Intercultural Education and Literacy : An ethnographic study of indigenous knowledge and learning in the Peruvian Amazon [1 ed.] 9789027298676, 9789027218001

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INTERCULTURAL EDUCATION AND LITERACY

STUDIES IN WRITTEN LANGUAGE AND LITERACY EDITORS BRIAN STREET University of Sussex

LUDO VERHOEVEN Nijmegen University

ASSOCIATE EDITORS FLORIAN COULMAS DANIEL WAGNER Chuo University, Tokyo University of Pennsylvania EDITORIAL BOARD F. Niyi Akinnaso (Temple University, Philadelphia) David Barton (Lancaster University) Paul Bertelson (Université Libre de Bruxelles) Claire Blanche-Benveniste (Université de Provence) Chander J. Daswani (India Council of Educational Research and Training) Emilia Ferreiro (Instituto Polytecnico México) Edward French (University of the Witwatersrand) Uta Frith (Medical Research Council, London) Harvey J. Graff (University of Texas at Dallas) Hartmut Günther (Universität zu Köln) David Olson (Ontario Institute for Studies in Education, Toronto) Clotilde Pontecorvo (University of Rome) Roger Säljo (Linköping University) Michael Stubbs (Universität Trier)

AIM AND SCOPE The aim of this series is to advance insight into the multifaceted character of written language, with special emphasis on its uses in different social and cultural settings. It combines interest in sociolinguistic and psycholinguistic accounts of the acquisition and transmission of literacy. The series focusses on descriptive and theoretical reports in areas such as language codification, cognitive models of written language use, written language acquisition in children and adults, the development and implementation of literacy campaigns, and literacy as a social marker relating to gender, ethnicity, and class. The series is intended to be multi-disciplinary, combining insights from linguistics, psychology, sociology, education, anthropology, and philosophy.

Volume 7 Sheila Aikman Intercultural Education and Literacy An ethnographic study of indigenous knowledge and learning in the Peruvian Amazon

INTERCULTURAL EDUCATION AND LITERACY AN ETHNOGRAPHIC STUDY OF INDIGENOUS KNOWLEDGE AND LEARNING IN THE PERUVIAN AMAZON SHEILA AIKMAN University of London

JOHN BENJAMINS PUBLISHING COMPANY AMSTERDAM/PHILADELPHIA

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The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences — Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1984.

Cover design: Françoise Berserik Cover illustration: Francis Baka

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Aikman, Sheila. Intercultural education and literacy : an ethnographic study of indigenous knowledge and learning in the Peruvian Amazon / Sheila Aikman. p. cm. -- (Studies in written language and literacy, ISSN 0929-7324 ; v. 7) Includes bibliographical references and index. 1. Mashco Indians--Education. 2. Mashco Indians--Social conditions. 3. Multicultural education--Peru--Madre de Dios (Dept.) 4. Education. Bilingual--Peru--Madre de Dios (Dept.) 5. Mashco language--Study and teaching--Peru--Madre de Dios (Dept.) 6. Mashco language-Writing. I. Title. II. Series. F3430.1.M38A55 1999 370.117’0984’52--dc21 98-51682 ISBN 90 272 1800 5 (Eur.) / 1 55619 385 8 (US) (Hb; alk. paper) CIP © 1999 – John Benjamins B.V. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, by print, photoprint, microfilm, or any other means, without written permission from the publisher. John Benjamins Publishing Co. • P.O.Box 75577 • 1070 AN Amsterdam • The Netherlands John Benjamins North America • P.O.Box 27519 • Philadelphia PA 19118-0519 • USA

Table of Contents

Table of Contents . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

v

List of Maps . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

ix

List of Drawings by Thomas Arique . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

xi

C 1 Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1.1 The present study . . . . . . 1.2 The ethnographic context 1.3 Acknowledgements . . . . .

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C 2 Education for and by indigenous peoples . . . . . 2.1 Indigenous self-determination and education 2.2 Intercultural education and interculturalism . 2.3 Bilingual and biliterate education . . . . . . . . 2.4 Intercultural curriculum development . . . . .

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C 3 The emergence of intercultural education in Peru . . . . . . . 3.1 Historical perspective . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.2 Alternatives to assimilation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.3 Schooling for the indigenous peoples of Madre de Dios 3.4 Colonisation and indigenous organisation . . . . . . . . . .

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C 4 The primary school in San José . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51 4.1 The ethnographic background . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52

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4.2 The situation of the teacher . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54 4.3 The role of the teacher . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57 4.4 Teachers’ coping strategies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65 C 5 An Arakmbut perspective on schooling . . . . . . . . . . 5.1 Community perceptions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5.2 Communication between teachers and community 5.3 Arakmbut relations with the teachers . . . . . . . . . 5.4 The politics of education in San José . . . . . . . . .

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71 72 77 80 86

C 6 Arakmbut knowledge . . . . . . . . . . . 6.1 An Arakmbut view of the world 6.2 Knowledge and growth . . . . . . . 6.3 The Arakmbut life cycle . . . . . . 6.4 Knowledge in context; communal

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91 93 95 98 105

C 7 Arakmbut informal learning . . . 7.1 Three learning practices . . . 7.2 Community values and skills 7.3 The process of learning . . . . 7.4 Using schooled knowledge .

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C 8 Bilingual education for language-maintenance . . . . . . . . 8.1 Arakmbut language needs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8.2 Attitudes to bilingual education . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8.3 Communicative practices of the Arakmbut of San José 8.4 Arakmbut literacy for empowerment . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8.5 Oral-language-maintenance and cultural revitalisation .

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C 9 Intercultural schooling . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 157 9.1 Bridging cultural traditions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 158 9.2 Defining indigenous pedagogy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 167

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9.3 Intercultural education for Harakmbut communities . . . . . . . . . . . . 171 9.4 Strengthening Arakmbut identity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 176 C 10 Indigenous peoples’ intercultural education . . . 10.1 Indigenous-controlled education . . . . . . . . . 10.2 A model for educational change in San José 10.3 Assumptions about intercultural education . . 10.4 Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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181 181 185 190 194

Glossary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 197 Glossary of Harakmbut Words . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 197 Glossary of Spanish words . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 198 List of Acronyms . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 201 References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 203 Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 223

List of Maps 1. 2. 3.

The Harakmbut and other indigenous peoples Southern Peruvian Amazon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Indigenous communities in the Madre de Dios . Arakmbut communities . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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List of Tables 4.1. 5.1. 6.1. 7.1. 8.1. 9.1.

Characteristics of the educational environment of San José Differential relationships with teachers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The structuring of learning through life . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Comparison of Arakmbut and school education . . . . . . . . Arakmbut oral genres . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Harakmbut communities and cultural erosion . . . . . . . . . .

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68 86 102 125 140 173

List of Figures 3.1. Alternative design for an indigenous rainforest school (Olórtegui and Rummenhöller 1991) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.2. Ministry of Education design for a ‘noble’ school (Olórtegui and Rummenhöller 1991) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6.1. Relationship between the nokiren and the growth of knowledge through life . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9.1. Indigenous loss of identity (after Wipio) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

47 48 96 172

List of Drawings by Thomas Arique 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8.

Fishing with ‘kumo’ in a small river Woman weaving a ‘wepu’ and man making an arrowhead Woman planting in a newly cleared garden Woman and children in a leaf shelter by the river Father and son hunting Performing an Harakmbut dance Returning from hunting and agthering to a camp on a beach Scene inside a school with a non-Harakmbut teacher

Fishing with ‘kumo’ in a small river

Woman weaving a ‘wepu’ and man making an arrowhead

Woman planting in a newly cleared garden

Woman and children in a leaf shelter by the river

Father and son hunting

Performing an Harakmbut dance

Returning from hunting and agthering to a camp on a beach

Scene inside a school with a non-Harakmbut teacher

C 1 Introduction

Indigenous peoples are today searching for ways to maintain their identities and defend their rights in a period of intensified encroachment by national societies. Intercultural education offers one means of defence against this oppressive colonisation, through the validation of indigenous knowledge, language and cultural practices and through the enhancement of indigenous peoples’ full and free participation in the wider society. Indigenous peoples have been lobbying at the local, regional, national and international levels for the recognition of their rights to their land and way of life. Their increasingly articulate movement succeeded in 1992 in establishing the first UN Decade for Indigenous Peoples. And among the rights enshrined in the Draft UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples is the right to a culturally appropriate education, as well as to all levels and forms of state education. After five centuries of attempts by colonial and republican governments either to eliminate or simply to ignore the indigenous peoples of Latin America, much of the 20th century has witnessed policies aimed at their cultural eradication through integration and assimilation into the nation-states around them. It is only over the last two decades that governments have begun to recognise cultural diversity as a positive national characteristic worth maintaining. As part of a wider move towards cultural pluralism, there has been increasing awareness of the need to promote intercultural education, particularly in countries with large indigenous populations, such as Bolivia, Colombia, Ecuador, Guatemala, Mexico and Peru. Intercultural education has become the hallmark of a multicultural society and seen as contributing towards the goal of ‘unity in diversity’ (Peru), fostering ‘national consciousness’ (Guatemala) and leading to a situation in which indigenous peoples will be ‘integrated but respected’ (Argentina). The General Department for Indigenous Education in Mexico looks to bilingual bicultural education to ‘maintain the identity of the communities and avoid their

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destruction and cultural substitution’ (DGEI 1983, cited in Citarella 1990a:70),1 while the Ecuadorian government created a National Directorate of Intercultural Bilingual Indigenous Education through an agreement between the Ministry of Education and Culture and the Confederation of Indigenous Nationalities of Ecuador (CONAIE). There are several strands to the historical development of intercultural education in Latin America. It has been forged out of indigenous peoples’ dissatisfaction with the ethnocidal and assimilationist agenda of formal education. It also has roots both in a revaluation of the role of the mother tongue in education which first started in the 1950s and in the influence of the indigenistas, who supported bilingual education for indigenous peoples (see Chapter 3). More recently, in the late 1970s and the 1980s, indigenous peoples have questioned mother-tongue education in so far as it is seen as merely facilitating the subsequent acquisition of Spanish. Rather than further the maintenance of the mother tongue, such a transitional policy has contributed to the undermining of indigenous knowledge and way of life and led to calls for intercultural education which respects the cultural context that gives the language meaning. Intercultural education in Latin America has developed out of small, experimental projects at the local level. Over the last decade, however, it has become increasingly accepted at the national level and is today incorporated in the educational legislation of several countries. The prevalent model, and that promoted by Ministries of Education, is formal and institutionalised: it is schooling in two or more languages and cultures (Ministry of Education 1989) the principal objective being the development of both mother-tongue and Spanish literacy. The 1990s has seen the blossoming of conceptual approaches to education for indigenous peoples which recognise the intercultural nature of their lives. With this recognition has come the need for a re-examination of several issues, such as the interface between different cultural traditions, the relationship between language and culture, and the relationship between ‘oracy’ and literacy.

1.1 The present study This book focuses on indigenous education in South America and examines the relationship between theoretical and methodological developments and formal practice. It analyses the conceptual basis of various models of intercultural education, with particular reference to the use made of the terms ‘culture’,

INTRODUCTION

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‘bilingual/biliterate education’, and ‘curriculum’. It also considers the uses and meanings that mother-tongue literacy has for different indigenous peoples and studies the possibilities for adopting literacy practices which support rather than undermine traditional oral practices. Within the framework of a review of government policy on education for indigenous peoples in several Latin American countries and the place of education in the indigenous movement, the book provides an ethnographic case study of educational processes and change among the Arakmbut people of the Peruvian Amazon. Here the focus is on the epistemological basis of Arakmbut learning processes and on the nature and impact of the changes affecting them. Arakmbut teaching practices and learning strategies are exclusively oral. Through an assessment of their experience of formal education, as seen in their attitudes to schooling and their responses to the proposed introduction of biliteracy, the book considers whether intercultural education based on a biliterate, schooled model can promote indigenous learning practices and the transmission of Arakmbut identity. The Arakmbut are one of seven Harakmbut-speaking peoples who live in the Department of Madre de Dios in southeastern Peru (see Map 1). They combine hunting, fishing and agricultural activities and since the 1970s have also been engaged in gold mining on the beaches and on dry riverbeds throughout their territory. The majority of Arakmbut schools are served by lay-missionary teachers contracted by the Dominican School Network (RESSOP). The monolingual Spanish-speaking missionaries from the Andean highlands or the coastal region teach the national curriculum to monolingual Harakmbut-speaking children in the heart of the Amazon rainforest. Since the introduction of primary education in the 1950s, Arakmbut children have been exposed to this schooling which has denied their language, culture and learning processes. This situation persists despite government advocacy of an intercultural bilingual education that aims to ‘produce individuals with an optimum communicative competence in their mother tongue and in Spanish, and allows for identification with the individuals’ culture of origin and the knowledge of other minority and majority cultures’ (Ministry of Education 1989:11). Among other indigenous peoples and organisations in Madre de Dios there is considerable interest in introducing an intercultural bilingual school curriculum which will serve the needs of the multicultural and plurilingual population of the Department (CAAAP 1992). In the early 1990s the indigenous organisations, non-governmental organisations (NGOs), the Dominican Diocese and local government education institutions held meetings to discuss qualitative change in

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Map 1: The Harakmbut and other indigenous peoples of the Central and Southern Peruvian Amazon

INTRODUCTION

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schooling for the Department. Each organisation, though, had its own agenda and its own perception of what intercultural education means, how it should be practised and what it should aim to achieve. Terms such as ‘intercultural dialogue’ and ‘social and cultural self-affirmation’ (CAAAP 1992:18) were used and interpreted in a multiplicity of ways by the different institutions taking part in the discussions. For example, the Educational Co-ordinator of RESSOP explained that, whereas in the past bilingual education focused on language, intercultural education encompasses not only language but folklore, artisan work and the economy (G. Quierolo, p.c.). Taking a less materialistic approach, the Native Federation of the Madre de Dios River and its Tributaries (FENAMAD) was looking to intercultural and mother-tongue teaching to help ‘redeem and revalue the culture of each of our ethnic groups’ (FENAMAD 1991). The regional teacher training college, for its part, concentrated on the non-indigenous teachers, for whom it initiated a training module on bilingual education. San José is an Arakmbut community of approximately 130 inhabitants. Its members share a strong sense of their cultural identity, which is embedded in their territory, the foundation of their cosmological knowledge. Massive colonisation since the 1970s, together with the destruction of their environment by outside economic interests, is undermining the Arakmbut way of life. Indigenous peoples in other parts of the Peruvian Amazon face similar pressures, and many have turned to intercultural education as a means of counteracting the ethnocidal influences of the dominant society and culture. For several years FENAMAD has been working on proposals for an intercultural bilingual primary school programme for the Harakmbut peoples of Madre de Dios, and initial soundings suggest there will be on the whole a favourable and even enthusiastic response. But some of the Arakmbut people, however, remain sceptical about intercultural education and believe that the school is not in the best position to teach their children their language and way of life. Members of San José want to retain the RESSOP-run Spanish-language school and its lay-missionary teachers, yet community members express dissatisfaction with the school. At the same time the teachers have expressed their dissatisfaction with the community. These tensions between the community and the teachers have raised important questions about the perceived objectives of schooling in an indigenous community. This book, then, is concerned with understanding why the Arakmbut of San José are sceptical about bilingual education when neighbouring indigenous peoples are actively campaigning for it. It addresses this question by analysing

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the nature of the Arakmbut’s sustained contact with representatives of the national society since the 1950s and the influence that this contact has had in shaping Arakmbut perceptions of the advantages and disadvantages of education and literacy. The work focuses on the role of the classroom in the lives of the members of San José, as regards both their relationship to the RESSOP school and its teachers, and their aspirations concerning their children’s formal education. The Arakmbut response to an implanted pedagogical system cannot be fully comprehended with an examination of their own educational processes. In this respect, an important consideration is the effect of Spanish and Harakmbut biliteracy, acquired both at school and through increased contact with migrant populations, on the oral basis of Arakmbut culture. A growing number of Arakmbut are literate in Spanish, and the ability to read and write in the national language is a necessary part of life for them as they assert their rights as citizens and defend their rights as an indigenous people. From the Arakmbut point of view, school is somewhere to learn to read and write Spanish, and many see no purpose in reading and writing in their own language. In this way they highlight the relativity of a so-called ‘appropriate’ or ‘relevant’ education. As a rule, decisions as to what constitutes a qualitative and relevant education for indigenous peoples are based on the often conflicting perceptions of outsiders. Consequently, changes carried out ‘on their behalf’, such as the introduction of intercultural education, run the risk of being rejected, whether those responsible for implementing change are missionaries or indigenous organisations. As a case study in educational change, the community of San José illustrates the methodological as well as the political importance of taking account of the specific interests and cultural practices of the indigenous peoples themselves. The book, a revised version of my PhD thesis for the University of London (Aikman 1994), was based mainly on 9–months’ ethnographic research carried out in the Arakmbut community of San José between October 1991 and June 1992 and in December 1993. The choice of San José and the focus of the research arose out of my previous contact with the community between 1979 and 1981, when I carried out an 18–month study of gender relations (Aikman n.d.), and in 1985. Since 1994 I have made short yearly trips to the region, visiting several Harakmbut-speaking communities and supporting their initiatives in land rights and study grants through the International Work Group for Indigenous Affairs (IWGIA), a Copenhagen-based NGO.

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In the course of my initial research with the community of San José I became accepted in the role of a fieldworker who takes part in the activities of the community through living with a family and sharing in the daily routine of the women of that family: cooking, working in the gardens, fishing and childcare. This pattern of relations determined to a large extent the informal approach to data-gathering that I pursued. Research was integrated into the daily activities which I carried out together with members of my host family and which also brought me into contact with other members of the community. The Arakmbut of San José are divided into seven clans and, in order to avoid working with one informant whose particular clan affiliation could have restricted my relationship with members of other clans, I gathered the data for the present work from throughout the community. My visits to the Arakmbut have always started and ended with meetings with the FENAMAD leadership in Puerto Maldonado, and my 1991–2 research proposal was discussed and officially approved at a FENAMAD Congress. During that stay I spent a short period in each of the five Arakmbut communities, as well as the Arasaeri community of Villa Santiago and the small mixed Kisambaeri, Sapitaeri and Matsigenka community of Boca Isiriwe. I also had the opportunity to visit Shipibo, Piro and Ashaninka communities in the Central Rainforest to the north of Madre de Dios and to meet and have discussions with the Director of the Yarinachocha Bilingual Teacher-Training College and with the directors of the training AIDESEP Programme for Bilingual Teachers at the Loreto Teacher-Training college.

1.2 The ethnographic context The Department of Madre de Dios is 78,402,71 sq. km (Instituto Nacional de Estadística 1983), bounded on the east by international borders with Bolivia and Brazil. The terrain consists of lowland tropical rainforest (selva baja), which changes abruptly to upland rainforest (ceja de selva) in the west as the land rises to the steep and densely forested slopes of the Carabaya range and the Andean Departments of Cuzco and Puno. The Madre de Dios river, which has its source in the high Andean mountain chain in the west, is the major means of communication in the Department, from the turbulent waters of the Alto Madre de Dios to its confluence with the Manu river, where it becomes broader and quieter as it winds it way towards Bolivia and, ultimately Brazil.

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The Department has a wide variety of natural resources that are exploited for their economic potential, such as Brazil nuts, timber, rubber and gold. Beans, maize and rice are grown on a relatively small scale, but the expansion of cattleraising over the past decade has resulted in large extensions of cleared land which no longer support any form of agriculture or forest cover due to erosion of the fragile soil. The population totals approximately 50,000 inhabitants, increasing to 80,000–90,000 between November and March, due to an influx of highland migrants who come to work in the gold mining areas. The indigenous population of Madre de Dios, which is dispersed, numbers approximately 10,000. It comprises seventeen ethnolinguistic groups belonging to four different language families. Besides the Harakmbut-speaking peoples, the Department’s rich ethnic tapestry includes the Tacana-speaking Ese’ eja who live in the south and across the border into Bolivia; the Arawak-speaking Matsigenka and Piro, who live in the north and west of the Department; and the Panoanspeaking Amahuaca, Cashinahua and Sharanahua, who live in the east. There are also some Shipibo-Conibo and Kichwa (Santarrosinos), who were brought to the area during the rubber boom at the turn of the century (see Map 2). The Harakmbut-speaking peoples comprise the Arakmbut, Wachipaeri, Arasaeri, Pukirieri, Toyeri, Sapitaeri and Kisambaeri, with an overall population of approximately 1,500. Helberg (1989), while noting the lack of thorough linguistic research in this field, considers Harakmbut to be an as yet unclassified language. There is some debate, though, as to whether the languages spoken by the different Harakmbut groups are dialects of a single language (Lyon 1976) or several languages within a broader linguistic family (d’Ans 1973; Ribeiro and Wise 1978). All the Harakmbut languages share the same phonetic system and have certain identifiable characteristics, such as the frequent use of glottal stops, semi-nasals (mb, nd, dn, gn) and nasalisation of vowel a, e, o (Gray 1983). The word Harakmbut means ‘people’. Numbering approximately 1,000, the Arakmbut are the largest Harakmbut group. They survived the worst ravages of the turn-of-century rubber boom, which brought slavery and disease to the area, due to their relative isolation at that time in the headwaters of the Karene and Isiriwe rivers. Prior to mission contact in the 1940s and 1950s they lived in dispersed communal houses, which have since coalesced into five communities — San José, Puerto Luz, Shintuya, Barranco Chico and Boca Inambari — each with a legally demarcated and titled land-base (see Map 3).

INTRODUCTION

Map 2: Indigenous communities in the Madre de Dios

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Map 3: Arakmbut communities

1.3 Acknowledgements To the members of San José I express my sincere gratitude for their hospitality and kindness and for the interest they have shown in my research, with particular mention being made of Maria and Tomas, Carmen and Pedro, and Esperanza and Lucas. I would also thank the Harakmbut-speaking people as a whole for their part in the study, in particular the communities of Puerto Luz, Shintuya, Boca Isiriwe, Barranco Chico, Boca Inambari and Villa Santiago. I hope this book can go some way towards helping them find an education that will support them in their struggle to secure their land rights and their freedom of cultural expression. In Puerto Maldonado I am indebted to the leadership of FENAMAD for official approval of my research, for the facilities they put at my disposal and, in particular, for the collaboration of Edith Tijé, the Secretary for Education in

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1991–2. I would like to also thank the staff of the Eori Centre and Thomas Moore for their support and encouragement, and Heinrich Helberg, Didier Lacase, Klaus Rummenhöller, Tanith Olórtegui and Lissie Wahl for discussions we have had concerning the Harakmbut. I am also grateful to Guillermo Quierolo at RESSOP for his assistance and especially to Yolanda Guzmán, Doris Nina, Eduardo Fernández and María Elena Pacherres for their co-operation and patience with my research. I would like to thank Dr. Teófilo Altamirano for his support; the Catholic University to which I was affiliated during 1991–2; and the ADEIMAD students, particularly, Héctor Sueyo, Elías Kentehuari, Fernando Tijé and Tomás Arique. Gerardo Wipio, director of the Yarinachocha Bilingual Teacher Training, who has since tragically died, and Padre Miguel Fernández at the Dominican mission of Shintuya and Lucy Trapnell, Never Tuesta and Jorge Gasché all gave generously of their time during the stimulating conversations that we had. Finally, in London and Oxford I would like to thank Carew Treffgarne and Angela Little for their helpful suggestions and encouragement, John Palmer for his invaluable work on the text and Jorje Monras for the maps. Without the staunch support and encouragement of my partner and colleague, Andrew Gray, both in the field and during the drafting of the typescript, this book and the fieldwork on which it is based would not have been possible. His own research on Arakmbut shamanism and cosmology has been an important source for this book. I would also like to mention my son Robbie who made fieldwork in San José a pleasure for everyone.

The book is dedicated to Marion and Donald Aikman and to the memory of Bill Gray.

Notes 1. All quotations which were originally in Spanish have been translated by the author.

C 2 Education for and by indigenous peoples

The category ‘indigenous peoples’ has gained international currency as a term of reference for the colonised peoples of the world who are prevented from controlling their own lives, resources and cultures (see ICIHI 1987, Burger 1987, IWGIA 1986, 1988). Dictionary definitions of the word ‘indigenous’ give the meaning ‘in-born or native to a land or region’. Identification with the land is a fundamental aspect of the identity of indigenous peoples, distinguishing them from those who colonise the land and prevent the indigenous people from living according to their socio-cultural, economic and political life-styles (Gray 1995). In the words of Eloy Licuy of CONAIE (the Confederation of Indigenous Nationalities of the Ecuadorean Amazon): “The main factor for the survival of indigenous peoples is land, which is the fundamental, ancestral historical right for which we are fighting” (cited in IWGIA 1987: 24). This aspect of their identity also distinguishes indigenous peoples from ethnic minorities, who do not necessarily have such a relationship to the land. In Sweden, for example, immigrant Finnish groups are ethnic minorities, while the Saami consider themselves to be indigenous. And indigenous peoples do not necessarily constitute minority populations: in Greenland, Bolivia, and Guatemala, for example, they are in a majority. In North America, northern Scandinavia, Australia and New Zealand, where settler colonisation has occurred, the term ‘indigenous’ applies to the prior inhabitants, whose lands have come under the control of outsiders. Peoples are therefore indigenous not only to an area, but also vis-à-vis other peoples (Gray 1995). And being indigenous, finally, is something people subjectively identify and experience within themselves. Indigenousness, therefore, is a polysemic concept. An adequate definition of it needs to meet several criteria in order to accommodate the different contexts in which indigenous peoples live today and in order to apply to groups as diverse as Amerindians, Adivasis, Bushmen, Greenlanders, and Maori, to name but a few.

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According to Burger (1987: 9), the criteria by which indigenous peoples are defined are that they: 1.

are the descendants of the original inhabitants of a territory which has been overcome by conquest;

2.

are nomadic and semi-nomadic peoples, such as shifting cultivators, herders and hunters and gatherers and practise a labour-intensive form of agriculture which produces little surplus and has low energy needs;

3.

do not have centralised political institutions and organise at the level of the community and make decisions on a consensus basis;

4.

have all the characteristics of a national minority: they share a common language, religion, culture and other identifying characteristics and a relationship to a particular territory, but are subjugated by a dominant culture and society;

5.

have a different world-view, consisting of a custodial and non-materialist attitude to land and natural resources, and want to pursue a separate development to that proffered by the dominant society;

6.

consist of individuals who subjectively consider themselves to be indigenous and are accepted by the group as such.

In the 1960s there was a burgeoning of indigenous organisations around the world, spurred on by two developments. One was the decolonisation of Africa and Asia, which raised the possibility of indigenous peoples controlling their own destiny; the other was the simultaneous rise of the civil rights and anti-racism movements, which together provided a backcloth against which indigenous people could examine their own situation of oppression and abuse. Indigenousness had developed into a political concept and a movement for communal rights. The late 1950s and early 1960s in the USA witnessed the appearance of a generation of school-educated indigenous leaders who began to make their way in the Native American political arena. The national Indian Youth Council was formed in 1962, bringing together indigenous peoples from all over the United States. It devised strategies for winning recognition of the rights of Native Americans, such as the 18–month occupation of Alcatraz in 1968, which resulted in the establishment of DQ University, a free Native American (and Chicano) university that was to become a centre of indigenous activism (Dunbar Ortiz 1984). In June 1974 the American Indian Movement (AIM) called a conference at Standing Rock Sioux Reservation. The conference attracted international

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attendance and led to the formation of the International Indian Treaty Council with the aim of promoting indigenous rights worldwide. Parallel developments were taking place in Canada during this period, with the establishment in 1975 of the World Council of Indigenous Peoples (WCIP), a forum for indigenous representatives from North, Central and South America, Saamiland and the South Pacific. The Nordic Saami Council was formed in 1956 with representatives from Norway, Sweden and Finland. In Australia during the 1960s Aboriginal organisations were increasingly putting up resistance to mining invasions of their ancestral homelands, notably in Arnhem Land and Cape York. In 1976 30,000 Maori marched across North Island in New Zealand (Aotoaroa) to protest at land alienation (Burger 1987). Meanwhile, in Greenland, young Greenlandic politicians criticised the post-war development process under Danish rule and attacked attempts at Danicisation of the school system. They demanded the right to design their own future ‘on Greenlandic terms’, a move which culminated in the Home Rule Bill for Greenland in 1979 (Kleivan 1979). The political platform of indigenous organisations around the world was usually neither a demand for rights to become independent states nor a desire to “ignore the majority culture” (Smolicz 1981: 20); rather they were seeking the right to self-determination within existing geopolitical boundaries, meaning the right to develop in accordance with their own cultural values, with an emphasis on communal rights and respect for the environment. Throughout the 1960s indigenous peoples suffered from the slow-down in economic growth affecting the nation-states around them. Not only were they subject to the vicissitudes of inflation but attempts to stimulate national exports produced a wave of plundering of natural resources within indigenous lands, accompanied by land invasions, forced relocations and, in some cases, manhunts and massacres (Bodley 1988). The indiscriminate exploitation of natural resources by national governments, transnational companies, and private enterprise still generates friction over the control of resources inside boundaries of indigenous territories, as in the case of the Ogoni people of Nigeria, who are campaigning for royalties from oil exploitation and compensation for ecological damage. The indigenous movement consists of an alliance between educated urban, activists and grassroots organisations dedicated to defending community lands and traditional practices from abuse and destruction. While indigenous peoples have denounced formal education for jeopardising their languages, their knowledge systems and their ways of life, the movement itself has relied on educated individuals to combat infringements of human and indigenous rights by lobbying

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governments, fighting court cases and working with support groups (Corry 1984). In the 1970s indigenous organisations emerged throughout much of Central and South America. The Shuar of Ecuador had led the way in the 1950s when their concern over the quality of education provided for their children by mission organisations prompted them to establish their own radio schooling system (Laje 1983, Benítez and Grace 1989). As the search for primary resources, such as oil, timber and gold, extended deeper into the Peruvian Amazon, the indigenous population began to oppose the onslaught more vociferously. In 1969 the Yanesha nation founded the Congress of Amvesha Communities, which was largely modelled on the Shuar initiative, and the Ashaninka, Shipibo, AguarunaHuambisa and Amuesha also formed their own organisations. In 1979 these organisations came together in a federation which subsequently became the InterEthnic Association for the Development of the Peruvian Rainforest (AIDESEP). As organisations grew in size and strength, umbrella organisations were established on a regional, continental or worldwide basis. Some have already been mentioned, such as the Nordic Saami Council; others include the Amazon Basin Coordination (COICA) and the Inuit Circumpolar Conference. These macroorganisations have added weight to the indigenous campaign for self-determination and control of ancestral lands and resources.

2.1 Indigenous self-determination and education Mexico provides an example of the interplay between education and indigenous organisation. In 1977 the National Alliance of Indigenous Bilingual Professionals (ANPIBAC) was formed to campaign and work for a bilingual and bicultural education that would reflect the reality of the different indigenous groups in the country. ANPIBAC formulated its demand for appropriate education and freedom of cultural expression within the context of a wider claim for the recognition of indigenous rights and for a reorganisation of interethnic relations. It rejected the common-place perception of indigenous peoples as a ‘problem’ and presented a list of recommendations to the authorities and the newly constituted General Directorate for Indigenous Education (ANPIBAC 1976). Composed of bilingual teachers, ANPIBAC critiqued the formal education given to Mexico’s indigenous peoples. At the First National Seminar on Bilingual-Bicultural Education (Vicam, Mexico, 1976) ANPIBAC produced a position paper which set out to demystify the term ‘bilingual-bicultural education’ and to

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demonstrate that the Mexican government’s version of it had not attempted to meet the need of indigenous communities. ANPIBAC criticised the government programme as serving the same assimilationist aims as Spanish-language teaching rooted in ‘western culture’. ANPIBAC and the indigenous professionals wanted bilingual-bicultural education to empower indigenous peoples in their struggle against the exploitation, domination, racial and social discrimination and political and economic manipulation which characterise the situation existing in regions where they live (ANPIBAC 1981). The ANPIBAC position paper provides us with a working definition of education by and for indigenous peoples, emphasising that control should lie with the indigenous peoples: It should to be carried out by the indigenous people themselves, and develop their communities within their own cultural system and grounded in their world view and way of life. It should serve to create an aware society which respects the environment and other people, which ensures the existence of the family and the community, which promotes the interests of the group over the individual, and where people work for the benefit of the collectivity and not for individual gains.

It goes on to clarify the structure of a bilingual education: Pupils will first be taught about the linguistic and grammatical structure of each indigenous language and then, or simultaneously depending on the degree of difficulty in the teaching-learning process and the bilingualism of the pupils, they will be taught to speak, read, write and understand the linguistic and grammatical structure of Spanish as a second language.

By ‘biculturalism’ is meant that: We should first of all teach and strengthen the indigenous culture then introduce values of other cultures; that is, in the first instance the indigenous philosophy should be taught and afterwards other philosophies. The aims of education should be determined by the indigenous people themselves so that the plans and programmes follow the indigenous culture. The methodology should arise out of the experiences which we have had as a group but also draw on other pedagogical developments which will support our education without threatening our ethnic and cultural identity. (ANPIBAC 1981: 18)

This is the voice of indigenous teachers and learners stating their own preferences, rather than the voice of governments or NGOs determining what indigenous people should have. It is an education founded on indigenous cultural practices

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and knowledge; the indigenous people themselves control the planning, curriculum content and pedagogy and these are designed to fulfil indigenous aims and objectives. At the same time that ANPIBAC was developing its educational policy, indigenous rights made a forceful appearance on the world political scene. The Fourth Russell Tribunal on the Rights of the Indians of the Americas was held in Rotterdam in 1980 and produced a series of recommendations including that the Sub-Commission on the Prevention of Discrimination and the Protection of Minorities set up a permanent United Nations committee for the ‘effective and continuous protection of the rights of indigenous people’. It also recommended that “Teachers and education in the Americas are called upon to live up to their professional responsibilities to bring to an end the anti-Indian character of the instruction in the schools attended by Indian children” (cited in IWGIA 1981: 89). In 1982 the United Nations Working Group on Indigenous Populations was established to: examine the policies, laws and practices of governments as well as the reactions and aspirations of indigenous peoples and thereby to “formulate views on future improvements in relations between indigenous populations and governments” (Eide 1985: 203). For 12 years the Working Group met each July to hear the concerns and priorities of hundreds of indigenous representatives and draft legal standards to protect their rights. In 1994 the Commission on Human Rights approved a Draft Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Populations. This Declaration promises to be a major legal instrument for the defence of indigenous rights. The UN Draft Declaration leaves no doubt about the importance for indigenous peoples of control over their own education and its contribution to the strengthening of indigenous identity, culture and language. Similarly, Indigenous children have the right to all levels and forms of education of the State. All indigenous peoples also have this right and the right to establish and control their educational systems and institutions providing education in their own languages, in a manner appropriate to their cultural methods of teaching. (part IV, Article 15)

Parallel with the UN Conference on Environment and Development (UNCED), the ‘Earth Summit’, in Rio de Janeiro in June 1992, was the World Conference of Indigenous Peoples on Territory, Environment and Development in Kari-Oka, outside Rio de Janeiro. The indigenous conference produced an ‘Earth Charter’ which it presented to the UNCED meeting. The Earth Charter emphasises another crucial component of education — that it should be intercultural and

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bilingual and provide skills for managing an effective interrelationship with the national society. It also places indigenous non-institutionalised education and the role of the family on a par with formal education and schooling. On the subject of indigenous education it states that: Indigenous peoples should have the right to their own knowledge, language and culturally appropriate education, including bicultural and bilingual education. Through recognising both formal and informal ways, the participation of family is guaranteed. (Earth Charter, published in IWGIA 1992)

2.2 Intercultural education and interculturalism If we take the simplest definition of intercultural education as a starting-point for understanding the use of the concept in Latin America, both ‘intercultural’ and ‘bicultural’ education programmes are concerned with providing an education which takes into consideration more than one language and cultural tradition. There is a broad geographical distinction between Central and South America in the use of the terms bicultural and intercultural respectively, but this is by no means exclusive and is based on historical patterns of use rather than on differences in aims and objectives. Included under both terms, as well as under the term bilingual education, are programmes whose main aim is to use education as a means of strengthening indigenous language and culture and of providing the skills and competence needed for fuller participation in the wider society. Such programmes allow for a greater or lesser degree of indigenous control and self-determination. On the other hand, all three terms also cover topdown assimilationist programmes aimed at facilitating the integration of indigenous peoples into the national society. A meeting in 1983 sponsored by the UN Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organisation (UNESCO) and entitled the Major Project of Education in Latin America and the Caribbean considered the term intercultural more appropriate than bicultural, because it refers to someone belonging to one culture who acquires the ability to function within another cultural setting (Mosonyi and Rengifo 1983). The term bicultural has been questioned because it seems to imply that someone can function in two distinct cultures simultaneously and to an equal degree (Trapnell 1984), which is particularly inappropriate in the case of indigenous peoples, for whom the two cultures are not only fundamentally different but antagonistic (Pozzi-Escot 1990a). The shift from biculturalism to

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interculturalism is exemplified by the policies of the Peruvian Ministry of Education. In the 1980s it was conceived that the language and cultural traditions of the different ethnic groups should constitute the basic structure and content of the formal education process, but ‘gradually and in a non-conflictive and nonsubstitutive way, all the thematic areas from the majority culture which the indigenous child requires will be aggregated’ (Ministry of Education 1989: 11). Thus, a child has one culture, its culture of origin and the culture with which it identifies, to which schooling adds knowledge of other cultures which could be of value to the child. The emphasis is on two discrete cultures rather than on the interrelationship between them. The government’s adoption of a Five Year National Policy was based on the recognition of the multiethnic, pluricultural and plurilingual composition of Peruvian society. This policy saw the need for the education system to be based on the notion of a diversified curriculum and for ‘interculturalism’ to be understood as a dialogue between cultures (Ministry of Education 1991). There has also been discussion, though, of what is meant by interculturalism. Mino-Garces (1982) has argued that the term intercultural implies intercommunication between two or more cultures based on mutual understanding and respect, a situation which, she points out, rarely exists. In Latin America, the nature of the interaction between cultures typically results in the assimilation of the indigenous peoples (Grossi 1993). Mino-Garces therefore suggests that the term dicultural be employed by analogy with the notion of diglossia found in linguistics. In Latin America, diglossia refers to the situation where the indigenous mother tongue is considered subordinate to the colonial language (Spanish, Portuguese or English), which enjoys greater social prestige in terms of its functionality (López et al. 1987). Dicultural therefore denotes the relationship between high-prestige and low-prestige cultures, with only one form of cultural and linguistic expression being acceptable (Mino-Garces 1982; Mühlhäusler 1996). In Colombia a meeting in 1990 of Ministry of Education officials and representatives of indigenous organisations concluded that there are two kinds of interculturalism: egalitarian and inegalitarian. Inegalitarian interculturalism perpetuates the existing power structure based on hierarchical relations between the distinct cultural groups and leads coercively to assimilation (Bodnar 1990). Interculturalism with equality, in contrast, implies the transformation of vertical power relations and the construction of a new political system based on principles of meaningful participation and consent (Bodnar 1990), an alternative to authoritarianism, dogmatism and ethnocentrism (Heise et al. 1994). It is this that

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indigenous peoples are looking for in intercultural education, namely a means of fostering more equal relations in society. In 1995 a seminar in the Peruvian city of Cuzco, in which both indigenous and non-indigenous representatives participated, outlined the fundamental characteristics of egalitarian interculturalism: dialogue, recognition of diversity and democracy. By these criteria, intercultural education becomes a means of moving towards a juster society as part of a dynamic process of interaction and communication between members of different cultural traditions which are themselves changing as a result of the interaction between them (Aikman 1997, Godenzzi 1996). In North America indigenous education has been similarly defined as a dynamic interactive field where the curriculum is negotiated on the basis of an exchange between different educational traditions (Lipka and Stairs 1994). In Latin America, where intercultural education is conceived predominantly in terms of primary schooling, the foundation of the learning process is literacy (Graff 1994). The nature of intercultural and bilingual schooling is defined by the curriculum, which is itself a concept embedded in literacy (Reid 1993). Modelled, then, on literate concepts for peoples whose traditions are mostly oral, indigenous education in Latin America is founded on non-indigenous premises.

2.3 Bilingual and biliterate education Bilingual education received support in the influential 1953 UNESCO Report, The Use of Vernacular Languages in Education, which endorsed the intellectual and linguistic importance of mother-tongue language-development prior to the introduction of a second language: […] a child should first learn to read and write in the language spoken in his home and in which his first verbal communication with parents and siblings takes place. When this foundation has been laid he can acquire a full command of his own, and if necessary, of other languages; without it there is the danger that he will never achieve a thorough command of any language. (cited in Larson 1981: 15)

There are many different forms of bilingual education and many different ways of typologising them. Here we are concerned with the aims of bilingual education, distinguishing between them according to whether they are transitional or maintenance-oriented. Encouraged by the UNESCO report, the Summer Institute of Linguistics (SIL) began working with bilingual education in several Latin

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America countries, including Peru where it has been influential in establishing bilingual primary schools for the indigenous peoples, particularly in the Amazon region. Until recently it followed policies with transitional aims: that is, they propounded initial mother-tongue teaching but aimed ultimately at the children’s exclusive use of Spanish. Today, its goals are couched in terms of indigenouslanguage maintenance. Within maintenance-oriented bilingual education, we find a variety of programmes, as reflected in the diversity of the terminology used to classify them: there are programmes, for example, of enrichment bilingual education, additive bilingual education, and (either static or developmental) maintenance bilingual education. This study is concerned with maintenance bilingual education, which promotes the development of the indigenous mother tongue. The indigenous movement has formulated its demands for maintenance-oriented bilingual education in terms of the right of indigenous peoples to promote their own knowledge, language and culturally appropriate education (see IWGIA 1992). Whether or not a formal school-based bilingual education can contribute towards the maintenance of a language depends on conditions over and above the educational programme itself. It depends, for example, on the status of the language and its use in the surrounding society. A language’s national status can be assessed in terms of the size of the language community, its social and economic functions, as well as its literate situation. Indigenous Amazonian languages have relatively few speakers compared, for example, with the number of Quechua speakers in the Andean highlands, but the dynamism of indigenous organisations means there is a high demand for language maintenance from within the speech community. The evidence from research on bilingual education is often ambiguous as regards indigenous or ethnic minority children’s performance. There is increasing evidence, however, that contextual factors are all-important: the attitude — supportive or otherwise — of parents and the wider community determines not only the decision to embark on bilingual education but also the shape which that education takes (Hornberger 1988, Fishman 1990, Baker 1988, García and Otheguy 1995). Another consideration is the language skills which a bilingual programme aims to develop in students, which depends on whether or not the objective is to produce individuals who are fully bilingual in each of reading, writing, speaking and listening. Jolly (1995), discussing the situation of Aboriginal peoples in Australia, notes that official language maintenance or revival programmes tend

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to assume that learners must know a language ‘right through’, so that they can use it to say all they want to say in all circumstances. However, different languages may be used in different and often mutually exclusive contexts, each of which involves different language abilities. Different types of bilingual programme reflect, then, the different language skills that are emphasised. Bilingual education is usually biliterate education. In Peru, for example, the government is concerned that intercultural communication should ‘produce bilingual students with optimum communicative competence in their mother tongue and with Spanish as a second language’. To achieve this it looks to formal schooling and the written and oral use of both languages at all levels of the education system. The Summer Institute of Linguistics, for its part, proudly states that its schools are firmly entrenched in a literate tradition and even equates the ‘learning process’ with ‘learning to read’. It notes the importance of learning first to read and write in the mother tongue, but partly as a basis for acquiring other languages (Larson 1981: 18,15). García makes a case for the global importance of biliteracy on the ground that it enriches the world’s colourful language garden, which would otherwise wither and fade (cited in Baker 1993: 40). Among its many other alleged benefits, we are told that minority oracy without literacy disempowers a student, whereas he or she feels more ‘rooted’ and has greater self-esteem and sense of his or her cultural identity and heritage (Baker 1993). Where reading skills are initially taught in the mother tongue there are considered to be certain general language skills that can be transferred to the second language (Verhoeven 1994, Snow 1990). Thus the benefits of mothertongue literacy are often conceived of in terms of the ‘interdependence’ of aspects of language learning: To the extent that instruction in Lx is effective in promoting proficiency in Lx, transfer of this proficiency to Ly will occur provided there is adequate exposure to Ly (either in school or environment) and adequate motivation to learn Ly. (Cummins and Swain 1986: 87)

Nevertheless, Street (1994) warns that learning literacy is not just a matter of acquiring technical skills: contextual factors, such as the cultural significance and usefulness of literacy, may interfere with second-language literacy as much as assist it. Hornberger (1989a) reviews the research on this question and considers that the complex phenomena of biliteracy and the transfer of proficiency across languages are to be understood in terms of a set of interrelated variables on the oral-literate, monolingual-bilingual and micro-macro continua. The success of the

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transfer of proficiency, for example, depends on contextual factors influencing the learner’s motivation and perceived need for the language, including the status of the language. Indigenous peoples may be motivated to learn the national prestige language for reasons of empowerment, equity and access to the institutions of the national society, but they are not necessarily concerned with assimilation or integration into the national society and/or economy. Bloch (1993) provides an illustration of this with reference to the Zafimaniry of Madagascar, for whom the importance of schooling goes beyond socio-economic considerations and concerns the valorisation and organisation of knowledge in the community. Verhoeven (1994) identifies two factors which influence an ethnic minority’s need to be able to write in their own language. The first is the extent to which the group already has a written tradition in its own language. Many of the studies of bilingual and biliterate education programmes have been carried out with ethnic or national minorities whose mother tongue has a long literate tradition, such as Chicanos in the USA or Finns in Sweden. The vast majority of indigenous peoples, however, have oral traditions which have only been codified recently (if at all), and often by missionaries (see for example Mühlhäusler 1996, Spolsky 1989, Leap 1991). The second factor identified by Verhoeven as a stimulus to mother-tongue literacy has to do with the size of the minority group in question and the existence of social institutions, such as religion and education. He adds that the written use of an indigenous language to facilitate intragroup communication and/or enhance cultural identity is also important in determining the value placed on mother-tongue literacy by indigenous peoples (see Hornberger 1996). In the Peruvian Amazon many indigenous peoples consider bilingual biliterate education to be a means of empowering their own languages within the national context. Among numerous indigenous peoples maintenance-oriented bilingual education has been well accepted: for example, the Lil’wat of Canada (Williams and Wyatt 1987), the Maori (Spolsky 1989) and in the Peruvian Amazon, the Yanesha (Francis 1984) and the Aguaruna (Wipio 1981). However, the social, cultural, political and economic context of each people (or, in the case of the Arakmbut, each community) can influence their response (Aikman 1995). When their language was codified by the SIL in the 1970s, the Arakmbut never adopted it as a written language and the bilingual SIL school where it was taught was short-lived. In order to understand the Arakmbut’s response the following chapters explore the contextual and historical factors influencing their decision-making.

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2.4 Intercultural curriculum development Conceptions of culture The term ‘culture’ is used in many different senses. As we have seen, the Peruvian Ministry of Education states that ‘a child has one culture, its culture of origin’ (Ministry of Education 1989), stressing the discrete and bounded nature of the worldview and way of life into which indigenous children are socialised. The recognition, though, of cultural diversity at least marks a break from assimilationist education policies, which not only disregard but are actively intent on eradicating indigenous identity. The Peruvian policy of intercultural education anticipates that the learning in school will reinforce out-of-school learning and contribute to the formation in indigenous children of a sense of their cultural identity. Its proponents emphasise that intercultural education will contribute to ‘recovering indigenous cultures and so avoid their deterioration and disappearance’ (Ministry of Education 1989). With a sure identity of their own, indigenous peoples will then be able to ‘acquire knowledge of the norms and rules of western society and of other cultures within the country’ (Ministry of Education 1991). Implicit in the above type of discourse and in many of the policy statements examined at the beginning of the chapter is that of an early anthropological notion of culture as something concrete which can be described and explained. It suggests a complex whole whose parts are the variable beliefs, customs, laws, forms of knowledge and artistic traditions which are acquired by individuals as members of a particular society (see Tylor 1871). In recognising that intercultural schooling should allow indigenous students to reaffirm their identity as members of a specific socio-cultural group, the Peruvian government’s policy implies a recognition of culture as an array of learned and transmitted habits, techniques, values and forms of behaviour (see Kroeber 1963). Pozzi-Escot (1990a: 16) indicates the ways in which children acquire a sense of their indigenous cultural identity: ‘indigenous children arrive at school having already absorbed a large dose of knowledge about their culture and continue to absorb it through the informal education that takes place in the family and the community parallel to formal education’. The acquisition of culture is therefore a dynamic process beginning at birth and continuing into adulthood. Culture provides life with meaning and is acquired until one can absorb no more, or perhaps until there is no more to acquire. Such a conception of culture implies that learning is dynamic but culture itself static.

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Geertz, in contrast, provides us with a conception of culture according to which individuals are engaged in producing, perceiving and interpreting actions and expressions which have meaning for them in the course of their everyday lives (Thompson 1990). Thus, culture for Geertz is dynamic, constantly being interpreted, not a bounded complex whole which can be described or understood through customs or patterns (Geertz 1973). Culture itself is in a constant process of creation and recreation (Wagner 1981, Stirrat forthcoming). Clifford and Marcus (1986) likewise reject the idea of culture as an object to be described, a unified corpus of symbols or system of meanings that can be definitively interpreted. In their view, cultural signification is emergent and often contested. These perspectives lead us to question the indiscriminate use of terms such as indigenous culture, national culture or western culture as though there were common agreement about what they mean. Indeed, there is a strong line of theorising which rejects the concept of culture altogether. Pasquinelli (1996: 70) suggests that we need to liberate it from the idea of a “complex whole with a unifying principle” and employ the concept adjectivally, in expressions such as ‘cultural traditions’ and ‘cultural identity’, but it is uncertain whether this bypasses its limitations. Given the predominance of the term in indigenous educational discourse and its embeddedness in intercultural education, to reject it would not be helpful. It is better to elucidate the diverse ways in which the term is used so that we can understand the underlying concepts. Intercultural education, as we noted earlier, concerns a dialogue between members of different cultural traditions, but the way in which it is conceived and implemented is contingent upon the way in which culture is conceptualised. Subsequent chapters consider the conceptions of ‘culture’ underlying different intercultural education programmes. Indigenous peoples themselves do not reject the use of the concept of culture; on the contrary, they emphasise their cultural distinctiveness in order to highlight the inequalities in their relations with representatives of other cultural traditions. If intercultural education is to foster more equal relations in society we must scrutinise the bases on which it is constructed. Who controls the definitional and conceptual foundations of intercultural education? Trend notes that education and culture are usually considered separate issues, with the former “functioning as a delivery mechanism for the latter” (1992: 9). In developing education programmes, choices are made about what it is important to teach. But who designs curricula, on what basis and with what authority? Curriculum experts such as Bloom, Phenix, Hirst and Lawton have

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developed a range of theoretical approaches for mapping culture for the purpose of curriculum selection (Walsh 1993). Lawton’s cultural analysis is designed to provide educationalists with systematic information about the kind of society they are dealing with, as defined by its knowledge and experience of the world. With this cultural information, the curriculum planner can design a curriculum that will serve to transmit a given culture from one generation to the next (Lawton1983). Consequently, those who define the concept of culture on which the analysis is based, devise the cultural analysis and subsequently select what they consider to be the most appropriate curriculum, effectively define the epistemological basis of the entire educational programme. Their control is even more pervasive when more than one cultural tradition is concerned, and decisions, definitions and selection are made by representatives of one tradition on behalf of another. For an intercultural education programme to be viable, it must reflect the indigenous notion of culture and must therefore accommodate the criteria put forward by the indigenous people themselves (see Thaman 1991). The Arakmbut of San José have a relativistic and flexible worldview. In contrast to western knowledge, compartmentalised into disciplines which have formed the basis of the curriculum’s structure since the time of Plato, the Arakmbut do not conceive of their world in terms of discrete bodies of knowledge such as history, economics or science. Relations between the visible world and the invisible world of the spirits are fundamental to their holistic (but unbounded) knowledge system, which displays an integrated interconnectedness. Gray (1997a) teases out dimensions of an Arakmbut notion of culture which he defines not in terms of an amalgam of language, religion, material culture and knowledge, but in terms of the name Arakmbut, which unifies our fragmented notions of culture and society by connecting the identity of each person with the Arakmbut people as a whole, by and through their shared experience. Conceptions of Curriculum The ‘curriculum’ concept also has various, usually ethnocentric, acceptations. It may be more or less narrowly defined as a course of study reflected in classroom practice (Stenhouse 1975) or as “all goal-directed activities that are generated by the school, whether they take place in the institution or outside it” (Dave, cited in Hawes and Stephens 1990: 7). The idea of an ‘official curriculum’, in the sense of an ideal plan of education often drawn up by curriculum specialists, underlies the widespread (mis)understanding of the concept as a centrally produced programme implemented by professionals in a process of “spreading

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the word from the prophets at the centre to the faithful in the field” (Hawes and Stephens 1990: 60). In an intercultural context the term can be taken to mean a social practice involving ideological discourse and relations of power as well as cultural transmission (Green 1993). Bernstein (1971) analyses a curriculum in terms of three message systems: knowledge (including school subjects, syllabus and textbooks), pedagogy (the transmission of knowledge), and evaluation (assessment of the student’s assimilation of the knowledge). Dave breaks these message systems down into five components, which provide an insight into the breadth and depth of the issues and processes involved in developing a school curriculum: overall aims and objectives, curriculum plan, teaching methods and learning activities, learning materials and evaluation (Dave in Hawes and Stephens 1990). Such analyses highlight the fact that it is not just the content of a curriculum which is culturally constructed, but also its aims and objectives and the delivery mechanism itself. There is a fundamental difference between the informal community-based education of indigenous peoples and formal school-based education, in that the former does not have a curriculum in any of the above senses. Ong (1982) notes in connection with learning among people in primary oral cultures that they do not ‘study’ as such, in the sense of performing an exercise that is self-contained, separate from the activities of everyday life, and only possible with the availability of written texts. Reid (1993) points out that, while much learning goes on in oral cultures, to talk of it in terms of a curriculum would obscure the point that the nature of the learning is intrinsically different from that associated with schooling. He identifies five ways in which curricular learning differs from oral learning: its dismantling of objects and activities into analytically distinct aspects such as appearance, properties and practical or aesthetic worth; its presentation of objectified knowledge which can be critically discussed; its programmatic character and the possibility of its completion; its assessment of competence as an integral part of the teaching process; and the inclusion of failure on the assessment scale (Reid 1993: 16). As we shall see in Chapter 7, the informality of Arakmbut education — and of indigenous peoples’ education in general — defies the kind of categorisation and compartmentalisation which Dave presents. Although Arakmbut practice encompasses all the features he identifies, these are not formalised as such within a defined system. Teaching, learning and evaluation cannot be considered in isolation. They are interwoven strands of a single, unified operation, in which failure is unknown. And the knowledge that children require concerns their

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physical, cultural and spiritual environment as a whole, with specialisation often occurring on the basis of age, sex and clan. In Peru, the curriculum implemented in formal education comes under the centralised direction and control of a small team of specialists at the Ministry of Education in Lima. By demanding the rights to control the decision-making that determines that nature of their formal education, indigenous peoples aim to close the gap between curricular theory and school practice. By moving the onus of responsibility away from specialists in Lima to the community and its indigenous teachers, indigenous conceptions of culture and the curriculum can be incorporated in the development of intercultural education. Curriculum planning raises political issues that have to do not only with decision-making but also with the ideological and cultural basis of educational practice. Indigenous peoples insist that intercultural education can only hope to achieve the aim of strengthening their cultural identity if it is based on indigenous concepts and designed by and with indigenous peoples themselves. A formal educational curriculum is concerned with transmitting objectified knowledge that is selected, organised and presented according to predetermined aims. The knowledge transmitted rests its authority on an implicit claim to universality (Reid 1993). Intercultural education is aimed at the transmission of knowledge from two (or more) cultural traditions with authority deriving from local recognition of the legitimacy of the combined curricula. In order to meet the challenge of strengthening indigenous identities in a globalising world, it has to be constantly renegotiated. At the same time it has to satisfy the needs of people whose daily lives are played out at the interface between different cultural traditions, where, in the word of an indigenous Torres Straits islander, and an educator herself, “we know so little about how we interface with western knowledge, how we slip in and out of different language codes, how we intersect traditional knowledges and western technologies” (Nakota 1995: 25). Intercultural education must negotiate a curriculum that, by addressing these issues, will “move towards providing students with analytical tools so that they are able to cut better deals for themselves at the various intersections of the different lifeworlds” (ibid.). Indigenous people have been at the forefront of developments in intercultural education, and the next chapter examines the myriad models that have emerged and are emerging in the Peruvian Amazon. Various writers have emphasised the importance of ethnographic research for providing a new perspective on the literacy needs and the language practices of minority groups

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(e.g. Verhoeven 1994, Street 1993b, Arratía 1997). The subsequent chapters therefore investigate the social, cultural, historical and political circumstances influencing the Arakmbut’s current language and literacy needs and their interest in exploring new realms of knowledge. The Arakmbut are searching for ways of strengthening their cultural practices in a time of rapid social change. Through interaction and dialogue with representatives of their cultural traditions the Arakmbut are looking for ways of ‘cutting the best deal’ for themselves, their children and their territory, in the face of strongly assimilationist pressures.

C 3 The emergence of intercultural education in Peru

The advent of intercultural education in certain Latin American countries is the outcome of a new discourse of cultural tolerance and ethnic diversity. Government legislation paving the way for intercultural education programmes has evolved from a history of changing relations between indigenous peoples and the state. This chapter traces the historical development of formal education in the Peruvian Amazon, with particular reference to the Arakmbut people. In elucidating the generally widespread adoption and institutionalisation of intercultural education, attention is given to the roles of the government and religious orders and to the impact of ‘indigenismo’, or indigenism, understood as meaning ‘any current of thought which is organised and developed around the image of the Indian by non-Indians and which expresses the preoccupations and aims of the latter’ (Favre 1976, cited in Barre 1983: 29–30).

3.1 Historical perspective During the late 19th century a racial positivism predominated in Latin American countries, where the indigenous peoples (‘Indians’) were considered innately inferior to Mestizos (people of mixed descent) and a barrier to national economic development. Solutions to the so-called ‘Indian problem’ were posited in a spirit of social Darwinism and entailed either leaving the indigenous population to die out or causing it to disappear under a wave of white immigration which would repopulate the country with people with ‘ordered and industrialised ways’ (in Marzal 1986: 35, see also Morin 1988, Stavenhagen 1988). Mexico led the way towards providing education for the indigenous population, which had hitherto been largely the preserve of religious sects. In the wake of the 1910 Revolution, the new nation-builders considered that schooling had a crucial role to play in facilitating the spread of ‘modern’ culture, by ensuring that the indigenous

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peoples learned the national language (Spanish). In late 19th century Peru, philosophers struggling to rebuild the country after its defeat by Chile in the Pacific War sought a new model for nationhood which would forge a new identity for the young state. This was to encompass the indigenous population, but only once the indigenous peoples had discarded their customs and languages and become part of the capitalist state. As in Mexico, education was to facilitate this transition, but the situation in Peru was quite different. In the absence of agrarian reform or a popular revolution to transform the oligarchic landholding system, the vast majority of the indigenous population continued to live and work on feudal haciendas. And, whereas the impetus for indigenous education in Mexico came from the government, in Peru it was confined to a small intellectual élite. Mariátegui, a Peruvian philosopher who has been influential for the political left in Latin America, was the first person to analyse the ‘Indian problem’ in terms of economic and class relations. He claimed that, until a reform of the land-tenure system gave the indigenous peoples their land, any education aimed at ‘raising them out of their misery and ignorance’ would fail. ‘It is not possible to democratise the teaching of a country without democratising its economy, and without ultimately democratising its superstructure policies’ (cited in Tauro 1970: 10). Mariátegui criticised attempts to reorganise education by looking abroad for solutions: the French philosophy of encyclopaedism, for example, which predominated in Peruvian schools and universities, totally ignored the specifically American characteristics of the nation, meaning, above all, its indigenous population (Tauro 1970: 12–13). By the 1930s there were legal dispositions, including various articles of the 1933 Peruvian Constitution in favour of indigenous peoples using their mother tongue in school. However, these remained, in the main, dead letters, and the germ of later developments in intercultural education in Peru are found not in government initiatives but in experimental projects carried out in the Andes by indigenistas (see Citarella 1990b). An interactive relationship was formed with the government whereby the ‘indigenistas’ broke new ground in indigenous schooling and the government subsequently provided legislative support. Principles which characterise intercultural education today, such as respect for indigenous languages, advocacy of human rights, Spanish literacy to promote a politicisation of indigenous leaders and a revaluation of indigenous culture, were already being put into practice in these experiments. But the schools and educational programmes were not given sufficient financial backing to enable

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them to grow beyond localised, small-scale experiments, though some of the leading indigenistas achieved high government office notably Luis Valcárcel, who, as Education Minister in the 1940s, established Rural School Nuclei for indigenous children in parts of the Andean region (Gonzalbo 1996). Many of these initiatives, moreover, served as stimulants for the recognition of indigenous languages as the ‘quickest means of Hispanifying the aboriginal’ (1941 Public Education Law, cited in Citarella 1990b). In Mexico the ‘populist’ government of Cárdenas established the Interamerican Indigenist Institute (III) in 1940. Although not explicitly talking of ‘civilising’ the indigenous population, the III was founded on an ideology closely linked with modernisation theory, and it came under the aegis of Congress, whose recommendations were still concerned with paternalist ‘protection’. Integrationist goals were articulated in terms of defending indigenous culture, especially through the recognition of indigenous languages, a transitional policy whose ultimate aim, as Barre points out, was the ‘Mexicanisation of the Indian’, and certainly not the ‘indigenisation of Mexico’. During and after the Second World War and throughout the 1950s Peru experienced an economic boom: cotton and sugar fetched high prices and the mining industry flourished. The great hope for the future lay in schooling, which would impart ‘modern’ attitudes as well as the skills and knowledge considered necessary to create the kind of workforce the capitalist economy needed. Spending increased in the belief that this would foster economic growth, raise standards of living for the poor and integrate the different ethnic groups. By the 1960s, however, Peru had become sharply divided into a modernised coastal area and the Andean region, where a large indigenous population, still living and working within a semi-feudal economy, ‘continued to live or die without anyone paying heed to their destitution’ (Bourricaud 1970: 13). The Amazon region, meanwhile, barely featured in the national consciousness. Nevertheless, the indigenistas had succeeded in putting certain indigenous rights on the political agenda, such as rights to citizenship, to education and to freedom from cultural discrimination. Indigenous peoples were no longer seen as existing outside society, or ‘civilisation’ but were people who could not fully enter into the body of the nation until they had mastered its language and culture. In both Peru and Mexico the 1950s and 1960s were a time of thriving linguistic and applied linguistic studies. SIL was working in rural areas in both countries to produce not only alphabets, literacy primers, dictionaries and practical grammars but especially bibles in indigenous languages. In Mexico, for

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example, Swadesh focused on specific problems associated with designing writing systems and improved alphabets for oral languages (Citarella 1990a). While governments were legislating on the importance of indigenous languages for the ‘cultural patrimony of the nation state’ (1944 Education Law, Ecuador), much of the education of indigenous peoples, in particular the Amazon peoples, was handed over to foreign missionary organisations. A corollary of producing a literate population was, therefore, the propagation of translated bibles. SIL first became active in Peru during the Second World War and, in 1953, was given full administrative control over bilingual education in the Peruvian Amazon, under the auspices of the Ministry of Education. SIL echoed the III emphasis on training its teachers to be ‘primary representatives of their governments’ and, as such, agents of change prepared to confront and overcome indigenous problems (Masferrer 1983: 523). The organisation has met with fierce criticism from across the political spectrum for hiding its Christian missionary work under a linguistic guise. It has been ordered to leave several countries on charges of cultural imperialism, such as Brazil, Colombia and Panama (Hvalkov and Aaby 1981: 14), and in the 1970s was threatened with expulsion from Peru. The Catholic Church, for its part, had in 1900 divided the Peruvian Amazon into three regions — north, central, and south — putting them under the care of the Jesuits, Franciscans and Dominicans, respectively. By the end of the Second World War, the different Catholic Orders followed one of three main indigenist orientations: assimilation of the indigenous peoples within the nation, their integration on a basis of respect for the ‘cultural peculiarities’ or their liberation from cultural domination (Marzal 1986: 495). Increasingly tensions appeared within the Catholic Church, not only in Peru but throughout Latin America, as a division grew between, on the one side, innovators stressing salvation through individual conscience and, on the other, traditionalists who persisted in paternalism and preached of supernatural redemption for the faithful masses (Pike 1973). The Conference of Latin American Bishops at Medellín in 1968 confirmed the Church’s commitment to active participation in the lives and struggles of the urban and rural poor, often basing its position on a Marxist or socialist analysis of the political and social situation (Bruno-Jofre 1985). In Brazil this gave credibility to the Popular Culture Movement established by radical Catholics, who promoted education programmes among the rural population in which the emphasis was on liberation and anti-imperialism. The Popular Culture Movement brought together theologians concerned with the condition of those on the margins of capitalism, for whom it sought an

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educational system that would help them free themselves from their social and economic oppression. It is closely associated with the work of Freire in Brazil and Chile, and his central concept of concientização, or ‘consciousness-raising’, but its roots can be traced back to philosophers such as Mariátegui, who had clearly perceived the shortcomings of formal education. The problem of Indian illiteracy […] goes beyond the strictly pedagogical. It is increasingly possible to verify that to be literate is not to be educated. The elementary school does not morally and socially redeem the Indian. The first step towards his redemption has to be the abolition of his servility. (cited in Tauro 1970: 14)

Mariátegui was here referring to indigenous peoples, but his analysis of their situation in terms of class relations led him to regard indigenous peoples as part of the peasant class. This points up an inherent weakness of popular education, which is that it does not necessarily acknowledge that indigenous peoples have distinct needs from those of the rural and urban poor. In the words of Freire, popular education is about teaching people to ‘read the word and the world’, but it is a Spanish- or Portuguese-speaking world. However progressive or socially committed it may have been, Catholic missionary work in education was predominantly geared towards Spanish-language schooling as a means of facilitating indigenous peoples’ access to the dominant society. The ‘Theology of Liberation’ thus failed to benefit indigenous peoples because it subordinated indigenous identity to considerations of social class (Suess 1982). The subject deserves closer attention than is possible here, but it bears mentioning in passing that, while there are times when indigenous peoples do join in the class struggle, their claim to rights on the basis of their identity as indigenous people — above all, their ancestral right to their lands — makes their struggle a unique one. This is why, from a Marxist perspective, the indigenous struggle has sometimes been branded as divisive (Tumiri 1985).

3.2 Alternatives to assimilation Bonfíl, a Mexican anthropologist and influential critic of ‘indigenismo’ in the 1960s, distinguishes between people exploited within the nation-state, who only have alternatives within the prevailing system, and indigenous peoples, who have alternatives outside that system. The latter exist independently of the culture to which they have fallen prey, but are denied the right to self-determination — a

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right that they should be able to exercise freely (Bonfíl 1984). As the indigenous movement in Latin America and other parts of the globe was taking shape in the 1960s and 1970s (see Chapter 2), indigenous peoples in Peru were becoming increasingly dissatisfied with economic development theories and the crudely integrationist or assimilationist policies of governments, missionaries and indigenists. President Velasco took a new approach with his revolutionary socialist government by introducing far-reaching programmes of reforms that signified a new recognition of the country’s multiethnic and pluricultural composition. The Education Reform of 1972 was one such initiative and, though relatively short-lived, it had ramifications for indigenous rights and the development of intercultural education in the 1980s. The Reform was intended to restructure the education system, promoting a new ethos of self-criticism, creativity and co-operation. It heralded the beginning of a move away from the transitional model of bilingual education as a bridge to Spanish, and towards the practice of bilingual education as a means of strengthening indigenous language and culture. In 1975 Velasco declared Quechua a second national language, of equal status to Spanish, and its teaching was to be obligatory at all levels of the education system in Peru. The new law legitimised a maintenance-oriented approach to Quechua which was recognised as a living language for over 1.3 million monolingual Quechua speakers above the age of 5, plus an estimated 7–8 million bilingual Quechua/Spanish speakers (Alfaro and Zegarra 1976). The Education Reform and officialisation of Quechua together signified a new approach to indigenous education: Bilingual education is not interpreted as merely an educational system to teach Spanish using the vernacular language, but rather it explicitly tries to conceive the task as an education which is bilingual and bicultural, in such a way that this educational activity is one of the ways of recognising the plurilingual and multicultural reality of the country with the aim of revaluing the minority languages and culture. (Escobar 1983: 334)

However, many of the goals of the Reform never saw the light of day, because the Velasco Revolutionary government was quietly replaced in a bloodless coup in 1975 by the conservative wing of the military, when support for the extensive reforms was waning. Democratic elections in 1980 returned former president Belaunde to power, signifying a reversal of the Education Reform. In the space of one decade one of the most ‘audacious and creative reforms’ (Bondy 1972) had been both constructed and dismantled, and the Peruvian government returned

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to an integration-oriented education policy. The 1970s and 1980s were a period of shrinking government expenditure on education in Latin America, yet at the same time the demand for schooling continued to grow. These conditions combined to prompt serious questioning about what investment in education and schooling could realistically be expected to produce. In 1979 UNESCO launched a new initiative, the ‘Major Project’, to address some of the glaring educational problems in the region, such as unequal access, low achievement rates and high wastage. Supported by representatives of most Latin American and Caribbean governments, the Major Project aimed to confront the acute shortages and inadequacies in basic education. It specified three objectives and sought an explicit compromise from each national government in the region to work towards achieving them: 1.

ensure a minimum of 8–10 years’ schooling for all children of school age by 1999;

2.

eliminate illiteracy by the end of the century and develop and increase educational services for adults;

3.

improve the quality and efficiency of the educational systems through the necessary reforms (Rodríguez et al. 1983: xii).

The UNESCO regional office has been active in helping governments to fulfil these objectives through regional and sub-regional seminars, workshops and courses. The Project’s ‘Technical Seminar on the Policies and Strategies for Education and Literacy among Indigenous Populations’, held in Oaxaca, Mexico, in 1982, recognised the possibility of education for indigenous peoples moving away from the ‘straightjacket of “integration” within a single national culture and of its adopting instead a linguistically, culturally and ethnically plural character’ (Quintanilla and Lozano 1983: xv). Condemning as ethnocidal many of the prevailing educational practices levelled at indigenous peoples, the Oaxaca meeting also put decolonisation on the agenda: new forms of education would have no meaning unless carried out as part of a process of cultural decolonisation. The question of the potential significance of intercultural education as a form of education not only for indigenous peoples but for all members of pluricultural states was debated among institutions such as the III and UNESCO during the 1980s. The question, however, remained unanswered, as the discussion of cultural pluralism was limited to considerations of decision-making processes and inter-ethnic relations within the indigenous community. Thus, the III couched its concept of intercultural education in the vague terms of ‘an

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interlocution between indigenous peoples as constitutive subjects of the nation, and the State as the political body of the total social formation’ (Anuario Indigenista 1988). In the new political space created by the 1972 Peruvian Education Reform, bilingual projects in the Andes received renewed support and vigour (López et al. 1987, Zuñiga 1989b). In the educational vacuum left after the dismantling of the Reform in the early 1980s, independent experimental projects flourished in the Amazon. As already mentioned, the major developments in intercultural educational theory and practice have been the work of a small number of indigenous organisations, NGOs, religious missions, university departments and individual specialists, mostly with foreign funding. The range of programmes and projects in intercultural education in Peru reflects the divergent philosophies, ideologies and methodologies of those who run them (see Chapter 9). At the beginning of the 1990s the Department of Bilingual Education (DIGEBIL) in the Peruvian Ministry of Education worked, albeit slowly and with few resources, on introducing intercultural education throughout the formal education system. However, the areas selected for piloting and trials were confined to the Andes, where there is a large number of indigenous language speakers but, in sharp contrast to the Amazon, only a small number of different indigenous languages. In 1994 the Ministry closed down the DIGEBIL and hopes for intercultural education in the Amazon focused on an indigenous programme initiated in 1986 and run by the Inter-ethnic Association for the Development of the Peruvian Rainforest (AIDESEP) and the Loreto Teacher-Training College. With Ministry approval, this programme has forged a unique and exciting alliance between indigenous peoples and education specialists, anthropologists and linguists, and has not only produced a radically new training course for indigenous bilingual teachers but is also trialing a new primary curriculum produced in conjunction with indigenous teacher-trainers and trainee teachers. Based in Iquitos, in the northern rainforest, the scheme has been operative in the northern Amazon (Gasché et al. 1987; Trapnell 1990, 1991) and to date the indigenous peoples of the Madre de Dios have chosen not to participate in this programme but to try to find their own design for intercultural education. The next section, therefore, examines the educational policies and strategies adopted by indigenous, religious and governmental organisations in Madre de Dios, where intensified immigration and environmental destruction are threatening the maintenance of language, culture and identity of the indigenous population.

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3.3 Schooling for the indigenous peoples of Madre de Dios In comparison with other Amazon regions, Madre de Dios is a backwater, economically, educationally and in terms of national development, infrastructure and social services. It has also remained on the fringes of the Shining Path organisation’s guerrilla activities and even escaped the cholera epidemic which began in 1990, both of which have claimed many lives in the Central Rainforest. Madre de Dios is an exotic rainforest land, for the most part still unexplored, which extends like a lost paradise in the south-east of the country […] were it not for the self-sacrificing and determined labours of the Dominican missionaries for almost a century, Madre de Dios would comprise virgin forest and nomadic tribes. Literally forgotten by the Spanish colony and the Republic, buried between its immense rivers and solemn and dense forests, Madre de Dios still exists almost on the margins of national activity, constituting one of the most backward zones in the country. (Documental del Peru 1986: 3).

These opening words to the volume on Madre de Dios in a Peruvian encyclopaedia paint a tantalising picture of the region. But what is it that this ‘lost paradise’ comprises if, thanks to the dedication of the Spanish missionaries who were given free reign there at the beginning of the 20th century, it no longer comprises ‘virgin forest and nomadic tribes’? The answer comes in the next paragraph: But once the Peruvian Creole population remembered about Madre de Dios, a cruel, violent, migratory exploitation of rubber and alluvial gold converted its forests into merchandise at gunpoint and through terror.

The situation at the end of the century bears witness to the violence and cruel exploitation. Unregulated gold-digging, timber-extraction and cattle-ranching have undermined the ecological, environmental and spiritual bases of the indigenous peoples. Oil exploration in the late 1990s has catapulted the indigenous organisations into a campaign of national and international lobbying in order to protect their lands from pollution by the international oil giants. Eco-tourism grows apace. The indigenous peoples face a huge challenge to maintain their way of life and take care of their territory for future generations. The first records of the area come from the journals of Spanish explorers in search of El Dorado and ‘Paititi’, thought by some to have been the last refuge of the Incas and their captains, located somewhere across the border in the present-day Bolivia (Larrabure i Correa 1907). Both Arakmbut mythology and the archaeological record furnish evidence of pre-Hispanic trade between the

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rainforest and the highlands, with medicinal plants, feathers, honey and other goods being exchanged for metal objects (Aikman 1982). Nevertheless the physical characteristics of the environment, combining dense forest and precipitous slopes, ensured the indigenous inhabitants a relatively undisturbed existence until the end of the 19th century, when their lives were brutally disrupted by the rubber boom. Until the collapse of the international market in latex in the second decade of the 20th century, Madre de Dios felt the full impact of the demand for the raw material (Rummenhöller 1988). Intense economic exploitation coincided with a wave of missionary zeal. The government was concerned to incorporate the native peoples of the Amazon into the nation-state but, lacking as it did the necessary resources, entrusted the work of pacification to foreign-funded Catholic missionaries (Wahl 1987). Following a philosophy which was to blend well with the thinking of their subsequent mentor, General Franco, the Dominicans allied themselves closely with the State in a process of ‘civilising by the Church in order to be of service to the State’ (M. Fernández, p.c.). In 1910, at the height of the rubber boom, the Dominicans set about contacting the different indigenous peoples of Madre de Dios and establishing mission stations at strategic places for proselytisation and education. The Arakmbut proved to be elusive, and during the 1940s the padres made several unsuccessful attempts to contact them. In the words of one of the priests, padre Alvarez, ‘I met with only insults and indignities’ from ‘these contemptible Amarakairis [Arakmbut]’ (cited in Junquera 1978: 80). In the early 1950s, however, they were more successful. Dogged by yellow-fever epidemics and worn down by internal fighting triggered by population pressures arising from the rubber exploitation, which had caused the displacement of neighbouring groups onto their lands, the Arakmbut finally accepted missionary overtures in the headwaters of the Isiriwe and Enveznue rivers. Ireyo, an Arakmbut elder from the community of San José, remembers the first meeting: One day some of the old people were on a beach toasting maize while others had gone to look for catfish. Some taka [indigenous persons from another group] arrived and the Arakmbut were afraid and wanted to shoot them with their arrows. One amiko [non-indigenous person] who was with the taka shouted at them not to shoot. The amiko was padre Alvarez and he said he would give the Arakmbut a machete. This pleased them. Mariotakis took the machete upstream and divided it into small pieces for making arrows. He gave a piece to each family and he kept the handle.

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The Dominican padre Alvarez, responsible for many of the contact expeditions in Madre de Dios, had initiated the ‘pacification’ of the Arakmbut. A mission station was opened on the Alto Madre de Dios river to facilitate access to the Arakmbut and ultimately to cut a trail for them to come to the mission, where they would begin a settled, ‘civilised’ life. In their search for relief from yellow fever, many Arakmbut made their way there during the 1950s, leaving behind their haktone (communal houses) and their mobility (Rummenhöller 1987; Wahl 1987; Gray 1996, 1997a; Fuentes 1982, Fernández 1993, Barriales n.d.). When the mission was washed away in 1957, another was built nearby, at Shintuya. The Dominicans understood their mission as encompassing not only the religious, but also the social, cultural and moral lives of the indigenous people. An integrationist orientation was compounded by a fervour to convert the Arakmbut to Christianity, release them from their marginalisation and, through medical and educational centres, help them to shed their ‘savagery’ (Sarasola 1931; Osende 1933, Valentín 1964). This entailed a process both of ‘de-education’ — the unlearning and eradication of indigenous values and beliefs — and of ‘re-education’, the learning of the values and beliefs that the missionaries considered essential. The Dominicans controlled all aspects of the process, from the concept of ‘civilisation’ to the methodology required to introduce it. A “civilised native” was formed by firstly changing the tangible, material aspects of his or her life and then working towards the “spiritual conquest of [his/her] soul” (Wahl 1987: 151). And the Dominicans’ methods were coercively authoritative: adults, for example, were rounded up and made to go to church, sometimes on pain of a beating. The Arakmbut had arrived at the mission expecting more of the ‘gifts’ that the missionaries had freely given them in the forest, only to find that these were now reserved for those who displayed missionary-sanctioned attributes. The pressure to change was pervasive. Clothes were provided to cover up what the missionaries saw as the Arakmbut’s nakedness, but which in fact was their cultural form of dress-code: the Arakmbut painted their bodies in red and black symbols representing their social position; male age-grades were signified by feathers inserted in facial perforations; and the women wore skirts of softened bark. They were encouraged to live in nuclear-family huts and to become sedentary farmers living and working around the mission. The missionaries’ main task was to teach the Arakmbut to communicate in Spanish, ‘because the savage language closes the soul to the light’ and ‘prevents [them] from entering fully into civilisation, religion and the life of the nation’

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(Sarasola 1931). With the children, the missionaries view their task as one of educating rather than de-educating or re-educating. The savage was considered to be ‘made not born’ (Osende 1933: 228), and missionary schooling was therefore a means of thwarting the development of savagery and instilling a sense of obedience. Boarding school was favoured, because it acted as a security against parents leaving the mission (M. Fernández, p.c.). Promising young orphans of primary-school age (who in Arakmbut terms, though, were not without relatives) were prime candidates for the Dominican boarding school at Quillabamba, in the foothills of the Andes, and another mission boarding school was opened at Sepahua, on the lower Urubamba, in the 1960s. These schools were considered to ‘leave [on the children] the traces of progress and open the doors of culture for those who are wholly out of harmony in terms of national and international integration’ (Valentín 1964: 10). During the 1960s the Arakmbut’s nutrition and health declined. There was also an increase of conflict in the mission, where many previously antagonistic Harakmbut-speaking groups had been herded together and where they lived in close confinement, surrounded by disease and death. For many Arakmbut life became intolerable, and during the 1960s and 1970s they left the mission in groups to form the communities of San José, Boca Inambari and Barranco Chico. The elders of San José tell of how they silently escaped one night, under cover of dark, and were chased by missionaries wanting to return them to Shintuya. They travelled on until they came to the confluence of the Pukiri and Karene rivers where they established the community of San José. The missionaries interpreted the break-up of Shintuya as a sign of the Arakmbut’s rejection of civilisation and their preference for a ‘backward’ way of life (Torralba 1979). But a 1977 study of the mission suggested that the Arakmbut left because the regimen was strangling their society and preventing it from reproducing itself (ibid.). Institutionalising education: Dominicans versus Protestant Although in the1950s the Ministry of Education began to provide schools for the rural population of Madre de Dios, the majority of the indigenous peoples living outside the sphere of the Dominican missions received no schooling. To remedy this situation the Dominicans founded in 1953 the Association for Secular Missionaries (MISEMA), which set up a mobile team of educators. At this time the influence of the Protestant SIL was expanding throughout much of the Central and Northern Peruvian Rainforest with the establishment of its government-approved bilingual schools. In response, a Dominican school network,

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RESSOP (Red Escolar de la Selva del Sur Oriente Peruano), was formed from the mobile MISEMA group in a signed agreement with the Ministry of Education, which gave official recognition to schools run by the Diocese. Through RESSOP, the Dominicans devolved power over the ‘escaped’ Arakmbut living in their newly formed communities to lay-missionary teachers. The teachers took charge not only of the primary schools, but also of pastoral and basic health care, while the missionaries themselves made only occasional visits to hold mass and christen babies. On the River Karene, the new community of San José came under the care of the Dominicans, while another Arakmbut community, Puerto Alegre was receiving the attentions of SIL. A bilingual school was opened at Puerto Alegre in the 1970s, run by a native teacher from the community who had previously attended Dominican primary school in the mission of Shintuya and knew some Spanish (Moore 1981). Working with the indigenous teacher the SIL linguist produced a few literacy primers; at the same time, the indigenous teacher taught the fundamentals of reading, writing and arithmetic in and through the Harakmbut language. SIL linguist-missionaries were firm believers in the benefits of a bilingual biliterate education and of the importance of local teachers who “spoke the vernacular and were probably related to the children” (Larson 1981: 25). However, the Arakmbut of Puerto Alegre responded with disinterest. They saw little relevance in their children learning to read about the forest and about Arakmbut culture when their knowledge of, for example, the forest already exceeded that contained in the textbooks. Moreover, these materials were being promoted at a time when Arakmbut knowledge and skills were being debased and devalued through contact with frontiersmen, particularly gold panners, loggers and traders. The establishment of the SIL school coincided with a boom in gold prices and a subsequent influx of gold panners. That, together with the arrival of Geophysical Services Intercontinental to set up a depot in the village as a base for oil exploration on the community’s lands, the opening of a branch of the Mining Bank at Boca Colorado and a growing number of settlers at the mouth of Karene led the community to gold panning. The SIL bilingual school at Puerto Alegre failed because it was unable to meet the needs of the community in the early 1970s. It had been established according to a specific SIL model which was not based upon an analysis of the Arakmbut’s socio-cultural or economic situation. The Arakmbut needed to be able to communicate in Spanish, but the school taught the children how to write

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in Harakmbut. Lack of community support led to the school’s closure before a transitional Spanish-teaching policy could be implemented. In the community of San José, several hours downstream, the children were being taught to read and write in Spanish by an indigenous graduate from the Dominican boarding school. Poorly prepared and with scarce resources, the indigenous RESSOP teacher taught the 3Rs by rote, as he had been taught to, but used the oral Harakmbut and Spanish languages as he felt appropriate for his monolingual Harakmbut-speaking pupils. And, as a member of the community, he was sensitive to the rhythm of community life, occasionally dismissing the school, for example, in order to participate in a communal hunting trip. When the community temporarily moved to a gold-working camp and pupil numbers shrank, he would close the school and the children had the opportunity to exchange the formality of the classroom for the formative company of their families and peers. Thus, although the teaching methods and materials reflected an alien lifestyle and pedagogy, the school timetable and calendar had a flexibility which reflected the concerns of a teacher who was part of the community. In the mid-1970s the Arakmbut of Puerto Alegre moved downstream and founded the community of Puerto Luz, where they petitioned for and were sent a RESSOP lay-missionary teacher. A few years later the indigenous teacher in San José gave up his job, saying that he wanted more time for hunting and working gold with his clansmen. He was replaced at the community’s request by a RESSOP lay-missionary teacher. In contrast to the short period in the 1970s when both mission schools on the Karene river had indigenous teachers, the 1980s were characterised by direct lay-missionary control. Meanwhile, indigenous communities in other regions of the Amazon were moving in the opposite direction.

3.4 Colonisation and indigenous organisation The economic migrants that the Arakmbut encountered on the river Karene were part of a burgeoning colonist population which grew from around 15,000 in the 1960s to some 36,500 by the 1980s (Gray 1986). Many were Quechua people, indigenous to the Andean area, looking for a quick way of making money in the rainforest during periods when there was little agricultural work at home. In 1965 a road between Cuzco and Puerto Maldonado was completed, providing relatively easy access to the region. Another road from Cuzco reached Shintuya three

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years later, connecting with the gold-working areas of the Upper Madre de Dios. Arakmbut hunters began to encounter colonist camps in the very heart of their forest, and game became scarce. By the late 1980s it was clear that there was little or no gold to be panned on many of the beaches, but unlike the collapse of the rubber economy in the 1920s, when colonists moved away in pursuit of an income, the decline in gold coincided with widespread political unrest, high unemployment and poverty in other parts of Peru. The seasonal migrants of the 1960s and early 1970s continued to arrive but so did many poor landless Quechua and urban fringe dwellers seeking agricultural opportunities. With the aim of easing overpopulation in the highlands and along the coast, the Belaunde government of the early 1980s launched a campaign advertising Madre de Dios as an underpopulated paradise. And, with those who remained working in the ailing gold economy also turning to agriculture, cattle-ranching and logging as alternative means of income, large tracts of forest on both banks of the Karene, the Pukiri and the Madre de Dios were felled. Inland deforestation has since proceeded apace for timber extraction, cash-cropping and cattle-grazing. Most of the Arakmbut communities had their community lands officially demarcated and titled in the 1980s, in fulfilment of the Law of Native Communities and the National Constitution of Peru of 1979, which guaranteed the inalienable land rights of the indigenous peoples. These rights, however, have been flouted both by colonists and by ‘patrones’ (gold bosses), resulting in a situation where the 130 Arakmbut of San José now have over 500 illegal colonists living on and clearing their land. Tensions run high and outbreaks of violence between the Arakmbut people and land-hungry migrants or ruthless ‘patrones’ occur. The Constitution ratified by president Fujimori in 1993 removed the clause guaranteeing the inalienability of native titles, leaving the indigenous peoples in an acutely precarious situation (IWGIA 1993). When the government approved an area for a cattle reserve in the early 1980s, which was to affect the lands of four Arakmbut communities (Moore 1985), a delegation went to Lima, where it met with representatives of the indigenous organisation AIDESEP, and presented their case to the Ministry of Agriculture. This trip and subsequent meetings in the Madre de Dios led to the first congress of the Federation of Natives of the River Madre de Dios and its Tributaries (FENAMAD), held in 1982. FENAMAD was established with the mandate to represent the different indigenous peoples of the region and work towards titling of community lands and territorial defence, and other measures

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designed to improve the quality of the indigenous peoples’ lives. FENAMAD also responded, and continues to respond, to demands for schools in indigenous communities. The Third FENAMAD Congress, held in 1985, identified two urgent needs: access to and funding for secondary and further education; and intercultural bilingual primary schooling born of ‘the experiences and reality of indigenous children’ (FENAMAD 1985: 20). In 1991 FENAMAD collaborated with other organisations concerned with education in the Department to produce a document, the Education Policy Proposal for Madre de Dios, outlining qualitative improvements that were necessary (CAAAP 1992). The Proposal criticises the schooling in Madre de Dios as being far removed from the lives of the students, both indigenous and non-indigenous. It notes that the education is authoritarian and factual and teaches an undiversified national curriculum which discriminates against rural schools, where there are almost no textbooks and only one or two teachers per school, 75 per cent of whom are untrained. The situation is exacerbated in indigenous communities, where the teachers belong to different linguistic and cultural traditions from those of their pupils. As a corrective, the Proposal states that education ought to a) follow closely the National Policy for Intercultural Bilingual Education produced by the Ministry of Education (Ministry of Education 1989, 1991); b) promote socio-economic development by meeting local learning requirements; and c) promote peace and respect for human dignity (CAAAP 1992). Spurred on by developments in other parts of the Peruvian Amazon, FENAMAD recommended organising an intercultural bilingual education programme for the ten Harakmbut-speaking communities, the largest linguistic family in the region. The proposal was accepted in principle at the VII Congress in 1991, though the discussion did not enter into detail and neither did the community representatives voice an opinion. On the other hand, there was heated debate about the design of the new school buildings. The proposed design by Olórtegui illustrated by a carefully constructed scale model, used local materials (materiales rusticos) and local labour to produce an airy and spacious classroom suited to the heat and humidity of the rainforest (Figure 3.1) (Olórtegui and Rummenhöller 1991). This ‘rustic’ style of school building, which allows for a flexible use of space and light, contrasts sharply with the box-shaped constructions used throughout Peru by the Ministry of Education (Figure 3.2). The latter are made of what are locally known as ‘noble materials’ (materiales nobles): high concrete walls and a corrugated-iron roof, which both intensify the heat and obstruct any breeze (as well as the interested gaze of the community). There was

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Figure 3.1: Alternative design for an indigenous rainforest school (Olórtegui and Rummenhöller 1991)

little doubt in the delegates’ minds as to which of the models they preferred. Schools in indigenous communities were typically constructed by the villagers

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Figure 3.2: Ministry of Education design for a ‘noble’ school (Olórtegui and Rummenhöller 1991)

themselves, using local materials such as timber and leaves from the forest; colonists’ schools, in contrast, were built to the standard design by Ministry of Education contractors. The ‘noble’, blue, government building was considered to be of superior status to the new, light and airy model with its ‘rustic’ materials. Until the mid-1990s the mixed community of Matsigenka and Harakmbutspeaking Kisambaeri, Toyeri, and Sapiteri at Boca Isiriwe was without a primary school. Children were sent as boarders to attend school at Shintuya mission or to Mestizo schools in the towns. The other Harakmbut-speaking communities all had schools, and their response to formal education reflects their experience of schooling over the course of the present century. Their relations with the Dominicans and their proximity to urban centres impinge on their level of interest in the structure and content of their children’s education and affect the nature of the demands they make. Broadly speaking, three types of community can be distinguished. The first type is exemplified by the Arakmbut communities of San José and Puerto Luz, where the schools are run by RESSOP and the diocesan tie is maintained through lay-missionary teachers. Harakmbut is spoken in all spheres of family and community life, and children enter school with little or no knowledge of Spanish — though the arrival of radios and, in 1996, of television is likely to change this situation. And intermarriage with migrants is rare, though

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it has increased since the early 1990s. Thus, with their mother tongue experiencing no loss of immediacy, bilingual education is of little interest to these communities, while the concept of ‘intercultural’ education is virtually incomprehensible to them. In the second type of community the school comes under the direct control of the Ministry of Education and is run by the local education authority. There is usually a rapid turnover of Mestizo teachers, who are poorly paid and posted to these remote indigenous schools without adequate preparation or any consultation with the community. Sexual harassment of indigenous women and children by the teachers is not uncommon, and their dismissal and drop-out rates are high. Since their main aim is to serve out their time as painlessly as possible and gain promotion to a more prestigious, urban school, they evince a lack of commitment that results in poor relations with the community. Such communities, of which the Arakmbut at Barranco Chico are an example, have been in more persistent contact with outsiders, and they have greater use for Spanish. It is necessary, for example, in their dealings with the local education authority, for the purposes of filing petitions or complaints about the school, and in their relations with colonists, be they relations of trade, political alliance, or conflict (usually over invasions of the community’s territory). The children grow up in close proximity to the Spanish speaking children of Quechua and non-indigenous colonists, with whom they may also attend school. For a variety of historical and geographical reasons, the mother tongue of the majority of the children in the third type of community is Spanish, with only elders speaking Harakmbut with any degree of fluency. Indigenous children are taught by Mestizo teachers in government schools, and they are often outnumbered by colonist children. In the Arasaeri community Villa Santiago, for example, the school was established in 1965 to cater for colonists who settled by the nearby road between Cuzco and Puerto Maldonado. There is strong support in such communities for a programme of indigenous-language-teaching, particularly among senior members, who believe their language may die with them. In terms of the educational processes and practices at work there, as well as in other areas of indigenous experience, Madre de Dios provides a microcosm of issues and challenges from Latin America as a whole. And the Arakmbut exemplify a rich variety of forms of indigenous agency in response to drastic social and environmental change. As this chapter has show a clear distinction can be drawn between communities with diocesan schools and those with government schools. In the former, community members are completely dissociated from the

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running of the school, show little interest in bilingual education, and have in the past rejected native teachers. In the latter, there is a more active involvement on the part of the community, in order to offset the lack of commitment shown by most of the Mestizo teachers sent by the Ministry.

C 4 The primary school in San José

Al Maestro

To the Teacher

Antorcha luminosa de la vida que conduces al camino del saber, mediante sus desvelos y constancias protégé el niño la chispa de saber, se despide temblando la ignorancia y se aleja para no volver.

Shining light of life, You who lead to the path of knowledge Through its mysteries and certainties, Protect the spark of knowledge in the child and send ignorance away trembling, far away never to return.

La carrera mas hermosa de este mundo es la de un maestro profero en que se encuentra el cariño más profundo y consejos al lado de su amor.

The most beautiful career in this world is that which a teacher professes, one in which there is affection, deep affection and counsel, side by side with love.

!Oh maestro seguirte el ejemplo de Jesucristo, Maestro de maestros y como él tu sabes tu llevas el ejemplo de instruir y educar a la niñez.

Oh, teacher, follow the example of Jesus Christ, teacher of teachers, like him you are knowledgeable and provide an example of teaching and educating children.1

San José and the neighbouring Arakmbut community of Puerto Luz, two to three hours distant up the River Karene, both have primary schools belonging to the Dominican Education Network. The members of both communities are firm in their support for their schools, despite their ambivalent feelings both towards the priests and towards the lay-missionary teachers. At the same time, they are no more interested in the running or functioning of the schools than they are in intercultural bilingual education. This disinterest causes frustration and a sense of isolation among the teachers, whose commitment to the community as missionar-

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ies nevertheless means that they have a longer-term presence than the majority of Ministry schoolteachers in other schools, who have high rates of absenteeism and short records of tenure. The debate in the early 1990s among FENAMAD and educational institutions concerning the quality of education in Madre de Dios focused on the need for a system ‘adapted to the reality of the Department’ (CAAAP 1992:13). This chapter looks at different interpretations of the ‘reality’ of the San José school, with some reference also to the situation in Puerto Luz. It considers specifically the aims and objectives of the school from the perspective of the teachers, while Arakmbut perceptions are the subject of the next chapter. In 1991/2 the San José school (Centro Educativo No. 52075) comprised two classrooms, one of them ‘rustic’ and with a leaking palm-leaf roof and the other ‘noble’ with a leaking corrugated-iron roof (see Chapter 3). Since 1983 the school has had two members of staff, a Director (who also teaches) and one other teacher, though there was a short period when the Director taught unaided. The student body comprises between 25 and 35 pupils per year, divided into the six primary grades. Grades 1 and 2 are taught in one of the two classrooms, and grades 3 to 6 in the other. Since the late 1980s grades 1 and 2 have been augmented by an initial (‘inicial’) grade in which the number of children fluctuates throughout the year, with a large drop-out after the first few weeks. The school in San José epitomises the limitations of educational provision in Madre de Dios (cf. CAAAP 1992): an undiversified national curriculum and inadequate resources — teachers with little training, multi-grade classes, scarcity of teaching materials and decaying infrastructure, insufficient and deficient supervision, lack of funding and relatively high drop-out rates and repetition. In early 1992 the President of San José drew up a list of complaints about the teachers (the ‘1991 teachers’) who consequently left, after several years of service in the community and transferred to another RESSOP school. The RESSOP administration threatened to withdraw altogether from San José, but the community, which had been thrown into turmoil by the incident, retained its school and acquired a new Director and teacher (the ‘1992 teachers’).2 But the disinterest and frustration felt on both sides persisted.

4.1 The ethnographic background In terms of classroom teaching methodology both the San José and Puerto Luz schools echo the findings made by Avalos (1986) in a study of schools in poor

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physical environments in four Latin American countries: teaching-learning activities consist in children copying from the blackboard while the teacher’s attention is with another group of children; teachers answering questions or completing a dictation at the blackboard with one child while the rest of the grade look on awaiting their turn; and children copying correct answers into exercise books and memorising ‘facts’ and rules. As Avalos (1986) notes in the context of a Bolivian school, the teacher is in almost total control; this is her domain, where she enforces law and order. In San José this control is maintained through the real or threatened use of physical punishment such as beatings with stinging nettles or blows with rulers and exercise books. The teacher’s assessment of good or bad work is often voiced in public, as when the teacher in Puerto Luz, dissatisfied with a drawing produced by a grade 2 child, held it up and asked the class: ‘Do you know what this is, anyone? Pure scribbles!’ Another child’s attempt met with the remark: ‘Rogelio, what a horrible drawing you have done!’ Tight control of the classroom and intimidation of the pupils are the stockin-trade of the teachers. Children are not encouraged to be creative or spontaneous or to show any initiative. After giving instructions on how to order fractions, one San José teacher asked ‘Do you understand or don’t you?’ — to which the pupils mumbled a reply in the affirmative. Questions were ‘closed’ and required only single-word responses, often mere repetitions of what the teacher had already said: for example, ‘What is this word? It is piano, piano. Repeat it after me, piano!’ In this way the teacher answers many of her own questions and talks to the class in a monologue. Avalos (1986) considers that this ‘monologuing’ is a reaction to continual pupil silence in response to the teacher’s questions. However, the students’ freedom of speech in the classroom is extremely limited. The teachers complain about the passivity of the students but without questioning the structure of the discourse within the classroom. The authoritative structure imposed by the teachers added to the literate bias of the classroom, inhibits verbal communication as if it were an inferior mode of communication (cf. Graff 1994). Monologuing and a high degree of ‘teacher talk’ creates a learning environment in which verbal communication reduces to recitation or repetition and is closely modelled on the written mode. Green (1993) notes that the degree of freedom in speech events in the classroom is dictated not only by the nature of the evaluation system but also by the nature of what passes as knowledge. A dictation lesson in Puerto Luz on ‘The three kingdoms of nature’ involved pupils going to the blackboard, chalk in hand, and writing a sentence that the teacher

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dictated aloud. In the course of the two-hour lesson, the teacher never explained the meaning, or asked for a definition, of the Spanish words being used, except to comment that the ‘three kingdoms’ were animal, mineral and vegetable — a distinction quite alien to the Arakmbut’s ordering of phenomena. If the child at the blackboard faltered over a word or syllable, the teacher would repeat it louder and louder until she was shouting. Either the child, in a blind panic, would eventually hit on the correct spelling or the teacher would shout out the answer in frustration. Teaching methods and learning assessment emphasise the faithful transcription of information, ranging from grammatical rules to songs about ‘Baby Jesus’, and the ability to regurgitate this information on demand. The careful copying of pictures from handbook to exercise book is accompanied by the neat and exact transference of text from the blackboard, including the complicated use of different colours to distinguish headings from subheadings. Overall, the characteristics of the educational process in San José — the narrow definition of satisfactory academic performance, the adherence to a particular literate behaviour, the authoritarian structure of the teacher-pupil relationship, and a chronic shortage of materials — combine to produce a passive learning environment (cf. Cook-Gumperz 1986). The resulting system is geared towards producing students who, at the end of each grade, have in the exercise book in their hands, the sum of knowledge they are expected to hold in their heads.

4.2 The situation of the teacher At the time of my fieldwork the teachers in San José shared three grievances in common (which were echoed, moreover, by the teachers in Puerto Luz): with the Ministry of Education and RESSOP; with the Diocese and the priest in Shintuya to whom pastoral care of the community was entrusted; and with the Arakmbut themselves. The people of San José, both young and old, were a constant source of frustration to the teachers, though occasionally also a source of delight to them. The teachers regularly found themselves thwarted, and sometimes deeply hurt, in their attempts to impose their ideas on the Arakmbut due to their inability to communicate and to the distance between them in terms of their respective philosophies and values. The living and working conditions of the teachers in San José are by no means unique. Tovar (1989) paints a similar picture for the highlands, where teachers confront a stark contrast between the educational principles they set out

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to apply and the reality of the rural schools in which they endeavour to apply them. In San José the teachers faced the same disparity between the institutional aims and objectives of the education system and the practical conditions under which they struggled to achieve them. One of the main hindrances to their work was the lack of teaching materials — shortage of textbooks, teachers’ guides and usable blackboards — compounded by a highly prescribed curriculum in terms of content, sequence and evaluation. Each year the Ministry of Education publish a textbook for each grade, detailing general and specific objectives and the content of each subject area for the academic year. These handbooks present the curriculum objectives in the form of a sequence of lesson plans which teachers work through with their students in order to complete the required syllabus for the year. The San José teachers had only two long-out-of-date handbooks for two of the grades, though they had a larger supply of religious material and some textbooks from Spain (which they were unable to adapt for the Arakmbut’s use). The excessive amount of paperwork and administration annually demanded by the Ministry for each pupil, in addition to anonymous directives sent out from Lima throughout the year regarding changes in procedure, was a further source of irritation and frustration. The Director was unable to close the school at the end of the 1991 academic year because the appropriate forms which had to be completed before the closing ceremony had not arrived from Lima. And she considered that the long end-of-year reports she had to deliver to RESSOP were a waste of time, being convinced that no one ever read them since none of her recommendations had ever been acted upon. The rigid bureaucratisation of schooling and teaching in Peru, as evidenced by a system of monthly evaluations and meticulous enrolment and attendance records required of teachers, bears witness to a ‘fictitious educational reality’ (Tovar 1989). This fictitious reality ignores the teacher’s daily struggle to keep the school operational, a task that involves not only ensuring that children attend school but also finding them all a dry place in the classroom in which to work. The 1991 statistics for pupil attendance in San José reflect neither the real attendance levels nor the difficulty facing teachers in a semi-mobile society where parents often take their children with them to spend several weeks in hunting or gold camps within the community’s territory. The school followed a routine established at the national level: parading, anthem-singing, whistle-blowing and strict adherence to a national calendar including the celebration of such occasions as Mother’s Day. Tovar (1989)

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suggests that it is through this routinisation of schooling that teachers are able to cope with the difficulties of daily teaching because reality becomes the routine. The ritualisation of school life in San José was exacerbated by the teachers’ lack of pre-service or in-service training, as well as the absence of supervision or support from either of the two governing bodies, RESSOP or the Local Education Department. Isolation from other members of the profession aggravated the teachers’ disadvantaged situation. Though San José and Puerto Luz were only two to three hours apart by river, the teachers met, at most, twice each academic year, during the communities’ respective founding-day celebrations. But these were not opportunities for discussion, exchange of educational experiences or mutual reinforcement. On the contrary, the rivalry between the communities, which accounted for their limited contact, was mirrored in competitive relations between the teachers which increased their professional isolation and abandonment. Occupying the lowliest and least prestigious positions in the two institutions to which they are attached — the Ministry and the Diocese — the teachers in San José are expected to cope in conditions shunned by their superiors. As the Arakmbut school-children are taught, in words that they copied faithfully into their exercise books, the Church comprises a large hierarchy, with Christ at the top and themselves at the bottom. In between are the padres and, several rungs below them, the lay missionaries. The Karene river communities come under the care of the padres in Shintuya, who, however, seldom visit their charges. The neglect shown by the Diocese towards the lay-missionary teachers — a reflection of their position near the bottom of the ecclesiastical hierarchy — was a continual disappointment to them. Another of the teachers’ most consistently articulated concerns was financial poverty. Their salaries have fallen drastically since 1966 and by the early 1990s reached historically low levels (Palacios and Paíba 1997, Tovar 1989). Teachers impoverishment means that they try to supplement their income with other work — a particularly difficult task for rural teachers. On occasion the San José teachers panned for gold with Arakmbut families in order to save for their fare downriver to Puerto Maldonado at the end of term. The teachers’ poverty, which placed them in a position of dependency vis-à-vis the community, was an enigma to the Arakmbut, who had always perceived the Dominicans as a source of material goods, from the early presents of machetes to more recent loans for the purchase of exercise books and pencils. But, while the padres had a financial power which they could wield as and when they wanted, such power was beyond the reach of the lay-missionary teachers.

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4.3 The role of the teacher The bearer of culture La Vuelta a la Escuela

The Return to School

Cual bandada de palomas que regresan del vergel ya volvemos a la escuela anhelantes de saber.

Like a flock of doves returning from the orchard we are now returning to school, eager to learn.

Saludemos neustra escuela con cariño y gratitud, que ella guarda el faro hermoso de la ciencia y la virtud.

Let us greet our school with affection and gratitude, because it guards the beautiful light of science and virtue.

Ni un momento la olvidamos en los meres de solaz, nunca olvida la paloma su querido palomar.

We did not forget it for one moment during our vacation, just as the dove never forgets its beloved dovecote.3

Far from identifying with the Arakmbut, the teachers in San José considered themselves to be ethnically and culturally superior to them. They saw San José as a community in need of modernisation and development, a process which meant adopting Mestizo language, values and customs. As Mestizos themselves, the teachers identified with the national culture, a westernised but by no means unitary culture, and they believed it their duty to their profession, to their pupils and to the community to be a role model for a modern, urban, Mestizo way of life. The indigenous children were considered tabula rasa when they started school: their already well developed language skills and the considerable breadth of learning about their social and physical environment (discussed in Chapters 6 and 7) were ignored. In a process of ‘decontextualisation’ (Goody 1987:184), the children had to leave their own knowledge and skills outside the classroom, having no relevance for their schooling. The classroom was a microcosm and laboratory for the propagation of modern, western society and Mestizo culture, albeit a very impoverished one. A brief examination of the content of the lessons illustrates both the values promoted by the national curriculum and those of the teacher who selected the lessons from the few textbooks available. A lesson on the ‘Rights and duties of citizens’ fulfilled the first objective of Peruvian education: to give a ‘knowledge

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of a student’s rights and duties which will enable him to function in the society’ (New General Education Law 23384, 1982, Article 3a). The grade 5 pupils obediently copied into their exercise books: ‘It is the right of the citizen to participate directly in public affairs by means of a representative who is freely elected through a vote which takes place periodically’ — though the vast majority of their parents did not have an electoral card and, consequently, were not eligible to vote. In November 1991 the children were instructed to write a passage telling why they would like to sail in one of Christopher Columbus’s ships to the Americas. Such an exercise might be defended on the ground that it encourages ‘a perfect understanding and deep affirmation […] of the cultural integration of Latin America and the universal ambit in which contemporary society is being developed’ (New General Education Law 23384, 1982, Article 3c), but the teacher’s concern was clearly to associate the arrival of European conquistadors with the essence of the Peruvian national character, to the exclusion of its Amerindian basis. Coming on the eve of indigenous Americans’ ‘500 years of resistance’ to colonial oppression, the lesson manifested a complete disregard for the decimation of indigenous peoples that accompanied the arrival of the Spaniards. It equally neglected the Arakmbut’s own first-hand experience of colonisation, an experience continued through the education they were being given. Formal education thus denies the Arakmbut their own history and their own knowledge. It promotes Peruvian history and seeks to foster a sense of national pride through lessons on Peruvian ‘heroes’ such as Miguel Grau ‘who died in combat after defending our country with great heroism’ (Sembrador, Grade 2, 1991: 350). Arakmbut culture heroes such as Marinke, who serves as a model for Arakmbut manhood, are, needless to say, ignored. In the same way, Arakmbut expertise in the forest is neglected. In a social science class for grades 3 and 4 in Puerto Luz, for example, the children were given a dictation on ‘The protection and care of animals’. ‘A lesson on the usefulness to man (sic) of domesticated animals — the horse, cow, hen, dog and cat — is incongruous in a hunting community. These examples highlight the way in which the curriculum negates all that the Arakmbut students learn outside school, as well as the sources of that learning within their society. The classroom, then, is a forum for cultural politics and the supremacy of western knowledge, illustrating the process of cultural imperialism analysed by Carnoy (1974, see also Apple 1982) and the internal colonialism and deculturation denounced by Varese et al. (1983) and Bonfíl (1984), among others. And yet the curriculum and the school environment are divorced not only from Arakmbut ‘reality’, but also from the encompassing

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‘reality’ of Peruvian society, which is depicted by a series of ideal snapshots. The lesson on the voting rights of citizens, for example, took place during a political vacuum when the President had suspended the Constitution and was ruling by decree. Peruvian culture is presented as static and undifferentiated, as though it has an uncontested and monolithic definition. And it is an unprovocative, acritical reality that is represented, one that is abstracted from the events dominating the lives of most Peruvians, whether in an urban or a rural context: economic chaos, widespread poverty, guerrilla warfare, drug-trafficking and endemic corruption. The Arakmbut feel the weight of ‘real’ life in their dealings with corrupt officials at the trading post of Boca Colorado, in the lack of de facto protection that their lands are afforded by the national Law of Native Communities, and in the death threats they receive from illegal colonists. The ‘national culture’ described by the teachers and the textbooks bears no relation to the Peruvian society which Arakmbut children encounter outside the school walls. One of the main aims of the school, however, according to members of the community as well as to the teachers, is to ‘teach Arakmbut children Spanish’. Besides being the sole medium of instruction, a large amount of each school day is dedicated to the study of the Spanish language. The children are given vocabulary lists to learn and they are taught the rules of Spanish grammar, as the following fourth-grade language test indicates: – – – – –

What is a verb? Write 4 sentences in the past tense. Write 4 sentences in the present tense. Write 4 sentences in the future tense. Conjugate the following verbs: to recite, to leave, to suffer, to receive, to conform, to become sad, to cultivate, to scatter.

More up-to-date first-grade texts (such as one entitled Coquito) take a wholeword approach, but even here no attempt is made to contextualise the materials by suiting it to the pupils’ lives and interests outside school, where the Arakmbut speak Spanish with all non-Harakmbut-speakers. A child’s inability to read the word ‘piano’ during a language lesson may have more to do with her inability to recognise a picture of a grand piano as a meaningful object than with her ability to read. The teachers have no training in teaching Spanish as a second language and assume that Arakmbut students learn by absorption. As Pozzi-Escot (1989) notes in the Andean highlands, the teachers do not distinguish between teaching a language and teaching in a language or between planned immersion and violent

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submersion in a second language. They attribute a poor level of Spanish among their pupils to the general backwardness of the community. As for their own command of Harakmbut, this is rudimentary amounting at most to a few words strung together according to Spanish grammatical rules. With initial, first, and second grades teachers use a limited number of indigenous terms as direct translation of a preceding Spanish word or phrase, usually as a metastatement: for example, ‘look here!, write!, everyone!’ Harakmbut numbers — comprising a series up to four — may also be used. Through its embeddedness in a world-view which presupposes the supremacy of western knowledge, the curriculum taught in the San José school is aimed at instilling in the pupils a ‘modern consciousness’ (cf. Scollon and Scollon 1981). For Arakmbut children, the pedagogical techniques of formal education (predominantly dictation and copying), its prescribed content, its discourse patterns and its power relations are all part of a different epistemology. Learning ‘to read and write Spanish’ is, as Gee (1994) notes, “not just a matter of learning a new technology, it also involves association with values, social practices, and ways of knowing that conflict with those of [the Arakmbut]”. And the teacher’s aim is not restricted to ‘modernising’ the pupils: as we shall see, it also encompasses changing the way of life of the entire community. The community developer Niño Peruano

Peruvian Child

Niño Peruano Ama a tu patria, ama a tu pueblo, ama a tu dios. Que Dios es bueno porque te ha dado tierra de libre, tierra de amor.

Peruvian child love your country, love your community, love your God. For God is good because he has given you a free land and a land of love.

Niño peruano sé puro y limpio, como es el dia, como es la luz. Que tu bandera sea sagrada y que tu lema sea virtud.

Peruvian child be pure and spotless as the day, as the light. May your flag be sacred and your motto be virtue.

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Niño peruano flor de la selva, odia la guerra, ama la paz. Ama arrullando cual las palomas aman sus nidos Con todo amor.

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Peruvian child flower of the rainforest, despise war, love peace. Love like the cooing doves love their nests, full of love.

The New General Education Law 23384 of 1982 recognises that teachers have a responsibility to contribute to educational and cultural activities within the community through public and private organisations (Article 11). These organisations include Parents’ Associations, Committees for the Orientation and Welfare of the Pupil, and Communal Education Promotion Teams. According to the Guide for Communal Educational Promotion in Education Centres (a 1983 publication, still in use in 1992), the task of a teacher includes taking formal and non-formal measures to solve problems in the surrounding community and in the nation as a whole. The 1992 teachers arrived in San José full of enthusiasm and ready to provide direction for the community. Within days they had made their diagnosis of the school and its pupils: poor overall academic standards, a lack of basic maths concepts, unruly behaviour in class, laziness and a lack of interest in school work. And within weeks they had made their analysis of the community: ‘badly in need of education to improve the standard of living’ (E. Fernandez p.c.). To launch his Communal Education Promotion programme, the 1992 Director called a community meeting to discuss plans for building latrines for the pupils, who had hitherto been using the forest areas beyond the village clearing, in keeping with community practice. The few members of the community who turned up to the meeting rejected the proposal, insisting, on the strength of their experience of latrines in Madre de Dios, that they would smell. The Director was angered by the low turn-out and by the negative response to his suggestions, which frustrated his attempt to work out a community development plan. He called another meeting with parents to discuss behaviour and truancy among the schoolchildren, and the turn-out was even lower. A previous attempt to form a Parents’ Association had already been rejected by the community on the grounds that it was divisive in a small village to discriminate between families with school-age children and families without. Moreover, the Arakmbut are reluctant to attend meetings in the school because they are made to

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feel ill at ease by the teachers’ authority, a written agenda, note-taking, the teachers’ exclusive mastery of the Spanish language, and their own restricted means of communication, which are further curtailed by the obligation to speak in turns. The Arakmbut shun formal meetings, not necessarily because they are uninterested in the topic of discussion, but because they find, as the children find in the classroom, that they are subject to unfamiliar, disempowering discourse patterns. Their attitude is interpreted as indolence, apathy, and an ‘unwillingness to be intellectual’ — a further symptom of the ‘lack of morals’ evidenced by their bouts of drinking and fighting (E. Fernández, p.c.). Under this misapprehension, the educational reality experienced by the teachers in San José is that of being locked in a lonely struggle to modernise the Arakmbut and instil a sense of national identity and national pride in a community in which such feelings are lacking. The teachers continually compared the Arakmbut schoolchildren and parents with those in Mestizo settlements, particularly the trading post of Boca Colorado which is also the seat of local government; they viewed the differences in terms of degrees of willingness to co-operate and work towards common goals. Against this yardstick, the Arakmbut were seen as being awkward and ‘backward’, in contrast to the Mestizos, who are co-operative and sympathetic. According to the teachers, the Arakmbut stubbornly refused to learn from them, to shed former practices and move up the scale from ‘primitiveness’ towards ‘modernity’ — a deficiency the teachers were trying to remedy through education. The qualitative difference between Arakmbut and Mestizo cosmology and philosophy was not given any consideration, and neither were the differences between the indigenous community and the Mestizo community in terms of status and power. Given this situation, we have to ask to what extent the underlying aims of mission-controlled education have changed since its earlier aim to ‘eliminate customs and adapt[…] the savage to a life which is more real and like ours so that he can form part of our civilisation and obtain the benefits of our medicine, customs [and] religion’ (Mackie 1950). The teachers clearly did not perceive the Arakmbut as forming part of the ‘cultural wealth of a pluricultural, plurilingual Peru’ (Ministry of Education 1989:7), but rather as problematic students and parents.

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The Lay-missionary Quién es ése? Quién Quién Quién Quién

es es es es

ése ése ése ése

que que que que

Who is this? camina en las aguas? a las sordos hace oir? a los muertos rescata? su nombre quiero oir?

Who Who Who Who

is is is is

this this this this

who walks on the water? who makes the deaf hear? who saves the dead? whose name I want to hear?

Es Jesús, es Jesús, Dios y hombre que nos guía con su luz.

It is Jesus, it is Jesus, God and man who guides us with his light.

Quién es ése que en las manos lo obedecen? Quién es ése que a los mudos hace hablar? Quién es ése que da paz al alma herida y pecados con su muerte le perdonó?

Who is this who commands obedience? Who is this who makes the dumb talk? Who is this who soothes the wounded spirit And pardons all sins through his death?

Quién es ése que a nosotros ha llegado? Quién es ese salvador y redentor? Quién es ése que su espíritu nos deja y tranfigura nuestra vida con su amor.

Who is this who has come to us? Who is this saviour and redeemer? Who is this whose spirit is with us? And transfigures our life with his love.4

In San José, the lay-missionary teachers lacked facilities such as running water, washing areas and toilets. They cooked on a primus stove or wood fire in a decaying, leaking kitchen and bathed in the river. Yet, despite these hardships, they were dedicated to their work and stayed longer than non-missionary teachers in the Mestizo schools. They had a ‘mission’ and had chosen ‘with no other commitment, no other illusion but to hand over something of their own lives for the Church which called them’ (Misiones Dominicanas n.d.:43). Although they felt support to be wanting from the Ministry of Education, RESSOP and the community, as lay missionaries they also belonged to the diocese of Puerto Maldonado and knew they had God’s blessing for their work. After the Arakmbut groups left Shintuya, the Dominican evangelical process entered a second phase, with lay missionaries working in the community schools while the missionaries themselves turned their attention towards the relatively uncontacted Matsigenka and other peoples in the Manu National Park to the east and northeast of Shintuya. The Diocese expected the RESSOP teachers to minister to the

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sick as well as concern themselves with the moral and spiritual health of the indigenous community. A thesis written by three Dominican priests for their professional teaching qualification in ‘Religious Education and Orientation and Student Welfare’ presents the Dominican definition of culture: The word ‘culture’ indicates the particular way in which a people cultivate their relationship with nature, among themselves and with God. ‘Culture’ is understood to comprise the total life of a people: the totality of values which animates them and the ‘disvalues’ which debilitate them and participation in which unites them in a ‘collective conscience’ (Evangelii Nuntiandi 18). Culture also comprises the forms through which these values and ‘disvalues’ are expressed and configured, that is to say, the customs, language, institutions and structure of social cohabitation, when these are not impeded or repressed by the intervention of other dominant cultures (Puebla Document 387). (García et al. 1979:60)

This definition provides two important insights into the Dominican approach to evangelisation. Firstly, while culture is an expression of a people’s social relations and relations with nature, the insistence that it also encompasses their relations with God precludes the possibility of a non-monotheistic cosmology. Christianity is conceived of as a ‘metaculture’ (Burridge 1991), an overarching belief system within which there is cultural variation in the way in which the one deity (the Christian God) is recognised and worshipped. Thus, the San José school Director in 1992, who claimed that his proselytism was informed by ‘great respect for Arakmbut beliefs’ proceeded on the basis that the Arakmbut, like everyone else, must know God but have their own way of relating to God, just as they have their own ways of relating to one another and to nature. Within this conceptual framework, indigenous culture can be described and explained according to certain characteristics that allow for generalisations across ethnic groups: ‘The situation of the other human groups which inhabit Madre de Dios, such as the Huarayos, Machiguengas and Piros, is very similar to the Harakmbut, given that the socio-economic and cultural contexts are similar’ (ibid.10). The superficial understanding implicit in this assertion of what constitutes a ‘socioeconomic and cultural context’ flies in the face of the extensive anthropological literature on the indigenous peoples of Madre de Dios, which reveals profound differences in their belief systems and social organisation (see Rosengren 1987, Gray

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1983, Burr 1997). The Dominicans’ perception of cultural similarity among the different ethnic groups has profound implications for the education they supply. The second insight provided by García et al. concerns the relationship between ‘cultures’ and ‘dominant cultures’. The Harakmbut-speaking peoples, who have been ‘contaminated’ by the ‘dominant culture’ through land invasions, immigration and exploitation, are seen as having been corrupted and their ethnic identity and family cohesion reduced to crisis point by the feudal/mercantile system (García et al. 1979:117). The authors therefore conclude that the focus of the Dominican pastoral policy has to be on the crisis affecting the institution of the family — the basis of Harakmbut society, as they see it — a crisis attested to by a high incidence of marital separation, infant mortality, female employment in domestic service and prostitution, and a general absence of sexual norms and controls (ibid.50–51). However, their analysis is based on a questionable definition of ‘culture’. Not content with understanding culture as the ‘totality of values which animates a people’, in the way Tylor used the term (see Chapter 2), the Dominicans take on board the concept of ‘disvalues’ and, in doing so, introduce a judgmental perspective. In the Harakmbut case, native values and ‘disvalues’ are complicated by the introduction of the ‘disvalues’ of the pernicious ‘dominant culture’. The way to combat this doubly discredited situation and reach the ‘fundamental values of the culture’ (ibid. 61), the authors believe, is through Christian evangelisation and the ‘transformation of forms, functions and structures opposed to the message of God’ (ibid.135). There is thus a tautological correspondence between the Dominicans respect for native culture and their pastoralism. To the school Director San José represented a culture riddled with disvalues which he had been left to eradicate single-handedly. The Diocese had consigned him to this mission with negligible resources and no moral support and, abandoned by the education system and by RESSOP and obstructed by the community, he sought his comfort and strength directly from God.

4.4 Teachers’ coping strategies In such isolated conditions teachers develop strategies for coping and persevering. Unlike teachers working in urban or less remote rural areas, the San José teachers

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both live and work in the community. They rely on the community for fresh foodstuffs, for transport and for social company. In the absence of money with which to secure these important goods and provisions, establishing and maintaining good relations with members of the community is vital. The two sets of teachers employed two distinct approaches: the 1991 teachers established formal relationships with selected individuals, while the 1992 teachers institutionalised relationships with the community which emphasised separation and social distance. The first approach involved formalising relations between individuals through compadrazgo or godparenthood. Compadrazgo is a form of ritual kinship linked with sponsorship of some celebration, often baptism and creates a range of responsibilities between the godparent and the child’s parents (see e.g. Skar 1988). In San José the 1991 teachers utilised the institution to form alliances with certain families and individuals who had been to Dominican boarding school in the 1960s and were familiar with the arrangement, though not necessarily able to use it to their advantage. Compadrazgo has strong roots in the Andean region but is an alien relationship for the Arakmbut, full of responsibilities and commitments not always clear to them. Gold miners and patrones often initiate compadrazgo relations and subsequently encroach on Arakmbut titled land to work gold claiming impunity through compadrazgo with a member of the community. Over the years these teachers had nurtured a group of female comadres and male compadres who formed a ritual kin network which could be mobilised for support for school initiatives, at the same time alleviating their social isolation. They did not limit their ritual kin relations to the Arakmbut but also established a network of compadres in Boca Colorado and Puerto Maldonado. In particular, they used the system on behalf of the school with individuals with the financial means to act as sponsors on sports day or graduation day, such as traders or local government officials. With the Arakmbut, educational services rendered to godchildren were rewarded by a supply of fresh agricultural produce and hunted meat and fish, supplies which were otherwise only available through kinship ties within the community. Conversely, in recognition of the services provided by an Arakmbut compadre who regularly transported them by boat to Boca Colorado, the teachers responded by bringing goods from Cuzco, Maldonado or further afield. On one occasion a teacher brought a dog from Arequipa for one of her compadres. However,

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the complaints made by the community about the 1991 teachers (discussed in the following chapter) indicate the fallibility of their manipulation of the compadrazgo system. The 1992 teachers, on the other hand, based their relations with the community on the hierarchical structure of the non-indigenous institutions of the school and the Church. The school Director chose to emphasise the social distance between himself and the community pulling rank and demanding respect for his position as Director. The Director of an Education Centre has an official stamp for endorsing letters and other kinds of paperwork, just as the President of a Native Community has one for community correspondence. The Director sought the collaboration of San José’s President in an attempt to reinforce their respective positions but he found himself up against considerable obstacles, not least the loss of his stamp. More fundamentally, he misjudged both the social importance of non-Arakmbut institutions in the community and the authority of the President. Elected officials are considered by national and local authorities, education officials, traders and gold panners to be key decision-makers and representatives of the Native Community (Rosengren 1987). However, their position conforms to an externally imposed structure and their decisions affecting the community are invalid without the backing of elders. This chapter has examined the ‘reality’ of San José school from the perspective of the lay-missionary teachers. While the Educational Proposal for Madre de Dios talks of adapting the curriculum to suit the reality of the educational context, the question arises as to ‘whose reality?’ From the RESSOP teachers’ point of view, the reality is that of a community desperately in need of change, the main obstacle to which, besides resources, lies in the community itself and its lack of ‘modernity’. The strategy they adopt in order to achieve the desired transformation is to ensure that the school provides as ‘modern’ an environment for the children as possible. This entails the suppression of the Harakmbut language as a legitimate means of communication in the classroom and the exclusion of Arakmbut cultural practices from the educational process. On starting school, the interactive, oral learning context in which Arakmbut children have grown up is rudely interrupted by an authoritative, highly literate and orally restricted formal education. Combining the powerless subjection of the pupils, professorial domination and control of the curriculum, and ritualised teaching techniques, this education is removed from the bilingual and

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bicultural education required by ANPIBAC and advocated by FENAMAD and the indigenous movement worldwide. In the latter, indigenous peoples not only participate at all stages, but also determine what is legitimate knowledge, communication and evaluation. The extent to which the educational reality of San José falls short of this model can be represented schematically in terms of four features which, following Cummins (1986 in Baker 1993), influence whether an education is empowering or ‘disabling’ for minority-language pupils (see Table 4.1). While the San José school has all the characteristics of ‘disabling’ education, there are nevertheless certain processes at work within the community which circumvent the influence of the teachers and the education they promote. As the following chapters illustrate, neither the pupils nor the community as a whole are powerless in the face of the formal education system. Table 4.1: Characteristics of the Educational Environment of San José School (after Cummins in Baker 1993) Characteristics

Empowered minority Disabled minority children children

San Jose children

Home language and culture

Incorporated in the school

Excluded from the school

Excluded from the school

Community participa- Community participa- Community non-par- Community non-partion in children’s tion and collaboration ticipation and exclu- ticipation and excluschooling sion sion Orientation of curric- Interactive and recip- Passive transmission ulum rocal dialogue of knowledge

Passive transmission of an alien world view

Assessment and diag- Poor academic nosis achievement explained in terms of social and educational context

Poor academic achievement explained in terms of the individual and his/her community

Poor academic attainment explained in terms of the individual

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Notes 1. From an Arakmbut boy’s songbook, San Jose School, grade 4. 2. In order to distinguish between the two sets of teachers working in the San José school in 1991/ 1992, I refer to them as ‘1991 teachers’ and ‘1992 teachers’. 3. From an Arakmbut boy’s songbook, San José School, grade 4. 4. From an Arakmbut girl’s ‘Religious studies’ exercise book, San José School.

C 5 An Arakmbut perspective on schooling

The San José teachers found the members of the community uncooperative, unsympathetic and even obstructive, but the community was consistently unanimous in its desire to have a school, particularly a RESSOP school with laymissionary teachers. The community representatives took the people’s concerns about the quality of the school buildings to the FENAMAD congresses and called for the provision of better classrooms, but their preoccupations stopped at improved infrastructure and the continued presence of the lay-missionary teachers. So, when the subject of intercultural education found a place on congress agendas and there was talk of indigenous teachers and Harakmbutlanguage teaching, the Arakmbut from San José were dismissive. The Arakmbut conception of schooling derives from their experience of formal education at the hands of the Dominican missionaries, first at Shintuya and subsequently in the devolved lay-missionary village school. Schooling as they have come to know it is where children are taught Spanish and ‘Peruvian culture’ by Mestizo lay missionaries. The colonists’ school downriver at Boca Colorado confirms them in this idea, which is reinforced by traders and migrants who propound the virtues of schooling as a means of teaching the ‘natives’ to read and write (Boca Colorado colonists, p.c.). The first section of this chapter looks at the aspects of the schooling process with which the San José Arakmbut concern themselves. The second section looks at the way in which, despite their desire for the school, a metaphorical wall has been constructed between the school and the community. Although this wall acts as a barrier to communication between the teachers and community members, its penetrability varies among the different groups within Arakmbut society. The third and final sections consider the degree to which the Arakmbut of San José communicate across the wall in their relations with the teachers.

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5.1 Community perceptions School as a symbol of civilisation In the late 1980s an illegal settlement of traders and gold-workers was established on San José land. The colonists built a school and hired a teacher for their children. Though the Ministry of Education stated it must have Arakmbut approval, the school (and, with it, the settlement) remained. For the non-indigenous families in their riverbank shacks, a school is a prerequisite of their existence. They consider it equally important for the ‘natives’, who could never ‘get on’ without its civilising effect (Mestizo radio operator, Boca Colorado, p.c.). For the Arakmbut, having a school is an important symbol of their equality with the colonists. In the 1970s the people of San José built their own classroom from local, ‘rustic’ materials. After the arrival of RESSOP lay missionaries, a ‘noble’ building was erected by the Ministry of Education according to standard specifications, with a concrete floor, blue walls and a corrugated iron roof (Fig. 3.2). The San José school was no longer inferior to the one in Boca Colorado. By 1991, however, this symbol of the community’s equality was in decay. The Regional government approved money for a new building and, after months of lobbying by the community and FENAMAD, the materials arrived in Boca Colorado. But the Mayor of Boca Colorado had other plans for the corrugated iron, the boxes of nails, and the pots of paint. He would not hand them over, and the contractor therefore could not begin the construction work in San José. The Arakmbut made two futile trips to secure the release of the materials but on both occasions the members of the Municipal Council were too drunk to converse civilly. On the third attempt the Mayor disappeared downriver (he was being sought on corruption charges) and could not be contacted. The Arakmbut then decided to take matters into their own hands. On 1 April, 1992 they broke down the doors to the Municipality offices with battering rams and expropriated the materials. The few Council members present looked on speechless, and the townspeople were struck with a mixture of fear and awe at this act of defiance. The incident illustrates the extremes to which the Arakmbut have to go to secure what is rightfully theirs, as well as the contempt in which local government officials hold them. Their act of defiance left the Arakmbut in fear of reprisals from the military and the police, as well as from the missionaries, whom they knew would interpret their act as a transgression. Nevertheless, their humiliating treatment by the local authorities reinforced their determination to

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have a ‘noble’ school, acquiring which meant achieving justice and equal treatment. At the same time, schooling is itself valued by the Arakmbut as a mark of their recognition by Peruvian society. School as a forum for learning Spanish School, for the Arakmbut, is seen as a place for learning Spanish. Though elders are averse to speaking it, lack of competence in Spanish carries with it the stigma of being ‘uncivilised’ and ‘ignorant’, giving rise to a feeling of inferiority vis-à-vis the wahaipis (Quechua) and amiko (non-indigenous person). At the same time, the Spanish language has the important practical function of facilitating inter-ethnic relations for the Arakmbut. These fall into two main areas: economic activities — in particular gold-panning — and the defence of indigenous rights. While most Arakmbut work gold in extended-family groups, a few employ non-Arakmbut workers (‘peones’), with whom they communicate exclusively in Spanish. Many of the ‘peones’ are Quechua highlanders who can themselves neither read nor write Spanish, and there are no formal contracts between the Arakmbut and the ‘peones’. All communication is oral. When a family sells its gold at the trading post, the younger schooled members act as mediators, translating and reporting the conversation back to the older members of the family, who are making the decisions in Harakmbut. The sale of the gold and the purchase of petrol, foodstuffs and beer are all negotiated verbally. The going exchange rate for gold is chalked up on blackboards outside the canteens and stores which operate the trade and the Arakmbut read these notices or have them read to them. Numeracy in Spanish is learnt at school where the Arakmbut are introduced to mathematical concepts and written arithmetic, but they do all their calculations mentally using methods elaborated in the practical setting of the informal gold economy. The conceptual basis of school numeracy appears to be unrelated to Arakmbut computation (cf. Lave 1988, Nunes 1994). From time to time a travelling salesman arrives at the small village riverside harbour to sell clothes, bread and other foodstuffs. The community is then subjected to a Spanish imbued with flattery, deceit and coercion on the part of the manipulative salesman wanting to sell his wares. Occasionally the salesman comes with a video machine and a portable petrol generator. People squeeze into the largest hut in the community to watch foreign videos, which when they are not unintelligible to them — because they are in English with Spanish subtitles — are in a register of Spanish that is quite different from the halting and

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restricted vocabulary and grammar of many Quechua speakers at Boca Colorado and from the sophisticated Peruvian Spanish of lawyers and the Peninsular Spanish of the priests in Puerto Maldonado. When, as frequently happens, conflicts arise between Arakmbut and wahaipi or amiko over the occupation and ownership of beaches and gold-panning sites, heated altercations occur. The Arakmbut need to be able to argue the legitimacy of their position — in Spanish — and challenge that of the invaders. This in turn requires an understanding of existing legislation, such as the Law of Native Communities and the regulations on mining, all of which exists only in Spanish and is understood by only a few members of the community. Social interaction through the medium of Spanish is overwhelmingly oral but there are occasions which call for reading and writing. In its dealings with the Municipal Council at Boca Colorado, the community acts through its elected office-bearers — the Community President, Secretary and Treasurer. These men (there have been no women to date) all have some schooling and a degree of fluency in spoken Spanish. Nevertheless, the schoolteachers’ help is often elicited in order to explain official letters and compose replies or invitations. The teachers know the formal language of the bureaucratic letter; they know the rules of this particular literacy practice, in which the Arakmbut know that they themselves are unversed (cf. Baynham 1995, Skar 1994). Spanish also serves as a lingua franca among the seventeen language groups encompassed by FENAMAD, making it all the more important for at least some members of each community to be conversant in it. The Federation sends letters and directives to the member communities, assists them in their campaigns for the recognition of their rights both as indigenous people and citizens and helps with the composition of oral depositions and written documents. The Eori Centre, a non-governmental support organisation in Puerto Maldonado has provided professional legal advice and technical help in cases where specialist skills are required, for example in drafting a letter to the Ministry of Transport concerning the registration of Arakmbut canoes for use on the rivers. From the standpoint of the community, then, the school’s role is to teach the children to speak and read Spanish. Thus enabled, the Arakmbut hope to achieve parity in their dealings with the colonists, whether these concern business relations or the boundary between the community and illegal settlers. They do not question whether the school carries out its task competently, or the extent to which it is the most appropriate forum for this task.

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School as a forum for writing Although the members of San José want their children to learn Spanish, their interest in how this is achieved appears to go no further than ensuring that they attend school when possible and that, while they are in attendance, there is a roof over their heads to keep off the sun and the rain. Adults and parents make no mention of other skills or knowledge which they expect the school to impart. Nevertheless, the Arakmbut have clear notions about what is legitimate teaching and learning. The Harakmbut terms for school, for learning and for the activities that take place inside it are formed from the root word e’mandoya, which traditionally refers to the linear or graphic representations used by the Arakmbut in their body-decoration and pottery designs. With the advent of schooling and the demise of body-painting since their move to Shintuya in the 1950s, the word e’mandoya has been coined for ‘writing’ and e’mamboya for ‘drawing’. E’mandoya (noun: omandoya) has also become synonymous with schooling as the Arakmbut experienced it in Shintuya and other mission schools. A person who attends school is a wamandoyeri, someone who sits in a classroom at a desk and follows instructions to write. Schooling is not considered to include football or volleyball outside the classroom, and mothers remove their children from school if they discover them engaged in physical games. E’mandoya is a cerebral activity that lacks the connotations of productivity attaching to physical work (e’mba’a), such as clearing gardens and working gold, or skilled work (e’ka’a), such as hunting, fishing and sexual activity. The successful performance of the e’mandoya activity is predominantly seen in terms of passing written tests and exams and moving from one grade to the next at the end of each academic year. If children fail grades it is because they have missed school and not had enough e’mandoya. When told at the end of term that her ten-year-old son would have to repeat grade 3, one mother said that she was to blame as she had taken him out of school to accompany the family to their gold camp. The boy had not had sufficient exposure to the general e’mandoya process, irrespective of the particular lessons he had missed.1 When asked what their children learn at school, most parents answer in terms of passing or failing grades. Some parents say that they do not know what their children learn, while others — usually those whose children have repeated first and second grades several times — say that they learn nothing. On the whole, the Arakmbut do not comment on their children’s schooling, except in the

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case of the initial class for children aged 3–5: mothers withdraw their children soon after enrolment, in the belief that it is too early for them to be away from them. School as synonymous with authority and control At an end-of-year school performance of Little Red Riding Hood attended, the student playing the wolf was shy and spoke her words quietly. In the middle of the performance the teacher stormed up to the child, hauled her across the floor by the shoulder and commanded her to talk more loudly. The parents nevertheless consider this behaviour acceptable. E’mandoya is an activity which reinforces the teacher’s authority and control. Although parents are unconcerned about the details of the schooling to which their children are subjected in the classroom, they are not unaware of what goes on in school. Almost all parents have themselves been to a Dominican mission school, and they are reluctant to talk about it. Those who did venture to recall their schooling spoke only of corporal punishment and indignities suffered. They had experienced humiliation in a place where everything concerning their culture and society had been belittled. Quickly labelled as failures, the majority had dropped out and had not allowed the school to impinge upon their lives thereafter. One woman, for example, acknowledged having been to mission school, but could not remember when or where, so effectively had she erased the memory of those unpleasant years (at Shintuya school) and so remote had the experience been from her subsequent life. Even as parents, the Arakmbut encounter authoritarianism and cultural discrimination at school. At the closing ceremony of the 1991 academic year in San José, approximately 60 per cent of the parents attended — after a long delay while their children were sent to fetch them. At the meeting the Director aired her disapproval of the parents who were not in attendance by admonishing those present whom she also took the opportunity to harangue for not paying the debts they had accrued for pencils and exercise books — a sum amounting to between 50 and 80 Soles (50–80 US$) for a family with several children in school. The Arakmbut sat huddled together at one end of the ‘noble’ classroom, with the teachers behind a desk and a folder of papers presiding at the opposite end of the room. After her speech the Director handed out each grade’s pass and fail certificates to the parents. The academic success or failure of the community’s children was entirely at the discretion of the teachers. The teachers derive authority from the belief that they are the exponents of a superior knowledge system. Theirs is the knowledge espoused by the dominant

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decision-making sectors of Peruvian society, including the Catholic Church and it sets an unimpeachable standard against which to compare all other forms of knowledge (cf. Young 1971: 32). Both in the classroom and in the community at large, the teachers’ task is to assert this ‘superior knowledge’ and exert ideological hegemony over the Arakmbut, whose world-view they openly deride. At the same time the teachers’ authority is complemented by the sense of moral and spiritual superiority which their religious calling instils in them. They consider it their duty to voice their disapproval of the Arakmbut lifestyle, condemning the diet, the hygiene, the curing methods (such as treating snakebites by dehydrating the patient) and, above all what they perceive as pre-marital promiscuity and a high incidence of marital separation. They talk of the Harakmbut language as a dialect — thereby perpetuating the myth that the Amazon languages are dialects of Quechua rather than languages in their own right — and reduce the culture to a limited set of ‘customs’ and ‘beliefs’. As a result of this onslaught on their socio-cultural life and their language, the Arakmbut — both parents and adults in general — avoid entering the school as much as they avoid talking about it. The school is the teachers’ physical and intellectual domain — symbolised by the fact that it is they who hold the key to its padlocked door — and their avoidance of contact with either is a refusal of the subordinate position in which such contact puts them. Inevitably, the parents’ non-participative attitude towards their children’s schooling contributes to the children’s disempowerment in the classroom.

5.2 Communication between teachers and community As representatives of what Althusser calls an ‘ideological state apparatus’ (Callinicos 1976: 64), the teachers’ relationship with the Arakmbut, as members of an egalitarian society, is based on misunderstanding and miscommunication. Apart from looking after the fabric of the school building, the community is expected to take part in the annual fund-raising event for the school, the kermis. For the Arakmbut the kermis is an occasion to invite other communities to play football, buy food and dance to imported music. It is also a focus of friction between the community and the teachers. In October 1991 the teachers in San José began to plan the annual kermis and called a parents’ meeting. Those who did not have children of school age were therefore excluded, including the President, and were angry and announced

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that the kermis would be run by the community office-bearers rather than by the teachers and it would raise funds for the community rather than for the school. The teachers decided accordingly that, like the other women in San José, they would make and sell food. This would earn them their fare downriver at the end of term. To their dismay, however, the sale of food for their own profit outraged the entire community. The President seized the opportunity to order them to leave San José but, as support for the expulsion order was not unanimous, particularly among the teachers’ compadres, the teachers declined to go. Nevertheless, they were deeply unsettled by the community’s reaction which they interpreted as a display of greed and insensitivity and as evidence of the Arakmbut’s lack of appreciation of the great efforts and sacrifices that they, the teachers, felt they made to keep the school running on the community’s behalf. The incident, which resulted in increased tensions between the teachers and the President’s extended family, illustrates the complex relations which have developed between the Arakmbut and the missionaries over their forty years of contact. These relations, which are now played out between community and the lay-missionary teachers, are typified by a gulf in communication, divergent interpretations of behaviour and conflicting perspectives on the teachers’ role in San José. The community perceives them as continuing the authoritarian tradition of the Dominican mission enterprise. Their material possessions — a diocesan short wave radio and a supply of imported food, antibiotics and first aid equipment — are indicative to the Arakmbut of a financial wealth and a purchasing power far in excess of their own. Their pleas of poverty are therefore incomprehensible to community members, particularly in view of the image that the teachers present of themselves as role models for the benefits of civilisation and capitalist development — a model which the Arakmbut have to emulate in order to achieve salvation (Wahl 1987) — and particularly also in view of the deference they are shown by traders and colonists at Boca Colorado. The teachers never cease to remind the community of the generosity of the diocese. For example, a supply of flour and dried peas that arrived was presented as being ‘due to the Padre who had kindly taken the trouble to procure it for the schoolchildren’ (Y. Guzmán, p.c.). As far as the Arakmbut are concerned, though, the Dominicans have been associated with occasional hand-outs since Padre Alvarez lured them from their longhouses with gifts of clothes, knives and tobacco in the 1950s. What they find inexplicable is that the teachers present them with bills for the exercise books and pencils their children use in school. According to Arakmbut principles of exchange, a person who gives acquires

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prestige. Traditionally, a hunter distributes his meat and gains prestige in his clan and in the community. The more he has to distribute, the more generous he can be and the greater are his reputation as a hunter and his standing in the community. Today an Arakmbut who finds a relatively productive gold-panning area will spend his gold on beer for the community. This ‘potlatch’ approach to material wealth, besides acting as a levelling mechanism among extended families, is one of the few ways of achieving status in Arakmbut society.2 (The shaman too earns respect, but in his or her case it is through the provision not of material goods, but through his services as a curer.) Because of the gifts they bring — clothes, food, blessings, Christenings, western medicines, the school itself — the Dominicans are accorded prestige, status and respect. The Arakmbut receive their offerings and make what use of them they can. Few pass up the chance to have their children baptised, as some tangible benefit may accrue from it in the future. And western medicines are willingly accepted — as it were, on approval: if they fail to cure an illness it is because the illness was not caused by God and its cure is therefore beyond the power of God’s medicines; consequently both the cause and the cure must be sought within the realm of the Arakmbut invisible world. The school is another of the Dominicans’ ‘gifts’, an initially unsolicited but now integral part of their presence in the Arakmbut world, for whom there is no reason to suppose that it will cease to be provided: if there are problems with the teachers, then the Diocese will send new ones. The Dominicans introduced the Arakmbut to ‘civilisation’ and have given them access to ‘modern Peruvian society’ through the school and Spanish-language teaching. The Arakmbut consider it their right to have been educated out of their perceived state of former savagery, which the missionaries so oppose and which is now distasteful to the Arakmbut themselves. At the kermis, then, it appeared to the community that the teachers were reneging on their obligations by becoming takers rather than givers. Although they do not give with the same magnanimity as the padres and the Bishop, and are consequently accorded less status by the community, the teachers are visibly better-off than the Arakmbut: for one thing, they receive a government salary. If, then, they behave as equals and compete with the women of the community in the sale of food, they must ‘potlatch’ with the community and redistribute their wealth. The Arakmbut’s sensitivity with regard to money is complicated by the control that the Dominicans have exercised over their money matters, from determining the wages they used to earn for logging in Shintuya (Fuentes 1982;

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Wahl 1987) to waiving their annual school registration fee. The Dominicans claim to be acting ‘on behalf of the natives’, but the Arakmbut’s lack of direct control over their financial transactions and the monetary results of their labours has over the years incubated the suspicion among them that they are the victims of exploitation by missionaries and lay-missionary teachers alike.

5.3 Arakmbut relations with the teachers By emphasising the superiority of Peruvian culture and by denying the legitimacy of Arakmbut knowledge, the teachers have contributed to the construction of a barrier between the school and the community. All that is Arakmbut is kept out of the school in order to make it a focus for all that is ‘modern’ and ‘good’, where teaching is unhampered by Arakmbut cultural practices. The high blank walls of the building represent this barrier separating the two cultural domains the school domain within, characterised by hierarchical relations and mechanisms of control, and the Arakmbut domain without.3 As Chapter 4 illustrated, the teachers see their educational task as encompassing also the adult members of the community, through the transformation of their socio-cultural practices and relations. Here, though, the teachers’ efforts are frustrated by the community’s unwillingness to co-operate, just as the missionaries in Shintuya failed in their attempts to change the Arakmbut into peasant farmers and persuade them to ‘cast aside their sinful and immoral ways and heathen beliefs’ (Misiones Dominicanas n.d.). Today, the adults in San José limit their encounters with the school domain in the same way that, in the past, they left the overwhelming confines of Shintuya mission. The Arakmbut have only a limited need for what the school and the teachers offer them. Unlike societies which are more integrated into the capitalist system, they do not see education in terms of future employment opportunities, as a means of escaping unemployment or low-status work. The ability to support a family and gain respect is achieved not through skills acquired at school, but through mechanisms in the Arakmbut cultural domain. Nor is the school, or the knowledge it offers, necessary to them as a source of community cohesion, as it is, for example in communities of mixed ethnicity on the Lower Urubamba, where the school — together with the community land titles — constitutes the main focus of community organisation (Gow 1988). Gow describes how the members of Santa Clara community, which is part-

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Ashaninka, part-Piro and part-Mestizo, consider themselves ‘native people’ in contrast to communities living more traditional lives away from the main riverways, whom they refer to as ‘forest people’ or ‘wild Indians’. The Dominican school provides a monolingual (Spanish-language) education concerned exclusively with knowledge from ‘outside’. Such knowledge is considered to be particularly powerful, above all when it comes from Europe and the USA, whence the Dominican and SIL missionaries originate. With a history of centuries of exploitation and enslavement (a threat which still hangs over many people in the region), these ‘native people’ equate a lack of ‘civilised outside knowledge’ with the possibility of further enslavement, as well as with the danger of attack from demons. Schooling is therefore important because it “represents the transformation of children in Native Communities from a potential condition of relative ignorance (like their parents or grandparents) to a condition of knowledge like white people” (Gow 1988: 286). For the Arakmbut, in contrast, schooling, though important, is not in itself capable of producing a complete Arakmbut person (see Chapter 7). It is a ritual in which it is necessary to participate in order, like the peoples described by Gow, to achieve a state of knowledge like that of white people and so gain acceptance within the national society rather than be treated as ignorant social outcasts. Once this often unpleasant ritual is over (and it need not take more than a couple of years), the state of knowledge is achieved and schooling is of no further importance. It is through their relations with resident peones and with colonists and traders at Boca Colorado, as well as through FENAMAD and the Eori Centre in Puerto Maldonado, that the Arakmbut learn about the dominant society surrounding them and about how to survive in it. As mentioned in the last chapter, the school curriculum and learning environment are divorced not only from the reality of the children’s lives but also from the reality of the wider, non-indigenous society of Madre de Dios. The barrier dividing the school domain from the community domain in San José is partly the teachers’ creation but the extent to which their influence crosses it is decided by the community. Whereas the Arakmbut rarely enter the school and have no interest in impinging on its domain, the teachers move freely in both domains but they have none of the influence in the community domain that they would sorely like to have. Having helped construct the ‘wall’, they are at a loss as to how to breach it. The Arakmbut have never been passive pawns in the Dominican civilising scheme, and the missionaries themselves admit that forty years of formal

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schooling and proselytisation have had little effect on them (M. Fernández, p.c.). Although in Shintuya the Arakmbut quickly abandoned their public rituals and assumed the overt signs of ‘civilisation’, the missionaries, enveloped in their ‘superior knowledge’, did not perceive that a more profound cultural reality remained unchanged. The Arakmbut wish to participate in Peruvian society, and they see schooling as the means of doing so, but this does not mean becoming Peruvian at the expense of being Arakmbut. Arakmbut relations with the teachers Although all the members of San José maintain the wall which limits the power of the teachers to the school domain, their relationships with the teachers are not uniform. In March 1992 the young President and Secretary of the community took the opportunity to visit the RESSOP office in Puerto Maldonado and formulate a letter denouncing the teachers and asking for their removal. Most of the community was unaware of this action and the different reactions within the community correspond to three types of relationship that Arakmbut families and individuals in San José have with the teachers: the first comprises a small subgroup of the teachers’ staunchest supporters; the second and largest subgroup comprises those who have very little to do with the school or with the teachers; and the third is formed of an inchoate but growing number of young people who do not support the teachers. Subgroup 1. The people who give the teachers most support are predominantly their compadres, of whom there were eleven in San José (19 per cent of the adult population) during the 1991 academic year. The teachers’ compadres were the Arakmbut with the most formal education, in particular a core group of former Dominican-boarding-school students now in their late 30s or their 40s, who had been nurtured for, and encouraged to take on, leadership roles in the community under the supervision of the missionaries. After completing their primary schooling, these young adults returned to the community to manage relations with the colonists and gold-miners, sizeable numbers of whom had begun to move into the region. It was they who introduced the community to gold-panning in the 1970s and who have since experimented with other, less successful ventures such as carpentry and animal husbandry, with pigs, sheep and cattle included among the animals they have kept. They also assumed official positions in the community leadership structure when San José was recognised as a legally constituted Native Community in 1986, two of their number having

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already been elected to positions in FENAMAD when it was formed in 1982. More recently members of this leadership group have been happy to pass on their responsibilities to elected younger representatives. They find that holding office does not bring the kind of prestige that is customary within the community, which comes from giving (e’iok), from knowing (e’nopwe) — knowing about the species of the forest and river — and from applying this knowledge in production activities, in curing, or in entertaining with songs and stories (as discussed in the next chapter). On the contrary, holding office brings hardship. It means the office-holders having to pay out of their own pocket for trips to Puerto Maldonado in order to represent the community and attend to issues arising over community land. And it means their finding themselves under pressure from individuals and organisations making demands on them, demands to which they are unable to respond because they are not sanctioned by the elders to make decisions on behalf of the community. Their position as officebearers is non-executive — like a Ministry of Foreign Affairs responsible for outside relations but unable to take important decisions (T. Moore, p.c.). It is these members of the community who are most positively disposed towards the missionaries and the teachers. They are sympathetic towards the aims of the school and provide a certain measure of parental back-up for the teachers. They also have the most contact with the teachers, often going to their house to listen to the Dominican network shortwave radio. And yet, although they strongly disapproved of the denunciation of the teachers and demanded their reinstatement when replacements were sent, their relations with the Dominicans in general are ambiguous. Praise for a certain padre’s fairness, for example, is combined with protests about the way they were forced to attend church or threatened with beatings, ‘when they were only recently civilised’ (T. Quique, p.c.). The dependency which boarding school fostered between pupils and padres, who in some cases acted in loco parentis, has left the ex-alumni with often conflicting emotions regarding those associated with the Diocese. Subgroup 2. Among the non-committal members of the community there are also former Shintuya school students but, unlike those in subgroup 1, these exstudents were not sent to boarding school, but stayed with their families in the missions, eventually dropping out or being rejected by the school. The subgroup, which comprises 31 individual (53 per cent of the adult population of San José), also includes the generation of Arakmbut who were considered too old to attend school when they arrived in Shintuya. Among the latter are found the most

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skilled and respected curers and story-tellers in the community. The individuals in this group have at best only a rudimentary grasp of Spanish, and their inability or unwillingness to speak the language limits their communication with the teachers. They receive no benefits from the lay missionaries in terms of imported items: on the one hand because they have little money with which to buy consumer goods and, on the other, because they lack favour with the teachers, who are better disposed to members of subgroup 1. Furthermore, they lack the means with which to curry favour, should they want to, such as the ability to service the diocesan generator or offer transportation for the teachers to Boca Colorado in a motorised canoe. One woman in this subgroup is a comadre to the 1991 Director, but this neither influenced her attitude to the teachers in general nor brought her any favoured status. The members of this subgroup are the most traditional in terms of their economic practices. They do also pan some gold but — to an even greater extent than members of the other two subgroups, all of whom are liable to be cheated and manipulated by cunning merchants — they are inexperienced at managing trade relations. They are most at risk, for example, of paying merchants an inflated price for a motor pump for gold-panning, falling behind with the payments and having it repossessed. Subgroup 3. Those in San José who are unsupportive of the teachers form a heterogeneous subgroup of 16 young adults (28 per cent of the adult population). This contingent draws together many of the young men and women who have attended the community school, particularly those who were pupils under the 1991 Director. A few have also had a year or more of secondary schooling in Puerto Maldonado or in the Dominican school in Sepahua. Several are young parents, but, since their children are not of school age, they tend to be excluded from parents’ meetings even though the majority of the community’s elected office-bearers are men of this subgroup. Unlike the generation above them (subgroup 1), these younger members of the community feel no particular allegiance to the Dominicans and have no strong emotional ties with them. Many still have parents alive among the community’s elders (subgroup 2), and they respect their parents’ knowledge and skills. At the same time they are more at ease in the presence of the settlers in Boca Colorado, both because they are heavily reliant on gold-panning as a source of income and because their oral and sometimes written skills in Spanish and mathematics enable them to participate in the regional gold economy. Many of

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the men contract peones to work for them in their gold camps, though their takings are rarely enough to offset their expenses in terms of salaries, food and petrol for the water pumps. Consequently, they are looking for new economic alternatives to the waning gold, such as logging and cattle-raising. But their social and economic relations with wahaipi belie their eagerness to learn from their parents, which is apparent from their growing knowledge of the forest and the spirit world, and of Arakmbut culture in general. Unlike the men, the women in this group display a lack of enthusiasm for the skills they acquired at school. Their lives are conducted almost entirely in the community domain and opportunities for using their basic oral Spanish and numeracy are limited to occasional trips with their extended families to Boca Colorado. (Marita, described in Chapter 8, is illustrative of women in this subgroup.) Their contact with the teachers is limited and uneasy, owing to the fact that the teachers relate to them as former girl pupils, whereas within Arakmbut society they are adults and mothers (see Aikman n.d.). The same uneasiness characterises relationships between the teachers and the young men of this subgroup. San José comprises, then, three subgroups, defined on the basis of their attitude towards the teachers, the missionaries and the school (see Table 5.1). Schooling has produced a small cluster of families who have been motivated by the mission vision of ‘development’ and ‘progress’ to try out various moneymaking schemes that involve them in the capitalist market (subgroup 1). In the 1970s this subgroup comprised a strong, cohesive body and occupied important leadership roles within the structure of the legally constituted Native Community. Today its members are seeking recognition in the Arakmbut domain, on the basis of cultural skills and knowledge acquired from the older generation (subgroup 2). They have handed over all responsibility for the ‘Peruvian domain’ to members of subgroup 3, the younger generation, who are prepared to take on the dubious honour of holding office. This third subgroup is predominantly occupied with gold-panning but the young men are looking for alternatives to this ailing economy — and they do so without forming alliances with the school or the Church. Critical of the members of subgroup 1, whom they accuse of having done only what the teachers told them to do when they were community officials, and exasperated at the control they feel the teachers continue to wield through compadrazgo, the younger adults in the community say they are trying to break the community’s dependence on the missionaries and lay-missionary teachers.

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Table 5.1: Different relationships with teachers Subgroup 1

Subgroup 2

Subgroup 3

Boarding school education

Little or no school education Community school education

Adult generation

Elders

Young adults

Supportive of the teachers

Non-committal towards teachers

Unsupportive of the teachers

5.4 The politics of education in San José As an aid to survival in San José, the 1991 teachers had adopted the political strategy of forming alliances within the community, first and foremost through relations of ritual kinship (compadrazgo) with those members of the community most disposed towards schooling (see Chapter 4). Predictably, the denunciation of the teachers gave rise among their compadres to a conflict of allegiance. The main focus of the denunciation made by the President and Secretary was a perceived lack of general co-ordination between the teachers and the community: the teachers were accused of co-ordinating with only one extended family (from subgroup 1). They were also accused of various other misdemeanours: mistreating children, favouring the children of their compadres in school and manipulating their end-of-year marks in their favour, accepting bribes of string bags to help certain children find places a secondary school and taking community funds and donations. It was also resented that the teachers spent most of their time in the company of wahaipis, including gold-panners, shop-keepers and influential traders: that is, the very people who were exploiting the Arakmbut and competing with them for land and resources. The teachers considered the accusations to be unjust and unsubstantiated and, on their arrival in the community before the beginning of the new academic year, in March 1992, they demanded a meeting. Each accusation would be addressed and refuted, and a document exonerating the teachers would be drawn up and signed by the community — in the presence of the RESSOP Supervisor, who was accompanying the teachers, and a new RESSOP teacher who was destined for Puerto Luz. After waiting most of the afternoon, a meeting was eventually convened towards dusk. It took place in the school and began with the community

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Secretary reading out the list of complaints in both Spanish and Harakmbut. The teachers, who sat with pen and paper recording the proceedings, demanded dates of concrete incidents to back up the accusations. On many of the points no specific evidence was forthcoming, but the President and Secretary seemed unconcerned. The teachers, hurt to the quick by accusations from those whom they considered to be young upstarts (subgroup 3 men), tried to prompt and then bully their compadres into refuting the charges. In certain cases the compadres rallied round and defended the teachers: for example, against the charge that they were exploiting gold at the expense of the community. But they were reluctant to speak out and directly contradict members of their own kin groups and, as the meeting progressed, they increasingly limited themselves to inaudible murmurs in Harakmbut. Exasperated with their lack of support and with the way the meeting was going, the Director got angrily to her feet and declaimed against what she saw as the weak moral fibre of the community: there were individuals in San José, she declared, who had themselves been guilty in the past of the offences of which she was now being accused, such as the misappropriation of school funds. At this point some of the older men began to leave. Since the meeting was predominantly in Spanish, they comprehended only the spectacle of the Director shouting at the top of her voice at different members of the community. When the younger men found that the Director was trying to turn the tables on them, some of them too got up and left. Then the women began to steer their children out of the school. The Director, feeling her ‘high moral ground’ slipping away, lost her last shred of self-control and threatened violence on some young members of the community. At this point the main body of her supporters, her compadres, walked out of the classroom and the meeting collapsed without the teachers having achieved what they had come for — a document denying the charges. Instead they had succeeded in testing the limits of their compadrazgo alliances and found their breaking-point. The teachers had to admit defeat and leave San José, bitterly shaken. They headed upstream to Puerto Luz, while the teacher destined for the school there replaced them in San José. The President and Secretary, on the other hand, had carried out a coup visà-vis the teachers’ compadres. They had written and presented the denunciation in Puerto Maldonado without consulting the community, because they were secure in the knowledge that they were voicing a growing dissatisfaction with the teachers among members of subgroups 2 and 3. Knowing, though, that they would meet with fierce opposition from the teachers’ compadres in subgroup 1,

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they had proceeded without informing them. The incident illustrates how the tensions and frictions between the two domains can affect relations among the Arakmbut themselves. Behind the extreme and unsubstantiated accusations against the teachers lay the fundamental problem of the unequal relations which they fostered with different groups in the community. When the Director called on her compadres to stand up and support her against other members of the community they abandoned her because she was asking them to allow their allegiance to her to override the clan and kin relations that unite the Arakmbut and ultimately take priority over relationships with non-Arakmbut. The teachers had failed to see that the exaggerated charges levied against them by the vocal element of the opposition were symptoms of a more pervasive malaise arising from the fact that their relations with their compadres were causing tensions within the Arakmbut domain. Their compadres could not defend them if doing so meant realigning relations within the community, as this would be to subject the community to control from the ‘Peruvian domain’. This chapter has viewed the school and the teachers from the perspective of the community members, in order to complement the picture painted in the previous chapter of teachers struggling to ‘educate’ the uncooperative and unruly Arakmbut. Here the Arakmbut emerge as neither unruly nor dominated, as independent and organised, acting to control the influence that the teachers have over their lives. The school itself is considered an essential part of community life today by all members of San José, symbolically providing prestige for the community vis-à-vis the surrounding non-indigenous settlements. It was with the teachers rather than with the institution of the school itself that the majority of the community was dissatisfied at the end of the school year in 1991; accordingly it was new teachers rather than control over the running of the school that the Arakmbut demanded. In so far as the curriculum is concerned, the teachers understand valid knowledge as being enshrined in the written word of massproduced national schoolbooks, supplemented by the written word of the bible. And learning is evaluated by means of written tests or by word-for-word regurgitation in the case of orally transmitted information. Such an education, based on authoritarian Spanish-language pedagogy, is believed in Madre de Dios to symbolise civilised modernity. Its only relevance for the Arakmbut, though, is that it is an opportunity for them to learn to read and write in Spanish — which, as Hornberger (1988, 1989b) notes for highland Quechua communities, reinforces the school’s character as a non-indigenous island within the community. Parents do not question or evaluate the school’s effectiveness in facilitating the use of

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Spanish, because the Arakmbut’s historical experience of Dominican schooling has resulted in a situation where the value of schooling is mainly in the attendance. A limited period of attendance is a rite de passage to becoming (ideally) part of the national society: that is, to being recognised as ‘civilised people’ with a ‘modern consciousness’.

Notes 1. Christie notes a similar approach to schooling among Australian Aboriginal children, whose school learning differs from that of non-Aboriginal children: ‘The three most recommended ways to achieve this [academic success] are to attend school regularly, sit quietly and listen constantly to the teacher. […] Ongoing physical presence at school (regardless of participation), was seen as primary’ (cited in Harris 1990:5). 2. The term ‘potlatch’ is employed by indigenous peoples on the north-west coast of Canada and refers to a form of ceremonial gift-exchange related to the display of rank. I use it here in the broad sense of a vehicle for redistributing resources (wealth and food) in an uncertain environment (cf. Seymour-Smith, C. 1987). 3. The term ‘domain’ is used here to show how the conflicting world-views held by the teachers and the community relate to each other in San José. In an Australian Aboriginal context Harris likens moving between the two corresponding cultural domains to ‘walking through a door’ (Harris 1989:8).

C 6 Arakmbut knowledge

It transpires from the picture so far presented of formal education in San José, and of the community’s response to it, that the Arakmbut’s schooling falls a long way short of fulfilling the acculturative agendas of Church and State. To confine this study, though, to the narrow system of teaching within the school domain is to look at only a small portion of an Arakmbut child’s education, understood in the broad sense of the ‘gradual process by which a person gains knowledge and understanding through learning’ (Collins Cobuild Dictionary 1987). In order more fully to grasp this process we have also to consider the child’s out-of-school learning environment, including the intercultural context of traders’ shops and stalls on the banks of the river Karene and in Boca Colorado. This chapter therefore broadens the picture of Arakmbut education by considering it as an aspect of the Arakmbut cultural domain. It is through the informal transmission of cultural knowledge that an Arakmbut child develops a sense of his or her cultural identity: by virtue of his/her participation in, and identification with, the cultural consciousness of the community, he/she internalises a distinct concept of it (cf. Brock and Tulasiewicz 1985: 4). A distinction must be made at the outset between the community as a context for ‘out-of-school’ learning and the community as the locus for learning ‘without school’. In the former the teaching and learning processes that apply in the two domains — school and community — may differ but they are based in a common epistemology. Arakmbut education, in contrast, is premised on fundamentally different epistemological conceptions, different views of the world. The Arakmbut do not have a word for ‘education’ but, as Walsh (1993: 18) argues, we can justify our use of the term on the grounds that we are starting out from their own explanation of their actions. Furthermore, we are not suggesting that they do not have the constituents of the concept ‘but that they do not put them together into a single range of meaning marked by a single term’ (ibid. 33). Various authors have distinguished between formal and informal learning

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contexts on the basis of the teaching methods employed and the student’s relationship with the knowledge acquired (see Scribner and Cole 1973, Au and Jordan 1981, Amodio 1989). The distinction is pertinent to San José inasmuch as a characteristically informal education in the community contrasts with the formal schooling considered above, but this does not imply that the school constitutes the formal part of Arakmbut learning, because Arakmbut learning does not divide into two — formal or informal — components. The formal, institutional learning which the school provides exists alongside the community domain, without being part of it (cf. Amodio 1989). In the San José school the lay-missionary teacher determines what is learned, why and how it is learned. Unlike informal learning, school learning is devoid of any meaningful, motivating reference to life outside the school, making for an education in a vacuum unrelated to the children’s non-school experiences. Christie (1985), working with Aboriginal peoples of Australia, makes the distinction between purposeful learning behaviour, induced by formal schooling, and the meaningful learning behaviour stimulated by the informal system of Aboriginal education. Purposeful learning behaviour in the San José school is oriented towards reading and writing; the meaningful learning behaviour of community-based education contributes towards maintaining what Christie calls the ‘meaningfulness of one’s life’. This chapter is concerned with elucidating the meaningfulness of Arakmbut education in terms of the distinctive cultural identity and world-view that it develops among the learners. The divergent conceptualisations of reality encompassed by Arakmbut and western world-views have important epistemological consequences. Whereas western knowledge has, since the time of Plato, been compartmentalised into subjects — from mathematics and philosophy to music — that are considered to have an internal logic and coherence of their own (see Holmes and McLean 1989), there is a holistic interrelatedness to all aspects of Arakmbut knowledge. Conceptual distinctions between practical and theoretical knowledge, or between religious and secular knowledge, do not apply, because there is a common thread running throughout all areas of Arakmbut ‘science’, which is the spiritual dimension. The Arakmbut life in an unpredictable, recalcitrant world that they seek to understand and control by constantly submitting it to a process of cultural interpretation. It is this understanding that their education imparts, not for the sake of betterment, progress, or development, but for the sake of balance. Arakmbut knowledge is geared towards maintaining a balance between the visible and invisible worlds, or between the Arakmbut themselves and the spirits

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that have control over their health and nutrition, at the level of the individual and of the community. Notwithstanding the holistic interrelatedness of Arakmbut knowledge, it is structured on the basis of gender, age, marital status, residence (maloca-group affiliation), and clan affiliation. For example, men and women have access to different bodies of knowledge: men develop an understanding of the forest and the river that relates to their hunting and fishing activities; women develop knowledge and expertise in relation to their work in the garden and the forest, where they cultivate domestic crops and gather wild plants and fruits, respectively. The Arakmbut all belong to one or other of the seven clans into which their society is divided, and their clan membership defines the relationships they have both with other members of the community and with the faunal species in their environment. In order to discover what it is that the Arakmbut learn, we begin by studying their three principal myths, through which it is possible to catch a glimpse of their view of the world. The following sections examine the life cycle and the link between knowledge — its acquisition and its use — and the different stages of life, from maturity to old age. The final section is a case study that contextualises Arakmbut knowledge by illustrating its practical application in a sociocultural setting.

6.1 An Arakmbut view of the world The Arakmbut of San José have three long myths — Wanamey, Marinke and Aiwe — which, they say, provide an insight into their social life, their culture and their relations with non-indigenous people, respectively (Gray 1996). Wanamey is about the beginning of time, when order was created out of chaos. The narrative takes its name from a huge tree which arose out of the ground and provided shelter for the Arakmbut when a fireflood covered the earth. Once the fireflood had receded, the tree disappeared and a woodpecker introduced the Arakmbut to the forested world which awaited them. The woodpecker named the rivers where the Arakmbut find fish and game animals, such as tapir and peccary, as well as fertile land for growing crops of manioc, plantains and sugar cane. It also stole fire from the invisible world of the spirits and gave it to the Arakmbut so that they could cook. The Arakmbut then divided into seven clans and went downriver to make their communal houses, to fish, to hunt and to make

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axes with which to clear gardens. The Arakmbut clans are exogamous and patrilineal: each person belongs to the clan of his/her father. Clan members all descend from a common ancestor in the time of the Wanamey tree, giving them a shared sense of solidarity. Their unity, moreover is physiological, since each child is conceived of as evolving from an accumulation of semen in the clan line, transmitted by the father. Clan members are thus related as parts of a whole, yet at the same time they are individually differentiated because the mother’s womb moulds each child’s specific appearance. Political alliances within a community are often organised along clan lines, with an extended family of brothers and their wives living and working closely together and sharing meat from the hunt among themselves. In addition to structuring social and political relations within the community, the clan system also impinges on Arakmbut cosmology: each clan has a relationship with a particular forest or river species, and this has a bearing on its members’ view of the world. Arakmbut social life is also organised around the kin group, which comprises all of a person’s close paternal and maternal relatives, though not his or her spouse’s family. The kin group therefore cuts across clan boundaries constituting a social unit that is between the clan and the household. It is with members of these three groups — the household, the kindred and the clan — that an Arakmbut has close daily contact. Gender is a fundamental aspect of the Arakmbut division of labour, which rests on the complementarity of men and women in activities such as the production, preparation and consumption of food (Aikman n.d.). Women plant and tend the swidden gardens and cook the food which the men bring from the forest or river. Raw meat is potentially dangerous because of the animal spirit matter which it contains, and the women’s role in transforming it is therefore crucial, both because food nurtures and sustains the household and because it is considered vital for building up a person’s physical and spiritual identity. The second Arakmbut myth, Marinke, is concerned with the life of the culture hero Marinke, from his conception to the time of his escape from the visible world when he is chased to the sky by jaguars. A narrative about growth, it follows Marinke’s life from infancy to boyhood, when he accompanies his grandmother to the garden. As he grows more and becomes a young man, he ventures further from the community and the security of his home. He grows in independence and maturity until, when he reaches manhood, he is capable of hunting and forming relations with animals and spirits. The myth tells how

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Marinke goes out to hunt jaguars, but such carnivores are dangerous and he relies on the help of non-carnivorous animals to keep him alive. The third myth, Aiwe (or ‘Papas’), concerns the Arakmbut’s relations with the non-Arakmbut world of the amiko. The Papas are cannibals who dress in white, carry machetes, attack the Arakmbut and capture their children. Different Harakmbut-speaking communities link the Papas with one or other of the coloniser populations of the past: the Incas, the Spaniards or at the turn-of-thecentury the rubber barons. Today’s amiko in Madre de Dios — the gold-panners and patrones — differ inasmuch as the Arakmbut have ambivalent relations with them: hostility prevails but, as the Papa myth shows, these strangers are not altogether dangerous, and the Arakmbut sometimes seek advice and enter into friendly relations with them (Gray 1997a). These myths illustrate the way in which the Arakmbut conceptualise how people relate to each other and to the universe. This view of the world and the Arakmbut’s position within it underlies every aspect of their life. It emphasises a coherence and unity of knowledge. As with other hunter-gatherer societies, existence is based on principles of co-operation and co-existence both with the natural world and other people (Teasdale & Teasdale 1994).

6.2 Knowledge and growth Arakmbut parenthood is directed towards teaching children so that they can in the future take over the guardianship of the land and provide for their parents in their old age. Ensuring their family’s and the community’s physical and spiritual health, involves developing the knowledge and skills to manage several gardens with a diversity of crops, in the case of a growing wetone (‘woman’), and to be a successful hunter in the case of a young wambokerek (‘man’). It also involves their bearing healthy children and carrying on the clan line — all of which necessitates their being strong both in body and in soul so as to be able to manage their relations with the visible and the invisible worlds. An adult who can combine physical strength, spiritual strength and knowledge and understanding of the Arakmbut universe is highly respected. For the Arakmbut, learning is a lifelong process, as knowledge accumulates with experience and understanding. The life cycle is punctuated by stages, each of which heralds a new phase of learning and a new ability to use knowledge both for one’s own benefit and for the benefit of the household and the community.

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Figure 6.1: Relationship between the nokiren and the growth of knowledge through life

As Arakmbut approach old age their knowledge of the invisible world increases, but in inverse proportion to their ability to use this knowledge, which decreases as the nokiren becomes attracted to the afterlife. By tracing the relationship between body and nokiren from birth to death (Fig. 6.1) we shall attempt to elucidate the characteristics of Arakmbut parenthood that children aspire to, that adults try to attain, and that elders seek to convey to their descendants. An Arakmbut is made up of a body (waso), soul-matter (nokiren) and a name (wandik). The waso is the visible, tangible aspect of a person, while the nokiren is the invisible, intangible aspect, which most closely conforms to the notion of ‘self-consciousness’: “Whereas for us existing, living and self-consciousness are qualitatively different, for the Amarakaeri [Arakmbut] the difference is primarily a direct result of the quantitative allocation of nokiren” (Gray 1983).1 Only the larger animals have a nokiren, such as the peccary and tapir. A human nokiren has two parts. One part called the wanopo is located at the base of the spine, and is the focus of all emotions, moods and affective responses. The other part is dispersed throughout the body and is connected with the e’nopwe faculty, which is the capacity to ‘think’, to ‘know’, and to ‘understand’. Consistent with the connection between knowledge and the nokiren, the

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Arakmbut do not identify the ‘brain’ as such, and a lack of understanding is always attributed to absence of nokiren. Thought and emotion are considered to differ in intensity as a function of the relative strength of these two spiritual aspects of the nokiren and the wanopo, while different states of consciousness are explained in terms of changing relations between the nokiren and the waso. During wakefulness the nokiren is normally inside the waso; during sleep, dreams and hallucinations it is outside, though still contiguous with the waso. At death, finally, the nokiren and waso become separated, the relationship between them ends, and the body loses it capacity to e’nopwe. The factor that unites the separable elements of the waso and the nokiren is the wandik (‘name’). Every Arakmbut has several wandik but the most personal is carefully guarded and known only to close kin — because a name is so much a part of the bearer’s identity that it is tied up with his/her entire well-being. It could be used, for example, by an enemy to attack the bearer’s nokiren. After a person dies, it is dangerous to utter his or her name, because it has the power to summon the nokiren, which will return and try to tempt the nokiren of other living people away with it. Naming is associated with memory (embatandikka), which derives from the verb e’ndikka, to ‘name’. Naming a dead person is thus inseparable from remembering that person, and both entail the danger of calling his/her spirit back to the community, where it could do harm. For this reason the deceased’s most personal belongings are destroyed, so that the nokiren will depart to the afterlife without being detained either by its own memories of its earthly existence or by these of the living. When the oldest and most respected dreamer in San José died in 1980 — before the time he had himself prophesied for his death — his clothes, his tin mug and his plates were all destroyed, because some of his ‘being’ resided in those objects. His chickens were killed so that their nokiren could follow him to Serowe, the afterworld beneath the river, and a huge mango tree that stood outside his house was felled. His house was burned to the ground and his wife was left with nothing which might cause her to recall her husband and pine for his company. The nokiren, then, is not confined to a person’s body but can ‘infect’ objects associated with him/her in such a way as to evoke his/her memory. For the Arakmbut, the spiritual dimension is an ever-present reality that is as knowable as the visible world. The capacity to understand their experiences is facilitated by two categories of shamanic specialist. A wamanoka’eri (‘curer’), firstly, is someone who can identify which spirit is attacking a sick person and effect a cure by luring the spirit into the forest. A wayorokeri (‘dreamer’),

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secondly, is someone who has developed the art of dreaming, which is an important shamanic practice among the Arakmbut. Everyone can dream, but only a wayorokeri can interpret the dreams of others, as well as, his/her own dreams and travel throughout the invisible world conversing with the spirits and seeking advice (Gray 1997a).

6.3 The Arakmbut life cycle According to Gray (1983), the Arakmbut liken time to the flow of a river, moving from the past to the future. But there are also categories of time, such as days, months and seasons, which divide this flow into repeated cycles. From a synchronic perspective, the life cycle is a linear growth which takes a person on a irreversible journey from birth to death, yet diachronically speaking it is the cyclical renewal of the clan from generation to generation. Infancy At birth the nokiren is very ill-defined. Concomitantly, a newborn infant is totally reliant on its parents and, for the first few months of its life, when it is referred to as yombedn, spends much of the time asleep. Women usually give birth outside the village — in the gardens or in the forest behind the house — in order to keep away the spirits, which are attracted by the blood lost in the delivery. After birth the infant itself is vulnerable to attack from spirits, because its nokiren is not strongly fixed to its waso, and the mother therefore cares for it on a makeshift bed in the kitchen, which is separate from the house. The forest spirits following the newborn child are thus distanced from other members of the family. For the first year both the mother and the baby undergo rigorous dietary restrictions, which begin for the mother during pregnancy. The meat of certain animals is avoided, such as monkey and peccary, lest it should harm the child by transmitting to it the characteristics of the animals in question. Armadillo meat, for example, is proscribed because the armadillo is a sleepy animal and could cause the infant to sleep and never wake up again. Larger game such as tapir and monkey is particularly avoided: a monkey’s tail could indirectly strangle the foetus. The child’s physical development and its growing ability to control its movements are reflected in changes of category: at three to four months it becomes a wapoybedn, and from five months until it can walk it is a sinon. At this stage it may be given an Arakmbut childhood name, and possibly a Spanish

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name but is more often referred to simply as sinon. Adored by all members of the family and the focus of attention, the infant accompanies its mother everywhere, mostly carried on her back by means of a kusipe, a padded papoose-like board to which its is strapped, with a basket over its face to protect it from insects and the sun. Childhood: incomplete adulthood At the age of 3, approximately, the first major change in a child’s life occurs: from one day to the next it is weaned, has its first haircut and becomes a wasipo (‘child’). At this stage the child becomes abruptly independent of its mother, often being supplanted by a new-born younger sibling in respect of the mother’s attention. None of the terms encountered so far denotes gender, and both boys and girls follow a similar pattern of activities and development (see Table 6.1). For wasipo this involves considerable freedom to assume responsibility for themselves and for their younger siblings, as they spend much of the day in the company of other children, independently of their parents. Where children are given responsibility and autonomy from an early age there is no sharp division between childhood and adulthood in terms of interests, motives and purposes; accordingly, as Fortes (1970) found in his study of education among the Tale, there is no need to coerce the children to take a share in economic or social life. In Aboriginal communities, similarly, Teasdale and Teasdale (1994) note that adults are not a significant source of extrinsic motivation in the learning-habits of their children; motivation is intrinsic, with the peer group providing a secondary extrinsic stimulus. Learning has a ‘meaningfulness’ of its own, because its goals are those of adulthood: as Middleton (1970) has expressed it, children in indigenous societies learn as if they were incomplete but developing adults. This is frequently apparent in the games that Arakmbut children play, many of which are imitations of adult activities: for example constructing makeshift huts of branches and leaves or lighting small outdoor fires on which to cook bananas or manioc. With this informal apprenticeship in adult skills, gender roles begin to be defined, as older wasipo girls learn the symbolically and practically important feminine art of spinning fibres and making bags (wenpu). As wasipos grow, they become stronger in both body and soul and are able to venture further into the forest, the realm of the spirits. By the age of 7 or 8, they have learned a great deal about the natural environment: the habits and migration patterns of many birds and animals, location of different plant and tree

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species, their periods of fruition, and their use as sources of food or building materials. On a half-hour walk along a forest path to a fishing site on a small bend in the river a five-year-old found five different types of edible fruit as she meandered on and off the path without losing sight of her grandmother. The integration of the child’s body and soul depends not only on the gradual accumulation of knowledge, but also on the development of a strong body. In times of illness a child (or an adult) may be covered in a black dye that serves as a defence against spirits and an aid to growth. Children approaching puberty are encouraged to swim in the cold early morning water of a river or stream in order to increase their strength and resilience. They are also encouraged to exert themselves, because sweat enhances growth and because the exertion will give them the strength to work well, in both the e’ka’a and e’mba’a sense of the term (see Chapter 5). The older wetone know of growth-enhancing leaves, such as help a girl develop into a woman with wide hips and large breasts. And parents concerned about their child’s growth or health can ask an elder to sing a ‘childgrowing song’ for it. While singing the song, tobacco is blown over the child, for the smoke is considered a bitter substance which keeps toto (potentially harmful spirits) away. The following is a song that Ireyo sang to cure a crying baby, and which he later recorded for me: Baby, baby, grow grow — grow like the yono tree — grow like this fast growing tree which is tall and straight — grow like the white-lipped peccary — like the palm, grow fast — grow baby, baby — like long wambidnpi [a type of bamboo], grow, grow — grow baby — like the fast-growing tapir — grow baby — grow like the mapitangka [small thorn bush] — grow baby — grow in the night — grow baby.

An elder is similarly called upon to chant when a small child first eats ho, the fruit of the peach palm. The Arakmbut have an ambiguous relationship with the peach palm and treat it with care. Because of its semi-domesticated state, a ho chindign (ho curing chant) is therefore often chanted over the child, in which the peach palm tree is warned against exerting its malignant influence: ‘If you harm this child we will make a fire and set fire to your spines. You will never again be able to produce fruit.’ Adulthood: the binding together of body and soul The increasingly divergent activities of boys and girls as they approach puberty are recognised as a symptom of their changing from children into young men and women. The genderless term wasipo by which they have hitherto been

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classified is now replaced by two gender-specific terms: wambo’po for boys (literally ‘becoming a young man (wambo)’) and muneyo’po for girls (‘becoming a young woman (muneyo)’). These are shortened forms of e’muneyopakonyak, meaning ‘gradually forming into a young woman’ and e’mbokerekpakonyak, ‘gradually forming into a man’. Prior to the Arakmbut move to the mission of Shintuya at the end of the 1950s, a boy’s graduation from one age grade to another was marked ceremonially. The first age-grade ceremony, e’ohtokoy (nose-piercing), took place between 12 and 14 years of age and signified that a wasipo had become a wambo. In preparation for it, the boy would be under the guidance of an elder member of his kindred or clan, such as an uncle or grandfather, who would ensue that the boy was acquiring the knowledge and understanding appropriate for the change of status. Thereafter he was permitted to paint his body with the designs of a wambo and began to learn in earnest how to hunt, sometimes accompanying his father on hunting trips and taking part in communal peccary hunts. Today the ceremony is no longer performed and the nose-piercing, the overt sign of a boy’s changing status, does not take place. Consequently, though the age grades are still adhered to, the transition from one to the other is less clear-cut. Nevertheless, once a boy is recognised as a wambo he goes further afield from the community and spends less time with his mother and sisters, nowadays beginning to work gold with his father. By the time the wambo is 18 or 19 years old, he has gained considerable experience and knowledge of the forest and is ready to become a wambokerek and find a wife. This change of status means that he is now strong enough to provide meat for a wife and family and to reproduce his clan through his children, implying that his waso and nokiren are fully integrated. The transition from youth to adulthood, from wambo to wambokerek, was traditionally celebrated at the e’paimpak ceremony (the ceremony of feathers), when a wambo had his lower lip perforated and a spine from the peach palm inserted — a procedure that the Arakmbut refer to as e’mbogntokoy. Elders often speak of the beauty of these now disused ceremonies, with their singing and dancing and body decoration. Equivalent female age-grade ceremonies marking the girl’s progress towards womanhood are unknown among the Arakmbut. As we have seen, a girl becomes a muneyo (‘young woman’) at about the age of 12–14 years, when she begins to mature physically. The next step towards adulthood comes with pregnancy and childbirth, which bring a change of status from muneyo to wetone

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(‘married woman who has given birth’). Schooling has had the effect of delaying marriage for many young women, who today marry at the age of 16 or 17. As Middleton (1970) notes, age-grade ceremonies are a form of social recognition of the learning that accompanies physical and social maturation. Absolute age, though, is not important, as it is in formal school grades, and in Arakmbut society the movement from one grade to the next can occur at any time over a range of several years, depending on the individual and his or her readiness. The story of Chipomeme tells the cautionary tale of a wasipo who wants to be a wambo and goes to a dance. However, when he starts dancing with the muneyo the adults make fun of him. And he finally dies because he has sexual relations at too early an age. Table 6.1 outlines the Arakmbut life cycle, showing how the activities corresponding to each stage, according to gender, constitute a sequence of learning processes. Adulthood is thus seen as the beginning of a new phase of

Table 6.1: The structuring of learning through life INFANCY (YOMBEDN, WAPOYBEDN, SINON) CHILDHOOD — WASIPO 3–5 years: Stay in the company of mother around the house, kitchen, gardens and on fishing trips and gathering trips in the forest. Playing with and cared for by older siblings and extended family. 6–8 years: Increasing independence from mother and increasing time spent in company of other children. Small groups of young boys and girls go fishing, looking for fruit beyond the village and swimming. Girls begin to learn to make string bags, boys begin to spend more time with catapults chasing birds. Often play at making leaf thatch huts and cooking food on an improvised fire. 9–12 years: Girls and boys become more independent of each other in their daily activities. Boys still help to care for younger siblings but this is more often done by girls. Boys spend a lot of time in the forest exploring further from the village. Girls spend a lot of time in the company of adult women making wenpu bags and beginning to learn to carry garden produce. Boys and girls carry out household chores, such as fetching water, carrying firewood and washing pots.

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YOUTH MUNEYO’PO 12–14 years (approximately): Girls spend most time in the company of other girls and adult women. Begin to do some of the cooking in the house but do not have full responsibility.

WAMBO’PO 12–14 years: Boys receive their first bow and arrows and practise catching birds and small animals. Spend a lot of time in the forest and river with other boys of the same age.

MUNEYO 14–15 years: A young woman begins to take on more responsibility for cooking and helps to butcher and cook large animals. Helps with the heavier work in the gardens such as planting and weeding. Begins to make the wenpus which will be exchanged when she marries. She is now skilled at child care and familiar with the forest within a wide radius of the village.

WAMBO 14/15 — 18/19 years: Learning to hunt under supervision of father and expanding knowledge of the forest and the river as well as the invisible world through the animals of these realms. Also learning songs about animals and birds which include details of their habitat. Nowadays, also starts to work gold with father and clansmen. Improving hunting in order to woo a wife by bringing meat to her mother.

ADULTHOOD WETONE Signified by motherhood. A woman shares responsibility for cooking with other women and works in their gardens. Begins to clear and plant her first garden with her husband. Learning about a diversity of crops and garden chants. As her family grows she and her household become a semi-independent unit with their own house. She expands her number of gardens and diversifies her crops and types of each crop. She develops knowledge of herbal remedies from older women and grow barbasco and other ‘semi-wild’ crops.

WAMBOKEREK (SIPO) – Young adult man: takes on responsibility for hunting for his extended family with other adult men as well as sharing gold work. Learning from older men about the spirit world and through hunting. Beginning to learn animal songs and myths. WAMBOKEREK (TONE) – Mature adult man: at height of his physical strength and his nokiren. Is father of several children and has built up his personal relations with the spirit world. Is learning chindign for curing from the elders and developing a mature person’s vocabulary.

OLD AGE — WATONE In old age Arakmbut have accumulated a vast understanding of the river and the forest as well as sometimes close links with individual animal spirits. Occasionally individuals are skilled dreamers and can use their contact with the spirit world to advise the community and warn of dangers. Curers (wamanoka’eri) can know as many as 12 different chindign but their efficacy will be waning.

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learning that forms mature Arakmbut who, with their waso and nokiren fully integrated, are in a position to defend the community against dangers coming from both the visible and the invisible worlds. In the past, when under threat from other Arakmbut or Taka groups, a leader would emerge from the ranks of wambokerek to defend the community; and when the continuity of the group was jeopardised by a shortage of marriageable spouses, he led raids on other communities in search of potential wives. Wambokerek and wetone are also in the strongest position to defend their community against the spirit world. In order to be able to do this most effectively they expand their knowledge about the spirit world by learning songs, myths and chindign (curing chants) from the elders. This in turn implies learning an esoteric, mature person’s form of the Arakmbut language: namely, the specialised vocabularies which men and women learn through their heightened contact with the forest and the spirit world, as well as archaic words and phrases, which take many years to master. The mother of a 26–year-old university student worried that her son was spending time outside San José when he ought to be in the community, married and beginning his training in the language of the elders. Old age: knowledge versus nokiren As men and women mature, they accumulate knowledge about the forest and the river which helps them maintain the delicate balance with the spirits which inhabit them. They form a deeper understanding of, and closer relations with, the invisible world, at the same time becoming more attracted to it as their future abode in the afterlife. As their bodies begin to deteriorate physically, their nokiren becomes less securely attached to their waso and their ability to cope with the potential danger of the invisible world decreases. Accordingly, they gradually cease to have sexual relations: the men rarely hunt; and the women rarely cook — for these are tasks which demand complete cohesion of body, soul and name. Overall, elders — generically referred to by the term watone — exert less influence outside their own family. Nevertheless, there is a certain irony about the position of the elders, in that many have an extensive knowledge and understanding of the natural environment, which they can use for curing purposes, but their efficacy in curing is now not as great as it was when their body and soul were closely united. A case in point concerns the grandfather of a boy who fell ill in San José. He, a watone, knew several chindign with which he might cure the boy, but instead the boy’s father attempted the curing, though he was only beginning to learn the chindign.

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The father’s strength as a wambokerek, in terms of his ability to engage with the spirits which were preying on the child’s nokiren, outweighed the old man’s knowledge of curing. The grandfather’s expertise was not wasted, however, because it was he who was teaching his son, imparting to him his knowledge of the spirits and the sophistication of his chindign so that the younger man could make an accurate diagnosis and chant the appropriate chindign to lure the spirit away from the boy. The optimum period in life for practising as a curer — irrespective of gender, though it is a predominantly male activity — coincides, then, with the period of maximum productivity, when a person is also sufficiently knowledgeable to be of spiritual benefit to the community. The subsequent waning of strength and the loosening of the waso-nokiren combination cannot be offset by the ascendancy of knowledge. Knowledge is not a sufficient basis for the ability to defend the community, which requires also that a person occupies a socio-economically central position in the community. The knowledge that accrues with old age is of benefit to the individual him/herself, exclusively, who is personally less at risk from the spirits at the time when he/she knows most about them — as is suggested by the fact that elders are no longer subject to the food restrictions affecting the active members of the group. Knowledge, in other words, is a necessary but not sufficient condition of power, being itself a contingent variable of such factors as age, gender, and clan membership. The following section looks at the interplay of these variables in the context of village fishing.

6.4 Knowledge in context; communal fishing In the days before mission contact, when the Arakmbut were living in their longhouses, the elders would rouse the community to go fishing: Let us fish with kumo (known as ‘barbasco’ in Spanish) at the big river. Everyone must come. All of you. Summer is coming. It is time to fish. The trees are fruiting. It is time to fish. Let us collect our kumo. We have no meat at the moment. We must all agree. We all have to do it. Young people too have to support the elders in this fishing activity.

It is interesting to look in detail at Arakmbut communal fishing for the evidence it provides of the cultural knowledge in action.

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INTERCULTURAL EDUCATION AND LITERACY At the end of one wet season (March) the majority of the men and women of San José participated in a day of fishing in the Kirazwe, a small river which runs behind the village. On the previous day the men had spent several hours cutting bamboo and constructing a woven fish trap across the river, which was about 30 feet wide at this spot and varied in depth and speed. The trap would hold back the large fish, without affecting the level of the water. Early in the morning several women went to their respective gardens, accompanied by some of their children, to dig up kumo, a plant whose roots are used as a fish poison. The women returned with their string bags full and joined the men on the narrow footpath which led upstream some eight or nine bends beyond the dam. There, on a narrow beach, the women emptied out the long stringy kumo roots and began pounding them between large stones to produce a milky sap. The extract was prepared and packed into two large string bags, which two women swept through the water. The white juice oozed out and was carried gently downstream by the current, slowly de-oxygenating the water. The women waded back and forth, sweeping the bags into every recess where the fish might be lurking, such as between fallen tree trunks and deep pools. More families arrived and the men prepared their bows and arrows and took up positions on fallen trunks overhanging the water. The young men appeared proudly bearing bows and arrows made for them by their fathers. They were excited and keen to begin. Slowly the kumo began to take effect and the first small fish poked their mouths above the water, gasping for air. This was a signal for the young girls and children to move into action, treading carefully in the shallows with kitchen knives or machetes poised to strike. Two small brothers watched nervously from the bank, their faces painted with large red spots to protect them from the water spirits (waweri). The archers waited for larger fish to surface before firing their long arrows. Some of the women cautiously stalked the fish in pools that the men could not reach from the bank. By late afternoon the dam had been reached and the women’s baskets were full of small fish. The catch was distributed among kin and clan members so that everyone had a share, and in the kitchens that evening the young women and their mothers sorted the fish and chose the tastiest, though not necessarily the largest, to boil for the meal. The children helped with gutting the tiddlers. The large fish were chopped into steaks and set to boil, while other fish were packed tightly into hollow bamboo poles, which had been collected on the walk home, and were placed above the fires to smoke. Other remaining small fish were carefully wrapped in large flat leaves, tied in neat parcels, and left

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by the fire to cook gently. Manioc and bananas were boiled on the fire and as darkness fell the meal was eaten in silence. The next morning the wambo visited the dam to search for any fish which might have escaped them the previous day. In the afternoon the river rose and by nightfall the main supports of the dam had washed away.

The two aspects of Arakmbut knowledge that are highlighted by this account of a fishing expedition are 1) the division of labour among the different social categories participating in the activity and 2) the pervasiveness of the spirit world. The decision to ‘fish-work’ (e’ka bign) is based on Arakmbut dreams and on their ecological knowledge of the behaviour of fish in relation to the seasons and the water-levels. In the dry season the main river, the Karene, is usually relatively low and clear-running, but heavy rains in the Andes had darkened the water with silt, causing the mamore fish to seek shelter in the clearer sidestreams. From beginning to end the fishing expedition was informed by the relationship that the Arakmbut perceive between the visible and the invisible worlds. Children acquire knowledge and skills when (and only when) they are strong enough to use them without harming themselves or their family: that is, as their nokiren becomes more securely attached to their waso. Despite the fact that most of them could swim well, the wasipo therefore stayed close to their mothers and sisters or wandered together in the shallows picking up small fish. Where there was sickness in a family the children were protected against the waweri with red ‘achiote’ powder. In more serious cases of illness a family would avoid fishing altogether. For the wambo, on the other hand, communal fishing is an opportunity for them to practise their skills with a bow and arrow. They take pride in their catch. Besides making the fish trap, the adult wambokerek contribute to the success of the outing through their expertise as bowmen and their knowledge of fishes’ reaction to the kumo. The spirit world is also important in determining the outcome. Before an expedition — whether a fish or hunt — adults abstain from sex in order to contact the spirit world in their dreams and by this means discover the best fishing-/hunting-grounds. A fisherman’s ability to shoot fish is consequently related to his relationship with the waweri river spirits on whose help he depends. On this occasion members of the Yaromba clan also attributed the number of fish in the stream to a deceased clansman — an old shaman who, during his lifetime, had developed a particular relationship with the river and on his death said he would help and watch over the community from the river. Once caught, the fish have to be treated, prepared and eaten according to certain

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procedures in order to avoid the risk of inciting the waweri to inflict illness on the community. Women bring their own skills and knowledge to bear on the fishing. For one thing, the entire operation is dependent on a supply of kumo, which the older women grow in their gardens specifically for fishing. Only women plant kumo and a chindign must be chanted over it, calling on the large-rooted trees such as the wakta to encourage the growth of kumo roots. Fish poison plays a crucial role as an intermediary between the Arakmbut and the waweri, to which the fish belong, and the women must therefore handle the root with respect. Female participation in fishing, moreover, has mythological origins. In the Marinke narrative, the hero, while still a foetus, is protected by boquichico fish in the river. His grandmother is told by the boquichicos in a dream to make a basket. This she does and then lowers the basket into the water. The fish take it then reluctantly hand it back to her with Marinke inside, in the same way that the waweri surrender fish that the women collect in their baskets. The relationship between the Arakmbut and the river-dwelling waweri spirits is vividly illustrated by another fishing technique employed by the Arakmbut. While women usually only fish with kumo, men also fish individually, holding a line from the river-bank. One day, when walking by Karene river, Andrew Gray heard a voice muttering in Harakmbut. On investigation it turned out to be one of the community elders, who explained that he was talking to the waweri. He had been deep in conversation with them, asking them to give him food. Instead of requesting different types of fish, though, he asked for pineapples, plantains and maize, because the waweri classify fish as garden crops, and vice versa. It was no use asking for a paco fish because, to the waweri, paco is maize; likewise, a request for mamore fish would be understood as a request for pineapples. Knowledge of the spirits’ language is essential for the purpose of reasoning with them. It is necessary, then, to know how to use the forces of the invisible world to good advantage in order to gain access to the resources they control and on which the Arakmbut depend for their health. Without kumo to encourage the waweri to give fish, the lone fisherman, like the lone hunter, contacts the spirits directly, either through talking with them or through dreaming. It is important, though, to ensure that the river or forest spirits do not accumulate around the hunter or his family, so that the catch is divided up and distributed among the extended family through the network of kin and affines. In this way the prestige attaching to generosity and the system of distribution that guarantees that a

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person who gives will in turn receive a share of the catch of other kin are sanctioned by a principle of Arakmbut spirituality. A further observance is that, after a good catch, a fisherman does not fish again for about three days, so that the waweri do not have the opportunity to become closely attached to him. Should this happen, they could afflict him, his wife and/or his children with illness. Only elders, who are already drawing close to the spirits, are relatively immune to this danger. A third precaution concerns the preparation of meat for consumption. If it is not well cooked (that is, boiled until all trace of blood is removed) then the spirit of the animal may remain concentrated and become a toto spirit capable of causing illness and death. Fish which, although cooked, is served cold is not less dangerous: the waweri attack the eater and cause him/her to vomit, see everything in red and, if not given shamanic treatment, die shortly afterwards. Arakmbut communal fishing evinces, then, the simultaneous application of knowledge both to serve the practical end of food-production and to uphold the sacred principles of maintaining harmonious relations with the spirits that control the supply of food. Indeed, relations with the invisible world are a prerequisite of the activity — which is why, for example, a muneyo does not participate, although she is physically capable of doing so, pounding kumo and dissolving the sap in the water would bring her into close contact with the spirits, which would be unsafe for her, given her lack of familiarity with the invisible world. Similarly, children cannot fish with bows and arrows because of the spiritual danger associated with large fish caught by this means. Collective fishing is thus an object lesson in the relativity of Arakmbut knowledge (cf. Gray 1996). Unlike ‘public’ knowledge stored in books, access to which is, in theory at least, unrestricted by factors such as age or gender, knowledge in Arakmbut society is specific to the different groups of which the society is formed. Knowledge can even be personal, in the sense of being identified with the individual who applied it. Since it is efficacious and, therefore, powerful, knowledge can be harmful, not only for the individual but for the society as a whole, if not combined with the competence to use it. Elders continue to accumulate knowledge but their capacity to put it to beneficial use wanes with their diminishing physical strength. The power of knowledge is not unlimited, however. It is to the learning process itself — the acquisition of knowledge — that the next chapter turns, in order to demonstrate how it reinforces the Arakmbut’s cultural identity and contributes to the meaningfulness of their life.

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Notes 1. The ethnographic information on the wandik, waso and nokiren was collected during a period of fieldwork carried out together with Andrew Gray in San José in 1980–81. It has been analysed in Gray 1983, 1996 and 1997a.

C 7 Arakmbut informal learning

The knowledge needed to be a competent hunter and to father children, or to be a skilled gardener, cook and mother, is acquired in three distinct but interrelated ways: through the teachings of the elders, through contact with the spirit world in dreams, and through personal experience and experimentation. An Arakmbut who ‘knows’ (e’nopwe) how to hunt white-lipped peccary for example, has learned by all three means.1 The different ways of learning correspond to different types of knowledge, making Arakmbut education intrinsically different from schooling.2 This chapter investigates how Arakmbut children learn and how they begin to use knowledge for their own benefit and for the benefit of the family and community. The final section considers how formal education is rendered useful only when incorporated in Arakmbut experience.

7.1 Three learning practices Experiential knowledge To become a good hunter a boy must learn about the forest and the creatures that inhabit it. He must be able travel far into the forest and, in order to be safe there, he needs to be guided by helpful spirits. A boy first learns about hunting in the company of his mother and siblings, using a sling to shoot at birds on the fringes of the village clearing and along the path to his mother’s gardens, which he visits with her everyday. At the age of 11 or 12 he begins to accompany his father on trips into the forest, where he watches. He also makes short trips in the company of his age-mates, taking a bow and arrow of his own to perfect his aim on small birds and animals. As he moves through adolescence he increasingly hunts alone and, by the time he is a wambo (young man), has progressed to larger birds and to animals such as monkeys. Each outing expands his knowledge of the terrain and of animal

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habitats and behaviour, as well as being an opportunity for him to develop the skills of tracking and stalking game. When, by the age of about 18, a wambo has learned, by watching his father, to make his own bow and arrows, his father will take him to the principal areas of the clan’s hunting-grounds, such as a salt lick where tapir, deer and peccary congregate and water hollows where capybara wallow. For a girl, the experiences of cultivating her mother’s gardens and then establishing her own once she is married is a lesson in the intricate system of biodiversity-management practised by the older women. Initially a young married woman has a single garden in which she grows staples such as plantains, maize, manioc and some fruit trees — crops which complement the meat her husband brings home. As the years go by she will increase the number of gardens she maintains at any one time and not only provide sufficient produce to feed her family but also increase the variety of crops, additionally harvesting, for example, peanuts, different kinds of sweet potato, avocado pear, pumpkin and various fruits. Besides diversifying the types of crop that they grow, mature women also develop an expertise in different varieties of each crop, evincing an extensive knowledge of their properties and the optimum conditions for their cultivation. One wetone (young woman) in San José identified seven different types of pineapple that she grew, while a woman ten years her senior was able, with the help of an elder, to name seventeen randomly intermixed varieties growing in her gardens which were situated on high ground suited to pineapple-cultivation. Women possess a similar breadth of knowledge regarding other crops, such as plantains, maize and manioc, as well as domesticated non-edible plants such as kumo and red achiote. The knowledge that women deploy in their gardens, and which they learn from older members of their family or clan, often includes ritual observances. After sowing melon seeds, for example, a women must go to bed without washing or the fruit will not mature. And sweet potato must be planted by a child rather than by a woman: the child drops the seed into the hole which the woman has prepared and covers it over. Should the woman herself do this, she will be unable to light a fire at night. The women’s knowledge of the forest is similarly developed: an adolescent muneyo’po and a young muneyo were together able to list 27 edible forest fruits and 7 edible grubs. Their ethnobotanical knowledge in general is prolific. To give only one example, several types of ‘setico’ tree are distinguished, on the basis of the fibres they provide for rolling into string: one supplies bow strings; another arrow thread; and another, string bags. House-construction is a further instance of the detailed knowledge of the

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environment that individuals progressively absorb over the course of years of learning and experience. A nuclear family’s stilted hut with its thatched roof comprises no fewer than fifteen different tree species, each selected for a particular property, such as durability, strength, lightness, or immunity against attack by insects. One young wambokerek told how when he first married and came to build a house, he had very little knowledge of which timber to use and asked his father and uncles for help. They named the best types of tree in the vicinity of the village and he chose suitable specimens. Now, some two houses later, he knows exactly which timber is best for which part of the house and where to find it. (Colonists, in contrast, build their houses out of only one type of wood, often mahogany, which they fell with chainsaws.) Arakmbut houses can be built very quickly and last between four and seven years, on average. Knowledge through dreaming In order to become a successful hunter, a youth has to know the spirit world as well as the ecology of the forest and the behaviour of the animals he wishes to hunt. The spirits are an important source of knowledge for living in the visible world and men and women must slowly build up an ability to contact them. Such contact accrues from a combination of different direct and indirect means, including myths, songs, stories and dreams. In the state of dreaming (wayorok) the nokiren leaves the body and enters the invisible world, free from the constraints of time and space. When children dream there is the danger that their nokiren, being only tenuously attached to their bodies, may be lured away and never return, thus resulting in death. Adults, though, can glean valuable information from their dreams. A hunter, for example, is visited by beneficial spirits called ndakyorokeri, which appear in the form of women who make sexual advances towards him, while at the same time telling him where to go to hunt and how many animals to kill (see Gray 1997a). (Women do not disclose their dreams, possibly because to admit to dreaming of young men would create problems within their marriage.) As a man becomes more knowledgeable through his dreams and his contacts with the spirit world, he may form a proclivity for hunting a particular species of animal and establish relations with spirits that help him hunt that species. All Arakmbut have the same potential with regard to dreaming and forming a relationship with the spirits of the invisible world. Moreover, there are no specialised occupations among them. However, certain individuals use their knowledge of the forest and the spirit world for the purposes of curing. These

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wamanoka’eri, as they are called, of whom there may be several in a community, are particularly knowledgeable about certain natural species and illnesses, as well as having a repertoire of curing chants (chindign). Initially these are learned from older relatives but, as a person becomes more experienced, he develops his chindign for the animal spirits that are familiar. A wamanoka’eri cures by assessing the symptoms and performing the appropriate chindign. Symptoms are associated with specific animal spirits: an illness, for example, that stems from an attack by a tapir spirit is treated by the wamanoka’eri chanting a tapir chindign. In it he describes a forest full of the most tempting foods for a tapir in order to lead the animal spirit away from its Arakmbut victim. Chindign are rich with information about the habitat and behaviour of forest species, reflecting the detailed knowledge possessed by the wamanoka’eri. Sometimes they use an archaic form of the Harakmbut language and may also include animal speech which elders have learned through their years of contact with the animal in question. Hence it is only elders, and usually men, who dispose of this wealth of knowledge, though, as noted in the previous chapter, their physical strength and political power are declining as their nokiren lose their attachment to their waso and become attracted to the afterlife in the spirit world. The most knowledgeable kind of dreamer is the wayorokeri, who has the ability to seek advice from the spirit world on behalf of the community, travelling throughout the cosmos and looking into the past, present and future. In order to become a wayorokeri a person abstains from eating the meat he has hunted, thereby forming a privileged relationship with the animal spirits and finally becoming conversant with them. Through this relationship the wayorokeri is able to give advice on issues of importance for other members of the community or for the community as a whole, such as the location of game or the presence of harmful spirits. In San José all known wayorokeri past and present, have been men. In the late 1970s Arakmbut school students at El Pilar mission were introduced to the use of the hallucinogenic plant ayahuasca by the Ese’eja. Today this means of contacting the spirits is used only by young adults, and those responsible for introducing it to San José prefer to communicate with the invisible world by the traditional means of wayorok (‘dreaming’). Knowledge communicated by elders In addition to the detailed understanding they have of the forest and river and the creatures and spirits which inhabit them, community elders, both men and

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women, are the repositories of much of the Arakmbut’s mythological knowledge. While every elder knows a considerable number of myths, some are acknowledged as being more knowledgeable and better storytellers. On starry, moonlit nights, when the spirits keep well away, the Arakmbut will sit outside listening to stories, laughing and participating in the performance. There is one recognised storyteller, but other elders and adults intersperse the narration with animal noises, commentaries, jokes and asides, which together create an atmosphere of a communal activity and collective ‘performance’. The myths are not pedagogically directed at any individual or age group and are enjoyed by persons of all ages, though children are not expected to remember parts of a story until they reach about ten years of age. Apart from the three long myths, Wanamey, Marinke and Aiwe (Chapter 6), the Arakmbut canon comprises relatively short myths which take between half an hour and an hour to tell. They deal with the Arakmbut’s relations with the spirits, the hunter’s relations with forest animals, mainly larger game animals such as the tapir, the peccaries, and the caiman, and the transformation of animals into humans. Other myths concern gardens and crop-production: the narrative of Chiokpo, for example, tells of a star helping a woman to clear weeds and cultivate her garden. Arakmbut songs are shorter than their myths and tell of the behaviour of a wide variety of animals, birds and fishes, such as the jaguar, tapir, blue and red macaw and catfish. In San José four or five elders are recognised (in 1992) as good singers, two men in particular being admired for their improvised singing and distinctive use of reprise. Women rarely sing outside their immediate family setting but the good singers among them are known to all the community. Younger men too know a number of songs about animals and birds but their elders dismiss these as being of no substance. The following ‘Tapir Song’ is an example of an elder’s song: The weika bird accompanies the tapir like a domesticated animal and picks ticks from the tapir’s skin with its beak. When the tapir is near the oriole also takes ticks out with its beak. The tapir talks to the birds coquettishly. The tapir sings sss. The hunter, hearing the weika and the hiss, can kill the tapir because he hears where it is. When the tapir is shot it runs with happiness. The tapir does not feel the wound and dies happily. The tapir dies. When it dies there is lightning. The baby tapir follows the old tapir on the path. First the old one then the baby. The small tapir goes with its parents for a year. The male tapir mates

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INTERCULTURAL EDUCATION AND LITERACY with his mother and the female with her father. The windak (type of arrowhead) has to be strong to kill the tapir.

In the past, when the Arakmbut lived in a communal haktone, singing was a regular part of the day. The old men would sing before dawn and at night, when everyone was in bed and could listen. There would not necessarily be any recognisable words, except perhaps o’me ‘it is dawning’ — they simply sang to raise the spirits of the young and the other men would join in. The elders also sang before a dance, to encourage the youths, who were expected to fight, and to give moral support and practical advice: The maize beer is ready. Young people, you have to be in high spirits for this dance. It may surprise you but we have to fight anyone who offends us. So no one should hang back in a fight. The youths here must fear nothing. This fight is not to the end; it is not like a fight with bows and arrows. It is easy to get close to an enemy. Have no fear. All wambo who are going to receive the e’paimpak (‘ceremony of the feathers’) at this ceremony should prepare themselves, and so should all those who will have the e’mbogntokoy (lip-piercing). In this fight you have to defend the people of the maloca. Don’t get tired in the fight. You will not face any danger. You have practised too. Use your strength to resist the punches. Ku ku ku, the punches sound horrible from far away. People get afraid. But don’t be afraid. When you confront them have no fear. The fight is short. It won’t last long only a short while. Fight in the middle where the men are. After a few minutes the old men can tell you are good. They will praise you as a good fighter, wamankeri. Let’s go to the Karene, to the Kipodnue. Come on! (Ireyo, San José)

All young Arakmbut are exposed to these different sources of knowledge: personal experience, the spirit world, elders and other adults and peers. The knowledge is organised and framed within the parameters which define the Arakmbut world-view, an axiomatic principle of which is the interplay between the visible and invisible worlds and the latter’s incidence in the forest, the river, and the community. Within this ontological framework individuals have the possibility of developing their own understanding of these dynamic relationships, assisted by the wayorokeri, who help the Arakmbut to interpret and harmonise their relationship with the invisible world. In the 1980s San José had a respected wayorokeri whom all members of the community, no matter what clan they belonged to, would consult and listen to, though no one was obliged to follow his advice. His knowledge of the river, the forest and the spirit world shaped the community’s understanding of reality (see Gray 1997a). Subsequent interpreta-

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tions of this reality in the light of more recent interaction with the invisible world since the wayorokeri’s death have redefined the Arakmbut world-view, demonstrating a process of conceptual adjustment within stable parameters.

7.2 Community values and skills The Arakmbut have two myths — Serowe and Wainaron — which provide an insight into how Arakmbut children should learn. One is the story of a boy learning to fish, and the other is about a boy learning to hunt. In each there is a grandfather (pane) who is master of the corresponding domain and who teaches the boy in question how to establish beneficial relations with the spirits, an integral part of learning to become a good hunter or fisher. However, the boys often disobey the grandfathers and suffer for it. Thus the myths explain not only how a boy learns the rudiments of manhood, but also how he learns how to learn. The myth of Serowe There was once a small boy who went bathing very early in the morning. This was a dangerous thing to do and one morning he found himself in another world under the river. He was alone with the sky, forest and river, until he saw river birds flying towards him. They threw stones at him and surrounded him but a giant moon came and saved him and took him to his house. The moon was pane (grandfather) and master of the fish. The next day they went fishing in a wide stretch of the river full of sikidnmbi (whale-like monster fish). The moon waded in. To him the sikidnmbi appeared as small as catfish. The moon told the boy to go onto higher ground, where he would be safe when the water level rose as a sikidnmbi approached. The moon caught the monster fish, broke off its head and threw it away. The next sikidnmbi approached and the moon told the boy to keep clear. The moon got out his fishing arrow and shot the fish for himself. Then, for the boy, he waded further into the water and made a high wave which left countless boquichico leaping onto the bank. To the moon these were tiddlers. He sent the boy off to get leaves in which to wrap them but, while the boy was gone, wrapped them in a packet so small that you would not have thought there were so many fish inside. Then they went home, smoked the fish and ate. A few days later they went out to catch sikidnmbi again. They took harpoon arrows and papaya fruit as bait. The moon put the papaya in the water and the sikidnmbi approached. He sent the boy onto the higher ground and fired his arrow at the monster, which made so much noise that the boy ran to see what

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INTERCULTURAL EDUCATION AND LITERACY had happened. The boy got caught in the wave and was up to his neck in water, but the moon saved him and told the boy off for disobeying him. Back at the moon’s house the moon told the boy that he would soon have to return to his own village. They waited a few days and one night went out to a stream where there were many fish. The moon wove a large fish trap and laid it across the entrance to an inlet. Then he gathered all the fish he had caught in the trap and threw them onto the beach. The moon told the boy to go and look for leaves so that he would not see what he was about to do. While the boy was gone he gathered all the fish and compressed them into a tiny packet of leaves. When the boy came back he could not believe that the moon had put all the fish in one packet. The moon went off to find a large leaf and in his absence the boy opened the packet. It exploded and the fish flew out. On his return the moon was very angry with the boy. He repacked all the fish, then told the boy to close his eyes and led him away. When the boy opened his eyes he was standing by the riverbank near his own house. The Arakmbut could not believe that he was back. He had grown to be a young man. He told the people to get a fire ready for smoking the fish and opened the leaf packet. All the fish flew out and there was plenty for the whole community.

The events described in this myth chart the boy’s transformation into a young man in conjunction with his progression through different stages of learning, from fishing in the shallows as a wasipo to standing on the high bank as a wambo with harpoon arrow poised to fire at larger fish, and finally to making the fish trap, a task performed by wambokerek. It also charts the boy’s encounters with the spirit world, from his first meeting with them in the guise of river birds which attack him, to his rescue by, and educative relationship with, the grandfather of Serowe, the spirit world under the river. Swimming in the early morning is dangerous for a wasipo (though beneficial for the growth of a wambo’po) because he is unable to control the spirits which he encounters. After the moon comes to his aid, the boy puts his own life at risk by disobeying the moon during their fishing trip. When he again disobeys and opens the packet of fish the moon is angry because the boy is not yet ready to understand or control the knowledge he is receiving from the spirit world. It is only because he is in the spirit world that he is able to be saved and continue his learning. Similarly, the boy in the myth of Wainaron is about to be killed, having already died twice, but the old man — Manko, the ‘grandfather of the forest’ — saves him. The myth of Serowe dramatises the dangers that lurk in the invisible world in order to emphasise the importance for children of paying heed to adults.

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Implicitly, Arakmbut children must be obedient because learning in the visible world does not allow the same room for error that is allowed in myths. A learner must have patience as well as obedience, and these qualities are bound up with trust and respect, both for the teacher and for what is being taught. The guidance that a child is given is intended to protect the child from danger, such as the power of the monsters in the river and the power of the spirit world in the packet of fish. From an early age children are disciplined by instilling in them a fear of anything toto, the danger attaching to spirits when they congregate. Adults frequently say, ‘No, don’t do that, it is toto!’ or ‘Toto will take you away!’ or ‘Be careful of the jaguar!’ Jaguars are associated with toto and their proximity warns of danger from the invisible world. When children do something that endangers either themselves or a sibling in their care, their parents punish them with stinging nettles, by hand or by shouting at them and twisting their hair. The skills and knowledge that the boy acquires in Serowe are immediately applicable in the Arakmbut world when he finally returns there as a young man. Learning for the Arakmbut is learning for daily living. It is also structured along age-grade lines to ensure that one facet of knowledge, such as learning to shoot a harpoon arrow, does not outstrip another, such as establishing relations with the spirit world. In this way, the Arakmbut can engage in production activities, and enjoy the fruits of these activities, without coming to any harm, just as the boy in Serowe is invited by the moon to eat the safe, smaller fish but is warned against coming into contact with the dangerous sikidnmbi. There are parallels in the Wainaron myth in which the boy eats forbidden meat and dies. This narrative similarly illustrates what we might call an ‘Arakmbut learning theory’, concerned, in this case, with learning to hunt in the forest. There are no parallel myths for girls but this does not imply that the same ‘learning theory’ is not applicable to girls, only that the particular skills of fishing and hunting bring men into more direct and potentially more dangerous contact with the spirit world. A young woman learns in the course of working with her mother in the gardens, in myths concerning female activities, the gardens and during collective female expeditions into the forest for peach palm fruit, turtle eggs, and various kinds of pupae from the bark of, for example, the Brazil nut tree. She learns both by example and on the basis of experience and experimentation often in the company of age mates, how to plant, how to punt a canoe and when and where to gather different fruits. She learns about the spirit world through dreaming, and she learns the myths, songs and chindign from her mother and the older women with whom she spends a large part of each day.

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In the Serowe and Wainaron narratives, the respective ‘masters’ teach the boys enough to launch them into adulthood and the relations with the invisible world that this entails. In reality, a young man’s knowledge thereafter increases in proportion to his commitment to learning. Before missionisation, Arakmbut wambo would seek out their fathers, an uncle, or some other relative from whom they would deepen their understanding of the forest and in preparation for the approaching e’paimpak ceremony and their entry into manhood. The tradition still persists, as wambo and young wambokerek consult older members of the community, usually (but not always) their own clansmen, for an education in the words and songs of Arakmbut culture in all its complexity. The teachers are sought out by the learners, rather than the reverse, and there is no absolute age at which the learning takes place: the timing is left to the individual’s discretion and interest in spending time with the elders. Importantly, it is the learner, therefore, rather than the teacher who takes the initiative in the transmission of cultural knowledge. One San José elder is teaching his son-in-law chindign and they spend a short time together each day. His own son is also learning, but more slowly, because, he says, he finds it difficult to remember the information about forest species that is contained in the chants. There is no pressure upon him to learn and, as he is not a particularly keen hunter, he does not feel impelled to extend his knowledge of the forest. In fact he admits to having to stay to the well marked paths in order not to lose his way when out tracking animals. Another young wambokerek, in contrast, who appeared one night with a tape recording of a collared peccary chindign to which he had been listening with great interest but little understanding, took the recording to an elder who was acting as his mentor. In answer to the young man’s questions, the elder explained some of the chindign and then went on to make recordings of two songs about the jaguar. Children are exposed to myths, songs and, to a lesser extent, chindign from a very early age and continue to hear them throughout their lives. As they pass through the different age grades, they find new potential in the myths and songs. A boy who has heard the myth of Wainaron since he can first remember may well find it taking on a new significance as he begins to explore the forest in search of small birds and lizards. Similarly, the young wambokerek listen to chindign and begin to value them more as they understand more about the forest animals through their hunting and dreaming. However, they do not perform them in public, partly because of their youthful inexperience with the spirit world, and partly because their inability to perform them well would lead to ridicule and

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chastisement, just as Chipomeme’s inappropriate behaviour provoked ridicule and, ultimately, his own death (p.102). The underlying principle is that, for the Arakmbut, to be knowledgeable is to be seen to use knowledge for beneficial ends, as a successful gardener, hunter, curer (wamanoka’eri), or dreamer (wayorokeri). Knowledge is recognised as such not through being stored in the brain, but through its practical application, as in the production of food or the curing of ‘unhealthy’ relations with the spirit world. Learning is therefore demonstrable: if a chindign effects a cure, it is because the wamanoka’eri is knowledgeable. If not, then either the wrong diagnosis has been made and the wrong chindign used, or factors in the invisible world are responsible — as they typically are with regard to any disorder, be it illness or lack of success in hunting, fishing, or gardening. Arakmbut learning theory can be traced in their mythology, which stresses the importance of obedience, patience, respect and trust, both for the teacher and for the learner — the myths highlight the way in which learning comes about through the process of watching and listening to elders. They also emphasise the importance of correlating the acquisition of knowledge and skills with the different stages of development, in order to ensure that learning about both the visible and the invisible world is an integrated process. The next section looks at the empirical context in which the learning process outlined in the myths occurs.

7.3 The process of learning A girl learning to make a string bag, or a boy a bow, is in the same position as the children in the myths: they learn because they are predisposed to do so, and the fruits of their learning are of direct significance in their lives. The example of a girl learning to make a reed mat illustrates the steps involved in the learning process and the interaction which takes place between learner and teacher. It is not possible to find an instance in Arakmbut society of a mother deliberately setting out to teach her daughter to make a reed mat. The technique is mastered over several years through repeated observation and gradual participation in the different stages of the mat-making and by being acquainted with the context (the riverbank and the village), the materials (bamboo and bark) and the sequencing of the activity. Reed mats — on which the Arakmbut sleep — are made exclusively by adult women (wetone) and by young women (muneyo). María, a ten-year-old muneyo’po, knew how to perform all the separate stages in

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a mat’s production, though she had not yet produced one from start to finish. Her seventeen-year-old sister was making them, but it is not an appropriate activity for a child. Instead María helped her mother who made new sleeping mats for the family when they were needed, for example, she would take up the work, at any stage of production, when her mother had to stop to breastfeed her youngest child or to prepare a meal. The same structure is found in the learning of all the activities for which a muneyo’po has responsibility when she becomes a muneyo, such as making a string bag (wenpu) for her future husband, carrying garden produce back to the community (a distance of up to 45 minutes walk), preparing and cooking it, jointing and cooking meat and fish, and paddling and poling a canoe. In this way, a muneyo’po like María is not presented with tasks with which she cannot cope, either physically, intellectually or spiritually. Several studies have documented the social interaction between learner and teacher in informal situations, where the learner possesses an extensive ‘preknowledge’ and is introduced to information and activities according to his or her potential (see Little 1990, Laserna 1989, Childs and Greenfield 1980, Philips 1972). In this way the teacher ensures that the child does not ‘fail’, and any mistakes that he/she may make in a particular procedure are corrected by the ridicule of which they are the focus for parents, siblings, and age mates. María’s mother remembers with some distaste a time when, as a muneyo living in Shintuya mission, she was shouted at by an old aunt, in front of others, for planting peanuts the wrong way up. Like the boys in the Serowe and Wainaron myths, she was scolded for not following the adults’ example. Besides sanctioning mistakes, ridicule is also used to promote equality, by ensuring that no one person rises above others. In the classroom the teachers encourage the competitive display of knowledge but, in the community, such displays are the object of ridicule. Arakmbut learning processes exemplify, then, the Vygotskian theory of informal learning as a transaction between the learner and the teacher in which — in contrast to formal schooling, where solo performance is crucial — the social transaction itself is the fundamental vehicle of education (Bruner 1985). Parallels with other indigenous peoples are as decisive as they are widespread. Writing about an indigenous community in southern Colombia, Laserna (1989) considers learning (to milk livestock and to cook, specifically) in terms of the social relations in which it is embedded. She highlights the manner in which the teacher, usually the mother, constructs a ‘scaffold’, or support system, around the novice that helps him or her to perform a given task successfully. And the

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Navaho of Arizona and New Mexico further corroborate the Arakmbut evidence: “Knowledge is built up through the recursive expansion of children’s prior understanding, in meaningful dialogue and socially significant interaction. Learners in this process play a determinant role; they are active seekers and users of knowledge” (McCarty et al.1991:51–2). It is the combination of active and interactive learning methods that typifies indigenous education, and instances of it are to be found throughout Arakmbut daily life. Juan, a young wambo learning to drive his father’s canoe with a 40hp outboard engine, was entrusted with the controls whenever the family travelled by river. On one journey the river was particularly narrow and the water-level low, making navigation difficult and potentially dangerous on account of submerged tree trunks and protruding branches. As the current became stronger, Juan was helped by his elder brothers: one sat beside him, and another called instructions from the bow of the canoe. At a critical point the brother sitting next to him took over the controls. Juan did not resist or show any displeasure, and he resumed control once the danger had passed. The trip was completed without incident, as normal, and no one in the family commented on the wambo’s skill. He himself interpreted this lack of comment as recognition of his growing ability — and the grin he gave me expressed his pleasure at his performance. Juan was learning co-operatively, in a reliable and reassuring partnership that provided a secure ‘scaffold’ from within which to tackle new and more complex situation. The learning context was central to the learning process (see Jacob 1997). By means of what Heath and McLaughlin (1994) refer to as ‘participatory appropriation’, where the transmission of knowledge, aptitudes and attitudes comes about through the very process of participation, Juan was acquiring a new skill — the art of river navigation in a motorised canoe — through his own direct involvement in the activity. When girls (wasipo) learn to roll string they sit together beside their mothers, aunts and older siblings in the familiar context of an early-morning or mid-afternoon gathering in the shade of a large tree. I observed two six-year-old girls mastering the technique of rolling fibres from the ‘setico’ tree across their thighs. The fibres had been washed and prepared and their task was to attach them to a small piece of ready made string. From time to time an older member of the group looked at the results of their labours, added to what had been done, then returned the string for the girls to continue. Unlike classroom practice in the school, neither verbal explanation nor didactic demonstration was given. Nor was any comment made on the results of the girls’ labours — and no attempt was

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made, moreover, to elicit approval. The girls remained working quietly and diligently — and early the next morning, having no doubt felt motivated in the meantime, they were sitting together on a trunk outside their kitchen trying to improve on their previous attempts. As in the culture’s mythology, Arakmbut children learn according to their age, previous knowledge and experience, in a context which is familiar and secure. Girls learn to make string by watching older women, and they already understand, thanks to the myth of Serowe, that learning begins with respect for elders and for the knowledge that they possess. The girls’ interaction with their ‘teachers’ is predominantly non-verbal, though the context in which they learn is highly verbal, as the daily gathering of women is a lively forum for discussion and the exchange of information. The informal education that operates among the Arakmbut of San José exemplifies what Lave calls ‘knowledge-in-practice’, meaning knowledge that is constituted in the setting of everyday life (1988:14).3 Learning involves participation in a meaningful context with a ‘community’ of practitioners, and responsibility for the final product lies with the community as much as with the individual learner (Lave and Wenger 1991). Arakmbut educational processes stand in sharp contrast, then, to those of the formal school in San José (see Table 7.1). Through their own culturally and socially patterned learning practices the Arakmbut acquire an understanding of the world in which they live. This understanding, which is defined by an individual’s age, sex, clan, residence and language, is achieved through participation in a meaningful, familiar context. A person is recognised as being knowledgeable and skilled if she or he is able to translate that understanding into action that is of demonstrable benefit to the community. This in turn hinges on the person’s relationship with the spirit inhabitants of the forest and the river, a relationship that changes over the course of a lifetime and determines an Arakmbut’s ability to protect both him/herself and other family members against the dangers that the spirit world brings. For the Arakmbut, hunting, fishing, gardening and gathering in the forest are fundamentally related to the invisible world of the spirits, which they must learn to contact and use beneficially. It is, for example, from the mythological spirit world — as represented in the narratives of Serowe and Wainaron among others — that young Arakmbut learn the guiding principles of the learning process itself. In applying those principles, children, youths and young adults acquire the knowledge that will enable them to be proficient, productive and strong Arakmbut in adult life. The spirit world is a source of knowledge for the Arakmbut,

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Table 7.1: Comparison of Arakmbut and School Education (after Teasdale 1997) SAN JOSE COMMUNITY

SAN JOSE SCHOOL

Context Learning takes place in the context of everyday life. Learning is a participatory activity legitimated by its meaningfulness to the whole community. Knowledge is defined by social category.

Learning is distanced from the life and environment of the learner, including her/his intercultural relations with the wahaipes. Learning is information-oriented and geared towards individual achievement. Knowledge is, in theory, accessible to all.

Medium A variety of modalities is employed. Knowledge comes through dreaming and experimentation, and from the elders. Nonverbal communication is often important. Learning is an active and interactive process with a high degree of learner autonomy and intrinsic motivation.

Knowledge derives from written texts (books or the blackboard) and from the teacher. Language, particularly in the written form, is essential. The use of spoken language is rigidly controlled by the teacher and exclusively in Spanish. Learners are extrinsically motivated.

Content Emphasis is on becoming a practitioner of specific skills and on understanding the relationship between the visible and the invisible through practising these skills. Learning is a preparation for participation in the social world in which the learner lives and her/his interaction with the invisible world.

Formal learning, comprising predominantly reading, writing and mathematics, is an end in itself. The application of learning to real-life situations demands skill and initiative, which the formal system does not provide or foster. Learning is a preparation for change and ‘progress’.

Process/Structure Most learning takes place through participa- Education is delivered to groups of learntion in meaningful contexts. Teacher/learner ers by agents specifically selected to fulfil roles are not rigidly prescribed. Proficient the role of knowledge transmitters. This adults and peers provide role models. Fur- highly structured system breaks down, ther learning is initiated by the learner however, because of excessive seeking a mentor from among senior clan bureaucratisation and the extreme isolation members. Access to knowledge is restricted of the school and teachers. Emphasis is on by age grade and gender, and the ability to the structure and content, rather than the use it is structured by relations with the process, of learning. invisible world.

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who are constantly re-elaborating their world-view — and, in the process, recreating and creating their culture — on the basis of changing relationships between the visible and invisible worlds.

7.4 Using schooled knowledge The invisible world also acts as a levelling mechanism, whereby a fisher or a hunter must regulate his catch: to gain status he must bring in enough meat to distribute amongst his kin and affines but he must avoid over-hunting or fishing which could bring them sickness. Respect is gained, on the one hand, through giving and, on the other, through using knowledge for the collective benefit of the community rather than for personal gain. Formal schooling, in contrast, both in San José and in Peru in general, is based on aims and principles which appear incompatible with those of the Arakmbut: individualism, competition and academic achievement, plus the attendant expectations of access to the labour market, economic returns, prestige linked to economic success and social mobility. While the apparent contradiction exists, the Arakmbut have woven formal education into their own cultural epistemology; like other forms of knowledge, school learning is valued if it is put to use on behalf of the community, and a wamandoyeri (student) receives respect for applying his/her schooling in this way. During my fieldwork two Arakmbut students were studying for degrees in private universities in Lima. They had been supported financially throughout their academic careers by grants from foreign organisations. These sponsoring organisations saw the studentships, which were administered through FENAMAD and covered the students’ fees, living-costs and occasional trips home, as an investment not only on behalf of the individuals themselves, but also, more importantly, on behalf of the Arakmbut people as a whole. Consequently, the students felt the weight of family, community and federation expectations on them, particularly the expectation that, once qualified, they would be able to tackle the problems of colonisation, exploitation and abuse which face the Harakmbut-speaking peoples. They were also aware of the opportunity cost of their studies to their family and the extra burden of labour that their absence imposed on their siblings. Furthermore, their own Arakmbut education had been interrupted. The students completed their degrees in 1997, becoming the first Arakmbut to graduate from university. This distinction had, nevertheless, been achieved at

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considerable personal costs, both in terms of the squalid living conditions that their meagre grants had afforded them in Lima, and in terms of their years of lonely isolation from their people. Most of their fellow students were from wealthy middle-class Peruvian families living nearby and at ease in the urban metropolis where they had grown up. Nevertheless, the Arakmbut students were not alone. They had contact with several other indigenous students from the Peruvian rainforest and together they formed the Association of Indigenous Students of the Peruvian Rainforest (ADEISP). This organisation provided a: Focus for the moral and political solidarity and commitment to their peoples which supports us in our efforts to complete our studies […] far from our own world. Our motto is to finish our studies and return to work together with our community members and leaders. For this reason we are different from all white students who seek financially profitable professions in order to compensate for their efforts and the economic expenditure they have had in order to complete their studies (ADEISP n.d.).

The Arakmbut students shared the goals of returning to work with members of their own community and putting their learning to use for the collectivity. During their holiday visits to Madre de Dios they would not rest on their academic laurels. After months or years away they had to reassure their families and communities that they still valued their Arakmbut identity and had not rejected it for another. These were times for reinforcing their indigenous identity and for ensuring that their education in the Arakmbut domain did not stand still but kept pace with their age and physical maturity. They knew that ultimately, however many exams they passed or academic accolades they received, prestige within their community would come from their being Arakmbut, which can be achieved only through Arakmbut learning processes. Being a wamandoyeri does not in itself bring respect: a person who lives by the skills of a wamandoyeri alone is a wanamba, a weak person. An Arakmbut is respected for his or her ‘strength’. For a man, this means that he is not loath to do hard physical work (e’mba’a), such as clearing forest or panning gold; he is competent at skilled physical work (e’ka’a), such as hunting, fishing or producing children; and, if he is a wamanoka’eri, he knows about and understands (e’nopwe) the spirit world. Above all, he uses his ‘strength’ for the benefit of the community. The two Arakmbut graduates grew up with solid cultural roots based in their respective communities of San José and Boca Inambari. And, through their close links with the indigenous movement, over the course of their school and

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university careers they developed a strong and positive awareness of their indigenous identity. Their contact with the indigenous movement took place at the regional level (through FENAMAD), the national level (through AIDESEP) and the international level (through COICA and the United Nations Working Group on Indigenous Peoples) and has enabled them to overcome the ethnocidal, individualistic pressures of formal education and become a potentially empowering force for their community. Just as wamanoka’eri are recognised by the success of their diagnosis and curing, so the students will come to be recognised as wairi (headmen concerned with external community relations) if they put their ‘outside’ knowledge to practical use in the search for solutions to the problems of outside origin facing the community. They will be expected to tackle problems such as land invasions, to confront colonists on behalf of the community and to write the community’s official letters, rather than have to rely on the teachers, who themselves are from the ‘outside’. If they fail to apply their learning constructively, then neither the years of hard work that they invested in the formal education system nor their considerable achievement in that domain will be recognised or respected. Their formal learning is subject to the same evaluatory criteria as learning in the Arakmbut domain. If, therefore, they value their identity not just as graduates but as wambokerek (Arakmbut men), they must ensure that the former conforms to expectations for the latter — by demonstrably benefiting Arakmbut society in general. The survey that has been made in this chapter of the Arakmbut’s informal learning practices has highlighted the extent to which they diverge from formal schooling, which, as we have seen, denies the existence and, therefore, the legitimacy of Arakmbut knowledge. Intercultural bilingual education, which by definition derives from an analysis of the interrelationship between two systems — in this case, formal and informal education — has the task not only of breaking the hegemony of the formal but also of exploding the dichotomy, particularly in so far as it concerns the opposition between the indigenous and national languages, which is to say, the opposition between oracy and literacy.

Notes 1. Goody (1982), with reference to the LoDagaa, identifies three ways of acquiring knowledge. 2. Cf. Bloch (1993), who notes that among the Zafimaniry of Madagascar different types of knowledge are inseparable from their beliefs about bodily maturation, the person, the nature of society and the plants and animals which inhabit the natural world.

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3. Rival (n.d.), uses Lave’s ‘construction of practice’ theory to discuss schooling and cultural continuity among the indigenous Huaorani of Amazonian Ecuador, concluding that Huaorani culture is not a fixed repertoire of texts, or a semantic system, but the product of practical knowledge constituted through direct engagement with the world.

C 8 Bilingual education for language-maintenance

The Arakmbut do not live an isolated existence, and their knowledge and learning are not unaffected by influences from the majority society and from the large numbers of Quechua colonists living on, and in close proximity to, their legally recognised territory. Increasing pressures from the migrant population have resulted in changes which are threatening the long-term viability of the Arakmbut way of life through the destruction or weakening of integral components of their world-view, such as their hunting economy, their spirituality and their freedom of cultural expression. Since the gold rush of the 1970s, the Arakmbut — and the indigenous peoples of Madre de Dios in general — have experience mounting contact with the colonist population and the extension both of national institutions, particularly in the fields of health and education, and of local government bureaucracy. As part of their struggle to protect their territory and way of life, the Arakmbut and the other Harakmbut-speaking communities have become involved in the running of the regional indigenous organisation FENAMAD, which has responded in two ways: by working for the legal recognition of indigenous communities and the defence of communal land, and by drawing up proposals for the introduction of intercultural education. This chapter examines the bilingual dimension of intercultural education, with particular reference to the community of San José. The first part of the chapter looks at the process of colonisation and the undermining of Arakmbut culture and language as a result of deepening inequalities in intercultural relations. The second part considers the uses made of oral Harakmbut and Spanish in San José, leading to an enquiry into the significance of a Harakmbut writing system, given that the Arakmbut are a numerically small people who already use Spanish literacy in certain contexts.

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8.1 Arakmbut language needs The growth of the wahaipi (‘colonist’) population in Madre de Dios since the 1970s, in particular in the region around the Karene river, has had serious consequences for the Arakmbut. Their demarcated lands are being illegally cleared for agriculture and areas of their traditional territory that remained relatively undisturbed until the 1990s — because their rivers do not bear gold dust — have become centres for hunting by the colonist population. Large numbers of tapir, peccary and deer are shot by the wahaipi and sold to supply burgeoning settlements such as Boca Colorado and Puerto Maldonado. Birds such as the blue and red macaw are sought for their commercial value and the future of these and other species is threatened. Intensive gold-panning along the river-banks has contaminated the water with mercury, causing large-scale damage to the river ecology and making fishing more difficult for the Arakmbut. Turtle eggs have in recent years been collected by colonists in such large quantities for the Maldonado market that they are now scarce and the women of San José have ceased making their annual trip in the dry season to gather the eggs on the beaches of the Madre de Dios river. The destruction and disruption of the environment has depleted natural stocks of fauna and flora, making it harder for the Arakmbut to sustain their diet through hunting and fishing. Consequently, they have turned more to goldpanning as a means of generating income for the purchase of basic food supplies at Boca Colorado. During the 1980s gold work became a vital economic activity, while at the same time the value of gold on the international and local markets dropped. Today the beaches produce very little gold dust, probably due to largescale mechanised extraction in the headwaters by national companies. The Arakmbut, like the colonists, are looking for alternative means of providing an income to feed their children but, meanwhile, they dedicate more and more time to gold-panning for diminishing returns. Consequently they have less time for hunting than their fathers at a similar age and also have to go further afield to find game, though their relative lack of experience means that many of them do not know the forest well beyond the community’s demarcated territory. In the community of Shintuya, where hunting activities have become severely curtailed and meat is no longer distributed through the clan and kin network, the Arakmbut understand the decline of these traditional practices not as a slight on the hunter and his skills, but rather as a slight on the animals. If a man turns his back on the creatures of the forest, for whatever reason, they will

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turn their backs on him, and so the hunter loses the contact that he has had with the animal spirits through dreaming. Thus, the decline of hunting leads to poorer knowledge of the forest, less control of the invisible world and less ability to protect the community from the sickness and affliction that the spirits bring. Members of the older generation complain that the younger generation does not want to learn about the animals and the spirits. Infact, young men do still hunt and treat the forest and invisible world with respect, and to some extent it is their inexperience that explains the (perennial) complaints of their fathers and uncles. But there are additional factors which compound the difficulties that affect learning and teaching within present-day Arakmbut society. One significant factor is the presence of wahaipi within the community. Some families contract peones to work with them in gold-panning and these people often live in the house of their employer. Others live at the gold workings and only come to San José on their day off at the weekend. The effect of the close proximity of non-indigenous persons has been to curtail many of the Arakmbut’s outward expressions of their culture and oral tradition, in particular evening myth-telling in the open, which has decreased over the last ten years. The elders say they e’mbire, that is, they are ‘embarrassed’ to tell myths and sing songs in the presence of wahaipi or other non-Harakmbut people. Consequently, the opportunities for the young to learn from the elders are less frequent. At parties in San José in 1980, Arakmbut men, fortified by alcohol, would sing improvised songs to each other from dusk to dawn saying what they dared not say when sober. This kind of improvisation is very rarely heard today, and only among the elders. With money taking on a new importance as the means of acquiring goods which have come to be basic commodities, such as clothes, cigarettes, rice, pasta, salt and sugar, the elders find themselves impoverished. No longer physically able to pan gold, they still have, however, their knowledge to offer, particularly their knowledge of chindign, curing chants. Sometimes when they are called upon to cure, especially if the sick person is not from their own clan or kindred, they may ask for money in return for the chindign. Faced with having to pay a fee in return for this knowledge, young members of the community are indignant and accuse the elders of not wanting to teach them. The benefit of schooling, as the Arakmbut see it, is that ideally it will help them to escape from growing material poverty but it does not usually mean securing a job in the nearest town. Their ambition, is not social mobility or the renunciation of their ethnic affiliation, because the Arakmbut of San José see their lives as being based in the community. Whatever level they reach in the

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formal school system, the vast majority will return to their community and carry out the same activities as they would have done with little or no schooling. Schooling is neither the difference between a high- and a low-income job nor does it replace the need to be able to make a garden, hunt, fish and build a house — abilities which enable a man to find a partner. For a woman, similarly, ten years of schooling do not replace or compensate for the ability to cultivate a garden and gather the forest resources without which she will not find a partner. The extent to which San José students are prepared to persevere at school, under difficult circumstances and for what appear to be limited returns is more closely related to their prospects and opportunities within the community at a particular point in time. Factors which contribute to keeping a student at school include, the absence in the community of a marriageable partner (as defined by a rule of clan exogamy); low profitability of the extended-family gold-panning enterprise, which offers little monetary gain for a great deal of physical labour; and friction or conflict with a sibling or an age-mate, such as would in the past have prompted a move to another Arakmbut community. Consequently, the importance of schooling is contingent on social and economic conditions outside the school — which partly explains the Arakmbut’s lack of interest in bilingual education. In other areas of the Peruvian Amazon, indigenous children have attended bilingual schools since the 1960s. Initially these were run by the SIL but, during the 1970s, some of the numerically larger peoples, such as the Aguaruna, the Shipibo and the Yanesha, began to wrest control of their bilingual schooling from the Protestant missionaries. They have gradually taken up positions as inspectors and local-education-authority functionaries, and today control the administration and functioning of schooling in some of their areas. They are proud of the equal status which their languages have with Spanish in their education systems. For them mother-tongue-literacy is a right, expressed in the Draft Declaration as the right to “revitalise, use, develop and transmit to future generations their histories, languages, oral traditions, philosophies, writing systems and literatures” (E/CN.4 Sub 2/1993/29 Part III, Article 14). Here, as elsewhere in the region, bilingual education and mother-tongue literacy are important weapons in the struggle for the recognition of indigenous rights and the strengthening of indigenous identity. As indicated in Chapter 5, however, the Arakmbut of San José resist the introduction of their language in school, because it has always been derided there. Through their membership of the Amazon-wide organisation AIDESEP, the Arakmbut are united with the Shipibo, Aguaruna and

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other peoples, and they are solidary with the aims and objectives of the indigenous movement, but they differ in terms of their attitude towards biliterate schooling. Their wariness of it does not mean, though, that they value their own language and cultural heritage any less. What is more, the neighbouring peoples no longer accept biliterate education unquestioningly — indeed they are now questioning the nature of schooled literacy and the neglect of areas of oral expression.

8.2 Attitudes to bilingual education The Shipibo number some 20,000 persons living in the central rainforest region along the banks of the Ucayali river. SIL began its educational and linguistic work with the Shipibo soon after arriving in Peru and by the 1960s had formed a cadre of Shipibo bilingual teachers. Though the Shipibo ideal is to teach through the medium of Shipibo at all levels, most secondary-school teaching materials are only available in Spanish. In primary school, however, the Shipibo language is used throughout, in both written and oral forms. In this way the language has developed a new written form of expression which is being strengthened and consolidated as children learn to use it in school and as reading materials are produced. Nevertheless, among experienced and now retired bilingual teachers there is concern about the loss of the richness and variety of oral Shipibo. Their concern is that pressures from the national society, the introduction of new religions and the spread of schooling have resulted in the erosion of the language’s traditional ‘registers’ (A. Soria, President of the Ucayali Association of Retired Bilingual Teachers (ACJEBU), p.c.). A written form of the Shipibo language has been developed for the SIL primary school but the content of the textbooks is predominantly concerned with the non-Shipibo world. The use of the indigenous language is wholly geared to the aims of the national curriculum. The students learn to read and write school texts in their own language in order, supposedly, for them to value the language and develop a positive self-image (see Delgado-Gaitan and Trueba 1991), but this type of ‘maintenance’ bilingual education also has considerable ‘subtractive’ effects in terms of its neglect of oral practices and genres of the language that are part of its use outside the school (see Lindholm 1990). The Ucayali Association of Retired Bilingual Teachers (ACJEBU) charges the school with being responsible for impoverishing the language through its exclusive focus on a

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‘schooled’ register. Somewhat ironically, ACJEBU decided that the best way to combat the impoverishment of the Shipibo language was by means of the written word and the school. In collaboration with Shipibo elders and schoolteachers, ACJEBU began a small project, making trips to Shipibo communities to gather examples of oral genres, such as myths, legends and songs, with the aim of transcribing them and making them available in school in both audio and written form (A. Soria, p.c.). They now have a collection of tapes which demonstrate the breadth and depth of Shipibo oral genres. Other indigenous peoples in the Peruvian Amazon share the view that the bilingual curriculum being taught in their schools reflects neither the reality in which the students live nor the richness of their cultural traditions. Consequently, they are demanding more decision-making power in order to ensure that bilingual education is not merely a transposition of the content, form and methods of western education into the mother tongue (Pozzi-Escot 1990b).The Aguaruna, for example, like the Shipibo, have a long history of bilingual schooling. The first SIL bilingual school opened in 1953 with an Aguaruna teacher and by the 1960s SIL was also training Aguaruna school inspectors and supervisors in their communities. The bilingual schools offer the opportunity to learn Spanish, which has enabled the Aguaruna to defend themselves against exploitation and debt bondage to outside patrones (Wipio 1981). An increasingly important issue, though, is to ensure Aguaruna control over decision-making in the curriculum development process (of which language policy is a part), so that it reflects Aguaruna values and priorities throughout. With the Aguaruna determining the conception of ‘culture’ and the nature of their intercultural relations with the wider society, they can ensure that their language is strengthened as part of a thriving cultural tradition from which it derives its meaning (ETSA 1996). While the numerically large indigenous groups of the Peruvian Amazon, such as the Aguaruna, Shipibo and the Yanesha, have embraced bilingual education as a real or potential or useful ally in the defence of their language and culture, there are many examples of indigenous peoples with less positive experiences of SIL bilingual schools. SIL linguists themselves admit to having had only limited success in their programmes with the Yagua, Dakente/Nomatsigenka, Cacataibo and Capanahua (Arique 1992). The Chayahuita people, with whom the Centre for Amazon Anthropology and Practical Application (CAAAP) has been collaborating, insist that their school literacy programme should not be confined to the mother tongue but should introduce Spanish and Chayahuita simultaneously. The linguistic and pedagogical arguments for initial mother-

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tongue literacy, followed by the later introduction of Spanish as a second language, are not primary considerations for the Chayahuita, who have a pressing need to be able to communicate in Spanish. Mother-tongue teaching may subsequently result in greater proficiency in Spanish, but many indigenous peoples’ needs are immediate. Like the Arakmbut of San José, the Chayahuita want their children to learn Spanish in order to protect their territory and their way of life from the overwhelming nature of their intercultural relations. Bilingual projects in Quechua- and Aymara-speaking regions of the Peruvian Andes have faced serious opposition. In Ansión, in the Puno region, a study was carried out which showed that parents do not want bilingual schooling for their children because it is seen as a second-class education (Degregori 1991). As López and Moya (1989) emphasise from their position at the forefront of developments in intercultural bilingual education in the highlands of Peru, Bolivia and Ecuador, many studies attest to the doubts which exist among indigenous peoples concerning this form of education. One such doubt was expressed by a land-titling-project worker in the Purus region of Peru, who maintained that, while children learned more easily in their mother tongue, they were also more vulnerable to outside influences. In the case of SIL teachers, he considered that they open the way to religious indoctrination and the imposition of a foreign morality (pers comm.).

8.3 Communicative practices of the Arakmbut of San José In order to form an understanding of what biliterate schooling has to offer the Arakmbut in terms of satisfying their language needs, this section will look at the different social contexts in which the Arakmbut use the Harakmbut and Spanish languages. Grillo construes the concept of communicative practices as including (i) “the social activities through which language or communication is produced” (ii) “the way in which these activities are embedded in institutions, settings or domains which in turn are implicated in other, wider, social, economic, political and cultural processes” and (iii) “the ideologies which may be linguistic or other, which guide processes of communicative production” (in Street 1993a:13). The discussion of communicative practices in San José will be confined to linguistic communication. By focusing on communication (rather than on literacy or oracy, specifically) it is intended to move away from the notion of a great divide between peoples with a literate tradition and peoples without one. At the same

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time, it is useful to deconstruct the term oral tradition, by looking at the different genres of Arakmbut oral communication and the different registers and degrees of ‘formality’ of the language. By these means it is possible to avoid setting up a value-laden contrast between the oral and the written in terms of cognition or rationality and, following Grillo (ibid.), to show literacy to be one type of communicative practice among several. The lives of the Arakmbut since the 1950s have brought them into situations where they need to communicate in Spanish. Siguan and Mackey employ the term ‘social bilingualism’ for the use of two languages as means of communication in a society, stressing the need to identify not only the contexts in which the different languages are used, but also the “standing and function of each” (1987:28). The communicative practices of the Arakmbut of San José fall clearly into two discrete domains. Spanish is used exclusively in the inter-ethnic domain for communicating with non-Harakmbut speakers. Apart from a few researchers who know a limited amount of Harakmbut and two SIL linguists formerly working in Puerto Luz, the Harakmbut languages are known only to those who speak them as their mother tongue. All the wahaipi in Madre de Dios speak Spanish, though many are Quechua-speakers and may not read or write Spanish. Spanish is the language of commerce, business, the media, and the legal system, but (as Chapter 5 illustrates) inter-ethnic communicative contexts are not only exclusively in Spanish, but primarily oral. In the intra-ethnic domain, in contrast, all communication — within families, between families and between not only the five Arakmbut communities but also the ten Harakmbut-speaking communities — takes place in Harakmbut. The only written Harakmbut texts are a series of nine literacy booklets and some translations from the Bible. The former were produced by SIL for the Puerto Luz school, have limited distribution and are only rarely encountered in the communities. In intra-ethnic contexts, then, communication is again predominantly oral. Intra-ethnic communicative practices All Arakmbut learning is done through the medium of Harakmbut, in the informal context of family and community life (Chapter 7). By the time they reach school age, Arakmbut children can converse freely in Harakmbut, having acquired a solid foundation in language skills and concept-formation. Among adults, day-to-day communication within the house and kitchen is firmly entrenched in the Harakmbut language, which is the language in which children are disciplined, hunting and gold work are discussed, and gossip is shared.

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Language-development is a lifelong process, with distinct linguistic registers attaching to certain social practices in which the Arakmbut may acquire competence at different stages of their lives. These are the practices that the young say the old are reluctant to teach and which the old say the young are not interested in learning. They constitute three distinct linguistic genres, each with a cosmological, social and ideological significance of its own: singing (e’machinowa), narration (e’mbachapak), and curing (e’manokay). Within each of these genres several different formalised registers may be used (Table 8.1), illustrating the diversity and complexity of Arakmbut oral traditions. In fact a lot more than words is involved (cf. Finnegan 1992). Songs, for example, emphasise rhythm often being accompanied by the rattling of a cluster of large shells with peccary teeth hung inside like clappers and here rhythm becomes the dominant feature. The essence of a myth, on the other hand, lies in its performance, which, though led by one principal narrator, involves the participation of the whole audience in different ways. One elder renowned for his e’mbachapak in San José is Ireyo and, whenever it is known that he is going to narrate a myth, members of the community come from their houses and form an audience around him. Women bring their children and their reed mats and sit together as a group; the men lounge on the ground together. There is a feeling of expectancy and anticipation in the audience, who, when the narration begins, form an integral part of the performance, actively participating with the interjection of embellishments, jokes and asides, animals noises and dances miming the action in the storyline. A myth becomes drama and at times there is no clear distinction between audience and performer. Among themselves and with members of other communities the members of San José communicate face-to-face, complementing the spoken word with nonverbal forms of communication. In 1992 the community was given a short-wave radio. Though for some the absence of a visible audience posed initial problems, people of all ages quickly grew accustomed to using it. Given with the intention of facilitating communication between San José and the headquarters of FENAMAD in Puerto Maldonado, the radio was at first dominated by the few youths and young men who had had some secondary schooling and who consequently had a better grasp of oral Spanish. It was soon realised, however, by hitherto uninterested members of the community that the radio could provide a link with other Arakmbut communities and bring news of far-flung close relatives. Women who spoke no Spanish found they could contact a son or daughter at secondary school in distant Puerto Maldonado and they talked without inhibition, using the radio to

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Table 8.1: Arakmbut oral genres E’MENOKAY

Curing chants (chindign) convey information about animals, their foodstuffs, habitat and behaviour patterns. They are performed by older wambokerek, wetone and watone, but certain persons are recognised as being more skilled at chindign concerned with sicknesses caused by a particular animal spirit. Chindign comprise the backbone of Arakmbut curing and are fundamental to their philosophy of sickness and health. They employ a specialised or formal register with distinct vocabularies, which represent the language of different animals.

E’MBACHAPAK

Myths are of two types according to length and content. Both are told by older wambokerek, wetone and watone and concern events which took place in the spirit world in the remote past: i. long origin myths — Wanamey, Marinke and Aiwe — which are about the origins of the Arakmbut physical and social world. These can take a whole night to tell, though are often shortened. One elder in San José is recognised as being the most accomplished narrator of these myths. They require a knowledge of archaic linguistic terms and formulations. ii. shorter myths concerning in particular the time when certain animals were Arakmbut. The narratives account for the origin of the animals and for their appearance in human form. They too are told by elders and involve detailed knowledge of the spirit world. Legends concern historical events affecting the Arakmbut in the visible world in the recent past, such as battles with old enemies (taka) and encounters with the Dominican priests. These are narrated in ordinary language by the oldest members of the community. Sayings are short and specific: for example, in order to keep rain away the women bribe the clouds to disperse, by offering them food such as pineapples, sugar cane and manioc. (If the rain returns, it is a sign that it does not like the food.)

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Songs are of various kinds grouped according to the social position and spiritual strength of those permitted to sing them: i. elders’ songs, which make detailed reference to forest animals, are sung by wambokerek, wetone and watone. Today only a few wetone know these songs and say they are too shy to perform them. They learned them from ‘dreamers’ (wayorokeri) who contacted the spirits and passed on what the spirits told them through the songs. Traditionally performed at community dances, these songs are occasionally still sung outside the huts on a clear night. Three elders in San José are recognised singers, combining technical skill and information content. ii. group songs involve a considerable degree of technical complexity, with up to five participating. The main singer begins and the other four join in to ‘strengthen’ him. The leader sings in counterpoint, introduces the other singers, welcomes them and explains where they come from. The group sings about people and incidents in the community with, at times, three or four different commentaries going on at once. Prior to, and during the Arakmbut’s first years at Shintuya mission communal dances were held by neighbouring haktone at which the wambokerek sang while the young wambo and muneyo danced. The dances and songs were integral to Arakmbut courtship. iii. improvised songs heard only occasionally today, are sung by one person to another, usually expressing sentiments that would give offence if said directly. They are often sung in a state of inebriation during or towards the end of a dance. They are personal in nature and can be used to ridicule or vent aggression on a neighbour or kinsman. Alternatively, they can be spontaneous expressions of happiness or sadness. They vary in length, content and structure according to the purpose of the singer. iv. young people’s songs, sung by younger wambokerek and wambo, are also about animals but, unlike elders’ songs, they are not taken seriously. Their style of delivery lacks the freedom of Arakmbut improvisation, and their content is less detailed. v. children’s songs, for example, wasasamba, are sung by children as they hold hands and go around in a circle. Such singing forms part of the children’s collective play.

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harangue their children and encourage them to work hard and be well behaved. As short-wave radios were set up in several of their communities, the Arakmbut quickly realised that the exclusivity of their own language was in itself of political value. Using Harakmbut, it was possible to plan and co-ordinate such things as a campaign to provide electoral cards for all adults, in a move to elect an indigenous candidate in the municipal elections. Colonists could listen in but not understand. After ten years of trying in vain to communicate with member communities by letter, radio communication was immediately empowering. The Arakmbut relationship with the written word Through the extension of the traditional division of labour to new economic activities such as gold-panning, men continue to have most direct communication with non-Harakmbut speakers. They work with the peones, exchange gold at Boca Colorado, buy provisions in Puerto Maldonado and liase with FENAMAD to lobby government ministries. Women are less fluent in both spoken and written Spanish. They do discuss issues concerning wahaipi with their spouses and families, and can play an important advisory role, but the discussion takes place in the Harakmbut language. Marita left primary school at the age of 17, having completed all 6 grades after 7 years. In 1991, newly married and pregnant, she worked with her husband to clear her first garden. She also worked in her mother-in-law’s gardens and generally participated in the activities of her husband’s family. I recorded her use of language over the space of a week and in that period she had no recourse to reading, writing or speaking Spanish. Her aural understanding of Spanish was apparent from non-verbal responses she made to questions from two nonindigenous labourers who were working gold with her husband and for whom she cooked. But she used her husband as a means of communicating with the wahaipi. The nearest she came to a piece of text was a typed letter that she used for drying her hands. When a team from FENAMAD and the Eori Centre arrived to support the community over a flagrant violation of its territory, a formal denunciation was produced on paper, written by a non-Arakmbut consultant. The denunciation was the product of a collaborative process whereby the content was discussed and agreed upon by the community while the layout, structure and technical vocabulary were suggested by members of the visiting team. The document was read out in Spanish and a translation of its essence given in Harakmbut. The young

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men who had had some schooling and the few older men who had previously held official positions within the native community structure signed their names and added the number of their electoral card to the document. The wives of the former office-bearers, also educated women, signed their names but many had no electoral card. One senior man who had been sent to the Dominican boarding school at Quillabamba in the 1960s, where he won a prize for his Spanish, made his thumbprint together with his monolingual age-mates. To have signed his name would have been to distance himself from the respected and knowledgeable elders with whom he associated — though it is also likely that he had lost the ability to write after more than thirty years with little use for it. The vast majority of the women also signed with their thumbs, though most had been to school — being able to write, albeit their name, did not bring them any status within Arakmbut society. Here, in other words, is a case of a ‘literacy event’ (Heath 1983) which is itself a social event: the written end product is determined and defined by the oral interaction between the participants, who comprise the entire community. The literate Spanish skills that the Arakmbut need are specialised, because they need them in order to defend their lands from invasion. A German settler built a house on San José territory and, with tacit support of the police and the military, was terrorising the community with his armoury of weapons. In the course of trying to evict the intruder, the community of San José made written and oral presentations to the authorities not only in Puerto Maldonado but, with the support of FENAMAD, at the German Embassy in Lima and at the United Nations Working Group on Indigenous Peoples in Geneva. In order to defend themselves against these forms of abuse, in the past the Arakmbut have had to rely on missionaries, salesmen, teachers and others to act on their behalf. Often this was done paternalistically and without proper consultation with the Arakmbut themselves. Today, however, this situation is changing, partly through the offices of FENAMAD and the indigenous movement, but also because the Harakmbut-speaking university students have acted as representatives for their communities. Communication in San José school As was noted in Chapter 4, the school approach to language is profoundly restricted by its specificity. Teaching and learning are organised around a particular type of alphabetic literacy, and even the oral language of the classroom is heavily influenced by features of written language, such as recitation and

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whole-class simultaneous instruction (Green 1993). Despite an emphasis on oral skills in the Basic Curricular Programme used by the teachers, oral communication is limited — and usually initiated and controlled by the teacher. Indeed, teachers often pose rhetorical questions which they themselves answer, and the students remain silent. The sign of hard-working children for a teacher is a silent classroom, where the spoken word is completely subjugated to the written. This makes a striking contrast with the situation of the child learning to roll string in the midst of a babble of lively but relaxed talk under the trees (Chapter 7). Learning in school focuses on memorising the written word for the purpose of assessment, itself overwhelmingly written. As Althusser asks, “What, after all, is an education system, other than a ritualization of speech, a qualification and a fixing of the roles for speaking subjects?” (cited in Green op. cit.:204). Meek (1991:127) illustrates the constringency of classroom language when she notes how being literate also means learning specific conventions for speaking (how to ask to go to the toilet), for reading (‘this is how we hold our books’), and for writing (the difference between ‘rough’ and neat’). The language sanctioned in school is a formal register with a specific vocabulary and grammar and with set conventions for speaking and writing. Communication is founded on discipline and control, and learning is circumscribed by a form of knowledge embodied in the written text. In contrast, learning in the Arakmbut domain is embedded in an activity and in the context in which the activity occurs; it is participative, interactive and part of a wider verbal exchange that is not expressly didactic. All the children in San José attend school nowadays. Some learn the rules of the classroom and its restricted code of communication, and to this extent become ‘literate’ in the official school sense of the term; others do not. The literacy aimed at is reminiscent of nineteenth-century European schooling, where it consisted in “the ability to read religious tracts or a little ‘general knowledge’ of the kind found in a school reader, or the ability to write a letter or a short piece on an improving theme, the ability to identify parts of speech and parse sentences” (Christie 1993: 87). Schools in those days were not places where it was intended either that spoken language should flourish or that students should develop critical and enquiring minds. The same situation prevails in San José school, where the learning of rules is an end in itself, and the final outcome for many pupils is, at best, an ability to recite those rules. It does not encourage them to question critically what they read and write. On the contrary, being constrained to work only with other peoples’ texts, or within the teacher’s interpretation of a text, can stultify enquiry and lead to “a docility that can well

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serve any religious, political or aesthetic majority” (Emig, cited in Green 1993: 203). Marita cannot (or does not) use the Spanish language as an active means of communication, though she does have a limited passive understanding of it. The inability to express themselves in Spanish is one of the main problems which students encounter on reaching secondary school (Aikman 1994). The language skills which the school imbues serve the Arakmbut poorly, failing to provide students with the competence they require for the different discourse systems in which they participate outside primary school. In order to interpret or deliver a message the speaker/reader/writer/listener has to know the discourse system within which the language is being used (Scollon and Scollon 1981). School provides the grammar (the ‘form’ of the language) but not the ability to understand and interpret the meaning of a communication. Moreover, the obedience and ‘docility’ inculcated in association with school literacy practices are debilitating in many inter-ethnic situations: for example, when the President of San José has to negotiate the community’s share of the municipal budget with the mayor of Boca Colorado; or when representatives have to petition and lobby the Ministry of Agriculture and Mines for recognition of legally enshrined rights; or when verbally formalising the hire purchase of a water-pump and the reciprocal obligations involved. Time and time again the Arakmbut find themselves at best unheeded and at worst cheated and abused. They lack the social ability to use their grammatical competence in determinate situations (Bourdieu 1992). Consistent with school literacy practices is the fact that the oral language associated with this domain is itself subject to specifically school-oriented aims, which focus on the written word and vindicate a formal register of speech. Consequently, the communication practices fostered by the school are of very limited use to the Arakmbut in their wide-ranging intercultural communicative situations. Both Church and State educational authorities and personnel ignore the importance of the out-of-school contexts in which at least some of the Arakmbut need to use Spanish. This is to ignore the social context within which the communication is situated and which gives it meaning (cf. Street 1984, Lankshear 1993). The Arakmbut of San José are left to learn this lesson the hard way, through trial and error often resulting in exploitation and oppression.

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8.4 Arakmbut literacy for empowerment In the context of the local gold economy in which the Arakmbut participate, and in the national context in which they are fighting to secure their rights, the Harakmbut language is not empowering, because it is not legitimised within the wider society. Now that their land rights have been recognised in Peruvian and international law, the Arakmbut know that they need Spanish language skills in order to defend their territory and their life-style. By the same criterion, they doubt whether Harakmbut literacy can be as empowering as Spanish literacy. Teaching their children to read and write in Harakmbut will not make them ‘civilised’, ‘modern’ and ‘Peruvian’, but only confirm them in their ‘difference’. Teaching mother-tongue literacy as a bridge to Spanish is therefore an academic exercise. And yet mother-tongue literacy is also couched in terms of strengthening the oral language and providing it with another register, a tangible, definitive form that cannot be eroded by societal pressures or die out with the elders. Various writers argue the need for written forms of indigenous mother tongues as a means of expression for a new ethnic identity, as well as for the purpose of literary production and linguistic diversity. In this way Peru’s indigenous languages may challenge the prestige which only Spanish enjoys at present (cf. Mayer 1987; López 1988; Zuñiga 1989a). In the community of Villa Santiago, where the Arasaeri dialect of Harakmbut is confined to the oldest generation, writing the language and teaching it to the children may be a means of reestablishing it. But the primary aim must be to re-establish the language as a thriving spoken language and not merely a dead language confined to the pages of a book (Aikman 1995). The members of San José say that their language is not in danger of dying out and, moreover, they do not perceive the school, with its links with the Dominican mission, evangelisation and ‘civilisation’, as an appropriate forum for Arakmbut culture. For them, it is a place where their language and cultural practices have always been denied any legitimacy. The Arakmbut response, therefore, to the suggestion of bilingual education as mother-tongue schooled literacy is not surprising. As Seymour-Smith (1987) points out, the mother tongue must be a means of transmission of valuable knowledge, unconstricted by an imposed system of education. The Arakmbut do not see how a written version of their language, produced within the school’s narrow definition of ‘literacy’ could serve them as a means of communication.

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In the light of Arakmbut attitudes, it is difficult to share the enthusiasm of a SIL linguist for the potential value of a transliterated indigenous language: “Folk tales and other parts of the cultural heritage can not only be preserved but also enjoyed by new readers as members of a given ethnic group are able to write them for themselves and for others” (Davies 1981: 243). Transcribed for ‘new readers’ indigenous myths become no more than ‘folk tales’: they are lifted from the context that gives them meaning and robbed of the performance that is their essence (Chapter 9). By committing Arakmbut oral traditions to writing for scholastic purposes, they will lose their cultural significance and their integrity within the society. As Leap (1991) notes for the Ute people of North America, the printed page is a drab, nondescript channel for the exchange of information, when viewed in the light of their own traditions. For the Arakmbut, moreover, the epistemological basis of the narratives and songs will change: first, they will no longer be intimately linked with the invisible world, as expressions of knowledge dependent on the hunter’s relationship with the spirits; and secondly, since access to them will be through the printed page, they will be available to all, instead of being personal to the individual and mediated by age, experience and gender. A written form of Harakmbut will democratise access to certain registers of the language and, at the same time, to certain social practices. In the long term, Harakmbut literacy has the potential to subvert the age and gender differential, associated with certain cultural practices. Nevertheless, with the written word is the possibility of maintaining abstract knowledge by providing a precise written form which will outlive the individual. This ambiguity presents the Arakmbut with a dilemma as regards whether or not to embrace bilingual education. The complexity and sensitivity demanded in developing a written form of an oral language are well described for the Ute (Leap 1991). The Ute have had a language project for over ten years and there is now a practical writing system and a cadre of Ute people who are both familiar with the system and skilled at showing others how to use it. There are also teaching/learning materials that can be used to build up interest in reading and writing. Nevertheless, Leap reports that Ute literacy is largely regarded as a marginal phenomenon, for several reasons: it weakens traditional leadership patterns (by democratising access to knowledge, as described above); it risks dividing the society along the lines of those who can read and those who cannot; most of the language materials serve a purely pedagogical purpose and are designed for children; and people find that ‘learning to read’ in Ute is not useful in all social contexts (Leap 1991:29).

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Any proposals for bilingual education in San José must take two fundamental factors into consideration: that the mother tongue does not have an (accepted) written form; and that to produce a written form purely for the purposes of schooling runs the risk of producing an ‘autonomous’ type of literacy. Such a development is to treat literacy as “independent of social context, an autonomous variable whose consequences for society and cognition can be derived from its intrinsic character”, rather than seeing it as a “social and ideological practice involving fundamental aspects of epistemology, power and politics” (Street 1993a: 5,9). Studies in bilingualism have frequently ignored the possibility that the mother tongue may have neither a literate tradition nor a history of use in the classroom. Cummins, who has written extensively on bilingualism and bilingual education, argues for initial instruction in the child’s first language when the children come from socio-economically deprived homes and their home language tends to be denigrated both by themselves and by others (in Cummins and Swain 1986). This is not a situation which fits the Arakmbut of San José, where the home language is not denigrated except by those outside the community, where Arakmbut comprise the totality of the school population and where the children do not come from socio-economically deprived homes. Furthermore, Cummins cites other circumstances which, he considers, militate against bilingual teaching: “where the home language is the majority language valued by the community, and where literacy is encouraged at home, the most efficient means of promoting an additive form of bilingualism is to provide initial instruction in the second language” (ibid. 19). In San José the home language is the majority language valued by the community, but it is not a written language and literacy is not encouraged at home in any language. Accordingly, the Arakmbut of San José satisfy neither the conditions for nor the conditions against bilingual education, adding weight to the argument that each case must be treated on its own merits. Cummins himself provides support for this conclusion when he writes: Improvement of a pupil’s performance is not an automatic consequence of using the minority language in school, whether it be with the aim of language maintenance, enrichment or transition. Other factors such as attitude, motivation, teaching approach, cultural transmission in the school may interact and combine to create an optimal setting. Parental interest and involvement is an important factor, as is community participation, for the success of bilingual education. (in Baker 1988:89)

Bilingual education has to come about as a result of societal factors rather than be implanted in order to produce desirable forms of behaviour in children

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(Paulston 1992). As Baker (1988) succinctly puts it, education prospers by conviction not by conformity.

8.5 Oral-language-maintenance and cultural revitalisation Having had the opportunity to view their society from a different perspective, the Arakmbut university students have become aware not only of the value of their culture and language but also of the odds stacked against it. They see that the pressures on their people’s lands are slowly undermining the context in which their language and culture have meaning. Though the Arakmbut of San José laugh at the notion of losing their language — because they can point to the youngest children and say that they all speak Harakmbut — cultural practices associated with certain kinds of language use are nevertheless in danger of being eroded. A few of the older people in the community do not attach great importance to the loss of ceremonies such as e’paimpak. However, there is growing concern among some of the younger wambokerek and wambo from different Harakmbut communities that many aspects of their cultural heritage will disappear with the watone, the only people to have witnessed these ceremonies and to know the songs and dances that form part of them. They are concerned too that some of the older generation of wambokerek are not learning the myths and the songs, for it is this generation which, in time, will teach them. In a small project for cultural revitalisation which ran between 1992 and 1994 Harakmbut students in higher education at that time began to make tape-recordings of certain aspects of their oral tradition. The project provided them with logistical and technical support to work with elders during their vacation periods. Their intention was to record the elders in order to learn songs, myths and stories of their history which are rarely heard today. The students amassed hours of recordings and interest grew in several communities in learning the complicated myths and curing chants, using the tape-recordings to help them. However, there was fear that the tapes would not last in the hot and humid conditions of Madre de Dios. After discussion with FENAMAD co-ordinators for the cultural revitalisation project, it was decided that some of the material should be written down and that this should be done in the Harakmbut language in order to afford a measure of protection for the material as intellectual property. From a concrete need to find a solution to the problem of storing the material an important discussion has arisen regarding the development of a written form of Harakmbut.

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Transcribing the texts is primarily a means to an end, for the students, rather than an end in itself and their aim continues to be to stimulate a revaluation of Harakmbut culture in general. The audio cassettes and the written word are considered starting-points. But there remains the dilemma of producing a written form of the language, which will inevitably have wider implications for the culture. The students have focused on developing an orthography acceptable to all the Harakmbut communities. The SIL missionary-linguist working with the Arakmbut of Puerto Luz produced an orthography and an alphabet in the 1970s, but this is considered little more than a curiosity in San José, because it is representative of the dialect of only one community. Furthermore, it is associated with the failed bilingual school. The complexities of developing a writing system suited to the needs not only of school students but of other members of the community as well are compounded, then, by the fact that it has also to reconcile differences in dialect which are themselves tangible expressions of deep political differences and rivalries between Harakmbut communities. Orthographies and systems of writing are pre-eminently cultural and political products: as Heath notes, “Writing, like other systems of communication, is organised in each society in culture-specific ways and according to certain norms of interpretation” (cited in Battiste 1987: 109). The Arakmbut project gains its strength from being controlled by the students and FENAMAD. In contrast to the SIL bilingual schooling and materials, enthusiasm for and interest in the project originate inside the community. The experiences of other indigenous peoples in developing written forms of their languages provide important insights into the political dimension of the process. The Mi’kmaq people of Nova Scotia, Canada, had their own indigenous pictographic writing system. Contact with Catholic and Protestant missionaries, however, has subjected them to a range of writing systems, from adaptations of their own pictographs to alphabetic scripts, all of which have been dominated by political interests. For example, the Catholic missionaries adopted the Mi’kmaq symbolic system but restricted its use to prayers and Catholic theological doctrine in order to impose a new social order (Battiste 1986). Recently a new writing system has been developed through extensive consultation with the Mi’kmaq and in the light of lively debate generated within the community by their considerable concern over the future of their culture and religious beliefs. The new system now being taught in Mi’kmaq schools is designed to reinforce Mi’kmaq epistemology and religious functions as well as improve the learning of the language by children (Battiste 1987). Here, then, is an example of the

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adaptation of literacy techniques to the knowledge system of the people for whom those techniques are intended. Despite calls for literary registers (see e.g. López 1988), Wölck (1985) stresses that in Peru extensive studies on Quechua — the indigenous language with the largest speech community — have barely gone beyond grammar and punctuation. He points out that almost no studies have been made of Quechua discourse, which is fundamental if bilingual education is genuinely to respect the nature of indigenous language and culture. There are questions to be asked at every step by those transcribing an oral language. First there is the question of the kind of transliteration that is to be produced, which largely depends on the purpose it is intended to serve. For the Arakmbut, the question of the target group has already been posed and answered by the students: by transcribing the taped material in the vernacular the audience is limited to Harakmbut-speakers and a few specialists. There then remains the question of whether the written texts are intended to be an ‘aide-memoire’ to support the students’ own learning of the oral traditions or whether they are expected to replace the teacher/performer. Sánchez-Parga (1988) carried out a study of the forms of memorisation found in Quechua oral tradition, contrasting them with formal school practice. He notes that in the oral language the polysemic character of words invites reinterpretation and reconstruction rather than precise and faithful memorisation. Schooling, however, demands a literal and mechanical form of memorisation, which excludes creativity both because the margin for modifying the text is narrow and because the meaning of the terms is rigidly defined. The written text therefore represents not only a new mode of transmission of knowledge, but also a new mode of memorisation, both of which are in competition with the indigenous mode. Goody (1987) notes that among the LoDagaa the narrator of a myth is both a reciter and a creator, composer and performer, roles which are often distinguished in western society. The problems which the young men in San José express in connection with learning oral registers from the elders may be related to the way in which their formal schooling has trained them to memorise and imitate (Chapter 4), a form of training that interferes with the inventive potential of Arakmbut oracy. The young Arakmbut consider that original recordings and transcriptions can help them overcome their learning problem by allowing them to recapture this potential. One young man who has made a recording of a chindign continually moves between the tape and the elder, asking him for

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explanations and clarifications in an interactive way. The recording, in other words, has not become a substitute for the elder, and what is lost in terms of the context and ‘atmosphere’ of the performance is reintroduced every time the elder gives another rendering. The situation changes, however, if the recording or a transcription of the recording becomes the only source of the chindign. A translator must be aware of the performance element, the paralinguistic, non-verbal aspects which are lost in the recording and cannot be translated (Finnegan 1992). Narration also includes gestures, pauses, audience participation, interjections and background sound of toto approaching and wind rustling in the bamboo. And repetition is an important technique in the telling of Arakmbut myths, but translators with whom I have worked usually insist that the teller is ‘just repeating the same thing’. As a result the written myth or song is only a fraction of the length of the original oral performance, and it can become even shorter and more paraphrased when translated from oral Harakmbut into another written language. As individuals with a long experience of schooling and literacy, the Harakmbut students have found what they consider to be a ‘real use’ for a written form of their language: they want to preserve the myths and songs of the elders on tape and on paper. They are also the most supportive of the introduction of bilingual education in the Harakmbut communities. While it is difficult to assess the influence of their education on their attitude, it is possible that, as more and more Arakmbut children proceed to secondary school and higher education, new uses for mother-tongue literacy may arise. Indeed a bilingual education introduced on Arakmbut terms and according to Arakmbut desires may provide the means of breaking down the ‘wall’ between the school and the community. But the teachers, parents and students need to be aware of the qualitative change that takes place in the translation from three-dimensional creative ‘performances’ to the precision of the two-dimensional page. Hornberger (1994a) concludes from work carried out with Quechua peoples that, in order for the school to contribute to language-maintenance, it must be supported by the community. The school has to be recognised as promoting only one kind of literate practice and that expecting a school to teach a language ‘right through’ (Jolly 1995) is to ignore the variety of oral and written communicative practices which exist outside and independently of the school. Looking beyond the school, Hornberger finds spontaneous Quechua literacy practices emerging with goals and aims of their own, which are empowering and give the users purchase on decisions about the role of Quechua literacy in the future.

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Different literacy practices arise out of different social, cultural and political contexts, the school being only one such context (see Hornberger 1994b & 1996, Kulick and Stroud 1993, Besnier 1993, Verhoeven 1996, Wahlberg 1996). Where school literacy is recognised as only one kind of literacy practice, the people themselves can decide how the school can contribute to the overall strengthening of their language. The pros and cons of bilingual education for the Arakmbut The Aguaruna and Shipibo have embraced mother tongue literacy and bilingual education as means of empowerment and self-assertion. The Harakmbut-speaking peoples, being numerically small and ethnically diverse, present a situation where each community has to be considered according to its particular socio-historical relations with the national society and with formal education. In San José, there is clear opposition to the use of the written mother tongue in school. Even assuming overwhelming enthusiasm for such a project, the production of literacy materials, school materials and post-literacy materials for such a numerically small people would be an expensive, labour-intensive task unless there were a move towards locally-produced materials. This chapter has challenged the widespread belief held by the community of San José that the Harakmbut language is not under threat. Encroachment by Spanish-speakers is reducing both the physical space in which Harakmbut is used and the social opportunities for the collective performance of myths and songs. As Arakmbut families increasingly employ non-Harakmbut workers, the language of labour relations becomes Spanish. And the combination of a decrease in hunting and a loss of biodiversity in women’s agriculture further jeopardises Arakmbut oral traditions, based as they are on ecological knowledge. Overall, the effect is to produce a loosening of the Arakmbut’s relations with the spirits, given their dependence on the regular, communal, participatory performance of the myths and songs. Furthermore, without the meaningfulness born of personal, first-hand experience of the forest and river, curing chants (chindign) become mere words, devoid of power harnessed from the spirit world to make them effective. The people of San José’s opposition to mother-tongue literacy is founded on their association of literacy with the school, where authoritarian, institutionalised practices based on hegemonic epistemologies debase Arakmbut values and practices. Their experience does not incline them to perceive a need for literacy skills in their own language. Moreover, the processes involved in establishing

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and maintaining a writing system for a hitherto oral language are complicated by the fact that it needs to serve the whole community, and not just teachers and school-age children. Social approval can come only from its having recognised utility within the society. As the disuse of the SIL writing system developed in the 1960s and 1970s illustrates, a specifically school-based bilingual education is not certain to be adopted and supported by the community. Fishman (1985:374) is explicit on this score: Nowhere in the world have programmes of language maintenance, revival or revitalisation been successful if their major emphasis is on the school rather than on other, more primary social processes […] the school will have its role to play in the overall language maintenance design, but it will do so by serving a vibrant and purposeful community.

Nevertheless, the most literate members of the community, the university students, see writing as a means of safeguarding Arakmbut oral traditions. But a written form of the word implies a democratisation of access to knowledge which may undermine the status and power-base of other members of the community. Written chindign presuppose a shift in cultural practice. Arakmbut epistemology and ontology are under attack from many directions, and the introduction of intercultural biliterate schooling may compound the situation. The development of a written form of their language for the purpose of recording its different registers, genres and communicative practices is in itself a potential threat to the Arakmbut ontology and world-view. It challenges the three message systems which are fundamental to indigenous education (Chapter 1): oral knowledge, oral transmission of knowledge and the realisation of this through relations with the invisible world and the spirits. While the students slowly address the complex task of satisfactorily capturing the oral language on paper, however, their project has so far succeeded in awakening a new interest and pride in Harakmbut oral traditions. The communities are rediscovering the breadth and depth of their oral culture — outside school, by oral means, and among all age-groups. Viewed in this light, a schooled Harakmbut literacy becomes less important if the language and culture are rejuvenated within the community. The students are investigating a new interrelationship between oracy and literacy, one that dissolves the oral/literate opposition and builds on new complementary relations based on Arakmbut cultural practices and epistemology. The Arakmbut of San José’s rejection of biliterate intercultural schooling points the way to a reconceptualisation of intercultural education, where ‘bilin-

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gual’ does not necessarily mean ‘biliterate’ schooling and where mother-tongue literacy is based on out-of-school practices. As Wölck (1989: 45) writes: ‘The use of the mother tongue in bilingual education is certainly an undeniable right for its speakers but this does not imply its implementation with a written function, especially if it is not sufficiently unified, codified and elaborated.’ A bilingual education which is both schooled and literate is not the only possibility for the Arakmbut of San José.

C 9 Intercultural schooling

In the previous chapter the Arakmbut of San José’s aspirations for schooling were found to be restricted to retaining the mission-run Spanish-language school despite the fact that its monolingual curriculum is unrelated to the community’s communication needs and practices. The school operates in isolation from the surrounding community and teaches language and literacy as if they were ‘autonomous’ skills which can be used in any communication, irrespective of the social and cultural context (cf. Street, 1984). Bilingual education in the Peruvian Amazon has functioned in this way for many decades, neglecting the cultural context of the indigenous languages and confining them to a subsidiary role as an instrument of formal schooling. During the 1980s a shift was discernible in Peru and many other parts of Latin America, where there was a move away from the teaching of the indigenous mother tongue as a bridge for facilitating the learning of Spanish and towards a revaluation of the mother tongue per se. Spearheaded by representatives of the indigenous movement, a critical appraisal was made of the aims of bilingual education and gradually the term ‘intercultural education’ came to be adopted. A working definition of the term is provided by the Mexican National Alliance of Indigenous Bilingual Professionals (ANPIBAC) (Chapter 2): it stresses the need both for a curriculum focused on indigenous culture — understood as a dynamic, creative process — and for indigenous control of the programme (ANPIBAC 1976). Implicit in the concept of intercultural education is the sense, firstly, that it is not only the indigenous language that must be incorporated in the curriculum, but also the sociocultural context in which the language acquires meaning. Secondly, it recognises that indigenous peoples live within the sphere of influence of several cultural traditions — often of several languages — which interrelate in complex ways. Intercultural education aims to make explicit the nature of the interface between these cultural traditions and, by exposing the relations of asymmetry between them, enhance the status of the indigenous culture.

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Intercultural education is now established in certain central and northern areas of the Peruvian Amazon and many other indigenous peoples throughout the region are calling for a cultural and political reorientation of their schools in order to accommodate it. They see this new educational practice as a source of useful knowledge with which to defend their interests vis-à-vis the encroaching society and as a means of revitalising and strengthening their indigenous cultures (cf. Sampaio and Lópes da Silva 1981; Amadio 1987). In its desire to develop an intercultural education project for the Harakmbutspeaking communities, FENAMAD began by looking at existing programmes in the Peruvian Amazon. The first section of this chapter considers these programmes and examines the way in which their curricula articulate the relationship between the corresponding cultural traditions. The way in which the curriculum expresses the relationship between cultures and between languages is the main issue which any intercultural education programme has to tackle. Without a theoretical approach to this interrelationship programmes concerned with indigenous culture are merely extensions of bilingual education with assimilationist aims. As was discussed in Chapter 2, indigenous education programmes are based on particular conceptions of ‘culture’ and ‘curriculum’, and this ideological framework has implications for the theoretical perspective adopted with regard to the intercultural relationship. The second section examines the implications of such a programme in terms of the reconceptualisation of educational specialists and pedagogical principles. Finally, the third and fourth sections look at the advantages and disadvantages of developing a model of intercultural education for the Harakmbut-speaking peoples, given their heterogeneity in terms of language, history, contemporary intercultural relations and political priorities.

9.1 Bridging cultural traditions In the 1970s and 1980s NGO experimental programmes were introduced in the Amazon and Andean regions. Although implemented in a piecemeal fashion and without any discernible unity of approach — other than their all being schoolbased and biliterate — they created a demand for intercultural education among indigenous peoples and an awareness of this type of schooling at government level (see Pozzi-Escot 1990a). The Ministry of Education’s Five Year Policy (see above Chapter 2) was developed in response to the demand. Aimed at promoting

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cultural tolerance, it envisages intercultural education for all members of the multicultural Peruvian state (Capella 1993). This has yet to become a reality for all Peruvians, however, and only in indigenous schools it is probable that the education would be to any extent bilingual. The Five Year Policy document states that there should be a diversified curriculum but there is no strategy for translating the aims into school policy and practice. As Pozzi-Escot (1990a) points out, the Ministry model obscures the question of how to develop an intercultural curriculum. She notes, for example, that the Experimental Curricular Programme for Grade 1 does not come even close to establishing the content of an intercultural bilingual education for indigenous children. Instead, she suggests, the Ministry is promoting yet another ‘superficial adaptation’ of a uniform national curriculum, in a long line of adaptations which stretch back to the beginnings of bilingual education in the 1950s. According to the Ministry of Education, intercultural education follows the structure of the Basic Curricular Programme except in as far as (i) it is adapted according to regional and local characteristics and (ii) Spanish is taught as a second language. Despite being tightly bound to the rigidly prescribed national curriculum, the Ministry of Education exhorts its teachers and local education workers to incorporate objectives, contents and activities to regenerate and revalidate the appropriate ‘ethnic culture’. Moreover, it adds, they should plan a harmonic strategy for developing and using both the mother tongue and Spanish (Programa Curricular Basico 1992: ‘La Educación del Alumnado Vernaculohablante’: 67). The Ministry of Education would appear to be intent on closing the gap between an ideal, centrally-emitted curriculum and the classroom reality for indigenous children. Nevertheless, the lack of flexibility in the Basic Curricular Programme, combined with a shortage of in-service teacher training, suggests that in practice there is little support for teacher initiative. Although the Ministry of Education calls for an intercultural education based on the ‘indigenous child’s maternal culture’ (1989: 11), the Basic Curricular Programme is firmly oriented towards promoting a sense of national identity. And it is in furtherance of this aim that reference is made (if at all) to the material culture and physical environment of the indigenous population. For example, a recent edition of a primary school handbook (Grade 2) has made minor adaptations to the previous edition by incorporating references to the natural resources of the Amazon region, mentioning also the ‘native population’ in a section on ‘dress’ (Escuela Nueva n.d.: 213). This is what Pozzi-Escot (1990a) refers to as ‘superficial adaptation’ and what Trapnell (1984) condemns

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as a ‘folkloric’ representation of culture. Furthermore, the Basic Curricular Programme places control of the curriculum firmly in the hands of specialists in the Ministry of Education in Lima, allowing the school and community only very limited freedom of choice as regards curriculum content. This problem was aggravated by the dismantling of the Directorate General for Bilingual Education in the early 1990s, which severely disrupted the development of government programmes of intercultural education until 1998. We must, therefore, turn to the non-governmental sector, where independent funding and resources allowed for the conceptualisation and development of intercultural education programmes in the Amazon. Adapting the majority culture curriculum SIL concurs with the official definition of intercultural education in its stated aim to ensure the primacy of the cultural identity of indigenous children. However, because of the linguistic orientation of its work and the precarious situation of many indigenous languages, it has also declared that it is first and foremost concerned with language (Trudell 1990). SIL considers language to be of paramount cultural importance, being a means of communication as well as reflecting a substantial part of the cultural tradition to which it belongs (Loos et al. 1981). SIL’s approach to intercultural education is well documented (see DietschyScheiterle 1987, Aikman 1990) and Trapnell (1990) warns that it produces a static vision both of a culture and of the curriculum: manifestations of the former (stories, songs, myths, dances) are added to the latter like icing on a cake. SIL itself describes its work as being geared to “providing indigenous cultures with the tools to allow them to maintain their cultural identity and adapt positively to the continuous flow of new situations” (Loos et al. 1981: 368). These ‘tools’ are primarily linguistic. Other aspects of culture, such as music, myth or ritual, are considered secondary, epiphenomenal symptoms and are selected in order to illustrate language, while the symbolic dimension of these expressions is ignored. Jakway, a SIL linguist and educator, argues that the organisation’s bilingual schools reflect the pluralist national ethos because they are adapted to many different indigenous cultures: the physical classroom is made of local materials; the indigenous language is used for instruction; and the teachers are indigenous. She also emphasises that local culture should be taken into consideration for teaching materials and that textbooks should be ‘jungle oriented’ (1981: 286). This ‘jungle orientation’ consists in larding a text with pictures of rainforest

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animals. In so far as mathematical concepts are concerned, many indigenous languages have number systems up to only 2, 4 or 5 and children have to familiarise themselves with a decimal counting system which is new to them. This is done in the SIL programmes, as with every other subject on the syllabus, with the aid of pictures of familiar ‘jungle’ objects and animals. SIL thus echoes the official standpoint, holding to the idea that the needs of the ‘jungle child’ are to be adequately met by a “majority culture education which at the same time is adapted to the needs of the local situation” (Loos et al. 1981: 296). Adapting with sensitivity In order to introduce an intercultural education project in co-operation with RESSOP (a project halted in 1993 because of a lack of funds), the Centre for Amazon Anthropology and Practice (CAAAP) carried out a diagnostic study of three Matsigenka communities: Palotoa, Tayakome and Yomybato. The resulting study contains geographical, historical, economic, social and cultural information which ‘permits a better understanding of the reality of these communities […] in order to establish a project of intercultural education in all the Matsigenka communities in the Manu National Park’ (Landeo 1990: unpaginated). The data, though, are descriptive and provide only a distant understanding of the communities — which is in keeping with a static and bounded concept of culture such as the Dominican padres expound (Chapter 4), allowing for an experimental CAAAP education project designed for the Ashaninka to be adapted for the Matsigenka. Like the SIL programme, the main emphasis is on language and mother-tongue teaching within the confines of the national curriculum (see Heise 1984, 1987, 1990). Apart from developing mother-tongue literacy materials, the Ashaninka project produced an experimental social science textbook, Mi Tierra (Chavarría 1987). Mi Tierra is an imaginative example of cultural adaptation. Written in Spanish, the contents reflect the physical environment of the Ashaninka child, while at the same time conforming to the aims and objectives of the national curriculum for history and social sciences. Using selections from Ashaninka material culture and from their physical environment, the book illustrates western approaches to history, geography, economy and education. The chapter entitled ‘Our Culture’ comprises ethnographic descriptions of house-building, gardening, cooking, making the traditional cushma robe, face-painting and a section on why conserving Ashaninka customs is important. With minor adjustments this textbook can be made to reflect the material

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culture and daily activities of other indigenous Amazon peoples, such as the Arakmbut, because it does not deal with the meaning that the cultural practices in question have for the Ashaninka. It fulfils the purpose of a social sciences textbook, but it does not raise the possibility of other world-views that do not distinguish ‘social science’ from other areas of knowledge. Haig-Brown (1995), discussing science curricula for indigenous students in Canada, challenges this unproblematised approach and suggests that there must be space for divergent world-views within the curriculum: a convenient starting-point, she suggests, would be the contradictions between indigenous philosophy and mainstream science. In terms of its ‘interculturality’, the Ashaninka project attempts to focus on the society’s relations with the surrounding non-indigenous population. History is not exclusively concerned with the deeds of Peruvian national heroes; it is also a history of the Ashaninka people and their heroes. Geography is not about the composition of the population of Lima but about the rainforest and the economic activities of the Ashaninka themselves. The project aims to encourage Ashaninka children to value elements of their own culture, in order to counteract the prejudices they face when they come into contact with non-indigenous society: ‘We [Ashaninka] are not lazy; we are hard-working people’, the books insists (Chavarría 1987: 82). By addressing the intercultural problems which the students encounter, such as racism among the local settler population, the project seeks to make the epistemological basis of the education more relevant to indigenous peoples’ lives. In so doing, it allows for a transposition of the programme from one Amazon people to another, given the necessary changes in dress and/or house design. The CAAAP specialists envisage their work with these education projects as temporary, basing themselves on the understanding that indigenous teachers will take over their running, much as SIL has passed the running of its schools to indigenous teachers and supervisors. In both CAAAP and SIL programmes, indigenous teachers are closely involved in the production of mother-tongue literacy textbooks and other mother-tongue textual materials. Though the programme has been designed by outside ‘experts’, the teachers are trained to implement and even adapt it. Bodnar (1989) notes that many indigenous peoples have followed this model of intercultural education and that, as a first step towards a more culturally relevant education, it is a very valuable learning experience. Nevertheless, in many parts of the Peruvian Amazon, indigenous peoples are dissatisfied with adaptations and with the subordinate role that they are given in

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decision-making. They question both the cultural basis and the ultimate aims of education programmes developed on their behalf and now have their own organisations, their own educational ‘experts’ and their own programmes. Based on collaborative effort and on a dynamic and culturally appropriate approach to the curriculum, two programmes — PEBIAN and AIDESEP/ISPL — have attempted to break away from the strictures of the national curriculum and produce intercultural education tending towards more equal and respectful relations between representatives of different cultural traditions. Intercultural education to combat indigenous marginalisation The Programme for Intercultural Bilingual Education on the Alto Napo River (PEBIAN) is based on an analysis of the marginalisation of the indigenous population — Napuruna and Siecoya peoples — and the structural changes necessary for their liberation.1 For PEBIAN, intercultural bilingual education is based on the values, philosophy and educational principles of the indigenous peoples themselves. It is principally concerned, therefore, with the meaningfulness of Napuruna and Siecoya ways of life. By working closely with the indigenous peoples, the programme is built on research into their education, cosmology, history, oral tradition and social conditions. For the Napuruna and Siecoya peoples themselves, it complements their traditional education system and serves as a critical filter for absorbing elements from other cultures without jeopardising their own identity. The programme emphasises indigenous decisionmaking at the family, community and inter-community levels, all and the teachers are indigenous. Breaking with the formal, school-based mould of other programmes, importance is given both to adult education and to non-formal education. Increasingly the programme is becoming the responsibility of the bilingual teachers as they take over positions formerly held by non-indigenous specialists. Unlike the programmes discussed above, PEBIAN neither attempts to forge something indigenous onto the national system nor does it try to forge something national onto the indigenous system. What it has sought to do is to develop a new form of education which takes the interface between cultures as its startingpoint. It puts the oppression and injustices which characterise the intercultural relations of the Napuruna and Siecoya peoples at the centre of its curriculum and analyses the indigenous situation in terms of their marginalisation and dependency vis-à-vis the wider capitalist society.

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An indigenous-determined intercultural education The programme jointly created by the Inter-ethnic Association for the Development of the Peruvian Rainforest and the Loreto Teacher-Training college (AIDESEP/ISPL) presents its philosophy of intercultural education in terms similar to those of the Ministry of Education: Its object is to train new generations of indigenous peoples with the ability to manage both the technological, social, linguistic and autochthonous spiritual inheritance of their native Amazon societies and the knowledge and values propagated by the surrounding society. (Gasché et al. 1987: 4).

Nevertheless, the AIDESEP/ISPL programme marks a new direction in indigenous teacher-training and intercultural education in Peru. Its aims are framed in the terms of the indigenous movement and its demands for self-determined development are based on an indigenous analysis of relations with the wider capitalist society. Devolved control is paramount and indigenous professionals, leaders and representative organisations have been involved in the programme from its inception. The programme designers stress that, in contrast to SIL, their approach is based first and foremost on an indigenous conception of ‘culture’ which is holistic, founded on principles of co-operation and collective rights, and grounded in respect for the environment. Educational theory and practice are approached from the perspective of traditional indigenous education, taking its methods and contents as principal guidelines. Reflecting many of ANPIBAC’s aims for bicultural and bilingual education in Mexico, the AIDESEP/ISPL programme aims to provide its students with the analytical tools for a non-indigenous awareness of their own cultures that will give them another perspective on the processes affecting their societies at present. As with PEBIAN, AIDESEP/ISPL intercultural education is concerned with empowering indigenous peoples and enabling them to be protagonists in their own lives (see Trapnell 1990, 1991, Tuesta 1997). It aims to train new generations: ‘to participate in the development of their own societies (as members of a multi-ethnic state) through the management of the concepts of both social systems and through an understanding of the historic dynamic which to date has determined the situation and present forms of these societies’ (Gasché et al. 1987: 4). The training course represents an ideological break from other courses and concentrates on supporting trainees in developing their own primary curricula. Rather than constructing a curriculum that fragments indigenous reality in a non-indigenous way, the emphasis is on an approach centered on the analysis of problems that are of significance to the teacher and community

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(Trapnell 1986, 1990, ETSA 1996). As with PEBIAN, the focus is the contradictory interface between the indigenous and non-indigenous ‘worlds’. Since the mid-1990s the Ministry of Education has been evaluating the Intercultural Bilingual Primary Curriculum produced by this programme and, in 1998, with European Union funding, the Ministry has initiated a project aimed at developing intercultural education throughout the Amazon based on aspects of the AIDESEP/ISPL model. Intercultural education in which culture? The four programmes discussed above have two basically different orientations towards the concept of ‘culture’ and, consequently, towards intercultural education. SIL and CAAAP, on the one hand, provide examples of what Stairs (1988) calls a ‘cultural-inclusion approach’ to educational development, while PEBIAN and AIDESEP/ISPL have a ‘culture-base approach’. With the former, culture is a static and bounded phenomenon for inclusion in what is otherwise an entirely majority-culture curriculum. With a culture-base approach, the aim is not to contrapose elements of ‘traditional’ and ‘modern’ knowledge, but rather to search for solutions to the ethnocidal problems facing indigenous communities (RiveraPizarro 1987). This demands a dynamic, holistic conception of culture. The SIL and CAAAP programmes not only underplay the complexity of indigenous knowledge, which they emphasise in its material manifestations, but they neglect indigenous modes of transmitting that knowledge, which is to say, the interactional style of indigenous pedagogy. Their restricted conception of culture obscures the culturally determined basis of learning and teaching, on the assumption that principles of pedagogy and child development are universal — which in practice means that the principles of the majority society are accorded normative value. Implicit in this attitude is a preoccupation with cultural variants and invariants. Lawton (1983), in his advocacy of cultural analysis as the basis of curriculum-planning, looks for ‘cultural invariants’ to use as his major parameters. He identifies as ‘invariants’, or universals, eight cultural systems — the social, economic, technological, moral and aesthetic systems, and the systems of communication, belief and rationality — within each of which are found cultural variants, the specificities of individual cultures. He describes the eight systems separately, prefacing each with the words “all societies have […]”. However, these systems derive from a typically western cultural analysis, which privileges questions to do with the definition and analytical deconstruction of ‘culture’. Arakmbut culture does not divide into component systems, not without

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loss of its systemic integrity and meaningfulness. As Chapter 6 demonstrates, their knowledge does not resolve into discrete fields such as ‘economy’, ‘technology’ or ‘belief system’. Each is part of an indivisible whole which is the Arakmbut’s dynamic, multifaceted view of the world. The bow and arrow used in hunting is charged with symbolic meaning, from the type of wood used to the shape of arrow. The former is associated with the labret inserted in a youth’s lower lip as he approaches manhood, and the latter is intrinsically related to the origin of the Arakmbut clans in myth of Wanamey. Both artefacts were given to the Arakmbut in mythological time — for which reason their design is an immutable aspect of Arakmbut knowledge — and learning to use them depends as much on a person’s age, gender and relations with the spirits of the forest as it does on technical skill. For Lawton, though, a bow and arrow is nothing more than a tool, an instance of a ‘technology system’, of interest only inasmuch as “learning to use and to improve tools is always an important feature of cultural life” (1983: 34). The notion of ‘improvement’ highlights a paradigmatic difference between a western curriculum-planner’s world-view and that of the Arakmbut, which is the former’s linear view of change. At the ‘simplest level of cultural analysis’ Lawton undertakes to establish a typology of societies on the basis of their members’ desire for ‘development’. He also talks of the eight invariant systems being transmitted through educational institutions, where education involves ‘improvement’ of some kind (1983: 37–38). However, the Arakmbut have no concept of ‘development’ and what they pass on to their children is not an ability to develop their world, but rather the means to cope with it by maintaining a balance between the visible and the invisible realms which it comprises (cf. Gray 1997b). Lawton’s universal parameters and cultural invariants are challenged by, among others, the Latin American educator, Magenzo (1988), who, like HaigBrown (above), believes that it is the variables, and not the invariables, that should form the basis for cultural analysis. In the light of the foregoing examination of the cultural bases of Amazonian intercultural education programmes, we can see that the use of ‘cultural universals’ has justified an ethnocentric approach to education that clothes assimilationist aims in the guise of cultural pluralism. If, instead, indigenous peoples have control over their own educational programmes they can determine the concepts of ‘culture’ and ‘curriculum’ and ensure a genuinely ‘culture-base approach’ to intercultural education. The AIDESEP/ISPL programme challenges the universality of majoritysociety principles of pedagogy and child development. Their aim is to develop

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educational programmes with intrinsically indigenous cultural bases, where culturally appropriate knowledge is transmitted by culturally appropriate pedagogical practice. To this end, they question the narrow conception of curriculum as a static programme designed by specialists for indigenous teachers to deliver to indigenous students. Instead, they advocate a dynamic methodology developed through active, community-based research and participation. The task, as they see it, is to elaborate an intercultural curriculum that reflects the creativity of oral cultures and, perhaps even dispense with the very notion of a ‘curriculum’.

9.2 Defining indigenous pedagogy In the AIDESEP/ISPL programme trainee teachers are supported by nonindigenous professionals and supervisors with whom they work in a collaborative relationship that stands in direct contrast to the hierarchical structure of the equivalent relations in present-day schools in Madre de Dios. And, whereas for the teachers in San José the classroom is their castle, and any adult entering it is viewed with suspicion, for the indigenous teacher the classroom is a place for the whole community — and, conversely, the community and its territory are part of the total learning environment. An indigenous culture-based education has also to break away from the belief that the teacher is a specialist and the repository of all school knowledge. For an Arakmbut child learning in the informal ambience of the community, teachers are defined according to criteria such as kinship, gender and clan, and different things are learned from different people. Everyone is a potential teacher, and the learning materials are both drawn from everyday reality and integrated into everyday activities. Learning itself does not occur in specifically pedagogical situations: as was seen in Chapter 7, a mother does not set out to teach her daughter to make a reed mat, yet by the time a girl reaches the age when she is permitted to make one, she has already mastered all the techniques. Arakmbut education is an age- and gender-based process of guided participation in meaningfully contextualised activities. Young men seek mentors from whom they learn about forest animals, the spirits, and curing; and young women work with their mothers and grandmothers, at home and on a close daily basis. Culture-based programmes involve moving the focus of decision-making away from far-removed educational specialists to the indigenous community, the seat of first-hand cultural knowledge. This is of particular importance in the

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selection and preparation of teachers. Where teacher-training involves spending many years away from the indigenous community, the community is liable to internalise the notion of the teacher as a member of the ‘outside’ society — particularly if the newly qualified ‘professional’ gives the impression of being a custodian of school knowledge (cf. Amodio 1989). As Arratía notes from her work in northern Chile, teachers with an indigenous background are in much the same position as non-indigenous teachers, because “they also had been trained to impart an urban-oriented programme” (1997: 235). AIDESEP/ISPL has tried to overcome these problems by insisting that the trainees are chosen by, and have the support and backing of, their indigenous organisations; it also has a mixed training regime of phases both in college and in the communities. By definition, then, the intercultural teacher works alongside other members of the community, who are ‘specialists’ in their culture and society. Stairs (1988) describes an Inuit example where teachers are chosen according to community criteria, rather than on the basis of academic achievement, and they remain fully integrated throughout their initial training, which is community-based. As the Inuit’s experience of, and confidence in, school-based teaching has grown, they themselves have assumed the roles of teacher-trainers and researchers. Harris (1992), writing about Australian Aboriginal education, notes that what makes a good teacher, in community terms, may have more to do with personal relations between the teacher and other members of the community — including the students — than with his/her degree of formal training. In this way the teacher and the community actively co-participate in developing a critical education which engages all concerned — students, teachers and non-students — in the mutual creation and re-creation of knowledge (Shor and Freire 1987). In the Australian Aboriginal community of Pumna Wangka, for example, the school is actively integrated in community life: adults freely come and go, sometimes participating as pupils, sometimes helping with the teaching; and teachers (both Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal) from one class join the pupils in another, according to their interests (Vallance and Vallance 1988). We can say, therefore, that the intercultural teacher is also a co-ordinator in a communal activity. The community itself has a new and active part to play in the school, ranging from the election and selection of those responsible for teaching to the administration and running of the school and the development of the curriculum. Even the learner/teacher relationship is open to a more flexible definition. Control is brought down from the dizzy heights of the national curriculum-development centre to the community, and so the gap is closed

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between a curriculum divorced from social reality and one that is oriented towards the requirements of the users, who define and redefine the issues that it addresses. Lipka (1991) provides an example of an Inuit pedagogy built upon indigenous values of group cohesion, co-operation and shared knowledge. Lipka and Ilustik (1997) emphasise the importance of Inuit elders, as the recognised keepers of cultural knowledge, in leading the reform of curriculum and pedagogy, so that together elders, teachers and other members of the community are actively involved in the process of reinterpreting and negotiating Inuit knowledge for a school, without losing control of it An indigenous culture-based curriculum also raises the question of the theory and methods of education. As a form of political and cultural production, pedagogy is deeply implicated in the construction of knowledge, subjectivities and social relations (Giroux 1992). The trainee-researcher on the AIDESEP/ISPL course receives training in western concepts of child development and at the same time is researching indigenous child development among her/his own people. The trainee is encouraged to identify differences and similarities in styles of interaction and learning that she/he observes in the classroom and in the community. In order to make the comparison, the trainee is taught to analyse indigenous pedagogies in non-indigenous terms — a procedure informed by a majority-culture perspective. In other parts of the world, research indicates that, despite their training, many indigenous teachers do nevertheless teach according to their own cultural pedagogical practices. In North America and the Pacific a number of studies have looked at the ways in which indigenous teachers, often with less education and training than their non-indigenous counterparts, are creating alternative models of teaching and evaluation, ones compatible with the values and social relations within their own culture. Flinn (1992) discusses the way in which indigenous pedagogy is influenced by cultural patterns of behaviour. Canadian studies similarly highlight the way in which indigenous teachers tend to utilise a cluster of teaching strategies which are consistent with their own cultural practices (Barman et al. 1987). And in highland Peru, Hornberger (1989b) has found that teachers use their own language in both quantitatively and qualitatively different ways when they are expressing themselves within a Quechua discourse, on the one hand, and translating from Spanish, on the other. The two linguistic registers correspond to different cultural contexts: a nonbilingual, Mestizo-based classroom and a bilingual, Quechua-based classroom. In the latter, the discourse is governed by rules which include not only grammar and syntax, but also interactional style: teachers and children interrelate in

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accordance with indigenous norms of communication and self-expresssion which regulate, for example, the distribution of talk among the participants and the appropriate moments at which to begin, end and interrupt speech (see for example, Scollon and Scollon 1981, 1995). The examples highlight the distinction needing to be made between bilingual and intercultural education. In the former the emphasis is on language, as described in the last chapter, whereas the latter additionally provides the cultural context within which language has meaning. Discourse encompasses more than the use of language; it also encompasses non-verbal communication. Arakmbut children in San José are reluctant and uneasy when asked to demonstrate their learning verbally. In their own society they do not stand up before their agemates or other members of the community in order to recite or sing for praise — the young girls making wenpu (Chapter 7) is a case in point. In a culturally-based education, similarly, indigenous children learn through a combination of communication and social interaction, all of which occur in familiar, meaningful contexts. An Arakmbut teacher, supported by elders and other members of the community to use a culturally based teaching methodology, would be sensitised to, for example, Arakmbut spirituality and the interrelatedness of their knowledge, in contrast to the western positivist paradigm and compartmentalisation of knowledge. He/she would be aware of the organisation of social relations on the basis of principles governing collective rights and community cohesion (though not expressed in these terms), as distinct from an individualistic, progressional western view of the world. He/she would know that access to knowledge is restricted (by, for example, age and gender) and that its value is a function of the relationship between the person who gives it and the person who receives it — such as a relationship of common clan membership — rather than being intrinsic in the knowledge itself. Unlike a non-Arakmbut teacher, he/she would share the same view of the world as the students. These insights lead to practical considerations for the classroom and can contribute to creating an atmosphere which conduces to, rather than obstructs, learning. For example, Arakmbut women and men sit segregated on most communal occasions, such as when listening to myths and songs. The dynamics of the classroom would be changed if older students, in keeping with their status as wambo and muneyo were seated apart rather than in close proximity. This would respect the fact that they have reached a stage of maturity where relations with the opposite sex are regulated by criterion of marriageability. By adhering to Arakmbut principles of social classification and by accommodating their

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cultural norms of social interaction, obstructions to the learning process are avoided. In the community, children have a great deal of freedom over their learning activities and these are always situated in multi-generational contexts. In the school, in contrast, the teacher currently exercises authoritarian control over both time and space. Time is programmed according to the timetable, the calendar, the distribution of tasks within the classroom, and the annual cycle of promotion or repetition of grades; and spacial constraints are evident in the confinement of the learning environment to within the school walls, and the regimented seating arrangements and restricted freedom of movement and communication. This scenario is sufficient in itself to demonstrate by default that the people who are in a position to decide what is culturally appropriate for intercultural education are not ‘outside’ teachers, but community members. Importantly, as Au and Jordan (1981) stress, the aim is not to replicate the child’s non-school learning environment, but to build upon it. These authors provide the example of indigenous Hawaiian children for whom reading lessons were unproductive until a culturally appropriate ‘talk story’ style of reading was introduced. For many indigenous peoples, such as the Navaho (cf. Sells Dick and McCarty 1997), the school has become the primary catalyst for the cultivation of language and cultural resources. It is for indigenous peoples to negotiate the shape of their school curriculum and pedagogy so that it contributes to this end and is felt to be culturally appropriate. The AIDESEP/ISPL primary-school curriculum is structured around communal activities which form the focal points of learning and reorient the work of the school so that children can access the knowledge of their community, which is embedded in daily activities, in the wisdom of the elders, and in their spiritual relationship with their environment (AIDESEP/ISPL 1996). The indigenous calendar offers the teacher activities from which he/she can develop a whole range of learning experiences, such as a community dance, clearing and planting gardens, and fishing trips. As the Arakmbut fishing activity illustrated (Chapter 6), everyday activities are rich teaching and learning resources, which can also become a culturally appropriate basis for learning maths and science (see also Lipka and Ilustik 1997).

9.3 Intercultural education for Harakmbut communities Gerardo Wipio, an indigenous Aguaruna and former Director of the Yarinacocha Bilingual Teacher Training Institute graphically illustrates the road to bilingual

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indigenous society

unequal encounter

Type 1

n ow

kd

ea Br

Type 2

ral

cultu

r Inte

Type 3

n

catio

Edu

Figure 9.1: Indigenous loss of identity (after Wipio)

intercultural education for many indigenous peoples (Figure 9.1). He explains that the encounter between an indigenous society and the national society is of such an unequal nature that indigenous cultural traditions often break down under the deprecatory influences of the former. The signs of breakdown manifest themselves in the younger generation’s rejection of the older generation, the collapse of authority and a loss of inter-generational respect. Sometimes this is accompanied or followed by alcoholism, and general social disintegration. The indigenous language can disappear from one generation to the next and, simultaneously, an intimate relationship with the land. It may not be until a society has reached the bottom of the abyss, when the indigenous identity of the people is almost lost, that its members become aware of their cultural impoverishment and seek to rescue their traditions. At this point it is impossible to recover or rebuild all that has been lost. Nevertheless, intercultural education is often turned to as a means of recuperating a sense of indigenous identity. Wipio emphasises that it is possible to climb out of the abyss but that an indigenous society can never hope to regain its former cultural integrity. Instead of waiting until the bottom has been reached, indigenous peoples must therefore use intercultural education to combat the breakdown by reassessing and strengthening their indigenous identity. The optimum time to embrace intercultural education is before the breakdown begins, so that it can help to maintain a thriving indigenous culture and resist future attempts to undermine it. Wipio’s model of cultural erosion can be correlated with the typology of

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Harakmbut communities discussed in Chapter 3. There, three types of community were identified in terms of characteristics such as type of schooling, desire for intercultural education, degree of dependency on RESSOP and the Diocese, presence of and pressures from colonists, and the language spoken by children. The three community-types represent different degrees of cultural erosion resulting from the destructive contact they have experienced (Table 9.1). They correspond to three different points on Wipio’s diagram, and each is associated with a specific response to proposals for educational change. Table 9.1: Harakmbut communities and cultural erosion Erosion of facets of indigenous culture Type 1

Type 2

Type 3

Self-confidence Territory

Self-confidence Territory Intergenerational respect Specialised language registers Hunting

Self-confidence Territory Intergenerational respect Specialised language registers Hunting Spirituality Communality Indigenous identity

Figure 9.1 illustrates how Type 1 communities, such as San José, are poised at the top of the abyss. Not yet in a downward spiral, they are coming precariously close to the edge as their self-confidence is undermined and their territorial base invaded. And they are dismissive of educational change in the direction of mother-tongue literacy and intercultural education. Type 2 communities which have begun to descend the slope and, with an increasing awareness of the threat it poses to their language and way of life, are searching for ways of halting their descent. Intercultural education presents itself as a possible means of reasserting their cultural identity. Type 3 communities are nearing the bottom and looking for ways of preserving their identity which is in danger of losing all meaning. Theirs is a long and uphill struggle. The three types of community can also be viewed as standing at different points along a continuum: Type 1 communities — those with the strongest language and culture base — stand at the culturally ‘strong’ pole, while Type 3 stand at the ‘eroded’ pole. At first glance the Type 1 community of San José

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would seem to offer most possibilities for intercultural education, because of its strong language and strong sense of indigenous identity, but in practice its members are the least amenable to educational change. Though their culture and society have undergone considerable changes since their first sustained contact with Dominican priests and Peruvians in the 1950s (Chapter 3), they still have confidence in their ability to maintain their cultural traditions: they are aware of pressures on their territorial base but do not fear the imminent loss of their language or spirituality. However, as long as the community is complacent about its cultural integrity, it is vulnerable to the predatory influences surrounding it (Chapter 8). A typical Type 2 community is Barranco Chico, which has experienced and continues to is experience more immediate contact and greater social upheaval than San José. Its members are involved in a daily, and often violent, struggle against colonists and large gold-mining operations. With companies building roads through their small territory, they are fighting to maintain their land base and their rights as the first inhabitants of the area. The presence of non-indigenous co-residents as associate members of the community and an increasing number of intermarriages with them mean that the language of communication at community meetings and in several houses is Spanish. A further consequence is outward manifestations of their culture, such as myth recitals and singing, have been largely discontinued. Under these circumstances, the people of Barranco Chico are receptive to the idea of intercultural education that has been put to them by FENAMAD. They believe it will give them greater control over the running of the school, the quality of the education and the choice of teachers. At the other end of the spectrum are Type 3 communities, an example being the Arasaeri community of Villa Santiago. Of all the Harakmbut-speaking peoples, the Arasaeri are the ones who most suffered the genocidal effects of rubber exploitation at the turn of the century. As a result they are a numerically reduced community (of some 56 individuals) with a high percentage of children and adolescents (Rummenhöller and Lazarte 1990). Children grow up without a knowledge of the spiritually-based world-view which is prevalent in other Harakmbut communities, and the spiritual relationship between hunter, cook and hunted game is inoperative. Clan affiliation has ceased and for the most part families work independently of one another. Gardening is predominantly confined to growing plantains with the result that, since the women do not grow barbasco, fishing is not a communal activity. Only a handful of Harakmbut words are known to the younger generation, and the corpus of Arasaeri myths is

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falling into the same disuse. Nevertheless, Villa Santiago has several welleducated young men and women, including university students, who are strong supporters of intercultural education. They see it as a means of improving majority-society skills and reintroducing the Harakmbut language, which children would learn in school using written materials and booklets of myths and stories gathered from the few remaining elders (Aikman 1995). Harakmbut communities display considerable heterogeneity in terms of the strength of their cultural practices and their awareness of cultural erosion. San José is in many senses a privileged community in that it has found ways of continuing to transmit its language and way of life despite coming under strong pressure from the majority society to discard both. The children are brought up in a Harakmbut-speaking environment and with a distinctly Arakmbut view of the world. Here it is continued lay-missionary schooling — monolingual and monocultural — that the community favours. In the community of Villa Santiago, in contrast, the children no longer speak their mother tongue and the traditional way of life has been devastated by the cultural practices of the dominant society. Here the Arasaeri’s first concern is to introduce a written form of the language through the school. An ‘adaptation’ of the official curriculum, with indigenous control and decision-making, is a necessary first step towards reestablishing the community’s culture-base. Harakmbut diversity provides a challenge for the development of an intercultural education programme as it has to accommodate two extremes. On the one hand, it must provide a school-based literate programme of linguistic and cultural regeneration for a community in which the linguistic and cultural resources for such a programme rest with only a few elders. At the other extreme, it has to cater for those which have abundant cultural and linguistic resources but resist their becoming part of a school curriculum. Despite the obvious differences, certain common characteristics can be identified in the Harakmbut peoples’ approaches to intercultural education. They share the view, firstly, that intercultural education is a school-based education (since in their experience of ‘education’ it is inseparable from schooling). Secondly, because they equate schooling with the Spanish language, they all subscribe to the idea that intercultural education is primarily concerned with language. And thirdly, the learning which takes place within the community domain is not seen as being ‘education’. In terms of their future and integrity as a people, the Harakmbut communities are most concerned about control over land, money and their own organisational structures. According to Bullivant (1984), such concerns lend weight to the

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theory that it is the ‘economic base’ rather than the ‘ideational base’ that determines ‘cultural survivability’. Following this line of reasoning, it might be supposed that communities concerned for the future of their ‘ideational base’ will be more open to a culture-based model of intercultural education — but in Type 3 communities such as Villa Santiago, where there is a strong interest in intercultural education, it might be argued that their ‘ideational base’ has already been irreversibly eroded. The indisputable fact is that all Harakmbut communities are today living in situations where their physical survivability is under threat. The final section will consider in more detail where San José’s priorities for securing their future lie, in an attempt to answer the question of whether it is helpful to make distinctions between economic base and ideational base. Does not the integrated nature of indigenous society make such distinctions redundant?

9.4 Strengthening Arakmbut identity In 1985, the then community President of San José, Tomas Quique, posed the question: ‘And after the gold rush? What will be left for our people?’ He was voicing the pressing concern not only of his own community but of all Harakmbut communities: that the future presents a very bleak prospect for their children. By 1992 the same leader was concerned not only for the well-being of his children but for their physical safety in the face of death threats from illegal colonists living on the community’s lands. Arakmbut attitudes towards education must be seen in the wider context of the persecution to which they are exposed. The strain of the fear they are caused to feel by the colonists’ continual abuses has resulted in members of the community swinging between periods of ‘resistance’ and ‘resignation’’about their lives (Gray 1986). Their determination gives way to resignation when they find themselves impotent to improve the situation — impotent, that is, to remove the colonists and companies who destroy their hunting, dynamite their riverbanks, rob their gardens and force them off their beaches at gun point. Under such circumstances, education is not a priority concern for the Arakmbut of San José, and they are satisfied to let the lay missionaries occupy themselves with it. The Arakmbut do not talk in terms of losing their philosophy of life or their spirituality and neither do they conceive of their struggle in those terms. But their deepening despair over the misuse of their forest and their rivers is in essence a concern for their own cultural integrity, because their ‘economic

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resource base’ is at the same time the home of the forest spirits and the animal spirits; and it is these agencies which, in the concentration of agencies that structure the Arakmbut cosmos, have the final say over health and affliction, life and death, in the community. Writing of the need to secure their land, Sueyo, an Arakmbut graduate comments that “it will permit us to recover our own economy and health system, to revalue our Harakmbut culture and education” (1994: 42). Other indigenous peoples share this intimate relationship with the land, where ensuring land rights and maintaining indigenous identity are coterminous. Once this precondition has been securely met, the use of education to strengthen that identity may then become more important. As a Kaxinawa from Brazil expresses it: ‘The future is in demarcation, because when our land is demarcated we have all our future for our schools, because within this territory we teach and learn what we know’ (Joaquim Paulo Mana, cited in Lindenberg 1989: 215). In the 1970s the Cree of James Bay, Canada, faced the potential destruction of their lands through the construction of a hydroelectric dam. They fought back and, in so doing, instituted their own systems of government, land-use and resource-management, which guaranteed that their traditional way of life of hunting, fishing and trapping could continue without intrusion of outsiders. “With these basic matters dealt with, we felt we could deal with the question of education, knowing that our culture and society would continue to grow and prosper and that we could adapt an education and pedagogical system that would meet our demands” (Diamond 1987: 88). Diamond supports the idea that there is a ‘first things first’ approach, where priorities are determined by the daily struggle both to sustain life and to maintain a way of life. At present the Arakmbut of San José feel swamped by illegal colonists and are expending all their time and energy on this problem. Nevertheless, they are not closed to what they would consider qualitative changes in the existing education system, changes which would not detract from their main priority of safeguarding their territory. For educational innovation to be acceptable it has to be framed within the wider project of consolidating Arakmbut land rights. Intercultural education for the Arakmbut people is part of a broader political struggle. Where it is demonstrably advantageous to them in this struggle, then it will be welcomed and adopted as one of several strategies to ensure their integrity as an indigenous people. This chapter has looked at different models of intercultural education in the central and northern areas of the Peruvian Amazon. The SIL and CAAAP programmes are adaptations of the national model of formal education and, as

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such, are not intercultural. Intercultural education by definition, should provide something distinct both from the national curriculum and from indigenous oral learning. AIDESEP’s position is unequivocal: “indigenous peoples have a language, culture and knowledge about their capacities and customs that are totally foreign to the national society and it is not possible to implement models which do not correspond to these differences” (Tuesta 1997: 257). Taking this principle as its starting point, the AIDESEP/ISPL programme is an example of a new educational model based on indigenous knowledge and methods of transmitting that knowledge, tailored to meet the needs of the indigenous students, their communities and their intercultural environments. Intercultural education is also about providing indigenous students with access to knowledge and skills from the wider society in order to enable them to participate in that society without being overwhelmed by it. As McTaggart (1988) remarks in relation to the teaching of mathematics in Australian indigenous education, the important question must be: How can Aboriginal communities work to help Aboriginal children learn mathematics without compromising their Aboriginality? It is the aboriginality of the indigenous peoples of the Peruvian Amazon which ought to be the concern of intercultural education — particularly if it is to win the support of those such as the Arakmbut of San José, whose fear of schooling is, precisely, that it will destroy their ‘aboriginality’. In other parts of the globe, hopes are being pinned on schools for the revitalisation of indigenous cultures and languages. And yet a question mark hangs over the school’s ability to mediate between indigenous culture and western culture when the indigenous community is not in control of the schooling (Henze and Vanett 1993). Non-indigenous educational policy-makers, teachers and supervisors understand the threat to the Arakmbut people purely in economic terms — the effects of colonisation go no further than material impoverishment — which is to disregard the profound significance that their land has for them in terms of their cosmology, their philosophy and their identity as a people. The school, in the form in which the people of San José know it, is not only an inappropriate forum for strengthening their cosmology, philosophy and identity; it is altogether incompatible with them — because it is at odds with the Arakmbut’s view of the world and their place in it.

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Notes 1. For details of the programme, see programme see Citarrella 1990b, Fernández and Vera 1987, Trapnell 1986, San Roman 1984.

C 10 Indigenous peoples’ intercultural education

The previous two chapters have illustrated how Peruvian intercultural education is predominantly based on concepts of ‘culture’ and ‘curriculum’, derived from the national society. The most recent initiatives, such as the AIDESEP/ISPL project, have been directed by indigenous peoples themselves and attempt to break out of the conventional framework by basing themselves first and foremost on indigenous cultural traditions and world-views. As the last chapter demonstrated, this has significance not just for language policy but for all aspects of the curriculum, from the question of what is taught to who teaches it and how. FENAMAD is faced with a considerable challenge as regards designing an intercultural programme for the Harakmbut peoples of Madre de Dios, because of the cultural, historical and social heterogeneity of their constituent communities. One approach would be to look further afield at intercultural education programmes in other parts of the world, where indigenous peoples are working with a wide range of educational models, often unconstrained by the demands of school-based literacy.

10.1 Indigenous-controlled education Throughout the indigenous world, the many prevailing models of intercultural education differ in terms of their degree of institutionalisation, the extent of the indigenous control exercised, the culture-based orientation of the curriculum and the relative importance given to oracy and literacy. In Canada, where formal education is today an accepted part of indigenous society and the qualifications that it affords hold the promise of employment, indigenous peoples have been concerned with improving the quality and relevance of their children’s schooling. Some have begun to do this by wresting control from the government and assuming responsibility for school administration, finances and personnel (cf.

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Barman et al. 1987). Others are worried that their children are not speaking their indigenous language and have made changes in the curriculum to redress this (American Indian Studies Center 1979). The Kahnawake Survival School is one of several ‘survival schools’ which sprang up in Canada in the late 1970s. The Mohawk people took control of their children’s schooling in an attempt to counteract what they felt were the assimilationist programmes of the state. Parents were concerned about their children’s lack of knowledge of the Mohawk language and decided that teaching it in school was an important way to consolidate it. They also wanted a viable alternative to mainstream schooling, based on Mohawk principles of co-operation and cultural sovereignty. In terms of curriculum development, the Kahnawake Survival School taught the Mohawk language and the history of the Mohawk people. The school was organised along the lines of Mohawk social structure, students being divided into clan groups. And yet, as the Director of the Education Centre notes, the schools suffer from the problem of how to transmit a Mohawk sense of identity (Intercultural Horizons 1989). The Mohawk example raises the question of whether school is necessarily the best place for reaffirming indigenous identity. After a detailed examination of bilingual schooling in the Peruvian highlands, Hornberger (1988) poses the question in terms of whether schools really can be agents for language maintenance. She concludes that the school has a role to play, but other, more powerful societal processes are the principal factor. The Cree, to give another example from Canada, have taken a less formal approach to the education of their children in an attempt to break down the barriers between school and community. On the Joseph Bighead Reservation in Alberta, children are taught in their mother tongue, with English as a second language. The major orientation of the curriculum is oral and, reflecting the learning system within Cree society, includes outdoor practical activities such as fishing, trapping and hunting. In the familiar context of these activities children learn the values and beliefs of their culture. The school has an open-door policy for community members and an informal teaching/learning area for the elders, who comprise an important part of the teaching force and are treated with great respect as repositories of a wealth of oral knowledge (S. Venn, p.c.). The Cree have thus moulded the formal institution of the school in such as way as to allow for the ‘informal’ character of their own learning practices. By means of this more flexible approach they are able to provide culturally appropriate contexts for their children’s formation. What can the Harakmbut learn from these examples? In the community of

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Barranco Chico (Type 2), most children are indigenous-language speakers, the political structure is still functional and cultural values pertaining to the visible and invisible world are spontaneously transmitted to the younger generation. And the community has taken an active part in supporting the school and lobbying the local authorities for a teacher. Given this profile combining a positive attitude towards formal schooling and the necessary cultural resources with which to develop a culture-based education model, Barranco Chico is best suited to the Cree rather than the Mohawk model of intercultural education. However, the same model would not suit communities such as Villa Santiago (Type 3) where indigenous cultural resources are chronically undermined. There the situation is more akin to that of the Mohawk: parents are concerned that their indigenous language is not spoken in the home and are therefore looking to the school to teach it to their children. The Director of one of the Kahnawake primary schools is candid, though, about the difficulties involved in reinvigorating indigenous culture: “We denied our own values and culture so we weren’t really starting from our own base, our own rules or our beliefs. We’re trying to get back the language, the culture, to get back our values. It’s going to take another forty years” (D. Lazore cited in Intercultural Horizons 1989: 15). The educational models that offer the most interesting possibilities for San José and other Type 1 communities are found among the Aboriginal peoples of Australia. The Punmu school (mentioned in the last Chapter) offers an example of an intercultural education which is firmly grounded in the indigenous culture. The Punmu people are concerned that their school should not be a ‘whitefella’ school but a ‘right way’ desert people’s school. The community ‘owns’ the school — and its problems — and is responsible for all matters relating to the conduct both of the teachers and of the students. This means that there is no break between appropriate school behaviour and appropriate community behaviour. The school itself is incorporated in the daily life of the community, both physically — as the classroom is a bough shelter — and culturally, since community members define what school knowledge is: the curriculum that they devised is based on current community concerns, which are written up each day on a notice board (Folds 1988). As two Australian educationalists observe: Given that the people are secure in their identity as Aboriginal people and at one with their physical environment, based in their own country with their particular world view and history, the only thing to do was to bow to their superior knowledge and to incorporate formal schooling into daily life. (Vallance and Vallance 1988:76)

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Many Australian Aboriginal communities are concerned to provide their children with an education that will equip them to cope with the pressures that the outside world brings to bear on their way of life. The Yirrkala community, for example, has developed a ‘two way’, or ‘both ways’, schooling. As the name implies, this type of schooling addresses the problems created by the coming-together of two different cultures, while at the same time keeping the two cultures distinct in order to preserve the integrity of the more vulnerable. Basing himself on an analysis of Aboriginal ‘two-way’ responses to bicultural, bilingual education, Harris (1994) details a theory of domain-separation, which distinguishes, within the school itself, between a ‘western domain’ and an ‘Aboriginal domain’, the aim being to make explicit the different knowledge systems and aptitudes associated with each. Harris’s theory has sparked controversy in Australia, stimulating debate among indigenous and nonindigenous educators wrestling with pedagogical models (McTaggart 1988,Teasdale 1997). His advocacy of the separation of cultural domains for teaching purposes is opposed by some indigenous groups who have been developing a concept of a ‘Ganma’ curriculum. This is based on an indigenous concept of two rivers joining together into one, a natural symbol of the confluence of different cultural traditions in a new curriculum (Bunbury et al. 1991). Underlying all these educational models is a concern with the way in which children recognise and reconcile the two (or more) different cultural traditions in their lives. Inevitably, the most appropriate method of articulating the intercultural relationship will vary according to the social, economic, historical, cultural and demographic context. In Chapter 5 we noted how the school and the community in San José operate on the basis of the separation of cultural domains. This is not a school policy, but rather an initiative taken by the Arakmbut themselves. The children at present receive an education in two discrete domains, as defined by two distinct cultures and languages, from separate groups of personnel with their own aims and objectives. There is no constructive interface, no attempt to investigate the relations between the domains and their respective educational systems in terms of the intercultural lives of the people who move between them. Although this does not constitute intercultural education, it has the aim of transmitting the indigenous culture to the younger generation and teaching about the majority society and national culture.

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10.2 A model for educational change in San José There are three important dimensions to the current domain-separation model of education in San José, where the community single-handedly tends to the Arakmbut domain and the Ministry of Education, through RESSOP, directs the formal schooling. Firstly, community members have no control over educational policy-making or administration in the school domain, nor in the absence of Arakmbut teachers, do they exercise any control over the pedagogy and medium of instruction. Secondly, and in keeping with the critiques made of schooled education by indigenous and non-indigenous organisations throughout much of the Amazon, the education is of poor quality and largely irrelevant to the intercultural lives of indigenous children. Thirdly, there is little or no communication between the Arakmbut domain and the school domain. We saw in Chapter 4 how, with its agenda of assimilating the Arakmbut into the national society, schooling undermines indigenous cultural traditions. We also saw, though, that the school fails in its objective, because it is neither effective in assimilating Arakmbut children nor does it provide them with the knowledge and skills needed to participate in the national society on their own initiative. For its part, the Arakmbut educational paradigm promotes a strong sense of Arakmbut identity, but it does not offer practical guidelines for confronting the external pressures which are threatening the long-term survival of the Arakmbut way of life. Vallance and Vallance (1988), discussing Australian Aboriginal education development, state that any outside programme must bow to the superior knowledge of the indigenous people and listen to what they want and why. In contrast, the Arakmbut of San José are ignored, instead finding themselves pulled in one direction by RESSOP and representatives of the Dominican Diocese, who apply a policy of Spanish-only schooling, Catholic proselytisation and ‘national’ integration, and in another direction by the indigenous Federation, FENAMAD, lobbying for biliterate intercultural schooling. They are also torn between deepseated wariness of the Dominicans, due to the ambivalent and complex relations of dependence that they have had with the priests since the 1950s, and a scepticism regarding FENAMAD on account of both the sporadic contact between them and old inter-ethnic rivalries. At the same time as trying to reconcile these opposed loyalties, the community comes under psychological attack, and sometimes also physical attack, from colonists and traders. Its members’ attempts to remove the illegal colonists and

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halt the infringements of their territorial rights are obstructed by corruption and inefficiency in local, regional and central government, as well as by an unwieldy, obfuscating legal system. Under the circumstances, the Arakmbut of San José continue their protective strategy of keeping their cultural traditions out of sight of non-indigenous people and maintaining the school and its teachers at arm’s length. Given their unwillingness to appropriate the school for the wider political purpose of enhancing their indigenous ‘survivability’, an intercultural education project cannot at present proceed along the lines of any of the existing Peruvian models. Parameters for educational change: the school domain While the community is averse to intercultural bilingual education as it applies in other parts of the Peruvian Amazon, this does not mean that all change to the current system is rejected. On the contrary, members of San José have shown themselves to be open to improving the quality of their formal education, in the interests of a more empowering education in the long term. Among all agegroups, for example, there is considerable curiosity about books which contain photographs of the rainforest and its natural species, and illustrations of other indigenous rainforest peoples are of particular interest. The copy of the social science textbook Mi Tierra, which I took to San José (Chapter 9, above), was examined at length when it appeared, though no one paid any attention to the written Spanish text. For most people, adults and children alike, this was their first glimpse of a book containing images familiar to them. The response to textbooks such as Mi Tierra suggests that changes which increase the relevance of the monocultural school curriculum to the Arakmbut’s daily lives are welcomed — provided those changes are not seen to jeopardise the academic success rate of the students. In San José at the beginning of the 1990s, there was no resistance in principle to the recruitment of indigenous teachers, indeed, several people expressed positive approval of the idea. Despite serious misgivings about their language’s compatibility with the school environment, particularly as regards the development of mother-tongue literacy (Chapter 8), members of the community see the value of using their language as an aid to the learning of Spanish by young children. Through his/her awareness of indigenous cultural understanding and pedagogical practices, a native teacher has the potential to help a child adjust to school and its social conventions. Although not articulated by the Arakmbut of San José in these terms, the oral use of Harakmbut by an Arakmbut teacher

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could ultimately lay the foundations for a reorientation of the school’s culture-base. The introduction of indigenous teachers in the San José school is, nevertheless, fraught with practical difficulties. There are candidates who have completed enough secondary schooling to take up teaching immediately, but they are reluctant to do so because a teacher’s salary is extremely low — and in this gold mining region the cost of living is high. What is more, as one young man explained, the situation of a wambokerek teaching marriageable young women, muneyo, is not only anomalous within the community domain but is liable also to give rise to accusations of improper behaviour towards the women. His clan affiliation might also put him in a difficult position vis-à-vis the parents of students from other clans, who might accuse him of favouritism in awarding monthly exam marks. Finally, he did not feel that he would have the full backing of his community, without which he could not be a successful teacher, let alone introduce change. A female teacher would be able to avoid some of these specific problems and, indeed, the Dominican lay-missionaries have been carefully grooming several young Arakmbut women through secondary schooling and teacher education in Puerto Maldonado. However, after more than a decade under the tutelage of missionary boarding-school and college, their commitment to intercultural education and culture-based pedagogy has yet to be ascertained. From the perspective of the community itself, there is considerable room for qualitative change within the school domain. In order to galvanise the community into initiating change, it is to the community domain that we must look. The Arakmbut may continue to reject the school as an appropriate forum for written Harakmbut, and they may even discount the need for a written form of the language at all, but this does not necessarily imply the impossibility of an intercultural education programme designed by and for them (cf. Wölck 1989). Possibilities for cultural enrichment: the community domain Fortifying processes are already at work in the community domain, particularly as a result of the Harakmbut-speaking university students’ and graduates’ support and enthusiasm for the ‘cultural revitalisation’ project. Two male students have sought out the elders on moonlit evenings in order to listen to and learn the specialised linguistic registers of the chindign. Their interest and their recording the myths and songs have instilled a new sense of confidence in the elders. The students believe that they will gain from the orthography and alphabet they are slowly developing. And, although only incipient as yet, it is a literacy that has created widespread interest among a generation of young Arakmbut who

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share a common need for it. Above all, it can wrest the monopoly over literacy away from the school. Importantly, and as a literacy developed by the younger generation in partnership with the elders — a communication system that is neither in competition with nor reliant on the school — it can be developed and used within an Arakmbut epistemological framework, complementing rather than replacing the oral foundation of knowledge. The positive response to the students’ cultural revitalisation project, which stimulated renewal of Arakmbut oral culture, marked a turning-point for the Arakmbut. At the time, pressures from gold and timber extraction and the threat of oil exploration were increasing, and the elders and senior men and women of San José decided they must take action to defend their lands and their way of life. Other Arakmbut communities responded positively and meetings were held to discuss the defence of their territory and to search for sustainable economic alternatives to their waning hunting and fishing activities and the failing gold economy. In other parts of the Peruvian Amazon, indigenous peoples were struggling with similar survival issues. The Ashaninka of the Atalaya region in the Central Amazon proposed the establishment of a ‘culture house’ as a focus for their culture and language. Independent of the school, the ‘culture house’ belongs to the community and functions both as a place where the community can participate in indigenous cultural events and as a learning-centre where the elders can pass on their knowledge to the younger generation. In their design for an integrated development project, the Arakmbut discussed the possibility of setting up a ‘culture house’ in each community. These would serve as physical focal points for storing, listening to and viewing the tape-recordings, video tapes and books being accumulated by the students. A centre would also serve as an archive for official community papers. It would not belong to any one clan or family group and consequently members of other clans and families would not be inhibited from going there. And it would be free from intrusion by teachers and wahaipi. The Arakmbut do not often meet as a community. Instead they have informal means of discussing issues and spreading news: the evenings are an important time for men to walk around the huts, talking and chatting with their neighbours and women come to make wenpu in small kin and affine groups in the morning or late afternoon (Chapter 7). These and other social occasions, such as dances, are times for exchange of ideas and points of view and for hearing about other people’s experiences. The question of how to deal with a particularly

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troublesome colonist will be brought up in a conversation, dropped and returned to several times in an apparently casual manner, until over time a consensus is built up among members of the community and a solution decided upon. A ‘culture centre’ would not replace these fora but would be an additional context for learning and teaching in a distinctly Arakmbut way. It would be like a new haktone or communal house, used as a meeting-place and focal point for the propagation of Arakmbut culture at the beginning of the new century. Here the Arakmbut can discuss intercultural issues in their lives and, independently of the school, design programmes of non-formal education to meet the needs identified in their project for territorial defence and cultural rejuvenation. In 1997 the integrated development project received funding from the Danish government and plans for the cultural centres went ahead. They are to host workshops as well as being a venue for meetings of elders and for inter-community meetings (see Aikman 1998). In the same year, two of the Arakmbut students graduated from university in Lima and are currently working with the development project. They have witnessed other Amazonian indigenous peoples advancing their struggle by taking control of their intercultural education and the graduates are actively encouraging their relatives, friends and neighbours to elect potential teachers as a first step to self-determination in the school. The 1998 FENAMAD Congress reiterated the need for schools to have indigenous teachers. In so far as the people of San José are concerned, it is possible that, as they confront their problems and consider ways of overcoming them, and as their self-confidence in dealing with the national society increases, they will give importance to controlling and improving their formal schooling so that it complements the activities of the Arakmbut domain. The way in which this process unfolds is for the people themselves to determine, in accordance with their perception of the culturally most appropriate means of educating their children in an intercultural society. The persistent and, indeed, increasing abuses of human rights, the territorial invasions, and the forest-destruction and river-pollution by land-hungry migrants and resource-thirsty companies have galvanised the Arakmbut into fighting back, but at the same time these pressures have sapped their energy. In San José, a school-based, biliterate, intercultural education will not become a priority while the threats to their physical survival continue to mount. But, with the powerful combination of, on the one hand, well educated university students committed to the indigenous movement and, on the other, members of the older generation with their roots in the traditional culture, a distinctive, uniquely Arakmbut

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educational model may be forged from the success of their development project. We may already be seeing the beginnings of such a model, not in the school, but in non-formal education and the culture centres.

10.3 Assumptions about intercultural education In seeking to understand why the community of San José, unlike many indigenous peoples facing similar erosional processes, has been cautious about proposals for intercultural education, the answer has been found to lie in the community’s attitudes and its expectations of formal education. Formal schooling and Arakmbut education are fundamentally incommensurable: the school system precludes the Arakmbut system, and the latter defies categorisation in terms of formal educational criteria. Intercultural education aims to address this gulf between the two systems by, precisely, focusing on the ‘intercultural’ nature of the present day lives of indigenous peoples. Nevertheless, most intercultural education programmes continue to emphasise characteristics of the formal system and are oriented towards non-indigenous social and cultural practices. They are still founded on a western literate tradition which devalues indigenous oral practices, producing a confusion of categories and concepts among ‘beneficiaries’, for whom the two traditions are quite separate. Nevertheless, that intercultural education has been recognised as making a valuable contribution to the modern pluralist ideal is bourne out by government policy documents, UN recommendations and indigenous statements. The dialectic relationship between official policy-making and indigenous peoples’ demands for self-determination — including the right to formulate their own education programmes — has produced a variety of intercultural education models. In many Latin American countries we find a degree of standardisation of governmental approach: intercultural education for indigenous peoples is a school-based programme implemented within the framework of the national curriculum with local adaptation in terms of cultural and linguistic content by formally trained, local teachers. Detailed examination of the educational situation in San José has allowed us to question several assumptions underling this generalised model of intercultural education. In order to assess the contribution of intercultural education, however conceived, to the strengthening of indigenous peoples’ way of life and their participation in the majority society, it is necessary to pose a series of question.

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Is the intercultural curriculum based in the child’s natal culture? The examination of different models of intercultural bilingual education in the Peruvian Amazon has highlighted two different approaches to curriculum development: on the one hand, the adaptation of the national curriculum to reflect characteristics of the indigenous society; and on the other, the production of a qualitatively different curriculum by focusing on the dynamic interface between indigenous cultural traditions and those of the impinging non-indigenous sector. Recent initiatives in the theory and practice of intercultural education among indigenous peoples in, for example Canada, Australia and Peru, challenge the static conception of curriculum as ‘content’. They exemplify attempts to take full account of the cultural context within which an indigenous language is used, including aesthetic characteristics of styles of indigenous discourse and pedagogy. As such, they illustrate the need for an intercultural curriculum to be based on a thorough understanding of the philosophy, the epistemology and the general cultural features of each ethnolinguistic group. The concerns of an intercultural curriculum, moreover, go beyond the strictly pedagogical to include the transmission of all aspects of indigenous knowledge, from basket-making to medical practices. And they must also encompass the historical, social and political relations which exist between the indigenous group and the broader society if the intercultural education programme is to be a source of empowerment for the disadvantaged community. The negotiation of intercultural education and the negotiation of intercultural relations go hand in hand. The uncritical use of concepts, categories and structures from the formal system obscures epistemological differences and risks producing an intercultural education which acts as a ‘bridge’ for the integration of indigenous peoples into a western model of formal schooling, at the expense of indigenous educational forms and processes. Just as mother-tongue literacy-teaching can serve the longer-term aim of Spanish-language proficiency rather than mother-tongue maintenance, an uncritical, politically co-opted intercultural education is likely to serve only the predominantly assimilationist aims of the non-indigenous sector. Does the intercultural education aim to support the well-being of the indigenous collectivity? The San José study highlights the error of assuming that Arakmbut educational objectives coincide with those of the national system. In general, the values of the latter are individual effort and achievement within a framework of competi-

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tion among pupils and assessment by teachers, with ‘success’ or ‘failure’ being defined by the pupil’s progress through the highly structured grade system. The formal education system is based on a philosophical paradigm whose defining feature is a developmental notion of time. The Arakmbut, in contrast, share neither the same concept of time nor the same values. For them learning is oriented first and foremost towards the wellbeing and stability of the collectivity, on which individual well-being depends. By the same criterion, schooled learning is valued only when it is put to the service of the group, the example of the Arakmbut graduates being a case in point. Any intercultural education programme must scrutinise its own aims in order to avoid imposing non-indigenous values which, coupled with the corrosive influences of the local non-indigenous population, will in a short space of time destroy the collective organisation and orientation of the indigenous way of life. It must therefore begin by analysing the paradigmatic framework, or world-view, from which it derives its educational aims. Basic categories such as ‘curriculum’ must be defined in order to avoid the ethnocentrism of approaches such as that which seeks to base education on ‘cultural invariants’, on the assumption that all cultures can be analytically reduced to a universal system. The Arakmbut have provided an understanding of the way in which, for them, ‘education’ defies categorisation, except in the loosest sense of the term: the ‘curriculum’ for Arakmbut children is their daily life, organised around culturally specific principles of age, gender, clan and kinship. Theirs is a multidimensional and dynamic view of the world rather than static and definitive, calling for a redefinition of the notion of ‘culture’ as a process rather than a category. For an intercultural education programme to meet the demands of the Arakmbut and strengthen their indigenous identity, it must be based on a flexible understanding of the epistemological and pedagogical implications of their worldview: namely, a different system of knowledge, a different ordering of the relationship between learning, teaching and evaluation and a rethinking of the relative values of oracy and literacy. To deconstruct Arakmbut reality according to non-Arakmbut principles is both to divide what for them is indivisible and to conflate what they distinguish. Who are recognised as educational specialists? One of the major stumbling-blocks to achieving a culture-based intercultural education is the assumption that educational specialists from the formal system are best qualified to determine its nature. Such an approach negates the specialist

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educational knowledge and skills possessed by members of the indigenous society. They are the ‘experts’, or ‘specialists’ in their view of the world and in the process of its transmission. The elders are the repositories of indigenous knowledge — it is they who have access to the invisible world that is the source of that knowledge — and senior adults are the practitioners (Chapter 6). The denial of indigenous expertise is one of the reasons why many intercultural education programmes — produced ‘on behalf of’ indigenous peoples by non-indigenous ‘experts’ and professionals — have met with resistance. The Arakmbut of San José provide a vivid example of a people who have clear-cut motives for rejecting an intercultural education which, designed for them without their co-operation, participation or even knowledge, ignores the existence of their own indigenous practices — practices that have ensured the survival and vivacity of their culture and language since their contact with the wider society in the 1950s. Learning in Arakmbut society is based on guided participation in contextualised activities (Chapter 7). Pedagogical contexts are not distinguished from non-pedagogical contexts, and learning occurs in meaningful contexts, in which the student feels at ease. The relationship between teacher and learner is an unformalised interaction based on respect for kinship and/or membership of the same clan or age-group. Does the intercultural education presuppose biliterate schooling? The Peruvian Ministry of Education model of intercultural education is concerned with equality of education for indigenous children: that is, equal access to, and equal opportunity in, formal schooling. In practice, this means introducing mother-tongue literacy in order to facilitate the children’s learning to read and write. Mothertongue literacy is no less a concern of the indigenous movement, which is campaigning for it both as a right for indigenous children and as a means of preserving indigenous languages in written form. Orthographies and alphabets are being designed for hitherto oral languages, resulting in the production of literacy texts for use in school. Increasingly curricula are becoming geared towards mother-tongue education, with Spanish taught as a second language. It cannot be assumed a priori that different indigenous peoples — or even different communities within a single language group — react similarly to intercultural education. The Arakmbut of San José tend to see it as disempowering, because it would reflect negatively on them in the non-indigenous sector, where their language is regarded as being of inferior status. As a numerically small people whose oral use of their language is undiminished, they doubt

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the value of mother-tongue literacy either for its own sake or as a practical measure in the fight against oppression. Their situation, which highlights the intrinsic inequality that exists between the national language and the indigenous language, is compounded by the danger that the production of a school-based written form of Harakmbut could undermine essential dimensions of its oral production. For example, democratic access to knowledge through the written word could invalidate the traditional power-base and relativisation of knowledge in the society. Where knowledge is the preserve of specific individuals, or ‘gatekeepers’, who have the ability to communicate with the source of that knowledge (for example, spirits or ancestors), written texts may ultimately challenge the cosmological foundations of the culture (Chapter 6).

10.4 Conclusion The San José community are wary of intercultural education because of their perceptions of the nature and function of schooling. Theirs is a Spanish-language mission school from which they seek to acquire ‘civilisation’, ‘modern consciousness’ and status vis-à-vis surrounding colonist settlements. The curriculum is constructed around an objectified body of knowledge enshrined in written texts and transmitted via an authoritarian pedagogical practice. No space is allowed for alternative systems of knowledge learning. Nevertheless, despite appearances to the contrary, the Arakmbut do not lack control over their schooling; they wield unofficial decision-making power over what is taught, how it is taught and by whom. Increasingly, indigenous peoples are putting into practice their right to exercise decision-making power over the schools in their communities. As part of the global indigenous movement they are lobbying for control in order to ensure that their children have an intercultural education which (i) respects their cultural traditions, (ii) provides a qualitatively relevant education about the cultural traditions of the society and (iii) addresses the intercultural lives which they lead. The models of intercultural education that indigenous peoples are developing vary in accordance with their needs in a given context. The several examples we have examined from different parts of the world can be placed at different points along a continuum ranging from those based on indigenous conceptualisations of knowledge, pedagogy and evaluation to those based on westernised or national conceptualisations. A few have sought to maintain a distance between the indigenous and the non-indigenous domains, while many others are directly

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addressing the problem of knowledge and pedagogy at the interface between the two or more cultural traditions encountered by indigenous peoples in their dayto-day lives. Each example is the unique product of indigenous negotiation (cf. Lipka and Stairs 1994). At one end of the spectrum, the school curriculum is embedded in institutionalised western literacy practices; at the other end, it becomes a dynamic process of cultural cross-fertilisation. Greater indigenous control over education, as in the AIDESEP/ISPL programme (Chapter 9), means breaking down the distinction between school and community; it means bringing the school from the margins of indigenous life and embedding it in the community, where it can serve indigenous aims. When we consider the San José Arakmbut’s strategies for cultural maintenance and participation in the national society, we can see that their ‘two-domain’ educational model is a total system: the school teaches its version of Spanish-language literacy and the national curriculum, while the community applies the traditional cultural principles of contextualised, interactive communication and learning. With a new generation of Arakmbut ex-alumni reaching adulthood, there is, for the first time, an interest and need for Harakmbut literacy. It is not a schoolbased literacy that is required, but one that originates in and serves the community. It is a literacy subservient to the Arakmbut’s oral culture, which, as such, it is capable of consolidating. This dissolution of the dichotomy between the oral and the written offers the Arakmbut the prospect of simultaneously developing and reaffirming their identity in the context of their intercultural lives. This book has investigated the development of intercultural education within the global indigenous movement in order to illustrate the processes by which indigenous peoples define and reinforce their cultural identity. The Arakmbut exercise control over the hegemonic influence that institutionalised schooling has on their social and cultural life by separating the school domain from the community domain, thereby safeguarding the informal processes by which their own knowledge is transmitted. Their separation of cultural domains is a reflection of a conceptual dualism that distinguishes between Arakmbut and nonArakmbut, but is also an aspect of their defence against colonisation. In the future the boundaries between literate school domain and oral community domain may become less well defined, as they must do if the school is to accommodate the process of cultural negotiation and support the community and its members in their intercultural lives. If it is to contribute to the promotion of a dynamic and creative Arakmbut identity, the school has to assume a dynamic and creative role — as part of a culturally appropriate, culturally devolved pedagogical process.

Glossary

Glossary of Harakmbut Words amiko chindign e’iok e’ka’a e’mamboya e’mba’a e’mbachapak e’mandoya e’machinowa e’manokay e’mbogntokoy e’nopwe e’ohtokoy e’paimpak haktone ho kumo muneyo muneyo’po nokiren pane sikidnmbi sinon

non-Harakmbut curing chant to give to work (physical, skilled, also sexual activity) to draw to work (hard physical labour) to narrate, tell a myth to write to sing to cure to performate the lower lip (of a man) with a spine from the peach palm to know, to be knowledgeable nose piercing ceremony when a youth becomes a man ‘ceremony of the feathers’ when a male child becomes a youth communal long-house fruit of the peach palm. shrub with roots used in fishing (barbasco). young woman ‘becoming a woman’ spirit or soul matter grandfather whale-like monster infant (from five months until walking).

198 taka toto wahaipi wamandoyeri wamanoka’eri wambo wambo’po wambokerek wandik wapoybedn wasipo waso watone waweri wayorokeri wenpu wetone yombedn

GLOSSARY

non-Harakmbut people, who are potentially unfriendly potentially harmful spirit person of Andean descent; more generally, colonist or non-indigenous person. someone who attends school someone who cures through chants (chindign) young man ‘becoming a young man’ man name baby (from four to five months old) child body old person spirits of the river shaman (who has close contact with the spirits through dreaming) string bag woman infant (from birth to four months).

Glossary of Spanish words ayahuasca barbasco boquichico clausura comadre compadrazgo compadre Comunidad Nativa indigenismo indigenistas kermesse (kermis) materiales nobles

Banisteriopsis caapi, hallucinogenic root. shrub with long roots, the sap of which is used in fishing fish in the carp family official school-year closing ceremony godmother, or godmother of one’s child godparenthood godfather, or godfather of one’s child Native Community (legal and administrative unit) indigenism indigenists fete or party in benefit of the school manufactured building materials such as concrete and corrugated iron

GLOSSARY

materiales rusticos patrón(es) peón(es) Sole

local building materials boss, forman worker or labourer Peruvian unit of money (1991 1 Sole = 1 US$).

199

List of Acronyms

ACJEBU

ADEISP AIDEMAD AIDESEP/ ISPL ANPIBAC CAAAP COICA DIGEBIL FENAMAD III IWGIA NGO PEBIAN RESSOP SIL UN UNESCO

Asociación de Cesantes y Jubilados en la Educación Bilingüe del Departamento de Ucayali y la Província de Ucayali Ucayali Association of Retired Bilingual Teachers Asociación de Estudiantes Indígenas de la Amazonía Peruana Association of Indigenous Students of the Peruvian Rainforest Asociación Indígena de Estudiantes de Madre de Dios Association of Indigenous Students of Madre de Dios Asociación Interétnica de Desarrollo de la Selva Peruana/Instituto Superior de Loreto Inter-ethnic Association for the Development of the Peruvian Rainforest Allianza Nacional de Profesionales Indígenas Bilingües, Mexico National Alliance of Indigenous Bilingual Professionals Centro Amazónico de Antropología y Aplicación Práctica Centre for Amazon Anthropology and Practice. Coordinadora de la Cuenca Amazonica Amazon Basin Coordination Dirección General de Educación Bilingüe Directorate for Bilingual Education Federación de Nativos del Río Madre de Dios y sus Afluentes Native Federation of the Madre de Dios River and its Tributaries Instituto Indigenista Internacional International Indigenist Institute International Work Group for Indigenous Affairs Non-governmental organisation Programa de Educación Bilingüe e Intercultural del Alto Napo Intercultural Bilingual Education Programme of the Upper Napo Red Escolar de la Selva del Sur Oriente Peruano Educational Network of the South-East Peruvian Rainforest Summer Institute of Linguistics United Nations United Nations Educational and Scientific Organisation

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Index

ACJEBU 135 ADEISP 127 age-grade ceremonies 101, 102 AIDESEP 16, 38, 45 primary curriculum 171 AIDESEP/ISPL 38, 164-169, 182, 195 Aikman, S. 1, 6, 21, 24, 40, 85, 146, 160, 175, 189 Alfaro Lagoria, C. 36 alphabetic literacy, see literacy Althusser, 144 Amadio, M. 158 American Indian Studies Center 182 Amodio, E. 92, 168 ANPIBAC 16-18, 68, 157 d’Ans, A-M. 8 Apple, M. 58 Australian Aboriginal education 168, 178, 183-185, 191 Arakmbut clans 93-4 cosmology 94 communities 8, 42, 43-44, 48, 49, 51, 53, 127, 174, 183 cultural domain 91 educational model 190 first sustained contact 40 invisible world 79 history 58 spirituality 109

teacher 186 world-view 116-117 Arratía, M-I. 30, 168 Arique, T. 136 assimilation 1, 2, 19, 20 166, 191 Au, K. H and C. Jordan 92, 171 authoritarian pedagogy 194 control over time and space 171 authoritarianism at school 76; see also control ‘autonomous’ literacy 148 language skills 157 Avalos, B. 52-3

Baker, C. 68, 148, 149 barbasco 105-6 Barman, J. et al. 169, 182 Barranco Chico 8, 42, 49, 173, 183; see also Arakmbut communities Barre, M-Ch. 31 Barriales, J. 41 barrier 80-81 Battiste, M. 150 Baynham, M. 74 Bernstein, B. 28 Besnier, N. 153 bicultural education 16, 19

224

INDEX

biculturalism 17, 19 bilingual education 16-17, 19, 21 bilingualism 148 biliterate education 21, 23 biliterate schooling 154, 193 biliteracy 3, 6 Bloch, M. 128 boarding school 42; see also Dominican schools Boca Colorado 71, 72, 84 Boca Inambari 8, 42, 127; see also Arakmbut communities Boca Isiriwe 9, 48; see also Harakmbut-speaking peoples Bodley, J. 15 Bodnar, C. 162 Bondy, A. 36 Bonfíl, G. 35, 36, 58 Bourdieu, P. 145 Bourricaud, F. 33 Brock, C. and W. Tulasiewicz. 91 Bruner, J. 122 Bruno-Jofre, R. 34 Bullivant, B. 175 Bunbury, R. et al. 184 Burger, J. 13, 14 Burr, G. 65 Burridge, K. 64 CAAAP 46, 52, 136, 165, Callinicos, A. 77 Canada, Native American education 169, 181, 191 Capella Rivera, J. 159 Carnoy, M. 58 Catholic Church 34; see also Dominican mission cattle ranching 39; see also environmental destruction ceremonies 120

chants 114, 133; see also songs Chavarría, M. 161, 162 Childs, C. P. and P. M. Greenfield 122 chindign, see chants Christie, M. 144 Christie, M. J. 92 Citarella, L. 32, 33, 34 civilisation 194 clan 94 classroom dynamics 144, 170 Clifford, J. and G. E. Marcus 26 COICA 128 colonisation 58, 178 colonists 49, 72, 132; see also Quechua migrants compadrazgo 66, 67, 85-87 compadres 66, 78, 82, 86-86 conceptual dualism 195 contextualisation 167 control education 18, 19, 185, 189 land 13, 175 teacher’s control 53, 76 classroom 53 definitions of culture 26 curriculum 136, 181, 185, 168 communication day-to-day 138 practices 137 oral 138-139 Cook-Gumperz, J. 54 Corry, S. 16 coup 87 Cree 177, 182 crops 112 cultural analysis 165-166 domain separation 195 imperialism 58 knowledge 105

INDEX eradication 1 erosion 171-173 heritage 149 universals 166, 192 pluralism/diversity 1, 37, 166 revitalisation project 149, 188 sovereignty 182 traditions 26, 27, 30, 172 culture-base 166 education and pedagogy 167, 187, 192 culture house 188, 189 Cummins, J. and M. Swain 68, 148 curriculum adaptation of 159, 160, 175 as content 26, 191 diversified 159 Ganma 184 materials 186 negotiation of 18, 21 195 in San José school 52 curer 97, 105 curing 114, 139, 140 curing chants, see chants Cuzco road 44 Davies, P. 147 decision-making 194 decolonisation 14, 37 Degregori, C. 137 Deitschy-Scheiterle, A. 160 Delgado-Gaitan, C. and H. Trueba 135 democracy 21 dialogue 21, 26, 30 Diamond, B. 177 DIGEBIL 38 diglossia 20 diocese, see Dominican mission discipline 119 discourse 169-170

225

discrimination at school 76 ‘disvalues’ 65 diversity, see cultural pluralism/diversity Documental del Peru 39 domain Arakmbut 80 community 85 language 138 school 80 separation 189, 84 Dominican missionaries 39, 40, 56, 65, 81 mission 41, 42; see also Shintuya pastoral policy 65 integrationist policy 41 mission school 41-42, 62, 76 Draft Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples 1, 134 dreamer 97, 116 Dunbar Ortiz, R. 14 Education Reform of 1972 36, 38 education specialists 192, 193; see also teachers Eide, A. 18 e’mandoya 75-76 empowerment 24, 146, 164 e’nopwe 96, 97; see also knowledge environmental destruction 132, 198 equality, see schooling Escobar, A. 36 ethnic minorities 13 ETSA 136, 165 evaluation 28, 68, 88 evangelisation 64 FENAMAD 5, 7, development of 45, 46, cultural revitalisation 149-150 intercultural education 181

226

INDEX

policies 52, 131 Spanish language use 74 Fernández Alonzo M. 41 Fernández, M. and R. Vera 179 Finnegan, R. 139, 152 fishing 105-6 Fishman, J. 22, 154 Flinn, J. 169 Folds, R. 183 Fortes, M. 99 Francis, A. 24 Freire, P. 35 Fuentes, A. 41, 79 García, H. et al. 64, 65 García, O. and R. Otheguy 22 Gasché, J. et al. 38, 164 gatekeepers 194 Gee, J. 60 Geertz, C. 26 gender, 94 genres 139 Giroux, H. 169 Godenzzi, I. 21 gold economy 84, 85 mining 39, 43, 45, 73, 79, 132, 133 panners 95 Gonzalbo, P. 3 Goody, J. 57, 128, 151 government schools 49; see also teachers Gow, P. 80, 81 Graff, H. 53 Gray, A. 8, 13, 27, 64, 41, 44, 93, 95, 96, 98, 108,176, Green, B. 28, 53, 144, 145 Greenlandic Home Rule 15 Grillo, 137, 138 Grossi, F. V. 20

Haig-Brown, C. 162, 166 Harakmbut language 48-49 literacy 147, 187 university students 126, 187 Harakambut-speaking peoples 8, 48 Arakmbut see Arakmbut communities Arasaeri 49, 146, 174; see also Villa Santiago Kisambaeri 48 Sapiteri 8 Toyeri 48 Wachipaeri 8 Harris, S. 89, 168, 184 Hawes, H. and D. Stephens 26, 27 Heath, S. B. 123, 143, 150 Heise, M. 20 Helberg, H. 8 Henze, R. and L. Vanett 178 Holmes, B. and M. McLean 92 Hornberger, N. 23, 88, 152, 153, 169, 182 house construction 112-113 human rights abuses 189 hunters 79 Hvalkof, S. and P. Aaby 34 ideational base 176 improvised singing 115; see also chants indigenism 31, 35 indigenistas 32, 33 indigenous 13 calendar 171 decision-making 163 expertise 193 knowledge 194; see also curriculum, knowledge, pedagogy language loss 172 movement 14, 22, 68, 128, 143 movement in Latin America 36

INDEX oral practices 190 organisations in South America 16 rights 15, 134, 190 teachers 167, 187; see also teacher indigenous peoples 14 Australia 15, 92 Cree 182 Inuit 169 Maori 15, 24 Mi’kmaq 150 Mohawk 182, 183 Navaho 171 Saami 15 indigenous peoples of the Peruvian Amazon Aguaruna 24, 134, 136 Ashaninka 81, 161, 162 Ese’eja 8 Kaxinawa 177 Napuruna and Siecoya 163 Piro 8, 81 Shipibo 8, 134, 135-6 Yanesha 24 self-determination 190; see also indigenous rights informal apprenticeship 99 education 124 learning 91 transmission 91 intellectual property 149 interaction, teacher/learner 122 Intercultural Horizons 182, 183 intercultural curriculum 167, 191 education, models of 128 177-178, 190 lives 184 relations 158, 163, 184 schooling 46,

227

teacher 168; see also teacher interculturalism 21, 162 interrelatedness of knowledge 170 invisible and visible world 92, 95, 107, 116, 118 124, see also spirit IWGIA 6, 13, 19, 45 Jacob, E. 123 Jakway, M. 160 Jolly, L. 152 kermis 77, 79 Kleivan, H. 15 knowing 83, 112 knowledge 28, 29, 68, 81, 95 accumulative 104, 105, 109 access to 93, 147, 154, 170 acquisition 109 alternative systems of 194 bodies 93, 112, 192 dreaming 113-4 elders 114-117 ethnobotanical 112 and learning 123 relativity 194 ‘superior’ 77, 82 using 121, 126 valid 88 women’s 108, 112 Kroeber A. 25 Kulick, D. and C. Stroud 153 land 13, 176-7 Landeo, L. 161 language maintenance 22, 135 revitalisation 178 skills 145 threat 153 Lankshear, C. 142, 145

228 Larrabure i Correa, C. 39 Larson, M. 21, 23, 43 Laserna, C. 122 Lave J. 73, 124 Law of Native Communities 59 Lawton, D. 165, 166 Leap W. L. 7, 147 learner/teacher relationship 193 learning behaviour 92, boy’s 112-113, 120, 123 to cultivate 113 to fish 117 to hunt 117 girl’s 113, 119, 121-123 in context 122-124 methods 123 processes 109, 121 stages 118 theory 119, 121 legends 140 lesson 57; see also curriculum Lindenberg, M. A. 177 Lipka, J. 169, 171, 195 literacy and curriculum 2, 21 event 143 Harakmbut 188 materials 161, 162, 21 mother-tongue 146, 152-153, 193 practices 145, 190 Little, A. 122 local school materials 46, 72 Loos E. P. et al. 160, 161 López, L. E. et al. 20, 38, 137, 146, 151 Loreto Teacher Training College, see AIDESEP/ISPL Lyon, P. 8

INDEX Mackie, R. F. 62 McCarty, T. L. et al. 123 McTaggart, R. 184, 178 Madre de Dios 7-8 indigenous peoples of 8 schooling 39 Magenzo, A. 166 Major Project 19, 21, 37 Mariátegui 32, 35 Marinke 93, 93, 108, 115 Marzal, M. 31, 34 Masferrer, E. 34 Mayer, E. 146 Meek, M. 144 memorisation 151 memory 97 Mestizo teacher 49, 50; see also teacher settlement 62 Mexico 16, 31 Middleton, J. 99, 102 Mining, see gold Ministry of Education (Peru) 20, 25, 46, 62, 158, 159, 193, Mino-Garces, F. 20 Misiones Dominicanas 63 mission education, see Dominican mission school missionaries, see Dominican missionaries modern consciousness 89, 194 environment 67 modernisation 33, 57, 60 Moore, T. 45, 83 Morin, F. 31 mother-tongue 2, 21, 22 as bridge 157 literacy 146, 152-153, 193 motivation 24

INDEX Mühlhäusler, P. 20, 24 myths 93, 95, 114-115, 120, 139 Nakota, M. 29 narration 139, 140, 152 national identity 159 natural resources 15 negotiation of curriculum 29, 191 ‘noble’ materials, see local materials nokiren 96, 97, 101, 105 non-institutionalised education 19 North America 21; see also indigenous peoples Nunes, T. 73 oil exploration 39, 43 Olórtegui, T. 46, 47 Ong, W.J. 28 oracy 128, 154; see also oral tradition oral cultures 28 communication 73, 154 curriculum 182 knowledge 154 learning context 67 register 151 tradition 21, 24, 133, 139 Spanish 74, 85, 138, 139 Osende, V. 41, 42 out-of-school learning 91; see also non-institutionalised education Palacios, M. A. and M. Paíba 56 paradigmatic framework, see world-view parents’ association 61 participation 20, 167 Pasquinelli, C. 26 patron(es) 45, 95 Paulston, C. B. 149 PEBIAN 163, 165

229

pedagogy 18, 28, 166, 167 peon(es) 73, 85, 133, 142 performance 139, 152 Peruvian culture 80, 88 Philips, S. U. 122 Pike, F. B. 34 play 99 potlatch 79 Pozzi-Escot, I. 25, 39, 59, 136, 158, 159 prestige 79, 83, 88, 108 production activities 119 proselytisation 82 puberty 100 qualitative change 187 Quechua discourse 151, 169 language 36 literacy 152 migrants 44, 45, 131, 132; see also wahaipi people 73 Quintanilla, O. and S. Lozano 37 Quique, T. 83, 186 radio 142 reed mats 121-122 registers 139; see also oral register Reid, W. A. 28, 29 RESSOP 43, 82, 86, 185 community school 44 teacher 48, 51, 52, 54, 56, 63, 65, 71, 72 Ribeiro, D. and M. R. Wise 8 ridicule 120-1 Rival, L. 128 Rodríguez, N. E. et al. 37 Rosengren, D. 64, 67 rubber boom 40 Rummenhöller, K. 40, 41, 46, 174

230

INDEX

Sampaio, D. C. and A. López da Silva 158 Sánchez-Parga, J. 151 Sarasola, S. 41 sayings 140 school administration 55-56 knowledge 183 community relations 195 literacy practices 145 Scollon, R. and Scollon, S. 145, 170 Scribner, S. and Cole, M. 92 Self-determination, see indigenous rights Sells Dick, G. and T. McCarty 171 Serowe 117-118, 120 Seymour-Smith, C. 146 Shintuya mission 8, 63, 132; see also Dominican mission school 75, 83 Shor, I. and P. Freire 168 SIL, see Summer Institute of Linguistics Skar, H. 66 Skar, S. Lund 74 skills 119 Smolicz, J. 15 Snow, C. E. 22 social distance 67 songs 100, 115-116, 120, 141 soul, see nokiren singing 139, 141 Spanish language 49, 73, 142, 143 second language 59 oral 138, 139; see also oral Spanish specialist, see education specialist spirit 92 animal 114 dreaming 97, 116, 113-114 language 108 source of knowledge 113

world 118, 124 spiritual strength 95 spiritually-based world-view, see Arakmbut world-view 174 Spolsky, B. 23 Stairs, A. 165, 168 Stavenhagen, R. 31 Stenhouse, L. 27 Stirrat, J. 26 storytelling 114 Street, B. 23, 30, 137, 145, 148, 157 Sueyo, H. 177 Summer Institute of Linguistics 21, 24, 33, 34, 43, 160, 147 missionaries 81 bilingual school 43, 143 superficial adaptation, see curriculum tape-recording 120, 149, 151 Tauro, A. 32, 35 teacher(s) authority 76, 77 Arakmbut schools 57 elders 120, 182 indigenous 43, 44 lay-missionary 63 Mestizo 57 community development 61, 62 teacher training 168; see also AIDESEP/ISPL teaching styles 51-54 teaching materials 55; see also learning materials, curriculum Teasdale, R. and J. Teasdale 95, 97, 184 territorial demarcation 177; see also land Thaman, K. 26 Thompson, J. B. 26 timber extraction 39 time 98 Torralba, A. 42

INDEX Tovar, T. 54, 55, 56 transliteration 151 Trapnell, L. 38, 159, 160, 164, 165 Trend, D. 26 Trudell, B. 160 Tuesta, N. 164, 178 Tumiri, J. 35 Tylor, E. 25 unequal relations 88 UNESCO, see Major Project university students, see Harakmbut Ute 147 Valentín, A. 41, 42 valid knowledge, see knowledge Vallance, R. and D. Vallance 168, 183, 185 Varese, S. 58 Venn, S. 182 Verhoeven, L. 23, 24, 30, 153 Villa Santiago 49, 146, 174, 175, 183 visible world, see invisible and visible world vocabulary, specialised 104 Vygotsky 122

231

Wagner, R. 26 wahaipi, 73, 74, 142, 133, 138, 188; see also Quechua migrants Wahl, L. 40, 41, 78, 80 Wahlberg, N. 153 wainaron 117, 120; see also myths Walsh, P. 26, 92 wamandoyeri 126-127 Wanamey 93, 115; see also myths Williams, L. and J. Wyatt 23 Wipio, G. 136, 171 Wölck, W. 151, 155, 187 women’s knowledge, see knowledge, women’s World Council of Indigenous Peoples 15 World-view 59, 92, 154, 166, 174, 192; see also Arakmbut writing system 150, 153; see also literacy written word 142 Young, M. 77 Zuñiga, M. 38, 146

In the STUDIES IN WRITTEN LANGUAGE AND LITERACY the following titles have been published thus far: 1. VERHOEVEN, Ludo (ed.): Functional Literacy: Theoretical issues and educational implications. 1995 2. KAPITZKE, Cushla: Literacy and Religion: The textual politics and practice of Seventh-day Adventism. 1995. 3. TAYLOR, Insup, and M. Martin Taylor: Writing and literacy in Chinese, Korean, and Japanese. 1995. 4. PRINSLOO, Mastin and Mignonne BREIER (eds): The Social Uses of Literacy. Theory and Practice in Contemporary South Africa. 1996. 5. IVANIC, Roz: Writing and Identity. The discoursal construction of identity in academic writing. 1998. 6. PONTECORVO, Clotilde (ed.): Writing Development. An interdisciplinary view. 1997. 7. AIKMAN, Sheila: Intercultural Education and Literacy. An ethnographic study of indigenous knowledge and learning in the Peruvian Amazon. 1999. 8. JONES, Carys, Joan TURNER and Brian STREET (eds.): Students Writing in the University. Cultural and epistemological issues. 1999. 9. BARTON, David and Nigel HALL (eds.): Letter Writing as a Social Practice. 2000. 10. MARTIN-JONES, Marilyn and Kathryn JONES (eds.): Multilingual Literacies. Reading and writing different worlds. 2000.