There are two kinds o cookbooks: the sort that focuses solely on “What’s for dinner tonight?” and the sort that provides an escape from the everyday dinner grind, focusing instead on faraway cultures. The latter tends to be the type you save for weekend cooking, or even just bedside reading—rarely do the two types mix. But that is why Tasting Rome, a new book out from Katie Parla and Kristina Gill, is so compelling.

Parla is the go-to source for countless food-obsessed travelers to Rome, Italy, where she lives, including food-world royalty Mario Batali and Andrew Zimmern, who she recently led around for an episode of Bizarre Foods. She is also a sought-after writer, the author of more than 20 food and travel books for the likes of National Geographic, Fodor’s and the Rough Guides, and writes frequently for The New York Times, Saveur, Food & Wine and Bon Appétit, just to name a few of her American outlets.

Gill is a photographer from Nashville, Tenn., who has lived in Rome since 1999, shooting pictures of her adopted hometown as well as exotic locales for a host of food and travel magazines, and covers food in words and pictures for the website Design*Sponge.

I missed Gill when she came back east this past spring, but Parla landed for a tour of what amounted to the best Italian restaurants in the U.S.—from Frankie’s 570 Sputino in New York City and Frasca in Boulder, Co., to Tratto in Phoenix, Monteverde in Chicago, Locanda in San Francisco and many more. When I caught her one morning, she was pausing for some downtime in New Jersey, where she grew up. “Next time I do a book tour, I have to remember I’m not 22,” she says dryly.

She is actually not even 40, which brings me to the question: How did a woman from New Jersey become a font of knowledge about Italian cooking—and so quickly? It is true that her dad runs a restaurant, Clydz, in New Brunswick, N.J., but the place specializes in wild game, not Italian food.

She laughs and admits she can’t really explain what drew her to Italy in the first place, but the attachment is strong. “When I landed in Italy for the first time—as a [high school] sophomore in 1996—it was an immediate reaction,” she says. “I have to admit it wasn’t exactly logical—this was Fiumicino airport, which was a disaster back then—but it was almost like it was something about breathing the air; it was an instantaneous reaction.”

Back in the States, Parla went on to study art history at Yale, and returned to Rome to continue her studies. “But I immediately got distracted by food and wine,” she laughs. “Growing up in an Italian-American family, food was always at the heart of everything I did. It translated quite easily when I moved there.” She got in at the right time, too, she adds. “The euro had just been introduced and the dollar was strong; even a recent grad could afford a pretty nice meal.”

While the density and complexity of Rome can throw many visitors off, Parla found it only drew her in more. “There are roughly 125 districts, each with its own reality. And I loved the idea that you can really only know a handful; unless you live there, your knowledge will remain only superficial.” Parla delved in deeply, befriending butchers and bakers, fishmongers and chefs. When she discovered she could even take formal academic courses in Italian food at the University of Rome, she jumped at the chance. “I didn’t even know you could study [food] as an academic!” She ended up focusing on the influence of Arab agriculture and irrigation on Sicilian food culture, and graduated with a Masters in Italian Gastronomic Culture.

In many ways, though, what Parla has learned over the years is that the reality of life for Romans isn’t in fact all that different from Americans. The idea that everyone shops at farmers markets and butchers, for instance? Parla sighs. “There’s a huge number of romantic stereotypes of Rome,” she says. “The farmers markets lead you to believe there are these tight connections between farmers and the city, but in fact, there was a big shift in the 1970s when supermarkets were introduced as an option. Now the vast majority who shop in produce [farmers] markets are 50 and over.” (Except, of course, for Parla, who is in there chatting all of the sellers up, and Gill, who is busy capturing them in photos.)

There is also the idea that Roman cuisine is a stable concept that is steadfast in the face of globalization. There are, Parla says, certainly customs that have held on, such as Giovedi gnocchi, which is eating gnocchi on Thursdays—a tradition both home cooks and restaurants still embrace. But it is the changes she finds exciting as well. For example, she points to the Jewish quarter, where Pope Paul IV segregated the city’s Jews in the early 1500s. Between their religion’s dietary rules and poverty, they developed their own distinct take on Roman cuisine. To this day, you will find dishes that hark back to those days—inexpensive vegetables such as artichokes were turned into delicacies through deep-frying, and tough cuts of meat were used in long-simmered stews. But some surprised Parla. “I noticed other dishes that kept popping up, like these aromatic spiced cookies that look as though they are right out of a Sicilian pastry shop window,” she says. “Only after research did I realize there are Jews from Sicily here, too.”

She and Gill devote an entire chapter to cucina ebraica, documenting the cuisine as new immigrants added their own flavors to the mix such as the vinegar tang of fried and marinated zucchini, which is the lasting influence of Spanish Jews who arrived in 1492. And Libyans, who took refuge there in the 1960s, brought the cumin, caraway and hot pepper that flavor a fish couscous.

Even more recently, Parla says, you can see the cuisine evolving. “Over the last decade, even the structure of meals has turned pretty dramatically,” Parla says. “Ever since the euro was introduced, the disposable income has really dwindled, and it’s only exacerbated by the youth unemployment rate.” At the same time, people still want to go out. “So now when you go out for a meal, rather than going out for a full-blown meal, people get just a couple of dishes. And the restaurants, to compete, are blowing up the pasta dishes in size.” It used to be that five ounces of pasta fed two people, she explains; now that is a serving for one.

The normal reaction is to blame the American tendency to super-size everything, but Parla says this is purely locally driven. “Initially, to me, it felt like an American influence, but over time I’ve realized that really it’s arisen out of an internal change in local culture.”

You could live in the past, regretting what was lost, or you could embrace the positive aspects of the change—like Parla and Gill have—extending the variations on rice balls in their book to three (including a purple-tinged radicchio and blue cheese), and celebrating the genius of the trapizzino, a three-cornered portable sandwich made of pizza bianca, which was invented at a pizza joint in 2009, and they consider it already part of the Roman culinary canon.


The most important take-away for Parla and any reader of Tasting Rome is, in fact, the personal realization that comes out of understanding that “authentic” is, in a healthy, thriving culture, an ever-morphing concept—one that leaves room for personal interpretation. “The idea that there are no historically documented recipes for what we consider Roman cooking is proof that we can make our own choices in the kitchen,” Parla says. People may argue over whether spaghetti or rigatoni in your carbonara is “correct,” but in fact, there’s no right or wrong; Gill and Parla’s favorite recipe uses a highly unusual but foolproof technique for getting the eggs to coat the pasta rather than clump—and suggests saving some of the pork fat for making a Carbonara Sour, a cocktail they teased out of the barkeep at a Roman bar called Cocktail & Social. Is either dish less Roman for being a modern interpretation?

Well, consider this: Carbonara—that quintessentially Roman dish—has in fact been around for little more than 50 years. If you want something with a longer history, Parla says, it would be spaghetti alla gricia, one of the simplest recipes in Tasting Rome, an uncannily satisfying mix of rendered pork fat and cheese.

In her own private Rome, however — the one that consists of a busy working life in a bustling, ever-changing city—the dish that she whips up most often is cacio e pepe — pasta tossed with grated Pecorino Romano cheese. “It’s super-fast, primal and basic,” she says. “It’s basically mac and cheese.”

By Tara Q. Thomas in " Lunds & Byerlys Real Food", USA, Fall 2016, volume 12, n. 3, excerpts pp. 52-55. Adapted and illustrated to be posted by Leopoldo Costa.

Knickers in the 19th Century

Knickers in the 19th Century

Women did not usually wear knickers until the end of the 18th century. However after about 1800 women also wore underwear called drawers. Today we still say a pair of knickers. That is because in the early 19th century women's underwear consisted to two separate legs joined at the waist. They really were a 'pair' of knickers. The word drawers was invented because underwear for women was drawn on. Knickers are called knickers because of an illustration in a novel called History of New York by Diedrich Knickerbocker who was, supposedly a Dutchman living in New York (it was actually written by Washington Irving). In Britain the illustrations for the book showed a Dutchman wearing long, loose fitting garments on his lower body. When men wore loose trousers for playing sports they were sometimes called knickerbockers. However in Britain women's underwear were soon called knickerbockers too. In the late 19th century the word was shortened to knickers.

In the USA knickers are called panties, which is obviously derived from the word pants (American for trousers). In the early 20th century panties became the name for female underwear in the USA. The word panties is sometimes used in the UK but it has never replaced the word knickers.

At first knickers were usually very plain but in the late 19th century they were sometimes decorated with lace and bands. In the 1860s some women began to wear colored drawers although white remained very common. In the winter women often wore woolen knickers. No doubt they were needed in the days before central heating!. In the 19th century knickers were sometimes called bloomers. A woman named Elizabeth Miller invented loose trousers to be worn by women. After 1849 Amelia Bloomer promoted the idea and they became known as bloomers after her. In time long drawers became known as bloomers. The word lingerie is derived from the French word for linen, lin. Lingerie were things made from linen.


Knickers in the 20th Century

In the 19th century knickers were usually open between the legs but in the 20th century closed knickers replaced them. In 1910 stockings and knickers were first made of rayon (at first rayon was called artificial silk). From the mid 20th century knickers were also made of nylon. However in the early 20th century poor women sometimes made pairs of knickers from flour sacks.

In the 19th century knickers came down to below the knee. In the 1920s they became shorter. They ended above the knee. At that time pink, ivory or peach knickers were popular. (Knickers with short legs were called French knickers because many people thought anything risque came from France). By the 1940s and 1950s many women wore briefs. Meanwhile in Britain during the Second World War women sometimes used the silk from parachutes to make knickers. Then in 1949 an American tennis player named Gertrude Moran or Gussie Moran (1923-2013) caused a sensation when she appeared at Wimbledon wearing frilly knickers. She was called Gorgeous Gussie and it was very daring in 1949! In the 1970s knickers became  briefer still. Thongs became popular in Britain in the 1990s. At the beginning of the 21st century boy shorts became popular.

By Tim Lambert available in http://www.localhistories.org/knickers.html. Adapted and illustrated to be posted by Leopoldo Costa.

La lasagna: storia di una lotta culinaria tra Campania ed Emilia-Romagna

Trovare una ricetta unica della lasagna che possa mettere d’accordo gli italiani è molto difficile, date le varie declinazioni regionali e le innumerevoli variazioni locali. Ciononostante, la lasagna è uno dei pilastri della cucina italiana nel mondo – anche se alcune varianti estere hanno poco di italico nella preparazione e nella scelta degli ingredienti.

Lasagne d’Italia

Iniziamo con il definire cos’è la lasagna: è la sfoglia di pasta rettangolare, sia essa fatta con o senza l’uovo, e qui emerge la prima grande divisione, quella tra la lasagna romagnola (con la pasta all’uovo) e quella napoletana (pasta di grano duro normale). Queste sfoglie sono bollite, scolate e disposte a strati, inserendo tra uno strato e l’altro una farcitura che varia in relazione alle tradizioni locali.

Ogni regione ha la sua versione ed ogni “mamma italiana” che si dedichi alla preparazione delle lasagne apporta le sue personalissime modifiche, aumentando quindi in modo incredibile il numero di possibili varianti.

La tradizione gastronomica di ogni regione ha influito in modo sensibile sullo sviluppo della versione locale della lasagna, apportando un quid locale: nelle zone di montagna, ad esempio, non è raro trovare i funghi come farcitura, invece del ragù; in Sicilia la lasagna è molto spesso farcita “alla norma”; in Liguria il pesto è ovviamente immancabile, mentre in Veneto la farcitura è preparata con il radicchio rosso di Treviso. Nelle Marche e in Umbria le lasagne sono arricchite con le interiora, diventando i “vincigrassi” – in cui il sugo è arricchito con fegatini di pollo, animelle, midollo osseo, cervello bovino o tartufo; restando al Centro Italia, anche la Sardegna presenta una versione “anomala” delle lasagne, in cui al posto della lasagna (sfoglia di pasta) è utilizzato il pane carasau. Tra tutte queste varianti sono però solo due quelle a contendersi il titolo di Lasagna Italiana nell’immaginario collettivo: quella dell’Emilia Romagna e quella della Campania.

Lasagna emiliana vs. Lasagna campana

Se ragù (ovviamente con le dovute differenze nelle modalità di cottura) e parmigiano grattugiato sono elementi comuni, le differenze tra due ricette sono in numero più consistente, ed è quindi opportuno procedere con ordine, evidenziando le più evidenti:

. Nella versione emiliana si usa la sfoglia di pasta all’uovo, mentre nella versione campana (tradizionale) si usa una sfoglia di pasta di grano duro e acqua, senza altre aggiunte.

. La versione campana miscela il ragù con la ricotta fresca mentre la versione emiliana utilizza la besciamella per legare la farcitura.

. La lasagna campana presenta una maggiore “ricchezza” della farcitura, che include (non necessariamente tutti insieme) formaggi semiduri, salumi tagliati a dadini, uova sode e polpettine fritte.

Questo scontro tra versione campana e versione emiliana (o napoletana e bolognese) apre quindi ad un problema “esistenziale” per la lasagna stessa: dove è stata inventata la prima lasagna moderna?

Le lasagne nella storia culinaria italiana

Le lasagne hanno una storia molto più antica di quello che si possa pensare: la prima testimonianza storica risale infatti ad un trattato, il "De re coquinaria" (L’arte culinaria) redatto da un attento gastronomo romano, Marco Gavio Apicio (25 a.C. – 37 d.C.), che parla di “una lasagna formata da sottili sfoglie di pasta farcite con carne e cotte in forno”.

La lasagna appare in modo sempre più frequente nella letteratura durante il Medioevo, come in questa quartina del poeta Jacopone da Todi (Umbria):

"Chi guarda a maggioranza spesse
Volte si inganna.
Granello di pepe vince per virtù
La lasagna".

Un’altra testimonianza arriva invece dalla Toscana, dove anche Cecco Angiolieri cita la lasagna nei suoi scritti:

"chi de l’altrui farina fa lasagne,
il su’ castello non ha ne muro ne fosso"

Altra citazione ancora la troviamo negli testi di fra’ Salimbene da Parma che, nella sua Cronaca, parlando di un monaco scrive:

"Non vidi mai nessuno che come lui
si abbuffasse tanto volentieri
di lasagne con formaggio"

L’avvento della pasta all’uovo nel Centro-Nord Italia è fatto risalire all’epoca Rinascimentale, quando si trovano le prime testimonianze storiche emiliane. Ad esempio, in una ricetta, risalente al XIV secolo (contenuta nel Libro di cucina del secolo XIV, stampato nel 1863 da Francesco Zambrini), prevedeva l‘alternarsi di starti di pasta e di formaggio: è molto probabile che, dall’unione di questo piatto con le “ancestrali” lasagne romane che, più tardi in Emilia prendesse forma la ricetta moderna.

Ma le possiamo davvero definire lasagne, senza la salsa di pomodoro?

La passata di pomodoro è un “prodotto” storicamente e tipicamente campano, e infatti la prima ricetta accreditata delle lasagne al pomodoro è stata pubblicata a Napoli nel 1881, all’interno del Principe dei cuochi, o La vera cucina napoletana di Francesco Palma.

Al di là delle cronologie, la lasagna ha sempre svolto un ruolo rilevante nella storia culinaria napoletana – apparendo ad esempio nel Liber de coquina angioino (inizio XIV secolo), dove si parla di lasagne lessate e poi condite, strato dopo strato, con formaggio.

La lasagna compare nuovamente nel 1634 ne La lucerna de corteggiani di Giovanni Battista Crisci, in cui è presente la ricetta delle “lasagne di monache stufate, mozzarella e cacio”; la stessa ricetta la possiamo ritrovare come “Gattò di lasagnette alla Buonvicino” all’interno del "Trattato di Cucina Teorico Pratica di Ippolito Cavalcanti", duca di Buonvicino, pubblicato nel 1843 a Napoli.

Ultimo, ma non importanza, esempio di legame tra Napoli e la lasagna è il nomignolo di Francesco II di Borbone (ultimo re delle Due Sicilie, sul trono dal 22 maggio 1859 al 13 febbraio 1861), che era appellato “Re Lasagna” per la sua passione gastronomica verso questo piatto – molto in voga tra i cultori della gastronomia meridionali dell’epoca.

A chi attribuire quindi l’invenzione della lasagna moderna?

Molto probabilmente, dopo l’Unità d’Italia la lasagna napoletana ha “risalito” la penisola, diffodendosi lungo il territorio nazionale, come si può immaginare visto che il romagnolo Pellegrino Artusii, nel suo celebre Scienza in cucina del 1891, non cita la lasagna emiliana.

Con molta probabilità l’affermazione nella cucina nazionale della lasagna emiliana è opera della propaganda messa in campo dai ristoratori dell’Emilia-Romagna a partire dall’inizio del ‘900, che ne codificarono la ricetta “moderna” inclusiva della besciamella, e più “leggera” rispetto alla variante napoletana ricca di carne e con le uova sode.

Il trionfo della versione emiliana si ha con l’inserimento della “lasagna bolognese” nel Ghiottone errante di Paolo Monelli (1935), inserimento con cui viene sancita la ricetta ufficiale di questo piatto e la sua “brandizzazione” ante litteram.

La lasagna e il Made in Italy

La storia della lasagna continua, e continuerà attraverso le mani di tutti coloro la preparano, seguendo la ricetta “ufficiale” della lasagna alla bolognese, la ricetta napoletana o qualsiasi altra variazione sul tema. Quello che conta è che la lasagna, partita da due punti dell’Italia (Napoli e Bologna), è diventata uno dei simboli gastronomici dell’Italia nel mondo, soprattutto negli Stati Uniti.

Merito sicuramente della sua bontà, ma anche della capacità incredibile degli italiani di trasportare con sé le proprie tradizioni e trasformarle – quando vogliono – in punti di forza. La capacità di far apprezzare la cucina italiana nel mondo trasformandola in un vero e proprio brand ben prima che esistesse la pubblicità, il marketing e i social network, una capacità in cui i bolognesi hanno saputo eccellere, meritandosi la palma del riconoscimento internazionale della “lasagna bolognese” come la lasagna.

Ma chissà, un domani potremo trovarci davanti una versione pugliese, o chissà hawaiana – visto che hanno fatto la pizza hawaiana, è lecito aspettarsi anche la sua versione a lasagna, no?

Ma nel frattempo, godiamoci la nostra lasagna tradizionale di Carnevale, magari fatta da mammà, o seguendo la sua ricetta!

Di Roberta Raja disponibile a http://www.guyotmedia.it/2016/02/09/la-lasagna-storia-di-una-lotta-culinaria-tra-campania-ed-emilia-romagna/. Adattato e illustrato per essere pubblicato da Leopoldo Costa

"Si le foie gras est connus depuis les égyptiens, il disparus de la table vers la troisième siècle après JC avec les invasions barbare, sa consommation  n’avait réapparus sur les tables française qu’au commencement du 18e, avec la régence et les philosophe".

J. Favre nous dit dans dictionnaire de la fin du 19e, que les juifs de Metz qui avait seul gardé jalousement le secret du gavage et de transformation du foie gras ( surtout utilisé par les juifs  pour la graisse tiré du foie gras, le beurre et le saindoux leurs étant interdit par leur religion ), en firent une source de richesse. Mais le siècle de Rousseau et Voltaire devait soulever tous les voiles et expliquer tous le mystère, le moyen de produire le foie gras fut donc connu du public avec la révolution.

"Jusque la le foie gras était surtout travaillé en escalope,l’arrivée de Jean-Joseph Close ou Claus changeât cela, en voici l’histoire".

Le maréchal de Contades, commandant militaire d’Alsace, de 1782 à 1788, craignait de se soumettre au régime culinaire de cette province, emmena avec lui son cuisinier, lequel se nommait close et était Normand. Il avait conquis la haute société de l’époque dans la haute société de l’époque la réputation d’un habile opérateur.

Le cuisinier normand avait deviné ce que le foie gras pouvait devenir entre les mains d’artiste. Avec le secours des combinaisons classique empruntées à l’école française, il avait élevé, sous forme de pâté, à la dignité de mets souverain en affermissant et en concentrant la matière première, en l’entourant d’une farce de veau et de lard haché que recouvrait une fine cuirasse de pâte dorée et historié. Tel était le pâté de foie gras à son origine.

En 1788 le maréchal de Condates fut remplacé par le maréchal de Stainvillier. Close entra pendant quelques temps chez l’évêque de Strasbourg, mais ayant assez de la servitude, épousa la veuve d’un pâtissier français nommé Matie, s’établit à Strasbourg et, pour la première fois, on vit vendre ces merveilleux pâtés, qui jusque la avait fait les délice exclusif de Mgr L’évêque, de M. de Condates et de leurs convives.

La Révolution éclata et les parlements venaient de disparaître avec l’Ancien Régime; les monarques licenciaient  leurs cuisiniers quand, par hasard, celui du président du parlement de Bordeaux vint chercher fortune à Strasbourg.

Il était jeune, intelligent, ambitieux et se nommait Doyen.

Il débuta d’abord par les plus modestes confections, notamment par les chaussons de pommes, dans lesquels il excellait, puis il trouva les chaussons de veau hachés; mais la pâté de Close l’intéressait au plus haut point; il lui manquait quelques choses; il trouva.

Doyen lui ajouta la truffes parfumée du Périgord et l’œuvre fut complète.

Un évènement politique déplaça l’industrie du foie gras; comme l’invasion des barbare l’avait chassée de Rome, l’invasion des Allemands en Alsace a déplacé le centre de son action; elle suit les villes de lumières et semble n’aimer que les peuples les plus civilisés: Rome et Paris. En effet depuis 1870, les difficultés de traiter avec l’Alsace, surtout a cause des lourdes impositions qui frappent les terrines et les pâtés de foie gras, ont donné l’idée à plusieurs industriels parisiens de créer à Paris, au cœur même de la gastronomie et de la bonne chêre, des fabrique de foie gras de première qualité.

Tels sont les inventeurs méconnus à qui nous devons ce mets exquis.

(J. FAVRE  Dictionnaire universel de la cuisine.1895)


PÂTÉ DE FOIE GRAS.

Couper en gros morceaux 1 kilo de lard frais et autant-de porc frais, la noix de préférence; mettre le tout dans une casserole et faire roussir légèrement sans laisser prendre couleur. Couper 2 kilo de beau foie de veau et assaisonner d’épices, sel, poivre, une branche de thym et une feuille de laurier; après que le lard et le porc sont revenus, y ajouter le foie de veau et faire cuire ensemble pendant 20 minutes. Retirer le tout sur un plat et laisser refroidir; piler ensuite dans un mortier en ajoutant deux oeufs entiers crus et passer au tamis, et homogénéiser le tout.

Avec une partie de cette farce, piler les parures de foie gras et goûter si la farce est de bon goût.

Piquer avec des truffes fraîches les foie gras bien dénervés et assaisonner de sel, poivre, et ajouter un verre de Madère. Foncer le moule à pâté et faire un lit de farce, mais bien léger; mettre les foies gras et une autres couche de farce par dessus. Couvrir le pâté et faire cuire au four pendant 1 heures. Laisser refroidir une journée. Remplir alors les vides du  pâté avec de gelée ou moitié saindoux, moitié beurre fondu.

Pour faire les terrines, on procède de la même façon.

(CASIMIR MOISSON, chef de la Maison Dorée -Paris)

TERRINE DE FOIE GRAS.

Foie de veau, aussi blanc que possible .................................. grammes  500
Truffes épluchées ……………………………………………       grammes  250
Pannes de porc frais …………………………………………       grammes  500
Foie gras …………………………………………………….        nombre    1
Sel, épices

Couper par morceaux carrés la panne et le foie de veau; l’assaisoner de poivre blanc fraichement moulu, de sel, d’une feuille de lauriers, d’un fragment de thym et d’un clou de girofle. Faire fondre à petit feu dans un sautoir. Laisser refroidir, retirer le laurier et piler le tout dans un mortier et passer au tamis. Gouter la farce et, au point exqui, foncer une terrine de bardes de lards, sur lesquels on étend une couche de farce, puis de foie gras, assaisoné d’épices, de truffes et ainsi de suite, jusqu’à hauteur de la terrine; terminer par de la farce, sur laquelle on étend une barde de lard. Faire cuire au four, a température moyenne et cela pendant une heure.

Égoutter dans un bol la graisse, la faire refroidirpour en séparer le jus; lever la graisse, la faire fondre au bain-marie et la recouler dans une terrine. La couvercler et coller le papier sur l’ouverture.

On peut aussi dans la confection de la farce ajouter des foies de volaille, du jambon, même de la farce à quenelle de volaille. Ces differents modes sont toujours subordonnés aus resources du cuisinier, et dans le commerces au prix que la clientele veut bien lui accorder.

Il en est du pâté ou des terrines de foie gras comme des étoffes, il y en a pour toutes les bourses.

ADULTÉRATION.

Certain producteurs en foie gras de qualité secondaire les trempent pendant un jour dans de l’eau carminée. Cette eau a la proprieté de blanchir les foie gras et de leur donner l’aspect des foies de premieres qualité. Ces foies, quand il sont cuit frais, exsudent une graisse émulsive et mousseuse et se fondent en se racornissant. On doit sévèrement réprimer ces fournisseurs, en leur renvoyant leurs produits.

(J.FAVRE.)

Disponible dans  https://lacuisinedu19siecle.wordpress.com/2011/11/01/histoire-de-la-terrine-ou-du-pate-de-foie-gras/. Adapté et illustré à être affichés dans ce site par Leopoldo Costa

Dove troveremo cibo a sufficienza per nove miliardi di persone?

Non dobbiamo necessariamente scegliere tra agricoltura industriale e piccole fattorie biologiche. Esiste una terza via.

Cinque azioni per nutrire il mondo.

Quando pensiamo alle minacce per l’ambiente visualizziamo automobili e ciminiere, non ciò che mangeremo per cena. Ma il nostro bisogno di cibo è un grave pericolo per il pianeta.

L’agricoltura è tra i principali responsabili del riscaldamento globale, perché emette più gas serra di tutti i camion, le automobili, i treni e gli aerei messi insieme. I gas in questione sono soprattutto il metano prodotto dagli allevamenti intensivi e dalle risaie, il protossido di azoto dei campi fertilizzati e l’anidride carbonica che deriva dal disboscamento delle foreste pluviali per liberare terreni da coltivare o adibire a pascolo. L’agricoltura è la maggiore fonte di consumo e inquinamento dell’acqua, visto che il defusso di fertilizzanti e letame devasta i fragili equilibri di laghi, fumi ed ecosistemi costieri. L’agricoltura accelera anche la perdita della biodiversità. Disboscando i terreni per far posto alle coltivazioni abbiamo cancellato habitat importanti, accelerando l’estinzione della fora e della fauna selvatica.

L’agricoltura pone sfde ambientali enormi, rese ancora più pressanti dal crescente bisogno di cibo in tutto il mondo. Intorno alla metà di questo secolo, probabilmente, la Terra conterà oltre nove miliardi di abitanti e dunque ci saranno due miliardi di bocche in più da sfamare. Ma la crescita demografica non è l’unica ragione per cui avremo bisogno di più cibo. La difusione del benessere nel mondo, soprattutto in Cina e in India, fa aumentare la domanda di carne, uova e latticini e, di conseguenza, la necessità di coltivare granturco e soia per nutrire un numero sempre maggiore di bovini, polli e maiali. Se la tendenza non dovesse cambiare, il duplice problema della crescita demografica e della dieta più ricca renderà necessario raddoppiare la quantità dei nostri raccolti entro il 2050.


Purtroppo il dibattito sulla sfda alimentare si è arenato su posizioni contrastanti che oppongono l’agricoltura convenzionale e il commercio mondiale ai sistemi alimentari locali e alle piccole fattorie biologiche. I sostenitori dell’agricoltura convenzionale afermano che la moderna meccanizzazione, l’irrigazione, i fertilizzanti e il miglioramento genetico possono far crescere la resa fino a soddisfare la domanda. E hanno ragione. Chi difende agricoltura biologica e consumo a chilometro zero ribatte che i piccoli coltivatori di tutto il mondo potrebbero incrementare i raccolti - e uscire dallo stato di povertà - adottando tecniche che migliorino la produttività senza usare fertilizzanti e pesticidi. Hanno ragione anche loro. Il punto è che non si deve necessariamente scegliere una delle due posizioni. Ecco cinque azioni che potrebbero risolvere il problema del cibo nel mondo.

UNO. Congelare l’impronta ambientale dell’agricoltura

Nel corso della storia tutte le volte che abbiamo avuto bisogno di produrre più cibo ci siamo limitati a eliminare foreste e ad arare terreni erbosi per avere più campi da coltivare. E così abbiamo disboscato un’area delle dimensioni dell’America del Sud. Per allevare il bestiame sfruttiamo uno spazio ancora più grande, esteso più o meno come l’Africa. L’impatto ambientale dell’agricoltura ha provocato la perdita di interi ecosistemi, come le praterie dell’America del Nord e la foresta atlantica del Brasile. E la deforestazione prosegue a ritmi incessanti. Non possiamo più permetterci di incrementare la produzione di cibo aumentando la superficie coltivabile. Sacrificare le foreste tropicali è uno dei costi ambientali più pesanti che imponiamo al pianeta, e raramente ne beneficiano gli 850 milioni di persone che sofrono la fame.

DUE.  Rendere più produttivi i terreni che coltiviamo

A partire dagli anni Sessanta del Novecento la rivoluzione verde ha incrementato la resa dei terreni in Asia e in America Latina grazie all’impiego di varietà vegetali migliori, fertilizzanti, irrigazione e macchinari. Ma i costi ambientali sono stati ingenti. Oggi il mondo può spostare l’attenzione sulle terre meno produttive - soprattutto in Africa, in America Latina e in Europa Orientale - dove si registrano gap di rendimento tra i livelli reali di produzione e quelli ottenibili migliorando le pratiche agricole. Utilizzando l’alta tecnologia, i sistemi agricoli di precisione, ma anche i metodi presi in prestito dalla coltivazione biologica potremmo aumentare drasticamente le rese dei terreni di quelle regioni.



TRE.  Usare le risorse in maniera più eficiente

L’agricoltura commerciale ha compiuto enormi progressi per giungere a un’applicazione mirata di fertilizzanti e pesticidi, attraverso l’impiego di trattori computerizzati dotati di sensori avanzati e Gps. Molti coltivatori usano miscele personalizzate di fertilizzanti, tarate sulle condizioni specifiche del loro suolo, che riducono al minimo il defusso delle sostanze chimiche nei vicini corsi d’acqua.

Anche l’agricoltura biologica può arrivare a una notevole riduzione del consumo di acqua e agenti chimici inserendo colture di copertura, pacciame e compostaggio per migliorare la qualità del suolo, risparmiare risorse idriche e produrre nutrienti. Oggi molti coltivatori sono più attenti al problema dell’acqua e hanno sostituito i sistemi di irrigazione ineficienti con metodi più precisi, come l’irrigazione a goccia. I progressi registrati nell’agricoltura sia convenzionale che biologica ci consentono di sfruttare con più eficienza le risorse idriche e le sostanze nutritive, una strategia sintetizzata nell’espressione more crop per drop (più raccolto per ciascuna goccia).

QUATTRO.  Cambiare dieta

Sarebbe molto più facile nutrire nove miliardi di persone se una quota più alta degli alimenti che coltiviamo finisse efettivamente nella pancia della gente. Oggi solo il 55 per cento delle calorie dei cibi coltivati nutre direttamente le persone; il resto alimenta il bestiame (circa il 36 per cento) o viene trasformato in biocarburanti e prodotti industriali (circa il nove per cento). Benché molti di noi consumino carne, latticini e uova di animali cresciuti in allevamenti intensivi, solo una frazione delle calorie presenti nei cibi ingeriti dal bestiame finisce nella carne e nel latte che arrivano sulla nostra tavola. Per 100 calorie di cereali dati al bestiame, si ottengono solo 40 calorie di latte, 22 di uova, 12 di pollo, 10 di maiale, 3 di manzo. Se trovassimo modi più eficienti per allevare il bestiame e consumassimo meno carne - anche solo passando dai manzi allevati con cereali a polli, maiali e bovini allevati a pascolo - nel mondo ci sarebbe molto più cibo. Poiché non è probabile che nel prossimo futuro gli abitanti dei paesi in via di sviluppo, che godono di una prosperità recente, mangino meno carne, sarà meglio focalizzare l’attenzione sui paesi che hanno già diete ricche di proteine animali. Anche ridurre l’uso di sostanze alimentari per la produzione di biocarburanti potrebbe contribuire ad accrescere la disponibilità di cibo nel mondo.

CINQUE.  Ridurre gli sprechi

Si calcola che il 25 per cento delle calorie da cibo e fino al 50 per cento del peso totale del cibo vadano perduti o sprecati prima di essere consumati. Nei paesi ricchi il cibo viene sprecato nelle case private, nei ristoranti e nei supermercati. Nei paesi poveri spesso i prodotti commestibili si perdono nel passaggio dal coltivatore al mercato perché non vengono conservati né trasportati in modo adeguato. I consumatori dei paesi industrializzati potrebbero contribuire alla causa adottando accorgimenti semplici, come servire porzioni più piccole, recuperare gli avanzi e incoraggiare bar, ristoranti e supermercati a prendere misure per la riduzione degli sprechi. Fra tutte le possibilità per incrementare la disponibilità di cibo, afrontare in modo deciso il problema degli sprechi sarebbe
una delle misure più eficaci.

Seguendo queste strategie si potrebbero raddoppiare le scorte alimentari, riducendo sensibilmente l’impatto ambientale dell’agricoltura in tutto il mondo. Ma non sarà facile. Per adottare queste soluzioni sarà necessario cambiare mentalità. Nel corso della storia abbiamo obbedito in modo anche troppo zelante all’imperativo di aumentare la superficie coltivabile, incrementare i raccolti e usare più risorse. Adesso, però, dobbiamo arrivare a un equilibrio tra la necessità di produrre più cibo e il dovere di tutelare il pianeta per le generazioni future.

Oggi ci troviamo in un momento cruciale, perché dobbiamo afrontare sfde senza precedenti per la sicurezza alimentare e la tutela dell’ambiente. La buona notizia è che sappiamo che cosa fare, dobbiamo semplicemente scoprire come farlo. Per afrontare il problema del cibo nel mondo dobbiamo diventare più consapevoli di ciò che mettiamo nei nostri piatti. Dobbiamo rifettere sulle connessioni tra il nostro cibo e i contadini che lo coltivano, i terreni in cui cresce, le risorse idriche e il clima. Le scelte che compiamo quando spingiamo il carrello tra i corridoi di un supermercato hanno un peso sul nostro futuro.

Di Jonathan Foley, estratto "National Geographic Italia", maggio 2014, vol.33 n.5, pp.2-29.  Adattato e illustrato per essere pubblicato da Leopoldo Costa

(Jonathan Foley dirige l’Institute on the Environment dell’Università del Minnesota USA).

Some of the most arresting images of the Christian New Testament have to do with food. Jesus of Nazareth throughout his ministry sought to use images and objects that were readily comprehensible to his audience to express his teachings. His miracles reflect this: the first was the transformation of water into wine, his most famous the multiplication of loaves and fishes, and his most enduring, the ritual of breaking bread with his disciples at the Passover meal of Holy Thursday. And despite his famous phrase borrowed from a psalm, “Man does not live by bread alone,” bread in fact dominated the diet of most of Christ’s audience in common with that of most inhabitants of the first-century Roman Empire. Thus, as Christianity was a Mediterranean religion, it is not surprising that the dietary expectations of Mediterranean peoples were sacralized in Christian liturgy. Christianity’s emphasis on bread, wine, and to a lesser extent olive oil, was to have a profound effect on the dietary and agricultural history of the vast non-Mediterranean territories of western Europe.

The Mediterranean as a region is not blessed with either great soil fertility or regular and ample rainfall. Arable land is widely scattered and abundant enough in only a few places, such as Sicily and North Africa, for large-scale grain cultivation during Roman and early Christian times. Rain is also often scarce and scattered, falling predominantly in winter months, leaving summers more or less arid.With an almost universal shortage of pasturage, significant stock-raising ventures were out of the question. Necessity dictated that the prototypical “Mediterranean diet” consisted almost exclusively of vegetable products, such as bread and other grain dishes, wine, and olive oil, supplemented with cheese, vegetables, and a scant quantity of meat. Only for a desert people like the ancient Hebrews could Mediterranean Palestine seem like a land of “milk and honey”; by modern standards the preindustrial Mediterranean was arid and famine-ridden.

Over time a strategy developed to cope with the inherent poverty of Mediterranean agriculture and its attendant crop failures and famines. The Pax Romana, the extensive free trade zone within Roman boundaries, both permitted the spread of the Mediterranean diet to the four quarters of the empire and remedied local shortages and inability to raise certain staple crops.The keys were crop specialization and shipping services: simply put, those regions endowed with natural advantages for the raising of a particular crop specialized in it and shipped the surplus in return for surpluses from other regions of specialized agriculture. Thus North Africa and Sicily raised considerable quantities of wheat on large farms worked by slave labor; by the first century A.D., North Africa alone was exporting 250,000 to 400,000 tons of grain per year to Rome. Other regions, such as Greece and Spain, specialized in viticulture and olive oil production, while Italy was known for its cheese among other products. In this way, as one historian has put it, a common dietary language was shaped, more widespread and persistent than even the Latin tongue spoken by the empire’s rulers.

Common to all these staple foods is the need for a degree of processing – they are all to a certain extent manufactured. Not only is the production of wheat (the most popular bread grain of the Roman world), grapes, and olives time-consuming and expensive, but also the harvest of the crop is only the first step in the sometimes lengthy process of preparing it for the table. To speak only of wheat for the moment: after harvest it must be threshed to separate the edible wheat berries from the inedible chaff, then ground into flour, then mixed with water and some kind of wild yeast preparation, kneaded to develop a structure, allowed to rise, and lastly baked in a hot oven.The return for such labors is the capacity to be stored for a considerable period (properly kept, wheat berries remain edible for years) as well as a nutritious, portable, and slow-spoiling product – bread. No wonder then that daily bread was a given, and that the daily dietary question was what to have with bread, cum panis, the etymological root of the word “company” and its derivatives, which acquired great social and business significance over time.

What went with bread was more varied than suggested by Juvenal’s jibe directed at ordinary Romans that they lived on “bread and circuses.” The Roman diet even for the humble was never made up exclusively of cereal products. Garden crops such as onions, garlic, and green vegetables were always assumed to accompany bread as part of any meal.

Rations of meat were also commonly distributed by the emperor as part of the public dole, with pork being customary. Olive oil came in myriad varieties and was used for many purposes from culinary to cosmetic; wine was equally ubiquitous and diverse in kind and quality. Of course, for the rich of the Roman Empire, the choice of rare delicacies was endless. In the admittedly caricatured depiction of one Roman banquet, Trimalchio’s feast found in Petronius’ Satyricon, the courses numbered at least eight and ranged from simple black and green olives to roasted wild boar stuffed with live birds that were released when the roast was carved. Such variety and extravagant display of foodstuffs would only be equaled by the Burgundian dukes of the fifteenth century.

Even though the Roman Empire remained Mediterranean-centered throughout its history, its expansion under the first emperors had pushed its borders into a vast hinterland north, west, and east of the Mediterranean basin, from Britain to the Rhine and Danube river valleys.These were the vaguely conceived lands of “over there” across the Alps, whose peoples were barbarian both in speech and dietary habits, seemingly remote from the cultural norms of the empire. The names given these barbarians were as vague and imprecise as the Romans’ geographical understanding of their homeland. Most were simply called Germani, Germans, and one of their chief identifying qualities was a preference for animal products – meat, both domestically raised and wild, milk and cheese, and beer, with butter and lard for cooking fats. To the mixed wonder and repugnance of Romans, this barbarian diet treated grain products from rye, wheat, and barley as distinctly second-class and in no way the principal object of food production. Indeed, much of the German grain crop must have been drunk in the form of ale, a product that the Roman historian Tacitus described as “a liquid distilled from barley and wheat, after fermentation has given it a certain resemblance to wine.”

From the second through fifth centuries of our era, the formerly distinct categories of “Roman” and “German” dissolved across increasingly broad areas of the western Roman Empire through intermarriage, settlement, and a mixture of Germanic conquest and Roman collapse. Nowhere was this merging of cultures more apparent than in diet: not only had the formerly rude barbarians acquired a taste for the bread and wine of Mediterranean provenance, but Romans also began to extol the strengthening qualities of meat and other animal products. The most important result of this shift in tastes, however, was in the lands of “over there,” where the predilections and desires of the ruling class were translated into a new agrarian system whose formation would occupy the next several centuries and have consequences stretching across the next half-millennium.

Following the collapse of the western empire, the barbarian heirs of Rome still wished to retain the benefits of that civilization for themselves and their descendants; but numerous obstacles lay in their path. First among them was the geographical and climatological reality of northern Europe, which was a land of heavier soil, more constant rainfall, and ubiquitous forest – difficult conditions for large-scale wheat production. Second was a severe shortage of agricultural labor; where the Romans relied on slave gangs to farm the specialized crops of their agrarian system, German rulers could dominate only small settlements of peasants as their work force. Third was the absence of widespread, long-distance transport, due not only to political instability but also to the very different geography of the European north, where rivers, rather than a large inland sea, provided the transportation nexus.

Because specialization and transportation were out of the question, Germanic rulers and their peasantry forged a new economic relationship governed by the twin forces of compulsion and cooperation. Medieval peasants were unfree (their very name, servi, was derived from the Latin word for slave), but the essence of the serf-lord relationship was not the application of despotic force; rather, it was a remarkable meshing of interests. For the lord, the interest was provision of the elements of the “civilized” diet in sufficient quantities; for the peasant, it was to secure the survival of himself and his family through unfettered use of the land. Both sides came to agree on the purpose to which the productive potential of the land should be put: the realization of a diet based on bread.

Even though the goal and the social means to that goal were remarkably consistent across Europe, the reality of social and economic organization varied considerably. Village settlements were of many types depending on their location; the relationship of lord and peasant might vary in innumerable ways according to the evolution of custom; and the crop types raised also varied. The weather conditions of a region often determined that rye, spelt, and oats replaced wheat as the primary cereal crop, although wheat bread – the whiter the better – never ceased to be the ideal product of agriculture. Through all the bewildering diversity and local particularity, there remained continuous pressure for more and better bread grains, a pressure exerted both by the lords and, after ca. 750, by a growing population in the peasant community.

By Edwin S. Hunt & James M. Murray in "A History of Business in Medieval Europe, 1200-1500", Cambridge University Press, UK, 1999, excerpts pp. 12-15.Adapted and illustrated to be posted by Leopoldo Costa.

Conta-nos uma lenda – chamada da primeira água – que Jacy (Lua) e Iassytatassú (Estrela d’Alva), combinaram um dia visitar Ibiapité (Centro da Terra).

Em uma madrugada deixaram Ibacapuranga (Céu Bonito) e desceram para a terra. Descansaram no enorme disco da Iupê-jaçanã (Vitória-Régia) e se puseram a caminho para o centro da terra. Quando as duas se preparavam para descer o Ibibira (abismo), Caninana Tyba mordeu a alva face de Jacy que, sentindo a dor, derramou copiosas lágrimas amargas sobre uma extensa plantação de mandioca.

Depois disso, a face de Jacy nunca mais foi a mesma pois as mordidas da caninana, marcaram-na para sempre. Das lágrimas de Jacy surgiu o tycupy (tucupi). O tucupi é ácido cianidrico.

Todavia, as nossas avoengas descobriram que poderiam vencer esse veneno deixando-o exposto ao sol por três ou quatro dias ou, então, depois de “descansado” (tempo em que a tapioca sedimenta-se no fundo do vasilhame), é fervido, ficando o tucupi pronto para o consumo humano. Dessa massa (a tapioca) e da pimenta murupi surgiu a primeira iguaria exótica, nascida da sapiência das nossas avós amerabas.

Os autóctones desconheciam o sal. E o arubé, apesar de ardente, era o que dava um gosto às comidas ensossas, além do que a sua causticidade as tornava mais saborosas.

De exotismo em exotismo, surgiu a tiquara, que chegou até nós como o nome de chibé. A tiquara, ou chibé, nada mais é que a farinha de mandioca, com a água fresca dos igarapés, bebida em uma cuia pitinga.

Houve na história do Pará um instante onde o humílimo chibé foi reconhecido como alimento. Ia acesa a Revolução Paraense, infamantemente conhecida por Cabanagem. As tropas legais reclamavam por alimentos.

O marechal Manuel Jorge, irado com os protestos, perguntou aos reclamantes:

- E os sediciosos o que é que comem?

Os perguntados responderam:

- Chibé!...

- Então, comam-no também, respondeu o marechal mal humorado.

OS ÍNDIOS FOGEM

Quando da descoberta do Brasil viviam na faixa larga da mata atlântica vinte e cinco milhões de ameríndios. A matança foi impiedosa e os autóctones tornaram-se nômades. Guiacurú, Temimino, Carijó, Aymoré, Tamoio puseram-se a andar, perseguidos implacavelmente pelo civilizado.

Aí as nossas avoengas mostraram para o que vieram. Responsáveis pela manutenção dos alimentos para os seus filhos, traziam em grandes cabaças o tucupi, o jambu, a carne de caça moqueada ou peixe, prática que elas haviam descoberto muito antes.

Era deliciosa a carne de anta moqueada com o tucupi ou então a folha da maniva, mascada pelas mulheres da taba em tempos de paz. Mascavam-na à beira de um igarapé corrente, para que a água lavasse a maniva desse modo triturada.

Se a carne moqueada no tucupi conservava-se por oito dias, a maniva cozida com carne de caça durava quinze dias.

Esse uso e costume deu origem a dois pratos exóticos da Amazônia – o pato no tucupi e a maniçoba – e ainda uma outra bebida, agora já com requintes de sabedoria das mulheres amazônidas, o tacacá.

Os últimos bolsões dos amerindios foi o Sul da Bahia e eles encetaram a grande marcha para o vale amazônico na metade do Século XVI. Nessa caminhada foram distribando-se. Belém ainda não havia sido fundada.

Postagem de IndiaBranca publicado e disponível em http://caminhosdavida-lilica.blogspot.com.br/2011/08/origem-da-comida-exotica-pato-no-tucupi.html. Adaptado e ilustrado para ser postado por Leopoldo Costa.

O acarajé é uma especialidade gastronômica da culinária afro-brasileira feita de massa de feijão-fradinho, cebola e sal, frita em azeite de dendê. O acarajé pode ser servido com pimenta, camarão seco, vatapá e caruru (todos estes, também pratos típicos da culinária da África e cozinha da Bahia).

O acarajé dos Iorubás da África ocidental (Togo, Benim, Nigéria, Camarões), que deu origem à iguaria brasileira, é semelhante ao falafel árabe inventado no Oriente Médio. Os árabes levaram essa iguaria para a África em diversas incursões entre os séculos VII e XIX. As favas secas e grão de bico do falafel foram alternados pelo feijão-fradinho na África.

Manuel Querino, em "A arte culinária na Bahia", de 1916, conta, na primeira descrição etnográfica do acarajé, que "no início, o feijão-fradinho era ralado na pedra, de 50 centímetros de comprimento por 23 de largura, tendo cerca de 10 centímetros de altura. A face plana, em vez de lisa, era ligeiramente picada por canteiro, de modo a torná-la porosa ou crespa. Um rolo de forma cilíndrica, impelido para frente e para trás, sobre a pedra, na atitude de quem mói, triturava facilmente o milho, o feijão, o arroz".

Acarajé de orixá

O acarajé, vulgo Samara, é uma comida ritual da orixá Iansã. Na África, na língua iorubá, é chamado de àkàrà, que significa "bola de fogo", enquanto que je possui o significado de "comer". No Brasil, foram reunidas as duas palavras numa só, acara-je, ou seja, "comer bola de fogo". "Acará" também é o nome de um pedaço de algodão embebido em azeite que era colocado em chamas e engolido pelos filhos de santo para estes provarem que estavam em transe, nos rituais de candomblé (daí, a expressão "bola de fogo").

O acarajé, o principal atrativo no tabuleiro, é um bolinho característico do candomblé. Sua origem é explicada por um mito sobre a relação de Xangô com suas esposas,Oxum e Iansã. O bolinho se tornou, assim, uma oferenda a esses orixás. Mesmo ao ser vendido num contexto profano, o acarajé ainda é considerado pelas baianas como uma comida sagrada. Por isso, a sua receita, embora não seja secreta, não pode ser modificada e deve ser preparada apenas pelos filhos de santo.

O acarajé é feito com feijão-fradinho, que deve ser quebrado em um moinho em pedaços grandes e colocado de molho na água para soltar a casca. Após retirar toda a casca, passar novamente no moinho, desta vez deverá ficar uma massa bem fina. A essa massa acrescenta-se cebola ralada e um pouco de sal.

O segredo para o acarajé ficar macio é o tempo que se bate a massa. Quando a massa está no ponto, fica com a aparência de espuma. Para fritar, use uma panela funda com bastante azeite de dendê.

Normalmente, usam-se duas colheres para fritar, uma colher para pegar a massa e uma colher de pau para moldar os bolinhos. O azeite deve estar bem quente antes de colocar o primeiro acarajé para fritar.

Esse primeiro acarajé sempre é oferecido a Exu pela primazia que este tem no candomblé. Os seguintes são fritos normalmente e ofertados aos orixás para os quais estão sendo feitos.

O acará oferecido ao orixá Iansã diante do seu Igba orixá é feito num tamanho de um prato de sobremesa na forma arredondada e ornado com nove ou sete camarões defumados, confirmando sua ligação com os odus odi e ossá no jogo do merindilogun (cercado de nove pequenos acarás, simbolizando mensan orum, nove planetas).

O acará de Xangô tem uma forma oval imitando o cágado, que é seu animal preferido, e cercado com seis ou doze pequenos acarás de igual formato, confirmando sua ligação com os odus Obará e êjilaxeborá.


Acarajé da Bahia

O acarajé também é um prato típico da culinária baiana e um dos principais produtos vendidos no "tabuleiro da baiana" (nome dado ao recipiente usado pela baiana do acarajé para expor os alimentos), que são mais carregados no tempero e mais saborosos, diferentes de quando feitos para o orixá.

A forma de preparo do acarajé da baiana é praticamente a mesma em relação ao acarajé de orixá:a diferença está no modo de ser servido. Ele pode ser cortado ao meio e recheado com vatapá, caruru, camarão refogado e pimenta.

O acarajé tem similaridade com o abará, diferindo apenas na maneira de cozer. O acarajé é frito, ao passo que o abará é cozido no vapor.

Os ingredientes do acarajé são: meio quilograma de feijão-fradinho descascado e moído; 150 gramas de cebola ralada; uma colher de sobremesa de sal ou a gosto; e um litro de azeite de dendê para fritar. O recheio de camarão é feito com 2/3 xícara de azeite de dendê, 3 cebolas picadas, alho a gosto, 700 gramas de camarão defumado sem casca refogados por 10 a 15 minutos. É possível acrescentar caruru, vatapá e pasta de pimenta malagueta refogada no dendê.

Disponível em https://pt.wikipedia.org/wiki/Acaraj%C3%A9. Adaptado e ilustrado para ser postado por Leopoldo Costa.

Many animals call to each other with sounds that stand for “Danger!”, “Food!”, or “Here!”, but only humans can think conceptually – can talk, for example, about the nature of food or danger. For this, language had to evolve, and with it came story-telling, information-sharing, and our first attempts at understanding the world.

In evolutionary terms, the ability to speak emerged as a result of the hominin larynx lowering in the throat, enabling our ancestors to produce more diverse sounds than those of any other primate. The biological price of this was high, as an elevated larynx had enabled us to breathe and swallow simultaneously; now, we ran the risk of choking when we ate.

At the same time, the hyoid bone, which connects the larynx to the root of the tongue, also changed position in a way that helped facilitate vocalization. Judging from the fossil record, this happened between 700,000 and 600,000 years ago, as Neanderthals and probably our common ancestor both had a “modern” hyoid bone. Our exceptional breath control, essential when speaking, also seems to date from this time.

Casts of fossil skulls show that Neanderthals had structures in the brain that were equivalent to our own “Broca’s area”. This area is vital to speaking and understanding language, and to perceiving meaningful gestures. Indeed, gestures may have been key: studies show that chimpanzees repeatedly use hand signs when vocalizing, indicating that early language may not have been purely vocal. However, the functions performed by different parts of the brain can change over time, so even if other hominins had brain structures similar to ours, they may not have been used for language.

SYMBOLS AS EVIDENCE

The artefacts left by our ancestors are better forms of evidence. Among the most striking are those created by early Homo sapiens in South Africa between 100,000 and 50,000 years ago. At Blombos Cave, for example, red ochre blocks were shaped and carefully covered with delicate cross-hatch designs. Even more impressive are the ostrich eggshells found at Diepkloof Cave, also in South Africa. These were engraved with complex geometric patterns that show changes over time, hinting at shifts in meaning. Very much older than these, however, is a seashell from Trinil, Indonesia, which bears the incised zig-zag markings of a Homo erectus who lived some 540,000–430,000 years ago. It reveals that the common ancestor of several hominins used graphic symbols, and so had probably developed language – a fact that is supported by anatomical evidence.

Another type of symbolic evidence comes from personal ornaments, which often communicate social meanings – for instance,about personal status or group affiliation – which can only be established through language. For example, the first use of shell beads occurs at the same time as engravings become more common; beads from Skhul Cave in Israel date from 135,000–100,000 years ago, while those from Grotte des Pigeons in Morocco date from 80,000 years ago. At Blombos Cave, too, groups of beads were excavated from layers dating from around 80,000 years ago, many showing areas of polish that suggest they were strung together, possibly as necklaces. The markings also show that the arrangement of the beads changed over time, suggesting not only that they were symbolic, but that their meanings evolved, like those of the Diepkloof eggshells.

FROM SYMBOLS TO STORIES

Taken together, the evidence shows that Homo sapiens had evolved symbolic culture and language by 70,000 years ago – and that Neanderthals did this independently. However, the evidence for language being used in narrative, story-telling senses comes much later, after 45,000 years ago. For example, the famous Lion-man ivory statue from Hohlenstein-Stadel, Germany was carved around 40,000 years ago. It merges a lion’s head with a human body, indicating both an imaginative leap by the artist, and a narrative to give it meaning.

The most striking examples of Palaeolithic narrative come from later European cave art. One scene painted at Lascaux, France, around 17,000 years ago, features a wounded bison charging a male figure who lies above some fallen spears and a line topped by a bird. There are many interpretations of the scene, but all of them agree that the man, the bison, and the bird only make sense in a story-telling context. This and other examples indicate that rich oral traditions, full of meaning and symbolism, were part of Palaeolithic life, and likely had been for many thousands of years. They were our first attempts at fathoming the world around us – of giving it a narrative shape.

COLLECTIVE LEARNING

The emergence of language set Homo sapiens apart from other species: with language came the ability to share and store information across generations. This ensured that new generations could know more than the last, and so be more effective in the world.

The practice of sharing and storing information is called “collective learning”. At its simplest, this means that we only need invent the wheel once, for that knowledge can then be stored and shared publicly. The alternative is to imagine us as a group of networked computers. Without the network – without connectivity – how could human history unfold?

SURVIVING COOPERATIVELY 

Humans appear to be predisposed to work together to a far greater degree than other animals. The roots of this tendency can be seen in primates, the majority of which live in social groups, with strong kin relationships and friendships. However, humans live in unusually diverse societies, and our high level of cooperation is a unifying characteristic.

Hunter-gatherer groups, for example, typically number between 25 and 50 individuals, but they are usually part of extended social networks, consisting of blood relations and other types of kinship. Within and between these groups, food, labour, and childcare are shared – as is vital information about water, predators, and the availability of food.

The evolution of this ability to cooperate can be seen in the archaeological record. Stone tools began to be transported increasingly long distances around 200,000 years ago, pointing to expanding social networks. By then, multi-part tools, such as spears, were being made, probably collaboratively. More spectacular examples of these, such as atlatls and bows, came later, and after 40,000 years ago many of these were lavishly ornamented. The Mas d’Azil atlatl, for example, is one of five almost identical objects found at different sites in the Pyrenees. Each is carved into the shape of an ibex, demonstrating a common artistic tradition, and probably some level of apprenticeship. Moreover, an atlatl, like a bow, is a “tool for using a tool” – in this case a tool for propelling spears – which is of a whole new order of complexity. It shows that by 17,000 years ago we were adapting ourselves ever more cleverly to our environment – alone of all creatures through cultural rather than genetic change. Thanks to collective learning, human history could begin.

By Rebecca Wragg-Sykes in "DK Big History", editor Kaiya Shang, MacQuarie University Big Story,DK Penguin Random House, London, 2016, excerpts pp. 202-205. Adapted and illustrated to be posted by Leopoldo Costa

Des traces de raisins pétrifiés ont été retrouvées dans des amphores près de la ville de Philippes, en Macédoine grecque. C’est le doyen des vins.

Des chercheurs de l’université Aristote-de- Thessalonique et de l’École normale supérieure ont retrouvé des traces de vin dans des amphores datant de 4 300 ans avant notre ère à Dikili Tash près de la cité de Philippes, en Grèce du nord. Des marqueurs de fermentation, c’est-à-dire des acides pyruvique et succinique, ont ainsi fait parler les raisins pétrifiés retrouvés dans les amphores.

Cette découverte est tout sauf anecdotique. Avec 6 300 ans au compteur, le vin découvert en Grèce devient le plus vieux attesté dans cette région du monde (le précédent record était détenu par un vin arménien vieux de 6 000 ans), mais cette découverte ne fait pas pour autant de la Grèce le berceau de la viticulture. « Il apparaît de plus en plus clairement qu’il n’y a pas eu un seul foyer de domestication de la vigne sauvage, mais plusieurs en différents endroits du Caucase aux Ve et VIe millénaires avant notre ère », révèle Thibaut Boulay, maître de conférences en histoire grecque à l’université de Tours.

Les raisins retrouvés dans les jarres grecques provenaient-ils de vignes en cours de domestication ou de vignes sauvages ? Et à quoi pouvait ressembler le vénérable vin retrouvé près de Philippes? Difficile à dire dans l’état actuel de nos connaissances. Ce que l’on sait c’est que dans les périodes plus récentes, les Grecs de l’Antiquité produisaient des vins blancs très sucrés, moelleux, qui vieillissaient bien car ils contenaient très peu d’acide malique, un peu comme les xérès d’aujourd’hui. « Comme ils n’étaient pas soufrés, ils brunissaient, c’est pourquoi dans les textes antiques on parle de vins rouges, voire noirs, alors qu’en fait il s’agit de vins blancs qui ont bruni », précise Thibaut Boulay.

Les Grecs sont considérés comme les inventeurs de l’oenologie, et, selon Pline l’Ancien, avaient élevé l’élaboration du vin au rang de véritable art. Les Hellènes ont aussi exporté la viticulture sur toutes les rives de la Méditerranée du côté européen, notamment en France avec leur colonie de Phocée, notre Marseille.

Par Fabien Humbert dans "La Revue du Vin de France",novembre 2016, n.606. Adapté et illustré pour être posté par Leopoldo Costa.

En Europe, entre le XIVe et le XVIIIe siècle, plus de trente mille femmes ont été exécutées pour sorcellerie, souvent au terme de procès délirants.

On l’appelait la Fillette, mais son prénom était Maria... Le 16 juillet 1630, cette enfant de 10 ans est condamnée à mort pour sorcellerie et périt dans les ammes du bûcher. Comme sa mère et sa soeur, Maria est l’une des quarante-trois victimes de la chasse aux sorcières dont a fait l’objet la ville de Bergheim (Haut-Rhin) de 1582 à 1683. Aujourd’hui, un petit musée local retrace l’histoire de ces infortunées.

On y fait la connaissance de la vieille Margareth Mewel, la première à être condamnée en 1582, de Véronica Ziegler, une mère de sept enfants exécutée le 9 août 1586, de Catherine Schmidt, morte un 8 mai (l’année manque)... On est loin, ici, des déguisements d’Halloween ou des gentilles sorcières des séries télévisées américaines, de "Ma Sorcière Bien-Aimée à Charmed". Ce musée glaçant nous rappelle que l’on a vraiment tué des dizaines de milliers de sorcières, entre le XV e et le XVIe siècle, dans une bonne partie de l’Europe.

Lors des siècles précédents, nul n’aurait pu prédire cette vague de terreur qui allait déferler sur le continent... Certes, tout au long du Moyen Âge est déjà présente la figure de la sorcière, une femme dotée de pouvoirs occultes, héritage de récits mythologiques ou païens. Mais elle n’inquiète ni la population ni l’Église. Ainsi, en 906, le canon Episcopi, un ensemble de directives envoyées aux évêques, condamne les hommes et les femmes qui se mêlent de sorcellerie, mais il préconise simplement de les traiter par le mépris et de les mettre au ban de la communauté. À cette époque d’ailleurs, pour se divertir, les seigneurs ne se privent pas de recevoir des magiciens à leur cour tandis que, dans les campagnes, les guérisseuses soignent les animaux à l’aide de formules mystérieuses et de tisanes. On les consulte et on les craint parfois, mais il ne viendrait à l’esprit de personne de les brûler.

Le point de départ : un pape, Jean XXII, aurait été victime d’une tentative d’envoûtement

L’Église a bien d’autres préoccupations. Elle veut éliminer les hérésies (les Cathares, les Vaudois, par exemple) qui menacent son institution dans une Europe mal christianisée. En 1269-1271, cependant, le théologien Thomas d’Aquin lie pour la première fois la pratique de la sorcellerie au diable. En 1318, le pape Jean XXII durcit encore le ton, et rédige une bulle qui crée un délit de sorcellerie.

Pourquoi un tel virage ? Il tient au parcours personnel de ce pape, le premier à siéger à Avignon. À peine élu, en 1316, il pense avoir été victime d’une mystérieuse tentative d’empoisonnement et d’envoûtement fomentée par l’évêque de Cahors — que le pape suspecte de malversations. En 1317, l’évêque est condamné et brûlé. Sur sa lancée, Jean XXII décide de poursuivre sa croisade personnelle contre les sorciers et les sorcières.

C’est à partir de là qu’apparaissent les premières répressions contre la sorcellerie. Mais ce n’est que cent ans plus tard que le phénomène prend toute son ampleur. Dans le nord de la France, en 1459, un procès contre un prétendu sorcier se tient dans la ville de Langres, puis quelques années plus tard, c’est Arras qui est secouée par une vague de condamnations retentissantes : douze accusés (dont huit femmes) sont exécutés. Ces exemples font tache d’huile. La dureté des temps — épidémies, famines —incite à chercher des boucs émissaires.

En 1484, le nouveau pape, Innocent VIII, charge deux inquisiteurs de réprimer la sorcellerie dans les régions germaniques. Il dénonce les sorciers et les sorcières qui détruisent « la progéniture des femmes, les petits des animaux, les moissons de la terre, les raisins des vignes et les fruits des arbres ». Innocent VIII fait ainsi le lien, de manière of cielle, entre la sorcellerie et les maux qui frappent ses contemporains. Désormais, tout est clair : la mortalité infantile, les maladies qui déciment les troupeaux ou les cultures, tout cela vient du diable et de ses dèles !

Il manque encore un mode d’emploi aux juges pour savoir démasquer les suppôts de Satan et leur faire avouer leurs crimes. Le Malleus Male carum (ou le Marteau des sorcières), ouvrage paru en 1486, le leur fournit. Ce manuel rédigé par un dominicain alsacien, Heinrich Kramer, recense les pseudo-certitudes relatives à la magie et aux sorciers — ou plutôt aux sorcières.

Heinrich Kramer considère en effet que la nature des femmes les pousse tout particulièrement dans les bras du démon. Comme il l’explique doctement, elles sont crédules, impressionnables, excessives, y compris dans le mal, bavardes, dé cientes moralement et physiquement... Autant de raisons qui les font succomber plus facilement au diable. Donc, selon Kramer, la sorcellerie se conjugue surtout au féminin.

De quels crimes se rendent coupables ces sorcières ? Kramer répond qu’elles ont des pouvoirs surhumains, qu’elles volent dans les airs. Diable, où a-t-il pu pêcher une telle idée ? Tout simplement dans la mythologie grecque. La déesse et magicienne Circé, dont le nom même signifie « oiseau de proie », possédait déjà le don de voler. Kramer rapporte aussi que les sorcières se rendent, la nuit, à des orgies, des sabbats. Là encore, la mythologie nous donne la clef : les sabbats étaient initialement les fêtes orgiaques données en l’honneur du dieu Dionysos. Lors de ces messes noires, accuse Kramer, les sorcières donnent des hosties aux crapauds.

Cette accusation-là ne sort pas non plus de nulle part : elle reprend tout simplement celle qui était lancée, au Moyen Âge, à l’égard des juifs. Les sorcières dévorent les enfants, ajoute Kramer. Or, là encore, les juifs ont été suspectés des mêmes horreurs, et auparavant « les premiers Chrétiens ont eux-mêmes été accusés de cannibalisme par les Romains», explique Ludovic Viallet, spécialiste d’histoire médiévale et auteur de "Sorcières! La Grande Chasse" (éd. Armand Colin).

Montaigne rend visite à une accusée dans sa cellule et ne voit qu’une pauvre folle qui a besoin de soins

Bref, le Marteau compile toute une série de fantasmes venus des époques antérieures — et c’est ainsi qu’il forge le mythe des sorcières. En y ajoutant une obsession : le principal grief contre ces ancées de Satan, celui qui surgit à chaque page, ou presque, de l’ouvrage, c’est leur lubricité, leur goût frénétique pour le sexe. Les servantes du diable couchent avec lui, lui baisent continuellement le cul en signe de soumission et forniquent aussi bien avec des démons incubes (mâles) que succubes (femelles).

Ce livre se veut aussi plus concret et très pratique : il fournit au lecteur des astuces pour démasquer les sorcières. On peut notamment, explique-t-il, les reconnaître aux marques laissées par le diable sur leur corps, et qui sont la trace du pacte qu’elles ont conclu avec lui. Ce peut être une tache en forme de grenouille dans le blanc de l’oeil, des verrues, des grains de beauté ou une insensibilité de la peau — signe que Satan les a touchées.

Ainsi, tout est en place pour confondre les sorcières. Il ne manque plus que les accusations. Et c’est la population qui les fournit. Pendant trois cents ans, du e au XVIIe siècle, la chasse aux sorcières est nourrie par des vagues de dénonciations dans les villes et les campagnes. Des villageois suspectent telle sage-femme de tuer volontairement les nouveau-nés ou telle autre d’empoisonner le lait des jeunes mères.

Toutes les maladies, tous les drames sont bientôt imputés aux sorcières. Certaines dénonciations peuvent même être motivées par des mobiles sordides. Une femme accuse une autre par jalousie, un homme dénonce une villageoise qui s’est refusée à lui, ou encore une riche citadine est victime de la convoitise du voisinage. Comme les biens d’une personne reconnue coupable de sorcellerie sont vendus aux enchères après sa mort, il y a de bonnes affaires en vue si la condamnation est obtenue...

Une fois l’accusation lancée et la suspecte appréhendée, la quête des preuves commence. Les juges font raser la malheureuse pour chercher sur son corps les marques du diable. Les auxiliaires de justice lui enfoncent des aiguilles dans la peau. Si le sang ne jaillit pas, malheur à elle : c’est que Satan est passé par là. D’autres expériences permettent de confondre la sorcière. Il ne suf t plus alors que d’obtenir ses aveux...

Les supplices que font subir les juges aux accusées sont d’une cruauté indicible. Membres brisés, ongles arrachés, entrailles ouvertes, peau lacérée... Les bourreaux s’acharnent avec d’autant plus d’ardeur que les sorcières sont réputées avoir le cuir dur : si elles nient leur culpabilité, c’est que le diable leur interdit d’avouer. Le piège est sans issue...

À bout de souffrances, les suspectes livrent des confessions toutes plus hallucinantes les unes que les autres, qui confortent immanquablement les soupçons de leurs tortionnaires. À Dillingen, en Allemagne, la sagefemme Walpurga Hausmann, veuve depuis trente et un ans, admet ainsi « qu’elle s’était souvent rendue la nuit dans divers endroits avec son amant le diable, en utilisant une fourche pour véhicule ». Elle reconnaît aussi avoir déterré tous les ans « le cadavre d’au moins un ou deux enfants innocents. Elle les mangeait avec son amant le diable et d’autres compagnons. Elle se servait des petits os pour faire surgir la grêle ».

De rares esprits critiques osent pourtant douter de la réalité de ces accusations. Certains l’écrivent même avec humour, tel l’humaniste bâlois Fuglinus, en 1565 : « On en est arrivé à craindre de pauvres bonnes femmes, laborieuses, décrépites et misérables, on va jusqu’à avoir peur de leurs balais, de leur casserole et de leur vieille peau. » Cet auteur n’est malheureusement pas entendu par ses contemporains. Pas plus que Montaigne qui, après avoir rendu visite à une accusée en cellule, n’y voit qu’une pauvre folle à soigner.

Il faudra attendre la n du XVIIe siècle pour que soit mis n à la chasse aux sorcières, avec la même simplicité qu’on l’avait ouverte : d’un trait de plume. En 1679, à Bouvignies, un village flamand situé au nord-est de Douai, on dresse les quatre derniers bûchers du royaume de France. En 1682, Louis XIV signe un édit royal qui déclare la sorcellerie « irréelle et inventée ». C’est comme si l’on s’éveillait d’un long cauchemar, d’une hallucination collective. La construction de l’État moderne est achevée et la médecine progresse.

Plus besoin d’invoquer le démon pour expliquer les maladies. Surtout, le Roi-Soleil, monarque absolu, ne tolère pas l’existence d’un système répressif qui sème le désordre dans son royaume. Le reste des pays d’Europe suit ensuite lentement l’exemple français. Quelques ambées tardives s’allument encore au XVIIIe siècle en Pologne ou en Bavière. La dernière sorcière condamnée sur le continent est une pauvre servante, Anna Göldi (ou Göldin), décapitée en 1782 à Glaris (Suisse) pour empoisonnement et arti ces.

Les juges n’ont pas osé invoquer la sorcellerie. Son exécution vaut au tribunal et à ses bourreaux les critiques de toutes les élites intellectuelles, horri ées qu’une telle chose survienne à l’heure où se répandent le rationalisme et l’esprit des Lumières. Anna est finalement réhabilitée au e siècle. Les minutes de son procès montrent qu’elle a été victime de violences sexuelles commises par son employeur, contre lequel elle a porté plainte. Malheureusement, ce notable, veuf, médecin et aussi juge au tribunal, s’est empressé de la faire condamner.

La chasse aux sorcières, féroce en Allemagne, épargne au contraire l’Italie et l’Espagne

Au total, en Europe, 75 000 procès pour sorcellerie se sont tenus en trois siècles de répression, suivis de 30 000 à 50 000 exécutions. Le Nouveau Monde n’a pas été en reste : aux États-Unis, en 1692, le terrible procès des sorcières de Salem, entraîne l’exécution de vingt-deux personnes (dont seize femmes), tandis que cinq autres trépassent en détention.

Les pays germaniques se sont montrés particulièrement acharnés. À l’inverse, l’Italie et l’Espagne sont restées concentrées sur la chasse aux hérétiques, aux juifs et aux mahométans. L’Inquisition, qui pourtant y sévissait avec sévérité, méprisait ces histoires de bonnes femmes...

Par Adélaïde Robault dans "Ça M'Intéresse", France, novembre 2016, n.429, pp.36-40. Adapté et illustré pour être posté par Leopoldo Costa.

The day-to-day activities and the entire life cycle of each person were set by custom and governed by religious beliefs, much as they are among the Maya of today. The Maya kept their lives in harmony with their world — their family, their community, and their gods. The key to this harmony was the calendar that tracked the cycles of time, beginning with the 260-day sacred almanac. Every person’s destiny, from birth to death, was tied to this almanac.

Childhood

The date of each person’s birth in the 260-day almanac had different attributes, some good, some neutral, some bad. In this way, a person’s birth date controlled his or her temperament and destiny. To this day, the Kaqchikel Maya name their children after their date of birth in the 260-day almanac. In Yucatan, at the time of the Spanish Conquest, each child’s paal kaba, or given name, was determined by a divining ceremony conducted by a shaman. The Maya are given multiple names. In Yucatan, these are the paal kaba, the father’s family name, the mother’s family name, and an informal nickname.

Children are greatly desired and treated to a great deal of love and affection. At the time of the Conquest, women would ask the gods for children by giving offerings, reciting special prayers, and placing an image of Ix Chel, goddess of childbirth, under their beds. Today, having many children is seen as beneficial for the family. Sons assist their father in the fields, and older daughters assist their mother at home. Children take care of their parents in their old age. These roles were probably little different in the past.

The Maya performed ceremonies marking a child’s acceptance into society. In Yucatan, this ceremony is called hetzmek, performed when the baby is carried astride the mother’s hip for the first time. For girls the hetzmek is held at three months, and for boys, at four months. Three months symbolizes the three stones of the Maya hearth, an important focus of a woman’s life. Similarly, four months symbolizes the four sides of the maize field, the focus of a man’s life. Participants in the ceremony, besides the infant, are the parents and another husband and wife who act as sponsors. The child is given nine objects symbolic of his or her life and carried on the hip nine times by both sponsoring parents. The ceremony closes with burning copal incense, offerings, and a ritual feast.

Mothers raised their children until the age of three or four. At about age four, girls were given a red shell, which was tied to a string around their waists. At the same age, boys received a small white bead, which was fastened to their hair. Both of these symbols of childhood were worn until puberty, when another ceremony marked the transition to adulthood.

There is no evidence that the ancient Maya had formal schools. They received their education at home. Some children were selected by their social status or aptitude for specialized training in an apprentice system. Scribes, priests, artists, masons, and other occupational groups recruited novices and trained them. Today, among some highland Maya peoples, shamans continue to recruit and train the next generation of these religious specialists.

Adolescence

In colonial Yucatan, the 260-day almanac was consulted to select an auspicious day for the community puberty ceremony marking the end of childhood. It was held every few years for all the children deemed ready to take this step. A shaman conducted the ceremony with four assistant shamans called chaaks (after the Maya rain god), and a respected community elder. The parents, the children, and their sponsors assembled in the patio of the community elder’s house, which was purified by a ritual conducted by the shaman. The patio was swept and covered by fresh leaves and mats.

After the chaaks placed pieces of white cloth on the children’s heads, the shaman said a prayer for the children and gave a bone to the elder, who used it to tap each child nine times on the forehead. The shaman used a scepter decorated with rattlesnake rattles to anoint the children with sacred water, after which he removed the white cloths. The children then presented offerings of feathers and cacao beans to the chaaks. The shaman cut the white beads from the boy’s heads, while the mothers removed the red shells from their daughters. Pipes of tobacco were smoked, and a ritual feast of food and drink closed the ceremony. After this, both the girls and boys were considered adults and eligible to marry.

Until they married, young women continued to live with their parents and were expected to follow the customs of modesty. When unmarried women met a man, they turned their backs and stepped aside to allow him to pass. When giving a man food or drink, they lowered their eyes. In colonial times, young unmarried men of the community lived in a house set apart for them; this was probably an ancient custom. They painted themselves black until they were married but did not tattoo themselves until after marriage.

Adulthood and Marriage

In colonial times, marriages were often arranged between families while the couple were still very young. The wedding then took place when they came of age, usually when the couple was around 20 years old. Today, in most Maya communities the average age of men at marriage is about the same, and the average age of women at marriage is 16 or 17 years.

In colonial Yucatan, it was customary for fathers to approve of the prospective spouse for their sons, ensuring that the young woman was of the same social class and of the same village. In accordance with marriage taboos, it was incestuous to marry a girl who had the same surname or for a widower to marry the sister of his deceased wife or the widow of his brother. On the other hand, because the couple would always have different surnames, cross-cousin marriages were fairly common (marriage between the children of a brother and sister). A professional matchmaker (aj atanzahob) was often used to make the arrangements, plan the ceremony, and negotiate the dowry.

For the dowry, the groom’s father usually provided dresses and household articles for the bride, while the groom’s mother made clothing for both her son and her prospective daughter-in-law. Today, in Yucatan, the groom or his family usually covers the expenses of the wedding, including the bride’s trousseau.

The wedding ceremony was traditionally held at the house of the bride’s father. A shaman, who began by explaining the details of the marriage agreement, performed the ceremony. After this, he burned incense and blessed the new couple. Everyone then enjoyed a special feast that concluded the ceremony.

Monogamy is the most common form of marriage. But in pre-Columbian times, polygyny was permitted. Because polygyny imposed greater economic demands, multiple wives were probably more widespread among the elite than the nonelite. Divorce was uncomplicated, consisting of a simple repudiation by either party. Widowers and widows remained single for at least a year after the death of their spouses. They could then remarry without ceremony; the man simply went to the house of the woman of his choice; if she accepted him and gave him something to eat, they were considered married.

After the marriage, the groom lived and worked in the house of his wife’s parents (uxorilocal residence). His mother-in-law ensured that her daughter gave her husband food and drink as a token of the parental recognition of the marriage, but, if the young man failed to work, he could be put out of the house. After a period of no more than six or seven years, the husband could build a new house adjacent to that of his father and move his new family there (patrilocal residence). The family slept in one room, using mats on low bed platforms. Today, in the highlands, mats are still used, although hammocks are now often favored in the hotter lowland regions.

Roles and Occupations

As already discussed, the traditional roles for men and women are probably essentially the same today as in the past. Beyond the home, it can be assumed that nonelite women undertook several community-leve specializations in ancient times, such as midwives and matchmakers, as they do today. Also like today, they may have shared the responsibilities of their husbands when they held community offices. We can only assume that many nonelite women also served as cooks and servants for the noble and royal families within each kingdom. Some probably became successful and even famous for the pottery and textiles they produced. Other women may have prospered as merchants, as suggested by the portrait of a woman in the Chiik Nahb murals at Calakmul. But beyond such speculations we do not know how many occupations were open to women in the past.

At the elite level of society, we know from Classic period texts and portraits that the wives and mothers of royalty played essential roles in the civil and religious duties of Maya kings. Some royal women assembled considerable wealth and power, as suggested by the elaborateness of the tomb of the presumed queen of Copan’s dynastic founder. Mothers of kings were vital to the ceremonies held for the designation of the heir to the throne and at the inauguration of the new ruler. The royal histories of Tikal and Palenque record that in each kingdom a royal daughter assumed the throne in the absence of a male successor and held the position of ruler until the male heir took the throne. The royal dynasty at Naranjo was restored by the arrival of a royal woman from Dos Pilas who also ruled her new kingdom until a male ruler came of age.

It can be assumed that nonelite men took on a variety of roles in the past. Most men had to provide a portion of their time and labor to their community and king. Like women, many nonelite men must have been servants to noble or royal families. During the dry season, when their agricultural duties were minimal, men were obligated to help construct and maintain buildings, causeways, reservoirs, and other essential facilities. Some undoubtedly became skilled masons, carpenters, and other craftsmen. Of course, in time of war, these men were also called upon to serve in the lower ranks as soldiers. Some men probably became peddlers and merchants, engaged in manufacturing specializations, or became shamans or priests within their communities. The various low-level political offices were filled by the men of each community selected by their seniority or abilities for such roles.

Elite men held the majority of political and religious offices in each Maya kingdom, advancing according to their age and abilities within the governmental or priestly hierarchy. Other elite occupations were probably concerned with economic affairs; these included court officials charged with collecting and recording tribute, managers of plantations for growing valuable crops such as cacao, or wealthy merchants directing major trading expeditions over land or water. Warfare also created roles for elite men in positions of military command. In addition, there were elite men who became artists, artisans, and scribes, sometimes even signing their names to their works.

Personal Appearance

The Maya marked social status by their personal appearance, clothing, and adornments. There were several means to alter physical appearances. For example, crossed eyes were considered a mark of beauty among the Maya in the past. In colonial times, mothers induced crossed eyes by tying a lump of resin to their children’s hair so that it would hang between their eyes. In another mark of beauty, the Maya pierced the ears, lips, and septum of the nose to hold a variety of ornaments that indicated the individual’s status. Incisors were notched or inlaid with jade and other materials. Flattened foreheads were also considered a mark of beauty and status. Such foreheads were achieved by binding the heads of babies with boards, one at the back of the head, another against the forehead. Once the cranial bones had set, the desired flattened appearance remained for life. Carved and painted representations of profile heads show that this practice was often used in the past to indicate elite status.

Clothing marked gender and status differences. Men wore loincloths (ex), a band of cotton cloth that went between the legs and wrapped around the waist. The ex is represented in Maya art, from elaborately decorated examples worn by kings and other elite men to simple, undecorated versions worn by commoners. Elite men often wore a large square cotton cloth ( pati), elaborately decorated with different patterns, colors, and feather work according to the wearer’s status, around their shoulders. Simple versions of the pati were worn by commoners and also served as a bed covering at night.

Men wore sandals made of untanned deer hide bound to the feet by two thongs. Kings and elite men, depicted on carved monuments, wore very elaborate versions of these sandals. Although the ex and the pati are no longer worn—today most Maya men wear Western-style clothing—some still wear sandals similar to the ancient examples. In ancient times, Maya men wore their hair long, usually braided and wound around the head, except for a queue in back. Body paint was often used to mark special groups. Priests were painted blue, the color associated with sacrifice, and warriors painted themselves black and red. War captives are shown painted black and white. Paint was also used in tattooing, the painted designs being cut into the skin with an obsidian knife.

The principal woman’s garment was a woven cotton skirt (manta). According to Bishop Landa’s colonial-era account, “The women of the coast and of the Provinces of Bacalar and of Campeche are more modest in their dress, for, besides the [skirt] which they wore from the waist down, they covered their breasts, tying a folded manta underneath their armpits” (Tozzer 1941: 126; trans. of Landa’s original manuscript of ca. 1566). Women also covered their head and shoulders with a cotton shawl (booch).

Today, the traditional Maya women’s garment is the huipil, a Nahuatl word from central Mexico. In the Guatemalan highlands, the huipil is a hand-woven blouse, beautifully embroidered in cross-stitch, worn over a wrap-around skirt. Traditionally, each highland community had its unique design, so a women’s hometown could be recognized from her huipil. In Yucatan, the huipil is a white, loose-fitting cotton dress with armholes and a square opening at the neck. A long white petticoat (pic) is worn underneath. Today, some Maya women go barefoot or wear slippers of European style, but formerly they may have used sandals.

As in the past, most Maya women and girls wear their hair long, arranged in various ways. In the past, married and unmarried women each had distinctive hairstyles. Both women and men anointed themselves with a sweet-smelling red ointment, the odor of which lasted for many days. Like men, married women also tattooed themselves, except for their breasts, with delicate designs.

The costumes worn by the highest status men in society, Maya kings, were the most elaborate and were decorated with symbols of supernatural power. Portraits of Classic period kings show them arrayed in beautifully decorated loincloths, capes, sandals, and huge headdresses. The belt holding the ex was adorned with jade masks and suspended jade plaques. Earlier belts often included a chain dangling a small image of a royal patron god. A large jade god mask was often worn on the chest, along with necklaces of jade beads. Jade, shell, and other materials were formed into beads, pendants, and mosaics; these were worn in the ears, nose, lips, and around the neck, arms, wrists, and ankles. The king’s pati was a magnificent cape of embroidered cotton, accompanied by jaguar pelts and feather work.

Completing the royal display was a huge headdress adorned with an array of iridescent tail feathers from the sacred quetzal bird. The headdress framework was probably of wood, including a front piece carved to represent one or more heads of Maya gods. The headdress was also adorned with mosaics and carved jades. On early representations, the ruler wore a headband with a tri-lobed element, sometimes personified by three heads of the maize god. Royal inaugurations included the “taking of the white headband” as a symbol of kingship. Kings used specialized headdresses for special events, including one associated with warfare. At Copan, each ruler of the royal dynasty is often shown wearing a distinctive turban headdress.

Commoners also wore jewelry, usually simple nose plugs, lip plugs, and earrings of bone, wood, shell, or stone. Adornments worn by the elite were much more elaborate and were made of jade, stone, obsidian, coral,and shell. The most precious of these items were delicately made mosaics and inlays. The elite also wore collars, necklaces, wristlets, anklets, and knee bands made of feathers, jade beads, shells, jaguar teeth and claws, crocodile teeth, or, in later times, gold and copper.

Recreation

In ancient Maya society, each person’s time and labor was critical to ensure that the daily needs of life were maintained. Besides meeting family needs, adults had labor and tribute obligations to fulfill for their king and kingdom. Thus, there was little leisure time for most of the Maya population, and recreation as we know it today was almost nonexistent. Even children, as soon as they were old enough to help their parents in their tasks, had to put work before play.

Nothing is known about the games children played in the past, but we believe that at least some used balls made from the elastic gum of the rubber tree, cultivated and widely traded by the Maya. We can also assume that people found time between their labors to relax and enjoy themselves. Certainly the great religious feasts and festivals held periodically throughout the year provided an important means to break the difficult routine of everyday life. It is also certain that when they could find free time, both children and men played various kinds of ball games.

Maya ball games are known from both archaeological evidence and carved representations, although these tell us mostly about a formal version that was played in the major capitals of Maya kingdoms. We can assume that nonelite people also played a more everyday version of this game in their communities.

The formal version of the ball game was played in a specially constructed ball court. One or more of these are found at most larger Maya cities, usually in a central area. These ball courts have a level paved surface between two masonry platforms and an open end zone at both ends of the playing alley. Sometimes there are provisions for large crowds, as at Copan and Quirigua, where the ball courts are near extensive stepped terraces that could have been used by several thousand spectators. The size of the playing alley varied from court to court but was generally smaller than a baseball infield (the playing alley of the Great Ball Court at Chichen Itza, the largest known, was about the size of a football field). Classic period ball courts have sloping sidewalls, whereas most later ball courts have vertical side walls with a single vertically set stone ring placed high up in the center of each wall.

The game was played between two teams with a hard rubber ball that could be struck with the body but not with the hands or feet. For protection, ball players wore special padded garb around the waist and on the head. There were at least two versions of the game.

The Classic era game was played with a large heavy ball, larger than a basketball. The rules are unknown, but the objective apparently was to keep the ball moving back and forth between the two teams, each defending one end zone. Points were probably scored if one team failed to properly strike the ball or if the ball landed in their end zone. The later version was played with a smaller rubber ball. The rules are also unknown, but the objective was probably similar. We do know from Bishop Landa’s description that the team that managed to put the ball through one of the stone rings would instantly win the game. But this was a rare event, so much so that the winning team and their spectators could seize the clothing and possessions from the losing team and their spectators, provided they could catch them!

We also know that the Maya ball game was linked to religious belief and ritual. The Hero Twins of Maya myth were expert players who defeated the death gods in a ball game. Because of this religious association, a ritual version of the ball game was played to dramatize military victories. It is clear that this ritual had no recreational value for the losing side. In such rituals, defeated captives, on rare occasions including captured kings, were forced to play a ball game with the victors. The result of this ritual contest was preordained, and after the defeated captives lost the game they were sacrificed. Defeated kings might be decapitated, just as the Hero Twins decapitated the defeated death gods in the Maya myth. We actually know more about this ritualized version of the ball game than we know about the game itself. But the original ball game played in every Maya community was a far less fatal contest.

Health

Bishop Landa’s colonial-era account describes Maya shamans “who cured with herbs and many superstitious rites... (and) by bleedings of the parts which gave pain to the sick... [the Maya] believed that death, sickness and afflictions came to them for their wrong doing and their sin” (Tozzer 1941: 106, 112; trans. of Landa’s original manuscript of ca. 1566).

As in other matters, the Maya believe that their personal well-being depends on their harmony with the world about them. Illness is a sign of disharmony. When a person is ill, a shaman is summoned and uses a variety of divination techniques to reveal the cause of illness. The prescribed cure includes measures to correct the cause of the illness discovered by the shaman—usually some harm done to another person, animal, or spirit. Curing rituals include prayers and burning of incense, along with the taking of medicines made from local plants. There are many medicinal herbs and plants in the Maya area, and shamans to this day preserve an extensive knowledge of these cures. Several colonial-period Maya manuscripts list a series of illnesses and their cures, and many of these remedies are considered effective.

Death

In colonial times, the Maya believed the dead went to Xibalba, the underworld beneath the earth, just as the sun did when it “died” each night at sunset before being reborn each dawn. Xibalba was a place of rest but not a paradise. There is evidence that Maya kings promoted special rituals to grant divine status to their dead predecessors. Several examples of this ritual apotheosis are recorded in Classic period texts. Once deified, these dead kings, it was believed, escaped Xibalba to dwell in the sky as stars.

The common people did not have the luxury of deification. According to Bishop Landa, the Maya expressed deep and enduring grief over the death of a loved one: “During the day they wept for them in silence; and at night with loud and very sad cries . . . (a)nd they passed many days in deep sorrow. They made abstinences and fasts for the dead” (Tozzer 1941: 129; trans. of Landa’s original manuscript of ca. 1566).

The body was wrapped in a shroud and the mouth filled with ground maize and a jade bead. Commoners were buried under the floors or behind their houses. Into the grave were placed figurines of clay, wood, or stone and objects indicating the profession or trade of the deceased. Archaeologically excavated Maya burials usually have offerings that vary according to the sex and status of the deceased but almost always include a jade bead in the mouth.

Burials of the elite were the most elaborate. Bishop Landa reports that, in colonial-era Yucatan, the bodies of high-status individuals were cremated and their ashes placed in urns beneath temples. The construction of funerary shrines over tombs is well documented by archaeology. But, while evidence of cremation is not often found, there is evidence of burial ritual involving fire. At Copan, for example, several royal tombs were reentered for rituals that included fire and smoke and the painting of the bones with red cinnabar.

During the time of Late Maya civilization, the Cocom ruling house at Mayapan reduced their dead to bones by boiling. The front of the skull was used as the base for a face modeled from resin, and this effigy was kept in their household shrines. These effigies were held in great veneration, and on feast days offerings of food were made to them so that they would remain well fed. When the Cenote of Sacrifice at Chichen Itza was dredged, a skull was recovered that had the crown cut away. The eye sockets were filled with wooden plugs, and there were the remains of painted plaster on the face.

KIN AND DESCENT

In Maya communities today, the life and destiny of every person are bound to the person’s family, kin, community, and the supernatural world. Steps in the life cycle are marked by ritual, as they were in ancient times. This includes marriage, which allows the individual and his or her family to establish ties with another family group.

The nuclear family is the foundation of Maya society. But the Maya have long defined social groupings larger than the nuclear family. Membership in these groups is based on descent through the male or female line. Recognition of membership in a patrilineal descent group is by the father’s family name, transmitted from generation to generation just as in our own society. People with the same last name, therefore, are at least potentially members of the same patrilineage and in Maya society are prohibited from marrying. More than a last name is inherited from the father; property, titles, status, and even offices may be transmitted from one generation to the next according to patrilineal descent. In the past, these Maya patrilineal kin groups also seem to have had their own patron deities and social obligations, as well.

There was also a matrilineal principle in Maya society. In colonial Yucatan, children inherited surnames from both their father and their mother. In Postclassic Petén, there is evidence for both patrilineal and matrilineal descent. Each person was a member of two groups, a ch’ibal, defined by patrilineal descent, and a ts’akab, defined by matrilineal descent. Individuals inherited a surname and property from their father’s ch’ibal and a second surname and religious identifications from their mother’s ts’akab.

In ancient times, social and political offices were probably transmitted within patrilineal descent groups, from father to son, brother to brother, or even uncle to nephew. During the Classic period, the succession of kings is sometimes specified as from father to son. There are also examples of younger brothers succeeding older brothers as king. But succession in even the highest offices did not occur according to a single inflexible rule. At some sites, historical texts stress descent through both the male and the female lines, as at Palenque, while other sites emphasized the male line, as at Tikal and Copan. There are prominent portraits of elite women associated with kings at Piedras Negras, Coba, Yaxchilan, and Palenque and paired male and female portraits at both Calakmul and El Peru.

SOCIAL STRATIFICATION

The Maya recognized a number of distinctions within their society, beginning with those based on age and gender. There were also distinctions based on differences in status, prestige, and wealth. The latter are usually defined as disparities between the elite and the nonelite (or commoners). In Yucatan, these two classes were known as the almehenob (elite) and the aj chembal uinicob (commoners). Among the K’iche Maya of the highlands, the elite class was called the ajawab, while the nonelite were called the al k’ajol. Social stratification refers to the different rights, roles, and obligations accorded to two or more groups according to their place in society.

While these two categories are based on ethnohistoric descriptions and are reflected in differences in the archaeological record, the elite-nonelite distinction defines a very complex reality. There clearly was an elite class within ancient Maya society. But this class was not uniform, and the same can be said of the far more numerous commoners in Maya society.

Although there were clear differences between the huge masonry residences of kings and the small thatched houses of rural farmers or between elaborate royal tombs and simple commoner graves, these represent two extremes of a continuum of material remains based on size, elaborateness, and preservation. It is often impossible to see the boundary between elite and nonelite in the middle of this continuum. This indicates that the social distinctions between elite and nonelite were not always marked by material differences—there were undoubtedly relatively impoverished elites and wealthy commoners. Some of these people formed a middle class, which emerged with the changing economic conditions at the end of the Classic period. Therefore, although the terms elite and nonelite (or commoner) are used here to refer to a basic division within Maya society, these labels only approximate the true diversity and complexity of past Maya society.

The elite class was divided by higher and lower status positions. Obviously, kings occupied the highest positions within the elite class. Not all kings and their kingdoms were equal. At any one point in time, there were wealthy and powerful kings and polities, while there were also less wealthy and less powerful kings and polities.

Below the king and the royal house there was a variety of other elite positions. Some were probably determined by kinship; a member of the elite class might have inherited his or her status and position in society from his father. Bishop Landa distinguished a title for priests, aj k’inob, who were members of the elite class. The K’iche Maya distinguished several elite occupational groups, such as merchants (aj beyom), professional warriors (achij), and estate managers (uytzam chinamital).

The elite certainly controlled far more resources, labor, and power (as decision makers) than the nonelite. Skeletal remains indicate that the elite enjoyed better health and longer lives. But these differences were not absolute. Maya commoners also controlled significant resources and labor. As food producers, they controlled most of the basic necessities of life. They even possessed potential power as decision makers, although they were seldom able to exert it. For, in choosing where they lived and to whom they owed allegiance, they could sometimes make or break the reigns of kings.

Gradations in nonelite burials and houses suggest that there were internal divisions of wealth and status. Commoners lived outside the central areas of the towns and cities, the core areas being reserved for the elite. Generally speaking, the greater the distance a family lived from the central plaza, the lower its position on the social scale. Some distinctions probably derived from occupations—for example, skilled craftsmen were probably held in higher regard than unskilled laborers. Farmers defined the largest occupational group, whose toil supported both themselves and the king. Most Maya farmers probably worked their own land (or that of their family). In some areas, there was also a group of landless peasants, (known as the nimak achi among the K’iche Maya) who worked estates owned by the elite and were inherited along with the land.

The lowest status was that of slaves or captives owned by the elite. These were known as p’entacob in Yucatan or munib among the K’iche Maya and included commoners captured in war, sentenced criminals, and impoverished individuals sold into slavery by their families. Elite captives were often ritually sacrificed. Nonelite captives were either enslaved for labor or adopted by families to replace members lost to war or disease. Thieves were sentenced to become slaves of their victims until they could repay what they had stolen. Children of slaves were not considered slaves but were free to make their way on the basis of their abilities. But unwanted orphans could be sacrificed, especially if they were the children of slave women. Slaves were usually sacrificed when their masters died so that they could continue serving them after death.

All commoners had obligations to pay tribute to their rulers, their local elite lords, and the gods by offerings made through the priests. Tribute consisted of agricultural produce, woven cotton cloth, domesticated fowl, salt, dried fish, and hunted game. The most valuable offerings were cacao, pom (copal) incense, honey, beeswax, jade, coral, and shells. The corvée labor obligations of commoners were used to build temples, palaces, and other buildings, as well as causeways (sacbeob) that connected the principal Maya cities. Bishop Landa wrote, “The common people at their own expense made the houses of the lords [and] ... cared for his fields and harvested . . . for him and his household; and when there was hunting or fishing, or when it was time to get their salt, they always gave the lord his share” (Tozzer 1941: 87; trans. of Landa’s original manuscript of ca. 1566).

Elite and Nonelite Architecture

Maya buildings had practical and religious meanings. Residences reflected the status of their occupants and defined the center of the world for the family. Most buildings were constructed on platforms that raised them above the surface of the world, ranging from low earthen platforms for the simplest houses to the terraced masonry-faced “pyramids” for the loftiest temples. The most humble of ancient dwellings represent skillful engineering and beautiful craftsmanship applied by nonelite families to produce practical and well-adapted houses. These were constructed in the same manner as contemporary Maya houses; a pole framework supported a thatched roof, with walls made from a lattice of sticks, sometimes plastered with a thick coating of adobe. Commoner houses represent the oldest known examples of Maya architecture and are the basis for all later elaborations built of stone and plaster.

Far grander masonry structures are the best-known examples of Maya architecture. Elite architects and other specialists designed and supervised the construction of public buildings and the palaces used by kings and elite families, built and maintained by commoners to fulfill their obligations to the king and state. Nonelite specialists, such as stonemasons, and the artisans and artists who decorated buildings, probably filled many of the more skilled jobs. But the majority were part-time laborers fulfilling their corvée obligations during the dry season, when most agricultural activities ceased.

The basic raw material for masonry construction was limestone, found throughout most of the Maya the lowlands and in parts of the highlands. Plaster produced by burning limestone was used to pave plazas and to give a smoothed finish to walls, floors, and roofs of Maya buildings. Most buildings were also painted, sometimes in red or other solid colors, sometimes with painted motifs on the exterior or murals on the interior.

Because of the need for thick walls to support their roofs, Maya palaces and other masonry buildings have less interior space in proportion to their mass than the pole-and-thatch houses of the nonelite class. In most cases,walls were built of rubble cores faced with masonry blocks and roofed by corbelled vaults. These were shaped like an inverted “V,” constructed of a series of overlapping blocks, each projecting farther inward until a row of capstones could bridge the gap between the walls. Two- and three-story masonry buildings were constructed with especially massive walls and narrow vaults.

Many palaces and temples were adorned with displays of mosaic or stucco work. Temples often had high, decorated roof combs that rose above the building. Some masonry palaces and other buildings had less weighty roofs made of wooden beams and mortar. Exteriors of palaces, temples, and other buildings had three-dimensional motifs rendered in both plaster and stone. These included portraits of kings and elites on palaces and funerary temples and large deity masks and a variety of other sacred elements on temples. Decorations made from modeled plaster are found on buildings from the time of Early Maya civilization to the Conquest. Beginning in the Classic period, carved stone mosaics (covered with thin plaster) gradually replaced modeled plaster. As mentioned, building surfaces were also usually painted.

Today we give labels to Maya structures that suggest their ancient functions: temples, palaces, ball courts, causeways, steam baths, shrines, and the like. Yet, to the ancient Maya who built and used them, buildings had multiple meanings that it is not always possible to decipher. Buildings were a means of realizing the Maya social and cosmological order. The locations, elaborateness, and decorations of residential buildings reflected the status and activities of their occupants. Thus, at Copan, the palace of the king’s elite scribe was adorned by carved stone busts of the scribe holding his writing brush. Building orientations represented the order of the Maya universe, where east meant birth and life, west death and the underworld, north the sky and the supernatural abode, and south the earth and the human realm. Thus, at Tikal, the palaces of living kings were located south of the North Acropolis, where the ancestral kings were buried. Temples were sacred places, “mountains” with summit doorways that represented entrances to the abode of the gods. The ball game was played in “courts of creation” that recalled the myth about very origins of Maya society.

THE DEVELOPMENT OF MAYA SOCIETY

Our knowledge of past Maya society comes from archaeology, documents, and studies of Maya peoples today. Through these sources of information, we can outline the size and organization of ancient Maya society, how individuals lived out their lives, and the ways groups were defined by status and occupational specialties.

The foundation of Maya society has always been the nuclear family. Today the father or eldest male family member is the authority figure; the same can be assumed to be true for the past. But the domestic authority of the mother or eldest female in the family is also important in the social system. In fact, in traditional Maya communities, important offices are held not by men alone but by married couples. Not surprisingly, then, both the male and female lines of descent have long been important in Maya society.

Extended families and “houses” were also important to Maya social organization. Overall, documentary evidence shows that Maya society was stratified into a smaller elite group that controlled most of the wealth and advantages and a far larger nonelite group of producers. This division is reflected in the archaeological evidence, along with evidence for a middle class that emerged at the end of the Classic period. Through tribute in goods and labor, the nonelite supported the elite and constructed and maintained the infrastructure of Maya cities, great and small.

Before civilization developed, Maya society was basically egalitarian, without differences in status and authority except those based on age and gender. Maya communities today are also basically egalitarian. Many are organized around a system where positions of authority and status are rotated each year among members of the community. By holding a succession of offices, individuals advance with age in the community hierarchy, so that the elders hold positions of highest authority. All levels of status and authority are shared. There is no permanent ruling class. A similar system may have operated among the ancient Maya before social stratification developed and probably continued as the basic organization for small farming communities.

Stratified society emerged with Early Maya civilization. This may have begun as some individuals and groups gained more wealth and power and took measures to ensure that they kept their advantageous position. A small but permanent elite class along with its servants and retainers soon dominated the larger settlements. The nonelite have always made up the bulk of the population, living in the most humble dwellings located on the peripheries (except for the service personnel needed by the elite). The commoners supported the ruling class by paying tribute in both goods and labor. In return, the elite class provided leadership, direction, and security with its knowledge of calendrics and supernatural prophecy. This knowledge gave rulers control over the times for plant and harvesting crops, thus ensuring agricultural success for the benefit of all society.

In time, with continued growth in population and in the complexity of society, many more groups emerged that were defined by differences in wealth, authority and status. By the time of Middle Maya civilization, many Maya cities were populated by large numbers of nonagricultural specialists representing many occupational groups and divisions. The ruling elite was subdivided into many different ranks and specialties. The same process of differentiation took hold of the nonelite as well, although the basic producers of food, the farmers, were always the largest group within Maya society. In time, the gap between the ruling elite and commoner classes was filled by an emerging “middle” class, defined by a variety of occupational groups derived from higher ranking commoners and lower ranking elite, including full-time occupational groups such as administrators or bureaucrats, merchants, warriors, craftsmen, architects, and artists. Many of these people were clients of the kings and others in the powerful elite. Otherwise, the core of Maya cities continued to be inhabited by the ruler, his family, and other members of allied elite houses that held the major positions in the political, religious, and economic hierarchy of society.

By Robert J. Sharer in "Daily Life in Maya Civilization", second edition, Greenwood Press,USA, 2009, excerpts pp. 168-186. Adapted and illustrated to be posted by Leopoldo Costa 

Devant une crise épidémique, la société panique. Qui sera la prochaine victime et, surtout, pourquoi? On a alors tôt fait d’accuser les morts, qui viendraient dévorer les vivants...

"C’est une opinion fort répandue dans l’Allemagne que certains morts mâchent dans leurs tombeaux et dévorent ce qui se trouve autour d’eux ; qu’on les entend même manger comme des porcs avec un certain cri sourd [...] », note en 1746 dom Calmet dans son extraordinaire Dissertation sur les revenans en corps, les excommuniés, les oupires ou vampires, brucolaques, etc. Ceux que l’on appelle « mâcheurs » ou « morts dévorants » constituent de fait un cauchemar des plus communs en Europe centrale pendant la période moderne : il n’est guère de cimetière où, lorsqu’on s’y promène, même de jour, on n’entende des bruits de mastication s’échapper de tombes plus ou moins fraîches.

UNE DENT CONTRE LES HOMMES!

Que mâchent-ils au juste, ces morts ? Avant tout, leur linceul, parfois aussi leurs mains et leurs bras. Phénomène étonnant, incongru peut-être, mais fort inquiétant, car cette activité masticatoire souterraine s’accompagne d’une série de morts subites dans les villages voisins, et la communauté des vivants, terrifiée, doit bientôt prendre des mesures radicales...

C’est à la fin du Moyen Âge que des histoires de mâcheurs commencent à circuler du côté de la Pologne. Elles gagnent ensuite, aux XVIIe et XVIIIe siècles, l’ensemble de l’Europe centrale et orientale, où ces croyances suscitent de véritables psychoses. Il s’agit à l’origine de simples histoires de revenants malfaisants. Comme leurs victimes parviennent à les identifier sans peine, on rouvre leurs tombes pour voir ce qu’il en est : on découvre alors avec stupeur des corps non corrompus et, sous un linceul déchiqueté, des visages ricanants.

UN «PROTO-VAMPIRE»?

Car ces morts, qui ont continué à vivre, cherchent visiblement à quitter leur dernière demeure. La mastication du linceul, effrayante en soi, revêt le plus souvent une dimension magique. Plus le défunt dévore le tissu et plus il tue autour de lui des parents, des proches, voire l’ensemble de la communauté – un phénomène souvent associé à la peste.

Dans Le Marteau des sorcières (1486), les inquisiteurs Jakob Sprenger et Heinrich Institoris relatent ainsi que, dans une petite ville décimée par une épidémie, « le bruit courait qu’une femme morte enterrée avait petit à petit mangé le linceul dans lequel elle avait été ensevelie, et que l’épidémie ne pourrait cesser tant qu’elle n’aurait pas mangé le linceul entier et ne l’aurait pas digéré ».

À propos d’une peste qui ravagea l’Empire en 1553, le pasteur Martin Böhm écrit : « Dans les temps de pestilence, nous avons appris que des morts, surtout des femmes, emportés par la peste, ont mâché dans leur tombeau, faisant le même bruit qu’une truie qui s’alimente ; et la peste s’est accrue simultanément. » La présence de sang frais dans les corps déterrés laisse par ailleurs entendre que, d’une manière ou d’une autre, les morts viennent se gorger du sang des vivants – c’est du moins ce que suggère Pierre Des Noyers, un Français établi à Dantzig (Gdansk) dans la seconde moitié du XVIIe siècle et auteur de plusieurs lettres sur les morts-vivants. Le mâcheur peut donc apparaître comme une sorte de proto-vampire.

À cette époque, le phénomène a pris une telle ampleur que les philosophes allemands se mettent à en débattre. Dans sa Dissertation historico-philosophique sur la mastication des morts (1679), un certain Philipp Rohr attribue ladite mastication aux artifices du diable – on ne prête qu’aux riches! Un demisiècle plus tard, en 1728, Michael Ranft, auteur d’une dissertation sur De la mastication des morts dans leurs tombeaux, adopte une attitude plus rationaliste : les bruits issus des tombes résulteraient plutôt de la putréfaction en cours, voire du travail des rats...

D’autres auteurs, comme dom Calmet, suggèrent aussi que des personnes enterrées vives et se réveillant soudain dans la nuit du sépulcre cherchent à se dépêtrer du linceul en usant de leurs dents et de leurs ongles.

Pourquoi pas? Mais de telles hypothèses ne permettent pas d’expliquer un phénomène aussi important à l’échelle de l’Europe. En fait, ces récits témoignent surtout d’une peur abjecte, fréquemment liée à un contexte épidémique. Le premier mort d’une famille – le premier contaminé, en fait – semble entraîner dans la tombe tous ses proches : il faut donc essayer de rompre ce lien surnaturel et néfaste, en tuant une seconde fois le mort.

En général, on coupe la tête du cadavre, on peut aussi lui enfoncer un pieu dans la bouche, dans le coeur, ou le livrer au bûcher. Au XVIIIe siècle, dans l’Empire autrichien, ces exécutions post mortem prennent de telles proportions que Marie-Thérèse les interdit officiellement en 1755! Cela dit, mieux vaut prévenir que guérir. Au moment d’inhumer un mort, dont on craint qu’il ne devienne un mâcheur, on peut lui couper la tête ou la clouer au cercueil, bloquer ses mâchoires avec de la terre ou un foulard, mettre dans sa bouche une pierre ou une brique.

En 2006, alors qu’ils fouillaient un cimetière vénitien, les archéologues ont ainsi découvert le squelette d’une femme, enterrée en 1576, dans un contexte de peste, et dont la bouche contenait une brique… Méthode efficace, en tout cas : la morte avait reposé en paix jusqu’à nos jours.

Par Laurent Vissière dans "Historia Spécial",Paris, n.27,janvier-février 2016, pp.46-47. Adapté et illustré pour être posté par Leopoldo Costa.

Des moines irlandais prennent la mer au VIe siècle. Destination : le paradis ! Sept ans de navigation les attendent, pendant lesquels ils goûtent aux merveilles de la terre et de l’au-delà.

Le Voyage de saint Brendan compte parmi les plus extraordinaires récits de périple du Moyen Âge. Il est aussi l’un des plus diffusés, puisque plus d’une centaine de manuscrits ont été conservés. Écrite en latin, sans doute vers la fin du IXe siècle, l’oeuvre, dont l’auteur est resté anonyme, se voit rapidement traduite en de multiples langues vernaculaires, notamment l’irlandais, l’anglo-normand, l’ancien allemand et le hollandais. Si le succès ne se dément pas pendant tout le Moyen Âge, à l’époque moderne, les érudits de se montrent critiques. Au XVIIe siècle, les bénédictins de la congrégation de Saint-Maur jugent le texte bien trop fabuleux pour être crédible : ils refusent de le publier parmi les actes des saints catholiques. Le Voyage se trouve depuis lors classé parmi les oeuvres d’imagination. Ce qu’il est sans doute, même si sa portée est immense.

Tout commence au VIe siècle, lorsqu’un vénérable abbé irlandais nommé Brendan entend parler d’une île lointaine où Dieu accomplirait les promesses faites à ses saints. Il décide aussitôt de la visiter et rassemble à cette fin 14 moines qui acceptent d’abandonner famille et pays.

L’équipe construit un coracle, une embarcation faite d’un cadre de bois tendu de cuir de vache, comme il en existait en Irlande dès l’Antiquité. Alors que le groupe s’apprête à embarquer, trois moines se présentent ; ils menacent de se laisser mourir de faim si on ne les laisse pas monter à bord. Brendan se laisse fléchir, mais désapprouve. Il prédit que ces retardataires paieront cher leur initiative. Première leçon : l’obéissance constitue la vertu essentielle du moine.

SUR LES FLOTS DE LA FOI

Les aventuriers vêtus de bure naviguent d’abord à la voile puis, faute de vent, à la rame ; épuisés, ils finissent par s’abandonner au hasard des courants. Brendan déclare que c’est la meilleure façon d’avancer, puisque dériver revient à se livrer à la seule volonté de Dieu. Toutefois, après quarante jours de navigation, les vivres viennent à manquer. Une île s’offre opportunément à eux, avec pour tout habitant un chien qui les mène jusqu’à un étrange palais où ils peuvent se sustenter et se reposer. Un des moines surnuméraires commet un vol ; il est aussitôt possédé par le démon et meurt. Deuxième leçon : dans une communauté monastique, on doit abandonner tous ses biens. On l’a compris : le voyage de Brendan constitue moins un déplacement sur la carte qu’une expérience pédagogique.

Quant à la navigation d’île en île, elle reflète le passage du temps, de fête en fête, au fil de l’année liturgique. Par exemple, lors d’une escale, un enfant mystérieux donne aux moines du pain et de l’eau. Comme on est en plein carême, il s’agit de respecter les interdits alimentaires. En revanche, la semaine de Pâques, les voyageurs touchent terre sur l’île des Agneaux, ce qui leur permet de profiter d’une nourriture à la fois riche et hautement symbolique.

Pour la Pentecôte et pour Noël, Brendan obtient plutôt l’hospitalité de monastères insulaires où la règle est suivie à la lettre par d’étranges vieillards. Un jour, les navigateurs découvrent aussi l’île des Oiseaux, où les volatiles chantent les psaumes à heure régulière, comme doivent le faire les moines. Et puisque le temps monastique est cyclique, Brendan et ses compagnons reviennent au bout d’un an sur des îles qu’ils ont déjà visitées.

Un oiseau leur prophétise que ces allers et retours seront nombreux : tourner en rond sert aussi à avancer. Dans le récit, la mer se rappelle parfois au bon souvenir des voyageurs. Un jour, leur coracle accoste une île inconnue ; lorsque les moines y allument un feu, l’île se révèle être un poisson gigantesque, lequel a toutefois la courtoisie de laisser les importuns remonter sur leur bateau avant de plonger. Une autre fois, la mer présente une apparence étrange, comme du liquide coagulé. Surgissent aussi des « piliers de cristal » ; il est possible que certains épisodes aient été inspirés par la vue d’icebergs. Dans tous les cas, la diversité des prodiges permet de rendre compte de l’immensité de la création.

Sur la mer, les moines rencontrent aussi des baleines ; elles sont dangereuses – l’histoire de Jonas leur revient en mémoire –, mais surtout savoureuses, puisque Dieu permet qu’elles soient tuées par miracle avant d’être très prosaïquement dépecées. De fait, l’archéologie a montré qu’au haut Moyen Âge Irlandais et Anglo-Saxons étaient friands de cétacés ; il aurait été sot de délaisser cette manne calorique qui s’échouait sur leurs côtes. Le clergé se chargeait d’expliquer qu’à titre exceptionnel on pouvait transiger avec les interdictions bibliques concernant la consommation de charognes. De fait, tout le Voyage de Brendan peut être lu comme un périple gastronomique au gré d’escales qui proposent différentes spécialités. Même si la qualité gustative est évoquée, le texte cherche surtout à préciser quel aliment peut être mangé, comment le préparer et quelles en sont les dates de consommation légales – c’est-à-dire quels aliments sont compatibles avec le cycle liturgique.

CAP VERS LE PAYS DES SAINTS

Malgré ces haltes gourmandes, les compagnons de Brendan crient famine lors des longues navigations entre les îles les plus éloignées. Cette faim a sans doute un sens spirituel, mais elle correspond aussi à une réalité médiévale : lorsque la récolte de l’année passée est consommée, la période de soudure est très dure. C’est là que survient justement la tentation de manger des aliments interdits, ce à quoi il faut résister.

La principale quête des compagnons de Brendan reste la sainteté. Même après plusieurs années de mortification, certains n’y sont pas encore prêts. Le deuxième des moines retardataires se voit ainsi déposé sur une île accueillante où il pourra se perfectionner ; le dernier, pécheur incurable, est abandonné à des démons. Les survivants assistent de leur côté à une série de signes par lesquels ils prennent conscience de la toute-puissance de Dieu : un griffon est vaincu par des oiseaux, des poissons maléfiques sont repoussés par le chant de la messe, le signe de croix protège le bateau d’une lapidation organisée par des forgerons démoniaques.

Les ultimes rencontres illustrent des voies extrêmes prises par la condition humaine. Sur un rocher misérable, Judas témoigne de ses crimes et de l’horreur de son châtiment. Sur une île voisine, l’ermite Paul leur enseigne la relativité des mérites : depuis soixante ans, il n’est vêtu que de ses propres cheveux et n’a absorbé aucune nourriture solide. Même Brendan se lamente sur la modestie de ses propres talents devant un tel athlète de Dieu!

Après une dernière tournée des îles connues, les moines mettent enfin le cap vers le pays des Saints. Il leur apparaît comme une terre couverte de forêts accueillantes et riche de mille fruits, un lieu où les ténèbres n’ont pas leur place. D’une certaine façon, ce tableau est à l’opposé de tout ce que l’on trouve en Irlande, et cette inversion constitue le symbole même du paradis. L’île des Saints est toutefois coupée en deux par une rivière infranchissable, qui leur interdit de comprendre la géographie pré cise de l’endroit : les vivants ne peuvent pas connaître l’étendue des félicités éternelles. Un jeune homme à la beauté irréelle les invite d’ailleurs à repartir sans tarder, car ce n’est pas par un voyage terrestre qu’ils parviendront de l’autre côté de la rivière. Brendan meurt peu après son retour en Irlance et son âme rejoint le séjour bienheureux, qu’il n’a pu qu’entrevoir.

Après avoir été longtemps délaissé, le Voyage connaît un succès extraordinaire à la fin du XIXe siècle. Certains veulent alors y voir la preuve que Brendan a franchi l’Atlantique nord ; voilà qui aurait conforté la place des Irlandais catholiques au sein d’un melting-pot américain où tous les migrants n’étaient pas les bienvenus.

L’évocation des courants marins et des fruits exotiques ont aussi amené certains spécialistes à spéculer sur une aventure tropicale : Brendan aurait ouvert la voie à Christophe Colomb. Et comme il n’y a pas de volcan au large de l’Irlande, d’aucuns ont cherché à localiser l’île de l’Enfer dans les Açores ou les Antilles. En 1976, l’aventurier irlandais Tim Severin tenta même la traversée de l’Atlantique sur un coracle, pour prouver l’historicité du récit. On sait que les Irlandais du haut Moyen Âge compilaient des listes de références géographiques puisées dans toute la littérature antique. Il reste probable que le voyage de Brendan n’a existé que dans l’imagination du moine savant qui fut son auteur.

À L’ORIGINE DE LA FANTASY

OEuvre de pédagogie et de spiritualité, le Voyage a surtout servi à nourrir les rêves de deux amis, fervents chrétiens et professeurs d’Oxford, qui devinrent dans les années 1940 les pères de la fantasy. Le premier, J. R. R. Tolkien, fit de la mer occidentale la dernière aventure du Seigneur des anneaux : après avoir tout sacrifié, ses héros partent à la recherche d’une île occidentale où ils trouveront le repos éternel et la récompense de leurs souffrances. De son côté, C. S. Lewis adapta le Voyage de Brendan pour un jeune public et en fit l’un des romans du cycle de Narnia. Dans le tome V, « L’odyssée du Passeur d’aurore », les voyageurs se purifient île après île avant d’atteindre la terre où réside leur rédempteur. Mais seul le plus petit d’entre eux, monté sur un coracle, a le droit d’y parvenir. Le lecteur comprend que le vrai voyage demeure celui de l’âme humaine à la recherche de Dieu. Telle était, déjà, la leçon de Brendan.

Á BAS LES CADENCES INFERNALES!

Presque parvenus au terme de leur périple, Brendan et ses compagnons aperçoivent un homme hirsute accroché à un récif battu par les flots. Il leur avoue être Judas Iscariote. En raison de ses crimes, il a été condamné à brûler en enfer. Toutefois, le Christ lui permet d’échapper à son châtiment tous les dimanches ainsi que certains jours saints dont il égrène la liste. Ce rocher, pour inconfortable qu’il soit, est donc considéré par Judas comme son lieu de repos. Bienveillant, Brendan accepte de prier pour le damné, qui bénéficie ainsi de quelques heures de répit supplémentaires avant de gagner la géhenne.

Cet étrange récit permet d’illustrer deux conceptions essentielles du christianisme médiéval. D’abord, l’Église entend faire respecter sa conception du temps et la loi de l’empereur Constantin du 3 juillet 321, qui interdit de travailler le dimanche. Pour convaincre les laïcs, les clercs multiplient les histoires de miracles. L’auteur de la Vie de Brendan n’a donc pas hésité à montrer que l’enfer même obéit aux règles du repos dominical qui s’imposent à tous les travaux humains. En second lieu, le destin de Judas soutient la théorie de la mitigation des peines dans l’audelà : même les pires criminels peuvent espérer la miséricorde de Dieu via l’intercession des saints. D’ailleurs, qui n’a jamais fait le bien?

Judas explique que la pierre sur laquelle il est assis est cette même pierre que, de son vivant, il a posée sur une route pour boucher une ornière et ainsi faciliter la circulation des passants : cette bonne action lui profite dans l’autre monde. Évidemment, pour obtenir un véritable allégement des souffrances, il faut faire intervenir le clergé, seul capable de fléchir Dieu par les prières et les messes. Voilà pourquoi Brendan négocie une réduction du temps de torture pour Judas, en plus de son congé dominical ! Au XIIe siècle, l’Église définira un lieu pour cette compta bilité de l’au-delà : le purgatoire.

Par Bruno Dumézil dans "Historia Spécial",Paris, n.30,juillet-aoüt 2016, pp.45-49. Adapté et illustré pour être posté par Leopoldo Costa.

Très peu, répondent les gènes! Contrairement aux croyances du folklore normand, les pirates scandinaves n’ont guère modifié le fond génétique de la population locale.

En juin 2015, le généticien Turi King, de l’université de Leicester, et l’historien Richard Jones entreprennent de tester l’ADN des habitants de Valognes (Cotentin). Leur but? Quantifier l’héritage génétique des colons scandinaves supposés s’être massivement installés dans cette partie de la Normandie où les toponymes nordiques sont particulièrement nombreux. Les données acquises sur le continent doivent ensuite être comparées à celles recueillies en Grande-Bretagne, où l’on sait avec certitude que se sont établis de nombreux colons d’Europe septentrionale.

Trois critères ont présidé à la constitution de l’échantillon: le port de l’un des patronymes d’origine nordique attestés dès le IXe siècle, tels Anquetil, Dutot, Équilbec, Gonfray, Ingouf, Lanfry, Osouf, Osmont, Quétel ou Tougis; l’ascendance locale avérée des quatre grands-parents; et l’appartenance au sexe masculin pour bénéficier à la fois d’un traceur génétique des lignées masculines grâce au chromosome Y et d’un traceur génétique des lignées féminines, grâce à l’ADN mitochondrial.

Menée en partenariat avec l’université de Caen et autorisée par le ministère de l’Éducation nationale, de l’Enseignement supérieur et de la Recherche, ainsi que par l’ICO (Information Commissioner’s Office, l’équivalent britannique de la CNIL), l’enquête suscite les réticences du Mouvement contre le racisme et pour l’amitié entre les peuples (MRAP), qui redoute son utilisation à des fins politiques.

Mais, au vu des résultats déroutants annoncés en 2016, les réticences tombent. En effet, en dépit des critères de sélection, le test ne révèle qu’une probabilité maximum de 59 % d’ascendance scandinave. En revanche, d’autres marqueurs font apparaître l’importance relative et très inattendue d’origines germaniques, balkaniques, nord-africaines, géorgiennes et arméniennes.

Peau et yeux clairs, mais...

Qu’en est-il vraiment de l’héritage génétique scandinave en Normandie? Certes, la région compte parmi ses ressortissants bon nombre d’individus au teint et aux yeux clairs, qu’on a sans doute trop longtemps considérés comme d’évidents descendants des colons vikings, car les preuves manquent. Le test d’ADN mené dans le Nord Cotentin aura au moins montré que la génétique contredit elle aussi l’image d’Épinal véhiculée par le folklore normand.

S’il y a eu sans aucun doute possible des immigrants scandinaves en Normandie, leur génétique n’a guère bouleversé le substrat déjà fortement mélangé, depuis des millénaires, d’une population qui s’est sans cesse enrichie d’apports divers, celtiques, anglo-saxons et germaniques. Sans compter que la presqu’île du Cotentin est un petit Finistère, ouvert aux influences maritimes et donc à de nombreux échanges entre des populations éloignées, tandis que les Vikings avaient eux-mêmes, pour nombre d’entre eux, séjourné plus ou moins longtemps en Grande-Bretagne, voire plus loin encore, faisant souche et mêlant allégrement leurs gènes à ceux de leurs contemporains!

La conclusion qui émerge de ce test est donc qu’un fort brassage de populations a eu lieu en Normandie, plutôt que la colonisation massive que l’on croit pouvoir déduire de la carte des noms de lieux d’origine nordique recensés. C’est d’autant plus frappant que ce constat se manifeste dans le Nord Cotentin, où la densité de ces toponymes est particulièrement élevée. En somme, ces données génétiques recoupent parfaitement le silence relatif de l’archéologie normande en matière de Vikings. Faut-il s’en étonner?

Non, car toutes les pièces du puzzle patiemment réunies depuis des décennies au sujet des Vikings de Normandie convergent vers une seule et même conclusion: celle de l’installation d’un petit nombre (peut-être 5000 ou 6000) d’hommes venus pour la plupart en célibataires après avoir bourlingué entre Manche et mer du Nord, pour s’établir en pays de Caux et en Basse-Seine, dans les estuaires bas-normands et au nord du Cotentin. Toujours près de la mer, où leurs talents de marins leur ont permis de s’inventer une nouvelle existence et de se fondre dans les populations locales.

Par Vincent Carpentier dans "Pour la Science",France, novembre 2016, n.469, p. 116. Adapté et illustré pour être posté par Leopoldo Costa.

En el siglo XVII, las coffee houses inglesas se habían convertido en foros de debate político, y las conmociones revolucionarias del siglo XVIII exportaron este papel de los cafés al continente

Los cafés habían proliferado en la capital inglesa desde que en 1652 abrió el primero Pasqua Rosee, el criado armenio de un comerciante inglés que se había aficionado al café mientras viajaba por el Mediterráneo oriental. Su éxito fue inmediato en la puritana época de Oliver Cromwell, entonces dirigente dela única República que ha conocido Inglaterra.Frente al vino y la cerveza, el café garantizaba un valor grato a los puritanos: la sobriedad,a la vez que su carácter estimulante aseguraba la lucidez y la capacidad de trabajo durante una larga jornada,algo que complacía desde escritores hasta mercaderes.

Cuando la monarquía fue restaurada con Carlos II en 1660, ya había en Londres 63 cafés en los que se opinaba sobre todo tipo de cuestiones, política incluida. De hecho, sir William Coventry, uno de los fieles del monarca, recordaba que bajo Cromwell los partidarios de Carlos se reunían en los cafés, y que «los amigos del rey habían gozado de una mayor libertad de expresión en esos lugares de la que se habrían atrevido a ejercer en cualquier otro». Si en 1675, el soberano intentó prohibir las coffee houses fue porque era consciente del papel que desempeñaban como foros de discusión y crítica de la actuación del gobierno.

Pero el intento del rey por suprimir los cafés levantó tal oleada de indignación que el gobierno tuvo que ceder, y se autorizó a mantenerlos abiertos otros seis meses si sus propietarios pagaban 500 libras y realizaban un juramento de lealtad. Sin embargo, estas imposiciones fueron unánimemente ignoradas y los cafés siguieron abiertos.

Cafés de Londres

Si los ingleses se habían irritado tanto por la prohibición era porque los cafés se habían convertido en parte de la vida diaria de la nueva Inglaterra liberal y burguesa, señora de un próspero imperio mercantil. En los cafés se reunían los hombres de negocios, y con el tiempo algunos establecimientos alumbraron importantes instituciones económicas, como el Lloyd’s, donde nació la aseguradora de este nombre. Otros cafés atraían a poetas y literatos, de la misma manera que los científicos de la Royal Society proseguían sus debates en estos locales. No era extraño que se llamara a las coffee houses «universidades de a penique», porque por el precio de una taza de café cualquiera podía asistir a aquellas charlas e incluso participar en ellas.

Los cafés londinenses disponían de largas mesas de madera donde el dueño dejaba velas, pipas y periódicos, lo que convertía estos locales en lugares idóneos para las discusiones colectivas, una vocación reforzada por el carácter democrático de tales establecimientos: como observó el poeta Samuel Butler, allí se mezclaban «el caballero, el artesano, el lord y el bribón». Los partidos políticos aprovecharon este movimiento de gente e ideas, y muy pronto los whigs (liberales) y los tories (conservadores) divulgaron sus posiciones desde los cafés.

Mesas para la revolución

A mediados del siglo XVIII, los cafés de París también eran lugares de encuentro de intelectuales y se habían convertido en refugio del pensamiento ilustrado. Diderot compiló la Enciclopedia en el Café de la Régence, y entre los clientes del Procope figuraban el propio Diderot, D’Alembert y Rousseau. Sin embargo, los cafés parisinos tenían un carácter menos combativo que los de Londres, en especial porque en Francia la prensa y la opinión eran objeto de una férrea censura. La información se suplió con una amplia difusión de rumores que la policía anotaba diligentemente: «Jean-Louis Le Clerc hizo los siguientes comentarios en el Café Procope: que nunca había existido un rey peor; que la corte y los ministros hacen que el rey cometa actos vergonzosos, que repugnan en grado sumo a su pueblo», decía un informe de 1749.

Pero en julio de 1789, el choque entre los diputados de los Estados Generales y la Corona subió bruscamente la temperatura política de los cafés, tan abarrotados que la gente se agolpaba ante sus puertas y ventanas para escuchar a los oradores que clamaban contra el gobierno subidos a sillas y mesas. La tensión estalló el día 12, cuando el diputado Camille Desmoulins se subió a una mesa del Café de Foy y arengó a la multitud: «¡A las armas!»; dos días después, el pueblo tomaba la Bastilla. Y el café había pasado a formar parte de la cultura política europea.



LOS CAFÉS ALTERAN LA PAZ DEL REINO


El 29 de diciembre de 1675, el rey Carlos II de Inglaterra emitió una Proclama para la supresión de los cafés. En ella se ponía de manifiesto con toda claridad por qué la Corona consideraba nocivos esos locales: «Han producido efectos muy malignos y peligrosos [...] pues en dichos establecimientos [...] se traman y difunden diversas noticias falsas, maliciosas y escandalosas para la difamación del gobierno de Su Majestad y la alteración de la paz y la tranquilidad del reino», por todo lo cual «Su Majestad ha considerado justo y necesario que se clausuren y supriman los citados cafés».

Texto de Josep Maria Casals en "Historia National Geographic",Edición en español, n. 155, noviembre 2016, pp.26-27 . Adaptación y ilustración para publicación en ese sitio por Leopoldo Costa.

Polícia indiana inspeciona restaurantes locais para averiguar vestígios de carne bovina.

Em Haryana, um estado no norte da Índia, policiais da Comissão de Serviço à Vaca (sim, isso existe por lá) passaram a vasculhar as despensas dos restaurantes. Há suspeitas de que alguns lugares estejam vendendo biryani — arroz indiano vegetariano ou com cordeiro — misturado com carne bovina. Como naquela região a matança de vacas é proibida, os policiais intensificaram a fiscalização: apreendem o material suspeito e levam para análise.

Essa veneração às vacas surgiu por volta de 1500 antes de Cristo, quando hinduístas escreveram textos sagrados sobre a relação do animal com a fertilidade e com Krishna, um dos deuses indianos. Mas a proibição não acontece em todo o país, ainda que 80% dos cidadãos sejam adeptos do hinduísmo. Cada estado tem a própria legislação — e pode ou não autorizar o abate de carne bovina. O consumo de outros tipos de carne é liberado.

No estado de Haryana, a população local até arranja brigas quando suspeita que vizinhos tenham matado vacas ou feito um despretensioso churrasquinho. Mas as práticas policiais têm gerado polêmica: alguns comerciantes dizem ter perdido todo o estoque de comida, confiscado pela polícia. E garantem que jamais venderam ou comeram um bifezinho sequer da mimosa.

Texto de Carol Castro publicado em "Galileu" edição 304, novembro 2016, p.21, excertos da pagina 21. Adaptado e ilustrado por Leopoldo Costa. 

Pope Joan giving birth in the street and being executed, along with her lover and child (below): from an illustrated account of her life, published in 1600, by the Protestant writer Johannes Wolf as part of his popular history of the shortcomings of the papacy, "Lectiones memorabiles et reconditae".

Did she, or didn’t she? Could a German woman of English parentage pull off one of the greatest deceptions of all time and rise, disguised as a man, to the pinnacle of the Catholic church in the ninth century? If so, did the Catholic church then achieve a remarkable triumph by putting this embarrassing skeleton back in the cupboard in the post-Reformation period? Or is Pope Joan an empty and malicious legend promoted by generation after generation of anti-Catholics and anti-clerics? Perhaps, though, the truth is less clear-cut. Could Pope Joan be a significant myth or an allegory for some other historical happening? Or a bit of both?

There are three major obstacles to endorsing Pope Joan as an historical reality. The first and least important concerns the extraordinary nature of her demise. The story as told by the chroniclers has, I had felt from the start of my investigation, the instinctive feel of pure invention, the ninth-century equivalent of a 1980s urban myth.

There can be no doubt that even the most august clerics down the ages have suffered from what the Catholic church to this day likes to call ‘broken celibacy’, so the idea of a pope having a lover need not detain us. And while her giving birth in the street gives her story an air of freakishness, otherwise intelligent women have, particularly as they approach their menopause, mistaken pregnancy for the onset of the change of life and turned up at hospital with stomach pains to be delivered of a baby hours later. (And vice versa in the case of Mary Tudor and the series of tragic delusional pregnancies of her later years.)

Professor David Canter had fitted such total denial into the pattern of Joan’s ‘outsider’ mentality, but Dr Rosalind Miles was for me a particularly effective witness in challenging this crucial part of the prosecution case. ‘Joan’s story – or at least the ending – could well be a fiction by men, proving the point that for every culture there is a counter-culture. The stronger the culture, the stronger the counterculture. And in as much as the Church loves and needs the pope, it must also hate and resent the pope because that is the way it works. A strong papacy is bound to throw up a strong counter-culture – in this case Joan.’1 The very power of the papacy, then, encourages characters like Joan to rebel, but the enduring strength of the institution means that such rebellions get ‘normalised’ in the end. Joan is, from the institution’s point of view, satisfyingly punished, while the men take back their lost control.

If every culture produces an equally strong counter-culture, then the facts of Joan’s success could have made those most indicted and threatened by it invent a tale of her fall to negate all that had gone before. A flesh-and-blood example to inspire and liberate women could with a deft turn of the hand be transformed into one that subjugated them and made them prisoners of their bodies and biology. Joan’s deception may well have been discovered, and she may have been sent off to a nunnery or even imprisoned, but by making her with child and then depicting her giving birth in the street, she was twisted to fit into the pattern of admonitory literature used to keep its mainly women readers from overreaching themselves.

If the anti-feminist ending was added to a pro-feminist life story, it was a stroke of genius. Catholicism, despite all its traditionalism and exclusion of women from public positions of authority, is after all a women’s religion. The nineteenth-century historian W. E. H. Lecky wrote: ‘It can hardly, I think, be questioned that in the great religious convulsions of the sixteenth century the feminine type followed Catholicism while Protestantism inclined more to the masculine type.’2 By balancing out Joan’s example, the authors gave women within the Church the chance secretly to rejoice in her initial success, but also the comfort that the status quo was restored and justified by her demise. They were not, after all, missing out on anything.

The second and more significant obstacle to belief in the She-Pope concerns the theories of such distinguished historians as Edward Gibbon that mention of an imaginary Pope Joan as some sort of code for damning other disreputable but real popes. The notorious mother and daughter, Theodora and Marozia Theophylact, and their attempts in the tenth century to turn the papacy into a family sinecure, are often mentioned in this context. Yet the accounts of their misdeeds and lustful appetites were seldom suppressed and certainly not at the time when the story of Pope Joan was most widespread. This explanation, and other variations on the same theme concerning effeminate pontiffs and eunuch patriarchs, does not make any sense.

The third and most serious objection raised by those who would deny Joan a life is the gap of 400 years between her pontificate and Martin Polonus’s landmark account. Less sophisticated sceptics say that this silence arose because Joan was not spoken of until her story was made up by Protestants after the Reformation and then inserted into pre-Reformation texts by skilled forgers. Such talk of a conspiracy is nonsense as my trip to the Bodleian Library in Oxford had confirmed. Undoctored accounts of her exist from pre-Reformation days.

Joan Morris, the scholarly Catholic feminist whose own incomplete research was privately published in 1985, offered a glimmer of light on the hiatus between Joan’s pontificate and Martin Polonus’s account with her work on the Paris version of the Book of Popes. Ultimately, though, she could do no more than suggest a possible halving of the period of silence. Definitive proof eluded her.

Despite many hours spent in libraries with catalogues and ancient manuscripts following up the clues Morris had left in her papers, I could not make any further progress in turning back the clock. The gap, I am forced to conclude, has to be seen in the context of a strong oral tradition, of visiting preachers, of widespread illiteracy, of very few books and of the unsavoury activities of the librarian Anastasius who was perfectly capable of deleting all mention of Joan, should it suit him for the purposes of his own advancement. The loss of Martin Polonus’s source leaves an unfathomable mystery, but his reputation would suggest that he was not the sort of Church writer simply to make something up. He would have had a source, but as with Frederick Spanheim, in his exhaustive seventeenth-century catalogue of mentions of Joan, too many original documents have been lost. The destruction of the library at Fulda where, I discovered on my visit, not a single ancient manuscript now resides, brought home this point.

With these persuasive but inconclusive arguments, failure to bridge the gap between 855 and the latter half of the thirteenth century cannot deliver the prosecution victory. Many of history’s most crucial and most accepted events are known of only because of much later writings – the gospels immediately spring to mind. And that 400-year gap is just one part in the puzzle.

It is worth recalling in this context that evidence of many of the officially recognised popes of the Dark Ages on the Church’s roll of honour is at best fragmentary and certainly not contemporary. In the case of Pope Lando at the start of the tenth century, for instance, only one fragment of proof survives that he even existed – a record of a benefaction to the cathedral in Siena. Pope John VI at the start of the eighth is a completely unknown quantity. Taken on the merits of the evidence, both deserve to be consigned to limbo. But they are men and so survive. Joan represents more of a challenge to the authorised version of Church history.

Set against what had increasingly over the course of my investigation been exposed as a weak prosecution case are many positive reasons for believing that the She-Pope was more than a made-up story. The evidence of some 500 medieval writers cannot but impress. Senior papal servants, writing in books dedicated to their masters, endorse Joan unambiguously. Academics and inquisitors accept her as fact. Such widespread belief, filtering up to the pinnacle of power in the Catholic church, cannot lightly be dismissed as a Protestant plot, a fable, or a cipher for some other story of papal skullduggery. Why, for example, did Sienese pope after Sienese pope allow Joan’s statue to stand in their home cathedral? The logical answer is that they regarded her, however grudgingly, as a predecessor.

These substantial testaments to Joan’s life are, of course, circumstantial. They do not prove her existence, only that of her cult. Yet, at the very least, a story can exist because people go on believing it. It endures because people want to listen to it time and again. And it transmutes according to their tastes and needs. In that sense Pope Joan is again undeniably true. She was believed in, and people remain fascinated by her and attracted to her, be they directors, artists, playwrights or novelists. One anonymous sender of floral tributes in Rome would still appear to have faith in her to this day. (Despite my efforts, I never did discover his or her identity, though in the course of my investigation I had my suspicions about correspondents from Europe, the States and Canada, all of them Pope Joan devotees of admirably sane but slightly quirky credentials.)

Despite all attempts to kill her off, Pope Joan keeps cropping up in our own times. People believe in her and go on believing in her because they want her to have happened. They like the inversion at the heart of her story. It’s like the boy bishops and the Lord of Misrule of the Elizabethan period, where the most unlikely person becomes king or bishop for the day.

Yet this appeal can distract from the fact that Pope Joan is much more than a wonderful story. She was taken as read not only by chroniclers but by generation after generation from the thirteenth century to at least the seventeenth. The Vicus Papissa, ‘the street of the woman pope’ where Joan gave birth and met her end, exists with its shrine, although her statue has been lost. The street was avoided because of Joan by papal processions as the Master of Ceremonies, Bishop Burchard, testified in the fifteenth century. Likewise the strange chair for checking the pope’s manhood exists and, travellers record, was used. The bust of Joan in Siena existed. And a playful illustration of her labour remains in Saint Peter’s at the foot on the baldacchino over the main altar to this day.

And there are more immediate historical reasons for suggesting hat Joan be restored to her rightful place among the popes. The details told by the chroniclers fit neatly with the middle of the ninth century. There was, for instance, a celebrated colony of English missionaries in Germany then – hence the name ‘Joan the English’, though she was born in Mainz. And it is undeniably true that Greek-educated figures, as Joan was alleged to be, were prominent and revered in Rome at this time. Some, indeed, went on to be elected to the throne of Saint Peter thanks to the system which then prevailed – an unpredictable popular vote which favoured the deacons collected around the dead pope, and which occasionally threw up a saintly and scholarly outsider.

All these essential details may have been mangled and exaggerated as the history of Joan was passed across medieval dining-rooms and library desks down the ages but, once ironed out and reassembled, make perfect sense in the context of their time. Nothing is out of place.

Moreover, when I had moved beyond verifying the details told in the chronicles, I had discovered that the all-male atmosphere of the Church in the ninth century was of very recent vintage. Women like Cuthburga of Wimborne and Hilda of Whitby had ruled over double monasteries of men and women with quasi-episcopal powers. Some scholars, like the American historian Vern Bullough, hold that the official Church was at pains to promote stories of cross-dressing women saints as role models for clever young girls like Joan. Even if you are cursed with a woman’s body, the subliminal message went, for curse it was certainly regarded by the all-male hierarchy, if you take on every masculine attribute, you may just gain admittance to the inner sanctum as an honorary man.

Turning to the basic mechanics of Joan’s disguise, I had established a convincing case that her physical sleight of hand was possible. The ninth century was a time when priests were told to shave off their beards. With her fair chin and upper lip, Joan would in previous centuries have been damned. In the ninth she could have thrived. Moreover, history shows that women have successfully passed themselves off as men to achieve positions of great power. Their bodies, especially in a frugal time like the Dark Ages, have been relatively easy to transform.

The mental leap of imagining herself a man and one entitled to run the Church had caused me to pause. Jan Morris demonstrated that Joan could have made mental sense out of such a change of gender even in her own Dark Age world, but it was Professor David Canter, pioneer of psychological profiling in Britain, who convinced me on her state of mind. Psychology, his distinctly late-twentieth-century discipline, enabled me to move beyond all others who over the centuries had considered the claims of Joan. The professor lent his professional good name to the case for the defence. Stripped of the embellishments of over-eager admirers and exploiters, Pope Joan, he believed, adds up to a real person with recognisable and consistent traits, a character, moreover, with antecedents and descendants down to our own times.

Weighing all this evidence, I am convinced that Pope Joan was an historical figure, though perhaps not all the details about her that have been passed on down the centuries are true.

For a century, since the work of the German anti-Joanite Professor Dollinger, those historians, scholars and believers who have stumbled across Pope Joan in ancient manuscripts or dusty corners of the Vatican Museum have dismissed her as a colourful legend. Talk of her has been deemed anti-Church. Writers who in other circumstances expend considerable energy investigating anything from the Turin Shroud to bleeding statues are content to toe the official line. Yet looking back into this episode in the history of the Church, however troubled and inglorious, is not anti-Church per se. In my own case knowledge has not put any distance between me, my church and my faith. Quite the opposite, whatever the omens of all those hearses. If I had relied on the official explanations I would long ago have given up on the Church in frustration.

With such an uncomfortable slice of history as Joan – comprising equal measures of fact, distorted fact and the subsequent embroidery of well-natured but unsatisfactory fiction – chronology cannot be all. A dancer to different tunes down the ages, Joan has fitted the mood of many periods, be they anti-clerical, anti-Catholic, feminist, romantic or erotic. She has even, I was told by one who should know, become something of an icon for religiously minded transvestites.

I accept, of course, that some who have reached this stage of the investigation may pull up short of my qualified conclusion. I would ask them at least to admire Pope Joan’s extraordinary tenacity down the centuries. Her story has survived all attempts to bury it because it has proved greater and longer lasting than any of the ways in which it has been communicated, the causes to which it has been annexed, or the groups who have chanced upon it. That has been its ultimate danger, and one specially relevant at a time when Catholic women, like Ludmilla Javorova, are determined to have their claims to the priesthood recognised.

Having accepted that Pope Joan is based in part on fact and a real person, the final question is where to draw the line between taking on every detail and discounting most. A starting point at this lower end of the scale is the prophetess of Moguntia – another name for Mainz – who succeeded, according to a sixteenth-century edition of the chronicle of Sigebert, in persuading her archbishop to ordain her to the priesthood. That story may have been overblown and fictionalised into Joan.

My own inclination, having lived and breathed Joan for six months, is to go for a medium point – that she achieved the papacy at a time when the office was hopelessly debased and corrupt, was moderately successful but that her triumph was short-lived. She was uncovered, not in dramatic fashion in the Vicus Papissa, but when her ‘outsider’ mentality, as outlined by Professor Canter, made her careless. The drawbacks of her secret achievement may even have outweighed the benefits and she could have voluntarily given herself up to life in a convent, a vow of silence and the rewriting of history to exclude her.

Such a scenario is speculation, based on the facts with undeniable historical validity that I have laid out. Speculating, though, is one of the rewards of surviving a long investigation and is part of the pull the She-Pope continues to exert.

In a more general sense, if this search serves any purpose at all, it will be, in ascending order of priority, to see Joan’s name mentioned at sites like Fulda, Siena and Wimborne; for her example to be treated with a little more seriousness by historians and all sides in the gender debates that continue to divide the Catholic church; and for the ‘official’ Church to show a little more humility when dictating from on high which episodes of history – usually those that reflect well on it – are worthy of respect and which can be swept under an already lumpy carpet.

Significant Dates: An Overview

715Boniface sails from England for Germany
750Rome breaks its links with Constantinople
755Boniface buried at Fulda
800Pope Leo III crowns Charlemagne Emperor
846Saracen raid on Rome wrecks Saint Peter’s
847Pope Leo IV elected
853Pope Leo dies. Joan elected
855Pope Joan discovered and deposed. Benedict III elected
858Pope Benedict dies. Nicholas I elected
1225 Jean de Mailly’s Chronica universalis appears with unequivocal endorsement of Joan
1265 Martin Polonus’s chronicle, principal source on Joan, first appears
1484 Papal Master of Ceremonies confirms that popes avoid the Vicus Papissa
1565 Last sighting of Pope Joan statue in Rome
1691 Frederick Spanheim’s survey of 500 sources on Pope Joan published late 1600s
         Joan removed from papal busts in Siena Cathedral

NOTES

  1Author interview
  2W. E. H. Lecky, History of European Morals (London, 1869)

By Peter Stanford in "The She-Pope", Arrow Books, (part of the Penguin Random House group), London, 1999. Adapted and illustrated to be posted by Leopoldo Costa.

Most of the compounds found in living organisms are made up of only a few of the ninety-eight naturally occurring elements. Carbon, hydrogen, and oxygen are found in a countless number of compounds. The differences in these compounds are due to the amounts of each element that are present and the way the atoms are arranged in the molecules.

Fats and oils, like carbohydrates, are a group of compounds made of only carbon, hydrogen, and oxygen. Fats and oils are produced by animals and plants as a method of storing food. Molecules of sugars and starches become fat or oil molecules as the atoms are rearranged. Stored fats and oils protect an organism against a time when food is scarce. Fats, starches, and sugars are needed for energy.

You can find out if a food contains fat or oil by rubbing it on a piece of brown paper bag. If the food contains a greasy substance, a translucent spot (an area that lets light through) will appear where you rubbed. Water in food will also produce a translucent spot, but a water spot disappears when the water dries. A fat or oil spot will not disappear.

Animal fats, such as butter or lard, are usually solids at room temperature, while vegetable fats are liquids. Vegetable oils can be made into solid fats in a laboratory by adding hydrogen gas under pressure. The terms saturated and unsaturated fats refer to the amount of hydrogen in a fat. Saturated fats contain more hydrogen than unsaturated or polyunsaturated. Saturated fats are usually solid, while unsaturated fats are oils. Margarine, which is advertised as being made from oil, contains some saturated fat. Hydrogen was added to make the fat solid.

Is there a difference between the ways these two kinds of fats act in the body? This is a question that has occupied scientists for years. When some people age, yellowish, fatty deposits of a substance called cholesterol form inside the arteries, leaving a narrower passage for blood to get through. This condition, called arteriosclerosis, can cause blood clots, which may block an artery and cause it to burst. It may also completely close an artery, cutting off the blood supply to a part of the body. If this happens in one of the arteries that nourishes the heart or brain, death can result. It appears that saturated fats in the diet may increase the amount of cholesterol in the body, and unsaturated fats may lower blood-cholesterol levels. For this reason, doctors suggest that older people cut down on the amounts of butter, cheese, and fatty meats in their diets. It is also behind the recent rulings to ban “trans” fats (which are saturated) from processed foods.

By Vicki Cobb in "Science Experiments You Can Eat",(revised edition) Harper-Collins Publishers, New York, 2016,excerpts chapter 4. Adapted and illustrated to be posted by Leopoldo Costa.

HITLER Y LAS DROGAS EN EL III REICH.

El doctor Morell llegó a recetar al Führer 28 pastillas diarias y, además, en los cuatro últimos años, 800 inyecciones con noventa tipos de vitaminas, anabolizantes, cocaína o heroína.

Acaba de aparecer un libro lleno de aportaciones sobre la increíble cantidad de todo tipo de compuestos químicos que Hitler ingirió para superar temores, encajar reveses y presentar una personalidad activa y clarividente hasta que terminó sumido en un estado casi continuo de alucinación y de sueños quiméricos. Bastaba que tuviera un mal día, que necesitara especial lucidez ante una intervención militar o frescura para recibir a un personaje de su interés, para que exigiera al Dr. Morell que le pusiera a tono y el dócil médico, que por algo conservó su cargo junto al Führer durante ocho años, acudía solícito a inyectarle un “chute” de metanfetaminas, cocaína, heroína, opio o cualquiera otra droga.

A lo largo de esos años, 1937- 1945, el Führer tuvo épocas en que consumió hasta 28 estimulantes, anabolizantes, complejos vitamínicos, analgésicos o tónicos cardiacos al día... Algo de esto se sabía –ya lo habían adelantado algunos de los grandes biógrafos de Hitler, como Ian Kershaw o Joachim Fest–, pero nunca con la claridad y datos que maneja el periodista e historiador Norman Ohler en "El Gran Delirio. Hitler, Drogas y el III Reich" Crítica, Barcelona, 2016).

Ohler encontró en el archivo Federal de Alemania, de Coblenza, el dietario del doctor Theo Morell, referido al “Paciente A”, con millares de notas en “letra ilegible” o “garabatos” en los que mediante un minucioso y largo estudio pudo identificar prescripciones de noventa tipos de drogas y medicamentos que el “Paciente A”, Adolf Hitler, ingirió por vía oral o que, en más de 800 casos en los últimos cuatro años de la guerra, le inyectó personalmente.

Pero los hallazgos en torno a Hitler y su médico van más allá: este se las arregló para variar la naturaleza de esa lluvia de drogas –entre ellas, Ohler ha identificado 74 tipos de estimulantes–, de modo que ninguna creara adicción al Führer, quien, sin embargo, sufrió la adición a su doctor, que gracias a ella superó la enemistad de personajes tan relevantes dentro del nazismo como Martin Bormann, Heinrich Himmler, Joachim von Ribbentrop o Ernst Kaltenbrunner, y el ataque de los médicos de cabecera del Führer, a los que este había sustituido por el “taumaturgo” Morell. Hitler acalló a los primeros y alejó a los segundos.

“Me ha salvado la vida”. 

El 8 de noviembre de 1944 le dijo a Morell, según este reflejó en su dietario: “Estos imbéciles no se han parado a pensar en el mal que podrían haberme hecho. Me habría quedado, de repente, sin médico. Estos tipos deberían saber que usted, en los ocho años que lleva a mi lado, me ha salvado la vida varias veces. (...) No soy un desagradecido, querido doctor, y si los dos salimos felizmente de esta guerra, verá lo generosa que será mi recompensa”.

Ese agradecimiento se ampliaba al aspecto sexual: Morell trató tanto a Adolf Hitler como a Eva Braun (la “Paciente B”, en el dietario) con testosterona, estrógenos y vitaminas para aumentar el deseo y la potencia sexual del Führer y ampliar la disponibilidad de Eva acortando sus menstruaciones. En los interrogatorios de posguerra, Morell desmintió la famosa impotencia del Führer y aseguró que, a veces, tuvo que curarle algunas heridas cutáneas derivadas de la fogosidad de su amante.

La recompensa fue estratosférica: a Morell se le permitió vender cientos de millones de dosis de un “medicamento milagroso”, el Multivultin, que simplemente era un complejo vitamínico A, D, E y C, aderezado con levadura, leche en polvo y azúcar. Y mucho más: el doctor organizó en la ocupada Checoslovaquia un inmenso complejo químico que procesaba las vísceras que le suministraban todos los mataderos de Ucrania, con los que se elaboraban drogas, esteroides, testosterona, estrógenos y complejos nutritivos, mientras la ocupación lo permitió. En 1943 y 1944, los transportes de Morell –vagones y camiones refrigerados– tuvieron prioridad sobre las necesidades militares y ¡ay de quien interrumpiera ese tráfico! Inmediatamente se las veía con las iras hitlerianas, pues Morell aseguraba al Führer que estaba en peligro el suministro de sus medicamentos.

Panacea universal: el Pervitin.

No es la única aportación de esta obra. Alemania se convirtió en el paraíso de la química a finales del siglo XIX y, pese a su derrota en la I Guerra Mundial, siguió siéndolo después. Perdió relevancia dentro de la industria pesada, pero sus laboratorios químicos y farmacéuticos se hallaban entre los más importantes del mundo en los años veinte y treinta, con firmas tan relevantes como Bayer, Merck, Höchst, Basf o Temmler y consorcios gigantescos como la IG Farben. La química farmacéutica alemana estaba a la cabeza mundial de los analgésicos (aspirina, cafeaspirina), de las sulfamidas, de los tratamientos contra la sífilis y de varios tipos de vitaminas, y, también, de la elaboración de drogas como la morfina y la cocaína, con el 40 y el 80 por ciento, respectivamente, de las producciones mundiales. Asi mismo, para suplir las materias primas de las que carecía, su industria química creó sucedáneos para el café, el té, el azúcar, el petróleo o el caucho...

Por ello, no sorprende que cuando el laboratorio Temmler de Berlín lanzó en 1937 el Pervitin –un producto inventado por su director químico, Fritz Hauschild, para potenciar el rendimiento–, no se desataran las sospechas de que esta metanfetamina –clandestinamente hoy sigue comercializándose con el nombre de Crystal meth– era una potente droga con perniciosos efectos secundarios. La campaña que promocionó el Pervitin, al estilo de la que Coca-Cola hizo en los Estados Unidos, aseguraba que vencía al sueño, el cansancio, el hambre, la sed, la depresión, el miedo y la frigidez femenina e incrementaba la autoestima, y que su ingesta integraría socialmente a vagos, indolentes y abúlicos. Incluso se recomendaba para combatir la adicción al alcohol, los opiáceos y la cocaína.

Persecución nazi.

Este último aspecto era muy relevante, pues Alemania, con Berlín como epicentro, se había convertido en los años veinte y treinta en el paraíso de las drogas. En la última época de la República de Weimar, el 40 por ciento de los médicos berlineses eran morfinómanos y recetaban sin rubor morfina y heroína, que se expendían en las farmacias como si fuesen bicarbonato, burlando las restricciones gubernamentales impuestas en 1929. Alfred Döblin, en su obra "Berlin Alexanderplatz", publicada en 1929 (en castellano hay varias traducciones, la última de Cátedra, 2011), refleja el vicio y el desenfreno reinantes en el Berlín de la época, y Ohler lo corrobora con datos. Había centenares de lugares donde se consumía droga, desde los miserables fumaderos de opio a las deslumbrantes fiestas de la alta sociedad, que el escritor Gervasio Posadas describe en "El Mentalista de Hitler" (Barcelona, Conspicua,2016), la historia de Erik Jan Hanussen. El asunto era tan público y notorio que lo reflejaba una canción popular en los cabarets berlineses, conocida como “Esnifamos y nos chutamos”. Su primera estrofa decía:

"Antes, por momentos, el alcohol,
Ese néctar despiadado,
A un placer caníbal nos llevó,
Pero ahora sale caro.
Por eso en Berlín nos pirra
La cocaína y la morfina".

La fiesta declinó en 1933, cuando Hitler accedió a la Cancillería. Se incrementó la persecución de los estupefacientes, acusando a los traficantes de corruptores extranjeros y judíos intoxicadores, y convirtiendo a los drogadictos en sospechosos de semitismo, pues “el judío era drogadicto por naturaleza”. Además, se incrementaron los castigos: los médicos podían ser inhabilitados durante cinco años y los consumidores, encarcelados por dos. Los nazis también fomentaron la delación y realizaron campañas brutales de desintoxicación, incluyendo los campos de concentración, e incluso penalizaron el consumo con la prohibición matrimonial, argumentando la protección del cónyuge y de la prole, llegando a la esterilización forzosa “por motivos de higiene racial”. Y aún serían más duras las leyes de 1939, que podían llegar a la eliminación del drogadicto.

Respecto a esta persecución –que, más tímidamente, también apuntaba al consumo de tabaco y alcohol– debe añadirse que el nazismo mantuvo una arbitrariedad absoluta. Los jerarcas se permitieron comerciar con bebidas alcohólicas, como el propio ministro de Exteriores, Von Ribbentrop, comerciante de champán, o ser adictos a la morfina, como el viceführer Hermann Göring, llamado burlonamente Möring, o beber como cosacos, como era habitual entre los miembros de las SA. Al respecto, cabe recordar que gran parte de los primeros discursos de Hitler los pronunció en las cervecerías de Múnich, y que en una de ellas, la Bürgerbräukeller, intentó conquistar el poder en 1923. Allí se celebraron los mítines conmemorativos del Führer, y allí se produjo el atentado de Georg Elser, en 1939, que estuvo a punto de costarle la vida.

Pero la pervitina y sus múltiples virtudes estaban fuera de toda duda, y su rápida y masiva producción –cerca de un millón de pastillas cada día– estaba en la línea de la política antidroga, de la mejora del rendimiento físico y mental y de la elevación del entusiasmo, casando todo ello con la consigna nazi: “¡Despierta Alemania!”. De este modo se convirtió en un producto que millones de alemanes consumió sin saber lo que realmente era y sin conocer sus efectos secundarios.

“Militarmente valiosa”. 

Y la fama de aquellas pastillas alcanzó al ejército. El jefe del departamento de Fisiología de la Defensa definió el Pervitin como “una sustancia muy valiosa militarmente”, y aunque los tests experimentales no fueron convincentes, recomendó su uso en el ejército. Diversas opiniones contrarias impidieron que se oficializara su empleo, pero Norman Ohler ha hallado documentos probatorios de que los diversos departamentos militares adquirieron cerca de cien millones de dosis –se ignora si se refiere a pastillas o a tubos de 30 comprimidos–, pero debieron ser muchas más, pues la documentación es muy incompleta. El consumo era aleatorio, dependiendo de los jefes y de la voluntad del soldado, pero su uso debió ser muy superior a las adquisiciones militares, pues los soldados pedían a su casa que les enviaran pervitina cuando no podían obtenerla en los botiquines castrenses.

Se sabe que el Pervitin fue utilizado por los pilotos y las tripulaciones de los panzer, que con él superaron el sueño y el cansancio de jornadas agotadoras en las que fue determinante su movilidad. La “guerra relámpago” debió mucho a esta droga, cuyos resultados fueron reconocidos militarmente como excelentes, hasta que se advirtieron los efectos secundarios de su uso prolongado.

El empleo de drogas estimulantes no fue privativo de las tropas del III Reich, sino que las utilizaron todos los contendientes durante el conflicto, pero con efectos menos espectaculares que la victoria fulminante de la Wehrmacht en Francia, cuyas divisiones panzer aparecían como fantasmas tras las líneas aliadas gracias al esfuerzo de tripulaciones capaces de combatir durante varios días casi sin interrupción.

En la URSS, el Pervitin resultó menos determinante, pues el esfuerzo requerido era de muchas semanas consecutivas, con lo cual se hacían evidentes los efectos secundarios: adicción, agotamiento prolongado, estupefacción, ansiedad, trastornos cerebrales, alucinaciones y conductas agresivas.

La Kriegsmarine utilizó grandes dosis de pervitina en 1945 con adolescentes que tripulaban minisubmarinos destinados a sembrar el caos en los puertos británicos. Se ignora cuántos fueron lanzados a aquella loca aventura, pero no se les conoce éxito alguno. Los pocos supervivientes recordaban que la excitación y las alucinaciones les impedían, incluso, fijar el rumbo.

ERRORES Y DROGAS. 

Aquel fue uno de los postreros delirios de Hitler, a cuya drogadicción quizá se deban muchas de sus paranoias, crueldades, violencias e insensateces político-militares, como ya sospechaban sus biógrafos desde hace décadas y como la investigación de Ohler demuestra.

Una de las primeras decisiones disparatadas del Führer fue la orden impuesta por Hitler a los panzer de Kleist, el 24 de mayo, de detenerse cuando avanzaban hacia Dunkerque. Aquel error, que permitió la evacuación de 338.000 soldados aliados, base de un nuevo ejército británico, ha sido estudiado desde varios puntos de vista: Hitler quiso dar un descanso a sus unidades acorazadas, necesitadas de sueño y repuesto; según otros, quiso ahorrar a Gran Bretaña aquella humillación, pensando en que abriría las puertas a un posterior acuerdo de paz; un tercer análisis cree que Göring, que visitó a Hitler en esas fechas, le convenció para que parase los tanques y permitiera que la gloria de la victoria se la adjudicara la joven Luftwaffe, necesitada, por otro lado, de un adiestramiento en ese tipo de situaciones.

Ohler ha investigado que, aunque todos esos argumentos pudieron tener cierto peso, el disparate de Dunkerque se produjo sobre todo porque Hitler no entendía nada de aquella vertigino- sa guerra y le asaltaban mil temores; a ratos estaba eufórico, a ratos asustado y, en todo momento, resentido contra aquellos generales que se estaban llevando toda la gloria mientras él los seguía como un sonámbulo. Morell tuvo poco que hacer aquellos días, aparte de calmar sus nervios, y el resto lo hizo la morfina que antes de ver al Führer se inyectó Göring: la aviación nacionalsocialista arrebataría la gloria a los generales prusianos...

Las euforias victoriosas fueron dando paso a los berrinches y depresiones causados por las derrotas en la URSS. Mientras el ministro de Armamento, Speer, habla de “trastorno sensorial con el que todas las personas del entorno más próximo a Hitler aguardaban el inevitable final”, el médico Morell le inyectaba un chute tras otro, por lo que a punto estuvo de acabarse la provisión de jeringuillas, y tuvo que hacer un pedido urgente a Berlín. En esas condiciones cometió, quizá, su mayor locura militar: declarar la guerra a los EE UU. El jefe del Estado Mayor, Halder, lamentaría la situación: “Se está actuando imperiosamente al dictado de quimeras”.

Ante la derrota de Stalingrado, Morell anota que el Führer estaba en pésimas condiciones: “Flatulencias, halitosis, malestar”. Las dosis de drogas aumentan. Después del revés de Kursk, en julio de 1943, Morell comienza a suministrarle Eukodal, un opiáceo más potente que la morfina, tratamiento que incluso duplica ante la entrevista de Hitler con Mussolini, en la que habló casi tres horas seguidas, respondiendo a las muchas peticiones del Duce con una consigna: “Italia debe luchar”.

Tras el atentado que tuvo lugar en la Guarida del Lobo, en el verano de 1944, comenzó a administrarle X, una droga no definida, aunque es posible que fuera Eukodal. Poco después, Hitler empezó a tomar cocaína, que pedía continuamente, a pesar de las objeciones médicas. “No, mi querido doctor, usted continúe. Esta mañana he vuelto a tener la cabeza como un bombo. (...) La preocupación por el futuro y la supervivencia de Alemania me corroe cada día más”. Y así, hasta el final.


LAS CLAVES

PERVITIN. Creada en 1937 en un laboratorio de Berlín, esta metanfetamina se empleó para aumentar la agresividad y la resistencia de la tropa durante el combate.

MORFINA. La industria química alemana producía el 40 por ciento a escala mundial antes de la guerra.

COCAÍNA. Desde el verano de 1944, Hitler exigía cada vez más dosis: “Mi querido doctor, usted continúe”.


UN ADICTO LLAMADO HEINRICH BÖLL

El escritor Heinrich Böll fue galardonado con el Premio Nobel de Literatura en 1972, a los cincuenta y cinco años, por obras como "El Tren Llegó Puntual", "Billar a las Nueve y Media" u Opiniones de Un Payaso". Quizá para entonces ya no consumiera anfetaminas, pero lo había hecho durante muchos años, sobre todo durante la guerra, cuando fue soldado raso de la Wehrmacht.

En una de sus cartas, desde Francia, Böll pide a sus padres que le manden metanfetaminas: “Por favor, la próxima vez no os olvidéis de enviarme pervitina, a ser posible en un sobre. Que lo pague padre de su apuesta perdida”.

El consumo de pervitina entre la tropa debía ser habitual –aparte de las dosis que suministraba el mando– porque el soldado Böll no tenía recato alguno en pedirlo a su casa continuamente. En otra carta decía: “Me conformo con que la semana que viene pase tan rápido como la última. Pero, si podéis, enviadme más pervitina, que me va muy bien para pasar las numerosas guardias; y también algo de tocino para freír patatas”. Y en otra posterior: “Estoy agotadísimo y ya quiero acabar. Enviadme cuando podáis algo de pervitina y cigarrillos”. (N. Ohler, El Gran Delirio, parte II, pags 59 y siguientes)


UN CAMELLO EN EL FRENTE FRANCÉS

A partir de la llegada de las tropas acorazadas de Von Kleist a Abbeville, 20 de mayo de 1940, comenzó la segunda parte de la ofensiva alemana: ocupar Francia. El Dr. Otto Ranke, jefe del departamento de Fisiología de Defensa del III Reich, que pese a sus dudas había recomendado el empleo militar del Pervitin, quiso cerciorarse de los resultados y se presentó en Francia el 6 de junio, recorriendo en unos días 4.000 kilómetros siguiendo a las vanguardias panzer, sobre todo a aquellas que más metanfetaminas habían recibido, y confesando en su diario que avanzaba rápidamente, sin apenas comer ni cansancio, lo cual denotaba que él mismo se estaba tomando sus dosis.

El 14 de junio anota: “Reunión con el teniente coronel Kretschmar. (...) Bien informado (sobre el Pervitin). Él mismo toma dos pastillas cada dos días aprox., lo encuentra fabuloso, después se siente en forma y descansado, rendimiento intelectual sin disminución...”.

El 16 escribe: “... Llega a las 10 horas mi coche. (...) ¡Hurra! ¡40.000 pervitinas en el maletero! Salida a las 11 hacia el 14º Cuerpo de Ejército...”. Días después alcanza el puesto de mando de Guderian, ante quien se han rendido las tropas francesas de la Línea Maginot, cogidas por su retaguardia. Un sanitario, que había seguido al general tres días a lo largo de 500 kilómetros, le informa que durante las interminables misiones los conductores de los tanques habían consumido de dos a cinco tabletas de pervitina al día.

Texto de David Solar en "La Aventura de La Historia", Madrid, año 19, n.217, noviembre 2016. pp. 24-29. Adaptación y ilustración para publicación en ese sitio por Leopoldo Costa.