By Armando Ortiz
While scrolling through social media, I came upon a video of a man in Mexico City interviewing people at a book festival. A person he interviewed mentioned Tristes Tropiques by the French anthropologist Claude Lévi-Strauss. A seed of wonder was planted at that moment. So I began learning more about the author and the book. Unbeknownst to me, my friend Scott had a copy and gave it to me as a gift.
His introduction unfolds slowly, reflecting on life in Paris and the prospect of moving to Brazil. The chance to connect his studies with travel was a great opportunity. As he makes his way there, he talks about the French explorers who came to America in the 1500s. He also takes time to describe the oceanscape and life aboard a ship. Once in Brazil, an opportunity to explore further inland opens up. As he travels deeper into the interior, the people he encounters become increasingly varied: loggers, diamond seekers, immigrants, outlaws, and Indigenous communities.
He describes those parts of Brazil as an endless savannah of heat, with rains that flood vast stretches of the plains. In that environment he reflects on the lives of Indigenous communities living deep in the backcountry.
As I read his chronicles, I thought of how fortunate I was to have visited points of encounter like Lisbon, Portugal and Rouen, France. Those are places where people left their homes to explore new lands and returned with people, things, and ideas. As I read, I seemed to embark on a journey myself. The deeper his analysis became, the more his travels began connecting with places I had visited. The world that we inhabit today carries the consequences of those explorations and encounters.
Reading his chronicles, I suddenly found myself reliving my trip to Portugal, standing in front of the monument to the Age of Discovery. I recalled seeing South Asian people working in Lisbon. Lisbon was a departure point for many voyages of exploration, and yet the city itself had once been under Muslim rule. It makes me wonder how many untold stories a landscape can hold, and how many discoveries might still be waiting in places we think we already know.
I remembered the walking tour in Paris and listening to the guide tell us how Paris was divided into districts and how the floors of buildings reflected social standing. Then I also wandered through the old business area of Rouen where I saw a giant plaque dedicated to the explorer René-Robert Cavelier, Sieur de La Salle, who sailed the Mississippi River. I thought about what he might have seen in North America–the markets, the people, and the interactions taking place around him. As I stood there, a Scandinavian tour group walked by, headed toward the town square and the cathedral.
Ideas Spread Like Fire:
Lévi-Strauss talks about the literature produced in France during the Age of Discovery. Jean-Jacques Rousseau was influenced by accounts of the New World and its civilizations. Although he never visited those places, he encountered their civilizations through the accounts he read. It also made me realize why I had unknowingly encountered Rousseau’s tomb when I went to see Voltaire’s. The torch he holds seems to me like a symbol of knowledge carried from one person to another. Ideas can spread like fire, and they can flow like water. They cross boundaries without necessarily respecting them, moving far beyond the places where they began.
While in Paris, we stood in front of Delacroix’s Liberty Leading the People, the woman carrying the French flag rising above the crowd. Reading Lévi-Strauss made me wonder how much the accounts of societies in the Americas influenced European debates about society, human nature, and political organization.
The Americas contributed not only new vegetables and fruits to the world, but also ways of living and new ways of doing things. What kind of debates might have begun after Europeans learned that some Indigenous societies had councils that included women as decision makers. I also wondered about Voltaire’s story The Huron–what it meant to imagine an Indigenous character living in France, and what Voltaire himself imagined of America as he wrote that story.
It is a reminder that the seeds of civilization also originated in Mexico, Central America, the Andes, and the Amazon. The food we eat is not the product of one genius society or one culture, but the result of countless cultures sharing, adapting, and transforming what came before. Cultures themselves are full of seeds—ideas, food, traditions, stories—that travel farther than the people who first cultivated them. Their intended use might have completely changed over time. For example, in the Philippines there is a fabric called piña, made from pineapple fibers. The pineapple itself was domesticated in the Americas and later introduced to the Philippines by the Spanish.
Rivers:
Another connection I made was with his reflections on water and rivers, which reminded me again of the walking tour where our guide pointed out the difference between the left and right banks of the Seine River. One side of the river had been developed by the Romans and over time Parisians built over those vestiges. Later he explained that the city was designed to keep specific groups of people in certain places of the city. The river was a point of division, but that same body of water also carried voyages towards the Western Hemisphere.
Lévi-Strauss writes about people he observed in Brazil who organized themselves along a dividing line, describing where they lived, where they held their ceremonies, who sat where, and how that imaginary river divided the community. I began to wonder whether a river itself could become the basis of community organization, with families, clans, and tribes forming around it. At the river’s edge, people celebrated and battled with each other. Yet floods also divided people from each other, sometimes temporarily and at other times forever.
Deep in the Brazilian backcountry he watched children play with carved dolls. One was of a woman with two children, while another was an old man. Through those figures, children were taught a galaxy of ideas; they seemed to serve as memory tools. Interestingly, he noticed that a French explorer, about a hundred and fifty years before him, had observed similar groups using similar figurines.
I began to wonder if the river itself represented a woman, and the two banks were her children—clans and tribes—held together and separated by the same water. I was also curious to know what the old wooden man represented, whether he represented a shaman, an ancestor, or simply someone who had reached old age. I was left thinking about where I live and the importance of water as a life force and a means by which we travel. It gives life, yet it can also be a source of conflict.
Rivers, like springs and watering holes, are places of encounter. Although idyllic and verdant, they can also be dangerous places—as sources of food, celebration, meetings and conflict. Water is used to process food and give birth. It creates places of contemplation and meditation, and locations that are good for hunting. These places can become marked with symbols–rock carvings, pictographs, and other traces of human presence. Bodies of water and their sources have been places where cultures are born, where they die, but also where they are reborn.
The Sun:
Along his travels, he describes the heat he feels while crossing parts of Brazil. Yet he also takes time to describe the splendor of a sunset and the magnificence of a sunrise during his boat trips and expeditions. Although he does not dwell on it directly, the sun is everywhere in the landscape: giving life to plants, drying the land after the rains, and illuminating the world around him. The same sun that makes the journey exhausting also reveals the beauty of the landscape. A journey beneath the midday sun can be exhausting, even punishing. Yet sometimes it is in those moments, beneath the heat and glare, that new insights begin to emerge. Reading Lévi-Strauss had done exactly that for me.
