Economics as culture

Economics as culture

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Economics as culture Models and metaphors of livelihood

Stephen Gudeman Department of Anthropology University of Minnesota

Routledge & Kegan Paul London, Boston and Henley

For Roxane Rebecca, Elise and Keren

First published in 1986 by Routledge & Kegan Paul pic 14 Leicester Square, London WC2H 7PH, England 9 Park Street, Boston, Mass. 02108, USA and Broadway House, Newtown Road, Henley on Thames, Oxon RG9 lEN, England Set in Times 1O/12ptby Columns of Reading and printed in Great Britain by Billing and Sons Ltd, Worcester. © Stephen Gudeman 1986 No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except for the quotation of brief passages in criticism Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Gudeman, Stephen. Economics as culture. (International library of anthropology) Bibliography: Includes index. 1. Economic anthropology. 2. Economics - History. 3. Ethnophilosophy. 4. Ricardo, David, 1772-1823. 5. Physiocrats. /. Title. II. Series. GN44B.2.G83 1986 306'.3 85-2327 British Library CIP data also available ISBN 0-7102-0560-0

Contents

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\ Preface

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vii

Acknowledgments

x

1 Rice and sugar: local models of change

1

2 Models and modes of livelihood

28

3 Ricardo's representations

48

4 Physiocracy: a natural economics

71

5 The Bernba and the Bisa: intentions of nature

90

6 A dual economy: the Gogo

110

7 The yams of Dobu

129

8 Metaphors, models and reflections

142

Notes

158

Bibliography

162

Index

171

Tables

1.1

Land names

7

1.2 Three local models

23

3.1 Profits and rents

60

Preface

The question which animates this book can be simply posed: what constructs or models are appropriate for analyzing the economic patterns of other societies? Should we employ our Western categories of knowledge or must other ways of knowing and understanding be used? According to one widely accepted view, an economy comprises a separate sphere of instrumental or practical action. Economic analysis, therefore, requires a unique set of conceptual tools which, when suitably modified, can be used to analyze patterns of livelihood everywhere. As opposed to this view, I argue that economies and economic theories are social constructions. The central processes of making a livelihood are culturally modeled. Among many nonWestern peoples these constructions of livelihood are metaphors or extended metaphors. The activities of livelihood are enacted through a symbolic scheme which is drawn from known features of the social world. By contrast, for the last two centuries Western models of livelihood have used logical and mathematical schemes. These scripts usually are devoid of direct empirical referents; they are more abstract and can be applied across a diversity of activities. The distinction between the modern and the traditional has been conceptualized in different ways. Sahlins (1976) refers to 'the West and the rest,' Gellner (1974) speaks of the 'big ditch,' while Levi-Strauss (1966) has provided the image of the bricoleur versus the engineer. Perhaps Weber best characterized the opposition by pointing to rationality as the key feature of Western modernity. In spite of these differences, anthropologists sometimes use our schemes to measure and assess other models, although ours clearly do not provide an ultimate foundation for making such evaluations. More profoundly, by using our models to understand

viii

Preface

others, economic anthropologists have confused the difference between evaluation and understanding, measurement and meaning. The point at issue is not whose categories are more valid ours or theirs, those of the engineer or the bricoleur. It concerns rather the connected problem of the difference between our models and theirs, and the form of our models themselves. Most modern economic models have a derivational form: explanation consists in showing how one set of data can be derived from another according to a specified set of rules. (The rationality of the businessman or the engineer, for example, depends upon showing how the means are teleologically derived from the ends.) Clearly, this way of explaining, understanding and going about things works very well for certain purposes. When it is used cross-culturally, however, translation and understanding become subsumed within and a species of derivational explanation. We claim to have explained and to have understood an exotic model when we can show how it can be derived from a set of premises. But such a translation is nothing more than a tautology, for it involves the use of a particular Western model form which itself is internally circular. We cannot simply rearrange their models and reword their categories to be derivable from ours, for it is especially in the patterning of the categories - in the schemes or scripts - that cultural differences lie. My aim, then, is to analyze models of livelihood as cultural constructions. I explain such models by showing how and why they fit together, and I claim that analysis of this type yields an understanding not afforded by the use of Western models. To designate the heterogeneous category of people's models I employ the term 'local model,' while the expression 'derivational' or 'universal model' is reserved for the special Western form. If, in the last analysis, I hold out the possibility of a single cultural economics based on the comparative study of local models, it is only because in their own way universal models are another set of local formulations. The distinction between Western and local models becomes clearly evident in situations of economic development, for here there is an inevitable confrontation between local and global forces, traditional and rational models. I provide in the first chapter, therefore, a study from a village in Latin America of the

Preface

ix

relation between three, successive peasant models of the economy and external forces of modernization. This ethnography provides the background for a theoretical discussion in Chapter 2 of the difference between local and universal models. Because the rational form of explanation so deeply informs our own expectations and discourse, I turn next to a cultural analysis of this model type. In Chapter 3, I trace the genesis of the modern economic model to David Ricardo. The Ricardian revolution consisted precisely of a change to economic models based on a logical or mathematical scheme and adhering to a rational or derivational form. Following my examination of Ricardo's 'corn model,' I move backward half a century to the model of the Physiocrats. The work of these French economists is relevant because they offer a point of overlap between modern explanations and traditional accounts. Like the moderns, the Physiocrats envisioned the economy as an integrated system directed to the production of real wealth. But the central constructs in the Physiocratic model are metaphoric and the form of their model is non derivational. The next three chapters are devoted to cases from Africa and Oceania. These local models of livelihood draw upon social metaphors, employ human intentionality to constitute material practices, and are pieced together in logical but nonderivational ways. Thus, in the body of the book I reverse the normal arrow of time and present the studies as a movement from modern theory to historical models to exotic peoples. This mode of organization reinforces my purpose. In place of privileging our historical moment and perspective, I would base a cultural economics upon the direct comparison and contrast of metaphors and models of livelihood.

Acknowledgments

During the several years I worked on the materials of this book, numerous friends and colleagues provided suggestions and encouragement. I am especially grateful to Edmund Leach, Sutti Ortiz, David Schneider and Norman Whitten. Important assistance was also provided by Rebecca, Elise and Keren Gudeman. Portions of the research were begun during the time I was a member of the Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton, while the manuscript itself was completed under a Senior Fellowship from the National Endowment for the Humanities. The generosity of both institutions is very much appreciated, as was the hospitability of the Department of Social Anthropology and King's College, Cambridge. I was also extremely fortunate to receive Adam Kuper's generous advice and support which far exceeded any editorial obligations. Finally, special thanks are owed to Mischa Penn, a patient yet severe critic, who has provided me with a fund of ideas and taught me something about philosophical issues; the footnote and references of Chapter 2 do not adequately capture my indebtedness to him. Several of the chapters are revised versions of materials which first appeared elsewhere. Portions of Chapter 1 were published under the title 'Mapping means' in Social Anthropology of Work, ed. S. Wallman, Academic Press, London, 1979: 229-47, Chapter 3, © copyright 1984 by the Regents of the University of California, is reprinted from Representations, vol. 5, Winter 1984: 92-114, by permission of the Regents. An earlier version of Chapter 4, which is not for further reproduction, appeared in American Ethnologist, vol. 7, no. 2, 1980: 240-58 ..

1

Rice and sugar: local models of change

When I first went to Panama in the latter part of the 1960s, I chose to live in a small community that appeared to be undergoing a radical change in agricultural practices. Within less than a decade the people in the village of Los Boquerones shifted from 'subsistence' farming of rice and maize to raising sugar-cane for cash sale, to working for a government sugar mill that had taken control of their land. At the time of my principal fieldwork I was able to study the first two of these economic patterns. By intention I did not focus on topics such as who adopts new agricultural practices first, the motivational characteristics of 'entrepreneurs' or the role of information in promoting change; rather, I attempted to characterize each economy as a distinct form and to explore the nature of the transitions between them. The theoretical tools I eventually employed were a blend of anthropological concepts and what has become known as neoRicardianism, for it seemed to me then - and I would still support the position - that a neoRicardian economics overlaps in important ways with an anthropological perspective (Gudeman 1976a, 1978a, 1978b). But now I wish to reconsider some of this published material, as well as some unreported ethnography, in order to display more clearly the people's own economic constructions; at each historical period in Panama the villagers had a set of coherently arranged economic categories. Obviously, these local models were constructed in relation to a more powerful economy whose tendrils were encountered but not controlled; and the economic concepts as well as their patterning shifted in response to changing external forces. But the local concepts and schemas constituted the everyday economic activities of the villagers. The Panama material provides an initial example of three separate yet linked schemas of livelihood. Of particular interest is the first set 1

2

Rice and sugar: local models of change

of categories, for these comprised an oikos model, a pattern which has not yet been fully explored from a people's perspective. But more generally my purpose is to illustrate the existence, importance and coherence of local constructions. Themes and images from this initial example will find their counterparts in later analyses. I shall first consider the models separately and then look at the relations between them. For each I first describe the situation from an external perspective and then provide the local view, precisely because the external context itself was locally modeled. A household economy The first economic pattern had endured for several hundred years. To provide it with a term, it might be called a household, domestic or oikos model (Gudeman and Whitten 1982). The household, based on a division of labor between the sexes, was the central institution of the economy and constituted the primary unit of production and consumption. Goods were produced primarily for use within the household, and they were evaluated in terms of their productive and consumptive qualities; the exchange sector was not highly developed. Overall, the economic pattern was cyclical and goods were seen as flowing through domestic units. Any use of them was defined as an expense, for consumption represented a drain upon the basic reproductive cycle. Close attention, therefore, was given to household economy or the domestic management of goods. The productive system was based upon agriculture, although some animals were kept. A variety of crops were raised, the most important being rice and maize. Rice, consumed at every meal, was said by the people to be a 'necessity.' All crops were grown by swidden or shifting agriculture. The usual practice was to cut down the forest, burn it, farm a plot for two years in succession and then allow it to regenerate for eight to ten years. The machete and digging stick were the primary tools, while the seed stock was taken from the prior year's harvest; the agricultural system required little 'capital accumulation.' A key technological practice was the use of fire. Burning the forest released nutrients to the soil, and it obviated the need to possess heavy equipment for clearing the land.

Rice and sugar: local models of change

3

Each household used one to one-and-a-half hectares of land. But the work site of a household changed every few years, and in any single year a group usually farmed several pieces of land simultaneously, for by selecting plots with varying characteristics it would have some insurance against the uncertainties of the environment. Even if a household harbored sufficient labor, it often secured outside help during the year. The motivation for obtaining such aid varied from the desire for conviviality to the need for rapidly harvesting a ripened crop. The work itself was repaid by labor, in kind or by cash. Although the economy of the countryside was founded upon self-sufficient household units, the overall pattern - or model was not independent of the broader society. The 'domestic economy' itself was generated by an encompassing 'political economy.' It was set into a larger pattern property and a capitalist system. The central or mediating link between this more powerful economy and the countryside was the land. Throughout the rural areas land was owned predominantly by absentee landlords (Figueroa Navarro 1978). Most used their land to raise cattle. In the area of Los Boquerones the land was owned by the descendants of an army general who had helped lead a revolution against Colombia in the nineteenth century. The owners used it for grazing cattle but also permitted peasants to live on and to farm it. The peasants were allowed to cut down and burn the forest; to keep out the cattle, they would construct wooden fences around their plots. After two years of use, the fences would be demolished so that the cattle might forage in the cleared area while the shrub and brush grew once again. Thus, in return for the right of usufruct, the landowners received the benefit of pasture clearance. In addition, the peasants paid a small rent of either $1.00 or a day of labor per year, regardless of field size or land quality. The landowners, however, also placed a constraint upon this use right - a limitation designed to protect their own interests. They prohibited permanent investments in either houses or land. The peasants were never allowed to seed a crop that was a perennial or to construct permanent homes; all had to be of the stick and thatch variety. By creating a situation of temporal scarcity in relation to the iand, the landowners protected themselves against possible claims by right of improvement. The

4

Rice and sugar: local models of change

result was that the peasants had to practice shifting agriculture, if they wanted to have access to the land. Furthermore, they had no reason to improve the land for future use, for they could not benefit from such an investment. The technological practice of swidden agriculture represented not so much an ecological as a socio-economic adaptation to the conditions in which the peasants found themselves. Within this context of outside control and ownership, how did the people construct their relationship to the land? In the first place, it was said that the forest was freely available for use; everyone had equal rights of access to it. Rights, in fact, were secured by erecting crosses about the area one wished to work. While the land was being used, one had exclusive rights to it, but these lapsed when the agricultural cycle was completed. As one person said: 'In the old times one was owner only of what he planted or worked.' In effect, the land was continuously being cycled from the public to the private to the public domain. The public domain, of course, was not a true commons; the land was not a publicly held benefice. No one owned it and everyone had equal access to it precisely because it was outside local social control. The people's construct of the land itself was closely linked to this pattern of external control and internal use. Above all, the land was said to have a 'force.' It had powers which could be drawn upon in production. Land - the people would say - needed to be 'rested'; and good land had 'strength,' it would 'give' a good crop. Particular areas 'lent' themselves for certain uses. Overall, the land was modeled as if it were a natural pool or reservoir which could be drawn upon to support the agricultural cycle. The land was an external power the people used but did not control. In these respects, the peasants' model was strikingly similar to that of the Physiocrats and the early Ricardo, both of whom also modeled the land as a natural power that sustained the economic cycle. The Physiocrats, however, justified their focus on the land as fertilizing agent in the economic process by natural law theory and Locke's epistemology of mind. In Ricardo's corn model, land assumed a special importance partly because he relied upon a derivational form of analysis. Clearly, the Panamanian peasants' focus upon land as a natural force arose within a different epistemological context. All three

Rice and sugar: local models of change

5

models, however, were about class-structured agricultural societies in which land was a central resource. In all three, furthermore, land was controlled by those who did not directly cultivate it. In particular, for the Panamanian peasants, outside power and control was felt and made known first through the land. The so-called force and fecundity of nature was, in some respects, their way of modeling the external economic powers. This image of the land as a natural reservoir was elaborated by a remarkable metaphor that the peasants used in their everyday agricultural practices. According to this metaphor, which had an analogical form, crops were to the land as human hair was to the head. The metaphor appeared in the verbal expressions used for practical activities. According to the people, in the first stage of the agricultural cycle, the monte or bush had to be knocked down (lumbar) or cut down (socolar) so that it could be burned and then seeded (sembrar). At this point, precisely when the land was seeded and usufruct rights took effect, the terminology shifted and became humanized. The next step in the agricultural process was to weed. But this was known as 'cleaning,' not weeding, for it was said that the land became 'dirty'. (The term 'cleaning' was also used in the context of demarcating the domestic space of the household from its natural surroundings; each day the patio of the house had to be swept clear of debris.) One cleaned the land so that the rice and other crops would grow and 'throw off children.' The weeding itself was done with different degrees of skill. The poorest was to botch or bungle (guachapear) the job by cutting too high with the machete. To cut the weeds at their bases, however, was known as 'trimming the hair slightly' (sobrepeine). Best of all was to cut the weeds at their roots by digging the machete several inches into the ground; this was described as casqueado - which means cutting the roots by breaking the casing of the head! The next major task after the weeding was to harvest, but this was known as cutting (cortar) the crop. Then, if the same land was to be used in the same year for a second crop (i.e. double cropping), the dead stalks that remained had to be cleared by machete before planting. This activity was known as 'shearing off hair' (pelar). The dead stuff remaining in a field after a crop had been

6

Rice and sugar: local models of change

gathered was termed 'stubble' (rastrojo). In the second year of a field's use this stubble was cleared for burning by 'beating' it (aporrear). After this second burning, the same sequence of barbering terms was used until the land again became stubble. Finally, a plot remained as stubble for several years until the forest had grown back and the land was again termed monte. Thus, subsistence crops grow as does human hair. The metaphor fitted the cycle by which land moved from equal access to temporary usufruct and back to nature. Agriculture is an activity in which nature is temporarily tamed or humanized by removing the forest cover. Although both human hair and crops are cultivated under the guidance of persons, their force for growing comes not from themselves (the hair, the seed) nor from their cultivator (the barber, the laborer) but from that in which they grow (the head, the earth). Agriculture is a crafting of nature; it entails the use of an external source which must be 'rested' when it becomes 'tired.' Humans contribute their barberlike skills, but the crops are not labor-generated; this is a natural process which depends upon a force that is outside local control. The peasants had an unwritten land map which made use of this same imagery. The home-made map used in the village consisted of designation by natural features. In the people's terms these were names of 'workplaces' (trabajaderos). The entire land surface of the community, including house locales, was divided conceptually into irregular patches, almost all of which bore the names of unchanging natural features. All areas were included, there were no empty spaces, and each was of equivalent importance, whether house site or work site. As one person told me, 'All the places have names, names are equal in this respect.' The various, designated, real sites had no physical boundaries; the topography was also represented as continuous, and one patch shaded into another. The name of each land piece was taken - or was said to have been taken - from a natural feature found in the area. One region, for example, was termed 'Dark Notes to Table 1.1 • 'This word, of Galicia - Portuguese origin, is frequent in Panamanian vocabulary and is not uncommon in toponymy' (Robe 1960: 22) . •• This was the name of a house and farm site, taken from the person who 'first' worked the area. The individual and family are no longer in the region, and the name is used here in a de-personalized manner.

7

Rice and sugar: local models of change

TABLE 1.1: Land names Natural referents

La Alta Laja" - Large Flat Stone Los Cagajones Dungheap Cerca de Piedra - Stone Fence Cerro de Carmen Carmen's Hill Cerro de Guavita Guavita Hill Cienegon - Marsh, Bog Coiba - name of island in Pacific Ocean, south of Province La Coloma - Heaped up, Overflowing (The Cemetery) La Cucha - Lagoon Charco El Tronco - Log Pond Guayabal - Grove. of Guava Trees Mataprieta - Dark Shrub Mirador - Vantage Point Palo Verde - Green Tree Picorales - Place of Sharp, Pungent Taste or Things Pinto - Spotted La Playa Prieta - Dark Beach Pozohondo - Deep Pool Pozolindo - Pretty Pool La Sementera - Sown Land Sitio Campo** Campo (name) Site

Supernatural referents El Duende - Goblin

Social referents

Antonina diminutive of personal name Ciriaca personal name Juarez family name

8

Rice and sugar: local models of change

Shrub,' after a large shrub found in the general domain. 'Vantage Point' referred to a locality surrounding a hill which afforded a vision of the entire community. The names are listed in Table 1.1. The land map was used primarily in providing directions to the changing work sites of the people. The community extends for 2800 hectares, and with approximately twenty-six topographic names, including that of the village itself, each region designated on average more than one hundred hectares. But residential areas, as well as some of the less usable land, were not finely differentiated. A named work locale might cover only sixty hectares and this was an area within which sight and sound could be used to pinpoint a work site. Orientation was provided by combining the label for an area with a cardinal direction; one man might say to another, 'I am working to the north of Deep Spring.' Work sites were easily designated in terms of their distance to and direction from or within a geographic feature or space. According to the people, the names were there when the first inhabitants of the village arrived. No one knew when the labels originated nor who conferred them upon areas. Given to society, the names were - for the people - outside their volition. In a double respect, the names were a natural terminology. The names themselves referred to natural features; they also possessed no social history and were deemed always to have existed. As I soon found out through trial and error, however, the map was not fully referential. It was not a direct representation or coding of nature. Many of the labels, for example, had no topographic referent or correlate in the landscape. At certain points only did the labels coincide with the visible features of the land surface, as if the map were a canvas tacked down here and there by a stake or two. Upon enquiry I found that the peasants adopted a rather nominalistic view. For them, the map was something to be used; pragmatically, it was simply a way of marking differences. As one individual put it: 'People put on the names to distinguish them, to call your attention, so you know where to go to work. Like a dog needs a name: if you say "dog," any dog may come.' None the less, the map labels did fall within the general category 'nature,' which raises the question: why did the peasants

Rice and sugar: local models of change

9

draw names from this as opposed to other possible categories? I suggest that selecting labels from the category of nature was fitting in the context of the peasant's local model. The natural map, on the one hand, stood for the fact that the land was free from individual or village appropriation. The land was a part of nature and available to everyone. It was unbounded by a social grid. Being impermeable to human history, to human intervention, to human control, the land remained constant while people moved and used it on a short-term basis. At the same time, the natural map was one way of modeling external control. The natural strength of the land to which the peasants gained occasional access was the force of the landowners. The land map was one of the peasants' ways of constructing and of mediating their relation to the larger society. The land, however, was important primarily because it provided the foundation or reservoir for the annual seed cycle. Above all, the people were interested in the quantity and quality of the real items which they could produce and reproduce. The peasants were not addicted to quantitative measurements; but they always measured their crops, particularly the input and output or the flows of the seed cycle. By historical knowledge or 'custom' - as they said - they knew that a certain input of seed would yield roughly a certain volume of output. When I enquired about production, the first quantity a person would discuss was the volume of seed he had planted or would plant, not his land size or labor requirements. Furthermore, the peasants made use of a complex system for measuring the volumes of rice and maize. This system was partly of Spanish origin, partly of their own devising; in contrast, nothing so elaborate was used for measuring the land or labor. Land, in fact, was frequently measured or calculated in terms of the seed. An often-repeated rule of thumb was 'one lata (a large tin holding about twenty-five pounds) of rice seeds one hectare.' Actually, some of the 'land measurements' I have were based upon this rule which translates volume of seed to spatial dimension; land size was expressed in terms of a seed quantity. As one person said, 'Before the sugar-cane came, that is how people figured.' Seed measurement dominated land calibration; the land was subordinated to the crops. Despite the risk of causing some confusion, I am tempted to

10

Rice and sugar: local models of change

label the peasants' model a 'commodity economy.' Their interests were focused upon the commodity, the real items, which they could produce. Rice was a topic of everyday conversation and was discussed in terms of its uses and supply. Different strains were evaluated according to their ease of preparation and eating qualities. Some strains, for example, were said to be softer, others had less tendency to break or chip, while still others were known to preserve well after cooking. Each year seed strains were chosen to secure these qualities. But the reliability of the strains and their suitability for different soils were yet more important. Regardless of consumption qualities, it was crucial to raise enough product to support the household for a year. Agricultural practices were directed to assuring sufficiency, not accumulation or growth through reinvestment. Overall, the seed harvest as a consumable entity was the purpose or finality of the system. To support this cyclical pattern of seed yielding seed, the peasants drew upon the natural power of the land. Labor, like land, was measured in terms of the seed. The primary labor calculation was by task, rather than time, and this was a way of measuring work performance by the commodity. The focus was upon the material to be transformed - a volume of bush to be cut down, a number of weeds to be cleaned, a quantity of harvest to be gathered. I collected a whole series of labor 'tasks' (tareas): for each stage of each crop there was a different task size. For rice weeding there was one task size, and for rice seeding another. Both these tasks differed when done on the maize. The tasks themselves were measured spatially, the human body providing the measuring stick. One undertook a certain number of 'handfuls' or 'arm lengths' of work, where the body length measured the work to be done on the crop, not the land itself. 'The task signifies the quantity of work,' one person said, 'it does not signify land.' In general, then, labor was not modeled as a homogeneous entity, measured by time. Labor like land was calibrated in terms of crop size. Certain work had to be completed for the harvest to be obtained; given this purpose, the time that a person expended was not of immediate importance nor was it always calculated. These constructions of the seed, land and labor were closely related to the people's notions about private property and value. No one was said to own the land or forest, even while it was

Rice and sugar: local models of change

11

being used: 'the monte has no value and one is not the owner.' But everything which was elaborated upon or raised from nature was the property of the laboring individual 'because of the work you have put in - the work from the beginning.' The land (or head) was outside local appropriation, but the crops (or hair) were individually possessed. Possession resulted from the work expended upon an object. In this sense, labor created property. The peasants never held, however, that property was created because labor itself generated something beyond its brute powers or that humans had a special capacity to coax from the means more than they, the humans, consumed in the process of doing so. This was not a generative but a passive construction of labor. Work added value but only by transporting or moving it from one item to another. When the people bought and sold crops in a field among themselves, they said they were transferring the work or the expenses represented in the objects. And the expenses were calculated in terms of real items. Expense meant the consumption or use of goods. For example, when a man said that in the past maize had more expenses than rice, he was referring not to the cost of producing it but to the fact that maize used to be consumed by horses, pigs and other animals; previously it had more uses. Humans, animals, anything that used up an item was an expense. A good that was consumed not in leisure but in the process of working sustained a useful activity, but it did not and could not help generate extra value. An item was worth the expenses it contained, and these designated a quantity of goods, whether they had been expended directly in the item or indirectly through human labor. Thus, private property was generated not by work itself but by ownership of the expenses which had been impacted into an object. In this respect, too, the villagers' model resembled that of the Physiocrats: the core of both was the cyclical reproduction of agricultural goods which sustained or 'passed through' labor and yielded property rights. As a totality, the peasants' local economy was based upon household units. This was an oikos economy, for the domestic group was the social unit where goods were produced and through which they were cycled. The people, in fact, did not use the term 'economy'; they spoke instead of 'economizing' within the household. Specifically, they would speak of 'expenses of the house' or 'house expenses' (gastos de la casa). The expenses were

12

Rice and sugar: local models of change

the material needs of the group; by economizing or keeping these uses of the goods under control, the household could maintain itself from year to year. Household plans were predicated upon a cyclical pattern of goods. A surfeit of goods in one year was not seen as accumulation for reinvestment but as pure savings or, more precisely, deferred use. The term 'capital,' for example, was not used by the people; it was not considered to be a productive factor. Households, as units through which goods flowed, also were not profit centers. As the people said, profit 'is not a thing of the countryside.' Theirs was an expense-conscious, not a profitdirected, economy. For them, profit arose only in trade, not production. Yet, the people did not have a purely exchange conception of profit. Here it is necessary to distinguish between rural exchange and rural-urban trade. Among themselves, the peasants traded both labor and goods. These transactions were modeled as the exchange of equivalents. When you sell, they would say, you recover your expenses - where expenses again were the volume of goods used to produce something. By contrast, outsiders did make profits in rural-urban exchanges. How this happened was a 'mystery' for the peasants, but it was the commodity buyers and traders who could turn a profit. In fact, this metaphoric construction of profit fitted the local model very well; because the peasants had a cyclical, use model, they had no way of constructing profit except as a mysterious entity secured by outsiders or nonparticipants in their economy. This same rural/urban distinction was seen in the peasants' categorization of the commodities which they consumed. Roughly, goods produced in the countryside were classified as 'necessities' or items needed to meet household expenses. Commodities purchased by cash - obtained through sales of their own goods on the market - were categorized mostly as 'luxuries' and as 'vices,' for their consumption detracted from meeting the necessities of the household. Market commodities signaled a diversion of local goods from the use-expense cycle to sale; they were luxuries precisely because they were not needed to maintain the basic, subsistence cycle and represented a dangerous drain upon it.! There was, furthermore, a vague ideological or theological metaphor forged between market commodities and evil. It was sometimes said that one could obtain the power to purchase

Rice and sugar: local models of change

13

luxuries only by falling under the Devil's influence. To limit one's 'tastes' (gustos) to the 'expenses' (gastos) of the household, therefore, was not only prudent but also a moral act. Overall, then, this was a model of reproduction but not increase or accumulation. To sustain the cycle, the people had to draw on the special power of the land. They constructed this as a force in nature outside their control. The land, when properly tended, would 'give' its strength to the crops which in turn were produced for use or consumption. The act of working was crucial in maintaining this cycle, but labour itself was modeled as a form of crafting -like barbering - and as an expense or use of the goods that were produced. This was a true 'domestic' or 'necessity' economy whose dialectical relation to the larger 'political' or 'luxury' economy was mediated through the land and 'mysterious' exchanges.

A cash crop economy Beginning in the 1940s the rural area began to experience a more direct penetration by the outside economy. In particular, sugarcane began to be raised as a cash crop. The household remained the central unit in the economy, but in addition to managing a flow of material goods it had to manage a flow of money. Households acted to increase their money income as well as control their real expenses of consumables. Several changes also combined to make the land a scarce and potentially more durable resource. This period witnessed, first, a shift in control of the land. Throughout the decade the landowners allowed their herd to decline in size, and eventually in the early 1950s they took the first steps toward selling the land to another cattle grazier, who himself threatened to remove the people. The peasants began to react to the possibility of losing usufruct. Ultimately, they found that power through arms was the only way to alter the situation, although their objective was only to restore the status quo. After confrontations and negotiation, in 1963 the government purchased the land, through its land reform agency, with the intention of apportioning the terrain to its users. In the 1960s the future of the area remained uncertain and the people could not predict what

14

Rice and sugar: local models of change

entitlements they would hold, but a shift of some land rights from the outside to the local economy had been set in motion. At the same time the population density of the area increased, due to a slackening in infant mortality and a predominance of inmigration over out-migration. In addition, as the cattle were removed, the forage grasses began to dominate; and the bush, which previously had grown back rather rapidly, now regenerated itself more slowly. Consequently, whether measured absolutely or per household, the amount of usable forest land was decreasing. In the late 1950s - when the road network was improved - two sugar-cane mills introduced the growing of sugar as a cash crop. Sugar-cane had always been raised, but only in small amounts for immediate consumption and local processing. The peasants rather quickly took up seeding the cash crop, because it could be done in the leisure time generated by their subsistence crops and because any cash received for the sugar-cane was an extra gained at low risk. They used the cash to buy market goods. Sugar-cane is a perennial which, as grown in Panama, produces a profitable harvest for some five years. But the crop carries on yielding something even in after years and wears out the soil. The effect of seeding sugar-cane was to reduce even further the amount of land available for subsistence crops, both because at a particular time the cane occupied some of the land and because over time it diminished the land's capacity to regenerate the forest. Overall, then, a change in social organization allowed the villagers to have greater control over the land, but the shift was accompanied by ecological transitions which made the land more scarce. The result of this dialectic between expanded control and diminishing availability was a local land-enclosure movement. During the late 1940s the people began to construct wire fences around plots in the fields. Barbed wire, because of its ease in use, earlier had begun to replace wooden fences, but now the fences changed in their purpose. They were erected not to keep cattle from damaging crops but to stake visible and permanent claims. Each man began to have 'his' own piece or pieces of land in subsistence crops, forest and sugar-cane. By the mid-1960s nearly all the land was fenced, and the economy was caught between subsistence farming and cash cropping.

Rice and sugar: local models of change

15

The impact of the sugar-cane mills, however, was not limited to heightening the ecological dilemma. They had a direct impact on the pattern of the local economy itself. The principal constraint on the expansion of the mills was land. With ample grinding capacity and financial resources, they wished to increase their raw cane supply; their objective was to secure a larger volume of low-cost, sugar-rich cane. But the mills did not want to commit their own funds to the purchase of more land, while the peasants controlled the only other available land close to the grinding facilities. Through a system of cash advances, which financed each segment of the cane cycle, the mills were able to gain access to the land of the peasants. Costless money was advanced to the local suppliers on the basis of its being used as the mills prescribed. A century and a half later than the classic British practice, this was a putting-out system in which the supplier had to control not a cottage and loom but a plot of land. The remainder of the means were controlled by the mills' capital advances, although these were conveyed to the suppliers under the label of 'no interest loans.' The amount the mills loaned was based on the amount of land that a grower made available. Size of loan did not depend upon past yield or the 'entrepreneurial' abilities of the recipient. The mills matched loaned means to land means. 'Inspectors' came out and walked or sighted the land to determine its size and potential. Thus, a different kind of land control came into effect with the sugar-cane. The financial funds of the mills allowed them to gain access to and control some of the peasants' land. Access to such financial funds was precisely what the peasants lacked. Within this context of monetary power, how did the peasants model the land and the cash crop itself? In the first place, for the peasants, having permanent control over a plot of land was the ticket of admission to the cash crop. Accordingly, their definition of what constituted private property expanded. Prior to the sugar-cane, an individual possessed the objects which he placed in a field, such as fencing, and the improvements which he added to a field, such as preparing it for seeding. No one possessed the land itself. The local enclosure movement began as a response to ecological pressures and diminished external control, but eventually it became something

16

Rice and sugar: local models of change

more than a way of securing permanent usufruct. Fencing an area became a claim to the land itself. Previously, no one had owned the monte and it was said to have no value; in land purchases and sales a person was paid only for the improvements he had added to the land. In the 1960s, however, land transactions began to include an extra sum to cover an entitlement which the people called 'respect' or 'consideration.' What the peasants intended to convey by these terms was not clear; in fact, they disagreed over the meaning of the words, an indication that their local model was in transition. The problem they faced was an interesting one. It was agreed that everyone had a right to 'his' crops, work and fences; but how were the people to justify their appropriation of the land itself? Upon what experience and knowledge could the villagers draw to legitimate their actions? Not surprisingly, their new model was inchoate, and land rights were justified in various ways. For some, fencing the land was a sufficient claim. In effect, this claim was based not upon the fencing itself but on the control of funds which were used to purchase the fencing. For others, having worked in an area gave the right to claim that area; the claim was based on historical use and association. For still others, the imprecise land sightings of a privately paid surveyor - an individual who had claimed to represent the government - constituted a proper claim. Finally, some of the people asserted that only a stateissued title represented a claim - and such titles were not held by anyone in the village. Regardless of the legitimation invoked, this period did witness an expansion in the power to appropriate. In the earlier useexpense economy only improved things, such as crops, fences or field betterments, were possessed. In the cash crop or commodity context, however, personal property could include nonfabricated objects which formerly had been seen as lying in nature and available for general use. The lines between the public and private, and between the natural and social, shifted. In spite of these transitions, the subsistence economy was still in existence, and in terms of this economy the metaphor of the land as containing a force was still voiced. But this construct of the land also served well for the cash crop; here, too, land had a pivotal role in that landholding was a prerequisite to the earning of cash.

Rice and sugar: local models of change

17

The mental map of the land did undergo a change, however. The terrain was mapped as being divided into parcels, each marked by boundaries. Personal names were used to designate the fenced pieces; and a plot, regardless of size, was known by the first name of the person who had fenced and claimed it. The map enshrined land claims. This map was also used to provide spatial directions, but now everyone needed more social information, for the new terms of the map emanated from society. In the first system a person had to possess topographical information only, but in the second he had to have information about the people of the village, about plots, and about the interrelation of the two. A classification of people had to be coordinated with a classification of the land. When information was incomplete, the second map might be supplemented by use of the first, which was still in existence: 'I shall meet you on Juan's land.' 'Where?' 'Near Green Tree.' To send the message clearly, people would shift from one map to the other, but in doing so they were also shifting from one economy to another. The second map altered, where the first was static. In the second system, rights to plots were sold, and plots themselves were split and joined in fresh ways. As these property rights shifted, boundaries and labels on the land map had to be changed. Unlike the natural map with permanent names, this was an historical map, a map encompassing change, a social map linked to a living community. The way of measuring the crop also changed. With the subsistence crops measurements were made in terms of the seed, from seed input to seed output or from seed input to land input. This pattern was inverted for the cash crop, which was seen in terms of the land; each hectare, it was said, would yield so much sugar-cane. In a series of interviews I once had with a neighbor, he gave me seed to seed measures for rice, maize, beans and a host of other subsistence crops; but each time we shifted the discussion to sugar-cane, he changed the input parameter from seed to land. This method for calibrating the crop fitted the new economic pattern. With sugar-cane the objective was to obtain cash, rather than the crop itself. The largest sums received came from the cash advances, and these varied according to the amount of land

18

Rice and sugar: local models of change

devoted to the crop. In consequence, the crop was modeled through the land which determined the principal cash flows. The sugar-cane itself, like rice and maize, was a frequent topic of conversation, but it was evaluated according to different criteria. The people would discuss the different strains of cane in terms of their sugar content, weight, thickness of stalk, ease of harvesting (which was a major cost), and how many years they yielded a profitable harvest. The crop was modeled and selected in terms of its exchange qualities - that is, its cash value - rather than its consumption features. The peasants' construct of labor also changed with the advent of the sugar-cane. In the first place, a completely different work terminology was used in the sugar-cane. Similar acts of physical labor were performed on the subsistence and cash crops, but they had different labels. No barbering terms were employed in the sugar-cane; work was called 'seeding,' 'weeding' and 'harvesting.' The physical movement when clearing the weeds with a machete was almost identical in the domestic and cash crops, but in the cane this was called 'weeding' while in rice it was 'trimming the hair.' Furthermore, much of the work in the sugar-cane was performed by hired laborers. The workers were paid by the day and in cash. In the sugar-cane, labor was a quantity of effort measured by time. The people, however, did not have a generative notion of labor, and this had to do with the way they saw their relationship with the mills. Peasant suppliers did not use the constructs of capital, profit or return on investment for the sugar-cane. Actually, a sugar-cane supplier never received a true profit. At the end of the harvest he received a sum that represented the balance between his revenues for the harvest, whose costs had been paid in prior years, and his current cash costs, which would payoff in the future. A supplier received a funds flow as opposed to a profit result. Even a trained observer could not calculate profit, loss or return on investment for a sugar-cane plot from the information locally available. Still, to achieve this funds flow result, a supplier had to hire laborers from other rural areas to work in his fields. The people were very aware that the less they paid the hired workers, the more that remained for them. In effect, sugar-cane suppliers held

Rice and sugar: local models of change

19

a mini-power of distribution based on land control. They used this power to their advantage but did not see it as a source of profit. The extra amount that a supplier could keep from his workers was a 'trick' which increased his cash returns. In this respect, labor was not seen as value- or profit-generative. There was no notion that profit derived or was an extraction from labor. Extra cash was gained through careful management or economizing of money flows, just as the flow of goods in the domestic economy could be carefully managed. The people did say, however, that the mills had capital and that they made a profit: 'The mills get rich from our sweat.' Profit, then, was a construct for the people but outside their control. Again, it arose in the asymmetric exchange between the rural and urban sectors; it was not a thing of the countryside. Overall, sugar-cane was seen in terms similar to rice and maize, in that it afforded increased household consumption. It was never modeled in terms of profit, investment, reinvestment, productivity, growth or any other 'development' concepts. The difference was that consumption in this economy was mediated by the receipt of cash, which was used to purchase market goods. A wage goods economy Following the 1968 elections in Panama, a revolution occurred and a new government assumed power. Led by a general who had been born in the rural area, this government took a fresh interest in the countryside. As part of its development plan in Veraguas Province, it prevailed upon the peasants who lived within one 1O,OOO-hectarearea, a region including the village of Los Boquerones, to take part in a government program and to raise only sugar-cane. By 1973 the government was operating a modern cane-mill in the area. Originally, the mill was to be a part of a large cooperative which would include all the villagers and suppliers. In fact, it has been administered by government appointees. The mill's power has been immense and the changes it has instituted have been. far-reaching. At the outset it acquired the terrain of Los Boquerones from the land reform agency. The existing, private mills were told to search elsewhere for suppliers of raw cane. Government surveyors recorded approximately how many hec-

20

Rice and sugar: local models of change

tares each person had encircled; then all the old fences were torn down. The entire area was converted to growing sugar-cane. New roads were cut through the region, a few hills were leveled, and the raising of subsistence crops was prohibited. The sugar-cane is grown in large parcels which have passageways and irrigation canals between them. Modern technology is employed, including the use of heavy equipment, aerial spraying and seed selection based on experimentation. As previous users of the land, the men all have the right (which they exercise) to work for the mill. Because it is impossible to raise subsistence crops, they are completely dependent upon earning wages and purchasing market commodities. They also have lost control over the organization of the work process. Each day the men report to the mill and are then transported to one or another field area. Only occasionally does a man work in his own community, and village land is frequently worked by others. In addition, each landholder receives a set 'rent' ($70 per hectare) for the area he has under cultivation. Some of this return will be used to pay for actual title to the land. This new context has brought into being a different local model of the economy. In the first place, the household is no longer the unit of production, and it has lost the function of controlling the reproductive flow of goods. The people no longer speak of 'expenses of the house.' It serves now as a base for participants in the larger productive system and as the locale for consummatory activities. In the future it may also function as the unit through which inheritance and rights to property are transmitted. Labor is constructed entirely as a quantity, measured by time. As opposed to the land or usable goods, it is the basis of economic survival. Labor itself has become a kind of commodity, for only through the performance of labor and the receipt of a wage can needed market goods be obtained. Thus, in place of the consumable qualities of rice or the exchangeable qualities of sugar-cane, the people now talk about how long they work, how hard they work, how much they earn, the rate of inflation and the purchasing power of their wages; they have all the typical 'wage grumbles.' In the past they would and did fight over control and possession of the land; now if it were possible, they would strike

Rice and sugar: local models of change

21

over the wage. The focus of their struggles has shifted significantly. In addition to modeling themselves as wage earners and market consumers, the people also state that they are landowners who receive a rent. The rationale for this construction, however, is not immediately apparent. In the first place, they no longer have specific or demarcated plots of land which could be said to receive a rent; and the set return they do receive is unrelated to the particular fertility of a plot. Clearly, the villagers are not receiving a rent in the technical, Ricardian sense. In fact, actual landownership has disappeared, the land having been swallowed up by the mill. The people have neither right of use nor control over their land, any more than a shareholder of a corporation may appropriate a piece of equipment from his company. In effect, a 'landowner' has title to a fractional share of the assets of the enterprise; and what the local owner receives is not a rent but a set share of the sugar mill profits, rather like a return on a longterm corporate debenture. Unlike most lenders of capital, however, the villagers have obtained their assets on 'margin.' With the returns generated they may hope to payoff their accounts due. 'Landownership' is really a way of speaking about a share of financial assets, held but not controlled. Why, then, do the people see themselves as landowners receiving a rent? In this respect it may be useful to consider the new land map. The area itself is divided into large rectangular blocks of cane. An old private plot may now fall within several of the new cane parcels, while one of the new parcels may contain what were once separate plots. In addition, most of the physical landmarks have been obliterated, and the new ones, such as roads, fire-breaks and the land parcels themselves, physically resemble one another. The older mapping systems are remembered, but with the new mill and techniques, the old natural and personal names are of little use. In fact, for the villagers there is little need to give directions outside the settlement area, which itself has been concentrated along a central roadway. Each land parcel, however, does bear a plaque with a number, and in the infrequent conversations concerning land - among villagers or between villagers and outsiders - the number is used to designate a work site. People now refer to geographic space by number rather than nature or society. This third map is a technical and

22

Rice and sugar: local models of change

depersonalized representation of the terrain, conveying nothing about local possession of the land. Traditionally, land has been the focus of the relation between the rural and urban sectors in Panama. How the people map the land is a way of modeling this link. For the villagers, the land is no longer an animate force, a human head or a personal possession. The numbers were given by the mill, and the map is a reflection of the impersonal and administrative conditions under which they now work. At the same time, the map does serve to remind the villagers that they have a right to work at the mill and to participate in the distribution of the mills' profits, because they 'contributed' the land. The mental map perhaps is akin to the bond certificate hidden in the safety deposit box but occasionally removed and gazed upon fondly. Although the map may no longer signal access to the means, it does suggest some rights of access to the ends. Thus the concept of rent, which the people employ, emphasizes that it is only through the land that they have some permanent rights in relation to the external enterprise. Land and rent are the idioms by which and through which the people are able to voice a legitimate and enduring claim on the jobs and returns of the sugar mill. As in the earlier situations, a rural-urban asymmetry in power and control is evident, only now the people speak explicitly of 'the power of the mill.' A succession of models Let us now consider the three models as an historical series, for each was partly built from the preceding. Although no common thread runs through them, it is possible to find continuities and transformations between the three. The first two models were closely related in their purpose or end (see Table 1.2). The primary purpose of raising both the subsistence and cash crops was home consumption, either via the foodstuffs raised or through cash purchases of goods. The two systems, however, did not have an equivalent standing in that work in the sugar-cane was originally done in the leisure time generated by the subsistence crops which had first call upon a man's time. This ranking of the two systems was related to the difference between the kind of goods and consumption yielded by them; at

23

Rice and sugar: local models of change

c.

g

c;j

c

s....
C.

o Z

24

Rice and sugar: local models of change

first, one provided necessities while the other satisfied vices. The cash crop was an 'extra.' It enabled the people to indulge in commodity vices without endangering the flow of subsistence goods. But as ecological degradation (caused by the cash crop) increased, the cash received for the sugar-cane was used more and more for the purchase of necessities, such as rice. The sugarcane was seen as supplementing, not complementing, the subsistence cycle. Not surprisingly, the villagers eventually formed a dialectical or contradictory set of ideas about the mills: they claimed at the same time that the mills had 'saved' them by providing cash for necessities and 'ruined' them by causing the situation in the first place. In addition, some of the constructions in the first two models were metaphorically related. In both, the land was said to give 'force' to the crop. This similarity between the models had implications for practical actions. When I asked the peasants why they used fertilizer for sugar-cane but not the subsistence crops, they pointed out that fertilizer took the place of the ash which fell to the soil when trees were burned in the swidden. Both gave 'strength' to the land. The earlier model provided a schema for organizing new experience. A similar transfer occurred with the notion of profit. In the first model, profit was seen as arising in rural-urban relationships and as accruing to outsiders. In the second model it also fell outside the people's control, but what in the earlier situation had been 'traders' profits' became the 'mills' profits' in the later. There were also important changes between the first two models. The crop was the measure for quantities of land and labor in the first model, but land - which determined the cash flow - was the measure in the second. Labor consequently was transformed from a task measurement for crops to a quantity of effort measured by time. To use a shorthand terminology, there was a shift from a crop-focused to a land-focused model or from a system of use to a system of exchange. A cyclical and reproductive schema of seed to crop to seed was transformed into a linear schema of land to commodity to cash to market goods. Elements of the third model, in turn, were patterned after the first two. Home consumption was still the primary purpose of productive activities; turning a profit was never a goal. Furthermore, time work, cash use, and the purchase of market goods all

Rice and sugar: local models of change

25

had occupied an important place in the second model. In the third model also a crucial part of the relationship between the rural and urban sectors was constituted through the land, which was precisely the role it had played in the first two models. In addition, the construct of 'rent' used originally in the first model was employed in the third. But in the first it referred to the claims which outsiders had upon the peasants through the land, whereas in the third it designated the claims the villagers had through the land upon the government sugar cooperative. The earlier concept was used and in a sense inverted for the later experience. The third model, however, was quite different in its principal focus. In its linear pattern wage labor was central, for this provided the cash return upon which all consumption depended. In consequence, the ideological seam between the local and the larger economy was eradicated. Commodities were no longer separated into necessities and vices or into use-expense and market goods. They pertained to the same category in that they all had to be purchased. The domestic economy disappeared. The changes among the three models were externally induced, through such influences as road improvement, better sugar-cane technology and an expanded sugar quota to the United States. Specifically, the changes were mediated through external control over one or another productive means. In each model, however, the peasants constructed this external control ecologically, via the land, and through the notion of profit. They modeled themselves as being penumbral to a larger economy which had a controlling influence upon their lives. Thus, at each stage the peasants' current model became a way of constructing or seeing their new experience, even though they did not initiate that experience. At each point also the people creatively transformed their models such that there were continuities and discontinuities, metaphors and gaps, between them.

Local models of development In this chapter I have been examining a situation of change or what is sometimes known as 'development.' My interest has been in the local models of this change. But do these give us a

26

Rice and sugar: local models of change

different perspective on development? I have sometimes been taxed by development economists with the question: 'You anthropologists always tell us why things go wrong, but what can you offer us in a positive way? Have you no theories?' Perhaps the material of this chapter suggests why I find the question itself to be inappropriate. I would argue that one part of the development process should include the explicit examination of local constructions. A people's model is their life and history, their historical consciousness, their social construction. To a far greater degree than we sometimes realize, it is a part of what we call 'development.' But such local models are not to be examined through the perspective of our models. These are not, as it is sometimes said, 'externalities,' 'constraints,' 'causes for failure' or 'political and social blockages to technological change.' The use of such terms implies a valuation based upon a Western model. Local models are simply the conditions of and for 'development.' They can hardly be evaluated, unless the observer claims to have privileged knowledge. One might envision, then, a different way of thinking about development. I would shift the discussion from a focus on material exploitation and the measurement of value to the deeper and more perplexing issue concerning the relation between models and power. If development is fundamentally about models and their changes, the central question must be: who is the modeler? To what degree, for example, has an initial local model been self-constituted and to what degree has it been constrained by the models and actions of others? Are subsequent models of change representative of those for whom they are intended? What place should formal, academic models have in both understanding and directing a situation of development? Indeed, who should have the right to construct a development model? Here perhaps we might envision a shift toward the conception of a 'community of modelers' (Aris and Penn 1980). Models are never the product of a single individual but are part of an historical and cultural tradition. Development situations, however, are particularly complex, because they must involve mixing together several different cultural discourses. The challenge is not to try to uncover and then use general laws of development, nor is it simply to figure out what agricultural or

Rice and sugar: local models of change

27

monetary techniques can be employed in a particular situation of change; rather it is to define who belongs to and how to organize a community of modelers. What is a fair balance of representation as between local persons, government appointees and outside technicians? What conditions need to be specified so that equitable participation may occur? These are difficult questions, for they concern the distribution of power; and they make an even more difficult task of development than it already is. But perhaps this perspective indicates an alternative and potentially more successful formulation of the development process. Regardless, development contexts are particularly interesting because they represent a confrontation and mixture of local and global power as well as folk and Western knowledge. They graphically illustrate the differences between local constructions and modern models, a distinction to which I now turn.

2

Models and modes of livelihood

To analyze economic theories and practices, I distinguish between 'local' and 'universal' models.' I hold that any model, whether local or universal, is a construction of the world; it is not a transcription or representation of an already given reality. A local or cultural model is comprised of the beliefs and practices which constitute a people's world. . Those who construct universal models, however, propose that within ethnographic data there exists an objectively given reality which may be captured and explained by an observer's formal model. They utilize a 'reconstructive' methodology by which observed economic practices or beliefs are first restated in a formal language and then deduced from or assessed with respect to core criteria such as utility, labor or exploitation. Although the particular theories used in economic anthropology are quite diverse, they share the assumption that one or another universal model exists and can be used to explain given field data. According to this perspective, a local model usually is a rationalization, mystification or ideology; at most, it only represents the underlying reality to which the observer already has privileged access. My argument, by contrast, is that the process of gaining a livelihood is culturally constructed in diverse ways. My aim is to examine and elucidate the patterns of several such constructions. To establish my perspective, however, I have had to undertake a double task. Because specific theories in economic anthropology are usually based upon Western views, in the next several chapters I focus upon some key tests in Western economic thought and analyze them as cultural constructions. My purpose is not to argue that these early Western models are true or false, for in their contexts the models had their uses; rather, by showing that these models are themselves constructions, I am suggesting

28

Models and modes of livelihood

29

that they and their successors do not provide an invariant or Archimedean standpoint by which to achieve cross-cultural understanding. Thus, I distinguish between viewing a model as a pragmatic device and making claims about that model's hold upon the ultimate features of reality. In the subsequent chapters, I offer my own explications of several exotic models as well as begin the task of comparing all the models themselves. My aim, then, is to develop an anthropological approach to the understanding of economic patterns, and for this reason also I have taken as my analytical task that of examining both Western and exotic materials. To place the analyses in context, however, I first describe the typical form which characterizes most Western economic models and some of the ways this model form has been employed crossculturally. Then, I delineate what I mean by a local model. This double and dialectical theme of the universal and the local not only divides the earlier from the later sections of this chapter, it is woven into each of the succeeding as well. Universal models Most universal models employ, at least as their ideal, a particular form of presentation. They have a 'derivational' pattern. The derivational model is Euclidean in that it typically has a set of axioms, a collection of operational rules, and a series of derived 'theorems.' The model has a core set of invariants and a derived set of results, the two usually being related in a causal or deductive way. Such a model ordinarily is characterized by a cluster of features. In the first instance, the model is bounded in that it demarcates certain behavior to which it pertains and certain behavior to which it does not. In addition, derivational models are often judged according to the Cartesian criteria of clarity and parsimony; selection among them is made according to their logical economy. But derivational models, above all, are inherently tautologous or reflexive in that the derived results must mirror the beginning propositions. Thus, when the model has been properly elaborated it is said to provide an 'explanation' of the data, for by means of the model the facts at hand can be derived from the initial assumptions. If the data cannot be shown to refle-ct the axioms, the model is faulty.

30

Models and modes of livelihood

In economic anthropology very few models are complete tokens or replicas of the Euclidean form, but I would maintain that this is the pattern which many approximate and to which most aspire. The use of such a model, however, must be considered problematic for at least two reasons. In the first place, we have no assurance that the elements of other cultures are organized according to this Western pattern. Exotic customs do not have to be causally or deductively arranged, for these are not the only ways to piece together a model. A model, for example, might be characterized by feedback, part to whole relationships, overlapping categories, inversions or transformations. More important, when the derivational pattern is used cross-culturally, when it is employed within a universal model, the initial propositions will automatically be recycled into the ethnographic facts. The ultimate effect is that of holding up a mirror; other cultures come to resemble our own axioms. To provide an example of a derivational model and its implications, I examine in the next chapter David Ricardo's 1815 'Essay on profits.' A central innovation of Ricardo was to use a Euclidean pattern in his model. Ricardo begins with certain axioms or assumptions, and from these he derives, by use of a consistent set of rules, the remaining elements of his model. The model is formally consistent and parsimonious; it is also internally reflexive in that its derived elements semantically reflect the core assumptions. Ricardo's elegant model provides a clear illustration of the derivational form. It was a Western construction in that it conformed to a pattern of discourse which had become dominant by the early nineteenth century when he wrote. But Ricardo is especially important because he is a predecessor of both Marxist and neoclassical thought. He is perhaps the last point of union between these differing accounts of economic behavior. Even today, Herbert Simon (1977:238-9,305-10) argues that the derivational forrn comprises the criterion for a 'well-structured problem.' Similarly, Sir John Hicks (1979) holds that economics is characterized by the use of causal theories which are logical explanations. My explication of Ricardo's model points directly to the critique I would offer of most approaches used in economic anthropology. A majority of economic anthropologists employ

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theories taken from neoclassical economics. Their focus is upon the individual, whose actions are seen within the utilitarian framework of means to ends (Bentham 1879[1789]; von Mises 1949, 1976[1933], 1978[1962]; Robbins 1935). As von Mises once explained, 'To act means: to strive after ends, that is, to choose a goal and to resort to means in order to attain the goal sought' (1978[1962]:4-5). Lord Robbins's famous definition provides a gloss upon this: 'Economics is the science which studies human behaviour as a relationship between ends and scarce means which have alternative uses' (1935:16). The human is seen to possess scarce means and hold multiple goals. Because his desired satisfactions outstrip the possibilities for their attainment, the individual must continuously exercise choice. The rational person acts to maximize his preferences or total utility. People calculate, so it is assumed, their rewards and costs, and then try to 'economize' the balance between them. The individual is a decision-making, economizing, hedonistic person. Such a model has been useful in describing and prescribing action within particular contexts. In anthropology, however, the model has been elevated to universal status through the assumption that its core features encode the fundamental properties of human behavior. As a result, economic behavior in exotic societies comes to mirror 'utilitarian man.' A neoclassical analysis of bridewealth transactions, for example, will focus on the exchange rate of women and cattle and attempt to show how it is a result of actors responding through rational choice to the various conditions of supply and demand. More generally, consider the argument of a leading advocate for the use of neoclassical or formal theory in anthropology. In the nature of deductive reasoning the approach to the study of economic behavior is not through the ethnographic facts but by means of 'universal principles,' logico-mathematical in form, springing from the imagination. Generating the logical system necessary to deductive economics requires no crosscultural data or facts from any system, except perhaps common-sense knowledge of the empirical realm to which the theory is to be applied. (Schneider 1974:23) The 'universal principles' to which Schneider refers are those of 'economic man,' the title of the book from which the extract is

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taken. These logical principles, supposedly found by introspection, provide the axioms from which the 'data' and 'facts' of other societies are to be 'generated' or deduced. The model is derivational, universal and strictly rationalist. That an exemplary field ethnographer (Schneider 1970) could offer such a perspective is itself ethnographic evidence of the hold which the Cartesian tradition still has upon the anthropological imagination. One alternative to the neoclassical perspective has been presented by the substantivists or institutionalists. Although substantivism does emphasize the importance of social institutions and attempts to distinguish among economies rather than project market principles upon all of them, it also represents an empiricist formulation of a universal model. Karl Polanyi's fundamental position was that because life depends on an interchange between humans and their environment, land and labor comprise the bedrock of all economies. Furthermore, because humans do not produce these given parts of society, they are not real commodities. Thus, when land and labor are priced and sold, as they have been in some economies, they are only 'fictitious' commodities (Polanyi 1944:68-76;1968). Given these assumptions, Polanyi proposed that the key to distinguishing among economies lies in the way they arrange their building blocks. Land and labor are used according to one or another exchange pattern. Polanyi claimed to find in historical and anthropological materials three general transaction patterns which he labeled 'reciprocity,' 'redistribution' and 'market haggling.' By adding another pattern of nonexchange, called 'autarchy,' he was able to sort all economies into a fourfold typology. The dominant or prevailing 'mode of exchange' provides the institutional fabric for land and labor. The task of the analyst, then, is to reveal and explore the link between the substratum of land and labor and the dominant mode of exchange. Each transaction pattern has its roots in the inner parts of society, although the connection between exchange form and building blocks must be found by investigation. In the case of bridewealth, for example, an institutionalist might attempt to show how the exchange of women and cattle is linked closely to the use of land and labor, yet is unlike other transactions in society. This general argument, which assumes the existence of both

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universal elements and visible, differing features, is empiricist. It is no accident that substantivists frequently construct crosscultural typologies (Dalton 1969,1972; Halperin 1977), for such an endless sorting and resorting of collected data is a typical empiricist practice. The hope is that as observations accumulate, economies can be finally sorted into patterns which will reveal the limited ways in which the universal building blocks may be deployed. Marxism offers a different form of universalism. It revolves about the assumption that the human is a material maker. One of Marx's radical breaks with prior economists was to locate production solely within society, within the human, within socially defined labor as the sole source of value. His unique contribution was to argue that human labor alone produces more value than it consumes (1967[1867]:193). This special human feature was described or 'chartered' by Marx as being a 'gift of Nature' (1967[1867]:206). Because the organization and control of this species characteristic provides the base for all economic formations, a relation of determination (or derivation) exists between the patterns of using labor and other domains, such as religion, ideology or kinship. As Marx himself once stated: The essential difference between the various economic forms of society, between, for instance, society based on slavelabour, and one based on wage-labour, lies only in the mode in which this surplus-labour is in each case extracted from the actual producer, the labourer. (1967[1867]:217) Within anthropology Marxism has been used in various ways. Special attention may be given to exploitation and the ways in which human labor is appropriated in other societies. Some neoMarxists, for example, have explained the custom of bridewealth on the grounds that control of bridewealth cattle by elder males sustains their position of power and their ability to extract labor from younger males as well as females (Dupre and Rey 1973). By contrast, Godelier has argued that exotic beliefs in natural and supernatural entities are illusory re-presentations of underlying real powers that are possessed only by humans. For Godelier the belief in external forces is a mystification in that man is imputing to imaginary entities certain powers which reside only in himself (Godelier 1978). Thus, in his analysis of the

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molimo rite of the Mbuti, Godelier proposes that this 'is the spot where man becomes estranged from himself, where real relations between men and things appear upside-down and fetishised' (1977:61). It is not surprising that he follows Marx very closely in arguing that value's 'essence is materialised labour' (Godelier 1977:153). Despite their differences, these three general models resemble one another in a crucial respect. Each starts from a supposed core or essential feature of human behavior and then attempts to derive other characteristics from it. In one case this core feature is rational choice with respect to the use of the given factors of land, labor and capital; in another, it is the way in which land and labor are deployed within empirically observable patterns of exchange; in the third, it is human labor alone as this is organized and used within a mode of production. Each model defines the anthropological project similarly. It is the anthropologist's task to show how the ethnographic data can be reduced to or derived from one of the initial positions. Whether substantivist, formalist or neoMarxist, each model employs a Western category as the axiomatic core for reconstructing the data offered by other economies. Such models are reflexive, for the reconstructed data can only point back to the axioms at the core of the model. Thus, anthropologists using neoclassical economics usually find that rational or irrational choice is being exercised; substantivists discover one or another form of exchange as it is aligned with land and labor; Marxists uncover patterns of exploitation or equality in the distribution of labor's products as well as mystification in the realm of religion. The three models continuously reproduce and rediscover their own assumptions in the exotic materials. On my view, therefore, it is these models which are secondary rationalizations, for they are the reflexive projections of one or another Western model. Their use in anthropology is especially reassuring because not only do they hold out the promise that an exact translation of exotic materials can be achieved but also they are a form of cultural reflexivity in which other social patterns are shown to reproduce a form of discourse and one or another set of axioms which have become dominant in the West. Let me draw this discussion to a close by referring briefly to the work of Piero Sraffa. One foundation for the 'forms of life'

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view of other economies that I am advocating is Wittgenstein's Philosophical Investigations. In the preface to this work Wittgenstein states that he is indebted for his 'most consequential ideas' (1958:vi) to the stimulus of Sraffa. But what could Wittgenstein have learned from Sraffa? What is the overlap between the philosopher and the economist? In part, Sraffa's brief book (1960) contains an antiessentialist critique of both neoclassical economics and Marxism. The core of his very technical argument is that prices are not 'derivable' from supposed entities or essences, such as capital (marginalist theory) or labor value (Marxism). One link between Sraffa and Wittgenstein, then, is that both in different ways expose and criticize the Western habit of constructing models which purport to have an ultimate foundation in given and isolable features. The critiques of Wittgenstein and Sraffa, however, may simply silence the anthropologist. If we doubt the existence of economic universals, how can we analyze other economies? Must we accept a position of complete relativism, indeed of nihilism, with respect to cross-cultural economics? But perhaps something can still be said - if in a different way. What are the questions? If we are to develop a more anthropological way of looking at 'things economic,' what are the questions to be answered? Let me outline five initial puzzles concerning the different ways people secure their livelihood. First, there is the question of distribution, meaning who gets what share of the general product. A variety of distribution patterns have been observed in other societies. For example, among hunters, whether in Africa or Southeast Asia, an animal may be divided up by joints; each physical piece is allocated to a social role. A person occupying this social position receives a leg, a person enjoying that social status gets a slice of the back. From the physical distribution of meat, one can 'read off the social order; and knowing the social order one can predict the distribution. In a rather similar way, fishermen may divide their catch with reference to such roles as crew member, captain, net owner and boat owner. Among some Malay fishermen, for example, the physical catch was sold for cash which was

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converted into coins of small denominations. At the end of each week the coins were placed in a pile and then divided by fixed shares among the contributors to the catch (Firth 1966[1946]). This pattern, as among game hunters, makes distribution a visible process, but less visible patterns are also found. In the subsistence economy of Panama, each household had to allocate its yearly rice harvest among different forms of consumption; rice was used to support leisure, gifts, savings, time devoted to the saints and productive activity for the following year. Clearly, none of these tribal and peasant patterns is like our market system of distribution; each is carried out along customary lines and in different ways. But what determines the relative proportions in each of the examples? More broadly, what can the anthropologist say about the many different ways of dividing up the general product? Questions about distribution lead inevitably to a second set of queries, about production. The productive act itself is nothing more than a transformation of material; yet, we attribute meaning to this change. For example, the Marxist assumes that productive labor yields more value than it consumes, while the mercantilists saw production as subsumed within exchange. But suppose that a people think about production in still a different way. We need a conceptual place and a method for analyzing such constructions. A third set of questions revolves about consumption and the goods which people use. What is the significance of the objects which circulate in other economies? Years ago, Veblen employedthe notion of 'invidious distinction' to decode the practices he observed, and he took the view that such 'pecuniary emulation' was a dominant motive everywhere (1970[1899]:40). Today, many of our products also represent material mastery and progress, as well as the myth of individuality and personal satisfaction achieved through consumption. But the significance of objects varies by culture. How are we to appreciate the meanings which goods have for the people who use them? Fourth, how can we talk about the relation between economic practices and social organization? Polanyi held that the economy may be variously embedded in the special order; reciprocity is closely linked to ties of kinship, while redistribution is a feature of political relationships. A Marxist view of the same issue would

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be formulated in terms of the 'social relations of production' and determination by the 'base.' But are these the best terms for discussing the connections between socially defined morality and material actions? Finally, how should we conceive the total configuration of a people's economic practices? An opposition between 'production for use' and 'production for exchange' has been adopted as a criterion for the classification of all economies, but this involves lumping together tribal groups and peasantries; and each of these categories itself subsumes a variety of economic patterns. The problems are evident, yet are there anthropological ways of specifying an economy as a totality? Models and metaphors My central assumption is that humans are modelers. By this I mean that the human is a self-constituting, fully reflexive being, whose behavior is characterized both by hindsight and foresight, so that past activities are at once the objects of critical reflection and models for action. Humans are the products of their past, as well as their consciousness of it; yet this past is also drawn upon when making plans for the future? All models are human products, but a social model as opposed to models of the natural or physical world has a reflexive quality, for it is both derived from and applied to social activity. I use the term 'local model' to describe this circular and self-referential process. As a way of searching, coping, adjusting and making sense of things, local models represent an exercise in human control and a form of public communication. They are made by humans for specific communities. Transitory and subject to revision, local models also suggest the possibility of social transcendence. I would not imply that all of culture is simply a model. My working hypothesis is that securing a livelihood, meaning the domain of material 'production,' 'distribution' and 'consumption,' is culturally modeled in all societies. Similarly, sexual reproduction is culturally constructed. In a rather different way, indigenous psychologies (Heelas and Lock 1981) and religious conceptions can entail the use of models. The saints in Latin America, for example, are models which call for veneration and emulation on

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the part of believers (Gudeman 1976b). In the discipline of economics, the most prestigious activity is to be a modeler oneself (Leontieff 1982). But when economic anthropologists arrogate to themselves a privileged right to model the economies of their subjects, they deny the capacity of that people to model their own behavior. Universal models in economic anthropology represent an attempt to escape the reflexive circle in the local models of others by grounding our understanding of them in the 'constants' which our models take for granted. One of my purposes in this study, then, is to dislodge such apparently privileged observers' models. A key anthropological task is to interpret the many models that actors have already built. This requires a new vocabulary. (1) The word 'model' refers to a culturally constituted relationship between two entities or referents. One may be called the 'schema' and the other the 'object.' The model is a projection from the domain of the schema to the domain of the object. By constituting one entity through another, a model offers a means of 'seeing' something, of knowing, interpreting, even doing something. The schema could also be described as a program, plan or script. Anything can serve as a schema, for there are endless points of resemblance between entities. The branching form of a tree could be used to model a genealogy; or its life cycle of birth, growth and decay could model that of a human being. A computer program can model the same human life cycle or it may simulate the effect of air as it blows over the wings of an airplane or the sides of an automobile. Models can be written or notional, iconic or graphic, miniatures or lifesize; but in whatever form they are arbitrary constructions. The fact that models sometimes resemble one another across time and space is an artifact of the common experiences which face all humans. But this commonality, such as of the physical or social body, means only that these experiences have a heightened probability of being used within a model. Any model could have been different. No object, however, can be a model of itself, for in the case of complete identity the model has no informative power. Because it has constitutive force, a model involves the interplay of similarity and difference, positive and negative analogies (Hesse 1966), or the is and is not (Ricoeur 1977). A model is at once an

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assertion and denial which draws attention to certain features while ignoring other possibilities. Only within the model can we identify the relevant features of a script. For example, in recent years American foreign policy has been deeply influenced by the 'domino model,' which attributes to certain national governments in certain areas of the world some of the properties of dominoes. The material features of dominoes, such as their color, spots and shape, are irrelevant here. The schema also is not drawn from the ancient and adult game of dominoes; rather, the image is taken from a child's game - child's play - in which dominoes are placed on end and lined up in a row. When one is pushed over, the others fall in sequence; so, the model suggests, will the fall of one national government lead to the fall of another. According to the model, the relations between humanly organized nation states are causal, sequential and mechanistic. But the same schema of dominoes could be used to quite different effect in other models. The features of a context to be modeled are similarly selected from a range of possibilities. One conclusion to be drawn from the ethnographic cases which follow is that what is being modeled concerning gaining a livelihood varies widely. Some of the local models focus upon all of nature while others focus on a particular species of crop or animals, the fertility of land, or the frequency of rainfall. Local models also differ in terms of the human practices which are seen as being necessary for making a living. In each model the human is specified as a kind of 'maker,' but he or she is invested with distinct powers and purposes. From this perspective, there exists no pure or essential economic behavior of the human. The Western notion of rational and material 'making,' for example, is both recent and, comparatively speaking, rare. Thus, simple observation of the techniques of a productive system will not necessarily lead us to infer how it will be modeled. Models are partial constructions. They are selective, offering a perspective without exhausting all the possible facets of an experience. Formal economic models, for instance, deal only with selected dimensions of what it means to secure a livelihood. Ricardo offered a model of the British economy, but he did not claim that it accounted for every aspect of that set of practices. The Physiocrats did not pretend to provide a model of all

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economic behavior. The same is true of the exotic models I shall examine. In each case, I shall try to trace out the implications of a model, to see how much of the ethnography makes sense in its terms, and to show how and to what degree the model is embodied in practices. (2) Local models are often built around 'primal,' 'focal' or 'axiomatic' metaphors. A primal metaphor is a construction so basic to a people it defines reality for them. Primal metaphors are the dominant idiom for constituting and expressing events, and have an organizing force for a broad range of behavior. These schemes resemble what Stephen Pepper has called 'root metaphors.' A man desiring to understand the world looks about for a clue to its comprehension. He pitches upon some area of commonsense fact and tries if he cannot understand other areas in terms of this one. This original area becomes then his basic analogy or root metaphor. He describes as best he can the characteristics of this area, or, if you will, discriminates its structure. A list of its structural characteristics becomes his basic concepts of explanation and description. We call them a set of categories .... He undertakes to interpret all facts in terms of these categories. As a result of the impact of these other facts upon his categories, he may qualify and readjust the categories, so that a set of categories commonly changes and develops. (Pepper 1942:91) Pepper's view is particularly useful in emphasizing not only that certain metaphors are relatively stable, enduring and pervasive but also that they are closely related to local models. In fact, both Black (1962) and Ricoeur (1977) have argued that models are, in many respects, 'extended' metaphors. They are metaphors which have many implications. The domino theory, for instance, could be viewed as an extended metaphor or as a model. This is not, however, the only relation between models and metaphors. Some models originate in metaphor, when one entity is suddenly seen as being like another; later, the model takes on an independent existence. But granted that models and metaphors are closely related, I find it useful to distinguish between a metaphor proper and a model, which is a broader construction. A model may be built upon several primal

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metaphors or contain elements which are not strictly metaphoric. (3) A local model usually receives some form of 'external' justification. Because local models require a normative commitment, they usually carry an epistemological, cosmological or mythical warrant. One way to conceptualize this aspect of models is by envisioning a continuum from 'as if' to 'as being' constructions. Models may be ranged according to the degree of ontological commitment to them or the extent to which there is willingness to suspend disbelief in them. A model may be presented as simply a heuristic device or convenient fiction. This is an 'as if' formulation, and it has had frequent and practical use in the basic as well as applied sciences. (See also Leach 1954.) There are various epistemological arguments for such models, but in practice they are frequently the product of an empiricist approach. The empiricist aims to build a succession of 'as if' models, each new version more closely approximating the lineaments of reality. An 'as being' construction is based on the specification of an identity or true equivalence between script and object. This model form is more typical of cultural practices. For example, although no one would claim that particular countries in Asia, Latin America or the Caribbean are materially like dominoes, the domino model does imply that the relationships between the countries concerned are 'the same as' those found between standing dominoes. In respect of their structure, the two domains of the model are said to be identical. For those persuaded by the political rhetoric, the model is not a convenient fiction nor even a predication. It is a statement of existence or 'being.' Yet even an 'as being' model remains partial. The resemblance postulated between the domains of the model is striking because it takes place within a context of dissimilarity. An Iowa corn farmer deciding to cultivate what had been wet, low-lying land may predicate a mathematical schema upon the land (marginal output> marginal input). Under certain circumstances, he sees and acts toward his land as an element in an equation. When a Bemba farmer considers cultivating a new plot of land, he predicates upon it the schema of the ancestors. In these circumstances, he sees the land 'as being' the ancestors. Similarly, when American political leaders employ the domino model, they formulate foreign policy on the supposition that

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some nations 'are' dominoes. But the Iowa land, the Bemba land and the foreign nations are not exhaustively defined by these models. And mathematical equations, ancestors and dominoes are all known in other contexts. It is precisely this contextual and dialectical quality which makes some models initially surprising. The anthropologist, I suggest, should not try to judge the validity of an 'as being' model, because there exists no abstract set of truth conditions for making such an evaluation. One can, however, try to understand the cultural sense made by a model. When, for example, the Dobuans say that 'yams are people' they mean something quite different from the Bisa who state that 'lions are chiefs.' The problem is to show how the Dobuans arrange their lives such that yams both are and are not people and the Bisa arrange their lives such that lions are and are not chiefs. Similar considerations apply to the local formulation of the 'as being' relation. How is a metaphoric equation justified by the people themselves? For example, according to the theological doctrine of transubstantiation an identity exists in certain contexts between bread and body, wine and blood. A link of consubstantiality is said to obtain between the two. By contrast, the Marxist claim that capital represents dead labor is justified primarily by the notion of physical 'making.' Quite a different metaphor is offered by the Panamanian peasants who assert that crops growing in the soil 'are' hair growing on the head. This is primarily an analogically justified identity. In fact, it resembles the assertion of the neoclassical economist that land, labor and capital 'are' the factors of production. The schema here is a system of mathematical relations, the modeled objects being the three unit entities, land, labor and capital. The identity relation posited by this 'as being' model is based on the claim that the domains have a common structure. Finally, most local models receive a still broader warrant, for individuals seem to demand validation based on personal experience. Modern scientific models are subjected to tests, the successful passing of which constitutes a claim of validity. More generally, the academy of scholars has a warrant to produce models; it even provides documents certifying that individuals are qualified to do so themselves! Such 'official' warrants to produce link the construction of models to power relationships. But these

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Western modes of certification are not universal. In other societies, myth and history may provide the charter. A mythohistory, for example, may express claims about when, why and by whom the model was established. Historical charters also imply that a model has been accepted over time; and such putative acceptance by an historical community - not unlike the acceptance by a scientific community - itself provides justification for the model. Both epistemologies and myths can serve to legitimate or rationalize the existence of models which in themselves are arbitrary, cultural constructions. Analysis and comparison Although my general purpose is to examine local models of the economy, this also involves cross-cultural comparison. I shall juxtapose both individual scripts and metaphors as well as the configurations of local models themselves. What happens, for example, when the same primal metaphor is used by different societies or deployed in different ecological and social contexts? What happens when \ two or more axiomatic metaphors are used within the same model? Can they be made to fit together or are they kept separate? My goal in making such comparisons is not to abstract general laws from the cases nor to apply a general law to each of the cases in order to test the law or understand the cases. Instead, comparison is a cumulative process. 'We see a complicated network of similarities overlapping and criss-crossing' (Wittgenstein 1958:32). To compare the models I have found two initial distinctions useful. In the first place, schemas may be taken from the domain of material objects or from the domain of human life. The world of objects often provides the imagery in Western models. To revert to an earlier example, dominoes have been used to model the relations between political organizations. Sense is made of the human world via the human understanding of the object world. More to the point, in modern economic models GalileanNewtonian principles are often projected upon human relationships. And, of course, from the rampaging bulls and hibernating bears of Wall Street to the gnomes of Zurich we have everyday models for denying human intentionality in the economy. In each of these cases, bits and pieces of models initially directed toward

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the object world have been, as it were, turned around and brought into service as metaphors for the human world. Conversely, in many exotic models human qualities and relationships provide the imagery; material objects and processes are seen as having the qualities of supernatural, dead or live humans. This distinction between Western and exotic models is traditionally drawn in terms of 'objectification' or 'fetishism' versus 'personification' or 'animism.' The exotic models discussed in this book, those of the Bemba, Bisa, Gogo and Dobuans, are animistic, their core metaphors being drawn from human life and human social organization so that material processes are modeled as being intentional. By contrast, the Western models of Ricardo and the Physiocrats are fetishistic. Indeed, I suggest that the Physiocrats, among others, mark an important point of departure in Western economic thought in that their primal metaphors are drawn from nonintentional, mechanical processes. A move towards materialism begins with the Physiocrats. Polanyi (1968) argued that economies are either embedded or disembedded. When material activities are organized through distinct institutions, as they are in the case of market-dominated societies, the economy is disembedded. But when the processes of livelihood are arranged through kinship, religious or political institutions, the economy is embedded because it has no existence apart from these other relationships. He presented this binary division as if it were an underlying feature of economies and societies. From my perspective, however, Polanyi's distinction is simply a reflection of differences in the scripts being used. When the schema projected upon material processes is drawn from ordinary life, economic activities have the quality of embeddedness. By contrast, the disembedded economy is linked to the use of nonhuman or mechanistic scripts for behavior. Of course, in the latter instances the economic schema may subsequently be projected across other human domains. For example, Becker (1981) has recently imposed the rational choice model on studies of the family. The result is to bring us full circle. Other domains become embedded in the economy, because they are modeled as economic behavior. This first way of sorting the models overlaps with a second. A script may be drawn from the human domain yet be devoid of human intentionality. This feature, as we shall see, characterizes

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the Physiocrats, and it places them in a mediating position between Ricardo and the ethnographic cases. The Physiocrats used imagery taken from the human body. Human imagery is found in a large number of anthropological examples, and it may draw on anyone of a number of features and processes, including reproduction and circulation; it may (as in the ethnographic cases) or it may not (as in the Physiocratic model) invoke human agency, desires and wishes. Ricardo's model is like that of the Physiocrats in that he also elides human intentions, but his model differs from theirs in the use of a mathematical schema which emphasizes form at the expense of content. Roughly speaking, after Ricardo, economic models are of the derivational type. From the early part of the nineteenth century onwards, arguments in economics focus not on the qualitative features of models but upon their assumptions, steps, results and tests. One characteristic of modern, derivational models is that they are expected to cohere through use of causal or deductive relationships. This makes them 'economical' or parsimonious, assures clarity and promises elegance. The post-Ricardian imagery also leads toward the use of closed models. The form requires the definition of a clear beginning and ending. When modern economists speak of 'externalities' they mean precisely that their models have exact limits and edges. The post-Ricardian schema is linked to the perception that 'the economy' is a separate sphere of action founded upon a certain kind of behavior. By contrast, exotic models seem to have fuzzy edges in that they include what appear to us to be disjunctive areas of behavior. This difference also leads back to the distinction between embedded and disembedded economic practices. These two ways of sorting economic models are linked closely to an analytical problem and an anthropological conundrum about causality. Since the inception of this study I have wondered whether it is possible for a people to secure their livelihood without constructing it as a means to ends activity. Ordinarily, the economy is assumed to be the locus classicus of causal or instrumental action, but is this a universal or simply an artifact of our own modeling? The general question of whether a people can get things done without relying upon causal principles goes back at least to

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Frazer. His solution was to draw a firm line between the scientific and the magical. The latter was merely a 'spurious system' and a 'false science' (Frazer 1950[1890]:13), based upon the 'misapplication' of two fundamental modes of thought, 'namely, the association of ideas by similarity and the association of ideas by contiguity' (Frazer 1950[1890]:57). Modern scholars often make a similar distinction in terms of a contrast between metaphor and metonym (Jakobson and Halle 1971; Leach 1970, 1976); however, abandoning the Frazerian notion that magic is 'false,' they have tried to show that magic, ritual and myth are all expressive communications which have their own logic. But even if magic is no longer seen as false science or a misapprehension of causal relationships, how does it work? Tambiah (1973, 1979), elaborating upon some notions of Austin, has proposed the interesting argument that magic is a form of persuasion and that through it persuasive 'transfers' are made between two metaphorically linked domains. For example, he has suggested that 'the Trobrianders, having postulated an analogy (or homology) between the yam house with yams stored in it and the human belly with food inside it, act upon the former in order to influence the latter' (1973:217). Similarly, he argues that for the Dobuans, 'The sea water in which the octupus lives metonymically represents it, and it is realistically poured on the yam to transfer to it the desired properties of the octupus' (1973:218). Thus, Tarnbiah argues that magic and ritual are - in Austin's terms - performatives and not causal actions. They accomplish something in themselves by their own enactment. His actual words, however, might lead to some misunderstanding, for Tambiah also refers to magical acts as accomplishing a 'realistic transfer' of properties (Tambiah 1973:222). The implication is that similarity and contact offer an alternative to causal principles; invoking a metaphor seems to be like instrumental behavior in that it, too, can get something done by transferring properties. In a curious way, we are almost led back to Frazer's position. I do not pretend to offer a new theory about modes of thought, but I would suggest that the notion of models and scripts affords a different way of analyzing the problem. Like Tambiah, I emphasize that metaphors and models are used in everyday life. But invoking a metaphor is only a way of

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redescribing a context. A metaphor predicates, through a humanly contrived system of rules, a new situation. The use of a metaphor does not 'transfer' properties in a mechanistic sense; what it does is remodel an existent domain according to a new schema. This is an act of redescription. Dobuans sprinkling sea water from the octupus over the yam, or Trobrianders describing the human belly as a storage house, are invoking known schemas for new situations to have a way of acting within them. When we ask, therefore, how it is that a people accomplish something, we must look at their model schema. Things get done according to many different scripts which are contextually applied. Gaining a livelihood might be modeled as a causal and instrumental act, as a natural and inevitable sequence, as a result of supernatural dispositions or as a combination of all these. If we keep in mind that a Cobb-Douglas production function, which is an elegant instance of causal modeling through the use of mathematics, is only a schema for action and not its inner structure or reality, exploring other scripts becomes possible.

3 :Ricardo' s representations

Having amassed a considerable fortune on the stock exchange, David Ricardo (1772-1823) retired in 1814 to Gatcomb Park in Gloucestershire. From here he wrote to Malthus, 'I believe that in this sweet place I shall not sigh after the Stock Exchange and its enjoyments' (1952[1814]'VI:115). His prediction came true, for within a year Ricardo had published a slim tract entitled 'An essay on the influence of a low price of corn on the profits of stock' (1951[1815]'IV), and two years later he brought out his more substantial work, On The Principles of Political Economy (1951[1817],1). These were not Ricardo's first writings on economic matters, for he had long been in correspondence with leading figures of the day and as early as 1809 had written an anonymous article on 'The price of gold' for the Morning Chronicle (1951,111). But Ricardo's renown as an economist undoubtedly dates from the period when he withdrew from active participation in the City of London and devoted himself more intensively to economic problems. Ricardo usually linked his theoretical constructions to topical issues, such as the price of bullion or taxation policies. In the history of economics perhaps only John Maynard Keynes rivalled Ricardo in the ability to combine an immensely successful financial career with political involvement and contributions to economic thought of the first magnitude. Appropriately, it was Keynes who first encouraged Piero Sraffa to edit Ricardo's writings. Sraffa's undertaking, which lasted more than forty years and was supplemeted by his own important interpretation of Ricardo (Sraffa 1951a), served to reawaken professional interest in Ricardo's works, especially in the thirty-three page 'Essay' of 1815. The Essay was directed to a current issue in England: the Corn Laws. As the Napoleonic War drew to a close, the interests of 48

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the landowning and manufacturing classes began to diverge. England was still dominated by landowners; but mechanization had begun, and the iron, coal and textile industries were growing. In this same period a series of poor harvests and an expanding population were combining to drive up the price of agricultural goods. In 1815 Parliament debated and passed a bill that put tariffs on the import of corn. Corn (a generic term covering small grains such as oats, wheat and barley) was used to make bread; and, though estimates vary, bread probably constituted 40 to 60 percent of a worker's total expenditures (Blaug 1958:10). A tariff on corn would make bread even more costly and either lower a worker's real wages or raise the wage cost to employers. Tariffs, then, were opposed by capitalists and laborers; but they were supported by landowners. In the Essay, Ricardo devised a model to reveal the economic basis of this conflict, and he used the model to justify low tariffs and support the capitalist class. The literature in economics on the Essay and its place within Ricardian thought is now substantial and the interpretations very divergent.' My interest, however, is strictly anthropological. The Essay probably represents the first time a model was explicitly used in economics (Robinson and Eatwell 1973:11). I shall analyze this early economic model as a cultural construction, and in particular as an exemplar of the derivational form. This way of viewing Ricardo's work is alien to the realistic tradition in economics. Many economists, neoclassicists as well as Marxists, suggest that Ricardo's model is best comprehended by matching it against known truths, whether those of neoclassicism or dialectical materialism (Marx 1968[1905-10]; Stigler 1965a). Even Leo Rogin, who questions a 'copy theory' epistemology, would assess a model pragmatically, in terms of how well it solved the existent and practical issue to which it was addressed (1956:5). Such assessments of Ricardo all rest upon privileged claims to know reality. They assume either that a society can be known directly through observation and that Ricardo's model can be assessed in terms of this knowledge, or that some other model believed to incorporate a human universal - provides the measure for reinterpreting Ricardo. Both epistemologies, for that is what they are, would deny that the world is constituted and made available only through a description. Both positions lack a

50

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critical examination of, and relativistic stance toward, their own knowledge. Where they provide the basis for an understanding of Ricardo, the conclusion must inevitably be that his model was a scientific error, a mystification, or both. My view is different. A cultural construction is neither true not false in a final sense; it exists, it is used, and we can attempt to explicate it. The special irony, as I shall try to demonstrate, is that the standard interpretive models reproduce the cultural form which Ricardo himself deployed. Form and constructs in the model Providing a cultural analysis of Ricardo's Essay is, on the face of it, a difficult and problematic task. Ricardo offered the model as a faithful reproduction of the world, a mirror of the inner workings of the economy. For him the model's usefulness lay in the precision with which it reproduced reality; and because the model was realistic, it had a rightful warrant to guide policy. Unlike Adam Smith and the Physiocrats, Ricardo wrote no separate philosophical texts, while his letters and economic works contain no metaphysical justifications. A typical communication with Malthus, for example, begins with pleasantries about family and then settles directly to an economic issue. In his letters Ricardo passes easily from practical problems to theoretical questions (1952,VI:97-102). Ricardo, in fact, had little formal education, for he began working in the stock exchange at the age of 14. Although he carefully read the works of Smith, Bentham and James Mill, he focused principally on their writings in economics. But the very absence of an explicit metaphysics provides a clue to Ricardo's style. In general, Ricardo would specify entities in the real world and then link them in causal relationships.f This cultural style, I would suggest, was of a piece with his practical work and experience in the City of London. Ricardo's skills as broker were turned to economic analysis. In Ricardo's model, humans are sorted into three classes, distinguished in terms of property ownership. Landowners possess the terrain on which agricultural production is carried out; for this ownership they receive a rent. Laborers, having no real property, work for wages either in agriculture or in industry. Capitalists possess machines, equipment and money which they

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use in agriculture and manufacturing to make profits. Labor is a passive observer of the major social conflict which is between landowners and capitalists. This three-part construction of the social order was new in that for Ricardo capitalists and capital were to be found throughout the entire economy. As far back as Aristotle, a distinction had been drawn between householding (for use) and exchange. A later but related division was made between the domains of production and of circulation. Still later, the Physiocrats constructed an opposition between (productive) agriculture and (sterile) artisanship. These three polarities were not equivalent, but they were anatogically or metaphorically alike. In all of them a distinction was drawn between two kinds of economic activity, with capitalist-like practices found in one sphere only. Ricardo, however, followed Adam Smith in giving greater emphasis to the universal role of capitalists in the social order. Because capital was mobile, capitalists were involved in both agriculture and manufacturing, the rural and urban sectors. For Ricardo, productive agriculture was not opposed to capitalist-like trade, circulation or artisanship. All three social functions - capital, labor and landowning - were represented within agriculture. Ricardo's formulation, which presumed capital mobility, bridged the analogical divisions of use/exchange, productive/nonproductive and rural/urban. Yet this success in providing a seamless picture of human endeavors was only apparent, for Ricardo's model established a new bifurcation which was to cause other difficulties. Ricardo's construction of the human is not elaborated, but this construction stretches, so to speak, between the model proper and Ricardo's audience. In the model, human actors, whether landowners, capitalists or laborers, lack intentionality. Ricardo's view of the human is exemplified by his difference with Malthus over the definition of 'effectual demand.' The two disagreed about Say's Law, according to which supply brings its own demand. For Malthus, demand is not a mechanistic response to supply, because it is made up of both the power and the will to purchase (Ricardo 1952[1814]'VI:131). Ricardo maintained, however, that 'the will is very seldom wanting where the power exists' (1952[1814]'VI:133). Variable tastes and changing desires were not part of Ricardo's image of the human. In the Essay specifically, humans are not constituted as economic makers or

52

Ricardo's representations

creators in the later-nineteenth-century sense. Ricardo was closer to the eighteenth-century conception in which God is the maker of a world that humans can only annex and use. In the economy humans react in mechanistic and predictable ways. But Ricardo's construction of the human does have two sides, for he also assumes that the human has an active and volitional role in the polity. He presumes that Parliament and the broader populace have the power to make and change laws, some of which changes will have economic effects. Indeed, Ricardo offered his economic model to a political audience with the aim of changing humanly formulated rules. Ricardo posited a division between the economy and the polity, the two being distinguished on the basis of mechanistic versus rule-governed behavior. In this construction the economy underlies or precedes the polity. Rule changes should be made in the political domain to bring it into accord with the mechanistically governed economy. Ricardo's primary intention in writing the Essay was to increase the rate of profit in England, and thus the third major set of constructs in the model concerned the measurement of wealth. Such an interest in measurement was common among Ricardo's contemporaries, although he was perhaps exceptionally rigorous in utilizing quantitative calculations. Items in the model are constituted in terms of their magnitudes, regardless of their contents, the principal categories being output, wages, profits and rent. But Ricardo's use of numerical measures was complex, for he held that certain economic quantities, such as consumption needs or land fertility, were grounded in given features of the real world. Wages, for example, were not only a quantity but a substance, and their real world or substantive features determined their numerical expression. Ricardo, I shall argue, both buttressed and closed his model by appealing to natural determination. This charter for his model was, in turn, linked to the overall model form which he employed. Ricardo's model was constructed within the tradition of Galileo and Descartes. It had a derivational pattern. In such models, as I have suggested, one or another premise serves as the core from which the remaining elements of the model. may be derived. Ideally, the model would be Euclidean, with premises, operational rules and derived parts.

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53

A derivational model is usually characterized by several other features. In the first place, it should be consistent in terms of the operations that are performed on its core assumptions; this ensures its clarity. In this regard, Ricardo's model is truly elegant, for it i~ characterized by a consistent use of linear or 'simple' causal relationships. In fact, the terms 'cause,' 'effect' and 'regulation' recur throughout Ricardo's essays and letters. His linear mode of analysis, for example, emerged in correspondence with Malthus. Where Malthus perceived complexity, and encountered a 'main' cause as well as contemporaneous causes, Ricardo held several factors constant in order to find a 'sole' or 'invariable' cause. Where Malthus saw only 'tendencies,' Ricardo found strict 'regulation' (1952,VI:26,93-4,139,144-5,152-3). In 1812 Malthus perspicaciously wrote to him 'It really appears that a desire to simplify, which has often led away the most scientific men, has induced you to ascribe to one cause phenomena that properly belong to two' (1952,VI:82). Ricardo defended himself on the grounds that 'causes should be kept distinct' (1952, VI: 113), yet, in comparison to Malthus, he was a reductionist. Ricardo typically sought to find causal relationships between elementary units. A further feature of a derivational model is that its core propositions provide the grounding for the remaining parts. Such core assumptions may be conceived of as purely heuristic, but for Ricardo the core elements referred to real world entities. At the center of his model were the invariant natural features of land fertility and human need. This construction by Ricardo provided his model with an aura of realism. The placement of nature at the core of the model yielded both a sense of certitude and invariance. The consistency which characterizes a derivational model leads to another feature, which is also found in Ricardo. The derived elements in the model must reflect the core meanings. Their very essence, according to the logic by which they have been derived, leads back to the core assumptions. In Ricardo's model, profits are derived from wages and rents. But rent and wage point to the core features of the model, and these - being referential - point to nature. In consequence, profits are naturally determined.

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Ricardo's representations

Alternate interpretations Two views about the place of Ricardo's Essay have emerged in the commentaries presented by economists. Some see the Essay as a preface to Ricardo's later and more substantial effort, The Principles. Stigler, for example, treats the Essay as an incomplete rendering of the final Ricardian system, lacking only a theory of wages and a measure of value (1965a:187). The transition from the earlier to the later was a matter of finishing the architectonics, completing the structure (Hollander 1979). According to the alternative view, which derives from Sraffa (1951a), a sharp break exists between the Essay and The Principles. On this view, Ricardo shifted from a model that lacked a value theory to a model that was underwritten by the notion of value. In the Essay, for example, exchange and exchange rates or price are not considered. Accordingly, Ricardo did not need to compare different objects in terms of a common, or value, standard. In the post-Sraffa interpretations, the transition from the Essay to The Principles is seen primarily as a time in which Ricardo developed an exchange conception and a value theory, specifically a theory of labor value (Dobb 1973:6975; Levine 1977; Meek 1975:89-96). My explication of the Essay fits neither of the prevailing views. In contrast to the one side, I argue that there was indeed a pronounced shift from the Essay to The Principles. But in opposition to the post-Sraffa interpretations, I hold that the Essay was not devoid of a value theory, broadly interpreted. In the two years between these publications Ricardo changed the axiomatic foundation of his model, moving from a natural law, post-Physiocratic to a pre-Marxian construction; a social substance came to supplant natural features at the core of his model. In both models Ricardo held that palpable, a priori entities lay beneath the economy. But corn had a unique place in the first model because it derived from the fertile land and provided natural sustenance for needy humans, whereas human labor was placed at the center of the second model. This axiomatic shift is linked to several inconsistencies in the Essay that, so far as I know, have not previously been noted in the economics literature. The first inconsistency has already been mentioned. Ricardo bifurcates human behavior into the passive and the active. Within the economy humans have restricted

Ricardo's representations

55

intentions and faculties. They merely consume a determined wage and abide by natural rules of competition. As economic actor the human is a machine, governed by the relations that obtain between natural entities. Ricardo, however, wrote the Essay to influence Parliamentary debates on the Corn Laws. His political human was capable of reflecting upon and making social laws. Ricardo constructed a division between economics and politics, or between naturally caused and rule-governed behavior. This bifurcation or perhaps contradiction was bridged by Ricardo's implicit argument that human intentions had to be brought into line with natural causes; the polity had to adjust to the invariant economy. With the statement of his labor theory in The Principles, however, Ricardo could endow the economic actor with a broader range of intentional attributes, thereby sealing the break between economy and polity. The second unusual feature of the Essay concerns its structural reflexivity or tautological form. Ricardo wanted to oppose capitalists to landowners, and profits to rents. But with a derivational model he could not show that profits had a justification or meaning that was different from rents. Profits were determined not by what the capitalists did but by nature, and the same natural causes determined what the rentiers received. There was no internally consistent way in which, using this model, Ricardo could have achieved his overall purpose of justifying capitalists, profits and the growth of wealth at the expense of landowners and rents. By shifting to labor as the dominant construction in The Principles, Ricardo opened the way to a different semantic justification for profit. The Essay

The general arguments against the Corn Laws are adduced at the end of the Essay, where the economic reasoning is presented. In the first place, a theory of differential rent is offered. Often known as the Ricardian theory of rent, it is now recognized that similar theories were put forward at the same time, or earlier, by Torrens, West and Malthus (Sraffa 1951b: 4-8); Ricardo himself acknowledged the importance of the ideas of Malthus (1951[1815]' IV:9). Ricardo also presented a theory of the determination of the rate of profit. Apparently West had published a similar

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theory just before Ricardo, but it seems that Ricardo's was independently evolved (1951 [1815],IV :3-6;1952[1814],VI: 103-4). A special fascination of the Essay, however, lies in the way Ricardo links these theories together. The arguments about rent and profit are joined, and connected to another about the level of real wages. With this edifice, Ricardo could reveal the impact of population growth upon distribution and capital formation, so preparing the way for his conclusion that repeal of the Corn Laws would enhance the public good by fostering economic growth through capital accumulation. In the model agriculture is reproductive or cyclical. Its output, which is corn, provides its sole input: corn is used as seed and as foodstuff for labor, which then uses the seed to produce more corn. (All capital is circulating capital.) Moreover, agriculture yields an excess, some of which is required as input (via the wage basket) in the production of all other commodities. Corn feeds into itself and into all other economic processes which, being dependent upon agriculture, are not themselves reproductive. Agriculture occupies a core position in the model precisely because the input arrow runs in one direction only, from it to manufacturing. The only universal element in the economy is the real wage, which emanates from agriculture. Corn is the essential or necessary commodity as opposed to the nonessentials produced by manufacturing. Moreover, because manufactured items are not required by the farming sector, the question of relative prices never arises. In effect, exchange is denied at the very center of Ricardo's model which is about an exchange economy. In one crucial respect, however, the reproductive cycle in agriculture is not fully independent. Corn is produced by means of the land, but land - unlike steel - is a nonproduced means of production. It is a given and finite source in the productive process. For Ricardo, the determining core of the economy was corn and corn production, but the agricultural cycle itself required another means. The model has a reproductive but not a self-reproductive pattern, for the corn cycle is dependent upon feedback to an outside and naturally given emitter. Ricardo's model, in this respect, is not a simplified blueprint - a onecommodity model - of a reality that was too complex to be grasped in its plenitude. Ricardo was arguing that corn from the land provided the invariant basic substance of the economy; and

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land was not amenable to human manipulation. Wages, rents and profit Given the corn cycle as the foundation, Ricardo was able to construct the rest of his model and then offer certain conclusions concerning the rate of profit, the accumulation of wealth and England's future. There are several steps in Ricardo's explanation of the rate of profit and the broader pattern of distribution. First, the wage is constructed as a set, naturally determined amount. This formulation is of a piece with Ricardo's treatment of labor. The role of labor is to complete the cycle by which corn produces corn. As an input, labor does not have a creative role in the formation of wealth. Ricardo, for example, never directly considers the effects of increasing the skills of labor, and though he consistently uses a language of fecundity for land, no similar terms are used for labor. Labor is subordinated to the natural conditions in which it works, and to the tools with which it works. Labor skills are constituted as physical or natural effort. As physical work, labor is fed by a fixed and real wage. Workers require corn at a set, natural rate. As Ricardo expressed it, 'the nature of man ... required ... a quantity of food' (1951[1815],IV: 15). Laborers do not universally need any other goods nor do they exercise choice about their basic requirement. (If they did, agriculture would not be the invariant and determining core of the economy.) Ricardo reduces labor to the intake of real corn and its expenditure as physical work. Rent and profit are modeled as variable quantities, although their total is fixed. The two bear an inverse relation to one another, with rent the determining variable. Rent is naturally set, being a differential payment for variation in land fertility. In Ricardo's model diminishing physical returns set in as agricultural production is expanded. As the corn cycle is augmented, more distant or less fertile land is brought into cultivation, each new plot being less productive than its immediate predecessor. The new plot will yield as much as the previous plot but only at a higher cost; conversely, all the inframarginal pieces have successively lower costs for the same output.

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Ricardo assumes that the final plot cultivated pays no rent. Its costs in seed and wages are fixed by the need to yield an output equivalent to that already being gained on the more productive plots. Profit on the marginal piece is thus automatically set, being the difference between the required output and the physically given costs. At the extensive land margin, natural wages are paid, the rent is zero and profit is the remainder. But this implies that the rate of profit on the marginal plot is automatically set, for it is the ratio of profit to costs, and these figures have already been fixed. Given this reasoning, Ricardo drew an important conclusion. Under competitive conditions the profit rate is the same for all agricultural investments; therefore, the already set rate of profit on the marginal plot must determine the rate for every other plot. Given his assumptions, Ricardo could derive the rate of profit in the entire agricultural sector. In conjunction with this argument, Ricardo also provided a coherent account of agricultural rent. By definition, the premarginal or already used pieces of land are more productive than the marginal or final plot. They yield an excess above the return required to meet costs and the competitive profit rate. This excess comprises the various rents paid to landowners for use of the plots. In accord with its natural productivity, each inframarginal plot yields a differential rent. These logically linked steps actually comprise only the center or internal workings of Ricardo's model. They in turn are set into a broader framework, being latched on to what would now be termed the 'dependent' and 'independent' variables. First, Ricardo extended his derivational argument to the entire economy. Because under competitive conditions there cannot be two different rates of profit, the rate of profit in manufacturing must adjust to that which is independently set in agriculture. As the agricultural rate rises or declines, so will the general rate. Agriculture - the independent core - has a determining effect on the whole economy. As Ricardo expressed it in a letter to Trower: 'It is the profits of the farmer which regulate the profits of all other trades' (1952(1814],VI:I04). In the Essay itself his derivational and essentialist argument was clearly underlined: Profits of stock fall because land equally fertile cannot be

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obtained, and through the whole progress of society, profits are regulated by the difficulty or facility of procuring food. This is a principle of great importance, and has been almost overlooked in the writings of Political Economists. They appear to think that profits of stock can be raised by commercial causes, independently of the supply of food. (1951[1815],IV:13) The general profit rate, in this respect, was Ricardo's dependent variable. The independent variable was population. To close his model, Ricardo assumed that the size of population, at a particular time, was given. With a naturally determined population and wage level, the total demand for corn was automatically set. The corn demand, in turn, determined the amount of land that had to be cultivated, and this set the identity of the marginal plot. Given the marginal plot, the profit rate could be deduced.i' Because population was the independent variable, Ricardo was able to present something more than a static construction. In fact, by offering a series of temporal comparisons based upon population growth, he was able to reveal the dynamic and inverse relationship between profits and rent as the two claims on the net product. When the population increases, the amount of land farmed must expand and the marginal plot shifts. As productivity at the margin declines, the general profit rate drops; nevertheless, each plot's output and costs - their difference being the net product - remain constant. Over time, therefore, the drop in a plot's profit, resulting from the drop in the marginal and competitive profit rate, must be compensated for by an equivalent rise in its rent. Because the net product on a plot remains constant, rents must rise as profits fall. Ricardo could reach the interesting conclusion that rent 'is in all cases a portion of the profits previously obtained on the land. It is never a new creation of revenue, but always part of a revenue already obtained' (1951[1815],IV:18). The rent/profit relationship is illustrated numerically in Table 3.1 where comparisons are made between different plots over time. When the area tilled is expanded from plot A to plot B and then to plot C, the costs and the net product on each piece already in use remain constant; but since their profits and profit rate are determined by the marginal plot, the division of their net products

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TABLE 3.1:

Profits and rents Land plots A

1

B

c

300 units output -200 units cost 100 units net Rent = 0 Profit = 100 Profit rate = 50% 2

Temporal sequence

300 units output -200 units cost 100 units net Profit rate = 33% Profit = 67 Rent = 33

3

300 units output - 200 uni ts cost 100 units net Profit rate = 20% Profit = 40 Rent = 60

300 units output - 225 units cost ~ units net Rent = 0 Profit = 75 Profit rate = 33% 300 units output - 225 units cost ~ units net Profit rate = 20% Profit = 45 Rent = 30

300 units output -250 units cost 50 units net Rent = 0 Profit = 50 Profit rate = 20%

changes. Over time, the profit and profit rate for the older plots drop while the rent rises. At each successive stage rent subsumes a larger portion of a plot's net product, as can be seen by comparing the division of plot A's net product at times 1,2 and 3. Thus, rent is a transfer payment from profit. The model takes for granted the Malthusian assumption that population continuously increases. Given constant per capita wages and unchanging technology, only population pressure requires that the agricultural margin be expanded. In effect, Ricardo was posing a dialectic between land fertility and human fertility. Society is caught between two naturally determined variables. As population increases, the cultivated surface must be

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expanded, causing a decrease in the corn profit rate and in the general rate of profit. Ricardo portrayed the workings of the economy as being causally linked to and determined by natural processes. In this clock-like mechanism, the central quantitative feature of the economy, its rate of profit, lies outside human control. Ultimately, a stage is reached at which profits throughout the society are zero, for at the truly final margin, output is sufficient only to cover costs of production. At this point economic stasis occurs, and growth through investment is no longer possible. Ricardo's temporary solution to this problem is to break the causal chain by making England independent of its corn cycle. With the lifting of tariffs, low-cost corn could be imported, pressure on the land would be relieved, the margin would shrink, and the corn rate of profit as well as the general rate of profit would rise. Investment could proceed and growth could continue. The ultimate and limited economic resource would be protected. Thus, Ricardo proposed a political solution to what he modeled as a naturally determined problem. The economy was bound by natural laws, so the solution to the economic problem had to be found outside the sphere of the economy itself. As an economic actor, the human is constrained by uncontrolled population growth, natural level of wants and inherent competition, but as a political actor - including Ricardo the model maker - the human can devise rules for the amelioration of his condition. Between the model and its intended use lay a bifurcation of the economy and the polity. The privileged code The key to Ricardo's model lies in the way he interlocks physical substances and value magnitudes within agriculture. On the one hand, labor and the wage, capital and profit, land and rent are constructed as quantities; they are simply numerical integers. But in agriculture, capital, profits, wages and rent are also constituted as volumes of a particular substance, corn. In this respect, an examination of Ricardo's vocabulary is illuminating. In the opening paragraph of the Essay he speaks of the 'price of corn,' as if price were a quantity separately measured by money or a numeraire, Immediately he turns to agriculture, however, and the word price is dropped to be

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replaced by 'quarters of wheat' (1951[1815),IV:1O); capital, profit, output, rent and wage are all measured in terms of wheat (one quarter = eight bushels). Upon leaving agriculture and returning to the broader economy, Ricardo's language changes again. He refers to the 'money price of corn' and 'the exchangeable value of all commodities' (1951[1815],IV:18,19). Corn is no longer the measurement of value. For Ricardo, value magnitudes in the agricultural sector are the same as - they are reduced to - natural quantities. He did not suggest, however, that this congruence of physical and value quantities characterizes all productive activities, for although profit may sometimes be realized as an agricultural substance, it is also a magnitude in the whole economy. In the latter part of his derivation, therefore, nature and value are no longer synonymous, and the relation between the inner core and derived parts becomes one of 'regulation' (1951[1815]'IV:9,13). Ricardo assumed profit equalization through competition and derived the remaining magnitudes in his model by arguing that manufacturing profit is determined by the agricultural profit rate. In this fashion the workings of the broader economy were reduced to a self-regulating and autonomous inner core, within which value magnitudes were isomorphic with physical quantities, controlled not by human volition but by nature itself. The corn wage, the corn rent and the corn profit are all determined through the forces of land fertility, physical need and human fecundity. Ricardo grounded his model by 'transforming' natural quantities into values within the agricultural core. The model was reductionist. One of Malthus's early criticisms of the model was precisely that Ricardo had omitted the role played by manufacturing not only in the economy but in agriculture itself (1952[1814],VI:13940,152-4,187-8). As Malthus argued: It is the state of capital, or the general profits of stock and interest of money, which determines the particular profit upon the land; and ... it is not the particular profits or rate of produce upon the land which determines the general profits of stock and the interest of money. (Ricardo 1951(1814),VI; 117-18) In effect,

Malthus

was inverting

the

corn

derivation

and

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questioning Ricardo's essentialist perspective that value and exchange rates could be derived from natural necessity and physical substances. Despite the elegance of Ricardo's model, it does contain two inconsistencies, one logical and the other semantic. The two are closely related. The logical problem arises from Ricardo's twin assumptions of a freely competitive market and agricultural determination. On the one hand, Ricardo's capitalists operate in both the manufacturing and agricultural sectors. Capital is mobile and can seek the highest rate of profit. Ricardo explicitly denied the possibility that two rates of profit might obtain in the economy (1951[1815]'IV:24). On the other hand, the rate of profit is strictly conditioned by agriculture (1951[1815],IV:26) which contradicts the notion of a competitively established profit rate. Consider what would happen, for example, under truly competitive conditions when agricultural profits drop. Capital would be withdrawn from agriculture, invested in manufacturing, and a single profit rate would be reestablished. But this implies that the agricultural margin would shrink and the volume of food produced would drop. If this were the case, population size and per capita demand would not be determinants of the agricultural profit rate, and Ricardo's derivational model would come apart. Not surprisingly, Ricardo spent two pages denying the possibility that capital could be withdrawn from agriculture (1951[1815],IV: 24-6). He contended that agricultural capital would not and could not contract and that manufacturing profit had to adjust downwards to each new agricultural profit rate. But his argument is contradictory, for fully competitive conditions cannot be reconciled with agricultural determination. Thus, although Ricardo attempted to bridge the traditional division between agriculture and manufacturing, through his notion of uniform or homogeneous capital, he actually resurrected the distinction in a different form. Ricardo's essentialist view of agriculture provided the 'rational foundation' (Sraffa 1951a:xxxi) of his model. Profit adjustment through capital mobility was only a conceptual device used to complete his derivation. The second contradiction is between Ricardo's own intentions and the model's implications. According to the model, the general profit rate in the economy is determined by uncontrollable natural factors. But this implies that the level of manufacturing

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profits and the growth rate of wealth are independent of the efforts of capitalists. Ricardo could not justify manufacturing profits independently from agricultural rents. According to Ricardo, rent is 'the remuneration given to the landlord for the use of the original and inherent power of the land' (1951[1815],IV:18). Alternatively, it is the portion paid for the 'original power of the land' (1951[1815],IV:18). Adopting an image of Malthus, he also speaks of land as a 'machine' with 'original qualities and powers' (1951[1815],IV:24,34). This semantic justification for rent has implications for the historical sequence outlined by Ricardo. As the population grows, and the land margin is extended, a portion of what was formerly profit on a plot becomes rent. The division of the net product shifts, reducing profit and increasing rent. But Ricardo had represented rent as a return for soil fertility. Since the fertility is 'original,' it must have been in existence during previous periods when its product would have accrued to profit. According to Ricardo's own construction, profit is due to the 'inherent powers' of nature. Alternatively, consider what follows if Ricardo's political recommendations were adopted. If the corn tariffs were abolished and corn imported, the land margin would shrink. When the margin moves inward, the rent on inframarginal pieces decreases and profits rise. But this implies that what had been rent on a particular plot in a preceding period becomes profit in a later period; what had been paid to landowners for the 'original powers' of the soil accrues to the capitalists. Again, agricultural profit appears as a return for the fertility of the soil. Rent and agricultural profit derive from the same source. Whichever way the linkage is traced, manufacturing profit, which adjusts to agricultural profit, becomes a mirror of the land. The model was semantically consistent in that everything wages, rent and profits - was naturally determined. But the derivation did not fit Ricardo's intention of opposing capitalists to landlords. How could he justify the profit of capitalists as an independent creation? If Ricardo had argued that the size of manufacturers' profits was determined by their unique wealthproducing activities, he would have disrupted the internal organization of his model. But if he had explicitly stated that the size of manufacturing profits was the reflection of natural causes,

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he would have had no way of distinguishing capitalists from rentiers in terms of the source of their returns. Ricardo believed that manufacturing yielded new wealth, and his intention in devising the model was to bolster the increase of wealth in the economy. However, the model provided no way of demonstrating that the returns to manufacturers were any different from the rewards enjoyed by landowners. The profit rate of manufacturers was beyond their control; the size of their returns was determined by nature, not their efforts or investments. It follows that Ricardo did not model capitalism as unlimited accumulation. He concluded, logically in terms of his model, that capitalism was headed toward stasis rather than growth. More significantly, Ricardo was silent about the rationale of manufacturing profit. He could not justify profit in opposition to rent without contradicting himself. The semantics of Ricardo's model did not support the purpose of his modeling activity. A shift in the core Almost as soon as he had published the Essay, Ricardo began to revise his ideas, these changes culminating two years later in his more substantial volume, The Principles. Between these two works there were some remarkable differences, but most were related to a shift in the foundation of the model. Ricardo dropped agriculture from its determining position, and replaced it with labor. He still assumed that the economy was based on a palpable or real substance, but this essence was now seen to lie in humans; wealth was grounded in the capacity of the human to labor. This shift allowed for a more active conception of the laboring class. The level of the real wage, for example, was no longer constructed as being naturally determined; in The Principles it was said to depend upon the 'habits and customs of the people' (1951[1817],1:97). In addition, because the economy was seen as self-determining, the sharp division between economic and political behavior was eradicated. With labor at the core, agriculture also lost its autonomous role and Ricardo could present a more complete exchange conception of the economy. In the Essay, for example, Ricardo assumed that corn was the sole consumption good of workers, but in The Principles examples are given where corn constitutes only one-half of

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workers' consumption (1951[1817],1:19-20,103,306); wage goods come from manufacturing in addition to the land. The pessimistic vision of future stasis was also replaced by a more optimistic outlook. Because capitalism was founded upon labor, which was not scarce, rather than land fertility, which was, unlimited accumulation could be foreseen. The changes, therefore, from the Essay to The Principles were evidence not simply of a technical shift in which land and then labor as 'factors' of production were successively emphasized. The entire naturalistic construction was dropped, although Ricardo still offered a model that had a derivational form. Economic models Because the constructions used in Ricardo's corn model were not entirely unique to him, a selected sketch of their use by other economists may be of some value. Of particular interest is the way in which similar categories and forms have been rearranged in different economic models. In several ways, as 1 shall demonstrate in the following chapter, Ricardo can be seen as the heir of the Physiocrats. For both, the land or nonproduced means provided the undergirding for the economy. Both also divided society into three classes. For the Physiocrats, the economy, in its entirety, was reproductive and consisted of the circulation and consumption of material goods. Society was divided into husbandmen, artisans and landowners. The productive segment was farming, where natural riches were secured. By contrast, the artisans or manufacturers shaped goods but added no surplus to the economy. The third Physiocratic category, the landowners, were simply consumers living off the agricultural net product that accrued to them by virtue of their property ownership. The Physiocrats, thus, bifurcated the economy into productive and nonproductive parts. Agriculture was productive; artisanship and landowning were not. They constructed a dual organization or asymmetric 'moiety' model, the halves being related through circulation and distinguished in importance by their proximity to nature which provided the foundation for the economy. In place of the Physiocrats' asymmetric moiety model, Ricardo presented a 'center-periphery' model. For Ricardo economic

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integration was also dependent upon the circulation of agricultural produce, but he did not model the whole economy as reproductive. Where the Physiocrats saw the economy as bifurcated but related through circulation and reproduction, Ricardo separated the reproductive, natural essence from the remainder. He isolated agriculture as the single reproductive domain and then argued that this was the determining center of the economy through its effect via competition. Ricardo's model contains an inner core and an outer shell, a center and periphery. This difference in model form is reflected in the varying ways that Ricardo and the Physiocrats constructed social classes. Ricardo modeled capital as entering both agriculture and manufacturing. His more capitalistic construction did away with the Physiocratic distinction between productive agriculture and nonproductive artisanship. But by specifying nature as causal agent, Ricardo constructed anew, though homologous, distinction between essential natural features and social quantities. Although Ricardo never denied that nonagricultural occupations were productive, he did argue that the natural core regulated the remainder through the profit rate. Thus, he provided a one-commodity model of what he recognized to be a multi-sector economy, for prices within the latter were derived from the former. My interpretation of the transition between the Essay and The Principles suggests a comparison with Marx. An extended commentary would be required to show in what ways Marx modeled labor as both substance and quantity, and to examine the relation between this construction and his concepts of use value and exchange value. Here I would direct attention only to the derivational form of Marx's model, a form which gave rise to the 'transformation problem.' In Capital, Volume I, Marx (1967[1867]) equated exchange value with labor. An exchange represented or encoded quantities of live and dead labor. But as Marx pointed out exchange is also money price; and one problem that Marx posed for himself was to show how money prices could be derived from labor as the substance of value. Phrased differently, real prices are only a mystifying code based on experience; in fact, they are derived from an underlying, hidden essence, which is labor; and for Marx this essence was given by the nature of the human species (1967[1867]:177-84). The comparison with Ricardo, then, is in terms of model form. Both

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used a derivational model; however, the derivation for each was different. Ricardo tried to relate natural quantities to value magnitudes by making them synonymous or isomorphic in agriculture. Marx tried to relate labor quantities to prices by mathematically transforming the one into the other. Ricardo's derivation was a movement from centre to periphery whereas Marx's was a shift from one level to another. Lastly, these three models may be compared to Sraffa's more recent construction (1960). Sraffa's reproductive scheme and his central category 'basic commodities' echo the Physiocrats, Ricardo and Marx, yet his model is quite different. In Sraffa's model basic commodities are not defined as particular substances; they are simply those commodities in an economy which enter into the production of all other commodities, including themselves. They are defined only by reference to themselves and other commodities. Ricardo, by contrast, assumes that workers always consume a specific real world good. This seemingly small difference is linked to a second one. Within the Sraffa model the means of production for basic commodities are themselves produced means. Sraffa models the core of the economy as completely self-reproducing in the sense that he constructs a cycle of basics which are used to produce basics. In Ricardo's model, however, the basic, corn, is produced on real land, which is not itself produced. Ricardo constitutes the core of the economy as reproductive but not self-reproductive, in that he models it as being dependent upon an outside source for regeneration. A major difference, then, is that Sraffa's model does not rest on a foundation in nature. For him, prices are not derived from 'given' features of the real world, such as land, labor or equipment. Rather, the prices of labor and capital are shown to be interdependent, the question of their ultimate determination being left to one side. In the Sraffa model there is no reference to a final level or feature that, once located, provides the key to the remainder. Sraffa's model, therefore, can be contrasted to the Physiocrats' asymmetric moiety model, Ricardo's center-periphery model and Marx's levels model. For Sraffa there is no derivation from ultimate features. Like Ricardo's model, Sraffa's has a core, but within the model itself prices are interdependent and not determined by something else.

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Modes of analysis Ricardo intended his corn model to mirror the real-life experience of the British economy in the early nineteenth century, but I have suggested that it was not directly drawn from that experience. Rather, Ricardo deployed a set of constructions to order the complex impressions offered by the British and world economies. He pictured the economy as a totality that could be understood in terms of essential principles rather than, for example, as a conglomerate of actions that might lack a unifying thread. Ricardo re-presented his world as having a specific kind of coherence. The derivational model implied that 'reality' contained an innermost part which if correctly specified would provide the core from which the remainder of the economy could be derived. But this coherence of the model was only a cultural way of formulating experience; nothing aside from his discourse dictated that Ricardo should construct a 'consistent' model. Furthermore, Ricardo was unable to provide a truly consistent derivational form. His Cartesian reasoning was an arbitrary but accepted form that lent authenticity to a model which itself was not internally consistent. In this respect we might return to Robinson and Eatwell's (1973:11) claim that Ricardo was the first to employ a model in economics. In my terms, 'the economy' is always modeled; the difference resides in the type of model. As Dobb (1973:66) has pointed out, a key feature of Adam Smith's work was precisely its 'unsystematic character.' What Ricardo presented, for the first time, was a coherent, derivational model of the economy, a fact implicitly recognized by Dobb (1973:66-7). It is this quasigeometrical form that makes the model seem familiar and acceptable to us, and allowed for effective communication between Ricardo and his audience. One might suggest, then, that Ricardo's originality lay, above all, in the epistemological break he offered economics at the beginning of the nineteenth century. But Ricardo's economic analysis is also closely related to our ways of understanding other models. Consider, first, some of the other interpretations of Ricardo. In the Marxist view, Ricardo's emphasis upon the productive power of land would be reinterpreted as a mystification of labor. The neoclassicist would point to other inconsistencies and failures. Stigler (1965a), for example,

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argues that Ricardo failed to offer a theory of output. (I have suggested, to the contrary, that he did, by assuming a set population and demand level.) Blaug (1958:11) states that in Ricardo's model equal doses of capital and labor are applied across the land surface. (Although this reinterpretation may make Ricardo sensible for the modern reader, it is not, as I have shown, what Ricardo actually argued.) All these authors use a current model to 'translate' Ricardo. In light of the observer's axioms and criteria, Ricardo is judged or tested, and his constructs are themselves remodeled to fit a current view. One special difficulty with this way of examining Ricardo is that it reproduces in the analysis the very features which are characteristic of his model, specifically the derivational form. Indeed, one might suggest here the existence of a kind of historical reflexivity. Ricardo is the last great common ancestor of both Marxism and neoclassicism. Both perspectives draw upon the derivational form, which he so lucidly introduced to economics. This means, however, that both are using his cultural style; in their attempts to 'understand' Ricardo, they are caught within a reflexive circle. But the issue is more general. Ricardo's modeling style is now firmly established as an explanatory form in economics. For Ricardo the result of using the derivational form was 'only' to reduce manufacturing profit to land fertility. For anthropologists, however, the results are more momentous. When economic anthropologists use this model type, other customs become mirrors of our own axioms and rules, while translation becomes a form of Western explanation. In place of this mode of analysis, I am suggesting that other constructions should rather be explicated. By examining Ricardo's corn model I have attempted to demonstrate how this might be done as well as to suggest that the derivational form itself is a cultural product. To use this form as the universal key to cross-cultural understanding is a rationalization of our own. It provides no special access to the 'imponderabilia' of social life.

4

Physiocracy: a natural economics

Like a brilliant meteor the Physiocrats burst upon the scene of pre-Revolutionary France and for two decades had the attention offashionable and influential society. By the late 1770s, however, real events fatally undermined their theoretical constructions. A century later Marx revived interest in their work, but in general the Physiocrats have been dismissed as forerunners of a discipline which has since shown them to have been in error. 1 The term 'physiocracy' means rule of nature, and no label could have been more apt for this school of economists and social theorists. The key figure Francois Quesnay (1694-1774), doctor to the king, was taken under the protection of Madame de Pompadour. His Tableau economique is the central Physiocratic work, hailed now as a precursor of modern numerical techniques, capital theory and general equilibrium theory. A less central yet consequential figure was Turgot (1727-1781), whose Refiexions sur la formation et la distribution des richesses clearly states the fundamentals of Physiocracy. Although Turgot also discusses such topics as capital, profit and interest, only from a modern perspective might one claim that his Physiocratic concepts are alien 'to the argument into which they are inserted' (Schumpeter 1954:243). Like Ricardo, the Physiocrats developed a model of the economy; but this is not quite how they would have seen it. The Physiocrats would have denied a distinction between their model and the facts, for according to their epistemology human formulations were derived from reality through the application of reason. Gaps between the two were transitory in that through discussion and thought the human constructions themselves would come to match the realities of nature. To call Physiocracy a model, therefore, distorts their own understanding of their efforts. 71

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The Physiocrats portrayed the economy as a total, circulating system of wealth. But unlike the mercantilists they identified the source of this wealth as lying in agriculture or production, not within circulation. According to Physiocratic thought, agriculture was almost the only activity which yielded a material output that exceeded its input. They posited a three-order or three-class society, consisting of cultivators or peasants, landowners and artisans. At the start of the year, the cultivators have in hand the stock necessary to support their labors; at year's end output is sufficient to cover all costs of production and to provide an excess. This extra amount was termed the produit net. The 'net product' or excess comprises the rent and flows to the landowners who consume it and use part to purchase items from the artisans. The cultivators or husbandmen use their return as foodstuffs and for exchange with the artisans, who in turn use their receipts for direct consumption and as raw materials for the goods they fashion. The only increment coming into the system of circulation is from agriculture, and this yearly injection flows to the social class who possesses the factor which produced it. Physiocracy, of course, was only one of several local, economic models in Enlightenment France, and it had real influence for only a brief time. Turgot, for example, was named Controleur General in 1774 and instituted several Physiocraticinspired reforms; but within twenty months he was dismissed by the King, and nearly all his innovations were opposed by one or another segment of the society. Physiocracy is therefore sometimes dismissed on account of its historical failure to become an accepted paradigm. It is also generally thought to have been mistaken in identifying agriculture as the sole productive source within the economy. But, leaving issues of evaluation aside, there remains the cultural question: why did the Physiocrats accord such primacy to agriculture? This was the keystone of their model which, when destroyed, brought down the entire edifice. Even if the Physiocrats were correct to pay special attention to agriculture in pre-Revolutionary France, this does not account for their particular construction of it. What cultural sense did it make for the Physiocrats to place agriculture at the very center of their model?

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The Physiocrats as seen by others We do not lack interpretations of Physiocracy, but most are attempts to assess its validity. I shall review three of these as representative of a broader triangulation of positions.? Joseph Schum peter , in his historical account of economic theories (1954), is generally concerned to relate the intellectual milieu to the discipline as it was developing. In the case of Quesnay, however, he insists that no facet of his economics was buttressed by a theological or extra-empirical belief. 'This proves ipso facto the purely analytic or "scientific" nature of his economic work' (Schumpeter 1954:233). This is odd not only because Schumpeter here departs from his own method of analysis but also in that he consequently does not (and cannot) explain the crucial shift in Quesnay's argument which Schumpeter himself succinctly outlined: 'He took it for granted that the fact of physical productivity implied value productivity, and he shifted in midstream from the one to the other' (1954:238). Schumpeter would consider the Physiocrats solely in terms of their 'scientific' merit, which means that he assumes the existence of prediscoursive facts. By granting his knowledge of these facts priority over the constructions of others, Schumpeter suspends judgment about the verisimilitude and relativity of his own formulations while blocking access to other perspectives on Physiocracy. Marx (1963[1905-10]) was much more sympathetic. He saw that the Physiocrats were expressing a form of materialism, and had shifted the focus of attention from circulation to production. Marx's central criticism, of course, was that the Physiocrats had failed to see that only labor creates value. Value became confounded with physical substance. Marx held that although the Physiocrats were the first economists to analyze modern capitalism, they did so through the lens of feudalism. For the Physiocrats, everything appeared through the perspective of land, which is to say landed property, and this was a vestige of feudalism. Capitalism had not - so to speak - fully broken its feudalistic bonds. Feudalism was made bourgeois, while capitalism was cloaked in a feudalist wrap. Thus, surplus value was explained 'in a feudal way, as derived from nature and not from society, from man's relation to the soil, not from his social relations' (Marx 1963[1905-10]:52). When Marx opposed real relations in society to the Physiocratic

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emphasis on relations with nature, he was not presenting a vision of 'society with ideas' but of society as the context in which material labor was extracted by one human from another. Marx did not oppose the materialism of the Physiocrats, he shifted its locus. For Marx, the Physiocratic emphasis on land obscured labor's real powers, and this, of course, served to justify the aristocrats' source of wealth. Thus, Marx interpreted or remodeled the ideas of the Physiocrats principally in the light of what he saw to be their class interest. Physiocracy was a clear instance of a mystification or ideology. The Physiocratic model may have been motivated in this fashion, but the same class interest could have produced other models, and Physiocracy itself is not entirely reducible to class interest. It was an attempt to understand and to constitute emerging social relationships by placing them within an accepted cultural vision. To say that a model has a particular 'explanatory' function does not account for the pattern it has. This is a matter of historical influences and human inventiveness. The form and semantics of the Physiocratic model were part of a cultural tradition. One anthropologist has already attempted to place the Physiocrats in an historical and cultural perspective. Louis Dumont (1977) argues that Quesnay was the first to visualize the economy as a distinct entity, as a separate domain made up of interrelated parts, and he traces this view to Quesnay's interest in the human circulatory system and to his version of natural law theory. More broadly, Dumont argues that a connection can be found between Physiocracy and the work of John Locke. But Dumont disrupts the historical link by considering Quesnay prior to Locke, while his discussion of the philosopher is limited almost entirely to his Two Treatises (Locke 1823[1690)). Dumont neglects the impact which Locke's epistemological work, An Essay Concerning Human Understanding (1975[1690)), had upon the Physiocrats. Leading constructs in the Physiocratic model The Physiocratic model is built around three metaphors which offer a mechanistic view of economic behavior. Unlike Ricardo's early model, however, the Physiocratic one does not contain a

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linear, step-by-step, sequence. Rather the metaphors overlap. They are all based upon the human body, two having been suggested by Quesnay's medical experience. Quesnay drew the concept of circulation from Harvey's researches and the imagery of the flow of blood. Similarly, he probably took the notion of reproduction from the birth process. In the model these are projected as the circulation and reproduction of wealth." The third scheme was drawn from Locke's concept of mind, in which external sensation is distinguished from, and understood to be prior to, internal operations. This was represented in the model as the division of human effort into productive and nonproductive activities. The Physiocrats conjoined the three metaphors in the domain of agriculture, which they considered to be the productive sphere of the economy. The notion that only agriculture is productive was central to Physiocracy. Mirabeau, for example, asserted that 'The land is the mother of all goods' and added that 'wealth' comes only from the land (Meek 1973:120-1). With Quesnay he also wrote of 'the spontaneous gifts of nature' (Meek 1963:60). Quesnay himself stated the assumption firmly in the 'Dialogue on the work of artisans': 'The origin, the principle, of all expenditure and all wealth is the fertility of the land, whose products can be increased only through these products themselves' (1963a[1766]: 209). Only agricultural products represent a 'true generation or creation of wealth' (Ouesnay 1963a[1766]:223). Similarly, for Turgot nature was a storehouse which offers a 'superfluity' to humans as a 'pure gift' (Turgot 1898[1770]:9,12,13,14,51). The Physiocratic construction actually has two facets. Agriculture, or nature, is the source of wealth; and it is the source of a surplus, a conclusion which is not necessarily entailed by the first view. The idea that a surplus accrues in agriculture places the Physiocrats within the ambiance of modern economic theory, but it also raised a question of agency. What was the origin or source of the productive excess? The Physiocrats cited the Deity as the agent behind nature, but perhaps this is not so different from evoking human labor as a causal force. Both are modes of solving the riddle which arises when it is claimed that production is a material movement from a lesser to a greater quantity. The Physiocratic view of agriculture defined, by implication, a second and complementary category of activities, those which are

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nonproductive. These were called 'barren' or 'sterile.' This was not to say that such activities are not useful or even without honor (Turgot 1898[1770]:7). On the contrary, they are necessary for the social order; but they are not productive in the special Physiocratic sense. Sterile and productive activities are distinguished by reference to the object on which labor is performed. Only work that is done on material things which reproduce is productive, while work performed on objects which do not reproduce, alone or under human guidance, is barren. In a positive sense, sterile work may re-form or shape existing materials, but such activity only represents the combining of other, already present, wealth forms. Manufacturing, for example, is never productive, because it is not creative of material. The opposition between productive and sterile work is not, however, entirely dependent on the reproductive nature of materials. For example, at the outset of his Tableau Quesnay offered the following classification: Productive expenditure is employed in agriculture, grasslands, pasture, forests, mines, fishing, etc., in order to perpetuate wealth in the form of corn, drink, wood, livestock, raw materials for manufactured goods, etc. (1972[1758-9]:i) According to Quesnay, fishing is productive while cattle raising is not. This seems puzzling, for cattle obviously reproduce. Quesnay's classification, however, depends on the assumption that cattle are machines and providers of fertilizer, not sources of foodstuffs. The question that concerned him was whether manmade machines could be substituted profitably for cattle (1963a [1766]:218). More broadly, and in modern terms, we might say that Quesnay was trying to sort primary from secondary and final goods. But he formulated his division by applying simultaneously the two metaphors of reproduction and mind. To be productive, an activity had to be performed on material that was both reproductive and secured from 'outside' the social order. Fishing and logging, for example, both fall within the area of overlap and were considered to be productive; but cattle raising - for the Physiocrats - had only one of the critical attributes. Cattle were seen as being domestic, machine-like beasts. This reasoning, incidentally, should also disqualify mining from being a productive activity. But Quesnay was inconsistent about mining, and it was

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precisely this activity which gave rise to disagreement among several of the Physiocrats (Weulersse 1910,1 :277-80). A third and closely related construct in the model is that of labor. Labor is a form of consumption, a destruction of produced wealth. Humans use up wealth whether they are idle, making handicrafts, or farming. The three expenditures are distinguished not by the activity itself but by the material on which it is performed. The landowner simply consumes wealth. The artisan, because he conveys wealth from one repository to another, preserves it. The farmer is productive because he both conveys wealth and harnesses nature's special powers. In the Physiocratic model, then, labor is the immediate cause but not the source of wealth (Turgot 1898[1770]:5,7,17). The function of labor is to transport wealth, from one larder to another. This is a passive labor, a machine for changing inputs to outputs. Like the early Ricardo, but unlike Marx, the Physiocrats did not construct the human as a material or ideational creator. This same passivity of the human contribution recurs in the Physiocratic construct of productivity. The Physiocrats clearly recognized that work might be performed more or less efficiently; and in a remarkable passage anticipating Adam Smith, Turgot extolled the division of labor (1898[1770]:4-5). But advances in productivity posed no conceptual problem for the Physiocrats; they encouraged it in practice without linking it to an active conception of work. Labor efficiency, like good household management, cut costs rather than raised output. The source or fount of wealth, they maintained, was nature, regardless of how well humans used it. The focus of Physiocracy was upon how wealth was augmented and then circulated through the social order. Landowning was a form of pure consumption or use. Artisanship was a mode of trade or the exchange of equivalent for equivalent. Only agriculture yielded a net product. But even the husbandman was more like a midwife than a producer in that he only attended to the given, reproductive powers of the land. The farmer was productive because he engaged in an unequal exchange, an appropriation from nature. A natural economics The Physiocrats

denied a creative role to the human, but for

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them nature was an irreducible force in society. The Physiocrats were constructing not an economics of nature, whose form might be ecology or evolution, but a natural economics. Their concept of nature provided a cosmological warrant or justification for the formulations in the model. Nature confronted humans first as internal necessity. Humankind, the Physiocrats argued, has three needs: to subsist, to preserve itself and to continue the species (Turgot 1898[1770]:7; Mirabeau and Ouesnay 1973[1763]:106).These needs constitute the a priori or material requirements of the organism, and they lie at the foundation of the social order. In Rural Philosophy, for example, Mirabeau and Ouesnay (1973[1763]:104-5)provide an essentialist view of the relation between material and social organization. We must consider the common weal in terms of its essence, and humanity as a whole in terms of its root, subsistence. All the moral and physical parts of which society is constituted derive from this and are subordinate to it. It is upon subsistence, upon the means of subsistence, that all the branches of the political order depend. Religion, in a sense, is purely and simply spiritual, but natural law inspires us and also tells us about duties relative to our needs; the civil laws, which originally are nothing more than rules for the allocation of subsistence; virtues and vices, which are only obedience to or revolt against natural or civil law; agriculture, trade, industry - all are subordinate to the means of subsistence. This is the fundamental force. The Physiocrats, like Ricardo, were providing a foundational view of the economy, but their model was not derivational. They simply asserted that a connection had to exist between natural needs and the remainder of the economy and the social order. In some respects, this is an empiricist counterpart to the more rationalist model of Ricardo. The Physiocratic model also incorporated a naturalistic view of history. History led inevitably to eighteenth-century French society; the social order could not have been different. By assuming that society was naturally determined, the Physiocrats also chartered their own argument as a direct reading of natural processes rather than as an historically influenced construction. The principal role of nature in Physiocratic theory, however,

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was to account for economic value. The agricultural net product was a real substance provided by nature. Everything else was a reworking of it. Nature yielded the materials, while humans shaped them for consumption. The crops which the land produces to satisfy the different wants of man cannot serve the purpose, for the most part, in the state in which nature gives them; they must undergo various changes and be prepared by art. Wheat must be converted into flour. (Turgot 1898[1770]:5) Today we would draw the line between nature (wheat) and culture (flour) at an earlier stage than did Turgot, or we might visualize the entire agricultural process as a cultural shaping of nature. Agricultural inputs usually are transformed outputs of a prior state; they are not themselves raw materials. Wheat, for example, has long been shaped by human intentions; the centuries of human use, seeding and harvesting of the crop have helped to form its current features (Harlan 1975,1976). And this human shaping of nature was as true of the land utilized by eighteenth-century French farmers as it was of their crops. This same opposition between natural substances and their human shaping appears in the Physiocrats' purely economic calculations. In agriculture, the Physiocrats thought they could perceive a natural, quantitative difference between inputs and outputs, the latter being larger than the former. But the means and ends of agriculture are heterogeneous, and any comparison of the two must be based upon a measure different from the substances themselves, such as money, labor or calories. These are cultural scales of value. Thus, the supposed power of nature to grant a gift to humans actually hinges upon the human way of constructing this superfluity. This conclusion, however, hardly fits the Physiocratic epistemology. For them the material increase was an existent fact. A similar observation applies to the wage level. For nature to provide a surplus, it must be assumed that the wants of the farmers are less than what nature yields in return for the expenditure of their labor. If the cultivator consumes too much, there is no net product. The Physiocrats had to postulate that wants - the expenses of labor - are determined by nature and not by society (Turgot 1898[1770]:5,7,9,12). The sentient human with

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his needs and wants was constructed as a natural being. In Physiocracy, nature provided the foundation for society. Implicit in their construction, as in Ricardo's Essay, was the moral argument that the political sphere had to bend to ·the economic, the naturally given; its 'first care must be to procure subsistence' (Mirabeau and Quesnay 1973[1763]:107). To us, the construction appears vacuous and abstract, because it reveals little about the formation of social and economic value; yet, for the Physiocrats, it was significant and real, precisely because it had a basis in natural processes. Why, then, did they believe that the invocation of nature constituted a satisfactory explanation? What cultural sense did it make that society and the economy were seen as derived from the facts of nature? Quesnay's cosmos: the world of Locke The intellectual milieu of the Physiocrats had been deeply influenced by the Cartesians and by Locke. But they themselves were not totally in sympathy with the Cartesian tradition (Neill 1948,1949), while Locke had a special impact upon them (Albaum 1955; Sewell 1980). Locke's epistemological views provided not only a charter for their model but one of its primal metaphors. Quesnay's essay on 'Natural right' (1963b[1765]) offers some useful clues to the link between his economic model and world view. Quesnay began his essay with the proposition that man has a natural claim upon those things which he has 'procured' through his labor (1963b[1765]:43,46,47). Nearly a century earlier Locke had offered a similar though rather more elaborated notion in the Two Treatises, arguing that everyone has a property in his own person, therefore in his own labor, and therefore in that with which he has mixed his labor (1823[1690]:354). The remaining portion of Quesnay's 'Natural right' helps to elucidate some of the metaphysical foundations of his economic argument. Quesnay held that there is such a thing as a natural order, independent of human intention and with its own laws. The natural order has two dimensions. Quesnay posited, first, the existence of physical law, meaning 'the regular course of all physical events in the natural order which is self-evidently the most advantageous to the human race' (1963b[1765]:53). But

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physical laws are not social laws, and Quesnay also proposed the existence of moral law by which he meant 'the rule of all human action in the moral order conforming to the physical order which is self-evidently the most advantageous to the human race' (1963b[1765]:53). Together these two orders, the physical and the moral, comprise natural law which itself is given by the 'Author of Nature' or the Supreme Being. Quesnay's constructions reveal, to begin with, an empiricist position. The notion of 'self-evidence,' for example, is used to justify his argument; and he expresses an unshakeable belief in the inherent orderliness of nature. Quesnay also assumes that a relation exists between the physical and social realms; invariable and 'real' building blocks, according to his empiricist belief, underpin the social order. Natural law is the work of the Deity, the 'mythical' source of the rules which exist outside and prior to any social formation. But despite the allusions to the ultimate 'Co-author' or 'Supreme Being' scattered throughout Physiocratic writing, the emphasis remains on the empirically visible, natural order. A concept of the normative was also embedded in Quesnay's vision. The rules of human behavior, which exist apart from society, are possessed of more good than evil. Humans should follow them, for 'self-evidently' this is advantageous. Nature, in fact, conveys its own punishments and rewards. If a government deviated from the natural laws which assure the success of agriculture, would we dare lay the blame on agriculture itself for the fact that we lacked bread? (Quesnay 1963b[1765]:48) Morality, derived from the Deity, exists in nature, and society must adapt accordingly. The general argument echoes Locke, from the emphasis on nature to the linking of natural law and ethics, although the details are Quesnay's. In the economic model itself, the Physiocratic emphasis upon agriculture made sense from this natural law perspective. Within a natural law construction of the world, farming - the human interaction with nature - had to assume a dominant position, for this was the 'first' place in which physical laws had a social influence. Farming was the empirical link between given, natural essences and social action, which to be useful had to conform to

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the physical. Between Locke's epistemology and the economics of the Physiocrats, however, there was a different and more subtle connection. Quesnay provides a clue to it when in one paragraph he jumps from economic processes to verbal categories. The idea of production, or of regeneration, which here forms the basis of the differentiation between the general classes of citizens, is confined within physical limits which are so rigorously reduced to reality that they no longer conform to the vague expressions used in ordinary language. But it is not for the natural order to conform to a language which expresses only confused and ambiguous ideas; it is for the expressions to conform to the exact understanding of the natural order, in distinctions which are rigorously regulated by reality. (1963a [1766]:204) This juxtaposition of riches and reason goes to the foundation of the Physiocratic model. A central duality in Locke concerning human understanding became a schema in Physiocracy. When Locke sought the sources of ideas - the materials of all knowledge - he found them in experience, and such experience came either from sensation or mental operations.

External Objects furnish the mind with the Ideas of sensible qualities, which are all those different perceptions they produce in us: And the Mind furnishes the Understandingwith Ideas of its own Operations. (1975[1690]:106) Locke here distinguishes sensation from operation. The first is a mode of apprehending real-world objects; the second is a manipulation of those given sensations. The Physiocratic distinction between the capture of material wealth by farmers and the shaping of that wealth by artisans is a metaphor of Locke's bifurcation. The first is an appropriation of objects while the second is an operation upon the objects already appropriated: farming is to artisanship as sensation is to operation. This same Physiocratic distinction between agriculture and artisanship bears an equally striking similarity to Locke's division between simple and complex ideas. Simple ideas are 'the Materials of all our knowledge' (1975[1690]:119), in the reception of which the mind is passive. Complex ideas are those which the

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mind has actively 'gained by combining, joining and separating simple ideas' (1975[1690]:163).Ouesnay similarly contrasts 'a real production of wealth' in agriculture to 'a simple production of forms' by artisans (1963a[1766]:205). We have to distinguish an adding together of items of wealth which are combined with one another, from a production of wealth. That is, we have to distinguish an increase brought about by combining raw materials ... which were in existence prior to this kind of increase, from a generation or creation of wealth, which constitutes a renewal and real increase of renascent wealth. (Ouesnay 1963a[1766):207) The opposition between agriculture and artisanship is a metaphor of the distinction between simple and complex ideas. A parallel can also be drawn between the Physiocratic model and the noninteractionist theory of mind proposed by Locke according to which mind operates upon the given sense qualities of things. The Physiocrats erected a noninteractionist economics in that nature was seen to offer items of wealth prior to human desire and understanding. In Physiocracy, then, human 'productive' activity was neither seamless nor homogeneous. It was bifurcated into farming and artisanship, and this duality was not one of equality but asymmetry. This way of modeling human endeavors made sense to the Physiocrats and their audience because it was formed in the pattern of a known image, although the connection was perhaps never consciously formulated. The Physiocrats offered an organic analogy according to which economic practices were a metaphor of mind. In this 'intellectual' economics, agriculture was to artisanship as sensation was to mental operation as the simple was to the complex idea. The first term in each pair was primary. But my argument that the Physiocrats were influenced by Locke's epistemological as well as his political work raises a problem about the Physiocratic construction of labor in relation to the consistency between Locke's two works. Just as there exists an intellectual tension between the Two Treatises and the Essay, is there a comparable hiatus in the Physiocratic model? In economic terms, the problem takes the form of reconciling the notion that labor creates property but land creates value.

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Locke had proposed in the Two Treatises that 'it is labour indeed that put the difference of value on everything' (1823[1690]: 361). Quesnay likewise argued that labor performed on a natural object annexes that object and conveys a right of possession. Can this belief, held by the Physiocrats and derived from the Two Treatises, be reconciled with the other claim (influenced by the Essay) that only land is productive? Whether or not Locke actually 'formulated the labor theory of value' (Samuelson 1973:840), the Physiocratic claim that property is created by labor appears to contradict their central thesis, that land is the source of wealth. Locke's idea of labor, however, was a very special one; it was an additive, not a generative principle. Labor only brought about a human imprinting on an object. Similarly, for the Physiocrats labor conveyed but did not create value. Certainly, it could appropriate that which 'nature produces spontaneously' (Quesnay 1963b[1765]:46), but in so doing it only transported value from one object to another. Labor could create property without generating fresh value. In the Physiocratic construction, labor was passive just as, for Locke, mind was the passive receptor of experience. The economic model of the Physiocrats, therefore, was not only consistent with Locke but a projection of his imagery. Their construction was part of a meaningful conception of mind and cosmos. A world view was brought into conjunction with the facts of Enlightenment France to generate an economic model. Artisanship There remains the question of how commodities themselves were seen by the Physiocrats. The Physiocrats were primarily interested in agriculture, but how did the work of the artisans and their products fit into the model? Physiocracy might be termed a proto-phonological or early structuralist economics, for it constituted goods by opposing content to form, regardless of function (Levi-Strauss 1963:21). Objects as substances represented the unique reproductive and regenerative power of nature, while as forms they signaled a kind of human rationality. Agriculture provided the material substance, artisanship yielded the shape. Or,

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content : form :: substance : shape :: nature reason:: agriculture : artisanship. Where a modern structuralist, however, regards form as more important, the Physiocrats believed that content was primary. Goods as fresh or new substances in the economy were a sign of nature's inherent fertility and the power of the 'co-author.' But this was a quiet co-author, a ghost writer, a silent agent; and as He was easily forgotten, the economics and understanding of the commodities could take a materialist turn. Explanation by natural laws also implies that objects convey little social information. Definitively separated from people, the commodities communicated little about social groups, social persona or social history. Effectively, Physiocracy denied any inherent social significance in the goods as material things. Objects represented their natural foundation. The form of the objects also had a meaning even if, unlike the substance, it was not a source of economic value. This form was conferred by the artisans. But what did their work signify? On the analogy with Locke's image of mind, farming is passive activity, while artisanship is active. In what sense could the work of the artisans have been active and yet nonproductive? The Physiocrats paid little attention to artisanship, but their views on the subject were shared by some of their contemporaries. Their inattention to the work of the artisans, and the resulting gap in their model, could be compensated for by others who held the same general outlook. The exemplar of such contemporaries was undoubtedly Diderot, and the general tone of thought was well represented by the massive work he edited, the Encyclopedie. 'Whoever believes at all in the concept of the "spirit" of an age will be inclined to look upon the Encyclopedic as the very incarnation of the eighteenth-century spirit. ... The philosophy is mainly empiricist' (Schumpeter 1954:137-8). Diderot, who was intellectually close to the Physiocrats, was also influenced by Locke (Wilson 1972); and the Physiocrats contributed a number of selections to his Encyclopedic. Diderot accorded a central place in his thought and in the Encyclopedic to the category 'art.' This referred to a broad range

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Locke had proposed in the Two Treatises that 'it is labour indeed that put the difference of value on everything' (1823[1690]: 361). Ouesnay likewise argued that labor performed on a natural object annexes that object and conveys a right of possession. Can this belief, held by the Physiocrats and derived from the Two Treatises, be reconciled with the other claim (influenced by the Essay) that only land is productive? Whether or not Locke actually 'formulated the labor theory of value' (Samuelson 1973:840), the Physiocratic claim that property is created by labor appears to contradict their central thesis, that land is the source of wealth. Locke's idea of labor, however, was a very special one; it was an additive, not a generative principle. Labor only brought about a human imprinting on an object. Similarly, for the Physiocrats labor conveyed but did not create value. Certainly, it could appropriate that which 'nature produces spontaneously' (Ouesnay 1963b[1765]:46), but in so doing it only transported value from one object to another. Labor could create property without generating fresh value. In the Physiocratic construction, labor was passive just as, for Locke, mind was the passive receptor of experience. The economic model of the Physiocrats, therefore, was not only consistent with Locke but a projection of his imagery. Their construction was part of a meaningful conception of mind and cosmos. A world view was brought into conjunction with the facts of Enlightenment France to generate an economic model. Artisanship There remains the question of how commodities themselves were seen by the Physiocrats. The Physiocrats were primarily interested in agriculture, but how did the work of the artisans and their products fit into the model? Physiocracy might be termed a proto-phonological or early structuralist economics, for it constituted goods by opposing content to form, regardless of function (Levi-Strauss 1963:21). Objects as substances represented the unique reproductive and regenerative power of nature, while as forms they signaled a kind of human rationality. Agriculture provided the material substance, artisans hip yielded the shape. Or,

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85

content : form :: substance shape:: nature reason :: artisanship. agriculture Where a modern structuralist, however, regards form as more important, the Physiocrats believed that content was primary. ~'\)'\)~'\:,

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'\:,~"""u'\:,\."o'~~Jt,'\:,\~ ~~ ~~~,\)Th"1

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of nature's inherent fertility and the power of the 'co-author.' But this was a quiet co-author, a ghost writer, a silent agent; and as He was easily forgotten, the economics and understanding of the commodities could take a materialist turn. Explanation by natural laws also implies that objects convey little social information. Definitively separated from people, the commodities communicated little about social groups, social persona or social history. Effectively, Physiocracy denied any inherent social significance in the goods as material things. Objects represented their natural foundation. The form of the objects also had a meaning even if, unlike the substance, it was not a source of economic value. This form was conferred by the artisans. But what did their work signify? On the analogy with Locke's image of mind, farming is passive activity, while artisanship is active. In what sense could the work of the artisans have been active and yet nonproductive? The Physiocrats paid little attention to artisanship, but their views on the subject were shared by some of their contemporaries. Their inattention to the work of the artisans, and the resulting gap in their model, could be compensated for by others who held the same general outlook. The exemplar of such contemporaries was undoubtedly Diderot, and the general tone of thought was well represented by the massive work he edited, the Encyclopedie. 'Whoever believes at all in the concept of the "spirit" of an age will be inclined to look upon the Encyclopedic as the very incarnation of the eighteenth-century spirit .... The philosophy is mainly empiricist' (Schumpeter 1954:137-8). Diderot, who was intellectually close to the Physiocrats, was also influenced by Locke (Wilson 1972); and the Physiocrats contributed a number of selections to his Encyclopedie. Diderot accorded a central place in his thought and in the Encyclopedie to the category 'art.' This referred to a broad range

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of activities, covering all human skills and industries. Art meant orderliness and rule-governed behavior but not the inspiration of genius (Sewell 1980:22-3). It was also closely allied to science. Both represented the use of human reason. 'It is the industry of man applied to the productions of nature either for his needs, or for his luxury, or for his amusement, or for his curiosity, etc., that has given birth to the Sciences and to the Arts' (Diderot 1751:714). Art was not, however, equivalent to science. For Diderot, if a good was made, then the rules by which it was fabricated were art; if the object was but studied, the techniques pertained to science. We might understand this as a distinction between applied and abstract science (Wilson 1972:110). Diderot paid special attention to the mechanical arts, not all art, for a statement about these could best convey his views about human capacities (Sewell 1980:66). He meant by the mechanical arts, however, precisely what Quesnay meant by artisanship." Art or artisanship was reasoned activity, performed to achieve specific objectives. The emphasis was less upon the end product than on the fact that behavior was organized to accomplish a material goal. The mechanical arts represented an orderly process. The purpose of all art in general, or of all systems of instruments and of rules leading to a similar end, is to imprint certain determined forms on a base given by nature. (Diderot 1751:714) The satisfaction offered by an object did not lie solely in its physical consumption or accumulation but also in the contemplation of its production. The form of commodities represented reasoned activity, for it was this which raised them to the point of utility. Diderot also specified the human faculties which he thought were involved in artisanship: In the mechanical arts . . . the power of man is reduced to bringing together [rapprocher] or to separating [eloigner] natural substances. Men can do all or nothing, according to whether this drawing together [rapprocher] or that separating [eloigner] is or is not possible. (Diderot 1751:714) The similarity to Quesnay and Locke is evident. For Diderot,

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applied reason in the mechanical arts combined and separated but did not create; and this is exactly how Quesnay viewed the work of the artisans, and Locke defined complex ideas. Diderot's construction of artisanship fitted the Physiocratic model. Clearly, Diderot's assertion that artisans provided form was liberating and exhilarating; but form itself has no meaning. Was artisans hip indicative of a human capacity to construct a world of significance? According to the modern structuralist perspective, form is imposed on a large range of possibilities; however, in Diderot's view the human freedom to construct was bounded, for the material order was given. Diderot expressed an humility about the potential of the mechanical arts precisely because the possibilities nature offered were limited. 'Man is no more than the minister (la ministre) or interpreter of nature' (Diderot 1751:714). The goal was to produce by discovering the natural order which humans could then arrange and compose (Sewell 1980:71). The creative source of order lay outside society, in nature. Diderot's view, like that of the Physiocrats, presupposed a natural law perspective. The forms produced by artisans were the product of human reason operating upon orderly nature, and the capacity to reason was itself part of nature. But if form was pre-existent, humans nevertheless had to discover it. Even if they did not create shape, it was not directly presented to them. Ample room existed for improvement - which was one theme of Enlightenment thought. Artisanship was consequently an active but not a productive endeavor, as it was constrained to operate upon the given. Physiocracy was not without a view of what we label 'rationality,' but this rationality was encompassed within a broader construction. The complete Physiocratic model employed a four-part analogy, only one side of which featured combinatorial logic. Objects conveyed information about reason and riches, artisanship and agriculture. This construction does sound modern, but it is also distant from us. For example, the duality within the Physiocratic model was to be doubly opposed by Marx. The creative power behind substances and forms was to be shifted from the Deity and nature to humans. Only by standing the Physiocrats on their heads can goods come to symbolize socially formed labor, not an abstract reason nor a dehumanized natural riches.

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The Physiocrats in a comparative context By examining the Physiocrats after Ricardo I have intentionally disrupted an historical sequence, for it seems to me that the Physiocrats take us a step closer to exotic models. Certainly, the Physiocrats and Ricardo are similar in their emphasis upon material circulation, upon the passivity of labor, and upon the determining role of agriculture and nature. Like the early Ricardo, the Physiocrats were concerned less with growth and accumulation than with the proper management of the economy. But there are also significant differences. Terms such as 'regulation' are not found in the Physiocratic discourse. No single feature characterizes all economic practices; artisanship is formed in one image, agriculture in another. More generally, the Physiocratic model is woven together not by derivation but by conjoining three separate metaphors: circulation, reproduction, and sensation versus operation. Their point of overlap provides the foundation for the economy and society. In the next chapters I shall examine several exotic models in which emphasis is also placed upon nature as opposed to the live human laborer. But there are some large differences between Physiocracy and the nonWestern models. In Physiocracy the economy is modeled after the human body, and the environment is an intention less physical world whose continuing inner structure is unaffected by social agency. The ultimate force, the Deity, is a quiet agent. With the Physiocrats we encounter a mechanistic perspective in which material objects have essential features apart from humans. The natural order expresses nothing other than its own laws, which are independent of humankind. By contrast, in the exotic models nature is constituted rather through social metaphors. Material objects and economic practices come to represent social relationships in a way quite different from the Western pattern. For the Physiocrats, economic morality consists in conforming to natural laws; as with Ricardo, it is a moral duty and a necessary act for the social world to bend to the natural order. In the exotic cases, however, economic morality consists in conforming to the social order. The Physiocrats, after all, constructed their model within a post-Newtonian world. They did not fully extend causal explanations to society, but causal laws were

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regarded as facts of nature to which humans had to adapt. In this respect their model resembles that of later economists. By contrast, the exotic models are mostly situated within a nonNewtonian world, and in them the environment is frequently constituted through noncausal or intentional modes of agency.

5

The Bemba and the Bisa: intentions of nature

The Bemba and the Bisa are two neighboring groups in northern Zambia. Closely related historically and culturally, they differ in size, ecological base and mode of livelihood, a balance of differences and similarities that makes them an appropriate pair with which to begin a comparative survey of exotic economic models.' For both groups the work of the ancestors lies at the center of the economy. Their primal metaphor is that of nature as the ancestors. In the world of the Bemba and the Bisa, nature does not have an independent and mechanical structure as it does for the Physiocrats. Instead, nature is constituted as an ancestral performance in relation to live humans. To have a successful hunt or abundant harvest is to receive a blessing from the forbears of society: The ancestors have to be persuaded to help their dependents secure a livelihood. In general, they are influenced by the social behavior of their descendants, but specifically they have a living embodiment in chiefs. Providing offerings to chiefs is therefore crucial' to the functioning of the economy. In this respect, 'production' consists of a set of social relationships rather than a sequence of rationally concatenated material acts. In nature's prosperity humans find a mirror of their own morality. But the Bemba and Bisa societies are not precisely equivalent. Both groups had their origin in the Lunda-Luba empire which was located in the south central part of the Congo. Some 200 to 300 years ago they crossed the Zambezi river into what is now Zambia and became separate ethnic groups. Traditionally, the Bemba had a stronger political structure than the Bisa, and until the arrival of the British they also had a more developed military organization (Epstein 1975). The past military power of the Bemba partly accounts for the different ecological niches which 90

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the two groups now occupy. The Bemba are located on a plateau where their main form of livelihood is agriculture. The prevalence of tsetse fly prohibits pastoralism in most Bemba areas; and though hunting is practiced, game are scarce. The Bisa are more scattered, having been pushed out of more desirable areas by the Bemba. Some Bisa actually live within the Bemba kingdom, but others were forced to take refuge in the Bangweulu swamps. Those with whom we shall be concerned live in the Luangwa Valley to the south of the Bemba. These valley dwellers are agriculturalists like the Bemba, but they also practice hunting. An occupation of males, hunting in the past was accomplished by use of traps, pits and bows and arrows; for some years now the instrument of destruction has been the gun. A Bisa man spends more time in the fields than on the hunt, but the Bisa consume more meat per head than other Zambian farmers (Marks 1976:57). For the Bisa, moreover, and unlike the Bemba, prowess in hunting is a central route to prestige. The Bemba and Bisa economies are similar in that they are organized around the same core metaphor and are based upon agriculture and hunting. But the groups differ in ecological setting, in the relative importance they attach to their two modes of livelihood, and in emphasis given to political activities. The Bemba and Bisa provide therefore an opportunity for seeing how quite different processes of livelihood can be constituted through the same focal metaphor.

THE BEMBA The principal foodstuffs of the Bemba are finger-millet, Kaffir corn, maize and legumes. These and other subsidiary crops are raised by means of shifting agriculture. They are supplemented by a small amount of fishing, collecting and hunting. The main food is millet, which is made into porridge and beer; both comestibles are used in the home and in exchange to create and enhance relations with others. Beer especially is offered to kin, to chiefs, to the ancestral spirits and to laborers. The end of production is not accumulation or display but the physical distribution of raw and processed millet.

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The ancestors and nature The Bemba model, like that of the Physiocrats, is chartered, but the warrant in this case is mythological or mytho-historical. This historical consciousness both explicates the relation of the ancestors to nature and justifies current economic practices by tracing their origin to these human predecessors. According to local belief, the ancestors arrived in Bembaland some two to three centuries ago. They were not autochthonous supernaturals, who mysteriously emerged from nature, but real immigrants who came to an area devoid of human occupation yet filled with things that could be good for human society. At the outset, ancestors and nature were separate (Richards 1940,1960, 1969). The ancestors, however, were inventive artisans, and they 'opened' the land for use, much as today their descendants - the chiefs - open each stage of the agricultural cycle. The ancestors who are remembered are those who 'cleared the bush here and there, built villages, and made the mpanga [bush] "warm" (Richards 1939:241). The ancestors did not remake the course of nature itself but saw its possible uses and devised agricultural skills. For example, the first ancestor, Citi Muluba, was said to have arrived in Bemba country carrying in his hair the seeds of millet, Kaffir corn, beans and cow peas; he did not create these but used them to piece together a set of techniques (Richards 1939:20). Both the Bemba and the Bisa believe in an ultimate deity who actually created the world itself. By contrast, what the ancestors did was to make something of nature. Although the ancestors were humans and are the progenitors of today's society, they are also different from their descendants. Bemba today lack the ancestral ability to arrange natural things for human benefit. As agents, as makers of their material life, humans no longer possess the capacity to create. The ancestral period, therefore, has become the enduring model for presentday experience. Only by reproducing what the ancestors taught can sustenance be achieved. Nature for the Bemba is derived from ancestral history, and technology is frozen. Today when the Bemba embark upon an activity they must invoke ancestral help, by naming the particular ancestors who taught that craft (Richards 1939:363); at large rituals, councillors prompt chiefs so

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that they do not omit and thus offend one or another of the relevant ancestors. This dependence upon ancestral knowledge is reiterated, for example, at the beginning of the all important tree-cutting ceremony: We have come to you Great Mwambas [chiefs]. It was you who left us the land. We beg for the power to work in it in the way you showed us you worked in the place from which you came .... And we ourselves began to learn (i.e. how to cut trees) when we were still children, until at last we found we had learnt the way. We followed your words. (Richards 1939:363) Bemba history therefore provides a charter for the technological powers of the ancestors, but it also specifies the ancestors 'as being' nature in a more direct sense. In the past, there was physical contact between each ancestor and an area of nature. Today the spirits of the ancestors move through the area they once occupied, including the land, burial groves and village sites where they lived as well as the huts of their descendants (Richards 1939:240). This construction of the past as a truly living presence provides the charter for the central Bemba metaphor, that the variability of nature reflects the moods of the ancestors. Crops, game, fish, rain and the land are under the control of the original Bemba. The abundance or dearth of nature reflects their feelings or intentions. Ancestral dispositions control nature's potential. In times of general difficulty the Bemba say that the land 'is difficult to deal with,' 'something has refused in this land' or - as upon the death of a chief - 'the land has fallen down.' In times of prosperity the land is said to 'consent' or 'agree' (Richards 1939:236). For the ancestors to give means that the land gives; when they are hard, so also is the land (Richards 1939:376). But the ancestors control more than the land. All of nature's activities are brought within their power. For example, before the Bemba cut or pollard the trees, which is the first stage of the agricultural cycle, they ask the ancestors for general help: You, our Spirits, now we want food. You help us mightily to cut the trees with vigour. That is food! Tomorrow I shall go and cut the tree branches. He who climbs the trees let the soles of his feet stick to the tree-trunk, and let dead wood fall

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to the ground only; and all the snakes that come out of hollow stems let them run into their holes; and so also the wasps that may swarm out of the tree. And then another thing! Those locusts that are here in the land, it would be good if you kept them far away, because if those locusts eat the food of we human beings so that there is nothing left to eat, then we shall all die of hunger. (Richards 1939:367) The invocations prosperity:

then

continue

with an explicit request

We have come to look for porridge. You work. May we all eat and be satisfied! granaries to the brim. You the spirits of the who died in this country .... May the food our granaries tightly. (Richards 1939:370)

help us with May we fill land help us, be crammed

for the our you into

In addition, just as the ancestors observe no functional specialization, no division of labor, so they deliver either. complete prosperity or unrelieved adversity. When the ancestors are disgruntled, their feelings are reflected everywhere: crop blights, drought, locust swarms, human diseases, the death of royalty, reproductive failure in females and the appearance of man-eating lions (Richards 1939:235). The power of the ancestors in relation to nature is so complete that it can encompass unpredictable experiences and activities. When the price of copper on the world market dropped and unemployment rose at the mines where Bemba males were employed, the disaster was ascribed to the displeasure of the ancestors (Richards 1939:235). An unprecedented event was assimilated to the existent model. The ancestors taught the skills of laboring in the past and make nature bountiful today. According to the primal metaphor, nature's results are the dispositions of the ancestors. In opposition to some Western philosophical traditions in which the human mind is said to reflect the external world (Rorty 1979), for the Bemba humans are reflected in nature itself. The ancestors and humans The primal metaphor is closely related to social organization, for the ancestors provide the point of origin for the current social

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order and are encapsulated within it. Their presence in society allows all Bemba to become effective participants in the activity of gaining a livelihood. The 'history' of the metaphor provides, in the first place, a rationale for the present distribution of resources. Each ancestor is buried where he first worked, and there also live his matrilineal successors. In theory an alignment exists between where an ancestor toiled, where his descendants live, and where the limits of his chiefdom lie (Richards 1950:243). This part of the origin story justifies the current allocation of land, the distributive principle being temporal priority among the ancestors: first come, first served is the rule explaining where families are located, and why they command different natural resources (Richards 1939: 241,250). The ancestors are also directly regenerated in the social order. According to Bemba concepts, a child shares its mother's blood which comes from the ancestors. Its father's semen serves only to activate the foetus in the mother's womb (Richards 1940:96). In addition, every newborn has a guardian spirit. During pregnancy an ancestor enters the womb and becomes guardian to the potential baby (Richards 1950:223;1951:174;1956:29). When the child first stirs, the spirit has arrived; its identity is revealed through divination (Richards 1951:186). For commoners, such guardian spirits may be of either sex and can come from either the father's or mother's side. In the case of the royal line, however, these spirits come only from the matriline of the newborn (Richards 1963:17,19), and they also quicken the child in the mother's womb (Richards 1961:137). The ancestors not only enter the social order through the perpetuation of their blood and as guardians to the newborn. They are reproduced in it as chiefs. When an adult Bemba succeeds to a chiefly position, he acquires as guardian spirits all the ancestors, in the direct matriline, who opened and then ruled his domain. This makes him something more than a successor and inheritor. The chief becomes an embodiment of his predecessors, a living ancestor himself (Richards 1960:182). The ethnographer makes the telling observation that 'In the case of a chief, it is almost impossible to tell when a man is describing incidents which took place in his own life or those of an ancestor two or three generations dead' (Richards 1940:98). When a chief

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proclaims 'It is my land, all of it! Every bit of the bush' (Richards 1939:245), he is not so much making a claim of property ownership in our sense as reiterating his own constitutive relation to an area of nature through his ancestors. The Paramount Chief, in fact, should never physically leave his domain (Richards 1939:248), for this would be to deny his inherent relationship with it and its spiritual guardians. A chief is not, however, precisely equivalent to his ancestors in that he is a living extension of them. When addressing the ancestors, for example, a chief will give recognition to this distinction by saying, 'You, the owner of my land' (Richards 1939:235). Furthermore, ancestral feelings can be read only from natural or material prosperity, but a chief exists in bodily form. His visible mental and physical states - his ill or good humor, his blessings or curses, his health, the vitality of his sexual life - are themselves directly reflected in and augurs of the condition of the chiefdom. For this reason purification rituals are sometimes performed upon a chief. Not surprisingly, the Bemba used to kill ailing chiefs, motivated by the fear that their chiefdoms would fail and that they would 'breathe out' the ancestral spirits of the land. By strangling a chief who was on the point of death, prosperity was preserved and the ancestral spirits were kept in the chief's body and hence in the chiefdom (Richards 1969:30). This throttling also converted the chief into an ancestor, who contained and continued the spiritual line upon which the chiefdom was founded. This construction of chiefs as ancestors provides the backbone for the social order. Actually, the 'divinity of the kingship' runs through the entire society. It is most concentrated in the position of Paramount Chief of all of Bemba; it is diminished, though still powerful, in the position of district chiefs; and it receives some expression in the status of local headmen as well as senior kinsmen (Richards 1940:104-5). Ancestral power is the anchor for all social relationships. Four levels of spatial organization are found in Bemba society (Richards 1939,1940,1950,1969). The fundamental residential group is the matrilineal extended family. Here the role of mother's brother is crucial, for he holds the position closest to the ancestors. In time past the mother's brother held rights of life and death over his sister's children; he also could offer them as

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slaves. Today he still has the right to intervene in the marriage of his sister's daughter. Many households are formed around mother's brothers. Villages are constructed from an agglomeration of extended family households. Villages usually consist of thirty to fifty huts, and each has a headman. The position is hereditary, passing in the matriline. The village, however, is not a fixed social unit. The pattern of shifting cultivation, the ample physical supply of land, and the large number of options inherent in the kinship system provide opportunities for change in village composition. For example, if a male accumulates a sufficiently large number of dependents, he may request of a local district chief the right to start his own community; the local kin leader then becomes village headman. At a level above villages, Bembaland is divided into districts, each of which is ruled by a chief or subchief. A district has fixed boundaries and contains numerous villages. Although individuals may move from village to village, and villages themselves shift locations, such movement always occurs within the same district; persons retain allegiance to the same chief and set of matrilineal ancestors. At each district capital are kept the sacred relics of the first chief, and it is here that he and his successors are worshipped as guardian spirits of the area. Because of his link to the ancestors, a district chief in the past had the power to mutilate those in his domain. Finally, there is a Paramount Chief for the entire kingdom to whom all Bemba owe allegiance. The Paramount most directly represents the ancestors and communicates with them. He serves as overlord for the entire territory, although most relations to him are mediated through the district chiefs. In the past the Paramount held even the right of life and death over his subjects (Richards 1963). Thus, the entailments and implications of the primal metaphor are broad and various. The ancestors constitute the natural environment and the social order. Chiefs directly represent ancestral dispositions, for which reason their own health is an augur of the kingdom's material future. But, to some degree, every Bemba recycles in his or her own being the founders of the society. The entire social group has a part in the focal construction.

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The morality of allocation and distribution If natural prosperity 'is' ancestral dispositions, if fertility is ancestral wishes, then the ways in which these ancestral states are formed and induced must be central to Bemba economic life. It is especially with respect to influencing the ancestors that economic acts are embedded in social bonds. The processes of allocation, production, distribution and consumption are all formulated through ties with the ancestors. In the first place, the tutelary spirits of an area can be reached only through chiefs. The most powerful ancestors - the first to enter the land and the ones most removed in time - have relic shrines. Current chiefs are the possessors of these shrines, and all productive activity requires not only chiefs' blessings but their active ritual intercession with the ancestors. Such rituals may open or close an activity, or they may occur when there is a special need for them, as in rain-making rituals. The chief alone can influence ancestral dispositions and nature. The ritual powers of a chief are linked to the use of land. Land (and forest for the swidden) are plentiful. Given these physical facts Richards suggests that control over land allocation is not an important leadership right (1940:95). Clearing the bush, for example, confers the right to use that land, just as the ancestors gained a land area for their descendants by working it before others (Richards 1939:270). But a Bemba farms an area only after seeking the chief's permission; and one chief will not trespass upon the domain of another (Richards 1939:244). It is important here to distinguish between physical abundance and social scarcity, for although chiefs do not allocate plots, they do have influence over an entire domain through their ancestors. To live in an area without the permission of the chief means that the ancestors will not bestow their beneficence. This chiefly and ancestral control over the land, its fertility and its use has direct implications for the allocation of labor. In general, to provide labor to ruler and neighbors ensures that the ancestors remain favorably disposed. Failure to render labor service means withdrawal of blessings and the likelihood that the offender's land will not yield. Any adult male works for himself in that he must raise the crops needed for his own extended family, but these are not the

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totality of his duties. A young male, prior to marriage, works for his father, mother's brother or other kinsman who has immediate ancestral authority over him. At marriage, these obligations shift, for a son-in-law owes several years of bride service to his fatherin-law (Richards 1939:113-14,383-4). As a person grows older, these kinship duties are replaced by obligations of a broader kind. A village headman is entitled to one day of labor on the first days of tree cutting and of sowing. He in turn directs a few economic activities and initiates each stage of the agricultural cycle within his own village. The headman also organizes the village tribute and labor to be paid to the district chief (Richards 1939:384-6;1940:104). A chief - who is yet closer to the ancestors - receives three to four days of tribute labor per year. In turn, he initiates most of the agricultural activities within his district, because at each stage he must invoke the ancestors; for the same reason he controls some of the hunting and fishing activities. A chief also directs the garden work of his own villages, and uses his tribute labor to make large gardens (Richards 1939:257,386-9;1940: 104-6). The Paramount Chief receives even more labor than a district chief, and he retains a court (Richards 1939:258-9;1940). In the past he had a body of warriors about him. He, of course, is responsible for performing an array of ritual duties directed to the ancestors. Distribution of the material product activates and reaffirms these same relationships that devolve from the ancestors. An individual stores his principal crop, millet, in his own granary, but it is subject to various claims. Relatives of both husband and wife (including the sisters of the husband as well as his elder brother) can take some of a household's grain supply. Such kinship claims, however, are not sharply distinguished from claims exercised within the broader political order; in fact, the same term is used to designate both (Richards 1939:194). A chief receives tribute in the form of beer, grain and portions of animals killed in his domain. Whenever a chief travels throughout his district or to one of his villages, he also receives food; and at any moment he may request one or more of his villages to send grain. Furthermore, when there is an especially good yield, ritual offerings are made to the ancestral spirits, 'because they have

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given us a lot' (Richards 1939:378). Material goods, however, are not accumulated and stored by headmen, chiefs or the Paramount. They are recirculated. A headman, for example, must see to feeding his own people, if they are in need. Similarly, the produce of a district chief's garden is used to feed the people of his district. All these processes of allocation and distribution are ultimately directed toward the ancestors in that the dispositions of the ancestors are influenced by the number of descendants they have. To build up a following for the ancestors is the goal of every Bemba leader. A comment indicative of great respect is, 'He came with a lot of people' (Richards 1939:211). Followers, not possessions, constitute wealth (Richards 1951:180). But followers are accumulated only by dispersing material benefits. Thus, to be known for material giving, rather than possessing, is a chiefly aim and attribute; and in this a chief replicates his ancestors, who once taught and now help provision their descendants. Even the physical act of exchanging goods serves to mark relationships to the ancestors. Raw food is offered to one who is closer to the ancestors; to give raw food is not only a material act of distribution but a form of homage. When raw food, for example, is brought by a headman to a chief, he gives the formal salutation, which is to clap and roll on his back on the ground (Richards 1939:138). This act of homage is precisely the same as that which chiefs perform for the ancestors. Conversely, to give cooked food indicates that one is closer to the ancestors; and to receive cooked food places an individual under the obligation to return respect (Richards 1939:135). Food is collected and dispersed, it accumulates and evaporates, in the process of which social relationships devolving from the ancestors are reaffirmed. A coherent system Because natural prosperity depends on ancestral wishes, the Bemba have a notion of uncertainty different from ours. Whereas we construct material events in terms of natural probability, the Bemba model uncertainty via the ancestors. For example, the Bemba sometimes practice divination to determine whether they have embarked upon a course agreeable to the ancestors. As a village is being founded, a ritual hunt may be carried out to see if

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the location conforms with the wishes of the ruling spmts (Richards 1939:283). Nearly every agricultural ritual directed to the ancestors is followed by a hunt of divination; success in capturing a female animal is considered an especially good augury. As the Bemba say, 'We go to see if we are going to work well' (Richards 1939:366). It follows that the state of food supplies itself represents the working of the social order. Ample food throughout the entire tribe signifies for everybody that the society is healthy and that the ancestors are well-disposed (Richards 1939:148). Not surprisingly, for the Bemba 'A fat body is considered a sign of prosperity and also a state of good luck' (Richards 1939:51). In the Bemba model, then, the processes of distribution, exchange and circulation of foodstuffs are not secondary moments after production - as a Marxist might claim - but its very conditions. Through systematic exchanges among themselves the Bemba are able to have a positive influence upon the ancestors and to receive natural benefits. 'Proper' allocation and distribution create and recycle the social relationships upon which production is based. The entire economy, from this perspective, is a circulatory system in which villagers, headmen, chiefs and ancestors all participate. At each stage within this system of circulation, customary rules of allocation and distribution direct the movement of goods and services. The proper distribution of goods sustains the bonds of society and assures yearly fertility. The Bemba do not aim to accumulate a surplus over the years, and they do not believe that reinvestment is necessary to assure and increase future productivity. Technological change also has no place in the model, for farming practices, as taught by the ancestors, need no revision. Nor is the concept of inherent scarcity a feature of their model. The environment is like a pool or reservoir whose goods may or may not be released by the ancestors; shortages result from ancestral intentions. Thus, the core of the Bemba local model lies in the ancestornature metaphor. This construction, that the material world reacts to the Bemba 'as' the ancestors, implies and entails a broad set of social practices. But this key feature of the: pem,ga model is also characteristic of their neighbors, the Bi G~o~&m.:.~;~~

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The Bemba and the Bisa: intentions of nature

THE BISA Like the Bemba, the Bisa practice agriculture, although they have somewhat more fertile land to work. Their principal crops are sorghum and maize. But the Bisa also have a less elaborate political structure than the Bemba (Richards 1950:222), and they spend more time hunting game, prowess in which yields prestige. The Bisa ethnography (Marks 1976), therefore, provides an opportunity for seeing how the same core metaphor can be used to formulate different productive activities. Social relationships and the ancestors

The Bisa live in small settlements. Each village is named after its founder, the name being inherited by each successor to the position of headship. The village headman is accorded respect, and the larger the village the greater his prestige. Succession passes to a brother or a sister's son of the last headman, each successor moving into a set of relationships with the chief of a larger area. Residence in the village gives a person the right to farm its land and use its resources. When a man marries, he must live at his father-in-Iaw's village for a while and work for him, so that the core of a village is provided by a man and his married daughters. But villages must shift their locales from time to time as resources are used up, and internal tensions also lead to alteration in their human composition from year to year (Marks 1976:24-32). Although the Bisa have both village headmen and chiefs, they lack the elaborated authority structure of the Bemba. Villages retain greater autonomy, and the several levels of Bemba chiefship are not found. The Bisa also do not have the complex Bemba pattern of tribute. The working of their social order depends to a greater extent on the functioning of local units (Marks 1976:32-3). The Bisa, like the Bemba (Richards 1951:186), believe in a supreme deity who created the world, but this 'Lord of the Earth' is far removed from everyday affairs (Marks 1976:34-5). It is the ancestors who withhold or bestow good things upon their living descendants. The spirits of dead chiefs 'control the fertility of

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crops and animals' (Marks 1976:38), and they may send afflictions, which can be rid only by making offerings (Marks 1976:26-40). The prosperity and well-being of a district are ensured by the ancestors who first entered the area. Living chiefs are an embodiment of, and provide a link to, the ancestors. Like the Bemba, the Bisa proclaim that a chief is the 'owner of the land' (Marks 1976:38). To pass through, to trade within, or to hunt upon the land, a person must have permission of the Bisa chief. To settle upon and work the land, a person has also to receive chiefly permission (Marks 1976:32). For their part, Bisa chiefs and headmen invoke the ancestral spirits at the beginning of each agricultural year (Marks 1976:50). A headman also performs first fruit ceremonies for his village and maintains spirit huts. When the group moves, he seeks ancestral help in locating a new and acceptable site (Marks 1976:26). Hunting

The relation between human and material object is quite different in hunting and agriculture. In agriculture, humans are engaged in a series of material processes over a period of time, but in hunting there is no such permanent contact. Between hunter and quarry there is a 'fleeting' relation, yet on this one moment hinges the success of the hunt. This requires a different construction of ancestral influence. Any Bisa man may hunt when he wishes, but only certain men are known as hunters. To this status much prestige is attached, and well-known hunters used to be buried in the bush rather than within the limits of the village (Marks 1976:71). Hunting skills themselves are bestowed by the ancestors (Marks 1976:37,86,88, 91,144). A successful hunter ordinarily belongs to a line of hunters. Often, he has been summoned to hunting by ancestral spirits appearing in his dreams. Usually he inherits a gun from a lineal predecessor and receives his training from a mother's brother or mother's father. As one man said, 'I am not from a hunting lineage so even the possession of a good gun will not turn me into a successful hunter' (Marks 1976:92). The Bisa belief that the productive skills of the hunter are directly, and selectively, bestowed by the ancestors contrasts with the Bemba idea that agricultural techniques were taught to all of

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them. In both cases live humans represent the ancestors in their activities; but for the Bemba current agricultural skills are a complete recycling of the past, while for the Bisa the past is selectively inherited by hunters. The ancestors also have current influence over hunting. In dreams, they will prompt an individual to go on a foray, and chiefs may seek ancestral assistance for a hunt (Marks 1976:62), just as the Bemba request ancestral help before undertaking the dangerous activity of pollarding trees. Above all, however, the availability of animals is seen as the dispositions of the ancestors. Because ancestors respond to the quality of local ties (Marks 1976:37-9,89,125-6), a hunter's success is in part a commentary upon the relations existing among the people with whom he lives. For example, quarreling or improper sexual relations while the hunter is away ensure failure of the hunt (Marks 1976:62,145). Although a successful hunter does gain prestige in his group, his prowess is also due to them. In this respect, the Bisa mirror more directly in hunting their' everyday lives than the Bemba who, in their agricultural activities, provide a commentary to themselves about their hierarchical relationships. Distribution

The Bisa rules for distributing game are based upon their core metaphor. In this respect they are like the Bemba, but the two distribution patterns themselves are quite different. The Bemba distribute grain as raw product, porridge or beer. Because these goods are homogeneous, different social positions can be marked by variation in quantity: chiefs receive greater amounts than village headmen. Furthermore, grain can be stored and used during the course of a year: the Bemba pattern of distribution unfolds over time. The Bisa situation is different. Animals are heterogeneous in species and in their own bodies; therefore, to mark different social positions, qualitative features must be used. In addition, fresh meat - in the absence of preservative methods - must be distributed immediately. Consequently, the Bisa distribution of game is a synchronic event, the pattern being displayed all at once. The Bisa practice three patterns of distribution. First, lions are

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not normal game, being hunted only when they cause trouble or directly bother humans. When a lion is taken, however, it goes directly to the local chief, for it is said that lions 'are' chiefs (Marks 1976:65-7). This metaphoric relation is chartered by the belief that an ancestral spirit who is reproduced in a chief may also be reincarnated in a lion (Marks 1976:38). Like a chief, a lion rules over the bush, and like a chief he is dangerous, brave and strong. Similar gestures of respect are used for a lion as for a chief. A commoner greets a chief by kneeling on the ground and clapping; this same act of homage is performed by a hunter before he approaches a slain lion. In the case of the lion, then, the Bisa mark off the species itself and distribute it according to the asymmetric and analogical pattern: lions are to other animals as chiefs are to commoners. Eland and elephants are also distributed in terms of chiefship (Marks 1976:33). Like a chief, the eland gives some protection to other animals with whom it lives. But these two species mark a transition from interspecies distribution to intraspecies division. In the past, a chief would receive the tail hairs of an elephant as well as the left tusk (and usually the right) as a symbol of his authority over the domain in which the animal was taken (Marks 1976:61-2). Like the chief, these items stand for durability and continuity; being lasting goods, they also provided a chief with tokens of display. With these animals, then, the distribution pattern is differently arranged: durable parts (of eland and elephant) are to edible parts as chiefs are to commoners. None of the preceding animals represents an important source of material tribute for chiefs, and animals which are more commonly hunted - such as hippo, pig, waterbuck and ant bear - go rather to relatives. The heart, head and intestines of an animal, however, are considered to have mystical powers, and these remain with the hunter for his own consumption (Marks 1976:123). Only the other edible parts are divided among his relatives (Marks 1976:37). In this case, then, the distribution pattern has the form: powerful parts are to the remainder of the animal as the hunter is to his maternal relatives. In addition, with these more common animals, the hunter may choose which ties to recognize. For example, one hunter distributed an impala in the following way (Marks 1976:122):

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hind leg - to a maternal uncle who was the village headman foreshoulder - to the wife of a nephew in another village foreshoulder - to his mother neck - to a maternal niece one side rib cage - to a classificatory niece one side rib cage - to the wife of a classificatory nephew saddle and girdle - to the wife of a maternal nephew chest, intestines, hind leg, head - to the hunter. Overall, then, the Bisa predicate a social schema upon game. The availability and division of animals are modeled in relation to the social order which devolves from the ancestors. Three distribution patterns based upon asymmetric analogies are practiced. Lions ; other animals ;; chiefs ; commoners Durable parts of elephant + eland; edible parts ;; chiefs ; commoners Powerful parts ; bodily remains ;; hunter ; kin.

The distribution of game in terms of species, in terms of particular parts of certain species and in terms of the bodies of most species is a metaphor of the social order. This pattern of allocation is quite unlike ours in which wages, profits and rents are said to be derived from and distributed on the basis of the respective contributions of labor, capital and land. Bisa allocation is not modeled in terms of marginal products being distributed according to marginal efforts performed in production. Their schema, unlike the mathematical imagery of neoclassical economics, does not invoke material causality or instrumentality; rather, it is one of human intentions and relationships. In the Bisa model the authority structure of an area is recognized only to a slight - we might say 'symbolic' - degree. In this respect, the Bisa distribution of game also differs from the Bemba distribution of grain which flows toward authority figures. But the two are alike in that the slain animals of the Bisa - like the grain of the Bemba - should be distributed in accord with relationships to the ancestors who made them available. In consequence, for the Bisa, as for the Bemba, distribution is a moral act. Proper distribution reproduces the bonds upon which production is founded. As with the Bemba, Bisa acts of hunting and distribution are social performances. The hunter who makes

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a catch is a socially successful person who lives in a community organized according to Bisa notions of morality.

Images of comparison The Physiocrats and the two African groups both project human imagery upon nature and economic processes. The Physiocrats utilized three metaphors in their model. The circulation of blood provided the image for circulation in the economy; human reproduction provided the image for economic reproduction; the distinction between external sensation and mental operation was used to constitute the difference between agriculture and artisanship. The primal metaphors of the Physiocrats drew upon the domains of human physiology and cognition. The Bemba and Bisa also use human imagery in their models; however, for them it is the ancestors and their dispositions toward their dependents which are projected upon the material processes of nature. Broadly viewed, both the Physiocrats and the African groups employ a human schema, but they differ as to whether the schema is based upon features of the individual or upon social relationships and groups. They differ also as to the inclusion of human intentionality. Despite these differences, productive activity in both the Physiocratic and the Bemba and Bisa models is embedded within a larger circulatory process in which nature is a reservoir to be drawn upon by humans. The patterning of this circulatory system, however, also takes a different form as between the two. For the Physiocrats, circulation is strictly a material process. Foodstuffs, obtained from the land, pass through society - where they are partly depleted - and then back to the land. This is a material operation, a cycle that consists of objects, as Quesnay indicated in his Tableau. The circulatory system draws upon and is sustained by a 'naturally' bounteous environment. This bounty of nature, in turn, is chartered as the work of the divinity, an original maker who put in motion a system that now operates according to its own, independent 'natural laws.' A genetic relation links nature and its goodness to the deity. Morality, therefore, consists in studying, learning and trying to follow the

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natural laws which are divinely validated. The model's guarantee is that nature will provide sustenance for society (including a surplus) if the natural laws are followed. For the Bemba and Bisa, by contrast, the ancestors play an immediate role in the system of circulation. Because the ancestors 'are' the environment, gaining a livelihood is guaranteed only by maintaining proper relations with them. Among the Bemba these good dispositions are ensured by circulating goods to chiefs, to headmen and to senior matrikin who are themselves the living representatives of the ancestors. The guarantee, for both the Bemba and Bisa, is that the environment contains enough for human sustenance, if social rules - rather than natural laws - are followed. Gaining a livelihood is a function not of instrumental operations but of human relationships. In fact, the Bemba do not even constitute human insatiability for material goods as a motive (Richards 1939:214). To be certain, among the Bemba 'food and beer are without doubt the most exciting and interesting topics of native conversation' (Richards 1939:44), and Bemba try to grow as much millet as possible (Richards 1939:230); but 'a man who is full when others are hungry is hardly considered to have achieved the good fortune by natural means' (Richards 1939:215). Ample foodstuffs point to mastery of the social, not the material, world. The circulatory system of the Bemba and Bisa is thus quite different from that of the Physiocrats. For the latter, circulation designates a flow of material goods that pass through humans and back to the land; social positions are defined by their relationship to this material flow. For the Bemba and Bisa, the circulatory system is composed of a network of enduring social bonds, and these ties define the flow of goods. Unlike the Physiocratic construction, the economy in the Bemba and Bisa models is embedded in and is a result of social qualities. For the Physiocrats an asymmetry exists between what humans put into the land and what they receive from it; this augmentation or expansion (the net product or surplus) in the material system is a natural result, stemming from nature's position as a pool to be drawn upon. For the Bemba and Bisa a corresponding asymmetry exists, but it is between them and their ancestors who constitute nature; production is part of an exchange between the living and the dead. The material bounty for these groups

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represents a drawing upon the reservoir of good intentions and is part of the asymmetry of the social relationship. The surfeit has no firm material basis, for ancestral intentions are variable. A surplus or deficit of food corresponds to a temporary augmentation or diminution in ancestral benevolence.

6

A dual economy: the Gogo

The models examined thus far have all had seamless constructions. Ricardo's corn model had a linear form, while the Physiocrats overlapped three different metaphors. Among the Bemba and Bisa the quite distinct processes of agriculture and hunting are articulated through the single metaphor of the ancestors. But although simplicity and homogeneity can be said to characterize some models, are there also complex and heterogeneous forms? Can separate metaphors be used simultaneously in models? How could they cohere? The Gogo live to the north of the Bisa and the Bemba, in the Rift valley of central Tanzania. Like the Bemba and Bisa, they are Bantu speakers. But unlike these two groups, the Gogo practice both agriculture and pastoralism. Moreover, among the Gogo, wealth is heterogeneous and not reducible to a single common tenn or numeraire , such as money, labor or the ancestors.' Wealth in grain, uwuhemba, is linguistically differentiated from wealth in livestock and dependents, which themselves are collectively known as sawo (Rigby 1969:54-5). Agricultural foodstuffs are raised and handled by women. Grain provides everyday sustenance and is consumed within small domestic units headed by females. As among the Bemba, the Gogo employ the metaphor of the ancestors to constitute agricultural processes. Cattle are different. They are controlled by men. The animals are raised principally for exchange, and the purpose of such transactions is to create social relationships, not to secure other material objects. Moreover, cattle are a metaphor of females, and like women, their reproductive capacity is said to be inherent. Crops are grown within bounded domains, but cattle - being largely independent of ancestral influence - are raised anywhere. Like women, they cross social boundaries and unite separate groups through exchanges and debts. 110

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The two sectors of agriculture and pastoralism are themselves interrelated. As we shall see, the prosperity of a spatial domain reflects not only ancestral dispositions but also a natural quality which is called a 'ritual state.' Bad ritual states have an adverse effect upon cattle and women, but they can also affect the crops. Conversely, the ancestors - whose good dispositions are necessary for agriculture - can have an adverse effect on women and cattle. Thus, women and cattle are partly modeled in terms of ancestral moods, like agriculture, just as agriculture partly reflects nonsocial forces, as do women and cattle. This mirror effect within the model is further elaborated by the practice whereby each set of objects when 'inverted' is used to rectify maladies of the other. Thus, the form of the Gogo model is complex yet coherent, being held together by a set of inversions and reversals, or by an interplay of similarity within difference. The Gogo model also has comparative implications, for cattle and grains comprise one example of what is known in the literature as 'spheres of exchange.' In contrast to the usual arguments, however, I shall suggest that 'spheres of exchange' is only a label which explains nothing about a model itself; it signals rather that a model is marked by gaps, and these require cultural explication. Homesteads and the social order Because the Gogo model is complex, it is useful to begin with a brief sketch of the people's social patterns. Overall, Gogo society is characterized by four levels of spatial organization, each encompassed within the other: houses, homesteads, neighborhoods and ritual areas. The two modes of livelihood as well as gender and authority are constructed in relation to these orders (Rigby 1969). The smallest unit is the matrihouse, which is composed of one mother and her unmarried offspring. These are independent units for the production and consumption of grains. Matricentral units, in turn, are contained within polygynous homesteads. Each homestead is headed by a senior male, who is husband or father to the residents of the matrihouseholds. It is homesteads, as groups, that raise and tend cattle. Homesteads are clustered together; and such clusters, based

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upon patrilineal and affinal ties, comprise a neighborhood. Neighborhoods are fluid in composition, for the Gogo are mobile, but each neighborhood falls within one or another ritual area. Such domains, which are known as 'countries' (yisi), have fixed boundaries, endure, and have an average population of less than 3,000 persons. The prosperity of each country is influenced by its ritual leader, a lineal descendent of the paternal ancestors who have ritual precedence in the area. This Gogo leader has no political functions and receives no tribute for his ritual efforts. He belongs to a short, small lineage, and no ribbon of divinity runs from him through the social order within his domain. Above the ritual leader, the Gogo have no overarching political or lineal organization. Within this overall pattern the key unit is the homestead. Senior generations are buried in the cattle byre, located in the center, and there also spirits of the dead have their gravestones. But homesteads are moved fairly frequently, sometimes every twelve to fifteen years, for Gogoland is subject to periodic droughts and to variation in the availability of fodder. Homestead groups may leave a ritual area. A man usually does not become homestead head until the age of 40 to 45 (Rigby 1969:175). He must have at least one wife and control cattle of his own. The head is responsible for the physical safety, health and fertility of the humans and animals within his home but not the crops. Only a homestead head becomes an elder and has the right to participate in the local neighborhood court. The recognition of authority and the payment of tribute have little place among the Gogo. But among them, males - as homestead heads and neighborhood leaders - are vested with power in relation to younger people and females. Unlike the system of the Bemba, politics here has a domestic face. Male status is gained through the domestic accumulation of women and cattle, rather than the public dispersal of foodstuffs. Homesteads, however, are composed of separate matriunits. Each married woman has her own home and fields. Each wife also has her own granary, under her exclusive control, where she stores her agricultural crops. Furthermore, only through these units does a homestead establish a territorial connection to a ritual area and ritual leader. 2

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The crops The Gogo are dependent upon agriculture for survival (Rigby 1969:43). They cultivate sorghum and millet as well as many subsidiary crops. Hoe cultivators primarily, the Gogo use two types of field. Near the homestead where manure can easily be conveyed from the byre, a plot may be sowed continuously; farther away, bush fields are cleared and burned in rotation. Most of the agricultural activities can be done by both sexes, but men clear the bush and thresh, while women seed and winnow (Rigby 1966a:267). Agriculture is primarily under the control of women, although the female role alone does not qualify a person to have a farm. Only married women have command over the production and distribution of the basic foodstuffs. If an unmarried girl living with her mother has a separate field, the harvest goes to her mother's house; and if she is to be an agriculturalist, a grown woman must have a husband to clear the bush for her. Having an agricultural plot indicates that a female occupies a total, mature position. In addition to calling upon her husband and immediate family, a woman may recruit a. work party to help in her fields. Co-wives usually attend each other's gatherings, although they are not obliged to do so. The group will be served beer made from grain accumulated in the prior year (Rigby 1969:38). Thus, women can use a surfeit of their grain from one year to make their work easier in the next. The land is not in short supply, access is free, and no one holds permanent rights beyond the year of cultivation and two years of fallow. Usufruct rights, held by females, are established by the act of clearing, usually in an area near the house. Neither lineages nor senior authority figures control allocation of the land. Farming is spatially regulated, however, in that a homestead group farms only within one ritual area or country. The right of a Gogo to reside and farm in a ritual domain depends not on kinship - for many clans may be found in a single domain - but upon acknowledgment of the ritual leader's powers. Within his bounded domain everyone, on threat of expulsion, must abide by his ritual instructions (Rigby 1967c:81;1968b;1969).

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The ritual leader is always a male member of the patriclan which has ritual precedence in the domain. Succeeding to the position by primogeniture, the leader has possession of the ancestral rainstones and stool of office (Rigby 1969:93). Using these he communicates with the ancestors who constitute and control the area's fertility. A ritual leader should also have many cattle, as indices of his success in the control of fertility (Rigby 1967c:81). But his prestige and power, unlike that of a wealthy neighborhood head, are not dependent upon cattle possession (Rigby 1969:100); they devolve upon him through his connection to the ancestors. The ritual leader, like a Bemba chief, stands in a close relation to the land. He is known as 'the owner of the essence of the land' (Rigby 1969:94). The ritual leader is a living embodiment of a succession of persons whose dispositions constitute the land's productivity. Like a Bemba chief, a Gogo ritual leader should never set foot outside his own area, for this would be to deny his historical, inherent and constitutive relation to the land. Even within his own ritual domain the leader must observe precautions: 'Physical contact with hostile strangers is thought to endanger the ritual leader, both physically and ritually, and thus affect the whole country' (Rigby 1969:98). As among the Bemba, the Gogo ritual leader is a kind of 'divine king,' in that his own being is a reflection of and is reflected in the fertility and peacefulness of a land area (Rigby 1966b: 281). The ritual leader is responsible for the productivity of the crops. Agriculture is precarious in Gogoland (Rigby 1967c:80), a problematic factor being rain, which is needed not only for the crops but by livestock and humans. A ritual leader has the duty of assuring the rainfall. He also holds yearly fertility ceremonies and is responsible for keeping away crop diseases and pests (Rigby 1967a).3 As the living embodiment of the ancestors, the ritual leader provides other services, many of which are not directly 'economic.' He grants permission for circumcision and initiation ceremonies (Rigby 1967a:435), provides protection for all activities, and can arbitrate in cases of homicide, assault and witchcraft. The agricultural dimension of the Gogo economy is socially embedded in that the ancestral powers which affect the crops influence other

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processes. The ritual powers of a leader are encompassing, for they come from the ancestors whose relationship to the inhabitants of an area is broadly defined. But just as we cannot separate the social from the economic in this model, so also the former cannot be 'derived' from the latter. For example, the ritual leader has few economic privileges, in spite of his importance. He does have the right to prohibit the exploitation of some natural products in his country, and he should receive as tribute the tusks of an elephant and the scales of a pangolin killed in his domain (Rigby 1966b,1971a).But these are the only rights in product distribution which he has. The leader has some privileges in the transaction of marriage but no waiver of bridewealth (Rigby, personal communication). Overall, no flow of tribute comes to the ritual leader, and in this respect he is quite unlike a Bemba chief whose power is expressed in flows of grain to him. This diminished role of the Gogo leader in comparison to the Bemba chief illustrates the infelicity of trying to explain 'magical' powers on the grounds that they justify real or potential benefits of exploitation (Godelier 1978). Surplus appropriation in the Marxist sense cannot explain the ritual powers of a leader, for the leader does not receive a material surplus, nor does he have other material rights. My own explication of the ritual leader's powers is quite different. I hold that the Gogo 'ideology' of fertility cannot be derived from anything other than itself. The Gogo employ a metaphor according to which the environment expresses ancestral intentions. Successfulpractices upon the environment are dependent upon forms of human volition, and influencing the ancestors via the ritual leaders is a necessary act. This is not a mystification nor is it an instance of nonlogical thought; rather, two different domains are being joined in a 'seeing as' relationship. The Gogo are particularly interesting, because for them ritual powers bring few tangible rewards, which means that these powers cannot be accounted for by a materialist argument. Overall, then, Gogo women have physical control over agricultural processes, but they require the services of a male ritual leader who has powers in virtue of his relation to the ancestors. If agriculture is dependent in a direct sense upon females, it is dependent in the last instance upon the actions of

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males. The situation, as we shall see, is just the reverse for cattle. The uses and distribution of cattle Cattle, the preferred wealth object of the Gogo, are raised for transaction, not consumption, purposes. Cattle are 'consumed' primarily in the process of creating and maintaining social bonds. Their ultimate use, however, is in sacrifices which are designed to ensure the good favor of the ancestors. A man's prestige depends upon the size of his cattle herd. This gives him a status equivalent to other senior males and may permit him to found a neighborhood - the unit larger than the homestead - depending upon the various ties he can create through his cattle. The actual uses of cattle are various. In the first place, they compose the major portion of a bridewealth payment. The remittance of bridewealth establishes a woman's offspring as her husband's legal children, regardless of physiological paternity (Rigby 1969:244).4 To be polygynous requires substantial command over cattle, but older and wealthier men also are subject to claims and pressures from their sons and kinsmen for cattle loans. They can never simply accumulate cattle or wives and be inattentive to these counterpressures; yielding to the claims, however, does serve to solidify prestige, for loans create ties of dependence. There is an interchange between the number of dependents (wives, children, kinsfolk) a man can sustain and the size of his cattle herd. Cattle are also used in the spheres of production and consumption. Cattle dung, collected in the central byre, serves as crop fertilizer. The meat of cattle is the most highly valued solid food, although a beast is never killed for the sole purpose of carnal consumption (Rigby 1971b:285). Even in periods of hunger, cattle are not killed by their owners; rather, in the last resort they are exchanged for grain which is then consumed. In these two uses of cattle, incidentally, we observe crossovers between pastoralism and agriculture, the two sources of wealth. In production, the pastoral output of dung is an input for the raising of foodstuffs; in exchange cattle are sometimes transformed into grain, and grain into cattle. Cattle also produce milk which is the drink of hospitality;

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offered to friends and visitors, it cements and indicates social relationships. The serving of milk, of course, signals that the offerers themselves have cattle. Cattle herds are built up in two ways. Several years of bumper crops will show up as cattle. There is yet a further crossover between the two main units of the economy. Cattle control leads to the accumulation of women and children; but females and resident offspring provide labor for producing grain which, in sufficient amounts, can lead to command over more cattle. This way of accumulating cattle implies a dependence of males upon females. In addition, cattle are accumulated by males through natural increase and exchange. Of the two modes, Gogo males prefer the second. A man wealthy in grain which can continually be traded for livestock is called mupula ... a man who devotes himself to the accumulation of livestock only through trade of other livestock and natural increase assisted by fertility medicines is called mugoli. The latter is by far the more prestigious. (Rigby 1969:55) Males gain initial control over cattle through the household. The rules of allocation are themselves revealing of the way the Gogo model cattle. In the first place, as soon as children are born to a wife, part of the homestead herd is allocated to her matrihouse. This initial allocation comes from a man's mother's herd - in the case of a first marriage - or his senior wife's herd in a second marriage (Rigby 1969:224). Although these apportioned cattle remain under the physical control of the homestead head, they are inherited and used for bridewealth only within the matriunit to which they have been allocated. The ear-marked cattle also are utilized exclusively by the group to which they have been given. The milking is done by women, each female having rights to the milk of the cows which pertain to her matriunit (Rigby 1968b:166;1971b:261). Thus, ultimate control over the herd lies with men, but the distribution nodes and use control rest with women (Rigby 1971b). When the cattle themselves reproduce, their progeny are distributed to the matrihouse which has the cow mother. A resident son, for example, has rights to the herd of his matriunit, and for this reason he may come into conflict with his father over

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control of the cattle (Rigby 1966a;1967b). Thus, just as a woman's family gains cattle at her marriage, so her children gain reproductive rights over a portion of her husband's remaining herd. This rule of homestead distribution is the way young men, the progeny of a house, gain control over the progeny of cattle. This is the social method by which junior males gain access to the primary male valuables in Gogo society. In marriage exchange, cattle may be where women are not; but within a homestead, cattle wombs follow women's wombs. These distribution rules can hardly be accounted for by neoclassical notions about the efficient use of resources; rather, the distribution pattern is modeled after humans. More precisely, bovine wombs are a metaphor of human wombs. Women and cattle It has often been remarked of certain African groups that an identification is forged between cattle and humans. The Gogo, for example, refer to men as bulls, to women as cows (Rigby 1971b:260); and a different association is made, via the cattle byre, between the spirits of humans there buried and the herd there tended (Rigby 1966b:284-5). For the Gogo these linkages are based upon a metaphor relating human and cattle powers of reproduction. The Gogo cattle metaphor is chartered and validated by several myths, and it is useful to examine one of these in some detail. According to the central myth, cattle originally were wild animals, much like other animals which are still today in the bush. The story's action begins with a divorced or widowed woman who was chased or banished from society. In the bush she has a male child. Next, the woman meets a lion whose children she agrees to nurse in return for food; however, a hyena tricks the woman and eats the lion's children. The woman and her child flee, eventually to be hidden and saved by zebras. In return, the woman leads the zebras to a natural and unlimited pasture for grazing (Rigby 1971b:263). Shortly after, the woman comes across a cow with calf (Rigby 1971b:263). The human mother returns to society bringing with her the animal offspring, and the cow mother follows. Later, a bull and more members of the species find their way to the homestead. In the domestic context

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the cow begins to produce milk, and the woman shares this with other humans. Eventually, the cattle begins to reproduce in domesticity. The woman names them 'cattle,' for until then humans had not possessed them. This and other tales provide, in the first instance, an answer to the question: from where do cattle come? The animals existed contemporaneously with but outside society. The myth goes back only so far; it is not a 'history' of the creation of cattle themselves, but of where and how they were first secured. Unlike the Bemba and Bisa belief that agriculture was invented by the ancestors, Gogo cattle raising is seen as a use of the given. Neither humans nor their ancestors are invested with the power to transform the reproductive pattern. Given that cattle originated in nature, it is fitting that Gogo believe livestock thrive in the bush, on their own (Rigby 1967c:103). The Gogo also do not establish control over cattle through the possession of natural resources. Grazing and water rights are free; anyone's cattle may graze in a freshly harvested field, where they leave behind dung. The myth performs a second function in that it establishes a link between women and cattle in virtue of their reproductive capacities. The central protagonist had been banished from society, for she was pregnant but lacked a husband (i.e. no bridewealth had been paid for her). The woman traverses a path from society to deepest nature and back to domesticity, which is expressed through the succession of wild to tame animals that she meets. Her first encounter with a single lioness fails, her second encounter with the genderless zebras is nonenduring, but her final encounter with a cow mother succeeds. Only between human and cow mothers, both of whom lack a male counterpart, is a lasting relationship established. The woman herself, however, does not finally control the cattle, a fact which points to a third function of the myth. The ultimate segment of the tale justifies male control of the animals. Upon returning to society, the woman shared the cow's milk with others, a Gogo symbol of hospitality. In return she was accepted back into the social group. But disguised under this seeming act of exchange was an appropriation by males from females. In fact, the myth is constructed around a gender-linked sequence of balanced and unbalanced transactions. At first, a negative

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exchange takes place between the woman and the lioness and hyena; then she engages in a mutually helpful exchange of protection for pasturage with the genderless zebras. Subsequently, the woman appropriates bovine offspring from their cow mother. Finally, by sharing the cattle, the woman and her child are accepted back into human society. This exchange, however, is really a male appropriation. Only by ceding control of the cattle to men does the woman secure a position in society for herself and her child. In effect, she pays bridewealth for herself, and at the same moment hands over control of the animals to males. The woman constitutes cattle as the appropriate equivalent for females. Her act completes the myth and makes it a living presence. Currently, only men can use cattle, and they do so to gain wives as well as legitimate offspring. The customs of the present, thus, are a reversal of the penultimate stage of the myth when a single woman possessed both cattle and children independently of men. The tale validates male control, although it also suggests that men are dependent upon women who provided their own counter of exchange in the first place. Today, the goal of the male pastoralist producer is to have his cattle reproduce and multiply, like women. Local myth and history provide the charter for his practices. Rites of reversal and sacrifice: the pastoral mirror The cattle metaphor is quite different from that of agriculture. The ancestors constitute nature, their moods influence agricultural processes. But cattle were appropriated from nature, and like women they have an inherent capacity to reproduce. The fact that the Gogo have two distinct primal metaphors for their ways of gaining a livelihood raises a new puzzle in local modeling. How is the connection between cattle and grain itself modeled? The two productive processes are gender-linked, but they do not directly conflict; nor do they represent opposed class ideologies, for both are practiced by all Gogo. Thus, we may ask whether the Gogo mediate the gap between the two constructs. Let me tie this question to another, seemingly dissimilar, one. Cattle are a metaphor of women, but the two are not identical; they are linked by a relation of resemblance within difference. Do the Gogo highlight the differences between women and cattle as well

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as their similarities? One set of Gogo ceremonies. falls into the class of rites of reversal (Rigby 1968b). In these rites all kinds of gender reversals take place: women dress themselves in the garb of men, take up the spears of males, herd cattle and engage in otherwise prohibited activities. The purpose of their doing so is to dance away a danger which affects the ritual state (mbeho) of a ritual area or country (Rigby 1968b: 158-9). The ritual danger has no social cause; it comes from outside society and for this reason is danced away to the western border, which is the dead side of the ritual area in which the women live. The presence of a bad ritual state is known through two manifestations or symptoms; it yields two types of unusual and unwanted events in Gogoland. When these events occur, the Gogo take them as indices of ritual impurity (Rigby 1968b:15963). Firstly, a woman, or women, may be afflicted by reproductive difficulties, such as breech births, the birth of twins or unusual forms of natal development. The second and more common manifestation of bad ritual state is a fatal cattle disease, the symptoms of which are poor milk from the cows, sluggishness in all the animals and a lack of sexual desire on the part of the bulls. In cattle, ritual danger surfaces not simply as an anomaly but a disease which can lead to their death or nonreproduction. Both indices of ritual danger have to do with problems of reproduction in women and cattle, and in reference to them the people say 'It does not bear' or 'It is not fertile' (Rigby 1968b:162,176). But there is a difference between the two. Ritual impurity only yields an anomaly in human reproduction, but in cattle it produces sterility. The reversal rites may be contrasted with sacrifice to the ancestors. Sacrifices entail the killing and offering of cattle in order to appease ancestral spirits, who - in this context - are a general and not a specifically lineal category (Rigby 1971b). Ancestral discontent is made known through two symptoms or unusual behaviors on the part of cattle and women. At times, cattle act anomalously, for instance, breaking out of the byre at night. In addition, certain fatal diseases in children and barrenness in females are indices of ancestral displeasure (Rigby 1971b:26772,274). Evidently the symptoms which lead to a sacr~:ar~~.~n inversion of those which lead to a reversal rite ../Efi1dities-: in ..... / -.~;.' , t:

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A dual economy: the Gogo

human reproduction and sterility in cattle reproduction are rectified by reversal rites, whereas sterility in human reproduction and anomalies in cattle reproduction are cured by sacrifice. This is not all. The two unwanted influences emanate from different domains. Cattle were found in nature, and their true reproductive difficulties are modeled as the result of natural forces. Humans appropriated cattle from a nature which they do not control. A bad wind is an adventitious happening, yielded by unknown powers. As in the origin myth, humans act upon nature through the agency of anomalous or male-like women. By contrast, human failure to reproduce is modeled as the result of social forces. Women are members of the families of their fathers and husbands, and their reproductive difficulties are a reflection of ancestral displeasure. Danger to females, thus, is rectified by sacrificing their inverted image to the human ancestors. The sacrificial beast is a male, natural animal, just as women are required, in the reverse case, to save the cattle. There remain the two secondary cases. Cattle which are constituted through women also reflect, though dimly, ancestral discontent; and women - as a metaphor of cattle - dimly reflect ritual danger. Women provide through cattle a partial mirror of nature, just as cattle offer through women a partial reflection of the ancestors. Again, each 'mirror' - when inverted - saves the other. There is one further dimension of this pattern. Sacrifice to the ancestors takes place at the homestead: to be exact, at the gravestones of the ancestors. This is a domestic ritual. The reversal rites have a different spatial setting. They are performed by all the women, themselves unrelated, who reside in a single ritual area; and a bad ritual state also has a minor effect on a woman's crops, which are exclusively grown in the area (Rigby 1966a). Thus, in normal times Gogo men can reproduce cattle as a natural process; but in the last instance cattle production is dependent upon live females, just as agriculture is dependent upon male ancestors. A comprehensible set of inversions mediates and links together the two parts of the Gogo local model. Spheres of exchange Gogo transactions

involving grain and cattle present a typical

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the Gogo

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instance of 'spheres of exchange.' Grain, whose possession is always necessary but hardly prestigeful, is stockpiled for the short term; surpluses are converted to beer, which is consumed. Cattle, whose possession is highly prized, are accumulated and multiplied over the course of many years. They are used to create the most important and enduring of social relationships. At times each can be an input into the other, such as the use of dung as fertilizer and harvested fields as fodder, but generally the two are exchanged for each other only in times of need. Many examples of exchange spheres have been reported in the anthropological literature, and several theories about them have been proposed. The Gogo instance, however, provides a different way of understanding this general phenomenon. Let us first consider some of the other ethnographic examples. One of the earliest instances reported, though Malinowski did not label it as such, comes from the Trobriand Islands. According to Malinowski, in the Trobriands there is a sharp distinction between barter (gimwaLi) and kuLa exchange. The former is rather like market transactions but the latter is not. KuLa exchange itself has several modes or spheres. One form, which is called pokaLa, or offerings, consists of food items, such as pigs, bananas, yams and taro (Malinowski 1961[1922]:99,354-5).A second sphere, termed kaributu, is comprised of large axe-blades and lime spoons made of whale bone. These goods have 'greater value' thanpokaLa items (Malinowski 1961[1922]:99,354).Finally, the principal kula goods consist of mwaLi or armshells and souLava or necklaces. These latter sets of valuables pass against one another in a series of delayed exchanges that link the districts of the Trobriands and other islands in the Southern Pacific. Thus, in the Trobriands there is a distinction between market-like transactions which involve a range of normal goods and kuLa exchange; the latter, in turn, is comprised of several spheres. For the island of Tikopia, to cite a different example, Firth suggests that at least four 'circuits' or spheres of exchange exist (1965[1939]:340-4). One consists of food payments for small objects or services; a second, whose 'currency' is barkcloth, sinnet cord and pandanus mats, involves payments for certain valuable objects, for specialist skills and for ritual services. In a third circuit, bonito-hooks, turmeric cylinders and canoes are

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used as payments for important social transactions. Finally, unique items such as women and land are involved in a separate sphere of exchange. An even more complex instance is offered by Armstrong's brief description of coins and exchanges on Rossel Island (Armstrong 1924,1928). In one circuit certain coins are used to pay specialist laborers; another set of coins serves as remuneration for food, baskets and limepots; village land, houses, gardens and victims for a mortuary feast are exchanged against a different set of coins; canoes are in their own circuit. Other coins are used to pay for pigs to be consumed at a feast, while marriage payments have their set of coins. Viewed comparatively, spheres of exchange apparently refers to a collection of features. Within a society there may be several named or unnamed classes of goods. Each class consists of substitutable, exchangeable items. The frequency of transactions is greater within than between classes. Often, the spheres or circuits are ranked in terms of prestige or morality. People attempt to convert goods upwards, while to exchange a higher for a lower good entails a loss of prestige. Bohannan, for example, draws a distinction between 'conveyances' within a sphere and 'conversions' between them; the latter is an asymmetric exchange due to the difference in evaluation of the items (Bohannan 1955,1959). These examples and features are sufficient to indicate the puzzle which anthropologists have posed for themselves. How should we account for the existence of spheres of exchange? How can we explain them? In fact, three interpretations have been offered, each based on one or another of the universal models employed in economic anthropology. A neoclassical perspective has been suggested by Harold Schneider. His view is particularly relevant, because Schneider has studied the Turu who are physical and cultural neighbors of the Gogo. Like the Gogo, the Turu raise and exchange grain and cattle. According to Schneider, however, cattle and grain do not constitute separate spheres of exchange. Schneider (1979:95) argues that all exchange is alike, being the result of actors choosing within a context of different individual endowments (or supply) and natural needs (or demand). To facilitate exchange, a universally accepted medium is required, and in the case of the Turu this medium of exchange is cattle (Schneider 1979:65). For

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Schneider, Turu cattle are a currency, being portable, divisible, and a store of value. Furthermore, like a money they are in constant demand; and, he claims, their 'value' remains constant while that of grain and other items varies in East Africa (1979:99). 'Standard prices for most commodities and services can be quoted in this currency' (Schneider 1970:67). Through cattle all Turu items are mutually exchangeable. Market rules operate which means that homogeneous principles underlie all transactions in the economy: separate exchange circuits do not exist. The argument rests upon projecting our image of money into the African context. Schneider models cattle as money, which implies that the significance of cattle is, if not exhausted, at least demarcated by their 'apparent' money function. More broadly, Schneider assumes that exchange can be explained on the basis of rational choice, scarce supply and alternative demands; and his model presumes that these are core features of the Gogo economy. Overall, then, Schneider suggests that certain Western experiences, constructs and explanatory forms have universal validity. Because his analysis consists in the recycling of the neoclassical schema, the special semantic place of cattle in Turu, Gogo and other societies necessarily escapes Schneider's view. The substantivist view of spheres of exchange, which developed from Polanyi (1968), is more a critique than an explanatory theory. According to substantivists, where spheres of exchange are found, moral barriers prohibit the emergence of generalized exchange and universal media, such as money (Bohannan 1955,1959; Sahlins 1972:277). The existence of exchange circuits implies that wealth items in a society are incommensurate and therefore the economy cannot be defined in terms of rationality, for rational calculations can only be used upon homogeneous units (Polanyi 1968:175-203). By demonstrating the existence of spheres of exchange, substantivists hoped to offer a critique of the notion that market principles are universal. But no substantivist has yet elaborated a positive theory. In effect, substantivists have only provided a label- 'spheres of exchange' - for a puzzle. Finally, a Marxist view of spheres of exchange has been presented by Dupre and Rey (1973). Their analysis focuses upon how command over the means of production is maintained. In 'lineage societies' control of producers is achieved through

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control of marriage. By setting up marriage as a transaction that can occur only through the exchange of certain goods, and by making access to these goods exclusive to themselves, seniors can keep juniors within their control and hence as productive members whose surplus they can appropriate. According to this argument, spheres of exchange are a species of the relations of production, their function being to maintain command over human workers. Thus, in the Marxist model spheres of exchange are reduced to the essential features of labor and its exploitation. Like the neoclassical position, the Marxist is fully reflexivein that it employs a derivational form which recycles in the ethnographic data its own axioms. Let us now, therefore, return to the Gogo and consider 'spheres of exchange' in light of their own model. In the Gogo context, 'spheres of exchange' designates only one moment, when two objects do not exchange. This is but a glimpse of a totality, rather like showing only every eighth or ninth frame of a film. The reason why Gogo cattle and grain are seldom drawn into exchanges is not simply a function of the fact that the society lacks markets nor is it derivable from the fact that senior males seek control over others. Cattle and grain are differently constructed. Agricultural fertility 'is' the dispositions of the ancestors. Cattle 'are' women. All of Gogo society is crosscut by the analogous and asymmetric oppositions of male and female, homestead and hut, family and ritual area, the ancestors and nature. Cattle and grains are a part of this construction. Gogo social relationships predicated now this way and now that are represented in the heterogeneous, nonexchangeable commodities. Being goods that are unlike, neither is equivalent nor reducible to the other. The Gogo have no single wealth form, unit of value or numeraire. More generally, no elemental principle runs through all Gogo economic practices. The Gogo have a dual model. In contrast to the derivational and consistent pattern that we encountered in Ricardo's corn model - a pattern that characterizes most modern economic models (Eichner 1978) - the Gogo local model is heterogeneous, being woven together through its own set of inversions. To the extent that 'spheres of exchange' is a useful label, it would seem to imply that a model has a complex form. 'Poly-sphered transactions' is not a category about exchange itself

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but the symptom of a multi-metaphoric model. It also follows that Gogo economic practices do not constitute a separate class of actions in themselves. In the Gogo model, goods are constructed through human images. Because human attributes and intentions are projected upon natural things, there can be no clear distinction between the economy, as a sphere of instrumental activity, and other domains. Practical activity for the Gogo, whether in agriculture or pastoralism, is not simply a mechanistic behavior carried out on nature as an object. It includes what we call social and ritual acts. The Gogo model offers a contrast not only to our recent Western formulations. Like the Physiocrats, the Gogo use multiple metaphors which are based upon human features; in fact, both draw upon human reproduction as an image for economic processes. More broadly, the Physiocrats and the Gogo arrange their metaphors so that economic processes are bifurcated into two forms of activity - agriculture/artisanship and agriculture/ pastoralism. The configuration of their models, however, is different. The Physiocrats projected their metaphors of reproduction, circulation and mind upon all economic processes; the division between agriculture and artisanship was a result of applying the binary image of mind to the totality. For the Physiocrats there was a wholeness to all economic processes however unlike these were in detail. They were suggesting that a single unit of wealth ran through the entire economy. The Gogo model is more completely bifurcated in that the metaphor of reproduction refers to one set of economic processes while that of the ancestors refers to another. The two core metaphors are stitched together through a series of transformations, but neither refers to all economic processes. The Gogo can also be compared to the Bemba and Bisa. Like those groups the Gogo use the metaphor of the ancestors for grain production. But for the Gogo raising cattle is a natural process which society has appropriated. The Gogo individual, therefore, is a different kind of 'maker' in agriculture and pastoralism. In respect of cattle production, the Gogo do not need to influence others through a series of transactions. Still, like the Bemba and Bisa, the Gogo do give a prominent place to exchange within all sectors of their economy, for the principal purpose of 'reproducing' cattle is to exchange them, and it is

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primarily within the realm of transactions that the link between cattle and females is made manifest. The exchange of cattle for women at marriage is a meaningful act precisely because one is a metaphor of the other.

7

The yams of Dobu

In Western models, events are usually divided into the causal and the cultural. We assume that the economy is characterized by calculational action, while rule-governed activity - or human institutions and culture - is but an encrustation and constraint on this sphere. When the Western modeler turns to other economies, then, his strategy is to search for the causal and rational element which must comprise their essential core. But there are some societies, at the Antipodes of Western thought, which predicate schemas of the human will upon nature and material events. Must it then be claimed that despite what a people state and do, their actions reflect another reality of which the Western observer has better knowledge? To the northeast of New Guinea, nestled among the d'Entrecasteaux group, lies the island of Dobu. The Dobuans, whom Reo Fortune studied (1963[1932]) some fifty years ago, rely primarily upon agriculture. Their principal consumption item is the yam. But for Dobuans making a garden of yams is a social performance rather than a means for efficiently satisfying needs of the body. Dobuans model yams as themselves; humans and yams are physical transforms of one another. Each lineage possesses and grows its own seed strains which are, in Dobuan thought, the lineage itself. But the two both do and do not resemble one another, and in this relation of the 'is' and the 'is not' lies the special interest and the compelling force of the Dobuan model. The particulars of the Dobuan construction provide several points of contrast with the prior examples. The model itself is focused upon agricultural substances rather than the environment, such as the rain or the land and its fertility. Within this focus upon the seed stock, the Dobuans attend to a single crop, yams, and this crop is 'divided up' among lineages. In addition, the 129

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Dobuans do not have, in the same sense as the Bemba, a 'variable productive source.' Yams must be continually preserved and perpetuated, for there is no recourse once they are lost or extinguished. Transactions also have no place in the growing of yams, because Dobuan productivity is not dependent upon the will of others. In fact, garden work for the Dobuans is a solitary, even reflexive, activity; in the garden the Dobuan encounters a metaphor of himself. On Dobu the 'natural world' is not seen as a separate domain, amenable to causal and instrumental activity. Human will is predicated upon all events in both the 'natural' and 'social' worlds; changes in both are seen as human intentions. According to our economic models, therefore, the Dobuan construction is an impossibility or at least a mystification. But despite what to us is a Dobuan delusion, that the world is will and they are yams, this island people have an organized and continuing way of gaining a livelihood. Their local model of practical activity works for them. Matrilineages and villages The ideal village of Dobu is a circle of huts facing inward to a central, often elevated mound, which is the village graveyard. These opening words of Fortune's study capture much of what is characteristically Dobuan: a pronounced inward privateness and fear of others coupled to an enduring tie with the ancestors. Matrilineages, known as susu, meaning 'mother's milk,' serve as the anchors of Dobuan life. Each matrilineage is several generations deep, and a village will contain from four to a dozen such units, all descended from a common ancestress. Susu are local units with rights to enduring property. House sites, fishing nets, stone adzes, ornamental valuables, personal names and skulls are all transmitted within the susu. In addition, access to garden land, to garden 'magic,' and to yam seeds are gained through susu relationships. A susu possesses even its members, for an individual is born into a matrilineage and though he or she marries into another and lives among its people for a time, the susu member returns to die and be buried in his village and its central graveyard. This continuity and corporal integrity of the susu is underlined by various customs. For example, the children

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of a deceased male, who are his kin but by definition not members of his susu, are prohibited from entering their late father's village or from partaking of food grown upon the land of his susu. They are clearly marked as nonmembers. The susu does have to make compromises at marriage, for given that members marry outside the village, discordant demands are created by the ties of the wife to her susu and of the husband to his. The Dobuan solution is to practice alternating residence: once a year a couple moves together from the village of one to that of the other. Each susu shares its married members with other susu; even so, the marital bond is unstable and villages are scarcely happy sanctuaries for visitors. At any time a village will consist of its various susu members plus those females and males who are married to them. Among the outsiders, and between them and village members, there is much suspicion of sorcery and poisoning. It must be with some relief that at the end of the year a visitor can return to his home village (Fortune 1963[1932]: 1-15). Beings and history The Dobuan model is chartered by their conception of history, which is nonsequential. There exists no core point, no original maker of the Dobuan world. History for the Dobuans is a set of simultaneous and reciprocal resemblances. Each susu has a genealogy of approximately four generations. Within a single village all the matrilineages claim descent from a common ancestress, though their interconnections may not be known. This ancestress is invariably a bird! Different villages have distinct origin birds and different legends of origin from these eponymic ancestors. The story of the founding of Green Parrot village is typical. Green parrot became pregnant. She laid an egg and brooded over it. It hatched forth - it appeared, not a bird, a human being. The child, a female, grew. The nest collapsed. It fell to the ground. The husband, child of the White Pigeon, was at sea fishing with nets. The woman, child of the Brown Eagle, his wife, walked the shore looking for shell fish. She heard the child wailing. She took it to her village and suckled it. There it grew

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up. It became a very beautiful woman .... She bore four children .... They founded our Green Parrot village. (Fortune 1963[1932]:31) The child in the myth is procreated by birds and reared by humans, but the humans themselves were originally generated by other birds and were reared by still other humans who in turn were bird offspring. As a totality the legends are contradictory, for each line presupposes the existence of another (Fortune 1963[1932]:31). The individual lineage myths lead round and round in a self-referential circle. Furthermore, in the beginning not only did humans hatch from birds' eggs, but some humans were transformed into birds (Fortune 1963[1932]:94). Persons also changed into trees, from one of which emerged the sea and sea monsters. Thus, for Dobuans early history was not characterized by temporal direction. Originally, every object was related simultaneously to all other things, through the circle of transformations. But all the transformations and creations of worldly form occurred in the past. This is a truly nonlinear conception, for it denies an ultimate beginning in a thing or being, and change as a temporal sequence. Because these initial discontinuities have continued to the present, the past continuously recycles itself. Dobuans never had a part in making their own history. Metaphors of the human will There is no natural theory of yam growth, of the powers of canoe lashings or fish nets.. .. All these things cannot possibly exist in their own right. . . . All are supernaturally created by the ritual of incantation with the help of the appropriate technological processes (Fortune 1963[1932]:97-8). In Dobuan thought, there exist great beings, known as kasa sona. Most cannot be seen. Some were once human; others, which have human and nonhuman attributes, 'behave as human' in legend (Fortune 1963[1932]:99). In the past, most of these beings gave over to their human contemporaries, the ancestors of today's populace, their volition or the sole ability to activate their powers. Today, such power of call is contained in secret formulae. Unless these incantations are recited, the beings have

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no powers; but the spells, when properly performed, will always work to activate them. If, at times, the effect of an invoked being is less than that desired by humans, this is only because other beings, called into action by other humans, have frustrated the being's efforts. Two types of great beings exist (Fortune 1963[1932]:99-100). One class consists of independent supernaturals; human verbal powers have no control over them. For example, Nuakekepaki is an underwater rock that overturns canoes, and Weniogwegme is a monstrous dog who can devour people. Tobwaliton and Tobebeso are sea monsters who can counteract efforts to end a drought (Fortune 1963[1932]:98-9,269-71). The names and stories of these beings are publicly known. Generally, they act to harm humans or thwart their efforts, thereby providing one form of uncertainty in the material world. Although these are all uncontrolled forces, no general term is used to designate their 'agency' as a type. They are a collection of specific powers outside human command, modeled after the uncontrolled person in society, such as the insane or the abnormal. According to Dobuans such humans also cannot be influenced or checked by ordinary pressures (Fortune 1963[1932]:56). More numerous and important are the supernaturals of another type, those who are dependent upon humans. These beings cannot act without being invoked by humans, but they cannot resist when called by name and the appropriate spell. Their actions, thus, represent verbalized wishes. They are a predication of ordinary human will. Each supernatural power under human control is specialized. For example, different' powers are invoked for sailing, pig hunting, creating love, bringing rain, bringing death, strengthening the memory, making trees bear fruit and building canoes (Fortune 1963[1932]:95-102). Again, the list of powers is ad hoc and heterogeneous. The dependent beings are themselves of two kinds, although the distinction between them is unimportant to Dobuans (Fortune 1963[1932]:125-6). Some are invisible beings who can work effects on humans. Wanoge, for example, can be invoked to make a woman fall in love with a man (Fortune 1963[1932]:237). Other beings can solicit kula presents, create pregnancy or cause illness. By contrast, a second type of controlled being is a visible,

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material object itself. The spirit of Bulelala, for example, is embodied in a nocturnal bird (Fortune 1963[1932]:111-19). She also was the first woman to plant yams as food. Bulelala set her daughter in the ground where she developed yam qualities; the daughter was then cut up and planted as yam. Now she is continuously present in red yams (Fortune 1963[1932]:127). In general, then, all events and changes on Dobu occur only through the volition of supernatural agents. Within this world shaped by desires, the fundamental division is between controlled and uncontrolled events. There are no mechanistic happenings in themselves; and there is nothing in nature for humans to act on, as subjects on objects. Material things, animals and people are alike; they move and change in accordance with the dispositions of beings who are constituted after human will. In the Western construction, by contrast, a separation is made between natural laws and social rules. According to this view, practical action on material things must be causally organized. From our perspective, therefore, the Dobuans conflate the instrumental with the expressive in that they secure material effects through the use of influence and imprecations. On Dobu what we label 'natural causality' is supernatural agency, and the supernatural agents are themselves metaphors of human will. The place of verbal action Private intentions of Dobuans become the acts of supernatural beings by means of verbal expression. Through the culturally shared medium of spells, Dobuans can express and activate their wishes. The use of a spell represents the invoking of a metaphor; it is a way of redescribing the world, thereby making it amenable to one or another human purpose. On Dobu, all magic is privately held and secret. Magic itself has no single creator; it is not a system in the sense that one magical rite can be derived from another. Each spell is particular and distinct (Fortune 1963[1932]:95). Each was given to humans by a being in the past and is now passed from one human to another, usually through lineages (Fortune 1963[1932]:101). Garden magic, for example, should be transmitted within the lineage, the dogma being that the magic should run in parallel with the seed which it activates. But magic sometimes does pass

..

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outside the lineage, for a father may teach it to his son; and on occasion, an individual will obtain magical help for his garden from a person who is not of his own lineage (Fortune 1963[1932]:118).In whatever manner it is transmitted, however, the knowledge of incantations is never freely given; elders, for example, give to younger people control over their magic but receive labor service in return (Fortune 1963[1932]:96). Magic works automatically. Human intentions when verbally expressed in the proper spells are effective. Magic is not a sequential or mechanistic act. It has no causal moment, for vocal commands are not acting upon objects in our sense. The power of magic lies directly in the spell, the knowledge of the proper words that produce responses. To call upon the powers of a supernatural being is to bring about the action desired. To utter a spell is to invoke a metaphor whereby certain worldly events 'become' a supernatural being. Spells redescribe a situation as the will of supernaturals and of Dobuans themselves. This practice provides a different construct of the human. Dobuans can achieve control in the world only by having verbal command over supernatural beings. Furthermore, they are dependent upon inheriting this magical knowledge which originally was a gift to them. Now it is a fixed collection of practices and cannot be changed. In addition, although the human is purposeful with respect to using magical knowledge, his or her aims are predetermined. In the case of yams, for example, the 'magic stimulates the seed to great efforts' (Fortune 1963[1932]:119),but neither the magic nor the humans can change the telos of the seeds and yams. Humans act within a world of bequeathed and enduring forms; they can only protect and enhance what is an inherent unfolding. The patterns have been historically determined, allowing the human no place for constructing a different material order. Still, even if Dobuans lack direct control over 'nature,' they are differentiated from other worldly entities by their special command of magic. Other objects are for humans; humans do not exist for other entities. This command over other things is also far-reaching. Magical spells provide the human with powers over events, such as creating love or soliciting kula gifts, that we would deny. Yet even these Dobuan powers have their limits, for everyone is subject to these same powers in others. Magic is a

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special form of human control which each person has and to which each is subject. Yams as persons In Dobuan thought yams are transformed human beings. In the past, ancestors changed themselves into yams or begat them. Yams are simply humans in different form. Along with humans, yams are included under the term tomot, which means person (Fortune 1963[1932]:109). Yams also have personal names, which are kept secret by their owners and which may be used to invoke them. Like humans, yams respond to magical spells. Dobuans point out that yams hear magical spells, and that in fact they have ears. 'The ears of the vine are most literal1y organs of hearing' (Fortune 1963[1932]:109). Yams, like humans, also have lineages. Their continuity is modeled after that of humans (Fortune 1963[1932]:108). As one man said: Like women, they give birth to children. As my grandmother gave birth to children, among them my mother, as she gave birth to me and as my daughter will bear children, and they my grandchildren, when I am dead - such is also the way of yams. (Fortune 1963[1932]:107) When yams are addressed, they are called by the name of the original ancestral yam, much the same as a sister's son inherits the name of his mother's brother (Fortune 1963[1932]:127). Seed yams may be obtained only by inheritance within the matrilineage. A lineage member may not alienate lineage seed; and, conversely, he or she cannot obtain seed from another lineage for planting. A lineage possesses and plants only that seed with which it shares substance. Even if outside seed could be obtained by a needy person, it would not grow, for only the seed descended within the susu will grow for a lineage member (Fortune 1963[1932):69-70,108). Both male and female inherit yams. Consequently, marriage brings together seeds as well as lineages. But while husband and wife may work together in gardens, they keep their seed strictly separate (Fortune 1963[1932]:118-19). 'Man and wife have their distinct and separate annual garden plots with distinct and

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separate seed of separate strains' (Fortune 1963[1932]:69). This replicates the pattern of alternating residence whereby a person lives temporarily in the village of his or her mate, but never alienates or merges his or her lineage identity. Yam seed must be preserved, just as the human lineage must be continued. If a person loses or is unable to reproduce his strain of seed, his or her line of descent is threatened, if not broken. Such a person has no food supply and must take up one of the despised professions, such as being a fisherman, thief or beggar. This is the greatest of degradations for Dobuans. Of course, a fisherman can eat by trading for yams, but he has nothing to pass across the generations (Fortune 1963[1932]:70,74, 79,83). Thus, the Dobuan farmer must always balance his dual need to eat and to save, to consume in the present and to reproduce. For this reason, prospective parents-in-law spend some time inspecting the seed stock of their potential children-inlaw. 'If the seed proves unsatisfactory in quantity or in quality they may decline to allow the marriage to proceed' (Fortune 1963[1932]:102). A poor strain will not directly affect the seed of a partner, but one spouse's crop failure, through the pressure of hunger, will lead to a more rapid depletion of the other's stock and thus threaten its chances of reproduction. The needy can sometimes obtain fresh seed from a brother or sister, but such help cuts into their supply and is not encouraged by the lender's marital partner. In addition, just as a lineage without yams is despised, so also yams without lineages are abnormal. Spirit yams, for example, are 'yam vines which grow wild without setting any seed at the roots. Spirits do not reproduce; also they are not very important in Dobuan feeling' (Fortune 1963[1932]:123). Viewed from the perspective of our model, yams are a form of 'capital.' On Dobu, however, yams lack the homogeneity, fluidity and mobility that we attribute to capital. The yam seed of a matrilineage may include several botanical varieties (Fortune 1963[1932]:116), while the same strains may be held by different lineages. Lineages are not aligned on a one-to-one basis with yam varieties. Yet, this real comparability of yams among lineages is modeled as heterogeneity; there is no cross-breeding between the seeds of different lineages nor can seed from outside the lineage be accepted. Incidentally, the ethnographer provided a test of

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this model. When he offered free yam seed plus cash to Dobuans, his gesture was ignored (Fortune 1963[1932]:71). This could not have been predicted from a Western model of rational choice and the efficient use of resources. Yams, like humans, respond to verbal spells. The magical incantations are always performed quietly, indeed murmured; otherwise, claim the Dobuans, the yams might think that the humans were fighting. But the practice is also a way of keeping the powerful verbal spells secret. The magic itself stimulates the seed; in fact, yams will not grow on their own without the proper garden rituals performed over them (Fortune 1963[1932]:119). (Wild yams, as noted, are said to be incapable of reproduction.) Yams respond and grow as humans get sick, fall in love and are motivated to give gifts to others. Growing yams is not a causal act so much as the willful enhancing and influencing of an already set pattern. Yams have no volition of their own, but they do have ears and respond to the wooing of humans. Not only is yam growth assured by use of spells, yams may also be stolen by magic. Yams, like humans, walk about at night, and theft takes the form of enticing the yams of another to come to one's own field as they are out wandering. A good yam crop, then, is indicative of powerful spells acting on one's own crop as well as that of another. But the seduction of women is also accomplished by using magic at night. Success in gardening or love enhances a man's reputation, for both are manifestations of control over magical power (Fortune 1963[1932]:108,124,128,1346). The quantities of yams and women are preset; the power of verbal incantations determines their differential distribution (Fortune 1963[1932]:176). Thus, yams are metaphors of humans and their lineages. One was generated from the other and the two must continue in a linked pattern over time. The integrity and exclusiveness of each is preserved. Yam strains are never mixed, just as lineages jealously mark their separation in residence, burials and treatment of strangers. Lineages are forever subject to their women being magically stolen by men, and so too lineage yams can be stolen through the magical spells of others. But people and yams (like Gogo women and cattle) both are and are not alike, and in this dialectical relationship lies the special importance of growing yams.

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Yam gardens and the self Yams as humans listen and have ears. But humans, unlike yams, also speak and control verbal spells. Only humans have the faculty of language, the reflexive capacity to speak as well as listen. This special ability allows humans to grow yams, while yams lack the powers that would enable them to make a garden of humans. Humans grow yams, influence them, steal them, exchange them and eat them. But yams do not do this to people. There is an inequality in the relation of humans and yams. Yams, therefore, are inferior humans because they lack verbal spells, yet ideal humans because they cannot use spells against one. Yams are what Dobuans would want others to be: silent and bent to their will. Yams are dependent beings (Fortune 1963[1932]:108)over whom Dobuans have omnipotent powers (Fortune 1963[1932]:101,120,127). Dobuans control yams as others would control them. More precisely, yams are what lineages aspire to but cannot be. Yams are one's lineage, yet one can accomplish with yams what cannot be done with the lineage. A yam line requires no cross-breeding and can be kept solitary; it is self-sufficient and will multiply on its own as well as attract members from other yam lineages. Unlike a human brother and sister, a line of yams need never be separated; it can reproduce endogamously. Yam lines represent the ideal of the isolated, self-sustaining group; and in this respect, Dobuans accomplish with their yams what the Trobrianders claim for their human lineages by means of their spirit theory of procreation (Fortune 1963[1932J:239).Yams are the aspirations of a lineage - to be endogamous and independent. In the broadest sense, then, the principal economic practice of the Dobuans is a model of what they want of the lineage. 'Making a garden' (Fortune 1963[1932]:22,29,102,161) is an activity which is valued in itself aside from its material results. Fishing, for example, can provide sustenance, but it is a contemptible profession (Fortune 1963[1932]:83). By contrast, 'gardening is the supreme occupation' (Fortune 1963[1932]:201). Making a garden is not simply a means to material nourishment, but a creative act in the social world. Gardening is a 'fantastic' activity, a dialectical and reflexive enactment of social life as it should be.

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Placing Dobu The Dobuan model offers several comparisons and contrasts to the ones already considered. Among the Bemba and Bisa, general prosperity, nature and animals are constituted as the ancestors. On Dobu the metaphor has a more specific focus, yams; and yams are constituted as lineages. In the Africa cases the metaphor is chartered by the notion of historical contact between the human predecessors and the land. On Dobu the metaphor is justified by a myth which asserts that transformation and sharing of substance unit yams and humans. From these differences several others follow. In Africa, nature, expressing the intentions of the ancestors, represents an endless reservoir or source to which humans can always tum. On Dobu, there is no reservoir of fertility. The Dobuans have a finite store of yams, inherited from the past, and an individual can increase his or her holdings only at the expense of another. Neither the Africans nor the Dobuans have a theory of surplus or accumulation, but on Dobu the yam stock, like the lineage, is also in danger of extinction. Humans, in the two models, must perform different kinds of actions. On Dobu there is no need for making supplications, propitiations or requests to other humans. Dobuans do not act to influence ancestral intentions; rather, they act affirmatively through the use of verbal spells which have been bequeathed to them. The Dobuan also possesses a different form of knowledge. All Bemba have knowledge of the technical skills of agriculture, created and given to them by human ancestors. Dobuans each have secret, magical knowledge which is specific to particular yams and to particular situations. The Dobuan 'maker' is neither a rational calculator who arranges means in relation to ends nor dependent upon others to accomplish things for him. The Dobuan has command by virtue of possessing secret knowledge which neither he nor his precedessors invented. It follows that the modeling of uncertainty varies as between the cases. In the West uncertainty is due to the unpredictability of both natural causes and human aims; among the Bemba it is due to the unpredictability of the ancestors; for the Dobuans, uncertainty enters through the variable intentions of others who also employ verbal incantations to achieve their purposes. In such a world, material events are ipso facto social happenings; there exists no place for a mechanistic, doubtful and causal view of

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relationships. Uncertainty arises only from counterveiling magic, that is, from beings invoked by others as well as the actions of uncontrolled beings. On Dobu, therefore, making a livelihood is not directed outward in a physical sense, for yams are not constituted as physical entities. In the garden Dobuans are not acting on nature; rather, they are acting on other human-like entities. The Dobuan model is not a poor substitute for a scientific, causal model of the material world; its project is not that of having control over the world's elements. Quite the reverse: gardening is the occasion for a 'play,' a social performance. The process of gardening contains within it the Dobuans' deepest beliefs about how the world is made, who they are, what social life is, and how events occur. Gardening is a reflexive construction in that it is modeled in relation to other social categories. Far from providing a foundation or 'base' for the social order, 'the economy' here is made to say something about something else. On Dobu, production is neither a distinct category nor an instrumental or technically determined act whose referent is the material world. Instead it is an enactment which refers to other social acts. And because Dobuan production is modeled after other social acts, it is at once specifically Dobuan and embedded in society.

'--_.

8

Metaphors, reflections

models and

In a serious but whimsical vein, Piero Sraffa once compared the received texts of economics to Medieval cosmologies. Both were accepted as dogma, each was beclouded, and neither could withstand a reasoned critique. But the subjects with which they dealt, such as human culture or the natural environment, were significant; and Sraffa urged that the problem lay not in the topics addressed but solely in the minds of theologians and economists. 1 Sraffa's comparison of economics to theology and formal models to cosmologies is apt, and to escape the mental haze to which he refers I have turned to the local models which people everywhere have for securing a livelihood. Unlike the universal models of economic anthropologists, these are seldom derivational in form. Exotic material practices are frequently constructed through metaphors which have a broad set of entailments. My focus on local constructions, however, hardly excludes taking a more general or comparative perspective, although the goal is not the discovery of ultimate laws and features of economic life. Rather, by offering multiplex comparisons, or what Needham (1975) has called 'polythetic classification,' one can use each model to help elucidate the others. Because focal metaphors of livelihood often employ one or another image drawn from the human or social body as well as linked concepts about the 'self' in relation to the 'other,' these themes provide a beginning point for comparing the various social groups and theorists as well as several other models.

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Dobu and Iban

As a zero point let us begin with Dobu where the activity of gaining a livelihood provides an ideal of social relations. The yam is the matrilineage, yet more perfect, for yam seed can be kept separate or 'endogamous' for reproduction. This construction of yams obviates the need for making gardening a mediation or transaction. Because yams are the lineage itself in ideal form, the act of raising yams is a nonexchange. These Dobuan themes receive an echo from the Iban who live on Sarawak, for among these people rice 'is' the principal social unit. 2 The key group among the Iban is the bilek which is a property-owning unit based on the nuclear family. One married child always remains in the bilek, bringing his or her spouse there in order to inherit the residence and associated property. The worst fate that can befall a bilek is to become extinct, to be broken as a continuing line. If a couple have no offspring, they will adopt a youngster to perpetuate their house. A bilek, it is said, should never end. The livelihood of the Iban is based upon the cultivation of hill rice, but the relation between humans and rice is an elaborate one. Humans, vegetables and animals are alike in that they have a soul, called a semengat. Upon death the human soul dissolves into dew which enters the rice, itself eaten by the living. Rice is the most important of vegetable souls, having human responses and emotions. It is, say the Iban, 'just like one of us' (Jensen 1974:153). Rice is compared to families: young rice to children, growing rice to growing females, and scattered rice to scattered children. Rice illnesses are described in the same terms as those used for humans: rice may have warts, a cold or a headache. Just as the human bilek reproduces, increases and throws off new lines, so the Iban say of their rice 'May our padi procreate and become plenteous' (Freeman 1970:217).Like humans, rice is said to have an independent power to increase in quantity, even when it is stored in bins after harvesting. In fact, the various parts of storage bins are classified by comparison to parts of the human body. The soul or semengat of rice and humans, which is immortal and separable from its material embodiment, may wander on its own (Freeman 1967:317). At all times, therefore, the Iban avoid

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hurting the rice and offending its spirits who may flee. The people keep a reverential and deferential attitude toward the rice. Rice cannot be thrown away nor trod upon. If some rice is spilt, the Iban apologize verbally to the spirits and sometimes make ritual amends. Outsiders are not allowed to measure rice fields. The people also refrain from planting rubber trees - a cash crop - in order not to give offense to the rice. Throughout the harvest special care is taken not to frighten away the padi spirits, for their leaving will result in a diminution of the crop. One ritual, for instance, is specifically directed to keeping the soul of the rice from wandering off the farm at harvest. According to Freeman (1970:207-8) the use of sickles would speed up the time spent at harvesting, at little material cost, but the Iban refuse to harvest other than with a hand knife; the rice must be taken gently and unawares, otherwise its spirit may flee (but see Miles 1979). Similarly, the Iban thresh by treading rather than flailing in order that the rice spirits be not surprised and shocked, grow angry and depart. These agricultural practices are formulated in relation to human imagery. For example, just as the soul of the rice may go away, so also in some human illnesses the soul leaves the body and must be fetched by a healer. The metaphor of a wandering rice soul also strikes more deeply: it is the women who principally raise the rice while younger men wander on 'journeys' (formerly headhunting) for the greater part of a year or years. The continuity of bileks depends upon their returning, an event which usually occurs but can never be certain. Similarly, a bilek family may leave the longhouse of which it is a member, and longhouses themselves move en masse through the jungle. The metaphor of a wandering rice soul captures some of these social happenings; some of the worries which the Iban express about their rice, their concerns about its fragile soul, are but codified reflections of disruptive events in Iban social organization. Within this general metaphor drawn between humans and rice, a special connection is made between particular rice strains and bileks. The senior member of the family unit is called the 'pun bilek' which means foundation or root of the bilek (Freeman 1958:33-5). Each group has only one pun bilek who is a direct descendent of the prior leader. The pun bilek may be either male

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or female, the two sexes appearing in approximately equal proportions. In addition, each bilek has a special strain of rice called the 'padi pun.' A bilek may possess as many as twenty different strains of rice, but the padi pun is the most important. Like the pun bilek it is demarcated in various ways. The padi pun has a special name and at least one distinctive, visual characteristic. A bilek may have a legend of origin about its padi pun and ten or more special prohibitions for it. More important, the fertility of all the rice is said to depend upon the padi pun. It is 'the lords of all' (Freeman 1970:154), and through it the Iban communicate with the rest of the rice spirits. The padi pun is always planted in the center of the farm. A plot is sown from the outside inward, the first seeds planted being nonritual, fast-growing varieties. Toward the center are planted subsidiary sacred strains and last of all the padi pun. The harvesting moves from outside to inside, and the Iban have the firm belief that the harvesting must be done with spatial continuity; each section must be harvested completely before the next, until the padi pun is reached. This spatial and temporal plan of sowing and harvesting is an expression of the centrality and temporal continuity of the padi pun, just as the pun bilek is the 'nucleus' of the human group (Freeman 1958:34). The various farming rituals are also performed around the padi pun. If some of the rice is attacked by disease, a clump of the 'padi pun is dug up and ritually treated. In addition, although there is a good deal of seed exchange throughout the entire Iban area, a bilek never alienates any of its padi pun. This rice is never sold, exchanged or given away; the padi pun leaves the bilek neither in production nor consumption, for to do so would be to dissipate the efficacy 'acquired during the countless rituals carried out by past generations' of the bilek itself (Freeman 1970:50). Each year the Iban seed only a small area in padi pun; each year they keep in reserve a large portion of the prior harvest, and this portion is eaten only when the new crop has been harvested. By contrast, excess nonritual rice will be exchanged for and converted into brass gongs and Chinese jars; yet, these lasting items of display themselves represent the continuing success of a bilek and its fertile padi pun. As much care is taken to guarantee the continuity of the padi pun as is taken to guarantee the continuity of the pun bilek,

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The padi pun stands to other rice strains as the pun bilek does to other members of the human group. This similarity is made evident in the developmental cycle of the bilek. All combinations of two married siblings within one bilek prove unstable, and the bilek must part. One group - usually the junior or younger segment - secedes from the rest. The physical dwelling is kept by the senior or remaining section, while the seceding unit moves out and constructs a new house. The sibling who breaks away becomes the pun bilek of the new group. Most of the physical property of the original bilek is divided among the two groups according to their size and composition. But the rice is allocated differently. The padi pun remains with the senior and continuing group, while the seceding group must take an auxiliary sacred strain which then becomes its own ritual seed. These secondary ritual strains were and are planted directly around the padi pun, just as the juniors of a group are agglomerated about its pun bilek. Thus, the auxiliary sacred strains of rice represent potential lines of fission; they show precisely that sibling distinctions within the bilek will eventually become differences between bileks. Overall, a relation of similarity links a bilek group to its rice. Yet, ultimately one can do with rice what cannot be done with the bilek. A rice strain can be kept intact, unmixed and endogamous; a bilek must always splinter, and for the Iban this is a definitive and psychologically difficult transition because it entails a severing of ties with the natal family (Freeman 1958:36). Thus, rice for the Iban is also a commentary upon and a realization of what social life may aspire to but cannot achieve. Only through their material practices can the Iban finally overcome the contradictions which are inherent in their social life. In certain respects, then, rice for the Iban is like yams for the Dobuans. The foodstuff is a metaphor of central social relationships. The particulars of the construction, however, are quite different in the two cases. On Dobu, one lineage possesses only one yam seed which is not itself a real species. Among the Iban, each bilek has many strains of rice, and its central and sacred strain is a species. On Dobu, lineages never let go of lineage members and crop seed, but they do 'loan' their members to other lineages and allow others to share their productive output. Among the Iban, membership of the bilek may change, but its

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members are never loaned out, and the padi pun leaves it neither in production nor consumption. For the Iban fertility can be gained, developed over time and represented in durable items of display. But for Dobuans fertility is inherent in a seed and can only be activated or lost. Among the Iban there is both reproduction and increase, while for Dobuans there is only reproduction; increase represents the stealing of the crops of others. Quantities of goods convey individual prestige in both cases, but on Dobu this is prestige of power against others while among the Iban it is prestige earned by continuous propriety. In both models, nevertheless, the primal metaphor relates human groups and material objects. The object is the social self. This construction obviates the need for modeling production as an exchange, that is, as a mediation between the self and the other. From this perspective both Dobu and Iban represent one 'zero point' of analysis. Bemba, Bisa and Cree The Bemba and Bisa may be doubly contrasted to the Iban and Dobu. The two African groups provide an example of how a single metaphor can be used to constitute different productive activities; in their models also exchange has a prominent role. For the Bemba general prosperity is a metaphor of the ancestors, their willing dispositions and good volition being required to secure the bounties of nature. Because the ancestors have living representatives in chiefs, securing a livelihood is a mediation between the living and the dead through the politico-lineal structure. The components of this exchange are prosperity in return for material tribute and services. For the Bisa, hunting success is also a reflection of the ancestors, but animal availability mirrors immediate transactions among kin, affines and village members. For the Bemba and Bisa, therefore, securing a livelihood is constructed as an exchange; in contrast to Dobu and Iban, goods and services must be given away rather than retained for display. The key difference lies in the metaphoric construction. Among the Iban and Dobu the social self as household or lineage is projected upon parts of the material world; among the Bemba and Bisa, the ancestor or close other is represented in animals,

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fertility and prosperity. Securing a livelihood, consequently, is an exchange between this socially close other and the self. Similar models are found in a number of societies. The Mistassini Cree, who live to the north of Montreal, construct their hunting and trapping activities as an exchange between themselves and animal spirits." In the summer the Cree live in villages, earn wages, eat food of the white man, and observe Christian rituals. In the winter they disperse into smaller groups, capture game which serves as their primary foodstuff, and practice traditional Cree rituals. This seasonal and social oscillation is partly coincident with an opposition between an historical, subsistence pattern of livelihood and a more recent market economy. In the winter, for example, although the Mistassini do produce for their own consumption, they spend part of their time trapping animals to secure fur for cash sale to the Hudson's Bay Company. The company, in turn, extends credit to the Mistassini in the form of supplies for the winter; as in Panama, this external command over the local means of production is a way of assuring that a supply of raw material reaches the commodity buyer. From this perspective, the Cree are participants in a cash economy during both the summer and the winter. But the fur trapping is done according to traditional techniques and carried out within the broader context of traditional customs. In addition, the amount of fur sold is not determined by ever-expanding consumption desires; rather, the animals caught serve a double purpose. Their fur is preserved for sale, while their meat is consumed; and fur production for the market is determined by meat production for the home. Fur is a by-product of subsistence needs, much as in Panama sugar-cane once was an extra to rice and maize. The Cree winter economy, which is structured about an exchange, presupposes a richly elaborated metaphor. Every item in the Cree world, from moccasins and snowshoes to animals and humans, has a spirit. Like humans, animals have relationships among themselves and to forces behind them. Just as there is a human understanding of reality, so also there is an animal perception of the world (Tanner 1979:136-7). This metaphoric relation between humans and animals is mediated through an exchange, which constitutes 'production.' According to the animal construction of reality, they are not

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caught and killed; rather, they offer themselves to hunters (Tanner 1979:136). Both animals and humans have spiritual beings who are their owners or masters. In the case of animals, the master withholds and releases game to pursuing humans almost as if he were controlling a flow from a reservoir. Furthermore, various spirits can make the conditions of hunting easier or more difficult by calming waters, breaking up ice, changing the temperature and so forth. In return for their success in securing game, humans owe respect and gratitude to the animals and their masters (Tanner 1979:153-81). This respect must be expressed at all stages of the hunt: implements must be properly decorated; a caught animal must be brought home, announced and displayed in special ways; its meat must be distributed and consumed according to set patterns; all of its parts must be totally consumed and its bones left on display in trees and on platforms outside the house. The fat of the animal also is smeared upon walls, doorposts and guns; and it is placed in the fire and on the head to promote thoughts, dreams and enhanced contact with animals. Ritual offerings are also made to the spirits, and eventually a campsite must be left in a 'clean' condition as a sign of respect for them (Tanner 1979:745). Thus, the Cree construct hunting as an exchange between humans and animals. The importance attached to paying respect to animals is the other side of the coin to the people's conception that they are receiving something from the game and their spirits. In this transaction model, hunting is a communication between two metaphorically linked domains; and the exchange itself is patterned after ordinary human relationships, such as friendship, coercion and love (Tanner 1979:138,148-50). Because animals and spirits among the Cree are not identical to people, securing a livelihood depends upon a transaction. On Dobu, yams are the self, and yam gardening does not entail an exchange. In this respect, the Cree could be said to present a mirror reversal of the Dobuans. On that small island society, humans are pictured as having imperious command over the prosperity of their gardens, while the Cree see themselves as humbly dependent upon powerful agents to whom forms of supplication must be made. From this perspective, the Cree also resemble the Bemba and Bisa; but here, too, there are

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differences. For the Bemba and Bisa, nature's riches and the availability of game depend on the volition of other, live and dead, humans; for the Cree, game are the dispositions of nonhuman spirits who are a replication of human volition. The implication in both cases is that a highly textured transaction is central to productive activity, but in one instance this exchange takes a predominantly material form and is mediated through and with humans, while in the other it has a nonmaterial form and occurs directly between humans and the spirits upon whom they depend. For the Cree, in contrast to the African groups, the transaction is not within society, with its hierarchical organization, but between society and the forces upon which it must draw. The Gogo, Physiocrats, Panama and Bolivia The Gogo present a multi-metaphoric model. For them agricultural prosperity, as among the Bemba, is a metaphor of ancestral volition; and securing a livelihood from the land entails an exchange between live and dead humans. Gogo cattle, however, are a metaphor of women, and they reproduce as do females. This is a natural process which humans have appropriated and over which they have independent command. Like women, cattle are exchanged, but they are not something for whose production humans can and must exchange. The two Gogo constructions are linked together by inversions and transformations, but they also serve to bifurcate production and exchange into gender-linked, ranked domains. The Physiocratic model, like that of the Gogo, is multimetaphoric, resting on the three metaphors of circulation, reproduction and mind. Unlike the Gogo, however, the Physiocrats projected the three schemas upon the totality of economic practices. As in the Gogo model, there is a marked bifurcation between kinds of 'productive' activities, but this division is constituted within the schema of mind and is transcended by the total and analogical form of that image as well as bridged by the other two. Thus, within the Physiocratic model there are different and ranked spheres of productive practices but not different domains of exchange. The Panama ethnography, unlike the previous instances, revealed three separate models. Each was the product of a

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different historical period, although for a time two overlapped and were employed simultaneously. One comparison can be made between the first or household model in Panama and Physiocracy. The core of both models, as in Ricardo, is the circular reproduction of agricultural foodstuffs. For both, this cycle of necessary goods flows through passive labor and is sustained by the land which has an inherent fertility. Any use of the commodity cycle, whether for sustaining productive labor, leisure or purchasing luxury items, is defined as an expense. The Physiocrats, however, saw the land as providing a net product or surplus, whereas the Panamanians constructed the land as a 'force' which might permit but did not ensure that savings could be accumulated each year. Profit had a place in the Panamanians' model only as an externality; it arose within and flowed outward in exchanges between the rural and urban sectors. In a sense, however, this is congruent with the Physiocratic model where the net product flowed upward to landowners who 'in exchange' allowed cultivators to derive subsistence from the land. One might suggest, then, that the Panamanians, the Physiocrats and Diderot offered three related models: Diderot provided an artisan perspective, the Panamanians offered the view of farmers, and the Physiocrats constructed a total, encompassing model from the perspective of the aristocracy. The first model in Panama was a 'domestic economy' generated by and within a broader 'political economy' of which the Physiocrats offered one version. Panama stands to Physiocracy as the local to the global. But the household economy in Panama eventually changed to a dual situation in which both subsistence farming and cash cropping were practiced. This stage can be compared to some of the other ethnographic instances. Like the Gogo, the Panamanians had a complex model in which two productive activities were carried out simultaneously but ranked and kept in separate domains. Unlike the Gogo, these activities were constructed in relation to a yet larger and more encompassing economy. Like the Cree, who also had a local within an encompassing economy, external production was made subservient to traditional production through the limited consumption desires of the people for market goods. But the Cree, unlike the Panamanians, preserved a divide between their two economies through seasonal and spatial movement.

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A further reflection upon Panama and some of the other models is provided by one final ethnographic case. The tin miners in the mountains of Bolivia also have a dual model; but where the Cree hunters and Panamanian farmers used different constructions for their traditional and market activities, the miners employ a linked pair of metaphors to constitute the two. In this respect, their model bears a curious resemblance to the Gogo, except that the miners' principal form of livelihood is dominated by a market economy over which they have little power. The notion of production as an exchange also plays an important part in the Bolivian model, but the miners' construction is an inversion of that of the Cree; for them the transaction is a sacrifice' of the suffering human producers rather than of the giving resource. The exchange is of human life for livelihood. For the tin miners there is a bifurcation between activities above ground and those below ground." Above ground, the traditional crops and animals as well as humans are reproduced and maintained. Quechua and Aymara are spoken in the home. In general the fertility of agriculture and of the earth is associated with the pachamama, a traditional female figure who is sometimes identified with the Virgin. She is also known as the 'old woman' (viejita), that is, one who has borne children but is no longer of an age to do so. Various offerings are made to the pachamama for 'continuity in the returns from crops and flocks' (Nash 1979:123). The foetus of a sacrificed llama is considered a central and powerful offering. The blood from the llama may also be sprinkled on mining equipment to make it productive and safe for humans to use. More broadly, the pachamama is invoked to preserve the health of the miners when below ground. In the mines, Spanish is spoken. The mine is seen as a living organism, and as the innards of a human body. The thumping compressor is the heartbeat; water pumps and lines are the respiratory system; draining liquids are likened to pus-filled blood, dripping from wounds; and gaseous smells emerge from the interior of the mine which is 'the bowels of the earth.' One work site, in fact, is called 'Black Anus' (Nash 1979:170). Humans must work inside this living and carnivorous entity. The mines also are the province of the tio (uncle) who is a masculine figure identified with the devil. The tio has a consort known as the viuda (widow) who is a young and beautiful,

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urbanized mestiza. She deludes and tempts men to lose their minds and their money over her. The tio and viuda provide complementary but inverted images to the pachamama and 'old woman.' Like the pachamama, the rio is worshipped, although with a different set of aims and practices. He owns the wealth of the mine and controls its resources. (Some men claim to have seen the tio at night leading a pack of llamas, loaded with the mineral, into the mine.) The tio reveals the location of the ore and of rich veins to those who give him offerings; if he is offended, the tio may cease to reveal the ore and cause accidents to happen. Offerings to the tio, like those to the pachamama, involve llamas. But unlike offerings to the pachamama, which are made in the day, these are made at night; and where the pachamama receives a llama foetus, the tio's appetite is slaked only by a llama's palpitating heart (Nash 1979:316). In addition, before a llama is sacrificed to the tio, the miners kiss it, thereby identifying themselves with it. The dead llama's blood is then caught in a pan, taken to various places of work in the mine and sprinkled with the verbal plea, 'Drink this instead of my blood.' The sacrificial and substitutional role of the animal is revealed clearly by the events of 1969 when three men were successively killed in a mine. The workers 'were convinced that the tio was thirsty for blood' (Nash 1979:163). For the miners, securing riches depends upon an exchange. Ultimately, the transaction is a sacrifice by humans of themselves for ore; at times, the tio takes human lives directly, other times he accepts the metaphoric substitute of a llama. But for riches to be secured the inverted Eucharist, the sacrifice not of the God but of humans to the God, must be made. Not surprisingly, men claim that their earnings, which truly are the wages of the devil, are soon spent. This linear image of the devil's bounty is quite unlike the reproductive image offered by the pachamama. Together the two provide an interesting, if darkened, reflection and replication of the Panamanian opposition between subsistence as cyclical necessity and cash crops as the vice of once-spent luxury. The Bolivia situation may also be compared to the Cree. The Cree have been able to limit the influence of the cash economy through their seasonal oscillation which takes them away from

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market influences during the winter. For them, animals encountered during the hunt are a metaphor of the self seen as the other; securing a livelihood depends upon paying respect to these benevolent figures. By contrast, the Bolivians every day confront powerful outsiders and a dangerous mode of livelihood. For them the tio is a metaphor of this otherness: the tio is a local way of constructing the uncontrolled productive experience. In both cases, securing a livelihood is seen as an unequal exchange between humans and unseen entities, but since for the tin miners these entities are distant and unfriendly others, the asymmetry of their transaction is the reverse of the Cree. Reflections In all living societies humans must maintain themselves by securing energy from the environment. Although this lifesustaining process. amounts only to a rearranging of nature, a transforming of materials from one state or appearance to another, humans make something of this activity. What they make of it has been the subject of this study. The creation of entropy may be constituted as productivity, a surplus, creativity, the ancestors, labor or even a sacrifice. In one respect, such local models of livelihood are the true cultural ruse or trick. Any set of economic constructions is a kind of mystification or ideology. Although local models contain elaborations that would 'ground' them and assert their unique validity, they are liable to be undermined by the very insensibility that they themselves deny. The presence of other economic models also poses a threat, for knowledge of another construction leads to doubt about the ultimate validity of one's own. Universal models in economic anthropology represent a rejection of this doubt, for through a form of cultural reflexivity, they would assimilate others to us. The universal modeler attributes to exotic economic practices a motivation and intentionality which is our own. Other economic models are seen to be mere appearances, and behind these lies a true and accessible reality which - though self-projected - is the object of anthropological attention. But such self-projections are themselves of anthropological interest, for in his reflexive practices the universal modeler

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rejoins the world of all modelers. Time and again, images drawn from the close and self-known have been projected within models. For exotic societies, the diversity of these images is very large, ranging from dead to live humans, females to males, and human dispositions to human instincts. Like the exotics, the Physiocrats employed human metaphors, although their schemas were mechanistic and nonvolitional. Ricardo represents a continuation of this tradition in that he offered a mechanistic scheme but one in which all human imagery was dropped. In Ricardo, for example, the positive and negative sides of exchange between self and other for livelihood are formulated as the income and costs of production. Clearly, the Ricardian type of model and set of images is useful, but terms can also create their own reality. In a letter to Joan Robinson, Sraffa once argued it was surely possible to measure land and labor in terms of hectares or persons. The results, always subject to a certain degree of error, had a definite sense. But how, he asked, could one measure capital? To speak of the weight of capital in pounds or grams was silly. For example, how many kilograms was the London tube? To convince Robinson, he suggested that she talk with those who had not been seduced by formal economics but had to secure a livelihood in which measures were important. A farmer who possessed land and employed workers would have an approximate idea of the quantities of labor and land which he used during the year. But if one said to the farmer that he employed 1,000 kilos of capital, he would think one was silly, though - Sraffa added - no more silly than certain leading economists." Sraffa's concern with the fact that we are frequently seduced by our verbal categories is relevant to my theme, but the anthropological problem concerns not only words, it involves the type of explanations we seck. Securing a livelihood is inevitably modeled by us as a teleological or means-to-ends relationship. The means arc selected with certain ends in view. The Marxist, for example, speaks easily of the means of production, production for use, and production for exchange. In neoclassical economics also, production is modeled as a goal-oriented action which is causal or deductive in form. In fact, much of neoclassical theory is focused upon the causal relation between marginal or incremental inputs and their marginal or incremental results (Black, Coats and Goodwin 1973). This 'technical' relationship, which can be modeled by use of numerical techniques, is said to explain the pattern of product

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distribution: each factor or means receives as reward the increment which it contributed. This part of the theory has long been under attack by Marxists, who argue that product distribution is part of the class struggle; and the attack received a technical justification by the neoRicardian revolution which Sraffa himself initiated (1960). But I would emphasize here that marginalism offers an elegant instance of - what I have termed a derivational model. It employs the notion of efficient causality (marginal inputs cause marginal outputs) to derive and to explain the pattern of product distribution. To put it another way, if we want to explain why a certain pattern of distribution is found, then marginal ism tells us to look at the efficient causes. For true believers a marginalist, derivational model delineates the underlying structure of all production systems. Finkler (1979,1980), for example, has used marginalist techniques to describe the production and distribution patterns found in a Mexican village. To do so, Finkler drew a distinction between the model of the 'scientific' observer which could provide an 'etic' analysis and the 'culturally produced model' which yielded an 'emic' view (1979:675). The scientific model was a marginalist analysis while the ernie view was made up of the statistics actually gathered. The two models did not match. According to the observer's model, landowners received less than that which their land actually contributed, while labor, seed and traction were all over-rewarded (Finkler 1980:277). This difference between the analytical model and local practices was said to be significant, and the anthropological problem posed by the author was to explain this 'covert process' (Finkler 1979:675). But surely this is a spurious problem, for science and the etic here are nothing more than one of our familiar economic models. The discrepancy between the two distribution patterns was generated only by the anthropologist's own modeling activity. Indeed, the category distinction between etic and emic (from phonetic and phonemic) is itself an artifact and symptom of the use of a derivational model; cross-cultural explanation is said to consist in showing how the emic or observed may be derived from the etic or assumed. Surely, however, when the derived language does not fully match actual practices, there is no covert process going on behind the backs of the people with whom the anthropologist is privileged to live. The mystification lies only in

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the use of our own cherished axioms and explanatory form, not in the ethnographic data. Indeed, I am inclined to reiterate the suggestion that we should rethink the materialist constructions of 'imperialism,' 'dependency theory' and 'unequal exchange' in terms of who gets to model whom. But Wittgenstein's comment about Sir James George Frazer provides a more apt closing to this book. Frazer, he said, 'is much more savage than most of his savages .... His explanations of the primitive observances are much cruder than the sense of the observances themselves' (Wittgenstein 1979:8).

Notes

Chapter 1 As I have argued elsewhere (Gudeman 1978a,1978b) there is a fascinating parallel between the peasants' division of goods into necessities and luxuries and the Sraffian division into basics and luxuries. Previously, I used a Sraffianlike model to analyze the productive system in rural Panama.

Chapter 2 I am indebted to Mischa Penn for numerous discussions and ideas concerning the role of derivational thinking in anthropology. The concept of universal and local models was first developed in our joint article (Gudeman and Penn 1982). 2 The literature on models and the related notion of metaphor is extensive and has grown considerably in the last twenty years. I have found the work of Black (1962,1979a,1979b) especially suggestive but have also been influenced by Fernandez (1974,1980), Hesse (1966), Johnson (1981), Lakoff and Johnson (1980), Leach (1976), MacCormac (1976), Needham (1980:41-62), Ortony (1979), Ricoeur (1977), Turbayne (1970), and Wartofsky (1979).

Chapter 3 Useful sources. include Blaug (1958), Dimitriev (1974), Gootzeit (1975), and Hollander (1979). Mathematical formulations of the Ricardian system are found in Pasinetti (1977) and Caravale and Tosato (1980). Weatherall (1976) provides a short, recent biography. For some of the many controversies see Hollander's (1973,1975) disagreement with Eatwell (1975) and Garegnani (1982); or see Barkai (1965) and Stigler (1965b). I have profited from Blaug (1978), Myrdal (1953) and Schumpeter (1954), but my argument fits most closely with views expressed by Dobb (1973), Levine (1977) and Sraffa (1951a). See also Tribe (1978). 2 Ricardo was not in the strict sense a utilitarian (1951,III:284; 1952[1815J,VI: 247), but the general mode of thought was congenial. Through James Mill he knew Bentham and exchanged letters with him. Ricardo subscribed three hundred pounds and raised a further sum to help carry out Bentham's plan for a 'Chrestomathic School' (1952,VI:112). 3 A comment on 'equal doses' of capital and labor as well as the 'intensive' margin may be appropriate. First, the profit/rent relation may be modeled in a different way than that presented in the text. All land units may be pictured as

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receiving equal applications of labor and capital. According to its particular characteristics each plot will have a distinctive output. The differentials in output above the poorest unit comprise the rents and flow to the owners of those parcels. The remainder after deduction of labor and capital costs is the profit. The ratio of profit to costs gives the profit rate. The difference between the picture provided in the text and this one is that in the first, output per plot is predetermined and equal across the land surface while costs are variable; in the second, costs are equalized for the plots and output is allowed to vary. By either method profit is deduced after the naturally set wage is paid, the corn seed is subtracted, and the differential rent is taken. Significantly, in the Essay, Ricardo provides examples of the first calculation only. He assumes that there is equal output per plot; and, T would argue, this mode of presentation was necessary to close his deductive model. With respect to the intensive margin, Ricardo also suggested in the Essay that the process could be visualized as adding (variable) units of capital and labor to old plots so that they would all yield equal but greater outputs; for simplicity T have omitted discussion of this. 1 would note, however, that he did not discuss adding equal, fixed doses of capital and labor to old plots. Again, the difference is between holding output constant and letting costs vary, and holding costs constant and letting output vary. To be sure, in The Principles, two years later, Ricardo considered the alternative calculations (1951[1817],1: 71). This textual fact about the Essay and the later change provides further evidence for my interpretation that Ricardo was offering a naturalistic derivation by assuming that a fixed wage, multiplied by the naturally determined population, set output. Ricardo worked toward or derived profit from the determining natural variables.

Chapter 4 1 am indebted to William Sewell and Stephen Holmes for advice and comments on this chapter. 2 Two general sources on Physiocracy are the recent Fox-Genovese (1976) and the standard Weulersse (1910,1931). For one view concerning metaphysics and Physiocracy, see Robinson (1964), and Robinson and Eatwell (1973:9-10). For an empiricist-inductionist and materialist-deductionist explanation of Physiocratic theory, see Meek (1963,1968). Eagly (1969) provides an analysis of Physiocracy in terms of capital theory, while Eltis gives 'a modern reconstruction' (1975:169) of Quesnay's Tableau. 3 Luthy argues: The title of his [Ouesnay's] best-known medical work, L' Essaiphysique sur l'economie animale, is there to remind us of the exceedingly broad character of the term 'economy,' which embraces all the functions of a living organism. (1970:165) To this he adds: Scholars have often tried to establish analogies between Ouesnay's economic doctrine and his views on medicine, and especially between his Tableau and the system of the circulation of the blood. But the relation between them is deeper than a mere analogy. Physiocracy . . . was the last powerful manifestation of the 'organic' and 'total' medieval view of society. (1970:166)

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Sewell cites a pamphlet (What is the Third Estate?) by the Abbe Sieyes which was highly influential in the political discussion of 1789. This was a new conception of the social order much of which fits the Physiocratic model. For Sieyes, the essential activity of the nation was the transformation of natural substances into useful goods ... [He] established production as the central activity of the nation .... The source of order was not spirit but nature, and the categories of citizens proceeded outward from the productions of nature to personal services. (Sewell 1980:80-1)

Chapter 5 For the Bemba I have drawn on the work of Audrey Richards (1939,1940, 1950,1951,1956,1960,1961,1963,1969). The Bisa material is based upon the recent book by Stuart Marks (1976). Although the fieldwork for the two studies is separated by more than three decades, I use the ethnographic present for both. This is an historical simplification, but I do not think it misrenders the ethnography or invalidates the comparative analysis.

Chapter 6 I do not provide a reference for every enthnographic fact on the Gogo. The material is drawn from Rigby (1966a,1966b,1967a,1967b,1967c,1968a,1968b, 1969,1971a,1971b,1972). See also Cole (1902) and Hartnell (1942). Harold Schneider (1970) presents a detailed economic analysis of a neighboring group but from a different perspective than that provided here; see Schneider (1979) for an 'expansion of his view to the general ethnographic area. A useful comparative summary is also provided by Brandstrom et al. (1979), Adam Kuper permitted me to read at an early stage his relevant and insightful materials on bridewealth and marriage (1982); his views have been most helpful. 2 These contrasting dimensions of organization, authority and gender are expressed in the two types of ritual fire. The ritual fire, which is used in yearly ceremonies assuring the rain and fertility of the seeds and land, is obtained by a wife from the leader of the ritual area where she resides. It is handled only by her and is used exclusively in her fields. By contrast, the ritual fire of the homestead is made from firesticks found by the homestead head. This fire, which is lighted each time a homestead is founded, gives protection to all children and livestock in the homestead. The used firesticks are buried in the cattle byre, near the gravestones for the ancestral spirits. As one elder stated: The firestick which we bury in the cattle byre, when we have built a new homestead, is the mbeho [ritual purity] of the homestead, so that the children may have healthy bodies, and also the livestock. It ensures that wild animals will pass at a distance and not come near. ... [By contrast] that fire [obtained from the ritual leader] is 'of the fields only', not for the homestead. This is not connected with the 'lire of the homestead.' (Rigby 1969:162-3) The two types of fire thus express the analogous oppositions of female and male, matrihouse and homestead, agriculture and cattle, ritual locale and family.

Notes to pages 114-155

161

3

At the direction of the ritual leader, medicines to protect the crops arc secured from a diviner; they are then distributed by the ritual leader. These medicines are different from those used for humans and cattle. Both come from diviners; those for cattle, however, go directly from diviner to male homestead head, while those for the crops go first to the ritual leader and then to each woman head of a matrihouse. The crop potions have effect only when used in the ritual area. They are placed with the seed, the seeding being done by the women. By contrast, the cattle medicines are secret and exclusive to the homestead head who may use them in whichever ritual areas his cattle happen to be located. This division in management of the medicines corresponds to the separate handling of the ritual fires. 4 Bridewealth is substantial compared to the size of herds owned. The Gogo have approximately one-and-one-half to two head of cattle 'per capita, the average herd being eleven head (Rigby 1971b:259); however, an average bridewealth numbers over fifteen head (Rigby 1969:225-9). This discrepancy between size of holdings and obligations can be solved in at least two ways. The velocity of cattle movement is probably high. In addition, kin should help in the accumulation of bridewealth. A 'mother's brother,' for example, will ideally contribute between one-quarter and one-third of the cattle required for his sister's son's marriage; he should also receive a like amount at the marriage of his sisters' daughters (Rigby 1969:232). Cattle are used to define, create and maintain relationships of kinship and affinity; and kin positions can be distinguished in terms of the cattle rights and obligations they bear in exchanges.

Chapter 8 The argument is contained in a letter, dated '31.10.32,' which Sraffa wrote to Joan Robinson. It is in the Joan Robinson archives, King's College Library, Cambridge. 2 This section is based upon the work of Freeman (1958,1961,1967,1970,1979), supplemented by Jensen (1974). Freeman worked in the Third Division, Jensen in the Second Division. 3 For the Cree I have used Tanner (1979), but see also Leacock (1954) and Martin (1978). 4 The primary source for this section is Nash (1979), but see also Nash (1972) as well as Rojas and Nash (1976). Taussig (1977,1980) has presented a valuable, related analysis. 5 The letter, dated '27.10.36,' is in the Joan Robinson archives, King's College, Cambridge.

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Index

accumulation: among the Bernba and Bisa, 100-1, 108-9; on Dobu, 137-8, 140; among the Gogo, 113, 117, 123; among the Iban, 143-7; in Panama, 12; in Physiocracy, 88, 108; in Ricardo, 56, 57, 61 agriculture: on Dobu, 136-9; among the Gogo, 110-11, 113-16; among the Than, 143-5; see also swidden agriculture ancestors: and humans, 90 passim, 11116, 121-2; as animals, 104-5; as chiefs, 95-7,103; as humans, 95-7; as hunters, 103-4; as land, 114-16, 1267; as nature, 92-4, 102-3 ancestral intentions, 93-4, 98-101, 104,106 animals: as ancestors, 104-5; as humans, 148-9 art and artisanship, 85-7 Becker, Gary, 44 behavior: means-ends, x, 31,155-6; mechanistic, 52, 55, 74; rulegoverned, 86 Bentham, Jeremy, 50 Black, Max, 40 Blaug, Mark, 70 Bohannan, Paul, 124 Bolivia, 152-4 bridewealth, 31-3, 115, 116-18, 120, 161n Bemba, 41, 42, 44, 90-109,114-15, 147-50 Bisa, 42, 44, 90-1,101-9,147-50 Cartesian tradition, 29-30, 32, 52, 69, 80 cash-cropping, 13-19 cattle: as money, 125; as women, 11011, 118-22, 126-8

causality, 45-7; in Ricardo, 50, 53, 55, 61; in Physiocracy, 88-9; in neoclassical economics, 30, 106, 155-6 charters, 41-3; among Bemba, 92-3; among Bisa, 105; on Dobu, 131-2; among Gogo, 118-20; in Panama, 16; in Physiocracy, 80-1,107; in Ricardo, 52 chiefs as ancestors, 95-7, 103 circulation, 66-7, 72, 75, 88,100-1, 107-9 class structure, 5, 50-1, 66-7, 72 community of modelers, 26-7 consumption, 10, 18, 22, 24, 36 Com Laws, 48-9, 55-6, 61, 64 corn model, xi, 4, 56-7,61-2,66,68; see also reproductive model Cree, 148-50 cross-cultural comparison, x-xi, 43-5, 142; see also metaphors, compared; models, compared currency, 61-2,110,124-5,126 derivational models, 52-3, 58-63, 6770, 155-6; see also universal models development, I, 19,20,24-7 dialectics in metaphors, 120-2, 129, 138, 139; see also models, dialectical quality of Diderot, Denis, 85-7 distribution, 34-6; among Bemba, 91, 95,98-101,104,106; among Bisa, 104-7; on Dobu, 131, 136-8; among Gogo, 115, 116-18; in Mexico, 156; in neoclassical theory, 106, 156; in Panama, 19,22; in Physiocracy, 72; in Ricardo, 57-61 divination and uncertainty, 100-1 divine kingship, %, 114 Dobb, Maurice, 69

171

172 Dobu, 42, 44, 46-7, 129-41,146-7, 149 domestic economy, 2-13,19-20,25,36 Dumont, Louis, 74 economizing, 11-12, 19,31 economy and polity, 52, 55, 61, 65,80 empiricism, 33, 34, 41, 81-4 essentialism, 30-5, 53, 54, 58, 63, 78 Euclidean form, 29-30, 52 exchange, 31-4, 36; among Bemba, 91, 93,99-101,108; among Bisa, 108;in Bolivia, 152-4;among Cree, 148-50; on Dobu, 130;among Gogo, 110, 115, 116-18,119-20,127-8, 161n; in Panama, 11-12, 16, 18; in Physiocracy, 72, 77; in Ricardo, 54, 56, 65; see also rural-urban relations expense, 2, 11, 12, 16,20 formalism, see neoclassicaleconomics Fortune, Reo, 128 Frazer, Sir James George, 46, 157

Index 57, 84, 88; and property, 11 land: as ancestors, 110, Ill, 114-16, 126-8;as construct, 4, 25; control, 15; fences, 3,14-16,20; as human head, 5-6, 22; maps, 6-9,17,21-2; margin, 57-9; as nature, 9; in Physiocracy, 75 passim; as power, 46, 9-10, 13, 16, 24, 64, 151;as reservoir, 101;rights among Bemba, 96,98; rights among Bisa, 103;rights on Dobu, 130, 136-7;rights among Gogo, 113-14;rights in Panama, 3, 4, 13-14;scarcity, 57-61,66, 98; value, 10-11, 16 landownership, 10-11,21 local models, x, 1,25-8,37-43; see also metaphors, models, universal models Locke, John, 4, 74, 80-7 Los Boquerones, 1,3 luxuries, 12

Malinowski, Bronislaw, 123 Malthus, Thomas Robert, 48, 50, 51, 53,55,62,64 maps, see land maps marginalism, see intensive margin, land margin, neoclassicaleconomics Hicks, Sir John, 30 Marx, Karl, 33-5, 36, 42, 54, 67-8; and human intentions, 43, 44, 45, 51-2, 55 Physiocracy, 71, 73-4, 77, 87 humans as ancestors, 95-7 Marxism, 30, 49, 69-70, 115, 125-6, humans: as makers, 33, 37,39, 154; 155-6 among Bemba, 92; on Dobu, 132, measurement: of crops, 9, 17, 24; of 135-6, 140;among Gogo, 127;in labor, 10, 18,20; of land, 9, 24; of Physiocracy, 77-8, 84-7 wealth, 52, 61-2, 79 mercantilism, 72 humans as passive, 54-5 humans as rice, 143-7 metaphors, ix, 44, 46-7,51; among humans as yams, 129, 136-9 Bemba, 90-8, 100-1;among Bisa, 90hunters as ancestors, 103-4 1, 102-6;in Bolivia, 152-4; hunting, 91,102-6,148-50 compared, 107-8, 127;among Cree, 148-50;on Dobu, 129-30,132-9; Iban, 143-7 among Gogo, 110-12,114-15,118institutional economics, see 22, 126-8;and models, 24, 37-43;in substantivism Panama, 5, 12,24,25; in instrumental action, ix, 45-7, 106, 127, Physiocracy, 74-6, 80, 82-5, 88; see 130, 134, 141; see also utilitarianism also dialectics in metaphors intensive margin, 158-9n mind in Physiocracy, 75, 82-3 intentions on Dobu, l32-8 mines as nonhuman, 152-4 Mirabeau, Marquis de, 75, 78 labor: as active, 65; as construct, 10, von Mises, Ludwig, 31 18,20,83-4; as expense, 77, 79-80; models: and change, 22-5, 37; homogeneity of, 24; obligations, 3, compared, 66-8, 88-9,107-9, 127-8, 98-9,113; as passive, 6,10-11, 18-19, 140-1,143-54;and context, 42, 47; as

gender relations, 110passim, 160n, 161n Godelier, Maurice, 33-4 Gogo, 44,110-28,150-1

Index cultural constructions, x-xi, 37-47, 49-50,69, 72-4; dialectical quality of, 38-9,41-2; domino, 39, 40, 41-2, 43; and power, 38, 42-3, 49; Western, x, 26, 28-9; see also derivational models, dialectics in metaphors; local models; metaphors, universal models; schemas mystification, 28, 33, 34, 154, 156; on Dobu, 130; among Gogo, 115; in Physiocracy, 73-4; in Ricardo, 50, 69 natural determination, 55, 57, 58,5961,64 natural law, 52-4, 61, 80-8 nature; as ancestors, 92-4; in Physiocracy, 75, 77-80; and value, 61-2,67,73, 78-9 Needham, Rodney, 142 neoclassical economics, 30-5, 69-70, 106, 118, 124-5, 155-6 neoRicardian economics, 1, 156 oikos model, 2, 11; see also domestic economy Panama, 1-27,42, 150-2 pastoralism, 3, 13-14, 91, 110-11, 116-18 Pepper, Stephen, 40 Physiocracy, xi, 71-89,107-8, 1l0, 1501; and models, 39, 44, 45; and Panama, 4,11; and Ricardo, 50, 51, 54,66-8 Polanyi, Karl, 32, 36, 44, 125 political economy, 4-5, 9, 13, 19, 25; see also rural-urban relations power and models, 26-7; see also charters production as construct, 36 profits, 57-65; as construct, 12, 18-19, 24,25 property: among the Bemba, 96, 98; among the Bisa, 103; among the Gogo, 117-20; and labor, 10-11,80, 83-4; and land, 11, 15-16; in Panama, 3-4,10-11,14-16,19-22; in Physiocracy, 80 putting-out system, 15 Ouesnay, Francois, 71 passim rational choice, 31, 34, 44,138,140

173 rationalism, 32 rationality, ix, 87, 90 reflexivity: historical, 70; in local models, 37; in Ricardo, 53, 55; in universal models, x, 29-30, 34, 38, 125-6, 154-7 rent: in Panama, 3, 20; in Physiocracy, 72; in Ricardo, 50, 55, 56, 57-61; semantics of, 21-2, 25, 63-5 reproductive model, 11-13,20,56,757, 136-8; see also corn model reversal rites, 120-2 Ricardo, David, xi, 30,39,44-5,48-70, 110; and Panama, 4, 21; and Physiocrats, 71, 77, 78, 80, 88 rice as humans, 143-7 Richards, Audrey, 98 Ricoeur, Paul, 40 ritual leaders, 112, 114-16 Robbins, Lionel (Lord), 31 Robinson, Joan, 69, 155 Rogin, Leo, 49 Rossel Island, 124 rural-urban relations, 152-4; in Panama, 12-13, 18-19,22,24-5; in Physiocracy, 66-7, 76-7, 82-3; in Ricardo, 51, 63, 67; see also exchange; political economy scarcity, 3, 13-14,98, 101 schemas, ix-x, 38-47, 106; reproductive, 13,24,68, 119-22, 145-7, 151, see also models Schneider, Harold, 31-2,124-5 Schumpeter, Joseph, 73 seed cycle, 9, 10 Simon, Herbert, 30 Smith, Adam, 50, 51, 69, 77 social morality, 81, 88, 101, 106-8 social organization, 96-7,102-3,130-1, 111-12 spheres of exchange, 111, 122-7 spirits as humans, 150 Sraffa, Piero, 34-5, 48, 54, 68, 155, 156 Stigler, George, 49, 54, 69 substantivism, 32-3, 34, 44, 125 swidden agriculture, 2-6, 93,113 Tambiah, Stanley, 46 Tikopia, 123-4 Trobriand Islands, 46-7,123,139 Turgot, Anne Robert Jacques, 71, 72, 75,77,79

Index

174 Turu,124-5

Veblen, Thorstein, 36

uncertainty, 100-1, 140-1 universal models, x, 26, 28-35; see also derivational models, essentialism, local models, models, mystification, reflexivity use as expense, 2, 11-13 usufruct, see land rights utilitarianism, 31, 158n

Western models, see models, Western; universal models Wittgenstein, Ludwig, 35, 157 women as cattle, 110-11, 118-22, 126-8 work and value, 11,34,83-4 yams as humans, 129-30, 136-9