Music, Plants, and Medicine: Lamista Shamanism in the Age of Internationalization

MUSIC, PLANTS, AND MEDICINE: LAMISTA SHAMANISM IN THE AGE OF INTERNATIONALIZATION

CHRISTINA MARIA CALLICOTT

A DISSERTATION PRESENTED TO THE GRADUATE SCHOOL OF THE UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY

UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA

2020

In honor of don Leovijildo Ríos Torrejón, who prayed hard over me for three nights and doused me with cigarette smoke, scented waters, and cologne. In so doing, his faith overcame my skepticism and enabled me to salvage my year of fieldwork that, up to that point, had gone terribly awry. In 2019, don Leo vanished into the ethers, never to be seen again.

This work is also dedicated to the wonderful women, both Kichwa and mestiza, who took such good care of me during my time in Peru: Maya Arce, Chabu Mendoza, Mama Rosario Tuanama Amasifuen, and my dear friend Neci.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This dissertation would not have been possible without the kindness and generosity of the

Kichwa people of San Martín. I am especially indebted to the people of Yaku Shutuna Rumi, who welcomed me into their homes and lives with great love and affection, and who gave me the run of their community during my stay in El Dorado. I am also grateful to the people of Wayku, who entertained my unannounced visits and inscrutable questioning, as well as the people of the many other communities who so graciously received me and my colleagues for our brief visits.

I have received support and encouragement from a great many people during the eight years that it has taken to complete this project. The amount of “informal knowledge” required for accessing higher education should not be underestimated. Without the counsel and encouragement of those who had gone before, especially Anna Zivian and Rob Schultheis, I would still be climbing ladders and painting houses in western Colorado. To that same end, I am grateful to the many esteemed scholars who answered my cold calls and emails and took the time to speak and correspond with me: Marlene Dobkin de Rios, Jonathan Hill, Anthony Seeger,

Michael Brown, Benedict Colombi, Augusto Oyuela-Caycedo, and Robert Lemelson. I thank

Peter Collings, who took a chance on a dark horse, rescued my graduate school application from the “reject pile,” and became my first advisor. I thank Sharon Abramowitz who gave me so much good advice over the years, both as an informal mentor and as a member of my committee. I thank Susan deFrance, Bette Loiselle, and Patricia Sampaio, who were all wonderfully supportive and provided or helped provide so many opportunities over the years. I thank the amazing staffers of the Department of Anthropology and the Center for Latin American Studies for their patience, kindness, and hard work. I want to send a special shout-out to Jonathan Hill, not only for his inspiring work but also for his kindness and generosity in mentoring and encouraging me, in reviewing my papers and application essays, in sharing his own scholarship,

and generally in leading the way toward a holistic study of shamanic music and ethnogenesis. I also thank Lynn Sikkink, as well as Wade Davis and his gracious wife Gail Percy for inspiring and encouraging me to pursue graduate studies in the first place.

In Peru, I thank Lucho Romero and Girvan Fasabi for facilitating my entrée into the

Kichwa communities of San Martín. I thank the federations CEPKA, FECONAKED, and

FEPIKRESAM, their presidents Gider Sangama, Nerio Tapullima, and William Guerra, and the apu of Wayku, Juan Cachique, for providing official permission for my work to proceed. I thank

Julissa Godos and Laura Volpi for their companionship and friendship, and especially Laura for finding me housing in Lamas and rescuing me from the oppressive heat and noise of Tarapoto. I thank Daniel Vecco for sharing his knowledge. I thank Chabu Mendoza and Enrique Paredes for kindly and selflessly housing and feeding me during much of my stay in Peru, and most remarkably, for doing so without remuneration. I thank Sarah Fein for allowing me to stay at her house in Lamas for much of the year. I thank the family of Crisóstomo Sangama Cachique, who welcomed me into their home during the Feast of Santa Rosa. I thank Elio Barbaran Tuanama,

Fernando Tapullima Tapullima, and the fine people of Nauta for welcoming me into their community for the festival of the Día de los Difuntos, and Fernando and Segundo for carrying my recording contraption during the long hot parades while I took photos and notes. I thank

Marco Sangama, with whom I look forward to co-publishing, for his help in transcribing and translating Kichwa song texts. I thank Grace Palacios Chavez for her help in translating difficult passages of San Martinense, as well as for her ongoing intellectual and professional companionship. Thanks also to John Hussein Rosenberg for the personal training on tools and techniques in field recording.

On a more personal level, I thank Herbert Quinteros for his generosity, kindness, and many years of friendship; I thank his mother Cora for hosting me during my first couple of trips to Tarapoto. I thank Sue and Rick, my gringo hippy compadres, who kept me company and put up with me during the most difficult months of my stay in Peru. I thank my beloved friends Peter

Sangama and Jaime Doherty for their friendship and support, and for sharing all their knowledge and connections with such generosity. I also thank Gabriel Sangama for his kindness, service, and generosity. I send great thanks and love to my dear friend-from-afar, Katie Keller, who joined me early on this path and who has provided me with great support, friendship, and intellectual companionship—and who, among other things, introduced me to Maya Arce. I thank

Maya Arce for being a dear friend and for always welcoming me with such hospitality. I thank the Telluride Ski and Snowboard School, particularly Noah Sheedy, Rich Grimes, and Doug

Morrison, for their flexibility and support and for always welcoming me with open arms. And of course I thank my mother, Deana Harrison, and my step-mother, Pam Callicott, for their love and encouragement.

Finally, I want to thank the members of my committee, Robin Wright, Simone Athayde,

Larry Crook, Lance Gravlee, and especially my chair, Catherine Tucker, for the countless hours they spent reading and commenting on this lengthy dissertation and spurring me to make it worthy of the degree. I am blessed to have such esteemed and knowledgeable people on my team, and I am grateful for their willingness to support and guide me and my work.

The research leading to this publication was funded by a variety of foundations and organizations, including the UF Department of Anthropology, the UF Tropical Conservation and

Development Program, the UF Center for Latin American Studies, the Tinker Foundation, the

US Department of Education, the Ruegamer Foundation, the Grinter Foundation, the Ford

Foundation, the Organization for Tropical Studies, the Polly and Paul Doughty Foundation, the

UF Graduate School, the Firebird Foundation, and the National Institutes of Health (grant number S10 OD021758-01A1).

TABLE OF CONTENTS

page

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS ...... 4

LIST OF TABLES ...... 12

LIST OF FIGURES ...... 13

LIST OF OBJECTS ...... 15

LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS ...... 16

ABSTRACT ...... 17

CHAPTER

1 INTRODUCTION ...... 19

Theoretical and Rhetorical Approach ...... 21 Research Questions ...... 29 Methods ...... 30 Fieldwork and the Embodiment of Learning ...... 39 Ethnomedicine or Exotica? ...... 48 Lamista Culture and the Diaspora of Lamista Shamanism ...... 58 The Chapters ...... 65 A note on the terms “Lamista” and “Kichwa” ...... 69

2 ETHNOHISTORY OF THE KICHWA OF SAN MARTIN: FROM CONTACT THROUGH THE RUBBER BOOM ...... 71

Overview ...... 75 Origins of the Lamista: Legends of Chanka Ancestry ...... 77 Cultural Diffusion from the Northern Sierra ...... 80 Anthropological Genetics and the Lamista ...... 84 The Pacification of the Motilones: The Establishment of the Maynas District and the Jesuit Reducciones of San Martín ...... 86 The Jesuits Reducciones ...... 86 Disease, Warfare, and the Founding of Lamas ...... 90 Jesuit Institutions and Their Relationship to Shamanic Power and Practice Across the Maynas District ...... 99 Travel and Trade in the Maynas District ...... 103 Pre-Contact Trade Networks ...... 103 The Trade in Salt and Blowgun-Dart Poison ...... 106 Long Distance Trade and the Development of a Common Ideology Rooted in Shamanic Practice ...... 109 The Lamista Diaspora: From the Napo to the Ucayali ...... 111

The Rubber Boom: 1879–1912 ...... 115

3 SHIFTING WINDS: SAN MARTÍN KICHWA IN THE MODERN ERA ...... 119

The Coca Boom ...... 123 MRTA and the Campesino Movement of San Martín ...... 127 Operation “Tupac Amaru Vive” ...... 131 State of Emergency ...... 133 The Beginning of the End for MRTA ...... 135 Confrontations between MRTA and Sendero ...... 137 The Fall of MRTA ...... 138 A Short History of Sisa ...... 140 Prehistory ...... 141 Colonial History of El Dorado ...... 144 The Founding of San José de Sisa ...... 146 Sisa, Land of Plenty ...... 150 Travel and Transport ...... 152 La Invasión ...... 154 Rafting the Rios Sisa and Huallaga ...... 155 Cotton ...... 157 Coca ...... 158 Corn: Agricultural Intensification and Landscape Transformation ...... 159 Recent Developments for the Kichwa of San Martín ...... 161 The Legal Framework for Indigenous Land Rights ...... 162 The Law of Native Communities ...... 164 Consult and Consent ...... 168 Green Grabbing: Protected Areas in San Martín ...... 170 Discussion and Conclusion ...... 179

4 LANGUAGE AND CULTURE: QUECHUA AS A LANGUAGE OF THE LOWLANDS ...... 184

An Alternate Story? ...... 186 The Quechua Family Tree ...... 188 Lowland Quechua: Origins and Classification ...... 189 Quechua among the Motilones of Lamas ...... 196

5 URKU RUNA: ETHNICITY AND CULTURE AMONG THE SAN MARTÍN KICHWA ...... 199

Kichwa Ethnicity: Racism, Distinction, and Invisibility ...... 200 Contemporary Ethnogenetic Processes ...... 204 Family ...... 209 Architecture and Domestic Spaces ...... 209 Diet ...... 216 Agriculture ...... 223 Gender ...... 228

Festivals ...... 238

6 LAS PURGAS ...... 245

Theoretical Orientation: Ethnomedicine and Culture-Bound Syndromes ...... 247 Ethnomedical Overview ...... 251 Kichwa Nosology and Culture-Bound Syndromes ...... 258 Las Purgas ...... 263 Uses of the Purgas ...... 265 Pharmacology and Potential Drug Interactions ...... 269 Other Contraindications ...... 272 Dosage and Timing ...... 273 The Diet ...... 274 Organolepsis: The Property of Smell ...... 278 Behavioral Proscriptions and Prescriptions ...... 279 Breaking the Diet ...... 280 La Borrachera ...... 281 The Purgas as Teacher Plants ...... 282 Conclusion ...... 288

7 AYAHUASCA AND SHAMANISM AMONG THE KICHWA OF SAN MARTÍN ...... 291

The Geography of Shamanism and of Shamanic Knowledge ...... 292 The Uses of Ayahuasca ...... 297 Who Needs a Shaman? ...... 305 La Borrachera ...... 308 Chacruna ...... 311 Admixture Plants ...... 314 Bushiglla ...... 315 Patiquina ...... 316 Ishanga ...... 318 Shañol ...... 319 Bobinzana ...... 321 Chiric Sanango ...... 322 Yagé ...... 323 Tobacco ...... 325 Diet ...... 326 Other Techniques of Diagnosis and Treatment ...... 328 Charlatans and Other Bad Actors ...... 330 Ayahuasca and War ...... 333 Shacapa ...... 337 Yachay ...... 338 Terucos and Brujos ...... 340 Shapingo ...... 343 Gender ...... 344 Conclusion: The Sacred and the Profane ...... 345

8 RITUAL, SPIRIT, AND LANDSCAPE: SHAMANIC SONGS OF THE LAMISTA KICHWA ...... 347

The Broader Context of Kichwa Folk Music ...... 360 Icarar ...... 365 Whistling and Vocables ...... 367 Llamando a los Animas ...... 371 La Sirena ...... 377 Llamando a los Curanderos ...... 381 Learning the Songs: The Curious Case of Antonio Sinarahua ...... 390 The Sacred Landscape of San Martín ...... 395 Conclusion ...... 402

9 DISCUSSION AND RECOMMENDATIONS ...... 405

Contributions ...... 411 Limitations and Future Research ...... 412

GLOSSARY ...... 413

APPENDIX

A TIMELINE OF EVENTS IN THE FORMATION OF THE LAMISTA KICHWA OF NORTHEASTERN PERU ...... 415

B IRB DOCUMENTS: INFORMATIONAL HANDOUT...... 421

C IRB DOCUMENTS: PERMISSION TO RECORD ...... 423

LIST OF REFERENCES ...... 424

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH ...... 475

LIST OF TABLES

Table page

2-1 Colonial-era nations inhabiting what is now Lamas...... 92

2-2 Other Indigenous nations of colonial-era San Martín and adjacent territories ...... 93

6-1 A partial list of culture-bound syndromes and associated characteristics ...... 250

6-2 Tentative identification of the purgas ...... 271

7-1 Uses of ayahuasca among the Kichwa of San Martín...... 299

7-2 Six healers, their location, and their ayahuasca admixtures...... 314

LIST OF FIGURES

Figure page

2-1 A regional overview showing the location of important towns and communities mentioned in the text ...... 73

2-2 Schoolgirls from Cañaris district, Lambayeque ...... 82

2-3 The Maynas District ...... 87

2-4 Ethnographic map of Peru, 1943 ...... 89

3-1 Political map of San Martín showing key locations discussed in the text...... 124

3-2 The official tally of deaths and disappearances in the middle and lower Huallaga and upper Amazon ...... 134

4-1 Classification of Quechuan languages ...... 191

5-1 The home in the foreground shows one style of Lamista Kichwa architecture ...... 211

5-2 Lamista women maintain an active tradition of making and using pottery ...... 213

5-3 A coil-constructed bowl in progress ...... 214

5-4 Two large earthenware pots, about 24” deep ...... 215

5-5 Classic Kichwa pots ...... 217

5-6 An edible termite known as mamaco, prior to cooking...... 218

5-7 A Kichwa woman toasting mamaco ...... 220

5-8 Some Kichwa agrobiodiversity ...... 224

5-9 More agrobiodiversity ...... 225

5-10 Agrobiodiversity ...... 227

5-11 Día de los Difuntos activities in Nauta, El Dorado province, San Martín ...... 239

5-12 Drummers parading during the Feast of Santa Rosa, Lamas ...... 241

5-13 Women performing a Kichwa version of the Spanish marinera dance, during the Feast of Santa Rosa in Lamas...... 242

5-14 Young men strive to reach the duck during the pato tipina ...... 244

6-1 A display of health-related and other information in the Tarapoto post office ...... 255

6-2 Common names of the purgas...... 270

7-1 Ayahuasca and its admixtures ...... 317

7-2 Rare admixtures ...... 320

7-3 Common admixtures ...... 324

7-4 Admixtures and shamanic praxis ...... 327

8-1 Artistic representation of the somatic and perceptual effects of ayahuasca ...... 380

LIST OF OBJECTS

Object page

6-1 Icaro, Jacques Mabit, “Chiric Sanango.” ...... 282

8-1 Sitarakuy Cajada. September 9, 2018. Audio file, 19.4 MB ...... 361

8-2 2018.06.26.Braulio_3_ceremony (Selection-1). Segundo Braulio Sinarahua Salas, Solo del Río Mayo; June 26, 2018. Audio file, 742 KB...... 372

8-3 2018.09.15_Mama_Belen_1_song (Selection-1). Belén Salas Tapullima, Yaku Shutuna Rumi; September 9, 2015. Audio file, 386 KB...... 373

8-4 2018.10.20_Mama_Belen_Interview_2 (Selection-1). Belén Salas Tapullima, Yaku Shutuna Rumi; October 20, 2018. Audio file, 973 KB...... 375

8-5 2018.09.15_Mama_Belen_1_song (Selection-2). Belén Salas Tapullima, Yaku Shutuna Rumi; September 15, 2018. Audio file, 272 KB...... 376

8-6 2018.06.26.Braulio_3_ceremony (Selection-2). Segundo Braulio Sinarahua Salas, Solo del Río Mayo; June 26, 2018. Audio file, 422 KB...... 381

8-7 2018.06.26.Braulio_3_ceremony (Selection-3). Segundo Braulio Sinarahua, Solo del Río Mayo; June 26, 2018. Audio file, 951 KB...... 382

8-8 2018.06.26.Braulio_3_ceremony (Selection-4). Braulio Sinarahua, Solo del Rio Mayo; June 26, 2018. Audio file, 3.9 MB ...... 384

8-9 2018.06.26.Braulio_3_ceremony (Selection-5). Braulio Sinarahua, Solo del Río Mayo; June 26, 2018. Audio file, 1.1 MB...... 385

8-10 2018.11.13_Salvador_Fasabi_canto_1 (Selection-1). Salvador Fasabi Fasabi, San José de Sisa; November 13, 2018. Audio file, 497 KB...... 386

8-11 2018.06.26.Braulio_3_ceremony (Selection-6). Segundo Braulio Sinarahua Salas, Solo del Río Mayo; June 26, 2018. Audio file. 908 KB...... 396

8-12 2018.06.26.Braulio_3_ceremony (Selection-7). Segundo Braulio Sinarahua Salas, Solo del Río Mayo; June 26, 2018. Audio file, 783 KB...... 397

8-13 2018.06.26.Braulio_3_ceremony (Selection-8). Segundo Braulio Sinarahua Salas, Solo del Río Mayo; June 26, 2018. Audio file, 269 KB...... 398

LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS

ACR-CE Cordillera Escalera Regional Conservation Area

AIDESEP Asociación Interetnica de Desarollo de la Selva Peruana

CEPKA Ethnic Council of the Kichwa Peoples of Amazonia (Consejo Etnico de los Pueblos Kichwas del Amazonía)

CODEPISAM Council for the Development of the Indigenous Peoples of San Martín (Consejo de Desarrollo de los Pueblos Indígenas de la Región San Martín)

CVR Comisión de la Verdad y Reconciliación (Truth and Reconciliation Commission)

DMT dimethyltryptamine, a substance found in nature and produced in the healthy human body that also happens to have strong psychoactive properties

FEDIP-SM Defense Front for the Interests of the People of San Martín

FPP Forest Peoples Programme

GIZ German Society for International Cooperation (Gesellschaft für Internationale Zusammenarbeit)

GORESAM Regional Government of San Martín (Gobierno Regional de San Martín)

IBC Institute for the Common Good (Instituto Bien Común)

IDL Institute of Legal Defense

MRTA Tupac Amarú Revolutionary Movement (Movimiento Revolucionario Túpac Amaru)

NGO Non-Governmental Organization

SERNANP National Service of Natural Protected Areas (Servicio Nacional de Areas Naturales Protegidas)

SICNA System of Information About Native Communities of the Peruvian Amazon

USAID United States Agency for International Development

Abstract of Dissertation Presented to the Graduate School of the University of Florida in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of Doctor of Philosophy

MUSIC, PLANTS, AND MEDICINE: LAMISTA SHAMANISM IN THE AGE OF INTERNATIONALIZATION

Christina Maria Callicott

August 2020

Chair: Catherine Tucker Major: Anthropology

The Kichwa of San Martín, often referred to as “Lamista Kichwa” after the central town of Lamas, are a group of Indigenous people whose cultural identity was borne out of the colonial encounter. Like other lowland Kichwa peoples, they maintain economic, educational, and social relations with the wider Peruvian society while also maintaining a distinct culture expressed through their livelihood as farmers, the celebration of fiestas, use of the Kichwa language, and the use of medicinal plants and shamanic practices. This study assesses the contemporary state of

Kichwa ethnomedicine, as well as the nature and use of music and song in Kichwa ethnomedical practices. This study embeds these practices within the broader context of Kichwa culture and historical processes. Research methods included semi-structured and open-ended interviews, participant observation, audio-visual documentation, and collaborative ethnopoetics. Data was analyzed using a grounded-theory approach. This study found that the Kichwa participate in a system of medical pluralism, with ethnomedical and shamanic practices playing a robust role in the achievement and maintenance of health and well-being. Kichwa ethnomedical and shamanic practices bear resemblance to those described elsewhere in the Amazon, but some elements of practice appear to be unique or autochthonous to the region, including the use of a class of plants

called “purgas” and the relationship of shamanic song to the landscape of San Martín. In all, the ethnomedical practices of the Kichwa of San Martín are a product of and response to the same historic, economic, social, and environmental factors that have shaped Kichwa culture and the region as a whole. Kichwa ethnomedical practices reveal a sophisticated understanding of medicine congruent with the tenets and findings of Chinese medicine and Western biomedicine.

They also reflect a worldview characterized by the unity between the mundane and the supernatural, by the personhood of non-human agents, and by the importance of collaboration in effecting healing.

CHAPTER 1 INTRODUCTION

The Lamista Kichwa are an Indigenous group of the upper Peruvian Amazon, with ethnic origins in the colonial encounter and the missionary experience of the 17th century. Members of various Amazonian Indigenous groups who had survived the onslaught of epidemic disease and violence that accompanied Spanish arrival to the region, the ancestors of today’s Kichwa were gathered—sometimes by will and sometimes by force—into clustered communities where they were taught to speak “the language of the Inca”—Quechua—as a means of coping with the

“babel” of Amazonian languages that Spanish priests faced as they sought to instruct their charges in the Christian faith, corral their labor into the construction of churches and homes for colonists, and produce the food and products necessary for the survival and expansion of the missionary enterprise. The Lamista Kichwa share this history with other lowland (i.e.

Amazonian) Kichwa and Kichwa peoples, a history distinct from that of highland Quechua peoples.1

The Lamista have long been known for their facility with complex plant mixtures. From the colonial era to as late as the mid-20th century, they were ground zero in a long-distance trade in blowgun dart poison that stretched from the headwaters of the Peruvian, Ecuadorian, and

Colombian Amazons to the surgical hospitals of Europe. More recently, they have come to be known as practitioners and purveyors of vegetalismo, a system of ethnomedicine that uses, among other plants, the psychoactive brew ayahuasca, which has gained global notoriety over the last decade (Barbira-Freedman 2014). Despite the popular conception of ayahuasca as an ancient Amazonian tradition, current research indicates that ayahuasca shamanism is a relatively

1 In this dissertation I will use the spelling “Kichwa” to refer to lowland Quechua-speaking peoples and “Quechua” to refer to the language. Please see the end of this chapter for further explanation.

recent development, born out of the intense changes and increased mingling of tribal groups during the missionary era and the Rubber Boom (Brabec 2011; Gow 1994, 2001; Shepard 2014).

Lamista surnames and characters appear repeatedly throughout the literature on Western

Amazonian shamanism and in the ethnographies of Western Amazonian peoples. They are central players and yet in many ways, they are what Stocks (1978) has called “invisible Indians.”

Given the current global fascination with ayahuasca, their story and their role as central actors in the development and spread of ayahuasca shamanism deserve to be better known.

While people of Lamista descent form a diaspora spread throughout the Peruvian

Amazon, this dissertation focuses on the history, culture, music, and ethnomedical practices of

Kichwa people who continue to live as campesino (peasant) farmers in the traditional Lamista homeland of San Martín Region, Peru. Among this population, the older generations speak San

Martín Quechua as their first language, while almost all people young and old speak Spanish as well. The majority of Lamista families in San Martín practice rotational, mixed-crop agriculture, with varying degrees of commitment to the market and to commodity production. Many individuals, especially men, find supplementary work in other occupations in town, in the tourist resorts, and in the regional economic center, Tarapoto. Some in the younger generation are pursuing lives of full integration with Peruvian national society while maintaining familial and ritual ties to the agricultural communities. The Lamista Kichwa—specifically, those Kichwa who hail from the district of Lamas with its cultural center in Wayku, the Indigenous sector of the city of Lamas—are well known throughout Peru for their very colorful manner of dress, their traditional music, and their vibrant festivals. Roger Rumrrill, a leading Peruvian scholar of

Amazonian history and culture, considers Lamas “the capital of Amazonian folklore” (Rumrrill, personal communication, 2020). However, the Kichwa language and culture extend far beyond

the town of Lamas and encompass people of Lamista ancestry as well as those of other Kichwa- speaking groups who call San Martín home. For many years, the ethnographic literature produced by Francoise Barbira-Freedman was the premier source of information on the Lamista

Kichwa; her work is cited in this dissertation under the names “Barbira-Freedman” and

“Scazzocchio.”

Theoretical and Rhetorical Approach

This study was conducted largely in response to romanticized popular notions of ayahuasca, Amazonian shamanism, and Indigenous culture. Some of its findings challenge the very definition of ayahuasca. It interrogates and explicates the origin of the term “chacruna” and the centrality of the DMT-containing admixtures. It also sheds light on the provenance of the term “la purga,” which is often cited as a synonym for ayahuasca. By offering an entire chapter on that class of plants known as “las purgas,” this study implicitly critiques the decontextualization and fragmentation of Indigenous knowledge that takes place when deeply situated systems of learning are extracted and misappropriated by collectives of commodification, commercialization, and reductionistic science. Finally, this study joins a growing body of scholarship, often iconoclastic, that seeks to complexify our understandings of ayahuasca, shamanic practice, and indigeneity, grounding them in processes of history, social change, religious and political upheaval, and the concrete lives and cultural practices of those who inhabit the cities and forests of lowland South America (Beyer 2009; Bianchi 2005; Brabec

2011, 2012b, 2014; Calavia Saéz 2011, 2014; Fotiou 2010a, 2010b, 2012, 2014, 2016; Gow

1994, 2001; Labate and Cavnar 2014; Langdon 2000; Rodd 2008; Rubenstein 2002; Santos-

Granero 1991; Shepard 2014; Taussig 1987). For this reason, I have gone to some length to represent the Kichwa of San Martín as a people with history and, most importantly, as people

(Wolf [1982] 2010).

Theoretically, the central line of reasoning embodied by this work is cultural materialism.

According to Harris, the greatest proponent of cultural materialism, this is the notion “that human social life is a response to the practical problems of earthly existence” (Harris 1979, ix).

Stocks, who worked in the Peruvian Amazon with the Cocamilla, articulates the theory more fully, writing that “the determinants of cultural patterns are to be found in the objective relations which a given society or culture has with its environment, both physical and socio-political”

(1978, vii). I take cultural materialism as a middle ground between cultural ecology, associated most closely with Julian Steward (1955), and historical materialism, influenced by Marx and articulated eloquently by Wolf ([1982] 2010). I will discuss both briefly before returning to cultural materialism.

Cultural ecology examines culture as a product of the human relationship with its natural environment. This approach resonated with anthropologists working in the Amazon, where

Indigenous peoples of the region appeared to exemplify the idea that human culture provided a means of adapting to one’s natural environment and achieving homeostasis with it (Politis 2001;

Ross 1978; Sponsel 1981, 1986). A popular corollary of this theory was the notion that shamanism is a means of articulating and enforcing those practices that lead to homeostasis, or environmental sustainability (Reichel-Dolmatoff 1976, 1996). Whether or not it created the idea, cultural ecology helped reinforce the romantic notion that Indigenous peoples were “the first conservationists,” living in harmony with their environment (Hames 2007). However, the relationship between Indigenous culture and conservation is not causal; there is abundant evidence that “traditional,” “premodern,” and contemporary Indigenous ways of life have been and can be ecologically quite destructive (Borgerhoff Mulder and Copolillo 2005; Krech 1999,

2005; Suárez et al. 2009; Suárez et al. 2013; Zapata-Rios, Urgiles, and Suárez 2009). Thus,

Indigeneity, in and of itself, is not inextricably entwined with ecological nobility nor with an innate drive for environmental conservation. Where Indigenous cultures and conservation coincide, the relationship is generally considered spandrelous or epiphenomenal—in other words, that conservation is a side-effect of other circumstances such as low population density, a lack of iron tools in some (mostly historical) cases, or a lack of access to markets that could make productive intensification profitable (Berkes 2012, Hames 2007, Hunn 1982).

That said, research does show that in the modern world, Indigenous culture and

Indigenous land management are associated with high conservation scores. On a global scale, higher levels of linguistic diversity (a proxy measure for Indigenous cultural diversity) are associated with higher levels of biodiversity—a concept known as “biocultural diversity” (Cocks

2006; Gorenflo et al. 2012; Loh and Harmon 2005; Maffi 2005, 2007; Maffi and Woodley 2010;

Stepp, Castaneda, and Cervone 2005; Stepp et al. 2004). Likewise, when provided with adequate tools to do the job—secure land tenure, for example—contemporary Indigenous groups can and do serve as effective guardians of their territories, assuring conservation measures on par with or exceeding the most strictly managed protected areas (Cepek 2012; Cronkleton et al. 2008;

Nepstad et al. 2006; Nolte et al. 2013; Posey and Balick 2006). This conversation has direct relevance for the Kichwa of San Martín, as many communities are currently embroiled in a struggle for territorial rights, sometimes as the objects of a regional discourse that paints them as enemies of conservation (for a discussion of the current situation see Chapter 3, “Recent

Developments for the Kichwa of San Martín”). In some cases, Indigenous groups, including some Kichwa communities, are consciously embracing the narrative of the “ecologically noble

Indian” as a strategic political tool for asserting their rights vis-à-vis the nation state, often in collaboration with international NGOs and activists (Carneiro da Cunha and Almeida 2000;

Conklin 2002; Conklin and Graham 1995; Egerlid 2015). While the issue of land rights is not a primary subject of this dissertation, it is hoped that the discussion of ethnohistory in Chapter 2, as well as the specialist knowledge of medicinal plants, landscape, and spirit revealed in

Chapters 7 and 8, will provide further support for the Kichwa in their struggle for land tenure and territorial sovereignty in San Martín.

At times, cultural ecology has been critiqued for being a-historical in its approach

(Beckerman, Kiltie, and Ross 1980). While Steward accommodates history, or what he calls

“cultural-historical factors,” he considers these factors as relevant only to the secondary features of culture, as opposed to the subsistence methods that he considers the “cultural core” (Steward

1955). For the Kichwa, however, history, and specifically colonial history, is directly relevant to questions of Kichwa cultural identity, forms of subsistence and economy, their relationship with their environment, as well as Kichwa forms of ethnomedical and shamanic practice. I detail these historical processes extensively in Chapters 2, 3, and 4. Even prior to the arrival in San Martín of conquistador don Martín de la Riva Herrera, who, with his soldiers and missionaries, launched the formal colonization of the area, the Indigenous people of the region had suffered the effects of European colonization, as colonial raiding, slaving, and expansionism exacerbated patterns of regional warfare, and epidemic disease decimated populations, leaving the survivors to seek refuge in the dubious protection of the Catholic Church and its military agents. From that time forward, the Kichwa have been closely connected with colonial culture, and the vicissitudes of regional, national, and even international history and political economy have left their imprints on the Kichwa and on Kichwa culture no less than on other peoples of the land.

On that note, this study owes a great debt to Eric Wolf, who shifted anthropology’s understanding of its subject from that of ahistorical, discrete units of human population and

culture—the oft-referenced “billiard balls” (Hill 1996, Wolf [1982] 2010)—to peoples whose fortunes are bound up with those of the greater world order. Wolf could have been discussing the

Kichwa when he wrote:

…theoretically informed history and historically informed theory must be joined together to account for populations specifiable in time and space, both as outcomes of significant processes and as their carriers. (Wolf [1982] 2010, 21; emphasis added)

Indeed in their long and celebrated history as porters and long-distance travelers—“Since antiquity they enjoy the prestige of gypsies,” one historian wrote (Weiss 1949)—they were at times, quite literally, the carriers of historical process, traveling throughout San Martín and the

Maynas District on trade and military expeditions, often as adjuncts to or servants of the colonial forces. As well, political economy, another focus of Wolf’s writing, is central to the story of

Kichwa subsistence and economics as producers of salt and other goods critical to the maintenance of the Jesuit economy during the 17th and 18th centuries; as producers of cotton and cotton cloth during the Rubber Boom; as producers of coca and curare (blowgun-dart poison) that were traded on the international market and, in the case of curare, revolutionized surgical practices in the United States and Europe (Rhagavendra 2002); and as farmers of corn, coffee, and cacao today, whose livelihoods are tied to national agrarian policy and the world market for coffee and chocolate. These are issues of what Steward calls “the cultural core,” not the

“secondary features” that cultural ecology would attribute to history and ethnohistory—and yet

Kichwa subsistence and economy are clearly bound up with regional, national, and international history. For that reason alone, cultural ecology is an insufficient framework with which to tell the

Kichwa story.

While the Kichwa as an ethnic group are, quite literally, the product of colonial processes, I reject the notion that the Kichwa are passive victims of historical or environmental

externalities. While it is true that they have experienced a great deal of exploitation at the hands of colonial society since its arrival in San Martín, it is also true that the Kichwa have been active participants in the sociopolitical processes that have roiled San Martín and the rest of the

Western Amazon. It is in part their active participation—and the ingenuity and adaptability with which they have responded to historical processes—that makes them so interesting.

Nevertheless, despite recognition of the agency and adaptability of the Kichwa, I also recognize that which Paul Farmer calls “the exaggeration of agency,” a theoretical and analytical mistake common in anthropology that often amounts to “blaming the victim” (Farmer 1999, 9). The success of the Kichwa in maintaining their health, happiness, and humanity in the face of overwhelming asymmetries of economic and political power in no way exculpates those who wield power to oppress, nor the systems and structures underpinned by racism and other forms of implicit and explicit bias that enable them to do so.

Having outlined the concepts of cultural ecology á la Steward and historical materialism

á la Wolf, I return now to what I consider the middle ground between these two: cultural materialism. While history, political economy, and the infrastructure of the nation-state are of central importance to the story of the Kichwa, so are environment and ecology. As noted above, cultural materialism examines the ways in which culture arises out of the relationship between humans and their environment, both the natural world and the socio-political one. The Kichwa engage in market-oriented production; they agitate for agrarian reform; they benefit from bilingual, state-sponsored education; and they make use of biomedicine when it is available.

However, they also rely heavily on ancestral traditions that link them closely to the land— chacra, purma, monte, río, and cerro (farm, fallow, forest, river, and mountain)—and its multispecies community of inhabitants that include human and other-than-human persons,

corporeal beings and spiritual ones, many of whom are capable of agency to varying degrees.

Indeed it is a central finding of this study that it is the interaction between humans and their environment, specifically the ingestion of powerful medicinal plants, that brings these other- than-human spiritual persons into being, or at least into the realm of lived human experience, where their agency is made tangible in acts of healing and, perhaps, in acts of harm.

This study takes an interdisciplinary approach to the study of shamanism and shamanic music, incorporating aspects of medical anthropology, ethnobiology, and ethnomusicology, and integrating them into a broader understanding of culture as informed by history, political economy and ecology, and linguistics. This sort of interdisciplinarity would likely fall under the rubric of “eclecticism,” which Harris (1979) decries. Nevertheless, by his own admission, his chosen research strategy is insufficient to explain certain phenomena:

But I readily admit that there are domains of experience the knowledge of which cannot be achieved by adherence to the rules of the scientific method. I am thinking of the ecstatic knowledge of mystics and saints; the visions and hallucinations of drug users and of schizophrenics; and the aesthetic and moral insights of artists, poets, and musicians. (Harris 1979, 6)

In fact the domains enumerated here are some of the central questions of this study, yet I assert that while cultural materialism alone cannot explain these phenomena fully (Harris would detest such a qualifier), the results of this study as enumerated in Chapters 6–8 show definitively that some of the most esoteric aspects of Kichwa shamanism arise from the “vulgar materiality,” to use one of Harris’s terms, of an interaction between the human mind-body and its non-human environment.

Using cultural materialism as a framework for the analysis of shamanic practice is a singularly positivistic approach to a topic that, in the past, has been described as “alien to the… positivistic worldview” and was most successfully analyzed using symbolic and interpretational approaches (Langdon 1992, 1). My approach relies on advances made in our understanding of

consciousness and of the actions of psychoactive substances that have emanated from what is being called the “Psychedelic Renaissance,” including bioscientific and psychopharmacological studies (Sessa 2018). For cross-cultural comparison, my approach also draws on medical literature, including the fields of complementary and alternative medicine and Chinese medicine, but also the emerging literature in Western biomedicine that contributes to our improved understanding of the unity of mind and body. This approach is, in Harris’s (1976) terms, decidedly “etic” in nature. However, this study also relies on that time-honored tradition of qualitative ethnography known as “participant observation,” which allowed me, at the very least, a glimpse into the world navigated by my shamanic informants. Most importantly, however, this study relies on the testimony of these informants themselves, and their understandings and interpretations of the phenomena in question—the “emic.” In doing so, this study attempts to integrate the emic with the etic in order to shed light on how deterministic factors and creative ones work together in the genesis of culture. In using the term “creative,” I am thinking of

Steward’s statement that “cultural ecological adaptations constitute creative processes” (1955,

34). The concept of creativity is particularly salient here, given that a central objective of the study is the investigation of an art form—shamanic music—and its origins in the relationship between human, plant, and spirit. When Marx wrote, “The ideal is nothing else than the material world reflected by the human mind, and translated into forms of thought,” he was most definitely not thinking of Kichwa shamanism—and yet, if the word “reflected” were changed to

“refracted,” I suggest that it would describe perfectly one of the mechanisms that we see at play in the origins of shamanic music (1906, 25). I will engage this line of thinking further in Chapter

Research Questions

This research was guided by several questions oriented toward a holistic understanding of

Kichwa culture and shamanic practice and their place in the panorama of contemporary ayahuasca shamanism. The first set of questions seeks to establish a baseline understanding of contemporary Kichwa culture and shamanic practice:

• How have processes of history and political economy influenced the current lives of the Lamista Kichwa and contexts of ayahuasca shamanism?

• Is shamanism still a relevant form of ethnomedical practice in an Indigenous setting, or is it solely practiced on outsiders, be they nationals or internationals?

• What illnesses does contemporary ayahuasca shamanism address, and how?

A second set of questions seeks to understand more deeply that fundamental process of shamanic apprenticeship known as plant diets, in which strong plants are taken in a regimen of sometimes severe restrictions on food intake and other activities.

• How do shamans learn their trade?

• Specifically, what plants are used for learning, how, and why?

• What role do dietary and behavioral proscriptions and prescriptions play?

As the first few questions are designed to establish a baseline understanding of Kichwa culture and ethnomedical practice, the final and apical question centers on the shamanic music of the

Kichwa of San Martin, specifically those songs often known as icaros that constitute a driving and unifying force in the ritual use of ayahuasca. Here, I lean on the work of Bernd Brabec de

Mori (2011) among the Shipibo, another Indigenous Amazonian group heavily involved in ayahuasca tourism; his work uses ethnomusicological analysis to shed light on the historical processes associated with the spread of ayahuasca shamanism. I am also interested in the extent to which Kichwa shamanic music in 21st-century San Martín reflects the findings of Eduardo

Luis Luna (1984a; 1984b; 1986; 1992), whose pioneering studies of “mestizo shamanism” near

Iquitos shaped how the world thinks about music and ayahuasca. The question is:

• Where do the icaros come from, what are they about, and what can their lyrical and melodic structures tell us about shamanic practice, about regional ethnohistory, and about the interaction of plants and music in the shamanic process?

As may be expected, I found some answers to these questions that were consistent with what I already knew or expected. However, I found other answers that surprised me and that opened doors to new avenues of investigation and analysis. This dissertation documents the process, the data, and the results of my analysis.

Methods

Fieldwork for this dissertation took place over nine months in 2018, the majority of which I spent in Lamas, in Sisa, and in Alto Huaja, a comunidad nativa (formally designated community of Indigenous people) of El Dorado, about half an hour by mototaxi from Sisa. When

I arrived in Peru in 2018, the non-governmental organization with whom I partnered was engaged in a project of recording traditional ecological and agro-ecological knowledge and transforming it into community calendars that could be used as a teaching tool in intercultural education. I accompanied Kichwa staff member Reojildo Guerra on numerous visits to several communities, sometimes overnight, where he convened community forums to gather data for the calendars. During these visits I became familiar with the general contours of Kichwa culture and the ways it varied from place to place. I also had the opportunity to meet a number of Kichwa community members and activists in cultural revitalization, as well as healers of various persuasions who practiced different specialties. The first of these visits was to a ceramics workshop in the tiny mountain community of Alto Huaja, where lived an ancient curandera,

Mama Belén. The people of Alto Huaja were warm, welcoming, and excited to teach me about their home and their culture. Their former apu (mayor) and I shared an interest in first-aid

medicine. The family households that comprised the community were dispersed throughout a picturesque green valley with steep walls and a backdrop of rugged mountains. The town was named after the waterfalls that cascaded down tall cliffs and fed the stream that ran high when the rains fell. I was instantly smitten. It was to Alto Huaja that I would return to live and to which I will return for extended visits in the future.

My key informants for this study included three médicos (shamanic healers): Mama

Belén Salas Tapullima; Braulio Sinarahua Salas, and Salvador Fasabi Fasabi. Segundo Aquilino

Chujandama Chashnamote participated in an earlier stage of the study as well.2 I also interviewed and conversed with numerous individuals, both Kichwa and mestizo, knowledgeable in the history, culture, and medicinal plants of the region. A number of these individuals are mentioned in the acknowledgements, so I won’t repeat myself here. Contextual data was gathered during several pre-dissertation visits in 2013, 2015, and 2017, for a total of about four months during which I spent time in Chazuta and Llukanayaku, two Kichwa towns on the

Huallaga River; Tarapoto, the commercial center of San Martín (and home to a growing number of decent coffee shops that could be improved only by the availability of real cream);

Yurimaguas, a historically important mission town at the confluence of the Huallaga and the

Shanusi Rivers; and Iquitos, a former capital of the Rubber Boom which is now the mecca of ayahuasca tourism.

Research methods used in this study include semi-structured and open-ended interviews, participant observation, audio-visual documentation, and collaborative ethnopoetics.

Collaborative ethnopoetics refers to the process of translating oral art forms by way of a shared

2 Each of these individuals signed an agreement allowing me to publish their songs and our interactions (e.g. interviews) on the internet under their name. The exception is Mama Belén, for whom I recorded a verbal agreement.

third language (Hill 2015; McDowell 2000). The process is painstaking and entails transcribing a piece of text as closely as possible and then, with the help of a native speaker, translating that text. Although it may be considered poor form to do anthropology via translator, as opposed to learning the language oneself, McDowell makes a very good case for the fact that second- or third-language facility is no match for the native tongue, and that a great deal of contextual data may be obtained by paying attention to the choices that a native speaker makes when translating a piece into a shared language. In my case, I applied the process of collaborative ethnopoetics primarily to the shamanic songs that I recorded, which were almost always sung in the Quechua of San Martín—that is to say, a Quechua that is heavily influenced by and inundated with

Spanish words and morphology. My collaborators in this process were the healers themselves, often with the help of family or community members who sat in on the interviews. Marco

Sangama Cachay, Kichwa lawyer from Wayku, also provided invaluable assistance establishing direct translations of some of the texts while helping me to unravel the complex and sometimes archaic structures of the words and phrases. He appeared delighted to discover the depth of

Kichwa cosmology encoded in the songs and refused to let me pay him for his expert assistance and valuable time. In this study, far beyond basic translation, the process of collaborative ethnopoetics revealed a world of contextual meaning regarding Kichwa cosmology and shamanic practice. The songs, in this process, provided a jumping-off point from which I could formulate questions and inquire further.

Interviews, on the other hand, were conducted in Spanish, and all translations from

Spanish, of both primary and secondary sources, are mine unless otherwise noted. In the final stages of writing this dissertation, I have enjoyed the intellectual companionship of two undergraduate volunteer research assistants from the University of Florida, Saira Gonzalez and

Melissa Miliam, both native Spanish speakers. Although most of the data had already been processed for this study by the time they came on board, they have been able to confirm the translation of a few recorded passages that were rendered difficult by the presence of background noise, multiple conversations, etc. Likewise, Peruvian friend and UF colleague Grace Palacios

Chavez was able to clarify a questionable passage as well; she even did some online research that led me down an interesting Facebook rabbit-hole of local Sisa culture, the results of which are noted in Chapter 8.

In this study, collaborative ethnopoetics constituted, first and foremost, a method for gathering data by means of the collaborative examination of texts. Bernard (2011) however considers ethnopoetics a form of performance analysis, and indeed the process did produce analytical results regarding the songs and song texts themselves, as well as the nature of shamanism and ethnomedicine from an emic point of view. However, these texts, along with data from all interviews and participant observation, were submitted to a further process of analysis using a grounded theory approach that allowed for theories of causal explanation regarding the phenomena in question (Bernard 2011). It was this final process of analysis, taking a bird’s-eye view so to speak, that resulted in some of the etic explanations of these phenomena that I offer in later chapters, explanations that might be most closely related to the framework of cultural materialism within which I have couched the study.

Bernard (2011) insists that the final and necessary step of grounded-theory analysis is the verification of one’s theory by discussing it with knowledgeable respondents and other key informants, to see if they agree with the analysis or not. While I have not yet returned my results to the people with whom I worked to create this study, I did, during a pre-dissertation field excursion, discuss my preliminary hypothesis with a knowledgeable informant. He rejected my

hypothesis, which was materialist in nature, and insisted that shamanism and the shamanic process were spiritual and nothing more. Now however, after further research, I am more convinced that my hypothesis—or perhaps a modified version of it—is correct. That said, I am fully aware of the apparent “neo-colonialism” of that statement—in other words, it sounds like I think I know more about Kichwa culture and shamanism than one of my leading Kichwa participants does. However I will clarify here that I do not think that, nor do I think that in any way do my analyses override or undermine the point of view of the Kichwa themselves.

On the other hand, the Kichwa point of view is the emic, and my final analyses, in keeping again with Harris’s (1976) cultural materialistic approach, constitute an etic viewpoint.

Let me explain the acceptability of this approach using a famous example: Harris was able to show quite convincingly that the sacred cows of India are sacred not because of their spiritual value but because of their economic value—and that historic, environmental, social, and religious changes took place over centuries that led to the taboo on eating cows’ flesh. If questioned about this notion, however, the average Indian citizen would likely reject it out of hand—and yet the theory, and the approach that led to it, remain some of the most popular and enduring contributions that anthropology has made to humans’ understanding of ourselves as cultural beings. The theory—the reality, if we are to accept it as such—in no way undermines the sacrality of the cow for the lived experience of any Hindu person. The emic and the etic may not be ideologically compatible, but they don’t have to be mutually exclusive either. The truth of one does not necessarily negate the truth of the other.

As Urban and Sherzer (1986) note in the introduction to their volume on South American discourse, recordings of ethnopoetic material should be made available to other scholars who can both examine our analyses and propose alternatives of their own. As well, I feel that such

recordings should be made available to the people from whose culture the recordings are derived—in my case, the Kichwa of San Martín and particularly their youth, many of whom exhibit great interest in the culture of their parents and grandparents and yet who are also increasingly Internet-savvy. For anthropologists of Latin America, the most prominent location for such deposits is the Archive of Indigenous Languages of Latin America (AILLA), based at the University of Texas. However, this archive is oriented—and appropriately so—to scholarly researchers. While there are definite benefits to AILLA’s structure—the foremost being the ability to place access limits on sensitive materials—I have chosen to deposit my recorded material with the University of Florida, where a robust program in digital humanities has made ample resources available for constructing a user-friendly collection and working with international research and educational organizations.

To that end, in the interest of cultural revitalization as well as scholarly transparency, my plan is to use the digital data gathered in the course of this study as the seed material for an online archive of Kichwa culture to be made accessible to Kichwa youth. To that end, when I met with federation leaders, communities, and individuals, I explained my project in those terms and asked key informants to sign a consent form allowing me to publish our interviews or interactions in this manner. As advised by officials at Smathers Libraries at the University of

Florida, where these materials will be housed, I used the form drawn up by UF’s Samuel Proctor

Oral History Program as a template for my consent form. When possible I used an intermediary—a family or community member—to help me explain the project and to ensure that my informants understood. For those collaborators who were not able to sign their names, I recorded their verbal consent. The fact that my fieldwork was largely facilitated by a cultural- revitalization organization made this process easier, as several of the key informants to whom I

was introduced were, by way of their relationship with this organization, already interested in cultural revitalization. At the same time, it has been my experience both in San Martín and elsewhere that cultural valorization is, if not a preoccupation, nevertheless an issue of great interest to and endorsed by every single Indigenous or mestizo healer that I worked with.

Furthermore, contrary to what we find in North America, with our strict intellectual property regimes and norms around Indigenous sacred art and religious forms, in no instance was my request denied to record shamanic music or ceremony. To the contrary most people were eager to have their music recorded and even published on the Internet, even when I pointed out that there is a community of neo-shamanic practitioners who might memorize their songs and use them. I should point out that in my opinion, this latter practice is less of a threat, if threat is the right word, to the three key informants on whose songs I have focused for this study. The language of their songs is more complex, and the melodies less lively, than what I find to be the case for icaros of other regions and of the neo-shamanic “scene.” It is quite possible that I am underestimating the ingenuity and cupidity of my gringo compatriots. Nevertheless, the

Indigenous participants in this study, as I mentioned, were generally very interested in spreading their knowledge and, at times, their personal fame.

That said, issues of privacy as well as norms around research in Peru are much less stringent or limiting than they are in the U.S. The privacy issue was hit home to me during a pre- dissertation visit in 2015 when a Chazutino (Kichwa) healer invited me to accompany him on his rounds in Tarapoto. I thought we would just be delivering medicines but instead, I found myself sitting in while he visited with his clients, delivered medicine, and discussed with them their problems and their progress. I was struck by how completely unfazed any of the clients or their families were to see a blonde gringa appear on their doorstep to listen in on what in the U.S. is an

exchange governed by rigid laws regarding doctor-patient privilege and privacy. Perhaps more astonishing was the fact that of these patients, who that day were all women, not one showed any hesitation or embarrassment to discuss issues of what might be considered a gynecological nature, despite the presence not only of me but of my research assistant, the young and urbane nephew of the healer, who generally sat in the corner bored by a conversation that I suspect most young North American men might consider somewhat salacious.

While these exchanges took place in the home, the doctor’s office is similarly absent any expectation of privacy. When I myself went to the doctor in Tarapoto, I was approached by another patient who sat down beside me, asked me what I was there for, and proceeded to tell me her problem. When it was my turn to see the nurse, she conducted my intake interview at a desk in the small waiting room, in full earshot of the waiting crowd; results of the consultation and lab test were provided in the same spot. Other than the consultation and examination themselves, the only time I was invited behind the front desk, which provided a modicum of privacy, was to pay.

Working in ethnomedicine, I became accustomed to this nonchalant approach to medical privacy. However, the lack of expectations to privacy in general continued to surprise me. About mid-way through my year of fieldwork, I attended a music performance in the public square in preparation for the Feast of San Juan. I had attended several performances in Wayku and interviewed some Kichwa musicians, getting to know people in the community as I went.

However, I didn’t know the men performing that day, and I was trying to be circumspect in my approach. I was surprised, therefore, when a young Peruvian man abruptly walked up to one of the musicians, held his cellphone up in the man’s face, and asked him a few very pointed questions about the music. He finished the brief interview by demanding, in quick succession,

the musician’s name, civil status, occupation, and DNI,3 questions to which the musician, to my surprise, did not hesitate to respond, as if it were customary for complete strangers to walk up and demand all your personal identifying information while recording it on their cell phone. The young man then went to the next musician and repeated the process, with the same result. I later spoke with the young man and the two young women who accompanied him, all wearing matching polo-type shirts emblazoned with some kind of logo. The three were university students from Trujillo. They and their classmates had come to Lamas for the holiday to do research on Kichwa danzas (combined song and dance forms) and would be returning to Trujillo the following day.

The lack of in-country research protocols at the professional level was surprising as well.

I was invited to accompany staff members of two different NGOs to a distant down-river community for an overnight stay. I wanted to observe their work and learn more about their projects, while getting to know a new community. After a morning meeting that fell apart due to an apparent miscommunication, we segued into the next activity: a meeting with elders to record traditional knowledge. Half a dozen elders arrived and were escorted to their seats on a bench.

Staff members began questioning the elders and recording their responses; the elders responded to the questions generously and without hesitation. At the end of this forum that lasted close to three hours, much to my great surprise and disappointment, the lead staff member introduced himself and his team, then turned it over to his partner, who explained at length their project and its aims. When he finished, one of the more vocal elders raised his hand: “If I can just make one request, please give us more advance notice next time you come.” I had been under the

3 DNI refers to the number that appears on the National Identity Document (Documento Nacional de Identidad). Although it appears to be more or less analogous to a social security number in the U.S., presentation of this document or the recording of the number is required for most formal transactions.

impression that these organizations had an ongoing relationship in this community and that our forum interview that day was one in a longer series that was already well underway—and thus, previously introduced to the community. Needless to say, without any IRB or previous-consent protocols on my part nor that of my hosts, I am unable to use any of the very rich ethnographic data we recorded in that town in my study. The two Peruvian NGOs, on the other hand, did not hesitate to move forward with their projects using the information they recorded at this meeting.

This study was conducted under the auspices of the University of Florida Institutional

Review Board, protocol IRB201601826. IRB paperwork and the permit for recording and publishing interviews, songs, etc. is included in the appendix. Permission to publish photos was obtained from relevant individuals and federation leaders in the process of completing this dissertation. With the exception of Figure 2-2, all photos were taken by me during the period of my fieldwork in 2018. Likewise, I recorded all sound objects except for Object 7-1 which, like

Figure 2-2, was posted online. Internet material is reproduced under the “fair use” doctrine.

Figure 9-1 is a reproduction of a painting used with the express permission of the artist. Finally, except where explicit permission was obtained to record and publicize a person’s work, all identities have been masked using pseudonyms. The exception is don Leo, to whom this dissertation is dedicated and who, unfortunately, has passed on to the next world.

Fieldwork and the Embodiment of Learning

Long-term, ethnographic field research is a hallmark of Cultural Anthropology. It is also a form of experiential learning, in which the researcher herself becomes the research instrument.

Because of this fact, accurate results demand attention to and awareness of our own subjectivity, meaning the ways in which our personal history and outlook color our findings, as well as our positionality, or the ways that who we are (class, gender, race, nationality) influence the perception of others toward us. At the same time, the experiential nature of ethnographic

fieldwork resonates with my own history as an educator in experiential education settings; with

Amazonian shamanism, which, as this study and others show, is largely a form of embodied learning (Beyer 2011; Cepek 2012; Fotiou 2019; McCallum 1996); and with theories of embodiment in anthropology as a means and mode of research (Csordas 1990, 1993).

The main reason that I undertook this mission of graduate studies in Cultural

Anthropology was not for the degree itself, which is not very useful to me here in my small home town on the Western Slope of Colorado. Rather, it was to have the opportunity to spend a year or more in lowland Peru, learning from and spending time with a small community of people who, like me, live close to and love their land and their landscape. I did find this community in the people of Alto Huaja, El Dorado, who welcomed me with open arms. My commitment to them and to the Kichwa as a whole is genuine, and I look forward to the day when I can return, maybe even for a longer stay.

Unfortunately, most of the 8 ½ months that I spent in Peru as part of my fieldwork were spent not in Alto Huaja nor any other rural community but in the raucous and sweltering environments of Tarapoto and Lamas. In 2017, for the year prior to my departure for Peru, I’d been coping with and trying to fix once and for all a chronic health problem that had grown worse during the taxing and stressful years of graduate school. Although I’d made a lot of progress, the process was still in motion when the time came for me to leave for Peru. Funding rules forced me to initiate research by a certain date, so off to Peru I went in early 2018, supplements and medicines taking up more room in my luggage than clothes or equipment.

Unfortunately, when I arrived in Peru, the heat, humidity, stress, and inability to control my diet made the whole problem come roaring back. I was in Peru to do research on Indigenous medicine and medicinal plants, but ironically my health issues presented myriad barriers to

actually accomplishing that goal. The problem was complex enough that none of the Kichwa healers to whom I was introduced were able to even approach a meaningful diagnosis, much less offer an adequate remedy. One Kichwa man whom I was told might be able to help died two weeks before I was finally able to locate his house. A woman of Shawi descent living in

Tarapoto was able to help me with some remedies and treatments, but I lost her attention when a group of European ayahuasca tourists came, and she was called away to assist at their retreat. I found a center near Yurimaguas run by a Peruvian man of Indian descent, where the sliding-scale fee structure was designed to facilitate residency by Peruvian nationals, though foreigners in need of medical care were welcome as well. However, not only was he not Kichwa—and I’d written all my funding proposals and IRB documents around working with the Kichwa—but he didn’t use songs, either. As for much of the prior ten years, I was forced to choose between my work and my health. Unless I wanted to pay back all my grant money, I’d have to choose the former—and yet I was losing the race because of the latter.

Summer came around and it was festival time in Lamas. An anthropologist can hardly claim to know the Lamista Kichwa unless she or he has participated in the Feast of Santa Rosa

Raymi at the end of August, so I solicited an invitation from one of the cabezonías (festival heads), got fitted for my custom pollera (skirt) and blouse, and waited, in the meantime doing battle with the Peruvian customs bureaucracy to free a shipment of supplements and equipment that I’d ordered from the U.S. and that had been held up in Lima, apparently because of a bottle of probiotics capsules.

During most of my time in Lamas I was living in the roadside house of an American friend, Myra. Wayku, the Kichwa district of the city of Lamas, was a 15-minute walk from home via the main road. One evening, a few days before preparations for Santa Rosa were set to begin,

I was walking home from Wayku when a man called me over to his house. I knew that he and his wife were friends with my American friend. She’d told me that his wife was a huesera (bone- setter) and that he was a bit of a healer as well, but I hadn’t yet made time to meet and visit with them. They were mestizo and, as I mentioned, my funding and IRB, not to mention my entire research design and the already-written first three chapters of my dissertation, were all about the

Lamista Kichwa.

He called out to me, “You’re not afraid? Out walking alone at night?” People in San

Martín were always asking me, weren’t I afraid—for walking out during the day, for walking out during the night, for walking on steep hillsides, didn’t seem to matter.

“No, should I be?” I asked him, and climbed up to his porch to say hi.

“Some women are afraid to walk alone at night,” he said.

“Yo no. Aquí, no,” I answered: I’m not. Not here.

I’m not even sure I’d gotten as far as introducing myself before he suddenly started talking about himself. He told me his name, Leovijildo Ríos Torrejón, and that he is a médico naturalista (naturalistic doctor). He had worked for many years teaching with a local NGO. “Allí es mi consultorio. Te muestro para que te aprendes. Es importante que ustedes aprenden.” My consultorio is right over there. I’ll show you so that you learn. It’s important that you all learn, he told me.

He went in the house, came back out with a set of keys in one hand and a book in the other, and led me into his little one-room consultorio. “Here’s my mesa,” he said. “Here’s my pipe.” After that, he didn’t slow down. His mesa, or altar, was covered with large stones, many of them nautiloid fossils of varying levels of clarity and polish, but none polished to a finish.

There were large, heavy snail or crab shells. A slab of rock stood against the wall with a wooden

cross in front of it, and to one side laid two daggers. One of the daggers had a wavy blade and the handle was a carving, or perhaps a brass casting, of an Egyptian idol. He showed me how he has people place one hand on the center of the stone slab, where there’s a calcification that he called a crystal, “Y les icaro,” he said: And I blow smoke on them. He showed me the book he had in his hand. There were three people on the cover: him on the left; the author (I think a

European) in the middle, holding the slab with the crystal; and his wife on the other side. And then he offered to icarar me, “Como voluntario, para que te aprendes. Porque se importa que ustedes aprenden.” Like an offering, he said, so that you learn, because it’s important that you all learn. I’ve taught many, he kept saying, and he healed many also, in his years working with the

NGO.

He had me sit down and told he was going to icarar me. “But I don’t have my recorder,” I said. It didn’t matter. He had me sit in front of the mesa on a stool, facing another little table covered with trinkets including his pipe, his tobacco, and his canela (wild cinnamon bark) which he also uses para soplar, or to blow smoke. He gave me one of the nautiloid fossils to hold in both my hands, and I was to take my shoes and socks off and place my feet together on top of a small oblong stone that was on top of a larger stone slab. He got out his pipe and stuffed it and lit a match, noisily sucking to get the tobacco and powdered cinnamon lit. Once he got the mixture lit, he said, “Close your eyes and don’t open them.” Then he commenced to sopla me. Five puffs to the crown, five to each side of the head. He blew puffs of smoke onto my chest down and across in a cross form. He did my back. He did my umbilicus—“This is what every animal has,” he explained. He had me pull my pants up to the knees and he blew smoke on my knees, and then he did my feet top and bottom.

While he was blowing smoke on me, his wife stuck her head in the window. “Entra, entra,” he told her, without stopping or looking up. She came in and introduced herself. We shook hands. “Sientete,” he told her, and she sat down. I asked if she were friends with Myra, and I told his wife that Myra had told me about her. They pointed to the framed photo on the mesa. “That’s Myra’s son,” they said. “We’re the godparents.” She only stayed a minute or two, while he proceeded with his icaros. Then she said she had to go. Her little granddaughter “está media mala,” she said: She’s pretty sick. She left, but a minute later she came back in, dropped a few cigarettes on the table, told him what she was doing, and left again. I had noticed him doing a lot of things by feel, and I realized that he was partly blind.

After he was done with the smoke, “Ahora trabajamos con perfumes.” Now we’ll work with perfumes. He proceeded to splash me and rub me down with four different flavors of agua florida and a cologne called “Salvaje” that he had to unwrap and take out of its box. I was worried that it would be the same as one of the colognes favored by some of the men in the area, but it was actually quite nice with a sweet musky smell. He splashed liberal amounts of each perfume on the crown of my head and my shoulders, rubbed it on my face, sprinkled it on my chest, rubbed it on my belly under my shirt, and on my back under my shirt, on my knees and lower legs front and back, and on my feet. And he was working hard, going fast, trembling a little even. He was enthusiastic. Not once the entire night did he sing any kind of song.

When he was done, he told me, “With this limpieza (cleaning), you can go anywhere,” and he listed off several names of various regional tribes, “y ninguno te choquea” (and no one will hurt you). “I turn 80 on September 3, and with the icaros, nothing has ever harmed me,” he said. I was to follow up my treatment by not bathing that night nor the next day. On the following morning, I was to wake up, bathe, and then drink, in one swallow, a glass of water

with the juice of one lemon. If I bathe too soon, I wash off the icaro, he said. The lemon water, on the other hand, serves to “cortar el icaro,” or to cut the icaro. Although I’m skeptical of any kind of spiritual or energy healing, he’d gone to the trouble to help me, so I followed his instructions. Besides, I’ve been doing this work long enough to know that if you don’t follow the diet exactly as they tell you, trouble ensues.

Five days later I was on my way home from the festival in Wayku when I saw don Leo and his wife sitting on their doorstep, and I stopped by to say hi. They’d gotten some bad news about his brother and were sad, but his wife gave me her chair and brought us some sweet cold coffee and breads so that we could chat. We talked for a while, and before I left he told me that my icaro had been one of three. It was important that I finish all three, and he insisted that I come back next Tuesday for my next treatment. Having worked with some Native North American people during my undergraduate years, I was familiar with the idea that if a person initiates a ceremonial process but doesn’t finish it, or does it wrong, then it can bring bad luck and even death on the person—the shaman or healer or priest—who hosted or performed the ceremony.

One of my undergraduate university professors had an uncle who’d contracted a serious form of cancer, and she said that it had happened because he introduced White people to the Lakota Sun

Dance, White people who were unable or unwilling to follow through on their commitment to the ceremony. This is one of the main reasons, she explained, that many Native Americans are opposed to sharing their religion with outsiders. Although don Leo had insisted on my first limpieza so that he could teach me, when he told me that I needed to finish the cycle, I agreed to do so.

The following Tuesday, I arrived almost an hour late, hoping we could postpone for another day. I’d spent the whole day in a sweltering customs office in Tarapoto, begging and

cajoling the customs agents who seemed both unwilling and unable to help me free my package.

I had a headache and was frustrated and exhausted. Before I could beg off, he started talking. I took out my notebook and recorder, and four hours later I was walking home. The heading on my field notes entry for that day reads, “Tu llevas las enseñanzas en tu cuerpo.” You carry the teachings in your body. He made me promise that I would come back for the third icaro. There are always three: In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

I was late to finish the last of my icaros, but I did finish, and I did all the follow-up procedures as I’d been instructed. On the second and third nights his wife joined us, and when he was done blowing smoke and splashing perfume on me and praying to the Christian God and saints on my behalf, then she got down on her knees on the cold concrete floor and prayed for me as well. Their generosity and faith were moving, and I probably even shed a few tears out of gratitude for their kindness. But not for a second did I think that these sessions would make any kind of difference in my health—although if they could turn my luck around, I figured I’d take it.

On the last night when we were done, I closed my notebook, turned off my recorder, and didn’t think much more about it. The next day he and I went for a hike through his chacra so that he could show me his agricultural projects and some medicinal plants. I still have a small hole in my backpack from standing too close to him with my back turned as he split open a coconut with his machete. I guess if that’s not luck, I don’t know what is.

As my reader may have guessed from my discussion of the theoretical framework of this dissertation, I tend towards being a materialist. I like facts, I like logic, I like a commonly- agreed-upon version of reality, and that is even more true in the current era of alternative facts, conspiracy theories, and fake news. I have little faith and am increasingly atheistic. More than anything, I’m tired of people believing what they want to believe, just because they want to

believe it: Just because it sounds true doesn’t mean it is true. As a young person I had great faith, and I was much more of an idealist and a spiritual person. That has gone by the wayside, for better or for worse. However, at the same time, I admit that there are things that material science or, in the case of this dissertation, cultural materialism, is unable to explain, and the work that don Leo and his wife did on me is one of them. A couple of weeks after my third limpieza with don Leo, I was sitting at my kitchen table with laundry on the line, and my housemate, also from the U.S., came over to chat. She mentioned that it seemed like there’d been a shift for me, and I agreed. I’d been thinking the same thing, in fact. I wasn’t having to spend entire days in the hammock battling fevers or full-body aches or whatever other forms of malaise had been keeping me grounded. I had newfound strength and energy that I’d lacked for over a year at that point, and I was finally moving forward with my work in a meaningful way. I told her that the only thing I could think of that might have made a difference was the limpieza that don Leo did for me.

I could come up with some sort of materialist explanation for what they did—the perfume and aguas floridas working on my brain by way of my sense of smell—but even if that is true, it would only go part way toward explaining the shift in my physical health. That series of limpiezas did not change the way I thought about my situation; I left after the third one just as convinced of their performativity as I had been when I arrived. I don’t think they stimulated some sort of placebo response. From my understanding, and as basically every Amazonian healer I’ve ever met has told me, you have to have faith for that to work. All I can figure is that their faith was enough. It’s not materialistic, and it’s not logical, but as far as I can tell, it’s the truth.

Ethnomedicine or Exotica?

This study is an investigation of Kichwa ethnomedicine, couched within the larger framework of Kichwa culture. This is by design. The means by which people measure health and well-being, and the methods they use for maintaining them, or regaining them when lost, are integral aspects of culture. Medical culture can reflect many aspects of a society including social norms, values, cosmology, and traditional ecological knowledge, as well as structural inequalities and historical processes. Conversely, ethnomedicine is best understood when buttressed by an understanding of the presumably non-medical aspects of culture. Nina Etkin

(1988) calls this approach “biobehavioral.” Such studies “explore both biological and behavioral parameters … to understand human-plant interactions in the most comprehensive sense and to assess the impact of such behaviors on health” (Etkin 1988, 25). She later notes, “Consideration of more strictly semiotic/mentalist interpretations, as well as of physiologic indicators, is appropriate” (Etkin 1988, 36). When it comes to the Kichwa, who have one foot planted firmly in ancestral Indigenous practice and the other in the world of settler colonialism, behavioral parameters and semiotic/mentalist interpretations necessarily include a wide range of survival strategies, subsistence practices, and cosmological referents. In pursuit of a holistic understanding of these strategies, practices, and referents, and of the culture as a whole, this study includes an exhaustive four chapters covering the history, the language, and the culture of the Kichwa. These chapters are not intended as simple background for the “meat” of the study.

To the contrary, they are intended to provide a comprehensive understanding of Kichwa culture, which in turn provides a more robust understanding of Kichwa ethnomedicine and its relationship to issues of history, economy, and political ecology. In turn, Kichwa ethnomedicine, at its core, is a survival strategy that has evolved and is evolving in concert with the broader

contours of Kichwa culture: subsistence, history, language, environmental relations, gender relations, and the rest.

As it so happens, Kichwa ethnomedicine incorporates a host of practices that anthropology calls “shamanism.” We associate shamanism with the supernatural and with

“magic,” although for anthropologists no less than for the people we study, “magic” is often little more than a rubric by which we explain that which we don’t understand. A central finding of this study, as elaborated in Chapters 6–8, is that Kichwa shamanic practice is in fact far more closely related to the anthropological “mundane” or “vulgar”—the world of base materiality—than anthropological tradition would presume. Such materiality, however, renders these practices no less “sacred”—the anthropological antithesis of the mundane. Kichwa shamans invoke a host of human and other-than-human non-corporeal (spiritual) entities to effect the prosaic, even coarse, processes of healing. More to the point, Kichwa shamanism remains an important aspect of maintaining and regaining health and well-being—realms of practice that, across cultures and throughout human history, have been associated with religion, spirituality, and the sacred

(Wright 2016).

This study, like other studies of shamanism, Indigenous religion, and cosmology, has at times been criticized for “a focus on exotica,” “a concern with radical otherness,” and insufficient attention to issues of political economy and ecology that, presumably, are the “real” concerns of Indigenous people themselves.4 One man, whom I’d never actually met suggested with no evidence to back his claims that my desire to work in a non-tourist setting had to do with my “essentialist projections of idealized, pre-capitalist Indigenous ‘traditions.’” Another

4 This last critique is one that I overheard during the close of a panel on Indigenous religion and shamanic music that took place at a conference in Lima, Peru in 2016.

reviewer suggested that a study of ethnomedicine and shamanism ignores issues of structural inequality, poverty, and oppression. Not a single one of these critiques was voiced by the

Kichwa, who lent their wholehearted support to this study and have pressed me to, in so many words, hurry up and publish it; nor by the Peruvian allies of the Kichwa, who helped facilitate it and who repeatedly allayed my concerns that shamanic music was less important than territorial rights (which was indeed of pressing concern to the Kichwa during my fieldwork); but by fellow anthropologists who, in their roles as gatekeepers of acceptable scholarship, have been quick to seize on preconceived notions of shamanism and shamanic research without engaging thoroughly with the theoretical approach, the data, and the analyses of this study.

Orin Starn (1991) brought these critiques to life in his essay “They Missed the

Revolution,” in which he notes the failure of numerous ethnographers to identify, examine, and address the poverty, despair, and burgeoning unrest that led to the rise of Sendero Luminoso and its bloody reign in some of the very villages where these ethnographers had worked. His argumentative conceit is to contrast two ethnographers: an American woman, B. J. Isbell, whose work focused on ecology and ritual in an Andean town; and a Peruvian man, A. Díaz, a development agent and future leader of Sendero Luminoso, a son of the very Andean setting that he chronicled in his work. Knowing little about the works themselves, my reader should be able to tell from the outset which of these two writers was more attuned to the conditions that led to revolt (hint: It was the one who helped foment that revolt). In his introduction, Starn acknowledges the straw man that he is about to prop up:

From the start, I want to emphasize that it would be unfair to fault anthropologists for not predicting the rebellion. Ethnographers certainly should not be in the business of forecasting revolutions. In many respects, moreover, the Shining Path's success would have been especially hard to foresee. (1991, 63)

Despite the straw-man basis for his argument and its inherent tautology, Starn’s full analysis, as does mine, merits a discussion that goes beyond the superficial contours. His specific complaints are that Andeanists, as he calls them, portray “contemporary highland peasants as outside the flow of modern history” (1991, 64). They fail to see the flows of people between town and city, across geographical and ethnic boundaries. They essentialize their subjects, seeking an Indigenous “worldview” among the most “traditional” representatives of any given population. To the contrary, Díaz the Senderista “saw syncretism and shifting identities” (Starn

1991, 65). While Díaz argued in favor of the autochthonous and of “native culture,” he saw in these elements the seeds of agency and social change (Starn 1991, 82), rather than of backward- looking stasis, as argued by Isbell. Whereas the Andeanists sought comfort in arguments of ecological adaptation, Díaz saw deforestation, a shrinking land base, and erosion (Starn 1991,

80). Starn quotes several lines from Díaz that describe the practices of economic migration, of family members coming and going between the farm where they work the harvest and the city where they perform wage labor, of peasants who leave home and return for festivals, or who leave and don’t return at all (1991, 81).

Along those same lines, a close reading of my study will reveal that many of these practices that Díaz described for Andean campesinos are the exact same as those I have described for the Kichwa. Of the 400 pages of this dissertation, 111 deal with the lengthy and complex intercultural history of the Kichwa of San Martin. Of these 111, over 20 pages discuss political economic changes of the 20th century that led to the rise of the Maoist rebel organizations Sendero and MRTA (Movimiento Revolucionario Tupac Amaru, or Tupac Amaru

Revolutionary Movement) in San Martín, and several of these pages outline the history of

MRTA specifically as a means of demonstrating, if ever so subtly for fear of contributing to their

demonization, the role of the Kichwa in these processes, both as victims of violence but also as participants and leaders in the uprising. Some reviewers requested that I cut these sections; I declined and instead revised my introductions and transitions to better justify and contextualize the historical content. In the most obviously ethnographic of these chapters, I spend ten pages discussing the complexity of Kichwa ethnicity and identity, with attention to racism as a factor in how ethnicity is both defined and ignored. The section on diet makes note of declining agrobiodiversity and nutritional paucity. The sections on agriculture and other economic activities make note of the Kichwa shrinking land base, economic marginalization, and the rise of dangerous agricultural activities introduced by professional development agents—agents of the same kind that Díaz demonized (Starn 1991, 81–82). One of the biggest concerns for the

Kichwa of San Martín during my fieldwork in 2018, the issue of territorial land rights, I outline thoroughly in Chapter 3. The problem appears elsewhere as well, including the final chapter on shamanic music, in which I show that shamanic music offers evidence of the Kichwa relationship with their ancestral landscape, especially those territories of which they have been dispossessed, as well as with the multi-cultural geography of the region as shaped by historical and contemporary processes of trade, travel, and intercultural exchange. Finally, I have attempted to show throughout the ways in which Kechwa ethnomedical and shamanic practice are enmeshed with history, economy, subsistence, race, and class. This is true not only for the contours of their use and development but also for the function of ethnomedical and shamanic practice as a means of coping with the difficulties of life as campesino farmers in the challenging ecological setting of the Peruvian montaña.

In his seminal book Infections and Inequalities, Paul Farmer (1999) brings Starn’s essay into the realm of medical anthropology, lamenting the ways in which “culturism” contributed to

anthropology’s inability to correctly identify and address issues of structural violence in public health and healthcare. “We came, we saw, we misdiagnosed,” he writes (Farmer 1999, 7).

Critical medical anthropology is often seen as a vanguard of anthropological theory, whereas studies of ethnomedicine and shamanism might be better described as medical anthropology’s unwanted stepchild. Despite its critiques of biomedicine, much of medical anthropology and even critical medical anthropology remains wedded to it. In five textbooks and compendia written or edited by leading medical anthropologists, including one who specializes in Peruvian shamanism, the terms “biomedical” and “biomedicine” appear a total of 1021 times; the same variations on “ethnomedicine,” “traditional medicine,” and “indigenous medicine” combined appear 272 times (Baer, Singer, and Susser 2003; Joralemon 2017; McElroy and Townsend

2015; Singer and Baer 2018; Singer and Erickson 2011; Trostle 2005). Although these terms are not a perfect proxy for the contents of the volumes, the discrepancy does demonstrate medical anthropology’s overriding concern with biomedicine.

This is true despite the fact that many if not most people in the world seek recourse in various forms of traditional, “complementary,” and “alternative” medicine (TCAM), often as their primary form of health care (Bussmann 2013; Bussmann and Glenn 2011; Bussmann and

Sharon 2006).5 This latter is especially true in the developing world and for other marginalized populations who can’t afford biomedicine or who lack access for other reasons—geography or

5 The TCAM rubric is an attempt to encompass a wide range of non-biomedical modalities of healthcare and wellness practice. The WHO defines “complementary” and “alternative” forms of medicine as “a broad set of health care practices that are not part of that country’s own traditional or conventional medicine and are not fully integrated into the dominant health care system” (WHO 2019). These terms are often used as synonyms for “traditional,” although in the United States, “traditional” may refer to biomedicine or allopathy, which is the conventional form of medicine in that nation. As per the WHO rubric, Indigenous traditional medicine is defined as “the sum total of knowledge and practices, whether explicable or not, used in diagnosing, preventing or eliminating physical, mental and social diseases;” it is often transmitted orally and is native to the country in which it is practiced (WHO 2019, 8). Indigenous traditional medicine is a subset of TCAM along with other modalities such as acupuncture and Traditional Chinese medicine, Ayurveda, and Western herbalism, all of which might be considered Indigenous forms of medicine in their places of origin.

cultural incongruency, for example (WHO 2013). Some sources estimate that 80% of the population of Africa uses traditional medicine for primary health care (Bussmann and Sharon

2006; Kayne 2010). Indigenous traditional medicine, a subcategory of TCAM, is important throughout the developing world. Although numbers aren’t available for most nations, the WHO

(2019b) estimates that in Benin, Congo, Côte d’Ivoire, Gabon, Mali, and Cuba, 80–99% of the population uses Indigenous traditional medicine; in Burkina Faso, Chad, Equatorial Guinea,

Ethiopia, Ghana, Liberia, Mozambique, Uganda, Tanzania, and Bolivia, that number is 60–79%.

Various forms of TCAM are increasingly important in the developed world as well, such as in

Germany (75%), Canada (70%), Switzerland (49%), and England (47%) (Kayne 2010; WHO

2013). Global sales of herbal supplements and remedies are projected to top $96 billion by 2025

(Global Industry Analysts 2020). In many nations in both the industrialized and developing world, TCAM is covered by health insurance or is provided as part of the national health service

(WHO 2013, 2019b). In the United States, where this is not usually the case, the use of TCAM is nevertheless on the rise. One-quarter of adults surveyed in 2015 and 2016 said they prefer alternative medicine to standard allopathic care; 54% said they prefer a “more natural or holistic approach” to healthcare (Mintel 2016a, 18). In 2016, U.S. sales of herbal and homeopathic remedies were estimated at $5.4 billion and were projected to top $6.6 billion by 2021 (Mintel

2016b). The CDC (2016) estimates that in 2012, Americans spent $30.2 billion out of pocket to cover complementary health treatments for 59 million adults and children.

The World Health Organization considers traditional medicine and traditional knowledge to be key factors in achieving its central goal of universal health coverage as a step toward fulfilling the UN Sustainable Development Goals (WHO 2013, 2018, 2019a). They encourage member nations to consider integrating TCAM services into their national healthcare systems

(WHO 2019a). To facilitate this process, the WHO has devised a strategy “to foster its appropriate integration, regulation, and supervision” (WHO 2013, 7). This strategy asks member states to assess the situation of TCAM in their countries and then “to develop and enforce policies, regulations, and guidelines that reflect these realities” (WHO 2013, 12). A great deal of progress has been made to this effect. As of 2018, 98 member states had issued national-level policy regarding TCAM, up from 25 in 1999 (WHO 2019b). In 2018, 75 member states reported having at least one national research institute focusing on TCAM, up from 19 in 1999. As of

2012, 63 member states offered some type of formal education for TCAM providers; 41 states offered university-level training (WHO 2019b, 50). In 2018, 45 states offered at least partial insurance coverage for TCAM treatments (WHO 2019b, 53). Of all the subcategories of TCAM, including naturopathy, Ayurveda, herbalism, and even spiritualism and divination, Indigenous traditional medicine is the third most-commonly practiced form of medicine among member states (after acupuncture and herbal medicines). Thirty-six nations have regulations treating

Indigenous traditional medicine—more than any other modality of care—and 15 nations provide health-insurance coverage for Indigenous medicine (WHO 2019b, 55).

Likewise, Peru’s Public Defender’s office (Defensoría del Pueblo), the national-level civil and human rights’ ombudsman, recognizes traditional knowledge and Indigenous medicine as key ingredients for the provision of culturally appropriate health services for their Indigenous communities (Defensoría del Pueblo 2015). They recognize that historic relations of asymmetrical power have contributed to the “exclusion and subordination” of the nation’s

Indigenous groups (Defensoría del Pueblo 2015, 26). They note that Indigenous children suffer from chronic malnutrition at three times the rate of Peru’s national average, and that pollution caused by extractive industry combines with poor nutrition, lack of education, and lack of

potable water and sanitation to increase the vulnerability of Indigenous populations. While traditional medicine is not the only answer to these problems, they consider it a key factor to the improvement of health outcomes. Furthermore, their stance on intercultural health is informed by anthropological ethnographic data and a holistic approach to understanding Indigenous cultures.

The Defensoría’s report on intercultural health acknowledges the plurality of forms of ethnomedicine, including but not limited to the shamanic practitioner (curandero/a), who

diagnoses and cures sicknesses, through natural and symbolic procedures. He or she treats not only physical illnesses but also mental ones based in anxiety and fear and other emotional states caused by social or environmental pressures. (2015, 43)

This arm of the Peruvian national government even recognizes beliefs in brujería (witchcraft).

When 12 curanderos were murdered in a short period of time in the town of Balsapuerto, the matter rose to the attention of the Defensoría del Pueblo, who in turn brought it to the national public prosecutor’s office (Oficio #0167-2012/DP). Likewise the matter was examined by the

Medical College of Peru, an arm of the national government (Colegio Médico del Perú 2014). In

Peru, ethnomedicine and shamanism are not mere matters of anthropological curiosity, they are matters pertaining to health and wellbeing, life and death. Furthermore, research with a variety of professionals and practitioners has devised four models for the integration of traditional medicine into the Peruvian health care system; the most popular model among traditional healers was that centered on education (de Pribyl 2012, 2013).

As may be expected, barriers to the formalization of traditional knowledge and its integration into mainstream healthcare delivery are not small. They include a lack of education and training for providers, a lack of mechanisms to monitor safety, lack of mechanisms to regulate advertising and claims, and a lack of financial support (Defensoría del Pueblo 2015,

WHO 2019b). However, according to the WHO and its member states, the single greatest barrier

to the implementation of regulatory issues related to the practice of TCAM is a lack of research data, reported by 99 out of 113 states who responded to the survey; this was the case globally, as well as in every WHO region. Peru also cites a lack of information, in the form of research as well as the distribution of knowledge, as major barriers to the provision of culturally appropriate health services to its Indigenous populations (Defensoría del Pueblo 2015). Peruvian law stipulates that research into medicinal plants be carried out under the auspices of the National

Center of Intercultural Health, in conjunction with universities and other interested organizations. However, lacking sufficient funding to carry out extensive research to this end or to publicize the data, the Defensoría del Pueblo recommends that healthcare providers in

Indigenous communities identify traditional medicine experts, work with them to record their knowledge, and create a record of that knowledge that can be passed on to future community health workers in order to improve health care and health outcomes for their Indigenous population (Defensoría del Pueblo 2015).

Conclusion: A lack of research data on traditional medicine is one of the biggest obstacles to the implementation of national and international strategies designed to foster universal health coverage, improve the health of Indigenous populations, and achieve

Sustainable Development Goal #3, “ensuring healthy lives and promoting well-being for all ages” (WHO 2019b, 10). Therefore, this study should not be read as an exoticization of

Indigenous culture, nor as an essentialistic record of shamanic practice, but as, among other things, a basic-scientific study designed to increase the body of knowledge about a subject of central importance to the Kichwa as well as to national and international attempts to improve global health and wellbeing. The question should not be, why have I chosen to research ethnomedicine and shamanic practice when there are important issues of health, well-being,

structural inequality, oppression, etc. to be addressed? The question should be, why aren’t more anthropologists doing the same?

Why has mainstream medical anthropology largely abandoned this line of research to the fields of ethnopharmacology and ethnobiology, when medical anthropology, with its attention to culture, society, and behavior and its holistic approach to its subject matter, has so much to contribute? Critical medical anthropology in particular, with its analyses of structural issues related to health and medicine, has a great deal to contribute to studies of ethnomedicine. Its focus should include not only historic and social-structural factors, as outlined in this dissertation, but also issues of cultural misappropriation and intellectual property rights, which are indeed central concerns not only to Indigenous peoples but also to the WHO (WHO 2013).

Studying ethnomedicine is not only a means of recording important traditional scientific knowledge, it is not only a means of examining concepts and practices of health and wellness in a population; it is also a window into wider issues of culture and interculturality that matter not only to medical anthropologists, not only to the global community, but also and most importantly to the people for whom ethnomedicine is the primary line of defense against pathogens and predators of all types.

Lamista Culture and the Diaspora of Lamista Shamanism

While this study is an investigation of Kichwa ethnomedicine as a material strategy of survival and wellbeing, it is also a study of the interculturality of ayahuasca shamanism and the ways in which ethnomedical and shamanic culture and practice have developed and spread in relation to historic and contemporary processes of political economy and ecology, social change, and flows of people, goods, knowledge, and belief (Barbira-Freedman 2014; Brabec 2011; Gow

1994; Langdon 1981; Lathrap 1973; Oberem 1974; Shepard 2014; Thomas and Humphrey 1994;

Whitten 1976). The engagement of the Kichwa in historic systems of trade and travel, and the

diasporization of the Kichwa and their culture (including language), are key factors that led to the widespread influence of the San Martín Kichwa on contemporary forms of Western

Amazonian shamanism, including globalized forms of ayahuasca shamanism and religious practice (Barbira-Freedman 2002). Two of the most influential actors in the globalization of ayahuasca, Jacques Mabit and Mestre Irineu Serra, were heavily influenced by Lamista shamans and shamanism. Jacques Mabit is best known as the founder of Takiwasi, a research facility and drug-addiction treatment center located in Tarapoto whose treatment regimen centers on ayahuasca and other purgative plants. As a French physician and pioneer of this work for a global clientele, Mabit is arguably one of the earliest and most important drivers of the

“psychologization” of ayahuasca—its incorporation into Western forms of psychotherapy accompanied by Western scientific research—as well as the concomitant revolution in psychedelic psychotherapy. Mabit first came to Peru in 1980 to run a hospital in the Peruvian

Altiplano for the international NGO Doctors Without Borders; he became aware of the

Indigenous use of ayahuasca to treat drug addiction when he moved to Tarapoto in 1986, the height of the coca boom, to study traditional medicine with the Lamista (Apffel-Marglin and

Mabit 2007; Gargurevich n.d; Mabit 2004.). Mabit began his shamanic training as apprentice to the renowned Chazutino curandero Aquilino Chujandama, whose son was an important contributor to the present study. He also apprenticed with Lamista ayahuasquero Wilfredo

Tuanama Tananta and undertook various plant diets with Kichwa palero (one who uses medicinal plants derived from trees and woody vines) Guillermo Ojanama (interview with

Mabit, October 9, 2018). While Mabit has also apprenticed with and, as head of Takiwasi, worked closely with numerous other shamans, mostly mestizo, he repeatedly acknowledges the

influence of Lamista shamanism on his own formation as well as on shamanic practice throughout the region (Mabit 1996, 2002, 2004).

Another important figure who appears to have been influenced by Lamista shamanism was Mestre Raimundo Irineu Serra, the rubber tapper, border soldier, and founder of Brazil- based ayahuasca religion Santo Daime, with at least two descendant traditions and numerous member churches throughout the world, including in the United States. Multiple sources note that Irineu’s first experience with ayahuasca took place near the border between Brazil and

Bolivia with a Peruvian shaman named Crescencio Pizango; at least one source notes that Irineu took ayahuasca with Pizango multiple times and also dieted with him (Meyer 2014; Moreira and

MacRae 2011; SantoDaime.com n.d.; SantoDaime.org n.d.). One of these sources was Jacques

Mabit, who reports that Mestre Irineu’s wife told him that Irineu had originally drunk with a

Lamista shaman, during a visit that Mabit and his wife made to Irineu’s wife in Brazil (interview with Mabit, October 9, 2018). While Pizango (sometimes spelled “Pisango”) is invariably identified as a mestizo rubber tapper, the name Pizango is a Lamista surname that one of my elder Lamista informants associated with the town San Miguel del Rio Mayo, which lies on the

Rio Mayo not far from Lamas and was historically an important stopover point on various trade routes. Due to the fantastical elements of the story, Pizango is sometimes considered an ambiguous, possibly fictitious figure; however, these elements of the story are well within the range of Lamista shamanic cosmology. Furthermore, while other Indigenous groups have laid claim to being the first to serve ayahuasca to Mestre Irineu (Labate and Coutinho 2014), the story about Pizango originates not with the Lamista but from within the church itself and from the wife of its founder. Interestingly, Pizango also went by the pseudonym of Huascar, who happened to be the brother of Inca king Atahualpa, thus introducing Incan imagery and

mythology into the Santo Daime tradition, much as is the case in the UDV as well as in other ayahuasca traditions.

Shamans of Kichwa ancestry or of Kichwa training are also common figures in anthropological studies of vegetalismo and ayahuasca shamanism. Although, like Pizango, they are often not identified as Lamista and may even self-identify as mestizo, their ancestry can be surmised from their surname. One example is Peter Gow’s book Of Mixed Blood (1991), research for which formed the basis for his later pioneering piece “River People” (1994), which proposed ayahuasca shamanism as an outgrowth of the colonial experience, born in the Jesuit and Franciscan missions of the colonial era, rather than in autochthonous Amazonian forest- dwelling Indigenous culture. The appendix in Of Mixed Blood provides eight sets of genealogy; among these are one family of Fasabis—the same last name as the families who settled and are predominant in and around Sisa in San Martín—but also two families of Mosombites, a last name (apellido) that one of my elder Lamista informants identified as being associated with the community of Barranquita, a town in Lamas Province, San Martín. Gow (1991) also mentions

“Tamasifuen,” a common variant of the Lamista surname “Amasifuen” which is also the name of a tribe reduced at Lamas by Riva Herrera. Gow indicates that the Tamasifuen were among the

Kichwa families integrated into Bajo Urubamba communities during the rubber boom.6

Likewise, Gow’s (2010) analysis of literacy as shamanic practice centers on a historic “Piro” character known as Guillermo Sangama; Sangama is one of the original clans of Lamas and remains one of the strongest families in Wayku, the Kichwa district of the town of Lamas. In his

2001 book Gow notes that the most powerful shamans of the Bajo Urubamba during his time of

6 The other name Gow provides here is the Cocama surname “Murayari” which, as I note elsewhere in this dissertation, is a synonym for the most powerful class of shaman, known as “muraya.”

fieldwork were “Cocama, Napo Quichua, or Lamista Quechua men married to local women”

(2001, 156).

The onomastic approach can be imperfect. For one thing, while there is a core set of

Lamista surnames which are well known and documented, there are numerous other Kichwa families and surnames autochthonous to San Martín that are less well documented (Puga Capelli

1989). Scazzocchio (1979) writes that the Kichwa of Lamas town referred to these families as chikan runa—foreign Kichwa people—as opposed to the llakwash runa of Lamas proper.

Furthermore, there is the intermingling, resettlement, and naturalization of families that has occurred over time—a dynamic that is at the core of Gow’s 1991 book (as well as a 2007 chapter) and that he highlights with the example of “Tamasifuen.” Pizango, for example, is a surname originating with the Shawi, but it is also common among the Kichwa of San Martin.

Mozombite appears to originate on the Ucayali River with the Yagua people, but it is also found in San Martín among Kichwa speakers, and I once knew a Mosombite who identified as

Cocama. Panduro is a mestizo surname originating with the Spanish which is also common among the Kichwa of San Martín as well as in the general population of Iquitos. One of my key

Lamista informants indicated that Panduro is a name that some Kichwa families have adopted in the past in order to mask their Indigenous ancestry and thus avoid discrimination and exploitation. Interestingly, this adoption of a different surname and ethnic identity is exactly the same practice that led to the formation of lowland Kichwa as a distinct ethnicity during the colonial era (Reeve 1993a; Whitten 1976). One example of this practice would be the famous shaman Norma Panduro, now deceased; she identified as mestiza, although her physiognomy showed clear and prevalent Indigenous ancestry. Her cousin Pedro continues to practice

curanderismo (healing) for a local clientele in Iquitos, using the exact same plants and techniques that I observed in San Martín.

On the other hand, we have other accounts that mention Lamas specifically. Beyer, who studied shamanism in Iquitos, opens his book Singing to the Plants with an introduction of his two main teachers, both of whom are from Lamas, a town that Beyer characterizes as “a traditional home of powerful shamans” (2009, 5). Brabec (2011), working with Shipibo ayahuasqueros in Pucallpa on the Ucayali River, notes the importance of Lamas as one of the locations from which the teachers of his informants originated; he also cites the Lamista Kichwa as one of those missionized groups for whom ayahuasca shamanism is considered a “traditional” practice. Brabec concludes that his data draws “a picture in which ayahuasca had traveled from northwest of Iquitos via llamas [sic]” to spread to the Ucayali and then, during the rubber boom, over the Brazilian border into Acre where both the Santo Daime and the UDV were founded

(2011, 31). Brabec also notes that the majority of icaros in his Shipibo community are sung not in Shipibo but in Quechua. We know from other sources that the Quechua of the Pucallpa area is the Quechua of San Martín (Doherty et al. 2007; Gow 2010, 96; Landerman 1991). I know from my informants that Pucallpa, specifically the Shipibo communities on Lake Yarinacocha, and the former mission capital of Jeberos were, in the past, the primary destinations of Lamista Kichwa who traveled to apprentice as shamans.

Besides the importance of the Lamista Kichwa in the development and spread of contemporary ayahuasca shamanism, what can we learn from the patterns outlined in the above paragraphs and cited documents? We know that ayahuasca shamanism is a practice of engaging with the “Other,” whether on a spiritual plane, intellectual, or material (Calavia Saéz 2011, 2014; see above citations re. trade and travel). In the mundane world, this intercultural contact and

exchange are facilitated by patterns of trade and travel in goods, services, and knowledge.

What’s interesting here are the locations in which this contact occurs—naturally, those places where people come together—and the change in these locations over time. In distant history, these exchanges took place at sites of power along rivers: at confluences or pongos (narrow gorges), the latter being places of great spiritual power as well as economic import, where rock was abundant and stone axes could be obtained (Barbira-Freedman 2014). During colonial history, these exchanges took place in the nodes of missionary-driven exchange networks:

Lamas, Jeberos, Chazuta, Yurimaguas. Lake Yarinacocha would have risen in importance probably after 1949, when the area became home to the Summer Institute of Linguistics (SIL), an Evangelical missionary organization. Yarinacocha also was an early base for anthropological and archeological research in the Amazon (c.f. Lathrap 1970); the activities of SIL combined with that of the researchers would have made Yarinacocha a place associated with knowledge, learning, and intercultural exchange. According to my informants, for example, the SIL held annual meetings of their Indigenous teachers at Limoncocha, with people being flown in from all over Peru, and probably Ecuador and beyond. Gow (2010) demonstrates the value placed on the

SIL and its educational activities in the communities where he worked, and he draws an analogy between the power of literacy promulgated by SIL and the power of shamanism. He also provides another reason that SIL inadvertently helped drive Yarinacocha’s fame for shamanic practice. One of his informants told him that

many sick people from Sepahua took advantage of missionary-financed trips to the famous Hospital Amazonico on Yarinacocha to simultaneously consult Cocama shamans like his father, consultations that they did not tell the missionaries about. (Gow 2007)

With the increasing urbanization of the Amazonian population, however, these centers of shamanic practice and exchange shifted to the cities: Pucallpa after the arrival of the highway

linking it with San Martín and Lima, then Iquitos and Tarapoto, with former centers such as

Lamas and Jeberos fading in economic importance as well as shamanic. The locus of shamanic power and activity appears to have shifted to Iquitos with the opening of the Nauta road and the availability of land there where, in the past 10 or 15 years, dozens of shamanic retreat centers have been built, many owned and staffed by people of Lamista ancestry (Barbira-Freedman

2014). Especially with the globalization of ayahuasca practice, the most important centers of ayahuasca shamanism today are the large cities with airports: Iquitos, Tarapoto, Pucallpa, and to a lesser extent, probably Tena, Ecuador.7 Yarinacocha remains important, facilitated by its proximity to Pucallpa and the ingenuity and entrepreneurialism of its Shipibo families (Brabec

2012b, 2014). In all, I suggest that shamanic practice and training are matters of knowledge and the accumulation thereof (de Pribyl 2012), best accomplished in areas of high intercultural contact and sharing. Geographical sites associated with concentrated shamanic activity might best be traced through time and space in terms of their function as centers of learning— universities of shamanic practice—and, with the increasing commodification of the practice, centers of its commercialization.

The Chapters

The primary focus of this dissertation is the ethnomedical system of the Kichwa of San

Martín, a complex that includes medicinal plants, dietary practices, music, and ritual. A full understanding of Kichwa ethnomedicine cannot be divorced from the larger cultural and ethnohistoric picture. To that end, Chapter 2 discusses the ethnohistory of the Kichwa within the framework of colonialism and missionization, and their participation in long-distance networks

7 I am less familiar with the situation in Colombia and Brazil, but to my knowledge, neither country currently boasts epicenters of shamanic culture of the scale seen in Peru and Ecuador. The upper Putumayo of Colombia may in the past have performed such a function. Furthermore, with the collapse of the Maynas District as a cohesive culture area secondary to the closing of national borders in the 20th century, these inter-regional linkages lost importance.

of trade and travel, networks that were central to the development of contemporary Amazonian shamanism as an intercultural phenomenon heavily influenced by Christianity and other forms of modernization. Several turning points in Kichwa history—the eviction of the Jesuits from San

Martín, Peruvian independence, the Rubber Boom, and the waves of migrants arriving in the 20th century—created both opportunities and pressures that led to the dispersion of the Lamista from

Lamas, the emigration of many Kichwa from San Martin, and the creation of a Kichwa diaspora throughout the Peruvian Amazon and beyond. Where the Kichwa went, so did their shamanic practices, making the Kichwa of San Martín an important force in the dissemination, reproduction, and ongoing innovation of shamanic practice throughout the Amazon. Chapter 3 discusses further processes of internal colonization and development that displaced the Kichwa both within San Martín and from San Martín. It also discusses more recent social movements that, among other things, conspired to squelch Kichwa culture and shamanism in its homeland of

San Martín: the rise of armed Maoist groups who persecuted shamanic practice, and the continued theft of Kichwa territories by settler forces including the environmental conservation movement.

Chapter 4 discusses the introduction of the Quechua language to the lowlands by missionaries and the adoption of a Quechua language and identity by the Indigenous people of

San Martín. Throughout the Amazon, Quechua remains the primary language associated with ayahuasca shamanism, both in the names of plants but also, and more importantly, in the songs used in ayahuasca ritual. In addition, the wide spread throughout the lowlands of the Quechua language—a language usually associated with the Andes—remains an unresolved question for some anthropologists. It is also central to questions of the ethnogenesis of the Lamista Kichwa.

Therefore, this chapter also explores alternative theories for the rise of Quechua in the region.

Chapter 5 marks a turn to the unique findings of this study of Kichwa culture and ethnomedicine. It offers an ethnographic sketch of a people surviving and thriving in the socioeconomic and environmental setting wrought by the historical forces outlined in previous chapters. It also examines questions of identity and the erasure of the Kichwa of San Martín as a unique ethnic group.

Chapter 6 begins the deep dive into Kichwa ethnomedical practices. While the use of plant remedies is prevalent throughout Peruvian society, the Lamista practice a unique system of traditional medicine that employs a class of plants called purgas, made primarily from woody tissues such as tree barks (specifically, the cortex) and the stems of various vines. The most common uses for the purgas are for musculoskeletal issues; they are also used to make the body strong and energetic, in keeping with the traditional role of both Lamista men and women in performing hard labor as farmers, and the men in their roles as long-distance porters, paddlers, and soldiers. Women use purgas to strengthen and recover from childbirth, and to fortify the blood and body secondary to menstruation. Men use the purgas to prepare their bodies for hunting, and it is in this role of the purgas as hunting medicine, or what anthropologists have traditionally called “hunting magic,” that we find some of the most interesting accounts of the purgas’ effects.

Among the pantheon of purgas used by the Kichwa is ayahuasca, and Chapter 7 paints a picture of contemporary ayahuasca shamanism as practiced among the Kichwa of San Martín. In both the popular and scholarly press, ayahuasca is almost always defined as a vine,

Banisteriopsis caapi, but also as a brew or decoction of the vine mixed with the leaf of a plant known as chacruna, or Psychotria viridis. The decoction is usually imbibed in a ceremonial setting for the purpose of effecting shamanic healing of one or several patients who are present.

An ayahuasca ceremony can be elaborate or simple, depending on the healer and his or her audience. Among the humble people with whom I worked during this study, ceremonial trappings include little more than a stool to sit on, a prayer to bless the ayahuasca, some songs to guide the process, and after an hour or two, a soplada (blowing) with tobacco smoke to close the evening. Effects of ayahuasca include vomiting and diarrhea, dizziness and ataxia, and “visions,” a term that encompasses insight as well as intense audio-visual experiences. One of the more interesting findings elucidated in this chapter is the provenance of the word “chacruna,” a term that appears specific to the San Martín dialect of Quechua and that, among the Kichwa, universally refers to any mixture of medicinal plants. The association of this word with P. viridis, which has been adopted throughout the Amazon as the preferred ayahuasca admixture plant, further implicates the Lamista as central actors in the development of contemporary ayahuasca shamanism.

One of the unique cultural characteristics of the purgas is the association of music and plant, a subject which forms the basis for Chapter 8. Some purgas, especially those plants used for hunting or those plants that have psychoactive properties, have songs associated with them.

Those songs associated with hunting magic are closely guarded secrets and, like the knowledge of plant use, appear to have been passed down father to son. The use of purgas has historically been associated with sorcery, adding to the secrecy surrounding these songs and the reluctance that my informants expressed in sharing them. However, the music associated with the psychoactive plants, specifically tomapende (Solanaceae) and ayahuasca, is much more readily accessible, owing largely to the ceremonial use of those plants to treat a variety of medical and psychological ailments. Ayahuasca, in fact, has an entire genre of music associated with it, songs that are usually called “icaros.” Chapter 8 discusses the shamanic music of the Kichwa,

specifically the songs used in ayahuasca healing sessions, through which the healer works with the anima—the spirit or essence—of ayahuasca and other healing plants, while also invoking and inviting the assistance of other shamans both living and deceased. This chapter highlights the important role that the San Martín landscape plays in harboring the spiritual forces of healing and in serving as a refuge for the souls of deceased ancestors, specifically those powerful shamans of the past. Despite the intercultural, almost cosmopolitan nature of contemporary

Amazonian shamanism, this study shows that the ethnomedical practices of the Kichwa of San

Martín, and the mythology surrounding these practices, remain part of a deeply rooted, sacred relationship between people and landscape that has concrete ramifications for land-use regulations, laws, and practices in San Martín, where dominant social, political, and economic forces rooted in colonialism continue to provoke the displacement and de-territorialization of

Kichwa communities.

A note on the terms “Lamista” and “Kichwa”

The term “Lamista” properly refers to those Quechua-speaking people with contemporary, ancestral, and cultural ties to the colonial city of Lamas, capital of Lamas province, Region San Martín—a relatively limited population with a very visible cultural expression. However, the term “Lamista” is often incorrectly used to refer to all Kichwa peoples of San Martín. As will be clarified in the next few chapters, there are a great many Quechua- speakers of San Martín whose ethnohistory and ancestral ties to Lamas are not clearly understood, while there are also communities of people throughout the Peruvian Amazon and even Ecuador who have explicit ties to the town of Lamas. The data for this dissertation is drawn largely from my interactions with Kichwa-identified and Kichwa-speaking people from diverse areas of San Martín, including the town and extended community of Chazuta and the province of

El Dorado.8 Many of these people trace a cultural or familial lineage to Lamas, but it is not clear that all do. Therefore, in the interest of accuracy as well as inclusion, I have tried to use the verbose phrase “Kichwa of San Martín” where possible. Nevertheless, the succinct term

“Lamista” is retained throughout, especially when speaking historically, since most scholarly historiography on the Kichwa focuses on the Lamista proper.

The terms “Quechua,” “Kechwa,” “Quichua,” and “Kichwa” are all spelling variations of the same word and tend to be somewhat arbitrary in their application. The spelling “Quechua” tends to refer to the Andean Quechua; the others usually refer to lowland peoples. “Quichua” and

“Kichwa” are most commonly used to refer to lowland Quechua-speaking peoples of Ecuador.

There, Indigenous activists have driven the development of a unified Kichwa language that dispenses with letters derived from the Spanish alphabet (e.g., replacing the “qu” with “k”)

(Swanson and Andi 2013). In San Martín, there is little consistency in spelling. The two locally published dictionaries use both “Quechua” (Doherty et al. 2007) and “Kichwa” (Cachique

Amasifuen 2007) to refer to the language. The Indigenous federations of the region use both

“Kechwa” and “Kichwa” to refer to the people (see page 120). However, a Lamista friend and former federation president pointed out to me that the “e” sound is not part of the ancestral

Quechua language and was adopted from Spanish; he requested that I refer to the Quechua- speakers of San Martín as “Kichwa.” Therefore, for purposes of consistency and clarity, in this dissertation I use “Quechua” to refer to Andean peoples or to the language family and its member languages and dialects. I use “Kichwa” to refer to the Quechua-speaking lowland people of Peru and Ecuador.

8 Peruvian political divisions are nested as follows: district

CHAPTER 2 ETHNOHISTORY OF THE KICHWA OF SAN MARTIN: FROM CONTACT THROUGH THE RUBBER BOOM

In his seminal ethnography Of Mixed Blood: Kinship and History in Peruvian Amazonia,

Peter Gow (1991) notes that anthropologists have historically subscribed to a dichotomy between

“traditional” and “acculturated” peoples—the former being treated as ahistorical, and the latter as products of historical processes. Gow’s work, to the contrary, portrays the people of the Bajo

Urubamba as historical agents, challenging “the dominant vision of Native Amazonian peoples as historically impotent” (Gow 1991, 3). Gow’s approach follows Wolf ([1982] 2010) and joins others working in Amerindian ethnography, archeology, and linguistics in considering issues of world systems, history, and conflict as central to the story of culture both pre- and post-contact

(Hill 1996, 1999; Hornborg 2005; Hornborg and Hill 2011; Schwartz and Solomon 1999; Sider

1994; Whitten 1996; Wright 1992c, 1999). Hill notes that beyond simply describing the historic emergence of culture, ethnogenesis can be

an analytical tool for developing critical historical approaches to culture as an ongoing process of conflict and struggle over a people’s existence and their positioning within and against a general history of domination. (1996, 1)

In keeping with this approach, this chapter and the following one discuss in detail the history of the Lamista Kichwa, from contact to the present, for two reasons: one, to understand the historical processes that gave rise to that diasporic ethnic group known as “Lamista Kichwa,” whose language, population, and cultural influence have left their mark throughout the Peruvian

Amazon and into Ecuador; and two, to understand the historical processes through which the

Kichwa of San Martín have interacted with and helped shape society, economy, and culture at the regional, national, and even international levels. The first of these two chapters describes the emergence of the Kichwa as a group of “Christian Indians,” an ethnic formation populated by the survivors of numerous Indigenous peoples decimated by warfare and disease who sought refuge

in the Church and in colonial culture. This chapter recounts how, over the course of centuries, the Kichwa engaged with non-Indigenous forms of power and as producers, porters, and laborers played important roles in economic, historic, and cultural processes that enveloped the Western

Amazon. This chapter covers the time period from the point of contact (17th century) up to and including the Rubber Boom, which ran from about 1850 to 1912.

Chapter 3 continues the story of the Kichwa of San Martín in the 20th and 21st centuries, during which they saw waves of settlers take over their ancestral lands, pushing them farther to the margins and restricting them to ever smaller parcels of increasingly impoverished land. The expansion of monocrop agriculture during this era led to widespread deforestation throughout the region, while failed agrarian policy and the rise of narcotrafficking led to the occupation of the region by two revolutionary armies, the Peruvian military, and various international narcotrafficking organizations. The subversión, as this era is called, gave way to the rise of cacao and coffee as cash crops tied to international aid and market forces, as well as to the rise of conservation projects which aimed to arrest and even reverse deforestation in the region but which, at the same time, served to dispossess the Kichwa of some of their most important and sacred ancestral territories. Taken as a whole, these historical chapters depict the Kichwa as people who have endured century after century of discrimination, exploitation, and victimization, but also they also depict them as agents of change, as people who organize and act in their own self-defense, and as a people proud of their physical strength and endurance, their discipline, and their roles as farmers, laborers, soldiers, and members of their families and communities.

One of the main themes in the history of the Lamista is their propensity for travel. Until paved roads made motorized transport economical, they were widely employed as porters— cargueros or cargadores—on long-distance trade missions. As late as the second half of the 20th

Figure 2-1. A regional overview showing the location of important towns and communities mentioned in the text. The image also shows levels of deforestation as of 2018; note the quadrants of the palm-oil plantation in upper center. The Huallaga River meanders south to north from Juanjui to Yurimaguas. The river on the far right is the Ucayali. The Cordillera Azul is the mountainous region southeast of Chazuta. The Cordillera Escalera is the mountainous ridge that runs southwest to northeast, north of Tarapoto and Lamas. The Andes are on the far left of the image, and the lowland plains on the right.

century, long lines of Lamista families could be seen arriving in Yurimaguas from Lamas, or returning to San Martín from the Ucayali with loads of paiche fish that they carried for los autoridades—“the authorities,” referring to any mestizo or creole patron who requested their labor under the rules of the vara—the staff—a colonial-era form of indirect rule that persisted into the twentieth century. During the colonial era, the Lamista often served as adjuncts to the colonial forces, a history which led to their reputation as the punto de lanza—the “tip of the spear”—of colonial expansion, a reputation that has followed them to the present era. In addition, the commercial value of the fertile lands of the Middle Huallaga and their accessibility to colonial and later, Peruvian settlement have made the Lamista vulnerable to population and migration pressures that have forced them not only to the margins of San Martín, but also down river and outward toward southern Peru, Brazil, Ecuador, and Colombia. These processes of traveling and emigration have created a diaspora of Lamista people and culture as well as exchanges of goods and culture across regions and across borders. This diasporization and bi- directional cultural exchange included the diffusion and exchange of shamanic knowledge and culture and is one of the reasons that the Lamista, in addition to their reputation as gypsies, have also enjoyed a reputation as powerful brujos, or shamans (c.f. Weiss 1949).1 The following two history chapters, while serving to clarify the position of the Lamista within broader regional, national, and even international historical processes, also elucidate the Kichwa relationship to trade, travel, and interethnic exchange, practices that are essential to the collection of shamanic knowledge and power. These chapters also detail the process of Lamista diasporization and the

1 The term “brujo” translates directly as “warlock” or the masculine form of “witch.” Although the term appears to carry negative connotations, historically it, as well as the term hechicero (sorcerer), were the standard terms for anyone who practiced shamanism. The fear and danger associated with these practices and practitioners served to augment their reputations as powerful.

diffusion of Lamista language and culture throughout the Amazon, such that shamans of Lamista ancestry or training are nearly ubiquitous in studies of contemporary Western Amazonian shamanism (Barbira-Freedman 2002, 2014).

Overview

The Lamista Kichwa are a diasporic group of Indigenous people with common ancestry on the Middle Huallaga River and in the Jesuit mission of Lamas. Since early in the colonial era, they have engaged in substantial outmigration, first to nearby areas in their ancestral territories, and later, to farther-flung areas in search of land and work. This process continues today, with the ongoing formation of settlements in remote areas of the central and lower Huallaga region.

Like their distant neighbors the Canelos Kichwa, the Lamista are characterized by a bi-local residential and cultural pattern that juxtaposes the life of the forest and chacra (garden) with that of the town. Historically, the Lamista played an important role in missionary-era trade networks as manufacturers of curare (blowgun-dart poison) and cotton cloth; as producers of sugar, tobacco, and rock salt; and as porters and paddlers in trade expeditions as well as on entradas

(colonial military expeditions) against other Indigenous groups of the region. During the formation of the Peruvian state, the presence of the Lamista on the middle Huallaga River and their lack of land titles left them vulnerable to national expansion and the industrial and agricultural development of the lowlands. The resulting diaspora, however, and their continuing participation in networks of shamanic trade and practice, made them pivotal agents in the development of modern ayahuasca shamanism and its spread to new areas of the Western

Amazon (Barbira-Freedman 2002).

The mission town of Lamas is situated in the foothills of the Andes Mountains, at 6.4° south, 76.5° west, 2,670’ (814 m.) above sea level (see Figure 2-1, Figure 2-3, and Figure 3-1 for maps of the region). The town is built on a narrow ridge that forms part of the divide between the

Río Mayo and the Río Cumbaza, not far above these rivers’ confluence with the Huallaga River.

The Huallaga is one of the main tributaries of the Marañon, which is considered by many to be the main stem of the Amazon River (the Napo and the Apurímac-Ucayali also contend for that title). Lamas and its nearest large city, Tarapoto, are situated in a basin that is hemmed in to the north and east by a precipitous massif, the Cordillera Escalera, which rises 7545’ (2300 m) above the Amazonian plain to its east. At the foot of the cordillera, where the Huallaga cuts a deep canyon, a set of rapids presents a barrier to upstream commercial river travel. Even today, the road that cuts through this canyon is frequently impassable due to mud- and rockslides, sometimes of massive proportions.

The Peruvian montaña (tropical foothills of the Andes) is characterized by high biodiversity and species endemism. A recent biological survey of the Cordillera Escalera conducted by the Chicago Field Museum found plant and vertebrate communities that “rank among the most diverse on Earth at the regional scale, combining hyperdiverse lowland communities and endemic-rich montane communities” (Pitman et al. 2014, 251). Unfortunately, the district of San Martín is one of the most thoroughly deforested regions of the Peruvian

Amazon, and the rapid expansion of plantations for palm oil further threatens primary forest in lowland San Martín as well as in the neighboring region of Loreto (Finer, Snelgrove, and Novoa

2015). Indeed, agricultural expansion for cash crops such as coffee, palm oil, coca, and cacao has been the primary driving force of deforestation in the region since the middle of the 20th century

(see Figure 2-1).

The three centers of Lamista culture today are the towns of Chazuta (province of San

Martín), Lamas (province of Lamas), and San José de Sisa (province of El Dorado).

Origins of the Lamista: Legends of Chanka Ancestry

A persistent legend maintains that the Lamista are the descendants of the Chanka, a group of Andean Indians hailing from Andahuaylas in southern Peru, who fled the Inca Empire to settle in the selva (jungle) of Peru’s northern Amazon. The story of the Chanka exile was recorded by a number of Spanish conquistadors. According to Cieza de León, Spanish conquistador and chronicler of Peru, the Chanka were one-time enemies of the Inca whose valiant but ultimately unsuccessful siege of Cuzco was cause for the ordination of Tupac Yupanqui as Inca ruler, by popular demand of the people of Cuzco. Having witnessed the valor of the Chanka ruler in battle,

Yupanqui invited him to join the Inca forces. Known under both the names Hastu Huaraca and

Anco Allo, he accepted, and the Chanka were integrated as warriors among the Inca. Later, because of their great successes in battle, the Chanka became the object of Inca jealousy, and a group of Inca captains plotted the murder of Anco Allo, sending for him and his army. The

Chanka warriors defended themselves and their leader.

[Then, the Chanka ] complained to their gods of the bad faith of the Orejones, [as the Inca were known,] and of their ingratitude, declaring that, to see them no more, they would go into voluntary exile. Taking their women with them, they marched through the provinces of Huánuco and Chachapoyas, and passing the forests of the Andes, they arrived at a very large lake which, I believe, must be that described in the story of El Dorado. Here they established their settlement, and multiplied. The Indians related great things of that land and of the chief Ancoallo. (Cieza de Leon 1883, 157)

The remainder of the Chanka, not present at the time of the battle, returned to their homes in

Apurímac, disappointed with the treachery of the Incas (Cieza de Leon 1883).

Despite a good deal of evidence to the contrary, a belief in the Lamista’s Chanka ancestry persists among the population at local, regional, and even national levels (Doherty et al. 2007;

Wust and Coronado 2003), and it appears to be the narrative taught in local schoolrooms to this day. The hilltop district of the town of Lamas is known as Anco Allo, or Ankohuallo, which

most take as evidence of the town’s Chanka heritage. Others insist that the version of Quechua spoken by the Lamista is related to that of southern Peru and the homeland of today’s Chanka.

These same people point to the unique manner of dress among the Lamista, particularly the women with their full skirts and embroidered bodices, as being characteristic of the Chanka. At least one person told me that historically, a lake was situated where the Wayku plaza exists now, and that it is this lake alongside which the Chanka sought refuge.

Various lines of reasoning and evidence refute these notions, however. First, contemporary linguistic typology situates San Martín Quechua in the North Peruvian language group, not the south. The settlement of San Joseph de los Lamas does appear to have been previously settled: It was in fact the seat (asiento) of the Lamas Indians, not the Chanka, and in the end the Lamas represented but a fraction of the people settled in that site (Riva Hererra 2003,

133). With regard to the district of Ankohuallo, Scazzocchio asserts that unlike the names of barrios, which correspond to local patronyms, the names of town districts are solely toponyms and that the toponym “Ankohuallo” is likely a later addition, not a holdover from early historic or pre-contact times (Scazzocchio 1979). Doherty and colleagues (Doherty et al. 2007) write that

Spanish conquistadors were never able to locate the Chanka’s valley of refuge or their lake, nor did they encounter a lowland group of dominant, Quechua-speaking Indians. Scazzocchio, however, located a reference to Chanka exiles encountered in 1556, living on the Río Pacay in the Upper Huallaga near Huánuco. She suggests that this is a more likely location for the Chanka to have settled, being much further south and therefore closer to their original homeland. Today’s

Chanka people remain centered in and around the city of Andahuaylas in southern Peru, east of

Cusco. The Chanka-Inca battle is recreated annually at a nearby site, but without reference to any

escape to the jungle; neither the Lamista nor an escape to the jungle are part of the contemporary

Chanka historical narrative (Sabine Hyland, personal communication, 2019).

That said, there is evidence in the archival documents for a limited representation of the

Chanka in Lamista history—not as the sole ancestors of the Lamista, but as one of many family and tribal groups who eventually made their home at Lamas. The general registry of the

Tabalosos Indians, dated October 16, 1653, lists the subgroups Tabalosos, Lamas, Suchiches,

Guahenes, and Angahuallos (Riva Hererra 2003, 137–144). The subsequent registry of over two hundred individuals and families lists both an unmarried man named Angahuallo who settled at

Tabalosos, and a man named Francisco Angaguallo who, with his wife Cunchiba and their two children, settled at Lamas. These individuals and the larger group of Angahuallo could be the descendants of Anko Allo; the practice of an ethnic subgroup taking the name of a strong leader can be seen today among the warring Indigenous groups living in and around Yasuni National

Park in Ecuador. Regarding the slight variation in spelling, even today in San Martín Quechua, the “k” and “g” sounds are interchangeable and not always readily differentiated.

On the other hand, many of the other tribal denominations and surnames listed in this registry and elsewhere in the text are either identical or very similar to contemporary surnames:

Amasifuen, Chashnammote, Chifandama, Sanabi, Choanama, Tuanama, Sinti, Satalaya,

Chapullima, etc. Scazzocchio (1979) combed the archival documents, finding abundant ethnographic and historical evidence that these groups were Amazonian in nature, not Andean, and that they spoke numerous mutually unintelligible languages, none of which were Quechua.

It is possible that the story of Chanka ancestry fits within the rubric of “ethnogenesis,” incorporating “indigenous ontologies and alternative constructions of history (i.e., ‘mytho- historical narratives’) as well as the reconstruction of history from all available sources” (Hill

2009b, 27). However, it is unclear if this story originated with the Kichwa themselves or whether it was a colonial or missionary imposition consolidated and disseminated by way of the formal educational system and other means.

Cultural Diffusion from the Northern Sierra

While the first nations settled at Lamas were incontrovertibly selvatic, contemporary

Lamista culture is a unique blend of Andean and Amazonian. Lamista women’s manner of dress is often given as a sign of their Andean ancestry.2 Andean-style clothes were introduced by the conquistadors, however: On October 24, 1653, Riva Herrera provided “Inca-style” clothing, as well as pigs and chickens, to the 20 or so Indigenous men and women who had accompanied him to Moyobamba (Riva Herrera 2003, 137). Furthermore, the idea that contemporary Lamista dress styles with their heavily Europeanized motifs are a holdover from pre-Columbian Chanka culture is willfully anachronistic. A more parsimonious hypothesis is that the contemporary style of dress was more recently introduced, either by missionaries or by migrants arriving from the

Lambayeque/Cajamarca region, most likely in the middle of the 19th century, when Scazzocchio

(1979) suggests the current Lamista ethnicity took shape. The embroidered bodice of the Lamista women’s blouse is very similar, and in some cases almost identical, to that found among the

Cañaris of the Lambayeque region of Peru’s northern sierra, almost due west of Lamas (see

Figure 2-2; for a more historical depiction, see the cover of Rivera Andía [2018]). In addition,

2 Leacock (1983), following Kroeber (1955), notes that the term and concept of “tribe” is a colonial imposition that does not reflect the actual status of Native North America at the time of contact, during which independent and autonomous groups of people were only loosely affiliated, except in times of warfare, specifically against the invading European armies. Leacock’s description of Indigenous North America at the time of contact reflects that of the Peruvian montaña as described by Scazzocchio (1979) and as reflected in the early archives (Riva Herrera 2003). The terminology used to refer to groups of Indigenous peoples remains fraught, and Indigenous individuals themselves often have different opinions (Peters and Mika, 2017; Yellow Bird 1999). In this dissertation, I avoid the use of the word “tribe” unless in direct quotation. I use the word “nation” not to impose a sense of polity or social organization but out of respect for the sovereignty and self-determination of the original inhabitants of the Americas.

photos show the Cañaris women wearing mantas, or capes, of brightly colored, lightweight, store-bought cloth identical to the large kerchiefs, or pañuelos, used by Lamista Kichwa women for both utilitarian and decorative purposes—and very different from the heavy, woolen, home- spun mantas that are ubiquitous throughout the Ecuadorian, Peruvian, and Bolivian Andes. These modes of dress may have been developed over time, or they may have been imposed by missionaries in one or both regions. It is known that the Summer Institute of Linguistics imposed some changes in women’s dress in the Cañaris region in the 20th century (Juan Javier Rivera

Andía, personal communication, 2019). Exactly when and where this took place is unknown, and it is unclear if the SIL were responsible for any cultural changes in San Martín, where the group was also active.

Although San Martín received great waves of Andean migrants in the later 20th century, the Andean elements of Lamista culture pre-date that surge. Starting with the earliest Spanish invasions, flows of migration and cultural contact to the Lamas area came primarily from

Moyobamba and Rioja, which are in turn well connected to Amazonas, Lambayeque and

Cajamarca (Zarate Árdela 2003). Franciscan priests arriving in Lamas in 1769 discovered a populace of apparently Quechua-speaking encomendados (owners of land granted by the Crown along with Indigenous people with which to work it) from Chachapoyas and Cajamarca (Amich et al. 1975). Half a century later, Peru’s war of independence (1811–1826) set in motion a series of policies with which the government opened the montaña to settlement, luring highland migrants with financial incentives and promises of free land. The influx of newcomers made a minority of the Indigenous population, and a minority that was in many ways poorly distinguished from the flood of new migrants who often sought to capitalize on the Indians’ labor as had their colonial predecessors. Scazzocchio (1979) suggests that it was this backdrop of

demographic change and hegemonic relations that necessitated the imposition of cultural diacritica to define Indian populations. However, there is some suggestion that the Lamista sought to self-differentiate: Weiss (1949) wrote that the Lamista refused to speak Spanish,

Figure 2-2. Schoolgirls from Cañaris district, Lambayeque. The black skirts, full-sleeved blouses, ruffled and embroidered plackets, and brilliant colors are all elements of Lamista women’s dress. The orange and green capes also appear identical to the colorful pañuelos that Lamista women use to carry bundles, or that they tuck into their skirts as fashion accessories during fiesta. Photo from https://andina.pe/agencia/ noticia-lambayeque-cerca-4300-escolares-del-distrito-canaris-son-usuarios-qali- warma-629734.aspx, accessed Feb. 10, 2020. For comparison, see Figure 5-13, in which the women’s skirts are fiesta-colorful rather than quotidian-black. forcing traders to learn Quechua. Buitrón (1948) writes that a Lamista woman who bore a child to a non-Lamista man was expelled from the community. Certainly the contemporary maintenance of cultural diacritica by the Kichwa of Lamas town is not enforced and to the contrary, stands in opposition to general forces of acculturation. Perhaps the Lamista voluntarily adopted the novel dress forms of the Andean newcomers, while the migrants in turn adopted

new, more fashionable forms of their own, likely based on European styles that would have been increasingly available as the Rubber Boom drew San Martín into closer contact with Iquitos,

Brazil, and high European society. Scazzocchio suggests as much, giving the example of shoes as a quintessential marker of non-Indian identity that developed during the last decades of the

19th century. Even today, many Quechua-speaking people of San Martín, both in Lamas and in outlying areas, wear no shoes, or wear them for only for special occasions.

This model of ethnogenetic processes begins to explain the unique cultural characteristics of the Lamista, but not their association with the Chanka legend. When did this story first enter the common narrative, and under what conditions? Again, Scazzocchio asserts that it took place after this process of the cultural consolidation of the Indigenous minority, but how, and by whose hand, remains unclear.

Motives for its adoption, however, are less murky. The fact that people of Lamista ancestry have so fully embraced the story is perhaps due to their desire to trace their origins to these famous warriors who faced down the Inca Empire, rather than to godless headhunters of the kind so mercilessly caricatured in the chronicles of the missionaries, conquistadors, and early anthropological ethnographers. On the part of the colonizers, a less benevolent motive is clear:

As refugees from the Inca Empire, banished shortly before the arrival of Spanish conquistadors on Peru’s shores, the Chanka would have been relative newcomers to San Martín—not the descendants of people who once roamed over and inhabited the entire region for generations, if not millennia. In the contemporary context of increasing territorial pressures secondary to immigration and natural population growth, coupled with a decreasing land base due to conservation-based land-grabs, agribusiness, and extractive industry, positing the Lamista as

nothing more than an earlier wave of migrants is one of many factors that could weaken their hand with regard to land rights.

Anthropological Genetics and the Lamista

This debate is not new and attempts to solve it have taken various forms, including biological approaches. A study in 1975 took blood samples from 175 children from the Quechua- speaking population in Pamashto, San Martín. It compared their blood types with those of 174 subjects from the Quechua-speaking population of Ondores in central Peru, a population chosen to represent the Chanka (Frisancho and Klayman 1975). Based on comparisons between those two samples and those of several other populations of highland Quechua and Amazonian peoples, Frisancho and Klayman determined that “it is quite possible that the present lowland

Quechua-speaking population from the Province of Lamas may be descendants of Andean populations” (1975, 288). However, there is little reason to be confident that the population samples used for comparison represent either Lamista Kichwa or Chanka peoples. The authors erroneously cite the dearth of roads in San Martín as a pretext for genetic purity of the lowland

Quechua-speakers; furthermore, the town of Ondores from which they drew their highland sample is over 400 miles north of the Chanka homeland of Andahuaylas. The authors also cite the almost complete absence of blood-group B from the lowland tribes as evidence to support their conclusion, even though the frequency of this blood group in the two main Quechua- speaking populations was at 1.16% and .57% (N= 2 and N=1 respectively).

On the other hand, a 2016 study of Lamista genetic markers found that they are more closely related to Amazonian peoples, including Jivaroan and Ecuadorian Kichwa groups, than they are to Andean populations including the Chanka (Sandoval et al. 2016). The authors cite three other recent genetic studies that support their conclusion (Arnaiz-Villena et al. 2006;

Moscoso et al. 2006; Rey et al. 2012; Sandoval et al. 2013) and critique the Frisancho study for

its reliance on blood-type O frequencies (common throughout the Americas). In the 2016 study, some Y-chromosome data for the Lamista clustered into patterns corresponding with Lamista patronymial clan groups, even though in sampling, relatives to the third degree were avoided.

Likewise, the analysis of mitochondrial DNA (mtDNA), which reflects the maternal lineage, reflected Lamista clan divisions as well, and these haplotypes appeared only among the Lamista, not in other groups sampled. The study’s authors suggest that the uniqueness of some mtDNA groups to the Lamista indicate an isolation of several generations from other Amazonian groups.

In addition, the same authors performed spatial analyses that combined genetic data with geographic coordinates. Limiting their analysis only to Quechua-speaking populations, the spatial analysis showed that Lamista Kichwa and Ecuadorian Kichwa were relatively isolated from other Peruvian Quechua speakers by gene flow barriers (Sandoval et al. 2016). These findings mirror the linguistic analyses of the same groups and suggest that the spread of Quechua to the Amazon was cultural rather than demographic. Broadly speaking, the Amazonian populations sampled showed greater internal genetic diversity than the Andean populations, consistent with archival and ethnographic data that describes a great variety of lowland nations speaking mutually unintelligible languages.

While this study is both convincing from a bioscientific point of view and congruent with ethnographic and archival sources, it is by no means the final word with regard to Lamista cultural identity. Among the groups of people for whom this question is salient, those with perhaps the least interest in it are the Lamista themselves. While questions of identity were not at the center of my research, and therefore my sampling is limited, the Lamista people with whom I discussed this issue were ardently convinced of their heritage as descendants of the Chanka.

The Pacification of the Motilones: The Establishment of the Maynas District and the Jesuit Reducciones of San Martín

The Lamista are one of a number of Quechua-speaking groups of lowland Ecuador and

Peru that are the product of ethnogenetic processes arising from the conquest and missionization of the peoples of the Amazon. While the colonial encounter was generally disastrous for

Indigenous peoples, ecological, military and political heterogeneity within the colonial-era

Amazon led to different histories and outcomes for various lowland populations. Particularly, the difference between Jesuit and Franciscan strategies of missionization gave rise to broad culture areas as well as different political, demographic and cultural outcomes (Taylor 1999). In addition, varying access to rubber and other natural resources contributed to differentiation and specialization within these areas. In this section I will consider the specific history of the

Lamista, leading to a wider discussion of Quechua speakers of the Maynas Region, i.e., the

Lamista Kichwa and the Canelos and Napo Kichwa, all related through their shared experience of Jesuit missionization and participation in regional networks of trade, travel and cultural exchange.

The Jesuits Reducciones

The Lamista are an example of what Schwartz and Solomon (1999) call a “colonial tribe,” with ethnic origins in the colonial encounter and particularly in the process of “reduction” by Catholic Jesuit missionaries. Other Quechua-speaking peoples of the Peruvian and

Ecuadorian lowlands such as the Kichwa or Inga of the Pastaza and Tigre Rivers in Peru, and the

Canelos, Curaray, Napo, and Quijos Kichwa of the Ecuadorian Oriente, have a similar colonial origin. These groups, as well as Cocama, Cocamilla, and the Cahuapanan tribes (Shawi or

Chayahuita, and Jebero) are the descendants of a large number of diverse Indigenous tribes who

once occupied a region known as the Maynas District (see Figure 2-3 for a map of the Maynas

District and Figure 2-4 for an ethnographic map of Peru).3

The Maynas District is a roughly triangular region straddling the Peruvian-Ecuadorian border. Bounded on the north by the Napo River and on the south by the Huallaga, the region encompasses the two main tributaries of the Amazon River, the Napo and the Marañon, and comprises a large portion of the Western Amazon. To the west it extends into the rainy foothills

Figure 2-3. The Maynas District, showing the main rivers and the approximate location of the mission of Lamas. From Taylor 1999. of the Andes, also known as the Peruvian and Ecuadorian montaña, and its eastern territories reach into the lowlands of the Amazon basin proper. For our purposes, the Maynas is that region

3 The Mayna or Maina were a Jivaroan tribe affiliated with the Zaparo subgroup, who controlled a large area of the Peruvian montaña north of the Marañon River. They were originally reduced at the town of Borja, the first mission established in the region that now bears their name. The Mayna appear to have died out by 1800 due to a combination of epidemic disease, punitive expeditions and other forms of warfare, forced labor in encomiendas, suicide, and infanticide. (Steward 1948)

controlled by Jesuit missionaries from about 1638 until 1767, when they were expelled by the

Peruvian viceroyalty. To the north and south of the Maynas district, Franciscan missionaries practiced a different strategy of converting and “civilizing” Indigenous peoples that resulted in a somewhat different ethnohistorical picture (Taylor 1999).

The Jesuits practiced a strategy of gathering tribes out of the forest into centralized missions located along the main rivers, where they were easier to control. Indians were given gifts of clothes, tools and other coveted items; converted to Christianity; trained in the Quechua language; subsumed under overlapping regimes of direct and indirect governance; and integrated into the regional Jesuit-driven economy. The role of the Jesuits and of the Jesuit reducciones

(reductions), as the missions are known, was double-edged.4 The Jesuits sought to protect the

Indians from inter-tribal warfare, from Portuguese slave raiding, and ostensibly, from Spanish militias in search of Indians to work the encomiendas. Many people, therefore, fled to the reducciones as safe-havens, in many cases embracing the Quechua language and Kichwa surnames as a means of hiding from enemies (Reeve 2014; Whitten 1976). However, inside the reducciones, once-warring tribal groups found themselves living in close quarters. The Jesuit regimen of labor, discipline, and punishment were at times severe, and when Indians fled, the colonial military, in support of the Jesuit order, pursued them into the forest, often with merciless savagery. These punitive expeditions could last for years and, along with continuing slave raids, fostered extreme levels of fear and mistrust among forest peoples (Golob 1982).

4 Despite its potentially insulting connotations, the terms “reduction” and “reduced” are accurate depictions of the horrors that took place in the Catholic missions, where waves of epidemic disease, combined with abuse, enslavement, and internecine violence reduced the numbers of Indigenous people to a tiny fraction of their already embattled population. An equivalent term such as “internment camp” would be inaccurate, as many families and groups moved or fled to the reducciones of their own will. The terms remain salient and accepted in Amazonian anthropology for these reasons.

Figure 2-4. Ethnographic map of Peru, 1943. The two red dots show the approximate locations of Lamas (to the north) and Sisa (to the south). Interestingly, the entire economically desirable Central Huallaga is shown devoid of Indigenous people including, surprisingly, Lamas. The underlined names represent historical peoples, and the unmarked names current peoples. Reprinted in Rumrrill 1986.

However, perhaps the greatest tragedy is that in the crowded reducciones, epidemic disease spread like wildfire, decimating populations. On the missions of the Huallaga River, for example, a large smallpox epidemic in 1660 cut down the population by an unknown number, and was followed in 1669 and 1680 by smaller epidemics that, combined, killed an estimated

240,000 Indians (Doherty et al. 2007; Scazzocchio 1979). Archival sources suggest that mission populations were reduced to 1/5 of their numbers between 1650 and 1762 (Scazzocchio

1979).The constant population attrition of the missions due to disease and flight led to ongoing expeditions that sought to capture (or re-capture) forest Indians and repopulate the missions in order to maintain the economic, religious, and political regime. Through the combined forces of disease and violence throughout the colonial period, by the early 20th century, Indigenous populations of the lowlands had reached a nadir of about 5% of their pre-contact numbers (Hill

1996). By the end of the Jesuit era, nary an Indian soul could be found living in the forests of the

Maynas (Doherty et al. 2007).

Disease, Warfare, and the Founding of Lamas

Even before the arrival of conquistadors and missionaries in the Middle Huallaga, tribes of this region had suffered the indirect effects of the colonial process that had disrupted social and economic networks across the Amazon. Epidemic disease often preceded the conquistadors, spreading between tribal groups closely interconnected through trade, travel, and intermarriage.

Slave raids from Portuguese-controlled territories forced downriver peoples to flee upriver; upriver peoples fled to the montaña, to the interfluvial areas, and even downriver, displacing other tribes in the process.5 Some groups coped with the slavers by handing over captives from

5 The Mayoruna or Matses, an Indigenous group that now inhabits a large territory on the boundary between Peru and Brazil, were once inhabitants of the Middle Huallaga—likely the reason for the name “Mayoruna” (People of the Mayo River). Riva Herrera refers to them as “Barbudos.” In the 20th century, the Peruvian government declared war on the Matses and bombed their villages with napalm.

other tribes. The demand for slaves as well as European trade items drove both raiding and trading expeditions among and between Indigenous groups. All these dynamics fed into the warlike climate that early explorers assumed was characteristic of Amazonian peoples. In the

Maynas, Tupian tribes who lived along the major waterways and controlled trade, the Omagua

(Napo River) and Cocama (Ucayali and Huallaga Rivers), escalated aggressive and violent attacks on upriver peoples prior to the arrival of missionaries. In 1638, a few years before the first successful Spanish entrada, or military expedition, into the Maynas, Jesuit chroniclers from

Moyobamba in the nearby highlands recorded that Cocama Indians were making yearly expeditions of 40–60 canoes up the length of the Huallaga River in search of tools, captives and heads (Scazzocchio 1979). Upon this stage, the Motilones of the Huallaga appear in the missionary record, objects of both missionary fervor and Spanish greed.

The Motilones comprised several groups of Indians speaking various languages and affiliated with each other in relations of both alliance and enmity (see tables 2-1 and 2-2).6

Among them were the Amasifuenes, the Juamuncos, and the Hibitos, who spoke similar languages that were related to Cholón, the only language of the region that survived, unclassified, into the present era (Scazzocchio 1979). Also among them were the Suchichis, the

Tabalosos and the Lamas, who also spoke different but related languages, as well as the

Muniches, Payansos, and Cascabosoas. However, it appears that the people reduced at Lamas may have represented only part of the population of their tribes, because Steward (1948) reports that at least one of these tribes, the Payansos, were also found living in Franciscan missions

6 The term “Motilón” was apparently introduced by the Spanish, although its linguistic origin is unclear. It is also used erroneously to refer to a group of Indigenous Bari in Venezuela and Colombia.

located upstream along the Huallaga during this same time. For an overview of the human geography of the region, see Figure 2-4.

Table 2-1. Colonial-era nations inhabiting what is now Lamas. Tabalosos Lamas Suchiches Guahenes Angahuallos Amasifuynes (or separately known as Ammassi and Fuynes; enemies of the Tabalosos) Coscabosoas (allies of the Tabalosos) Juanuncos Pyananços (aka Payansos) Munichis (some remained unreduced until 1718, settled on the Paranapura) Otanavis (sub-group of Muniches)

The Motilones were acephalous and decentralized, recognizing leaders only in times of war. They were made up of small groups (500–2000) dispersed throughout the montaña along the middle Huallaga River and its tributaries. According to Scazzocchio (1979), archival reports suggest a household similar to the contemporary Jivaroan household, with several families grouped around one hearth. It has been argued that this dispersed pattern of small extended- family settlements is an adaptation to the complex topography and ecology of the montaña region. Alternatively, some scholars suggest it reflects the fragmentation of groups who have been displaced into marginal upland territories, and that it is an adaptation to warlike conditions in the region. While archeology has shown that the cotemporary Jivaroan household is continuous with pre-Colombian settlements of the Jivaroan region (Rostain 2011), thus suggesting the validity of the prior argument, it is also likely that the culture observed for the

Motilones was a result, at least in part, of the climate of widespread warfare and demographic disruption that resulted from the arrival of Europeans on American soil (Ferguson 1990).

Table 2-2. Other Indigenous nations of colonial-era San Martín and adjacent territories Aguano Motilones (generic name conferred by Europeans, referring to the practice of shaving the center of the head after a successful battle) Hibitos (Franciscan missions)—Middle and Upper Huallaga, settled in a town founded by Riva Herrera on the upper Huallabamba Cholones (Franciscan missions)—Middle and Upper Huallaga, settled in a town founded by Riva Herrera on the upper Huallabamba; one of the few languages of the Huallaga that survived to the present era. Porontos— Middle and Upper Huallaga, settled in a town founded by Riva Herrera on the upper Huallabamba; Hibitos, Cholones, and Porontos spoke same or similar language that had some similarity or relationship to Quechua. Cocama—Once a large and powerful Tupian tribe with a well-developed material culture who controlled trade and travel along the main waterways. Located along the Ucayali and, later, the lower Huallaga. Omagua—Similar to the Cocama, but located along the Napo and main stem of the Amazon. Both Omagua and Cocama, because of their position on the main rivers, were hit hard by Portuguese slave raids. Omagua no longer exist as a distinct ethnic group. Jívaro (Shuar, Achuar, Awajún, Huambisa)—Large and powerful tribal group that once occupied territory in the Peruvian and Ecuadorian montaña, up and over the Andes all the way to the coast. Never dominated by Spanish. Famous as fierce fighters. Auka or Auca—Generic (derogatory) term meaning “savage” or “wild” Indian, i.e. non- Christianized Indian. Still used by some Indigenous people to refer to neighboring tribes. Cahuapanan tribes—Includes Muniche, Shawi (a.k.a. Chayavita or Chayahuita) and Jevero (Xebero, Jebero). The Muniche and Jevero have disappeared as a distinct tribe. The Shawi are located between Yurimaguas and Balsapuerto and surrounding areas.

In war, the Motilones took the heads of their enemies as trophies, but didn’t shrink them as did the Jívaro. This practice continued for at least two decades after their presumed pacification (Scazzocchio 1979). At least one group, the Muniches, practiced cannibalism. The term “Motilón” is a generic term for “head shavers,” and refers to the practice of shaving a warrior’s head as celebration of his killing an enemy in battle. The Jesuit priest Figueroa describes one such scene among the Muniches:

They celebrate the use and abuse of massacres and head-hunting among foreign enemies, whom they call Aukas, by drinking parties where they consume large quantities of drink, dance, play their flutes and sing: this is the most common prejudice among these tribes, and yet one which they most enjoy and in which they express the utmost happiness and pride…The Indians who succeeded in killing someone in these fights shaved their heads as a sign of their courage and to

manifest their status of ‘killers,’ opening a path from their foreheads to the tops of their heads. (Figueroa 1904, 254–250)

The use of the term “Auka” here is interesting: It is a lowland Quechua term that means “enemy” or “savage” and continues to be used today by some Ecuadorian Kichwa to refer to tribes such as the Huaorani and the Achuar who are considered less civilized than their Christian (Kichwa) counterparts. Since the Motilones presumably only began to speak Quechua as residents of the missions, the question arises as to what context the term is used in this passage—or if the term is actually a loan-word from a different Indigenous language. I will discuss the use and spread of

Quechua in the Peruvian lowlands in more depth in Chapter 3.

The town of Moyobamba (then called Santiago de los Valles) was founded in 1538, just

100 years after the legendary defeat of the Chankas and a short five years after Pizarro’s defeat of the Inca Empire (Scazzocchio 1979).7 The first Spanish entrada left Moyobamba for the

Peruvian lowlands in 1541 (Doherty et al. 2007), and Ursua and Aguirre’s famed expedition down the Huallaga took place in 1558.8 However, for the first 120 years, all attempts failed to pacify the Motilones and establish permanent settlements in their territory. Initial contacts were peaceful and the Motilones welcomed the Spaniards into their midst. However, when demands for labor or produce exceeded the flow of European goods, hostilities erupted and the Indians rebelled, often burning settlements as they fled to the forest and leaving no trace of the repeated attempts by conquistadores and missionaries to establish permanent settlements (Doherty et al.

2007). The only settlement that remained was Tabalosos, which still stands today, across the Rio

Mayo from Lamas. In 1631, the settlement boasted 11,000 Tabalosos, Pandule and Suchichi

7 For more information, see appendix, “Timeline of Events in the Formation of the Lamista Kichwa of Northeastern Peru,” p.363.

8 Werner Herzog immortalized (and fictionalized) this expedition in Aguirre, Wrath of God in 1972.

Indians, a number reduced four years later to 600 total and only one nucleated settlement of 74

Indians (Scazzocchio 1979). It is not clear whether the reduction was due to disease or abandonment or both, but soon after 1635 the mission’s priest was forced to retreat for lack of food, supplies, and the Indian labor with which to procure them.

Elsewhere in the region, however, the Spaniards were successful in establishing footholds. The first was Borja, which was founded in 1619 on the Marañon at the foot of the

Pongo de Manseriche and which served as a point of departure for further entradas into the lowlands, aimed at capturing and enslaving more Indians. Forty-two encomiendas (land grants accompanied by the Indian labor with which to work it) were established, and the Mayna Indians were forced into service as field hands and personal servants while the Spanish experimented with crops including cacao, cotton, tobacco and cattle. Steward (1948, 630) reports that only one out of ten Indians survived life in the encomiendas. Golob writes:

Other Indians lived in terror of being taken there, where ‘they would be killed from hunger and worked to death in the weaving mills.’ [Padre] Cueva described how the Jeberos would rather commit suicide than fall into the hands of the Spanish; they would rather kill a child they could not take with them when fleeing than allow him to be subjected to the cruelty of the Spanish. The harsh treatment of the Indians thus became well known. Violence and terror reigned in and around Borja, and Indians lived in fear of this fate befalling them. (1982, 142, citing an untitled Jesuit missive)

In 1635, over 1000 Maynas Indians in and around Borja joined forces and revolted, killing numerous townspeople and fleeing into the forest. The Spanish pursued and punished them “over several years with inhuman rage and cruelty” (Reeve 1993b, quoting Jouanen 1941,

337). In 1638, the governor of Maynas summoned the Jesuit friars Gaspar de Cujía and Lucas de la Cueva to Borja to help bring order to the region and pacify the Indians. De la Cueva initiated his proselytization by gaining a pardon for the Mayna. He later pleaded with his superiors in

Quito to let him work unaccompanied by soldiers, of whom the Indians remained terrified.

Apparently a minority within his order, his wishes were denied. In fact, the conversion and enslavement of the Indigenous peoples of the Amazon proceeded hand in hand, as the Spanish military served as a police force for the Jesuit order while at the same time conducting their own entradas to round up Indians for internment on the encomiendas (Golob 1982).

In 1653, the conquest of the Motilones began anew when don Martín de la Riva Herrera,

Corregidor of Cajamarca, began a series of well-funded and well-organized expeditions that finally succeeded in establishing a permanent settlement in the middle Huallaga: the fort of

Lamas. Circumstances were in his favor, however: A few years prior, disease had swept through the countryside, decimating the population, killing most of the children, and traumatizing the survivors. After initially fleeing in fear, two leaders of the Motilones, Ojanasta and Majuama, returned to Tabalosos and met with Riva Herrera in the large house where he and his men had taken up residence, a house “where there were many heads of the Indians of the Province of the

Amasifuenes, with whom they had wars” (Riva Hererra 2003, 131). After the usual gifts and metal tools and promises of friendship, and a brief description by the priest of the mysteries of the Holy Trinity,

then, in one voice, [the Indians] said that they badly wanted to be Christian and to know God so that they wouldn’t die like their relatives and friends. And they kissed the hand of [the priest] telling him to stay with them.” (Riva Hererra 2003, 132]

When Riva Herrera asked Majuama to gather all the people into one town, Majuama said that he would but that most of the people were dead: “And that eight years ago in this area, almost all the people had died of a smallpox and with the wars that they had with the Amasifuenes…”

(Riva Hererra 2003, 132).

Heavy rains at the time made further travel difficult for the conquistadors, so Riva

Herrera made plans with Majuama and Ojanasta to return the following year and explore distant

areas and contact new peoples. The priest made a registry of everyone he could find on either side of the Mayo, resulting in a list of 432 names and an estimated 200 more they were unable to communicate with.

And having seen the difficulty that there was in passing to the other bank [of the river] he pointed out the site where would live the cacique Majuama that is in the seat of the Lamas Indians that could be seen from where we were and appeared to all to be a very good site and of good nature [temperamento] and fertile soil and of fields [sabanas] for raising all type of cattle and fruits and the name St. Joseph of Lamas was set. And although it was not in the form of a town all the Indians of this province, though being factions who lived in houses one or two leagues apart from each other stayed and reduced themselves at the town…and they were named by the priest so that he could indoctrinate them. Don Pedro de Añasco offered himself to them, and the Indians stayed there very happy and having built a church within three months and chacras and houses in that place. (Riva Herrera 2003, 133)

Riva Herrera appointed Ojanasta and Majuama as the leaders of Tabalosos and Lamas respectively. He gave them each a stave, or vara, as symbol of their power and demanded that the tribes pay homage to their caciques (chiefs). In Tabalosos, he doled out parcels of land to the

Indians present, and designated sites for the church and plaza, whereupon the priest gathered all the Indians before the cross and began teaching them to pray in lingua general: Quechua. When

Riva Herrera departed, he left four soldiers and a lieutenant to assist the Jesuit missionary Pedro de Añasco. Ojanasta, Majuama, and their families accompanied the soldiers back to Moyobamba where the children were baptized, the Indians were clothed in the vestiments of the Ynga (Inca), and the families sent back to Tabalosos with quantities of chicken and pigs that they could raise there.

Despite a peaceful start, the Tabalosos soured on their new lives and guests. Within the year, the Motilones had burnt the villages and fled to the forest, laying traps to prevent soldiers from following them. The Spaniards responded by intensifying slave raids into the region

(Scazzocchio 1979). Ojanasta fled to the Huallaga to hide among allies there, but Majuama and a

cacique of the Suchichis, Lamuza, were hanged in the public square of the ruins of Lamas. This time, Riva Herrera left 200 soldiers to assist the missionary Añasco in his efforts. Ojanasta was captured and hung later that same year in the fort of Lamas. By this time, the soldiers had acquired two bronze cannons and built over 180 houses in less than a year. Setting forth on another entrada, Riva Herrera learned of pestilences that had raced through the countryside, lasting for years, killing tens of thousands of Indians, and leaving behind “sites of great populations that had been there in the past” (Riva Hererra 2003, 159). The chronicles of Riva

Herrera make it clear that the groups of Indigenous people who were settled, forcibly and otherwise, at the various towns, forts, and reducciones of San Martín represent the tattered remnants of once-populous Indigenous nations, seeking refuge in each other’s company and in the treacherous guardianship of the crown and the cross.

In October 1656, the new city of Lamas, formally named Ciudad del Triunfo de la Santa

Cruz de los Motilones y Lamas, was founded. It was established according to Spanish decree, with four principal elements: a city council of Spanish and creole authorities who would appoint the varayuk, or Indian officials (literally, staff-holders); a church and priest; a sufficient number of settlers to whom encomiendas would be assigned; and sufficient means for controlling the

Indian population. Regarding the latter, the fort of Lamas was maintained, and a gallows and stocks erected in the town square (Scazzocchio 1979). Twenty-five settlers and their families, including creoles and mestizos,9 as well as a few Spaniards and people of part-African ancestry arrived from Moyobamba and Chachapoyas and were given 50 to 500 Indians each to serve on

9 Peruvian class- and race-consciousness was historically multi-tiered. Creoles were of full-blooded European ancestry but born in the New World and therefore, lower than people born in Europe; mestizo people were mixed- blood and occupied the next tier down. Several lower rungs were occupied by Indigenous people and those of African descent.

the encomiendas and to provide tribute to the encomenderos (colonial settlers/slave owners) in the form of agricultural products and game. The town was laid out in classic Spanish style with a central plaza surrounded by the houses of Spanish and creole residents; eight city districts beyond the town center, including the Indian district of Wayku, which was further subdivided along tribal lines into six barrios; and outlying towns, in this case three, connected to the mission: Cumbaza (now Tarapoto), Tabalosos, and Pueblo del Rio (possibly today’s San Miguel del Rio Mayo) (Amich et al. 1975). Indians were forbidden to leave the city or encomienda without permission, and fugitives were pursued and re-captured as slaves. However, Lamas

Indians were also employed as paddlers and guides on missions to peoples down the Huallaga and in conquest of the tribes of the Ucayali, a tributary of the Amazon that stretches south and then west toward Cuzco; those who performed this service were exempted from tribute in order to ensure their loyalty and service (Scazzocchio 1979, 233). To this day it is said that the Lamista were the punto de lanza—the tip of the spear—of Spanish colonialism.

Jesuit Institutions and Their Relationship to Shamanic Power and Practice Across the Maynas District

The episodes leading to the founding of Lamas demonstrate clearly the relationship between Christianity and political power, on the one hand, and freedom from disease, on the other, that was cemented early on in the minds and experiences of the Indigenous people of the

Western Amazon. This correlation was consistent across the region and was consolidated in the rituals of modern ayahuasca shamanism, which thrived most profoundly among the region’s missionized peoples (Gow 1994). Given the Jesuit tolerance for so-called “pagan” practices and beliefs, shamanism and Catholicism became entwined and mutually reinforcing, with Catholic elements embedded in shamanic ritual and shamanic beliefs and power on display in Catholic festivals and other institutions.

During their hundred-year tenure in the middle Huallaga, the Jesuits instituted a number of practices ranging from productive activities to religious ones. Three bear discussion here due to their relevance to shamanism as well as to tracing the trajectories of interaction and influence between different Quechua-speaking groups of the Maynas. These are the socio-political organization of barrios; the institution of the vara; and the interregional system of Jesuit-driven trade that stretched all the way to the Quijos on the upper Napo River in Ecuador. A fourth institution, the Quechua language, warrants its own chapter (see Chapter 4).

Throughout the reducciones of Maynas and beyond, and even in towns such as Chazuta founded after the end of missionary rule, the barrio system was used to separate tribes so that they could live in peace; intertribal warfare is often cited as one of the more deadly characteristics of the Jesuit reducciones. Scazzocchio (1979) suggests that in Lamas, the barrios further organized themselves into two opposing endogamous groups that resembled a moiety system, although the moiety did not appear to be characteristic of Indigenous organization in the region prior to colonization. These moieties took particular salience on large Catholic feast days, when the town erupted in internecine warfare characterized by throwing stones, attacks by lance or machete, and even the use of rifles. Often these fights culminated in physical and spiritual combat between two warring shamans who might lie in ambush for one another, or would confront each other during an inter-moiety dance on the plaza during which men parade about with ishpingu, stuffed birds that are often emblematic of shamanic power. Days after the feast were often filled with complaints of illness and even death attributed to shamanic activity.

During these feast-day fights, the non-Indian residents hid barricaded in their homes or fled the town. While such warfare had ceased by the time of Scazzocchio’s research, she nevertheless detected signs of inter-barrio and inter-moiety tension on feast days and in other cross-moiety

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activities. She states that as Lamista expansion created new satellite villages, the moiety system as well as the feast-day fights were reproduced (Scazzocchio 1979). She also asserts that this aspect of social organization was not imposed from the outside as a sort of divide-and-conquer tactic, but that it arose from internal dynamics and reflected the asymmetrical relations between

Indian and non-Indian in the colonial context.

The vara is the system of indirect rule imposed by colonial governments throughout Latin

America (with regional variations), which lasted in Lamas until the introduction of the national police force in 1930. In Lamas, each Indian barrio was represented by a capitán (captain), nominated annually by the governor of Lamas, and a sergeant major, nominated annually by the capitán, along with a half-dozen sergeants to serve as police on a weekly rotating basis. These officials, known as the varayuk (Quechua, pl.) or varayos, served at the disposal not only of the town government but also of the creole and mestizo townspeople, who could demand that the captain obtain for them porters for an expedition or the payment of a debt. Scazzocchio (1979) writes that as late as 1976 at the time of her fieldwork, punishment for failing to fulfill such orders might include time in jail or in the stocks in the main square. It appears that in Sisa, the festival for passing the vara to the new capitán and comisarios (police officials) may have lasted as late as the 1970s (Anonymous [c.1978]). The memory of carrying cargo on long expeditions on behalf of “the authorities” remained strong even during the time of my fieldwork.

In his exhaustive treatise on the Canelos Kichwa of Ecuador, Norm Whitten (1976) discusses the vara and its relationship with shamanism and Catholicism. Although varayos need not be shamans, the best varayos were also the most powerful shamans. In all cases, the office of varayo required exemplary performance of the dualistic roles of Alli Runa, or Christian Indian, and Sacha Runa, or forest Indian, that Whitten argues is a primary characteristic of Kichwa

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society. Such shaman-varayos were mediators between the Church and the people, serving to protect the Kichwa from powerful Christian magic (such as the transubstantiation of the body and blood of Christ), while also increasing their knowledge of Christian spirits for integration into shamanic performance. “The Church attempted to filter folk-Catholicism through such shaman varayos, stressing the dichotomy of God and the Devil, good and evil, saint and sinner;” within this system, racial differences were imbued with moral significance, Whitten writes

(1976, 220). Furthermore, during the annual or biannual “ayllu feast,” both shaman and priest played independent but interlocking roles in the planning, enactment and closure of the ceremony, in which both shamanic power and church power were on full display.

While Whitten was able to draw a direct line between shamanic power and the varayo, for Scazzocchio, the evidence appears to be more equivocal. On the one hand, she notes that

Lamista performance of shamanism did in no way serve to undermine the minority status of the shaman. “Unlike Canelo shamans,” she writes, “Lamista shamans do not use their revalorized ethnic status qua shamans… in the support of interests common to minority members”

(Scazzocchio 1979, 204). However, she does see some parallels between the Canelos “ayllu” feast described by Whitten, and the Lamista feast of Santa Rosa. For one thing, the extensive integration between church activities and shamanic culture appears to have been true for both festivals. In Lamas, one of the primary displays of shamanic power is in the form of isphpingu, desiccated and stuffed birds, sometimes small mammals, with which men parade about the square; the ishpingu served as emblems of their shamanic power. Notably for our discussion of the vara, such ishpingu were, in the past, worn as well in Sisa by “hechiceros” (sorcerers, general term for shamans) who, during Carnaval, carried flags of multi-colored, brightly hued

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canvas hung from poles of eight meters (Anonymous [c.1978], 32). The author does not relate these poles to the vara, but the resemblance is intriguing and bears further investigation.

Travel and Trade in the Maynas District

As opposed to Franciscan missionaries who sought to replicate in their settlements a

Euro-ideal model of the independent, self-sufficient village, the Jesuits integrated their missions into a region-wide economic, religious and political system funded by trade in local economic specializations (Taylor 1999). To that end, they strategically took control of pre-Columbian

Indigenous trade networks and re-shaped them to their own purposes. This process served two ends. On the one hand, the supply of tools and manufactured goods flowing into the missions from their headquarters in Quito was not enough to meet demand for buying the allegiance of new converts. Similarly, the entire Jesuit enterprise was chronically underfunded, to the extent that not enough missionaries were available to maintain all the missions that had been founded.

Many missions were therefore abandoned, and others lacked necessary supplies. Thus the Jesuits sought and gained control of two central resources, salt and blowgun dart poison, reorienting pre-

Columbian trade networks to fund their missionary enterprise and to gain access to commodities that would facilitate their interactions with the Indians.

Pre-Contact Trade Networks

Once considered to be a great expanse of homogenous rainforest, we now understand the

Amazon to be a patchwork of ecosystems and soil types. Additionally, immense species richness—the number of different species—is coupled with low species density, meaning that any species may be rare within a given area. Together, these factors mean that some of the resources necessary for the functioning of a community may be obtained only at a distance. This is true both for salt, which was a rare commodity throughout much of the Amazon, as well as blowgun-dart poison, whose key ingredient has a limited geographical distribution. As Lathrap

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(1973) and Reeve (1993b) note, the spotty distribution of key resources favors the development and maintenance of long-distance trade networks as a strategy for increasing the carrying capacity of a given region.

Important developments in the study of Amazonian history and pre-history over the past few decades have drawn a picture of the Amazon as a vast and fluid system of interregional exchange, multilingualism, and multiculturalism (Hill 1996; Lathrap 1973). In the Western

Amazon, a variety of cultural, economic and political aggregations and arrangements characterized the various regions, but all entailed high degrees of contact and trade between the

Andes and the Amazon (Taylor 1999). Some were made of large, linguistically or culturally homogenous groups that stretched from the Amazon up and over the Andes to the coast; one such group was the Jivaroan nations, who collectively saddled the highlands near Loja, Ecuador on the Peru-Ecuador border. Others were divided into smaller regional polities that connected various ecological zones through political and economic alliances. In still other cases,

Amazonian and Andean peoples lived together in multi-ethnic communities, or met at central

“markets” to trade. These highland-lowland connections fed into the “great trans-Amazon trade circuits” made up of long-distance, river-based trade networks, which linked to interfluvial peoples through ritual trade relationships such as the Shuar amigri (lit., friend, from Spanish amigo) (Taylor 1999).

Evidence for one of these highland-lowland trade networks can be found on the brink of the Peruvian cloud-forest in the ruins of the Chachapoya civilization. Located atop the cordillera that separates the Huallaga and Marañon Rivers, the Chachapoya appear to have linked the

Amazon and the central Andes in a trade network that would have included medicinal plants, vegetable dyes, honey and beeswax, animal pelts, cotton and cacao, and bird feathers for

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headdresses (Church and von Hagen 2008). The Chachapoya trade routes were the envy of the

Inca, who repeatedly conquered the Chachapoya in order to gain trade access to the peoples of the upper and middle Huallaga River. The Hibito and Cholón appear to have been the link between the Andes and the Middle Huallaga; they are documented as having conducted raiding and trading expeditions to the Andes, where they exchanged coca for tools and clothing (Reeve

1993b). Some Chachapoya archeological sites appear strategically placed to access the upper reaches of the Huallabamba, a sizeable tributary of the Middle Huallaga associated with the

Hibito, the Amasifuenes, and the Payanso, as well as the Cascoasoas, also known as the

Chasutinos, founders of the modern town of Chasuta, one of the centers of Lamista culture

(Church and von Hagen 2008; Steward 1948). However, the Chachapoya also had access to the

Moyobamba area and the headwaters of the Rio Mayo, where they could have traded with the

Tabalosos (Motilones) or with the Maynas, who acted as intermediaries between highland peoples and the interfluvial Jebero. Some of this trade would have been conducted via what

Rumrrill calls “an ancient road of the Motilones” that linked Lamas with the headwaters of the

Cachiyacu (1986, 187), and thus the territory of the Jeberos and the Chayavita (Shawi). Similar pre-Hispanic routes, particularly for trade in salt, likely connected the Ucayali to the Huallaga as well; Shipibo from the Ucayali used to appear on the Middle Huallaga in the earliest days of the missionary enterprise, apparently descending the river from where they had crossed overland

(Rumrrill 1986).

These pre-Columbian trade networks provided the systems of alliance that Jesuits exploited in order to gain access to new Indian groups and to new territories. In doing so, the

Jesuits reconfigured power relations in the region. For example, after the founding of Borja and the chaos and depopulation that ensued, the Jebero bypassed the Mayna, who formerly controlled

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trade in this region, and traded directly with the Spanish of Moyobamba, from whom they obtained axes, knives and machetes in exchange for captives, then exchanging these tools with the Tupian Cocama for canoes and clothing (Reeve 1993b). After the founding of the Jebero mission, the first and ultimately the largest in the Maynas district, the Jebero also acted as intermediaries for the Jesuits and soldiers for the Spanish colonial government, thus ensuring their own access to tools and trade goods, and strengthening their position within regional trade networks, where European manufactured goods were in high demand (Reeve 1993b). The Jebero became a powerful group, controlling the region between the Huallaga and the Marañon. Thus it is unsurprising that they would appear later in this study as a locus of shamanic power in the region (see Chapters 8 and 9).

In a similar fashion, the Cocama strengthened their control over the lower Huallaga and the Ucayali and were influential in spreading Jesuit influence in the Amazon (Reeve 1993b). By facilitating the entrée of missionaries to new territories and new tribes and otherwise courting a durable relationship with colonial forces, Indigenous groups such as the Cocama and the Jebero were able to obtain a steady supply of trade goods and thus strengthen their control over inter-

Indigenous trade networks in the region. Like the Jebero and the Lamista, the Cocama appear in various sources as fountains of shamanic knowledge and power; the term “muraya,” which indicates a shaman of the highest rank, is, coincidentally or not, very similar to “Murayari,” a common surname among the Cocama (Brabec 2011; Dobkin de Rios and Rumrrill 2008; Gow

1991, 2001).

The Trade in Salt and Blowgun-Dart Poison

Unfortunately for the Jesuits, metal tools and other manufactured goods as well as financial support were not always available in the quantity that missionaries would have liked.

Thus, they required other means of winning converts and funding missions. One of these means

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was to control the trade in salt. Prior to the arrival of Europeans, many Amazonian peoples made do with salt made from the ashes of plants. One exception was in the central Peruvian jungle, on a tributary of the Upper Ucayali, where the Campa (Ashaninka) Indians and, later, the

Dominican friars, controlled a voluminous trade in salt from the Cerro de la Sal, literally, the

Mountain of Salt (Tibesar 1950). Another exception is on the Upper Napo, where the Quijos

Indians had traded gold from the lowlands for salt from the highlands. Additionally, salt could be obtained from the Jívaro, with whom the Canelos Kichwa traded drums, although it appears that most Jívaro used salt only for medicinal purposes (Oberem 1974).

On the other hand, the use of salt in the Maynas region prior to colonization was uneven.

Lamista territory contains numerous sources of mineral salt, and annual treks to the salt mines were an important part of Lamista culture until the 1980s (Rengifo Vasquez 2009b). However, other peoples of the Maynas lacked access to salt. With the arrival of the Jesuits, salt became a central commodity around which systems of trade were oriented, both during and after Jesuit tenure in the region (Reeve 1993b). Jesuits began commercially exploiting salt deposits on the

Huallaga and its tributaries shortly after the founding of the Jebero mission. From as far away as the Upper Napo, the Jesuits organized yearly expeditions to the Huallaga to obtain salt, distributing the salt to other missions on return. Indians used the opportunity to trade on their own behalf as well, with the result that tribal groups from all over the Maynas District came together on the Huallaga for trade in salt and other resources. These expeditions continued after the expulsion of the Jesuits from the Maynas and until the closure of the Peru-Ecuador border in the early 20th century. In fact, these expeditions were so important that the Curaray Kichwa of

Ecuador incorporated them into their origin myth (Reeve 2014). Chazuta, as a critical river port

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between the upper Huallaga and the rest of the Maynas district, became a central point of control over the salt trade and, thus, an important node in the cultural exchange that accompanied it.

The other central commodity in this system of trade was blowgun dart poison, or curare.

Curare is prepared from a number of different plants in a process that can be dangerous, even deadly, if carried out improperly. The proper preparation of curare required the use of specialized chants and ritual procedures. Furthermore, contrary to popular belief, the use of curare was not limited to hunting but included shamanism, healing, and sorcery (Scazzocchio 1978). One of the key plants in the production of curare reportedly grows in only select places in the forest. One of these places was Lamista territory, specifically Sisa. The Tikuna, likewise, had access to the plants, making the Lamista and the Tikuna the two primary sources of curare throughout the

Maynas District. The Jesuits used blowgun-dart poison to pay their Indian laborers and to curry favor. “Containers of blowgun-dart poison circulated like money,” writes Reeve (1993b, 127).

Lamas and the Lamista played central roles in these colonial and post-colonial trade networks. Routes stretching from Lamas overland to the Cachiyacu and Paranapura Rivers, and down to what is now Balsapuerto and Yurimaguas, became important routes for trade and communication during the colonial era, with the Lamista famously serving as cargueros (porters) until such time as overland trade became uneconomical (Rumrrill 1986). As a fertile and productive land, San Martín was the source for numerous goods that were highly sought after by missionaries and their charges including curare, salt, sugar, cotton and cotton cloth, tobacco, and items made of flint (Rumrrill 1986). Rumrrill writes that the volume of trade between Lamas and the Misión Baja was “appreciable,” with Lamas eclipsing Moyobamba and Tarapoto as a commercial center, and that Lamista cargueros, also known as Filabotones for the row of buttons on their open shirts, were central to the execution of this overland trade network (Rumrrill 1986,

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186). As late as the 1950s, groups of Lamista cargueros could be seen arriving in Yurimaguas or returning to Tarapoto or Lamas, clad their traditional clothing, accompanied by wives and relatives, their loads suspended from their heads by a “pretina” (strap) they made themselves”

(Rumrrill 1986, 58).

Long Distance Trade and the Development of a Common Ideology Rooted in Shamanic Practice

The patterns of trade and travel that developed during the Jesuit years had long-term impacts on the cultural continuity of the Maynas District. While official records indicate the material resources around which these systems of trade operated (salt, metal tools, cotton cloth), ethnographers also note an important trade in non-material and non-utilitarian resources:

Significantly, the treks for salt continued after expulsion of the Jesuits, either for a white trader, or by Indigenous people on their own account. During this time, peoples from as far as the Quijos and the Omagua regions came together annually in the Huallaga, exchanging craft items for which each group was known also among themselves…The Indigenous interethnic exchanges made possible by long-distance travel and trade in salt created a post-colonial reformation of the regional interaction sphere which remained intact until the mid-twentieth century. (Reeve 2014, 126–127)

Scazzocchio (1978) provides a long list of trade items that the Lamista exchanged with other groups. Ritual items included necklaces of nuts and shells, arm bands of “iguano” (iguana?) skin, feather headdresses, shacapa leaf-rattles, tobacco, stone axes, and charms.

It should be noted that these networks of trade also incorporated non-missionary

(“Auca”) Indians who were important sources of forest products such as feather headdresses and other prestige items. Whitten describes trade between bilingual Kichwa and Achuar at a site called Huambishu10 on the Huasaga River, who exchanged tools for salt and dart poison, but also

10 Huambisa is the contemporary name for one of the Jivaroan groups from Peru. It is likely that the site of Huambishu is or was historically associated with them.

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for feathered headdresses; this site was also visited by Cocama and Candoshi from farther east as well as by Peruvian Cocama from downstream (Whitten 1976). Scazzocchio writes that the suppression of warfare and the creation of new long-distance trade routes during the colonial era have created a “generalized Indian identity” vis á vis the national system, one whose “common ideology” is shamanism (1978, 51).

Shamanism is inherently bound up in processes of trade and travel in both the mystical and material realms. Shamanic practice is a form of inter-ethnic, inter-species and even inter- dimensional alliance building, driving exchange in both knowledge and goods. In describing the cultural exchange of the Lamista Kichwa, Scazzocchio delimits a broad geographical region extending from the Huallaga and Marañon to the Ucayali in Peru and the Morona and Napo

Rivers in Ecuador, a region that she terms the “Northwestern Montaña,” or what I call the

Maynas District:

Particular mention must be made of the trade in magical knowledge which occupies a central place in Indigenous trade in the Northwestern Montaña. Instruction by shamans of superior rank across tribal boundaries is an integral part of the shamanistic quest. Initiation takes place elsewhere, outside one’s group of reference. Shamans leaving to gain knowledge and power in this manner say that they are going ‘fasting’ (sasikuk). They must find a ‘master’ (banku) with whom they establish a hierarchical trade partnership, presenting them with sizeable gifts in order to become disciples. (Scazzocchio 1978, 37–38)

The picture is virtually identical among the Siona-Secoya of Ecuador and Colombia (Langdon

1981), the Canelos Kichwa (Whitten 1976; Whitten and Whitten 2008), and the Napo Runa

(Muratorio 1991, 220). While it is clear that inter-regional trade did not arrive with the missionaries, the particular forms, dimension, and trajectories of that trade, and of the resulting cultures, have been heavily influenced and shaped by colonial processes (Oberem 1974; Reeve

1993b).

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The Lamista Diaspora: From the Napo to the Ucayali

With their predilection for carrying loads, for paddling canoes and rafts, for trade and travel, and for working as auxiliaries on colonial expeditions into foreign territories, the Lamista have been described as “the travelers of the Huallaga” (Rumrrill 1986). Weiss writes that “since antiquity, they have enjoyed a reputation as gypsies” (Weiss 1949, 28). Their predilection for travel, coupled with their vulnerability to the less advantageous aspects of colonialism, have led to the creation of a diaspora of San Martinense Kichwa throughout the Upper Amazon.

Ethnohistoric, historic and linguistic evidence points to the influence of the Lamista ranging from the Napo River in the north to the upper Ucayali in the south. Oral histories of the Canelos and Napo Kichwa support the notion that Lamista Kichwa peoples traveled and settled in the

Canelos and Napo Kichwa regions. A number of Whitten’s informants’ claimed that their ancestors came from the Yurimaguas region (Whitten, personal communication, 2014). Another report suggests that a group of Lamista moved into Canelos territory, but that they eventually returned to Yurimaguas from whence they came (Whitten 1976). Lamista influence is directly indicated in shamanic music as well; Whitten writes that powerful shaman Virgilio Santi used to begin his curing songs with the phrase, “Lamas cucha runa” (Lamas, man of the lake) (Whitten, personal communication, 2014).

Blanca Muratorio’s history of the Napo Runa (Kichwa of the Napo River) provides possible evidence of Lamista presence there. The Archiruna (Runa people of the Archidona area near Tena) used to live deep in the forest, traveling widely and panning gold. “It seems that they went with a runa called ‘Llama’” (Muratorio 1991, 51). Later in the book, a man named “Llama amigu” (amigo) appears as a wise and helpful figure who warns Grandfather Alonso to move his

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house from the riverbank and build it on a hill instead, predicting (correctly) that the riverbank would soon collapse into the rising river.11

The antiquity of these testimonies is unclear, but it appears that the Lamista began dispersing out of Lamas and moving downriver within 100 years of the founding of Lamas. As early as 1735, there existed a settlement annexed to what is now the city of Yurimaguas, populated by Lamista fleeing the “abuses” (vejaciones) suffered upon them by one of the encomenderos there (Figueroa 1904). This town appears in the archives as both Baradero and

San Regis de los Lamistas (Chantre y Herrera 1901; Figueroa 1904). With the establishment of

Lamista near Yurimaguas, as well as a neighboring settlement of Muniches, lines of communication and travel between Lamas and Yurimaguas were reinforced, and this route became a primary axis of connection between the upper and lower districts of the Maynas mission, upon which the above-referenced trade networks depended (Rumrrill 1986).

Carrying loads on muddy trails or steering canoes, the Motilones were made famous in the Upper Amazon, and in particular in Yurimaguas, where they were established and where surely they have left descendants. (Rumrrill 1986, 58)

The presence and influence of the Kichwa of San Martín on the Ucayali River has been documented as well. In 1791, Indians of Tarapoto and Cumbaza escorted Franciscan priests in the reestablishment of missions on the Ucayali, a role for which they were exempted from tribute in exchange for their service and loyalty (Amich et al. 1975; Rumrrill 1986; Scazzocchio 1979).

With the reestablishment of missions on the Ucayali, missionaries opened a new and shorter

11 Interestingly, Scazzocchio (1979) characterizes the Lamista by their preference of building their homes on hills, and of hunting to fishing, in contrast to other groups who settled in the same area (i.e. Chazuta) who preferred to build their homes on the banks of the rivers. In a different context, Aramburú (1984, 167) points out that in his study of migration patterns in the upper Huallaga, migrants from the sierra preferred to settle on “ecologically poor hillside lands,” whereas those from the lowlands or the coast preferred level lands such as those of the floodplains.

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trade route that connected Tarapoto directly with the Ucayali (Rumrrill 1986), thus facilitating communication between the Kichwa of San Martín and the Shipibo-Conibo of the Ucayali.

Ethnographies from the Pucallpa area acknowledge the presence on the Ucayali of powerful Lamista (and Cocama and Napo Kichwa) shamans who married into the community and brought their particular brand of “downriver shamanism” with them, or families who trace their ancestry to Lamista sources via a patronym (Gow 1991, 2001). Furthermore, the dialect of

Quechua that is spoken on the Ucayali is considered San Martín Quechua (Fabre 2005;

Landerman 1991). Doherty and colleagues (Doherty et al. 2007) claim that San Martín Quechua was much more widely spoken in the past, having attained the status of a lingua franca during the Rubber Boom; they consider toponyms such as Pucallpa (the biggest city on the Ucayali) as enduring proof of Lamista presence. Lamista families remain prominent and active in the commercial “ayahuasca boom” found today in and around Iquitos (Barbira-Freedman 2014).

The existence and breadth of the Lamista diaspora reflects the particular geo-political setting in which the Lamista found themselves after the ejection of the Jesuits and particularly, after Peruvian independence, with the Huallaga being a gateway between the Andes and the lowlands and a primary route for both state-sponsored and spontaneous processes of internal colonization. Emigration from the highlands began as soon as the city of Lamas was founded, with the arrival of encomenderos from Moyobamba and Chachapoyas. However, the regional population collapse that occurred during the Jesuit period secondary to epidemic disease and warfare did not begin to reverse until after the Jesuits’ ouster in 1767 (Doherty et al. 2007). In

1769, when Franciscan priests arrived in Lamas to fill the void left by Jesuit expulsion, they discovered a town full of Quechua-speaking migrants from Cajamarca and Chachapoyas living

“dissolutely” and “without fear of God,” who rejected the church presence fiercely enough to

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force the priests’ withdrawal to Tarapoto and the declaration of Lamas as a secular town (Amich et al. 1975, 231–232). Population growth in the area accelerated in the late 18th century and into the 19th, when Peru moved aggressively to colonize the lowlands and open them up for agricultural expansion and resource extraction (Hill 1999). Between 1814 and 1847, the population of Tarapoto doubled due to an influx of migrants dispossessed by the privatization of communal lands in the highlands or freed from slavery and encomienda in highland estates

(Scazzocchio 1979). Between 1847 and 1876, the populations of Tarapoto and Lamas nearly doubled again.

Lamista Kichwa responded to the influx of migrants by moving outward from population centers and closer to chacra and forest regions, where they founded new settlements. This fissioning process was typically initiated by a powerful shaman who sought to be closer to the forest and farther from sources of conflict. A number of family members would follow him, and he might install a son or nephew, often a lesser shaman himself, to maintain the family presence in town. As the satellite settlement grew, a mestizo trader typically positioned him or herself as the town patron, eventually taking up residence, followed by other non-Indian settlers. Other forms of social organization and nucleation, such as schools and municipal institutions, would follow, and the process would start all over again. Scazzocchio (1979) states that this pattern of dispersal led to the colonization of the region by mestizo and other non-Indian settlers, who sought to settle in the vicinity of Indian settlements specifically for the acquisition of land and for the opportunity to trade with Indians.

The geography of this process reflected the movement of groups toward what appeared to be their ancestral territories:

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It seems that the general tendency was for the descendants of each ancient group to advance in the direction of the land of their ancestors: the Salas (Tabalosas), Ichuiza, Satalaya and Saboya toward the Rio Sisa; the Amasifuenes toward the left bank of the middle Huallaga, and the Sangama to Chazuta and the north. (Doherty et al. 2007, 14, citing Scazzocchio 1981)

This expansion continued up and down the Huallaga to the Marañon and back up the Ucayali, leading to the establishment of Quechua-speaking communities throughout the northern Peruvian lowlands (Doherty et al. 2007). Weiss (1949) cites various 19th century explorers who reported isolated barrios of Lamista, whose “entrepreneurial and industrial spirit” brought them to found settlements from Huánuco and Tocache on the Upper Huallaga, to Jaén on the Upper Marañon, to Iquitos and Tabatinga on the Brazilian border. He also reports rumors that Lamista entrepreneurs founded the town of Juanjui on the Upper Huallaga as a base for smuggling tobacco (Weiss 1949). Buitrón (1948) likewise reports that “Motilones from Lamas” founded

Juanjui as well as Saposoa.

The processes of trade, travel, diasporization, and inter-ethnic exchange outlined above have culminated in a situation in which Lamista shamanism has been of disproportionate importance in the diffusion of ayahuasca shamanism and even its globalization.

The Rubber Boom: 1879–1912

During this same time, the War of Independence (1821) had bankrupted the Peruvian state. Looking to the lowlands for a remedy, the state began to hand out large land concessions to foreign creditors for resource extraction. The largest of these concessions comprised 14,200,000 acres (57,500 sq. km.), an area almost as large as West Virginia, that were dispensed to the

British-owned Peruvian Amazon Rubber Company, otherwise known as Casa Arana, the most famous, and probably the most savage, of the rubber companies (among whom savagery was not lacking) (Hill 1999). Julio Cesar Arana, head of Casa Arana and the author of the most notorious

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atrocities of the era, got his start in Tarapoto, where in 1888 he established a business to recruit rubber tappers (Scazzocchio 1979).

As has been thoroughly recounted elsewhere (Davis 1996; Hemming 2008; Reeve 1993a,

1993b, 2014; Reeve and High 2012; Taussig 1987; Tello Imaino and Fraser 2016; Wasserstrom,

Reider, and Rommel 2011), the savagery of the Rubber Boom left a serious psychological and demographic mark on the Indigenous peoples of the upper Amazon, and many groups who had survived previous colonial processes disappeared altogether during this time. Scazzocchio (1979) suggests that the Indians of Lamas appear to have been buffered from the worst effects of the

Rubber Boom by their specialization in cotton production, which remained an important commodity throughout this time period. Roger Rumrrill (personal communication, 2020) asserts that the majority of Lamista who worked in the rubber industry did so on the upper Huallaga, in the vicinities of Tocache, Uchiza, and Pachiza. One of my informants, however, suggested that

Lamista were recruited to work as bosses in the downriver industry, and Scazzocchio recounts one traveler’s description of the Lamista as “the aristocracy of Iquitos” during the latter half of the 19th century (1979, 246).

If the Lamista weren’t drawn into the rubber trade, they would have been the rare exception. Male residents of San Martín were drawn downriver en masse, and population levels in Moyobamba, Tarapoto, Lamas, Saposoa, and Juanjui dropped precipitously between 1888 and

1910, when the Rubber Boom began to taper off (San Román 1994; Scazzocchio 1979). Zarate

Árdela (2003) writes that San Martín was the principal source of caucheros (rubber workers) for the Peruvian selva during the rubber boom, and that towns and villages, especially along the west bank of the Huallaga, were depopulated and even abandoned as families moved or were recruited to tap rubber. San Román (1994) writes that the depopulation was so severe that it left in ruins

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the incipient agricultural and artisanal industries, creating a deep economic depression in the region. San Román describes the process:

Having arrived ordinarily from San Martín…the aspiring cauchero presented himself at one of the commercial houses that, in the case of the Peruvian Amazon, generally had its center in Iquitos, and requested habilitación. A good reputation was sufficient to obtain money or merchandise for the value of several thousands of soles. The newly “habilitado” “began to hook workers.” Once the necessary number was gotten, he went deep into the selva, seeking unexplored places. He opened trails, marked the productive trees, and established himself. The boss cauchero [patrón cauchero] distributed the work among the workers, giving each one his assignment, and distributing the merchandise, [including a shotgun and cartridges, machete, hatchet, clothes, farina, and liquor], also in the form of habilitación. He opened his account books that have left such sad fame and took the role of inspector, and also of executioner [verdugo]. (1994, 151–152)

Rubber was present throughout San Martín as well, and its collection and use is recorded for the

Cordillera Azul, the Sisa valley, as well as the Upper Huallaga, where it was an important part of the local economy (Mendoza Lozano 2013; Pinedo Lopez 2011; Starn, Degregori, and Kirk

2005; Tarazona-Sevillano 1990).

In addition to depopulation and the collapse of large parts of the agricultural economy, another of the enduring effects of the rubber boom was the introduction of habilitación, or debt peonage, in which credit in the form of money or, more often, goods, is advanced at highly inflated prices, to be repaid with a subsequent harvest or labor. Zarate Árdela (2003) writes that from the Rubber Boom until the present, habilitación would be the most widespread means of financing production. Indeed, echoes of debt peonage are evident today in the offering of, and dependence upon, state- and internationally-financed credit schemes for the production of new agricultural crops under the rubric of economic development, as well as the willingness of buyers to offer their producers cash advances on their crops. I witnessed one such exchange in Sisa, in which the family that I lived with sought a loan from a mestiza woman in town known to offer credit against future cacao harvests; they were seeking money to pay the local curandero to

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perform cures on two family members. Likewise, agricultural loans provided to growers by the

Banco Agrario of Tarapoto grew eightfold during the early 80s, as a means to promote the production of rice (CVR 2013b). Today, the floodplain of the Huallaga is carpeted with rice paddies, where once there was forest and wetland.

In addition to habilitación, the rubber boom would establish in San Martín a cyclical economic model in which extraction or production is based on market forces over which the producers have no control (Zarate Árdela 2003). A consequent pattern arose in which profits were invested in luxury items and market goods. These patterns would reach a distorted and violent apogee with the coca boom of the late 20th century (Kernaghan 2009). It is unclear exactly if and how this pattern of spending applied to Kichwa families and communities, given their primary role as producers and the small profit-margin available at that level.

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CHAPTER 3 SHIFTING WINDS: SAN MARTÍN KICHWA IN THE MODERN ERA

After the Rubber Boom, various forms of indirect rule (both formal and informal) and asymmetrical trade relations continued, leading to the continued servitude, impoverishment, and sometimes virtual enslavement of Indigenous peoples throughout the Amazon (Dean 1995;

Maybury-Lewis 1999; Scazzocchio 1979; Stocks 1984; Taylor 1999). For the Kichwa, this often took the form of long overland journeys to the Ucayali to collect various goods but especially paiche (Arapaima sp.), a fish that grows to 10 feet long, on behalf of mestizo patrons—judges, mayors, and businessmen. In exchange for their labor—each carguero or porter carried 80 kilos or more of produce on the return—they would receive some paiche and perhaps a bit of aguardiente, the locally distilled sugar-cane alcohol. One of my mestizo informants recalled seeing, as a child, long caravans of Kichwa, men and women, traveling on foot through her parents’ chacra laden with large baskets and headed to the Ucayali, or returning from there. They would stop at her family’s chacra and spend the night in their tambo (shelter), providing her family a little piece of paiche or other food in return. Another informant, a white man, described the same routine to me. When I asked him why the Kichwa were so willing to make long and arduous journeys for next to no pay, he suggested that they were glad to do it. “But it’s a type of slavery,” I suggested. “Perhaps,” he said; “but if so, then it was voluntary slavery.” Roger

Rumrrill states, “After the rubber debacle…the Lamista were incorporated as menial laborers and almost slaves in the estates and haciendas that were formed in the 20th century” (Rumrrill, personal communication, 2020).

One of the biggest threats to lowland Indigenous peoples during the 20th century was the increasing usurpation of their lands by colonists and the concession of large tracts of land— reminiscent of the rubber concessions—to oil companies for exploration and exploitation

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(Maybury-Lewis 1999; Stocks 1984). In the 1960s, President Fernando Belaúnde Terry’s ill- fated land reforms and lowland colonization projects were disastrous for lowland Indigenous peoples and for the country as a whole, leading to his ouster in a military coup in 1968

(Maybury-Lewis 1999). The centerpiece of his plan was the construction of the Carretera

Marginal (the Marginal Highway), which linked Tarapoto with the highlands along the length of the Huallaga Valley. The highway, built over the course of 20 years beginning in 1963, opened

San Martín to an unprecedented wave of migration from the Andes, as people dispossessed by land- and social-reform policies in the highlands sought opportunity elsewhere. The construction of the highway and concomitant resettlement policies were part of a larger project of internal colonization repeated throughout the nations of lowland South America (Schmink and Wood

1984). As in Brazil, where the government promoted its Amazonian interior as “a land without people, for people without land,” Peru’s settlement policies led to disastrous environmental and social effects, including widespread deforestation and the massive expansion of commodity- based agriculture (primarily rice and corn) intended to feed growing populations in the sierra and on the coast. The shift to export-based production put regional food security in San Martín at risk and necessitated the import of items of basic necessity from Lima (Zarate Árdela 2003). As the rise of Sendero Luminoso (the Shining Path Communist Party of Peru) wrought political unrest and violence in the highlands and coastal urban areas, and the prevailing state ideology shifted toward a neo-liberal approach, government support for agrarian development in the selva waned.

When it did, the unsustainability of the project became evident, as low commodity prices and the high cost of shipping goods to market brought economic hardship to San Martín. The farmers’ response: coca.

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The story of the coca boom, the rise and reign of Maoist revolutionaries, and the violence that swept San Martín as armed rebels, narcotraffickers, and the Peruvian army fought for territory is one of the great untold stories in the history of the expansion of ayahuasca. Many of today’s ayahuasca tourists are too young to remember this era in international history.

Furthermore, the epoch may have suppressed shamanic practice in San Martín. I recorded reports that shamanic practitioners were persecuted and assassinated by MRTA and possibly Sendero as well, and potential shamanic apprentices refrained from engaging in or completing their apprenticeships for fear of their own lives (see Chapter 7, section “Terucos and Brujos”).

Furthermore, the violence likely served to delay the rise of international tourism to Peru and specifically to San Martín, a factor that, combined with the decline in shamanism in the region, may have contributed to the rise of Iquitos as the contemporary center of ayahuasca tourism

(Fotiou 2014; Homan 2017).

The real impact of the era of violence on the Kichwa of San Martín is equivocal. On the one hand, Peru’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission revealed that 75% of the war’s victims were Indigenous people, even though they made up less than 20% of the nation’s population at the time (CVR 2013a). However, it is unclear whether lowland Kichwa were counted among these Indigenous victims, as the voluminous report references mainly Andean Quechua and

Ashaninka. For example, in the sections on Indigenous people and on San Martín, the words

“Quechua” and “Kichwa” appear not a single time (CVR 2013b, 2013c). On the other hand, ethnographic and documentary evidence point to the fact that the Kichwa were heavily involved in the practices and processes that swept San Martín: as coca producers, as victims of violence, as fierce defenders of their communities, and occasionally, as soldiers and officers in MRTA or leaders in the civil organizations that formed MRTA’s popular base. The fact that the Kichwa

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don’t appear in the reports of this time as a distinct Indigenous group, or that Kichwa individuals

(some leaders of MRTA, for example) are never referred to as such, is indicative of their general erasure as Indigenous people (Stocks 1978), but also reinforces it.

At the same time, given the turbulence and trauma of the era and the subsequent demonization of some of its practices and ideologies (the cultivation of coca, for example, not to mention the violence), writing about the Kichwa as active participants threatens to contribute to anti-Indigenous sentiment. However, I maintain that to consider a Kichwa role in these events— multivalent as it was—is to treat them as independent and intelligent people, as active agents interested in determining their own fates, and as a people bound up in and actively participating in the greater social and economic trends of this region, not just as victims but also as actors who make strategic decisions on behalf of themselves, their families, and their communities. Indeed, it was this very agency on the part of the nation’s Indigenous people that contributed a decisive and fatal blow to Sendero (Degregori 2012). By no means do I assert that MRTA, much less

Sendero, were Indigenous movements, nor were the Kichwa the only, or even the biggest, producers of coca; quite the contrary. I do assert that because of their unique culture and because of their political marginalization, they bore the brunt of the violence in ways that other groups did not, and it appears that they coped with the violence in uniquely “Kichwa” ways as well, at times relying on their culture to keep the revolutionary forces at bay (Bartra del Castillo and

Narváez Vargas 2012).

Much more research is required to tell this story in full. In this chapter, I will examine the coca boom and the rise of MRTA in just enough detail to present a picture of the forces that created today’s San Martín, that ensnared Kichwa people and communities, and that struck sometimes fatal blows. Much of the data for this section is drawn from the report of Peru’s Truth

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and Reconciliation Commission, which in turn is based on the testimonies of former subversives and militants from both MRTA and Sendero Luminoso. I will then provide a brief history of the town of Sisa (properly, San José de Sisa) and the province of El Dorado where it is located, both of which played a role in the MRTA story as well as in my fieldwork. I will close by examining the contemporary threats to the Kichwa and their lands: a legal framework that is insufficient to the task of protecting Indigenous rights and territories and the rise of an environmental conservation movement that, deliberately or not, took advantage of legal and administrative weaknesses to further deprive the Kichwa of their ancestral lands. See Figure 3-1 for a map of the region, with reference to municipalities mentioned in this chapter.

The Coca Boom

The center for the domestication of coca (Erythroxylum coca) is most likely the Huallaga, where specimens are often found growing wild (Plowman 1984). From there its cultivation and use spread to Bolivia, Colombia and the Amazon during the pre-contact era. Coca is considered a sacred and medicinal plant for peoples throughout South America; archeological evidence documents its use as early as 3000 BC (Conzelman and White 2016; Plowman 1984; Sikkink

2010). Small-scale coca was always a part of the economy of the Huallaga, bound primarily for sale or trade in neighboring Andean regions, an aspect of the verticality that characterized

Andean subsistence patterns and that that linked the Andes with the Amazon both pre- and post-

Inca (Murra 1969; Varese 2016). During the 1980s, however, an explosion in the international demand for cocaine found a willing supplier in the farmers of the Upper Huallaga, where failed development programs and government abandonment created an economic and political vacuum.

During the 1980s and 90s, the Huallaga was the source of the raw material (leaves and paste) for

60–70% of the world’s cocaine (Kay 1991; Young 1996). In 1988, the international sale of

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Figure 3-1. Political map of San Martín showing key locations discussed in the text.

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Peruvian-derived cocaine was estimated at $20.52 billion dollars, an amount equivalent to 57% of Peru’s gross domestic product (Tarazona-Sevillano 1990).

The boom had a great environmental cost. Deforestation and forest degradation reached

700,000–1,000,000 hectares throughout Peru, much of it on steep, easily eroded hillsides in formerly primary forest (Young 1996). Furthermore, the commercial cultivation of coca requires large amounts of fertilizer and pesticides. In addition, to process the leaf into paste, men were hired to trample, barefoot, coca leaf mixed with sulfuric acid, kerosene and lime. This process resulted in the release of an estimated 5000 square meters of kerosene and 2000 tons of sulfuric acid each year into the watersheds of the eastern Andes (Young 1996). The process also turned untold numbers of local men into cocaine addicts as they absorbed the alkaloids through their feet. Finally, while the coca boom was in part a result of increased migration to the area, it also served to trigger further migration: Despite the serious threat of violence, the population of San

Martín grew 74% during the years of terrorism (1981–1993), many of them lured by the coca boom and its promise of easy money (CVR 2013b).

The northward-flowing Huallaga River can be divided into three geographic zones: the

Upper Huallaga, from the headwaters north to Juanjui; the Central Huallaga, from Juanjui to

Chazuta; and the Lower Huallaga, from Chazuta to the confluence with the Marañon River. The

Upper Huallaga, located primarily in the department of Huánuco, was under the control of

Sendero Luminoso during most of the 1980s and into the 90s. Sendero Luminoso was a Maoist rebel group characterized by extreme and arbitrary violence. They imposed a puritanical order on the local populace, assassinating prostitutes, homosexuals, drunks and other “unsavory” characters. However, they also defended the local populace from abuse at the hands of the coca traffickers, and they negotiated on behalf of farmers to get better prices for their coca leaf.

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Sendero funded itself by taxing the cocaine traffickers, charging fees for each flight of coca paste bound for Colombia. These fees, paid in U.S. dollars, could reach $15,000 per flight (CVR

2013c, 333 note 35). Sendero also made money by charging tariffs on each kilo of cocaine paste exported and fees for safe passage on the roads (Simpson 1994). They also controlled currency exchanges in the valley, a move that undercut the national banks who, to capitalize on the coca boom, had opened branches throughout the region (Graves 1992).

U.S.-funded coca eradication in the Huallaga began in 1979, and to the violence of

Sendero and the coca traffickers was added that of the military and the national police (Starn,

Degregori, and Kirk 2005). Growers had begun forming defense committees in 1978 to negotiate with Peruvian officials for assistance in replacing coca with other crops, but U.S.-backed forced eradication efforts took them by surprise, undermining the committees and leaving a vacuum for the entrance of Sendero. Furthermore, the eradication efforts pushed growers onto more remote and ecologically fragile terrain. Eventually, Peru came to see the U.S. Drug War as counter to their own efforts to oust Sendero from the region, and the Army, under General Alberto

Arciniega Huby, allied themselves with the growers, using Sendero’s own tactics of taxing the traffickers for commerce in and export of coca leaf and paste. The presence of the military in the region was associated with grave human rights abuses, adding to the toll wrought by Sendero itself.

Although the Upper Huallaga was the site of the worst violence, the Middle and Lower

Huallaga were by no means spared. To the contrary, eradication efforts, a counter-subversive military presence, and the spread of a crop-destroying fungus (Fusarium oxysporum) led to the spread of commercial coca cultivation to the north and to more remote areas of the montaña—

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areas that were, in turn, the territory of yet another armed group vying for power, the

Movimiento Revolucionario Túpac Amaru (MRTA) (CVR 2013b).

MRTA and the Campesino Movement of San Martín

Beginning in the 1960s, San Martín was the site of a growing leftist movement that would eventually take the form of armed rebellion. Although MRTA is often considered a watered-down version of Sendero, they did for a time, unlike Sendero, enjoy widespread support among the people of San Martín, working in conjunction with local growers organizations and labor unions (Durand Guevara 2005). To the contrary, Sendero’s strategy was marked by the destruction of growers’ groups and other pre-existing social organizations in a bid for complete control. MRTA’s territory encompassed the towns and rural areas inhabited by the Lamista and their descendants. The organization, especially before 1990, was well integrated with the campesino and other popular organizations of the working class, among whom might be counted the region’s Indigenous people. The presence of MRTA and Sendero brought great violence and upheaval to the region; it also appears to have contributed to the decline of shamanic activity and practice in the region, as shamanism was persecuted and its practitioners assassinated.

MRTA was formed from the union between factions of the guerrilla group MIR

(Revolutionary Movement of the Left), defeated in the 1960s, with a militant faction of the

Socialist Revolution Party, populated by former members of the military regime under General

Velasco. MRTA’s goal was “to organize a revolutionary group and reinitiate armed struggle in

Peru” (CVR 2013b, 372). When MRTA’s attempts to foment a guerrilla front in the department of Cuzco ended in disaster, they turned their attention to San Martín, where a preexisting campesino movement provided what they hoped would be a fertile ground for military action. By examining the names of towns where the following events took place, as well as the surnames of

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its actors, it can be deduced that the Kichwa peoples of San Martín were swept up in this movement, both as innocent bystanders and victims of violence, as well as central actors.

The first campesino organizations of San Martín were formed in Tarapoto in 1960 by tobacco growers in response to the formation of government-operated tobacco stores, or estancos de tabaco. The move effectively made a controlled substance of tobacco and pitted the state against growers, who organized for price increases (CVR 2013c). This movement was purely economic in nature, lacking the ideology of later leftist movements. Later, the introduction of industrial crops promoted and commercialized by the state’s agrarian agencies and the national

Agrarian Bank would generate a campesino movement that, while being well organized and widely supported in San Martín, also attained saliency on a national level.

In the 1970s and early 80s, three important protests took place that consolidated and strengthened the movement of the San Martinense people in defense of their rights and interests.

The first, in 1975, was a strike in Lamas, organized by FEDIL—the Defense Front of the People of Lamas. Their objectives were to expand electrification, telephone and water services and to foment for the construction of highways, hospitals and a university.1 They organized a march from Lamas to Tarapoto led by members of the teachers’ union and by a regiment of

Filabotones, defined here as “symbolic native Lamista warriors” (CVR 2013b, 369). The marchers walked 30 km to Tarapoto, surprised the city, seized the radio broadcasting tower, and

“convulsed the city of Tarapoto” (CVR 2013a).

Civil and military authorities decided to clear the protesters, detaining hundreds of professors, students, and campesinos. In response, the people of Tarapoto founded the

1 To this day, the homes of Wayku, the Indigenous district of Lamas, still have outhouses instead of indoor plumbing, and in most barrios, a quebrada continues to serve as a water source and site for bathing.

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Committee for the Development of San Martín, aimed at broadening the protest of the people of

Lamas into an indefinite general strike. Faced with popular pressure, the military government conceded, agreeing to meet the organization’s demands. The victory indicated to the people of

San Martín that, with popular organization, they could achieve much.

Also in 1975, a general strike was held in Chazuta, about 60 km by car from Tarapoto.

The strike was in protest of the perceived abandonment of the town by governmental authorities.

The strikers demanded a highway, secondary school, sanitary post, potable water and electric lights. After ten days with no response, the Chazutinos marched to Tarapoto, where they gathered at the doors of public offices and, joined by the people of Tarapoto and other areas of

San Martín, called attention to their demands.

The third and largest event took place in March 1982: a region-wide general campesino strike protesting the low price of corn versus the high interest on agrarian loans, as well as the high cost of seeds, fertilizer, and transport to market. Protesters blocked the Carretera Marginal as far south as Juanjui, and they blocked the spur highway all the way to its terminus at

Yurimaguas. After three weeks of détente, the government ordered police to clear protesters and open the highways. They didn’t count on the fact that there were only 100 police to face down

2000 campesinos. In the ensuing battles, campesinos were killed in Juan Guerra, and police were forced to flee on foot after the townspeople burned their transport vehicles. In Tabalosos, another four were killed. MRTA’s first action, in 1987, was called in honor of those people of Tabalosos killed in this strike (CVR 2013b).

After the strikers overcame the police, they gathered in Tarapoto’s central plaza, where they demanded sanctions against those responsible for the deaths of their fellow strikers. Days later, the government conceded some of the protesters’ demands but also ordered the prosecution

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of the strike’s organizers. As a result of this action, the Unitary Battle Command (CUL) was formed in Tarapoto, headed by professor Lucas Cachay. In 1986, after more years of protest and organizing, CUL became the Defense Front for the Interests of the People of San Martín

(FEDIP-SM). Its leader, Professor Cachay, would go on to serve as the head of MRTA’s political wing, linking MRTA with a broad base of popular support through the numerous campesino and labor organizations of which he had been and continued to be a leader.

Concurrent with the rise of campesino organizations, another splinter group of MIR, the

MIR-VR (Revolutionary Movement of the Left–Rebel Voice), was quietly infiltrating the education system of San Martín, where it found converts among the students and professors. As a guerrilla group, they established militant bases in Shanao, Shapaja, and Pucaca, later expanding to Moyobamba and Juanjui (CVR 2013b). In 1982, MIR-VR held a congress and elected officials, among whom Lucas Cachay was made head of the politics and the masses (“secretario de política y masas”), due to his experience as a popular leader (CVR 2013b, 371). That same year, they established a military training base in the Alto Shanusi, led by a Comrade Dario, who had fought for the Sandinistas in Nicaragua. Fifteen miristas (members of MIR) attended the first training; only three of these survived to the end of the war, among them one Javier Tuanama.

That same year, MIR-VR organized a Regional Military Committee for the Huallaga Central, which included the areas of Sauce, Ponaza and the Sisa valley. In 1983 MIR Regional organized a convention in Shapaja where they defined a strategy to use campesino, labor, and popular organizations as bases for the creation of their Frente de Defensa de San Martín (Defense Front of San Martín). That same year, several militants were sent to Colombia for military training.

On December 9, 1986, MRTA and MIR joined forces at the national level, with the directorate made up of members of both groups (CVR 2013b). Later reports would make it clear

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that MRTA was never able to overcome the differences in strategy and ideology of its original factions. That same year, the mirist militants had returned from Colombia and established bases in Sauce and in the Shanusi watershed, where, “armed with guns bought from campesinos, they paid the campesinos for their food punctually, informed by the brutality with which [Sendero] had acted in the Alto Huallaga” (CVR 2013b, 373) and, apparently, determined not to repeat their mistakes.

Operation “Tupac Amaru Vive”

In 1987, MRTA emerged out of the shadows when it launched its first offensive, operation “Tupac Amaru Vive” (Tupac Amaru Lives). The event was conducted in remembrance of the four inhabitants of Tabalosos who had been killed during the 1982 strike, and it was timed to coincide with the twenty-year anniversary of the death of Ché Guevara, the populist revolutionary leader famous throughout Latin America. On October 6, 1987, MRTA took the town of Tabalosos, captured two policemen, and marched them into the central square for a public assembly while the other police fled. Upon seeing the MRTA flag, the town’s inhabitants hid. However, when the militants refrained from executing the policemen in a Sendero-style

“popular judgment,” and when they also refrained from sacking the town’s commercial center, the townspeople emerged. In this way, MRTA began to gain the confidence of its popular base

(CVR 2013b). Ten days later, militants invaded the town of Soritor. After a two-hour confrontation with the police, the police surrendered, seven of them having fled to Moyobamba, and two having died in the confrontation. MRTA seized arms and weaponry and held a short meeting in the square before withdrawing to their training base in the Sisa valley.

The militants’ next action would be farther to the south in Juanjui, at the edge of

Sendero’s territory. The action had several objectives: to stop the southern advance of Sendero; to defy the government of Alan Garcia; and to threaten the town’s corrupt judges and prosecutors

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who, reports said, charged exorbitant fees in exchange for freeing narcotraffickers from jail

(CVR 2013b). On November 6, 1987, 60 militants hijacked three trucks and rode into Juanjui, armed and equipped. After exchanging fire and grenades with the police forces, the police surrendered, and MRTA marched them into the main plaza. They also seized a great deal of weaponry in the process and sacked the banks. Police reinforcements didn’t arrive until 36 hours after the attack began, and officials later revealed that of the 81 off-duty policemen in Juanjui at the time, only three rose to the defense of their colleagues, one of whom died in the process.

When MRTA raised their flag in the square, many people expressed their allegiance to MRTA in a rejection of the police forces, long considered corrupt and abusive.

Less than 24 hours later, the insurgents arrived in San José de Sisa, the largest town in the economically important Sisa valley. Hearing of the events in Juanjui, the police of Sisa had fled, and MRTA was able to take the town without firing one shot.2 One of the inhabitants recounts:

MRTA entered freely and shot bullets into the air announcing their arrival. We all got in our houses and the people thought they were senderistas [members of Sendero] or something like that… (CVR 2013c, 323)

Afterward, during the town assembly in the plaza, the group’s commander spoke to the people, explaining their objectives and methods.

Polay spoke, and he convinced us. You can’t imagine, even I believed him. The young people and the adults were wanting to go with him, a ton of people. Beautifully he spoke to us. (CVR 2013c, 323)

In the evening, the militants hosted a performance for the townspeople, with singing and dancing. At first the townspeople wouldn’t participate, but the militants decided to offer prizes of shotgun cartridges, and the townspeople joined in. The event made international news, and video

2 A history of Sisa written by one of its inhabitants states that the police abandoned their post not out of fear but for a lack of munitions (Pinedo Lopez 2011).

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of MRTA and the inhabitants of Sisa dancing and singing in the streets was televised across the nation (Durr 1987; UPI 1987). They spent the night in Sisa and, before departing for the Upper

Sisa Valley, where they maintained a training camp, they bought horses, in dollars, with which to transport all the guns they had seized during the previous actions. The Sisa valley would remain a strategically important area for MRTA until the end of the conflict, providing easy access to other parts of the central and lower Huallaga as well as the Mayo River.

State of Emergency

After MRTA’s incursions into Juanjui and Sisa in October and November 1987, the

Peruvian government declared a state of emergency for the entire department of San Martín;

Huánuco and the Upper Huallaga had already been under a state of emergency since July of that year. The state of emergency warranted the occupation of the region by the military, specifically the Politico-Military Command of the Armed Forces; subsequently, the number of abuses, detainments, disappearances, and assassinations exploded (see Figure 3-2). The province of

Lamas, which at the time included the district of San José de Sisa, contributed its fair share to the tally. Due to the vastness of the region under consideration (most of San Martín and the Upper

Amazon) and the remoteness of much of the territory, not all acts of violence have been registered, and official tallies are probably low (CVR 2013b). While it is clear that the military did not commit all these abuses, the presence of a new armed actor vying for power only added to the violence and fear with which the people of San Martín lived. Non-lethal forms of repression took place as well, including the repression of popular protest, widespread interrogations, and the detention of popular leaders, actions that were damaging not only to the subversive groups but also to the non-violent civic organizations of the region (CVR 2013b,

377).

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During its campaigns of the early 1980s, the Peruvian Army had partnered with the

United States Drug Enforcement Agency to fight both the narcotraffickers and Sendero

Luminoso. However, under the command of General Arciniega, and later, during the presidency of Alberto Fujimori, the Army allied itself with the narcotraffickers in order to prioritize its struggle against Sendero and later, MRTA. Or at least, that was the official strategy. The extreme

Figure 3-2. The official tally of deaths and disappearances in the middle and lower Huallaga and upper Amazon. 1989 is the year that the state of emergency was expanded to include all of San Martín. From CVR 2013b, p.376. profits to be garnered were as attractive to the military as they were to everyone else, and according to some reports, trafficking cocaine became an end in itself. Simpson (1994) reports that at one point, the Army commander in Tocache was pocketing $10,000 per flight and controlled 20% of the world’s cocaine supply. The profits incentivized the Army to justify its presence by prolonging the state of emergency. To that end, assassinations and other abuses were

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made to look like the work of Sendero, and captured senderistas were freed from jail upon payment of a fee, between $6000 and $10,000 dollars depending on the degree of responsibility

(Simpson 1994, 188). Local people accused the Army of performing general assassination services for a fee, except in cases of adultery committed by women, in which they performed their services for free. In Tarapoto, numerous disappearances and extrajudicial killings were also blamed on the Army. However, in central and northern San Martín, where the coca trade was less centralized and ground- and river-based transport was more common, it’s unclear how much the army was involved in the coca trade.

The Beginning of the End for MRTA

After their takings of Juanjui and Sisa, MRTA retreated to their encampment in the

Upper Sisa valley and began planning their expansion to new fronts. They sent detachments to begin organizing militant bases in other areas of the country. Many of them, however, did not arrive. The Peruvian Army had identified MRTA’s location and surrounded them, cutting off their escape routes. However, with the help of local informants and allies, as well as their own familiarity with the terrain, some were able to escape in small groups, heading in various directions. Thinking that they had escaped the Army’s grasp, a group of over 40 emerretistas

(members of MRTA) headed for Agua Blanca on the lower Sisa when they were surprised by

Army gunfire. The insurgents scattered, taking various routes through the mountains. Said one former combatant from Lamas:

…Walking a lot, we saved ourselves…In our childhood, our elders made us go walking, [and] you remembered and you went out looking for trails through the monte [forest] and you were able to get out. (CVR 2013c, 325)

Some did not escape, however, but were shot or disappeared. In subsequent months, the Army detained and tortured massive numbers of people accused of collaborating with MRTA. Some of

MRTA’s commanders were captured and sent to jail. MRTA was decimated.

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By early 1988, however, MRTA had begun to reorganize under new leadership. They called on Lucas Cachay for political reinforcement, and they reconstituted both the army and the rural and urban militias. In March of 1989, they resumed military action, with incursions into

Shapaja, Pilluana, and San José de Sisa. During this period, the organization supported various regional strikes, organized by FEDIP-SM, that demanded autonomy for San Martín and better conditions for producers. In April of 1990, MRTA’s military arm amounted to three detachments of 25 men each, positioned in the Middle Mayo River, the Huallabamba, and the Huallaga

Central. By August they were up to 500 combatants, and detachments were sent to each of eight zones that MRTA sought to control. As well, they returned to carrying out spectacular armed actions: On February 9, 1990, they took Picota; on May 14, Saposoa; on May 18, they raided

Bellavista; on July 25, they took Yurimaguas. On August 16, 300 subversives took the city of

Moyobamba. On November 3, they raided Pacaysapa, and on November 5, they pushed into

Nueva Cajamarca. In all their military actions, as well as speeches in favor of armed struggle, they asked the people to support and organize themselves into Frentes de Defensa, or defense fronts.

However, the defeat of 1987 and the reorganization of 1988 had marked a turning point for MRTA that would eventually devolve into the perpetration of Sendero-style abuses, involvement in the coca economy, and the fracturing of the organization due to ideological and strategic differences as well as personal rivalries (CVR 2013c). The new soldiers and militants, often hastily recruited, were poorly trained and lacked discipline, and their delinquency alienated many of MRTA’s former supporters. In 1991, several leaders of MRTA’s army resigned, protesting the “senderization” of the organization, including the assassination of internal dissidents (CVR 2013b). External dissidents were frequently executed as well.

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A big turning point in MRTA’s strategy came in 1990, when the Central Committee made two decisions that fundamentally shifted MRTA’s approach: On the one hand, they de- prioritized their political strategy, forcing Lucas Cachay and other leaders of the mass movement into the back seat. In 1992, MRTA threatened Cachay and other former leaders with death, and they sought refuge in the Mexican embassy. The loss of Cachay marked the end of MRTA’s ability to garner popular support through its base organizations (CVR 2013b).

The second big shift was MRTA’s decision to follow Sendero’s lead and start charging fees to narcotraffickers for the use of airstrips in MRTA’s territory. Previously, MRTA had rejected involvement in the coca economy and had even used its popular assemblies as opportunities to threaten those who dared to contribute to the commercialization and trade in coca leaf and paste. However, starting in November 1990, MRTA opened the airstrips in its territory to traffickers for a fee of $5000 US dollars, to be split amongst three entities: $1500 for the municipal officials, $1500 for the owner of the airstrip, and $2000 for MRTA (CVR 2013c).

In 1991, MRTA even constructed four new airstrips for the purpose, including one at Sauce.

Their involvement in the coca trade hastened the group’s ideological dissolution.

Confrontations between MRTA and Sendero

Although MRTA did not provide direct protection to the traffickers, at least two of its members went to work for El Vaticano, a.k.a. Demetrio Chavez, the biggest drug-trafficker in

Peru. In 1989, Chavez did business out of Uchiza, where he regularly paid sums of $15,000, plus

$3 per kilo of coca paste, to Sendero for use of their airstrips. Later, however, Chavez broke ties with Sendero and moved his operation to a compound outside the town of Campanilla, which he aimed to maintain as a Sendero-free zone (CVR 2013b). To assist with that project, he hired assassins from MRTA, whose military training proved useful in stopping the advance of the senderistas as well as attacks from other drug cartels. Although MRTA reportedly rejected those

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individuals, their assistance helped Chavez transform Campanilla into the most important zone for narcotrafficking in the Huallaga (Simpson 1994). It also turned Campanilla into a frontier between MRTA and Sendero (CVR 2013b).

Starting in 1987, confrontations between MRTA and Sendero began escalating. The first of these occurred when a column of 100 emerretistas tried to take the town of Tocache but were attacked by Sendero. MRTA lost 40 men and were defeated, thus dooming their hopes of expanding their territory to cover all of San Martín (CVR 2013c). In 1989, Sendero sought to expand their influence in San Martín with the creation of Comités Populares (popular committees) in the provinces of Bellavista and Mariscal Caceres. But it was after 1991 that

Sendero aspired to displace MRTA from its zones of influence in the south of the region, particularly the valleys of the Ponaza and Miskiyacu rivers, both on the right (east) bank of the

Huallaga. The two groups also fought for control of the Huallabamba, an important coca- producing region, and confrontations were recorded in the strategically located towns of Dos de

Mayo, Huicungo, and Juanjui. In addition, Sendero was active in the larger towns and cities along the Carretera, including Saposoa, Bellavista, Picota, and Tarapoto, zones where MRTA was dominant (CVR 2013c). The three main objectives were to win control of territory, the support of the masses, and control over airstrips.

The Fall of MRTA

In 1991, MRTA launched a new military and political campaign to protest the economic and political conditions imposed by the dictatorial Fujimori government. On November 16, they attacked the town of Lamas, targeting the Bank of the Nation and the Banco Agrario (Agrarian

Bank). One policeman died and others were kidnapped. Two days later, in Pampa Hermosa,

MRTA brought down an Army helicopter. On Christmas Eve they took Juanjui for a second time, and followed with actions in Tarapoto, Picota, Tabalosos, San Miguel del Rio Mayo, and

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San José de Sisa throughout 1992. On August 7, 1992, MRTA attacked Lamas again and killed two police officers. The Army intervened, and in the ensuing fight, two soldiers were killed, as well as 20 emerretistas and two civilians. Another dramatic confrontation occurred when the

Army, using artillery helicopters and ground-based assault troops, attacked MRTA’s base in the village of Pampa Hermosa in Lamas province, (CVR 2013c). They seized arms, military equipment, radios, etc. and found pools constructed for the maceration of coca (pozos).

By 1993, however, MRTA was weak and violence was declining throughout the region.

In addition to the Army’s counterinsurgency campaign, other factors included MRTA’s internal divisions, including how to distribute the profits from the drug trade; confrontations with

Sendero; the formation of rondas campesinas (farmers’ patrols); and the massive desertion of troops under the Law of Repentance. The Ley de Arrepentamiento, law no. 25499, was passed by the Fujimori government on May 12, 1992 (CVR 2013c). It promised safety to the soldiers, safety to their families, and a reduced or eliminated sentence to those who turned themselves in and provided the Army with useful information (CVR 2013b).

In addition, on a sociocultural front, various organizations worked diligently throughout the years of the violence to foster peace. One of the more prominent of these was the OPASM

(Oficina Prelatural de Acción Social de Moyobamba, or the Bishop’s Office of Social Action of

Moyobamba), a joint effort of the Catholic Diocese of Moyobamba, the Episcopal Commission for Social Action, and the Amazonian Center for Anthropology and Practical Application

(CAAAP). Among the activities promulgated by OPASM were meetings of Christian youth; marches for peace; a conference of Children for Peace; Regional Forums for Peace; regional meetings of the rondas campesinas; and education workshops. OPASM also played a central role in helping the government execute the Law of Repentance. They worked directly with the

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families of MRTA’s commanders and militants to help them convince their sons and daughters to take refuge in the law. OPASM stipulated that each parish would receive those former militants who wished to take refuge. Subsequently, many militants arrived at the parishes of

Juanjui, Bellavista, Saposoa, Picota, Moyobamba, Lamas, and Tarapoto.

In May 1993, OPASM set its sights on securing the surrender of one commandante

Antonio, the last commandante general left standing in San Martín, believing that if he surrendered, the remaining emerretistas would turn themselves in en masse. OPASM, together with Antonio’s family, issued an emotional appeal via radio and television, urging him to surrender for the sake of his family; the broadcast even included a recording of his mother singing a song from his childhood (CVR 2013c, 340 note 52). The strategy worked, and with

Antonio’s surrender, the remaining forces of MRTA in Peru either surrendered or were captured in short order (CVR 2013c). According to professor Lincoln Rojas, executive secretary of

OPASM who testified to the Truth and Reconciliation Committee, the repentant terrorists were well treated, receiving medical care, food and housing during the time they remained under military custody (CVR 2013c).

A Short History of Sisa

Along with Chazuta and Lamas, Sisa is one of the main centers of Kichwa culture in San

Martín. As detailed above, the Sisa valley was also the site of some important events in the history of MRTA, and it was the site of one of MRTA’s training camps. Ethnographically speaking, Sisa’s claim to fame is the fact that historically, it was a premier source of alampi

(Strychnos toxifera, from Cheney 1931), the vine from which blowgun-dart poison, or ampi, was made. I provide a history of Sisa here because it was a primary focus of my dissertation research.

Two of the shamans about whom I write are Siseros (residents of Sisa), and I spent much of my dissertation research in Sisa town and in the Indigenous community of Alto Huaja, located about

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25 minutes by mototaxi from Sisa, at the end of a road that until 2007 was just a mud trail.

Perhaps just as importantly, Sisa is an area of great intrinsic interest about which very little has been published.3

Located almost 2000 feet above sea level, Sisa (properly San José de Sisa) is the capital of El Dorado province, one of 10 provinces in San Martín region. Geographically as well as culturally and politically, El Dorado is a place of confrontation but also of integration. A major rampart of the Andean Amazon, the Sisa valley runs parallel to the Andean cordillera and is walled by rugged mountain ranges to the east and west, their upper reaches still carpeted with premontane tropical humid forest (See Figure 2-1). During the colonial era, El Dorado was part of the frontier between the Franciscan and Jesuit missionary dominions. More recently, it was a stronghold of MRTA, who maintained an important base in the Upper Sisa valley, from where they launched various actions and incursions. Today, San José de Sisa is a town where Kichwa people and mestizos interact freely in the commercial zones of the town, although the latter maintain greater economic and political power. Still, compared to the sharp spatial and social segregation of Lamas, Sisa is a town of great social fluidity and mobility.

Prehistory

Various types of archeological remains found in and around El Dorado indicate that it has likely been the site of interactions between peoples proceeding from both the lowlands to the east and the highlands to the west. The historian and educator Willian Guerra Valera indicates that

3 My information on the history of Sisa is drawn primarily from a set of anonymous and undated documents that were provided to me by a local educator and historian, a small book on the history and folklore of the town provided by the same individual, and interviews with three key informants. Interviews with other residents of the area provided corroborating and contextualizing information. I have attempted to provide the fullest picture possible of Sisa’s history, based on the information available. However, due to the small number of sources, and the likelihood that several of them were mutually referential, I have tried to limit my representation to those facts that I deemed likely to be accurate because they were non-controversial, they were consistent with the bigger picture as I understood it, or there would have been little reason for my source to misrepresent facts.

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thick-walled ceramic remains have been found, often among the roots of trees, that are unlike the thin-walled ceramics made by contemporary Kichwa people. These include pieces of ceramic vessels as well as funerary urns containing ceramics and human skeletal remains (Anonymous

[c.1970]; Anonymous [c. 2003]). Several rock-art sites exist throughout the province of El

Dorado, the best known of which are found near the towns of Incaico, Sinami, and Asanhiwa.

The petroglyphs of Incaico and Sinami have been studied and, along with other sites in San

Martín, indicate the presence of early selvatic peoples dating back as far as 7200 B.C. However, the art also shows the influence of or connection with Andean cultures, with the two artistic styles “forming part of the same tradition” (Rodríguez Cerrón 2006, 246).

In the mountains to the west of El Dorado, on the ridgetop of the eastern cordillera dividing the Huallaga from the basin of the Marañon River, numerous archeological sites such as

Kuelap, Gran Pajatén, and Los Pinchudos bear witness to the existence of an ancient culture known as Chachapoya, best known for their construction of circular ridgetop fortifications with artistic stone facades, and cliff tombs. Radiocarbon dates at some sites indicate occupation as far back as 12,000 BP, but a more-or-less cohesive regional cultural identity had developed by 900

AD, prior to the Inca Empire, with the construction of monumental stone works by 1000 AD.

Contrary to early anthropological theory that postulated a sharp cultural division between

Andean and Amazonian cultures enforced by an impenetrable and impassable cloud-forest boundary, the Chachapoya, as agricultural inhabitants of the cloud forest, appear to have been a crucial link in long-distance trade networks that connected the Andes with the Amazon (Church

2006; Church and von Hagen 2008). The Inca conquered them at least twice in order to gain access to trade with the lowlands, and ethnohistorical accounts indicate that their trading partners in the lowlands were the Hibitos and Cholones (Church 2006). Likewise, their art reflects

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lowland themes. The serpent is the single most common artistic motif, joined by feline and feline-human hybrids; these motifs likewise are the most common and most powerful symbols of

Amazonian shamanic culture. Historical chroniclers regarded the Chachapoya as powerful shamans, a fact that Church (2006) attributes to their access to herbs, “narcotics,” and esoteric knowledge emanating from the Amazonian lowlands.

The valley of the Huallabamba, formerly a coca-growing center and now a site of artisanal chocolate production, served as a major gateway to the lowlands for the Chachapoyas and through them, the Inca. Church (2006) notes “scattered references to paved roads and Inca outposts” throughout the Huallabamba. While I was in El Dorado I heard similar references of

Inca-style walls, portions of which remain standing in various places in the Sisa valley including

Santa Cruz, Nueva Barranquita, and Ischichiwi, and that appear to be aligned with each other.

This is a subject ripe for further research.

Church (2006) notes that the demographic center of Chachapoyas was likely the forested eastern slopes of the cordillera. He also notes, however, that even the best-known archeological sites remain inadequately sampled, and the eastern forests are almost entirely unexplored.4 Based on the clear connection between Andean and Amazonian cultures in this region and reports of

Inca-style monumental works in the Huallabamba and the Sisa valleys, there appears to be a very good chance that Chachapoya and Inca culture extended fully into this area, providing a flow not only of goods but of ideas, imagery, and iconography in both directions. One wonders if this could be one of the routes by which Inca imagery made its way so thoroughly into the iconography and mythology of lowland peoples and of ayahuasca culture, as seen in various

4 A large part of these forested slopes today comprise the Rio Abiseo National Park and a series of REDD+ conservation projects, both proposed and granted, designed as part of a conservation corridor that reaches north to the Ecuadorian frontier (IBC 2016b; Pur Projet and Amazonia Verde 2012). They remain largely uninhabited.

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cultures including the Shipibo, Mestizo, and the Brazilian religion, União do Vegetal (Brabec

2018, 2019; Luna and Amaringo 1999).

Colonial History of El Dorado

The colonial-era history of El Dorado is not entirely clear. The Sisa valley does not appear to have been a center of missionary activity until Evangelicals came in the 20th century, and references in the early chronicles are obscured by the use of inaccurate or archaic geographical names. For example, a map of the travels of Franciscan padre Manuel Sobreviela in

1790 shows the Sisa River on the wrong side of the Huallaga, although it does locate it correctly in the relative vicinity of the Huallabamba and the Saposoa rivers (Sobreviela et al. 1830).

Interestingly, the name “Sisa” is used, perhaps as early as 1790, indicating that, contrary to current belief, the name predates the arrival of Lamista to the Sisa valley, or rather, that it predates 1847, the year usually given for the first Lamista inhabitation of the region. Either the river was known as “Sisa” before the Lamista arrived, or the Lamista or other Quechua speakers arrived much earlier than has been reported, bringing the name with them. “Sisa” means

“flower” in Kichwa, and by all accounts refers to the abundant flowers that lined the verdant shores of the river.

As mentioned before, El Dorado appears to have been the frontier between Jesuit and

Franciscan missionary enterprises. A map of pre-contact Indigenous nations in Scazzocchio

(1979, 218) shows the lower Sisa as territory of the Hibitos, and the upper Sisa as the homeland of the Tabalosos, who were later reduced at Tabalosos and Lamas. The Hibitos and Cholones, on the other hand, were converted by the Franciscans apparently without great difficulty, beginning in 1676, and were eventually settled in the towns of Pajatén and Sión for the Hibitos, and Valle and Pampa Hermosa for the Cholones (Amich et al. 1975). Like the tribes of Lamas, they were people of the montaña. They lived without permanent leaders, dispersed throughout the

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mountains. In their communities, they wore a cushma (long shirt-like garment) of cotton dyed with moss. Agricultural produce included cotton, corn, yuca, peanuts, plantains, and of course coca, which they carried by the 100-pound load to the highlands and sold, and with the money bought tools, as well as clothes for town and church. They also ate monkeys, wild pigs, salted fish, and fruits, and maintained good health without difficulty, except when epidemics of smallpox would race through the towns, at which time they fled to the monte (forested hills). The chronicles state that as of 1767 there were about 4800 Hibitos and Cholones—likely a fraction of their pre-conquest numbers—and that from that time, their numbers increased greatly.

Although the territory of the Hibito and Cholón appear to have overlapped slightly with that of the Lamista Kichwa in the Sisa valley, the Hibito and Cholón were centered farther to the south, beyond Juanjui, in that area known today as the Upper Huallaga, which was the stronghold of Sendero Luminoso and the source of the majority of the world’s cocaine during the

1980s. This area is considered empty of Indigenous inhabitants, and yet it is clear that, although they have since been inundated by migrants, the core of the population was once Indigenous, possibly as late as the early 20th century. Scientists with the 1948 UNESCO expedition, sent to survey the Huallaga valley for its development potential, roundly reported a complete absence of

Indigenous peoples—except for those of the town of Lamas—and yet the cultural characteristics they describe, from diet to architecture to the “extremely widespread” practice of polygyny, are common, almost universal, features of Amazonian societies (Buitrón 1948, 25). Buitrón himself states that Juanjui and Saposoa, and possibly Bellavista as well, all major towns of the Central

Huallaga, were founded by “Lamas Indians” or “Motilones from Lamas” (Buitrón 1948, 15).

Doran, the expedition’s geographer, suggests that migrant populations arrived while Indigenous populations remained extant, adopting their selvatic lifestyle before the Indigenous people, in the

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words of the expedition’s leader, withdrew to the forest or were “absorbed” into the general population (Buitrón 1948; Doran 1949). It is more likely that many if not most of the inhabitants of the Huallaga were Indigenous people, some of whom may have intermarried with mestizo migrants, and who, due to racism and other acculturative processes, had adopted Quechua or

Spanish as a common language, European-style clothing, and a non-Indigenous identity. This is a common pattern described for populations throughout the Peruvian Amazon, a pattern that lends a certain “invisibility” to the Indigenous population in the eyes of the State, depriving them of

State-based rights and protections that have arisen in more recent years (Stocks 1978).

The Founding of San José de Sisa

After the demographic collapse that occurred with colonial contact and the resettlement of remaining Indigenous families in mission towns, outlying areas were largely depopulated and their flora and fauna left to regenerate. The re-expansion of the population, coupled with political changes that signified greater freedom for Indigenous people of the area, gave rise to a cycle of outward expansion into these regenerated areas and the formation of new towns and farming communities.

According to Pinedo Lopez (2011), the first inhabitants of the area now known as San

José de Sisa were Kichwa who came from Lamas around 1750 and settled on a hill now known as the barrio Pendencia Punta. They comprised members of several families, among them the

Tapullima, the Salas, the Tuanama, and the Satalaya, and were led by a curaca. Although this term is generally defined as “chief,” it also has connotations of and associations with shamanism

(Callicott 2014b). Whitten (personal communication, 2014) notes that among the Canelos

Kichwa of Ecuador, the term historically denoted a power broker between the Catholic Church and the Kichwa people, and in the forest, referred to the master of animals. Scazzocchio (1979) notes that the formation of new llakta, or extended-family communities that later grow into

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population centers, were always led by powerful shamans who had the ability to tame the forest spirits and make an area safe for settlement.

People were drawn to the Sisa valley initially for its abundance of game. Hunting expeditions were regularly dispatched from Lamas to secure large amounts of game for fiestas and for feeding teams of workers engaged in faenas, or communal work events. Others were drawn by the abundance of fish in the rivers, of free land for cultivation, while still others came in search of shiringa, or rubber, presumably during the Rubber Boom (Anonymous [c.1978]).

The Sisa valley was renowned for its fertility, and it also presented new opportunities for trade with the Indigenous groups already established in the area (Anonymous [c. 2003]). Inhabitants of

Sisa also enjoyed freedom from colonial authorities, and, perhaps, other forms of social control.

Scazzocchio (1979) writes that at least two communities of the Sisa valley were formed by people exiled from Lamas for practicing sorcery or for murdering during fiestas.

The early Indigenous inhabitants of San José de Sisa are reported to have fought fiercely with one another along family lines, with these feuds giving rise to geographic differentiation and the eventual formation of today’s barrios. One source states that early inhabitants on either side of the Pishuaya River fought between themselves with rocks, sticks, and firearms. The women were enlisted to buy munitions at the store, to carry lances, or to arm their men with rocks that they gathered and carried in their aprons (Anonymous [c.1978]).

During this time, people had settled on the hills alongside both banks of the Pishuaya quebrada, which enters the Rio Sisa from the east. The flat area in the middle of the valley, which today makes up the town center, was marshy and served as a hunting reserve; the Plaza de

Armas was the site of a lake. One of my informants called it a collpa; this term usually refers to a salt-lick in the forest at which animals gather. He verified that people had placed rock salt there

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to attract animals for hunting. In 1847, Fabian Tuanama arrived from Lamas and, with family and friends who had accompanied him, inhabited the area around the lake. While Tuanama is often credited with being the first settler in Sisa, there appears to be some inconsistency to these reports, and at least one document states that an “extensive family” of Hibitos and Cholones already lived in the valley (Anonymous [c. 2003], 2).

Early documentation bears witness to the formation of Sisa as an Indigenous town and as a refuge from exploitation. In a document issued out of Chachapoyas and dated Dec. 5, 1856, one Julián Torres responds to a demand by the governor of Lamas that the inhabitants of Sisa return to their original homes in Lamas. Torres, in his official capacity, writes:

…that some residents of the population of Lamas have passed with their spontaneous will to the banks of the Rio Sisa and have created a town with the name of San José; that this step has been carried out with the knowledge and consent of the authorities according to the decrees of the prefecture 13 and 23 of June of last year; that being free the man to live where it better suits him, there is no right to obligate the indigenas of San José to return to the city of Lamas, much more when they are submitted to the action of the laws of the republic and of the authorities legally constituted; that being sufficiently proven the utility and convenience that the [traveling] public report with the existence of the new population, it would be an abuse to compel its townspeople to return and submit themselves to the yoke that tries to impose itself on them by the inhabitants of Lamas; finally, existing in fact and in right constituted the previously mentioned town of San José because it has a lieutenant governor, a justice of the peace…and the other functionaries designated by law, that contribute to protect the commerce and to assist travelers to the provinces of Pataz, Huamalíes, and Huánuco. In conformity with the pronouncements of the subprefect of Moyobamba…it is declared [to be] without place the request of the governor of Lamas that the inhabitants of Sisa return to their homes…(reproduced in Pinedo Lopez 2011, 21)

The 19th century had already seen a great tug-of-war between state agents who sought to free

Indigenous people from tribute and forced labor and integrate them into the national citizenry, and those who were dependent on the Indians’ labor and sought to maintain control over them

(Scazzocchio 1979; Smith 1982). The creation of the town of San José de Sisa would appear to be one salvo in that larger conflict, and one that recognized the liberty and agency of Indigenous

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people, albeit in the context of their service to the local economy and to travelers on the road between Chachapoyas and the Huallaga.

Most accounts state that in short order, however, Spanish-speaking mestizos arrived from

Saposoa. Pinedo Lopez says that they took the flat area in the center of town “almost by assault,” engaged in “conflicts” with the Indigenous inhabitants of the area, imposed their authority over them, and subjected them to obras comunales, or communal works (Pinedo Lopez 2011, 27).

The first to arrive was don Salvador Ramirez, who took over the area where the Plaza de Armas is now and drained the lake by means of a ditch (Anonymous [c. 2003]). Between 1860 and

1870, don José Antonio Reátegui and his spouse, doña Jesus del Aguila arrived from

Moyobamba. They came to be known as “mamita” and “papita” (Mommy and Papa) and one document alleges that they were “the first to culturizar [enlighten, educate, bring culture to] the indians [sic] that possessed their own, very ancient ancestral customs” (Anonymous [c.1978], 2).

One of my informants, however, described the Reategui’s relationship with the Kichwa as one of great affinity and rapport, with, perhaps, more mutual respect than the above author’s tone would indicate.

Thus, while San José de Sisa appears to have started out as a refuge for the Kichwa, more exploitive forms of social relations were reproduced with the arrival of mestizo migrants from

Saposoa and elsewhere. Fabian Tuanama is named as the first teniente gobernador (lit., lieutenant governor, probably akin to mayor) of Sisa, but almost every other municipal and provincial leader listed in the available documents bore two mestizo surnames (Anonymous

[c.1978]). The Kichwa were commonly employed as cargueros, paid to carry businessmen, the ill and infirm, and those who were otherwise “inexpert” at traveling the difficult terrain of the montaña, on their backs, in “special boxes,” from Moyobamba, Lamas, and Saposoa

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(Anonymous [c.1978]). Whatever indignity such a role may confer today, at least the cargueros were paid in cash. The same cannot always be said for other forms of Kichwa labor. The long- distance expeditions to the Ucayali to retrieve meat, fish and other goods have already been mentioned. In addition, it appears that the Kichwa served as an unpaid labor pool for the elaboration of various public works including the construction of a series of airstrips. As late as

1970, Siseros were being forced to labor under threat of imprisonment (Pinedo Lopez 2011, 40).

Nevertheless, during the early years, the official language of Sisa was Kichwa, and mestizos were forced to learn the language if they wanted to do business in the area.

Mestizos weren’t the only migrants arriving in El Dorado during this time. Kichwa continued to come from the neighboring province of Lamas, dispersing throughout the Sisa valley and its many tributaries, where they founded other towns. In addition, under population pressure, many of the first Indigenous inhabitants of San José de Sisa, especially in the town center, sold their land “for trinkets” and moved away (Pinedo Lopez 2011, 31). Eventually there was only one Indigenous landowner left in the Sisa town center, the father of don Arcadio

Tuanama. Mr. Tuanama built a large building in the town square that served for many years as a municipal building and was later converted to a bar and photo studio (Pinedo Lopez 2011).

Sisa, Land of Plenty

Since its earliest years, Sisa has been involved in the production of agricultural goods and non-timber forest products for export; it was only as the population grew that a larger portion of its produce was directed toward internal consumption (Anonymous [c.1978]). Its earliest trading partners were Lamas, Saposoa, Moyobamba, Rioja, Yurimaguas and Iquitos. The earliest export commodities included coffee, cotton, rubber, barbasco (fish poison), lumber, aguardiente (cane alcohol), chancaca (brown sugar), tapioca starch, fariña (manioc flour), cattle, pigs, and poultry

(Pinedo Lopez 2011). Much of the rubber, known locally as shiringa, gathered in El Dorado was

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used to rubberize cloth for the manufacture of waterproof bags used for the transport of other items. Mestizo merchants from Lamas dominated trade in a classic system of habilitación. The products offered in exchange for upcoming crop harvests included salted fish, farm implements, shotguns, and other mercantile products (Anonymous [c.1978]). Coca was, of course, an important export during its heyday. Today, the primary exports are cacao, plantains, and corn.

There are numerous cacao buyers in town. Yards, sidewalks, and other open flat spaces are often a patchwork of black canvas tarps, upon which are spread drying cacao seeds. On warm days during harvest season, the town fairly reeks with the vinegary odor of drying fermented cacao.

The rise of cacao in San Martín is in large part a result of crop-substitution programs organized by the U.S. Agency for International Development (USAID) as part of the coca-eradication effort.

The importance of commodity production as an organizing principle in the lives of the people of Sisa, not to mention the political and environmental history of the province, cannot be overestimated. My oldest informants recalled the “mountains” of cotton that once flowed out of the valley. Hillsides that are now covered by cornfields were then covered by cotton. As late as the 1960s, Sisa was a main supplier of beef and pork for Moyobamba and Rioja. Daily, the animals filled the town square, where they were inventoried before being herded by trail to urban markets. When a road was built to Sisa, cattle were shipped by truck instead, and overland cattle drives were banned. Production changes initiated by the Agrarian Bank in the 1980s reduced greatly the number of pigs produced, though many families in rural areas still maintain a small herd for personal consumption and for sale.

The chacras of the Kichwa of El Dorado reflect the regional importance of commodity production. Agrobiodiversity is relatively low, and monocrop cultivation has replaced traditional,

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mixed-species horticulture as evidenced in the province of Lamas. In Alto Huaja, where I spent significant time, the only crops I saw being grown either for sale or consumption were corn (hard and soft varieties), beans, cassava, cacao, papaya, peanuts, avocados, limes, hot peppers, and plantains. At least two comuneros (community members) also grow ayahuasca for sale to practitioners in the town of Sisa. Behind the house where I lived, a wide deforested area corresponding to a yard was filled with sweet wild basil that was never used, nor even acknowledged as being comestible. Rice and plantains comprise the bulk of the diet. While plantains are abundant, rice is always bought with money gained in the sale of cash crops (i.e. corn or cacao), in what appears from the outside to be a somewhat illogical allocation of resources. Rice can be, and was historically, cultivated by small-scale growers. One informant told me that in her childhood, her family grew great fields of rice on some plains above the

Huaja valley.

Travel and Transport

Before modern roads were built in the mid-20th century, all transport and communication between El Dorado and the outside world were via river or trail. The rigors of travel and of transporting goods to market, however, did not isolate the Kichwa. Rather, physical strength and the ability to carry heavy loads over long distances are highly valued in the culture. To this day it remains part of the logic underlying the current system of ethnomedicine, on which I will expand in a later chapter. I will add that the role of porter is not limited to men; it is not uncommon to see a man walking unloaded or, perhaps, with a small book-bag-style backpack, and several steps behind, a woman carrying a raceme of plantains or a basket full of produce hanging from a tumpline across her forehead.

With the rise of El Dorado as a commodity producing region, and the late date at which paved roads were built, much of the province’s produce was shipped to market by river. The

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convenience of river transport linked El Dorado and the rest of San Martín much more closely to

Loreto and the lowlands, and from there to Brazil and Europe, than it did to markets in Lima and the coast—a state of affairs that the Carretera Marginal was designed to shift (Zarate Árdela

2003). Raft transport is reported to have begun around 1880, coinciding neatly with the ramping- up of the Rubber Boom and the demand created by an exploding, and increasingly wealthy, population in Iquitos. Rafting goods down the Rio Sisa lasted at least into the 1970s, whereas the full trip to Iquitos was reportedly abandoned around 1965.

Attempts to initiate air travel in San José de Sisa began in 1948 but met with various obstacles and delays until the mid-1950s, at which time José Jesus Reátegui donated land for an airport in the Banda Pishuaya, a district of the town (Pinedo Lopez 2011). The coming of air travel was associated with an influx of Evangelical missionaries bringing medicines and cultural change. Air service in some form lasted until the late 1980s. Likewise, the Summer Institute of

Linguistics maintained an airstrip for their own use in San Juan de Miraflores in the Santa Cruz district. Not only did white Evangelicals fly in and out of there, but Kichwa converts were flown from there to yearly meetings at the SIL headquarters in Yarinacocha, near Pucallpa. Today, perhaps ironically, Yarinacocha is a major destination for shamanic tourists.

In 1956 a telegraph was installed in San José de Sisa, and in 1962, telephone service was established between Sisa and its neighboring districts. In 1966, a hard-surfaced road was built from Bellavista to San José de Sisa, in order to bring a generator that would provide the town with electricity. The road only lasted two years. Later, a hydroelectric plant was built on the

Pishuaya, but due to deforestation in the basin and subsequent water shortages, the turbines only operated for five years. In 1981, the first highway was built to Sisa, connecting it with

Cuñumbuque and from there, to Tarapoto. In 1984, a second highway was built connecting Sisa

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with Bellavista to the south. In 1992, El Dorado was elevated to the status of province, at which time the regional government provided funds for the construction of a paved highway, bridges, and modern schools throughout the province (Pinedo Lopez 2011).

La Invasión

In San Martín, the term invasión is used to refer to the settling of any plot of land by newcomers, whether that land is an empty lot across the road being settled by impoverished townspeople, or the previously undeveloped landscape of El Dorado being settled with migrants from the coast. With the opening of roads in San Martín in the early 1980s came a wave of migrants in search of free land that swamped both the Indigenous and existing mestizo populations of Sisa. Prior to this era, El Dorado is estimated to have been 60% “libre, tierra del estado, sin dueño” (free, land of the state, without owner), the rest having already been converted to farmland or purma (fallows). The new migrants came and settled on largely non-converted, forested lands, in a process that was and still is referred to by locals as an invasión. “Now, there are chacras all the way to the tops of the mountains,” one informant complained. However, in the eyes of the government these settlers were legitimate, part of the national movement to promote agrarian settlement of the Amazon through the distribution of land titles for settlers willing to convert land for agriculture.

The bulk of migrants, often referred to as paisanos, came from the neighboring highland areas of Piura, Cajamarca, Amazonas, Chiclayo, and Lambayeque. They brought with them a new set of customs and expectations, including shamanic practices and medicinal-plants knowledge. They are also widely blamed for the deforestation that has taken place since their arrival, although as the section on corn below will show, there were various factors at play.

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Rafting the Rios Sisa and Huallaga

The material reality of moving goods downriver prior to the arrival of reliable roads presents some very interesting historical and ethnographic details. Trips began on the Rio Sisa, where the bridge spans the river now. Here, a raft was built, 15 logs wide or so, known as a balsa; those who managed the rafts are known as balseros. The design of the raft included a grid of tie-down points to anchor the cargo. On the Huallaga, it also included oar-stands and a system for securing the oars to the frame. A shallow box was built in the center of the raft; into this box was loaded sand or earth upon which the cook-fire was built. One informant described the balseros floating downstream, their pot of beans boiling away, gluck, gluck, gluck. On rougher water, they would cover the pot with cloth and secure it with a piece of string to keep the food from spilling.

At the Sisa put-in, an array of produce was loaded onto the raft, including live cattle and pigs. Dry goods were packed into great bags made of rubberized cloth and closed tightly. A long stick known as a tankana or tangana was used to propel the raft, to keep it away from the riverbanks, and to maneuver it around rocks in the river’s course. One person rode in front, watching for obstacles and directing the person behind, who steered the raft.

At the mouth of the Rio Sisa, where it flows into the Huallaga, balseros stopped and camped, sleeping either on their raft or at the water’s edge. At that juncture, two to three rafts would be joined together into one very large raft, to accommodate the powerful rapids of the

Huallaga. From here, some balseros returned to Sisa, while others were hired to continue downriver to Iquitos. Another option was to stop at Yurimaguas, where goods were loaded onto motorized boats known as lanchas and shipped to Iquitos from there. Those who rafted from Sisa to its confluence with the Huallaga were paid 30 soles as late as the 1970s (less than $1 USD in

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1970 dollars) (Morse 1970). From the confluence to Iquitos paid 100 soles. The trip from Sisa to

Iquitos lasted two to three weeks, depending on water levels.

At the mouth of the Rio Sisa, boaters joined the wide and meandering Huallaga. Rather than guiding the boat with a tangana, one oar was situated on either side of the boat, and one man operated each oar. Prior to the widespread deforestation that took place in the late 20th century, water levels in the river were much higher; the rapids were subsequently much bigger and, reportedly, more dangerous. The worst rapids were between Shapaja and Chazuta and are known today as Chumía and Estero. For these sections, everything was tied to the raft, including the balseros, who used a wide belt to secure themselves. Such a practice would be unthinkable in modern whitewater rafting. However, the size and weight of the raft apparently made it almost impossible to flip, even in the largest waves. And by all accounts, the waves were very large.

After Chazuta, balseros were able to float night and day, taking turns at the oars and resting. Once the merchandise was delivered to Iquitos, balseros boarded a motorboat and returned upriver to Yurimaguas, from where they walked to Tarapoto, carrying more cargo for the comerciantes (traders), especially yellow paiche from the Ucayali. Although there was paiche in the Huallaga, its flesh was white and considered less desirable. From Tarapoto, Siseros crossed the Mayo River at San Miguel del Rio Mayo and continued overland to El Dorado.

Raft trips to Iquitos lasted until 1960, when a violent turn of events would shut down raft- based transport. That year, a group of assailants boarded a raft, killed the balseros on board, and stole the merchandise. As the story goes, the owner of the merchandise had received a telegram that his shipment was on its way, so he was waiting at the port in Iquitos for it to arrive.

Searching the various boats for a shipment of coffee bearing his brand, he finally spotted one where someone had attempted to rub out the branding, partially erasing the letters. One of the

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workers accompanying him suggested that there had been an assault, and as they watched the balseros and looked closely at the boat, someone spotted a dismembered finger wedged between the logs of the raft. Without alerting the balseros, the owner went and retrieved the police, the assailants were jailed, and the owner re-took possession of his cargo. After that, no balseros were willing to ferry goods past Shapaja, the last town before the canyon and rapids of Chazuta.

Cotton

Cotton from San Martín was long considered some of the finest in the world. It was one of the products exchanged with the Chachapoya people and, through them, the Inca, during the pre-contact era (Church 2006). During the 19th century, the Kichwa of San Martín supplied cotton for the entire Franciscan domain. Cotton, wax, and curare were all used as forms of currency throughout the Amazon at various times during the colonial era. Until 1860 when the advent of steam travel changed economic relations between mestizos and Indigenous people,

“varas” of cotton cloth, woven in Tarapoto and Moyobamba from thread spun by Lamista women and children, were used as currency throughout the Amazon in trade between mestizos and Indians (Scazzocchio 1978).

Historically, cotton was also exported to Europe for use in textiles manufacturing, and this commerce was the basis for the transport of large quantities of cotton to Iquitos. After 1960, however, when river transport to Iquitos ceased, a cotton processing plant was built in Shapaja, an important port on the Huallaga located above the canyon and the rapids of Chazuta. There the seeds were removed and processed into oil and cattle feed. The cotton, cleaned and combed, was then shipped to Tarapoto, and from Tarapoto was flown in planes to Iquitos. According to Zarate

Árdela (2003), the cotton “boom” ended in the early 1970s.

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Coca

During the 1980s, the cultivation of coca expanded rapidly throughout El Dorado. In

1987, MRTA arrived and shortly afterward, a Peruvian Army based was installed in the Sisa valley. This convergence of factors meant that in Sisa, as elsewhere in San Martín, “The peace and tranquility of the campesinos was left destroyed” (Anonymous [c. 2003], 2). In the comunidad nativa of Alto Huaja, people told me that montones (piles) of coca leaf poured out of the valley on the backs of cargueros. An elder of the community of Alto Huaja who lives far up the valley near the edge of the monte told me that coca had been important in the community

“until the ingenieros [engineers] came and cut down all our bushes,” a reference to US-backed coca eradication efforts. Another cocale (coca plantation) even higher up the mountain has since returned to purma, or second-growth forest, and is now used for hunting, the farmer’s shelter serving as a hunting lodge.

Some men left the rural communities and went to work in the cities in the cocaine trade.

One man I spoke with went to Juanjui to work in a pozo, where leaves were processed into pasto, or basic cocaine paste.5 The pay was 1500 soles monthly, very high by current standards but low for the inflated prices of the coca boom. “We didn’t make money,” he told me. “The ones who sold the coca made the money.” The term “pozo,” which means pool, pit, or well, refers to an improvised tub made of plastic sheeting, into which coca leaves were mixed with solvents such as kerosene, neutralizers such as lime, and sulfuric acid (Young 1996). Men would then stomp barefoot in the mixture until the pasto was precipitated. There was also a pozo in Sisa, operated in conjunction with the local ampi trade. There as elsewhere, men worked day and night, not

5 The final step of turning pasto to cocaine was usually performed at specially equipped labs in Colombia. The vast majority of the coca produced in San Martín during the boom was exported as paste.

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stopping to eat or sleep, just drinking their coffee and stomping away. Pasto from Sisa was packed into the bottom of large cans (latas), then topped with ampi, for smuggling to Iquitos,

Ecuador, Colombia and beyond. This practice is an example of how the spread of coca cultivation north, and the decentralization of its export (i.e. away from airstrips), were among the factors leading to the demise of Sendero Luminoso by depriving it of its tax base (Kay 1991).

Although it is still occasionally used for medicinal purposes, coca is nowadays associated with violence, narcotraffickers, and police repression. Most people I spoke with seem pleased with the new alternative, cacao, which brings a good price although “it has a lot of diseases.”

“Ahora, sembramos tranquilo, crecemos tranquilo, vendemos tranquilo” (Nowadays, we plant in peace, we grow in peace, and we sell in peace). USAID has been a primary driver of coffee and cacao as coca-replacement crops. Their presence in San Martín is strong, and people seem to have a largely favorable opinion of their work.

Corn: Agricultural Intensification and Landscape Transformation

Upon his election in 1963, President Fernando Belaúnde Terry instigated a series of development policies that would dramatically impact San Martín. The project was construed as the internal colonization of the Peruvian Amazon, where, it was believed, sufficient food could be grown to supply urban centers on the sierra and coast. The construction of the Carretera

Marginal was one pillar of this plan; another was the stimulation of commercial agriculture, particularly rice and corn, through financial incentives and subsidies provided by the Agrarian

Bank and the Corporación Departamental de Desarrollo (Departmental Development

Corporation) (Zarate Árdela 2003). The policies of the Belaúnde and Velasco administrations gave rise to a series of unintended consequences including the dispossession of Indigenous peoples from their lands; the collapse of the nascent corn market and the subsequent rise of coca cultivation and its attendant problems (e.g. narcoterrorism and Sendero Luminoso); the

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widespread deforestation of San Martín; and a decline in food security, as traditional subsistence crops were replaced by commercial agriculture.

Zarate Árdela (2003) dates the rise of commodity-oriented agriculture (corn and rice) in

San Martín to 1965–1980, with the market collapse beginning in 1985. However, in Sisa the intensification of commercial corn cultivation began in earnest in 1984 with the arrival of the

Banco Agrario and the recently built highways linking Sisa to the Carretera Marginal. There, the contours of the changes had a slightly different form. Into the 1980s, Sisa remained a major provider of meat, both pork and beef, to Moyobamba and Rioja. “Todos los días, la Plaza de

Armas se llenaba de vacunas y de chanchos,” I was told (Every day, the Plaza de Armas was filled with cows and pigs, destined for the urban market). The common agricultural practice at the time was to fence the chacra, allowing pigs to roam free. The necessity of fencing chacras limited the clearing of land for agriculture, usually to one to two hectares per chacra. However, under the new nationalist policies of agricultural intensification, corn plantations needed to be much larger. In addition to providing low-interest farm loans and other market incentives, the

Banco Agrario stipulated that borrowers should corral their pigs, allowing people to increase the size of their corn plantations, leading to chacras of up to 30 hectares—and rampant deforestation.

In addition, the production of pork for export was greatly reduced.

In Alto Huaja, the expansion of corn production arrived in the 1990s and with it, the use of pesticides, as taught to the farmers by extension agents promoting the larger chacras required to ensure a return on the farmers’ investment (Egerlid 2015). Today, herbicides including glyphosate and 2,4-D are applied frequently and liberally using backpack-style sprayers. Babies, children, and lactating mothers are often present; in fact, one of the many roles of a woman is to haul water to the chacra and assist her husband in mixing the herbicide and loading it into the

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sprayer. The liberal use of pesticides and the lack of environmental or personal safeguards presents a serious public health risk not only to the people of Alto Huaja but to those communities throughout San Martín who have embraced this practice. During my stay in Alto

Huaja I offered a workshop to the community on the dangers of pesticide use and World Health

Organization recommendations for how to improve safety. About 30 community members attended.

Recent Developments for the Kichwa of San Martín

During my fieldwork in 2018, one of the biggest issues confronting the Kichwa of San

Martín was the problem of land rights. Migration and urban and agricultural expansion had displaced the Kichwa from many areas long before the titling of Indigenous lands was even a legal possibility. Where territorial titles were sought, subsequent to the passage of relevant laws, the applications often languished in governmental offices, while titles and concessions, often for the same lands, were handed out to non-Indigenous people and entities. Furthermore, the existing legal framework provides only for the titling of individual, disarticulated communities rather than greater territories, and those laws have often been applied in a manner that is selective and paternalistic at best, obstructionist and racist at worst.

The good news is that in 2018, the program for Indigenous land titling, situated within the office of San Martín’s Regional Agricultural Directorate (Dirección Regional de Agricultura) was headed by two Kichwa women from Wayku, the Kichwa district of the town of Lamas. They worked closely with and were supported by a technical consultant from GIZ (the German

Corporation for International Cooperation). In addition, the Indigenous people of San Martín were continuing to organize themselves into federations and fighting for their rights in court.

In 2018 the Kichwa of San Martín were represented by six federations:

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• FEPIKRESAM (Federación de los Pueblos Indigenas Kechwas de la Region San Martín)

• CEPKA (Consejo Etnico de los Pueblos Kichwa de la Amazonia)

• FEPIKBHSAM (Federación de Pueblos Indígenas Kichwas del Bajo Huallaga de la Región San Martín)

• FEKIHD (Federación Kichwa Indígena Huallaga Dorado)

• FEPIKECHA (Federación de Pueblos Indígenas Kechwa Chazuta)

• FECONAKED (Federación de Comunidades Nativas Kechwa El Dorado).

The six Kichwa federations, together with a federation of Shawi communities and another of

Awajún, comprise the regional association CODEPISAM (Consejo de Desarrollo de los Pueblos

Indígenas de la Región San Martín), formed in 2007, which is a member of two umbrella organizations: AIDESEP (Asociación Interetnica de Desarollo de la Selva Peruana), at the national level, and COICA (Coordinadora de las Organizaciones Indígenas de la Cuenca

Amazónica), at the international level. The federations are supported by various national and international NGOs who provide funding, training, and in-kind services such as legal representation. These coalitions are contributing to progress in the ongoing pursuit of land titles for the Indigenous communities of San Martín. Unfortunately, the progress they are making is in an uphill battle to right the wrongs of decades of largely detrimental policies leading to the migrant invasions described above and, more recently, to “green” land grabs that have deprived communities of land title as well as access to ancestral territories. Because of the importance of land titling for the Lamista Kichwa today, I will explore this issue in detail.

The Legal Framework for Indigenous Land Rights

Since the war of Independence in 1821, Peruvian policy toward Indigenous peoples and their land rights has been marred by liberal ideology that sought largely to incorporate

Indigenous peoples as acculturated citizens and to alienate their lands (Smith 1982). Prior to

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independence, the lands around missionary reducciones had been protected as a sort of communal territory for the Indigenous people who lived there, in order to ensure ongoing agricultural production and other forms of labor that the reducciones provided (IBC 2016c). In

1821, General José de San Martín, liberator of Peru, declared an end to forced labor and payment of tribute that had enslaved Indigenous people, incorporating them into the new Peruvian state as citizens. Three years later, Simón Bolívar declared the abolition of the Indigenous community and the distribution of community lands to heads of household as private property. Declarations were signed into law in 1828, and the widespread alienation of Indigenous territories began

(Smith 1982). While on their face, such policies appear to be favorable toward Indigenous people, presuming to end their enslavement, in fact they sought the extinction of unique cultural groups and the incorporation of people and their land into a national economy. In 1826, Indian tribute (contribución indígena) was reinstated as a means of repaying the national state debt, with landed Indians paying more than those without land and almost twice the payment of taxed non-Indians (Smith 1982).

Policies to stimulate colonization of the Amazon began early. In 1832, Peru passed a law granting land ownership of up to 40 fanegas (26.4 hectares) to anyone, Peruvian or not, who settled in the Amazon (San Román 1994). The government later sweetened the deal by offering a cash incentive to anyone able to attract more colonists to the lowlands; foreigners, particularly

Europeans, were especially welcome. In 1883, war with Chile left Peru in dire straits financially; national debt forced the government to begin granting tracts of land to private companies and debtor nations (Maybury-Lewis 1999). In 1909, Law 1220 gave the state dominion over forests.

Indigenous people were allowed to live in and around forests, but not to obtain land titles (Stocks

2005).

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The new constitution of 1920 returned to a policy of recognizing Indigenous communities

(comunidades indigenas), with the right to communal lands, although this policy was directed largely at the Sierra; Amazonian peoples would remain officially ignored until the 1970s. The term “comunidad indígena” was later changed to “comunidad campesina,” reflecting the national view of Andean Quechua as peasants.

Such laws and policies set the stage for deterritorialization, but it was only with the construction of the Carretera Marginal that the relative trickle of migrants to San Martín became a flood, and the current land-rights crisis was born. The highway was envisioned by Fernando

Belaúnde Terry, elected president in 1963, and construction began on his watch. In 1968

Belaúnde was overthrown in a military coup, and General Juan Velasco Alvarado took power, promising to enact the reforms that Belaúnde had failed to deliver. Among these reforms was the sweeping Agrarian Reform Law of 1969 that abolished Andean haciendas and coastal plantations and redistributed the land to the peasant farmers who worked it.

Today, for the Day of the Indian, the day of the Peasant, the Revolutionary Government honors them with the best of tributes by giving to the nation a law that will end forever the unjust social order that impoverished and oppressed the millions of landless peasants who have always been forced to work the land of others...As of this lucky June 24, Peruvian peasants will truly be free citizens whose motherland has finally recognized their rights to the fruit of the land they work and a position of justice within a society where nevermore will they be second-class citizens, men to be exploited by other men...To the men of the land, we can now say in the immortal and liberating voice of Túpac Amaru: Peasant: the Master will no longer feed off your poverty! (Starn, Degregori, and Kirk 2005, 280–284)

The Law of Native Communities

It was during Velasco’s reign, in 1969, that an anthropologist named Stefano Varese was hired to direct the new Division of Native Communities of the Jungle, “to research, develop, and implement the state policy regarding territories, jurisdictions, and cultural and political rights of the Indigenous peoples of Peru’s Amazonian region” (Varese 2004, 5). The work of Varese and

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his colleagues resulted in the 1974 Law of Native Communities. Varese saw the law as a response to centuries of Indigenous demands for “cultural and political autonomy and territorial stability” (Varese 2004, 5). In designing the law, Varese’s office, with the help of anthropologist and activist Richard Chase Smith as well as some sympathetic missionaries, conducted a project of participatory research with a sampling of Amazonian Indigenous communities, including the

Lamista. The process, characterized by assemblies, inter-ethnic congresses, and other forms of social mobilization, produced a “phenomenon of ethnic-politization” among the Indigenous peoples of the Amazon, leading to the founding of AIDESEP and the ongoing political mobilization of the people of the Peruvian Amazon.

The national and international political mobilization of the Indigenous peoples of the Peruvian Amazon had begun and would not abate even under the most severe moments of repression and violence during Alberto Fujimori’s regime in the decade of the 1990s. (Varese 2004, 16–17)

In 1974, Law 20653, or the Law of Native Communities of the Jungle, was passed, granting official recognition and inalienable land title to permanent lowland Indigenous settlements. This was the first time Amazonian Indigenous communities had achieved legal recognition in the eyes of the state, and the law granted Indigenous peoples the right to form ethnic federations and multi-ethnic confederations for the purpose of communicating and negotiating with the government (Varese 2004). The law also created a legal framework for the titling of lands belonging to Indigenous communities, and provided surface and subsurface rights, including to forested lands (Stocks 2005). The new law defined a native community as a group of families characterized by a common language and social and cultural qualities, inhabiting a common area with either a nucleated or dispersed settlement pattern (Smith 1982).

However, it did not provide a mechanism for the titling of larger areas encompassing multiple communities, providing instead for the titling of discrete, bounded settlements, often distant from

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each other, creating what Stocks (2005) calls the “archipelago” effect. Open lands between the islands were left available for colonization by migrants or other forms of dispensation.6

The provisions of Law 20653 would not last long. In 1975, the Law of Forest and Wild

Fauna was passed, in which the State declared its domain over all forest resources, including wild animals (IBC 2016c). That same year, the leftist Peruvian government was overthrown and replaced by a more conservative government, who in 1977 put a moratorium on the recognition and titling of native communities (Smith 1982). In 1978, Law 22175, the General Law of

Communities and Agrarian Development of the Forest and Montane Forest, was passed, replacing the provisions of the previous Law of Native Communities of the Jungle (Guimaraes et al. 2018; Stocks 2005). Law 22175 rescinded communal ownership of forest and of subsurface resources, and granted rights-of-way without prior consent of Indigenous people to projects ranging from state-constructed roads to oil and gas pipelines (Stocks 2005). As a law promoting agrarian development, it provided for the division of land in the Amazonian regions into large estates for cattle ranching and agriculture (IBC 2016c). Furthermore, under the new right-wing government, titling of new Indigenous communities came to a standstill.

For the people of San Martin, one of the more problematic provisions of Law 22175 is article 11, which states that communities will not be granted true title to forested lands, or more specifically, to land with “forest aptitude.” Instead, a community’s use of forested lands may be provided in the form of a temporary lease known as cesión en uso (cession in use) and their use

6 Indigenous groups have begun calling for the titling of what they call “territorio integral” that would cover broader, multi-community, landscape-scale territories, and at least 10 well developed proposals have been put forth, mostly in Loreto (Espinosa Llanos and Feather 2011). Indigenous groups living in isolation have been granted a special category of territorial protections known as “territorial reserves,” although the security of these lands and their inhabitants is increasingly threatened by illegal logging and mining, drug trafficking, and other forms of invasion. Finally, the land-use category known as “communal reserves” refers to lands that are co-managed as protected natural areas by Indigenous communities and the national park service (SERNANP) (FPP and AIDESEP 2015).

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of these territories governed by relevant regulations (Ruíz Molleda 2014). This contract may be unilaterally cancelled by the state if terms of the contract are violated. Lands with forest aptitude may be reclassified for agriculture or cattle ranching, but, subsequent to Ministerial Resolution

No. 0355-2015-MINAGRI, this reclassification requires soil testing that is out of reach of most

Indigenous communities (Guimaraes et al. 2018). Indigenous activists and their allies consider this framework to be unconstitutional, a form of structural discrimination, and a clear violation of international treaties to which Peru is a party, specifically Convention 169 of the International

Labour Organisation (ILO 169) and the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous

Peoples (Guimaraes et al. 2018).

The integrity of community land title was further endangered with the passage of a new constitution in 1979. Article 161 of this constitution affirmed the legal existence of both native

(lowland) and campesino (highland) communities. However, article 163 amended the inalienability of these lands, stating that by a two-thirds majority, a community could vote to disband and to dispose of its lands (Smith 1982). Provisions for the alienation and transferability of titled native lands were strengthened by the constitution of 1993 (FPP and AIDESEP 2015).

The 1993 constitution also reaffirmed the state’s absolute control over natural resources (Stocks

2005).

In the late 1990s, President Fujimori sought to slow the titling of Indigenous communities, while easing rules that allowed for the division of communally held lands into individual parcels (IBC 2016c). His successor, president Alan Garcia, did the same. In a series of editorials in the national newspaper, Garcia accused Peru’s Indigenous people of standing in the way of development, referring to them as el perro del hortelano—the dog in the manger who wouldn’t let anyone else eat the hay, even though he himself couldn’t eat it. Beginning in 1997,

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the processing and approval of Indigenous land titles dropped precipitously, a trend that would continue until 2008, when they ceased altogether. That year, the government started dismantling the institutions responsible for titling, eventually passing the responsibility to states, who lacked institutional capacity for the job (IBC 2016c). During the five years of Garcia’s second presidency, only eight communities were granted title, out of more than 600 that had applied and were waiting.

The situation finally began to reverse itself in 2013, when the Ministry of Agriculture

(MINAGRI) was granted jurisdiction over the titling of rural lands, including Indigenous communities (IBC 2016c). Regional Agrarian Directorates were created within MINAGRI to perform the actual titling. The change was in large part a result of political and social activism on the part of Indigenous groups and international environmental and human rights organizations, who recognized the importance of secure Indigenous lands to the survival of Indigenous peoples and cultures, as well as to global environmental health in the face of a changing climate. Several international aid projects arose to develop capacity and further the goals of Indigenous land titling, often using funds allocated from climate change and REDD initiatives (IBC 2016c).

Consult and Consent

Since the passage of the original Law of Native Communities in 1974, numerous laws, regulations, treaties and norms regarding the recognition, titling, and integrity of Indigenous lands have created a complex legal and regulatory framework affecting the rights of Indigenous peoples (see IBC 2016c, pp. 55–56 for a summary). Not surprisingly, many of these norms have been at odds with each other. One of the biggest examples of this is Peru’s ratification, in 1994, of Convention 169 of the International Labor Organization (ILO 169), which provides a sweeping set of protections for the world’s Indigenous peoples, including their right to a secure and adequate land base (ILO 1989). Article 6 of ILO 169 also ensures Indigenous peoples’ right

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to consultation on legislative and administrative matters affecting them, and their participation

“at all levels of decision making” (ILO 1989). In conformance with this treaty, in 2011, Peru passed Law No. 29785, or the Ley de Previa Consulta (Law of Previous Consultation) (Cultural

Survival 2017). However, the legitimacy of the law, and its subsequent administrative guidelines, were undermined when the majority of the Indigenous organizations involved in crafting the law abandoned the process in protest over the government’s mishandling (IBC 2016c).7 One of the problems with the law is that although it provides for consultation with Indigenous peoples on matters affecting them, and provides for their ability to object, it does not require that they provide consent for a given project to proceed (Cultural Survival 2017). In addition,

“consultation” often takes the form of informative workshops, sometimes after the fact, violating not only the letter but the spirit of the law (Amis de la Terre 2014; Guimaraes et al. 2018). In no case does the law conform to the gold standard of “free, prior, and informed consent” (FPIC), as stipulated in the non-binding UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous People, signed by Peru at its adoption by the General Assembly in 2007.

The most comprehensive and up-to-date information on native communities in Peru is found in the System of Information About Native Communities of the Peruvian Amazon

(SICNA), an online database operated by the Instituto Bien Común (IBC). IBC is Peru’s leading agency for the mapping of Indigenous and campesino lands, and was founded by anthropologist

Richard Chase Smith, Varese’s partner in the participatory research effort that led to the first

Law of Native Communities. As of April 2019, 1834 native communities throughout Peru have been registered in the SICNA database, for a total population of 396,989 women, men, and

7 The full text of AIDESEP’s objections to, and proposals for, the Law of Previous Consult can be found at http://www.servindi.org/actualidad/62444.

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children. This does not include campesino communities, which are registered in a different database. 98 of the communities identified by IBC have not been formally recognized by the state. 445 communities are recognized, but lack title to their land. 1291 are titled.

In San Martín, SICNA identifies 101 comunidades nativas, with a population of 37,201 individuals. 77 of these communities are Lamista Kichwa, with a population of 30,106. The

SICNA database is available for free online at ibcperu.org. The Peruvian national census of

2017, which was the first to identify ethnicity as a factor of self-identification, identified 134 comunidades nativas in San Martin, for a total of 27,300 people who self-identify as “nativo” or

“originario” (INEI 2018). This represents 6.5% of the censused population of Indigenous peoples of the montaña and the selva, and includes Kichwa as well as Shawi, Awajún, and even two

Yaminahua communities located near Moyobamba. Ninety-eight of the native communities identified by INEI in San Martín were Kichwa (INEI 2018).

Green Grabbing: Protected Areas in San Martín

Today’s Indigenous communities of San Martín face several major threats to their territorial rights, including migration, mining, the potential for hydrocarbon development, and the expansion of industrial-scale agriculture, especially oil palm (GIZ 2018; Guimaraes et al.

2018). However, one of the biggest obstacles to the repatriation of Kichwa lands, especially in

Lamas province, has been the advance of the conservation movement into the region and specifically, its spreading territorial footprint. Despite, or perhaps because of, San Martin’s status as the most deforested region in Peru, the regional government has a strong orientation toward environmental conservation, as well as institutional capacity for implementing it (Chaparro and

Valderrama 2017; FPP and AIDESEP 2015, 99). Primary forest throughout the region has been set aside in both public and private conservation areas. Public conservation areas include the

Cordillera Azul National Park, the Cordillera Escalera Regional Conservation Area (ACR-CE),

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and the Rio Abiseo National Park. Private concessions include four large territories in the upper

Huallabamba watershed that form the Martín Sagrado Biocorridor, which in turn forms part of the Abiseo-Condor-Kutukú Conservation Corridor, a landscape-scale, transnational corridor of biodiversity protections connecting the Rio Abiseo National Park with other protected areas to the north, in Peru and Ecuador (ITTO 2009; Pur Projet and Amazonia Verde 2012). Furthermore,

San Martín has a special land-use category, Zone of Ecosystem Conservation and Recuperation

(ZOCRE), unique to the region due to its high levels of deforestation (GIZ 2018). Each of these land-use regimens presents conflicts with Kichwa land rights in the form of territorial superposition (GIZ 2018). Furthermore, the protected status of these areas places limitations on

Kichwa access to the resources contained therein, for example, for hunting and the gathering of medicinal plants. In some cases, protected status can limit Kichwa access to the areas themselves.8

The most egregious of these impositions, and the one that has drawn the most press as well as the most legal activity, is the Cordillera Escalera Regional Conservation Area (ACR-CE), formed in 2005. The formation of the ACR-CE was promoted as a strategy to protect the watershed of the city of Tarapoto from oil exploration and development; it lies entirely within hydrocarbon Lot 103, awarded to Talisman Petrolera (Paz y Esperanza 2015). However, one researcher asserts that the ACR-CE began as a project of payment for ecosystem services, with the primary aim of winning international financing for its administrators (Pérez Salas 2017a,

2017b). In either case, the ACR-CE was one of a series of protected natural areas created with

8 For more information on the conflicts between conservation and Indigenous land titling in San Martín, see Amis de la Terre 2014; Egerlid 2015; Elguera Solar 2017; GIZ 2018; IBC 2016c; Medina Revilla 2015; Mendoza Lozano 2013; Pérez Salas 2017a, 2017b; Sevilla 2013. For ongoing updates regarding titling and lawsuits, see websites for the Forest Peoples Programme (forestpeoples.org) and the news organization Servindi.org.

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little government delay at a time when Kichwa demands for title to the same territory were languishing due to a lack of political will and bureaucratic incompetency (IBC 2016c).

Within the ACR-CE lie important salt mines, hunting grounds, and medicinal plants, as well as the sacred mountains Waman Wasi and Wayra Purina, and several Kichwa communities claim parts of the cordillera as their ancestral territory. Prior to its founding, formal claims to territories within as well as adjacent to the ACR-CE had already been made and were awaiting review and approval (Guimaraes et al. 2018). However, as mentioned above, the titling agencies were in disarray during this time, and titling was at a virtual standstill. Furthermore, the justificatory study for the ACR noted that several Kichwa communities used the area, but it declined to consult with them. A representative from CEDISA, the agency who organized the formation of the ACR-CE, has been quoted as saying that at the time, there was no law of previous consultation, and besides, the relevant communities didn’t have formal rights to the land and thus didn’t require nor merit consultation. “Those who don’t [have rights],” he said,

“even though you recognize them, you know they are there, you can’t include them in your study because they can bring down your whole process” (Pérez Salas 2017a, 160).9

GIZ and Paz y Esperanza (GIZ 2018) have registered a total of 30 territorial conflicts pertaining to the ACR-CE. This total only includes overlapping territorial claims, and does not include issues of restricted access to and use of ancestral territories and the resources contained therein, both material and cultural. One community affected in this way is the village of Alto

Pucallpillo, located just outside of Lamas.

9 “Los que no, aunque los reconozcas, sepas que están ahí no los pueden poner en un expediente porque te pueden traer abajo todo tu proceso.”

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Alto Pucallpillo is one of 32 Kichwa communities in San Martín that have title only to the land around their houses, and even that was only granted in 2011(Elguera Solar 2017; FPP and AIDESEP 2015). Their chacras are usually built on small, individually owned parcels nearby, with little to no room for traditional rotational agriculture. The land that Alto Pucallpillo claims as their communal territory lies distant from the townsite, within the boundaries of the

ACR-CE; they have applied for title, but their application was rejected (Marquardt et al. 2019).

The Law of Natural Protected Areas (Supreme Decree No. 038-2001-AG), states:

The State recognizes the acquired rights, such as property and possession among others, of the local populations including the settlements of artisanal fishermen and native or campesino communities, that inhabit Natural Protected Areas prior to their establishment. In the case of native or campesino communities linked to a Natural Protected Area, this situation should be considered in the evaluation of the provision of rights for the use of natural resources, with a base in the legislation regarding the matter and the International Conventions to which the State has subscribed on the matter, in particular recognizing the collective knowledge of the same.10 (quoted in Paz y Esperanza 2015, 21)

Thus, the State acknowledges its duty to recognize the rights of Indigenous peoples but appears to put their rights secondary to other legislation regarding the land, including that of resource use. In addition, the government ministry that oversees natural protected areas, SERNANP, issued a statement declaring that community titles will not be granted when the titling process takes place after the creation of a natural protected area (Paz y Esperanza 2015, 25).

Of course, this set of regulations is problematic given the fact that government institutions responsible for titling Indigenous lands were crippled for years, causing long delays

10 “El Estado reconoce los derechos adquiridos, tales como propiedad y posesión entre otros, de las poblaciones locales incluidos los asentamientos de pescadores artesanales y las comunidades campesinas o nativas, que habitan en las Áreas Naturales Protegidas con anterioridad a su establecimiento. En el caso de las comunidades campesinas o nativas vinculadas a un Área Natural Protegida, se debe considerar esta situación en la evaluación del otorgamiento de derechos para el uso de los recursos naturales con base a la legislación de la materia y los Convenios Internacionales que al respecto haya suscrito el Estado, en particular reconociéndose los conocimientos colectivos de las mismas.”

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in the process; procedures for consultation and informed consent had yet to be established and put into effect; and protected areas were being established that covered a fifth of the region’s territory—a total that doesn’t even include the expansive areas covered by private conservation areas and ZOCREs.

Government failures to adequately manage the conflicting legal regimes led to a series of arrests of Indigenous people for practicing traditional subsistence activities within the ACR-CE.

In 2009, eight people from Alto Pucallpillo were arrested and prosecuted in court for clearing a small chacra (1/4 ha.) within the ACR-CE, intended for supplying them with food during hunting and gathering expeditions (FPP and AIDESEP 2015; Guimaraes et al. 2018). They were exonerated in 2012, but the event left a psychological mark on the community, and the threat of prosecution remains. Communities who claim land within the ACR-CE must apply for permits to visit or patrol their lands, a lengthy and, for Indigenous farmers, costly process; in addition, a park guard must accompany them on such missions (Elguera Solar 2017).

Between 2009 and 2013, another Kichwa community, Ankash Yaku de Achinamisa, located on the opposite side of the ACR-CE from Alto Pucallpillo, suffered some of the same prosecution. During those years, six members of the community were prosecuted in court for clearing chacras within the ACR-CE, an act that constituted illegal logging in the eyes of the park administrators. One of the community members complained that park guards had blocked his entrance to the park on several occasions, prohibiting him from carrying out subsistence activities, “putting at risk his survival and that of his family” (Servindi 2016, n.p.). In response to the state’s action, the community’s leader Elias Sinti issued a statement that during the era of violence, the townspeople had defended themselves against MRTA, resisting the terrorists’ attempts to enter their town and displace them, and yet now the state, after ignoring the

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community for all those years, showed up threatening to send the police and the army to put its people in prison. “We respect the state,” he wrote, “but we also demand they respect our right to

Indigenous property” (Ninahuanca 2014). On December 21, 2015, in what was considered an important win for Indigenous rights, the courts sided with the community members, ruling that subsistence activities should not be prohibited nor should they require pre-authorization

(Servindi 2016). Ruben Ninahuanca, lawyer for the Kichwa, clarified that the ruling doesn’t allow for the practice of subsistence activities throughout the park, but must be performed within the restrictions imposed by the park’s management plan (Servindi 2016).

Despite this ruling, in August 2016, the community of Mishki Yaquillo, whose hunting and gathering territory lies in the park, received a letter from park agents claiming that an illegal species had been hunted, an illegal shelter (tambo) had been built, and that they would be criminally prosecuted if it happened again. The alleged events happened during a hunting expedition for which community members had applied, and received, the required permits. The letter requesting permission to hunt for a community event had also requested permission to repair a community hut in the hunting area; the park had not responded to this portion of the letter. The animal killed illegally was, the Kichwa claimed, killed in self-defense and is not a species that they normally hunt (Guimaraes et al. 2018). In September of the same year, the community wrote to the ACR-CE requesting permission to plant banana trees in a fallow chacra

(purma); the park denied their request, “stating that the requested agricultural activity was not compatible with the regulations of the ACR-CE” (Guimaraes et al. 2018, 30).

While these events drew the ire of the Kichwa and their allies, it is the case of Nuevo

Lamas that has led to bitter divisions throughout the community, and the inflammation of racial tensions driven by a campaign of misinformation that sought to pit conservationists against

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Indigenous people. Nuevo Lamas de Shapaja is one of at least two communities whose centro poblado—the inhabited nucleus of the community—as well as a good deal of its larger territory lie within the boundaries of the ACR-CE.11 In 1980, the people of Nuevo Lamas came to resettle the territory, and it was formally recognized as an Indigenous community in 2008 (Elguera Solar

2017; IBC 2016a). In February 2016, Nuevo Lamas finally received the long-awaited title to its communal territory, only to find that over 98% of the territory, or 1620 ha., had been granted to them under the rubric “cesión en uso;” they had received actual title to only 31 ha. Their leasehold contract was extended for an indefinite period but came with numerous restrictions and provisions that, if broken, could nullify the contract. Of the land under concession, 1315 ha. were superimposed by the ACR-CE, and the rest was classified as apt for forest use or protection

(Guimaraes et al. 2018; PEHCBM 2016). Within the cesión en uso, 845 ha. were designated for restoration, where the Kichwa were allowed to use only previously fallen trees, and only with a permit from the ACR-CE; in another 305 ha. that lay outside the ACR, limited use of forest resources was provided, and only subsequent to the approval of a management plan, the performance of various administrative procedures, and the payment of fees (Guimaraes et al.

2018). On 407 ha., they were permitted to do nothing at all.

In August 2017, the community of Nuevo Lamas, represented by their apu (elected community leader) Lizardo Cachique Isuiza; the federation CEPKA, represented by its president

Gider Sangama Tapullima; and their lawyers, Cristina Gavancho and Juan Carlos Ruiz Molleda from Forest Peoples Programme and the Instituto de Defensa Legal (Institute of Legal Defense, or IDL) brought a case against the Ministry of the Environment, SERNANP, the management of

11 Most sources state that Nuevo Lamas is the only community within the ACR, but the IBC mapping system, found online at http://191.98.188.187/ibcmap, shows clearly that Ankash Yaku de Achinamisa, whose legal difficulties were detailed above, also lies almost entirely within the area, including their centro poblado.

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the Cordillera Escalera, the Regional Government of San Martín (GORESAM), and the Ministry of Agriculture. The lawsuit challenged the “cesión en uso” stipulations of the contract, demanding the immediate delivery of full territorial title to Nuevo Lamas, including lands classified for forest aptitude and protection. In its approach, however, the lawsuit was bold and far-reaching. The demand recognized that unconstitutional acts were considered null and void, and that by failing to perform due processes of consultation and informed consent, the defendants had left the ACR-CE at risk of being nullified. They demanded that the ACR-CE be suspended until regional authorities could perform proper consultations with affected Indigenous communities (Ruíz Molleda 2017).

The backlash was swift and forceful. The management of the ACR-CE wrote to the regional land titling agency to let them know that from that point forward, all activities pertaining to Indigenous lands titling within the ACR-CE would cease, until such time as

CEPKA and Nuevo Lamas decided to withdraw their demand (Guimaraes et al. 2018). The regional titling agency, the Regional Water Authority, the ACR-CE, and the regional development authority (PEHCBM), wrote a joint letter to the United Nations Development

Program that oversaw titling of lands in San Martin, asking them to suspend titling of communities under their purview as a result of the Nuevo Lamas lawsuit (Guimaraes et al.

2018). What’s more, the leader of CEPKA was fired from his government job in retaliation for his role in the lawsuit (FPP 2018; Elguera Solar 2017).

Within a month, a media campaign of disinformation was launched that demonized the

Kichwa communities, accusing them of being puppets of the oil company, enemies of conservation, and predators of the forest. Indigenous leaders and their allies, in a report to the

United Nations, claimed that the campaign was driven by the regional government itself:

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This campaign was characterised by misinformation and exaggeration, authored in part by GORESAM. GORESAM broadcast a publicity video on local television channels and social networks accusing Indigenous people of bringing destruction to the environment, stating: ‘With the request for land titling by the Native Community of Nuevo Lamas, the suspension of the creation of the ACR Cordillera Escalera is requested, this will allow the entry of oil companies, illegal logging, land trafficking, indiscriminate hunting, destruction of water sources thereby putting at risk the lives of more than 300 thousand people.’ (Guimaraes et al. 2018, 17)

In addition, a regional civic organization known as FRECIDES (Frente Civico de Desarollo y

Defensa de San Martín) staged a public demonstration in support of the ACR. Their YouTube video in support of the ACR-CE, published October 27, 2017, features a short spot with the leader of the local conservation and eco-tourism community, and is accompanied by music performed by a well-known local mestizo ayahuasquero (FRECIDES 2017).

The rhetoric became so heated that the Indigenous organizations, its lawyers, and other allies published statements clarifying the demands of the lawsuit and shedding light on the internal machinations that had flawed the conservation project from the start (CEPKA et al.

2017; Guimaraes et al. 2018; Pérez Salas 2017b). In March of 2018, CEPKA and others took their complaints to the UN in the form of a “Shadow Report” on human rights abuses in Peru.

The UN responded in May 2018, expressing their concern and calling on the Peruvian government to rectify its inadequate protections of Indigenous land rights (FPP 2018). The

Nuevo Lamas case finally went to court on June 13, but due to an unforeseen problem, was postponed until July 4. I attended the June 13 event to stand in solidarity with the community. It appeared to me that almost the entire population of Nuevo Lamas had come to Tarapoto for the case, no small effort given that the town lies a two-hour hike from the nearest road, and another hour-plus drive from Tarapoto. The day was hot and the townspeople were forced to stand across the street in the sun while they waited. When the lawyers and plaintiffs emerged from the courtroom they went across the street to join the townspeople, and various members of the press

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converged on Gavancho for a statement. Afterward, some less sympathetic members of the press hounded some of the townspeople for a comment, and when they declined to comment and disappeared into the crowd, one of them published a video with the provocative headline “Native leaders avoid contact with the press” (Viatelevision.pe 2018). On July 4, Gider Sangama and

Lizardo Cachique presented their case in court, and on August 15, the court declared the Nuevo

Lamas lawsuit to be “unfounded,” citing the importance of the ACR-CE as “patrimony of the

Nation,” and asserting that a suspension of the ACR-CE would, as the lawsuit’s critics had claimed, leave the area open to oil exploration (Voces 2018).

All is not lost, however. On September 12, GORESAM, the Ministry of Culture, and representatives of several Indigenous federations signed an agreement to advance a dialogue regarding Indigenous rights and titling processes, beginning with an emergency meeting to be held on September 27 (Meneses 2018). On September 17, 2018, GORESAM repealed its decision to suspend titling of Indigenous lands (Feather 2018). And it would appear that Nuevo

Lamas and CEPKA have appealed their lawsuit; FPP and the Global Justice Center have filed an amicus brief in the Civil Court of San Martín, dated December 12, 2018, with a review of the case and analysis of relevant national and international law regarding Indigenous territories and the right to free, prior, and informed consent (IBC 2016c; Maybury-Lewis 1999; Satterthwaite and Perram 2018; Stocks 1984).

Discussion and Conclusion

Since before the arrival of Spain and Portugal on the shores of the Americas, the

Huallaga River valley has been an axis of interregional trade and travel that connected highland and lowland peoples. The Kichwa people of San Martin, with which this dissertation is concerned, are centered on three primary population nuclei—Lamas, Sisa, and Chazuta—though smaller villages, towns, and communities are scattered throughout the Central and Lower

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Huallaga. Many of these are officially recognized as centros poblados or Indigenous communities, although an unknown number are not, and still others pass as campesino, often as a conscious response to the racism and oppression with which Indigenous peoples have been treated, both historically as well as in the present. In addition, descendants of the Kichwa of San

Martín have found their way into towns and communities throughout the northern half of the

Peruvian Amazon, and their presence is registered historically as far north as Ecuador, where the

Kichwa of San Martín historically maintained close trading relations.

Like other Kichwa or Kichwa peoples of the Maynas district, the Lamista Kichwa have their roots in the ethnogenetic processes of the colonial era, in which Jesuit missionaries, aided by colonial military forces, dragged, cajoled, forced, and coerced various acephalous tribes of the montaña into mission centers, where they were taught to speak Quechua and to practice

Christianity, and where they were ruled by various systems of direct and indirect rule that lasted well into the 20th century. In fact, contemporary forms of economic hegemony, in particular the use of agricultural credit by both national banks and individual buyers, might be interpreted as a continuation of the practices of habilitación and patronazgo (patron-client relations) that characterized the pre-modern era.

Since at least the colonial era, however, the Lamista Kichwa and their relatives throughout San Martín have played central roles in the unfolding of historic events and processes that shaped the Western Amazon, from the salt trade of the Jesuit era to the rise of commercial agriculture in San Martin. Their history has largely been one of integration and participation, albeit in systems characterized by asymmetries of power and wealth. Their history and culture have been shaped not by an ahistorical, timeless isolation but by close contact with and involvement in the same wars, economic processes, social upheavals, and government policies

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that have shaped the nation of Peru—and yet through it all, they have maintained, to varying degrees, a unique and thriving culture, albeit one whose contours are not always visible to the casual observer.

Without a land base, however, the ability of the Kichwa people to adapt to social, economic, and environmental change is threatened. Today, Kichwa demographic expansion comes abruptly face-to-face with the reality that the vast majority of their ancestral territory has been claimed by someone else—be it migrants taking advantage of the government’s latest agro- industrial incentives, or conservationists eager to protect the last remnants of forest. In either case, the Kichwa find themselves at a distinct disadvantage, the objects of centuries of structural racism and disempowerment. Fortunately, international alliances are helping to remediate some of the power asymmetry. However, the playing field remains steeply pitched: national policies are fraught with loopholes that favor industry and commerce over Indigenous rights, and much of the most agriculturally valuable land has already been claimed. Kichwa lands today, both titled and claimed, appear as tiny islands on the map of San Martín. It would be valuable to know how much privately held land outside the formal boundaries of titled communities is in the hands of Kichwa people or those of Kichwa descent.

History is a powerful tool used to shape the narrative around race and social relations.

The documents I’ve used for this chapter, and especially for the history of Sisa, are characterized by clear racial biases and slightly better-hidden political agendas—with the exception of one, whose bias and agenda simply points in the opposite direction. Between these historical documents and the perpetuation of the myth of Chanka ancestry, the dominant historical narrative foisted upon the Kichwa of San Martín, and subsequently embraced by them, is one that paints them as recent newcomers to San Martín, just one step ahead of the European and

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mestizo migrants who flooded in behind them, usurping their territory and dispossessing them not only of their traditional lands but also their historical memory and identity.

Contemporary anthropology has come to understand the Indigenous peoples of the

Americas not as a set of “billiard balls,” bounded and discrete, but as players in a vast and fluid system of interregional exchange, trade, multilingualism, and alliances that was fragmented by colonial incursions and violence and silenced by the usurpation of Indigenous identity into the nation-state (Hill 1996). The Amazon in particular is strongly characterized by an openness to alterity and an embrace of the Other, as well as a fluid, relativistic approach to ethnicity that capitalizes on available forms of memory, identity, and culture (Gow 1991; High 2015; Taylor

2008). Among the Lamista Kichwa and their descendants throughout San Martin, the embrace of an origin story that posits them as the descendants of Chanka warriors has both advantages and disadvantages. Within the contemporary racist hegemony, there may be some allure to being the descendants of a proud Andean civilization, powerful enough to defeat the Inca in battle. Today, as Christian people with a growing population of Evangelicals, the Kichwa seek largely to integrate with and benefit from the economic expansion that has swept through San Martin. In this context, the Chanka narrative serves to sanitize the Lamista reputation as warriors and provide a convenient way for both Kichwa and creole to forget that the plaza in Lamas, where a statue of a conquistador and another of an Indian now shake hands, was once the site of a stocks and a gallows, from which the leader of the Tabalosos Indians was brutally hung in November

1654.

However, in the contemporary climate of international law and alliances, people throughout the Amazon are re-imagining the value of indigeneity. In many cases, they are finding that an embrace of the romanticized ideal of environmental friendliness can be in their

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self-interest (Conklin and Graham 1995). In other cases, ethnic identities once submerged in the category of Kichwa, and presumed lost to the processes of ethnogenesis out of which the

Amazonian Kichwa people were born, are now re-emerging replete with an ancestral language

(Whitten 2011). Ethnogenesis, therefore, is not a quantum and irreversible leap but an ongoing process that unfolds in dialogue with other historical, social, economic, environmental, and artistic changes.

In the current atmosphere of deterritorialization and of anti-Kichwa racism, it could well be argued that the benefits conferred by Chanka ancestry might pale in comparison to the embrace of an identity as the descendants of the Motilones. Theoretical questions of history vs. ethnogenesis (Hill 2009b) aside, the descendants of the Motilones, as well as the other nations of contact-era San Martín, are the rightful heirs not just to a few small islands of forest in the midst of sprawling urban and agro-industrial deforestation, but to the entirety of San Martín, from the floodplains of the Huallaga to the summit of the Wayra Purina. With growing support from an international community that prioritizes Indigenous rights and historical reparations, embracing a different historical narrative, one for which there is sufficient ethnographic, archival, and biocultural evidence, might give the Kichwa more leverage with which to pursue the repatriation of lands sufficient to ensure the maintenance of environmental services and the availability of agricultural lands with which to feed their children, grandchildren, and future descendants.

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CHAPTER 4 LANGUAGE AND CULTURE: QUECHUA AS A LANGUAGE OF THE LOWLANDS1

Understanding the story of lowland Quechua languages is fundamental to understanding lowland Kichwa ethnohistory and ethnogenesis and the mutability of ethnicity among the peoples of the Western Amazon. In addition, it has particular relevance for studying the development and distribution of shamanic forms in the Amazon, for in the past several years, a number of papers were published that use linguistic, ethnographic, and musicological data to rewrite our understanding of the history of ayahuasca shamanism in the Amazon (Brabec 2011;

Gow 1994; Highpine 2012; Shepard 2014). In particular, the language associated with ayahuasca shamanism is largely Quechua, even among non-Quechua-speaking peoples (Brabec 2011). In addition, a close reading of the language, coupled with a deep understanding of the cultural milieu, has helped shed light on one of the great mysteries of ayahuasca, “How in the world did

Amazonian peoples discover that particular combination of plants?” (Highpine 2012). Using these works as a starting point, then understanding the various trajectories that Quechua may have taken into the Amazon Basin can help illuminate our understanding of the development of contemporary ayahuasca shamanism.

The use of the Quechua language throughout the Amazonian lowlands is a prime example of the manner in which world systems and colonial history have shaped culture and identity for numerous groups of people throughout the Western Amazon. The use of the language and the embrace of a Kichwa identity for lowland Kichwa peoples and other speakers

1 Today, the lowland Quechua languages that have received the most scholarly attention are San Martín (Lamas) Quechua, Pastaza Quechua, Bobonaza or Canelos Quichua, and Napo Kichwa. The difference between the Qui- and Que-spellings relate to minor regional pronunciation differences, while the difference between the Q- and the K- spelling pertain to Ecuadorian Indian activist attempts to create a standard Kichwa alphabet (Swanson and Andi 2013). “Quechua” or “Kichwa” are generally used for Peru, whereas “Quichua” or “Kichwa” are more common in Ecuador, although these rules are not hard and fast.

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of the language signify a shared history in and relationship to the colonial reducciones. Most scholars believe that Quechua was introduced to the lowlands by missionaries for use as a common language in the reducciones, where various tribes speaking mutually unintelligible languages might be found living together. This created a situation so chaotic and intransigent that it impeded the work of the missionaries in attaining their goal of Christianizing the Indians

(Golob 1982). While the Franciscans, like the Jesuits, had hoped to impose Quechua as an alternative to the “babel” of Indigenous languages they encountered, it appears that they were less successful in this effort, perhaps because their early missionary efforts were so short-lived

(Taylor 1999, 227). Golob reports that the Jesuits chose Quechua over Spanish because they thought it would be easier for the Indians to learn; she states that the policy also served to make the Indians dependent on the missionaries by impeding their communication with other

Europeans.

Missionaries used Quechua as the official language of the missions, with the idea that it should become the lingua franca of the region (Golob 1982). The Catholic mass, attendance at which was mandatory and enforced by staff-bearers and other Indian agents of the Jesuits, was given alternately in Quechua and “the local Indian language” (Golob 1982, 244). Schools were established to further the spread of the language. Quechua was only taught to boys, however, although one chronicler (Requena) writes that it was only taught to the men, not women or children (Golob 1982). Golob reports that the only reference to women by one Jesuit chronicler

“is that ‘no instruction should be given to women outside of the church’” (Golob 1982, citing

Moncada, f.74).

This gender disparity in education, including in language training, may be one of the reasons that, even today in some of Peru’s more remote Indigenous groups, women speak only

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their native tongue whereas men also speak Quechua and/or Spanish (Homan 2014). In addition, women throughout lowland Peru are less likely to have formal education (or have attained a lower education level than their male peers), and may maintain more traditional styles of dress than men. This is likely one of the many instances in which the introduction of Christian and

Western ideologies and practices led to a reconfiguration of power relations between the genders and the subsequent disempowerment of women, at least with respect to the outside world.

The language shift happened both by force and by choice. During times of internecine and intertribal warfare, epidemic disease, slave raids, and the decimation of entire populations, many people fled to safety in the reducciones. There, they were able to hide from enemies by embracing a new identity, adopting a Kichwa surname, and speaking the language (Reeve 2014;

Taylor 1999; Whitten 1976). This cultural mutability did not end with the expulsion of the

Jesuits but continues even today, as forest Indians weary of their limited opportunities or desirous of other forms of change, knowledge, or power may adopt a Kichwa identity to start anew (Taylor 2014). As Descola writes for the Achuar, “Those who feel attracted to change need only travel a few dozen kilometers to find in already familiar Kichwa country the by now well- tried apparatus for conversion” (Descola 1996, 264). This conversion is not always unidirectional. The recent emergence of a Zaparoan nation from out of a broader substrate of

Ecuadorian Quechua-speakers is consistent with the arguments of Reeve and Whitten that

Kichwa identity is not always absolute, but a negotiation between access to colonial forms of power and the maintenance of ancestral identities and customs, to be re-deployed under the right circumstances (Reeve 2014; Whitten 1976).

An Alternate Story?

Various forms of evidence suggest that Quechua was not introduced to the lowlands by missionaries, nor that they can be given credit for its widespread usage there. For example, in his

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first descent of the Amazon River, Francisco de Orellana reported being able to communicate with the people of the lowlands using Quechua (Maybury-Lewis 1999). In the Moyobamba valley, near Lamas but somewhat higher in the montaña, early explorers encountered Indians who spoke Quechua but had not been conquered by the Inca (Doherty et al. 2007). Similarly, early missionaries reported Quechua-speakers in an area of the upper Pastaza of Ecuador, where the Inca had never penetrated (Whitten 2011). Such reports lend credence to Muysken’s (2009) claim that Quechua was not introduced to the lowlands during colonial times, but instead, that at least some speakers, if not in large numbers, existed there prior. He rejects the idea that missionaries were effective in converting an entire lowland population to a new language, asserting that “language engineering” of that sort has proven ineffective (Muysken 2009, 3).

“The fact that the missionaries used Quechua,” he writes, “does not imply necessarily that they introduced it. Much more likely is that there were many speakers of Quechua already” (Muysken

2009, 83). Muysken also suggests that if the current variants of lowland Quechua originated in the missions, then they would show greater evidence of linguistic influence from Spanish. To the contrary, he writes, the lexicon does contain some Spanish loan words, but “syntax and morphology show virtually no Spanish influence” (Muysken 2009, 84).

Ethnographer Norm Whitten is one of the more vocal proponents for the idea that lowland Quechua predates both the colonial and Inca eras. Whitten, a leading authority on

Ecuadorian Kichwa peoples, claims that the Quechua of the Ecuadorian Oriente (eastern lowlands) comes from the San Martín district of Peru via Yurimaguas, and prior to that, the southern Marañon basin (Whitten 2008, 2011). Indeed, our understanding of the rise and spread of the Quechuan languages is far from complete, and recent linguistic scholarship has begun to rewrite the story from its beginnings. Therefore, I will recapitulate the long-standing linguistic

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classifications, which continue to dominate our understanding, and then present alternatives both old and new that unite archeological and ethnographic data.

The Quechua Family Tree

While the classification of the Quechuan languages has made great strides over the past decades, the developmental and geographical trajectory of the family remain a considerable problem for linguists.2 Until the 1960s, Quechua was considered the language of the Inca, and its spread throughout Peru, Bolivia and Ecuador was equated with the empire’s military conquests

(Adelaar and Muysken 2004). Work by Torero (1964) and Parker (1963) rewrote this story, however. Both researchers divided the Quechua language family into two major branches (A and

B for Parker, corresponding with II and I for Torero). The linguistic divergence between the two has been dated as far back as 1500 years before the present (Torero 1984; van de Kerke and

Muysken 2014). Proto-Quechua, rather than having been centered in Cuzco as originally assumed, was determined to have arisen in the central Peruvian Andes and on the central coast in what is now the department of Lima (Klein and Stark 1985; Mannheim 2011).

Both of the major groups have been further subdivided, reflecting relationships between the various dialects. Quechua I, B, or Central Quechua (Mannheim 2011) occupies a continuous zone in central Andean Peru and consists of a highly diverse but clearly related set of languages

(Adelaar and Muysken 2004). Quechua II or A, also known as Peripheral Quechua, includes everything else, from northern Argentina to southern Colombia, and probably includes the now- extinct languages of the central Peruvian coast (Adelaar and Muysken 2004).

2 Most researchers now refer to Quechua as a family of independent languages, in which mutual intelligibility between regional variations is not a given. However, due to the intermediacy of many regional variants, the line between “language” and “dialect” is not always easy to draw. For simplicity, I will continue to use both terms “dialect” and “language” to refer to regional variants.

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Torero further subdivided his Quechua II into three branches: IIA, IIB, and IIC. The problematic group IIA comprises a non-unified or discontinuous set of languages in northern and central Peru that are intermediate between Quechua I and II and that are sometimes considered a language group all their own (Quechua III) (Adelaar and Muysken 2004). Quechua IIC is found in southern Peru, Bolivia, and Argentina, and includes Cuzco Quechua (the proper “language of the Inca”). Quechua IIB includes the Quechuan languages of northern and eastern Peru, lowland and highland Ecuador, and Colombia (see Figure 4-1 for a map of language groups and their classification).

Lowland Quechua: Origins and Classification

The Quechua of San Martín is part of what Doherty and colleagues (Doherty et al. 2007) call North Peruvian Quechua, one of the subgroups of Quechua IIC, which encompasses four isolated pockets of language in the provinces of Lambayeque, Cajamarca, Amazonas and San

Martín. Researchers agree that San Martín Quechua is most closely related to the Quechua of

Amazonas state (Chachapoyas region), from which San Martín has received numerous immigrants since the colonial period (Doherty et al. 2007; Landerman 1991). Linguists who recognize a Pastaza dialect also class it as closely related to the San Martín and Chachapoyas languages (Doherty et al. 2007; Muysken 2011; van de Kerke and Muysken 2014). Pastaza

Quechua is considered a lowland Peruvian dialect. However, the Pastaza River is a major tributary of the Marañon. Its upper reaches lie in Ecuador, alongside the Bobonaza (a tributary of the Pastaza), the Tigre, the Corrientes, and the Napo. Along with these, it constitutes a major travel route through the Maynas District and, historically, a link between the Quechua-speaking populations of Peru and Ecuador.

However, the relationship between the other Quechuan dialects of lowland Peru and

Ecuador is less clear. While the ethnohistoric and ethnographic evidence of intense interaction,

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including migration, would suggest a linguistic relationship, some Quechua scholars— particularly those focusing on the Andes, which most Quechuanists do—continue to insist that

Ecuadorian Quechua is strictly derived from the Inca expansion and later colonial forces (van de

Kerke and Muysken 2014), and that San Martín Quechua should not be grouped with Ecuadorian and Columbian variants (Landerman 1991).

Closely related to the question of lowland dialectology is the bigger question, how did

Quechua arrive in Ecuador? I will focus on this latter question as it has direct bearing on the prior discussion, as well as on Whitten’s assertion that lowland Quechua pre-dates the Inca, and on the bigger picture of Kichwa ethnogenesis in the Maynas District.

Two eminent scholars, the archeologist Donald Lathrap and the linguist Louisa Stark, have proposed that a very early version of the Quechua language emerged from the eastern forests rather than from the Andes. Lathrap (1970), working in central Peru, uses ceramic data to suggest that Quechua arrived from the south and east, along with terraced agriculture and fortified hilltop settlements. Also using ceramic (as well as linguistic) data but working in

Ecuador, Stark suggests that Quechua arrived in the Ecuadorian Andes from the Ecuadorian

Oriente not long after 600 AD (Klein and Stark 1985). She suggests that from there, it moved south again along the coast and arrived in central Peru, from whence it began the diversification and distribution chronicled by other linguists that ultimately led to a second wave of Quechua arriving with the Inca.

Stark goes on to examine the origin of today’s Ecuadorian Quechua: Is it an ancestral variant or was it more recently introduced? “Linguistically the answer seems to be the latter,” she states (Klein and Stark 1985, 454). However, in a different chapter of the same book, Stark specifically addresses the Kichwa of lowland Ecuador. She asserts that although the current

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Figure 4-1. Classification of Quechuan languages. Note the association of Ecuadorian languages with North Peruvian. (Adelaar and Muysken 2004, 184)

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language spoken in the Ecuadorian Amazon is not a remnant of the earlier wave, Quechua was nevertheless spoken in the lowlands prior to colonization. The language was first introduced, she asserts, through trade between the Andes and the Amazon, but was later introduced on a more widespread basis by migrants fleeing the Spanish conquest in the highlands. This is true especially for both northern variants (Napo and Inga). On the other hand, she notes, the southern variant, Bobonaza, is more closely related to Peruvian Quechua, which was influenced by the

Quechua of the Peruvian highlands. Thus, she asserts, the origin of Bobonaza Quechua (the language of Whitten’s Canelos Kichwa) is probably the Peruvian lowlands.

Stark’s theory is consistent with the assertions made by Norm Whitten, one of the preeminent authorities on Ecuadorian Kichwa peoples. Whitten insists that the Quechua of the

Ecuadorian Amazon pre-dates the reducciones, the Spaniards, and the Incas. He suggests that lowland Ecuadorian Quechua spread north from the Peruvian Amazon, specifically near

Yurimaguas on the Huallaga, down to the Marañon and then up the tributaries of the Marañon from there—the very region that constitutes the bulk of the Maynas District (Whitten 1976,

2008, 2011). Though not a linguist per se, he writes that his hypothesis is supported by Bruce

Mannheim, authority on the classification of Quechua languages (Whitten 2008, 14, endnote 6).

One of the characteristics that appears to unite San Martín and Pastaza Quechua are their conservatism (Doherty et al. 2007), or a set of shared features that originated with proto-Quechua but have been lost in the other Ecuadorian and north Peruvian dialects (Landerman 1991).

Likewise, the features that unite the north Peruvian group are shared retentions from an early

(though apparently undescribed or unclassified) form of Quechua (Landerman 1991). This seems to suggest that San Martín and Pastaza Quechua have a more ancient origin than some of the more innovative dialects spoken elsewhere in Ecuador—at the very least, that they share an

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origin distinct from the language of the Inca, or of the missionary or other highland groups who are widely believed to have spread Quechua to the lowland peoples. However, Landerman rejects the idea that Quechua spread to Ecuador prior to the Inca invasion. Further, he rejects the association of San Martín with Pastaza Quechua, and even calls into question the grouping of the northern Peruvian languages together. As evidence, he cites the methodological fallacy of using shared retentions as evidence of relationship (Landerman 1991).

Thus far it would appear that linguistic evidence does exist to suggest connections between lowland Peruvian and lowland Ecuadorian Quechua, and that this form of Quechua could pre-date the arrival of Inca- or missionary-introduced versions of Quechua. Landerman’s methodological objection aside (for it doesn’t appear to be universally held), let’s continue to trace the origins of this lowland variant. An intriguing argument may be found in the dated but prominent article by Orr and Longacre (1968) that suggests that Quechua spread to Ecuador before the Inca expansion, and that certain Ecuadorian dialects appear to have derived from the northward expansion of “an archaic fringe dialect spoken in Peru” (p.544) and extending from a culturally important locus in Peru’s central region. In fact, some of the most progressive work in

Quechuan linguistics suggests that such an “archaic variant” may in fact exist, associated with the expansion of the Huarí civilization.

Beresford-Jones and Heggarty (2010) were the first to propose this Quechua-as-Huarí hypothesis, in an attempt to unite archeological, processual, and linguistic sets of data. In doing so, they proposed to eliminate the traditional QI/QII split and the resulting “family tree” of

Quechua, which they assert “has fallen increasingly into disarray” with the mapping and description of intermediate and unclassifiable variants of the language (2010, 74). In turn, van de

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Kerke and Muysken (2014) incorporate the Huarí hypothesis into the existing classification

system to illuminate the timeline, trajectory, and mechanics of Quechua’s history.

Van de Kerke and Muysken’s (2014) analysis ties together a number of the disparate

lines of evidence and theory that are of interest in the present study. Point by point, they

conclude that:

1. Very early Quechua shows affinities with the Jivaroan and Barbacoan languages. “This reflects a possible northern origin for Quechuan” (2014, 138).

It should be restated that in early colonial times and before, the Jivaroan and Barbacoan

languages and cultures dominated the highlands of northern Peru and Ecuador. Jivaroan, in

particular, stretched up into the Andes of northern Peru and southern Ecuador from the eastern

lowlands (Taylor 1999). It is now considered a jungle culture, as the only remaining Jivaroan

languages are spoken in the montaña of Ecuador and Peru by the Shuar, Achuar, Huambisa,

Candoshi and Awajún—groups famous for their continuing (and successful) resistance to

colonial conquest. The Canelos Kichwa are closely related to the Shuar and Achuar through

descent, intermarriage and trade, and the Jivaroan groups as a whole play a prominent role in the

history and contemporary affairs of the Maynas District, including in the exchange of shamanic

goods and knowledge.

2. The Quechuan languages as we now know them emerged in the central Peruvian highlands. That version or versions that later gave rise to the QII languages dispersed to the south, to around the Ayacucho area.

This hypothesis is consistent with Stark’s opinion that Quechua emerged in Ecuador from the

east, perhaps around 400–600 A.D., then moved south along the coast to Quechua’s better

recognized homeland in central Peru (Klein and Stark 1985). In both analyses, the languages of

central Peru became highly diversified over time, giving rise to what we now call QI.

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3. Van de Kerke and Muysken (2014) agree with and cite Beresford-Jones and Heggarty’s (2010, 2012) hypothesis that Quechua spread throughout Peru as part of the expansion of the Huarí civilization, an event which took place between 550 and 1000 A.D.

Although Beresford-Jones and Heggarty’s paradigm (2010) rejects a QI/QII split, van de Kerke

and Muysken assert that the particular variant spread by the Warí was that which gave rise to the

QII languages. However, the dates of the Huarí expansion, in contrast with Stark’s hypothesis,

raise questions about the nature, mechanics and speed of these processes of linguistic dispersal.

4. Van de Kerke and Muysken specify that Cajamarca and San Martín Quechua, along with Yauyos Quechua, form a branch of QII and therefore are the result of Warí expansion.

While they claim to find no evidence of a pre-Inca source for the Ecuadorian languages (which

form a QII subgroup of their own), their discussion appears to omit consideration of lowland

Ecuadorian varieties except for Napo (which has a somewhat different colonial and pre-colonial

history than that of Quechua speakers to the south). To the contrary, their NeighborNet analysis

(figure 6.1, p.135) indicates that Southern Pastaza (Peru) and San Martín Quechua are more

closely related with each other than with the rest of their purported linguistic groups (except

Inga, for Pastaza Quechua), whereas the Tena variant (Napo Kichwa) lies at a far end of the

diagram closely grouped with two highland Ecuadorian variants. 3

5. The expansion of the Huarí empire was associated with the spread of terraced agriculture and military rule.

This aspect of the hypothesis calls to mind Lathrap’s (1970) association of rough ceramic ware,

terraced agriculture, and the construction of fortified hilltop settlements with the spread of the

Quechua language along the eastern slopes of the central Andes, likely between 100 B.C. and

3 Doherty and colleagues (Doherty et al. 2007) classify Pastaza Quechua with other northern variants; they describe a class called Northern Quechua that includes Colombia, all of Ecuador, and the Peruvian montaña north of the Marañon (which includes the Pastaza River). However, in their analysis, Pastaza Quechua has retained some characteristics that other dialects of the north have lost, and for that reason remains more mutually intelligible with the San Martínenses.

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600 A.D. His best evidence for this process comes from the Huánuco Basin on the upper

Huallaga River, not far from the cultural (and linguistically important) centers of Chavín and

Huarí.

Unfortunately this analysis raises more questions than it answers. The geographical and linguistic proximity of San Martín Quechua to this Huarí expansion, in conjunction with archeological data regarding Andean-Amazon trade networks and the flow of culture up the mountains instead of or in conjunction with down them, implicates the ancestors of the Lamista in the development of early Quechua language and culture. However, this relationship was likely one of indirect contact, via long-distance trade networks through Moyobamba and Cajamarca, rather than direct contact and linguistic sharing.

Quechua among the Motilones of Lamas

Did the predecessor tribes of the Lamista Kichwa speak Quechua? For the most part, apparently not, although their close neighbors did. The Posics and Orimonas are two groups of the Moyobamba Valley who spoke Quechua in addition to their own tongue, despite having never been subject to the Inca (Doherty et al. 2007). Thus, it would appear that Quechua, likely as a trade language, reached as far down into the montaña as Moyobamba. Similarly, on the upper Huallaga, the Cholón language, one of the few documented pre-Hispanic languages of the region, contained features of both Quechua (upriver) and montaña (downriver) languages

(Adelaar and Muysken 2004). This language (or mutually intelligible versions thereof) was apparently spoken as well as by the Hibito and Juanuncos (Riva Hererra 2003). However,

Adelaar and Muysken reject Tessman’s (1930) hypothesis that Cholón was an intermediate language, insisting that it simply shared features of both its neighbors. Given the likely role of these groups, the uppermost of the tropical forest tribes on the Huallaga, as traders between lowland and highland peoples, the mutual influence on their language is not surprising.

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On the other hand, the prevalence of the evidence indicates that Quechua was not spoken by the other nations of the Huallaga, including those resettled at Lamas.

The native population [of the province of the Motilones] was constituted by a series of groups with different languages, wrapped up in a network of alliances and enmities with frequent internal wars. They lived without permanent leaders in small settlements dispersed throughout the forest, and with an affinity for cutting off the heads of enemy groups…In contrast with the Orimonas and Posics of the Moyobamba Valley, they did not understand Quechua. (Doherty et al. 2007, 13, translation mine)

Steward (Steward 1948), citing Rivet 1924 (full citation not available), writes that the Indians of the Lamas region did speak Quechua when “discovered,” though Steward is unclear as to whether the linguistic shift was pre- or post-Columbian; the sources for his information are likewise unclear.

The chronicles of Riva Herrera clarify the situation. Among the first nations resettled at

Tabalosos and Lamas by Riva Herrera during his first entrada in 1653, which according to the

Spaniards’ registry included the Tabalosos, Lamas, Suchiches, Guahenes, and Angahuallos,

Quechua was apparently not spoken. These groups did appear to speak or at least understand one language, as the Spaniards communicated with them (and vice versa) by way of a translator,

Francisco Siuca, an “indian [sic] expert in their language” (Riva Hererra 2003, 144), who accompanied the Spaniards from Moyobamba and worked for them at least through 1654. Upon founding the town of Tabalosos, the priest Saldaña:

began to make them understand by interpretation of Franscisco Siuca interpreter the mystery of the Holy Trinity…And later he made them cross themselves and in the lengua general he made them say the four prayers… (Riva Hererra 2003, 135)

Thus, while the nature of the language spoken by the Tabalosos and by Siuca is not known, it is clearly not Quechua, the lengua general, which at least in this case was introduced as a tool of

Christian conversion.

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The apparent facts of Riva Herrera’s account—massive depopulation of Indigenous groups by disease, the willing embrace of Christianity as a safe haven from disease, and the introduction of Quechua by colonial authorities as the language of Catholicism—support

Muysken’s (2009) theory that the depopulation and restructuring of Indigenous society were the biggest contributors to the eventual wide spread of Quechua in the lowlands.

It is quite possible that during this large-scale reshuffling of people and cultures, Quechua emerged as the lingua franca in some areas, and eventually became the native language of newly formed tribal groups. (Muysken 2009, 84)

Although Muysken cites several pieces of evidence in support of his notion that the missionaries did not introduce Quechua, it is clear from the archival evidence that at least in San Martín, they did. Over time, with increasing migration of all kinds of people from the highlands, it appears that Quechua continued to make its way to the lowlands, giving San Martín Quechua the particularly northern Peruvian character that it has today.

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CHAPTER 5 URKU RUNA: ETHNICITY AND CULTURE AMONG THE SAN MARTÍN KICHWA

Having examined the historical, colonial, and linguistic origins of the Kichwa of San

Martín, as well as the regional and national political economy with which they have interacted for the past century, I endeavor in this chapter to situate them in a more concrete and quotidian ethnographic setting. This chapter offers evidence that the Kichwa, as campesino farmers, are both closely connected to the land but also to the national and international political economy, be that agrarian policy, international markets for cacao, or the asymmetrical power structures of class, race, and gender in Peru. Lamista culture integrates elements of both colonial culture and

Amazonian Indigenous culture. They are Christians who practice shamanism. Their festivals celebrate both Catholic saints and the spirits of the monte. Their diet incorporates ancestral foods such as sacha papa (wild potato), dale dale, and the fruits of the forest, but also packaged noodles, white sugar, and refined palm oil. Rather than being a transition toward acculturation and assimilation, however, this mixture of cultures exemplifies their mediation of two worlds, expressed by Whitten (1976) as the worlds of “sacha runa” and “alli runa” and by Scazzocchio

(1979) as the “closed sphere” and “open sphere.” Theoretically speaking, this chapter marks a shift from a historical materialist account to one that embodies cultural materialism more fully: culture as a creative response to the “practical problems of earthly existence,” (Harris 1979, ix), as posed by both physical environment and socio-political setting.

Given the diasporic and diverse nature of the Quechua-speaking people of San Martín, as well as the ever-evolving nature of ethnicity, identity, and practice, it is important to define from a contemporary perspective the boundaries of the group of people under consideration in the remainder of the text. This chapter opens, therefore, with a discussion of indigeneity, ethnicity, and identity. I begin with the people of Lamas town, whose visibility has rendered them as

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metonym for the Kichwa of San Martín. I then widen the focus to encompass the broader landscape of San Martín’s Kichwa speaking peoples, with particular attention to the brush of invisibility with which they have been painted in both past and present, and the cultural characteristics that may have contributed to their invisibility. I go on to uncover some of the hidden complexity of Indigenous ancestry in San Martín as well as of contemporary processes of cultural formation and self-identification. From there, I dive into some of the ethnographic particulars of Kichwa daily life, in order to give the reader an understanding of the Kichwa as people, and as a people, distinct from mestizo and other Indigenous groups of the region.

Kichwa Ethnicity: Racism, Distinction, and Invisibility

Not so many years ago in the town of Lamas, a strict social hierarchy segregated the mestizos and blancos (Whites) from the indios (Indigenous people). Scazzocchio (1979) documented this racial segregation as a function of both culture and spatial geography: Wayku, the Indigenous neighborhood of Lamas, is lower both on the mountain and on the social hierarchy than the more financially and politically powerful mestizo and white communities.

Lamas’s characteristic racism was portrayed to me in an anecdote: A mestizo resident of

Ancohuallo, the uppermost neighborhood of Lamas, saw a Kichwa woman walking down the sidewalk during a downpour. Because she was Kichwa, the man refused to let the woman use his sidewalk, forcing her out of the shelter of the building’s overhanging roof and into the pouring rain.

Today, women from Wayku, wearing their colorful dresses, ply the streets of Ancohuallo, selling their produce, visiting friends, lounging on the doorsteps, laughing and chatting. The racial segregation of Lamas has softened a great deal, even if the racism itself is not entirely eliminated. Nevertheless, this history of segregation and of intense colonial oppression appears to correlate with strong cultural differentiation. The Kichwa of Lamas district have maintained

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distinct and vibrant cultural features—language, dress, music and dance, and festival life—to an extent not seen in the other poles of Kichwa culture—the towns of Chazuta and Sisa and their surrounding districts—nor in the Indigenous communities outside of Lamas district (as explained in Chapter 2). The visibility of the Kichwa of Lamas has historically led to a misperception that they were the only Indigenous people in San Martín. Buitrón, for example, writes:

At the present time all that part of the Huallaga valley which we explored is inhabited by half-breeds. Indians are very few and the majority are concentrated at Lamas. It would appear that the Lamas Indians are not forest Indians by origin but Quechuas from the Sierra, who at some former period abandoned the highlands and took refuge in the forest. The accounts of travelers who journey through this region about 100 years ago mention Cholone, Chasuta, Cochama [sic], etc. Indians living along the length of the Huallaga. It would appear that as the half-breed colonists penetrated further these tribes either withdrew into the forest or were absorbed by the newcomers. Today there are with the exception of Lamas, no Indians from Tingo Maria to Yurimaguas. (1948, 15)

I include Buitrón’s painful language in detail because he was writing on behalf of a UNESCO expedition sent to the region expressly for the purpose of assessing its development potential.

They found the valley to be quite suitable indeed, and recommended its development for the betterment of the nation as a whole, as well as for the valley’s “half-breed” inhabitants, whom he described as “lacking in initiative and ambition” (Buitrón 1948, 59). By failing to recognize the likely indigeneity of the valley’s inhabitants, Buitrón is one in a long line of colonial agents who have contributed to the territorial dispossession of San Martín’s Indigenous people.

Buitrón here, as others before and after him have done, mistakes indigeneity for colorful dress and distinctive or flamboyant customs. He fails to realize that most of the characteristics that he describes for the majority “half-breed” population, from diet and subsistence methods to the widespread practice of polygyny, are some of the very traits that characterize Indigenous populations throughout the Western Amazon. While it is possible that many of the people the

UNESCO expedition interacted with were descendants of migrants who had intermarried with

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the local population, it is unlikely that this is the case for the majority of the population. The explosion of migrants from the sierra took place only after the first stages of the Carretera

Marginal were built. The other great movement of people that took place through the region, the

Rubber Boom, had the effect of depopulating the region of San Martín, as its male inhabitants streamed into the lowlands where the biggest fortunes were made and lost. The more likely scenario, therefore, is that the inhabitants of the valley were largely descended from its

Indigenous inhabitants who for many reasons—missionary influence, colonial oppression, external and internalized racism—had lost, abandoned, or simply practiced in private those elements of their culture that would have labeled them as “Indians” and, therefore, as culturally and socially inferior. Buitrón writes that the people of the Huallaga “consider themselves equals, with the exception of the Indians of Lamas, whom they consider from one point of view to be inferiors, but rather from the cultural than from a racial point of view” (1948, 59).

Buitrón is but one example of the way in which the Kichwa of San Martín have suffered from what Stocks (1978) calls “invisibility.” They are members of that class known as cholada, which Stocks describes as “detribalized, acculturated, but unassimilated Indians who have made a wide range of adjustments to Peruvian society” (1978, v). Regarding the Cocamilla, with whom the Kichwa share a similar colonial history, he writes:

The needs of the Cocamilla and the rest of the cholada are not recognized. It is much more convenient to pretend that they have disappeared, integrated, assimilated, ‘mestizoized.’ This pretense is facilitated by the degree of acculturation of the cholada to white-mestizo patterns which renders them so similar in outward appearance to the white-mestizo ribereños that they are effectively ‘invisible.’ (Stocks 1978, vi)

Lowland Kichwa people in both Ecuador and Peru have historically been characterized by a bi-modal existence that allows them to maintain ancestral lifeways and customs in private,

Indian-only settings, while conforming to colonial norms in more public spaces. Whitten (1976)

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describes the two modes as sacha runa (literally, “forest person,” but connoting knowledge and competence) and alli runa (literally, good person, but connoting “good Christian Indian”).

Scazzocchio (1979) describes the duality using the terms “open sphere”—that which takes place in towns and frontier settlements—and “closed sphere”—that which takes place out of the

“public” eye, in forest homes and dispersed settlements. This dual identity, they agree, is a survival strategy developed in reaction to colonialism and the processes of missionization, patron-client and/or debt-peon relations, epidemic disease, and other forces of outside influence.

While the Cocamilla, according to Stocks, practiced their invisibility within a setting of non- integrated native enclaves, the Kichwa and Kichwa peoples of the Western Amazon have been highly integrated with colonial society since its inception. The bi-modal existence, therefore, offers a route by which traditional and ancestral subsistence, survival, and cultural patterns may be maintained without the interference of colonial agents. However, the outward appearance of assimilation—at least for those Indigenous people who lived outside the Lamas cultural core— would have contributed to their invisibility as Indigenous peoples (Puga Capelli 1989).

Today, the Indigenous groups officially recognized in San Martín are Kichwa, Shawi, and Awajún.1 However, the preexisting Indigenous nations of the area now known as San Martín did not all die out or move to Lamas. Pinedo Lopez (2011) mentions the case of Agua Blanca, a town on the Sisa River founded over 300 years ago by members of the Sapina people, who moved there from the Saposoa River. Likewise, my informants relate that when the Lamista arrived in San José de Sisa, there were families of Hibitos and Cholones already living there. In

1 The 2017 census of native communities also registered two communities of Yaminahua, historically a lowland Amazonian group, living along the border of Rioja and Moyobamba provinces. The census does not indicate how long these communities or the Yaminahua as a people have existed in the region. It is likely that they, like the Awajún, are relatively recent arrivals in San Martín.

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fact, members of the Hibito and Cholón nations survived into the present era. The last person identified as Hibito reportedly died about 50 years ago. The last Cholón died only 15 years ago or so, while the last speaker of the Cholón language reportedly died in the mid-1980s.

Scazzocchio (1979, 222 note 3) notes that Campanilla, famous for being the narcotrafficking base for El Vaticano and a Sendero-free zone during the coca boom, is a town founded by

Cholón people. Among the Kichwa speakers of San Martín, Scazzocchio (1979) differentiates between Lamista Runa, or Kichwa people of Lamista descent, and Chikan Runa, or Kichwa people living in or originating in geographic centers other than Lamas, including Tabaloso,

Sauce, and the lower Huallaga, and differentiated by a unique set of patronyms. The level of transculturation of these peoples ranged from those relatively acculturated to some living in headwaters areas who fled to the forest at the approach of non-Indians. She notes that the expansion of Lamista peoples out of Lamas led to the intermarriage and integration of Lamista and Chikan runa, but that some areas, particularly in the Sisa and lower Huallaga valleys, continued to remain strongly Chikan, identified by continued presence of Chikan patronyms and the leadership of a powerful Chikan shaman.

Contemporary Ethnogenetic Processes

Simultaneous movements both away from and toward cultural differentiation characterize ethnicity and identity in San Martín today. Some communities decline to classify themselves as native communities, while other communities, for various reasons, wholeheartedly pursue the official designation. Some families and communities embrace a Kichwa ethnicity by wearing, or even newly adopting, traditional forms of dress. However, many if not most families also have relatives who have gone to live in the big cities—Tarapoto, Iquitos, Pucallpa, Lima—and adopted a more cosmopolitan lifestyle and identity. Sometimes these family members will return home for celebrations, especially the Fiesta de Santa Rosa Raymi, to participate in the festivities.

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Those individuals, families, and communities who have forsaken an Indigenous identity altogether or have simply merged into the broader Peruvian mainstream have plenty of reasons for doing so. Being Kichwa continues to be associated with ignorance and backwardness, both among the regional mestizo population but also within some Kichwa communities themselves, including Lamas. Furthermore, Kichwa communities often suffer from inadequate schools, inadequate health services, and limited job opportunities. Moving to the urban centers in search of such services inevitably removes people from the traditional Kichwa lifestyle and practices, exposing and acculturating them to mainstream norms.

On the other hand, there remains a significant population of people, including some of those above who have assimilated into the mainstream, for whom the various facets of Kichwa culture remain salient. With such a diasporic and diverse ethnic group, assessing ethnic identity can be a challenge. A key criterion, of course, is self-identification. International convention, while abstaining from codifying any single definition of indigeneity, puts primary importance on self-identification (APF and OHCHR 2013). In keeping with these conventions, in 2017, Peru conducted a census that, for the first time, allowed respondents to self-identify their ethnicity

(INEI 2018). However, the census report uses only the spelling “Quechua,” and therefore does not differentiate lowland Kichwa from Andean migrants who have maintained their highland

Quechua identity. In San Martín, those who identify as “Quechua” (the spelling used in the report) represent 30,997 individuals (5% of the overall regional population), or about 16,000 men and 15,000 women. When the report data is disaggregated by province, San Martín, where

Tarapoto and Chazuta are located as well as the communities on the lower Huallaga, has the greatest number of “Quechua” people, with about 8900 individuals (5.9% of 150,912 provincial residents), though these likely represent lowland Kichwa populations. Similarly, Lamas is second

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with 6,181 (10.31% of about 60,000) and El Dorado has 3077 individuals (11.69% of the provincial population of 26,000). The population of each of the other provinces is between 2 and

3% “Quechua,” except for, surprisingly, Tocache, where about 9.5% of the population is identified as “Quechua” (almost 5,000 people). Tocache is the southernmost province of San

Martín, and this number may represent highland Quechua migrants and their descendants.

Even self-identification can take a range of forms, however. As part of the present study,

I did not inquire directly regarding forms of self-identification and sense of identity; I did, however, pay close attention to the information that people volunteered. Occasionally people will refer to themselves as “Kichwa” or “cholo” (a somewhat derogatory term used to denote de- culturated tribal peoples) though this is not common. On the other hand, people do refer to themselves in terms of their maternal or ancestral tongue: “Somos Quechua-hablantes” (We are

Quechua speakers). Another term I heard used commonly is Quechuero, literally, someone who uses or has facility with Quechua. The denotation here refers to the Quechua language but there is also the connotation of Kichwa culture: A Quechuero would be someone who speaks Quechua and also practices the culture.

There is an interesting association of Kichwa-ness with its female embodiment. The vast majority of graphic representations (mostly murals and statues) of Kichwa people in and around

Lamas and Tarapoto depict Kichwa women doing characteristically female chores—washing clothes at the riverside, for example, or carrying baskets of produce. When I asked one of my key informants, Braulio, if he were Kichwa, he responded, “Sí, mi madre era pura Kichwa, su falda pura negra y su blusa con sus adornos” (Yes, my mother was pure Kichwa, her skirt totally black and her blouse with its adornments). When I asked him if his father were Kichwa also (as I knew he was from Braulio’s last name), he responded “Sí, mi padre,” as if it were an afterthought. This

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seems to stand in contradiction to the means by which people reckon their primary form of identity: their patrilineal clan.

By far the primary form of self-identification among the Kichwa is family affiliation:

Most people, both men and women, introduce themselves using their patronym only, although both patronym and matronym are part of the full name and are readily delivered upon request.

Clan affiliation has historically been of surpassing importance among the Lamista Kichwa, among other things determining loyalties in internecine battles (Scazzocchio 1979). Its influence on marriage patterns has even been detected in the genetic record (Sandoval et al. 2016).

Surnames are often closely associated with a specific place: several barrios in Wayku are both named after and inhabited by people with a specific surname, and other names and families are associated with specific communities, towns, or neighborhoods to which they moved, either as a seed family or en masse, during the dispersion of Kichwa people from Lamas that began in the

19th century and that continues today. Thus, surname is a useful tool for assessing both Lamista ethnicity as well as Lamista ancestry for people further removed in the diaspora.2

Second to clan affiliation, people express a connection with their place or their community. Mendoza (2013) writes that the people of Chazuta consider themselves not Kichwa, and certainly not indio or indígena, which he identifies as terms with negative connotation, but

Chazutino: “naturales” of Chazuta—a construction that allows them to avoid connotations of wildness and savagery and emphasize their ties to place and their rights to the land. Despite their shared history and culture with the Lamista Kichwa, “only in extraordinary circumstances do

2 Lamista surnames are common in Iquitos, Pucallpa, and other communities in the Peruvian lowlands. I and other researchers have used an onomastic approach to assessing the influence of the Lamista Kichwa on ayahuasca shamanism, given that many of these individuals are identified by authors, or self-identify, as mestizo.

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Chazutino people stress their ties with the Quechua Lamista people” (Mendoza 2013, 63). I likewise heard this construction a lot: “Soy natural de aca!” “I’m from here!”

Scazzocchio (1979) writes that the Lamista Kichwa use the term “Llakwash” (also spelled Jakwash) to refer to themselves. She states that the term was used only by the Indians of

Lamista descent among themselves, to refer to themselves and to their language. In mixed company they used the term “Lamista,” to the extent that the term “Jakwash” was virtually unknown among mestizo people. However, the term has since become more widely recognized among non-Lamista populations, especially scholars of Kichwa culture. Joshua Homan (personal communication, 2013) asserts that the literal translation of Llakwash is “itinerant traveler peoples” or “those without an ayllu,” ayllu being “family” or “clan.” Doherty et al. (2007) define

Llakwash simply as Kichwa from Lamas, or the Quechua language of the Lamista people, in contrast with Kichwa, the Quechua language of lowland Ecuador, or Inga, the Quechua of lowland Colombia.

Another form of identification that I heard in various locations and from various people is the term Urku Runa: “mountain people.” The Kichwa people with whom I worked, those of the montaña, use this term to contrast themselves with Yacu Runa, people who live along the lowland rivers; and Pampa Runa, people of the lowlands. According to Mama Belen, the difference is that Pampa Runa take only ayahuasca: “Sogueros no más,” she called them (Just sogueros, or people who use the vine). On the contrary Urku Runa take palos and cortezas

(sticks and barks), “todas las purgas” (all the purgas), she said.

The remainder of this chapter presents an ethnographic sketch of the contemporary Urku

Runa, or the Kichwa of the montaña of San Martín region. I will emphasize at the outset that the

Lamista Kichwa diaspora, even within the region of San Martín, encompasses a wide range of

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ecosystems and elevations and spans the divide between urban and rural. Perhaps the best way to characterize them as a group would be in terms of diversity, adaptability, and practicality. From the point of view of cultural ecology, the Kichwa have a wide variety of survival strategies at their disposal, and they make use of those strategies that are best suited to their specific environments, family size, level of income and wealth, and other more idiosyncratic parameters: profession, personal and familial preference, and so forth. My intention with the ethnographic data presented here is to sketch the outlines of the culture so as to give the reader a general picture of the Kichwa as a people distinct from Peruvian national culture as well as from other

Indigenous and campesino peoples of the region.

Family

The extended family is a defining feature of the Kichwa community and the basis of the social structure. Households tend to be multi-generational, and larger household compounds may house an older couple, their children, their children’s spouses if they have them, and their grandchildren. The preference appears to be for women to move in with the families of their husbands, occupying a room in the house of their husband’s father, or an adjacent building.

However, women retain close ties with their families of origin and may return there permanently in the case of divorce. In smaller households, an entire extended family may share one or two rooms. Coming from the United States, the level of harmony that exists among family members is striking.

Architecture and Domestic Spaces

Homes and buildings belonging to Kichwa families tend to be of four types: rammed earth with smooth plaster interior and exterior, found only in the cities; adobe brick with metal or palm thatch roof, found in both the cities, small towns, and rural communities; rough-sawn wood with metal or palm roof, sometimes raised off the ground to accommodate floodwaters and wet

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conditions, mostly found in the rural areas; and also mostly in rural areas and small communities, enclosures built of vertical poles bound with vine and roofed with palm. The poles of which these latter homes are built are generally made of split log about four to eight inches in diameter.

The floors of these buildings are almost always packed earth, even in town; occasionally, poured cement may be encountered. Historical documents indicate that early Kichwa dwellings of the region were all of pole construction with palm roofs; adobe and rammed earth were introduced to the region by migrants from Chachapoyas and represent a much greater construction cost and, therefore, class status (Pinedo Lopez 2011). Most villages will have at least one building, the community center, made of rammed earth or plastered adobe with a metal roof, and larger communities may have a core downtown area—at the very least, those buildings surrounding the central plaza—built of plastered adobe. Most Kichwa homes are built of unplastered adobe, rough-sawn lumber, or pole construction. The most traditional Kichwa architectural style appears to be pole construction with an extremely high, steeply pitched roof (see Figure 5-1).

In Kichwa homes, usually there are at least two rooms: a large room that serves as a living room and a place to receive visitors, and one or more small bedrooms. Often, however, the main room is also used for sleeping, and the bed in the main room may or may not be cordoned off from the rest of the room with blankets. The kitchen and dining area are usually housed in a separate structure made of pole construction with palm roof; these buildings are better ventilated and, therefore, cooler than the adobe buildings. In the larger, multi-family compounds, nuclear families may have their own room or even their own separate structure. Women of the family may share the main kitchen, collaborating on communal meals. If a family has their own structure within the compound, however, this structure may contain its own kitchen, and that family may eat separately from the rest of the group some or most of the time.

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Figure 5-1. The home in the foreground shows one style of Lamista Kichwa architecture, likely a very traditional style, with walls of split poles and a steeply pitched roof of palm. The building in the background is the community school. (Photo courtesy of author.)

Furniture is sparse and simple. Furniture for a typical home may consist of a dining table with flat wooden benches or folding chairs, a bench or two placed along the wall, and one or two beds. A popular furniture style that has been adopted from Peruvian culture is the chair or other item made of a rebar frame with plastic cord stretched back and forth over the frame to produce the seat and back. Beds are little more than a frame with flat planks, raised off the floor by 24 inches or so, and padded with a thin mat of woven palm known as a testería. Where mattresses are found, they tend to consist of four to six inches of foam rubber. Well-to-do Kichwa families in Lamas and Chazuta may have homes with store-bought furniture including couches, desks, television stands, tables and chairs, dressers, and shelving. Many households, even those less

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well-to-do, have televisions, and most have a radio, which serves as an important source of information and entertainment.

The kitchen is the domain of the women of the household, and cooking and cleaning are the sole responsibility of women. This is one area where I saw virtually no variation amongst households. While such a strict division of labor is, from the Western feminist point of view, inequitable—women also carry a heavy burden of agricultural labor, in addition to child rearing and care—it nevertheless gives women a space of their own, a space where they maintain control over a central aspect of family life, and a space from which misbehaving men (for example, the husband who shows up for dinner drunk) can be banished if necessary. The kitchen, however, is not an exclusively human space. Chickens mill about, pecking at bugs and cracked corn that is strewn for them. Ducks wander in, en masse, and gather around the pot of boiled plantains sitting on the ground, pecking ravenously until they are satiated and waddle out, again en masse.

Skeletal dogs languish underfoot, waiting for a scrap of bone to be tossed their way, at which point they spring into action, snatching the bone in mid-arc and devouring it in one or two snaps of the jaw.

Cooking in Kichwa households is usually over a fire. The stove or fireplace itself is usually built on a base of adobe brick, with the fire surface elevated two feet or so, sometimes up to four feet in a sort of counter-top scenario. The stove itself is made of two parallel rows of adobe or brick about three to four feet long, with about 8–10 inches between the rows where the fire is built. Pots are then placed on top of the brick supports, over the fire, and plantains are laid in the embers to roast.

Running water in Kichwa kitchens is rare, including in the city of Lamas, where the municipal water system serves only a fraction of the Wayku community (Chávez Carbajal 2019).

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Water in Kichwa kitchens is often stored in plastic jugs, from which it is poured for drinking, cooking, or washing hands or dishes. Water may be sourced at the river, at a community water source, or in some communities, at the household spigot outside.

Kitchen utensils and cooking vessels tend to be of the modern, store-bought variety, with the large, aluminum pot a common feature of every kitchen, used for boiling everything from rice to plantains to chicken soup. However, Kichwa women maintain an active pottery tradition, and vessels are made for both everyday use and for sale to tourists (see Figures 5-2–5-5). Pottery is of coil construction, and several vessel styles are extant, ranging from a small bowl for serving food (tiesto), to a larger vessel with slightly narrowed neck and flared mouth (tinaja) used for fermenting chicha (corn drink), to very large vessels used for making big batches of chicha,

Figure 5-2. Lamista women maintain an active tradition of making and using pottery. Above, women and girls at a pottery-making event in the community of Alto Huaja. (Photo courtesy of author.)

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masato (fermented yuca), soup, or rice for festivals and community gatherings. A red slip is used for tableware, while pots for cooking are unglazed and unstained. Pots for sale to tourists usually boast a white slip with decorative touches, often flowers, in black and red—sometimes created with marker, but more traditionally, painted on. Pottery is fired at a low temperature and breaks relatively easily. The shell of the fruit of the huingo tree is also commonly used for various utilitarian purposes. Medium-sized ones may be used as soup bowls or other food dishes, and smaller ones are used for serving everything from ayahuasca to aguardiente. Huingo trees are ubiquitous in the region, with one in almost every farmyard. They produce copious fruit that sprout directly from the trunk and that grow large quite rapidly, providing a steady supply of the utilitarian fruit.

Figure 5-3. A coil-constructed bowl in progress. (Photo by author.)

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Figure 5-4. Two large earthenware pots, about 24” deep. In the foreground is a vat of boiled and mashed yuca. It may may be watered down and fermented or added to cornmeal and fashioned into cornbread cakes. (Photo by author. Wayku, Lamas, August 23, 2018)

Bathrooms, including in Wayku and in Kichwa households in the town of Sisa, are usually pit toilets located in low-slung outhouses with walls of black plastic sheeting. Kichwa households in Chazuta town may have indoor plumbing, however. It is not uncommon to see, in the back yards of various communities, outhouses or other waste management systems of advanced design, such as composting toilets, that have been built by external agents such as the government or international aid projects, and subsequently abandoned in favor of the old- fashioned, periodically re-located pit toilet. Outhouses are often built very close to rivers and streams, where their contents seep into and pollute water sources. Improved solid-waste management at the community scale would be beneficial for the Kichwa, given the continued use of untreated river water for drinking, washing, and bathing. Bathing in rural communities and in some households in town takes place in the creek or river, or at the outdoor spigot if one exists.

Bathing is done with clothes on, and an intentionally humorous element of the annual beauty

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pageant, which takes place in Lamas during the Feast of Santa Rosa, showcases a girl’s skill at bathing modestly and in a traditional Kichwa fashion.

Diet

The Kichwa diet is very simple. The bulk of the diet consists of boiled or roasted plantains, white rice, and beans, supplemented with various animal proteins. One of the staple protein sources is boquichica (Prochilodus nigricans), a very bony small to medium-sized fish

(generally 10”–14” long), that is purchased salted and dried.3 For consumption, boquichica is boiled in water or fried in store-bought vegetable oil (usually palm oil, widely available) and served over rice or in its own soup. Chicken, eggs, and pork are also staples. Almost every household has a flock of chickens and many have at least one pig. The Kichwa do not shy away from consuming fatty portions of the animal (these are often considered choice). More than once,

I was served a portion of grilled pig skin attached to a generous layer of fat. “Es rico!” they told me; “It’s good!” Both skin and fat are consumed in whole, a testament to the strength of people’s teeth. I’ve also seen people chewing and ingesting small bones (it’s easier than it looks). This ability to consume the entire animal is not only economical but also nutritionally beneficial in an otherwise sparse diet.

In addition to boquichica, other types of fish are occasionally consumed. Paiche, the giant fish of the Amazon, is widely available in the region, as is doncella (Pseudoplatystoma sp.), though neither is frequently consumed by the Kichwa due to their high cost. The exception is during the annual run of doncella at Chumia, a set of rapids upstream from Chazuta. Chumia is open to the public, and people catch large quantities of fish there for both family and commercial

3 Identification of very common species was made using a combination of sources, including online and peer- reviewed. Less common or lesser-known species are identified on a contingent basis, and the source is cited.

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Figure 5-5. Classic Kichwa pots. These were used for carrying water to one of the four cabezonías (festival headquarters) during the Feast of Santa Rosa Raymi. (Photo by author; Wayku, Lamas; August 25, 2018) consumption, although commercial fishing is discouraged. Shitari (this term appears to refer to multiple species) is a small suckerfish that lives under rocks in the mountain streams. People hunt them by turning over rocks and trying to catch them with their hands as the fish try to escape. Fishing for shitari is a favorite game of children. Kichwa people who live in communities along the Huallaga appear to have a higher proportion of fish in their diets since fishing, usually with nets, is common in these communities. Those who live in villages in the mountainous areas appear to consume more chicken, pork, and wild meats.

Wild meats (carne del monte) and other non-domesticated foods are still consumed when available and are often considered preferred foods. However, hunting among the Kichwa has declined significantly, as forested lands have been subsumed by agricultural expansion or set

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aside in conservation territories. Men still hunt in preparation for community gatherings and festivals, and prey that stray into the chacra are also fair game. Armadillo, known in Kichwa as carachupa, is a favorite. Deer, fox, and rabbit are also consumed. Large ground snails (in

Kichwa, congompe) may be gathered when encountered. A type of termite known as mamaco

(species unknown) is very popular (see figures 5-4 and 5-5) and is also considered quite healthful. “Pura vitaminas!” declared my friend Maya. Although I only witnessed these few animal products being consumed, there are numerous other species found in the forests, streams, and rivers that the Kichwa consume when they are available.

Figure 5-6. An edible termite known as mamaco, prior to cooking. (Photo by author.)

The role of the plantain (in Kichwa, inguiri) in the Kichwa diet cannot be overestimated.

Boiled green plantains are served whole at every meal. Both green and ripe plantains are peeled and roasted in the embers or on a grill. Ripe plantains may also be roasted in their skin. Boiled

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green plantains are sometimes mashed and added to water. This dish is called chapo and makes an excellent breakfast dish. Tacacho is boiled green plantain that has been smashed, ideally with a mortar made of rock salt, mixed with salt and pork fat, and rolled into balls about three to four inches in diameter. They are quite delicious and are often served with fried eggs. Plantain husks are discarded into the farmyard, where horses and pigs consume them.

As with other Amazonian peoples, the Kichwa derive a good deal of nutrition from fermented drinks. A basic staple of the Kichwa diet is the fermented yellow corn drink known as chicha. Masato, a fermented drink made from yuca that has been boiled, mashed, diluted with water, and fermented, is also consumed but with less frequency. Chicha may also be prepared using ripe plantains, sweet bananas, guava, or other fruits as a base. Today, corn chicha and masato are commonly made using sugar to induce fermentation. Making chicha or masato without sugar indicates a woman’s conscious adherence to a more traditional (and more healthful) approach (there appears to be widespread awareness that the overuse of refined sugar can lead to diabetes).

While chicha and masato have often been considered by outsiders to be forms of beer, it would be a mistake to say that the Kichwa are sitting around getting drunk all the time. To the contrary, most of the chicha and masato that I have consumed is slightly sour, tasting more like yogurt than alcohol. It serves not only as a source of nutrition but as a means of staying hydrated that, probably because of the presence of fiber and electrolytes, seems superior even to purified water. Staying hydrated is, of course, of utmost importance when working long hours outside in the hot tropical sun. After a few days of fermentation, chicha and masato do have a stronger alcoholic kick, but in my experience, these products are usually reserved for special occasions.

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Figure 5-7. A Kichwa woman toasting mamaco. After toasting, the insects are tossed in a pan while the cook blows the dried wings off, like separating wheat from chaff. The final product is seasoned with salt. (Photo courtesy of author.)

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There seems to be an explicit understanding that the fermentation process helps sterilize the water and other contents of the beverage. I was visiting some friends one day when they offered me a bit of masato. It was fairly fresh and not strong, and by that evening I was puking it up. I didn’t make the connection between the masato and the puking, but everyone else in the household did. When I went back to visit the same couple two days later, they did not offer me masato, but they did mention the episode. They explained that the masato had made me sick because it was wintertime, and therefore the masato was cold. When the weather is warm, the masato ferments better. “Hierve bien,” they said: It boils well. The bubbling of fermentation is equated with the bubbling of boiling, and both have the same effect of making the masato safer to drink.

Accompanying the daily regimen of staple foods are three condiments: salt, aji, and lemon juice. A container of salt and a bowl of aji (hot sauce) are usually placed in the middle of the table, and each person serves him or herself from the common bowl with their own spoon.

The hot sauce is usually a watery mixture of hot pepper, water, salt, and lemon or lime juice when available. The Kichwa grow and consume a wide variety of hot peppers (see Figures 5-8 and 5-9). When available, lemon juice may be squeezed directly onto foods.

While the standard diet appears to be simple and repetitive, the Kichwa do have a variety of foods at their disposal with which they can supplement and vary their diet. The Kichwa grow and consume peanuts, coffee, cocoa, cilantro, yuca, and multiple varieties of beans. Peanuts tend to be used as a condiment and occasionally as a snack. They are a main ingredient in a drink called upe, which is made of roasted ground corn mixed with roasted ground peanuts, to which water is added. The resulting drink is served warm. Upe is traditionally served during the overnight wakes that presage a funeral, to fortify the attendees. Coffee is served weak and very,

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very sweet. A drink called choco-maiz—chocolate corn—is made from ground corn, cocoa powder, and sugar and is served hot. Sacha inchi (Plukenetia volubilis) is a food crop that appears to be ancestral to the Kichwa, though today, most of the harvest is reserved for the booming “superfoods” market, where it is usually processed into oil. In addition to a variety of red and white beans (see Figure 5-10), the Kichwa may consume lentils when available, as well as buspo poroto (possibly Cajanus cajan, based on Mejía and Rengifo 2000), a regionally common bush bean. The Kichwa grow numerous types of fruit including papaya, citrus, multiple varieties of banana, and avocados. Tubers are also consumed including dale dale (Calathea allouia, per Pitman et al. 2014), a small, sweetish tuber with white flesh, and sacha papa

(possibly Dioscorea sp., ibid.), which looks and tastes like a lumpy purple potato.

Various forest products and semi-domesticated fruits are used when seasonally available.

Aguaje, the fruit of the palm Mauritia flexuosa, may be eaten boiled or prepared as a drink and is most popular with women. Majambo, the seed of Theobroma bicolor, may be eaten roasted and salted, in soups, or in a confection that is likened to white chocolate. Guaba (Inga edulis, per

Pitman et al. 2014), not to be confused with guava, is an unruly looking seed-pod with a sweet, cotton-like flesh inside.

Although the Kichwa diet is largely plant-based, they eat few vegetables along the lines of what might be considered common in a cosmopolitan setting—lettuce, broccoli, celery, carrots, etc. Most of these crops require a cooler environment and, although they are available in the market for a price, don’t readily grow in San Martín. One exception is kale, which grows quite well in Lamas, although I never observed it being grown or used in the Indigenous communities. Onions and garlic are used and in some households, they are the secret ingredients in the daily white rice. “But Christinita,” my friend Maritza declared, “without onions and garlic,

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the rice isn’t any good!” Ginger grows well in the region but its use is almost exclusively medicinal rather than culinary. Cilantro grows well in the area and Kichwa women sell it in the market. However, in their own cooking they are more likely to use sacha culantro (Eryngium foetidum), also known as culantro ancho, a type of wild cilantro with simple, ovate leaves with a serrated edge.

It appears that people closer to Lamas tend to grow a wider variety of foods in their chacras than those families in Sisa with whom I spent more time; a comparative study of agrobiodiversity and nutrition between provinces would be very interesting. Such a study would have to take into account which foods are grown for consumption and which are reserved for the market.

Agriculture

The Kichwa system of agriculture has been the object of multiple studies (Marquardt et al. 2019; Marquardt, Milestad, and Porro 2013; Marquardt and Romero Rengifo 2015; Rengifo

Vasquez 2009a; Schjellerup 1999). Kichwa agricultural production is widely considered, by both the public as well as interested NGOs, to be an important element in the food security of the region. Broadly speaking, the Kichwa, like other Amazonian Indigenous groups, engage in rotational, mixed-species horticulture. Active sites of horticultural production are referred to as the chacra; the chacra is a center of Kichwa life. Fallow lands are known as purma and come in two types: macho purma, or mature second-growth forest, and llullu purma, or young second- growth forest. In recent decades, however, Kichwa land holdings have grown to a fraction of their historic size while at the same time, their need to engage in production for the market has increased. The result is that Kichwa farmers are increasingly unable to rotate their crops, and production has decreased. At the same time, agrobiodiversity has decreased as well, particularly

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Figure 5-8. Some Kichwa agrobiodiversity: several varieties of hot pepper displayed in a huingo bowl, with cilantro. This and the next two photos were taken at a multi-community gathering hosted by the Indigenous community Yaku Shutuna Rumi (Alto Huaja) and organized by the NGO Waman Wasi, who promote agrobiodiversity and food security among the Kichwa communities of San Martín. Individuals took turns talking about their produce and demonstrating their crafts. Several healers were present and spoke about their remedies and the importance of traditional medicine. Farmers exchanged seeds. After the exposition was over, there was a feast with traditional music and dancing. (Photo courtesy of author.)

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in those places where government development schemes have promoted commodity crops. The latter is especially true for the province of El Dorado, where the productivity of the land is almost mythic, dating back to the re-population of the area by the first Kichwa who were drawn there by the abundance of game.

The major commodity crops grown by the Kichwa today are corn, coffee, and cacao.

According to some informants, the Kichwa historically grew their own rice, but today they buy it in the market. Cotton is still grown but not to the same extent that it was in the past, when cotton from San Martín was traded as far away as Europe and served as a form of currency during the

Rubber Boom. Cacao appears to be an ancestral crop. Cacao growers on the upper Huallabamba

Figure 5-9. More agrobiodiversity (roughly left to right): ginger, greens, a couple of bottles of purga, four varieties of citrus, tomatoes, and four varieties of hot pepper. (Photo courtesy of author.)

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River told me that they find old-growth cacao trees in the monte around their village. They’ve begun cultivating this ancestral strain, which has a higher fat content and grows better than introduced varieties. Cacao has been heavily promoted by USAID in its effort to eradicate coca by promoting alternative crops. The effort is ongoing but appears to be largely successful, both for the Kichwa as well as for USAID. Although many Kichwa produce cacao beans only, delivering the cleaned and dried pepitas to buyers in Sisa, Chazuta, and Lamas, some of the more entrepreneurial Kichwa produce value-added, retail-ready products for Peru’s booming artisanal chocolate market. One Kichwa man I know produces chocolates with medicinal and nutritive products added, and a Kichwa women’s cooperative in Chazuta, Mishki Cacao, produces high- end organic chocolates. The link between cacao production and USAID’s development efforts is explicit and obvious. USAID paraphernalia and literature is ubiquitous and people appear to have a favorable opinion of the agency.

The Kichwa grow plantains both for consumption and for sale. Every farmer has a platanal, or orchard of plantain trees, and plantains are a major export of San Martín. I once saw my friend Maritza carrying a raceme of plantains down the steep mountainside with a tumpline around her forehead—the standard way of transporting the 20-kilo loads. After she crossed the river and tossed the raceme to the ground next to the mototaxi that would transport it to market, I asked her how much she could sell the bunch for. “Cinco soles,” she answered—five Peruvian soles, or about $1.50 USD. “That’s not very much,” I said, dismayed at the tiny sum she received for her Herculean effort. “It’s two bars of soap,” she shrugged, as if to say, “It’s worth it.”

Despite the artisanal and decentralized nature of Kichwa agriculture, it would be a mistake to characterize it as organic. To the contrary, the use of synthetic fertilizer and the fumigation of crops with synthetic pesticides is commonplace, though not universal. Empty

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Figure 5-10. Agrobiodiversity. Shown here are four varieties of corn, six varieties of bean, and peanuts. The pile of dark brown discs in the lower center is sacha inchi. The red and black beans, huayruro, are used for adornment and are a ubiquitous presence in tourist shops throughout the Peruvian Amazon, where necklaces and bracelets of huayruro are sold as protection against sorcery and “bad energy.” (Photo courtesy of author.) pesticide containers, like other forms of plastic trash, are simply discarded where used, often littering the banks of streams and springs where water is drawn to dilute the concentrated product. Tanks on fumigator machines are washed directly into the streams where people bathe,

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wash, and draw their water for drinking and cooking. Women, including lactating mothers, assist their husbands with mixing the product and filling the tanks—though without the protective gear that the man is more likely to use, since he does the actual spraying. Concerned by these practices, I offered a community workshop to the people of Alto Huaja on the dangers of pesticide use. About 25–30 comuneros attended. I learned that the symptoms of acute pesticide poisoning are well known and common, and that they are often mistaken for symptoms of witchcraft.

Gender

Gender among the Kichwa of San Martín is a challenging topic for ethnographic analysis.

To a person, the women I met seemed joyful and content, and they exuded an air of agency and self- confidence that eludes many women in more nominally egalitarian societies.4 This outward appearance, however, belies a hidden situation of male dominance that, while not universally or even commonly oppressive, nevertheless leaves women vulnerable and disempowered in a number of ways. This tension between the overt and the covert raises interesting questions about the patriarchy’s impact—or lack thereof—on women’s well-being—questions that, unfortunately, are beyond the scope of the present study. On the other hand, the very act of revealing and discussing these covert but institutionalized forms of male dominance presents the ethnographer with an ethical challenge. It’s clear that some of these practices are frowned upon by the state and other external actors, as well as certain factions among the Kichwa themselves.

In the context of long-standing institutionalized and informal racism against the Kichwa, publicizing the continued existence of these practices could potentially prove damaging. At the

4 One exception to this picture that I saw was when geographical or emotional distance of one’s closed loved ones, especially children and grandchildren, had left a woman lonely.

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same time, to sweep them under the rug does a disservice to women and girls whose freedom and safety may be at stake. It also does a disservice to the Kichwa people as a group, who stand to benefit greatly from the intellect, ingenuity, and dedication of Kichwa women, if and when they are empowered and integrated more fully into the public and political life of the people.

Some basic facts are clear. There is a strict separation of gender roles in the home, with women performing all the cooking and cleaning and most of the child care. Both genders perform agricultural labor and at least in some communities, husbands and wives maintain separate chacras, although they may collaborate in the cultivation of each other’s landholdings.

Given their additional domestic responsibilities, however, women clearly bear the heaviest burden of labor in the family. They are perpetual-motion machines, constantly shelling beans, cooking meals, washing dishes, squatting at the riverside washing clothes, spinning yarn, sweeping the yard, hauling costales (large sacks) of cacao beans down from the chacra and spreading them in the yard to dry, and grooming children. When they are not working in the chacra or at a wage job, men are often seen resting on the benches that are ubiquitously placed along the outer walls of houses, playing with fighting cocks, chatting with visitors, or simply sitting in silence. It is very rare to see a woman resting in this way.

Spatial relations indicate a power imbalance as well. Men eat meals seated at the table, while women, after they have served men and guests, usually squat or sit on the floor by the hearth to eat. Once the men are gone from the kitchen, women may sit at the table and finish their meal. At community meetings, if women attend, they tend to sit behind the men or at the periphery of the room and, unless pressed, will remain silent for the duration or talk amongst themselves without addressing the assembly. A Peruvian lawyer who has worked with numerous communities throughout San Martín noted that amongst the Awajún, a neighboring Jivaroan

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group, the women are powerful actors in their communities and in the political life of the people; to the contrary, she said, Kichwa women participate “very little.”

As I spent more time with the Kichwa, it became clear to me that these patterns are not simply informal reflections of unconscious gender bias on the part of both women and men. To the contrary, they are enforced by set of customary institutions that explicitly rob women of agency. These institutions include the practice of wife-stealing and what I’ll call the stipulation of male consent.

The practice of wife stealing is a customary and supposedly ancestral practice that is potentially problematic. The “stealing” aspect of the elopement is considered to be largely symbolic, as the couple ideally have already been dating for some time and the girl has agreed to run away with her sweetheart, after which they go to live in the house of her boyfriend’s father.

However, the girl may be quite a bit younger than the boy and may be as young as 13, which presents legal problems under Peruvian law. Both absolute age and age differential raise questions about a girl’s ability to provide consent—although such questions are, in turn, tempered by the fact that children, but especially girls, grow up very quickly in a Kichwa setting, and girls are trained to take on adult responsibilities from a very young age in preparation for their role as wives and mothers.

The practice of wife stealing is not universally embraced by the Kichwa and has been known to divide communities. Many consider the practice to be an ancestral custom; it is one of the customs that the community of Alto Huaja cited to government officials to indicate their

Kichwa ethnicity when applying for status as a native community. From an ethnographer’s point of view, it would be easy to assume that wife stealing is a highly conserved cultural holdover from pre- or early post-contact Amazonia, when the practice appears to have been widespread.

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However, informant testimony suggests that may not be the case, or that if wife stealing were a traditional practice, that marriage practices may have varied from place to place. One key informant described to me a set of preconditions for marriage that, while not necessarily excluding a ritualized wife-stealing episode, certainly doesn’t resemble the youthful elopement that is more commonly associated with wife stealing now. In the past, he said, in order to begin a family, the following conditions had to be met:

• A man should be at least 25 years old. • A woman should be at least 20 years old. • A man must be a skilled hunter, woodcutter, and porter. • A woman must be skilled at weaving, sewing, cooking, and spinning thread.

Another key informant claimed outright that wife-stealing is a newer practice. The ancestral practice, he claimed, was for the young man or boy to ask her parents for his sweetheart’s hand, and he then went to live with her and her parents for a year. However, one woman, who herself was “stolen” by her husband when they were younger, said that in the past, the men were

“terrible” when they stole their wives. “Antes eran terribles,” she said, but now, they weren’t.

Assessing the accuracy of these reports and the antiquity of wife stealing among the

Kichwa would require more research. Nevertheless, the practice does exist today, as does its potential to create conflicts between families and communities, and between the Kichwa and local authorities. Most important, however, is the threat, symbolic or otherwise, to the agency of girls and young women.

Given women’s apparent agency and freedom of movement, the custom that I found most surprising was the requirement that a woman obtain her husband’s consent before she leaves the household. I recount such an episode here in detail because it illustrates the primary issue as well as a corollary outcome that I find at least as damaging: the constraints on women’s freedom of thought.

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I first learned of the custom when I was trying to plan a trip to Sisa with Mama Elenita, the mother of the household where I stayed in Alto Huaja, so that she could introduce me to a healer there. After lunch one day, I asked her if she wanted to go with me to town to buy food and to introduce me to a médico (doctor) that she knew. She said I had to ask don Aurelio, her husband. When I looked at her quizzically, she continued with her usual big smile, almost laughing: “Christinita, it’s the custom here. A woman can’t leave the house and chacra without the permission of her husband!” I was genuinely surprised, and I asked her what she thought about the custom. She stared at me, not understanding my question. I asked her again a couple of different ways. Frowning now, she shook her head and looked at her eldest daughter, Norith, sitting across the table from us. “I don’t understand what she’s asking me,” Mama Elenita said to her.

While Mama Elenita and I occasionally had trouble understanding each other’s accents,

Norith and I had had few problems communicating. “Around here,” she explained, “if a woman has a husband, she can’t leave unless she asks her husband first. It’s not like you, where you can just go whenever you want. If you have a husband, you can’t do that. You can’t just go.” I asked her what she thought about that practice. She stared at me blankly. I asked her again. She stared at me, and then she explained the situation again, slowly and clearly.

This wasn’t the first time my questions about gender disparities were met with apparent incomprehension. Mama Elenita one day was explaining to me how Papa Aurelio had parceled his land out to his children so that they would have chacras also: two hectares for each son, and one for each daughter. I kept trying to ask Mama Elenita why the girls got one while the boys got two. “Because that’s what happens when there’s no more land!” she said. “Each of the sons got two, and the girls got two—one each. And that’s all the land!”

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Norith’s and her mother’s inability to understand or to answer my questions about gender indicates what appear to be constraints on intellectual agency and freedom of thought that mirrors the constraints on their corporeal agency. The resemblance is more than metaphorical.

While their bewilderment about my questions likely result from a lack of consciousness about gender issues and a lack of formal education, these in turn stem from a number of root causes, including gender roles and socialization. While it is not uncommon for both Kichwa boys and girls to drop out of school to stay home and work on the farm, girls are more likely to drop out, and to do so at an earlier age (INEI 2009).

The lack of formal education for women and the highly structured gender roles, along with the aforementioned structural constraints on women’s freedom of choice, control over their bodies, and freedom of movement all lead to a situation in which Kichwa women are largely confined to the domestic sphere, whereas men have greater access to a public sphere both within

Kichwa society and in the larger Peruvian national society. This is not to say that women are entirely disempowered. They can own land, they have great authority within their familial and extra-familial social networks, and they act in partnership and collaboration with their husbands.

As farmers, they engage in productive labor. Perhaps most importantly, in Kichwa culture, the kitchen, the household, and the chacra are the centers of social life; the domestic sphere has not suffered the devaluation with which Western industrial society has treated it. To use

Scazzocchio’s term (1979), within the “closed sphere” of Kichwa society, women in their roles as mothers, wives, grandmothers, and farmers are powerful figures.

The problem arises, however, when we consider that Kichwa society, within the greater

Peruvian society, is relatively powerless, and that the greatest political, institutional, and economic power lies outside the Kichwa sphere, in a world to which Kichwa women have

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historically had little access. Women may be farmers, but if their ability to go to town requires a husband’s permission, then their access to the market and to market income is restricted.

Women’s access to education and higher education, development initiatives, and other arenas of formal political and economic power is likewise limited by the requirement that they obtain a husband’s permission before leaving the home and chacra. Within Kichwa society, a sphere of relatively little formal power, the structural inequality between women and men produces a relatively small imbalance of power. Vis-á-vis the open sphere of regional and national political economy, however, women’s structural constraints translate to a much more dramatic imbalance of power.

Given the significant contribution that women could make to their communities, especially given their early and intense socialization to sacrifice themselves in service to others, the limitations placed on women have grave repercussions for the community and people as a whole. Jairo, a president of one of the Indigenous federations, spoke to me of his concerns about not being able to get women involved in political life of the community, largely due to their husbands’ refusal to let them attend events. His own wife was limited in her ability to participate due to her lack of literacy and the conflicts with his federation work—one of them had to stay home and feed the livestock—though she had attended some events with his encouragement.

Shortly after our conversation, I watched this dynamic in action during a community assembly in which Jairo tried to solicit three women to attend an Indigenous women’s workshop hosted by

GIZ, the German Society for International Cooperation, which is heavily involved in Indigenous issues in the region. Of the three who did finally agree to go, one was a divorced woman, whose single status granted her more freedom, and another was only able to go after her husband refused but then relented; the third went with her husband’s ready willingness. All three women

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were reluctant. Finalizing the list of three attendees took at least half an hour of public discussion, cajoling on Jairo’s part, and encouragement on the part of men who had rallied their own courage to attend similar meetings. “You’re shy at first, speaking in front of the group,” said one man, describing his experience to the assembly as a way of encouraging the women, “but after a while you get used to it.”

In this example, we see the intersection (Crenshaw 1990) of three forms of oppression at play: formal institutions of hegemony, namely, women’s subjugation to their husbands’ command; the very powerful socialization of women that limits their concerns to the domestic sphere and, in turn, deprives them of literacy and higher education; and their role as members of the Kichwa ethnicity, which vis-á-vis the larger Peruvian society has historically been confined to a role of service, exploited labor, and peonage. Women’s situation here is structurally different from men’s but it is also, in many ways, qualitatively the same, an amplification of what men deal with as Kichwa living in San Martín. Furthermore, while we can’t know what the status of women was among the pre-colonial Motilones, the origins of the contemporary Kichwa in the colonial experience and the strong missionary influence on the contours and elements of Kichwa culture implicate colonialism as an important contributing factor to the situation facing Kichwa women today, much as it has been for other cultures (Brettell and Sargent 1993; Leacock 1983;

Silverblatt 1980).

While this type of intersectionality is by no means unique to Kichwa culture, it does bear some interesting resemblance to patterns of social organization in both the Inca Empire and

Brazilian Indigenous societies, patterns that Turner refers to as “recursive hierarchy” (Turner

1996). While Kichwa society is far less formally structured than those on which Turner’s argument depends, nevertheless it does bear some similarities in the abstract, specifically the

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division of society into two groups of unequal status; the replication of this bi-partite division at multiple scales of social organization (e.g. region, community, family); and the function of these social divisions, as “mediated” by cosmology, to “promote the exploitation of one social group or category by another,” he writes. “It is this fundamental relation of inequality that is encoded by the moiety structure” (Turner 1996, 39). While the division of society into Indigenous and non-Indigenous, male and female does not constitute moiety formation in the classic sense, nevertheless Scazzocchio (1979) did find what she felt to be a system of moieties that divided the

Indigenous barrios of Wayku and other Kichwa towns. Furthermore, Scazzocchio felt that the formation of these moieties was an indirect result of the asymmetrical relations produced by colonization, just as I surmise to be the case with regard to gender. Given that the societies described by Turner lie to either side of the Kichwa and that the Inca Empire in particular may have had a direct influence, the theme warrants further investigation.

As with all other aspects of Kichwa culture and society, there is a great deal of internal diversity with regards to the role and status of women, and this can vary from family to family and from community to community. Furthermore, change is afoot. Many families endeavor to keep their daughters in school, or to at least make it possible for them to attend through the secondary level if they so choose. However, as Peru’s social, economic, and geographical landscape becomes more industrialized and more cosmopolitan, we might expect to see the increasing modernization of Kichwa agrarian culture and the subsequent devaluation of the

Kichwa domestic sphere as the locus of power moves away from the home and farm (Bossen

1975; Sen 1997). If Kichwa women continue to have limited access to public spheres of power, their position within Kichwa society and within the greater Peruvian society is likely to become increasingly vulnerable (Chaney and Schmink 1976; Leacock 1983), and they will become

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increasingly unequal with Kichwa men as men’s access to formal power increases. It appears that this process is already underway, as those roles in which Kichwa individuals are able to gain access to forms of economic and political power—specifically as leaders of federations, as leaders of communities, as teachers in Kichwa bilingual schools, as soldiers, and as healers—are dominated by men.

Given the prominence of external actors in Kichwa society today—everyone from

USAID and GIZ to the regional government of San Martín—these actors have significant potential to influence the outcome of this process. Cultural revitalization organizations that take an essentialized, ossified view of culture have the potential to do significant harm through their failure to think and act critically and creatively regarding women’s issues and their role in

Kichwa culture. Organizations, including but not limited to the federations, whose leadership is consciously or unconsciously invested in male supremacy will likewise contribute to the problem. Fortunately, however, some of the more powerful external actors in San Martín take a more progressive approach and have already begun allying with and empowering Kichwa women to take roles of leadership in their communities and in the region, within the effort to promote Indigenous rights and territorial integrity. For example, GIZ, within its broader capacity-building program, offers workshops designed specifically for Indigenous women. Such initiatives on behalf of Kichwa women and their allies are paying off. A Kichwa woman,

Zoramida Tapullima, is the Secretary of the Women’s Program for CODEPISAM, the umbrella organization for San Martín’s Indigenous federations. Two Lamista women, Diana Amasifuen and Eneida Sangama Sinarahua, run San Martín’s Indigenous land titling program, based in

Tarapoto’s regional government offices. As well, the Indigenous women of San Martín have formed a federation of their own, FEMIRSAM (Federación de Mujeres Indígenas de la Región

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San Martín), that, perhaps unsurprisingly, has yet to receive ratification from the other, male, leaders of the umbrella group CODEPISAM (Bock 2018).

Festivals

No discussion of Kichwa ethnicity would be complete without a discussion of their festival life. Festivals are one of the primary ways, and certainly the most public way, that

Kichwa people enact their ethnic identity. The most important Kichwa festivals are the Feast of

Santa Rosa Raymi, which takes place during the last two weeks of August, and Carnaval, which, as for much of Latin America, usually takes place in February or early March. Most Kichwa communities also celebrate the feast of their patron saint, which corresponds with the date of the community’s founding, and the Feast of San Juan at the end of June, which is a popular pan-

Amazonian holiday. At least two communities that I know of, Nauta and San Miguel, maintain a unique Day of the Dead tradition. In Nauta, where I observed and documented the two-day event, the festivities involve cross-dressing, erotic play, the all-male reenactment of marriage and birth, and a parade of tolentones and other characters representing souls that have returned from the dead (see Figure 5-11 for an explanation of the tolentón).

The most important of all the Kichwa festivals is the Feast of Santa Rosa Raymi in

Lamas. This ten-day explosion of color and music draws thousands of participants and observers from around San Martín and the nation. The festival is highly structured. Each year, four patrons or heads (literally, Sp., cabezones, pl.), all belonging to one of Lamas’s eight Indigenous clans, host the festival, entertaining dozens of families in their own homes with feasts, live music, dancing, drinking, and general merriment. The amount of food, drink, and economic investment required is so great that preparations begin four years in advance, and each cabezonía (head household) must activate a wide network of extended family and allies to help prepare and cultivate chacras, raise livestock, etc. Even so, many families end up in debt by the time the

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festival is over. Each year, the responsibility for hosting the fiesta passes from one clan to the next in a pre-ordained succession.5

Figure 5-11. Día de los Difuntos activities in Nauta, El Dorado province, San Martín. The figures wrapped in white sheets are the tolentones (singular, tolentón). The ball at the top of the stick represents a skull and may historically have been one. The tolentones make a nuisance of themselves by hitting innocent bystanders with their stick and ball. (Photo courtesy of author.)

As with the feast of San Juan, the role of cabezón is passed from one person to the next with the ceremonial and celebratory delivery of a voto, consisting of numerous customary foods and breads. The new cabezones then divvy up the voto among their friends and family, who become invitados—invited to participate in the next fiesta as guests of the cabezón. However, as

5 Lamas’s eight clans have historically been the following: Sangama (the largest), Amasifuen, Guerra, Cachique, Salas, Tapullima, Ishuiza, and Shupingahua. According to key informants, the Ishuiza and Shupingahua clans have converted to Evangelicalism, ceased to participate in the Catholic holidays, and moved out of Lamas. They have therefore been removed from the progression of cabezones required to host the Feast of Santa Rosa.

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recipients of part of the voto, invitados are obliged to devuelve, or return, the voto, by contributing to the preparations and the amassing of foodstuffs and drink to be served during the fiesta.

Scazzocchio (1979) performed an economic study of the Feast of Santa Rosa in 1976, asserting that it served to reinforce the economic hegemony of the mestizo class over the

Kichwa. While many of the features of the feast as she described it still exist, the hegemonic aspects of the feast preparation process appear to have faded. For one example, she writes that in the past, women bought their new festival dresses from mestizo seamstresses, a costly purchase for each woman and therefore a source of great income for the vendors. Today, however, Kichwa women themselves sew and sell clothing both for daily as well as for festival use. Barbira-

Freedman also notes the presence of mestizo women who oversee the cooking and impose mestizo standards of cleanliness and order on the process. While I did interact with and observe the work of these mestizo women, who were paid for their labor, their relationship with the

Indigenous women appeared to be very convivial and collaborative. The Kichwa women were by no means subservient in the process, as Barbira-Freedman observed in her time, and the mestizo cooks did not appear to be enriching themselves through their participation.

As Barbira-Freedman anticipated, the feast has become a major draw for tourists. Both

Kichwa and mestizo people set up food stalls on the streets of Wayku to sell food to people who are not invited to eat in the cabezonías, and Kichwa craftspeople sell abundant pottery, textiles, jewelry, and other goods. During its peak, the festival is an explosion of color, as women in brightly colored skirts with ribbons in their hair twirl about the plaza in the Kichwa rendition of the marinera, Peru’s colonial-influenced national dance that combines Spanish, Indigenous, and

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Figure 5-12. Drummers parading during the Feast of Santa Rosa, Lamas. Their rhythm is accompanied by a repetitive melody played on flute (pijuano). (Photo courtesy of author.) perhaps even African influences. Meanwhile, men circle about the women, with musicians playing traditional Kichwa fife-and-drum music (dindineada); the European association of fife- and-drum music with the military calls to mind the historic role of the Kichwa as warriors, the punto de lanza (spear-point) of colonialism (See Figure 5-12; see Chapter 8 for further discussion of Kichwa fife-and-drum music). Popular music is also featured in the cabezonías, in the Wayku plaza during the big dances, and in a big rock-style concert on the final night.

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Figure 5-13. Women performing a Kichwa version of the Spanish marinera dance, during the Feast of Santa Rosa in Lamas. They parade about, sometimes spinning or reversing direction, sometimes waving their pañuelos (large, colorful kerchiefs) in the air. (Photo courtesy of author.)

The festival culminates in a mid-day event known as the pato tipina (pato = duck, Sp.; tipina = destruction, from the Kichwa verb tipiy, cut in two), in which a duck is hung by the feet from a rope strung between two tall poles. On either side of the duck, various prizes are tied to the same rope: random kitchen items and articles of clothing and footwear. The poles are set loosely into the ground so that they can be swayed, making the rope with its cargo bounce and swing. Young men compete and collaborate in attempting to grab the duck and tear its head off.

After the duck is destroyed and its bits thrown into the crowd, those who can reach the rope remove the prizes and throw them into the crowd as well (see Figure 5-14).

The pato tipina appears to have been introduced to the Americas by the Spanish. In the corrida de gallos, once common throughout the southwestern U.S., contestants, usually on

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horseback, pulled off the head of a live chicken or rooster that was either hung from a tree or buried up to its neck in the sand (Castro 2000; Simmons 2013). In Spain, a version of the custom was documented by Luis Buñuel (1938) in his pseudo-ethnographic film, “Las Hurdes: Land

Without Bread,” and the practice has continued into contemporary times, associated with

Carnaval (Ayuntamiento de Vilaboa n.d; De Martin and Salvador n.d.). The contest appears to have served as a means for men to prove their strength and skill, a function that it appears to play in Lamas today.

The antiquity of the pato tipina in Lamas is unclear. One key informant suggested that it was introduced by missionaries in the early 1970s as a distraction or a game, as a means of putting an end to the deadly clan battles that historically characterized the feast of Santa Rosa

(Scazzocchio 1979). However, Buitrón (1948) documented a version of the pato tipina that culminated the feast of Santa Rosa in Bellavista, San Martín in 1948; there, a gourd full of chicha was substituted for the duck.

The ethnic identity of the Kichwa of San Martín is a relatively novel construct, born out of the processes of genocide, missionization, and subjugation that characterized the period of contact and colonialism, and heavily influenced by the cultures of the Northern Peruvian sierra and coast, whose people arrived in San Martín as migrants and colonial settlers. The influences of these various forces are evident in cultural characteristics ranging from the predominance of

Catholicism to the forms of dance and dress to the use of the Quechua language. However, the material culture of the Kichwa and their daily existence are strongly bound up in autochthonous forms of economy and culture related to the nature of survival in the selva of the Andean

Amazon. This chapter has endeavored to describe the more-or-less daily lives of the Kichwa.

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The next chapter begins to address what happens when those daily routines are upset by illness or injury or when other annual or life transitions require special preparation or recovery.

Figure 5-14. Young men strive to reach the duck during the pato tipina, one of the final events of the Feast of Santa Rosa. (Photo courtesy of author.)

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CHAPTER 6 LAS PURGAS

Las mismas purgas nos enseñan…Pero hay que respetar la purga. Porque si no…la misma purga te mata. (The purgas themselves teach us…But you have to respect the purga. Because if you don’t, the purga itself will kill you.)

—Salvador Fasabi Fasabi Interview, November 5, 2018

Es las animas de las purgas que te cuidan. (It’s the spirits of the purgas that take care of you.)

—Braulio Sinarahua Salas Interview, August 3, 2017

The Kichwa of San Martín make use of a wide range of practices in their efforts to maintain and to regain health and happiness. This strategy may be characterized as one of medical pluralism and complementarity (Baer 2011), in that they make use of both Indigenous medicine and biomedicine (also known as allopathy, Western medicine, or “modern” medicine).

However, as members of the lower socio-economic class, their access to biomedical services is limited by finances as well as by geography. Acute and emergency care can be obtained at the hospital in Tarapoto, a taxi ride of three hours or more from Sisa, and farther from the rural communities. However, taxi fare alone can be difficult to come by. Furthermore, heavy rains may make roads impassable, especially where rivers flow over the road, which is common, or where rockslides are frequent, as is the case with the highway to Chazuta. Many communities do have a health post, but services are limited and the attending nurse is not always present in the post or even in the community. The nurse for the remote community of Yurilamas, for example, lives in Wayku but travels to Yurilamas weekly, where he stays for most of the week. Some communities may have access to first-aid services provided by community volunteers who have participated in a government program that provides first-aid training. Alto Huaja is one such community. However, it’s unclear how widespread and successful this program has been.

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Nevertheless, people do take advantage of these services when they can. Public health measures such as family planning and vaccinations appear to be popular. Medicines from the botica, or pharmacy, are commonly used, especially by younger people who may lack the knowledge of remedios caseros (home remedies) that older generations still have. There’s also the fact that such medicines—cough syrups, painkillers, antibiotics—are fast acting and effective. The Kichwa know this as well as anyone, and as practical people, they take advantage of that fact when necessary and when possible.

On the other hand, the belief is common—or commonly stated, at least—that pharmaceutical medicines are nothing more than calmantes, painkillers or calmatives, and that true healing and health are to be obtained through traditional and plant medicines. A healthful diet (foods from the chacra as opposed to foods from the grocery store) and a lifestyle of moderation are also considered important factors in good health. For all of the above reasons, ethnomedical practices are at the forefront of Kichwa attempts to maintain health and happiness.

This chapter provides an overview of Kichwa ethnomedicine and an in-depth discussion of a central feature of their ethnomedical system, a set of plants known as purgas. Kichwa ethnomedicine illustrates the various theoretical threads of cultural materialism, given the importance of the Kichwa relationship with the natural world (specifically, medicinal plants) and their use of those resources to cope with the material problems of daily existence as shaped by history, economy, social structure, social inequities, and geography.

This chapter and the following are situated within the wider field of ethnoscience, which has produced an abundant literature on medicinal and utilitarian plants as well as broader constructs of traditional ecological knowledge (Berkes 2012) in the Amazon and globally, from the days of Richard Spruce (1908), through R. E. Schultes (1979a, 1979b, 1986; Schultes and

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Raffauf 1990; Schultes and von Reis 1995), to work by Balée (1999) and numerous others

(Alexiades 1999; Athayde 2010; Athayde et al. 2006; Balick, Elisabetsky, and Laird 1996;

Bennett 1992; Bennett, Baker, and Gómez 2002; Bennett and Husby 2008; Berlin 1992; Berlin and Berlin 1975; Boster, Berlin and O’Neill 1986; Bussmann and Sharon 2015; Conklin 1961;

Desmarchelier et al. 1996; Heckler 2009; IIAP 2010; Jernigan 2011, 2012; Kawa 2012, 2016;

Lenaerts 2006; Mejía and Rengifo 2000; Pinedo, Rengifo, and Sifuentes 1997; Plowman 1984;

Posey 1985; Posey and Balée 1989; Posey and Balick 2006; Quinlan 2004; Quinlan and Quinlan

2007; Smith, Vasquez, and Wust 2010; Zent 2009; Zent and Zent 2007), many more of whom are cited elsewhere in this chapter and the following. Because of the abundant literature already available on Amazonian medicinal plants, I made the decision in this study to focus on the broader cultural framework of use and belief, relying on secondary sources for botanical identification using the imperfect methods of common names and photo vouchers. This decision contributed to one of the weaknesses of the overall study, in that I discovered the use of medicinal plants that appear to be new to science, and other plants that are not known, or not well known, by the common names that I recorded. The ethnobotany of some regions of San

Martín, in other words, is not well explored; I plan to remedy this situation with follow-up studies that focus on collection and botanical identification of the plants listed in this dissertation.

Theoretical Orientation: Ethnomedicine and Culture-Bound Syndromes

The term ethnomedicine can be problematic, if it is presumed that ethnomedicine refers to any system of medicine other than biomedicine. In this usage, the term “ethnomedicine” may be seen to imply inferiority, invalidity, and cultural specificity. However, biomedicine may be considered a form of ethnomedicine as well, given that it is a product of a specific cultural milieu, in this case, the intellectual tradition of post-Renaissance Western Europe (Quinlan 2011;

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Singer and Baer 2018). Therefore, I will continue to use the term in this dissertation to refer to the set of medical and health-related practices used by the Kichwa. These practices incorporate elements that appear to be Indigenous or autochthonous in nature; some that appear to be introduced from other Indigenous or mestizo cultures; and still others that are quasi- pharmaceutical in origin.

Furthermore, some Kichwa remedies are designed to treat illnesses that may be common throughout lowland and even highland Peru, but with which readers of this dissertation may not be familiar. The term “culture-bound syndrome” is often used to describe such conditions (see

Table 6-1 for a list of Kechwa culturally-specific illnesses). Even more so than the term

“ethnomedicine,” the concept and analysis of the culture-bound syndrome remain largely ethnocentric. Analysis of culture-bound syndromes is almost always relegated to the sphere of psychological anthropology (Kirmayer and Young 1990; Levine and Gaw 1995; Quinlan 2011).

The discussion of physical symptoms as forms of “somatization” or “idioms of distress” minimizes patients’ complaints, implying that these conditions don’t really exist or that they are nothing more than a product of psychosomatic processes (Browner and Rubel 1988; Kirmayer

2001; Kirmayer and Young 1990). The use of scare quotes around terms such as “illnesses,”

“genuine,” and “true” (APA 1994, 844; Levine and Gaw 1995, 526; Morris 2012, 58) are further evidence that many practitioners and analysts consider these conditions imaginary, whether they’re willing to admit it or not. This focus on psychology persists despite the progressive decolonization of the term, where anthropologists increasingly recognize that culture-bound syndromes are prominent in the West as elsewhere (Cassidy 1982; Prince 1985; Ritenbaugh

1982). As Prince has written, “when we speak of CBS’s, I believe we refer only to the psychosocial aspects of culture such as beliefs, attitudes and values, and not to its material

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aspects” (1985, 198). He dismisses “accidents of geography or exposure to pathogens” as insufficiently cultural to serve as causative factors in the definition of culture-bound syndrome.

However, from the point of view of cultural ecology, coupled with the holism of anthropology as a whole, geography and pathogenic exposure can both be culturally variable characteristics that, in combination with other factors, might constitute very useful determinants of a given illness as being culturally defined or culture-bound. It is my position that illnesses unrecognized in biomedicine, and which are described in culturally specific terms, may be either psychological or organic in nature—or both—and that these illnesses, their sufferers, and the practitioners who treat them deserve the fullest legitimization that anthropology can afford them.

As I discuss in Chapter 7, there is a great demand among members of the cosmopolitan public for Amazonian shamanism as a form of alternative medicine. This is in large part because of its non-dualistic approach, and the increasing recognition in the West—especially among seekers of alternative medical treatments—that mental, physical, and emotional illnesses are often, if not always, interconnected. In this vein, there are illnesses that medical anthropology and biomedicine might consider culture-bound syndromes but that the practitioners of

Amazonian shamanism and their cosmopolitan clientele find apply to Western patients as easily as Amazonian ones.

It is both interesting and important to study ethnomedicine in terms of its internal cultural logic, its nosology, its prescribed remedies, and their efficacy. As Quinlan (2011) has noted, one of the two overarching goals in ethnomedical anthropology is cross-cultural comparison and translation. This process has potential benefits for both the group studied as well as for Western and other cultures. In the first case, a greater understanding of culture-bound syndromes, for

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Table 6-1. A partial list of culture-bound syndromes and associated characteristics. Name Patient Signs and symptoms Possible causes Possible cures (life stage) Brujería Child, adult Vomiting, diarrhea, and malaise Sorcery Various Lisiadura Adult Pain in the groin and lower back; Having sex or eating certain foods Purgas, dieting chronic diarrhea before the internal wounds of pregnancy have healed Mal aire Adult Difficulty hearing, difficulty May be the same as tunchi Pressure-point massage behind ears, on thinking clearly, headaches, pain temples, at base of skull; sopla with in the neck and shoulders tobacco smoke Mal de Adult Acute pain in the hip and lower Sorcery Sopla with tobacco smoke; pressure-point gente back (resembling sciatica) massage Pulsario Adult Pain and tenderness in the upper Repressed emotional pain or Anti-inflammatory poultices and drinks, abdomen/solar plexus; a hard, trauma, such as that resulting from especially jergon sacha; massage; throbbing knot in the upper the death of a close loved one; may ayahuasca is contraindicated abdomen/solar plexus; lack of also be caused by chronic intestinal appetite; chronic worry or disturbances (gases); more common sadness in women than in men. Susto Infant Diarrhea, fever, cough, crying Encountering a bad spirit or other Wiping the patient's skin with pages torn source of alarm while out in the from a magazine, then burning the selva magazine Susto Child Bed wetting, diarrhea N/a Wiping the patient's skin with pages torn from a magazine, then burning the magazine; ayahuasca Susto Adult Feelings of sadness and fear, Speaking or performing in front of Wiping the patient's skin with pages torn malaise a group of people, particularly from a magazine, then burning the those who look poorly upon you magazine; ayahuasca Tunchi Infant/child Vomiting, fever, diarrhea, The love of a ghost Albahaca negra con culantro ancho (sacha sunken or hollow eyes culantro); many others Venganza Adult Excessive heat; excessive Sorcery Nodillo, murkuwaska, ayahuasca, and stomach pain; social misbehavior other purgas that causes vomiting and diarrhea; dieting

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example, can shed light on forms of illness and disease that are both specific to and common in a given cultural setting. This knowledge can be used to help improve care in situations where (1) the ethnomedical system does not have effective remedies; (2) the ethnomedical system has effective remedies but they are not reaching their target for a variety of reasons (see Cassidy

1982); and/or (3) the biomedically oriented state public-health apparatus is unequipped to recognize or deal with these issues. In the case of the Kichwa, women’s health issues, which appear to be common, diverse, and very “real,” would be an excellent subject for this kind of translational study and intercultural intervention.

The second prong of this approach is the use of ethnomedical knowledge “to inform alternative health practices” targeting other cultures (Quinlan 2011, 382). Despite the apparent success in the use of ayahuasca to treat various illnesses, mostly psychological, among non-

Amazonian populations, the appropriation of Indigenous ethnomedicine for the purposes of shamanic and medical tourism has not been without its problems (Callicott 2017c; CNN 2014;

Dobkin de Rios and Rumrrill 2008; Homan 2017; Kocher 2016; Latin America Current Events

2011). The romanticization of Indigenous culture, the reductionism of the Western mindset, the lack of in-depth understanding of ethnomedical practices and their cultural contexts, and the rampant charlatanism and other forms of malpractice make this endeavor risky at best and fatal at worst. A more in-depth and culturally contextualized understanding of these practices is critical for their proper translation across cultural boundaries, as well as for the proper attribution of creative credit and the protection of the intellectual property rights of those to whom such rights should properly accrue.

Ethnomedical Overview

The Kichwa have been integrated with colonial culture since the arrival of Spaniards in the region. The bi-modal lifeway that has been described for Kichwa peoples throughout the

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Amazon—from Whitten’s (1976) description of alli runa/sacha runa to Scazzocchio’s (1979) notion of the closed-sphere/open-sphere—has allowed them to maintain aspects of Indigenous culture while taking advantage of what colonial culture had to offer. Thus we find in Kichwa culture elements both foreign and familiar; this is true in medicine as in all other realms. I once asked Mama Belén, an elderly curandera, what kinds of illnesses are most common in her community, besides diarrhea and rheumatism. She looked blankly into space for a moment and I was afraid she hadn’t heard or understood my question. Then she looked back at me and croaked,

“Hemorroides.”

On the other hand, familiarity may be deceptive. Words that mean one thing in English or in Western biomedicine may be construed differently in Kichwa ethnomedicine. There is a shop on the Wayku plaza where a médico (shamanic healer) sells plant remedies. On one shelf he had a bottle labeled infección and another labeled decensos. In conversation with him, it became clear that the one labelled “infección” was for a urinary tract or bladder infection. “Decensos,” on the other hand, refers to what we might call fungal or bacterial vaginosis—in biomedical terms, also an infection. However, when I slipped up and used the word “infection” for the second remedy, he corrected me quite vehemently. “No no no no, infección es otro!” (No no no, infection is different!).

In another case, I was working with a médico farther down on the Huallaga. He had been telling me about a vine that was a cure for osteoporosis. I was curious about using it for my elderly mother, so I asked him for more information. He turned to his wife. “You took it. Did it help?”

“Síiii,” she answered.

“How long did you take it before you could feel a difference?”

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“Oh, dos, tres días.” Two or three days. How did she know it had worked? Her back stopped hurting so much. Likely, then, given the diagnosed symptom—back pain—and the short time-frame for its improvement, the remedy is not a cure for osteoporosis, which would require the recalcification of bone and reversal of bone-density loss. In this case, the term osteoporosis has been adopted from biomedicine and applied to musculoskeletal pain suffered by post- menopausal women, who are the population most affected by bone-density loss.

In both of these cases, terminology from biomedicine has been incorporated into the

Kichwa ethnomedical framework. This ethnomedical framework is in part pre-existing, but it is also under constant revision. Healers travel and learn. Many Kichwa have access to the Internet where they, like everyone else in the world, are apt to do medical research (Bianco et al. 2013;

Dart 2008; Kardas et al. 2017; McHugh et al. 2011; Medlock et al. 2015; Morahan-Martin 2004).

Furthermore, the wider Peruvian culture is very health-conscious. Information is presented at every turn: sales pitches for Chinese medicinal mushrooms or Peruvian herbal medicine in the markets and on the bus; radio shows and commercials touting Peru’s ethnobotanical riches; displays in the post office discussing public health problems; posters in the chocolate shop touting the health benefits of cacao (see Figure 6-1). These influences seep into Kichwa culture and ethnomedicine.

A wide variety of Kichwa people practice ethnomedicine, and they do so in a wide variety of ways. Modalities of practice include:

• mothers and grandmothers, whose remedios caseros (household remedies) are largely made of plants from the yard and chacra;

• curiosos, perhaps also known as purgueros (Barbira-Freedman 2010), who have learned from a family member and through personal experimentation to use and to serve purgative plants;

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• médicos, or shamanic healers, who use plants like ayahuasca and tomapende (Solanaceae), along with tobacco and singing, to cure a variety of illnesses both organic and psycho- spiritual;

• tabaqueros, who use tobacco smoke along with techniques such as massage and pressure- point stimulation to treat a variety of illnesses and ailments;

• hueseros, or bonesetters, who use physical manipulation and purgative plants to remedy broken bones, dislocations, spinal compressions, and other musculoskeletal injuries;

• parteras, or midwives; these women are increasingly rare, as the government now requires women to give birth in hospitals.

Remedios caseros may be used not only by mothers and grandmothers to treat family members, especially children, but also by parteras, in treating children and infants, and médicos, in conjunction with other treatments and remedies. Several plants commonly used in basic herbal remedies include (species-level determinations from Sanz-Biset et al. 2009):

• resin of piñon blanco (Jatropha curcas [Euphorbiaceae]);1 • resin of piñon negro (Jatropha gossypiifolia [Euphorbiaceae]); • juice of lemon or lime, sometimes flame-roasted; • mucura (Petiveria alliaceae [Phytolaccaceae]); • resin of the plantain tree; • Santa Maria (leaf) (Piper umbellatum [Piperaceae]); • papaya (seed or resin), an effective anti-helminthic; • sangre de grado (latex), (Croton draconoides [Euphorbiaceae]); • matico (leaf); (Piper sp. [Piperaceae]); • malva (leaf), (Malachra alceifolia [Malvaceae]); • asnak panga (leaf), (Siparuna aff. guianensis [Monimiaceae]).

This list does not begin to exhaust the probably hundreds of herbs in the Kichwa pharmacopoeia.

However, these are the plants that I heard mentioned most frequently, or whose use I observed in the course of basic family care. A few of them deserve special mention. Plantain resin, either from a freshly cut tree or from the skin of a fresh green plantain boiled in water, is considered

1 The term “resin” (resina) as used by the Kichwa usually refers to a sap or latex exuded by a plant when its surface is cut, or produced in and exuded by its fruit. It does not appear to (usually) refer to a true resin, defined as a plant exudate, flammable and sticky, insoluble in water, soluble in alcohol, primarily formed through the oxidation of essential oils (e.g. frankincense, myrrh) (Green 2000; Stevenson and Lindberg 2017).

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Figure 6-1. A display of health-related and other information in the Tarapoto post office, boasting titles such as “Arteriosclerosis: more than a problem of cholesterol,” and “How to combat fatty liver in order to avoid cancer.” (Photo courtesy of author.)

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one of the primary remedies for numerous purposes. One woman told me that the real utility of the plantain was its resin; the plantain itself—the fruit—was just to fill out the skin—“to make it fat.” Likewise, the juice of lemon or lime is useful for many purposes. Lemon juice is often mixed with other plants, where presumably the acid serves as a menstruum to help extract medicinal constituents; however, its utility in and of itself, for example, to stimulate the appetite, should not be overlooked. Piñon blanco is such a useful plant that hardly a specimen can be found that has not been hacked nearly to death by people extracting its resin. Many remedios caseros also incorporate quasi-pharmaceutical or commercial ingredients. A few such ingredients

I encountered include Sal de Andrews, an antacid containing sodium bicarbonate and magnesium sulfate; antalgina, or metamizol, a non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drug (same class as ibuprofen); timolina, a fragrant commercial solution containing thyme oil (thymol) that is widely advertised as a fever remedy; Vick’s VapoRub; and milk of magnesia.2 Another very important non-plant remedy is miel de ramiche, the honey of a species of stingless bee that is common in the region. The honey is reputed to have numerous beneficial properties.

The Kichwa model of health favors strength, heat, and fatness. Historically, the Kichwa were well known as cargadores (porters) who traveled long distances carrying heavy loads; their contemporary work as farmers requires the same. Rather than a source of resentment, given the exploitation they endured, their strength as cargadores—and physical strength in general— remains a source of pride. Etymologically, to be a cargador is associated with responsibility and power. Encargado is the term used for someone in a position of power or responsibility. The

2 Beyer (2009) recounts a humorous story about an exotic and invaluable medicine that he kept hearing about called “beebaporú.” He finally got someone to show him a sample; it was Vick’s VaporRub, pronounced with a heavy Amazonian accent.

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direct translation is, basically, “in charge,” but to be in charge is also to carry the load: the weight of duty and responsibility.

Heat is associated with health as well; heat shows itself in a ruddy complexion and an ability to sweat. Women who cannot bear children are considered to have coldness in their womb; ayahuasca is said to cure infertility by heating the body and the womb. Indeed, conferring heat is one of the benefits of most of the strong medicines, also known as purgas: “Las resinas te calientan; calientan el cuerpo,” said Braulio. (The resins heat you; they heat the body.) Of course, too much heat can be counterproductive; in this case, a cold-inducing plant such as chiric sanango (Brunfelsia grandiflora [Solanaceae]) is prescribed. Analyzing health as a balance between cold and hot is a common characteristic of humoral medicine, a system that is common throughout Latin America (Quinlan 2011). Another duality found in Kichwa ethnomedicine, as in all other aspects of Kichwa culture (including botany) is that of male and female, or macho and hembra. For example, hemorrhoids and quiste (uterine cysts) both come in male and female manifestations even though, obviously, men don’t get uterine cysts.

Fatness—though not necessarily obesity—is also valued as a sign of health and a form of beauty, similar to what has been recorded in rural Jamaica (Sobo 1997). The value placed on fatness is interesting because the elder generation, who remain impressively strong and active into their 80s, are all very lean. It is only among the younger generation that we begin to see any hints of chubbiness or fatness, and this appears to be due not to a lack of hard labor but to an abundance of food, and especially simple carbohydrates, that was not available to prior generations. The Kichwa, as the rest of Peru, appear to be experiencing a health transition

(Bloom 2005; Popkin 2007). The general awareness of diabetes as a health risk, and the attention paid by Kichwa and mestizo curanderos to finding treatments for it, attests to this fact.

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Nevertheless, the value placed on fatness has a deeper component as well: Despite the aforementioned leanness of the Kichwa elders, fat also appears to be associated with happiness, and thinness—or what we in the U.S. would consider fit—associated with sadness. When I was staying in Alto Huaja, various members of the family would ask me, out of the blue, if I had peña—if I were sad. “Well, I do miss my mother,” I answered, a response that was, to them, perfectly understandable and if anything, helped endear me to them—having the added benefit of being true, of course. Finally, I asked Mama Elenita why everyone kept asking me that. “Porque eres flaquita!” she answered, laughing as she always did—“Because you’re skinny!” The family was worried that I was worried—and that my troubles were keeping me from gaining weight. I could have explained all day long that my entire family was skinny, and it wouldn’t have alleviated their concern. Mama Elenita’s remedy: daily for nine mornings, a cup of lemon juice and plantain resin (or the water in which the plantains had been boiled) with three drops each of resin of piñon blanco and piñon negro. Indeed, if nothing else, the shot of lemon juice on an empty stomach helped to stimulate hunger for my morning beans and rice.

Kichwa Nosology and Culture-Bound Syndromes

Kichwa nosology appears to be complex. Symptoms such as cough, fever, or diarrhea may be isolated problems or they may be part of a constellation of symptoms that comprise a recognized illness—many of which we would consider culture-bound syndromes. Some of these syndromes are largely personalistic in nature, in other words, the influence of another person (or non-human being) effected by supernatural means; these would include susto (fright), mal de gente (the evil intentions or thoughts of other people), venganza (vengeance or jealousy on the part of another), and tunchi. Tunchi is an illness that afflicts infants and young children when a spirit of the dead (the tunchi, sometimes glossed as “ghost”) becomes enamored with the child.

The term “tunchi” is a Jivaroan word; among the Achuar, it refers to a spell or to sorcery,

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designating “all organic or psychic disorders provoked by shamans” (Descola 1996, 424).

Brown, working with the Awajún geographically adjacent to the San Martín Kichwa, defines tunchi simply as “shaman” (Brown 2006, 60). For the Shuar, Harner defines “tunchi” as a shamanic dart in the form of a small spider (Harner 1972).3 According to some Kichwa informants, tunchi may be the same thing as mal aire (bad air).

Common naturalistic illnesses include the culture-bound syndrome mal aire, as well as more recognizable diseases such as anemia, intestinal parasites (bichus, or worms), flu (grippe), rheumatism and arthritis, quiste (ovarian cysts), prolapso (uterine prolapse), and carnosidad (a type of ocular cataract). Other diseases that are present but less common include epilepsy, AIDS, diabetes, and uta (leishmaniasis). Men are often afflicted with bajada de testos; the literal translation of this phrase might be “descended testicles” (as opposed to undescended testicles, perhaps?), although some researchers (Sanz-Biset et al. 2009) suggest that the term refers to inguineal hernia—an understandably common ailment in a population where people regularly carry heavy loads on their backs.

3 The concept of the tunchi may be a new adoption by the Kichwa based on recent close contact with the Awajún of the Alto Mayo of San Martín and neighboring Amazonas state. However, it may also be a clue to more ancient ethnohistoric origins of at least some Kichwa family lineages. The conversion of Jivaroan individuals and families to Kichwa or Kichwa has been well documented (Descola 1996; Taylor 2014). Persistent cultural features suggest that the Jivaroan groups may have comprised the original rootstock of the Kichwa peoples of Ecuador (Whitten 1976, 2011; Tod Dillon Swanson, personal communication, 2013). Descola uses the example of a Kichwa man named Isango, whose father was a Shuar who moved to Canelos and adopted the Quechua language and identity. Isango and his father, Descola writes, are “cultural hybrids;” men like them “are shamans of considerable repute, for in this domain the Achuar credit the Quichuas, in particular those who work for the army, with powers far greater than their own” (Tod Dillon Swanson, personal communication, 2013; Descola 1996, 254). The name “Isango” is almost identical to a name common among the San Martín Kichwa, Pizango, a name that Papa Aurelio associated with the town of San Miguel del Rio Mayo. Whitten, whose work centered around Canelos, is convinced that there are historical family connections between the Canelos Kichwa and the communities of the Huallaga (Whitten, personal communication, 2014). Most linguists agree that the Quechua language of San Martín and that of the Pastaza/Canelos Kichwa are closely related as well (Muysken 2011; van de Kerke and Muysken 2014; Doherty et al. 2007).

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Women are commonly afflicted with disturbances of the vaginal flora that present in the form of vaginal discharge that can be classified as acute or chronic, hot or cold, or white, yellow, or green, in ascending order of severity. The non-chronic form of vaginal discharge is referred to as flujos or pujos; the chronic version is known as decensos. There is also an apparently severe illness, which can perhaps be described as culture-bound, called lisiadura.4 This illness afflicts women after they have given birth; signs and symptoms include pain in the groin and lower back, as well as recurrent diarrhea, sometimes severe. It is believed that birth can result in unhealed internal wounds. If a woman’s husband insists on having sex before the wounds are healed, chronic diarrhea results. Alternatively, if a woman eats certain foods (duck, sardines, and one other fish I didn’t recognize) before these wounds are healed, diarrhea results. The diarrhea can be sudden and severe; the condition can also be fatal, or nearly so. There are numerous remedies, the primary one being indano, a purga, prepared in aguardiente. The number of remedies reported for lisiadura, flujos, and decensos suggests that these ailments are both extremely common and that the remedies may not be entirely effective.5

Although I did not conduct a systematic study of Kichwa culture-bound syndromes (such a study would constitute a dissertation in and of itself), I did record signs and symptoms in various individual instances of these syndromes. Table 6-1 summarizes the information thus compiled. Some of these illnesses might best be described as “illnesses of attribution” (Levine and Gaw 1995). For example, brujería, mal de gente, and venganza can manifest in many different ways, from organic disease to accident and injury; the common factor is that the source

4 Confusingly, the term “lisiadura” appears to be etymologically related to lisiado: disabled, crippled, or lame.

5 The ease and frequency with which I recorded information on women’s illnesses has less to do with my being a woman than it does with the commonality of these illnesses, coupled with the much less guarded attitude toward personal health and sexuality among the Kichwa and the general Peruvian population.

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of the disease or misfortune is believed to lie in the envy, bad wishes, or afflicting act of another person or entity, similar to what Evans-Pritchard (1976) found among the Zande. These external influences don’t necessarily replace the empirical cause of the problem, such as falling off the roof and breaking one’s arm; they just set the process in motion. Illnesses of attribution, therefore, don’t necessarily constitute the symptom clusters that would indicate unique syndrome. Likewise, Levine and Gaw (1995) consider susto an illness of attribution; by their logic, tunchi should also be included.

However, in examining the symptom clusters of the various culture-bound syndromes, including venganza and susto, a common theme becomes clear: the prevalence of somatic symptoms, many of which we would be hard pressed to ascribe to psycho-somatic processes.

While venganza and brujería may take many forms, my interviewees frequently associated them with diarrhea and other digestive problems, such as a swollen stomach (bloating) and stomach pain. Likewise, susto among children and infants is almost always associated with diarrhea and fever. While the term “susto” (fright) implies an emotional state, and the subsequent organic symptoms imply somatization, it’s not clear to me if the Kichwa believe that an infant suffering from susto actually experiences emotions of fright. It’s also not clear if the somatic symptoms are believed to be a product of the emotional state—in other words, a form of somatization—or if the fright and the bodily symptoms are both direct results of processes set in motion by an exogenous pathogenic force—a force often glossed as “spirit” but that may just as well refer to a non-visible malicious pathogen: a germ. Giraldo Hererra (2018) makes an interesting case for the latter, arguing that Amerindian shamanic knowledge of treponematoses (the source of syphilis and related infections) were appropriated and reinterpreted by European contact-era doctors, providing the “ontological scaffolding” upon which the first theory of contagion, and subsequent

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forms of germ theory and microbiology, were built. He argues that the language of souls and spirits was a mistranslation imposed by Catholic missionaries, and that anthropologists adopted the language, redefining shamanism as a religion. Both processes were colonial impositions upon a system of thought that even the earliest missionaries noted for its empiricism.

Along these lines, the culture-bound syndromes listed above—syndromes that medical anthropology would generally class as psychosomatic—show a clear predominance of organic symptomatology. Likewise, we should note the almost universal use of corporeal remedies— massage, but also medicinal plants and especially the purgas—to cure these illnesses. Repeatedly while I was interviewing healers and other informants, I found myself wondering the same question, “How do vomiting and diarrhea cure venganza and brujería?” The answer has to do with the non-Cartesian model of science and medicine that appears to be an implicit characteristic of Kichwa ethnomedicine, that body and mind are not separate entities (Csordas

1994; Scheper-Hughes and Lock 1998). Much as in Chinese medicine and, increasingly, Western medicine, the digestive system and the mental-emotional system are closely intertwined

(Blakeslee 1996; Liu and Liu 2009; Mayer et al. 2014; Rao and Gershon 2016; Rogers et al.

2016; Ye et al. 2019; Zhang 2007). For the Kichwa, an additional factor may be what Swanson calls “the shared body” (Swanson, personal communication, 2013). Just as body and mind are not separate entities, two individual humans are not necessarily discrete entities, especially when related as family or, even more importantly, when united through a shared bond with their natural environment (Swanson 2018; Swanson and Reddekop 2017). Clearing disruptions in the mind-body continuum as well as in the social fabric may be, from this point of view, two sides of the same coin. This notion of social construction of the body is not unique to the Kichwa and

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entails questions central to medical anthropology as a whole (Csordas 1990; Gravlee 2009; Lock

1993; McCallum 1996; Oths 1999).

Las Purgas

The central modality of Kichwa ethnomedicine is the use of a class of plants known as

“las purgas.” These plants are also known as palos (sticks), cortezas (barks), and behetales

(properly spelled vegetal—strict translation, vegetable). Mama Belén asserted that the term

“behetal” was Spanish for “purga,” which she classes as a Kichwa term.6 However, most people appear to use “behetal” to refer to any plant remedy, including purgas as well as herbs and resins used in remedios caseros. The word “corteza” denotes the outer bark of a tree—the cortex— although its connotation often includes sogas (vines) such as ayahuasca and clavohuasca

(Tynanthus sp. [Bignoniaceae]); both cortezas and sogas are included in the category of palos.

However, there are also purgas that are, strictly speaking, neither palos nor cortezas, such as chiric sanango (the root is used) and yawar panga (Aristolochia sp. [Aristolochiaceae]) (the leaf).

In the broadest sense, purgas are, as the name suggests, purgatives. Other plants and ethnomedical preparations may be referred to as “purgas” and used to clean out the system. This process usually includes the evacuation of the digestive system through vomiting or diarrhea.

However, the plants referred to by the Kichwa as “las purgas” and the ethnomedical system that surrounds them act in ways that extend well beyond intestinal evacuation. The intensity of the dietary process associated with use of the plants, as well as the profundity and duration of the purgas’ effects, implicate diverse processes affecting multiple bodily systems. One Kichwa

6 The Quechua language of San Martín has been in close contact with Spanish for so long that it is full of Spanish loanwords; it is common for Kichwa speakers to interpret loan words as being properly Kichwa.

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curandero explained it to me thus, as he was preparing a purga known as yawar panga

(Aristolochia sp.) for some clients. This plant’s primary action is to induce vomiting. According to this curandero:

• Vomiting purges the stomach of toxins. • Vomiting relieves stress. • Vomiting protects the intestinal flora. • Vomiting cleans bichus (bugs, worms) from the stomach.

However, the purgative process induced by yawar panga has other applications as well:

• It cleans the urinary tract and rectal canal. • It cleans the kidneys. • It can help control malaria by purifying the blood (eliminating the parasite). • It begins to treat AIDS by purifying the blood (eliminating the virus). • It helps to reinforce the intestinal flora.

Most of the knowledge-holders with whom I spoke for this study were not able to elaborate to this extent the processes induced by the various purgas. However, this report makes it clear that vomiting alone is believed to have more profound effects than Western medicine would grant it, and that the purgative actions of the plants are not limited to vomiting and diarrhea. Furthermore, the strengthening effects of the purgas when used, for example, by women recovering from childbirth, suggest processes of addition or contribution—for example, nutritional fortification—as opposed to the subtractive effects of purgation and the elimination of wastes and pollution.

In my conversations and interviews with the Kichwa regarding the purgas, I discovered some differences of opinion or of practice regarding very specific details as well as some areas of widespread agreement, all couched within a framework of surprising consistency. This is consistent with the published data on medicinal plants and diets in Chazuta (Sanz-Biset and

Cañigueral 2011, 2013; Sanz-Biset et al. 2009), in which a large number of sometimes idiosyncratic reports reveal a pattern of consistent practices. This variability and idiosyncrasy

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reveal not only the widespread versatility of these plants but also the absence of formal systematic analysis and record keeping.7 My discussion of the purgas will focus less on the specifics of each plant and its uses, and more on the overarching themes, in an attempt to distill from the data a pattern that reveals ethnographic reality.

Uses of the Purgas

Purgas are used by a wide variety of people and for a wide variety of reasons. A father may administer purgas to a son to help mend a broken leg. A man may self-administer purgas to become a better hunter. A médico may prescribe a purga to a teenager to help him or her focus on their schoolwork instead of their social life. Women take purgas to recover from childbirth.

Men take purgas prior to festivals to become better dancers. In Lamas, where ancestral hunting territories have been placed off limits in the Cordillera Escalera Regional Conservation Area and in the Cordillera Azul National Park, it is said that use of the purgas has almost entirely ceased, because hunting has almost entirely ceased. Likewise, in Sisa, it is said that the young people don’t take purgas—not only because they don’t hunt, but because the diets are too restrictive, as well as the fact that they are more interested in things like socializing and fashion. However, it is my sense that reports of the death of the purgas have been greatly exaggerated. Almost everyone

I talked to, both male and female, knew a little or a lot about the purgas, and most adults had taken one or more at least once in their lives. Likewise, I was told numerous times that women don’t use purgas—once by a woman who was, at the time, taking a purga to recover from childbirth. “Purga casera!” she clarified. Other women insisted that yes, they have taken purgas,

7 Several of the healers and experts with whom I have worked during the course of this project have expressed a desire to participate in the formation of some sort of coalition, or even a school or university, focusing on the rescue, revitalization, and ongoing examination of Amazonian plant medicines. However, people who have participated in such efforts or who are familiar with attempts to do so, in this region and elsewhere, all assert that envy and the threat of brujería tend to scuttle any attempt to organize shamanic practitioners.

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and they did so for the same reason that most men do: dolores del cuerpo (bodily aches and pains).

While the primary use of the purgas historically may have been in preparation for hunting, by far the most common use for them now is for musculoskeletal complaints, voiced in the language of arthritis, rheumatism, dolores del cuerpo, and broken bones. While these conditions are not culturally specific, it can be argued that for the Kichwa, they are exacerbated by social, historical, and economic conditions of inequality (Holmes 2013; Oths 1999, Scheper-

Hughes 1992), a condition that Scheper-Hughes and Lock (1998) call “the body politic.” These musculoskeletal complaints appear to be the result of a lifetime of hard labor on steep and mountainous terrain, often on increasingly impoverished soils that, in turn, require the use of synthetic agricultural products that increase Kichwa exposure to environmental illness as well.

One such form of environmental illness, acute pesticide poisoning, manifests as symptoms that are often read as brujería and treated with purgas such as ayahuasca. Therefore, the use of the purgas may be seen as a means of coping with the various manifestations of social and historical inequality and racism that have positioned the Kichwa at the bottom of the pyramid of social, economic, and political power.

Despite the decline of hunting among the Kichwa, the use of purgas as hunting medicine appears to remain emblematic of the purgas as a whole. Some of the plants used for hunting include uchu sanango, murku waska, nodillo, and ayahuasca (see Table 6-2 for botanical identifications). These also happen to be plants that are said to have animas and/or to have songs associated with them. The diet for hunting is very strict or “delicate” (delicado) according to some informants. One woman in Alto Huaja described her husband’s hunting diet to me: First he took murku waska, then after a week, uchu sanango: two liters of the purga prepared in water

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each day, three times a day, at 4 a.m., mid-day, and at night.8 He dieted from salt for one month and spent a total of three months in his shelter (tambo) on the mountaintop behind his house, a fifteen-minute walk from home, eating only foods that had been well cooled. He bathed using lemon juice instead of soap, which contains perfumes. It is said that when one performs the diet correctly, the effects of the purga last for years: It removes one’s smell so that the game animals aren’t scared away and instead are attracted to the hunter: “They come to see you, and you can kill them easily,” I was told. To the contrary, if one takes a purga and doesn’t diet, or diets poorly, the animal escapes. In addition to removing smell, the purgas make the hunter alert, and they remove his aches and pains so that he can move comfortably and quietly through the forest.

Since much hunting takes place in preparation for fiestas and other celebrations, the use of purgas in preparation for festivals is multivalent.

Another primary use of the purgas is to clean the stomach; this can be an end in itself, or a means to curing a more serious illness such as venganza or rheumatism. For example, ayahuasca is often used to clean the stomach, “[para] limpiar todo que es cochinada” (to clean everything that is dirty). Mama Elenita told me that when one’s stomach is sucio (dirty), it gets big; you can’t or don’t want to eat. “Vas a engordar cuando tomas ayahuasca,” she said to me

(You are going to get fat when you take ayahuasca). However, simple digestive problems and more serious issues such as venganza and rheumatism appear to be at opposite ends of the same spectrum of digestive disturbance. One person described venganza to me as “when your stomach really, really hurts.” Ayahuasca, whether administered for venganza or for a dirty stomach, is prepared and administered in the same way, and for the same reasons: to induce vomiting and

8 Two liters in water suggests that the purga was prepared by soaking the plant part in cold water. While I did witness this manner of preparing and taking plants, in this case, I did not elicit details on the method of preparation.

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diarrhea. Likewise, nodillo is administered as a remedy for rheumatism, and its action is the same: by inducing vomiting and diarrhea, it cleans the stomach. The stomach, I was told, is the root of the problem of rheumatism: “Este reumatismo agudo, te remate en el estomago” (This acute rheumatism, it ends in your stomach). The common use of purgas to clean the stomach reflects not only a high incidence of parasite and bacterial infections secondary to the use of unpurified water and the ingestion of unrefrigerated foods; it also reflects an awareness, both implicit and explicit, that many problems of both mental and physical health begin with the digestive system.

Chuchuawasha is by far the most frequently used purga; aguardiente (liquor distilled from sugar cane) flavored with chuchuwasha is a favorite recreational beverage. In this application—a weak alcohol-based extract—there is no diet required. Chuchuwasha is almost always mentioned in conjunction with bolaquiro; the two are so popular that they have been overharvested in some regions, with apparent localized extirpation. Figure 6-2 lists the common names of purgas and the frequency with which they were listed in the context of a discussion on the purgas (as opposed to casual conversation or a discussion of medicinal plants in general).

Table 6-2 lists tentative identifications for these species based primarily on the ethnobotanical survey of Chazuta performed by Sanz-Biset and colleagues (Sanz-Biset et al. 2009). Of note is that some species mentioned frequently in Lamas and Sisa were mentioned rarely or never in

Chazuta (c.f. tamborwaska, bolaquiro, indano). This may reflect local variations in the abundance or availability of species. This hypothesis is supported by the lack of overlap on both lists of big trees and lianas (plants that are more likely to grow in the forest or are otherwise non- domesticated), and the presence in both places of plants that can be grown in domestication or

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semi-domestication (e.g. ajo sacha). Also of interest is the use of the term “ayahuasca” to refer to two species of Aristolochia (Dutchman’s pipe), a genus generally considered poisonous.

Pharmacology and Potential Drug Interactions

The use of purgas is considered incompatible with Western medicine and pharmaceuticals.

Mama Belén asserted that taking ayahuasca while one is using pharmaceutical medicines can be fatal. Her assertion is consistent with the general academic and lay opinion that the concomitant use of ayahuasca and SSRI antidepressants (selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors) may result in a life-threatening condition known as “serotonin syndrome,” a condition in which initial symptoms mirror the effects of the ayahuasca itself (Callaway and Grob 1998). However, the

UDV has found preliminary evidence among its membership that users of SSRIs can take ayahuasca (Banisteriopsis caapi + Psychotria viridis) without adverse effect; they attribute this fact at least in part to the reversibility of ayahuasca’s pharmacological effects (Assis de Sousa

Lima and Tófoli 2011). However, the ingredients of ayahuasca as brewed in San Martín run a wide gamut and include a number of plants that, unlike P. viridis, are considered poisonous on their own (see Chapter 7). Furthermore, relative to B. caapi and P. viridis, the plants known as purgas have seen far less testing if any, especially to species level. The University of Florida

Mass Spectrometry Research and Education Center conducted several evaluations of a sample that I brought back from Peru containing an aqueous-alcoholic extract of chuchuwasha, bolaquiro, indano, and cocobola. Analysis reported the presence of at least 123 unique constituents, possibly many more; only about a dozen were readily identifiable using available databases. Of those constituents that were tentatively identifiable, most were contaminants

(plasticizers, a pesticide), primary plant products (lipids), and a few very common secondary compounds that may be medicinally or nutritionally bioactive.

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Figure 6-2. Common names of the purgas and the frequency with which they were mentioned in interviews with 17 Kichwa knowledge holders.

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Table 6-2. Tentative identification of the purgas based largely on Sanz-Biset et al. 2009. Items marked with * are from Sanz-Biset and Cañigueral 2011; those marked with ** are from IIAP 2010. The numbers in parentheses indicate the number of times each species was associated with the given common name. Purgas Tentative identification ajo sacha Mansoa alliacea (Bignoniaceae) (60) ajosquiro Gallesia integrifolia (Phytolaccaceae) (1) algarobbo Pithecellobium mathewsii (Fabaceae) (9) ama caspi n/a (may be same as ama sisa) ama sisa Erythrina cf. poeppigiana (Fabaceae) (1) ayahuasca Banisteriopsis caapi (Malpighiaceae) (38); Aristolochia pilosa (Aristolochiaceae) (2); Aristolochia sprucei (Aristolochiaceae) (2). bachuja See chullachaqui bobinzana Calliandra angustifolia (Fabaceae) (9) bolaquiro Schinopsis peruviana (Anacardiaceae) ** camé Clusia aff. palmicida (Clusiaceae) (3); Clusia aff. lineata (Clusiaceae) (1); Clusia sp.1 and 2 (Clusiaceae), (1 ea.). chilluwiki (as killuwiki) Tovomita foldatsii (Clusiaceae) (3); Tovomita carinata (Clusiaceae) (1); Tovomita cf. longifolia (Clusiaceae) (1) chimiqua Pseudolmedia laevis (Moraceae) (4) chiric sanango Brunfelsia grandiflora subsp. grandiflora (Solanaceae) (26) chonfiyo n/a chuchuwasha Maytenus aff. macrocarpa (Celastraceae) (86), Casearia sp. (Flacourtiaceae), (2). chullachaqui (As “chullachaki caspi” and “bachuja”) Tovomita aff. stylosa (Clusiaceae) (7); Tovomita brasiliensis (Clusiaceae) (1) clavohuasca Tynanthus polyanthus (Bignoniaceae) (4); Tynanthus villosus (Bignoniaceae) (4) cocobola n/a conjolí n/a curarina Potalia amara (Loganiaceae) (2) ginger Zingiber officinale (Zingiberaceae)** guayusa Piper callosum (Piperaceae) (8); Calyptranthes bipennis (Myrtaceae) (6) huayra caspi Carpotroche aff. longifolia (Flacourtiaceae) (2) indano Bunchosia armeniaca, Byrsonima spp. (Malpighiaceae)** jagua Genipa americana (Rubiaceae) (1) manchinga Brosimum alicastrum subsp. bolivarense (Moraceae) (2) miyu renaco (as "millwa renaco") Ficus trigona (Moraceae) (9) murkuwaska Rourea puberula (Connaraceae) (6);

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Table 6-2. Continued. Purgas Tentative identification nipaza n/a nodillo n/a ojé Ficus insipida subsp. insipida (Moraceae) (45); Ficus maximoides (Moraceae) (2); Ficus yoponensis (Moraceae) (2); Ficus macbridei (Moraceae) (1); Ficus eximia (Moraceae) (1) pan del arbol Artocarpus altilis (Moraceae)** (see also tamamuru) puka renaco Ficus nymphaeifolia (Moraceae) (1) puka waska n/a renaco Ficus spp. (Moraceae) renaquillo Ficus americana subsp. guianensis (Moraceae) (1) sanango n/a shillinto Callaeum antifebrile (Malpighiaceae) (5)* sueldo con Phthirusa stelis (Loranthaceae) (15); Psittacanthus cucullaris (Loranthaceae) (9) sueldo tamamuru (a.k.a. pan del arbol) Brosimum acutifolium (Moraceae)** tamborwaska Salacia cordata (Hippocrateaceae) (2) uchu sanango Tabernaemontana pandacaqui (Apocynaceae) (1); Tabernaemontana sananho (Apocynaceae) (1). wakra renaco Ficus caballina (Moraceae) (6) wasaí Euterpe oleracea (Arecaceae); Euterpe precatoria (Arecaceae)** wawniri waska n/a

Other Contraindications

Although there is some variability in opinion on this topic, it is commonly believed that people in poor health should not use purgas. In a forum discussion, a group of older men reported that when the body is weak, the purgas can make a person crazy. If one is strong, they said, they just make you drunk. The healer Braulio, likewise, reported that people suffering from an evil spell would become even sicker if they took a purga. At the same time, one informant explained to me that the strength of body and mind waxes and wanes with the moon; for that reason, purgas are ideally given before the changing of the moon (before the new moon) when the body is weak. Another contraindication for the use of purgas is Evangelicalism: The

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increasingly powerful Evangelical churches have banned the use of purgas for their members.

One man told me that because he converted to Evangelicalism he had quit taking the purgas; for that reason, he lives with pain in his body. Ironically, he said that he could take the purgas in aguardiente (generally considered a weaker form of preparation than an aqueous extract or decoction) but that this approach had its advantages and disadvantages—the greatest disadvantage being, of course, alcoholism.

Dosage and Timing

When I inquired about dosage, most people said “Oh, just a copita” or “medio-vasito”— just a little cup or half a glass. Sometimes they would show me the vessel they use, or indicate with their fingers the depth that the purga should be in the bottom of a glass. Based on these indications, I estimate dosage for the purgas to be in the range of ⅓ to ½ cup, or 80 to 125 ml. In comparison, in the U.S., when we take a medicinal tincture—an alcoholic-aqueous extract of a medicinal plant—we do so usually by the dropperful. One or two dropperfuls amounts to a fraction of a dose that the Kichwa are taking of purgas. Furthermore, given the opacity and oily appearance of the purgas that I have seen, and the intense taste and effects of the ones that I have tasted, the purgas appear to be much stronger than most of the common medicinal plants in the

U.S. herbal pharmacopoeia, herbs that in any case, correspond in use to the Kichwa’s remedios caseros, not to the purgas. Certainly the Kichwa sense that they are strong medicines, given the care with which they are administered and the injunction that taking them incorrectly can be fatal.

Purgas are usually taken very early in the morning: 3 a.m. is the most common time given. Occasionally, purgas are taken twice or three times a day. One médico with whom I worked took his purgas at 3 a.m. and 8 p.m. Once his body became accustomed to the medicine, he moved the early dosage to 1 a.m. When I was able to elicit a reason for the timing, it was

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usually explained that the purgas have to be taken on an empty stomach or they will not work.

However, given that the stomach is empty at other times of the day and night as well, I suspect there may be another tacit reason for the timing. In Chinese medicine, the body is said to operate in a daily rhythm in which the strength of the 12 organs rise and fall in two-hour increments. The liver, which is the organ responsible for detoxification, is at its peak strength between 1 a.m. and

3 a.m. (Focks 2008). Western medicine has likewise found that the body’s systems and organs operate in distinct circadian patterns, with potential significance for the timing of drug administration (a novel field of study known as “chronotherapy”) (Burki 2017; Krakowiak and

Durrington 2018). Western science has found that different organs operate on different clocks, and that the liver appears to be self-regulated according to diurnal rhythms of food intake (Burki

2017; Krakowiak and Durrington 2018; Pearson 2002; Storch et al. 2002).

There are some exceptions to this 3 a.m. rule. Ayahuasca, of course, is always taken in the evening. On the other hand, one female purguera told me that nodillo, a purga that has sometimes been identified as B. caapi (Waman Wasi 2016, although Sanz-Biset et al. found otherwise; see Table 6-2), is taken at 6 a.m. When I asked why, she answered, “Cada uno tiene su secreto.” Each one—each purga—has its secret.

The Diet

One thing that everyone can agree on is that the purgas taken in any form require a diet in order to ensure their safety and efficacy. The diet includes proscriptions on food as well as on behavior, and the proscriptions begin after the final dose of the purga is taken.9 The severity of the diet—the specifics of the proscriptions and their duration—depend on the severity of the

9 This timing is in contrast to the popular “ayahuasca diet” prescribed for tourists in the guise of Indigenous tradition, in which they are directed to consume a very specific diet, often excluding salt, in the days and weeks leading up to a retreat in order to purify their systems and ease the effects of the ayahuasca.

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illness or injury, the purga itself, and the means by which it is prepared. For example, according to one couple, when ayahuasca is taken to clean the stomach, the diet is only two months; however, when the same medicine is taken to cure venganza, the diet is six months.

Extracts in aguardiente are often used because the associated diet is less strict. To the contrary, purgas prepared in cold water (agua crudo) or decocted (boiled, strained, and then reduced through boiling) usually have a very strong diet associated with them. Except in the case of ayahuasca, which has a wider range of uses than the other purgas, aqueous extracts in both cold and hot water, and the associated dietary processes, appear to be reserved for serious injury, for preparing oneself for hunting, and for preparing oneself for shamanic practice. In Western herbal medicine, the rule of thumb for liquid extracts (tinctures) is to use a solvent that is 40–

60% alcohol and the rest water (Green 2000). Vodka, rum, and aguardiente all meet these requirements. The combination of water and alcohol ensures that all soluble constituents will be extracted, creating a more balanced medicine, while the high alcohol concentration serves as a preservative.

The most common restrictions when dieting a purga are manteca de chancho (pork fat) and sex. When I pressed a médico to explain why pork fat was bad, he answered, “Porque comen todo!” (Because they eat everything.) This reflects an understanding, either implicit or explicit, that toxic chemicals are widespread in the environment, and that where present, such chemicals will bioaccumulate in the fatty tissues of animals, especially larger and long-lived animals

(Alexander 1999; California Department of Fish and Wildlife 2001). The common injunction against eating chicken raised on a factory farm reflects the same thinking. This knowledge is reflected in the dietary practices of other Amazonian peoples as well; a study of mestizo dietary practices regarding fish found that the fish most commonly tabooed were those higher on the

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trophic ladder—and thus more prone to bioaccumulation of toxins (Begossi, Hanazaki, and

Ramos 2004).

Other restricted foods and drinks may include dairy, sweets (including sweet fruit and ripe plantains), gruesos (fats), cold food and drink (like ice cream), gaseosas (soda drinks), commercially farmed chicken, conservas (foods with preservatives), canned foods, chicha, masato, trago (liquor), beer, beef, and any type of comida ajena (literally foreign food, but referring to commercially prepared foods or other foods that are not comida típica—typical

Kichwa staples). Likewise, certain types of fish and wild game are forbidden while others, especially boquichica, are preferred. Many of these restrictions appear designed to eliminate sources of toxic chemicals in the diet, whether synthetic (such as food preservatives) or natural

(such as alcohol). The prohibition on cold food and drink reflects the Kichwa belief that such products cool the body and the digestion (te enfrian) and, therefore, dampen or weaken the digestion.

In the strictest diets, the shamanic diet, nothing is taken but one or two boiled or roasted green plantains per day. If nothing else, green plantains serve to keep the bowels moving, eliminating wastes and other toxins that may build up in the course of taking such strong and potentially toxic medicines.

One médico gave me the following list of proscriptions and prescriptions for dieting with a resin that is not a purga fuerte (strong purga) but that is intended for a serious illness:

• No condiments. No curcuma (turmeric), no ajó (garlic), no cebolla (onion). However, kión (ginger) is not a condiment—it’s a behetal, so kión can be eaten.

• No vegetables. Vegetables are too flexible and soft; they make you flexible and soft when you eat them. You need to eat foods that make you strong and upright. (He demonstrated this by moving his body side to side and wiggling to mimick vegetables, and then sitting erect with fists in a posture of strength.)

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• No ajo (garlic). It smells. But kión smells too, I said. “But it smells differently,” he responded.

• Beans? “No, hincha barriga.” They make the belly swell. Buspo poroto? “NO!”

• Coconut oil? “NO! That’s a grueso (fat).” But, I said, there’s oil and fat in pollo de chacra (chicken from the chacra). “Yes,” he responded, “but that’s natural. You can eat that. Pero manteca and aceite de palma hinchan la barriga. Malogran la dieta.” (But lard and palm oil make the belly swell. They ruin the diet.” Coconut oil? “Also.” Olive oil? “Also.” Butter? “Same. No gruesos.”

• No eggs.

• No sweets.

• No peanuts. “Hincha barriga.”

• No chocolate.

• No yuca. “Hincha barriga.”

• Boquichica yes. Boiled or salted. Grilled on the parilla (grill) yes, but not in the ashes. Eating food cooked in the ashes causes itching.

• Pollo de chacra, yes.

• Green plantains, yes. Boiled or roasted, but if they’re roasted in the ashes, they have to be roasted in their skin.

• No perfume. Perfume makes you vomit when you’re taking a purga.

• No potatoes.

The details of this exchange demonstrate the difficulty of identifying specific foods that are to be avoided. A particular difficulty in translational medicine is presented by a mutual lack of cultural competency, in this case with regard to food. A Kichwa chacrarero (farmer) may be unaware of the wide variety of foods available to a gringo eating at restaurants in Tarapoto; a prescribed diet of “no manteca, no sex” will fail to elucidate the variety of potentially dangerous foods and influences. Likewise, a gringo tourist probably won’t know that tacachos are made with green plantains mixed with pork fat—nor will it occur to them to ask. Even if they’re told not to eat

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buspo poroto, they may not know what that is. The common thread throughout all these details is this: Eat a simple diet of bland foods, ideally those that are grown on the farm. Comida conocida, as one man put it—familiar foods—as opposed to comida ajena—outside or uncommon food.

Organolepsis: The Property of Smell

One quality of tabooed substances that I heard mentioned numerous times was the quality of smell: things that smell are to be avoided while on dieta. Perfumes are commonly proscribed on diet; as noted above, perfume can make you vomit when you’re taking a purga. I found also that buspo poroto, a type of locally grown legume, is proscribed because it smells. Likewise, the reason given for avoiding garlic is that it smells. At the same time, things that are tabooed often smell bad. One man was dieting for the purposes of hunting. Toward the end of the diet he returned to the household and was offered some beans with pork in them. “Me huele feo!” he proclaimed (It smells terrible to me). A couple that I interviewed also told me that purgas prepared in agua crudo—cold or unboiled water—smell badly and for that reason should be avoided. This method of preparing purgas is also considered one of the strongest; it may be that the proscription suggested by this couple is meant to avoid the strongest (i.e. most potentially toxic) preparations. On the other hand, one of the benefits of taking purgas, especially for hunters, is that it removes a person’s smell.

In ethnobotanical studies, organoleptic properties (taste, smell, color) are often cited as an important means by which therapeutic plants are selected and categorized (Etkin 1988; Quinlan

2011; Shepard 2004; Waldstein and Adams 2006). Likewise, in the theoretical framework of chemical ecology, sensory perception is an important means by which humans select foods both for nutritive and non-nutritive (medicinal) properties (Johns 1999). In the case of foods and substances that smell, it is likely that smell indicates the presence of secondary compounds and other potentially toxic chemicals—or better put, compounds and chemicals that could be toxic to

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a body already burdened not only by the chemical constituents of the purga itself, but also by the metabolic wastes and exogenous forms of pollution that the purgas appear to be designed to eliminate.

Behavioral Proscriptions and Prescriptions

Along with pork fat, sex is the most commonly mentioned element proscribed in any diet.

In most cases, sex must be avoided for one to six months after a purga is taken. The next most common prohibitions are velorios—wakes or funerals—or any exposure, physical, visual or otherwise, to the dying or dead. Someone on a strong diet should not take the hand of, or be touched by, another person, and this is especially true if the person is a menstruating woman.

Likewise, someone on a strong diet should not eat food that has been prepared by a menstruating woman. The process of dieting a purga, especially a strong purga, leaves a person weak and tired, and staying home to rest is generally expected and desired. This is especially true if salt is not taken. In the case of very strong purgas, for example those taken in preparation for hunting or shamanic activity, seclusion in the chacra or in a hut in the woods is required, out of sight of other people and contaminating or harmful influences. The diets also vary according to purga: in the case of uchu sanango (uchu, Kichwa, hot pepper), “it’s diet is the cold,” I was told. One must not go out in the cold and one must not bathe (which would leave one cold).

On the other hand, one may protect oneself through the use of tobacco. While the sopla— blowing tobacco smoke—is a common technique of the shaman, it can be performed by anyone, including a layperson on him or herself. The benefit, according to Braulio, is that it keeps one’s enemies away. One should sopla oneself and one’s food before eating; one should also perform a sopla at dusk, when the bad energies and evil spirits (and mosquitoes) are likely to emerge.

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Breaking the Diet

Consequences for breaking the diet—for eating or doing something one isn’t supposed to—range from minor inconvenience to fatality. “Hincha tu barriga” (your belly swells) is a common phrase used to describe what happens if you eat the wrong thing. Some say the food goes bad in your stomach and creates gases. Others say that breaking the diet by having sex also causes bloating. “Malogra la dieta” is another phrase: It ruins the diet. The remedy for this problem can be simple: drinking some tea of canela doble (wild cinnamon bark) or taking a bit more of the same purga.

In some cases though, failing to mind one’s diet can have severe consequences.

According to Braulio, those who don’t “guard” the diet “salen malvados”—they come out wicked. “Para vengar a la gente, brujando a la gente, maleando a la gente…No está lindo. Te sufre.” They exact vengeance on people, they use brujería against them, they do evil things toward people. “It’s not pretty. You suffer,” he said. In his estimation, being or acting as a brujo can be the result of failing to mind the diet; it also is a state of unhappiness that leads one to hurt others in revenge for one’s suffering.

In other cases, failing to keep the diet can make one even sicker than they were before.

For alcoholics, for example, who take ayahuasca but fail to abstain from drinking during the subsequent six months of dieta, they become even more addicted to alcohol than before. While I was living in Lamas, there was an older man who wandered the road between our house and

Wayku, often selling bananas. I understood him to be mentally ill, or possibly developmentally disabled. Later, I found out that his condition was not juvenescent but had developed in adulthood as a result of a bad dieta. His brother, a curandero, told me that the man had taken a purga of ajo sacha but had failed to keep the subsequent diet. He began to drink ajo sacha regularly, as a drunk would drink alcohol, and his mental and physical health deteriorated. His

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family and the community did their best to look out for him, but shortly before I became acquainted with his family, he was run over by a car while lying in the road, and eventually died of his injuries.

La Borrachera

In addition to the acute and persistent medicinal effects of the purgas, one of their side effects, according to several informants, is that they cause a borrachera or mareación—a drunkenness or dizziness that is often and directly associated with a state of psychoactivity, often voiced in terms of sueños or dreams. Borrachera and mareación are the same words that are used to describe the visionary effects of ayahuasca; in a more vulgar sense, the word borrachera is also the drunkenness caused by excessive alcohol consumption (a borracho is a drunk or an alcoholic). Thus in the Kichwa system of ethnomedicine, the borrachera induced by the purgas is one of the clear links between mind and body.

It’s unclear if all the purgas have the capacity to cause sensations of intoxication in sufficient dosage, or if it is specific to certain plants. It appears that the former is the case, but that certain plants are more reliable producers of what biomedicine would consider psychoactive effects. These latter plants include ayahuasca, of course, but also nodillo and tomapende.10

The mareación or borrachera is often associated with the anima of a plant: its spirit or essence, sometimes referred to in terms of the madre or mother. Médicos or shamans use songs to call the anima, a process that has the potential—indeed, appears designed to—enliven the mareación, and in effect, to potentiate the efficacy of the purga in the body (see Chapter 8 for a full discussion of this theme). Furthermore, the qualities of the mareación may be attributed to

10 Tomapende is a solanaceous plant that was not mentioned as a purga in my interviews with the Kichwa, but that is used as such by some Kichwa and mestizo médicos in the region. Its use appears to have been imported to the region by Andean migrants; the plant was described to me as the king of plants, and the plant of Inca Atahualpa.

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the anima itself, as personal characteristics or as aspects of its agency. One woman described to me the anima of ayahuasca: It’s the sound of a chainsaw, and she heard it once when she took ayahuasca. “Así el ayahuasca bote su secreto” (That’s how the ayahuasca emits its secret).

“Didn’t you hear it when you took with Mama Belén?” she asked me. Her account bears remarkable similarity to that of a Pastaza Kichwa woman I interviewed once, who described the voice of ayahuasca by making a sound that I can only describe as that made by the blades of a helicopter in motion. This quality of sound appears to have been approximated by the quickly repetitive, almost vibrational, quality of the vocables in an icaro sung by Jacques Mabit, owner of the therapeutic center Takiwasi, whose primary training was with Lamista Kichwa shamans

(see Object 6-1).

Object 6-1. Icaro, Jacques Mabit, “Chiric Sanango.”

Although it appears that these two women are describing what biomedicine would consider an auditory hallucination, it appears that the Kichwa consider the animas of the plants to have agency and an independent ontological reality. The anima of nodillo is malignant, for example, and appears to be an entity encountered in the forest during hunting expeditions.

Likewise, the anima of bushiglla and bobinzana is said to be the sirena, or siren, a water spirit that comes during the mareación and teaches one to sing. In fact, it is in their role as teachers that the purgas manifest themselves most powerfully in the materiality and consciousness of the human realm.

The Purgas as Teacher Plants

In Kichwa culture, there appears to be a core association between knowledge and the ingestion of foods or substances. More than once I was asked if I knew how to eat something.

The word used was “saber,” which connotes knowledge or skill, as opposed to “conocer,” which also means “to know” but connotes familiarity with someone or something. The first time this

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occurred, I was asked if I knew how to eat boquichica (“Sabes comer boquichica?”). The question began to make sense to me as I tried to eat the extremely bony fish, given that separating flesh from bone required substantial skill. However, I was later asked on separate occasions if I knew how to eat beans and plantains, which, of course, require nothing more than the knowledge of moving hand to mouth.

This association between ingestion and knowledge reaches an apogee with the role of purgas as teacher plants (Tupper 2002; Wright 2009). Although the phenomenon of teacher plants is most often associated with shamanic practice or experimentation (Luna 1984a; Jauregui et al. 2011), amongst the Lamista Kichwa it appears to be common knowledge, perhaps due to the formerly common use of strong purgas as hunting medicine. Following is an excerpt from my conversation with a group of older male musicians, whom I was interviewing about their songs.

Them: En los sueños ya te enseñan las cosas. (In the dreams [the purgas] teach you things.)

Me: Pero estes canciones vienen desde sus abuelos, no? No son de sus sueños. (But these songs come from your grandfathers, right? They aren’t from your dreams.)

Them: De los abuelos, sí. Antes. (From the grandfathers, yes. Before.)

Me: Que aprenden durante los sueños? (What do you learn during the dreams?)

Remijio: En los suenos se ven ilusión de las purgas, pues. Illusión a diferentes cosas verse. (In the dreams are seen illusions of the purgas, then. Illusions of different things are seen.)

Eleasar: Te hace mareado. Te emborracha. Ahí ya ves unas cosas. Que animales, que dibujos sale, ahí presentan, pues. (It makes you dizzy. It makes you drunk. There you see things. What animals, what drawings come out, they present [themselves] there.) (Interview, Los Chuchuwasheros, May 28, 2018)11

11 Los Chuchuwasheros is a band of four elder musicians who play traditional fife-and-drum music at the festivals in Lamas, in contrast to the more contemporary chicha-type music that the younger generation play during the same festivals. I met with them formally on two occasions to record their festival songs and interview them as a group. I also met formally and informally with three of them on other occasions. The musicians are Eleasar Salas Sangama, Remijio Guerra Sangama, Misael Amasifuen Sangama, and Alejandro Amasifuen Sangama.

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The testimony of these elders clarifies that the visionary and didactic properties of the purgas are not to be divorced from their more vulgar, embodied aspects—indeed, they are one and the same.

The same themes are repeated in the process of shamanic apprenticeship, or the use of purgas to prepare oneself for shamanic practice. Shamanic practice is dangerous not only for the threat of brujería but also for the exposure to pathogens and other sources of illness that occurs during the therapeutic encounter. To protect themselves, shamanic apprentices spend long months, sometimes years, performing very strict diets with purgas. The custom in San Martín is to diet for a minimum of 1½ to 2 years, although in the low country, the apprenticeship can last much longer. During these strict diets, the purga te apega (it sticks to you), te entra (it enters into you), or se pone (it gets in). When it does so, it presents itself in the form of dreams, an anima, or a song. Said Braulio:

Cuando se toma ya, cuando ya sabes la medicina, el anima ya te presenta. Cuando es en tu cuerpo te apegado ya los purgas, ya hace soñar ya. Los animas de las plantas, su, sus icaras. (When you’ve taken it, when you already know the medicine, the anima presents itself. When it’s in your body, the purgas have stuck themselves to you, they make you dream. The animas of the plants, their icaros.) (Interview, Braulio Sinarahua Salas, June 26, 2018)

The purgas are said to enter and “stick in” the body through the yachay, or phlegm. In biomedical terms, the ingestion of strong and potentially toxic substances appears to stimulate the formation or secretion of protective phlegm. The Kichwa refer to this phlegm as “yachay”—a term that translates directly as “knowledge.”

Interviewer: Pero cómo apega en tu cuerpo ese yachay de la purga? (But how does this yachay of the purga stick in your body?)

Braulio: De la flema ya pues apega. De la purga su flema queda ir en tu cuerpo ya. (It sticks in the phlegm. The phlegm of the purga stays in your body.) (Interview, Braulio Sinarahua Salas, August 3, 2017)

Thus the phlegm induced by the ingestion of the purga is considered an embodiment of the knowledge conferred by the anima of the plant. This knowledge is not simply an intellectual

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product, although it does have that aspect. The idea of yachay also connotes skill, inspiration, and physical strength and protection.

The purgas are believed to protect the shaman by strengthening his or her body, purifying and strengthening the blood, making the body resistant to attack. When he decided to pursue medicine, don Salvador took 15 purgas over the course of a year and a half. I asked him how each one was different. “Cada uno me dieron su proteccion,” he said: Each one gave me its protection. For example, “el chuchuwasha complicado con el bolaquiro son rojo; fortalece tu sangre,” he said, “para que no te pega cualquier enfermedad.” (Chuchuwasha mixed with bolaquiro is red; it strengthens the blood so that no sickness can stick to you.)

At the same time, this process confers both knowledge and skill. Again, don Salvador:

DS: Bueno, yo aprendí mediante el ayahuasca, que me indicábame. (Well, I learned through the ayahuasca, that indicated to me.)

Me: El ayahuasca no mas? (Just ayahuasca?)

DS: No, yo tomo otros palos también. (No, I took other palos also.)

Me: Otros palos? (Other palos?)

DS: Algunos palos he tomado. Yo tomé ama caspi, tomaba la manchinga, huayra caspi, chuchuwasha, bolaquiro, mucha monton…De ahí aprendí. Cuando ya tomé ya pues, ahora me toca, pues, hacer remedio. Yo tomo simple ayahuasca así aprender eso. Las mismas purgas nos enseñan. Las mismas purgas ...ahí en sus sueños. Cuando usted tomas, tu vas a aprender de pulso…Que enfermedad que hay ahí. Qué venganza hay ahí? (Some palos I have taken, I took ama caspi, I took manchinga, huayra caspi, chuchuwasha, bolaquiro, a ton…From that I learned. When I took like that, now it’s up to me to make the remedy. I took ayahuasca by itself like that to learn that. The purgas themselves teach us…there in your dreams. When you take, you learn to pulse. [You learn to tell] what sickness there is here. What venganza is there here?) (Interview, Salvador Fasabi Fasabi, November 5, 2018)

He reports that the purgas taught him many things: how to diagnose and cure anemia, rheumatism, mal aire, intestinal infection, interior fever, saladerra (bad luck), and infertility.

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They taught him how to check people’s pulses, and they taught him how to suck illness out of the body (chupar).

However, this knowledge and skill is not solely intellectual but is an embodied knowledge (McCallum 1996). When don Salvador took the purgas, they told him:

Tu vas a curar mediante tu purga que te sueña. Ese sueña te va durar para todo tu vida. Tu vas a tener una duración hasta 90 años. (You are going to cure by way of the purga that makes you dream. That dream will last you for your whole life. You are going to live for 90 years.) (Interview, Salvador Fasabi Fasabi, November 5, 2018)

His story has echoes of transubstantiation and the agency and personhood of plants:

Por camé, me dió, ‘Tu has tomado a mi cuerpo,’ me dice, no? ‘Tu vas tomar a mi cuerpo, para curar tu cuerpo, proteccion de tu cuerpo, y sepas que enfermedad tienes esa persona. No vas a ser mentiroso.’ (For camé, it told me, ‘You have taken of my body,’ it told me, no? ‘You are going to take of my body, to cure your body, protection of your body, and that you may know which sickness that person has. You will not be a liar.’) (Interview, Salvador Fasabi Fasabi, November 5, 2018)

Given the importance of faith in shamanic healing, the messages offered by the animas of the plants have the potential to confer a healing power in and of themselves, coming as they do from a quasi-divine or supernatural source, but one whose efficacy is proven on the material plane as well. Don Salvador again:

Bueno, yo empezo a ser una persona curioso curandero, tomando el ayahuasca. Donde el ayahuasca, yo tomé, tomé, me indicó, ‘Tú vas a ser una persona que curas personas para sanarlo. Dales vida. Dales amor. Dales cariño.’ (Well, I began to be a person interested in healing, [by] taking ayahuasca. Where the ayahuasca, I took [it, and] it indicated to me that ‘You are going to be a person who cures people to heal them. To give them life. To give them love. To give them caring.’) (Interview, Salvador Fasabi Fasabi, November 5, 2018)

The ability to trace one’s personal fortitude and healing power to a supernatural or quasi-divine source is equivalent to a claim to divine authority. The subjective nature of these messages means that they cannot be contested. The proof of one’s power lies in one’s efficacy as a healer.

In this regard, the efficacy of the plants themselves is clearly an advantage. However, shamanic

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healing relies heavily on the placebo effect as well. A healer who is convinced of his own powers, and whose personal health and fortitude are unassailable due to his own dieting with the purgas, has a good chance of convincing his patients that he can help them—and in the act of convincing them, perform the healing itself.

The use of the word “sueño” in these accounts must be examined. While the word translates as “dream,” it is clear from these testimonies that the dream state to which these men refer is not a standard nighttime dream that occurs in one’s sleep, but the dreamlike state induced by the intoxication and continued action of these strong plants. One might also call it a visionary state, although the term “visionary” must also be parsed. There are really two aspects of what many people call visions: One is the visual aspect of the experience—the colorful lights, patterns, and discrete beings or scenes that are often attributed to classic hallucinogens such as

DMT and LSD—and the other is a more interior, emotional, and intellectual process of insight, revelation, and discovery that takes place when the brain is stimulated in unique ways by the actions of strong plants and substances. These two aspects of “vision” are not necessarily unique or independent, although the visual aspect appears to be heightened by the use of DMT- containing admixture plants in ayahuasca. Nevertheless, what is clear from the testimonies regarding the purgas is that these visionary states, or sueños, are not restricted to the effects induced by ayahuasca, neither the vine itself (B. caapi) much less the DMT-containing brews that are prevalent today but that are not currently common among the Kichwa of San Martín. To the contrary, the sueños or visionary states can be produced by a number of purgas.

On the other hand, an overemphasis on the visual or visionary effects of ayahuasca or other purgas would fail to detect one of the more important aspects of the beliefs surrounding these plants: that they have voices. In particular, ayahuasca appears to have a uniquely powerful

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relationship with the sonic world including music. While many of the other purgas are said to have “their” songs, it was very difficult to solicit and record performances of specific songs associated with these plants. To the contrary, the musical tradition associated with ayahuasca is alive and well. Chapter 7 presents an ethnography of contemporary ayahuasca practice among the Lamista Kichwa, and Chapter 8 delves into the music and songs of ayahuasca and the other purgas in greater detail.

Conclusion

The non-formalized and decentralized nature of Kichwa ethnomedicine has produced a set of practices that, when examined in granular detail, can appear idiosyncratic and contradictory. Nevertheless, when viewed as a whole, a pattern emerges that represents a coherent worldview and a medical system that is both place-based and culturally relevant.

Furthermore, an examination of Kichwa ethnomedicine involves questions that are central to medical anthropology and critical medical anthropology including the socio-ecological constitution of the body; the unity of mind, body, and spirit; the nature of culture-bound syndromes; and the relationship between health and health practices and socio-historical forms of inequity (Lock 1993; Lock and Nguyen 2010; McCallum 1996; Scheper-Hughes and Lock 1998;

Singer 1990; Singer and Baer 2018). Following are some conclusions that we can deduce from the data.

First, the purgas are a classic example of the Paracelsian axiom that any given substance can be either a medicine or a poison, depending on the dose (Timbrell 2009). Likewise, in

Chinese medicine, the word for poison is the same as the word for medicine (Yue and Liu 2019).

The languages of the lowland Kichwa peoples reflect this reality: The word ampi (sometimes ambi in Ecuador) is defined either as poison or as poison and medicine; the verb (ampiy, ampina, ambichina) is defined as “to cure” (Doherty et al. 2007; Orr and Wrisley 1981; Wise 2002). In

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the case of the purgas, the intoxicating action can give rise to a visionary borrachera or mareación; they can activate the body’s own healing or depurative processes (Sanz-Biset and

Cañigueral 2013); or they can cause damage or even kill. Because of the potential toxicity of the purgas, care must be taken not to overburden the patient’s ability to withstand the effects of the medicine and to effectively process and eliminate the constituents of the purga as well as the endogenous wastes and exogenous pollution that the purgas appear to eliminate. This notion is reflected in the warning that sick or weak people should not take the purgas.

In line with the theoretical framework of human chemical ecology, the dietary practices associated with the purgas, including proscriptions on both food and behavior, appear to constitute a cultural technology for mediating the toxicity of strong medicinal plants (Johns

1990, 1999; Waldstein and Adams 2006). The diet appears designed to reduce the body’s metabolic burden so that the organs can better process the potentially toxic constituents of the medicine. This includes avoidance of perfumes, which can contain numerous toxic chemicals

(Sarantis et al. 2010). The mystery, however, is: Why does the diet start after the last of the medicine has been taken—even when it can take a month of daily doses to consume the full complement? As partial explanation, it is said that the plants continue to work in the body long after they are ingested; the sometimes-lengthy post-purga diet not only helps them to do their work, but it also protects the patient from negative side effects, as enumerated above. However, this doesn’t explain why the diet starts with the last dose of medicine rather than the first. Since there appears to be some inconsistency with regard to this rule, further research may elaborate if certain plants or mixtures are treated differently, or if the differential indicates other variables.

The use of the purgas and their accompanying dietary practices, especially the salt proscription, induce a state of liminality that can leave the patient physically, psychically, and

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spiritually vulnerable. Certain aspects of the dieta, especially the behavioral proscriptions, appear designed to protect the patient during this period of liminality or vulnerability. The ritual surrounding the use of some of these purgas, primarily ayahuasca, is likewise a technology used to manage the liminality induced by the ingestion of the plants.

Overall, Kichwa ethnomedicine is a sophisticated product of Indigenous science, many tenets of which are reflected in the practices and theories of Chinese medicine and, increasingly, the findings of biomedicine. One such tenet is the central role played by the digestive system in numerous areas of health and wellbeing, including mental and emotional health. The purgas in particular represent a system of medicine that reflects the unity of mind, body, and spirit, and the interconnectedness of the individual with his or her wider community: human, natural, and supernatural. Through the basest of bodily functions, the purgas can repair rifts in the social fabric, instill knowledge of a divine quality, or open portals into a world of supernatural beings and divine inspiration.

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CHAPTER 7 AYAHUASCA AND SHAMANISM AMONG THE KICHWA OF SAN MARTÍN

Ayahuasca is just one of the many plants known as purgas by the Kichwa of San Martin.

In the broader international milieu, ayahuasca is most commonly defined as a liana,

Banisteriopsis caapi, but also the brew made from that vine mixed with the leaf of a plant known as chacruna, or Psychotria viridis. B. caapi contains the alkaloids harmine and harmaline that are in a class called monoamine-oxidase inhibitors (MAOIs) (McKenna, Towers, and Abbott

1984). Monoamine oxidase (MAO) is an enzyme in the human gut that serves to break down neurotransmitters and other endogenous molecules, including the neurotransmitters serotonin and dopamine, imbalances of which are implicated in mental illnesses including depression. By inhibiting the action of monoamine oxidase, MAOIs serve to elevate the levels of these neurotransmitters in the body. In pharmaceutical medicine, for that reason, MAOIs were historically used as antidepressants before the advent of more modern drugs. On the other hand,

P. viridis contains a constituent known as DMT, or dimethyltryptamine. DMT is found in various non-human sources, both plant and animal (Ott 1993; Rätsch 2005). However, it is also produced in various organs of the healthy human body including the lungs, the brain, and the placenta, where it appears to serve a role in modulating the immune system and inhibiting inflammation (Frecska, Szabo, and Bokor 2014; Szabo 2015; Szabo et al. 2014). When taken in sufficient quantities (intravenously or smoked), it also serves as a potent psychoactive, producing intense visionary effects that can be fearsome as well as sublime, according to reports (Strassman

2001). When ingested orally, DMT is readily broken down by MAO in the human gut—unless it is ingested in combination with an MAOI such as the chemicals in B. caapi (Riba et al. 2015).

For that reason, ayahuasca is sometimes known in the lay press as “orally active DMT.”

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This chapter, as we will see, complicates that definition. This chapter interrogates the origins and meaning of the words “chacruna” and “purga” with relation to ayahuasca, and it introduces new and previously unreported admixture plants. It resituates the plant, the brew, and the practices around them within the framework of Kichwa ethnomedicine, culture, and history, while also examining the impact of politics, economy, and history on local forms of shamanism, a practice that has too often been reduced to symbolism and performativity without regard to its place in the concrete realities of Indigenous life. It concludes with a reflection on the union of the sacred and profane that appears to be an important component of Kichwa shamanism, a theme that will be further explored in Chapter 8.

The Geography of Shamanism and of Shamanic Knowledge

As noted in Chapter 1, the Lamista Kichwa have had an outsized impact on the development of global forms of ayahuasca use. However, within the regional and national setting, Sisa, Lamas, and Chazuta have all enjoyed infamy as sites where powerful healers and brujos (witches) could be found (see Figures 2-1 and 3-1 for maps of the region). Some reports, both oral and written, say that the healers of Sisa and Chazuta were the most powerful, others that Lamas was the seat of the most powerful brujos. “Sisa is known as ‘the land of the curanderos,’” said one informant. “People go there from the lowlands to get cured.” Others noted that people from the highlands—Rioja, Moyobamba, and Saposoa—came to Sisa to get cured, and if they couldn’t obtain healing in Sisa, they went to Lamas. In Bruce Lamb’s book Rio Tigre and Beyond he includes a chapter titled “Men of Chazuta,” in which he notes the widespread infamy of Chazutinos as hechiceros (sorcerers) (1985).1

1 The story’s protagonist, however, finds the men of Chazuta to be unskilled in the use of ayahuasca as he knows it, from his training in the lowlands.

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Aside from the question of where the most powerful brujos lived, Lamas, Chazuta, and

Sisa are each characterized by unique socio-political and geographic dynamics that have affected the state of shamanism there and, in turn, the prevalence and character of ayahuasca’s use. In

Lamas, there are few healers left. Two of those with whom I hoped to work during my fieldwork died before I got to meet them, leaving behind no apprentices. During my time in Lamas, the association between shamanism and brujería appeared to be strong, and some potential informants looked askance at me when I inquired about curanderos (healers) and the purgas, or simply declined to discuss the topic. According to numerous reports, including published sources and oral testimony, the Kichwa of Lamas have also historically been associated with battle and warfare—whether the internecine battles of Santa Rosa, the luchada (ritualized fights) of

Carnaval, or the role of the Lamista as soldiers for the colonial and, later, Peruvian armies in their expeditions against other Indigenous groups. In the battles of Santa Rosa and of Carnaval, the practice of brujería is, or was historically, explicit (Scazzocchio 1979; Starn, Degregori, and

Kirk 2005). More generally, the martial aspects of Lamista culture are well known. These two aspects of Lamista culture, fighting and brujería, were likely mutually reinforcing practices that appear to have contributed to the decline in shamanism in and around Lamas, probably through actual deaths as well as through the increasing distaste for violence of various kinds, especially as the Evangelical Christian churches have increased their sway in the region. Another factor contributing to the decline in shamanic practice is the cessation of hunting and the subsequent decline in the use of purgas as hunting medicine. In 2005, the Cordillera Escalera Regional

Conservation Area was formed; since then, the Kichwa of Lamas district have been denied access to their hunting territories. Now, hunting is almost unknown in the district, with grave

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repercussions for the maintenance of Indigenous forest-based knowledge and practice (Elguera

Solar 2017).

In Sisa, the large number of migrants from the highlands, known as serranos, have created a context of shamanic pluralism. Healers from the highlands introduced new paraphernalia and practices including the use of tobacco snuff, maracas, and altars (mesas).

However, lacking the highland plants to which they were accustomed, they either learned to use lowland plants that are similar to what they already knew, or they made substitutions— substituting ayahuasca for the psychoactive San Pedro cactus, for example, which is commonly used in the Andes. Sisa still has an active population of shamanic healers—I found the term

“médico” to be most useful in my search there—although a good number of them are mestizo, and there were very few Indigenous healers who used song or music in their practice. Indigenous medicine in Sisa appears to have been largely unaltered by migrant shamanic forms, at least for the healers with whom I worked. The current wave of global ayahuasca tourism is virtually unknown in Sisa, although the global movement is a direct outgrowth of the type of medical tourism and shamanic professionalism that historically brought patients to Sisa from all over northeastern Peru. Shamanism in Sisa was not treated with the suspicion that I experienced in

Lamas. Healers of all kinds were more than willing to discuss their practices with me, and members of the general public with whom I spoke were glad to discuss the subject and refer me to people they’d heard of.

Chazuta, finally, is by all accounts home to the largest number of, and most powerful, healers. It has also been heavily impacted by global ayahuasca tourism, which rendered it, for financial reasons if none other, a difficult place for me to work. Chazuta’s geographic location is strategic economically as well as shamanically: Just below the last major rapids on the Huallaga,

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Chazuta is the farthest upstream port on the navigable Huallaga and a gateway between the lowlands and the highlands. Shamanically, people of Chazuta and nearby communities have access to the spirits or energies of the large lowland rivers as well as the montaña and the cerro, the mountain peaks. One of the characteristics of lowland shamanism that is found in Chazuta is the ability of the shaman to live and travel underwater. A mestizo man from Sisa told me of going to see a curandero in his childhood. This curandero, a Chazutino Kichwa, was rumored to be able to jump in the quebrada Huaja, which joins the Rio Sisa just above the town of Sisa, and appear in Chazuta, just like that; to travel overland, at the time, took six days.

It is no coincidence that Lamas, Chazuta, and Sisa are the centers of shamanic power in

San Martin, as they are also the centers of Kichwa culture, population, and commerce. While it’s true that the process of shamanic apprenticeship requires long periods of isolation in the forest and the taking of plants, the practice of shamanism, and the business of it, tends to take place in the population centers. In most cases with which I am familiar, practicing médicos will maintain a home in town, where they live full or part time and where they receive potential clients. Some médicos bring patients to their chacra for ceremonies, especially if they are going to treat someone for a more difficult problem that requires a series of tomas (ayahuasca sessions or ceremonies, literally, “takings”). However, other médicos—arguably, those with a more vibrant business—perform ceremonies right there in town in their kitchen or living room, on regular and predetermined nights of the week.

In addition to the three main cities, however, there were a couple of other towns that appeared on my list of médicos that I wanted to meet, specifically San Miguel del Rio Mayo and

Shapaja. I didn’t understand the significance of these locales until I began learning more about historic routes of trade and travel. Until the highway was built to Sisa, San Miguel del Rio Mayo

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was the main stopover point for cargueros and other travelers who were bound for Sisa on foot via mountain trails. Similarly, Shapaja is the last town on the navigable middle Huallaga, before the large rapids that bar the way to Chazuta. During the era in which Kichwa balseros (raft operators) transported cotton and other goods to Iquitos, they stopped in Shapaja to build a bigger raft for the larger, more turbulent section of river that they were about to enter. After an incident occurred in which a group of balseros was assassinated and their cargo stolen by thieves, goods were floated only as far as Shapaja, where a cotton processing plant was built and from where processed cotton was transported to market by plane.

Historically, then, San Miguel and Shapaja were both important nodes in the network of commerce and travel that crisscrossed San Martín and that carried not only goods and money but also news and knowledge—especially shamanic knowledge. The importance of trade and travel for the accumulation of shamanic knowledge, including in pre-contact times, has been well documented (Barbira-Freedman 2014; Church 2006; Lathrap 1973; Oberem 1974; Whitten

1976). Despite the obsession in neo-shamanic circles with shamanic “lineage,” a concept drawn from Eastern religions referring to the vertical transmission of spiritual knowledge from teacher to student, shamanic knowledge in the context of contemporary Amazonian shamanism should be seen as the product of a network of intra- and inter-ethnic encounters (Barbira-Freedman

2002). In addition to being a business, shamanism is also the application of knowledge—and the most knowledgeable médicos are the ones who, through traveling and through working with others who travel, have been exposed to a wider range of practices and a larger body of knowledge. Those who study with only one or two people, such as a father or uncle, are known as curiosos: They experiment with the purgas, they know a little bit or maybe even a lot, they take the purgas themselves for hunting or other purposes, maybe they even serve one or two

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purgas to community members or the public who need healing, but they are not considered healers. However, because of their relative isolation, the curiosos are an important source for autochthonous forms of Indigenous knowledge.

Traveling to learn and traveling to heal are both important and overlapping modes of shamanic exchange, and the extent of one’s travels indicate a shaman’s power or perceived power. Apprenticing médicos may travel specifically for the purpose of performing dietas with renowned shamans in other regions. However, experienced médicos also travel to perform ceremonies afar. Regarding the latter, my informants would often recite the long list of all the places that a given shaman has traveled to work: Sisa, Lamas, Tarapoto, Yurimaguas, Pucallpa,

Iquitos, Lima—and the list might go on. Traveling, therefore, is a customary and historic practice that has reached an apogee in the climate of globalized shamanism, with Amazonian ayahuasqueros traveling to all corners of the globe to perform ceremonies.

The Uses of Ayahuasca

Among the Kichwa of San Martín, ayahuasca is used both by healing specialists

(médicos) as well as by non-specialists (purgueros, curiosos) as one of the many purgas that comprise an important part of Kichwa ethnomedical practice (see Table 7-1 for a list of uses). In both lay and scholarly sources the term la purga is often provided as a synonym for ayahuasca.

However, the limitation of that term to one plant (B. caapi) or combination of plants (B. caapi +

P. viridis) appears to be an artifact of studying ayahuasca in isolation from the greater ethnomedical context. The error also may have a linguistic component, as “la purga” appears to be widely used in a synecdochic sense. I was sitting in the Tarapoto airport one time when a

Peruvian woman struck up a conversation with me, asking me what I was doing in the area. I told her I had been to meet with Aquilino Chujandama. “Tomaste la purga?” she asked me—“Did you take the purga?” Whereas don Aquilino is known to gringo tourists as an ayahuasquero, he

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is even more well known among the regional Peruvian population as a médico who serves numerous purgative and medicinal plants. Thus the term “la purga” may be used as a categorical noun in addition to a specific one. Furthermore, “la purga,” as noted in Chapter 6, may refer to a mixture of plants as opposed to a preparation of a single one.

As a medicine, one of the primary uses of ayahuasca both now and in the past is for the treatment of alcoholism. I asked Mama Belén who her patients had been.

Me: Quienes eran sus pacientes? …La gente que venían para tomar ayahuasca, quienes eran? …Por qué venían? Estaban enfermos? (Who were your patients? The people who came to take ayahuasca, who were they? Why did they come? Were they sick?

MB: Bueno, no, loco eran! (Well no, they were crazy!)

Me: Loco? Como? (Crazy? How?)

MB: Loco tomando ese trago, querrían matar a sus mujeres, a sus padres le querrían pegar. Aha.…A ese ayahuasca tomando, ahí se regla. Aha. Ya no son igual, yeah. Ya no. Tomando ayahuasca, ya no son así. Ya no viven buena vida con sus papa, con sus mujeres. Quieren matar a sus mujeres, quieren matar a sus padres. Pero haber que tomas ese ayahuasca, de ahí ya no. … Ya no. Con esa tomando, todita le botan. Sus cochinadas. (Crazy from drinking that liquor, they wanted to kill their wives, they wanted to beat their parents. Uh-huh. [But after] taking ayahuasca, then they were straightened out. Uh-huh. They weren’t the same after that. Ya no. Taking ayahuasca, they weren’t like that any more. [Before] they didn’t live well with their father, with their wives. They wanted to kill their wives, they wanted to kill their parents. But having taken that ayahuasca, after that, no more…With that taking [of ayahuasca], they threw it all up. Their filth.)

Me: Los cochinadas que...? (The filth that…?)

MB: Los brebajes pues. Con eso botan eso toditu. Botando ese cochinado, ya viven tranquilo pues. (Well, the drink of course. With that [ayahuasca] they threw it all up. Vomiting up all that nasty stuff, then they lived in peace.) (Interview, Belén Salas Tapullima, October 20, 2018)

In describing her patients, who were likely both mestizo and Kichwa,2 Mama Belén went so far as to suggest that they had used machetes and axes (hacha) to attack or kill their loved ones. The

2 Scazzocchio (1979) noted the frequency with which mestizo patients sought out Kichwa shamans.

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use of machetes to injure and kill is not unheard of in the region and has in fact been documented for the past as well as for contemporary times, in both domestic and public settings (Descola

1996; Huaman and de Pribyl 2012; Rubenstein 2002). Nevertheless, if this sort of violent alcoholism were as prevalent as she implied, it would explain the tolerance with which the San

Martín populace received, at least initially, the “almost puritanical order” imposed by Sendero

Luminoso, two elements of which were the elimination of drug abuse and spousal abuse (Graves

1992). Don Salvador likewise indicated that he had much experience treating those who were

“loco”—"trastornado la mente,” or disturbed in the mind, he said—but he also asserted that the true cause of the problem was alcoholism: “Es que toman mucho de ese cañaza” (It’s that they drink a lot of that liquor).

Table 7-1. Uses of ayahuasca among the Kichwa of San Martín, now and in recent history. Cleaning the stomach Stimulant “Reglar la mente” (to regulate the mind) To treat the following: alcoholism drug addiction “asuntos de la mente” (mental issues) lethargy stomach pains and digestive ailments anemia domestic violence brujería (witchcraft) mal de gente (the badness of people) venganza (envy) excess cold in the body infertility problems with learning, concentrating, thinking clearly

Although the Kichwa with whom I spoke tended to mention the abuse of alcohol as a primary reason for the use of ayahuasca, it is reasonable to presume that cocaine abuse—or more precisely, the addiction to cocaine paste (pasto), which was widely available in the region during the coca boom—was implicitly folded into this category of addiction. Certainly the use of

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ayahuasca and the other purgas to treat cocaine addiction was common in the region during the time. Jacques Mabit, who arrived in San Martín in the 1980s to study traditional medicine, reports that young Indigenous men who found themselves addicted as a result of working in the industry would go to traditional curanderos to break themselves of the addiction. His observation of this practice led to his realization that the use of mind-altering substances in and of itself was not the problem and in fact could be “extremely curative” (Mabit 2004, 2). It was also part of the inspiration that led to his founding a center for the treatment of drug addiction using ayahuasca and other purgas.

Among the Kichwa, the other primary use of ayahuasca is to “clean the stomach” through vomiting (the evacuation of the stomach proper) as well as diarrhea (the evacuation of the intestines, possibly the liver and gall bladder as well). Cleaning the stomach can be an end in itself, as parasites and digestive problems are common in a culture where drinking untreated water is the norm and where the lack of refrigeration often leads to the ingestion of spoiled foods. The use of ayahuasca to clean the stomach also explains its use to treat anemia, a condition that is often secondary to parasitic infection and that is endemic in the region.

Furthermore, it is consistent with the hypothesis that ayahuasca originated as a treatment for intestinal parasites and that the psychoactive effects—which, it turns out, are common in anti- parasitic drugs including the cinchona-based preparations used to treat malaria—served as a dosage indicator (Rodriguez, Cavin, and West 1982). However the process of “cleaning the stomach”—in other words, the act of vomiting—is integral to healing other illnesses as well, both biological and psycho-spiritual. For example, as Mama Belén pointed out, vomiting is integral to the treatment of alcohol addiction. Plant-induced ritual vomiting is common throughout the Amazon and appears to have been common throughout the Americas in the past

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(Beyer 2009; Cepek 2012; Crown et al. 2012; Goldman 1981; Kuikuro et al. 2004; Spruce 1908), for reasons that include treatment of illness and the maintenance of health, strength and vigor. As noted in Chapter 6, the digestive system plays an important role in a wide range of somatic, emotional, and mental processes. Thus it is not surprising that ayahuasca, as both a psychoactive and somatically active medicine, has such a wide range of uses—and that the act of vomiting appears to be central to so many of them. Indeed, this phenomenon is not unique to the Kichwa.

Among some groups, ayahuasca is called kamarampi—literally, “vomit medicine” (Johnson

2003; Shepard 2014).

As has been noted in numerous publications covering other ethnic and regional variations of ayahuasca practice (Beyer 2009; Dobkin de Rios 1971, 1981; Dobkin de Rios and Rumrrill

2008; Luna 1984b, 1986; Luna and Amaringo 1999; Scazzocchio 1979), ayahuasca is also used, either directly (through ingestion by the patient) or indirectly (through the intervention of a healer who has taken it), to treat culture bound syndromes such as venganza, when a person has become the object of another person’s envy; mal de gente, an illness caused by the evil wishes of another person; and brujería, a more general term indicating the work of a shamanic specialist, often on behalf of a client. Some of my sources, however, indicated that brujería is currently rare, since “all the brujos have died.” Whether or not a patient in such circumstances will take ayahuasca appears to depend on how sick they are: Very sick people do not take ayahuasca or other purgas, and their healing depends, instead, on finding a healer who can take the ayahuasca and work on their behalf.

When taken directly, ayahuasca is considered a warming medicine. In Lamista ethnomedicine, cold is associated with illness and malfunction; heat is largely associated with health and vigor. Therefore, ayahuasca is indicated for illnesses or conditions that have coldness

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at their root. One example of this is infertility, either male or female. By heating up the body and instilling strength and vigor, ayahuasca is said to make it possible for a woman to conceive. In contrast, for illnesses that have excess heat at their root, ayahuasca is said to be contraindicated.

An example of this is the culture-bound syndrome pulsario, the main symptom of which is a hard and pulsating knot in the solar plexus. Besides the vomiting caused by ayahuasca, the introduction of additional heat to the abdomen is said to be contraindicated. This analysis of ayahuasca as a warming medicine indicates the melding of European humoral medicine with traditional Amazonian medicine, yet one more example of the many ways in which Amazonian healers have innovated over the centuries, adapting their practice to changing circumstances and incorporating new forms of knowledge.

Finally, ayahuasca is used to treat all manner of emotional and mental imbalances—

“asuntos de la mente,” as one man put it, or matters of the mind. This use of ayahuasca to treat psychological issues is not new for the Kichwa and appears to pre-date the psychologization of ayahuasca that has accompanied its globalization and the move toward psychedelic-assisted psychotherapy in the West. In 1982, ethnobotanist Timothy Plowman collected a specimen of B. caapi that he called ayahuasca rosada, or “pink ayahuasca.” In the notes about the plant, he wrote, “The curanderos of the Huallaga River use the knowledge of the stem to cure mental illnesses; it is also hallucinogenic” (Plowman 1982). One curandero whom I interviewed used the phrase “regla la mente”: It regulates or rules the mind. The verb reglar means to regulate, as in to control or supervise, but also has connotations of order, governorship, and predictability: the noun regla refers to a ruler (as in mathematical measurement) as well as period (as in menstruation). Etymologically the term is related to rey, or king. Another curandero with whom I worked, don Salvador, said that he treated a teenage boy whose father had brought him. The boy

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was having trouble in school, making bad grades, smoking drugs, and getting into trouble. After drinking ayahuasca, don Salvador said, the boy’s mind became stronger, he became more interested in school, and he was able to focus better. He went on to a career working with computers. The new daughter-in-law of the same curandero described to me her experience when she came to live with him and began drinking ayahuasca. Previously, she had had very limited literacy. She could figure out the words on the page, but she was wrong a lot and she couldn’t understand what she was reading. Her mind just didn’t have the capacity for it, she said. After taking ayahuasca three times with her new father-in-law, however, she could read very well, she said. “It cleans the brain,” he explained. Likewise, she told me, she had been a very jealous wife.

However, after taking ayahuasca, she was able to communicate better with her husband and live tranquilly with him and his family.

Various studies have been performed to assess the effects of ayahuasca from biomedical, neurological, and psychological points of view. One brain-imaging study showed increased blood flow to areas of the brain associated with interoception, emotion, decision-making, and the processing of memories as well as of potential threats (Bouso et al. 2017; Riba et al. 2006). A different imaging study showed decreased activity in structures of the brain that comprise a group known as the default mode network (DMN) (Palhano-Fontes et al. 2015). Increases in

DMN activity are associated with schizophrenia, depression, Parkinson’s disease, and social phobia, whereas decreases are associated with hypnosis and meditation, but also Alzheimer’s and autism. At the same time, multiple studies in both animals and humans have shown that ayahuasca is effective in ameliorating feelings of depression, and that unlike pharmaceutical treatments, it does so without delay (Bouso et al. 2017; dos Santos et al. 2016; Osório et al. 2015;

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Sanches et al. 2016). One study showed increased blood perfusion in areas of the brain related to the regulation of mood and emotions (Sanches et al. 2016).

The import of these results, and their relationship to the ethnographic reports mentioned above, should not be overestimated: The biomedicine of ayahuasca is in its early stages and is readily confounded by non-biological factors such as set and setting. Furthermore, much of the biomedicine of ayahuasca assumes that DMT plays a central role in the brew’s effects, which may make these studies less relevant in situations where DMT is not a major ingredient. On the other hand, the link between ayahuasca and antidepressant activity is relatively well supported by available evidence. Furthermore, the fact that multiple studies showed increased blood perfusion to various areas of the brain, and at least one showed no significant decreases, seems consistent, from a non-medically trained point of view, with ethnographic reports that ayahuasca “cleans” or

“wakes up” the brain. In any case, the balance of biomedical evidence supports the overwhelming ethnographic and observational evidence that ayahuasca can be a powerful tool for managing various forms of mental and emotional distress and illness. Exactly how that works neurologically remains to be seen.

Of particular interest with regard to the above-cited studies is the finding that ayahuasca increases interoception. Interoception refers to the perception of internal bodily states and includes a faculty known as visceroception, the perception of sensations or signals arising from the internal organs (Cameron 2001; Craig 2002). This finding could explain, at least in part, the repeated reports both in this study and elsewhere that ayahuasca is a teacher plant, even the master teacher (Barbira-Freedman 1999; Beyer 2009; Luna 1984a; Tupper 2002; Wright 2009).

Repeated and intentional use could endow the user with an exceptional awareness of bodily states that could inform one’s understanding of health- and disease-related processes.

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Furthermore, this heightened awareness could be applied toward understanding the properties of other medicinal plants, which are often used in conjunction with ayahuasca in the process of shamanic apprenticeship. In such cases, other plants may be used as additional admixtures in the brew, or they may be taken in alternation with ayahuasca (different days). Jauregui and colleagues report that in the Ucayali region of Peru, ayahuasca (B. caapi + P. viridis) as well as other visionary plants are taken specifically for the purposes of increasing the apprentice’s sensitivity and intuition, and “to guide the initiates along their path of introspection” (Jauregui et al. 2011, 747).

Increased faculties of interoception, however, do not fully explain the role that ayahuasca appears to play as a “master teacher plant.” For example, don Salvador reports that ayahuasca explicitly “told” him which plants he should take and in which order, so that he could learn to cure, which it also told him he would do.

Me: Y cómo sabía cual planta que debes tomar primeramente, y cual planta debe seguir? (And how did you know which plant you should take first, and which plant should follow?)

DS: Este sabía cuando yo tomé ayahuasca. Ello me decía, ‘Vas a tomar esto.’ (I knew this when I took ayahuasca. It told me, ‘You are going to take this one.’) (Interview, Salvador Fasabi Fasabi, November 5, 2018)

Again we are faced with the fact that for the Kichwa, plants are enlivened by spiritual beings that have the relational, expressive, and agentive faculties of personhood. The independent consciousness attributed to other-than-human beings that inhabit the Kichwa landscape cannot easily be reduced to the biological properties of plants but entails questions of culture and enculturation.

Who Needs a Shaman?

Not only is ayahuasca used for a wide range of applications, but it’s also used in a wide range of settings, including as a home remedy and stimulant medicine. A group of men told me

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about rising early—3 or 4 a.m.—and taking ayahuasca to go out walking. “No te sientes nada!” they exclaimed (You don’t feel anything!). I was afraid that I had misunderstood, but they insisted that yes, they take ayahuasca and go out walking. However, it’s unclear exactly what preparation of ayahuasca is used for this purpose, whether it’s a multi-plant decoction such as that used for healing (unlikely), a simple aqueous or alcoholic extract such as is often used for the other purgas, or just chewing on a piece of the stem, a practice I’ve witnessed as well. This use of ayahuasca as a stimulant is not unique; the Piaroa of southern Venezuela use B. caapi for both a stimulant and hunting aid, among other applications (Rodd 2008).

In addition, families with knowledge of purgas (which are many) may use ayahuasca as a home remedy. One woman told me that when she was young, she didn’t want to get up early.3

Her mother and father boiled up some ayahuasca and gave it to her to remedy their daughter’s lethargy. Barbira-Freedman writes that the Lamista continue to initiate young men into adulthood “with the intake of psychotropic brews (Ayahuasca or Toe) with tobacco juice and the smoking of large cigars” (2002, 144). While this may have been the case until the recent past, I did not observe it. Instead, everyone with whom I spoke about the subject said that young people do not want to use the purgas at all; they are more interested in fancy clothes, motocarros and youth culture than they are in the diets that the purgas, including ayahuasca, require.

In contrast to these non-specialist uses, there is a class of healers who serve ayahuasca in a ceremonial setting consistent with what has been recorded in other areas of the Western

Amazon. Among the Kichwa, the main term that is used for these specialists is “médico.” Some mestizo people use the word naturista. The word “shaman,” rarely heard in an Indigenous setting, tends to refer to someone who serves ayahuasca to tourists; these practitioners may be

3 The day starts early in a Kichwa household, often well before dawn.

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considered charlatans or, at the very least, not true healers, by the local populace. Médicos are distinguished primarily by their use of song to work with the anima of the plants. I asked one man who serves ayahuasca if he sings. “No, only médicos do that, to work with the anima. I don’t work with the anima.” Some médicos also practice chupando, or sucking, to remove illnesses and brujería. They have (ideally) undertaken an extended apprenticeship of dietas and may have also worked as assistants to other curanderos, helping to prepare the ayahuasca, caring for patients during ceremony, and sometimes helping to sing. I worked with one ayahuasquero who had trained with a well-known maestro (master or teacher) but who had refused to do the dietas that would protect him. It did not seem coincidental that he spent an inordinate amount of time fending off bad energies and agents of brujería in his life, as well as treating a wound on his leg that he attributed to brujería.

Intermediate between highly trained curanderos and those who have a family knowledge—curiosos, as they are often called—are a class of people who serve ayahuasca and other purgas. The term used here is convitar, meaning to cook and serve a given purga.4 For example, “Don Werrín convite ayahuasca y conjolí, pero no canta.” (Don Werrín cooks and serves ayahuasca and conjolí but he doesn’t sing.) Invitar is also used, with what appears to be a slightly different connotation: “Doña Girmeliz no me ha invitado tomar tomapende pero su hijo, sí.” (DoñaGirmeliz hasn’t invited me to take tomapende but her son has.) Usually a given person will specialize in one or two purgas, sometimes more if they are very knowledgeable. In the case of ayahuasca, I met a few practitioners who serve ayahuasca in their homes to those who come complaining of an appropriate malady. These practitioners do not create a ceremonial space, and

4 The formal Spanish word is convidar, but in San Martín the word is pronounced with a “t” in place of the “d,” and is conjugated as an -er verb—thus “convite” instead of “convida.”

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they do not sing. They simply prepare the purga, serve it, and provide a setting where the process can take place. Once the acute effects wear off, the patient may rest a while before returning home, usually with the help of a family member who has accompanied him or her. These semi- specialists serve ayahuasca for the same reasons that a specialist would: to clean the stomach, to cure alcoholism, to cure venganza, and so forth. They may even have some techniques at hand for mitigating the effects of the ayahuasca if it becomes too strong. The big difference between them and the curanderos is that they don’t sing and therefore, they don’t work with the anima of the plant.

This use of ayahuasca in more informal settings and without a highly trained shaman or curandero who manages the experience through singing is a finding of direct relevance to debates taking place in the global ayahuasca community, where many people are eager to experiment with ayahuasca on their own. However, it should be noted that the use of P. viridis, the DMT-containing plant usually referred to as chacruna, appears to be unknown among traditional Kichwa practitioners and purgueros (those who use and/or serve purgas). Among lowland and commercial practitioners who do use chacruna, they attribute to it the more visual effects of ayahuasca. It is said that the visions are already present due to the vine (B. caapi), but that adding chacruna is like shining a flashlight into the darkness (Luna and Amaringo 1999).

However, the use of DMT has also been associated with fearsome and potentially psychologically destabilizing visions and experiences (Strassman 2001). The curiosos and purgueros of San Martín who serve ayahuasca in their homes are not dealing with this level of psychological intensity and potential destabilization.

La Borrachera

The lack of DMT-containing admixtures in most of the brews served in San Martín does not mean that the beverage is weak or inferior. For one thing, it appears to serve its intended

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purpose quite well, or people wouldn’t still be using it. Furthermore, the Kichwa themselves are of the opinion that the ayahuasca served regionally is quite intoxicating. For that reason, many are reluctant to use it, and in all cases, they insist on the presence of a caretaker—someone to assist the patient in getting to the bathroom, in keeping track of their puke bucket, and in getting home or to bed at the end of the night. When I was trying to plan a ceremony with Mama Belén, we couldn’t find anyone to take care of me. I insisted, against everyone’s protests, that I would be okay alone; I’ve had lots of experience and I’ve almost never needed help. I certainly didn’t expect to need help after drinking a brew that didn’t even have DMT in it.

As it turns out, I was okay—but barely. Having misplaced my headlamp, my water bottle, and my toilet paper, trying to wrestle open the door without waking anyone, making my way in the moonlight down the steep hill to the makeshift pit toilet, and then struggling to balance over the hole—let’s just say it was an adventure. The effects of her brew and of the others that I drank in San Martín were quite strong—much more like drunkenness in fact than the effects caused by brews made with P. viridis. The brew tends to be watery but is served in much larger quantities. I once attended a ceremony where I had to drink three relatively large huingo-cups full of ayahuasca, or what amounted to almost two pints. However, once a threshold dose is achieved, the effects are powerful and long-lasting: vomiting and diarrhea, of course, which pass once relieved; persistent low-grade nausea in some cases, without vomiting; and strong dizziness and ataxia upon standing and walking, which makes the experience somewhat dangerous in its own right. Furthermore, contrary to the popular discourse that all visionary and visual effects are the result of the DMT in chacruna, the visions are exactly as Indigenous takers have described to me:

It’s like watching a movie, or watching television: you see people of all kinds —“marronitos, negros, todos” (brown people, black people, everyone)—but mostly just people.

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The most common term used among the Kichwa for the effects of ayahuasca and other strong purgas is borrachera, literally “drunkenness.” Another word used is mareación, related to the verb marear: to make dizzy, confused, drunk, light-headed, sick, or queasy, and to the adjective mareado: seasick. The borrachera is central to the efficacy of ayahuasca as a medicine, as a tool for teaching or learning, and as a vehicle for song. Within the borrachera, the animas of the plants present themselves. Said Braulio: “Así como en television? Así presentan ellos.” You know like on television? That’s how they present themselves.” And when the animas come, they bring songs. “Cuando mareas, bien borrachito, los canciones más levantan.” When you are mareado, really drunk, the songs arise better. This is the case with or without admixture plants.

While the borrachera may cause visions—sueños, or dreams—in any taker, it seems that the plant spirits themselves appear only to those who are learning medicine and who have taken sufficient purgas.

Cuando se toma ya, cuando ya sabes la medicina, el anima ya te presenta. Cuando es en tu cuerpo te apegado ya los purgas, ya hace soñar ya, los animas de las plantas, su icaro…Cuando quieres aprender para medicina, a ellos le hace ofrecen. [When it’s taken, once you know the medicine, the anima presents itself to you. When the purgas have gotten into your body (apegar, literally, attached themselves), it makes you dream, the animas of the plants, their icaro, when you want to learn the medicine, the anima offers itself to you.] (Interview, Braulio Sinarahua Salas, June 26, 2018)

The Lamista Kichwa are not alone in describing various altered states of consciousness with the term drunkenness, and in conflating drunkenness with the acquisition or accumulation of knowledge. Among the Napo Runa (Kichwa of the Napo River in Ecuador), the states produced by ayahuasca and toë as well as aguardiente and masato are described with the term machashca, drunk, and the drunkenness produced by aguardiente can be considered a shamanic state of consciousness (Uzendoski 2005). Uzendoski writes, “In Runa society drunken states,

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although often leading to destructive consequences, are generally seen as positive, a means of attaining knowledge” (Uzendoski, 2005, 141).

Chacruna

Although P. viridis appears to be unknown in the contemporary shamanism of the

Kichwa of San Martín, in other words, shamanism performed for the sake of other Kichwa and

Peruvian mestizo people as opposed to gringo tourists, Kichwa médicos or curanderos do use a variety of admixture plants.5 Some of these plants are well known in the ayahuasca literature but others appear to be newly documented here. What is equally interesting is the term used for the admixture: chacruna. In San Martín Kichwa, the infinitive form of the verb “to mix” is chakruy

(Doherty et al. 2007). The suffix “-na” turns the verb into a noun: mixture. Among the non- commercial healers with whom I worked, all use the term “chacruna” to refer to the set of plants that they add to their ayahuasca. For example:

Me: “Do you use chacruna?”

Braulio: “Yes, I use bushiglla, sanango, bobinzana, and tobacco.”

Or Mama Belén: “This is my chacruna: ishanga, patiquina, and shañol.”

This use of the term “chacruna” as a generic noun is not limited to the Kichwa of San Martin. A mestizo curandero that I interviewed, who was living at the time in a remote Kichwa community, indicated that where he’s from (Requena, in the lowlands near Iquitos), the term “chacruna” refers to toë, or Brugmansia suaveolens, a highly toxic plant in the nightshade family that is often added in small doses to increase the visual effects of ayahuasca. Gayle Highpine, linguist and independent researcher, was the first scholar to interrogate the term “chacruna.” In an article titled “Unraveling the Mystery of the Origin of Ayahuasca” (2012), she touches on the fact that

5 P. viridis is known and used by commercial Kichwa ayahuasqueros in Chazuta. I don’t know if it is used by non- commercial Kichwa healers in or around Chazuta, because I wasn’t able to make contact with any.

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the word “chacruna” comes from the Kichwa verb “to mix” and notes that among the Napo Runa

(the Kichwa of the upper Napo River in Ecuador), the word “chacruna” often refers to plants other than P. viridis (2012, 8 footnote 5). It would appear that somewhere—in time or in geographic space—in the process of cultural diffusion and the sharing of plant knowledge, the categorical term “chacruna” became fused with its most popular exemplar, P. viridis.

For Highpine, this generic use of the word “chacruna” supports her argument that contemporary ayahuasca shamanism has its origins on the Napo, from where it spread south and downriver toward Iquitos then up the Ucayali River to Pucallpa and beyond. However, in the variety of Kichwa spoken by the Napo Runa, the verb “to mix” is masana, not chacruna

(Swanson and Andi 2013). Elsewhere in the Ecuadorian Oriente, the verb is “masana” or chapuna, and the noun “mixture” is “chapu, chapurishka, or chapushka” (Orr and Wrisley 1981;

Wise 2002). Note the grammatical differences: In the northern lowland-Quechua languages, the infinitive ending is “-na.” In San Martín Kichwa, the infinitive ending is “-y,” e.g., “chacru-y”

(to mix). To make a noun, we drop the -y and add -na: chacruna, or mixture. Using Highpine’s own logic, it would seem that the word “chacruna” comes from the Lamista Kichwa. Given that traditional Kichwa curanderos of the montaña don’t use P. viridis nor do they seem aware of its existence—despite the fact that mestizo and commercial Kichwa shamans of the area grow it and use it—it appears that the term, and its use as a collective noun to refer to the plants used as admixture, were carried out of San Martín prior to the encounter with P. viridis. The term came to refer to the more important admixture plants used in different areas: in the Napo, chaliponga and chagroponga (usually Diplopterys cabrerana) (Highpine 2012); on the Ucayali, toë (B. suaveolens) (Mestizo curandero, personal communication, 2015); and among the Iquitos,

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Dieffenbachia spp.: “The primary admixture plants for Banisteriopsis caapi in San Antonio are

Dieffenbachia (called m+ +m’++ti in Iquito or ‘chacruna’ in Spanish)” (Jernigan 2011, 9).

“Chacruna” was already used to refer to P. viridis before the founding of the UDV in the

1960s; in the UDV, P. viridis is known as chacrona and plays a central role not only in the sacramental brew but also in the mythology. The term and plant also spread, together, south along the Ucayali and up the Urubamba, where by 1960 their use had been incorporated by the

Urubamba River populations of the Matsigenka people (Shepard 2014). They in turn introduced it to more isolated populations of the Matsigenka, who adopted a different name for the leaf, reflecting its origin relative to their knowledge: Urubamba-leaf (Shepard 2014).

My suspicion is that the generic term “chacruna,” referring to any admixture, was exported early, perhaps with the expeditions or migrations of San Martín Kichwa who made their way to Ecuador either during the years of the Jesuit salt trade or during the post-Jesuit expansion out of San Martín. The close association of the term with P. viridis came much later, perhaps during the later years of the Rubber Boom when so much of contemporary ayahuasca culture appears to have developed (Brabec 2011; Gow 1994; Shepard 2014). However, when and where

P. viridis was first incorporated into ayahuasca culture remains a mystery. It probably didn’t occur on the Napo, where D. cabrerana, often known as yaji, appears to be more common—or where often, no DMT-containing admixture is used at all. And given that chacruna is much safer and much more effective for producing visions than toë is, the fact that the use of toë continues in the Iquitos and Pucallpa areas suggests that the adoption of P. viridis is still relatively new there as well, or at least, newer than the use of toë. The use of the term “chacruna” to refer to toë supports this conclusion. Further support for this conclusion comes from the fact that

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historically, curanderos from San Martín have traveled to Pucallpa to apprentice as shamans; they did not bring chacruna back with them—or at least, not all of them did, if any.

Admixture Plants

Of great interest is the unique variety of admixture plants that I was able to record. A couple of them have only been recorded once or twice as ayahuasca admixtures, and some are known to be quite poisonous, either in the scientific literature, among the Kichwa themselves, or both. Description and discussion of each plant follows below. Initial identifications, usually to genus, were crowd-sourced via the Facebook botany group FacePlant. Species-level identification and confirmation were made or attempted by reviewing taxonomic keys and online herbaria samples (tropicos.org; gbif.org; Neotropical Plant Portal; Taxonomic Name Resolution

Service) and through personal communication with expert botanists. In addition, both binomials and common names were checked against the literature to determine feasibility of a correct identification, and previously recorded uses. In all cases but one, photo vouchers of non-fertile specimens were used for identification.

Table 7-2. Six healers, their location, and their ayahuasca admixtures. Location of healer Ayahuasca admixtures Mama Belén, El Dorado Shañol, ishanga, patiquina don Salvador, El Dorado Yagé don Aquilino, San Martín Chacruna don Braulio, Lamas Bushiglla, bobinzana, chiric sanango, tobacco don Werrín and doña Luanith, El Dorado Tobacco smoke, added to finished product don Eduardo and doña Silvita, El Dorado (no admixture)

In some cases, plants are so common ecologically or so well known as medicinal plants that identification is certain. However, in other cases, the plant is not well known or the species usually associated with the common name does not match the voucher specimen. In those cases, species-level identification is contingent upon further investigation. Follow-up research will include a botanical collecting expedition to San Martín, particularly El Dorado province.

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Excellent ethnobotanical research exists for Chazuta, but information on Lamas and El Dorado appears to be limited to this publication and one paper by Barbira-Freedman (2002).

Bushiglla

Bushiglla (Zygia longifolia), a leguminous tree with an unusual leaf structure, is common in the region (see Figure 7-1). It grows on the banks of fast-moving rivers and streams, where it plays an important role in controlling erosion (Julian D. P. Franco, personal communication,

2018). One Kichwa informant told me that it was considered a poison. Because of its close ecological association with fast-moving water, it is said that the anima of this plant is the sirena, a mythological or spiritual figure that is also associated with water (see Chapter 8 for a full discussion of the sirena). Because of its close association with water, bushiglla is also associated with emotion. Just as its strong roots keep the tree from being swept away by powerful floods, taking the plant is believed to impart the same quality to a patient.

Along with the other admixtures, the entire bark (epidermis and cortex) is added early to the ayahuasca brew and boiled for several hours. In Chazuta, where it is known as shimbillu, Z. longifolia is prepared in multiple ways: as an admixture to ayahuasca, in a decoction with other plants, macerated in rum, and macerated in water. It is used to treat broken bones, rheumatism, inguineal hernia, and lumbago, and to serve as a postpartum tonic and general health tonic (Sanz-

Biset and Cañigueral 2011, 2013; Sanz-Biset et al. 2009). The Shuar eat the seed pulp and the

Ingano of Colombia make a decoction of the bark for malaria (Bennett and Husby 2008; Schultes and Raffauf 1990). It is also considered useful in Costa Rica for medicine, reforestation, and environmental conservation (Contreras Arias and Campregher 2010; Jorquera, Luz, and Brenes

2019). In Chazuta, as well as among the Coreguaje of Colombia, Z. longifolia was among the most valued medicinal plants (Sanz-Biset and Cañigueral 2011; Sanz-Biset et al. 2009; Trujillo-

C. and Correa-Múnera 2010). Sanz-Biset and Cañigueral (2011) write that of the 100 species in

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the Zygia genus, none have been biologically or chemically studied. Despite the apparent utility of this plant, and its importance where it is known, the above mentioned studies appear to be the only places where Z. longifolia appears in the literature on ethnomedicine; the only other place where it appears as an admixture to ayahuasca is in Chazuta. The use of Zygia longifolia as an ayahuasca admixture is a unique finding.

Patiquina

Another very unusual finding is the use of patiquina, or Dieffenbachia sp., as an ayahuasca admixture (see Figure 7-1). The folk taxon “patiquina” is broad and encompasses species and cultivars across multiple genera of the aroid family (Araceae). Throughout the

Western Amazon, patiquina is associated with witchcraft, its cause or cure (Daly and Shepard

2019; Kawa 2012; Luna 1986; Luziatelli et al. 2010; Odonne et al. 2013; Rätsch and Müller-

Ebeling 2013; Tananta Yahuarcani 2014). In the Amazon, species of Dieffenbachia may also be used for insect and snake bites, fungal infections, rheumatism, toothache, and respiratory illnesses, and as an abortifacient (Daly and Shepard 2019; IIAP 2010; Luziatelli et al. 2010;

Miliken, Albert, and Goodwin 1999; Naranjo and Escaleras 1995). Rarely, Dieffenbachia is reported as an aphrodisiac (Rätsch and Müller-Ebeling 2013; Tananta Yahuarcani 2014), and

Rätsch (2005) notes that the very common tropical houseplant D. seguine is an ingredient in zombie poison. Suprisingly, given the prevalence of the genus throughout San Martín, Sanz-

Biset’s comprehensive studies of Chazuta ethnomedicine mention Dieffenbachia only once, applied to the skin as a remedy for cattle ulcers (Sanz-Biset et al. 2009). Dieffenbachia was also used in the West Indies as an ingredient in blowgun-dart poison (Cheney 1931). For her ayahuasca, Mama Belén used the stem of the plant, having removed the leaves and root.

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Figure 7-1. Ayahuasca and its admixtures. From top left, a young leaf of the bushiglla (Zygia longifolia) tree (A); cortezas of bushiglla, ready to be added to the ayahuasca (B); Mama Belén, washing patiquina (C); and filtering and storing the finished product (D).

Patiquina and Dieffenbachia are both widely considered poisonous. Dieffenbachia is presumed to be the most poisonous of the aroids (Arditti and Rodriguez 1982). Calcium oxalate crystals in the plant tissue can cause contact dermatitis if introduced to the skin, although it appears that the plant contains numerous potentially toxic constituents (Arditti and Rodriguez

1982; Evans 2009). As one of the most common houseplants, Dieffenbachia is often provided as an example of potential poisoning in the home (Alamgir 2017). Given its toxicity, the use of

Dieffenbachia sp. as an ayahuasca admixture is, unsurprisingly, rare. Jernigan (2011), who recorded the use of Dieffenbachia as “chacruna” among the Iquitos, notes that he was able to locate only one other reference in the literature to Dieffenbachia as an ayahuasca admixture

(Lopez Vinatea 2000). I was unable to locate others.

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The specimen of patiquina that I recorded has not been identified to species level. I sent photo vouchers to Thomas Croat, leading expert in the Araceae family (Croat 2004, 2015). He responded that it was almost certainly not D. seguine, as I’d thought. “I would assume that you are likely dealing with an unpublished new species since there are so many of these” in South

America, he wrote (Croat, personal communication, 2019).

Ishanga

Like patiquina, ishanga (known as chini in Ecuador) is a folk taxon that includes species from multiple genera. The specimen that I examined is a very large non-woody herb, reaching over six feet tall, and quite formidable with thorns and stinging hairs (see Figure 7-2). The leaves are large and lobed, which leads me to identify it as Urera laciniata (Urticaceae) (Monro and

Rodríguez 2009), although many herbarium specimens and photo vouchers for this species show leaves that are much more deeply lobed, often with toothed margins. It appears that this may be the first record of ishanga as an ayahuasca admixture. Whereas database searches for the co- occurrence of the terms “Zygia longifolia” and “ayahuasca” netted six results, the same search for the terms “ishanga, ishanka or Urera” and “ayahuasca” netted 92. I reviewed over three dozen of these papers and several other reference books, and rejected at least a dozen other search results as irrelevant; in no case was Urera or ishanga mentioned in direct connection with ayahuasca.

Like its analog in the global North, stinging nettle, ishanga in all its variants is widely useful. One of the better-known uses of ishanga is to treat rheumatism and arthritis: a small branch of the plant is beat gently against the affected body part to reduce pain and inflammation

(Sanz-Biset et al. 2009). It is said that when pain from rheumatism is present, the treatment is non-painful. Ishanga (Urera spp.) is also used to treat menstrual pain and irregularity, stomachache, diabetes, lung problems, tumors, cystitis, high blood pressure, bad circulation, and

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aches and pains throughout the body (IIAP 2010; Schultes and Raffauf 1990). U. laciniata is used to treat aches and pains, to stop bleeding, and to regulate the menses (IIAP 2010; Sanz-

Biset et al. 2009). Odonne and colleagues write that the Shawi use U. laciniata to address fever and lactation (perhaps to stimulate lactation?) by “lashing [the patient] with branches on the painfull [sic] area or the breasts” (Odonne et al. 2013, 145). It is also used to punish misbehaving children and livestock (Bennett, Baker, and Gómez 2002; Schultes and Raffauf 1990; Doherty et al. 2007). Also like patiquina, one of the species known as ishanga is an ingredient in zombie poison (Rätsch 2005).

Shañol

Patiquina, ishanga, and a third plant known as shañol (see Figure 8-2) are the three admixtures that Mama Belén uses in her ayahuasca; she refers to the admixture plants as “sus hermanitas”—the sisters of ayahuasca, who help him do his job. The use of shañol, widely known throughout Peru as “mucura,” as an admixture has been previously documented, although it is uncommon (McKenna, Luna, and Towers 1986; Rätsch 2005; Sanz-Biset et al. 2009).

Shañol, or Petiveria alliaceae (Phytolaccaceae), is believed to have properties both magical and medical. It is commonly used in baths to cure saladerra (bad luck). Domínguez writes that mucura “helps to clear the mind and find the path, it also functions as an energetic protector against any kind of attack or curse by a brujo or evildoer” [translation mine] (2018, 80). Sanz-

Biset and colleagues write that in Chazuta, it is used in baths to “invigorate body tone and

‘strengthen the espiritu’ (soul)” (Sanz-Biset et al. 2009, 357 note f). The same study found that

P. alliaceae was not only one of the most useful plants but was also among those species with the widest variety of uses; it shared this distinction with ajo sacha (Mansoa alliaceae), sangre de grado (Croton draconoides), and cashew (Anacardium occidentale). P. alliaceae is used to treat headache and fever secondary to the flu, rheumatism, gastrointestinal discomfort, bronchitis, and

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sprains (Sanz-Biset et al. 2009). The Shawi use it to treat abdominal pain and fever secondary to malaria, diarrhea, and “mal aire,” a culture-bound syndrome that is common throughout the

Amazon but is not the same as malaria (Odonne et al. 2013). P. alliaceae is also an ingredient in the antidote to zombie poison (Davis 1983).

Figure 7-2. Rare admixtures. At top, ishanga, a type of nettle: the leaf (A) and cut stems (B). Below, Pettiveria alliaceae, also known as mucura or shañol (C).

The well-regarded online database Raintree.com lists 113 published studies from the biomedical literature on P. alliaceae and its compounds; the plant’s numerous properties range from anti-bacterial, anti-fungal, anti-viral, and anti-cancer to immune stimulation and pain reduction

(Taylor 2019). Mucura has been integrated into the system of plant diets that are offered at ayahuasca treatment centers, often to treat candida, a systemic fungal infection.

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Mucura appears to grow very well in cultivation. My mestiza host had a large patch of it in her back yard that she had to cut back often. Two varieties of the plant grow together as companion plants and are known as macho (male) and hembra (female). The hembra is the larger of the two, with larger, more rounded leaves. The macho is a smaller plant with lanceolate leaves. Both have dark green foliage and very woody stems. The one that Mama Belén used for her ayahuasca was the macho; the entire plant was used, roots and all. The plant has a very strong odor reminiscent of concentrated garlic mixed with fresh skunk; its use as an admixture makes the ayahuasca taste even more foul than normal.6

Bobinzana

Bobinzana, or Calliandra angustifolia (Fabaceae) is one of the more common plants mentioned in connection with ayahuasca, both as an admixture and as a plant for dieting in conjunction with ayahuasca. It is considered a teacher plant (Fotiou 2019; Luna 1984a).

Although she has never taken ayahuasca, Mama Belén has dieted with bobinzana; she said when you take it, it teaches you to sing. Like bushiglla, bobinzana grows on the banks of fast-moving rivers, sometimes growing right in the middle of rivers and streams (see Figure 7-3). It is abundant in San Martín; when he originally defined the species, Spruce described its locality as

“Tropical America: Eastern Peru, very abundant on the banks of the Huallaga and the Mayo rivers” (Missouri Botanical Garden 2019). Like bushiglla, because of its close association with water, the anima of bobinzana is often said to be the sirena. Because of its resistance to fast- flowing currents, it is considered a plant that works with the emotions. Most sources cite the

6 It should be noted that the male-female distinction in Kichwa botany does not necessarily correspond to the sex of the flowering parts. In fact, the macho and hembra versions of a plant may not even be the same species. Sanz-Biset et al. (2009) note at least two examples in which macho and hembra plants represent two different species, although their chart includes others, such as P. alliacea, in which they are the same species.

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bark, root, or stem as the part used for medicine; the man I worked with used terminal stems with leaves attached as an admixture in his ayahuasca (see Figure 7-3) (Araujo Sajami 2010; Jauregui et al. 2011; Sanz-Biset et al. 2009; Valadeau et al. 2010).

The spirit of bobinzana has been described as male, but more often it is considered female. One of Luna’s informants saw the spirit as “a prince, who presents himself dressed in beautiful garments and with a sword. The tree is in his palace, and this is why it always has flowers” (1992, 236). A mestizo healer from the Ucayali, on the other hand, describes the spirit of bobinzana as “a woman whose beauty shines and who always presents you with a talisman for protection. The woman wears a tunic full of gemstones and does not always appear in the same form” (Jauregui et al. 2011, 749). The renowned painter of visions, Pablo Amaringo, likewise represents bobinzana in female form (Luna and Amaringo 1999).

Apart from its use in association with ayahuasca, C. angustifolia is considered one of the purgas and is used cross-culturally for corporeal medicine. Similar to the other purgas, it is commonly used to give strength, vigor, and energy to the body and to increase one’s resistance to illness; it is used to treat rheumatism, arthritis, colds, stomach ache, general uterine disorders, uterine prolapse, uterine cancer, and edema (Alexiades 1999; Araujo Sajami 2010; IIAP 2010;

Luziatelli et al. 2010; Valadeau et al. 2010). In Chazuta, various preparations of the plant are used to treat lumbago, rheumatism, and broken bones; it also serves as a depurative, health tonic, and postpartum tonic (Sanz-Biset et al. 2009). There, it is known as one of the more useful plants overall and is the third most common plant used for strict diets (Sanz-Biset and Cañigueral 2011;

Sanz-Biset et al. 2009).

Chiric Sanango

Along with bushiglla, bobinzana, and tobacco, Braulio Sinarahua of San Miguel del Rio

Mayo used an admixture that he called “chiric sanango;” stems and leaves were added whole to

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the boiling liquid. However, it was not Brunfelsia grandiflora, the plant most frequently associated with this common name, which is ubiquitous as a medicinal plant throughout the

Western Amazon and which grows as an ornamental throughout Latin America and as far north as Florida. Rather, it appears to belong to the genus Tabernaemontana and is likely T. sananho, one of multiple Tabernaemontana species known as “sanango” (Schultes and Raffauf 1990) (see

Figure 7-3). T. sananho is a known ayahuasca admixture (Rätsch 2005) and, while various cultural groups use it as medicine, it is considered a panacea throughout the Peruvian Amazon

(Schultes and Raffauf 1990). Interestingly, an unidentified species of Tabernaemontana, known also as “sanango,” was used by the Lamista Indians in their famous “Mayobamba poison,” a blowgun dart poison (Bisset 1992). The word “Mayobamba” translates literally as Mayo River, but it also may be a misspelling of Moyobamba, the former colonial capital of the district, which also derives its name from the Mayo River, at whose headwaters the city is located. Citing

Schultes (1979; full citation not provided), Rätsch writes that the word “sanango” translates as

“memory,” and that T. sananho is added to ayahuasca “so that a person can, afterward, more clearly recall the visions he or she saw” (2005, 488). A different species of sanango is used by the Tukano Indians to improve memory in the elderly (Rätsch 2005). My informants in San

Martín believe that the word “sanango” comes from the Spanish sana, “healthy,” although they are unable to explain the putative suffix. The species that Braulio uses has a white flower and grows in the monte above his chacra on the Rio Mayo.

Yagé

Don Salvador Fasabi of San José de Sisa uses, as his sole admixture, three leaves of a plant he calls “yagé” (see Figure 7-4). Although the specimen that he provided came from his chacra, he asserted that the plant grows abundantly in the monte around Sisa. The word yagé

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Figure 7-3. Common admixtures. Bobinzana growing in the middle of the river (A); bobinzana in the ayahuasca pot (B); a type of sanango, possibly Tabernaemontana sp. (C).

(emphasis on the second syllable) is the term used for B. caapi and its preparations by the Siona and others of Colombia (Langdon 2014). In Ecuador and Peru, the term and its mispronounced sister yaji (emphasis on the first syllable) have come to refer to certain admixture plants, likely due to their having been traded south in association with “yagé” brews. As admixtures, yagé and yaji usually refer to Diplopterys cabrerana, a close relative of Banisteriopsis, that contains the

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highly psychoactive constituents DMT and 5-MEO-DMT (Bennett, Baker, and Gómez 2002;

Rätsch 2005; Schultes, Hofmann, and Rätsch 2001).7 In Colombia, D. cabrerana is known as oco-yagé and chagroponga; in Ecuador it is often known as chacruna, chagroponga, or chaliponga (Highpine 2012; Schultes and Raffauf 1990). However, the specimen I collected does not closely resemble D. cabrerana and instead appears to be a Psychotria, possibly P. carthagenensis (Hamilton 1989). P. carthagenensis is indeed used as an ayahuasca admixture in

Peru and Ecuador, and its leaves contain DMT (Schultes and Raffauf 1990). Don Salvador said that he learned of yagé from the Jeberos (Shiwilu), where he dieted the plant. While I was unable to find ethnomedical data on the Shiwilu, the Shawi, who live downstream of the Shiwilu, use an ayahuasca admixture that they call “yahi” and that Odonne and colleagues (2013) have identified as a species of Psychotria. Rätsch (2005) lists “yagé-chacruna” as one of the common names of

P. carthagenensis. It is very likely that don Salvador’s yagé is P. carthagenensis, although a definitive determination will require a fertile specimen.

Tobacco

Despite the current fascination with ayahuasca globally and, to a certain extent, in the

Amazon, tobacco is the primordial shamanic plant in the Amazon (Barbira-Freedman 2002;

Rahman and Russell 2015; Wilbert 1987, 1994). Multiple ethnographers have testified to the replacement of traditional tobacco shamanism by ayahuasca shamanism, although this process is not unidirectional; among the Shawi, where ayahuasca shamanism has become closely and dangerously associated with brujería, tobacco shamanism appears to be replacing ayahuasca shamanism (Luziatelli et al. 2010; Odonne et al. 2013; Santos-Granero 1991; Shepard 2014;

Valadeau et al. 2010). In the shamanic practices of the Lamista, tobacco plays a central and

7 Banisteriopsis rusbyana is a defunct synonym for D. cabrerana.

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multi-faceted role, one small part of which is to “facilitate the visionary and dreaming effects of other psychoactive plants” (Barbira-Freedman 2002, 141). On a more mundane level, tobacco also increases the purgative effects of ayahuasca, and if the brew doesn’t perform as expected on that level, then more tobacco “juice” (aqueous infusion) may be added to stimulate vomiting and intestinal evacuation.

As an admixture, the form of tobacco used was dried tobacco cut off a large roll into the bubbling pot. However, one purguero that I spoke with adds tobacco smoke to his finished ayahuasca by blowing smoke into the bottle and shaking it up. This practice raises the question of indirect or “second-hand” smoke as a medium of intoxication, much as Wilbert (1987) has suggested, assuming enough smoke is added to impregnate the brew with chemical constituents of the smoke. In a ceremonial setting, however, blowing smoke onto prepared ayahuasca appears to serve as a kind of “blessing,” in an act reminiscent of the Catholic Mass; it is a common if not universal practice in ayahuasca shamanism.

Diet

As with all other purgas, the use of ayahuasca is said to require a diet. Unlike the Western

“ayahuasca diet” that has become a point of dogma in neo-shamanic circles, which requires the elimination of certain foods and drinks prior to an ayahuasca ceremony or retreat in an attempt to mitigate unpleasant effects and assure a more positive outcome, the Kichwa diet takes place after ingestion and can last up to six months. The length of the diet and the foods, drinks, and behaviors proscribed depend on the illness and its severity. Abstaining from pork and especially pork fat is almost universal in the use of all purgas, including ayahuasca. Palm oil may be proscribed, even when other forms of vegetable oil are allowed; unlike most other vegetable oils and like animal-based fats, palm oil happens to be a source of saturated fats, which biomedicine tell us is associated with heart disease and other negative health outcomes. Sex is also a

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Figure 7-4. Admixtures and shamanic praxis. At top, yagé, possibly Psychotria carthagenensis, abaxial surface of leaves (A) and caduceous stipules (B). At bottom, a tabaquero checks his patient’s pulse (C), and a shaman’s tobacco pipe (D). common proscription; curing even a simple health problem can require 45 days of sexual abstinence.

The diet is a central aspect of the healing process, and it is said that failing to maintain the diet can make the health problem worse than it was before. For example, treating alcoholism with ayahuasca requires that one abstain from alcohol for six months afterward; it is said that

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failure to do so can result in a person drinking even more than they did before. In this case it would appear that the real cure for addiction is abstinence from drinking, and that the ayahuasca serves as an adjunct to help alleviate or eliminate withdrawal symptoms while initiating a shift in the mental habits of addiction. The use of ayahuasca in this way appears to be similar to the

Shipibo use of an herbal contraceptive, whose diet includes sexual abstinence for three months; the relationship between the herbal remedy and the intended outcome is one that biomedicine calls a “secondary non-causal association” (Hern 1992, 35).

Dieting a plant is not just about abstention, however, and it is not limited to humans.

When Mama Belén and I were cooking her ayahuasca, I noticed she had a couple of fish hooks on fishing line that were dangling in the boiling pot. I asked her what she was doing with them.

“Están dietando!” she declared. “They’re dieting!” Likewise, I met a man once who had a pipe that had been cooked in purgas; this pipe, which was covered in “dibujaditos cristianitos” (little

Christian drawings) and whose name was Salomon, had a special relationship with the spirits of the mountains (shapingo, this chapter). When one smoked the pipe, he said, one saw shapingos, but conversely, he reported that the shapingos were afraid of the pipe. Although he didn’t use the word “dieta,” it was clear that, in addition to its strong Christian elements, having been cooked in purgas endowed this pipe with some sort of special power or protection.

Other Techniques of Diagnosis and Treatment

In conjunction with the ingestion of ayahuasca and admixture plants, and the subsequent diet, Kichwa médicos have other techniques of diagnosis and treatment at their disposal. For diagnosis, they will review symptoms with their patient and then check the patient’s pulse to gather more information. This process, known as pulsar, is performed at both wrists and on the inside of both elbows. A puddle of tobacco smoke is usually blown onto the pulse point, and then a thumb pressed to the artery as the médico “listens” (see Figure 7-4). Some médicos may check

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both the wrist and elbow at the same time. Médicos routinely assert that the ayahuasca taught them to pulsar, although other types of practitioners (e.g. tabaqueros) practice this technique as well.

Knowing how to reduce the effects of the ayahuasca, to “sacar la mareación,” is an important skill. Among the Kichwa, this is usually performed by soplando (blowing smoke on) the patient, using tobacco mixed with canela, specifically canela doble (Licari sp.), a tree bark that smells and tastes strongly of cinnamon. The canela may be ground and added with tobacco to the shaman’s pipe, or a pinch of the powder may be held in the mouth while the shaman blows smoke (see Figure 7-4). A powerful médico is also said to be able to suck (chupar) the mareación directly from the patient through their crown.

Soplar, whether with or without canela, is an integral component of ayahuasca ceremonies, where it is usually performed at a minimum for each patient at the close of a ceremony. In this ritualistic act, a curandero sucks tobacco smoke into their mouth from a cigarette or pipe, then blows the smoke onto the crown of the patient’s head, down the front of the shirt, sometimes down the back of the shirt, on the palms of the hands, and on the soles of the feet. However, the quotidian use of tobacco and the ritualized blowing of tobacco smoke— practices that are not easily distinguished from each other—permeate Kichwa life (Barbira-

Freedman 2002). Braulio insisted that I learn to sopla my food at every meal, and to sopla myself at every meal as well as at sunset. “It keeps your enemies away,” he said—at which point I embraced the practice wholeheartedly. Blowing tobacco smoke on food prior to a meal is reminiscent of the act of blessing food by which Makuna men make food safe for consumption and in turn contribute to the creation and sustenance of life. Arhem writes:

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Food blessing is thus a prominent part of the process of food preparation, a male counterpart to women’s cooking. At all times and in every place men silently chant and blow spells over a piece of food or a gourd of liquid. Virtually every edible plant or animal brought from the forest or the river is blessed before being eaten. (1996, 194–195)

The blowing of tobacco smoke is also a part of the pharmacopeia of home remedies. When I was puking from drinking unfermented masato, Mama Elenita suggested that I sopla myself, and she borrowed a cigarette from her son for my use. Likewise, when her daughter-in-law Marialith was treating her infant son for susto, Marialith sopla’d him with tobacco smoke. Additionally, it is said that one should never enter the forest without blowing smoke on oneself, or being blown on.

In all cases, tobacco smoke is believed to be an agent of protection. The powerful pesticidal properties of nicotine appear to be only partly responsible for the utility of tobacco smoke as protective “armor.”

Charlatans and Other Bad Actors

The existence of charlatans and other bad actors in Amazonian shamanism is by no means a product of the recent explosion of shamanic tourism. One mestizo key informant who works closely with the Kichwa, and who goes to Kichwa médicos for his own dietas, asserted that all shamans are “liars.” He said that when I approached them to ask for interviews and information, I should go in the guise of a patient rather than as a researcher; only then would I get genuine information. This, of course, is contrary to anthropological ethics and I did not take his advice. Fortunately, I found him to be wrong—at least, I managed to find and learn from some ardent and forthcoming teachers, although the objective truth of some of their claims may be open to question. However, I did observe, regularly, a certain amount of braggadocio and self- assuredness that presumably serves to instill confidence in the healer’s powers and thus generate a placebo effect that, whether in shamanism or surgery, is associated with positive outcomes

(Green 2006). Whether or not such braggadocio or an inflated sense of one’s own powers can be

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interpreted as “lying” is a complex matter, as is the very notion of shamanic or even medical efficacy. In these situations, truth may be in the eye of the beholder, and a sick person who is desperate and broke—or more accurately, their family member—may be less generous in their empathy toward a healer’s failure. Nevertheless, as Laderman and Roseman point out, “All medical encounters, no matter how mundane, are dramatic episodes” (1996, 1). Even the best and most knowledgeable healers rely on showmanship and performance—two elements that are readily associated with fiction and deception.

Unfortunately, there is more to charlatanism—and shamanic misbehavior—than an inflated sense of self-assurance—or even outright misrepresentation and fabrication. When discussed among women—whether gringa, mestiza or Indigenous—the first measure of a shaman’s worth is whether he is a violador—a sexual predator. Most women are able to relate stories in which they have experienced implicit or explicit threats or worse. One mature Peruvian mestiza told me of a médico who said that he would only heal her if she had sex with him. One elderly mestizo curandero who lives in Lamas gave up practicing ayahuasca shamanism because his patrón (teacher) and other ayahuasqueros that he knew would drink alcohol and molest women during ceremonies. His patrón, I will note, was a very highly regarded ayahuasquero whose name appears in peer-reviewed articles and books on ayahuasca; having worked with him,

I can attest to his dexterity with the mareación. I myself worked with a Kichwa curandero who begged me, literally, multiple times to have sex with him. He did so despite the fact that I was in the middle of a very intense diet with chiric sanango at the time and had very clearly, with witness present, confronted him on the subject and drawn my boundaries. He subsequently issued an implicit threat to my witness, a young Kichwa man who was a distant relative of his.

This young man was serving as my research assistant, and I should have considered his well-

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being before involving him. The power differential, especially in a context that is so closely and frequently associated with brujería, applies to both men and women. It helps explain why the presence of male family members or other allies accompanying a female patient in ceremony does not guarantee a woman’s safety (Peluso 2014). Contrary to Labate’s assertion that the concerns of the global ayahuasca community about sexual assault are a product of the North

American “puritanical ethos combined with feminist rights,” sexually inappropriate behavior is widespread among male practitioners and constitutes a threat to women of all classes, ethnicities, races, nationalities, and ideological persuasions (2014, 193).

Finally, the recreational use of alcohol is very common among the curanderos of San

Martín, whether Kichwa or mestizo. The number of curanderos whom I’ve met and whom I’ve seen drunk or drinking far outweighs the ones I haven’t. Most probably refrain from drinking during ayahuasca or healing sessions. However, it seems that in some older versions of ayahuasca shamanism, aguardiente was taken as part of the session. Mama Belén continues this practice—to soften the voice, she says—as does a very respectable Kichwa healer that I worked with in Ecuador. Some of the ayahuasca songs that I recorded in San Martín celebrate the intoxication of ayahuasca as a type of drunkenness, referring to ayahuasca metaphorically as cervecita (beer) (see Chapter 8). Despite the widespread use of ayahuasca both globally and in

San Martín to treat alcoholism, it only works if one refrains from drinking. When I was living in

Lamas, my mestiza house-mother and I went out one night to visit a neighbor. It wasn’t late, but there was already a man passed out drunk on the sidewalk in front of her house. She told me that he had been the assistant of a well-known shaman who used to live down the block. Before his recent death, that shaman had been a big drinker. She said people used to come to him “like crazy” to get healed. He made a lot of money “curing,” and then he’d spend it all during the

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week on beer. His helper, the one passed out drunk on the sidewalk, was carrying on the practice—in more ways than one.

At least part of this problem is attributed to a failure to keep the diet. It is claimed universally that if one uses ayahuasca and other purgas but does not keep the proper diet, one’s physical and mental health suffer, as do their discipline and their personal integrity: Failing to keep the diet is said to be one of the ways in which a healer becomes a brujo. When a person’s problem is alcohol, it is said that they become even worse alcoholics. The best advice I ever heard about choosing a good healer came from a gringa ayahuasquera: “Never trust a fat shaman; he doesn’t do his diets.”

Ayahuasca and War

Contrary to the dominant global discourse about ayahuasca, that it is ultimately a tool for physical, emotional, and spiritual healing of the individual as well as the global (Hill 2016;

McKenna 2005), there is significant archival and ethnographic data that ayahuasca use is bound up with organized warfare, both ritualized and real. By warfare, I am not referring to the shamanic battles and brujería that are well documented, if often disregarded, aspects of shamanic practice. Instead, I refer to inter-group conflict and even the taking up of arms.

In Lamas, the holiday of Carnaval is second only in importance to the Feast of Santa

Rosa. In Lamas, furthermore, the festival is intrinsically associated with fighting. The dictionary entry for aluchay, the San Martín Kichwa verb “to fight,” reads as follows: “En el carnaval a los jóvenes les gusta luchar con la faja para probar su fuerza (principalmente en el Huayco de

Lamas)” (During Carnaval the young men like to fight with the waist-strap in order to prove their strength [principally in Wayku in Lamas]) (Doherty et al. 2007, 29). The custom is for men to tie a chumbi, the customary belt or strap woven by Kichwa women on a backstrap loom, around their waist. The chumbi becomes a handle for their opponent who, during the ritualized battles of

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Carnaval, tries to throw him to the ground, and vice versa. The alucha or fight is a chance for young men to prove their strength.8

The custom of ritual (and sometimes real) battle during Carnival season is not unique to the Lamista Kichwa; it appears to be a common element of Carnival and Mardi Gras Festivities worldwide. It inheres in the activities of Mardi Gras Indians in New Orleans (Reno 2010). It has also been recorded in the Peruvian Andes going back to the early colonial era, while analogous activities appear to have been pre-Columbian (Urton 1993). The difference in Lamas is the association of this festival and its ritualized battles with medicinal plants and especially with ayahuasca. In Lamas, Carnaval is said to be a festival imbued with the animas of the forest:

Esta fiesta es un momento donde están presentes los espíritus de las plantas medicinales, porque en la alucha los jóvenes están presentes con las ánimas del monte en el cuerpo, porque antes de entrar en la alucha se debe estar bien dietado y tomado la purga…Si uno de los jóvenes es derribado constantemente en la alucha, cuando termina la fiesta, su padre le inicia a cerrarlo en el monte para que pueda tomar su purga y de esta manera para el siguiente año pueda recuperar lo que lo han derribado. (This fiesta is a moment where the spirits of the medicinal plants are present, because in the fight the young men are present with the animas of the monte in their bodies, because before going into battle they must be well dieted and having taken the purga…If one of the young men is overthrown constantly in the fight, when the fiesta is over, his father starts to close him up in the forest so that he can take his purga and in that manner for the following year he can recuperate what they have lost.) (Leonardo Tapullima, in Rengifo and Faiffer 2012, 329)

I was able to record four traditional songs that are played during Carnaval. One is for dancing, but the other three songs are for fighting, to encourage the men to fight with valor. The third of the three fighting songs is specifically a song to enliven the spirit of ayahuasca, which

8 While the Feast of Santa Rosa was, until the last second half of the 20th century, strongly associated with literal fighting, often resulting in death, I have no data to suggest that this was the case for Carnaval, or that these ritualized battles are nothing more than individual tug-of-war-type games. Part of the problem is that historic accounts of Carnaval in Lamas are very limited. However, Spruce notes that during his tenure in Tarapoto (1857), the Tuesday of Carnaval saw an “uprising” of Indians in which one was killed and several injured by bayonets during fighting with soldiers in the town square (Spruce 1908, 80).

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lives in the men’s bodies as a result of their having dieted. The message with this song, titled

“Ayahuasquero,” is: “Keep fighting, don’t be talking, don’t quit fighting, and when they push you down, get up smiling.” However, the song is not played directly to the fighters, but to the spirit (anima) of the plant. “Akuychi versokuypa ayahuaskata,” the musicians tell themselves—

“let’s go sing to the ayahuasca.” The song is sung in the language of the plant itself: “Es eso su idioma de ayahuasca” (That is the language of ayahuasca).

This last testimony raises the possibility that this song, like so many other songs associated with the purgas, is believed to have been obtained from the anima of the ayahuasca itself. However, this song, along with the other songs of Carnaval and Santa Rosa, are of apparently ancient origin, having been passed down from musician to musician. The man with whom I spoke at greatest length about these songs, Eleasar Sala Sangama, learned them from his father, Alfonso Sala Sangama, who in turn learned them from an older musician, Roberto Guerra

Sangama. The musicians who shared these songs with me emphasized that, unlike the genres of popular music that are in circulation among the Kichwa, and with which some of these musicians are conversant, “These [festival] songs don’t change. These are the songs of our grandfathers.”

Although songs are played instrumentally during the fiesta, there are some lyrics associated with this song:

Ayawaskata upyani I drink ayahuasca Kay cuerpoynita allichananpak. This makes my body good (strong) Suavenpuru purikunaynipak. For walking totally softly Allimata rurawaptin It makes me good (strong) Ayawaskata cada rato upyani ñuka. The whole time I am drinking ayahuasca Cuerpoyni suavenpuru purinaynipak. My body totally smooth (or soft) for walking Cargata aparishpa. Carrying cargo on my back. (Interview, Eleasar Sala Sangama, May 5, 2018; translated from Quechua by the author with help of Marco Sangama)

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While the setting here is one of ritualized battle, the underlying context associated with this song is the use of ayahuasca as a purga, a class of plants that are used to strengthen the body and to alleviate aches and pains. The lyrics of this song refer specifically to the practice of carrying cargo, a role of which the Lamista were and continue to be proud, and for which they engaged in the disciplined practice of taking purgas to strengthen their bodies. This reference makes clear the direct link between the use of the purgas and the historical and contemporary socio-economic processes with which the Kichwa have been engaged for centuries.

This association of ayahuasca with fighting, and especially the use of ayahuasca in either spiritual or material form to raise men’s fighting spirit, calls to mind the first report of ayahuasca that appears in Western literature. In the early 1900s, the noted botanist Richard Spruce observed the following ritual among the Tukano, the Feast of Gifts. Arriving at nightfall, he found a maloca (longhouse) filled with hundreds of spectators. As the trumpets sounded, the dances commenced:

In the course of the night, the young men partook of caapi five or six times, in the intervals between the dances; but only a few of them at a time, and very few drank of it twice. The cup-bearer—who must be a man, for no woman can touch or taste caapi—starts at a short run from the opposite end of the house, with a small calabash containing about a teacupful of caapi in each hand, muttering ‘Mo- mo-mo-mo-mo’ as he runs, and gradually sinking down until at last his chin nearly touches his knees, when he reaches out one of his cups to the man who stands ready to receive it, and when that is drunk off, then the other cup.

In two minutes or less after drinking it, its effects begin to be apparent. The Indian turns deadly pale, trembles in every limb, and horror is in his aspect. Suddenly contrary symptoms succeed: he bursts into a perspiration, and seems possessed with reckless fury, seizes whatever arms are at hand, his murucú, bow and arrows, or cutlass, and rushes to the doorway, where he inflicts violent blows on the ground or the doorposts, calling out all the while, ‘Thus would I do to mine enemy (naming him by his name) were this he!’ In about ten minutes the excitement has passed off, and the Indian grows calm, but appears exhausted. (Spruce 1908, 416–419)

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Calavia Saéz likewise discusses for the Yaminawa. a lowland group of the Peruvian-Brazilian border, the use of ayahuasca in warfare: “Above all, ayahuasca is portrayed as a catalyser for mundane war” (Calavia Saéz 2011, 136). Among the Yaminawa in the recent past, in a time still remembered in the scars of elders and the deaths of close relatives, “ayahuasca used to facilitate conventions between neighbouring groups who would together give themselves over to the visions and compete by showing their knowledge of the chants” (2011, 136). Not uncommonly, such reunions ended in violence. As well, he cites Alvarez (1964) who recounts one of these events in which “the Yaminawa exterminated a group of Amahuaca recently arrived at the reduction they themselves were staying at, after seeing through the [ayahuasca] that the

Amahuaca had similar plans regarding themselves” (2011, 136).

In all these cases, we see ayahuasca associated variously with strength, vigor, aggression, and even physical assault and death. While the use of ayahuasca by the Kichwa to strengthen and invigorate the body and mind for purposes of hunting, walking long distances, and carrying cargo is not unrelated to its use for mental and physical health among both the Kichwa and the non-Kichwa publics, the very direct association of ayahuasca with battle indicates clearly that this is not a univalent substance endowed with benevolent intentions, and that the types of battle associated with ayahuasca are not only spiritual but bleed over into the material, incarnate realms as well.

Shacapa

In many places where ayahuasca shamanism is practiced, a leaf-rattle known as shacapa is a staple feature of the shamanic toolkit. The shacapa is used to rhythmically accompany the shamanic singing, to fan the patient, and to “sweep” his or her “energy field.” However, it does not appear that the shamans of San Martín use such a fan. To the contrary, in every instance I witnessed, the singing was unaccompanied. Furthermore, the paraphernalia that often accompany

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shamanic practices in the lowlands—Shipibo-style clothing, mesas or altars, a scented water known as agua florida, sacred stones, and other talismans are generally missing from Kichwa ayahuasca sessions in San Martín, which in my experience are very bare-bones affairs in a simple and humble setting.

The Lamista do, however, have a musical instrument known as a shacapa, derived from the split seeds of Thevetia peruviana (Apocynaceae) (Mejía Carhuanca 1995). The seeds are strung together in long banderas that are worn across the shoulder. Like a rattle, the bandera is shaken or agitated to produce a shh-shh sound, not unlike the leaf fan used by curanderos of the

Peruvian lowlands.

Yachay

In lowland Peruvian shamanism, there exists a type of “magical phlegm” called mariri; the mariri is said to be a source of protection; it is said to aid the healer in extracting malignant objects (Luna 1984b). In San Martín, the phlegm is called yachay, a Kichwa term that literally means “knowledge” but that also refers to sorcery. In contrast to the protective powers with which it is endowed in the lowlands, the médicos of San Martín whom I interviewed insisted that yachay was purely an agent of brujería. “Botar yachay,” or “to spit yachay,” is considered the equivalent of performing sorcery.

The process of apprenticeship as a médico is a process of dieting with numerous purgas.

When one takes purgas multiple times over long periods—I was told nine months is the minimum—and keeps the proper diet, it is said that the essences or animas of the purgas “te apegan” or embed themselves in the body. Another way of saying it is that the purgas levantar or raise the yachay in the body. In doing so, the animas of the purgas are believed to confer knowledge as well as protection, that the médico may remain safe and healthy in the course of his interactions with people who are either sick or embrujada—bewitched. “Las animas de las

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purgas te cuidan,” it is said (the spirits of the purgas guard you). Likewise, “las mismas purgas te dan la sabiduría.” “The purgas themselves give you knowledge.” This embodiment of knowledge is similar to what McCallum (1996) has found for the Cashinahua (see also Chapter 6, “The

Purgas as Teacher Plants”).

However, it is also said that the purgas can confer a yachay, or phlegm, that is an agent of brujería. Rather than being a passive substance that resides in the body, the yachay is believed to exhibit something approximating agency. It bothers its human host: “Maldichos el yachay le molesta. Así el yachay le molesta.” (The yachay bothers the cursed ones. Like that it bothers him.) The primary way that one obtains yachay is said to be through taking the purgas. However, one may reject the yachay and its knowledge. Don Salvador told me that when he was taking purgas to learn to be a médico, a little man appeared to him three times, offering him some phlegm. “What is that?” he asked the man. “I don’t want that. I want medicine.” In our interview, don Salvador insisted that yachay is not protection; it’s brujería. Beyond that, he said, he doesn’t know much about it, because he doesn’t work with it.

I knew that in other ethnic settings, the yachay or phlegm is considered a protection—not least for when a médico engages in the process of sucking out illness (chupar). The yachay that is in his stomach, or that he regurgitates and holds in his mouth, is said to protect the médico from the harmful object or illness that he’s pulling into his mouth. So I asked don Salvador how he protects himself. He said his protection is the purgas: They make him strong, proud, healthy.

They strengthen his blood. When you take the purgas and keep the diet, he told me, you don’t catch the illnesses that you’re working with. What about when he sucks out illnesses? He said that when he sucks illness, he doesn’t do it up against the skin, but just in the air away from the flesh. And how does he protect himself from brujos? “I don’t have to,” he said. “They all die,”

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either from fighting amongst themselves, or from being killed as liars and cheaters who have swindled patients out of their money.

While the primary way of obtaining yachay is said to be through taking the purgas, yachay is also said to be transferred directly from teacher to student by regurgitating the phlegm and having the student swallow it. In this case, the yachay is believed to take on the forms of small animals such as the centope (centipede), kallu-kallu (unidentified), shitari (suckerfish), and ronsapa (a type of bee). It appears that these animals, or types of yachay, are somehow believed to be used in the process of chupar. However, I was unable to determine whether these types of yachay are believed to literally take the form of animals or whether there is a quality of the animal with which that yachay is associated. There is a very distinct and concrete reason for the loss of this and other types of healing knowledge: MRTA and Sendero Luminoso.

Terucos and Brujos

One of the médicos with whom I worked was telling me about the yachay. He said that his patrón, who had studied extensively in Pucallpa and Chazuta, wanted to give him his yachay.

Him: Él me querida entregar todo su sabiduría. Todos los yachays de la boca. Para tragar. Para que quede en mi cuerpo. Pero yo no he querido. En ese tiempo habido los tupasha—tupacamaristos. Aquí había lo que han mataban a la gente. Los terucos, pues. Los terucos. (He wanted to give me all his knowledge. All the yachays from his mouth. To swallow. So that it would stay in my body. But I didn’t want to. At that time there were the tupashas, the Tupacamaristos [members of MRTA]. Here there were those who killed the people. The terrorists, you know. The terrorists.)

Me: Qué es? (What’s a teruco?)

Him: Mataban a la gente. (They killed people.)

Me: Qué? (What?)

Him: Sendero, pues. Así esto teniendo miedo yo no recibo, pues…Les odian, pues, a los curanderos. (You know, Sendero. Being afraid, I didn’t receive [the yachay]…They hated the curanderos.) (Interview, Anonymous, July 2018)

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In 1988, my informant’s patrón was assassinated by the terrorists—probably MRTA, who were more active in that area and who carried out an armed attack on my informant’s town in 1992.

Out of fear of assassination, my informant said, he didn’t swallow his patrón’s yachay nor did he complete his own diets: “Yo tenía miedo de morir, pues, que me maten” (I was afraid of dying, that they might kill me). I wondered to what extent his lack of dieting may have contributed to his subsequent preoccupation with fighting brujería. When I met him, he was suffering from what he said was a spiritual snakebite on his leg that had been sent by an envious rival. The event had occurred seven years ago, he said, and he’d been dealing with it ever since, treating the wound with an odorous salve made of patiquina negra (Araceae), leaf of the catahua tree (said to burn away the malvado, or evil), garlic, tobacco, hot pepper, agua florida, Sikura-brand menthol rub, and cañagua (another product like agua florida). Likewise, each evening at dusk, the bats in the eave of his house came out, and he chased them around, spraying them with bug repellent from an aerosol can. “Murcielagos son espías por el malvado,” he said; “son peligrosos” (Bats are spies for the wicked; they’re dangerous). Then, all night long after our last ceremony, as I lay on the cold clay ground, I was startled out of my skin periodically by a deafeningly sharp swatting noise. Finally, he turned on his flashlight to look around. I saw that he had a large stick in his hand, and I asked him what was going on. “Malas energías,” he said. Bad energies. He was trying to scare them away by slapping the ground with the stick. He raised it over his head and brought it down hard on the ground—thwap! I found my headlamp, gathered up my hammock, and went outside to sleep.

This was not the only report I heard of armed revolutionaries persecuting curanderos for suspicion of brujería. Rumors reached me that Mama Belén herself was, or was rumored to be, a bruja. My informant gestured, spitting a ball of phlegm into his cupped hand. “Bota flema,” he

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said. His daughter-in-law, who was listening to our conversation, was scandalized at the news.

“Yes, she knows how to cure,” he explained to her, “But she knows how to maldit too” (to curse people). Now, however, because of her age, she probably just cures, he said.

When he was talking to his daughter-in-law, I’d caught the word “sendero,” and I asked him what he said. He said that Sendero had denounced Mama Belén and hunted her; she fled into the mountains and stayed for about five years. They didn’t catch her, and he doesn’t know exactly where she went.

According to my informants, it appears that the Maoist rebels were threatened by the power of the shamans as brujos. “Les odian,” Braulio said; “les aborrecen” (They hated them; they abhorred them). Like the rest of the populace, the terrorists were quick to blame local shamans if one of them fell ill. Likewise, it may be presumed that shamanic practitioners would have run afoul of the “almost puritanical order” imposed by Sendero in their attempts to approximate a system of justice and accountability on behalf of the region’s campesino peoples

(Graves 1992, 99; Tarazona-Sevillano 1990). MRTA too, at least in its later years, routinely assassinated those who failed to conform to their moral order, including thieves, prostitutes, homosexuals, and those accused of allegiance to Sendero (CVR 2013b). The assassination of shamanic practitioners by political authorities has been documented in the region more recently

(Huaman and de Pribyl 2012), substantiating the potential for conflict and competition between these two types of power and authority.

Interestingly, for other Indigenous groups who suffered violence at the hands of Sendero, accusations and persecution of sorcery went the other direction. Among the Asháninka, where

Sendero adopted a millenarian strategy that built on previous Indigenous uprisings, the rebel group reportedly embraced some shamanistic practices such as feeding their interns soup with

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scraps of metal to make them impervious to bullets (Santos-Granero 2004). The Asháninka believed that refugees from Sendero had become sorcerers while living in Sendero camps “deep in the forest, where the evil spirits of sorcery abound” (Santos-Granero 2004, 297). Others who sympathized with Sendero, or who were believed to have sympathized with them, were routinely assassinated by other Asháninka.

Santos-Granero, following Schoenmenn (1975), points out that witch hunts of the kind reported for the Sendero in San Martín, and for the Asháninka farther south, erupt at times of social upheaval and that they function as means for “maintaining the existing social order or power structure” (2004, 298). However, perpetrators may be invested in one of two versions of the status quo: protecting the existing status quo from novel threats—novel power structures, mores, ideologies—as in the case of the Asháninka, or, having established a new status quo, protecting the new regime by eliminating threats originating in the old order. Following my informants, I suggest that it was this latter process at play in San Martín as Sendero and MRTA, threatened by the social or even medical power of Kichwa brujos, sought to rid the region of these threats to their political power and to their own health and lives.

While the reports of terrorist attacks on Kichwa shamans cited here are limited, it is clear that the violence and repression that took place during the subversión may be added to the many factors, including cultural and economic change and interpersonal conflict, that have contributed to the decline of shamanic activity and knowledge in the region.

Shapingo

When I was working with Braulio, who conducts tomas, or ayahuasca sessions, in his mother’s old house on a bluff directly above the Rio Mayo, I made a habit of sleeping outside, my hammock hung between two trees in his yard. When his nephew arrived to take me home, he asked me if I hadn’t been afraid to sleep outside.

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“No, why should I be?” I asked him.

“Shapingo!” he answered. He made a fist and put it down by his foot to show the club- foot of the chullachaqui, then made a huddled limping motion to show how it walks. “They come and get you!”

The chullachaqui is a mythical character common throughout the Western Amazon

(Auzenne et al. 2008). With one foot that faces backwards, it is said that he can leave confusing tracks intended to lure people into the forest, where they go crazy or are lost forever. He is considered the guardian of the forest. Another name for the chullachaqui is shapingo.

In San Martín, the shapingo is closely associated with the mountains, many areas of which the Kichwa no longer have access to due to the formation of conservation areas (Elguera

Solar 2017; Waman Wasi 2006). It was described to me as a diablito—a little devil—“who lives in the mountains where there is silence,” in other words, far from human habitation. However the shapingo apparently also is believed to play a role in the processes of witchcraft. The curandero I worked with who has the wound on his leg told me that he was going to find a serrano in

Tarapoto—a healer-brujo who comes from the mountains—who can cure him. “Hay serranos poderosos,” he said—there are powerful serranos—and one will be able to tell him who injured him.

“And what will you do when you find out?” I asked. With a grave look on his face, he pointed at his mouth. Have them send a dart—“a shapingo,” he said.

Gender

Women are much less likely to engage in healing as a profession. The long and arduous diets conflict with a woman’s unending domestic duties. Some men even say that women can’t take purgas, although that attitude is variable. I know one woman who lives right in the center of

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Wayku, Lamas, who has accompanied her médico husband on his diets. “Intenso,” she said. It’s intense. She’d done it, but she hadn’t enjoyed it—an attitude that is not limited to women.

Nevertheless, it appears that ayahuasqueras and curanderas (or brujas) used to be much more common. Several of the songs I recorded are about female healers or brujas—humans, apparently, not mythological characters—and don Salvador not only affirmed that there had been many women in the past, he was also able to name names.

Conclusion: The Sacred and the Profane

Indigenous spirituality has posed questions for anthropologists of religion since the dawn of the discipline (Tylor 1871). The convergence of the sacred with the profane is perhaps nowhere more evident than in ayahuasca practice, where some of the most vulgar functions of the human body—diarrhea, vomiting, the production of phlegm—are said to be evidence of the spirit at work (Beyer 2011). As Csordas writes, “The locus of the sacred is the body, for the body is the existential ground of culture” (1990, 39). At the same time, we must not mistake the spirits as agents of divine benevolence; as so many authors have pointed out, Amazonian shamanism is as much about the darkness as the light (Whitehead and Wright 2004). The association of ayahuasca with warfare, likewise, indicates that the romantic notions of the neo-shamanic and religious communities, the discourse that “ayahuasca will save the world,” is fundamentally flawed (Beyer 2013). To the contrary, like its use as a treatment for alcoholism, ayahuasca should be seen as an adjunct to the greater remedy known as abstinence—a powerful adjunct, perhaps, but one that is nonetheless contingent on the greater context, and malleable to the human will.

Finally, Kichwa shamanism, as a living and breathing practice, is deeply embedded in external sociopolitical dynamics. Its apparent decline in San Martín, for example, can be traced, at least in part, to the persecution of curanderos by the armed revolutionaries of the 1980s and

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‘90s (see Chapter 3). Likewise, the revival of ayahuasca practice as a tourist-oriented business model could not have taken place without the arrest of the revolutionary leaders and the cessation of warfare. Furthermore, this chapter and the previous one make clear that a primary use of ayahuasca and other purgas is to prepare and strengthen the body for the hard labor required of both Kichwa men and women; this situation of hard labor—carrying cargo or cultivating chacras in steep mountainous terrain—pertains not only to history, socio-economy, structural inequities, and racial or cultural bias, but also to environment. Thus even in this realm of medicine that is so often equated with shamanism and the spiritual realm, we see evidence of ayahuasca’s enmeshment with historical processes and a very historical- and cultural-materialist function. In Chapter 8, I will develop these themes to a greater extent, in the context of the shamanic music of the Kichwa of San Martín.

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CHAPTER 8 RITUAL, SPIRIT, AND LANDSCAPE: SHAMANIC SONGS OF THE LAMISTA KICHWA

In the early chapters of this dissertation, I painted a picture of the Kichwa of San Martín as a people descended from the autochthonous residents of the selva of the Middle Huallaga and

Mayo Rivers, ethnically reshaped by the forces of colonialism, and thriving in today’s world thanks to a bi-cultural way of life by which they avail themselves of colonial modernity while retaining their ties to the land, the landscape, and the Indigenous knowledge and cultural forms of their grandparents. An element of this bi-cultural way of life has been their engagement in patterns of trade and travel that resulted in the wide dispersion of aspects of Lamista population and culture throughout the Maynas District, south to the Ucayali, and beyond. These patterns of trade and travel, well developed prior to colonial contact, reconfigured during the Jesuit era, and continuing to shift and expand in response to various pressures and opportunities, have made this region of the Western amazon an area of high cultural contact between ethnic groups. In part of this region, the Caquetá-Putumayo area centered on the border between Peru and Colombia, high contact has led to linguistic diversification in an example of ethnogenetic processes that are common throughout the Amazon (Epps, in press; Hill 1996; Hornborg 2005) and that continue to the present day (Whitten 2011). However, in conjunction with such linguistic diversification, a parallel process of cultural sharing has taken place, resulting in regions of great cultural overlap.

The Maynas is one of these areas. Scazzocchio (1978) calls the Maynas, or more accurately the

Western Amazon from the Napo south to the Ucayali, a “communication area,” characterized by a common cosmology, hierarchy of shamans, and the same techniques of chanting and plant use.

Her assessment was prescient, as anthropologists and linguists have since developed the notion of the “discourse area” (Basso 2009; Beier, Michael, and Sherzer 2002; Hill and Rodriguez

2016; Urban and Sherzer 1988), defined as a region where forms of discourse become shared due

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to intense contact between groups. The forms of discourse specifically enumerated by these linguists include parallelism, special languages, and shamanistic language use (Beier, Michael, and Sherzer 2002)—the latter of which would include Scazzocchio’s “chanting,” or what this dissertation refers to as “icaros” or shamanic song.

This chapter describes some of the elements of shamanic song as recorded in 2018 among the Kichwa of San Martín. The songs examined in this chapter constitute a form of discourse in that they are concrete examples of language situated “in natural contexts of use” (Sherzer 1987,

296), or “utterances made by speakers under specific circumstances” (Urban and Sherzer 1986,

2). While discourse studies tend to focus on language, the musicality of language in discourse as well as in the performance of that discourse is recognized (Urban and Sherzer 1986). In the songs examined in this chapter, the musicality of the language and certain stylistic elements of the songs characterize them as part of that broader genre known as “icaros.” At the same time, the song texts themselves contain elements, and the discourse around the songs refers to elements, of a shared regional mythology. Urban and Sherzer remark on this congruence between the areal distribution of discourse elements and mythological elements “that features so prominently in Lévi-Strauss’s Mythologiques” (1988, 286).

The ritual healing songs examined in this chapter are entirely a capella, lacking instrumentation of any kind. This is in contrast to the ceremonial music of lowland Amazonian and other forest areas where flutes and other aerophones are common (Hill 2009c, 2013; Hill and

Chaumeil 2011; Sherzer and Wicks 1982). It is also in contrast to areas of both North and South

America, highland and lowland, where the use of rattles is very common not only as musical instrument but also as medical tool (Beyer 2009; Densmore 1926, 1927; Gilreath-Brown 2019;

Hill 1992, 1993; Joralemon and Sharon 1993; Olsen 1974, 2011; Wright 1992a, 1992b, 2013).

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The broader soundscape of the healing ritual includes environmental noises such as the whirring of insects, the barking of dogs, or the roar of a passing mototaxi, as well as the sounds of the healing process itself, the retching and vomiting produced by patients within the ceremonial space, and the soft whispers of the shaman to his or her assistant or patient.

This chapter is part of a larger and ongoing project to examine the icaros of this region from a cross-cultural perspective (Callicott 2014a, 2014b, 2017a, 2017b). A wide body of literature examines shamanic song and ritual music more broadly across lowland South

America.1 Many of these song forms (Shipibo, Ecuadorian Kichwa, mestizo) are part of the same genre of shamanic music often glossed as “icaros,” while almost all of these musics share at least some elements with the songs examined in this chapter. In addition, a growing body of work, much of it performed by Latin American scholars, examines Indigenous Amazonian music more broadly (Menezes Bastos and Rodgers 2007), as an element of resistance (Lima Rodgers et al.

2016), and in relation to ethnobiological knowledge (Fernández-Llamazares and Lepofsky 2019;

Reyes-Garcia and Fernández-Llamazares 2019). These latter works, as well as this dissertation, are part of a global examination of the explicit relationship between music and ethnobiology

(Curran et al. 2019; Gilreath-Brown 2019; Harrison 2020; Post 2019; Ranspot 2019).

At the same time, as a study of shamanic song couched within a broader study of medicine and medical anthropology, this chapter is part of a burgeoning field known as “medical ethnomusicology” that emerges from a recognition of the globally distributed, multi-cultural use

1 On this point, please see Brabec 2009, 2011, 2012a, 2013a, 2013b, 2015, 2018, for the Shipibo; Brabec and Seeger 2013 for an overview; Brown 2006 for the Awajún; Dobkin de Rios 2003; Dobkin de Rios and Katz 1975; Garcia Molina 2014; Gnerre 2009 for the Shuar and Achuar; Hill 1992, 1993, 2009c, 2013 for the Wakuenai; Hill and Chaumeil 2011; Luna 1984a, 1984b, 1986, 1992 for mestizo shamanism; Seeger 1987 for the Suyá; Shepard 1998, 1999, 2004 for the Matsigenka and Yora; Smith 1977, 1984 for the Yanesha; Swanson 2009 for the Napo Runa; Townsley 1993 for the Yaminahua; Wistrand 1969; Whitten et al. 1979 for the Canelos Kichwa; Uzendoski and Calapucha-Tapuy 2012 for the Napo Runa; and for the Warao, Briggs 1994, 1996; and Olsen 1974, 1980, 1981, 1996, 2011.

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of music as a central aspect of healing practices (Koen et al. 2008). While this field does include studies originating from the perspective of music therapy, emanating from the Euro-American tradition of psychotherapy (Duerksen 2014; Heiderscheit and Jackson 2018; Horden 2016), and that perspective has likewise been applied to studies of Amazonian shamanic music (Bustos

2008; Rittner 2007), this study does not take that approach. Nor does this study pertain to the field of sound healing, much of which is based in a Pythagorean theory of the music of the spheres and which presumes a universality of physiological and psychological effect based on the resonant or vibrational qualities of sound and song (Crowe and Scovel 1996; Gaynor 2013;

Goldstein 2016; McKusick 2014). While I am not in a position to assess the merits of these theories and this approach, the study of the physiological effects of music has been beset with methodological problems and popular distortions that undermine the credibility of the field

(West and Ironson 2008). Furthermore, the data obtained for this dissertation simply does not lend itself to a sound-therapeutic analysis; rather, it appears to confound the claims made in that field, especially from the emic standpoint. This is not to say that sound does not have a physiological effect, especially when the mind-body has been sensitized by the use of psychoactive substances. It is to say, however, that this physiological response cannot be predicted by or reduced to unitary, mathematical, or universalistic models based on Greco-

Roman philosophy or European artistic theory.

On the other hand, what this study does do is recognize the cultural specificity of musical aesthetics and aesthetic response. It recognizes music not as a universal language but as an auditory phenomenon circumscribed by culture and situated within social structure, and therefore, reliant upon socialization and enculturation for its efficacy and aesthetic effect—an approach to music that is foundational to the field of ethnomusicology (Blacking 1973; Ellis

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1885; Gilman 1909; Pegg et al. 2001; Rhodes 1956; Turino 2008). Furthermore, by providing an ethnographically grounded account of these songs and the healing tradition within which they are positioned, I hope to encourage the public at large and members of alternative healing communities and traditions to engage more deeply with Indigenous knowledge, practices, traditions, and peoples, rather than with the romanticized, essentialized version of Indigenous being and practice that populates the public imaginary around Indigeneity, ayahuasca, and the icaros (Fotiou 2016, 2020).

Finally, this chapter engages with topics such as shamanic music, myth, and the personhood of non-human entities that some readers may feel run contrary to the theoretical framework espoused in the first chapter, that of cultural materialism. As I noted in Chapter 1, I consider cultural materialism to incorporate both poles of historical materialism and cultural ecology. In keeping with the former, this study follows Gow (1994) and others who have integrated a historical and world-systems approach to better explain the patterns of shamanic belief and practice that we see in the Amazon and beyond (Bianchi 2005; Brabec 2011; Labate and Cavnar 2014; Roseman 1996, 2013; Santos-Granero 1991; Shepard 2014; Taussig 1987;

Taylor 2007; Thomas and Humphrey 1994). In Chapter 7, I emphasized the importance of trade and travel for the accumulation of shamanic knowledge and power. Throughout this dissertation, likewise, I have emphasized the ways that, for the Kichwa of San Martín, these patterns of trade and travel have been shaped by their engagement in missionary trade networks and colonial expeditions, by their post-Jesuit engagement in carrying and ferrying loads for los autoridades and other bosses, by the importance of the Huallaga in the salt trade that lasted into the early 20th century, and by the Rubber Boom and other economic and historic forces that led to the diasporization of the Lamista Kichwa throughout the Western Amazon. In this chapter, these

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patterns resurface in the form of healers and brujos/as who are called to the ceremony from afar, specifically from regions that have been historically or are today centers of trade and travel—

Balsapuerto, Jeberos, and Pucallpa—or from donor regions in contexts of migration to San

Martín—Brazil and the Andes. While it is unclear if these distant healing entities are or were actual living humans—my informants state that at least some of them were—the spirits of two very human but now deceased healers are called from their refuges in locales closer to home: the mountainous areas that comprise sacred territories for the Kichwa, territories of which they have been dispossessed by the “green grab” of conservation (Fairhead, Leach, and Scoones 2012; FPP

2012; Guimaraes et al. 2018; Holmes 2014; Pérez Salas 2017a, 2017b). One of these curanderos,

Anuario Ishuiza, was assassinated, either by MRTA or Sendero, for being a shaman. Another,

Wilfredo Tananta, also served as patrón—teacher—to Jacques Mabit who went on to become one of the foremost agents in the internationalization and medicalization of ayahuasca. Tananta was later assassinated—shot—as well, although by whom and for what motive are unclear. Thus it is that in the texts of shamanic music discussed in this chapter, we see the contours emerge of history, interethnic relations, and interregional travel and exchange of knowledge and goods.

Likewise, Catholicism has left its clear mark on ayahuasca shamanism both in San Martín and abroad. The healer who invoked the name and presence of Anuario Ishuiza begins his ceremony with a whispered incantation—a prayer—in which he tearfully decries the loss of his beloved patrón. Likewise, before serving the ayahuasca, in an act that appears to be nearly universal in ayahuasca shamanism, this same healer blesses the ayahuasca by blowing smoke and sometimes another whispered incantation over the cup. The similarity of this act to the Catholic blessing of the communion wafer and wine has been widely remarked and integrated into analyses of the modernity of ayahuasca shamanism and the ways that colonial history and

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especially Christian missionization have helped shape it (for one example, Gow 1994). While I don’t engage deeply in this dissertation with the Catholic elements of the Lamista Kichwa ayahuasca ceremony, I have remarked elsewhere in these chapters on the contribution of

Catholicism to Lamista shamanism, particularly the embrace of Catholicism by the Motilones as a refuge from warfare and disease, the use of the Quechua language, the display of shamanic power and culture in the celebration of Catholic feast days, and the reorienting of trade and travel around missionary needs, especially for salt—which, it should be noted, is one of the primary items on the list of “taboos” when it comes to dieting the purgas.2 Other writers have more thoroughly analyzed the engagement of ayahuasca shamanism with Christianity and the ways in which the Christian elements of ayahuasca practice have lent themselves to new forms of organized religion (Apffel-Marglin and Mabit 2007; Beyer 2009; Labate and McRae 2010;

Langdon 1979; Madera 2009; Taussig 1987; Whitten 1976). This embrace and incorporation of novel religious forms and historic processes into existing Amazonian social and religious structures is, of course, not unique to the Kichwa nor to ayahuasca shamanism (Hugh-Jones

1994; Santos-Granero 1991; Wright 2002, 2013). To the contrary, it is consistent with Hill’s

(2009b) definition of ethnogenesis that emphasizes mythopoetic processes as a form of cultural creativity that synthesizes history with Indigenous ontologies in the renovation and reformation of Indigenous identities.

This notion of cultural creativity and the subject of Indigenous ontology takes on greater importance in this chapter as we engage in a deeper examination of the mythopoetic content of

Kichwa shamanic music. As we have begun to see in Chapters 6 and 7 and will become much

2 I have treated the issue of salt elsewhere (Callicott 2016) and plan to engage more deeply with it in future publications.

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more clear in Chapter 8, Amazonian ritual music engages deeply with a class of disembodied other-than-human beings that the Kichwa usually refer to as “animas.” The centrality of the animas to the Kichwa discourse around plants and ritual music places this study firmly within the reach of the ontological turn, a theoretical orientation that has swept cultural anthropology and the social sciences as a whole but that largely has its roots in ethnographies of the Amazonian relationship with other-than-human persons (Bessire and Bond 2014; Bird David 1999; Blaser

2014; Brightman, Grotti, and Ulturgasheva 2012; Costa and Fausto 2010; Daly et al. 2016;

Deleuze and Guattari 1978; Descola 1992, 1994, 2013; Descola and Palsson 1996; Fausto 2007;

Hallowell 1976; Haraway 1991, 2003, 2006, 2008; Ingold 2000; Kirksey 2014; Kirksey and

Helmreich 2010; Kohn 2013, 2015; Latour 2009, 2012; Rivera Andía 2019; Viveiros de Castro

1998, 2004; Wardle and Shaffner 2017). Although Amazonian perspectivism and the ontological turn more broadly are not without their critics (Boutet 2014; Cameron, de Leeuw, and Desbiens

2014; Hill 2009c; Hunt 2014; Ramos 2012; Sundberg 2014; Todd 2014; Turner 2009; Wright

2014 to name but a few), the theoretical approach remains salient, even in today’s era of

“alternative facts” and the decontextualization and debasement of conversations around truth and epistemology (Cadwalladr 2017; Hanlon 2018; Kakutani 2018a, 2018b; Knauft 2018; Stewart

2018).

Although many “ontologists,” so to speak, advocate for granting greater agency and personhood—and the respect they deserve—to non-human nature, the ontological turn tends toward the very abstract, whereas the relationship between Indigenous Amazonian peoples and their non-human, spirit-animated surroundings is anything but. Here I will endeavor to show how the Kichwa relationship with other-than-human persons can be understood within the framework of cultural materialism. As I have shown thus far in this dissertation, Kichwa ethnomedicine is a

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very embodied, concrete practice, developed as a means of coping with the hard physical and socio-economic realities of being farmers, porters, paddlers, laborers, soldiers, and mothers in the rugged terrain and harsh conditions of the Andean Amazon. Fotiou has likewise argued that

Amazonian shamanism in its various guises comprises “technologies for modifying the body,” practices that “are not mere beliefs informed by indigenous cosmologies” (2019, 150). Daly and others (Daly et al. 2016) initiate a discussion of how to integrate ontological approaches within the field of ethnobiology—a field that, though its roots lie in cognitive anthropology and the exploration of systems of Indigenous knowledge, has also become a vast repository of positivistic data contained within those systems. And Hartigan (2019) introduces the idea of “the chemical turn” as an approach to post-human ethnography of plants, chemicals being a primary means by which plants communicate and cooperate with each other, modify their environment, and protect themselves and their families —in other words, exert their agency (Arimura and

Pearse 2017; Chamovitz 2012; Gagliano and Grimonprez 2015; Heil and Karban 2010; Karban

2015; Karban and Baldwin 1997; Karban and Shiojiri 2009; Kessler and Kalske 2018; Zipfel and

Oldroyd 2017). Elsewhere, I have used the notion of phytosemiotics as a theoretical framework to approach the idea that humans can insert themselves into this chemically mediated communication system “through the direct experience and interpretation of non-linguistic, phytochemical cues” (Callicott 2014a, 39). Building on this approach, I take Hartigan’s

“chemical turn” a step farther and suggest that attention to chemicals and their action on the human body and mind—in other words the interaction between plant agency and human agency—give rise to some of the phenomena that characterize Kichwa shamanism, such as the visual and auditory presences of the animas and other non-corporeal beings; the action of plant animas on the body and mind; and the songs—the icaros—that arise from a practitioner’s

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intimate relationship with medicinal plants and with which he or she invites, invokes, manages, cajoles, and solicits the help of plant animas.

In Chapter 6, I reported two instances in which women, one Ecuadorian Kichwa and one

Lamista Kichwa, either described to me or performed for me—mimicked onomatopoeically—the voice of ayahuasca. In both instances it was clear to me that the sound they were describing was what Western science would call an auditory hallucination, and yet to them it was the speech of the plant itself, in keeping with the very common Amazonian belief that language is not limited to human or linguistic sounds, and that non-human language is often quoted in human speech by means of onomatopoiea (Descola 1994; Nuckolls 2010; Uzendoski and Calapucha-Tapuy 2012;

Walker 2010). In these cases, the emic view is that the sound they heard was the voice of ayahuasca itself. The etic view is that the sound they heard was the psychoactive effect of the secondary compounds present in the plant material—compounds that, as a class, tend to serve functions of defense, communication, and cooperation both within the plant itself (between parts) and with its environment. The voice that they reported was not only the effect of these signaling compounds on the brain itself, but also the interpretation of the effect of those compounds as a form of speech. This is a process not entirely dissimilar from the interpretation of other exogenous cues, for example, bird song or the sound of a tree falling in the forest. As is generally agreed upon with regard to the latter, the sound of a falling tree is not the vibrations that result, but the reception of those vibrations by the structures of the ear and the interpretation of that stimuli by the brain.

A critique of my theory will be that, with regard to the secondary compounds present in the ayahuasca plant that are believed to be its sole source of psychoactivity, harmine and harmaline and their relatives, we don’t know exactly what their function is: They may or may not

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be signalling chemicals. My response would be that the isolation of molecules and the attribution of a plant’s medicinal qualities to those molecules is a reductionistic approach that not only sidesteps the holistic approach of Western herbology, not to mention Amazonian ethnomedicine, but is also beside the point: Many forms of communication are not intended as such, or are readily misinterpreted (as Mama Belén notes, in this chapter, by calling ayahuasca a liar). This is true for the communicative properties of plant secondary compounds as well, in which it is accepted that these compounds may or may not have evolved as signalling compounds but that this function may be spandrelous or a secondary result of their positionality within an ecosystem

(Heil and Karban 2010). It is also observed that many of these chemicals are multivalent, exercising both communicative and physiological functions (Wink 2003).

On the other hand, there is at least some evidence to show that secondary compounds, and the psychoactive effect that they produce on the species that ingests them, can confer fitness benefits on the producer as well as the receiver. Michael Pollan’s (2002) clever reversal of interspecies agential relationships aside, research on honeybees and caffeine-producing plants has shown that the low levels of caffeine in flower nectar serve to enhance the bees’ memories— not just through Pavlovian associative response but by the direct stimulation of memory- encoding brain structures—as well as to stimulate the bees’ pollinating activities, leading to increased pollination of the donor plant to the plant’s benefit (Singaravelan et al. 2005;

Thomson, Draguleasa, and Tan 2015; Wright et al. 2013). What’s more, the secondary compounds present in some nectars can serve to reduce the pathogen load of its pollinators, and nectars containing these compounds may be preferentially sought by pollinators for this specific reason (Baracchi 2019; Baracchi, Brown, and Chittka 2015). This is, of course, not the only example of self-medication of a non-human species (Fowler, Koutsioni, and Sommer 2007;

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Huffman 1997, 2003). However, the increasing body of research on the mediation of pollinator- flower interactions by psychoactive or medicinal compounds is important to our conversation because of the widespread recognition that these interactions are situated within a complex and ecologically sophisticated system of interspecies communication involving indexical flower signaling, bee dances, and more (Barron and Plath 2017; van der Kooi et al. 2018; Wester and

Lunau 2017).

With regard to the ritual songs known as icaros (as opposed to the “voice of ayahuasca” discussed above), although it is often said that they come directly from the plants themselves, it is clear that these songs are more than just the mimicry of an auditory hallucination. The process of shamanic apprenticeship by which these songs are obtained is complex: It is almost universally stated, and certainly among the Kichwa, that the most knowledgeable, competent, or powerful healers are those who have dieted well, and with many plants—ideally for years. The terms often used are prepararse (to prepare oneself) or vegetarse (from vegetal, medicinal plant, with connotation of permeating oneself with plant medicine through dieting). The context in which these songs are said to arise is one of ongoing use of high doses of powerful psychoactive and physiologically active plants; social isolation, usually in or near the forest; and dietary deprivation. The songs that arise do not appear to be the result of one plant-human interaction but the result of a combination of factors that include the effects of powerful plant medicines as well as the interpretive and creative faculties of the enculturated human mind. In other words, this is the very place where cultural creativity emerges as a result of interaction between human and non-human nature. In Steward’s terms, “cultural ecological adaptations constitute creative processes” (1955, 34), culture being the “super-organic factor” which “affects and is affected by the total web of life” (31). In Chapter 1 I modified Marx’s analysis of the dialectic between

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material and ideal to read, “The ideal is nothing else than the material world refracted by the human mind” (1906, 25). By this I mean that human culture plays a decisive role in the ways in which the material world becomes manifest in human consciousness; the word “reflected” originally used by Marx does not capture the spectrum of possible outcomes of the interaction between the human mind and the material world.

My contention that the animas of the plant world are related to their chemical constitution is supported by Uzendoski and Calapucha-Tapuy’s account of gathering medicines with their healer-friend Fermin (Uzendoski and Calapucha-Tapuy 2012). As they walked through the forest, Fermin broke off leaves and stems, tasting and smelling them in order to assess their strength. “Their aroma was evidence of their power,” they write (Uzendoski and Calapucha-

Tapuy 2012, 26). However, the idea of power wasn’t limited to a biochemical assessment but to an assessment of the plants’ personhood: Certain flowering specimens he described in a way that equated them with shamans.

Although Fermin wasn’t an ayahuasquero, he did emphasize that healing is a relational, interactive process constituted by the efforts of both plant and human: “[Fermin] also said that the plants alone do not work unless the healer also ‘puts his power [ushay] in there too,’ a power thought to emanate from his flesh, his aycha.” (Uzendoski and Calapucha-Tapuy 2012, 28). I suggest that a similar sort of relationality is at play in ayahuasca shamanism, in which the animas of the plants and other spirits of the forest and landscape come to be known and are given voice within the space created by the interaction of plant and human forms of agency. Ayahuasca shamanism, therefore, is a field of dynamic interaction where the animas of plants make themselves known through the influence they exert on the human mind and body. This isn’t the only process at play, but I assert that it is an important one, and is one most accessible to a wide

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range of people. The animas of the plants make themselves known in the form of songs that arise as a result of ingesting psychoactive plants or dieting with a series of strong medicines; they make themselves known in the form of auditory hallucinations that constitute voices; they make themselves known in the visual forms that appear in the mind’s eye; they make themselves known in the form of vomiting triggered by the words of a song that request the anima of ayahuasca to “do flips in this person’s stomach” (this chapter). However, as we will see in this chapter, shamanic song and the other-than-human beings with whom these songs are used to communicate take forms that are culturally mediated, shaped by human creativity and individual experience. The co-constitutive, interspecies nature of this phenomenon is no less remarkable for that fact.

The Broader Context of Kichwa Folk Music

In 2011, Bernd Brabec de Mori published a piece called “Tracing Hallucinations” in which he compared the songs used in Shipibo ayahuasca ceremonies with other forms of Shipibo folk music to show that the icaros were of an entirely different kind. Brabec combined this finding with other ethnographic data to conclude that ayahuasca shamanism was relatively new to the Shipibo, an introduction from outside. Following his approach, this chapter starts with a general overview of Kichwa folk music. Given the prominence of the Lamista in ayahuasca shamanism throughout Peru and beyond, and the historic prominence of San Martín Quechua

(the language) in and around Pucallpa where Brabec performs fieldwork, I expected to find that the traditional folk music of the Kichwa was the source for, or at least stylistically related to, the broader genre of icaros. To the contrary, the music that Kichwa musicians identify as traditional appears to be not at all related to ritual music—although there are songs related to ayahuasca within the corpus of traditional folk songs. After this brief overview, I proceed with a thorough analysis of the set of ritual ayahuasca songs that I recorded in 2018.

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Generally speaking, the Kichwa produce three types of music: contemporary popular music, traditional fife-and-drum music, and ritual songs that are part of the genre known more broadly as “icaros.” The first, played on most social occasions as well as large festivals, is performed by a three-piece band playing bass drum, snare drum, and clarinet, and includes multiple styles of contemporary popular music introduced from the highlands and coastal areas of northern Peru including wayno, chicha, and marinera. Most younger musicians play this type of music; the older traditionalist musicians sometimes complain that this type of music is shrill, using the verb chillar, to screech or to squeal.

A second style of music is played by traditionalist, usually elder, musicians for festivals including Carnaval, Santa Rosa, and the feast days of Catholic saints. This class of music comprises multiple styles, but all are forms of fife-and-drum music. Dindineada, for example, played for the feasts of saints, is performed by a solo musician playing an end-blown duct flute

(pijuano) and drum (dindin) at the same time; known as “pipe-and-tabor” music, this style has been played in Europe since at least the middle ages and is found across Latin America as well

(Baines and La Rue 2001). Cajada Raymi comprises the set of songs played for the Festival of

Santa Rosa; instruments include a small drum (dindin), large drum (bonbon), and six-holed fife

(pijuano). A different set of songs enlivens Carnaval, where the fife is replaced by the yupana

(12-tube panpipe). Object 8-1 is a danza (combined song and dance) played during the Feast of

Santa Rosa. Named after a species of biting ant, dancers parade about in a circle and then, on cue from the music, proceed to pinch each other playfully in mimicry of the ant.

Object 8-1. Sitarakuy Cajada, a dance that takes place during the Fiesta de Santa Rosa Raymi. Performed by Los Chuchuwasheros in Lamas, San Martín; September 9, 2018. Audio file, 19.4 MB

The fife-and-drum music of the Kichwa is highly conserved, being passed from father to son. It is characterized by a rapid tempo and very short melodic phrases repeated ad infinitum;

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this preference for repetition appears to be a feature of Andean Quechua music as well (Behagué and Turino 2001). Sometimes whistles are used, a feature common to fife-and-drum music internationally. To both the fife-and-drum music as well as the popular music, an additional instrument may be added during large-group performances such as festivals and the weekly

Sunday performances on the Wayku plaza: the shacapa, a rattle made from the split seeds of

Thevetia peruviana, strung together in long banderas that are worn across the shoulder, a style of adornment reminiscent of military or colonial forces.

The fact that the core, traditional Kichwa music is fife-and-drum music—a genre closely associated with the military (Montagu et al. 2001)—appears to reflect the martial culture of the

Lamista Kichwa as members of the colonial and, later, Peruvian military forces. However, the origins of fife-and-drum music in Peru predate the colonial encounter (Bolanos 2001; Stevenson

1959). Today, fife-and-drum music is common throughout Peru, especially in the Andes and on the coast (Behagué and Turino 2001; Rivera Andía 2013). The continuity of this musical form across Quechua-speaking areas in both the Peruvian lowlands and highlands and even up into lowland Ecuador (Whitten 1976, 2008) is consistent with Seeger’s assertion that “uses of instruments appear to correlate with language families” (1998, 147). While less is known of

Indigenous lowland musics of Peru, several Amazonian Indigenous groups, including the Bora,

Ocaina, Conibo, Huitoto, and Tucano, play various versions of the panpipe (McKinnon et al.

2001).

The third class of music produced by the Kichwa comprises those songs associated with the purgas, whether derived from the visionary experience associated with their consumption, deployed in the rituals associated with the use of ayahuasca, or both. While I expected to find melodic or stylistic correspondences between this music and the other forms of Kichwa folk

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music, any similarities are superficial at best. Instead, what I did find was a corpus of songs and associated discourse that reveal the integration of the Kichwa within what Scazzocchio calls a cross-cultural “communication area” (1978, 33), characterized by a consistent cosmology, shamanic hierarchy, and techniques of chanting and plant use. With reference to her “techniques of chanting,” a number of stylistic features are common in the songs associated with ayahuasca use across the Maynas District and the Ucayali (i.e., from the Upper Napo to Pucallpa). These include the use of whistling; the use of vocables or other non-sensical language; a rapid, upbeat tempo; the use of stanzas or strophes with a repeated melodic motif; extended duration; and the almost exclusively vocal nature of the songs (Beyer 2009; Brabec 2009; Callicott 2014b; Dobkin de Rios 2003; Dobkin de Rios and Katz 1975; Katz and de Rios 1971; Luna 1992). The songs that I recorded in San Martín incorporate most or all of these characteristics, placing them well within the genre of music that is elsewhere in the Amazon and the world known as “icaros.”

However, this corpus of Kichwa songs and song-related discourse also revealed that within the broad contours of this shared cosmology, Kichwa shamanism arises from a very close and ancestral association with the landscape of San Martín. The songs that I recorded contained textual material that in its clarity, its breadth, and its content set them apart from other icaros with which I am familiar. Some of these texts contained geographical references that indicate the centrality of the landscape of San Martín to Kichwa shamanic practice. The discourse around these songs reinforces this connection. An important finding of this study is that the shamanic music and practice of the Kichwa are rooted in the landscape of San Martín in multiple ways, reflecting an autochthony that is implicitly denied in scholarly analyses of ayahuasca shamanism and that has important repercussions for the territorial rights of the Kichwa of San Martín.

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The data and conclusions for this chapter are based on the songs and practices of three médicos: Mama Belén and don Salvador, who live in El Dorado province; and Braulio, who lives in Lamas district; as well as one layman, Antonio, a Sisero. The three healers are ayahuasqueros; all four of these individuals are familiar with and have used other purgas as well. For the three healers, I recorded their songs as sung in a ceremonial context; I participated in the ceremonies either alone or with other participants (patients); and I interviewed them about their lives, their work as healers, and their songs.3 The process of transcription and translation into a common third language and the subsequent interpretation comprises a methodology known as

“collaborative ethnopoetics” (Hill 2015; McDowell 2000). Translational and interpretive conclusions were made based on comments and suggestions provided by the Kichwa themselves, including the invaluable assistance of Kichwa linguist and lawyer Marco Sangama.

I chose these three healers because they as individuals, and their practices and songs, appear to be little influenced, or not at all, by the recent intensification and globalization of ayahuasca shamanism and its accompanying musical and ideological developments. That is not to say that their work is uniquely “Kichwa.” Ayahuasca shamanism as we know it today is a product of the intermingling of cultures that occurred after colonial contact and especially during and after the Rubber Boom. Furthermore, in previous generations, healers from San Martín traveled to the lowlands to study shamanism. Their main destinations were Yarinacocha, a cluster of Shipibo communities near Pucallpa where the Summer Institute of Linguistics was based and which is now one of the meccas of global shamanic tourism; and Jeberos, a multi- ethnic mission town that was once the capital of the Maynas mission district (Scazzocchio 1978;

3 Mama Belén also performed her song in a non-ceremonial setting; it was this version, which was more complete than the one she sang in ceremony, that I used for analysis.

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Uriarte 1989). Nevertheless, the songs, healing practices, and discourses of these four individuals are more or less consistent with each other and with the discourse of the wider Kichwa population. This chapter examines the origins of these songs, their lyrical content, some stylistic questions, and the relationship between human culture and the non-human world that these songs embody.

Icarar

In many areas of the Amazon, the songs that are derived from plant use and that are deployed in the context of ayahuasca rituals are known as icaros (Beyer 2009; Bustos 2008;

Callicott 2014a; Luna 1984a, 1984b, 1992). Among the Ecuadorian Kichwa, however, these songs are referred to as takina, Quechua for “song.” Among the Kichwa of San Martín, the

Spanish terms canción (song), canto (chant), or verso (verse) are more common, or the Kichwa cantituta (from the Spanish canto plus the diminutive -sito).4 The word icaro is only rarely used to refer to the songs associated with ayahuasca use, and then only by those practitioners who operate fully or partially within the market and milieu of international shamanic tourism. To the contrary, in the language of the Kichwa of San Martín, the term ikaray is properly defined as an act performed by a curandero, “to blow smoke in order to cure;” the verb icarar is given as its

Spanish equivalent (Doherty et al. 2007). For example, those uncles and grandfathers, sometimes referred to as curiosos, who serve (convitar) purgas may perform an ikaro over the purga before serving it to the patient, and they may icara the patient him or herself, but they do not sing.5 The

4 “Cantituta” does not appear in the lexica of other Quechua and Kichwa groups, whose languages appear to be less integrated with Spanish than that of San Martín.

5 This finding was surprising not only to me but also to my local institutional colleagues, including their Kichwa staff member, who, like me, assumed that icaro was a term that referred universally to shamanic song. They sent me to multiple purgueros who purportedly had plant-based songs, only to find out that none of them, including the proficient musician, used music when taking or serving their purgas. Their icaros consisted only of blowing smoke.

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word “ikaray” does not appear to be derived from Quechua; there are only five words in the dictionary that start with ik-. Two are the verb ikaray and its noun form, ikara; a third is the

Quechuan spelling of the city Iquitos (Ikitus). Brabec (2011) asserts that icaro derives from the

Cocama ikarutsu, to sing; in Cocama, all songs are known as ikara, including those associated with ayahuasca.

Among the Kichwa of San Martín, there may be a song associated with the process of blowing smoke, but more often there is not. Blowing smoke—tobacco smoke specifically—is the central and defining act of Amazonian shamanism (Rahman and Russell 2015; Wilbert 1987,

1994). Tobacco is the master plant of protection; its smoke is blown on to food to make it safe to eat, and on to people to protect them from enemies, bad energies, and the like. Like song, smoke is a materialization of the breath and constitutes a medium of communication. One very rainy afternoon, when I was worried about crossing the swollen river to visit Mama Belén, one man said to me, “Pani (sister), look, I’m going to show you a secret. Here’s how we call the water.”

He lit a cigarette and knelt at the edge of the river. He splashed the surface of the water with his open palm, inhaled from the cigarette, and blew a puddle of white smoke on to the surface of the water where he’d splashed it. “What did you say to her?” I asked. “Baje,” he said: Go down.

Beyer considers the act of blowing smoke (soplando) to be a song in and of itself:

“Soplando, blowing, which can both kill and cure, is the most powerful song of all” (Beyer 2009,

76). In many cases, including the context to which Beyer refers, the act of blowing creates an audible “shoo.” Some (non-Kichwa) informants indicated to me that the force and quality of this sound can serve either to bestow a blessing or to dispel demons. While in San Martín, I did notice that irksome dogs were readily banished with a forceful “shoo!”—a trick that does not appear to work back in the states. On the other hand, blowing smoke does not always make a

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sound. A tabaquero, for instance, who lays a puddle of smoke onto his patient’s body, must do so quietly and gently or the smoke will not rest in place (see Figure 7-4). However, it is not clear that this act constitutes an ikara, but rather appears to be a diagnostic tool. More research could clarify this distinction.

Despite Beyer’s finding and the widespread use of the word “icaro” in other regions to refer to ayahuasca-related songs, in this chapter, I will follow the Kichwa in their use of the term

“canción” to refer to songs, unless quoting practitioners who have used the term “icaro.”

Whistling and Vocables

Linguist and ethnographer Jonathan Hill defines speech in Amazonia as not just a linguistic or verbal act but as “the production of a broader spectrum of meaningful sounds,” whether by human or non-human beings (Hill 2015, 68). Various forms of non-lexical sound are common in the performance of ayahuasca-related songs, which often start with whistling and/or vocables. Beyer’s teachers taught him that “the more abstract, less conceptual, less overtly intelligible the icaro, the more powerful it is,” and that pure sound is the language of the plants

(2009, 74). His report calls to mind doña Luanith’s assertion that the voice of ayahuasca sounded like a chainsaw (see Chapter 6). These assertions are likewise consistent with linguist Janice

Nuckolls’s finding that among the Runa (Kichwa) of Ecuador, ideophones are the quoted language of non-humans (Nuckolls 2010).6 Thus we would expect to find that among the Kichwa of San Martín, the whistling and vocables that preface the lexical content of many ceremonial songs might be considered linguistic in nature, and thus a means of communicating with the non- human world. I found this to be only partly true, according to the three médicos with whom I

6 Ideophones may be defined as sound-symbolic words, or in Peircian terms, icons: signs “which serve to convey ideas of the things they represent simply by imitating them” (Peirce 1894). Onomatopoeia is an example of ideophony.

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worked. For example, Braulio said that he whistles “to call the song.” When I asked him to explain what he meant, he said that he whistled to get the song into his head, because at times the borrachera makes it hard to remember the whole song. At other times, he whistles because he is tired. Don Salvador said that when he whistles at the beginning of a session, he is practicing

(“estoy practicando”). He serves the ayahuasca, then he takes some himself, and when he starts to feel the effects, he begins whistling. To that extent, the médico’s whistling might be considered indexical with the effects of ayahuasca, and thus synonymous with the arrival of the spirit of ayahuasca to the ceremony.

With regard to the use of vocables, there appear to be different factors and emic understandings at play. When I asked Mama Belen about the vocables in her song, she said simply, “That’s how it is sung” (Así pues se canta). In Braulio’s songs, there are few if any non- lexical vocables present. Braulio told me that during his apprenticeship to Anuario Ishuiza, he sat by his patrón’s side night after night, learning the songs word for word. Braulio’s cousin, however, who apprenticed at the same time, sat on Ishuiza’s other side, singing only vocables in place of the Quechua words, “’ta ta ta ta ta,’” Braulio explained, quoting his cousin’s singing.

This episode support’s Wistrand’s thinking that the use of vocables in “shamanistic songs” is so common because many of these songs are borrowed or learned from other languages (1969,

481). In both of these cases, the vocables presumably replace words that are unintelligible to a non-native speaker and therefore difficult to pronounce or to memorize. Wistrand’s suggestion is consistent with Luna’s (1992) informants’ assertion that icaros sung in Indigenous languages, as opposed to Spanish, are more powerful. Luna reported that one of his main informants would sing in other languages and sometimes in a mixture of three languages in order to impress and confuse his rivals. Brabec (2017, 2018) likewise asserts that mestizo, Kichwa and Kukama

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healers tend to sing in vocables, whereas Shipibo curing songs “have meaningful, well pronounced phrases throughout” (2018, 95).

The exchange of ayahuasca healing songs between practitioners of different ethnic groups and the preference for songs that are nonsensical, either because the language is foreign or because the texts are non-lexical, appear to be related to the idea of the discourse area, described by Beier, Michael, and Sherzer (2002) as the diffusion of a discourse form (shamanic music being one of their examples) throughout a geographic region. This appears to be what we see with the songs associated with ayahuasca and their use throughout the Maynas and south on the Ucayali. The use of special languages, in this case foreign language and vocables, as well as special registers of sound such as whistling are common elements of discourse areas throughout the Amazon. The authors also note that the process of diffusion leads to the spread not only of the discourse form itself but eventually of the linguistic and syntactical patterns contained therein, such that the diffusion of shamanistic song can become the vehicle for the diffusion of language and the emergence of new linguistic areas. There is some evidence that this may be the case, at least in part, for the spread of lowland Quechua, which appears to be the most common language associated with ayahuasca shamanism, even among groups who don’t speak Quechua, and which remains the language used for medicinal plants and healing songs even where its use has been lost for other purposes (Barbira-Freedman 2002; Brabec 2011; Luna 1984a, 2003;

Sanz-Biset et al. 2009). However the diffusion of San Martín Quechua was also driven by the movement of people and not just of their culture (Doherty et al. 2007).

On the other hand, the use of vocables may be considered a more direct line of communication with the spirit world, or even the speech of the spirits themselves. Briggs notes that both are the case for the Warao: one set of vocables indicates direct communication between

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healer and spirit and initiates the healing session, whereas another set of vocables constitutes the sound of the spirit itself escaping from the shaman’s chest to perform its work, what Briggs calls

“the auditory trail of spirits” (1996, 198). On the other hand, Uzendoski and Calapucha-Tapuy note that among the Napo Runa, the string of vocables “ririririri” is used to call the spirits (2012,

37). However, don Salvador suggested that the vocables may be his way of repeating ayahuasca’s own singing: “Así canta el ayahuasca también,” he said: The ayahuasca sings like that also. Then he sang a few vocables for me. “Esto es canto del ayahuasca”: This is the song of ayahuasca. His statement reflects that made by a group of older musicians when describing the song “Ayahuasquero,” which they play during the festivities at Carnaval in order to enliven the spirit of the purgas that live in the bodies of those on the ritual battleground: The song is sung in the language of ayahuasca, they told me (see Chapter 7).

These reports open up a very interesting line of inquiry. Oakdale, in her discussion of perspectivism in shamanic music, notes, “If song, in these traditions, indicates quotation from other-than-human persons, then it has the potential to situate the singer within a radically distinct sort of perspective by its mere form” (2009, 161). Quoted speech is, in fact, an important element of discourse in Amazonia (Basso 1986; Hill 2009a; Urban and Sherzer 1986), and I found it very common as well in the speech of the Kichwa of San Martín. Further research could clarify whether this reproduction of vocables and other forms of “ayahuasca’s own language” by

Kichwa shamans and other musicians represent a perspectival shift or, as appears to be the case for the Warao, a form of spirit-mediumship or possession, a quality which appears to have been associated with historical forms of Amazonian shamanism including those masters known as

“bancos” and “murayas” (Beyer 2009; Brabec 2014; Gow 1994; Hugh-Jones 1994; Luna 1984;

Whitten 1976). Brabec (2012a) has addressed this issue with regard to the Shipibo, noting that

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Shipibo médicos use sound and song to enact their transformations into other beings. However, among the Kichwa of San Martín, based on the data I will present next, it appears to me thus far that the other-than-human beings who are invoked in ayahuasca ceremonies are understood as independent external agents, rather than as transformations of the shaman’s being.

Llamando a los Animas

As noted in Chapter 7, the primary difference between lay healers (curiosos, purgueros, etc.) and expert healers (médicos) is that the latter are said to work with the animas of the plants; the main technique for doing so is with song. Investigating the use of song in the healing process, and the discourse around song, reveals an important overlap between body, mind, and spirit, as well as notions about the agency of non-corporeal (spirit) beings and the manner in which they inhabit the plant world and enact their agency through it.

The most consistent and most important aspect of shamanic music among the Kichwa whom I interviewed for this study was this: the use of songs to call the animas (spirits) of the plants. While the animas are envisioned as different things, and some plants—ayahuasca, for example—may have several animas, the arrival of the spirits results in the amplification of the borrachera or mareación—the intoxication caused by the ingestion of the purga, often referred to as a sueño (dream). Mama Belén never sings unless it is to call the animas of the purgas:

Me: Entonces para qué cantas este canción? (So then, why do you sing this song?)

MB: Este yo nunca, nunca ya no he cantado yo. Solamente cuando vienen a decirme para convidar esa soga, allí todavía yo llamo. Llamo a su anima. (This I never, I have never sung. Only when they come to me to tell me to serve that vine, then I’ll sing. I call to its anima.)

And when she sings, the anima comes, and with it, the mareación:

MB: Así cuando le llaman todavía, pues viene la mareación del que toma. Ahí todavía viene la mareación. (And when it [the anima] is called, then the mareación comes of that which is taken. There, the mareación comes.)

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She describes the mareación as the sensation of being stung by bees. She mimics her patients:

MB: Ahí ya viene por la, a picar los ronsapas (species of bee) pues a él que lo que has tomado ya...Todos gritan, (she makes noise) ‘Ronsapa ya me pica, ronsapa voy a me pica,’ dicen. (There it comes as if, ronsapas sting those who have taken [the purga]…Everyone screams, ‘The bee is stinging me, the bee is going to sting me,’ they say). (Interview, Belén Salas Tapullima, October. 20, 2018)

Indeed, the purpose of calling the spirits is to enliven and amplify the psychoactive and corporeal effects of the ayahuasca and, therefore, their healing actions: to induce vomiting and diarrhea. A line from one of don Salvador’s songs makes the direct association between intoxication and healing: “Sinchi sinchi machaynichitana curamuyna tukuy cuerpongunatanamiya”: Strong, strong drunkenness, cure every body.

The first lines of the first song that Braulio sang in his toma are:

Anuario Ishuizata, kayarimuykisapana Anuario Ishuiza, I am calling you. Ayahuasquitanchitana Ayahuasca, Upyarimuynanchipana I am calling you to drink. Kayarimuykina kantituta kayarin. I am calling the songs to me, Sinchi sinchi machayniqui wanay That the borrachera may come on strong. shamurinayquipa.

Object 8-2. 2018.06.26.Braulio_3_ceremony (Selection-1). Segundo Braulio Sinarahua Salas, Solo del Río Mayo; June 26, 2018. Audio file, 742 KB.

Throughout this corpus of song texts and their associated discourse, the borrachera and the anima tend to be conflated. The songs are sung to call the anima and to strengthen the borrachera, but conversely, it is said that the arrival of the anima and the increasing power of the borrachera can animate the icaros, which come accompanying the animas. The anima, the icaro, and the borrachera, furthermore, are all seen as the sources and the instigators of healing. This conflation of various domains recalls the findings of Bernd Brabec among the Shipibo that the spirits are

“sonic beings”—constituted by sound itself (Brabec 2013b). Thus, as the intoxicating effects of the purgas take hold, the animas of the plants are said to present themselves within the

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ceremonial space and the icaros “arise” (levantan) as an aspect of the borrachera. Reductionistic attempts to disambiguate these various elements do a disservice to the unification of various realms of existence and experience represented by the co-constitution of the spiritual, the mental- emotional, and the material in Kichwa cosmology.

In some cases, this unification between the sacred and mundane may appear to be tilted more towards the vulgar than what some readers will be comfortable with; it certainly upends the romantic mysticism that Western New-Age culture often ascribes to Indigenous spirituality. For example, Braulio uses variations of the word cerveza (beer) several times in his songs, referring to ayahuasca. When I asked him why he calls ayahuasca cervecita, he responded, “Porque fermenta, pues!” (Because it ferments, of course!) Here the use of metaphor enhances the secularity of the image, emphasizing the materiality of ayahuasca and its similarity to other intoxicating beverages.

Also using metaphor, Mama Belén calls ayahuasca from the tip of its toes (roots) to the top of its crown (branches):

Ayahuascaytana kayamuypa kayamuypa We go calling the ayahuasca, Chaquitutay puntamandapacha From the tip of its root (chaqui = foot), Kayakayamuypa kayamuypaya. We are calling, we are calling. Coronitapuntamanda pacha From the top of its crown (coronita) Kayamuypa kayamuypa… We are calling, we are calling…

Object 8-3. 2018.09.15_Mama_Belen_1_song (Selection-1). Belén Salas Tapullima, Yaku Shutuna Rumi; September 9, 2015. Audio file, 386 KB.

Why does she call? “El mareación, para que pase ya pues; se le llama pues para que le agarra el mareación, yo se llamo así” (The mareación, so that it comes; it is called so that the mareación grabs [him/her], that’s how I call it). In perhaps the most direct connection between the spirits and the mareación that I recorded, don Salvador invokes the madre (mother) of ayahuasca, which he describes as a bobita pintada—a painted ball. “’Pintada,’ le digo yo, ‘entre en su barriga y dé

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la vuelta para botar todo que está’” (“Pintada,” I say to him, “enter into their belly and do flips to make everyone puke who’s here”). Amazonian shamanism has long been known as a site for the encounter of the darkness and the light, the good and the evil (Whitehead and Wright 2004).

However, these songs and the discourse around them make clear that for the Kichwa, the sacred and the mundane, the supernatural and the material, are not just two sides of the same coin, but are in fact the same thing.

As one might guess given the image of the painted ball, the animas of the plants come in many shapes, sizes, and identities. This appears to be a realm where gender is fluid, or at least where the category of “mother” applies differently. In the first line of his first song, don Salvador sings, “Sinchi runata anamilla” (sinchi = strong, runa = man, anamilla = anima) (recording not provided). I ask him to explain. “Estoy llamando al hombre fuerte. El hombre fuerte es la madre de la soga…Ahí hombre cura el enfermo” (I am calling the strong man. The strong man is the mother of the vine…That man cures the sick). According to him, the madre of ayahuasca is also a painted ball, a mujer brasilera (Brazilian woman), and a sirenita.

‘Ven, ven aca,’ [he calls to the siren;] ‘hacerlo mojar, hacerlo bañar, a los enfermos que estoy ya curando aca’… Ese es la llamada del ayahuasca…Interesante es el ayahuasca, diferentes cantos que tiene el ayahuasca, no solamente tiene la madre del ayahuasca, papa, y tiene sus hijos también. Y porque de ahí son las ramas en que uno va aprendiendo. (‘Come, come here, get them wet, bathe them, those sick ones that I am curing now.’…That is the song of ayahuasca…Ayahuasca is interesting, the different songs it has, it doesn’t just have the mother of ayahuasca [but] the father and their children also. And because from there are the branches in which one goes learning.) (Interview, Salvador Fasabi Fasabi, November 15, 2018)

Mama Belén also identified ayahuasca as male—el señor doctor—then went on to say that the madre of ayahuasca is the rainbow—or, better put, its owner, she said (“mejor dicho, su dueño”). This notion that plants have their “mothers” or “owners” is not unique to the Kichwa and instead appears to be common, if not universal, across the Western Amazon (Auzenne et al.

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2008; Jauregui et al. 2011). In some cases, the mother or owner is envisioned as a great guardian of the forest (the Kichwa chullachaqui is one example) who must be appeased in order to maintain ecological harmony and balance (Reichel-Dolmatoff 1976). This doesn’t seem to be the case for the madre of ayahuasca and other medicinal plants. Among the Kichwa with whom I spoke about the subject, some said that all plants have madres, whereas some listed just a few plants that had madres—usually those strong purgas whose use is associated with a mareación or a song. I have heard the madre described as that being or spirit that gives life to a plant and helps it to grow—a relationship of cultivation and nurturance that explains the use of the term

“madre.”7

In the case of ayahuasca and the other purgas, the madres of the plants are clearly associated with, and probably constitute a subset of, the animas of the plants: a class of supernatural, disembodied beings that can be invoked through music and that have agency.

These animas not only cure, they are said to do other things as well—such as lie and kill. In calling the anima of ayahuasca, Mama Belén tells her she is beautiful (Kichwa, suma):

Suma ayahuasquillunchitana, Beautiful dear ayahuasca Kayamuypa kayamuypanayaaaaa… I am calling you, I am calling you. Suma suma soganchitanama kayamuypa Beautiful little vine I am calling you. Kayamuypanayaaaa…

Object 8-4. 2018.10.20_Mama_Belen_Interview_2 (Selection-1). Belén Salas Tapullima, Yaku Shutuna Rumi; October 20, 2018. Audio file, 973 KB.

Elsewhere, she calls her a famous liar (llulla famoso), but she softens the insult by telling her she is beloved:

7 If this is the case, the relationship between madre and dueño might be elucidated by a little factoid that I learned when inquiring about the historical trade in alampi (the vine used to make curare, or blowgun-dart poison) around Sisa: Although the trade exhausted local supplies, Kichwa men who harvested the vine for sale also made a practice of planting it in the monte—and he who planted a given tronco, or individual vine, became, literally, its owner.

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Agunaykayamuypa We are calling you, Llulla llulla ayawaskillunchiktanamaya Liar ayahuasquita. Llulla llulla famoso kanayan Famous liar that you are, Kayamuypa kayamuypanayaaaaaaa. We are calling her, we are calling her Payka sakra queridoma, She is well loved, Llulla llulla llullana, Liar, liar, liar, Ayahuasquillunchitanaya Dear little ayahuasca, Kayamuypa kayamuypanayaaaaaaa. We are calling you.

Object 8-5. 2018.09.15_Mama_Belen_1_song (Selection-2). Belén Salas Tapullima, Yaku Shutuna Rumi; September 15, 2018. Audio file, 272 KB.

Ayahuasca has been called a great liar because its visions can deceive (Taussig 1987,

455–457). This should come as no surprise, given that deception is an intrinsic feature of communication and language—indeed some argue that deception is the very purpose of language

(Dawkins and Krebs 1978; Oesch 2016). In too many cases, however, ayahuasca finds a willing audience, especially where credulous and naïve seekers have suspended disbelief in search of meaning, connection, and relief from suffering. Indeed, this willing suspension of disbelief is arguably a precondition for the development of religion in human society:

We should not forget that the self-deception involved in religious cognition operates on a massive scale: for innumerably many people, powerful and dramatic religious understandings and dramas are thickly draped over an impoverished secular reality. For religion to happen at all, there must be an active distorting and biasing of experience strong enough to erect cathedrals and to bring people to their knees. (Bulbulia 2004, 680)

Bulbulia notes that these deceptions, however, are limited to certain realms—“encapsulated”— so that life can continue: people still plow the fields and feed the children. However, in the modern world of increasing atomization and individuation, such social and material restraints are often no longer in play; people who listen to the lies told by ayahuasca—in other words, who put their trust in delusions—may harm not only themselves but their families too (Kilham 2013).

It is said that the animas of the purgas can be dangerous. Biomedically speaking, ayahuasca may be relatively safe, but it is believed that its anima can kill. Mama Belén said that

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one of her nephews was killed by the anima of a tronco that grew next to his house. He and his friends had been playing inside the thicket of the vine when he later fell ill and died. “Le había embrujado pues el ayahuasca, dicen” (They say the ayahuasca had bewitched him). She clarified that it was the dueño of the ayahuasca who did it. It appears that this same dueño can become angry when his plants are mistreated or even overharvested. “Si usted andas, cortando, cortando a la soga, y allá pues se enfada pues el dueño de soga” (If you go around cutting and cutting the vine, well then, the owner of the vine will get mad). In this case, it does indeed seem that the concept of the madre of the plant plays a role in ecological regulation (Reichel-Domatoff 1976,

1996).

La Sirena

In the pantheon of Amazonian non-corporeal beings that might be considered deities and semi-deities, the animas of the plants usually appear to be more along the lines of minor deities and nymphs, given form through the visionary or hallucinatory qualities of the plants, including auditory qualities—as opposed to, say, the chullachaqui, madre of the forest, or owner of the animals, who all play a role in guarding, overseeing, or managing entire ecosystems. One exception to this is the sirena, who, like the yacumama and sachamama of the lowlands, recurs across cultures and regions.8

La sirena, sometimes equated with the madre of ayahuasca, is a prominent figure in the landscape and mythology of San Martín. La sirena is fundamentally a water spirit.9 She is said to inhabit rivers, pools, and waterfalls, and to come alive when the rains come heavy and the rivers

8 The yacumama and sachamama are mother of the water and mother of the forest, respectively, both visualized as giant anacondas (Luna and Amaringo 1999).

9 Stobart (2006) notes that there is also an association between the sirena and rocks, and that this association has been underexamined in the literature. Indeed don Salvador mentioned that there was a tremendous rock near Jeberos where a sirena “is kept” (se mantiene).

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rise. Braulio’s nephew pointed at the Río Mayo, on the banks of which stands the home that

Braulio uses for his tomas de ayahuasca (ayahuasca drinking sessions), and told me that when the water is high, la sirena appears there in the form of a whirlpool. “She makes people crazy,” he said. In Alto Huaja, which prides itself on its waterfalls and the swift mountain stream that gives the community its proper name (Yaku Shutuna Rumi), the apu made it clear to me during one of my first visits that the sirena was not present right then. It only comes in the winter when it rains a lot, the waterfalls are tremendous, and the rivers are too high for swimming, he said.

She is not only associated with high water but also with darkness and the night: “Bien rubio es su pelo,” Braulio explained; “sale cuando hay silencio, cuando el sol duerme” (Very blonde is her hair; she comes out when there is silence, when the sun sleeps).

La sirena is believed to inhabit not only the rushing waters and whirlpools, but also plants. She is often equated with the madre of ayahuasca but also of bobinzana and bushiglla, two plants that grow alongside, sometimes in the middle of, mountain streams, where their roots provide stability for the soil. It is said that when they are ingested, her anima comes alive, or perhaps simply enters the realm of human perception. Braulio’s ayahuasca contains all three plants, as well as sanango and tobacco. When the borrachera comes, the songs arise (levantan), he said (“Cuando mareas, bien borrachito, los canciones más levantan”). Song appears to be the special medium of la sirena; Mama Belén took bobinzana to learn to sing. “Los sirenas es su espiritu de bobinzana; linda te enseñan cantar” (The sirens are the spirit of bobinzana; they teach you to sing pretty).

On the contrary, ayahuasca does not grow alongside rivers. In fact, according to informants, in San Martín it is rarely found in the monte at all, growing almost exclusively under cultivation. However, ayahuasca is almost always associated with water spirits, whether la

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sirena, the spirit of fast moving waters that sing, or the watery spirits that are more closely associated with the large, slow rivers of the lowlands: the yacumama (giant anaconda, mother of the waters), yacuruna (inhabitants of underwater cities), mermaids, and pink dolphins (Beyer

2009; Luna and Amaringo 1999). While the association of bushiglla and bobinzana with water is obvious based on ecological connections, ayahuasca’s association with water is more obscure. In one sense it appears to be psychological, in that the psychoactive effects appear to serve as a portal to the depths of the unconscious, a realm consistently symbolized by and associated with water (Jung 1968). The association may also be somatic or interoceptive, involving the sensation of the movement of energies within the body, movement that is sometimes quite forceful; this sensation is often referred to as “vibrations.”10 It is no coincidence that the term used to describe these effects is linguistically related to that creature, both material and supernatural, that is most closely associated with water as well as with ayahuasca: the snake (Spanish, víbora). Figure 8-1 is an artistic representation of the state of physical and mental experience that results from the consumption of ayahuasca. It is the best representation that I have found of the somatic experience, representing visually the sensations of watery dissolution or even drowning, and the movement of snake-like energies through the field of experience.

As in the Homeric tradition, the Amazonian sirena is, like ayahuasca itself, an ambivalent figure: Associated with beauty, seduction, and musical creativity, she can also drive to madness those who hear her song, or she can lure men to a watery grave (Luna and Amaringo 1999). This same sirena is also a prevalent figure in Andean mythology and art, where she is associated with all of the same themes, including states of altered consciousness and the acquisition of

10 Unfortunately, existing literature on the phenomenology of ayahuasca focuses almost entirely on the cognitive and perceptual effects, with very little attention paid to somatic effects other than the acute purgation (Barbosa et al. 2005; Beyer 2009; Luna and Amaringo 1999; Shanon 2002, 2010).

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Figure 8-1. Artistic representation of the somatic and perceptual effects of ayahuasca. Reprinted with permission of artist Scott Cranmer. knowledge, both musical and otherwise (Stobart 2006). One difference is that in the Andes, she is closely associated with stringed instruments, especially the charango, a small five-stringed guitar, which is used for courtship and seduction (Turino 1983). While the music of San Martín lacks stringed instruments, nevertheless the power of the Amazonian sirena to seduce is well known. Likewise, her assistance in the seductive process is only one step removed, as it is

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believed that the anima of ayahuasca can, in cases of unrequited love, be used to “grab”

(agarrar) the anima of the beloved to induce their affection. This aspect of ayahuasca and its songs was referred to by Mama Elenita in interpreting Mama Belén’s song, and by the Lamista musicians in discussing the ayahuasca song they play for Carnival (see Chapter 7).

Llamando a los Curanderos

The second most common theme presented in the songs was the call to action of various healers. Like the animas, these are a diverse group of characters, but all appear to be, and were said to be, actual human people: some historical figures now dead, and some still living. One of the more interesting characteristics of these healers is that most of them are women. These healers are called into the ceremonial space to provide protection and inspiration and to assist in diagnosis, in healing, and in prescribing a follow-up remedy. The first line of Braulio’s corpus invokes the name and presence of his patrón, or teacher.11 Braulio sat by his side, ceremony after ceremony, learning Anuario’s songs word for word, note for note, while according to Braulio,

Anuario’s other student or discipulo, Braulio’s cousin, sat on his other side, singing only vocables, failing to learn the Kichwa. Braulio sings:

Anuario Ishuizata Anuario Ishuiza, Kanguna curandero hombrecito Beloved healer man you (pl.) were, Karkanguichi kangunaka, You (pl.) were, Chayraykuman ñukasitu kayarimuykina… For this we call you to us now…

Object 8-6. 2018.06.26.Braulio_3_ceremony (Selection-2). Segundo Braulio Sinarahua Salas, Solo del Río Mayo; June 26, 2018. Audio file, 422 KB.

Interestingly, Braulio uses the plural construction of “you were” (karkanguichi kangunaka), along with singular construction for “healer man” (curandero hombrecito). The substantial

11 The language of apprenticeship quite strongly indicates a power differential between teacher (patrón) and student (discipulo) and specifically calls to mind relations of patronazgo that have historically characterized Indigenous– non-Indigenous economic relations.

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grammatical and phonological difference between singular and plural construction indicate that this is not a mistake. To the contrary, while Braulio did not refer to this idea, one wonders if this plural construction is related to the notion expressed in both Shuar and Canelos Kichwa cultures that powerful shamans could acquire and possess multiple souls (Harner 1972; Whitten 1976).

Another, perhaps more parsimonious, interpretation is that he is addressing Anuario the healer man, but referring collectively if implicitly to Anuario and other now-deceased healers.

For Braulio, this invocation of his deceased teacher is in one sense a request for help in remembering and singing the songs that Anuario taught him:

Curandero hombrecito Little healer man Karkanguichi kangunaka. You [plural] were. Anuario Ishuizata, kayarimuyki Anuario Ishuiza, I am calling you. Kantituta kaya, I call the songs, Chayraykuma ñukasitu For that, I Kayarimuyki kantitutakayarin. I am calling, calling the songs. Chayraykuma ñukasitu kallarimuykisapa For that I am calling, Shutisituykimanta kallarimuykisapana. Your name I am calling. Chayraykuma ñukatitu kallarimuykisapanama. For that I am calling strongly. Curandero hombrecito karkanguichi kangunaka Healer man you [plural] were, Chayraykuma, mana kungaykichu, For that, I don’t forget, Kantituta kayarin. I call your song. Object 8-7. 2018.06.26.Braulio_3_ceremony (Selection-3). Segundo Braulio Sinarahua, Solo del Río Mayo; June 26, 2018. Audio file, 951 KB.

Out of 12 songs that Braulio sings, six invoke the name and presence of Anuario Ishuiza. These songs use much the same language but vary in melody and sometimes tempo. In these songs,

Braulio calls his patrón to accompany him in ceremony, to bring his wisdom (sabiduría, Sp.) and knowledge (yachay, Qu.) to help him remember and sing the songs that Anuario taught him, to come and watch over him, to soplar el aire (bless the space by blowing smoke) so that enemies won’t come. The oft-repeated word kayamuyki, Braulio explains thus: “I am calling to him so that he will accompany me” (Estoy llamando a él para que él me acompaña). The simple act of

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accompaniment is highly valued in Kichwa society, where the phrase “Te acompaño” (I’ll go with you) is ubiquitous, and a premium is placed on unity of family and community and the harmony of friendship and relationship (Overing and Passes 2000). In one of these six songs,

Braulio invokes the name of Wilfredo Tananta, also a former teacher who, like Anuario, was killed with a bullet, although whose bullet is unclear: “Envidiosas son la gente” (People are envious) explained Braulio.

In addition to his patrones, Braulio invites to the ceremony women from Balsapuerto:

Chola chola warmicitata Little chola (Indian) woman Kallarimuykisapana I am calling you to me. Balsapuerto pachamanta From distant Balsapuerto Wichaykurimuykaynusapana They are sailing this way Wichaykurimuykasapa Balsapuerto They are sailing from Balsapuerto pataymanta Chola chola warmicitata, kayarimuykisapana Little chola woman, I am calling you to me Shamurinaykipanamaya. Come Pintay pintay botecitongunapi In your little painted boats Wichaykurimuykansapa, shamuyki-sapanama They are sailing, they are coming. paykunaka. [Breath in] Cervecitanchitanchi They say they want to drink beer upyarimunayansapanshi paykunapi. Chayraykushiwi wichaykurimuykansapa. For that they are sailing up the river. Pintay pintay botecitongunapi In their little painted boats Shamurikansapa They are coming Chola chola warmicita kayarin. Little chola woman, I am calling. [Breath in] Chola chola warmicitatama Little chola woman Kallarimuykisapana I am calling you to me. Balsapuerto puertaymanta From Balsapuerto you are sailing up the river wichaykurimuykansapa Chataykushi paykunaka shamurikansapama. For that they are sailing up the river. [Breath in] Cervecitanchikunatash Do you want to drink beer? upyarimunayasapayari. Chayraykuma ñukatitu kallarimuykisapana For that I am calling. Chola chola warmicitata Little chola woman Kallarimuykisapana, cervecitanchita I am calling to you, do you want to drink our upyarimunanchipanamayari. beer?

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[Breath in] Wijangunapi shambukuru, With painted faces, they are sailing up the wichaykurimuykansapa river Pintai pintai botecitogunapi In their little painted boats, they are sailing wichaykurimuykansapa. Cervecitanchikunatashi upyarimunayasapayari. They want to drink our beer.

Object 8-8. 2018.06.26.Braulio_3_ceremony (Selection-4). Braulio Sinarahua, Solo del Rio Mayo; June 26, 2018. Audio file, 3.9 MB

In this song, Braulio explains that he is calling women from Balsapuerto to sail up the Río

Huallaga in their painted boats, to come drink ayahuasca with him and to share their knowledge

(cervecita in this song refers to ayahuasca, which, like beer, ferments and causes drunkenness).

When I ask him to explain the final lines of this song, where the language changes quality, he explains that these women with their painted faces are very pretty; he touched his cheeks to demonstrate, indicating the spot where women throughout the northwestern montaña have traditionally dabbed circles of red achiote (shambu, Qu.) on their faces. Braulio indicated that this song comes directly from the ayahuasca when you take it.

Balsapuerto is the largest town in a region inhabited mostly by Shawi people and is located on the Rio Cachiyacu, a sub-tributary of the Huallaga upstream from Yurimaguas.

Balsapuerto gained global infamy in 2014 when news outlets reported the deaths of 14 shamans in a short period of time; a report prepared for the NGO ICEERS (International Center for

Ethnobotanical Education, Research and Service) identified multiple factors leading to the deaths of the men, including fear and jealousy but also political persecution and pressures created by external actors including extractive industry (Huaman and de Pribyl 2012). Historical connections between the Shawi and the Lamista Kichwa are abundant and have been recorded in myth (Ochoa Siguas 2006; Rumrrill 1986). These connections continue to the present day, with

Shawi people coming to Chazuta to be healed and even to apprentice as healers.

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In addition to the little chola women, Braulio also sings songs that call out to pusangueras, or women who perform love medicine (pusanga); a group of little chola women who come from the Ucayali River near Pucallpa; and a tomapendera, a woman who serves tomapende. This latter song is interesting in that it is the only song Braulio sings entirely in

Spanish, and its structure is exceedingly simple, with paired couplets sung in a pentatonic scale:

De donde vienes, serranita? Where do you come from, serranita? De donde vienes, serranita? Where do you come from, serranita? Tomapendera, serranitai, Tomapendera, serranita, Tomapendera, serranitai. Tomapendera, serranita.

Object 8-9. 2018.06.26.Braulio_3_ceremony (Selection-5). Braulio Sinarahua, Solo del Río Mayo; June 26, 2018. Audio file, 1.1 MB.

As noted above, tomapende is a psychoactive solanaceous plant associated with the highlands, thus the textual reference to serranita: little woman of the mountains. Braulio learned this song from a patient of Anuario’s, who taught it to them both.

References to women or to female spirits in these songs often refer to them in a negative light. While shamanism is inherently a bimodal practice, with both dark and light aspects, the relationship is made much more explicit between women and brujería, whereas for men, their healing powers tend to be emphasized. Braulio’s song refers to the pusangueras as cochinera warmikuna—dirty women. In explicating the song, he said, “Esos son mujeres cochineras…malbad hacen esas cochineras” (Those are dirty women…those dirty women do wicked things). Love medicine is inevitably associated with witchcraft because of the belief that its power is used to exert control over the will of another (Brown 2006). Mama Belén referred to the anima of ayahuasca as a liar, albeit a beloved and beautiful one. Likewise, don Salvador referred to the daughter of ayahuasca, warmi wawan, as “una mujer hechicera.” He also invokes

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the presence of a mujer brasilera—a Brazilian woman, also a hechicera, whom he calls to the session so that she can help cure his patients.

Hechiceray warmitanamillay Anima of the hechicera (sorceress) woman, Kayamuykiyami, I am calling, Chay warmi Brasilerata anamilla, That anima of the Brazilian woman, Kayamuyki shamuyna, I am calling, come, Curamuyna tukuy cuerpongunatana… Heal all [these] bodies now.

Object 8-10. 2018.11.13_Salvador_Fasabi_canto_1 (Selection-1). Salvador Fasabi Fasabi, San José de Sisa; November 13, 2018. Audio file, 497 KB.

This prevalence of the association between women and witchcraft calls to mind a comment made by a Napo Runa (Kichwa) healer that I met in Ecuador. When asked why there weren’t more female shamans, he responded that they tend to die younger because they engage in assault sorcery with each other. “They don’t act with respect for each other,” he said. His line of reasoning is consistent with the idea that, in a patriarchal society, women’s relationships are often fraught, characterized by competition rather than collaboration. Such competition is driven by the fact that the locus of power is in the masculine, and women’s power lies not in themselves but in their relationships with men and in their ability to articulate male forms of power. This has historically been the case for Lamista female shamans, who access shamanic power via their relationships with men (Barbira-Freedman 2010; Barbira-Freedman, personal communication,

2016). At the same time, as we see in these songs, women’s work and women’s power, compared with that of men, are not only devalued but are often outright demonized.

While Braulio calls to his ceremony various individuals and groups of people—his two teachers Anuario Ishuiza and Wilfredo Tananta, chola women from Balsapuerto and Pucallpa, a tomapendera from the sierra, and a group of pusangueras—he clarified that he was calling their animas or spirits. It’s not clear if the women in these songs should be considered mythic figures or if they, like Wilfredo and Anuario, are actual historic people with whom Braulio, or others

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known to him, had a relationship. Nevertheless, this invocation of powerful human curanderos both known and unknown (perhaps historic, but not personally familiar to the caller) is a feature of the shamanic practice of this region. Don Salvador makes this practice explicit by calling curanderos from Jeberos to come and assist him during the ceremony; Jeberos is a formerly important mission town but also the name of an Indigenous group now known as the Shiwilu. don Salvador: Por eso llamo también…Llamo a los Jeveros, por la Amazonas…Pero ya no son los efectivos…no lo saben tanto. Por eso yo llamo desde ahí, a veces me acompaña, a veces no. Sí, así es. (For that I am calling also…I call the Jeveros, from Amazonas…But nowadays they aren’t effective…they don’t know so much. For that I call from there; sometimes they accompany me, sometimes not. That’s how it is.)

Me: Cómo puedes averiguar si están acompañandote o no? (How can you tell if they are accompanying you or not?)

DS: Porque eses vienen. (Because they come.)

Me: Vienen? (They come?)

DS: Vienen. Les digo, “Apoyame, en este que estamos tomando…” Los digo, “Qué mal o qué enfermedad tiene?” (I say to them, “Help me, in this that we are taking [in this ayahuasca session]….I say to them, “What evil or what sickness does this person have?”)

Me: Puedes ver, o puedes escuchar? (Can you see them, or can you hear them?)

DS: Sí sí sí sí. Se ve, y se escucha lo que me dicen. “Tú, este tiene tal enfermedad, tú lo vas a curar así, tal este remedio. Y eso lo va a curar.” (Yes yes yes yes. I see them and I can hear what they say to me. “You, this one has such and such sickness, you are going to cure them this way, with such-and-such remedy. And that is going to cure them.”)

Me: Los Jeveros son gente, no? (The Jeveros are people, right?)

DS: Sí, son gente, claro. (Yes, they’re people, of course.)

Me: Estás llamando a la gente, o a los curanderos? (Are you calling the people, or the curanderos?)

DS: Ahh, los curanderos. (Ahh, the curanderos.)

Me: Antiguamente habían curanderos, no? (In the past there were curanderos [among them], right?)

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DS: Antiguamente habían harto curanderos. Habían buenos curanderos. Pero ya no escuchamos....Pero habían también hechiceros. Habían fuente malos que botaban así brujería, que le mataban. Whoo! Como la día de fiesta aca, por ejemplo, como eses mataban a la gente, pasar la fiesta, y murió tres o cuatro personas. Pero ahora ya no. Se, había ’75, ’78, ‘80s... (In the past there were lots of curanderos. There were good curanderos. But now we don’t hear [about many]…But they were also hechiceros. They were a source of bad people who spit out brujería, who killed. Whoo! Like on the day of fiesta here, for example, they would kill people. After the fiesta, three or four people would have died. But now, no. That was [in about] ’75, ’78, the ‘80s.)

Me: Pero cuando llamas a los Jeveros, por ejemplo, estás llamando a los curanderos antiguos que son ya muerto? (But when you call out to the Jeveros, for example, are you calling to the ancient curanderos that have already died?)

DS: No, los que están vivo. (No, those who are alive.)

Me: Vivo? (Alive?)

DS: Claro. (Yes.) (Interview, Salvador Fasabi Fasabi, November 15, 2018)

I include this snippet of conversation in its entirety because of its ethnographic richness. First, don Salvador is calling the Jeveros to come and assist him with diagnosis and with prescribing a cure. While ayahuasca is clearly a medicine in its own right, taken by patients who come for healing, it is also a tool for visualization. Healers say that when they take ayahuasca they are able to see—visually—what is wrong with a person. This is part of the reason that ayahuasca is taken at night: the darkness is said to aids in the healer’s vision.12 Don Salvador said as much himself, and other healers in other regions have told me the same thing.

However, what of the Jeveros? How are they able to see into don Salvador’s kitchen in

Sisa, if they are living people and not the disembodied spirits of deceased healers? There are two possible answers to this question. First, as noted in Chapter 7, it is believed that powerful healers, the likes of which are rarely encountered today, were in the past able to travel long distances almost instantaneously. Second, and perhaps more likely in this scenario, non-Indigenous

12 It is also said that the animas of ayahuasca only emerge at night.

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informants in both Peru and Ecuador have explained to me that taking ayahuasca is like uncovering the Eye of Sauron, where not only are you able to see out into the world, but others from far away, others both good and bad, are able to see into your world as well. Another way of interpreting this belief is that ayahuasca opens into a world of collective experience and existence, not (necessarily) of the collective unconscious but of the collective consciousness—a playing field accessed by those who are taking ayahuasca at the same time. Access to a given playing field appears to be constrained geographically—thus it is said that takers in the United

States, for example, are not at risk from the actions of evil brujos in Iquitos. In the Peruvian

Amazon, however, in cities and towns where ayahuasca shamanism is regularly practiced, the fact that most people take on given nights each week—Tuesday and Friday—means that those nights are said to be rife with conflict and shamanic warfare: “Brujo night,” one of my friends called it.

Jeberos, as noted above, was one of the places where Lamista curanderos used to travel in order to apprentice. Don Salvador’s own uncle, don Manuel Fasabi, once known as a powerful healer (muraya) in Sisa, went there himself and dieted with the plant that don Salvador calls

“yagé,” although he’d never taken yagé in ayahuasca until he took some that don Salvador had made. Don Salvador’s reference to deaths during the fiestas is consistent with accounts of fiestas in Lamas, times that were routinely marked by death—from internecine battles, from shamanic warfare (or suspected shamanic warfare), and possibly from other causes such as the consumption of spoiled foods, deaths that, nevertheless, were blamed on sorcery (Scazzocchio

1979). However, fiesta time in Sisa has received much less ethnographic attention. However, my informants state that harto gente—lots of people—used to come to Sisa for fiestas—and according to don Salvador, those visitors included Shiwilu from Jeveros. The dwindling of

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visitorship in the late 1970s and early 1980s corresponds with the rise to power of MRTA in the region, as well as other changes wrought by the new highway and government-sponsored colonization and development projects targeting the district that made the area a target for immigration and sharply changed the ethnic makeup, cultural expressions, and ecological integrity of the region.

Learning the Songs: The Curious Case of Antonio Sinarahua

I noted in Chapter 6 that the purgas are known as teacher plants, in that dieting with them is believed to instill special knowledge about healing, either through the deposition in the body of yachay—knowledge in the form of phlegm—or by the spirits of the plants speaking directly to the person dieting. Similarly, dieting with the purgas is said to instill songs as well. This is not the only way to learn songs or icaros: Braulio learned the songs sung by Anuario Ishuiza by sitting at his side throughout numerous ceremonies. Similarly, Mama Belén studied with five curanderos from Lamas, learning their songs. However, the idea that shamans learn their songs directly from the plants is both common and persistent. It was reported in some of the earliest studies of ayahuasca shamanism and continues to the modern era (Beyer 2009; Bianchi 2005;

Dobkin de Rios and Rumrrill 2008; Jauregui et al. 2011; Luna 1984a, 1984b, 1992). As Oakdale notes, “Song in the lowlands is also often understood to be a form that originates outside of or beyond humanity” (2009, 161). The Amazon is not unique in this phenomenon. Roseman (1996) reports that the Temiar of Malaysia receive songs from forest entities during dreams. Densmore notes that among Native North Americans:

Sometimes the Indian doctor pounds a drum or shakes a rattle, but usually he sings a song, which he believes came to him in a dream. He believes that a ‘supernatural visitant’ gave him the song together with instructions as to certain actions that must accompany its use. (1927, 555)

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On the other hand, the Amazon is by far the most famous example of this phenomenon, with rock stars and sundry musicians flocking to ayahuasca ceremonies for musical inspiration (Reid

2013). Furthermore, the Amazon seems unique in the extent to which it is believed to be the plants themselves, not other entities, that confer these songs, and that they do so by way of a mareación or borrachera caused by the ingestion of the plant.

When I was working with don Salvador, I observed that rather than several songs of different melodies and tempos, the music that he sings in ceremony is one long song. I asked him where he learned it. He responded with a very matter-of-fact tone:

Señorita, ésta música, cuando tú tomas el ayahuasca, te enseña… Digamos la madre ayahuasca, canta en tú delante, así. Canta, y uno va escuchando. Si tú eres [interesada] para que aprendas a cantar, tú lo vas grabando, y así poco a poco, te cambia a otra cosa. (Señorita, this music, when you take ayahuasca, it teaches you…We say the mother of ayahuasca, it sings in front of you, like that. It sings, and [a person] goes listening. If you are interested in learning to sing, you are going remembering it, and like that, little by little, it changes you.) (Interview, Salvador Fasabi Fasabi, November 15, 2018)

While his account may sound fantastic—the idea that an anthropomorphic figure stands in front of you and sings to you—I don’t find it so. Musical dreams and hallucinations can be extremely vivid, and the dreaming brain may even be able to produce or reproduce music and language that the waking brain cannot (Sacks 2007). Furthermore, as a musician myself, I’ve had musical dreams during regular nighttime sleep, without the aid of any plant or substance. Sometimes it’s just the music playing in my head, perhaps a song that I’ve been trying to write that comes out fully formed in my sleep. However, in one of the more vivid experiences, I was in a 1920s-style speakeasy with a woman in a long dress on stage —very much like the spirit women painted by

Pablo Amaringo (Luna and Amaringo 1999)—singing directly to me as I sat at a table in front. It was only as the song ended that I remembered I was supposed to be paying attention and learning the song. Nevertheless, to this day I remember the last line. Whenever I’ve had these

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dreams, as soon as my mind becomes aware that I need to pay attention, then my conscious mind arises, I wake up, and the music fades. The difference with ayahuasca is that the dream state and the conscious mind—what Beyer (2009) calls “lucidity”—can operate simultaneously.

Furthermore, as noted in Chapter 6, there appears to be something particularly musical or sonorous about ayahuasca.

As in the case of Native North America, it is said that the purgas not only teach the song itself, but also impart instructions in its use. Again, don Salvador:

Me: Y las otras purgas que has tomado, no te enseñan nada? (And the other purgas that you have taken, they didn’t teach you anything?)

DS: No, cuando yo he tomado otras purgas, por ejemplo he tomado el camé, me dijeron que “tienes que cantar llamando el anima del camé”—es una soga—cantar eso, porque esa es la medicina que he tomado yo…La purga nos enseña. La purga nos enseña a cantar. Nos enseña puro los versos, para dar otro canto, otro canto, otro canto. (No, when I have taken other purgas, for example I took camé, it told me that “you have to sing calling the anima of camé”—it’s a vine—to sing that, because that is the medicine that I have taken…The purga teaches us. The purga teaches us to sing. It teaches us all the verses, in order to give another song, [then] another song, [then] another song.) (Interview, Salvador Fasabi Fasabi, November 15, 2018)

At different times during the interview, he described how the animas teach him how to sing, what to sing, when to speed up, and when to sing slowly and softly. They instruct him to look after his patients, to remain aware of their state, and to be ready to cheer them when they become dismayed. They let him know when to sing into his patient’s crowns and when to blow smoke on them.

In their study of the plant diets of Chazuta, Sanz-Biset and Cañigueral note the literature on teacher plants and diets; however, in their 140 interviews, “spirits are hardly mentioned,” the write (2011, 272). In their study, out-of-the-ordinary experiences among lay people were rare and were limited to strange sounds, intense dreams, and encounters with forest animals that were believed to be plant spirits in disguise. To the contrary, in my study, not only did I find people

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who were both aware of and had experienced what they considered to be the animas of the plants, but I happened one day upon a textbook case of learning from the plants.

One steamy day I was walking through an Indigenous neighborhood of Sisa in search of a new médico I’d heard of, and I heard someone call my name. I turned and saw my friend

Custodio. He was a comunero of Alto Huaja but had been spending most of his time at the family home in Sisa town, helping to care for his elderly and ailing mother. He invited me in to meet his family. “Descansa, descansa!” They implored me to take a seat in the front room and I did, glad for a break from the sun. We chatted, and they were interested in how my work was going, having seen me present my project to the community in Alto Huaja. Custodio’s brother- in-law was sitting in the room, listening, and piped up: He took nodillo once. He said he took it cooked in water with puka waska; it’s a strong diet, and he had to diet salt for a week. “It doesn’t let you sleep,” he explained, “but in my dream (sueño), inside the mareación,” it started to teach him a song. “Wow, really?” I asked. He sang the song, and I was taken aback: It had all the marks of a classic lowland icaro—not like those I’d recorded in San Martín—and was one of the more beautiful icaros I’d ever heard at that. It started out with vocables, “Nay nay nay nay nay nay,” with a brisk, almost leaping melody. Then the words began, in Kichwa. But the song was short: His wife had been watching over him, and as he started singing in his mareación, she poked him with a stick and roused him from his reverie.

I pressed him for details. He had taken the purga solely to heal his body. He noted that this is the same process that one might go through if they wanted to become a médico or brujo, but he didn’t want to: He just wanted to cure his body. He said that he had taken ayahuasca before, but it didn’t teach him anything—no song or anything else. It just showed him visions—

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“pura gente: marronitos, negros, todos—pero caras no más paseando” (only people: brown ones, black ones, all kinds—but just faces passing by).

Inside his mareación, he said, he arrived at a muyuna or a pozo—a pool in the river formed by a rock, which becomes a whirlpool at high water. La Piedra Aúl, his son called it; a sirena lives there, the madre or diablo of the pool, who guards it, he said. This spot in the river is located “just upstream” of the house, about a block from the Plaza de Armas right there in Sisa.

“I’ve bathed there a lot,” Antonio said. “It used to be a lot different; the muyuna (whirlpool) was tremendous.”13 I mentioned the Piedra Aúl to a Peruvian friend who had also worked in El

Dorado, and she discovered a series of Facebook posts showing pictures of the muyuna and of nearby landmark rocks, with people recalling their fond memories of swimming there, lamenting the perpetual low flow of the river, and even noting the departure of the sirena.14

In the mareación, he found himself “under the rock, inside the water” (bajo del piedra, dentro del agua). “Así como tú, me presentaban gringas; así me enseñaban (Like you, gringas presented themselves to me; like that, they taught me). “Gringas?” I asked. “Sí hermana” (Yes, sister). But as he continued to take the nodillo, it treated him badly, causing him to vomit profusely, “puro flema,” covered in sweat. “La purga es celoso,” he said. “No es para cualquiera”

(The purga is jealous; it’s not for everyone). Seven years later, the purga left his body, he said, when he underwent an operation at the hospital in Tarapoto.

The story told by don Antonio is interesting anthropologically for the confluence of theoretical lines of thinking that it represents: discourse-area theory from anthropological

13 Interviewees regularly asserted that the rivers used to be much higher throughout San Martín, including the river that runs through Sisa; they blame the reduction on deforestation and subsequent drying of the landscape.

14 San José de Sisa- El Dorado-San Martin – Peru, “LA PIEDRA U, RECUERDOS IMBORRABLES. CUANTOS SE HABRAN TIRADO DESDE ESA PIEDRA A LAS AGUAS DEL RIO SISA....”, Facebook, July 14, 2012. https://www.facebook.com/103385186393591/photos/a.375572512508189/375573162508124/?type=1&theater.

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linguistics; the ontological turn; and cultural materialism, by way of phytosemiotics and “the chemical turn” (Hartigan 2019). The specific forms that emerge into human consciousness as a result of this process—in this case, the sirena and her song—are heavily conditioned by culture—in this case, don Augusto’s relationship to the river, the rock, and the pool; the regional mythology that posits the pool as the home of a sirena; and his musical enculturation.

The Sacred Landscape of San Martín

Much of the anthropological literature on shamanism treats it as a largely or purely symbolic and performative act. As Waldstein and Adams write:

The impression that a non-ordained reader would come away with is that Indigenous people are busy fending off spirits and warlocks while leaving themselves open to the ravages of the diseases afflicting them. (Waldstein and Adams 2006, S98)

This dissertation has been aimed at showing how Kichwa shamanism and other ethnomedical practices, including its most symbolic aspects, are manifest in Kichwa life in very “real” ways.

These practices both constitute and reflect the broader contours of Kichwa culture. These practices play out in people’s lives, they affect people’s bodies and minds, their wellbeing, their familial and community relationships, their ability to work and to procreate and to feed their families. These practices both influence and are influenced by historical events and trends, by changes to the regional economy, by political movements, by environmental change. As much as anything, these practices are a part of the physical environment out of which they were born.

Contrary to popular belief, the Amazon is not a homogenous carpet of forest; great diversity exists at all scales (Cleary 2001; Kricher 1997). The current and ancestral territories of the

Kichwa comprise a landscape of great uniqueness, from landforms to soils to habitats (Alverson,

Rodríguez, and Moskovitz 2001; Pitman et al. 2014). Without the existence in the first place of

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this landscape and its resident plants—and their animas—in the monte, purmas, and chacras,

Kichwa life and culture would be very different (Chaparro 2018).

On that note, one of the most important and interesting aspects of the shamanic music of the Kichwa is its relationship to landscape. As we saw in the case of Antonio Sinarahua, his song came from not just any anima, not just any sirena, but from a sirena that inhabited a pool in the quebrada that flows near his house. This is a case in which music is born directly from the relationship between human and environment, in which the voice of the spirit world, the voice of the landscape itself, is given life through the encounter between plant and human.

Braulio and don Salvador also perform music that is related to landscape. In the set of beliefs or mythology represented in these shamanic songs, the spirits of deceased curanderos and of other powerful healers reside, literally, in the mountainous landscape of San Martín. Braulio repeatedly calls to his beloved patrón, Anuario Ishuiza, searching for him in the mountains of the

Cordillera Escalera: Waman Wasi, or House of the Eagle, and Wayra Purina, the Way of the

Winds.

Mana chaypi kakpaykika, shamuy rinaykipa You’re not here, you’re not there, come; Wayra Purina urkusikisillumanta, From the foot of the mountain Wayra Purina, Chaparimuwanaykipa kayarimuykina. I am calling you to come watch over me. Kantitutaka shamuy rinaykipanamaya. I am calling to the song, that it comes. Mana chaypi kakpaykika shamuy rinaykipa. Searching the mountains for Anuario, that he will come and look over me. Waman Wasi urkusikisillumanta Standing under the mountain Waman Wasi, chaparimuwanaykipa. that he may watch over me well. Chayraykuma ñukasitu kayarimuykisapana. For this I am calling to you to come. Vueltai vueltaitana rurarimuwanaykipa Fly, fly that you may surround me and care for me. Kayarimuykisapana kangunata kayarin. To you (plural) I am calling.

Object 8-11. 2018.06.26.Braulio_3_ceremony (Selection-6). Segundo Braulio Sinarahua Salas, Solo del Río Mayo; June 26, 2018. Audio file. 908 KB.

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The phrase “Mana chaypi kakpaykika,” Braulio explains as, “Puede ser aca o en Waman Wasi o en Wayra Purina; dos lados estoy buscando” (He could be here or in Waman Wasi or in Wayra

Purina; I am searching both sides [of the mountains]). Urkusikisillumanta comprises three words: urku (mountain); siki (skirt); manta (from). A more poetic (and accurate) translation of that line may be, “From the folds at the base of the mountain, I call you to watch over me.”

A number of Braulio’s songs use similar language but different melodies and tempos to call Anuario down from the mountain:

Anuario Ishuizata kallarimuykisapana, Anuario Ishuiza, I am calling you, Waman Wasi urkusikisillumanta, From the foot of the mountain Waman Wasi, Shamurinayki Come. Pamakallarimuykisapanama. I am calling you to me.

Object 8-12. 2018.06.26.Braulio_3_ceremony (Selection-7). Segundo Braulio Sinarahua Salas, Solo del Río Mayo; June 26, 2018. Audio file, 783 KB.

My collaborator, Kichwa linguist Marcos Sangama, noted that the final suffix of this verse, -ma, repeated frequently in Braulio’s songs, is an arcane pronunciation of the formally recognized suffix -na. The appearance of the suffix -ma, he said, indicates that these songs are of more ancient origin.

Similarly, don Salvador calls “el hombre fuerte,” the madre of ayahuasca, down from the mountains around Sisa. He sings, “Ishkay kimsay laderay washay montanamilla kayamuykinami shamuyna hai runaaaaa,” drawing out the last vowel, a technique that ends almost every line.

What first drew my attention to these words is that when he sang them, he did so with a very sudden change in tempo and prosody. During our interview, I asked him to explain the tempo change and the words. As I’d suspected, the tempo change was associated with the fact that one of his patients in the ceremony was vomiting quite forcefully in that moment. He changed the rhythm of his song “Para seca la garganta…la señora que estaba mala ahí” (To clear her

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throat…the woman who was sick there). His statement supports Hill’s theory that “profound processes of bodily, social, or cosmic transformation are usually expressed through dynamic musical processes” including acceleration and deceleration (Hill 2015, 67).

I played the clip for don Salvador again. He gave me the words and then explained what he meant by them:

DS: Tres laderas atras, voy llamando a la persona que necesito aca, ese el hombre. (Three mountains back, I’m calling to the person I need here, that man.)

Me: Cuales cerros? (Which mountains?)

DS: Tres cerros que se ven ahí, en las montañas, o que estuve un territo…ahí están las personas…que estoy llamando, detrás de cerritos. (Three mountains that are seen there, in the mountains, or that were a territory…There are the people…that I am calling, behind the mountains.) (Interview, Salvador Fasabi Fasabi, November 15, 2018)

From Sisa, a range of mountains is visible, the most prominent of which is Ampi Urku, famous as a major source of the vine alampi, the key ingredient in blowgun dart poison, for which the

Kichwa of San Martín were famous during colonial times. Don Salvador was calling el hombre fuerte, whom he later described as sinchi runa (sinchi = strong, runa = man or person, Qu.) and diablo runa (diablo = devil, Sp.), to come down from the mountains and help cure the woman who was purging her illness in that moment.

The mountains are considered home not only to deceased curanderos and powerful anthropomorphic spirits but also to other powerful forces. Braulio calls to the mountains to send down a whirlwind that will strengthen the borrachera:

Waman Wasi urkusikisillumanta From beneath the mountain Waman Wasi, Vueltarimunaykipama Spinning toward me, Kayarimuykisapana I am calling you to me. Sinchi sinchi machayniquiwana Strong strong borrachera, Shamurinayquipa Come. Object 8-13. 2018.06.26.Braulio_3_ceremony (Selection-8). Segundo Braulio Sinarahua Salas, Solo del Río Mayo; June 26, 2018. Audio file, 269 KB.

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Braulio explained, “Está llamando del cerro, bajo del cerro…para que da viento con los icaros. Viento como un remolino pero en viento, no en aqua” ([This line is] calling from the mountain, beneath the mountains, in order to bring wind with the icaros. A wind like a whirlpool, but in wind, not water). He gestured to show the spinning winds that he was calling down from the mountains.

Remarkably, the songs of don Augusto, Braulio, and don Salvador are paralleled in the shamanic music and myth of the Napo Runa, on the distal edge of the Maynas District in

Ecuador. Uzendoski and Calapucha-Tapuy recount a session with shaman Lucas Tapuy, who begins by telling students that he obtains his power “from that rock over there[,] pointing to a large boulder near the river” (2012, 35).15 The rock was the home of two spirit women, women of the water who look like gringas. At night they visited him, kissing him and keeping him awake, and took him to their home under the rock, a portal to an underworld realm of power.

This is almost exactly the same story told by don Augusto, except that don Augusto’s dream was induced by the ingestion of a purga, whereas Lucas Tapuy’s interaction with the sirena-like women takes place in his nighttime dreams. This experience of nighttime spirit-dreams and even succubi appears to be much more common on the Napo, where the relationship between shaman and plant or spirit is that of lovers (Swanson 2009). To the contrary, in San Martín, the dreams

(sueños) referred to by most of my informants appear to be related to a borrachera, and I have yet to encounter the same sort of conjugal relationship between shaman and his or her helper spirits.

15 Some people believe that one piece of evidence for the historical interaction between the Lamista Kichwa and Ecuadorian Kichwa is the relationship between the surnames “Tapuy” (Puyo and Napo Runa) and “Tapullima” (Lamista). The suffix “-llima” may be related to the adjective “allima,” “good” in San Martín Quechua. “Tapuy,” in San Martín Quechua, means “to ask.”

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After telling the students about the rock and the water-women, Tapuy begins to sing a shamanic song in which, referring to himself mostly in the third person, Tapuy recounts his journeys, spiritual or real, to a mountain called “Wasila,” another named “Ichu,” and to that distant and powerful river, the Huallaga. These places “define him as a being full of forces and powers of an extended geographic spirit world” (Uzendoski and Calapucha-Tapuy 2012, 37).

This sacred landscape is “inscribed with and defined by unseen power” (33); Tapuy connects himself and his listeners to this landscape through the imagery of his song as he travels on a spirit journey to these various “sites on the landscape…that are inhabited by the spirit women that ‘teach’ and ‘help’” him (38). After Tapuy’s passing years later, Tapuy is said to “frequent those places that defined his shamanic consciousness,” the rivers and mountains he sang about in that song; he “has become a presence on the landscape” (39). The sacred mountains, the inhabitation of these mountains by the spirits of deceased powerful curanderos, the rock by the river inhabited by gringa water spirits, and the wider regional landscape inhabited by women helpers—these are parallels between the cultures of the Kichwa of San Martín and the Kichwa of

Ecuador—two groups that are generally considered distinct but whom, as we’ve seen, are deeply interconnected historically as well as culturally. A major difference in the story of Lucas Tapuy as opposed to that of Braulio and don Salvador is that the former embodies the powers of the sacred landscape, whereas the latter call out to other entities, spirits, and forces that inhabit the landscape, asking them to descend from the mountains or ascend the river in their boats and bring with them their healing power and expertise.

Finally, the geographical orientation of the shamanic music of the Kichwa, both Peruvian and Ecuadorian, is similar to what has been recorded among the Baniwa and Wakuenai of the northwest Amazon (Hill 1993, Wright 1993). The songs of Braulio and don Salvador describe

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places close at hand that are considered ancestral Kichwa territories; they invoke the names of distant places on ancestral, colonial, and contemporary trade routes that are or have been in the past economically and culturally important to the Lamista Kichwa in their roles as travelers and traders; and they invoke the names of peoples with whom they or their ancestors would have interacted in their travels to these locales. This is similar to what Wright describes for the

Baniwa:

I would only conclude by stating that the Hohodene tradition of the voyages of Kuwai above all represent (1) a notion of territoriality…(2) a notion of collective identity, of Hohodene society and other peoples on the periphery (affinal groups, Maakunai, the white men)…and (3) a sense of cumulative historical knowledge, including the experiences of contact, networks of commerce and wars with other ethnic groups, which is always open to new experiences and interpretations (1993, 25).

The numerous parallels that we see between the songs analyzed in this chapter and the shamanic musics of other peoples of lowland South America appear to provide further confirmation of the notion of the Amazon as a discourse area defined by similar forms and practices of shamanic music (Beier, Michael, and Sherzer 2002). The musical and cultural parallels of Kichwa shamanism with that of other Amazonian groups also confirm the legitimate Indigeneity of the

Kichwa of San Martín—not just those of Lamas, whose identity has never been in doubt, but also those of outlying areas whose quiet, less obvious forms of identity and Indigenous practice have left them open to erasure, as I outlined in Chapter 5.

Finally, the centrality of the landscape and particularly of the sacred sites of Waman

Wasi and Wayra Purina in these shamanic songs supports the Kichwa claim to these territories as their rightful inheritance. Worldwide, mountains are often associated with the sacred, with “with the deepest and most central values and beliefs of cultures and traditions throughout the world”

(Taylor et al. 2005, 1456). For the Kichwa, these mountains are places where the spirits of their ancestors and their shamanic predecessors reside, places inhabited by the elemental forces and

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animated by the spirits upon whom the Kichwa call in their time of need. The mountains and mountainous territories referred to in these songs align perfectly with the concept of “sacred geography”:

…Religion and land are intimately related in traditional Native American cultures. While land may be regarded as sacred in some generalized sense, specific areas are more significant in that they are sources and locales of power and identity. They may tie the people to each other and to their past. These locales may also be places in which shamans and other types of religious leaders or people of power are empowered. Such specific places are critically significant, then, to individual and communal identity and well-being. (Michaelsen 1995, 45)

The appearance of these sites in shamanic song and, in the case of the songs of Braulio

Sinarahua, songs which appear to be more ancient, support the ongoing struggle of the Kichwa for access to and ownership over these lands, as detailed in Chapter 3 of this dissertation.

Conclusion

The song texts examined in this chapter make it clear that the use of the purgas—not just ayahuasca but the other purgas as well—is, among other things, a mechanism for encountering and interacting with other-than-human beings that populate the Kichwa landscape. As Lamista writer Miguel Piña Sangama wrote, “The people who live in this part of the upper Amazon, in order to be in tune with nature and so that we recognize the spirits of the forest, of the water, and of the chacra, we always have had to ingest our medicinal plants of the forest” (Rengifo and

Faiffer 2012). Furthermore, the songs that emerge from this encounter represent a means of bi- directional communication between human and other-than-human, although not the only one.

Besides the encounter with these animas during diets, in dreams, and in the borrachera, the other setting in which such encounters were reported to have taken place was in the forest, when men were on hunting expeditions. During these expeditions, the Kichwa find themselves in an environment that is not of their own making or that is, at the very least, dominated by the other- than-human. All of these settings might be said to be characterized by altered states of

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consciousness (ASC), which some commentators consider to be a universal aspect of shamanic practice (Winkelman 2010). A full discussion of ASC is beyond the scope of this work, but I second Uzendoski and Calapucha-Tapuy (2012) in their preference for the alternative term

“shamanic state of consciousness,” for its inclusion of knowledge gained during ordinary states of awareness (Tedlock 2005). This wider definition is useful for our purposes because of the widespread association in Amazonia between hunting and shamanism or shamanic forms of practice (Barbira-Freedman 2010; Bianchi 2005; Brown 1984, 2006; Calavia Sáez 2011;

Langdon 1979, 1988; Luna 1984a; Muratorio 1991; Rengifo and Faiffer 2012; Scazzocchio

1978; Shepard 2011, 2014; Uzendoski 2005).

However, with the decline of hunting in the region, the retreat of the forest in the face of agricultural expansion, and the increasing urbanization of Amazonia (Alexiades and Peluso

2015; Aramburú 1984; Campbell 2015; Dobkin de Rios 1981; McSweeney and Jokisch 2015;

Parry et al. 2010; Peluso and Alexiades 2005), the ingestion of strong plants remains one of the more reliable means of making contact with the spirit world. Although for the Kichwa of San

Martín, the decline of hunting also signals the decline of dieting with the purgas, a means of preparing the body and mind that was, in the past, a prerequisite for hunting (Elguera 2017;

Rengifo and Faiffer 2012), the emergence of robust and modern forms of ayahuasca shamanism in urban centers appears to be an outgrowth of the decline of hunting and warfare and increased sedentism and nucleation of populations (Bianchi 2005). The use of plants to engage with the spirit world may explain Barbira-Freedman’s observation, “One of the puzzles of vegetalismo is that urban shamans of mixed blood who have never learnt to hunt or even spent much time in a forest environment develop shamanic agency in relation to a very ecological cosmology” (2002,

143). Increasingly, the means of making contact is not the immersion of self in the forest, but the

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immersion of forest in the self—the ingestion of strong plants that contain the powerful secondary compounds that enable them to survive and thrive in a hostile tropical environment. In the human body, these compounds give rise to a powerful intoxication that can be either dangerous or enlightening—or both. However, through generations of interaction with this landscape and with these plants, the Kichwa have developed a relationship with the plants, with their effects, and with the spirits that inhabit and animate them. These songs represent not only the codification of knowledge around plant use, they are also tools for managing the effects of the plants and for maintaining contact with a spirit world that otherwise appears to be retreating with the forest.

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CHAPTER 9 DISCUSSION AND RECOMMENDATIONS

This study began as an attempt to describe and understand the contemporary state of shamanic practice among the Kichwa of San Martin, and the relationship of their shamanic music to other forms of Kichwa folk music as well as to the broader genre of ayahuasca-related songs often known as “icaros.” In the course of gaining entrée to Kichwa communities, at least one expert warned me that few if any shamanic healers remained among the Kichwa of San

Martín (Daniel Vecco, personal communication, 2017). Despite reports to the contrary from other sources, his assessment proved to be more accurate than I would have liked. The one person to whom he did refer me died shortly before I was able to locate his home, and other experts in the field were not easy to identify nor, given the far-flung nature of Kichwa habitation, to contact. Furthermore, the advances of shamanic tourism in the area meant that those healers who were easy to find were engrossed in, and largely influenced by, the exigencies and opportunities of commercial ayahuasca practice. By no means did this fact invalidate their knowledge. It did, however, make that knowledge less useful for the specific aims of this study, and it also made it much less economically accessible. Apart from the cost, one of the concerns was that, given the performative aspects of shamanism, those individuals who engage a globalized audience are more likely to perform that version of shamanism that is desired and expected by their largely European and American audience, who in turn have been heavily influenced by the popular writings of Terrence McKenna and Carlos Castaneda, by New-Age spirituality, and by perceptions of indigeneity that are based on a highly romanticized and essentialized version of Native North American spirituality. Evgenia Fotiou, Stephan Beyer and others have done a fine job articulating the contours of this version of Amazonian shamanism; it was not necessary for me to duplicate their work.

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On the other hand, in my explorations of Kichwa culture, shamanism, and ethnomedicine,

I did uncover a living tradition of shamanic practice, one that is clearly in the vein of a pan-

Amazonian ayahuasca shamanism but that also bears the marks of a specific Kichwa cultural identity and relation to the Kichwa ancestral landscape. Like its globalized commercial form,

Kichwa shamanism is a mercantile endeavor, with services rendered for a fee. Ceremonies may be performed for groups of patients in the healer’s home in town; more sensitive or intransigent cases may be treated in the healer’s home in the rural community or the chacra. Local people, both Kichwa and mestizo, do actively partake of shamanic services, although patients may also come from surrounding regions as well. Healers who become well known are often invited to travel and perform for audiences afar; a healer’s power can be measured in the number and distance of cities to which he or she has traveled to perform healings.

All of these elements are consistent with what is seen in globalized ayahuasca practice, where the difference is one of scale or quantity as opposed to quality. Indeed, despite the prevalence of Shipibo art and culture in globalized shamanic tourism, the shamanism of the San

Martín Kichwa appears to be largely the substrate upon which global practice is built. Jacques

Mabit, founder of the Tarapoto-based treatment center Takiwasi and one of the preeminent figures in the medicalization and globalization of ayahuasca practice, credits the Lamista with much of his own training, as well as that of Raimundo Irineu Serra, founder of the syncretic

Brazilian religion Santo Daime, which uses ayahuasca as its sacrament (Mabit, personal communication, 2018). He likewise notes that the Kichwa are the major regional influence for shamanism as practiced in San Martín (Mabit 2002), a region that in turn gave rise to some of the most important figures in the early globalization of ayahuasca shamanism, both the movement of patients toward the Amazon and the movement of healers outward to Europe and North

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America.1 Thus Kichwa shamanism as practiced today in San Martín proceeds in an unbroken tradition from the same historical practices that gave rise to contemporary pan-Amazonian and globalized ayahuasca shamanism. Based on my preliminary research, this was a finding that I expected to see, although the clarity with which historical and contemporary practices were linked was unanticipated.

At the same time, the shamanic songs that I was able to record among the Kichwa of San

Martín display a uniqueness and even an autochthony that I did not anticipate. The extensive texts documented in these songs are unique in a genre in which the use of vocables and other non-lexical items figure prominently and in which lyrical content, where present, tends to be limited and repetitive. The clarity of the texts is unique in a genre in which obfuscation—either by means of garbled or of ethnically foreign language—often constitutes a stratagem of power.

The frequent reference to female healers was also unique and interesting and seems to reinforce evidence uncovered both within this study and elsewhere that women historically played a larger role in shamanic practice (Shepard 2014). Perhaps most exciting was the discovery of the importance of landscape in shamanic practice, as revealed in these songs’ references to the regional geography and to specific sacred sites. Indeed the primary use of these songs is not as an entertaining backdrop to a psychedelic healing journey, nor as some sort of musical or sonic therapy, but as a means of calling or invoking the presence of healers, both human and other- than-human, to attend the ceremony and to assist the presiding healer in their efforts to serve their patients. In the ongoing struggle of the Kichwa for territorial rights, the appearance of the landscape in these songs, especially the mountains Waman Wasi and Wayra Purina, both sites

1 Due to the continued persecution of these practices in the global north, names and details regarding these points cannot be provided.

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within the ACR-CE, is particularly salient. This finding will be further elaborated and presented in support of a proposal currently under development by CAAAP and CEPKA for the co- management of the ACR-CE by the Kichwa and existing park authorities.

Although I was able to identify and work with a small number of expert healers, it does appear that Kichwa shamanism in San Martín is not what it used to be—neither as prevalent nor as powerful. To the contrary, Kichwa ethnomedicine more broadly appears to be alive and well, especially the use of the purgas. The relationship between ayahuasca shamanism and the practice of the purgas is ripe for further inquiry. On the one hand, ayahuasca is a purga and is used by the

Kichwa in a manner analogous to their use of other purgas—including as a stimulant and hunting medicine. On the other hand, ayahuasca is in a league of its own, with the elaboration of ceremonial features associated with its use that appears to be unique. The documentation of songs associated with other purgas, especially in hunting-related practices, might shed light on the relationship. I suspect that contemporary ayahuasca shamanism developed from out of the substrate of broader purgative practices observed by the Kichwa and probably other ethnic groups of the Maynas. The dietary practices common to both reinforces that idea, as does the

Kichwa language around and practice of “chacruna”—a term that is so central to pan-Amazonian and globalized forms of ayahuasca shamanism that it has almost come to define ayahuasca, and yet that to the Kichwa is so generic as to be synonymous with plant medicine itself. I’m also very interested in the autochthony of the use of the purgas and the traditions that have developed around them. La dieta is common throughout the Amazon, and yet I suspect that many of the purgas, at least the specific ones used by the Kichwa of San Martín, are not. I suspect that the cortezas that are so common within the category of the purgas may be relatively specific to the monte of San Martín. Clavohuasca, for example, is rare in Ecuador and for that reason treasured

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among the shamans there; in Peru, to the contrary, it is common. Ayahuasca on the other hand, according to my informants, does not commonly grow in the monte of San Martín. Thus, its use may have been imported from afar and incorporated into a pre-existing pharmacopoeia and set of practices represented by what we now know as “las purgas.” That’s not to say that ayahuasca use is new among the Kichwa; this incorporation may have taken place in pre-Hispanic times. In either case, specimens of ayahuasca found in the forest may represent isolated wild populations, or they may indicate anthropogenic forests. Further ethnobotanical and botanical research into these matters could shed light on cultural processes. Given the personhood and agency with which some of these plants are endowed, a better understanding of their botanical identity, geographical distribution, and biomedical properties could help flesh out the personalities of these plants as well as their importance in inter-ethnic and inter-species relationships.

Although they remain salient, the practices associated with ayahuasca specifically and with the purgas more broadly appear to be undergoing change—specifically, a simplification. In the case of ayahuasca, there is the practice of serving it without ceremonial fanfare, including song—even by those who learned to serve it from someone who sang. In the case of the purgas, there appears to be a growing preference to prepare them in a base of alcohol rather than in water, due to its relative safety and the less stringent diet required; Barbira-Freedman likewise noted this transition as one of several “post-colonial reinventions” in ethnomedical practice

(2014, 155 n.26). It’s easy to see these changes as an erosion of traditional culture—especially when one is interested in shamanic music and plant-based songs—but they also appear to represent an adjustment to modern life. Contemporary economic and social conditions make it difficult to retire from productive activities for long periods of time in order to complete the diets required either for shamanic apprenticeship or for the use of purgas prepared in water. It’s also

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quite possible that the increasing environmental pollution of modern life—and the subsequent accumulation of toxins in the liver and other organs—make the use of the purgas more dangerous. On the other hand, the increasing democratization or simplification of these practices and the disappearance of expert practitioners suggest a loss of detailed and in-depth knowledge about these plants’ properties and uses. Contrary to popular belief, the ayahuasca boom is unlikely to reverse this process as long as the commercial focus remains on ayahuasca and a handful of other plants, and as long as the benefits of the market continue to accrue disproportionately to non-Amazonian agents.

Culture change in and of itself is, of course, neither bad nor good; more than anything, it is simply inevitable. Whether and how their unique culture continues to serve the Kichwa is the question. The Kichwa have embraced certain changes—for example, the use of pesticides— while rejecting others in the name of custom. It appears to me that the most highly conserved features of Kichwa culture are those pertaining to women—and particularly those customs that keep women in a position of servitude and subordination. An awareness and remediation of this double standard, leading to the increased education of women and their representation in positions of authority, will help the Kichwa make the best use of their talent going forward, while of course bringing them into alignment with global human-rights standards regarding gender and sex. The arguments of Kichwa leaders for territorial rights rest heavily on international conventions and treaties such as ILO 169; it would behoove them to pay equal homage to international agreements such as the UN Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women. There has already been some progress made on this front, and the general adaptability of Kichwa culture suggests that continued advances can be expected.

However, outside actors and allies of the Kichwa, especially those who take an essentialized

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view of Indigenous culture, must avoid reinforcing the status quo in the name of cultural revitalization. They should instead take proactive steps to include women in all activities; failure to do so weakens their program and impoverishes the results of their investigations and initiatives. Likewise, the growing influence of certain missionary groups threatens to introduce new elements of gender inequality as well as bias and discrimination against non-binary and non- heterosexual individuals. This would be a very sad development, and harmful to those LGBTQ individuals who currently appear to enjoy full recognition and acceptance in most communities.

Contributions

This study is the first in-depth study of the shamanic music of the Kichwa of San Martín and contributes to the body of research on discourse and discourse areas in Amazonía (Basso

1986, 2009; Beier, Michael and Sherzer 2002; Hill and Rodriguez 2016; Sherzer 1987; Urban and Sherzer 1986, 1988). Building on the work of Barbira-Freedman (Barbira-Freedman 1999,

2002, 2010, 2014; Scazzocchio 1978, 1979), this study contributes to the knowledge of contemporary Kichwa history, lifeways, and shamanic and ethnomedical practice. The discovery of a close relationship between Kichwa shamanic music and landscape is not only theoretically interesting, showing parallels between Kichwa culture and that of other Indigenous Amazonian peoples, especially the Ecuadorian Kichwa, but it also buttresses the Kichwa territorial claims regarding these landscapes, an issue which is currently being fought on multiple fronts at both the regional and international level (CEPKA et al. 2017; Chaparro and Valderrama 2017; FPP and AIDESEP 2015; GIZ 2018; Guimaraes et al. 2018; Pérez Salas 2017a, 2017b). This study also contributes to our understanding of shamanism, and specifically Amazonian ayahuasca shamanism, as a practice bound up in processes of cultural and historical change.

This study contributes to the sizeable body of literature on Amazonian ethnobiology, but it attempts to do so by way of a holistic approach to culture and ethnomedical practice that

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approximates what Etkin (1988) calls a “biobehavioral and multidisciplinary” approach. In doing so, it contributes to our understanding of Indigenous modes of plant use, both purgatives and psychedelics, including practices around safety, experiences of danger, and the relationship between ethnomedicine and religion broadly defined, which in this study takes the form of shamanic relations with the other-than-human world. Finally, in keeping with the call by Fotiou

(2020) and others (George et al. 2020) for the decolonization of the so-called “psychedelic renaissance,” this study attempts to resituate as Indigenous many of the therapeutic processes currently being appropriated by non-Indigenous actors both within the Amazon and without. It is hoped that in doing so, this study will lay the groundwork for future applied research that will increase Kichwa access to the benefits of this increasingly mainstream and increasingly commercialized movement, while helping to reverse the “erasure of the Indigenous” taking place in the movement (Fotiou 2016).

Limitations and Future Research

A major limitation of this study was the difficulty of locating knowledgeable Kichwa healers, especially those who work with song. While there remain a handful of individuals whom

I hope to contact for future research, this is a limitation that will not be readily overcome without expanding the geographical or other parameters of the research design. Another limitation of this study is the lack of primary data drawn from ethnobotanical collection and identification. Future research will fill this gap, but preparations must first be made in order to accommodate for the contemporary and changing landscape of intellectual-property regulation and protections regarding Indigenous knowledge in Peru (Friso et al. 2020; Hak Hepburn 2020; McGonigle

2016; Posey and Plenderleith 2004). Finally, gender in Kichwa culture, and specifically the relationship between gender and Kichwa identity, has been insufficiently examined and theorized. I plan to take a closer look at these issues in future research.

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GLOSSARY

Anima Spirit or essence

Apu Elected leader of a community

Autoridades White, creole, or mestizo officials or commoners who availed themselves of power and of Kichwa labor under the system of indirect rule known as the vara

Ayahuasquero/a One who serves ayahuasca; may also refer to one who drinks or uses ayahuasca

Balsero A person employed to build and operate a raft

Borrachera The effects of ayahuasca and other strong purgas; also known as “mareación”

Carguero One who carries cargo on their back; a traditional role of the Kichwa. Also known as “cargador.”

Cashimbo Pipe

Cerro The high mountains

Chacruna A mixture of plants; any plant or blend of plants that is added to ayahuasca.

Chicha Fermented corn drink

Choba choba Communal work party

Chullachaqui Guardian or “madre” (mother) of the forest

Comunero/a Community member, especially of a formally designated indigenous community (“comunidad nativa”)

Convitar To prepare and serve a purga

Curandero/a Healer; also known in San Martín as médico“ ”

Curioso/a One who is curious about plants and purgas; usually one who has learned ethnomedical practices from a father or uncle and self-experimented.

Encomendado Recipient of colonial land grant

Encomienda Grant of land, and enslaved indigenous people to work it, made by the crown to its principals

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Entrada Colonial military expedition against indigenous groups

Habilitación Debt peonage

Mareación The effects of ayahuasca and other strong purgas; also known as borrachera

Masato Fermented manioc drink

Médico/a Shamanic healer; one who works with the animas of the plants

Mita Forced labor and tribute imposed upon the indigenous inhabitants of Peru by the crown and the church

Montaña The tropical foothills and high selva that make up the eastern ramparts of the Andes

Monte The forested hills surrounding settlements

Pani Sister, from the point of view of a man

Platanal Orchard of plantain trees

Purguero/a One who takes or serves purgas

Runa People, person, human, or man (Quechua)

Shacapa In many parts of the Amazon, a leaf-rattle used in ayahuasca healing processes; in San Martín, a rattle made of the seeds of Thevetia peruviana strung together and worn as a bandera by men, sometimes women, in musical and festival performance

Shapingo A guardian spirit or demon of the mountains; equivalent to the chullachaqui

Tambo A simple shelter, usually found in the chacra

Toma Ayahuasca session or ceremony, from the Spanish tomar, to take

Vara A wooden staff that symbolically conferred power upon its bearer, the varayuk, in a system of indirect rule that facilitated the expropriation of Kichwa labor by whites, creoles, and mestizos. The enforcement powers of the vara were eventually delegated to the police forces.

Yachay A type of phlegm the results from the use of strong purgas; it is considered an agent and a tool of brujería or sorcery; direct translation: knowledge.

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APPENDIX A TIMELINE OF EVENTS IN THE FORMATION OF THE LAMISTA KICHWA OF NORTHEASTERN PERU

1438—Defeat of the Chankas by the Inca (Scazzocchio 1979) 1526—Inca king Huayna Capac learns of the arrival of Pizarro and his men on the coast and summons them to Quito (Cieza de Leon 1883) 1532—Pizarro arrives in Peru (Starn, Degregori, and Kirk 2005) and, on Nov. 16, captures the Inca Atahualpa in Cajamarca. 1536—An estimated 14,000 Indians paddle up the Amazon in canoes, fleeing the Portuguese. 300 of them arrive in Chachapoyas in 1539. (Uriarte 1989; Hemming 2008 says they arrived in Chachapoyas in 1556) 1538—First Spanish expedition in the region: Alonso de Alvarado and Juan Perez de Guevara from Chachapoyas to Moyobamba where they discovered a land called “Rupa Rupa.” During their second expedition, Alvarado heard of an Inka chief named Ankoallo who lived beside a large lake, but no one would take him there. (Schjellerup 1999, 201) (Uriarte 1989 says this happened in 1535) 1538—Town of Moyobamba founded, same as above (Scazzocchio 1979) 1538—First expedition down the Huallaga, from Huánuco, by Alonso Mercadillo. Various other expeditions would follow within the century, including by Franciscan missionaries beginning in 1595. (Uriarte 1989: 56–57) 1541—First Spanish entrada into Lamista territory. (Doherty et al. 2007) 1545—Pérez de Guevara descends the Mayo from Moyobamba to the Huallaga, then turns upstream and travels to Huánuco. (Uriarte 1989) 1558—Expedition of Ursua and Aguirre down the Huallaga (Scazzocchio 1979), memorialized by Werner Herzog in Aguirre, the Wrath of God (Schjellerup 1999 says this took place in 1560 and that they traveled the Mayo as well.) 1610—Corregidor of Chachapoyas, Juan Vargas Machuca, travels to the interior and made peace with several tribes including the Tabalosos. Finds them unsuited to conversion or domination (Schjellerup 1999) 1618–20—Diego Vaca de Vega obtains permission from the Spanish viceroy to attempt the first Spanish colonization of the lowlands. (Reeve 1993b, Scazzocchio 1979) 1619—Vaca de Vega founds the mission town of Borja below the Pongo of Manseriche on the Marañon. Serves as an outpost for Spanish incursions into the lowlands. Divides the region into encomiendas. (Reeve 1993b) 1620–21—Spanish entrada (expedition into the lowlands) (Scazzocchio 1979) 1630–35—Spanish entrada (Scazzocchio 1979) 1635—Mayna Indians around Borja rise in revolt, then flee into the forest where they are pursued by the Spanish “over several years with inhuman rage and cruelty” (Reeve 1993b, quoting Jouanen 1941, 337) 1635—Death of an elderly Tabalosa woman who was the last person able to translate Quechua into her language for the Jesuit priests. (Scazzocchio 1979; Doherty et al. 2007) 1638—Jesuit friars Gaspar de Cujía and Lucas de la Cueva arrive in Borja at the request of the governor of Maynas to help bring order to the region. Cueva begins proselytization by gaining a pardon for the Maynas and their revolt. (Reeve 1993b) 1638—Jesuit chroniclers record that the Cocama (Tupian floodplain tribes) make yearly incursions of 40–60 canoes up the length of the Huallaga in search of tools, captives and

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heads. Cocama control the area between the Huallaga and the Ucayali, and large sections of each of these rivers, dominating through trade and warfare. Omagua do the same for the Napo and Upper Napo as far as the Quijos, who were in regular contact with the Ecuadorian highlands. (Reeve 1993b) 1653— don Martín de la Riva Herrera, corregidor of Cajamarca, funds and mounts an expedition to the region and succeeds in founding a series of towns, including Nuestra Señora del Rosario de Tabalosos and San José de Lamas. A few months later the inhabitants burn the towns and flee into the jungle. (Scazzocchio 1979; Doherty et al. 2007) 1654—Riva Herrera mounts a second expedition to the region and finds the towns burned. He hunts down Ojanaste and Majuama, the appointed leaders of the previously established towns, and hangs them. (Doherty et al. 2007) 1654—Majuama and Lazuma (chief of Suchichis) hung in the square of Lamas; town is fortified and soldiers are assigned. 1654—November—Ojanasta hung in the fort of Lamas (Scazzocchio 1979) 1656—Lamas is established as a permanent city under the name “Triunfo de la Santa Cruz de los Motilones y Lamas.” (Doherty et al. 2007) 1660—smallpox epidemic. (Doherty et al. 2007) 1666—Cocama rebellion. Cocama forces ascend the Marañon from the Huallaga, attacking mission settlements along the way and destroying the mission of Jeveros, stopping short of Borja. Father Figueroa is killed and his head taken. (Reeve 1993b) 1669—Punitive expedition of 20 Spanish soldiers and 200 Christianized Cocamilla and Jeveros confront the Cocama at their settlement at the mouth of the Ucayali, recapture the head of Fr. Figueroa, and “slaughter, hang, or capture” the remainder of Cocama rebels. (Reeve 1993b, 122) 1669—smallpox epidemic. (Doherty et al. 2007) 1680—smallpox epidemic. (Doherty et al. 2007). Between 1669 and 1680, smallpox kills an estimated 240,000 on the Middle Huallaga (Scazzocchio 1979). 1710—Portuguese slave raids begin (Scazzocchio 1979) 1735—Missionaries register the existence of a settlement of Lamista Indians known as both Baradero and San Regis de los Lamistas, at the mouth of the Paranapura River near Yurimaguas (Chantre y Herrera 1901; Figueroa 1904) 1749—measles epidemic considered the worst yet (Scazzocchio 1979) 1750—Two Jesuits record the entire population of the Partido de Lamas (including Lamas, Tabalosos, San Miguel and Cumbaza) at 2500 whites, mestizos and all Indian groups, down from 11,000 among the Tabalosos, Pandules and Suchichis alone in 1631. In other words, massive die off. (Doherty et al. 2007) 1750—Lamista Indians begin returning to the Sisa valley, settling at Pendencia Punta (now a district of the town of Sisa). (Pinedo Lopez 2011) second half of 1700s—Spain and Portugal vie for military control of the Maynas District with Portugal conducting slave raids and descimentos (“descents,” a form of forced relocation) that decimated Indigenous groups. (Hill 1999). 1762—Smallpox epidemic spreads from Lamas to all the Indigenous populations of the Huallaga (Scazzocchio1979) 1767—Jesuits are expelled from Peru. (Doherty et al. 2007)

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1769—Franciscans arrive and report an unruly and unholy state of affairs in Lamas, specifically among the mestizos. Their attempts to correct the situation lead to their ouster as well. They set up shop in Cumbaza (Indian district in what is now Tarapoto) in hopes of protecting the Indians. Their actions created an internal division among the Indians as to their affiliation for or against the Franciscans. (Amich et al. 1975; Scazzocchio 1979) late 1700s—Peru aggressively moves to colonize lowlands and open them up to extraction. Result: Relatively stable agricultural and mission settlements along the Middle Huallaga. (Hill 1999) 1781—Cumbaza becomes a garrison town known as Tarapoto. (Scazzocchio 1979) 1789—Current city of Tarapoto is founded with a core of whites and two annexed Indio districts: Cumbaza and Suchichi. Indian groups were still identified by their tribal affiliations (Suchichi, Cascoasosas, Amasifuenes, etc.). (Scazzocchio 1979) 1802—First governor of Maynas, Requena, a humanitarian, exempts all Indians in Maynas from tribute. The law is ignored by both secular authorities and Franciscans, who depend on tribute as their only source of income. (Scazzocchio 1979) 1809—Second governor of Maynas, who tried to outlaw the corvée (tribute in the form of unpaid labor), is assassinated in Yurimaguas by an Indian revolt fomented by the bishop of Maynas. (Scazzocchio 1979) 1814–1847—Population of Tarapoto doubles due to influx of migrants dispossessed by privatization of communal lands in the highlands or freed from slavery/encomienda in highland estates. (Scazzocchio 1979) 1821—Sep. 26, Peru declares independence. New administrative posts are created throughout the Maynas district that exert new state tyrannies over Indian life and lives. (Scazzocchio 1979) 1821—San Martín incorporates Indigenous people into the state, freeing them from the requirements of tribute payments and abolishing forced service. (Smith 1982) 1824—Simon Bolivar declares the abolition of the Indigenous community and the distribution of community lands to heads of household as private property. Declarations are signed into law in 1828. Widespread alienation of Indian lands begins. (Smith 1982) 1826—Peru’s war of independence finally ends 1826—Indian tribute (contribución Indígena) is reinstated as a means of repaying national state debt, with landed Indians paying more than those without land and almost twice the payment of taxed non-Indians. (Smith 1982) 1839—Charles Goodyear discovers vulcanization, setting the stage for the Rubber Boom. (Hemming 2008) 1832—Peru passes a law granting land ownership to anyone, Peruvian or not, who settles in the Amazon (and “other regions”), 2–40 fanegas (.66 ha each) (San Román 1994, cited in FPP and AIDESEP 2015, 20). 1856—Regional authorities based in Chachapoyas grant the Lamista people freedom to leave Lamas and settle permanently in Sisa. (Pinedo Lopez 2011) 1857—Fabian Tuanama and family arrive from Lamas and settle around the lake where today’s Plaza de Armas lies. (Anonymous [c.1978]; Pinedo Lopez 2011) 1849—Ramon Castilla passes a law assigning bonus of 30 pesos to settlers able to attract others and form settlements in forest areas. (Scazzocchio 1979) 1851—Peru and Brazil sign the Treaty of Commerce and Navigation, leading to regular steamship service between Yurimaguas and the Brazilian border.

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1854—Contribución indígena repealed, but was reinstated and repealed again several times over the next half-century. (Smith 1982) 1856—Political uprising in Tarapoto supported by Indians (Scazzocchio 1979) 1866—Amazon is opened to trade between all nations. Chazuta is the terminal river port and Tarapoto an important source of goods. (Scazzocchio 1979) 1868—Law gives foreign planters free travel from Europe or America and facilities for settling on free lands. (Scazzocchio 1979) 1870—Trade in sarsaparilla declines and demand for cotton is renewed. c. 1875—Indian districts of Tarapoto are dismantled and many Indians move to the towns of Chazuta, Sauce and Pilluana. (Scazzocchio 1979) c. 1876—The Feast of Santa Rosa is established in Lamas (Puga Capelli 1989) 1883—Chile defeats Peru in the war of the Pacific, leaving Peru in dire straits financially, its administration weakened. National debt forces the government to begin granting tracts of land to private companies and debtor nations. (Maybury-Lewis 1999) 1888—Arana establishes his first business in Tarapoto to recruit rubber tappers. (Scazzocchio 1979) 1893— Indian uprising in Chazuta (Scazzocchio 1979) 1900— Political (federalist) movement overthrown by a revolt of Indians in Lamas (Scazzocchio 1979) 1906—San Martín becomes a department, separate from Loreto. (Anonymous [c. 2003]) 1909—Law 1220 gives the state dominion over forests. Indigenous people are allowed to live in and around forests, but not to obtain land titles. (Stocks 2005) 1909—Indian revolt in Tarapoto (Scazzocchio 1979) 1909—Special decree grants 14,200,000 acres of forest lands along the Caquetá and Putumayo Rivers to British-owned Peruvian Amazon Company, aka Casa Arana. (Hill 1999). Massive horrors result as Casa Arana resorts to torture and slavery to exact rubber from Bora, Huitoto, Tikuna and other tribes of the area, virtually emptying the region of Indian bodies. (Taussig 1987). The role of Lamista in the rubber boom, or its impact on them, remains unclear, but some suggest that demand for cotton and other goods for which they were producers may have spared them the worst (Scazzocchio 1979). 1920–21— Revolutionary movement of Cervantes in San Martín (Scazzocchio 1979) 1920—New constitution returns to the recognition of comunidades indigenas, later called comunidades campesinas, with the right to communal lands. CCCC are oriented primarily to the Sierra. (IBC 2016c) 1928—State begins titling comunidades indigenas. (IBC 2016c) 1930—Guardia Civil (state presence) established in Lamas; “indirect rule” put to an end (Scazzocchio 1979) 1960—Military government changes the name “comunidades indigenas” to “comunidades campesinas.” (IBC 2016c) 1963—Belaúnde takes power for the first time (1963–1968). Focus on “conquest of the Amazon through highway construction and colonization projects, forcing Indigenous societies of that region into crisis” over land ownership (Smith 1982, 73). Carretera Marginal is proposed, envisioned as a linkage between the Amazonian regions of all the Andean nations, from Venezuela to Argentina (FPP and AIDESEP 2015, 21). 1968—Belaúnde is overthrown in a military coup, and Gen. Juan Velasco Alvarado takes power (1968–1975). Colonization of the Amazon takes back burner. (Smith 1982)

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1969—Agrarian Reform Law passed, which takes pressure off Amazon as solution to agrarian problems. (Smith 1982) Coastal plantations and Andean haciendas are abolished. (Varese 2004) 1974—Law of Native Communities (Law 20653) is passed, granting official recognition and inalienable land title to permanent lowland Indigenous settlements. Provides surface AND subsurface rights, but not multi-community titling. (Smith 1982; Stocks 2005) 1975—Gen. Morales Bermudez takes power. 1977—Administration puts moratorium on recognition of native communities and titling of lands. Fewer than 1/3 of estimated 1035 settlements, comprising 56 distinct language groups, hold permanent title to their land. (Smith 1982) 1978—Law 22175 rescinds land ownership (surface and subsurface) for future titles of comunidades nativas. Indigenous farmers required to request permission from state for swiddens in forested lands. CCNN are subjected to greater “social interest,” and construction of current and future roads are granted right of way. Provides free passage, without prior consultation, of oil and gas pipelines and other infrastructure over Indigenous lands, as well as telecommunication and energy lines and public irrigation channels. Does provide for allocation of subsistence “reserves.” (Stocks 2005) 1980—Belaúnde is re-elected and takes power. Immediately resurrects the conquest of the Amazon as a solution to nation’s economic and social woes, including the completion of the marginal highway linking San Martín to the coast. This highway became the main artery for coca leaves and paste, trade in which helped fuel the Maoist insurrections. Oil and gas exploration in the Amazon are intensified. (Maybury-Lewis 1999; Smith 1982; Stocks 2005) 1981—May: Prime minister Ulloa announces at gathering of international bankers his administration’s plans to invest $1 billion in lowland development projects, launching new crisis among Indigenous people. 1981—Feb: Minister of Agriculture meets with delegation of concerned Indigenous leaders, telling them he will support individual land titles for Indigenous families, to facilitate their integration into the market economy. Peru’s version of the Dawes Act. 1981—First highway to Sisa built, connecting Sisa to Tarapoto (W. G. Valera, personal communication, 2019) 1983—Eight special projects are underway to convert Andean-Amazon forests to farmland. Indigenous occupants are not consulted. (Stocks 2005) 1984—Construction ends on the Carretera Marginal. (Zarate Árdela 2003) 1985—Alan Garcia takes power (1985–1990). His tenure is contested by Tupac Amaru and Shining Path leftist/Maoist movements. 1990—Fujimori is elected president. 1991—Fujimori formally empowers the rondas campesinos (farmers’ patrols). (Kay 1991) 1992—Fujimori’s autogolpe and the militarization of the government’s anti-drug effort. (Kay 1991) 1992—Peru produces 65% of the world’s coca for cocaine, generating about half of the nation’s foreign exchange. (Maybury-Lewis 1999) 1993—New constitution revokes the inalienability of titled Indigenous lands and asserts state control and ownership over all resources. (Stocks 2005) 1994—Peru ratifies ILO 169 (ilo.org)

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2005—ACR-CE is created by supreme decree, requested by the regional government and approved by the central government (Pérez Salas 2017a; Servindi 2016). 2007—UN General Assembly adopts the UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples. 2010—Eight members of Alto Pucallpillo prosecuted for owning chacras in the ACR-CE (Guimaraes et al. 2018). 2012—Alto Pucallpillo members acquitted due to technicality. (Guimaraes et al. 2018) 2011—Alto Pucallpillo recognized as CCNN. 45 families, 200 people. (Elguera Solar 2017) 2011—Ley de Previa Consulta is passed (IBC 2016c) 2016—January: Appeals court of San Martín rules in favor of CN Ankash Yaku de Achinamisa, that their subsistence activities taking place within the ACR-CE do not require previous authorization. (Servindi 2016) 2016—Nuevo Lamas receives 31 ha in titled lands (1% of their claim) and the rest en cesión en uso. (Elguera Solar 2017) 2016—August: Mishky Yaquillu threatened with legal proceedings for felling a palm tree on purma to make a thatched hut. (Elguera Solar 2017) 2017—August 8. Nuevo Lamas and CEPKA file a lawsuit in constitutional court to gain full title to NL’s territory. (Ruíz Molleda 2014) 2017—August 17: Administration of ACR-CE writes a letter to the Regional Titling agency putting a halt to delimitation and titling of Indigenous lands within the ACR-CE, until such time as NL withdrew its lawsuit. (Guimaraes et al. 2018) 2017—c. Sept/Oct/Nov. GORESAM and other organizations launch a defamatory media campaign, replete with a publicity video airing on TV and social media, attacking Nuevo Lamas and their allies. FRECIDES organizes a demonstration “in defense” of the ACR- CE. 2017—Nov. 20: Alarmed by the increasingly hostile atmosphere and the spread of misinformation, CEPKA, IDL, FPP and Nuevo Lamas issue a statement clarifying their position, correcting misinformation, and explaining the legal basis of their lawsuit. (CEPKA et al. 2017) 2018—March: Director of titling agency writes to UNDP titling project and asks them to suspend titling activities, because of NL’s lawsuit. (Guimaraes et al. 2018) 2018—Sep 12 ACR-CE resumes titling of Indigenous lands. (Feather 2018) 2019—UN General Assembly adopts the UN Declaration on the Rights of Campesino People.

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APPENDIX B IRB DOCUMENTS: INFORMATIONAL HANDOUT

Titulo del Proyecto: Plantas, Música, y Practicas Etnomédicas de la Amazonia Peruana

Tribunal de Revista Institucional (comité de éticas de investigación), protocolo # IRB201601826

Investigador: Christina Callicott Facultad de Antropología y Programa para Conservación Tropical y Desarrollo, Universidad de Florida, Gainesville, Florida, Estados Unidos. Museo Regional, Universidad Nacional de San Martin, Tarapoto, San Martin, Peru. Contacta: [email protected]

Docente supervisor: Dr. Peter Collings Profesor Asociado, Facultad de Antropología, Universidad de Florida Contacta: [email protected]

Finalidades de este proyecto: · Investigación musicológica de los ikaros de los Kichwas Lamista y la relación entre sus ikaros, sus otras géneros músicales, y los icaros de otras lugares en la Amazonía. · Investigación etnográfica de las relaciones y interacción entre plantas y música en los ikaros. · Estudio etnográfica de la ciencia medicinal de los yachaks, chamanes, médicos, curanderos, abuelas y abuelos, vegetalistas, y gente general de la Amazonia Peruana.

El objetivo científico de este proyecto: El objetivo científico de este proyecto es describir la diversidad de etnomedicina indígena Amazonica, y mejor describir y analizar la sofisticación del conocimiento y ciencia indígenas.

Lo que usted se pedirá hacer: En este estudio, usted se pedirá contestar una serie de preguntas en entrevista privada (con la investigadora Christina Callicott y asistente) o como parte de un grupo. Podría contestar con tan mucho o tan poco información como lo que quiere usted.

Como participante en este estudio, usted: · Tiene el derecho a participar, o a no participar. · Puede sacarse del estudio en cualquier momento. · Tiene el derecho a declinar cualquiera pregunta o solicitud, sin consecuencia. · Tiene el derecho a pedir una entrevista privada con la investigadora, o acompañarse por una miembro de su familia, o participar como parte de un grupo.

Nosotros, los investigadores, se alentamos a que haga preguntas para clarificar los objetivos y métodos de este estudio, y también para clarificar sus derechos como participante.

Riesgos y beneficios: No hay riesgos anticipados a usted resultante de participar en este estudio. No anticipamos que beneficiará directamente de participar en este estudio.

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Compensación: Compensación tomará la forma de alimentos y herramientas.

Participación voluntaria: Su participación en este estudio es completamente voluntario. No hay castigo por no participar.

Confidencialidad En cualquier momento antes, durante, o después de la entrevista, puede solicitar que sus respuestas se mantengan confidenciales, por completo o en parte. Si solicita confidencialidad total, su identidad se mantendrá en los registros de investigación como parte de una base de datos privada, con el fin de evitar duplicación de la investigación y para facilitar futuras entrevistas y correspondencia de seguimiento. Su nombre se hará en lista en un cuaderno y se asociará con un numero único, y sus respuestas a la entrevista se registrarán usando este numero como identificador. En este caso, su nombre e identidad no se publicará ni se asociará con sus respuestas en ningún foro público.

También, puede pedir que su participación en este estudio se mantendrá privada por completo, ambos en la comunidad y en la publica mas grande. En este caso, ni su nombre ni su identidad no se registrará, sus respuestas se asociarán con un seudónimo, y los investigadores actuarán con discreción para proteger su privacidad durante el proceso de la entrevista.

La salvaguardia de entrevistas grabadas: Para facilitar comprensión y análisis correctos de las respuestas entrevistas, las entrevistas se grabarán con máquina. Entrevistas seleccionadas, elegidas por su significa cultural, artista, o científica, se incluirán en un archivo de cultura indígena Peruana, se casado a las colecciones digitales a la Universidad de Florida, E.E.U.U., y disponible al publico por el internet con un portal se buscado en el sitio del Museo Regional, Universidad Nacional de San Martin, Tarapoto, Peru. A petición, copias de las entrevistas se les proveerán a participantes para el uso personal.

Como participante en este estudio, tiene el derecho a decidir a quien, y debajo cuales circunstancias, sus cuentas, historias y canciones se pueden revelado. Además, como participante en este estudio, tiene el derecho a rehusar grabación digital o mecánica de sus respuestas. Puede afectar la inclusión de algas partes de la entrevista en la análisis final, por parte de las limitaciones técnicos de grabar datos por mano.

Si tiene preguntas sobre este estudio o sobre sus derechos como participante en este estudio, por favor, contactate con: El Oficina IRB02 Box 112250 University of Florida Gainesville, FL 32611-2250 USA Teléfono: 01 (352) 392-0433 Correo electrónico: [email protected]

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APPENDIX C IRB DOCUMENTS: PERMISSION TO RECORD

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BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH

Christina Callicott grew up in Memphis, Tennessee, where a childhood immersed in

Memphis blues, Southern Protestant gospel, and country music inspired an early interest in ethnomusicology. She completed her undergraduate degree in Women Studies at the University of Colorado in Boulder in 1995. Over the next fifteen years she pursued dual careers in outdoor education and journalism. In 2012, Callicott moved to Gainesville, Florida to pursue graduate studies at the University of Florida. She obtained her master’s degree in Cultural Anthropology in 2014 and her doctorate in 2020. She also holds certificates in Latin American Studies and

Tropical Conservation and Development.

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