Spirited Away

Thanks to my PhD presentation, in which I attempted to justify my being invited to Japan by the African Studies department in the first place, and about which I was duly quite nervous, I’ve neglecting posting for a week or two. It went fairly well, though. It almost feels like I know what I am talking about.

Japan, or Kyoto at least, definitely feels like home now. I seem to fit in quite well here, and not just for the obvious reasons that everything seems to, well, work. I decided to test this by making a short trip the week before last to Osaka, Japan’s second largest city and centre for (so I was told) even nicer food and even friendlier people than in Kyoto.

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The author attempting to make sense of giant walls of advertising.

Osaka is mental. In truth, it is how I imagined Japan to be before coming. In contrast to the height-restricted ancient capital of Kyoto, a relatively small and sleepy place in comparison, and in which you do not have to go far in order to find yourself down a quiet back street of wooden buildings and bicycles, downtown Osaka has crowds of hundreds of people making their way through tunnels of advertising in between the skyscrapers. Accompanied by a Scottish colleague, I was always reminded of the fictional cities inspired by the unique organised chaos of the large Japanese city, in Blade Runner and The Fifth Element, for example. Thankfully, Osaka’s streets are for now merely two-dimensional. Street food vendors tried (and succeeded) in attracting our attention, so much so in fact that actually finding a place to sit down and eat come dinner time was almost out of the question. The readiness of the vendors to speak English was also a surprise, though a welcome one.

It’s hard to make sense of, but in contrast to the unmitigated wall of experience that I have seen in large Indian cities, it feels crowded but somehow ordered, gridlike and concrete. There is not as much green space in downtown Osaka as there seems to be in Kyoto. We had a few hours to wander round and soak up the experience, managing to immediately off the train wander into the seediest part of town for some reason. Perhaps it was the anthropological sixth sense for weirdness, but immediately from the subway we found ourselves among some strange-looking hotels my compatriot informed were in fact examples of the Japanese phenomenon of “Love Hotels”, rooms you rent by vending machine to, erm, enable interaction of a private nature with those you might not want to bring home to meet Mum and Dad.

#themoreyouknow

Everything is done by vending machine in Japan. I’ve ordered ramen at a machine, receiving a ticket redeemable in the kitchen. I suppose it saves on front-of-house staff, but my Hiragana-reading isn’t much better than it was before I came, so I eat a lot of surprises.

I was under no illusions, however, as to the freshness of fish at a Chinese restaurant we passed:

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Which one do you want?

We specifically came to Osaka to go to the theatre, however.

We had come to see the Japanese art form of Bunraku, or puppet theatre. This is not the comedic puppets-on-strings you are picturing. Three puppeteers, two masked, one bare-faced, control beautiful hand-made and hand-dressed puppets. One controls the legs, one the left hand, and the lead controls the head and right hand. It is an intricate process, and requires an almost symbiotic level of teamwork between the three who control each puppet. Three are assigned per puppet, and do not seem to change to others. So natural are the movements that the lifeless objects seem to become people themselves, and no longer can you even see the puppeteers as they go about their work. The characters seem to manifest on the stage.

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A puppet of Osome, one of the characters in the play we saw

All of the costumes are stunning, and the puppets changed costumes in the half-hour interval of the play.

There is no dialogue as I would normally see in a play. Instead, a narrator describes what goes on in the minds of the characters, and does all of the voices of the characters, which sounds much more natural than you would think. His voice would change in pitch and intensity in keeping with the mood onstage. He would be accompanied by Shamisen player, whose musical texture added even more emotion and urgency to the characters’ actions and motivations. Occasionally, a different narrator (or narrators) and player would be brought in for a certain part of the play, and always introduced onstage.

Thanks to a earpiece in which English translations were offered subtly enough that I could still hear the narrator’s artful voicings, I can say that the play we went to see was called, rather cheerily, The Love Suicide of Osome and Hisamatsu, a tale of star-cross’d lovers reminiscent of Romeo and Juliet. You can find a summary of the story here. There is comic relief, mainly in the first act, culminating in a rather funny Bunraku-within-a-Bunraku Hamlet-style featuring a puppet playing air-Shamisen with a broom handle. The story, however, is painfully sad, and rooted in the shame culture associated with defying a betrothal and falling in love with the wrong person. A lot of suicide, and talk of suicide, normal for the sixteen-year-olds who were the protagonists I am sure, but rather shockingly not corrected or addressed by the adults. Perhaps in Meiji-era (19th Century) Japan suicide was an acceptable solution to a social problem.

It didn’t sound like a fun place to live.

Sadly, I have no pictures from the play, which we saw at the National Bunraku Theatre in Osaka as part of their New Years’ celebrations, as attendees were requested not to take pictures of the performance itself. Nonetheless, as a Shakespeare fan I would definitely recommend checking out the older Bunraku plays. It gives a bit of a flavour as to what living in Japan many years ago would have been like. The music and narration were particularly worth listening to, and I am searching out Youtube videos of Shamisen players to this day. My musical-instrument kleptomania also means I want a Shamisen, but that is fairly normal for me. If you are also interested, here is a more modern rocky take on the Shamisen featuring the The Yoshida Brothers.

 Osaka, then, is an absolutely fantastic place to visit, for the culture and the food, for the people and the experience of being in a huge Japanese city. I am, however, rather glad I live in Kyoto. I had a nice day last weekend, and I got to visit a place that I am very, very lucky to have on my doorstep.

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Kinkaku-ji. Yes that is gold. And yes I know it is another temple. I never get sick of these.

At the other side of Kyoto, merely a twenty-minute cycle ride away from my door, is this stunningly-beautiful Buddhist temple covered in gold. As it was a nice day, my intention to visit and see the sun reflected from it was shared by the entirety of the population of Japan, seemingly. Nevertheless, my freakishly-proportioned (for East Asia) body meant that I could take pictures over the heads of about 90% of the other visitors, even with their selfie sticks.

A Japanese garden completed the serene picture. Even with the crowds, it still represented a beautiful reprieve from the city. Thanks to some of my Japanese friends, in addition to my observations at some of Kyoto’s 1600 temples, I know worship etiquette confidently enough to have lit incense, made an offering and bowed to the altar of one of Japanese Buddhism’s many Bodhisattvas and deities. I felt a bit self-conscious the first time I did this, aware as I am of cultural appropriation, but the Japanese seem remarkably casual about this, and in fact I have been encouraged on multiple occasions to take part in the rather comforting rituals associated with visiting temples here. Nobody looks at me twice for doing so. The power of ritual activity in calming the mind is evident, and the notion of “believing in” a deity is merely incidental. The offering of ritual practice is what is important, and it is quite enjoyable. It goes without saying, of course, that my money made in offering is quite as good as anybody else’s, and along with UNESCO goes towards the upkeep of these outstanding places. Making offerings at Shinto shrines is similarly encouraged for foreigners, too. At one of the bigger shrines, the devotional practice of offering, bowing twice, clapping twice (or ringing the temple bell) then bowing once more, is clearly enscribed in Chinese, Korean and English in addition to Japanese.

Shrines, or jinja, are open-air and available for anyone to go to 24 hours a day, however I would probably caution against travelling through them on a moonless night, as I found myself doing with one of my friends as a shortcut back from the pub to our home district of Okazaki. It was Chinese New Years’ Eve, a day important for many in Japan, too. So, just after midnight in the first few hours of the year of the rooster, we were wandering through the dark and wooded areas around Yoshida jinja. I know enough about Shinto spirits to know that their influence is especially powerful in the shrines, and that not all of them were supposed to be the benevolent characters of Spirited Away. I am not culturally Shinto, however I will certainly admit to feeling a sense of unease as we ascended the lamp-lit steps through the orange gate to bow to the altar there. I put it like this: I might be an atheist, but I do not make a habit of camping in graveyards either. I managed to twist my ankle rather nastily earlier on, however I will not pin that particular mishap on the spirits. I am rather clumsy. I felt better after exiting, at which point we bowed once again upon leaving. It was a rather good shortcut, spitting us out right next to my street.

Aside from temples and theatres, another Japanese cultural event that I have taken part in was to visit a traditional bathhouse, which was something of an epiphany. I am afraid that for obvious reasons you will have to rely on my description rather than my photography to learn about it. I’d been intrigued by the Japanese custom of public bathing since I heard about it, and since my professor noted that if I was disappointed with my small bathroom I should go and visit the public baths instead, as they are much nicer. The idea of public bathing not as an event but as simply the way that you bathe, was very interesting. Very Roman, I thought.

I entered an ancient-looking wooden building, complete with plants and trees in the courtyard, upon its opening at 3pm, joining the queue outside. They were a mixed bunch. A family, clearly tourists, looking to experience the cultural aspect, as I was, were directly in front of me, along with several elders who were clearly regulars, and a bunch of lads about my age for whom going was a social event. Fortunately, I had googled Japanese bathing custom before my going there, so I knew most of the etiquette. After removing my shoes at the door (normal for Japan), I paid the paltry sum of 450 yen (about €4), and was directed to the men’s changing room. From this point on, the baths were completely gender-segregated. You remove your clothes and store them in a locker, taking the waterproof key with you along with your towel and your soap.

Swimsuits are forbidden, so I simply had to get used to public nudity. Fortunately, I have spent the last few years in Germany as a regular gym attendee, and so my British prudishness around the human body was very much on the back burner. Brits are a little backward in that respect. Nobody was phased, which helped. I simply imitated the others as I went into the steamy second room, in which a row of low showers were provided for me to wash myself before entering the water (an absolute must for everyone). This done, I had the pick of any number of pool-sized baths, some very hot indeed, one freezing cold, several with jacuzzi-style bubbles and one that was electrified, with a big sign saying not to enter if one had “problems of the heart”. I assume this was more to do with pacemakers than a rough breakup, but as neither were an issue I entered and was electrified for a few minutes.

Also attached is a sauna, which was terrifyingly hot but, as I am constantly told by Scandinavians, very good for me. I resolved to drink a lot of water when I left the baths. I had also heard of the Scandinavian tradition of sitting in a sauna and then rolling in the snow. I decided to see what all the fuss about this was by jumping from the sauna into the cold pool.

This was a mistake. I think my heart stopped. It was like swimming in Scotland.

By far my favourite place there was the wooden hot pool that was in the outside courtyard surrounded by a koi-filled pond and trees. If that is what bathing is like here then I shall never take a shower here again. What a pale imitation of cleanliness. Upon leaving I realised that I was about as relaxed as I had ever been without the aid of chemicals. Heartily, heartily recommend, and I am privately wondering why such public bathing places are not so common in the UK. I know better than to enter any place marked “sauna” in Edinburgh, though. The police raid them regularly.

Fans of Studio Ghibli will also be reassured to know that I did not let in any no-faced monsters to the bathhouse, and I did not meet a river spirit at all.

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Do not let him in. He hogs all the water tokens and eats people, and Haku will be really upset.

Apart from these events, a good deal of my socialising has revolved around food. There are a number of reasons for this. My lovely Japanese friends love food almost as much as I do, and the food here is utterly stellar. Drinking is almost always accompanied with food. It is odd to do one without the other, with the happy side effect that I never get that drunk, and I have tried so many interesting different types of food. My favourite is undoubtedly tako, or octopus. I cannot get enough. I hope it features on more menus in the UK in the future. We are missing out by not eating it much. There is odd stuff as well though. I pride myself on never turning down perfectly good food, and trying anything once. This is occasionally tested. I went for yakitori (grilled chicken skewers) recently, and they use every part of the chicken. Hearts I can get behind, as they taste really good, but liver I struggle with. I think it is the texture and flavour combination. Almost starchy, but it tastes like black pudding (blutwurst, for German readers). Odd, as I like liver pate.

And then, well… And then there is shirako.

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Pictured: Weird with a capital W.

What do you think it is? If you thought “brains”, then I can see why, but no. It isn’t brains. It’s fish sperm. Unfortunately, I knew what it was before eating it. As it was, the flavour was not at all bad, although someone had told me offhand what it was before I tried it, which was not ideal. I couldn’t get out of my head what it was while eating it, which sort of ruined the experience.

Jellyfish? Bring it on. Squid sashimi? Go for it. Chicken hearts? Yum. Pufferfish? Pass it along, but shirako? I like fish, don’t get me wrong, but no-one likes fish that much. Shame. If I didn’t know I might have quite liked it. It is, however, the only food I really would say that I do not like here. Everything else is amazing, and I hardly miss European food at all.

So it has been an eventful couple of weeks, and I feel very much like I fit in here in Japan. It would be easy, after learning the language, to live here I think. I like the way things are done, and almost everything that is strange is strange in ways that I like. I even recognise more Hiragana characters than I used to, and read a menu item for the first time last night without asking for a translation, which did feel like a milestone.

I like Japan, and Japan, so far, seems to like me. Sayounara!

Art, Science and Real Work, or: I have no idea what I’m doing.

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I’m back on fieldwork at a place just a shade north of the famous Namibian Red Line, a veterinary barrier that separates communally-worked farmland to the North, never conquered by colonial forces, and the more ordered and familiar farmland to the South, the former territory of Boers and Germans in years past. Despite being but two hours’ drive from where I sit now, in a hotel with an internet connection that I have previously called The Last Homely House of Elrond, the site feels more isolated than my last one. I have almost no mobile signal there, and trips back into the domain of Wi-Fi bring me up to speed with two weeks’ worth of news in a day, making me feel like the world is moving on very fast without me. It’s an odd feeling. I’m doing fairly well, though, and while I only have six weeks or so at this site, thanks to a much-needed trip back to Europe in May, and the increasingly pressing need to prepare for my participation at the Eleventh Conference on Hunting and Gathering Societies (CHAGS) in Vienna in September.

I’m slated for an appearance on the panel “Research and Activism among the Kalahari San” and have submitted an abstract saying, thankfully vaguely, something about fresh field data from my work at Mangetti West and Ekoka. I have ten minutes plus a Q and A, and should probably say something mildly provocative to get remembered, though the thought of Richard Lee, Akira Takada and other Kalahari anthropologists I have been reading since first year undergrad questioning me on my fieldwork and its contribution to the field fills me with a mounting sense of awe and dread. Hopefully I won’t have to reference too much literature, given my focus on fieldwork and the conference’s enthusiasm for new researchers with mud on their boots, as it were. Given that the time between my leaving Namibia and speaking there is measured in weeks rather than months, is quite probably literally true. I leave on the 24th August, when my last visa runs out. I can’t come back until 2016, having used up my 90 day tourism allowance as well, and it’s going to feel very strange. That’s next month, now.

The three weeks of research at my second site in the Mangetti farms has yielded some interesting comparisons, I think, and I’m able to get a good deal more data in a shorter time. My translator is excellent, and knows or is related to almost everyone there, meaning that the two weeks of building up a trusting relationship that had to happen in the North was cut down hugely here. I’m camping right in the village, and it means I’ve been able to get involved in events as they happen, the “participant observation” part of my work, and data-gathering is by comparison to my other site, effortless.

I even accidentally adopted a puppy, who in fact belongs to the community’s traditional healer. I started feeding the small furry family in the hope that they’d hang around camp to deter other would-be explorers (wild dogs, jackals and even hyenas are not unheard of), and the puppy I’ve named Xoriab (“hunter” in the local dialect of Khoekhoegowab, a joke on the fact he’s tiny. Say the “X” like the “ch” in loch, or the “G” in Grootfontein, for Afrikaans-speaking readers) has got rather attached to my fire and the fact I insist on teaching him to play fetch, which he does not understand.

Xoriab sitting by the fire, expecting something to happen. Probably food.

Xoriab sitting by the fire, expecting something to happen. Probably food.

I have to say I’ve grown rather attached to him, as he seems to have done for me, though I do harbour some suspicion it is cupboard love in some ways.

Some of the food is my fingers.

Some of the food is my fingers.

This post isn’t about that, though, nor is it about CHAGS. What I want to write about a bit are some of the problems that I’ve run into data-gathering for my PhD.

It’s a mammoth task, but the problems do not revolve around mere size. You’ve got to know your parameters, your variables, what questions you wish to answer, before you set out on any kind of scientific research. The problem with conducting anthropological fieldwork, or any kind of social research really, is that it isn’t really possible to know that beforehand. I was advised, before setting out, that I should have a question in mind, then be prepared to change everything about that when confronted with the field. I understand this. Better to have a plan that you later change, than no plan at all. But when the field actually presents itself to you, in all its chaotic splendour, involving as our research does the single most unpredictable organism on the face of the earth, no amount of planning can prepare you for being back at square one. As a result, I made a vague plan, knowing it would not stand up in the field. I knew the areas I would be considering: “folk knowledge”, “traditional skills” and so forth, but no more than that. I did not even have any research techniques in mind.

The problem starts with my discipline itself. It doesn’t like putting people in boxes, a strange habit for a subject concerned with primarily that upon its inception. Our ancestors measured people’s boiled skulls as well, though that is Something We Don’t Talk About any more.

Social anthropology is often said to walk a fine line between the arts and the sciences, some, rather more hardened to cliche and aphorism than I might say it is “the most artistic of the sciences and the most scientific of the arts”. I dislike this forced symmetry, but doubtless social anthropology operates on a strange bridge somewhere between the two, blurring lines and deconstructing dichotomies itself in the same way its practitioners adore doing with cultural events and ideas. During my undergraduate degree, the idea that dichotomies could be permitted to exist at all was somewhat blasphemous, and always we were encouraged to think about the outliers, the spaces between, and the borderlines. We’ve moved on from Levi-Strauss’s oppositions in the house, so to speak.

There’ve been several traditions in anthropology that have tended towards the artistic and the surreal. The undergraduate favourite (at least at Edinburgh class of ’12, represent), Clifford Geertz’s 1960s idea of “Thick Description”, posited anthropologists less as scientists but more in the way of literary critics, picking apart and interpreting culture as one would a paragraph of Tolstoy, or a stanza of Keats. I loved this. It meant we were free in some respects from the tyranny of The Scientific Method, which in my mind always smelled like antiseptic. We were artists, writers, creatives, we had sculptors’ clay under our fingernails and because we studied human culture it was the very stuff Adam was made from that we were working with. It was all Very Important. I tapped away at one thousand five hundred word essays, due at the tutorial tomorrow afternoon, about how Science (Big “S”, always) was a closed-minded, Euro-American-Centric (God forbid we say “Western”) way to think about the world, and interpretation was better, more democratic, and less white, either in coat or complexion.

From there I read (or tried to read) Michael Taussig’s Shamanism, Colonialism and the Wild Man, a foray in what you might call “surrealist anthropology”, and to be honest I do not remember a great deal about it. There’s a long, unpleasant bit about torture, which I think is an illustration about colonialism, and much of the rest of it that I read felt faintly like being led through someone else’s dream. There were definitely psychoactive drugs involved, as well there might be, given that it’s about shamanic practice among Amerindians. I remember writing a very bad essay on the subject about how there was a place in anthropology for something I really am not sure I ever understood. It’s about the limit of the really artistic stuff I ended up getting into, and I teetered on the precipice before settling back into regularly quoting the sort of things I think Geertz would have said about culture, literature, description and interpretation.

Above all else, it made me feel better. I had occasional wanderings into the bleak, sterile world of neo-modernist positivism, but I did that with most of the -isms at university, and I doubt it’s a rare crime. The idea of the anthropologist as a literary critic was attractive to me because it meant that nobody ccould ever accuse me of being wrong about anything, as such. This was just how I saw it. Great. It seemed, if I’m honest, like less work, too.

Yet here I am in Namibia on German (of all countries!) scientific money gathering data ostensibly used to flesh out a computer model of the movements of ancient hunter-gatherers, as well as fuelling some book or other and getting the very hard to obtain D before my name, followed by an elusive R and a positively impossible to pin down “.”. I write “Research Scientist” on things asking my occupation. I’ve actually had to start doing the job I’d been writing about the theory of doing for about four years.

At the root of this job is data. Data I need to gather. Questions I need to first find, then answer, as well as dealing with the practicalities of asking those questions of a very poor community, who live very far away from me, and who don’t speak any languages I do.

A lot of anthropology relies on something called “Participant Observation”, which is part loitering, part nosiness, inserting yourself into someone’s life in an attempt to learn about them. This is prime venue for the “Thick Description” side of anthropology. When I’m on fieldwork, I write. I write a lot. I’m scribbling in my little notebook when something interesting happens, and I’m writing up, scratching it all out in my bigger notebook like it’s trying to escape from my biro, when I can find two or three hours in the day that something else scribble-worthy isn’t happening.

It has its flaws, though. How do I know whether what I am seeing is reflective of the whole community? How can I accurately reflect The Truth about what is going on? I can, and have, argued for many years that there is no such thing as objective truth, but even I will concede that there is a difference between saying that the people in my field site all drive Lamborginis and saying that they place hunting as very important to their way of life when it isn’t really. As with everything, it’s a question of degree rather than kind, and I have a huge incentive to identify as closely as possible what is really going on, even if I never truly (whatever that means) know, and that is simply because I want to know, to get closer.

I can’t very well judge people solely on observation alone, then. So what about interviews? They’re another anthropological staple. Well, they work, too, but one has to be prepared for the fact that people do not blurt facts like robots. They have an interpretation, too which makes it a great tool to have in the toolbox, but not the only one.

This is where the problem starts. The anthropological toolbox is vast, and can encompass any sociological tool you like, from surveys to free-lists, psychological experiments to marriage statistics, but to the PhD student starting their research the vastness of the available tools, and the wide range of possible uses reflected in anthropology which range from systematic analyses of kinship diagrams to surreal passages about drug-fuelled shamanic rites in the Amazon Basin, the primary problem is figuring out what anthropological research is actually supposed to look like.

My problem has been gathering what you might call systematic data. By systematic, I mean answers to structured yes/no question interviews, compiling free-association lists with the same parameters, conducting a direction-finding psychological experiment, and other similar things. It’s incredibly hard to do this when your field subjects are not the least bit interested in repeating the same task with you five times, and every task you come up with on the fly, to test something you observed and wrote down scruffily yesterday, has to be either revised or miss out on some crucial aspect that you have discovered is important. Which do you sacrifice, repeatability or thoroughness?

Above all else is the feeling that despite this being a huge moment in your academic career, you are simply working it all out as you go along, as there are so many things about doing research that nobody tells you, and that you are expected to Just Know. I’d never conducted a structured interview or free-listing in my life before I got to the moment when I was constructing an exercise that will give me important information for my PhD. Nagging at me constantly is the feeling that when I step back from the systematic exercises, and think about interpretation, art, the beauty of the well-written word and the other fluffy things that help me sleep at night, I am making excuses for not doing any Real Work. And Real Work is Science. There are no standards to work to, precisely because, I think, the others who have gone before me haven’t had those standards either, and are loath to set any. The only standards are the ones I set myself. In true form for me, this means they are usually either impossible or non-existent.

The simple fact that this research is PhD research means that it is my first time doing it, or really anything approaching it. A PhD is built up to be something upon which you definitely know what you are doing, and you do it to make big and exciting waves in the academic community, but in fact it can be characterised more as your proving moment, the time you find your feet. In anthropology a scholar’s PhD thesis often becomes his or her defining work, and this fact is something that weighs heavy on my mind. What will I turn this into? Will this define me? What will it say? It is a nightmare of neuroticism and anxiety, and I am convinced social anthropology contains more people prone to neurosis and social anxiety as a proportion than does the population at large. The anthropologist I confided my concerns to got into studying people for the same reason I did: That we were neurotically doing it anyway, and had become somewhat proficient. Whether the neurosis informs the work or the work inflames the neurosis is perhaps a question for another time.

The thing to take away from this, if you happen to be reading and are suffering similar concerns in your academic work, is that the reason you do not know what you are doing is that you are not meant to. The reason nobody is telling you things that you think they think you should Just Know is that they don’t really know them either. If they do, they don’t know how they came to know them. Another anthropologist in Scotland told me that if you have no idea what you are doing, you are probably on the right track, and if you think you’ve got it all worked out then you’re probably missing something out somewhere. The world is a complex place, and human beings are perhaps the most complex of all. The only people who think they’ve got it all worked out are eighteen-year-olds and those who have never grown out of the mindset they had when they were eighteen-year-olds. Both of those sets of people are probably wrong, and I have just reminded myself of my opinions at eighteen, and cringed.

I joke at parties (it’s true, I get invites occasionally, ask anyone) and say that I am making a career pretending to have read books that I haven’t. This is hyperbole, but the nugget of truth there is that in academic circles Knowledge has a capital K, it is currency, and nobody wants to admit that they don’t know something they feel they “should know”, because the others in their circle of colleagues have been pretending they know it already. Nobody is going to tell you these things. Nobody really can. If you have not embarked upon fieldwork for an anthropological PhD you will probably, if you are like me, have existential crises on the regular and start looking for office jobs online. This is (probably) normal. The best therapy for these moments of terror is usually to plan the following day. No further. When you feel more confident, start planning weeks. When you get back, you might find you know more than you think, and tying it together will be a cinch. Get someone acquainted with your field to ask you questions about your site. Before you know it, you’ll be reeling off things and telling people that something is “common sense” when it’s something nobody has observed before. Congratulations. You’re now an anthropologist. The existential crises probably stop. I don’t know. I’ve not got that far yet.

Then again, what am I doing giving you advice? I have no idea what I’m doing.

Tschuß!