My committee was composed of three senior Yale professors. That was the way it was done. Only senior professors were regarded as qualified to make judgments about who should get the highest academic degree. Each of them had written half a shelf of important books and essays, classics in the field—and they had large egos to match their work. Civilized egos to be sure, but they were forces to be reckoned with. The committee had enormous power over me, not only over whether I got the degree, but also over where I would do my field research. They could send me anywhere on this planet, the more remote the society the better, preferably a society that had never been contacted by anyone from a technologically advanced society. If I completed my research and then wrote my dissertation, the committee would decide whether it met the standards for a doctorate. Their answer would cast either a bright warm glow or a long cold shadow over the rest of my life, influencing not only my job prospects, but also how my family and friends regarded me. The stakes could not be higher.
The committee was diverse. My dissertation advisor—who, of course, served as the chairman of the committee—was Jaroslav Jasovic, a brilliant Czech. He had a full head of gray hair brushed back from his forehead that conveyed his vitality, both intellectual and physical. The rumor, which he did nothing to dispel, was that he had done some challenging mountain-climbing in Europe. His spoken English was heavily accented, but he wrote English more clearly than I could ever master. How the hell did he do it?
The second member was a Jamaican, Philip Jones, although he gave few clues through his speech or demeanor that he was from the Caribbean. At least that’s what I thought, but I didn’t have much of an idea of how a Jamaican should sound or behave. He had done his graduate work in England and his fieldwork in West Africa. Since then, he’d produced brilliant books, mostly on political anthropology and field methods. At the meeting, he’d be the toughest of the three, posing very direct questions leaving no wiggle room for a loose or vapid answer. I knew I had to convince him of the merits of my work to have a chance to graduate.
The third committee member was Henry Lasington, an engaging upper-class Englishman, Oxford educated, with fine pale features and wispy blonde hair. He was a new arrival at Yale and had not yet acquired the hard edge that most professors at the university exhibited. He struck me as a totally civilized man. He also brought to Yale an expertise in British social anthropology that impressed me.
The main building of the Anthropology Department was a converted mansion on Hillhouse, but Jasovic, as a perquisite of his department rank, had a large office in a separate building a block away.
I took care to arrive there on time for the meeting. All three of my committee members were present and greeted me cordially. Jasovic motioned for me to be seated, and I withdrew my fountain pen from my pocket to take notes. It was one of the few indulgences I had allowed myself during graduate school, an Albatross Crown 800. It was a stark contrast to my bad old jeans.
“Mr. Johnson,” began Professor Jasovic, “we’re here to learn what your plans are for fulfilling your fieldwork requirement. I assume you have been thinking about where you wish to do your research.”
“Yes, I have thought about it, Professor,” I said.
You never wanted to admit that you hadn’t been thoughtful, whatever else you might say. I had also used the title “Professor,” which was good sucking up, especially with European professors.
“I want to make sure that it’s an area likely to produce good data for my first book and an area that’s interesting to me.”
Awful. I can’t believe I used the word “interesting.” You never want to use that word to describe your reaction. It was hopelessly vague and conveys virtually nothing, but I had to turn off the guilt so I could concentrate fully on the questions I was being asked. Perhaps they hadn’t noticed that error, though I had only a faint hope of that.
“‘Interesting’, is it? Well, that’s an interesting criterion,” Jasovic said in a reproving tone. “To introduce some specificity to this discussion, where do you want to study?” he continued, albeit with a tight, forced smile.
He wasn’t allowing me any breathing room.
“I’ve been thinking about working on Native Americans,” I heard myself say. “Specifically, I have become interested in the Mississippi Choctaw, the ones who hid out when Andrew Jackson removed the Five Civilized Tribes to Oklahoma.”
“We know something about the history of your Choctaw,” said Jones quietly.
I grew up reasonably near the Choctaw reservation and had done considerable work in American history as an undergraduate. That ought to count for something, I reasoned. The topic I was proposing would tie together my previous work, and it would keep me in the US. I could speak English with them. I’d have to be skillful in defending the choice, however. There was a pause, after which I saw a look of disappointment sweep across Jasovic’s face. I knew that my suggestion of the Choctaw wouldn’t survive the next thirty seconds.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Jasovic said solemnly. “Native Americans are almost totally assimilated.”
Now it was Philip Jones’ turn to wince. I recalled, even if Jasovic did not at that moment, that Jones had written a brilliant article challenging the whole notion of assimilation. The short of it was that Jones didn’t think that assimilation was a helpful concept in anthropological analysis. I took a deep breath. At least I hadn’t fallen into that error.
“They are driving pick-up trucks on their reservations,” Jasovic continued. “They speak English and wear blue jeans. They own and run manufacturing plants. How distinctive do you think a culture like that is? It would be like studying yourself.”
In my heart, I knew that Jasovic was right. He wanted me to do real fieldwork, out in the wild, so I cut my losses and moved on from the Choctaw suggestion.
“Yes, Professor Jasovic, that has concerned me as well. I just wanted to raise it because of my unique background but I will, of course, follow the direction of the committee.”
“Well, in the interest of time, let’s pick a more productive area. There’s always Oceania, you know,” Jasovic offered, referring to his own area of expertise.
I had to think quickly and carefully about my answer.
“I have considered Fiji.”
Actually, I did not know that much about Fiji, which was a real risk in these circumstances, but I mentioned it because I couldn’t afford the risk of admitting that I wasn’t interested in going into my advisor’s major area of study. The upside was that, if the committee stuck me with Oceania, it would be great to work in the South Pacific. I hated the cold.
“The out islands may be an acceptable place for you to do your fieldwork, but the main islands won’t help you…or anthropology,” said Jasovic, with clear contempt for fieldwork that didn’t meet his standards. “They’ve been impacted too much by Western culture. They’re full of tourist shops. It wouldn’t add anything to what we already know.”
Jasovic strongly advocated doing fieldwork in societies that had never been contacted by modern culture. Such societies were purer examples of discrete human societies than were contacted societies, who almost certainly would have imported cultural features. Of course, un-contacted societies had become rarer over time as modern global culture encroached on them and as universities kept churning out doctoral candidates who contacted them. However, enough were left so that it was increasingly important, or so the discipline thought, that anthropologists reach the remaining isolated groups and study them before others from modern society did. If anyone was going to contaminate them by contact, by damn, anthropologists should be the ones doing it.
Jasovic brought me face-to-face with the fundamental challenge of the discipline. I’d have to go live in a primitive society for at least a year in a grass hut or dirt hut or some other crude shelter. Day after day, no plumbing, refrigerator, grocery store, television, books, typewriter, or library. This list included the items that occupied my days in New Haven. Fiel
dwork involved great risk for me, fully challenging my skills, and there would be no relief for an entire year. I was going to the field in damned reality, not in theory.
I took a deep breath and told myself to respond carefully. I wanted to do my fieldwork in an area other than Jasovic’s area of interest. Some young graduate students thought one studied under a senior professor because one wanted to work as closely as possible to the professor’s field of specialization. After all, that’s why one choses a particular mentor. However, I didn’t want to get too close to Jasovic’s area. What could I, Rick Johnson, tell Jaroslav Jasovic about Oceania that he didn’t already know? If I researched Oceania, Jasovic would grade me on what percentage of Oceania I knew in comparison to his own 100%. I’d always be his graduate student, only partially as good as the master. I wanted to go to another geographical area, but I couldn’t tell them my real reason. I needed to make my appeal to the committee with great care and I had to be able to defend my choice. At that point, Professor Jones stepped in.
“I remember a paper you did for me last semester, Mr. Johnson, on the Amazon rain forest. You did a very nice analysis of Napoleon Chagnon’s work on the Yanomamo and the subsequent literature. Insightful and well done, as I recall. Why don’t you take on the rain forest—that is, if you think your health is up to it?”
It was no surprise that Jones expected me to do real fieldwork as well. His life was committed to it.
“Phil, didn’t we contact Chagnon about teaching here?” asked Jasovic. “I know we discussed it several years ago.”
“We decided against it because we thought he had too many outside demands that would cut into his teaching and research duties,” said Jones, turning back to me.
“Also, I recall some jealousy about the popularity of his work,” chimed in Lasington with insight and some gentle sarcasm.
“It’s just as well,” replied Jones, with a smirk.
“What about the La Cuerda river basin?” asked Jasovic. “There are still some un-contacted groups living there.”
“Good idea, Jaro,” said Jones. “Henry, how does that sound to you?”
“A great place to do original research. Very remote,” said Lasington.
“Then it’s decided,” said Jasovic. “Mr. Johnson, in case you don’t know already, you can get near the mouth of the La Cuerda by flying into La Puerta, Imaginación, and hiring a boat from there to take you up river.”
“It’s a demanding environment, Mr. Johnson. Is your health up to it?” asked Jones.
“I’m in good health, Professor….”
“Good. You’ll doubtless need it. There are diseases in the rain forest that are unknown to medical science. You’ve developed no immunities to them living here. Before you leave, get an appointment at Yale Med for a consultation. They’ll give you a supply of basic medicines. The University will pay for them, of course. You are aren’t married, are you?”
“No.”
“Good. You don’t want anything to distract you during your research.”
Jasovic was proceeding as if the decision was made and that I was already on my way to the rain forest. Apparently, that was the case.
“I know you’ve already done some of the secondary reading,” Jasovic continued, “but you need to finish up whatever else you need to read before going into the field. I assume that you have been working on your grant application and that’s why you called this meeting.”
“Yes, I’ve completed the general parts of my application to Werner-Gren and will add the matters we decided today.”
“You should start your fieldwork right away, the sooner the better while your energy level is high. You’re going into a tropical area so the yearly cycles of seasons, which occur elsewhere, are not a consideration for when you should go.”
The seasons in some latitudes vary so much that researchers should arrive in the spring to maximize their time before the next winter. For all the learning anthropologists bring from modern society, natives in the area almost always know best how to make it through the cold months.
“Mr. Johnson, I recall that during my course on field methods, you arrived late the day I discussed the specifics of taking field notes,” said Jones. “I assume you were detained on some important matter. Anyway, I trust you got the points of that seminar from your fellow students. It is centrally important that you take good field notes. It’s what you’re going there to do…that and to think.”
Damn, Jones knew how to turn the knife. Everything had gone wrong the morning of that class and I hadn’t made it there until after it had started. Time to play humble pie.
“I was careful to get very good notes for that day, Professor Jones.”
“Good. Now what type of study do you hope to do up the La Cuerda? Social organization? Kinship? Economics? Politics? Religion? What do you have in mind?” asked Jones.
I started to answer the question forthrightly. I knew I would get skewered if the committee thought I was equivocating, so the best strategy generally was to confront questions straight on. I loved kinship studies, but then the graduate school alarm went off in my head. What Jones was really asking is whether I had remembered one of the most important lessons of his seminar.
“I won’t know before I get there, Professor Jones. I have some idea of what groups in the South American interior might be interested in, but I can’t be sure until I learn more about my specific group. I’ll let their interests determine the focus of my work.”
Now that was the answer. I congratulated myself for coming up with it.
“Good, Mr. Johnson. It’s crucial that you’ve read widely enough so you can write on any of the major areas of anthropological study. Take good notes. Bound journals. No loose leaf notebooks. Water-proof ink.”
I took those last comments as a last effort by Jones to teach, and indicating his approval of my answer to his question. I recapped my Albatross 800 and placed it in my shirt pocket. It was good to take notes when you talked with professors because it indicated that you placed importance on what they were saying. In any regard, using my pen kept me from fidgeting.
“The Department will expedite your application for financial support with Werner-Gren,” Jasovic added.
“Thank you,” I replied.
After my graduate committee meeting, I returned to my room, which was in a large house on Prospect converted by the university into graduate housing. Not surprisingly, my mind returned to the committee meeting. I’d survived it, and survival was the first goal of graduate school. However, the committee had placed a great challenge before me: doing real fieldwork in the South American interior. If I wrote a good dissertation, I would get my degree, go to a decent university to pontificate for the rest of my life in front of ill-prepared students. My name would be forever linked to my group. Malinowski and the Trobriands, Mead and Samoa, Chagnon and the Yanomamo. Now it would be Johnson and whatever group I found to study.
Real fieldwork. Living in primitive conditions. Really primitive conditions. Did I have any chance of avoiding doing fieldwork? Of course not. I knew that going into the graduate program. This was Yale, and fieldwork was clearly required. No shortcuts. I was disgusted with myself for the thought having crossed my mind.
In the bunker, Rick closed his journal. He remained unsettled after reliving the stresses of the committee meeting weeks before, so he welcomed a break for lunch. He had no idea what he would be eating.
CHAPTER 7
Yale Med
That afternoon, Rick got his field journal and pen and settled himself again in a heavy chair at the table in the bunker. His recollections of his journey to up to his current situation flooded back to him. He wanted to get them in his journal while they were vivid in his mind. Besides, he had little else to do until the Leader reappeared from her period of service with the Islamamo. As he wrote, he recalled his appointment at Yale Medicine before he left for the rain forest.
Immediately after my committee meeting, I set up an appointment with
Dr. Thomas, a tropical diseases specialist at the Yale School of Medicine. His office was on the third floor of the main medical school building on Cedar Street. I knocked gently on the door and heard a resonant voice from inside bidding me to enter. The doctor, dressed in a white lab coat, was seated at his desk, writing. His frame seemed small compared to the richness of his voice. His hair was wavy and brown, long, but neat enough. His youthful face made him seem only a little older than I was. His most notable features were his dark eyes, which sparkled with the brightness of his intellect.
“I understand that you are going into the South American interior via the La Cuerda,” he began.
“Yes, I am.”
“In anticipation of your visit, I had some materials copied for you. This book covers the major diseases found thus far in South America,” he continued, handing me a volume of about 200 pages with large block letters on the front: “Diagnosis and Treatment of Major Tropical Diseases.”
The stitched binding was extra-heavy duty and it had thick plastic covers, front and back. It was a book made to endure heavy use in tough conditions and portended the rigors of the trip ahead.
“It’s heavy book,” I noted, weighing it in my hands. “I’m trying to travel as lightly as possible.”
“This is the light version. I have trimmed it down considerably from the more comprehensive volume. That, I fear, would have been too heavy for you to manage. However this version, although you may think it heavy, must be taken with you . It would be extremely dangerous to go into the interior without it. While you’re there, protect it. You wouldn’t want to lose it in a rough ride through rapids.”
“I’ll remember that, Doctor. If this book does not include all tropical diseases, that means I might come down with something that’s not covered, correct?”
“Yes, perhaps a new malady unknown to us. In that case, we would love to study and treat you here but, unfortunately, we won’t be able to,” he said with a wan smile. “If you can’t find your symptoms in here, use your best judgment, but seriously consider getting back to La Puerta where you can get a professional diagnosis. I know it would be difficult to travel while ill, but stay open to the possibility of doing it if you need to. For your flight south, I assume that you will go to La Puerta.”
The Blue Disc Page 7
