Traducción Ethnographic Sorcery

7/18/2019 Traducción Ethnographic Sorcery

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MalentendidoÉl vive de imaginación e ingenio y lo que vende son metáforas.« LANDEG WHITE, Magomero (1987: 250), refiriéndose a Jagaja, un “doctor

nativo” auto-proclamado que vende remedios en el mercado »

“Andiliki,” dijo, “creo que no entiendes.” Años después, laspalabras todavía resuenan en mis oídos. El haberme llamado pormi nombre Shimakonde1 les recordó a todos en el salón qué tancercano a ellos me había hecho y, quizás, cuántosí entendía de lahistoria y la cultura de los residentes de la meseta de Mueda en el

norte de Mozambique, entre quienes había estado estudiandodurante casi un año. Aun así, lo tenía todo mal, me dijo.Acababa de terminar de dar una plática a una audiencia de

unas dos docenas de personas reunidas en la oficina provincianade los Archivos de Patrimonio Cultural (Arquivos do PatrimônioCultural, o ARPAC) en Pemba. Era mi tercera presentación en unaserie de tres, impartidas a finales de 1994 a petición del directorprovincial del archivo. Puesto que la asistencia de un investigadorde ARPAC, Eusébio Tissa Kairo, me había beneficiado mucho enmi investigación de campo, se me había pedido dar algo devuelta a la institución. Aunque todos y cada uno de la mediadocena de investigadores de ARPAC tenían mucha másexperiencia en el trabajo de campo etnográfico que yo, ningunotenía mucha capacitación formal en teoría o metodologíaantropológica. Se me pidió leer varios de sus reportes deinvestigación y tratar unos cuantos temas que pensara les podríainteresar en su trabajo profesional.El tema elegido para mi tercera plática, una breve introducción

al subcampo de antropología simbólica mediante el ensayo“Símbolos en el ritual Ndembu” de Victor Turner (1967), tenía

una doble motivación. Mientras los investigadores de ARPACllenaban sus reportes con información etnográfica detallada, noté

1 Cuando les dije a los muedanos que mi nombre en inglés, Harry, se

podía traducir al portugués como Henrique, me informaron que, en

Shimakonde, Henrique se pronuncia Andiliki. Muchos muedanos llevan

de hecho el “nombre Shimakone” Andiliki, mientras que otros

(generalmente más letrados) se llaman a sí mismos Henrique en

“portugués correcto”.



que dudaban en analizar o interpretar lo que sus informantes lesdecían. Deseaba inspirarlos a ir más allá de los catálogos deinformación y las citas verbatim de informantes quecaracterizaban sus publicaciones. Turner, les mostré, ilustraba

esto a través de su análisis del ritual denkang’a (pubertad de lasniñas). Claramente, según Turner, la savia del árbolmudyi (leche)al centro del ritual simbolizaba la leche de los senos enmaduración de la iniciada; más allá de esto, los informantes deTurner le dijeron que el árbol simboliza la unidad–entre lainiciada y su madre, entre los miembros del matrilinaje de lainiciada y entre todos los ndembu más generalmente. Puesto que,

sin embargo, el ritual como Turner lo veía de hecho producía ypromulgaba tensiones en cada una de estas relaciones–separandoa la hija de la madre y enfrentando matrilinaje contra matrilinajey las mujeres ndembu contra los hombres ndembu–él concluyóque, a pesar del exégesis ndembu (o de su falta), el árbol tambiénsimbolizaba las tensiones sociales que el ritual mediaba. Mepreguntaba qué pensaría mi audiencia de la audaz conclusión de

Turner de que los antropólogos como él– y como ellos–podríanver e interpretar un evento ritual sin que estorbaran los“intereses” y “sentimientos” que “socavan el entendimiento [delnativo] de la situación completa” (27).El segundo motivo de mi tema elegido era mi deseo de

presentar una parte de mi propio trabajo etnográfico en curso. Eldirector provincial de ARPAC había abierto mi serie de pláticas auna audiencia pública para crear consciencia en la capitalprovincial del trabajo de la institución. A pesar de esto, lamayoría de la audiencia tenía algún grado de familiaridad con lascomunidades entre las que había trabajado–algunos incluso conmi proyecto. Muchos eran funcionarios del gobierno quetrabajaban en los departamentos provinciales de educación o

cultura y con los que previamente había consultado. La mayoríahabía nacido y crecido en la meseta de Mueda y mantenía fuertesvínculos ahí. Situados entre Mueda y el resto del mundo,constituían un grupo ideal, pensé, para emprender un poco de loque Steven Feld llama “edición dialógica” (1987) de mi etnografíaemergente. Así, en la segunda parte de mi plática, utilicé las ideasde Turner para involucrar material recopilado en el curso de mi

propia investigación en la meseta de Mueda.



Brevemente resumí para mi audiencia lo que la mayoría yasabía: cuando un león era visto en o cerca de un pueblo de lameseta, las personas solían especular que no era un leónordinario, no unntumi wa ku mwitu (león de matorral); más bien,

solían sugerir, era unntumi wa nkaja (un león de asentamiento), esdecir que era un brujo que se había convertido en león, en cuyocaso también se podía llamar unntumi munu (persona-león), oque estaba hecho por un brujo, en cuyo caso también se podíallamar unntumi wa kumpika (un león fabricado). Los leones de brujería devoraban la carne de los rivales, vecinos y parientes del brujo, a veces mediante ataques visibles y a veces mediante unos

invisibles que producían enfermedad crónica.Para lidiar con un león de este tipo–la mayoría de mi

audiencia, nuevamente, ya lo sabía–se llamaba a un especialistapara discernir la naturaleza verdadera del león y para prepararsustancias medicinales que hicieran a la bestia vulnerable a loscazadores. Al mismo tiempo, las personas seguían deliberandosobre la identidad de la persona asociada con el león y sobre la

identidad de la víctima intencionada del león. Utilizando elmarco teórico de Turner, le sugerí a mi audiencia que, mientraslos muedanos examinaban quién de entre ellos podría envidiar aquién–quién buscaba apropiarse de la riqueza de otros sin trabajohonesto; quién transgredía normas igualitarias al no compartircomo debía; en pocas palabras, quién de entre ellos era“depredador” y quién era “presa”–su enojo y desconfianza eranimbuidos con, y exacerbado por, su miedo al león. En términosde Turner,el león, como símbolo, conectaba los polos ideológico y

sensorial de su experiencia – no sólo de la caza del león sinotambién del drama sociohistórico más amplio (a veces incluyendoel linchamiento de los acusados de brujería).

Le recordé a mi audiencia que la historia era todavía más queeso, sin embargo. Según Turner, “la propiedad más simple [de unsímbolo ritual] es la de la condensación”, es decir que un símbolopuede representar “muchas cosas y acciones” al mismo tiempo(1967: 28). En la meseta, el león no sólo simbolizaba ladepredación social, postulé, también simbolizaba la nobleza y elpoder. Les recordé que entre los ancianos makonde más

respetados y temidos, históricamente estaban los vahumu



(singularhumu). Más allá de sus deberes como consejeros delmatrilinaje en el ámbito cotidiano visible, estos ancianos tambiénmonitoreaban el ámbito escondido deuwavi (brujería), trayendosu poder a bear on brujos cuyos actos amenazaban el bienestar

del asentamiento. Las inducciones rituales a las que se requeríaque se sometieran losvahumu los hacía ingerir oscuras sustanciasmedicinales mezcladas con, entre otras cosas,lukulungu–la carnede garganta de un león de matorral asesinado. Mientras vivían,losvahumu “hablaban con las voces de leones”, quienes “losreconocían como hermanos”. Al morir, los cadáveres de losvahumu engendraban leones que eran una amenaza para sus

makola (matrilinajes) a menos que sus cuerpos fuerasadecuadamente tratados por compañerosvahumu.Ninguno de mis informantes me había dicho explícitamente lo

que estaba a punto de decir, le admití a mi audiencia, pero–siguiente el mandato de Turner–sugerí que, para los residentes dela meseta de Mueda, el león no sólo simbolizaba tanto undepredador peligroso como un protector real, sino que también

simbolizaba una profunda ambivalencia sobre el funcionamientodel poder en el mundo social. Simultáneamente, el león, comosímbolo, expresaba las ideas de que el poder era necesario paraproducir y asegurar el bien común y de que el poder constituíauna amenaza siempre presente para los miembros de lacomunidad.Con esta conclusión turneriana, terminé mi plática y pedí

preguntas y comentarios. A un largo silencio le siguieron variasparticipaciones incómodas sobre detalles etnográficos mínimos,mientras la mayoría de la gente en el salón se removíanerviosamente. Finalmente, Lazaro Mmala–un muedano, ungraduado de la escuela primaria de la misión católica Imbuho, unmaestro por capacitación, un veterano de la campaña de la

guerrilla mozambiqueña por la independencia y, ahora, un oficialde la asociación de veteranos–aclaró su garganta y sijo,simplemente, “Andiliki, creo que no entiendes”.“¿Cómo así?” pregunté, intentando esconder mi ansiedad.“Estos leones de los que hablas…” Se detuvo, mirándome con

lo que parecía una mezcla de vergüenza y diversión. Despuéscontinuó una vez más, cuidadosamente pero con seguridad, “no

son símbolos–son reales”.



Un suspiro colectivo envolvió el salón. Una discusión vivasiguió a la que casi todos los presentes contribuyeron recuentosde incidentes que habían vivido, o historias que habíanescuchado, sobre leones que acosaban, atacaban y devoraban

personas, así como sobre los vecinos y parientes envidiosos queeran culpables de estos eventos. Al final de la sesión, habíareunido casi tanta “información” sobre leones de brujería como laque había recopilado en el curso de un año “en el campo”.



En busca del campesino que mirahacia adelante

Cuando recién llegué a Mueda, no me proponía a enfocar miinvestigación en la brujería. En lugar de eso, esperaba examinarcómo visualizaban el futuro los muedanos. La intención de miinvestigación estaba motivada por experiencia previa como unasistente de investigación para un proyecto del Centro deTenencia de la Tierra de la Universidad de Wisconsinasesorando la fragmentación del sector agrario del estadomozambiqueño y la distribución de las tierras de cultivo delestado a finales de los 80s y principios de los 90s (Myers y West1993; West y Myers 1992, 1996).Como los ranchos del estado estaban estratégicamente

situados cerca de canales de agua y vías de transporte, eran elfoco de polémicas reclamaciones cuando el socialismo colapsó enMozambique. Los antiguos trabajadores/empleados, así como lossupervisores/gerentes, de las plantaciones coloniales y/o losranchos del estado que los habían desplazado reclamaron suderecho a tierras en las que habían trabajado previamente y, aveces, incluso habitado. Las personas que habían sidodesalojadas de estas tierras cuando los rancheros coloniales lasocuparon inicialmente–o sus descendientes–también reclamaron basándose en el dominio ancestral. Complicando aún más la

situación, los refugiados desplazados por la guerra civil deMozambique que había durado dieciséis años en algunos casoshabían sido “temporalmente reubicados” en estas tierras, ymuchos expresaban un deseo de permanecer ahí.Una vez que la guerra terminó, sin embargo, muchos en el

gobierno buscaron utilizar estas tierras para atraer inversiónposguerra a Mozambique. Los oficiales en varios niveles se

beneficiarían enormemente al negociar tales arreglos. Paraesquivar reclamaciones de estas tierras hechas pormozambiqueños ordinarios, los intereses comerciales y oficialesdel estado compasivos pintaron una imagen de campesinos “quemiran hacia atrás”–empantanados en maneras tradicionales,desinteresados en la innovación o el progreso–quesubexplotarían estos valiosos recursos. Basándonos en



investigaciones del Centro de Tenencia de la Tierra que indicabanque los mozambiqueños comunes eran propensos no sólo aproducir para el mercado, sino también a hacerlo máseficientemente, en muchos casos, que las grandes empresas

comerciales, argumentamos (pace Cramer y Pontara 1998) queestas tierras ofrecían oportunidades a un gran número demozambiqueños para mantenerse a sí mismos – oportunidadesno disponibles para ellos en otro lado en la economía rota por laguerra.Durante la elaboración posterior de una agenda para mi

investigación de tesis sobre la meseta de Mueda, busqué

directamente desafiar el estereotipo del “campesino que mirahacia atrás” que prevalecía en Mozambique y otros lugares. Enmi propuesta de investigación, planteé la siguiente pregunta:¿Cómo visualizan sus futuros los mozambiqueños rurales? Mepropuse examinar las estrategias prácticas y discursivasdesplegadas por los mozambiqueños rurales en su esfuerzo porabrazar, transformar o refutar las visiones oficiales del futuro con

que se los había presentado históricamente – ya sea bajo larúbrica del “desarrollo comunitario” de la era colonial, la“modernización socialista” de la postindependencia o la“liberalización” de la forma de gobierno y la economíamozambiqueña del postsocialismo. Me proponía examinar nosólo como las estrategias de los mozambiqueños rurales recurrena, y derivan su fuerza de, la “tradición” local, sino también cómoconstituían diseños alternativos para la transformación social –cómo, en su propio derecho, articulaban visiones del futuro.En mi misión por descubrir al “campesino mozambiqueño que

mira hacia adelante”, tenía poco sentido, pensé, examinar lascreencias y prácticas que eran descartadas por muchos comosuperstición y que eran producidas a menudo como evidencia de

que los mozambiqueños rurales se encontraban fuera de lascorrientes de la modernidad. A lo largo de más o menos losveinte años anteriores, los antropólogos se habían alejado en granmedida de tales temas de investigación, asegurando que suestudio generalmente exotizaba a los sujetos de la indagaciónantropológica, volviendo a este pueblo menos comprensible para,y por lo tanto desempoderándolos con respecto a, una audiencia

occidental. Mientras me mantuve receloso del desprecio a las



formas de otros de ver el mundo manifestado en tales críticas, nolograba ver cómo el estudio de la brujería podía hacer cualquiercosa que no fuera minar mis objetivos de investigación. Durantemis primeras semanas en la meseta de Mueda, cargué conmigo

Caminos de utopía de Martin Buber (1949) e Historia de las utopíasde Lewis Mumford (1922). Leyéndolos de noche, antes deordenar mi agenda para el día siguiente de trabajo de campo,cultivaba mi interés en entender cómo las personas imaginabanun mundo aún no experimentado. Me preguntaba a mí mismo,¿a qué recursos recurrían para imaginar un futuro? ¿Por mediode qué procesos construían un futuro sin simplemente reproducir

o invertir el mundo que conocían y dentro del cual vivían? Measeguraba a mí mismo que los mozambiqueños rurales sosteníany articulaban visiones del futuro tan clara y poderosamente comolos futuristas italianos de quienes leía.De día, sin embargo, crecía mi frustración en torno a mis

intentos de acceder a la vena de futurismo muedano. Cuando lepreguntaba a aquellos con quienes trabajaba cómo veían el

futuro, me miraban con una expresión vacía. Me dio porpreguntar cómo, cuando eran más jóvenes, habían visualizado elfuturo y cómo el presente, en el que ahora vivían, difería deaquello que alguna vez habían esperado. Las respuestas a mispreguntas–cuando las personas las entendían–no tenían vida. Laspersonas que respondían simplemente comparaban sus vidas enel pasado a sus vidas en el presente, declarando ciertos aspectoscomo mejores y otros como peores.Finalmente, un anciano llamado Lucas Ng’avanga respondió

directamente a mi búsqueda por el campesino que mira haciaadelante.“Nunca pensé en esas cosas”, me dijo cuando le pregunté

cómo se imaginaba que sería su vida, en el futuro, cuando de

joven se unió al movimiento revolucionario nacionalista.“Vivía mi vida día a día. No pensaba en lo que estaba pasando.Sólo hacía lo que tenía que hacer. No consideraba el futuro”.Podría haber agregado, “¡Soy un campesino que mira hacia

atrás!” ¡Y esto de un participante activo en la revoluciónmozambiqueña!Mantuve esperanza de que las respuestas a mis preguntas no

eran la confirmación de que los muedanos miraban sólo hacia



atrás, sino que eran, en lugar de esto, evidencia de un impassemetodológico. Me pregunta si alguien podría contestar laspresguntas que planteaba, separados como estaban del contextode la vida. Me preguntaba hasta qué punto las visiones del futuro

estaban, inevitablemente, entrelazados con el presente y elpasado – reelaboraciones relativamente menores, inclusoinsignificantes, de la manera en que uno entendía que el mundo,simplemente, era.Al mismo tiempo, buscaba encontrar a uno o más

“informantes clave” que, por la razón que fuera, poseyeran unaexcepcional capacidad para la reflexión sobre la vida tal como los

muedanos la conocían. Fue en este contexto que les pedí porprimera vez a mis colaboradores de investigación muedanos queidentificaran curandeiros (“curanderos” en portugués) conquienes pudiera hablar. El primer nkulaula (“curandero” enShimakonde) al que me presentaron era un hombre mayor en elpueblo de Matambalale llamado Kalamatatu. El socialismomozambiqueño no había tolerado ni antropólogos ni curanderos,

revistiendo a los primeros como agentes de una “ciencia colonial”y a los segundos como proveedores de “oscurantismo”. Puestoque el socialismo mozambiqueño permanecía insistentemente aprincipios del Mueda “postsocialista” (un lugar celebrado comola “cuna de la revolución”), temía que cualquier encuentro entreantropólogo y curandero estaría saturado de sospecha. Por lotanto, anduve suavemente cuando me presentaron a Kalamatatu.Él, sin embargo, habló con seguridad y franqueza. Fue él quiende hecho trajo a colación el tema de la brujería, diciéndome quelos ataques de león estaban entre los “infortunios” que él trataba,y explicándome cómo los manejaba: “Cuando se ve a un león enel matorral cercano, preparo un recipiente de calabaza con ntela[el término genérico para cualquier sustancia medicinal]. Luego

voy al lugar donde el león fue visto y prendo el matorral enllamas. El fuero arderá hacia donde se esconde el león. Laspersonas siguen el fuego, descubren al león ahí y lo matan. Lantela evita que el león haga daño a cualquiera”. Kalamatatutambién me dijo cómo llevaba a cabo las autopsias en leonesasesinados, confirmando que eran leones de brujería al encontrarshidudu (hojas de yuca molidas, comidas por los muedanos

como un manjar) en sus entrañas.



Aun así, la mayoría de los muedanos permanecían reticentesen 1994 a participar en discusiones enfocadas conmigo sobre brujería. La mayoría de las referencias a la brujería eran rápidas yvagas. Los brujos se movían imperceptiblemente entre nosotros,

me recordaban a veces los muedanos, escuchando hasta nuestrossusurros, particulamente cuando hablábamos de ellos. Era mejor,me decían a menudo, evitar provocar a tales personas cuandofuera posible. Incluso los curanderos, que se enfrentaban a los brujos diariamente mientras trataban las heridas producidas porla brujería, generalmente hablaban de estos archienemigos sóloen términos vagos. Ocasionalmente, me decían que sería una

mala estrategia tentar y antagonizar innecesariamente a aquelloscontra los que peleaban.

This is not to say that Muedans did not speak about sorcery.After the evening meal had been consumed, those with whom Ilived and worked frequently huddled around the fire and, inhushed tones, told stories, or shared rumors, about sorcery’s

occurrence among them. Muedans, however, knew to containsorcery discourse within prescribed bounds. It was not only sor-cerers but also officials of the Mozambican Liberation Front (AFrente de Libertação de Moçambique, or FRELIMO) that theyfeared would overhear them.⁴In this tense environment, I was party to frequent conversa-

tions about sorcery, so long as I listened quietly and asked onlyscattered questions. As soon as I expressed interest—as soon as Imoved beyond simple expressions of revulsion or dread in re-sponse to what I heard and began to “interview” the tellers ofthese stories—conversations abruptly ended.⁵Even so, as I spent time with Kalamatatu and a few others who

spoke openly with me about the topic of sorcery, I became more

attuned to the subtle, but frequent, references most Muedansmade to sorcery during those evening sessions around the fire,and at other moments when they shared with one another whatthey knew of the illnesses and misfortunes of their neighbors andkin. These conversations often incorporated what, at first, seemedto me unrelated topics: the sound of an owl, at night, outsidesomeone’s house; the sudden appearance, in the middle of a

pathway, of animal footprints; the perceived asymmetry of a sick



person’s face; the momentary resemblance of a corpse to a banana tree. In time, I myself learned to recognize the signs andsymptoms of sorcery, at least in the images Muedans produced.Indeed, I slowly came to appreciate that sorcery constituted a

language through which the Muedans with whom I workedcomprehended and—even if euphemisti- cally—commented⁶

upon the workings of power in their midst. I slowly came torealize that if I was to discern how Muedans understood thesocial, political, and economic transformations they experienced—if I was to uncover their visions of changing times—I wouldhave to learn the language of sorcery. As this would not be

possible in the environment of postwar tran- sition andelectoral politicking, however, I set aside this compo- nent of myresearch agenda until a later date.



“This Must BeStudied Scientifically”

After defending my doctoral dissertation inand taking upa visiting lectureship at the London School of Economics, Ihad the opportunity into return to the Mueda plateau to

undertake further intensive fieldwork. I determined thistime to make sorcery the explicit focus of my research. Ihad been assisted in my fieldwork in by MarcosAgostinho Man- dumbwe—a Muedan by origin, aFRELIMO veteran of the Mozambican independence war, anexperienced field researcher who had worked at ARPAC for

several years, and, at the time I met him, official historian atthe Pemba office of the Associa- tion of Veterans of the Warof National Liberation (Associação dos Combatentes deLuta de Libertação Nacional, or ACLLN). Our successfulcollaboration inhad been founded upon shared interestin the history of the Mueda plateau region and, specifically,the history of the Mozambican independence war. While

Marcos’s status as a FRELIMO party cadre generallyfacilitated our work, I was unable to research politicallysensi- tive topics—such as sorcery—in the company of such anactive member of the ruling party. What research I did in

on sorcery, I did with the assistance of ARPAC investigatorEusébio



“This Must Be Studied Scientifically”

Tissa Kairo, a younger man who had not been “trained byFRELIMO” and who, consequently, more easily followedhis curiosity into the emergent spaces of Mozambican

postsocial- ism. Because I had worked so well with Marcos onother issues, however, I hoped that he might be able to joinme when I made sorcerythefocusofmyresearchin.Muchhadchanged,Iknew, since we last worked together inMueda. Mozambicans had had nearly five years’experience with democratic gover- nance. While thegoverning FRELIMO party and the opposition, led by theMozambican National Resistance (A Re- sistência NacionalMoçambicana, or RENAMO), squabbled endlessly inParliament, their disagreements had not destroyed the new

multiparty regime. Over the radio, Mozambicans daily heardvoices criticizing FRELIMO policies, past and present.Those who spoke out, Mozambicans observed, were tolerated

by the government. Many, indeed, thrived. What is more—Ilearned in my first few days in Pemba—topics like sorcery

were openly discussed and debated, not only among ordinarypeople but also on state radio.

When I presented my sorcery-focused research agendato Marcos, it met with his unqualified enthusiasm.“This must be studied,” he declared. “There is so much

here to know,mano[brother].”

As he pondered the idea, his excitement grew deeper.

“No one has ever studied these things in Mueda—notscientifically,” he said. “But these things must be studied . . .scientifically.”Relieved by his enthusiasm, I did not ask what Marcos

meant by studying sorcery “scientifically,” but his wordsechoed both the Portuguese colonial emphasis on science as an

“apolitical” endeavor (West ) and the FRELIMO

celebration of “scientific socialism.” As I later ponderedwhat it might mean to study sorcery “scientifically,” severalquestions presented themselves: In what kinds of situations

did sorcery arise? What kinds of social relations engenderedit? Who attacked whom, mean- ing, into what socialcategories did the perpetrators and victims generally fall?

What motives and justifications were proffered




for and attributed to sorcery attacks? To answer these

questions, we would be required to catalogue Muedans’

knowledge of sorcery; to systematically document as many

events and perspec- tives as possible; to trace accusations andrumors of the practice of sorcery to their sources; and,

ultimately, to ask questions that Muedans did not ask aboutsorcery.

A brief and unsubstantiated statement made by YussufAdam—a Mozambican researcher at the African StudiesCenter (Centro de Estudos Africanos, or CEA) at EduardoMondlane University (Universidade Eduardo Mondlane, orUEM)—served as a point of departure for the “scientific”

study of sorcery as I imagined such an undertaking. In anarticle pub- lished inin the journal of the MozambicanHistorical Ar- chive (Arquivo Historico de Moçambique, orAHM), Adam asserted that those accused of producinglions in Mueda were “noneotherthanlandowners”(:–).Adam’sassertion echoed those of researchers working in

Africa in the late colonial period who suggested thatsorcery accusations ran along specificsociologicallinesof

tension(Epstein;Krigeand Krige;Marwick;Wilson[]

).¹Beidelman(:),forexample,arguedthat,amongKaguru

inTanza- nia, the categories of people most often accusedof sorcery in- cluded the economically successful and thepolitically powerful.²By contrast, Forde(:)suggestedthat

amongYako, it was most often young women who wereaccused by members of the patrilineage into which theymarried. Begging the question of directionality, Terray ()suggested that accusations among Abron occurred most

frequently between men and members of their fathers’

matrilineages seeking to appropriate their wealth.³

Muedans, however, frustrated my every attempt to discern

the sociological patterns of sorcery. The “data” that wegath- ered not only contradicted Adam’s thesis but provedresistant to the formation of any coherent counterthesis. The

more data we gathered, in fact, the more complicated became

the sociology of Muedan sorcery.⁴




Muedans sometimes explicitly asserted that elders were in-

deed more generally suspected of the practice of sorcerythan youths. In principle, because mitela (medicinal

substances, used in the practice of sorcery andcountersorcery) and their uses had to be learned, thelonger one had to study, the more one might know. Itfollowed, then, that sorcerers—particularly the most powerful

among them—would be the aged. Indeed, Mue- dan villagers

often accused the elderly among them of sorcery. When anelder’s name was mentioned, Muedans would oftenexclaim, “Sheeeee! That old man knows something!”—acom- mon euphemism for sorcery. The more physicalinfirmities an elder had, the more the passage of time hadmarked his body, the more suspect he became. A limp wasconsidered a telltale sign that one had been injured insomeone’s yard at night by a lipande(antisorcery mine), setthere by a countersorcerer to de- fend the occupant againstsorcery attack.

It came as a surprise to me, then, when I discoveredupon reading my field notes in the midst of my researchthat I had recorded more incidences of young people beingaccused of sorcery than of elders. Lucas Mwikumbi, in thevillage of Matam- balale, told us that he suspected thatmost sorcery, these days, could in fact be attributed tovillage youths. “They have an advantage over elders,” he

explained to us. “They go from place to place very easily.Wherever they go, they can buymitelaand learn how to usethem.” Francisco Ntumbati, in the village of Matambalale,agreed with Mwikumbi. Today’s young people, he told me,“run wild” in the villages, smokingsuruma(canna- bis)and finding outlets for their disrespect, including sorcery.In Nandimba, the healer Maurício Mpwapwele Moto toldus, “Those who injure themselves [another euphemism forsorcerers] these days are children. They have no respect fortheir elders. Sometimes, these children will say to theirelders, ‘You cannot mess with me! If you do, I’ll fix you!’Where there is such lack of respect, you can be sure thatthere is sorcery.” In discussing sorcery and youth with us, the

healer Vantila Shingini of Namande concluded, “Children these

days play mean.”




Just as Muedans generally stated, in principle, that elders

had a comparative advantage over youth in learning the

techniques of sorcery, so they concluded that men—who

enjoyed greater mobility—had greater access to the requisiteknowledge to per- form sorcery than did women. Again,

however, I discovered inmy field notes that those withwhom we had conversed more often attributed sorcery towomen than to men when speaking concretely. Some flatlychallenged the association of sorcery with men. Tiago Mateuof Matambalale told us, without hesi- tation, “Amongsorcerers, there are more women than men!” PikashiLindalandolo told us that most of the sorcerers who cameto him in need of treatment for injuries (a euphemism forhaving wounded oneself by tripping antisorcery defenses in

the course of attacking someone) were in fact young girls.

My data also indicated that sorcery suspects were welldis- tributed over other categorical divides in Muedan society.From the colonial era to the present, the poor accused their

wealthier neighbors and kin of feeding insatiable appetites by preying upon their well-being. Whether as colonial-era

labor migrants or as postcolonial entrepreneurs whocombined the power of state office with command of themarketplace, the wealthy traveled widely, attracting

suspicion that they had come to learn, and were able todeploy, novel sorcery techniques. “The ‘big chiefs’ eat

everything!” Muedans often lamented. By the same token,these “big chiefs” suspected their poorer neighbors and kin of

envy and accused them of seeking to devour their wealth

through acts of sorcery. Whether labor migrants or politicians

or businessmen who enjoyed success in postcolonial urban

contexts, the relatively well-off articulated their suspicions

most clearly by staying away from their villages of origin

whenever possible. Christians and non-Christians alike were

also subject to sorcery accusations. ThehumuMandia told usthat Christians were the targets of sorcery because their wealth

and knowledge of the Bible and of foreign languages attracted

envy. So strong was the association of sorcery with non-Christians that Catholic mis-




sionaries at Nang’ololo had trouble keeping trainees, manyof whom left the church’s employ, missionaries told us, for fearthat they would be “killed at night.” Christians, on the

other hand, were accused of practicing sorcery as well toprotect themselves and their acquired wealth.

In light of all of this, I might simply have read my fieldnotes as confirmation that sorcery provided an idiom for theexpres- sion of social tensions between Muedans of various

categories and their respective sociological “others,” were itnot for the fact that my notes also bore evidence thatMuedans suspected and accused those with whom theyshared essential social attri- butes. In other words, men did

not exempt other men from suspicion of sorcery, nor did

women exempt other women. Youths accused youths, and

elders accused elders. Accusations emerged not only across

the divides between rich and poor, and between Christianand non-Christian, but also within these categories. As my

frustration peaked, the healer Atanásio Herneo of

Matambalale explicitly stated what my data implicitly told me.When I asked him who sorcerers were—whether they weregenerally men or women, youths or elders, Christian ornon- Christian, rich or poor—he answered bluntly, “Mostpeople arevavi[sorcerers]—almost everyone. In fact, theperson who is not amwavi[sorcerer] is a rare person

indeed.”⁵ The healer Boaventura Makuka told us much the

same thing. When we asked him if there was any way toeliminate sorcery, he replied, “There are far more people in

this world who arevavithan there are who are not. As longas there are people in the world, there

will beuwavi[sorcery]!”

Sensing our “scientific” research agenda in peril, Iturned to Marcos one evening. “We have been told thatanyone can be a mwavi,” I said. “But in the end, who arethesevavi,generally, and who do they generally attack?” Iheard my voice now plead- ing. “Is there some sort ofpattern? Is there asenseto it all?!”Marcos moved to the edge of theigoli⁶ upon which he

sat, resting his elbows on his knees and his face in hishands. He




shook his head. When he looked up, he revealed a smile.“The trouble is,mano,you’re trying to understand this thingscientifi- cally. You can’t understand thisscientifically.”

“But you’re the one who . . . !”—so befuddled was I that Ifound myself unable to finish my sentence.

“Vaviarevavi,” Marcos responded. “There is nosensetowhat they do.” He threw his hands up in the air withgleeful exas- peration. “They don’t kill for wealth or power.They don’t want money or tractors or airplanes.”“Whatdothey want?” I asked.

“They crave human flesh. They can’t get enough of it.That’s what they want.”Marcos reminded me of what we had been told by

Boaven- tura Makuka when we had asked him if a particularsorcerer—a man who, according to him, had made a lion toattack his own niece—had been motivated by envy (the“explanation” Mue- dans generally give for a sorcerer’sattack). “He must have been,” Makuka had answered, before

adding, “although sometimes vaviattack because theydecide that their victims have ‘good meat on their bones’— just like you or I would say about a goat we decided toslaughter.” Having invoked this image, Marcos nowslumped back on theigoli. Following a pregnant pause, helooked at me and said, conclusively, “That’s uwavi. You can’t ex-plainthatscientifically!”



Belief as Metaphor

“There’s no use trying,” [Alice] said: “one ca’n’t believe impossible things.”

«le w is c a r r o ll,Throu gh the Looking-Glass ([] : ) »

When I returned to the United States inafter completion of

my dissertation fieldwork and told my anthropologist friends

and colleagues about sorcery lions, they seemed to know

better than to ask if I “believed in” such things. Which isnot to say that they knew—or even thought they knew—whether or notI “believed”; rather, they avoided the question,it seemed to me, because they considered any answer—mineor

theirs—“problem-atic.” Others with whom I shared accounts

did not observe this disciplinarytaboo.WhenIstartedtoteachin,undergrad- uate students asked with persistence if I

“believed in” sorcery. My answers were often witty, and

always cagey. Embracing and adapting Mark Rogers’s ideathat one can “believe a little bit” (Rogers n.d.),¹ I often toldpeople that I believed far more at night—when the distantgrunts and snorts of lions could, indeed, be heard from

some of the villages in which I slept—than I did in the lightof day.Muedans themselves sometimes asked me, in reference

to sorcery, “What do you think of all of this?” It seemed tome that they expected me to dismiss “it all” as nonsense,as had



Belief as Metaphor

most Europeans they had known. When, during my firstyear in Mueda, Marcos asked me if I put stock in the powerof the countersorcery “treatments” that we sometimes

observed in healers’ compounds, I answered, cautiously,that if others be-lieved in these treatments, “there must besomething to them.” Clearly, I too found the question

“problematic.”

The question that I so assiduously avoided, however,

stalked me from Mueda to the United States and the UnitedKingdom and back to Mueda again. In the dark of night, just outside the village of Diaca, as Marcos and I—in hisnephew Nelito’s di- lapidated pickup truck—gathered speedto ascend the plateau on our journey from Pemba to beginour stint of intensive re- searchonsorceryin,asleek

silhouetteappearedinthedim headlights before us less than

thirty meters away. As quickly as we saw it, it slipped off theroad and into the bush, its tail raised like a cobra poised tostrike. So close were we that I could not bring the vehicle to

a halt quickly enough to peer into the bush after thecreature.

“Shuvi[leopard]?” I asked Marcos, “orntumi[lion]?”

“I don’t know,” he immediately responded, adding, withouttaking a breath, “a lioness, I think.”

As we completed the trip in eerie silence, I wondered to

myself if we had “seen the same thing” before us in the dim

headlights, despite my certainty that we somehow shared theadventure.² So whatdoesthe anthropologistmake of itwhentold that peo- plemake,ormake themselves into,lions? In

talking about sorcery lions as symbols five years earlier in theARPAC seminar room, I had attempted to steer a course

between two hazards arising from such questions. The firstof these hazards was epitomized for me by Sister Rosa Carla,

an Italian nun who founded and ran a health clinic in

Mwambula, the village adjacent to the Nang’ololo mission towhich she was assigned after the Mozam- bicancivilwar

endedin.Thesisterdedicated herselftire- lessly to the clinic,dispensing much-needed and much-sought- after medications

in recycled plasticmm photographic film



Belief as Metaphor

canisters sent to her by friends and parishioners around theworld. I respected her greatly and visited her from time to

time. Once, when I was accompanied by Marcos and Tissa,

she told me that she and her Toyota Hi-Lux had recentlycome upon a group of hunters from the village of Nshongwewho, only moments earlier, had killed a lion in the

roadway. She obliged the villagers’ request to help themtransport the lion to the village center and, while doing so,

got an earful of stories about lion- people. “It’s all sounfortunate,” she told me, glancing occasion- ally at Marcosand Tissa, whom she seemed to chastise as she spoke.“These feiticeiros[Portuguese for “sorcerers”] that they

summon to come and kill these so-called lion-people—they

are the same ones to whom my patients go for cures toinfections and venereal diseases and malaria.” Her voice wasstern. “I treat people at my clinic in the morning, and theydie at night in the feiticeiro’s house because they believe he cancure them. These fei- ticeirosdo the most outrageous things.

They poison people with their superstition.” She shook herhead as she lamented, “There is so much ignorance here. Ican scarcely keep up with it all.” ³ To Sister Rosa Carla, I

opposed in my mind Fernando Alves,a man of local legendry in Cabo Delgado. The son ofmulatto parents, Alves lived in Pemba in thebairro cimento(the“concrete neighborhood,” composed mostly of houses built by

Portuguese occupants in the colonial period). While heearned a living as a self-employed mechanic, Alves was, likehis father, an avid big- game hunter. When local hunters,

armed with bows and arrows, were unable to dispense with

lions that menaced villages any- where in the province, Alves

was summoned by the provincial government to kill them.

Curiously, according to the Makonde trackers employed by

Alves, he was adept at recoveringlyungo, the life substanceMakonde say a predatory animal, such as a lion, vomits inthe moments immediately before dying. Alves indeedattributed his success as a hunter to his ability to find andingestlyungo,as Makonde hunters have long sought to do. ButAlves was not Makonde; nor was he from Mueda. Even



Belief as Metaphor

his African forebears were foreign to the region in whichhe hunted and to the Makonde “traditions” he invoked. Hisfather’s mother—a Ronga woman—came from as far away as

Maputo, in the southernmost province of the country. Inother contexts, he traced his hunter’s pedigree to hisPortuguese grandfather. Hearing of Alves’s deeds, andoccasionally listening to his stories, I found myself at timeswondering how genuine his convictions were—whether this

urban-born-and-raised man of mixed European-African

descent had somehow “gone (more) native” or merely playedon his guides’ convictions to consolidate his status amongthem.

In any case, in the ARPAC seminar room, talking aboutsorcery lions, I felt myself awkwardly positioned somewhere

between Sister Rosa Carla and Senhor Alves. Thoughts ofthe sister’s dismissive words—ignorance, superstition—mademe grimace. Thinking of Alves made me wonder if I hadnot de- tected sarcasm in Muedan accounts of him—

indications that Muedans thought his claims as ridiculousas Sister Rosa Carla thought theirs.Anthropologists have long searched for solid ground some-

where between the likes of Sister Rosa Carla and Senhor Alves

— a position from which they might find sense in the

worldviews of others without rendering their own views of

the world nonsensi- cal. E. E. Evans-Pritchard’s classic work,

Witchcraft, Oracles and Magic among the Azande([]),constitutedalandmark in this disciplinary endeavor. Evans-

Pritchard argued that the “strange beliefs” of Azande could

not be dismissed as irrational. On the contrary, he asserted,

Azande beliefs were internally co- herentandworthyofserious

ethnographic consideration (). Even so, he ultimately

concluded that Azande cosmology rested on the foundation of

an errant assumption that witches existed in the first place.

From the confident vantage point afforded him by themethods of scientific research, Evans-Pritchard stated that,although they were rational, Azande, quite simply, werewrong. His conclusion echoed the assessment made⁴ of Trobri-



Belief as Metaphor

and Islanders’ beliefs in magic by one of his professors, Broni-

slaw Malinowski: “subjectively true” but “objectively false” (in

Tambiah : ).⁵

Decades later, the anthropologist Paul Stoller wouldwrite, “The Songhay world challenged the basic premises ofmy scien- tifictraining”(StollerandOlkes:).Inhis

treatment of Songhay sorcery, Stoller concluded, “Living in

Songhay forced me to confront the limitations of theWestern philosophical tradition”().⁶ Bycontrast withEvans-Pritchard,Stollerde-termined, “For me, respect meansaccepting fully beliefs and phenomena which our system ofknowledge holds preposterous” ().Whereasthelinedividing

Evans-Pritchardfrom SisterRosa Carla is fine, the line between Stoller and Senhor Alves may be finer. Stoller’sclaims to have been, during his time in the field, not onlythe victim of sorcerers’ attacks but also the perpetratorwere met with sarcastic derision from some of his criticswithinthediscipline(e.g.,Beidelman;cf.Baum

; Denzin ; Jackson ; Twitty ).⁷As I spoke in the ARPAC seminar room, it seemed to me

that Victor Turner blazed a suitable trail between SisterRosa Carla and Senhor Alves. Turner’s work contributed tothe de- velopment of a “symbolist approach” that gainedcurrency in thedisciplinein thelates (Morris ).Fundamentalto the symbolist approach is what Kenneth

Burke referred to as a shift away from treating “magical beliefs” as “bad science” and towardtreatingthemas aformof“rhetoricalart”(Burke). John Beattie, in his discussion ofthe study of ritual, elaborated on this approach, proclaiming:

I ally myself squarely . . . with those who assert that ritual isessen- tially expressive and symbolic, and that it is this thatdistinguishes it from other aspects of human behaviour, andthat gives rise to its characteristic problems. In this respect it isallied with art rather than with science, and it is susceptible ofsimilar kinds of understanding. When we contemplate awork of art, we do not usually ask what use it is (although ofcourse we may do so); we ask rather



Belief as Metaphor

what it means, what are the ideas and values which it isintended to express? Like art, ritual is a kind of language, away of saying things. (: ) ⁸

Considering that Victor Turner defined a symbol as “athing regarded by general consent as naturally typifying orrepresent- ing or recalling something by possession of

analogous qualitiesor byassociationin factorinthought”(:,emphasis added), it comes as no surprise thatanthropologists adopting the symbolist approach havesometimes conceived of their informants’beliefsasmetaphors.Take, for example, the work of Jean Coma- roff () onZionist healing cults in South Africa. Comaroff has arguedthat the physical afflictions suffered by individual Tshidiserved, when she conducted her fieldwork among them, as

metaphors for the larger “ills” of apartheid society. “The met-

aphors of social contradiction deployed by these cults,” she

has written, “are often rooted in the notion of the body at

war with itself, or with its immediate social and materialcontext; and de- sired transformations focus upon ‘healing’ as

a mode of repair- ing the tormented body and, through it,the oppressive social orderitself”().Morerecently,LuiseWhitehasadvancedasimilar argument in her historical work

on the widespread belief in colonial Africa in vampire-firemen (wazimamoto) who sucked the blood of captured

victims: “I think there are many obvious reasons whyAfricans might have thought that colonial powers took

precious substances from African bodies . . . I think

bloodsucking by public employees is a fairly obviousmetaphor

for state-sponsoredextractions”(:,emphasisadded).⁹ Evenmore apropos to Muedan sorcery lions, Michael Jack- sonhas asserted that “suwa’ye[“witchcraft” in the language ofKaranko in Sierra Leone, among whom he worked] is acom- monmetaphor forextraordinarypowers”(:).“Beliefs,” Jackson has concluded, “are more like metaphors thanmany dare imagine” ().¹⁰In treating beliefs as metaphors, it would seem that

Coma- roff, White, Jackson, and many others have escaped thedilemma



Belief as Metaphor

posed by assessing their scientific validity. They have

suggested that these beliefs constitute alternative ways oftalking about historical events and social realities. As

White has phrased it, they “look for what such beliefsarticulate in a given time and space” (:).These

expressions,theyhavetold us,might best be understood asrichly creative languages (to use Beattie’s terminology) with

which to talk about reality—languages that inflect and refractothers, including the language of science, but that need not beseen as contradicting science.¹¹

In this vein, I suggested to my audience in the ARPACsem- inar room that lions served Muedans as symbols withwhich to think about and speak about the complexities andcontradic- tions of power. Sorcery lions, I suggested, servedMuedans as metaphors for social predation, whereas the lionsthat resided in the bodies ofvahumuserved as metaphorsfor regal power. I neither dismissed nor adopted Muedans’way of talking about these lions; I pronounced them neither

true nor false.¹² Even so, Lazaro Mmala protested. In somany words, he told me, “Andi- liki, metaphors don’t kill theneighbors, lion-people do!” ¹³



“The Problem May Lie There”

“I could tell you my adventures—beginning from this morning,” said Alice a

little timidly; “but it’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was adiffer- ent person then.”“Explain all that,” said the Mock Turtle.

“No, no! The adventures first,” said the Gryphon in an impatient tone:“explanations take such a dreadful time.”

«le w is c a r r o ll, Alice’s Adventures inWonderland ([] : ) »

On June,MarcosandItraveledfromthetownof Mueda,where we were then staying with one of Marcos’slikolasisters,¹ to the village of Nanenda on the eastern edge ofthe plateau. Our objective for the day was to identify andinterview elders who had witnessed the Portuguese assault onthe plateau (ca.)that had culminated in the colonial

“pacification” of the Makonde people. We wereaccompanied on our excursion by Marcos’s brother-in-law,

Joseph Mery, who took advantage of the opportunity ourtrip afforded him to purchase a pig at “village price” andto transport it back to the town of Mueda, where he would

butcher it and sell roasted bits of pork to those gatheredthere the following day to mark the thirty-fourth an-niversary of the Mueda Massacre.²

Mery’s negotiations outlasted our interviews. As we waited

for him, I felt unusually tired. My body ached more acutely

than




it normally did after a day spent perched precariously on a

sag- ging igoli. I considered intruding upon Mery’snegotiations and paying the asking price for the pig myself,

but decided better of it. Finally, a price was agreed upon,and we headed for Mueda with a squealing pig in the backof our pickup and my head pounding.I turned in before the evening meal as Mery busied

himself clearing out his chicken coop to house the agitatedpig. Despite the noise, I fell fast asleep before the sun hadset. Around ten o’clock at night, I awoke with a jolt, my body seized with chills. I trembled uncontrollably beneaththe covers. Realizing that something was gravely wrong, Isat up to call for Marcos, who lay sleeping a few metersaway. As the night air rushed in be-neath the covers, Iconvulsed violently. Frightened by the apparent vulnerability

of my body to the world around me, I recoiled, gathering thecovers close. I knew that I could not sleep—that I urgentlyneeded something other than sleep. I convinced myselfthat I

could, with a little courage, tolerate the air and, again, roseto call for Marcos, but the cold was more intolerable than Iimagined possible. Overpowered completely by the elements

in which I was suspended, I retreated, shivering, into fetal

position. I felt as though I would shake myself to pieces. Ifeared, somehow, that I would dissolve into the world thatsurrounded me. For more than half an hour, I called to

Marcos, my sum- monses muffled by my own shivering and by the blankets I des- perately clenched.

Finally, Marcos awoke. Before I knew what was happening,

I felt my bare feet touching the damp ground. On the pathto the pit latrine, something broke loose deep inside me,erupt- ing through my chest and out of my mouth. Icollapsed. Mar- cos wrapped his arms around me from

behind and, once again, I found myself moving. My legsdangled numbly. I felt another eruption from within, thistime flowing beneath me. I was unable to differentiate myselffrom that which burst out from within me. I becameuncontrollable flows of lava. Then, for a moment, my bodywas solid once more. I rediscovered my arms and legs,




and the back of my neck. A surge of heat passed throughme. The cool night air soothed me, and I wanted to sleep.Marcos helped clean me up and lay me down in his bed

(closer to the latrine). He sat by my side as I rested. Myrespite, however, soon expired. I was overwhelmed, again, by

a sense of urgency, a sense of disintegration, a sense of doom.

Again and again, throughout the night, my body met withoverpowering forces from within and opened itself to flowinto a hostile world, leaving me more exhausted, each time,than I had ever felt before.

By night’s end, I had found sleep, but I was reawakened by the first rays of sunlight. My eyes ached deeply. I heardvoices and scuffling, smelled dust in my nostrils, and thenheard the screams of Mery’s pig, at first full-throated but,in time, gur- gling with blood. It seemed to me that theanimal was forever suspended in the throes of death—thatit could escape neither the butcher’s hands nor life itself.When I next awoke, the sun was high in the sky. It

burned me as if from within my body. Sitting beside me,Marcos looked at me with grave concern. I shared hisanxiety. For the first time in hours, I was alive enough tofear that I might die. As Mar- cos could not drive a stickshift, he placed me in the driver’s seat of the pickup. Wedrove to the United Nations command post, wheregovernment troops were then quartered, awaiting

demobilization.³ I requested passage on one of the dailyUN helicopter flights between Mueda and Pemba but wasdenied. An Italian logistics officer at the camp—whomeveryone called “Orso” (“bear” in Portuguese)—took pity on

me, lending me his bed and asking the camp doctor to lookin on me. The doctor did not have the resources with whichto test me for malaria or intestinal parasites, but he gave meFansadar and Flagyl none- theless.Orsoshowedmehowtofire

theAK-thathe subse-quently slipped under the bed.“We’ve had some trouble here lately,” he said, referring toincidents in which troops had taken him hostage and issueddemands for larger rations and other handouts. As Islipped off to sleep, I wondered how a loaded weaponunder my bed could bring me anything but trouble.




I awoke every few hours to an audience of more thanmapikomasks that Orso had collected during his stay onthe plateau. While sitting with me, Marcos and Mery

identified several of the masks as ones used in initiationrites in specific Muedan villages in specific years. Severaltimes a day, young men poked their heads into the tent,holding yet another mask in their hands and—confusing mefor Orso—asking if I wanted to buy it. When Orso was there,he would analyze the mask and point out its“imperfections,” but he would buy it nonethe- less, turning tome and saying, “I don’t want to offend.” When he asked if Iknew of any university in the United States that had amuseum that might be interested in buying the masks fromhim, I told him I did not. As I faded in and out of hal-lucinatory states, I wondered whether or not I was, in fact,

Orso and, if not, how my work differed from his crassacquisition of Makonde artifacts.On the third day, with arms draped over Marcos’s and

Mery’s shoulders, I fled the camp and took refuge with afamily of Brit- ish Bible translators living in Mueda town.Dysentery persisted for a week, but a steady diet of EarlGrey tea and bland foods and the attentive care of peoplewho spoke my mother tongue allowed me to gatherstrength. I eventually drove Marcos and myself off theplateau and back to Pemba, where I caught the next flight

to Maputo. In twelve days, I had lost twenty-seven pounds.Exactly two weeks later, I boarded a plane returning toPemba. The Mozambican doctor at the U.S. embassy clinicsus- pected that I had had shigella, malaria, or possibly both.Having regained only two or three pounds, I was not yetready, physi- cally, to return to Mueda. I knew, however,that if I did notsoon return to the plateau, I might nevercomplete my fieldwork. When I fell ill, one of my greatestfears had been realized, but this fear was only one amongmany that defined my fieldwork experience. Convalescing inMaputo, my fears grew into obses- sions with potential

menaces awaiting me in Mueda—fatal vehicular accidents;

financially or logistically debilitating vehicular




breakdowns; encounters with spiders, snakes, leopards, or

lions; landmines (from either the independence war or the

civil war); demobilized-troops-turned-armed-bandits;

suspicious government officials (who might, for example,deny me access to my field site); extortionist police officers(who might confiscate my vehicle on the pretense that it wasstolen); encounters⁴ with hostile, drunken villagers; cerebralmalaria; and so on, ad infi- nitum. Only by placing myselfonce more in the field, I knew, could I displace theseimagined perils with an existence devoid of their realization.

Within days of my return to Pemba, Marcos and I set offto- gether for Mueda. Seeing the expressions on the faces ofpeople astonished by my rapid return—or by my returnaltogether— filled me with disorientation but, also, with anexhilarating sense of madness. While I was in this state ofmind, Marcos said to me, “Bwana,let’s go see HumuMandia.” I protested that travel to thehumu’s village ofNimu was not on our agenda— that it was, in fact, well out

of our way—but when Marcos in- sisted, I relented despitenot understanding the motive for his unusual rigidity.When we arrived at Mandia’s compound, we were

warmly received. Although we had met Mandia once beforein Mueda, we had never had the opportunity to conversewith him. Now, we sat quietly in the dark interior of thehumu’s house. The frailty of Mandia’s voice somehow

accentuated the strength of his words. To my surprise,Marcos uncharacteristically (for that time, in ) began to askhim questions about sorcery, about his role in combating itsdestructive consequences in Makonde society, and about theforms of treatment he undertook to protect and cure thosewho came to him. I was quickly drawn into the fascinatingconversation that developed between the two of them,revealing as it did thehumu’s ambivalent relationship withlions, whose meat he had ritually ingested but with whom, as

a “brother,” he had “no contradictions.”

Somewhat against the grain of my anthropological

interests, Marcos steered Mandia away from such abstractions,

however,




and toward the discussion of specific ailments and theircures. Suddenly, I realized that the subject of Marcos’s interestwasmy ailment andmycure.

“Have you had conflictual relations with anyone lately?”Mandia asked me. The question’s syntax reminded me of ahealth clinic worker interviewing a patient who presented

with a sexually transmitted disease, while its semantics

conjured for me the image of a homicide detectiveinterrogating members of a victim’s family. Unsure of thesort of conflictual relations Mandia had in mind—unsure ofhow to go about asking myself the question, much less

answering it—I looked to Marcos.

Marcos raised his eyebrows and turned his head downward

slightly before meeting my eyes once more. “There was that

in- cident in Namaua,” he said to me in Portuguese.

I nodded in affirmation but remained uncertain, still, how

to respond to Mandia.

Marcos spoke for me: “A few days before he fell ill, there

was an argument with someone.”Marcos and I had traveled to Namaua to conduct

research there for the first time. As was our practice, wehad presented ourselves to the village president, explainedour agenda, shown our “credentials” (including a letter ofintroduction from the district administrator), and requestedpermission to conduct interviews. The village president had

welcomed us to work in his village, but as we sat conversingwith him, we were approached by the president of thelocality that encompassed Namaua and a few smallervillages. We quickly surmised that he was drunk. He askedwhat we were doing in Namaua, and when we told him, hedeclared that we would not under any circumstances workin one ofhisvillages. Marcos spoke calmly and respect-fully to the official and showed him our credentials, but thelocality president only grew more agitated. Marcosdecided it best that we leave before the encounter turnedviolent, and I followed his lead.“Was the argument resolved peacefully?” Mandia now

asked Marcos.




Marcos let loose a snort of laughter. “No one was injured.

But the situation was only resolved after the authoritiesintervened.” My mind raced back to the conversation that

Marcos and I had had as we traveled back to Mueda after being “evicted” from Namaua. Tensions were high at the time,

as Muedans prepared for theelections, and in accordance

with the mandate ofthe ruling FRELIMO party, villagersremained “vigilant” vis- à-vis unfamiliar visitors who might be working in collaboration with the political opposition.

Tensions in Namaua were exacer- bated by the fact that thevillage was “home” to the head of the Mozambican military,

Brigadier Ladis “Lagos” Lidimo, whose reputation for

ruthlessness was as great among the villagers who tended tohis local affairs and protected his interests in the region asit had been in the liberated zones he had policed as a se-curity agent during the independence war or among the

troops he commanded, or fought against, during the civil war.

Under- standably, the locality president wished to avoid the

introduction of new variables into the complex politicalenvironmentover which he was expected to preside, and

hoped that Marcos and I could be made to disappear. Marcos,

however, knew that word would spread that we had beenchased from Namaua. If we did not assert our right to workthere—if we did not reestab- lish the legitimacy of our project

—authorities in other villages might follow suit, banning us

from work in their villages as well. We therefore drovedirectly from Namaua to the office of the Mueda districtadministrator to report that, notwithstand- ing the

administrator’s letter of introduction, we had been de- niedaccess to one ofhisvillages. The administrator had imme-diately dispatched a messenger to summon the locality

president to Mueda town, whereupon the official was“disciplined” and

instructed not to interfere with our work in the future.

“Hmmm,” Mandia said, looking me in the eyes.

Marcos turned to me and said, “The problem may lie there.”

As I sat wondering how I had arrived at this moment—how I

had come to be sitting in a dank hut searching my recent

experiences for signs of sorcery, and how I felt aboutMarcos having




brought me there—Marcos asked Mandia to show him some

ofthemitelaof which he had spoken earlier in theconversation. Mandia focused his scrutinizing gaze upon

Marcos—and then me—for some time. Then, without aword, he rose and entered into a small area set off from therest of the house’s interior. He reemerged with a smallanimal-skin bag from which he un- packed variouscontainers filled with ground leaves, powders, and fluids.

Based upon the preceding conversation, he chose two

substances. The first was a white powder calleding’opedi. Heex- plained to us that the first act undertaken by a newlyinstalled humuwas to go from house to house treating theinhabitants who fell under his protective jurisdiction with

ing’opedi. He placed his right thumb over the opening of thesmall bottle containing an ivory-white powder and turned itupside down. He pressed his thumb gently to Marcos’s

forehead, painting a vertical line and then a horizontal one. Iwondered if the manner in which he anointed Marcos with

ing’opedihad been affected by Christian rites, for it was across he painted on Marcos’s forehead.⁵ He turned to meand asked if I wished to be treated. I said quietly that I did,and placed myself before him. Mandia told me that as Imoved about on the plateau with objects of value—mytruck, my camera, my tape recorder and, even, my “project”itself—I inevitably attracted attention and envy. I was,

therefore, in need of protection. After he treated me, heexplained to us that the substance was made ofmapira(sorghum) flour mixed with cer- tain kinds ofmitela. Itwould soon disappear, he told us, but the protection itafforded would linger. Apparently, sorcerers would see themark for some time and know that, should they attack us,they would have Mandia to contend with.

The second substance Mandia did not name, but he

explained that it was made of other forms ofmitelamixedwith bee honey. He took a short stick and dipped it into the bottle containing the nameless substance. He then placedthe end on his own tongue, closed his lips around it, andpulled it out of his mouth while spinning it. He then didthis with Marcos and, finally, with me. This treatment, heexplained, gave us force that would




serve in fighting off illness. He looked at me, smiled gently,

and said that I also needed this.Days after we had visited Mandia, Marcos orchestrated

a meeting with Kalamatatu as well, whom he alsopersuaded to treat us. Of Kalamatatu, Marcos requestedlukulungu lwa ntumi—the throat meat of a slain lion,administered to ensure that its recipient’s voice wasrespected by all who heard him speak.



Whose Metaphors?

It was only weeks after falling ill—and being treated—thatI addressed my colleagues at ARPAC. In speaking about lionsas complex symbols, I sought not only to make sense of theeth- nographic data I had been given by Kalamatatu,Mandia, and others but also to make sense of my ownexperiences of illness and recovery. In the sense I made ofuwavi(sorcery),kulaula (healing), and vantumi va nkaja(sorcery lions), however, my audience heard nonsense.

Andras Sandor has suggested that, notwithstandinggood intentions, anthropologists deploying the symbolistapproach “[assimilate] other people’s ‘facts’ to [their] idea of

‘meaningful fiction’”(:).¹LuiseWhitehaswarnedthatmetaphorisofteninterpretedas a“politeacademicterm for

false”(:).² Why might this be so? To appreciate whyLazaro Mmala took my assertion that sorcery lions weresymbols (or metaphors) as a statement that they were not“real,” we must, I subsequently came to think, more closelyexamine how metaphor is defined, how it works, and to

what ends it may be used. James Fernandez has written, “However men may analyze

their experiences in any domain, they inevitably know andunderstand them best by referring them to other domainsfor



Whose Metaphors?

elucidation”(:).Throughmetaphoric reference,accord- ingto Fernandez, people suggest that “something much moreconcrete and graspable—a rolling stone, a bird in the hand

—is equivalent to the essential elements in another situationwe have difficultygrasping”(–).Throughsuch “predication

upon an inchoatesituation”(),Fernandezhassuggested,people

are able to clarify an otherwise incomprehensible world.

The essential point here is that metaphor refers people to a

semantic domain that isseparatefrom the one they seek to un-derstand. The most celebrated examples of metaphor are ones

in which it is clear to all concerned—speaker and listeners—

that the metaphoric predicate and the subject to which it isapplied inhabitdistinctdomains. An active person is notactuallya rolling stone, nor is an immediate opportunityactuallya bird in a hand. Such metaphors work, David Sapirhas explained, by making us “aware of the simultaneous

likenessand unlikenessof thetwoterms”(:,emphasis added)

³andthenaskingusto imagine,knowing it to be untrue,that the

two terms are alike in more ways than immediately apparent.The case he used to illustrate his point is delightfully

convenient. The assertion that “George is a lion,” he haswritten, “allows us . . . to assume for a moment that although

George is ‘really’ like a lion only in cer- tain specific ways

[both are mammals, for example], he might be a lot more likea lion than in just those ways [for example, Georgeisfierce]”

().AccordingtoSapir, themetaphorworks not only because itlinks two separate semantic domains—the animal kingdom

and George’s social milieu—but also because it calls attention

to the chasm between the domains that it bridges. George’slion-like fierceness makes him anunusualhu- manbecausehumans, after all, are notreallyanimals. “Meta- phor,” Sandorhas said, in support of Sapir’s point, “cannot come aboutunless

itisreflectedupon”inthisway(:).

So what, then,isto be made of the statement, profferedin a Muedan village, that a fellow—call him Imbwambwe—peri- odically transformed himself into a lion and menacedhis neighbors? Imbwambwe—and, more importantly, thelion that he



Whose Metaphors?

became—inhabited thesamedomain as Imbwambwe’s neigh-

bors. As Lazaro Mmala reminded me, the lion,Imbwambwe, bared teeth and claws with which he drew

blood and tore the flesh of his victims.⁴ His “reality” tothem—his copresence in their ontological domain—was a

matter of life and death, for he left in his wake mauled bodies

and terrorized witnesses.⁵ When neighbors sawImbwambwe, the lion, in the village, they took refugeinside their homes. Once a countersorcerer was sum-moned to provide the requisite medicinal substances to

protect them and to render the lion vulnerable, they huntedit down with bow and arrow. Their success in the huntmeant that Im- bwambwe, the man, would die. Failing inthe hunt, they may have directly sought out Imbwambwe,the man, and lynched him. In any case, if, when they spokeof Imbwambwe, the lion, Muedans did not thinkthemselves to be making reference to a separate and distinctdomain to express something about the character and

behavior of Imbwambwe, the man (if they did not considerthemselves to be “predicating upon an inchoate subject” but, instead, to be describing a “realand present dan- ger”),can we call Imbwambwe, the lion, a metaphor?⁶

Beattie himself posed the question, “[I]n what sense, ifany, can we say that people’s institutionalized behaviour issymbolicif, as may well be the case, they themselves do not

seem to know [here,Iwouldsubstitute“donotthink”]that itis?”(:).⁷ According to Sandor, “no metaphor occurs where

none is recog- nized”(:).⁸ YetTurnerwouldnotletus bedissuaded. In the essay that I shared with my ARPACcolleagues, Turner posed a similar question: “[I]f Ndembudo not recognize the discrepancy between their interpretationof the milk tree sym- bolism and their behavior inconnection with it, does this mean that the discrepancy hasno relevance for the social anthropologist?”(:).Answering

hisown query,Turner confidently asserted, “Here theimportant question must be asked, ‘mean- ing forwhom?’”(–);inotherwords,hesuggested,symbols may lie not in theeyes of their producers but, instead, in the eyes of theiranthropologist beholders.⁹



Whose Metaphors?

Still, Turner’s logic (not lost on Lazaro Mmala) left me ina different place than I had intended when I entered thesemi- nar room at ARPAC. For, in the end, Turner’s

position, as ap- plied to my case—that Muedans failed torecognize their own symbols (or metaphors); that theymistook allegories for identi- ties (a charge, incidentally,

commonly leveled against conspir- acytheorists;seeSandersandWest)—hadmeasserting, with echoes of colonial

condescension, that Muedans’ deceived themselves; had me

arguing, in the tone of revolutionary socialism, that theirunderstanding of the world in which they lived was a formof “false consciousness.”

Powers of Perspectiveand Persuasion

Accordingtoplan,inthedryseasonof,MarcosandI

conducted research in villages we knew well, but we focused,this time, on healers and healing practices, including, of course,

countersorcery. Midway through our research, as previously ar-

ranged, we were joined by Tissa. Together, we spent time withmore than a hundred different healers, ultimately concentrating

on the dozen or so with whom we were best able to work.Ironically, while the Mozambican state now demonstrated

greater official tolerance for traditional healers and—backed by foreign researchers and nongovernmental organizations(NGOs)—evencelebrated“traditional healing” in some contexts,healers themselves enthusiastically embraced emergent oppor-

tunities to incorporate new techniques into their healing reper-

toires. The eclecticism of Muedan healers challenged the defini-

tional boundaries of “traditional healing” in myriad ways (West

andLuedke).Whereassomehealers adopted“modern”or



“official” healing methods or both, others borrowed “traditions”

from other times and places. Some, it seemed, invented healing

“traditions”from scratch(Westb).

Documents

Traducción Ethnographic Sorcery