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In this essay I present information aimed at correcting common misconceptions about gender in indigenous Amazonia and I propose an alternative conception that takes into account data overlooked in previous writing on this topic. The misconceptions I aim to correct are first, that gender roles in Amazonia are so restrictive that neither men nor women have any choice in how they construct their subject positions, and second, that any variation encountered is a result of globalization. On the contrary, I argue that gendered subjects in indigenous Amazonia have multiple discourses to choose from in constructing their social personas, and that this multiplicity of discourses and subject postions is not a recent product of globalization but rather a longstanding feature of Amazonian sociality. To challenge our current conceptions of gender in Amazonia, I employ Henrietta Moore’s (1994) conception of multiple subjectivities, a very useful framework for understanding variant social and self-constructions of femininity and masculinity among indigenous Amazonians. Cecilia McCallum, in her recent critique of Amazonian gender studies (McCallum 2001), attempted to apply Moore’s analytical framework to that field. However, despite conducting a thorough critique of previous scholarship on Amazonian gender, McCallum (2001:164) argues that the binarism of indigenous Amazonian thought makes Moore’s ideas hard to apply, stating that among the Cashinahua “only two hegemonic gendered subject positions [are] considered open… proper male… and proper female.” By presenting case studies of women’s lives and of male discourses on ideal female behavior among the Marubo of western Brazil I argue that, in fact, multiple discourses and subject positions are available to indigenous Amazonians, male and female. I then extend the analysis to other indigenous Amazonians. Finally, I address the ways in which these multiple discourses are related to processes of globalization. Bruce Knauft (1997) has argued that, in Amazonia, the association of masculinity with acquisition of trade goods adds new discourses from which men construct social roles, generating reinforced masculine solidarity with the result that discourses of femininity are reduced to a single, male-produced hegemonic discourse. By presenting data from ethnohistorical sources and Marubo oral histories, I argue that, on the contrary, these processes have great time-depth in Amazonia and are not results of globalization.

Theoretical Background

The framework used in this paper to reinterpret Amazonian gender identity and roles is Henrietta Moore’s conception of multiple subjectivity. Moore (1994:54) critiques the predominant anthropological models of the individual and the person, stating that “anthropology habitually deploys a notion of the individual almost completely untouched by recent feminist and post-structuralist critiques of the humanist subject.” Specifically, she argues (Moore 1994:33–35) that anthropological conceptions of the individual generate an excessively unitary model of individuality and personhood, the “autonomous and unitary” post-Enlightenment subject. Moore advocates the introduction into

anthropology of the post-structuralist subject, which may be differentiated not only externally—with respect to other human beings—but also internally:

The basic premise of post-structuralist thinking on the subject is that discourses and discursive practices provide subject positions, and that individuals take up a variety of subject positions within different discourses…. Individuals are multiply constituted subjects, and they can, and do, take up multiple and contradictory positionings within a range of discourses and social practices…. Some of these subject positions will be contradictory and will conflict with one another. Thus, the subject in post- structuralist thinking is composed of, or exists as, a set of multiple and

contradictory positionings and subjectivities.

(Moore 1994:55)

Moore situates her use of the post-structuralist concept of subject within an effort to develop a theory of gender identity acquisition. She argues (1994:55) that the notion of the subject as “singular, fixed, and coherent” does not provide an adequate framework for the development of such a theory. The notion of the multiply constituted subject provides us with a better basis for theorizing gender identity construction. It sets up an image of individuals who are exposed to multiple discourses on gender, and who construct identities through the negotiation of the contradictions between available positions. Such an individual may arrive at an integrated subject position based on a single discourse, but more often will be the site of “mutually contradictory subject positions” (Moore 1994:55), which may be expressed and performed in different social situations. The individual is the site of ongoing internal negotiation and thus, potentially, of changing identity. This view of an individual with changeable and changing identity is similar but not identical to that of “shifting identity” (Bhavnani and Haraway 1994). It is set in opposition to the notion of “passive identity acquired through socializaton” (Moore 1994:53) and to studies in which sex and gender roles in non-Western cultures are seen as reflecting acquisition of unitary cultural behavioral models. McCallum (2001:159–163), in applying new developments in gender theory to the Amazonian context, sees Siskind (1973), Murphy and Murphy (1974) and Gregor (1985) as the chief exemplars of the old approach to gender in Amazonia. Moore (1994:56) argues that anthropology should “move away from a simplistic model of a single gender system into which individuals must be socialized towards a more complex understanding of the way in which individuals come to take up gendered subject positions through engagement with multiple discourses on gender.” Although the central contribution of post-structuralist conceptions of the subject, according to Moore, is the possibility of understanding the individual as the site of contradiction and internal difference, she does not reject the notion of “locating multiplicity and contradiction between the individual and the ideological/social” (1994:56). Rather, Moore argues (1994:56) that “what is necessary is that both levels or moments of difference should be analysed simultaneously.” Multiplicity both within and between individuals must be acknowledged: “Anthropologists have only recently begun to discuss and to document the existence of multiple models, and to look at the variation which exists within cultures as well as between them” (Moore 1994:34).

Moore calls on us not only to recognize intra-cultural multiplicity of discourses on gender, but also the relations of power among multiple discourses, “in which the different discourses on gender are hierarchically ordered … and various sub-dominant discourses develop in opposition to dominant ones” (1994:59). She argues that we must “conceptualize and analyse the overdetermined relationships between dominant and sub- dominant discourses on gender, the body, sexuality and sexual difference” (1994:15). And further, we should “link what we might call dominant cultural models of gender to the specific experiences and situations of particular groups or individuals within that social context” (1994:15). In this essay, I make a preliminary effort, with very limited data, to apply Moore’s ideas in the Amazonian context. I am not the first to make this effort. McCallum (2001) has pioneered the incorporation of recent developments in gender theory to the Amazonian context. The foremost influence in McCallum’s work is Marilyn Strathern’s The Gender of the Gift (1988), which she describes as “like manna from heaven” (McCallum 2001:3). Drawing on Strathern’s insights, McCallum critiques studies of gender in Amazonia that uncritically accept “men” and “women” as units of analysis and reduce the investigation of gender relations to the relationship between these collectivities. McCallum argues that “men” and “women” cannot be simply accepted as collectivities concerned with political control (McCallum 2001:6) and argues for a move “away from the relations between fixed terms” (McCallum 2001:7), citing Morris (1995) in siding with the “growing consensus in the academy that gender cannot be portrayed as ‘a simple structure of fixed relations’” (McCallum 2001:157). She thus sets up the argument that relations of gender and power in Amazonia are not merely about men dominating women: “It did not seem correct to posit universal male dominance in all lowland South American societies” (McCallum 2001:3). To back up her arguments against the universality of male domination in Amazonia, and against the conceptual framework that surrounds the belief in Amazonian male domination, McCallum presents data from her fieldwork among the Cashinahua:

“Neither men nor women consider that men dominate women in Cashinahua communities” (2001:3). However, although she enthusiastically incorporates Strathern’s contributions on gender theory in anthropology, she is less sanguine about the possibility of applying other major recent theories of gender in the Amazonian context: “I address directly the issues raised by 1970s feminist anthropology, its development in the 1980s, and the later, postmodernist, gender studies…. And so I am able to throw into relief some questionable aspects of ‘performative gender theory’ and related postmodern approaches to gender by demonstrating points of incompatibility with Amazonian ethnography” (McCallum 2001:4). Under the rubric of “postmodern approaches to gender,” McCallum includes Butler (1990, 1993), Ginsburg and Tsing (1991), Bhavanani and Phoenix (1994), and Moore (1994) (McCallum 2001:163–164).

How do these ideas speak to gender and sociality in Amazonia and sit with the Cashinahua ethnography? An initial answer must admit that there are a number of problems in adapting them to this task, deriving from the heavy emphasis on the notion of discourse, the insistence on its embeddedness in situations of institiutionalized inequality, and the equally problematic weight given to psycho-social identity. In the first place, in

the Cashinahua case, it is difficult to discern ‘competing discourses’ about possible human masculinities and feminities with which people may identify themselves … In practice there were only two hegemonic gendered subject positions considered open to most of the young Cashinahua I knew—proper male (xanen ibu) and proper female (ainbu kuin). Adolescents are simply not presented with any real choices…. One is tempted to say that any search for multiplicity despite indigenous insitence on duality would run the danger of doing violence to the ethnography by ignoring both those discourses that indigenous Amazonians do develop, as well as the rich Amazonianist literature on

dualism that they have inspired.

(McCallum 2001:164)

McCallum’s rejection of the notions of gender identity and of multiple subjectivity in Amazonia leads her to disagree with Bruce Knauft’s arguments concerning masculinity and modernity (McCallum 2001:158, 162, 167, 182–183). Knauft’s central argument is that the encounter with modernity has caused changes in indigenous Amazonian masculinity (Knauft 1997). The “customary” construction of masculine self-worth, according to Knauft, is based on war and hunting, political success through oratory and alliances, knowledge acquired through spiritual experience, magic and ritual, and domestic influence gained through polygyny and affinity (Knauft 1997:240). The encounter with modernity, he says, causes a shift to a contemporary construction of male self-worth based on monetary success, political success through the amassing of goods and money, knowledge acquired through wage-earning and school, and a domestic influence strictly limited to the nuclear family (Knauft 1997:240). The loss of control over the means of obtaining prestige leads to insecurity, which itself leads to a new emphasis on sexual control of women (Knauft 1997:246), reflected in increased domestic strife and an undercutting of kinship institutions, including male collective institutions (Knauft 1997:237–238). He explicitly cites Moore to argue that the encounter with modernity is leading men to adopt an alternative gender discourse to the one previously dominant (Knauft 1997:238). McCallum argues that Knauft’s attribution of alternative gender identities to the encounter with the world system makes indigenous people into victims rather than agents, which she calls a “colonialist psychoanalytic theory” (McCallum 2001:167). The argument I make here follows McCallum’s argument, citing Gow (1991), that change comes also from internal community processes rather than only being forced from outside. I will not pause to consider the contradiction between her critique of Moore and her critique of Knauft.

Dominant and Subdominant Discourses on Femininity

In contrast to McCallum’s perception of Cashinahua society as one in which “only two hegemonic gendered subject positions were considered open” (2001:164), during my fieldwork among the closely related Marubo 1 , I found that there were multiple conflicting discourses on gender. This multiplicity closely accords with the conception of the subject used by Moore (1994:58) in which “individuals become engendered and acquire a gender identity in the context of several co-existent discourses on gender, which may contradict and conflict with each other.” To be sure, as Moore indeed notes, there is

a hierarchical ordering of discourses on gender, such that the discourse produced by prominent males concerning the proper behavior of women creates a dominant model, while other subject positions are linked to strategies of resistance. However, women who follow such strategies are not creating merely idiosyncratic schemes of social behavior, but rather are selecting positions from various social discourses on gender, discourses in which both men and women participate. To show that Marubo women are not restricted to a single “proper” female subject position and that the observable variety in women’s social and sexual behavior is grounded in multiple social discourses on proper gendered relations, I will present data on masculine discourse concerning proper female behavior as well as on female behavior itself. A review of male discourse on proper femaleness shows that there is indeed a dominant discourse, which asserts that women should restrict themselves to serving men’s social and political needs, but there are also alternate discourses asserting that women should have a substantial degree of autonomy. Masculine discourse on femininity thus falls along a spectrum between what I call the poles of control and of autonomy. Census data and ethnographic observations suggest that, while many women adhere to the behavioral standards set by the dominant discourse, other women exercise a level of sexual and social autonomy that relates to subdominant discourses on gendered social relations. The dominant discourse, what I call the “pole of control” in the spectrum of male discourses on femininity, asserts that male control over female sexuality is right and proper. A major expression of this discourse is in references to women as being possessed by men. For example, I had a conversation with K., the second-in-status of a shovo 2 on the Ituí River, in which he told me that, when receiving a foreign visitor to his village, he had granted the latter sexual access to his thirteen-year old daughter. When I asked him why, he simply replied, “she is mine, so why shouldn’t I give her to whom I please?” Likewise, W., a prominent shovo-owner on the Curuçá River, asked another elder for the latter’s two young daughters in marriage. One of them refused to go with W. and remained in her kin’s shovo. However, W. was still heard to say that she could not marry anyone else because, according to my informant, “he says she is his.” The dominant discourse on gendered relations found further expression in February 1998, when the elders of the Ituí River held a meeting to discuss the “problem” of unmarried women. At this meeting, elders made an effort to publicly assert the necessity of adhering to the standards set in the dominant discourse on gender and to set limits on both male and female sexual activity. To understand the significance of this meeting, it is necessary to understand the way women had been evading male control in a shovo on the Ituí River. In the shovo of the aforementioned K., on the Ituí River, the prominent men openly advocated male control over female sexuality. This shovo pursued a social strategy for demographic expansion that required conformity to a scheme of arranged marriages based on relative clan membership. Deviation from the scheme would require the elders to rely on chance in acquiring marriage partners for the younger men and women of the shovo, and this the elders wanted to avoid, because it would threaten the stability of their demographic growth plans. The ethic of male control here extended beyond the realm of marriage and justified also the placement of women into forced extramarital relationships, as the example of K.’s daughter illustrates. It was thus a

pervasive ethos permeating gender relations in that shovo. However, women were far from passive victims of this ethos; on the contrary, active resistance was common. The system of male control at the shovo of K. was dealt a blow when a prominent male elder of the shovo died, leaving behind three widows. This occurred before my arrival in the field, but I observed its effects in the census data: all three widows left the shovo with their children. One of these moved in with a nearby daughter and son-in-law, taking along her two daughters and seven grandchildren. Another went to live with her brother, taking along her five children and three grandchildren. The third went to live also with her brothers, daughter, and son-in-law, taking along her five children and two grandchildren. Demographically, these events dealt a severe blow to the shovo of K., resulting in the loss of twenty-seven people; and as bad as the loss of the people themselves was the loss of the reproductive potential they represented. In an interview with me, K. expressed intense distress at the loss of so many coresidents. The loss of twenty-seven people at the shovo of K. was followed by two more losses of marriageable young women. A young man from the Curuçá River visited the Ituí, looking for a wife, and eloped with a girl from the shovo of K. Together with his mother’s brothers, K. demanded her return, but to no avail since the young man’s father was a prominent elder with a streak of independence. Then, K. and his kin decided to marry off a girl of thirteen to a prominent elder in a nearby village, but the girl took the opportunity of a feast to slip away with her kin to the Curuçá River. Again, K. and his kin demanded her return but to no avail. In this context, the members of K.’s shovo were experiencing female residential and sexual autonomy as a serious crisis. The crisis brought on by female autonomy burst into the public sphere when it was reported that a missionary had been engaging in sexual relations with women, both married and unmarried, in exchange for gifts of goods. On February 16 1998, I went to visit the son of the headman at Aldeia Maronal 3 and he told me that the wife of a missionary at Aldeia Vida Nova on the Ituí River had caught her husband in sexual relations with a Marubo woman in the mission pharmacy. The missionary’s wife had, according to my informant, reported her husband to mission authorities and his removal had been ordered. Another informant later told me the missionary conducted a tearful public confession and apology. The event created a sensation of crisis on the Ituí River, because the missionary presence is controversial and divisive for many reasons, and because it came at the time when women’s sexual behavior was already occupying the attention of the Ituí elders. The headman’s son told me that the Ituí elders were going to have a meeting to discuss the issue of single women. He said that when women remain unmarried for too long it creates “complications in the community.” Neither men nor women should remain single for long, he said. Women should marry at fifteen, men by the age of eighteen. He said that if they do not get married on their own, the leaders should marry them off, assigning wives to husbands. That is what our ancestors did and that it is their law, he concluded, using the Portuguese word lei to render the latter concept. The point of view expressed by the son of the headman of Aldeia Maronal, by K., and by the other elders of the Ituí River, represents the dominant Marubo discourse on gender and sexuality. This discourse emphasizes that male elders should have the authority to control female sexuality, and, to a lesser extent, young male sexuality as

well. Men and women alike should conform to the social schemes valued by their elders, which the Maronal headman’s son referred to as ancestral law. Not all men adhered to the notion that female sexuality should be controlled by men. A small but self-confident minority argued that women should have a substantial degree of autonomy in their sexual lives and marital choices. One of my main informants, a man I will refer to as J., represents the “pole of autonomy” in the spectrum of Marubo discourse on female sexuality. I discussed with J. the issue of a young girl who was being forced against her will into a marriage with the brother’s son of the aforementioned W. in a nearby shovo. He told me that the strategy employed by W. was wrong. “These people just ask for the woman in marriage without having been with her first. This doesn’t work. You have to be with the woman first, then you ask her kin to marry her.” J. went on to say that if his daughter wants to get married, and the man comes to ask for her in marriage, then he will let her go. But if she does not want to go, he will not force her. Thus, while W. believed that women should be assigned marriage partners by male elders, J. believed that marriage should be settled largely as a fait accompli prior to formal consultations among male elders. His rationale for this was functional, not moral: he asserted that marriages based on a strong mutual attraction, in which the woman was a willing and active participant, worked better than marriages in which the woman was assigned to a man with whom she has no prior liaison. The beliefs of J. concerning the proper path to marriage were influenced by his father, whom I will call T., a prominent leader who died in 1996. While he was alive, J. told me, women loved T. He had at least five formal wives and a number of informal liaisons. He paid a great deal of attention to making women happy. The example J. cited was of meat at meals: T. would pay attention to whether or not the women, who along with the children eat separately from the men, had enough meat left. If he noticed that their meat had run out while the men still had some, he would get up and take them a choice cut. This example shows that J. attributed to his father a very friendly attitude towards women, and a conscious concern with their happiness and wellbeing. J. shared and openly expressed the attitude of his father towards women. For example, J. had been married polygynously to two sisters for twenty-five years, and the trio were still very fond of one another. At no time had J. considered seeking out a younger wife. In contrast, according to J., W. had a habit of seeking out very young girls in marriage as soon as he felt that his current wife was too old. J. criticized W. for this, again saying that this strategy doesn’t work well. Indeed, W. had suffered marital difficulties because his elder wives became upset when he sought out new, younger ones. Because of this, although he had three living wives, only the youngest one lived with him; the elder two kept residential, economic, and sexual independence. In contrast, as previously stated, J. had a stable, successful plural marriage a quarter-century old. The belief system held by J. was shared to some extent by others in his village. J. mentioned at least one other man who had refused his daughter to a man who simply asked for her, although according to J. the excuse was that she was still too young. Nevertheless, this is evidence that the beliefs concerning female sexual autonomy are not a mere idiosyncracy held by J. While the latter may be the most eloquent and open advocate of this position, others, including his father and one of his nephews, held some of the same opinions. And by openly expressing his opinions, J. created a subdominant discourse on gender relations that contrasted with the dominant discourse.

There are thus multiple competing discourses on gendered social relations and sexuality among the Marubo. The dominant discourse can be related to Moore’s idea that “fantasies of power are fantasies of identity” (1994:63), since it portrays an ideal in which a major aspect of male identity is the exercise of power over female sexuality. The subdominant discourse generates a different imagery in which men and women are coparticipants in the production of social satisfaction, and in which successful marriages emerge when men pay attention to women’s desires and keep women happy. The “sub- dominant discourses develop in opposition to dominant ones” (Moore 1994:59), as J.’s ideas emerge when he reacts critically to W.’s pursuit of the ideals embedded in the dominant discourse. It is important to keep in mind how “the personal experience of gender and gender relations is bound up with power and political relations on a number of different levels” (Moore 1994:63). Successful marriages are essential to the Marubo pursuit of status and power (Ruedas 2001). A man’s status and power derive primarily from the size and quality of his immediate following, which must be produced through reproduction and the addition of coresidents (cf. Turner 1979a, Melatti 1983). A wife that bears many children and cooks well is the fundamental building block upon which traditional political strategy is based (cf. Mentore 1987). Both J. and W. were very concerned with status, power, and influence. They simply had different ideas about how to produce a successful marriage. Whereas W. thought it was a matter of female submission to the elders’ dictates, J. thought it was a matter of male attention to female needs. However, by no means did J. advocate total sexual liberation for women. On the contrary, his goal, like W.’s, was to produce traditional women who bore children, cooked, made jewelry, and supported men’s traditional political activities (such as the organization of large feasts). Nevertheless, the subdominant discourse represented by J.’s opinions afforded women a much greater degree of autonomy and coparticipation in the construction of sociality.

Compliant and Resistant Subject Positions

Just as masculine discourses on female sexuality ranged from advocating control to defending autonomy, women’s actual comportment fell along a similar spectrum. There was no lack of women who remained in stable marriages for decades, all the time bearing children and supporting their husbands’ politico-economic strategies. These women derived status and satisfaction from their “investment” (Moore 1994:63–66) in the female subject position related to the dominant discourse on femininity and its associated practices. There were several women at the village I lived in who had gone along with arranged marriages and remained in them years later, showing a strong commitment to fulfilling the expectations of their husbands and kin. And there were women, in the shovo of K. for example, who supported the notion that male elders should firmly control the sexuality and marital choices of women, especially younger women. However, as in the realm of male discourse, in the realm of female social behavior there was a minority subdominant current. If we look only at the economic roles of women, we might think that the subdominant discourse has little impact on actual women’s lives. There was only one woman at Aldeia Maronal (then a village of 235 people) who did not follow a strictly

traditional economic role. It is not coincidental that this was J.’s daughter, Amélia, the only Marubo woman during my fieldwork that obtained employment and drew a steady salary. J. had been a trailblazer for formal education on the Curuçá River for many years. In the 1980s he invited a non-indigenous man to tutor his children in Portuguese and mathematics in return for food, coffee, and tobacco. When this teacher left, J. went on foot to Cruzeiro do Sul in the state of Acre, obtaining a spot in a Catholic nuns’ school for Amélia, his oldest child. Upon his return, he spoke to his brother Alfredo, the headman of his village. Alfredo had a daughter of the same age as Amélia, and J. suggested that they should send their daughters to school together so that they could both receive an education and avoid the loneliness of a monolingual indigenous person in a city. However, according to J., Alfredo replied that women should not receive a Brazilian education. He refused to send his daughter to the city. Undeterred, J. sent Amélia to the boarding school anyway. According to Amélia, many people in the village were “scandalized” by José’s action. They said that formal education would destroy the adherence of women to Marubo conceptions of proper behavior. J. told me, however, that he did not care: he believed children should receive as much education as they wanted. Amélia’s schooling continued until she was fully bilingual and literate. She eventually advanced far enough in the schooling system that she was hired by the municipality of Atalaia do Norte as schoolteacher for Aldeia Maronal. While I was in the field, she drew a salary worth approximately 120 U.S. dollars per month. She spent much of her day teaching and grading. She had also received some training as a village health assistant and spent much time taking blood, making slides, and looking for evidence of malaria under the microscope. Only on weekends did she spend much time working in agriculture, cooking, or in women’s crafts such as beading and ceramics. In contrast to Amélia, all the other women at Aldeia Maronal had a “traditional” economic role, focused on harvesting from the swidden, gathering water and firewood, cooking, childcare, and beading, and, less frequently, spinning, weaving, hammock- making, or ceramics. This being the case, we might assume that the subdominant male discourse on female behavior had little impact on women’s behavior. Only one woman had been able to take advantage of her father’s beliefs to develop a subject position outside the bounds of the “proper woman” position advocated in the dominant discourse. However, a look at women’s sexual and marital behavior makes it clear that some women did, in fact, behave with an autonomy quite unlike the propriety envisioned in the dominant discourse. The widows of K.’s mother’s brother, mentioned above, did more than simply move away from their affines to return to their kin. By leaving the home of their affines they had already contradicted the discourse on female behavior prevalent at K.’s shovo. But some of them went further. I noted earlier that one of these women went to live with her brother, taking along five children and three grandchildren. Her son married shortly thereafter, then built an independent shovo. In this new shovo, the widow was the oldest person and the one with the highest de facto status. There were no older men and she was the mother of the nominal shovo-owner, thus acquiring a degree of authority and autonomy that would have been impossible in the tightly controlled environment of K.’s shovo. This woman’s sister, M., took similar measures: when I encountered her, her son- in-law had formed his own shovo, but most of the population of this shovo consisted of

M.’s children and grandchildren. She was, like her sister, the oldest person in the shovo and, as the shovo-owner’s mother-in-law, uniquely respected. She, too, had managed, through a series of independent residential decisions, to find a space where she had much more autonomy and authority than in the shovo that she and her sisters had left. Residential arrangements in which older Marubo women leave their affinal homes to form an agglutination of kin are common enough to be a recognizable pattern in the census data. The Marubo have three types of emically recognized village composition patterns: virilocal, uxorilocal, and avunculocal (Ruedas 2001:130). However, some shovo, and some substantial portions of other shovo, cannot be explained in terms of these categories. By comparing these emically unexplained shovo, I was able to discern the common pattern (Ruedas 2001:170). An older woman, either a widow or a divorcée, chooses to leave her place of residence to join one of her kin. This new residence becomes a focal point where the woman’s kin group re-forms as others choose to evade unsatisfactory residential arrangements to rejoin their mother or siblings. To facilitate recognition and discussion of this type of village composition, I named it anicular (after the Latin word aniculus, old woman). It is important to recognize that anicular residence, emically unrecognized and hidden in the census data, represents a conscious and widespread Marubo women’s strategy for evading male control and for forming instead households in which they have high status and ample autonomy. The exercise of autonomy in contradiction to the dominant discourse on feminine propriety can also be found among young Marubo women. At Aldeia Maronal, for example, nearly a quarter of all mothers (13 out of 54) were unmarried in early 1998. While some of these had children that resulted from brief liaisons, and had not found a permanent husband, others had actively resisted arranged marriages, apparently with the support of their kin. One of these women lived in the shovo of W., and was W.’s brother’s daughter. She had been sent to the Ituí as part of an ongoing arrangement of marital exchange with a shovo on that river. However, she had returned to her natal home, dissatisfied with her husband. She had a child by her nominal husband and another by a subsequent lover. Despite the fact that she lived with W., a great believer in the ethic of male control, and despite remonstrations from her husband and husband’s kin, she remained with her father. With no direct evidence to confirm my supposition, I must nevertherless conclude that her father (W.’s brother) supported his daughter, because otherwise it would have been impossible for her to stay at home given her father’s brother’s concern with maintaing marital exchange arrangements. This woman’s case was not unique; several other women were in the same situation, evading unsatisfactory arranged marriages with explicit or tacit support from influential male kin. Women’s exercise of residential and sexual autonomy is not merely a recent epiphenomenon of increasing participation in national and global economies. Independent women can be discerned in census data going back to the 1960s. One such example is a woman named Rave, who died before my arrival in the field. Normative women who follow the path advocated in the dominant discourse are easily pinpointed in the census data because they have one long-term residence and all their children have a single father. In contrast, Rave is the antithesis of normality, the Marubo “unacceptable” woman (cf. Hurtado 2003:94). Rave’s life, as read from the census data, involved a series of independent residential and sexual decisions. In the late 1950s and early 1960s, she was married to a

prominent Marubo elder, José Nascimento, in an apparently conventional, arranged marriage. This couple had a son and two daughters. However, around 1964, a non- indigenous criminal fled from the police into Marubo land. Rave had a liaison with this man, and as a result bore Ron ĩ pa, one of my main informants, who was living at Aldeia Maronal during my fieldwork. The criminal was soon captured by soldiers and went to prison. When Julio Cezar Melatti took his first census of the Marubo, Rave was living in a shovo on the upper Curuçá River with her daughter, who by then was married to a man named Saide. Here, she had a relationship with Santiago Comapa, a Peruvian man who had been raised in the area and was married to a Marubo woman. Out of this relationship came a son, Tae, who was living on the upper Ituí River during my fieldwork. In addition, I met another son of Rave, by an unknown father, on a visit to São Sebastião on the middle Curuçá. Another son by an unknown father is discernible in Melatti’s census data. Thus, after her “proper” marriage with an elder, Rave was linked to at least three different men and had at least four sons by these men. These examples of female autonomy and resistance are not idiosyncracies; they constitute a clear pattern. Autonomous women are not the majority; based on census data, I estimate that approximately one in ten Marubo women display these characteristics. And this pattern can be found as far back as census data are available, and in all areas where Marubo live. By presenting them side by side, I have linked discourses on gendered social behavior and forms of women’s social behavior. I argue that these data show women selecting subject positions from multiple social discourses on proper femininity. Most men argue that women’s sexuality should be controlled by men, and that women should conform to the residential, marital, and sexual expectations related to men’s efforts to acquire social and political status. Most women comply with these expectations. In contrast, some men argue that women should have a certain amount of autonomy in their sexual and marital choices, and also in their selection of an economic role. The availability of subdominant discourses to choose from, and therefore of alternative subject positions to select, is reflected in the variety of women’s sexual and residential strategies. A substantial proportion of women choose to exercise marital, sexual, and residential autonomy. While there are clear gaps in these data, they strongly suggest the hypothesis that multiple subjectivity is found among Marubo women. The main problem is the lack of interview data with women. Although I have observations of and data on women’s behavior, and I have interview data with men, I do not have sufficient interview data with women. Confirmation of my hypothesis must await these data. I suggest that such data will reveal that women’s discourse on proper behavior involves a wider spectrum of appropriate forms than men’s discourse on women’s behavior, because women’s actual choices go much further in terms of resistance and autonomy than do even the most critical of men’s discourses. Despite these lingering questions, it is clear that essentialist conceptions of Amazonian womanhood do not apply to the Marubo. McCallum’s argument that there is only one, “proper female,” position among the Cashinahua, and that, therefore, Moore’s concept of multiple subjectivity is not applicable in the Amazonian context, is contradicted by the data just presented. There are multiple subject positions available to Marubo women, and they can choose a path that is different from that of the “proper

female” represented in the dominant discourse. McCallum (2001) criticizes the notion that male dominance is the norm in Amazonia, and argues instead that coparticipatory female autonomy is the norm in many cases. I argue that both these conceptions of Amazonian gender are essentialist. The reality is much better approached through the notion of multiple subject positions chosen from hierarchically arranged discourses, with the dominant discourse favored by most women but the subdominant discourses creating a space for the exercise of non-compliance.

Multiple Subjectivity in Amazonia

There is substantial evidence in the literature indicating that Amazonian gendered relations are not as restrictive as some authors (Gregor 1985, McCallum 2001) have claimed they are. Women are not restricted to a single, hegemonic, and “traditional” gender role. On the contrary, there are a variety of subdominant subject positions that women can choose from. These vary from area to area but involve various forms of economic or cultural innovation through the exercise of uncommon autonomy. I will focus this discussion on data from Fisher’s (2000) ethnography of the Xikrin Kayapó, then briefly discuss evidence from other areas to argue the generalizability of my hypothesis on the Marubo to Amazonia in general. In the Kayapó case, I will discuss data on Gê mythology to argue that women’s behavior has correlates in discourse genres, again indicating that women can draw on discourse to select subject positions different from those advocated in hegemonic male discourses. According to Fisher (2000:191), “Xikrin society is differentiated in more ways than we could ever know by recording descriptions of cultural expectations regarding age, gender, or ceremonial status. Activity is never an automatic response to a preexisting cultural script.” Fisher presents case studies of women’s resistance to male strategies for economic reorganization and of women’s innovation in generating new socioeconomic group forms. Interestingly, he also presents a case of female autonomous cultural innovation from Xikrin oral history. Relating these data to the literature on Gê mythology, it can be said that there exists a strand of Gê cultural discourse that women could draw on to justify certain forms of cultural adventurousness. According to Fisher, the ancestral aunt of a contemporary Xikrin chief onced travelled to and remained in the village of the nearby Karajá in the mid-nineteenth century, bringing back Karajá ceremonies that were incorporated into Xikrin festivals:

An adventurous (ancestral) aunt … visited the Karajá village in order to observe their customs … During her time in the Karajá village she maintained many amorous liaisons and, indeed, almost married into the village … Ngreinbeti closely observed the dance and other customs of the Karajá, which she faithfully recounted in much detail to the assembled

Xikrin village … The Xikrin ended up adopting only two of the ceremonies … When the aunt finally gave up any idea of marrying into the Karajá village, she returned permanently to the village of Jaguar’s ancestors and continued to oversee the correct performance of the festival

she had imported.

(Fisher 2000:18–20)

This story in and of itself constitutes a discourse that women could draw on to justify cultural innovation. Ngreinbeti travelled beyond the village to the locus of cultural others, discovering cultural forms that her own kin found valuable enough to incorporate into their cultural repertoire. Hypothetically, Xikrin women could be inspired by the positive precedent of Ngreinbeti to take up the subject position of culture hero venturing outside the realm of the village—a domain with profound cosmological and emotional associations (Turner 1979b, Fisher 1998)—to bring back the knowledge of important cultural practices. The positive slant placed on women’s cultural innovation in the oral history of Ngreinbeti is unsurprising, given the presence of significant women culture heroes in Gê myth, of which Xikrin Kayapó myth is a transformation. In the Kayapó-Gorotire myth of the origin of cultivars, a woman is bathing alone when a rat tells her of the existence of maize (Lévi-Strauss 1964:175). She returns to her village to get the young men so they can cut down the tree where the grains are. The Kayapó-Kubenkranken version (Lévi- Strauss 1964:175) is similar, except it is an old woman bathing with her granddaughter, and the rat shows her a tree from which corn cobs have fallen. The Sherente myth of the origin of maize (Lévi-Strauss 1964:176) involves more interactions between the woman and the rat. In this version, the woman, with her child, weaves a fish-catching basket by the side of a lake when a rat in human form invites her to come eat maize with her. He lets her take a maize cake, admonishing the woman and her child not to reveal the secret. The child is seen eating his maize cake, however, and the villagers find the swidden and take it over. These stories have a structure similar to that of the oral history of Ngreinbeti: a woman acts alone, venturing into the forest, encountering strangers, journeying to their residences, and returning with important cultural knowledge. If the story of Ngreinbeti resonates with Gê myths of women culture heroes, it also resonates with the actions of contemporary Xikrin women. Indeed, Fisher portrays Xikrin women as “autonomous shapers and creators” (Matthews 1984:19) of social reality. Xikrin socioeconomic organizational forms are in flux. A tension exists between the efforts of chiefs to organize production around chief-led groups, and the important role of autonomous household production. Groups of cooperating female kin control a good deal of agricultural production, but chiefs attempt to harness their labor by urging them to cultivate fields the products of which would support chief-led work groups (Fisher 2000:176–181). However, women resisted by withholding all but minimal labor, causing low yields for the chief’s swidden while retaining control of production on their own swiddens. Women thus resisted the “extension of public chiefly influence over conditions of production in the domestic sphere” (Fisher 2000:181). In this environment of contested organizational efforts, women created their own forms of economic production group. This organizational creativity emerged in response to changing contemporary conditions and the cutting of a new logging road:

The logging road … has also become a favorite collecting spot for single, divorced, and widowed women.… Small groups of women silently paddle across to the road. They would spend the day along the road and its immediate perimeter looking for tortoises … in their makeup, these parties resembled male hunting parties rather than garden groups of related women.… While individual women go out foraging, other women in the

household can engage in garden work, cooking, and child care. In many ways the male/female division of labor between the husband who hunts and the wife who remains in the village is mimicked by this new organization of female foraging. The practice seems to be a response to a complex social situation that includes … a dramatic increase in single mothers and a rise in the self-sufficiency of young men.… We need to see

such differentiation of roles and initiatives as part of a complex interplay of contradictory social trends rather than as something given by a cultural

charter for masculinity or femininity.

(Fisher 2000:190–192)

Available evidence on the Xikrin thus indicates that women are portrayed as cultural innovators in some myths, that women are reported as cultural innovators in oral histories, and that women both create new forms of economic organization and defend old forms against change when they believe it advantageous to do so. All these data suggest the hypothesis that there are multiple subject positions available to Xikrin women to choose from, drawn from forms of discourse available to all Xikrin. It will be necessary to interview Xikrin women concerning their interpretations of and reactions to oral narratives of women cultural innovators in order to confirm this hypothesis, but the theory of multiple subjectivity does explain these data satisfactorily. This argument should not be read to imply that Kayapó in general favor an autonomous innovator role for women. Contrary narratives exist in which terrible consequences ensue from female violations of social norms (Fisher 2000:18), raising the possibility that such discourses are used in efforts to control women’s behavior. The resistance of autonomous female household producers is precisely to chiefly efforts to control domestic economic labor. And there is no indication that women innovators are anything but a tiny minority. However, the theory of multiple subjectivity asserts that subdominant positions will not be taken up by a majority of gendered subjects. What it does assert is that subdominant positions exist and will be chosen by real persons, and that these positions are not idiosyncratic rebellions but rather follow from interpretations of socially disseminated discourses on gender. Evidence from other areas in Amazonia indicates that innovation, autonomy, and the adoption of subject positions outside of the hegemonic female gender role are to be found, as minoritarian practices, throughout the region. For example, Rival (2002:157– 159) reports the actions of Dayuma, a Huaorani woman who left her home due to intense violence, brought missionaries to a place near her village, and attracted many members of her native group to a new village. This village later incorporated formerly enemy bands, an event “which Rachel Saint [a missionary] and Dayuma engineered and orchestrated” (Rival 2002:158), and Dayuma exercised an important leadership role in organizing weddings between members of formerly enemy bands (Rival 2002:159) 4 . Whitehead (2002:152–154) reports the existence of women prophets among the Patamuna of Guyana. He mentions also Warao and Patamuna women starting religious movements similar to cargo cults (Whitehead 2002:144–145). Brown (1986) reports on the use of suicide as expression of anger and grief among Aguaruna women. Historically, Jesuit missionary Francisco Figueroa reported that a Maina woman, who had been captured by Spaniards and had married an indigenous man who was allied to the Spanish, formed the crucial link that permitted the establishment of relations between Mainas and Spaniards

and the eventual formation of the Spanish settlement of Borja (Figueroa 1986[1661]:160). In a series of important papers, Chernela (1988a, 1988b, 1997) writes about how Uanano women perform mythic narratives differently from men, thus producing discourses that contest masculine hegemony over the imagination of social reality. More research along these lines is necessary to understand how native Amazonian women draw on discourse to select gendered subject positions. The literature on native Amazonians is sprinkled with cases of innovative women and women who follow uncommon paths in their social lives. It is necessary now to see these cases not as idiosyncratic exceptions to an unbending hegemonic gender role, but rather as exemplifying a recurring social pattern. We must understand these women as taking up subject positions related to subdominant discourses on gendered behavior. These subdominant discourses will never inform the majority of women, but will recurrently influence the choices of a small minority of women. The choices of the minority of culturally innovative women, however, are just as much a part of the social dynamics of any given community or society as are the choices of the compliant majority.

Masculinities and Modernity in Amazonia

Bruce Knauft (1997) has argued that, in Amazonia, the association of masculinity with acquisition of trade goods adds new discourses from which men construct social roles, generating reinforced masculine solidarity with the result that discourses of femininity are reduced to a single, male-produced hegemonic discourse. However, data on Marubo masculinity, economic activity, and discourse on women contradict Knauft’s argument. There is evidence that, not only among the Marubo but elsewhere in the upper Amazon in particular, the orientation of men towards obtaining goods from outside their ethno-cultural vicinity is a feature of indigenous masculinity that has deep historical roots. The image of traditional Amazonian masculinity as being oriented towards autarkic economics is an artifact of ahistorical twentieth century ethnography. There exists a general tendency for Marubo men to work outside the indigenous area to obtain money and trade goods, while women travel much less. However, this tendency is complexly nuanced in ways that are significant for understanding the relation between masculine outside orientation and historical context. Firstly, Marubo men tend to work for outsiders in their youth, later delegating responsibility for such work to younger household members. Secondly, within any given household there is often a division of responsibilities such that some men remain focused on external economic contacts while others focus on swiddens, hunting, and household maintenance. This means that tradition and modernity are not conflicting masculinities, among which a choice must be made; rather they can be complementary or coexistent in male subjects. The elder leaders at Aldeia Maronal in 1997–1998 rarely travelled outside the indigenous area except for medical treatments and never worked for wages outside the village. However, in interviews they told me that prior to marrying they had travelled far afield. The headman, Alfredo, had travelled downstream as far as Manaus and Roraima, and overland to numerous places in the state of Acre, working for ranchers, loggers, rubber tappers, and other businessmen. He said that after returning home from one of these trips, his father told him it was time to marry, and he settled down to successfully

pursue traditonal leadership. His brother José followed a similar trajectory, working outside the indigenous area in his youth before settling down to marry, build a shovo, raise a family, and pursue leadership in traditional ways, i.e., through feasting, healing, and the production of kin networks. Several young Marubo seemed to be pursuing similar strategies, working outside the Marubo area during their youth while expressing plans to marry and pursue traditional leadership in their thirties. Thus, it is not a matter of choosing to forsake tradition for an appropriation of modernity; rather, both these masculinities are experienced as normal parts of a male life cycle. There is evidence that the orientation of Marubo youth towards external economic relations is a historically rooted one. A myth narrated by the elders, entitled “Getting the Inka Axe,” tells of how ancestral Marubo young men travelled up the Marañón and Ucayali to trade for Inka stone axes with an intermediary indigenous group that lived along the Ucayali. This shows that the need to travel far away from the village to obtain goods that cannot be manufactured locally is not a product of globalization or an appropriation of modernity. On the contrary, it is a traditional aspect of Marubo masculinity. If it is true that Marubo masculinity traditionally involves long journeys for trade goods, evidence exists to suggest that this is also the case across the upper Amazon. Lathrap (1973) carried out the pioneering research on this phenomenon. Reeve (1994:112–113) describes several trade routes connecting lowland and Andean peoples. Large amounts of Amazonian feathers have been found preserved in remains of the Peruvian coastal Chimú Empire (Rowe 1984), strongly indicating trade 5 . Cashinahua oral history and myth tells of villages relocating so as to work Inka coca fields in return for trade goods (Renard-Casevitz, Saignes, and Taylor 1988). These relocated villages served as intermediaries in trade with their relatives further inland. Indigenous lowlanders were regularly in attendance at Inka trade fairs and festivals in the highland cities (Renard-Casevitz, Saignes, and Taylor 1988). Among the lowlanders themselves trade was extensive: the Cerro de la Sal, a source of highly valued native salt, was a trading center that was jealously guarded by its Arawakan owners (Varese 1973), while other salt sources linked Jivaroan and Huallaga peoples into trade networks (Reeve 1994:125). Harner (1972) describes trade networks linking Jivaroans to the Canelos Quichua. Further east, “the Amerindian societies of the savannas of Colombia and Venezuela had developed a complex interaction network known as the System of Orinoco Regional Interdependence” (Gassón 2003). It is clear that external trade was a major feature of pre-Columbian indigenous social life in the upper Amazon. It is equally clear that some of this trade involved long-distance journeys by men, often young men. The image of indigenous Amazonians as isolated, autarkic village-level societies is a product of ahistoricity in twentieth century ethnography and should not be taken as representative of historical reality (Ruedas forthcoming; pace Rival 2002). The native Amazonians encountered by ethnographers of the past century had been decimated by centuries of colonization, slavery and other forms of forced labor, genocide, and disease. Yet ethnographers typically treated these groups as if what was seen in the twentieth century represented what had always been. Knauft’s categorization of masculinities into traditional and modern follows directly from this misperception. Knauft (1997:240) argues that the customary construction of male worth is based on success in war, hunting, political success through oratory and alliances, knowledge of magic and ritual, and

domestic influence developed through polygyny and affinity; the contemporary construction of male worth, in contrast, is based on monetary success, wage-earning, and amassing goods. As I have shown, however, success in amassing goods is a customary aspect of the construction of male worth, at least in the upper Amazon, and the categories of customary and contemporary male laid out by Knauft are not mutually exclusive. These categories emerge from the perception of native Amazonians as being self- enclosed, isolated societies, which is a misperception based on the temporary condition of these peoples at the demographic low point of the twentieth century, coincident with the arrival of ethnographers on the scene. If the notion that modernity makes masculinity shift its basis to the acquisition of goods is not supported by these data, neither is the correlary asserted by Knauft (1997:238), that modernity makes men clamp down on female sexual autonomy. This notion is related to the theory of sexual antagonism in Amazonia (Murphy 1959; Siskind 1973; Divale and Harris 1976; Gregor 1985; Chagnon 1988). This theory has many problems, discussed by McCallum (2001). Among the worst of these is the assumption that all men are insecure. This unverified and probably unverifiable, and therefore unscientific, assumption is the basis of the argument that men oppress women to enhance the solidarity of male corporate groups. Information on the Marubo strongly contradicts Knauft’s interpretation of the data. Marubo oral histories indicate that sexual control was strongest when the population was lowest, in the early twentieth century when there were less than two hundred Marubo. At that time, control of female sexuality was stringent. With increasing population, sexual controls have become less stringent even as participation in national and global economies and ideologies have intensified.


Applying Moore’s concept of multiple subjectivity opens new vistas for the interpretation of gendered social behavior in indigenous Amazonia. McCallum’s argument that duality structures the performance of gender identity throughout Amazonia resonates with earlier beliefs in the strict male enforcement of female submission in the area. However, throughout the Amazonianist literature we find evidence of rebellious, non-conformist, and uppity women, whose existence has been ignored in the construction of models for understanding Amazonian gender. The concept of multiple subjectivity allows us to see these women as part of a broad pattern of women’s resistance and cultural innovation throughout indigenous Amazonia. I argue that this is a recurring, historically rooted pattern. Since there has been no systematic effort to describe culturally resistant women in Amazonia, I have only bits and pieces of evidence culled from various ethnographies to back up my suggestion that this pattern is a generalized Amazonian one. My evidence from the Marubo is much stronger. There are clearly not one, but several discourses on proper femininity among the Marubo. Both men and women can choose from among these several discourses. As in discourse, so in observable behaviour there are mutliple relationships between real women and the dominant discourse on Marubo womanhood. While the dominant discourse paints a classic portrait of women as supporters of their husbands’ political strategies, the reality is that women are frequently seen to pursue their own interests. The most fascinating manifestation of autonomous women’s life strategies

is their conscious, planned construction of residential arrangements in which they have the highest status in a settlement dominated by their siblings and children. The recurrence of these residential patterns, which I have termed ‘anicular,’ clearly indicates that they are not idiosyncratic, but part of a cultural pattern that is not reflected in the emic categories of the male elders but is somehow understood as a definite social option by Marubo women. Although evidence to generalize this view of women to the rest of Amazonia is very limited, I suggest that further research informed by the concept of multiple subjectivity will reveal similar patterns of resistance in other Amazonian societies. It would be easy, however, to explain the results of any research into sub- dominant subjectivities as reflecting not an indigenous pattern, but rather the intrusion of modernity into Amazonian tradition. My critique of Knauft’s ideas on Amazonian masculinity points out the danger of such simplistic dismissals. The notion that anything different from what twentieth century ethnography portrayed is a non-indigenous intrusion reflects an ahistorical view of indigenous Amazonia. The twentieth century, however, in no way represents the only possible definition of authentic Amazonian indigeneity. A hisorically contextualized view of Amazonian masculinity and femininity reveals that these so-called intrusions of modernity in fact have deep historical roots in indigenous Amazonian culture. This paper does not pretend to offer definitive proof, but only to outline a hypothesis that could inform further research. Such research should begin with a close analysis of gender differences in discourse production, along the lines of Chernela’s (1988a, 1988b, 1997) work on the Uanano. Such research should also connect discourse production to behavior observed during extensive fieldwork, connected to as much historical data, both recent and distant, as possible. Similar research has been conducted in folklore studies (e.g., Jordan and Kalčik 1985, Stoeltje 1988), and in the anthropology of South Asia (Appadurai, Korom, and Mills 1991, Ramanujan 1991). But wholistic, historically contextualized research on discourse production and social behavior informed by the concept of multiple subjectivity has not been carried out in Amazonia. Such research could serve to clarify the reason why women who are apparently cultural rebels are so commonly found in ethnographies and histories of the area, and situate these women as representative of a historically rooted pattern of women’s resistance in indigenous Amazonian cultures, rather than as inexplicable and isolated aberrations.


1. The Cashinahua and Marubo are speakers of closely related Panoan languages.

According to Marubo informants there is a limited mutual intelligibility. The Marubo and Cashinahua also share identical names for some of their kinship groupings, as well as having some shared myths and social practices.

2. Shovo (singular and plural) is the Marubo term for a longhouse, called “maloca” in the

regional Portuguese. Shovo are the basic Marubo residential units. They can contain nuclear families numbering less than ten people, or extended families numbering over sixty. Villages can consist of single shovo or assemblages of as many as a dozen shovo.

3. The Portuguese word “aldeia” can be translated as “village” or “hamlet.” In this

context, “aldeia” connotes a distinct village.


It should be noted here that Robarchek and Robarchek (1998) suggest that Huaorani

women are normally autonomous and independent, a cultural norm applying both to Huaorani men and women: “In contrast to many Amazonian societies, men and women are not seen as fundamentally different in character. There is no dichotomy in ideal personality or temperament…. Both men and women are autonomous, independent, self- confident, and assertive” (Robarchek and Robarchek 1998:105). Thus, in the Huaorani cultural context, Dayuma’s behaviour may not reflect selection of a sub-dominant subject position. Nevertheless it indicates that Huaorani women are not restricted to any given formula for behavior in the first place, and also caution us about arguing that gender dualisms restrict gendered behavior to dual hegemonic subject positions throughout


5. Some have argued that these feathers were the result of direct acquisition rather than

trade (Verrano, personal communication). However, the difficulties that pre-conquest highland peoples had in venturing into the lowlands, and the other evidence of trade between highlands and lowlands, makes the trade hypothesis more likely in my opinion.


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