Editing Eden: A Reconsideration of Identity, Politics, and Place in Amazonia

5. For Love or Money?: Indigenous Materialism and Humanitarian Agendas

5.ForLoveorMoney? IndigenousMaterialismandHumanitarianAgendas BethA.Conklin The uneasy tension between friendship and material giving is an uncomfortable aspect of personal relations between native Amazonians and non-Indians who are sympathetic to indigenous people and causes. Do they like me, or do they just like what I can give them? is a recurring question for many of the aid workers, teachers, health personnel, anthropologists, activists, and others who approach native communities hoping not only to do some good, but also to make some deeper interpersonal, intercultural connection. Real friendships do develop. But even in close relationships there often are disconcerting moments when indigenous individuals seem to treat their non-Indian friends and associates as if they were valued mostly as a source of goods or money. The British rock singer Sting is hardly typical of the outsiders with whom native Amazonians usually interact. But many of us who have lived or worked in native communities probably can identify with some of the frustration he expressed when his relations with the Kayapó of central Brazil hit a rough spot. Sting’s involvement with the Kayapó began on a visit to the Xingu National Park in 1987, with a heady rush 128 beth a. conklin of personal experience with native village life, encounters that felt genuine, direct, and intimate. “It didn’t take long for the varnish of civilization to leave us,” he exulted at a press conference following his first visit. “After 48 hours, we were naked, covered in paint, and fighting snakes.” Sting began to use his celebrity to call attention to Kayapó land rights issues and the links between indigenous survival, rainforest protection, and the future of the global environment. In 1989 the Kayapó chief Rop ni (a.k.a. Raoni) accompanied him on a concert and fund-raising tour during which they met with world leaders, including President Jose Sarney of Brazil, President François Mitterand of France, and Pope John Paul II. The combination of rock star charisma and Rop ni’s dramatic lip disk and feathered headdress guaranteed media attention and opened doors of power and pockets of funding. Sting’s Rainforest Foundation, for which Rop ni served as honorary president, channeled funds and concert proceeds to help demarcate new boundaries for Kayapó reservations (Hemming 2003:275–76). The collaboration between Sting and the Kayapó seemed to embody the era’s best hopes for productive new partnerships between conservationists and indigenous peoples (Conklin and Graham 1995). By 1993 relations had soured. “They [the Indians] are always trying to deceive you,” Sting complained to a journalist. “They see the white man only as a good source of earning money, and then as a friend.” Rop ni was equally dismissive. “The Brazilian Indians do not need Sting,” he said. “It would be better if we forgot him.”1 Much can be said about the specific, in many ways unique circumstances of the Kayapó and the alliances they have forged with non-Indian supporters since the 1980s (cf. Fisher 2000; Turner 1993, 1995). The Rainforest Foundation continued to support the cause of Kayapó land rights, eventually contributing 1.3 million dollars to demarcate the Menkragnoti Indian Area (Hemming 2003:376). But the sense of disillusionment Sting expressed is a recurring dynamic in relations between native Amazonians and non-Indians who want to 129 for love or money? help or befriend them. Sting’s desire to be seen first as a friend was, he felt, betrayed when Indian friends seemed to treat him first as a source of money. Almost every non-Indian professional I know who has worked closely with native people has personal experiences that resonate with this sense of betrayal. Over the years that I have worked with the Wari’, a group of native people in western Brazil, I have squirmed uncomfortably on numerous occasions at hearing a close friend introduce me to other Wari’ by recounting our material history. Invariably my friends launch into a blow-by-blow recitation of consumer goods I have given them: “Her name is Beth. She brought us batteries, ammunition , fishhooks, fishing line,” and so on. This has happened so many times that I have come to recognize it as a standard form of introduction. Still it bothers me. Why, I wonder, am I reduced to a list of commodities? What about my winning personality? What about all the time we’ve spent talking, laughing, working, joking together, confiding, feeding each...