Amazonian Routes : Indigenous Mobility and Colonial Communities in Northern Brazil [1 ed.] 9780804792127, 9780804787086

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Amazonian Routes

Amazonian Routes Indigenous Mobility and Colonial Communities in Northern Brazil

Heather F. Roller

Stanford University Press Stanford, California

Stanford University Press Stanford, California ©2014 by the Board of Trustees of the Leland Stanford Junior University. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system without the prior written permission of Stanford University Press. Printed in the United States of America on acid-free, archival-quality paper Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Roller, Heather F., author. Amazonian routes : indigenous mobility and colonial communities in northern Brazil / Heather F. Roller. pages cm Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-8047-8708-6 (cloth : alk. paper) 1. Indians of South America— Amazon River Region—History—18th century. 2. Indians of South America—Brazil, North—History—18th century. 3. Migration, Internal— Amazon River Region—History—18th century. 4. Migration, Internal—Brazil, North—History—18th century. 5. Village communities— Amazon River Region—History—18th century. 6. Village communities—Brazil, North—History—18th century. 7. Population geography— Amazon River Region—History—18th century. 8. Population geography—Brazil, North—History—18th century. I. Title. F2519.1.A6R556 2014 981'.1—dc23 2014003533 ISBN 978-0-8047-9212-7 (electronic) Typeset by Westchester Publishing Services in 11/13.5 Adobe Garamond regular

For John and Clare

Contents

Illustrations Orthography and Abbreviations Ac know ledg ments

Introduction

ix xi xiii

1

1 From Missions to Towns: Amazonian Settlements in an Era of Reform

16

2 Forest Collecting Expeditions and the Pursuit of Opportunities in the Sertão

57

3 Searching for “New People”

92

4 “The Indians of This Town Ebb and Flow”: Absentee Movements Within the Colonial Sphere

127

5 Defining Indians and Vagrants

165

6 The Struggle for Autonomy in the Early Nineteenth Century

191

Conclusion: Mobile and Rooted

205

viii

Contents

Appendix A: Directorate Settlements in the Captaincies of Grão- Pará and São José do Rio Negro Appendix B: Demography, 1770s–1790s

213 217

Appendix C: Ethnic Groups Appearing in Documents at the Arquivo Público do Estado do Pará (APEP) in Belém, Brazil Notes Glossary of Portuguese and Língua Geral Terms Bibliography Index

219 223 305 311 331

Illustrations

Maps 1. 2. 3. 4.

Context map of study area, c. 1757–1798 xvii Population distribution, 1775–1779 xviii Settlements of Grão-Pará, c. 1757–1798 xix Settlements of São José do Rio Negro, c. 1757–1798

xx

Figures I.1. 1.1. 1.2. 1.3. 1.4. 2.1. 2.2. 2.3. 3.1. 4.1. 4.2.

Ruins of Airão, a “Phantom City” on the Rio Negro, 2010 3 “View of the Aldeia of Jaú” (Airão), 1754 26 “View of the Aldeia of Pedreira” (Moura), 1754 26 “Plan of the New Vila of Barcelos,” 1762 53 “View of the Vila of New Borba, in Another Time the Aldeia of Trocano,” c. 1790 55 Igarité, c. 1780s 60 Production of turtle egg lard, c. 1780s 68 “Tapuia Indians Waiting for the Return of the Tide” (Furos region) 76 Mura Indians hunting turtles, c. 1780s 125 Interior of a house in Monte Alegre, c. 1780s 154 Village-to-village movements, Captaincy of Pará, 1757–1798 157 ix

x

Illustrations

C.1. Procession of Our Lady of the Conception on the Rio Caraparu, Pará, 2009 211

Tables 4.1. Annual Rates of Absenteeism in the Directorate Villages, Captaincy of Pará, 1774–1794 137 4.2. Natural Population Growth in the Directorate Villages, Captaincy of Pará, 1774–1785 137 4.3. Average Rates of Absenteeism by Region, Captaincy of Pará, 1774–1794 139 4.4. Destinations of Absentees by Gender, Captaincy of Pará, 1757–1798 149 4.5. Geographical Range of Absentee Movements, Captaincy of Pará, 1757–1798 150 4.6. Absentees by Family Structure, Captaincy of Pará, 1757–1798 152 5.1. Nonwhite, Non-Aldeado Households by Region of Parish, Captaincy of Pará, 1778 169 5.2. Nonwhite, Non-Aldeado Heads of Household by Race and Gender, Captaincy of Pará, 1778 170 5.3. Occupations of Nonwhite, Non-Aldeado Heads of Household, Captaincy of Pará, 1778 171

Orthography and Abbreviations

MOST OF THE SOURCES for this book were written in eighteenthcentury Portuguese. I have modernized the spelling of places, names, and terms but have retained the original Portuguese in most of the titles of works that appear in the Notes and Bibliography. All translations are my own, except where noted; punctuation has sometimes been inserted to clarify meaning, and tense usage has been rendered more consistent. The first time that a Portuguese or língua geral term appears in the text, it is italicized. Most of these terms can be found in the Glossary. The following archive abbreviations are used in the notes:

APEP BNRJ AIHGB ANRJ AHI AHE AHU ANTT

Arquivo Público do Estado do Pará (Belém, Brazil) Biblioteca Nacional (Rio de Janeiro, Brazil) Arquivo do Instituto Histórico e Geográfico Brasileiro (Rio de Janeiro, Brazil) Arquivo Nacional (Rio de Janeiro, Brazil) Arquivo Histórico do Itamaraty (Rio de Janeiro, Brazil) Arquivo Histórico do Exército (Rio de Janeiro, Brazil) Arquivo Histórico Ultramarino (Lisbon, Portugal) Arquivo Nacional da Torre do Tombo (Lisbon, Portugal)

Abbreviations in the document citations refer to Caixa (Cx.), Documento (Doc.), Códice (Cod.), and Fólio (fl.).

xi

Acknow ledgments

THIS BOOK CAME OUT of a long journey, and I have been fortunate to receive advice, material support, and the company of friends all along the way. Zephyr Frank was on board right from the start. I thank him for his confidence in my plans, and for pushing me to be bold and precise in pursuing them. Tamar Herzog has been another longtime interlocutor, giving me the most detailed comments on my work and encouraging me to ask (and attempt to answer) big questions. My mentor in historical geography, Kären Wigen, urged me to read widely in ways that have expanded my horizons and the scope of this study. I thank all of them for their many years of discussion and guidance. Stuart Schwartz and Patricia Pessar set me on the course of studying Brazilian history when I was still an undergraduate student, and I have never looked back. Jordano Quaglia was a dedicated and spirited teacher of Portuguese; without his language lessons, I would have gotten hopelessly lost on my first trip to Brazil. A little later, David Sweet gave me a compass of sorts: he drew up a list of essential readings and sources, directed me toward Belém, and told me to go make a mental map of the place through walking its streets and traveling its rivers. There, on my first foray into the field, I found Mark Harris. That lucky meeting in the archives led to many productive exchanges, and I am grateful for all that he has done for me over the years. John Monteiro passed away in a tragic accident in 2013, several months after reviewing this manuscript. I will always remember his dedication to the task of helping other scholars refine their work. He went xiii

xiv

Ac know ledg ments

through the manuscript with a fine-toothed comb, correcting many mistakes while alerting me to larger conceptual issues and articulating the project’s aims better than I ever could. His death is a tremendous loss to all of us who work on the history of Brazil. As I worked through the early stages of this project, Ian Read and Kari Zimmerman steered me past numerous obstacles. For their camaraderie, I thank Sean McEnroe, Brianna Leavitt-Alcántara, Paul Ramírez, Beatriz Gurwitz, Brenda Frink, Lori Flores, Julia Sarreal, and Oscar de la Torre. Sylvia Sellers-García has been a dear friend and a generous reader. At the Biblioteca Nacional in Rio, over the din of toddlers in New York, and after hours at conferences, I have always loved talking about Brazil (and everything else) with Teresa Cribelli. At Colgate University, I have found wonderful colleagues, students, and friends. Dan Bouk welcomed me on my first day on campus and has made this place feel like my intellectual home ever since; he also read and commented on parts of the manuscript at critical junctures. My colleagues in the History Department and in the programs of Native American Studies and Africana and Latin American Studies have been unfailingly helpful and supportive. Students in my seminars on “Ethnohistory of the Amazon” and “Latin American History from Below” asked me questions that I attempted to answer in the classroom and later addressed in the book; I hope they find my answers more complete this time around. Many scholars in Brazil and the United States read parts of the manuscript, answered questions, and shared essential research materials. Barbara Sommer gave me an early orientation to Belém and its environs and put me in contact with wonderful people there. Cynthia Radding and Jordana Dym facilitated conversations with scholars working on related topics in Spanish America. Mary Karasch, William B. Taylor, Camilla Townsend, Kris Lane, Margaret Chowning, Brian DeLay, Mark Healey, and George Reid Andrews read my work, offered valuable feedback, and encouraged me to go on thinking and writing about the Amazon. For their assistance as I delved into geography and environmental history, I thank William Denevan and Nathan Sayre. In Belém, Rafael Chambouleyron shared copies of sources that were crucial to this project, and he has gone out of his way to help me in the years since then. David (Toby) McGrath, Eliana Ramos Ferreira, José Maia Bezerra Neto, Geraldo Mártires Coelho, Décio de Alencar Guzmán, Antônio Otaviano Vieira Junior,

Ac know ledg ments

xv

Patrícia Melo Sampaio, and Mauro Cezar Coelho received me kindly and introduced me to new people and places. Of the many people who have helped me wade through documents in Brazilian and Portuguese archives over the years, I especially thank the staff at the Arquivo Público do Estado do Pará, in Belém, who made an extended research experience less lonely, saved my favorite seat, and commiserated over the heat and mosquitoes. Support from the Mabelle McLeod Lewis Fund, the Fulbright-Hays Program, the Spatial History Project at Stanford University, the Andrew K. Mellon Foundation, and the History Department at Stanford University made the research in Belém, Rio de Janeiro, and Portugal possible. The Research Council of Colgate University helped defray the costs of publication. I thank Erik Steiner for making beautiful reference maps, and Francis Maglia and Jacques Jangoux for letting me reproduce their photographs. Special acknowledgment goes to The Americas, in which most of Chapter 2 was originally published, and I thank the reviewers of the journal for helping me improve my work. At Stanford University Press, Norris Pope guided the manuscript through the review process with the care and good instincts for which he is well known, and Stacy Wagner saw it through submission and into production. My deepest gratitude goes to my family, who shaped my journey in the most fundamental ways. My father, Michael Flynn, instilled in me a love of history and an appreciation of craftsmanship; he also accompanied me in Belém for many months, where he took the photograph that appears on the book’s jacket. My mother, Carolyn Saarni, first put me on a plane to South America, and has always nurtured my interests in writing and faraway places. I am grateful to Margaret Flynn, Walfrid and Margaret Saarni, Matthias Kusch, Frank and Betty Saarni, Anthonia and Robert Roller, and Ali Roller for their love and support over the years. Marie Antonelli has been the most constant of friends. I dedicate this book to Clare Roller, my daughter, who brings me so much joy, and to John Roller, my husband. Just as I type these final lines, he asks me to come away from my computer and to share a good, strong cup of coffee with him. I do so gladly.

Map 1 Context map of study area, c. 1757–1798

Map 2 Population distribution, 1775–1779

Map 3 Settlements of Grão-Pará, c. 1757–1798

Map 4 Settlements of São José do Rio Negro, c. 1757–1798

Amazonian Routes

Introduction

THE APOCRYPHAL STORY, STILL told in the tourist guidebooks, is that the residents of Airão fled to escape a plague of ants. What they left behind is now a particularly photogenic “phantom city” on the banks of the Rio Negro, one of the main tributaries of the Amazon River (Figure I.1). One can wander among the overgrown ruins of houses, the central market, and the church, imagining how easily the place must have been abandoned by its residents. “There wasn’t much here to begin with,” visitors might remark to each other, “and how quickly the jungle takes over again.” For many modern-day observers, the trajectory of a place like Airão would seem emblematic of the inevitable decline and abandonment of settlements in the Amazon. But there is much that the tourists do not see— and do not even look for— on their treks through the ruins of Airão. They do not see the plots of rich, black earth (terra preta) that still surround the village site, produced by pre-Columbian Amazonians who added charcoal and organic material to improve the fertility of the soil. Beyond the crumbling stone walls of the old church, nothing visible remains of the mission, Santo Elias do Jaú, founded in 1694 by Carmelite friars. There is no sign of the descendants of the Tarumã, Manao, and Baré Indians, who left their original territories to settle in Carmelite missions along the riverbank, and who may have convinced the friars to establish Jaú in its fertile, bluff-top location after several previous mission sites proved untenable. Standing on the bluff, looking down at the Rio Negro, travelers cannot see the traces of the thousands of canoes that have

1

2

Introduction

crisscrossed its tea-colored waters, mooring at the village for trade or a visit with family and friends. The two and a half centuries that Jaú/Airão existed as a community seem less meaningful, less deserving of study, in part because its ultimate abandonment (in 1964) fits so neatly into the standard narrative about the limitations of the Amazonian environment, the cultural tendencies of its native peoples, and the nature of the colonial enterprise. I have had to grapple with this narrative as much as anyone who studies the region’s past. The Amazon has long been framed as a “counterfeit paradise” or “wet desert,” an environment that thwarted human agency and cooperation through the ages. By the law of environmental limits on culture, any attempt to establish sizable, permanent settlements would be doomed to fail. In this “land without history,” as one of Brazil’s most famous writers called it, Indians and their mixed-race descendants formed the majority of the population until at least the mid-nineteenth century. These types of people have not been given much credit as stable, long-term settlers, in light of the critique, dating back to the earliest years of colonization, that depicted native Amazonians as inherently prone to an unsettled existence and likely to flee at the first attempt to root them in place. Most scholarship on colonial-era settlement has thus implied that all of it was forced, and that much of it happened during a flurry of imperial reforms back in the mid-eighteenth century. From this perspective, Amazonian settlements were entirely artificial creations, held together by little more than imperial will. Their decadence in the nineteenth century and again in the twentieth century, after the end of the rubber boom, was therefore predestined. There is a kernel of truth in these assumptions. In its unmodified state, Amazonian soil is indeed nutrient poor and insufficient for permanent cultivation, and a host of insect and animal pests have frustrated large-scale agriculture over the centuries. Many native groups did flee colonial settlements, preferring to live in nomadic bands in the remote, upland areas of the Amazon Basin. And the Portuguese colonial enterprise in the Amazon was brutal, often relying on forced migration and enslavement to establish the outposts of an empire. But emphasizing static constraints of nature, culture, and colonialism without also exploring innovations and opportunities for change or growth constitutes a narrow view of Amazonian history and ignores a compelling body of evidence. In this book I am able to describe colonial settlements that adapted to their environment rather than being thwarted by it. These were com-

Introduction

3

Figure I.1 Ruins of Airão, a “Phantom City” on the Rio Negro, 2010. Courtesy of Francis Maglia.

munities built by generations of native Amazonian villagers and migrants, with histories that went much deeper than the period of colonial reforms in the 1750s. I also describe a mode of living typical of most colonial Indian men, which involved spending many months of the year canoeing and trekking through the interior. In contrast to studies that equate indigenous mobility with community abandonment and rejection of colonial rule, the central argument developed in this book is that engagement in these forms of mobility was a means of consolidating and sustaining colonial Indian communities. This is not a simple story about “native agency,” though its protagonists are people who followed their own interests and tried, against significant constraints, to act independently. It is, rather, a story of how diverse groups of people with their own ideas of place and community adapted to new, colonial ideas and practices and often made them their own.

4

Introduction

The key evidence for the story comes from local sources produced during the second half of the eighteenth century, the correspondence of hundreds of colonial administrators who were engaged in everyday affairs in the povoações de índios, the “Indian villages” of the two Amazonian captaincies of Pará and the Rio Negro. These village-level sources show that native Amazonians did not have to choose between moving on or settling down. In fact, spatial mobility and community formation worked as complementary processes in the second half of the eighteenth century, forging a uniquely resilient regional culture along the waterways. This culture— and not imperial will or state power—best explains why a large majority of the colonial Indian villages endured as settled places into the nineteenth century and beyond.

Rivers, Rebels, and Dots on a Map Mobile Amazonians and their communities first became visible to me during a preliminary study of the Cabanagem Rebellion (1835–1840). The culmination of more than a decade of regional violence after independence from Portugal, the rebellion turned into a civil war that pitted white elites against a loose coalition of nonwhite peasants, slaves, and urban poor. When I came to do my first summer of archival research in Belém, the old colonial capital of Pará, the Cabanagem was still waiting for its historian. I had a vague interest in the spatial dimensions of the uprising and the extent to which the rebels, many of whom were identified as Indians in the sources, coordinated their efforts across vast distances, making it the bloodiest, most geographically extensive rebellion in Brazil’s history. (A contemporary’s estimate of 30,000 casualties is probably exaggerated but still indicative of the scale of the violence.) Ultimately, I chose not to write about the rebellion and turned to an earlier and relatively more stable period of Amazonian history. But two findings during that initial trip shaped the kinds of questions I would ask in my subsequent research. First, I found that the rebels did not stage an uprising in isolation, nor did they communicate only with other rebels. District military commanders’ reports to the provincial president provided me with detailed information on local geography and the movements of both rebels and imperial troops in different parts of the province of Pará. The commanders often described waterways: not only rivers, but channels between islands (furos), narrow “canoe-paths” (igarapés), and headwaters of rivers

Introduction

5

(cabeceiras). Small bands of rebels operated in these watery redoubts, where large artillery canoes could not pass, for several years into the repression phase of the rebellion. The rebels’ tactical advantages were not only geographical; they were also social. As one commander lamented, “most of the leaders of the bands are sons of these environs. It seems that their fathers, mothers, siblings, and nephews warn them of the [imperial] expeditions, no matter how secret they may be.” This particular dispatch came from the Furos district, an area of labyrinthine channels around the old povoações de índios (and former missions) of Melgaço, Oeiras, and Portel. The strategic use of rivers and the existence of dense social networks in this part of the Amazon seemed unsurprising, given its geography and pattern of riverine settlement. Yet I knew that the traditional historiography on the Cabanagem portrayed the rebels as isolated factions, operating with only faint awareness of events elsewhere in the Amazon Basin, their coordination impeded by huge distances and an ingrained “mentality of individualism.” In that depiction of the rebels, I saw obvious parallels with the way Amazonian ribeirinhos, or riverine peasant populations (Indian or mixed-race), have been portrayed by scholars working on different historical periods. It became evident to me that within these partisan reports by military commanders lay hints of a reality apart from that described by historians—who until recently tended to conduct their research in overseas or national archives. I had stumbled upon the militarized field notes of contemporary observers, and some of their details resonated with the revisionist scholarship of anthropologists observing riverine communities today. My second finding during this initial research was that the rebels were ethnically diverse but often had common origins in the old povoações de índios. A series of prisoner rolls from the rebellion, in five bound codices, enumerated more than a thousand prisoners, each with a name, age, race, occupation, marital status, place of origin, and place of imprisonment. The majority were identified as Indians, but a significant number of mixed-race individuals—mulatos, mamelucos, and cafuzos—appeared as well, along with smaller numbers of whites and black slaves. The lists represented only a fraction of the prisoners taken during the repression and an even smaller fraction of the total number of rebels, but they suggested that the Cabanagem had been a truly multiethnic movement. It also had spread across a vast region. The prisoners came from all corners of Pará— an area roughly the size of France—ranging from the outpost of Turiaçu, on

6

Introduction

the eastern border, to the village of Faro, on the western side. Their places of imprisonment were often hundreds of miles away from their hometowns. To get a sense of the geographical extent of the rebellion, I began trying to locate and contextualize the settlements listed as rebel hometowns. This task presented some difficulties, but not for the reasons I had expected initially. The settlements had not, in fact, disappeared; most could be found with a bit of sleuthing on historical and modern maps. Their names had occasionally changed, and sometimes their locations had shifted, but many were still identifiable as former povoações de índios, founded as missions in the seventeenth or early eighteenth century. The difficulty came, rather, in trying to find contextual information about individual settlements in the available published sources. Traveling officials or foreigners had described some of them between the late eighteenth and mid-nineteenth centuries, but coverage was selective and their comments rarely went beyond the impressionistic observations of outsiders. There were also several narratives in the form of “chorographies” (literally, place-writings) that described each settlement’s location, demographic composition, and economic activities in a highly formulaic way. None of these sources revealed much about these places as communities with historical roots in centuries past. They still appeared to me as little more than dots on a map. I finished my first stint in the archives wondering about the emergence of a mobile, mixed population in the Portuguese (later, Brazilian) Amazon. How had it formed out of the colonial experience of missionary and then secular administration of the native population? How had people on different rivers of this immense territory become socially integrated over time, in ways that eventually provided the context for regional rebellion? Most of all, I wanted to find out more about the povoações de índios that would become focal points of resistance in the nineteenth century. What had made these communities so durable, when their residents were constantly on the move?

Mobility and Community This book answers those questions by turning to the second half of the eighteenth century. The period is unique for its sources and their continuity: it offers more than forty years of village-level documentation, beginning in 1757, when some sixty missions in Portuguese Amazonia were

Introduction

7

turned over to civil “directors,” under a new system of administration known as the Indian Directorate (which was later extended to the main colony of Brazil). This has been characterized as the definitive “coming of the state” to the Amazon, with all of the negative consequences for native autonomy that this implies. The present work, however, joins other recent studies in attributing the period’s relative stability not to the imposition of royal control, but rather to the process of negotiation and compromise that played out on the local level between colonial officials and índios aldeados, the members of corporate Indian communities. Challenging the still-prevalent idea that Indians could find autonomy only by fleeing the colonial system, these works suggest that spaces of autonomy—however limited— could be carved out from within. Spatial mobility, I argue, is key to understanding this process of finding a place within the colonial sphere. Most scholars who have treated the topic of indigenous mobility in the Amazon focus on movements that were either forced (Indians being displaced to locations not of their choosing) or fugitive (Indians fleeing colonial authority and rejecting fixed residence), and both types of movements have been seen as thoroughly detrimental to colonial Indian communities. There was certainly much forced displacement over the course of Amazonian history, and evasive movements were common. But during the Directorate period, Indians often left their villages because they were obligated or encouraged by colonial authorities to do so and because it suited their interests. Relocating, exploring, and trading across vast distances, they staked out an important position within the colonial system. They selectively engaged in forms of state-sponsored mobility to expand their social networks, to pursue economic opportunities, and to accumulate prestige or political leverage. And Indians did so in ways that often fortified their home communities, by bringing material resources or new people from the frontier to settle in the villages. Many colonial Indians found advantages in their distinct legal status as índios aldeados, which entailed obligations as well as rights and privileges. Under the Directorate, índios aldeados were required to be loyal “vassals” of the Portuguese monarch, pay agricultural tithes, and render various types of service to the state. In return, they were entitled to collectively owned assets, such as land, canoes, and tools; crown sponsorship of village enterprises (agricultural, artisanal, and extractive); and representation and protection by their own native officials. This book shows that colonial Indians also staked claims and sought compensation through

8

Introduction

spatial mobility: they took on roles organizing and leading expeditions to negotiate with independent native groups or to explore unknown territories, and they made themselves indispensable as canoe crewmen and river guides. Colonial officials rewarded these ser vices by granting certificates of office and labor exemptions, as well as additional licenses and funds to travel into the remote interior. The Portuguese colonial system depended on these regional forms of movement and travel, often carried out on terms dictated or influenced by Indians. Governors, magistrates, and metropolitan officials still railed against native Amazonians’ tendency to live far outside the village center, to participate in far-flung social circles, and to spend part of the year engaged in subsistence gathering, on the assumption that these forms of independent mobility were detrimental to “civilized” life. But at the same time, these high-level officials encouraged Indian villagers to go on longdistance expeditions that served economic and geopolitical aims. Village directors, for their part, usually condoned any trip or movement that did not threaten their own agendas, and they encouraged those that benefited them directly. As Stuart Schwartz once reminded an audience of Latin American historians, “telling the story of European iniquity and native destruction is always possible, but there are other tales that need to be heard.” Paying attention to these other stories—which include stories of adaptation and collaboration— does not diminish the damage wrought by colonialism on native societies, nor does it “exculpate the conquerors.” Rather, it is a means of recognizing that Amazonian history is more than a history of colonial domination punctuated by futile acts of resistance. The anthropologist Peter Gow puts it this way: native Amazonians “[did] things for their own reasons long before Europeans turned up,” and they “continue[d] to do such things afterwards.” It is now a commonplace to assert that these were people who had agency, who engaged in self-directed action. But understanding their actions (and the meanings they assigned to them) requires more than abstract categories. Instead, we need to explore the deeper traditions that structured their choices—insofar as this is possible— and the social, political, and material circumstances under which they lived. We can then turn to the big-picture question of how local decision making affected larger systems of colonial governance. This book, then, examines the complexity and dynamism of native Amazonians’ choices within a colonial context. It makes fruitful connec-

Introduction

9

tions with the literature on native participation in Spanish American institutions and markets, much of it written by historians of the Andean highlands and central Mexico. In her introduction to the important edited book Ethnicity, Markets, and Migration in the Andes, Brooke Larson casts Indians’ engagement in colonial markets as one part of a whole “ensemble of social reproductive strategies that allowed them to meet their multiple obligations to the state and their kinsmen, as well as to the church and the local deities, while providing for their immediate and future subsistence needs.” Another contributor, Steve Stern, suggests that Indians may have selectively interacted with European institutions in order to avoid more onerous types of ser vice or to influence the terms of their participation in a system that was stacked against them. In this light, relying on our familiar categories of voluntary or coerced becomes problematic. Kevin Gosner has recently tried to reframe the issue, in response to an earlier literature on Indians’ involvement in colonial credit institutions (repartimiento de comercio) in Mexico. “We should recognize,” Gosner writes, “that the repartimientos, and other systems that structured colonial economic and political relations, could be both empowering and alienating at the same time—it is the interplay in this dynamic that makes them so interesting.” Understanding Indians’ evident willingness to participate in some types of state-sponsored expeditions, one of the focal points of this book, thus requires an appreciation for paradoxical or ambiguous meanings. While individuals’ motives often remain shadowy, I have tried to illuminate as fully as possible the contexts in which they acted and the consequences of action that they themselves would have considered. Ethnohistory, as a bridge between history and anthropology, has provided a methodology for writing about the lives of people who left very few documents of their own authorship, and who only rarely spoke through the writings of colonial scribes and notaries. This has meant developing an acute awareness of what archival documents do and do not say. They tell incomplete stories, only those that their authors considered worthy of writing down, and they offer half-truths, with just one side enjoying access (however limited) to paper, pens, and a culture of literacy. But on-the-ground sources, the backbone of this study, can be read for purposes their authors never intended, and their record of native actions can be analyzed apart from the authors’ interpretations of those actions. Whenever possible, and much more often than I initially expected, I also have drawn evidence from the

10

Introduction

small and scattered corpus of sources that purport to quote or represent native Amazonian voices. These include testimonies taken in the course of official inquiries (Chapters 1, 2, and 5) and petitions to higher authorities (Chapters 3, 5, and 6). While mediated by the officials who recorded them and dwarfed in quantity by sources written from a colonial or European perspective, these testimonies and petitions have led to some of the main insights of this study. In a recent essay, John Monteiro called for a “dialogue between processes highlighted in the study of contemporary communities and similar processes taking place during the colonial period.” Modern ethnographic accounts of native Amazonians suggest that decisions to be mobile—whether to go trekking or to resettle in a new area—have been shaped by sociocultural processes within indigenous societies and are not uniformly “imposed from without.” This was true of mobility during the colonial period, too, and I hope that my discussion of these parallel processes will invite anthropologists and other scholars to comment. Similarities also can be found between colonial Indians’ strategies of selective economic engagement and those of contemporary Amazonian peasants. Enmeshed in regional and world markets, and moving frequently between rural and urban zones, modern-day ribeirinhos likewise seek to maintain a degree of autonomy and a measure of local control over community affairs and resources. In its approach to the study of mobility, this book goes beyond the traditional focus on counting and mapping physical movements. While some quantitative and geographical analysis is pertinent to my analysis (particularly to that of Chapters 4 and 5), the focus is on the experiences of mobile people and the ties they maintained with their home communities, as well as the relationships they built en route and at their destinations. In large part, this approach has been dictated by the historical sources themselves. These tend to be unreliable as statistical portraits of a population but rich in their details about smaller groups of migrants and their communities. The Portuguese naturalist Alexandre Rodrigues Ferreira wrote evocatively of the eighteenth-century Amazon that “all of the people in it can be likened to Noah’s family, in the middle of the post-flood world.” The impression of low population density is accurate, as long as we are speaking of the postcontact era. But as Daniel Usner has pointed out for the lower Mississippi Valley during the eighteenth century, the standard image of territorial vastness and sparse occupation “not only exaggerates the

Introduction

11

boundlessness of life in the valley” but also causes us to overlook important intraregional connections. Like their counterparts in other frontier regions of the colonial Americas, Amazonians spoke a lingua franca, intermarried, exchanged local products for liquor and metal tools, and built economic relationships that linked people across culture and social status. They converged for popular events like saints’ festivals and markets, gathered for conversation in taverns, and deliberated in town councils. Diverse groups of people were always passing through the settlements of the interior; it is telling that as early as the 1680s, there were royal prohibitions on soldiers, sailors, mamelucos, and blacks entering the sertão, or hinterland rivers and forests. Higher authorities considered this mix of people to be a dangerously unruly one, but the sertão could not be cordoned off by decree. Attempts to do so may have made it even more alluring. The Amazonian waterways that made these interior social networks possible form the largest and densest river system in the world, with more than 12,000 miles of navigable routes. Amazonians past and present have shared an “intimate everyday relationship with rivers,” using and manipulating these and other features of the landscape in complex ways. Since at least the eighteenth century, and probably long before that, Amazonians have dug channels to create shortcuts to other rivers; drained swamps; and deepened, widened, and cleared brush from waterways. These routes were used intensively during the colonial period, varying in accordance with the seasonal economy. During the low-water period, from about August to January, people traveled in search of fish and turtles, which migrated from the flooded forest to the more accessible channels and lakes of the region. For weeks at a time in this “summer” season, fishermen and their families lived at camps along the exposed beaches of the floodplain, enjoying the company of other sojourners. The high-water season, from roughly February to July, was a time for venturing farther afield; during those months, when aquatic resources were more scarce, Indian villagers went on forest collecting expeditions and then delivered their products to the downriver capital of Belém. After returning to their villages, with river levels beginning to fall again, they prepared their homestead-gardens for planting. Seasonal rhythms of mobility and fixity have long shaped native Amazonians’ “ways of belonging on the land.”  And as Indians mixed and intermarried with non-Indians, what developed in the colonial Amazon was a pattern of settlement that permitted, and even fostered, significant mobility.

12

Introduction

Overview If the second half of the eighteenth century was a time of relative stability for most of the povoações de índios in the core areas of the Pará and Rio Negro captaincies, the frontiers were another story—and one that Nádia Farage has already told in impressive detail for the Rio Branco region. For this reason, I have left out of my analysis the cluster of povoações around the forts of São Joaquim (on the Rio Branco) and São José de Marabitanas and São Gabriel da Cachoeira (on the upper Rio Negro). Founded almost entirely on the basis of geopolitical considerations, these frontier settlements followed a very different historical trajectory than that of the former missions in the colonial core. Frontier conflicts and conspiracies are, however, still important to the story told in these pages, because they provoked a host of new policies and priorities for the region as a whole. After the Treaty of Madrid (1750) between Spain and Portugal, controversies swirled over the implementation of the agreement and the demarcation of boundaries in the Amazon, and it was in this context that the Portuguese-settled portion of the basin became a prime target of imperial reforms.  Named after Portugal’s powerful prime minister the Marquês de Pombal, the Pombaline reforms included economic initiatives, labor reforms, settlement and transportation experiments, and attempts at social engineering. A key element was the consolidation of a system of productive, European-style urban nuclei that would help guarantee Portuguese possession of the main channel of the Amazon River and its major tributaries. At the same time, these nuclei would serve as “civilizing” arenas for the Indians, who could then be more easily called upon to serve the state in exploring, defending, provisioning, and settling the frontier. The literature on the Pombaline reforms can give the impression that the Amazon was a blank slate before the reforms, and that almost overnight, by royal decree, the Amazon filled with new villages. The first chapter of the book offers a corrective to this version of Amazonian settlement history. It argues that what crown reformers did was significantly less ambitious and more pragmatic than historians have assumed: they appropriated what was already there, more than sixty missions that had been established by the Jesuits and three other religious orders. When the state came to the Amazon, in other words, it found colonial Indian communities that had a prior history and traced their identities to an earlier time and order of things. And in contrast to parts of Spanish America, where

Introduction

13

parallel processes of secularization played out, the transition to civil administration in the Portuguese Amazon did not involve the divestment of communal assets. It occurred smoothly in most of the former missions, because the índios aldeados found that they were able to maintain their old community lands and structures of village governance, as well as their dispersed patterns of settlement. The villagers also tended to resist subsequent, sporadic efforts on the part of colonial authorities to restrict their customary mobility. Chapters 2 and 3 explore the ways in which índios aldeados fulfilled their ser vice obligations under the Directorate system while following their own itineraries beyond the confines of the villages. Chapter 2 focuses on the state-sponsored collecting expeditions, which annually departed each village for the interior rivers and forests in search of cacao, sarsaparilla, and other wild products for export. The very nature of the collecting expeditions made close supervision impossible, and crewmen found ample opportunities to engage in contraband trade, to visit other settlements, and to mix with independent native groups and fugitives. Drawing evidence from the crewmen’s own testimonies on the expeditions, Chapter 2 provides an explanation for why some índios aldeados evidently preferred to participate in this form of labor over other types of ser vice. Chapter 3 examines a different type of state-sponsored project that involved long-distance travel: the descimento (literally, “descent”) of independent native groups to settle in the colonial villages. Many índios aldeados maintained friendly, long-term contacts with uncolonized groups in the interior, and the individuals responsible for bringing these groups into the colonial sphere often received royal privileges in exchange for what was seen as an important ser vice to the crown. This chapter presents new evidence on the participation of colonial Indians as informants, sponsors, leaders, and hosts of descimentos, and it explains why they took such active roles in what has generally been portrayed as a missionary- or staterun enterprise. Movements typically seen as manifestations of resistance to colonial rule and settlement are the focus of Chapter 4. When Directorate Indians absented their villages without permission, some were indeed seeking to leave the colonial system. Many others, however, were looking for incorporation on their own terms. The analysis of more than 200 village absentee reports reveals that significant numbers of people moved from one colonial Indian village to another. Supporting documentation suggests,

14

Introduction

furthermore, that these intervillage movements were not arbitrary or spurred simply by external pressures. Instead, they were multiply determined by family and ethnic affiliation, labor preferences, and relationships with local officials (who often sponsored or condoned the relocations of absentees). This chapter links absentee movements with community formation by showing that village membership criteria remained flexible enough for these migrants to assume the privileges and obligations of enrolled residents, if they chose. Chapter 5 departs from the rest of the book in focusing on Indians and people of mixed race who lived “sobre si”—literally, on their own, apart from the corporate Indian villages and without the tutelage of the directors. For the state, this population represented lost productivity, as they lived outside— and energetically dodged—the Indian labor distribution system based in the villages. As antivagrancy campaigns in the 1770s and 1780s attempted to force thousands of “hidden” or “dispersed Indians” to relocate to the povoações de índios, individuals devised novel ways to live where they wished and to control their own labor. The campaigns inadvertently weakened the entire system of Directorate villages, as most of the forced migrants fled back to their original homes or to new, informal communities, and petitions for exemptions from aldeado status increased. By the end of the century, these changes in Indians’ status and residence were institutionalized in the form of the Directorate’s revocation. Chapter 6 describes the shift to a more assimilationist system of administration, in which colonial Indians were assigned the same legal status as other free vassals of the crown. The system also depended on private initiatives, rather than crown sponsorship of corporate village enterprises. This final chapter examines the impact of the new legislation on the former índios aldeados and their descendants in the early nineteenth century and offers an explanation for why, a little over a generation after the end of the Directorate, nearly all of the old povoações de índios joined the side of the rebels in the Cabanagem Rebellion.

Note on Terminology The term “Indian” (índio) is ubiquitous in colonial sources and thus appears throughout this study, despite its inaccuracy. I also employ the term “índio aldeado”— denoting legal status rather than ethnicity alone— with reference to people under colonial administration. This term is more

Introduction

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precise because some índios aldeados self-identified or were identified by others as racially mixed (mameluco or cafuzo), rather than Indian. Other groups who were sometimes lumped together as Indians and among whom I have tried to distinguish include gentio (“gentiles,” or unconverted native groups), gente nova (literally, “new people,” referring to Indians recently resettled in the colonial sphere), and members of specific nações (Indian “nations” recognized by the Portuguese). Whenever possible, I have used the terms and categories that appear in the sources themselves. The regional terms “Amazonia” and “Amazonian” also require some qualification. The Amazon River’s drainage basin traditionally delineates the boundaries of Amazonia, but at closer inspection we find that the macroregion favored by scholars actually encompasses river systems in the Guiana Shield that drain into the Atlantic, rather than the Amazon River. Amazonia also includes areas of the southern Caribbean and the Orinoco that feature “Amazonian” culture-bearing units or language groups, some of whom have historically chosen to enter the Amazon River’s hydrographic system during the flood season. Furthermore, these regional identifications have changed over time, as cultural traits overlapped and influenced one another, commercial patterns evolved, social ties were established and then broken, and river systems converged seasonally. In the pages that follow, I have relied on these and other macro-regional terms for lack of better alternatives. At the same time, I have tried to remain alert to what ambiguous borders and shifting zones of interaction might have meant to the people who lived, worked, and traveled along those routes.

1 From Missions to Towns Amazonian Settlements in an Era of Reform

IN THE STORY OF colonial settlement in the Amazon, as it has been told and retold since the early nineteenth century, there are several stock characters and symbols. One is the crown reformer, armed with Enlightenment-era plans and acting on direct orders from the powerful Portuguese minister of overseas affairs, Sebastião José de Carvalho e Melo (the future Marquês de Pombal). Another is the pillory, that traditional symbol of royal justice, erected in a hastily cleared field in the middle of the jungle. A group of Indians also makes an appearance in the story, often to humorous effect: recently brought out of the forest, still dressed in their “savage” garb, they are elevated to official village posts. How did these characters and symbols emerge? In 1804, several years after the abolition of the Directorate, a new generation of colonial officials in Pará took stock of the sixty Indian villages that had survived to see the new century. They were not much impressed. The governor at the time, Marcos de Noronha e Brito, traced the villages’ demographic and economic miseries to what he saw as the flawed vision of his Pombaline predecessors in the mid-eighteenth century:

Making twenty thatched huts, two larger ones for the church and municipal council; cutting down the forest to make a clearing, at the center of which the magistrate erected, with much ceremony, a vertical piece of wood they named the pillory; and finally nominating among the residents a judge, a scrivener, and the other members of a municipal council—that is [what they called] a village here. 16

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The governor clearly saw delusions of grandeur in the construction of village buildings and in the assignment of offices among residents. In the waning years of the colonial period, a minister of Dom João VI provided a similar description of the villages’ origins: Contributing to the misfortune of the Indian establishments was, first, the ignorance and sloppiness of the governors and ministers who were in charge of them and who did not know how to choose the important locations for the foundation of the villages. . . . In founding villages, they simply looked for an amenable and fertile spot, as if creating a village consisted only of the erection of a pillory in a fertile and amenable place.

Here, too, the erection of the pillory was ridiculed as a superficial and cursory gesture toward settlement in an otherwise vacant land. Written long after the political fall of the Marquês de Pombal, these early nineteenth-century assessments reveal more about their authors’ biases and political agendas than they do about the settlement history of the Portuguese Amazon. Though aiming to portray Pombal and his colonial agents as retrograde and unsophisticated in their methods, the authors inflated the reformers’ role as village founders. This inflation can also be seen in the secondary literature, which has emphasized the primary role of Pombaline reformers in shaping the settled landscape of the northern colony. Historians have mostly told a story of top-down innovation and reform, impressive in its ambition and scale, even if less than consistent in its results. A rather different story emerges from sources left by on-the-ground observers, a group that includes not only Pombaline officials but also missionaries, secular administrators, and native residents themselves. When royal officials and engineers arrived in the colony in the 1750s, they did not find a tabula rasa upon which to sketch their ideal villages. They did establish about a dozen new settlements during the administration of Francisco Xavier de Mendonça Furtado (1751–1759), but only several of these were created from scratch, and the rest were old military outposts that were repopulated or Jesuit-owned ranches that were expropriated and turned into villages. The vast majority of the Directorate villages in both Pará and the Rio Negro were former missions that had been founded by religious orders during the seventeenth or early eighteenth century (see Appendix A). Many of these communities had existed for a century or more when, in 1757, they were renamed after towns in Portugal, assigned

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new civil administrators and clerics, and ordered to construct more uniform houses. Pombaline reformers made so many symbolic changes and drew up so many official town plans (plantas) that subsequent generations—nineteenth-century politicians and modern scholars alike— attributed to these officials a more formative role than they had ever been able to play. This chapter examines how Pombaline efforts to reorganize Amazonian space and people intersected with preexisting settlement patterns in the colonial sphere. Focusing on the 1750s and early 1760s, the principal period of settlement reform activity, the chapter seeks to answer three related questions: (1) What were the main spatial and social characteristics of the Amazonian missions? (2) What did crown reformers seek to change and to preserve of these settlements? And (3) What conflicts arose in this context? Looking beyond symbolic changes to the settlements, one finds significant continuities between the missionary and Directorate periods. Many of these continuities were pragmatic choices on the part of crown reformers, rather than indications of the reforms’ failure. Other important continuities can be traced to the ongoing struggles of índios aldeados to maintain their old community spaces and to follow long-established patterns of mobility.

The Mission Aldeias: Planned Communities on the Move By the mid-eighteenth century, a network of sixty-three missions stretched from the Atlantic Coast to the border of the Portuguese Amazon with the Viceroyalty of Peru. Back in the 1690s, the crown had divided this immense mission field among four religious orders. The Jesuits’ territory was thereafter restricted to the south bank of the Amazon River and its southern tributaries, all the way to the Madeira River; the various branches (“provinces”) of the Franciscan Order were assigned to the northern side of the Amazon River, including Marajó Island and the region of Cabo Norte; the Mercedarians’ field encompassed the relatively small area in which they already worked, on the Urubú River and around Lake Saracá; and the Carmelites, because of a shortage of Jesuit personnel, received the vast expanse of the Negro and Solimões Rivers. The missions ranged from small, frontier-zone hamlets to major population centers and regional trade hubs. For all their demographic and

From Missions to Towns

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economic differences, the missions shared the main features of waterfront societies: they depended on the waterways as arteries of communication and trade, grounds for fishing and hunting, and, when the floodwaters receded, fertile plains for agriculture. Most were founded at the junctures of the major tributaries or on the fish- and turtle-abundant lakes connected to the main waterways, following precolonial settlement patterns. The missions were connected to each other and to the smattering of nonmission settlements via the main rivers but also by an elaborate network of canals, igarapés (streams, or “canoe paths”), and forest trails. Like their counterparts in northern New Spain and the Chaco, Amazonian missions were fundamentally unstable places with porous boundaries. This characterization merits further discussion, not only because so little historical work has been done on the Amazonian missions and their native residents but also because it sheds light on what did and did not change with secularization. The key point, developed in the rest of this section, is that the missions’ instability derived from environmental and historical factors as well as from the preferences and choices of mission residents themselves. In one sense, the instability was distinctly Amazonian, caused by changes in the fluvial landscape. As they do to this day, the region’s multitude of rivers constantly shifted course, floods swept away chunks of riverbank, swamps or stagnant backwaters expanded, and channels silted up. These changes, in turn, could affect the availability of food, the composition of the soil and its suitability for planting, the prevalence of insectborne diseases, and even the physical accessibility of a settlement. The availability of vacant land in the Amazon Basin during the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries meant that moving a settlement was a relatively viable option, so when sites were determined to be too vulnerable to floods, unhealthy, unproductive, or under attack by hostile native groups (who were themselves affected by fluvial and other environmental changes), the missions moved elsewhere. The Jesuit José de Morais, who meticulously recounted many of the Amazonian mission relocations, tells us that Trocano (named Borba upon its secularization) was first founded in 1725 at the junction of the Jamarí and Madeira Rivers, but it moved downriver in 1742 after the first location was repeatedly sacked by bands of Mura Indians. The mission of Tupinambaranas was located on a large island at the juncture of the ParanáMirim, Madeira, and Amazonas Rivers, but in 1669 it moved to a smaller

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interior tributary to escape the mosquitoes that had infested the first location, changing its name to Santo Inácio (Boim); then, in 1737, the residents moved even farther away, eastward and up the Tapajós River, to avoid the “bad air” that was thought to hang over the previous site. Some missions, such as Iracatuba (Fonte Boa) and Maturá (Castro de Avelãs), moved as many as four or five times along the same tributary to escape plagues of insects or sicknesses thought to be induced by the environment. And in some cases, missionaries had to move their aldeias, or mission villages, after most of the residents had already relocated. The Indians of the Aldeia dos Bocas made their homesteads on a different river, the Araticu, because there were not sufficient agricultural grounds near the mission site, and it was not until the missionary finally found himself alone at Mass that he finally decided to move the mission to that river and renamed it Araticu (Oeiras). Missionary frustration is palpable in accounts describing the abandonment of nearly completed churches and the necessity of building new ones. Yet there was, as Richard Kagan has pointed out for the Spanish American colonies, a deep European tradition of defining cities and towns on the basis of their human associations (civitas), not their physical structures (urbs). This may have made moving a settlement more conceptually possible for missionaries and colonial officials. In most cases, however, the sources do not indicate whether these moves were undertaken on the initiative of the missionaries, the heads of the religious orders, or the crown and its primary representative in the colony, the governor. Many relocations were likely negotiated between colonial representatives and índios aldeados, who may have had markedly different aims. The contested nature of some relocation decisions can be seen in José de Morais’s description of moving the mission of Tabapará, whose residents traditionally had been distributed on labor assignments to settlers in the nearby town of Vigia: For lack of lands for the Indians to farm in the old location, I moved [the mission aldeia] almost to the coast, a league by land from the old site, where I made a church and new houses, with the consent of the Governor and Captain General João de Abreu de Castelo Branco, who had granted the petition of the Indians themselves. . . . And because I do not want the truth to be buried by time, I proclaim that it is false what the settlers of Vigia allege, that I moved the aldeia without the Governor’s license and against the orders of His Majesty.

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According to Morais, then, the move had been requested by the índios aldeados, licensed by the governor, carried out by the missionary (himself), and opposed by the settlers who had presumably enjoyed easier access to the Indians’ labor in the mission’s old location. We can assume that mission relocations would have been more contested in this delta region, close to the capital of Belém and more densely populated with settlers, than in the remote interior, where the lack of communication and the near-absence of official oversight made such controversies more unlikely. There is compelling evidence that the enduring mission sites were precisely those that had supported large native populations before the arrival of the Portuguese. When the royal magistrate Francisco Xavier Ribeiro de Sampaio visited Fonte Boa in the 1770s, for example, he noted that the village had moved four times in the past, and that it had finally come to rest at the site of an ancient native settlement. Partially unearthed ceramic urns, which had served as burial vessels in precolonial times, were strewn all along the streets of the village. Most colonial officials were not as observant or curious as Sampaio, but the absence of other references to pre-Columbian remnants in the missions does not mean that these did not exist. Recent archaeological studies have shown that many, if not most, missions ended up on riverine bluffs over the várzea, or floodplain, near deposits of ancient anthropogenic soil, or terra preta, plots of black, fertile earth created by native Amazonians thousands of years ago. Surveys by soil scientists have found large deposits of the soil at the old mission sites (and modern towns) of Coari (Alvelos), Jaú (Airão), Saracá (Silves), Trocano (Borba), Jamundá (Faro), Cumarú (Vila Franca), Surubiú (Alenquer), Tapajós (Santarém), Santo Inácio (Boim), and Maturú (Porto de Moz), among others. This pattern of pre-Columbian settlement, which many missions evidently followed, has been described as the “patch model”: areas of intensive agriculture and dense settlement on terra preta– covered bluffs, separated by vast, sparsely occupied areas that were less suitable for settlement, for lack of either elevated ground or access to active river channels. Inhabitants of these bluff sites had access to the resources of both the floodplain and terra firme, or uplands. Many of these sites are still inhabited today, and Amazonian farmers still plant their crops in soil laced with potsherds and other remnants of the past. The proximity of many missions to terra preta deposits suggests either that Indians were already living in those locations when the missionaries established themselves there or that, in the case of mission relocations, the

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Indians played a primary role in the selection of sites. While some mission residents had come via descimentos (native resettlements or “descents”) from distant areas of the basin, most índios aldeados were either born in the missions or brought from the same river valleys in which the missions were situated. They would have been more knowledgeable than their missionaries— some of whom had recently arrived from Europe— about which local sites were the most abundant in soil, plant, and animal resources. As a modern-day “ethnoecological” study has shown, a single native resident of the floodplain around Lake Coari (near the former mission of that name, on the Solimões River) could name forty different lugares de fartura—literally, places of abundance— or, in the parlance of ecologists, “resource units.” And, if a recent comparative survey of Latin American missions is accurate, Indians in tropical-zone missions generally taught their missionaries what to eat, using mostly native techniques with only limited European technology (i.e., steel-tipped harpoons for manatee), in contrast to temperate-zone missions, where missionaries more often taught Indians what to eat and how to produce it. If missionaries initially did not put any stock in native ecological knowledge when founding a mission, they may well have reconsidered—perhaps in the wake of crop failures or other food shortages— and moved the mission according to the preferences of its inhabitants. It is worth pointing out, however, that access to resources would not have been the only criterion considered by índios aldeados in the process of mission site selection. Instead, they might have preferred to move away from the floodplain and the active river channels, so as to isolate themselves from the constant traffic of settlers and government officials along the main routes. According to the Jesuit João Daniel, when missionaries of his order founded an aldeia near the settler town of Vigia, all of the Indians fled to a hidden little igarapé called Curuçá; “and since it was necessary to follow them, that is where they founded the settlement” of the same name (later, Vila Nova d’El Rei). Curuçá seems to be an extreme case of evasive settlement, but a few missions were indeed founded on smaller, less accessible waterways (i.e., Urubucoara [Outeiro] and Tuaré [Esposende]). The physical instability of the missions also derived from the potentially volatile mix of people living in them, some of whom chose mobility as a way to avoid conflict. Historically, the missions typically featured many different nações, or nations, as the Portuguese classified indigenous groups

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according to linguistic, phenotypic, or territorial criteria. Some of these were recent, unbaptized arrivals, while others had been índios aldeados for many generations. Padre Daniel made reference to an unnamed mission that had, at some point in the past, contained up to thirty different nations, and in light of other evidence on the intensification of interethnic warfare during the colonial period, it is clear that some missions became pressure cookers rather than melting pots. Thus some split, as happened at Itacuruçá (Veiros), when one of two rival nations formed Piriviri (Pombal), moving two leagues upriver. Similarly, the residents of Pedreira (Moura) and Camará (Moreira) had once been united in a single mission, but one of the headmen disliked the mixed settlement and decided to form a new mission exclusively for his ethnic group. If ethnic strife did not cause a mission to divide in a formal way, the spatial layout of the community might still reflect these divisions: ethnic groups might, for example, build their houses at a distance from one another, and develop their homestead-gardens in separate territories. This strategy for diffusing ethnic tensions became so common that it was recommended in the 1686 mission legislation, the Regimento das Missões. When Indians of different nations rejected the idea of settling together, the missionaries ought to “separate them, dividing them into parishes within the district of the [missionary] residences, so that in this way they are attended by the Padre with the doctrine, secure in my [the King’s] laws, and conserved without any fear of their opposition.” Even if some missions were firmly rooted in place, the same could not be said of their individual native residents. The main Jesuit chroniclers— João Felipe Bettendorff, João Daniel, Manoel de Seixas, and Domingos de Araújo— all describe Amazonian missions as chronically underpopulated because of the unceasing demands of the repartição, or official distribution of laborers. Per the Regimento das Missões, half of the adult male population of each mission was distributed to the settlers for six months out of each year, but these limits were often exceeded; Araújo, for example, referred to the “very little residence” of índios aldeados in the missions, “for they spend almost all their lives with an oar in hand, serving the King’s ministers and the settlers on successive contracts, such that the aldeias are deserted the greater part of the year.” The Jesuits, who were allotted twenty-five Indians for their own ser vice, themselves contributed to the emptiness of the missions, as they regularly dispatched crewmen to the sertão to collect forest products; they could also employ up to a third

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of the village’s adult men in descimento expeditions to negotiate resettlements with independent native groups. According to Seixas, the women and children also typically left the missions when their husbands and sons went on canoe crew duty, as they found themselves driven by necessity to foraging for food in the forest. And during epidemics, entire communities might temporarily withdraw to camps in the interior, often with their missionary in tow. On the more voluntary end of the spectrum, índios aldeados often left the missions to visit relatives, trade, or attend festivals in other colonial settlements or in autonomous native villages in the sertão. Sometimes these visits became long-term or permanent absences, but more typically they were seasonal and combined with various productive activities. Long before the arrival of the Portuguese, native Amazonians had constructed their livelihoods around a complex and shifting combination of activities (i.e., fishing, hunting, forest gathering, seasonally intensive agriculture, gardening, and regional trading) that required them to be mobile and brought them into contact with a wide range of people, including uncolonized native groups. As Cynthia Radding has written of the missions of northwestern New Spain, there were “ties of kinship and reciprocity between villagers and hunter-gatherers that remained operative under colonial rule. . . . The difference between sedentary and nomadic was not necessarily hard-and-fast.” Índios aldeados also crossed the borders of adjacent imperial territories to trade and visit relatives: the residents of the Cabo Norte missions commonly ventured into French Cayenne, and Indians from the Negro and Solimões Rivers passed into Spanish and Dutch territories to the west and north. Some of these trading networks were still intact at the very end of the colonial period; European travelers described how residents of the old povoações de índios on the Solimões obtained blow-pipes and poison for arrows from autonomous groups of Juri, Passé, Miranha, and Ticuna who lived along the upper Solimões and Japurá Rivers. In addition to the annual or seasonal mobility of the índios aldeados, a variety of non-aldeados also passed through the missions, challenging the notion that these were insular places. Some historians have taken the Regimento’s restrictions on the entrance of whites and mamelucos to have been effective, but there is ample evidence that the missions were open rather than closed to the rest of society. In 1718 and again in 1722, the missionaries faced allegations from settler interest groups (the gover-

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nor and the municipal council of Belém) that they employed military deserters, mameluco fugitives, sailors, and black slaves in their business enterprises. Missionary sources, for their part, maintained that settlers regularly entered the missions without official license, whether to illegally recruit Indian laborers or to engage in illicit trade. Padre Daniel depicted the settlers as being so bold as to stand outside the church, waiting for the Indians to emerge from Mass so that they could be pressed into ser vice. He also described the ubiquity of the itinerant white merchants (the contratistas or regatões), who visited the homesteads of the Indians to trade cane liquor for manioc flour. In some of the most accessible missions on the transamazonian route, such as Gurupatuba (Monte Alegre), the Indian residents were “very ladino,” or acculturated, “perhaps due to the communication with the Portuguese, because it is the rare traveler on that river who does not stop there, especially if they bring some products to trade.” Some travelers traded all of their cargo and even the shirts off their backs with the Indian women of Gurupatuba, who drove hard bargains over their finely painted gourds, or cuias, which were prized in Europe. Colonist or missionary sources may have exaggerated (for different reasons) the extent of the non-Indians’ penetration of the missions, but there is no evidence that royal prohibitions were enforceable. As Padre Daniel pointed out, authorities did not even try to supervise the dispersed homesteads of the mission Indians, where many of these raids and trades allegedly took place. And in the mission center, missionaries apparently did little to prevent the incursions of non-Indians or to curtail the illegal activities that transpired in their communities— either because they felt powerless to do so or because they were complicit in these transactions. According to Sweet, slave traders and other “transfrontiersmen” used the missions as way stations and reprovisioning points during their journeys into the sertão, in what amounted to a mutually beneficial arrangement with the Carmelite missionaries on the Negro and Solimões Rivers. In spatial layout and appearance, the missions reflected the importance that the religious orders accorded to the principle of congregation and to European norms of urbanization. On their elevated riverbank sites, the missionaries attempted to construct communities that would stand the test of time—and water—with central churches and permanent residences. The drawings of the German engineer João André Schwebel, who accompanied an official expedition that visited the missions of Pará and the Rio Negro just before secularization (1754), reveal common spatial and structural

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features as well as differences between individual missions. Figures 1.1 and 1.2, for example, depict Jaú (Airão) and Pedreira (Moura), Carmeliteadministered missions on the Rio Negro. Both were situated on bluffs, with stairs or a path down to the floodplain below. The church in the mission of Jaú was a humble, one-room structure, and the residence of the

Figure 1.1 “View of the Aldeia of Jaú” (Airão), 1754. Source: João André Schwebel, “Collecçam dos prospectos das aldeias . . . ,” completed in 1756 from drawings made during the expedition of 1754. Courtesy of the Acervo da Fundação Biblioteca Nacional, Brazil.

Figure 1.2 “View of the Aldeia of Pedreira” (Moura), 1754. Source: Schwebel, “Collecçam dos prospectos das aldeias . . .”

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missionary was indistinguishable from the simple, wattle-and-daub houses of the Indians. Pedreira, in contrast, boasted a much larger building with two cupolas, an elegant façade, and multiple wooden doors; the adjacent missionary residence was a multiroom building with plaster walls and an interior courtyard; and there were two large storage buildings for canoes (casas de canoa). Other sources indicate that the quality and extent of the constructions varied according to the ambitions and resources of individual missionaries, as well as on the amount of labor they could mobilize for building projects. One of the most prosperous and populous missions in Pará, the Jesuit-founded (then Franciscan-administered) Gurupatuba, had a well-kept plaza, a lavishly decorated church, a hospital, and, most notably, uniform houses and streets. Its equivalent on the Rio Negro was the mission at Mariuá (Barcelos), where one enterprising and prosperous Carmelite missionary, José da Magdalena, went so far as to tile the roof of the large church, rather than covering it with the traditional palm thatch. On the Solimões, the Carmelite missionary of São Paulo dos Cambebas (Olivença), Domingos de Santa Theresa, built a large and well-decorated church and a two-storied residence for himself. He also convinced the índios aldeados to recongregate in the village center and rebuild their houses on higher ground and on regular streets. Many mission residents, however, retained native housing styles, and even the physical layout of the communities showed adaptations to the Amazonian environment. Describing the well-populated mission of Abacaxis (Serpa), João Daniel referred to its “numerous houses, made in the style of the forest (ao modo do mato) and very large, each house accommodating more than a hundred people.” Even if they did not live in traditional longhouses and instead built single-family dwellings (as some missionaries urged them to do), índios aldeados still used native construction techniques. Rather than the mud or mortar walls and solid floors with which the settlers constructed their homes, many índios aldeados built with wooden slats, so that their houses remained well ventilated and cool. Índios aldeados generally resisted congregating in the mission center, even if, as shown in Schwebel’s drawings, they had been persuaded to construct houses there. Both residents and headmen often spent the majority of their time at their homestead-gardens, which were usually located on small igarapés and sometimes at a distance of several days’ travel

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from the mission. They lived in lightweight lean-tos or simple thatched huts, tending to their crops, and when soils were exhausted or weeds became too ferocious, they simply moved to a new site. The remoteness of these homesteads, of course, was also an adaptation to colonial demands: it helped residents avoid being pressed into ser vice by the canoe expeditions that stopped at the missions, and it provided a ready excuse for not attending Mass. Some missionaries railed against these centrifugal tendencies and tried to enforce the principle of congregation, but others apparently took a more pragmatic approach. Surrounding the mission headquarters of Saracá (Silves), which was situated on an elevated bank of terra preta, were six satellite “aldeias” that formed the larger mission community. Each of these satellites, likely formed by a particular ethnic group or extended family (maloca), had its own little chapel and received occasional visits from the resident missionary, the Mercedarian friar Theodósio da Veiga. It was probably only on saints’ days and other major religious holidays that the residents gathered together in the mission headquarters, when, as João Daniel describes it, the place would be “aflame in parties, dances, and drunken revelries.” From the perspective of the missionary, the relative autonomy of the satellite aldeias was likely preferable to the dispersal of the índios aldeados on even more remote waterways. Friar Theodósio may have taken some comfort in the fact that he could see most of the aldeias from the veranda of his residence.

Strategies and Symbols of Appropriation The preceding section has expanded on the idea that Amazonian missions were inherently unstable places with porous boundaries, as a result of historical and environmental factors as well as native decision making. It has also suggested that while these were communities planned according to European norms, they were ones in which native modes of settlement and patterns of mobility persisted. How, then, did midcentury Pombaline officials approach the reform of these settlements? And how did their plans change as they traveled from the capital to the remote interior, visited individual missions, and interacted with residents? A number of scholars have suggested or implied that there were continuities in the organization of space and people before and after secularization, and they have primarily attributed this to predetermined limi-

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tations on crown resources or to the logistical and cultural obstacles encountered by officials during implementation. I would like to suggest instead that these continuities were, in many cases, things that crown representatives did not try to change, based on their evolving calculations of what should be preserved of the missions and what was feasible to accomplish. The changes they sought to make to the settlements were usually symbolic, and only in a few exceptional cases did they attempt to alter basic spatial patterns of settlement or the structural characteristics of the former missions. Francisco Xavier de Mendonça Furtado, the crown’s most powerful representative in Pará during the 1750s, had been schooled in his brother’s approach to reform. Recently appointed minister of foreign affairs, Sebastião José de Carvalho e Melo (later, the Marquês de Pombal) would come to dominate the cabinet of Dom José I between 1755 and 1777. According to Kenneth Maxwell, Carvalho e Melo “was a pragmatic and subtle adaptor, one who almost always pressed against the limits of what was possible within the constraints with which he had to work”; his favored approach was “a pragmatic assessment of options, [and] a mixture of eclectic borrowing and innovation.” As indicated throughout his extensive correspondence, Mendonça Furtado shared these qualities and methods. The brothers also shared a preference for subterfuge as a means to an end. As Maxwell has described it, Carvalho e Melo’s was “a policy of reform, disguised, when prudence dictated, by traditional institutions and language.” How did this play out in the Amazonian context, with Mendonça Furtado as the primary agent of the crown and of its increasingly powerful minister? A set of royal instructions, given to Mendonça Furtado in 1751 upon his assignment as governor and captain-general of Pará, established strategic priorities for the region and maintained that its current state of “decadence and ruin” could be traced to the disregard of both missionaries and settlers toward royal directives. Regarding the utilization of native labor, the instructions noted that the recent epidemic (of measles, 1743– 1749) had “provided the occasion for a change of method.” Not only was Mendonça Furtado charged with the implementation of this change, but much of the substance of it was left to his discretion. It was up to him to decide, after careful observation and investigation, how and when to abolish Indian slavery; whether or not to completely restrict missionaries to spiritual affairs; and how to direct the efforts of missionaries so that they advanced the crown’s geopolitical and economic aims. In addition to

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promoting the foundation of new mission aldeias at the mouth of the Rio Javari and in other frontier zones, he should seek to “secure the State and make commerce flourish” through the introduction of settlers in vacant, strategically important areas of the colony. In all of these deliberations, he should seek firsthand knowledge of the problem whenever possible— that is, by visiting all of the missions—but should “proceed with great caution, circumspection, and prudence” in the face of entrenched colonial interest groups, who would “not find this new method as beneficial to them as that which they have practiced until now.” For the most part, the crown’s underlying aims were not new. Portugal had sought to develop the Amazonian economy and to guarantee its military and political control over its contested frontiers since the early seventeenth century. These goals had led to the crown’s “marriage of convenience” with the religious orders, as codified in the 1686 Regimento das Missões, which attempted to regulate the missions as labor distribution centers and “civilizing” arenas; and in the Repartição of 1693, which assigned mission fields to the different religious orders on the basis of geopolitical considerations. If the aims remained the same, the method of relying on missionary tutelage of the Indians and permitting native enslavement would, of course, change during Mendonça Furtado’s tenure in the Amazon. But other royal experiments directed toward the settlement and economic development of the region were ongoing (albeit sporadically) and were not, in fact, initiated for the first time by the Pombaline administration. As it had throughout the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, the crown under Carvalho e Melo’s direction continued to sponsor the migration of families from the Azores and other Portuguese territories to strategic locations in Pará; to seek ways to make African slaves more affordable to the colony’s settlers; and to promote agricultural development as both an economic good and a means of rooting people in place. With regard to the missions, it is clear that Pombaline ideas about the geopolitical, economic, and civilizing functions of congregating Indians did not, as some authors have suggested, represent a “major shift in direction.”  More than half a century earlier, the Regimento das Missões had urged the missionaries to increase the population of Indians in the aldeias, “as much for the security of the State and defenses of the City, as for the contracts and ser vices of the settlers and the expeditions to the sertão” (Article 8); and had reiterated an older decree to the effect that governors and missionaries should try to convince Indians who resided in

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missions of fewer than 150 residents to unite with larger missions, so as to avoid “being scattered in the Sertão” in villages too small to justify their attendance by the chronically short-staffed religious orders (Article 22). The Regimento had also ordered new recruits from the forest to be settled in missions that were convenient for labor distribution, with the related goal of “making them communicable in commerce and persuading them of the value of an honest life’s work, so that they do not live in idleness” (Article 9). These newly resettled Indians were not, however, required to serve the settlers for two years, a period that was “necessary for their indoctrination in the faith, the main reason for their reduction, and for them to make their homestead-gardens (roças) and get accustomed to the land” (Article 23). The substance of these four articles was maintained as policy in the Amazon during the second half of the eighteenth century— even the two-year rest period for new arrivals and the minimum population requirement of 150 people per village. Urban nuclei continued to be conceived as the ideal places for Indians to learn the behaviors and attitudes that the crown expected of them—and with just a few exceptions, to be discussed later in this section, the expectations did not change much. Indians would, however, be instructed and managed by new (hopefully better) tutors and surrounded by new (presumably more powerful) symbols of authority. Within two months of his arrival in Belém, Mendonça Furtado settled upon the critique that he would repeat, with increasingly harsh adjectives, for the remainder of his eight years in the colony: the religious orders, and the Jesuits in particular, monopolized native labor, mistreated their charges, and failed in the most basic ways to serve crown interests. If the royal instructions he had received earlier that year had still envisioned a strategic role for the missionaries as agents on the frontier, Mendonça Furtado was already convinced that they were inimical to colonial development and prosperity. To some extent these views had been formed earlier in Portugal, but the governor apparently found confirmation of them during his first few months in Pará. Mendonça Furtado also began constructing what became the dominant Pombaline narrative about the settlers. It had elements of defense as well as condemnation: the settlers were generally poor, far too dependent on Indian slaves for their survival, and so ignorant that they “imagined that all their fortunes had to come from the sertão, and not from the extraction of forest products, but from capturing Indians.” The governor reported that he had renewed

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long-standing efforts to bring slave-trading “rebels” out of the sertão and noted that he had already freed thirty Indians who had been illegally enslaved. The settlers grilled him about rumors that he carried an order to abolish native slavery, but Mendonça Furtado dissimulated about any broader plans. He simply continued to liberate individual slaves who petitioned for their freedom while promoting an alternative source of labor to be shipped from Africa. It was classic Pombaline strategy. The battle lines—and a few more tenuous lines of solidarity—having been drawn at this early date, the governor initiated several settlement experiments. The first two had been ordered in the royal instructions of 1751 and were dutifully pursued soon after the governor’s arrival. One was the establishment of a town at São José do Macapá, near the site of an older fortification on the northern bank of the Amazon and close to both the river’s mouth and the contested border with French Cayenne. Toward the end of 1751, a couple hundred settlers from the Azores Islands, with enough Indians to serve them as hunters and fishermen and several dozen soldiers, were sent to begin cultivating the area. Mendonça Furtado was careful to specify that these settlers would be granted no Indian laborers for agricultural work, to combat the ingrained notion “that the Indians are the only ones who should work, and that it is injurious for any white to pick up a tool for the cultivation of land.” Also following royal instructions, Mendonça Furtado (reluctantly) sent a team of Jesuits to examine possible locations for two new missions, one at the Rio Javari at its junction with the Rio Solimões and the other at the Rio Japurá, both close to the border with Spanish territories. The mission at Javari was indeed founded in late 1751, but the other one never came to fruition. The Jesuit superior sought to disabuse Mendonça Furtado of the notion that settlements could be founded according to geopolitical criteria alone: As for the mission [to be founded] at the Rio Japurá next to its falls: according to the information that they [the team of missionaries] have given me, this area is said to be uninhabitable, because in the months of May, June, July, and August there are many deaths around this part of the river, due to the malignancy of the waters, and in these months, even the natives abandon these sites.”

The governor seemed to take the warning seriously, as there was no further mention of the Japurá settlement plan. Three other settlement experiments, all initiated in 1753, were of colonial, rather than metropolitan, design. After being notified that the

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crown had incorporated the private captaincy of Caeté— a sparsely populated area to the east of Belém—Mendonça Furtado proposed sending another group of Azorean migrants to settle at the old settler town of Vila Sousa do Caeté, near the Atlantic coast. At that time, the town was nearly abandoned, consisting of just a few thatched huts and an old church, but a Jesuit aldeia of the same name, situated on the other side of a creek at the northern end of the settlement, was well populated and could provide laborers for the new vila, to be renamed Bragança. The royal magistrate charged with its redesign brought a team of surveyors, mathematicians, and a respected Italian engineer to develop a road to the Rio Guamá— so as to avoid the treacherous sea-route to Belém— and to plan a new church, municipal council building, and residences around a large, central plaza and along a small grid of regular streets. While the Bragança project was surely inspired by past Azorean settlement schemes in the region, including the recent one at Macapá, Mendonça Furtado came up with a more original method of repopulating an old fortification, the Casa Forte do Guamá. He sent some 150 freed Indian slaves, whom he had taken from various “contrabandists,” to form a new village. Renaming it Vila de Ourém, he noted that the village would serve not only as a labor source for the farmers along the Rio Guamá but also as a transportation hub for products coming from Bragança. His first order was for a school to be opened in Ourém, so that the Indian boys could be “raised with civility” and learn the Portuguese language. The repopulation of these two outposts represented Mendonça Furtado’s evolving ideas about how to promote agriculture and commerce among the settlers, how to increase their access to mission labor, and how to integrate freed Indian slaves into colonial society. Predictably, the missionary at the aldeia annexed to Bragança was seen as an obstacle to the progress of the new settlement. The royal magistrate, who had come to the town to oversee the construction of new buildings, reported that the missionary had thwarted the distribution of laborers and had even deliberately dismantled houses in the mission aldeia. Mendonça Furtado could not do much about missionaries in established aldeias, however, other than petition the Jesuit superior for their replacement—which did, in fact, happen in the case of Bragança. In the newly founded povoações de índios, Ourém and Santana (see below), the situation was different. Lay clergymen, appointed by the bishop, could oversee spiritual affairs; and because the bishop was himself appointed by

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the crown, the lines of authority went directly to Lisbon—in contrast to the regular orders, appointed by the mission superiors who, in turn, answered to the pope in Rome. As one of the crown’s loyal bishops, Miguel de Bulhões, wrote that same year, “the most efficient way to eliminate, little by little, the [mission] aldeias, is to found povoações and establish parishes” free of missionary control. In his third and most original experiment, Mendonça Furtado negotiated the establishment of a village with one of the region’s unruliest slave traders, Francisco Portilho. Having informed the crown of Portilho’s excesses in the sertão, the governor later received permission to pursue an accommodation with the slave trader, with the goal of incorporating his numerous Indian allies and followers. Portilho was said to exert control over six native aldeias of more than 700 Indians in the Rio Negro region, and past accommodations and punitive measures having failed, the Conselho Ultramarino gave Mendonça Furtado license to “act freely according to the opportunities that present themselves.” A few months later, toward the end of 1753, Mendonça Furtado reported that he had convinced Portilho to bring more than 400 Indians to found a new village at Santana de Macapá, on a large island just offshore from the new town of São José do Macapá. The new residents had already shown themselves to be useful to the crown: they had organized an expedition against a community of Indian fugitives in the region, and “in fewer than two hours, they imprisoned more than 120 persons, making such an impression upon those poor people that even hearing the name of Portilho . . . not one resolved to take up arms or dared to defend themselves.” Portilho was instructed to build a church, fabricate canoes, and prevent labor abuses by settlers at Macapá. His first priority was to be the civilization of the Indians, achieved by introducing them to regular work and commercial pursuits, having them properly indoctrinated, and teaching them to speak Portuguese, rather than the Jesuit-devised língua geral. Santana, however, failed as an settlement. In 1754, Mendonça Furtado attempted to remove Portilho from the region, on the pretext of needing his ser vices on the Rio Negro. Th is apparently did not happen, and by the following year, Portilho was said to be living outside Santana, on a little igarapé in the Furos district, where he operated as an independent agent. He had allegedly convinced most of the Indians to leave the village so that he could use them as a private labor source or offer their labor to other settlers. Eventually, crown officials transferred

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the few residents who remained in Santana to another location on the mainland. After the failure of Santana, Mendonça Furtado focused his attention on existing mission aldeias, which already had bases of population. The missions also had buildings of varying quality (churches, missionary residences, houses for the índios aldeados, warehouses, casas de canoa, and hospitals), a range of industries and productive infrastructure (pottery- and tile-making factories, looms, turtle pens, corrals for cattle, canoes and canoe-making facilities, tools, and cleared garden plots), and communication infrastructure (trails, bridges, ports, and canals). The question that increasingly occupied the governor and his colleagues was how to successfully appropriate these existing communities and their resources. The governor spent the years 1755 and 1756 serving as boundary demarcation commissioner on the Rio Negro, a period marked by the consolidation of plans on both sides of the Atlantic. It seems that only one new settlement was established during that time: São Bento do Rio Capim, to the east of Belém. Its origins remain somewhat obscure, but a director’s report from the mid-1760s traces the village’s establishment to a group of fugitive Indian slaves who, upon hearing that slavery would soon be abolished, requested the governor’s permission to form a legal settlement. Bishop Bulhões, serving as interim governor in Mendonça Furtado’s absence, awarded patentes (certificates of office) to the leaders of the group and appointed a civil administrator to oversee their settlement at an abandoned cacao plantation near the capital. Despite a rocky beginning amid rumors that the villagers were to be returned to their former owners, the settlement survived. Thus, if the director’s account is accurate, this village was founded not by royal decree or the governor’s orders, but through a serendipitous negotiation with a group that wished to form an officially recognized settlement. It took three months to travel from Belém to Mariuá (the future Barcelos), a large Carmelite mission on the Rio Negro that would serve as the base camp of the demarcation commissions. En route, Mendonça Furtado stopped at about a dozen missions along the Amazonas and Negro Rivers and found, for the most part, what he expected to find: nearly vacant missions, difficulties in provisioning his entourage with food, long delays in the recruitment of crewmen, and what he perceived as uncooperative and even hostile behavior on the part of the Jesuit missionaries at the largest

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aldeias, Guaricurú (Melgaço) and Arucará (Portel). One can only imagine what the índios aldeados thought of the arrival of twenty-three canoes carrying more than a thousand people, among them engineers, surveyors, bureaucrats, military officials, soldiers, surgeons, cooks, fishermen, and more than 500 crewmen. It would have been, without a doubt, the largest assemblage of people ever seen in those parts, and the newcomers came demanding replacement crewmen (needed to replenish the 165 who fled en route) and manioc flour (a grand total of 730 alqueires, or nearly 6,000 gallons!). Women in many missions offered the governor gifts of food in ritual exchange for European ribbon, cloth, and salt, a practice that another traveling official referred to as “forced sales.” Many other residents simply stayed at their homesteads and missed the commotion altogether, and only in Mariuá did the villagers put on a display of loyalty, lifting a triumphal arch and reciting a sonnet in Portuguese to welcome the governor. One scholar has remarked that the size of the expedition revealed the largesse and lack of pragmatism of the governor, who did not foresee how cumbersome his entourage would be or how much its appearance would scare away the índios aldeados. It seems more likely, however, that the grandiosity of the expedition—not only its size, but also the sumptuous decoration of the governor’s canoe, the smartly outfitted crewmen, and royal flags hanging from every mast—was an intentional display of power and authority. And the vacancy of the villages did not necessarily indicate that the Indians had fled in intimidation; instead, if missionary-era sources paint a faithful picture, this was the normal state of affairs. As it turned out, Mendonça Furtado did not need the additional ammunition against the missionaries that his journey had provided, because the crown had already responded to his earlier recommendations for reforms. First came the carta régia of March 3, 1755, which ordered the creation of a new captaincy, São José do Rio Negro; then a decree incentivizing marriages between Indians and whites (April 4, 1755); followed by the laws outlawing native slavery (June 6, 1755) and removing the temporal powers of the religious orders (June 7, 1755). Mendonça Furtado became aware of these legislative developments only after a delay of four to six months because of the pace of mail across an ocean and along a thousand miles of river, and so during this interval he penned vigorous denunciations of the missionaries and the lawlessness of the interior. Upon receiving the news from Lisbon, he was surely pleased with the extent to

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which the crown, at that time steered almost solely by his brother, had followed his earlier suggestions. In deciding how and when to publish the laws and implement the new orders, Mendonça Furtado drew upon his experiences with settlement reform in Pará. Whereas the carta régia had ordered the new capital of the Rio Negro captaincy to be located at the aldeia (founded c. 1751) at the mouth of the Rio Javari, Mendonça Furtado eventually concurred with Bishop Bulhões that the capital should be established at Mariuá instead. While his reasons for choosing Mariuá are not entirely clear, the governor probably knew how hard it would be to implement, essentially from scratch, the carta régia’s orders that the new capital have a large church, an ample plaza, public buildings such as a jail and municipal council chambers, wide and straight streets, and uniform houses. These constructions and reforms had already been attempted in Bragança and Macapá, where they had faced significant obstacles to completion. Bishop Bulhões noted that Mariuá, “which features the buildings that Your Excellency has ordered, can be established as a competent city, without any further expense, not of time or of money.” As mentioned earlier, its longtime missionary, José da Magdalena, had earned a reputation for innovative construction projects and other village improvements; apparently, the mission already fulfilled the basic requirements of a European-style urban nucleus. Mendonça Furtado could focus his efforts on the construction of several buildings to house the Spanish demarcation commissioners and their soldiers, as well as a palace for his residence. The royal engineer Felipe Sturm was put in charge of the project. During his two-year exile on the Rio Negro—where he seems to have been quite miserable, chronically ill and waiting in vain for his Spanish counterparts—the governor also occupied himself with the formation of alliances with Indian nations and efforts to recruit them as residents (and much-needed laborers) in Mariuá. These experiences were largely frustrating ones, and they must have strengthened Mendonça Furtado’s conviction that the most precious resources of the missions were demographic ones. In late 1755, he turned his restless mind to the mission of Trocano, located on the strategic Rio Madeira route to the gold mines of Mato Grosso. This mission, named after a kind of native drum used in war, was soon to be transformed into the Vila of Borba and was to serve as a laboratory for the secularization of the missions and the implementation of the orders on mixed marriages. The royal decree abolishing the

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temporal powers of the missionaries would not even be published in the Amazon until mid-1757, and at this point, crown officials were still deciding what to preserve of the missions and what to change. An admittedly biased account, which nonetheless provides some sense of what the transformation of Trocano entailed, comes from its Jesuit missionary. Anselmo Eckart, a young German who had arrived in Trocano only a few months earlier, left a vivid description in his Memoir of a Jesuit Prisoner of Pombal: In the morning of the 20th of December of 1755, as I celebrated Mass with the boys and girls of the catechism, Mendonça Furtado suddenly arrived . . . [accompanied by] about a hundred soldiers, with the intention of proclaiming that the aldeia of Trocano would be graced with the title of vila. So he ordered an official who knew the Brazilian language [i.e., the língua geral] to make this proclamation . . . [which in translation said] From today forward everything will change: new customs, new discipline, new ways of living.

Mendonça Furtado then turned to Eckart and declared: “Today we shall declare war upon this forest.” The Indian villagers were summoned by the church bells, and, armed with axes, teams of woodcutters advanced against the forests that surrounded the mission: The scent of the sap of the trees, fallen on all sides, wafted through the air; one of the largest [logs], almost in the form of a pyramid, was erected on the 1st of January in the center of the vila, which only yesterday was an aldeia. A few festive shouts broke out at the thundering sound of musket shots: Long live the King!

The encroaching forests having been pushed back and the pillory erected, “the aldeia that before had been named Trocano became known as Borba a Nova [New Borba], named after the vila of Borba in the Portuguese province of Alentejo.” Eckart noted the arrival of more soldiers in the following weeks, whose presence would constitute the “foundation of this illustrious future vila,” and who, he said, had been forced to marry Indian women. The Jesuit’s account also included a quote from what was, presumably, the official story about Borba’s founding: “They constructed a city in the month of January, 1756.” But who, Eckart asked rhetorically, constructed it? “Who were the Romuluses and Remuses of this new ‘Rome’?” Eckart’s sarcastic comments emphasize that the transformation of Trocano was symbolic, not structural. Mendonça Furtado said as much in

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his instructions to the military official who went to administer the new vila: the king had ordered “this settlement, until now known as the aldeia of Trocano, to be erected as a Vila, bestowing upon it the name Borba, a Nova: thereby replacing the rusticity of the old settlement and of the miserable Indians who live in it, with civility or polícia.” The new name and the erection of the pillory were considered the most important steps in the appropriation of the mission— an appropriation that deeply embittered missionaries like Eckart. Next came the nomination of municipal councilmen from among the white and native elites of the village; in this case, the posts were granted to the new military administrator and to one of the native headmen. Mendonça Furtado ordered a number of other changes that were more difficult to implement: a new church (to be built with wood cut to specific lengths), jail, and municipal council chambers; the end of the Indians’ exemption from paying tithes (the dízimos); the expansion of agriculture; and the regulation of the annual collecting expeditions to the sertão. He also sent some new residents to Borba: about two dozen couples, white soldiers married to Indian women, who received dowries from the government as an incentive; and possibly some prostitutes and couples who had lived in concubinage in Belém, if indeed Bishop Bulhões’s schemes were ever put into practice. These orders on administration, public buildings, tithing, agriculture, collecting expeditions, and the state-sponsored mingling of Indians and settlers would all become integral parts of Mendonça Furtado’s Directorate plan, released the following year. The enactment of the most important changes in the organization of space and people occurred in 1757 and 1758, after Mendonça Furtado had returned to Pará. The law removing the temporal power of the missionaries was finally published in February 1757, followed by the Directorate and the law abolishing Indian slavery (early and late May 1757). The Directorate legislation itself is revealing of the scope of Mendonça Furtado’s reforms with regard to the settlements. Only two articles out of ninety-five were oriented toward changing the physical structures of the former missions. According to Article 74, the new village directors should focus their efforts “on persuading the Indians to make decent houses for their residences, banishing the abuse and vileness of living in thatched huts like those who live barbarously in the uncultivated center of the sertões.” Article 12 referred to the “indecency” of living in multifamily houses and urged the directors to persuade the índios aldeados to model their houses

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after those of the white settlers, partitioning the rooms, so as to “preserve, like rational beings, the laws of honesty and polícia.” The Directorate was certainly an ambitious piece of legislation when it came to policies on labor, acculturation, and the regulation of commerce, but it was not all that far-reaching in the arena of settlement reform. It is revealing that the governor was primarily preoccupied, at this time, with the specter of Jesuit and other missionary conspiracies to abscond with the property of the former missions and to convince the Indians to desert the new povoações. He was particularly incensed by rumors that the Jesuits were selling off canoes and cattle in the missions of the interior, everywhere packing up the precious church ornaments, and instructing their charges to return to the forest. The governor would even dig up testimonies to the effect that an Indian revolt in the Rio Negro missions (1757–1758) had been fomented by a fugitive group of Indians from the downriver mission of Surubiú (Alenquer) whose Franciscan missionary, Francisco de Villa Frades, allegedly “told them to flee into the forest, because already the aldeias were not run by missionaries, and were beginning to be administered by secular directors and parish priests, under whose rule they would experience infinite injustice and violence, and they would ultimately become slaves of the whites.” To conduct this investigation in the Rio Negro, as well as to personally supervise the transformation of the interior aldeias into vilas and lugares, Mendonça Furtado journeyed back upriver between January and May 1758. The governor erected sixteen villages along the way, lifting a pillory in each, and, in the larger aldeias that were to become vilas, electing councilmen, “just as had been done in Borba, a Nova.” This by-then-standard formula required just a few modifications: Paru (renamed Almeirim) and Pauxis (Óbidos) did not have the minimum number of residents (150, as stipulated in the Regimento as well as the Directorate), so he decided to combine them with nearby communities, which were probably “satellite” aldeias (like those described in the previous section) for the Saracá mission site. In Urubucoara (Outeiro) and the soon-to-be-infamous village of Surubiú— allegedly the place of origin for some of the Rio Negro rebels—the governor could not verify the number of residents, so he deferred the village-erection ceremonies. He had determined that the small aldeia of São José de Maitapus (Pinhel) should be given the status of lugar, but its residents petitioned for it to receive vila status, and the governor

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conceded this privilege, which meant that the settlement could have a municipal council of its own and therefore more autonomy. The most significant change overseen by the governor on this trip was the relocation of the mission of Abacaxis. According to missionary sources, the mission had moved many times in the past and was at that time located on a lake two days up the Madeira River. Intending to erect it as the Vila of Serpa, its residents immediately informed me that they wanted to leave that site, because they had not enjoyed a single hour of health in it, and the Padres had kept them there by force. Seeing that the site was unworthy, since it was [located] upon a swamp and had no lands nearby for planting, I gladly granted their request.

Mendonça Furtado then asked the Indians where they would like to establish their new village, and they indicated that they preferred “some sites at great distances in the center of the forest.” This, of course, would not do. The governor suggested several alternatives, which the residents went to see; they finally chose one called Itaquatiara, on the Amazon River about two days’ travel from their old village. “And truly they chose well,” Mendonça Furtado wrote, because the lands are the best that there are around here . . . the river at that site is abundant, and most importantly it is on the Royal Highway of the Sertão. With this village, the travelers will find supplies, and the Indians will not only profit greatly from the sale of the fruits of their labor, but they will become much more civilized as a result of the continual dealings that they are to have with the travelers.

This is, as far as I know, the only settlement moved under Mendonça Furtado’s authority, and two things are interesting about the decision. For one, the relocation was requested by the Indians themselves. While the governor took the opportunity to make a barbed comment about the Jesuits, there is no reason to think that he fabricated the residents’ petition to move, especially since he included the bit about their initial preference to move to the “center of the forest.” For another, the mission had almost no permanent structures or communal assets that the governor considered worth moving: the church, he claimed, consisted of a platform with a thatched canopy, and the houses were “almost exposed to the elements”— probably meaning that they were made of permeable thatch as well. Mendonça Furtado’s assessment was, of course, biased; the Jesuit João Daniel had once admired the houses of this same mission of Abacaxis for their

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accommodation of more than a hundred people each, having been “made in the style of the forest (ao modo do mato).” In the governor’s eyes, such structures did not merit preservation—they were, according to the Directorate, the exact sort of “indecent” housing that should be abolished— and the only asset he considered worth keeping was the large population itself. He thus assented to their request to move, provided that they chose a more commercially strategic spot. What, then, was Mendonça Furtado’s—and by extension Pombal’s— actual legacy of village creation in Pará and the Rio Negro during the 1750s? (Surprisingly, the secondary literature has never established this with any precision.) By my count, he created just one povoação de índios where there had been no settlement before (Santana) and authorized the creation of another one that was proposed by a group of runaway Indian slaves (São Bento do Rio Capim). He repopulated three old fort towns (Ourém, Macapá, and Bragança), the last of which already had a thriving Jesuit aldeia annexed to it. He consolidated a few small aldeias to create the larger vilas of Almeirim and Óbidos, as mentioned above, and the vila of Colares. He moved one settlement to a new site, in negotiation with its residents (Serpa). He converted three of the most populous Jesuit fazendas (ranches) into lugares (Barcarena, São Caetano de Odivelas, and Porto Salvo). And, most notably, he converted sixty-three mission aldeias into secular settlements, consisting of thirty-nine vilas and twenty-four lugares. In addition to several new povoações de brancos (settler towns), about a dozen povoações de índios were established later in the Directorate period. The majority of these were founded by Governor José de Nápoles Telo e Meneses in the early 1780s, after the fall of Pombal, and thus cannot be considered as part of the Pombaline legacy; also excluded from that legacy are at least two settlements founded by splinter groups of índios aldeados, São José do Piriá and Viseu. As discussed in Chapter 4, the governors’ new creations were among the most demographically unstable villages in Pará, and many of them were extinct by the early nineteenth century. There were also a number of ephemeral colonial Indian settlements founded in the 1770s and 1780s around the frontier forts of São Joaquim do Rio Branco and São Gabriel das Cachoeiras, which have been excluded from the present study. Because they did little to alter the spatial patterns of settlement in the colonial Amazon or the physical structure of the existing villages, the Pombaline reforms relied more heavily on symbolic changes. João Lúcio

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de Azevedo and, more recently, Ângela Domingues and Barbara Sommer have emphasized this aspect of the reforms. After describing the secularization of the missions— clearly influenced by Padre Eckart’s account of the transformation of Trocano—Azevedo wrote, The next day, the new life commenced. The subjection of the Indians continued the same or worse; but thanks to the easy method by which, in a short amount of time, a nearly deserted territory filled with vilas, the vast [captaincy of] Grão-Pará took on, for those imprudent people who observed from afar, the appearance of a populous and important state. Considered in this light, the Pombaline reforms are reduced to their legitimate proportions. Vague theory, inapplicable in practice. . . . The only part that could remain, and did remain, was that which had as its goal the exclusion of the missionaries.

But rather than interpreting the limited scope of the settlement reforms as primarily a failure of implementation, the preceding pages have tried to show that crown reformers deliberately preserved many features of the missions. After a few early experiments with founding settlements, Mendonça Furtado had turned to existing aldeias— since this was not, after all, a “deserted territory”—and focused almost exclusively on appropriating their valuable resources, which were primarily demographic and infrastructural. Cutting down the surrounding forest, erecting the pillory, and changing the settlement name were the primary strategies and symbols of appropriation. Symbols could be potent. Writing about the British colonization of Australia, Paul Carter has described place-naming as a kind of linguistic settlement, a means of inventing a place that was possible to inhabit or at least imagine. The bestowal of familiar or associative names, in particular, “prepar[ed] the path for orderly colonization.” Similarly, the historical cartographer Brian Harley depicted the Anglicization of indigenous placenames in colonial North America as a form of “toponymic colonialism,” by which colonists “made the unbelievable seem more familiar, the unknown more knowable, and the wilderness less wild.” The elimination of native names could even serve as proof of conquest, as in the aftermath of the Pequot Massacre (1637), when the very word “Pequot” was erased from maps of New England. Extending these ideas to the Amazonian context, it is clear that the comprehensive renaming of the sixty-three missions was a powerful gesture. It heralded the arrival of a new administrative regime and the divestment of

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the religious orders that had overseen Indian affairs for more than a century. If, as the Directorate legislation asserted, the imposition of the colonizers’ language was “one of the most efficient means of removing a rustic people from the barbarity of their old customs”— and the missionaries were seen as having conserved Indians in an uncivilized condition—then an obvious first step was to replace the indigenous-language names of the former missions with Portuguese ones. Even more to the point, the names chosen were usually those of venerable old towns in the mother country. As one hagiographer wrote at the end of the governor’s term, Mendonça Furtado “went in person to take possession [of the missions] . . . replacing the barbarous names by which those settlements had until then been known with those of the best-known towns in Portugal . . . for it is the privilege of the Conqueror to determine the denominations of the conquered places, just as the Romans did with the peoples they ruled.” This was also consistent with the Directorate’s stipulation that Indians learn the language of the mother country and its prohibition of the “diabolical” língua geral, the Jesuit-devised lingua franca. If crown representatives did not hesitate to rename the missions, why did they not lusophonize the names of rivers? According to Carter, the assessment of indigenous place-names entailed an evaluation of the efficacy of toponymic changes: “Could English [or Portuguese] offer a more coherent rhetorical equivalent, a more logical arrangement of what was to be seen: this, in effect, was the question.” For most Amazonian waterways, the answer was apparently negative. This probably had as much to do with the uselessness of associative naming for an amorphous maze of rivers as it did with the continuing dominance of Indians in that domain. If the renaming of the aldeias was oriented toward bringing native Amazonians into “civilization” and purging missionary influence, it was less important to erase indigenous names from other parts of the landscape, such as rivers, that crown officials did not see as objects of possession. The Portuguese had more an empire of towns in Brazil than one of territory, and eighteenth-century colonists were utterly dependent on the navigational skills of Indian rowers and guides and only just beginning to systematically collect geographical information about the rivers. The major tributaries received Portuguese names early on, for these were the main routes of colonial commerce and the best-known geographically (i.e., the Negro, Branco, and Madeira Rivers), but the Pombaline naming strategy did not involve casting a net of lusophone control over the thou-

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sands of smaller rivers. These retained their indigenous names, as they do to this day, in most cases memorials to what were once the dominant Indian nations on their banks. How did the índios aldeados respond to these symbolic changes, whereby their aldeias abruptly turned into vilas and lugares? The aforementioned Rio Negro revolt has sometimes been portrayed as the first manifestation of resistance toward Pombaline reforms, which fits the narrative about the reforms being profoundly jarring to Amazonian society. The revolt, however, is more properly situated in the missionary period. According to the royal magistrate Sampaio, it began in June 1757 when an Indian wanted revenge against the Carmelite missionary who had forced him to separate from his concubine in the mission of Dari (renamed Lamalonga the following year). The Indian and several others pillaged the missionary’s home and the church and then set fire to the mission. The revolt spread in the following months to Caboquena (Moreira), where a growing number of rebels killed both the missionary and the native headman of the mission and again pillaged and burned the church. Finally, they invaded the neighboring mission of Bararoá (Tomar), where, after ransacking its church, they decapitated a saint’s effigy, burned its body on the altar, affi xed its head to the prow of one of their canoes, and set fire to most of the aldeia. These acts of destruction clearly targeted the symbols of religious authority. Village directors and parish priests would be installed only later that year, and the symbols of secular authority— pillories, municipal council buildings, and so on—would not come to the Rio Negro settlements until the following year, with the arrival of Mendonça Furtado. One of the few sources that illuminate the response of the índios aldeados to secularization is a remarkable collection of devassas (official inquiries) conducted in the wake of several village desertions in Pará in mid1757. Eighteen Indians, most of them native officials, from the recently renamed vilas of Pombal, Faro, Alenquer, and Monte Alegre, along with one white settler and several of the newly installed parish priests and directors, testified as to why groups of residents had fled, or planned to flee, upon receiving the news that their missionaries were to be replaced by secular authorities. The native testimonies indicate a widespread fear in the Indian communities that, as the missionaries had allegedly warned them, “their status (condição) would worsen, for if they had been free up to that point, they would live in a rigorous bondage from then on, not being

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masters of themselves, or of their belongings, and that soon their sons and daughters would be scattered as slaves among the homes of the whites.” Some believed that Mendonça Furtado (the “Senhor General”) was operating as a free agent, and that once the king got wind of the changes, they would be reversed. The principal (headman) of Porto de Moz allegedly gave a speech in “a loud voice” to the Indians of his village, saying “that he did not want clerics in his aldeia, only the missionaries who had brought them out of their [original] lands, and that His Majesty did not know of the [governor’s] deeds.” As news of the Directorate plan (May 1757) reached the missions about a month after its publication, 140 residents fled from Faro and 45 from Alenquer, and other mass desertions were prevented by native officials in Pombal and Monte Alegre. The situation in Porto de Moz was probably more typical: its new director testified that upon his arrival many Indians had withdrawn to their homestead-gardens to wait and see “if it was true that the whites came to take the aldeia from them and dominate them as slaves”; they returned to the village only after the director (so he claimed) “explained to them the new system of the aldeias, which now have become vilas and lugares.” Or, as the native principal of Pombal described it, he managed to dissuade many of his people from fleeing with the reasoning that they should first “see if what the padre prognosticated truly came to pass, or not.” Those who had insisted on leaving were still “in the vicinity [of the village] and will soon return, for they only withdrew for the interim, to see how the other Indians fared under the new administration of the aldeia.” All of the native witnesses took care to distance themselves from the fugitives and the disgraced missionaries, and to portray themselves as allies of the new administration. Some of the allegations against the missionaries may also have been inflated by Padre José Monteiro de Noronha, the rather zealous prelate who gathered the testimonies on Bishop Bulhões’s orders. Despite these possible distortions, the testimonies indicate that the índios aldeados were primarily concerned with whether secularization would change their legal status or the lives they had constructed— sometimes over many generations—in the missions. The new authorities sought to reassure them that this was only an administrative change: the Indians would not be moved out of their villages, the native officials would continue to exercise their authority, and the communities would retain their communal assets. (And in many cases, they would even re-

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tain their missionaries: most of the Carmelite and Franciscan missionaries were reappointed as parish priests.) In some ways, the secularization of the Amazonian missions adhered to Pombal’s broader strategy of cloaking reforms in traditional institutions. But it was primarily a strategy of preservation that emerged from the experiences of Mendonça Furtado and other crown officials in Pará and Rio Negro. They realized that the missions formed a functional, populous, and mostly prosperous network of villages that, if successfully appropriated, could serve crown aims more effectively and inexpensively than newly established settlements. The índios aldeados, for the most part, decided to wait and see: what exactly would secularization entail, and what could they do to protect their communities during the transition and beyond?

The Or ganization of Space and People After Secularization Converted into secular villages, the povoações de índios of Pará and Rio Negro remained mobile communities. Older patterns of movement and dispersed settlement persisted, despite the efforts of the occasional, reform-minded village director or governor. There were no major initiatives in settlement reform in the northern colony during the rest of the Directorate— or, for that matter, the rest of the colonial period— and reforms in individual villages, if they were attempted at all, were sporadic and piecemeal in their effects. Whole villages still moved when settlement sites became unhealthy or unproductive, though the decision-making process and relocation options differed under the new administration. Villagers, with the mediation of their directors, were supposed to request permission from the governor to move a settlement. As had been the case in the relocation of Abacaxis (Serpa) under Mendonça Furtado’s direction, geopolitical or economic imperatives might trump other kinds of priorities in deciding whether to permit a move and, if so, where that site should be located. But índios aldeados occasionally moved their villages without official sanction, as they had done during the missionary period. In 1767, a colonial judge visited the village of Fragoso to investigate subversions of the Directorate legislation. This is how he described its recent move from a site further upriver:

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The residents of that place, who could no longer bear the great epidemic that they were suffering and the continual afflictions that were putting an end to that entire community ( povo), moved from that site. They came to settle close to the mouth of the Jari River, where the sicknesses ceased, since it is a good situation, very abundant in fish, with water running by. It already has a good chapel, four houses finished and seven begun, and a few temporary shelters (tijupás), where many residents are taking refuge while their houses are being built.

The judge’s admiration for the new site was only slightly tempered by the fact that the move had been undertaken without permission: “However, I always reprehended them for making that move without the license of the Illustrious Governor. The principal and other officials have given me the excuse that fear of death drove them to desert the place they had left behind.” Revealingly, there is no mention of the director’s involvement in the move. It seems to have been carried out entirely by the Indians and their native leaders, who then managed to persuade the judge of the necessity of the move. His description of the construction of permanent structures was probably intended to reassure officials in the capital: these were people who wanted to be rooted in place, and it was only a matter of finding the most suitable spot. Less reassuring would be the news, seven years later, that most of Fragoso’s villagers were still living in temporary shelters. The construction of permanent buildings was a tall order when most adult males spent more than six months per year outside their villages. The Directorate did not address this problem, as it explicitly replicated the labor distribution scheme established near the end of the seventeenth century in the Regimento das Missões, with just a few procedural changes. On average during the Directorate period, about a third of village men of working age participated in the annual collecting expeditions; a little more than a fifth were engaged in royal labor; about a sixth worked in private ser vice; and the rest (amounting to about a third of eligible village men) took on a wide range of tasks that included fishing for Directorate officials and participating in descimento expeditions. As always, labor term limits were impossible to enforce. The observations of directors and visiting officials echoed those of their missionary predecessors: the colonial Indian villages were chronically short of men over thirteen years of age, and those who remained out of ser vice were, to use the common

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phrase, “embrenhados pelo mato”—burrowed away in the forest on their remote homesteads. Early, sporadic efforts to change these patterns of residence and mobility met with frustration. In 1762, a letter arrived on the governor’s desk from Ourém, the old fort town that had been repopulated nearly a decade earlier by his predecessor, Mendonça Furtado, with 150 freed Indian slaves. Ourém had already given Governor Manoel Bernardo de Melo e Castro various headaches since he had assumed office: many of its Indian residents had fled and were said to be taking refuge on a settlers’ estate, another group was trying to break away and form its own settlement, and the director had recently pleaded to be transferred to another village because of irreconcilable conflicts with one of the native officials. And now this (somewhat milder) annoyance: “I must inform Your Excellency,” Ourém’s director wrote, “that the Indians of this village have managed to get a resolution (despacho) from Your Excellency not to move their houses from the location where they are [presently] settled.” The director went on to protest that, in light of a recent order from the governor to tile the roofs of Indian houses, “it seems to me that they should build them in the village itself, since there is still a whole street left to populate.” There is no further information on the content of the official resolution or the process by which the Indians had obtained it, but clearly they were using it to resist the director’s efforts to congregate them in the village center. The conflicting orders on urban reform—the Indians should not move their houses, but they should build tile-roofed houses and live on orderly streets— and the accompanying lack of enforcement were typical of the Directorate period. As this example shows, Indians quickly perceived these weaknesses in the new administrative system and found ways to continue living in their old homes. Similarly, when Indians were instructed to develop more extensive homestead-gardens for agricultural production but were also pressured to reside in the village proper, they claimed that the only suitable lands for farming were located so far away that they could only come to the village infrequently. It seems that the homesteadgardens were most often established on the opposite sides of rivers, which formed natural barriers to coming into town for Mass or reporting for ser vice. The Directorate legislation discouraged in principle but did not specifically place restrictions on the types of individual or family mobility

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that had long characterized the mission populations. As Chapter 4 explores in depth, Indians frequently migrated between colonial villages during the Directorate. Índios aldeados also continued to visit relatives in other settlements and in the sertão, to trade in settler towns and across imperial borders, and to pursue a wide range of productive activities that required temporary, seasonal absences from the villages. In 1780, the governor attempted to regulate such absences: village directors were not to allow any Indian under their administration to leave the village, “even if it is for necessary personal business . . . for a period exceeding eight days, without a written license, in which the motive and term of this permission is declared; those who are found without this document or specifications can and should be apprehended.” While Indians traveling without such licenses were occasionally put in the village stocks and reported to the governor, there is no evidence that the licensing system succeeded in restricting this kind of mobility. The villages also remained porous places, but two things were different about the penetration of non-aldeados during the second half of the eighteenth century. For one, their presence was officially promoted. The Directorate encouraged white settlers to settle in the povoações de índios to “civilize” the Indians, whether through state-sponsored intermarriage or simple coexistence, and some of these outsiders gained prominent new roles in the administration of the villages as directors and canoe bosses. For another, as the population of settlers grew and African slave importations increased along with the development of plantation agriculture, the pressure on land and other resources led to disputes between índios aldeados and non-aldeados, especially in the more densely settled delta area. While there are no reliable figures from the mission period with which to compare, the number of non-Indian residents in the povoações de índios almost certainly increased during the Directorate, some of whom were the mameluco and cafuzo offspring of Indian-white and Indian-black unions. In the delta region, non-aldeados (free or enslaved) came to outnumber índios aldeados in some of the former missions and other povoações de índios (see Chapter 4 for an in-depth demographic analysis, and see Appendix B for captaincy-level figures). It was in this context that conflicts over village reforms sometimes arose, pitting Indians (the nacionais, or original residents) against nonIndian newcomers and government officials. Bragança, the settler outpost and Jesuit mission that had been populated by Azorean immigrants and

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converted into a vila by Mendonça Furtado, was the site of a particularly heated dispute over the fate of the Jesuit-built parish church. Situated in the interior of the old Indian portion of town—the seat of the former mission—the church was in a state of advanced decay by the 1770s, and the forest had encroached on its main chapel. When an order arrived from the governor to remove the roof tiles and ornaments from the church, presumably in order to build a new one in the settlers’ neighborhood, about forty Indians and the village principal accosted the parish priest and asked him to submit a requerimento, or petition, on their behalf: “They stated that they were not in favor of what Your Excellency had ordered to be done, and that they did not want any white to meddle with the [roof] tile and other things belonging to their ruined church.” The Indians also “tumultuously” approached the official who had posted the order, informing him “that they did not want him to take a single thing from their church, because it was theirs, and no one else had dominion over it.” It may well have been an effective protest, as I found no further documentation regarding the construction of a new church in Bragança. As Sommer has pointed out, the Indians’ assertion that the church was “theirs” suggests a kind of nativism that is not often attributed to the Indians of colonial Pará. The conflict over the dismantling of the church also drives home a point that has run throughout this chapter: government officials did not act upon a tabula rasa in the northern colony, for these were communities that traced their origins and identities to an earlier era. The implementation of reforms depended on Indians’ acquiescence to changes in their settlements, not to mention their willingness to provide labor for the new projects. In his inspection of various Pará villages in 1764, the royal magistrate Feliciano Ramos Nobre Mourão noted that most did not have public buildings (municipal council chambers, jails, schools, etc.) or tile-making factories that would enable them to replace the traditional thatched roofs. Many of the churches had deteriorated to the point of being structurally unsafe for the parishioners, and the Indians still lived in “huts like the heathens in the forest,” covered in rotting thatch, constructed without uniformity, on irregular streets. In Monsarás, for example, he called for an engineer to come “delineate the streets and sketch the formation of the houses so as to perfect the public view.” Since the Indians had no money to spend on the “perfection” of their houses, the magistrate proposed using half of the village’s collecting expedition profits for the remodeling project, giving the other half to the Indians

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“so as not to make them discontent.” He noted, however, that the Indians would have to be persuaded of the utility of this payment scheme before going on the collecting expedition, and perhaps they remained unconvinced, as there is no evidence of this, or any of the magistrate’s other plans for village reform, ever being carried out. The extent of village improvements also depended, precariously, on the initiative of individual directors and on their ability to effectively mobilize laborers. Village politics often played a major part. The director of Porto de Moz, who claimed to be the target of a smear campaign on the part of the village principal, told the governor of his “great desire to finish the official residence houses (casas de residência), but it has been eight days since [the Indians] worked, because they say that they will finish the construction only when my successor comes. They also ask me why I tire myself on someone else’s behalf, since the principal has gone to find another director”—referring to the fact that the principal had gone to Belém to petition for the director’s replacement. Since directors took credit for village improvements and Indians often used their labor as a bargaining chip, outgoing directors had neither incentives to begin new projects nor laborers at their disposal. The reform of the former mission Mariuá—which became Barcelos, the new capital of the Rio Negro captaincy—presents an interesting case as one of the very few well-funded projects of the Directorate period. The engineer Felipe Sturm came to Barcelos in the late 1750s, with a royal mandate to spare no expense in making the “rustic” town presentable in advance of the long-awaited arrival of the Spanish boundary demarcation commissioners. Figure 1.3 is his 1762 planta, in which Sturm differentiated between the preexisting buildings (black ink) and those he had just recently constructed or intended to build (red and brown ink, which appear lighter in this grayscale version). The cluster of unaligned buildings occupying the center of the village near the waterfront (marked with the number 7) were the old homes of the índios aldeados. The legend of the planta indicates that these had already been demolished to make way for the new central plaza (number 15) and the stone-façade homes of white settlers (number 2); the residents were to live instead in uniform blocks on the street farthest from the waterfront (number 8). Additional Indian residences at the western end of the town (on the right side of the planta, with the headmen’s houses marked S, X, and Z), which clearly followed the topography of the river and inlet, were also to be demolished and their

Figure 1.3 “Plan of the New Vila of Barcelos,” 1762. Source: Felipe Sturm, from the map collection of the AHE in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil.

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residents presumably relocated to the new block constructions on that side of town. Some parts of Sturm’s planta were not implemented, but later sources indicate that the Indians’ houses had indeed been displaced to a street at the back of town and to the “bairro dos índios,” on the other side of the inlet. By 1764, according to Governor Joaquim Tinoco Valente, very few Indians resided in the village proper. Having been permitted to make their homestead-gardens on the other side of the river—which was probably a continuation of missionary-era patterns of land use—the índios aldeados spent many months out of sight of the authorities, “living like fugitives.” With great effort, the governor managed to enter into contact with a few of the villagers, who told him that there were no suitable lands for farming near the village and that, in any case, they found themselves unable maintain their houses in town. These, they said, were promptly ruined by termites—which suggests that the houses were indeed Sturm’s new constructions, made of wood rather than the traditional thatch. The governor admitted the validity of their claim, noting that the warehouse, official residence, palace, and church were also in ruins, despite the fact that most had been built within the past decade. The naturalist Alexandre Rodrigues Ferreira confirmed that Sturm had ignored the advice of local experts (“não consultou os práticos do pais”) and had constructed buildings out of any straight beam of wood that he could find, regardless of its durability. These buildings had, by Ferreira’s visit in the 1780s, deteriorated so completely that there was little difference between standing inside and outside during a rainstorm. The Barcelos project would seem to be a perfect example of what latecolonial authors termed the “ignorance and sloppiness” of Pombaline officials, who came armed with grand plans that were poorly conceived and badly executed. The project could also be used to support the dominant narrative in the secondary literature, of a top-down reorganization of space and people that profoundly shaped the physical settlements and the lives of their residents, even if it did not succeed in all of its aims. Neither of these interpretations is wrong per se, but they emphasize changes (however ill conceived) over continuities and the agency of official parties over that of village residents. The purpose of this chapter has been to underscore that most of the colonial Indian settlements had long prior histories as mission aldeias and that much of their structure and organization was

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intentionally left intact by crown reformers. When confronted with sporadic reform efforts after secularization, índios aldeados found ways to continue living in their homes and to follow long-established patterns of mobility. It would not, however, be particularly useful to think of the former missions as having survived in a new, secular guise. They did not remain unchanged through the midcentury reforms, nor did they revert back to some original state of existence after the Directorate period ended. Subsequent chapters in this book will explore the many ways in which the povoações de índios and their inhabitants changed over time, generating new patterns of mobility, new struggles over autonomy and residence, and new definitions of community. A painting of Borba, the former mission of Trocano, drawn by one of the Ferreira expedition artists around 1790, in some ways captures the essence of these continuities and changes. Figure 1.4 shows a Portuguesestyle building on one side, perhaps an official residence or the municipal council chambers, and a thatched-roof, mud-walled church on the other side, probably Jesuit built. A large wooden cross occupies the center of the scene, where we might have expected to see a pillory. The Indians’ thatched

Figure 1.4 “View of the Vila of New Borba, in Another Time the Aldeia of Trocano,” c. 1790. Source: Joaquim José Codina, from the Alexandre Rodrigues Ferreira collection at the Museu Botânico Bocage in Lisbon, Portugal.

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houses, which seem large enough to be multifamily dwellings, can be seen in the distance, arranged in an orderly row around a central plaza. Perhaps aware of the symbolism, the artist chose to depict a cluster of tree stumps in the foreground—recalling Padre Eckart’s description, some three decades earlier, of Mendonça Furtado’s “declaration of war” on the forest that surrounded the mission. The overall impression is similar to that conveyed by Sturm’s drawing of Barcelos: the old and the new, side by side, and even overlapping.

2 Forest Collecting Expeditions and the Pursuit of Opportunities in the Sertão

LIVING UNDER DIRECTORATE ADMINISTRATION entailed nuclear settlement (flexibly defined) and membership in corporate communities overseen by civil authorities, as detailed in Chapter 1. It also required participation in various forms of state-sponsored travel. The most regular and far-ranging of these trips was the annual collecting expedition. Sometime after the new year, an average of 1,500 crewmen departed nearly fifty povoações de índios for the sertão, the remote interior forests and waterways of the Amazon. During the next six to eight months, as they searched for cacao, sarsaparilla, nuts, or turtle eggs, the crewmen might experience all manner of hardships— epidemics, tribal attacks, famine, mutinies, or the loss of the village canoe and all its cargo, to name just a few. Upon finally arriving home, they might find their families sick, their wives in the hammocks of other men, or their crops devoured by pests. Their payments from the Royal Treasury could then take months to arrive, and it was always possible that they would be paid in goods that nobody wanted— stockings, for example, for those who never wore shoes. Yet despite the arduousness of the collecting expeditions and the hardships imposed upon those left behind, the trips offered a range of opportunities that other kinds of compulsory labor did not. Some of those who were not required to participate, such as the native officials, even did so voluntarily. The Directorate legislation sought to regulate the distribution of native labor such that all able-bodied, nonelite men were employed in royal ser vice, communal agriculture, ser vice to private parties, or the annual 57

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collecting trips. The lists of people engaged in each task and the accounts of their productivity fill volume after volume in the colonial archive, representing four decades of copious record keeping by village directors in Pará and the Rio Negro. Yet for all this documentation, we know almost nothing about the work experiences and preferences of índios aldeados. Those of the collecting expedition crewmen are the one exception, as a result of a minor paperwork requirement on the part of village directors that has been almost entirely overlooked by historians. In addition to the cargo manifests, crew lists, and accounts of trip expenditures, directors were also expected to record testimonies from returning crewmen as to the behavior of their cabo, the canoe boss and expedition leader, during the trip. The majority are formulaic proceedings, but some three dozen of these devassas (official inquiries) provide unparalleled descriptions of events that occurred in the sertão and depict, often dramatically, the limits of colonial control in that sphere. And in contrast to almost every other type of colonial Amazonian source, the authors of the devassas quoted or paraphrased Indians themselves— or at least they purported to do so. When read alongside the other documents in the directors’ reports, the devassas serve as a window onto how the collecting expeditions worked in practice and how they were experienced by their native participants in different places and time periods. This chapter uses the crewmen’s testimonies to address the question of what opportunities they encountered on their annual forays into the interior. More specifically, it aims to provide a satisfactory explanation for the cases of apparently voluntary participation in the expeditions— cases that undermine the conventional view that only coercive measures could induce Indians to take part. The chapter first situates the comércio do sertão within a broader context of crown efforts to harness native collecting expertise and knowledge of the interior for regional economic development. It then explores the ways in which the expeditions afforded room for unsupervised pursuits, fostered the expansion of social networks, and shaped the economic prospects of índios aldeados.

Efforts to Institutionalize the Comércio do Sertão “There are so many manatee and turtles, that if one piled together just those that have been taken and eaten until now, they would make mountains larger than those of Potosí.” In this (possibly) hyperbolic re-

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mark, a Jesuit missionary compared the Amazon’s bounty of natural resources with the famous mineral reserves of the neighboring kingdom of Peru. Everyone with a stake in the Amazonian economy, from the most humble settler to the Overseas Council in Lisbon, wanted to believe in the possibility of a major Amazonian export boom based on the extraction of wild products like cacao, sarsaparilla, Amazonian clove (cravo), nuts, resins and oils from trees, lard from turtles and manatee, and a large variety of native spices with untranslatable names. The official consensus by the mid-eighteenth century was that the main obstacle to such a boom was the region’s chronic labor shortage: Indians, with their indispensable knowledge of the interior and its products, had not yet been effectively mobilized for the cause, and so fortunes like those of the Potosí silver barons remained frustratingly out of reach. Collecting canoes, sponsored by missionaries or private parties, had operated extensively but sporadically in the Portuguese Amazon since at least the second half of the seventeenth century, recruiting crewmen from the missions. Modifying indigenous canoe designs, Indians made single-masted vessels (igarités) that were capable of storing several tons of collected products, the so-called drogas do sertão (Figure 2.1). Exports of these products fluctuated, however, as a result of labor shortages, disruptions in transatlantic shipping, overexploitation of collecting grounds, and price instability. The decade immediately preceding the implementation of the Directorate was one of the most discouraging for the Amazonian export trade: the quantity of products like cacao or sarsaparilla rose and fell dramatically from year to year, and not a single royal fleet docked at the port of Belém in 1746, 1748, 1752, or 1754. During the 1740s and early 1750s, as epidemics spread in capillary patterns along the river system, canoe sponsors could no longer enlist adequate numbers of crewmen for the expeditions. One goal of the Pombaline reforms was to remedy these obstacles to economic prosperity. With its inception in 1757, the Directorate legislation attempted to institutionalize the comércio do sertão: to establish a set of standard procedures by which collecting canoes would be dispatched annually from each povoação de índios, to regulate participation in the expeditions and compensation of those involved, and to curtail contraband trade and illegal labor practices, both of which ran rampant during the missionary era. Around the same time (1755), the crown established a royal monopoly trading company, the Companhia Geral do Grão Pará e

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Figure 2.1 Igarité, c. 1780s. Collected products were typically stored under the canoe’s thatched cover in pots, bundles, or baskets. Source: Alexandre Rodrigues Ferreira collection, courtesy of the Acervo da Fundação Biblioteca Nacional, Brazil.

Maranhão, with the goal of promoting economic development in the Amazon region through regular transatlantic shipping and the supply of African slaves for agricultural enterprises. Shipping did become more frequent, and small numbers of slaves arrived to work on the sugar estates and cattle ranches around Belém, but the economy continued to revolve around native labor and extractive activities until at least the late 1780s. The Directorate-era collecting expeditions occupied the largest portion of the villages’ labor force and made a significant contribution to Brazil’s total exports, especially in cacao. On average, about one-third of village men of working age participated annually. Treasury reports show that between 1772 and 1788, collecting expeditions from the Pará villages employed an average of thirty-seven crewmen while those from the generally smaller villages of the Rio Negro captaincy employed an average of

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thirty. Their productivity in the sertão justified what was, at the time, a major outlay of human resources. Cacao was the most economically important export from the Amazon during the eighteenth century, and Directorate villages sent a yearly average of about 7,800 arrobas, or a quarter million pounds, of the beans to Lisbon. This constituted roughly 20 percent of the total cacao exported from the Amazon; the rest was supplied by private parties who gathered wild beans or, by the 1780s, cultivated them on plantations along the “cacao corridor” between Santarém and Óbidos. During the late eighteenth century, production was high enough to place Brazil second (after Venezuela) among New World exporters of cacao, nearly all of it derived from the Amazon. The village collecting expeditions, while not consistently profitable, were still viewed as essential investments by the crown. While it was not always paid back for the expedition supplies advanced to the chronically indebted villages, the crown received the tithes levied on the collected products and did not have to furnish salaries for the directors, since these were paid instead with a cut of the expedition profits. Accordingly, Article 46 of the Directorate established that “among all the branches of business that constitute the commerce of this State none is more important, or more useful, than that of the Sertão”; and it put the primary responsibility for the success of the expeditions on the shoulders of the village directors. Subsequent articles stipulated how many should participate in the expeditions and for whose profit. The various native officials in the village could send two to six Indians each (depending on the official’s rank) to work for them in the sertão, as long as they paid their salaries; the officials could also accompany the expeditions if they so wished. An additional ten to twelve Indians should go to work for themselves, to be paid by the Royal Treasury upon the conclusion of the trip. While women were supposed to stay in the village to work in agriculture or local industries, the occasional crew list showed them participating in separate, all-female collecting expeditions in pursuit of nuts or tree resins in nearby forests. Despite official prohibitions, the practice of sending Indian women on these short-range expeditions evidently continued throughout the Directorate period. Each expedition also had to be accompanied by a cabo— a person of “known fidelity, integrity, honesty, and truth” who would supervise the crewmen and coordinate the whole enterprise—to be nominated by the village council and headmen and approved by the crewmen. While not

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stipulated in the text of the legislation, cabos were white or mameluco (mixed white and Indian) men, possibly Portuguese-born in the case of the former but probably more commonly born in the Amazon. A typical cargo and crew list, compiled by the director of the village of Almeirim, looked like this: Guide to the production of the Indians of this Village of Almeirim, in the Canoa do Comércio of which Pascoal Lopes went as Cabo, in the year 1764 One hundred and twenty arrobas of cacao [approx. 3,889 pounds] Eighty-one pots of [turtle] butter Seventy arrobas of fish, in ten baskets [approx. 2,269 pounds] One hundred turtles Twenty-eight alqueires of Brazil nuts [approx. 229 dry gallons] Sixty sheets of estopa [a tree bark used for caulking] Four pots of copaíba oil [used for medicinal purposes] [This was the] work of thirty Indians, [the profits of which] are to be divided among thirteen interested parties. Costs of the expedition: Twenty-three alqueires of manioc flour [approx. 188 dry gallons] Sixty-one pots Number of Indians who worked for themselves: Simião Lopes

Tomás Pinto Brandão

Calixto Ferreira

Narciso Inácio

Lourenço Vasco

Manoel Ferreira Leonardo

Romualdo dos Santos

Pedro Saraiva

Number of Indians who worked for the Principais and Officials of this village: João de Sousa

Agostinho Domingues

Cipriano José

Domingos de Siqueira

Bonifácio de Lemos

Bernardo Toscano

Julião Alves

Inácio José

Chrispim Lobo

Forest Collecting Expeditions

Lourenço Ferreira

Vital da Costa

Francisco de Paiva

Mateus da Rocha

Gervásio de Paiva

Damião José

Antonio Saraiva

Valério Ribeiro

Manoel de Oliveira

Rodrigo de Oliveira

Aniceto do Reis

Estácio da Silva

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Matias Marcelo Number of boys for the ser vice of the factory ( feitoria): Aleixo Camelo

Antônio da Costa

Feliciano de Gueiros

Faustino de Lemos

Feliciano Ferreira To the Principal Clemente de Mendonça Furtado belongs the work of six Indians. To the Principal Diogo da Costa, the same number. To the Sargento-Mor Domingos da Silva, four Indians. To the Sargento-Mor Bento da Silva, the same number. To the Ajudante Calixto de Oliveira, two Indians. Village of Almeirim, July 20, 1764. [Signed by the Director] Francisco Serrão de Oliveira

Notably silent on the actual conduct of the crewmen and their boss in the sertão, the Directorate simply urged careful supervision at the village port upon the canoe’s return (i.e., the directors had to perform an examination of the cargo and to solicit testimonies from each of the crewmen as to the behavior of their cabo) and at the port in Belém, where the products were eventually to be deposited with the Royal Treasury. The final instructions on the expeditions concerned profits and payments: the state was to be paid back for the supplies it had furnished the expedition (though this did not always happen); tithes were to be levied on certain products; and then the profits were to be split between the cabo (20 percent), the director (about 16 percent), and the crewmen (whatever was left, with pilots and bowmen typically receiving larger shares than regular crewmen). While not specified in the Directorate legislation, additional deductions apparently became customary: a portion for the treasurer and for the escrivão dos índios (scribe of the Indians), alms for the Church, and

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a deduction in support of public works in Belém. The governor who oversaw the abolition of the Directorate calculated that, after all of the deductions were taken, only 30 percent of the profits was left to divide among the crewmen of Pará and perhaps only 15 percent for those of the Rio Negro captaincy. Furthermore, crewmen were always supposed to be paid by the treasury in goods, rather than cash, because of their “rusticity and ignorance” of financial responsibility. Several subsequent dispatches from officials in Belém addressed collecting operations in the sertão, an aspect of the expeditions that the Directorate had ignored. In 1769, the governor circulated new orders on the expeditions that included a prohibition on gathering products on any river where the crew might encounter the Mawé nation, with whom all commerce was prohibited. As discussed below, officials were concerned about the unfettered contact that crewmen might have with independent native groups, especially with those perceived as hostile to colonization efforts. Then, in 1783, a document produced by the intendente geral do comércio (general secretary of commerce) of Pará laid out explicit procedures for the collection of each product. The entry on cacao, for example, began with a rigid timeline: When going after cacao, the canoe should leave the village by the 15th of December; heading up the Amazon River, it goes to the Madeira, Perú [Purús], or Solimões River. As is customary, [the crew] finds a spot on a riverbank, where they make a factory, building a thatched hut with a large frame at its base, upon which to dry the cacao. Having arrived at this destination, which should be around the 20th of January, they prepare the mats (tupes), which imitate the mats woven in the Algarve, upon which to dry the cacao and also move it inside when it rains.

It made little sense to stipulate the timeline of departures and arrivals, given the seasonal variability of the process in different parts of the Amazon Basin, but the author was clearly concerned with standardization of collecting in the captaincy under his jurisdiction. He continued on the topic of collecting procedures, reflecting the official understanding of what happened (or perhaps more accurately, what was supposed to happen) in the sertão: [The crew] also makes enough small canoes for them to split up [into different teams] in search of cacao, and leaving the cabo behind in the factory with two Indians, they go upriver. They collect cacao fruit along the margins of the rivers, and sometimes

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they go about a half league into the interior of the forest, picking the fruits there . . . for a period of six, eight, or more days. Returning to the factory, they turn the cacao over to the cabo; the Indians who did not go the first time now join the others and return to collecting the fruits, until they have gathered an adequate amount and can find no more. They dry the cacao well, such that when it is squeezed in one’s hand, the skin [of the pod] should split open, indicating that it is perfect; it is then loaded on the village canoe in a protected compartment. . . . When the harvest of cacao is over, which is normally in March, the canoe should go after a different product, such as cravo, which is collected in the following manner. . . . 

Each product had its set of collecting guidelines, but these did not actually represent an innovation on colonial Amazonian collecting practices, which had evolved over the past century— or much longer, if one considers their basis in traditional indigenous livelihoods. The Jesuit João Daniel’s description of a typical cacao expedition during the missionary era (pre1757) is remarkably similar, down to the minor details about the construction of the factory and the division of crewmen into different collecting bands. The intendente was most likely summarizing procedures that had long become customary, and his purpose was probably to educate a newly arrived governor about the colony’s extractive activities, rather than to regulate or reform anything per se. The guidelines, however, left no room for surprises; they placed what had always been an autonomous, and therefore irregular, operation into a standard mold. As the rest of this chapter will show, the collecting expeditions rarely conformed. They had always afforded opportunities for unsupervised activities and the pursuit of disparate interests. While some higher officials in the colony took advantage of this situation for personal gain, others railed against its abuses. This produced a long paper trail of accusations and counteraccusations of people who had stakes in the collecting economy. “I found,” one high court judge wrote in 1761, that nearly all of the cabos pursue their own business [in the sertão], to the detriment of the miserable Indians. . . . To the Articles 41, 42, 53, and 54 of the Directorate they give no observance whatsoever; and when, upon the departure of these same cabos for the sertão, I told them how they should conduct themselves, they thought so poorly of this, that they wanted to argue with me.

Another dispatch from the judge detailed the particular misdemeanors he had investigated, numbering nine cases in all and leaving the impression

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of a widespread network of illegal exchange among Directorate officials in Pará. Six cabos and three village directors were accused of selling the products of the expedition for their own profit, stealing from the collective supplies, and diverting the labor of Indian crewmen, to name just a few of their transgressions. The judge reported that he had had four or five of the offending cabos imprisoned, as well as a village director. To his great indignation, however, the governor had sent the cabos back to their posts, reasoning that they had been properly chastised and that in any case, it would be impossible to find new people who wanted to be cabos. This, in itself, was another subversion of the Directorate legislation, which stipulated that cabos be nominated by the village councils and headmen and approved by the village crewmen. Instead, they were being appointed by the governor, ostensibly because there were no “suitable” candidates in the villages. In fact, one of the delinquent cabos, Bernardo Fernandes Brazão, went on to secure the same post at Vila Franca, a village at the juncture of the Tapajós and Amazonas Rivers that was particularly well situated for the comércio do sertão, where he served for nearly twenty years. In another case, the village notary-scribe was nominated as cabo by the governor, despite the director’s warning that he was inappropriate for such a post, “always being sick, having no information about collecting, [and] not knowing the language of the Indians in order to know how to direct them, and understand them.” There was a similar shortage of “zealous, prudent, and truthful” candidates for directorships, a post that was impossible to fill according to the lofty standards established by the Directorate. It is telling, for example, that another one of the cabos investigated above, Geraldo Correia Lima, was nominated to the directorship of the village of Boim just two years later. Their misbehavior, although taken seriously by at least one high official in Pará and perhaps by authorities overseas, was nothing out of the ordinary in the colony. Twenty years later, the comércio do sertão was still a tangle of unregulated activities. The colony briefly had a reformist governor, but he was out of office in just over three years. Licking his wounds back in Lisbon, José de Nápoles Telo e Meneses sent an exposé of sorts to the queen, denouncing the abuses he had witnessed during his tenure in Pará and suggesting various reforms. Like the judge before him, he described the “collusion” of directors with cabos and various treasury officials, who perpetrated “a thousand tricks and extortions against the simple credulity of

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the miserable Indians.” Meneses was particularly incensed by the payment practices of the treasurer of the Indians, who offered, in exchange for the drogas do sertão, “goods of no value or utility, [selling them to the crewmen] at arbitrary and exorbitant prices.” This was probably not just diatribe; other officials left similar descriptions of how the treasury “paid” crewmen for the products of their labor. A judge in the late 1780s noted that the treasury typically distributed “a rapier for one who has neither jacket nor clothes; some stockings for one who does not wear shoes, and has never used such things . . . [and] pieces of satin for one who, in his hut, has only a cord upon which to hang and display such ornaments.” In other instances, crewmen apparently were not given anything whatsoever for their labor, as happened to the men of Azevedo, who, according to a document submitted by Meneses, had not received their payment-in-kind even four years after the expedition. The ex-governor blamed the treasurer for such abuses—and clearly had developed some sort of personal feud with him—but then extended his critique more broadly to the directors and cabos. On the latter, he did not mince words: These cunning men, who are at the same time among the most lazy and negligent, ordinarily provide no ser vice except to conduct the village canoe to the location of the factory in the sertão; where, upon retreating to a hut that is constructed for their accommodation and that of the supplies, nothing bothers them; [they go on] eating and drinking aplenty, at the cost of the miserable ones [the Indians]; meanwhile, these make their way through the forests, bringing back the products of the harvest until the weather or water [levels] necessitate their return. And around here that is what they call the cabo of the sertão commerce, and the ser vice of the cabos!

In its singular focus on the cabo as an abusive and exploitive figure, this description and others like it tell only part of the story. They clearly indicate that the comércio do sertão as practiced was a far cry from the Directorate model, but they convey very little about the roles played by the Indians themselves (Figure 2.2). Did the crewmen, like the delinquent cabos and directors mentioned above, participate in an underground network of exchange that helped compensate for the paltry payments that they received from the treasury? And did they take advantage of their autonomy in extractive activities to work, as one director alleged, “at their discretion, and whenever they [felt] like it”? Many historians have assumed that whoever could avoid the statemandated collecting expeditions did avoid them. The expeditions have

Figure 2.2 Production of turtle egg lard, c. 1780s. In this detailed depiction of a feitoria on an Amazonian beach, Indian crewmen gather turtle eggs, crush them underfoot in a canoe, prepare the lard for storage in pots, and grill baby turtles for eating. There is no cabo in sight. Source: Alexandre Rodrigues Ferreira collection, courtesy of the Acervo da Fundação Biblioteca Nacional, Brazil.

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even been described as bearing a “striking resemblance” to the system of mita, or draft, labor in the silver mines of Peru. There is, however, ample evidence to suggest that some men participated voluntarily. As Barbara Sommer has already noted, some were native officials who were not obligated to go to the sertão, like the Sargento Theodósio Ferreira, nephew of the headman of Souzel, who had recently been granted a patente, or official certificate, for the post of alferes (standard-bearer). When notified of the promotion, however, he told the director “that he did not want to be an Alferes, a post that his uncle had sought for him; he wanted to remain a Sargento and wanted to go on the collecting canoe to the sertão this year to work for himself, [rather than] be seated in front of everyone with his father standing up” (in other words, he did not want to be promoted above his father’s rank). Here was a situation in which someone preferred to go on what was undoubtedly an arduous expedition, rather than be promoted to a higher-ranking office in the colonial bureaucracy and be obligated to serve in the village. Other examples of volunteers include the headman who offered to serve as pilot for his village’s expedition, allegedly because he wanted to visit and trade with an independent Indian nation; the brother of an expedition pilot who hopped on the canoe as a stowaway, hoping to evade the royal ser vice draft; the Indian from Veiros, who, on his way back from a royal ser vice assignment upriver, stopped to visit relatives in Porto de Moz and ended up accompanying that village’s expedition; and the Indian from Monte Alegre, possibly a runaway, who joined the expedition of the village of Portel. Of course, we cannot be sure that these men were volunteers in the true sense of the word—serving entirely out of free will. But if they were coerced by anyone, it was not done in an effort to adhere to official policies on labor distribution. It is also worth pointing out that there is no record of apparently voluntary participation in other kinds of state-sponsored labor, such as work on the construction projects in Belém, ser vice on the border demarcation expeditions, or rowing for the royal merchant canoes heading to Mato Grosso. While difficult to quantify, the documents do point overwhelmingly to higher rates of absenteeism for these other kinds of compulsory labor. And while there were certainly cases in which people fled on the eve of the collecting canoe’s departure, it was as common, or perhaps more common, for crewmen to complete the expedition to the sertão but

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then make themselves scarce upon returning to the village, in order to avoid having to make the long and risky trip to Belém to deliver the products. It is also significant that, according to the annual treasury reports, crew sizes remained fairly constant between 1772 and 1788. Given the limited ability of the state and its local representatives (directors, cabos, and native officials) to consistently draft índios aldeados for other kinds of labor, their success at filling seats on the collecting canoes must have relied on more than force alone. Along these lines, a few scholars have recognized that índios aldeados faced a more complex set of options with regard to the Directorate labor system than simply a choice between submissive compliance or flight. Sommer suggests that they may have viewed the collecting expeditions as a respite from harsher labor obligations and from village responsibilities, while Mauro Cezar Coelho mentions that the crewmen would have enjoyed access to unsupervised commercial activities in the sertão. The devassas and complementary sources examined in the next section confirm these initial impressions and provide further evidence of the opportunities presented by a trip to the sertão.

The Crewmen’s Testimonies Our knowledge of the collecting expeditions’ exploits in the sertão depends heavily on the devassas, in which crewmen testified as to the behavior of their cabos. The questions used to elicit these testimonies reveal the prevailing colonial and bureaucratic concerns of the period: contraband, inefficient use of manpower, unsanctioned contacts with independent native groups, and abusive labor practices. For example, in a typical 1770s inquiry the crewmen were asked 1.

If they had gathered more products than those that they delivered

2.

If by fault of the cabo they had failed to gather more products

3.

If they had gathered the products in any lands where they might have encountered the Mawé Indians

4.

If the cabo had treated them charitably (com caridade)

The crewmen’s testimonies on each of these points (or a more general response) would then be duly recorded by either the village scribe or the director himself, specifying each crewman’s name, age, and sometimes

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marital status and village of origin. The pilots ( jacumaúbas) of the expedition typically provided the first testimonies, followed by the bowmen (proeiros), in recognition of their higher status among the crewmen. Usually the pilots’ testimonies were the most detailed, with subsequent testimonies either “agreeing with what the pilot said” or giving a statement with fewer specifics; sometimes, however, there were striking discrepancies among the testimonies as to what had happened on the expedition. The number of crewmen available to testify ranged from all of those who participated in the expedition to the half dozen or so who could be rounded up after most had left the village center for their homesteads in the surrounding area. Typically, expedition crews had a week or two of rest in the village, often timed to coincide with the São João festivities in June, before a subset of crewmen headed to Belém to deliver the products. A thorough search of the directors’ reports yielded 185 devassas, representing forty-four different Directorate villages in Pará and Rio Negro and spanning the years 1763–1795. Most are formulaic proceedings, with each of the testifying crewmen apparently in favor of their boss’s conduct and claiming no knowledge of any deviant behavior. But some thirty-six of these devassas are distinctive: they contain testimonies that are critical of the cabo and/or provide what seem to be firsthand (nonformulaic) accounts of the expedition. When read alongside the accompanying directors’ letters, which often provide further details, these devassas reveal how the expeditions were experienced by the crewmen themselves and what they perceived as transgressions of their rights or as negligence on the part of the cabo. A highly incriminating devassa always caused a stir in the small world of the village, whether or not it resulted in the cabo’s imprisonment or transfer to a different location, and as such it constituted a strategy for airing grievances, defending one’s actions in the sertão, and influencing the conditions of one’s participation in the expedition. The nonformulaic devassas vary so widely in content that it would be impossible to choose a representative one. The following excerpt does, however, provide an idea of how the crewmen’s testimonies were typically structured. Recorded by a scribe in the home of the director of Oeiras, in 1772, the first testimony—by the most senior crewman, most likely one of the expedition’s two pilots—reads as follows: Dionísio Régis, a widowed Indian, about fifty years old, more or less, put his right hand on the Holy Gospels and promised to tell the truth about what he was asked.

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Questioned according to the procedures of the devassa, the witness said [the following]: that having gone to collect on the Solimões River, where there was cacao and where the witness knew that they would get a good harvest, by fault of the cabo they went back downriver, leaving behind what would have been a certain harvest. The cabo said that it did not matter to him whether the canoe got any products or not, and seeing that he was a man who could not be reasoned with, they did not say anything. . . . Furthermore, as they were peacefully setting up a factory, the said cabo ordered the Indian Feliciano to go cut wood for the factory, to which the Indian responded that there were no machetes, since all of them were presently being used in the forest. . . . After a little time had passed, the cabo grabbed a very thick piece of wood and traitorously struck the said Indian with it, letting him fall to the ground, and afterward took a knife and stabbed him in the cheek and then again in the right hand. And when the relatives of the Indian saw that the cabo was about to kill him, they pinned [the cabo] down to take the knife away so that nothing further would happen. And that is all [the witness] said, having been questioned and heard by the Director. . . . He signed [the testimony] with a cross, since he does not know how to read or write.

The five remaining witnesses in the devassa, all married men in their thirties and forties, told essentially the same story but in slightly different words and sometimes with a few additional details. For example, one testified that when the pilots urged the cabo not to leave the cacao groves, the cabo “got fed up (emfadado) with them and responded that none of this mattered to him and that they did not govern the canoe; and seeing that he could not be reasoned with, they shut up (vendo eles que ele não admitia razão, se calavão).” Another added that he had seen the cabo give away, under the cover of nightfall, some of the canoe’s salt supply. All of the witnesses emphasized the cabo’s culpability for the meager harvest of cacao, his irrational behavior in the sertão, and his vicious attack on one of the crewmembers (who, interestingly, was not among the witnesses). The devassas present the historian with a difficult interpretive task, for several reasons. The first has to do with their irregular coverage. Whereas the majority of Pará and Rio Negro villages were represented over time, many individual directors were remiss in sending devassas to the governor, as indicated by the constant admonishments they received. This raises the question of whether the omission was purposeful—intended, for example, to protect a delinquent cabo—in which case the existing devassas would be biased toward well-behaved officials. Another major gap in coverage is the result of a circa 1775 order for the directors to send the

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devassas to the intendente geral do comércio instead of the governor; the papers of the former, if any still exist, have never been identified. A handful of directors erroneously continued to send the devassas to the governor, but still, I was only able to find eighteen devassas dating from the period 1776–1795, compared to a total of 167 for 1763–1775. Second, the crewmen’s testimonies were elicited and recorded by a third party who may or may not have had a personal stake in the proceedings, and the director, regardless of whether he served as scribe, possibly played a mediating role in the inquiry as well. Interested in precisely these aspects, Coelho used a much smaller sample of these sources— a total of ten, nearly all formulaic devassas—to examine relationships of reciprocity between cabos and directors. He pointed out that one official would typically certify the behavior of the other: the director would make sure that the devassa came out positively, and the cabo would send a sworn statement, or certidão, attesting to the director having fulfilled the duties of his post. Given the likelihood that directors and cabos were connected by kinship or social status, their documentation of one another’s behavior would seem to have been of little use to the higher authorities. However, I found a few cases in which the devassa testimonies were critical of the cabos, and yet the director defended him in his accompanying letter— which indicates that incriminating testimonies might have been collected even when the director and the cabo were in solidarity with one another. And in at least two instances, the devassa testimonies were very critical of the cabo, but he nonetheless signed a certidão in favor of the director. The third problem concerns what was lost in translation. It is very likely that most crewmen did not speak fluent Portuguese and instead communicated in the língua geral, the Tupi-based lingua franca that predominated in colonial Amazonian communities throughout the eighteenth century. In villages with large numbers of recently resettled Indians (gente nova), as in the Rio Negro captaincy, neither Portuguese nor língua geral would have been widely spoken, and translators would have been more difficult to find for particular indigenous languages. Gente nova were not supposed to serve on the collecting canoes until they had spent two years living in the Directorate village, but there is no evidence that this rule was enforced, and it seems reasonable to conclude that they occasionally testified as crewmen. (Revealingly, many canoe crew lists from the Rio Negro register individuals with non-Christian names—indicating that they had arrived so recently as to not have undergone baptism—but

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these were never among those called to testify in the devassas.) We can only assume that some devassas were recorded without the aid of a translator and that those written testimonies were only approximate renderings of what was said—if they were not entirely fabricated. Finally, even if the scribe or director comprehended and recorded the testimonies verbatim, the crewmen may have purposefully given distorted accounts. Of the thirty-six nonformulaic devassas, twenty-one followed in the wake of an unsuccessful expedition (i.e., when the canoe or products had been lost or otherwise compromised). Of these, just over half featured testimonies that blamed the cabo for the failure (eleven out of twenty-one devassas). Given his own accountability for the success of the expedition, the director was at pains to find someone to blame, and so the crewmen would have been wise to deflect all culpability away from themselves and onto their cabo, whether or not this was actually the case. Or they may have been pressured or threatened by the cabo to cover up whatever mishaps or deviant activities had occurred during the expedition, as in the case of the crewmen of Borba, whose cabo instructed them not to tell the director about the goods he had sold illegally in another settlement. The crewmen ended up telling, which is how we know about the subterfuge. This may also help explain the seven devassas in which testimonies blamed external factors—food shortages, floods, or product scarcity—for the expedition’s disappointing outcome, rather than the cabo. There were also two inquiries in which crewmen blamed another member of the crew; and one in which the crew or could not agree on the reasons for the failed expeditions, with some of the crewmen implicating the cabo and others blaming external causes. There were surely many other instances in which the crewmen and the cabo were in solidarity with one another, or at least protective of those practices and arrangements that were mutually beneficial to both parties. As suggested by Coelho’s research on relationships of reciprocity in the colonial villages, a formulaic, positive devassa— or the complete absence of one—might actually indicate that more, rather than less, had been done to undermine the standards set by the Directorate. Upon an expedition’s return to the village of Serzedelo, no devassa was conducted at all, according to the director, because all those [crewmen] who are heading to the City [to deliver the collected products] are so conspiratorial with their Cabo and so close to him that not a single

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one wanted to come testify. . . . Only with severe punishment will they come forth to confess the truth, since the Cabo allows them all of the cravo they care to find for their putações [probably potabas, bonus portions often traded illegally] and has given them lots of cane liquor, which is all the Indians want.

The overwhelming proportion of devassas in which the testimonies approved of the cabo’s behavior (149 out of 185) should be understood in this context. Their often formulaic testimonies might indicate a smoothly functioning relationship between cabo and crew—whether based on dutiful adherence to the Directorate or, more likely, on the protection of common interests— or they might mask real antagonism between the two. Without corroborating sources, it is impossible to tell. Given the problematic nature of the devassas, my approach has been to read them critically alongside the other documents that typically accompanied them: the directors’ letters, in particular, but also the crew and cargo lists, the accounts of expenditures, and the certidões of the various village officials. These complementary sources often clarify details that are alluded to in the devassa testimonies or may even change their meaning completely, as in the case of devassas that are revealed to have been falsified or rigged.

Social Encounters on the Expeditions Going to the sertão for six to eight months was always arduous, often detrimental to family life, and sometimes fatal, but it was not an exile experience. Collecting canoes dallied at various way stations as they headed into the sertão and again during their descent downriver, a practice that colonial policymakers sought to restrict because of the opportunities it afforded for contraband trade, “disorderly conduct” (i.e., drinking), and delays in the expedition’s progress (Figure 2.3). One director reflected recent orders when he wrote, Your Highness does not permit anyone to go on the collecting canoe except the necessary Indians . . . and I warned the cabo that after departing from this village to go to the City [of Belém], he must not allow anything to be taken off the canoe or accept packages from anyone in the places where [the canoe] stops.

As the previous pages have made clear, however, efforts to limit the crewmen’s autonomy were only as effective as the cabos themselves, who might

Figure 2.3 “Tapuia Indians Waiting for the Return of the Tide” (Furos region). In this nineteenth-century illustration, Indian rubber tapper families cook, weave baskets, socialize, and sleep on their boats while waiting for better traveling conditions on the river. Source: Édouard Riou, in Paul Marcoy, Voyage à travers L’ Amérique du Sud, de L’Océan Pacifique à L’Océan Atlantique, vol. 2 (Paris: L. Hachette, 1869), 489.

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be just as eager (or more eager) to spend a few days eating, drinking, and bartering in the nearest colonial village, fort, fishing camp, or native settlement. In many cases, the crewmen chose where to go, what to collect, and how long to stay. Even before expeditions departed, the decision about where to go collecting and what product to pursue typically fell to the native officials, pilots, or crewmen as a group, as they were thought to have more expertise in these matters. En route, the crewmen might be left to their own devices; numerous devassas and directors’ letters implicate cabos for “abandoning” the crew. Instead of accompanying the crewmen in their collecting rounds or staying in the factory to supervise the processing of the products, many cabos left to seek out female consorts or trading opportunities in nearby villages and homesteads. Others simply returned early to the village and waited for the collecting teams to come back on their own. Referring to the devassa he had recently conducted, the director of Alenquer reported that “the Indians said nothing with respect to the cabo, nor could they, because although he departed from the village with them, he did not accompany them while they collected sarsaparilla.” This cabo had dispatched each of the two pilots in separate canoes with crews of eleven Indians each, and the teams had gone off collecting on different rivers while the cabo and several other crewmen retired to a fishing camp not far from the home village. Each of the two collecting teams returned separately, weeks after the cabo had already come back to Alenquer, and the director was not pleased by the crewmen’s appearance when they finally disembarked: Returning from collecting, they had sold a lot of sarsaparilla along the way back to the village, and it was obvious that they had done so, because both of the expedition teams (bandeiras), which the cabo had dispatched at the Solimões River, returned to this village completely drunk, not only pilots but also rowers. All of this [was] caused by the cabo failing to accompany them, as is his obligation.

Assuming that this was a faithful description, the director may have been correct in his conclusion that the collecting teams had taken advantage of their autonomy to stop and trade along the way home, receiving liquor in exchange for sarsaparilla. Another possibility is that they had enjoyed visiting and drinking with upriver friends or relatives, or had attended a village festival, which usually featured copious amounts of alcohol.

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Whereas crewmen frequently went unsupervised on their collecting rounds— sometimes for months at a time—the trips along the main waterways were likely accompanied by the cabos, such that the crewmen would be following the initiative of their cabos in stopping to trade and fraternize at places en route. It is impossible to know from the devassas to what extent the crewmen were complicit in these stops, because they shrewdly used their testimonies to depict themselves as unwilling participants or disapproving witnesses to the cabo’s excesses. Not surprisingly, these types of testimonies were most common following unsuccessful expeditions, when blame had to be attributed. Complicit or not, it is clear that the crewmen regularly came in contact with a wide range of people and places during the expeditions. The 1774 devassa of the cabo of Silves, in the Rio Negro captaincy, is fairly representative of a number of incriminating inquiries that occurred in the wake of an unsuccessful expedition. According to one crewman’s testimony, the cabo stopped at “all of the settlements, making disturbances, inviting friends and women to be used (mulheres para usar delas), giving drinks to one and all, taking bottles of cane liquor out of the canoe for his guests, and, loaded with [the alcohol], picking fights and [causing] disorders.” The other crewmen gave similar reports of drunken revelries and raucous behavior in various settlements and homesteads, including Santarém, Porto de Moz, and Taguapuru. The director’s letter provides additional ammunition against the cabo: asked to account for the scanty amount of products that he brought back—and having used up most of the manioc flour supplied to the expedition—the cabo threatened the director with a knife and subsequently fled. Other cabos sent crewmen on errands to far-flung settlements or assigned small groups to work for individual settlers along the way. The cabo of Portel, Bernardo Ferreira Brazão (whom we met earlier in the context of the official investigation of delinquent cabos), sent two crewmen to clear a plot of land and build a house for a woman in Silves; he also sent three crewmen in one of the “king’s canoes” all the way to Borba, on the Madeira River, to fetch a canoe that he had purchased from a settler there. When the director asked the crewmen whether all of the products they had collected had arrived with the rest of the cargo in the village, one crewman replied that he had no idea about the cargo, because he had always been away on errands. The cabo’s misuse of the crewmen’s labor can be interpreted in one of two ways: either as bald exploitation or

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as a mutually beneficial arrangement. Going on an independent trip to Borba may have had its attractions for crewmen, though they could not say so to the director. It was, after all, on the way to the most famous turtle-hunting grounds of the region, and the village itself was frequently visited by merchants on the route to and from the captaincy of Mato Grosso. While the main waterways offered the most opportunities to participate in social networks, the expeditions found company in the interior forests, too: intentionally or not, crewmen regularly encountered independent native groups, usually referred to as gentios (gentiles, or unconverted Indians) in the sources. Colonial authorities encouraged these encounters only to the extent that they served as a means of persuading independent Indians to resettle in colonial villages. Other purposes were generally considered suspect, as indicated by questions posed to crewmen in the devassas, for example, whether the cabo had traded arms or gunpowder with any Indian nations. Again, as with the reports of stopping at way stations to trade and socialize, the crewmen were understandably reluctant to portray themselves as accomplices in any dubious encounters with independent native groups, especially with those considered hostile to Portuguese colonization efforts. As mentioned before, all trade with the Mawé Indians had been prohibited since 1769, “because experience has shown,” the governor at the time wrote, that these miserable men resist the overtures we make to them to leave their pagan ways, because of the introduction of tools and other products provided by the people who go to trade with them. It is necessary to reduce them to necessity, such that they will end up resettling when they come to need [these tools], seeing themselves deprived of the assistance that until now has been inconsiderately given to them.

In addition to the Mawé, other suspect nations during the second half of the eighteenth century included the Mura, the Mundurucú, the Juruna, and their various allies. Because these groups were highly mobile and involved in collecting expeditions themselves (especially for turtles that laid eggs along the low-water beaches of the Amazon, Madeira, and Solimões Rivers), they frequently crossed paths with the collecting canoes of the villages. Some of these were violent encounters that the crewmen would have undoubtedly preferred to avoid, such as the ambush attacks that resulted in fatalities among them. But crewmen may have occasionally relished

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the opportunity to exchange fire with a notoriously hostile group. In 1793, the village of Aveiro dispatched a collecting team composed of members of the Arupâ nation in pursuit of cravo. According to the pilot’s testimony, they confronted a band of Mundurucú Indians, and one of the Arupâ crewmen managed to kill a Mundurucú chief. It is possible that the confrontation was actively sought out or at least welcomed by the crewmen, as a result of long-standing enmity between the two ethnic groups. The Arupâ had recently resettled at Aveiro, and such late eighteenth-century resettlements in the Tapajós River region usually came about as a result of native groups’ being pursued by the Mundurucú until they sought refuge in the colonial settlements. The Arupâ crewmen, furthermore, were sending the chief’s weapons and ornaments to the governor as a commemorative gift. Crewmen’s attitudes toward nonviolent encounters with independent natives are difficult to gauge in the sources. Of the four devassas that describe such encounters, two sets of testimonies blame the failure of the expedition on the gentio; one set blames the cabo; and the other blames the pilot of the expedition, who was also the village principal (headman). In the testimonies that blamed members of the expedition, the crewmen made much of their fear of the gentio and their wish to have nothing to do with them. One witness described the cabo of Silves’s illicit contact with the Mawé as follows: He relaxed in their village [and made] no further effort to collect anything, [his goal] being only to trade with the gentio of the forest, to whom he distributed a roll of cloth and almost all of the hardware that was brought for the equipment of the canoe. And that is why the expedition failed, because he went against the opinion of the pilot and the rest of the fearful Indians, telling them that the Governor (Senhor General) had told him that he could go collecting wherever he pleased.

Fear and aversion are also the dominant themes in the testimonies regarding a particularly controversial expedition from the village of Pinhel. Th is time, the crewmen denounced the activities of their village’s principal, Sebastião Pinto, who joined the crew voluntarily as pilot and proceeded to conduct the expedition into tribal territories over the objections of the crew and cabo (the latter refused to go, but the crew apparently had little choice). According to one crewman, Pinto told him upon their arrival, “I brought you all here in order to lose the canoe and for the gentio to kill you” (or, as he was quoted in another testimony, “I don’t care about col-

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lecting; I just want to lose the canoe and for the gentio to kill you”). The crewman claimed not to know what business Pinto had in the native village, “because [we] fearfully did not come very close to the houses where the principal was.” Another crewman added that they entered the tribal territories only because they feared retribution from Pinto and his brotherin-law, who also participated in the expedition. If previous letters from the director are to be believed, Pinto had used the expedition to solidify an alliance that he had been building over time with several Indian nations, with the ultimate goal of coordinating an attack on the colonial settlements along the Tapajós River (see Chapter 3). Given the serious nature of the alleged conspiracy, it is not surprising that the crewmen would want to go on the record as being frightened, unwilling participants in the visit to the gentio. Evidence from other, less polarized sources suggests that fear and aversion were not the stock responses of índios aldeados when they encountered independent native groups. Various directors’ letters recount the expeditions’ positive contacts with gentio and emphasize the active role of crewmen in initiating and mediating these encounters. During Monte Alegre’s collecting expedition in 1788, for example, the crewman Valentim Antonio “had had the occasion to speak with” the Mawé Indians, his own nation of origin, and “they indicated to him [their] great desire to leave behind their paganism and come to this village, and in fact he brought with him a few people from the said nation, who are [living] here in contentment.” Documents like this one reflect the time in which they were written. Informal encounters with the Mawé would have once been prohibited, and in general, official permission from the governor was required before entering into descimento (resettlement) negotiations with other nations. By the 1790s, however, authorities were less suspicious of unsupervised or spontaneous contacts with independent native groups, and they recognized that informal trade was a time-honored technique for convincing them to resettle. “All of the pilots told me that trading with the gentio is necessary,” one director wrote in 1792, “as it serves as [a means of ] persuasion”—that is, to resettle or at least maintain friendly relationships with colonial Indians and settlers. He went on to ask that this type of commercial exchange be officially sanctioned by the treasury via the provisioning of extra trading items. Informal trade was eventually even promoted between colonial villages or expeditions and the Mura— one of the most traditionally hostile nations in the Amazon—because it had

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been shown to be an effective method of bringing them into the colonial sphere. Over time, as wild products became more difficult to find in the sertão, trade between collecting canoes and independent Indians also came to be seen as a necessary means of gaining access to more distant and impenetrable territories. Governor Souza Coutinho officially sanctioned trade and other forms of communication between collecting expeditions and Indian nations in 1790, but individual directors had been reporting such contacts for quite some time and with no sense of wrongdoing. “They were looking for products in the center of the gentio’s territories, and the cabo found himself in evident danger,” one director recounted in 1775, so “in order to save their lives as well as to get the gentio to show them the best place for collecting and help them [with the collection], he distributed all of the [expedition’s] supplies to them . . . with the approval of the pilot and the rest of the crewmen.” Similarly, the Cabo Bernardo Fernandes Brazão sent a message to his village’s director while the expedition was still in the forest, reporting that an Indian nation required payment to collect the sarsaparilla that bordered their lands, and that he had already given them everything he had; the crewmen, too, “have handed over additional tools of their own (das suas mãos), such that they are removing the sarsaparilla [roots] with their fingernails; and I have been stripped of everything, even my shoes; [the gentio] have taken my socks and all.” He then requested more supplies to be sent to him from the village, with the rationale that the nation, if properly bribed, would be able to collect a hefty load of sarsaparilla and to produce great quantities of manioc flour, as indicated by their numbers—more than 1,500 people in all. He was still careful to specify that he had not gone to the “River of the Mawé,” as this remained an official concern in the late 1770s, but was clearly confident that he was doing the right thing by giving the canoe’s supplies to this unnamed Indian nation. A final category of people encountered by crewmen in the sertão were not supposed to be there; these were the fugitive black slaves and índios aldeados who had fled from their assigned villages. In light of the longer history of friendly contacts between fugitive communities and colonial Indians, these encounters may have been welcomed by both sides. At the same time, they provided crewmen with a chance to demonstrate their loyalty to the government and perhaps earn an award for their service, if they could successfully catch the runaways and bring them back to

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the villages (in the case of native absentees) or to their owners (in the case of black slaves). When the members of Portel’s expedition managed to convince a group of thirty-five runaways to accompany the crew back to the village, they received rare praise from their director, who wrote to the governor of the “zeal, hard work, and care” with which the índios aldeados had accomplished this spontaneous mission. Similar praise would have no doubt been forthcoming after Serzedelo’s crewmen captured four fugitive slaves, had these not escaped at the first opportunity. In such situations, one group had a legitimate reason to be in the sertão while the other was there clandestinely, and it is not inconceivable that collecting crews would have used their legitimacy as leverage to exact certain favors; for example, they might have requested help with collecting in exchange for not telling the director of the runaways’ whereabouts. But if there were indeed any such arrangements, they never made it into the documentation. Other runaways were encountered by crews at some of the region’s major way stations. The crewmen of Poiares, for example, recognized a group of ten runaways when they stopped in Monte Alegre on their way to Belém, and the pilot even took it upon himself to imprison one of them, until it was determined that he would need the governor’s order to do so. A common theme runs through all of the above examples of social encounters: the opportunity to make contacts far outside one’s own village, whether Indian crewmen actively pursued them or not. Such contacts were not completely free of the constraints imposed by the colonial labor system (e.g., a cabo was often waiting to report on the crewmen’s behavior, and vice versa), but the very nature of the collecting expeditions ensured ample room for independent action. As the intendente geral and other officials had recognized, the collection of wild products was done most efficiently when crewmen split into smaller, autonomous teams; when the pilots were given free rein to direct these teams as they saw fit; when the cabo remained stationary in order to receive the products and coordinate their processing; when the expedition went off the beaten track to collect in tribal territories; and when the crew had the option of stopping in nearby settlements to replenish supplies. As the previous pages have shown, it is impossible to establish the crewmen’s complicity in the exploits attributed to their cabos or to determine the extent to which illicit activities occurred on the 149 expeditions that resulted in positive devassas. What we do know is that the índios aldeados perceived a wider array of options within the Directorate labor system than historians typically

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have. Like the Sargento Theodósio Ferreira, who rejected his promotion to be able to go to the sertão, there were those who preferred the unpredictable twists and turns of a collecting expedition over the more routine duties of village life.

Crewmen’s Economic Interests and Claims In overlooking the autonomous character of the collecting expeditions, historians have also missed the larger implications of this for our understanding of native participation in market-oriented activities. Robin Anderson states, for example, that “Indians had no decisions to make on what they were to collect, since all such choices were made at higher levels. They were simply expected to produce what they were told by their Directors” and that “there is no evidence to suggest that Directorate Indians had any concept of marketability or profit margin in relationship to the goods they were producing.” Indeed, the overwhelming impression from the historiography is not only that the índios aldeados resisted involvement in the comércio do sertão whenever possible but also that the collecting expeditions were helmed solely by coercive cabos and operated only in the economic interests of non-Indians. It is not my intention to minimize the role of coercion in the recruitment of crewmen, the conduct of the expedition, or the payment procedures, but to point out that many crewmen were still able to use the collecting expeditions to their own material advantage. A thorough survey of all the locally produced documentation on the expeditions turns up a compelling number of examples in which crewmen defended their economic interests, required incentives to work on the collecting canoes, and asserted their preferences to collect under conditions that they perceived as more favorable. In a broader sense, then, native Amazonians asserted a degree of control within the system of state-sponsored collecting, either individually or in groups. In one remarkable case, the crewmen of the villages of Alenquer and Faro petitioned to send their collected products— about seventy-four arrobas (approximately 2,398 pounds) of sarsaparilla and ninety canadas (about sixty-three gallons) of copaíba oil, respectively— straight to Lisbon on the ships of the royal trading company, the Companhia Geral de Comércio. They proposed doing this “at their own expense and risk,” with the reasoning that “those products have a higher estimation in the City of Lisbon than in this one [Belém], where the same Companhia pays a very

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low price relative to that fetched [overseas].” Not surprisingly, the administrators of the Companhia strongly objected to the idea of allowing índios aldeados to contract directly with buyers in Lisbon. While this may well have been the only petition of its kind, its significance should not be overlooked. The crewmen’s behavior falls in line with the kind of selective market engagement identified by Steve Stern among Andean highlanders, who “voluntarily ‘engaged’ certain market sectors and opportunities in order to alleviate or avoid other market-linked oppressions and in order to resist more abject surrender to market forces and demands on terms they could not control.” The residents of these two Amazonian villages—both located far upriver from the capital—were well aware of the monetary value of what they collected and had attempted to remedy the discrepancies in who profited from them under the state-run system. The impression remains in the literature, however, that payments and other material incentives did not generally motivate native participation in the state-sponsored expeditions or in commercial extractive activities in general. In an article about the effects of Directorate policies on the Rio Negro captaincy, Maria Regina Celestino de Almeida maintains that “all attempts to awaken the interest of the Indians in the production of surpluses were frustrated.” Similarly, Anderson argues that profit incentives were not built into the Directorate system, “because it was felt by the Portuguese to be inappropriate to the Indians’ situation.” This, however, was clearly not the case. Directors frequently made reference to efforts to incentivize production through the timely payment of salaries, the remittance of more desirable payments-in-kind, and the supply of other types of material bonuses. If these incentives were not forthcoming, collecting expeditions often could not get off the ground. Several directors reported that it was very hard to convince Indians to go on the expeditions if they had not received satisfactory payments in the past; the men would agree to go only after being repeatedly assured that adequate compensation would be provided. More dramatically, more than twenty people absented the village of Serzedelo to avoid serving on its collecting canoe, and those crewmen who remained behind offered the director three reasons for their compatriots’ disappearance: First, because the cabo treated them badly [during previous expeditions] and did not pay them for the [extra] ser vices they completed in the City; second, because their payment for the collected products was made at the Treasury House in goods that

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they did not want, since they had [received] them in previous years; . . . and third, because of the delay in paying them, since once they arrived back here [in the village], it was already time to return to collecting, and there was no time to plant at their homesteads for the sustenance of their families.

A discontented crewman on another expedition even stirred up a mutiny in the sertão, allegedly asking his peers, “Why must you exhaust yourselves collecting when in the City of Belém they don’t pay you well[?]” In a similar incident, another rebellious crewman supposedly tried to persuade his companions that “they should not tire themselves with work, having been deceived by a few bolts of cloth at the Treasury.” Disillusionment among crewmen, in fact, had been a problem from the very beginning of the Directorate. Back in 1759, one observer noted the Indians’ mounting suspicions that their collected products benefited only the king and that they had been duped into working for wages or goods that were not forthcoming from the treasury. He also noted the prevalent belief among crewmen that they had been better paid back when the missionaries had sponsored the expeditions. The designation of crewmen as either working for themselves or working on behalf of the native officials could also be a contentious process. The director of Santana do Cajari mentioned the eruption of a “major, unpleasant controversy” among the crewmen about the disproportional division of profits, given that of the twenty crewmen who went on the expedition, sixteen worked for the officials and only four worked for themselves. Some of the sixteen crewmen were presumably upset because the expedition profits would be split between the four who worked for themselves and the officials, while they would receive only fixed salaries. There is no further information on how these designations were made, but this source certainly suggests that crewmen protested when they perceived some injustice in the division of profits; the director said he did not even dare to draw up a crew list showing the different designations, as this could inflame them further. Cabos played an important role in providing incentives, some of which were given “under the table,” in order to compensate for insufficient payments from the treasury. The crewmen came to expect and even demand these incentives. This is apparently why, according to one intendente, the forty-one collecting expeditions of Pará and Rio Negro accounted for the consumption of 2,400 canadas (about 1,674 gallons) of cane liquor per year, for an average of about forty-one gallons per expedi-

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tion. As he explained it, “The Indians who go to the sertão are so accustomed to the use of this drink, that when it is lacking, they take the rebellious stance of refusing to work or collect anything more.” The liquor supply had dried up during the 1761 expedition of the Rio Negro hamlet of Poiares, and the crewmen had told their cabo “to buy some right away, or they would not work any further”; the cabo had no other choice but to buy a frasqueira (a case containing about 10.5 gallons) of cane liquor from a settler in exchange for three arrobas (97 pounds) of cacao. This was an exorbitant price to pay for fewer than a dozen gallons of domestically produced liquor, but the situation apparently warranted it. As the author pointed out, even the Directorate legislation sanctioned the distribution of cane liquor to the crewmen—in what amounted to recognizing it as a necessary evil—while prohibiting its trade in the povoações de índios. In the absence of coinage, cane liquor was the “money of the sertão.” Another customary incentive was that of the potaba, a term of Tupi etymology meaning “gift” or “portion.” One director reported that each crewman typically kept at least half an arroba (16.2 pounds) and as much as a whole arroba (32.4 pounds) of sarsaparilla or cravo of their own harvest, “which they commonly call potabas,” and “this quantity among a large number of Indians adds up to a large number of arrobas . . . without it being possible to know where it ends up.” The implication, of course, is that these portions were traded illegally to “defraud” the expedition, though the director admitted his own ignorance as to what the crewmen did with them. There is some evidence that potabas served as a means of illicit exchange between the cabo and the crew, a practice that may have been rooted in native traditions of reciprocal gifting. From the cabo’s perspective, the potaba system was a means of motivating individual crewmen to collect more than the minimally acceptable amount, since otherwise payments were distributed equally among those who went to work for themselves (with the exception of the pilots and bowmen, who received higher salaries). The authorities would not likely find out about such exchanges unless the relationship between the cabo and crew members broke down amid allegations of abuse, as it did during Pombal’s expedition in 1773. In the subsequent devassa, several crewmen testified that the cabo had given them combs made of turtle shell and horn, to be paid back in collected products upon the expedition’s conclusion. Conflicts arose when the parties were unable to make good on the deal. One crewman said that he agreed to pay sixty bundles (canudos) of cravo for the combs but ended up

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gathering only forty, which nearly led to a violent confrontation between the two men. The director concluded the devassa by stating, I asked no further [questions] because those who should have testified did not come to this inquiry, despite having been called various times; it could be out of fear of the cabo, since he does not leave his house, even to shave or wash, without a cutlass (catana) in hand.

We can assume that in the vast majority of cases, however, the potaba system benefited both parties and so never made it into the documentation in the form of a denunciation. According to the devassa testimonies, the crewmen felt real indignation when the fruits of their labor were lost. The índios aldeados of Almeirim testified that their cabo had been in a hurry to get out of the sertão and so had foolishly applied too much heat in the toasting of the sarsaparilla, causing it to burn and thus ruining three weeks’ worth of work. As a result, several crewmen abandoned the expedition in disgust at “seeing their labor lost,” and another crewman (one of the work party leaders) even threatened to kill the cabo. In his cover letter, the director concluded that “for these Indians to go collecting in the interior of this country, they do not need a cabo.” This is a rather surprising statement for the director to make, in light of the rebellious actions of the crewmen; it suggests that he believed their actions had been taken out of genuine distress over the cabo’s negligence. And he was not the only director to give crewmen the benefit of the doubt when it came to their claims about economic losses or setbacks on the expeditions. If some authorities believed that índios aldeados had their own economic interests at stake, at least one prominent contemporary held the opposite view. The late eighteenth-century naturalist and traveler Alexandre Rodrigues Ferreira reported that the Indians “even practice the malice” of burning the parts of the sarsaparilla plant that would normally allow it to reproduce after its valuable roots had been harvested, “because they hope that sarsaparilla will be extinguished once and for all, to see if this also extinguishes the persecution that they feel [as a result of] their laziness and their love of idleness.” Although the local correspondence does describe work stoppages and other acts of protest on the expeditions, I never found any such examples of crewmen deliberately destroying products or sabotaging the expedition without cause. Of course, we would expect the crewmen’s own testimonies in the devassas to leave out such

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incriminating details, but we do not find them in the directors’ letters either. These latter sources do frequently portray índios aldeados in a negative light, but without providing evidence of the kind of behavior alleged by Ferreira. If crewmen engaged in rebellious or recalcitrant behavior in the sertão, it was apparently related to a specific grievance or to what they perceived as transgressions of their rights as crewmen. These transgressions included the cabo’s carelessness with their canoe’s supplies or collected products, as in the example of Almeirim’s expedition; his infliction of punishments without cause; and his stinginess with collective supplies like liquor, knives, and fishhooks. Crewmen also objected when cabos disregarded their choices of where and what to collect. Two years before the sarsaparilla-burning incident and under a previous cabo, the crewmen of Almeirim bitterly recounted how seventeen of their number had been sent to collect sarsaparilla, despite their protests that cacao was extremely abundant at that exact time of year (April) and that they did not want to miss out on its harvest. But, as the pilot put it, “because of his bad humor, and the little credit that he gives to the Indians,” the cabo ignored their preferences and sent the group off on its own for an entire month— and with only a meager supply of manioc flour. (Cacao, it should be noted, was generally one of the Indians’ favorite products to collect, and not only for economic reasons; it grew on the resource-rich margins of lakes and rivers, and was itself a nice snack to eat along the way, or to ferment for drinking. In contrast, sarsaparilla was found only in the interior forests, far from reliable water and food supplies, and the plant was covered in thorns, so digging up its roots was a painful ordeal.) In another inquiry, the crewmen of Serzedelo and Piriá (two neighboring hamlets that usually joined together for the annual expedition) declared that their cabo had called them back too early from gathering cravo, despite their preference to stay and collect until their manioc flour supply had been used up. Like other devassas that denounce the cabos, both of these examples likely represent exceptions rather than the rule; under normal circumstances, cabos probably did take native collecting preferences into account. There is no doubt that most cabos wielded a great deal of power and influence over the crewmen and the course of the expeditions. At the same time, however, índios aldeados were able to leverage their expertise as navigators and collectors to protect their interests and to pursue their own commercial and social agendas. Both cabos and directors were well

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aware of the fact that no one knew the sertão better than a seasoned expedition pilot or longtime crewman; this may be why sixty- and even seventy-year-old men sometimes appeared on the crew lists. Native expertise in that realm forced cabos to depend on Indians to an extent not experienced by administrators of other colonial endeavors that required native labor (e.g., royal construction projects), and any efforts to maintain absolute control over the expedition were usually counterproductive. Reporting the desertion of his entire crew en route, one cabo explained, perhaps not without irony, that the pilot “had spent the whole trip asking me where we were going, and as I only told him that he would go where I ordered him, he persuaded the rest to follow him [in running away].” Likewise, directors found themselves making concessions to crewmen, because they too depended on them for their cut of the profits. One director proposed sending two cabos into the sertão, each with their own crew, so that if crewmen did not get along well with one of the cabos, they could choose to go with the other. As another director pragmatically concluded, “it would be prejudicial to the expedition, if they were to go against their will.” In many cases, participation in the collecting expeditions was likely a means of avoiding more onerous types of ser vice or resisting “more abject surrender” to colonial demands by engaging them on one’s own terms. Such a pattern of participation was, as Steve Stern suggests for Andeans who voluntarily participated in colonial markets, an effort to hedge one’s bets that closely resembled Indians’ relations with the political-juridical structure of the colonial state. That is why the devassas of the cabos, modeled as they are on formal judicial inquiries, are such rich sources for our understanding of the complexity with which Indians responded to the pressures of colonial life. The devassas sometimes permitted the índios aldeados to influence the terms of their participation in the extractive economy, as an alternative to resisting involvement in the expeditions altogether. Barring those cases in which third parties tampered with the testimonies, the crewmen could use them to get a cabo reprimanded or fired from his post, to protest publicly what they saw as transgressions of their rights as crewmen, or to justify their actions in the sertão to the director and to higher officials in Belém. Participation in the state-sponsored comércio do sertão was just one of several strategies that native Amazonians developed to fulfi ll their

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obligations to the colonial state and village, while pursuing social agendas and material resources that would otherwise be inaccessible. Cultural imperatives to travel and to engage in material exchanges with outsiders were surely important, too, though these meanings are elusive in eighteenth-century sources. As with other kinds of long-distance mobility—whether sanctioned by the state or not—participation in the collecting expeditions did entail physical risks and lengthy separations from one’s family and larger community. But for many crewmen, the trips offered opportunities to trade with settlers or Indian nations, visit relatives in other settlements, move around with relative autonomy, and accumulate bonuses. The crewmen’s experiences outside their villages, furthermore, exposed them to a wide range of people and places, both within and beyond the areas of effective colonial control. Such experiences shaped the lives of índios aldeados in ways that colonial policymakers could not have predicted when they mandated participation in the comércio do sertão.

3 Searching for “New People”

IN 1762, A PART Y of sixteen villagers slipped away from Almeirim, in search of kin among autonomous native groups in the forest. As the village director later explained, these men did not belong to the same ethnic groups as the headmen of the village, and thus “they have no obedience whatsoever, and eager to go retrieve their relatives, they would not wait for any orders.” In fact, the headmen of the village had already traveled to Belém to petition the governor for official license to mount an expedition to contact uncolonized groups in the month of July; the governor, in turn, had ordered the director to gather further information about the venture and to send a list of supplies needed for the trip. But impatient with (or indifferent to) this bureaucratic process and having a different idea of whom to seek in the interior, the members of the minority ethnic group mounted their own, self-funded expedition in December. They left a message for their director: “Expect us back by Easter.” This final detail is more revealing than it might at first appear. Even as they departed without permission and dispensed with official licensing, the expedition participants made sure that the director knew to expect them back in several months, in time for one of the most important religious holidays. They evidently did not see the pursuit of their own aims— which in this case had to do with retrieving relatives and, as the director implied, with strengthening a minority group’s presence in the village— as incompatible with their status as members of the colonial village. Almeirim’s villagers were seeking to bring about a descimento, a term that referred to an independent native group’s “descent” from their 92

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home territory to a colonial village downriver. Treating descimentos as a drawn-out process, this chapter focuses on the roles played by colonial Indians at various stages. They initiated and maintained long-term relationships with uncolonized groups through visits and trade, participated in gift exchanges, and forged alliances with individual chiefs. Village Indians also acted as sponsors of descimentos, often (but not always) petitioning the government for the required licenses and supplies, and then leading expeditions into the interior to bring Indians into the colonial sphere. If successful, expedition members typically hosted the gente nova— the “new people”—upon their arrival in the colonial village, providing lodging, food, and instruction in the ways of a mostly foreign world. Índios aldeados had long filled important roles as crewmen, guides, and interpreters on missionary-coordinated expeditions. It was only in 1757, at the beginning of the Directorate, that responsibility for descimentos formally passed to the native officeholders and councilmen of each povoação de índios in Pará and the Rio Negro. Nonelite índios aldeados also took leadership roles in the process, usually because they had kinship ties to groups in the forest but sometimes simply because they had conducted successful expeditions in the past and were willing to do so again. Through the rest of the eighteenth century, village Indians who planned descimentos could receive funding from the Royal Treasury, a considerable expense that was justified, from the crown’s perspective, by the importance of settling contested frontier areas, maintaining existing centers of population, and generating wealth in a colony dependent on native labor. The crown also granted titles of office and other royal privileges to those who brought about successful resettlements, to reward what was seen as an important royal ser vice. Colonial Indians, for their part, used descimentos to pursue both individual and collective interests. The resettlement process could be a means of family reunification, ethnic majority building, escapism, selfpromotion, and political negotiation, and, as this chapter will explore in depth, these various aims sometimes overlapped in unexpected ways. For all types of native Amazonians—whether longtime inhabitants of the colonial villages or Indians considering the option of joining them—the descimentos may have represented a chance to regain what Aparecida Vilaça describes as “a social life in all its complexity,” expressed through song, dance, food sharing, and marriage, as well as confrontation and strife. For the contemporary Wari’ studied by Vilaça, “movement towards

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the whites [in the 1960s] was primarily a movement toward Wari’ society and social life, which had been disrupted and even interrupted by the nonindigenous invasion.” Things did not always (or often) work out well for participants, as we shall see in this reconstruction of colonial-era descimentos, but Indians’ efforts to extract satisfaction, benefits, and even joy from the resettlement process are nonetheless significant.

Descimento Precedents: Missionaries, Slaving Troops, and Pombaline Reformers Descimentos in the Portuguese Amazon began shortly after the first European settlement in the early seventeenth century, continued through the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, and only ended, arguably, in the twentieth century. The Jesuit João Daniel, who lived in the Amazon between 1741 and 1757, left the most complete account of a descimento during the missionary period. First, he described the initial práticas— a term without an exact English equivalent but that one eighteenthcentury dictionary defined as “exhortations.” It was a kind of verbal persuasion: When the missionaries, on their own or through an intermediary, try to praticar a nation of Indians to settle in a mission, they do not at first invoke the after-life as a motive, [i.e.,] that there is only one God whom we must all adore . . . , that there is heaven and eternal happiness for all good Christians and hell for the rest, and these sorts of motives. They mention none of this in the beginning, and only [invoke] temporal motives: that in the missions [the Indians] will not be attacked by their enemies, with whom they are usually at war; and that in the missions they will have axes, knives, and other iron tools with which to make their gardens.

During the práticas stage, a large quantity of goods would be distributed among the Indians—piles of beads for the children, metal tools, clothing for the high-ranking Indians— along with assurances that the missionaries’ goal was not to enslave them or to send them to serve the whites, but to protect them and look out for their best interests. If the missionaries could not go themselves to deliver the gifts, they would send them through an intermediary, usually one of the white settlers who entered the sertão to collect cacao. These preliminary práticas often came to naught, according to Daniel, “sometimes due to [the Indians’] inconstancy, or because one of the tame Indians (índios mansos) spread bad práticas; other times

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due to omens that they perceive; and most often because of some disruption caused by the whites.” From time to time, however, a group was indeed willing to resettle. In these cases, a formal contract (ajuste) was made, “the Indians giving their word that they would leave [their lands] and the missionaries promising to come get them the following year.” This customary delay allowed time for the gentio (“gentiles,” or unconverted Indians) to harvest any crops that they had already planted. Meanwhile, the missionaries set the índios aldeados to constructing houses and planting gardens in preparation for the new residents, and stocked up on “iron tools, fabric, cane liquor, beads, and many other little things.” At the agreed-upon time, the missionary, accompanied by an interpreter and a crew of índios aldeados, would travel a month or more to reach the gentio. Upon arriving, the missionary would be brought to speak with the chief and any other high-ranking Indians, giving them gifts of cane liquor and clothing, and the native nobility then went to consult with their “vassals.” This could be a lengthy process, with much back-and-forth as doubts and difficulties were aired with the missionary, who had to “proceed cautiously, making sure that neither he nor his crewmen said a single word or committed any action that [the gentio] might find strange, because a single strange word is enough to undo everything.” When all finally agreed to embark, the chief presented all of his people to the missionary, who distributed additional presents and put the crewmen to work cutting fabric and sewing shirts, skirts, and pants—all thought to be markers of “civilization.” Once properly clothed, the new recruits headed downriver. Daniel pointed out that missionaries aimed for a distance of at least fifteen days’ travel—ideally, a month—between the Indians’ original lands and the mission, to reduce the incidence of desertions. The last stage involved the reception of the descended group as gente nova, new members of the mission community. Daniel observed that many missionaries would divide the gente nova among the houses of the longtime residents of the mission, but he thought this imprudent, as it often resulted in the gente nova’s being treated as servants by their hosts, who took to “calling them their ocapiras, which [in native language] is a type of slave.” A better option, according to Daniel, was to house the gente nova separately. The missionary would go to great lengths to make sure they were all well fed, dressed, and “domesticated,” the children would be baptized, and instruction in the catechism would begin for the adults. The goal was to cultivate the loyalty of a few individuals—preferably,

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young boys— and send them on expeditions to praticar other groups of their same nation. The whole process would then repeat itself. Two main questions interest us here: (1) to what extent did Daniel describe a typical descimento, rather than a idealized one, and (2) how was the descimento process different during the missionary period? The basic features of the resettlement process described by Daniel appear again and again in Directorate-era sources: the importance of práticas, the contractual gifting at various stages, the drawn-out negotiations in the territory of the Indian nation, and the central role of intermediaries and guides who shared the language and culture of the target group. The concerns about descimentos’ being sabotaged by índios aldeados or by whites and about putting enough distance between the Indian nation’s original lands and their place of resettlement are also common in later, postsecularization sources. It seems likely that Daniel was indeed describing a typical descimento, one that, like its counterpart during the Directorate, could not be made in a day, or by a single person, or on a tight budget. But the descimentos of the missionary era occurred in very different demographic, legal, and political contexts, and examining these contexts helps explain why the leadership roles were reassigned to the índios aldeados (rather than to civil or military officials or settlers) in 1757. To begin with, the missionary-era expeditions enjoyed more opportunities to make contact and negotiate with independent native groups, though these diminished rapidly as the demography of the Amazon Basin changed. As early as 1719—just over a century after the founding of Belém—the Jesuit superior Manuel de Seixas described depopulated stretches of land extending some 200 leagues between São Luis (the capital of neighboring Maranhão) and Belém and more than 800 leagues between Belém and the Rio Negro, areas that had previously hosted “innumerable aldeias and settlements, as the oldest people can attest.” If, as this statement suggests, the process of depopulation had been under way for several generations by the first quarter of the eighteenth century, its effects would have been dramatically more noticeable by midcentury, in the wake of major epidemics in the 1720s and 1740s. Directorate-era descimento expeditions had to go considerably farther into the interior to reach groups of independent Indians—which required more navigational expertise as well as resources— or else confine their efforts to smaller groups of Indians who remained on the colonial margins. These included fugitives from the missions or settlers’ estates, remnants of Indian nations

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that had been decimated by war or disease, or those few native groups who continued to inhabit the lower reaches of the rivers. One colonial observer noted that the latter groups tended to be much more intractable and hostile to colonization efforts than those who resided beyond the first rapids or cataracts, which formed a protective barrier. Related to these demographic circumstances is the fact that for most of the missionary period, Indians could be legally enslaved. Until at least the recall of official slaving troops (1747) or, more likely, until the outlawing of native slavery (1755, implemented in 1757), descimentos had been inextricably connected with that other type of expedition into Indian territories— an association that remains strong in the historiography of later periods. Descimentos were supposed to rely on práticas, rather than coercion, to convince Indian nations to settle as free people in the missions, whereas slaving (in its legal form) involved ransoming captives and bringing them downriver to sell as slaves. Once the colonial canoes entered the sertão, however, the distinction between descimentos and slaving— and by extension between missionaries and settlers— seemed to evaporate. Jesuits were supposed to participate in (and regulate) both types of expeditions, and while some refused to serve as slaving chaplains, others collaborated extensively with the settlers and helped to legitimize the questionable methods of the slaving troops. Many of the soldiers and white or mixed-race middlemen (cunhamenas) who accompanied missionaries on descimento expeditions were also familiar faces on the troops. There is ample evidence—much of it collected, incidentally, by the Holy Office of the Inquisition—to suggest that their behavior in the sertão did not change according what they were licensed to do there. The legislation of the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries only made the distinction between slaving and descimentos more muddled. Whereas the use of force in descimentos was prohibited in the Law of 1611 and reaffirmed in the 1686 Regimento das Missões, a 1718 decree established the circumstances in which descimentos could be coercive: if the targeted group consisted of “wild natives who go about naked, do not recognize a King, nor Governors, do not live in the style or form of a Republic, disobey the laws of nature, do not recognize their own daughters in the satisfaction of their lust [i.e., practice incest], [or] eat one another.” Furthermore, Indians from such descimentos could be settled on private estates, rather than in missions, and had to serve there until age fifty. The order was deferred, as local officials debated with the Overseas Council

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over term limits on the servitude of Indians descended to the settlers’ estates, but it indicated that the crown considered involuntary descimentos justifiable, in some circumstances, during the first half of the eighteenth century. Individuals using descimentos as a pretext for raiding had good reason to believe that they would never be called to account for their actions in the sertão. Much debated in early eighteenth-century legislative circles was the extent to which private parties should be allowed to sponsor and benefit from descimentos. Royal orders between 1702 and 1707 regularly granted licenses to settlers to carry out descimentos, though they stipulated that the resettled Indians could not be held as slaves— since they were technically free—and had to be settled in or near mission villages, but the settler who funded their descimento would receive, in return, the exclusive right to their (paid) labor throughout his life. Not surprisingly, most of the settlers who received these special descimento licenses had proposed to establish plantations of cacao or indigo, which the crown actively promoted during this period. And, as frequently happened in the captaincy, governors defied royal instructions and began handing out their own licenses in the 1720s and 1730s for settlers to undertake descimentos. This, then, was the chaotic free-for-all that Pombaline reformers encountered in the Amazon of midcentury. Descimentos were deemed more crucial than ever at this juncture, for two reasons. First, the devastating measles epidemics of 1749 and 1750 had reduced the population of the Portuguese Amazon by tens of thousands—with 18,000 confirmed deaths in Pará alone— and had led to severe labor and food shortages. Second, any boundary negotiations with Spain in the wake of the Treaty of Madrid would take into account the extent of each nation’s effective occupation. From Portugal’s perspective, native Amazonians were the “muralhas dos sertões”—human ramparts against foreign invaders— and their incorporation thus carried a great deal of political weight. The reformers’ primary goal was to assert royal control over descimentos, eventually removing missionaries from the process. For most of the 1750s, descimentos were primarily organized by Governor Mendonça Furtado (in person, when he was stationed on the Rio Negro) or by a few of his trusted confidants, and were escorted by soldiers. However, a string of unsuccessful descimentos— some of which ended in mutual bloodshed—had robbed Mendonça Furtado of his usual zeal. The Indian nations of the upriver area were, he wrote in 1755,

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totally distrustful of us, due to the repeated treacheries done to them by the backward men who have roamed these sertões, and they do not have the capacity to distinguish between the contracts that they used to make with those people and the ones that they now make with the General of the State in the name of His Majesty. They always show the same distrust, and if any Indian [among the crewmen] says a single word that conflicts with what they have heard from me, it is enough to make them entirely change their minds.

In light of the obstacles felt so keenly by Mendonça Furtado in the mid-1750s, how is it that descimentos continued through the second half of the eighteenth century at a rate that was demographically significant for Pará and Rio Negro? There are no comprehensive annual lists of descimentos during the mission period and only one for the Directorate, but the available evidence indicates that more people were brought out of the sertão each year and that they came in larger contingents during the earlier period. Writing in June 1719, Manuel de Seixas said that six descimentos had been brought downriver by the Jesuits so far that year, for a total of 957 people, and an as-yet unknown number would soon descend to two other villages. This would probably add up to more than a thousand people, and more resettlements would likely be concluded during the second half of the year by the Jesuits, as well as by the other religious orders (though none of these had the same reach or influence as the Jesuits). For comparison, an annual report of all of the descimentos (sixteen in all) in Pará and Rio Negro in the year 1781 accounted for 841 souls who, on average, came in groups of about fifty people. So the total number of people descending had declined markedly since Manuel de Seixas’s time, but given the toll that a shrinking resource base, slaving, epidemics, and interethnic warfare must have taken upon independent Indian nations during the intervening decades, the 1781 numbers seem surprisingly high. They are also roughly representative: from some 163 scattered reports of descimentos in village-level correspondence during the Directorate, the average descimento brought about forty people out of the sertão. How to explain these cases of successful descimento? Recent scholarship has dispensed with the old idea of native “gullibility” to explain why uncolonized groups agreed to resettle— and this was an old idea, as even early eighteenth-century authors proclaimed Indians to be persuaded by the most “mediocre arguments.” Ângela Domingues, Barbara Sommer, and Mary Karasch have argued that descimentos were a type of strategic

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exchange that served the needs of the Indian nations as well as the crown and local government during the second half of the eighteenth century. Domingues emphasizes that the gentio received tools, foodstuffs, and items of prestige, as well as protection from their enemies; the state, for its part, populated locations of geopolitical importance and replenished the labor supply in the established villages. Similarly, Sommer describes a “convergence of events”— droughts, epidemics, and interethnic warfare— that pushed native groups to seek refuge in the Directorate villages. These pressures were not new, but there is some evidence that they intensified after the mid-eighteenth century. Finally, modern ethnographic research among native Amazonians suggests that they came to live among the whites—their historical enemies—in the twentieth century not only for material resources or physical security but also in an attempt to reconstitute their own societies in a new setting. As one of Vilaça’s Wari’ informants told her in the 1990s, some three decades after deciding to resettle, “We weren’t many [when we were still living in the forest]. If the whites hadn’t killed so many of us . . . It’s only now, after we came to live near the whites, that we have become many. Look at how many people there are!” While more elusive in earlier centuries, the motivations and internal dynamics of autonomous Indian groups are clearly important in explaining why descimentos took place. What has not been fully explored in the literature is the extent to which colonial Indians can be credited with the continuation of descimentos during the Directorate period. Writing from Barcelos in 1762— the same town where Mendonça Furtado had expressed, seven years earlier, his pessimism about descimentos on the Rio Negro—José Monteiro de Noronha, an official temporarily charged with overseeing descimentos in the captaincy, described an approach different from that of his predecessor. Native intermediaries, each accompanied by a few soldiers (preferably filhos da terra, born in the colony, rather than Portuguese born), fanned out on different tributaries, bearing gifts for the target Indian nations and seeking to bring them back to their own home settlements. Noronha described the rationale behind this strategy: It is easier to descend kin groups (malocas) of Indians to the settlements on this River and on the Solimões, because they have relatives in those same settlements, and that is also where the pombeiros or interpreters are from. Due to the absence of such circumstances, it is more difficult to descend them to the settlements

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downriver [i.e., in Pará], where they do not have relatives, or knowledge of the lands.

The use of the word “pombeiros” is interesting, as this was the name given to the men, usually mulatos, who acted as intermediaries between Portuguese slave merchants and local chiefdoms in the interior of Angola and the Congo. They became essential “go-betweens” in the African trade when, as Alida Metcalf has pointed out, coastal raiding was no longer a practical method of obtaining slaves, and it became necessary to engage in more negotiation with the interior local groups who controlled the supply of slaves. Similarly, conducting descimentos by force, subterfuge, or bribery alone had long since become an ineffective means of populating the colonial villages of the Portuguese Amazon. The pombeiros—who were, in the Amazonian context, índios aldeados—had to assume a central role in bringing about descimentos. Mendonça Furtado had figured this out the hard way, and Noronha represented the new generation of crown servants schooled in his approach. Just as his ideas about settlement reform had been shaped by his experiences upriver (see Chapter 1), so too did Mendonça Furtado formulate new strategies for descimentos in light of his time on the Rio Negro. He had come to believe (like João Daniel) that the gentio were more easily swayed by the práticas of the índios aldeados— either those who accompanied the expeditions or those who received the new residents in the villages—than by anything non-Indians could say to them. These experiences confirmed the importance of native intermediaries and kinship ties in bringing Indian nations into the colonial sphere, and in keeping them there. Of course, colonial Indians had participated in the descimento process long before this time; the missionaries had always relied upon native interpreters and informants, and the mixed-race cunhamenas, with their native wives, had been key figures in both descimento and slave-trading operations. But under Mendonça Furtado’s Directorate plan, implemented in May 1757 and confirmed by royal decree in 1758, the leadership roles were formally assigned to the índios aldeados, specifically to native officials and councilmen. It might seem reasonable to view this transfer of responsibility as a predictable outcome of the Pombaline effort to remove missionaries from Indian affairs. But had he spent the previous couple of years in the capital, rather than stationed in one of the colony’s outposts in the sertão, it is not

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inconceivable that Mendonça Furtado would have assigned a separate class of civil or military officials to the task, as was done during the transitional period of the early 1760s in the Rio Negro captaincy (under Noronha) and during the Rio Branco colonization experiment of the late 1780s. Alternatively, he might have decided to leave descimentos to licensed groups of settlers, as a later generation of reformers decided to do upon the abolition of the Directorate (see Chapter 6). The designation of descimentos as the most important obligation of the native officials would seem to represent a conscious choice on the part of the governor and his associates, based on their experiences in the colony, particularly in the old stomping grounds of the upriver slaving troops. Many índios aldeados (and not just the officials) eagerly took up this formal responsibility for descimentos, and, as the anecdote at the outset of this chapter suggests, they sometimes did so in ways not prescribed by the legislation. The rest of this chapter examines the Indians’ descimento roles in more detail and then turns to the crucial question of why Indians became so active in the process of searching for new people.

Colonial Indians as Infor mants, Sponsors, Leaders, and Hosts of Descimentos The only people who consistently recorded descimento activities during the second half of the eighteenth century were the village directors. Most of the time, they described a process over which they and other non-Indians had little direct oversight or influence. Besides encouraging native officials in their efforts—per the rather vague instructions contained in Articles 78 and 79 of the Directorate—the directors typically facilitated the provisioning of the expedition canoes, vouched for the reliability and good intentions of villagers proposing descimentos, and helped to get the gente nova settled, fed, and dressed upon their arrival in the village. It was certainly in the directors’ own interest to contribute to the process: the more populous the village, the greater its productive potential, and thus the higher the directors’ salaries, which amounted to onesixth of whatever the village produced. Still, it would be inaccurate to assert that the directors organized the expeditions. Their letters make clear that the organization was almost always undertaken by the native officials and that the success of descimentos hinged on the initiative, kinship connections, diplomatic skills, and leadership abilities of the índios aldeados.

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This section and the next describe what can be gleaned from these village sources about the participation of communities and individual Indians in the descimento process. Although it is clear that they were the primary agents in Directorate-era descimentos, not all índios aldeados participated in the same way. Status and experience mattered: native officials participated differently than ordinary crewmen; men differently than women; and gente nova differently than gente antiga (“old people,” or longtime residents). There were also differences on the village level, as some povoações de índios carried out descimentos year after year while others seemed unwilling or unable to do so. Of the many variables that might shape a community’s approach to descimentos, two stand out in the sources: whether kinship ties existed with independent native groups and whether the community had sufficient resources (including human resources) to spend on resettlement efforts. Descimentos that originated in kinship ties were by far the most common type. In a process similar to that described by João Daniel, villages often sent envoys to visit with relatives in the sertão, perhaps exchanging a couple of bottles of cane liquor for a few baskets of wild cacao. As a matter of convenience, these visits sometimes were undertaken as side trips on the annual collecting expeditions or even became de facto collecting trips of their own. The consensus among village directors was that the best time to encourage a group of villagers to undertake a descimento expedition was soon after they had resettled themselves, when they were still exempt from the repartição (official labor distribution). As one director explained, I distributed the fabric and other tools among the new Indians and principais according to Your Excellency’s orders, and all of them are content and satisfied. It would seem to be a good idea to carry out another descimento before their two years of rest are over, for after they are obligated to serve, the práticas they give to their relatives [in the forest] may not be so positive.

The participation of recently settled groups was also logistically important on contact expeditions into remote territories. One director drew a contrast between choosing a forest Indian (índio do mato) as a guide, as opposed to the principal, who was just a “boy raised in the village” and had been unable to locate any of his relatives in a previous attempt. Even if they made poor guides, native officials still served an important symbolic purpose: they commanded the respect of the gentio, whose

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own leaders would also be reassured of their status being properly recognized in the colonial sphere. If these initial overtures were well received, a few gentio of elevated status, such as the son, brother, or even daughter of a chief, might come back with the índios aldeados and spend a few weeks or months in the village to see if the lands “pleased them.” When descimento contracts had been settled and gifts accepted but the Indian nation was not yet ready to resettle, these visiting gentio typically served as refens (literally, hostages), or guarantees of the contract. The visiting party often went to Belém to receive the governor’s práticas and additional gifts, accompanied by their relatives or sponsors among the villagers, who would at that point petition for a license and supplies to mount an expedition to retrieve the rest of the group. There is no evidence that descimento petitions were ever denied, but expeditions were occasionally underfunded by the Royal Treasury. There are several possibilities for the way the government prioritized descimentos, as suggested by the rhetoric of the descimento proposals. First, it seems likely that descimentos would be more generously provisioned when the target group was already confirmed as ready to resettle (apalavrado). This was the purpose of the initial envoys, which villages usually funded themselves; as one director put it, accepting crown funds before positive contact had been made was inappropriate “because something could go awry.” Second, it probably helped if the target nation had a favorable reputation— or at least not an unfavorable one. The director of Borba reported that “the Principal Domingos de Sampaio is going with his son to Your Excellency’s presence, and he tells me that it is to ask for license to carry out a descimento of his relatives, inhabitants of this river, who will have greater persistence than those of the Pama nation who descended to this village three years ago; the majority have died and others, I am told, have fled.” It is possible that fewer supplies were provided for expeditions proposed among groups, such as the Mawé and Parianâ, who were notorious for fleeing after accepting gifts, visiting the village, or even resettling. In contrast, extra supplies of arms and gunpowder were granted to expeditions that targeted Indian nations with a history of resistance to colonization, such as the Juruna, or to those expeditions that had to pass through the territories of hostile Indians in order to reach their target group. Descimentos were self-perpetuating: one resettlement usually led to another, and this is reflected in the documentation, which comes in waves. A closer look at one village’s descimento activities over several decades

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shows how cyclical the process was. The native officials of Almeirim focused their efforts during the 1760s on the Apama and Apina Indians, “two nations that besides being neighbors, conserve a friendship between them, and for this reason [the officials] want to bring them at the same time.” An expedition that departed in August 1762 brought back two descimentos, for a total of seventy-five people, in October of that year, and another expedition left shortly thereafter and arrived with nineteen new residents in December. There was also the unlicensed expedition described at the outset of this chapter, organized by members of a minority ethnic group who had no native leaders of their own. Then, in 1765, the Apina principal fled and had to be tracked down and captured by armed troops; suggestively, his desertion occurred shortly after the two-year labor exemption would have ended for his people. This seems to have put negotiations with that nation on hold for the next twenty years, at which point the Apina again appear in the sources as a possible descimento target. Efforts among the Apama continued slightly longer, with an expedition in 1765 to retrieve those who had remained in the forest. There was apparently a lull in Almeirim in the late 1760s through the 1770s, with only one reference to “adventurous Indians (índios aventureiros) who want to go resettle their relatives” but who were held up in the official licensing process. The dearth of descimentos during that period probably had something to do with the death, in 1768, of the longtime principal of Almeirim, who had been active in planning descimentos, and a falling out, that same year, between the well-established director (Francisco Serrão de Oliveira, who served from the early 1760s through the late 1770s) and the village’s other principal, which led to the latter’s temporary imprisonment. The 1780s then saw another flurry of proposals to reinitiate contact with the Apama, Apina, and several other Indian nations who had relatives in the village or who were known to the native officials “through word of mouth (notícias) or through contact they have had with them.” Other directors came to occupy the post at Almeirim, and the principal, having returned from his imprisonment, again engaged in descimentos, though at least one director expressed misgivings about his participation. Expeditions were carried out in 1780, 1785, 1787, and 1788, but there is no information on whether the first three were successful. The holes in the surviving documentation make it impossible to completely reconstruct the occurrence of expeditions and resettlements over time, but it is clear that descimentos occurred cyclically in many villages, as

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residents sought to contact relatives in the sertão— and, in this case, as native officials fell out of favor and became more or less involved in the process of increasing their ethnic group’s presence in the village. If índios aldeados had no kinship ties with independent native groups, descimentos were considered to be far more difficult, and at least one director declared them to be impossible. No records of any descimentos exist for most of the small villages in the vicinity of the capital, most likely because of a lack of kinship ties with interior groups as well as a shortage of resources (which, of course, was also self-perpetuating). As will be discussed in Chapter 4, metropolitan-area villages had some of the highest rates of absenteeism in the captaincy of Pará, and their native officials—if they even had any—were mostly engaged in the task of bringing absentees back, rather than pursuing descimentos. To avoid demographic ruin, those villages depended on the government to send reinforcements of population, as occasionally happened when groups of vagrants, fugitives, or particularly troublesome gente nova were rounded up and forcibly resettled. Such stopgap measures might keep a village from becoming a ghost town, but they did not foster descimentos. Forced migrants were unlikely to invite their relatives to reside in the villages that they themselves hoped to desert at the first opportunity. Other villages, seeking to avoid this uncertain demographic fate, came up with creative means of gaining access to uncolonized groups, and some of these involved the use of non-Indian or otherwise atypical descimento informants. In the mid-1770s, for example, the descimento prospects of Baião, which was only established in 1769 with freed Indian slaves, depended on an old mameluco ex-fugitive. Baião’s descimento proposal contains elements common to many proposals while also relying on an unconventional source of information about an uncolonized group. It is important to note, however, that the mameluco seems to have been an enrolled member of the community, since he regularly appeared on village labor distribution lists. Baião’s descimento proposal is reproduced here in full: Near the first waterfall of this Tocantins River, it meets the Itáquana River, whose margins are inhabited by various settlements of Arámary Indians— and other nations as well—whose main chief is named Aráranssai. In this village [of Baião] there is an old mameluco by the name of Francisco Gregório, who lived for more than twenty years as a fugitive nearby these Indians, with whom he had some práticas and social contact (sociedade). He said that these

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Indians liked to know all about the Whites and the Fathers [priests or missionaries] and had asked him various times for things belonging to them. They wished to see the Fathers and Whites, and on the last occasion that they spoke with him, they suggested that he return to them, and that he bring some of the Whites’ things, such as tools and trinkets (resgates). Since at this time [Francisco Gregório] settled in this village, he never again had the opportunity to communicate with them. He said that these Indians do not use any kind of drink, that they are very caring and affable, and that there are huge numbers of them. Their chief has a son, who himself is a principal. I have encouraged this mameluco and the principal of this village [of Baião] to go speak with the gentio, to encourage them to descend to this village and come speak to Your Excellency. Both he and the principal show great eagerness to go. . . . But they have asked me for the goods that are listed in the attached document, in order to please the [Arámary] chief and the rest of his people, and to facilitate the good harmony and friendship that we would like to have with them. And if we succeed, and God wills it, it shall amount to a great Conquest in these backlands, as these are places where whites have never gone before (so they tell me). Once Your Excellency has given us license for this undertaking, we will need the Indians named in the attached list for the expedition, if Your Excellency could order the justice of the peace ( Juiz Ordinário) to have them readied and sent here. These Indians are all in the vicinity of this village, enlisted in the militia (Companhias Francas), and well suited for the task at hand. As for the additional Indians, canoes, and whatever else may be needed, I will have everything ready, except for manioc flour, which Your Excellency may allow to come out of our tithes, and which are still here in my hands. The mameluco said that they will be able to make the trip with great ease in two months’ time; that is, going, coming, and spending some time there. He and the principal are now on their way to the City [of Belém], going to the feet of Your Excellency, to be instructed on how Your Excellency’s will may be done. And for this expedition to be effective, it would be best if it happened soon, as any delay in these matters brings with it contradictions and regrets; it is well known to Your Excellency that these people are of little constancy. [Postscript:] These Arámary Indians speak a truncated língua geral, and they understand it well. [Attached List No. 1] List of what is needed as gifts for the Arámary gentio:

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Two axes

Two scythes

Two tools for making canoes

Two dozen knives

Six pairs of shears

Six clasp-knives

Six mirrors

Two hundred white fishhooks

Four packets of glass beads

Two dozen ceramic plates

Two packets of needles

Fifty religious medallions

[What is needed] for the trip: Four pounds of gunpowder

Six pounds of lead

Two pounds of musket shot

Twenty flints

Twenty alqueires of manioc flour

Baião’s director followed, for the most part, the standard conventions of a descimento proposal. He presented detailed information about the target group (its geographical location, language, customs, and leadership) based on an informant’s firsthand knowledge. He also attested to the feasibility and desirability of the descimento (it would be “a great Conquest in these backlands”), emphasizing his own efforts to encourage the participants and facilitate the provisioning of the expedition, while also alerting his superiors to the possibility of failure despite these efforts (as “these people are of little constancy.”) He submitted the formal request for expedition supplies and gifts for the gentio, noting the participants’ conviction that these items were essential for the success of the undertaking. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, the director indicated that Francisco Gregório’s plan had the support of the village principal. The principal would participate in all the key stages of the descimento process, such as the trip to Belém to petition the governor and the expedition to contact the Arámary. The descimento plans stalled, however, when Francisco Gregório died in 1776 or 1777. It seems that the effort was only renewed in 1781, when a new director made reference to a descimento expedition to be undertaken by the principal to the territories of the “Airary” Indians. Some villagers avoided relying on any single informant and simply remained on the lookout for friendly strangers in the sertão, as they made their rounds in the wild cacao groves or even as they pursued other descimento leads. In at least two cases, descimentos resulted from spontaneous

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encounters with Indian nations who were already contracted to resettle elsewhere— an indication of both a shrinking sertão and a highly mobile colonial Indian population. Alenquer’s collecting expedition crewmen had exchanged impromptu práticas and gifts with an unnamed Indian nation on their way upriver and had arranged to fetch them after finishing their harvest. The principal of the gentio even sent his own son and three others to go on the villagers’ collecting rounds, “as a sign that everything was settled.” On the return trip, however, the crewmen and the four native representatives found the village site abandoned. It came out later that the native official of a different village (Serpa) had encountered the same group of gentio and had convinced its principal that he had been deceived by the other group of villagers and that he should come resettle at Serpa instead. The indignant director of Alenquer said that the son of the principal, who had come back with the collecting crewmen, was on his way to ask the governor to order his father to be settled at Alenquer, as that had been their original intention; the proof was in the fact that “the cabo and other crewmen had given them their own shirts,” as a form of contractual gifting. Similarly, a group of villagers from Almeirim, heading out on a descimento expedition to reach the Aparajá Indians, happened upon a group of Apama who had already been “domesticated and apalavrada” to resettle in Outeiro. “Forgetting about the other [nation] they had aimed for, they turned toward this one,” according to the bitter report of Outeiro’s director. A low-ranking official and a guide from Outeiro were already visiting among the Apama, but the principal of Almeirim allegedly told the gentio all manner of negative things about the rival village. His improvised strategy worked: he convinced the majority of the Apama to accompany him downriver, and only thirteen ended up coming to Outeiro. Creative approaches were also required when expeditions could not find the group of relatives they had been seeking in the sertão. In these cases, participants could either cut their losses and return to the village or forge onward, in the hope that their combined navigational, linguistic, and social skills would serve them well in any chance encounters with independent native groups. One of the few detailed accounts of such a spontaneous encounter comes from the director of Vila Franca in 1766. A group of crewmen, led by a native official, experienced an early setback: their guide on the Rio Curuá got them lost, such that they were “wandering about the forests, with no idea of how to find the relatives of the Indian

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Raimundo de Farias.” They turned off on a small tributary “that Our Lord God showed to them,” traveled up it for about a week, and then went on foot through the forest for three days. Finally, they ran into three villages of “tame” gentio. Whether through divine intervention or good navigational instincts, the expedition’s prospects had suddenly improved. It was then up to the crewmen to communicate effectively and, on a more basic level, to make a social connection with the strangers: [Among the gentio] were three principais who immediately shouted in the língua geral that they were children of God, not murderers. Ours responded that they were the same, and that they were looking for the Curihé nation, their relatives. They [the gentio] then said that this nation was at the headwaters of the stream, a two-week trip; that they themselves were the nation Aritu; and that their ancestors had always said that there would be good people of God who would come to look for them. Our [group] was then received and hosted there for three days, and they conversed, sharing news with one another, all in the língua geral.

Following this positive interaction, the three principais of the gentio agreed to send their sons to visit Vila Franca, and these were conducted downriver. Many directors took a wait-and-see attitude toward such visits, but in this case, the director thought there was reason to be optimistic. He lauded the “good customs” of the visiting gentio and their excellent prospects for acculturating to life in the colonial village. “They grow in their lands everything that we make here . . . ; they don’t paint themselves, even though they have paints . . . ; they never had wars, and always lived in peace; they know of God and everything else, and they only say that they do not know how to pray” (which, along with the reference to their speaking some version of the língua geral, suggests that these were the descendants of former índios aldeados, or that perhaps runaways from the missions had at some point been incorporated with them). Even more encouragingly, “From what they say, they always lived in the hopes of us coming to fetch them.” As in the previous case, there is no further information on whether this resettlement came to pass, but it was clearly much desired by both the village director and the índios aldeados, who decided to take whatever demographic reinforcements they could get after failing to find their target group.

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The Social Cost of Descimentos Only in a few cases do follow-up letters exist for descimento proposals or descriptions of initial contacts. Documentation from the village of Souzel, on the Rio Xingú, permits a rare view of what happened between the early stages and the eventual outcome of a resettlement, and this section examines what this longer process tells us about the cumulative social costs of descimentos for colonial Indians and their communities. Índios aldeados, especially the leaders among them, likely evaluated these social costs when deciding to pursue or support a descimento. Like the Baião villagers, the residents of Souzel apparently had no viable kinship ties with gentio and had to rely on other, less conventional contacts to bring demographic reinforcements to the village. In 1768, the native officials told the director of their plan to contact a group of fugitives who had been encountered more than ten years earlier by one of the índios aldeados. The idea seems to have been discarded—there is no mention of it in subsequent letters—but not necessarily because it was considered impractical. Rather, it is very likely that Souzel’s native officials abandoned the plan because it had become clear that the village did not have the resources to spend on a descimento. Just two years later, in 1770, the director described a famine so severe that it was all he could do to keep the village children from eating dirt. Then, in the same letter, he reported two new descimento ideas. One involved fetching a group of gentio who were said to be interested in resettling at Souzel, having visited the village in the past. The director expressed frustration that Principal Paulo de Carvalho had not informed him of the existence of this group; he had only heard of it secondhand, through another Indian in the village. In any case, he had urged the principal to pursue the lead and to seek an expedition license from the governor. The director then suggested the descimento plan that was, according to later documents, adopted: Principal Carvalho would travel upriver to an area where the collecting expedition crew had recently encountered a group who spoke their same language, and since the gentio usually frequented these collecting grounds in the low-water season, perhaps they could be found again and persuaded to come to the village. The proposal, in itself, was not far-fetched; as mentioned earlier, friendly encounters between collecting expedition crews and groups of gentio in the sertão

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occasionally led to successful descimentos. But the key element, as it turns out, was missing: it did not have the support of Principal Carvalho. Along with the native captain of the village and one of Souzel’s few white settlers, a man named Francisco Pereira, Principal Carvalho reluctantly embarked on the expedition. On their way up the Rio Xingú, he suggested to the rest of the crew that they all return to the village and claim not to have been able to find the gentio. But the director had foreseen this situation (or so he claimed) and had urged the other expedition participants to forge onward despite any misgivings on the part of the principal. The captain and the settler convinced the principal to continue, reminding him that he was the one who had gotten the license to conduct the descimento in the first place. The expedition did end up exchanging práticas and gifts with various groups of Indians, including, via an intermediary, the target group that had been encountered the year before by the collecting crewmen. Several native chiefs agreed to descend after harvesting their crops, and two subsequent expeditions were dispatched to retrieve them. By the following year, Souzel had 118 new residents and potentially many more, who were waiting to see how the first ones fared. Most of the gente nova were being hosted on the homestead of the white settler, Francisco Pereira, who had participated in all three expeditions. He and his wife were said to be taking care of the sick ones, procuring food for them and helping them get accustomed to the type of manioc flour made in the village. As mentioned above, there was some precedent for gente nova to be treated as servants by their hosts, and this may well have been part of Francisco Pereira’s motivation for extending his “hospitality.” The promise of any lasting success quickly faded. The director began documenting a host of setbacks and obstacles in September 1772, shortly after the arrival of the gente nova. First, he reported that a group of unruly villagers had started a fight in front of the new residents, causing a few of them to flee in fear. A few weeks later, he admitted that there was a history of ethnic strife between the ancestors of the Caramuara and the Pajaraca, two of the newly resettled groups; and the Caramuara principal had refused to fetch the rest of his vassals until he saw how these tensions played out. Another source of delay in bringing more people out of the forest was the rumor circulated by the brother of the Caramuara principal, also resident in Souzel, that “they had come to be slaves of the whites.” Finally, epidemics had taken their customary toll. The principais were so sick that they could not yet visit the governor in Belém, and an in-progress

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descimento of another group of gentio stalled when these became so sick en route that many headed back to their original territory. Although the Souzel documents make no mention of this, evidence from other places suggests that when living conditions deteriorated in a village, the villagers, specifically the native officials, were held accountable by those they had conducted out of the forest. The frontier villages of the Rio Branco, while mostly beyond the scope of this book, illustrate this dynamic particularly well, since they experienced a mass revolt in the wake of droughts, food shortages, and epidemics. Writing from the faminestricken hamlet of São Felipe on the Rio Branco, the director passed on what would have been very unwelcome news to his superiors: “The Principal Manoel said to me, for the love of God, do not ask him for more Indians. . . . That is why he has resolved not to go on the descimento [expedition], so as not to bring the rest to suffer the same miseries that they are experiencing here.” Even more to the point, “The Principal also told me yesterday that he is being shunned by [the newly resettled Indians], because they have told him various times that it is his fault that they left [their original lands], since what he told them on the part of the Whites is not what they found.” Returning to Souzel: By January 1773, the situation had worsened considerably in the village, according to a military official named Bernardo Gomes Pereira, who apparently stepped in after the director left or was dismissed from his post. He reported of the Caramuara, It is not possible to make them forget their homelands, and he [the principal] has told me that he wants to leave and take all of his vassals and women with him, that the land of the whites is no good, that he saw many prisoners in chains in the city [when he visited], and that there is no such thing in his lands.

The official was sure that the Caramuara would soon flee, and Souzel’s native officials apparently agreed: “The officials of this village tell me that in the time of the Missionaries they brought some descimentos of Jurunas and Crivares, and all of them fled; and that these [Caramuara] could do the same, since they are in their lands,” referring to the fact that the gente nova were not far removed from their home territories. The desertions began in February, with most of the men among the gente nova fleeing into the forest. Only their women and one of their principais remained in Souzel, but they too wanted to leave, not only because of their many sicknesses, but “because they saw the Indian women working on the

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Common Plot (Roça do Comum). They say that their sons are going to be made to do the same, [whereas] in their land no one meddles with them (ninguém bole com eles).” The military official added, with obvious exasperation, “Various times I have urged them to take care of their plantings, but when this comes up they make faces and pay no attention (mostram má cara e não fazem caso). . . . All day they lie around, melancholy and showing that they regret having come from their lands.” In March, higher authorities intervened and took the rather desperate countermeasure of transferring the remaining gente nova to villages farther downriver, many of whom fled or died en route. The director of Porto Salvo, a chronically depopulated village in the suburbs of the capital, received some remnants of the group. Sick and hungry, they refused to eat anything salted, which they assumed to be harmful. They pleaded for fresh fish, but there were no villagers in Porto Salvo to send fishing on their behalf. This disastrous descimento merits our attention for several reasons, aside from being one of the only cases for which substantial follow-up documentation exists. As noted earlier, the villagers of Souzel were already in the midst of a famine when their director first proposed the descimento expedition. Principal Carvalho’s reluctant participation, as well as his lack of enthusiasm about other descimento leads, may well have derived from a conviction that descimentos were not a quick fix for the village’s ills. The resettlement process required a substantial investment of resources: in this case, it entailed three different expeditions into the sertão, followed by an influx of new residents who were physically needy and unfamiliar with everything from salted fish and the local variety of manioc to the labor regime of the village. Food and housing had to be provided, sick people attended, ethnic tensions quelled, rumors dispelled, and desertions prevented. As one governor described it, villagers would ideally create a kind of viveiro, or vivarium, for gente nova, a term that implies enclosure, sustenance, and close observation. Even with the contributions of the settler Francisco Pereira, the Indians of Souzel could not afford to create such an environment, and their increasingly futile efforts to do so had left them deeply in debt. This is how the director of a neighboring village described the situation of Souzel’s villagers in the aftermath of the failure: .

In the course of the two years that they spent [on this descimento] . . . they remained without plantings, and the few that they had, they [the gente nova] ate. They thus

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find themselves in such consternation and necessity that I had to order the distribution of a portion of manioc flour from the Common Plot [of Porto de Moz] to each of them, so that they would not perish of hunger.

Probably initiated by an overeager director in the midst of a famine, the descimento brought people to Souzel who shared no kinship ties with the villagers. This made it easier, perhaps, for the villagers to view them as foreigners (estrangeiros) or even enemies in their midst— or, to use the phrase coined by a governor for a different group of gente nova, as “useless eaters” (inúteis comedores). The fact that Francisco Pereira had stepped in as host to the gente nova may have even been a kind of co-optation of the villagers’ customary benefits from descimentos, if, as João Daniel indicated for missionary-era descimentos, it was common for the hosts of the new arrivals to use them as servants. Despite the burden that descimentos could represent to índios aldeados and their communities, there are relatively few examples of reluctant participants in the mold of Principal Carvalho or his counterpart on the Rio Branco, the Principal Manoel. Directors denounced Indians for many things—service evasion, absenteeism, drinking, contraband, and so on—so it cannot be attributed to any reticence on their part to criticize. It seems, rather, that most índios aldeados willingly took part in descimentos, or that their native officials were consistently successful at convincing them to take part. In one of the few documented cases in which villagers resisted participation in a descimento, there was a particularly compelling reason: the crewmen from Pombal had been ambushed by a group of Juruna Indians on their previous expedition, so they intended to avoid a follow-up trip. In general, the sources indicate that índios aldeados were willing, even eager, to participate as informants, sponsors, leaders, and hosts of descimentos, even if it came at a significant cost to themselves and their communities.

Ser vice and Strategy Why, then, were índios aldeados so active in the descimento process? In light of Chapter 2 on the annual collecting trips, we might assume that the main attraction of descimentos was the expedition experience itself, which offered participants a similar escape from the village grind and from other labor assignments. Crewmen likely had even more leeway

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once they entered the sertão as part of a descimento expedition, because they usually were led by their own native officials rather than by nonIndian cabos—which is also why we know considerably less about their exploits. That they were explicitly charged with leaving the colonial sphere lent the expeditions an air of excitement, adventure, and even nostalgia. In one of the few sources on descimentos written by a native official, there is a hint of real longing to return to ancestral lands: “I have such a desire to go see my lands once again, but I no longer can,” the elderly principal of Porto de Moz lamented after notifying the governor that he was sending a surrogate on an upcoming descimento expedition. This principal had, by his own count, brought more than 800 souls out of the forests to settle at Porto de Moz, stretching back to his youth when the village was still a Jesuit mission. Some descriptions of descimento expeditions support the idea that participants were drawn to the expedition experience itself. In 1769, the principal of Borba, Domingos de Sampaio, departed on a descimento expedition and “took the liberty of bringing in his entourage” several women from the village, along with a hefty load of cane liquor. If the director is to be believed, the intoxicated women told a group of newly recruited gentio, “Poor little things, you are going into the power of the whites, who will give you lots of beatings, and you will be their slaves” (Coitadinhos, ides para poder dos brancos, para vos darem muita pancada, e seres seus escravos). These reckless words allegedly provoked all of the gentio to flee. The director was surprisingly restrained in his description of the disastrous incident— remarking only that “cane liquor and women are pernicious things [to bring along] on these ventures”—probably because Principal Sampaio was already engaged in the task of trying to bring back the deserters. A rather more complex picture emerges, however, in light of other documents that depict descimentos as a form of community-building and royal ser vice. Many of the same índios aldeados of Borba who had enjoyed cane liquor and the company of women on the expedition of 1769 would have also contributed their labor and resources to a celebrated descimento that took place seven years earlier. This was one of the largest single resettlements of the Directorate period, bringing 223 Pama Indians to the village. At the end of the process, the director estimated that the village had spent eighty-five alqueires (about 695 U.S. dry gallons) of manioc flour from the Common Plot. The governor had already ordered the villagers to be reimbursed, but Borba’s director reported that “the principais

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and interested parties did not want to accept [payment], and they told me that because the descimento was for their own village, much more would they have given for such a good cause” (my emphasis). This was exactly the kind of communal investment that the crown hoped to promote, and the villagers of Borba would seem to have been exemplary descimento sponsors. As these two anecdotes from Borba suggest, the various motivations underlying villagers’ participation in descimentos were not mutually exclusive. Índios aldeados might aim to invest in the survival and prosperity of their village and prove their loyalty to the crown at the same time that they sought to avoid other royal ser vices and to enjoy themselves (perhaps to excess) in the sertão. The actions of one Luís Gomes de Farias, ajudante of the village of Outeiro, show how intertwined these different motivations might be. In 1788, Farias took two visiting Apama Indians to see the governor in Belém, where he obtained a license and supplies to carry out the descimento of their nation. Upon the group’s return to Outeiro, the director sent a guide, a meirinho (the lowest-ranking native official), and several “domestic Indians” along with the two visitors, to gather together the Apama and confirm that they were indeed ready to resettle. Farias planned to join them shortly, but in the meantime he had a license of one month to attend to his plantings, a period for which he probably negotiated and that he allegedly passed in a drunken stupor on his homestead. Then, appearing before the director, he said that he wanted to marry off one of his daughters before leaving for the expedition. The director assented (“so as not to distress him”) but urged him to go as soon as possible to join the other villagers in coordinating the descimento. When Farias finally departed, however, he only made it as far as the “suburbs” of the village district. As soon as the annual collecting canoe arrived back in the village, Farias came back, too, in order to attend the festival that customarily followed the return of the canoe crew, and in which he hoped to have his son named to a religious post. After the festival, he left once more, but still did not make it as far as the Apama: “At the end of three months, he again appeared before me,” the director reported, “telling me that since coming back from the city he still hadn’t set foot in the lands of the gentio, neither he nor his sons. Three times he came to get manioc flour to eat with his whole family in the places where they lingered [along the way].” The director went on to describe the “theft” of the descimento, described

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earlier in this chapter, by a rival expedition led by the principal of Almeirim, which he thought would have been prevented had Farias been on the scene to help the guide and meirinho negotiate with the gentio, since “it is well known that an official commands more respect than a simple Indian.” Despite his neglect of the descimento, this was not really a case of reluctant participation. Farias had taken the initiative to solicit the license and supplies, and he seemed to have enjoyed his autonomy as expedition leader, as he was able to depart and return to the village whenever he chose over the course of many months. He also took advantage of the rations of manioc flour and evidently made sure that his family members benefited, too, bringing them along on his travels. There is no evidence that the descimento expedition was a hoax—which did occur, from time to time. Instead, it seems to have been a case of competing priorities that kept Farias from reaching the Apama: he wanted to bring a descimento to his fortify his small village, but he had marriages to arrange, festivals to attend, and places to stop and socialize en route. When it became clear that his dallying had cost the village its resettlement, he did finally make the trip to the Apama’s territory, to persuade the few who remained there to come to Outeiro instead of Almeirim. This tension between ser vice and strategy can also be detected in the descimento promises made by índios aldeados. One of the earliest batches of local correspondence from the Directorate period contains a petition from the principal of São José do Javari, Diogo Martins de Mendonça, addressed to the governor. It begins with a complaint: “Sir, I and all of my relatives ask and plead that Your Excellency order this [military] official and detachment to be removed from this village, and for us to be sent a director, since the detachment poses a great nuisance to us, as [the soldiers] go around night and day bothering our wives.” The principal then cut to the chase: For these and other reasons, this village has very few people, because they have fled, or will flee, and this will become a tapera [a língua geral term for an old, abandoned village site]. If Your Excellency attends favorably to our petition, I promise to Your Excellency that I will go to the forest to find lots of people for this village—who want to come, but not while there is a detachment and [military] official here. I also will commit to bringing back those who have fled from here, if the detachment is removed.

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At some point in the next two or three years, a director was indeed assigned to Javari, so at least that part of the principal’s request was granted. The military detachment, however, was still present in the village in 1763, which may explain why the descimento that arrived that year had not been conducted by Principal Mendonça. Instead, it was negotiated by an Indian who had migrated from Spanish territories and married into Javari, and who was being recommended for the post of capitão, in light of his ser vice to the crown. The bargaining power of the principal was evidently limited by the ability of authorities to find new intermediaries. However, the military detachment had left Javari by 1768, if not earlier; it was transferred to neighboring Tabatinga, the other village at the far western frontier of the Portuguese Amazon, where a fort was completed by the end of the decade. Perhaps Principal Mendonça’s requerimento exerted some influence, however slight, in this decision. In her discussion of native political actors in Pará and the Rio Negro, Patrícia Sampaio mentions several native officials who, early in the Directorate period, secured promotions or nominations by leveraging their future descimento ser vice. In 1766, the nephew of the principal of Alvelos asked for a title of office as capitão, having recently brought about a successful descimento. The governor recommended that his request be granted, reiterating that this “will keep the Indian satisfied, and obligated to put further effort into that task,” and the principal himself wrote a letter of support. The principal of Nogueira used a similar strategy in 1764, when he petitioned for his niece’s husband—probably a white or mameluco—to be named cabo of the village collecting canoe. As described by Sampaio, the principal “conveniently reminded the governor that certain tasks they had agreed upon were in progress”—including a descimento lead on the Rio Japurá—and would be put on hold for two months, presumably while he waited for the governor’s answer. Politically savvy native officials were not the only ones to perceive that significant bargaining power came with a track record of successful resettlements or the promise of future ones. Ordinary índios aldeados and even newcomers to the colonial sphere also became aware of these opportunities. The Indian João Ferreira of Alvarães chose to discuss his descimento plans with the highest authority on the Rio Solimões at that time, Boundary Demarcation Commissioner Henrique João Wilkens, who was stationed in Ega. Ferreira told him that during a royal service expedition on the Rio Calanari “he spoke with a principal of the Cauiyarí Indian nation,

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to whom he gave an axe from the Royal Treasury, which he, João Ferreira, had borrowed from the expedition captain, along with one of his own linen shirts and other trinkets of his own, in order to cement an agreement or contract” to resettle in Alvarães. Ferreira asked that Wilkens make an appeal to the governor on his behalf, for a license and supplies to go retrieve the Cauiyarí Indians. Wilkens did even more than this, recommending that Ferreira also receive whatever privileges the governor saw fit, “corresponding to his merit.” The fact that Ferreira chose to go to Wilkens in the first place, rather than following the usual procedure of submitting a request through the director of Alvarães, suggests that he had aspired to more than just a license and supplies. The strategy most often used by gente nova to exact concessions from authorities was the threat of desertion. Sometimes, however, they took a different tack and invoked the promise of future descimentos as a bargaining chip. In 1765, the village of Porto de Moz was headed toward social chaos after the arrival of a descimento: an epidemic had claimed the lives of some twenty people, many of those who survived had taken refuge in the forest or in other villages, and the few who remained thought themselves to be at the mercy of a shaman, who boasted of his ability to kill people with his magic. The villagers resolved to end the shaman’s life in order to “save the lives of all the rest.” When the director found out, the following day, that the murderer was one of the gente nova, he could not bring himself to imprison the suspect and conduct an official inquiry of the case: “I thought that the Indians would certainly rise up [against me] and the descimento would flee; and that they would not carry out the other [descimento] that they intend to do.” In fact, one of the gente nova in the village had proclaimed that if someone did not put an end to the shaman, he would not bring his relatives to settle there, as this would be akin to sentencing them to death. Even the most disreputable and feared people in the colony—those who had rejected Portuguese rule and taken up arms against colonial society—might be given the benefit of the doubt when they offered to bring resettlements. These cases were rare; mortal enemies did not often put down their arms and make peaceful overtures. But when they did, they used descimentos as a form of reconciliation with authorities or as a political truce. One dramatic case of rapprochement through descimentos involved the former principal of Pinhel, Marcelo de Alfaia. In 1762, he had fled the

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village with a large entourage of fellow Mawé Indians, leaving behind a disturbing warning for any who would aspire to catch them: the effigies of two Indians and a soldier, their bodies shot through with arrows. By 1769, the village was abuzz with rumors that Alfaia had allied himself with native groups in the forest and was plotting an attack on Pinhel; it also emerged that several white settlers from the area had been murdered in Mawé territories, leading the government to prohibit all trade with the Mawé. The following year brought even darker tidings to Pinhel, when the collecting canoe crewmen testified in a devassa against the activities of the principal who had replaced Alfaia, Sebastião Pinto, and who had volunteered to serve as their pilot on the collecting expedition (see Chapter 2). According to the crewmen, Pinto had brought them on an unauthorized side trip to visit some of Alfaia’s allies in the sertão. During their stay in the heathen village, they found out that Alfaia had formed alliances with eight different Indian nations as well as with Pinto (who was probably his son-in-law). Together they were said to be coordinating an attack on Pinhel. Alfaia “had been telling them [his allies] that they had never managed to destroy the whites because they had feared their armed expeditions, but that these had never come, and now was the time to persecute the whites as much as they could.” The crewmen had also heard that Alfaia had two dogs with him that belonged to a group of settlers from Pinhel, who had been killed the year before while preparing fish on a nearby beach; and he was rumored to possess some firearms belonging to another murdered settler. Alfaia was thus implicated in these unsolved killings. In what can only be described as a dramatic reversal of strategy on each side, Principal Alfaia next entered the documentary record as a welcomed visitor in the village. In 1771, he unexpectedly showed up in Pinhel with two other principais from the forest and four other gentio and announced that “of their own free will, they wanted to resettle in this village, and that between them they have [back in the forest] 28 couples plus many children.” The former rebel and his allies proposed going to fetch the rest of their group during the river’s flood and asked for several white men to help defend them during the four-month journey. The director of Pinhel, Belchior Henrique Weinholtz, had reported several times on Alfaia’s alleged plotting— even labeling him, just the year before, the “capital enemy of the whites”—but in this letter he waxed enthusiastic about the

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new descimento prospects: “the principais tell me that after they leave [the forest] with their people, there will certainly be more who want to come!” He asked the governor to send clothing and gifts for the visitors and those who remained in the forest, and asked whether it would be permissible to use manioc flour from the royal tithes to provision the expedition. As if making a deliberate effort to forget, Weinholtz made no references to Alfaia’s notoriety in the village or his past transgressions; he only mentioned that the principal had once “gone around as a fugitive in the forest.” One can only imagine what the Indian villagers of Pinhel thought of these events; the testimonies of the crewmen who had been brought to visit Alfaia’s territories in 1770 suggest they would have been deeply skeptical of him. Alfaia’s strategy worked, though his truce with the authorities was short-lived. Within a year, he had been sent to Belém in chains for an unspecified crime, never to reappear in any of the sources from Pinhel. His Mawé countrymen, however, continued to settle there in the coming years, but in 1777, the last major group deserted. The director speculated that they left because they feared punishment for one of the long-ago murders that had occurred in their lands. The most dramatic political truce of the eighteenth century brought the Mura, the most notorious of the independent Indian nations, into the colonial fold. It began with a gift exchange in the small frontier village of Santo Antônio de Maripí, unexpectedly initiated in 1784 by a group of “Murified” (Murificado) former índios aldeados who had been incorporated into the Mura. David Sweet has vividly described the principal protagonist of the resettlement negotiations that followed this initial meeting, a Murified Indian named Ambrósio who had emerged as a leader of a band of Mura on the lower Japurá River. His family had fled from Nogueira back when it was still a mission, and while living in a fugitive community, they had been captured by the Mura. The men were killed, but the women and children, including the young Ambrósio, had been adopted into Mura families. Colonial officials called these Murified Indians apóstatas (apostates): “Indians baptized in our settlements and civilized, who, absenting them, joined the Mura in the forests, and incited them and taught them, being even worse than the Mura themselves in the killings, thefts, and damage that they have done to the villagers and travelers, [both] whites and Indians, of the villages in the sertão.” Marta Rosa Amoroso has pointed out that Murification could be compulsory, in the case of

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captives, or voluntary, in the case of runaways. Ambrósio’s family history, however, is hard to categorize either way, and colonial authorities may have made little distinction between captives and voluntary recruits of the Mura. This son of former índios aldeados seems to have immediately perceived the impact that a descimento offer— especially one backed up with concrete actions—would have among the skeptical and fearful authorities. The commander at Ega communicated with Ambrósio through his mother Joana, who still spoke the língua geral fluently, and learned of the Indian’s ambitious plans. He “was already going to establish his settlement at the Amaná Lake,” the commander was told, “which he intended to be large, and for which he had already brought a Xumana principal with some of his people, all robust and very hard-working; the rest of them, who are still in their nation’s lands on the Japurá [River], would come afterward.” Ambrósio and his band “planned to head to the Juruá to praticar the Mura on that river, with whom he was affiliated, and to pacify them, reducing them to settle,” either on the Rio Juruá or at the existing settlements on the Amaná Lake. The visitors were first showered with gifts at Ega. They then fulfilled their promise to go to Amaná Lake, where they began planting in their new settlement site, and to go upriver to contact other groups of Mura, Xumana, and Iruri. At some point they also passed through Nogueira, his family’s former home, where one of their relatives served as meirinho, and spent several days dancing and celebrating there. The peace agreement, and the descimento activities that sustained it, were attractive to Ambrósio and his fellow Mura for many different reasons. They ensured a steady supply of gifts and foodstuffs; the end of skirmishes with colonial troops; and protection from their most hated enemies, the expansionist Mundurucú. They also afforded opportunities to visit old friends and family in the colonial villages, and to continue what the Mura already did very well, which was incorporating other Indian nations. And because the pacification and resettlement of these “heathen corsairs” was so desirable—geopolitically for the crown and more pragmatically for the colonial population at large—local authorities were forced to accommodate a descimento process that for the most part proceeded on the Mura’s own terms. Even as they offered to resettle and to bring their relatives and allies into the colonial sphere, the Mura resisted congregation and evaded many of the other obligations that usually attended colonial vassalage. Most

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groups insisted on living in dispersed malocas (multifamily thatched houses) at temporary sites of their own choosing, with no immediate supervision, and often within easy reach of royal fishing and turtle-hunting grounds. That they should stay off of the lakes and beaches designated “d’el Rei” (the King’s property) and should live in concentrated settlements at predetermined sites was not an easy message to impart. According to one governor, this “must be communicated to them gently, so that they do not become distrustful; and they must not be forced in any way, if they do not want to go or move themselves.” The Mura’s responses to these messages ranged from partial acceptance to outright resistance. “After the interpreter’s prática,” a local official reported, they are ready and very happy to settle anew on the river and make their village. But they say they do not want to move to Manacapurú [the site favored by the governor]. . . . They responded that at their present spot they could also make a large settlement, and that there were also very many of them and that they were awaiting their compatriots.

A more tense exchange occurred in 1787 between a Mura band led by Ambrósio and some índios aldeados at the royal beaches at Jauabó. Confronted for their unauthorized hunting of turtles, the Mura allegedly replied that “they had lots of arrows, and that they had no fear; the whites were few, and they were many.” The contemporary image reproduced in Figure 3.1 may, in fact, depict this very scene. Even in the best-case scenario—when they agreed to settle in established colonial villages like Borba—the Mura remained nomadic, seasonally moving back and forth between the settlements and their original lands. There is no mention of their ever being sent on royal ser vice assignments or any other type of compulsory labor during the remaining years of the Directorate, though they did sometimes agree to fish or collect wild products in exchange for European products. As for Ambrósio, his last documented appearance was in 1788, when he showed up in Ega to meet with Wilkens, the boundary commissioner best known for rendering the Mura peace process in poetic verse. Ambrósio provided an update on his ongoing descimento activities on the Juruá River and accepted another load of gifts in exchange for some sarsaparilla and a few turtles (which, Wilkens noted wryly, the Mura promptly ate themselves). Ambrósio left the town smartly outfitted in a new shirt, pants, hat, socks, and buckled shoes, on his way back to the Rio Juruá to

Figure 3.1 Mura Indians hunting turtles, c. 1780s. A group of Mura watches several passing colonial canoes, likely a village collecting expedition in competition for the same turtles. Another Mura encampment is depicted in the distance, along with two canoes of Mura shooting turtles with arrows. Source: Alexandre Rodrigues Ferreira collection, courtesy of the Acervo da Fundação Biblioteca Nacional, Brazil.

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convince the groups of reluctant Mura there to come settle in the colonial villages. He had yet to stay put for any significant length of time during the three years since he had first presented himself to colonial authorities, but it did not seem to matter; he was, as Wilkens hailed him, the “the famous chief reconciler of the Mura.” Through participation in the descimento process, the povoações de índios (and certain ethnic groups within them) gained “new people,” individual sponsors of expeditions found autonomy as well as a measure of prestige and bargaining power, and even marginal members of colonial society or outsiders like the Mura had a means of displaying their loyalty and ensuring their own survival. There was often a tension between descimentos as ser vice and descimentos as strategy, but it was usually a productive tension that resulted in successful resettlements. If this chapter has described many unsuccessful or only partially successful descimentos, it is simply because these were more thoroughly documented by the village directors. These officials seemed little concerned with how índios aldeados brought about descimentos or with their motivations for pursuing them; instead, directors tended to focus on the mutually desired outcome of gaining new residents for the village. The crucial roles played by índios aldeados are more easily perceived in the sources when the outcome disappointed: when descimentos stalled, when recently resettled groups fled back into the forest, or when villagers decided that they did not want any “new people” after all.

4 “The Indians of This Town Ebb and Flow” Absentee Movements Within the Colonial Sphere

FOR ALL THEIR PARTICIPATION in state-sanctioned projects, many colonial Indians in the Amazon would ultimately appear as ausentes, or absentees, in the documentary record. Absentee lists, in fact, were about as commonly maintained by village officials as lists of collecting crewmen, and indeed, the two lists often appeared consecutively in the directors’ annual reports. So how can the evidence of native participation in collecting expeditions and descimentos be reconciled with Indians’ frequent status as “absent” at the time of a population count or labor requisition? The status of ausente would seem to imply abandonment of community and rejection of colonial rule, and it would seem to contradict much of what has been written in Chapters 2 and 3 of this book. This chapter aims to make sense of the paradox. Like their counterparts across the Americas, some native Amazonians did permanently leave the colonial villages to return to their original territories or to join fugitive groups. But that path leading into the forest and out of the Portuguese colonial sphere was not nearly as well traveled as many colonial contemporaries and historians have assumed. Absentee lists and supporting documentation produced by village directors in Pará reveal that a significant number of índios aldeados headed to other colonial Indian villages, where they became productive members of their new communities. This finding challenges the historiography’s characterization of the Directorate villages as state labor distribution centers that repelled, rather than attracted, migrants. It also questions the validity of the assessments, made by both contemporaries and historians, that native absenteeism had depopulated 127

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the povoações de índios and that it represented Indians’ tenuous attachment to the colonial world. Instead, we find that one village’s population loss was often another’s gain, which helps explain the stability of captaincy population figures over time. Native Amazonian migration created an illusion of overall demographic stability that resembles what historians have described for the colonial Andes. This chapter first explores contemporaries’ interpretations of native absenteeism in the Portuguese Amazon, from the missionary era through the end of the eighteenth century. It then turns to the analysis of temporal and geographical patterns in absentee movements within the captaincy of Pará during the Directorate period. The chapter finally narrows its focus to the absentees— a startlingly large number of them—who relocated to other Directorate villages. The central argument is that these migrants benefited from the flexibility of a system in which community membership was determined more by custom than law, and in which village directors condoned or even encouraged the incorporation of absentees. While this type of migration was often sanctioned on the local level, it conflicted with state efforts to achieve a precise social and spatial definition of colonial subjects.

Miseráveis, Inconstantes, and Ribeirinhos When the former missions were turned over to civil administrators under the Directorate legislation of 1757, many of the índios aldeados were already missing. A long paper trail on native absenteeism extended back into the early eighteenth and even seventeenth centuries, as kings, governors, missionaries, bishops, and low-level bureaucrats offered their interpretations of the causes and effects. Some were policy justifications and others (especially those offered by village directors) were efforts to absolve themselves of any blame for the phenomenon, but all drew from a common repertoire of stereotypes about Indians in general and native Amazonians in particular. These stereotypes hindered higher officials’ ability to see clearly what was going on; one might say that they had the “data” on absenteeism (however flawed) at their disposal, but they could not analyze it objectively. Colonial policymakers often described Indians as miseráveis—a term that connoted victimhood and vulnerability—who could be easily persuaded or driven to flee by devious settlers, foreigners, missionaries, or

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independent native groups. From this perspective, absenteeism could be remedied; one simply had to shield Indians from the source of corruption, whether external or internal to the colony. The perennial external concerns were autonomous Indian groups and other imperial powers. Upriver Indian nations who agreed to resettle in Portuguese territories, for example, should be transferred to villages hundreds of miles downriver so that rogue tribesmen could not easily induce them to return to their homelands. Similarly, chronically absent Indians who lived near imperial borders ought to be moved closer to Portuguese strongholds, to deprive them of their communication with French, Dutch, or Spanish traders and missionaries. Over the centuries, the crown’s definition of what constituted an internal threat to Indian permanence shifted. During the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, policymakers focused on restricting the access of non-aldeados to the missions. The 1686 Regimento das Missões prohibited whites and mamelucos from living in the missions, under penalty of public whipping or, if the offender was a nobleman, exile to Angola for five years. Even those settlers who entered the missions with official licenses to recruit Indian laborers could not stay there for more than three days, or they risked a three-month imprisonment. These prohibitions were difficult to enforce, however, and, as discussed in Chapter 1, there is ample evidence that non-aldeados continued to live in or near the missions and to carry out raids to round up crewmen for private collecting expeditions. In 1706, for example, the king chastised the governor of the captaincy that “various people on your orders go to the aldeias to take Indians under the pretext of my ser vice [i.e., Royal Ser vice] to labor in their own interests and yours . . . employing violence and force to make the miseráveis work.” The Directorate legislation represented a reversal of previous policies in that it allowed and even promoted the cohabitation of settlers and Indians in the villages. The crown’s midcentury campaign against the Jesuits had been partly fueled by allegations that the missionaries (often portrayed as seditious foreigners) had exerted unchecked influence and power over the índios aldeados, treating the missions as their own private fiefdoms. Whether or not royal officials believed this to be so, it served as a very effective pretext for the divestment of Jesuit power and wealth. After 1757, two groups long accused of “stealing” Indian laborers and harboring fugitives were given positions in the new Directorate bureaucracy. White settlers obtained positions as village directors and canoe bosses, and an expanded hierarchy of native officials was made responsible for the proper

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distribution of laborers, including responsibility for tracking down and punishing absentees. The bureaucratic incorporation of white settlers and native officials did not mean that the crown no longer suspected them of provoking absenteeism; rather, this was part of the larger effort to make them collaborators in a colonial reform project. Another, related school of thought on the causes of native absenteeism held Indians to be inherently fickle and prone to fleeing without provocation. As one governor put it in 1730, Indians had a “mercurial spirit,” and “as soon as any plea or persuasion is directed toward them, [they] will leave their Father and Mother, as well anyone else to whom they are assigned.” There was some overlap with the view of Indians as miseráveis— as this quote makes clear—but the idea of inherent defects of nature had a long, distinct history among Iberian intellectuals, extending back to sixteenth-century debates about whether Indians were innately barbarous and thus “natural slaves.” As late as 1755, it was used as a justification for the continuation of slavery in the Portuguese Amazon, when the bishop of Pará warned that the upcoming publication of the Law of Liberties would leave the Indians free to “retire to the forests to join the huge fugitive camps there, to which they are attracted by their very nature, with the same impulse that leads the fish to seek the sea.” During the Directorate period, in the context of periodic crown investigations into the behavior of village directors, the theory of the Indians’ “inconstancy” (inconstância) gained new currency among those seeking to avoid incrimination. After reporting that fourteen Indians and their families had left the village of Salvaterra right before the men were to be sent on a royal ser vice assignment, the director claimed that their flight was without cause and that they had left simply because they were “accustomed to fleeing.” Framed in this way, absenteeism had nothing to do with concrete (or legitimate) grievances, and it could not be prevented by even the most conscientious director. Certain Amazonian ethnic groups were also thought to be predisposed to flight. Colonial officials saw the Mawé, for example, as particularly unreliable, as a result of their “fickleness” and “inconstancy.” “They resettle in the villages only to resupply themselves with tools,” the director of Pinhel complained of the Mawé, “and when they have them, whether bought, given, or stolen, they customarily return to their homelands, as they have always done.” Rather than interpreting this as a pragmatic strategy by the Mawé to obtain tools, officials interpreted it as an ethnic

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or cultural trait. A similar consensus emerged about the Mura, a group that remained notoriously hostile toward the Portuguese until, quite abruptly, a peace agreement came about in the 1780s (see Chapter 3). Even after the Mura agreed to resettle and accept Portuguese rule, they kept their reputation as incorrigible wanderers, coming and going from the colonial villages at every opportunity. The Mura became so synonymous with desertions in the minds of Portuguese administrators that comparing other recalcitrant Indian nations to the Mura could be an effective rhetorical device. After his village was sacked by a group of Carajá Indians, the director of Baião fumed that “these pirates are accustomed [to such atrocities], being a nation (nação) just like the Mura, who live only by pillage and attacks, without any permanent residence.” So too with the Parianâ, according to another indignant director, who claimed that the nation “has resettled in so many of [the colonial] villages and has never remained in any of them, committing murders and other disorders among the rest of the Indians (os ladinos) and fleeing to their homelands. . . . They are notorious thieves, just like the Mura.” As the Portuguese formed stereotypes about the hostility or loyalty of particular ethnic groups, they also came to categorize them as more or less inclined to desert. Related to this, but more specific to the Portuguese colonization experience in the Amazon, was the conclusion that absenteeism was an inevitable consequence of the natural environment or regional geography. In a “labyrinth of so many hiding places,” as one director put it, how could Indians resist the urge to flee? There was certainly no shortage of escape routes in the basin. The narrower waterways—the igarapés—were often navigable only by small watercraft and their courses known only to Indian pilots or guides, while most of the larger tributaries had not been mapped beyond the first major cataracts. Even along the Amazon River, a series of narrow, parallel channels permitted canoes to slip undetected past the forts and villages that dotted the shores of the main river. Regions with especially intricate river networks, such as the lakes district between Santarém and Alenquer, were known to be fugitive hideouts. It was in this context that the term “ribeirinho,” meaning riverine or river dweller, took on the connotation of one who was chronically absent or otherwise unreliable. In 1720, the Jesuit Domingos de Araújo applied the term to the Pacajá Indians of Maracanã (Cintra), saying that while acculturated to colonial ways, they were “thoroughly ribeirinho and not very fond of the Jesuit missionaries.” The term was used more explicitly

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to refer to native absentees in the 1760s. A colonial judge wrote of Portel that “the village is quite populous, but its Indians are very ribeirinho and incapable of staying put there, as they live hidden away on their homesteads without ever appearing in the village or at Mass, disobedient toward their Director; when he calls them forth, they hide, their only intention being the avoidance of all ser vice.” He applied the same label to the Indians of Arraiolos—“all of them ribeirinhos, deserters, and drunks”— and to those of Souzel, adding that these disappeared as soon as the village director nominated them for labor assignments. The association between rivers and absenteeism was reinforced by the tendency of Directorate Indians to live at their homesteads on remote igarapés— sometimes more than a day’s canoe trip from the village center—which made them difficult to draft for ser vice. One director described how it took the village’s native officials seven days to go to all of the dispersed homesteads to gather the thirty-seven Indians needed for royal ser vice. Fugitives were also thought to occupy the large expanses of upland forest (also called interfluvial forests, because they occupied the spaces between rivers). As Lauren Benton has shown, colonial officials across the European empires tended to define effective imperial control in terms of the policing of particular routes (or “corridors”) and the defense of settled enclaves. Colonial authorities recognized that while the rest of the territory was formally claimed by European powers, it remained largely unknown. The term for these interior areas of Brazil and the Amazon, sertão, also connoted impenetrability, danger, and backwardness—the antithesis of the “secure, civilized center.” In the colonial imagination, native Amazonians, especially those recently brought into the colonial sphere, could not resist the siren call of the sertão that lay just beyond the settled riverbanks. Historians of the colonial Amazon have generally favored less deterministic explanations of native absenteeism, though one still finds a few traces of eighteenth-century notions about miseráveis, inconstantes, and ribeirinhos. Several scholars describe a classic flight response provoked by mistreatment and overwork, especially in the postmission context. Not surprisingly, these authors focus on groups who fled to quilombos, or fugitive camps. Colin MacLachlan, representing an older current of historiography, also evoked the now-dated image of the “confused and culturally stunned Indian [who] readily deserted his village and family.” This re-

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calls some of the colonial rhetoric about native “inconstancy” and implies that absentee movements necessarily entailed the abandonment of native communities and families. In more recent work, native absenteeism has been analyzed as an act of resistance, either one that paralleled the movements of fugitive African slaves (an important frame of reference) or one that constituted a form of passive resistance in the face of increasing pressure to acculturate to LusoBrazilian norms of fixed settlement and Christianity. A few scholars have also moved beyond a resistance framework. Barbara Sommer, in particular, shows that villagers’ efforts to maintain autonomy and make social connections might entail relocating to another colonial settlement or absenting to the forest only temporarily. Using some of the same villagelevel sources as this chapter, she highlights the variety of absentee movements in Pará: short-term or permanent, close-range or long-distance, and undertaken by individuals or groups, new arrivals or long-term residents of the villages. Sommer also offers some conclusions about regional patterns of absenteeism, observing that the smaller, more recently established settlements sustained higher rates of absenteeism than the larger former missions. My own research substantiates and elaborates upon these findings. The historian Rita Heloísa de Almeida does not directly address the topic of absenteeism but offers an important insight into the main protagonists of this chapter, the absentees who did not leave the colonial Indian sphere. In the course of analyzing how Indians absorbed colonial norms and ideologies, Almeida describes the Portuguese Inquisition’s investigation of an Indian woman named Florência, accused of bigamy in the 1760s. The investigation revealed that Florência had fled from the village of Borba, leaving a physically disfigured husband, to relocate to the upriver hamlet of Poiares in the company of the Indian man who would later become her second husband. Almeida makes the point that if we take into account this woman’s personal history—that she had been born into a mission, that her parents were deceased, and that she professed to have no knowledge of any of her Baré ancestors—it is not surprising that, in running away, she chose to remain in the colonial Indian domain despite the risk of detection. This anecdote serves as a reminder that many absentees by the eighteenth century were people whose ties to an exclusively indigenous world had been weakened or severed. Their motivations and spatial trajectories should be considered in that context.

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(Subjectively) Counting the Absent Índios aldeados left the missions, too, but the quantitative record of their absences commences only after secularization. True to its Enlightenment origins, the Directorate placed a great deal of importance on demographic accuracy, and local officials spent much of their time counting heads— or at least they gave that impression in their reports to higher authorities. Among the most frequently counted were the absentees, who had their own category in the captaincy-wide censuses (“Índios que se retirão” or simply “Ausentes”). Individual absentees appeared on lists submitted by village directors, who were required to report “all the absent Indians, those located in the forests and likewise those in the homes of settlers”— not to mention those living in other colonial villages and in Belém—“so that examining the causes of their desertion and the motives of the settlers who keep them in their homes, the most appropriate measures can be taken to restore them to their respective villages.” The wealth of quantitative information contained in these sources is ill suited to rigorous statistical analysis. I found myself commiserating with the colonial governor who, upon reviewing the population reports submitted by dozens of village officials, lamented that “despite the clarity of the models that I provided, they did not understand them . . . [and sent me] utterly confusing accounts.” But the inconsistencies and ambiguities in the data are in themselves revealing for what they tell us about the discrepancies between the way absentees were recorded at the local level and the way higher authorities thought they ought to be counted and categorized. Parish priests supplied the population lists used for the compilation of the censuses, and while the original lists have not survived, the comparison of consecutive censuses shows that the priests occasionally disregarded or misunderstood orders to count only absentees who had left that year and to annually revise their total population figures downward to reflect the previous year’s losses. Perhaps only when the priests considered absentees to be permanently lost—rather than just temporarily unavailable— did they stop including them in the annual absentee count and subtract them from the total population figure. Or they simply may have reported identical numbers every year to avoid the laborious counting process, hoping that none of their superiors would notice.

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There were also cases of deliberate falsification, as the record-keepers were the very people who might stand to gain from overcounting the absent. In falsely reporting Indians as absent, parish priests and village directors could themselves benefit from this “embezzled” labor, using it for their own ser vice rather than that of the state or village common. For the same reason, native officials—who usually supplied information about absentees and their locations to the priests and directors—might have misrepresented the true numbers of missing people. In the more populous villages, it is likely that absentees were undercounted simply because officials failed to monitor the whereabouts of a large number of Indians. Some village directors reported that they never saw the Indians at all—they all lived on homesteads on distant waterways— and only knew their names from the village rolls. Absentees were discovered only when some higher authority requested a particular Indian by name, and he or she could not be found. Even then, an individual’s identification as an absentee might remain uncertain. Explaining that he could not find any carpenter by the name of Francisco Isidoro in the village, the director of Faro sent one named Francisco Xavier, with the rationale that Indians “are even in the habit of changing their own names when a new director comes to govern them, or when they go [away] for a ser vice assignment.” Other officials, especially those stationed in the highly unstable villages of the Rio Negro captaincy, evidently did not even try to monitor the constantly revolving doors of their settlements. Record keeping in general was more lax in the Rio Negro than in Pará, and any quantitative analysis in this chapter therefore refers only to absentees from the latter captaincy. On a more basic level, officials could not even agree on who should be classified as an absentee. If an Indian lived unusually far from the village center and stopped showing up for Sunday Mass or reporting for royal ser vice, should he be counted? If a family went on an unauthorized turtle-hunting expedition but was expected to return in three months, might they show up on an absentee list in the meantime? What about recent migrants who had not yet been officially enrolled in a village when they absented once again? Each of the aforementioned types of people was sometimes included on the absentee lists, and with no official guidance forthcoming on the matter, the absentee category remained an ambiguous one.

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Demography and Regional Differences Despite the lack of standardization in the counting and reporting of absentees, the captaincy-wide censuses allow us to identify broad temporal and regional trends. With eleven years of coverage (1774–1794) for the Pará villages, the censuses’ large sample and extended time frame help compensate for some of the aforementioned inconsistencies and gaps in absentee figures for individual villages. Temporal trends are summarized in Table 4.1, which shows that annual absenteeism rates for the captaincy as a whole ranged from about 3 to 7 percent, peaking in 1791. If the census figures could be taken at face value, this would mean that, on average, Directorate villages lost 3 to 7 percent of their Indian residents every year. As mentioned earlier, the fact that parish priests sometimes reported cumulative, rather than annual, numbers of absentees means that these rates should be considered somewhat inflated. They were, however, clearly on the rise, with a significant increase occurring between 1785 and 1791. Local authorities also more consistently reported absentees over time, with most of the captaincy’s sixty-three villages supplying numbers to the central administration by the 1790s. Governors, directors, and native officials occasionally claimed that the villages were “deserted,” “ruined,” and “drained of Indians,” and, hyperbole aside, some villages did experience precipitous declines in population. Baião lost about half of its residents to flight in 1776, as did Condeixa and Pederneiras in 1792; the very steepest rate of decline occurred in Pena Cova in 1785, when 173 absented, or about three-quarters of its population. Data on births and deaths available for about one decade during the Directorate (Table 4.2) confirm that the rate of natural population increase in Pará was always significantly lower than the rate of absenteeism, which would indeed lead us to expect an overall decline in the captaincy’s population. How is it, then, that the Directorate Indian population actually increased between 1774 and 1794? As Table 4.1 shows, the demographic impact of absenteeism was indiscernible. In part this resulted from the incorporation of absentees into other Directorate villages, since when these migrants were added to the village rolls of their new residences, they did not constitute a demographic loss on the captaincy level. It can also be attributed to the return of absentees who had left the village rolls and, more importantly, to the large-scale migration of recently contacted

table 4.1 Annual Rates of Absenteeism in the Directorate Villages, Captaincy of Pará, 1774–1794

Year

          

No. of villages reporting

          

Total no. reported absent (since previous year)

Average no. reported absent (since previous year)

       , , , ,

          

Indian population of villages reporting absentees

, , , , , , , , , , ,

Annual rate of absenteeism ()

Indian population of all villages

. . . . . . . . . . .

, , , , , , , , , , ,

notes: Population figures refer only to Directorate Indians (both índios aldeados and Indian migrants from other Directorate villages) and do not include absentees. In the censuses of 1774–1785, Indian migrants were included in the aldeado population figures (“Aldeado Indians or Those Established in the Villages”), whereas in 1792–1794, migrants had their own subcategory (“Indians from Other Villages Existing in Th is One”) under the general heading of Agregados, or attached residents, though not many villages reported numbers for this category. For consistency, this group has been added here to the total population. sources: “Mappa(s) de todos os Habitantes, e Fogos, que existem em todas e em cada uma das Freguesias, e Povoaçõens das Capitanias do Estado do Grão-Pará, ao 1o de Janeiro de . . . ,” AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 74, Doc. 6256 (for 1774), Doc. 6252 (for 1775), Doc. 6256 (for 1776), and Doc. 6368 (for 1777); Cx. 84, Doc. 6918 (for 1778); Cx. 85, Doc. 6940 (for 1779); and Cx. 99, Doc. 7509 (for 1785); and “Mappa(s) da População dos Índios Aldeados em todas as Povoaçõens da Capitania do Gram Pará no primeiro de Janeiro de . . . ,” BNRJ, Manuscritos, I-17, 12, 22 (for 1791, 1792, 1793, and 1794).

table 4.2 Natural Population Growth in the Directorate Villages, Captaincy of Pará, 1774–1785 Year

Births

Deaths

Indian population

Rate of natural increase ()

      

      

      

, , , , , , ,

. . . . . . .

notes: Birth and death figures do not appear in the 1790s censuses. On how the total Indian population of Directorate villages was calculated, see Table 4.1 notes. In each census, several villages did not report birth and death figures, only total population, but given the large sample of villages, it would be unlikely to have a significant effect on the rate of natural increase. sources: See Table 4.1.

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Indians into the colonial sphere. These last two factors explain the overall increase. As many colonial observers recognized, village populations that were battered by chronic absenteeism and successive epidemics “could not recover except through descimentos,” a term that usually referred to resettlements of independent native groups but that came to encompass the recolhimento (gathering together) of runaways as well (see Chapter 3). In other words, the villages of Pará—and, to an even greater extent, those of the Rio Negro—were demographically unviable without constant outside reinforcements. Even the 1757 Directorate legislation was explicit on this point, suggesting that similar cycles of population depletion and replenishment had been observed in the missions. It is difficult to assess the demographic impact of absenteeism—and the compensating effects of descimentos and return migration—over the course of the whole Directorate. The conventional wisdom is that the Directorate—“the ill-starred brainchild of Francisco Xavier de Mendonça Furtado,” as one prominent historian called it—set in motion a cycle of depopulation that would leave Amazonia less populous in 1850 than it had been a century before. More specifically, several historians have cited a 1757 population figure of 30,000 índios aldeados to argue for a sharp decline by the time of the first captaincy-wide census in 1773, which gave a total of 19,123 for the villages of Pará. The earlier population figure, however, was only a very general estimate and so does not provide good support for this argument. A better indication of demographics during the first years of the Directorate is provided by a 1761 labor distribution list that indicates a total of 2,361 aldeado men of working age (capazes de serviço), divided among twenty-two villages. If we compare this total to the equivalent category in the census of 1791 (Indian men of ages fifteen through sixty) for the same twenty-two villages, the total comes to 2,664. Since there were just over 300 more men of working age after three decades of Directorate administration, the overall demographic declines cited by historians seem unlikely. Patterns of absenteeism, mortality, intervillage migration, and descimentos varied over time in particular villages, but they probably did not change dramatically on the captaincy level over the course of the second half of the century. If average rates of absenteeism ranged from about 3 to 7 percent from year to year, rates varied much more widely from region to region. Using most of the same geographical divisions that appear in the censuses, Table 4.3 shows that average annual rates ran below 2 percent in one

Tocantins River Pará River (metropolitan zone) Marajó Island Guajará/Capim Rivers Atlantic Coast

Amazonas River Xingú River Furos area Tapajós River

Delta: Primary hinterland of the capital, larger mixed population, plantation and cattle ranching zone, royal industries Subtotal

Inland: Indian core areas, greater proximity to uncolonized territories, extractive economy, subsistence agriculture Subtotal 

    

     



. . ,. . .

. . . . . .

Average Indian population per village

.

. . . . .

. . . . . .

Average no. of absentees per village

.

. . . . .

. . . . . .

Annual rate of absenteeism by region ()

notes: Th is table relies on the same regional divisions as those used in the censuses 1791–1794, with a few modifications. Regional averages have been calculated with reference to village averages, rather than annual averages; these would yield different results because not all villages reported absentees for every census year (see Table 4.1 for numbers of reporting villages by year). One settlement in the Atlantic Coast region, Tentugal, has been omitted for lack of data. sources: See Table 4.1.

Totals

Region

General characteristics

No. of villages

table 4.3 Average Rates of Absenteeism by Region, Captaincy of Pará, 1774–1794

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region and as high as almost 19 percent in another, averaged over the two decades. A clearer pattern emerges if we compare settlements located in the delta region, to the east of the primary mouth of the Amazon River and closer to the colonial capital, with those located farther inland. Villages in the delta had significantly higher average rates: almost 11 percent of their populations were reported to have absented each year, as opposed to 4 percent from the villages farther inland. They were also much less populous—with an average of less than 200 inhabitants versus more than 500 in the inland areas— so we might expect that absentees were simply more thoroughly counted in the smaller villages. Many other sources, however, attest to the higher turnover of residents in the delta area, which was the primary hinterland of the capital. While the decision to absent one’s village cannot be attributed to external forces alone, índios aldeados living in the delta faced a multitude of push and pull factors that had to do with living in a densely settled, ethnically diverse, plantation and ranching zone that was also the site of most royal industries. A key factor in explaining the area’s higher rates of absenteeism is that the burden of royal ser vice fell much more heavily on the delta villages than on ones farther inland. Labor distribution data from 1774, for example, show that the ten villages with the highest rates of royal ser vice participation for the year (5 to 13 percent of total village population) were all located in the delta area, and six of those were within one or two days’ travel of Belém. Many royal ser vice assignments brought Indians to the metropolitan area, to work at the government-owned shipyard, lime kilns, slaughterhouse, salt flats, lumberyard, gunpowder factory, port, or major construction sites. As in the rest of the captaincy, the delta villages also had to provide workers to the fort of Macapá, the principal recipient of draft labor during most of the Directorate period, as well as laborers for the new town of Mazagão and crewmen for official expeditions. These villages, in other words, bore the brunt of the royal labor draft, and their smaller populations were both cause and effect of this. The crown draft was an unpopular obligation. While impossible to quantify, the sources consistently indicate that more Indians deserted royal ser vice than any other type of obligatory labor under the Directorate. As the director of Chaves, a village on Marajó Island, explained in the wake of a mass exodus of Indians nominated for royal ser vice, “telling them that they have to go to Macapá is like telling them ‘get out of here’ [vai-te embora]!”— or, as another director put it, this draft was “the same

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as sending them to the forest.” Epidemics frequently ravaged the principal settlements of Belém, Macapá, and Mazagão; food shortages were endemic to royal construction sites and official expeditions; wages were often delayed or paid in undesirable goods; and when rotations of laborers never materialized— a common occurrence—those already in ser vice were forcibly kept beyond their six-month terms. Deserters sometimes even warned their fellow aldeados to stay away from pestilent royal ser vice sites, as happened when a new rotation of laborers from Souzel, heading to serve at Mazagão, met a group of Indians fleeing the smallpox epidemic there. In this context, it is not surprising that the various pull factors of the delta area exerted a strong force on the índios aldeados who lived there. The capital city of Belém, the principal non-Indian towns (Cametá, Vigia, Igarapé-Mirim, Bragança, and Abaité), and the many private estates of the delta region presented different— and sometimes more favorable— economic opportunities, and Indians would have been able to evaluate these conditions for themselves on their frequent sojourns to the capital and surrounding towns. As explored in Chapter 5, a non-aldeado labor force emerged in and around the capital in the last quarter of the eighteenth century, as increasing numbers of Indians stayed on with settlers after their portarias (labor requisitions) had expired, or deserted from the Directorate labor assignments that brought them to the city. Índios aldeados living in the delta region, with their more frequent visits to non-Indian settlements and estates, could more easily form the kinds of patronage relationships, illicit labor contracts, and trade arrangements that offered alternatives to Directorate life. If índios aldeados did not go to the settlers, the settlers easily came to them. While directors’ complaints about the incursions of settlers sometimes verged on the melodramatic, it is clear that non-aldeados permeated the world of the delta villages to a greater extent than in the Indian core areas. In some cases, they even outnumbered the índios aldeados in their own villages. According to censuses of 1774–1785, which counted both groups, non-aldeados constituted a demographic majority in eight povoações de índios in the delta region but only two inland ones. Four additional povoações de índios (two delta and two inland) were annexed to povoações de brancos, or “white towns,” and were more like distinct neighborhoods than separate settlements. Revealingly, the povoações de índios on the Atlantic Coast— especially the more geographically isolated ones near the

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captaincy’s eastern border—were among the least integrated of the deltaregion settlements and had the lowest average rates of absenteeism. The proximity of non-aldeados could be either a pull or push factor. On one hand, settlers headed to the nearest povoações de índios and royal ser vice sites to persuade índios aldeados to become tenants on their estates or to go on unauthorized collecting expeditions, sometimes on advantageous terms. In some villages, aldeados married non-aldeados and were effectively removed from the labor rolls (see Chapter 5). On the other hand, non-aldeados could be perceived as a menacing presence in the delta area. The índios aldeados of Bragança, one of the annexed villages on the Atlantic Coast, clearly resented their non-aldeado neighbors, and they took their complaint to the governor: The Indians request that from this point forward, the [non-aldeado] residents of the village cannot enter into houses without the permission of their respective owners, and certainly not when they [the Indians] have their festivals, like next month’s São João, since that is when [the moradores] are accustomed to enter, eat, and extort whatever they [the Indians] have, without permission and with contempt for the Indians, lacking all civility. No longer may the moradores come to the village to pick oranges or any other fruits from the gardens, nor may they plant them with tobacco or any other item, as they have done until now, without the permission of their owners.

Whether grievances like these led to decisions to migrate is uncertain, but they probably would have made villages in the Indian core areas—with their stronger aldeado populations and more intact ethnic leadership— look more attractive. In her case study of Portel, the largest povoação de índios in Pará, Sommer notes that the small population of whites played a subordinate role in village affairs, and that many of them found it necessary to ally themselves with the native leadership. This contrasted sharply with the power and influence of white settlers in Bragança and the other annexed povoações de índios. The presence of African slaves could also be a push or pull factor for some índios aldeados in the delta area, particularly along the Guajará and Pará Rivers, where sugarcane plantations and distilleries abutted Indian villages. Whereas there is evidence that slaves and Indians intermarried, worked together in some private and royal industries, and cooperated in fugitive movements, other sources point to strife between the two groups. The director of Benfica, a settlement near Belém, complained

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that a group of black slaves regularly harassed the índios aldeados and stole their canoes when they encountered each other fishing on the same igarapé; interestingly, however, he noted that these same slaves were friendly with a group of Indian fugitives from the village, even helping to free them when they were captured. By 1783, the situation had become so tense that the governor recommended the formation of a mounted patrol to control violence between blacks and Indians in the suburbs of the capital. The history behind the founding and populating of some delta villages also helps explain why the area suffered such dramatic population losses. Of the individual settlements with the highest rates of absenteeism in Pará, all were established or repopulated during the mid- to late Directorate. Pena Cova, with a 37 percent average annual absentee rate, was repopulated in 1782 with prostitutes, vagrants, and men of “mixed quality” (i.e., race), presumably rounded up in Belém. Alcobaça and Pederneiras (31 percent and 22 percent, respectively) began in 1781 as strategic settlements on the Tocantins River, with the goal of hindering the passage of slaves fleeing upriver from the plantations near the river’s mouth as well as deserting soldiers heading to the mines of Goiás; these two outposts (especially the former, which had its own garrison) were also intended to discourage gold smugglers from making the trip downriver. Pederneiras was even settled with former fugitives, inhabitants of a quilombo who had reached an agreement with the governor to reenter the colonial sphere. Salinas (21 percent) was founded in the same year, to supply laborers for the royal salt flats and to provide pilots to guide ships through the shoals of the Rio Pará and on to Belém, and was likely populated with “ausentes and dispersos.” Barcarena (18 percent), a former Jesuit ranch that was taken over by the government at the time of the expulsion, originated with the goal of supplying workers for the royal lumberyard located there. Finally, the government established Baião (17 percent) in 1769 with freed Indian slaves and intended it to serve as a reprovisioning point for travelers on the Tocantins route to the mines in Goiás. Besides their chronic vacancy, these six settlements in the delta region had in common the fact that they were founded to meet a specific royal objective, whether related to geopolitical strategy, social engineering, or labor provisioning. None of these objectives fostered social cohesion or attachment to place. The director of one reconstituted settlement near the capital, Penha Longa, recognized this as a primary reason for its

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demographic failure. “Your Excellency should not be surprised,” he told the governor, that the Indians of this village are such fugitives, because almost all of them were brought here [after being] rounded up by force; they are accustomed to vagabondage, and for this reason they cannot have any love for their village, when in other villages even the longtime residents (nacionais) are deserting and abandoning their homes.

In another failure of social engineering, many of the former Indian slaves sent to populate Baião eventually returned to the homes of their former masters, who lived along the same river (the Rio Tocantins). The settlements founded for strategic purposes in the 1780s (Pena Cova, Alcobaça, Pederneiras, and Salinas) contributed to the higher overall rates of absenteeism shown in the 1790s censuses, as well as to the delta region’s higher average rates. On the whole, the twenty-seven inland povoações de índios presented a sharp contrast in terms of labor, demography, geography, and settlement history. These villages shouldered a lighter royal ser vice burden, were less integrated with non-aldeados, and enjoyed better access to the resources of the sertão, and all but one were former missions with relatively stable population bases (see Chapter 1). These factors help explain their much lower rates of absenteeism and overall demographic advantage over the villages in the delta region. Inland villages typically occupied the highest percentage of their residents in the state-sponsored collecting expeditions, rather than in royal ser vice, as was appropriate given their proximity to the best foraging grounds. The ten villages with the highest percentage of people engaged in collecting (10 to 18 percent of their total populations) were all small- to midsized inland settlements, with the exception of the two delta-region villages of Beja and Serzedelo. As discussed in Chapter 2, índios aldeados generally preferred collecting expeditions to other types of obligatory labor, such as royal or private ser vice. Contacts with settlers were correspondingly more limited for villagers in the Indian core areas, with the two groups passing through each other’s settlements but not living or working in close proximity. For settlements located on minor waterways or far from the mouths of the main rivers, even fleeting visits from settlers seem to have been infrequent. When the director of Outeiro realized that he had accidentally sent correspondence addressed to the previous gover-

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nor, he noted that “at the time, I had not been aware of the arrival of Your Excellency, not only because of the distance of the place but also because this village is located on a lake [off the main channel of the Amazon], where canoes do not come except for a purpose.” And while many Indian men from inland villages visited the capital on an annual basis, their exposure was relatively limited, usually consisting of the yearly canoe trip to deliver the products of the village collecting expedition. For all of these reasons, inland villages, though not insular, were generally less affected by the push and pull factors related to the proximity of non-aldeados. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, the inland villages had strong historical roots: twenty-six out of twenty-seven were former missions that had been secularized at the beginning of the Directorate. The largest and most prosperous former missions also had some of the lowest absentee rates in the captaincy. Portel, Melgaço, Vila Franca, and Monte Alegre had average rates of 1 to 2 percent and populations of 1,000 to 2,000 people each. As pointed out in Chapter 3, these large former missions also had better track records of bringing about resettlements of independent native groups, because of their sizable ethnic majorities, who could organize and fund descimento expeditions. They also attracted migrants from other villages in the captaincy, as will be explored later in the chapter. A final external force, epidemic disease, has been left mostly aside in this discussion of regional differences in absentee rates, because villages in all regions were affected. The extensive river network permitted epidemics to spread into every corner of the captaincy and to infect even remote, relatively inaccessible villages. If outsiders did not often visit them, as in the aforementioned case of Outeiro, that did not keep their own residents from traveling far and wide on royal ser vice assignments and collecting expeditions, not to mention on unsanctioned ventures. The nature of the Directorate labor and production system and the riverine network that enabled that system meant that a villager’s life was never a purely local one. Germs traveled along those far-ranging networks, too, leaving villages temporarily empty in their wake.

Spatial Trajectories of the Absentees Colonial authorities in Belém and their superiors in Lisbon were not content with simply having the crown’s absent native subjects counted in the annual censuses. They also wanted individual absentees to be tracked,

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and, whether by persuasion or force, to be brought back to their villages. These tasks fell to village directors, and, by extension, to the native officials, who were supposed to report any information as to the identities and whereabouts of absentees and to retrieve them if ordered. A thorough search of the directors’ correspondence yielded 210 reports (excluding repetitive ones) of absentees and their destinations, encompassing 4,128 Indians from fifty-four different villages in Pará and spanning the whole Directorate period. These reports typically featured the known locations of absent individuals and family groups, either in list or narrative form. A typical list appears below. Submitted by the Director of Alenquer, Jerónimo Roberto Pimentel, in 1781, it bears the title “Report of the Índios and Índias Who Absented from This Village with Their Families in the Year 1780, When the Director Was Maurício José de Sousa, and Who Are to Be Found in the Villages and Places Declared Below . . . 15 October 1781”: Located in the village of Monte Alegre: 1.

João de Deus, age 40

2.

Rosa Maria, his wife, age 35

3.

Angélico de Barros, his son, age 10

4.

Manoel Baptista, his son, age 8

5.

Damázia Maria, his daughter, age 6

6.

Mathias José Ribeiro, his nephew, age 16

7.

Juciano Pimentel, age 45

8.

Artémia de Siqueira, his wife, age 40

9.

João Luís, his son, age 8

10.

Cecília de Siqueira, his daughter, age 6

11.

Manoel Pimentel, his son, age 3

Located in the village of Outeiro: 12.

Fernando da Costa de Ataíde e Teive, age 20

13.

João dos Santos, age 32

14.

Marcelina dos Santos, his wife, age 30

15.

Agostinho António dos Santos, age 35

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Located in the village of Veiros: 16.

Dionizio Ferreira, widow, age 45

17.

Prudente Ferreira, his son, age 14

18.

Angélico Ferreira, his son, age 7

19.

Victoriano Ferreira, his son, age 4

20.

Alusio Ferreira, his son, age 3

21.

Perpetua Ferreira, his mother-in-law, age 80

Located in the village of Portel: 22.

Sebastião José de Carvalho, age 50

23.

Germano da Silva, age 41

24.

Clemencia da Silva, his wife, age 37

25.

Roque Lourenço, his son, age 10

26.

Claudina Maria, his daughter, age 5

Located on the sugar plantation of Luís Vieira in Limoeiro, for the past two years: 27.

Luís de Amorim Pereira, age 17

Located in the village of Melgaço: 28.

Joana Maria, age 60

29.

Inácia Maria, her daughter, age 38

30.

Domingas de Siqueira, her daughter, age 25

31.

Brizida de Siqueira, her daughter, age 15

32.

Romualdo de Siqueira, her son, age 10

Located in the village of Oeiras in the home of Inocêncio de Brito Pestana: 33.

Xavier de Morais Saraiva, age 38

Like the censuses, the directors’ absentee lists are illustrative only of broad trends, and the same caveats apply as to their idiosyncrasies. An additional problem is that the destinations reported for absentees cannot be taken entirely at face value. While some destinations had been verified by eyewitnesses—like the collecting expedition crewmen who encountered

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absentees from their village in an upriver town, or the director who recognized a number of familiar faces while visiting another village—many were undoubtedly based on rumors and hearsay. Despite these limitations, the absentee lists remain our best source on the spatial trajectories of a large, elusive sector of colonial Amazonian society—the índios aldeados who left their assigned villages. They show that between the extremes of fixed settlement and fugitive existence lay a wide range of other residence choices for colonial Indians. Contrary to the way they are conventionally portrayed— as masses vanishing into the forest—these were individual men, women, and family groups who frequently chose to relocate to other Directorate villages. Among the 2,183 absentees with destinations specified in the sources ( just more than half of all those listed), 37 percent relocated to another povoação de índios, while 24 percent headed to quilombos or uncolonized areas, 18 percent to settlers’ homes, 10 percent to the capital city, and 11 percent to other types of locations within the captaincy or beyond its borders (Table 4.4). An additional 1,945 had unknown or unspecified destinations. While we can assume that many of the latter had left the colonial sphere—meaning that more absentees overall may have followed that path into the forest—the number heading to other Directorate villages is nonetheless striking. These broad destination categories are useful for thinking about the basic discontinuities associated with certain types of movements. Becoming a tenant on a settler’s estate or moving to a “white town” entailed a break with one’s social and legal status as an índio aldeado, with all of its attendant rights and duties. And leaving the colonial system altogether for an independent existence in the forest probably represented an even greater rupture with past associations and obligations. But the type of destination was not the only variable in determining the social consequences of absentee movements; also relevant were the distance from one’s place of origin and the duration of the absence. Migrating hundreds of miles away from one’s village—regardless of the type of destination—most likely involved the severance of ties with the community of origin and the creation of a whole new set of social and economic relationships in a different physical environment. It also reduced the risk of detection, which may have been a major source of motivation for long-distance migrations. In contrast, if the move required only a few days’ travel, migrants would be able to visit their former village, maintain many of the same social networks, and probably exploit

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table 4.4 Destinations of Absentees by Gender, Captaincy of Pará, 1757–1798 Male



Female



Unspec. Gender



































  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

Total known destinations

,











,



Unknown or unspecified destinations

,











,



Totals

,



,







,



Destinations of absentees

Known destinations

Povoações de índios Quilombos or uncolonized areas Settlers’ homes Belém Other

Total absentees



notes: Only índios aldeados from villages in Pará were counted. Lists from individual villages were compared over time to eliminate repeat listings. The destinations are not mutually exclusive: for example, some absentees might be living in a settler’s home in a Directorate village; or in a quilombo located in a river valley. When this is the case, I have listed absentees as being in settlers’ homes and quilombos rather than in geographical locations. Almost all of the destination villages were located in the captaincy of Pará; the only ones in the Rio Negro captaincy were Moura (sixteen absentees coming from Salvaterra), Poiares (one from Porto de Moz), and Silves (one from Óbidos). The “Other” destination category includes river valleys, non-Indian towns, informal settlements, and several places beyond the borders of Pará and Rio Negro. source: APEP, Correspondência de Diversos com o Governo series.

the same natural resources as before. They could also be more easily caught. Using twenty léguas (leagues) or fewer as the criterion for close proximity— a distance that could be traveled by canoe in two to four days and would generally encompass villages located on the same tributary, with the exception of those on the lengthy Amazon River—we find that short-range moves were about as common as long-range moves of forty léguas or more (Table 4.5). Some absentees evidently did not feel it necessary or desirable to go far from their original villages, and this was especially the case with those who married exogamously or wanted to maintain close contact with family members. It was an “old custom,” for example, for the Indians of the neighboring villages of Pombal and Souzel to marry one another, and the couple would typically settle in the wife’s village while regularly making (without official license) the three-légua trip to visit the husband’s relatives. Similarly, residents in the three remote villages

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table 4.5 Geographical Range of Absentee Movements, Captaincy of Pará, 1757–1798 Distance between village of origin and destination

Short-range (up to ~ leagues apart) Medium-range (~ to ~ leagues apart) Long-range (over ~ leagues apart) Unknown distance or unspecified geographic location Total

Number of absentees















,



,



notes: Percentages may not add up to 100 due to rounding. Most distances were determined with reference to the navigational mea surements provided by Antônio Ladislau Monteiro Baena in Ensaio Corográfico sobre a Província do Pará (Brasília: Senado Federal, 2004 [1833]), 268– 270, 283. His mea surements referred to distances from the capital, but the linear structure of the river system makes it possible to ascertain approximate distances between points. Twenty leagues (léguas) would take two to four days to travel by canoe, depending on river and weather conditions; it was equivalent to roughly 100 to 120 kilometers. source: APEP, Correspondência de Diversos com o Governo series.

near the captaincy’s eastern border—Piriá, Serzedelo, and Viseu— constantly “passed from one town to the other,” most of them descendants from the same family of former fugitives who had originally settled in the area. In other cases, absentees reported as living in quilombos in the forest had only gone far enough away from their villages to avoid being punished for desertion or drafted for ser vice. Indians from Melgaço who had deserted their ser vice assignments, for example, built tijupás (lean-tos) in the forests near their homesteads and regularly communicated with their wives, who helped them avoid detection. Often correlated with distance was the duration of the absence. This was rarely specified in the absentee lists, but anecdotal evidence suggests that temporary absences to nearby locations were commonplace. Directors from settlements close to Belém, for example, reported that índios aldeados periodically went to the capital to trade or to engage in short-term wage work, and these may have appeared on absentee lists if the director had wished to draw official attention to their unauthorized trips. Indians from neighboring villages frequently visited each other, to attend baptisms or festivals, without permission from their directors. They also withdrew from their villages when conditions worsened— as a result of epidemics, famines, or special labor drafts—but returned as soon as the threat had passed. Some Indians even absented on an annual or seasonal

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basis. When the director of Alenquer asked a group of returning absentees why they had gone to the nearby village of Monte Alegre, “they responded that they were fleeing [to avoid having to go to] the City and from Royal Ser vice, and that every year they did this, especially at planting time.” (It is unclear whether they engaged in planting anything at Monte Alegre.) Local authorities might denounce such temporary withdrawals by way of explaining why they had not complied with a labor requisition from the governor, but, revealingly, there is no evidence that these kinds of temporary absentees were confined in the village stocks or otherwise punished upon their return, as those forcibly brought back sometimes were. What kinds of people absented? The directors’ lists provide a basic demographic profile. As shown in Table 4.4, the majority of Indians reported as absent were men (55 percent), and even if we assume that those of unspecified gender were predominantly female, male absentees would probably still constitute a majority. (The 1791–1794 censuses, which also report absentees by gender, report 61 percent of absentees as males.) This likely reflects a slight bias toward keeping track of absent men of working age. But it also has to do with the higher numbers of royal ser vice deserters, all male, who were among those heading to unknown or unspecified destinations and to Belém (62 percent and 68 percent male, respectively, also shown in Table 4.4). Ser vice deserters would have been more concerned with covering their tracks and more likely to move without the hindrance of wives and children, especially in light of the more severe punishments meted out to those who left royal labor assignments. For that reason, directors and native officials often reported of male absentees that “there is no news of them” or “whereabouts unknown.” Men may have been more likely to end up in Belém than women, because many of the royal ser vice sites were located in and around the capital. Each village’s collecting canoes also made annual trips to Belém and sometimes lost crewmen there. Those who headed to other Directorate villages or to the homes of settlers were much more evenly split between men and women. While women were not sent on royal ser vice, they were distributed to settlers for specified periods of time, especially as domestic servants and wet nurses. This helps explain why many of them ended up in settlers’ homes, their portarias having expired. (It should be noted, however, that at least some of these missing Indians were forcibly retained by settlers.) The settlers’

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homes and Directorate villages also likely appealed as destination choices to women who had absented without their husbands or male family members. Absentee movements were more often family undertakings than solitary ventures. As shown in Table 4.6, about half of all absentees appeared on lists that noted family relationships, and within this smaller sample, 68 percent of them relocated as family groups. Most were nuclear families rather than large kin groups, as indicated by the relatively few other relatives besides parents and children. High mortality rates, faraway labor assignments, and desertions surely took a toll on extended-family unity, and there were obvious logistical obstacles to absenting in large groups. But the prevalence of small nuclear families among the absentees should not be taken as evidence that large kin groups did not exist in the villages. Many of these parents with children were, after all, absenting to join extended family members living elsewhere.

table 4.6 Absentees by Family Structure, Captaincy of Pará, 1757–1798 Type of Absentee

Members of families

Total

Husbands and wives, fathers and mothers Single parents Children Other relatives (siblings, in-laws, grandchildren, etc.) Unspecified relatives

   



   





Total absentee family members ( went to povoações de índios,  to quilombos/uncolonized areas,  to settlers’ homes,  to Belém,  to other locations, and  to unknown locations)

,



Single absentees ( went to povoações de índios,  to quilombos/uncolonized areas,  to settlers’ homes,  to Belém,  to other locations, and  to unknown locations)





,



Total absentees

notes: Average family size cannot be calculated because the number of women and children sometimes went unspecified in the sources. For example, a director might record only that “5 couples with their children absented the village.” In that case, I would count five couples for a total of ten family members but would not be able to count any of the children. Absentees are counted here as “single” only if they appeared on lists that indicated family relationships among other absentees. The total of 2,028 refers only to those absentees who appeared in sources where family relationships are indicated, which accounts for just less than half of the total number of absentees in the sample. source: APEP, Correspondência de Diversos com o Governo series.

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A more detailed analysis of several villages’ absentees and their destinations will help illustrate the abovementioned trends. The sample list from Alenquer (see above) is about as representative as these idiosyncratic lists could be. It showed thirty-three people absent in 1781 in a village that at the time had a population of about 300 índios aldeados; according to the censuses from 1774 to 1794, Alenquer’s absentee rate averaged about 5 percent. Most of the absentees were nuclear family groups: three couples and three single parents, each with children; one couple without children; and just three extended family members. Notably, all of the families relocated to other povoações de índios. There were only five singles, all male, and two of these headed to settlers’ homes (one of which was, incidentally, located in a Directorate village). This roughly mirrors the patterns of destination choice shown in Table 4.6, in which both singles and families more often chose to go to Directorate villages than other kinds of places, but a greater proportion of singles chose settlers’ homes than did families. The five villages that received Alenquer absentees shared several characteristics. They were among the most populous in the captaincy (except for Outeiro, which was about the same size as Alenquer); all were on or very near the main channel of the Amazon, in the Indian core area; and their average rates of absenteeism were relatively low, between 2 percent and 4 percent. Monte Alegre, Melgaço, Portel, and Veiros were considered to be among the most demographically and economically successful villages in Pará, with large labor forces that were primarily involved in collecting expeditions, and lower rates of royal ser vice participation than most villages. In particular, Monte Alegre (Figure 4.1) received rare praise from colonial visitors accustomed to commenting on the misery of Directorate villages. As one contemporary put it, Monte Alegre—with its large population, well-constructed buildings, and thriving communal industries—was “distinguished from all the rest and deserving of the title that is commonly applied to it, the Court of the Sertão.” Not surprisingly, these four villages were among the most popular destinations for absentees listed in the directors’ reports, which suggests that they attracted migrants for many of the same reasons that they lost relatively few of their own residents. Interestingly, those who did leave “successful” villages like Monte Alegre, Melgaço, Portel, and Veiros seem to have been atypical in their destination choices. Relatively few absentees from these three villages

Figure 4.1 Interior of a house in Monte Alegre, c. 1780s. In this rare view of village production during the Directorate, índias aldeadas prepare their famous painted gourds, or cuias, while another one spins cotton for a loom. Source: Alexandre Rodrigues Ferreira collection, courtesy of the Acervo da Fundação Biblioteca Nacional, Brazil.

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chose to relocate to other Directorate settlements, and many more headed to unknown or unspecified destinations, quilombos or uncolonized areas, or settlers’ homes. Many were probably gente nova, recent arrivals to the villages, who decided to return to their original lands after deciding that, in the words of a departing native chief, “the white man’s land was no good.” Large villages usually had a higher rate of descimentos, as a result of the activities and ambitions of their powerful ethnic factions, and gente nova were consistently more likely to absent than long-term residents and to leave the colonial sphere when they did. In contrast to Indians who had been raised in the missions or the Directorate villages, these recent migrants were not so far removed—in terms of culture, if not distance— from an exclusively indigenous world.

Musical Chairs? Village-to-Village Movements That so many colonial Indians chose to relocate to other Directorate villages, often bringing their families with them, raises a series of questions that have been mostly neglected by the historiography. Were these intervillage migrations like a game of musical chairs, evidence of the weak bond between person and place that many contemporaries and some historians have implied in their depictions of native Amazonians? Or were they more purposeful relocations—and if so, what attracted migrants to other colonial Indian villages when they had just absented their own? Maria Regina Celestino de Almeida has characterized the povoações de índios of Rio de Janeiro as “spaces of survival” in a chaotic, often dangerous colonial milieu. She draws upon petitions, lawsuits, and other forms of collective political action to argue that the colonial Indians of Rio de Janeiro developed, despite the odds, an enduring group identity as índios aldeados: Losses aside, the status of aldeado gave them some privileges relative to those who occupied an inferior position on the social ladder [i.e., slaves]. They had the right to land, although that land had been much reduced from its original size; they had the right to not be enslaved, although they were obligated to compulsory labor; and [they had the right] to become Christian subjects, although they had to be baptized, and, in principle, abdicate their [old] beliefs and customs. Their leaders had the right to titles, official posts, salaries, and social prestige. Within these limited, restricted, and, without a doubt, oppressive conditions, the índios aldeados found possibilities

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for defending these minimal rights that the law, though oscillatory, guaranteed them, and they did this until the nineteenth century.

For Amazonia, Almeida’s arguments find support in the prevalence of intervillage migration, which indicates that many absentees preferred to live as índios aldeados in the Directorate villages. In relocating to other povoações de índios and becoming members—by law or by custom— of those communities, absentees could maintain the basic rights and privileges granted to índios aldeados: collectively owned assets, state-sponsorship of their economic activities, and representation and protection by their own native officials. The security that the colonial villages represented should not be underestimated. Like the group of thirteen Indians who returned to their village—and its notoriously abusive director—after just twenty days as fugitives, many native Amazonians found themselves “obligated by necessity” to live in the colonial Indian sphere. Famine, sickness, and hostile tribes could await them in the sertão, and many Indians knew this firsthand from going on collecting or descimento expeditions into uncolonized areas. The villages—especially the larger ones—also offered protection from government expeditions against the quilombos. These factors may help explain why three men from Pinhel showed up in Vila Franca, claiming that they had not wanted to accompany their fugitive parents and relatives back to their ancestral lands, after all. “Since they have a sister here who is married to the bailiff of the village,” the director of Vila Franca reported, “[this is where] they want to establish themselves, and they are ready for all Service.” Migrating to a different povoação de índios allowed Indians to assert some degree of residential preference with relatively less risk. Indians did not, however, only migrate to the most “secure” villages. The sample of 796 absentees who moved from one povoação de índios to another is, admittedly, small, but one is immediately struck by the lack of clear spatial patterns in their trajectories (Figure 4.2). They chose a wide variety of villages as destinations, encompassing forty-four povoações de índios in Pará and three in the Rio Negro. Many of these destinations themselves had high rates of absenteeism, such as the delta-area hamlet of Pena Cova, which gained eight migrants over the period, and the strategic settlement of Pederneiras, which gained three. Like the absentees from Alenquer, many people preferred to move to the larger and more flourishing villages on the main channel of the Amazon. Monte Alegre, Portel,

Figure 4.2 Village-to-village movements, Captaincy of Pará, 1757–1798. This schematic map represents the trajectories of 796 people who moved between Directorate villages. Source: APEP, Correspondência de Diversos com o Governo series.

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and Melgaço were, predictably, among the top five destinations for absentees, coming from villages all over the captaincy. There is, however, no documented explanation for why many also chose to go to small or mediumsized settlements of no obvious geographic, demographic, or economic advantage. Both Pombal, a medium-sized settlement on the Xingú River, and Cintra, an Atlantic coast village that supplied most of the laborers for the Royal Salt Flats, were also top-five destinations. We can assume that family ties brought the seventy-one migrants from the nearby village of Souzel to Pombal, given the aforementioned history of marriages between those two settlements, but there is no evidence to shed light on the decision of forty-five migrants from a handful of settlements in the delta region to relocate to Cintra. The various factors that could shape these trajectories—family or ethnic connections, gender, labor preferences, relationships with local officials, the reputation of certain villages, geographical proximity, and cultural imperatives, to name just a few— often went undocumented, because colonial record-keepers were not privy to the motivations and preferences of Indians. Historians are left with whatever contextual details can be gleaned from the sources: information about the sending and receiving villages, the circumstances of the relocation, and the personal histories of the protagonists, in the rare cases in which these are known. The three examples that follow illustrate how such details clarify what, at first glance, appear to be movements of the “musical chairs” variety: 1.

In 1780, the Indian Manoel Pinto left his native village of Monte Alegre to live in the small hamlet of Outeiro. This is surprising: he left one of the most prosperous, well-run villages on the transamazonian route for a small, relatively inaccessible village on a minor tributary. The director of Monte Alegre was happy to explain: Outeiro, he said, was a “receptacle for rebels,” with a director who was known for harboring absentees and refusing to comply with orders to send them back to their villages of origin. And Pinto had good reason to choose an out-of-the-way settlement with an allegedly lax director. On a recent trip to Belém, he had assumed a false identity, convincing the treasury scribe that he was named João Nepomoceno, in order to steal that Indian’s payment for a term of royal service. The authorities—not to mention the real Nepomoceno— would surely be looking for him.

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2.

Three women— one about to give birth, another with her young son, and the last a minor— showed up in Almeirim and told the director that they wanted to establish themselves and, they hoped, find husbands there. They admitted to being índios aldeados from Arraiolos, a village just a few léguas away. Like many absentee movements, theirs had been an evasive one, but not for the reasons we might expect. One of the women, Januária Maria da Conceição, explained that the other villagers (who we can speculate were members of a different ethnic group) “had invited her to one of their traditional wedding festivals (bodas) to kill her with the poisons they use on such occasions, and because she had been warned about what they intended to do to her, she withdrew to this village,” taking her son and her two cousins, Magdalena da Conceição and Natharia da Conceição, with her. Their vulnerability as two single mothers and a minor did not leave them many other options as to places to go, and their story made it unlikely that the director would send them (or agree to send them) back to their original village. Indeed, he legitimized their relocation by notifying the governor of their arrival and the circumstances surrounding their withdrawal from Arraiolos.

3.

In 1791, the new director of Monte Alegre wrote to the governor to ask if he should record a principal on the village’s annual population list who was technically an absentee belonging to another village. About ten years earlier, Principal Domingos de Sousa had left the delta-area village of Colares, along with some of his Arû vassals, and made the long trek upriver to Monte Alegre. Over the next decade, a steady trickle of Arû Indians followed the same path. As it turned out, one of Monte Alegre’s native officials (probably of Arû ancestry himself) had originally brought a large descimento of Arû out of the sertão to settle in his village, but they had been promptly transferred to Colares by Governor Meneses, in his infamous 1782–1783 campaign to repopulate the demographically struggling villages near the capital (see Chapter 5). In an interesting twist, the other rationale behind removing the descimento from Monte Alegre had been its proximity to the original lands of the Arû, as authorities feared that the new residents would be tempted to desert. As it turned out, the Arû deserted in order to return to Monte Alegre, the place where they had originally agreed to settle.

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When contextual or background details like these come to light, it becomes clear that those who migrated from one village to another were not the aimless wanderers depicted by many contemporaries and some historians. Their relocations were shaped by a range of priorities, pressures, and internal social dynamics. And when they arrived in a Directorate village, migrants— even illicit ones—found a variety of options for becoming part of the colonial Indian community. Officially, there were two ways for native migrants to be incorporated in a povoação de índios. The first option was to be listed in the Book of Aldeanos, which meant that they joined the village rolls as moradores (permanent residents) of that community, enjoying the same benefits and subject to the same labor obligations as the rest of the villagers. Th is naturalization process was sanctioned for absentees who married permanent residents of other villages— as Januária and her cousins immediately claimed was their intention— and for any willing Indian who had never belonged to another Directorate village. Absentees occasionally requested an exemption to the latter rule, asking to be enrolled in a new village based on having been residents there by custom, with a record of ser vice to the village and payment of tithes, or evidence of their physical establishment and productivity, such as a house and planted fields. It is not clear whether these formal requests were granted. The second option was to become an agregado (attached resident) of the village, a category that encompassed Indians who came to live in a povoação de índios but were not originally from there. It was roughly equivalent in meaning to forastero, the Spanish American term for community outsiders who were not required to pay tribute or to submit to the labor draft. Agregados, in the Amazonian case, were supposed to pay agricultural tithes and engage in some sort of productive activity, but they were not, at least in theory, subject to the repartição (distribution of their labor to the state and to private parties) or the serviço do comum (communal labor in the village). They were also not required to reside in the village permanently; as one director put it, “since they are Indian agregados, they leave as easily as they come.” Agregados did not have the same legal rights as aldeados to village land or other collectively owned assets, nor were their interests represented by the native officials. Many of them, in fact, were listed in population reports as household dependents of the native officials.

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As with many formal colonial categories, the division between agregados and enrolled villagers was not, in practice, clear-cut. Some directors seemed genuinely confused about which kinds of Indians could be put to work or compelled to return to their villages of origin. According to their own reports to the governor, directors occasionally sent Indian agregados—many of whom were probably absentees from other villages— on collecting expeditions, employed them in the serviço do comum, and dispatched them on royal ser vice assignments. Others simply claimed ignorance as to how to deal with native migrants and appealed to higher authorities for clarification, as in the case just mentioned, when the director of Monte Alegre asked what to do with the resident Arû principal who was technically an absentee from someplace else. One director told the governor, quite ingenuously, that he could not send all of the absentees back to their original villages until they had collected their payments for the ser vices upon which he had just sent them. The ambiguity surrounding the incorporation of migrants often benefited individual absentees who relocated to other villages. To some degree, they could act like the kind of community members they wanted to be. Because community membership was not limited to those born into a village (the so-called nacionais or naturais) and hinged instead on a track record of residence and the fulfillment of duties, even illicit migrants could attain formal enrollment as moradores in the village. This process usually entailed marrying a permanent resident; building a house and starting to work the land; paying tithes; participating in royal ser vice, collecting expeditions, or communal labor; or making a convincing case to have never belonged to another povoação de índios. Alternatively, illicit migrants could go along with what seemed to have been the default status for absentees in the villages, which was that of an agregado. Absentees who lived as agregados generally occupied a more vulnerable position, in terms of security of residence, than those who were enrolled as moradores. The system was flexible enough, however, that these same individuals could, for example, participate in the labor distribution system during antivagrancy campaigns or government-sponsored expeditions to track down absentees and return them to their villages of origin. In safer times, they could return to the varied activities of an agregado—working as a tenant on a private estate, trading with settlers, or visiting relatives in the capital. If this helps explain why so many Indians chose to relocate to other Directorate villages, why were local officials generally so complicit? Some

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had been in office for decades and could not credibly claim ignorance about how to treat migrants. The roots of the problem lay in the way that officials were compensated under the Directorate: village directors received one-sixth of the villages’ production, and native officials had the right to dispatch men to go forest collecting on their behalf. The incorporation of absentees was an easy way for officials to inflate the village rolls—or at least to maintain populations that were otherwise dwindling— so as to ensure the continuation of productive activities and thus their income. The more conscientious directors and native officials notified the governor about the presence of Indians from other villages but clearly did so with an eye to keeping them in residence, usually noting the migrant’s desire to be a morador and implying that this was the only way to prevent another desertion. The director of Porto Salvo said that the absentee Elias had told me that he in no way wants to return to the village [of Colares], which he left years ago, [and] he now finds himself in this settlement under the supervision of its original residents and is ready for any and all ser vice to the crown or to the village. . . . I doubt that I should turn him in [to be taken back to Colares], for I fear that he would absent to some other place.

Most local authorities, however, figured out that they could avoid being accused of harboring absentees by continuing to dispatch collecting crews and to supply workers for royal service—whether or not those Indians were legitimate community members. “The Indians of this town ebb and flow (são enchentes e vazantes),” the director of Outeiro informed the governor, employing a riverine metaphor to explain why he could not at that moment fill a requisition for crewmen. If one Indian had left, he was sure that another would soon arrive— or be brought—from somewhere else to fill his place. Those officials who took a nonchalant view of absenteeism from their villages evidently did so because it was often offset by in-migration, either of returning absentees or of migrants from other villages. Other village officials took a more active approach and recruited absentees, either on an individual basis or en masse. The latter usually involved organizing an expedition against a quilombo composed of Indians from various places and then claiming that these wanted to become moradores in the official’s own village. Such actions often led to conflicts be-

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tween directors, who laid claims to the same Indians and accused one another of inflating their village rolls through demographic subterfuge. Toward the end of the Directorate, Governor Souza Coutinho offered a structural explanation for village-to-village absentee movements. Rather than blaming these movements on the orchestration of corrupt individuals or on native “inconstancy” (as so many policymakers had done before him), he attributed them mainly to the “inequality in the distribution of labor”: absentees were often heading to villages with larger populations and lighter labor burdens. He proposed that district-level authorities draft laborers in proportion to how many were actually available in each village at the time of the draft, rather than basing the labor distribution on past population counts. He also acknowledged the futility of trying to return intervillage migrants to their original places of residence and settled for an accelerated and more inclusive naturalization process. “To avoid greater disorder,” the governor wrote in 1796, “I permit that those [absentees] who are established in the village where they currently live be enrolled there as moradores, and I order the directors to give necessary notice [to their counterparts in the absentees’ original villages] so that these will no longer be recorded as absentees.” This by no means amounted to a general pardon; the governor announced that all other absentees who did not return to their villages of origin within a two-month grace period would be punished. But those who had stayed within the Directorate system were to be formally incorporated and put into ser vice in their new villages. The governor surely knew that many illicit migrants were already participating in the repartição of their new villages on an informal basis, and that this new order would not, in practice, greatly expand the total pool of available Indian laborers. The idea behind turning absentees into moradores—in essence, letting them live where they wished, as long as they were productive members of society—foreshadowed his “Plan for the Civilization of the Indians” (1797), which would convince the prince regent to revoke the Directorate the following year. The colonial Indians envisioned by royal policymakers at midcentury were born into a povoação de índios, fulfilled the obligations assigned to them by the Directorate, and remained anchored to that community even as their ser vice duties typically entailed long periods of time far outside it. But if aldeado status had actually been limited to such precisely defined colonial subjects, the Directorate villages would have had very few people

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to send on expeditions to the interior, to harvest the communal fields, or to distribute to settlers. In a process that had begun in the missionary era, the povoações de índios accommodated an ever-diversifying range of people, including absentees from other villages, non-aldeados, gente nova, and seasonal residents. At the same time, those born into the Indian villages moved to non-Indian towns, married exogamously, became tenants on private estates, or even acquired their own landholdings or business enterprises. Parish priests and village directors inconsistently labeled such Indians ausentes, a term originally intended for any índio aldeado absent at the time of the population count or labor requisition. Even white settlers appeared on an absentee list on at least one occasion, when they abandoned a desolate povoação de brancos in droves, indicating that, like índios aldeados, they had been obligated to reside there permanently. Native Amazonians who relocated between Directorate villages took advantage of, and contributed to, the ambiguities around aldeado status and membership in the povoações de índios. Because community affiliation depended largely on how one had been treated in the past and one’s track record of participation in, or detachment from, village affairs and ser vice obligations, absentees could reinvent themselves in their new communities—as the delinquent Manoel Pinto evidently hoped to do. They could be incorporated to the extent that they volunteered for labor assignments and participated in village affairs. Alternatively, absentees could claim to be exempt from the ser vice obligations of índios aldeados by denying past membership in a povoação de índios or participation in royal or communal labor. This last strategy became more prevalent in the late Directorate period, for reasons that Chapter 5 will attempt to explain.

5 Defining Indians and Vagrants

THE SECOND HALF OF the eighteenth century saw the emergence of an Indian and mixed-race (mestiço) population that was only tenuously connected, if at all, to the old institutions of colonial Indian life. Authorities categorized them as “free people” but not as “índios aldeados.” They might live within the Directorate village districts or visit family and friends there, but they were not enrolled members of those communities and did not usually participate in communal production. Instead, they owned and operated small farms, rented houses in the capital, worked as seasonal laborers on private estates, joined the district militias, or served as domestic servants in the homes of settlers. Some were skilled laborers and artisans— carpenters, shoemakers, canoemakers, blacksmiths, tailors, and weavers—whose trades enabled them to obtain exemptions from village and private ser vice. A few became wealthy, accumulating slaves, positions of prestige, and large landholdings, but the majority remained poor. This chapter charts the trajectory of this non-aldeado population, from its origins in the midcentury emancipation of Indian slaves to its ethnic and social complexity during the mature Directorate period. It then examines the questions of definition, identity, and status that the existence of this population provoked for both colonial officials and colonial subjects: Who was an Indian and who was not? Who could be obligated to serve and to live in a Directorate village, and who could legitimately claim exemption? In the 1770s and 1780s, captaincy governors tried to increase the numbers of available laborers for state projects and save what 165

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they viewed as a decadent, inefficient system of Directorate administration, by forcing those whom they called “dispersed Indians” to relocate to the povoações de índios. Drifters as well as ranch-hands, homesteaders, and domestic servants were labeled vagrants (vadios) and rounded up and placed in the villages’ labor rotation. These campaigns reveal common strategies of “demographic accountability,” by which colonial governments in Spanish and Portuguese America sought to incorporate delinquents and other “hidden” populations into the laboring and tithe- (or tribute-) paying population. Native peoples, as we will see, devised a range of counterstrategies to evade accountability or claim exemptions. They petitioned for exempt status, joined the district militias for non-Indians, or (in the case of forced migrants) simply left their assigned locations of residence and joined informal communities on the rivers. By the late Directorate period, both the official analysis of the problem and the proposed solutions had changed markedly. The growing numbers of Indian or mixed-race individuals who lived “sobre si” (literally, on their own), having successfully evaded or rejected membership in the povoações de índios, were no longer viewed as inherently threatening to the colonial order. Instead, they were seen as members of an incipient peasantry who could not be compelled to live in the povoações de índios under the tutelage of directors but whose labor could be harnessed in other ways. This new ideal laid the foundation for the abolition of the Directorate at the end of the century.

The Fates of Slaves When Governor Francisco Xavier de Mendonça Furtado finally publicized the Law of Liberties in 1757—two years after its original decree— he did so with caution. What he wanted to avoid, he claimed, was the scenario that had occurred upon the liberation of smaller numbers of Indian slaves earlier in the decade. “They go about making disturbances in the towns and in the sertão,” he had written back in 1754, many of which I cannot prevent, because the settlers, under the illusion that they can keep them for a few days on their estates, hide them there. Most of the time they get nothing of [the Indians’] labor, as these run off; and thus [the settlers] do not achieve that which they were after, and the Indians [are left] without any more profit, payment, or civilization.

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Fearing an even greater “quantity of freed Indians who would go around being vagrants, making it impossible for the public to obtain any use from their labor” after the Law of Liberties, Mendonça Furtado ordered all freed Indians (índios alforriados) to stay with their former masters. These were to register their newly freed workers with the government and pay them a standard wage. The granting of freedom, the governor acknowledged, was an “extremely delicate matter,” given that the notoriously unruly settlers had to be appeased without trampling upon the “liberty” of the Indians. As a gesture toward the latter ideal, he ordered that any Indian “who has the capacity to self-govern should serve whoever suits him best.” In particular, native artisans were to be exempt from the obligation to serve the settlers. There is evidence that his orders were indeed carried out, and that— contrary to conventional wisdom—most freed slaves did not end up in the Directorate villages. Instead, many remained in private ser vice, often working on downriver estates alongside growing numbers of African slaves, with whom they intermarried. And because having a trade was one’s ticket out of compulsory labor, many of those in private ser vice sent their children into apprenticeships. The result, by the middle of the Directorate period, was a racially mixed generation with a greater proportion of skilled laborers and smallholders. With some forty years of hindsight, this is how Governor Francisco de Souza Coutinho described the process: Upon the publication of [the Law of] Liberties, all of those who were slaves and who lived on various estates either remained on them, or they went to other ones, or they established their own homesteads. They always remained independent of the Directorate and the directors, and although they experienced vexations and great oppressions, they never had that same kind of tutelage. Rather, they disposed freely of themselves, their work, and that which they acquired.

The governor went on to extol the virtues of these Indians (“few of which are still alive today”) and their descendants, “the majority already born of a mixture of colors.” They had reached, he said, “the point of civilization to which such people can aspire, which is the same that one finds among all the free and mestiço people in every port of Brazil.” They farmed on small homesteads, kept livestock to sell in the city, placed their children in apprenticeships, and reported for ser vice in the district militias “with more promptness than the whites.” Souza Coutinho was not an impartial observer, but his depiction of non-aldeado livelihoods is corroborated by a unique household census of

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all the families, excluding índios aldeados, in the parishes of Pará. Conducted in 1778, around the middle of the Directorate period, there are no other censuses like it with which to compare. It serves only as a snapshot of a population— and one that was constantly in flux and difficult to count, given the numbers of people seeking to avoid militia conscription, compulsory labor for settlers, or forced settlement in the povoações de índios. People were sorted according to those “crude categories originally devised by ethnographically obtuse colonial bureaucrats,” as one historian has described “the language of fiscal and demographic records on which much of our knowledge of the colonial past rests.” But despite these limitations, the census confirms Souza Coutinho’s impressions of extensive race mixture, a predominance of smallholders and artisans, and widespread participation in the district militias. Excluding the enslaved, the members of nonwhite (Indian or mestiço), non-aldeado households numbered 5,274 in the census (Table 5.1). This was about 20 percent of the total free, non-aldeado population in Pará, which numbered 25,787 that year, and about 10 percent of the total captaincy population—índios aldeados, free non-aldeados, and slaves— which a broader census, conducted in the same year, counted at 54,914 (see Appendix B). According to the 1778 household census, there were 882 nonwhite heads of household, with 4,025 family members and household dependents (agregados), 367 household employees (pessoas à soldada), and 242 slaves. Most lived in the parishes of the delta area, with a large majority living in and around the capital, and another sizable group in the vicinity of the Tocantins River and particularly around the settler town of Cametá, surrounded by cacao plantations. It is no coincidence that, as shown in Chapter 4, these were the same areas that featured the highest rates of absenteeism from the Directorate villages. There was a clear link between the expansion of a non-aldeado population and the delta villages’ heavier royal ser vice burden and closer proximity to settlers, povoações de brancos, plantations, and slaves. With their larger and more stable Indian villages, the inland areas to the west of the primary mouth of the Amazon featured a much smaller nonwhite, non-aldeado population. Some could still be found in the fertile Furos district, a transitional area between the Tocantins district and the more sparsely settled main channel of the Amazon. The fewest occupied the Tapajós region, the westernmost of the captaincy’s regions, and

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,

    

 ,    ,

No. of family members & agregados

note: Th is table relies on the same geographical divisions as those used in the censuses of 1791–1794, with a few modifications. source: AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 94, Doc. 7509.

Totals

Inland: Indian core areas, greater proximity to uncolonized territories, extractive economy, subsistence agriculture Subtotals

Amazonas River Xingú River Furos area Tapajós River

Tocantins River Pará River (metropolitan zone) Marajó Island Guajará/Capim Rivers Atlantic Coast

Delta: Primary hinterland of the capital, larger mixed population, plantation and cattle ranching zone, royal industries

Subtotals

Region of parish

General characteristics

No. of heads of household



    

     

No. of household employees (pessoas à soldada)

table 5.1 Nonwhite, Non-Aldeado Households by Region of Parish, Captaincy of Pará, 1778

,

    ,

, ,    ,

Excluding slaves: ,



    

     

No. of slaves

Total household members

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all but one of those families were listed in the parish of Santarém, the settler town at the mouth of the Tapajós River. The household census included the parishes of the Rio Negro captaincy, but there were so few nonwhites in that captaincy living outside the Directorate system—not even a hundred heads of household—that the captaincy has been left out of the present analysis. The Rio Negro numbers drive home the point that the nonwhite, non-aldeado population remained small wherever the povoações de índios continued to be the predominant form of social organization and wherever settlers and their meager enterprises offered few alternatives to life in the corporate villages. As shown in Table 5.2, the census sorted the nonwhite heads of household into five racial categories (qualidades), with mamelucos dominating at nearly half of the sample. As will be discussed later in this chapter, these categories were fluid and subjective. To give just one concrete example: José Lopes, Francisco Lopes, and Luis Bento each appeared in the census for the parish of Veiros as mulatos (of mixed white and black descent). On a militia recruitment list from that same year, we find them listed as cafuzos (of Indian and black descent), with the same parish of residence, occupations, and marital statuses—these apparently being less mutable attributes than race. Also shown in this table is the proportion of female heads of household, about a fifth of the total. Among these, eighty-seven were single, sixty-three were widowed, and six were married (perhaps to enslaved men,

table 5.2 Nonwhite, Non-Aldeado Heads of Household by Race and Gender, Captaincy of Pará, 1778 Racial categories

Male



Female



Total



Mameluco Índio Mulato Cafuzo Preto

    

    

    

    

    

    

Total













notes: Percentages may not add up to 100 due to rounding. Most generically, the mixed racial categories were defi ned as follows: mamelucos descended from whites and Indians, mulatos from whites and blacks, and cafuzos from blacks and Indians. There was, however, a great deal of flexibility in the application of these categories. source: AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 94, Doc. 7509.

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which would explain their inclusion in the census as heads of household). Interestingly, the proportion of female heads of household was higher among those groups with admixtures of African blood, in the mulato, cafuzo, and preto (black) categories. This may have resulted from the presence of freed slaves among these groups, since manumission rates in Brazil were typically higher for women. The census also tells us about the occupations of nonwhite heads of household who lived outside the Directorate system (Table 5.3). Interestingly, each of the major occupational categories featured roughly proportional numbers of each group. Skilled trades were associated with about a quarter of the heads of household, and half of these trades were practiced by mamelucos, proportional to their overall numbers. Some tradesmen were listed as comfortably well off (remediado), and a few reached the status of wealthy (rico), with their own employees and slaves. The mulato Felix Santana, for example, worked as a shoemaker in Cametá and grew rich from cultivating cacao with the help of two slaves and thirteen family members and household dependents. Most tradesmen, however, were table 5.3 Occupations of Nonwhite, Non-Aldeado Heads of Household, Captaincy of Pará, 1778 Occupational categories

Heads of household



        

        

Fisherman





Seamstress





Other





None specified









Farmer

Skilled trades

Total heads of household

Carpenter/woodworker Canoemaker Shoemaker Blacksmith Tailor Weaver/spinner Misc. Subtotal

notes: Percentages may not add up to 100 due to rounding. The “Other” category includes occupational categories fi lled by few people in the sample (i.e., washerwoman, porter, barber, hairdresser, plantation owner, canoe boss). I have assumed occupations when other data are included in a different category of the census (i.e., one is assumed to be a farmer if listed as growing cacao). source: AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 94, Doc. 7509.

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classified as poor (pobre). The census taker occasionally recorded additional details: “Makes little use of his trade, and works the land in order to eat” (for the mameluco carpenter Manoel Correa); or “Lives from his trade, working for whoever will pay him” (for the Indian canoemaker Christovão da Costa). The vast majority of individuals of any race were farmers. They grew manioc, the dietary staple of the Amazon, as well as cacao and (less commonly) coffee or cotton. Most were poor subsistence farmers—“Cultivates only to eat”—but a few had larger enterprises and were listed as well off or even wealthy. The Indian widow Brígida Dutra was one of sixty-seven nonwhite heads of household who owned slaves— seven, in her case, who labored on her farm in the Furos district— and she was listed as wealthy on the census, even with nine family members and household dependents to support. The mulato Manoel Serrão de Castro, parishioner of Belém, may have been the wealthiest person in the sample, judging from his title as sugar plantation owner (senhor de engenho) and his labor force of fortytwo slaves. It is likely that the economic prospects of Amazonian farmers improved shortly after the date of the census. While research on the domestic economy of the Portuguese Amazon is extremely limited, many parts of Brazil experienced what Stuart Schwartz has called an “agricultural renaissance,” fueled by demographic growth and booming exports, as well as rising slave imports, from the 1780s through the 1790s. In all likelihood, a household census conducted during this later period would have featured a higher proportion of slave owners and plantation owners across all racial groups in Pará. The poorest heads of household were probably those listed without occupations. In a few cases, additional details were provided: “Lives on alms,” the census taker noted of several widows; “lives like a gypsy”; or “lives by his/her own agency” (vive da sua agência), referring to those with no permanent occupation or stable income. These were also the people most likely to go uncounted, as they moved from district to district in search of seasonal work. Finally, the census supported Souza Coutinho’s assertion that nonaldeados participated in the district militias in large numbers. A full 36 percent of male nonwhite heads of household had enlisted by the date of the census: 261 mamelucos, índios, mulatos, and cafuzos were militiamen, full-time soldiers, or officials in the militia. It was no coincidence that lists of “non-aldeado Indians and cafuzos capable of taking up arms” were

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drawn up by district commanders throughout the 1770s, a time of intense recruitment under Governor João Pereira Caldas. For Indians and people of mixed race, inclusion on the household census of 1778 meant that they were either formally or effectively exempt from Directorate administration. Often recorded as “índios sobre si” or even “moradores” (settlers) in district lists, they were supposed to obtain a formal dispensation from the governor, known as a portaria de isenção (exemption order). This order permitted one to live within a specific district without the tutelage of the directors and without any obligation to participate in village labor (which included work on the Common Plot and participation in the annual forest collecting trips and village-sponsored descimento expeditions). One would also be exempted from serving the settlers, though one could still be called up for royal ser vice or compelled to work if labeled a vagrant. As desirable as these exemptions might be, however, non-aldeados did not have access to corporative land or other collectively owned assets of the povoações de índios, even if they lived within the village. Relinquishing those assets—and the security that they provided in an unpredictable world of epidemics, floods, and famine—was undoubtedly a gamble. But if indeed the Amazon experienced an expansion of the provisions market beginning in about 1780, as did many other parts of Brazil, the riskiness of that gamble would have diminished, at least for people engaged in the production of foodstuffs. Most formal exemptions seem to have gone to skilled Indians and mestiços, following Mendonça Furtado’s original instructions, which helps explain the large number of artisans in the census. Another kind of exemption was available to the “privilegiados” of the Indian villages, the native officials and their immediate families, as well as those with skilled trades or debilitating conditions. Also called a portaria de isenção, it was somewhat different, as it exempted one from the serviço do commun but not from Directorate administration. Still considered índios aldeados, the privilegiados were not included in the household census. The antivagrancy campaigns of the 1770s and 1780s may have polarized the Amazonian population into Indian and non-Indian categories, insofar as anyone identified as an Indian without a formal exemption order might be rounded up and placed in the Directorate labor rotation. But as emphasized in the rest of this chapter, a range of different statuses were open to nonwhites in the colony, depending on how they chose to “play their ethnic cards,” to use Stuart Schwartz and Frank Salomon’s phrase.

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Village-level sources reveal a wide variety of ways in which individuals distinguished themselves from members of the colonial Indian villages, as well as from those likely to be labeled as vagrants.

Who Is an Indian? As in other colonial societies with expanding mixed populations, there were “endemic problems of definition” in the Portuguese Amazon. These problems inevitably surfaced in official correspondence whenever labor or fiscal obligations had to be determined for people who did not fit into neat categories of identity. In 1780, the director of Cintra wrote a particularly explicit plea for the governor’s guidance on the status of mixed-status families. First he described how the “so-called settlers” (os chamados moradores) of the village, themselves exempt from labor obligations, wanted the same for their Indian wives and their children, the latter “being mulatos, cafuzos, índios, and only a few mamelucos.” He acknowledged that the governor had ordered “that this caste (qualidade) of people be listed in the Book of Aldeanos,” but “until the present I have not done it, because they say they are settlers. With this title, they are a bunch of delinquents, complete vagrants, who spend most of their time on trips to the City and along these rivers.” He then asked for more explicit instructions: should the Indian wives and mixedrace children, and perhaps even the non-aldeado husbands, be obligated to serve like the rest? The director made his own opinion on the matter quite clear: “It is quite certain that just by being married to those types of men they [the Indian wives and mixed-race children] do not enjoy any privilege separating them from the corporation of this village.” Three things stand out about the director’s approach to this issue. For one, he suggested that status should not be determined on the household level, the way it was determined among other free people in the colony. Second, he made a point of saying that there were few mamelucos among the children of these mixed unions; most of the fathers, in other words, were not white and were therefore of low status themselves. Third, he made general accusations of vice and vagrancy, which indirectly argued for adding all such people to the ser vice rolls. The director went on: There are also some mamelucas here, the daughters of some Indian women from the village, who were never called to ser vice by other directors, and it has not been pos-

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sible for me to convince them that they have the same obligation. I have not resorted to force, without first finding out what Your Excellency wishes me to do in this respect, even though I have been told that in the other povoações they work alongside the others. These [mamelucas] are so haughty (altivas) that in private even their own [Indian] mothers serve them like slaves.

It is not surprising that, having always lived as exempt, these women were determined to continue doing so. Their very existence was a predictable result of the crown’s promotion of marriages between white men and Indian women in the povoações de índios after 1755 (see Chapter 1), but the Directorate legislation of 1757 had not addressed explicitly the ser vice obligations of mamelucos. As the director’s letter makes clear, legal status theoretically followed the mother: if she was an índia aldeada obligated to village ser vice, her child would be, too, regardless of the father’s legal status or ethnicity. Village officials, however, varied in their attitudes toward mamelucos—the category that brought mixed-race individuals closest to white privilege— into the 1790s. The main reason for the inconsistency was that ethnic identity hinged on a set of subjective criteria: in this case, whether one had always been treated as a mameluco; had lived as exempt in the past; or practiced a trade or ran an agricultural enterprise that merited exemption from other kinds of ser vice. It was a situation in which people conceivably could argue their way from one ethnic category (and its associated legal status) to another. What did this type of argument look like? Estevão Alves Bandeira, a resident of Vila Franca, made a formal case for ser vice exemption in 1771, claiming to be a mameluco. According to a petition written on his behalf and addressed to the governor, “the Supplicant is the son of a white man, which is why he wears shoes (se tem calçado)”—referring to what was probably the most important sartorial marker of status in the Amazon during this period. Bandeira alluded to his participation in the “past wars” of Mato Grosso and in “canoe business” (negócios de canoas); these were the sort of military and entrepreneurial activities appropriate for a non-aldeado. Now in poor health and advanced in his years, he said that a zealous native official, the capitão-mor of Vila Franca, was trying to press him into service. What he wanted was a portaria allowing him to “pay royal tithes to His Majesty on all that he can plant, for he has the capacity to cultivate crops by the strength of his arms.” He was, in other words, seeking “to be

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obligated only as a settler and farmer,” such that village authorities could bother him for nothing besides the annual tithes. Bandeira was indeed widely recognized as the son of a white man, a fact that he took care to repeat three times in his short petition. His additional claims of footwear, military ser vice, old age, and high levels of agricultural production would have made a compelling case for exemption, had they been credible. The intendente geral investigated his various claims—most likely, via the longtime director of Vila Franca, José Gonçalves da Souza— and submitted the following opinion: The Supplicant is a mameluco, but he does not wear shoes as he claims, nor is he elderly, as he insists; rather, he is of working age and looks to be about thirty years old. He has gone, and still goes, on ser vice assignments, by which [he earns enough to] dress himself, his wife, and children. . . . It seems to me that he will be of greater use if he remains so, not only for the common good, but even for the Supplicant himself.

Indeed, Bandeira’s name appeared on village collecting expedition crew lists (1767, 1768), which is perhaps what he framed as “canoe business” in his petition. In the eyes of the authorities, this undeniable record of village ser vice outweighed his genealogical claims. The intendente recommended that Bandeira’s petition be denied, and the governor agreed. In the wake of this disappointment, Bandeira may have chosen to “play his ethnic cards” a bit differently. On a village labor distribution list from 1775, we find him listed as a “privilegiado”—still subject to Directorate administration but exempt from village service— and identified as a woodworker, a trade never mentioned in his earlier petition despite its obvious relevance. If indeed he had acquired this trade in the intervening years, as a means of strengthening his case for exemption from Directorate administration, it would have been a clever strategy. Ethnic claims were not typically made in formal petitions, judging from the scarcity of cases for the Portuguese Amazon; Bandeira’s is, in fact, the only one that I found. More commonly, claims were made through affiliation with an institution intended only for non-aldeados, the district militia. As in Spanish America, where free nonwhites joined the militias in exchange for tribute exemption, enlistment became an increasingly favored avenue toward obtaining a ser vice exemption in the Portuguese Amazon. Village directors complained bitterly of their lost laborers during periods of militia building in the mid-1770s and the early 1790s.

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Controversy over enlistment produced one exceptionally welldocumented case in 1776. A year earlier, two brothers from the village of Salvaterra, Amaro dos Reis and João Baptista, had enlisted in the newly established Ordenança Auxiliar of Marajó Island, calling themselves mamelucos. Salvaterra’s director, Francisco Luis Ameno, was incensed: the men were, he told the governor, legitimate índios aldeados, “residents of this village, who [enlisted] with the fraudulent goal of avoiding village ser vice.” His complaint apparently fell on deaf ears, because Ameno then attempted to establish the ethnic identity and legal status of the brothers by gathering testimonies from respected elders in the community. As María Elena Martínez points out for similar cases investigated by the Inquisition of New Spain, such procedures were adapted from Iberian methods for determining ancestry. Ameno called upon six índios aldeados from Salvaterra to testify on the brothers’ identity and status. The ten questions posed to each witness were shaped by Ameno’s own convictions on the brothers’ identity—he labeled them, conspicuously, as Indians— and by prevailing notions of social difference: 1.

If the Indians Amaro dos Reis and João Baptista are aldeanos of this village of Salvaterra;

2.

Who the parents of Amaro and João Baptista were, and whether these at any time were treated as mamelucos;

3.

If the Indian Sebastião dos Reis, father of Amaro and João, was a ser vice Indian [i.e., obligated to village ser vice];

4.

Who the grandparents of Amaro and João were, and if they were Indians, mamelucos, or whites;

5.

If the Indian Sebastião dos Reis, father of Amaro and João, had them before or after marriage;

6.

If Amaro dos Reis practices the trade of blacksmith, or what his occupation is;

7.

If the Indian Jerónima, wife of Amaro, is a mameluca;

8.

If Amaro and João were at any time in Royal Service, or [in the service of ] the settlers;

9.

If they have been occupied in village ser vice;

10.

If they voluntarily enlisted as soldiers or were forced to do so.

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The questions, as well as the testimonies gathered in response, show which attributes were considered most salient for distinguishing among different categories of people. Origins, biological ancestry, legitimacy of birth, personal relations (i.e., the status of one’s wife), occupation, and reputation were all invoked as markers of identity and status. Interestingly, phenotype and cultural markers (shoes, dress, etc.) were not mentioned in this case. The witnesses—five men and one woman from the village— clearly understood how this complex social order worked. Among them were fifty-, sixty-, and even seventy-year-old residents of Salvaterra; one was the village principal; and another would soon be promoted to the post of village captain. They were, in other words, respected members of the community. All testified that Amaro and João were índios aldeados of Salvaterra and that they had never been treated as mamelucos. Each of the three eldest witnesses asserted that the men’s father, Sebastião dos Reis, had been born of an adulterous union between the Indian woman Maricota and a “certain ecclesiastic” who had once been vicar of the village. But while Sebastião liked to tell people that he was the son of a white man and had himself married a woman recognized as a mameluca, he had always been “reputed to be an Indian.” Both he and his sons had lived as “Ser vice Indians,” participating in both royal and village labor assignments. One of the middle-aged witnesses went so far as to specify which ser vices he had completed alongside Sebastião and his sons, including labor at the royal timber factories and on the forest collecting expeditions. Several witnesses concurred that Sebastião’s son Amaro was trained as a blacksmith, but (as one put it) “he does not practice [the trade] and has no shop in the village, nor does he occupy himself in anything.” The same was said of João, the other son, who learned the trade of shoemaker but continued to participate in village collecting trips and royal ser vice assignments. The scribe who recorded the villagers’ testimonies added a statement that he had inspected the Salvaterra Book of Commerce (Livro do Comércio) and had found crewmen’s payments sporadically recorded for Sebastião and his sons from the mid-1760s through the mid-1770s. “According to the testimony of these witnesses, they are not mamelucos except by vague report,” concluded Director Ameno, “and you can see that neither they nor their father claimed to be, [having] subjected themselves to Royal Ser vice and that of the village. Only now, with the influence of the one who sponsors them, do they claim to be mamelucos.”

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None of the witnesses knew the exact circumstances of the brothers’ recruitment, but the director clearly thought it had something to do with the captain of the Marajó militia, identified here as André Fernandes Gavinho. Enlisting in the militias reserved for whites and mamelucos had become a common strategy for making ethnic claims and avoiding village ser vice, and the tensions between the militia captain (who enabled or even encouraged this kind of evasion) and Ameno (whose salary depended on the collective productivity of the “Ser vice Indians”) are palpable here. Earlier correspondence reveals something else: a long-standing feud between the director and Sebastião dos Reis, the father of the two men, who had at one time occupied the post of village capitão. Back in 1770, Ameno had denounced Sebastião’s leadership of a regional transport canoe— a post Sebastião had sought, allegedly, for “frivolous reasons.” Despite a prohibition on departing or arriving anywhere but the principal port of the village, the director reported that Sebastião typically used a small, hidden bay to load and unload unauthorized people and cargo: most commonly, supplies of contraband cane liquor, but also, on at least one occasion, his son, whom he stowed on a canoe bound for Belém so as to help him evade a royal ser vice assignment. The following year, Ameno accused Sebastião of leading a conspiracy to have him removed from the directorship, a cause for which he had successfully recruited support among officials and vicars in surrounding towns. It is not clear what happened to Sebastião after 1771. He does not appear in the next available village list, and he was soon replaced as capitão—not coincidentally, perhaps, by one of the witnesses who testified on the identities of Amaro and João. The bad blood between the director and Sebastião, and the latter’s likely exile, suggests a more complex motive for Amaro and João’s ethnic claims. Self-identifying as mamelucos and enlisting in the militia freed the men from the burdens of village ser vice, but perhaps more importantly, this released them from the “tutelage” of their father’s adversary, Francisco Luis Ameno. The brothers apparently followed their father’s example when they allied themselves with other powerful players in the region, such as the captain of the Marajó militia. Like Estevão Alves Bandeira, who alluded to conflicts with the capitão-mor of his village, Amaro and João saw their mixed heritage as a way out of an unpleasant personal situation. In their case, the new institutions created by the state facilitated this kind of mobility.

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The brothers’ fates, however, remain uncertain. Both men were officially removed from the Salvaterra village rolls in 1776, but they did not make it into the 1778 household census of non-aldeados. Their transformation from índios aldeados to mameluco militiamen, followed by their disappearance from the documentation, was probably typical of the period. Historians have noted a similar phenomenon of “missing mestizos” in the colonial Andes, where there was little, if any, assertion of a shared ethnic identity for mixed-race individuals. All that defined them as a group was that they were not considered Indians.

Who Is a Vagrant? Village directors may have been vexed by the fluidity of identities among the nonwhite population, but they tended to recognize, and grapple with, a range of socioracial categories. This reflected their relative immersion in local customs and hierarchies. Thus, the director of Cintra (in the previous section) described the mameluca women of his village as “haughty,” noting their display of superiority over their Indian mothers, who “serve[d] them like slaves.” Likewise, for his inquiry into the ethnic claims of the two militiamen, the director of Salvaterra formulated questions that acknowledged multiple determinants of status, from the legitimacy of their father’s birth to the racial status of their wives. He was keenly aware that even if the men had a white grandfather and were therefore mamelucos by descent, they had lived and worked as índios aldeados and would be described as such by their fellow villagers. Captaincy governors and other high-level officials generally took a less nuanced view from their seats in Belém. They, too, were concerned with categorization, but it was a blunt tool at their disposal: a method of increasing the numbers of people who could be drafted for royal ser vice, a way to ensure Portuguese sovereignty on the frontiers of the colony, or a means of repopulating empty villages and making them productive again. These efforts were ongoing throughout the colonial period, but they increased under Governor João Pereira Caldas (1772–1780), peaked under José de Nápoles Telo e Meneses (1780–1783), and abated under Martinho de Souza e Albuquerque (1783–1790). All of these governors were concerned with curbing absenteeism from the Directorate villages and with keeping people in places where their labor could be more effectively harnessed.

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Broadly speaking, these were antivagrancy campaigns. They paralleled absolutist state programs in Bourbon Spanish America, which focused on reducing the number of alleged tribute evaders but sometimes had the effect of widening tribute nets to ensnare people who had never been considered Indians. Martin Minchom has clarified that the Bourbon tribute reforms in late eighteenth-century Quito were “an attempt to impose order on a confused social reality for strictly fiscal purposes, rather than a full-scale recreation of caste society.” This holds true for the Portuguese Amazon, too, where the purposes of the antivagrancy campaigns were economic and practical in the sense that they sought to make more laborers available for state projects, such as the many border demarcation expeditions of the 1780s. They were also geopolitical, in that they aimed to guarantee territorial possession through stable settlement. In this context, any Indian living on his or her own was vulnerable to charges of vagrancy, forced settlement in a povoação de índios, and the application of a new legal status—that of the índio aldeado—with its attendant obligations (and rights). The question is: were people who were not generally considered Indians also vulnerable to charges of vagrancy and forced settlement in the villages? Officially, they do not seem to have been. Governor Meneses, the most zealous of the antivagrancy campaigners, instructed the directors to “make return to the village as many Indians as can belong to it by legitimate title” and declared that he “did not permit in their districts even a single one who is known to wander around in vagabondage.” In other words, he specified that absent índios aldeados should be brought back to their villages, and he established a more general intolerance for vagrancy, suggesting that the directors had some responsibility for curbing it. It seems likely, however, that in practice the antivagrancy campaigns targeted people who would not otherwise be classified as Indians, and that these were forcibly settled in the villages. Authorities routinely identified many different types of people as vagrants (vadios), as Laura de Mello e Souza has shown for Minas Gerais during this period, making it difficult to define the term with any precision. And as Tamar Herzog has pointed out, there are cases from all over Spanish America in which not only Indians but also Spaniards, mestizos, and mulatos were forcibly settled in the congregaciones that were thought to ensure their civility, lawfulness, and productivity.

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According to one typically wide-ranging description from Pará, vagrants were “people who go wandering about from one place to another, without destination, or domicile, and without providing any utility to the public or to any other person.” People who might be labeled as vagrants during times of official crackdown were probably well adapted to the Amazonian economy, which ran on a seasonal labor supply and did not necessarily require a sedentary class of laborers. This was one variation of the “utility of the vagrant” that has been described for the mining camps and expanding urban centers of Minas Gerais. But mobile people who had been welcomed season after season by employers or settled communities could, in a changed political climate, be apprehended and turned over to the authorities. This is what happened, most dramatically, in the early 1780s. On Governor Meneses’s orders, several thousand “dispersed Indians”—men, women, and children of probably diverse racial backgrounds—were rounded up all over Pará and detained in the Royal Arsenal in Belém. If one report is to be believed, 4,309 people met this fate, amounting to about 7 percent of the total population of the captaincy of Pará. Those who survived this holding pen were redistributed to demographically struggling Directorate villages in the delta area, such as Colares and Condeixa. Others were placed in the handful of new settlements founded by the governor, such as Alcobaça and Pederneiras on the upper Tocantins and Salinas closer to the capital. Next to nothing is known about these thousands of forced migrants, except that they were very likely to flee their new residences (see Chapter 4). The antivagrancy campaigns left some suggestive ripples in the documentary record. In the overseas archive in Lisbon, for example, one finds the petitions of five women and two men who were affected directly or indirectly by the campaigns. Identified as Indian women or the sons of Indian women, all living (not coincidentally) in the delta region of Pará, they petitioned Queen Maria I to remain free of corporate affiliation and exempt from ser vice obligations. There are only seven known petitions of this kind, but they speak eloquently to the plight of Indians caught between settler society and the povoações de índios. They also show how the antivagrancy campaigns had, by this time, shaped the terms of debate about status and residence. Unfortunately, the intermediaries in this petitioning process remain shadowy. The supplicants were probably advised by the Procurador de Ín-

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dios, the state-appointed legal advocate for Indians, who may have also crafted the actual petitions; but we cannot be sure. In most cases, the outcomes of the petitions are uncertain. But even without knowing who counseled them or how effective their petitions were, we get a sense of the ethical premises upon which these men and women based their claims, and of how, in the broadest sense, they defined their rightful places in the colonial world: 1.

Petronilha identified herself (or was identified by whoever wrote the petition) as an Indian woman currently living in Beja, a povoação de índios near Belém. She said that she had been “raised and educated” by a family of settlers in the capital, who taught her the skills appropriate to any properly domestic woman, such as sewing and ironing. Recently, she had been violently conducted to Beja by the village director, who sought to “apply her to ser vices for which she was not raised, or to send her to serve whomever he pleased, against her will, and against the pious intentions of Her Majesty.” She invoked two reasons why this was illegal: first, because it violated the 1755 Law of Liberties, by which “Your Majesty ordered that the Indians serve whomever best suits them”; second, because “she is not a vagrant, nor does she live in idleness; rather, this is what she will become, having come to this village, for she has nothing to sew or iron here, it being a settlement composed solely of Indians.” She asked that the director and the “Intendente das Colônias”—probably referring to the intendente geral of Pará, who handled many of the governor’s orders on the placement of vagrants—be barred from forcing her to settle in Beja, and that she be given official license to go back to the home of the settler family in Belém— or to any other that appealed to her (1779).

2.

Magdalena made a petition nearly identical to that of Petronilha, and it was penned by the same scribe or official. Identified as an Indian living in Penha Longa, she, too, had been forced by the director of that village to leave her longtime female employer in Belém (1779).

3.

Josefa Martinha hailed originally from Belém. She may have been born a slave, given her advanced age and the fact that she had lived for a long time in the ser vice of one Hilário de Morais Bitancourt, “a rich man, the owner of a plantation,” under the title of a wage

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labor concession (termo de soldada). After her husband died, Josefa had petitioned the governor for a portaria de isenção and had tried to put the elder of her two sons in an apprenticeship to learn the trade of carpenter, as a means of supporting her in her old age. Bitancourt, however, had used his position of prestige to obstruct the petition of the “miserable” supplicant, and in retribution for her having made the request, he refused to permit the apprenticeships while continuing to mistreat her. As a result, she had fled his residence “as if she had committed horrible crimes.” Pursued by a group of Bitancourt’s black slaves, she and her sons lived as fugitives, “deep in the forest, in danger of dying without sacraments.” In contrast to the previous petitioners, she was being targeted as a fugitive rather than a vagrant, but she similarly invoked the Law of Liberties and asked to be permitted to live “as a free person, exempt from captivity,” along with her sons and other relatives. Bitancourt would then be forced to leave them in peace (1779). 4.

Maria Silvana probably had the strongest case of all the petitioners and seemed to have been the most determined to obtain an exemption order. Born and raised in a settler’s home, she had eventually come to live with her husband in the district of the village of Cintra, where they established a large, productive farm on the banks of the Rio Cuinarana. Upon the death of her husband, she and her eight children and grandchildren were rounded up on Governor Meneses’s orders to abandon the farm, move to the Directorate village, and go to work at the royal salt flats. Around 1784, she had requested a portaria de isenção from Governor Souza e Albuquerque. In support of her case, she submitted a collection of testimonies from the director of Cintra and two local judges. The former verified that Maria Silvana and her family “do not belong here, not by birth (naturalidade) or by any other form; it was only in the time of the [military] escorts that they were taken from their homestead, where they lived as settlers, and were brought to the Arsenal.” One of the judges noted her deceased husband’s record of significant harvests and tithe payments; whereas “at present [Maria Silvana] finds herself with few crops because her children are in Royal Ser vice.” Despite these affirmations, the intendente (supported by Governor Souza e Albuquerque) declined her request in 1785 on the grounds that she and

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her family would be “of greater utility to the public” if they continued in their present ser vice assignments. Later that year, she appealed to the queen, noting her past payment of tithes on substantial agricultural production, her old age, the burdens of her widowhood and many dependents, and her lifelong opposition to laziness. She, too, referred to the “pious laws and orders of Her Majesty,” by which she ought to enjoy her “natural, civilized liberty.” She asked the queen to order captaincy officials to let her, along with her children and grandchildren, to live as settlers in Cintra, working on her own farm, “without obligation to the communal ser vice of the village, since the Supplicant has never been of any povoação [de índios], and rather was born and raised in a white home” (1785). 5.

Jorge Francisco de Brito, identified as the son of an Indian woman, came from the village of Chaves, on Marajó Island. “Wanting to make use of his liberty, which by natural and divine law, as well as by the Law of Liberties, is permitted him, he finds himself unable to do so, because of the subjection in which the índios aldeados find themselves, not being able to leave their povoações for any other place that suits them . . . except by means of fleeing.” He asked for a license to “make use of his liberty as he saw fit, without anyone being able to obstruct him.” His petition was denied in Lisbon, on the grounds that it would be “inconvenient” for such Indians to “make use of their liberty” at the present time (1786).

6.

António José made a nearly identical petition, penned by the same scribe or official. He, too, was the son of an Indian woman and hailed originally from the village of Mondim, also on Marajó Island. The only additional detail was that he wished to go to work on a private estate rather than continue in the serviço do comum of his village. Likewise, his petition was denied in Lisbon (1786).

7.

Bonifácia da Silva had been orphaned at the age of eight or nine in the Marajó Island village of Monsarás. She was then sent to Belém, where she was raised and educated by a settler family. The women of the family had taught her to sew and weave and had cared for her in sickness; one had even become her godmother (comadre). For more than twenty years, her labor concession to this family had been renewed by successive governors. “And because the Supplicant fears that the peace and quiet in which she lives will be disturbed, she

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pleads that Your Majesty . . . order that she not be forced to go to any other place, for by her free and spontaneous will she wishes to stay in the house and company of her godmother” (1790). The petitions were fairly sophisticated in their arguments, especially the lengthy documents produced on behalf of the first four individuals. Except for Bonifácia da Silva, all invoked either the 1755 Law of Liberties or the more general royal laws on the freedom of the Indians. By emphasizing these legal precedents, the petitioners reminded the queen that they were free people who should not have to fear either forced settlement in the povoações or forced labor for private parties and the village comum. Also savvy, in terms of argumentation, was the petitioners’ explicit or implicit rejection of a life of idleness or vagrancy. Petronilha and Magdalena emphasized their possession of skills that were highly valued in settler society (sewing and ironing), while Maria Silvana claimed to own a large farm that had enabled her to pay substantial tithes to the crown. Josefa Martinha drew attention to her (frustrated) desire to place her sons in apprenticeships and indicated that she would love nothing more than to give up her fugitive existence. Jorge Francisco de Brito said that fleeing was the only option facing índios aldeados who wanted to leave their villages, strategically implying that he had chosen not to flee, at least for the time being; António José made a similar argument and emphasized his opportunity to work in the private sector. Nearly all of the petitioners portrayed the ser vice obligations of the índios aldeados as obstacles to their productivity. Petronilha stated the argument most forcefully, turning the conventional antivagrancy diatribe on its head: she would become a vagrant, she asserted, if she had to live in a povoação de índios. This kind of argument showed an awareness of the debates around who could be legitimately compelled to live in a povoação de índios under the tutelage of directors. Origins mattered in this debate—whether people were índios aldeados by birth—but productivity and “utility to the public” mattered as much, if not more, by the 1780s. The petitioners split into two groups with regard to their aims: those who sought licenses to live wherever they wished and dispose of their own labor however they saw fit (nos. 3, 4, 5, and 6), and those who aimed to remain in, or return to, the ser vice of longtime private employers (nos. 1, 2, and 7). These divisions probably reflected, to some degree, the different

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situations and goals of the nonwhite, non-aldeado population at large. The first group included individuals who, like Maria Silvana, might have aspired to obtaining exemption orders from the governor but ended up being targeted as vagrants or forced into various ser vices. They were Indians and mestiços who had established their own farming enterprises; people who had reached (or aspired to reach) a level of prosperity that permitted them to buy or rent houses, workshops, and stores in the urban centers. The second group of people—those who wanted to live in private ser vice arrangements—may have been former slaves who had stayed with their masters on Mendonça Furtado’s orders, or índios aldeados who sought refuge in private homes. Some of these arrangements were bound to attract the suspicion of colonial officials. Directors wrote to the governor to inquire about “fugitives,” originally from the povoações de índios, who were said to be serving voluntarily in the homes of settlers, without official labor concessions, in order to evade ser vice assignments or to escape punishment for crimes. Governor Souza Coutinho also implicated the settlers, alleging that some had obtained labor concessions by making fraudulent petitions in the names of the very Indians who unwillingly served them. It is thus within the realm of possibility, however remote, that the petitions by Petronilha, Magdalena, and Bonifácia da Silva had been forged by their employers. The most extraordinary case of all those that emerged during the antivagrancy campaigns also concerned a woman who sought to live in private ser vice, but under very different auspices. In 1780, a young free cafuza named Joana Baptista showed up at a notarial office in Belém with a Spanish immigrant named Pedro da Costa. There they recorded a bill of sale, according to which Joana would sell herself as a slave, in return for eighty mil-réis: “She of her free and spontaneous will, without the interference of anyone, had arranged and contracted with Pedro da Costa to sell herself into slavery as if she had been born of a captive womb and had never been free.” She would serve him until death, and he could sell her, as a slave, if he saw fit; if she ever had children, however, these would be born free. According to her statement, the impetus for her self-sale was that “she found herself without a father or a mother who could take care of her and sustain her for the duration of her life, as well as during her sicknesses; and she did not have the means to live in liberty.” The two parties had been cautious in arranging this unconventional sale: they had

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even sought permission from the chief magistrate of Pará before formalizing the contract. Though he called it a “bastard case,” the magistrate told them to proceed as they wished. At least one historian has used Joana’s bill of sale to highlight the desperate poverty of nonwhites in late colonial Pará. But Governor Meneses, who had recently come into office, suggested a very different interpretation of her motives for selling herself into slavery. Upon bringing the “infamous” document to the attention of the overseas secretary, he asserted that Joana was one of the “lazy and useless people” whom he had ordered to settle in one of the newly founded villages of the interior. Her self-sale was, he claimed, a purely evasive move: The age of the Cafuza being just over 19 years; her physical state being vigorous and strong; her behavior remaining unregulated by her buyer; and, finally, the likelihood that the price of this offense to humanity was never paid: [for all of these reasons] I am persuaded that the formality of it was intended only to mislead the public and thus, by such indecorous means, [permitting Joana] to exempt herself from the execution of my orders. This pretext may also serve as a comfortable cloak over what is actually an infamous and dishonest arrangement [between the two parties].

It is, of course, impossible to know what sort of relationship existed between Joana and her “buyer.” Most likely, it was a mutually beneficial arrangement. Joana evaded, at least initially, forced settlement in the Directorate villages and perhaps obtained a nest egg of money, while Pedro da Costa secured a source of labor and, perhaps, a domestic companion. As a strategy for avoiding the antivagrancy campaign, it certainly lay at the opposite end of the spectrum from the Indians’ petitions to the queen, with their emphasis on the illegality of native enslavement. But in a similar way, Joana insisted on determining her own place in the colonial world. Having shown such boldness of strategy, one can only imagine what she did when Governor Meneses ordered her apprehended and placed in the village to which she had been originally destined. The most draconian measures against “dispersed Indians” seem to have ended in 1783, with Meneses’s removal from office. The following year, the chief magistrate submitted a recommendation on the petition of three sisters, all settlers in the capital city of Belém, to have their numerous Indian servants restored to them. Writing to the newly installed governor of Pará, Martinho de Souza e Albuquerque, he denounced the actions of the previous governor. “All of these Indian men and women,” he

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claimed, “were violently yanked out of the aforementioned women’s houses by [military] escorts dispatched by Your Excellency’s predecessor” (referring to Governor Meneses). The escorts “went around taking the servants away from most of the settlers, and it is with this kind of people . . . that a few hamlets were populated, which this same predecessor of Your Excellency founded and gave the name of new Settlements.” The inhabitants fled, “because they had been conserved by force and violence in the places where they had been sent,” and “the establishments were left abandoned, as Your Excellency found them upon taking office.” The magistrate reported that he had already tracked down eight of the Indians, who said they wanted to return to the ser vice of the sisters; the rest were still scattered around Pará—presumably, wherever they had been forcibly settled, or wherever they had subsequently fled— and needed to be “brought to this city to hear their wishes.” If they affirmed their desire to return to their former employers, they would be restored to the three sisters immediately. The breadth of the antivagrancy campaigns can be traced to efforts to remedy what authorities saw as a failing system of Indian administration in the 1770s and 1780s. It can also be linked to the goal of making Indians “of greater utility to the public.” By defining “Indians” and “vagrants” broadly, captaincy governors gave local officials free rein to target whomever they saw fit. (Revealingly, Petronilha and Magdalena blamed specific directors, not the governor at the time, for their forced settlement in Beja and Penha Longa.) The targets of the campaigns, in other words, to some extent reflected the subjective judgments and vested interests of local authorities. And in imposing the status of índios aldeados on people who had never considered themselves members of any corporate community, the antivagrancy campaigns weakened the very system of administration that they were intended to bolster. This weakening was much more evident in the delta region—where the povoações de índios had always been less stable, and where there were greater numbers of settlers and many more alternatives to corporate life—than in the Indian core areas of inland Pará and the Rio Negro. In 1791, a year after taking office, Governor Souza Coutinho presented the queen with an analysis of what he saw as a decadent, failing system of Indian administration. He denounced the village directors, who “cared for nothing except making fields and canoes for [their] own enrichment,

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trading with the Indians of the village, exchanging cane liquor for the products [obtained by] the limited industry of these miseráveis.” He also had harsh words for the haphazard way in which Indians were paid for their labor and the effects of these impositions on the permanence of native villagers. Many Indians were, he concluded, “dispersed . . . along various hidden igarapés.” Previous governors and magistrates had denounced these things, too. But Souza Coutinho added a new twist: he noted that “many of these dispersed Indians have made, over time, establishments from which they harvest a few products; these they frequently come to sell in the city, paying tithes on them.” If forced to settle in the villages— as so many had been under previous governors—he predicted that these Indians would immediately request exemption orders, so as to “live with peace and quiet on their homesteads.” The governor also noted that many Indians had asked him for licenses to serve settlers who had contracted to pay them one tostão, or 100 réis, per day— at a time when the official wage for laborers in private ser vice was set at 1,200 réis per month. “The majority of those who request such licenses,” the governor noted, “are the ones who, because they go around dispersed from one settler to the next, already know how to promote their utility, and I have facilitated this.” The governor did not mention individual Indians in his report, but he invoked sentiments similar to those of the petitioners examined in this chapter. António José, with his opportunity to work on a private estate; Maria Silvana, with her desire to restore her homestead to its former productivity; Estevão Alves Bandeira, who claimed mameluco status; and Bonifácia da Silva, who said she preferred to stay with her white godmother in the capital: these were the aspirations that the governor portrayed as representative of colonial Indians and their descendants. Those who remained in the villages went unacknowledged by the governor, and their efforts to preserve the economic niches and social lives they had constructed in povoações de índios were rarely documented after the turn of the century.

6 The Struggle for Autonomy in the Early Nineteenth Century

APOLINÁRIO DA COSTA SERVED as the pilot and guide of his village’s collecting expedition in 1779, most likely chosen by his fellow crewmen or by the native officials of Fragoso. He was no friend of the canoe boss, who blamed him for the loss of a canoe and complained that he had urged the crew not to work too hard (since the fruits of their labor, he said, “would be divided into so many portions”). Apolinário did not ingratiate himself with the director of Fragoso, either. When the director tried to stop a boisterous drinking session in the village, he received this defiant response from its host:

The Indian replied that if they drank, it was in their own houses, and that the directors could not stop this, nor did they even govern the villages. If they had accepted directors here, it was because the [native] officials did not know how to read. They were only here to read the orders.

Along with the rest of the crewmen, Apolinário was heading to Belém to deliver the collected products, and there he would be imprisoned per the director’s instructions. One senses that he was seen as the worst kind of troublemaker: respected by his peers, outspoken in his critiques of the system, and disdainful of imposed authority. For all of these reasons, the director wanted him behind bars but did not dare to put Apolinário in chains for the canoe trip to Belém. Twenty years later, the Directorate was abolished. How might Apolinário have received the news, had he remained in Fragoso? We can only speculate. The scanty record of his past actions and words suggests 191

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that he would have been most concerned with changes to village governance and autonomy. In the post-Directorate period, who would administer the affairs and assets of the village? Who would read official orders and negotiate with higher authorities? How would the labor system change, and in whose favor? These questions would have been pressing for many índios aldeados in the weeks before and after the public announcement of the revocation of the Directorate. Some were likely disconcerted by the flurry of activity on the part of the district judges, who began inventorying village assets and compiling new lists of “gente de serviço” (people for labor ser vice) several weeks prior to the release of the news. On January 20, 1799, a royal edict finally appeared on the main door of the governor’s palace in Belém. It proclaimed that the queen had “abolished and entirely extinguished the Diretório dos Índios . . . and determined that the Indians . . . like all the others who have the honor of being her vassals in any part of the Portuguese empire, will without any difference whatsoever be directed and governed by the same laws that apply to everyone.” As the news swiftly traveled upriver, along with more detailed instructions from Governor Francisco de Souza Coutinho, a series of unprecedented developments occurred in villages across Pará and the Rio Negro. Crops from the Common Plots (Roças do Comum) went up for public auction, and no new communal fields were to be planted. As the collecting expeditions trickled back from the sertão, the canoes and supplies— everything from turtle butter pots to machetes—were likewise placed on the auction block. The village directors were supposed to supervise the liquidation of the communal assets and then vacate their posts. Upon their departure, they turned the communal building keys over to the municipal councilmen, whose new duties included the nomination of tithe collectors and the oversight of village-based enterprises, such as textile workshops, sawmills, and pottery factories. In the villages with township status (vilas), the district judges became responsible for enlisting eligible residents in the new state labor corps, the corpo de milicias; in the smaller hamlets (lugares), the native headmen were made responsible for enlistment. District militia commanders then began coordinating the application of laborers to state projects around the Amazon Basin. By April, most of these changes in Pará were well under way. There is a tendency in the older historiography to portray 1799 as the year when all the Indian villagers melted into the forest, their mobility no

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longer constrained by the directors. The former índios aldeados are certainly harder to locate in the documentation of the post-Directorate period. In part this is because there were no more directors, no cohort of officials charged with the regular reporting of Indian activities and behavior. It also has to do with the disappearance of the category of índio aldeado as a distinct legal status. After 1799, Indians living within colonial (and later, imperial) society were counted among the other free vassals of the crown, with the exception of recently resettled Indians, who received the legal status of wards of the state (orfãos) for a variable number of years. It became very difficult to know, outside of context, who might be identified— or self-identify—as an Indian resident of the former Directorate villages. People were routinely labeled as vagrants, just as they were during the Directorate, and rounded up for labor ser vice; but there were, officially speaking, no more absentees (ausentes). Indians ostensibly had the right to live wherever they wished, as long as they enlisted in the militias in their respective districts or obtained exemptions based on agricultural production. One militia official even received a reprimand from the governor in 1799 for labeling a group of Indians from Portel as ausentes, when, in fact, they were permitted to circulate freely during the open enlistment period. In the sporadic reports of the newly empowered judges and militia commanders, there is no evidence of mass desertions from the villages after the end of the Directorate. These turn-of-the century reports depict the povoaçoes—which, of course, were no longer “de índios” or “de brancos”— as the same unstable and porous places that they had been under missionary and then Directorate administration, marked by chronic in- and out-migration, ethnic and racial diversity, and dispersed patterns of residence. Villagers failed to appear for labor requisitions or enlistment in the new militias; they deserted undesirable ser vices and employers to seek out better ones; and they withdrew to their remote homesteads or migrated elsewhere. In other words, they drew upon the various strategies of evasion and selective participation that had worked for them in the past. Village-based or communal production did not abruptly grind to a halt, either, but rather continued under different and probably more challenging circumstances. Research is extremely limited on this topic, but several pieces of evidence have recently come to light. Sommer mentions

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a letter from the Juiz Ordinário of Almeirim that described the villagers planting larger manioc gardens, as soon as they heard that labor exemptions could be obtained by those liable for tithes of twenty or more alqueires of flour (163 dry gallons). She also cites a report from a judge at Portel, communicating that the women of the village wished to keep their spinning wheels and looms from being auctioned off as communal property, as they claimed to have paid for the equipment themselves; the governor assented. These examples point to some of the opportunities perceived by the former índios aldeados as well as the new obstacles they struggled against in the post-Directorate period.

A “Plan” for the Indians Governor Souza Coutinho, the crown official behind the revocation of the Directorate, belonged to what Kenneth Maxwell has called the “Generation of the 1790s.” These were liberal reformers who hoped to dampen revolutionary sentiments by seeking accommodation with some of their colonial subjects, while at the same time envisioning far-reaching, “enlightened” reforms of the Luso-Brazilian imperial system. During his thirteen-year term (1790–1803) as governor of Pará, Souza Coutinho set a new administrative, economic, and military agenda in a captaincy that was, for a time, intended to be one of two centers of power in Brazil, along with Rio de Janeiro in the south. In many ways, Souza Coutinho was the late-century equivalent of Francisco Xavier de Mendonça Furtado. Both men were the ambitious younger brothers of powerful crown officials; both were sent to preserve crown sovereignty in the Amazon at times of geopolitical upheaval; and both served long terms of office and enjoyed a great deal of autonomy in the design and implementation of reforms. In addition, both Mendonça Furtado and Souza Coutinho primarily targeted those with the most immediate access to Indian labor: the Jesuit missionaries in the 1750s and the village directors in the 1790s. Souza Coutinho’s “Plan for the Civilization of the Indians” (1797) provided a blueprint for the post-Directorate period and convinced the prince regent to overturn the four-decade-old legislation the following year. The many different proposals contained in the plan were anchored by two related convictions. The first was that the future of the Amazon lay in the hands of mestiços, for “the Indian, however civilized he may be,

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almost never equals the mestiço, not in robustness, nor in agility, activity, or industry.” Mixed marriages should be promoted, just as in the early Directorate period, though the means and the ends were somewhat different. In the 1750s, Mendonça Furtado had incentivized mixed marriages with privileges and military ser vice exemptions for settlers, as well as government-supplied dowries for Indian women. His goals for mixed marriages at midcentury had more to do with “civilizing” the índios aldeados, whose mixed-race offspring presumably would be raised with the same obligations as their mothers and under the same tutelage (but, as pointed out in Chapter 5, the legislation was not explicit on the latter point, and local customs for determining the status of mixed offspring varied). In contrast, Souza Coutinho would promote marriages between Indian women and white or mestiço men primarily by offering labor exemptions to the offspring of the couples. The “civilizing” discourse was still present at the end of the eighteenth century, but the main goal was to create more mestiços, who would form the backbone of an independent peasantry or class of artisans. The second, related conviction expressed in the 1797 plan was that corporate institutions and the separate legal status of índios aldeados were a leading cause of backwardness in the northern colony. Souza Coutinho argued that the advantages of revoking the Directorate— and with it, aldeado status and the crown’s sponsorship of the povoações de índios— were already manifest in the growing population of Indians and mestiços living “sobre si” that he had encountered upon taking office and had sought to foster in his policymaking. His perspective from Belém and the delta region was clear as he described their productive farms that supplied the capital with foodstuffs; the contracts they made with employers rather than through middlemen; their eagerness to send their children to learn skilled trades in the city; and their desire to enlist in the militias. The governor proclaimed his confidence that the índios aldeados, once liberated from the “bloodsucking” directors and the legal restrictions on their mobility and labor, would do the same. They “will not remain in the village where they are currently obligated to stay; they will find a better one that is more to their liking; [and] they will seek out the private [employer] who treats them best, rather than hiding themselves or fleeing to the forests as they have done until now.” “Within a few years,” the governor predicted, “these two castes [of Indians and whites] will be mixed up (se confundirão) into just one, of useful vassals.”

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These ideas were not particularly original. Crown reformers across Spanish and Portuguese America offered similar ideas at the end of the eighteenth century, as part of broader efforts to transform the binary caste structure of colonial society and move toward a more assimilationist model. During the first two decades of the nineteenth century in Spanish America, Creole nationalists would take these ideas a step further, to argue that the emergence of “one free and united republic of national citizens” depended on abolishing the oppressive, inefficient two-republic system that they associated with Spanish despotism. In this sense, Souza Coutinho had absorbed the ideas of his day and applied them to the Amazonian case. He did, however, find ample local justification for his reforms—in the disastrous forced relocation campaigns of the 1770s and 1780s, in the numbers of Indians petitioning for exempt status, and in the growing population of Indians and mestiços living independently of the povoações de índios. In fact, the governor’s plan institutionalized processes of change that were already well under way by the 1790s. If Souza Coutinho’s anti-Directorate rhetoric centered on ending abuses of Indian labor and promoting the growth of an independent, racially mixed peasantry, the concrete measures were decidedly less idealistic. “All of these dispositions,” he wrote in the plan, must be executed while they [the índios aldeados] are kept in their present subjection, because otherwise, confusing the idea of a well-conceived liberty with licentiousness or unruly dissolution, the new orders and justice may seem harsh to them, and the means of bringing them into compliance even harsher.

This long-held conviction—that there was only a thin line between Indian liberty and licentiousness— served as the rationale for the state labor corps that replaced the Directorate system of labor distribution. Recruitment and concessions of laborers would be controlled by the judges and municipal councils, with the corps themselves overseen by district militia officials. Its members would encompass not only Indians but also mestiços and free blacks who owned neither substantial property nor slaves. In late 1799, these criteria for compulsory enlistment were extended to whites, too. Formal exemptions could be obtained only by those who could prove that the value of the tithes on their own agricultural production was higher than the labor corps’ daily wage, or that their income from a private employer was higher.

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The new legislation represented, above all, the crown’s effort to secure access to a larger labor force while at the same time distancing itself from costly and risky undertakings in the colony. This meant shifting the responsibility— as well as some of the rewards—to private parties. While this era of privatization officially began with the instructions of 1799, there had been earlier indications that non-Indian elites were gaining more prominent roles. Changes in descimento policies and practices during the late Directorate and post-Directorate period provide a revealing case in point.

Descimentos: No Longer “for the Village” By the 1780s, higher authorities had grown impatient with the way the povoações de índios had organized and conducted the resettlement process. Descimentos were “not a prompt remedy, taking time to execute and to produce effects” (i.e., to expand the labor pool), and the typically drawn-out resettlement process drained the Royal Treasury. Settlers were, as always, eager to try their hand at resettling independent native groups so as to provision themselves with laborers, and these private descimentos were finally reauthorized by Governor José de Nápoles Telo e Meneses in 1782, after more than half a century of prohibition. Índios aldeados continued their descimento efforts for the time being, but they had to compete with settlers, not to mention rival village expeditions, in the sertão. During his first year of office, in 1790, Governor Souza Coutinho offered descimento privileges to a number of prominent settlers. José Pedro Cordovil, a landowner and trader with extensive experience among the Mawé (and later, among the Mundurucú), was given free rein “to enter any river in this state, to descend wild Indians who want to reduce themselves to Our Holy Faith, and, if they are willing, to bring them to any settlement in this captaincy.” Souza Coutinho likewise urged the settler Domingos Pereira Lousada, whose estate on the Tocantins River had hosted several contingents of formerly hostile Carajá Indians, to “set off, if the season is right, go find those gentio for me, bring me some of the principais to this City, and with this . . . I will always be ready to please you.” The powerful planter Hilário de Morais Bitancourt, who appeared in Chapter 5 as the abusive master of the Indian Josefa Martinha, was likewise urged to continue descimento negotiations that he had initiated

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in the 1780s with the Apinajé Indians. Bitancourt proposed mounting a four-month trip to the upper Tocantins, accompanied by twenty soldiers, enough Indian rowers to man several canoes, 200 alqueires of manioc flour (about 1,635 dry gallons), and a large supply of gunpowder and lead shot. As gifts for the gentio, he proposed bringing a range of metal tools (thirty of each type) and several dozen knives, fishhooks, and strings of beads. Bitancourt offered—with great obsequiousness—to cover the costs himself, if these expenses imposed too great a burden upon the Royal Treasury. He surely expected something in return, such as a private labor force for his large estate. Souza Coutinho also reversed the 1769 order that had forbidden trade and communication more generally between village collecting canoes and independent Indian nations. Sporadic contacts between village canoes and independent native groups had been going on for quite some time, and Souza Coutinho had come to see these contacts as an alternative (and less costly) means of bringing Indians into the colonial sphere. He ordered that the expedition cabos “try to introduce to them [the gentio] all commercial products except arms, gunpowder, and lead shot; they must treat them with all good faith and kindness, without doing them the smallest violence, [and they should] seek to bring a few [gentio] to my presence.” The cabos should, furthermore, “obtain from them [the gentio] all of the products, even those that are unfamiliar and have no known use, whether these are animal, vegetable, or mineral.” The demographic and geopolitical aims of the descimentos were thus conveniently intertwined with commercial ones. In his 1797 plan, Souza Coutinho clarified that it would be the itinerant traders who plied the rivers of the interior, rather than the members of the (soon-to-be-suspended) village collecting expeditions, who would be responsible for giving gifts to any independent native groups they encountered in the sertão. The Royal Treasury would, theoretically, reimburse them for the price of the gifts. Once “habituated to our commerce, our practices and customs,” the governor predicted, the gentio “will not shy away from the ideas of religion, nor will they be opposed to receiving the ministers of the faith that we send to them. . . . Finally, via this communication, the alliance between the two castes will be facilitated, and then this conquest will be complete.” According to the carta régia of 1798—which followed Souza Coutinho’s 1797 plan almost verbatim on this topic—there would be two main

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avenues by which independent native groups could enter the colonial sphere. The first was a slow process of acculturation through commercial exchange with itinerant traders, as described above. The second avenue, thought to be the more expedient one, was a privately sponsored descimento. Private parties who “made contracts with” and “brought [gentio] into their ser vice” would receive the exclusive right to the Indians’ labor for a number of years, to be determined by their municipal council. A written contract (the Termo de Educação e Instrução) would stipulate this period—which varied, supposedly according to how much their resettlement had cost the individual— and would obligate him to educate, indoctrinate, and pay a salary to his charges, who received the legal status of wards of the state (orfãos). As if this exclusive access to labor were not enough of an inducement, the individual would be eligible for several privileges: a title of nobility, a land grant, and a six-year exemption from paying the royal tithes. There is some evidence, however, that these privileges never materialized. Where did this leave the former índios aldeados? According to Patrícia Sampaio, it left them to act as private parties as defined by the new law, if they so chose. In the logbook of the municipal council of Ega, around 1808, there is a reference to a record that has not, unfortunately, survived: the contract “by which the Indian Joaquim Tinoco is obligated to educate 24 Indians of the Passé and Ticuna nations.” Apparently, Tinoco had appeared before the Ega council to duly register the descimento he had made, following the terms of the 1798 law. Little is known about him or his descimento activities except that he resorted to violent raids on an Indian nation on at least one occasion (in 1813) and that after his death (in 1826), his widow petitioned to renew the contract to keep “her” Indians in ser vice. Sampaio’s broader, valid point about Tinoco is that postDirectorate Indians sought opportunities for social advancement and that they acted increasingly as individuals, rather than members of corporate villages. But the evidence of Indians sponsoring descimentos in the nineteenth century is exceedingly scarce; Tinoco may well be the only recorded case. Meanwhile, settlers took on ever larger roles in contacting and resettling independent native groups around the turn of the century. In 1800, the aforementioned José Pedro Cordovil obtained legal recognition of the village of Vila Nova da Rainha, composed of Indians and slaves— probably recently resettled groups and fugitives—who had congregated at

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his estate near the mouth of the Madeira River. A few years later, Cordovil solicited the post of capitão of a militia regiment that he had formed with Mawé and Mundurucú Indians who resided at the same village. Also in 1800, a settler named Ângelo Francisco Gatto wrote to Souza Coutinho to propose establishing a trading relationship with the Mawé, using a Mawé militiaman who lived in Óbidos as his intermediary. European travel accounts suggest that this trend toward private descimentos continued over the course of the century. Johann Baptist von Spix and Carl Friedrich Phillip von Martius, for example, were hosted on the Rio Negro in 1819 by a plantation owner with 20,000 coffee trees, among other crops, worked by a large labor force of Indians that he had “ordered to come out of the forests of the Rio Japurá.” Colonial bellicosity toward independent native groups seems to have intensified during the first half of the nineteenth century, as many privately sponsored descimentos turned into raids (agarrações) and even officially sanctioned Indian wars. The significance of descimentos had clearly changed, and the turn-of-the-century legislation reflected that change. Resettlement efforts were no longer seen as being “for the village,” a means of community preservation and ethnic group survival. Royal funds and supplies for the expeditions, which had flowed for some four decades from the Royal Treasury to the coffers and warehouses of the povoações de índios, finally ceased in 1799, and rewards for successful resettlements were offered to a much larger pool of (wealthier) aspirants. Along with the annual collecting expeditions, village-organized descimentos seem to have been abandoned after 1799.

Re sistance and Revolt in the Old Povoações de Índios The removal of the village directors and the withdrawal of the crown’s sponsorship of village institutions and economic activities left a void that was filled— as the legislation intended it to be—by district judges, municipal councilmen, and militia officers. The calculus of opportunities and rewards must have changed dramatically for the former índios aldeados, but it would have also varied from place to place, depending on local power relations. Many, if not most, municipal councils in the former Directorate towns were composed of people who considered themselves far removed in status from Indians. Some councils, however, split into ethnic factions, and at least a few became majority-Indian. The latter were more common in the more remote upriver towns and in places that

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retained a significant Indian population. We know, for example, that councilmen identified as Indians managed the affairs of many places in the Lower Amazon region, such as Vila Franca, Boim, and Alter do Chão, well into the nineteenth century. These were villages with long prior histories as missions, where white settlers and black slaves had come in smaller numbers, and where, historically, there had been fewer options for permanently leaving the world of the village comum. During the first two decades of the nineteenth century, cacao production increased markedly in the old Indian core areas, especially around the lower Rio Tapajós and Rio Tocantins and the main channel of the Amazon between Cametá and Óbidos. The annual average of more than four million pounds of cacao for the years 1800–1809 was more than double the amount exported annually during the previous two decades. Village lands in the Lower Amazon felt the pressure of expanding cacao plantations, and villagers shouldered much of the burden of rising labor demands. At the same time, questions of government legitimacy became increasingly salient during this period. The Napoleonic Wars provoked the transfer of the Portuguese court to Rio de Janeiro in 1808; the ports of Brazil were opened to all nations in that same year; and revolutionary ideals flooded into the Amazon, many of them transmitted by the Indian, mestiço and black soldiers from Pará who occupied French Guiana between 1809 and 1817. These tensions found expression in a series of attacks by small, mobile bands upon employers and landowners throughout the cacao-growing region during the Brazilian Independence period, beginning around 1820. By 1824, groups of rebels had managed to occupy Monte Alegre and Alenquer, both former Directorate villages in the Lower Amazon, before being repressed by imperial troops. The rebels’ goals remain unclear, as do their backgrounds and origins. Most were identified as Indians in the surviving sources, but there is no information on whether they self-identified as such. Nor do we know whether they were members of the communities that served as their bases of operation, or whether they shared the grievances of people who identified themselves as Indian villagers of the old povoações. A remarkable document from that tumultuous year (1824) provides a glimpse of what former índios aldeados sought for themselves and their communities when they perceived a political opening around the time of independence. It was a petition, written in colloquial language and signed

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with the crosses of the illiterate, by some thirty men from the village of Alter do Chão. Three of the names can be found on the village’s last collecting expedition crew list of the Directorate era, from 1798, indicating that at least some of the petitioners were former índios aldeados. It began as follows: We the undersigned would like to make it known to Your Excellencies in the central government that this village has been very poor in recent years. We know that the much loved Emperor Dom Pedro I has urged us to engage in commerce and farming. For this reason, we want from today onward for the assessor of tithes to be a native son (filho da terra), rather than the contractor, who does nothing but promiscuously rob our widowers and widows. We spend all year giving tithes, and we always end up owing [more].

This was a reference to the imposition of a tithe collector who, it seems, had purchased a “contract”— an exclusive right for a given number of years to carry out the task, undoubtedly for some financial benefit. During the Directorate, native officials and village directors had conducted the annual tithe assessment, calculated on the basis of estimated agricultural production, with one official certifying the work of the other. Now it had been put in the hands of an outside contractor, and the villagers felt that they were being extorted. The petition then turned to the perennial issue of control over labor and, more specifically, the abuses of Indian labor at the hands of nonIndians. But the rhetoric was altogether different from the colonial-era petitions; it was now framed as a conflict between “Europeans” and “Brazilians,” or native sons: Another thing is that this municipal council [of Alter do Chão] is always receiving orders from the village of Santarém to provide Indians to serve them, which is a great loss to this village. Freedom came for all those who are sons of Brazil, not the Europeans, who say they defend the fatherland (pátria) only to deceive the native sons. . . . They do nothing but harass us, taking away our wealth and property (teres e haveres), and that is the way that it has always been in this village.

The petitioners then took pains to establish themselves as supporters of independence, defenders of law and order, and loyal subjects of the new Brazilian emperor. They described how they had taken up arms when they received word from Santarém about the approach of the aforementioned groups of rebels operating at this time in the Lower Amazon, but

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were then bombarded by imperial forces as if the villagers themselves were the enemies. They also recounted how they had imprisoned two “Europeans” from Santarém who showed up in the village and refused to comply with the order of the municipal council president to present an official cargo list (guia). “We took this action,” the petitioners explained, because they do nothing but threaten us, saying that we are monkeys and macaws (macacos e araras). To those who say that Independence is only for them, and not for the Indians: we, who have [been granted] freedom by our august Emperor, would say that even though we are Indians, we are baptized as well as they are. From today onward we will seek to obtain from Your Excellencies an order to keep them from interfering with this village.

The last two requests were for a new militia captain—“we do not want the one who has been here for a moment longer, for he is a libertine”— and for any future labor requisitions to be directed toward the municipal council, rather than, presumably, the militia captain. This would have restored some of the control that native officials (now councilmen) had exerted over labor distribution under the Directorate, when they had been responsible for recruiting eligible village men and delivering them into ser vice. Village autonomy was clearly the main goal of the Alter do Chão petition. The villagers wanted a restoration of local control over the assessment of tithes and labor distribution, and they called upon the new central government to keep outsiders from infringing on that autonomy. To make this appeal, they identified themselves as the “sons of Brazil,” entitled to the same rights as all the other subjects of the emperor, but they also continued to identify as Indians. More than two decades had passed since the disappearance of the juridical category of “índio aldeado,” but Indianness remained salient for these villagers, especially in their relationship to the state. (And, of course, these ethnic distinctions were central to forms of discrimination that evidently found expression in epithets like “monkey” and “macaw.”) Like so many stories from the Amazonian archives, there is no ending. We do not know if the petition received any response, or whether the villagers tried other forms of political negotiation to improve their lot. But when full-scale rebellion came to the Amazon in 1835—more than a generation after the end of the Directorate—Alter do Chão joined definitively on the side of the rebels. Most of the other former povoações de

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índios did, too, helping to make the Cabanagem Rebellion the bloodiest and most protracted revolt in Brazilian history. (By one official account, the only towns in the province not taken by the rebels were Cametá, Macapá, and Abaité— all former povoações de brancos— and the small settlements of the Xingú River.) The Cabanagem was also the most geographically extensive rebellion in the country’s history, beginning with mostly elite leadership in and around Belém but then spreading rapidly from city to village to rural homestead. Within a year, communities over a thousand miles upriver on the Rio Negro were declaring their support for the Cabano cause and taking up arms against local whites and elites. The majority of the rebels were identified in prisoner records as Indians, and they included both peasant villagers and urban tradesmen whose grievances can be traced, in part, to the legislation that replaced the Directorate at the end of the eighteenth century. The origins of the Cabanagem lay in the rising powers of municipal councilmen, district judges, and militia commanders, and in the privatization of land and enterprises that previously had been managed by the povoações. In fact, land disputes occurred in former Directorate villages throughout Brazil during the nineteenth century, though not all featured armed resistance and none culminated in a regional uprising like the Cabanagem. The massive scale of the village-based resistance in the Amazon surely had to do with the relatively large population that identified as Indian and considered the villages to be their longtime homes. When imperial troops ordered rebel villagers to put down their weapons and submit to authority— or else—the response of many villagers was, as we would expect, to find refuge in the forests, creeks, and secret encampments of the region. But they did not go empty-handed or without plans to return. It is revealing, for example, that the residents of Alter do Chão carried all of the church ornaments— saints’ effigies, relics, and other symbols of their religious community—with them when they fled. Imperial soldiers found the village and surrounding farms deserted, if only temporarily.

Conclusion Mobile and Rooted

IN THE PORTUGUESE AMAZON, indigenous men were compelled to serve on construction gangs at colonial forts; women were assigned as wet nurses to settlers in faraway cities; and whole families were forced to participate in ill-conceived resettlement schemes on the frontier. Many of these movements were exile experiences that ended in death: countless native Amazonians died from disease and overwork, far from their communities and kin, in places not of their own choosing. Others fled at the first opportunity and never returned to colonized territory. But these forced migrations and fugitive movements represent only one set of routes and experiences; in other words, they tell us only one story about indigenous mobility in the colonial Amazon. This book has offered another, lesser-known story, in which native Amazonians moved for their own reasons, to craft and reproduce a way of life within the colony. This mobility took traditional as well as new, colonial forms. We have seen how, during the second half of the eighteenth century, colonial Indians often decided where and what to collect in the forest, following their own itineraries rather than those of their nonIndian canoe bosses. They mounted expeditions to make contact with independent native groups, using supplies and funds provided by the Portuguese crown to persuade these groups to resettle in the colonial villages. They continued living on homesteads far from the village center, from which they could come and go undetected by colonial officials. And sometimes índios aldeados left their assigned village and moved to

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another—in effect, becoming “absentees” in one place but establishing themselves as legitimate community members elsewhere in the colony. These individual and collective choices mattered. Local decisions about mobility shaped the physical settlement, social organization, governance, and economy of the colonial Amazon. Movements carried out by Indians, often on terms that they themselves dictated, made possible the occupation of a vast expanse of South America, the sustenance of diverse populations, and the development of a viable export economy. On expeditions in pursuit of new people or products, and in the formation of improvised communities on the waterways, Amazonian men and women played important roles in a historical process of settlement that has long been depicted as state directed and state controlled. The story of forced movements and fugitive Indians is not wrong, but it is incomplete, in that it leaves out these important actors—people whose lives were both mobile and rooted within the colonial sphere. The other problem with the prevailing story is that it mistakes formidable constraints as static limitations. In contrast, what comes to the fore in the preceding pages is human adaptability, even under conditions of extreme hardship. Through an examination of their actions and occasionally their words, as recorded (however imperfectly) in the colonial documents, we can see Indians who were pragmatic and strategic in their dealings, and who were ideologically flexible in the sense that they could switch sides or accept compromises, if they thought it would serve their own interests or those of their community. These are not the Indians we would expect to see, in studying a colony at the height of an imperial reform project, nor are they the Indians that many Westerners look for when they come to the Amazon today. According to an even older story, one invented by European colonists and popularized by their descendants in the nineteenth century, native Amazonians had a default response to every stimulus: to leave. Even at key historical junctures—whether the arrival of the first Europeans, the secularization of the missions, the revocation of the Directorate, or the climax of the Cabanagem Rebellion—Indians supposedly exited the scene in their silent canoes. And in the reappearance of native peoples or their mixed-race descendants, contemporary observers as well as historians have tended to see only loss— cultural degradation, social fragmentation, and material impoverishment—rather than resilience.

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Let us pick up where we left off in Chapter 6—the deserted rebel town of Alter do Chão— and see how this story holds up under closer scrutiny. A report from the Rio Negro in 1845, several years after the bitter end of the Cabanagem, listed some eleven extinct settlements out of thirty-two, a startlingly high proportion. Most of the unlucky settlements, however, were frontier villages in the vicinity of the forts of São Joaquim on the Rio Branco and São Gabriel da Cachoeira on the Rio Negro, founded in the mid to late Directorate period. Only two former mission villages, Poiares and Lamalonga, made the list. But Poiares had not even really disappeared: its residents had simply moved a few hundred miles downriver to a new site, which they called Tauapessassu—“New Village” in the língua geral. In doing so, they followed a long-established pattern of village relocation, as described in Chapter 1 of this book. Among sixty-three former povoações de índios in Pará, six were described as extinct by the time of Antonio Ladislau Baena’s accounting in the late 1830s. Four of these, however, were settlements founded or repopulated by Governor Meneses in the early 1780s, at the height of the antivagrancy campaign. Like the northwestern frontier settlements, they followed different, much shorter historical trajectories that had much to do with the missteps of the state. The vast majority of the old povoações de índios persisted as settled places through the nineteenth century and down to the present day. Along the way, some even readopted the língua geral names of their early days as missions. In the decades after the rebellion, foreign travelers began making long-awaited trips up the Amazon River and its tributaries. Eager to find specimens of exotic plants, to map strategic navigational routes, or simply to have a tropical adventure, they often found themselves stranded in the old povoações de índios en route. Waiting for food, repairs, rowers, informants, or guides— sometimes in vain—they described the villages as the most “wretched, muddy, and dilapidated” places on earth and tried to account for this state of affairs. The French traveler Paul Marcoy, for example, recounted a brief history of the many past relocations of the “erratic” and “peripatetic village” of Maturá (a reclaimed mission name; formerly Castro de Avelãs) before describing his visit to the town at its current location on the banks of the Rio Solimões. “The village was silent and deserted,” he wrote, “its inhabitants [having] gone to roam the woods or visit their plantations, leaving their dwellings closed and under the protection of God.” After looking around for a conversation partner and

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finding no one, Marcoy sat by the old village church and contemplated the scene: Imagine a large square site covered with grass up to the knees, twelve or fifteen barrack-like huts arranged on three sides of the square; in the center a cross of wormeaten wood, on the arms of which some black urubus [vultures] were perched with drooping wings; and over all a leaden sky, from which the rain descended in fine lines.

This bleak sketch echoed depictions of poverty and desolation from the eighteenth century. Like their colonial predecessors, many European and American travelers in the nineteenth century believed that the mobility of Amazonians reflected a lack of attachment to the land. They saw the effects of all this “roaming” in villages like Maturá, abandoned and decayed. Indians, in this view, had squandered the riches of the region, and this justified expropriation of the land by those who would settle it permanently and exploit its resources with greater industry. But even as they perpetuated the old story of rootless natives and unoccupied territory, nineteenth-century travel accounts (like the colonial records before them) can be read for occasional insights into a more complex reality. They offer glimpses, for example, of the seasonal rhythms of mobility that governed Amazonian village life in the nineteenth century. The Victorian naturalist Henry Walter Bates spent over four years in the 1850s based at Ega, farther downriver on the Rio Solimões, and was able to appreciate why the town emptied of people at the onset of the dry season: Idle men and women, tired of the dullness and confinement of the flood season, begin to report, upon returning from their morning bath, the cessation of the flow: as agoas estão paradas, “the waters have stopped.” The muddy streets, in a few days, dry up; groups of young fellows are now seen seated on the shady sides of the cottages, making arrows and knitting fishing-nets with tucúm twine; others are busy patching up and caulking their canoes, large and small: in fact, preparations are made on all sides for the much longed-for “verão” or summer, and the “migration,” as it is called, of fish and turtle; that is, their descent from the inaccessible pools in the forest to the main river.

Bates watched as men, women, and children of Ega left to “spend the few weeks of glorious weather rambling over the vast undulating expanses of sand in the middle of the Solimões, fishing, hunting, collecting eggs of

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turtle and plovers, and thoroughly enjoying themselves.” The families from Ega were joined on the beaches by “many primitive Indians” who had come from nearby rivers, and their nightly parties, games, and dances were filled with the sounds of the língua geral mixed with Portuguese. After spending a season at one of these beach camps, Bates came to understand why “the inhabitants pray always for a ‘vazante grande,’ or great ebb.” When scholars examine mobility, migration, and displacement— such prominent features of colonial and postcolonial societies—there is a tendency to forget that people did find homes, did take part in society, and had an active role in forming that society. This forgetting seems especially common in the Amazonian literature, dominated as it is by stories of native flight and community abandonment and by justifications for outside intervention in the settlement of the region. The colonial Indian villages described in this book challenge us to see, in the ongoing ebb and flow of people, the efforts of generations of Amazonians to make their communities endure. In the Amazonian interior, lives are mobile and rooted to this day. Delmar Ferreira, a self-described ribeirinha (river dweller) from a settlement not far from Maturá on the Rio Solimões, recently framed her community history in these terms: The community of Caité was once upriver, but with the passage of time the land was falling away. The residents, since they did not want to abandon their homeland, went looking to build a new community. So the community of Caité once again came to be. . . . When lands fall away and are ravaged by time, by nature, the residents go on finding another way to live.

Readers of this book will recognize a familiar pattern: houses deteriorate, soil erodes, and settlements move, but homelands are not lost, through the persistence and flexibility of the people who seek to remain in them. “In the instability of conditions not of their own choosing,” writes an anthropologist of riverine peasantries in the Lower Amazon, “they have found continuity and stability, rather like riding on the crest of a wave.” Amazonians still bear the burden of old stories— especially those that have depicted them as lacking a connection, and therefore a claim, to the land—but new stories are beginning to be told. Delmar Ferreira, for example, recorded her community history with the New Social

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Cartography Project. Since 2005, this collaborative project has sought to understand how traditional communities of the Amazon—who define themselves as indigenous, as ribeirinhos of mixed race, or as descendants of fugitive African slaves— conceive of their territories, livelihoods, and identities. In holding mapmaking workshops in these communities, the project coordinators aim to provide local and regional social movements with another tool for claiming rights to land and resources that are threatened by powerful outsiders. What emerges from the oral histories of the residents, as well as from the maps they create, is a strong sense of local identity still shaped by a riverine way of life. In the seasonal rhythms of forest collecting, fishing, and floodplain farming, with the making and unmaking of the riverbanks, and now with climate change bringing more extreme floods and droughts to the region, people constantly move to keep their place in the world. They have done so for as long as anyone can remember. The hardships now confronting riverine communities in the Amazon are, of course, different from anything that came before. Along with the vagaries of the climate, ribeirinhos must adapt to fluvial changes caused by massive dam-building projects and must endure the pollution that flows downstream from mining and other industrial processes. Taking the place of the old plantation owners are expanding agribusinesses that do not deal in the same paternalistic terms with those who would work, use, or pass through their lands. And the self-sufficiency of fishing and collecting in the region has been compromised not only by deforestation and other forms of environmental degradation but also by layers of government regulations that make the colonial-era rules seem straightforward in comparison. Young people feel more pressure than ever to move to the sprawling cities of the region, where stable, formal employment is scarce but informal or illegal opportunities abound. Faced with these challenges to their livelihoods and autonomy, modern Amazonians have a deeper history upon which to draw— a history of moving in order to stay settled. Today, many households in the Brazilian Amazon are multisited, with homes in urban shantytowns as well as houses, gardens, fishing camps, and collecting sites in rural zones. Family members, food, supplies, and knowledge flow back and forth between these bases, reinforcing social ties between city and countryside. Even important community symbols circulate widely. On the small interior waterways, one still sees flotillas of decorated boats and canoes bring-

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Figure C.1 Procession of Our Lady of the Conception on the Rio Caraparu, Pará, 2009. The Rio Caraparu is a tributary of the Rio Guamá. Courtesy of Jacques Jangoux.

ing the local patron saint or Virgin to visit each dispersed homestead in the “neighborhood” (Figure C.1). The fluvial processions wind along narrow creeks and around islands to receive donations of money, chickens, and eggs from the residents. People sing while they paddle, as so many generations of Amazonian canoemen have done before them. Finally the group—much larger now—returns to the community center for the celebration. The dancing onshore lasts long into the night.

Appendix A Directorate Settlements in the Captaincies of Grão-Pará and São José do Rio Negro

The format of the list is as follows: Directorate name [mission name/other former name]: River region, approximate days’ travel to Belém. Early nineteenth-century calculations of travel times from most settlements in Pará and the Rio Negro to the capital of Belém can be found in a foldout table, “Mappa Geral Classificado da População da Província do Gram-Pará,” in Ignacio Accioli de Cerqueira e Silva, Corografia Paraense, ou, descripção física, histórica, e política da província do GramPará (Bahia: Typologia do Diário, 1833). Other times, given as ranges below, are my own estimates. It should be noted, however, that these times varied considerably, depending on currents, winds, and tides. For reasons explained in the Introduction, I have left out of my analysis the cluster of mostly ephemeral povoações de índios around the forts of São Joaquim (on the Rio Branco) and São José de Marabitanas and São Gabriel da Cachoeira (on the upper Rio Negro). They are not included in this table or on the reference map of the Rio Negro captaincy. Captaincy of Grão-Pará Alcobaça*

Tocantins, 7–8

Alenquer [Surubiú]

Amazonas, 20

Almeirim [Parú/Forte do Desterro]

Amazonas, 15

Alter do Chão [Borari/Iburari]

Tapajós, 19

Arraiolos [Guarimucú]

Amazonas, 16

Aveiro [Taparajó-tapera]

Tapajós, 22–23

* These settlements (six total) were described as extinct by the time Antonio Ladislau M. Baena wrote his Ensaio Corográfico Sobre a Província do Pará, in the 1830s (Brasília: Senado Federal, 2004), 21. 213

214

Appendix A

Azevedo [Parejo]

Tocantins

Baião [Sesmaria de António Baião]

Tocantins, 6

Barcarena [Fazenda Geribirié]

Metropolitan, 1

Beja [Sumauma]

Metropolitan, 2

Benfica

Metropolitan, 1

Boim [Santo Inácio/Tupinambaranas]

Tapajós, 20

Bragança [Caeté/Vila Sousa do Caeté]

Atlantic, 8

Carrazedo [Arapijó/Carnapijo]

Xingú, 12

Chaves [Aldeia dos Aruans]

Marajó, 8

Cintra [Maracanã]

Atlantic, 5

Colares [Cabi/Cabu or Coabi]

Metropolitan, 1

Conde [Mortigura]

Metropolitan, 1–2

Condeixa [Aldeia dos Guajarás]

Marajó, 1–2

Esposende [Tuaré/Tubará]

Amazonas, 16

Faro [Santa Cruz do Jamundá]

Amazonas, 24

Fragoso [Jari]

Amazonas

Gurupá [Gurupá]

Amazonas, 11

Melgaço [Guaricurú/Nheengaíbas]

Furos, 7

Mondim [São José/Aruã de São José]

Marajó, 2–3

Monforte [Joanes]

Marajó, 2

Monsarás [Aldeia do Cayá]

Marajó, 2

Monte Alegre [Gurupatuba]

Amazonas, 17–18

Óbidos [Pauxis]

Amazonas, 21

Odivelas, São Caetano de [Fazenda de São Caetano]

Metropolitan, 4

Oeiras [Araticu/Aldeia das Bocas]

Furos, 6

Ourém [Casa Forte do Guamá]

Guajará/Capim, 5

Outeiro [Urubucoara]

Amazonas, 20

Pederneiras, São Bernardo*

Tocantins, 7– 8

Pena Cova* [Una]

Metropolitan

Penha Longa [Guarapiranga]

Metropolitan

Pinhel [São José de Maitapus/Aldeia de São José]

Tapajós, 21

Pombal [Piraviri]

Xingú, 15

Ponta de Pedras [Mangabeiras]

Marajó, 2

Appendix A

215

Portel [Arucará]

Furos, 7

Porto de Moz [Maturú]

Xingú, 13

Porto Grande*

Guajará/Capim

Porto Salvo [Fazenda Mamaiaçu]

Metropolitan

Rebordelo [Caviana/Piyé]

Marajó

Salinas, Nossa Senhora do Socorro

Atlantic, 8

Salvaterra [Conceição]

Marajó, 3

Santana do Cajari [Santana do Maracapucu]

Amazonas

Santana de Mutuacá [Mazagão]

Amazonas, 15

Santarém [Aldeia dos Tapajós]

Tapajós, 18

Santarém Novo

Atlantic, 5

São Bento do Rio Capim

Guajará/Capim, 3

São José do Piriá

Atlantic, 10

Serzedelo* [Gurupy]

Atlantic

Soure [Menino Jesus]

Marajó, 2–3

Souzel [Aricari/Aricará]

Xingú, 16

Tentúgal*

Atlantic

Turiaçu

Atlantic, 16

Veiros [Itacuruçá/Aldeia do Xingú]

Xingú, 15

Vila Franca [Camarú/Arapiuns]

Tapajós, 19

Vila Nova d’El Rei [Curuçá/Fazenda de Curuçá]

Metropolitan, 4

Vilar [Goianazes]

Marajó, 2

Vilarinho do Monte [Caviana]

Xingú, 12

Viseu

Atlantic, 14

Captaincy of São José do Rio Negro Airão [Jaú, Santo Elias do]

Negro, 48

Alvarães [Uumanâ/Umaná]

Solimões, 64

Alvelos [Coari]

Solimões, 60

Barcelos [Mariuá]

Negro, 56

Borba [Trocano]

Madeira, 38

Carvoeiro [Aracari]

Negro, 51

Castro de Avelãs [Maturá/Amaturá]

Solimões, 78

216

Appendix A

Ega [Tefé]

Solimões, 63

Fonte Boa [Iracatuba/Taracuatyba]

Solimões, 68

Fortaleza do Rio Negro (Barra)

Negro, 42

Javari [São José do Javari]

Solimões

Lamalonga* [Dari]

Negro, 64

Moreira [Camará/Caboquena]

Negro, 59

Moura [Pedreira/Santa Rita de Itarandaua]

Negro, 50

Nogueira [Parauari/Manarua]

Solimões, 63

Olivença, São Paulo de [São Paulo dos Cambebas]

Solimões, 80

Poiares* [Cumarú/Jurupariporaceitaua]

Negro, 54

Santo Antônio de Maripí

Japurá, 70

Serpa [Abacaxis]

Amazonas, 29

Silves [Saracá]

Amazonas

Tabatinga

Solimões, 87

Tomar [Bararoá]

Negro, 62

* These settlements (two total) were described as extinct by João Henrique de Matos in his 1845 report on the Rio Negro, “Relatório do estado de decadência em que se encontra o Alto Amazonas,” Revista do Instituto Histórico e Geográfico Brasileiro 325 (1979): 146–147.

Appendix B Demography, 1770s–1790s

Year

Total

Índios aldeados

()

Free non-aldeados

()

African slaves

()

(.) (.) (.) (.)

, , , ,

(.) (.) (.) (.)

, , , ,

(.) (.) (.) (.)

  , ,

(.) (.) (.) (.)

   

(.) (.) (.) (.)

Captaincy of Pará, 1773– 1797

   

, , , ,

, , , ,

Captaincy of São José do Rio Negro, 1773–1795

   

, , , ,

, , , ,

(.) (.) (.) (.)

notes: Percentages may not add up to 100 due to rounding. In the censuses of the 1770s and 1780s, Indian migrants were included in the aldeado population figures (“Aldeado Indians or Those Established in the Villages”), whereas in in the 1790s, migrants had their own subcategory (“Indians from Other Villages Existing in Th is One”) under the general heading of Agregados, or attached residents, though not many villages reported numbers for this category. For consistency in this table, they have been moved back to the Índios Aldeados category. “Free Non-Aldeados” had their own category in the censuses and included white settlers, a growing number of Indian and mixed-race people who were not considered aldeados (see Chapter 5), and a very small number of free blacks. sources: AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 72, Doc. 6100 (for 1773), Cx. 85, Doc. 6940 (for 1778), and Cx. 94, Doc. 7509 (for 1785); BNRJ, Manuscritos, I-17, 12, 22 (for 1791 and 1795); AIHGB, IM 5, 5, 1 (for 1797).

217

Appendix C Ethnic Groups Appearing in Documents at the Arquivo Público do Estado do Pará (APEP) in Belém, Brazil

This list of archival sources for native Amazonian history during the Directorate period (1757–1798) is offered in the hope that it will prove useful to ethnographers, historians, and modern-day descendants of indigenous groups. It is not an exhaustive list of all the ethnic groups (or Indian “nations”) mentioned in documents at APEP, which would be impossible for one scholar to assemble. Ethnic groups discussed in the book are listed here in bold and can be found in the Index. The order of the list is as follows: ethnic group/possible spelling variations (river region, geograph ical area, or colonial settlement associated with that group in the document[s]): APEP codex and document numbers. For published historical documents on many of these groups, see Antonio Porro, Dicionário etno-histórico da Amazônia colonial (São Paulo: Editora da Universidade de São Paulo, 2007), 13–112. For a discussion of ethnic categories as imprecise but historically meaningful in the context of colonial Brazil, see John M. Monteiro, Tupis, tapuias e historiadores: Estudos de história indígena a do indigenismo (São Paulo: Universidade Estadual de Campinas, 2001), 57–58. Acaripi (Rio Branco): Cod. 450, Doc. 29 Apama (Almeirim; Outeiro): Cod. 131, Doc. 56; Cod. 157, Doc. 65; Cod. 424, Doc. 48; Cod. 449, Doc. 43 Apina (Almeirim): Cod. 131, Doc. 56; Cod. 151, Doc. 127; Cod. 424, Doc. 48 Apinajé (Rio Araguaia): Cod. 447, Docs. 33 and 34 Arámary/Airary (Rio Tocantins; Baião): Cod. 283, Doc. 27; Cod. 372, Doc. 23 Ariquena (Portel): Cod. 151, Docs. 124 and 134; Cod. 286, Doc. 2; Cod. 331, Doc. 39; Cod. 451, Doc. 32 Aritu/Aretú (Rio Curuá; Monte Alegre; Vila Franca): Cod. 167, Doc. 134; Cod. 470, Doc. 56

219

220

Appendix C

Arû/Aru (Rio Tapajós; Monte Alegre; Vila Franca): Cod. 268, Docs. 28 and 93; Cod. 284, Doc. 17; Cod. 373, Docs. 27, 44, and 55; Cod. 465, Doc. 109 Aruã/Aroa/Aroam (Chaves; Ilha de Marajó): Cod. 116, Doc. 27; Cod. 325, Doc. 36 Arupâ/Urupa (Aveiro; Rio Tapajós): Cod. 246A, Docs. 45 and 46; Cod. 442, Doc. 4; Cod. 465, Doc. 44; Cod. 497, Docs. 32 and 33; Cod. 512, Doc. 2 Baré (Rio Ixié; Rio Japurá; Barcelos; Borba; Penha Longa): Cod. 99, Doc. 27; Cod. 100, Doc. 57; Cod. 151, Doc. 15; Cod. 451, Doc. 13; Cod. 418, Doc. 5; Cod. 429, Doc. 5; Cod. 451, Doc. 13 Cambeba/Kambeba (Rio Solimões; Castro de Avelãs): Cod. 107, Doc. 18; Cod. 156, Doc. 37; Cod. 389, Doc. 28 Canicaru (Barcelos): Cod. 99, Docs. 29 and 32 Cauiyari (Rio Calanari): Cod. 435, Doc. 88 Carajá/Karajá (Rio Tocantins; Baião): Cod. 71, Doc. 80; Cod. 271, Docs. 11 and 24; Cod. 447, Docs. 5, 33, and 34 Caramuara (Rio Xingú; Souzel): Cod. 232, Doc. 85; Cod. 244, Doc. 18; Cod. 257, Doc. 13 Caripuna/Karipuna (Rio Branco): Cod. 407, Docs. 1 and 9; Cod. 440, Doc. 30 Curihé (Rio Curuá; Vila Franca): Cod. 167, Doc. 134 Curutu (Rio Japurá): Cod. 435, unnumbered doc.; Cod. 451, Docs. 11 and 29 Juma/Iuma/Yuma (Moura; Airão): Cod. 217, Doc. 20; Cod. 241, Doc. 33; Cod. 421, Doc. 17; Cod. 443, Doc. 21 Juri/Jury/Iuri/Yuri (Rio Xingú; Pombal; Olivença; Castro de Avelães): Cod. 131, Doc. 109; Cod. 217, Docs. 25 and 36; Cod. 241, Doc. 33; Cod. 257, Docs. 13, 27, 28, and 50; Cod. 395, Doc. 39; Cod. 450, Doc. 15 Juruna/Jeruna/Yuruna (Souzel, Pombal, Rio Xingú): Cod. 201, Docs. 41 and 44; Cod. 241, Doc. 33; Cod. 244, Doc. 11; Cod. 257, Docs. 13 and unnumbered doc.; Cod. 449, Doc. 34; Cod. 472, Doc. 46 Macuxi/Macushí/Makushi (Rio Branco): Cod. 407, Doc. 1; Cod. 440, Doc. 30; Cod. 451, Doc. 10 Mamajana/Mamaiana/Mamayaná (Portel): Cod. 331, Doc. 39 Manajo (Serzedelo): Cod. 341, Doc. 58 Marabitana (Rio Negro): Cod. 99, Doc. 94; Cod. 122, Doc. 22; Cod. 128, Doc. 14; Cod. 151, Doc. 131 Mawé/Maué/Mague/Mauhe (Silves; Aveiro; Monte Alegre; Alter do Chão; Vila Franca; Pinhel): Cod. 240, Doc. 37; Cod. 260, Doc. 47; Cod. 268, Doc. 4; Cod. 316, Doc. 11; Cod. 344, Doc. 20; Cod. 372, Doc. 13; Cod. 406, Doc. 23; Cod. 409, Doc. 69; Cod. 419, Doc. 44; Cod. 431, Doc. 13; Cod. 442, Doc. 4; Cod. 465, Doc. 34; Cod. 465, Docs. 44 and 112; Cod. 500, Doc. 1 Mundurucú/Munduruku (Rio Tapajós; Rio Xingú; Rio Japurá; Santarém; Aveiro; Vila Franca; Pinhel): Cod. 236, Doc. 64; Cod. 258, Doc. 52; Cod. 260, Docs. 6, 21, and 33; Cod. 263, Doc. 11; Cod. 268, Doc. 28; Cod. 271, Doc. 9; Cod. 283, Doc. 44; Cod. 118, Doc. 119; Cod. 298, Doc. 66; Cod. 329, Doc. 29; Cod. 344, Docs. 55 and 61;

Appendix C

221

Cod. 353, Doc. 45; Cod. 354, Doc. 62; Cod. 367, Doc. 11; Cod. 408, Doc. 123; Cod. 447, Docs. 65 and 75; Cod. 449, Docs. 8 and 34; Cod. 458, Docs. 44 and 45; Cod. 465, Docs. 17, 44, and 79; Cod. 470, Docs. 56, 60, 67, 79, 108, 109, 110, 111, 118, 123, and 128 Mura (Rio Negro; Rio Japurá; Rio Solimões; Rio Urubú; Rio Issá; Rio Madeira; Lago Amaná; Maripi; Nogueira; Alvelos; Airão; Borba; Mancapuru; Silves): Cod. 96, Docs. 3 and 5; Cod. 133, Docs. 57 and 59; Cod. 155, Doc. 68; Cod. 182, Doc. 6; Cod. 190, Doc. 4; Cod. 198, Docs. 18, 19, and 52; Cod. 204, Docs. 32 and 56; Cod. 234, Doc. 33; Cod. 258, Docs. 35 and 36; Cod. 271, Doc. 111; Cod. 269, Doc. 9; Cod. 288, Doc. 36; Cod. 294, Docs. 46 and 63; Cod. 298, Doc. 58; Cod. 312, Docs. 5 and 14; Cod. 324, Doc. 41; Cod. 329, Docs. 18 and 29; Cod. 340, Docs. 9 and 25; Cod. 346, Doc. 24; Cod. 353, Docs. 14, 30, and 65; Cod. 354, Doc. 32; Cod. 370, Doc. 12; Cod. 389, Doc. 28; Cod. 407, Doc. 10; Cod. 418, Doc. 5; Cod. 419, Docs. 8, 42, and 44; Cod. 420, Docs. 14, 27, 32, and 49; Cod. 425, unnumbered doc.; Cod. 421, Docs. 17, 55, 75, and 143; Cod. 429, Doc. 5; Cod. 430, Docs. 10, 37, and 57; Cod. 431, Docs. 15, 33, 36, 47, and 47; Cod. 435, unnumbered doc. and Docs. 50, 72, 93; Cod. 440, Doc. 41 and unnumbered doc.; Cod. 443, Docs. 21, 37, and 60; Cod. 451, Doc. 18; Cod. 454, Docs. 3, 14, and 56; Cod. 470, Docs. 38 and 82 Pacá (Olivença): Cod. 395, Doc. 39 Pajaraca/Pajeruca (Rio Xingú; Souzel): Cod. 244, Doc. 18; Cod. 257, Doc. 13 Pama (Rio Madeira; Borba): Cod. 100, Doc. 55; Cod. 126, Doc. 17; Cod. 128, Doc. 2; Cod. 134, Doc. 74 Paranana (Rio Catrimane; Rio Branco): Cod. 440, Doc. 41A Parianâ/Pariana (Porto de Moz): Cod. 140, Docs. 44 and 59 Passé/Pacé (Olivença; Fonte Boa): Cod. 107, Doc. 18; Cod. 156, Doc. 37; Cod. 398, unnumbered doc.; Cod. 418, Doc. 5; Cod. 451, Doc. 11 Peralviana/Paraviana/Paravilhana/Parauiana (Rio Branco): Cod. 407, Docs. 1, 47, and 61; Cod. 418, Doc. 5; Cod. 419, Docs. 37 and 48; Cod. 421, Docs. 1 and 21; Cod. 430, Docs. 33, 60, and unnumbered doc. Perû (Portel): Cod. 342, Doc. 23; Cod. 346, Doc. 21 Pexuna/Pixuna (Rio Pureo; Rio Juruna; Tomar): Cod. 450, Doc. 14; Cod. 451, Docs. 11 and 34 Purus/Purupuru (Rio Purus; Silves): Cod. 157, Doc. 21; Cod. 429, Doc. 5; Cod. 431, Doc. 13 Sapupé/Sapopé (Óbidos): Cod. 240, Doc. 40 Tapijara (Portel): Cod. 234, Docs. 5 and 45; Cod. 286, Docs. 2 and 14; Cod. 331, Doc. 39 Ticuna/Tucuna/Toscuna (Olivença): Cod. 107, Doc. 18; Cod. 312, Doc. 42; Cod. 408, unnumbered doc. Torá (Borba): Cod. 421, Doc. 17; Cod. 443, Doc. 21 Trocana (Ponta de Pedras): Cod. 141, Doc. 26

222

Appendix C

Uapixana/Uapexana/Wapichána/Apixana (Rio Branco): Cod. 407, Doc. 1; Cod. 421, Docs. 121, 150, and 152; Cod. 430, unnumbered doc. and Docs. 60 and 61; Cod. 440, Doc. 30; Cod. 441, Doc. 20; Cod. 450, Doc. 25; Cod. 451, Docs. 59, 69, and 76 Xumana/Chumana/Jumana/Yumana (Olivença; Porto de Moz, Rio Japurá): Cod. 107, Doc. 18; Cod. 142, unnumbered doc.; Cod. 431, Doc. 47; Cod. 435, unnumbered doc.; Cod. 454, Doc. 3

Notes

Introduction 1. Laura German, “Ethnoscientific Understandings of Amazonian Dark Earths,” in Amazonian Dark Earths: Origins, Properties, Management, ed. Johannes Lehmann, Dirse C. Kern, Bruno Glaser, and William I. Woods (Boston: Kluwer Academic, 2003), 185. 2. An important exception is Victor Leonardi, Os historiadores e os rios: Natureza e ruína na Amazônia brasileira (Brasília: Editora da Universidade de Brasília, 1999), which considers more complex causes for Airão’s abandonment and offers a discussion of its deeper history. 3. The phrase “counterfeit paradise” comes from Betty Meggers, whose Amazonia: Man and Culture in a Counterfeit Paradise (Chicago: Atherton, 1971) was one of the most widely read works of Amazonian anthropology in the twentieth century. 4. Euclides da Cunha, The Amazon: Land Without History, trans. Ronald Sousa (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006). 5. On stereotypes of native “inconstancy,” ubiquitous in missionary accounts from early colonial Brazil, see Eduardo Viveiros de Castro, The Inconstancy of the Indian Soul: The Encounter of Catholics and Cannibals in 16th- Century Brazil (Chicago: Prickly Paradigm Press, 2011). 6. See, for example, Robin L. Anderson, Colonization as Exploitation in the Amazon Rain Forest, 1758–1911 (Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 1999), 29, 39; Colin M. MacLachlan, “The Indian Directorate: Forced Acculturation in Portuguese America,” The Americas 28, no. 4 (1972): 387; Caio Prado Júnior, The Colonial Background of Modern Brazil (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1967), 243– 244, 249; Celso Furtado, The Economic Growth of Brazil (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1963), 141–154. 7. Or its historically minded anthropologist, as it turned out: Mark Harris, Rebellion on the Amazon: Race, Popular Culture and the Cabanagem in the North of Brazil,

223

224

Notes to Introduction

1798–1840 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010). In many ways, Harris has answered the call for more sophisticated research issued by David Cleary in his 1998 article “ ‘Lost Altogether to the Civilised World’: Race and the Cabanagem in Northern Brazil, 1750–1850,” Comparative Studies in Society and History 40, no. 1 (1998): 109–135. 8. Capitan Manoel José da Costa Guimarães to President Francisco Soares d’Andrea, District of Melgaço, April 30, 1839, Arquivo Público do Estado do Pará (APEP), Cod. 876, Doc. 108. 9. This view is stated explicitly in Robin Anderson, “The Caboclo as Revolutionary: The Cabanagem Revolt of 1835–1836,” in The Amazon Caboclo: Historical and Contemporary Perspectives, vol. 32 of Studies in Third World Societies, ed. Eugene Parker (Williamsburg, VA: College of William and Mary, 1985), 82–83. On the historiography of the rebellion, see Luis Balkar Sá Peixoto Pinheiro, Visões da Cabanagem: Uma revolta popular e suas representações na historiografia (Manaus: Valer Editora, 2001). 10. See, for example, Eric B. Ross, “The Evolution of the Amazon Peasantry,” Journal of Latin American Studies 10, no. 2 (1978): 206–207; Eduardo Galvão, Santos e visagens: Um estudo da vida religiosa de Itá, Amazonas (São Paulo: Companhia Editora Nacional, 1955), 184–185. 11. Hugh Raffles, In Amazonia: A Natural History (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2002); Mark Harris, Life on the Amazon: The Anthropology of a Brazilian Peasant Village (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000); Stephen Nugent, “Whither O Campesinato? Historical Peasantries of Brazilian Amazonia,” Journal of Peasant Studies 29, no. 3–4 (2002): 162–189; Nugent, Amazonian Caboclo Society: An Essay on Invisibility and Peasant Economy (Oxford: Berg, 1993); Candace Slater, Dance of the Dolphin: Transformation and Disenchantment in the Amazonian Imagination (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994); Cristina Adams, Rui Murrieta, Walter Neves, and Mark Harris, eds., Amazon Peasant Societies in a Changing Environment: Political Ecology, Invisibility and Modernity in the Rainforest (New York: Springer, 2009); Omaira Bolaños, “Redefining Identities, Redefining Landscapes: Indigenous Identity and Land Rights Struggles in the Brazilian Amazon,” Journal of Cultural Geography 28, no. 1 (2011), 45– 72. 12. “Mulato” refers to someone of mixed European and African descent, mameluco is a mixture of Indian and European; and cafuzo is a mixture of African and Indian. Among the five available relações nominais de rebeldes presos, I examined APEP Cods. 1024, 1025, 1004, and 1040; the fifth, Cod. 1014, has been taken out of circulation. John Chasteen examined three of the APEP codices and one published prisoner list to find a total of 1,405 individuals imprisoned between 1836 and 1840. Of these, 27 percent were Indians, 25 percent were mulatos, 17 percent were white, 15 percent were mamelucos, 9 percent were cafuzos, and 7 percent were blacks (these are my calculations based on the data he presented for each of the four lists). John Chasteen, “Cabanos and Farrapos: Brazilian Nativism in Regional Perspective, 1822–1850,” Locus 7, no. 1 (1994): 31–46; table appears on 45. 13. At the time of the Cabanagem, Pará was joined with Amazonas (formerly the subordinate Rio Negro captaincy) to form one much larger province, with Amazonas

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categorized as one of three comarcas, or judicial districts. Amazonas became a separate province in 1850. 14. There are two extensive descriptions of settlements located upriver, in the Rio Negro captaincy, both from the late eighteenth century. One is by the Portuguese naturalist Alexandre Rodrigues Ferreira, “Diário da viagem philosóphica pela Capitania de São José do Rio Negro,” Revista Trimensal do Instituto Histórico e Geográfico Brasileiro 48–51 (1885–1888); the other is by a royal magistrate, Francisco Xavier Ribeiro de Sampaio, on his official inspection tour, Diário da viagem que em visita, e correição das povoações da Capitania de São José do Rio Negro que fez o Ouvidor, e Intendente Geral da mesma, Francisco Xavier Ribeiro de Sampaio, no ano de 1774–1775 (Lisbon: Academia Real das Sciencias, 1825). There are no equivalent descriptions of settlements in the downriver captaincy of Pará, though many are mentioned in passing in José Monteiro de Noronha, Roteiro da viagem da cidade do Pará até as últimas colônias do sertão da província (1768), ed. Antonio Porro (São Paulo: Editora da Universidade de São Paulo, 2006). Among the many nineteenth-century travel accounts, Henry Walter Bates’s description of Amazonian settlements stands out for its level of detail and perceptiveness, honed by his many years of residence in the region (1848–1859): The Naturalist on the River Amazon: A Record of Adventures, Habits of Animals, Sketches of Brazilian and Indian Life, and Aspects of Nature Under the Equator, During Eleven Years of Travel (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009). 15. João Vasco Manoel de Braum, “Descripção chorographica do estado do GramPará que por ordem alphabetica descreveu . . . em o anno de 1780,” Revista Trimensal do Instituto Histórico, Geográfico e Ethnographico do Brasil 36 (1873): 269–322; Antonio Ladislau M. Baena, Ensaio corográfico sobre a Província do Pará (Brasília: Senado Federal, 2004); Ignacio Accioli de Cerqueira e Silva, Corografia Paraense, ou, descripção física, histórica, e política da província do Gram-Pará (Bahia: Typologia do Diário, 1833). 16. The directors’ reports and other domestic correspondence can be found at the Arquivo Público do Estado do Pará (APEP) in Belém, the largest repository of colonial Amazonian documents in Brazil. Most appear in the Correspondência de Diversos com o Governo series. Each of the roughly 400 codices of the series contains dozens or even hundreds of documents. The reports were most consistently submitted to the governor between 1760 and 1798, with the greatest number concentrated in the 1770s. 17. Barbara A. Sommer, “Negotiated Settlements: Native Amazonians and Portuguese Policy in Pará, Brazil, 1758–1798” (PhD diss., University of New Mexico, 2000); Ângela Domingues, Quando os índios eram vassalos: Colonização e relações de poder no Norte do Brasil na segunda metade do século XVIII (Lisbon: Comissão Nacional para as Comemorações dos Descobrimentos Portugueses, 2000); Patrícia Maria Melo Sampaio, “Espelhos Partidos: Etnia, legislação e desigualdade na colônia sertões do Grão-Pará, c. 1755–1823” (PhD diss., Universidade Federal Fluminense, 2001); Mauro Cezar Coelho, “Do sertão para o mar: Um estudo sobre a experiência Portuguesa na América, a partir da Colônia: O caso do Diretório dos Índios (1751–1798)” (PhD diss., Universidade de São Paulo, 2005). The Directorate was extended to the Estado do Brasil in 1758. See Maria

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Regina Celestino de Almeida, Metamorfoses indígenas: Identidade e cultura nas aldeias coloniais do Rio de Janeiro (Rio de Janeiro: Arquivo Nacional, 2003); Isabelle Braz Peixoto da Silva, Vilas de Índios no Ceará Grande: Dinâmicas locais sob o Diretório Pombalino (Campinas: Pontes Editores, 2006); Elisa Frühauf Garcia, As diversas formas de ser índio: Políticas indígenas e políticas indigenistas no extremo sul da América portuguesa (Rio de Janeiro: Arquivo Nacional, 2009). 18. For the perspective that the Directorate (in particular) spelled the end of Indian autonomy, see Dauril Alden, “Indian Versus Black Slavery in the State of Maranhão During the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries,” Bibliotheca Americana 1, no. 3 (1983): 138–139; John Hemming, Amazon Frontier: The Defeat of the Brazilian Indians (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1987), chap. 3; and Hal Langfur, The Forbidden Lands: Colonial Identity, Frontier Violence, and the Persistence of Brazil’s Eastern Indians, 1750–1830 (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2006), 61, where the application of the Directorate to the captaincy of Minas Gerais is briefly discussed. 19. The best study of the involuntary dislocation of native groups by colonial slave traders and missionaries is the unpublished dissertation of David G. Sweet, “A Rich Realm of Nature Destroyed: The Middle Amazon Valley, 1640–1750” (PhD diss., University of Wisconsin, 1974). Works focusing on Indians’ mobility as a means of re sistance to colonial settlement and administration include Flávio dos Santos Gomes, “A ‘Safe Haven’: Runaway Slaves, Mocambos, and Borders in Colonial Amazonia, Brazil,” Hispanic American Historical Review 82, no. 3 (2002): 469–498; Francisco Jorge dos Santos, Além da conquista: Guerras e rebeliões na Amazônia pombalina (Manaus: Universidade do Amazonas, 1999). 20. Almeida, Metamorfoses indígenas. 21. For important parallels in Spanish America— of Indians moving in locally sanctioned ways, forging new relationships of reciprocity with colonial officials while retaining ties with their communities of origin— see Th ierry Saignes, Caciques, Tribute and Migration in the Southern Andes: Indian Society and the Seventeenth- Century Order (London: University of London, 1985); Ann M. Wightman, Indigenous Migration and Social Change: The Forasteros of Cuzco, 1570–1720 (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1990); David J. Robinson, ed., Migration in Colonial Spanish America (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990); Karen Vieira Powers, Andean Journeys: Migration, Ethnogenesis, and the State in Colonial Quito (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1995); Jonathan D. Amith, The Möbius Strip: A Spatial History of Colonial Society in Guerrero, Mexico (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2005). 22. Stuart B. Schwartz, “Denounced by Lévi-Strauss: CLAH Luncheon Address,” The Americas 59, no. 1 (2002): 6, citing the contributions of Neil Whitehead. See also the assessment of John Monteiro that “until at least the decade of the 1980s, the history of Brazilian Indians was limited basically to the chronicle of their extinction” (Monteiro, Tupis, tapuias e historiadores: Estudos de história indígena a do indigenismo [São Paulo: Universidade Estadual de Campinas, 2001], 4). 23. Peter Gow, An Amazonian Myth and Its History (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 16.

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24. Walter Johnson, “On Agency,” Journal of Social History 37, no. 1 (2003): 113–124; Rebecca Scott, “Small-Scale Dynamics of Large-Scale Processes,” American Historical Review 105, no. 2 (2000): 472–479. Anthropologists have suggested that indigenous people do not share Western notions of social action and agency and that, in fact, they may have very different ideas about the transformative effects of human action. For a discussion, see Carlos Fausto and Michael Heckenberger, “Introduction: Indigenous History and the History of the ‘Indians,’ ” in Time and Memory in Indigenous Amazonia: Anthropological Perspectives, ed. Carlos Fausto and Michael Heckenberger (Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 2007), 11–15; Frank Salomon, “Testimonies: The Making and Reading of Native South American Historical Sources” in South America, vol. 3, pt. 1 of The Cambridge History of Native American Peoples, ed. Frank Salomon and Stuart B. Schwartz (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 51–57. 25. Brooke Larson, “Andean Communities, Political Cultures, and Markets: The Changing Contours of a Field,” in Ethnicity, Markets, and Migration in the Andes: At the Crossroads of History and Anthropology, ed. Brooke Larson and Olivia Harris (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1995), 21. 26. Steve J. Stern, “The Variety and Ambiguity of Native Andean Intervention in European Colonial Markets,” in Ethnicity, Markets, and Migration in the Andes: At the Crossroads of History and Anthropology, ed. Brooke Larson and Olivia Harris (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1995), 90. 27. Kevin Gosner, “Indigenous Production and Consumption of Cotton in Eighteenth-Century Chiapas: Re-Evaluating the Coercive Practices of the Reparto de Efectos,” in New World, First Nations: Native Peoples of Mesoamerica and the Andes Under Colonial Rule, ed. David Patrick Cahill and Blanca Tovías (Brighton, UK: Sussex Academic Press, 2006), 139. Gosner is responding, in particular, to the work of Jeremy Baskes: “Coerced or Voluntary? The Repartimiento and Market Participation of Peasants in Late Colonial Oaxaca,” Journal of Latin American Studies 28, no. 1 (1996): 1–28. 28. For an overview of ethnohistorical methods, see James Axtell, “Ethnohistory: An Historian’s Viewpoint,” Ethnohistory 26, no. 1 (1979): 1–13. 29. John M. Monteiro, “Rethinking Amerindian Re sistance and Per sistence in Colonial Portuguese America,” in New Approaches to Resistance in Brazil and Mexico, ed. John Gledhill and Patience A. Schell (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2012), 26. 30. Laura Rival, Trekking Through History: The Huaorani of Amazonian Ecuador (New York: Columbia University Press, 2002), 15. See also Aparecida Vilaça, Strange Enemies: Indigenous Agency and Scenes of Encounters in Amazonia (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2010), esp. chap. 11; Marcia Leila de Castro Pereira, “Rios de história: Guerra, tempo e espaço entre os Mura do baixo Madeira” (PhD diss., Universidade de Brasília, 2009); Miguel N. Alexiades, ed., Mobility and Migration in Indigenous Amazonia: Contemporary Ethnoecological Perspectives (New York: Berghahn Books, 2009). I thank Mark Harris for encouraging me to delve further into the ethnographic literature. 31. See note 11 for the relevant literature on modern Amazonian peasantries.

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32. Alexandre Rodrigues Ferreira, “Diário da viagem philosóphica pela Capitania de São José do Rio Negro,” Revista Trimensal do Instituto Histórico e Geográfico Brasileiro 48 (1885): 65. 33. On the density and complexity of precontact populations along the Amazonian floodplain, see William Denevan, ed., The Native Population of the Americas in 1492 (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1992); Anna C. Roosevelt, ed., Amazonian Indians from Prehistory to the Present: Anthropological Perspectives (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1994); Michael Heckenberger, The Ecology of Power: Culture, Place, and Personhood in the Southern Amazon, A.D. 1000–2000 (New York: Routledge, 2005). 34. Daniel H. Usner Jr., “The Frontier Exchange Economy of the Lower Mississippi Valley in the Eighteenth Century,” William and Mary Quarterly 44, no. 2 (1987): 167–168. 35. Brooke Larson, Cochabamba, 1550–1900: Colonialism and Agrarian Transformation in Bolivia, exp. ed. (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1998), 351–354. See also Thierry Saignes, “Indian Migration and Social Change in Seventeenth-Century Charcas,” in Ethnicity, Markets, and Migration in the Andes: At the Crossroads of History and Anthropology, ed. Brooke Larson and Olivia Harris (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1995), 187–189. 36. Prohibitions were passed in 1686 and 1720: “Livro Grosso do Maranhão,” in Anais da Biblioteca Nacional, vol. 67 (Rio de Janeiro: Divisão de Obras Raras e Publicações, 1948), 172. Other possible translations of sertão include backlands, wilderness, and frontier. On the various meanings attached to the term and its usage among colonial authors as well as historians, see Langfur, Forbidden Lands, 4, 292–294. For an early, influential treatment of the theme of dynamism and movement along Brazil’s interior rivers and trails, see Sérgio Buarque de Holanda, Monções (Rio de Janeiro: C.E.B., 1945). 37. Langfur, Forbidden Lands, 49–54. 38. This estimate is for the high-water season; during the low-water season, the river network usually contracts by more than half, cutting off large swathes of territory from communication. See David McGrath, “The Paraense Traders: Small-Scale, LongDistance Trade in the Brazilian Amazon” (PhD diss., University of Wisconsin–Madison, 1989), 86. As McGrath notes, these navigability estimates would be even higher for the shallow-draft vessels of traditional Amazonia (47). 39. The evidence for such activities in the eighteenth century is thin, but we do know that native residents of the villages to the east of Belém (Cintra, Vila Nova d’El Rei, and others) periodically maintained the creeks that opened access to river routes to Maranhão (see Ouvidor Geral Feliciano Ramos Nobre Mourão, Cametá, March 29, 1764, APEP, Cod. 145, Doc. 14). By the nineteenth century, many more sources describe these kinds of “fluvial manipulations” by local residents; see Hugh Raffles and Antoinette WinklerPrins, “Further Reflections on Amazonian Environmental History: Transformations of Rivers and Streams,” Latin American Research Review 38, no. 3 (2003): 180 (“intimate everyday relationship with rivers”); Raffles, In Amazonia, esp. chaps. 2 and 3. 40. On seasonality, see McGrath, “Paraense Traders,” 81–87; Hilgard O’Reilly Sternberg, A água e o homem na várzea do Careiro, 2nd ed. (Belém: Museu Paraense Emilio

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Goeldi, 1998), esp. 14–15; Mark Harris, “The Rhythm of Life on the Amazon Floodplain: Seasonality and Sociality in a Riverine Village,” Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 4, no. 1 (1998): 65–82. 41. For insights on this topic in other colonial contexts, see Jean M. O’Brien, Dispossession by Degrees: Indian Land and Identity in Natick, Massachusetts, 1650–1790 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 17–22 (quote is on 21); Paige Raibmon, “Meanings of Mobility on the Northwest Coast,” in New Histories for Old: Changing Perspectives on Canada’s Native Pasts, ed. Ted Binnema and Susan Neylan (Vancouver: University of British Colombia, 2007), 175–195. 42. Nádia Farage, As muralhas dos sertões: Os povos índígenas no Rio Branco e a colonização (Rio de Janeiro: ANPOCS, 1991). 43. It should be noted that the Portuguese Amazon (consisting of the captaincy of Grão-Pará and, after 1755, the subordinate captaincy of São José do Rio Negro) was ruled directly from Lisbon for much of the colonial period, along with the captaincy of Maranhão, with which it was administratively linked. These northern captaincies only joined the Estado do Brasil in 1774. See Andrée Mansuy-Diniz Silva, “Imperial Reorga nization, 1750–1808,” in Colonial Brazil, ed. Leslie Bethell (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987), 253–254. 44. On the geopolitical importance of Amazonian rivers during this period and the intensification of efforts to turn those strategic routes to state purposes, see David Michael Davidson, “Rivers and Empire: The Madeira Route and the Incorporation of the Brazilian Far West, 1737–1808” (PhD diss., Yale University, 1970). A broader view of geopolitics during the period can be found in Kenneth Maxwell, Conflicts and Conspiracies: Brazil and Portugal, 1750–1808 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1973). 45. Comparative work on secularization processes in Spanish and Portuguese America is lacking. The best overview that I have found for Spanish America is David J. Weber, Bárbaros: Spaniards and Their Savages in the Age of Enlightenment (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2005), 102–137, which points to significant regional variation in outcomes. 46. An exception was made for recently incorporated Indians, who received the status of wards of the state for a variable number of years. 47. David Cleary, “Towards an Environmental History of the Amazon: From Prehistory to the Nineteenth Century,” Latin American Research Review 36, no. 2 (2001): 66– 67; Nelly Arvelo-Jiménez and Horacio Biord, “The Impact of Conquest on Contemporary Indigenous Peoples of the Guiana Shield: The System of Orinoco Regional Interdependence,” in Amazonian Indians from Prehistory to the Present: Anthropological Perspectives, ed. Anna C. Roosevelt (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1994), 55– 78.

Chapter 1 1. The Conde dos Arcos, Governor Marcos de Noronha e Brito, to the Visconde de Anadia (João Rodrigues de Sá e Melo), Belém, October 19, 1804, AIHGB, ARQ 1,1,4, fls. 319–321v.

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2. João Severino Maciel da Costa, quoted in Carlos de Araújo Moreira Neto, Índios da Amazônia, de maioria a minoria (Petrópolis: Vozes, 1988), 28. 3. Roberta Marx Delson, New Towns for Colonial Brazil: Spatial and Social Planning of the Eighteenth Century (Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University, 1979); Ângela Domingues, “Urbanismo e colonização na Amazônia em meados de setecentos: A aplicação das reformas pombalinas na capitania de S. José do Rio Negro,” Revista de Ciências Históricas 10 (1995): 263–273; Renata Malcher de Araújo, As cidades da Amazónia no século XVIII: Belém, Macapá e Mazagão (Porto: Faculdade de Arquitectura da Universidade do Porto, 1998). The case study by Patrícia Maria Melo Sampaio of the Rio Negro village of Poiares acknowledges its missionary origins but refers repeatedly to its inherent “artificiality” and “transitoriness” as a village “created by the colonial state” (Sampaio, “Cidades desaparecidas: Poiares, século 18,” Somanlu 3, no. 2 [2004]: 73–100). Works that discuss the urban reforms in the context of a broader discussion of Directorate policy include Robin L. Anderson, Colonization as Exploitation in the Amazon Rain Forest, 1758–1911 (Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 1999), 14–15, 39; Mauro Cezar Coelho, “Do sertão para o mar: Um estudo sobre a experiência Portuguesa na América, a partir da Colônia: O caso do Diretório dos Índios (1751–1798)” (PhD diss., Universidade de São Paulo, 2005). 4. Roberta Marx Delson asserts that, unlike their colleagues in Europe, the Pombaline-era corps of engineers in Brazil “could work in unpopulated areas and create new towns virtually tabula rasa” (Delson, “The Beginnings of Professionalization in the Brazilian Military: The Eighteenth Century Corps of Engineers,” The Americas 51, no. 4 [1995]: 570). Th is statement is not accurate for the Portuguese Amazon, except for a few frontier areas that missionaries had not yet penetrated by the mid-eighteenth century, such as the Rio Branco and the area around the fort of São Gabriel das Cachoeiras. 5. According to a nearly comprehensive list drawn up around the time of secularization, there were eighteen missions under Jesuit administration; twenty-five under the Franciscans (of these, nine were administered by the Province of Santo Antônio, seven by the Capuchins of Conceição, and nine by the Province of Piedade); two under the Mercedarians; and sixteen under the Carmelites (Bishop Miguel de Bulhões to Secretary of State Tomé Joaquim da Costa Corte Real, Belém, July 11, 1758, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 43, Doc. 3953). Not included on that list were a Jesuit aldeia near the capital, renamed Benfica upon its secularization, and a mission called the Aldeia dos Guajarás (later, Condeixa). A chronology of the arrival of different religious orders can be found in Carlos de Araújo Moreira Neto, “Os principais grupos missionários que atuaram na Amazônia brasileira entre 1607 e 1759,” in História da Igreja na Amazônia, ed. Eduardo Hoornaert (Petrópolis: Vozes, 1992), 63–105. 6. On the Repartição of 1693 and the amendments that followed later in the decade, see David G. Sweet, “A Rich Realm of Nature Destroyed: The Middle Amazon Valley, 1640–1750” (PhD diss., University of Wisconsin, 1974), 637. A more detailed overview of where and when the different orders operated is provided in Almir Diniz de

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Carvalho Júnior, “Índios Cristãos: A conversão dos gentios da Amazônia Portuguesa (1653–1769)” (PhD diss., Universidade Estadual de Campinas, 2005), 90– 97. For an insider’s view of the haphazard way in which the division of mission territories occurred, see João Felipe Bettendorff, Crônica da missão dos padres da Companhia de Jesus no Estado do Maranhão, 2nd ed. (Belém: Fundação Cultural do Pará Tancredo Neves/Secretaria do Estado de Cultura, 1990), 542–546. 7. Sweet’s 1974 dissertation anticipated many of the concerns of the “new mission history,” in highlighting connections between missions and other types of colonial settlements; it is still the indispensable secondary source for reconstructing the history of the Amazonian missions (see Sweet, “Rich Realm,” esp. chaps. 6 and 12 on the Mercedarian and Carmelite missions, respectively). For recent works on Latin American mission history that emphasize mobility and interconnectedness over stability and insularity, see Cynthia Radding, Wandering Peoples: Colonialism, Ethnic Spaces, and Ecological Frontiers in Northwestern Mexico, 1700– 1850 (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1997); Susan M. Deeds, Defiance and Deference in Mexico’s Colonial North: Indians Under Spanish Rule in Nueva Vizcaya (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2003); Cecilia Sheridan, Anónimos y Desterrados: La contienda por el “sitio que llaman de Quauyla,” siglos XVI–XVIII (Mexico City: CIESAS, 2000), esp. chap. 4; James Schofield Saeger, The Chaco Mission Frontier: Th e Guaycuruan Experience, 1700– 1800 (Tucson: University of Arizona, 2000). 8. Aside from Sweet’s unpublished study, the literature on the mission period of the Portuguese Amazon is surprisingly slim and mostly limited to political, institutional, or legal themes. Works focusing on the Jesuits include two classics: João Lúcio de Azevedo, Os jesuítas no Grão Pará, suas missões e a colonização (Lisboa: Livraria Editora, 1901) and Serafim Leite, História da Companhia de Jesus no Brasil (São Paulo: Edições Loyola, 2004), originally published in 1943 and based on documentation from Jesuit archives in Rome. More recent contributions include Dauil Alden’s study of the Jesuit order, The Making of an Enterprise: The Society of Jesus in Portugal, Its Empire, and Beyond, 1540–1750 (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1996) and Maria Adelina Amorim’s study of the Franciscans in the north, Os Franciscanos no Maranhão e Grão-Pará: Missão e cultura na primeira metade de seiscentos (Lisbon: Centro de Estudos de História Religiosa, Universidade Católica Portuguesa, 2005). On royal policies toward Amazonian mission Indians, see Mathias Kieman, “The Indian Policy of Portugal in the Amazon Region, 1614– 1693” (PhD diss., Catholic University of America, 1954); José Oscar Beozzo, Leis e regimentos das missões: Política indigenista no Brasil (São Paulo: Edições Loyola, 1983); Moreira Neto, Índios da Amazônia; and the more recent survey of crown policy toward its northern colony up to the early eighteenth century in Rafael Chambouleyron, Povoamento, ocupação e agricultura na Amazônia colonial (1640–1706) (Belém: Açaí/Centro de Memória da Amazônia/UFPA, 2010). See also the recent contribution to institutional history by Márcia Eliane de Souza e Mello, Fé e Império: As juntas das missões nas conquistas portuguesas (Manaus: Editora da Universidade do Amazonas, 2009); and in the realm of cultural history, Carvalho Júnior, “Índios Cristãos.”

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9. The classic study of these processes at one place along the Amazonian floodplain is Hilgard O’Reilly Sternberg, A água e o homem na várzea do Careiro, 2 vols. (Belém: Museu Paraense Emilio Goeldi, 1998). For an anthropological perspective on how seasonal changes in the riverine landscape have shaped notions of landownership among modernday Amazonian peasants, see Mark Harris, “Peasant Riverine Economies and Their Impact in the Lower Amazon,” in Human Impacts on Amazonia: The Role of Traditional Ecological Knowledge in Conservation and Development, ed. Darrell Addison Posey and Michael J. Balick (New York: Columbia University Press, 2006), 222–237. 10. José de Morais, História da Companhia de Jesus na extinta província do Maranhão e Pará (Rio de Janeiro: Editorial Alhambra, 1987), 361. 11. Ibid., 361, 356. The moves of Abacaxis (Serpa) are also described here. 12. The various moves of these two missions, as well as São Paulo dos Cambebas (Olivença), Parauari (Nogueira), Jaú (Airão), and Coari (Alvelos), are recounted in Francisco Xavier Ribeiro de Sampaio, Diário da viagem que em visita, e correição das povoações da Capitania de São José do Rio Negro que fez o Ouvidor, e Intendente Geral da mesma, Francisco Xavier Ribeiro de Sampaio, no ano de 1774–1775 (Lisbon: Academia Real das Ciências, 1825). 13. Morais, História da Companhia de Jesus, 350–351; Leite, História da Companhia de Jesus no Brasil, Tomo III, Livro 3: Pará, 552. 14. Vitoriano Pimentel, “Relação da jornada do Solimões e Rio Negro,” in Das reduções latino-americanas às lutas indígenas atuais, ed. Eduardo Hoonaert (São Paulo: Edições Paulinas, 1982), 185. 15. Richard Kagan, Urban Images of the Hispanic World, 1493–1793 (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2000), 9, 30. 16. Indeed, the geographer Alain Musset has documented many such “nomadic” villages throughout Spanish America—161 of them, accounting for some 300 relocations— as colonial administrators deemed concerns about health and security to be justifiable motives for relocation (Musset, Villes Nomades du Nouveau Monde [Paris: Editions de École des Hautes Etudes en Sciences Sociales, 2002]). 17. Aims might also differ among colonial representatives: mission superiors and individual missionaries sometimes chafed under crown orders to establish aldeias according to geopolitical imperatives or labor distribution priorities, as happened in the case of the Carmelite missions along the Rio Negro and Rio Solimões. On the geopolitical aims behind the assignment of mission fields in 1693, see Sweet, “Rich Realm,” 637. 18. Quoted in Leite, História da Companhia de Jesus no Brasil, Tomo III, Livro 3, 545. Leite notes that Tabapará was very small at the time of secularization, so Governor Francisco Xavier de Mendonça Furtado decided to unite it with the nearby village of Cabu (Colares). 19. Sampaio, Diário da viagem, 57. The village’s previous moves were probably undertaken when it was a mission, as the Directorate-era sources make no mention of them. Sweet speculates that the reason why missions on the Solimões moved so frequently was that they were usually founded at preexisting, seasonal Indian settlements very close to

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the floodplain; when they grew in size and permanence, flooding presented more of a problem. The European inhabitants of these missions were also tormented by the clouds of mosquitoes at these sites and hoped to evade them by moving to new areas (Sweet, “Rich Realm,” 676n37, 75n27). 20. Terra preta is clearly correlated with the sites of pre-Columbian indigenous dwellings, as the soil is almost always laced with ceramic fragments and charcoal. Maps and an explanation of the distribution of the sites are provided in Dirse Clara Kern, Gilma d’Aquino, Tarcísio Ewerton Rodrigues, Francisco Juvenal Lima Frazão, Wim Sombroek, Thomas P. Myers, and Eduardo Góes Neves, “Distribution of Amazonian Dark Earths in the Brazilian Amazon,” in Amazonian Dark Earths: Origins, Properties, Management, ed. Johannes Lehmann, Dirse C. Kern, Bruno Glaser, and William I. Woods (Boston: Kluwer Academic, 2003), 51– 71; see also Thomas P. Myers, William M. Denevan, Antoinette Winklerprins, and Antonio Porro, “Historical Perspectives on Amazonian Dark Earths” in the same volume, 15–28, for a summary of what is known about pre-Columbian exploitation of terra preta deposits. For broader treatments of landscape modifications in the Amazon, see William Denevan, Cultivated Landscapes of Native Amazonia and the Andes: Triumph over the Soil (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001); David Cleary, “Towards an Environmental History of the Amazon: From Prehistory to the Nineteenth Century,” Latin American Research Review 36, no. 2 (2001): 65– 96; Hugh Raffles and Antoinette WinklerPrins, “Further Reflections on Amazonian Environmental History: Transformations of Rivers and Streams,” Latin American Research Review 38, no. 3 (2003): 165–187. 21. Denevan, Cultivated Landscapes, 127–128; Denevan, “A Bluff Model of Riverine Settlement in Prehistoric Amazonia,” Annals of the Association of American Geographers 86, no. 4 (1996): 654– 681. That colonial settlement patterns followed pre-Columbian ones is also noted in Barbara A. Sommer, “Negotiated Settlements: Native Amazonians and Portuguese Policy in Pará, Brazil, 1758–1798” (PhD diss., University of New Mexico, 2000), 96– 97. 22. On modern farming with terra preta, see James Fraser, Thiago Cardoso, André Junqueira, Newton P. S. Falcão, and Charles R. Clement, “Historical Ecology and Dark Earths in Whitewater and Blackwater Landscapes: Comparing the Middle Madeira and Lower Negro Rivers,” in Amazonian Dark Earths: Wim Sombroek’s Vision, ed. William I. Woods, Wenceslau G. Teixeira, Johannes Lehmann, Christoph Steiner, Antoinette WinklerPrins, and Lilian Rebellato (Amsterdam: Springer, 2009), 229–264. 23. It should be noted, however, that even when descimentos targeted groups upriver from the mission, there were large distances to be crossed; the Jesuit João Daniel said that a travel time of fi fteen days or more was considered an ideal distance between Indians’ original territories and the mission, so as to discourage runaways (Daniel, Tesouro descoberto no máximo rio Amazonas, [Rio de Janeiro: Contraponto, 2004], vol. 2, 62). 24. Darrel Addison Posey, “The Perception of Ecological Zones and Natural Resources in the Brazilian Amazon: An Ethnoecology of Lake Coari,” in Indigenous Knowledge and

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Ethics, ed. Kristina Plenderleith (New York: Routledge, 2004), 88–105. See also William Balée, Cultural Forests of the Amazon: A Historical Ecology of People and Their Landscapes (Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press, 2013). 25. David Sweet, “The Ibero-American Frontier Mission in Native American History,” in The New Latin American Mission History, ed. Erick Langer and Robert H. Jackson (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1995), 36. On the importance of river navigability and resource abundance in the spatial organization of modern settlements in the Amazon, see David McGrath, “The Paraense Traders: Small-Scale, Long-Distance Trade in the Brazilian Amazon” (PhD diss., University of Wisconsin–Madison, 1989), 40. 26. Daniel, Tesouro descoberto, vol. 1, 111. Interestingly, a very different account of this move appears in a royal magistrate’s inspection report a few years after secularization. According to this official, the Jesuits had purposely founded the aldeia on the igarapé “in order to remain hidden and out of the way” of those who might try to recruit its Indian residents for ser vice (Ouvidor Geral Feliciano Ramos Nobre Mourão to governor, Cametá, March 29, 1764, APEP, Cod. 145, Doc. 14). Th is account seems less trustworthy, given the prevalence of anti-Jesuit diatribe in the colony in the 1760s. 27. Daniel, Tesouro descoberto, vol. 2, 246. On interethnic warfare, much of it stimulated by the colonial slave trade, see Neil L. Whitehead, “Tribes Make States and States Make Tribes,” in War in the Tribal Zone: Expanding States and Indigenous Warfare, ed. R. Brian Ferguson and Neil L. Whitehead (Santa Fe, NM: School of American Research Press, 1992), 127–150. 28. Morais, História da Companhia de Jesus, 354, 356. 29. Alexandre Rodrigues Ferreira, “Diário da viagem philosóphica pela Capitania de São José do Rio Negro,” Revista Trimensal do Instituto Histórico e Geográfico Brasileiro 48 (1885): 15. Family strife or political rivalries could also cause missions to splinter: the mission of Lamalonga (Dari) was founded when two brothers, both headmen at Bararoá (Tomar), had a falling out (ibid., 38). 30. See also Chapter 3. 31. Regimento e leis sobre as missões do estado do Maranhão e Pará e sobre a liberdade dos índios (Lisbon: Biblioteca Nacional de Lisboa, 1724), Art. 22. 32. Padre Domingos de Araújo, “Chronica da Companhia de Jesus da missão do Maranhão, escripta em 1720,” AIHGB, 1.2.32, Livro 1, Capítulo 13, 87v. See also Bettendorff, Crônica da missão, 24, 482, 606; Daniel, Tesouro descoberto, vol. 2, 74– 75, 244–246. The laws regulating the distribution of mission Indians can be found in the Regimento e leis, Arts. 14 and 15. 33. Manuel de Seixas to king, Belém, June 13, 1719, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 6, Doc. 536. 34. Bettendorff, Crônica da Missão, 588; Daniel, Tesouro descoberto, vol. 1, 385. On the cycle of epidemics that ravaged Amazonian villages during the eighteenth century, see Arthur Vianna, As epidemias no Pará (Belém: Universidade Federal do Pará, 1975); Dauril Alden and Joseph C. Miller, “Out of Africa: The Slave Trade and the Transmission of Smallpox to Brazil, 1560–1831,” Journal of Interdisciplinary History 18, no. 2 (1987): 195–224; and the contemporary description by Theodózio Constantino de Chermont, “Memória

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dos mais terríveis contágios de bexigas e sarampo d’este estado desde o anno de 1720 por diante . . . ,” Revista do Instituto Histórico e Geográfico Brasileiro 48, no. 1 (1885): 28–30. 35. Directorate-era sources that refer to absentees from the “time of the missionaries”— some of whom eventually turned up in the villages again—include Director José Caetano Ferreira da Silva to governor, Souzel, September 2, 1767, APEP, Cod. 177, Doc. 106; Director Aniceto Francisco Carvalho to governor, Portel, December 9, 1771, APEP, Cod. 236, Doc. 67; and Director António Gonçalves de Sousa to governor, Vila Franca, January 15, 1772, APEP, Cod. 241, Doc. 16. 36. For a review of what is known about the complexity of Amazonian livelihoods in the precontact era, see Anna C. Roosevelt, “Amazonian Anthropology: Strategy for a New Synthesis,” in Amazonian Indians from Prehistory to the Present: Anthropological Perspectives, ed. Anna C. Roosevelt (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1994), 1–29. On long-distance pre-Columbian trading networks, see Neil L. Whitehead, “The Ancient Amerindian Polities of the Amazon, the Orinoco, and the Atlantic Coast: A Preliminary Analysis of Their Passage from Antiquity to Extinction,” in Amazonian Indians from Prehistory to the Present: Anthropological Perspectives, ed. Anna C. Roosevelt (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1994), 33–55; Fernando Santos, Etnohistoria de la Alta Amazonia: Siglo XV–XVIII (Quito: Abya-Yala, 1992), 5–32. 37. Radding, Wandering Peoples, 110. 38. Early eighteenth-century sources on the movements of Indians between the Cabo Norte missions and French Cayenne can be found in Flávio dos Santos Gomes, Jonas Marçal de Queiroz, and Mauro Cézar Coelho, eds., Relatos de fronteiras: Fontes para a história da Amazônia séculos XVIII e XIX (Belém: Universidade Federal de Pará, 1999). On circulation between Portuguese and Spanish missions in the late seventeenth century, see Samuel Fritz, Journal of the Travels and Labours of Father Samuel Fritz in the River of the Amazons Between 1686 and 1723, ed. George Edmundson (London: Hakluyt Society, 1922). On the arrow poison and blow-pipe trade in the early nineteenth century, see Johann Baptist von Spix and Carl Friendrich Phillipp von Martius, Viagem pelo Brasil (1817–1820), trad. Lúcia Furquim Lahmeyer (Belo Horizonte: Editora Itatiaia, 1981), vol. 3, 172–173. 39. Regimento e leis, Arts. 4 and 5; Moreira Neto, Índios da Amazônia, 25; Araújo, As cidades da Amazónia, 294–295. 40. King João V to the Governor of Maranhão, October 11, 1718, in “Livro Grosso do Maranhão,” Anais da Biblioteca Nacional, vol. 67 (Rio de Janeiro: Divisão de Obras Raras e Publicações, 1948), 158–159; Municipal Council of Belém to king, August 30, 1722, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 7, Doc. 621; Sweet, “Rich Realm,” 648– 650 and 58– 71. 41. Daniel, Tesouro descoberto, vol. 2, 244–246; see also Manuel de Seixas to king, Belém, June 13, 1719, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 6, Doc. 536. 42. On illicit trade between whites and mission Indians, see Daniel, Tesouro descoberto, vol. 1, 290, 526 and vol. 2, 123, 226; on Gurupatuba and the women’s cuia trade, see his vol. 1, 396. 43. Daniel, Tesouro descoberto, vol. 2, 226, 44–46. 44. Sweet, “Rich Realm,” 648– 650, 58– 71.

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45. Daniel, Tesouro descoberto, vol. 1, 395; João de São José Queiroz, “Viagem e visita do sertão em o Bispado do Gram-Pará em 1762–1763,” Revista do Instituto Histórico e Geográfico Brasileiro 9 (1847): 64. 46. Sweet, “Rich Realm,” 649– 652. 47. Daniel, Tesouro descoberto, vol. 1, 399. 48. Ibid., vol. 2, 35. 49. On the agricultural practices of the mission Indians and how they differed from the practices of uncolonized native groups in the eighteenth century, see ibid., vol. 2, 13– 23, 153–158. The Jesuit João Daniel was a staunch critic of the habit of planting in new lands every year, because the clearing of new plots struck him as a tremendous waste of manpower. He instead advocated drying the trees by cutting rings around their trunks, and only later burning the field, leaving the burnt trunks standing; this technique, he claimed, followed the practices of independent native groups. 50. Ibid., vol. 2, 14, 18, 326. 51. Sweet, “Rich Realm,” 301–308; he primarily uses the descriptions of Saracá from Bettendorff, Crônica da Missão, 492–493. I have confirmed with William Woods (personal communication, June 28, 2009) and William Denevan (June 30, 2009) that Bettendorff ’s is the only observation of terra preta found in historical sources before the geologist Charles Hartt described black soils on the bluff s around Santarém in the late nineteenth century. It seems that other colonial contemporaries did not think the soil noteworthy. See Woods and Denevan, “Amazonian Dark Earths: The First Century of Reports,” in Amazonian Dark Earths: Wim Sombroek’s Vision, ed. William I. Woods, Wenceslau G. Teixeira, Johannes Lehmann, Christoph Steiner, Antoinette WinklerPrins, and Lilian Rebellato (Amsterdam: Springer, 2009), 1–14. 52. According to Daniel, the índios aldeados all came to the mission center, regardless of how far away they lived, for the four principal festivals of the religious calendar: Christmas, Easter Sunday, the Pentecost, and the day of the mission’s patron saint (Daniel, Tesouro descoberto, vol. 1, 287–289, 331). 53. Sweet, “Rich Realm,” 304, citing Bettendorff, Crônica da Missão, 492. 54. Robin Anderson appropriately draws attention to the fact that few new villages were established during the second half of the eighteenth century, as a result of shortages of administrative personnel and funds, and points to the difficulty of implementing the orders for the reform of existing villages: the orders “sounded good on paper” but “proved impractical in the face of an unfamiliar and often hostile environment, cultural baggage of those people involved, and other problems of such magnitude” (Anderson, Colonization as Exploitation, 14–15, 39). See also Coelho, “Do sertão para o mar,” 196–203; Araújo, As cidades da Amazónia. 55. Kenneth Maxwell, Pombal: Paradox of the Enlightenment (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 159, 37. 56. Ibid., 9. 57. “Instruções Régias, Públicas e Secretas para Francisco Xavier de Mendonça Furtado, Capitão-General do Estado do Grão-Pará e Maranhão,” May 31, 1751, in Marcos

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Carneiro de Mendonça, ed., A Amazônia na era pombalina: Correspondência do Governador e Capitão- General do Estado do Grão-Pará e Maranhão, Francisco Xavier de Mendonça Furtado, 1751–1759 (Brasília: Senado Federal, 2005), vol. 1, 67–80, paras. 2, 7. 58. Ibid., paras. 14, 17, 20, 22. 59. Ibid., paras. 21, 27. 60. Ibid., paras. 13, 14. 61. Chambouleyron, Povoamento, ocupação e agricultura. 62. On the alliance between the crown and religious orders and its weakening at particular junctures, see Alden, Making of an Enterprise, esp. 474–501 on the Amazon region. The most relevant articles of the 1686 Regimento e leis sobre as Missões are 8, 9, 22, and 23 (on the civilizing function of the mission aldeias) and 14 and 15 (on labor distribution). On the Repartição of 1693, see Sweet, “Rich Realm,” 637. 63. On seventeenth- and early eighteenth-century economic initiatives, such as incentives for the development of agriculture and the importation of African slaves, see Chambouleyon, Povoamento, ocupação e agricultura; on the state-sponsored settlement of Azorean families and the forced migration of convicts to the Amazon during the prePombaline period, see Timothy Coates, Convicts and Orphans: Forced and State- Sponsored Colonizers in the Portuguese Empire, 1550–1755 (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2001), 83–85. 64. The quote is from Anderson, Colonization as Exploitation, 15. 65. Regimento e leis, Arts. 8 and 9. 66. On urban nuclei as arenas of acculturation, see Ângela Domingues, Quando os índios eram vassalos: Colonização e relações de poder no Norte do Brasil na segunda metade do século XVIII (Lisbon: Comissão Nacional para as Comemorações dos Descobrimentos Portugueses, 2000), 83. The Spanish American equivalent is discussed in María Elena Martínez, “Space, Order, and Group Identities in a Spanish Colonial Town: Puebla de los Angeles,” in The Collective and the Public in Latin America: Cultural Identities and Political Order, ed. Luis Roniger and Tamar Herzog (Brighton: Sussex Academic Press, 2000), 13–36. 67. Mendonça Furtado to Carvalho e Melo, Belém, November 21, 1751, in Mendonça, A Amazônia na era pombalina, vol. 1, 109–126. 68. On the chronology of disputes with the Jesuits and debates about their loyalty, some of which predated Mendonça Furtado’s dispatch to the colony, see Kenneth Maxwell, “The Spark: Pombal, the Amazon and the Jesuits,” Portuguese Studies 17, no. 1 (2001): 168–183. 69. Mendonça Furtado to the Secretário de Estado da Marinha e dos Negócios Ultramarinos, Diogo de Mendonça Corte Real, Belém, November 30, 1751, in Mendonça, A Amazônia na era pombalina, vol. 1, 132–136. 70. “Instruções Régias, Públicas e Secretas,” paras. 21, 28. 71. “Instrução que levou o Capitão-Mor João Batista de Oliveira quando foi estabelecer a nova Vila de S José de Macapá,” Belém, December 18, 1751, in Mendonça, A Amazônia na era pombalina, vol. 1, 171–174. Contingents of settlers from the Azores and

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Madeira Islands, soldiers, and Indian servants would continue to settle at Macapá in subsequent years, and the project culminated in the construction of a major fort in the 1760s. For a detailed treatment of Macapá’s founding and design, see Araújo, As cidades da Amazónia, chap. 3. 72. Jesuit superior to Mendonça Furtado, Belém, November 15, 1751, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 32, Doc. 3059. 73. Mendonça Furtado to king, October 11, 1753, in Mendonça, A Amazônia na era pombalina, vol. 1, 517–519. 74. The redesign effort is described in Luciana de Fátima Oliveira, “A Vila de Bragança, rios e caminhos: 1750–1753,” Revista Mosaico 1, no. 2 (2008): 191–192. The “Planta da Vila Nova de Bragança,” by the Italian engineer Enrico Antonio Galluzzi, appears in Nestor Goulart Reis, Imagens de vilas e cidades do Brasil colonial (São Paulo: Editora da Universidade de São Paulo, 2000), 280. 75. Mendonça Furtado to king, October 11, 1753, in Mendonça, A Amazônia na era pombalina, vol. 1, 517–519. 76. Accusations against the missionary of Bragança can be found in Ouvidor João da Cruz Dinis Pinheiro to Diogo de Mendonça Corte Real, Belém, September 30, 1754, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 37, Doc. 3454; Mendonça Furtado to Diogo de Mendonça Corte Real, Belém, September 10, 1754, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 37, Doc. 439; Belém, September 12, 1754, in Mendonça, A Amazônia na era pombalina, vol. 2, 214; and the consulta of the Conselho Ultramarino for the king, Lisbon, May 18, 1756, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 40, Doc. 3739. 77. Bishop Bulhões to Diogo de Mendonça Corte Real, Belém, November 27, 1753, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 35, Doc. 3310. 78. Secretary of State Diogo de Mendonça Corte Real to Mendonça Furtado, Lisbon, April 28, 1753, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 34, Doc. 3185. The governor’s initial letter to the king about Francisco Portilho, from December 2, 1751, is in Mendonça, A Amazônia na era pombalina, vol. 1, 137–138. 79. Mendonça Furtado to king, November 3, 1753, Lisbon, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 35, Doc. 3273. The negotiations with Portilho are described in detail in Barbara A. Sommer, “Cracking Down on the Cunhamenas: Renegade Amazonian Traders Under Pombaline Reform,” Journal of Latin American Studies 38 (2006): 777– 778. 80. “Instrução que levou Francisco Portilho e Melo, para administrar os índios da Aldeia de Santana de Macapá,” December 2, 1753, in Mendonça, A Amazônia na era pombalina, vol. 2, 62– 63. 81. Mendonça Furtado to Bishop Miguel de Bulhões, Gurupá, October 20, 1754, in Mendonça, A Amazônia na era pombalina, vol. 2, 290–293; and to Francisco Portilho, Gurupá, October 21, 1754, ibid., 295. 82. Bishop Bulhões to Mendonça Furtado, Belém, February 7, 1756, in Mendonça, A Amazônia na era pombalina, vol. 3, 84–86. 83. Araújo claims that the Indians of Santana moved (or were moved?) twice on the mainland and finally settled on the Mutuacá River. In 1770, the governor, under Mendonça Furtado’s direction, populated this location (Santana de Mutuacá, as it appears in

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the sources) with Portuguese immigrants from northern Africa. It was renamed Mazagão and reclassified as a povoação de brancos, or white settler town (see Araújo, As cidades da Amazónia, chap. 5). 84. The rumors are described in João Correia Abb [?] to governor, São Bento do Rio Capim, March 1, 1764, APEP, Cod. 137, Doc. 66. 85. Sampaio, Diário da viagem, 4. See also the discussion of potabas, as these “gifts” were called, in Chapter 2 of this book. 86. The travel roteiro appears in Mendonça, A Amazônia na era pombalina, vol. 2, 256–288. A more detailed description of his visits to Guaricuru and Arucará can be found in a subsequent letter to Bishop Bulhões, from Gurupá, October 20, 1754, ibid., 290–293. A brief recap of the journey, with more comments on the emptiness and poverty of the missions, can be found in the account of the royal astronomer Giovanni Angelo Brunelli, “Os escritos de Giovanni Angelo Brunelli, astrônomo da Comissão Demarcadora de Limites portuguesa (1753–1761), sobre a Amazônia brasileira,” ed. Nelson Papavero, Nelson Sanjad, Abner Chiquien, William Leslie Overal, and Riccardo Mugnai, Boletim do Museu Paraense Emilio Goeldi 5, no. 2 (2010): 504–512. 87. Marcos Carneiro de Mendonça, editor’s note no. 155 in Mendonça, A Amazônia na era pombalina, vol. 2, 296. 88. For a visual representation of the governor’s fleet, see the “Vista panorámica de Belém,” drawn by Schwebel and reproduced in José Maria de Sousa Nunes and Isa Adonias, Real Forte Principe da Beira (Salvador: Fundação Emilio Odebrecht, 1985), 100–101. 89. Copies of the 1755 decrees can be found in Documentos sobre o índio brasileiro (1500–1822): Arquivo histórico, ed. Leda Maria Cardoso Naud (Brasília: Serviço Gráfico do Senado Federal, 1971), 37–44. 90. See, for example, his early proposal on mixed marriages in Mendonça Furtado to king, October 11, 1753, in Mendonça, A Amazônia na era pombalina, vol. 1, 517–519; and a letter from Bishop Bulhões (Belém, May 13, 1755), congratulating him on having all of his recommendations for reform accepted by the king (in Cartas do primeiro governador da Capitania de São José do Rio Negro, Joaquim de Mello e Póvoas [1758–1761]: Transcrições paleográficas, ed. Samuel Benchimol [Manaus: CEDEAM/Universidade do Amazonas, 1983], 91– 92). 91. Carta régia of March 3, 1755, in Mendonça, A Amazônia na era pombalina, vol. 2, 311– 315. Delson points out that the principles of urban reform contained in the carta régia mirrored those undertaken in the reconstruction of Lisbon after the earthquake that occurred later that year, in November 1755 (Delson, New Towns for Colonial Brazil, 117). 92. Bishop Bulhões’s recommendation for establishing it at Mariuá is in his letter to Mendonça Furtado, Belém, May 13, 1755, in Benchimol, Cartas do Primeiro Governador, 91– 92. The idea that Bulhões had been the dominant force in the decision was no more than a “popular conjecture,” according to Alexandre Rodrigues Ferreira. He thought that Mendonça Furtado and the first governor of the Rio Negro (Joaquim de Mello e Póvoas) had their own reasons for establishing the capital at Mariuá (Alexandre Rodrigues

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Ferreira, “Diário da viagem philosóphica pela Capitania de São José do Rio Negro,” Revista Trimensal do Instituto Histórico e Geográfico Brasileiro 49 [1886]: 185–186). 93. Sweet, “Rich Realm,” 649– 651. 94. The new constructions and homestead-gardens are described in Mendonça Furtado to Carvalho e Melo, Mariuá, July 10, 1755, in Mendonça, A Amazônia na era pombalina, vol. 2, 414–417. 95. On the Madeira route and the concern over contraband gold during this period, see David Michael Davidson, “Rivers and Empire: The Madeira Route and the Incorporation of the Brazilian Far West, 1737–1808” (PhD diss., Yale University, 1970). 96. On the idea that Trocano (Borba), like Santana, was a “testing ground” for the Directorate legislation that followed, see Sommer, “Cracking Down on the Cunhamenas,” 779– 781. Rita Heloisa de Almeida also explores the idea that Mendonça Furtado’s experiences in the colony, particularly his years stationed upriver, shaped the subsequent legislation (Almeida, O Diretório dos Índios: Um projeto de civilização no Brasil do século XVIII [Brasília: Editora Universidade de Brasília, 1997], 160). On the fundamentally colonial, rather than Pombaline, character of the Directorate legislation, see also the excellent analysis of Coelho, “Do sertão para o mar,” 151–171. 97. Around this same time (early 1756), the Jesuits were also removed from the mission at Javari, and it was turned over to the Carmelites. Later that year, Mendonça Furtado intended to secularize it under the name Vila de São José de Javari, but he was too ill to make the journey there, so secularization was deferred until late 1756 or early 1757. 98. Anselmo Eckart, Memórias de um Jesuíta prisioneiro de Pombal (Braga: Livraria A. I., 1987), 36. 99. Ibid., 36. Capistrano de Abreu quoted an anonymous description of the secularization process that he suspects to have been penned by a Jesuit, and which may well have been based on Eckart’s account (Abreu, Chapters of Brazil’s Colonial History, 1500–1800 [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997], 154–155). 100. Eckart, Memórias de um Jesuíta, 37. 101. Mendonça Furtado, “Instrução passada ao Tenente Diogo Antônio de Castro para estabelecer a Vila de Borba, a Nova, antiga Aldeia do Trocano,” Borba, January 6, 1756, in Mendonça, A Amazônia na era pombalina, vol. 3, 70– 75. 102. Mendonça Furtado to Carvalho e Melo, Mariuá, October 12, 1756, in Mendonça, A Amazônia na era pombalina, vol. 3, 119–123. 103. Mendonça Furtado to Gonçalo José da Silveira Preto, Mariuá, October 12, 1756, in Mendonça, A Amazônia na era pombalina, vol. 3, 129–130; Bishop Bulhões to Mendonça Furtado, Belém, January 31, 1756, ibid., 82–84. Bulhões suggested that if concubines refused to marry, they could be imprisoned and sent to the new settlements of Borba and Javari, in which case they would surely consent to marriage. 104. “Diretório,” Arts. 12 and 74, reproduced in Beozzo, Leis e regimentos das missões. 105. See, for example, Mendonça Furtado to Carvalho e Melo, Belém, May 2, 1757, in Mendonça, A Amazônia na era pombalina, vol. 3, 234–236.

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106. “Devassa sobre desordens cometidas por índios nas novas aldeias,” July 4, 1758, AHI, Cod. 159, fl. 126v, reproduced in Gomes, Queiroz, and Coelho, Relatos de Fronteiras, 88; other allegations against Villa Frades can be found in Bishop Bulhões to Tomé Joaquim da Costa Corte Real, Belém, July 11, 1758, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 43, Doc. 2952. The basic primary source on the Rio Negro revolt is the description of the royal magistrate, Sampaio, Diário da viagem, 106–108. For an analysis of the revolt and other acts of native resistance during the Directorate, see Francisco Jorge dos Santos, Além da conquista: Guerras e rebeliões na Amazônia pombalina (Manaus: Universidade do Amazonas, 1999). 107. Regimentos e leis, Art. 22; “Diretório,” Art. 77, in Beozzo, Leis e regimentos das missões. 108. Morais, História da Companhia de Jesus, 361. 109. Mendonça Furtado to Tomé Joaquim da Costa Corte Real, Barcelos, July 4, 1758, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 43, Doc. 3950. I have suppressed a paragraph break. 110. Daniel, Tesouro descoberto, vol. 1, 399. 111. A nearly comprehensive list of the secularized settlements can be found in the attachment to Bishop Miguel de Bulhões to Secretary of State Tomé Joaquim da Costa Corte Real, Belém, July 11, 1758, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 43, Doc. 3953. My numbers include two settlements, Benfica (Jesuit aldeia of unknown name) and Condeixa (Aldeia dos Guajarás), which are not on the list but which at least one source identifies as former mission aldeias (Antonio Ladislau M. Baena, Ensaio corográfico sobre a Província do Pará [Brasília: Senado Federal, 2004], 223, 77). I have been unable to verify the origins of four additional povoações de índios, though they seem not to have been former missions: Santana do Cajari (known as Santana do Marcapucu until it moved to the Cajari River in 1772), Porto Grande (annexed to Ourém), and Turiaçu. 112. Alcobaça, Pederneiras, and Tentúgal, all founded in the mid to late Directorate period, were extinct by the time of Baena’s writing, in the 1830s (Baena, Ensaio corográfico, 21). Mendonça Furtado’s successors also founded or reformed some half a dozen forts, including Macapá (reformed in 1761–1765), São Gabriel das Cachoeiras (begun in 1762 or 1763), São Joaquim do Rio Branco (1775), São José de Marabitanas (begun in 1762 or 1763), Tabatinga (completed in 1770), and Príncipe da Beira (begun in 1776). On the construction of forts during the second half of the eighteenth century, see Patrícia Maria Melo Sampaio, “Espelhos Partidos: Etnia, legislação e desigualdade na colônia sertões do Grão-Pará, c. 1755–1823” (PhD diss., Universidade Federal Fluminense, 2001), 47–48; Domingues, Quando os índios eram vassalos, 85–87. 113. The story of the Rio Branco settlements is extensively treated in Nádia Farage, As muralhas dos sertões: Os povos indígenas no Rio Branco e a colonização (Rio de Janeiro: ANPOCS, 1991). 114. Azevedo, Os jesuítas no Grão Pará, 287; I have suppressed a paragraph break. See also Domingues, Quando os índios eram vassalos, 78 and “Urbanismo e colonização”; Sommer, “Negotiated Settlements,” 108–115.

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115. Paul Carter, The Road to Botany Bay: An Essay in Spatial History (London: Faber and Faber, 1987), 37, 47, 119–120. 116. Brian J. Harley, The New Nature of Maps: Essays in the History of Cartography, ed. Paul Laxton (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2001), 181. 117. On the etymology of mission names, see Leite, História da Companhia de Jesus no Brasil, Tomo III, Livro 3: Pará, 580n6. Leite notes that sometimes the aldeias were named after the indigenous group with which they were first founded (in many cases also the name of the river upon which they were situated) and after the patron saint of their church, which explains the different names by which the same aldeia might be known. I have also noticed that some missions were named associatively in native languages: Cumarú (Poiares) was named after a large tree at the village site; Cabu (Colares) means “island of indigo,” which must have grown there; and Itacuruçá (Veiros) means “stone cross.” Finally, some missions featured names that had originally designated the dominant Indian group but were then lusophonized (e.g., Juanes, after the Indian nation of that name, became Joanes). 118. “Discurso encomiástico em que, para melhor inteligência do seu contexto, se dá princípio pela situação dos estados do Grão-Pará . . .” in Mendonça, A Amazônia na era pombalina, vol. 3, 443. 119. “Diretório,” Art. 6, reproduced in Beozzo, Leis e regimentos das missões. The effort to make Portuguese the exclusive language of the colony is also discussed in Domingues, Quando os índios eram vassalos, 81; Elisa Frühauf Garcia, “O projeto pombalino de imposição da língua portuguesa aos índios e a sua aplicação na América meridional,” Tempo 12, no. 23 (2007): 23–38. On the history of the Amazonian língua geral through the nineteenth century, see José Ribamar Bessa Freire, Rio Babel: A história das línguas na Amazônia (Rio de Janeiro: Atlântica Editora/UERJ, 2004). 120. Carter, Road to Botany Bay, 63. 121. The idea of an empire of towns is usually applied to Spanish America; see Kagan, Urban Images of the Hispanic World, 28–39. 122. On efforts to survey the rivers of the north in the 1750s and on the tense geopolitical context, see Davidson, “Rivers and Empire,” chap. 2. On the role of Amazonian river guides and informants in the production of European geographical knowledge, see Heather Flynn Roller, “River Guides, Geograph ical In formants, and Colonial Field Agents in the Portuguese Amazon,” Colonial Latin American Review 21, no. 1 (2012): 101–126. 123. Fascinating details on Amazonian river names can be found in the 1768 geographical narrative of José Monteiro de Noronha, who described the naming process as an Indian-led one: “In its continuation beyond the mouth of the Rio Negro, [the Rio Amazonas] is commonly called the Rio Solimões, because the Indians who once inhabited its banks were of the Sorimão nation, and it is a custom introduced among the Indians to attribute to the rivers the denomination of the heathens who are most dominant there” (José Monteiro de Noronha, Roteiro da viagem da cidade do Pará até as últimas colônias do sertão da província (1768), ed. Antonio Porro [São Paulo: Editora da Universi-

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dade de São Paulo, 2006], 45). Noronha did not elaborate on this “custom introduced among the Indians”—introduced by whom, and when?— but another passage clarified that while rivers might be named descriptively by some Indian nations, a broader consensus emerged to the effect that rivers ought to take the name of their dominant ethnic group: “The true name of the Uaupés River is Ucaiarí, which in the language of the Manao and Baré Indians means ‘river of white water.’ However, since the heathens who occupy the principal branch of the Ucaiarí are the Uaupé nation, the rest of the Indians attributed that same name to [the river], which the whites then translated as Goaupé” (ibid., 75). While impossible to confi rm, it seems likely that colonial Indians formed this broader consensus long before Noronha’s time. As diverse ethnic groups came together in the missions and learned to communicate in the língua geral, certain naming conventions would have been formed, with or without the missionaries’ influence. 124. See, for example, John Hemming, Amazon Frontier: The Defeat of the Brazilian Indians (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1987), 26. 125. Sampaio, Diário da viagem, 106–107. See also the summary of events and main characters in Almeida, O Diretório dos Índios, 281–284. 126. The devassas, collected in late 1757 and early 1758, are appended to Bishop Miguel de Bulhões to Secretary of State Tomé Joaquim da Costa Corte Real, Belém, July 11, 1758, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 43, Doc. 3953. 127. Testimony no. 12 by Principal Felipe Coelho of Alenquer, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 43, Doc. 3953. 128. Testimony no. 23 by João Gemaque de Albuquerque, vigário of Porto de Moz, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 43, Doc. 3953. 129. The timeline here is interesting. Whereas the law abolishing the temporal power of the missionaries had been published in February 1757, it was the publication of the Directorate in May 1757 that caused such a commotion in the Indian aldeias of Pará, with approximately one month’s delay (the desertions occurred in June). News took longer to reach the Rio Negro captaincy, and while the revolts occurred at the exact same time as the desertions in Pará (June 1757), there is no indication that the upriver rebels knew of the impending secularization of the aldeias and the imposition of the Directorate, which would only become common knowledge in the captaincy later that year. 130. Testimony no. 26 by Miguel Felipe de Bequeman, director of Porto de Moz, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 43, Doc. 3953. 131. Testimony no. 4 by Principal Xavier de Mendonça Furtado of Pombal, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 43, Doc. 3953. 132. See also Noronha’s report, full of anti-Jesuit diatribe, attached to Bishop Bulhões to Tomé Joaquim da Costa Corte Real, Belém, November 29, 1757, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 43, Doc. 3926. 133. Following Sommer’s translations, the indigenous offices were as follows: headman (principal), captain-major (capitão-mor), sergeant-major (sargento-mor), captain

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(capitão), adjutant (ajudante), standard-bearer (alferes), and bailiff (meirinho). Sommer, “Negotiated Settlements,” 116–117. 134. See the list of new parish priests in the attachment to Bishop Miguel de Bulhões to Secretary of State Tomé Joaquim da Costa Corte Real, Belém, July 11, 1758, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 43, Doc. 3953, and compare with, for example, the list of Carmelite missionaries in Sweet, “Rich Realm,” app. M. The Jesuits were also offered the option of remaining in the villages as priests, subject to the bishop’s authority and deprived of any temporal authority, but they predictably refused (see Azevedo, Os jesuítas no Grão-Pará, 287–288). 135. Maxwell, Pombal, 9. 136. Sporadic reform efforts later in the Directorate include Governor Meneses’s founding of several villages in strategic locations, such as the upper Tocantins, which he populated with absentees, prostitutes, and other “dispersed” Indians rounded up by government troops (Governor Meneses to Martinho de Melo e Castro, November 27, 1780, AIHGB, ARQ 1,1,4, fls. 107v–109v; see also Chapter 5 of this book). There were also a few ill-fated settlement projects on the frontiers of the colony, near the forts of São Joaquim do Rio Branco and São Gabriel das Cachoeiras. 137. Relocation options probably became more restricted as desirable land became less plentiful over the course of the century. Instead of moving their settlements to new sites in response to fluvial and other environmental changes, residents may have made landscape modifications of their own—for example, digging canals to connect to other waterways or to drain swamps; see Raffles and WinklerPrins, “Further Reflections on Amazonian Environmental History”; Hugh Raffles, In Amazonia: A Natural History (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2002). 138. See, for example, the documentation around plans to move the frontier village of Santo Antônio de Maripí to a different site on the same Japurá River: Governor João Pereira Caldas to Martinho de Melo e Castro, Barcelos, May 8, 1786, AHU, Rio Negro Avulsos, Cx. 12, Doc. 6; and Governor João Pereira Caldas to Martinho de Melo e Castro, Barcelos, October 8, 1788, AHU, Rio Negro Avulsos, Cx. 16, Doc. 4. 139. Devassa, Fragoso, January 5, 1767, APEP, Cod. 160, Doc. 57. For an analysis of the other investigations conducted by the same (unnamed) judge, all from this same codex, see Coelho, “Do sertão para o mar,” 263–268. The possibility of another unlicensed village relocation is mentioned in Director Joaquim José Teixeira to governor, Santana do Cajari, November 29, 1794, APEP, Cod. 507, Doc. 87. 140. Director Boaventura de Cunha Caldeira to governor, Fragoso, November 21, 1774, APEP, Cod. 268, Doc. 89. 141. “Diretório,” especially Art. 63 (which orders the observance of Art. 15 in the Regimento das Missões) and Arts. 64– 67, in Beozzo, Leis e regimentos das missões. 142. Labor distribution data are summarized in Robin L. Anderson, “Following Curupira: Colonization and Migration in Pará, 1758 to 1930 as a Study in Settlement of the Humid Tropics” (PhD diss., University of California Davis, 1976), 125. 143. See, for example, the diaries of Bishop Caetano Brandão, who toured the Pará villages in the 1790s and was often greeted only by women and children: Brandão, Diários

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das visitas pastorais no Pará (Porto: Instituto Nacional de Investigação Científica/Centro de História da Universidade do Porto, 1991), 49, 54, 60– 61, and 150, among others. Similar patterns of dispersed settlement on homesteads in the forest characterized the Directorate communities of the captaincy of Bahia: see B. J. Barickman, “ ‘Tame Indians,’ ‘Wild Heathens,’ and Settlers in Southern Bahia in the Late Eighteenth and Early Nineteenth Centuries,” The Americas 51, no. 3 (1995): 347. 144. See, for example, Director Belchior Henrique to governor, Ourém, February 4, 1762, APEP, Cod. 113, Doc. 57; and Director Belchior Henrique to governor, Ourém, November 7, 1762, APEP, Cod. 115, Doc. 33. 145. Director Belchior Henrique to governor, Ourém, November 14, 1762, APEP, Cod. 115, Doc. 37. 146. See, for example, the letters by the Intendente Luís Gomes de Faria e Sousa to various directors in Pará, where he summarizes the findings of his 1762 village inspection; these are attached to his letter to Mendonça Furtado, Belém, September 15, 1762, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 53, Doc. 4839. 147. The documentation on these types of movements is too extensive to list here, but for some vivid examples, see Director Pedro José da Costa to governor, Vila Nova d’El Rei, June 25, 1766, APEP, Cod. 167, Doc. 166 (unsanctioned trading trips to Belém); Director Francisco Luís Ameno to governor, Salvaterra, April 16, 1770, APEP, Cod. 215, Doc. 47 (attending baptisms and visiting relatives in neighboring villages). 148. Carta circular from Governor José de Nápoles Telo e Meneses to all the directors and commanders of Pará, Belém, June 9, 1780, APEP, Cod. 356, Doc. 85. 149. For an example of the kind of sporadic enforcement efforts that occurred when an Indian showed up in a village without a license, see Director João Pedro Marçal da Silva to governor, Baião, January 31, 1776, APEP, Cod. 298, Doc. 41. Some Indians claimed that obtaining travel licenses from their headmen was sufficient; see the letter by the native Capitão Francisco dos Santos Teles to governor, Veiros, February 16, 1792, APEP, Cod. 472, Doc. 28. 150. For the legislation promoting the cohabitation and intermarriage of the two groups, see Arts. 80– 90 of the “Diretório,” in Beozzo, Leis e regimentos das missões. 151. See, for example, Director António Gonçalves Ledo to governor, Benfica, January 31, 1775, APEP, Cod. 285, Doc. 25; Director Francisco José dos Santos Palma to governor, Bragança, June 16, 1764, APEP, Cod. 128, Doc. 93; and Director Raimundo José de Bitencourt to governor, Beja, May 7, 1764, APEP, Cod. 138, Doc. 58. On African slavery in Pará, see José Maia Bezerra Neto and Décio de Alencar Guzmán, eds., Escravidão negra no Grão-Pará, séculos XVII–XIX (Belém: Editora Paka-Tatu, 2001); Vicente Salles, O negro no Pará, sob o regime da escravidão (Belém: IAP/ Programa Raízes, 2005). 152. João de Santa Theresa to governor, Bragança, March 20, 1771, APEP, Cod. 224, Doc. 28. The incident, as well as several other controversies between Indians and whites in Bragança, is given a detailed treatment in Sommer, “Negotiated Settlements,” 262– 271. The Indians of Bragança also petitioned, back in 1764, for the whites to be forbidden to enter their houses or gardens without permission, which suggests such penetration was common; see Director Francisco José dos Santos Palma to governor, Bragança, June 16,

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1764, APEP, Cod. 128, Doc. 93, discussed in Chapter 4 in the context of local push factors for native absenteeism. 153. Sommer, “Negotiated Settlements,” 264. On the full flowering of Amazonian nativism in the early nineteenth century and its role in the Cabanagem Rebellion, see Mark Harris, Rebellion on the Amazon: Race, Popular Culture and the Cabanagem in the North of Brazil, 1798–1840 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010). 154. Similar observations were made in Monsarás, Colares, Cintra, Vila Nova d’El Rei, Monforte, Salvaterra, and Soure; see the “Autos de Devassa” in the Anais do Arquivo Público do Pará (Belém: Secretaria de Estado de Cultura/Arquivo Público do Estado do Pará, 1997), vol. 3, Tomo 1, 11–211. 155. Ouvidor Feliciano Ramos Nobre Mourão to governor, January 30, 1764, in the Anais do Arquivo Público do Pará, vol. 3, Tomo 1, 12. 156. Director José Gonçalves Marquês to governor, Porto de Moz, August 30, 1761, APEP, Cod. 107, Doc. 80. 157. Sampaio, Diário da viagem, 103. 158. Governor Joaquim Tinoco Valente to governor, Barcelos, July 24, 1764, APEP, Cod. 133, Doc. 67. 159. Alexandre Rodrigues Ferreira, “Diário da viagem philosóphica pela Capitania de São José do Rio Negro,” Revista Trimensal do Instituto Histórico e Geográfico Brasileiro 49 (1886): 148–149. See also Domingues, “Urbanismo e colonização,” 271–272. 160. For a critical discussion of the concept of survival—whether of villages, ethnic groups, or cultural traits—see Jonathan D. Amith, The Möbius Strip: A Spatial History of Colonial Society in Guerrero, Mexico (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2005), 13–14.

Chapter 2 1. Data on average crew sizes were gleaned from AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 71, Doc. 6055 (for the year 1772); Cx. 72, Doc. 6102 (for 1773); Cx. 76, Doc. 6389 (for 1775); Cx. 79, Doc. 6533 (for 1776); Cx. 81, Doc. 6648 (for 1777 and 1778); Cx. 88, Doc. 7212 (for 1779– 1781); Cx. 98, Doc. 7790 (for 1788). Most collecting canoes departed around February, but some left a few months earlier, to catch the end of the low-water season (roughly, August through January), when turtles and other aquatic life were more abundant. The general pattern was for expeditions to return to the villages in June, spend a few weeks there, and then head to Belém to deliver the products in July. 2. In her dissertation, Barbara Sommer presented several cases of voluntary participation in the expeditions, which initially sparked my interest in the phenomenon (Barbara A. Sommer, “Negotiated Settlements: Native Amazonians and Portuguese Policy in Pará, Brazil, 1758–1798” [PhD diss., University of New Mexico, 2000]), 135–136, 281), as did David Sweet’s passing observation, for an earlier period of Amazonian history, that Indians seemed to have preferred working as crewmen on slaving expeditions to other types of colonial ser vice that did not entail a trip to the sertão (David Sweet, “A Rich Realm of Nature Destroyed: The Middle Amazon Valley, 1640–1750” [PhD diss., University of Wisconsin, 1974], 580).

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3. Secondary sources that describe the collecting expeditions generally rely on either the Directorate legislation itself or the account of the Jesuit chronicler João Daniel. These include Colin M. MacLachlan, “The Indian Directorate: Forced Acculturation in Portuguese America,” The Americas 28, no. 4 (1972): 357–387; John Hemming, Amazon Frontier: The Defeat of the Brazilian Indians (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1987), 43–46; Robin L. Anderson, “Following Curupira: Colonization and Migration in Pará, 1758 to 1930 as a Study in Settlement of the Humid Tropics” (PhD diss., University of California, Davis, 1976), 27–45; Maria Regina Celestino de Almeida, “A falácia do povoamento: Ocupação portuguesa na Amazônia setecentista,” in Meandros da história: Trabalho e poder no Pará e Maranhão, séculos XVIII e XIX, ed. Mauro Cezar Coelho, Flávio dos Santos Gomes, Jonas Marçal de Queiroz, Rosa Elizabeth Acevedo Marin, and Geraldo Prado (Belém: UNAMAZ, 2005), 21–33; Patrícia Maria Melo Sampaio, “Espelhos Partidos: Etnia, legislação e desigualdade na colônia sertões do Grão-Pará, c. 1755– 1823” (PhD diss., Universidade Federal Fluminense, 2001), 146–153. Two recent studies that delve more deeply into local archival sources on the labor system are Sommer, “Negotiated Settlements,” 119–136, 281; Mauro Cezar Coelho, “Do sertão para o mar: Um estudo sobre a experiência Portuguesa na América, a partir da Colônia: O caso do Diretório dos Índios (1751–1798)” (PhD diss., Universidade de São Paulo, 2005), 230– 243, 281. 4. Padre Domingos de Araújo, “Chronica da Companhia de Jesus da Missão do Maranhão, escripta em 1720,” AIHGB, 1.2.32, Livro 1, Capítulo 11, fl. 62. 5. There had been at least one short-lived export boom before the Directorate period, in cacao from 1730 to 1734. See Dauril Alden, “The Significance of Cacao Production in the Amazon Region During the Late Colonial Period,” Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society 120, no. 2 (1976): 120. 6. On colonial canoe fabrication and design, see Roberta Marx Delson, “Inland Navigation in Colonial Brazil: Using Canoes on the Amazon,” International Journal of Maritime History 7, no. 1 (1995): 11–16; Sérgio Buarque de Holanda, Monções (Rio de Janeiro: C.E.B., 1945). The canoe fabrication process is described at length in João Daniel, Tesouro Descoberto no máximo rio Amazonas (Rio de Janeiro: Contraponto, 2004), vol. 2, 47–56. 7. For example, in 1746, only 7,018 arrobas (227,439 pounds) of cacao were exported and no royal fleet came to Belém, whereas the following year 85,299 arrobas (2,764,370 pounds) left the port on nine different ships. (One arroba is equivalent to 14.7 kilograms, or about 32.4 pounds.) However, as an astute observer pointed out later in the century, the 1747 cargo included cacao from the previous year’s harvest that had not been possible to ship in the absence of the royal fleet, and so it was not really such an extraordinary amount (Alexandre Rodrigues Ferreira, “Diário da viagem philosóphica pela Capitania de São José do Rio Negro,” Revista Trimensal do Instituto Histórico e Geográfico Brasileiro 48 [1885]: 68). Annual export data from 1730 to 1755 can be found in the “Mappa dos diferentes Generos, que dos Livros d’Alfandega da Cidade do Pará consta se exportarão do seu Porto, desde o anno de 1730, até o de 1755,” AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 80, Doc.

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6627. For comparison, export figures during Directorate years (1756 through 1777) are available in the same document. In his analysis of cacao export data in this series, Alden found that yearly export averages were slightly lower during the latter period (when the royal trading company, the Companhia Geral de Comércio, operated), but the downward trend in exports of the late 1740s and early 1750s was reversed (Alden, “Significance of Cacao Production,” 126). 8. The Jesuit João Daniel blamed the depopulation of the Indian villages for the decline in collected products around midcentury (Daniel, Tesouro Descoberto, vol. 2, 248). 9. According to Sweet, private collecting expeditions during the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries often collected as many Indian slaves as they did forest products, and slaving activities— carried out under the auspices of officially licensed collecting expeditions— continued even after government slave-ransoming expeditions were reauthorized in the 1720s (Sweet, “Rich Realm,” 468–470). A key document from the period that denounces the abuses of private collecting expeditions (described by Sweet on p. 499) is from the Jesuit Manuel de Seixas to king, June 13, 1719, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 6, Doc. 536. 10. Anderson detects a shift in Amazonian economic policy around 1788 or 1789, when the attention of directors and governors turned toward agricultural activities and away from collecting expeditions. She attributes this to changing priorities among policymakers who confronted population declines in the Indian villages as well as shortages in wild products caused by overexploitation (Anderson, “Following Curupira,” 121–122). The encouragement of agriculture in the Amazon was not a new idea—the Directorate legislation itself identified it as a top priority— but it seems that very little agricultural development took place in the captaincy until Governor João Pereira Caldas came into office in the 1770s, with a mandate to increase production of crops for both local consumption and export. Despite improved agricultural production during his tenure, extractive activities were still a mainstay of the economy until well into the following decade. 11. Labor distribution data are summarized in Anderson, “Following Curupira,” 125. 12. Cacao production data for the Directorate villages are available in the “Mapa(s) gerai(s) do rendimento” series in AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cxs. 51, 61, 64, 66, 69. Average annual production figures are based on a seven-year sample (1761–1772) of these mapas and on cacao export data presented in Alden, “Significance of Cacao Production”: 124–126. The Indian villages may have collected even more cacao when they were run by missionaries; one royal investigator claimed that in a single year in the early 1730s, the missionaries registered a harvest of 8,533 arrobas (276,537 pounds) of cacao at the checkpoint in Gurupá. The settlers apparently registered even more (10,374 arrobas, or 336,201 pounds), which, according to this author, was a small amount compared to their unregistered harvest. See Francisco Duarte dos Santos, “Cópia da informação e parecer do Desembargador Francisco Duarte dos Santos, que sua Magestade mandou ao Maranhão em 1734, para se informar do governo temporal do Índios e queixas contra os

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missionários,” in Corographia histórica, cronográphica, genealógica, nobiliária, e política do imperio do Brasil, ed. A. J. de Mello Moraes (Rio de Janeiro: Typographia Brasileira, 1860), 123–150. 13. Santos, “Cópia da informação,” 132. 14. “Diretório,” Art. 46, in José Oscar Beozzo, Leis e regimentos das missões: Política indigenista no Brasil (São Paulo: Edições Loyola, 1983). 15. Ibid., Art. 50. 16. Ibid., Art. 52. 17. References to female participants, including crew lists, can be found in the following APEP codices: Cod. 177, Doc. 38; Cod. 190, Doc. 23, Doc. 40, Doc. 53; Cod. 201, Doc. 94; Cod. 202, Doc. 65; Cod. 202, Doc. 74; Cod. 491, unnumbered doc., fls. 49–51; Cod. 491, unnumbered doc., fls. 45–48; Cod. 497, unnumbered doc., fls. 35–38; Cod. 517, Doc. 31. Sending women on collecting expeditions (either with the men or on their own) was specifically forbidden by the Intendente Luís Gomes de Faria e Sousa in 1762 (letter to Francisco Xavier de Mendonça Furtado, September 15, 1762, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 53, Doc. 4839). 18. “Diretório,” Art. 53, in Beozzo, Leis e regimentos das missões. Non-Indians were appointed as cabos during the missionary era, too; according to João Daniel, the missionaries “did not trust in the Indians, because these are very timid, and so are not capable of defending the canoes from possible assaults by other whites, and because they are customarily irresolute in obliging the Indian crewmen to work, in the absence of some white man to encourage them.” Daniel, Tesouro Descoberto, vol. 2, 91. A later critic of the Directorate claimed that missionary-era cabos had been Indians, but Daniel’s account is generally more reliable. Antonio José Pestana e Silva, “Meios de dirigir o governo temporal dos índios,” in Corographia histórica, cronográphica, genealógica, nobiliária, e política do imperio do Brasil, ed. A. J. de Mello Moraes (Rio de Janeiro: Typographia Brasileira, 1860), 157. 19. APEP, Cod. 142, Doc. 27. Other details occasionally found on the crew lists include the designation of pi lots and bowmen among the crewmen; an accounting of who died or fled during the expedition; the ethnic affi liations of crewmen; and the names of any outsiders (usually labeled índios agregados, or attached Indians) who participated. 20. The “interested parties” to be paid a cut of the profits at the Royal Trea sury consisted of the eight Indians who worked for themselves on the expedition, plus the two principais and three native officials who sent Indians to work on their behalf. The rest of the crewmen would be paid fi xed salaries by the officials for whom they worked. 21. By convention, the first name in this category was that of the expedition pilot. 22. “Diretório,” Art. 56, in Beozzo, Leis e regimentos das missões. The legislation designated the village councils and headmen as responsible for provisioning the canoes with supplies, but since the villages usually ran high deficits and could not afford to purchase such supplies, the Royal Trea sury ended up advancing credit for these acquisitions on a

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regular basis. It is also worth noting that the cabo’s percentage was not actually specified in the legislation but was later set at 20 percent (MacLachlan, “Indian Directorate,” 366). For a detailed listing of the payments-in-kind made to each crew member of an expedition, along with their monetary value, see Director Luís de Amorim to governor, Boim, October 23, 1760, APEP, Cod. 107, Doc. 83. This shows the three pilots earning goods valued at 14$205 réis each; the two bowmen earning 12$171; and the rest of the twenty-six crewmen earning between 8$955 and 9$263. The difference in payments among the regular crewmen would correspond to whether one had gone to work for himself (and had therefore received a cut of the profits) or had worked on behalf of the native officials for a fi xed salary. 23. “Diretório,” Art. 58, in Beozzo, Leis e regimentos das missões. 24. In the same letter, the governor also ordered directors to record formal testimonies from the Indian crewmen about their cabo, rather than just a “simple statement.” Governor Fernando da Costa de Ataíde e Teive to the directors of Pará and Rio Negro, Belém, October 3, 1769; see also various instructions on the expeditions contained in the circular letter from Governor João Pereira Caldas to same, Belém, October 14, 1775. Both appear in annexes of AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 74, Doc. 6249. 25. “Formalidade, q’ se costuma observar no Negocio feito nos Sertoes . . .” from the Intendente Geral do Comércio, Mathias José Ribeiro, to Governor Martinho de Sousa Albuquerque, Belém, November 27, 1783, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 90, Doc. 7366. For more on the seasonal navigation of Amazonian river routes, see Delson, “Inland Navigation”; David Michael Davidson, “Rivers and Empire: The Madeira Route and the Incorporation of the Brazilian Far West, 1737–1808” (PhD diss., Yale University, 1970). 26. Daniel, Tesouro Descoberto, vol. 2, 84. 27. Desembargador and Intendente Geral do Comércio Luís Gomes de Faria e Sousa to the Secretário de Estado da Marinha e Ultramar Francisco Xavier de Mendonça Furtado, Belém, November 17, 1761, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 51, Doc. 4689. 28. These nine cases are summarized in the documents attached to the letter from the Desembargador and Intendente Geral do Comércio of Pará Luís Gomes de Faria e Sousa to the Secretário de Estado da Marinha e Ultramar Francisco Xavier de Mendonça Furtado, Belém, August 3, 1761, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 50, Doc. 4593. 29. Ibid., AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 51, Doc. 4689. 30. This was still the case in 1783, according to a subsequent intendente’s report (Matias José Ribeiro to Martinho de Melo e Castro, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 90, Doc. 7366). See also the examples cited in Sampaio, “Espelhos Partidos,” 251–252. 31. Cabo Bernardo Fernandes Brazão to Director Antonio Gonçalves de Sousa, Vila Franca, n.d., 1777, APEP, Cod. 317, unnumbered doc., fl. 114. 32. Director Francisco Serrão de Oliveira to governor, Almeirim, August 28, 1762, APEP, Cod. 117, Doc. 54. The nomination of the cabo is confirmed in APEP, Cod. 117, Doc. 55. 33. The Directorate called for directors “endowed with good customs, zealousness, prudence, truth, language proficiency, and all of the other requirements necessary for the

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proper administration of the Indians.” “Diretório,” Art. 1, in Beozzo, Leis e regimentos das missões. 34. Director Giraldo Correa Lima to governor, Boim, September 30, 1765, APEP, Cod. 157, Doc. 126. 35. Sommer, “Negotiated Settlements,” 89. As Sommer notes, the three-year term was very short relative to that of his predecessor (more than seven years) and his successor (more than six). 36. Ex-governor José de Nápoles Telo e Meneses to Queen D. Maria I, Lisbon, April 30, 1785, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 94, Doc. 7502. 37. Written during his tenure as governor and included as an attachment to the letter to the queen. Governor José de Nápoles Telo e Meneses to the Secretário de Estado da Marinha e Ultramar, Martinho de Melo e Castro, Belém, November 28, 1780. Attached doc. no. 1 in AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 94, Doc. 7502. 38. Pestana e Silva, “Meios de dirigir,” 142. 39. Attached doc. no. 1 in AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 94, Doc. 7502. 40. Attached doc. no. 4 in AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 94, Doc. 7502. 41. For another contemporary account with a similar tone, see Pestana e Silva, “Meios de dirigir,” 140–142. 42. Director Venuslão José de Sousa Morais to governor, Boim, n.d., 1777, APEP, Cod. 317, Doc. 12. 43. See, for example, Arthur Cézar Ferreira Reis, A política de Portugal no valle amazônico (Belém: Secretaria do Estado de Cultura, 1993), 54–55; Caio Prado Júnior, The Colonial Background of Modern Brazil (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1967), 246–248; Hemming, Amazon Frontier, 45; MacLachlan, “Indian Directorate,” 374–375; Robin L. Anderson, Colonization as Exploitation in the Amazon Rain Forest, 1758–1911 (Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 1999), 34–35; Maria Regina Celestino de Almeida, “Os vassalos d’el Rey nos confins da Amazônia: A colonização da Amazônia ocidental, 1750–1798,” Anais da Biblioteca Nacional 112 (1992): 72. 44. Director Manoel Ignacio da Silva to governor, Souzel, August 17, 1764, APEP, Cod. 141, Doc. 36. My attention was first drawn to this case by Sommer, “Negotiated Settlements,” 135–136 and 215, where the document is also quoted. As she points out, Theódosio Ferreira did end up holding the post of alferes but was listed as absent from his village in 1776. 45. Director Belchior Henrique Weinholtz to governor, Pinhel, April 18, 1770, APEP, Cod. 215, Doc. 53; Director Francisco Roberto Pimentel to governor, Portel, September 16, 1778, APEP, Cod. 330, Doc. 53; Director Faustino Antonio de Sousa to governor, Veiros, September 18, 1772, APEP, Cod. 244, Doc. 15; Director Francisco Roberto Pimentel to governor, Portel, October 13, 1779, APEP, Cod. 346, Doc. 21. For additional cases of voluntary participation (including that of Indian officials), see the following APEP documents: Cod. 129, Doc. 93; Cod. 142, Doc. 37; Cod. 175, Doc. 3; Cod. 236, Doc. 18; Cod. 389, Doc. 31; Cod. 423, Doc. 13; Cod. 561, Doc. 4. It is perhaps not a coincidence that in two of the instances cited above, the volunteers joined Portel’s collecting expedition. This was the largest Indian village during the Directorate and could mobilize

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the greatest number of crewmen: an annual average of sixty-eight men from Portel participated between 1772 and 1788, as opposed to a captaincy-wide average of about thirty-six men. As a result, their gross production and payments were consistently higher than those of any other village. 46. See Chapter 4 on patterns of absenteeism. It is clear that labor at the forts (especially Macapá) was the most frequently deserted type of ser vice, followed by construction projects elsewhere in Pará (i.e., Mazagão and Belém). 47. Cases of Indians fleeing just prior to the departure of the collecting canoe can be found in the following APEP docs.: Cod. 177, Doc. 74; Cod. 201, Doc. 62; Cod. 218, Doc. 45; Cod. 257, Doc. 69; and Cod. 472, Doc. 27. Some men took out their frustration at having to go to the sertão on the native officials charged with rounding them up for ser vice; Damião, an Indian from Vila Franca, went to the house of the village capitão-mor and called him a “son of a bitch,” adding that “if he was going to send Indians out [of the village], he should send his wife and go himself, too” (Director Antonio Gonçalves de Sousa to governor, Vila Franca, July 19, 1767, APEP, Cod. 177, Doc. 25). 48. APEP, Cod. 198, Docs. 53 and 61; Cod. 214, Doc. 10; Cod. 258, unnumbered doc.; Cod. 312, Doc. 26; Cod. 328, Doc. 6; Cod. 470, Doc. 80. According to one intendente, it was not uncommon for crewmen to be waylaid in Belém for up to three months, their labor diverted to royal building projects, canoe trips to Marajó Island, or private ser vice. This was technically illegal, but many governors sanctioned the practice (Intendente Geral do Comércio João de Amorim Pereira to the Secretário de Estado do Negócios do Reino e Mercês, Belém, December 31, 1777, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 78, Doc. 6508; see also Manoel Bernardo de Melo e Castro to Francisco Xavier de Mendonça Furtado, Belém, August 17, 1761, in ANTT, Ministério do Reino, Informações dos governadores e magistrados das Ilhas Adjacentes e Ultramar, Maço 597 (Cx. 700), unnumbered doc. Such experiences may explain why many Indians preferred to absent their villages temporarily in order to avoid the trip to the city. 49. See note 1 for sources. 50. Sommer, “Negotiated Settlements,” 136, 281; Coelho, “Do sertão para o mar,” 281. 51. Devassa of Cabo José da Silva Godinho, Pinhel, July 27, 1771, APEP, Cod. 234, Doc. 44. 52. The Jesuit João Daniel wrote that the position of pilot is “a trade and art that among them [the Indians] is one of the most dignified posts in their settlements, and they [the pilots] are respected and obeyed by the native residents (nacionais)” (Daniel, Tesouro descoberto, vol. 1, 343; and on bowmen, see vol. 1, 346). Just as jacumaúba—from the Tupi-based língua geral word for the piece of wood ( jacumã) typically used in place of an oar— appears in the sources more often than the Portuguese term piloto, one commonly encounters native terminology for the expedition canoes (igarités, ubás), types of waterways traversed (igarapés), and products collected in the sertão (such as andiroba and copaíba oils).

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53. In the 1760s, the intendente geral mandated a minimum of eight days of rest between the return of the collecting canoe from the sertão and the departure to Belém (Director José Couto Ferreira da Silva to governor, Soure, September 3, 1769, APEP, Cod. 202, Doc. 67). 54. The devassas of the cabos are appended to some of the directors’ reports in the Correspondência de Diversos com o Governo series at APEP. There is no general cata logue for the hundreds of codices in this series, but the archive has recently compiled a basic list of all attached documents for each codex (by title only) that makes it possible to identify devassas in forty different codices, the first one appearing in 1763 and the last one in 1795. I was unable to consult several devassas in Cod. 258, as they were too damaged to be legible; otherwise, I believe I consulted all those that exist in the archive. None are known to exist in other archival depositories. Included in the total of 185 devassas are five “summaries” of devassas contained in the directors’ correspondence (no formal devassa was available). 55. The outcomes of negative devassas are mostly unknown, though it is telling that new cabos were often assigned for the following year’s expedition (implying that the offending cabo had been removed). I was able to connect a few devassas to subsequent references to cabos being imprisoned. See, for example, the devassa of Cabo António José da Silva, Pombal, September 28, 1773, APEP, Cod. 2633, Doc. 22; and the letter that mentions his imprisonment the following year, Director Francisco Coelho da Silva to governor, Pombal, August 30, 1774, APEP, Cod. 269, Doc. 76. 56. Devassa of Cabo Francisco de Brito Mendes, Oeiras, August 18, 1772, APEP, Cod. 240, Doc. 19. 57. Ibid. 58. I could not find a copy of the original order, but it is mentioned in numerous directors’ letters. 59. Mauro Cezar Coelho, “O Diretório dos Índios: Possibilidades de investigação,” in Meandros da história: Trabalho e poder no Pará e Maranhão, séculos XVIII e XIX, ed. Mauro Cezar Coelho, Flávio dos Santos Gomes, Jonas Marçal de Queiroz, Rosa Elizabeth Acevedo Marin, and Geraldo Prado (Belém: UNAMAZ, 2005), 66– 67. 60. A cabo might be the son or son-in-law of a director, as in the village of Santana do Cajari (APEP, Cod. 269, Doc. 52), Alter do Chão (APEP, Cod. 442, Doc. 14), or Baião (APEP, Cod. 354, Doc. 94). 61. Letter from Director Faustino António de Sousa to governor and devassa of Cabo Manoel Gonçalves da Silva, Veiros, September 26, 1775, APEP, Cod. 283, Doc. 115. See also the devassa of Cabo Ângelo de Lemos Correa, Serpa, June 15, 1772. At the end of this devassa, the director appended a note in defense of the cabo, who had been criticized in the crewmen’s testimonies, APEP, Cod. 240, Doc. 14. 62. Devassa of Cabo Antonio Francisco Franco and accompanying certidão (signed by the cabo) of the behavior of Director António Luís de Amorim, Javari, July, n.d., 1773, APEP, Cod. 258, Doc. 20. See also the letter of Director Francisco Roberto Pimentel to governor and accompanying certidão (signed by Cabo José Sanches de Brito) of

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the director’s behavior, Portel, October 13, 1779, APEP, Cod. 346, Doc. 21. There is no devassa appended to this documentation, but the director’s letter describes the content of the testimonies. 63. See, for example, the crew list for the village of Alvarães, which included twenty crewmen with non- Christian names among a total crew of forty-eight (Director João Pedroso Neves to governor, Alvarães, August 12, 1776, APEP, Cod. 300, Doc. 8, fl. 22). 64. Letter from Director Francisco Rodrigues Coelho to governor and devassa of Cabo José Cosme de Brito, Borba, August 24, 1772, APEP, Cod. 240, Doc. 29. For a similar case of the cabo intimidating the crewmen so they will not testify against him, see letter from Director Francisco Coelho da Silva to governor and devassa of Cabo Antonio Jose da Silva, Pombal, September 28, 1773, APEP, Cod. 263, Doc. 22. 65. Coelho, “O Diretório dos Índios,” 66– 67. 66. Director Jose Vicente Pereira to governor, Serzedelo, October 22, 1779, APEP, Cod. 346, Doc. 20. 67. For a study of interethnic exchange on the backlands expeditions of colonial São Paulo, see Glória Kok, O sertão itinerante: Expedições da capitania de São Paulo no século XVIII (São Paulo: Editora Hucitec, 2004). 68. Director Luís Gomes de Faria e Sousa to governor, Pombal, October 1, 1761, APEP, Cod. 108, Doc. 15. 69. Final decisions on collecting grounds might be made by the director or cabo but were usually worked out in consultation with the Indian officials and crew. On the decision-making process, see Director Lucas José Espinosa de Brito Coelho Folqman to governor, Pombal, August 6, 1770, APEP, Cod. 220, Doc. 7; Director Jesuino Manoel de Gusmão to governor, Ponte de Pedras, February 11, 1772, APEP, Cod. 241, Doc. 31; Director António José de Freitas to governor, Almeirim, October 12, 1785, APEP, Cod. 424, Doc. 48. 70. See, for example, Devassa of Cabo Fernando Correa, Alenquer, August 29, 1772, APEP, Cod. 240, Doc. 37; Devassa of Cabo José Correia de Brito, Silves, September 16, 1775, APEP, Cod. 284, Doc. 45; Director Manoel da Fonseca Zuzarte de Macedo to governor, Outeiro, September 30, 1787, APEP, Cod. 442, Doc. 38; Director Joaquim Francisco Printz to governor, Óbidos, May 18, 1781, APEP, Cod. 373, Doc. 47; Director João Marçal da Silva to governor, Baião, May 16, 1774, APEP, Cod. 271, Doc. 67; Director Jerônimo Pereira da Nóbrega to governor, Arraiolos, August 18, 1773, APEP, Cod. 260, Doc. 32; Director Domingos Gonçalves Pinto Bello to governor, Serzedelo, January 4, 1781, APEP, Cod. 341, Doc. 46; devassa of Cabo Leandro José, n.d., 1770, Faro, APEP, Cod. 235, Doc. 26. 71. Director João Euquério Mascarenhas Villa Lobos to governor, Alenquer, October 26, 1793, APEP, Cod. 470, doc. 70. Another instance of prohibited drinking among crewmen is mentioned in Sommer, “Negotiated Settlements,” 281. 72. The collecting expedition of Porto de Moz, for example, stopped in the upriver village of Pombal for the festa of São João on its way back from collecting Amazonian

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clove on the Xingú River (Director Francisco Fernandes de Macedo to governor, Porto de Moz, October 10, 1779, APEP, Cod. 346, Doc. 29). 73. On the lack of supervision of collecting teams, see Director Venuslão José de Sousa Morais to governor, Boim, n.d., 1777, APEP, Cod. 317, Doc. 12. 74. Devassa of Cabo Manoel José, Silves, n.d., 1774, APEP, Cod. 268, Doc. 4. 75. Director Ignacio Caetano de Bequeman e Albuquerque to governor, Silves, n.d., 1774, APEP, Cod. 268, Doc. 4. For a similar devassa (in which crewmen describe the cabo’s trading and fraternizing in Almeirim, Silves, and Óbidos), see devassa of Cabo José Monteiro Lisboa, Fragoso, August 24, 1764, APEP, Cod. 141, Doc. 54. For directors’ letters that summarize incriminating devassas, see Director Francisco Roberto Pimentel to governor, Portel, October 13, 1779, APEP, Cod. 346, Doc. 21 (on illegal trading in Serpa and Silves); Director Joseph Bernardo da Costa e Asso to governor, Serzedelo, July 29, 1773, APEP, Cod. 260, Doc. 16 (on detours to other rivers and illicit trading in Bragança). 76. Devassa of Cabo Luís Rodrigues Lima (with reference to interim Cabo Bernardo Fernandes Brazão), Souzel, September 6, 1771, APEP, Cod. 236, Doc. 10. Cabo Brazão had taken over for Souzel’s regular cabo, who fell ill during the expedition. 77. Devassa of Cabo Francisco da Silva Chaves, Melgaço, n.d., 1793, APEP, Cod. 497, Doc. 54. 78. Governor Fernando da Costa de Ataíde Teive to Pedro Maciel Parente, director of Santarém, Belém, October 3, 1769, AIHGB, Lata 283, Pasta 10 (Coleção Manoel Barata). On the tactic of introducing tools to indigenous groups in order to encourage their dependency on these items, see Ângela Domingues, Quando os índios eram vassalos: Colonização e relações de poder no Norte do Brasil na segunda metade do século XVIII (Lisbon: Comissão Nacional para as Comemorações dos Descobrimentos Portugueses, 2000), 43–44. 79. Besides the evidence presented below there is the account of Bishop Caetano Brandão, who notes that during his pastoral visits he encountered numerous canoes of independent Indian nations, especially between the Amazon River village of Serpa and the Madeira River (Rio Negro captaincy). Caetano Brandão, Diários das visitas pastorais no Pará (Porto: Instituto Nacional de Investigação Científica/Centro de História da Universidade do Porto, 1991), 116. 80. Many documents mention tribal attacks on collecting expeditions that resulted in the loss of life, or at least the loss of the canoes’ cargo and supplies. See, for example, Director Francisco Roberto Pimentel to governor, Portel, September 16, 1778, APEP, Cod. 330, Doc. 53; Director José Antonio de Brito to governor, Monte Alegre, November 1, 1793, APEP, Cod. 497, Doc. 51; Director Pedro Vicente de Oliveira Pantoja to governor, Faro, November 3, 1794, APEP, Cod. 470, Doc. 82. 81. See Chapter 3 for more on how resettlements followed the intensification of interethnic warfare. Devassa of Cabo Ignacio José da Costa and letter from Director Lourenço Justiniano de Siqueira to governor, Aveiro, September 25, 1793, APEP, Cod. 497, Docs. 32 and 33.

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82. The two devassas in which crewmen blame the expedition’s failure on gentio (not among those cited below) are Devassa of Cabo Luís Bahia de Mesquita Monteiro, Souzel, October 17, 1774, APEP, Cod. 268, Doc. 66 (while bushwhacking their way into the interior forest, the crew encountered a group of “gentio do mato” and had to retreat without collecting anything further) and the devassa of an unnamed cabo, Alter do Chão, August 22, 1775, APEP, Cod. 284, Doc. 17 (according to which the Arû Indians tricked the crew into thinking that there was a lot of Amazonian clove to be gathered on the Rio Crua, but they found very little and had to waste time going to a new collecting area). 83. Devassa of Cabo Manoel José, Silves, n.d., 1774, APEP, Cod. 268, Doc. 4. 84. Devassa of Cabo José da Silva Godinho, Pinhel, July 21, 1770, APEP, Cod. 220, Doc. 9; letter from the Director Belchior Henrique Weinholtz to governor, Pinhel, April 18, 1770, APEP, Cod. 215, Doc. 53; ibid., September 18, 1769, APEP, Cod. 202, Doc. 77. 85. Two years later, the village dispatched a group of men, laden with gifts, with the goal of conducting the rest of the Mawé out of the forest. Director José Antonio de Brito to governor, Monte Alegre, October 16, 1790, APEP, Cod. 465, Doc. 34. Other examples of resettlements that resulted from contacts made on collecting expeditions can be found in the following APEP documents: Cod. 198, Doc. 24; Cod. 240, Doc. 40; Cod. 260, Doc. 20; Cod. 268, Doc. 33. 86. As noted by Sweet for the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, collecting expeditions had always enjoyed ample opportunities to trade and negotiate with independent native groups, and during the pre-Directorate era, many expedition sponsors or cabos simply used collecting as a pretext for slave trading among native groups (Sweet, “Rich Realm,” 468–470). 87. Director José Cavalcanti Albuquerque to governor, Vila Franca, June 1, 1792, APEP, Cod. 470, Doc. 43. 88. Examples of informal trade with the Mura can be found in the following APEP documents: Cod. 424, Doc. 44; Cod. 431, Doc. 47; Cod. 435, Doc. 50; Cod. 435, unnumbered doc., fls. 96–100; Cod. 454, Doc. 4. 89. Alexandre Rodrigues Ferreira noted that colonial collecting expeditions had to travel farther and farther afield to find products that once grew close to the settled zones. He also mentioned crown efforts to preserve overexploited plants, such as a 1688 edict prohibiting the collection of cravo on the Tocantins and Capim Rivers (Ferreira, “Diário da viagem philosóphica,” 48 [1885]: 72– 73). 90. Governor Francisco de Souza Coutinho reversed the 1769 order forbidding communication and trade with the gentio in his carta circular of September 1, 1790, APEP, Cod. 466, Doc. 30. 91. Director Venuslão José de Sousa Morais to governor, Boim, September 12, 1775, APEP, Cod. 284, Doc. 44. 92. Cabo Bernardo Fernandes Brazão to Director Antonio Gonçalves de Sousa, Vila Franca, n.d., 1777, APEP, Cod. 317, unnumbered doc., fl . 114. (Th is is one of the

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only letters I found that was written by a cabo.) For other reports of crews that received collecting tips and assistance from gentio, see Director Boaventura de Cunha Caldeira to governor, Arraiolos, August 23, 1792, APEP, Cod. 447, Doc. 40; Director Francisco Coelho de Mesquita to governor, Alter do Chão, September 18, 1774, APEP, Cod. 268, Doc. 28 (this last document is cited in Sommer, “Negotiated Settlements,” 103). 93. Relationships between fugitive and colonial communities were complex, ranging from mutual hostility to collaboration, depending on the context. See Stuart B. Schwartz and Hal Langfur, “Tapanhuns, Negros da Terra, and Curibocas: Common Cause and Confrontation Between Blacks and Natives in Colonial Brazil,” in Beyond Black and Red: African– Native Relations in Colonial Latin America, ed. Matthew Restall (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2005), 81–114; and more specifically on the Amazon, Flávio dos Santos Gomes, “A ‘Safe Haven’: Runaway Slaves, Mocambos, and Borders in Colonial Amazonia, Brazil,” Hispanic American Historical Review 82, no. 3 (2002): 469–498. 94. Director Francisco Roberto Pimentel to governor, Portel, October 13, 1779, APEP, Cod. 346, Doc. 21. 95. Director Francisco Rodrigues Coelho to governor, Serzedelo, August 23, 1793, APEP, Cod. 497, unnumbered doc., fls. 59– 61. 96. Director Pedro de Faria e Mello to governor, Poiares, July 23, 1776, APEP, Cod., 288, Doc. 45, annexed doc. 97. Anderson, Colonization as Exploitation, 34–35, 30. 98. Authors who emphasize the coercive aspects of the expeditions are listed in note 43. The primary exceptions, as already noted above, are the recent studies by Coelho and Sommer. The latter author mentions several examples of Indians demanding payment for ser vices rendered to crown or village officials, including one case in which crewmen refused to go collecting for the native headmen because they did not expect to receive their salaries (Sommer, “Negotiated Settlements,” 134–135; see also Coelho, “Do sertão para o mar,” 281). 99. For reflections on how to interpret the varied responses of Andean Indians to European market penetration and expansion, see Steve J. Stern, “The Variety and Ambiguity of Native Andean Intervention in European Colonial Markets,” in Ethnicity, Markets, and Migration in the Andes: At the Crossroads of History and Anthropology, ed. Brooke Larson and Olivia Harris (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1995), 73–100. On the question of voluntary or coerced native participation in colonial credit institutions (the repartimiento de comercio) in Oaxaca, Mexico, see Jeremy Baskes, “Coerced or Voluntary? The Repartimiento and Market Participation of Peasants in Late Colonial Oaxaca,” Journal of Latin American Studies 28, no. 1 (1996): 1–28; Kevin Gosner, “Indigenous Production and Consumption of Cotton in Eighteenth-Century Chiapas: Re-Evaluating the Coercive Practices of the Reparto de Efectos,” in New World, First Nations: Native Peoples of Mesoamerica and the Andes Under Colonial Rule, ed. David Patrick Cahill and Blanca Tovías (Brighton, UK: Sussex Academic Press, 2006), 129–143.

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100. Intendente Geral do Comércio João de Amorim Pereira to the Secretário de Estado do Negócios do Reino e Mercês, Belém, December 31, 1777, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 78, Doc. 6508. 101. Stern, “ Variety and Ambiguity of Native Andean Intervention,” 90. 102. Almeida, “Os Vassalos d’el Rey,” 72. 103. Anderson, Colonization as Exploitation, 35. 104. Director Diogo Luís de Rebello de Barros e Vasconcelos to governor, Tabatinga/ Javari, July, n.d., 1778, APEP, Cod. 329, Doc. 25; Director Sebastião da Rocha to governor, Serzedelo, July 26, 1778, APEP, Cod. 329, Doc. 24. Desirable payments-in-kind were even more difficult to come by in the Rio Negro captaincy. The governor of that captaincy lamented that if the shortages of European goods were only for the current year, he could more easily reassure the Indians that goods would be forthcoming, “but since there is a shortage every year in this or that type of product, it is more difficult to convince them that it is due to no ships arriving from Portugal.” Governor Joaquim de Mello e Povoas to the governor of Pará, Barcelos, February 17, 1760, APEP, Cod. 96, Doc. 46. Various product “wish lists” of Indian officials from the Rio Negro villages can be found in APEP, Cod. 96, Docs. 15, 18, 21. 105. Director Joseph Bernardo da Costa e Asso to governor, Serzedelo, May 3, 1773, APEP, Cod. 257, Doc. 69. 106. Devassa of Cabo Caetano José Marreiros, Santana do Maracapucu, August 4, 1765, APEP, Cod. 157, Doc. 10; Director Manoel Moura e Castro to governor, Pombal, June 30, 1761, APEP, Cod. 106, Doc. 88 (recounting an incident among the canoe crew of the neighboring settlement of Souzel). 107. Governor Bernardo de Mello e Castro to Francisco Xavier de Mendonça Furtado, Belém, August 9, 1759, BNRJ, Cod. 11, 2, 043, fl s. 42r–43r. 108. Director Segismundo de Costa Pimentel to governor, Santana do Cajari, August 1, 1777, APEP, Cod. 312, Doc. 1. 109. Intendente Geral do Comércio and Desembargador Luís Gomes de Faria e Sousa to the Secretário de Estado da Marinha e Ultramar, Francisco Xavier de Mendonça Furtado, Belém, November 20, 1761, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 51, Doc. 4698. See also “Diretório,” Art. 42, in Beozzo, Leis e regimentos das missões. 110. As characterized by Governor Francisco de Souza Coutinho (AIHGB, Lata 284, Livro 2, Doc. 29). 111. Antônio Gonçalves Dias, Diccionário da língua tupy: Chamada língua geral dos indígenas do Brazil (Lisbon: F. A. Brockhaus, 1858), 148. The entry “potaba” includes the following definitions: dádiva (gift or donation), mimo (gift), oferta (offering or gift), parte (part), quinhão (portion or share), and ração (ration). The term can also be used to refer to esmolas (alms) or dízimos (tithes). 112. Director Venuslão José de Sousa Moraes to governor, Boim, n.d., 1777, APEP, Cod. 317, Doc. 12. The Jesuit João Daniel described a very similar system during the pre-Directorate era, in which the missionaries conceded to Indian crewmen any fragment of Amazonian clove that was irregularly sized for bundling with the rest of the cargo; the cabos then traded cane liquor or other trinkets for these portions, which

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sometimes added up to ten, twelve, or more arrobas (Daniel, Tesouro Descoberto, vol. 2, 93). 113. There are very few references to potabas in the historiography, and further research is needed on the practice. Sommer recounts how visiting officials received “potavas” of food and livestock, and she notes that one of these officials, Bishop Queiroz, “specified that it was customary to pay double the value of the gifts, which is what he did. . . . This exchange perpetuated the indigenous value placed on reciprocity and paying double may have be [sic] calculated to show the bishop’s authority, as generosity would have been expected from him” (Sommer, “Negotiated Settlements,” 135). Sweet similarly defines “putava” as a “ ‘gift’ of food offered by village women to passing canoe expeditions, in ritual exchange for trade goods” (Sweet, “Rich Realm,” 816), which is exactly how they appear in the correspondence of Governor Francisco Xavier de Mendonça Furtado. During his 1754 trip from Belém to the Rio Negro, the governor received “putavas,” or “customary presents,” from Indian women in each of the villages along the way, usually consisting of great quantities of bananas, which he “paid for” in ribbons, cotton cloth, and salt (“Diário da Viagem . . .” in Marcos Carneiro de Mendonça, ed., A Amazônia na era pombalina: Correspondência do Governador e Capitão- General do Estado do Grão-Pará e Maranhão, Francisco Xavier de Mendonça Furtado, 1751– 1759 (Brasília: Senado Federal, 2005), vol. 2, 256– 288. See also the comical description of this ritual by a hapless nineteenth-century traveler in Paul Marcoy, Voyage à travers L’Amérique du Sud, de L’Océan Pacifique à L’Océan Atlantique, vol. 2 (Paris: L. Hachette, 1869), 339– 340. 114. For example, the director of Almeirim reported that the crewmen of his village “care to do nothing in the forest except hunt for food, some out of laziness, and others, who are more hardworking, because they consider that the [fruits] of their labor will be distributed among the lazy ones. . . . And certainly it would not be this way if they were to see that he who takes little, makes little.” Director Joseph Bernardo da Costa e Asso to governor, Almeirim, September 2, 1780, APEP, Cod. 342, Doc. 42. 115. Devassa of Cabo Antonio José da Silva, Pombal, September 28, 1773, APEP, Cod. 263, Doc. 22. 116. Devassa of Cabo Pascoal Lopez and letter from Director Fernando Serrão de Oliveira to governor, Almeirim, September 23, 1765, APEP, Cod. 157, Doc. 65. 117. See, for example, Director Joaquim Francisco Printz to governor, Óbidos, May 18, 1781, APEP, Cod. 373, Doc. 47; Director Jerônimo Pereira da Nóbrega to governor, Arraiolos, August 18, 1773, APEP, Cod. 260, Doc. 32; Director Pedro Vicente de Oliveira Pantoja to governor, Faro, September 18, 1791, APEP, Cod. 465, Doc. 101. 118. Ferreira, “Diário da viagem philosóphica,” 48 (1885): 73; see also this section for his perspective on the harmful effects of unsustainable collecting practices on cacao and cravo. 119. See, for example, Director Bento José do Rego to governor, Olivença, August 1, 1765, APEP, Cod. 157, Doc. 4 (on a pilot who tried to kill his cabo after being reprimanded

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for not collecting enough). On cabos who were stingy with collective supplies, see devassa of Cabo Joaquim José de Ascensão, Serzedelo and Piriá, July 29, 1773, APEP, Cod. 260, Doc. 16; devassa of Cabo José da Silva Godinho, Pinhel, July 27, 1771, APEP, Cod. 234, Doc. 44; devassa of Cabo Isidoro dos Santos Portugal, Lamalonga, July 22, 1770, APEP, Cod. 217, unnumbered doc. 120. Pilot’s testimony in the devassa of Cabo João Rodrigues Uzarte, Almeirim, September 3, 1763, APEP, Cod. 131, Doc. 7–8. 121. On Indians’ preference for collecting cacao over sarsaparilla and cravo, see Daniel, Tesouro Descoberto, vol. 2, 85–86; on p. 83, he also describes their fondness for collecting (and eating) turtle eggs. 122. Devassa of Cabo Joaquim José de Ascensão, Serzedelo/Piriá, July 29, 1773, APEP, Cod. 260, Doc. 16. 123. For example, the seventy-year-old Alfonso de Paiva provided one of the testimonies in the devassa of the Cabo of Alter do Chão, August 22, 1775, APEP, Cod. 284, Doc. 17. 124. Cabo Pedro de Figueiredo de Vasconcelos, Tajoperu, February 8, 1766, APEP, Cod. 167, Doc. 39. 125. Director José Félix Galvão de Araújo e Oliveira to governor, Melgaço, August 24, 1764, APEP, Cod. 141, Doc. 52. 126. Director Joseph Bernardo da Costa e Asso to governor, Serzedelo, July 29, 1773, APEP, Cod. 260, Doc. 16. 127. Stern, “Variety and Ambiguity of Native Andean Intervention,” 84, 90. 128. On similar strategies in the colonial Andean context, see the overview provided by Brooke Larson, “Andean Communities, Political Cultures, and Markets: The Changing Contours of a Field,” in Ethnicity, Markets, and Migration in the Andes: At the Crossroads of History and Anthropology, ed.ited by Brooke Larson and Olivia Harris (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1995), 21–22, as well as the case studies in the rest of the volume. 129. Cultural imperatives come to the fore in recent anthropological work on the topic of contemporary indigenous mobility: see, for example, Miguel N.Alexiades, ed., Mobility and Migration in Indigenous Amazonia: Contemporary Ethnoecological Perspectives (New York: Berghahn Books, 2009); Laura Rival, Trekking Through History: The Huaorani of Amazonian Ecua dor (New York: Columbia University Press, 2002); Aparecida Vilaça, Strange Enemies: Indigenous Agency and Scenes of Encounters in Amazonia (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2010); Marcia Leila de Castro Pereira, “Rios de história: Guerra, tempo e espaço entre os Mura do baixo Madeira” (PhD diss., Universidade de Brasília, 2009). On native Amazonians’ use of material exchange to express social relations with select outsiders, see Stephen Hugh-Jones, “Yesterday’s Luxuries, Tomorrow’s Necessities: Business and Barter in Northwest Amazonia,” in Barter, Exchange and Value: An Anthropological Approach, ed. Caroline Humphrey and Stephen Hugh-Jones (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 42– 74; Beth Conklin, “For Love or Money? Indigenous Materialism and Humanitarian Agendas,” in Editing Eden: A Reconsideration of Identity, Politics, and Place in

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Amazonia, ed. Frank Hutchison and Patrick C. Wilson (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2010), 127–150.

Chapter 3 1. Director Fernando Serrão de Oliveira to governor, Almeirim, January 30, 1762, APEP, Cod. 113, Doc. 55. 2. The missionaries’ task was prescribed by the Regimento e Leis sobre as Missões, para. 9. For the relevant articles on descimentos in the Directorate legislation, see the “Diretório,” Arts. 78 and 79, in José Oscar Beozzo, Leis e regimentos das missões: Política indigenista no Brasil (São Paulo: Edições Loyola, 1983). 3. Aparecida Vilaça, Strange Enemies: Indigenous Agency and Scenes of Encounters in Amazonia (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2010), 296–297. 4. On the laws regulating seventeenth- and early eighteenth-century descimentos, see Beatriz Perrone-Moisés, “Índios livres e índios escravos: Os princípios da legislação indigenista do período colonial (séculos XVI a XVIII),” in História dos Índios no Brasil, ed. Manuela Carneiro da Cunha (São Paulo: Schwarcz, 1992), 118. For legislation on nineteenth-century descimentos, see the “Regulamento acerca das missões de catechese e civilização dos índios,” July 24, 1845, reprinted in Beozzo, Leis e regimentos das missões, 168–178. The efforts of twentieth-century missionaries or agents of SPI and FUNAI to “descend” Indian nations to settlements located on more accessible rivers are mentioned in Carlos de Araújo Moreira Neto, Índios da Amazônia, de maioria a minoria (Petrópolis: Vozes, 1988), 56. For a fascinating narrative of a series of what could be called descimento expeditions on tributaries of the Rio Mamoré in the early 1960s, reconstructed on the basis of interviews with both white and Wari’ participants, see Vilaça, Strange Enemies, 254–300. 5. António de Morais Silva and Rafael Bluteau, Diccionário da língua portugueza (Lisbon: Officina de S. T. Ferreira, 1789), vol. 2, 228. 6. João Daniel, Tesouro descoberto no máximo rio Amazonas (Rio de Janeiro: Contraponto, 2004), vol. 2, 58; see also 379–380. 7. Ibid., vol. 2, 62. 8. Ibid. 9. Ibid., vol. 2, 381. 10. Ibid., vol. 2, 61– 63. 11. Nearly all of these features of the descimento process surface in a detailed 1728 report by one of Daniel’s contemporaries, a Franciscan missionary named Manoel de São Manços from the mission at Jamundá (Faro): “Relação e notícia das nações de gentio” (1728), AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 11, Doc. 964. I am grateful to Mark Harris for bringing this document to my attention. 12. Superior das Missões da Companhia de Jesus do Estado do Maranhão, Padre Manuel de Seixas, to king, Belém, July 16, 1719, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 6, Doc. 540. 13. Francisco Xavier de Mendonça Furtado to Sebastião José de Carvalho e Melo, Arraial de Mariuá, November 15, 1755, in Marcos Carneiro de Mendonça, ed., A Amazônia na era pombalina: Correspondência do Governador e Capitão- General do Estado do

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Grão-Pará e Maranhão, Francisco Xavier de Mendonça Furtado, 1751– 1759 (Brasília: Senado Federal, 2005), vol. 2, 531. Domingues has indentified the main areas of descimento activity during the Directorate period as the basins of the Negro, Japurá, Içá, and Apaporis Rivers; the Branco and Madeira Rivers; and the Tocantins-Araguaia River region (Ângela Domingues, Quando os índios eram vassalos: Colonização e relações de poder no Norte do Brasil na segunda metade do século XVIII [Lisbon: Comissão Nacional para as Comemorações dos Descobrimentos Portugueses, 2000], 138); I have also found evidence of numerous expeditions to the upper Xingú and Tapajós River basins. 14. Caio Prado Júnior, The Colonial Background of Modern Brazil (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1967), 104, 108; Robin L. Anderson, Colonization as Exploitation in the Amazon Rain Forest, 1758–1911 (Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 1999), 17, 43–44. 15. Slaves could be brought downriver by other means than the slaving troops (tropas de resgate). Many were captured by war parties (tropas de guerra) or private slaving expeditions, most of them illegal, that operated extensively during the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries. See David G. Sweet, “A Rich Realm of Nature Destroyed: The Middle Amazon Valley, 1640–1750” (PhD diss., University of Wisconsin, 1974), 465– 495, 578– 611. 16. On the inevitably blurry line between descimentos and slaving during the prePombaline era, see Sweet, “Rich Realm,” 128–130, 465–495, 578– 611; Rafael Chambouleyron and Fernanda Aires Bombardi, “Descimentos privados de índios na Amazônia colonial,” Varia História 27, no. 46 (2011): 601– 623. A discussion of these topics for Pernambuco and Bahia in the sixteenth century can be found in Alida C. Metcalf, GoBetweens and the Colonization of Brazil, 1500–1600 (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2005), 184–192. 17. See, for example, Sweet’s discussion of “the greatest and least scrupulous slavingchaplain of them all,” Padre Aquiles Maria Avogadri (Sweet, “Rich Realm,” 473). 18. On some of the most famous cunhamenas of the 1730s and 1740s, their participation in both slaving and descimento expeditions, and their investigation by the Portuguese Inquisition, see Barbara A. Sommer, “Colony of the Sertão: Amazonian Expeditions and the Indian Slave Trade,” The Americas 61, no. 3 (2005): 401–428; Sommer, “Cracking Down on the Cunhamenas: Renegade Amazonian Traders Under Pombaline Reform,” Journal of Latin American Studies 38, no. 4 (2006): 767– 791. 19. King to Governor Berredo, March 3, 1718, in Annaes da Biblioteca e Archivo Público do Pará (Belém, Brazil: Secretaria de Estado de Educacao e Cultura, 1902–1910), vol. 1, 155. 20. Documents on this controversy, including the original decree (“Copia da Lei de Sua Magestade, de 9 de Março de 1718, sobre os descimentos de índios dos sertões, para as missões do Maranhão”), can be found in Corographia Histórica, cronográphica, genealógica, nobiliária, e política do imperio do Brasil, ed. A. J. de Mello Moraes (Rio de Janeiro: Typographia Brasileira, 1860), 302– 305, 254– 258, 305– 330. For an analysis

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of these legal developments and controversies around descimento laws, see João Lúcio Azevedo, Os jesuítas no Grão Pará, suas missões e a colonização (Lisboa: Livraria Editora, 1901), 162–163; Rafael Chambouleyron and Fernanda Aires Bombardi, “Descimentos privados de índios na Amazonia colonial,” Varia História 27, no. 46 (2011): 601– 623. 21. Perrone-Moisés, “Índios livres e índios escravos,” 131n1; Sweet, “Rich Realm,” 474–478; Sommer, “Colony of the Sertão,” 407. Examples of the cartas régias granting licenses for private descimentos can be found in “Livro Grosso do Maranhão,” Anais da Biblioteca Nacional (Rio de Janeiro: Divisão de Obras Raras e Publicações, 1948), vol. 66, 242– 243. On recipients of descimento licenses and the captaincy governors who distributed them, see also Dauril Alden, “Indian Versus Black Slavery in the State of Maranhão During the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries,” Bibliotheca Americana 1, no. 3 (1983): 107–115; Chambouleyron and Bombardi, “Descimentos privados de índios.” Governors’ attempts to obscure the distinctions between slaving and descimentos went back to the seventeenth century; see Mathias Kieman, “The Indian Policy of Portugal in the Amazon Region, 1614–1693” (PhD diss., Catholic University of America, 1954), 123. 22. Alden, “Indian Versus Black Slavery,” 127. 23. Nádia Farage, As muralhas dos sertões: Os povos indígenas no Rio Branco e a colonização (Rio de Janeiro: ANPOCS, 1991), 75. 24. Mendonça Furtado to Sebastião José de Carvalho e Melo, Belém, February 25, 1754, in Mendonça, A Amazônia na era pombalina, vol. 2, 131–132. The governor stated that there were only three people he could trust to orga nize descimentos: two ministers from Lisbon and the secretary of state. 25. On his difficulties with descimentos, see Mendonça Furtado to Sebastião José de Carvalho e Melo, Arraial de Mariuá, November 15, 1755, in Mendonça, A Amazônia na era pombalina,vol. 2, 528–536 (quote is from 529). 26. Manuel de Seixas to king, Belém, June 13, 1719, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 6, Doc. 536. 27. “Matrícula dos diferentes Descimentos de Tapuias Silvestres, e Índios, Índias, Rapazes, e Raparigas de Diversas Nações, Recolhidos a algumas Vilas do Estado no presente Ano de 1781,” Governor José de Nápoles Telo e Meneses to the queen, December 17, 1781, AHU, Cx. 88, Doc. 7159 (annexed document); three additional descimentos for 1781, which I included in this total, were found in APEP, Cod. 371, Doc. 6; Cod. 372, Docs. 13 and 44. Not included in the 1781 report or in any of my own figures are the descimentos that headed to the ephemeral frontier villages of the Rio Branco and Upper Rio Negro. Some of these frontier-village descimentos are listed in the appendix of Robin Wright, “History and Religion of the Baniwa Peoples of the Upper Rio Negro Valley” (PhD diss., Stanford University, 1981), 614– 615. 28. These reports can be found in APEP, Correspondência de Diversos com o Governo series; AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 47, Doc. 4344; Cx. 50, Doc. 4588; Cx. 51, Doc. 4682; Cx. 53, Doc. 4828; Cx. 90, Doc. 7356; Mauro Cezar Coelho, “Do sertão para o mar: Um estudo

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sobre a experiência Portuguesa na América, a partir da Colônia: O caso do Diretório dos Índios (1751–1798)” (PhD diss., Universidade de São Paulo, 2005), app. 10. See Chapter 4 of the present book for a discussion of how captaincy censuses reflect the ongoing influx of new residents via descimentos. If we assume that the total from 1781 was slightly higher than average, a conservative estimate would be that 600 to 800 people were resettled each year in the villages of Pará and the Rio Negro during the Directorate, when the total population of índios aldeados in the two captaincies hovered around 30,000 (see Appendix B). 29. Sweet, “Rich Realm,” 473. Historians who have invoked native “gullibility” include John Hemming, Amazon Frontier: Th e Defeat of the Brazilian Indians (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1987), 56; Colin M. MacLachlan, “The Indian Directorate: Forced Acculturation in Portuguese America,” Th e Americas 28, no. 4 (1972): 383. 30. Domingues, Quando os índios eram vassalos, 136–150; Barbara A. Sommer, “Negotiated Settlements: Native Amazonians and Portuguese Policy in Pará, Brazil, 1758–1798” (PhD diss., University of New Mexico, 2000), 102–108; and for central Brazil, Mary Karasch, “Rethinking the Conquest of Goiás, 1775–1819,” The Americas 61, no. 3 (2005): 463–492. For a similar approach to descimentos in colonial Rio de Janeiro, see Maria Regina Celestino de Almeida, Metamorfoses indigenas: Identidade e cultura nas aldeias coloniais do Rio de Janeiro (Rio de Janeiro: Arquivo Nacional, 2003), 96–101. 31. Vilaça, Strange Enemies, 286. The author notes that she was often surprised, during her fieldwork, to hear Wari’ informants speak so positively of the cultural and social effects of contact and resettlement near the whites, while seeming to forget the violence that usually attended this process (18). Peter Gow has also reflected on this theme, as detected in Piro histories of contact; his discussion of how this fits into native culture and conceptions of history can be found in Gow, An Amazonian Myth and Its History (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 9. 32. In her study of the Kaingang (Coroado) in the missions of nineteenth-century Paraná, Marta Rosa Amoroso finds native motivations for resettlement that in many ways complement those described by Vilaça for the mid-twentieth century. Amoroso, “Guerra e mercadorias: Os Kaingang nas cenas da ‘Conquista de Guarapuava,” in Do contato ao confronto: A conquista de Guarapuava no século XVIII, ed. Ana Maria de Moraes Belluzzo, Marta Rosa Amoroso, Nicolau Sevcenko, and Valéria Piccoli (São Paulo: BNB Paribas, 2003), 32–35. 33. Historians have primarily focused on Indians’ supporting roles as crewmen, guides, and interpreters. See, for example, Perrone-Moisés, “Índios livres e índios escravos,” 118; Domingues, Quando os índios eram vassalos, 136–150. Both Sommer and Sampaio note that the principais were responsible for descimentos per the Directorate legislation and that they often made overtures to their relatives in the forest or sponsored expeditions to contact Indian nations (Sommer, “Negotiated Settlements,” 102–108, 218; Patrícia Maria Melo Sampaio, “Espelhos Partidos: Etnia, legislação e desigualdade na

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colônia sertões do Grão-Pará, c. 1755–1823” [PhD diss., Universidade Federal Fluminense, 2001], 194). Mary C. Karasch’s work on colonial Goiás provides the most detailed treatment of Indian-led resettlements. A vividly recounted case study, which offers many parallels to the process described here, is “Damiana da Cunha: Catechist and Sertanista,” in Struggle and Survival in Colonial America, ed. David G. Sweet and Gary B. Nash (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1981), 102–120. 34. Noronha said he chose locally born soldiers, so as to make less of an impression on the gentio, presumably because these would have had darker skin. 35. Desembargador Visitador Geral José Monteiro de Noronha to governor, Barcelos, January 13, 1762, APEP, Cod. 122, Doc. 2. 36. Metcalf, Go-Betweens, 169. 37. João Daniel had come to the same conclusion about the ineffectiveness of bribery over the long term (Daniel, Tesouro descoberto, vol. 2, 378–380). 38. “Diretório,” Arts. 78 and 79, in Beozzo, Leis e regimentos das missões. The legislation also indicated that the Royal Treasury would assume the financial burden that had once been funded by the religious orders and a head tax on the sale of Indian slaves. On Mendonça Furtado’s efforts to reinforce the loyalty of native leaders through the granting of privileges and titles of office, see Coelho, “Do sertão para o mar,” 157–171. 39. On the role of military men in the Rio Branco resettlement project, see Farage, As muralhas dos sertões. 40. As always, there were exceptions, as will be discussed later in this chapter; some directors exerted control over the process in one way or another, and non-Indians— mamelucos, African slaves, or white settlers— occasionally volunteered or were recruited as informers, guides, or crewmembers. 41. The text of the “Diretório” reads as follows: “The directors will show untiring vigilance in reminding each and every one of them [the native officials] that the first and most important obligation of their posts consists in supplying the povoações de índios via descimentos, even if it comes at great expense to the Royal Trea sury. . . . And so that the Juizes Ordinários and Principais may faithfully carry out this highest and most important obligation, it will be the Directors’ responsibility to persuade them of the great spiritual and temporal benefits to be gained from descimentos.” Arts. 78 and 79, in Beozzo, Leis e regimentos das missões. 42. Examples of collecting expedition crewmen engaging in descimento-related activities can be found in the following APEP documents: Cod. 198, Doc. 24; Cod. 240, Doc. 40; Cod. 260, Doc. 20; Cod. 268, Doc. 33, Cod. 424, Doc. 48; and Cod. 442, Doc. 55; Cod. 465, Doc. 79; Cod. 497, Doc. 47. 43. Director José Gonçalves Marquês to governor, Porto de Moz, August 2, 1764, APEP, Cod. 141, Doc. 1. The two-year labor exemption for gente nova was established in 1686 by the Regimento e Leis sobre as Missões do Estado do Maranhão e Pará e sobre a Liberdade dos Índios (Lisbon: Biblioteca Nacional de Lisboa, 1824) Art. 23. 44. Director José Luís da Cunha to governor, Fragoso, December 18, 1764, APEP, Cod. 140, Doc. 58.

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45. On the necessity of native officials’ participation, see, for example, Director Manoel da Fonseca Zuzarte de Macedo to governor, Outeiro, September 20, 1788, APEP, Cod. 449, Doc. 43. 46. For descriptions of the initial contacts made by relatives and the subsequent village visits by gentio, see the following APEP documents: Cod. 70, Doc. 56; Cod. 244, doc. 18; Cod. 268, Doc. 28; Cod. 295, Doc. 39; Cod. 330, Doc. 53; Cod. 449, Doc. 34; Cod. 465, Doc. 112 (which mentions the daughter of a principal coming to stay in the village); Cod. 491, Doc. 5. On the use of children of gente nova as refens during the missionary era, as described by Daniel (Tesouro descoberto, vol. 2, 381), see Almir Diniz de Carvalho Júnior, “Índios Cristãos: A conversão dos gentios da Amazônia Portuguesa (1653–1769)” (PhD diss., Universidade Estadual de Campinas, 2005), 257–258. If, at any point after receiving gifts, the gentio broke the contract, use of force was sanctioned to bring them back to the village. Most villages, however, did not dare to mount aggressive campaigns against independent native groups, and the latter were often well aware of their superior numbers. One director received the following message from a principal who had broken a descimento contract: “that now [his nation] does not want [to resettle], and that should I send Indians to capture them, I had better send plenty, since the [Indians] of the forest are three villages” (Director Francisco Coelho da Silva to governor, Pombal, April 6, 1774, APEP, Cod. 271, Doc. 37). 47. See, for example, the list of expedition supplies requested by the principais of Almeirim, which was only partially fulfi lled by the trea sury (“Relação do que pedem os principais,” Almeirim, October 10, 1763, APEP, Cod. 131, Doc. 56). 48. Director José Luís da Cunha to governor, Fragoso, December 18, 1764, APEP, Cod. 140, Doc. 58. 49. Director Luís da Cunha de Eça e Castro to governor, Borba, June 27, 1765, APEP, Cod. 134, Doc. 74. 50. On the intransigence of Mawé in the villages, see Director Domingos Gonçalves Alexa to governor, Pinhel, October 15, 1777, APEP, Cod. 316, Doc. 11; Director Valério de Silva Cunha to governor, Aveiro, August 10, 1787, APEP, Cod. 442, Doc. 4; Sommer, “Negotiated Settlements,” 174–175. An example of a descimento among the Mawé that was adequately funded can be found in the proposal of Feliciano da Silva, an Indian from Oeiras, whose supply list was mostly approved by the governor (see Director José Antonio da Costa Corte Real to governor, Oeiras, January 16, 1782, AHU, Pará Avulos, Cx. 91, Doc. 7383, annexed doc.). On the reputation of the Parianâ, see Director José Gonçalves Marquês to governor, Porto de Moz, December 2, 1764, APEP, Cod. 140, Doc. 44. 51. On a heavily armed descimento expedition among the Juruna, see Director Luís da Rocha Lima to governor, Souzel, September 8, 1788, APEP, Cod. 449, Doc. 34. Requests for arms by descimento participants were fairly common; see, for example, Director José Caetano Ferreira da Silva to governor, Souzel, August 21, 1771, APEP, Cod. 235, Doc. 30; Director José Bernardo da Costa e Arco to governor, Almeirim, August 27, 1780, APEP, Cod. 342, Doc. 38; “Relação do que pedem os principais,” Almeirim, October 10,

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1763, APEP, Cod. 131, Doc. 56 (in this case, asking for their arms to be repaired so they could bring them on the expedition). 52. These descimento activities are recounted in the letters from Director Francisco Serrão de Oliveira to governor, Almeirim, August 28, 1762, APEP, Cod. 117, Doc. 54; October 10, 1763, Cod. 131, Doc. 56; October 15, 1763, Cod. 140, Doc. 15; December 30, 1763, Cod. 131, Doc. 114; April 18, 1765, Cod. 151, Doc. 127. Sommer also describes Almeirim’s descimento expeditions during the early 1760s, focusing on the material inducements used in the expeditions (Sommer, “Negotiated Settlements,” 104–107). 53. Director Francisco Serrão de Oliveira to governor, Almeirim, October 6, 1772, APEP, Cod. 244, Doc. 33. 54. The imprisonment of Principal Diogo da Costa is described in Director Francisco Serrão de Oliveira to governor, Almeirim, July 3, 1768, APEP, Cod. 190, Doc. 2; he was accused of various offenses, including the coordination of desertions and the violent beating of his wife and several other women in the village. He appeared again on village rolls in 1771. The death of Principal Clemente de Mendonça is reported in ibid., October 2, 1768, APEP, Cod. 191, Doc. 1. 55. Director José Bernardo da Costa e Arco to governor, Almeirim, August 27, 1780, APEP, Cod. 342, Doc. 38; Director António José Freitas to governor, Almeirim, October 12, 1785, APEP, Cod. 424, Doc. 48 (who says he does not trust the principal); ibid., November 4, 1787, Cod. 442, Doc. 55. The 1788 descimento expedition is described by Manoel da Fonseca Zuzarte de Macedo, director of Outeiro, who complained that the Almeirim crewmen co-opted a group of gentio who had already been contracted to resettle in his village (Outeiro, September 20, 1788, APEP, Cod. 449, Doc. 43); this case is discussed later in the chapter. 56. Sources do not mention ethnic majority building as an explicit goal of those orga nizing descimentos, usually referring instead to Indians’ attempts to retrieve their relatives. But in her detailed reconstruction of native factionalism in the village of Portel, Sommer reveals the extent to which ethnic majorities shaped the political landscape of the Directorate villages and the various ways in which their leaders sought to increase their influence (Sommer, “Negotiated Settlements,” 273–306). Similarly cyclical contact expeditions and resettlements occurred among the Wari’ in the 1960s, as described in Vilaça, Strange Enemies, 291–293. 57. The director of Porto de Moz claimed that the population shortage in neighboring Vilarinho do Monte could not be alleviated because its inhabitants had no relatives in the forest. This may have been a self-interested assertion, however, since the governor was considering a proposal to consolidate the two villages into one located at Porto de Moz (Director José Gonçalves Marques to governor, Porto de Moz, August 2, 1764, APEP, Cod. 141, Doc. 1). 58. Of the ten settlements in the metropolitan area, the only ones that recorded conducting their own descimentos during the Directorate period were Beja (small descimentos of nine people in 1777 and five in 1793) and Cintra (sixty-two people, all runaways, in 1760). Beja’s descimentos are recorded in APEP, Cod. 316, Doc. 23 and Cod.

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497, unnumbered doc.; Cintra’s appear in AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 47, Doc. 4344. In the late 1780s and early 1790s, the directors of both Odivelas and Penha Longa blamed the villages’ inability to replenish themselves on the lack of principais (Director Boaventura José Bentes to governor, Odivelas, unknown date, 1789, APEP, Cod. 458, Doc. 109; Director Manoel José Bento to governor, Penha Longa, August 26, 1790, APEP, Cod. 465, Doc. 19). 59. See, for example, the case recounted in Chapter 4, of the Arû gente nova who were brought to settle in Monte Alegre by their relatives but who were transferred on the governor’s orders to the delta-area village of Colares. They subsequently fled and returned to Monte Alegre (Director José António de Brito to governor, Monte Alegre, October 15, 1781, APEP, Cod. 465, Doc. 109). The government’s relocation campaign of the early 1780s is described in Bishop Caetano Brandão to Queen Maria I, Belém, August 1, 1787, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 96, Doc. 7663. 60. Director João Pedro Marçal da Silva to Governor João Pereira Caldas, Baião, October 8, 1775, APEP, Cod. 283, Doc. 27. 61. This was equivalent to about 720 liters or 163 U.S. dry gallons (1 alqueire = approximately 36 liters or 8.17 U.S. dry gallons). 62. Less typical was the director’s request for extra crewmen; a separate list indicated ten Indians who were living either on their own homesteads or on settlers’ estates in the vicinity of the village. There may not have been enough able-bodied men in Baião to complete the crew, but it is also possible that the director or the principal wanted to reduce the labor burden on the villagers so that these could be applied to other, perhaps unsanctioned, projects. 63. Director Luís António Malato de Castro Peruvino to governor, Baião, July 30, 1781, APEP, Cod. 372, Doc. 23. On Baião’s labor distribution list from July 1776, Francisco Gregório is listed as a velho (an elderly person, not capable of working) but then does not appear at all on the lists of 1777 and 1778 (see APEP, Cod. 301, Doc. 34 [for 1776]; Cod. 320, Doc. 32 [for 1777]; Cod. 318, Doc. 90 [for 1778]). 64. Director José Gonçalves Marquês, Alenquer, August 1, 1769, APEP, Cod. 198, Doc. 24. On the symbolic, rather than purely functional, value of European or colonial trade goods to Indian nations, see Farage, As muralhas dos sertões, 115; Amoroso, “Guerra e mercadorias,” 28. Ethnographic descriptions of the symbolic importance of “clothing of the whites” can be found in Vilaça, Strange Enemies, esp. 247, 278, 312–313. 65. Director Manoel da Fonseca Zuzarte de Macedo, Outeiro, September 20, 1788, APEP, Cod. 449, Doc. 43. Other sources reveal that the Apama had ethnic roots in both Outeiro and Almeirim. A list of new arrivals in Almeirim in 1763 mentions that three of the Apama, including their principal, had been baptized “a long time ago in the [mission] aldeia of Urubucoara, today the lugar of Outeiro” (Director Francisco Serrão de Oliveira to governor, Almeirim, October 10, 1763, APEP, Cod. 131, Doc. 56). The Apama’s choice between the two villages must have therefore been informed by more than the competing práticas of the officials; they would have had some knowledge (if only ancestral) of both villages. For an interesting discussion of the competitive “preaching” of different kinds of colonial intermediaries—Jesuit missionaries versus mameluco go-betweens—on desci-

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mento expeditions in the sertões of Bahia and Pernambuco in the sixteenth century, see Metcalf, Go-Betweens, 249–254. 66. Director António Gonçalves de Sousa to governor, Vila Franca, May 12, 1766, APEP, Cod. 167, Doc. 134. 67. Ibid., Vila Franca, May 12, 1766, APEP, Cod. 167, Doc. 134. On contemporary native Amazonians who claim to have known of the Christian God before conversion, see Peter Gow, “Forgetting Conversion: The Summer Institute of Linguistics Mission in the Piro Lived World,” in The Anthropology of Christianity, ed. Fenella Cannell (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2006), 221. 68. Director José Caetano Ferreira da Silva to governor, Souzel, July 5, 1768, APEP, Cod. 189, Doc. 50. 69. Ibid., Souzel, August 7, 1770, APEP, Cod. 220, Doc. 8. The reference to the group of gentio who wanted to settle at Souzel is also interesting because of the way the information had been obtained. Apparently, a sargento-mor from Monte Alegre had been trying to resettle this group when they told him of their preference for Souzel: when they had visited the latter during a previous director’s tenure, their principal had died there, and this made them more inclined to settle there. The sargento-mor then passed on this message to Principal Carvalho, who told other Indians in the village but said nothing of it to the director. 70. Ibid., Souzel, May 9, 1771, APEP, Cod. 232, Doc. 85. 71. Ibid., Souzel, September 6, 1771, APEP, Cod. 236, Doc. 10; September 4, 1772, Cod. 244, Doc. 2; September 21, 1772, Cod. 244, Doc. 18. 72. Ibid., Souzel, September 4, 1772, APEP, Cod. 244, Doc. 2. 73. Ibid., Souzel, September 21, 1772, APEP, Cod. 244, Doc. 18. 74. Director Francisco da Penha de França to Commandante [João Bernardo Borralho?], São Felipe [Rio Branco], March 3, 1787, APEP, Cod. 441, Doc. 64. On the decline of the Rio Branco villages in the late 1780s and the rising anger of the gente nova against both the principais and the directors, see Farage, As muralhas dos sertões, 162–167. For an example from Pará, in which a group of gente nova staged a revolt against the native captain who had brought them to settle in a village struck by an epidemic, see Director Francisco Rabelo Mendes to governor, Pombal, March 31, 1769, APEP, Cod. 202, Doc. 28. João Daniel also indicated that it was common for missionaries to face allegations of deception and misrepresentation from gente nova, especially in times of material want (Daniel, Tesouro descoberto, vol. 2, 379–380). 75. Cabo de Esquadra Bernardo Gomes Pereira to governor, Souzel, January 28, 1773, APEP, Cod 257, Doc. 13. 76. Ibid., Souzel, February 25, 1773, APEP, Cod. 257, Doc. 27. 77. Director Lourenço Justiniano de Siqueira to governor, Porto Salvo, April 16, 1773, APEP, Cod. 257, Doc. 55. 78. Interim Governor of the Rio Negro Valério Correia Botelho de Andrade to the governor of Pará, Barcelos, January 30, 1762, APEP, Cod. 99, Doc. 51. 79. Director João de Amorim Pereira to governor, Porto de Moz, March 31, 1773, APEP, Cod. 246A, Doc. 7.

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80. On the view of gente nova as foreigners among policymakers and perhaps among some of the longtime residents of the villages, see Sampaio, “Espelhos Partidos,” 70, 138– 139. Governor João Pereira Caldas applied the label “inúteis comedores” to the gente nova of the Rio Branco settlements, after estimating that the supplies of manioc flour sent from the Rio Negro to sustain them totaled some 7,000 alqueires (Farage, As muralhas dos sertões, 139). 81. Daniel, Tesouro descoberto, vol. 2, 381. 82. Director Lucas José Espinosa de Brito Coelho Folqman to governor, Pombal, February 21 and 23, 1772, APEP, Cod. 241, Docs. 33 and 37. In another notable case, Principal Clemente de Mendonça of Almeirim nearly refused to go to Belém to solicit a descimento license, but this may have had more to do with wanting to avoid the capital than an expedition to the sertão, since he had been active in several other descimentos (Director Francisco Serrão de Oliveira to governor, Almeirim, October 10, 1763, APEP, Cod. 131, Doc. 56). 83. On avoiding other labor assignments to go on descimentos, see Director Francisco Serrão de Oliveira to governor, Almeirim, October 10, 1763, APEP, Cod. 131, Doc. 56; Director Cosme Damião da Silva to governor, Pombal, December 23, 1763, APEP, Cod. 131, Doc. 109; Director Manoel Lobo de Almeida to governor, Monte Alegre, April 8, 1766, APEP, Cod. 167, Doc. 106; Director José Antonio da Costa Corte Real to governor, Oeiras, January 16, 1782, AHU, Pará Avulos, Cx. 91, Doc. 7383 (annexed doc.). On opportunistic collecting and other types of trade while on descimento expeditions, see Director Manoel Gomes to governor, Alenquer, March 22, 1762, APEP, Cod. 113, Doc. 29; Director Francisco Serrão de Oliveira to governor, Almeirim, August 28, 1762, APEP, Cod. 117, Doc. 54; Director Francisco de Macedo to governor, Porto de Moz, August 31, 1772, APEP, Cod. 240, Doc. 44. 84. No one conducted an official inquiry upon their return, and directors rarely could count the descimento leaders as their close associates or kin— and thus as informers—the way they could with the cabos of the collecting canoes. 85. Principal Francisco Xavier de Mendonça Furtado to governor, Porto de Moz, November 3, 1790, APEP, Cod. 465, Doc. 42. 86. Director Francisco de Fonseca Ferreira to governor, Borba, February 10, 1769, APEP, Cod. 198, Doc. 75. On the participation of women, see also Director Francisco Serrão de Oliveira to governor, Almeirim, August 28, 1762, APEP, Cod. 117, Doc. 54; but sources on this topic are very limited. For a remarkable case study of one Indian woman’s descimento activities in colonial Goiás, see Karasch, “Damiana da Cunha.” 87. Excluding the massive resettlements of Mura and Mundurucú Indians during the government-led pacification process, many of whom did not even settle in existing povoações de índios, I found evidence of only two larger descimentos: 300 settled at Pederneiras in 1780, many of them former runaways, and 240 settled at Alvelos in 1769 (Coelho, “Do sertão para o mar,” app. 10; APEP, Cod. 65, Doc. 1). 88. Director Domingos Franco to governor, Borba, August 15, 1762, APEP, Cod. 100, Docs. 54, 55. As mentioned earlier in the chapter, most of the Pama descimento died

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or fled, which is why Principal Sampaio proposed targeting a different group (Director Luís da Cunha de Eça e Castro to governor, Borba, June 27, 1765, APEP, Cod. 134, Doc. 74). Sometime in the mid-1760s, the native officials and villagers of Borba submitted a requerimento asking for Director Eça e Castro to be investigated and removed; among his many alleged offenses was his role in provoking the desertion of the Pama, having beat them and forced them into his own ser vice (Requerimento dos Índios da Vila de Borba, n.d., AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 45, Doc. 4141). 89. Director Manoel da Fonseca Zuzarte de Macedo to governor, Outeiro, September 20, 1788, APEP, Cod. 449, Doc. 43. The ajudante is not named in this document, but his name appears in the village labor rolls of 1785 (APEP, Cod. 423, Doc. 63M). 90. For allegations of descimento hoaxes, see Director Francisco de Macedo to governor, Porto de Moz, August 31, 1772, APEP, Cod. 240, Doc. 44; Director José António de Souto Maior to governor, Óbidos, April 5, 1767, APEP, Cod. 175, Doc. 62. 91. Principal Diogo Martins de Mendonça to governor, São José do Javari, July 9, 1760, APEP, Cod. 100, Doc. 5. 92. Director Sebastião de Siqueira Chaves Pantoja to governor, São José do Javari, June 24, 1763, APEP, Cod. 128, Doc. 29. 93. Sampaio, “Espelhos Partidos,” 194. 94. Ibid., 251. 95. Henrique João Wilkens to governor, Ega, December 12, 1786, APEP, Cod. 435, Doc. 88. 96. José Gonçalves Marquês to governor, Porto de Moz, September 10, 1765, APEP, Cod. 157, Doc. 57. The director ended up telling the suspect to go to Belém to retrieve a payment for some ser vice he had completed, so that he could be apprehended by the governor’s agents without causing any controversy among the gente nova. 97. Director Jerónimo Manoel de Carvalho to governor, Pinhel, November 29, 1762, APEP, Cod. 115, Doc. 52. This incident in 1762 is also described in Sommer, “Negotiated Settlements,” 174–175, where she discusses the long history of Mawé desertions from villages on the Rio Tapajós. On the murder of the director of Pinhel at the hands of the Mawé that he was seeking to descend to the village, sometime during the first couple of years of the Directorate, see Daniel, Tesouro descoberto, vol. 1, 398; João de São José Queiroz, “Viagem e visita do sertão em o Bispado do Gram-Pará em 1762–1763,” Revista do Instituto Histórico e Geográfico Brasileiro 9 (1847): 101. 98. Governor Fernando da Costa de Ataíde Teive to Pedro Maciel Parente, Director of Santarém, Belém, October 3, 1769, AIHGB, Lata 283, Pasta 10. 99. Information given by the crewmen is contained in the letter of Director Belchior Henrique Weinholtz to governor, Pinhel, April 18, 1770, APEP, Cod. 215, Doc. 53, and in the formal devassa of July 21, 1770 in Cod. 220, Doc. 9. The killings on the beaches are described ibid., October 18, 1769, Cod. 202, Doc. 96; and the letter of September 18, 1769, Cod. 202, Doc. 77 says that Pinto is son-in-law to the unnamed principal whom he replaced, and who is now the “capital enemy of the whites.” This letter contains an additional accusation against Pinto, suggesting that he (like Alfaia) was engaged in alliance

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building with independent native groups. The director reported that Pinto brought “all of the young women [of Pinhel] to the beaches, on the pretext of making turtle egg butter, from which nothing came but one or two pots. . . . I had prior notice of his diabolic plans, which consisted of giving [the women] as a gift to the heathens of the forest, who fi nd themselves short of females, and thereby forming an alliance with them, perhaps with the goal of making war on us here [in Pinhel]. He himself has publicized as much, [upon] taking the place of his father-in-law, the principal enemy of the whites.” 100. Director Belchior Henrique Weinholtz to governor, Pinhel, August 29, 1771, APEP, Cod. 235, Doc. 38. 101. His imprisonment is reported in Pedro Maciel Parente to governor, Santarém, May 25, 1772, APEP, Cod. 241, Doc. 62. On the Mawé gente nova who resettled in Pinhel later in the decade and subsequently deserted, see Director Domingos Gonçalves Alexa to governor, Pinhel, October 15, 1777, APEP, Cod. 316, Doc. 11. Principal Sebastião Pinto remained on the village rolls through the 1770s and was involved in some descimento efforts in the early 1780s (as described in Director Boaventura da Cunha Caldeira to governor, Pinhel, August 27, 1781, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 91, Doc. 7383, annexed doc.). Around that same time, there is some evidence to suggest that he and the other native officials deserted after an irresolvable conflict with the director (see Director Francisco [?] da Costa, November 24, 1784, APEP, Cod. 408, Doc. 110). Pinto does not appear on any subsequent village lists. 102. David G. Sweet, “Native Resistance in Eighteenth-Century Amazonia: The ‘Abominable Muras’ in War and Peace,” Radical History Review 53, no. 1 (1992): 70–73. See also Marta Rosa Amoroso, “Corsários no caminho fluvial: Os Mura do Rio Madeira,” in História dos Índios no Brasil, ed. Manuela Carneiro da Cunha (São Paulo: Schwarcz, 1992), 297–310; and her MA thesis, “Guerra Mura no século XVIII: Versos e versões, representações dos Mura no imaginário colonial” (São Paulo: UNICAMP, 1991). Mary Karasch has described a similar process, in which representatives of formerly hostile nations were relied upon as “ambassadors” or peace brokers among their people (Karasch, “Rethinking the Conquest of Goiás”). 103. Amoroso, “Guerra Mura no Século XVIII,” 133, citing a footnote in Henrique João Wilkens’s epic poem about the Mura, the Muhuraida. 104. Ibid., 147. 105. Commander João Baptista Mardel to governor, Ega, March 15, 1785, APEP, Cod. 420, Doc. 89, also published in José Paulo Monteiro Soares and Cristina Ferrão, eds., Viagem ao Brasil de Alexandre Rodrigues Ferreira: Coleção Etnográfica (São Paulo: Kapa Editorial, 2005), vol. 3, 42; and described in Sweet, “Native Re sis tance,” 70– 72. 106. On the Mundurucú threat and their eventual peace agreement with the Portuguese in 1795, see the extensive compilation of primary sources in Francisco Jorge dos Santos, ed., “Dossiê Munduruku: Uma contribuição para a história indígena da Amazônia colonial,” Boletim Informativo do Museu Amazônico 5, no. 8 (1995): 1–103.

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107. Soares and Ferrão, Viagem ao Brasil de Alexandre Rodrigues Ferreira, vol. 3, 42, 68– 72; Commander João Baptista Mardel to governor, Ega, April 17, 1785, ibid., vol. 3, 45. Marta Rosa Amoroso finds continuities down to the present day, with regard to the Mura’s construction of interethnic relationships and tendency toward ethnic incorporation; see her essay, “Os Mura tentam recuperar terras loteadas e reduzidas no passado,” in Povos indígenas no Brasil 1996–2000, ed. Carlos Alberto Ricardo (São Paulo: Instituto Socioambiental, 2000), 467–468. 108. The concept of proprietary fishing grounds in the Amazon remains controversial to this day. The anthropologist Mark Harris, who has studied peasants’ attitudes toward land and water rights in the Lower Amazon, writes, “Water and its resources are for communal stewardship. . . . Water, and in par tic u lar fi sh, cannot be owned by anybody because, for example, fi sh cannot be controlled. As one person told me: ‘Fish are looked after by nature and swim where they want’ ” (Harris, “Peasant Riverine Economies and Their Impact in the Lower Amazon,” in Human Impacts on Amazonia: Th e Role of Traditional Ecological Knowledge in Conservation and Development, ed. Darrell Addison Posey and Michael J. Balick [New York: Columbia University Press, 2006], 231). 109. General João Pereira Caldas to Cabo de Esquadra João Pedro da Costa, Barcelos, July 23, 1787; and the Cabo’s reply from the Pesqueiro Real de Poraquequara, August 20, 1787, both in APEP, Cod. 443, Doc. 21. Interestingly, Caldas was not always a proponent of concentrated settlement for the Mura. Back in 1785, in the early phases of the peace process, he proposed distributing them among various settlements that already had significant populations, “to make any future uprising more difficult for them.” He also thought it would be ideal if the Mura could be settled at a great distance from their homelands, “but it will probably not be possible to persuade and convince them of this” (Caldas to João Baptista Mardel, Barcelos, February 4, 1785, in Soares and Ferrão, Viagem ao Brasil, vol. 3, 41). 110. Henrique João Wilkens to General João Pereira Caldas, Ega, November 26, 1787, APEP, Cod. 443, Doc. 60. Conflicts with the Mura over turtle-hunting grounds continued into the nineteenth century and led to state surveillance of the beaches during turtle egg-laying season; see Johann Baptist von Spix and Carl Friendrich Phillipp von Martius, Viagem pelo Brasil (1817–1820), trad. Lúcia Furquim Lahmeyer (Belo Horizonte: Editora Itatiaia, 1981), vol. 3, 120, 163. 111. See Sweet, “Native Resistance,” 73– 74; Sebastião Pereira de Castro to governor, Real Pesqueiro do Caldeirão, July 3, 1786, APEP, Cod. 431, Doc. 47. For a recent ethnography of the Mura in the Autazes that focuses on the theme of mobility and its centrality to Mura identity, see Marcia Leila de Castro Pereira, “Rios de história: Guerra, tempo e espaço entre os Mura do baixo Madeira” (PhD diss., Universidade de Brasília, 2009), esp. chap. 2. 112. Wilkens’s epic poem, Muhuraida, ou O Triumfo da Fé, 1785, has been published by Carlos de Araújo Moreira Neto, ed. (Manaus: Biblioteca Nacional/UFAM/Governo do Estado do Amazonas, 1993).

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113. Henrique João Wilkens to General João Pereira Caldas, Ega, February 25, 1788, in Marta Rosa Amoroso and Nádia Farage, eds., Relatos da Fronteira Amazônica no século XVIII: Alexandre Rodrigues Ferreira e Henrique João Wilckens (São Paulo: Universidade de São Paulo/ Núcleo de História Indígena e do Indigenismo, 1994), 57.

Chapter 4 1. On the “demographic paradox” in seventeenth-century Ecuador, see Karen Vieira Powers, Andean Journeys: Migration, Ethnogenesis, and the State in Colonial Quito (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1995). 2. Directorate-era sources that mention absentees “from the time of the Jesuits” include Director José Caetano Ferreira da Silva to governor, Souzel, September 2, 1767, APEP, Cod. 177, Doc. 106; Director Aniceto Francisco Carvalho to governor, Portel, December 9, 1771, APEP, Cod. 236, Doc. 67; Director António Gonçalves de Sousa to governor, Vila Franca, January 15, 1772, APEP, Cod. 241, Doc. 16. 3. A useful compilation of terms used by Portuguese officials to describe native Amazonians can be found in Ângela Domingues, Quando os índios eram vassalos: Colonização e relações de poder no Norte do Brasil na segunda metade do século XVIII (Lisbon: Comissão Nacional para as Comemorações dos Descobrimentos Portugueses, 2000), 336–342. 4. The transfer of upriver groups is recommended in Director Domingos Caetano Lima to governor, Monte Alegre, June 26, 1781, APEP, Cod. 373, Doc. 55. On removing settled Indians from perceived sources of corruption, see, for example, the order to transfer the Indians of the mission of Tuaré (later Esposende) to Cayá (later Monsarás) to hinder their contraband trade with the French (King to governor of Maranhão, Lisbon, February 20, 1709, in “Livro Grosso do Maranhão,” Anais da Biblioteca Nacional [Rio de Janeiro: Divisão de Obras Raras e Publicações, 1948], vol. 67, 32–33). A similar proposal was made, at the other end of the century, to remove the Aroan Indians from the frontier villages of Chaves and Rebordelo to the interior of Marajó, to prevent their communication with the French in the Guiana borderlands (Governor Francisco de Souza Coutinho to Rodrigo de Souza Coutinho, Belém, April 20, 1798, AIHGB, ARQ 1, 1, 4, fls. 263–273 (Conselho Ultramarino series). 5. Regimento e leis sobre as missões do estado do Maranhão e Pará e sobre a liberdade dos índios (Lisbon: Biblioteca Nacional de Lisboa, 1724, Arts. 4 and 5. 6. King to Governor Manoel Rolim de Moura, Lisbon, December 29, 1706, AIHGB, ARQ 1, 2, 25, fls. 93– 93r. 7. Letters of this tenor can be found in Marcos Carneiro de Mendonça, ed., A Amazônia na era pombalina: Correspondência do Governador e Capitão- General do Estado do Grão-Pará e Maranhão, Francisco Xavier de Mendonça Furtado, 1751–1759 (Brasília: Senado Federal, 2005), vol. 1, 374; vol. 2, 520. 8. Governor Alexandre de Sousa Freire to king, São Luis do Maranhão, June 19, 1730, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 12, Doc. 1113. 9. On how these sixteenth-century debates influenced eighteenth-century theories about indigenous societies in the Americas, see David J. Weber, Bárbaros: Spaniards

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and Their Savages in the Age of Enlightenment (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2005). 10. Bishop and interim governor Miguel de Bulhões to Sebastião José de Carvalho e Melo, Belém, December 16, 1755, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 39, Doc. 3693. 11. The term is unpacked in Eduardo Viveiros de Castro, The Inconstancy of the Indian Soul: The Encounter of Catholics and Cannibals in 16th- Century Brazil (Chicago: Prickly Paradigm Press, 2011); see esp. 4–8 on its origins in Jesuit experiences among the coastal Tupinambá in the sixteenth century. Directors’ letters that portray Indians as “inconstantes” by nature or as habitual vagabonds can be found in the following APEP codices: Cod. 71, Doc. 35; Cod. 354, Doc. 53; Cod. 371, Doc. 22; Cod. 430, Doc. 54. The adjective “inconstante” is also common in the correspondence of other colonial officials, from governors to military men to ecclesiastics; see, for example, APEP Cod. 122, Docs. 1, 2, 34; Cod. 151, Doc. 131; Cod. 440, Doc. 50. 12. Director Raimundo José de Bitancourt to governor, Salvaterra, February 22, 1762, APEP, Cod. 130, Doc. 20. 13. João de São José Queiroz, “Viagem e visita do sertão em o Bispado do GramPará em 1762–1763,” Revista do Instituto Histórico e Geográfico Brasileiro 9 (1847): 101, cited in Barbara A. Sommer, “Negotiated Settlements: Native Amazonians and Portuguese Policy in Pará, Brazil, 1758–1798” (PhD diss., University of New Mexico, 2000), 174. 14. Director Domingos Gonçalves Alexa to governor, Pinhel, October 15, 1777, APEP, Cod. 316, Doc. 11. See also Director Valério de Silva Cunha to governor, Aveiro, August 10, 1787, APEP, Cod. 442, Doc. 4. As mentioned in Chapter 2, concerns about Mawé intractability led the crown to prohibit all trade with them, hoping to “reduce them to necessity” so that they would have to resettle (Governor Fernando da Costa de Ataíde Teive to Pedro Maciel Parente, Director of Santarém, Belém, October 3, 1769, AIHGB, Lata 283, Pasta 10). See also Sommer, “Negotiated Settlements,” 174–175. 15. On the Mura, see Marta Rosa Amoroso, “Corsários no caminho fluvial: Os Mura do Rio Madeira,” in História dos Índios no Brasil, ed. Manuela Carneiro da Cunha (São Paulo: Schwarcz, 1992), 297–310; David G. Sweet, “Native Resistance in EighteenthCentury Amazonia: The ‘Abominable Muras’ in War and Peace,” Radical History Review 53, no. 1 (1992): 49–80. 16. Director João Pedro Marçal da Silva to governor, Baião, March 7, 1777, APEP, Cod. 271, Doc. 11. 17. Director José Gonçalves Marqués to governor, Porto de Moz, December 2, 1764, APEP, Cod. 140, Doc. 44. 18. Director José Máximo Salvago to governor, Carrazedo, April 17, 1765, APEP, Cod. 151, Doc. 125. 19. The nineteenth-century naturalist Henry Walter Bates described the region as follows: “The whole of this coast hence [from the Serra do Almeirim] to near Santarém, a distance of 130 miles, is . . . intersected by short arms or back waters of the Amazons, which are called in the Tupí language Paraná-mirims, or little rivers. By keeping to these, small canoes can travel [a] great part of the distance without being much exposed to the

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heavy seas of the main river” (Henry Walter Bates, The Naturalist on the River Amazon: A Record of Adventures, Habits of Animals, Sketches of Brazilian and Indian Life, and Aspects of Nature Under the Equator, During Eleven Years of Travel [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009], 123). 20. See, for example, Director Luiz da Rocha Lima to governor, Santarém, November 28, 1787, APEP, Cod. 442, Doc. 66; Director Luiz da Rocha Lima to governor, Alenquer, December 19, 1787, APEP, Cod. 442, Doc. 73. It is also worth noting that contemporary Mura in the Autazes (a region of many lakes and seasonal islands) describe the landscape as having played an important historical role in providing refuge to the Mura during times of war; see Marcia Leila de Castro Pereira, “Rios de história: Guerra, tempo e espaço entre os Mura do baixo Madeira” (PhD diss., Universidade de Brasília, 2009), 153. 21. The original statement reads, “os Índios desta Aldeia ladinos são, mas assás ribeirinhos, e pouco affeiçoados aos missionaries da Companhia” (Araújo, “Chronica da Companhia de Jesus,” AIHGB, 1.2.32, Livro 1, Capítulo 9, fl. 55v). 22. Judicial inquiries for Portel and Souzel (October 1768) and Arraiolos (January 1768), APEP, Cod. 160, unnumbered docs. For a preliminary discussion of the term “ribeirinho” that cites a few of these same documents, see Mauro Cezar Coelho, “Do sertão para o mar: Um estudo sobre a experiência Portuguesa na América, a partir da Colônia: O caso do Diretório dos Índios (1751–1798)” (PhD diss., Universidade de São Paulo, 2005), 278–279. 23. Director Francisco Roberto Pimentel to governor, Portel, August 4, 1777, APEP, Cod. 312, Doc. 3. 24. Lauren Benton, “Spatial Geographies of Empire,” Itinerario 30, no. 3 (2006): 25– 26; Lauren Benton, A Search for Sovereignty: Law and Geography in European Empires, 1400–1900 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 2–3 and 10–23. 25. Hal Langfur, The Forbidden Lands: Colonial Identity, Frontier Violence, and the Persistence of Brazil’s Eastern Indians, 1750–1830 (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2006), 294. 26. Officials occasionally recommended that recently resettled ethnic groups be transferred to villages far from the temptation of their original lands; see, for example, Interim Governor of the Rio Negro, Valério Correia Botelho de Andrade, to the Governor of Pará, Barcelos, January 30, 1762, APEP, Cod. 99, Doc. 51; Director José Gonçalves Marqués to governor, Porto de Moz, December 2, 1764, APEP, Cod. 140, Doc. 44; Director António José Malcher to governor, Vila Franca, July 16, 1781, APEP, Cod. 372, Doc. 13; Director Domingos Caetano Lima to governor, Monte Alegre, June 26, 1781, Monte Alegre, APEP, Cod. 373, Doc. 55; Director Manoel da Rocha Martins to governor, Olivença, September 14, 1777, APEP, Cod. 312, Doc. 42; Director Belchior Henrique Weinholtz to governor, Pinhel, August 25, 1790, APEP, Cod. 465, Doc. 17. 27. For works that emphasize the role of external push factors related to the Directorate system— cruel village directors and undesirable labor assignments in particular but also epidemic diseases— and depict absentee movements as purely evasive maneuvers, see

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Colin M. MacLachlan, “The Indian Directorate: Forced Acculturation in Portuguese America,” The Americas 28, no. 4 (1972): 380–387; John Hemming, Amazon Frontier: The Defeat of the Brazilian Indians (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1987), 54–56; Robin L. Anderson, Colonization as Exploitation in the Amazon Rain Forest, 1758–1911 (Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 1999), 45–46. 28. MacLachlan, “Indian Directorate,” 387. 29. On parallels between native and African fugitive movements, see Flávio dos Santos Gomes, A hidra e os pântanos: Mocambos, quilombos e comunidades de fugitivos no Brasil, séculos XVII–XVIII (São Paulo: UNESP, 2005), 59–80; much of what pertains to the Amazon appears in his article “A ‘Safe Haven’: Runaway Slaves, Mocambos, and Borders in Colonial Amazonia, Brazil,” Hispanic American Historical Review 82, no. 3 (2002): 469–498. Domingues emphasizes that native absenteeism could be a means of preserving traditional rites and livelihoods, such as ancestor worship in the forest or seasonal food procurement in other ecological zones (Domingues, Quando os índios eram vassalos, 189–194). 30. Sommer, “Negotiated Settlements,” 154–187. See also Coelho, “Do sertão para o mar,” 273–280. 31. Rita Heloisa de Almeida, O Diretório dos Índios: Um projeto de civilização no Brasil do século XVIII (Brasília: Editora Universidade de Brasília, 1997), 308–320, esp. 315. The original Inquisition case can be found at the Arquivo Nacional da Torre do Tombo, Tribunal do Santo Ofício, Inquisição de Lisboa, processo 225 (http://digitarq.dgarq.gov .pt/details?id=2300096). Interestingly, Florência had a previous fugitive experience as a child, which may have influenced her subsequent choices. In her testimony, Florência said that she had been born into the mission of Bararoá (Tomar) and had fled to a river hideout with her parents when she was young. Sometime later, a Jesuit missionary brought the family in a descimento to Trocano (Borba). 32. The censuses listing absentees are available for the years 1774–1779, 1785, and 1791–1794. See Table 4.1 notes for complete source information. 33. “Diretório,” Art. 75, in José Oscar Beozzo, Leis e regimentos das missões: Política indigenista no Brasil (São Paulo: Edições Loyola, 1983). For further details on what these lists should contain (i.e., “the time of the absence, any information as to where they headed . . . and what efforts have been made to bring them back to the village”), see the carta circular from Governor Francisco de Souza Coutinho to the directors of Pará, Belém, September 1, 1790, APEP, Cod. 466, Doc. 30. The directors’ lists of absentees are scattered throughout the Correspondência de Diversos com o Governo series at APEP. 34. Governor João Pereira Caldas to Martinho de Mello e Castro, Belém, May 15, 1773, BNRJ, Manuscritos, 11, 2, 43 (also found in AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 70, Doc. 6002). 35. Governor João Pereira Caldas to the Vigários of Pará, October 13, 1774, APEP, Cod. 275, Doc. 64. For example, the parish priest of Colares evidently misunderstood or ignored instructions when he reported the same totals—fourteen male and ten female

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absentees, with a total population of 168 índios aldeados—for the years 1792, 1793, and 1794 (“Mappa[s] da População dos Índios Aldeados em todas as Povoaçõens da Capitania do Gram Pará no primeiro de Janeiro de . . . ,” BNRJ, Manuscritos, I-17, 12, 22). 36. The latter scenario is more likely for Colares (see previous note), since the major smallpox epidemic that swept through the region in 1793–1794 would not have left behind a stable population for three years in a row. 37. For allegations of this occurring in Pará, see the carta circular from Governor Francisco de Souza Coutinho to the directors of Pará, Belém, September 1, 1790, APEP, Cod. 466, Doc. 30; in the Rio Negro, see Alexandre Rodrigues Ferreira, “Diário da viagem philosóphica pela Capitania de São José do Rio Negro,” Revista Trimensal do Instituto Histórico e Geográfico Brasileiro 48 (1885): 43. Officials in Spanish America also kept track of absentees and engaged in similar types of subterfuge; on the falsification of absentee lists from seventeenth-century Charcas, see Thierry Saignes, “Las etnías de Charcas frente al sistema colonial (siglo XVII): Ausentismo y fugas en el debate sobre la mano de obra indígena, 1595–1665,” Jahrbuch fur Geschichte von Staat, Wirtschaft und Gesellschaft Lateinamerikas 21 (1984): 63. 38. This problem is pointed out in Sommer, “Negotiated Settlements,” 164. 39. Director Antonio Fernandes Correa to governor, Tomar, June 19 [?], 1788, APEP, Cod. 449, unnumbered doc. 40. Director Manoel Antonio da Costa Souto Maior to governor, Faro, January 8, 1799, APEP, Cod. 561, Doc. 2. Native artisans, who were in high demand by those in charge of royal construction projects, seem to have been more likely than other kinds of Indians to be requested by name. 41. Many different census categories for the Rio Negro villages feature blank fields, indicating that little or no information had been submitted by the parish priests. The directors’ reports were also much more erratic in style and in content than those of their counterparts in Pará. 42. I have never seen an official document that clarified these particular issues. 43. For descriptions of the depopulation of Directorate villages, see Governor João Pereira Caldas, quoted in Robin L. Anderson, “Following Curupira: Colonization and Migration in Pará, 1758 to 1930 as a Study in Settlement of the Humid Tropics” (PhD diss., University of California, Davis, 1976), 130; Principal Diogo Martins to governor, São José de Javari, July 9, 1760, APEP, Cod. 100, Doc. 5; Director Joaquim Francisco Principe to governor, Óbidos, January 27, 1780, APEP, Cod. 354, Doc. 14; Director Boaventura da Cunha Caldeira to governor, Arraiolos, June 1, 1794, APEP, Cod. 472, Doc. 65. 44. As mentioned in the notes for Table 4.1, the censuses of 1792–1794 gave these migrants their own subcategory (“Indians from Other Villages Existing in This One”) under the general heading of “Agregados,” or attached residents, whereas previous censuses had included them in the aldeado category. There were 768 such migrants in 1792, 750 in 1793, and 597 in 1794, about 3–4 percent of the total population. 45. In the 1774–1785 censuses there was a category for “Índios que de novo acrescerão” for those who had joined the village rolls in the last year, whether as re-

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cently resettled newcomers, returning absentees, or migrants from other villages. It seems to have been significantly underreported in some years, with blank fields for many of the villages. 46. Director José Gomes da Silva to governor, Moreira, July 24, 1777, APEP, Cod. 314, Doc. 39. Similar statements about descimentos of both independent natives and fugitives can be found in Governor Manoel Bernardo de Melo e Castro to Francisco de Mendonça Furtado, Belém, November 5, 1760, BNRJ, Manuscritos, 11, 2, 43. 47. For an analysis of demographic trends in the captaincy of Rio Negro, based on the few available quantitative sources, see Maria Regina Celestino de Almeida, “A falácia do povoamento: Ocupação portuguesa na Amazônia setecentista,” in Meandros da história: Trabalho e poder no Pará e Maranhão, séculos XVIII e XIX, ed. Mauro Cezar Coelho, Flávio dos Santos Gomes, Jonas Marçal de Queiroz, Rosa Elizabeth Acevedo Marin, and Geraldo Prado (Belém: UNAMAZ, 2005), 22–27; Patrícia Maria Melo Sampaio, “Espelhos Partidos: Etnia, legislação e desigualdade na colônia sertões do GrãoPará, c. 1755–1823” (PhD diss., Universidade Federal Fluminense, 2001), 61–72, who draws attention to the unexpected stability of the number of índios aldeados in the Rio Negro over the course of the Directorate. 48. Art. 76 of the “Diretório” reads as follows: “It will not be sufficient for the conservation and growth [of the villages] to restore to them those original residents [who have absented], without introducing larger numbers of inhabitants, which can only be achieved by either consolidating small hamlets into populous villages or by supplying Indians through descimentos” in Beozzo, Leis e regimentos das missões. 49. The quote is from João Capistrano de Abreu, Chapters of Brazil’s Colonial History, 1500–1800 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1997), 155–156; see also Caio Prado Júnior, The Colonial Background of Modern Brazil (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1967), 104, which emphasizes the labor drain of the royal industries and demarcation expeditions; Robin M. Wright and Manuela Carneiro da Cunha, “Destruction, Resistance, and Transformation: Southern, Coastal, and Northern Brazil (1580–1890),” in South America, vol. 3, pt. 2 of The Cambridge History of the Native Peoples of the Americas, ed. Frank Salomon and Stuart B. Schwartz (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 311. 50. Anderson, “Following Curupira,” 127–128; Hemming, Amazon Frontier, 57–58; MacLachlan, “Indian Directorate,” 386. 51. Governor Manoel Bernardo de Melo e Castro to Francisco Xavier de Mendonça Furtado, June 26, 1761, BNRJ, Manuscritos, 11, 2, 43; “Mappa da População dos Índios Aldeados . . . 1791,” BNRJ, Manuscritos, I-17, 12, 22. 52. Another shred of evidence comes from Governor Souza Coutinho, who reflected in 1796 that every one of his predecessors had made his same observations about the inadequate number of able-bodied Indian men in Pará, and he specifically referred to the decision of Manoel Bernardo de Melo e Castro, the second governor of the Directorate period (1759–1763), to send for laborers from other captaincies for a major shipbuilding project (Francisco de Souza Coutinho to Luís Pinto de Souza Coutinho, Belém, August

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1, 1796, BNRJ, Manuscritos, I-17, 12, 2). Th is suggests that the captaincy was hardly flush with laborers early in the Directorate. 53. The labor distribution data come from the “Mappa dos Officiaes e mais Índios das Povoações da Capitania do Grão Pará, capazes de serviço, e da destribuição em que existião no fim de Junho de 1774,” AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 74, Doc. 6212. To calculate the percentage of the population engaged in royal ser vice, I referenced the census population figures for each village in 1774, and if a village had not submitted information that year, I used the next available population count (which was usually from 1775); for census source information, see the Table 4.1 notes. The ten villages with the highest percentage of population engaged in royal ser vice were, from lowest to highest, Chaves, São Bento do Rio Capim, Condeixa, Mondim, Cintra, Salvaterra, Barcarena, Soure, Santarém Novo, and Odivelas. Only Chaves, Santarém Novo, Cintra, and São Bento were more than two days’ travel away from the capital. 54. The distribution of Indians to specific royal ser vices, including those listed here as well as many others outside the metropolitan area, appears in the labor distribution lists for individual villages, submitted to the governor on an annual basis (Correspondência de Diversos com o Governo). 55. Some of the populous inland villages provided higher numbers of Indians for royal ser vice (i.e., Oeiras, Franca, Melgaço, Monte Alegre, and Portel, which sent twentyeight to sixty-two workers each in 1774), but since these were only a small fraction of their total populations, the burden would not have been felt as acutely as in the smaller delta villages. As discussed later in the chapter, some absentees headed to the larger villages for the very reason that the labor draft rotations would be less frequent there (Director Pedro Vicente de Oliveira Pantoja to governor, Faro, November 3, 1794, APEP, Cod. 470, Doc. 82). 56. Director António José Alves to governor, Chaves, December 13, 1771, APEP, Cod. 236, Doc. 69; Director José Gonçalves Marqués to governor, Porto de Moz, April 24, 1765, Cod. 141, Doc. 128. 57. Director Domingos Cardozo to governor, Souzel, August 3, 1777, APEP, Cod. 312, Doc. 2. 58. The delta-area povoações de índios with consistently larger numbers of nonaldeados were Baião, Barcarena, Benfica, Monsarás, Odivelas, Ourém, Penha Longa, and Vila Nova d’El Rei. The inland villages were Porto de Moz and Vilarinho do Monte. In one village in the delta region, Cintra, non-aldeados outnumbered aldeados in just one of the census years (1785). For source information on the 1774–1785 censuses, see Table 4.1 notes. 59. The annexed villages in Pará were Bragança and Ourém in the delta region, and Santarém and Gurupá in the interior. 60. São José do Piriá, Viseu, Serzedelo, and Turiaçu had average absentee rates ranging from 3 to 7 percent. Only Viseu and Serzedelo had non-Indian residents (at their height, 6 percent and 9 percent of total population, respectively). 61. On settlers coming to the villages to persuade Indians to desert, see, for example, Director Boaventura José Bentes Palha to governor, Odivelas, October 14, 1790, APEP,

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Cod. 497, Doc. 41. On Indians who were convinced to desert royal ser vice assignments and go on private collecting expeditions instead, see Director Manoel António de Almeida to governor, São Bento do Rio Capim, July 16, 1788, APEP, Cod. 449, Doc. 13. The settlers’ annual contracts with índios aldeados for unauthorized turtle-hunting expeditions are mentioned in Director José António Sampaio to governor, Azevedo, August 29, 1765, APEP, Cod. 157, Doc. 50. 62. Director Francisco José dos Santos Palma to governor, Bragança, June 16, 1764, APEP, Cod. 128, Doc. 93. Competition between Indians and settlers for land may have also been an issue near the capital, though the sources are scarce. In Beja, a settler managed to get a sesmaria, or grant, for a tract of land that the índios aldeados had farmed since Jesuit times, but this is the only case I ever found that mentions the usurpation of Indian lands during the Directorate (Director Raimundo José de Bitancourt to governor, Beja, May 7, 1764, APEP, Cod. 138, Doc. 58). 63. Sommer, “Negotiated Settlements,” 275. 64. On interethnic alliances between blacks and Indians in eastern Amazonia, see Gomes, “ ‘Safe Haven’ ”; Flávio dos Santos Gomes and Jonas Marçal de Queiroz, “Em outras margens: Escravidão africana, fronteiras e etnicidade na Amazônia,” in Os senhores dos rios: Amazônia, margens e história, ed. Mary del Priore and Flávio dos Santos Gomes (Rio de Janeiro: Elsevier, 2004), 141–163. Cooperative fugitive movements between blacks and índios aldeados in the delta area are described in Padre João Correa to governor, São Bento do Rio Capim, August 2, 1762, APEP, Cod. 117, Doc. 43; Director Francisco José dos Santos Palma to governor, Monsarás, April 24, 1765, APEP, Cod. 151, Doc. 132. 65. Director António Gonçalves Ledo to governor, Benfica, January 31, 1775, APEP, Cod. 285, Doc. 25. 66. Colin M. MacLachlan, “The Indian Labor Structure in the Portuguese Amazon,” in Colonial Roots of Modern Brazil, ed. Dauril Alden (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1973), 227. 67. Sommer notes this connection as well (Sommer, “Negotiated Settlements,” 162–163). 68. Ibid., 163n29, 64; see also Antônio Ladislau Monteiro Baena, who adds that both of these settlements disappeared before the time of his writing (1839), as did Pena Cova (Baena, Ensaio corográfico sobre a Província do Pará [Brasília: Senado Federal, 2004], 21, 250–251). 69. Governor José de Nápoles Telo e Meneses claimed responsibility for successfully negotiating the settlement of Pederneiras with Principala (headwoman) Dona Maria Philipa Aranha and her fugitives; he also mentions populating other new villages, such as Salinas, with absentees and other dispersed Indians (Governor Meneses to Martinho de Melo e Castro, Belém November 27, 1780, AIHGB, ARQ 1,1,4, fls. 107v–109v). For more on the antivagrancy campaigns, see Chapter 5. 70. Director João Pedro Marçal da Silva, Baião, September 25, 1775, APEP, Cod. 283, Doc. 111. 71. Director Francisco Xavier Bequeman de Albuquerque to governor, Penha Longa, January 4, 1780, APEP, Cod. 354, Doc. 73. Another struggling settlement in the delta

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region, Porto Salvo, received a large number of captured runaways (forty-three in all) in 1761, which was surely the result of the governor’s consternation upon his recent visit there, when he remarked on the low numbers of inhabitants in such a “fertile” place; see Governor Manuel Bernardo de Melo e Castro to Francisco Xavier de Mendonça Furtado, August 1, 1761, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 50, Doc. 4592. 72. Director João Pedro Marçal da Silva to governor, Baião, September 25, 1775, APEP, Cod. 283, Doc. 111; Director Manoel Carlos da Silva to governor, Baião, February 13, 1777, APEP, Cod. 318, Doc. 46. 73. From lowest to highest percent of population engaged in collecting, the top ten were Souzel, Veiros, Esposende, Pombal, Beja, Outeiro, Fragoso, Faro, Serzedelo, and Santana do Cajari. 74. Director Custódio Manoel Estácio Galvão to governor, Outeiro, February 2, 1782, APEP, Cod. 389, Doc. 5. 75. It should be noted, however, that crewmen were sometimes waylaid in Belém for several months on illegal ser vice assignments (see Chapter 2). 76. The only new Directorate village in the inland region was Aveiro, an informal settlement on the Tapajós that was officially incorporated in 1781. 77. Sommer notes this pattern as well in “Negotiated Settlements,” 164. 78. The absentee reports are scattered throughout the directors’ correspondence at APEP in the Correspondência de Diversos com o Governo series. 79. Th is list shows one of the most common formats, though most did not include an age category. Other pieces of information occasionally found on the lists include the type of ser vice deserted, if any; the date of desertion; any honorific titles or skilled trades possessed by the absentees; alternative possibilities for their locations; or unbaptized status in the case of recently resettled groups. Th is list appears in APEP, Cod. 371, Doc. 8. 80. This was probably the mother of the remaining children, and Joana Maria was likely their grandmother. 81. Temporal trends cannot be analyzed using these sources because directors were not necessarily reporting absentees who had absented in a par ticu lar year, and there were many gaps in coverage over the course of the Directorate period. The directors’ absentee figures rarely matched those reported in the same year by the parish priests, because of a lack of standardization on both sides. The directors sometimes made no distinction between recent absentees and those who had left long ago; listed absent heads of family and neglected to mention how many family members accompanied them; or specified geographical locations for absentees who moved to other villages but not always for those who joined private estates (sometimes identified only by the owners’ names). 82. Ten absentees from Poiares were known to be in Monte Alegre because the collecting expedition crewmen had run into them there (Director Pedro de Faria e Mello Vasconcelos to governor, Poiares, July 24, 1776, APEP, Cod. 288, Doc. 45); similarly, the Director of Portel recognized a principal and group of fugitives from his village when he

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visited Melgaço (Manoel Gonçalves Meninea to governor, Portel, October 10, 1764, Cod. 144, Doc. 88. 83. This is a fundamental point made in Sommer, “Negotiated Settlements.” Unfortunately, it has not been possible to trace individuals through time or space (with a few exceptions), because of the generic nature of the Christianized names given to Indians and the frequent lack of surnames in the records. 84. It is important to note, however, that Indians’ status did change in more subtle ways when they migrated to other Directorate villages, as will be addressed in the following section. 85. On marriages between Pombal and Souzel, see Frei Severo de São José to governor, Souzel, September 12, 1773, APEP, Cod. 244, Doc. 110; Director Francisco Rebelo Mendes to governor, Pombal, April 1, 1767, APEP, Cod. 175, Doc. 60; Director Manoel José da Silva to governor, Pombal, November 17, 1781, APEP, Cod. 372, Doc. 48. 86. Director Francisco Rodrigues Coelho to governor, Serzedelo, May 1, 1791, APEP, Cod. 465, Doc. 81. 87. Director João Pereira to governor, Melgaço, April 11, 1768, APEP, Cod. 189, Doc. 10. 88. Unsanctioned trips to Belém by índios aldeados are described in Director Pedro José da Costa to governor, Vila Nova d’El Rei, June 25, 1766, APEP, Cod. 167, Doc. 166. On families visiting other villages to attend baptisms of their relatives, see Director Francisco Luís Ameno to governor, Salvaterra, April 16, 1770, APEP, Cod. 215, Doc. 47. Mass desertions as a result of epidemics are described in Director Boaventura da Cunha Caldeira to governor, Arraiolos, June 1, 1794, APEP, Cod. 472, Doc. 65. 89. Director Manoel Gomes to governor, Alenquer, August 24, 1762, APEP, Cod. 117, Doc. 48. 90. On the punishment of absentees who had been forcibly brought back to the village, see Director Faustino António de Sousa to governor, Veiros, March 6, 1775, APEP, Cod. 285, Doc. 58. 91. Of the 1,945 absentees with unknown/unspecified destinations, 352 were reported to be royal ser vice deserters and their families (roughly 20 percent). However, many sources were not explicit about the circumstances of desertion. Punishments for royal ser vice deserters included being sent to Belém in irons, to serve a sentence of prison or corvée labor; this was especially common in the case of repeat offenders. 92. On the vulnerability of Indian women in the colonial sphere, see Barbara A. Sommer, “Why Joanna Baptista Sold Herself into Slavery: Indian Women in Portuguese Amazonia, 1755–1798,” Slavery and Abolition 34, no. 1 (2013): 77– 97. 93. Cases in which índios aldeados relocated to join relatives in other povoações de índios can be found in the following APEP documents: Cod. 137, Doc. 76; Cod. 152, Doc. 53; Cod. 155, Doc. 122; Cod. 157, Doc. 111; Cod. 201, Doc. 36; Cod. 344, Doc. 20. 94. The average population and absentee rate is derived from the 1774–1794 censuses (see the Table 4.1 notes for sources). 95. Caetano Brandão, Diários das visitas pastorais no Pará (Porto: Instituto Nacional de Investigação Científica/Centro de História da Universidade do Porto, 1991), 58.

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96. The 759 absentees listed for Melgaço, Portel, and Veiros fell into the following destination categories: 312 went to unknown or unspecified destinations, 262 went to quilombos or uncolonized areas, 109 went to settler’s homes, 62 went to other Directorate villages, and 14 went to “other” locations. Absentee totals for each of the three villages are as follows: Melgaço had 251, Portel had 213, and Veiros had 295. APEP, Correspondência de Diversos com o Governo series. 97. Director Bernardo Gomes Pereira to governor, Souzel, January 28, 1773, APEP, Cod. 257, Doc. 13. 98. Maria Regina Celestino de Almeida, Metamorfoses indígenas: Identidade e cultura nas aldeias coloniais do Rio de Janeiro (Rio de Janeiro: Arquivo Nacional, 2003), 263– 264. Whether colonial Indians self-identified as vassals of the king, having been elevated by the Directorate to that status, is less certain. As Isabelle Braz Peixoto da Silva writes of Directorate Indians in Ceará, “The status of vassals of the king was attributed to the indigenes regardless of their posts, functions, [and place in] the native hierarchies. However, the documentation examined here does not allow us to verify the extent to which this new identity was really experienced by the indigenous population in general. The question, therefore, remains: To what extent did the status of vassal alter the universe of the ‘common’ Indians who lived in the villages? What changed in the quotidian dynamic? Would the new status of vassal only have benefited the institutional mediators [i.e., the native officials]?” (Silva, Vilas de Índios no Ceará Grande: Dinâmicas locais sob o Diretório Pombalino [Campinas: Pontes Editores, 2006], 180). For further reflections on communal identity among índios aldeados during the Directorate, see Patrícia Maria Melo Sampaio, “Administração colonial e legislaçao indigenista na Amazônia portuguesa,” in Os senhores dos rios: Amazônia, margens e história, ed. Mary del Priore and Flávio dos Santos Gomes (Rio de Janeiro: Elsevier, 2004), 129–137. 99. The group of thirteen fugitives who returned to the village of Alenquer out of necessity is mentioned in Commandante de Santarém Pedro Miguel Ayres Pereira to governor, Alenquer, February 9, 1792, APEP, Cod. 470, Doc. 28. As discussed in Chapter 3, independent native groups often came to the same conclusion about the colonial villages, settling there to escape warfare, hunger, and disease in the sertão. 100. On fugitive índios aldeados from Marajó villages who took refuge in Portel and Melgaço, see Raimundo José de Bitencourt to governor, Arraial [do Rio Jaraucu], March 15, 1767, APEP, Cod. 185, Doc. 1; on fugitives from Soure taking refuge in Pombal, see José Couto Ferreira da Silva, September 3, 1769, APEP, Cod. 202, Doc. 67. 101. Director António Gonçalves de Sousa to governor, Vila Franca, July 28, 1765, APEP, Cod. 152, Doc. 53. 102. Director António José Malcher to governor, Monte Alegre, December 30, 1780, APEP, Cod. 354, Doc. 11. 103. “Relação dos Índios e Índias que se agregarão a esta villa este anno de 1767,” Director Francisco Serrão de Oliveira to governor, Almeirim, August 30, 1767, APEP, Cod. 177, unnumbered doc., fl. 415. Interestingly, an absentee list for Arraiolos, drawn up in 1776 and purportedly covering those who had left during the previous two direc-

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torships, shows the two cousins going to Almeirim but not Januária (APEP, Cod. 298, Doc. 48). 104. Director José António de Brito to governor, Monte Alegre, October 15, 1791, APEP, Cod. 465, Doc. 109. Governor Meneses’s relocation campaign and its unfortunate outcome in Colares is described in Bishop Caetano Brandão to Queen Maria I, Belém, August 1, 1787, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 96, Doc. 7663. On the “secret plan” to remove the descimento from Monte Alegre— because “at the slightest inconvenience they would head back to the place where they were raised, as experience has shown in others of the same nation, long ago resettled in this village”— see Director Domingos Caetano Lima to governor, Monte Alegre, June 26, 1781, APEP, Cod. 373, Doc. 55. 105. The official instructions on what to do with absentees who married permanent residents of other villages are found in Governor José de Nápoles Telo e Meneses to the Directors and Commanders of Pará, Belém June 9, 1780, APEP, Cod. 356, Doc. 85. For an example of a non-aldeado Indian asking to be enrolled as a morador in a Directorate village, see Director Sebastião de Siqueira Chaves Pantoja to governor, Porto Salvo, January 15, 1781, APEP, Cod. 373, Doc. 11. 106. On absentees requesting to be enrolled as moradores in other villages after being established there for years, see Director Fernando Serrão de Oliveira to governor, Almeirim, October 2, 1768, APEP, Cod. 191, Doc. 1; and a director who advocated for enrollment in a similar case, in Director António de Freitas e Noronha to governor, Beja, May 26, 1789, APEP, Cod. 458, Doc. 89. 107. Agregados were also referred to as moradores adjuntos, or adjoined residents, and the two terms seem to have been used interchangeably. For official orders regarding this type of resident, see Governor João Pereira Caldas to the Vigários of Pará, Belém, October 13, 1774, APEP, Cod. 275, Doc. 64; and, more specifically, Governor João Pereira Caldas to the Vigário of Fragoso, Belém, April 25, 1775, APEP, Cod. 275, Doc. 327. 108. On Spanish American forasteros (sometimes also called agregados, though the terms were not always interchangeable) and their place in the colonial hierarchy, see Powers, Andean Journeys; Herbert S. Klein, Haciendas and Allyus: Rural Society in the Bolivian Andes in the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1993), 56–83. 109. Director João Falcatto da Silva to governor, Porto de Moz [?], June 20, 1775, APEP, Cod. 285, Doc. 110. 110. As discussed in Chapter 5, Indians could petition for a formal dispensation from the governor, which gave them license to live “sobre si”—literally, on their own, just like any other settler. These Indians would not appear on the village rolls with índios aldeados and agregados; instead, they would appear on parish lists of non-aldeado “moradores.” For one director’s reflections on the difficulty of drawing up a village census, given the various kinds of Indians in the district (aldeados, agregados, and moradores), see Director João Pedro Marçal da Silva to governor, Baião, April 14, 1775, APEP, Cod. 285, Doc. 88.

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111. Evidence of agregado participation in the village collecting expeditions or in royal ser vice can be found in the following APEP documents: Cod. 177, Doc. 42 (for Pinhel) and Doc. 89 (for Esposende); Cod. 190, Doc. 40 (Pinhel); Cod. 260, Doc. 10 (for Vila Franca); Cod. 312, Doc. 24 (for Fragoso); Cod. 346, Doc. 21 (for Portel); Cod. 398, Doc. 56 (for Óbidos). Indians who joined the village as agregados “since the previous year’s list” were sometimes included in village labor distribution lists, indicating that they had been promptly incorporated into the labor pool; see, for example, the lists from Monte Alegre and Santarém in 1778, in APEP Cod. 318, Docs. 69, 70; or for Pombal in 1775, in Cod. 281, Doc. 13. For a governor’s clarification that agregados or “Moradores Ajuntos” were not to be included in the village’s repartição, see Governor João Pereira Caldas to the Vigário of Fragoso, Belém, April 25, 1775, APEP, Cod. 275, Doc. 327. Further clarifications were necessary in 1781, when another governor explained that directors could not obligate non-aldeados to work in the serviço do comum, except those engaged in no productive activity of their own (Governor José de Nápoles Telo e Meneses to the Director of Cintra, Belém May 14, 1781, APEP, Cod. 356, Doc. 259). 112. Director Francisco Xavier Bequeman de Albuquerque to governor, Penha Longa, January 4, 1780, APEP, Cod. 354, Doc. 81. 113. On the importance of reputation, social practice, and unwritten law in determining community membership in Spanish America, both in the Spanish and colonial Indian spheres, see Tamar Herzog, Defining Nations: Immigrants and Citizens in Early Modern Spain and Spanish America (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2003). 114. For an example of a high-level official sanctioning the new residence of absentees who “many years ago were established and married [in the new village], with farms and houses, enrolled [there] and paying the tithes,” see Director José Leitão Fernandes to governor, Gurupá, November 7, 1797, APEP, Cod. 539, Doc. 28. Village administrators sometimes took migrants’ word when they claimed to have never belonged to another Directorate village; see Francisco dos Santos e Goveia to governor, Breves, date unknown, 1782, APEP, Cod. 389, Doc. 15. 115. Government expeditions against fugitives seem to have been most common during the administrations of João Pereira Caldas (1772–1780) and José de Nápoles Telo e Meneses (1780–1783). Indian agregados—whether or not they were absentees—who lived on their own or with moradores were occasionally rounded up in antivagrancy campaigns and forcibly settled in Directorate villages that were judged to be in need of moradores, as described in Director Boaventura José Bentes Palha to governor, Odivelas, October 14, 1790, APEP, Cod. 497, Doc. 41. 116. Director Lourenço Justiniano de Siqueira to governor, Porto Salvo, February 14, 1773, APEP, Cod. 257, Doc. 22. 117. For examples of directors enrolling absentees as moradores or sending them on ser vice assignments, see Director Sebastião de Siqueira Chaves Pantoja to governor, Porto Salvo, January 15, 1781, APEP, Cod. 373, Doc. 11; Director Luís António Malato de Castro Peruvino to governor, Baião, unknown date in 1781, APEP, Cod. 373, Doc.

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34; Director Salvador de Amaral to governor, Fragoso, November 23, 1784, APEP, Cod. 408, Doc. 109; Director António Gomes de Carvalho to governor, Mondim, March 29, 1789, APEP, Cod. 458, Doc. 65. A 1773 order stated that anyone, including directors, found to harboring absentees would be sentenced to three months of corvée labor, but there is no evidence that this punishment was ever imposed (Governor João Pereira Caldas to Martinho de Melo e Castro, Belém, July 29, 1773, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 71, Doc. 6033). 118. Director Felipe Benício da Rocha to governor, Outeiro, March 8, 1794, APEP, Cod. 506, Doc. 23. 119. On turning fugitives into moradores, see Director Francisco Roberto Pimentel to governor, Santana do Maracapucu, May 3, 1766, APEP, Cod. 167, Doc. 127. Accusations that directors were using absentees to inflate their village rolls can be found in Director António Gomes de Carvalho to governor, Mondim, March 29, 1789, APEP, Cod. 458, Doc. 65 (see also the counteraccusation offered by the director of Monsarás in APEP, Cod. 458, Doc. 70); Director António José Malcher to governor, Vila Franca, March 8, 1785, Cod. 344, Doc. 20; Director Boaventura da Cunha Caldeira to governor, Fragoso, January 24, 1777, Cod. 318, Doc. 32. Accusations apparently flew in every direction. The director of Benfica claimed that his counterpart in Cintra was making dishonest requests for the return of absentees, while he had recently been accused of doing the same by the director of Porto Salvo (Director Joaquim [?] do Valle to governor, Benfica, February 7, 1781, APEP, Cod. 373, Doc. 25; Director Sebastião de Siqueira Chaves Pantoja to governor, Porto Salvo, January 15, 1781, APEP, Cod. 373, Doc. 11). 120. Governor Coutinho to Luis Pinto de Sousa, Belém, August 1, 1796, BNRJ, Manuscritos, I-17, 12, 022. 121. Governor Souza Coutinho had tried several other, less radical mea sures but was apparently not satisfied with their results. In 1790, he had urged directors to lure absentees back to their villages with doçura—literally, sweetness— rather than removing them by force from wherever they were living (Governor Souza Coutinho to the Commandante de Alcobaça, August 19, 1790, APEP, Cod. 466, Doc.14). Th at same year, he also announced a three-month grace period for returning absentees (Bando of June 19, 1790, APEP, Cod. 254, Doc. 26). The 1796 bando that sanctioned the incorporation of absentees into other villages is from July 16 [?], 1796, APEP, Cod. 254, Doc. 41. In the Andes, the Spanish crown employed a more ambitious strategy of aggregating absentees and vagabonds into crown- controlled jurisdictions, called parcialidades, which featured lower tribute rates and labor exemptions. As Powers notes, this gave rise to the phenomenon of Indians’ actively seeking out vagabond or ausente status (Powers, Andean Journeys, 93). 122. Plano para a civilização dos índios, Francisco de Souza Coutinho to Rodrigo de Souza Coutinho, Belém, August 3, 1797, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 109, Doc. 8610. 123. João Henrique de Almeida de Souto Maior to governor, Vila Vistosa de Madre de Deus, December 16, 1771, APEP, Cod. 231, Doc. 23. On the difficulties in keeping this swampy town populated with European settlers, see Renata Malcher de Araújo, As cidades

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da Amazónia no século XVIII: Belém, Macapá e Mazagão (Porto: Faculdade de Arquitectura da Universidade do Porto, 1998). Efforts to congregate Spaniards in fi xed settlements in the American colonies—for many of the same reasons that motivated the congregation of Indians— are discussed in Tamar Herzog, “Terres et déserts, société et sauvagerie: De la communauté en Amérique et en Castille à l’époque moderne,” Annales 62, no. 3 (2007): 507–538.

Chapter 5 1. The term “mestiço” in Portuguese refers to a racial mixture of any kind. To specify an Indian-European mixture, the term “mameluco” is used. 2. Several scholars have acknowledged the existence of an Indian population that lived outside the Directorate system and that tended to gravitate toward Belém, but this population has not been studied in depth. See Colin M. MacLachlan, “The Indian Labor Structure in the Portuguese Amazon,” in Colonial Roots of Modern Brazil, ed. Dauril Alden (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1973), 227– 228; Patrícia Maria Melo Sampaio, “Espelhos Partidos: Etnia, legislação e desigualdade na colônia sertões do Grão-Pará, c. 1755–1823” (PhD diss., Universidade Federal Fluminense, 2001), 221– 222. 3. The quotes are from Karen Vieira Powers, Andean Journeys: Migration, Ethnogenesis, and the State in Colonial Quito (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1995), 82; on strategies and counterstrategies, see also Ann M. Wightman, Indigenous Migration and Social Change: The Forasteros of Cuzco, 1570–1720 (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1990); Martin Minchom, The People of Quito, 1690–1810: Change and Unrest in the Underclass (Oxford: Westview Press, 1994), chap. 7; Thierry Saignes, Caciques, Tribute and Migration in the Southern Andes: Indian Society and the SeventeenthCentury Order (London: University of London, 1985). 4. The original text of the 1755 law can be found in the appendix of Carlos de Araújo Moreira Neto, Índios da Amazônia, de maioria a minoria (Petrópolis: Vozes, 1988), 152–163. 5. Francisco Xavier de Mendonça Furtado to Diogo de Mendonça Corte Real, February 14, 1754, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 36, Doc. 3339; Francisco Xavier de Mendonça Furtado to the Governor of Maranhão, Belém, May 25, 1757, in Marcos Carneiro de Mendonça, ed., A Amazônia na era pombalina: Correspondência do Governador e CapitãoGeneral do Estado do Grão-Pará e Maranhão, Francisco Xavier de Mendonça Furtado, 1751– 1759 (Brasília: Senado Federal, 2005), vol. 3, 271–272. 6. When freed slaves did enter the Directorate system, it was in the context of a few limited settlement experiments. As mentioned in Chapter 1, Mendonça Furtado populated the new village of Ourém with 150 freed Indian slaves taken from contraband traders (Mendonça Furtado to King José I, October 11, 1753, in Mendonça, A Amazônia na era pombalina, vol. 1, 517–519). Also in the mid-1750s, the village of São Bento do Rio Capim was founded by a group of fugitive Indian slaves who negotiated their legal settlement shortly before the announcement of the Law of Liberties (as recounted in João Correia Abb [?] to governor, São Bento do Rio Capim, March 1, 1764, APEP, Cod. 137,

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Doc. 66). In 1769, Governor Ataíde e Teive populated the village of Baião with former Indian slaves, who until then had been living with settlers along the Tocantins; but if the director of Baião is to be believed, many of the residents eventually fled to return to their former masters (Director João Pedro Marçal da Silva, Baião, September 25, 1775, APEP, Cod. 283, Doc. 111). 7. For evidence of mixed-status marriages on plantations, see the list of eightyfour individuals (couples and off spring) in the “Relação dos escravos, e escravas, que achão nesta Fazenda de Jaguarary em 11 de Outubro” and the “Relação das escravas casados com índios,” in José Bernardo da Costa e Asso de Mendonça, Administrator, Fazenda de Jaguarary, October 11, 1761, APEP, Cod. 108, Doc. 8. Since slave status followed the mother, many settlers tried to facilitate unions between Indian men and slave women. 8. Plano para a civilização dos índios, Francisco de Souza Coutinho to Rodrigo de Souza Coutinho, Belém, August 3, 1797, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 109, Doc. 8610, para. 14 (fls. 232v–233). See also his letter to Luis Pinto de Souza, Belém, August 1, 1796, BNRJ, I-17, 12, 002, which discusses this population in similar terms. 9. “Mappa das Familias, que, à excepção das dos Indios Aldeados, se achavão existindo em cada huma da mayor parte das Freguezias de ambas as Capitanias do Estado do Grao Pará, e da sua possibilidade, e applicação no Anno de 1778,” AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 94, Doc. 7509. A numerical summary of the household census is available in ibid., Cx. 84, Doc. 6918. The data for the two parishes of Belém have been analyzed in Euda Cristina Alencar Veloso, “Estruturas de apropriação de riqueza em Belém do Grão-Pará, através do recenseamento de 1778,” in A escrita da história paraense, ed. Rosa Elizabeth Acevedo Marin (Belém: NAEA/Universidade Federal do Pará, 1998), 7– 28. 10. David Cahill, “Colour by Numbers: Racial and Ethnic Categories in the Viceroyalty of Peru, 1532–1824,” Journal of Latin American Studies 26, no. 2 (1994): 340. 11. The broader 1778 census, which does not give household information, can be found in AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 85, Doc. 6940. It reports a total of 23,668 “free people, with the exception of índios aldeados,” whereas the household census puts the number at 25,787. This discrepancy may have been caused by the collection of data by different officials or at different times of year. 12. See Appendix B, which shows that free non-aldeados (whites and nonwhites) made up only about 10 percent of the Rio Negro population, compared to more than 40 percent for Pará. A summary of the data in the census for Rio Negro can be found in Sampaio, “Espelhos Partidos,” 63– 66. Among the eighty-six nonwhite heads of household in the Rio Negro, she counted fifty mamelucos, twenty-nine Indians, six mulatos, and one black. 13. “Cafuzos não aldeados, que vivem em liberdade em suas casas, de idade de 13, a boa capacidade de pegar em Armas, moradores na Freguesia de São João de Villa de Veiros,” APEP, Cod. 310, fl. 568. 14. On gender preferences in Brazilian manumission, see Kátia M. de Q. Mattoso, Ser escravo no Brasil (São Paulo: Brasiliense, 1988); Kathleen J. Higgins, “Gender and the

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Manumission of Slaves in Colonial Brazil: The Prospects for Freedom in Sabará, Minas Gerais, 1710–1809,” Slavery and Abolition 18, no. 2 (1997): 1– 29; Douglas Cole Libby and Clotilde Andrade Paiva, “Manumission Practices in a Late Eighteenth- Century Brazilian Slave Parish: São José d’El Rey in 1795,” Slavery and Abolition 21, no. 1 (2000): 96–127. 15. Across all occupational categories, fifty-nine heads of household were listed as comfortably well off (remediado), six obtained the status of wealthy (rico), and the rest appeared as poor (pobre) or had no specific status attributed to them. 16. The range of slaveholdings among nonwhites was one to forty-two, but the median slaveholding was only two. 17. Stuart B. Schwartz, Slaves, Peasants, and Rebels: Reconsidering Brazilian Slavery (Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 1992), chap. 3. On foodstuff production for the domestic market, see Nírvia Ravena, “O abastecimento no século XVIII no Grão-Pará: Macapá e vilas circunvizinhas,” in A escrita da história paraense (Belém: NAEA/Universidade Federal do Pará, 1998), 29–52; Rosa Elizabeth Acevedo Marin, “Agricultura no delta do rio Amazonas: Colonos produtores de alimentos em Macapá no período colonial,” in A escrita da história paraense, ed. Rosa Elizabeth Acevedo Marin (Belém: NAEA/Universidade Federal do Pará, 1998), 53– 91. 18. See, for example, the lists of “Índios não aldeados e cafuzes capazes de pegarem em armas” in APEP, Cods. 281 (for the year 1775) and 310 (1776–1778). Lists of recruits in Cod. 310 indicate that militias of whites and mamelucos were separate from those of mulatos, cafuzos, and Indians. 19. Instructions on “dispersed” non-aldeado Indians can be found in Governor João Pereira Caldas to the Directors of Pará, Belém, February 13, 1775, APEP, Cod. 275, Doc. 240. He ordered that these types of people be listed separately on the annual village lists, so that they could be properly applied to royal and public ser vice. Those, however, who had legitimate titles of exemption or labor concessions to settlers were to be left alone. 20. The male “privilegiados” had their own category on the annual labor distribution lists. These lists are scattered throughout the directors’ correspondence, but the greatest concentration can be found in APEP, Cods. 281 (for 1775), 301 (for 1776), 320 (for 1777), 318 (for 1778), 408 (for 1784), 423 (for 1785). Injured or sick índios aldeados could also be exempted from village labor, at which point they would be included on the labor distribution lists as “incapazes” (incapacitated). For an example of an exemption petition of this type, by a sick Indian widow seeking to keep her only daughter out of ser vice, see the petition of Theodora Pereira to governor, Ponta de Pedras, 1790, APEP, Cod. 491, Docs. 21 and 22 (petition is followed by supporting documentation). There was some confusion among directors as to whether the wives and children of certain types of exempt índios aldeados (i.e., those with skilled trades or debilitating conditions) could be obligated to serve; see, for example, the queries of Director Joaquim Antonio da Silva Portugal to governor, Alenquer, April 20, 1792, APEP, Cod. 490, Doc. 49C. I could not find any official clarification of this issue.

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21. Stuart B. Schwartz and Frank Salomon, “New Peoples and New Kinds of People: Adaptation, Readjustment, and Ethnogenesis in South American Indigenous Societies (Colonial Era),” in South America, vol. 3, pt. 2 of The Cambridge History of Native American Peoples, ed. Frank Salomon and Stuart B. Schwartz (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 487. 22. The literature on this topic is extensive for Spanish America. For a general treatment, see Schwartz and Salomon, “New Peoples and New Kinds of People,” esp. 483. Excellent case studies include Minchom, People of Quito, chap. 7; María Elena Martínez, Genealogical Fictions: Limpieza de Sangre, Religion, and Gender in Colonial Mexico (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2008), chaps. 7– 9. For a recent attempt to sort through the “muddled and seemingly random” aspects of tribute policy toward nonnatives (i.e., blacks and mestizos) in Spanish America, and for insights on the role of gender and race in determining the tribute status of mixed populations, see Cynthia E. Milton and Ben Vinson III, “Counting Heads: Race and Non-Native Tribute Policy in Colonial Spanish America,” Journal of Colonialism and Colonial History 3, no. 3 (2002): 1–18. 23. José António da Costa Real to governor, Cintra, November 16, 1780, APEP, Cod. 354, Doc. 82. 24. Ibid. 25. Th is paralleled the situation in Spanish America, where no single law governed tribute policy and instead varied from region to region. Local and provincial officials interpreted laws to suit their own interests, and colonial subjects “found plenty of room to maneuver” into exempt status (Milton and Vinson, “Counting Heads,” 1). 26. See, for example, Director Joaquim Antonio da Silva Portugal to governor, Alenquer, April 20, 1792, APEP, Cod. 490, Doc. 49C; or Principal Manoel João Duro [?] to governor, Beja, April 15, 1790, APEP, Cod. 465, Doc. 41. 27. Schwartz and Salomon, “New Peoples and New Kinds of People,” 487. 28. For general reflections on the importance of dress, and particularly of shoes, to the determination of status and identity in the colonial Amazon, see Barbara A. Sommer, “Wigs, Weapons, Tattoos and Shoes: Getting Dressed in Colonial Amazonia and Brazil,” in The Politics of Dress in Asia and the Americas, ed. Mina Roces and Louis Edwards (Brighton: Sussex Academic Press, 2007), 200–214. 29. Estevão Alves Bandeira, Vila Franca, n.d.; followed by the recommendation of the Intendente Geral João de Amorim Pereira, Belém, October 29, 1771, APEP, Cod. 372, Doc. 37. A note by the governor on the margins of the petition accepts the intendente’s recommendation, stating, “For now, this petition has no place.” 30. Canoe crew list for Vila Franca, 1767, APEP, Cod. 177, Doc. 25; 1768, APEP, Cod. 190, Doc. 35. 31. Labor distribution for Vila Franca, 1775, APEP, Cod. 281, Doc. 23. 32. On the contested process by which free blacks in New Spain secured tribute exemptions through military ser vice, see Ben Vinson III, Bearing Arms for His Majesty: The

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Free- Colored Militia in Colonial Mexico (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2001), chap. 4. 33. See, for example, the complaints submitted by Director João Pedro Marçal da Silva to governor, Baião, April 14, 1775, APEP, Cod. 285, Doc. 88; Director Félix Ferreira Barreto to governor, Portel, March 28, 1794, APEP, Cod. 506, Doc. 20; Director João Ferreira Barreto to governor, Óbidos, January 10, 1794, APEP, Cod. 506, Doc. 42; Raimundo Sanches de Brito to governor, Alter do Chão, January 1, 1794, APEP, Cod. 506, Doc. 46. 34. Director Francisco Luis Ameno to governor, Salvaterra, November 4, 1775, APEP, Cod. 283, Doc. 40. 35. Martínez, Genealogical Fictions, 104. 36. Director Francisco Luis Ameno to governor, Salvaterra, March 24, 1776, APEP, Cod. 298, Doc. 69 (official inquiry attached). 37. For a fascinating discussion of local identities as detected in the vernacular language of notarial documents, see Karen Graubart, “The Creolization of the New World: Local Forms of Identification in Urban Colonial Peru, 1560–1640,” Hispanic American Historical Review 89, no. 3 (2009): 471–499. See also Minchom, People of Quito, 170, where he discusses how petitions for recognition of mestizo status in colonial Quito “form the plebeian counterpart to the genealogical preoccupations which ran through much of the intermediate and higher strata of colonial society.” 38. The payments for Sebastião were recorded in 1764 through 1767; for Amaro in 1771, 1773, and 1774; and for João in 1765, 1766, and 1770. 39. Director Francisco Luis Ameno to governor, Salvaterra, March 24, 1776, APEP, Cod. 298, Doc. 69. 40. Director Francisco Luis Ameno to governor, Salvaterra, November 17, 1770, APEP, Cod. 218, Doc. 31 41. Director Francisco Luis Ameno to governor, Salvaterra, July 26, 1771, APEP, Cod. 232, Doc. 93. 42. The next available labor distribution list for Salvaterra dates to 1776, APEP, Cod. 301, Doc. 6; the replacement captain is first listed in the labor distribution of 1778, APEP, Cod. 317, Doc. 38. 43. The brothers were listed in the “diminished” category in the 1776 village list, “having enlisted in the Auxiliary Infantry under the title of Mamelucos” (APEP, Cod. 301, Doc. 6). They did not appear on any subsequent village lists. Ameno had been replaced in the directorship by 1778. 44. On “missing mestizos” in Arequipa (Peru), see Sarah C. Chambers, “Little Middle Ground: The Instability of a Mestizo Identity in the Andes, Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries,” in Race and Nation in Modern Latin America, ed. Nancy P. Appelbaum, Anne S. Macpherson, and Karin Alejandra Rosemblatt (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2003), 32–55. 45. Minchom, People of Quito, 157; see also Cahill, “Colour by Numbers,” 344. 46. Governor Meneses to the director of Cintra, Belém, May 14, 1781, APEP, Cod. 356, Doc. 259.

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47. Laura de Mello e Souza, Desclassificados do Ouro: A pobreza mineira no século XVIII (Rio de Janeiro: Graal, 1982), 64– 65. 48. Tamar Herzog, “Terres et deserts, société et sauvagerie: De la communauté en Amérique et en Castille à l’époque moderne,” Annales 62, no. 3 (2007): 507–538. 49. Unknown author to governor, Vigia, June 30, 1776, APEP, Cod. 298, Doc. 134. Other descriptions by village directors in Pará include Director Ignácio Francisco to governor, Beja, June 24, 1770, APEP, Cod. 215, Doc. 83; Director Lourenço Justiniano de Siqueira to governor, Porto Salvo, February 19, 1773, APEP, Cod. 257, Doc. 24; unknown author to governor, Vigia, June 30, 1776, APEP, Cod. 298, Doc. 134; Director Manoel José de Silva to governor, Pombal, November 18, 1781, APEP, Cod. 371, Doc. 25. 50. Mark Harris, Rebellion on the Amazon: Race, Popu lar Culture and the Cabanagem in the North of Brazil, 1798– 1840 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 52. 51. Souza, Desclassificados do Ouro, 51– 90. 52. Much of the relevant documentation on Meneses’s antivagrancy campaign can be found appended to the report of the Secretário de Estado da Marinha e Ultramar, Martinho de Melo e Castro, for the Conselho Ultramarino (AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 91, Doc. 7383). The report was part of an official inquiry, conducted sometime after 1783, into various complaints presented against the former governor. The containment of 4,309 “Indios dispersos” is described in an attached document by Pedro António Peguda (whose titles included Capitão de Infantaria Auxiliar, Almoxarife da Fazenda Real, and Pagador das Tropas) on November 22, 1783. Barbara Sommer notes that this figure was probably inflated; see Sommer, “Why Joanna Baptista Sold Herself into Slavery: Indian Women in Portuguese Amazonia, 1755–1798,” Slavery and Abolition 34, no. 1 (2013): n90. Several other documents in the report comment positively on the initial results of the relocation of these individuals (see, for example, the report from the comandante of Colares), but observers later in the decade portrayed the antivagrancy and relocation campaigns as failures. A dismal picture is painted, for example, by Bishop Caetano Brandão in his letter to Queen Maria I, Belém, August 1, 1787, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 96, Doc. 7663. 53. Governor Meneses to Martinho de Melo e Castro, November 27, 1780, AIHGB, ARQ 1,1,4, fls. 107v–109v. 54. The five women’s petitions are also discussed in Sommer, “Why Joanna Baptista Sold Herself,” 83–84. 55. Petition of Petronilha, 1779, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 83, Doc. 6838. 56. Petition of Magdalena, 1779, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 83, Doc. 6853. 57. Hilário de Morais Bitancourt was a prominent, well-connected settler with a plantation on the Tocantins River. In the 1790s, he served Governor Souza Coutinho as a key intermediary in resettlement negotiations with the Apinajé and Carajá Indians: see his letter to the governor, Engenho do Carmelo, July 22, 1790, APEP, Cod. 447, Doc. 33; ibid., August 8, 1790, APEP, Cod. 447, Doc. 34.

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58. Petition of Josefa Martinha, 1779, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 82, Doc. 6716. Of all the petitions, this resembles most closely a petition from 1706, by the Indian woman Hilária, the widow of a principal. Having ended up in the ser vice of a Capuchin padre, she asked the king for the right to “live where she wished with her children, family, and other relatives of her generation.” The king told the governor of Maranhão (which was then joined with Pará) to grant this request, so that she could “live in the place or aldeia that suits her best” (Lisbon, May 11, 1706, in “Livro Grosso do Maranhão,” Anais da Biblioteca Nacional (Rio de Janeiro: Divisão de Obras Raras e Publicações, 1948), vol. 66, 278–279. 59. Petition of Maria Silvana, 1785, with supporting documentation attached, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 94, Doc. 7507. 60. Petition of Jorge Francisco de Brito, 1786, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 96, Doc. 7606. 61. Petition of António José, 1786, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 96, Doc. 7607. 62. Petition of Bonifácia da Silva, 1790, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 100, Doc. 7936. 63. In an interesting glimpse of urban migration by young índios aldeados, one director of a village near Belém reported that many villagers had moved to Belém, where they lived in “casas de aluguel,” or rental houses. Their elderly parents were left behind in the village, which found itself in a miserable state (Director Boaventura José Bentes to governor, Odivelas, June 16, 1788, APEP, Cod. 449, Doc. 12). 64. See, for example, Director Pedro Vicente de Oliveira Pantoja to governor, Faro, November 3, 1794, APEP, Cod. 470, Doc. 82; Director Joaquim António da Silva Portugal to governor, April 20, 1792, APEP, Cod. 490, Doc. 49C. 65. Governor Souza Coutinho to the Principal of Vila Nova d’El Rei, January 11, 1791, APEP, Cod. 466, Doc. 154. 66. A copy of the bill of sale that appears in AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 86, Doc. 7042. (Signed by the notary Agostinho António de Lira Barros, Belém, August 19, 1780; the notary also copied the order of the Ouvidor and Intendente Geral Mathias José Ribeiro into the text of the bill.) Testifying to the document’s extraordinary nature is the fact that copies exist at two other archives: see ANTT, Papeis do Brasil, Avulsos 7, no. 1: 157–159; AIHGB, ARQ 1, 1, 4, fls. 102–103, where the notarial document is attached to the letter by Governor Meneses cited in note 68. A transcription of Joanna’s bill of sale from the ANTT copy, along with a brief discussion of the (mostly Jesuit) debates about the legitimacy of self-sale in the early modern Iberian world is offered in Manuela Carneiro da Cunha, “Sobre a escravidão voluntária,” Dédalo 23 (1984): 57– 66. A partial transcription also appears in the appendix of Vicente Salles, O negro no Pará, sob o regime da escravidão (Belém: IAP, Programa Raízes, 2005), 362–363. The case is extensively treated in Sommer, “Why Joanna Baptista Sold Herself.” 67. Carneiro da Cunha, “Sobre a Escravidão Voluntária,” 59. 68. José de Nápoles Telo e Menenses to Martinho de Mello e Castro, Belém, August 21, 1780, AIGHB ARQ 1, 1, 4, fls. 102–103. 69. Ouvidor and Intendente Geral Mathias José Ribeiro to governor, Belém, September 7, 1784, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 93, Doc. 7444.

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70. Petition of Maria Silvana, 1785, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 94, Doc. 7507. 71. Governor Souza Coutinho to Queen Maria I, Belém, March 22, 1791, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 100, Doc. 7963. MacLachlan also found evidence of a free labor market emerging in and around Belém toward the end of the century (MacLachlan, “Indian Labor Structure,” 227–228).

Chapter 6 1. Jerónimo Pereira da Nóbrega to governor, Fragoso, September 28, 1779, APEP, Cod. 346, Doc. 14. According to the Jesuit João Daniel, missionaries should never intervene in a native drinking session, or risk death at the hands of a drunken merrymaker (João Daniel, Tesouro descoberto no máximo rio Amazonas [Rio de Janeiro: Contraponto, 2004], vol. 1, 289). 2. Apolinário da Costa returned from his imprisonment sometime before 1782, when he was listed as a crewman on Fragoso’s collecting expedition (APEP, Cod. 389, Doc. 31), but he was listed as absent from the village in 1784 (Cod. 408, unnumbered doc.). I could not find any mention of his suspected whereabouts, and he thereafter dropped from the village rolls. 3. In early January 1799, the district judges and directors of Pará received notice of the revocation of the Directorate and instructions on how to proceed with the dismantling of the system (carta circular from Francisco de Souza Coutinho, Belém, January 9, 1799 [in Carlos de Araújo Moreira Neto, Índios da Amazônia, de maioria a minoria [Petrópolis: Vozes, 1988], 242]). 4. Edict, January 20, 1799 (in Moreira Neto, Índios da Amazônia, 242). 5. Carta circular, January 22, 1799 (in Moreira Neto, Índios da Amazônia, 242– 246). It should be noted that a significant error was made in the transcription of this document in Moreira Neto’s appendix. The original, which can be found in APEP, Cod. 472, Doc. 129, orders communal agriculture not to continue, whereas the transcription leaves out the negative. 6. That significant progress had been made in Pará by April is clarified in Souza Coutinho’s letter of April 30, 1799 to Rodrigo de Souza Coutinho (in Moreira Neto, Índios da Amazônia, 232–233). It is unclear when the changes were implemented in the Rio Negro captaincy, but they likely occurred in a more delayed fashion, because of the slow pace of communication and the less developed administrative structure. 7. Barbara A. Sommer remarks on this tendency in “Negotiated Settlements: Native Amazonians and Portuguese Policy in Pará, Brazil, 1758–1798” (PhD diss., University of New Mexico, 2000), 307–308, 311–313. 8. On changing racial categories in the censuses of colonial São Paulo and the subsuming of Indians into the category of pardo (a synonym of mulatto), see Muriel Nazzari, “Vanishing Indians: The Social Construction of Race in Colonial São Paulo,” The Americas 57, no. 4 (2001): 497–524. On changing ideas about the need for tutelage of Indians and the application of the status of orphanhood (orfandade) to certain types of Indians (i.e., recently “pacified” groups), see Nádia Farage and Manuela Carneiro da Cunha,

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“Caráter da tutela dos índios: Origens e metamorfoses,” in Os Direitos do Índio, ed. Manuela Carneiro da Cunha (São Paulo: Editora Brasiliense, 1987), 103–117. A useful compilation of nineteenth-century Indian legislation for Brazil can be found in Manuela Carneiro da Cunha, ed., Legislação indigenista no século XIX (São Paulo: Editora da Universidade de São Paulo, 1992). 9. The prohibition of the term “ausente” is mentioned in Patrícia Maria Melo Sampaio, “ ‘Vossa Excelência mandará o que for servido . . .’: Políticas indígenas e indigenistas na Amazônia Portuguesa do final do século XVIII,” Tempo 12, no. 23 (2007): 53. On early nineteenth-century antivagrancy mea sures, see Mark Harris, Rebellion on the Amazon: Race, Popular Culture and the Cabanagem in the North of Brazil, 1798–1840 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 53–54. 10. There may, however, have been an exodus of Indians from the homes of settlers. In April 1799, a commander in Santarém complained that “the Indian men and women of this district, enthused by their liberty [and] without recognition [of authority] or obedience, are leaving the settlers’ homes and other ser vices with great haste,” but Souza Coutinho seemed unperturbed by this report, even adding a note to the effect that of course the Indians would all leave the settlers’ homes after the oppressive directors were gone (Manoel Antonio da Costa Souto Maior to governor, Santarém, April 24, 1799, APEP, Cod. 561, Doc. 39). Some people may have even returned to the povoações, if we take Souza Coutinho’s word for it: see his letter to Rodrigo de Souza Coutinho, Belém, April 30, 1799 (in Moreira Neto, Índios da Amazônia, 232–233). 11. Mark Harris found an 1800 report from the military commander in Santarém that described the settlements of his district as deserted. It is likely, however, that this description reflected the status quo of dispersed patterns of residence rather than a new development related to the revocation of the Directorate (Harris, Rebellion on the Amazon, 121). The same goes for the evidence presented by Patrícia Maria Melo Sampaio in “Cidades desaparecidas: Poiares, século 18,” Somanlu 3, no. 2 (2004): 92– 94. She quotes various early to mid-nineteenth- century observations on the emptiness and poverty of the Rio Negro settlements and the tendency of the residents to live on faraway homesteads. Th is, however, had been a constant refrain during the Directorate, too. For other narratives of ruination from the nineteenth century, see the 1823 report by José Maria Coelho, “Duas memórias sobre a Capitania de São José do Rio Negro,” Revista do Instituto Histórico e Geográfico Brasileiro 203 (1949): 125–129; and the 1845 report by João Henrique de Matos, “Relatório do estado de decadência em que se acha o Alto Amazonas,” Revista do Instituto Histórico e Geográfico Brasileiro 325 (1979): 143–180. 12. On draft evaders and deserters just after the end of the Directorate, see Sampaio, “ ‘Vossa Excelência mandará o que for servido,’ ” 46. 13. Very little is known about the economic and social condition of Indians in Pará and the Rio Negro between the end of the Directorate and the beginning of the Cabanagem Rebellion (1835). APEP contains ample sources on this topic, but the physical documents are even more damaged than the Directorate-era material, as the quality of paper declined markedly in the early nineteenth century, probably because of disrup-

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tions in the supply of high-quality rag paper from Portugal during the Napoleonic Wars. 14. Sommer, “Negotiated Settlements,” 312–313. 15. Kenneth Maxwell, “The Generation of the 1790s and the Idea of a Luso-Brazilian Empire,” in The Colonial Roots of Modern Brazil, ed. Dauril Alden (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1973), 107–144. As Maxwell notes, this division of Brazil into two centers of power was proposed by the governor’s brother, Rodrigo de Souza Coutinho, in 1798 (137). 16. Rodrigo de Souza Coutinho served as the overseas secretary from 1796 to 1803. Like Mendonça Furtado, who arrived in the Amazon shortly before the western border demarcation with Spanish territories, Francisco de Souza Coutinho arrived in the midst of fears of a French invasion of the Cabo do Norte region. 17. Sommer, “Negotiated Settlements,” 308. 18. Plano para a civilização dos índios, Francisco de Souza Coutinho to Rodrigo de Souza Coutinho, Belém, August 3, 1797, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 109, Doc. 8610, para. 32. The governor asserted that the “backwardness” of the Rio Negro captaincy—with its large Indian majority and very small numbers of whites, blacks, and mestiços—illustrated this point perfectly (ibid., para. 15). This may well have been a jab at the governor of the Rio Negro captaincy, Manoel da Gama Lobo d’Almada, with whom Souza Coutinho sustained a notorious rivalry. One historian has gone so far as to assert that this rivalry was what provoked Souza Coutinho to dismantle the Directorate system, which had provided more economic support to the villages of the Rio Negro than to those of Pará (Moreira Neto, Índios da Amazônia, 114–119). The charge, however, seems overblown. From the beginning of his tenure, Souza Coutinho had a very different vision for how native peoples and their mixed-race descendants should be incorporated into colonial society. 19. “Diretório,” Arts. 80–91, in José Oscar Beozzo, Leis e regimentos das missões: Política indigenista no Brasil (São Paulo: Edições Loyola, 1983). 20. Plano para a civilização dos índios, paras. 15 and 32. 21. Ibid., para. 14. 22. Ibid., para. 21. 23. Ibid., para. 27. 24. For an analysis of this “política de homogeneización” in Paraguay, which took its most concrete form in a viceregal decree in 1800 that “freed” Guaraní Indians from communal production (the régimen de comunidad), see Guillermo Wilde, Religión e poder en las misiones de Guaraníes (Buenos Aires: Editora SB, 2009), 265– 275. The same decree and its consequences for the Guaraní are also discussed in Barbara Ganson, The Guaraní Under Spanish Rule in the Río de la Plata (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2003), 153–155. On Bolivian decrees that affected Moxos missions in similar ways, see David Block, Mission Culture on the Upper Amazon: Native Tradition, Jesuit Enterprise, and Secular Policy in Moxos, 1660–1880 (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1994), 152–153. 25. Mark Thurner, From Two Republics to One Divided: Contradictions of Postcolonial Nationmaking in Andean Peru (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1997), 5.

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26. Wilde likewise sees the ethnic recategorization schemes among the Guaraní of Paraguay at the end of the eighteenth century as a form of official recognition of demographic and ethnic changes that had already occurred (Wilde, Religión e poder en las misiones de Guaraníes, 267). 27. Plano para a civilização dos índios, para. 28. 28. Various eighteenth-century manifestations of this conviction are quoted in Farage and da Cunha, “Caráter da tutela dos índios,” 107–110. By the 1820s, one finds it clearly expressed on the local level by a municipal council in Pinhel, a former Directorate town on the Rio Tapajós. In a letter to the central government, the (white?) councilmen trace the “degradation of good customs” to the time “since a poorly understood liberty was conceded; since Indians persuaded themselves that the crown held them up as Senhores; since they decided they were exempt from all discipline” (Câmara of Pinhel to the Junta Provizoria do Governo, Pinhel, August 30, 1822, APEP, Cod. 732, Doc. 67). I thank Mark Harris for sharing a copy of this document with me. 29. Souza Coutinho, “Instrucção circular sobre a formatura de novos corpos de militias,” Belém, January 6, 1799, in Moreira Neto, Índios da Amazônia, 450–452; Plano para a civilização dos índios, paras. 21 and 31. Whites were to be included in the corps, according to Souza Coutinho’s instructions of December 6, 1799, cited in Sampaio, “ ‘Vossa Excelência mandará o que for servido,’ ” 43n8. 30. Patricia Sampaio has analyzed the new legislation along these lines in several different works: see her “Entre a tutela e a liberdade dos índios: Relendo a Carta Régia de 1798,” in Meandros da história: Trabalho e poder no Pará e Maranhão, séculos XVIII e XIX, ed. Mauro Cezar Coelho, Flávio dos Santos Gomes, Jonas Marçal Queiroz, Rosa E. Acevedo Marin, and Geraldo Prado (Belém: UNAMAZ, 2005), 68–84; Sampaio, “Espelhos Partidos,” chap. 11; “Administração colonial e legislaçao indigenista na Amazônia portuguesa,” in Os senhores dos rios: Amazônia, margens e história, ed. Mary del Priore and Flávio dos Santos Gomes (Rio de Janeiro: Elsevier, 2004), 129–137; Sampaio, “ ‘Vossa Excelência mandará o que for servido.’ ” See also Colin M. MacLachlan, “The Indian Labor Structure in the Portuguese Amazon,” in Colonial Roots of Modern Brazil, ed. Dauril Alden (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1973), 224–225. 31. Souza Coutinho to Luis Pinto de Souza, Belém, August 1, 1796, BNRJ, Manuscritos, I-17, 12, 2. 32. The Indians were to be paid salaries after one year. See “Condições com que são concedidos aos Particulares os Indios Silvestres dos Novos Descimentos,” Belém, July 1, 1782, ANRJ, Cod. 99, fls. 282v–285r. 33. Souza Coutinho to José Pedro Cordovil, December 31, 1790, APEP, Cod. 310, Doc. 784. 34. Souza Coutinho to Domingos Pereira Lousada, Belém, August 24, 1790, APEP, Cod. 466, Doc. 18. 35. Hilário de Morais Bitancourt to Souza Coutinho, Engenho do Carmelo, July 22, 1790, APEP, Cod. 447, Doc. 33; ibid., August 8, 1790, APEP, Cod. 447, Doc. 34. The expedition proposal can be found in the latter document.

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36. This according to him; in fact, the 1769 order only prohibited contact with the Mawé nation (see Chapter 2). 37. Carta circular from Souza Coutinho to the village directors of Pará and the Rio Negro, September 1, 1790, APEP, Cod. 466, Doc. 30. 38. Ibid., para. 45. 39. Plano para a civilização dos índios, para. 41. 40. The carta’s orders on private descimentos read as follows: “[As for] all those settlers who make contracts with, and bring into their ser vice, Indians of those nations that are at peace, as the Mura, Mundurucú, and Carajá presently are: I order you [the governors] to permit such contracts, obligating [the settlers] to immediately declare to the government those whom they have in this way brought with them; you will immediately order a termo [formal contract] to be drawn up, whereby the settlers will be obligated to educate and instruct those Indians, such that within a certain period of time they will be baptized. By the same termo they will be obligated to pay [the Indians] the standard salary. These Indians will be conceded the status of orphans . . . and the number of years that they are to be retained, which should be enough that [the settlers] are paid back by the Indians’ labor for their expenses, will also be stipulated in the termo.” Carta Régia (May 12, 1798) in Sampaio, “Espelhos Partidos,” 326–335. The relevant article of Souza Coutinho’s Plano para a civilização dos índios is para. 46. A complete Termo de Educação e Instrução can be found in AIHGB, Lata 278, Livro 1, Doc. 18, fl. 25, “Livro da Câmara de Ega.” 41. Sampaio, “Entre a tutela e a liberdade,” n22. 42. AIHGB, Lata 278, Livro 1, Doc. 18, fl. 25, “Livro da Câmara de Ega”; Sampaio, “Espelhos Partidos,” 362–364, who uncovered the two other nineteenth-century sources in which Tinoco appeared. 43. José de Brito Inglês, miscellaneous writings, c. 1819–1829, BNRJ, II-32, 13, 014. 44. Requerimento of José Pedro Cordovil, 1804, AHU, Pará Avulsos, Cx. 130, Doc. 9989. 45. Gatto’s proposal is mentioned in Harris, Rebellion on the Amazon, 115. 46. Johann Baptist von Spix and Carl Friendrich Phillipp von Martius, Viagem pelo Brasil (1817–1820), trad. Lúcia Furquim Lahmeyer (Belo Horizonte: Editora Itatiaia, 1981), vol. 3, 149. On the well-connected plantation owner, Francisco Ricardo Zany, see John Hemming, Amazon Frontier: The Defeat of the Brazilian Indians (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1987), 216. 47. Moreira Neto, Índios da Amazônia, 32–36; Hemming, Amazon Frontier, 215–225; Beozzo, Leis e regimentos das missões, 71– 74; Caio Prado Júnior, The Colonial Background of Modern Brazil (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1967), 109. On the resurgence of official Indian wars in Brazil after 1808, the most famous of which targeted the Botocudo in Minas Gerais, see Hal Langfur, “The Return of the Bandeira: Economic Calamity, Historical Memory, and Armed Expeditions to the Sertão in Minas Gerais, Brazil, 1750–1808,” The Americas 61, no. 3 (2005): 429–461. Nineteenth-century travelers in Amazonia provide anecdotal evidence of such bellicosity; see, for example, Henry

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Walter Bates, The Naturalist on the River Amazon: A Record of Adventures, Habits of Animals, Sketches of Brazilian and Indian Life, and Aspects of Nature Under the Equator, During Eleven Years of Travel (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 256–260; Henry Lister Maw, Journal of a Passage from the Pacific to the Atlantic: Crossing the Andes in the Northern Provinces of Peru, and Descending the River Marañon or Amazon (London: John Murray, 1928), 267–271; Louis Agassiz and Elizabeth Cary Agassiz, A Journey in Brazil (Boston: Ticknor and Fields, 1886), 193. 48. On Indian councilmen in the early nineteenth century, see Sampaio, “ ‘Vossa Excelência mandará o que for servido,’ ” 39–55; Harris, Rebellion on the Amazon, 126. 49. Dauril Alden, “The Significance of Cacao Production in the Amazon Region During the Late Colonial Period,” Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society 120, no. 2 (1976): 129. On land competition in the Lower Amazon during the early nineteenth century, see Harris, Rebellion on the Amazon, 136–138. 50. Rosa Acevedo Marin, “A influência da revolução Francesa no Grão-Pará,” in Ecologia, desenvolvimento e cooperação na Amazônia, ed. José Carlos da Cunha (Belém, UNAMAZ/Universidade Federal do Pará, 1992), 34–59. 51. For a detailed account of the independence-period attacks along the Lower Amazon, see Harris, Rebellion on the Amazon, 190–193. 52. Petition from Alter do Chão, July 5, 1824, APEP, Cod. 789, Doc. 2; the translation is mine. I am very grateful to Mark Harris for sharing a copy of this document. His own analysis of the petition can be found in Rebellion on the Amazon, 193–195. 53. Crew list, Alter do Chão, December 27, 1798, APEP, Cod. 561, Doc. 5. 54. Petition from Alter do Chão, July 5, 1824, APEP, Cod. 789, Doc. 2. 55. Ibid. 56. Ibid. 57. Scholars have described a similar dynamic in other parts of Brazil and Latin America after independence. For a discussion of “indigenous citizenship” in Mexico during the first half of the nineteenth century, see Karen Caplan, “Indigenous Citizenship: Liberalism, Political Participation, and Ethnic Identity in Post-Independence Oaxaca and Yucatán,” in Imperial Subjects: Race and Identity in Colonial Latin America, ed. Andrew B. Fisher and Matthew D. O’Hara (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2009), 225– 247. Andean experiences are explored in Brooke Larson, Trials of Nation-Making: Liberalism, Race, and Ethnicity in the Andes, 1810–1910 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004). For Colombia, where many communities ceased to identify as Indians in the decades after independence, see Steiner Saether, “Independence and the Redefinition of Indianness around Santa Marta, Colombia, 1750–1850,” Journal of Latin American Studies 37 (2005): 55– 80. The resurgence of indigenous identity in modern-day Colombia, which is intertwined with legal claims for territory that extend back to the colonial period, is treated in Joanne Rappaport, Cumbe Reborn: An Andean Ethnography of History (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994). For Brazil, see Maria Regina Celestino de Almeida, Os índios na história do Brasil (Rio de Janeiro: Editora FGV, 2010), chap. 6; Jan Hoff man French, Legalizing Identities: Becoming Black or Indian in Brazil’s Northeast (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2009); Omaira Bo-

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laños, “Redefining Identities, Redefining Landscapes: Indigenous Identity and Land Rights Struggles in the Brazilian Amazon,” Journal of Cultural Geography 28, no. 1 (2011): 45– 72. 58. This according to Provincial President of Pará Francisco José de Souza Soares de Andréa, who led the repression of the uprising (cited in Hemming, Amazon Frontier, 231). Since Pará and the former captaincy of Rio Negro were united at this time into one large province, Andréa’s statement may well have applied to both regions. 59. Harris, Rebellion on the Amazon. 60. See the overview of land disputes in the old aldeias in Almeida, Os índios na história do Brasil, 151–158. The case of Espírito Santo is analyzed in Vânia Maria Losada Moreira, “Autogoverno e economia moral dos índios: Liberdade, territorialidade e trabalho (Espírito Santo, 1798–1845),” Revista de História 166 (2012): 236–239. For insight into how descendants of índios aldeados in the village of Carretão in Goiás remembered more than a century of land conflicts, see the collection of oral histories in Rita Heloísa de Almeida, ed., Aldeamento do Carretão segundo os seus herdeiros tapuios: Conversas gravadas em 1980 e 1983 (Brasília: Funai/CGDOC, 2003). 61. The scene at Alter do Chão in 1836 is described in Harris, Rebellion on the Amazon, 245.

Conclusion 1. On the notion that lives can both mobile and rooted, see Paige Raibmon, “Meanings of Mobility on the Northwest Coast,” in New Histories for Old: Changing Perspectives on Canada’s Native Pasts, ed. Ted Binnema and Susan Neylan (Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press, 2007), 190–191. 2. On the distance between “flesh-and-blood Indians” (pragmatic, flexible) and the “model Indians” (defenseless, ideologically pure) imagined by Westerners, see Alcida Rita Ramos, Indigenism: Ethnic Politics in Brazil (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1998); Beth Conklin, “For Love or Money? Indigenous Materialism and Humanitarian Agendas,” in Editing Eden: A Reconsideration of Identity, Politics, and Place in Amazonia, ed. Frank Hutchison and Patrick C. Wilson (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2010), 127–150. 3. João Henrique de Matos, “Relatório do estado de decadência em que se acha o Alto Amazonas,” Revista do Instituto Histórico e Geográfico Brasileiro 325 (1979): 146–147. 4. The trajectory of Poiares is described in Patrícia Maria Melo Sampaio, “Cidades desaparecidas [Disappeared cities]: Poiares, século 18,” Somanlu 3, no. 2 (2004): 73–100, but in support of a different argument. As mentioned in Chapter 1, Sampaio uses Poiares as a case study of an ephemeral and artificial village “created by the colonial state,” even as she acknowledges its missionary origins and the fact that it relocated. For the língua geral translation of Tauapessassu, see her note 3. 5. Antonio Ladislau M. Baena, Ensaio corográfico sobre a Província do Pará (Brasília: Senado Federal, 2004), 21. 6. Most of the name readoptions occurred in the nineteenth century: for example, Cintra, Vila Nova d’El Rei, and Ega became Maracanã (1827), Curuçá (1895), and Tefé (1833 and again in 1855), respectively.

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7. The quote is from Henry Walter Bates, The Naturalist on the River Amazon: A Record of Adventures, Habits of Animals, Sketches of Brazilian and Indian Life, and Aspects of Nature Under the Equator, During Eleven Years of Travel (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 369, with reference to the village of Fonte Boa. 8. Paul Marcoy, Travels in South America: From the Pacific Ocean to the Atlantic Ocean (New York: Scribner, Armstrong, 1875), vol. 2, 348, 351 (I have suppressed a paragraph break). For descriptions of Amazonian settlements (and the delays that travelers experienced in them), see also Alfred Russel Wallace, A Narrative of Travels on the Amazon and Rio Negro (London: Reeve, 1853); Heinrich Wilhelm Adalbert, Travels of His Royal Highness Prince Adalbert of Prussia, in the South of Europe and in Brazil, with a Voyage up the Amazon and the Xingú, trans. Sir Robert H. Schomburgk and John Edward Taylor (London: David Bogue, 1849), vol. 2; Henry Lister Maw, Journal of a Passage from the Pacific to the Atlantic: Crossing the Andes in the Northern Provinces of Peru, and Descending the River Marañon or Amazon (London: John Murray, 1928); Johann Baptist von Spix and Carl Friendrich Phillipp von Martius, Viagem pelo Brasil (1817– 1820), trad. Lúcia Furquim Lahmeyer (Belo Horizonte: Editora Itatiaia, 1981), vol. 3. 9. See, for example, Alexandre Rodrigues Ferreira’s descriptions of Poiares and Carvoeiro in his “Diário da viagem philosóphica pela Capitania de São José do Rio Negro,” Revista Trimensal do Instituto Histórico e Geográfico Brasileiro 50 (1887): 13–51. For reflections on the themes of ruination and opulence in the villages of the Rio Negro, see Victor Leonardi, Os historiadores e os rios: Natureza e ruína na Amazônia brasileira (Brasília: Editora da Universidade de Brasília, 1999). 10. These views were widespread and enduring. On their manifestation in seventeenth-century New England, see William Cronon, Changes in the Land: Indians, Colonists, and the Ecology of New England (New York: Macmillan, 1983), 56. For nineteenthcentury travelers who dreamed of the role of enterprising northerners in realizing the Amazon’s commercial potential, see Herbert Smith, Brazil, Amazons and the Coast (New York: Scribner’s, 1879), 36; William Lewis Herndon, Exploration of the Valley of the Amazon, 1851–1852, ed. Gary Kinder (New York: Grove Press, 2000), 284; Franz Keller, The Amazon and Madeira Rivers: Sketches and Descriptions from the Note-Book of an Explorer (Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott, 1875), vi, 157–158. 11. Bates, Naturalist on the River Amazon, 270–271. See also his description of a seasonal fishing camp on the Rio Tocantins, set up by families from Cametá (67– 68). An insightful analysis of Bates’s fieldwork experiences on the Upper Amazon can be found in Hugh Raffles, In Amazonia: A Natural History (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2002), 114–149. Raffles quotes part of the same passage from Bates on the seasonality of life in Ega, to illustrate the extent of Bates’s “assimilation into the rhythm of daily activity” on the river (144–145). For another mid-nineteenth-century description of the seasonal emptiness of Ega, see Paul Marcoy, Travels in South America: From the Pacific Ocean to the Atlantic Ocean (New York: Scribner, Armstrong, 1875), vol. 2, 393. 12. Bates, Naturalist on the River Amazon, 304–305, 271. On social mixing and the presence of independent Indians during turtle season on the beaches of the Rio Solimões, see also Spix and Martius, Viagem pelo Brasil, vol. 3, 168.

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13. Delmar Ferreira, quoted in Willas Dias da Costa, Rosenira Izabel de Oliveira, and Antônio João Castrillon Fernandez, Nova Cartografia Social da Amazônia: Movimentos ribeirinhos e indígenas em defesa dos lagos e da vida, Setor 01 Caité (Tonantins— Amazonas), ed. Alfredo Wagner Berno de Almeida (Manaus: Universidade Federal do Amazonas, 2008), 3. Ribeirinhos, according to another informant, are those who “live on the banks of the rivers, who live from fishing and farming . . . [and] who live from collecting plant materials and animals. Ribeirinhos are those who go by canoe, by boat” (Divino Rogério [Abaetetuba, 2008] quoted in Lilian Carolina de Araújo Santana, Marcus Vinícius da Costa Lima, and Solange Maria Gayoso da Costa, Nova Cartografia Social da Amazônia: Ribeirinhos e ribeirinhas de Abaetetuba e sua diversidade cultural, ed. Alfredo Wagner Berno de Almeida [Manaus, Amazonas: Projeto Nova Cartografia Social da Amazônia/ UEA Edições, 2009]). 14. Mark Harris, Life on the Amazon: The Anthropology of a Brazilian Peasant Village (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 213. 15. The project’s many pamphlets and books (in addition to those cited above) are available on the Nova Cartografia Social website: http://www.novacartografiasocial.com. 16. Cristina Adams, Rui Murrieta, Walter Neves, and Mark Harris, eds., Amazon Peasant Societies in a Changing Environment: Political Ecol ogy, Invisibility and Modernity in the Rainforest (New York: Springer, 2009). Life stories of modern ribeirinhos in the state of Amazonas can be found in Candace Slater, Dance of the Dolphin: Transformation and Disenchantment in the Amazonian Imagination (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994). On land and resource disputes in the context of expanding soybean development in the lower Tapajós region in Pará, see Omaira Bolaños, “Redefi ning Identities, Redefi ning Landscapes: Indigenous Identity and Land Rights Struggles in the Brazilian Amazon,” Journal of Cultural Geography 28, no. 1 (2011): 45– 72. Among those seeking to defend their land against the invasion of soybean producers are the indigenous residents of the old povoações of Pinhel, Alter do Chão, and Vila Franca (66). 17. On multisited households and urban-rural networks, see Antoinette WinklerPrins, “House-Lot Gardens in Santarém, Pará, Brazil: Linking Rural with Urban,” Urban Ecosystems 6, no. 1 (2002): 43– 65; Miguel Pinedo-Vasquez and Christine Padoch, “Urban, Rural and In-between: Multi-sited Households Mobility and Resource Management in the Amazon Flood Plain,” in Mobility and Migration in Indigenous Amazonia: Contemporary Ethnoecological Perspectives, ed. Miguel N. Alexiades (New York: Berghahn Books, 2009), 86– 96. 18. On the tradition of fluvial processions in the Amazon, see Maria Terezinha Corrêa, Princesa do Madeira: Os festejos entre populações ribeirinhas de Humaitá-AM (São Paulo: Humanitas, 2008), 70– 78. On folk Catholicism in Pará, see Raymundo Heraldo Maués, Padres, pajés, santos e festas: Catolicismo popular e controle eclesiástico; Um estudo antropológico numa area do interior da Amazônia (Belém: Cejup, 1995); Charles Wagley, Amazon Town: A Study of Man in the Tropics (New York: Knopf, 1964). For a nineteenthcentury description of fluvial processions and village-based religious festivals, see Bates, Naturalist on the River Amazon, 103, 156–158.

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19. On the singing of crewmen on colonial-era canoe trips, see João Daniel, Tesouro Descoberto no máximo rio Amazonas (Rio de Janeiro: Contraponto, 2004), vol. 2, 82; Caetano Brandão, Diários das visitas pastorais no Pará (Porto: Instituto Nacional de Investigação Científica/Centro de História da Universidade do Porto, 1991), 63; Spix and Martius, Viagem pelo Brasil, vol. 3, 83–84.

Glossary of Portuguese and Língua Geral Terms

Dictionaries Used Bluteau, Raphael. Vocabulário Portuguez e Latino. 10 vols. Coimbra: Colégio das Artes da Companhia de Jesus, 1712–1728. Dias, Antônio Gonçalves. Diccionário da língua tupy: Chamada língua geral dos indígenas do Brazil. Lisbon: F. A. Brockhaus, 1858. Silva, António de Morais, and Rafael Bluteau. Diccionário da língua portugueza. 2 vols. Lisbon: Officina de S. T. Ferreira, 1789. adjudante Adjutant, one of the native offices. agregado An “attached” resident of a village or plantation, often one who lived as a household dependent of a community member or plantation owner. Not subject (in theory) to the Directorate labor distribution or to communal ser vice in the villages. ajuste A formal contract, written or unwritten. aldeano An enrolled member of a corporate village, in this context either a mission or a Directorate village. Associated with the legal status of índio aldeado. aldeia Native village, within or outside the colonial sphere; often used to refer to a mission. alferes Standard-bearer, or second lieutenant, in the hierarchy of native offices in a village. alforriado Freed from slavery. alqueire A dry mea sure, usually for manioc flour or nuts. Approximately 36 liters, or 8.17 U.S. dry gallons. apalavrado In the context of descimento expeditions, referred to Indians who had been persuaded, confirmed, or contracted to resettle in a colonial village. arroba Approximately 14.7 kilograms, or 32.4 U.S. pounds.

305

306

Glossary of Portuguese and Língua Geral Terms

ausente Absent or absentee, usually referring to any individual not present at the time of the village population count or labor requisition. cabo Canoe boss, responsible for the conduct of an expedition and held accountable for its failings. cachoeira The rapids or falls of a river. cafuzo Of mixed Indian and African descent. canada Approximately 2.64 liters, or 0.7 U.S. gallons. canudo A bundle of standard size, e.g., of Amazonian clove. capitão (-mor) Captain, subordinate to the principal in the hierarchy of native offices in a village. casa de canoa Canoe storage building. casa de residência An official residence house, usually reserved for the vicar or the director of a village. certidão A sworn statement. comércio do sertão The extractive economy, based on long-distance expeditions to collect wild products in the interior. cravo The bark of a large rainforest vine, similar to clove in its aroma and thus usually translated as Amazonian clove; an important export item during the colonial period. cuia A gourd that has been dried and painted or etched; used as an item of trade and even exported to Europe. In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the Indian women of Monte Alegre and Santarém were widely known for their artisanal production of cuias. cunhamenas Middlemen between the Portuguese and native worlds, who often took Indian wives as a means of forging alliances with independent native groups. descimento The resettlement (literally, “descent”) of an independent native group from the interior to a colonial village; also could refer to the expedition that persuaded them to resettle and conducted them downriver. despacho An official resolution or ruling. devassa An official inquiry that entailed gathering testimonies from witnesses and other interested parties. dízimo A 10 percent tithe on agricultural production, levied on all colonial subjects (including, after 1757, on índios aldeados). drogas do sertão Wild products (literally, “drugs”) collected in the Amazonian interior, such as cacao, sarsaparilla, cravo, and various tree resins and oils. farinha (de mandioca) Meal or flour made out of manioc. fazenda Ranch or plantation. Fazenda Real Royal Trea sury. feitoria A factory; in this context, a site where collected forest products were processed before bringing them downriver for export. fi lho da terra Someone born in the colony (a “native son”); contrasts with a reinol, someone born in Portugal.

Glossary of Portuguese and Língua Geral Terms

307

gente antiga Literally, “old people,” referring to Indians who had lived for a significant amount of time in the colonial sphere. gente nova Literally, “new people,” referring to Indians recently brought into the colonial sphere. gentio Literally, “gentiles,” referring to non-Christian Indians. igarapé Literally, “canoe path”; a narrow channel or minor waterway (língua geral). igarité A single-masted canoe, often used for forest collecting expeditions and fabricated by Indians in the colonial villages (língua geral). inconstante Inconstant; a character trait commonly attributed to native Amazonians by missionaries and colonial officials. índio aldeado A legal status that made one subject to tutelage by either religious orders (in a missionary context) or the state (under the Directorate). intendente geral do comércio Secretary of commerce. interessados Interested parties, that is, crewmen with a stake in the village collecting expedition, who would get a cut of the profits. jacumaúba Canoe pilot, from the word jacumã, the piece of wood typically used in place of an oar (língua geral). ladino Acculturated; familiar with Portuguese language and culture. Sometimes carried negative connotations of cunning and craftiness. Often used to refer to Indians who served as cultural intermediaries between native and colonial worlds. língua geral The Tupi-based lingua franca devised by the Jesuits in the sixteenth century and widely used in the Amazon through the eighteenth century, despite official efforts to extinguish it. maloca Extended family groups; multifamily thatched houses used by native Amazonians. mameluco Of mixed Indian and European descent; often the offspring of an Indian woman and a European man. mato Forest or jungle. meirinho Bailiff, one of the native offices. mestiço Mixed-blood. morador Most broadly, a resident of a known community (one recognized by Portuguese law). mulato Of mixed European and African descent. nação An Indian nation, based on the Portuguese classification of indigenous groups according to linguistic, phenotypic, or territorial criteria. nacional Someone who was born in, or had married into, a community. ouvidor geral Chief magistrate of the captaincy, royally appointed. patente Official certificate of office. pessoas à soldada Wage workers in the private sector; household employees. planta A town plan, drawn to scale. pombeiro A middleman; in this context, one who served as an intermediary in slave trading or descimento negotiations.

308

Glossary of Portuguese and Língua Geral Terms

portaria An executive order, usually from the captaincy governor. portaria de isenção An order from the governor that granted exemption from labor ser vice. potaba Gift or share (língua geral); an item of ritual exchange. povoação Town, village, or settlement. There were two categories of povoações during the Directorate, Indian (povoação de índios) and white (povoação de brancos). prática Verbal persuasion; exhortation. Often used in the context of resettlement negotiations with independent native groups. principal Native headman, at the top of the hierarchy of native offices in the villages. privilegiado A privileged member of the aldeado community, exempt from village ser vice. These included the native officials and their immediate families, as well as individuals who practiced skilled trades. proeiro Bowman of a canoe. qualidade Literally, “quality”; often translated as caste. An evaluation of status, based on various criteria (race, wealth, lineage, etc.). quilombo A fugitive camp; a gathering of runaways that could include Indians, fugitive slaves, and/or military deserters. regatão Itinerant river trader. repartição Distribution, usually of laborers. requerimento Petition. ribeirinho A riverine dweller; someone who obtains his or her livelihood from the rivers. During the colonial period, sometimes connoted one who was chronically absent or otherwise unreliable. roça A small plot of cultivatable land; a homestead-garden. roça do comum The communal agricultural plot of a village. salsa Wild sarsaparilla. The root of the plant, used to treat syphilis and rheumatism, was an important export item during the colonial period. sargento (-mor) In this context, one of the native offices, subordinate to capitão (-mor). sertão Backlands, wilderness, or frontier. serviço do comum Communal village labor. tapera An old, abandoned village or site of past habitation (língua geral). tapuia In the eighteenth century, a colonial Indian who spoke the língua geral and was identified as Christian. terra firme Uplands, not vulnerable to flooding. terra preta Dark-colored, anthropogenic soils, pre-Columbian in origin. To this day, highly valued for their fertility by Amazonian farmers. tijupá A temporary shelter, as in the kind built by collecting expedition crews in the forest; a type of native house (língua geral). tropas de resgate Canoe flotillas engaged in the slave trade. ubá A small canoe (língua geral). vadio Vagrant; one without occupation or stable residence.

Glossary of Portuguese and Língua Geral Terms

309

várzea Floodplain; its rich alluvial soils are used for agriculture during the dry season. vazante Ebb tide; also refers to the seasonal drop in river levels that occurs throughout the Amazon Basin at slightly different times of year, depending on location along the river network. In Pará, the dry season generally runs from August to January. vigário Parish priest.

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Index

Note: Page numbers followed by f and t indicate figures and tables. Absenteeism: intervillage movements, 13–14, 128, 148–149, 149t, 153, 155–160, 157f ; colonial explanations, 128–132; historians’ explanations, 132–133; motivations for, 133, 158–160; quantitative evidence, 134–135, 136, 137t, 139t, 140; demographic impact, 136–138; regional patterns, 138–145; families, 146–147, 152t, 153; destinations, 148–155; and incorporation, 160–163. See also Mobility Agregados (attached residents): definition, 160; absentees living as, 161; participation in village labor, 286n111; targeted as vagrants, 286n115 Agriculture: and settlement patterns, 19, 20–22; promotion, 30, 33, 39, 41, 49, 60, 248n10; expansion, 50, 172; communal or village-based, 113–115, 192; regional differences, 139t, 169t; and labor exemptions, 184–185, 193, 196; and tithes, 202; planting practices, 236n49. See also Homestead-gardens; Terra preta Airão, 1–2, 3f, 21, 26–27, 26f Alcohol: as item of exchange, 25, 75, 87, 190; social drinking, 77, 78, 116, 191;

demanded by crewmen, 86–87; as gift for independent Indians, 95 Aldeados. See Índios aldeados Aldeias. See Missions Alenquer: settlement history, 21; response to secularization, 40, 45–46; collecting expeditions, 77, 109; residents’ petitions, 84–85; descimentos, 109; absenteeism, 131, 146–147, 151, 153, 156; rebel occupation of, 201 Almeida, Maria Regina Celestino de, 85, 155–156 Almeida, Rita Heloísa de, 133 Almeirim: secularization, 40; collecting expeditions, 62–63, 88–89; descimentos, 92, 105–106, 109, 118; absenteeism, 159; in post-Directorate period, 194 Alter do Chão: during Independence, 201–203; in Cabanagem Rebellion, 203–204; land competition, 303n16 Amazonas, Rio: settlement, 12, 35, 41; hydrographic system, 15; mission fields, 18; navigation, 131, 275–276n19; and absenteeism, 139t, 140; and household census, 168, 169t 331

332

Index

Amazon Basin: images of, 2, 10–11; settlement and occupation, 11, 12, 19, 21, 30; river network, 11, 15, 131; regional boundaries, 15; demography, 96 Ambrósio (Murified Indian), 122–126 Amoroso, Marta Rosa, 122–123 Anderson, Robin, 84–85 Apama, 105, 109, 117–118, 268n65 Apina, 105 Apinajé, 198 Arámary, 106–108 Aritu, 110 Arû, 159, 256n82 Arupâ, 80 Atlantic coast, 139t, 141–142, 169t Baião: descimentos, 106–108; absenteeism, 136, 143, 144; non-aldeados, 280n58 Baptista, Joana, 187–188 Barcelos: as a mission (Mariuá), 27, 35–36; Pombaline reforms, 37, 52–54, 56; descimentos, 100 Bates, Henry Walter, 208–209 Belém: proximity of missions, 21; economic activities in vicinity, 59–60, 167; as destination for collecting canoes, 70, 75, 85–86, 145, 191, 252n48; descimento petitions, 104, 107–108, 117, 270n82; absenteeism in vicinity, 106, 139t, 140–141, 143, 168; Indians’ impressions of, 113; as destination for absentees, 141, 148, 149t, 150, 151, 152t, 294n63; non-aldeado population in vicinity, 168, 169t, 195; antivagrancy campaigns, 188–189 Benton, Lauren, 132 Borba: settlement history, 19, 21; secularization, 37–39, 40, 55–56, 55f; collecting expeditions, 74, 78–79; descimentos, 104, 116–117 Bragança: Pombaline reforms, 33, 37, 50–51; conflicts with settlers, 142

Branco, Rio: frontier settlement, 12, 42, 102, 207, 213; revolt, 113; descimentos, 261–262n13, 263n27, 269n74 Bulhões, Miguel, 34, 35, 37 Cabanagem Rebellion, 4–6, 14, 203–204, 206 Cabos. See Canoe bosses Cacao: as proportion of exports, 60–61; on cargo list, 62; collecting procedures, 64–65; Indian preferences for, 89; expanding plantations, 201; export data, 247–248n7, 248n12 Cafuzos (of mixed Indian/African descent): in Cabanagem Rebellion, 5, 224n12; as índios aldeados, 15; as heads of household, 170–171, 170t; as militiamen, 172–273 Canoe bosses: investigation of, 58, 70–75, 83; selection, 61, 249n18; orders for, 61–63, 64–65; errant behavior, 65–67; incriminating testimonies about, 72, 78, 80, 88–90; trade with independent Indians, 82, 198; incentives provided to crewmen, 86–88 Canoes: and mobility, 5, 131, 149, 210–211, 211f; as community assets, 7, 35, 192; design and fabrication, 59–60, 60f, 125f; cargoes, 59, 62–63, 75, 179; wrecks, 57, 74 Captives, 122–123 Carajá, 131, 197, 299n40 Caramuara, 112–115 Carmelites: mission field, 18; relationship with frontier traders, 25; physical features of missions, 26–27, 26f; and Rio Negro revolt, 45; reappointment as parish priests, 47. See also Missionaries Carter, Paul, 43–44 Carvalho e Melo, Sebastião José (Marquês de Pombal), 12, 16; critique of, 16–17; approach to reform, 29–30; legacy, 42. See also Pombaline reforms

Index

Catholicism. See Religion, Catholic Cauiyarí, 119–120 Censuses: absentee counts, 134–135, 136, 137t, 138–140, 139t; general population counts, 138, 168, 217t; household, 167–173; underreporting, 278n41, 278–279n45; difficulties with, 134, 168, 285n110 Children: as absentees, 24, 146–147, 152t; of mixed marriages, 174–175; as forced migrants, 182, 184 Churches: construction, 20, 25, 39, 51; physical characteristics, 26–27, 26f, 41, 51, 54, 55f; destruction, 45; as community symbols, 51, 204. See also Religion, Catholic Cintra: as destination for absentees, 158; residents’ petitions, 174–175, 180, 184–185; and non-aldeados, 280n58 Coelho, Mauro Cezar, 70, 73–74 Collecting expeditions: seasonality, 11, 64, 246n1; crewmen’s experiences, 13, 57–58, 67–70, 72, 75–84, 91; risks, 57, 79; official procedures and regulations, 58, 61–65, 75; illicit activities, 59, 64–67, 70, 75, 77–78, 79–81, 87; in missionary period, 59, 65, 256n86, 258–259n112; distribution of labor, 60–61, 144; encounters with independent Indians, 64, 79–82, 109, 198; coercion or abuse, 66–67, 72, 74, 80–81, 84–85, 89; evasion or desertion, 69–70, 85–86, 90; autonomy of crewmen, 77–79, 83–84, 91; encounters with fugitives, 82–83; economic interests of crewmen, 84–89; protests during, 86, 88–89; product preferences of crewmen, 89; privately sponsored, 248n9. See also Canoe bosses; Payments; specific products Colonization: Indian role in, 7–8, 81–82, 101–102; and toponyms, 43–45; resistance to, 79, 97, 104, 121, 122

333

Comércio do sertão. See Collecting expeditions Community membership: and recently resettled Indians, 95; criteria, 128, 160–161; benefits, 155–156; and absentees, 161, 162, 164 Companhia Geral de Comércio do Grão Pará e Maranhão, 59–60, 84–85 Contraband: Indian participation in, 25, 59, 179, 274n4; and Directorate officials, 66; and collecting expeditions, 74, 75, 77–78, 87; with independent Indians, 79, 80 Crown: as sponsor of colonial Indian villages, 7, 14, 156; representatives, 12, 16–17, 20, 29, 47, 59–60, 101, 194–196; granting of privileges, 13, 93, 156, 198–199; directives, 29, 32, 36, 97–98, 101, 192; and religious orders, 30, 31, 34, 129; withdrawal of sponsorship of colonial Indian villages, 195, 200. See also Pombaline reforms Cunhamenas (middlemen), 97, 101 Curihé, 110 Daniel, João (Jesuit): on depopulation of missions, 23; on descimentos, 94–96; on planting practices, 236n49 Demography: distribution of population, xviii; changes in, 50, 96, 98, 138; and descimentos, 106, 137t, 138; at captaincy level, 127–128, 167–170, 170t, 217t, 289n12; illusion of demographic stability, 128, 136–138; recordkeeping, 134–135, 168; in Directorate villages, 136–145; profile of absentees, 149t, 151–153. See also Censuses Descimentos (native resettlements): definition, 13, 92–93; policies, 31, 97–99, 101–102; motivations of independent Indians, 80, 99–100, 123, 264n32, 268n65, 269n69; role of índios

334

Index

Descimentos (continued ) aldeados, 81–82, 92–94, 100–115; proposals or licenses, 92, 93, 104, 106–108, 198; importance of kinship ties, 93, 101, 103, 106, 111, 115, 123; motivations of índios aldeados, 93–94, 115–120, 267n56; in missionary period, 94–98; contracts, 95, 99, 104, 109, 120, 199, 266n46, 299n40; and demography, 96–97; use of force, 97–98, 101, 266n46; privately sponsored, 98, 197–200, 299n40; role of directors, 102, 111–112, 115, 265n41; cyclical, 104–106; failed, 109, 112–115, 116, 117–118; social costs, 111–115; as bargaining chip, 118–120; as rapprochement, 120–126. See also Gente nova (newly resettled Indians); Independent Indians Devassas. See Testimonies Directorate: defined, 7; revocation, 14, 16, 163, 166, 191–193; on settlement reform, 39–40, 49; on language, 44; reception among índios aldeados, 46; subversion of, 47–48, 65–66; on labor distribution, 48, 203; on mobility, 49–50; on intermarriage and cohabitation, 50, 129, 195; on collecting expeditions, 59, 61–63, 87; on alcohol, 87; on descimentos, 93, 101–102, 138; and leadership posts, 129–130; and population counts, 134, 282n81; critique of, 138, 195–196; exemptions from, 173, 176. See also Pombaline reforms; Povoações de índios (colonial Indian villages) Directorate villages. See Povoações de índios (colonial Indian villages) Directors: responsibilities, 39–40, 61, 63, 74, 134, 181, 265n41; installment of, 46; conflicts with índios aldeados, 49, 177–179, 183, 189, 191; and mobilization of labor, 52, 70; salaries, 61, 63, 102;

errant behavior, 66–67, 135, 189–190; and documentation, 72–75, 102, 126, 127, 134–135, 146–148, 225n16, 282n81; conflicts with other officials, 78, 162–163; role in descimentos, 102, 110, 111–112; harboring absentees, 158–159, 161–163, 177–179; removal of, 192–193 Disease. See Epidemics Domingues, Ângela, 43, 99–100 Eckart, Anselmo (Jesuit), 38–39, 43, 56 Economy: Indian participation in, 7, 9, 11, 13, 84–89, 141, 248n12; village-based, 7, 25, 153, 154 f, 192, 193–194; policies on, 30, 59–61, 194–196, 248n10; export sector of, 59–61, 84–85, 172, 201, 247–248n7. See also Collecting expeditions Ega: descimentos, 123, 124, 199; seasonal mobility, 208–209 Elites: and Cabanagem Rebellion, 4, 204; role in descimentos, 197–198, 199–200 Enlightenment, 16, 134, 194. See also Pombaline reforms Epidemics: and mobility, 20, 24, 48; and depopulation, 59, 96, 98–99, 138; effects on descimentos, 112–114; and absenteeism, 141, 145 Expeditions. See Collecting expeditions; Descimentos (native resettlements) Exports, 59–61, 84–85, 172, 201, 247–248n7 Extractive activities. See Collecting expeditions Families: networks, 5, 149–150, 210; and ethnic incorporation, 122–123; as absentees, 146–147, 152t, 153; in household census, 168, 169t, 170; mixed-status, 174–175; seasonal mobility of, 208–209 Farage, Nádia, 12 Farming. See Agriculture

Index

Faro: settlement history, 21; response to secularization, 45–46; residents’ petitions, 84–85 Ferreira, Alexandre Rodrigues, 10, 54, 88–89 Fishing, 11, 19, 114, 208–209, 210, 273n108 Forests: destruction of, 16, 38, 43, 56, 210; foraging in, 24, 65, 89; as refuges, 41, 49, 132, 148, 150, 204; use of guides in, 103, 109–110 Forts: settlements near, 12, 42, 207, 230n4; royal labor drafts at, 140; 241n112; construction, 241n112 Fragoso, 47–48, 191 Franciscans: mission field, 18; reappointment as parish priests, 47. See also Missionaries Free blacks, 170–171, 170t, 196 Frontiers: settlement, 12, 30, 42, 207; conflicts, 12, 98; role of Indians on, 12, 93, 98; and mobility, 24. See also Sertão (backlands) Fugitives. See Absentees Furos (region), 5, 34, 76f, 139t, 168, 169t Furtado, Francisco Xavier de Mendonça: settlement reforms, 17, 32–35, 37–39, 40–43; political approach, 29–30, 194; and religious orders, 31, 35–36, 38, 40; and settlers, 31–32, 195; and Directorate plan, 39–40, 101, 138; Indian beliefs about, 46; and descimentos, 98–99, 101–102; and Law of Liberties, 166–167 Gente nova (newly resettled Indians): definition, 15, 93; labor obligations, 31, 73, 103, 105; issues of language, 73; experience of colonial village life, 93, 95–96, 112–115; treatment by villagers, 95, 112–115, 120; role in future descimentos, 95–96, 103; desertion, 95, 104, 105, 113–114, 120, 130–131, 155, 159; anger of, 113–114, 269n74. See also

335

Descimentos (native resettlements); Independent Indians Gentios. See Independent Indians Gifts: as ritual exchange, 36, 259n113; with independent Indians, 82, 94–95, 104, 107–108, 109, 123–124, 198, 266n46; as incentives for crewmen, 87–88 Gosner, Kevin, 9 Gow, Peter, 8 Grão-Pará (Captaincy). See Pará (Captaincy) Guides: and geographical knowledge, 44, 131; role in descimentos, 96, 103; conflicts with authorities, 191 Headmen: responses to secularization, 46; disputes with colonial officials, 52; errant behavior, 80–81, 120–121, 267n54, 271–272n99; role in descimentos, 92, 105, 107–108, 111–114, 116–117, 118–119, 120–122, 270n82; petitions from, 118–119; as absentees, 159. See also Officials, native Herzog, Tamar, 181 Homestead-gardens: seasonal planting, 11; distance from village, 20, 25, 27–28, 49, 54, 132, 135; and ethnic divisions, 23; illicit activities at, 25; as refuges, 46, 48–49, 132, 150 Households: in census, 167–170, 170t; heads of, 168–172; multisited, 210 Housing: and ethnic divisions, 23; native designs, 27–28, 41–42, 55–56, 55f, 154f; reforms, 49, 51, 52–54; for newly resettled Indians, 95 Independence: and political opening, 201–202; and Indianness, 203, 300n57 Independent Indians, 15; prohibitions on trade with, 64, 70, 79, 82, 121; contacts with índios aldeados, 79–82, 94–95, 101, 108–110, 111–112, 123, 124, 198–199,

336

Index

Independent Indians (continued ) 271–272n99; and gifting, 82, 94–95, 104, 107–108, 109, 123–124, 198, 266n46; contacts with missionaries, 94–95, 96; location and demography, 96–97, 261–262n13; fear of enslavement, 97, 99, 112, 116; motivations for resettlement, 80, 99–100, 123, 268n65, 269n69; visiting colonial sphere, 104, 110; resistance of, 104, 121, 122, 266n46. See also Descimentos (native resettlements); Gente nova (newly resettled Indians) Indian Directorate. See Directorate Indians. See Independent Indians; Índios aldeados; Native Amazonians, modern Índios aldeados: legal status, 7, 14, 46, 155–156, 175, 181, 193, 195; negotiation with colonial officials, 7, 35, 41, 49, 52, 117–126, 201–203; identities, 12, 14–15, 155, 174–175, 177–180, 284n98; conflicts with colonial officials, 49, 51, 72, 74, 80–81, 86, 87–88, 89, 177–179, 183, 189, 191; conflicts with settlers, 51, 142, 281n62; contacts with independent Indians, 79–82, 94–95, 101, 108–110, 111–112, 123, 124, 198–199, 271–272n99 Interethnic warfare, 23, 79–80, 99, 100, 123 Intermediaries: in descimentos, 94, 100–100; cunhamenas, 97, 101

Labor: preferences of Indians, 13, 57–58, 67–70, 83–84, 89–90; antivagrancy campaigns, 14, 165–166, 180–182; distribution, 23, 48, 57–58, 60–61, 140, 144, 196, 203, 280n53, 280n55; abuse or misuse, 25, 72, 78–79, 129, 135, 141, 202, 252n48; shortages, 59, 98, 279–280n52; women, 61; incentives, 86–87; and migrants, 161–163, 286n111; and freed slaves, 167; exemptions, 173, 184–185, 195, 196, 290n20; in post-Directorate period, 192–193, 196–197; and private descimentos, 199–200, 299n40. See also Payments Land: communal ownership, 7, 13, 155–156, 173; availability, 19, 244n137; competition for, 50, 201, 204, 210, 281n62, 303n16 Language: regulations, 33, 34, 44; issues of translation, 38, 66, 73–74; língua geral, 34, 38, 44, 73, 107, 110, 123, 207, 209, 243n123, 252n52; in communication, 96, 110, 111 Larson, Brooke, 9 Law of Liberties (1755), 36, 97; official concerns about, 130, 166–167; invoked by Indians, 183–186 Língua geral. See Language: língua geral Liquor. See Alcohol

Japurá, Rio: trading networks, 24; proposed settlement, 32; Mura territory, 122–123; descimentos, 261–262n13 Jesuits: mission field, 18; chroniclers, 23; critique of, 31, 35–36, 40, 129; and secularization, 38–39, 244n134; and descimentos, 94–95, 99; as slaving chaplains, 97. See also Missionaries Juruna, 79, 104, 115

Maclachlan, Colin, 132 Mamelucos (of mixed European/African descent): in Cabanagem Rebellion, 5, 224n12; as índios aldeados, 15; prohibited from entering missions, 24–25, 129; in descimentos, 106–108; as heads of household, 170t; as tradesmen, 171; as militiamen, 172; ethnic claims, 174–180 Maps: and povoações de índios, 6; town plans, 52, 53f; Social Cartography Project, 209–210 Marajó (Island), 18, 139t, 169t

Kagan, Richard, 20 Karasch, Mary, 99–100

Index

Marcoy, Paul, 207–208 Markets, colonial: Indian participation in, 9, 11, 84–85; and modern ribeirinhos, 10; production of foodstuffs, 173; for free labor, 190, 295n71 Marquês de Pombal. See Carvalho e Melo, Sebastião José (Marquês de Pombal) Marriages: between Indians and non-Indians, 11; promotion of mixed marriages, 36, 37–39, 50, 175, 195; exogamous, 149, 158, 160, 164 Mawé: prohibition on trade with, 64, 70, 79, 82, 121; colonial encounters with, 80, 81; colonial ideas about, 104, 130–131; killing of settlers, 121, 122; and private descimentos, 197, 200 Melgaço: location, 5; absenteeism, 145, 150, 153, 158, 280n55, 284n96 Meneses, José de Nápoles Telo de: founding of settlements, 42, 244n136, 281n69; on abuses of Indian labor, 66–67; antivagrancy campaigns, 180–182, 188, 189; private descimentos, 197 Mercedarians: mission field, 18; at Saracá (Silves), 28. See also Missionaries Mestiços (mixed-bloods): 165, 180, 187, 194–196 Migration: forced, 14, 106, 143–144, 166, 181–190, 205; intervillage, 13–14, 128, 148, 149t, 153, 155–160, 157f, 163, 164; officially promoted, 30, 32, 33; in descimentos, 136, 138; of families, 146–147, 152t, 153; to Belém, 141, 150, 151, 294n63; geographical range of, 148–150, 150t. See also Mobility Military: commanders’ reports, 4–5; implementation of settlement reforms, 38–39; descimentos, 98, 100, 102; complaints about, 118–119; nonwhite militias, 172–173, 176, 179, 200; post-Directorate labor corps, 192–193, 196, 203

337

Minchom, Martin, 181 Mines, 37, 143 Missionaries: assignment of fields, 18; frustration of, 20; and mission relocations, 20–22; conflicts with settlers, 24–25; building projects, 25–27, 37; critique of, 31, 35–36, 40, 44, 129; conflicts with secular officials, 33–34, 38–39, 40; conflicts with Indians, 45; role in descimentos, 94–95, 98, 99; on slaving troops, 97; and collecting expeditions, 248n12, 249n18. See also specific religious orders Missions: and religious orders, 18, 230n5; relocations, 19–22, 41, 232–233n19; pre-Columbian remnants in, 21; physical features, 21, 25–28; ethnic strife, 22–23; and mobility of residents, 23–24, 36; non-Indians in, 24–25; as way stations, 25; dispersed settlement in, 25, 27–28; secularization, 28–47, 54–55, 55f; names, 43–44, 242n117; and descimentos, 94–95, 99; and absenteeism, 128–129. See also Settlements Mobility: historical significance, 3–4, 7–8, 91, 205–206, 208–209; approach to study of, 10; ethnographic evidence on, 10, 93–94; seasonal, 11, 15, 24, 150–151, 182, 208–209, 210; of mission Indians, 22–24; attempts to restrict, 49–50, 145–146; after end of Directorate, 192–193. See also Absenteeism; Migration Monte Alegre: relative prosperity of, 25, 27, 153, 154f, 158; response to secularization, 45–46; absenteeism, 145, 158; as destination for absentees, 151, 153, 156–158, 159, 280n55; rebel occupation of, 201 Monteiro, John, 10 Mulatos (of mixed European/African descent): in Cabanagem Rebellion, 5,

338

Index

Mulatos (continued ) 224n12; as heads of household, 170–171, 170t; as wealthy individuals, 171–172; as militiamen, 172 Mundurucú: colonial encounters with, 79–80; interethnic warfare, 123; private descimentos, 197, 200, 299n40 Mura: colonial ideas about, 79, 131; trade promoted with, 81–82; incorporation of others, 122–123, 273n107; peace process, 122–126; resettlement of, 123–124, 273n109; competition with índios aldeados, 124, 125f, 273n110; private descimentos, 299n40 Nations (indigenous), 22–23, 219–222; tensions among, 23, 28, 80, 112; colonial ideas about, 79, 104, 130–131. See also specific ethnic groups Native Amazonians, modern: ethnographies, 10, 93–94, 100, 264n31; and ecological knowledge, 22. See also Independent Indians; Índios aldeados; specific ethnic groups Nativism, 50–51, 201–203 Negro, Rio: settlement, 1–2, 26f, 35, 207; mission field, 18; trading networks, 24; and slave traders, 25, 34; demarcation commissions, 35; revolt, 40, 45, 204, 243n129; depopulation, 96; descimentos, 100–101, 261–262n13 Non-aldeados: in Indian settlements, 24, 50, 129, 141, 280n58; and absenteeism, 141–142; origins of, 165, 167; and censuses, 167–173, 217t; Indians as, 173, 285n110 Noronha, José Monteiro de, 46, 100–101, 242–243n123 Oeiras, 5, 20, 280n55 Officials, native: role in curbing absenteeism, 46, 129–130, 135, 146;

participation in collecting expeditions, 57, 69, 80–81; labor on behalf of, 61, 86, 162, 249n20, 257n98; role in descimentos, 93, 102–104, 105–106, 111–113, 116, 117–118, 119, 265n41; role in labor distribution, 129–130, 132, 252n47; role in village governance, 142, 155–156, 191, 202–203, 267n56; offices, 243–244n133. See also Headmen Ourém, 33, 49, 280n58 Outeiro: descimentos, 109, 117–118; insularity of, 144–145; absenteeism, 158, 162 Pajaraca, 112 Pama, 104, 116 Pará (Captaincy): map, xix; geographical extent, 5–6; collecting expeditions in, 60–61, 64; epidemics, 98; patterns of absenteeism, 136–155; population, 168, 169t, 170, 217t; administrative status, 229n43 Parianâ, 104, 131 Passé, 24, 199 Payments: for collecting crewmen, 61, 63–64, 67, 84–87, 249–250n22; in goods, 64, 258n104; of tithes, 161, 184–185, 190, 202; of wages for private service, 190 Peasants: depictions of, 5; contemporary, 10, 209–210, 273n108, 303n16; creation of, 166, 195–196; in Cabanagem Rebellion, 204 Petitions (by Indians): for relocation, 20–21; for town status, 40–41; nativist sentiments in, 51; for replacement of directors, 52; for economic gain, 84–85; for descimentos, 92–93, 104, 108, 118–119; for protection, 142; for exempt status, 166, 175–176, 182–187, 190, 196, 285n110, 290n20, 294n58; for village autonomy, 201–203

Index

Pilots: payments, 63, 87; status, 71, 90, 252n52; decision-making, 72, 77, 83; headmen serving as, 80–81, 121; conflicts with authorities, 191 Pinhel: residents’ petitions, 40–41; collecting expeditions, 80–81; descimentos, 120–122; conspiracies, 80–81, 271–272n99; in post-Directorate period, 298n28; land competition, 303n16 Pombal (town): response to secularization, 45–46; migration, 149, 158 Pombaline reforms: scope and aims, 12, 16–17, 42–43, 59–60, 98, 101–102, 180–181, 194–197; compared to Spanish America, 12–13, 181, 196; critique of, 16–17, 54; resistance to, 40, 45–46, 49; implementation, 43, 47, 51, 54–55, 55f. See also Carvalho e Melo, Sebastião José (Marquês de Pombal) Population. See Demography Portel: location, 5; absenteeism, 132, 142, 145, 153, 156–158, 280n55, 284n96; in post-Directorate period, 194; collecting expeditions, 251–252n45; ethnic majorities, 267n56 Porto de Moz: settlement history, 21; response to secularization, 46; village politics, 52; descimentos, 116, 120; and non-aldeados, 280n58 Poverty: of settlers, 31, 165, 171–172; of Amazonian settlements, 207–208 Povoações de brancos (white settler towns), 42, 141, 164 Povoações de índios (colonial Indian villages): abandonment, 1–3, 207; reforms, 2, 12–13, 16–18, 29, 38–47, 49–56; historical roots, 2–3, 6, 12, 17, 54; names, 6, 38–39, 43–44; depictions of, 6, 136, 207–208, 296n11; membership criteria, 14, 160–161, 164; forced settlement, 14, 180–189; relocations,

339

47–48; and dispersed settlement, 47–49, 54, 135, 296n11; non-Indians in, 50–51, 141–142; migration between, 128, 148–149, 149t, 153, 155–160, 164; delta region, 140–144; inland region, 142, 144–145; and security, 155–156, 173. See also Missions; Settlements; individual community names Priests: and secularization, 40, 45, 46–47, 244n134; and population counts, 134–135, 164, 282n81. See also Missionaries Principais. See Headmen Property. See Land Quilombos (fugitive communities): encountered by índios aldeados, 82; as destination for absentees, 132, 148–150, 149t, 152t; expeditions against, 162 Racial mixing: and Amazonian culture, 11; and índios aldeados, 15, 50, 142, 178; officially promoted, 36, 37–39, 50; and intermediaries, 97, 101; and formation of Amazonian peasantry, 165–166, 167, 173, 196; and categorization, 170t, 174–175, 177–178; and social mobility, 179–180. See also Marriages Raids: for Indian laborers, 25, 129; for Indian slaves, 97–98, 199, 200 Reciprocity: between missionaries and slave traders, 25; in gifting, 36, 87–88, 124, 259n113; between local officials, 73; between Indians and local officials, 74–75, 87–88 Reforms. See Pombaline reforms Regimento das Missões (1686 mission legislation): on preventing ethnic strife, 23; on labor distribution, 23, 48; on people entering missions, 24, 129; aims and scope, 30–31; on descimentos, 31, 97

340

Index

Religion, Catholic: celebrations of, 28, 92, 210–211, 211f, 236n52; symbols of, 45, 204; Christianization, 94–96, 198. See also Churches Resettlement. See Descimentos (native resettlements) Resistance: in the nineteenth century, 4–5, 14, 201, 203–204, 206; Rio Negro revolt, 40, 45; to reforms, 45–46, 49; of independent Indians, 104, 121, 122, 266n46; Rio Branco revolt, 113; of former índios aldeados, 121, 122; to resettlement, 113–114, 124, 187–188, 269n74; absenteeism as, 133. See also Cabanagem Rebellion Ribeirinhos: modern, 5, 10, 209–210, 303n16; colonial images of, 131–132 Rights: of índios aldeados, 7, 155–156, 160; of crewmen, 89, 90; of Indians in post-Directorate period, 193, 203 Rio Negro (Captaincy): map, xx; creation of, 36; capital, 37, 52–54; collecting expeditions in, 60–61, 64, 73–74; descimentos, 100–102; absenteeism in, 135, 138; population, 170, 217t, 297n18; administrative status, 229n43; and product shortages, 258n104 Rivers: strategic uses, 4–5, 37, 131; hydrographic changes, 11, 15, 19, 209, 210; navigation, 11, 76f, 131; human manipulation, 11, 228n39; and settlement, 12, 19, 21–22, 41, 143, 145; names, 44–45, 242–243n123; as barriers, 49, 54, 132; and epidemics, 59, 145; collecting sites on, 64, 79, 89, 208–209; collecting prohibited on, 64, 82, 256n89; way stations, 75–79; and descimentos, 96–97, 197–198, 261–262n13; and absenteeism, 131–132, 139t, 140. See also specific rivers Roças. See Homestead-gardens

Royal service: distribution of Indians, 48, 140, 144, 178; and absenteeism, 69, 140–141, 144, 151; descimentos as form of, 93, 116–117; and strategic settlements, 143 Salomon, Frank, 173 Sampaio, Patrícia Maria Melo, 119, 199 Santarém: settlement history, 21; cacao cultivation, 61; absenteeism, 131; in post-Directorate period, 202–203 Sarsaparilla, 59, 77, 82, 88, 89 Schwartz, Stuart, 8, 172, 173 Seasonality: and mobility, 11, 15, 24, 150–151, 182, 208–209, 210; in collecting, 64, 246n1 Secularization: compared to Spanish America, 12–13; effects, 13, 18, 47; early experiments, 37–39; critique of, 38–39, 43; Indian responses to, 40, 45–47; symbols of, 42–45; timeline, 243n129. See also Pombaline Reforms Serpa: housing, 27; relocation, 41–42, 47; descimentos, 109 Sertão (backlands): attempts to restrict access, 11; attraction of, 11, 70, 90–91, 116; economic exploitation of, 59–61, 64–65; crewmen’s experiences in, 75–84; native expertise in, 90; lack of accountability in, 97–98; and descimentos, 103–110; colonial ideas about, 132; dangers, 156. See also Frontiers Settlements: pre-Columbian/precolonial, 1, 19, 21; reforms of, 2, 12–13, 16–18, 29, 38–47, 49–56; strategic, 12, 30, 32, 34, 42, 48, 143–144, 244n136; civilizing aims of, 12, 30–31, 41, 44, 50; relocations of, 19–23, 41–42, 47–48; failed or defunct, 34–35; temporary, 124; compared to Spanish American, 232n16. See also Missions; Povoações de índios (colonial Indian villages); individual community names

Index

Shamans, 120 Silves: settlement history, 21; as a mission (Saracá), 28; collecting expeditions, 78, 80 Slavery, Indian: dependence of settlers on, 31; abolition, 35, 36, 39, 166–167; native fears of, 40, 45–46, 112, 116; and descimentos, 97–98; and absenteeism, 130; illegal, 248n9, 262n15 Slaves, African: in Cabanagem Rebellion, 4–5; increasing numbers, 50, 60, 172; fugitive, 82–83; encounters with índios aldeados, 82–83, 142–143; and racial mixing, 167, 289n7; demography, 168, 169t, 217t Slaves, Indian: freed, 32, 33, 143, 144, 167–168, 187, 288–289n6; fugitive, 35 Slave traders: contacts with missions, 25; and settlement experiments, 34; and descimentos, 97–98; and illegal slaving, 248n9, 262n15 Social networks, 4–5, 19, 75–84, 210–211, 211f; along rivers, 11, 76f, 78–79, 131, 145; across borders, 24 Solimões, Rio: mission field, 18; trading networks, 24; and slave traders, 25; and descimentos, 100; settlement on, 208–209, 232–233n19; name, 242n123 Sommer, Barbara, 43, 51, 69, 70, 99–100, 133, 142, 193–194 Souza Coutinho, Francisco de: on absenteeism, 163, 287n121; on nonaldeados, 167–168, 195; on failings of Directorate, 190; political approach, 194, 196; reforms, 194–200 Souzel: descimentos, 111–115; migration, 149, 158 Spanish America: native participation in economy, 9; secularization, 12–13; missions, 19, 20, 24; border crossings, 24; boundary demarcation, 35, 37, 98;

341

native migrants and absentees, 128, 160, 166; militias, 176; people of mixed race, 180; tribute policy, 181, 291n25; forced settlement, 181; late-colonial reforms, 196 Stern, Steve J., 9, 85, 90 Sturm, Felipe, 37, 52–54, 56 Sugar industry, 60, 142 Sweet, David, 25, 122 Tapajós, Rio: and descimentos, 80, 261–262n13; conspiracy to attack, 81, and absenteeism, 139t; and household census, 168, 169t, 170; and land competition, 201, 303n16 Taxes and tithes: payment by índios aldeados, 7, 39; on collected products, 61, 63; to establish community membership, 160, 161; collectors, 192, 202; and labor exemptions, 184–185, 194, 196 Terra preta, 1, 21, 28, 236n51 Testimonies: 10; of Indian crewmen, 13, 58, 63, 70–75, 77–81, 86, 87–89, 90, 121–122, 250n24, 253n54; of other Indians, 40, 45–46, 177–179 Ticuna, 24, 199 Tocantins, Rio: and absenteeism, 139t, 143; strategic settlements, 143; and household census, 168, 169t; and descimentos, 197–198, 261–262n13; and land competition, 201 Trading: long-distance networks, 24; in missions, 25; illicit, 25, 66, 77, 87, 150, 190, 258–259n112; with independent Indians, 79–82, 198–199. See also Exports; Slave traders Travelers (European), 200, 207–208 Treaty of Madrid, 12, 98 Turtles: hunting of, 11, 58–59, 62, 68f, 79, 208–209; competition for, 79, 124, 125f, 273n110

342

Index

Uncolonized Indians. See Independent Indians Uprisings. See Resistance Usner, Daniel H., Jr., 10 Vagrants: campaigns against, 14, 180–189; identification of, 181–182; utility of, 182 Vilaça, Aparecida, 93, 100 Vila Franca: settlement history, 21; collecting expeditions, 66, 252n47; descimentos, 109–110; absenteeism, 145, 156, 280n55; residents’ petitions, 175–176; in post-Directorate period, 201; land competition, 303n16 Villages. See Povoações de brancos (white settler towns); Povoações de índios (colonial Indian villages); Settlements Violence: and revolt, 4, 45, 113; in recruitment of Indian labor, 25, 129; on collecting expeditions, 72, 79–81; murders, 120, 121; between blacks and Indians, 143; in antivagrancy campaigns, 182, 189; against independent Indians, 199, 200

Wages. See Payments White settlers: in Cabanagem Rebellion, 5, 224n12; in Indian settlements, 24–25, 50, 129, 141, 280n58; critique of, 31; and colonization schemes, 32–33, 39; in official posts, 50, 62, 129–130; conflicts with índios aldeados, 51, 142, 281n62; and descimentos, 97–98, 112, 197–200, 299n40; harboring absentees, 134, 141–142, 148–149, 149t, 151–153, 187; as absentees, 164 Wilkens, Henrique João, 119–120, 124–126 Women: left behind by men, 24, 113; as vendors and producers, 25, 36, 194, 259n113; and mixed marriages, 39, 174–175, 195; on collecting expeditions, 61; in descimentos, 116; as absentees, 133, 149t, 151–152, 159; as heads of household, 170t, 171; claiming or petitioning for exemptions, 175, 182–187, 290n20; evasive strategies of, 188 Xingú, Rio: and descimentos, 111–112, 261–262n13; and absenteeism, 139t; and household census, 169t Xumana, 123