Monthly Archives: July 2024

Arguedas Tour: Chimbote

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I took an overnight bus to Chimbote, a small coastal city that is just over 400km, from Lima, a little more than a third of the distance to Ecuador. I arrived about 6am, and though the bus station is some distance from the centre of town, I decided to walk. I did, after all, have the whole day to kill.

For the most part, I walked along by the water, looking over a rocky beach to the Bay of Chimbote, which is guarded from the immensity of the Pacific Ocean by a small chain of islands, the largest of which is called Isla Blanca, “White Island,” in reference to the guano in which it is covered. The neighbourhoods by the shore were ramshackle and run down, if no longer as precarious as they would have been in Arguedas’s day.

Chimbote is the largest fishing port in the world. In fact, four of the world’s top ten fishing ports by volume of commercial fish landed are in Peru. A fifth is not far away, in northern Chile. This stretch of coast, its waters fed by the Humboldt current and full of nutrients, is one of the most productive on the planet.

A massive fishing fleet, comprising hundreds of boats, was anchored out on the bay. I don’t know how many more boats were out at sea. Over my brief time in the city, I saw little sign of the catch being unloaded. Perhaps I happened to be there during a lull in activity. Perhaps, at 6am, the boats had already been unloaded.

Arguedas came to Chimbote in the mid to late 1960s and set his final novel, The Fox from Up Above and the Fox from Down Below, here. He was equal parts fascinated and horrified by the city’s vertiginous expansion at the time, which drew people from all over Peru who sought work on the boats, in the processing factories, or in the bars and brothels that sprung up to cater to this horde of internal migrants.

In Arguedas’s novel, this chaotic industrialization of the fishing industry and its myriad ramifications for its motley cast of characters are overseen by the book’s titular foxes, mythic figures drawn from the legends set down in the seventeenth-century Huarochirí Manuscript, which Arguedas had translated from the original Quechua and published in a bilingual edition in 1966. 

The foxes, in anthropomorphic guise, figure in the book’s plot (for instance, visiting one of the fish meal factories) but are otherwise helpless to do much more than look on. Even from the perspective of many centuries of history, preceding the Spanish arrival and invasion, Arguedas conveys the sense that something new and irrevocable is underway in Chimbote, which may well presage the future of a messily multicultural and globalized Peru.

I’m not sure that Arguedas was entirely right in his doleful prediction, which certainly contributed to the existential anguish to which the letters and diaries interspersed through the narrative attest. He did see the increasing predominance of international capital (ironically perhaps aided and abetted by the land reform of the 1970s that undercut the rural oligarchy). And the kinds of petty corruption, the tendencies to mercantile and financial oligopoly, that run through Arguedas’s novel are now only all the more firmly etched at a national level.

But he didn’t anticipate what I think is the cultural revival of the past twenty years or so, which has been very unevenly distributed, and certainly does not seem to have touched much a place like Chimbote, but which can be seen for instance in the re-Indigenization along the tourist trail of places like Cusco and the Sacred Valley, or in the “gastronomic revolution” that has given something of a swagger to the more upscale parts of Lima. 

There has been a move to celebrate alterity, if mostly rhetorically, and if only certain (colorful, domesticated, unthreatening) alterities that the majority of the population cannot convincingly embody.

In the meantime, and as a result, places like Chimbote get hidden away, sidelined, whatever their continued economic importance. The city was bustling, but while I was there, I searched in vain for any kind of souvenir of the place. Chimbote seems hardly to figure in the national imagination, let alone in the image of the country that Peru presents to the world.

Not even the fact that this was the setting for one of Peru’s most important novels of the twentieth century seems to register here. I found no murals or other commemoration of Arguedas’s visit to the city. The few bookshops I found were full of self-help or children’s literature, and none stocked a copy of The Fox from Up Above. Chimbote may have marked, even traumatized, Arguedas, but as far as the city is concerned it is as though he had never existed.

Arguedas Tour: La agraria

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It was some time ago that I first came up with the idea of an “Arguedas Tour”: a trip through (mostly) Peru’s Southern Andes that would include as many as possible of the places associated with writer José María Arguedas. Since then, I’ve discovered I am maybe not the only one to have had this idea, but nonetheless this year I finally made good on it, with a dauntless pair of friends who enthusiastically joined in, especially for the Andean section.

Oddly, given that he is a writer for whom it is difficult if not impossible to disentangle work and life–in that most of his fiction is to a greater or lesser extent autobiographical, and indeed his final, unfinished novel, El zorro de arriba y el zorro de abajo, even interleaves pages from his diary into the fiction–there is no proper, scholarly biography of Arguedas. So we would have to piece together an itinerary from some of the principal references in his fiction, without necessarily being able to pin down precise addresses or locales. 

For instance, though Arguedas off and on spent plenty of time in Lima, I have little idea as to the neighbourhoods in which he lived. But I did visit some of his workplaces, starting with the one that was also the site of his ultimate suicide (he had made other attempts in previous years), in November, 1969: La agraria, or the National Agrarian University, which is on what was once the south-eastern outskirts of the capital city.

The bus in which I went to La agraria took me close to some of the shantytowns that sprawl uneasily up the hills that surround Lima’s city center, but the university itself occupies a spacious campus with many modern buildings in a middle-class district far enough from the sea that it basked in some unseasonal sun the day I was there. Students sat talking or working at picnic tables that had outlets charged with solar energy. I asked for directions at the library, which has a lofty glass atrium.

Arguedas shot himself over a weekend in his office or in a nearby bathroom. I thought it too morbid to inquire after more precise details, though also doubt that anyone at the university now knows. 

Arguedas’s work is surely peripheral to the main business of the university, which is overwhelmingly technical and scientific. But there is a small Faculty of Humanities and Social Sciences, with departments of Economics and Rural Sociology, where a meeting room bears Arguedas’s name.

Elsewhere, near the centre of the university and close to its students’ union, there is small amphitheatre, overlooking which is a bust of the writer, on a plinth. A large bouquet of colourful flowers had been placed beside it. The plaque on the plinth has a quotation from the writer’s letter to the university rector, left to be found his death: “Acompañadme en armonía de fuerzas que por muy contrarias que sean, en la Universidad–y acaso sólo en ella–pueden alimentar el conocimiento”; “Join me in the harmony of forces that, however adverse they may be, in the University–and perhaps there alone–can foster knowledge.”

On a nearby building was the first of many murals of Arguedas that I would see over the next week or so. A banner slung over a railing in front of the mural also featured Arguedas, plus imagery associated with him–a scissor dancer, a condor, some musicians–and the slogan in Quechua “Tukuy Sunquywan”: “With all of my heart.” In the midst of the technical university, a gesture to affect.

Notas sobre LASA 2024

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Celebrada, aclamada, odiada, ignorada y siempre bulliciosa, la conferencia de la Latin American Studies Association (LASA) se celebró en Bogotá este año del 12 al 15 de junio en las instalaciones de la Universidad Javeriana. Esta fue la sexta vez que participo en la conferencia y aun no entiendo bien qué está en juego en este evento. Está claro, por supuesto, que la conferencia sirve como punto de encuentro para viejos colegas, excompañeros, o amigos que han interactuado y discutido por años temas afines en el área de los estudios latinoamericanos. Por otra parte, es innegable que entre tantos paneles, talleres, conferencias y eventos uno no puede sino sentirse perdido y algo abrumado. Como alguna vez leí en algún lado, para evitar estos embrollos y sobrevivir LASA con éxito, el festival de cine siempre es un buen refugio. Ahora bien, ¿vale la pena hacer el viaje sólo para ver películas latinoamericanas?

No soy el primero ni el último que se para a pensar en los sentimientos encontrados que genera la conferencia de LASA. De hecho, en Bogotá y a propósito de la conferencia, Luis Guillermo Vélez Cabrera y Alejandro Lloreda escribieron una elocuente crítica sobre el festival. La nota lleva como título “Notas sobre un festival woke.” La nota apunta como a partir de las diferentes divergencias que ha tomado “la izquierda” mundial, sobre todo en Norteamérica, muchos temas canónicos de los estudios latinoamericanos, y otras áreas, han sido desplazados por una agenda “woke.” La palabra, que en inglés hace referencia al estar despierto, pero también a una serie de luchas y reivindicaciones sociales popularizadas por redes sociales a partir del #metoo, y otros movimientos sociales, carga una connotación ambivalente. Mientras que para algunos lo woke refiere a un intento por reivindicar a grupos marginalizados a través de prácticas simbólicas y sociales, como la inclusión de grupos minoritarios en el reparto de películas y programas de entretenimiento. Para otros, lo woke refiere a la atomización social y al dominio de las políticas de identidad acérrimo y más reaccionario. Es decir, como bien ilustran Vélez Cabrera y Lloreda, lo woke se compone del exacerbado comentario de temas foucaultianos; de la aglomeración sin sentido de interseccionalidades o subalternidades; de la victimización ante todas las cosas de cualquier grupo de riesgo; y de la idealización de los grupos marginados (indígenas, colectivos LGBTQ+). 

Quizá lo peor de lo woke, como lúcidamente comentaba mi anfitrión en Bogotá, un profesor jubilado de la Universidad de los Andes, es que, por afán de querer resolver problemas importantes, los movimientos woke terminan generando y atomizando los problemas, creando así falsos problemas que se multiplican y diversifican por todas partes. Vélez Cabrera y Lloreda, añaden que: “El woke, en vez de integrar a la sociedad defendiendo los valores humanos universales, la segmentó en pedazos de salami identitarios que se engullen fácilmente.” Al final, lo más triste de los movimientos woke es que no son reivindicativos ni contestatarios ante las injusticias, sino que son afirmativos y acordes con las propias injusticias y formas de explotación que denuncian. Quizá el ejemplo más claro de este callejón sin salida es la utilización del lenguaje inclusivo. Mientras que los cambios en una lengua siempre han estado en manos de las multitudes, el carácter prescriptivo de grupos a favor del lenguaje inclusivo, que consiste en la utilización de formas “neutras” en el español a partir de la modificación de las palabras (i.e. une, por uno, niñe, por niño), promueven la idea de que las palabras son las cosas. Esto es, si una lengua es siempre excluyente (pues quien no habla una lengua está fuera de ese horizonte de sentido), en el afán de volver a los signos referentes fieles de aquello que designan, el lenguaje inclusivo termina por ser doblemente excluyente. Une niñe puede estar feliz en su casa de coto privado y educación progresiva, mientras miles de niños nunca verán una escuela y nunca sabrán siquiera que algunos de ellos pudieron haber sido niñes.

Por otra parte, tampoco es aleccionadora la crítica de Vélez Cabrera y Lloreda. Pues claro, es bastante fácil criticar a algo tan poco consistente como lo woke. De hecho, la crítica misma que hacen Vélez Cabrera y Lloreda es, en cierto sentido, una crítica woke. El texto está escrito justo como un woke juzgaría: el internet, las imágenes y un “control + f” por delante. Es decir, Vélez Cabrera y Lloreda critican a la conferencia por no promocionar temas para ellos importantes, de “grueso calibre” les llaman. Criticar el programa de un evento sin haber ido es el consuelo y la lucha misma de los “woke.” ¿Qué pensar, entonces, sobre una conferencia que, al menos desde la perspectiva de Vélez Cabrera y Lloreda, se percibe como “El Woodstock de los estudios latinoamericanos”?

Quizá lo más difícil sería decir que en LASA, al menos en las últimas conferencias, se sigue un tema a fin o que hay figuras “clave” en el campo de estudiso. Esto es, este “festival” no tiene nada de Woodstock pues no hay artistas principales ni teloneros. De hecho, aunque todas las conferencias de LASA promocionen un tema, o una línea de pensamiento a seguir, son contados siempre los paneles que aceptan la invitación del comité organizador. Para este año, LASA invitó a los panelistas a “imaginar futuros posibles para las Américas.” Al respecto, fue bastante anticlimático que, en la casi clásica mesa redonda sobre el estado actual de los estudios latinoamericanos, poco o nada se discutiera sobre el futuro del campo de estudio. Antes bien, los participantes de la mesa, algunos presentando de manera remota, se dedicaron a rememorar cómo ha sido su experiencia dentro del campo. Para algunos, por otra parte, además de ejercitar su memoria, el campo de los estudios latinoamericanos debería de reordenarse ante los embates del discurso identitario y decolonial. Esto mismo, quizá, demuestra la incapacidad de la conferencia de imaginar un futuro, ni mucho menos de entender su propio pasado, pues hace ya más de 20 años varios intelectuales habían advertido el peligro que las políticas identitarias y la opción decolonial representaban para el campo de estudio. Si algo valioso hubiera dentro de las intervenciones de los panelistas de la mesa es que el campo de los estudios latinoamericanos, más bien, siempre tiene que volver a hacerse desde un “afuera.” Esto, al menos, quedó evidente luego de que cada ponente explicara y enfatizara que ellos mismos, como “latinoamericanistas,” habían surgido de otros campos y que, casi, circunstancialmente hubieran caído en el campo de los estudios latinoamericanos.

No hay, entonces, futuro para las Américas. Y, de hecho, esto no necesariamente tendría que ser negativo. En uno de los últimos paneles de la conferencia, quizá un “headliner” del Woodstock que vieran Vélez Cabrera y Lloreda en el programa del evento, un ponente tajantemente argumentó que la idea de futuro no puede ya servir como promesa discursiva para articular cambios políticos ni intelectuales. El análisis presentado por el ponente partía de una lectura del libro de poemas Un libro rojo para Lenin del poeta salvadoreño Roque Dalton. La idea misma de tiempo, para el panelista, es dejada de lado en los poemas de Dalton. La redención, o la promesa, como forma de articuladora de sentido queda agotada a finales de siglo. Con esto, pues, el futuro se borra del horizonte y los movimientos sociales quedan expuestos a la intensidad e inmanencia del instante. Desde el instante, entonces, de nada sirven las identidades. Desde lo inmanente, el tiempo queda vaciado de la urgencia y se abren posibilidades nuevas. No hay ya lugar para gastar energías con planes y proyectos. Sin la idea misma de futuro todo está en manos de las multitudes. Y, aunque claro, el tema de la desaparición del futuro como aglutinador de sentido en los movimientos sociales también, de cierta manera, ya fue discutido por exlatinoamercanistas y otros pensadores afines al congreso, fue interesante ver una intervención que siguiera y desafiara la línea de pensamiento sugerida por el congreso.

Si los especialistas en el área de los estudios latinoamericanos no pueden formular respuestas adecuadas sobre el estado actual del campo mismo, y tampoco hay futuro como aglutinador de sentido, entonces el campo de los estudios latinoamericanos queda a la intemperie. Desde este espacio se abren nuevas posibilidades. Ya no hay futuro, ni especialistas capaces de domar el campo. Todo, al menos desde una perspectiva muy positiva, queda en un “vamos a ver.” Y al mismo tiempo, todo queda también como todo aquello que vive a la intemperie: muy cercano de su muerte en soledad.

Missed Encounters in Pisac, Peru

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While in Peru, we spent more time in the small town (about 10,000 inhabitants) of Pisac than in any other place–almost three weeks, or just under half our time in the country. This was because originally we were thinking of using, and staying in, a facility run there by the Catholic University (the PUCP). We didn’t end up doing that, but Pisac turned out to be a great place to be, and to return to from elsewhere.

Pisac is not far from Cusco, and at the head of the Sacred Valley. As such, it is definitely on the tourist circuit, not least for the impressive Inca ruins, including serried ranks of agricultural terraces, that overlook it. It does a thriving trade in handicrafts, both in its Artisans’ Market and beyond, and has plenty of cafes and restaurants. On the other hand, most tourists don’t spend long: many, in fact, include the ruins as part of a day trip from Cusco that takes them up and down the valley in what must be a race against time to visit as many archaeological sites as possible before the sun sets.

There are, however, long term tourists (or perhaps they would call themselves something else: travellers or voyagers?), who have dramatically changed the town over the past few years. These are mostly “New Age” tourists, who often stay months or even years and run an almost parallel economy, including offering workshops on everything from yoga and womb breathing to ayahuasca, presumably mostly for and among themselves.

We, however, were among a small minority who were neither day-trippers nor long-term settlers. We briefly got to know the town and some of its rhythms, as well as establishing our own routines. And though it wasn’t completely sleepy–there were bars, and a regular market, and there was often activity in the central plaza, where most of us were staying–we found some refuge from the constant stimulation of Cusco, especially Cusco during Corpus Christi and Inti Raymi. To some extent, it was a chance to be in something like ordinary, everyday Peru, and to be ordinary and everyday ourselves. It was a good place to sit in café or patio and read without wondering if you were missing out on something going on outside, to take some time out to think and reflect on our experiences elsewhere.

One of the ordinary and everyday activities that caught my eye was the work of the street-cleaners. There was a small brigade of them, costumed in the red uniform of the municipality, who would come out especially in the early morning and then again as night was falling, often in pairs or more, assiduously sweeping the streets and pavements, and sometimes also cutting the grass or doing other minor town maintenance and public works. They were strikingly both visible and invisible: visible because of their bright uniform, and invisible because this same uniform, with wide-brimmed hats and facemasks, made it hard to pick out individual characteristics. I think, for instance, that they were mostly women, but couldn’t be entirely sure. I suspect that they were mostly mestizas, but this also was hard to determine. It was as though they strangely lacked either gender or racial identification. They reminded me a little of the Jawas on Star Wars’ Tatooine: faceless scavengers and tinkerers, clearing up whatever others leave behind.

In some ways, the street cleaners seemed to be classic subalterns in their apparent lack of identity, with their almost unacknowledged (but vital) labour at the margins. They literally left no traces, as their job involved cleaning up after themselves and others. In other ways, however, their facelessness was part and parcel of their absorption into the municipal administration: it was of course a uniform that hid them, embroidered on the back with the town’s name. They were not so much outside as so intimately part of the functioning of the place that they could not be seen.

I occasionally ventured a “Buenos días” (or “Buenas noches”) in passing, but this was rarely returned. No doubt I was part of the problem: one of those wandering the streets whose detritus would eventually have to be cleared. I felt that this was a classic case of what in Spanish goes by the name of “desencuentro,” poorly translated as either “disagreement” or “missed encounter” in that it is an encounter, but at the same time is not; its terms are not sufficiently defined to be sure that there is even disagreement. In a desencuentro there is some acknowledgement or recognition of some kind of relation, some kind of meeting or resonance, even if insubstantial (or perhaps, by contrast, solely material) and indefinite, incomplete and unnameable.

Sometimes I felt that our entire time in Pisac, and perhaps in Peru as a whole, was one long desencuentro.