canoes’’ (Bataille, 1989, p. 68). What happens at sea could accommodate the community-cementing ritual of excessive prestation, yet Conrad’s representation emphasizes precisely the lack of communal reinforcement. Thus, a condition of strategic ‘‘stillness’’ (p. 244), total ‘‘darkness’’ (p. 248), ‘‘the burden of secrecy’’ (p. 258), and a ‘‘feeling of solitude’’ (p. 262) replaces the earlier image of the town festivity, where the ‘‘imposing noise of the big drum’’ (p. 132) and the ‘‘bright colours [of] high holiday’’

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(p. 131) accommodate a sense of ‘‘fraternity’’ (p. 132). Most relevant, the sea-adventure is the exact counterpoint of Nostromo’s earlier, ‘‘magniﬁcent and careless [y] public[ity]’’ (p. 134). Whereas during the festivity ‘‘all eyes’’ (p. 133) were set on him in a gaze of communal ‘‘recognition’’ (p. 132), out at sea Nostromo ‘‘saw nothing but a smooth darkness, like a solid wall’’ (p. 262). He and Decoud have ‘‘nothing in common y no bond of conviction, of common idea’’ (p. 257). From now on, Fidanza’s ‘‘problem of future conduct’’ (p. 262) is determined by the condition of being stripped of his communal-ritual ties, of being ‘‘alone’’ (ibid.). After the theft, the title character’s gradual loss of total communal recognition is accompanied by his loss of the other two attributes of the successful archaic trader. In Polanyi’s paraphrase of Aristotle, these are the ‘‘security of life and limb [and] wealth’’ (Polanyi, 1968, p. 93). When the latter, namely wealth, is speciﬁed as ‘‘the bliss of proprietorship, mainly of heirloom and famed treasure’’ (ibid., p. 94), we are brought very close to the concluding events in Nostromo. In his new role as ‘‘owner and master of a coasting schooner’’ (p. 435), Gian’ Battista, who once possessed physical immunity, now has ‘‘the vigour and symmetry of his powerful limbs lost in the vulgarity of a brown tweed suit, made by Jews in the slums of London, and sold by the clothing department of the Compania Anzani’’ (ibid., emphasis added). His gait is somehow ‘‘a shade less supple’’ (ibid.) in the new outﬁt. It becomes a logical extension of his weakening in ‘‘life and limb’’ that his own example of limited danger, ‘‘a chance shot sent y in the dark’’ (p. 245) ﬁnally hits him. Moreover, even this particular form of nemesis hardly occurs by ‘‘chance’’ (ibid.). Nostromo must be killed partly because Viola’s general attitude toward him is characterized by the archaic reﬂex of alternating between sharply contrasting attitudes. First he tells Nostromo that he is ‘‘welcome like a son’’ (p. 439), then he shoots him. The difference recalls what several anthropologists, including Mauss and Le´vi-Strauss, wrote about the origins of reciprocity. As put by Le´vi-Strauss, ‘‘[I]n a large number of societies, men meet in a curious frame of mind, with exaggerated fear and an equally exaggerated generosity.y There is either complete trust or complete mistrust. One lays down one’s arms y and gives everything away, from casual hospitality to one’s daughter’’ (Le´vi-Strauss, 1969, p. 483; emphasis added). Evans-Pritchard points out: ‘‘Either a man is a kinsman, actually or by ﬁction, or he is a person to whom you have no reciprocal obligations and whom you treat as a potential enemy’’ (quoted in Le´vi-Strauss, 1969, p. 482). The kinship problem raises the issue of Nostromo’s erotic choice. Giorgio’s fatal shot has its roots in Nostromo’s slipping out of the clannish protection

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he enjoyed up to that point. Implying more than his having arrived ‘‘like a [simple] thief’’ (p. 455), the punishment of physical death is meted out because he violated the symbolically tribal principles of achieving ‘‘heirloom’’ in the sense that Polanyi uses the word. From the beginning, Gian’ Battista has a pact with the Violas to the effect that one day he will become ‘‘[h]usband to one [of the daughters] and brother to the other’’ (p. 227), and there are indeed shared elements in Giorgo’s life and Nostromo’s that render this projected integration into the family an obvious course. The two men comprise a sort of modern-day clan, because both are Italians, and, more importantly, they both ﬁnd that prestige and honor are greater rewards than any ﬁnancial compensation. Even the anthropological concept of exchange as a method of self-defense is detectable in Nostromo’s planned marriage. Giorgio ‘‘secur[ed]’’ him as a ‘‘defender for the girls’’ (p. 224), and the pact indeed secures protection for the whole family when, at the beginning of Chapter 4, the mob storms the Casa Viola. ‘‘Exchanges,’’ writes Le´vi-Strauss, can ‘‘resolve y wars, and wars are the result of unsuccessful transactions’’ (Le´vi-Strauss, 1969, p. 67). Thus, Nostromo’s sudden preference for the younger daughter is not primarily a sexual leaning. Instead, it is an escape from those communal ties within which the archaic role of combined collector and (re)distributor, servant and chieftain, husband and protector, makes sense. To be even more speciﬁc, Giorgio’s fatal shot is rightly understood in the context of his own earlier pronouncement: a ‘‘good name y is a treasure’’ (p. 227). By way of warning, and in an anticipation of Bataille’s anthropological insight, the old Italian could have added: ‘‘rank’’ is also ‘‘analogous to stocks of munitions,’’ it is ‘‘an explosive charge’’ because the ritual of potlatch has to do with ‘‘annihilation, not [with] possession’’ (Bataille, 1989, p. 75; emphasis added). But at this late point in the novel, Nostromo wants to ‘‘gain without losing, enjoy without sharing’’ (Le´vi-Strauss, 1969, p. 497), to experience ‘‘luxury’’ (Bataille, 1989, p. 48), which, Bataille argues, is a ‘‘counterfeit’’ (ibid.) version of potlatch. Thus, his violation of his earlier trading principles comes home to roost. When he is shot in a misguided response to his thief-like, selﬁsh behavior, Nostromo is symbolically reunited with those ‘‘embedded’’ forms of giving and taking that he, in his obsession with the silver as material value, has both come to ignore and found impossible to restore. Now he shows a ‘‘stir of formless shapes on the ground’’ (p. 456) that can, in an emphatic repetition, only speak ‘‘from the ground’’ (p. ibid.). He who was outstanding in the service of the Gould Concession and was, at the same time, so much deﬁned by silver as a communally cohesive material, no longer faces the challenge of how to ‘‘stand’’ on some middle ground between archaic and modern trading models.

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NOTES 1. The present essay is a piece of literary criticism that elaborates on a special anthropological dimension of the text. Nostromo is by no means an ethnographic document, and even the eponymous character’s generosity, which is the central subject of this study, can be interpreted in a number of other contexts. Nevertheless, I do believe that a large segment of Conrad’s ﬁction displays a clear interest in various, mainly anthropologically and psychoanalytically conceivable, forms of exchange and contractuality. In addition, it may be claimed that today’s literary scholarship sees literature as an autonomous ﬁeld only to a limited degree, and, as so many books and articles show, it accommodates all sorts of interdisciplinary approaches. 2. Because most references in this chapter are to Conrad’s Nostromo, I will omit the author’s name from the internal citations to avoid monotony. Thus, all parenthetical references containing page numbers only are to this novel.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS In accordance with this essay’s interest in acts of giving and taking, let me acknowledge gratefully the generous support of a few institutions and individuals. Without the funds received from the Hungarian Scholarship Board, I would have been unable to start nine months of research at the University of British Columbia in AY 2003–2004. The completion of my project (which yielded this particular study, as well as several more essays on Conrad) would not have been possible without the ﬁnancial security that a teaching opportunity gave me after the expiration of my grant, so my very special thanks go to Prof. Gernot Wieland, Head of the English Department at UBC. I also wish to thank my colleague in Budapest, Prof. Ferenc Taka´cs, who ﬁrst pointed out the relevance of Karl Polanyi’s economic anthropological theory for my ongoing research in Conrad studies. For their indirect, but so generously offered help, I owe hearty thanks to Dorcas and William Reimer in Vancouver. Finally, I am most grateful for Szilvia Remenyik for her research on the Conradian use of the word ‘‘sullen.’’

REFERENCES Ambrosini, R. (1991). Conrad’s fiction as critical discourse. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bataille, G. (1989). The accursed share. Trans. Robert Hurley (Vol. I). New York: Zone Books. Conrad, J. (1983). The collected letters of Joseph Conrad. In: Karl, F. & Davies, L. (Eds.), Vol. II. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Conrad, J. (1990). Nostromo. Harmondsworth: Penguin. Conrad, J. (1997). Karain. In: Selected short stories. Ware, Hertfordshire: Wordsworth Classics. Dodson, S. (1998). Conrad and the politics of the sublime. The Conradian, 20, 6–39. Fox, K. (2005, March 21). Corporate bonding at the races. 8 pages. n.d., (http://www.sirc.org/ publik/corporate.html). Frow, J. (1997). Time and commodity culture: Essays in cultural theory and postmodernity. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Gregory, C. (1983). Kula gift exchange and capitalist commodity exchange: A comparison. In: J. W. Leach & E. Leach (Eds), The Kula: New perspectives on massim exchange. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Grifﬁth, J. W. (1995). Joseph Conrad and the anthropological dilemma: ‘‘Bewildered traveller’’. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Kottak, C. P. (1994). Anthropology: The exploration of human diversity. New York: McGrawHill, Inc. Land, S. K. (1984). Four views of the hero. In: B. Harold (Ed.), Joseph Conrad’s Nostromo (pp. 87–102). New York: Chelsea House Publishers. Landa, J. T. (1994). Trust, ethnicity, and identity: Beyond the new institutional economics of ethnic trading networks, contract law, and gift-exchange. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Langland, E. (1982). Society as formal protagonist: The examples of Nostromo and Barchester Towers. Critical Inquiry, 9, 359–378. Leavis, F. R. (1954). The great tradition: George Eliot, Henry James and Joseph Conrad. New York: Doubleday. Le´vi-Strauss, C. (1969). The elementary structures of kinship (J. H. Bell, J. R. von Strumer & R. Needham, Trans.). Boston: Beacon. Loo, T. (1992). Dan Cranmer’s potlatch: Law as coercion, symbol, and rhetoric in British Columbia, 1884–1951. Canadian Historical Review, 73(2), 125–165. Mallios, P. (2001). Undiscovering the country: Conrad, Fitzgerald, and meta-national form. Modern Fiction Studies, 47(2), 356–390. Mauss, M. (1967). The gift: Forms and functions of exchange in archaic societies (Ian Cunnison, Trans). New York: Norton. Polanyi, K. (1968). Primitive, archaic and modern economies: Essays of Karl Polanyi. New York: Doubleday. Ward, D. A. (1992). ‘‘An ideal conception’’: Conrad’s Nostromo and the problem of Identity. English Literature in Transition 1880–1920, 35(3), 288–298.