I’ll go out on a limb and say it, “You are enamored of numbers and quantities.” I don’t mean a general “you”; I mean you specifically, and I say that without having met you. Your affinity for numbers and quantities has nothing to do with your facility at math. It has everything to do with practicality and culture in a specific place. Apparently, people can quickly assimilate values derived from quantities and measures cherished by others.
With regard to practicality, I would ask you to think of being an anthropologist who is the first “outsider” to make contact with one of the estimated 70 or 80 Amazonian previously unmet tribes. You think of a series of questions to convey to them: How many tribesmen are there? How many adults are in the tribal village? Are relationships monogamous? How many children per family unit? How many huts? How far away from civilization do they live? If they hunt with bows and arrows, how many does each tribesman have? If they use blowguns, how many darts does each carry? How much of the rainforest do they occupy? How old are they on average? What is the infant mortality rate? How many indigenous diseases do they carry? How many will I kill by introducing diseases like the flu, diseases against which they have no immunity? You will think of other numbers to obtain, and you might want to ask how you can trust the validity of any of them, including the estimate of “70 to 80 Amazonian tribes” never contacted by outsiders.
Counting and measuring are part of your makeup: You do it in both ordinary and extraordinary contexts (like meeting formerly uncontacted Amazonians). You can offer a count of all your material possessions: How many cars? How many radios? How many TVs? How many suits or dresses? If you are a citizen of the United States or some other developed country, you are used to finding value in the “count and measure of things.”
The same goes for areas and volumes: How much of the rainforest do the tribesmen occupy? How much of your neighborhood do you occupy? How many square feet in an Amazonian hut? How many square feet in your dwelling? The quantities are important to you; they might not be as important to the Amazonians—at least not initially. It’s hard to tell because by contacting them, you immediately put them in the encompassing framework of your society.
Where am I going with this? Regardless of principles like Gresham’s Law, there is, in fact, no inherent value in any quantity or numbers of objects. In the context of a society gold has value. In the context of a starving individual on a life raft in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, gold has little or even no value. Its weight makes gold a detriment to survival unless it can serve as a fishing hook. But even utility does not ensure value. Where there are no fish to catch, no hook’s utility gives it value.
In fact, most objects people accumulate in an affluent society serve no utility. Many such objects are just “more of the same.” Try to understand the importance of each quantity assigned a value by a culture or subculture. In the eyes of every “tribe” the quantities cherished by another “tribe” might initially seem strange. Don’t understand someone’s obsession with sports memorabilia? Don’t understand a reason for fossil collections? Don’t understand an old record collection?
Put yourself in an Amazonian village for a month without the objects you either value or have become accustomed to using. Place alters your perspective. You aren’t in Kansas anymore, Toto. Or, by your presence, reveal your values to Amazonian villagers. You alter place. Soon, formerly naked people have not just one, but two or more pairs of shorts. Hut owners acquire utensils, and their huts take on different meaning. A place becomes quantified. People assign values to quantities.
As you grew, you assimilated, and you adapted to quantities valued by those around you. Which of the seemingly essential quantities that you value are valueless in the eyes of another culture or subculture? Does Out-of-place = Out-of-value?
With regard to practicality, I would ask you to think of being an anthropologist who is the first “outsider” to make contact with one of the estimated 70 or 80 Amazonian previously unmet tribes. You think of a series of questions to convey to them: How many tribesmen are there? How many adults are in the tribal village? Are relationships monogamous? How many children per family unit? How many huts? How far away from civilization do they live? If they hunt with bows and arrows, how many does each tribesman have? If they use blowguns, how many darts does each carry? How much of the rainforest do they occupy? How old are they on average? What is the infant mortality rate? How many indigenous diseases do they carry? How many will I kill by introducing diseases like the flu, diseases against which they have no immunity? You will think of other numbers to obtain, and you might want to ask how you can trust the validity of any of them, including the estimate of “70 to 80 Amazonian tribes” never contacted by outsiders.
Counting and measuring are part of your makeup: You do it in both ordinary and extraordinary contexts (like meeting formerly uncontacted Amazonians). You can offer a count of all your material possessions: How many cars? How many radios? How many TVs? How many suits or dresses? If you are a citizen of the United States or some other developed country, you are used to finding value in the “count and measure of things.”
The same goes for areas and volumes: How much of the rainforest do the tribesmen occupy? How much of your neighborhood do you occupy? How many square feet in an Amazonian hut? How many square feet in your dwelling? The quantities are important to you; they might not be as important to the Amazonians—at least not initially. It’s hard to tell because by contacting them, you immediately put them in the encompassing framework of your society.
Where am I going with this? Regardless of principles like Gresham’s Law, there is, in fact, no inherent value in any quantity or numbers of objects. In the context of a society gold has value. In the context of a starving individual on a life raft in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, gold has little or even no value. Its weight makes gold a detriment to survival unless it can serve as a fishing hook. But even utility does not ensure value. Where there are no fish to catch, no hook’s utility gives it value.
In fact, most objects people accumulate in an affluent society serve no utility. Many such objects are just “more of the same.” Try to understand the importance of each quantity assigned a value by a culture or subculture. In the eyes of every “tribe” the quantities cherished by another “tribe” might initially seem strange. Don’t understand someone’s obsession with sports memorabilia? Don’t understand a reason for fossil collections? Don’t understand an old record collection?
Put yourself in an Amazonian village for a month without the objects you either value or have become accustomed to using. Place alters your perspective. You aren’t in Kansas anymore, Toto. Or, by your presence, reveal your values to Amazonian villagers. You alter place. Soon, formerly naked people have not just one, but two or more pairs of shorts. Hut owners acquire utensils, and their huts take on different meaning. A place becomes quantified. People assign values to quantities.
As you grew, you assimilated, and you adapted to quantities valued by those around you. Which of the seemingly essential quantities that you value are valueless in the eyes of another culture or subculture? Does Out-of-place = Out-of-value?
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