Cissy's 2024 Peru Global Seminar Blog

Obviously, my favourite chapter of Hugo Blanco’s book was Chapter 4: Reflections by a child of Pachamama (Mother Nature). In this chapter, Blanco describes the various ways in which the Indigenous peoples of of the Andes adapted to and maintained the fertility of Mother Earth. He describes the arrival of the foreign invaders, the disrespect and destruction of the land that followed, the continual power of foreign interests, and the potential paths forwards from here for Indigenous communities. He argues on page 105 that, “The greatest damage was that done to the structure of society and agricultural production, together with its infrastructure, which were destroyed by the invaders.”

I am, of course, especially interested in the Andes-specific agricultural techniques that Blanco discusses: terraces (andenes), fringes of grass on the hillsides, erosion-reducing canals and furrows, sea bird (wano)/llama/guinea pig manure as fertilizer, qollqas, fallow periods, crop rotation, polyculture (e.g., the paring of crops and the planting of multiple varieties of potato together), and selective breeding of cold/drought/pest resistant varieties. Today, many proponents of sustainable agriculture are looking back to traditional techniques, especially techniques employed by Indigenous groups, who — having thrived on the land for extensive periods of time — have necessarily developed a deep understanding of how to work with the land, rather than force the land to work for them. Blanco says of Andean agricultural culture on page 103, “The child of Andean geography, it was able to understand it and adapt masterfully to it (speaking in European terms, we would say that it knew how to ‘dominate’ nature; in our conception there is no war with Mother nature).” (I oftentimes find researchers presenting these traditional methods as “newly discovered”, and a lack of credit where credit is due, though I also understand that many techniques arose in multiple places separately and simultaneously.) For example, those grass fringes that Blanco described are pretty big in sustainable agricultural research today, as researchers are interested in the benefits of what are called “edge effects” from increasing biodiversity around the perimeter of farm fields. And we cannot forget the wano obsession of the 19th century. Fallow periods (see: the grassland set-asides project in the Fraser Valley initiated by the Delta Farmland and Wildlife Trust), crop rotation, and polyculture are all also huge in Western/global North movements away from conventional, industrial agriculture towards something hopefully kinder to the land. These are not new techniques; we have just collectively forgotten what it means to cultivate, rather than merely use, the land.

On another note, this quote on page 14 of We the Indians, resonates with me on a strangely personal level:

“I left the university and went to work in a factory, because I understood that, due to the latifundismo that reigned supreme at the time in Peru, my options as an agronomist would be to serve a landowner or even become one of them.” (We the Indians, p. 14)

As I’m nearing the end of my undergraduate career, I’m facing the dilemma of what kind of work I want to do afterwards. I think most people with a degree similar to mine either end up working for the government, as the owner of a farm, or as a worker on a farm. While we don’t have a system like the latifundismo system in Peru, all of these options have historically worked to dispossess Indigenous peoples of their lands and prosperity, and in many ways continue to do so. This is not the kind of work I want to do. But at the same time, I need a stable enough job to ensure my parents are comfortable after retirement, and I hope to make enough money to send them to see Machu Picchu one day! So where do I go from here?

“Literate Indians like Miguel Quispe, whose demands were rational, were considered racial/cultural transvestites, ex-Indians who maintained the markers of their previous identity (like indigenous clothes) to manipulate actual (irrational) Indians.” (de la Cadena, p. 308)

In this passage, de la Cadena is describing how elite cuzquefios of the 1920s defined Indigeneity as necessarily illiterate and as helpless, “sad victims”. This definition was challenged by eloquent, articulate, politically active, self-identified Indigenous persons like Miguel Quispe, an Indigenous leader from the district of Colquepata. Rather than amending their conception of Indigeneity, the elites viewed these Indigenous persons as “astute liars” who posed a danger to the stability of the state because they are “tricking” both Indigenous people and non-Indigenous people alike. Literate Indigenous persons were then stuck in a limbo; supposedly, they could no longer be considered “Indigenous”, yet they maintained the racial/cultural markers of their Indigenous identity which prevented them from being considered rational citizens of the state. In this definition, a person cannot be simultaneously Indigenous and a citizen; these two identities were mutually exclusive and were pitted against each other as opposites.

The suspicion of identity in terms of literacy, which prevented Indigenous peoples from fully participating in public life, parallels the Catholic suspicion we discussed in a previous class regarding Silverblatt’s Modern Inquisitions. Similar to how Indigenous persons capable of literacy were still not considered full citizens, Indigenous persons converted to Catholicism were subject to intense scrutiny about whether or not they were “real” Catholics. In both cases, there is this problematic, lingering suspicion that the person’s “previous” identity — as Indigenous or pagan — has failed to be completely stamped out by the adoption of their new identity as a citizen or Catholic.

“These opinions implied that literacy transformed Indians into mestizos if they migrated to the cities or found a job away from agriculture.” (de la Cadena, p. 310)

First, this idea that an Indigenous person can discard their Indigeneity and become a new identity through literacy and an urban job breaks apart communities and severs lineages of intergenerational knowledge transfer. Second, as I discussed in a previous post, I have found that agriculture is often used as a mark of civilization — that a group of people are only considered civilized, or deserving of the title of an “ancient civilization”, if they practiced agriculture. So it is interesting that, according to de la Cadena’s description of the attitudes of Peruvian elites in the 1920s, having an agricultural job has since become the mark of a person supposedly “stuck in the past”/”incapable of adapting to modern life”. I think this attitude persists in many ways to this day, even beyond its association with Indigeneity (because Indigenous peoples do not have to be farmers, and farmers do not have to be Indigenous peoples). Yet, we forget that we still need food to eat. If all the farmers gave up farming to work in the city, who would produce our food? Could you successfully grow a field of corn and prepare it for consumption? I don’t think I could.

‘These assumptions continued in COPESCO planning documents that estimated that the average traveler to Peru in 1971 would be “a business man or professional between thirty-five and forty, with a high degree of education and cultural level. It is almost guaranteed this man will travel with his family.”’ (Making Machu Picchu, p. 121)

Jon, I don’t know how old you are, but I think you nearly fit this description exactly! For reference, COPESCO is the Peru-UNESCO Tourist and Cultural Plan; a collaboration between Peru and UNESCO formed under the Velasco government of 1968 to 1975.

I think it’s interesting to note how much the target audience for tourism promotion, and the resulting demographic of tourists, has changed. I am not a man, definitely not a business man, nor am I a professional, and I’m only 21 and not travelling with my family. The only criteria we all fit is the “high degree of education”. (I’m unsure what exactly “cultural level” is referring to, but I’d like to think we all also have a high degree of cultural level.) Throughout our time in Peru, from what I’ve observed, I think most tourists no longer fit this description.

Indeed, the tourism industry surrounding the site was once oriented towards elite tourists, with much investment going towards luxury hotels and restaurants meant to support those who wanted to travel at the height of comfort while still experiencing “Indigeneity”. Rice writes, “Since the 1920s, cusqueños had employed tourism to illustrate how their region’s Indigenous character appealed to global elite travelers.” With the global countercultural movements of the 1960s, and with the restoration of the Inca Trail, followed a wave of hippie tourists and tourists specifically seeking challenge and discomfort on their trip to Peru.

I think in a way, the jipis of the 1970s (as described by Rice) and the luxury travellers are very similar, but they both refuse to admit it. Rice quotes a passage from El Comercio de Lima that describes hipis as people that “look to introduce themselves in the most tantalizingly distant from the West, that want to live like the Indians of Mexico, understand the misery of India, investigate socialism in Chile, or experiment Malaysian hospitality.” The jipis of these destinations are also born into the privileged conditions of the West (or perhaps more accurately, the global North?). They choose to experience suffering, but they can also choose when they want to leave this suffering. I think it was Orla who wrote about something similar in a previous blog post; these jipis seem to be able to put on and take off this “Indigenous” persona whenever they wish. Both the luxury and the jipi travellers are consumers/purchasers/buyers of the Indigeneity/Indigenous identity/Indigenous culture that is packaged and marketed to them. I’m still grappling with whether we are any different.

What began as a local effort to improve the economy in the Cusco area has evolved into a story of displacement and replacement, both physically and economically, by multi-national companies. I think this another way the tourism industry is no different than the extractive industries. Like mining, tourism in Peru seeks to dig out and cherry-pick the shiniest gems of Indigenous cultures and present them to the world for the taking.

“But one thing’s for sure, you have to return each ayni you’ve received with all your heart.” (Andean Lives, p. 43)

In this passage, Gregorio is describing the ayni system of labour exchange, in which people do favours for their fellow community members with the reassurance that the favour will be returned when they one day need it. Indeed, it seems that reciprocity is a founding tenet of these communities because it is an important part of their worldview or cosmovision. In Gregorio and Asunta’s context, reciprocity extends beyond humans to more-than-human beings and Earth Mother. Throughout their stories, we see a strong connection to land and place, especially evident when Gregorio says:

“You can neglect your wife and even forget all about her, but never the land, never Earth Mother. If you forget about Earth Mother, she’ll forget about you too. That’s the way it is when you till the soil.” (p. 41)

Moreover, in the introduction, Gelles writes:

“The reader needs to keep in mind that implicit in the narrators’ use of these terms is a sense of kinship, belonging, and participation in terms of the place itself, a spiritual connection that bonds together a people, the town they live in, the surrounding landscape, and the deities that reside there” (p. 9)

I think this one of the most important distinctions between Indigenous and colonizer. Whereas someone Indigenous to the Andes sees themselves as existing within kinship webs that include the living apus, rivers, and plants of the land; the colonizer sees themselves as existing outside or above that web — the colonizer sees these beings as strangers rather than acquaintances. Without the existence of such relationships, the colonizer feels no responsibility towards these beings. They don’t feel a need to give, nor to receive.

I think we oftentimes forget that a reciprocal relationship doesn’t just mean giving, but also receiving. Reciprocity means giving meaningfully, and also receiving meaningfully. Forgetting about Earth Mother can mean forgetting to care for her, but also forgetting to receive the abundance of her gifts. Why should she continue to provide them if there is nobody to accept them? I believe the Spanish failed to do both.

Rather than recognizing the abundance of native crops provided by Earth Mother, they introduced wheat, sugar cane, and cotton in vast quantities. These crops required a huge amount of labour, land, and external inputs, and the Spanish exploited the land without giving back. This lack of reciprocity towards the land reflects the lack of reciprocity within the social systems they implemented. I think the way people treat each other often reflects how they treat the land.

On another note, I’m thinking about how this translated work will never be able to fully convey what the original coneys. And even if I could read the original Quechua, I still wouldn’t be able to truly understand. Because I feel like language is so much about cultural context, and I will never have the lived experience to understand the nuances of Quechua. Sometimes it feels like there is such a vastness between humans and there are so many things that I don’t have the words to convey. What does it mean to truly know someone?

“And it is useless to try to convert it, for example, into a technical-agricultural problem for agronomists.” (Mariátegui, 1928, p. 51)

Mariátegui writes this sentence near the beginning of the third chapter The Problem of Land. He is writing about how the Indigenous peoples of Peru will continue to be oppressed as long as the latifundium system persists; that Indigenous peoples’ right to land is the key to their liberation. As such, the issue takes on a primarily socio-economic and political dimension.

When I first transferred to LFS at the end of first year and picked Sustainable Agriculture for my major, I fully expected to just learn about farming: what fertilizers to use for which crop, how much fertilizer, what machinery is best, how deep to plant seeds, etc. I seriously considered becoming a farmer. But I quickly found that, 1) the way the program is designed very much does not prepare me to actually run my own farm (I’m better off going to technical school or simply doing apprenticeships for that), 2) I am not cut out to be a farmer (as evidenced by today’s visit to the Amaru community), and 3) agriculture is so much more than running a farm. Farming is only one part of a food system that must be understood from not only scientific, but also cultural, economic, political, and social perspectives. In Canada, Peru, and globally, agriculture is also a land back issue.

So, I think I agree with Mariátegui. The problem of land in Peru cannot be solved solely through the work of agronomists. Later on, he writes, “A single valley, a single Andean tableland, if opened up with a few kilometers of railway or roads, can supply the entire Peruvian population with more than enough wheat, barley, et cetera.” The problem is not that there isn’t enough land, nor is it that the land does not give abundantly, rather the problem is in who and what has decision-making power over the land (though I disagree with Mariátegui’s sentiment that wheat and barley should be the primary foods to feed the country). No amount of improvement in sugar cane genetics or development in machinery is going to change the fact that the majority of agriculture caters to foreign demands and the majority of profit goes to landowners.

Today, I learned from Kelly (our guide for the community visit, I’m unsure how to spell her name) that most of the terraces are no longer cultivated because the government wants to preserve them for tourists. I also learned from Kelly that there is Japanese interest in Andean amaranth (quinoa and its various varieties), likely for growth and breeding in Japan. I think there is both economic and cultural anxiety here; fear that Japan will take away profits from Peru’s current position as the world’s top quinoa supplier and of appropriation of an important traditional food, which is already happening with the “discovery” of quinoa’s numerous health benefits. With the terraces and amaranth, I think we are seeing that agriculture in Peru is still subject to the demands of a foreign market. Quinoa is no longer grown solely for the local community, but for a global audience that wants to get in on this cool, “new” superfood.

It is also interesting to note the similar issues experienced by Peru in the early 20th century and by Canada today. Another reason (among others) that I’ve mostly abandoned my dream of becoming a farmer is because land in Canada is very expensive now, in big part due to land having more value as real estate than as farmland. Many farmers across the country, especially younger ones just entering the industry, farm on land that they rent only for a few years, as they can no longer afford to purchase land. As Mariátegui writes, “The tenant farmer generally is not encouraged by this system to improve the land and its crops and installations.” We are very much seeing this in Canada today. Though one farmer may implement BMPs (beneficial management practices, suggested for sustainability and to improve soil fertility), the legacy of that effort is often completely erased by the next farmer who rents the land and who doesn’t bother to continue the practices. After all, it’s not their land and the soil only needs to last them a few years.

Oh, I almost forgot. A topic I’d like for us to return to. The Marxism stuff you were talking about yesterday (Wednesday morning class) was interesting. I’d like to learn more about that I think. The revolution and its role in nation-building stuff in particular. Thanks!

When I first started reading Mariategui, I was worried I wouldn’t understand him because I have no background in economics. But it is turning out to be so much more than that. I find that what Mariategui does well is that, even though his focus is clearly on economics, he understands and articulates food and land as systems — as a web of economics, geography, culture, and social organization — rather than as mere commodities.

He writes about economic place and space; about how the location of the economic centre of Peru has shifted with the shifting social landscape and needs of different imperial powers. The Spanish wanted precious metals, the British wanted guano and nitrates (AKA fertilizer), and the Americans wanted petroleum (as usual). He also writes about how foreign investment in cotton and sugar drastically reduced the production of food crops, especially traditionally and culturally important Indigenous foods. He writes that, in 1925 at least, Peru’s largest import was wheat. Wheat was introduced to Peru with the arrival of the Spanish and is not a part of Indigenous food systems. For example, the Incan food system depended on other grains native to the Andes, such as quinoa, maize, tarwi, and kiwicha. Mariategui moreover writes about how Indigenous food systems are developed in such a way that independent communities are able to support themselves through the communal working of community lands; a system which the lasting legacy of haciendas has continuously disrupted, and a system which cannot be restored by land reform that distributes land to individuals. He hits on a point that I struggle to express, and that is true not only in Peru, but also globally: our modern agriculture is only dependent on large properties, expensive machinery, and copious amounts of synthetic external inputs because that is the kind of agriculture we have invested and continue to invest in.

In a way, I understand the hippies when I read Mariategui. Maybe the way forward is to return to communal, agrarian life. But not on stolen lands; not without the return of the right to determine what happens on their land to the Indigenous peoples who have had relations there since time immemorial.

Mariategui also answered some questions I had. My parents asked why people farm mainly on the valley floors rather than the terraces now, even when the terraces aren’t part of protected ruins. Mariategui explains the Spanish settled in the valleys because they “feared and distrusted the Andes, of which they never really felt themselves masters”, a legacy which I presume has lasted to this day. I wondered why the only coastal city I knew was Lima. Mariategui explains how the hacienda structure directly counteracts all the necessary ingredients for the formation of a town. I wondered why there’s a larger Chinese presence in Peru than I expected. Mariategui explains, “The Peruvian coast received contingents of Chinese immigrants who replaced the Negro slaves imported during the viceroyalty and emancipated partly as a result of the transformation from a feudal to a more or less bourgeois economy.” I thought it had something to do with BRICS and China’s recent focus on exerting its soft power in South America and Africa.

Mariategui also leaves me with questions. I understand that his focus is on the economic realm, but I personally wonder about the environmental legacy left by these economic realities. With the overexploitation of guano, how were the birds impacted? Has the extensive cultivation of cotton and sugar impacted the fertility of the soil?

P.S. I found out that Mariategui had an accident at school when he was 8 years old, which resulted in stiffness and rigidity in his left leg for the rest of his life. Since he couldn’t engage in outdoor recreational activities typical of children his age, he spent most of his time reading and thinking. Mariategui was physically incapable of touching grass and as a result, grew up to defend the grass.