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A passage to premodernity : Carl Sauer repositioned in the field Skeels, Anna Clare 1993

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A PASSAGE TO PREMODERNITY:CARL SAUER REPOSITIONED IN THE FIELDbyANNA CLARE SKEELSB.A., Oxford University, 1990A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OFTHE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OFMASTER OF ARTSinTHE FACULTY OF GRADUATE STUDIES(Department of Geography)We accept this thesis as conformingto the required standardTHE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUI’4BIADecember 1993Anna Clare Skeels, 1993In presenting this thesis in partial fulfilment of the requirements for an advanceddegree at the University of British Columbia, I agree that the Library shall make itfreely available for reference and study. I further agree that permission for extensivecopying of this thesis for scholarly purposes may be granted by the head of mydepartment or by his or her representatives, It is understood that copying orpubTication of this thesis for financial gain shall not be allowed without my writtenpermission.(Signature)__________________________Department of geographyThe University of British ColumbiaVancouver, CanadaDate 26/11/93DE..6 (2/88)ABSTRACTThis thesis is an attempt to mediate between the differentperspectives on Carl Sauer and his work that fix him in the “field”of geography. By repositioning Sauer literally in the “field11 inMexico (and later, in South America) through a reading of hiscorrespondence and fieldnotes, I hope to open up Sauer and culturalgeography to a new range of questions and debate. In the course ofthe thesis, it is maintained that you cannot consider Sauer andculture in the “field” of geography without remobilising him asgeographer amidst culture in the “field”;nor can you consider Sauer as fieldworker in isolation from the“passage to premodernity” of his life and work. Sauer is thuspositioned ambivalently in various “moments” of the practices andpolitics of dwelling and travelling in the “field” and presented asan ant imodernist looking for a cultural and an academic “home”.iiHHHHHHDMMHHOOODOcOJH.DDOOFMWHOG•WWWMMMMDQDOHHHH-1U1HHH-H-H-H-H-HHH-IIIII CDtiHCDH-itI—’-JCD CD H it CD C’) a)IIIIIIIIIIIfl’r’JtidQd-JDIj(J)00JFH-)OH-•C)H-JH-‘tiithCDCDd1-3bit-H-LQct-3JditJHHCDLiitCDCDH-CDLia)itHa)QctiH-a))PC)a)H--0-xJCD•-PJCDQCrrtQ0H-Ui.I-:xiC)dCD‘dcC)CD•PJUIOH-P)H-it‘<.Cl)LiH<H-it3t5•.H-0C)LiHCD0CD0Cl)‘)a)itHa)‘-3a)CDi’-3CDa)Cl)‘—3hPJCDJ>4P)a)C)HititCDitH•0JH n•c_ILQQ-30HCDCDa)SC)a)ctpi0H-CDa)H-NOH-a)‘xJ HQ‘—3CDh-IHiUi0f-CDCD0a)HCDH-iCD IICD PiCDQIIa)O’.qPiCDH-a)‘-dI-QQP)a)H-CDctJ13itH-itOa)—1:3QCD‘-I,’OIIH-CDl-ij13CO(Q00I-çip,CDCDH-CDI-I1a)1313ctH itC-) 0 13 ci l-H-H-H-0II’’’0Ii‘-3CDC)H-P)_‘‘--3F-3‘<a)ba)0CD013CD13iti—’it‘-3SPJ13CD><‘-3çt0CDhLiCDOitLxi00C)H-I-’-xJHH-,CC)013H-H-Pi‘-iCDH-,ct(hhCDH-’00H-H-HZ0QH-C)013itC)’-’iLxiitCDQ0>‘••(13H-0..1313a)CDOCD130CD-itl)’H-hhHPu-iit3CDCD‘-dPiP‘113CDita)13Pia)CDb0a)itita)a)itita)P)0CD•H-’1a)H-Puit—•0130PJQCDiQflIQp-HCD130’1’1-H-C)Wit‘—3H-dit-<itH-C‘1itH-H0PJH-H-C)00(‘-H-C)C)PJ013‘1’1HP)PJH••PJCD•-HH‘1tia)Cl)130Qfl’--3’1CDPJk<PCDH’1C)H-CD00PJ13H‘1I.Qa)H-H13‘1CD13H-PJ’1HCD(Clit‘dCDa)k<Ui..H ‘1H-CD13C) ititH130CD13 a)w I:-’ Li 0 Ii C) 0 z ‘-3 Lxi z ‘-3 Cl)friJ H- CD HIr:iIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIHCFtJWZ‘Qo’Lxi0PCDQCDCDH-hQQQD)QHQH-VI-H-JHrtCDhCDrtH-DCDpi-30ciIiDhJQctH-H-PiftQCDCD1Qa)H-LxiH0UCD-ctQcITJH-CDQCDC)CrCDUHOH-hhhctH-C)hdpJC).•‘0.ictC1F—’J’F--H-CDrt‘tJZH-F--(DH-C)CDF--HPJCDJH--)HdlxiCDOCDOCD-.c1CDPNF—IH<‘‘<SH-Cspt••••1•.C).).DW)IJLxiH-CDH-OwflX--oiCDC)rt5CDi-’JCDH-JCDHC)CDII1QI---()QJJ0H-rr0u)hl---a)C)hQfliH-55-.CD0CDH-I-C)ftC)H-CrLYHU)C1)H-0CD3CDH-Cl)dECDCDPJa)CDH-lJI)çtI-itCl)I-5QCDiJCD-JLxJ0C)PJCl)ftCDH-iJ0C)l-CDH-QH-frh0H-C)Ci)C).I))CD‘d><C)HHCD0QC)CiiCDCDCJ0o-I-i-(nOH-H-L’JCDH-Crct-h(I)çt0H-H(.QC)I-CDCDl-Cii0HH0HCDC)0oC)CDo-0Cii5a)ftçtCDCDH-H--‘3CrCDCD0C)C)Cii--CDCD11 -‘3ML\)L\)JJMHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHWHHHH00000WO‘oo--j..j__ja-oau-iuiuiwwwL’JHDH00WH-.JU]W0G0GH0ODa0—CI)CDP)CDH-Hç-rOQb pi:-CDn pJOPiHCrP)CD C)HO-Dc3iCr—h.k< (I) pi CD h pi i - CI) p) p) Cr U) - k<Hp)CDH><P)H-Oct0HHCtHCD.CD 0 H CD Cl) pi CD pi 0 I-H H pi U)I-p)H-rI-CDCDI--CDHHDOFOH -p.) H-Cr U) CD U) 0 p) H H- Cr p) 0 Cr Cr 0xcI)hOU)I-’H-CrCj))CD hrt II—— NHP)HC)-‘)p) CrC!)CDCDOCDp)HU)-IQCDCDk<><CDH-U)C)-0—Ci) p)LDCDHH p- CD p) p-CDCDCDU)HCDCDS<H-piHI-uip)OU)-CD H 0 p) Cr H 0 -‘3 C-) H- U) CI p3 U) p3 Cr‘DH-CDHHCr—CDHCDOp.)-3H CrC!)-pJpihi(.PJc-rpCD I-- HWU)H H- NOpif-lb-CDCDbCr0CDH-ftOCDiJ‘.ijxJ0H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H-HiH HhiI-I-I-F-I-I-I-I-hhp3CDCDCDCDCDCDCDCDCDCDCDCDH H-0HHH.D—JU]WHHiCIMH0--.---------00-.--I1QIihiOtt)<ij—QCtCtH-)IP)cVH-P)i-<H,OCDCDctj-’cpjHCDhiP)H,H-hCDQCDHHU)QP3U)H-hiCDOrt•pJCDOHi’-<--‘-<H-çtHH-H-P3U)-U)CD-‘3CDCDCDWhiCDSH-‘-<---)H1QCDCDH)U)H-bC-)-H,3H-H-P3C)C)-‘300U)CDP)H)—0CD003hicthiOH—H,P.--H-CD-HOftCDhhiCDb-U)‘-<CrCDCrCl)Qhi0Cl)CD-CDCrOP)—OCrCDP3hiH-U)CDJi-U)h-—rI-P)CDU)JCDsH-C)P3hQCDPJCDCDHiP-.hiCr0I-Q-i‘-<toU)H--.rI-ctrI-H-=-ci0P3O-P)Ci)I-CrU)CDO.)P3ZCDp3CDW><H-ciI-CD-CCI-U)CDOO<H-P.CDHhhU)pJOH-hi-H-W0‘dO-OCDP3CDhiCI--I-PU)hiOhiU)hiHOH-P3CD-U)CDOI-QHrI-CDH-0k<CD-CDOpJHH3-hihi0‘oCDU)rJ0hCD0F1<HCDO-H-3HP.)P3I-OH->4H-U)CI-—U)hCr—j:iH-CrI-U)--rCD0OCrP.)-0ciCr—U)OCr•t—‘CDhiU)CDCDH-—U)pJ0CDCDCrciH-CrU)CDHCDU)CDU)H-U)H-3HP.)CDhhCDU) HMHCrI--iHHHI-!)(OiUiL’-)HHH--<UiUiWOCi—.3I-CI-CI-CU)WI-’)H--H ‘-3 0 IzJ txj H 0 Lii i:iACKNOWLEDGEMENTSI would like to acknowledge the support of people in both Canadaand Britain. At the Department of Geography, UBC, thanks goes toDavid Ley, Derek Gregory and Alf Siemens of the Faculty; to KateBoyer, Alison Blunt and Matt Little for moral support and toeveryone in the Office, especially Sandy Lapsky. In England,thanks goes to my family and friends for long-distance support andto Geraint Tarling, to whom I wish to dedicate this thesis.viC!)EflI-h-CD<<<<H-H-H-P)0CDH-H-H-—<H-H-0I-H-H-—‘—H-CDrt0ctH-‘——0QCDC!)‘d0CD0H-JPi0CD0I-CDU)U)IIC)H-rrQ1CDrrC)CDU)IQCDIJU)I-UCDCDh0CD0DlU)rtH,I-0H-F-U)U)CDk<0U)CI)I-hCDH-)F-I)F-0CD5JQU)Crr—CrCDCDCDCDH-C)I-I-h0C)I-I-0000CD0U)rrC!)U)U)•-0CI)CI)I-U)HI-Cr•I-CD••U)çtH,JCI)C)H-U)H-QH10C)CDI1H-00I-ICDI-C)<U)I-U)•-CD0CD•-I-IIIoU)I-CDCDCDU)I1U)H,I-jH-•CDCC)CDC)U)C)0CD()CDC)Cr•3<1U)•H-)CrH-0CD‘d00H-H-3ClC)0C).‘-3Cl)CDZH,••H-0CiH,1-3H100CI)tI•I-C)..U) CiCI) CrF-1CDCDH-CDCI)IiI1CrH Cr CDF-H H:ftCDftOHQQ(DCDU)00H-H,hi rrc-rQCDI-hH C)C)H)I-LDH)DH-HU) ft.CM HCrHCrhi HCDU)I-lU) H‘d0 H H <rrH-CDCr0f-rH-CDcrçu(OH‘jrrc-rpJ0I-Iop’-j-hI-he<P)CDC)HOCDrrCDpi-H-H-U)H-cpHCDCDHrrU)OhiO-—hi00I-IH0pH-U)HH-C)cahiH.H-H-H0Ct0CDCrOHhiHftWCDU)-hlH-C)i tj)0hiCDlJ•H,DQU) CDPj)U)0pjftCrHH-H-CDCDC)...CDPijCDCDHU),1qi-‘HOCDhiCDCrH CrHU)U)C)çuCl)CDCD‘Op-,Jf-rC)8 U) °bHU)hhiH-U)CDC)0D(O)<CDHftCDH-H,CDCrftU)-H-QC)CI)rrhiCrH,)CDCl-U)U)CDdCDpiU)CDhiCDHH-hiCDH,l))00U)CDCDCrCDhi’tCrH-H-iPiPiQHOfthi0H,HiU)U)CrH,‘-ihCDH-CDl—H-ftHHhiH,HHCDCDHU)Pihi<CDCDp-I HU)ClpjCDP)PiH-Cl-i0CD0CDH,Cr< CDH,CDhiSpjCDHhiHCDPiI-IH-CDCr=U)PiH-HhiH-CrCrH-H-CrCDCDH-H-H-Cl-,-Q0 C)CDCD)PJ-H-OH0HCDH-H-H-CDCl-CDC)CD-Pi-PJHCrH,iQ‘•gCD0LQCrCDP) hiSHCDCl-CDPi‘-I=piP-I CrP-IP-IH-ft0l1CD‘—r-0U)PJhiP-IP-I0‘•‘iCDhiH0C)hiCDCDCrH-i-P-IP-IH-I-ICrCD•HH-U)0(1)C) hU)-IH-HCDHP-I-C)P-IP-ICrHLIflftCDCD0CD0 H,HPift0çrHhiCDCDCD5CDCD P-Ip-IP-IU‘-QCl-CDCDCD-hiCD I-QHIQIH-hiH1H-hiH,QC)H,H-=CDp-IhihiCDH-C)0-IftCDP-I <1H,CDhiohiH,H-CrftftHS k<CDCDCD ‘U I-iMi‘-‘CD I-I ‘-1 I1.Cr I1.1 I-I‘U ii I1.CDD 0 z LiC) P-I hi H 0 U) H- H H H P-I S U) H P-I hi P-I hi H- H —-I ‘-0 0-I=H,CDhi0Pi<CDftH-CD‘dH-HhiCD0jk<Cl-hiH-CD u)ftftCDftCDPJCD•CDftH5QpiHICCI)‘0CD H-PPHH<H0wHQCDHI(U)hi0pft’<piH-U)‘•dCrH,HpjP-I<-IhipH CDSP-I-PihiHft-?H,°H,U)CDCD=w —:jftP-I hiHQ1CD!-P-IftQIHP-IU)H-0CU)H,Q10 ft 0 CD H ft 0 H, H P-I U) P-I CD ft 0 CD LQ H ft 0 CD tQ H P-I p-I H --‘-IC-) H z 0 L’iI-I z 0 Li c C) H 0 z H H z C) Li H Lii C-) H 0 zCl)Cl)CDCDCDCDCDCDCDCl)dCl)CDCDHH-I-p.,<p.,CDCDCDoH0‘D•iDC)•-C)H-Hft‘dCi--L\_)-cxU] Hcxh()CDHJ•CDhrrJOd—.i’tI0h’C)DCDCDH-(0Ui5H•H-J00ftcCDQCuCuCl)H-Cl)PCDCDOP.’--OCDHi-CDCui-CuCDHCuOCDHCDLDi-::3.’hH-ftH-oCDCDh0-.CD (J)H=Oh1QClicipip.’piI-PkpiCli1-.C)p)N-<H-,HHCDCDHi-.C)CD l-tHHCDpiCDCDC)ftçtCl)H--WCDCuCD0Dk<Hit-i-IHiCDct0jOH-‘CuH-CucooHçtçtCDftp.’-i-HiCDCDCDCC)CDi-i-ftCD(f)CDCD:HCDç2ftCDCu0CDCuhHP.’CDCDCDp.CDp.’”CD0h0 CDftCDiftCl)OCD,—,lCDci-Ho00Q.’CD0CDiHiCDCDHiHCDH<i-lCDOO-H-C)ClCD0ftii-—Curi-ri-p1CuH-ftHftC)H-0HP.’idOftpiCD3ftHiH-H-CliC)0‘dI:‘dCuftpi0=Cl)CDH-ci-hpiHiF-’Hi110II0Cli><<Ci-ftH-CDCliIH-00.’ftH-C)ftH-CDCDftftI.<lCDpi.‘ft(-0C)CD—fti-hH-.IHHI—’Cu0HIIk<<H--CD10.’ftCD13d-.CDCDHp0‘1CDH-CDH-‘-<CD••‘1CD00HHCl)CDHi-HHHiHH-i-CDCupiH-ipHiftCDCDCDHiH-0ft00CD0F-.’H-H-00i--i-pftftH-H-<IQ1HCDH-<CD-QCD1-CDCDh•00(-QH-CliH-ft0CD=ftCDCD‘-0-piih1C0HCDftk<QHp.’piCD-H-><CDHHft<.‘HCD<1HiftHhH-HCDp.’CDpCDC)CD><HiCDCDb.’0(.0)<ft•..Q=‘10CDCDCliCDCuHpH-H-P.’CDCDC)P.’0CDC)Cli‘dHi0HccCD‘CD.0H-H-H-d0‘5HiCDHiIlpiCD0CDCDCDIIftCD‘IccCu—Clift.‘CDH-IftH--H-CDCDQk<CC)0ICDCDCliCDH5Cl•CDCli-.ftCuH-‘ICDCDCl)0CDCDftCDCDF-IHiCu0ftftHiH-C)C)ft--t-CDCDpftCDo<3CDCDH-><HHH-Cl)H-CD<(CDCDCDH-CDHCDCDCDCDp-C)pcCD-CDCDCD0.‘•CDCl)H-Cu0H-CDCu1CDC’)SCl H-CDftftH-CDF-’CuC)ftCDCDCD0ftH-CD0H0ftIICDH-(-PPiCDC)CD08(.QpjHCDzipCDH<pi0ClCDCDCliCliCDH-5‘1CDciCDHiH-CDpj3H-HCDCl)pCD3CDHH-Cl)p.’ftH-CDH-1CDHiCDCDHiCDdHiftftCliCDftCuCliCD1pi01H-CDftH,i-ci-CDCDCDH-0‘gH-ftH-ftHiHiCDH-CDpiCDCuClH-><ftCl)P.’‘0ftP.’ftftH-ftCDci-CuCD05ftCuCD0CuH-0ft0Cu13CDS13ftftCuCDC)H13.’ftCDP.’‘1k<ftCD13CDHftl‘-<<CDCDcriticism is also text,9 open to interpretation, to other criticaltrails: my end is also a beginning.I cannot, however, begin , end with the text. Concentratingsolely on Sauer’s writing neglects the “worldly” nature of histextual “field”: his writing is placed in the world, it has adiscursive context, i.e. historical, cultural and, mostimportantly, political moments to its production and reception:“The understanding of a text consists first of all of placing it inits proper sociopolitical configuration, in having the textconfront its historical context, and in calling on a broadanthropological tradition. “°The textual “field” is situated amidst the “fields” of discursivepractices that regulate knowledge and power in the “archive” ofSauer’s time. However, not wanting to lose Sauer completely amidstdiscourse, the notion of Sauer as simply author-function isrejected in favour of a strategic positioning of changing Sauersubjects for the purpose of critique.11 We move from the “work andSee Harari, op. cit., pp.60-72 for the notion that criticaldiscourse has no mastery over the text and is itself open tocritique. See also Bhabha in Young, 1990, p.155: “the space ofcritical activity is also that of the (re)construction ofknowledges.”° Said in Harari, op. cit., p.45. Said stands here withFoucault in the rejection of reducing everything to the level ofthe text and preferring instead to focus on the discursive text.Via Foucault, the “author” is transformed into the“author-function” - simply one mode of the functioning ofdiscourse: “The authorial function is but an additional instrumentfor the exercise of a knowledge whose only politics is that ofpower. The author.. . is a principle of power, but one which isalways presented. . . as being only an instrument of knowledge”(Foucault in Harari, op. cit., p.44). I, however, choose to followSpivak (in Guha and Spivak, op. cit., p.342) and to position Sauer- in different “moments” - as subject (making no claims for a3H,dCDH-HCl)CDPi-I—’OOH,HOCDJCDrtCD)H-0CD(Db0H-CDI—iJCD-F’H,CDUC)CDCDI—hCDPiCD>C)CDWHCDCQH-I-CDC)ICtC)H-CD0C)HH-CD1t’-CDCU]H-PH-HI-’-:çtH-CtH-CDHrrHH-CD0C)hQCDCi)HCl)H-LQH-C)I-’td5iH-CDC)bH-U1CDiHCDCDCDC)CDCD•CD0JJHJCDH0Z-H,CDrtHWlj<F-CDHrtI-hp0gCDCDH-CDHCDCl)1Dcl-aCD0CD80(1)1QJCD0°H-HC)oCDJCD0k<C)WC)HCliCDC),0H-CDU]çi,CD-CDCDCl)H:iH-H0CDHCD1Ct•H°HC)ClCt.DH-C)(H<QQ1.<c-tH-lQCDCDH-c-tL..DçtH-CDCDQp.0H,C)<I1CtC)CDTsJ•CtH,rtHCDUQCDCD S:-CD0HCDC)H,CDHH0Ct•CD-U)Ci)‘ClCDCDH,CtICl)H-CDHrtHCD><ClIQCDH-rtCDCD-L’JClCliCDC)HI—’0F_H,•-HOCDCDC)CDF_0HCD:CDCtH--CDQC)II0H-CDHhjH-CDrt HClClz0CtHClCDC)H-ClhCDHC)CD<rtCDrtrt’1Cli30Hh-HC)H-H,-0HCDiHCl)Cl)r-rC)k-ClHrtClj-ClH,-0Ct1-1pCDCDHH-HHHClH,CD-Ct-CDCDCD02.Cl)CDH,5H,CliCD)))-.LiCl)çtOctH-QClhCDctH-H-CDCl)ClCDCDpiCD0CDCD3030H-H-SClCD<H-CDH-1QCt)CtCD0oH-LQCDCtIIH-H-H-H-çtOClit-t-‘CDH,CD0CDi.QCDCDCD3H0CDCDH-CD0CDtCDH,H-Cl)CCik<CliHCDCDClCl•CDrtCliQCtCliCDHH--CliCCCD00uCDCDH-‘-I-CDC)CtCtHk<HIQHH-H-.0CDCDSCD.CCH-H(DHH-CDH-Cl)1CCDCDCl)CtCtHIrJjCrCCH-H-CtH-C)CDCD0LiCtCliC)HDCD<CDClCliCliCliCDH-CDH-I—’HDH-0C)Cl)I-0H-3FCDt0CDCDHi-CDH,CDCDIH,ClClk<k<CtCD13Cl)Spermeable and this was its “nature’1 and its “destiny”. The “field”was beyond partition and control, greater than those who practicedit - they were merely “tillers” of the “field”. Sauer said:“If we shrink the limits of geography, the greater field will stillexist; it will only be our awareness that is diminished.”“. .should we disappear, the field will remain and it will notbecome vacant. ,,17The individual geographer thus had a choice between truth andrepose: true geographical enquiry was to travel; the “field” ofgeography was also trail. Even here, maintained Sauer, geographydefied confinement: there must be no dominant trail, no beatenpath, but the freedom of individual travel for the geographer: youcould not “predetermine the quest for knowledge”:18“No field of inquiry can be properly defined by any specific meansor methods of gaining knowledge.”9Sauer claimed that he himself kept the “field” open and the trailunmarked “by any arrows of methodology”.20 His own work steppedaside from the “fields” of concern of other geographers of his timeand contradicted accepted theories. Williams portrays him as an“intellectual Voortrekker” darting “about the geographical scene”and “moving on when he saw the next man’s methodological smoke”.2’This did not, however, preclude Sauer from wanting to meet others17 Ibid., pp.394 and 389.18 Ibid., p.387‘ Ibid., p.381.20 Ibid., p.401.21 Williams, 1983, p.2.5Ft02Qrtrt’d(QQ‘drDOCDHiDF—H-CDOHPiCD)WFtrrHrNH-< 02PJP)H-Q—CDCD<dCl)WH-H-OCflCDCl)0)WCD<FtP)b’CDC)1CDHH-CDpJrtCDCDI-ci HCrH-H-FtH-PJCDWH-CDH-oFtW2JCDFtO1-tCDCD1Q‘dF-CC)‘1H-—CD-CflFtOCDI)HH-HLOrtCflC)cxH-OQ0) CrCDFtQCtCr-HpJ>4-CDOHC)SFtQCDC)H<UOFtoCDFtStCD-h-H-SH-CDW02CI)1..QCl)0,,FtC)CDCtCD0C1-CDdHP)C)H-°C)CD°H02C)frCDCDP)CDctOCDC)HHH-CFCDgCl)CDCtH-CiopHC)1FtPJCDH-CDHCDH-HCflrHQCDCD00FtH-c-I-°tHFtFtHiP)CDjrr02C)0HtC)PJCDFtCDHCDH-CDCtH-0LOQHiCDICDCDFtt02H-WCD-rtQFttnF-1H-CnQitnQCDp0H-H0Hi0PiH-CDCtPiFtHH-FtCl)CDCDCl)-C)-Q,H-CDdH-H-HC)02FtaH-Cl)CDHiC)hI-hi-NFtHCDHP)Q CDCl)CDCDCl)PH-piCDCDIHiCl)k<HPiHpiH-CDHh-çtFtCDH-H-H-I-Cl)CDCl)FtCDH-H HiCl)CDpjHCDhCD0)opi02HCD(QH-Cl)Ftc-ICrPiCl)H H-CDp1Cl)hCDCDC)HH<CDpiQ-H-I- 0CDHipiHiC!)H-H;7s-3CDCl)CDFtCDCrQ0i-0-PiPi0):HiFtoH-H-P)cthFthHo0SHH-HCl)H-<°HiCDHiH-CI-CrC)0II-CD0)C)HHQrI0oH-H-02Cl)Hi><C)::-H-CDCDCD02Cl)H_P)P)H-CDHC)U)-Q.-H-0)02CICDFtH-SHCDCDHCD-<HHHiHPiCDCQpFthC)FtCDCI02CDCDHhPiCDH--H HFtH-CDH-H-U)QpjC)H-piC!)HCl)FtFt-CDCD‘-QHiCIFtCI-H-—CD10CDHi-0)UICHI0)FtCDCDCDHFtYP)CDCDH(QipjHHiCDSFtCl)-hU)PSP H-3CDHPiI-0Cl)<1-CDHiQCD0)C!)Ft H H 02CDCDH H uiP)02 HLDCDH k<IOHcoLOWo-’ui Cl) CD CDHi CD Ft Pi H- Ft H 0 0 Hi Ft CD C) S Hi H CD CD II 0) Cl) Ft Pi Ft 0 Hi Ft CD Pi S H U)5CI:0CDOP)CD00FtHI-i‘H-k<H-H-HiH-Ft0rr-CDCDHHH-Cn:JC)‘CDP)HC)50CDH0h.Hit0CDpjH-‘1 H rrFtCDH<CD0 )IIH02CD;FtC)0 HFtk<0CDCDHiriCDFliJCDhCl) HiQCQjH-PH-Cl)FtC)Cl)1i02O)gpjLQjCl)P):H-HP)HHi0hHiFtHFtCDJH-FtCDt0CDC)CDCD5FtPiI-I-HhçtQFtPi()IFr0CDCD)H-H-CDCDH-H-CDCDCDFttH-Jlo0CDHFtQ5CDCDU)H-(QFt5CDCDPiCDI-IFrlCDFtI-PiPiFtQH10CDH-CDCDCUCDF-1CDCDhH-CDH-IiiCUC)1Ft-P-FtC)CD0FtCDCUHCl)IFFtH,P3IHiIFtIQH-CDFtCD--SCDH‘dFtCUCD030CDP3FtP3CDH-ClCDCDII-•FtCDIQCUCUFtCDpiFtH,FrCDFtHI-H-IIQ-CDCDH-0FtCDH-F-1-<I0Ii—CDQICD0CDFtooç-tH,FtCDCDCDQIIii.CDCDCDH-H-CDFrCDCDFthj0FtCDCUCDCDk<H-loCUCDH--Ft0CDCDH-CDCDH CDFtH1Ci)piCDp30H-H-•CDH-hH-CDCDCDH-0CI)CD,0(.QFtH-LQH-FtH-0CDH,HH-qHH,5CDCD0FtCDH,CDHH-5Q5FtCUFt1pJFtH-C)j0FtHCD_l:Y.<CDNCD0C)pjH,CDFtçHH-CDFtH,H-FtH-3<CUC)H0CD-P3FtFtH0CD0p0CD0CDFtHCDH-H,H0-H,-Q•Ft0CDH5U)3HCDCD0CD0Hco‘0oC)Qct0Ft-C)hCDP3CU Ft-0.I-”(31FtCDH-CDH,QICDH-SCDF’--HCDCDFtCDCDCD‘F-1hCD CDCDC)0FtghCUH-CD0FtH-0.H-0PiH-C)0pi0HH,SH-H-CDFrH-CDH,H,CUCDH-FtCDCUCDH-P30FrH<FtH0FtCD-0CDCDCD-QHI-H-H,CDH,CDCDHCUCU00CDH-H,CDFrH,CDCD0P3CDH-CD1hCDFtCDFrHFtCDp3CDp3H-CDH-P3H-QCDCU0CDCD‘<CDCDCDSHP33CDCUCD<CDCDH-FtCDFtCDH-H-HFtk<CDCDCU00C)H-H,<IWCDH-FrCDH,H-0FtCDCDCD0Cl)CDCDH,H,H-CDh0lCUCUQ3P3S13I-CU•-13H-CDC)H-H,CDFtk<H-FthFtCDk<CD13-H-CDCD13CDFt013-<CDi-Ii0.CDH-hH-H,H-CDCUSHCD-I-QC)13HCDC)-t-3hQ0CD13CDCUCUCDCDCUFtFrCDCD<1Fr(QCD13hCDHP313U’FtH‘-<0CDCDCU0.CD13FrI-HCDCU5C)ICUH0.Q.3CUCDFtFt5-IIH-0HP30H-H13H-FthIHhIlZCUH3H13H13QFrCDFtH0.0.0-<CD-13<CU<0.FrCDk<0.k<0QI13phrases he had made his own over the years:“Now I find myself reproducing them again and in so doingreproducing Carl Sauer’s thought.”29This “index of the pervasive influence of this scholar” is, forStoddart, an indication of Sauer’s greatness as an academic. Italso, however, represents an uncritical adoption of his ideas.Critical closureOver the past decade, a “new cultural geography” has beenconstructed which focuses on a critical rejection rather thanadoption of Sauer’s ideas, particularly his definition of culture.Equating Sauer with the Berkeley department and North Americancultural geography as a whole, it dismisses them as outmoded,relegating them to the “old cultural geography”, the heritage ofthe “new”.Sauer’s definition of culture, states James Duncan3° in hispioneering article of cultural critique, reifies culture, missingthe wider social context in which it is constituted and expressedand limiting the questions that may be asked within the discipline.Sauer’s “superorganic” view of culture, says Duncan, sees cultureas an entity at a higher level than the individual, governed by alogic of its own, actively constraining human behaviour and leavinglittle room for human agency - we see reality “through the29 Stoddart, op. cit., p.17.30 Duncan, 1980.8creature’s eyes and act accordingly”.31 Duncan attributes thissuperorganic notion to Sauer’s close links with Alfred Kroeber inthe Department of Anthropology at Berkeley, from whom these ideaswere apparently uncritically adopted and filtered down to Sauer’sstudents in the geography department. Peter Jackson,32 in a morerecent critique, adds that Sauer’s view of culture is too rural,materialist, historicist, concentrating on mapping the distributionof non-urban cultural traits in the landscape and deciphering thenature of their origins. As an alternative, Jackson advocates aconvergence of cultural and social geography and the adoption of amore political approach to culture which allows a real concern withsocial agency and the constructed nature of culture.Price and Lewis,33 two former Berkeley students, have recentlyreplied to this critique, rightly criticising its reductionist viewof cultural geography at Berkeley and its relegation of the latterto the defunct half of an old/new intellectual dualism. Whileaccepting the critical input of the “new cultural geography”, theyresent its destructive approach:“Although members of the new school claim to be revitalising thesub-discipline, they are in fact reinventing it, casting aside allof the features that have long distinguished American culturalgeography. “Price and Lewis advocate a mutual toleration in cultural approaches31 Freilich in Duncan, op. cit., p.191.32 Jackson, 1989.Price and Lewis, 1993.Ibid., p.2.9to geographical enquiry: they seek not to reinstate Berkeley as thetrue exemplar of cultural geography, but to prevent itsmisinterpretation.In spite of this assertion, however, there is something of an“establishment” feel to their tone. The delay in the reply to the“new cultural geography” is exemplary of the long-establishedpositions of Berkeley geographers within the sub-discipline. Asthey themselves note, they do not have to participate in“intellectual jockeying”: their ways are “time-honored”.36 Theconceptualisation of the representatives of the “new culturalgeography” almost as the “youth of today”, elbowing their way in,has connotations of their having to earn their place within thetradition. Price and Lewis seem to forget that they are as much aselective self-invented tradition as the caricature forced uponthem by the “new cultural geography”.Neither do Price and Lewis, in my mind, adequately answer thechallenges of the “new cultural geography”. To meet Duncan’scriticism of the superorganic, with its twin allegations of tribalholism and discounting the individual, with the response that Sauerwas aware of the former but never did anything about it and, as forthe latter, he “did accord historical efficacy to individuals butgenerally only to those who remained anonymous” (for example unamedIbid., p.3.36 Ibid., pp.2 and 8.10women and Columbus!) is inadequate, to say the least.37Sidestepping, Price and Lewis dismiss the matter, maintaining thatSauer did not even pay much attention to conceptualising culture:“Given the international orientation of the Berkeley school,“culture” was a shorthand for those foreign peoples in whose landgeographers muddied their boots. ,,38This, however, just reinforces Duncan’s critique that culture is“out there”, and the point that culture is something other(foreign) people are dominated by and from which the geographer isexempt. Only he can swim against the cultural tide.While Price and Lewis thus seek to mobilise the “old” culturalgeography from its ossified form imposed by the “new”, they do notunfreeze their own conception of their tradition, especially therole of Carl Sauer. True, the “Berkeley school” is not reducibleto Sauer’s work and influence. However, he is a significant partof its (constructed) history and later work is defined in relationto him. The “Berkeley school” may have “many voices”, but Sauerwas the first. We therefore need to take another look at thislegend.Leaving the beaten trail: geography in the field“The important thing is to leave the beaten trail and start cuttingone of your own; it will lead into a land of delight. That is boththe advantage and difficulty of being a geographer.”39Ibid., p.10.38 Ibid., p.11.Sauer in Stoddart, op. cit., p.19.11çuC)ftl-CDC)H,QCt)ftH-H-HH-ftCDftC)CHCDQI-hHciiciiCDHctp.piciiCDpilQCI)(.QctCDCDctCH-ciciicsCD1Qft<F-1ctftC0)ciiHH--tI)‘<:CDCD50)-ciiCrC)F-1CH-CDHCDC)CD02H,CDH-H-Cl)H-CDCDH-3HCDçtpiH-CDftI-CDCDCDCl)-I-,Cl)ftCDCH CD--.CCDCD-H<1ciiCDH-CI)ftC)CCU)igCCDH-1QCDciiHbi-H-Ccii1Cl)H-CDCi)-Cl)hCIHH-iCDI-Q5I—oftI-CI)CDH-CDCi)C‘-d H- C) CD cii CD H- Cl) C C) HH toftii)iH,H-ftC)ciiftdCl)H-C)H-ftCl)‘-dCDH,H-Cl)JC3I-ciiCI)C5H-ciiCCQH-CDCDftCDciiCCD3dCDHCQCDF-1C)CDHftCCDH-IIHQICCDhftF-iH-hH-HftciiftH,C)CH-ftQIftC)H,HH-CDC)zrH,HftHpiH-H-ciiH-020Ci)CD3HC)hpjk<ftICDH-CCDC)U)C)ftciiH0HHft‘1oCDC)ft=H,0)ft1C)H,ftCpCD-CD0H-1CDpiCDHCH,HCl)H-H-hCDftQIQSQftCftQICDbCDftCDCDH-H,CDCl)CDiiftQliciiC—QIH-CCDciiH,CCDH,ftH-hHftCDH-H-HCDft5CDCDCDCDCCl)H-HftCDCDH-CDH-HcihCi<-CDoH,H-HCDpiftH-C)-ftH-CDCDH-HciiI-0HCDCDC)lH-ftH-ciiCDopiCQ0)ftHCDCi)H-iHHH,hH-ciiHHHCl)Cl)CciiCDCDH,CDpiH-CDCD<1SH-k<ftU)HH-ciiHCDftH-Ci)iCCl)H-CDCDftftftU)C)H,ft02-<Hcii0)0C)l-SCftftoftCDC)CDHH-H,k<H-CDH-JH,HH-CD5H-CD0CDCl)ftH-HCDCl)HH-CDHHC)CICDC)CD-pftH-ciiCQciiQ1ft-H-H-CDH:H;-pCDHCDH,H,CHCfthftHCD--H-Cl)U)CDft‘HftCD HpCDciipiCt)H-Cl)wpiH,HHH-CI-QH3CDCftciiQIHCQICDpiH-CDH-HCCDCCDHCDQ-H-HCDQICH-H-H0ftciiCH,CDC)53HH-k<QC)h-H-piH-piH-C)piCD3CDciiCDC)HdHCl)C)HftCl)QICDi-HCQftHHQIftC)C)U)fti-CDQCDCDciipiftCDCDCl)ftCDC5ftC)‘1CpiHHICH-Q.Cl)HCCQH-Cl)hC)ftftIHIZCDCDCDli<l-i-CCCDQIftCCi)bH-Hcii‘-QICDIIl-ftftH-ftftciiH-piftH-hciiciiCD3H-ftftCl)H-I-ftjQI-U)H-CDCDftCDCl)CDCCD‘-<‘-<CCDCl)..‘-d()D IIH-Ci)H,oH,j0Cl)h-CD0I-dCr)C)C)H-oFtS S-H L%J-0 wcI) CD CD C-) H H- H, H, 0 H 0 0 Cl) Cr) CDHCD Ft HCDJPJIC)ICl)JFt)0.QPi)Cl)HHH,CD$)J0tFtIII-03Ft0—0H-ctCDfr0HrtFtIHIH-CDQiCDFtFth•0CDCDFtFtH-CDIctIFtFtCDCl)JFtHFtFt0h5IIH-HH-1QOItIPJH,Ft0H-Qi0H-0H-hQ0I-’<CDdC)hFtCDLQHH-H-0H-W0IH,CDH-Ft00i—i,CDH00C5HFtIC)CDPiU’H,HFtHCDk<HHHiOoQI<QiH-FtFtCD-C)CDtQHIHFtCD<HIFt-H,FtFtFtH-H,I-QiCI)CDCi)3)CDH-C)H-‘-0H-FtCl)iCD0CDHCDCDH,CI)CCI)QFtC)CDHHFtH-H-CI)3FtCD0FtFt)C)FttH-H-H-H-‘1I-H>4HHHHH,CDCDFtFt0dFtFtcoF’H-H-.QQH,0HFt00‘0CDH-CDHFt0jC)5H-CDFtCI)QiH—wcCCJ)CDH-HH-FtFtCi)FtFtC)CnHpJP-’CDQH-0CDcChQH0CDH-’<i.0Z0CDI-CDCI)CDHCl)-QPiQi0H-FtpihQiPJFt0CDpiPJCD(-QPJcC5HCl)H-qH-C)CI)0Ft1QiC)oCDCDH,Cl)C)k<Ci)Qi-pjHHP)H-H,H,H,FtCI)-CDH-HgFt0Qc-pFt0H-Cl)CDCD1)frC)-CDFtCI)ci-pjI—iHci-C)CDidIPJ<iI—’•FtFtCDCl)‘-<H-0(-Q:-CDCDH-HFtFthIWHFtH-CD00FtH-H,0FtH-HOi-s•FtH,P)H-ciCDC)1H-HHH5CDIHH-p.1HQiH-Ci)ici-<CD0HH-FtPiI-PJWIH-copiFH-30CDF-’CDQiFtFt0P.1C)FtIFtHiCl)••FtH,CDHaHHpC)pjH-HCI)hCDCDFtQIU)Hci-H-QCDC)FtHFtC)FtCDH-H,1H-C--I-H-H0FtHH-CD-FtQiCDFtIFtsCl)k<HiH-H-CDFtCf)QiCDH-FtH-CDCDCDbH,FtFtPiH-lCDH-Ci)-PCDPiFtl-QHIQiCHiCD-Qi0H,C)1H-H-0H-FtFtH-(QCl)1C)Q3FtFtpjFCDCDHcoiCUhH-FtCDpiCD2HFt0Ft—I5QCDCDP.1C)H--Ip)QICDFtF-1C)H-piFtH,CDCDCDH5H,ICDCi)FtFtH-CDIFtCDH-<CDQ-’i—iIQCl)ci-Cl)QiFtl-FtC)‘-çj0Cl)H-HI0o)HiH-CD0H--•pi0I—iQCDH-SFtCDHIH,-Cl)H,i-nUiFtH,CDH,Qii-nCDw CD CD CD CDIH jip çrCDC CD1HHCDF—’OCrU)CD 1HCDCflHCrCrCDCD0x H C) 0 H Hlocalisation, the drawing of a boundary. Like Clifford, I aminterested in the spatiality of cultural authority and culturalfutures. In a shift of focus from geography as “field” togeography j the “field”, I am left with a complex view of Saueramidst intellectually and spatially bounded travel: fixed in theacademic “field” and fixing his authority in the “field”; mobilisedin the “field” and mobilising against fixed authority in theacademic “field”. Retaining this tension between dwelling andtravelling allows for an ambivalent and productive approach toSauer’s authority: holding onto an ethnographic crisis but anenabling crisis that searches out the limits to authority and thegrounds for its transgression.HomecomingsThere are trails that must be followed if we are to get someanswers. We begin with Sauer’s life and work as bounded marginalspaces in a “passage to premodernity”.46 Sauer is always alreadytravelling, displaced amidst a condition of “ethnographicmodernity”47 and looking for a cultural and intellectual dwelling(“home”) . Following Sauer’s premodern passage into Mexico, the“field”, culture and their inscription in Sauer’s notes and worksare treated as ambivalent attempts at homecoming amidst travel -thepositing of academic and cultural truths - “the notebook of areturn” •48 Allowing the spatial tension to resonate throughoutdifferent “moments” of Sauer’s life and work, Sauer is thus46 Mathewson in Kenzer, 1987, p.105.Clifford, op. cit., p.3.48 Ibid., p.173.15positioned ambivalently and strategically, negotiating the identityof self and others amidst wider discourses of dwelling andtravelling. Finally, through a second and imposed (“home”) coming,Sauer is ambivalently repositioned in the modern via the example ofhis South American trip of 1942 with the question that perhaps itis this that constitutes the true notebook of a return.16HIpiitH-—.U)itC/)CD0Cl)<itciHIIC-)3itH-CD0Pi3HipiHiH-FHiIH-CD—CDci<1H-CDCDIçuH-CDH-H-CDCDIU)P-’i-HI—iCDCDC)Ii-H-t-QitU)JU)HiciC)IHciHiCDH---0CD-H-i>4ciCDH-(QCDU)-CDPJCDCD0oçuH:3CD:CD-HU):31:3Ii-o‘H-CD1U)QH-H-U)IU)it0-H=Hi-ciçtHi-U)CDitH-10:3H-01I..oCDftHc-i--—Hih4-.--CDcii0CDCDH-itHiQI:3HitCDciiH-ct>4CDH-iciiH-0H-CDF-1Hciiititit0-HiH-itCl)ci)U)U)0-c1CD0jCDCDHCDH-CD->4HCDHCD—00HMC)U)HICDCDSit0itC)CDH-ctQI5o-F’H-H-HICDHiHiciCDdH00H-ci‘<ciCD0U)ciiU)CDf-i CDCDpi0U)U)-ctCDci)CDH0CDHH-ict0HictCDH-U)çW-çC)CD‘CDH-piC)-•-C)CDHc-çCD-CDCD-CDHiHQIctCDHth$CDCD<CDCDCDHitU)itHCDHciQH--cii-.)H-C/)CDCDCuc-’-‘<CDCDHci)itQIciiCDC)‘CDCD—.]HC/)0it-0CDU)H-Cu0ciiitU)CDit‘-U)cx)C)HiC):3itCDitU)it-CDitH-CDCDCD0itC)CD‘-4‘-4—:3U)H0CDi-0:3U)CDH1-4itCDCDCD0itU)CDU)>4>4IIC)pi0H-HiCD00Cuit‘H-HoF-’Hi<C)k<$cxiCD01iH-CDpiCD0CDCuHi‘-113QICD1-4it1-4it‘CDH-H-—CDlCDHCDCDCDCD C<CD0HiIC)H-H0Zj0itU)it05CDc-i-QICDHCDHiPHH-U)-pi-‘5QIH-U)CDCDpiHcii-F’-HHc-ih0CD0H-HiU)k<CDU)01-itciiciiCDCD013U)CDH-piitHi0I-it-<CDiCD-HiPii-ciici)•U)k<HitHiH0CD-C)I-<0Cl)CD-0itH-U)CDC)0cii13351-40CDH-DU)CDp13HiciiitSU)‘-Q=ciiH-0Cl)ciiciiH-it0CD‘-413‘-40CD‘-4OQI0H-(QitJ1-4bciiCD1QCDHiQIitCDCDI-hU)CD13CDCDit13to begin with a “home”: “home” not in the sense of the “warm,redwood house”4 that James Parsons immediately associates withSauer (see Figure 2), but in the sense of identity, the sense ofbelonging. Sauer himself conceptualised his life as a kind of offbeat existence: that of the small-town “peasant”, tangential to amodernising, urbanising United States within which he emerged asdissenter, “maverick”, even “jester”.5 In fact, born secondgeneration into a German immigrant community, Sauer was in a wayalready marginal to the United States, displaced by birth. Thus,rather than taking “home” as our starting point for granted, itbecomes more productive to begin with a condition of displacement;the important query being not so much “Where are you from?” but“Where are you between?”: James Clifford’s question ofintercultural identity that puts the very notion of “home” to thetest 6Rather than unproblematically charting Sauer’s biography, then, Ichoose to view “home” critically as a persistent issue in his life.Beginning with the ambivalence of the German-American “home”(Heimat) into which Sauer was born, I go on to position him in afurther “unhomely dwelling”,7disorientated by a modernising UnitedParsons, pers. comm. (L) , op. cit. Here Parsons is referringto Sauer’s house in Berkeley.Sauer in Williams, op. cit., p.21.6 Clifford in Grossberg et. al., op. cit., p.109.Bhabha, op. cit., p.141. I realise that there is much toBhabha’s discussion of the “unhomely dwelling” (the “paradigmaticpost-colonial experience”) and that I am here quoting out ofcontext. However, what appeals is Bhabha’s sense that the borderbetween the home and the world are confused and the private and18Figure 2: At home?Carl Sauer’s “warm, redwood house” in Berkeley.MERRY CHRISTMAS * HAPPY NEW YEAR19States. Within this context, I find Sauer’s reaction to be one ofretreat (in response to the United States as “lack”) : a desire forcultural and academic alternatives and a replaying of his Germanbackground as traditional “home” against American societal change.This reaction is spatialised in Sauer’s life and work as a “passageto premodernity”:8an association with non-modern spaces forming atrajectory that eventually situates him in the “field” in Mexico.The exploration of the “field” as antimodern “home” provides uswith sign posts for the remainder of the thesis.Heiluat?Carl Sauer was born in Warrenton, Missouri in 1889 where, with theexception of three years in Southern Germany,9 he remained until1908. Although moving further and further away in later life,according to Kenzer,1°Sauer would often look to Warrenton for “thathometown feeling” that he could not find elsewhere. Indeed,Sauer’s boyhood years in “hometown” Warrenton were certainlydistinctive: his parents had migrated to the Midwest amidst a waveof intellectuals escaping Germany in the 1850811 and were thus partof a German cultural renaissance in the United States. Wholepublic are part of each other: a notion of “the world-in-the-homeand the home-in-the-world” which I am trying to use here as anapproach to Sauer.8 See Mathewson in Kenzer, op. cit., p.105.Sauer was with his parents in Calw in the Schwarzwald fromthe age of nine to the age of twelve (1898-1901)10 Kenzer, 1985a, p.261.See Kenzer, l987c, p.41.20villages had migrated intact, bringing a sense of “Heimat”2 fromGermany (see Figure 3) : a cohesive community to be rooted firmly inthe soil of Missouri. As “custodians of culture” living in a newcountry,’3 they attempted to recreate the ways of the old. Sauer’searly experience was thus of a way of life in exile: hecommunicated with his parents in German’4 and attended CentralWesleyan College (CWC), a bilingual Methodist school which hadgrown out of the nineteenth-century migration. According toKenzer, CWC had perhaps the foremost collection of Germanliterature and religious works available in the United States atthat time and prided itself on being a very “German” college;’5 inturn, Sauer’s father was apparently “the best of the religious and12“Heimat”, directly translated, means “home”; however, itgains a wealth of meaning from its participation in the “volkish”movement of mid nineteenth-century Germany - a spiritual reactionto the dislocation of urbanisation and industrialisation. Thismovement incorporated, along with the highly romantic notion of the“yolk” (the people), a focus on rootedness in the landscape(“Verwurzelung”) . The “Heimat” was “the specific location wherethe yolk was rooted and where it maintained its elemental ties withthe natural world” (Bassin, 1987, p.123). The very strength of theterm “Heituat” thus came from its resistance to the mobility andalienation of the times. While Sauer’s parents moved from theirhome region in Germany (their true “Heimat”), they can, in a sense,be seen as reforming this concept in the face of dislocation.Later on (indeed, throughout the thesis), Sauer seems to turn tosome form of “Heimat” in the face of change.3 Carter, op. cit., p.100. See Carter for an interestingdiscussion of how meaning is constructed in a migrant situation:the clinging to cultural baggage versus the mirroring of the hostculture and the third alternative of what he calls an“authentically migrant perspective”.‘ This was up to 1918. Kenzer, l987c, op. cit., p.49.Kenzer, 1985a, op. cit., p.262. For Kenzer, CWC offered atraditional German education with its emphasis on the natural andphysical sciences and its fostering of a historicist perspective.Kenzer is also keen to point out the importance of such classicalGerman writers as Goethe in CWC’s intellectual landscape.21Ciiçj[l(ow (1 JFtcn (0 FtcT)owj0Jeducational life” of the “Germany of other days”.’6 Thus, as aresult of both parental and college influence, Sauer’s earlyenvironment was distinctively Germanic.’7However, if Warrenton’s community provided a sense of “home”, itwas a precarious one. Although the German emigres felt that theyhad established a second Rhineland,’8 they were not allowed to callit their own: for “true Americans”, they were the “enemy forces”:“rag-tag and bob-tail cutthroats of Beelzebub from the Rhine, theDanube, the Vistula and the Elbe.”19This was particularly the case during the First World War whenanti-German sentiment in the Midwest mushroomed and the “American”sense of place challenged the Germanic.2°Towns changed their namesunder pressure - Berlin became Lincoln! - and in 1918, CWC wasforced to remove a large percentage of its German program as a16 Kenzer, 1987c, op. cit., p.50.17 Sauer continued his German education while a graduatestudent in Chicago, familiarising himself with German socialscience. See Glick, 1988, p.446.18 Warren County was one of the several counties that, as afunction of German migration, constituted “The Missouri Rhineland”during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. See Kenzer,1985a, op. cit., p.260.19 Lears, 1981, p.29. Lears is quoting here from an Americaneditorial of 1886.20 Copley, pers. comm. (I), 12/3/93. For Copley, there arestrong memories of anti-German sentiment in the Midwest around thetime of the First World War. Sauer, he suggests, may well havebeen affected by such persecution and this could have fuelled hislater move to the west. Similarly, Williams (op. cit., p.4)asserts that the “American reaction to Germans during the FirstWorld War” left Sauer with “indelible memories”.23it0‘CDU)00H-CDitH-H-H-hf-it•H-H-’TJH-CD0H-0F-’CDH,CDH,Q))5CDU)0QU)CDU)5U)U)<CDCDQitSU)C)C)ititH-itF-1(1)CDU)CDH-H-CDH-QhCDCD)U))itHI<F-1(-QHCDflH-CDCDPJhF-0H-H-HhithU).QHH-H-<itH-it<CDH-shU)5itp1CDPi5iitU)H-NC)C)CDC)H-Lh0CDCDCD<piH-C)Drj:H-cCDU)P)Qp1H-CDCl)CDH,U)Qpiitit0rtCDhpjPJi—CDU)CQQ‘1it0piYHU)H,<CDH-aCDr0H5NCr)mU)0‘1H-HH-P-hh’<SHCDCDitQCu<U)HI_U)-)U)-hitU)CD5HHCDhhi-tctU)-H-CuCuU)<H-piH-CDCu0CDHHk<0U)U)H-p1Hc-rljScrHCD(1U)°CDiCDCD‘-.0HQU)0CD0)hH-0C)hCDH,:jU’g0CDCuCDCDHCuçtSCubH-HCuPCuOCDi-iCDH.QH-C)CuititH-H-CDU)U)CDH-CDCDCD0U)U)-—CDU)H-ji-p1Cuit0C)H-H-5oit‘ditit0QCDIp10Oit0OHCDN.0H0C)Hitit5p1U)CuH-.QC)DhC)it‘-CuitCD0“H-CDCuCDCDCDH-CDH-itCDCD0H,U)C)CDp0itCD-CDCuitCD0it5Cuoit-.CDU)itHp1H-PJU)frp1HCuCuCDCDL’.1F-’CuCDHpp1itCuitC)HHCDp1CDU)CDF-1CDIIititH-CD-.CDitHHQCDU)CuC)M0HU)H-U’U)U)0QU)itCD\.)H,HCDitH,H-H-U)CD0p1itOH-H0CD0sC)it‘dCDH-itHIHCD01SU)00p1Cu--cH1CuitU)dp10itCDC)0H--piH-k<itU)HH-pjC)CD-PCD0itH-II-U)p)itH-0CDCuU)U)ithCur-iCDQU)Cu0U)0CDk<H-CD0QP1C)HCDCDH-i-C)itCDp1it0piN0itU)1‘dOitHHHHCDSU)CuCDHC)CDCD<CDCD‘dCDH-=i-p1I-itHitCDH-it0CDU)C)itHH,p1-OU)H-H,itCDH-I<CDQQH,U)itU)CDIj—Spi0-0H-CDit•k<CuH‘CDp1CDilCupjH5-H-SCuCDCDCD5<itp1CDCD0CDCDC)CDCuCDH,LI.pjCDCDH0‘-‘CDCDH-CD’dHH-Q05ititipF-’-H,h-U)CDititI-CDitH-itH-0H‘<CDH-H-H-C)CDSU)CDCuCD--ititC)CD0itCuiH-0U)iCuHCu=CDU)p1-U)CDk<IU)p1=p1itU)i—Qjit:j-s::iOI)rtQftçiJHi CDpJLJ(Dpi‘-ihLJ.K)H-r.QHC)hHi CDO0H-i-rCDiQH H(.QftpiH0Cl) U)CDOjH H-HE\) (IIftCDwHCDH Hi-HiH-.pi’C)U)”ftftCDCI)CDPJU)CDict-rCD -piH-ftCl):ftCDpiH tt)L1CtK)CDU)-ftp)0CDHiCl)C)CDftCDhpihp)iH-iCrC)OoCDCDC)CDrrCDC)Cl) PitOCD1)t--CD U)Cl)CDHP)I.Dft—ICDoi-i—Hc-fCf01J•ft•CD Hip1ftC)-CDH0<HiH oCD•i-U)O0::C)CDH- CDCDc-rhp1-H C) p1p1 CDiQ CD p1 U) Cc-H- C) Cf 0p1°C)PHiCDH-Ctt-CDH-hOIdk<f--(I)P1pJHi-1iftCDp)P1H-t-t-c:Ht-CDHCl)0Cc-CDPJCDrtCDPiCD ci) CDHC)H-ciioN CDftitp1 p-.Cl)H-CDH--HftHU)C)CD CDHftH-HH-CD-t-CDU)P1i-CDf-i--Hio iOC)HiC)U)CDftH CDH-CDCDpjC)ftft-iCDCDPJCD•p)IQc—cPlXC)CDPiCD0CDft3Hft0-OOCl)CDU)U)Fi(l)CDP-ç-c--P1CDtpi-CDC)CDCDCDHH H-CDH--Hi•Cl)t-QHiCl)H-.OpJOLDU)aH-n-)C)H-Cl)Q-JrrpiCDHO0FPiCD.i-CDhCDc--OCl)’<-ftCDH<Cl)H-ihpjLI-CDt-QCDCDHCDC)H-CDCDH-1CLJP1H-CDA,HOC)Hft•1rJ<U)CD-hH-c-C)OO)PJC)CDO•H-ft1<1ctpiOPC)-ftHiHH-ftH-OftPiCDC)c-QftU)p)1t-PIHOOU):•HiU)IQCDiñOi•Oc-U)H-H0-H-HiftC)CDjk<0H-U)ftIp)U).HiC)C)ftC)O0U)0p1CDP1HftU)Q1QH-CDHi=o0CDH-.-0HSftHCDU)0.CD-‘HCDCDHi.-U)-hCDftHiCDQCDCDHHU)-HHdCD‘1i-QH-P1CDCDHU)H--CDLI HiftftftH-U)pii-0P-CDoU)Q.1QCDftCDftCDHU)PHiCDU)ft-I0 HiHiCDC/)0ft0P-C) HCDf-i-HCDp1CDCDH-C)CD—,HiCDP15CQCDQ00H-QftftC)XOCD ftp10QJ -H-U)U) ftCD H-H CD CD ft P1 CD H CD U) CD C) p1 S CD H ft CD S 0 CD p1 CD LA CDU)Cl)ftOp1p1t3-ciCDHHc-CDP1 ftU) CDH-U)U)CDHi CDH-P1 0H-HiQ CDftISCD hPH-CDC)i-p1P10 C) H ftk<oPHc- 0 0CDftSH CD U) U)p1 HCD U) Ci)ftp1U)Qp1 ftH-H-U)P1 HH p1 C) CDCr1Sp1CD iCDfti-iHip1 S H- H H H- C) CD p1 ci CD CD p1 H- U) CD I:-’ H CD c 0 U) CDp1 H CD ci 1Pci CDciCDp1that contradicted the- if threatened- community of his “hometown”Warrenton. This new image of the “Restless American” was, to Sauer,greatly disturbing and continued as a concern into later life:“We have since become a greatly nomadic people at all levels andoccupations. . .The moving van and the house trailer travel ourhighways coast to coast unendingly. Home ownership may be morepractical and convenient than rental, but in either case there isa short expectation of staying. The community ties are greatlyloosened or lost, the home a temporary address, not the place wherethe family puts down its roots.”3’Sauer thus found himself further displaced in a societyrepresenting the antithesis of his upbringing: not only adisrespect for history and tradition but a restlessness, a nomadismand a further destabilisation of “home”. For Sauer, as for Lears,not only “home” but identity was seriously threatened once people“cut loose from geography”: how far backward then over the dayscould “the uninterrupted “I” be said to extend?”32In addition to a sense of spatio-temporal dislocation- change asdisorder - the modern for Sauer, as for many, was constituted asloss. After the War when “the world blew up”33 and “Americancivilisation began rolling,34 Sauer found American society wantingboth culturally and academically. On the one hand, he interpretedthe modern as a form of urban culture monster: inauthentic,overriding cultural particularity and destroying the diversity of31 PAR, Sauer to Jackson, 24/6/60.32 Lears, op. cit., p.5.Williams in Mathewson in Kenzer, 1987, op. cit., p.107.Sauer, 1945, p.124.26American small-town communities.35 In Homestead and community onthe middle border, Sauer lamented the loss of community, thevillage break-up with emigration: it would, he said, be missed.36Sauer enjoyed diversity: he rejected the modern path to “hear thesame thing, see the same thing, think the same thing”37 and wanteda world that resisted uniformity.38 Later in life, he watched thetransformation of California with anxiety, viewing it as amicrocosm of the modern cultural crisis spreading throughout theUnited States:“There is a lot of experimentation going on out here, but it isfor the gaining of general acceptance. We get a fashion ofhousetype, supermarket, basket-ball competition, betting on racesor mixing drinks, that if successful sweeps the state. . .Our goalseems to be that we look alike, have the same manners and the samethoughts. . .We are the perfect example of a highly mobile mass inwhich change must affect all parts or die out.”39On the other hand, in addition to the inadequacy of this“succesfully industrialised world” eradicating the culturallandmarks that he cherished, Sauer also feared the loss ofSauer’s concern for the destructive potential of the modernwas not purely cultural but also environmental. In his speech tothe Royal Geographic Society in 1975, Sauer cautioned:“Civilisation in our time has developed a technical dominance thathas changed the world and is impoverishing it. . .Biology is aware ofthe limited world. Geography must not forget it.” (SN34, misc.).This concern arose out of his early fieldwork and involvement inland surveying in Michigan, witnessing at first hand the effects ofenvironmental neglect. For Sauer - since culture was expressed viathe landscape - culture conservancy and nature conservancy wenthand in hand. This thesis, however, concentrates predominantly onthe former.36 Sauer in Leighly, 1969, op. cit., p.41.Sauer, 1945, op. cit., p.124.38 LQ5, Sauer to Smith, 19/4/38.Sauer in Williams, op. cit., p.19.27academic interest in cultural particularity. The modern moodappeared to be “antihistorical and antigeographical”4°and Sauer -who felt he “did not know how to think except in terms of time andspace”41- found himself increasingly disillusioned. What, he said,was the point of:“knowing the illuminated letters of a missal, the finding of aGregorian chant, the tying of a trout fly”42if history and geography were becoming irrelevant; the conservationof cultural difference alien thinking? American academic geographywas becoming for Sauer far too seduced by modern trends: itspractitioners were “slick salesmen” turning thematically towardsthe economic, politic and the urban; embracing the contemporary(which for Sauer was the political) and looking to apply,synthesise, plan and, worst of all, universalise. As JamesParsons notes, Sauer’s “ecologic, historical, culturalinterests. . . found little reflection in the main currents of thetimes”.43 There was a “blindness” in the “modern age”,44 a lack ofcuriosity: cultural particularity, history, and the whim ofdiscovering difference seemed to be becoming passé.Sauer thus positioned himself uncomfortably amidst a modernising40 LQ5, Sauer to Smith, 19/4/38.‘ Sauer in Williams, op. cit., p.20.42 Ibid., p.22.“ Parsons, pers. comm. (L), op. cit.LQ9, Sauer to Bowman, 5/12/42.28American society: “off to one side”45 of cultural and academictrends. Although this became increasingly articulated at theintellectual level for Sauer- a feature in his work as well as hiscorrespondence- it remained a highly personal issue; a question ofidentity and “home”. The spread of modern culture, it must beremembered, threatened his own community of Warrenton; the academicneglect of the past challenged his own early historicist education.Many experienced the modern as cultural disintegration;46 Sauerintegrated it into his work - it was not, however, any lesspersonal.Passage to premodernity“Sauer. . lived through a period of quite unprecedented change in allthe places that he knew best, in the face of which he held evenmore tenaciously to his more traditional values.”47Sauer’s response to his “unhomely dwelling” in the modern was totake refuge in retrospect. Sauer himself said he was “either bornor conditioned to look on the world historically”48 and perhapsboth were true: the historicism of his early “Weltanschaung” fusingwith the shock of the new to make him hold on to a sense oftradition.49 Either way, although he may have been afraid of thepresent and the future, he had no misgivings about the past. It‘ Hooson in Blouet et. al., op. cit., p.166.46 See Clifford, op. cit., pp.4-5.Mathewson in Kenzer, op. cit., p.105.48 Sauer in Leighly, 1969, op. cit., p.389.Also, Sauer’s early academic training in the naturalsciences, particularly geology, endowed him with a concern for “allhuman time” and, later, for geography as a retrospective science.29was here that Sauer hoped to find some compensation for the loss ofthe modern; some form of cultural and academic belonging. Indeed,the modern was only constituted as lack by Sauer because it haddeparted from the past. The answer lay in a return to cultural andacademic tradition.For Sauer, the question of return resided not only in retrospectbut also in mobility. As John Leighly notes, he attempted to:.escape from the obtrusive ugliness of our culture, which doesnot spare the academic community, in the exploration of remotetimes and remote places.”5°Sauer can thus be viewed as antimodern traveller, looking foralternative spaces to reinforce a sense of tradition; a sense ofidentity and “home”. His reorientation to the antimodern isspatialised as a “passage to premodernity” - a trajectory thattakes him further back to the past and into the “field” in Mexico.This can be divided into a series of dischotomies: urban/rural;east/west; north/south, each of which speaks to Sauer’santimodernism and the issue of “home”.Aging in the wood5’Viewed synoptically, Sauer’s life and work were pitted by bouts ofanti-urban sentiment and a strong association with the rural.° Leighly, 1969, op. cit., p.7. My use of emphasis.51 See Leighly, 1979, p.15. “Aging in the wood” was, for one ofSauer’s students, the process of doing a thesis in Berkeley. Thisspeaks to the section below on Berkeley as a form of academic“home”: a return to a form of intellectual craft and a rural (read:authentic) alternative set apart from the more urban San Franciscoenvironment.30Sauer was based in urban areas for much of his life but, accordingto James Parsons, did not “especially like cities.. .though he washimself a part of them” •52 He resented urban encroachment on thecountryside and wrote with disappointment that “the ways of thecountry” were “becoming subordinated to the demands of the cities”;the farmer “becoming a town dweller”.53 The cities and citymasses, said Sauer, were “an offense to a good and sweet-smellingworld”; he was against them, against all the:“masses of people rushing about, making unnecessary noises,gobbling sweets and chocolate drinks, dragging their wet and smellyinfants about.”Cities were part of civilisation’s “garbage, literally andfiguratively”, and he dismissed them.54Since, as James Parsons notes, Sauer studied “things he liked andhad sympathy for”,55 it is not surprising that this rejection ofthe urban should filter into his academic work. It was not, saysWagner, part of Sauer’s “vision to take account of the apogee ofurbanism”:56 “Too complicated” Sauer would say “as he looked out52 Parsons, pers. comm. CL) , op. cit.. The cities Sauer livedin, however, were not all as “urban” as each other: Berkeley, forexample, would have been less so than the rest of the Bay Areacities and than Sauer’s earlier Chicago environment.Sauer in Thomas, op. cit., p.61.LQ22, Sauer to Hess, 15/9/55. Mexico City and WashingtonD.C., as we shall see in Chapters Five and Six, were the ultimatecity spaces for Sauer to avoid.Parsons, pers. comm. (L) , op. cit. Also, according toCopley (pers. comm. (I), op. cit.), Sauer once said: “I’ve yet tomeet an urban geographer who likes cities.”56 Wagner, pers. comm. (I) , op. cit.31over the urban sprawl of the Bay Area” in San Francisco “and let itgo at that”.57 Urban geography for Sauer was simply “fustian andfeathers”58- he turned away from cities and claimedincomprehension:“I do not know what urbanism means. I have kept away from citiesin my thinking. The growth of cities reflects something that ishappening in and to the country round about. It is a phenomenon,and as such worth studying, but I cannot get into it.”59Despite often living in cities, Sauer was very conscious of therural nature of his beginnings: “his roots. . .sunk deep inMidwestern so±l,,60 in “the wooded triangle between the Missouri andthe Mississippi rivers”.6’ In the midst of the urban, Sauercontinued to claim an association with the rural:“Mainly we were country-bred of prairie and woodland soil, and keptthis knowledge and quality when we went to the cities tolive. ,,62As respite from the urban, Sauer’s early fieldwork returned him tothe rural areas of Missouri and Illinois. His later work for theState Geological Survey in Southern Illinois and for the MichiganLand Survey allowed him to escape the city for the country again.63Parsons, pers. comm. (L), op. cit.58 Sauer in Stanislawski, op. cit., p.553.Sauer, 1945, op. cit., p.127. The “country” here is thereality, the “city” merely an intruder.60 Parsons, 1976, op. cit., p.83.61 Leighly, 1976, op. cit., p.337.62 Ibid.63 The period of fieldwork covered here is from around 1916 tothe early 1920s.32QMiCt:MiDCtJCt02:I—’Cl)MithOPJ-CD0Cl)MiJJ0CDCDCDICD0$Curtc-tCDCDCDCuH-I-I-CuCrhH0F-’CtH-H-H-0CtCl)Cu0P0HH-IOCDHH-H$C)C)$H-HCl)CDl—°CuCtN0QH-c-rH0H-H-0Cu•Ct:CDj(QCDCDHH-ICuCuH-CtCuQHH-•CDCl)0ICl)(0(0hIi0CDk<CrCDCDCDQ-’HH-‘1IMiCu10CDICD:02..C1)10CuI-02H02ICDCl)tOCurtCtto—‘CDCDCl)02CDH-0H-jCuCoCDICDD02ItICuCuCDCD0HCD0MLQipCl)MiIO0)Cl)H-=C)H-H-HH-CDCl)H-HCuIHCuCDH-CuCtCDCl)HCDcqPCD0H0HfttoCDCD0ICDf-rH-CtCDCuCDo•ç-t-c-tCD-CDCuCDHH-ctCDCuCt02F-ftCtQCD0$0ctCD$MiHCl)i)0CD0C)HCD0CuCDMiCDHi0H•CtHl—0CD.Cl)Jft1‘-Cl)CrhQHHCDwCuH-0CtHWCD°°CDCDi-CuH-CDCDpiCD‘CDHCtHI-Mi-Cl)0)•‘-<Cl)•CD.Cl)C)0IC)HCuH-CuçtH-QCuCl)Mi0ZCDCT)0CuCDuftQf-rMiH-HCu0)Cr-Cl)Cu$0PCDCrf-t°-CDCl)CuH-HMi-Cl)Cl)CQHççCDf-tH--CuCDCD:MiHC)Mi00)CuC)H-<Ctr-tH-0CDC)CDftH-CuH•.ftCDCuCD0H=CuCl)HH-f-t30Cu0)CDCDCl)CDi<•C)CuCDC)CD0Cl)ç-tCDCDCD<i-c-tQ020H-i-WMi0)0.0CD0CuCDF-Cl)CDCDUiCu0HMiMiCl)MiH-H002‘-C)CDH-F-0H-CrCD000CDC)CDH-CIQ0CDCuHHCl)H-WCDCDftHCu0Cr0Mi0ZPJCr0H-Cl)NCrCuCDCu0Cl)CtCDQ<0CDCDCD-CuCuCuClC)HClH02(00hCl)ftCl)-hCDClH-CD00H CDCuH-ç-t<HCl)0H-HHHC)°Cl)CD-QH-MipMiCl)Mi0(0Cl)CuCl)<CrCu0CuCl)—‘0Cl)I—’HHhMiHCl)d0HCDCuH-HH-DD0j0CuCu(0CtCDCuCu0C)0=1QC)0)-OHH-Cl)CD0MiCDICl)0020(00Cl)Cl)CrClCl):IQzCDHCu()•.ftC)Cl)CtCuCuCfiCDCuCt0Cl)H-0CD0H-H-0C)CuH--I‘-Q,MiCD-Cl)Mil-MiMiCDMiCuCDHftC)CD<ctp)CDH-h(DU)U)çt H-CDCDH0CDCD0 CD.cvrt.dH-CD H-ft U)rJ2CDftH,H-0k<c)CDhQCD)U)f-tH- CDH- QftftCD C)U)CDC) CDH-H-CDftftU)CDQHH,QftCDCD k<k<U)C)CDU)0cvCDcvFHU)C)fttnU)CDU)0CDioH-0cvcvoU)QH,F1U)rr00CDftH-,—iILJF1••H,0ftCDipp-’U)U)C)H-ftH-H-CI)CDftQ,HcvCD--‘o0i-ICDHCi-U)C)CD(I)HcvhCDCDi-0‘-hjftcvHCDHC)CD0I-H-I-IU)ciHF1ciH0 H,0 H-<)U)-HCDHHH-H-f-i-H-cif-i-U)1‘1F1CD‘oCDCDU)CDci-U)U)cicvH-U)H-H-H-FCDCDftU)CDftJftCDCD3H-F10hHU)CDH,H,3k<Cl)F-0Picv0hftC)U)HC)CDCDciCDCDH-LftICDCDdU)H,QçjU)cvCDi-CDCDoH0H,-rIF<‘-<F--1ftH-CDcv-cvcvCDiiHCDftci1ft‘dcvH-CDHCDCD0U)—cvftcv f-i-PiftHQJH1ci-H-H-‘-<o<ci-<H-U)bU)CDCD-CDCD1ftHHftfth0CDC)H-CDCDU)CDU)iHH1PiH-ciCD--Cl)CDH,CDH-0 ftPiH-F-1oU) 0H-CDiC)F1ft0Qcift‘-<H-U)ci H-ftcvftCDjf-fH-ci-hH-H-HCDCDci-0HHCDU)H,CDocvCD0HH-hpjU)i-H-H-i-0ci-CDPiP10CDU)ftjH,H-k<‘0U)I-I1CDHCDU)IHciCDCD<1hH-H-0ci-U)-<1C)0P1ftCDCDCDH-ciU)U)P)CDCDCD--U)-U)hociH,HftH F1CDpi IIH,H1hk<0-ft H-hCDHI-ft H 1Qcv II—1—1O—CSOCl)I:-’Cl)P1iOplHCD‘.0Cl)II-H-Cl) 1H ‘.0Cl)CDi-s)ftII00 ci ciP1P1ciIIci-ftIIi-J-CDHU)00U)—P1••ciC) H ft •U)I1 ‘.0 z < U) CD 0 H, CD cv U) H- U)CD0ociH CDCD U)-ft H CD U) U)Sauer’s own experience of and reaction to modernity were thusdisplaced onto city and country space. The notion of the countryallowed Sauer to time and space travel: a link back to a more“homely” past and place from the unappealing context of themodern.72 For Raymond Williams, this spatial trope is age-old: “acontrast between city and country, as fundamental ways of life”reaching “back into classical times”73 and giving expression tothe displacement of the new:“The pull of the idea of the country is towards old ways, humanways, natural ways. The pull of the idea of the city is towardsprogress, modernisation, development. In what is then a tension,a present experienced as tension, we use the contrast of city andcountry to ratify an unresolved division and conflict ofimpulses.As Williams also notes, the relation between country and city is“not only objective problem and history” but also “a direct andintense preoccupation and experience”:75“A dog is barking - that chained bark - behind the asbestos barn.It is now and then: here and many places.”7672 Sauer’s polar forms are very like those of the sociologist,T8nnies, who posited an evolutionary perspective from rural to cityspace over time and a concomitant shift from a cultural form ruledby natural will (“Gesellschaft”) to one determined by the rational(“Gemeinschaft”) . However, whilefor Tnnies the path from country to city was irreversible - thecommunity could not be regained once it had been lost - Sauer’sspatial and temporal travel seem to allow for a process of (atleast imaginary) return. See Saunders, 1981, pp.86-88.Williams, 1973, p.1.Ibid., p.297.‘ Ibid., p.11.76 Ibid., p17.35CD HiHi CD U) H ‘0 wo o\DI-HCl)H-CD•hi H CD H H HwC) H- Ft Ui0 0 CD iiCDJCDHCDFtH-U)oCDHFtC)NhICDCDPJCD-I-IFthiCD-Opj<HoHCD0‘DQC)CDC)CoPJCDDCDFt0C)‘-HU)N-O hiO,H20HFtC)ftFtH-Cl)CDFtFtC)U)CD0l)JCD—hiCDHiSh)Hi-hi Q)U)FtU)HFt-H-H-C)hiftCDC,DHF—ihiPJH-CDI-I0’IQFtH-CDHCDFtCDSFtH-hiH-CDU)bU)0OOiHi I-I0CDH<CD<CDCDhiCDhiSH-ciiFtcihiC)P-CDpjIHijHC)hiU)CDhihiOhiCDU)CDC)H-FtQH-C)CDci)hiFtFt:i0<U)-ci)ci)U)Q-Q-,=FthiLI]0U)H5Hi0H-H-H-CDci)HiC)DH-ci)U)xJFt55F—CDHi5U)U)Hici)1’JFtU)H-0CDCDCDH-HHiCDH-FtCDHWU)Hrjhii-iQ-CDU)I-ICDCDCDhiDFtci)0hiFt-U)U)CDCDO0yFtCDci)cii—.HiCD0CDU)ci)05FtCDU)hiOC)C)hiCDH-cuHFtCD-CDP-HFtH--CDhiFtCDFtCDFt0hiHCDHiH0cu‘-dU)H-H-CDCDH-FtU)HFtFtCDCDCDhi-HiFt.2Hu‘U)H•I-IjCD0<)Ftci)FtFt0hiCDCD.H-H-HiCDCDhiFtCD)U)HiCD‘hici)CDCDH-0ci)FtFtHhiHCDShiFtFtHiH-FtCDFtFtci)ci)0HH-ci)U)CD<0FtHHCDciFtCDCDFtSftHCDCDFt<CDk<)CDhici)FtciFt0HHFtHiCD-cii0U)<FtH0CDI—’QrtH-HCl)CDH-CDCD5CDCDciFt0H-Hcii<:CDOFtCDihi0U)CDHCDH-FtFtFtU)ciFtOH-H-gciCDci)-FtCD=HiIhiU)C)000H-0hiHCDH-Hi0::ci)SH-hiCDH-H-FtCDSHHH-CDFtCDci)U)HiH-FtFtCDCDCDCDFtFtCDHiCDHiHiFthiU)HCDCD0FtHCDhiCDFtI-I‘-ICDCDFtci)CD<-FtCDHiFtCDC)FtU)U)-hihipFtCDH-0H-ciiCDCCDFt0FtCDHiçtH-U)LiHC)HU)CDSciiFtFtFtI•Ft0FtCDCDHi0IOCDHi-CDH-clH-CDCDSI—’hiH-CDHCDCDH-U)ciIci.iFtH-H-FtP-FtH-ciFtU)<U)FtU)C)CD00FtCDH-ciiCDU)hiQhi00ci)FtH05U)H-U)C)FtHiCDci)H-CIDci)HiFtH-••CDFtFtci)ci)C)H-H-H-hiFtH-FHQ3HFt0ciici)FtciiH-CDFtU)QHOHiFtHCD0H3hi<c-IhHoiCDOc-tH-c-I-CDhH-cccci-cccc—Ci)(1)c-IqI)CUCD0CD H,CDCl)H,hhCD IIH-U)H-0CD-N CDC)•II:HH‘Hc-Ic-IHHj-H--•o UiHC)HlJJH-’Io-CD-Q0p0c-IH,(J9HifCU°C)U)H-c-I--c-Ipj HHCDH-H-HapicoCDCUQ•QHc-IH,H-HJcICD CDCU0ct‘-H-H-HqCDCDpjU)Hic-IQH,PJI-CDQ-U)H-0U)c-IC -CUCUc-IHCDCUHc-I0CDCDCUH,CDhpooI-QCUHCUQ CD CUCDCUH,Cii H-‘—)C) 0U)0c-I‘c-tHCDc-c-IS-oc-tc-0CDCDhIIjCDH-H-U)U)H-U)c-1c-I(QCi)Ci)c-I-c-ICDp c-1 CDc-I-0oCDHc-I-U) Ci)CDICQCUCii CDCDH-hSCDU)CDoHSU)CDCC) H c-I-HIi-I Ci)U)H-C)H-o c-ICDCDU) Ci) c-I-Ci)H-5CDH,Ci) c-Ic-ICi)CDc- Cl)QIiCDCDCii U)CU HCi) C)H,CDQ C)o H,U)H-H,H,CD CD C) CD Ci) C) 0 c-I- H Ci) c-I H 0 0 H, c-I CD Ci) H 0 H U) Ci) C) CD 0 H, c-I CD H CD U) c-I-HI00H,CDH,CD0CDk<HCDCDc-I-Ci)U) c-C)I-Ci)=HH-H-IoCiiI-Ci)Cr)H-Ci)CDCi)C)H,C)frCD U)Ci)CDU)I-c-c-I 0-Ci)CDoc-Ic-I-U)S-0CDCl) Ci)CDdoICi)CDU)CDc-Ic-I--o0frCi)-U)Ci)i U)U) H-02nSCDCD“C)HHHHCDCi)Ci)c-I-0H-HWQHCU0CUiU)0c-H,00I-c-IC)CUCDHU)H-c-I-H SSCi)Ci)Cii HCDk<CDCUCUU)U) c-I-C) C) 0 H c-I- 0 CD N CD 0 S 0 H c-I- 0 CD CD H CD Cl) Ci) CD CD Cii c-I 0oH-HCQQc-I-ICDCDCD0CDc-I-U)00CDU)L.QI-Q()HhI-Ci)c-Ic-I-HCi)CiiHoo)H-C)U):H,c-ICD<0H-ISCi.U)Ci)CDHCi)H-H-c-ICUHU)I-CDc-I-Qhc-I-njH-H,CDc-I0H-CDCUIIH oCDCi)U)H-dCQc-IU)I--Ci)0H-c-IH,Ci)fl=CDc-Ci) g U)Ci)CUoHU)Hc-ICDH-c-IHHU)0c-H,H-CDCD-d1IIIHccH--U)c-I-C)c-I Jc-I-CDCl)CiiHIH-c-ICi)CiCi)ac-Ic-I0(.Q0I-0c-oI’oCUoH c-H0H-H,QI-0H-CDH-‘d0N-H,SCU0c-IHc-ICDU)0CDSH-U)CDC)H,U)0c-Ic-IHCUI-H-CU0Cii1CDU)Clc-IH,i“appreciate a Germanic conception of the discipline”,85 toconstruct “his version of European geography on American soil”.86From the remembrances of John Le±ghly and James Parsons of Berkeleyin the l920s, this certainly seems to be the case.87 Both recallSauer’s geography as a turning away from the “favorite topics”88 ofthe time in the United States towards past work in Europe,especially Germany. They felt they were “a world apart from mostof academic geography”,89 not only because of California’sisolation but also because Sauer wanted them to “march to adifferent drummer”.9° In opposition to modern American geography,the Berkeley strain sought, among other things, to reinstate theimportance of intellectual freedom - originality and curiosity; tocounteract the “blindness” of the age with direct observation inthe “field” and, most pertinently, to reinstate the importance ofthe past (this, in opposition to the politics of the contemporary).Thus, as with his cultural displacement in the modern, Sauer soughtredress in tradition. Akin to the “yolk” of the rural past, Sauerrecreated an intellectual community of his own in Berkeley:academic “peasants” that understood the importance of continuity85 Kenzer, 1986, p.2.86 Ibid., p.3.87 See Parsons, 1976, op. cit. and Leighly, 1976, op. cit.88 Leighly, ibid., p.8.89 Parsons, 1976, op. cit., p.15.° Ibid., p.13.38‘0‘0‘d ciiCOI-MU)-0(I)U)i-CDHh‘0 0 C) H Cr H Ui‘0 C’cii I- Cr H CD N CD H —:1 0 C) H Cr HI- H U) H- U) Cr CD Cr H Cr H CD Cr 0 cii C C cii H C CD Cr cii HHCI)DciiOCD ciiCdciCrHCDr-i CCDH-CI-QC—U)CrHiH-HU)0 diCDC)Crcii Q-CDCDCrH C)cii HC CDCU). C) Hct-.CDCDHcia-’hoU)CDciciiC)I-CCDH-CCDC)CDH-HiCrLJH.(.QHiHiH-CDhH-CDCDC)[-HiH-<I-QCDCDciiH-C)U)ctCI)CDCr1-tC)’-<CDU)CD,-H-CD-U)U)H-H-ciiHi0 HH-CDCciiH-HC)HHl-hjc-rdCDHltHWH-H.CDI H-HiOCDU)i-LiCpiCrOU)CDH-HCDCDHH-HHiCQHIIC)CDCrHQCHiCDC-30SciiciHH-cirnHCD’H-dU)H-H-HciC)H-HcrCDH-U)tQU)k<crQH°8c-tOciiHiCDCDHiCDCDciiIti;JciiU)U)rrc-rCDiCDHH-W CDCDIHCDCrrpiCDIIl-U)HCDCrHCtCDhpiciCD--<‘-<CDCDciiCDC)U)hhCrCDC U)ciHU)H-diCD’<Crci-CDH (-QOH-CtrCDHl-H-Cr Ccii‘—<ciiH I-.dl H-H HiH-C)HciiH C U) CrrrCDCDk<U)CrH-C) U)CD ciiHiH CDCDci>< HCrC)CCHiECCDC)U)HCrHU)CDCDciiCrciCDH-CDct-CDH-CD IQCIiH-ciiCrCrCD-oU)CrHiU)Chll C)CDciiciiciH-CDU)CDSI—H C)cii NciiC)CDU)CrCCHCrk<H CrCDciik<U)CrCCDCrC-CDH-U) rrCr CDCH HQCD C)c,’CrCrcii HCDI-]U)SciiciCU)<Ci)CCdiI-QCDHiCDcii<CL)5HciiU)ChCDCDQH-CrIU)CDhdH-ciiC)CrH-i-QIci3U)bcii-CC)oU)U)CrH-C).HCDCrcii:C)H-CH(-C-U)H-CDHitQHciciC)CrH-CDCD3CrQ)IQH-CDCDCrCD0ciiCDHiCD0H-H-Cr<C)IHiU)Ct)H-CrH-C)C)C)00H-CC-C)H-hQCDCD,H-H=U)CciiH0CDCrCrciiHC)0C)ciiCC-gciCrciCrCDCrrU)CDH5I-i <C)HciH--1CrSciiCDC)CDCDChr-CrH-U)CrCC-U)CDCDl-Qh--C hHCrHiCrCDCrciiCi)-CiCDCDH-U)HCDH-ciiçc-rrjU)C)Cr-CDciU)ciiCDCDCDdidHiCrCCtH-C)C—CDCD CDCrCC-ciH-0Ci.H-H-HiCDCC-CrCDHiU)--H-3H-CrCrH-QCrI5Cl-F-HCrH7QCDdlC)ciiCoci‘-CDHCCH-H-U)‘-<C)CrU)CrHiCDCDCrH-H-H-t5CrCU)CU)-CDCCD•-CU)Sauer saw West Mexico as he had seen California before:academically “open”, a “tabula rasa” awaiting his “pioneer” effort.Following his gaze, Sauer took twenty “field” trips down theMexican coast between 1926 and 1967 and, in keeping with hisantimodern “trademark” retained a sense of history throughout,focusing almost completely on the cultural past.97 As Glick notes,this “austral impulse” gave body to Sauer’s institutionaldistancing from “the background assumptions informing bothMidwestern geography and northeastern Academia generally”.98 ForMathewson, it was also a continuation of association with thecultural space of the “peasant”:“The northern Euro-American landscape continuum mediated by post-peasant small land-holders with distant but distinguishableNeolithic roots, was replaced with an hispanic-aboriginalconstruct. Along this austral trajectory the farmers were stillpeasants, the Neolithic much nearer, and the remains of ancientcivilisations clearly evident.The space of the “field” in Mexico thus slots into Sauer’santimodern trajectory: the past is not only rural community andwestern region but also a foreign country. Still in California andyet still moving into Mexico, Sauer continues to be between placesand - further disassociating with modern geography and looking forpremodern cultures - searching for a sense of (academic, cultural)identity and “home”.The nature of this focus varied over the years: West (1979,pp.15-22) notes the thematic change in Sauer’s fieldwork fromarchaeogeography to colonial settlement, agriculture and early man:all, however, shared a focus on the past.98 Glick, op. cit., pp.446-7.Mathewson, 1986, p.2.40Through the course of this chapter, I have begun to allow Sauer’s“home life and fieldwork to speak to each other and am left witha more meaningful and more animated sense of the “field”. UnlikeMathewson,’°° for whom the spatial charting of Sauer’santimodernism is an endpoint in itself, I want to use the “field”as antimodern space as the beginning for a more criticalperspective in the remaining chapters. Rather than a simplematchmaking of Sauer with antimodern individuals and landscapes, Iprefer to unpack the implications of an antimodernist strain inSauer’s thinking - to ask how it is made manifest in his fieldwork.In addition, despite Sauer’s own positioning against the modern, Iwant to question to what extent Sauer can be seen as completelymarginal to modern institutions and trends: I want to find thelimits to his antimodernism. I begin in the next chapter with aconsideration of the “field” as integral to Sauer’s sense of anacademic (and antimodern) “home”.‘°° Ibid.41MQIQHSQooCDH-CDCD:iijCD[1CDOOCDHI—iJ(.Q(QQ.çtH iCDPJPJC)CDCDpiCD CDri-k<.<CDpj:3hQCD-CDQHH-CDhjCDPC-i-hhhCDoCDJH-l)C-i-CDCDCDCDH-H-tHJCDCDH-CDCDC-i-0HCDCDC-i-CDCD-ri-enI-c-iCD’d-l) :CDu0CD.CDc-i-I-i-H-C-i-CDCDci-Oljk<I-hfiopJH-i--10F-1H,1\)CDlQCt:CDhhi-i,CDCDCi)H-Cl)0H-QpjH-,-Ci):jCDHdhCDCDQpH-a.iiI-C-iCDCDhoa.CDCDCDi-hCi)pjCl)CDC-i-F-1H-Ci)(J)P)CDC-i-CDCDHHCDCi)0C)H-C)C-i-p)I1P)CD-CDC-i-Q-.OH-’dfrhOLQCDF-’C)C-i-HCDCiCDpJCDHa.CDH-CD-C-i-U)CDC)-CD1jPJWFHCi)C)CDHH,CI)CUI-CD—‘0‘<CliF-QC)H-C)woCDCDCDC-i-Ci)CDCDF—hiCDCD0FCDH-CDCiiCDi-h--=C)k<FJFj CUHhH1Cl)FoH Ci)CD-CDCD0CD- C)C)H-oc-iI1Lo wo C) F-’- C-i-H,Ciia.C)-I—sC-i-CD‘1CD>0HC-i-H-H-C)C-i-H-CDCDCDCi)-CD0pjC-il CDI-ij--H-CDH-H-F-1H,ia.zooCi0ri-CDi-CDc-i-CDCi)CDCDpiF-1H-a.CDF-1CDCD——i-CDC-ir,CDCDI-1H,H-H-CDCDCDCDCDC)0H-lQi-H,‘doH-Ci)i-1(‘1H-C-i--1CDa.0CDCDCDCi)1-Q0CD0H,oH,C-iCii-C-i-CDlQCDi-CDCDCDCDI-i•C-i-CD‘<CD=H-CD0a.0H-HCDH-C-iC-i-I-CDC-i-CDCi)CDH-H,I1C-i-H-i-hICi)Ci)a.Cl)H-CiiCDCii0ciH-0hl-Cl)CDC-i-=H,C)H,H-CUH-CDCDI-CDF-111H1Cl)0CDCU ciCi)CDCi)i-CDCDCi)CiiCiiCDC)I-’:0CDH-0H-Ci) H-C-1HC-i--0Ci)C-iC-i-CDH-oC)Cl)H,Ci-1Ci)H-CDCDI-1Ci)--F-1CDF-1-CDH-C)Ci)Ci)H1SSC-i-CDoCD—CD0CDi-IQCi) CD-CDCiiH-C-i-CDCDU.CDciQk<hCDCDCDirjCDH-C-i-HLi.CD0ci-CDS CDC-i-C-iC-i-C-i-CiiCi)-CDC-i-i-<:-FxJFxJHiJo00-ciCDCD0IIH-i--SF-’-Ci)CDUJ’-0CD0S0hCi)C-i-bCDa.:iciCDri-CD‘<CDiCiiH-1C-i-Cl)a.CDCi)’<0C-i-CDCiici‘-<CiiCU’•C1J-H-0F-1H-SI-1H-Cl)Ci)ciI-1H-CDCDH1d’-CDC)CDH‘dri-ri-CDciCDCii0H-IC-i-C-i0ri-0H,5j-’zciCDH-0CilCD—1C)ri-ri-CDCDdH-F-’H---F—C-lCDC)CD0H’=Ci)CiiSF’c-i-hCiiCD--CD0CD H CDCD0‘-<CDoCDCDa.Cii5H,C-i-CDHri-ciCD:J-H--tF-’CDCJCDa. SC)H-H-CiioCDQI—C-i-Ci)C-i-F-’CDCiiCi)Q-CDCDCDC-i-I-<CUCDCi)Ci)CDa.:iClH--CD.Cii-CD=a.H-CD CD QI(: It, I-] Lxi ‘-3 Lxi Lxi1-1— Cl) z w S H- CD C)‘-3 Li It, I’ Li Cl) xj H Lxi t.I0U)rt’dH-QHCDHQxjOOJU)CDO<H-OJH-dF-OCDH-CDPJH-0U)CD•PJPJCtOU)U)OcOH-(.QJCDI—’H-H-F--’0rtCDCD00hCD0jC)CDOH-hU)..0H-iJ>4°°HCD°F-’H-i-”çtdP)H-CDpjU)QCPJftHHHCIQa’-H-CDdQCD•CDHU)JU)CDCDH0H-’CDOCDh0H-,<-.SOPiftCD’OHCDhC-)ctHU)0OH-CDcjDrtCDCDCD<0HI-H-CDDCDHHH-CD0H-U)‘U)000rtQ0HCDU)ZCDHGH0HCDP-’c-rU))OCDCDrQH-CD‘dH-010H-ç-t-CDCDiy’IIrt’-QH-CDhhCDU)U)-CD0--ftU)CDHCDCDOP-H-CDCDOc-tHHH-CDftirtHHCDQ0HCD0CDCDihw8HiU)oftQQCDH-0CDCD-‘1H-(,H-i-1,’lCl)CDftc-I-H-0:CDd0ftH-0U).<CDQ°2CDHCDHCDc-tcj0CDHHCDftU).HOH-•HH-HU)CDft’’1dCD-hHH-HtH-CDc-CDjCD0CD0H.CDCDH0HOCDHQhCDCDI-h1.=pjCDCDH- CDCDCD11U)pCDCDftMooH-CDHi-JCDU)o53p)U)oH5O0H-aO--Hft05ft-hO0H-CD8ooHH-HCD-0HC’200rt0)cI-CD(Q5CDCD<CDCDct5H-U)jO•--P-aCD‘-QCDftM0ftMQ--CD1lU)IftH-‘<5’ft-0U)U)CDCDICDCDctH-CD0I-hCDH-CD1CDSCDICDHJH-CDrtCDO<—1CD0c-tU)CDU)--I--Q<0Q.II-=HCDCD<1dCD5HH-H-H-h’QQftftU)CDU)CDCDH-H-0ftft0CD0h0H-CDH-H-hU)0‘1-50H-H-I-QH-HCDZftU)0cI-Hc-rCD‘-<CDIHCDHft0CDH-HCD0H-CD-ft0HCDQk<ft-I-hCDH-H,ft0CDH-CDU)‘1CD H0CD<CDH-H-‘IQ‘-<0H5Cl0CD0ft3U)U)<CD00ctftIIciHpiCDft5CDci5CDCDH-CDCD0CDClCD00ciftH,CDCDCDoCDHfJ—ClCDU)I0H1Cl)‘1CDCDftH-CDCDH-cii-jHrrCD-00ftHCDCD‘1CDtU)ftH--ft-CDft0H-U)QCDClCDCDHCD‘-i,IICD<MU)H-CD‘H-CDH-5H-CDftHCDCDoCD00CDClH-<CDCD;;‘s.::t.Q0CD0H-ftCD‘0—0cii0H-CDftCDooH-CDftCDCDCDCD0CDHç-r-CD0CDCDCDH-CD‘10HciCl0hCD-CDCD0H-‘1‘‘CD001.H-HCDCDctCDoHU)‘dHLjClCD.=CDftH‘<ft‘CDCDCDClCDH-CDCDCD0ClCl•U)-U)H,U) H- 0 ‘1 H 0 H CD H ft CD U) H- ft CD U) CD H U) 0 ci Cl CD S CD ft CD H ft 0 CD ci ft 0 H- ftStoddart looks to the European heritage of the discipline for “whywe call ourselves geographers” and comes up with the emphasis on“field science” that “emerged as Europe encountered the rest of theworld”: the point, he claims, when truth became “our centralcriterion”.9 Positioning Sauer in the field, it is thus importantto ask, like Clifford Geertz, “how the thing is done”.’° Ratherthan allowing the “field” to remain untouched as password to thelegitimacy of Sauer’s work, we need to unpack its construction asauthority. I do this by looking at Sauer’s constitution offieldwork as spatial practice and observational strategy- sitesand sights used to support Sauer’s and the discipline’s claims to“Truth”- and at his “rites” of education for geographers: theformation of guided and unguided fieldworker identities.Throughout this chapter, I try to show that the authorities andidentities constructed are gendered: that it is not only a questionof reinstating the “field”, fieldwork and the fieldworker aslegitimate but also of labelling them as inherently “male”. Thesense of discipline and self from the “field” for Sauer thus didnot read simply “geography” but also (if subliminally)“patriarchy”. This critique comes from the work of Gillian Rosewho argues that geography is masculinist, that:“to think geography - to think within the parameters of thediscipline in order to create geographical knowledge acceptable togeography’s claims to Truth - must also take its turn at beingtaken critically apart.Stoddart, 1986, pp.28-33.10 Geertz, op. cit., p.2..44the discipline- is to occupy a masculinist subject position”.”More specifically, Rose states that fieldwork is:“a performance which enacts some of the discipline’s underlyingmasculinist assumptions about its knowledge of the world”:’2it prioritises a male “heroic” fieldworker over a female “Other”and, remaining central to academic geography, requires a feministcritique.This leads me finally (and, most importantly for this thesis) to athird sense of “self” from the “field” which comes fromcontextualising Sauer’s call (indeed, need?) for fieldwork asauthority. Following on from the last chapter, Sauer may berepositioned amidst American academic geography and, at the sametime, against its modernising trends - one of which was the turningaway from work in the “field”. In keeping with his antimoderniststance, Sauer objected to what he saw as the reluctance of otherAmerican geographers to prioritise fieldwork over desk work andpositioned himself once more on the margins (the “haplessfieldman”)“For Carl Sauer, nothing mattered more than fieldwork; and no othersingle issue annoyed him more than the ever increasing tendencyamong American geographers to rely on field observations only as alast resort”.’3In opposition to the applied and armchair geographers who seemedRose, 1993, p.4.12 Ibid., p.65.13 Kenzer, 1986, op. cit., p.5.450I—’OH-F—ar10H(-t-0ctCDjH--Co-CI)H,dçtH-Cl>H-orrPJ<CoClu> H-H(t0 H-0 Cl1 H-Co> Ct H-ClCoID0- 0Ct CflID Co 0Hcth‘IHIDHCo0IIHWCDUiCoHCo0 H--IIDO—CD tQrt0--CDctIDiL—t’dID0CDCtClCDH-ClHrtScrtH-0ClClCDH-00CDCDCoCDCD0CDCoCDClCl)dCoH-CtCDCDCoIDrthCtCDH-H-CDHi-Co0HCD‘IIIDIDHH-QHc-t0::YIDH.jCDH--:,cjCoH-ct0UpjCDHIIk<ID.‘I0k<0oCDCDCoi-CoCDH-SClCDCtCDCD0H-IDClHCDct0HioCDctrtOClhCDCDCDHClCD0ClH-’l0HirCo‘0CoQ0HdCDSjCti-tQCD0tCDQCDIDh5Cl-IDCDLtJCDH‘dCDctijClIçtH-‘<0QtHi0ID0CDH-ID(-thHCDCrIDIICDCrCo000Cl)00HCD>CD0CD0IDCl<H-0ClCDIDCrCDIICo0CDi‘t-CD<hh1IDCDSCrCrFCrCDH-H-HCoICDIDCDHiCDCrH-CoCoHIDII00ClCDH-IDCoCo‘ICoLQ0CoIDç-tpjID‘ICoID0CoCoH-CrCDCQHiCtJ00CDID0ClCrH-HiHiCDHiCDCrCDCrH0CDCoCDCl)0(j)ID‘I-0CDCoIDHc-tHpj0IDH-ClCoCoCoClCDCrCDdCDCDCoCl)Co0-01HhCrH-gH-0CD‘I-CD-z0Co>cCoCDH-H-QIDCDHpj‘IH-H-0CDCr0ClIIhgHCrCt.ClCDHCo5—f-t0CoCD-H-CtCrCoCDCr3ID‘IIDIICo‘IH-CoCDHiCrCrIIIDPiCoIDCrID<H-CDCo,ClHH-ClCDCDCDIDHctHCfll)<0PiID0ClJCrCrHClIDCr0CoCDH-H-ClH-CDtCrH-Hi-CoCr1QCD‘ICDh‘ICDID0CoClCoCoH-ClClH-IDCDCr0IIH-CDIDCoCDH-H-CDHPi0‘1CrClHiCrH-HCD0CoCoH-H-H-JHCD0CoH0HCl-CrIDSH-CDCDCoID0H-Hçu0Cl-CrS<0çt‘ICrCDk<CDCD‘ICrH-HCDHIDH-CDHiCrCDCr<ClHCDCr‘I-ClCrCrHCrCDCDH-0H-CDHiCoH-‘IIDCD5ftCD3HH-CDCrID-HihCoHCoCt‘IDCrH-H-CD0CDci-HIDHCrCD0‘1=IDCD‘<CoCDHiHIDCo-Hi9CDClIDID0HiCrCQijCrIDHClCoHiSCDCr1HiH-II5CDH-CDID000CtI-Q0k<CD‘<H0Hi0HIDQCD3H-CrCQ0Cl0tCoCDIDClCDCoCoClHiCDftCr-SITES“Being afoot, sleeping out, sitting about camp.”6In Travelling cultures, James Clifford reflects on the “powerfullyambiguous ways” in which the “field” experience has been portrayedand asks:“what specific kinds of travel and dwelling (where? howlong?) . . .have made a certain range of experiences count asfieldwork? ,,17and, more importantly, as authority. For Clifford, theethnographer’s status as fieldworker comes from being a “homebodyabroad” - someone who stays and digs in for a time - gainingauthority from dwelling simultaneously in village and “field”16 Sauer in Leighly, 1969, op. cit., p.400.17 Clifford in Grossberg et. al., op. cit., p.99. Clifford isalso concerned here with the forms of cultural interaction thatconstitute fieldwork: discursive as well as spatial practices.Sauer was renowned among his students for the “interview” as fieldtechnique - a “low key” interaction with “locals” in the “field”,“pumping” them for information (see West, op. cit., pp.13 and 136).Sauer, however, had no knowledge of Spanish on first crossing theborder in 1928 and taught himself the language from a Germandictionary (itself of interest for our later discussion of Sauer’scultural self-fashioning in the “field”), leading us to questionthe “accuracy” of his information from the “field”. As Cliffordstates, no matter how fluent the fieldworker, he/she can only everwork in part of the language and thus the ability to “speak” forothers, to represent them “truthfully” is never possible. I willconsider Sauer’s cultural interaction in more detail in ChapterFive with an emphasis on Sauer’s representation of rather thancommunication with others in the “field”. In this chapter, whilefocusing on the spatial and observational elements to Sauer’sfieldwork, I am aware that these are not independent from issues ofculture in the “field” and attempt to integrate these via footnotesalong the way. Wary of creating a textual “homeland” (see Pratt,1985, pp.126-7) and artificially separating culture from the“field”, it does however seem necessary for a thematic biography ofSauer.47rather than passing through as traveller.18 While Sauer, for JamesParsons, was “an ethnographer of sorts” (just as he was an economicbotanist, historian.. •) ,‘ his fieldwork was a process of living notso much with the culture as with the culture area.2° For the youngSauer, based in the United States and studying the familiar sceneas “region” (the known), this manifested itself as a dwelling andmapping of the “field” as “home geography”. However, later movingoutside the United States to the unknown, fieldwork became a trailof discovery, a process of cumulative travel that could eventuallyposit the Mexican “field” as known. Throughout, Sauer’s maindistinction was not between fieldwork as dwelling and travellingbut between the geographer’s experience in the “field” and the“tour”. Thus, both dwelling and passing through (unlike Clifford’sethnographer), Sauer retained authority for himself and thediscipline against the spatiality of the tourist. This anti-touristic stance also marked geographer and geography as “male” andgave expression to Sauer’s cultural antimodernism.Familiar scene to -iourneyman-geocrrapherSauer attributed his early interest in fieldwork to his “rural18 Clifford in Grossberg et. al., op. cit.19 Parsons, pers. comm. (L) , op. cit.20 While, as we have seen above, Sauer did interact with“living” culture in the “field”, his focus was on material cultureand the reading of cultural pasts from the landscape (culturehistory) : “The ability to distinguish the hand of nature from thatof primitive man is not learned from classrooms, books, ormuseums. It was acquired by such amateur field observers who livedwith their particular area” (Sauer, 1956, p.9. My use of emphasis).48surroundings” in Missouri,2’ stimulating his curiosity in “peoplewho went out, saw the country and wrote about it”. His years as an“apprentice geographer” were spent in mapping and survey worklocally in Illinois, Missouri, Michigan and Kentucky with a focuson the region as “field”.22 This, for Sauer, was “homegeography”23-the familiar scene that every geographer should beginwith- and this attitude percolated into his early published work:“All about us lies a great and essentially uncultivated field ofgeography. The strange and distant scene has borne an unholy charmto the geographer who has thought that travel in far lands is thebeginning of geographic research.”24Although Sauer recognised the popularity of the “grand tour” forthe “man of culture” - the movement away from the familiar scene-he criticised its “competence to evaluate the geography of acountry” without the comparative perspective of the “home”. Thegeographer thus could not leave the local scene without fullyimmersing himself into its problems; preparation was by way offamiliarity: “Then only can we discover truly the significantcontrasts of far countries.”25In 1928, presumably with this comparative basis, Sauer left the21 Sauer, addressing the Royal Geographical Society in 1975(SN34, misc., op. cit.).22 Sauer, pers. comm. (V) , op. cit.23 Sauer in Stoddart, 1991, op. cit., p.19.24 Sauer, 1924, p.32.25 Ibid.49United States for a trail of discovery into Mexico:26 “I went intoMexico for discovery - it’s that simple”.27 Moving away from thefamiliar scene, Sauer felt that he was pushing back the boundariesof the (and his) unknown - “it was a kind of primitive way of goingexploring” since “hardly anything was known about anything” and:“in those days, geographers didn’t take off for the ends of theearth for months and months at a time”.28This change in Sauer’s personal experience spoke to a wideraudience in The education of a geographer.29 The article beginswith a reconceptualisation of fieldwork as trail of discovery andthe field worker as “journeyman”30 who “goes forth alone to far and26 The notion of a comparative basis resurfaces in Sauer’stransition from Mexico to South America which is explored inChapter Six.27 Sauer, pers. comm. (V)1 op. cit. It was not actually, as wesaw in Chapter Two, quite that simple. Sauer’s physical travel intoMexico was as much escape as discovery - a critical distancing fromother (modern) geographies. In fact, by attempting to reconnectwith the European tradition of fieldwork, it was more of arediscovery. Additionally, it is ironic that Sauer should use themodern rhetoric of discovery here to escape the modern and that heshould write against (colonial) discovery (see Chapter Four) butuse its (colonising) rhetoric to conceptualise his own presence inthe field. See Carter (1987) for a consideration of the rhetoricof discovery and its ordering forth of countries linguistically andspatially as colonial appropriation.28 Ibid. This seems contradictory to Sauer’s earlierdefinition of the geographer and the familiar scene againstgeographers that were travelling to far lands for geographicresearch. It is, however, useful at this stage for Sauer,attempting to define himself as solitary journeyman.29 Sauer in Leighly, 1969, op. cit., pp.389-406.30 Whether homebody or journeyman, the fieldworker waswritten up with continuity by Sauer as male. See the discussion ofSauer’s “fieldman” at the end of this section.50strange places”. The focus is no longer the familiar ground of the“home” territory but the exotic, the ends of the earth:“to go where none of your kind has been, to see and learn and makesense out of what has not been known to any of us.”3’Although Sauer has altered the domain of the fieldworker from thefamiliar scene to the “foreign”, he maintains his critique of the“tour” and emphasises the distinction between traveller(geographer) and tourist:“The geographer and the geographer-to-be are travelers, vicariouswhen they must be,32 actual when they may. They are not of theclass of tourists who are directed by guidebooks over the routes ofthe grand tours to the starred attractions, nor do they lodge atthe grand hotels. . .they may pass by the places one is supposed tosee and seek out byways and unnoted places where they gain thefeeling of personal discovery. They enjoy striking out on foot,away from roads.”33The spatial and intellectual practice of the geographer istherefore to “leave the beaten trail”,34 to keep away from thesites of the tour if he wants to avoid being an academic “tourist”himself.35 The geographer not only discovers unknown space but also31 Sauer in Leighly, 1969, op. cit., p.396.32 Contrary to West, op. cit., p.9, Sauer did allow for some“armchair” (vicarious) travel for the geographer as a complement toactual travel (see the next section on visuality and the map) butonly when necessary.Sauer in Leighly, 1969, op. cit., p.392.Sauer in Stoddart, 1991, op. cit., p.19.Sauer was extremely critical of what he saw as theacademic “tourists” in the east of the United States: the “herd”,the “tub-thumpers, spellbinders and slickers” (the tourists of themodern?) that ran with politics and the contemporary and seemed tohave given up the pursuit of “the good, the beautiful and the true”(Wagner, pers. comm. (I), op. cit.)51goes in search of the academically authentic: conquering “a bit oftruth here and a bit of truth there”,36 the physical discovery oflands is matched by the scientific discovery of “pebbles on theshore of a sea of truth”.37 Sauer’s fieldworker is not, however,completely free to roam. Travelling away from the tourist andstriking out into the unknown, he must eventually limit his travelsto a place that he can know - he must bound the unbeaten trail intoa field:“the human geographer cannot be a world tourist, moving from peopleto people and land to land, and knowing only casually and doubtfully related things about any of them.”38Prepared, the f±eldworker thus leaves the “home” scene and, keepingaway from the “herd”, intimately comes to know the “field”. Onceagain, therefore, Sauer’s critique is of the incompetence andinauthenticity of the “tour”, constructing the spatiality andmentality of the geographer so as to avoid this.39Repositioning Sauer in Mexico, we achieve a more grounded sense ofthe importance of geographer-traveler as distinct from tourist.According to Deplar, the 1920s and 1930s in the United Stateswitnessed a “vogue” for things Mexican and a wave of American36 Conrad in Driver, op. cit., p.24.Leighly, 1979, op. cit., p.9.38 Sauer in Leighly, 1969, op. cit., p.362.With this in mind, it is strange that West (OP. cit., p.143)should call Sauer’s later Mexican visits “grand tours”. Perhaps atthis stage (the late 1940s), Mexico was considered by Sauer as“known” and could therefore be toured at leisure - with “nodefinite purpose in mind, save to get back to Mexico for a spell.”52tourists- “Anglo-Saxons in herd formation”- were heading acrossthe border towards the end of the period.40 Thus while Sauer mayhave considered himself as journeyman-explorer at the “ends of theearth” in Mexico, he was certainly not alone. In fact, ironicallyfor Sauer, the Mexican government was campaigning for Americantourists in exactly the same year that he was crossing the borderfor his first Mexican “discovery.”41Thus while Sauer was travelling in Mexico, textualising his trip inhis fieldnotes, others were being introduced to the country throughthe pages of a guidebook, Terry’s guide to Mexico being a primeexample of the period.42 True to the mentality of the “tour”,Terry’s presented Mexico as a place to travel through quickly, withlimited knowledge of language and institution, in order to returnwith the whole:“The constant aim of the writer of this guidebook is to show theuser how he can best see all there is worth seeing in Mexico withthe least outlay of time, energy and money.Mexico, said Terry’s, made “foreign recreation” easy: it was “just° Deplar, 1992, p.58. This period was apparentlycharacterised by discovery. Leftist artists and intellectuals(hardly Sauer!) made a political pilgrimage to Mexico encouraged bythe socialist promises of the post-revolutionary period, whileothers saw the country as a cultural “Mecca” and went in search of“art” and “civilisation”. This political cultural and academictravel laid the foundations for the tourist wave.41 Ibid. While tourists had been reluctant to visit Mexico,associating the country with violence, banditry and instability,the Mexican government’s campaign to promote tourism in 1928reconceptualised Mexico as safe, unspoiled, cheap and, best of all,just across the border.42 Terry, 1938.‘ Ibid., p.xiia.53across the line from Uncle Samuel’s domain” (so easy to communicateby telegraph, receive the New York Times, return home) and yet“foreign in the fullest sense of the word”.44 A new smoothertravel experience awaited the “old traveller”: “a frictionless andwholly delightful travel adventure”45 where the climate was“healthful”, the people helpful (“hands ready to be of service”)and the language simple. In ninety days, the tourist would bespeaking like “the average man on the street” so that the lack ofthe language “ should never deter the traveller from visitingMexico”.46 It was, in essence, “one of the easiest foreigncountries to travel in”, “as pleasant as a foreign journey couldpossibly be”Moving on from this generic picture of quick and easy travel, wefind that not only were tourists crossing the border into Mexicowith Sauer but, more specifically, touring his “field” of theNorthwest.48 In 1927, the Southern Pacific Railroad had been‘ Ibid., p.x±.Ibid., p.xxiif.46 Ibid., p.xxiia. If in difficulty, the tourist could turn toTerry’s companion, Speak Spanish at once, for a travelling languageto ease passage through the country (ibid., p.xxiic).Ibid., p.xxiif. The traveller is advised on what to wear:male tourists are allowed, among other things, “24 handkerchiefs(panuelos) - cotton or silk. .6 street or business suits. .1 smokingjacket” and “must” use “1 tennis racket. .1 pair field—glasses” and“1 golf-bag”! (ibid., p.xvi)48 What actually constitutes Sauer’s “field” spatially (andauthoritatively?) varies - while Sauer talks of “my Mexico”, hemore specifically outlines to Samuel Dicken that his “field” is theNorthwest: “My field is northwest Mexico, and about northeastMexico I know very little. I hope that you are going to pre-empt54extended from the United States along the West coast of Mexico,giving “new commercial life” to 1100 miles of Mexican territory andbringing cities such as Hermosillo, Mazatlán, Tepic and Guadalajarainto “deserved touristic prominence” Crossing from the UnitedStates into Mexico at the “friendly fence” of Nogales, the newrailway was, said Terry’s, of “supreme importance” for the touristsince it was:“now possible for him to travel in comfort through one of the leastknown, richest, most beautiful, and most picturesque regions of thereal Old Mexico; one which offers him more of touristic value thanalmost any other railway on the continent.”50As “the only railway traversing this fascinating section”, it wasbecoming “each day. .more popular with the travelling public”.5’The “West Coast Region” was itself thus newly “discovered” astourist resort, enabling the “casual globe trotter” to add one more“unbeaten track to his touristic scalps”.52 At the same time, italready offered clean, modern cities for the tourist’s comfort, forexample the “Southern Pacific Paradise” of Mazatlán: “rapidlycoming into prominence as one of the most delightful. .. Vacationthe latter field, and, if you do, you will have to work up thehistorical-geographic background as I have done for northwestMexico.” (PC, Sauer to Dicken, 28/2/36). John Leighly, however,marks Latin America as Sauer’s field (Leighly, pers. comm. CV),8/1/80) . While, as we will see in Chapter Five, Sauer does seem tofeel he can delimit the personality of all of Mexico, he does not(in Chapter Six) move outside Mexico with as much authority.‘ Terry, op. cit., p.162.50 Ibid., p.86.Ibid., p.xxxiv.52 Ibid., p.86.55Resorts on the continent”.53 Recommending the Northwest as“region”, Terry’s thus plotted the “route” of the tourist by railalong the coast, connecting up its “progressive” cities with their“modern, finely equipped hotels” as nodes. The same cities werealso connected up by the “scenic grandeur and tropical charm” ofthe Western Main Artery for those who wanted to travel by highway(Nogales-Sonora-Sinaloa-Nayarit-Jalisco-Guadalajara-Mexicocity)Through Terry’s then we find exactly the “class of tourists...grand tours. . . starred attractions. .grand hotels” that thegeographer-traveler, according to Sauer, had to avoid. However, ifthe contemporary Mexican scene reveals Sauer in the company oftourists, his destination shared with the “herd”, the specifics ofhis fieldwork do not. Rather than follow the mapped itineraries,for Sauer it was always important to “depart from the highway”55and he demonstrated this spatially in relation to tourists in thefield.56 While the latter, as we have seen, kept to the maincities and rail and road arteries on the west coast, Sauer’sIbid., p.96a.Ibid., p.xxxviii.Sauer in Leighly, 1969, op. cit., p.388.56 In a visual representation of Sauer’s travel innorthwest Mexico, we would see Sauer’s field mapped as a departurefrom the west coast tourist route. Sauer’s 1929/1930 field trip,for example, involved Sauer in “reconnaisance” of rural areasaround Nogales in northwest Sonora and, further south, aroundMazatlán. His more touristic contemporaries would have passeddirect from Nogales to Hermosillo; from Culiacan to Mazatlán andtherefore missed Sauer’s trails along the way.56fieldwork was in rural regions57 and he used main routes only forinitial access to his “field”. Rather than the rapid passingthrough of the tourist, West notes that Sauer “often visited thesame places and traversed the same trails and roads season afterseason” - his was a more cumulative form of travel.58 While heoften took the train from Nogales down the Mexican West coast,Sauer used this as a starting point from which he travelled to moreremote areas by foot, mule, horse and car. He thus literallydeparted from the highway on his field trips, defining his routesagainst the tourist, moving slowly and intensively through smallsections of his “field” for weeks at a time. Any dwelling in the“field” was also defined against the tourist, Sauer preferring tocamp in the open countryside or lodge in villages rather than stayin more comfortable hotels. According to West, Sauer was “alwayscontemptuous of modern urban amenities when travelling” and thoughtthat “travel by any means other than the best” was the way to go on(see figure 4) The geographer’s knowledge of an area, Saueremphasised, came from a much baser (and therefore more authentic)experience:His archive work was, however, in urban areas: mainly inMexico City but also in Guadalajara and Hermosillo (see West, op.cit., pp.65 and 94).58 Ibid., p.12. This cumulative spatial practice of Sauer’s wasas much a cultural as a spatial knowledge: returning again andagain to the “field”, Sauer maintained the fieldworker would get“to the point where he sees the culture from the inside”. Thus,persisting in the “field” and avoiding the “tour”, the authority todefine Mexican culture (at least materially and in the past) washis.Ibid., pp.47 and 84.57“an individual creation out of long application, involving physicaldiscomforts and pleasures, muscular, cutaneous, and gastric. “°Tourists “travelling” through a text to travel the country thusseemed to be caught in a different relationship to geography andwriting than Sauer - they were travelling the beaten track, thealready known. Rejecting the “guidebook” and its routes in Theeducation of a geographer and in practice in Mexico, Sauer couldmaintain the status of discovery of his fieldwork- as Strattonstates “there are no guidebooks for exploration”6’- and theauthority.The opposition between traveller and tourist, claims JonathanCuller, is not “real” but a common trope, a division that isintegral to tourism itself.62 The critique of tourism, completewith herd imagery and allegations of inauthenticity, masks yetfurther tourists, posing as travellers. The traveller’s labelposits a more active, authentic, individual experience which isused for authority but which, for Culler, is never achievable - off60• Sauer in Leighly, 1969, op. cit., p.397. While thisappears to be the kind of fieldwork Sauer’s students experienced,letters to Sauer from the “field” could also portray a leisurelypace to fieldwork. Homer Aschmann writes a “progress report” toSauer from Central America in 1954, outlining his “side trips” inwhich, “like any tourist”, he “poked up to Santa Marta” and madethe “regular pilgrimage” (PC, Aschmann to Sauer, 18/7/54).Similarly, Parsons writes from a boat trip on the lower Amazon in1956, documenting his views, excursions and landings as “halffieldwork and half fiesta” (PC, Parsons to Sauer, 1/9/56)61 Stratton, 1990, p.54.62 Culler, 1981, pp.130-131.580XHCD :: 0‘-10D (7’HCtA0 ‘4’(rt)1rtCDHCDCflf-0,‘-0L4CD‘t1c)CDCflrto‘-iCflHC)‘t1CD•‘)(n H1the beaten track is “the most beaten track of all”63 and the“authentic” is always already mediated by markers- the relation isnever pure. Echoes of Sauer’s fieldworker/tour±st distinctionreplay in Culler’s examples of the trope:“The traveler, then, was working at something; the tourist was apleasure-seeker. The traveler was active; he went strenuously insearch of people, of adventure, of experience. The tourist waspassive; he expects interesting things to happen to him.MThe genre, as he says, is familiar.Like Culler, James Buzard seeks to investigate rather than repeat“travel” and “tourism” as trope and to explore its tendency toconstruct authenticity and to distinguish (the travelling) “self”from (the touristic) “other”.65 More particularly for Buzard, thetrope is viewed as a binary opposition fundamental to modernculture, its emergence linked to industrialisation and thedestruction of traditional rural communities: it was a means ofexpressing and confronting modernity.66 “Travel” came to representa claim to find (acculturation) and to leave behind (culturalescape) . In opposition to the “tourist”, the “traveller” claimed to63 Ibid., p.135. This appears to be the case in Chapter Fivewhere we see Sauer in the company of other antimodernists, lookingfor the culturally authentic in rural Mexico.64 Ibid., p.129.65 Buzard, 1993, p.3.66 Ibid., pp.18-19. Buzard is here writing about nineteenthcentury England, but he also focuses beyond Europe to America lateron in his book.60go “off the beaten track”67 and to penetrate the authentic essenceof the traditional society which had been hounded there bymodernity.68 Secondly, the “traveller” claimed to escape themodern, whereas the “tourist” was its “relentless representative”:“the tourist appears unable or unwilling to cast off the traces ofa modernity which at home is all too much with us. . .As such thetourist is an unwelcome reminder, to self-styled ‘travellers’, ofthe modern realities that dog their fleeing footsteps.”69Thus “tourist” and “traveller”, like city and country in the lastchapter, appear as synecdoche for modern and antimodern culture.The tourist represents change, displacement and exile, thetraveller tradition, belonging and a sense of “home”.7° Sauer’sself-definition in opposition to the “tourist” and his charting ofanti-touristic space were not, then, so much a question ofgeography as of modernity: a replay of Sauer’s search for a67 The “beaten track” is, for Buzard (ibid., p.4), the “mastertrope” in the tourist/travel opposition. It denotes the ultimatetouristic space of the inauthentic and is brought into play as afoil to spaces of acculturation and cultural authenticity.68 This desire for access and penetration was a contradictoryone. The self-proclaimed traveller was aware of the transformativepotential of the tourist - the tendency to remake places in his own(modern, inauthentic) image - and therefore there was a both adenial and a fear of transformative potential (Buzard, ibid.,p.28) : “the traveller was to seek the double goal of attaining adistinctly meaningful and lasting contact with the visited placethat would none the less make no constitutive changes, leave noimprint of force behind.”69 Ibid., p.8.° It is interesting that Buzard makes the distinction between“tourist” (exile) and “brother” (belonging) - a reminder, perhaps,of Sauer’s own distinction in the last chapter between himself andhis “brothers in spirit” in the “backwoods” and the urban “Other”.61“home”.71 The fieldworker had to avoid the “beaten track”- thecities, the main thoroughfares- and turn to the rural becauseSauer required a departure from the modern in the “field”. Thespaces of the tour were the spaces of the modern; the geography ofthe tourist, a modern geography and Sauer - not just geographer butantimodernist - defined himself against both.This unpacking of travel/tourism is extremely useful: while Cullerreveals the geographer-traveller’s claims to authority asconstructed, Buzard helps to blur the boundary between the academicfigure of the fieldworker and Sauer’s antimodern home-seekingpersona. However, while Culler and Buzard keep their analysis atthe individual level, an application to the construction ofdisciplinary authority is also revealing. While all travellers maybe tourists, some have the ability and authority to definethemselves and their practices against this and to use thedistinction as an effective form of othering. What is mostimportant, therefore, is that Sauer maintains this division fromthe tourist, placing himself firmly in the boots of thefieldworker. This is not only a touristic topos working in favourof an individual, but also in support of a discipline: thefieldworker-geographer is not a tourist and, because of this, he[sic.] can speak with authority. Meanwhile, ironically, theauthors of Terry’s guide are claiming the same thing:“Nearly twelve years of residence in the country, and repeatedjourneys from one end of it to the other, have qualified us to71“The earnest traveller”, says Buzard (ibid., p.29) “couldfind a ‘home’ anywhere.”62oU)HCDQCDU.H-CDU)CDC)C)ctctCDOrtP)H-h<CD<CDCDCD1zH-ICDOrtC)<ctCDH,C)HCDrrPJ0)U’HC),—‘CDCDH,j_iCrjN’C)—CD-CDH))1P)p)Hk<C)QtC)CD0:-><P)H-CDH-0U)H‘-<.ctCDQ (-QQ0H P)P)Q,P)h0CDU)H-U)hNCDCDh‘1Ip)rrdji.U)CD00PiUJ.QCrCDH,CDH-C)U)U)gr-r—H-H-(Q CD.U)rCDH.CrP—-i--tCDQCD1:jCDct0pjCDH-<1pi1hcrH’iCDH-P)H10Ct0CDH-CtoH-’OCDk<iCDQH,C)H-oH-0CrCDP))CrCDHIIH-U)Q,P)c-rQCr0CrCDCD0CD;fH,lQ)CtCDU)CrH-H,-H-CrCD)1zC)<_C)U)CDCrHHCrCDP)CrCrCrpi—H,•CDhCDU)U)CDH-HHH-0oCDC)HCDCDHCDCr,-H-CrCDCDCDCDc-rH-I—’CrCDPOF-I1ctctH,CrI-H-CDC)H-CDCl)C)0U)CDHCrQ-bP)PiH0HC)Q•iH.CrrrU)P)U)C)atCr0QH,oHCDPJ•CDçtCrCDh-P)U)CD-tICD‘dHr-r‘d<CD-U)HP)PiCDCrc3jhj—01CDCtCD0L•QCl)0H,CDH SCDPClHhH-CDHU)I-piC)CDI-0ClHU)<--C)CD-H-I-çrCD<CrCDC)--CDCDU)H-HCD—p)CI)c-rCrH-IICl)CI)C)HH,C)I-•QQCrU)I-rCDCI)-H,HNQClCDH-CrU)-CI)PiC)H-Cr0‘-‘H--CrQCDoIICrP)k<HLQCD0CDH,IIU)PC)HCDCDH,HClH-H-IQCDiCDHH-ClLU)CrCrF-)Q;‘s•’ CDU)1QU)SHdCrU)CrP)H-CDCDU)0i.QCrU)IICt0H0HCDH,CDk<C)H,Cl0HH-H-CrHCDU)CrH-CrHC)Cl0CICD IICDCD<CI)-H-CD‘-‘Ik<I-CDCIH,HICDHICrCDCrU) H,CDHH,P)pjCrH-CDHCDHCDH-H,ClHH-o-CDH--HU)CD HCICDH CDU)Qo H,--CI)H-CrCDCrCrHhH-Cr-CI),HCDCDH- CrCDCrCD‘<>0CroH,crI-CDH,H C)CI)H-H-iuHSCDCDH,C)CI)0Q0HHCDCli-Ok<JCtQo::3-CI)CD1•dCrC1 IICDCI-ICrCI)F--SCDCI)HHtCD00ICr-H,CDIU)H,QHCDClFH-ZCI)<CDoU)CDCDU)SC)H-ClC)H-CrdCI)U)HCrCI)pCDCDC)ClU)CD0C)CDCrCrectH CrI))C)U)°CrH-U)0:oOCrH,•03U)çt—CDCD-CrhCI)P)U)CrCDoClCI)CDpHCDH,i—HU)<H-CrHP)0CDCD0<C)HCDI-HCrU)Z0h0U)CI)iQCDCrpjH-CrCI)H-CDCI)CDCDHCDiHØiQc-ru)CDCDU)SQCD0U)CDQ I-I—rC)c-rCDCDCI)H’d<U)F-’CDCD0)I-’-i-rHCDCDC)H’C)HH-CrrlQCI)H’CDClC)Pi,U)U)0CDCr H-H,CrH,H-HI-•C)U)0CrH-CDH-1QSH-C)C)U)HCI)CDCrH,C)H-0H-0CrCDPiP)CrCDH’IIH-U)ClCI)Cr0C)jCr0CrCDCI)CD0dCDcCrH,H-H-H<P)U)C)CrCI)-HCtCDPiC)C)H-CDU)--Ilul-CDCrCr0‘P)H-U)CD-CrCI)FH,0CrCDU)U)5dCDH-H.H0CDSC)H-C)H0)tdCDH-CDH’CDCrCrH-Cr•5CD-CDCDClU)CDCr=H-H-CrCDCI)QF-ICr•CrH,CrClH-CDC)H-CDCDC)Ii0U)CDHCrClPiCI)HOF-’C)Cl-HCrCrb• CDNH.‘IPiU)C)Cr0iQH,0HCDPi•L4CrCDCrCDC)O1CrCDII-CI)U)CD-CDHCrltIk<CD•U)HP)CI)CDCraI—ClCDCrCDH,CD S H H CD CI) Cl H CD 0) C’) H CD H- Cr H S CI) Cr CD 0 Cr CD II H CI) II CI) H H CD H’ Cr 0 (I) CI) CD II U)authority of the traveller relies on the counter-figure of thetourist, so the field is formed against a feminine non-fieldequivalent. In both cases, the identity of the fieldworker is notessential but relational: it is constructed against and requiresthe subversion of the Other to legitimate an authoritative stance.Despite the critiques of Culler, Buzard and Rose, geographers likeDavid Stoddart continue to build on Sauer’s persona of the“journeyman11 and to conceptualise fieldwork as discovery. AlthoughFelix Driver has cited Conrad “in memoriam” for a geography ofdiscovery and claimed that geographers are “condemned to make theirdiscoveries on beaten tracks” (we are tourists all) , Stoddartstates that Cook’s “discovery” of Australia in 1769 marked thetransformation to geography as truth and that this continues tospeak to a geography of the present. Our central theme, continuesStoddart - drawing in full on the masculinist assumptions offieldwork - should be:“sending out versed in science and the knowledge of nature onall occasions to the remote parts of the world.”76Contradictory to Driver, the “days of heroic travel” for geographydo not seem to be over:77 Stoddart, like Sauer, freezes geographythe whole the belief that the true nature of the world can berevealed via objective study - a conviction expressed through thetrope of discovery. In this light, Sauer’s geographer-discoverer,searching for “pebbles on the shore of a sea of truth”, issymptomatic of geography as masculinist knowledge.76 Stoddart, 1986, op. cit., p.39. My use of emphasis.Conrad in Driver, op. cit., p.24.64U)CD0H><I—I,CDHp.00hpiU)H-H-C)U)0CUH-C)rtCD0H-HIc-t0)CD(DI0CI)U)0oCUCI)p.p.CI)C)rrCI)rtH->4çtCU CDHHCI)-CUU)p.H WU)0-0)‘pjU)HUirtC)çupjH-H HU)CDcthHCUU) U)CD HCt’HCDCUCDU)I- U)U)U)CUCUU)CUCUp.H-00CDI-U)MiH-CDCI)C)I-CDCU<HHCDSIGHTS“Everything’s so Goddamned pictorial it takes my breathaway. 1,79It was not only the being of fieldwork - the sheer presence of thegeographer away from his [sic.] desk - that gave Sauer’s geographyits authority, but the seeing: the clarity and contemporaneity ofvision that the direct experience of the field allowed. Geography,for Sauer, was primarily knowledge gained by observation: in orderto know, you had to see and Sauer thus further “othered” the “deskgeographers” that he perceived as taking over the American academicscene. Reading and archive work could complement observation butonly the latter had the ultimate claim to “Truth” and could trulyenable the geographer to learn and “see”. In reference to his ownwork, Sauer said:“I still think I can learn more by being in the field than byreading. When I am fresh from the field I have a new incentive toread, and after I have read for some time I have the additionalreason for getting back into the field.”8°Sauer thus further made the distinction between the “real”geographer out in the “field” and the less authoritative and more“bookish” counterpart that “stayed at home”. While this seemed tosort out the field observers from the deskworkers within geography,it did not, however, distinguish between geographers and otherdisciplines, equally keen on “being” and “seeing” in the field.Dos Passos in Deplar, op. cit., p.199.80 Sauer in Williams, 1983, op. cit., p.9.66H-I-C)çtJQI-CD0(.QC)<HF—CD(DO<PJiHb0H-I.Q(-I-CDIQPJPFtI-.CDH(DOP-wQ-’U)CDH-OHO0CD(0--0CDSU)U)CD(Dr-I-Pb-FrCDH.H-(UCDI-oU)prhto•Or—’0k<0H-W‘-‘rtQCDo CDCDcDU)CDCDU)JU)aU)Ft(UFrI-iU)H OCDcU)H)U)Frg CD(DOH-U)CDCDI-J)U)00h(DHiH:0hCD.-CDH-çt(U(tH-CDH-FI-P-0MiCDU)r-(U0CD0F—1H1(UociCDCD00(UI-Qr(Uc-tpJU)QctQ(U(UCDCDcthhIQU)H-CD00CDCD-hI-00JPJ•k<U)I-U)itH-(1-hCD(DhU) rtHrIiH0<PCD0_k<U)00P$‘tI(UCDF-’(th’CDCD-i-tI-iCDU)CD FrF-5 (UCDCDU)1lI-H-CD—iU)‘-Q(UH-0HCDH-(U_,OH U)HitH-_-iCDU)pjH1HQCDoH FrCDCDFr(flU)-0H0°U)0u-’H-U)CD-rCD0•FrHH.-ctQHIQdCDk<p•CDPJD HrtQ1O—tiU)-0(UpI-CD—0000fl00t-1)—pjU)I-II-IH-MbH-H-CD0U)••H-(U1QCDoo••PCDwwk<pCDhoiui-rroCDU,tJ••HI-I-WCD(U0 Fr-H-FrOctCD‘d0Q1(U0H-H-FrFr 0H-H-•Frw-Q(UHa-I-•—J(U00—IlDc-t•0(UHCD0H-0o:1PU)CD0--U)IQH-(UctCDQhFr CDCD0HiI—hCDH-0CDHHrt1.H U)b0I-QH-QbCDCDFrU)0F-0CD(H-FrPiI-h00<(UCDCDQit(UdFrHiH-‘-<H-(UH-0-CDU)CD—‘0Hi-000CDH(UU)(U(UHH:iIIHH-FrI—h‘9P0oCD00U)I0CDHH-U)H-0U)‘ciitCDCDCD(U-‘1 CDCD.P-U)- CDitQFrFrH-CDci0(UH-CDLQCDitI-U)-pi-0-FtHH-(U-IU)FtPCD0000itU)(UH-U)CDCDCDCDFrCDH,Hi-i-H---00H-i-‘ci0CD‘ciIQH-00CDHo<HH-,0H0FtH-0HCDk<IQ<hH‘-<CDCDPI-U)(UU)0(U(UI-Q(U0(UU)itPCDH-CDCDF-’III-hI-H--U)-0iU)it(U‘dH-it0H-P-Fr00U)IQ(UH-H-HU)IPU)HIH-FrU)0IMi[hHlCDPiHHH,<CDH-lCDI-’-.0HICDH-litCDCD0HU)CD0it0CDCD(UMi-.U)-.Hi(UCDOOFrHH1Q0itCDQ <I-CDCDCDFr H-(U000U)U)FrFr0(U(UCDH-CDCDFr‘ci 00-(1CDCDoCDo(UH,0H--.‘-<P(UoCD‘-(Q(1:(UCDU)I-i-U)CD1QEI-H,D(UH-CDH-H-‘ciCDHitHPCDJCDk<U) (U CD U) 0 CD (U H CD‘ci CD H- CD 0 CD 0 H, H, H- CD P 0 II (U U) H c-I Ft CD 1Q CD 0 H 0 H-U) (-I0000CMI-IU) (UH-1CD H‘ci w —]CD0’H-H F-’ 0, 0 0 H-Fr w Ui —1SDSDSD—Cl)Cl)HPJPJt H-CDCDP-I-h.H-HwCDCDMH-a)HQrr-H k<0-H oC)OH0 dd 0C) H Ct LA) H 0-IPJH0000SD00HCl)i.0bPiH-•CDCD•I-CD-H--•a)LA)0HCD0-H-CrHa)LOCDOI0-C) HCD‘dctS•II CDPiH-a)ft-H-a)-Cr CD H,H CDIH a) CD CD Cl) Pi CD l- H LA) U,bHidCi-Cr00CDCrH-H-CDCDa)jCrctPiH1a)a)I-pjC)hCDH-)p)CDC)-Ha)CFa)C)CrHCDH,piCrH-C)CDH,CDCDH-I•tjC)0H-a)p)H,IQH0CDHHhH,H,CDCrHP)QU,CDa)—CDCD1C)-PiQ-’P)‘dH-H-)l-CDPJa)H,a)CrC)H-H-0CDH-CDa)a)Cra)HCDH-CDHH-<CDC)hQiH-HoQCDCDHP);s-•••LQ0H-30a)Ii1H-0ha)H,0H,H-H-0C)hH-Cl-o0H-I-i-‘CDoC) CDa)a)CDHtjCDP)o0t5-CUCDCDLQ0I_I.HHCDH-0H,UCrC)a)H,CtCD0H-CDJI-P)CDbCDçtSa))ciCl)jirrCUhP)0CrC)a)ciHP)CDCDCDLQCDHk<I-•CDPidCD‘1C)Ct1CD0HciI0)H-CD0h’C)Cr5t0CDH-a)HçtCD0H,CUCDILQP)ciP--<C)CrCra)ft0Cra)0p)Cl)CDLJa)-CDCFa)C)k<CrCFCDH-CDH Ha)-k<a)a)CU0H-oH,Q,a)CUCl)CDPI-iCDciCUCD0H-CU Ct H-H-LQoCDH-Hia)H-CDi--iCDPiHCl-CDsciQ0a)LQCDa)CrCUC)H,0HCDH-HCDCD<0C)C)-CDHPiCDQ00H,H,C)H,CD0H0CDQa)H,CDa)F’çtCDH-C)<oCtCUCUCDLQa)CrCDH-lCU30CDH-LQC)=H-H-CU•0C)CDa)H0cictCD=CUCD 00H-CDa)QIIQa)l-C)CUCtH-pjCUdCta)CDLQa)C‘-<CUCUH-H,hJ0CD0H.çtCl)CDlCUC)H-ciCl-CDHP)a)I-iP-CDft1a)P)P3CDC)HCrCUHcia)1CtI- CU Ha)CU.a)S.CDCU$H1CDP- C)CDCDcifrH-ciHCDcta)HWpjQi0H-CUSa)Ha) HCDHH-a)C)Ha)ftH-CrH,H-I-PC)H,1-rCDH-0CrI-CDLQa)CtpjCU‘CDHa)a)C)C)C1ciciQHH,p)r-rCD5l-QP)QP)CDH,H,HSD Cl) Cl CU H- a) H CU a) H- 0 C) H Ct U, 0QHCD(flnoDJCD[f)rtD)D)CDIj I. CD<I-i. CD,-,.ci0UI—--•1,jo0<rt(Do)XLQHCDC)—0 rtWIJU)ft)trU)ctftQH-HICjCl)IpjH-CUQC)lH-CUcfCD‘dCDCDfrCUC))CD10CUIdaF-’H-CDU)CDU)ct0CDCD-C)0U)MCl)Ii-’-H-IddPCD(1CUCDC)H-IcoftCDh-0ftHCDftIhIC-CC))C)H-1Q0‘dCU0H-U)CD0H-H-loIpftHDO‘0CDIftH-CDf-i-‘d0‘di.QU)CDftH,Ct)rnaC))U)Cl)U)Cl)Cl)H,U.-H-H-I.CU0C)C))CUCUC)CUCDCDCDCD0CDU)I.U)0U)CDCtçtCi-CUC)..I.C)CDCUU)CDCDCD0U)H-ftCDCDCDLQCDH-C)0-H-H-HH0H-H,CDCDHO-hCUH,CDCD0C)0lJ3F-’H-CDH-HH-CUbftCD0H,ft(QCDH-U)H-U)CDCl-U)H-C))CDftCDdCDH-CDQ<CUftCU<CDU)CDHHCDHCUHCD0CUCDU)0C)CDOC)C))CDH-0‘U)ftHC)H-U)H,P’CUC)-CUH-CUCDC)CDCDS0Hf-3H-HH-H-ftftClC))ftH-C)CDCUH-HH-‘C)H-frHCDU)H-H-CU0HCUC))o2ftftH-CD•Hp,‘H-F-’H03---p,..CDC)CDU)0CUCDCDU)CUCUCDW0CDC)QH-Q-0H-LJHI00ClCDCU0‘H-iH-CDHH-CDH-I-CD5CDH-U)0CUftftC)0H,HCDCUClH-H-H-H0<CDU)CD0H-fthCUCDCDi-hH-CDH-0HdCDCUCDCU‘CU000(DHoCUHHft0C)CUH-H-H‘.OCDH.HCUCDCUCD01DftftC))0fttQU)HZ1QCDCDH-CD0ftCU-_1•HHClH-H-CDClHU)ftdCU‘-CDC))H0H-0hCUi-0CDCU0C)U)HC)C))CD-CDHH-ClCDICDC))CUCUC)H-H0HCUftftCDC))-CUHftI-CDCD0HH,ftU)H--CUC)SHCDHH-ClH-H-U)ClftC))-H-U)ftU)H-CDCUHCUCDSC)CD0U)-0Hft-CDCUCl-H-C)0dCUOClCUCDHCD0H-dF-’CUftH,H-QU)CUCl)0-ft0CUHWH-C)CUH,ftH-C)ftC)H-dH-CUftftH-ftC)CUU)1QCDH-ftftoHCUCUCDU)ftH,CUH-ClC))CD0‘CDHU)k<ClcCDCD0‘<CDHCUft‘<HiCDCD“The sprightly sketchiness of observation of thegeographer-traveler may retain its use in explorations and otherforms of preliminary reconnaisances but intensive work needs torely primarily on rigorous observation of unit areas. ,,98Sauer thus recommended a landscape to survey as a unified panoramarather than the less accurate passing through of thetraveler-geographer.99 The former was a systematic, precise,quantitative, and scientific method; the latter lay in the realm ofthe informal and subjective. While “sketchy observation” couldcomplement the scientific, it could not stand in its place; it hadcharm and appeal but no scientific currency. Geography, in fact,had given “excessive freedom to temperament” and “subjectiveimpression” and needed to ward off the dangers of being “antiscientif±c”.’°° “The purpose of these suggestions”, said Sauer, was“not to make field work mechanical but to increase its precision”;the choice of which landscape to observe could “remain a matter ofindividual judgement”.10’After this initial choice, however, thegeographer proceeded objectively..and beyond.The scientific and subjective elements of landscape observationwere more balanced in Sauer’s later publication The morphology of98 Ibid., p.25.It is interesting here to note that the “traveller” denotesa less authoritative stance - a contrast to the last section inwhich it was the tourist that stood for a lack of authority. AsBuzard notes, we must be wary of simplification of the divisionbetween travel and tourism and be ready for contradiction (op.cit., p.31).‘°° Sauer, 1924, op. cit., p.21.101 Ibid.71itU)=itititH-CCC:itU)I-lCDCD)CDH-JJ0Hi-hC)IpCDhICPihitU))PCDCDCDH-I:jU)itU)itH-LJ.HCDC)CDIH-H-ICCCDHit0H-witaH-<IpiH-CD=CDitCDCDH-Ip)icv.IditcH,CDU)itH,P1Iy1itHHHHHHCl)0lCDitH-1.8PiHU)U)0H,IdCDH-itCDH-CDP1‘-ClHH-<it,<C)H-H-H-H-H-H-<CDCDHHClClClCDP1CDCD1H,CDh<-:.:.:.:I—’CDHCD0C)CDpiCCD3CDU)H-Cl00H,<itU)--CD‘d‘dH,H,CDitpi0H-CDHH-H-=C)CD0dH,QH••WWWUICD‘i.QCDH-P1CDUIHUIMiHCDCDH0C<CDCDpjl-QH,0)0HM0)H-P1P1H-C)HaHCDS,H0piHH-0P10H-H0P1H-(C)HHU)it1oH00)-P1H,itit0H-CDCDitH()CD0CD=1.QCD0CD<1dc--pjH,pj--hH-Cl)HCDCDCDpi0U)oU)ciiFd0CDClClCDCl)0CDHCD0CDH-H-U)0p1H-Cla0CDU)CDiitU)1’JH,CDoClP1-U)CD(C)C)<1itHCDH-H-0CDP1H,H-Cl)H,k<-‘-H-oCD-itH-H-CDZH-itHH-p1H-U)-oClC)CDCDitCDCDitP1HClo=P1itCDH-CDH=1.H,itC)(itICDCD-Hitit‘3PjCDH-CD0it<CDitUI-PJpipiClCDitHH U,ICDitHHP1CDU)H--piCDCDitCDp,Cl)C)dU)CDCDCDditU)piClUi- U)P1Hit3ICDCDCDCQCDdHCDCDOH-CD0jc-i-CDC)it0HU)pitc-i.U)CDP1P1aaC)CDhjit-U)C)C)ICDCDH-H-0itCIh0itH-itititcHP1CDCDH-o:CD<CDCDitU)p1CDU)H-)CDCDCDH-.H-CDH-CDCDH-CD3-H-Cl=it0H-H,S0IIU)ititCD5p1H,0itIP1H-CI’ititH-hCitH-I-P1ICD50CDCDU)ClC)P1CDHCDCDClCD3itCDCDU)ClitCD“Beyond all that can be communicated by instruction and mastered bytechniques lies a realm of individual perception and interpretation” 109Sauer also performed a “volte-face” in terms of his concern forscientific technique in observing the landscape, moving away fromany guidelines on mapping:“The more time is spent making maps, the less attention is likelyto be left for thinking about why things are set down on themap. . .A mapping plan is likely to freeze attention when it shouldbe most elastic. .This “elasticity” came, for Sauer, from a reconceptualisation ofthe map from field technique to “the language of geography”,allowing for an “armchair travel”, an imaginary voyage to the“exotic”. He asked:“Who has not journeyed by map to Tibesti or Tibet, raised the peaksof Tenerife or Trinidad on the Western horizon or sought theNorthwest Passage? Who has not been with Marco Polo to Cathay,with Captain Cook to the Sandwich Islands?,mJourneying by map was also the subject of Sauer’s later address inThe quality of geography, where the map was seen as vehicle for themental travel of the geographer: “a wandering by the mind’s eye”and a subjective experience that depended on “one’s particular109 Ibid., p.403. For Williams, 1983, op. cit., p.5, this“realm of individual perception” was a product of Sauer’sintellectual heritage: a “mysticism of observation andcontemplation”, associated with German romanticism, which gave riseto “verstehen” (empathetic understanding and intuitive insight) inSauer’s work.110 Sauer in Kenzer, 1986, op. cit., p.6.Once again the overtly masculinist trope of discovery.73C)I))HCl)CD‘dHPJU)P.)H-P.)P.)0I-hHiF-1f-fCU)FHH-f-fHiHiCDHiU)SCDopiFH-<0Hi0f-f1ft0p.oH-H-U)<0U)I-hU)0CD-P.)-Cl)-Cl)5(-IoH-H-=P.)U)P.)P.’o.‘H-H-CDpCDp.)CDH-bp.c-fHift0U)CD0--p.’H-0ftp.ftH-oI-hjH-HU)U)U)H-CDC)U)p.CDCDpU)CD0C)C)I-H-CD.‘H-0H--0I-ip.I-hCDc-i-CDU)p.,ftCD P.’p.’CDF-1CD(1PftCDU)p.pi-,H-I-H-i.<1Q0c-f-QC)‘-1CDP.)H-HiHiCD°):-Sp.’H-P.’‘.<‘d5CD-I-U) HIIftCDCDCDCDP.’p.’CDLJftU)CD00U)C)C)H-H-H-p.’ftftP.)P.’p.P.’p.p.HU)IHiCDH-0P.)C)-H-C)I-hCDH-ftH-u-0I-tiftU)U)C)s).’.‘0CD0H-CD0CDU)C)I-p‘1gCDCDftU)pi<‘HiH-01CDH-CD0C)CDP.’p.’CDftCDftHiU)Hp.)p.-U)hjp.)0U)ft5H-C)I-h0Cl)P.)Cl)0p.’0‘ftC)I-t,H-HH-CDp.’qCDP.)U)CDH-P.)ftF-<ftI-P.’I5H-ftH-H--H-0H-HiCDC)U)p.C)U)p.33k<U)CDI:-’ H H I-p U)c-I 0 CD H La La LDI..) 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From hisvantage point Sauer could - scientifically or artistically -“see”and “know” the Mexican landscape and appropriate Mexico as hisfield. Distanced from the scene, he could present himself astranscendental being, passive interrogator and uninvolved collectorof views.’22 As such, Sauer could be drawn upon by others takinglandscape into their own disciplines.’23However, as Rose notes, “more was involved in looking at landscapethan property relations”:’24 the “ideological baggage” or “way ofseeing” incorporated into geography was distinctively “male”. The(active) gaze of the fieldworker, for Rose, is a gendered visionwhich posits Nature/the landscape as (passive) feminine and looks122 Mary Louise Pratt in her history of meaning-making inEuropean travel writing (1992) identifies contradictory strategiesof observation at the imperial frontier: “science” appealing to theobjective and “sentiment” to the personal. This duality ispersonified for Clifford Geertz in the field in the figure ofMalinowski, at once “Absolute Cosmopolite” appealing to thepersonal and “Complete Investigator. . dedicated to wintry truth”(op. cit., p.74). Both strategies are similar, however, in thatthey posit the “seer” as passive interrogator of the scene ratherthan with any transformative potential (Pratt, op. cit., 1992,p.18) . This can be seen in relation to Sauer in the last twochapters where he fails to see his own presence amidst culture inthe field as any kind of (political) intervention.123 Attempting a Mexican textual landscape in his poetry,Charles Olson used Sauer’s focus on form, direct observation andeye-witness accounts to provide him with a “methodology of knowing”for his writing: “I mean to know, to really know” (Olson in Ford,1974, p.147) . The authority of Sauer’s landscape perspectiveallowed Olson to reunite “fiction” with “science” and to“incorporate the thing itself” into his poems. He wanted“evidence” and the reality of Sauer’s observations gave him “theforce of the word” (Ibid. p.l46) that he was looking for.Displaced into poetry, Sauer’s landscapes thus retained theircurrency as products of a legitimate “morphologic eye” (Sauer inLeighly, 1969, op. cit., p.393)124 Rose, op. cit., p.93.77out (down?) motivated by domination (science) and desire(art/pleasure) 125 This feminization of the landscape in geography,argues Rose, is akin to the masculinity of the gaze at the nude.’26More pertinent to my argument, Rose isolates in particular the workof Sauer as an example of this Culture/Nature division, arguingthat:“Carl Sauer, one of the founding fathers of geography in the USA,based his life’s work on the study of the relationship betweenhuman cultures and what he termed the ‘maternal naturallandscape’ i127The fieldworker’s gaze - whether represented as that of the“objective scientist” or the “poet of landscape” - is, for Rose, amasculinist practice.’28 Thus, whether we take Sauer’s scientificsurvey defined against the “charm and appeal” of the non-scientificor his “desire to wander” in the imaginary travel of the map, wefind him implicated in a gendered gaze which, through itsconstruction of authority, objectifies a feminine Other. At thesame time, however, according to Rose, the pleasure involved in theart of seeing disrupts and contradicts the objective claim to know,125 Ibid., p.68. The opposition Nature/Culture, states Rose, isfundamental to Western thought and also to geography, with itsdivision into the physical and the cultural. It has also beenfocused on by feminists because it is thought to be a heavilygendered and power-ridden dualism within geography.126 Ibid., p.88.127 Ibid., p.69.128 Ibid., p.72.78H-C)CDrt-cnctP-t,ODU)H-CD><1•C)OHçttU)U)D-JH-CDCDU)CDC)JrtH-MCDCDH-H-ctH-I-rtCDtH-tC’)Ct(I)ttH-U)H-H-H-•CrCtC’)Prt‘IH-U)—CU)rtOOH-CrCI—C)OH-H-ZtCU)QH-C’)DF-]H-H-Q-1CDCrCDC’)C’)-(1)Q<HHH-k<CrH-C)k<C’)U)C’)HC’)Q.H-Ob0-bU)‘H-rC’)H-H-cQH,C’-CrC)H-H-H-(QC’)1-U)CDp,C’)-CDU)0CDNçtCrWCr(U)(DU)C)d--CD‘dHH--ttHH-HCD-CDHCD0HC’CrCl)C’)HC)CDpH)CDCDCD‘—aCrH-CD CDHCDU)CDH-F0C)-U)>CrCDO>C)Crd• HHU)-C’)’IorrCDCDjCDf-ti-:CDCDC) c-CC’)H-U)IIH,HU)CrCDH-CDQ’1CD<H0U)QbrtU)U).p)U)P-CrU)ICDHU)cC’)hiCDH-C-tCDC’)-C)c-t-0Hk<HH-)C’)QU)C)CD’-Hc-CrCDCDHC’)HCDHpU)CDO<C)Cr--0C’)CrC)‘C’C’)U)H,H-°ftCrCDCDCDCDCr0C’)f-tU)CDH-U)U)H-ctC’)C)0C)H-U)(D(DaH,QU)U)C’)CDHCDC)CrCDCrH.1QH-CrH-CrçtH-ICDU)CDCDbCDCDJU)ftC’)CrCDct0C)QCrU)H-ctH-H-CDCDC’)CDCr-C)U)C’)CDhIIU)-U)CDC”-CDU)0U)H‘dH=C’)C)H-<C)H,0C’)IC’)U)C’)H-CDCDIIj0C)H-IICrCI)3HCr1C)0HCDH-CDCDHIIU)HU)1hCDC’)C)C’)C)H-HCl)tk<k<C’)H-C’)C)CDC’)C’)C-H-CDHC’)PCDCDCDCrCDC’H-H,-CDC’)H-ICr1QçU)CrH-H H,CrH.CDCDCDU)-H-CrC’)CDCrU)CrCDCrHH--H-—U)CDCDHHHH-H,HC’CrH-)C’)C)CD$CrH,C’)Cr0H,HCDH-IICD-—HCrCrU)H-0CDCrCrCDHH-<-C’)0f-C<oHH,0-Crft--C’)CrCDIIH‘ICDCrCDHCDCD‘IU)H0H-0C’)k<U)CDCrbCrHCrC’)CDCrU)C’)CD0CDC-PC)CDC’)H-H-CDCrjIIH-QU)U)H,CD0<,.IICDC”CDCrH-U)<‘ICrHCrCD0H-H-CDCDU)HCD-C’)CDHH-1U)CrU)CDC)HH-CrCrCDCDCrCDk<09-CDCDCD k<<CDCDH-HCDHCrti)Q0U)C’)U)Cr0HH-IIH-CDQC’)CDCl)H-CrHC’)CDHCDCr><CrHU)C)1U)CDH-H0<CDCDH-C’)p.CDC)C’)H0‘1U)C’)bC’)C’)H,-C’)C’)0CDCDp.CDU)U)IU)HU)H,p.c-trttTCl)00HFtFtHC!)CDS<CD0Jd0Pi<.)H-PJHIIH-HCDQCDCl)hHipic-toCDCDCDCl)P)CDCl)iCD-Q.CDCDFt•-CDhCl)hFtCl)-JH-Cl)Fthhf-J.Cl)CDJH,Ft<hC)Cl)Cl)C)P1CDFCl)CDHFtFtP0CDP-IFtp1QWCDHFtFt0CDCDS0P1-‘tCDFtCl)oH-H,CD=0H-FtCDCl)CDCDH-Q5CDFtH-HCDCD0P1CD1QCD-CDQH-HP1CD0)-CDH-0FtH,H,HCDFt<S-H-SCDH-FtCDFtw“U)piPip1FtFtpjCD0H,CDIH,HtCDH1OH0OFtH,QCDIi—CD0k<CDCDH,H-CDCDFtCl)FtCDCD<IFti-H,Cl)P10CDFtH,CDt5H0‘HCDpiH-0PJH-P1>c-C15‘IPIci-0)Cl)=HCDFtH-QH-P1CDHPJFti_CDCDJCl)00FtFtCDIHI—H-CDCD‘-<FtFtFtpjCDH-FtCDHP1H-c-r8CDCDCDCDCD0)0FtFthCD,0IQH,FtFtP1.HH--lCl)-FtCi)0piH(_)CDCDFt-CD0HHPJFt0H-CDHP1CDFtCDH-HCl)P1c-tPiU)FtP1ioCDCD=wCD0FtHCl)co0CDICDH-h0)-CDpjc-tHHP1Cl)FtFtFtCDH-CD0CD0CDCDH-CDFtCDP1Cl)-CD0P1H-HFtH-C-j0CDP1-‘CDFt0P1HwH-FtH00)H-FtCDpjH-0P1H,Cl)FtFt0SH0FtH,Ft0*‘CDH,D0H-CDH-0piFtH-Cl)CDFtH-Ft 0Ft—FtHCDhFtP1CDCDCDCDCl)‘1U)Ft-OCDH-CDCDCD00H,P1H,H,CDCD0H-FtNCl)0P1H,QCDII00FtCl)P1CDHCDSH-pjCDP1--Ft H-CDCDCDCDCDFtCl)CHCDHH-0Cl)0CDCDP1H-Ft00CDH-FtCl)HCDFtH-05H-CDFtFtCDCDCDwCl)P1HCl)CD-Cl)Cl)FtHCDCD<FtH-0P1P1FtP)0CD00-FtFP-H-H-H0CDCDhpiCDP10P1FtCDCDFtopHFt0H-CDCDFt0H-CDHFtCD°CDH,0Cl)IP)Cl)—><i<H-P1HCDCDH-FtCl)IC!)H-CD0P1Ft0CDCDIFtFt0FtI-H-H-CD0FtC0CDIIlCDP1DH-P11HH-CD0I—iCDOCDHCl)CDCDCl)CDk<k<Cl)‘—i0CDCl)in contrast to the passing through of the tourist.’39Most importantly, Sauer claimed the landscape perspective as thepreserve of geography: fieldworkers on a “vantage points”, unliketourists, had the weight of the discipline behind them.For Michel de Certeau, this visual authority of the “overview” -the“solar Eye looking down like a God” - may be undercut by thespatial resistance of walking.14° While on the one hand thepanorama has the mastery of perspective, it misunderstands and isundermined by the migrational spatiality of “Wandersmânner” -thepractices of everyday life that act themselves out below itsthreshold of vision. This contrast is interesting in reference toSauer who, for John Leighly, found room for “longer and higherflights” than the pedestrian mind while never permitting his feet“to lose contact with the. .surface of the As I haveshown, Sauer’s “high flights” of vision were akin to the‘ Sauer’s authority to “see” the landscape was also one ofknowing the culture. From the scientific approach - the mapping ofcultural traits - and also the more subjective - the “savoring ofambiance” - he could learn “the ways and devices men have used formaking a living out of their homelands” (Sauer in Leighly, 1969,op. cit., p.369) and come to know an area culturally. While this“ability to see the land with the eyes of its former occupants” wasthe “most difficult task in all human geography”, it was, however,possible with time: “It is a rewarding experience to know that onehas succeeded in penetrating a culture that is removed in time andalien in content from ours”. Again, I shall focus more on Sauerand culture in the field in Chapter Five.140 De Certeau, 1984, pp.92-93. De Certeau’s discussion here isbased on the city but the visual mastery of the overview is related(like Cosgrove) to Renaissance painters and perspective. See alsoSpurr (1993) for a discussion of the politics of vision andlandscape.141 Leighly, 1969, op. cit., pp.1-2.81perspectival mastery of de Certeau’s “solar Eye”. However,previously bringing Sauer down from his vantage point and allowinghim to wander presented us with a spatial practice that was alsoauthoritative. Rather than undercut the authority of vision fromabove, the mobility of Sauer’s geography in the field quiteliterally placed it on a different terrain. Sauer, fieldworkergeographer, therefore appropriated the field both spatially andvisually: from locomotion landscape.’42142 This issue of appropriation is extremely political. WhileSauer was conceptually claiming Mexico and therefore the right torepresent its “personality” (see Chapter Five) , others wereinvolved in a more material appropriation of the “field”.According to Deplar (op. cit., p.93), the early twentieth centuryin Mexico saw a phase of “archaeological Monroeism”, i.e.visiting American archaeologists taking artifacts out of thecountry without the permission of the Mexican government. OtherAmerican intellectuals were therefore acting on their claims thatMexico was theirs. In fact, one of Sauer’s students (Donald Brand)was reprimanded for taking pottery out of the country after he hadbeen refused permission for archaeologic work in Northern Mexico(PC, Sauer to Brand, 24/12/36). Brand’s response is interestingfor its reclaiming of the field in the name of science andsidestepping the ethics of the issue: “Why should you wish to baran institution that spends money in your country, digs only atsites that are in the process of being cut away by arroyos and lostforever to science, and takes out of Mexico only potsherds, commonstone artifacts and broken or fractured pottery ware?” (PC, Brandto Marquina, 30/10/36) . See Mary Louise Pratt’s discussion of VonHumboldt’s “archaeologised America” (1992, op. cit., p.132) for theway that archaeology views culture as nature (dead artifact) andtherefore deterritorialises culture in the present. Brand can becriticised of this and also Sauer, with his view of the culturallandscape, allowing interaction in the present to take backstage.82RITESThe “business of becoming a geographer” for Sauer, as we have seenabove, was a “job of lifelong learning”143- an evolutionary andcontradictory fieldwork process that took him from “familiar scene”to the “ends of the earth” and from scientific to artisticobservation. While Sauer claimed authority for himself and for thediscipline through these different spatial and observationalstrategies, he also allowed them to “speak” to other would-begeographers through his changing views on method in the “field”.While the young Sauer, concerned with scientific mapping and “homegeography” in the United States, advised the importance of the“field” method for the “inexperienced fieldworker”,’ the later“journeyman” Sauer in Mexico disclaimed any directives for the“geographer-to-be”45:“I have been leaving the trail unmarked byany arrows of methodology”.’46 As a forum for educatinggeographers, the “field” was thus conceptualised as area(“laboratory”, a testing ground for theories) and thenreconceptualised as trail (“rite de passage”, a testing ground for143 Sauer in Leighly, 1969, op. cit. p.35.144 Sauer and Jones, 1915, p.520.145 Sauer in Leighly, 1969, op. cit., p.392.146 Ibid., p.402.83(00OctC—I—ICl)CDH-‘lU)0p.CDU)U)•-CDHlCD0p.CDMH-o0•H-CDrrp.-:ftc)0H-)“H-Ci-Ct0U)c-i-IlPi ftCDC)CDCDtJ)1-hU)ftH- CD)Hip.H,CDH)H-CDU)CrF-1p.:CDPi‘IH CD -U) ftO CDftCD ‘lPJ-U)ft(p(pIlOCDCDH,o0H-(pCDCDCDl-’lf--’U)pipip.U):lft=-1C)oH-CD0-HZIlIiHU)H,H-H,p.’’l0H-CDCD’l-Pp.çtF-Hc-i-U)Pip.HPiC)0CD03CDflU)-=O)’U)I-hzHU)CDCDCDH-IIl-pj-tY(p-CDCD’lzCr-PiCDU)FU)p.:p.QftH-0(pQ‘1—CD0PJ’lU)C)ft ftH-H-ft-C)0bCD cu00ctH,p.DCDCD<Pçt CDCDp.H-U) ftHPictftU)cu=U)ctcu-p.1U)U)CD=ftC)Pi13ftdCDH,(pMH-HC)ft=U)U)0CDIICDH-CDH-0C)CDCD3p.dCD0CD0C)CD0CDPiCl)ft0<0H(pHHp.U)H0H-PJpjIIPJH-H-p.Ilp.(0H-CDHH,C)ft‘Ik<p.pjCDHft=(pH-ftPiCi-CDCD0CDH•IICDU)ctCD<p.CD‘I1-0U)bHIlIlF-’-l-H-p.H-0(p(0CDCDC)QCOU)-ftCDl-p.‘lH,Pi•p.i<HU)0H--=H,H-0-(pCDH-H-CDH,H(pCcuCDU)hjH,><LxiH<H0pi1H-H-CDPiP.’Pi0CDp.U)0Ci-‘IC-,-03p.’CDCDCDftU)CDCDH,0CDCD‘1H-‘1p.’i-CD0‘1(p00Ilc-iiCDp.CDftC)H‘I0i-’-0p.IIH-c-i-:Pi-(pH,CDftCD0P.’U)IICDHU)H--Hp.’H.CDCD.‘P.’ftp.0-0CDp.Hp.’HH,,,,0Ci--.‘p.p.CDH,0(p l0H-CDH3H’p.IlCDCD0p.‘1CD.‘0P.’CDH,p.CDH0CDH-U)p.H-P.1H,HCDftH-LxiCDCDH-CDOftH’lPiftH.PiH-H0C)CDftc-i-U)P.’P.’0U)‘Ip.’.‘-CDp.p.H-H-H-p.p.p.’CD(p-0H,Ci-CD$H,(pp.’CD‘<p.’ftH,Ci-.pH0‘-dIlU)HCD0H-p.F-1<0CD<CDP.’Hp.II00H,HH-CDH,0<ftH-F-1HH-CD—i-8(pHHCDH1CDp.0U)-ci.’C)p.P.’CDftHp.’CDp.(pCDU)-iCDCDftp.U)-0H-p.’(pp.H,H-H-H-ftQ‘IP.’CDH-CDH-P.’CDCDH,P.’H,-Ci-p.0H,ftIIHCD‘IH-H-H-C)(pH-0CDH,IICDC)0p.CDP.’0C)HCD0P.’CDp.’HCi-IIp.ftIlCDHIIH-0H-(p0p.HCDCD‘Ci-‘IIlP.’(p1p.’H,p.CD‘HP.’CDP.’C)F-CD•CDCDCDft-H-0C)000i‘I-H,IlH-H-U)H,-0ii‘CDCD00P.’H-ftU)ICnIIp.P.’ftCD<HOIP.’H-H-P.’HCDH-IH,CDCi-ftft0H-U)0ip.‘IH010‘1CDH,-p.=CDftCD‘-<H,HCDCD‘ICDCl)cli CD H CD N CD H C C) HCDU)Cf—’CDc-IF1CDH CcliU)clici)cliC°ctCDC)c-CDcliccliCDTQ1—CDCDHCDHH-H-f--13CDcliHCD:LDU)cliCDU)k<O1—CD-H,hCcliC,) cli.clic::CDH-C)CDi-c-I-H-bUi•ctCD.•U) H HcliCDC)clic-Ic-I<C)CDH--CHSc-I-CCH 1-CDCD 5CDoCl)c-ICDcliclicliU)CDclidCl)ZH-C)U)hcll:5Cl)P-Cl)=C)C)c-ISI-cliCCDI-cliCDCDU)HhclicliclicuI--JH,cliCH-CctCcll-CH-(-Q‘-<cliH-S5CDC)CD—1QCC)U)Q$C)13CDU)CDCDCDCDhibH-’-<H-CDc-I-hH-=I-CI11IIc-i-U)cli-I-13CDc-I-<13U)cli--P.cliCDCU)CDH-dF-1H-c-PH-CU)HU)CDcliU)cli13c-I-H-bH<13c-I1313c-ICDH-clicli13CD13CDCDCD°lQcliC13H,j-HiJI-CDcliHI-U)H-U)13H-H-CD<QCU)H-—i1313Cc-Ic-I13H>H-H-SH,iCDCDk<CDc-I-c:-CDU)c-i-U)CD‘U)(1U)cliCDCDCDC)CDCJ-cllCDc-i-U)CH-5c-I-c-rHCDc-I-c-IU)CDU)I--1CD13CD13—c-I-CDc-IcliCDc-ICDCDCDc-I-c-I-C)H,CDa13CCDC)CCDc-I-U)CDCDcliH-c-IcliCD13CDU)13H.13I-C)•CDHU)U)g13iCH,U)c-HCCDi--hF-CDU)ICC)U)<,<,C)I-h•ClH-cliCcuicuiH-H,13<1H-C)H-CDCD5c-i-CD--HiSCD‘1HH-c-I-H(QH-HCH,cli-CDCDCHCCD5Cc-ICHc-IPCH,Hic-I-8c-I-CCU)CDDCDi—i-CD13‘CDCU)U)C)CDCD•CDCD‘1CCU)‘c-I--C13sH-c-IcliU)Hcli<CDH-‘<t3.CDCH-H-CDCDc-I-c-I- H‘cu-c-I-‘-‘-Cl)SCCDCc-I-CDC)CCC)CCD13c-IC)IC)c-I-CDCDc-I-bIH,CDc-I-c-H-cliCDCDCc-I---H-‘-‘1hb-CDHIi-c-I-H-H-HI.Q13CDc-ilCDCC13-<clicliCDHCDCDH,H‘c-IH,IQIHCSC)-iCDc-I-CHC=H-CDCI-13c-IH8kcl-1HH,13C135CCQc-I-U)HCDCDHQIhCDHiH-CcliCDCclJ13CDcliCDCCic-rH-—-Cc-ic-I‘cU)l-bcliCDH-CDU)H-cliCDH,Ic-rU)H,Cl)c-I-13H-CDCDc-IH-clicliSk<13CDc-C<CDgc:CCD—H13CD‘CHCD•CDH-c-ICDI-‘1CQIcliU)fr13QI‘——cli3c-I13hCDcli-c-I-U)CDCDCD=—13c-IU)CDwas thus as much testing ground for fieldmen as it was fortheories; not a playing out of instructions but a question of“survival”.’54 Sauer seemed to treat the seminar the same way,expecting a curiosity and discovery from the student and offeringvery little guidance himself (see Figure 6):“Of the graduate student, we ask not only proficiency butdiscovery, increasing independence from his teacher, growingability to chart his own course. . .we direct him to the limits ofthe known, and encourage him to consider how he may proceed beyondthem. ,,155While fieldwork and seminar as “rite de passage” was a step awayfrom Sauer’s earlier directives in the Outline, it was also a stepback to Sauer’s own initiatory educational experience underSalisbury. In “those days of rough professors and respectfulstudents”, Sauer remembered being sent without guidance into the“field” in Illinois and learning not to be a “yes-man” inseminars.’56 Although the early Sauer seems to have reactednegatively to this experience, drawing up guidelines for fieldworkby way of compensation, the later Sauer mirrored his mentor andpositioned his students unguided in the “field”.As recruiting officer for potential geographers, Sauer thusretained the “lessons” and contradictions of his own experiences154 John Le±ghly’s memories of being in the field with Sauerwere of being completely on his own resources “seeing neither Sauernor anyone else connected with the work” (Leighly, 1979, op. cit.,p.5), while Leslie Hewes remembers a continuous set of field tasksthat he was never allowed to finish (Hewes, op. cit. p.l43)155 Sauer, 1976, p.32.156 Sauer, pers. comm. (V), op. cit.86Vu JH.U)aD(n(D C’)(0 CD CD xu1 0repersonifying them in the form of the “fieldman”. On the onehand, the generic character of the f±eldman remained unchanged ahardy general observer, with a questioning mind, an acuteness ofeye and the ability to stand the physical trials of the “field”.’57On the other hand, however, the superficial identity of thefieldman varied with Sauer’s rejection of “field” technique: a callnot only to go out into the “field”, but to go into the “field”alone, “to follow a trail of actual inquiry.., wherever it takeshim”.158 It was therefore later an unmethodical, independent formof “being” that defined the fieldman for Sauer and placedgeographers on the inside or the outside of authority in the“field”.It is not really surprising that Sauer changed from outlining fieldtechniques for other geographers to methodological denial: wealready have a contradictory image of him in the “field”, evolvingover time. Sauer seemed to be able to undergo significant changesin his conceptualisation of fieldwork and yet to retain his beliefin the authority of each - perhaps because he turned his back onhis former ideas and reconstituted the new as truth:“I have the idiosyncracy that once having written something, I donot refer to it again myself. . .1 thus escape from commitment to157 This was in keeping with Sauer’s definition of his geographyagainst the “deskmen” - “geographers who work in their officesthrough the years when their legs, heart, and eyes are good” (PC,Sauer to Kniffen, 28/9/54) - and the demonstration of its prowessin the field: “Go out and show them how a geographer works, mostlyin the field. Refute the belief that geographers don’t know whatto see in the field and that they don’t know what to do. ..“(PC,Sauer to Hewes, 16/5/32)158 PC, Sauer to Kniffen, 13/12/54.88previous opinions and conclusions. . .and am therefore not obliged todefend my past self.”159What is revealing, however, is that although Sauer chose to move onfrom his Outline for fieldwork in geography to a more casual,haphazard form of fieldwork, he did so only in his personalcorrespondence)6°Since the Education of a geographer was onlypublished in 1956 (forty years after the Outline), Sauer’s freedomof the “field” as trail where he “just went off and followedwhatever interested him” 161 took place legitimated by theOutline’s emphasis on rigorous technique. While Sauer may haveturned his back on the Outline, others were presumably stillreading it, in the absence of any other programmatic statement onthe “field”. Perhaps the disjunction between published techniqueand “field” disorganisation was a useful one for authority - aleisurely “field” experience portrayed as structured and supportingthe “field” as a legitimating term in other published work.Finally, despite these contradictions, it should be clear fromSauer’s conceptualisation of field education as the formation ofthe fieldman from the “boys” that there constancy in the159 Sauer in Leighly, 1976, op. cit., p.340.160 In general, Sauer’s correspondence portrays the fieldworkexperience as relatively undefined and unstructured: “let’s cook upa schedule together” (PC, Sauer to Wilder, 8/11/40) . The processand organisation of fieldwork seem to be much more arbitrary. InJanuary 1946, Sauer writes to Stanislawski about his indecisionregarding fieldwork plans: “I haven’t made my plans for the longvacation coming up from March to September. I want to get somewriting done in it somewhere. I might go with Haury intoSonora. . .1 might buy a piece of property on Lake Chapala. I mightdo a lot of things.” (PC, Sauer to Stanislawski, 22/1/46).161 Parsons pers comm89fieldworker identity and authority as “male”. The notion of thefieldman instructed to view objectively (a vision, remember, thatwas thought only possible for the male viewer, able to separatehimself from his bodily self) within his field laboratory drawsupon geography’s masculinist rhetoric, as does the “rite depassage” of boy to fieldman via the trope of discovery and the“heroic” concept of survival in the “field” (aiding the formationof “stronger men”) •162This theoretical and epistemological erasure of women in the“field” seems also to have been matched by their exclusion from thepracticalities of fieldwork: Sauer himself did not have any femalestudents in the “field”. He did, however, correspond with AlfredKroeber’s student, Isabel Kelly, and appears to treat her(textually at least) on a par with other fieldworkers. Kelly isalways portrayed as extremely capable, used to the “rough, meanexploring” of the “field” and close to the image of thejourney (man?) geographer:“She has followed her archaeologic trails to areas where hardlyanyone else would be willing to go”.’63She remains, however, defined in male terms: according to West, she162 See Rose, op. cit. p.70 for a discussion of the “heroic”ethos in geography. Geographers are seen to become “stronger men”by challenging Nature through fieldwork and Rose likens themasculinist self-image of the f±eldworker to the mythical giantAnteus who “became stronger each time he was hurled to the ground”.In this context, Sauer’s statement that the “Anteus quality” offieldwork is something that is discovered by true geographers (PC,Sauer to Kniffen, op. cit., 28/9/54) gains an added potency.163 CC, Sauer to American Council of Learned Societies,14/12/43.90was Sauer’s Friday”.’64For Anne MacPherson, one of the first female doctorate students ingeography at Berkeley, this under-representation of women in the“field” is not surprising:“there were practically no women geographers in those days, in PhDprograms at least - a total blind spot towards women by all men -continuing until maybe the 1960s.”5Sauer, according to MacPherson, was:“not as prejudiced against the idea of women as some. .with Sauerand U.C. geographers it was more subtle and unconscious. He likedwomen and respected them - no obvious put down, but they all had ablind eye to their unconscious assumption that geographers were men(boys) who would be given jobs etc. There were women T.A.s fromthe beginning but I think I was only the third woman PhD.”66More specific to the “field”, she adds “some cautionary remarksabout judging Sauer and women through modern eyes: “seeing ashis Mexican trips involved camping, he’d only take men.”This statement, however, only emphasises the division between“field” practices that were classed as “male” and the female,excluded from fieldwork (and geography) and left “at home”.164 1979, op. cit, p.95. My use of emphasis.165 MacPherson, pers. comm. (L), 22/6/93.166 MacPherson, pers. comm. (L), 15/2/93.91CONTRADICTIONSBeginning with the “hapless fieldman”, we have seen Sauer “travel”critically and literally away from what he perceived as theAmerican intellectual “landscape”: a core of desk-bound geographerslacking a fieldwork focus. Positioning himself“off-centre” from modern trends in geography, Sauer went on to“domesticate” his travel by reconstituting the “field” asintellectual “home” (Truth) - the traditional (European) authorityof the discipline. As a corollary, he constructed himself andothers with legitimacy as geographers through observation andtravel and, more specifically, appropriated Mexico as “known”: “Mr.Sauer’s field”. At the same time - if only at a subtle andunconscious level - his attempts at definition, authorisation andappropriation were a reinforcement of self, others, geography,“field” and fieldwork as “male”.167They were also, at times, an expression of his cultural - as wellas academic - displacement in the modern.This process of overcoming the “lack” of American geography andref inding authority in the “field” was not, as we have seen,without contradictions. Traveller-f ieldworker-geographer, nottourist; with the combined perspectives of imaginative andscientific geography and a confused methodological directivebetween technique and discovery, Carl Sauer positioned himself and167 What is truly ironic is that Sauer, the self-proclaimedantimodernist, should draw on the modernist rhetoric of discoveryand vision in order to do this.92others extremely ambivalently in the “field”. Indeed, the “field”itself was shaped and reshaped to fit Sauer’s experiences and theeducation of the geographer: at once a bounded space (familiarscene, laboratory), closed and defined, and a trail (voyage ofdiscovery, rite de passage), open and fluid. However, through anefficient process of “othering” (familiar not foreign; travel nottourist...) and the “idiosyncracy” of travelling forward from his“commitments” rather than looking back, Sauer presented himself asalways one step ahead of the inauthentic, buttressing his versionfrom the “field” as truth.While different strategies were used by Sauer for authority, incombination they can be used to question it. Only by viewingSauer’s field in all its plurality and reconnecting his fieldworkdirectives with his own experiences do we get a sense of authorityas a shifting ground that is as arbitrary as it is complex. Eachfacet reflects critically on the others since the claims to truthare shown as partial, their boundaries as constructs: the trail maycut across the limits of the (familiar) “field”; the aestheticdemonstrate the limits of the scientific (remember Rose’sproductive tension between domination and desire) . This tensionproves to be productive as we move on to consider the writing up ofthe “field”, combining the fixity of authority with the mobility ofits contradictions.93CHAPTER FOUR:TEXT.. .TURNING TRAVELLER“One says Mexico: one means, after all. . .a person with apen.. . one little individual looking at a bit of sky andtrees, then looking down at the page of his exercise book.”“All you need for geography is a pencil and a piece ofpaper. ,,2For Carl Sauer, the “way to go on” was not only “a spot of travelto learn” but also “a spot of quiet to study and write”.3 In ourconsideration of the journeyman-geographer in the “field”, we thusalso need to make room for the textual: “the person with a pen”.While Sauer’s legitimacy as a geographer, as we have seen, camefrom a combination of spatial and observational practices, it alsocame from his writing up of the “field”: authority as “author”.4Sauer wrote for sixty-four of his eighty-five years5 and produceda body of publications, many based on fieldwork, that stood astestimony to his authority in the “field”. Writing up hisgeography of the “field”, he was thus also writing himself into theacademic “field” of geography.Sauer’s pronouncements and directives on the “field”, however,1 Lawrence, 1927, p.3.2 Stoddart, pers. comm. (I), quoting Leighly on geography.Sauer in Parsons, 1976, op. cit., p.343.For Clifford Geertz (op. cit., p.1), it is not only thephysical being in the “field” that connotes authority but theauthorial “being there” in the text: the way that the reader isconvinced and the fieldworker’s legitimacy is written in.Williams, op. cit., 1983, p.2.94QMiftMiH-HCl)C)MiH-QI))Cl)ft1JCi)hiJCrCl)MiCDCD0fr5DOCDCDH-CDft0CD05MiftCDIiCDIIH-H-I))ftCD5H-Cl)iidHOft5CQHCDftF-C)Cl)S3HH1Hft)Cl)CD-<10H-Q.t-H-5H-MiCQI-CDC)H-CrPi><F-1CDCDftH-HH-PJc-rCD°°i.QH-dCDII—iH-CD0Cl)F-1Cl)QftF-1CDH-iCDH1<Cl)HOCDMiCl)CD3ftCl)k<CDCDCr)MiH-CDICD0PCl)-ftCl)Cl)MiH-Cl)0Cl)DCtftftC)H-Cl)l)-ft00H-CfCI)CDC)C)ICl)00CDI-’Mip)3CDCDCDMiQOCl)0ftICDCDCD-H-dftMiftI-C)CD5CDCDH-C)Cl)CD.CDCDrrCDftgDl-Cl)H1C)IMiPCDCDH-H-F--ftMiOVCDC)cH-H-Cl)—3ftH-H-ftHQJftC)F-OH-H-CDQCl)H-CDH-)MiOF-rt)ftCDftCl)CJ)CDCDCDftI))CrMiH1H0HWCJ)3ftCl)Cl)CDCDH-rrCDCDOMi-ftCDCD><CDoHH1CD--1-HIQftCl)CDH-ftC)0H-CDCDhoH-oCtMftHpJWMiCDftu‘<0Mi<1-CDCDIiH-Cl)CDH1C)oCD0C)P)f-rCrMiCroMiCD0H-H-Cl)H-MiCl)UiCl)CrCDCDftft1ftCl)ClCD11JH-Cl)ftCD(Cl130(1)H-CDftCD0Cr0F-1HOCDCl)ft—-ftCDClCrCDCDCr-Cl)MiHCl)oCDCDftCl)H-0S13-1313CD.ftCD13lJ0F-1çtF0Cl)ftCl)ftCDC”)Cl)CDMiF130H-0Mi‘1ft-MiIQftH-0‘-<CI)01ClOH-pQftCl)F-1H1k<C)OCClCC,)H-CI)H-C)H13CD13CDF-10H-,<13CD13C)CDCDCI)13CDCl)CDCDCl)CDHMi0CDjCl)0o-ftftMiH-CI)Cl)0CI)CDMi130ft00IWH-13CD0H1ftlHwftftMiMiCDMiC)CDClS001))ftI-CDDCl)5OhCDftftH1oCl ftoHHCl)°H-0MiMi13jC)H-‘<CT)CDMiCDHCDSi-CD0o13CDH-HClpftCD5h13><P)ft13H-Clft1j’oCl13CD<00ftCl)0CDCDCDH1ftClCD Mip,CDCl)CDCl)‘1CDh’lIQH-ftCDftCDCDCDIftCDH013CDL00H-IH-H-F-113-—Cl)H-<ftMiHCl13C)0H-OCDQCljftHOftClftdH-1Cl)H-Cl1313CDMiftH-ftC)0MiCI)Mift0)Cl)J’13CDC)01ftCD3IIH-CI)Cl)OCDH-Jft13ft13ftCD0CDl-CDH-H-•ftOCI)><ClH-013CDCl13CD3hCI)0Cl)5F-13ftftCICDOlftI--31Cl--CDClCDCD13ftMiCl)-k<IQ0Cl)Figure 7: Text revealed? Sauer and hisnotebook in the field (along with daughterElizabeth, Mexico, 1941).•..I96of the fieldnote, states James Clifford, supports the notion of aclear division between “home” and “field” and thus “field” factsthat are hermetically sealed and transported back as definitivedata. This drawing of boundaries also silences much of the contextof the production of writing: “Historical realities” such as thehome university, transportation to the “field” and sites oftranslation of fieldnotes that are all allowed to “slip out of theethnographic frame”.9 On the other hand, fieldnotes have beenimplicated in a transitional textual critique, concerned with thefiltering process inherent in the writing up of notes and thewriting in of authority. For Wolf, f±eldnotes are the “firstsacred text in the preparation of ethnography”: the move to presentthe finished work as objective, scientific, Truth begins with them:“The construction of a partial and incomplete version of a realityobserved by the anthropologist begins with the writing offieldnotes. ,,1oAccording to Jackson, anthropology’s “fieldnote tradition comes outof a naturalist explorer-geographer background”: “Lewis and Clarkwere not that different”.’1 Thus, turning to our own explorer-geographer, we also need to examine the “sacred text” of Sauer’sfieldnotes. While Robert West has looked at Sauer’s notebooks,’2he uses them to chronologically connect up Sauer’s field trips andClifford in Grossberg et. al., op. cit., p.99.10 Wolf, 1992, p.87.‘ Jackson in Sanjek, 1990, p.16.12 West, op. cit.97articles without saying anything about the transition from note topublished work. He takes the notes at face value and does notattempt to read anything into them: they are a resource to be usedand not questioned. We, however, need to unpack their use. Whileshowing that for many of Sauer’s contemporaries a focus on thefieldnotes is deemed unwarranted, I return to the notebooks to pickup the last chapter’s tensions of the “field” (space/trail;objective/subjective) and use them to productively question Sauer’swriting. While on the one hand Sauer textualises his authority,he also points the way for its transgression.Papers, pipes and corncobs“limited to earlier years in Mexico. . . in fading pencil and perhapsof limited value. .No one has really tried to use them.”13There is a consensus among Sauer’s contemporaries that fieldnoteswere a relatively minor part of the education of the geographer.For James Parsons, Sauer relied more on his memory than onfieldnotes:“I never saw Sauer with notes or books around him when he waswriting - he just sat down and typed from memory - it seemed likeit. He wrote nearly everything at work and not at home and wasfrequently interrupted but could pick up where he left off.”14Fieldnotes as an indication of Sauer’s work were therefore of“limited use”:“fieldnotes, as I mentioned, are relatively few - all from anearlier time (Ozarks etc; NW Mexico), in fading pencil...13 Parsons, pers. comm. (L), op. cit.14 Ibid.98Fieldnotes from later years (post World War Two) hardlyexist.. .yes, I Chink he kept them in his head (a phenomenalmemory) . Those I have seen were chiefly from archivalinvestigations (after his early years in the Middle West - andSonora-Sinaloa - when he did keep copious fieldnotes (of which notlarge numbers remain) “sOther colleagues of Sauer’s reinforced this notion Chat he reliedmore on his memory than on his fieldnotes. Wagner, who went intothe “field” with Sauer, claimed Chat he never saw him Cake notes inthe “field” nor did he see him write any up back at Berkeley.’6David Hooson, who shared an office with Sauer in his later years,has memories of him sitting at his desk at a 1910 typewriter (whichstill sits on the top shelf of the office across from Hooson’sdesk) “typing in a cloud of dust”. Hooson did not, however,remember Sauer typing from notes; in fact he stated that Sauer’snote organisation and filing system were completely haphazard:“I wanted to know what kind of filing system he had so when he wasout I opened one of the drawers and found that he didn’t have oneat all - just a pile of papers and pipes and corncobs.”7Perhaps, then, there was a tension for Sauer between the “doing”and the “writing” in the “field”. We have seen that observationand “field” time were precious to him: perhaps, like Jackson,Sauer felt that fieldnotes got “in the way” and interfered “withwhat fieldwork” was “all about - the doing”.’8 However, as Parsonsstates, fieldnotes from the “earlier years” exist: those from‘ Ibid.16 Wagner, pers. comm. (I) , op. cit.Hooson, pers. comm. (I), 8/92.18 Jackson in Sanjek, op. cit., p.23.99I-hMCI)HDHi—s]Ft0hFtFt‘-<FtHC)HFtH-H-H-H-H-CDhIII)00hHCl)0P1H-CDCDP1Cl)CDCDCDCr1P110CDPJ15FtSCDHHFtCDHCD0I1H--CDdH-CDpjhI-Ci)HHH’0CDHI-I——P10P1II<FtC)IpiH-“<HH’CDCD00H’I-hI-0H-P1IIItIFt0CDH-CDC1HCl)FFtFtHFtCDFtFtH-CDFtOCD‘<Cl)‘DCl)Cl)Cl)FtH-H’Cl)P1<CDCl)CDH-I_iH-I-CDCi)Cl)00Q-’CI)00WFt‘<<1Cl)P1Ftp1Cl)CD-P1Cl)FtH-CD5FtH-P1H0—1C)P1CDCDP1‘.‘-<CDi-H-H-FtCDCDH-MCD-FtCD0Ft0QP1CDCI)H-’<I-hH,P1H-C)dCDCD0H-FtCDH-CDCl)CDFtCDCi)H’HCDH’c-iFtCDCngFtHiCDbp1CDFt00-CI)Ft-CDHH-HH’H-HCDH-FtH-FtH-CDH-Cl)FtHH-0CD0C)-’HCl)0OHSHC)CDH-FtP1CDI-H’0P1CDCl)0Ci)H’CI)Ok<SI-C)iQHj9CDQ-’CD--SP1CDCl)P1FtCDHI-Cl)C)HCD13)Cl)0CDHP1C)——0FtI-0CDFtFt0C)i-içjjH’CDCDCDH-HjjH-H-H-oI-t’FtHCD0FtFtCDC)CDCI)FtH-CD-,CDCDH-0P1H-—.-Cl)F’-OCl)H-CDCDP1CDCDpjCD1oH0.CDCDI-HgFtS-LQCD-n0FtP1FtCDo13Ft0HCD<130.F-’-Cl0H-FtCDFt-‘FtCDFtP1P1C)oCDFtCDCD‘dCD0CDCl)P1-FtCl)CDH-CDMiCI)H-CDFtP1C)CDFtC)Cl)CDCDHCl)CD-,CD1]HP1-P1P1OH-FtI-hP1FtHICDH’FtF—HCDH’CDCDHFtCDSHP1H0)FtP1FtCDFtP1P1P1Cl)13CDFt13j’o13CDP1CDOFt5H-HgCDCD1C)I-hCI)HCDCl)CDoCD-CDFtH-Cl)Cl)5H,P1FtFtCDpi-.0-H-HIQCDCDCDFtC1)-0OH’0H-I-hCDHCDFtFtH’P1P1H-I—’H,13C)=CDP10Ib0P1FtHp,H---lCDH-FtCDH-HFt0)CD10)P1Ft13FtCD113P113CDP1CDH-o0CD0H-IC)I-I-FtFt3Ft<13lCDCDFtFtH-ç0C11<CDP1I-FtI-h13CDFt13FtP10H130-13H0P10CD13I-C)H-CDFtH-I-hCi)CDCDt13I-h3CD--13Ci)CDt0CDCl)0‘HH,CJU)CD))HHftU)QU)i—iCDH-0jJH,HI-0CDX00I-hPi0DCDH-C)C)PJPiH,CDPH-ICliH-C)CDCDCDO)00C)H-CliftH,CliCD‘<CDClCliH-dH5QH-ftCDC)-CliH-hftHF-1-ft0F-1U)HCDCliH-H,CDClH-QhH-I-C)U).CllCDFCDHftCDCDft-hQCllhCDCDH,IQ0H-0Cli1HClCD0Cl1QgU)SCDftHftC)H5hhCD<H-iC)IQCDftCJCDQCDCDftH-U)ClC‘1‘dC)-HICliCl=ftftClCDCDCl0CDHHCDftCDClw•SI-hCDHftU)rtH-U)H,CliClH-ftftCDCDHH-H-HoCDClgClH,-CDft0CDHftHCDftHCD0H,U)H-HftH-b,U)ftftCD0H-CDH,0U)-ft:QCli3ft-CDbC)Cl)CDCDçuU)1oCDCl)CD0CDCDCDftftF—s-fthCDH-H,F-CDSCD0H-Cl)CDH-ftCDU)CD‘H,0HU)H,5H-0CDH,-‘dCDH,ft:i’H,CDH-CliftU)H-H-CDH-CD‘1H-CDHCD0HCDClI-CDftCD-,CDHftftCllH-HH-(CU)HC)Y<ftClCliHI-QHCDCDCDCli°H-CD--ft(.QH,Cl-ft5CDH-U)ClClCDCCliftH-H,H,><05H-ClJ00ftF-1,QCl0CDCDHH,CDC)ftH,‘CDCDH-CDU)1CliCD<ftH,H-0CD:-C)CliU)Cli0U)5CDCDCDClCliftiCDH-H-HH0CDHCDC)CDftClftCD-0-I-iClU)H-C)H-•CDCDH-H-CDCDH,ftI-CliCDCDHCD0ftk<CDfthH-—Cl0U)ftCDCDCDCD00H‘-<HU)CD‘ftH-0CDCl)Cl-C)ft-ft‘CDCDCDCliCDCDHH-Cli.CDU)CliJJH-0ClCDH,QU)0H-IIIftCDCl<H-QftftH,CD00HCDU)CDCDClH-CD3ft5U) 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contact once home:”to whom you may wish later to write forinformation” 32Although Sauer does not seem to have followed these directivesmeticulously, his Mexico fieldnotes themselves do indicate thatthey were a resource to be referred to in the future. Many of thenotebooks have periodic lists, comments and questions that seem tobe reminders for Sauer for later on. For example, on his 1935 tripnotebook, Sauer writes:“Guadalajara July 18.. .the Ceno Tequila - remember - was theoutpost of wild Indians (why not go back to your records) whoharassed the civilised Indians and the early missionaries. .and also on his 1945 trip, at the Mexican National Herbarium:“not at all evident the basis on which distinguished - see if youcan find out”.34 Jotted lists in the fieldnotes seem to be there31 While Sauer also (and contradictorily) states thatgeneral impressions should be written frequently before moving onand that the notes should be distinguished “carefully” betweenobservations, inferences and information secured from others, thisdoes not tend to happen in his notebooks. While begging thequestion as to how possible it would be to separate out informationin this way, we find in the transition from fieldnotes to articlethat Sauer writes out the contributions of others and the lesssecure inferences and writes in only observation as authority.32 Sauer and Jones, op. cit., p.521.SN14, p.43.SN18, p.89.105Cl)Cl)HOH •wt’Jt\)00 C) H H- H, H, 0 H Cl) cii LJ CD H 0H-0 a’0 0 H Ft Ui L’)wCDIIHCDpicii0)1ctH-0CQH 0)ciicii‘dH-FtCDi-H Hcii0 FtFt00H CD, CDtQciicilH-çt0Hciui-jFt2 (OH,:jH,FtH-(DOhHCDQ 0H-hH,H,0Ft0)HFtC)FtH-0FtiQç-tFtCDH-H-H,H-H,0H,H-Cl)CD10C)CDCDh0ciiCDH-CDFtCDhFtH-0HHFt0H-CDI-FtCDI-j(0iH-FtHHCDCDC)H-CD(I)l-02Q1PilCDFt0H0Q0)000FtIIH-0)H-••1FtFt-CD0H-H-CDciiFtQQCl)HCDCD0Hcii<1CDII1CD0-H,cii0)0iH0CDCl)CDC)H-H-HH-00FtFtFt02H,H-(,0H-U)ç).CD‘1CD0<1CDC)(f)H-CDCD0FtiCl)0)FtFtCDCl)0FtC)CDcii.<HFt-j,ciiciiICDCDI-C)HCDclFtH,Cl)CD0CDl)-UiFtH-H-Cl)FtCl)H,CDbH-H-CD(1)H-ciiCD00‘H0jjpiHHFt0ISH,(I)IFtH-H-0H-0Ft.H-FtFtCl)HH,(1)02H,H-0HFt<H-FtH-FtCCi)8P0FtQW0CDFtciiH0H,ç),0FtFtciioF-0FtC)0) Ftk<H,0CDFt(0Ft0Cl)CDFtI-0h0CDH,-Ft0cii0)HFt0)CDCl)0<:cii-0)H-H,CO0H-QN00Cl)H-H-0H0)0Hl-<I-<ciiH-i,ciijjFt0ciiCl)H-FtFtCD(00CCOFtciiCCDciiSFtFtH0)0CDH-H,0H0CDb00CDIdQcuFtciiCDFtFtFtFt0FtH-0ci•(00)H-CD:Cl)H-•0JH0)Ci)FtCl)(0H-0Q-ciih0-(0><0FtHCDH-0Ft(0CD0CDiCDH,hCDH,ciii-0ciiH00)CDH,I-j50PH-CDCl)CD0)H-0ZCDi-CDH,FtCDFtIH,FtFtøciiFtFtHFtHCl)0H,HH-HCl)H,CD0H,Ft(0S0HciiH,Cl)FtH-H,CDCl)C))Cl)000H,H0CDh0)Ft0Ft00H,H‘1‘H-0-cii0CD0)ciiHH,H,-H,Ft50hpiFt0)HHCDHQ-H,cii0CDFtciiciiFtHciiciiFt0)FtCDoFtCD-CDH-H,HH-00IQ0)CDCD0CDI-I-i0Q0)FtQCDCD--CD‘-Iici)CD•.I-I-CDCDCQI-C.) C’) CD Cl 0 S H H Cl 0 HH 0wClQU)ClCDJCDQc-rQI--HH-HrtU)-H,r-rc-rçtI-C)HiCDH-HC)OH-CDOHpjc-t-H-.<CDCDC)-•.rtjHCl><HhCl‘dCDH-U(DQCDI-C)H-C)•0C)rrHHiCDrr-H-U)JPJClH-U)ClU)U)H-H-CD°JHClU)CDc1CD,-Q-CDHC’)(DU)<H-U)QPJU):Cl5CDbPiCDLi.C)CDCDClCDH.CDQQHiQClH-Pi-ClClClH.CD-HIPJQ-jCDCDk<CtHiC)CDH-HOHioU)ClCDH--H-HH-ClCDC)CDClH-CUQClCDHoU)ClH-C)CDCl•:HPJrnCUClC)U)CDH-Hi0(H-CDpiCl•H-tflCI)CUHi-:ClC’ClH0H-H-•H-0WCDCUSSCl°CD0H-H-0<HiCD•Hl1(-QU)CI)C)ClHH-CDJCDQ0U)h(DC)C)<CDCflHiClU)CDECUH-HU)><H-JCDQCDOH.0H-CDHH-C)H CD-HiH-ClH0U)C)CDQ10(CH0H-ClCl0HH-ClClHPJk<iCDCDCDCDQHQU)CDClC)H-‘xjItJC)ClIH-:(Uh00iI—’011.1.hCDHHU)U)00(UClQ(U‘1lCD3C)(UH-Clh<ClCDCl)hC)0C)HClEiClCDClCD1U)CDQccIHU)CDCD(UU)(UH(UQCDjI(UH-CD<1(UCD--H10HClCDH-(UCDHH-(UH-k<CDicrH-C)HiU)ClCD(UClP-dClCD0ClH-HIHi(UH-C)CDO‘dH-CDCl0k-i-HF-CDHC)iCDCD10ClHitQH-HJ-U)-IH-ClC)H-U)Hi0:ClC)=ClH-HiHiCDCD1jIQH-<H-CD0CD13ctClHCl°(UH-Clh13H-CDH--ClClHiHClH-(10ClHCDCDH-H-H-13H-CD0U)HiQClCDCDCl0k<00(UClHCDs0‘1CD0ClHiCDCD00(U(U13U)13Cl<1CDH-CD>1CDCDCDHClCDCDCl)U)1--13Cl-13CD<-CD1(UClCDCDCD13Clh.ClHiH-CDCD13H-U)0CDCDU)CDCDClCDhg13ClI-H-CD-(UHH-ClCDU)(U13ClHiH-H-U)CD •ClHC)HiClH-HCDH-H-=ClH-13CDCDCD13C)CDCD013HC)1-Q13(1)HH-Cl(U13(U(UClCDC)HHiCDClU)0dCDHCDHiU)ClCD3CDCDH-CD0CDC)ClICl=H(U‘QH0Hi(UU)13CDH-ClC)CDII11CDCDU)°0HCDCDCl00i--;0U)13hU)CDClHiClH-pjH\DH-CDQC)ClCD0ClCDCDClCD0H-0C)QCDCl-ClClCD(UHCDHC)ClCD30H-0U)U)HH-Cl0CDSH-U)13II13CDH-(UHiHiH-CDH-13CDClHiClU)U)ClQ(U(UClH-CD0CDCD.<U)CDCDHi‘0‘H-HH-U)H-IQClCDCl(UClCDH-C)13H-CDClH0(U13H-0ClU)ClHiClClS(U(UH-C)(UCl(U0Cl13:1313H-ClH-(U3CD(UU)CD0(UClU)13CDU)ClCD-U)Cl-HCDCUI-CD:c-I-5H-CDC)H-HCDU)CDCDCDCDCDSPCDHCDCD0><Wc-I-<QCDc-I-CU(1)U)0I—’CDçtOH-CUH-5I—ac-I-c-I-QH-CDH,CDQHOWCUCD0H-JCDH-hU)c-I-U)c-I-IU)CDt5’CDHU)J-•c-I-H--H-H-H-Qc-I-Z5H1-.c-I-0CDCUpiCsD0Cl)U)c-I-0CDU)CDCl)CDCDCDQCDH—-<CDCDCU0-.H-3U)H,-CDC)H-CDCDCDHF-3Cl)U)0CDH,CDCDCUhC)<U)CUCDc-I-II-ctc_t_H,IIpjiCD0c-I-U)CDHNc-I-CD00CDcI-CDc-I-HCDH--H-0CDCD1Hc-I-H-SHU)CDc-HI--t,0CUCDHH-CDYCUCD‘0HCDCDHU)jCDH,0U)H°dIc-I-CDCDCDU)CDp.><CDctCDoc-I-U)--CDC)H-CDCUH-H-U)U)U)0‘C)-••c-I-CUC)1QctCDOH-•-H<CU’0H-c-I-CDc-I-H-HHCUU)CUH-CDH-H,c-H-O<O—--c-t-n-sH-CD-U)H-H,OU).CUU)QHHdHH-.oH-CU-H,U)‘-U)c-I-H-H,UiH--CD0I-jH-C)CDU)C1U)H-CUCDCUHCUOQCUH,0LO-CDCDF-CDc-I-5c-i-C)Q-H,H-c-I-0CUCDip-,0tiClH0C)Dc-I-H-F—’ilqCUC)CDc-I-CUc-I-oCDCD<c-I-CDCUU)•F-U)H-HC)CUc-Clc-I-U)Jc-I-Cl)CDI-:<c-I-0U)CDc-I-H-C)HCDHClC)c-I-c-i-hCDc-I-CDH-H,0SCUk<CUH,CDClCDU)Oc-I-CDCDH-H,H-C)c-I-c-I-H-SC)‘dCD‘1c-I-c-I-c-I-C)tQ0CDCDH-H-H-H-0CUSOH,U)CUCH-CU-CD c-I-CU H-HH,H-C)HCD--c-I-CDCDhg-‘3Clc-I-c-tC)c-IU)jwCDClU) H-0H,CUCDH-U)U)CD0CDCDOH-110)c-I-H-c-I-F—c-I-)U)c-rc-I-<CDCUH-c-I-H-c-I-CUH-H-H-‘3CUCDU)H-Qc-I-CDCDCD<U)-CDc-CDHCDCD0Hc-I-CD0-CDH,HCDc-H,CDH11MCDH.‘0oCDCDc-I-C)CDClHH--‘3C)OU)U)0H-c-I-HCl‘1CDCD11H-F-LQH,CDQk<CD(PIdClU)0--CUc-I-Ii-(PH,CUC)CU0c-I-0CDc-I-ICUCDH-H-O<CUH,OClClI0CDCDc-I-c-I-U)U)11Cl--U)Cl“Why can’t a geographer. . .convey to the reader the feel of horizon,sky, air and land. . . ?“The early Sauer, concerned with geography as observational scienceand survey, had emphasised the rigorous, systematic nature offieldnotes, defined against such “happy illustrations” as theseletters from the “field”:“Notes are to be taken not simply when some happy illustrationimpinges upon the consciousness of the observer but notes are to beput down so systematically that they form a definite set ofquantitative data. . .In keeping with his later move “beyond science”, however, Sauergave more emphasis to informal note-taking, questioning the verybasis of its scientific and exclusionary counterpart. Fieldnotescould thus be both objective data and subjective reflection:48 “Iwrite when I want to get something off my chest”.49 With this46 Sauer in Leighly, 1969, op. cit., p.403.Sauer, 1924, op. cit., p.25.48 The fieldnote comes in many forms: Sanjek (op. cit., p.x±i)includes text accounts, reports, impressions, letters; Jacksontalks about diaries, transcripts, jottings, students’ notes, notesfrom informants (in Sanjek, ibid., p.5). Jackson also portrays thetension between the subjective and the objective conceptions of thefieldnote - while one anthropologist interviewee claims theultimate subjectivity of “I am a field note”, another denies it:“If I felt that ethnography just reflected internal states, Iwouldn’t be in this game” (ibid., p.21). This tension is matched bySauer’s advice to his students on writing their reports. WhileSauer insists on a detailed account of progress from Henry Bruman(PC, Sauer to Bruman, 24/3/39) - he enjoyed his “notes” butexpected a more organised report - he advises Bowman to write bysitting down and communing with his “inmost self intensively” (PC,Sauer to Bowman, 23/12/38) and tells Isabel Kelly he wants anunsystematic report with her personality in it, written in out ofthe way places without “every tourist-archaeologist coming in” onher (PC, Sauer to Kelly, 15/5/41)PC, Sauer to Willits, 1/3/44.109plural conceptualisation of the fieldnote in mind, Sauer then wenton to think about writing the horizon.While indicating the different guises of fieldnotes, Sauer’squestion thus directs us to the filtering process of writing: theloss of the ‘subjective’ . Mary Louise Pratt, in her discussion ofthe relation between ethnography and travel writing, notes how thepersonal narrative of travel was progressively edited out -“killedby science” - in the consolidation of the authoritativeethnographic account.5° For Pratt, there remains a contradictionbetween the subjective experience of the “field” and the objectivescientific discourse to which the finished text is expected toconform. Sauer, with his “poetics of science”, seems to resthesitantly on the editing line; a hesitation which, for DonaldMeinig, is productive. Meinig applauds Sauer’s call for theinclusion of the emotive in geographic writing, but is disappointedthat Sauer’s “own work is not strongly evocative in this sense”,its effect coming from “breadth of knowledge and mature reflectionrather than from vivid descriptions”.5’ Unlike Meinig, however, Iread Sauer’s question more as a lament: an indication that his ownunpublished work was evocative but that much of this had to be lostin translation: the authority of the discipline, perhaps, requiredit.If we look to Sauer’s fieldnotes, we find that Sauer does indeed° Pratt in Hall and Abbas, 1986, op. cit.51 Meinig, op. cit., p.320.110convey a “feel of horizon, sky, air and land”. Although hislandscape appreciation exists on many levels in the notes, it isoften evocative, picking out a “pretty little valley” or “lushgreen scene”52 to elaborate upon (often romanticise) . On land nearZapotlan, Colima, Sauer recounts:“The long tree-shaded avenue through alfalfa fields. . .the drowsingsun-drenched plaza of the town with its high trimmed laurels andthe rose-filled patio of the Hotel Diaz where the birds shouthaughtily all day.”53He dwells on the colour and drama of the Mexican scene and veerstowards the ornamental and picturesque common in writings of Mexicoat the time:“the magnificent view of the lateral baranca drowning the bay ofTequila and the mountain behind. Banana and sugar cane plantationbelow.. . all in all a topographic picture of the most romanticschool such as might have been acquired by the pre-physiographicpainters.Sauer finds this “gem of landscape” in the Mexican summer “soulpleasing” and “eye filling”55- not only an exercise in “field”description, he treats landscape also as an artistic form.Later, at sea along the west coast of South America, Sauer’s travelnotes also take pleasure in the horizon:52 SN12, p.3.5N8, p.34.SNl4b, p.39. This quotation shows both Sauer tying into thevisual appreciation of Mexico and also landscape (painting andperspective) as a way of seeing.Ibid., p.38.111“off Cuba last night only a dark looming mass behind the lighthouseon the extremity. This morning the sea much calmer with that well-greased, leaden look that makes you think it quite opaque.Against the eastern horizon the Haitian peninsula.Moving from the sea-view of one landscape to another, Sauerevocatively records the transition from the “absolute desert”,57naked except for its darkly capped coastal hills to the excesses ofthe tropics:“under way for the lovely crossing of the canal. Verdent lushgreen of the tropical forest. The formerly tilled slopes nowcompletely covered by a very course, large bladed grass, exceptwhere clumps of bananas keep growing on their own, with surprisingvegetative vigor” ,58and, fusing imagination with observation, connects landscape andthe past as he looks out from the ship:“Where still the ghosts of Cubao?. . .strange to get one’s first viewof the last island sun by white men at such a distance that wecannot see the changes wrought thus and could still look for thesmoke coming up from the villages of the Amah, watching the whiteman sail by on his great missels. Fine cumulous clouds building upin a sky of light, luminous blue.”59This, then, is the kind of vivid description that Meinig misses outon (as do we all) by focusing solely on Sauer’s published work.56 SN21, p.1.Ibid., p.33.58 Ibid., p.1.Ibid., p.1. This is rather a romantic view of the “Indian’s”first contact with the “white man”, in awe of his “great missels”.While Sauer wrote about the destruction of the Iberian conquest andthe decimation of the “Indian” population, this did tend to becouched in a rather romantic-tragic rhetoric. This resurfaces inSauer’s comments on the “Indian” populations he interacts with inthe “field” in Mexico and in South America (Chapter Five andChapter Six): the traces of a “noble savage”.112oc —I-ICl)0tx’JCDH-CDaCDh•Ift-NH--0UiCDWHIIQC)HH-oHftw< Hdo•-H0H wC) H H 0 H 0Cl)‘-Ii)0a)CuC)H-a)CDHha)CD-H-iiC)tQCDHioH- CD H Ii 0 ft CD a)0 ft CD o C) H rC)CDHhfta) 0CDCu-H H ftCDHiCD: CDHi><oH-C)C) 0a) oH HCDHH CuCDftCDCDCu HHH-HIHCuftQCDoCDC)><fto H CuCu ft CDrJ ooI-—Cl)bftHiSdCuCD0CuSH-CDft0CDa)H‘1CDftS5Hfta)a)I-CDCDCDCDQC)o-CDHa)ba)Ha)ft0Cua)CDaHiJIQH-hCDCDftH-CDfti-k<ftHH-ftZ5CuH-HHi0CDa)H-HiftCDCDCDClCDClCDCDCDftH-I-ftCuH-a)CDCD0CDCD0HHHHiCuHia1-HHCDCDCDCuCDHClftH-HiH-HH-CDCT) HHiHift0ClH-j0a)CDHiCl)HCDH5CI)a)ft0H--0ClHiftCDftfthCuOH-CDCDCDa)a)Cu<i-CI)CDH0C)jñHCuHiCDH-a)j.H-ft0ft0-<Hig0CuCDftC)Hig-IClH-CDftftftCuftCD5CDCDCl)H-CDftftClCDttQCDClCl00IhiCDftCua)I-QftH-H-a)0I3CDft0H-CulCDCu0ia)IIftHiHiCuH-a)H-I-CDCDCDCDHHClCI)ClCD00a)ftft0CD0HiHhJa)kCDI_fftoD-ClCD0-0 hft=I-Q a)ft‘dCDH-0H-CDCD0a)I•r-I- CDHiH-CI)IIClftCDa)a)CDhCDhftCDCuCDH-ClHi0CDft-0CDQH-CDCDH-C)‘ftHCuftCDCDftHCD0‘-CuCDftftftftCuH-CDda)CI)C)CDHCDCDHiH-Hi0H-H-a)CDHCD-a)H°CDH-a)ftCla)CDH0CDH-H-Cua)0>Hia)fta)H-0CDCDi-H5ftH-ClClCDCDCDCDC) CD0Hi-0bHi‘-HiCDH-CDCu0ftCD><HtQ5HIHH-CDJftCDCla)CIftH-CDft<a)CD•a)a)CuCDCuIQdHICDi-ft0CDHCQa)a)0IIhCI)SH-H-Cuft‘-<CDHHfta)oT:30CuCDH-ClC)ftCI):-C)CDH0CDCl-CDC) oftSCDCDC)H-fta)Cl oH-0ftHiCl)HCuCl0CDCDCD-0ftIiftCuCDh JHH-<Cu‘ICDSrH-HCDCl-CDftft0) C)0H-HiSCDH-CI)a)ftC)ftftCDCDI-iCDClH-H-ftHoCuH-oha)a)I-H-HiH-0C)CuCD-H-•HiH-HiftC)0::5-CDCDCDClJohn Leighly, this article represents only part of Sauer’spublished Mexican work and he advises that “The reader who wouldfollow Sauer along other Mexican trails . . .should look to Sauer’slonger works on Mexico.M However, since comprehensive fieldnotesand correspondence also exist for this period, we may look toSauer’s unpublished writings of the same time to find our otherMexican trail: Sauer’s own road to CIbola.Arrant swindlers and amazing dunderheadsIn 1931, Sauer wrote with some excitement to John Leighly of hiswork in the archives in Mexico City:“I have some very old chronicles never published which will enableme to carry out a minor project I have had in mind for some time,a reexamination of the explorations of the northwest of Mexico -“Roads to Cibola Reexamined”. That will be fun, to swat FrayMarcos, reroute Cabeza de Vaca, Coronado and Ybarra.”65The next year he published The road to Cibola which, true to hisword, attempted a thorough debunking of the route of the Spanishexplorers, falsely represented in their accounts. However, whileSauer used these chronicles for his re-reading of theconquistadors, it was from direct observation - from takingarchives into a well-travelled “field” - that he drew his main lineof critique.66 In the article, Sauer claims the “advantage of64 Ibid., p.7.65 PC, Sauer to Leighly, undated (probably 1931).66 Sauer attributes the article generally to “fieldworkdirected to other ends”, a “by-product of five field seasons spentin Arizona, Sonora, Sinaloa, Nayarit and Colima” (in Leighly, 1969,op. cit., p.54). While “fieldwork” here could refer to both fieldand archive, it is from the former that Sauer tends to draw on forhis argument.114knowing the country” and this distinguishes him from other“commentators” on the explorations:“I had occasion to cover, by car, on horseback, and afoot,virtually all the country between the Gila River on the north andthe Rio Grande de Santiago at the south. I have seen all but avery few miles of the route herein examined, and I have been overa good deal of it a number of times and at different seasons of theyear. ,,67Travelling the road and familiarity with the terrain thus allowsSauer to reconstruct the scene at the time of the conquest. Hepieces together the routes by the distances and watering places,physical features and settlements mentioned, matching up text withrelief. This first-hand knowledge is then used by Sauer for a morecritical re-reading - with the help of geography, he reinterpretsthe historical evidence, questioning the feasibility of the claimedexploration routes. In discussing why the Spaniards under Guzmanturned away from Cibola, Sauer reads the accounts against theterrain and contradicts them:“The common statement in contemporary accounts, and quoted byhistorians, that they turned inland because they were blocked bymountains along the coast, has no foundation in fact. These are nomore than isolated hills ,,68Measured against his own knowledge of the field, selected explorersare approved of or discredited by Sauer according to theirstandards of observation and negotiation of the terrain. 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U)CDC)0HI-0i0CDU)ciiH-H00CDH,H CD ft-0H-çtH,CDH-HCD0HH-U)CDHC)CDCDCDH-ciiU)(,QI-U)500Hciil-‘-<H-U)H-CrH-cii H-HCDçtDH-IIwZCDHI-Q-H-HiCI)CrHH-ciiHCDCD0HCDcii-iH S•-HCD:I-’H-CDC1H,pi0Cr0U)C)HCDciHCr CD0 H,ciCDH H-CrCDciiH-CDU)CrCDCDCDH H-<cii5H CDCrhjCDciCDQLQcii0CDHciiH,CtCD0CDCl)‘d0ciihHH-U)ciCD C)ciici)CrU)HCDU)00oCrH,(Qcii(0CDCDçttCDH.0 hj CDCDC) ctHCrCl 0CrCr-‘.3piCDci::•cii CD 0 C) C) II II CD ci Cr 00000Cl)Cl) zHH0 -cii ci w 0 Cl) zH 0cii ci H- U) U) I- CD 0 H, H- U) H Cr CD II l- CD Cr ci) Cr H- 0 U)C) 0 Cr CD U) Cr U)H-Cr‘d 0C)0CDH-CDCDC)i-Cl-CDHCrCrr-rU)HciiH-CDU)H-0-H-CrCr0H,H-lCl)CDCDCrciiHU)CciCDH-U)I0CrCDCrCDCDHH-i0 CrCDH-U)criCD0H,-<1çtCDU)CrciiCDCDCDCr H---CCl)H-CrH,iCD-U)hH‘-<HCrciiciici-HHHçtU)U)H,00ciH,Cr0ciHCDHH,U)HHQH0CDçtCDIQU)0H-CDCDl-ci<tH-‘1CDCl-CrU)k<H-CrhH-hU)0CDiciiHH,hciCDCD-H-CrCDH-0=H-Cl-ciiCrCDH-CDC)HCCDCDciiCrhCH0<10H-ciiH,C0CrciiH-çtH-00U)CDH,H-H-H<1CrciCD1Jcontradictory, leaving Sauer to “gather up some of the observationsthat remain through the confusion”.86 Sauer notes the constraintsof time on what he can see in the “field”, restricting him “withinthe limits of observation of the day”.87 Similarly, the weatherand his distance from his chosen scene are also acknowledged asdistortions of the observational process.Observation becomes even more complicated when Sauer descends fromhis “vantage point” and travels. Much of Sauer’s observation iswhile he is in motion - “things seen along the road”88- and we geta sense of mobility in the notebook entries. The documenteditineraries give us the bare spatial bones to Sauer’s locomotionwhile a more extensive travelogue mobilises us with him:“This morning out to the southwest - road deeply sunk. . .Hence intothe wide terrace-flanked valley.“Twelve miles out. .No houses until the last three miles. Broadsmooth apron of volcanic stuff, involving however steady climb. ,,89In fact, along with Sauer we move “out. . along. . across. . over..into.. north.. south.. miles out.. down valley., in search of.. enroute to. . upstream. . down river. .“ finding we are “crossing.descending.. leading.. steaming forth.. heading.. drifting down..walking west.. strolling by.. coming upon.. coming from.. ridingdown. . walking one league from. . passing over. . bearing east.driving back” while we are “on the road to.. on the street.. back86 SN11, p.27.87 Ibid., p.63.88 SN8, p.29.89 Ibid.121oso— Cl)Cl)I1HHMddM-.1H L%JL.’JCl)tH-0H-0HW)H-QftC)Pi0H-Qp.1Hih33HiOHH-I-I0HiCDCl)HiçtQ<H-CD0CDHiftPJ-CDCDHiP.1<HiUCl)0CDCDftHCl)Hi<CDCDftCDCD0)I-I-H3CDH-0Ci)H-CDhC)=H-0CDQ0Cl)HiCDftHi-tCDC)HCDftCD-H10Cl)ctrr00-HiPHhHiCDCD-CDCl)()•ftHH-3-CD0)HH-0CDCDO0CDCDPiftftH-Hi0CDCDCDk<ftH-HCDC)50H-CDH0)IliCDp.10ftCl)rrCi)CDSp30loH-Cl)c-fH-piftCl)0H0H-Cl)Cfl1p.CDCDCDi3C)fr-t-CDCDCDH-ftCl)Cl)CDftiHCDCDHHCDH-0Ci)Qpi00.Cl)Hc-Sic-rc-rrrF-0c-i.0C1—CDCtHOCD0CDCDCl)c-rCl)HiHiIH’HiftH-0.CD-t-PJ><HH-ftghIb010Cl)CQIH0.CDSCl)i-rjH-ftIQ<HCDH0CD<ftpJH-C)HlH-CDH-CDQH0.H-CDP)C)H-0H-CDCDU0H-Ci)CDHi0ftH-CDCDft0--lftp.0)‘<ftoCI)Cl)ftCDC)CDHP.1CDP10ftCDhP1HCl)H-0)CDH-CDCDCD.-CDH-ftH:ftHi0)0.HiCD0H-HftP1P1P1-P1HClooHHiCl)HftCDC)Hi0SCD:c-ftU)CDjpjftCDCDCQ3CDCl)H-CDHpH-CDCDftHH-Cl)HCQ0H-CDH-—CD<ftH-ftP1p1(.QCDHbCi)CDCDCDS0CD0)HCl)-ftCl)H-HiCDftP1—P1-C)ftOH-P1CDQl--Ci)0.-Cl)pjHiftHw0.-CDftft0-CDCl)0)ftCDHiqCl)oDHiCDjCi)C)C)Hi0.p.H-HCDHiCDP1H-H-C)P1o0C)0NH‘P1oHCl)Hi0HftHiP10.-:H-P1p1CD-HCD0.ftH-C)0H-H-0CDCDCl)1Cl)000ftP1ftftHoP1i.1jIHCl)0.ftC)H-0HP1Cl)CDP1p1CDI-ftftl1‘10-—Cl)0.-p1HCD-H-OftftpP10HiC)oCDHiCl)Cl)CDP1ftH-H-0CDI-CDHHip1P1HI-QH-0H-CDC)C)C)H-CD5j)CDp1C)w-0CDCDOHCl)3CDP1HiC)ftI-P1CDH-P1O0Cl)ftCD0CD0P1HCl)Cl)I00)0ft0•CD50.Cl)CDftftHiCD-Hi0Cl)ft0.“We’re through with Sinaloa. This end of the trip has been mostdisappointing of all and there is no fooling away more time here”92and goes on to write extremely negatively about the “field”:“Further north we had cold nights. Here the nights are heartlessand the days a furnace heat. We’ve eaten so many beans andtortillas that Hewes eyeballs have turned yellow. The whole coastis full of typhoid, dysentery, and malaria. . .we’ve eaten quinineand smothered ourselves in mosquito nets until we’re sick of it.We’ve charged our water. . .with soda until we don’t like water.We’ve lived in, eaten, drunk and breathed filth until we’ve decidedto shake the bacillus-laden dust of Sinaloa from our feet and getsome good American food at Navajoa. . This country at present is justinfernal and we’re quitting it, I think with no great detriment toscience.In his report to the Foundation on his return, Sauer also outlinesthe difficulties of travel and the obstruction of his efforts byconditions on the west coast.94 The southern area, reports Sauer,was “out of the question because of rain and floods”, the physicalconditions the worst he had “ever encountered”. Sauer was kickedby a mule and had to abandon a trip to the Sierra Madre and wasunable to exert himself for weeks; Hewes, his “field” assistant,was ill with jaundice.Even Sauer’s archive work was fraught with difficulty.95 In92 pc, Sauer to Leighly, 5/11/31.Ibid.This is a less graphic account and written to a differentaudience - foundation rather than friend and colleague. It mayperhaps stand as an edited version of Sauer’s letters to Leighly -a more formal report that tones down the hardship of the “field”and claims the productivity of the trip.The difficulty of the physical climate of the field ismatched by the political climate in Mexico city where Sauer worksin the archives. The politicians and the military men are riotingin “barbaric splendour” and “the upper class Mexican says ‘Howlong, lad, how long?’”. Sauer foresees the “abyss” rather than the“dawn of a new day” as a result of the political activity. The123HUH,CUI—hciciQM,ZCDIICD0H-0CDCDCDCDCD02hh)HCD0H-,H-HH-H-HP)00)(-QCDQLJQCl)ci,-‘CDCl)CDCDP)CDwCl)hhrrMCD0-ti ciH-H-H-(2ciH.CDCD00)pCD<f-CDCDH.ciCCl)H HCDHCDCDH()P)H0HH-HH-H---‘H’-<02I-QH.OH(DCD02CD-QC)<Q DiCDCDCD°ci0(-.)-‘-H-ci1HCDDiCD0H020(2CDCl)CDcij-CD“<H-ciHci0ZDlCl)CDHCD0CDCD1-tH-H-CDCDH-0dpiCl)SWQQ)pH-ci02CDi-CDQ0)HHciQH,(l)DJciCD0.HciCDciH‘tJCD.pi0)•02i—]-ci02ciH-(2Cl)ciQH-CDQQDiH-hcicil-QCDCl)CJ)•ci—Cl)DiCD:Cf)•CDH0DlCD0)pziciciHCDCDCl)Di0)-<CDiI-CDCl)HDiCDHCDciCDCDDiDiH,HI-H,HH-CD‘-<ci(2-CDciCi)CDH cibH-0k<0)Cl):- DiDiCl)ciDiDiCl)0CDCo<1 inH-H--CDH--i02Cl)Di11-0)CDH-0HCD‘C_)Cl)Cl)0CDHDiciHCQ0;iiH,Cl)ciDiDi0H!jCi)ciH-HCD<00H-H-0ciciH-CDciDi ci H-H-ciDiDiDi<ciØCDU)CDCDDiH-0IH,HciDiH-l1C)C)::50CDHCDC)Cl)CD0Di Cl)_ci••Cl)ciH-0)CD0H‘-<C)0Cl)HSci0C)HCDrD_Di-DiCuH,HH CDHHH--0C)ciciciDi ci00H,H-C)CD0)DiC!)HDicid-CDCDCDCl)-Cl)CDH0)ciCDciDiHCDCC)0H0)Di0Cl)H,CDH-CDDiCD HCDciciH-ciH-cici DiCDDiciciH-ci<1DiH-ciCDciHCDCDCD•<I-C)Cl)—Hci50DiH-DiCDJHciC)CQCDCl)ciCD0)Di‘<Cl)CDCDH-ciH0HH-0H,H,<DiCDciH-ciDlCDci0)CDCDCDi-0)CD0HCDH-ci(2•-DiDlDiH=HpciCDciCl)DiCDH-CDCDQCDCDHClCDi-CCl)DiHCDci0DihClClCDci0CDCDH,0ClH-0)Di0)cicc0ci-0H0CDH,ciCCCDDlDiDiH-(2CD<CD()CDI-0HCl)DiH-ci0H,C)H-hH-0)0)H0flHCJ)ciC)ci<DiDiCl)a.QciDiCDCDH,0DiDlDiH,-QZ‘-H-0CDC)j.()Dl1hD0ciHCDHD’0)0)ciH-CD0H-C)CDHCDCD<10)0ciHI-CD—‘Di0H-Cl)Di0H,CD‘-0)ci0(2CDH-ClCl)05H-DiH-ciDici<HI—’CDCl)DiDiClCDCD0ciCl)Z00CD0ciC)I-DlCDciciClC))H-Dl0HCDDiCl)LJ0ciDiH,IIbDici-ciCDCDCDciCD C)CDCD0Cl)Cl)ciCD0 H-ciCDCDC)0Cl ciDiH-=0C)Cl)0CQ(-QCl)CDI-ciClCDDi()-cih0ClHiH-0)ci0ccH,CDCDCD0)H,00hHciCl Di0)CD000)H,ccHJ<H-H DiClCD0)0)ClC)0)DiH,-Jci0HcihCDciI-ciciCDCDClCDCDd(QDiH-CDi-C)0cici(HhC)hDiHCDdCD--H C)HDiCDClDiH,HDiDiC)hCDciC) H-Di ciCDCD0tJCI)rtrrCnrtlrtrtQp.C)C)HCl)h—artPiU)hH-opJCDopipJIo‘1cDoF-40I—’CDH-PJCDEI0Pi‘dCD-i,cnFtJH-00PiCD<0CDlCDp.H-p.H-p.CDrtCDCDIQU)CDH-I-H-CDCDICDP)rtCDCDHCD.3CD1HU)I—aU)p.Iii$CDCDI—’H,h:H-ID‘0‘0p.CD‘0LqQH-Io°°H-PiCDzPi0U)H-0CDo0H-Ft0HIp.Pi‘CDH,CDiOpip.IpiU)dFjH.FtIPJFjb00H-P)-t‘1‘d<oICtp.-U)0k<FtOftH-H-P.’-I-ittH-0p.Ft<CDU)CDç-t<ICU)H(DH-p.U)P.’p.FtOCDICDCD(I)‘P)Cl)H,p..‘t.JH,Cl)H-0P.’H-FtFtitCDCDhIC)loPipJ:U)0CD(Q0oCDp.IH’.CD.0HCD0jCDpjp.p.’CDCDCDIP.’FtCDFtH-,--tCDH-HIF-I--H-IH-CDCl)H-CDCDU)ct0ICCDct><IFtitPiHCDitH-H-IFtU)pi0CDH-FtCDFtH-<•-P.’IC)FtoCDCD><CD03IHCDH-°tI-QfJH-CDi.<cthI-iU)I-ciCDU)U)H00oU)p.U)C)U)H,CDFtP.)00CD0H-Ib-CDU)0PiH-HCDCDFt-tHH-H,010‘(PI_CDH,CDCDCDCDFtU)CDH,0PiH,u(PQCDp.IpiFtH,FtFJOHCDCD0p.CDoCDF-1p.H0HQF—iop.iCDCD1-rCDp.H-U)H,H-0CDU)H,U)0HH,U)0CDH-H,0Ii—0H,(PCDCDpp.’-<CDH-U)IPiçtH-i0-pPiU1CctoH’lCD0H-0H-0SCDp.oH,<p.0FtFtF1CD0CDCDH-CDFt0H-Hçt00CDwCDCDU)H-çt0lo0O(j)FtFtFtCDCDIuH,I-I‘-<H-H,CDCDdHpiPH-Ftp.3-CDp.-PiCDH-<10p.PiFtp.p.’0C”(PoU)FtH-QU)P0CDCDPiitH’QititH-IçtH-CDH,H-‘0FtFt.FtC’)CDH,FtP.’H-U)Pi0U)CD3H-iCDCD0—FtFtU)CDH-0oCU)IC)C’,CCD0U)H,0p.p.CDH0CDIHhH-CDU)pJi-Ib0CDH,itCDCDH’Cp.p.itHFtCDU)CDi-tPiC’)H’p.p.’IHH---P.’p.H--çtIP-_H-P1H-HSQ-CDH-CDFt.pjp.dU)ctCDU).CDH-CDCDFt-U)FtSU)H-FtCDP.’-0H-p.H-CH’0Cl)FtFtHCDH00H-p.FtFtCD0it0U)p..C’)CDH,P.’FtH,H-H0‘-ChlH-riFtH-CDH,Ft-CDQCDFtFtH-P.’CDDIIoU)CDH<H,0(PPU)ithCDC’)CDH,C’)p.CDU)s-H-CU)Pi000H-CDitiP.’HCDCD-CDH-I-FtitH-U)5CDI—’P.’(PPU)CDp.CDH-U).rtHCD0FtFtP.’-CDHCDHp.0-FtH-itH-CDPiU)00tH-HH-CDICDCDitQFtP.’CDH--H,(PCDFtU)IPi--CDH-QU)FtCl)H-itFtCDFtH-I’-H-U)H-5FtPi(PU)0FtitI0.‘OFtp.(PH,P.’FtJP)OCD(P0IPiHFtFtCDFtQCDHHit•CDFtCDt-Ftp.-0P.’HCDCI-0HCDI-p.hk<130CDLeighly and to the Foundation, each stage editing out a little ofthe hardship of the “field” which is finally silenced for authorityin the published article itself.Compound eyesIf Sauer was silent about his “field” experience in hisarticles, the participation of others in the field was equallyhidden. Despite his criticism of the lack of autonomy of theconquistadors and their not relying on first-hand observation,Sauer himself relied on guides for his own fieldwork (see Figure 8)and the “seeing eyes” of students in the field when he was inBerkeley. Sauer’s fieldnotes refer frequently to informants:whether an impersonal “they” or “he” or “guide”.1°° Informationcomes from a wide range of characters - groups of “old fellows”,“Indians” - or a disembodied voice in the field: “it is said..”,“it is thought...”, “it is believed”, reduced finally to the“word”.’°1 When he is not in the “field”, Sauer has a network of100 This depersonalising of informants is interesting for thedebate on the superorganic: whether Sauer takes individuals intoaccount in the “field” or just sees them as “cultural messengers”.Interacting in the “field”, Sauer pictures cultures as distinctivewholes physically and rarely names those that he communicates withas individuals. Some, for example in the Mennonite communities inMexico (see next chapter) are given names and histories but mostare reduced to just informant status.101 Sauer’s correspondence with his students in the “field”equally emphasises the role of the informant. Robert Barlow (PC,Barlow to Sauer, 9/12/41) writes to Sauer of the importance of ajoint effort in the “field” with local people with the ethnographicand linguistic background that he does not have. Similarly, RobertBowman (PC, Bowman to Sauer 21/1/39) and Homer Aschmann (PC,Aschmann to Sauer, 18/7/54) are both directed in the “field” bylocal informants. Different fieldworkers do however have differenttypes of interaction. Bruman seems to mix with the local elite,socialising with the “true cosmopolites” of the “field”. He isgiven “the run of the place” in the Archivo General and the126C12II-..CDczCDCIi0xpJCD x cX’-it\)CflP1Dt12Pi—CD•‘)‘1tl) CDtICD -1.D)LQrt CDCDCDcncnsupport workers - a host of seeing eyes - on the lookout on hisbehalf. Sauer writes to his student Robert Barlow in Mexico City:“While you are on the Yopi trail see if you can pick up anythingfurther on Pinome”?102 and to Donald Brand (another student) forhis opinion on Cabeza de Vaca’s route and location from the“field”.’°3 Isabel Kelly appears to be Sauer’s main Mexican eyes(his “mental companion”) , recommending local contacts and checkinghis theories in the field and preparing the way for hisfieldwork.104 Sauer’s being and seeing in the “field” wastherefore partly vicarious through his students and one stepremoved from his own presence in the “field”, although this was notacknowledged in his work. Similarly, while Sauer may have rejectedthe guidebook in Mexico, he did not reject Mexican guides andtherefore his trail of “discovery” in the “field” and his writingup of notes was as much a joint process as a solitary one. Sauer’sBiblioteca Nacional in Mexico City and feels “at home” with hishost family (PC, Bruman to Sauer, 24/7/38). Homer Aschmanntravels about with the lorry of the Provision de Aguas carryingpotable water into the peripheral areas and comes into contact with“Indians” in La Guajira who refuse to speak Spanish - you have toknow their language to do business with them (PC, Aschmann toSauer, 9/8/54) . James Parsons writes to Sauer from Colombia in1946 of how he passes for a “profesor” of California which hasincreased his interaction, picking up stories on Indian graves andtheir location: “They pick up the ball from there and theadjectives flow freely” (PC, Parsons to Sauer, 11/9/46) . There arelimitations, however, to who can class as an informant: “I didn’tknow that one ever talked to Mexican women” (PC, Stanislawski toSauer, 6/4/40)102 PC, Sauer to Brand, 22/11/43.103 PC, Sauer to Brand, 20/6/38.104 This is perhaps because Mexico became her permanent addressrather than a place to travel:”it is a swell country; I like thepeople and I like the country, and I can hardly remember havinglived in Berkeley.. .1 feel one of the local populace.” (PC, Kellyto Sauer, 2/2/35)127authority as independent journeyman and sole author of thefieldnote is therefore a little displaced.Total recall?“We have to think of the ancient orator. . as moving in imaginationthrough his memory building whilst he is making his speech, drawingfrom the memorised places the images he has placed on them. “°It is quite ironic that Sauer should criticise the memory of theconquistadors since, as we saw at the beginning of this chapter, hehimself was renowned for his tendency to rely on “headnotes”.While not wishing to challenge the capacity of Sauer’s memory nordeify writing as the true means of recording, rememberedobservations must be seen to especially problematise authority fromthe “field”. Headnotes, says Ottenberg are “kinder - and moredangerous” than fieldnotes, “all too easy to revise to suit somecurrent theory”.106 The mind is not a passive receptacle forheadnotes, waiting to spill them out in pure form onto the writtenpage: it is an intervening agent in the writing process, itscontents continually in flux. The “field” thus cannot be perfectlymaintained in the head, unaffected by travel and interaction andthe context of “home”; moving through his “memorised places” Sauerwould also be changing his mind. The unstable and unreliablenature of the headnote must then detract from any claims toaccuracy in Sauer’s work. Looking back on former fieldnotesilences, Sauer himself seemed to realise the difficulties of hisown headnote method which, sometimes forgotten, provided him with105 Hutchinson, op. cit., p.28.106 In Wolf, op. cit., p.88.128no basis for comparison on his return : “I didn’t record the landas I saw it. Mea culpa.”°7In a sense, we have come full circle, beginning and ending withSauer’s “memory building”. We have, however, achieved a certain“movement” in Sauer’s textuality that has allowed us to questionhis authority along the way.108 Firstly, writing has been set inmotion from the “field” and from Sauer as “author”. Since thefieldnotes can be seen to “cross” the boundaries of the “field”,they cannot retain their authority as facts untainted by Sauer’srelation to other texts or to the “home” context. Secondly,Sauer’s published work has turned “kinetic” - been readdifferently, “explosively” - through a critical comparison with hisfieldnotes and the filtering movement necessary for authority hasbeen exposed. Like Hutchinson, I have attempted to think aboutSauer’s textuality as mobility so that its “experientialdimensions” - the processes of writing and remembering rather thanthe traces of the written product - can be revealed. Thealternative - writing as dwelling - allows writing to be “cut offfrom the subjectivities and circumstances involved in itsmaking”.’°9 Maintaining the play between Sauer’s published workand fieldnotes and the connection with the circumstances of theirmaking, we move on to Sauer’s The personality of Mexico and analternative form of textual dwelling in the “field”.107 SN11, p.22.108 Hutchinson, op. cit., p.4.109 Ibid., p.30.129I_tiH H CD H c_c H-c_c H CDLi H LiOCDHP)CDU)itiH2it0CDc_cU) U)çc2CDCDCl)i-I.itpjCDCDCDCDpjc-cu)H00HHc_H-Hili-1-:jH çt0 H,c_rnc_iHC) 0(00crP),-cCDU)‘_C)0 HiH c_iCDCD2)0‘dCDCD’JU)U)_l(j) 2)0H-CDH-c_cc_cH0 CD0HC)HCDOoU)0CD0-U)ti) H-0c_cU)it0HH-HHc_ic_ICDCD-I-Hc_tpjwH(Dct CDit2) CDU)U) 02)c_cc_cU)Jc_c H-c_cU)‘JU)02)2)H-C)IhH0I.Qc_I.0CD0lo2)H-CDH-00)0CDQ2)U)12)CDHi0CDitHhH-U)IQHCDH-HiQC1)QU)ZCDlitP)IlP)U)2)c_cH-CDit0p.,ICDHH0HH-‘<2)p.,0HCD-OCDlpjHICDQPHc_c0H-()IC)CDQU)h2)H-itCDH:-Hic_I.IH0HCD-H-9)CDH-CDHH,-ZCDCl)H-C)10CDIH0c_inCDP-CDit0IPiH-CD0CDHic_iHCDCl)9)H-it9)H-U)it2)c_•<CDH-0CD0CD3itH-><0I.Qc_II_dHic_ci-k<p.iHCD9)itCDH1:)-’9)HCDU)c_i9)U)9)0HHCDCDc_cp.’c_iHH-U)U)9)U)2)CDU)c_citCDc_cCD0CD9)hU)Hi2)9jp.’U)U)c_cU)9)CDCDH-H-9)<2)CDc_I.H2)ctU)CDHHip.,pc_c‘tjH2)CDI.<H-itHIl0p.,H-itc_cCuH-HU)Q9)c_cc_cQCDU)CDCDU)H-0U)()C)HH-HEH-p.,.U)HiCDH-HiCDH-HiYU)1H-H,HCDH-itHCl)U)c_cc_i-0CDpjCD9)09)9)2)HH-9)(c_cpgU)itCDCDCD2)it2)H-CDU)H-H1HH-CDH-H9)c_i-itCDH9)-H-CD9)H-U)0H-it9)U)CDCDCDU)itHitCD-•‘0H-9),<HGit<itpjCD-.,C)0it°CD0H-CDC)U)it=CDHiH0-0H9)c_iH9)-k<c_iU)CDCDU)C)_- H-c_i-U)U)9)p.,U)C)c_iCDH-09)9)itQ00itH,H-U)IICD0H-C)CH-C)it0hH00><9)=H-0CDfriHH-iCDHit2)c_i-H-CDCD9)Pit3C)CDU)1itCDCDHCD0itQU)HithI-H-itH9)CDit0H-9)C)02)-<U)9)CDP32)lCDU)CDCDHiU)CDz 0Figure 9: Sauer, Mexico and its personality:about to write up, 1941.131involved in the past” in Mexico, as were “all of his studentswithout exception” who worked in that” field”,5 and he thereforewas not interested in the Mexican present. Additionally, forDuncan, Sauer’s “personality” is in keeping with the “drowning ofliving detail”, the homogeneity assumption of the superorganic (seethe Introduction) and even justified since it focuses on the “lesscomplex”6 rural Mexican past. However, while Sauer may have beeninterested only in the past academically, the conditions of hisfieldwork were contemporary: The personality of Mexico as theproduct of fifteen years fieldwork, like The road to Cibola, had a“story” to tell. Similarly, while Sauer may have published Mexico“at a distance” as modal national type, bounded and defined, he wascaught up in a web of complex cultural interaction in the “field”.Thus, taking contemporary culture from Sauer’s subtext and bringingit to the fore, we can rethink Sauer, the border and thesuperorganic view of culture.A cultural reading of the border for Sauer was not solely atextual, academic affair located in the past but also a personal,practical and very much contemporary dilemma. “Steaming forth”across the dividing line between Mexico and the United States -“the greatest cultural boundary in the world” - was integral to hisself-definition against the modern and the constitution of anParsons, pers. comm. (L) , op. cit.6 Duncan, op. cit. p.194 and Geertz in Duncan, p.197. This isa strange statement given what we know of Sauer’s views on Americanculture as homogeneous, uncomplicated and characterised bystandardisation, in opposition to the rural areas in which heworked. Duncan’s assumption of homogeneity for Sauer’s Mexican“field” area is, as we shall see, misplaced.132antimodern cultural 11homel.7 Like other “bewildered witnesses” ofchange in the United States, Sauer looked across the border topeasant communities in Mexico- akin to the “simple folk” of hispast - as cultural and emotional compensation. As antimodernists,they went to Mexico to “feel the soil” and to escape the “graycommercialism” and “nervous cities” of the United States and lookedfor their lost sense of authenticity and tradition in rural areas.8Thus Sauer’s stepping away from the beaten trail in the “field” wasnot only legitimation for the geographer but personal aversion tothe culturally modern; the trail of the journeyman not only one ofdiscovery but discovery of the cultural past; the “field” acultural as well as an academic home.9 Sauer thus had a vestedinterest in defining Mexico as continuity rather than change.This return to Sauer’s antimodernism further problematises thequestion of authority in the “field”. While in Chapter Two we sawhow Sauer’s own fieldwork experiences were tied into his directivesfor the “field”; how his identity as a geographer was used tocreate the “rules” for the subjectification of others, here we seethe “field” connected to Sauer’s life experiences as a whole and toSN11, p.3.8 In practice, then, the Mexico/United States border was alsoconceptualised as continuity/change. Mexico was seen by theantimodernists as “closer to a parental Europe” (Robinson, op.cit., p.147) and “in the thick of history” (Deplar, op. cit.,p.25), its native population providing a connection with the“America” of the past (ibid., p.91). Constituted as such, Mexicoprovided a welcome escape from a modern United States that seemedto be characterised only by change: it was a “barrier against theblighting southward progress of Anglo-Saxondom” (ibid., p.38).See Clifford in Grossberg et. al., op. cit. for a discussionof the interrelation of conceptualisations of fieldwork andculture.133-0PH0ftH-Q.,Cl)CDCDCDC)0hHCD0hpjCl)Q-Cl)H-H<C)CD)iH H,Cl)CUH,ftC)QICDhj0oiiCU><CDfCl)H-CDftC)ftL.QI-CU-.--:C)--H-H-H-0CD0H-ftH(l)Cl) CDC)H-ftCDCUCDI-H-ftCU CDHQI0CD0U)C)ftHCDCDCUF-CDCDCD0CUH-ftCDCl)k<HH;sH-CDH-0CU0SftHC)CUCl)CDCD‘1o—=C)Cl)Cl)5CDCUftCUH-ftU.i0Cl)0CDQIH,—CDI-H-CDCDCU>ftQIH-CDC)hS0CD0C)I-5ftCDCUHk<0CUCDH5F-1CDH-ft-JCl)Cl)Cl) CU0Q-,‘1CDCDCUftQIH- C)Cl)CUftHCDF-’gCl)<CUCDCD=I- Cl)H-tCDCU <Cl)H-0Cl)i CUH-F-1ftH-ft kb0CDH,C)CDftCU‘<CDF-1Cl)ft5ftCDCUoHft‘-CDi-iCD0H ;JCUCl) Cl)ftCD=00CDftCl)QIH-C)H-hCUCUCl)‘-<Hft•‘-CDCUC)Cl)C)F-1CDftCUH-CD—ftF-1H,oH-C)Cl)H,CU‘-H0CUIC-I-ftICUCUftCDIC)‘1lCDH-CUoQICD01ftCl)ICUICUft0H-ftI’—H,C)ht3IH-CDCU:;-CDICJ)i-0HICUftH-Iftft0IH-CD—ICCUCDCUiiCl)Cl)(Q CD00H,-H,ft0C)HCl’i-iC)CDCD<SH,CDCDF-1ftH,Cl)fthH-H-CUCUCDftC):ftHCUCDCDCDQCDCUCU Cl)<Cl)H-CDCDhftftk<H01QCDH,.- 0H- Cl)ftft-CUCDH H CDCUH—wftQICDCl)CU0Cl)H CD:-F-’Hk<Cl) CUoft H-ftS 0CDI-IH,IH I><-IH-CUI K 0H-C) 0 H1 0 H CU H H- Cl) C) 0 Cl) CD H- Cl) CD CD CD ft 0 ft CD C) 0 C) CD ft 0 H, H, H H- ft H ft CDCU-ii 0xi-H-CD ftH Cl)ft0 0 H,0CU SftH-CDCU F-oCDI-C) CD0 H,CU0 S H-CD Cl)-H 0w CUCD ftCU -CD CD1xj oH,I-ft CUCU—Cl) CD 0 (Q CU H- C) CD CU H Cl) 0 CD CD ft 0 CU CD Cl) Cl) ft CD ICU I I>< IH lCD 0 H,H Cl) C) H1 ft CU H1CD CD H H- ft H ft CD 0 Cl) 0 H, ft CU H- ft H- 0 CU H CD CU ft CD 0 Cl) CU CD CU ft CDC)05CU‘dI-hCUCDH0Q.fthCl)Cl)CDCl)Cl)II00C)H--1i0H-CUH<-QftF-1ftCl)CUH,ftCUIIhH-iCUftI-Q-.HCDftHH,CDH-CDCD0)<CDCUhH-HC)HQIC)QI)ft00CD<CUhCUCl)HH-‘‘CU:ftIQCl)Cl)H-CDQ-,ft50CU0IQbhQII-::CUftCUHCUCl)CDCDCQCU‘1CUHH-ftCUCDQI0Cl)CUCU:Cl)QICDH-CUh< CDQI U)CD-H-aCUCl)HHftHCUCDCDQ0C)ftHCD QI(CUCl)ftCl)CUCUH-CUft0SCDCD0CDCl)I-QIHCDftCUft‘-CUft0:iCl)CDC) H H Hi Hi 0 H Q I-i 0 U) U) CD II CDHftw u-I0 C) H ft H 0 H H 0H-IlPiCDCDU)ftc-I-f-IOH-CDIlOH-WU)C)H-ftz)CD0QbhjHiCD oCDHi H ‘0CDIl.CDWH-H-U)C)P)ftCDcuHIl0CDCD CDC) OrU)ft CDcujIl CDU)H-HCDCDoH-‘IctjictPJCDIlrtII0HC)CDC)CDHU)H-Cu-iCDCDfrftU)-O—‘CDHiI-oftftI—IC)Hicuii-iH-ftft1t3H-00IIp)ft0tCD0H-0U)‘IH-IlHift0ft3)HiIlCDH-hH><QC)U)CI)U)IIIC)CDCDftftCDCI)U)CI)U)ftftH-d0IH-CDU)HIftCDIICD‘1H8C)IIU)CDHH-H-CDC)CI)h(QftCDft0H-CDU)H-CI)QIC)H-ftC)ftHiCDftpU)ftH-CDftU)C)CDHCDCD1HIIftCI)CI)dI)ft=Hift<CDU)CDHCDCDftCI)CDCDIlHF-ICl)IIH-CDCDkCDU)CDCD<0ftCI)H-CI)H-U)‘IH-U)CDCDCDHiCDftHCDCDU)CI)CD0ftf-u-U)CHift0CDQCDIlk<IlH-IlHH-CDftU)CI)CDoU)U)CD0CI)IlCDCDCDH-U)IIIIU)CDH-ftHU)C)<H-H-<H-ClC)U)50pCDftH-CDIICI)k<CDCl)C)ftIIHCDCI)H-HU)H-CDCIJCDCD°)HCD‘1f-u-CDftU)U)CDClCDHIlftH-H-H-U)CDftCDCDU)ftH-Ilfto0IICDH-U)CD0Hi--0H-Hftftft5<CDCD5IIC)ftft0CDCDH-CDII-C)QClC)CDH-ClCD5ft(CDCDClH-0C)CDftCDH-IICDU)CD‘dIICDft1CI)IICDU)CDIl1IlC)HiCDIIU)IIftQ0-ftCDIILJH’CI)CDU)II0000CDIIIlH-HiII‘-IH-C).:CDIlCD00ftH-CDCDCDCDCDU)IlCD00CI)H-CDH-HH-b1Q-CDHiCDC)CDftH-ftLJI)3C)C)H-<H--0ClHCDftCDCIJ0CDII-HiH-C)-C)H-Ilftft<CDF-’HI-CDI-U)ftH-CDU)C)-Q0IIoHIlftCDHOU)H-HCDbHiHiHH-CDHHHft‘ICDU)H-CDH-C)HCI)HC)CDftft5CDCDU)CDHHU)CDCDSH-[-hftH-CI)ftCDftHioHidH-CCI)CD01QH-IIH-CDCDH,SC)H-CD><H0‘<I-HHi00H-ftU)CDCDH’CDftH-CIjH-Il5-.0H-SpftClCDCDU)-II0HIl0CDHCDCI)CD-CDCDSftIIHH-HiU)H-ClIIU)U))C)CD0ftCDCDftH-U)HiCDft0H-IICDCDU)CDCDH-C)ftftHCDHH-HJClCDCD00CDCDCDftU)ftH’CDCI)ftCDU)ClHiH-HI--U)0U)ClHCDftftH-U)H-tH-ftftQH-HH-ftftCI)CDftH-ftCD‘-<CI)U)0HH-LQD0CI)HCI)ftH’H-ft3U)Cl-U)0ftCDCDCDII=CDHi-CD—U)0CD00ftconstitution. Once these are shown as ambivalent and thestereotype as never completely fixed, agency can then come intoplay in terms of room to travel away from the cultural whole. Atissue is Sauer’s identity as much as his ability to define (withauthority) that of other cultures. Turning to Sauer’scorrespondence and fieldnotes allows for this more ambivalent viewof Sauer and “personality”. Interacting with Indian, Mennonite andurban Mexican communities in the “field”, Sauer’s self-fashioninginvolves anything but the “homogeneity” that Duncan attributes tohis “work.. .in the rural regions of Mexico”.Man and nature’2This is the title of an elementary education textbook written bySauer which focused on “America before the days of the white man”:a movement region by region through North America with “Indian”life as the organising concept. The book demonstrates Sauer’sconcern with the “Indian” base to American history and with theimportance of recognition of other cultures. Additionally, adoptedby various “Indian” tribes in the United States and Canada, itstands as testimony to the “germinal potential” (see Conclusion) ofSauer’s work. What it does not do, however, is show how much “manand nature” were part of Sauer’s image of antimodern “home” as wellas his respect for native culture.Writing on his foray into “Indian” cultures in Mexico, Sauer12 The focus on “man and nature” here is inspired by GeorgeLovell’s colloquium “Carl Sauer and the crisis of representation”at the University of British Columbia, 3/3/93.136said:“By chance and by choice I have turned away from commercialisedareas and dominant civilisations to conservative and primitiveareas. I have found pleasure in “backward” lands.”13Sauer turned to Mexico’s “Indian” population by both “chance andchoice”. On the one hand, crossing into Mexico for discovery, hefound that he “couldn’t get very far on Spanish towns, missions,agriculture without knowing about the Indians”: “the wholestructure rested on an Indian base”. Therefore, “without havingintended to do anything of the sort”, he became an “Indiangeographer”.’4On the other hand, despite this “unplanned” movement“back in culture and in time”,’5 Sauer’s identification with the“Indian” in Mexico was part of the conscious turning towards thepremodern of his work and life.In keeping with the Indian as antimodern (and) base, Sauer “roots”(and writes) The personality of Mexico in the Indian culture of a“deep, rich past”. While he is aware that an “invasion by themodern, Western world is under way”, its impact for him is onlypartial, insufficient to “dominate or replace native culture”.’6Sauer in Jackson, op. cit., p.15.Sauer, pers. comm. (V) , op. cit.‘ Ibid.16 Sauer in Leighly, 1969, op. cit., p.lO5. Sauer goes on tosay: “the conquest will remain partial. . .The American motorcar nowdoes duty in remotest villages; but it is loaded with theimmemorial goods and persons native to the land.. . It and othermachines, however, are being adapted to native ways and nativeneeds”. This mix of the machinery of the modern and native needsresurfaces in Sauer’s encounter with Mexican poverty below.137Sauer thus passes over the modern and focuses instead on thegeographies of the prehistoric and the sixteenth century,maintaining that these are still “the most important things to knowabout Mexico”.’7Sauer’s fieldnotes and correspondence, however, show a more urgentconcern with the “modern invasion” of Mexico. For someone whodeclares confidence in the resilience of native culture, Sauerseems paradoxically alarmed at the threat of its disappearance.Rather than dismissing modern change as inconsequential, wetherefore see Sauer grappling with transformations in the “field”and attempting to preserve Indian culture on several levels.’8 Onthe one hand, as James Parsons states, this tendency of Sauer’s tobe “always for the Indians” puts him “well out ahead of histime”.’9 Both American and “Mexican” forces were in part aimed at“Indian” assimilation and Sauer, true to his culture history,argued in practice for “Indian” distinction.20 However, on the‘ Ibid.18 This, then, is another element to the importance of time inthe field for Sauer and another side to the “hapless fieldman”.‘ Parsons, pers. comm. (L) , op. cit.20 As we saw in Chapter One, Sauer’s culture history involvedthe championing of the plurality of cultures and the bringing in ofthe “simple folk” of “backward lands”. While early on thisinvolved a focus on rural communities in the United States, it waslater broadened out to native peoples in Mexico. Sauer’s workinvolved both a reconstruction of demographic conditions at thetime of Columbus and also a critique of colonial conquest and thedestruction of native populations. For Sauer, the corollary ofdiscovery was the loss of cultural diversity (this becomesinteresting when we consider Sauer’s own fieldwork as “discovery”and its impact on cultural representation) : “The course of colonialempire began with the disregard of native rights and persons”(Sauer, 1968, p.55) . This concern for “Indian” culture filters138other hand, Sauer was a product of his time in viewing Mexico as anescape from the modern which tended to define the terms of his“Indian” preservation. His antimodernism fuelled a sense of“Indian” peoples as “endangered authenticities”:2’a desire to fixculture purely in the past and a view of change as loss, which inturn was associated with Mexico as a somewhat idyllic “home” 22More ambivalently, Sauer’s fieldwork off the beaten trail thatallowed him to posit an antimodern “retreat” also provided him withthe experience of the anti-idyll.Hiding places; blank spaces“Through a moving windowI see a glimpse of burrosa Pepsi Cola stand,an old Indian sittingsmiling toothless by a hut. ,,23Sauer would have been horrified at Corso’s image of culturalextinction in the Pepsi Cola “Indian”. While Sauer’s publishedarticle excused Mexican “Indians” politely from the modern, he andthey were racing against its “materialistic monism” in hisinto Sauer’s interaction in the field.21 Clifford, 1988, op. cit., p.5.22 Stanislawski (op. cit., p.554) has contradicted the viewthat Sauer had a romantic picture of native life (“no Rousseau he”)and Sauer himself (in Leighly, 1969, op. cit., p.146) criticisesthe “romantic view of colonisation” and calls for a focus on the“dark obverse to the picture, which we have regarded scarcely atall”. While this may be true for Sauer’s published writing(although Sauer’s picture of colonisation is certainly moreromantic than, for example, Michael Taussig’s (1987) who in no waytakes “pleasure in backward lands”) , it is less certain once wemake these stand against Sauer’s antimodernism and the “story” ofhis fieldnotes.23 Corso in Robinson, op. cit., p.250.139correspondence.24 Sauer showed dismay at the “fading primitivegroups”, natives who were going “faster than ever” leaving him notime to find their “hiding places”. At the same time, it seemed tohim that the modern age was intent on sweeping “the furniture ofideas” of other cultures into its “rubbish heap” and not evenconcerned to “save attic space” for those things that “were validfor other kinds of men”.25 Amidst the universalism of the “folkwaysof social science”, the concern with the cultural record of“primitives” was “out the window”.26 Both the “primitives” andtheir cultural baggage were thus casualties of the modern for Sauerand in danger of extinction. The modern age was “an age of cleansweeps - in many cases sweeps clean off the map”.27 “Indian”cultures were not finding their way through the modern, for Sauer,but were being erased by it.In opposition to the threat of the modern, Sauer attempts to write“Indian” cultures back in. Aware of the “dozens of blank spaces”that are still to be “discovered”, he exclaims to Paul Kirchoff inanger at his dismissal of “Indian” groups from a map of MesoAmerica:“I’m pained that my Indians of Colima, Jalisco and Culiacán gotpushed off as atypical. Damn it, I more or less discovered these,and they were good high culture folk. . .1 fought and bled for thesepeople and you drop them in with such folk as the Cahita andTepehuan. . I’d like to see you walk over the ruins of some of the24 pc, Sauer to Willits, 27/9/45.25 Ibid.26 p, Sauer to Kroeber, 6/5/48.27 Pc, Barlow to Sauer, 8/10/42.140)JCDOF—CD0H-H-SwJw00CD’IiCl)ft020)0W H-JJCDCD HpiftJ<U)LJ.HCDfthIICD-0)‘•ChH-ci-oHiH-iCD•,.ftnHHi0HI-.I-Cl)rrC-C(0CDQ_piSH0do 0rHOHCD-h—..u-iAJCDftpj0hçt•ch<HiCDf-rCD..CrC!)jPJCDCDH-CrCDCD-H-CD0)00)<--I_ic)F-CDPCDQili‘-CDCDH-0H-Cl)H:iHiCi)00)0I-CD))C)QCDhftH-0)PiQiCDHiCl)HiHiHiCDCDCl)ctCDC)QiCDhft•H-0CDCDCl)Si ftHii-]ft0HiH-IICDCD(QCDHH=CD02Qitht QCDHiCD0CDtCrCDCl)H-CDCl)Hçjj=CDHCrCl)CDCDCrçtciCDCDftC!)H0) =CDft- -CD02CrCl)CD-ftHCl)SClbCDçt :J-ICDQi0CDHiH-CDH-rr°ClCDCrHF-’H-0)ft0)-t-QCtCtftQIiH-CDCDHi02F-’C)QF--ClCDH-ciftciCrCDCDSC)ftH-CD0H-QiCDCDCDCDU)025-02ftCl)0)hCDCD0HiH02F—a<1H-H‘d0CD0)HftCl)CDHH-H-HCD0CDHiCl)HiIQCl)ICDHi—aJ-’OjcD:-0CDCDCD-—‘CDWSC)0):J-SCDft5CD-PJ0S0)CDNCD H-QiSftH-CDk<ftCDCDOftCDftCDWCDHftCDH-Cl)H-Qi0)CDCDCDHiftCDci•CD(Q0CD-CD- H-C!)CDJftClCD0)CDCDhCDCDQH-ftCDCDCDpjhCD<HCD0CDHCDHiCDp0U)CDHHiCfltQHCDHQCDClQHhCDO•0ftftpjH-5Q,j—CDCDHirftCDH-F-’ftJftcipjH-H-ciCQftH-CDHH-HHHCDCDClCDF-H--ftCDCDtQCD-F-ftCD0•CD<CDCDH-k<H-=Cl)CDftHCDCDk<CDftCDCDCDU)CD002k<hQiCDCDCDH-02CDpjH0)=CDciH0)O0)<‘-xiCDH-HCDCjftH-0H-OCDHhtQrQ5ftCDdOftCDH-F-’0ci0ciftciI-k<HiCDP-CDOCDCDft‘dCDH 0F-’H-0ftCl)CDCl)Cr H-0 H Cl HH-CDH CD=Cl)C)0ciSCDCDHift Ci)HCDCliH-QiCDCrCI)CDCD ciCDCDCD Cl0HiH0ClciH00CDCrC) CrcciH‘-Q0cci HcciC!)cQCrCD H-ftCl)CDftC H‘- C•)H--Cl -Cl) CD CD ft 0 H- H H H- ft 0) H L\)H Hu-iC)H0H Hi02CDCD=ci •cftCD ciCDCc)ft0 HiCD Cl00HCDCl0)ft ci0CD Cl H- ftCD0Cr00CI)CDCD CDClCl CD 0) ft ci 0 CD ClS 0 Cl CD 0 ft CD 02 cc) ci CD ci H Cl) CD CD cci ci H CQ Hicci Cl) ftF-IftCD00CDClciciH-CDftCD020CDHiC) ftCDHiH <1ClbCDH-CF-’CDCDft-CDz-H-ciCD ><ciH-F--CDC)0)ftCD0Cl=SCDCDH-F-HHiH‘-i-CD1:3=CDHCD><ftciCDoC)Cl)0‘-CDH-CDi.Q-ICD‘HiCDH00)coft0)-CDcijC)Cl)Cl=CDCD‘-d0)CDciciHiCl)CDO I—i0CD0)•0C)ft0ft CDC)I-ICDk<= ftCD=CrCDCD H C H H ctHH(OctXHHCDC-)-CD 0H’tIDHH(I-) CD H H 1)H N)Zapotecan “Indians”, he notes a parallel decay in “Indian” language- a “tongue-tiedness, almost sulkiness”- and makes a speech onhow ashamed “Indians” are in Mexico “to admit any knowledge ofIndian things, how desconfiado”.3’ Sauer thus reiterates a senseof change as loss of “Indian” craft, tradition and language,drawing on a kind of “noble savage” image of the dignity of the“humble Indians” that should sustain them through the modern.32If essent±alising and patronising at times - placing “Indian”communities as the “little people” of the past - Sauer’s antimodernperspective gave him a more favourable outlook on the “Indians”than many. For both American tourists to Mexico and, at times, theMexican government, the “Indian” population (“red degenerates”) wasripe for cultural “improvement”. For the readers of Terry’s guideto Mexico33, there was hope in the increasing number of “Indians”speaking Spanish each year and the merging of their identity with31 SN8, p.33.32 This is a very sanitised picture of “Indian” existence inMexico, reducing conflict to a question of craft and sullenness.The “Indian” battle for cultural survival was also a much lessartifactual process - a violence of language and a “whiteterror. .brutal exploitation . . systematic slaughter” (Freeman inDeplar, op. cit., p.72) that Sauer’s apolitical stance and focus onmaterial culture allows him to preclude. Alternatively,attributing a dignity to Mexico’s “Indian” population for Sauer wasalso far from the “red degenerate” image and a means of positiveevaluation in comparison to the modern United States. From theInternational Congress for the “Indian” in Patzcuaro (Mexico) in1940, Sauer’s student Stanislawski writes: “The most impressivegroup in the whole Congreso is that of the American Indians. Theyare full of dignity, good manners and perfect poise. They make therest of us look like bad-mannered upstarts” (PC, Stanislawski toSauer, 29/4/40)Terry, op. cit.143that of their Mexican neighbours:“The national life of the Mexican Indians has almost vanished; oldtribal habits and customs are being superseded by the morecivilised ways of the superior Mexican, and a faint ambition isreplacing the sodden lethargy which for so long characterisedthem. “Similarly, in 1930 President Ortiz Rub±o had declared theimportance of developing Mexico as a modern state, taking its placeamong the civilised nations of the world, and renounced the“indigenismo”35 policy of the Revolution that had focused soextensively on “Indian” culture. “Indian” communities foundthemselves subject to land-hungry “whites” disatisfied with thetruncation of revolutionary land redistribution - literally pushingthem off the map as well as out of the conception of the modernMexican state.36 Sauer himself reflected in the “field” on the“objectives of Mexican nationalism” and posed them as threat to the“Indian”: “their liking is for whiteness”.37 Thus Sauer’spreservationist views - if only a textual rather than a politicalreservation - were certainly more progressive for “Indian” futuresthan their forced assimilation.Ibid., p.lxi.See Deplar, op. cit., p.91. “Indigenismo” was the policy ofthe Mexican government towards its native peoples during theRevolution in the early twentieth century. It involved acommitment to the moral and economic elevation of the “Indian” anda recognition of his [sic.] centrality to the national experience.36 Near Chihuahua in 1933, Sauer was told by a missionary withthe Tarahumara “Indians” of their powerless condition, unable toresist incursions by “whites” and forced into the worst barrancas:“only a reservation” would protect them (SN11, p.18). Thisintercultural conflict is important for the way Sauer chooses toconceptualise the Mexicans as threat.Ibid., p.35.144There were other views of “Indian” Mexico, however, that Sauer wasmore in tune with. As we have seen, there was a flow ofantimodernists to Mexico who focused on “Indian” communities asauthentic and harmonious alternative to the Depression-riddenUnited States. Disillusioned with the “ills” of their own society,they looked to “Indian” Mexico for an antidote. This“Indian”/Un±ted States comparison came through in literary imagesof village life, for example Stuart Chase’s Mexico: a study of twoAmericas and Carleton Beals’ Mexican maze (both in 1931) as well asin anthropological studies of Indian communities, such as the well-known study by Robert Redfield of Tepoztlán.38 Both types of studywere criticised for their romantic primitivism, singing “lyricalpaeans of praise about the skies and the golden sunlight” andkeeping quiet about the “brutal exploitation of the ‘noble andhappy’ Indians”.39 While much of Sauer’s published work, as we sawabove, could never be accused of silence about “Indian”exploitation, Sauer does tend in places towards a rather romanticimage and, in connection with this, towards a conception of IndianMexico as idyll. He refuses to believe his student Isabel Kellythat Chametla is not the “obscure Utopia” that he thought and thatit has been transformed into the “lousy gringo-Mexican country38 See Deplar, op. cit. pp69-72 and 113-117. Redf±eld’s study(1924) was of a Mexican village (Tepoztlan) : a picture of folk lifecompared to the urban United States. It was later contradicted byOscar Lewis (1943) who visited the same village and returned witha more negative picture, criticising Redfield for his “sheerRousseauan romanticism” (ibid., p.124).Freeman in Deplar, op. cit. p.72.145which the Culiacán Valley is”.40 For Sauer, the choice once moreappears as preservation or decay: “If it isn’t as I have said, it’sbeen ruined by progress” 41 More specifically, like the poet WitterBynner, Sauer looked to “Indian” Mexico as a primitive location forretirement: Lake Chapala where “the air [was] full of sun andbirds”.42 Sauer’s push for the preservation of Indian communitieswas therefore at least part motivated by his need for Mexico asantimodern “home”, dreaming, as he said:“of my own land on the lake shore and my own vine and figtrees. . .What a spot that is and as yet an unspoiled lot of fisherfolk. I think it is my chosen spot to retreat from the world - ifit doesn’t get overwhelmed by c±v±lisation.”43Presents -becoming- futures44“What’s the length and breadth, what’s the height and the depthsbetween you and me?”45D.H. Lawrence, writing of his Mexican experience in 1927, locatedthe country’s “Indian” population in an “other dimension”46 with“no bridge, no canal of connection”47 to the “white man”; noreconciliation possible between the premodern and the modern, past40 PC, Sauer to Kelly, 5/3/35.41 Ibid.42 Deplar, op. cit. p.207.“ PC, Sauer to Kelly, 20/4/45.clifford, 1988, op. cit., pp.5 and 15.Lawrence, op. cit., p.14.46 Ibid., p.14.Lawrence in Fussell, 1980, p.158.146and future. While as we have seen Sauer tended to oppose “Indian”cultures against the modern, at times fixing them in thetraditional, he also maintained that he was “not interested in theIndians as museum pieces” and saw them also as “active cultures”with the potential to survive and develop.48 Through his “field”experience he became keenly aware of the practicality of moderntechnology for “Indian” communities and the importance of “Indian”paths through the modern.49 While mentally Sauer may have picturedMexico as antimodern escape and retirement idyll, in practice inthe “field” such romanticism was dispelled. Off the beaten trailwas not only the chance to retreat from civilisation but also meanthardship and the underside of “Indian” life. In 1931, on aparticularly severe “field” trip, Sauer wrote to Leighly5° ofMexico as a “sick country” far from the “gorgeous primitivism” ofhis more Rousseauist moments. With the “dust” and “filth” ofSinaloa foremost in his mind, Sauer went on to question anyantimodernist escape to “Indian” Mexico. Shocked by the conditionshe observed in the “field”, Sauer let loose a diatribe to Leighlyagainst Stuart Chase who was known to have compared the machinecivilisation of the United States with “Indian” Mexico and found48 PC, Sauer to Willits, 12/2/45.For Clifford, 1988, op. cit. marginal cultures do not haveto vanish on entering the modern world but can be allowed to inventtheir own futures, to make their own paths through it. While Sauertends to cling to the notion of the “Indian” populations as“endangered” and the importance of preservation versus the modern,he does seem to allow for at least a technical change and Indianparticipation in the (agricultural) development of their land.50 PC, Sauer to Leighly, 5/11/31.147Mexican villages to be self-sufficient and “wantless”:51“If Mr know-it-all Stuart Chase were anchored in one of thesevillages where the people have nothing to eat, foul water to drink,no medecine and no money with which to buy any, I think he’d be alittle more inclined to hand our machine age its due. I’m for asmuch of it as I can get. These people crawl off and die or getwell like sick animals. Children going blind for lack oftreatment, people with hunger because the crops die out and theyhaven’t simple means of irrigation, these and other blessings ofthe primitive life are daily sights.”52Disillusioned, Sauer finished his letter to Leighly by “swattingmosqitoes” in his hotel “listening to the welcome ching of thesouth-bound train” in the station reminding him that there was “alink with civilisation”.In 1941, ten years later, Sauer was given the chance to air hisopinions on both the importance of cultural preservation andbringing “civilisation” to Mexico’s “Indian” communities. Movinginto Sauer’s “field” of Northwest Mexico, the RockefellerFoundation had established an agricultural research centre nearMexico City and become involved in plant breeding and irrigation inSonora and Sinaloa - the beginnings of the “Green Revolution”bringing modern agricultural technology to Mexico.53 Sauer’sadvice was solicited as a “renowned scholar with extensiveexperience in Mexico” and he replied with the championing of51 Deplar, op. cit., p.70. However, as Deplar notes, StuartChase was in this respect misread: he recognise that ruralMexico was not a utopia and needed electricity, scientificagriculture and other modern technology but many missed this,including, it seems, Carl Sauer.52 PC, Sauer to Leighly, 5/11/31, op. cit.See wright, 1984 (mimeo, unpaginated).148peasant (Indian) cultural practices and techniques- a “bottom up”strategy for modern intervention. Sauer shifted his views on“Indian” cultural preservation into agricultural preservation54 anddefied any standardisation by the Foundation: “Unless the Americansunderstand that, they’d better keep out of this countryentirely.”55 Indigenous knowledge would point the way for any“modernisation”, the peasants identifying the problems themselves.While denying that Mexico’s problems were cultural, i.e. requiringthe cultural conquest of the modern, Sauer did see the need foreconomic aid and support for agricultural change. Unfortunately,despite his attempts to reconcile his preference for marginalcultures with the need for modern, Sauer was read by the Foundationas obstructive:56 viewed as fixing Mexico in the antimodern andpreventing any opportunity for modern improvement and his opinionvirtually ignored:The two, as Wright points out (ibid.), are connected.Cultural differences influence the way plants are selected,planted, cultivated etc as well as patterns of land distribution,labour, income and consumption.It is interesting here that Sauer does not include himselfas a transformative force in Mexico: his presence is not includedin the Americans that must keep out of the country. For Spurr (op.cit., p.50), this is characteristic of the colonial rhetorical modeof “aestheticisation” where access to and preservation of theauthentic are seen as unconnected. In this way, Sauer can alsoposit Mexico as antimodern “home”, unaffected by his own uninvolvedpresence (again the distancing of the vantage point) . This themeresurfaces in Sauer’s positioning in South America where he placeshimself apart from those carrying the “academic torch” to thecontinent.56 Sauer’s relation to the Rockefeller Foundation will be dealtwith in more detail in the next chapter. While here Sauer feelsthat he has the authority to advise and is ignored, in SouthAmerica we see how Sauer’s comments are taken as authority when hehimself has doubts.149“to. . Sauer, Mexico is a kind of glorified ant hill which [he is] inthe process of studying. [He resents] any effort to ‘improve’ theants. [He much prefers] to study them as they now are.”57The statement of the Foundation really misses the ambivalence ofSauer’s position. Although he did reject the “improvement” ofmodernising “Indian” agriculture, he also saw the need for supportand change. On a personal level, he wanted “Indian” Mexico asretreat from civilisation but was at the same time prepared to givethe machine age its due. Ironically, probably considered“backward” in his reluctance to embrace modern “improvement”,Sauer’s view of the “Indian” as germinal base is now agriculturallythe vogue.58Gang der Kultur über die Erde59“Wann wird die Odysee wohl enden,Und wann erreichen wir den Port?Und wann entgurten wir unsere LendenZum letzten mal, für immerfort?”6°In 1933, blocked by a “road out of commission” in “Indian country”near Chihuahua,6’ Sauer turned instead to a settlement ofMennonites; two years later, he visited them again. The first tripJennings, 1988, p.55.58 See Pawluk, Sandor and Tabor, 1992 for a discussion of thecontemporary role of indigenous knowledge in agriculturaldevelopment.Translated: the spread of culture over the world. FromSauer in Leighly, 1969, op. cit., p.296.60 Senn in Loewen, 1980, p.250. Translation: “When will theOdyssey end completely, and when will we reach the port? And whenwill we recover our lands, for the final time, forever?”61 West, 1979, op. cit., p.74.150was almost a chance encounter: according to Robert West, itrepresented nothing more than “speaking German and. . . observing” theland; the second a return to see “old friends”.62 James Parsons,one of Sauer’s closest colleagues, was not even aware of hiscontact with the Mennonites (“he never published anything”) : bothvisits are acknowledged and then forgotten.Sauer, however, found the Mennonite cause more engaging: he wasinspired to write more extensively and prosaically in his notes onthese two encounters than on any other cultural interaction inMexico. It is a crucial oversight by West since perhaps here morethan anywhere else in Sauer’s notebooks do we get a sense of thepersonal: cultural self-fashioning in the “field”.63 Encounteringthe Mennonites near Chihuahua, Sauer attempted to re-encounter hisantimodernism and, at the same time, his sense of “home”. As withMexico’s “Indian” communities, this “return” proved highlyambivalent for Sauer and involved a further questioning ofantimodern idyll; a tension between cultural preservation and decay(dwelling and travel) . Among the Mennonites, however, Sauer’sprimary concern was not so much with a temporal fixing of culture -they isolated themselves voluntarily from the modern - but with anessentialising as “German”.Die Stillen im LandeM62 Ibid., p.84.63 Perhaps this is why it has been overlooked by West.Although he gives a sense of Sauer as individual, he keeps hisfocus on Sauer as fieldworker and does not refer to Sauer’spersonal life beyond.64 Sawatsky, 1971, p.2. Translated: “the unobtrusive ones”.151In a sense, like Sauer, the Mennonites were antimodernists,travelling in order to stay the same, defining themselves against11Caesar”, the State.65 Formed as a religious sect in the LowCountries in the sixteenth century,66 theirs was a history ofexile in an attempt to keep apart. They sought a “Privelegium”from the governments of their host countries an exemption frommilitary and civil service, the freedom of religion and the rightto educate themselves 67 and moved on whenever this wasthreatened. Once settled, they isolated themselves by being “inthe world but not of the world”,68 living off an agrarian base inrural habitats, founding spatially and culturally distinctcolonies.69 Those interacting with Sauer in Chihuahua were the mostmobile of the sect - they had a tradition of exile from Germany,through Russia and Canada to Mexico - and were therefore also themost conservative: “wanderers” who had carried their past withthem.7° Under pressure from the Canadian government,7’ they had65 See Yoder in Loewen (op. cit., pp.7-16) for a discussion ofhow the Mennonites related to God (the Lord) and the State(Caesar) . It is interesting to note that Sauer conceptualises hisown position in these terms in his discussion of keeping academics(things that are God’s) away from politics (things that areCaesar’s)66 The Mennonites were ideological descendants of an Anabaptistwing of the Protestant Reformation and had their origins as a sectin the Low Countries under Menno Simon (Sawatsky, op.cit., p.l).67 Ibid., p.5. In this sense the Mennonites appear as theepitome of antimodernism: legally they have the right to deny themodern.68 Yoder in Loewen, op. cit., p.274.69 At the heart of the Mennonite colonies were the “Gemeinde”:the church and secular communities that acted as institutions withtheir own Elders and lay ministers.70 Sawatsky, op. cit., p.249.152Fiqure 11: Seeking Mennonite country:Sauer and Sawatsky (Manitoba, Canada, 1968).153transferred their villages whole to Mexico and prepared to be “dieStillen im Lande”.Sauer’s cultural encounter was thus once more with the ruralcommunity of his antimodernist sympathies. For Sawatsky (seeFigure 11) , “life in a Mennonite village” portrayed “an almostother-worldly quality of rustic unhurriedness” to the outsideobserver - at a distance, at least, the rural idyll.72 However, aswith Sauer’s disillusionment with “Indian” poverty, hisidentification with the antimodern via the Mennonites was onlypartial. Although the Mennonites appeared as the quintessentialsimple “yolk” - they were “prairie farmers”,73 provincial, “whollyrural”74- they were also “ignorant peasants”.75 Sauer criticisedthem for their extreme of antimodernism; their “mulishconservatism” which separated them from the Mexican scene. Inrestricting their educational focus to “the life hereafter” and“farming”, they cut themselves off from knowledge of the Mexican(physical and political) climate and located in an area that was71 Ibid., p.21. The pressures were various in Canada: aredrawing of provincial boundaries weakening Mennonnite self-government; a draft during the War going against their pacifistsympathies (and a resentment when they refused) and theintroduction of “worldly” subjects, for example geography andhistory, into their schools, representing an intervention intotheir separate education system.72 Ibid., p.289.SN11, p.33.Sauer in Sawatsky, op. cit., p.vii.SN14b, p.78.154agriculturally unproductive and politically unsettled.76 After aseries of bad harvests and raids by the local “agraristas”,77 theythen found themselves reconsidering exile.78 Sauer was disappointedin their lack of awareness: they did not live up to “the wisdom ofthe primitive peasant rooted to his ancestral lands”,79 an integralpart of his antimodernism and his notion of “yolk”; nor did theymirror his fieldworker’s familiarity with the Mexican scene - theresponsibility of taking documents into the field. Their verymobility severed them from a true connection with the land- theyhad “the farmer’s love for working in the dirt” but not “for hisparticular piece of dirt” -and, “nomadic”, lacked the rootedness ofthe “Heimat”.8° What is more, they had blundered into Sauer’sfield almost as “tourists”, “dumb” and unprepared. Transferringfrom the “dark smooth soil” in Canada, the Mennonites assumed thatthe Mexican equivalent “that looked somewhat like it” was asfertile and fell into an agricultural “mess by their ignorance”.81Sauer was struck by the irony of a separatism that rejected “book-76 Ibid., p.79.‘‘ The agraristas were former peons under hacienda owners whohad been promised land in the revolution - “The land belongs to himwho tills it!” - and resented Mennonite incursion on Mexican land.See Sawatsky, op. cit., p.67.78 SNl4b, p.81.Sauer in Thomas, op. cit., p.57.80 SNil, p.23. Although Sawatsky’s book They sought a countryhas been translated as seeking a “Heimat”, in the former romanticsense of the word (see Chapter One) this was not the case. Ileimatinherently meant a rootedness in one soil and therefore Sawatsky’sMennonites “standing about as at home”, the new “Heimat” exchangedfor the old, were a paradox.81 SN14b, p.78.155learning” and only resulted in disruption:“The pragmatic justification of education could be applied to themwith a vengeance. As it is they have sunk three and a half millioninto a venture from which all who can will flee.On a subtextual level, perhaps more importantly, he appearedembittered at a rural idyll (and an environmental stewardship?)turned sour.Homecoming?UIt is in culture that we can seek out the range of meanings andideas conveyed by the phrases belonging to or in a place, being athome in a place.”83While Sauer is dismayed at the impending exile of the Mennonites -their spatial upheaval - his main concern is with what he sees astheir cultural decay. The issue of preservation for Sauer hingesnot so much on the antimodernism of the Mennonites but on their“German” identity. This question is quite literally “closer tohome” since, travelling in the “field” in Mexico, Sauer seems tofeel he has found something of the German community of his youth.While their status as “yolk” rooted in soil and “Heimat” islacking, the Mennonites as “German” represent an alternative“dwelling” for Sauer - a “return” - amidst travel. More than thegeneric identification with “simple cultures”, then, contact withthe Mennonites is a significant moment of Sauer’s self-fashioningin the “field”.82 Ibid., p.81.83 Carter, 1992, op. cit., p.101.156One of Sauer’s “first sights” of the Mennonites “brings tears” tohis eyes:“Mexicans lulling in the shade, Germans driving wagons loading andunloading. . .Yard swarms with flaxen youngsters all sizes to fullgrown. Youngest in cradle being rocked by barefoot mother pushingcradle with her toes.The Mennonites are thus immediately defined as Germans by Sauer: inappearance they are a “rather large and blonde race”, larger andmore plentiful than the Mexicans.85 Sauer later makes contact inGerman, breaking the ice by “saying n’Tag to several Mennonites allof whom proceeded to shake hands and talk in passably good highGerman”.86 Importing poetic German names for their colonies inMexico (Wilhelm, Roscutal), the Mennonites provide Sauer with aminiature German terrain to travel through: “First stop atHamburg”.87 However, despite these German “markers”, Sauer iscontradicted by a German (not Mennonite) “tienda” owner - an exWurtenberger - who has “seen the entire local Mennonite historyTand, while acknowledging their antimodernism, denies that they are“real Germans”:“they drift like sheep and act together only to prevent change.They ride no wagons, wear no neckties or ornaments. They knownothing of German literature or music. . .Stille Nacht and Goetheunknown to them.84 SN11, p.9.85 Ibid., p.7.86 Ibid., p.33.87 Ibid., p.10. Noticing the map of the settlement colonies inMexico on the schoolroom wall, Sauer offers a supplemental map ofGermany.88 Ibid., p.8.157After further contact with the Mennonites, Sauer becomesconscious of a community that is hybrid: both familiar andstrange,89 to him what seems as a “pure product gone crazy”.9° Tohis “high German enquiry a young blonde 6 footer” replies “inSpanish” and Sauer begins to realise that the Mennonites have the“physique” of Germans, occasionally the language, “but no more”.91Essentialising culturally on the basis of physical traits, Sauerfinds himself disillusioned by closer contact, the Mennonites“white” but “not quite” German, reflecting back a distorted imageof the known.93Given what we know of the Mennonites, this is to be expected.Their “cultural baggage” may be partly German but their veryrejection of education outside the Bible and farming would make89 See Clifford in Grossberg et. al., op. cit., p.97.90 Clifford, 1988, op. cit., p.5.91 SNll, p.9.For Mary Louise Pratt (1992, op. cit., p.153), the relianceon one trait from a distance to speak for a cultural whole wascommon in travel writing articulating the imperial frontier: “Oneneeded only to see a person at rest to bear witness, if one chose,to the trait of idleness. One needed only to see dirt to bearwitness to the trait of uncleanliness. This essentialisingdiscursive power is impervious until those who are seen are alsolistened to.” Travellers see what they want to see.This is an allusion to Bhabha’s concept of mimicry whichitself ties into the earlier discussion of anxiety over the fixingof culture. For Bhabha, the cultural other cannot be fixed withthe gaze but returns it displaced in a form of resemblance andmenace which does and does not authorise theobserver - mimicry. While I am arguing here that Sauer attempts toconstitute the Mennonites as same rather than other, Bhabha’sconcept remains interesting for the way Sauer cannot have hisGerman identity confirmed/ returned to him. See Bhabha, 1983, op.cit.)158FtddCDC))QCUFt‘iJCUOFt:QiF—1I-CUQ.,CUCDH-CU50Cl)CDH-CD0CDCUCU3H-L-QQCDCl)Ci)t0FH-H-CDftC)tH3H-C)C)FtQiCi)CU0CUFtFtCD5CUCflFtCUH-CDF-’-F-1H-Ft>‘CUQH-FtH-Cl)0‘0Ft‘d‘<QhFrSrthCi)CUMiCDCUCDflHFt0ICUCUU)CDC)FtCl)H-H-k<CD0CDCDCDCUCDCDF-1CDCDFtdFtCUCDI-IC])H><F—’Cl)SCUHft0I-JH-ik<CDCDH-H-H0H-tCDCl)Ci)QyHiCDCDHHQiHCl)CDCE)H-CUH0CDCDH-H-H-3Cl)h-H-CUI-H-FtFthft1QftFtH-5FtS‘CUtCUCDCDH-H-CDF-1Ci)CDfJ)QCDCDCDPiCDCDQhCDC)H-CDCDC)C)CDCDCUQH-ICl)I-hCD02FtCD‘-<U)<Cl)Cl)H-H-CUCU0Ci)HHH-FtHFtCUhC)C0CUHCDFtCU0))CDH-CDCDH-FtH-,H-CUCDC)Hfti-C)CDH-jCD0F-’CDFtCl)CD-CDH-CDSHQCDCl)Ft‘15CDH-CD0H-k<5CD‘-“0CDF—F--’0.Q-’f’CUCl)Mi()CDFtCDHiFtCDCi:CUFtCD‘-CDhCUCl)CUCUQiCDCl)Cl)CD00hCUFtCDQh-CUCD.QCUpjCl)HCDH-Cl)H0)—<0-pj‘-H-:QHH-CDk<FtS0CDft)F-Ft5FtFtCDFtF-’0-CUCDCDHHCDCl)QCUCDCl)iCl)CnpJFtCDC)H0CDF1CUCDHMiCUCl)CDCl)‘-<UiCUCD-HQi0FtCUCDFtCDCl)HCUCDLDFtk<Ft0)‘d-h‘<CD0CDH-Ci)CDCUCUCDC)MiCDCl)CU0Cl)HCl)Cl)CDCUH-CDH-CDh0CUCl)Ft-FtQCl)I-k<CDCD Cl)CU-Cl)CU-Cl)H-HCUH-HHCDCDMiC)CUCl)H-Ft(QHP)H--Cl)<FtFtQH(Q0H-CDCDCDC)CDU)CUFtHiQCl)hFtI50CDCUOH-H-CUCD0I—’H-HCDCDQpjHi5HiCU0(1)CU1QCUCUHFtC)HiFtCDCl)H-i.0CUCDIICUH-SHHpjFtCUHFtCDCUCUF-CDCUi-H-OHCDhH-HFtCDFtQ,CDQCD0MiCDCl)H-CDCDHiLQCDF-1FtCDCUHiH-FtCDCl)IFtCD‘<CD.QoCUFtJCUHSFtHiCDO5‘CU(QHiCl)H-Cl)I-Cl)CUCDH.)CDH-CDCUo0HCDCDF—‘-FtQ,‘-Cl)CU-H-CDFtCUC)(QOZp0-OQiCDCDHQiFt0C)02FtCl)02CDCDSCUHiCD(Qft0CDCUCUCDH-5t-QCUH-CljHCDCD‘HCDCD<c-tC)FtCi)05CDCUCD I-0)CDCD0Q,-CDCDHO)5FtFtCDFtCl)H--Ci)hFtCDFtCDHCDCUhCl)HiFtF—<CDCDH-HCUCU0CDbFtCDCDI-H-:00’CDCDCl)F-’-H-l-:CDH-H-00CDCi)H-H-H-hH-HCDCl)5Cl)-(-QFtCDIIFlHi50)FtFlCi)‘I-CUk<0)Cl)Q—,:H-HiH-U)I-IQ-hJpJpJt5:)U)U)çt<ciQ,fJci0Cl)CDCDCJJ5CDF-1iCDCDpHCDI-U)IcihCD<PJC)CD0QCDciciCDFCDU)CD‘<P)1(1)P1ciH5F-’CDN0CDS-5ci‘-<H-HLQH-ciIIIP1HH-PJH-H-‘-<CDU)P1H05HOD\-C)IICDQCDCDHCDP1H100—.OU)CDP1-k<H-U).Q’tQHOU)ciU)l-hU)Ii1)0U)ZU)0U)1CDHU)dH-00U)CDtQU)‘<H()CDciU)C)Hi0ciCDci:H-HC)H-P)QC)H-n—-tCDCDHi0OhU)HiC)U)hHiCD0P1CDciciH-0P1HiU)H-0H-iP1hci-P1H-0ciU)00PCDciP1CDU)H-c-c3ciCDpi0ci0P1ciP1H-k<Hi0CD-CDCDP11ciH’<-J0-ciCDQciOCDH‘1CDHciJjH-ciPiHiCDH-.P1ciciP1D0H(.Qk<ciU)U)CDCDCDCDc--ci0)H-0HciHi•H-PtjCDpjCDCDU)oci<CDk<QciC)OH-U)-0HCDCDH><H-H-Hi0CDPJj’—’ciciCD5U)CDCD‘H-:0—0-ciH(QCDciP1HQQCDP1OFCDciCDU)‘dO-CDc-t-CUHH-‘<C)U)11H-CD0WH--iH<5ciCDC)LiH•C)U)H-WCDCl0C)ci-_.Q0H-0ciCD0H-ciCUU)CDQciH-H-•WCDCDH-U)CDCDHci-0CDHHC)Hi-HiH••3U)•-,.<HOH--H-<Hi0-H-H-5C)F-’f-CDCDP1ci:C)HiH-cii-HCDHciCDc--H•U)HCD(H--CDU)HiCDCDHCDH-ciCUp,ClH-HiWU)H--0P1C)P1CDL’J-H-U)H-C)f-F-’ClSCDCDC)HHH-°ci0-ciciCD-U)0CDH-H-H--HiH-cicihU)HC)P1CDCDciCDU)<P1CUCD1i0P1<ci1CDU)0ciU)ciciCl.H-P1CDciH-ci0P1CDH-cicici0HCDU)ci)U)CDCDHiU)0ciH-c)Sci H-ClH-H-HiCDH-OQCDPHCDH-HciCDC).0)HH-ciciCDHCDC)ciCDCDHiClCDPiciCDpihLiciH-HiCDCD<1:HH-Cl)0U)ciU)05CDCDciciCDCDHCD-P1CDciH-H0CDQU)0LiP1ciOhPlCDC)P1ciPiHH-CDCDI—’CD—hciiCD<CDCDCDciH0P1SU)S-ClCDCUCDCl’-<HLiCDciCDciciciciHH-CDCDHiP1ciHiLiCDDLici’<P1P1P1ciii00l-U)LihC)<P1CD0CDCDU)‘<CDHICDCDU)U)Hiwhat it says about German culture but also about “Mexicans” -whether from the point of view of the Mennonites or Sauerhimself.99 As with Sauer’s notes on “Indian” communities in thefield, the Mexican population enters in around the fringes as anexternal - and alien - force. In the case of the Mennonites, Saueris concerned by the threat of Mexican nationalism and its pressurefor assimilation. While on Sauer’s first visit to the Mennonitesin 1933 the Mexican government is supportive of the colonies’separatism, maintaining their right to self-educate (legislated in1921), on his second visit two years later the situation hasdeteriorated. The government wants their schools to be operated byfederal “maestros” and their own schoolteachers are forbidden tofunction. The Mennonites are also given a working order that it isnot healthy for them to live separately: they must disseminate,intermarry and “castellanizar” - the “fin patriotico” of theMexican government.’°° For Sauer, this appears as an externalcorollary to the internal dissolution of Mennonite “German”culture. Indeed, the government is actively attacking theirlinguistic and physical distinction: the two traits that for Sauerare the most Germanic. The Mennonites’ reaction is mobility: “thusthe emigration commences”.’°’ Sauer thus feels that he isThis is difficult terrain as with the definition of “Indian”above: Sauer defines Mexico as “mestizo” in The personality ofMexico which makes the distinction of “Mexican” and “Indian”difficult. It is not always certain who Sauer is referring to, buthe does tend to distinguish between “Indian” and “Mexican” in hisnotes.100 SN14b, p.68. Translated: “castellanizar” means to becomeSpanish-speaking and “fin patriotico” means “patriotic goal”.101 Ibid.161witnessing “the beginning of the decline of the Mennonitecolonisation”- a spatial as well as a cultural “decay”. What isparticularly interesting, however, is the way he chooses toconceptualise the exodus:“The humble Mennonites have not established a sufficient gulfbetween them and the natives to take this with equanimity. Theycame to keep apart and thought it would be easier to do so in analien than in a kindred culture, and now that they have the openthreat of the design of the alien culture upon their souls andbodies, it gives them the jitters. If there is no land where theycan build the Reich Mennos then far better back among theCanadians. If they are to be subject to cultural absorption thenat least let it come from worthier hands than the present.”°2The Mexicans are thus unworthy- they are not “kindred” to theblonde race of the Mennonites (the Anglo Saxon of the Canadians)ironically they are made “alien” in their own homeland. This isobviously the view of the Mennonites, but Sauer himself hints at asimilar cultural comparison in his letter to Moe. Here hedescribes the Mennonites as distinct from the masses: “islands ofSaxon peasants in a sea of brown-skinned Mexicans”, Germancolonists “in the backwoods of the world”.’°3Fatherland?If the above quotation allows us to find the “Mexican” on themargins of the “German”, it also takes us from an “eighteenthcentury” past to a “modern” Germany of the 1930s. In the companyof antimodernists and displaced “Germans”, we almost pass over therhetoric of “Reich” and “Nordic stock” and miss the contemporary102 Ibid.103 OC, Sauer to Moe, op. cit.162significance of Sauer’s cultural remarks.104 While it is true thatthe Mennonite connection with Germany was temporally and culturallydistant and Sauer himself only lived in Germany for three years asa child, their rhetoric in exile was having political currency at“home” (Germany). While not attempting to implicate Sauer in theGermany of the 1930s, a repositioning helps to show that what mayhave been framed as antimodern debate in Mexico was more modern inthe German “fatherland”. This is a particularly important pointbecause, although frequent reference is made to the German(philosophical) heritage of Sauer’s cultural geography, none ismade to the political context in which this “heritage”developed. 105While Sauer was drawing on imagery of land, soil, folk and home todefine the Mennonites at the local level, the National Socialistswere using the same rhetoric to essentialise the German nation104 could only find very few hints in Sauer’s notes andcorrespondence on contemporary Germany, for example in relation tothe Mennonites, shut off from the world: “Hitler (abwarten) we’vebeen told things before but if he has been doing the things theysay, it’s a shame” (SN11, p.34) and Sauer later writing to DonaldBrand about a German geographer - Karl Josef Pelzer - who had leftthe “distasteful political situation” in Germany and was interestedin working on the Mennonites (PC, Sauer to Brand, 15/4/36). Whilethe letter says little in itself, it serves as a reminder that anydiscussion of Mennonites, Sauer and German identity in Mexico needsto be repositioned.105 See Kenzer, 1987, op. cit., pp.40-69 and Speth in Kenzer(ibid., pp.11-39): both focus on Sauer’s connection with Goethe anddocument his connection with German Romanticism but fail to providethe context for the development of these currents of German thoughtor the use of romantic notions in political ideology. See WoodruffSmith, 1991, for an excellent and politically aware alternative: inhis study of Politics and the sciences of culture in Germany, heputs questions of philosophical influence in the background andconcentrates instead on the political ideology of “culture” inGerman scientific discourse.163under the Third Reich. They found inspiration in the anti-materialist “volkish” movement of the nineteenth century,associating themselves explicitly with the German heritage that hadformed at least part of Sauer’s “Weltanschauung” at an early age.However, rather than inform a generic identification with peasantpeoples, the “yolk” under the National Socialists came to take ona specifically national and racial connotation.’°6 Humankind wasseen as divided into a hierarchy of mutually exclusive andirreconcilable racial categories with the German “Aryan” (Nordic?)race at its apex, convinced of its own superiority. At the sametime, images of land and soil were used to locate the Aryansnaturally in the German “I-leimat”, in harmony with the naturalworld: rooted in the cultural landscape, they were there tostay.107 These images of racial purity and permanence, accordingto Mark Bassin, “formed the essence and rationale for the NationalSocialist movement”: legitimately “at home” in German soil, theAryan “yolk” could provide a justification for the Nazispersecuting the “Other” in both domestic and foreign policy - itdefined their non-Aryan enemy on the European stage.108Thus the very question of German identity was at issue -politically charged - and increasingly crucial as the Nazi party106 As Bassin (op. cit., p.117) notes, the notion of the “yolk”crossed over with the development of racism as a science at the endof the nineteenth century which stressed the primary importance ofinherited genetic qualities and the immutability of races makingenvironmental factors irrelevant.107 Ibid., pp.122-123.108 Ibid., p.123.164under Hitler took Germany into the Second World War. The image ofthe yolk was joined by other legitimating concepts such as Ratzel’s“Lebensraum”,109 which, stating that as part of nature humankind(as yolk) must search for living space (colonisation), provided thepassword for Nazi expansionism. As Woodruff Smith shows, theromantic imagery of “Bauer, yolk and Kultur” fed into Germanimperialism with “a real and terrible effect”.”°Nazi Germany seems far away from Sauer and the Mennonitesin Chihuahua - perhaps this is the point - but it is not so distantas it appears. The “Vôlkerwanderungen” and imperialism of Ratzel’sLebensraum is not so far from viewing the Mennonites as “Germancolonists” in the Mexican “backwoods of the world”. Indeed, Ratzel,the “grandfather of German Geopolitik”1 and “one of the bestknown academic imperialists of the turn of the century”,’12 was109 In what is almost a mirror image of Sauer’s culture history,Smith describes the focus on the peasant as the foundation ofculture - “Bauer, yolk and Kultur” - in the works of the Germangeographer Ratzel in the nineteenth century (op. cit., p.129). Thepeasantry were essential to the notion of the German “yolk” forRatzel, their preservation crucial. On the one hand, thisconnected Ratzel to the literary Romanticism of the time and thetendency to idyllise the rural, viewing “country life throughdeeply rose-tinted spectacles” (ibid.) . More importantly, however,it fed into Ratzel’s later diffusionist theory and his belief in“migrationist colonialism” - the Germanpeasant-emigrant taking the national spirit with him to “foreignlands”; a rationale of German colonialism in the 1870s (ibid.,p150). Maintaining the importance of “the group, the nation, theyolk, the state”, Ratzel later added the concept of “Lebensraum” -intended as a purely scientific idea - to his diffusionist corpus(ibid., p.220).110 Ibid., p.232.Bassin, op. cit., p.116.112 Smith, op. cit., p.122.165also, according to James Duncan, “considered by Sauer to be thefather of [his?] cultural geography”.’13Temporally, Sauer’s visits to the Mennonites were in synchrony withthe rise to power of the Nazis, although he and they constitutedcontemporary Germany as a world apart. Like Malinowsk± in thefield among the Trobrianders, Sauer must have been overcome attimes “by a terrible melancholy” at “things. .going on backthere”;”4 must have further questioned his German identity andideas in the face of the rise of the Aryan race; worried about theseparation of academics and politics as geography turned togeopolitics. Or perhaps the point is that he did not see, or chosenot to:”5 compass set firmly “south by southwest”,”6 perhaps he113 Duncan, op. cit., p.186. Sauer’s intellectual debt toRatzel has been frequently emphasised, in particular by Sauerhimself. Peter Jackson notes that Sauer’s work was “heavilyinfluenced by the German cultural and historical sciences(Geisteswissenschaften) “ and that it was from the German classics,for example Ratzel, that Sauer “derived his perspective on cultureand landscape”(op. cit., p.12). similarly, James Duncan statesthat: “Sauer acknowledged his intellectual debt to the Germancultural geographers of the late nineteenth and early twentiethcenturies, especially Ratzel. .“ (op. cit. p.186) . Sauer’s focus onculture area and diffusion was in part attributed to Ratzel and, ininterview, Sauer talked of how his introduction to Ratzel throughLowie had given him “an opening on the geography of the life ofprimitive peoples” that he “might not have gotten into” withoutthis “accidental connection” (Sauer, pers. comm. (V) , op. cit.)Sauer goes on to situate Ratzel as journalist-turned-geographer inthe United States and as a potential “father of ecology” if he hadcontinued longer. It is interesting that this summary takes usaway from Ratzel in Germany and from Ratzel as political journalistas well as geographer (Smith, op. cit., p.136).114 In Geertz, op. cit., p.74.115 We need to remember that Sauer’s experience as a GermanAmerican during World War One in the Midwest was not a positiveone, so that his identification with a German past might be areaction to his implication by others in the German present. Inhis notes Sauer talks about his “black boyhood year” which may be166turned his back on modern political Germany and looked to theMennonites for a. German identity from the past. Perhaps that iswhy he was so disappointed.”7The Other MexicoIf Sauer’s antimodernist perspective was responsible for a partialfixing of “Indian” and Mennonite communities as cultural home, italso gave him a critical outlook on the “rest” of Mexico.“Mexicans”, as we have seen, seemed to be constituted by Sauer inopposition to both “Indians” and Mennonites: Mexicanisation was athreat to the “true” premodern personality of the country. What wefind in Sauer’s notebooks and correspondence, therefore, is adivision between a “historical” and a more “contemporary” Mexico,the former associated (as seen above) with the cultural spaces ofthe rural and the latter with the more urbane. While Saueridentifies with the peasant cultures of rural Mexico, he rejectstheir modernising urban counterpart, often epitomised in the formof Mexico City.In opposition to the “Indian” and Mennonite communities, harbingers(at least partially) of the “folk” ideal (idyll?), Sauer portrayedMexico City as corrupt and unclean. It was, said Sauer “a sort ofpunchiuck Paris with much ostentation and equal poverty and dirt”a reference to the difficulties of the earlier War.116 Mathewson in Kenzer, op. cit.117 Sauer appears here as Paul Carter’s (1992, op. cit., p.100)“self-styled custodian of. . . culture” standing “in relation to theliving (both here and there) as a ghost”: neither finding theidentity he is looking for in the German home (lost and leftbehind) nor in the Mennonite alternative.167and he liked “the smaller Mexican towns much better and also thecountry people.”18 Mexico City was full of “politicians” and“military men”- the “slickers” of the modern -and it was here, incontact with the corrupt, said Sauer, that his “suspicion ofinstitutions became hardened into an aversion”.119 Writing toJoseph Willits of the Rockefeller Foundation, Sauer saw politicsand academics too closely tied in Mexico City:“Of any endowment placed in the hands of any Mexican organisation,I should be sceptical. Mexican politicians can’t leave plum treesalone” 120and risked the “sweeping generalisation” that his “Mexican friends”were basically dishonest.’21 They had, maintained Sauer, “lived solong in Mexico City that frankness [had] been suppressed in them”and he went on to state:“If I want a straight from the shoulder judgement about somebody orsomething there, I can get it from Spanish refugees, ex-Germans orex-Austrians, but I can think of only one Mexican in Mexico Citywho doesn’t immediately pull the blind across his mind.”22Virtually all of Mexico City’s population, save its (European)immigrants was thus written off (generalised/essentialised) asuntrustworthy. In addition to dishonesty, Mexican cities werecharged by Sauer as prone to a “type of lechery”. Sauer locatedthe “white meat complex that exposes any white woman to risk inMexico” in the cities. While he has seen this theme revoltingly118 PC, Sauer to Leighly, op. cit., 15/11/31.119 PC, Sauer to Willits, 25/2/43.120 Ibid.121 PC, Sauer to Willits, 3/8/42.122 Ibid.168expressed in “contemporary Mexican literature”, he maintains thatit is unheard of in the “unilluminated provinces” where the mainproblems are bouts of banditry and agrarian unrest.123 In spite ofthis comment, rural areas are rarely seen as politically unstableby Sauer in his notes, the cities tending to provide the backdropfor political unrest, for example on “a muggy Sunday in Ameca”:“Town was full of armed agraristas, federal government having senta thousand rifles to them in the last two weeks. Undoubtedlyconnected with the expulsion of the Callistas from power andrecalls the return of the latter in 1923 ,,124The Mexican as dirty, dishonest, lecherous and politically unstablewas a familiar refrain in American images of its southernneighbour.125 While some, as we have seen, conceptualised Mexicoromantically, focusing on its “Indian” communities, otherspreferred the “greaser” personality for a more negative portrayal.Cecil Robinson notes that some American literature of the 1930scontinued to show disgust at the “stock image” of the Mexican:violent, lazy, politically disruptive, unhygienic and drunk.’26Sauer’s own “sweeping generalisation”, although perhaps not soextreme, certainly seems to draw in part on these negative Mexicantraits of the time. However, what is interesting in Sauer’s caseis that these traits are not so much part of a United States/Mexicoopposition, defining the distinction between countries, but a123 PC, Sauer to Kelly, 8/9/38.124 sNl4b, p.36.125 See Cortes in Coatsworth and Rico, 1989, pp.91-119 andRobinson, op. cit., pp.33-68 and 164-210.126 Robinson, op. cit., p.173.169rural/urban one. Sauer channels negative traits into the urban -makes them territorially distinct - and thus uses them to supportthe alter-image of rural premodern Mexico. By associating thenegative rhetoric of the “greaser” with the cities, Sauer is ableto portray his “other” Mexico as distinct.The negative Mexican image thus acts as a foil for a more “folkish”rural counterpart that Sauer can then identify with as “home”.Mexico’s cities are not only taking on the negative characteristicsof the Mexican but also, and more importantly, of the modern. Thecrucial distinction for Sauer appears to be, as always, between the“yolk” of the rural space and the slickers of the modern urban andMexico’s personality - written up as the former, written off as thelatter - is moulded to fit this refrain. In Mexican culture wethus see a replay of Sauer’s experience of modernisation spatiallydisplaced onto cultures of the city and the country. Pushing themodern and the political into the cities allows Sauer to resituatehimself and his work in the antimodern and the apolitical.Sauer’s ability to portray Mexico as a premodern personality wasnot only aided by this rejection of Mexican cities but also ofMexicans in cities in the United States. Ironically, parallel toSauer’s passage to antimodern Mexico, Mexicans were moving into theUnited States for the modern,127 attracted by the very urban127 This was obviously a very different kind of mobility toSauer’s. See Clifford in Grossberg, op. cit. for a discussion ofthe privileged connotations of the label “traveller” and thedifficulties of applying it to groups such as Mexican immigrantsmoving out of economic hardship to the United States.170landscapes Sauer was trying to escape.’28 Mexicanisation was notonly a process of self-fashioning within Mexico itself (that Saueravoided) but in the immigrant neighbourhoods of Californian citieswhere other “Mexicos” were being defined and delimited.’29This period, as Clifford notes, was one of in which American citiesdeveloped as spaces of “cultural connections and dissolutions” with“local authenticities” meeting and merging in “transient urban andsuburban settings”.’3° Thus, while attempting to keep thepersonality of Mexico apart from the modern, it was being definedthrough it in the cities of Sauer’s university state. Sauer, withhis turning away from the Californian urban scene - “toocomplicated” - was able to silence/ignore Mexico as change acrossthe border and root it as continuity in the “field”.’3’128 Diego Rivera in Deplar, op. cit., p.202 talking aboutCalifornia: “the splendid beauty of your factories.. .the charm ofyour native houses, the lustre of your metals, the clarity of yourglass”.129 In the 1920s, there was a large outflow of Mexicans to theUnited States, almost doubling its Mexican population and causinga “presence” in California that inspired racist ferment. SeeDeplar, op. cit., p16.130 Clifford, 1988, op. cit., p.4.One question which arises from this separation out ofMexican and American culture is what Sauer would have thought ofthe Chicano movement: the culture of the “borderlands” coming intoprominence academically and politically today. For Clifford (inGrossberg et. al., op. cit., p.109), the border is a place of“hybridity and struggle” and implies the “subversion of allbinarisms”: would this have entered into Sauer’s imagined geographyor would he have erased it in the same way that he turned his backon cities and on the modern? In some ways, Sauer could havecontributed to the Chicano movement. Robinson notes that theUnited States needs a “real history” and literature that includesits Hispanic Southwest and does not just begin with the Mayflower;it needs to balance its German and British elements with itsSpanish (op. cit., p.334). Robinson’s citation of Chapman that171Borderlands“How can a life on a border be other than restless?”32While Sauer may have published Mexico as a singular personality,in the “field” this disintegrates into a set of multipleassociations and disassociations, a complexity that is to beexpected given Sauer’s own self-fashioning: a “restless” identitydrawing on (or defining against) the United States, Germany andMexico. Positioned ambivalently in the “field” amidst culture asantimodernist, Sauer cannot be said to either fully escape themodern or fix others as its antithesis. While with the “Indian”communities Sauer’s focus on the antimodern takes him into themodern, with the Mennonites he only obscures the modern. In bothcases, he approximates but does not achieve his antimodern goal.By reconnecting with his antimodernism, Sauer’s pronouncements onculture in the “field” become not only about Mexico but also aboutSauer himself: we increasingly get the sense that we are dealingwith the “country within”. For Adams and Morris, Mexico has alwaysbeen the “sounding board” for American sensibilities, becoming adifferent country for each visitor;’33 for Cortes, it is metaphor,“Our Weimar is ready, perhaps, but Goethe is lagging” (ibid.,p.332) seems almost an invitation to an alternative application ofSauer’s work on the Hispanic culture of the Southwest. This wouldprovide a nice counterpoint to Sauer’s regimental reading of theUnited States/Mexico border at the beginning of this chapter.132 Greene, 1939, p.’0.133 See Adams, 1990, pxi. Adams’ statement that Mexico hasalways been “invasion-prone”, passive and awaiting definition fromoutside is however extremely problematic, connoting a politics ofsubordination that allows Mexico to be (justifiably) entered and172boosting the image of the US as a whole.’34 More specifically (andpertinently for Sauer), Robinson labels Mexico as a critique of and“compensation” for the United States, “much resorted to by Americanwriters” opposing their own society.’35 Similarly Deplar pointsout the tendency to constitute the United States as lack and Mexicoas fulfilment: Mexico represents “vaguely from afar” something theAmerican traveller “lacks and craves” and “more deeply and vaguely”seems to be his.’36 In a sense, then, like the Mennonites, Sauerappropriates Mexico on his own terms as homeland, marginalisingMexicans from this image by associating them with the modern. Aswith his appropriation of the “field” as authority, Sauer thus alsoclaims Mexico culturally by conjuring up the rural landscape as“home” and the rural cultures as “folk”. As David Spurr notes,the act of appropriation is often concealed by cultural memory anda notion of the past:“not acknowledged as itself, but as a spiritual return, a nostos,summoned not only by historical vision but by the nature of theland itself.”37The “field” is thus imagined as familiar terrain, homeland, if onlyambivalently.controlled (ibid., p.xiv).134 Cortes in Rico and Coatsworth, op. cit., p.95.Robinson, op. cit., pp.70 and 165.136 Deplar, op. cit., p.197.Spurr, op. cit., p.90.173CHAPTER SIX:SOUTH AMERICA. . . INNOCENT ABROAD?’“Soon after coming to Berkeley as head of the geographydepartment in 1923, Carl Sauer chose Mexico and the AmericanSouthwest as his field laboratory. Although he had often wanted tovisit South America, his only extended trip to the southerncontinent was that financed by the Rockefeller Foundation in1942. ,,2“he will imagine he has no politics and will consider that avirtue.In 1942, the year after The personality of Mexico was published,Sauer wrote that he felt he could understand the problems of Mexicoand was ready to use this as a comparative base for elsewhere.4Hisopportunity arose in the form of an offer from Joseph Willits ofthe Rockefeller Foundation: did Sauer want to spend a year or halfa year studying what he would in South America while involved in aproject assessing its social sciences?5 Sauer repliedaffirmatively: he would visit all the countries of the west coast,reporting to the Foundation on interesting men and ideas in thesocial sciences and making his own observations and recommendationsalong the way.6 He was thus set to continue his trail from Mexico1“Innocent abroad” is the label on Sauer’s notebook for histrip to Europe with his wife but is used more critically here.2 West, 1982, op. cit., p.1.Pratt, 1986, op. cit., p.218.OC, Sauer to Moe, 22/10/40.PC, Willits to Sauer, 21/4/41.6 West, 1982, op. cit., p.97 states Sauer’s own objectives onthe trip as carrying out observations on the relationship ofclimate and soils to land use and the stimulation of studies bylocal workers in agricultural geography and culture history. Whilein this chapter I am more concerned - as usual - with Sauer’s174to the south.Leaving Berkeley by train on December 17, 1942, Sauer (accompaniedby his son and assistant, Jonathan) was at sea for twenty days,calling at various ports along the way. He arrived in Santiago onJanuary 18 and spent two months in Chile, eight days in Bolivia,forty-five days in Peru and one month in Ecuador and Colombiarespectively. On the first of July, he flew to Mexico and returnedto Berkeley by train.This travel south from Mexico into South America provides a vehiclefor a rich consideration of Sauer in relation to the precedingchapters. On the one level, we see a replaying of Sauer’scultural-academic positioning from Chapter One - the geographerlooking for cultural particulars and endorsing intellectual freedomand an apolitical stance. This, however, proves paradoxical withinthe institutional context of the Rockefeller Foundation whichappears more as counterweight to Sauer than supportive fundingbody: not just in the sense of an institution versus an individual,but also the modern versus the antimodern. Although this paradoxis in part mediated by the introduction of Joseph Willits, the‘face” to the Foundation - a fellow antimodernist that allows Sauerto attempt a by-pass of institutional constraints - it is furthercomplicated by the move from Mexico to South America and thecontemporary political climate. Leaving behind the familiarterritory of the Mexican “field”, Sauer experiences a crisis ofhidden agenda, Sauer’s reports to Willits are extremely rich andmay be read informatively in a variety of ways.175authority on new ground and, caught up in the all-too-presentmoment of the Second World War, finds it harder than ever to lookto a depoliticised past. While, despite these doubts, Sauermanages to reinstate (and take refuge in?) a sense of culturaldiversity and apolitical “home”, I attempt a furtherdestabilisation by repositioning him amidst the universal and thepolitical. Indeed, by blurring the boundary between Sauer and theFoundation, I lead into the conclusion with the question how farthe view of Sauer as antimodern man of the margins can be said tohold.Particulars and paradoxSitting on the plateau of New Mexico in 1940, “looking out at thelittle green valleys and the juniper-covered rock”, Carl Sauer hadwritten to Henry Allan Moe of the Guggenheim Foundation ofhis hostility for “New York, L.A.” indeed for “the common values ofcivilisation.” Sauer’s “mood” instead, he said, was for LatinAmerica: “a big part of the world” that showed “less tendency tomarch under one ideology”. Rejecting the universalising drive ofthe modern - “call it ‘personality’ of a land, genre de vie, yolkand raum, pluralism of cultures”: Sauer claimed to start with theparticular.7At the same time, he turned his back on the political:cultural personalities were, for him, “far more important” than“all the words” about politics or international relations.8 Itseems that Sauer, almost twenty years on from his move to BerkeleyOC, Sauer to Moe, 22/10/40, op. cit. True to fieldworkerform, Sauer continues to reflect from a “vantage point”.8 Ibid.176and with twelve years of Mexican’fieldwork behind him, was stillsinging the same antimodern tune.It is ironic, then, that given Sauer’s championing of theparticular over the universal, his further move into Latin Americatwo years later should be funded by the Rockefeller Foundation. Inhis correspondence, Sauer often found himself at odds with thisinstitution, especially over matters concerning cultural diversity.Writing to Stacy May of the Foundation in 1938, Sauer set out whathe considered to be the major dilemma of the social sciences at thetime, polarising their universalising trend and his own time andplace specific form of particularism.9He aligned the Foundation’sinterests with the former and seemed to conclude that his views andtheirs were diametrically opposed:“This dilemma. . .of not being able to make ourselves understood toeach other. I am not sure that it doesn’t go back to two quitedifferent cosmologies, that it may not be the conflict between theone god and the pluralist world. Some such gulf does separate thepeople in the social sciences. On the one side are theuniversalising thinkers, on the other side the particularists. Theone group deals with formal logic and the workings of the mind,the other is concerned with the logic of events which are foreverconditioned by a framework of time and place. It is Milton againstGoethe, perhaps St. Paul against the Greeks.”1°Sauer rejected the programmatic strand of the social sciences and,by implication, the normative interests of the Foundation; hisThis theme was elaborated on in Sauer’s later articleDominant folkways in the social sciences (in Leighly, 1969, op.cit., pp.380-388) where he continued to oppose the universalistswith the particularists. This opposition is destabilised whenSauer’s own form of universalism is brought to light later on inthis chapter.10 oc, Sauer to May, 30/7/37. Once again, we see Sauer makinguse of religious terminology as part of his antimodern rhetoric.177solution: an inevitable divorce- I suspect that we shall have togo our own way as we know it.” This, it must be said, sitsuneasily with the partnership of 1942.Further irony arises from the fact that Sauer should undermineinternational relations and politics in his letter to Moe and thentravel in association with the Rockefeller Foundation. It is truethat some have underlined the purely philanthropic nature of theFoundation’s work, presenting it as a disinterested body with anopen attitude to knowledge. Raymond Fosdick, for example,summarises the Foundation’s role as:“to support the institutions or groups where able men were workingfruitfully and intelligently on significant issues”2and insists that this was its only aim: “it was interested in nodevice” and “had no nostrum to sell”. Others, however, are lessgenerous in their appraisal of the Foundation, tying it intoAmerican cultural hegemony. Edward Berman takes a criticalapproach to Rockefeller rhetoric and actions and concludes that theFoundation is highly political, a “silent partner” of United Statesforeign policy interests and state capitalism: “the fat boy in thephilanthropic canoe” 13In fact, in some ways, it seems paradoxical that Sauer - the‘ Ibid.12 Fosdick, 1952, p.221.13 Berman, 1983, p.2.178intellectually free traveller’4- should want to be part of aRockefeller research project at all. In his correspondence,Sauer’s notion of the trail rather than the bounded “field” ofacademic study contrasts with the more methodical and circumscribedexpectations of the Foundation. While Sauer argues:“I think. . . that the Foundation should support persons of highability and originality in what they want to do, whatever that maybe” , 15the Foundation expects a “more specific definition of scope andimplications of activities”.’6 In this sense, the academic “field”is bounded by the limitations of the Foundation: their scholars arenot free to follow the trail.Rereading Sauer’s letter to Moe 17 against this contradictory14 See the Introduction for the discussion of Sauer asreluctant to bound the academic “field” of geography and alsoChapter Three for Sauer’s emphasis on intellectual freedom in theMexican “field”.15 oc, Sauer to Berrien, 28/2/43. William Berrien was theAssistant Director of the Humanities Division of the RockefellerFoundation at that time.16 cc, Berrien to Sauer, 7/1/44.17 While this chapter is concerned with the relationshipbetween Sauer and the Rockefeller Foundation and how this speaks toSauer’s antimodernism, an equally interesting line of pursuit wouldbe Sauer’s relations with Henry Moe and the Guggenheim Foundation.The latter funded some of Sauer’s work in the “field” in Mexico andSauer in turn was on the Board of the Foundation from 1934 in anadvisory capacity re: its work and policies and scholar selectionprocess. Moe, like Willits, stood as a “face” to his institutionfor Sauer and corresponded with Sauer on similar themes, forexample the separation of academics and politics. Finally, whilein this chapter I concentrate on Sauer’s letters to Willits and howthey betray his antimodern leanings, Sauer’s reports to theGuggenheim Foundation on potential scholars are equally revealing.179background thus leaves us with the Rockefeller funded trip to SouthAmerica as paradox: Sauer the self-styled apolitical, academicallyfree cultural particularist jarring with a political research bodyand champion of the universal; turning his back on New York andinteracting with one of its symbols at the same time. If theFoundation and the paradox appear new, the story is familiar: itis, it seems, “the old themes and causes relived”8- Sauer theantimodernist fighting the cultural and academic trends of themodern. How, then, was an alliance between Sauer and Foundation-antimodern and modern- possible?The faceWhile Sauer often clashed with the Rockefeller Foundation as abody, the institution had a “face” that he could relate to: that ofJoseph Willits. Willits was the Director of the Social SciencesDivision at the time of the South America trip, Sauer’s closestcontact in the institution, one of his main correspondents, hisadvocate and his friend. Sauer’s interaction with Willits was thusmuch more symbiotic in nature.With Willits as mediator, the stark opposition between Sauer andthe Foundation becomes increasingly destabilised: “Rockefeller”comes to denote not only institution but individual. While theFoundation, as we have seen, drew boundaries and reminded Sauer ofhis place, Willits sought to decrease the dictates and set Saueralong the trail. For Willits, it was Sauer’s ideology, rather thanthat of the Foundation, that seemed to hold currency:18 Sauer in West, 1982, op. cit., p.15.180“If anybody is the patron, it is COS - who lets us share his ideas.Sharing dollars. . . is small business. . .pray let me continue to shareyour ideas.”9Thus, perhaps from sharing Sauer’s “ideas” on intellectual freedom,Willits’ offer for the South America trip was (or at least appearedto be) relatively open-ended: “Do you want to go? If so, when? Howmuch will it cost?.. .the itinerary is yours to decide”.2°Empoweredby Willits and placed in a position of authority, Sauer makes hisclaims for the trip2’ and advises Willits against any mixing ofacademics with politics: the Latin Americans, he says, “will notrespect us if we dissemble political ends under academicmantles”.22 Willits in turn allows Sauer to present himself - ifmisguidedly - as disassociated researcher and distances him fromthe Foundation on the trip:“your study tour comes first - and any information for us isincidental. Our point of view is about this: you and the othersare not travelling as representatives of the Rockefeller Foundationor even under its auspices, but as scholars on leave from theiruniversities making their own scholarly studies andinvestigations. ,,23While in his professional correspondence - as evident in the abovequotations - Willits spoke often for himself and the Foundation(“our point of view...”; “let us share your ideas”), he identified19 p, Willits to Sauer, 8/2/41.20 p, Willits to Sauer, 21/4/41.21 For example, that he wants his son Jonathan to accompanyhim; that he wants one of his students, Robert Barlow, to be hisresearcher in preparation for the trip and so on.22 P, Sauer to Willits, 23/9/40.23 P, Willits to Sauer, 20/9/41.181more personally with Sauer at a different level.Although one of the Directors of a modern institution in New York,Willits shared with Sauer his sense of rural beginnings and, moreimportantly, his antimodernist leaning:“I wish you could see this spot, beloved of the Willits family.Out of my office window is the barn (this spot was the hen roostwhen the Hayes family lived here) . I can look at as fine a view asa man with the blood of farmers in his veins and some earlytraining as a geographer and as ornithologist could wish.”24There was thus an additional bond between Sauer in South Americaand Willits in the United States that allowed them - at leastimaginatively - to by-pass the more urbane image of the Foundation:“I too love the country as you do. You indicate yours by wanderingaround the old spots in Latin America; I make my little dailycontribution travelling an hour and a half. . . in order to sleep inthe woods and hear woodcocks.”25Sauer’s association with Willits was not, however, simply anavoidance strategy, distancing himself from Rockefeller rhetoric,but a stepping stone to an engagement with Foundation policy. Inhis personal notebook for the trip, Sauer reveals that he isrelying on Willits to work against the “block” of the Foundationand to push through the importance of cultural particularityagainst its universalising trend:“I wonder if I can make him see that these things - all of whichare only partly social sciences - are good to do. . . the factualequipment of the s.s. appears usually quite meagre and stereotyped,though his thinking apparatus may be excellent. The organisationof the RF may be a block - but Willits if anyone can get aroundthat. Wish I had comment on the dozen letters I have sent in thus24 Pc, Willits to Sauer, 9/9/42.25 pc, Willits to Sauer, 10/4/45.182far. . .1 am fighting something and I don’t know what, perhaps theconcept of the s.s. as normative without being aware that your normis what you desire. The low curiosity of the s.s. as compared tothe natural scientist is certainly mixed up in my attitude. Unableto be a philosopher and sceptical of persuasion by words, I’m stilltrying to write always an apology for culture history.”26The trip, for Sauer, thus aims to collect cultural facts and topersuade Willits and the Foundation of the casualties of anormative approach. The letters are not, then, as Robert West haswritten, Sauer’s “first impressions” or “andean reflections”27 butplanned comments with a transformative end in mind. Aiming hisargument at (and through) Willits, the weakest link in theFoundation’s chain, Sauer has an agenda of his own.Putting the contradictions of Sauer’s institutional context to oneside temporarily allows for a further exploration of the complexityof the trip. Not only did Sauer have to negotiate his positionvis-a-vis the Rockefeller Foundation, but he also had to maintainhis cultural agenda and apolitical stance in a new spatial(cultural) and temporal (political) context: South America inwartime. As shown below, Sauer’s positioning became even moreambivalent as a result.New space: a crisis of cultural confidenceIn only his second report to Willits from South America - still atsea - Sauer began his cultural “offensive”: airing his views onparticularity and providing a framework within which his letters26 5N21, p.2l27 West, 1982, op. cit., p.25.183should be read. Sauer was, he said, concerned about the way thesocial sciences and the Foundation regarded culture anddisappointed by their lack of curiosity:“I don’t think that there has been enough concern with theattitudes or values of the numerous peoples of the world. One ofthe things we most need is curiosity about other people and somecompetence to look at the world through their eyes. . .1 do insistthat there is too much in each of the social sciences that isegocentric, in terms of culture, and that it isn’t that kind of aworld. ,,28The “great mistake” for Sauer was the notion that “the data ofculture” could “be universalized as well as the data of thephysical sciences” •29However, despite such a strong textual advance on Foundationcultural policy - advising a move towards the “numerous peoples ofthe world” - Sauer found himself doubting his own ability to moveoutside Mexico:“As a physical geographer, I might, with sufficient preparation,undertake to study land forms or climate anywhere in the world;but as a cultural geographer, I cannot easily pass from one part ofthe world to another as a serious scholar. In one lifetime I maybridge the gap between my native culture and another, but hardly tomany others.”3°Travelling to South America, it seems, presented itself to Sauer as28 Sauer in West, ibid., p.15. This statement of Sauer’s seemsextremely progressive for his time: a push for the equality ofother ways of life over the cultural imperialism of the modernisingWestern world. Despite the critique aimed at Sauer in this chapterand the limitations (as we shall see later) of his attempts toreintroduce other cultures, this progressive side should not beoverlooked.29 Ibid., p.17.° Ibid., p.19.184a crisis of cultural authority. While- as we have seen in ChapterThree - through spatial and observational practices and sheerendurance Sauer considered himself a voice of authority in theMexican “field”, he did not feel that he could enter South Americanspace for the first time with the same legitimacy. Ironically forSauer, wanting to introduce cultural diversity against theuniversal, he found himself trapped by the particular time andspace of his “field”. In opposition to his authority in Mexico,Sauer thus articulated his self-doubt in the form of a reversepersona: the tourist, this time, rather than the fieldworker and aproblematic vision rather than the clarity of observation in the“field”. Scribbled (perhaps aptly) on the inside of Sauer’s SouthAmerican notebook, we find a less authoritative Sauerian stance:“You can’t answer anything but you can ask a lot of questions.”3’Not grand: tourMexico, as we saw in Chapter Three, was Sauer’s “field”, his realmof authority within which he was always the legitimate worker andnever the tourist. Sauer in South America, however, presents uswith an image that is much less grand. According to James Parsons,Sauer’s foray was a “reconnaissance” that he “obviously enjoyed”but was “in no sense fieldwork”.32 It seems that moving south in1942 was for Sauer a repositioning towards a less authentic, lessauthoritative stance. The geographer, we must remember, could notbe a “world tourist” travelling through many cultures and “knowing31 SN21, p.29.32 Parsons, pers. comm. (L) , op. cit.185only casually and doubtfully related things about any of them”.33While in the “field” in Mexico Sauer had the authority ofcumulative years of dwelling and travelling in the same territory,the trail in South America was taking him into new space and aterrain of uncertainty: thus, the South American experience, wroteSauer in his reports to Willits, was a only a “tour”.34In a complete contrast to his positioning in Mexico, Sauer thuswent on to claim the status of tourist for both himself and his sonJonathan. The Sauers, he wrote, were “rank tourists” in comparisonto the more sedentary and therefore more authoritative presence ofother academics in the area. The latter had the cumulativeknowledge and the endurance that the Sauers - who would “flit alongnorth by the end of the month” - did not have: this was not his,but their “field”.35 In Chile, Sauer thus associated himself withthe dwelling space of the tour rather than the hardship of thefield: “I almost fancied myself back at the Murray Hill Hotel”.36This self-positioning as tourist was not, however, completelycontinuous for Sauer. Although he never identified himself asSauer in Leighly, 1969, op. cit., p.362.Sauer in West, 1982, op. cit., p.l23.Ibid., p.79. Sauer, as we saw above, passed very quicklythrough certain countries, spending only a number of days in some.36 Ibid., p.61. Sauer’s association with the tour istextualised differently to Mexico in his South America notebook.We are shown the process of getting there rather than beginningwith the entrance to the “field”. Perhaps, then, the travellergeographer becomes fieldworker through the bounded fact-notes ofthe “field” whereas the traveller-tourist writes up his experiencein the open-ended narrative of the travelogue?186-c-I-C)Jc-t0CCDH-1JCDI-Cl)CF-’Q.I-><Cl)hCDCDCDF—CC)C)fI-C1CDII(0CDH-0CDCl)C)hiQI-CDNc-I-C)H-CD—ftftQQhU)OH1CDc-I--5H-IhHCl)ft0jIICDH-CDCl)HH-ftCDHCDftH-l-’--tH0HCD(CiDCDCD<H-t1HCl)CDC)ft0 dI-hpjCDJH-’U)PJ>‘CflCDft0-’PJfrc-I.P)Hg-D)C00pjl)ftFF-CDC)Cf)H-H-CFF—’hF-’0-PJC)c-I-si<ftCDpU)CDI--’CCl)c-ItI-)j0F’-CDH-C)I-H-jibI-H-HCD(0H-CDCDH-ft0-’ ZCC)c-ICDH-ftCDHI—hH-CDSCCDH-I-CD0H-Cl)I—’Hc-I-CD0-H-QiCDOC)ç-I-CDCHM-H-pi0-CD0CDU)•c-I-H-U)CDU)pJ0-’C0C)=CD0-F-’C)HO1ic-I<H-piF—-’CD0H-C)(l)WCDC)CCDOc-I-CD(0c-I-:Hp1<D)H-0C)CDC))pJCl)Cl)CiiCiiiH-0CD(I)HC)I—i,I---’l-c-I-Cl)1CDc-I-CC)CDI--’H-PiMP)I-H,F-’ft•HCDCDCD-l-H,0-’00c-I-CDc-I-HCDCDc-I-CD(0-c-Ic-I0piCDCD<c-I-ftHCDCl)0ftpiH-MH-0H-hpjc-I-CDC)Ci)CCF-’H-H-C)5ftH-H-H-CflftftU)CDC)0U)CftC)H,CCDH-IICDhF-’Q0_Pi Cl)ftH,Hpi1H-ftC)C)1OS0c-I-CDhH-ftMH-<c-ICDCD0H-Hc-IC!)CD ><CDH-MC)-ftCCl)-I—’CDH- ftC)00-’.c)H-CD-MC)‘CDP1c-I-H-0HU)P-ftH-C)CDCDU)P1C)CDF--’ft0-’CM0-’CDCJ)0-’5CDCCDH-H-hH-hC)H-ftU)CDCDfthCCD•c-I-P1HCCD0-’Cl)Cl)HCPCDftIhCCl)P)CDCD=I-l-’ HP)CP1U)Cl)F-PCDH-CDSFU)CDoHCl)P-IHCCl)-CDCDi—iCDH,0-’F-’--CDCF-’CDH-c-ICDpftCft-c-I-ftCl)CDP)P1hftH-0-’F-0-’oP1CDH-P(0Cl)F-’CDc-I-F-Cl)0-’Mft I-i—CDF-C)k<P1‘-<Mk<C)H-ftP1ftftCSH--CDC.QM CCDP1ftH-0)ft(QCCl)CDftxjftCCCDMiI-hCDQi[hPlhCftftIIH-CDCCDH H H (0Cr 0 Cr 0 i-ICo CD Cr 0 I-’Cl)ftCH-CDCDftHc-xJftCDMCDH C):ip-I’P1ft(0CD0)0-’CDPiftC)CDCDMMHH,CDMU).—]-ft H HCl)CD(0 CDCl)pj ftMCDsipiMC)C)-CD ftHP-ICl)’-d:-HCD(DCDHH-—c-ICl)CC)CDdCH-MSfthCDftCDCC]MH-CDCD J-_Qp1ftCD(flU)ft0-’C- c-IU)CDHP1HftpiHC)C)oP)1-0CDMO-’U)H-CDH-c-I-SP1k<H-0-’H-l.QCl)CDP1ftCC)WPC,HCDCftCCl)(0c-I-I-SMCDCDp1CDCDft’-<C-.CDCDU)CCDCDCDftCDh CCDH,c-I-H,Cl)Hc-ICDH‘<CDCDC!)P1CDCDMP1 U)Cl) 0 Cl) CD I- Cl) C) 0oIC)HftICD0IIXIftIU1Cl)flft-i-<CDjhHOQCl)Pihi—’PiZ3H-CDçiCl)CDpiH-HdCl)I-hCDH,(DCDHP’CDHH-EQCrftftSc::cDCDCl)Cl)Hi-H-Cl)HH-fttQH-CDtCl)H0HQiLICl)PiCl)CDhC)0-çtPJthctCDCDC)‘1--‘CDw(DC)C)rjHpCDHClCDQ0ftrtCD0çtCl)I-HH-ftCDi-i,0H-piCl)Cl)hhC)CDC)H-CDPJH-p1H50çrH-H,IC)Cl)I-PJ-CDH-ftctHQijct•ftCDCl)P1C=Cl)Cl)HC)H-Cl)CDCrft0CDC)H-0Cl)HHCl)P10‘•dCDSHp1H:p-CDHP1ftCl)---H-H-H-Cl)H,CDp1C)—1HCl)k<CrrnH-H,r-H-C)0Cr‘•dçtI-P1P1‘-CDCDH-P1CD Cl) H-Pp1.c-Cl)H-Cl);sH1CDHLICI-H-C)I•tJl.QU)h0pi0CDH,Cl)c-I-C)Cl)H-W—Cl)0C)Hft50H-oCD I-Cl)HSH-C)plP1C)CDp1--CDHCl)CD0H-p1ft51-1H-CDH-Cl)CDCDCDCDCDCl)-H-ftCl) CI-Cl)CDHCl)H-ClCDH-CDH-ftH,-Cr0H-?-•0H-Hp1H-CDHH,H-H,Cl-;CDCl)HftH-CDS H-l-;HCDP1Cl)H CDHP1H-o-SH,H()Cl)Cr‘-‘Cl)NH-CDC)00T‘1-—CDCDH-CD><CD0hH-C)---0P—U)Cl)P1—P1CD-0I-CDH,‘1:U)H-H-CDftftftCD0HCl)hCDH-5ftH-CD0Cl)0ftH,pjp1H-HCl)ftk<HC)H-h0ft‘-0Cl)CrH-C)r-tftH-‘<i-iCD--0H-- CDP10 ftp1P-,H-H00hCl)CD;;‘sftp1CD0PCrH,<C) (j_ C)ftCl)0C)t:Ijl-p1p1‘1P1-ftHCl)C)k<U)H-0P1 H Cl)H-0H P1Cl-CDC) CDCDLIH-Cl)Cl)rrCDP1Cl)c-rH-CDCl)ft-P-.H,P1HU)Hp1-Cr HplCD0Cl)I-p14..I—HHU) 1H-H-0-,0CD•-I- H-0D0CD-Cl) ftP1H 0N0 C) H- ft —1 U,H-0 00 C) H Cr0HH-H,CDCDP1U)Cl)C)ftc-rH-510-Q-l-ftdpiQrhp1CDh‘d0-0-CDHZCDH-CD1QftH-P1-’CDCDHP1jpi-k<<(QCCfl0-,C) ftC)P10C)CDOp-,pi5H,5F-ft0HQ-H0H-hCDP1H-C)Ct)ftSP1P1ftHf-r=CDCDft01CD0-U)I—’0HCDP1H-- P1‘-0I--Cl)CDP1ftH0CDCDSH,CDCl)H-tj.0CDftft-CD1H-CDC)CDH-’l-QP1C0CrI-Cl)ftH.k<H-ftP1Cl)Cl)Cl)k<CDP1H-Cl)ftC)H000H-Ci)C)CrCD0Cl)CDCDCD-ftH,HCDH-H,H-H0CDP1HftCl)H,CDrH-CDH10piH-CDftI- 0j(QC)H,Cl)CDHftCrH-3CDCr0Cl)0-S0CDCDWithout the security of the science of observation of the field,Sauer has to come down (at least partly) from his vantage point andadmit (if reluctantly) that his vision is unclear.45As with the rhetoric of the tour, however, Sauer remains ambiguous.With some security - perhaps from Mexico as basis for comparison46-Sauer accompanies his doubts with cultural synopses. In Callao,Sauer finds cultural “pallor common”: the people “soft spoken” and“much given to the use of their arms in speech”,47 whereas theChilotes, on hearsay, are “very moral and industrious”, owningtheir land and feeding themselves.48 Sauer sets up a hierarchy ofcultures, his most frequent comparison being that between Mexicoand Chile in which the Chileans are the seen as the “extreme ofrace” and their language “vile”:“With the wisdom of my three days’ experience in Chile, I’drather be a Mexican; that is partly because I think the Mexicanenjoys life more.. .These Chilenos are dapper and disciplined, butthey are not lusty, like my Mexicans. (I see I’m getting in deeperand deeper, so here goes off the deep end.) They dress carefully,they run their trains on time, they don’t bay at the moon. . .‘ Although Sauer’s views lack clarity, however, this does notmean that he does not still aspire to the “vantage point view”. Inopposition to the “vantage points” in Sauer’s Mexican notebooks,Sauer’s vision is often unclear in his South American notes. Saueris more speculative and imaginative, uncertain of what he sees fromthe ship and also mists often obscuring his view.46 This notion of Mexico as secure basis for authority is, ofcourse, itself spurious: as we saw in Chapters Three and Four,Sauer’s created authority in the “field” was not without itsloopholes.Sauer in West, 1982, op. cit., p.122.48 Ibid., p.53.Ibid., p.27.189Thus, despite his lack of descriptive authority on new ground,Sauer attempts a cultural commentary.Although Sauer’s self-doubt is not absolute, its expression astourist “scratching” at culture feeds into a wider anxiety in theletters as to the Foundation’s use of his ideas. Sauer reiteratesto Willits that he is “just the impressionist now, watching thefaces, the gaits, the gestures, the remarks that are passed..he cannot be a serious scholar in unknown space and limited time:“I’m just giving you my mixed reactions as they come along. It isimpossible to come here, a complete stranger, and size up theintellectual currents properly in a few days.”51When Willits writes to Sauer that he has shown the letters to hisacquaintances, Sauer fills his response with qualifiers and drawsin full on the imagery of his hasty touristic passage throughSouth America and his inadequacy as a painter of culture:“I am very pleased to get your letter, and pleased no end to hearthat you have found things worthwhile in my observation. I hopethat these friends of yours who have seen my letters will not getthe idea that Sauer makes rash and sweeping generalisationswherever he alights in his hasty passage through Andean lands.There is, I think, some value to first impressions, if they areunderstood as being only such. The business of appraising theworth of individuals is mostly beyond the possibilities of such areconnaissance trip. Sometimes I think that even the matter ofmaking notations on the intellectual atmosphere of a place ispretty presumptuous. In apology, I can say that I think I do havea comparative basis out of my long Mexican experience, and that Ishould have some ability to understand not only what is being saidbut what is being meant. It is all pretty sketchy, however, and Ido not have too much confidence in the sketches I have tried todraw. . . It all seems pretty futile at times, but I know of nothingelse to do than expose these impressions, with almost constant° Ibid.51 Ibid., p.37.190misgivings, as recording my reconnaissance.”52Sauer’s cultural impressions, as we have seen above, are indeed“sweeping generalisations”- in more ways than one, as I will show- and, as we shall see later in politicising Sauer, his cautionagainst the interpretation of his sketches as fact is extremelyprophetic. Here, however, we turn to a second round of self-doubt:from Sauer’s spatial-cultural dilemma to his temporal-political -the separation of academics and politics contemporary with WorldWar Two.Now time: a crisis of political abstinenceSauer’s early reports to Willits were not only a forum for hiscultural agenda but also for his views on the separation ofacademics from politics. The realm of the scholar, wrote Sauer,had to be divorced from that of the state - the worlds of Caesarand God could not be allowed to meet:“My view of the scholar’s obligations is that he should ‘renderunto Caesar the things that be Caesar’s but that his primaryconcern be not with them.”53The primary concern of the scholar was a non-aligned search forTruth, itself “neither a belligerent nor a tribal god”. There wasa need for “detached observers” to take “the long view and the coolview”, scholars who could be objective and stand away from the52 Ibid., p.85.PC, Sauer to Willits, op. cit., 23/9/40. This isreminiscent of the Mennonites and their rejection of Caesar, thestate.191“thick of the strife”.54Here, Sauer was not speaking generically, simply reliving his oldapolitical theme, but had a specific subtext to his commentary: thepolitical moment of the Second World War. The United States hadjust entered the War and were battling in the Pacific as Sauersailed slowly through on “The Imperial”55 on his way to SouthAmerica. Therefore, for Sauer, it was not only imperative that hereturn to his apolitical refrain but that he also insist on his owndistance from the contemporary “strife”. The world of the present,wrote Sauer, was not “exciting” for him; the events were not“tangible”, the “business” too unreal for him to think withawareness of the United States at war.56 Couching the politicalcontext in euphemism, he refused to think of it head-on:“The warm Pacific is swishing by my porthole and it is time to goup and see if there are any signs of lower life on the deep, orperchance, and we hope not, of that higher form that is rumoured asbeing about on unpacif Ic business.”57and, writing to Willits from South America, he claims escape: “Weare far out of your world.”58Sauer in West, 1982, op. cit., pp.13-14.This ship is quite ironically named considering Sauer’sdenial of the political nature of his travel.56 Sauer in West, 1982, op. cit., pp.9-la.Ibid., p.15.58 Ibid., p.33. Sauer turns instead to his book, The goldenbough: its consideration the whole world and human time perhapsallowing him to escape the here and now of the North Pacific. Thenotion of fieldworkers taking refuge in literature is not novel -see Geertz discussion of Malinowski, op. cit., p.74.192C)CJQH,Q0CD‘1CDH-CDC!)0I-QC)HCD-ciH-ciH’CDI—IHIc-rJci‘-<CDH-H--CDHciCUC)•CUH-HCDCDH-CDHH•w HH-H-CDCDCD HCU HCDC)CDp0CDC)CliH,<0H-CDCDCDH,C)C)C)0CUCDCDH-HCDC)CUC)ciCDHMHCDCliH-0HciH-H-C)CDC)ci00CUCDCDH-lH,CDH-ciCDCDQCliH-3H-ciciCDCDC)-IQCDCDHciiCl)CUQciC)H-Cl)CUCUH,<ci0CDCD0C)-CDH,H-0CDCUHhci0HH’CD0HC”ci0‘dCliciI-I-0H’Cl)ciCDCDCDHCD-0H I-’ CD CD H CD ‘1 CDH wC)CliQC)Q=Cl)ddh3H-bCD0CD0H,CU000oCDCliCDC’CDCDl-HCDCDH-CDH’CDI-H-CDciH-ciH-ciCDCDCDH-CDCDCDl-CUciCUciI-H-ci<CDCDCU0<HH-H-bHCDCDCDCDC)H-0ciH-C)I-‘-0CDCl)HCUI—’-QHCD-oCDH-‘<HH-C)0H-Hci-H-HCDCli0H-<CUH,CDCDCD:CUCD3HQClicicici-CUHICDH-CUCDCl)-CD0ciH-ciH-H-Q0C)hH-CDciCDciciCD•0H,0CD0HCD0Z3CDH-CDCDCDCliHI- H-HCDCDCDC)CliciCl)CDoH-CDciCDCliHciCUHôhCDciH0H-0ci-H-ciCDH-H-CliCDCDH-CDCDHCD--H‘-.CD‘ciCDCD0ciciCDCUCU><CDC)CDCDH-C”H-CDCDCUH-0CDci0CD<CDI-H,CliCDH-CliH-Cl)ClipCDH,Cl)0H,PCliH-CDCDHCDH-0H--CliCDICDCDHCD-CUHH-CDCDCU C)H,CUCUCDCDHCDCliccCD-ClciH-CUH-IQCDCDCli0HciCUCDCDH-S()H-CDCDCDHH-H,ci<1H,CDH,CliC)c-I-H-k<CDCDC)CDCDCDHCD0H-0CDCDHciHCDH,5H-CliCDH-H-0CDH-CD<0ciH,Cl)I-QCDCDciCUCDH-CDCl)Cli-CDCDIQIICDH-HCDciCliCDClCl0CUCDCUCDCDH-CDciCU0H0i-H-0CDHCliCDH-CDbhzCDHCliCliCDCDciH,SciQci-CUCDH-H-ociciC)C)ClilCDCUF-’ClCUCDCDCD5H-ciCDCD0CUH’0CDciCDH,CUCU0dci<H,CUC)H,H,ci0CliH-C)CDCD0CDH,H0l-H-ci--hC)ciH-I-H’HCDciCDCU-ci0‘-<CDciCDCDCUCDCDCDICDStendency towards an “egocentric” perspective. He thus positionedhimself in opposition as “cultural discoverer” of South Americarather than representative of American intellectual dominancecarrying the “academic torch” to the south. As part of thispositioning, Sauer used his reports to Willits as a vehicle forreinstating “Indian” cultures against “white dominance” andprotecting academic traditions- for Sauer, very much a part ofcultural particularity - against American intellectual inroads.Passing through the countries along the west coast of SouthAmerica, Sauer frequently gave articulation in his reports to thecause of “Indian” populations holding out against “white” culture.As in Mexico, Sauer shows himself concerned with native resistanceversus the modern: aware (even ashamed) of the atrocities of thepast, he places hope in preservation in the future. In Cuzco inthe Peruvian Highlands, Sauer feels:.a little like the apostle Paul must have felt about theMacedonian Christians. This is the heart of Quechua country, thisis the seat of Incaland; the Indian has taken and is taking aterrible beating from the white man and the latter’s civilisation”,but maintains that:“. . .they are badly bent but not broken.. .Cuzco may yet beoccidentalised, but I’m betting against it. The white man has hadhis will of the Indian of the altiplano for 400 years, and much ofit has been and is shocking. But here... 400 years are not enoughto give assurance that the white man has the requisite stayingpower. ,,61Down on the Peruvian coast, Sauer later “discovers” a pocket of61 Ibid., p.77.194“Indians” - “scarcely cross-bred” - which he has never heard of andhe feels has never been studied: here is a “going culture”, an“authentic culture” that has to be maintained.62 Similarly, inBolivia, Sauer finds four fifths of the population to be “pureIndian”: vital, confident and far from being “deculturated”:• .the personality is not dragged out of these people; your eye iscaught by the interesting and alert faces. There is meaning in thepersistence of beautifully woven costumes; these people will nothide themselves in the white man’s shoddy or cast-off clothing.”63Finally, in Ecuador - to his preservationist delight - Sauer spots“Indians. . .on every road” and writes to Willits of theiraccessibility: “I can go round the corner from my room and bringyou an Indian with his hair in a braid in three minutes.MFaced with such cultural persistence, Sauer pushes for the academicstudy of “Indian” populations, criticising what he sees as puristintellectuals who are not interested in such issues and impressingthe value of those that are, for example Don Ricardo Donoso,Director of the National Library and Archives in Santiago, who:“Came to Chile at 19 to do engineering.. . got interested in theArancanians - lived with them. .made love to their girls. . .proud ofthe fact that he really lived with the Indians. .His ethnologicinterest was by direct and close association with the Indians.”6562 Ibid., p.125.63 Ibid., p.72.64 Ibid., p.l06 There are, of course, problems with Sauer’sfocus on the dignity, purity and authenticity of “Indian” cultures.As in Mexico, the questions of romanticisation - the “noble savage”- and essentialisation are crucial but, since they were explored inthe last chapter, are here left relatively undeveloped.65 SN21, p12.195Sauer is concerned about countries like Bolivia with a “largelyunstudied. . . . culture” where the “Indian” has not yet been“discovered” intellectually: the “literate Bolivian”, he claims,has not yet learned to articulate “his homeland”. At the sametime, however, given what he sees as the “unspoiled” nature of“Indian” culture, Sauer finds himself “not even sure that theAmericans or anyone else should move in on them”:66“Here lies appeal and risk. The appeal is that of a largelyunstudied country and culture, of an economically largelyundeveloped land. The risk is in such persons as the universitypresident who is building a modern skyscraper. . . “This notion of “Americans” moving in was not only an issue forSauer in relation to “Indian” populations but a threat to SouthAmerican cultural variety as a whole. In his recommendations inhis reports to Willits, Sauer continually criticises a strategy ofAmerican academic imperialism which would wipe out local ways ofthinking and reduce diversity: the answer, he says, is not “byus”.68 Sauer thus advises Willits to support local intellectualdevelopment in situ rather than an overdominance by, or atransplanting to, the United States. The locals, Sauer feels, havean insider perspective and a preparation for the conditions and66 Sauer in West, 1982, op. cit., p.108. It is typical ofSauer’s self-positioning that he does not include himself here asan American moving in on other cultures. Sauer sees himself aspassing through with no transformative potential and therefore thefact that he has “been having the time of his life. . . from grandeeto pigtailed Indian” does not, for him, sit uncomfortably with hiscritique of American intervention.67 Ibid p7268 Ibid., p.81.196kind of work that is necessary: “We can’t all”, he reminds Willits,“graduate from Harvard or Chicago and sit in the seats of theelect”.69 In fact, Sauer is critical of American-led efforts todate in South America, in particular the Andean Institute which, hefeels, “muffed its opportunity . . .woefully .. .because it wasthinking of jobs for Americans and benefits to Americaninstitutions” :70“These fellows have come down supplied with money for field work,automobiles, living conditions, demonstrating that the US is theland of incredible wealth. They have done almost nothing inpicking up potential native archaeologists or ethnologists andgiving them a year’s experience, and they have hardly blocked outor tied into a feasible local program of investigation. It hasbeen a great year of the American youngsters, but that is aboutall. . .None of these things seem to me to be a workable bridge tothe future. Nor does it seem to me that there is a very goodanswer in general in bringing the natives single or in groups tothe United States.”71Similarly, in Chilo& Sauer is critical of American agriculturalinterests that are threatening the local:“The littler agricultural group imitates the bigger one. I fearthat if you get enough Cornell and California trainedagriculturalists down here in South America you will wipe out thethousands of years of plant breeding.”72For Sauer, the United States is far better off using its planespace to send down academic aid - “editions of good Americanreference books and less-than-the-latest microscope” - than the69 Ibid., p.108.70 Ibid., p.87.71 Ibid., p.81.72 Ibid., p.53. Agricultural history went on to be Sauer’smain interest in the Mexican “field” in the late 1940s.197aM.HHHHH-H-H-HHWUiHo0Ui•WHd1Qftftp.C)ftdC)HI’jCD0I-ct0JH-H)0Cl)H-C)00H,IiiftHH-0CDC)U)U)HH-dH0H-CDHI-IH-CDCD)CDH-tCD<CDhH-H-11.1.Ct-CDH-I-jftCDCDU)CDft0Ic-i-0-H,H-H-U)HH-Cl)IHC)Hhc-t-0Cl)C)(1)JCDCi)ftH-CtICDPiU)CDCDCDIIU)QftH-0CDpiCtIi-’‘-<IftHf-tHCD-ftCDCt1HpiHH-CtH-H0U)0<1CDCDH-H-CDCr-:)‘ImpjH,pj0H-H,HLi.C)0H,CDC)ftU)H,p.CDH-CDIi-CDftiIHH-H-Cl)CD0CDCDCDHft-U)10hp.hH-CDHI-0P)U)U)H-HPiH-H-H-U)C)ftftCDpPJCDH-QPiHtcCtpjC)ftftU)<1CDHCDHCDftp.CDC)U)CD-HCDCDp.p.H-Cl)U)bH-H,H-U)CDp.H-CDCDCDftQft0i-H-CDp.H-HCDCV0p.CIH,gQU)piI-H-IIp.CDp.H,CDCDHft0CDHH-H-H•ftCDH,HU)•0U)U)CDH-IiVQ-H,gU)CD•f-tC)U)CDftH-ft-H-H-CDtCtp.U)ftU)HHCDCDH0CDU)CDftp.p.CV-H-H,H.QU)H-U)CDCDCDHftHLIIHCDCDH-HCDpiCDp.CVH-H-H-CVCD0CtCtCDU)p.jU)diHftpiH<1H,H-CtCt--CVQCDpi‘<CDpiU)HCDCDHCtHCVH-p.r-rpjCDCD0H,1<p.Cl)p.H-H-H-H-p.HU)HCDCDU)rn0H-H-U)U)U)0C)H-pCtC)0U)H-CDSCD-QP1PH,H-ftCiiHCDHftHCDCDCiiH,C)HCDH-H-U)pil-i-C)op.U)CDU)CVp.CDCDCDp.U)C)H-CtCiihCiiCtCDp.0p.<CDH-HP-0p.0h-(j)CDCDSpiHCDc-tCDp.p.0H-H--Hp.H-CDCDtYC)CiiH-HH,CDU)c-tpiU)H-U)CD‘p.CD<ftCDCDCDU)p.Hp.H-C)H-U)P1hHH-C)CDH-1C)U)CDCDCDpiCDU)CDU)CDCi)C)tH,C!)HftCDCDftbCD0HH,Ci)ftCiiH,CD0H-CDH,iCi)0I-QQ-H-CDp.CDhCDCiiCiip.Ci)U)hU)H,iU)ftU)CDI-ftPiHEven more to their credit in Sauer’s mind, Concepc±n and Quitoseem to hold out against American academic imperialism and retaina sense of distinction. Sauer writes of Concepcion that:“there is fruitful soil. . .There are biologists who work withanthropology. There is Atenea, which touches intellectually on allLatin America. There is an awareness of problems of culturehistory. There are good scientific habits and a researchatmosphere”77and, most pertinently, that “there is an awareness of a particularland and its people”. Similarly, the “cult” of American academicsis out of place in Quito and this particularity, for Sauer, hasappeal:“two young holders of fellowships in social sciences from theUS. . .practitioners of a strange cult, which the natives did notunderstand, and the meaning of which was in reality lost whenpractised in the midst of a culture completely foreign to the youngdisciples. ,,78Perhaps encouraged by his discoveries in Concepcin and Quito,Sauer went on to reinforce the boundary between academics andpolitics in his final report to Willits. Written from Berkeley(“turning over in my mind the past few days”) , Sauer’s “summarystatement” maintained the importance of “disinterested and freeintellectual exchange”. It also, however - perhaps boosted by thenew-found intellectual freedom of South America - defined theRockefeller “mission” in favour of “common intellectual interests”and positioned the Foundation apolitically:‘ Ibid., p.52. Atenea is perhaps the title of an academicjournal.78 Ibid., p.105.199“The Rockefeller Foundation holds a position of advantage over anyother organisation. It is not constrained by political ends as areGovernment agencies. It is not restricted by charter as is, todate, the Guggenheim Foundation. It has, moreover, an enviablereputation throughout Latin America. It is not suspect of ulteriormotives. . .Thus, through his journey in South America, Sauer returned not onlywith the discovery of an apolitical academic “home” (Concepci6n,Quito) but also having purged the Foundation of any politicalaffiliation.Sauer, it seems - at least in his reports - felt satisfied withmapping South America as culturally diverse and intellectually freeand positioning himself, by association, as particularist and nonaligned.80 The boundaries, however, cannot be so clearly defined.If Sauer managed to overcome his cultural and political doubts -his fear of “rash generalization” and the impossibility of the“detached observer” - they can be recaptured as prophesy and usedto re-read Sauer’s cultural commentary and his positioning on thetrip. In this way, Sauer is made to cross the divide and isbrought closer to the universal, political and intellectuallydirected climate of the Foundation than his initial self-posit ion±ng allows.Mister universal?Ibid., p.127.80 In fact, however, Sauer’s notion of the culturally diversewas itself highly political - the notion of the importance of the“Indian” cause, of the battle of the local versus the United States- and therefore Sauer was politicising himself, mixing academicsand politics, at the same time that he was declaring (and findinghope in) parts of South American academia politically free.200Offering up his cultural-academic comments in his reports, Sauerwrote to Willits:“You will see that my mind works along descriptive-comparativelines, not along the lines of what is in the strict sensegeneralization. ,,81Sauer, as we have seen, considered himself simply the“impressionist”, presenting the particulars of South American space- the cultural and academic facts - as they came his way. However,bringing together Sauer’s recommendations - the “Indian” cause, thelocal intellectual, the “free” university - we begin to get asense of an underlying generalization, one particular spatial troperecurring again and again: the capital/province division, a closerelative of the by now overfamiliar city/country refrain.In his reports, Sauer becomes quickly frustrated with the capitalcities of South America: La Paz is dismissed as “go-getter” and“professional” with “the skyscraper... a proper symbol of what isin the making”82 and Lima, “urban and urbane” - “another capitalthat is growing furiously” - is similarly chastised.83 Santiago inChile is also for Sauer a “smug little metropolis” to which he willonly give a limited amount of time: “I’ll give it the once over andthen we’ll see the provinces”.84 Sauer’s rhetoric even precedeshis travel at times, his spaces of the imagination biasing him81 Ibid., p.47.82 Ibid., pp.67-S.83 Ibid., p.86.84 Ibid., p.25.201against the cities:“I keep inagining that I am seeing the Mexico of the glitteringdays of Diaz. However, we have barely arrived, and I should haveno opinions as yet.”85By way of contrast, Sauer claims that the provinces are morereadable - “in a short time I can get more out of the provincialpicture than from the capitals”.86 Sauer advises Willits to markPopayan in “with a red X” on his map “for the best of Hispanicprovincialism”.87 Similarly, Sucre is superior to La Paz in/ /Bolivia, Medellin to Bogota in Colombia and Cuzco in Peru to Lima -the provinces continually triumph over the capitals.Sauer’s reports thus begin to fit into a wider pattern. The“Indian” populations are associated with the provinces, providinga cultural (and premodern) alternative to the cities. In the sameway, provincial intellectual efforts are championed over thecapitals: the prized University of Concepcin “at the farthest endof the civilised world” and “a far cry from. . .metropolitanSantiago”.88 Concepcin is also appealing for its “Indian” countryto the south and “Frontera” of German farmers close by: thecultural mix (remember Mexico) should be familiar. It is Sauer’s85 Ibid., p.68. The “days, of ]Dlaz” refer to a period ofMexican history under Porfirio lDiaz (1876-1911) when the focus wasvery much outwards towards the United States, emphasising goodeconomic relations, American investment and also an Americanpresence in Mexico (See Deplar, op. cit., p.1).86 Sauer in West, 1982, op. cit., p.88.87 Ibid., p.114.88 Ibid., p.52.202passage to the premodern continued.In a resurfacing of Sauer’s antimodern rhetoric and spaces, then,the modern and political cities are rejected in favour of theprovinces where the authentic cultures and the true craftsmen- the“academic folk”89- can be found. What we find, therefore, is thatSauer, although presenting his findings as particularity - inopposition to the universal orientation of the Foundation -is infact falling back on his own universal theme. As in Mexico, thecity and country trope (read: modern displacement) enters intoSauer’s work and allows him to position himself on the antimodernedge. The boundary between Mexico and South America, it seems,disappeared, all becomes a question of urbanity: where theparticularist now?“The urbanity of the capital, Mexico, Santiago, Lima, Bogot, butif you do run across someone who can tell the difference between apiece of work and a flourish he’s not likely to belong to theurbanity. I may be extreme on the subject, but I do know my Mexicoand the rest are much like it.”9°Perhaps in the face of the difficulties of moving authoritativelyfrom Mexico to South America - the problem of to speak aboutnew cultures and new spaces - a return to the known was the only,if unconscious, alternative. On the other hand, as I have beenarguing all along, Sauer’s work was never separate from his own“passage to premodernity” and, in this sense, South America becomesanother form of cultural and academic antimodern “home”. It is89 Ibid., p.97.° Ibid., p.117.203perhaps for this reason that, although Isabel Kelly wrote to Sauer:“Please come back to Mexico. Don’t be a dodo and bite on S.America; better return here, where you know the terrain, the peopleand the history: and where you can do a real job without having tostart from scratch. What’s the point in building up such abackground as you have if you’re not going to put it toconstructive use?”91,for him, South America had appeal. It was not, I think, just aquestion of authority.Repositioning: departure, lourney, returnSauer’s “provincial enthusiasm” in South America, as in Mexico, notonly allowed him to claim a form of cultural and academic “home”but also to push politics into the cities and declare himself aspolitically “free”. “I may once more tell you”, he wrote toWillits, “that I don’t like the capitals”: there the “politicalslickers, the good time charleys, the hangers-on” - “the gravytrain”, Sauer felt, rolled “merrily in the political centers”.92This self-positioning, combined with the earlier sense ofseparation from the Foundation and the presentation of theFoundation as working without “political ends”, allowed Sauer toset himself up firmly amidst an apolitical context interested onlyin research.We do, however, have to return to Sauer’s earlier doubts: theimpossibility of an innocent positioning in such an “emotionallycharged” situation. To begin with, the Rockefeller Foundation was91 PC, Kelly to Sauer, 20/7/40.92 Ibid., p.123.204not so distanced from Government work (politics, the state: Caesar)as Sauer supposed. During the War, American geopolitical concernswith hemispheric defense had turned foreign policy towards SouthAmerica to further the Allied cause, and Roosevelt’s “GoodNeighbour Policy” sought to develop close economic and culturalties with the continent. As part of the “Good Neighbour Policy”,Roosevelt had formed an Office of Coordination of Inter-AmericanAffairs, of which Nelson Rockefeller was the head. Thus theRockefeller Foundation, moving south to assess its continentalneighbour, was part of this strategic effort. In fact, while Sauerdescribes those funded by the Foundation in South America in 1942as a “curiously assorted lot”, there was a very definite theme toselection if the contemporary political climate is taken intoconsideration. Of the three others, one was a historian working onthe background of the Monroe Doctrine (the United Statesdeclaration of hegemony over the Western hemisphere) ; the second ageographer working on the acculturation of Japanese immigrants inLatin America (Pearl Harbour was bombed by the Japanese on December7, 1942) and the third an anthropologist working on the Negro inBrazil (at a time when the “Negro” was being integrated into thewartime workforce of the United States) . With this context inmind, Sauer’s opinion of the Foundation as without “political ends”becomes tenuous at best.93This political background to Sauer’s South America trip isrelegated by West to footnotes. However, as can be seen here, byallowing it to stand against the nature of the trip, we come to adifferent reading of Sauer from that presented by himself and theFoundation.205If the above begins to connect the Rockefeller Foundation withUnited States foreign policy, it does not fully reposition Sauer,i.e. associate him with the politics of both Foundation andGovernment in turn. At the outset, by way of implication, Sauer’sexploration of the social sciences can be seen as integral to theUnited States’ cultural-political relations with Latin Americadiscussed above. However - beyond this - a second reading of theearly correspondence with the Foundation shows in what ways thelatter provided the political framework for Sauer’s trip to SouthAmerica and allows us to reconceptualise Sauer as privileged(directed?) traveller rather than wanderer from the wayside.While, as we have seen, correspondence with Willits emphasised theapolitical, non-aligned nature of Sauer’s travel, the Foundationwas in fact ever-present in issues of access, financial fluidityand mobility and, most importantly, in the aftermath of the trip.Here - in the absence of Willits and in spite of his own self-positioning - Sauer is reconnected with the Foundation asinstitution and reassociated with Government, Washington and themodern. Thus, through departure, journey and return, Sauer’spoliticization is also spatialised.DepartureIn keeping with his independent stance, Sauer’s correspondence fromFoundation officials truncated Rockefeller involvement in the SouthAmerica trip. Sauer was informed that his funds would begin onOctober 1, 1942, that his conditions were accepted and that beyondthat there was “nothing the Rockefeller Foundation” could “do in an206official capacity to facilitate” his trip.94 On the 18 December1941, however, Sauer was issued a “pax romana” by the CatholicUniversity of America in Washington DC: a letter which gave himintroduction to key Catholic academics and universities in theAndean countries who would best give him information on the stateof the social sciences.95 This, it seems, was only part of theadministrative baggage that the Foundation provided for Sauer priorto departure on his trip. Further investigation shows that visaswere secured for Sauer from the United States-based Consul-Generalsfor the destination countries in addition to documents for freedomof mobility from internal authorities. The Minister for ExternalRelations in Colombia marked Sauer and his son Jonathan with a“RECOMENDAR DE MANEPA ESPECIAL” (a special recommendation) andrequested:“a las autoridades extranjeros de los lugares por donde tuvieronque pasar los mencionados senores Sauer, les presten todos losauxilios y facilidades de los que ellos tuvieren necissidad en eltranscurso de su viaje, a fin de que puedan llevar a cabo sucometido.”96Representatives of the Foundation also supplied Sauer with contactsin the countries he was to visit and compiled a list of people whoknew of his impending trip.97 In this sense, Sauer was already wellOC, Paine to Sauer, 22/10/41.DC, Catholic University of America to Sauer, 19/12/41.96 DC, Ecuador Ministerio de Relaciones Exteriores to Sauer,25/5/42. Translation: “that the foriegn authorities of the placesthrough which the aforementioned Sauers have to pass allow them allthe help and facilities that they require in the process of theirtravel so that they can bring their task to fruition.”OC, Kittridge to Sauer, 5/12/41. Sauer did seem to contactmost of these people on the trip.207under the umbrella of the Foundation before he even left the UnitedStates. Thus, while Sauer maintains an air of mystery anduncertainty prior to his trip:“My friends the Mexicans like to use the word ‘pendiente’, which isa little more earthy than ‘the lap of the gods’. I am going ahead,‘pendiente’ ,98he was in fact “going ahead” in the lap of the Foundation as wellas that of the gods.JourneyIn his notebook for the South American trip, Sauer complains aboutthe difficulty and hardship of travel: he finds he is alwaysnegotiating for a way around bottlenecks that obstruct his ease ofmovement. Sauer’s itinerary appears to be affected by the roadconditions and the delays in South America and he continually hasto make arrangements and decisions about travel:“Trying to find ways of going north. The situation reported asfollows - no berth on railway train until March 9, no place onplane until March 9, no place on boat until March 11 (+ 15O for deluxe suite) . .This is transportation in Chile.. .Sauer is not, however, alone in his attempts to overcome suchdifficulties - the “magical name” of the Rockefeller Foundation isalways at hand. One of Sauer’s reports to Willits, which Westcalls “transportation problems in northern Peru”, is an excellentexample of this facilitated travel of the Sauers.’°° Trying to98 PC, Sauer to Willits, 9/5/41.5N21, p.31.‘°° Sauer in West, 1982, op. cit., p.95.208“bridge the gap” between Peru and Ecuador, in the shadow of the warbetween these two countries, Sauer writes “we were the first peoplesince the war who had even thought of getting across thisborder.101 Sauer’s connections, however, “smooth the way”.’°2 InTumbes, Sauer has a recommendation to the United States Attache andis “passed along a line of officials and given every facility”.’03Later, he dines with the boss of International Petroleum (an oldschoolmate from Chicago) and then retraces his steps to Talarawhere a known Canadian official finds him emergency lodging. Sauerand son then take up two places on a plane to Guayaquil, Ecuador,made vacant by officials flying with the President (Prado) of Peru.Finally, in Guayaquil, Sauer reuses the Rockefeller name to getmoney from the bank: “change in our pockets.. .we can begin tocirculate about town”.104Thus, although Sauer positions himself individually in SouthAmerica - he is, it is true, “there” - he is accompanied from adistance institutionally by the Foundation. However, in findingthe whole situation “miraculous” and reconstituting his privilegeas chance, Sauer further silences this guiding Rockefeller hand.ReturnThe Sauer letters, according to West, made an immediate hit among101 Ibid., p.96.102 Ibid., p.93.103 Ibid., p.96.104 Ibid., p.95.209the Rockefeller personnel in New York and were circulated among itskey figures. Walter Steward, the Chairman of the Board ofTrustees, regarded them as having “spice, flavour anddiscrimination”, while Willits himself commented on their“sagacious wisdom and scholarly awareness” and wrote to Sauer oftheir public success:“At the long table in the Rockefeller Foundation restaurant todaythe subject of discussion was “Carl Sauer’s letters” from LatinAmerica. This is just one sample of the many minds you havestimulated by your penetrating comments of people and institutionsalong the West coast of Latin America.”05Although the Foundation as a whole provided a reception for Sauer’stextual return, there was - at least initially - some mediation byWillits as the “face”. Picking up on the positioning prior toSauer’s departure, Willits can be seen again to offer Sauer a senseof independence and to prioritise his, rather than theFoundation’s, ideas. Rereading the letters at home, Willitsappears to have been persuaded by Sauer’s agenda and is ready towork against the block of the Foundation:“You with your seeing eye have given a perfect demonstration of theway in which Foundations should work to seek out and discriminatebetween the truly intellectual and noble and the success boys whoride the band wagon. I don’t believe even you realise how powerfulthe pulls are (from without and from within) to ride with thepack” 106“Where”, he asks Sauer, “do we go from here?” This, however, as weshall see below, was a question that was out of Sauer’s hands: the105 Willits in West, 1982, op. cit., p.5.106 PC, Willits to Sauer, 11/7/42.210“pulls” to “ride with the pack” were indeed strong. While Sauerchose to position himself with Willits against the Foundation, hecould not prevent an alternative positioning by others: he, of allpeople, should have known that you cannot bound the trail.Safely home?“The greatest risk in Latin America is a mule, in my pastexperience, and this risk we dodged... (we are safely home)On August 7, 1942, Willits’ secretary, Janet Paine, wrote to Sauerin Willits’ absence that she was glad that he and Jonathan were“safely home”.108 Perhaps the greatest risks for Sauer, however,were those posed by the advent of his return. Arriving home, Sauerfound himself visited by representatives of the United StatesGovernment’s Board of Economic Welfare (BEW)109 and he wrote toPaine in some confusion:“It was a long rambling visit and I am not certain of the sequencesin it. However, Anderson said that they had to get their teethinto the problems that may become critical very promptly and thathe wanted my help because there was little known to them of theimmediate situation in these countries.””0Sauer’s obervations, he was told, were crucial, his cooperationwith the BEW necessary:107 oc, Sauer to Paine, 14/7/42.108 OC, Paine to Saue, 7/7/42.109 There is some confusion in the notes as to whether BEWstands for Board of Economic Welfare or Warfare. According to theRockefeller Archive Center in New York, it is the former, but insome of Sauer’s notes it appears as the latter. Perhaps anallusion to his political context?110 Sauer to Paine, 18/7/42.211“He said something to the effect that I should set down theseobservations. Unguardedly, and without thinking two moves ahead, Isaid that of course I had included them in my letters to Dr.Willits. ‘f”Anderson, maintaining that he had good relations with theFoundation, said that he would like to study Sauer’s letters whileSauer attempted to backtrack saying they were “personal reports”and not written for “wider scrutiny”. Here, however, Sauer wasbeing read as representative of the Foundation and being tied intoa network that operated at an institutional rather than a personallevel. Realising that his own authority and his link with Willitswere being ignored and that his letters were set to travel - asfact (not “sketches”)112- into a highly politicised, governmentalcontext (Washington as symbol of the modern looms large), Sauerwrote at length with concern again to Janet Paine:“I have not shown the copies of the letters to anyone exceptJonathan. They were thought of as letters to Mr Willits and to theFoundation.. .1 should hate to think that this correspondence wouldbecome accessible in any file in Washington. I should havemisgivings if ever the whole of these letters, with their manyreferences to named individuals were examined by any member of oneof the Washington bureaus. For instance, the relations between theState Department, the Office of the Coordinator of Latin AmericanRelations, and the Board of Economic Warfare”3 are not in allrespects mutually sustaining. I don’t mind if certain of theseobservations of mine, for example, are of use to Henry Moe in his‘‘ Ibid.112 Here we see the “battle” of the reception of writing thatwas alluded to in Chapter Four - the notion that what is writtenand how it is interpreted is as much a factor of the “home” context(for Sauer, the political “moment” of World War Two and politicalspace of Washington) as it is of the “field”. This chapter showsthe “worldly” nature of Sauer’s writing - sets it in context - andreturns it to its more modern “home”. It also -through themobility of Sauer’s ideas from one context to another - returns usto the notion of discursive movement.113 See comment above.212Washington relations. That would be constructive criticism, andMoe knows me as well as he knows his men in Washington with whom hedeals. . . It’s a good deal of nuisance and I wish Anderson wouldforget about it. I think he does have the right to ask for aid inthe war effort, but in those terms there should be a heavy editingof the letters. I am willing to be cooperative but I don’t want tobe indiscreet. ,,h14Unfortunately, further correspondence only contains Willits’secretary’s reply to Sauer to wait until Willits’ return and alater letter informing Sauer of a meeting between himself, theFoundation and Anderson about the letters the next month. Nofurther documentation exists of the meeting in either the Berkeleyarchives or the archives of the Rockefeller Foundation in New York,except a one-line enigmatic note from Willits to Sauer:”I enclosecopy of a letter from Lewis Hanke [not enclosed) Shall I proceed onthe same basis as with Dewey Anderson?”115Despite a lack of information, this whole incident shows thefutility of Sauer’s attempts at maintaining a boundary betweenacademics and politics and trying to work towards intellectualfreedom through a body like the Rockefeller Foundation. Relatingto faces - Willits, Moe - rather than to institutions, Sauer wasnot (or chose not to be) aware of the “pulls” of the “pack”, hencethe feeling of panic as supposedly non-partisan ideas aretransformed into grist for the geopolitical mill. Also, the114 cc, Sauer to Paine, op. cit., 18/7/42. It is interestingto see here how Sauer places his faith again in an individual -Henry Moe - rather than in an institution. He seems not to thinkat the structural level and to believe in individual agency withinan institutional context. This is an interesting counterpoint tothe James Duncan/Peter Jackson arguments that Sauer makes no roomfor individuals.115 PC, Willits to Sauer, 26/10/42 (PA)213intersection of Sauer’s own personal beliefs and “passage to thepremodern” with the similar beliefs of Willits working within theFoundation fed Sauer’s myopia of the open political context withinwhich he was working. Despite Sauer’s apolitical and oftendoubtful positioning, his ideas were to be read authoritatively andpolitically by the BEW. At a wider level, then, repositionedamidst Government institutions in Washington, Sauer is not onlyforced to meet the political but also the modern.The rough war; the enveloping gloom’16In the aftermath of the 1942 trip, perhaps related to the BEWincident, Sauer remains adamant about the separation of academicsfrom politics, but, along with Willits (and the progression ofWorld War Two) , becomes increasingly disillusioned.”7 For Sauer,116 Sauer to Kelly p114117 In addition to the BEW incident, Sauer must have beenincreasingly affected by the impact of the War on his Berkeleydepartment and work in the field. As West notes (1982, op. cit.,p.114), from the autumn of 1942 to the spring of 1944 Sauer wasclosely confined to the campus with teaching duties that wereconnected to the university’s military program. The geographydepartment in Berkeley felt the effects of the War on its studentbody and its resources and courses. Sauer writes to MitchellWilder (curator of the Taylor Museum Colorado Springs Fine ArtsCentre) (PC, Sauer to Wilder, 10/2/44) : “Things are of course likemost places. The teaching staff is shot to pieces or else isabstracted into Army courses. . .our Ibero-Americana Series is moreor less sunk with the late ruling restricting publication tomembers of this faculty.” This must have further blurred theacademic/politic boundary for Sauer and increased his disillusion.At the same time, the War and the “field” were becomingincreasingly intertwined in the lives of Sauer’s students. HomerAschmann, (PC, Aschmann to Sauer, 11/8/42) one of Sauer’s studentsin the army, wrote to Sauer in 1942 of his experiences in his campin Texas. Managing to get himself classified as a geographer,Aschmann is disappointed at the lack of recognition this gets andpursues his own education, looking out for geographical facts andthe pioneering experience of life in the (military) field.Similarly, James Parsons (PC, Parsons to Sauer, 1/2/43) wrote to214the real fear seems to be the political takeover of the academic“field”:“I suspect that the world is in the greatest catastrophe it hasknown and that free intellectual enterprise is in for a badtime. . . It matters less that you have a competent supervisoryorganisation than it does that the scattered watchers of the sacredfire know that you are of their brotherhood. . .1 don’t think itmatters that some fail, some are weak, and some turnedaside.. .Darkness is spreading, and that is what matters.”118Sauer asks Willits to support individual academics who for him have“kindled and maintained a flame that should not go out”.’19 In aletter dated January 1944,120 he looks in opposition to the(nostalgic) early days of geography - “ it was a promising springin this country in the field of geography” - listing for WillitsSauer from Intelligence School of his salvage attempts from histraining - hoping that scouting might develop his faculties forfield observation that Sauer “so often mentioned”. Although RobertBowman writes to Sauer (PC, Bowman to Sauer, 11/9/43) that his armyexperience is “a far cry from geography”, he tells Sauer of histravel to distant lands “where only a handful of explorers havepenetrated” which ties in with the chance to see the “unknown”that we came into contact with in chapter two. Bowman’s experiencein New Guinea presents the “distant lands” as a mixture of army andfield terrain - a fusion of the fieldwork and the militaryexperience. Unlike Sauer’s, this field is portrayed in all itspolitics of interaction and resistance.Finally, other students of Sauer’s, for example Robert West, foundthemselves working in Washington. West writes to Sauer withinformation on South America since his war effort involves themapping and access of the continent as a strategic resource and thecompiling of information on road conditions: “just one of the manythings Military Intelligence should have had on its finger tipsbefore the war started” (PC, West to Sauer, p55). Others, likeDonald Brand (p88) found themselves urged into a desk job whilethey yearned to go out into the “field”.118 PC, Sauer to Willits, 13/7/42.119 PC, Sauer to Willits, 31/8/43.120 PC, Sauer to Willits, 15/1/44.215the “good journeymen geographers of latter days” and his fears ofthe contemporary state of geography drawn away from research toteaching, economics and, worst of all, to geopolitics:“I object strongly to the idea that I am a proper sort ofgeographer if I set myself up as a geopolitician, but am animproper one if I get interested in the way the Jesuits make theirmission areas work. . . There is as much significance in extinction asin survival.”2’Sauer has “a torch to carry” over the current affairs leaning ofthe Berkeley campus - verging on “political indoctrination”22-a dis equally concerned with the Foundation’s foreign area interest inLatin America and its tendency to focus on current events. Fearingchange at all levels - academia as a whole, geography, Berkeley,the Foundation - Sauer still seems to feel that he is out of stepwith the time but now cannot separate himself from it completely:“The wedding guest, he beat his breast Yet he could not choose buthear” 123For Willits too, the fear is real: his letters to Sauer are full ofthe threat of the current, the state, the political:“Yes, I feel we are headed for another Balance of Power or anotherHoly Alliance, which amounts to the same thing. I agree with whatyou say concerning the bitter harvest that is coming out of thesowing of our whole modern philosophy, of its materialism and itsgod, the all-powerful State. . .the struggle to power, thedeification of the current and the exhibitionism of frustration. Iwonder just what would happen to Jesus of Nazareth if he happened121 pc, Sauer to Willits, 11/2/44.122 Pc, Sauer to Willits, 11/5/44.123 p, Sauer to Willits, op. cit., 11/2/44.216on the scene today.”124While Willits maintains the importance of freedom of scholarship -he has no “line” to take in Foundation af fairs;’25 requires “Leaveto live by no man’s leave underneath the law”26- his view of thenon-aligned Foundation becomes more and more pressurised as the Wardraws to a close. With the ultimate fusion of science and politics- the atomic bomb - entering the contemporary scene, he writes toSauer: “Truly, the old order changeth”.’27 It seems to dawnsuddenly on Willits (“I need a confessor now”) that scientific workis not value free, that the “physicists are generals”, that thestate has grown “and the station and dignity of the individualhuman being” has shrunk. Willits, looking still to Sauer for hisanswers, asks: “where are we headed?”28 Sauer - stoic - wasalready picking up his “passage”, looking to Berkeley for therenewal of an academic “home”:“I think we should reassemble and see whether there isn’t stilltime for us to realise, at least in part, the design of scholarshipwe once had in common, for I have the feeling that there may beanother bunch of boys coming up comparable to that extraordinarygroup that was gathered here in the ‘20s. I think we might haveagain a period like that unforgettable one.”29Where are we headed?In Chapter One, I said that I wanted to find the limits to Sauer’s124 PC, Willits to Sauer, 21/12/43.125 PC, Willits to Sauer, 6/6/44.126 Ibid.127 PC, Willits to Sauer, 15/9/45.128 PC, Willits to Sauer, 15/9/45.129 PC, Sauer to Leighly, 15/11/45.217antimodernism. Although I edged towards this in the subsequentchapters, it is perhaps only through the consideration of the SouthAmerica trip that the full complexity and ambiguity of Sauer’spositioning come to light. In this chapter, I have tried to showthat Sauer’s oppositions- so frequently employed to conceptualisehimself as different (authentic? authoritative? innocent?)- areartificial, constructed, ambivalent. Thus throughout there hasbeen a sense of destabilisation: Sauer, associated with theparticular, the apolitical, the intellectually free, the rural, the“field”, the vantage point, the marginal, the individual (incombination: the (his) antimodern) is also implicated in theiruniversal, political, intellectually constrained, urban, tourist,sketchy, central, institutional (again: in sum, Sauer’s modern)counterparts. Sauer, it seems, was a modern man in spite ofhimself. It is this negotiation of Sauer’s initially clear selfpositioning that I take into the conclusion: ready to tease out theimplications of Sauer’s ambivalent situation on theantimodern/modern line (how progressive? how deceptive?) and tolook beyond that to cultural geography and the academic “field” asa whole: the question of where we are headed.218CONCLUS ION“In my end is my beginning.”Sauer once commented on what he saw as the futility of “goingthrough life afraid to be lonely” when there was the inevitabilityof facing the “ultimate loneliness” in going of life.2 ForSauer, I think, disorientation amidst modernisation approached aform of “loneliness”: a self-perception as one of the last bastionsof German/European academic and cultural tradition and a self-positioning on the margins of the modern. This “loneliness”appears as “real” for Sauer as a “bewildered witness” during WorldWar One (Chapter Two) as it does through his disillusionment duringWorld War Two (Chapter Six) . While this sense of dislocationamidst change was, for Sauer, a source of fear (he was afraid1remember, of the present and the future) , it appears also as asource of productivity: Sauer the intellectual “Voortrekker”,arguing for the potential of other (non-modern) ways and almost“unconcerned to discover” that there is “no-one following”.3Havingsaid that, however, Sauer’s lone stance was often contradicted byvarious forms of “company” - and here I am not only thinking ofcompanions that would have been vaguely acceptable to Sauer (forexample, other American antimodernists in Mexico) but also the moremodern, unsolicited form of companion, such as Dewey Anderson fromthe BEW. Thus, as I stated at the end of the last chapter, having1 Eliot, op. cit., p.15.2 PC, Sauer to Willits, 15/9/45.Robinson, op. cit., p.338.219asserted Sauer’s antimodern life theme and pursued it throughvarious aspects of the “field”, I am left with a tension withinSauer’s antimodernism, an ambivalence that needs to be explored.I do this by focusing on the progressive, restrictive and deceptivethreads to Sauer as antimodern man of the margins: issues that“speak” from the repetitions and contradictions of the last sixchapters. Beyond that, I am concerned with how the “take” onSauer pursued in this thesis can be made to “speak” to geographiesin the present.In 1944, Sauer was offered the chance to move from Berkeley to anew position in the geography department at Johns Hopkins: hedeclined and gave as his motivation the proximity of the universityto Washington (as we saw in the last chapter, the ultimate space ofthe modern) . He wrote:“I happen to have a fondness for the provinces and a somewhatemotional attitude that the better world will come through astrengthening of local centers of culture, not from the greatcapitals. Don’t write this off as a whim of mine; the wholegeography of evolution shows arguments uniformly in favor ofpartial isolation. If I should move into the center of the mass Ishould still feel that the germinal potential was out on theperiphery. . .We have come across examples of this “germinal potential” of theperiphery in Chapters Five and Six. In both Mexico and SouthAmerica, we saw Sauer attempting to strengthen local (often“Indian”) cultures against the destructive effects of“Americanization” (monocentrism) from the north and advising thePC, Sauer to Bowman, 21/5/44 in Parsons, pers. comm. (L), op.cit.220Rockefeller Foundation on a way forward sensitive to culturalcontext. These instances, I think, allow for a productive readingof Sauer and culture - certainly a more generous perspective thanthat afforded by Peter Jackson in the Introduction. Jackson, as wesaw, chose to read Sauer’s focus on the rural and the provincialnegatively as outmoded and conservative. However, Sauer’s view ofthe “margins” was a more progressive one: as James Parsons states,while Sauer identified with “simpler cultures”, it did not “followthat these simpler cultures were necessarily irrelevant tocontemporary issues”.5 Indeed, as we saw with Sauer and indigenousagriculture in Chapter Five, Sauer, basing his advice in “Indian”practices and traditions, pre-empted today’s vogue for the local as“germinal” base for development.6Thus Jackson is perhaps overly hasty in rejecting Sauer’s moreprovincial focus for the cultural politics of urban space.Certainly contemporary cultural debates have seen a resurfacing ofthe rhetoric of margin and centre, critiquing the control of the(modern, urban, colonial) latter and viewing the (premodern, rural,colonised) former as a source of creative energy. Ashcroft et.Parsons, pers. comm. (L) , op. cit. Thus, for Parsons, Sauershould be associated with the imagery of the “frontier” (pioneeringthe way forward) rather than that of the margins. However, thenotion of the “frontier” is itself tied up in the rhetoric ofcolonialism (the “white man” bringing wild/savage nature andculture under his control at the “frontier” of discovery)6 Geographers, said Sauer in The quality of geography (1970,op. cit., p.9) “do not worry enough”. Sauer himself worried aboutchange but, he felt, could not get enough people to “worry along”with him. While some have taken up Sauer’s worries about theenvironment, his worries on cultural change seem to have beenvocalised less. Perhaps this is one of the other ways in whichSauer’s geography may be brought forward?221al.,7 for example, have isolated the tendency of what they call“post-colonial literature” to assert difference from the centre:the Empire, finally, writing back. Thus, in a sense, Sauer couldbe viewed as sympathetic to this counterdiscursive “movement”,turning the spatial rhetoric of the modern centre on its head byprioritising the rural frontier and conferring authority on themargins.8 Although for V.8. Naipaul, the people of the margins are“mimic men”, condemned to repetition of the colonial authority,9for Sauer, as we have seen, it is the modern “tourists” (the herd)that mimic and the provinces that represent the authentic. Thelink between Sauer and “post-colonial” movements is not, of course,a direct one: Sauer’s selected (and, as I show below, misleading)self-perception as marginal is a far cry from the enforcedmarginality of formerly colonised peoples. However, the link doesprovide other ways of looking at Sauer’s writing and may provide ameans to recycle Sauer’s ideas which, as Lewis and Price suggest,are not ready for “academia’s dust-bin”.’0In addition to the “germinal” aspects of Sauer’s views on culture,we do, however, have to think about the casualties of a “backward”,ruralist perspective. For Raymond Williams, the contrast betweencity and country (so clearly identified with Sauer throughout the‘ Ashcroft et. al., 1989.8 The notion of turning colonial rhetoric on its head is not,however, without its limitations. Robert Young (op. cit.) writesof the difficulties of opting out of the binary oppositions thathave characterised the presentation of modern Western thought.In Ashcroft et. al., op. cit., p.88.10 Price and Lewis, op. cit., p.5.222thesis) represents a tendency towards the idyllic rather than theurealistidu. The true socio-cultural relations of the country areneglected and passed onto the city as centre of corruption; therural areas remaining harmonious.’1 Such harmony, Williams fears,is a mystification out of which the rhetoric of nationalism - thecall for blood and soil- may arise.’2 Sauer, with his semi-idyllicview of a rural “home”, his consistent denigration of the city ascorrupt and his use of the rhetoric of German nationalism todescribe his Mennonite “ideal” cannot be excused from Williams’critiques. True, through his experience of the hardship of rurallife, Sauer also voiced anti-idyllic sentiments in Mexico; however,it remains that, elsewhere, Sauer replaced his distaste for the“smiling aspects”3of modern American society with a counter-imageof a “smiling” (Mexican) “countryside”.’4Like Williams, James Clifford is also concerned with the tendencyto idyllise the rural in a folkloristic appeal to the past’5bu ,more centrally, with the allied attempt to redeem a culturalessence: a “symmetry of redemption” that requires culturaltraditions to abstain from the modern. Clifford is suspiciousabout the positing of pure cultural forms that can be retrieved:culture for Clifford is relational, changing - it cannot be fixed“ Williams, 1981, op. cit., p.31.12 Ibid., p.48.13 Lears, op. cit., p.17.‘ Williams, 1981, op. cit., p.114.‘ Clifford, 1988, op. cit., p.4.223except for authority as invention.16 Here too, Sauer cannot beexcused from critique: we saw in Chapter Five how his vision of“Indian” and Mennonite communities were, at least partially,clouded by his need to maintain the essence of “Indian” and Germanpremodern culture for his sense of self. Thus the progressive sideto Sauer’s antimodernism proves tainted by a restrictive,immobilising element- keeping cultures in their place.’7If Sauer’s sympathy with rural space and folk was genuine, however,his complete identification with them was not.’8 Allowing Sauer toset up “home” in the margins denies any relation with themetropolis and the spaces of the modern and this, as we saw in thelast chapter, was not the case: Sauer found himself closer toWashington than he would have liked. For Mary Louise Pratt, therural discourse of the traveller (perhaps-geographer?) is a“strategy of innocence”, a deception that conceals his/her urbanmetropolitan identity.’9 Michael Williams, although lessstridently, seems to adopt this rural/urbane contradiction forSauer:“Whether consciously or unconsciously the cult of the simple,16 Ibid., p.11.‘ See also Ashcroft et. al., op. cit., p.116 for a similarcritique to Clifford: the notion that a redemption of pure cultureis not an alternative; the impossibility of a return and the needfor a positive perspective on the cultural confusion (syncretism)of the present.18 Hooson in Blouet et. al., op. cit., p.337.‘ Pratt, 1992, op. cit., p.38. The innocent positioning masksa male, urban, lettered rationality that is being imposed on theworld in the guise of the rural.224homespun, rural man (aided by the ever-present pipe) grew strongerwith the years. But it masked a complex man whose early philosophywas broad ranging, learned and speculative. The paradoxical natureof this character and image is one of the reasons why it is sodifficult to get a clear view of his thinking. 20Williams is justified in questioning the image of the “simple,homespun, rural man” (see Figure 12) . Indeed, in addition totravelling in the “margins”, Sauer lived and functioned in a modernacademic context. He had power as Head of the Department ofGeography at Berkeley; influence on the Selection Committee of theGuggenheim Foundation and input (if unbounded) into the policies ofthe Rockefeller Foundation. At the same time, although he spentextensive periods in the field, this experience and the fruits ofits publication only further contributed to his academic status“back home”. The self-presentation as intellectual craftsman thusshielded an all-too-institutionalised and authoritative academic.In this sense, as Thomas Glick notes, Sauer “was not the loner heis too often made to appear”: “his influence was persistent andpervasive” 21Thus, as James Clifford points out: “All terms get us some distanceand fall apart”.22 While Sauer as antimodernist allows us toreinject Sauer’s “provincial” focus with a more “progressive” edge,it must be approached ambivalently. Certainly Sauer positionshimself stridently against the modern but other voices point theway to the futility of antimodern - even cultural - flight. For20 Williams, 1983, op. cit., p.4.21 Glick, 1988, op. cit., p.446.22 In Grossberg et. al., op. cit., p.110.225Figure 12: Sauer: man of the margins ormodern in spite of himself?(returned to Berkeley, 1970).225IClifford, there are no distant places left:“one no longer leaves home confident of finding something radicallynew: another time or space.”23Similarly, for Claude Levi-Strauss, escape from the modern onlyresults in confronting the traveller with the “unhappiest forms”of his “historical existence”: the “garbage” of the modern.24Finally, and perhaps most ironically, the voice of Alfred Kroeber,outlining the fundamentals of (what is taken to be Sauer’s)“superorganic” view and, by association, condemning Sauer’sattempts to escape his modern, American context:“When a tide sets one way for fifty years, men float with it, orthread their course across it; those who breast the vast streamcondemn themselves to futility of accomplishment.”25Progressive, restrictive, deceptive: this ambivalent view of Sauer,I hope, offers some form of mediation of the debate between the“new” and the “traditional” cultural geographers outlined in theIntroduction. While I do not claim to have retrieved the essential23 Clifford, 1988, op. cit., p.14.24 In Porter, 1991, op. cit., p.240.25 Kroeber in Duncan, op. cit., p.l84 Once Sauer is placed inculture, then, the so-called “superorganic” view may be used toreflect on Sauer himself. If Sauer’s cultural origins are viewedas modern American, then Sauer’s attempts to position himself as“off-beat American”, critical of and distanced from Americanculture, appears as paradox. Michael Williams (op. cit. 1983,p.2O) has picked up on this contradiction between Sauer’s culturalpronouncements and his “living” self: “The man of Sauer’s writingwas a disembodied, generic man; the man of Sauer’s academic andintellectual life was a real, individual, thinking man. Sauer wasthe living example of the very thing his writing denied.” However,if Sauer’s cultural beginnings are viewed as traditionally German,then perhaps his passage to the premodern represents a move towardsrather than away from his cultural “home”: a slave to the“superorganic” after all?226CrC)H,Dl0CrCDCrH-ftDiDift—D)CDi5p.CC)0F-1H-CDCDp.H,DiJF-ft30hirr<C5DiCDiCDftF-1p.hi0H-DiEnH-EnQIDiH-F-1CECDdQEnC)F-1H-En005CDEn<1Cl)CEC)H-CDp.CDCDftCDhiCDDiQII-Cl)En5hiCDI-IDip.EnCD<DiEQEnH5Di0CDftCDftftp.H-(1)Di5CD<CD0CDCDH-F-1ftC)Ic-I-hiCEEnftH,hiH-H-H-0fttCD=CDH-Eni—i0ftftEnH,-I><C)DiCDEnhiH-H,0H-ftEQDi5ftC)p.H,CDCD-H-S3ftEngcmp.H-DiHEn‘-1F-1DiDiHCD—Di0CDh—aLiCDftCDHDiCDQIH-EnCDC)ftH-hiIH--C)=CDhiCDDiH1H-EnCDdH-hiH-CDCDEnDiF-0CDp.Di-hifthiDiCDftCDH-H-DiH-CDC)EnDiDift-Dip.0HDihic-rCDQgDiCDLi-C)p.C)-iftC)<1EnH-Dihip.En5H-EnCD-EQDiCDDi-.CDft-i-‘EQftH-0H,<ftft0EnC)DiftCDH-0hi3CDhiEnDiH0H-CDCDHC)CD0ftI—Ip.0Enp.0I-IHDiDi-EQDiCDHhiC)p.H-p.CDC)EnEQCDc-I-0DiCDp.CDCDDi0H,ftDihi0ft-C)CDH,H-ftCDC)DlDlCDHDiEn-0DihiH-jCD0CD0hiH-p.C)3DiDiEnHH1-1CDCDH,0HDiH-‘<C)ftCDF’-H-H0fthiF-1ftCDHEnp.H,H-fthiEnEnp.0CDH-CDftCDCDH-CD0ftDiEQDiI-J3DiftHt’J0H-H-H-Di0CDDiCD0CDHHftC)C)ftEnH,EnCDEnCDIEni.QDiH-En0CD0p.CD1H-C)p.05EnCT)H-HCDHHCDH-EQsCDp.H-CDftDiEn0Di0Di‘<H-EnftftEQH-DiI<En0CDSC)F-1H,hiftEnEnH-IhiCDH,F-1><CD0p.H-0DiCDEn--CDCDDiC)DihiCD0CD0DiCDp.H-EnftftCDCDHEnCDDihiH,ftC)EnCDEnCD-ftp.IftftDihik<hiF-1hiEnF-1ftH,H-DiCDH-0DiDiDiftDift0CDEnH-‘dDiH,5DiEnH-CDH,hiC)DiHEnDlp.CDDi,p.CDEnEn0CDCD0HH-ftp.EQEnhi<EnF-1CDhiC)0Enftft-hiHp.QIH-DiCDH-C)H-DiH,-F’DiH,QH-ftp.—Cl)Di(CIDiHCDSDl‘0C)H-C)0CDZH-CDHhiC)p.Dift0H,CDp.H-F-1hihiH-Dihip.En.QS!-CDEnEnH-‘DiH-EQ,<<ftftH-ftHC)C)hi1(11[f)ISHftp.Di:.DiDiCDC)H-I-<ftft=CDEl)H-H-p.-HDiDiIQIH-H-C)C)ftH-F-1CDDiftEnftCDDihiftj-HH-0CD0hiDiCDftCDCDH-CD0hiH,EnEnH,ftI—’0hiEnHfthi—hiDiftp.DiH-H-H-H,I—’-CDCD0F-1I-’-CDCD0HCDEnEnftCDDiDiDiHIiftHCDCDftC)><HH--0H-hiDiH,ft5hiEnCDH-ftH,F-1ftp.p.ftp.hiftH-0EQ3CDDi3CDhik<0H-F-1CDH-ftEnhiXEnH-<10H--0ftDiCDDlftH-DiCDCDH-Dift0CDH-CDhiH-H-CD0En-D’C)3hiIF-’<H-ftEnft—EnEQHftEnhiCD3p.EnCDCD0p.EniH,CDCDftof geographers (past or present), I maintain that the public sphereof (f±eld)work cannot remain exempt from “pollution” by thepersonal.My focus on the “field”, however, stands not only as an attempt todepart from the debate surrounding Sauer, but also as a widercritique of geography, authority and culture as a whole. While inanthropology, as James Clifford states, there is a growing sensethat “we ground things, now, on a moving earth”, i.e. there are nolonger any privileged positions (islands of distinction, vantagepoints of authority) from which to speak about the culturallyOther,26geography, as Alisdair Rogers notes, has yet to experiencesuch a “crisis of ethnographic authority”.27 This, for me, is afunction of a neglect of the “field” as a focus for criticalenquiry. Once we move beyond the seamless authority of geographictexts, legitimated by calls to the “field”, and actually look atwhat work in “the field” entails, view it in its plurality andcontradictions (the hardship, the silences, the emotions, themisunderstandings, the intrusions, the exclusions. .) , thegeographer is forced to come down from the privileged position on26 Clifford in Clifford and Marcus, op. cit., p.22. Incontrast to Sauer’s “vantage points” of authority, then, we turninstead to his cultural doubt of the last chapter. This is moreakin to Clifford’s sentiments on cultural representation in thepresent: “There is no longer any place of overview (mountaintop)from which to map human ways of life. . .Mountains are in constantmotion. So are islands: for one cannot occupy, unambiguously, abounded cultural world from which to journey out and analyze othercultures.”27 Rogers, 1992, p.513.228the hill28and face up to a more critical perspective on theauthority of fieldwork amidst “culture”. Through Sauer, we canbegin to see how geography constructs itself: how it draws onvaried tropes and rhetorical devices to distinguish itself, how itpresents a legitimate image of itself- in essence, how it lies toitself about its own authority. At the same time, we can begin tosee how geography constructs others: how its practitioners can fusetheir own sentiments with science and present cultures objectivelyas “personality”. Thus, despite a continuous focus on Sauer, I amnot simply advocating a rewriting of one geographer in the languageof theory - merely attaching theoretical insights to a study ofSauer like “flags of convenience”29- but attempting a seriousintegration of critiques into geography as a whole. Picking up mycritiques from the Introduction of the bounding, essentialising andfixing of Sauer, I take these into a reconsideration of geographyas strategic, hybrid and reflexive space within wider disciplinarytravel. This is an alternative view of geography as shifting andopen, not overly concerned with boundaries and fixing andattempting an awareness of its own closures. Thus I end as Ibegan: talking about travel in the academic field of geography.While Sauer, in his address to Californian geographers in 1970,said that this “kind of geography” was “gone”,30th need to getaway from the “but-is-this-geography state” and open the discipline28 This coming down from the mount is, following on from thediscussion of chapter three, particularly aimed at male geographerssince “field”, geography and geographical knowledge seem to beauthorised in masculinist terms.29 Dhareshwar in Kreiswirth and Cheetham, 1990, p.242.° Sauer, 1970, op. cit., p.6.229up to new trails 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0Cl)1_Iij‘xJ‘xJ‘xJ‘rJ‘rJH-H-H-H-H-H-H-CDCDPH-H-HF-1HF—1H’H(fiF-1H’H’CDCDCDCDCDCDCDCDCDCD--0Cr•-••oCDH-C)F-QQCQCflQdqddJiH‘ijlOt-iCflOOCl)OL]iflHHI(Dt-1CDPJPJCDPJPJF—’OH-00rt<0i00Ot-hhH-0hhH-OftPJ<iH--OCQF—’C)O0PrtrtO0C)CDU)H-C)rtCDCtftH-CDI-QhH-CDF-1‘-<CDHF--‘<OH-CD)F—1H-I-0CDCt’<(QCDhCDrtI-’rtCD’<QrtH-Cl)QH-CDOQ0Q1CDCDCDH-i•I-H-JH-rtCDU)-PJCrPJPJ[-hF-1H-OF--1JHrtPJOtyOCDF-’CD0rtOH--d1J’JSCDrtCDW’JPOhH-CDrtCDH-hPJF—’h’CD0U)PJiCDt-1PJLIlfrOk<.U)H-H‘-<-CDH-OU)H-H’H-CDU)C1)U)rridrt0oOCD0H-HH--’<’<H’tIJOHHhtCDOH’U)CD0<OCDCDH-H-CDCDjth’CD0)tl)iCDWCDOCDCDPCDU)H-0CDQIC)PJH-0U)OU)U)P)H-><rtCD<FQH-O0rtCDH-H-rtCDQOrr0H-CD‘jCDO•)JJICtH-H-hH-ClJU)P)hhi0H-PJ)Ot-hO<U)‘<H-rtU)<OU)H’F-’-hIi•tJsrtiOCDOCDH’U)CDCDCDrtCDCD00wCDH-H’CDlCDH-U)I—idCDhU)H-U)WI—hHIH’U)‘<H’H-0F-’(1CDCDJH’0H-H-OH’CDU)lrtCDOrt0H’FrtH-CDCD‘<P-’--COH’HH’CDH-CDH-0CDHQICDF)JCDH-00c-t.CX)HCDOH-HH’U)H’0H0ctCDCDH-0HCDCDH’zJCDU)CDrtrtCr-CDCrC)hPJCDCDCD0rrCrCDrtçtC)CrI1U)CDCDSCrCDrtH-CrF))CDH-H--hU)CDi-iH-Cl)CrCDQFc-tU)U)1<1rrI-H-H-JCr-U)CDH--.U)00--U)CDQIF))-CDi-CDU)QU)H HHH’HH’H’HH’CDCDCDCDCDCDCDwU)U)UiH—JU)0)HIIII•0l1sJ—J0(iii) Sauer quotations (LQ):John Leighly collected together a selection of Sauer quotationsfrom the Sauer papers. I have used these and referenced them inthe thesis text as the other correspondence- with the names of thecorrespondents and the date- and with the prefix ‘LQ” for Leighlyquotation collection (LQS for its supplement) followed by the pagenumber.(iv) Notebooks (SN):I had some difficulties with the notebooks in terms ofidentification, i.e. the date of the excursion to which eachcorresponded. Some were placed in files and dated at a differenttime to the date marked on the front of the notebooks; others hadno date attached. The absence of anyone with specific knowledge ofthe notebooks in the Bancroft Library further complicated thesituation. The time span of the notebooks marked below is takenfrom the first and last entries of each book. The year date iseither that marked on the notebook (M) or my guess (checkingagainst West, 1979, op. cit.) from the content and time span of thenotes. Pagination for quotations in the thesis text is either thatof the notebooks themselves or my own numbering of the pages foridentification.__________Notebook retrip to Mexico 10-28/6/31 (M)10/1-11/4/41 (?)10: Notebook retrip to Baja 7/46 (?)11: Notebook re 18/5-25/6/33 (M)trip to Mexico2/4-11/6/29 (M)17/12-30/12/29 (?)1-25/7/48 (M)14/7-1/8/35 (?)1935/8 (M unclear)(? unclear)15/12-16/2/44 (?)25: Unidentifiednotebook(possibly ofCuba trip) 23/3-11/7/46 (M)21: Notebook ofRockefeller Foundationsponsored trip to SouthAmericaCarton 4 File 34: Miscellany.File 4: Miscellany.Carton 4 File 7:8:12:13:14:16:17:18:Carton 4 File 1/1-10/5/42 (M)244IjjHC4ddHHHC)—tHIHF—ipJCDI-’•H-F-’I-’-0PiQI-’•CDHPiOHçtI.•QhhH-DrtI-’•II0—><0HHrDCDCDCDCDrtH<F-CDCDH-H-rrWCDHct•IrrCDhU)CDCl)P1U)P-JHIQctZ1QH-Cl)dCD0H-I-’-QPJrrf-IIiQC)P1dU)OCDPJC)dCl)H-CDCDPU)H-Z0P)LXICD‘dQ0PJC)CDP1rrQCDiiH-SCDCDO‘-3IoHH’-ujhCtIIHCDhiP-00CD01Cl)CUD0F-iLXIU)H4U)U)001CDCU<I-U)QU)U)0P1hU)CDU)‘IjP)CD00<U)FCDU)CD0QOp1HH-i-s-r-rCDH-P)01h111<CDC)hhCtH,HHLXIU)U)U)CD)U)U)Ct0HIP)(•tCDhLXICDWCUDH0H-OCD‘10E•--LXIHCDI-’-iH-Fj-ci0CD0c--QDh00CtrrCDrtCUCt-•-hr-t-0‘-II-i-CDCD0CD‘—3‘10CI)<CDHCI)CDH‘-MHHC)CDliii0HH-<tU)01H_LXI—.ZU)0LXIU1O001MO‘‘‘ICDH-P)0D--XI-hCDhdF.XIliii‘H0CDCDD><D0MMOCt0IWøliiiDCDCD<flH-CD••—.——.P1I—.—IIIIID001PCD.DcDDC)PtO(CD•.-Q,CDP-’CD0(0CDCDWWMCtCDI—brt<1‘U)CDH‘<YLXIOH0CDCDCD0HLOCDH-CD0CD0SOrtH-QQIQIH‘dCDCDU)C)tOHMHP1H-CDCD‘1PjhLXI—0C)i4tOtOMCDrtU)P1P)U)z0‘dCtUi.—--...h..I-0()HI-Q.LXIU)CDCDCDCD U)HwwwCDD-tOrtCDP10H-Z-CD—CD(DPI-.CDCDHU)DWH--CDH-0HSCl)0otOP1 CDP10CDCt—1CD30HH-0HtOCDH-U)CDCtCtH-000CDftCDCDCDPlU)0CDHiU)

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