Froemming, Steven John; 1999; Rational Choice and Collective Action in an Andean Community. Ph.D. Thesis, University of Washington, Seattle. Excerpt from Chapter 3, Pages 178-190.

Giving Gifts and Lending Money

Sharing is one of the spheres in which, as ethnographers, we bring the most cultural baggage with us to the field, and one in which we least recognize that we are doing so. In our efforts to become part of the ebb and flow of the daily life of a village, sharing is a centrifuge that continually spins to the surface all the differences in class, wealth and status that stand us apart. It brings to the surface gut feelings about equity and reciprocity; it prompts us to raise our social antennas to protect us from being taken advantage of out of cultural ignorance. In doing fieldwork, ethnographers tend to be generous for emotional and practical reasons, but we want to be generous on our own terms.

Nicolas Peterson (1993) points out that despite the great attention that anthropologists pay to sharing, giving, and exchanging, commonplace behaviors are neglected ethnographically because of the particular ethical construction that Westerners place on generosity -- that of unsolicited and altruistic giving.⁽¹⁾ Specifically, he challenges the underreporting of demand sharing by anthropologists. If we so often miss it, it may be because of our own preconceptions and emotional investment in the issue. Yet we negotiate our place in our field community by wading through a stream of such demands. Membership and relatedness are constantly produced and maintained through such social exchange.

Gift Exchange

Our relationship with our compadres was marked by the constant exchange of gifts in both directions. Most were in the form of food. We gave scarce and prized processed foods -- sugar, rice, noodles, bread -- and our compadres favored us by serving prestigious high-protein foods -- a piece of meat or fried eggs -- along with the staples. On mornings when we were to be invited to a family celebration, on special feasts, or to say goodbye before we traveled, compadres would also come to our room with a pot of tea or coffee to serve us, and we were regularly inundated with gifts of corn, potatoes, beans, and eggs. Because of this generosity, I probably ate more protein than anyone else in the village while I was there. Since I attended so many private and public festivals, I also ate more of the most prestigious meat of all: guinea pig ("qowi"). The head of the qowi is the most prestigious part, and it is passed among the men to share according to rank. The highest ranking men, however, are typically the oldest, and since they usually had the fewest and poorest teeth, they would offer their share to me.

We did not usually give food items to people outside of our compadrazgo network, except for gifts of bread to some old women, who especially appreciated the gift because of their lack of teeth. We were invariably served food or a hot drink of coffee or herbal tea while visiting, and we were usually presented with a kilo or two of potatoes or corn to take to our room on leaving. Photographs took the place of food items as our reciprocal gift in non-compadrazgogift exchanges. While in the home we were associated with prestigious nontraditional goods, in the fields, men associated me with a traditional good that was in short supply: coca. While most men found a plastic bag a convenient container for coca when they had some, I carried mine in a wachala (traditional carrying cloth for coca), inspiring approval. Even more than coca, people knew that I could be counted on to have a llipht'a ('compressed ash') to accompany it, a scarce item in the village (most coca is chewed without the llipht'a, but it helps release the stimulating alkaloids). The llipht'a endeared me to older men, who likewise enjoyed smoking pulverized coca leaves rolled in a page torn from my field notebook.

Colored ribbons and beads were popular gifts for comadres, but sometimes our western tastes conflicted with the local aesthetic and we later found with some embarrassment that a gift was redeployed to uses that we had not intended. In one instance, a striking black ribbon with a center band of colorful floral designs, purchased in the U.S. and given to adorn a comadre's montera ('hat'), was last seen tied to a horse's tail in gallut'ipiy, a mounted rooster-grabbing contest. Other gifts proved more practical: when we left the village, we divided up our pots, pans, kerosene stove, tools, and other items to distribute among our compadres.

Our gift-giving was always in the context of reciprocity, whether based on family relations, compadrazgo, friendship, or the courtesy of visiting. Some people tried to make demands on us outside of such situations. Usually, an appeal to equity was used: "you have helped others, but you haven't done anything for us." There were differences in the humility of people's approaches, but there were limits to how persistent they were willing to be, and except in the case of a few children, gift-seekers didn't express indignation if refused. Ccachín contrasted with the anonymous demands of Cusco in this regard, where, with a substantial tourist industry, begging is more aggressive and common.

All of my work in the fields was in yanapakuy ('helping'), without any explicit expectation of reciprocation with labor or products, which contrasted with the norms operative among the comuneros themselves. To spread myself around, I lent my unskilled hand to many families, though I most often worked with compadres within the generalized reciprocity of compadrazgo. During the harvests, I would be rewarded with produce at the end of each day. This is also standard practice among the comuneros themselves, and was not unique treatment for me. A portion of the day's harvest is distributed by the field owner to all that have helped that day who are not part of the immediate family, no matter how their labor has been recruited. This portion is referred to in Ccachín as wanlla, which means the "largest and well-formed produce" (Hornberger and Hornberger 1978). Ballón Aguirre et. al. (1992:75) suggest a second meaning of the term, "an overpayment" or "increase in the compensation to the workers with food products," and both definitions appear to be operative in Ccachín. Without being privy to individual agreements, it is hard to distinguish "overpayments" from "expected return," and it could be that in many if not most cases, the wanlla is essentially a mink'a payment ('remuneration of labor in products' rather than in labor or cash).

Apparently, wanlla is given both to repay labor and as a gesture that goes above and beyond any reciprocal labor that the participants can expect in return. It is curious, however, that if wanlla signifies something extra, it is not referred to as "yapa," the little bonus that is given to favored customers in barter or commercial exchange and which can refer to any extra gift or benefit. While Gose (1994) questions whether ayni is ever used to recruit labor during the harvest, my understanding is that it is among the modes that are used in Ccachín. In such cases, both labor and products are exchanged, and the practice may have practical effects is redistributing seed stock and maintaining diet variety, even though unlike mink'a, it does not increase the receiver's overall consumption of the good. In a typical cornfield the wanlla is about an arroba ('twenty-five pounds') of the day's harvest, and in the potato fields it is about two arrobas, just the right amount to carry back to the village in a q'epina cloth. Specific piles are prepared by the sponsor for specific workers rather than assigned at random, and there is variation in the amount, suggesting that there may also be contract, productivity, and status factors at play. When production is bountiful or meager, the amount is adjusted accordingly, but care appears to be taken to prepare a quality bundle.⁽²⁾

In contrast to Gose's (1991) experience, and despite the fact that I did not need labor in exchange, I was never singled out to be the only one who received a bundle of goods as compensation for my work. Gose suggests that because he did not have any land in his research village and therefore could not work on a truly reciprocal basis in ayni, the most plausible motive that villagers could construct for his presence in the fields was that he was looking for a woman . Thus, he writes,

I was in the field with my partner, and it's unlikely that I was seen as a claimant on anyone's daughters (see Knox-Seith 1995 for a discussion of the advantages and disadvantages of doing fieldwork as a couple). Perhaps this explains the difference, but I doubt it. There's more than one reason why young men show up at work parties uninvited, I doubt that sexual interest is the first motive most villagers would suspect for an ethnographer's visit to their fields, and the need to create a favorable impression and maintain a good reputation alone could explain why an outsider's work is reciprocated in goods. If a meal was not provided by a field owner during the work, I was usually invited to their home for a meal or drink after, effectively repaying any debt that they may have felt that they had incurred.

Money-Lending

In a telling account, "Lessons from the Field: Gullibility and the Hazards of Money Lending" Cindy Hull (1992) talks about the admonitions she received from her advisors before doing fieldwork in Mexico, "Don't drink the water, always soak the beans . . . and never, ever loan money" (1992:130). She goes on to tell a story of escalated demands, brought on by her compassion and sympathy for a family that seemed poorer than most. First she and her husband provided a fellow blankets to buffer the winter cold, and then tarpaulins to block the wind pouring through holes in the walls of his house. Finally, as she puts it,

Patron-client relations are firmly established in Latin America, institutionalizing a model for asking and giving that often obscures the line between the positive and negative meanings of "patronization." Contreras Hernandez (1984) speaks of two kinds of compadrazgo, one horizontal, between campesinos, especially of the same community, and one vertical, between campesinos and non-campesinos, the latter including teachers, traders, hacendados, and government agents. He observes that the flow of benefits in horizontal relations is most often characterized by symmetry, while the exchange in vertical relations is more often asymmetrical. These are analytical categories, and the judgement of asymmetry (with its implication of "exploitation") does not necessarily reflect the judgements of those involved, leading some anthropologists to speak of the "smokescreen of ideology" in compadrazgo relations. By definition, my relationship with people in Ccachín was "vertical," and in sheer economic terms, it was most often asymmetric in the reverse direction of the general pattern identified by Contreras, from the top-down rather than from the bottom up. Many of the benefits of the relation were nonfungible, however, and investments viewed as extravagant by rural Peruvian standards would be viewed as cheap by North American ones, complicating the assessment of where they fall on a scale of symmetry-asymmetry. I tried to be "fair" in my dealings, but realized that people in Ccachín had insufficient information about my global economic status to judge what was fair. In the material domain, I knew more about them than they knew about me.

Because the difference in economic resources seemed profound, I was a potential target for the kind of situations and petitions discussed by Hull, and I was concerned about not being taken advantage of by individuals, preventing a collective run on my resources, and avoiding the fostering of relations of dependency. Requests for outright gifts were rare, but some people made it known which of my possessions they most fancied and that they would like them when I left.

Most petitions that Barbara and I received came as requests for loans, since the resource that distinguished us most from the comuneros was ready cash, a scarce good in the village. Most often, the borrowers were compadres. In a rather idealized model of compadrazgo, Pitt-Rivers writes:

I found it hard to deny compadres. Their intended use of the money varied. Most often, they needed to buy sugar or travel. Occasionally, one would want a short-term loan as capital to purchase goods for resale in Calca or the Lares Valley (e.g., cowhide, wool). Requests were more common in some seasons than others. Villagers are especially short of cash in the months preceding the potato and corn harvests of May and June. They have exhausted all but their subsistence crops, and animals don't bring a good price at this time. Cattle prices rise when the coffee harvest in the Lares Valley comes in, as traders from the Valley then have money to spend. At year's end, I was petitioned for loans to pay off other loans. Many families take out bank loans for agricultural inputs, and these come due at that time. If people do not pay off their bank loans, they are not able to secure another for the coming year.

Our compadres generally preferred to sell off crops or animals if the price was right rather than ask us for a loan, but when the price was low, they would come to us. In seeking our help, compadres preferred to sell a textile rather than ask for a loan. However, this depended on the intended use of the loan. Since the earnings of husbands and wives are not fully pooled, the income from textiles made by women is often not available to pay off agricultural expenses or other costs incurred by men.⁽³⁾ Once, with one debt outstanding but in need of another, a compadre brought me a lliklla ('woman's shawl') made by his wife as a prenda ('pawn'). Months later, unable to generate the cash to repay me, he asked to substitute his poncho, because the lliklla was his wife's and not his to give. Despite the ideal described by Pitt-Rivers, I did not respond to all loan requests from compadres. My resources were limited, I decided not to give loans to pay off bank loans, and in some instances, repayment was a bad bet. But I did provide at least one loan to every compadre that asked. Some compadres received several loans because they established a trustworthy reputation in repayment.

During the early years of Alan Garcia's term as president, bank loans to campesinos were interest free. Villagers are familiar with interest payments, and bank loans to the community during my time there carried high monthly interest rates, but interest is not considered in repayment of debts between comuneros. Likewise, Barbara and I made all our loans interest-free. Given the high levels of inflation in Peru, this usually meant that in terms of actual value, a substantial part of the loan was effectively forgiven. For example, one of the first loans we made was to a compadre for 200,000 intis to buy sugar. When he finally repaid us eight months later, the value of those intis had declined from $17.30 to $0.45 (forty-five cents). Given inflation and the steady increase in the inti-value of the dollar (Appendix 5), even loans that were quickly repaid lost value. In a sense, the no-interest mechanism allowed us to frame the transactions as loans rather than as gifts. It also made repayment, whose value lie in the good faith keeping of a commitment, possible.

Pitt-Rivers distinguishes the "debt of cooperation" involved in compadrazgo from that of kinship. The "debt of cooperation" of compadrazgo may better be stated in terms of the "expectation of balanced reciprocity," using Sahlins's typology (1972).⁽⁴⁾ Pitt-Rivers also frames the giving and repaying of loans in terms of self-esteem, but it is difficult to differentiate the psychic and material rewards of self-identity. Self-esteem, like reputation, has both a backward and forward-looking sense: it projects expectations of one's behavior into the future, based on past experience. People have an interest in maintaining good reputations in compadrazgo relationships because the continuance of the relationship depends on it.⁽⁵⁾

On rare occasion, Barbara and I were approached for loans by people who were not compadres during our fieldwork. Sometimes it was for small amounts not worth the hassle of refusal, and some borrowers repaid, others did not. In other cases, they were for more substantive amounts. In one case, we loaned money to a woman fleeing the village from an abusive husband. In another, we were asked for a loan to help cover the costs of a festival sponsorship ("cargo"), but we declined. Another involved a case of calumnia ('calumny', 'slander'), in which a fellow from Ccachín was accused of stealing a cow by someone in another village, though the cow had originally belonged to and been stolen from him (or so we were told). The money was needed to meet costs associated with the comunero's appearance before a judge. Given the immediacy and importance of the need and the good reputation of the comunero, we made the loan, and he eventually repaid half of it.

Trading

At first, many comuneros assumed that I was in Ccachín to buy or sell something, and I had to make it clear that I was not in the village on business. The most common visitors to Ccachín are traders, many making annual or semi-annual rounds, some visiting the community more often. Traders typically go door-to-door through the village during major feasts and harvests: a Chinchero hatmaker who trades for textiles to sell in the Chinchero market, an Urubamba man trading sewing machines for cattle, q'epiri ('merchants carrying their goods on their back') selling pots and pans, children's clothes, batteries, synthetic yarn, beads and ribbons, radios -- the manufactured consumer goods that villagers want and need. Most traders accept cash or barter for corn, potatoes, animals, and textiles.

Barbara and I rarely needed to buy local produce, because we were showered with plenty as gifts, in exchange for photos, and for our work during the harvests. Occasionally, and with some guilt, we would buy a few eggs from a child who stopped by our door to offer us some. Eggs were for sale because families needed money. Eggs were scarce because of a chronic chicken disease in the village, so they fetched a relatively high price, but protein consumption is limited, and the money was most often used to buy a kilo of sugar. The children needed the protein more than we. We ate more than half of our meals with others, and when it came time to cook for ourselves, we had more potatoes, corn, beans, and other foodstuffs than we needed.

Teachers in Ccachín complain about the high prices that villagers charge them for their agricultural products, and Seibold (1990) records that in Choquecancha, the people refused to sell the teachers food. The problem is one of establishing a fair price: teachers feel entitled to low prices as part of their compensation for their service to the community (a kind of supplementary payment to make up for the inadequate salaries they receive from the State), while the campesinos need to get a good price for the limited production a family has available for sale. The teachers are a public good for the community, but receiving any price below the market one for their produce is a private cost that would have to be born by individual comuneros.

The one major food purchase we made was a pig for Barbara's kacharpari ('farewell'), and it turned into a major incident, with conflict between all parties to the sale.. We were warned by our host family that people would try to over-charge us, and they suggested that we have a compadre buy it for us, which we did. Within hours of the purchase, our family learned from a neighbor, daughter of the seller, that the purchase price had been 5,200,000 intis, not the 7,500,000 intis that our compadre had told us and that we had paid. This only confirmed our family's suspicion that people were out to take advantage of us and that nearly everyone else in the village was a thief. Our hosts proceeded to list all the times that they had been robbed by their own compadres, some of these compadrazgo relationships overlapping our own. Soon, the next door neighbor of the seller reported to another of our compadres that the selling price had been even less, 4,800,000 intis. With talk and accusations spreading through the village, the compadre that purchased the pig for us did not show up to help us butcher it as he promised that he would, nor did he later attend the party (his wife, our comadre, prepared qowi kanka, roast guinea pig, for Barbara and made a visit to our room before the party, but likewise did not attend). Meanwhile, the wife of the seller paid us a visit, complaining that our compadre had just visited her to collect 300,000 intis, the amount due in return change. She had heard from her neighbor that our compadre had already pocketed 2,000,000 intis in the deal, and she did not consider it fair that she return the change so that his share of the total sale would be even more.

When I caught up with our compadre and confronted him with what we had heard, he said that neither the seller's wife nor his neighbor were present for the sale and that they did not know the negotiated price. He suggested that we go together to talk with the seller the next morning. The morning came and he was not home (he was reportedly off checking that his burro was not in someone's cornfield), so I went to the seller alone. The seller confirmed that he had been given 5,500,000 intis for the pig, and that our compadre had pocketed the rest. He said that this was not right and asked, "How could anyone charge two million intis to walk a pig that short distance?" (four day's wages to walk the pig a couple of hundred yards). Back home, one of the daughters in our host family agreed. She said that if our compadre had taken 500,000 intis for his help, it would have been different, but that he had gone beyond what was fair (we had given our compadre a t-shirt and a bag of squash seeds for his effort before finding out about the overcharge, so we felt that he had been adequately compensated). The consensus among our family, other compadres, and friends and acquaintances who knew about the incident was that our compadre had behaved improperly, and that we should ask him to return the difference.

Over the following weeks I approached my compadre on the matter several times. He maintained his innocence of any wrongdoing, but he was evasive about meeting with his accusers to clear things up. One day, without prompting, he brought the issue up for the last time. He said that his name had suffered. Rumors had reached his sister in Cusco, who was questioning him about the affair, and it had caused problems with his wife. He offered to pay me the difference to put an end to it. He gave me half on the spot, promising the rest when he had it. He never admitted guilt, and never gave me the rest, but with that, I took the issue to be resolved and our relationship returned to normal (by this time, Barbara was in the States). The amount of money was not large, but the principle seemed to span our respective cultures. Ideas about a fair return for labor, the respective stake of primary producers and middlemen, and reciprocal relations between compadres were all involved. I probably would not have pursued the matter to the extent that I did if my reputation had not been at stake. Likewise, my compadre was pushed to resolved the issue to preserve his.

The only other major items I purchased in Ccachín were textiles. As a rule, I bought only from my host family and my compadres, so that it was a natural part of compadrazgo exchange, and so I didn't get a reputation as a textile buyer in the village. I couldn't buy from everybody, and I didn't want to show favoritism outside of the cultural framework provided. Buying textiles within the context of compadrazgo provided an acceptable reason to say no to people, and it kept the sales relatively private. My compadres, perhaps to avoid the envy of others, were reserved about discussing our relations with their neighbors.

Having made the decision to buy, the next task was to determine a just price for the textiles. Cusco textile buyers who came through the village in early 1991 reported paying between twenty and thirty dollars for a good quality lliklla. As most tourists in Cusco weren't willing to pay much more than that for a lliklla, they stored the best ones away in their homes for special customers and in hope of better times. This was on the high end of what the general traders were paying; the comuneros themselves reported that they typically received the inti equivalent of only fifteen dollars for a lliklla. Tourists on the weaving tours that came to the village during my stay paid from twenty to thirty-five dollars for lliklla. I did not negotiate with my compadres and host family when they wanted to sell a weaving I was interested in, unless I considered the price they asked to be too low. The villagers peg the value of their weavings to what they can buy with the money rather than to a cash value as such. The standard reference is to the price of a quintal of sugar (the dollar value of a quintal of sugar varied from about twenty to forty dollars in 1989-1992). Villagers reported that in the past, they could always buy at least one quintal ('one hundred pounds') of sugar by selling a lliklla. In early 1991, they reported that they needed to sell as many as four lliklla to buy the same amount of sugar that they could once buy with one. Given these expectations, the current value of a quintal of sugar was the minimum I was willing to pay for a weaving, whatever the market price in Cusco. The prices I ended up paying were generally higher than retail prices for Ccachín and Choquecancha textiles in Cusco and Ollantaytambo at the time, though lower than prices in the most expensive of the retail shops.

In her recommendations to Choquecancha women on selling lliklla to the international market, Seibold (1990) recommends that weavers charge about a hundred dollars for a good quality lliklla. A good quality lliklla represents 150-250 hours of work (spinning is done simultaneous with other activities, but weaving only overlaps with childcare). At a hundred dollars, the compensation to the woman for her labor is still below that of a man, using the daily wage rate ("jornal") as a comparison.⁽⁶⁾ Though one must also consider that the sellers have benefitted from the use of their weavings before they are sold, a hundred dollars is at best a compromise between "fair local market value" and a "just price" based on minimal considerations of equity. I tried to be fair in my dealings with my compadres by reaching agreements that were happy for both, but the prices I paid would probably be considered by some outside observers to exemplify exploitive class relations camouflaged by the ideology of compadrazgo. Voluntarism goes only so far and readily leads to contradictions; it cannot replace the fact that the villagers need better global terms of trade.

Notes

1. Michael Walzer sums up our views about a gift this way:

2. Gose (1994) likewise finds that the payment for a day's work in the harvest is measured by the carrying capacity of the q'epina. It's interesting to note that when I worked for my host family, I would be given a more token amount, a couple of kilograms of corn rather than an arroba, for example, presumably because I ate most meals with them. In this case, the wanlla was more transparently a "little extra" gift. An arroba of corn or a couple arrobas of potatoes was a better return for one's labor than the equivalent wage rate in the Lares Valley at this time (wage labor is not used during the harvest in Ccachín). While I recorded many cases of reciprocal labor during the harvests, I agree with Gose that it is not as common a form of labor recruitment as during planting and weeding. There are several reasons for this. First, it's easier to carry out the harvest with family labor, because women, men, and children can readily do the same tasks (all things being equal, households prefer to use family labor rather than recruit labor through ayni or mink'a). Second, there are fewer efficiency gains to teamwork than in planting, plowing, and weeding. Third, if labor needs to be recruited, there are many people interested in working in exchange for produce (this is true of both the corn and potato harvests, but for different reasons; the former because villagers in Qochayoq do not have cornfields of their own, and the latter because there are more random environmental risks at the high altitudes where potatoes are grown). Finally, the hurried time frame makes reciprocal labor scheduling difficult. In part because food stocks are low at this time, in part because women participate in the harvest and don't have time to cook, and in part because there is little competition to recruit labor, corn beer and elaborate feasts are not associated with the harvest as they are with other agricultural tasks.

3. In one case, a comadre wished to sell me a lliklla to pay off a bank loan. In this case, however, it was for lands that she managed and worked in Yavero, in the ceja de la selva. Her husband had nothing to do with these lands, and it was appropriate within the family's division of labor for her to apply the earnings from her textile sale to the agricultural loan.

4. The compadrazgo relationship involves more delayed and less strictly-accounted relations than ayni partnerships (one-to-one labor exchange), for example, where people keep careful track of their labor repayment debts (although many of these ayni debts are incurred to compadres). But compadrazgo is not marked by generalized reciprocity to the extent that family relations are. Fictive kinship is not the same as kinship. In this regard, it is interesting to make a comparison with the U.S., where godparenting relationships are generally weak or nonexistent. In interpersonal relationships (rather than institutional ones) it appears that loan repayment depends on degree of consanguinity. In the U.S., apparently, 50% of loans to family members are repaid, while 75% of loans to friends are (National Public Radio, date and source unrecorded). As with compadrazgo, friendship relations require more balance to survive.

5. Self-esteem in this sense also stabilizes behavior, in the sense that it removes it from the vagaries of future cost and benefit calculations to render it consistent with a stream of past choices. Recall Heath's discussion of the difference between social exchange theory and economic exchange theory:

While obviously a caricature of both, as presently practiced, Heath's comments suggest the extent that identity, which is ultimately backward looking (focusing on the essence of who I am and what I have done) adds another level to rational calculation.

6. The daily rate for wage labor in the area represents the opportunity cost of labor for men, not for women. The opportunity costs for women are even lower (the primary wage opportunity is as an empleada in Cusco). I use the rate for men here because it is readily available, and because the principle of "equal pay for equal work" is a widely accepted, if rarely implemented, principle of equity in the United States.

References Cited

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