And Spanish chef Borja Blásquez, academic director of the Gastronomic Institute of Argentina, whose program on the El Gourmet cable TV channel is very popular in Latin America, told reporters in Arequipa that Peruvian dishes were “incomparable” — “the best in Latin America,” he said. “Peruvian cuisine’s fusions, and very especially its historic roots, are valuable things that can hardly be equaled by any other cuisine from this part of the continent.”

Fusion is the hot word among Peruvian chefs. Pedro Miguel Schiaffino — see biographies here and here — was one of the founders of what is now generally called Amazon fusion, which incorporates jungle ingredients into gourmet dishes. Schiaffino — the “young promise of Peruvian gastronomy” — studied at the Culinary Institute of America and at the Italian Culinary Institute, and he got practical kitchen experience under chefs Nadia Santini and Piero Bertinotti in Rome. Upon his return to Peru, he took charge of the kitchen at La Huaca Pucllana in Lima, creating what came to be called neoandina or nouveux Andean cuisine, and then opened the restaurant Malabar in Lima with the idea of offering a new fusion cuisine using jungle ingredients.

Back in May, the first Festival Gastronómico de la Amazonía peruana was held for five days at the Hotel Meliá in Lima. I missed it. I had intended to bring some genuine Amazonian boiled monkey soup, but, as it turns out, it is likely the festival would not have been interested.

The event was sponsored by PromPerú — the Comisión del Promoción del Perú para la Exportación y el Turismo — and was attended by several Peruvian dignitaries, including Mercedes Aráoz, the Minister of Foreign Trade, and Antonio Brack, Minister of the Environment.

The big hit of the show was Amazonian fruit — ubos, sapote, anona, camu-camu, guanábana, conoca, aguaje, guayaba. In addition to the fruit, there was yuca, of course, and fish — I wrote about Amazonian fish here — and meat of wild pig and deer. As far as I can tell they served no large rodents, such as capybara or agouti, both widely eaten in the Amazon, and no monkey or spiny rats. I do not know whether they served suri, the grubs of palm beetles, considered a special treat in the Amazon.

In other words, when people in Lima speak of Amazonian gastronomy, they do not mean what indigenous people in the Amazon actually eat. They mean European preparations of Amazonian ingredients as similar as possible to those already used in Eurpoean gastronomy.

In the same way, one press release speaks of the jungle fruits on display as having been produced with “only minimal traditional management,” as if the fruit had just magically appeared out of the jungle, ignoring the fact that both mestizo and indigenous Amazonian peoples are active and ecologically astute forest managers.

Although the coverage is sketchy, there seem to have been no actual indigenous Amazonians present, except as dancers, for entertainment. All the headline chefs had restaurants in Lima, and all of them had been trained in Europe.

One product of the festival was a new forty-recipe cookbook, with scrumptious photographs, entitled Frutas amazónicas, postres peruanos de vanguardia, written by chef Astrid Gutsche.

Gutsche, born in Germany, manages the restaurant franchise Astrid & Gastón along with her husband, Peruvian chef Gastón Acurio Jaramillo. They met at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris and have opened a number of restaurants in Lima specializing in Peruvian seafood, Peruvian confections, and — their latest — Peruvian sánguches, sandwiches.

The desert book was originally the idea of photographer Walter Wust, who solicited the support of the Proyecto Perúbiodiverso of PromPerú, which hoped that the book would help to promote the the use and export of Amazonian fruit. The promotional material for the book speaks sensually of a “host of revolutionary desserts, unexpected flavors, and exotic drinks. The bright yellow of cocona, the promising camu camu, the delicate aguaje, the creamy shimbillo, among many others, open up a range of textures and colors that provide infinite combinations. Under its green cloak of secrecy, the jungle hides sweet pleasure.”

This is the jungle in the Peruvian imagination — erotic, seductive, its unmanaged treasures waiting to be extracted.

Yarima in 1992, from the film Yanomami Homecoming

After Good had been living among the Yanomamö for about two and a half years, he found himself under increasing pressure to become betrothed. The headman of the village was insistent. “I found myself thinking that maybe being married down here wouldn’t be so horrendous after all,” Good writes. “Certainly it would be in accordance with their customs.” The more he thought about the idea, the more attractive it became. “After all, what better affirmation could there be of my integration with the Hasupuweteri?”

It is common among the Yanomamö for an older man to become betrothed to a younger girl. Such betrothals are not consummated for some time — perhaps not ever. The Yanomamö understand that sometimes these relationships don’t work out. A girl might thus be betrothed several times before actually being married. The girl brings food from her mother’s fire to feed the man; he brings her his own gifts of food. They talk and joke together. Eventually, the girl feels comfortable being around his hearth and being around him. If things work out, they become friends.

When the girl has her first menses, the man and his betrothed hang their hammocks side by side, and they have sex for the first time. The girl thus has an instant husband and protector. Women beyond the age of puberty are routinely raped if they do not have husbands.

The Yanomamö have nothing like a formal ceremony comparable to marriage in American culture. Divorce is just as informal. The departing spouse simply removes his or her hammock from the space of the other spouse inside the shabono, the large communal house, and then resists or refuses reconciliation and reunification.

Good figured that the betrothal would not last, and presumably would never be comsummated. He was, after all, going to go home at some point. But he thought, “What the hell, what would be so wrong in saying yes?” So he agreed. “Good,” said the headman, smiling broadly.“Take Yarima. You like her. She’s your wife.”

At that time, Yarima was around nine years old. Good was thirty-four.

Valdir Cruz, Yarima (1996)

Good found himself becoming increasingly fond of his child bride. The community began taking it more seriously too. The women started calling Good yarima heorope. “Our relationship changed,” he writes. “Before, Yarima had been the cute little girl with the smile and the hello. Now it was something more than that and, as time passed, a good deal more than that.” Yurima had her first menses while Good was away on a long trip. When he returned, they hung their hammocks side by side, and they consummated their marriage.

Yanomamö do not keep track of their age. Good and Yarima were married shortly after Yarima’s first menstrual period. In a nonindustrial society, especially one like the Yanomamö, where obesity is virtually unknown, a girl would normally have her first menstrual period between the ages of thirteen and sixteen, much later than girls in industrial societies. A good guess is that the marriage was consummated when Yarima was about fourteen years old. Good was by then close to forty.

The marriage created problems in the village where Good lived with Yarima. Yanomamö attitudes toward women and sex were very different from his own, and, while he might normally regard these with anthropological detachment, his attitude was different when they were directed at Yarima. Good frequently had to be away from the village — for permits, visas, research funding. He made a public and very angry announcement that his wife was to be left alone while he was gone. Still, on one occasion when he went downriver on business, the village decided that he was dead, and Yarima was raped by a number of men. One of the men was his own brother-in-law, Yarima’s sister’s husband, with whom it was considered normal for Yarima to have sex. But Good was furious when he returned, and he berated the man publicly. Another time when he was gone, Yarima was beaten and her ear partly ripped off. Yarima’s brother could not understand why Good was so upset by all this. It’s just naka, he told Good, just pussy. What do you care?

These difficulties were eroding his relationships within the village. And now, too, Yarima was pregnant. Finally, in 1987, after living with the Yanomamö for twelve years, Good took his nineteen-year-old wife and went back to the United States. The couple moved in with Good’s parents in Media, Pennsylvania, near Philadelphia. Here they were married in a civil ceremony, and here their first child, David, was born.

A Yanomamö shabono

The following year, in 1988, they returned to the jungle for a visit, taking David with them. Yarima was pregnant again, and, while they were there, Yarima gave birth to Vanessa, their second child. The visit cost Good about $23,000 for supplies, provisions, air fare to Venezuela, the flight to the interior, and the five- or six-day boat ride up the Orinoco River to Yanomamö country. If they were going to keep visiting Yarima’s people, Good would have to make some money.

In 1991, Good, along with author David Chanoff, wrote a book about his experiences among the Yanomamö entitled Into the Heart: One Man’s Pursuit of Love and Knowledge among the Yanomama. The book also contained bitter criticism of Good’s one-time mentor, Napoleon Chagnon. It was a moderate popular success, and it continues to be frequently cited in discussions of Yanomamö culture. It also made the couple, briefly, international media celebrities. Good sold their story to Columbia Pictures for $50,000, and he says that he received a telephone call from actor Richard Gere, who was interested in playing him. The money helped Good finish up his doctorate — not under Chagnon, but under well-known anthropologist Marvin Harris at the University of Florida.

At about this time, author Ron Arias interviewed Good and Yarima at Good’s parents’ home. All the questions were passed through Good, who translated them into Yanomamö. “The Yanomamo live naked their whole lives,” Good told the interviewer. “When I first took her out of the jungle, it was a constant struggle to get her to keep her clothes on. If I turned my back on her or left her alone, off they’d come. One time I had to chase her down the street to cover her up.” Arias heard stories of how Yarima thought that automobiles were going to bite her, how she learned to make light by moving a little stick on the wall, how she had given up her hammock to sleep on a big soft box. Once slender, she was now short and stocky. “I see no joy in her face,” Arias wrote, “and I’m feeling uneasy because we’re talking about her as if she were an object or pet from another time.”

Inside the shabono

Finally, in 1992, Good found a job teaching anthropology at Jersey City State College — now called New Jersey City University — in Jersey City, New Jersey. NJCU is a small urban public commuter school, which began as a state teachers college and officially became a university only in 1998. The school has no department of anthropology, and until 2008 Good was the only anthropologist on the campus. It is not clear to me how Good wound up teaching at this school. He had his doctorate; he had worked for the prestigious Max Planck Institute in Germany; he had extensive — indeed, extraordinary — field experience; and he had published a significant memoir. Perhaps he was, at the age of forty-nine, considered too old for other entry-level positions. He had also quite publicly broken with the powerful Chagnon. Apparently Good was having trouble getting academic employment, and he and his wife found themselves in a small apartment in Rutherford, New Jersey.

The couple continued to attract media attention. Reporters were obsessed with Yarima’s exoticism, and made constant references to her alleged Stone Age origins, as if the Yanomamö somehow had no history. One reporter described the Yanamamö as “naked Indians who feast on termites and tarantulas and have yet to invent the wheel.” Another said that “modern devices such as washing machines, television and the telephone were as foreign to her as they would have been to Neanderthal man.” The same writer quoted Yarima’s English language teacher as saying that Yarima was four feet tall and had no concept of time. “She did not know if it was morning or afternoon,” the teacher told the interviewer. And she added, “One thing you noticed about her was that she could not coordinate colors.”

Yarima had grown up in a shabono, surrounded by people. Her day had been spent gathering fruit and fishing with her sisters and mother. They would make a fire, sit and talk, laugh, watch each other’s babies and take turns going off to gather food. Then they would go to the stream, wash their babies and themselves, and come home with flowers in their hair. In New Jersey, she lived in a small apartment — isolated, alienated, and bored. Running water, appliances, malls, and television were not enough. She spent the day listening to cassette tapes Good had recorded of Yanamamö voices and the sounds of the jungle, and watching the videos they had shot on their 1988 visit. One interviewer noted that Yarima did not leave the house unless Good went with her. They had no friends among their neighbors, whose houses were abandoned by working husbands and wives during the day.

Valdir Cruz, Yarima Breastfeeding Among Her People, Venezuela (1997)

Good also notes that Yarima began to view him differently once they were immersed in his culture rather than hers. He did not carry a shotgun. He obeyed the orders of police officers. When, after a minor traffic accident, a woman yelled at him and called him an idiot, he did not shout back and threaten her. Yarima thought he had lost his manhood.

And now Yarima had a third child, Daniel, to take care of. She did not understand why Good did not spend more time at home with his children, as Yanomamö fathers do, or why he had to leave her alone in the apartment every day while he went to work. “She didn’t understand meetings,” Good told an interviewer, “time periods, schedules, students sitting in class waiting for you, why I had to go every day.” Once, on a book tour together, to her dismay, Good said he was too busy to talk with his daughter on the telephone. Good dismissed her concern. “She can’t understand how it is I don’t want to talk to my own kids,” he said, his hands on her shoulders. “She’ll get Americanized.”

Both Good and Yarima thought it would be a good idea to visit her home village once more, but they could not afford the trip on his salary as an assistant professor. Finally, in 1992, National Geographic agreed to finance the trip if they could make a documentary film out of it, to be called Yanomami Homecoming. The magazine sent three boats full of people and equipment to the Upper Orinoco, but not — as they had apparently promised — either a doctor or medical supplies for the Yanomamö. The National Geographic filming, too, seems to have been something of a disaster, which was in turn captured on tape by a village Yanomamö who had acquired his own 8mm video camera.

While Good and Yarima were awaiting the film crew in Caracas, Good learned that his father had died, but decided to honor his commitments to the film crew rather than return to the United States. Yarima could not understand this; Yanomamö have very strict rules about obligations owed to deceased relatives. When she returned to her village, Yarima learned that her own mother had died, and her own intense grief only underscored what she perceived to be her husband’s callousness. Moreover, according to Good, members of the film crew, presumably in order to make more dramatic footage, encouraged Yarima to criticize him.

Valdir Cruz, Yarima and Son, Venezuela (1996)

Finally, Yarima simply ran away, apparently at the instigation of a member of the National Geographic film crew. This happened at the airstrip in Platanal, just as they were about to board the plane for a flight to Caracas. Good and Yarima had spent days in agonizing discussion about her wish to remain with her people, and she had agreed to give New Jersey one more chance. But she changed her mind at the last minute. She stopped, hesitated, and then just turned around and left.

For a while, Yarima appeared on talk shows in Caracas, discussing her decision to abandon the United States and her family. Then, at the end of 1993, she disappeared into the jungle. There were rumors that she was dead, or hiding in the hills.

In 1996, investigative reporter Patrick Tierney, accompanied by Brazilian photographer Valdir Cruz, while doing the research among the Yanomamö that would result in his scathing and controversial book Darkness in El Dorado, had his sleeve tugged by a woman who said, in perfectly good English, “Hello. My name is Yarima. What is your name?”

Tierney writes that Yarima was nursing a baby and looked, as he put it, radiantly healthy. She had married again, Cruz says, and had two more children. She told Tierney that her new husband was treating her well. She asked about her three children in New Jersey, adding, “Here good. Jersey bad.”

Tierney’s discovery of Yarima among the Yanomamö became as much of a news story as had been her life in New Jersey.The Times of London published three stories in 1997 about how Yarima had abandoned civilization for the jungle, and about a new expedition that would entice her back by playing tape recordings of her three children in the United States begging her to return. The expedition turned out to be nonexistent.

That is as much as I know. I have seen no additional reports of Yarima’s life in the jungle. Good and Yarima are divorced, and he continues to teach anthropology at New Jersey City University, where his students consider him a likeable if undemanding teacher, and enjoy his stories of life among the Yanomamö. A proposed sequel to Into the Heart has not appeared. I do not know if he has remarried. Yarima, if she is alive, would be around forty-one years old. Good and Yarima have not seen each other for sixteen years.

I looked up and gasped when I saw a dozen burly, naked, filthy, hideous men staring at us down the shafts of their drawn arrows! Immense wads of green tobacco were stuck between their lower teeth and lips making them look even more hideous, and strands of dark-green slime dripped or hung from their noses.

These naked hideous men were Yanomamö, and, if you ever took an undergaduate anthropology course, you probably read that passage in Napoleon Chagnon’s incredibly popular ethnography, Yanomamo: The Fierce People — the best-selling anthropology text of all time. Chagnon chose the term fierce people for a reason. “The fact that the Yanomamö live in a state of chronic warfare,” he wrote, “is reflected in their mythology, values, settlement pattern, political behavior and marriage practices.” But over the years, Chagnon’s methods, fieldwork, and characterization of the Yanomamö have all been the subject of debate, often acrimonious and sometimes personal.

Davi Kopenawa, Yanomamö shaman and activist

Critics have maintained, among other things, that much of the aggression he observed was instigated, knowingly or not, by Chagnon himself, through his introduction of scarce trade goods, such as machetes and metal pans, into Yanomamö culture. Critics have claimed that his characterization of the Yanomamö as irremediably belligerent has been used to justify incursions and massacres by miners in search of gold in Yanomamö territory, and to justify attempts by Brazilian politicians to split up Yanomamö territory into several small reserves in order to reduce conflict — a plan that would have allowed more gold mining in the region.

And some critics have pointed out that Chagnon has failed to support the Yanomamö in their struggles for autonomy — first, by failing to share with them any of the significant amount of money, allegedly more than a million dollars, that he earned with his popular text; second, by failing to speak out against the misuse of his own work for political purposes; and, third, by publicly criticizing, in a popular Brazilian magazine, Davi Kopenawa, a Yanomamö activist and leader of the indigenous movement that helped to establish the Yanomamö reserve in Brazil.

Yanomamö woman with traditional face ornaments

Kopenawa himself speaks of Chagnon’s work with considerable bitterness. “So this Chagnon,” he says, “he said that the Yanomami are no good, that the Yanomami are ferocious. So this story, he made this story up… To make his book. To make a story about fighting among the Yanomami…. Because in his book he says we are fierce. We are garbage… He thought it would be important for him. He became famous. He is speaking badly about us. He is saying that the Yanomami are fierce, that they fight a lot, that they are no good.”

One of Chagnon’s most controversial claims is that Yanomamö culture exemplifies a key principle of sociobiology — that, among the Yanomamö, the most aggressive and murderous males have the most children. In an article published in 1988 in the prestigious journal Science, he reported that Yanomamö men who had murdered had more than twice as many wives and three times as many children as men who had not. He claimed, in other words, that violence is evolutionary adaptive behavior, and that, as Kim Hill, an expert in human evolutionary ecology, puts it, “the willingness to use violence under some conditions is part of the human male psyche.”

But there are several methodological critiques of Chagnon’s study, of which I will mention just three.

Yanomamö at home

First, Chagnon used reported body count as an index of aggressiveness. But he had no way to determine with any accuracy the number of people killed by any individual Yanamomö. Chagnon did not himself participate in any raids, witness any killings, or count any bodies. When a Yanomamö man had killed a human, he underwent a relatively rigorous unokaimou purification ceremony, after which he was called an unokai. So Chagnon used participation in the unokaimou as a surrogate for having killed, and he asked raid participants for estimates of the number of their victims.

The problem is that such estimates could be wildly inaccurate, especially because the Yanomamö did not take human body parts as trophies. A raider might shoot several arrows at figures fleeing into the bush at twilight, and claim, rightly or wrongly, to have killed one or more of them. And a man might take part in the unokaimou ceremony when he claimed to have killed by less direct means — by stealing an enemy’s footprint, for example, or by sending a spirit animal to kill him, or by shooting an arrow into his dead body.

Second, for reasons that remain unclear, Chagnon did not count as tokens of reproductive success living children whose fathers were dead or whose fathers lived outside the villages in Chagnon’s study area. Presumably some number of these dead fathers had been killed while they were on raids, and some of those in more distant villages were there in hiding from retaliation for their own violence. Indeed, it was often the war leaders — that is, the most aggressive — who were targeted for death by their enemies, and being killed in one’s prime surely has an impact on one’s long-term reproductive success. If dead or absent unokai and their offspring had been included in the study, the number of offspring of all unokai might well have been lower.

Waorani man with traditional pierced earlobes

Third, the number of people killed and reproductive success might not be correlated with each other but rather with a third variable — age. The older a man grows, the more raids he will have participated in, and the more children he will have engendered. The study included a large sample of young unmarried males. Since younger unmarried men were unlikely both to have undertaken the unokaimou ceremony and to have fathered numerous children, this cohort skewed the relative reproductive advantages of the unokai, almost all of whom were over thirty. The study did no stratification by age.

And additional hypotheses do not seem to have been considered — for example, that, while members of the raiding party were off on a ten-day raid, their wives were back home being impregnated by the more peaceful males.

Hill, who is a supporter of Chagnon, says that Chagnon’s study is “preliminary and suggestive.” The precise cause of the association between violence and reproductive success, he says, “is not possible to determine from the data presented, and there are many possible interpretations.” An appropriate study would require, among other things. a design “that would eliminate age effects and other possible covariates of both killer status and fitness.”

Waorani women

And just such a study has now been performed by anthropologist Stephen Beckerman of Penn State University and his colleagues, and published in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences. The study was specifically designed to explore Chagnon’s contention that reproductive fitness among men correlates with differences of aggressiveness, and to avoid the three methodological objections to Chagnon’s work that we discussed above. The study concludes that, among another Amazonian people, the Waorani of Ecuador, who at one time had the highest rate of homicide of any society known to anthropology, more aggressive warriors in fact had lower indices of reproductive success than less aggressive males.

As part of the Waorani Life History Project, the authors interviewed 121 Waorani elders of both sexes to obtain genealogical information and recollections of raids in which they and their relatives participated. They also obtained complete raiding histories of 95 warriors, and they analyzed the raiding histories, marital trajectories, and reproductive histories of all these men. “We included in our sample of warriors both living and dead men,” the study states. “We ranked their aggression by the number of raids they participated in and not by a local term of contested meaning with which they are labeled. Our analysis is free of the problem caused by the inherent correlation of the warrior’s age with both participation in raids and reproductive success.”

Waorani family

The result: “Regardless of age category, the more zealous warriors consistently have lower reproductive success.” At each age interval, zealous warriors acquired fewer wives, produced fewer children, and had fewer surviving children.

There are two ways to interpret the reported differences between the Yanomamö and the Waorani. The first is that the disparate outcomes are due to differences in culture. This is the path taken by the authors of the Waorani study. They speculate that Yanomamö warfare cycles had peaceful interludes during which warriors could reap the benefits of their social status and accrue wives and children. The Waorani, on the other hand, did not incorporate peaceful interludes between raids. “We found no tradition of standing down,” the authors state, “even for a short period, after a rough balance of deaths was achieved. Indeed, a balance, although it might occur by chance, was never sought — the goal was to eliminate the other side.”

Another possibility, of course, is that the Yanomamö study was sufficiently affected by the bias introduced by its methodology that its results were incorrect.

Brion Whitford, Ojibway filmmaker

Among tribes in southern Arizona, 29.3 percent of adults are diagnosed with the disease. Pima tribes in the state suffer from one of the highest rates of diabetes in the world. Fifty percent of the tribe between the ages of 30 and 64 have diabetes — more than 19 times the rate of an urban white population. In South Dakota, nearly every county that is home to a reservation has a diabetes rate higher than 10 percent. In Big Horn County, Montana, home to the Crow Reservation, 12.3 percent of the population has diabetes — the highest rate in the state.

Compounding these concerns is the fact that type 2 diabetes is increasingly being discovered in Native American youth. Forty years ago it was almost unheard of for teenagers to have this disease.

Type 2 diabetes “is a complex disorder with strong environmental and genetic components,” says Robert Williams, an anthropological geneticist at Arizona State University. While any genetic contribution remains unclear, the Native American diabetes epidemic was almost certainly triggered by an unfavorable change in environment since the mid-twentieth century. It is a disease of progress — fatty foods, sedentary lifestyle, and obesity.

The website of the American Diabetes Associations says, “Years ago, Native Americans did not have diabetes. Elders can recall times when people hunted and gathered food for simple meals. People walked a lot.” Mary Thomas, lieutenant governor of the Gila River Indian Community in southern Arizona, agrees. “Our diet was lean,” she says. “We ate fish and game, beans and quail. Then, with the white man, a new diet came.” One study estimates that the fat content of the Pima diet rose from 17 percent before contact with Europeans to 38 percent in the current diet.

Obesity is well recognized as a risk factor for type 2 diabetes, and the incidence of diabetes among the Pima rises with the duration of obesity. Obesity is also associated with lower levels of physical activity. Other cultural factors may also be at work. Among the Pima, for example, for reasons that are not understood, breastfeeding for a period of at least two months is associated with a 50 percent reduction in rates of diabetes.

And then there are the effects — unmeasured and often ignored — of oppression, internal colonization, loss of cultural identity, and the slow dissolution of spiritual traditions.

In the documentary The Gift of Diabetes, Ojibway filmmaker Brion Whitford, with co-director John Paskievich, tells the story of his own journey through advanced diabetes.

In 2001, complications from the disease left Whitford with only fifty percent kidney function and blood sugar levels that were spiraling out of control. Raised in the city, he had grown up without knowing his cultural heritage. He was skeptical of traditional healing, but biomedicine was not controlling his disease, much less his long-term feelings of anger, hopelessness, and despair.

The film follows Whitford’s search for answers — a spiritual quest that takes him to Wounded Knee and an Akwesasne anger management workshop, to biomedical doctors and traditional healers, to a sweat lodge and a foot care clinic. In many ways, the film is structured as a vision quest, in which Whitford is seeking not only his own understanding but also for a gift that he can bring back for his people.

“While we are alive,” he is told by Kahnawake Mohawk activist Stuart Myiow, “we have the unique ability to decide what kind of ancestors we want to be.” Later, Whitford reflects, “I am doing this journey not only for myself but also for those who come after me. It makes me want to be an honored ancestor.”

His diabetes is a metaphor for what he describes as his “self-loathing and alienation from my people.” The disease is the physical form of a spiritual condition, a sickness of the soul; in finding his cultural roots, he is able to take on the discipline of controlling his condition. “All of a sudden it became clear to me,” he says after being hospitalized for a heart attack. “The teachings that I had been told led back to me and what I wanted in life. And I wanted to live.” He learns to honor the traditions he never knew; a ceremonial feast helps him to accept the death of his grandfather many years before. “Diabetes,” he says at the end, “has been a gift that has saved my life.”

Through the generosity of the National Film Board of Canada, I am able to place the entire hour-long film on this blog.