Light at the Edge of the World. Wade Davis

territories, hunting peccaries for meat, birds for brilliant plumage to be woven into ceremonial coronas that shone like the sun. Their material culture was exceedingly rudimentary. They knew nothing of canoes, though rivers dissected their lands, and as late as the 1950 s were still dependent on the bow and arrow. They cleared the savannah, but their harvests were meagre, their sparse plantings reminiscent of the dawn of agriculture.

      Yet beneath the primitive veneer lay an astonishingly rich and complex worldview, a tangle of religious beliefs and myths that informed all of life and gave rise to patterns of social organization Byzantine in their sophistication yet perfectly elegant in their elaboration. This apparent contradiction of a marginal people, technologically backward yet mentally and intellectually afire, confounded many early ethnographers. Hence, the notion of the Gê anomaly. But the great French anthropologist Claude Lévi-Strauss saw the situation quite differently. For him, a scholar of immense vision capable of embracing all of the Americas in a single thought, the cultures of the Gê represented nothing more than a simple triumph of the human spirit and imagination.

      Having lived briefly among the Bororo, a people whose social structure was very closely related to that of the Gê tribes, Lévi-Strauss had come to see their world as a universe of oppositions: man and woman, light and darkness, good and evil, the sun and the moon, the raw and the cooked, the wild and the tame. Every facet of their society—every ritual and institution, every concept of kinship and procreation, the very cycles of life and death, the transitions of birth and initiation, even the architecture and settlement pattern of the seasonal encampments—reflected a subconscious and indeed conscious attempt to resolve in harmony these opposing elements. Thus, there were two moieties, and two exogamous patrilineages entwined by cross-cousin marriages. The men lived apart from their families, in a ceremonial structure at the centre of the enclosure. The women dwelled with the children in huts on the periphery of the encampment, at the edge of the human realm. Outside the domestic space was a ring of fields, feral and unkempt, where women birthed and husbands coupled with their wives. Beyond the clearings, the forest and savannah reached in all directions to the horizon.

      This quest for balance, Lévi-Strauss maintained, was a fundamental human urge, a key adaptive trait that allowed peoples such as the Bororo to come to terms with the fragility of their lives and the harshness of the natural world that surrounded them. At the very least, it provided an illusion of control, that in their scattered encampments they were not utterly at the mercy of the fickle forces of life and death. Modern industrialized society has precisely the same need to insulate the individual from nature and indulges in similar illusions that it can be accomplished. The difference lies in the medium. We build machines and dwell in cities. The Gê peoples find protection in a web of ideas, beliefs and ritual practices dreamed into being at the beginning of time.

      From these insights, Lévi-Strauss elaborated a model of dualistic societies so simple and yet so all-encompassing as to almost defy belief. Clearly, it allowed for a better understanding of the Bororo. But what of the other societies of Central Brazil? It was, in part, a desire to challenge Lévi-Strauss, or at least to test his model, that in 19 57 led David Maybury-Lewis to travel up the Río das Mortes, the River of the Dead, and to fly into a remote mission adjacent to the lands of the Akwé-Xavante, at the time the most feared and warlike of all the indigenous tribes of Brazil.

      “From the air,” Professor Maybury-Lewis recalled one afternoon when we met for a tutorial in his book-lined office overlooking the courtyard of the Tozzer Library, “everything looked right.”

      Laid out before him, just as Lévi-Strauss had described, were the men’s circle and ritual shelters at the epicentre, the concentric rings of houses, fields and forest. But after months on the ground, and despite having mastered the language, Maybury-Lewis was more confused than ever. There were not two patrilineages, but three, and the marriage rules were inconsistent with the simple bilateral pattern that Lévi-Strauss had reported for the Bororo. What’s more, the bonds of kinship were crosscut by age sets.

      Irrespective of lineage, every male of the same age shared the same age set. Each spanned five years, and there were eight in all. Thus, all boys aged five to ten, for example, or men thirty to thirty-five, were united as members of a named age set. Those few who lived beyond the age of forty once again became members of the first cohort. Several times a year, the age sets would divide into two teams for a race, with cohorts 1, 3 , 5 and 7 going up against 2 , 4 , 6 and 8 , an arrangement that ensured that each side would have a similar mix of infants, boys, men and elders. The race itself entailed each side carrying a large and heavy log for long distances across the savannah, a marathon of dust, sweat and endurance that left every participant spent and exhausted.

      Maybury-Lewis loved the excitement and avidly took part, though once again he found the ritual confusing. For one thing, no one was particularly concerned that the logs carried by each side be of similar weight. For another, it was not uncommon for the leading side to pause in the midst of the race, allowing the other to catch up. The first time Maybury-Lewis ran, his team did well, crossing the finishing line hours ahead of the opposition. He revelled in the victory, until he noticed that all of his teammates were downcast. The next time they raced, several weeks later, the other side won decisively, and everyone seemed crestfallen. Totally bewildered, Maybury-Lewis took part in yet a third race. This time, to the disappointment of the competitor in him, the sides approached and crossed the line at the same instant. To his utter surprise, both teams and the entire community erupted in a whirlwind of celebration.

      “The goal wasn’t to win,” he recalled with a smile, “it was to arrive together.”

      All the tensions inherent in three competing lineages, every conflict within the culture, are distilled into two opposing factions, the two teams that give their all in a frenzied effort to reach a tie. Opposition and harmony, the resolution of conflict in ritual balance. It was more complex than Lévi-Strauss had ever imagined. The dualistic notion permeated every aspect of the culture, as did the central quest for resolution and equilibrium.

      “What would happen,” Maybury-Lewis asked me, “should the race not occur, or should it never end in a tie?”

      I hesitated, uncertain how to answer. Then I heard myself say, “The culture would atrophy.”

      “Yes!” he exclaimed triumphantly.

      To this day, I am not certain how I came up with that answer. Much of the content of what we had been discussing, patterns of kinship and marriage rules, subtleties of social organization, lay beyond me. But the log races I could understand, and intuitively I grasped their significance. For the first time, I understood the lesson of anthropology. I saw that as a people the Akwé-Xavante were profoundly different; but more importantly, I came to understand that those differences held the key to their cultural survival.

      AS A YOUNG anthropologist I never understood how I was supposed to turn up at some village—perhaps of the Barasana, a people of the Anaconda, who believed that their ancestors had come up the Milk River of the Amazon from the east only to be disgorged from the belly of the snake onto the banks of the upper affluents—and announce that I was staying for a year, and then notify the headman that he and his people were to feed and house me while I studied their lives. If someone that intrusive appeared on our doorsteps, we would call the police.

      I learned, instead, to seek the proper conduit to a culture, the most appropriate means or metaphor to break down the inherent barrier that exists between a stranger and a people with whom that outsider finds himself living as a guest. In the Northwest Amazon, for example, and along the eastern flank of the Peruvian and Bolivian Andes, in the cloud forests of the Kamsa and Inga, and among lowland tropical peoples as diverse as the Chimane and Machiguenga, Kofán and Cubeo, the obvious vehicle was the botanical realm. These, after all, were societies that existed because of their plants. Their basic food was bitter manioc, a poisonous root rendered edible by women using a complex process mediated by ritual and infused with myth. From the astringent bark of lianas, their hunters extracted poisons that could kill, as well as potions and stimulants that conquered sleep, allowing men to move by night in the shadows of jaguar. Their shaman listened and heard voices, plant songs that provided clues to hidden pharmacological properties that, once exploited, allowed them to journey in trance to the stars. Plants fed