Unintended Consequences
By David Tenenbaum MA'86
UW anthropologist Neil Whitehead never intended to study the shamans who poison and attack people in South America. But all that changed when they came after him.
It was during his interviews with dark sorcerers in South America that UW-Madison anthropologist Neil Whitehead finally reached a line he would not cross. At the sorcerers' insistence, he'd paid for the interviews. Although that's something that anthropologists are loath to do, the payments, as it turned out, were the least of his difficulties.
The men who stood before Whitehead claimed to be kanaimàs, dark sorcerers of the Guyana highlands who mutilate and poison their victims as part of gruesome and highly ritualized murders. Whitehead, an expert on violence among South and Central American tribes, had read about kanaimà (which refers to both the people who perform the killings and the practice itself), but he assumed the lurid descriptions were exaggerations that colonists told each other to justify subjugating native peoples. Were these men telling the truth, or were they just trying to hustle a fast buck by impressing the big-time professor from the United States? It was hard to know — but this also wasn't Whitehead's biggest problem.
UW anthropologist Neil Whitehead never intended to study the shamans who poison and attack people in South America. But all that changed when they came after him.
It was during his interviews with dark sorcerers in South America that UW-Madison anthropologist Neil Whitehead finally reached a line he would not cross. At the sorcerers' insistence, he'd paid for the interviews. Although that's something that anthropologists are loath to do, the payments, as it turned out, were the least of his difficulties.
The men who stood before Whitehead claimed to be kanaimàs, dark sorcerers of the Guyana highlands who mutilate and poison their victims as part of gruesome and highly ritualized murders. Whitehead, an expert on violence among South and Central American tribes, had read about kanaimà (which refers to both the people who perform the killings and the practice itself), but he assumed the lurid descriptions were exaggerations that colonists told each other to justify subjugating native peoples. Were these men telling the truth, or were they just trying to hustle a fast buck by impressing the big-time professor from the United States? It was hard to know — but this also wasn't Whitehead's biggest problem.
In the early 1990s, when Whitehead first traveled to Guyana, he had no interest in hearing about such stomach-turning practices. He had landed in the country, located on the north coast of South America, to catalogue artifacts and sites of anthropological interest. But within an hour of arriving in a highland village, he found himself talking to a nurse who told him that she had treated the men's victims. On average, she told him, kanaimàs killed one victim in that region every year.
The bizarre practice, like much else about the Guyana highlands, had remained hidden from the world because the government "had neither the resources nor the knowledge to do anything," Whitehead says. But he soon came to believe it was still taking place — and his belief was based on personal experience. On the first days of that research trip, Whitehead unknowingly triggered the ire of one or more kanaimàs. That, he believes, incited them to poison him, ultimately pushing him to understand what had happened.
And so, a few years later, Whitehead sat surrounded by men who presented him with a dilemma — one we might call an "invitation problem." As a rule, anthropologists try to immerse themselves in the cultures they study, and living among — even working with — research subjects is a hallowed tradition. But as Whitehead pressed for details in his hurried interviews with the men, they responded with an invitation. If he was so fascinated by the practice, they said, perhaps he'd like to attend a murder. Then, after the body had putrefied for a few days, he could return and sample the pineapple-scented fluid of decay, which, they explained, was a key goal of the entire ritual.
The bizarre practice, like much else about the Guyana highlands, had remained hidden from the world because the government "had neither the resources nor the knowledge to do anything," Whitehead says. But he soon came to believe it was still taking place — and his belief was based on personal experience. On the first days of that research trip, Whitehead unknowingly triggered the ire of one or more kanaimàs. That, he believes, incited them to poison him, ultimately pushing him to understand what had happened.
And so, a few years later, Whitehead sat surrounded by men who presented him with a dilemma — one we might call an "invitation problem." As a rule, anthropologists try to immerse themselves in the cultures they study, and living among — even working with — research subjects is a hallowed tradition. But as Whitehead pressed for details in his hurried interviews with the men, they responded with an invitation. If he was so fascinated by the practice, they said, perhaps he'd like to attend a murder. Then, after the body had putrefied for a few days, he could return and sample the pineapple-scented fluid of decay, which, they explained, was a key goal of the entire ritual.
Whitehead obviously had certain powers, and a compelling interest in kanaimà, the men noted. Wasn't he interested in becoming a dark sorcerer?
You don't see a pith helmet in Neil Whitehead's office overlooking Lake Mendota, nor a poster from an Indiana Jones movie. He's a different sort of swashbuckling anthropologist. Think Harrison Ford with a splash of Anthony Hopkins. Picture a slightly tweedy character with an unabashed interest in mysterious places and dark tales.
The forty-seven-year-old professor grew up in London, the son of a publisher of technical journals and a homemaker. Focusing on conflict, he says, was a natural outgrowth from the headlines of his youth. “I grew up during a very lively terrorist war with the IRA [Irish Republican Army],” he says, “and I believe the world has gotten more like that as time goes by.” His PhD research at Oxford University concerned the Caribs, ferocious natives of Central America and the Caribbean, whose name supplied the root for both Caribbean and cannibal.
Whitehead's studies led him to conclude that, while the European explorers considered the Caribs to be cannibals, those opinions were suspect. A couple of decades after 1492, the year Queen Isabella sent Columbus across the ocean and evicted the Jews from Spain, she permitted Spanish conquistadors to usurp land from “cannibals” without payment. The edict, says Whitehead, created a huge financial incentive to “discover” cannibalism among the “savages” of Central and South America.
You don't see a pith helmet in Neil Whitehead's office overlooking Lake Mendota, nor a poster from an Indiana Jones movie. He's a different sort of swashbuckling anthropologist. Think Harrison Ford with a splash of Anthony Hopkins. Picture a slightly tweedy character with an unabashed interest in mysterious places and dark tales.
The forty-seven-year-old professor grew up in London, the son of a publisher of technical journals and a homemaker. Focusing on conflict, he says, was a natural outgrowth from the headlines of his youth. “I grew up during a very lively terrorist war with the IRA [Irish Republican Army],” he says, “and I believe the world has gotten more like that as time goes by.” His PhD research at Oxford University concerned the Caribs, ferocious natives of Central America and the Caribbean, whose name supplied the root for both Caribbean and cannibal.
Whitehead's studies led him to conclude that, while the European explorers considered the Caribs to be cannibals, those opinions were suspect. A couple of decades after 1492, the year Queen Isabella sent Columbus across the ocean and evicted the Jews from Spain, she permitted Spanish conquistadors to usurp land from “cannibals” without payment. The edict, says Whitehead, created a huge financial incentive to “discover” cannibalism among the “savages” of Central and South America.
The experience led Whitehead to focus his studies on conflict, rather than the more traditional anthropological subjects such as culture, clan, and belief. Examining the ways that people and cultures clash allows “anthropology to speak to the central problems of our society, not bury itself in rather obscure truths,” he says.
However, he soon discovered that discussions about violence are surrounded by taboos. “Our attitude and knowledge about violence are where they were about sex thirty to forty years ago,” he says. Indeed, Whitehead's new book, Dark Shamans: Kanaimà and the Poetics of Violent Death, contains descriptions of kanaimà horrendous enough to be taboo in many publications. This story, too, avoids some of the harsher details, but interested readers can consult the book for more explicit descriptions.
In 1992, a year before joining the faculty at UW-Madison, Whitehead made his fateful trip to the Guyana highlands, a forested part of the southern region of the country. Although part of Guyana, the area has closer economic and social relations to the Amazon basin of Brazil, to the south. Once predominantly populated by Patamuna, a fairly traditional people, the highlands have faced incursions from miners, who have been moving north from the Amazon region.
Whitehead was planning to survey the highlands, assembling a list of old villages, burial sites, and caves with artifacts for the aid of future researchers. No sooner had he arrived, however, than the local nurse implored him to shift his attention to kanaimà. She insisted that kanaimàs were still stalking, bludgeoning, poisoning, and mutilating their victims on forested mountain paths.
However, he soon discovered that discussions about violence are surrounded by taboos. “Our attitude and knowledge about violence are where they were about sex thirty to forty years ago,” he says. Indeed, Whitehead's new book, Dark Shamans: Kanaimà and the Poetics of Violent Death, contains descriptions of kanaimà horrendous enough to be taboo in many publications. This story, too, avoids some of the harsher details, but interested readers can consult the book for more explicit descriptions.
In 1992, a year before joining the faculty at UW-Madison, Whitehead made his fateful trip to the Guyana highlands, a forested part of the southern region of the country. Although part of Guyana, the area has closer economic and social relations to the Amazon basin of Brazil, to the south. Once predominantly populated by Patamuna, a fairly traditional people, the highlands have faced incursions from miners, who have been moving north from the Amazon region.
Whitehead was planning to survey the highlands, assembling a list of old villages, burial sites, and caves with artifacts for the aid of future researchers. No sooner had he arrived, however, than the local nurse implored him to shift his attention to kanaimà. She insisted that kanaimàs were still stalking, bludgeoning, poisoning, and mutilating their victims on forested mountain paths.
Kanaimàs, Whitehead learned, usually didn't immediately kill their victims, preferring to first maim and intimidate by breaking victims' fingers or dislocating their necks. After the victim endured a few months or years of pain, the kanaimàs would mount a ferocious killing attack, piercing the victim's tongue with snake fangs, mutilating the mouth and anus with sharp objects, and inserting toxic plants into the anus. “The sheer violence of the attack,” Whitehead says, “is meant to drive out the life force of the person.” Even with medical treatment, victims die an excruciating, lingering death.
Initially, although the nurse was in a position to know, Whitehead refused to believe her horrifying tales. On his first day of hiking through the mountains, however, he had his mind changed for him.
The professor and his Patamuna associates entered a cave that held a solitary, ceramic urn containing several old bones. The Patamuna treated the urn with awe, and refused to touch it. Whitehead, however, not only moved the urn to take a photo, but also removed one of the bones. That action, as it turned out, sealed his fate, guaranteeing that he would soon have a deeply personal interest in kanaimà.
The Patamuna interpreted Whitehead's behavior as an announcement that he was either a kanaimà himself or one of their enemies. His actions, he believes, motivated his new enemies — presumably directed by kanaimàs — to poison him. Their intent was not murder, Whitehead says, which they easily could have accomplished through their knowledge of natural poisons. Instead, he believes, their goal was to threaten him about being too nosy.
Initially, although the nurse was in a position to know, Whitehead refused to believe her horrifying tales. On his first day of hiking through the mountains, however, he had his mind changed for him.
The professor and his Patamuna associates entered a cave that held a solitary, ceramic urn containing several old bones. The Patamuna treated the urn with awe, and refused to touch it. Whitehead, however, not only moved the urn to take a photo, but also removed one of the bones. That action, as it turned out, sealed his fate, guaranteeing that he would soon have a deeply personal interest in kanaimà.
The Patamuna interpreted Whitehead's behavior as an announcement that he was either a kanaimà himself or one of their enemies. His actions, he believes, motivated his new enemies — presumably directed by kanaimàs — to poison him. Their intent was not murder, Whitehead says, which they easily could have accomplished through their knowledge of natural poisons. Instead, he believes, their goal was to threaten him about being too nosy.
The attack, delivered in the form of a meal, caused several weeks of serious gastrointestinal problems, and it helped persuade Whitehead that the nurse was right. That realization, followed quickly by scientific curiosity, locked him into a decade of investigating — though never personally practicing — the deadly rituals of dark sorcery. During the next five years, he revisited the area, talking with the families of victims and buying interviews with a few men who claimed to be kanaimàs. The work culminated with the publication of Dark Shamans, a chilling account of ritualized mutilation and murder — but also a compelling interpretation of why the practice has endured.
That story is full of contradictions. Kanaimà is murder, an illegal act, and an extreme example of dark shamanism.
Yet other shamanic practices are seen as healing, both in Guyana and elsewhere. “Kanaimà is part of the eternal battle between light and dark shamanism,” Whitehead says. In the local world view, “it's sacrifice, not murder or revenge.
It's connected to the idea about what is necessary to sustain the bounty and fertility of the cosmos. It represents the sorcerer's gift to human beings.”
That story is full of contradictions. Kanaimà is murder, an illegal act, and an extreme example of dark shamanism.
Yet other shamanic practices are seen as healing, both in Guyana and elsewhere. “Kanaimà is part of the eternal battle between light and dark shamanism,” Whitehead says. In the local world view, “it's sacrifice, not murder or revenge.
It's connected to the idea about what is necessary to sustain the bounty and fertility of the cosmos. It represents the sorcerer's gift to human beings.”
Because dark sorcery is usually performed by neighbors against neighbors, kanaimà also creates a bizarre dynamic among Patamuna communities in Guyana. On one hand, Whitehead says, most victims' families would “quite happily kill the kanaimà if they could,” and for that reason, kanaimàs often prey on people without family members who could avenge them.
Yet he adds that kanaimàs do carry a certain moral authority. In a region where law enforcement is weak and where encroaching cultures threaten local ways, kanaimà can be beneficial — even practical. “It shows that they have not lost all their culture,” says Whitehead. “Kanaimà becomes a vivid, dramatic way of affirming that, and creating a rather useful caution in the minds of government agencies, cops, and armed Brazilian miners about whether they should screw around with these people.”
In focusing the anthropological lens on cannibalism, Whitehead is not alone. Another recent book — Beth Conklin's Consuming Grief: Compassionate Cannibalism in an Amazonian Society — has emerged to paint a warmer, fuzzier picture of a practice most people have been perfectly willing to dismiss as twisted.
Yet he adds that kanaimàs do carry a certain moral authority. In a region where law enforcement is weak and where encroaching cultures threaten local ways, kanaimà can be beneficial — even practical. “It shows that they have not lost all their culture,” says Whitehead. “Kanaimà becomes a vivid, dramatic way of affirming that, and creating a rather useful caution in the minds of government agencies, cops, and armed Brazilian miners about whether they should screw around with these people.”
In focusing the anthropological lens on cannibalism, Whitehead is not alone. Another recent book — Beth Conklin's Consuming Grief: Compassionate Cannibalism in an Amazonian Society — has emerged to paint a warmer, fuzzier picture of a practice most people have been perfectly willing to dismiss as twisted.
Conklin, an anthropologist at Vanderbilt University, studied the Wari tribe in South America, where, until recently, in-laws ritually ate parts of their dead relatives. Until pressure from government officials and missionaries forced the Wari to desist about forty years ago, the grisly ritual was an integral part of the emotional recovery from death, Conklin says. “It marked a distance between the people doing the eating and the person who is eaten,” she says. “The Wari believe you need to gradually create emotional distance between the living and the dead, because in a small society, the ties of love and affection to your family are your strongest bonds, and they don't dissolve or loosen with death.”
Conklin's and Whitehead's attempts to understand, rather than condemn, cannibalism have forced them to ponder the interpretation of their work. As Conklin puts it, Whitehead “is trying to grapple with the problem of taking violence in indigenous society seriously — trying to understand it in ways that don't reinforce stereotypes of savagery.”
But Whitehead is aware that his work could regenerate some of those stereotypes. “The concern is that you end up painting a picture of a bunch of violent savages,” he says. “This is the difficult aspect of deciding to write about a topic that doesn't cast people in the best light. It's a political, cultural issue that faces anthropology, and I'm very conscious of pushing the envelope on that.”
Conklin's and Whitehead's attempts to understand, rather than condemn, cannibalism have forced them to ponder the interpretation of their work. As Conklin puts it, Whitehead “is trying to grapple with the problem of taking violence in indigenous society seriously — trying to understand it in ways that don't reinforce stereotypes of savagery.”
But Whitehead is aware that his work could regenerate some of those stereotypes. “The concern is that you end up painting a picture of a bunch of violent savages,” he says. “This is the difficult aspect of deciding to write about a topic that doesn't cast people in the best light. It's a political, cultural issue that faces anthropology, and I'm very conscious of pushing the envelope on that.”
At the same time, Whitehead's observations are upsetting to people who prefer to regard shamans as sacred healers. Recently, when Whitehead read from Dark Shamans at a Madison bookstore, some audience members were unsettled by his focus on dark shamanism. But the professor responded that these darker forms of sorcery are common in the continent: “Kanaimà is actually not exceptional; it's one example of a very important aspect of shamanism in South America,” he says. “There's been an emphasis on the curing, beneficial aspects of shamanism. We want to set the ethnographic record straight by reminding people of the very important cosmological links between the power to kill and the power to cure. They represent complementary possibilities of the universe, and are fundamental to the way shamanic activity
is conceived.”
Furthermore, Whitehead argues that a full discussion of cannibalism must extend beyond South America and tribal cultures. He notes that perspective matters — especially since history is generally written by victors. “The history of conquest in South America looks very different from Europe than from South America,” he says. While the Spanish were massacring Indians, he points out, “the Europeans were talking about nailing people to crosses and hanging, drawing, and quartering. There were public executions and body snatching.”
In essence, he notes, one person's cannibal is another's cultural hero.
“Braveheart [William Wallace, a medieval Scottish rebel] was ripped to pieces,” he adds. “There was plenty of torture in the medieval period — it's not just cannibals that are sticking heads on spikes, right?”
is conceived.”
Furthermore, Whitehead argues that a full discussion of cannibalism must extend beyond South America and tribal cultures. He notes that perspective matters — especially since history is generally written by victors. “The history of conquest in South America looks very different from Europe than from South America,” he says. While the Spanish were massacring Indians, he points out, “the Europeans were talking about nailing people to crosses and hanging, drawing, and quartering. There were public executions and body snatching.”
In essence, he notes, one person's cannibal is another's cultural hero.
“Braveheart [William Wallace, a medieval Scottish rebel] was ripped to pieces,” he adds. “There was plenty of torture in the medieval period — it's not just cannibals that are sticking heads on spikes, right?”
Yet attempts to place cannibalism within a broader context can be seen as justifications for it. Whitehead and others who write about practices like cannibalism are often criticized for practicing cultural relativism. It's a criticism Whitehead welcomes.
“Cultural relativism simply underlines the fact that there are choices to be made,” he says. “It does not say what choice you should make, it merely suggests you make your choice in light of the best possible understanding.”
He suggests, for example, that some Americans have little business condemning other cultures as violent without applying the same critique to their own. “There's an open debate about the role of violence in our culture, from how we see Hannibal Lecter as entertainment all the way up to state executions,” he says.
In Whitehead's view — which, he allows, is one of an outsider regarding U.S. affairs and policies — those judgments often lack consistency. “We don't mind condemning certain kinds of violence, but it's more difficult to make the connection between the Columbine massacre, the D.C. snipers, and the presence of a violent criminal justice system or a violently oriented foreign policy.”
“Cultural relativism simply underlines the fact that there are choices to be made,” he says. “It does not say what choice you should make, it merely suggests you make your choice in light of the best possible understanding.”
He suggests, for example, that some Americans have little business condemning other cultures as violent without applying the same critique to their own. “There's an open debate about the role of violence in our culture, from how we see Hannibal Lecter as entertainment all the way up to state executions,” he says.
In Whitehead's view — which, he allows, is one of an outsider regarding U.S. affairs and policies — those judgments often lack consistency. “We don't mind condemning certain kinds of violence, but it's more difficult to make the connection between the Columbine massacre, the D.C. snipers, and the presence of a violent criminal justice system or a violently oriented foreign policy.”
Those who study cannibalism today, he says, “are trying to disaggregate cannibalism, [saying that] it's not always the same thing, and it's not always obvious what it is. The Spartans [in ancient Greece] would lick blood from their swords. Is that cannibalism?” Medieval European doctors prescribed the ingredient “mummy,” made from processed human bodies. In Denmark, the drinking blood of living people (or freshly executed prisoners) was thought to cure epilepsy. Are these practices cannibalistic?
Unlike the lurid accounts of native cannibalism in New Guinea or South America, these other activities rarely get discussed in histories, which Whitehead says illustrates that the taboos are alive and well. “There may be all kinds of ritual behavior that involve mucking around with human bodies,” he says. “We roll it all up and say, ‘Ugh, cannibalism,' without thinking clearly about what's going on.”
Few people have taken a closer look than Whitehead. But despite having suffered personally from kanaimà, and despite having made enemies in Guyana that may prevent him from ever returning there now that his book is out, he doesn't consider himself exceptional. “My work is by no means unique among anthropologists. Many are working today in very troubling and challenging circumstances around the world,” he says. “In anthropology, insofar as we stay close to cultures, we necessarily deal with things like violence and conflict.
Unlike the lurid accounts of native cannibalism in New Guinea or South America, these other activities rarely get discussed in histories, which Whitehead says illustrates that the taboos are alive and well. “There may be all kinds of ritual behavior that involve mucking around with human bodies,” he says. “We roll it all up and say, ‘Ugh, cannibalism,' without thinking clearly about what's going on.”
Few people have taken a closer look than Whitehead. But despite having suffered personally from kanaimà, and despite having made enemies in Guyana that may prevent him from ever returning there now that his book is out, he doesn't consider himself exceptional. “My work is by no means unique among anthropologists. Many are working today in very troubling and challenging circumstances around the world,” he says. “In anthropology, insofar as we stay close to cultures, we necessarily deal with things like violence and conflict.
It's more and more part of the job.”
And yet some jobs are tougher than others. Gaining an understanding of dark sorcery and cannibalism, in principle, does not differ from any other anthropological investigation. But some behaviors are inherently difficult to explain. Cannibalism, Whitehead admits, is “truly a challenging human behavior to interpret.”
And yet some jobs are tougher than others. Gaining an understanding of dark sorcery and cannibalism, in principle, does not differ from any other anthropological investigation. But some behaviors are inherently difficult to explain. Cannibalism, Whitehead admits, is “truly a challenging human behavior to interpret.”
- David Tenenbaum has written about cannibalism for UW-Madison's science Web site, The Why Files.
- Mel Gibson portrayed Scotland's William Wallace in the 1995 movie Braveheart. Wallace's struggle to free Scotland from English rule at the end of the thirteenth century resulted in his barbaric death and later reputation as one of Scotland's greatest national heroes.
- Robert Louis Stevenson examined cannibalism in his 1890 book, In the South Seas. Read his thoughts on the practice in Chapter IX, titled "Long-Pig — A Cannibal High Place."
