PICK FROM THE PAST Natural History, August-September 1966 Shakespeare in the bush Africa and was taught the true meaning ofHamlet,X An American anthropologist set out to study the Tiu of we By Laura bohannan Just before i left Oxford for the Tiv in West Africa. conversation turned to the season at Stratford. "You americans, said a friend "often have difficulty with Shakespeare. He was, after all, a very English poet, and one can easily misinterpret the universal by misunderstanding the particular I protested that human nature is pretty much the same the whole world over; at least the general plot and motivation of the greater tragedies would always be clear-everywhere--although some details of custom might have to be explained and difficulties of translation might produce other slight changes To end an argument we It was my second field trip copy of hamlet to study in the Africa e could not conclude, my friend gave me to that African tribe, and i bush: it would, he hoped, lift my mind thought myself ready to live in above its primitive surroundings, and one of its remote sections- possibly I might, by prolonged an area difficult to cross even meditation, achieve the grace of correct on foot. I eventually settled interpretation. on the hillock of a very knowledgeable old man the It was my second field trip to that african head of a homestead of some tribe, and i thought myself ready to live hundred and forty people. in one of its remote sections-an area difficult to cross even on foot. I eventually settled on the hillock of a very knowledgeable old man, the head of a homestead of some hundred and forty people, all of whom were either his close relatives or their wives and children. Like the other elders of the vicinity, the old man spent most of his time performing ceremonies seldom seen these days in the more accessible parts of the tribe. I was delighted. Soon there would be three months of enforced isolation and leisure, between the harvest that takes place just
PICK FROM THE PAST Natural History, August-September 1966 Shakespeare in the Bush An American anthropologist set out to study the Tiv of West Africa and was taught the true meaning of Hamlet. By Laura Bohannan Just before I left Oxford for the Tiv in West Africa, conversation turned to the season at Stratford. “You Americans,” said a friend, “often have difficulty with Shakespeare. He was, after all, a very English poet, and one can easily misinterpret the universal by misunderstanding the particular.” I protested that human nature is pretty much the same the whole world over; at least the general plot and motivation of the greater tragedies would always be clear—everywhere—although some details of custom might have to be explained and difficulties of translation might produce other slight changes. To end an argument we could not conclude, my friend gave me a copy of Hamlet to study in the African bush: it would, he hoped, lift my mind above its primitive surroundings, and possibly I might, by prolonged meditation, achieve the grace of correct interpretation. It was my second field trip to that African tribe, and I thought myself ready to live in one of its remote sections—an area difficult to cross even on foot. I eventually settled on the hillock of a very knowledgeable old man, the head of a homestead of some hundred and forty people, all of whom were either his close relatives or their wives and children. Like the other elders of the vicinity, the old man spent most of his time performing ceremonies seldom seen these days in the more accessible parts of the tribe. I was delighted. Soon there would be three months of enforced isolation and leisure, between the harvest that takes place just It was my second field trip to that African tribe, and I thought myself ready to live in one of its remote sections— an area difficult to cross even on foot. I eventually settled on the hillock of a very knowledgeable old man, the head of a homestead of some hundred and forty people
before the rising of the swamps and the clearing of new farms when the water goes down. Then, I thought, they would have even more time to perform ceremonies and explain them to me. I was quite mistaken. Most of the ceremonies demanded the presence of elders from several homesteads. As the swamps rose, the old men found it too difficult to walk from one homestead to the next, and the ceremonies gradually ceased. As the swamps rose even higher, all activities but one came to an end. The women brewed beer from maize and millet. Men women and children sat on their hillocks and drank it People began to drink at dawn By midmorning the whole homestead was singing, dancing, and drumming. When it rained, people had to sit inside case, by noon or before, I either had to join the party or retire to my own yh their huts: there they drank and sang or they drank and told stories In any hut and my books. "One does not discuss serious matters when there is beer. Come drink with us Since i lacked their capacity for the thick native beer, I spent more and more time with hamlet. Before the end of the second month, grace descended on me. I was quite sure that Hamlet had only one possible interpretation, and that one universally obvious Early every morning, in the hope of having some serious talk before the beer party, I used to call on the old man at his reception hut-a circle of posts supporting a thatched roof above a low mud wall to keep out wind and rain. One day i crawled through the low doorway and found most of the men of the homestead sitting huddled in their ragged cloths on stools low plank beds, and reclining chairs, warming themselves against the chill of the rain around a smoky fire In the center were three pots of beer The party had started. The old man greeted me cordially. "Sit down and drink. " I accepted a large calabash full of beer, poured some into a small drinking gourd, and tossed it down. Then I poured some more into the same gourd for the man second in seniority to my host before I handed my calabash over to a young man for further distribution. Important people shouldnt ladle beer themselves It is better like this, the old man said, looking at me approvingly and plucking at the thatch that had caught in my hair. You should sit and drink with us more often. Your servants tell me that when you are not with us,you sit inside your hut looking at a paper. This morning they wanted to
before the rising of the swamps and the clearing of new farms when the water goes down. Then, I thought, they would have even more time to perform ceremonies and explain them to me. I was quite mistaken. Most of the ceremonies demanded the presence of elders from several homesteads. As the swamps rose, the old men found it too difficult to walk from one homestead to the next, and the ceremonies gradually ceased. As the swamps rose even higher, all activities but one came to an end. The women brewed beer from maize and millet. Men, women, and children sat on their hillocks and drank it. People began to drink at dawn. By midmorning the whole homestead was singing, dancing, and drumming. When it rained, people had to sit inside their huts: there they drank and sang or they drank and told stories. In any case, by noon or before, I either had to join the party or retire to my own hut and my books. “One does not discuss serious matters when there is beer. Come, drink with us.” Since I lacked their capacity for the thick native beer, I spent more and more time with Hamlet. Before the end of the second month, grace descended on me. I was quite sure that Hamlet had only one possible interpretation, and that one universally obvious. Early every morning, in the hope of having some serious talk before the beer party, I used to call on the old man at his reception hut—a circle of posts supporting a thatched roof above a low mud wall to keep out wind and rain. One day I crawled through the low doorway and found most of the men of the homestead sitting huddled in their ragged cloths on stools, low plank beds, and reclining chairs, warming themselves against the chill of the rain around a smoky fire. In the center were three pots of beer. The party had started. The old man greeted me cordially. “Sit down and drink.” I accepted a large calabash full of beer, poured some into a small drinking gourd, and tossed it down. Then I poured some more into the same gourd for the man second in seniority to my host before I handed my calabash over to a young man for further distribution. Important people shouldn’t ladle beer themselves. “It is better like this,” the old man said, looking at me approvingly and plucking at the thatch that had caught in my hair. “You should sit and drink with us more often. Your servants tell me that when you are not with us, you sit inside your hut looking at a paper.” This morning they wanted to
The old man was acquainted with four hear a story while they drank kinds of papers": tax receipts, bride price They threatened to tell me no receipts, court fee receipts, and letters. more stories until I told them The messenger who brought him letters one of mine .. Realizing from the chief used them mainly as a that here was my chance to was in them and told the old man intelligible, /agreed badge of office, for he always knew what prove Hamlet universally Personal letters for the few who had relatives in the government or mission stations were kept until someone went to a large market where there was a letter writer and reader. Since my arrival, letters were brought to me to be read. A few men also brought me bride price receipts, privately, with requests to change the figures to a higher sum. I found moral arguments were of no avail, since in-laws are fair game, and the technical hazards of forgery difficult to explain to an illiterate people. i did not wish them to think me silly enough to look at any such papers for days on end, and I hastily explained that my"paper"was one of the"things of long ago" of my country Ah, said the old man Tell us I protested that i was not a storyteller Storytelling is a skilled art among them; their standards are high, and the audiences critical-and vocal in their criticism. I protested in vain. This morning they wanted to hear a story while they drank. They threatened to tell me no more stories until i told them one of mine. Finally, the old man promised that no one would criticize my style, " for we know you are struggling with our language. " But, put in one of the elders, you must explain what we do not understand, as we do when we tell you our stories Realizing that here was my chance to prove Hamlet universally intelligible, i agreed The old man handed me some more beer to help me on with my storytelling. Men filled their long wooden pipes and knocked coals from the fire to place in the pipe bowls; then, puffing contentedly, they sat back to listen. I began in the proper style, " Not yesterday, not yesterday, but long ago, a thing occurred. One night three men were keeping watch outside the homestead of the great chief, when suddenly they saw the former chief approach them Why was he no longer their chief? He was dead, I explained. That is why they were troubled and afraid when they saw him
The old man was acquainted with four kinds of “papers”: tax receipts, bride price receipts, court fee receipts, and letters. The messenger who brought him letters from the chief used them mainly as a badge of office, for he always knew what was in them and told the old man. Personal letters for the few who had relatives in the government or mission stations were kept until someone went to a large market where there was a letter writer and reader. Since my arrival, letters were brought to me to be read. A few men also brought me bride price receipts, privately, with requests to change the figures to a higher sum. I found moral arguments were of no avail, since in-laws are fair game, and the technical hazards of forgery difficult to explain to an illiterate people. I did not wish them to think me silly enough to look at any such papers for days on end, and I hastily explained that my “paper” was one of the “things of long ago” of my country. “Ah,” said the old man. “Tell us.” I protested that I was not a storyteller. Storytelling is a skilled art among them; their standards are high, and the audiences critical—and vocal in their criticism. I protested in vain. This morning they wanted to hear a story while they drank. They threatened to tell me no more stories until I told them one of mine. Finally, the old man promised that no one would criticize my style, “for we know you are struggling with our language.” “But,” put in one of the elders, “you must explain what we do not understand, as we do when we tell you our stories.” Realizing that here was my chance to prove Hamlet universally intelligible, I agreed. The old man handed me some more beer to help me on with my storytelling. Men filled their long wooden pipes and knocked coals from the fire to place in the pipe bowls; then, puffing contentedly, they sat back to listen. I began in the proper style, “Not yesterday, not yesterday, but long ago, a thing occurred. One night three men were keeping watch outside the homestead of the great chief, when suddenly they saw the former chief approach them.” “Why was he no longer their chief?” “He was dead,” I explained. “That is why they were troubled and afraid when they saw him.” hear a story while they drank. They threatened to tell me no more stories until I told them one of mine. . . . Realizing that here was my chance to prove Hamlet universally intelligible, I agreed
Impossible, began one of the elders, handing his pipe on to his neighbo who interrupted, "Of course it wasnt the dead chief. It was an omen sent by a witch.Goon.” Slightly shaken, I continued. One of these three was a man who knew things"the closest translation for scholar, but unfortunately it also meant witch. The second elder looked triumphantly at the first. So he spoke to the dead chief saying, Tell us what we must do so you may rest in your grave, but the dead chief did not answer. He vanished, and they could see him no more. Then the man who knew things-his name was Horatio-said this event was the affair of the dead chief s son hamlet There was a general shaking of heads round the circle. Had the dead chief no living brothers? Or was this son the chief? No, I replied. " That is, he had one living brother who became the chief when the elder brother died The old men muttered: such omens were matters for chiefs and elders not for youngsters; no good could come of going behind a chief s back; clearly Horatio was not a man who knew things Yes, he was, " I insisted shooing a chicken away from my beer "In our country the son is next to the father The dead chief s younger brother had become the great chief. He had also married his elder brothers widow only about a month after the funeral He did well. the old man beamed and announced to the others "I told you that if we knew more about Europeans, we would find they really were very like us In our country also, he added to me, the younger brother marries the elder brother's widow and becomes the father of his children Now, if your uncle, who married your widowed mother, is your fathers full brother then he will be a real father to you. Did Hamlet,'s father and uncle have one mother?” His question barely penetrated my mind; I was too upset and thrown too far off-balance by having one of the most important elements of Hamlet knocked straight out of the picture. Rather uncertainly I said that i thought they had the same mother, but I wasnt sure-the story didnt say. The old man told me severely that these genealogical details made all the difference and that when i got home i must ask the elders about it He shouted out the door to one of his younger wives to bring his goatskin bag
“Impossible,” began one of the elders, handing his pipe on to his neighbor, who interrupted, “Of course it wasn’t the dead chief. It was an omen sent by a witch. Go on.” Slightly shaken, I continued. “One of these three was a man who knew things”—the closest translation for scholar, but unfortunately it also meant witch. The second elder looked triumphantly at the first. “So he spoke to the dead chief saying, ‘Tell us what we must do so you may rest in your grave,’ but the dead chief did not answer. He vanished, and they could see him no more. Then the man who knew things—his name was Horatio—said this event was the affair of the dead chief’s son, Hamlet.” There was a general shaking of heads round the circle. “Had the dead chief no living brothers? Or was this son the chief?” “No,” I replied. “That is, he had one living brother who became the chief when the elder brother died.” The old men muttered: such omens were matters for chiefs and elders, not for youngsters; no good could come of going behind a chief’s back; clearly Horatio was not a man who knew things. “Yes, he was,” I insisted, shooing a chicken away from my beer. “In our country the son is next to the father. The dead chief’s younger brother had become the great chief. He had also married his elder brother’s widow only about a month after the funeral.” “He did well,” the old man beamed and announced to the others, “I told you that if we knew more about Europeans, we would find they really were very like us. In our country also,” he added to me, “the younger brother marries the elder brother’s widow and becomes the father of his children. Now, if your uncle, who married your widowed mother, is your father’s full brother, then he will be a real father to you. Did Hamlet’s father and uncle have one mother?” His question barely penetrated my mind; I was too upset and thrown too far off-balance by having one of the most important elements of Hamlet knocked straight out of the picture. Rather uncertainly I said that I thought they had the same mother, but I wasn’t sure—the story didn’t say. The old man told me severely that these genealogical details made all the difference and that when I got home I must ask the elders about it. He shouted out the door to one of his younger wives to bring his goatskin bag
Determined to save what I could of the mother motif, I took a deep breath and began again. The son Hamlet was very sad because his mother had married again so quickly. There was no need for her to do so, and it is our custom for a widow not to go to her next husband until she has mourned for two years Two years is too long, objected the wife, who had appeared with the old man's battered goatskin bag Who will hoe your farms for you while you have no husband?” Hamlet, I retorted, without thinking, " was old enough to hoe his mothers farms himself. There was no need for her to remarry No one looked convinced I gave up. His mother and the great chief told Hamlet not to be sad, for the great chief himself would be a father to Hamlet. Furthermore Hamlet would be the next chief: therefore he must stay to learn the things While I paused, perplexed at how to render Hamlet's disgusted soliloquy to an audience convinced that Claudius and gertrude had behaved in the best possible manner, one of the younger men asked me who had married the other wives of the dead chief He had no other wives " I told him But a chief must have many wives! How else can he brew beer and prepare food for all his guests? I said firmly that in our country even chiefs had only one wife, that they had servants to do their work, and that they paid them from tax money It was better, they returned, for a chief to have many wives and sons who would help him hoe his farms and feed his people; then everyone loved the chief who gave much and took nothing-taxes were a bad thing i agreed with the last comment, but for the rest fell back on their favorite way of fobbing off my questions: That is the way it is done, so that is how we do it i decided to skip the soliloquy. Even if Claudius was here thought quite right to marry his brothers widow, there remained the poison motif, and I knew they would disapprove of fratricide. More hopefully I resumed, "That
Determined to save what I could of the mother motif, I took a deep breath and began again. “The son Hamlet was very sad because his mother had married again so quickly. There was no need for her to do so, and it is our custom for a widow not to go to her next husband until she has mourned for two years.” “Two years is too long,” objected the wife, who had appeared with the old man’s battered goatskin bag. “Who will hoe your farms for you while you have no husband?” “Hamlet,” I retorted, without thinking, “was old enough to hoe his mother’s farms himself. There was no need for her to remarry.” No one looked convinced. I gave up. “His mother and the great chief told Hamlet not to be sad, for the great chief himself would be a father to Hamlet. Furthermore, Hamlet would be the next chief: therefore he must stay to learn the things of a chief. Hamlet agreed to remain, and all the rest went off to drink beer.” While I paused, perplexed at how to render Hamlet’s disgusted soliloquy to an audience convinced that Claudius and Gertrude had behaved in the best possible manner, one of the younger men asked me who had married the other wives of the dead chief. “He had no other wives,” I told him. “But a chief must have many wives! How else can he brew beer and prepare food for all his guests?” I said firmly that in our country even chiefs had only one wife, that they had servants to do their work, and that they paid them from tax money. It was better, they returned, for a chief to have many wives and sons who would help him hoe his farms and feed his people; then everyone loved the chief who gave much and took nothing—taxes were a bad thing. I agreed with the last comment, but for the rest fell back on their favorite way of fobbing off my questions: “That is the way it is done, so that is how we do it.” I decided to skip the soliloquy. Even if Claudius was here thought quite right to marry his brother’s widow, there remained the poison motif, and I knew they would disapprove of fratricide. More hopefully I resumed, “That