Bullsh*t Anthropology - Reading Graeber & Wengrow

 

For a long time, I’ve thought that anthropologists and archaeologists tend to make a lot of grandiose and sweeping claims regarding the origins of culture and human society which they can’t really substantiate. At last, I’ve found an anthropologist and an archaeologist who seem to agree with me.

 

THE DAWN OF EVERYTHING: A NEW HISTORY OF HUMANITY by David Graeber & David Wengrow (Penguin, 2022)

From the summer of 1994 to the summer of 1997, I was a student studying for a BSc in Anthropology at the University of East London (UEL). The Anthropology Department at UEL was staffed by academics who described themselves as Marxists. They maintained that what they were teaching us was ‘radical anthropology.’ One of the tutors was Chris Knight, an anthropologist who had come up with a novel idea for the origins of culture being linked to menstruation: – a theory which he maintained could be proved by meta studies of language and mythology, etc., wherein modern human societies had evolved out of a matriarchal primogenitor; presumably some long forgotten band of proto-communist hominids who had emerged ‘Out of Africa’ in the long dark and distantly remote millennia located at the other end of human prehistory. Folk memories of which, he maintained, still echo down the generations in common culturally-shared tales of myth and folklore. He called his theory the ‘sex strike’ theory, and he set out his elaborate thesis in a hefty scholarly tome, titled, Blood Relations: Menstruation and the Origins of Culture (Yale University Press, 1991). This was the bible which we undergraduates were all expected to buy, imbibe, absorb, and adhere to, as well as to generally espouse as new radical anthropological-evangelists – especially (it was taken as tacitly read), if we wished to do well in our essays and the final exams, thereby earning our degrees.

 

It was an extremely well-choreographed curriculum, a slick syllabus which was very deftly delivered by a bunch of very clever and adept academics. In the first year we were all generally wowed, bowled over, utterly enthralled and completely taken in. But some students among our cohort began to have their doubts at some point or other during the second year of our studies. In the third year some even began to openly rebel. And, of course, the result was a graduating class neatly differentiated into thirds, two-twos, two-ones, and firsts, with the weightier majority of sceptics grouped at the lower end of this academic scale, and the few fully-paid up acolytes rewarded for their open homages to the guru in the rarefied elite group of first-class honours (a grand total of three out of thirty-or-so graduates, if I recall correctly). I was a lower-middling sceptic, who, having sought to divert and dilute my degree with as many scientific archaeology electives (run by the Environmental Science Department at UEL’s Stratford Campus) as I was permitted to take, somehow emerged at the other end of it all having gained myself a ‘Desmond’ (i.e. – a two-two).

 

Looking back, it was a truly bizarre and intellectually beguiling three years. I remember sitting and rather squeamishly watching what felt like a glacially-paced film screening of two Yanomami Indians with pudding bowl haircuts, somewhere deep in the Amazon, repeatedly bashing each other over the head with long wooden poles. It looked like a much more violent and far less funny version of Monty Python’s fish slapping dance. I remember wondering what I was meant to make of it all. Looking back now, it seems like an apt metaphor for my three years as an anthropology student. However, I no longer dismiss those three years quite as diffidently as I probably did at the time. Undoubtedly, I did learn a lot during my undergraduate degree, and what I learnt is something I’ve reflected upon and probably continued to adapt over the course of the intervening decades.

Karl Marx

 

Certainly, when I returned to university (after some 15 or so ‘gap years’) to study for an MA degree in World History, all that early grounding in Marxist theory meant reading Eric Hobsbawm made a lot more sense than I’d expected it would. During my BSc, I had become very interested in one area of anthropology which UEL termed as ‘cultures of dominance and cultures of resistance.’ And, rather naively, I thought I’d stolen an intellectual march upon my tutors by writing a short dissertation explaining the success of the 1989 ‘Velvet Revolution’ in Czechoslovakia using Gramscian-Marxist theories of hegemony and power. I really enjoyed researching and writing this particular piece, and it seemed all the more ironic to me that I did so while sitting at one of the desks in the old Round Reading Room of the British Library, where Karl Marx himself famously used to sit reading and scribbling.

 

The Round Reading Room, The British Library

But the truth was, much of my undergraduate studies completely befuddled me. I’d really wanted to study for a joint anthropology and archaeology degree at Durham University, but things had gone awry with my A-levels. And so, after running the grim gauntlet of ‘clearing’ (in which I very nearly got into SOAS), I ended up at UEL feeling utterly thwarted. One good thing about UEL though, was that the timetable was very compact. It was usually condensed into just two- or three-days attendance per week. This meant that during my undergraduate years I was able to spend a lot of my time working as a volunteer at the British Museum, and I also spent a month each summer camping on archaeological excavations in the UK, which is where I really wanted to be. Consequently, much of what I was taught at UEL seemed like it was a diversion from what I was properly interested in.

 

That diversion, I realise now, was essentially the theoretical side of things. I mistakenly thought I was solely interested in the ‘material culture’ aspect of our remote past, but the truth is (and always was) that there’s no divorcing the two aspects. Material remains only tell you so much. It’s true that a lot can be revealed from sophisticated scientific analysis: – for example, examining dental enamel from a skeleton can tell you that the person whose grave was excavated at Site X actually grew up and spent most of their life living at Site Y, which is mind-blowing because Site X and Y are thousands of miles apart and there’s nothing else associated with that grave which could have told you this remarkable fact about the physical mobility of both individuals and broader populations at this time. Although, that said, I did find it unconscionably tedious to sit through lecture-after-lecture on the slow multi-millennia-long evolution of emmer wheat, which it seemed as though it was being taught in real time! – But in many ways, listening to outlandish theories about how human culture had evolved out of a system of collective social coercion which was codified in cyclical systems relating to menstruation, sororal solidarity, and the phases of the moon seemed oddly mind-bending in an altogether totally different direction, and a trifle too speculative for some of us even as still wet-behind-the-ear undergraduates. As far as theories go, this one certainly qualified as being firmly ‘out there’ on the fringes. I took very few notes during my third year. Instead, I mostly sat there listening to our lecturers with a somewhat baffled sense of intense concentration, and at the end of each lecture my conclusions always seemed to amount to the same response, which was: “But how can you possibly know that for sure?”

 

It was only much, much later on in life that I came to realise that this is the point of the humanities. Even subjects such as archaeology, anthropology, and history, which draw on concrete aspects of science and scientific practices, are essentially nothing more than plausible fictions – ideas, opinions, theories – it’s as simple as that. Though some practitioners in these fields might evangelically espouse their academic revelatory notions as some sort of gnostic gospel truth which we should all revere and adhere to as the ‘be-all, end-all’ answer to the ultimate questions concerning the origins of life, the universe and everything – it’s still only a theory, their theory. It’s simply one theory among many which have gone before, and one which will be followed by many more still to come.

 

It was the cult-like hagiographical obeisance that came with the theory which really turned me off and caused me to tune out, although not drastically enough to make me drop out. I hung on in there. Partly, because it was a circus which, nevertheless, could still entertain even the most sceptical of minds. I clearly remember the closing moment of the final lecture for my BSc, when one of our tutors had wowed us for one last time with such a grand epiphany-like conclusion to their showman-like exposition, explaining some all-encompassing aspect of life rooted in the long lost deep-time of human prehistory, and one of my (by now deeply-jaded) fellow-students raised his hand and asked: “Yeah, that’s all very interesting, but where do the Spice Girls fit into all of that?” --- To which the long-suffering tutor concluded his lecture by telling my fellow student (and former housemate) to “F*ck off!” --- It was certainly a radical and rather definitive ending to three very long but ultimately intellectually-formative years.

 

Consequently, reading the first chapter of David Graeber and David Wengrow’s The Dawn of Everything: A New History of Humanity (Penguin, 2022) instantly catapulted me back to that 1930s-era lecture hall at UEL’s old Barking campus. Here was a book, at long last, which seemed to be echoing my baffled bemusement. A book which was also asking: “But how can you possibly know that?” – A book which was at last finally holding up a mirror to what (to coin a David Graeber-like phrase) I’d long thought of as being bullsh*t anthropology.

 

Graeber and Wengrow’s book begins by stating that: “Most of human history is irreparably lost to us. Our species, Homo sapiens, has existed for at least 200,000 years, but for most of that time we have next to no idea what was happening. In northern Spain, for instance, at the cave of Altamira, paintings and engravings were created over a period of at least 10,000 years, between around 25,000 and 15,000 BC. Presumably, a lot of dramatic events occurred during this period. We have no way of knowing what most of them were.” – How fantastically refreshing. A book about everything which starts by stating that we know nothing as a point of fact! – But, of course, there has to be more to it than that. After all, how else could this book be over 700 pages long? – How the heck is it going to make sense of all of this unknowable stuff?

 

Well. This is a very smart book. One which balances both exegesis and exposition. Hence it should be read not so much in search of concrete answers, but perhaps more in quest of cognitive challenges. It walks a surprisingly genial line between hermeneutics and teleology (largely by means of avoiding the use of such words). It’s a real joy to read. An intelligently clear and conversational book. One which encourages us to engage with our own dialectical processes of reasoning: telling us that the answers we seek matter only if we give equal weight to the questions which beget those answers; prompting us to wonder why such questions need asking at all? – In essence, it is all a matter of perspectives. And, of course, awareness. Maintaining an awareness that individual and collective personal, social and cultural biases pervade all levels of critical thinking. In many ways, we are simply blind to our own blind spots. But we can escape this ever-decreasing circle.

 

In order to demonstrate this, the two Davids go back to the supposed rational objectivity of Enlightenment thinkers, such as Thomas Hobbes and Jean-Jacques Rousseau, looking at their engagement with little-known contemporary world-views as were then held by the relatively recently encountered cultures of the New World. Asking not how the assumed proto-communist equality of our early ancestors was lost, and thereby wondering how inequalities within our societies first arose; but rather, asking why it was (and still is) assumed that we began our social evolution in these egalitarian bands of early hunter-gatherers? – Graeber and Wengrow speculate that perhaps the Enlightenment ideals of liberty, equality, fraternity (within distinctly defined limits and constraints) came into being as a response to the interactions of colonial settlers and missionaries with the Amerindian populations they encountered in the New World.

 

It’s a fascinating reversal. And it is also a far cry from what I was taught as an anthropology undergraduate back in the mid-1990s. At that time the theoretical-side of physical anthropology was alive with debates between those who believed the ‘Out of Africa’ theory, advocated by anthropologists such as Chris Stringer and my own tutors at UEL, and those who adhered to the ‘multi-regional evolution’ theory of equally eminent scholars such as Milford Wolpoff, and also Lewis Binford’s ‘new archaeology’, which redefined processual approaches to the study of material culture. Elaine Morgan even came and gave us a special lecture on her ‘aquatic ape’ theory – a lecture which was partly disrupted by some Islamic fundamentalist students, who were regularly causing problems at UEL at that time (… I’ve often wondered in recent years what became of those guys and where they are today). Richard Dawkins’ The Selfish Gene (1976), a major scientific recalibration of Darwinian evolution, was a much-venerated text at this time at UEL too. The (then still relatively recent) DNA-sequencing findings regarding so-called ‘mitochondrial Eve’ were helping to bolster the popular image of the African Rift Valley as some sort of Garden of Eden for early humanity. And the eponymous Australopithecus, known as ‘Lucy’, along with the footprints found at Laetoli, were the superstar protagonists of most of our essays.

 

But, despite the very tempting allure of all this anthropological evangelism, I couldn’t help being niggled by my doubts, mostly arising from the sparsity of evidence which was so thinly but definitively staked out over such vast tracts of time – how could so much theoretical weight be borne by the stray findings of a single fragment from an incomplete hominid fossil dating from one distant millennium be made to quantum leap through the aeons and marry with that found in another? – The two Davids phrase it far better than I ever could have done so when I was writing about all this back in 1994-1997: “If we think on a scale of, say, the last 3 million years, there actually was an age in which the lines between (what we today think of as) human and animal were still indistinct; and when someone, after all, did have to light a fire, cook a meal or perform a marriage ceremony for the first time. We know these things happened. Still, we really don’t know how. It is very difficult to resist the temptation to make up stories about what might have happened: stories which necessarily reflect our own fears, desires, obsessions and concerns. As a result, such distant times can become a vast canvas for the working out of our collective fantasies.” (p.89*)

 

It wasn’t so much the theorisation itself which bothered me, but rather the imperative didacticism which went with it. The fact that we were required to nail our (preferably Marxist) colours to the mast and expected to defend them to the death. There was no room for bourgeois ‘middle-roaders’, even though all I wanted to do was keep an ‘open mind’ to all the different possibilities. And I guess around this time, the two Davids – who aren’t that much different in age to me, must have been thinking the same as fellow undergraduates in their respective institutions. As they say: “There are phases of literally thousands of years for which the only evidence of hominin activity we possess is a single tooth, and perhaps a handful of pieces of shaped flint. While the technology we are capable of bringing to bear on such remote periods improves dramatically each decade, there’s only so much you can do with sparse material. As a result, it’s difficult to resist the temptation to fill in the gaps, to claim we know more than we really do. When scientists do this the results often bear a suspicious resemblance to those very biblical narratives modern science is supposed to have cast aside.” (p.90)

 

In many ways, especially when looking at the Palaeolithic, all of this seems so massively remote that it is surely inconsequential to our own lives as modern human beings, isn’t it? – Well, maybe not. There is more than just a philosophical dimension to pondering the deep past. It is also a way of reflecting upon the present. If we haven’t always been the way we are now, what are the possibilities for the future, and who might we yet become? – In this sense, The Dawn of Everything does have another dimension. It seeks to go beyond a straightforward re-write of anthropological thinking. This book does have an agenda: “There is no doubt that something has gone terribly wrong with the world. A very small percentage of its population do control the fates of almost everyone else, and they are doing it in an increasingly disastrous fashion. To understand how this situation came about, we should trace the problem back to what first made possible the emergence of kings, priests, overseers and judges.” (p.87-88)

 

As already noted, modern thinking is to a large degree rooted in the ethos born out of the Western Enlightenment. It is a distinctly entrenched paradigm which surrounds us like a fog, but anthropology and archaeology can help us to wake up to the fact that not everything everywhere has been the same for all time. There are distinctly different ways of living, of organising and operating as collectively cohesive social animals. An excellent book, in this regard, which I value very highly is David Turnbull’s Masons, Tricksters and Cartographers: Comparative Studies In The Sociology Of Scientific And Indigenous Knowledge (2000), which really does show in a series of remarkably mind-expanding modes that there are many diverse epistemologies which can be used to understand our shared world, as well as re-orientating our perspectives within it – from the cross-generational collaborative means and methods by which enormous Medieval cathedrals were designed and constructed, to the global navigational systems whose subtleties were honed, adapted and successfully applied over centuries by Pacific islanders, regularly migrating over vast (and seemingly featureless) tracts of open ocean, almost like seafaring nomads. The way of the world forged in the mindset of the Western Enlightenment is far from the only way to collectively know and understand ourselves.

 

Indeed, this was also something we looked at as part of my Anthropology BSc. I remember, during that ‘cultures of dominance and cultures of resistance’ module I mentioned earlier, we studied E.R. Leach’s Political Systems of Highland Burma (1954), which, when it was first assigned to us, I thought qualified as perhaps the most boring sounding book title in the world. But, in truth, it was utterly fascinating. It spoke of the ways in which one society could periodically shift its social system of governance, operating in a kind of double morphology. Echoing the early work of Claude Lévi-Strauss on the Nambikwara in the Amazon, which Graeber and Wengrow discuss in some detail (in Chapter 3 of The Dawn of Everything), the Kachin of Burma regularly alternated between two organisational systems depending on prevailing factors at different times. As Graeber himself summarises Edmund Leach’s book (on GoodReads): “This is an anthropological classic of the first water – and one of the books that opened my eyes to what anthropology could be. It’s hard to explain how reading about hill tribes in Southeast Asia where powerful people periodically try to create little kingdoms (gumsa) in imitation of the Shan states in the valleys, but where the complexities of their forms of agriculture and marriage systems inevitably lead them to collapse and form democratic republics (gumlao) again – and then the whole cycle starts all over again – but when you read it, you are entranced. Well, okay, I was. It’s books like this that made me want to dedicate my life to anthropology.”

 

Since Leach wrote way back in the 1950s, much more recently this same region has inspired a whole new re-evaluation of so-called ‘anarchic’ states of being which has resulted in a much debated concept, dubbed ‘Zomia’, in which certain societies situated in the highlands of Southeast Asia have seemingly managed to avoid incorporation into the fabric of the modern nation states that surround them without being wholly cut-off from modernity, as is often assumed of remote Amazonian tribes and the like. James C. Scott’s The Art of Not Being Governed (2009) is the equally entrancing text which has sparked this revival of interest in such matters. It’s exactly these kinds of academic reappraisals which, as the two Davids highlight, is now causing a growing number of people to re-evaluate the long-held assumptions that there was some sort of uniform social and political progress within early human societies, leading from simple egalitarianism to more complex, codified and hierarchical systems; which in turn led to agriculture and urbanisation, then onto conquest and colonisation, etc., eventually resulting in the modern globalised world of capitalist, free trade and free market economies which we know and hold today as supposedly the ‘be all, end all’ perfection of human existence.

 

Essentially, we have lost sight of how societies can and do change in order to adapt according to their shifting ecological and economic circumstances. While I was at UEL I remember reading and writing about two starkly contrasting studies conducted by the same anthropologist. These ethnographies were The Forest People (1961) and The Mountain People (1972) by Colin Turnbull, which respectively describe life among the Mbuti and the Ik, two societies each located in vastly different regions of Africa. The first book presents a vision of a mobile band of pygmies living an idyllic, egalitarian, Garden of Eden-like existence, while the other confronts the reader with a harsh and hellish, Holocaust-like vision of a violently brutal and selfish society, having been pushed to the very brink of social cohesion by dislocation, drought, famine and an oppressive scarcity of resources (the Ik were previously nomadic, but had been forced to become sedentary). Writing an essay on The Mountain People was possibly one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. But it was an education in itself of how the norms we take for granted only afford us the narrowest of views as to what human life can be – particularly in its potentials for both good and ill. It taught me that an appreciation for difference, and a desire to know (even if it’s impossible to fully understand) another culture is the true gift of studying anthropology, i.e: maintaining an openness to insight.

 
 

Ever since completing those three years and graduating with my Anthropology BSc, I’ve had a long and troubled relationship with my first degree. At the time it seemed like a mistake, and I struggled with the pedagogical constraints through which it had to be negotiated; but ultimately, I don’t regret it. If anything, it has come to exert an ever-greater relevance to the things which I have done subsequently. I know anthropology has shaped and informed my outlook on life in general, and it still very much influences my approach to my continuing PhD studies as an historian. Hence, what once seemed like a bad hand which life’s croupier had dealt me, one that has long lingered with me like a cognitive millstone, now seems to have been a long unappreciated gift – one which only the passing of time has at last finally managed to unmask. As in Turnbull’s The Forest People, seeing the sacred molimo trumpet out of context is merely a prosaic act when contrasted with the importance of visualising what it embodies while hearing it at the appropriately sanctioned moment in its ritualised use. Essentially, behind the different masks of certainty which other people force us to choose between, I believe it is possible to maintain a sense of ‘negative capability’ (as John Keats described it: that is, the ability to balance and live with opposing or contradictory thoughts and ideas). Because this might very well be the only thing which (paradoxically) helps us to stay sane.

 

Looking back, I see two experiences: one at the very end of our undergraduate degree, and the other many years later, which put this conclusion into the most quotidian of contrasts for me – posing a fundamental question which I’ve never really been able to fully answer for myself, hence why the continual relevance of such a prolonged re-evaluation remains a constant in my thinking-life: 

The first was a discussion that some of my fellow students had amongst ourselves after one of our last lectures at the end of our final year. It was a moment marking the culmination of all of us having spent three years steeped in a deep and meaningful appreciation of the rich, broad cultural and political diversity of humanity in all its myriad forms. Someone idly asked all of us what we were going to do once we’d finished our studies that summer. Most spoke of summer jobs and then of their aspirations towards future careers or further education: MAs, MScs, that kind of thing. But one lad, a young Israeli boy, said he was going home to do his National Service. Most of the group openly commiserated with him, but he looked up and quickly rebuffed us, saying: “Oh no, I’m looking forward to it. I’ll get the chance to shoot some Palestinians!” – There was an uneasy silence. No one was sure if he was joking or not.

 

The second happened a couple of decades later, when I was flying home to London from Seoul in South Korea. I was sitting next to a young Korean girl, and naturally enough at some point during the long flight we got talking. She told me she was travelling to the UK to begin studying at university. She quizzed me on what life was like in the UK, what my own experience had been of going to university there, and she asked me what I’d studied. When I told her I’d studied anthropology she said it was a subject which interested her and quizzed me further on what that was all about, so I did my best to summarise it. When I’d finished, she asked me with a dead straight face (the seriousness of which only just stopped me in the nick of time from bursting into laughter): “How do you reconcile all of that with your faith in Jesus Christ?”

 

Sitting back in my seat, traversing the world at 35,000 feet, far above the immense spectrum of everyday lives being lived out collectively and individually beneath the raft of pure white clouds passing below us at a rapid rate of knots in that sealed metal tube with wings, I found myself reflecting once again: how it is all too easy to take the world at face value and not realise that we are all only ever looking into a mirror which simply shows us what we already know and consequently take completely for granted. There’s no seeing the wood for all the trees. No wonder, then, that the world is such a messed-up place!

 

If life tends to confound our expectations, it’s no wonder we are always seeking to find the points upon which we can anchor ourselves. But the true challenge is trying to travel freely by casting those anchors aside. Attempting to see beyond that mirror, to look into other surfaces and perceive how things might be reflected differently there. For me, this book, The Dawn of Everything, is a mirror of one sort or another. I’m not sure if it represents a revelation of something new, or simply a confirmation of all the things I thought I already knew, but which previously I had no way of articulating for myself before reading it. I realise I am still very much stuck in my initial, overly-enamoured phase of admiration for this particular book. And it is a book which I’d highly recommend everybody to read. Sadly, my quasi-review here has barely even scratched the surface of all that it contains, nor have I done sufficient justice to the real aplomb with which this book is crafted. It is truly impressive (I could hardly believe my eyes, but the two authors’ description of the domestication of wheat is genuinely riveting reading!). Had he not passed away in September 2020, David Graeber could well have become for me the anthropological guru par excellence whom I’d managed so assiduously to avoid all these years!

 

And in this regard, I should perhaps end by coming full-circle, to append a somewhat amusing footnote, referring back to Chris Knight: who, despite his professed admiration for David Graeber, has recently taken Graeber to task by rather baldly stating that: “For David and his whole circle, I don’t exist. My book doesn’t exist, it never got written, and it’s irrelevant.”** – Knight seems to think that Graeber doesn’t give enough credence to the findings of ethnographers and consequently totally misreads the most fundamental truths about hunter-gatherer societies. Personally, I think Graeber and Wengrow’s new book does engage with all of the issues which Knight complains about (see Chapters 4 & 6 in particular). And likewise, according to my reading of The Dawn of Everything, I also think the two Davids very effectively expose a lot of the speculative assumptions inherent in ‘bullsh*t anthropology’ (which I’ve complained about at length above) by underlining my contention that speculations are all we really have to work with here. Consequently, as with any theory regarding the origins of human society, there needs to be enough latitude for doubt, even if they too (Graeber and Wengrow, that is) think they’ve managed to figure it all out and have very persuasively managed to argue their own particular case.

 

Ultimately, all churches – whether sacred or secular – are founded upon faith. In the end, the only choice we each have is deciding who we wish to follow. I guess – as with my ever-evolving reflections upon the strange fruits of my Anthropology BSc, fruits both sweet and sour in a world both complex and straightforward – the real test, I suppose, will be to see what I think of this particular book in 30 years’ time. After all, it’ll be fascinating to see where things go from here.

 

*NB – The page numbers I reference above are taken from the page counter of a PDF version of the book (which you can find here on the Internet Archive) which gives no actual page numbers on the text itself.

**Quote taken from an address which Chris Knight made to the Communist Party of Great Britain’s Online Communist Forum on 24 January 2021.

~

I have collated a playlist on YouTube of videos by and about David Graeber – including a couple of critiques of Graeber’s work by Chris Knight (as quoted above), and interviews with David Wengrow about ‘The Dawn of Everything.’ Knight has also written a blog post giving his own extensive critique of ‘The Dawn of Everything’ which you can find here: Chris Knight - Wrong About (Almost) Everything (FocaalBlog, 22 December 2021). There’s also an interesting article on some of the early critical responses to ‘The Dawn of Everything’ here in The Observer (12 June 2022). Plus a reluctantly disappointed homage, which asks 'What Happened to David Graeber?' by Crispin Sartwell, LARB (20 January 2024). And for a recent review of the current situation concerning the debate between the 'Out of Africa' vs. 'Multi-regional' models of human evolution, you can listen to Prof. Chris Stringer’s 2023 Huxley Lecture - 'Mostly Out of Africa.'

Trolley Hunters - Banksy

 

 Also on 'Waymarks'

From the Heart of the World - Alan Ereira

Shandley Williams - Totem

Ring of Fire - An Indonesian Odyssey

Peckham Rock - Banksy

Elspeth Huxley - Seeing West Africa on the Cusp

 

Four Guineas by Elspeth Huxley (first published 1954) is a colonial geographer's guide to West Africa, written with a journalist's eye leavened by a certain degree of philosophical self-reflection. Not so much a travelogue as a gazetteer, tallying the accounts of British taxpayer's financial contributions to the "civilising mission" of empire in a "benighted land."

The book describes Elspeth Huxley's personal view, as she sees it, of an ancient continent without art or culture (except for the inexplicable 'anomalies' of Nok, Benin and Ife), of 'ju-ju' cults and tribal societies mired in blood feuds and lingering rumours of (once prolific) human sacrifice, seen askance from the diligent efforts of colonial district officers and missionaries, toiling in the opposite direction, setting up schools and hospitals; alongside rising local and national political institutions, struggling in their infancies. The author's eye and voice is ever present in these pages, but the author oddly isn't. The text manages to stand at one remove from both of these opposing 'realities' of Africa. But ultimately Huxley's purported objectivity is opaque, a thin veneer over the surface of things as seen en passant.

Whilst Four Guineas seeks to immerse the reader in the daily life of West Africa the book constantly circles back upon itself and betrays Huxley's self-affirming (if at times jaundiced) view of Britain's imperial mission - and this makes it a hard book to navigate, a tough read in some respects, now some 70 years on from its original time of publication. Oddly dry and redundantly academic, but with flashes of life and wit appearing every once in a while, usually as a terminal flourish to each chapter. Although, more often than not, that wit is witheringly ironic and condescending, occasionally racist in places. And yet, Huxley has a keen eye and a sharp pen when it comes to the inequities, physical harm and misogyny experienced by African women.

It's a strange book. Neither wholly a champion nor a detractor of empire, Huxley isn't exactly an apologist either, though her attempts at being an objective observer tend to veer in that direction. Four Guineas casts an eye into a particular time and place, both consciously/unconsciously couched in a particular contemporary mindset - it gives a window into a colonial world in its twilight phase, pondering the onset of the post-colonial at its cusp; and as such, it perhaps remains a valuable historical document for that fact in and of itself alone, as the following two quotes from the book's closing pages may help to illustrate:

"A new troubling tide - that is what we are, we Westerners, a tide that has stirred the deposit of centuries. Tides, by their nature, recede. In one sense we are already in recession; as the ruling power, Britain is everywhere disengaging her grip. The speed of this retreat is indeed phenomenal, and much greater than it needs to be if Britain's work is to endure. As it is, the time has been too short to lay secure, or even rudimentary, foundations. Yet, had it been prolonged, the ill-will engendered by sloth in abdication - once abdication had been proclaimed as the objective - would so have inflamed and poisoned the body politic that Britain's constructive task would have become impossible, since rifles do not promote racial harmony. This was Britain's dilemma, which she solved by deciding to hurry quickly and risk the results." p.312

"It sometimes appears that our modern colonies are forcing-houses where, under conditions of great heat and sultriness, we cultivated transplanted seedlings in soil deficient in certain ingredients needed for the healthy growth of those particular exotics. We force an omnipotent bureaucracy without honesty, a democracy without enlightenment, an economy without toil, a nation without unity, a culture without art: in short, a society without faith to give it purpose or a code of morals to give it strength. Strange blooms may result." p.313

[My copy is The Reprint Society (London, 1955) edition]

 

Elspeth Huxley, 1907-1997

Elspeth Huxley was born in England in 1907 to British parents, Nellie (née Grosvenor, daughter of Lord Stalbridge) and Major Josceline Grant, who became colonial settlers in Thika, British East Africa (now Kenya) in 1912. Growing up on her parent’s coffee plantation, Elspeth began her somewhat sporadic education at a 'whites only' school in Nairobi, and then briefly at boarding school at Aldeburgh in Suffolk from which she was expelled for gambling on horse racing. In 1925 she returned to England in order to study agriculture at Reading University, then in 1928 she continued her studies in the USA at Cornell University. After which she worked as an assistant press officer at the Empire Marketing Board, and then subsequently as a broadcaster for the BBC during the 1940s and 1950s, specialising in African affairs. She also served as member of the Monckton Advisory Commission on Central Africa (1959-1960).

 

In 1931 Elspeth married into the famous Huxley family. Her husband, Gervas Huxley, who had been her boss at the Empire Marketing board, was a cousin of the writer, Aldous Huxley. She was also a friend of Joy Adamson, author of Born Free (1960), which is perhaps more widely remembered because of its film adaptation and the popular song of the same title. Elspeth’s own writing career was long and prolific. She began as a teenage journalist, writing for various newspapers and magazines in Africa. Publishing her first book in 1935, she subsequently authored more than forty books of both fiction and non-fiction – Africa forming the common theme and backcloth to her novels, memoirs, travelogues, and commentary works. Perhaps naturally her colonial background, her education, and her work for British imperial institutions shaped and influenced her outlook which was initially very pro-colonial, but she later came to support contemporary moves towards African Independence, as Four Guineas attests. In this respect, whilst some of her personal attitudes have become outmoded, her polemical writings still stand as interesting insights into, and valuable eye-witness accounts of changing colonial attitudes regarding the political, economic, environmental, and cultural issues which were widely salient across the African continent during the mid-late twentieth century.

 

Four Guineas is perhaps not one of her better-known works, such as The Flame Trees of Thika: Memories of an African Childhood (1959) and The Mottled Lizard (1962), autobiographical reflections upon her life growing up in Kenya which have been criticised as describing a rose-tinted view of colonial Africa and providing an apologia for colonial rule. Her books, however, also reflect a deep and often empathetic interest in the cultures of the Masai and Kikuyu peoples, which she had previously written about in her novel, Red Strangers (1939). When it was first submitted to the Macmillan publishing house, the unflinching descriptions Red Strangers contained of female circumcision rites were said to have made Harold Macmillan (who later became British Prime Minster) blanche, but refusing to compromise on editing such passages Huxley took the book to Chatto & Windus instead, who published it with less qualms. A recent reissue of the book by Penguin Classics was supported by the polemical scientist, Richard Dawkins, who himself was likewise born and raised in colonial Kenya. Dawkins also wrote a preface to the new edition.

 

In 1962 Huxley was awarded a CBE for her writings on Africa, and she continued writing on these subjects into the 1990s. Elspeth Huxley died in England in 1997, aged 89. In an obituary, The New York Times described her as “a witty and energetic journalist” whose “eclectic literary output reflected an extraordinary range of interests”, and as a constant supporter of myriad causes who remained tirelessly “energetic to the end.” It seems to me she was perhaps a writer of her own era, but also one who reflected the changes and adaptations of those times, having lived through an epoch in which the world experienced a massive and rapid cultural shift of global proportions. Through her contemporary commentaries she perhaps unwittingly gave us a ‘history of the present’ as she and her contemporaries saw it in real time; a worldview which we might no longer share in its narrowness and its self-inflated suppositions, but one which we could certainly benefit from studying and understanding in order to broaden and better our own.

Also on 'Waymarks'

Dan Eldon - "Safari as a Way of Life"

Temples & Feluccas - Travelling in Egypt

Challenge in Nigeria, 1948.

Firing Line with William F. Buckley Jr. - Africa and Colonialism

An Interview with Elspeth Huxley, 1970.

Further Reading

Elspeth Huxley and the Dead Man: On Writing Heroes and Heroines

by Eva Molina, Other Annapurnas, 24 May 2023

Peter Hopkirk - Historian of 'The Great Game'

The journalist and historian, Peter Hopkirk, who sadly passed away on August 22^nd at the age of 83, was one of my favourite writers. Like many people interested in the history of Western Imperialist incursions into Central Asia his books were really the first to open up this fascinating area of history in a way which was deeply engaging. Reading his books I found his enthusiasm and empathy for the historical figures he wrote about truly infectious.

I first came across his books in the bookshop of Shanghai Museum, whilst I was working there on an exhibition, in the summer of 2006. During that time I found myself avidly racing through the pages of his Trespassers on the Roof of the World (1982), and, the wonderfully titled, Foreign Devils on the Silk Road (1980) – which I think is possibly one of the most enticing history book titles I’ve ever come across! Hopkirk’s books are those rare things, they are both eloquent and pacy, gripping and informed, page-turners with a true purpose – they convey a wealth of historical detail and are genuinely hard to put down ... If you’ve not read any of Peter Hopkirk’s books yet, stop reading me and pick up one of his books immediately!

Finding his books at that particular time and place was a wonderful example of happenstance. I’d already begun to contemplate the idea of seriously researching the life of Louis Magrath King, and here were a couple of books which seemed to tie in to that very same past world. Having worked in museums for a number of years already, my interest in collectors and their collections – the often untold or even unknown stories of how certain objects from isolated and relatively inaccessible parts of the world began their journeys towards today’s museum showcases – was something which already fascinated me deeply. And happily I found that these two books by Peter Hopkirk were a treasure trove of such tales and anecdotes.

Interestingly enough, it was the story of the Bower manuscript, which Hopkirk recounts in both Foreign Devils on the Silk Road and Trespassers on the Roof of the World, which initially caught my interest the most. I’d already begun efforts to piece together Louis King’s family tree and I knew he had forbears on his father’s side who had the surname Bowers, and, naturally enough, I wondered if there might perhaps be some connection there. I’ve not yet found a direct family connection between Louis King and Hamilton Bower (if there was any connection that Louis himself had known of, I’m sure he would almost certainly have made mention of it), yet there is a connection of a different sort – in that Tibetan artefacts collected by both men sit alongside each other in the showcases of the present Asia Gallery in the British Museum.

I’m not sure I really knew at the time that I was first reading Hopkirk’s books whilst staying in Shanghai, but the connections to Louis King are certainly there – in the first sentence of the first page of his first book in fact, which begins with a direct quote from Louis’s close friend and colleague, Sir Eric Teichman. Like Louis, Teichman had been stationed for a time at Tachienlu and had also travelled extensively in the surrounding region of East Tibet known as Kham. As my researches progressed I constantly found myself looking back to Hopkirk’s books as other prominent ‘players’ in the history of the Great Game, which Hopkirk chronicles so well, were contemporaries who would have known and been known to Louis himself – people such as Sir Charles Bell, Captain Eric Bailey, General George Pereira, Alexandra David-Neel, and, even Lord Curzon.

More than this though, Hopkirk’s books seemed to link with my own world, as in the years that followed I made numerous journeys of my own to Asia. And during these travels I’ve often found my mind wandering back to certain passages or images which were first conjured in the pages of his books. I remember watching a beautiful sunset over the Taklamakan desert from the window of a cargo plane when I was on my way back to Shanghai once again in 2008. I remember looking down at the Taklamakan and thinking of Sven Hedin and Marc Aurel Stein.

Our plane had spent five hours on the ground at Baku in Azerbaijan, where my travelling companion and I hadn’t been allowed to get off the plane. Not content with following the Silk Road by air from one of its many starting points in the West, my feet itched to get out here and continue our journey overland instead. Soon after we soared off the runway and headed out over the glittering waters of the Caspian Sea I was sat up in the cockpit, poring over the pilot’s maps, trying to work out what the ground features were below. We were passing over places with familiar names: Bokhara, Samarkand, Tashkent, Kokand, Fergana, Kashgar, and Dunhuang. Hopkirk’s books undoubtedly added a heady dose of historical spice to my travels and inspired me to delve ever deeper into a growing interest which soon became a genuine passion. For a long time I’d been pondering which area of history I wanted to return to university and pursue, and it was probably the coincidence of my family connection to Louis King, and my frequent work trips to related parts of Asia, both lit by the spark of Hopkirk’s books, which finally helped me to narrow down and channel my focus into a study of Western adventurers in Central and East Asia.

If you look at the traditional short author’s biography at the start of each of his books you’ll get a brief, tantalising glimpse into Peter Hopkirk’s own life; which, evidently, was no less adventurous than some of the historical persons he writes about. Recent obituary articles written in memory of him give a little more detail, hinting that a life of Hopkirk would most likely be a fascinating book to read. For more than twenty years he worked as a foreign correspondent in the great days of the Fleet Street newspapers, most notably for The Times. As a journalist and traveller he was certainly intrepid, finding himself twice flung into jail in Cuba and in the Middle East; and even surviving the hijacking of a plane travelling out of Beirut in 1974, in which he very courageously mediated with the Palestinian hijackers when the plane landed in Amsterdam, successfully persuading them to lay down their weapons. Before becoming a journalist he’d served in the British Army in the King’s African Rifles, in the same battalion as the young Idi Amin, who later became the infamous Ugandan tyrant.

In 1999 he was awarded the Sir Percy Sykes Memorial Medal for his writings and travels by the Royal Society for Asian Affairs. Of all his books, perhaps his most personal is the last – Quest for Kim: In Search of Kipling’s Great Game (1996). Part personal travelogue and part literary detective work, he recounts how he went in search of traces of Kipling’s original inspiration for the real locations and historical characters on which Kipling had based his famous and much loved novel. Reading Quest for Kim over the last month, as well as dipping back into his other books, this final work really shines with all of Hopkirk’s personal passions: the immersive joys of historical research; getting lost in libraries and emerging to follow up various leads and loose ends; tracing the shadowy, long forgotten dealings of imperial espionage; unearthing accounts of personal endurance and adventure; reflecting on his love of language and the written word; and, not least, acknowledging his deep rooted captivation by all the classic ingredients of a first rate ‘Boy’s Own’ storyline – something which clearly remained with him all his life from his early boyhood days when he’d first discovered John Buchan's 'Richard Hannay' novels, and, of course, Kipling’s Kim. Happily for us, Hopkirk’s own books are just as captivating and enjoyable as these greats which he loved.

List of Works by Peter Hopkirk (1930-2014)

Foreign Devils on the Silk Road: The Search for the Lost Treasures of Central Asia (John Murray, 1980)

Trespassers on the Roof of the World: The Secret Exploration of Tibet (John Murray, 1982)

Setting the East Ablaze: Lenin’s Dream of an Empire in Asia (John Murray, 1984)

The Great Game: On Secret Service in High Asia (John Murray, 1990)

On Secret Service East of Constantinople: The Great Game and the Great War (John Murray, 1994)

Quest for Kim: In Search of Kipling’s Great Game (John Murray, 1996)

Dan Eldon - "Safari as a Way of Life"

Today is the twentieth anniversary of the death of Dan Eldon. He was only 22 years old. Yet already at that age he was a young man of many talents and achievements: Artist. Activist. Adventurer. Accomplished war photographer.

I never knew Dan, but, like many people who only came to know of Dan after his tragic and untimely death, I found Dan to be an inspiration. As near contemporaries (Dan was a few years older than me), I’d like to think that Dan was a kindred spirit – although, in truth, I’m not sure if I could have kept up with him! … Dan lived a life more full - in just 22 years - than most of us manage in twice, three, or four times as long. We can only imagine what he would have gone on to have made of such a rare and genuine life. Yet, I wonder what he would have made of the inspiration his life has since become for others?

I first heard of Dan when browsing in one of the bookshops on London’s Charing Cross Road I came across a newly published book titled: “The Journey Is The Destination” (1997). The book is a fascinating compilation of his vibrant and riotously chaotic journals – each page a lavish spread of colour, collage, and creativity that simply spills out in an intriguing and enticing, cavorting, and exuberant telling of a remarkable life being chronicled by a marvellously open and accessible young man. I was 22 years old, the same age as Dan when he died, when I came across the book – which made the book seem all the more immediate. I could relate to what I found in those pages. Unconsciously drawn to exactly this sort of creativity. Dan’s journals reminded me of an article I’d seen in The Sunday Times Colour Supplement of Peter Beard’s earlier photographs and artworks inspired from a life also lived in Africa. Lamentably for me the London suburbs weren’t quite as exotic as Africa, yet I too used to be fond of creating collages. I used to plaster my Sixth Form College folders inside and out with images cut from magazines and newspapers. And a walk-in cupboard in my room was similarly adorned with an intricate mosaic of miniscule movie stills and doodles. I’d already experimented with what I called ‘photocopier art’ to create one multi-layered book of stories, poems, and images a few years before. But now, inspired by Dan, I too created a ‘scrapbook chronicle’ of my own first 22 years. Mine’s just a single book. Dan managed to fill some 17 journals. On a different level though Dan’s inspiration fed into something parallel to art which was already an on-going aspiration – for, like Dan, I had a deep wanderlust for travel and adventure. I already had an ‘endgame’ in mind for what kind of life mine would be. A mantra, like Dan’s, had been slowly forming. Art, travel, history, activism, self-chronicling, curiosity for the world at large, seemed all of a piece. I had already been on two life-shaping trips to the former West and East Germanys, and I’d also been to Portugal, Holland, Greece, and Egypt. I knew then that I wanted to make friends with people scattered far and wide in order to shrink and bind the world more closely in some confused and exuberant adolescent desire to know, see, share, and experience everything that the world had to offer. As an affliction or some kind of bug it evidently bit deep because I probably still feel exactly the same even today.

One of Dan’s journals shows him sitting on the steps of the Pergamon Museum in Berlin, an ice-cream cone in hand and a camera lying on the step between his feet. I’d visited the same museum in 1993. I had also stood on the mid-point of the great dam at Aswan with a new found friend from South Africa, and pointing south, across Lake Nasser, I’d said: “You live down there. I wonder how long it would take to walk to your house?” - Dan would probably have suggested that instead of walking, we get ourselves a Land Rover and give it a shot. Perhaps we could have stayed at his house in Nairobi en route. My trip to Egypt was in July 1992 – exactly a year before he died.

“Mission Statement for Safari as a Way of Life: To explore the unknown and the familiar, distant and near, and to record, in detail with the eyes of a child, any beauty (of the flesh or otherwise), horror, irony, traces of utopia or Hell. Select your team with care, but when in doubt, take on new crew and give them a chance. 

Look for solutions, not problems.

The most important part of vehicle maintenance is clean windows, so if you are broken down you will enjoy the beauty of the view.” 

– Dan Eldon.

  

Dan was born of a British father and an American mother, but he and his younger sister grew up mostly in Kenya, where he attended the International School in Nairobi – so it’s no wonder he grew up with such an internationally mixed outlook. Unhampered by dull suburban conformities he was able to explore a world which seemed limitless and unbounded, not just in the vastness which is Africa itself but in maintaining his connections with friends and fellow students from all around the world. His journals speak as a testament to his endless curiosity and his multi-layered reflections upon all his diverse encounters and explorations. There are Tube tickets and snapshots of Dan in London in his journals and I can’t help wondering if I might have passed him at some point. In the early 1990s I used to go on what I liked to call “walkabouts”, exploring London on foot, randomly navigating different streets each time, relying only on a natural sense of direction, building up my own mental A-Z map by spinning a web of these streets in my mind as they linked and overlapped in long footsore days spent wandering simply for the sake of wandering. Since then I’ve got to know other cities in much the same way on repeated trips to places such as: Beijing, Shanghai, Seoul, Taipei, Tokyo, Kobe, Osaka, Madrid, Rome, Florence, Zurich … 

Eventually a camera became my companion on these “walkabouts”. I come from a family of photographers, but unlike some of my relatives who have really excelled at photography I’ve never really mastered the scientific-art of taking pictures; a moderately natural eye and a lot of good luck have resulted in a few shots I’m fairly proud of. I did give photography a good go though (some years back) when my brother loaned me his old Nikon 35mm SLR and all his kit of lens and filters, etc. I got somewhat hooked on Ilford black and white film, and that distinctive sound that the shutter release makes, followed by the satisfying ‘sense of finish’ that the thumb crank moving the frame on gives you – and the mixed excitement and trepidation of collecting your prints from the developers, leafing through the wallet of shots which until then were framed and fixed only in your mind, now matching them or raising your eyebrows at how they’d turned out differently to what you’d remembered or expected. One summer whilst away camping on an archaeological excavation a free batch of film helped open up my picture taking technique. A friend and I decided to use this unexpected windfall of film to the full and so we resolved not to hesitate when shooting, and in doing so I learnt why the paparazzi shoot rapid quick fire shots – simply because by probability of averages one is bound to be a winner. Modern digital cameras make this even easier, but there’s still something altogether more satisfying about real film which digital cannot match. I recall sensing that film would one day inevitably be surpassed, and I knew even then that I’d one day feel nostalgic for that unknown roulette game which photography was for me, along with the nervous excitement of it all. 

Clearly Dan was a fearless and experimental photographer from an early age. Undoubtedly, as I’d seen in some of my relatives, the camera is a device which melds itself to some people as much as they become melded to it – the two become one. They click. And the camera simultaneously becomes a shield and a bridge, in a sense it allows you to look in without being seen, or, conversely it draws attention to you and sets you up for some kind of encounter depending on how you play the situation. Natural photographers allied to their kit seem to bring out the best in people, capturing a skein of reality – with an immediacy – which might otherwise have been missed. I’ve no doubt in my mind that photography is a genuine art. And as a tool of reportage it is an invaluable recording device – it really is a truth that a picture can speak a thousand words. Dan’s photojournalism is a testament to that fact. It rapidly shaped and transformed him, particularly in his last year. In many senses we can see from his images of the crisis in Somalia that he had entered a new phase. His art and his humanitarian instincts, both closely allied elements of his personality, which had come together in his previous aid work initiatives done in collaboration with his sister and his friends had eventually led him on to his career with Reuters. A career and character of dedication which unwittingly led him into a situation he could not have anticipated or controlled, and, consequently, it was one which ultimately cost him his life. Dan and three of his colleagues, Hos Maina, Anthony Macharia, Hansi Krauss, were beaten to death by an angry mob furious at a US/UN air strike of unprecedented brutality which claimed many innocent victims – Dan and his colleagues had gone out, urged by locals to photograph and report on the incident, yet inadvertently they too became victims of the same incident themselves. They died at the hands of the people they were hoping to help.

Dan died far too young. But his life, his art, and his inspiration very much live on. Twenty years later, his name is known. His artwork is still published, exhibited, and appreciated. His activism still inspires and continues to achieve good things through the projects and initiatives kept in perpetual motion by his family and his friends in his name. As I’m sure Dan would agree, the adventure is far from over – for adventure never ends. The journey is always the destination. And “One's destination,” as Henry Miller said, “... is a new way of seeing things.” I think Dan would have agreed with that too.

 

Find out more:

Dan Eldon | Creative Visions Foundation | The Dan Eldon Project | The Dan Eldon Collection

With thanks to Cynthia Young at daneldon.org for kindly giving me permission to reproduce the images of Dan, his artworks, and his photographs which accompany this post. Some eight years ago now (2005) I wrote a short piece for the ‘Dan Inspired’ section of daneldon.org and I’m pleased to see the website is still going strong and still attracting similar such contributions and tributes to Dan’s memory. Long may it continue to inspire young people to make a difference, undaunted – to make the world a better place.

Dan Eldon (1970-1993)