In September, 2008, I was back in my old Ende village, Rhepadori, in Flores.
One night during my stay there, I attended rather a unique kind of gathering. I was sitting in a small house of a villager, with other participants, numbering 30 or so. It was a windless hot night. The room was dark, being lit by only a few small lamps; there was no electricity. It was a meeting about the village generator, which provided, or, was supposed to provide, each household of the village with electricity. However, for the last several days, the generator was not run and, therefore, there was no electricity available. People demanded explanation from those in charge of the management of the generator. They said that, because some households had not paid the monthly payments, there was insufficient fund to buy fuel for the generator. People wanted more explicit information; and thus the meeting was convened. Coffee and bananas were served as was due in this kind of village gathering, and after a few minutes of chatting, Ali, who was in charge of the account, began reciting his report, comprising of the total revenue and the detailed descriptions of expenditures with figures. Ali spoke Indonesian, the national language, which I had never heard him speaking before. Ali’s report sounded formal and official, in the kind of voice never heard in Rhepadori, except, perhaps, within the village school building. Ali finally finished the long report. It turned out, from the report, that every household had paid the monthly payment fully and that, therefore, there should be no shortage of money.
Some participants raised hands and asked why they could not afford the oil if there was enough money in the account. After a moment of hesitation, Ali answered, in Endenese this time — “the money in question is not in here, not on the account, not with me! It is with you (Doi na ndeka miu)!” I was baffled, unable to understand what he meant by that. Little by little, hearing the people’s discussion that ensued for some time, I did see what had actually happened; he put the fixed figure for the monthly payment for each household in the notebook, whether the household in question had actually paid the money or not. I saw what had happened but did not grasp yet what Ali meant by that remark. I could not understand why he made such a stupid mistake.
Sept 2008 Strange way of accounting by Ali “The money is not with me, the money is with you!”
It was a few days later that I finally understood the why — It was Ali’s fault but it was not stupid; it was, in a way, understandable. It was, so to speak, a “slip of tongue”. Throughout this paper, I would like to give you a clue to understanding this remark of Ali’s, by putting the event in a proper context, that is, an arena of development.
Development is an arena, where “[v]arious social actors, situated on the same stage, vie with each other for stakes of power, influence, prestige, celebrity and control” . In that way, a development arena is a contact zone, a social space “where disparate cultures meet, clash, and grapple with each other, often in highly asymmetrical relations of domination and subordination” , like colonial encounters described by Mary Pratt. Simply put, development is a contact zone between modernity and tradition — between the discourse of modernity and a discourse of a traditional society.
an arena where various social actors . . . vie with each other for stakes of power, influence, prestige ….(De Sardan) a contact zone where disparate cultures meet, clash and grapple with each other (Pratt)
About contact zones, some anthropologists have, rather optimistically, talked about “auto ethnography” , “transculturation” , “objectification” ( and , among others) and “appropriation” (, to quote but one), while, on the other hand, others, of more pessimistic persuasion, have talked about “generification” (, and ). The former group can be said, if I may use a rather cynical phraseology of Wilk’s, the `It’s All Right, They’ve Appropriated It’ school of thought . What the latter group contend is that what is actually happening in the contact zone is that people in traditional societies are forced to speak, consciously or unconsciously, the language of modernity, to be accorded with natural-history episteme . Generification is, according to Frederik Errington and Deborah Gewertz, a process in which “the cultural particular either has become translated into the cultural general or into a general example of the cultural particular” and in the long run, the culture in question becomes “legible” to the outside world.
Objectification, Appropriation — “It’s Alright, They’ve Appropriated It” School Generification (Wilk, Errington and Gewertz, Delcore)
In an article which Marshal Sahlins suggests we should reread, Gregory Bateson classifies, at the beginning of the paper, 3 possible types of acculturation — “(a) the complete fusion of the originally different groups,
the elimination of one or both groups,
the persistence of both groups” . Both “appropriation” and “generification” advocates refer, in effect, to the same possibility among the three types:
the elimination of one discourse. A discourse, or a language game, of a traditional society is permeated by the language game of modernity, natural-history episteme.
the complete fusion of the originally different groups
the elimination of one or both groups
the persistence of of both groups
My contention in this paper is that, at least in Ende, the resultant situation of the contact is (c), that is, persistence of both language games.
In what is happening in a contact zone, that is, disparate cultures’ clashing and grappling, some authors, notably Hobart , see incommensurability of the two cultures, the developers’ and the recipients’. As Grillo points out, this kind of presentation of arena of development borders on cultural solipsism and can barely lead to any fruitful discussion. The situation is best dealt with, I suggest, by the term “aspect game” coined by Noya expounding Wittgenstein’s idea of “aspects” .
In the original Wittgensteinean situation, it is shown that a picture can be regarded as a rabbit as well as a duck (See Figure (duck-rabbit?)). Noya puts the picture in a conversational situation where two people (say, A and B) look at it and talk about it at the same time. A says, “it is a duck” while B says, “it is a rabbit.” This is the original situation of the clash of two viewpoints. Then after this first clash, comes an aspect game, being fought in the hope of establishing a common ground for the communication. A now says, “You said `it is a rabbit’ but it looks like a duck to me” and B might continue the conversation by saying “It looks like a rabbit to me.” This is the gist of the idea of an aspect game by Noya. The situation reminds us of an old joke about a glass of whisky — an optimistic observer says, “it’s half full” while the other, more pessimistic one, says, “it’s half empty”. And, if I am allowed to divert a bit, it also reminds us, surely, of the two groups of anthropologists mentioned above, one saying “It’s alright; they’ve appropriated it” and the other saying “No, they’ve been swallowed up”.
Clash — A: “It is a rabbit” vs B: “It is a duck” Aspect Game — A: “It looks like a rabbit to me” cf. A: “B believes that it is a duck”
Let me go back to the main track of the argument — I was talking about the two cultures meeting in a contact zone, in an arena of development.
Fairhead and Leach’s example fits well in this framework. In Guinea, there are only a few patches of forest islands near villages and in the rest of the country one sees the vast terrain of barren fields stretching over the horizon. Environmental services saw these forest islands as the relics of former rich forest — the scenery looked like, to the experts, explicit degradation of forests, while, on the other, people of the villages saw the islands as the result of their efforts — “elders describe how their ancestors encouraged forest-patch formation around settlements which had been founded either in savannah or beside gallery forests” . Ferguson’s excellent ethnography describes a similar situation in Lesotho development arena. For example, suppose, at one time, there are lots of transactions of cattle in local market places. Development experts see this phenomenon as an increase of economic activities, while, on the other hand, local people know that this is a bad sign, since selling the cattle “is an insult to a man’s pride and a public admission of his destitution” .
Environment services – relics of former rich forest Villages — the result of their efforts
Development experts — increase of economic activities Local people — a bad sign since to sell cattle is a public admission of his destitution
I hope I have shown the fruitfulness of the introduction of the idea of “aspect game” in the discussion of development. As the author says, an aspect game is a pathological situation, as it is about the very way of communication. It should be resolved in order to return to the normal lives of everyday, unproblematic communication. The urgent problem we are faced with is how — how the problematical situation of aspect game is to be resolved.
Now, with the idea of aspect game and related problems in mind, let us turn to the original field where the idea of “contact zone” comes from — linguistics. Pratt borrowed the term “contact zone” from linguistics, “where the term contact language refers to improvised languages that develop among speakers of different native languages who need to communicate with each other consistently, usually in context of trade” . She refers to pidgin and creole as products (“contact languages”) of such contact zone . “Transculturation” or “appropriation” or even “generification” can be comparable to pidgin and creole languages.
improvised languages that develop among speakers of different native languages who need to communicate
There is, however, another type which Pratt did not mention as a possible result of language contact, a type which would come to mind immediately if one is versed with the idea of aspect game — that is, bilingualism. What I am going to show in this paper is that, at least in Ende, what can be comparable to bilingualism is the resultant situation of the developmental contact zone. What Ali failed to accomplish in the episode at the beginning of this paper is the failure of bilingualism, a failure of switching from one language to another.
Pidgin and creole — objectification and generification Bilingualism
Now I am opening the second part of the paper — the part about the ethnography of Ende. First, however, before plunging into Ende ethnography, let me note a special feature of Ende, or Flores island in general, in terms of development — that is, the fact that Flores is void of any notable natural resources. For this reason, flores has never been an attractive place for development and continues to lack the potential to do so. For example, for the Dutch colonial government, Flores was “a non-profitable island”. . Consequently, Floresian people, including Ende villagers, never witnessed a “massive landing of experts” “[l]ike the landing of the Allies in Normandy” . I have, actually, never seen outside experts in Rhepadori.
Lacking natural resources Flores is a non-profitable island
In addition to the shortage of resources, there is another factor in Flores which retards the development. Until recently, one could not talk about any substantial market economy or urbanization in Flores, so that there were no “poverty” discernible — one could see no such things as “the ragged poor of Asia” or “the bloated bellies of African children” . What was lacking (and is still lacking) in Flores is merely cash income. So when I talk about “development” in Ende, I don’t mean it in the enormity discussed by Ferguson in Lesotho; development comes to Ende villages only in the form of aids from outside.
Aid from outside
In 2008, I stayed with my “sister”, Liva, and her husband’s family, who now took care of my old foster mother. One hot and quiet afternoon, a few days after the incident of the generator meeting, I was conversing with Liva in the kitchen. I asked her to take stock of her household’s property:
SN: How many pigs do you have now, Liva?
Liva: There are five big ones, with several piglets.
SN: Five pigs, right. (I wrote down the figure.) Well, I see two pigs lurking about in our garden everyday. Where are the other three?
Liva: People came and took (marha) them.
Liva counted the absent three pigs as if they had been there lurking on her ground. She did so because the transaction in question was marha, “taking”. That is, if it had been otherwise, she would not have done so. What I want to emphasize in quoting this episode is that marha or “taking” doesn’t count as debt in Ende. In want of animals or elephant tusks, especially for bridewealth, villagers sometimes have a recourse to this method. The procedure is unceremoniously simple — on such occasions, they visit a household where, they know beforehand, there are some animals or ivories to spare, and they simply ask permission for “taking” them for some time. When one takes (marha) a pig, one is expected to return a pig of approximately the same size, whenever one is well off again or when the provider asks for the replacement.
Pigs thus taken away, on the side of the provider, are still counted, rather nonchalantly, as if they were still there in one’s possession, as it is apparent from Liva’s attitude above.
Songgo (“debt”) and pE’i (“pledge”) are quite different matters. At the time of planting rice field, if one has not enough seed rice, one has to “borrow” (songgo) some from other households. The rule of songgo is strict: if one borrows two belEs (around 40 kg), one has to return, after the harvest, three belEs of rice to the creditor. If one cannot return a required amount of rice, the amount will be automatically multiplied by one and half, each year.
PE’i (“pledge”) is another method of borrowing something, especially, for borrowing money. PE’i is often resorted to when one’s children’s high school fees become a heavy burden. There is no official fixed rate; however, according to my informants, for borrowing 100,00 rupiah, as a general guideline one is expected to pledges one coconut palm trees (nio). [[~/Dropbox/Category/Library/S-934-46.html][<re: S-934-46>]] While the debtor does not repay the debt, the creditor may make use of the pledged trees — he can eat the coconut; he can even sell the product of the trees. Unlike songgo, one does not pay interests (bunga) in case of pE’i.
Marha — taking PE’i — pledging
Sometimes people pledge (pE’i) elephant tusks for money; and sometimes they pledge palm trees for elephant tusks. In either case, the elephant tusks in question should be of exactly the same length when the transactions are to be resolved.
One can see a contrast between the two ways of borrowing in Ende mentioned above; there are two distinguished principles functioning in these two ways. The principle working in “taking” (marha) is what we can call “reciprocity” while, that of “pledging” (pE’i) is “exchange of equivalents”, the very principle of capitalist economy. The contrast between reciprocity and exchange of equivalents is, indeed, subtle but it is essential for understanding fully the villager’s lives, to distinguish them clearly.
marha (taking) — reciprocity pE’i (pledging) — exchange of equivalents
The opposition permeates all over the Endenese social world. Let me take an example of collaboration. There is a type of collaboration called songga, which people usually employ at busy seasons of agricultural activities, such as at the time of planting. A family who plans to plant their field send for co-villagers (and sometimes friends and relatives of nearby villages), asking (songga) them to come to their field the next day.
When I asked my informant about what would happen if one refused the asking (songga), he replied, “Then, sooner or later, when you need their collaboration, they refuse to come and help you any more”. The principle of songga is reciprocity. It is not exchange of equivalents. The host never count and record the helpers’ working time in his field; some come early in the morning and others rather belatedly. The host is responsible for providing food and drink during and after the work; especially on the night after the work, the host prepares a big feast with plenty of food and bottles of palm wine.
In stark contrast with songga is another type of collaboration, called kema girhi, “working in order”. Girhi is, I suspect, a loan word from Indonesian, “giliran” which means “in order” or “circulation”. Kema girhi is carried out, based on a unit called “kelompok” (Indonesian), a self help group which was organized in the mid 1980s. In the mid 1980s, international aids, the only available form of development in Ende, began to come to villages; the local government ordered the farmers to form self help groups (“kelompok”) so that the government know where the responsibility lies for managing the money in question. There are two kelompok in Rhepadori and kema girhi is, as I said, performed by each kelompok. As the name, “working in order”, suggests, the collaboration takes place “in order” among the members of one kelompok. On each occasion of a kema girhi, members of the group come to the appointed field at 8 AM in the morning, bringing their own food with them. They work together until 4 PM and then they just go back to their own houses. There is no feast later at night. It is based on the principle of “exchange of equivalents” which is evident, among others, in the procedure when one cannot attend the kema girhi — if one is to be absent from kema girhi, one has to pay a fine of Rp 25000.
Songga — reciprocity Kema girhi — exchange of equivalents
What is at stake in songga as well as marha (“taking”) is a social relation, while it is debt relationship in case of kema girhi and pE’i. In other words, it is the idea of “confidence” which supports the institution of marha and songga ; and, on the other hand, it is the mechanism of “trust” that permeates kema girhi and pE’i. Trust is a gamble which you may lose. Trust is always coupled with the idea of “risk” . In the case of trust, counting and recording come into play as is the case in pE’i and kema girhi, since there is always a possibility of betrayal.
Marha and songga — confidence PE’i and kema girhi — trust
Everything is the opposite with the case of confidence, marha and songga — people never record or count; they simply expect a return of approximately the same thing in a near future. For the time being, they behave as if nothing happened; as if absent pigs were there searching for food in their own gardens. Confidence is the game that is missing in modernity; we cannot afford it, says Anthony Giddens .
This is the bilingualism I suggested above — the Ende villagers live their daily lives using two “languages”, switching from one to the other according to the context. In the context of “taking” (marha) and songga, they speak the language of confidence and reciprocity, the language of tradition; while in that of “pledging” (pE’i) and kema girhi, they speak the language of trust and exchange of equivalents, that is, the language of modernity.
Now let me turn to the story of the generator. The generator in question was a result of a certain development scheme called “hutan rakyat” (“people’s forest”) by the Department of Forestry. The aim of “hutan rakyat” is to promote plantings of commercially valuable plants in otherwise “wasted” land. Any group (kelompok) who wants to follow this program is required to prepare an empty land larger than 50 ha and 50 willing members. If a group can fulfill the requirements above and submit a proposal to the local department of forestry, then the government will supply seedlings of mahogany and cashew nuts trees for free; the government, furthermore, will pay a daily fee of Rp 20,000 for each of those working in the field.
On hearing this news, the villagers of Rhepadori fused the two kelompok to form one, big enough for the plan. Villagers, then, persuaded one of the mosa rhaki (ritual land owners) in the village to release one parcel of his land “to the public interest”. A few educated persons were elected to write the proposal. The proposal was accepted and the seedlings came to the village. As had been agreed upon beforehand, the daily payment was not given to the people but put in the account of the kelompok, which was to be used for buying a generator. Everything went smoothly, and, finally, in 2007, the generator was brought to the village. And electricity came to the village. And everybody lived happily ever after . . . until . . ., until the incident of September 2008
Hutan rakyat (“People’s forest”) by Dep of Forestry Seedling of cashew nuts and mahogany and daily payment (“HOK”) to the people working in the field
As is evident from the above account, things involved in the generator should be spoken of in the language of modernity, since it is a thing in the arena of development. Ali is a good speaker of the language of tradition; actually every villager is. But he is not well versed with the language of modernity. He did try and, I admit, he tried hard. He spoke Indonesian, the language he seldom, if ever, used before, and “recorded” and “counted” as much as he could. But alas, he, sadly, failed in the most essential point — if some households had not paid the monthly payment, he should have said that certain households had not paid; instead, he reported as if they had paid the payment; he spoke the language of tradition, that of confidence, as if the arena was that of marha, “taking”.
Toward the end of my short stay in 2008, the most talked-about story among the relatives of Liva was a story of a pig which came from the east and ended up in a village in the west of Rhepadori. The story was full of kinship narratives — about negotiations of the amount of bridewealth, about the past relevant bridewealth transactions, etc etc — in which Ende people are most delighted. Eliminating the kinship narratives and concentrating on the path of the pig concerned, the story is simple: (1) a pig was given to the house of Liva, as an item of bridewealth from a kin living in a village in the east; (2) the pig was then given to another relative living in a village to the west of Rhepadori.
Oct 2008 A pig was given to Liva from an eastern village The pig was, then, given to a western village
Many people talked about this pig and, consequently, I collected as many variants of the story. Yet, differences were about kinship narratives, and the path of the pig’s journey remained constant. After a while, however, I recognized that there were two pigs involved in the story, not one pig — in two or three variations, speakers mentioned one extra event which happened between (1) and (2) mentioned above: a villager of Rhepadori came to Liva’s house and “took” (marha) the pig (the one from the east), to be used for his child’s bridewealth transaction. After a few weeks, the villager returned another pig, of approximately the same size, to Liva; and it is this pig, not the original pig from the east, that was taken away to the west.
A villager took the pig (from the east) and then returned another of approximately the same size
As far as the transactions take place in the sphere of confidence, “a pig is a pig is a pig”. People live a life of reciprocity and confidence; they speak a language of tradition. Whenever the stage is changed and become an arena of development, like at the meeting of the generator, they are ready to shift to the other language, the language of modernity; they are ready to play the game of trust and exchange of equivalents.
Of course, some are good bilingualists and others are not.