13 - Tupis & Mirins

It’ cold, grey, windy and raining. No I haven’t cut my trip short and returned to London, in fact my brother tells me the sun is shining and the weather is blue in London, and people are half-naked in the parks. It’s the beginning of July, the onset of a Brazilian winter. This grey Sunday will not stand in the way of the weekly fair in the Paso do Peisce, a community of around four hundred people living in the hills near Teresopolis, a mountain village two hours from Rio.

The second bus I take from Teresopolis stops to drop me off at the spot I had requested. People stare at me as I walk to the rear exit and get off seemingly in the middle of nowhere. As I begin walking down the dirt road the bus driver had indicated, a truck drives past. It takes merely my inquisitive look for the driver to stop and offer me a lift. As we drive down the windy dirt road, I look out and admire the serenity and lushness of the hills around us. Thick vegetation and trees make the few houses we pass on either side and in the distance barely visible.

The kind man drops me off at the mouth of another dirt road, this one narrower and muddier. I ask the first person I see for the Casa do Ari (the house of Ari). I am told to keep going until the end of the path, about fifteen minutes walk. I figure that if it takes this kind old lady fifteen it should take me ten. She expresses this exact thought, “I am an old woman, it should take you a little less than that”. We laugh.

As we approach the end of the path the hills on either side converge into a steep hill separated from the muddy path by a wooden gate. A side entrance allows us to continue our journey up a cobbled path leading to the Casa do Ari.

I am astounded by the natural beauty of this heavenly spot, with a small water fall, and stream and a little river. All around us are tropical trees and all sorts of plants, and in no particular pattern I come across a circle of carefully planted herbs; several different types of herbs separated by well placed stones as though it were a pie cut into slices. I notice several such man-made plantations, each containing different types of herbs. In the centre is what I assume is the Casa do Ari, a wooden house with an open-air courtyard right outside.

Ari is not there, but his assistant kindly explains that he will be back soon. I meet a young kid called Fernando, who takes me to meet his family. He says I could call Ari from their telephone. Ari’s line is busy, but Fernando’s mum assures me he will definitely be back later for the Sunday fair. They invite me to sit in their balcony and wait for Ari. I oblige.

In this wonderful spot people began to claim land that was uninhabited and un-cultivated, and built their own houses themselves. Fernando’s uncle joined his brother five years ago and was proud to show me his redbrick house that he built with his bare hands. He explains how he was lucky to find a piece of empty land so close to his brother’s house. The house cost him about three thousand Reals, and he built it slowly by buying materials in phases. A loan shark lent him the money, which considering he earns 350 Reals a month, takes a long time to pay back. Banks would not lend him money because he doesn’t have a secure source of income or a legitimate address. Until recently there were no toilets, now toilets exist in the houses and are flushed into the river further down, untreated. No one has bothered to build roads for these people; in fact their existence is illegitimate in the eyes of the law.

Fernando takes me to see the river that gives them water, and I can see the joy in his eyes when he explains the water is fine to drink. I tell him he is lucky to live in such wonderful surroundings, and he responds with equal enthusiasm, clearly appreciative of what he’s got. I admire such wisdom and reflection from a fourteen-year-old. Later he takes me back to the house to see his drawings. He draws very well, and I am particularly impressed by a surrealist depiction of a rose sticking out of a boat. His mum looks on proudly and explains how they cannot afford to buy him paint and canvass. Fernando also builds wooden airplanes. He is clearly talented and I hope he finds the opportunity to develop his skills further.

An hour or so later Ari arrives. He is tall and thin, has a long face, a thick black beard and shoulder-length, thin black hair tied in a ponytail. His big blue eyes pierce through his bearded face and will quite happily stare you straight in the eyes while he is talking to you or listening tentatively. His intensity is not intimidating however, but comes across as a product of his passion. For Ari is certainly passionate about his work

Eight years ago Ari left his previous home near Calcutta in India, and came to settle here. Ari explains how at the time there were no toilets in people’s houses and no electricity. He tells me how he expects nothing from the government to whom these people are insignificant. He stresses how they receive nothing, and repeats Nothing with a capital enn  to stress the level of neglect these people have experienced. But Ari does not feel sorry for the people he has been living and working with for the past eight years, on the contrary. He says “We don’t need the government, for me there is no government; poor people can organise themselves”. From what I can see they certainly seem to have come a long way. Their main street, the long dirt road I walked down towards Ari’s house, is spotless; a symbol of the pride these people have for the little heaven they are constantly working to develop for themselves.

A good half an hour away from the village of Teresopolis, the people of the Paso do Peisce are striving to be as self sufficient as possible. This self-sufficiency is the vision of Ari, who has taken this village on a sturdy step forward towards this ideal: Ari is an agronomist, and specialises in growing medicinal plants. He took me to see his laboratory.

I am fascinated by what I see. There are three rooms. The first one, the largest room, is where the herbs are dried and packed into a mountain of well-labelled brown paper bags. In the second room, the dark room, I am facing shelves with a multitude of large glass jars containing a mixture of distilled water, alcohol and leaves. Ari explains that it take about ten days for the mixtures to be ready for consumption. The third room was filled with ready-to-consume medicines. Ari explains: “In these grounds you see around us we grow 180 different types of herbs, enough to cure 90% of illnesses”. He explains how before he arrived, people had to either spend a fortune to buy commercial medicine from the pharmacy or simply do without due to the un-affordable prices. Now everyone in the community relies on the medicinal herbs for a cure. They barter whatever it is they make, grow or possess in exchange for these cheap and effective remedies. Colds and flues are the most common forms of illness.

As I am reaching the peak of my admiration, indulging in this romantic utopia come true (yes, it seems utopias are at an arm’s length), Ari brings me back to the harsh realities of the world around them, our world: “The police have closed us down twice already because we don’t have a license to operate. Of course this is because we are a threat to the big pharmaceutical companies. The license is extremely expensive and we simply cannot afford it. Only the big commercial laboratories can afford the license. But I continue to work, and if they want to arrest me I am here, ready to go with them”, Ari crosses his wrists as if he were handcuffed. “There is enough of everything for everyone in this world; enough food, enough clothes and enough medicine. The only problem is how to distribute it, how to spread it, how to share it… Look around you” he says, waving his hand at the hills surrounding us, “my partner and I alone run this entire operation. My colleague tends to the plants and dries them, and I am in charge of mixing the medicine and selling it. Every community in the world could have a set-up like this”.

After the initial shock that the government, the so-called decision-making body of the people through the system of governance, has made such easy access to medicine illegal, I remember the Radio do Gran Tijuca, and that over 100 small radio stations had been closed down since I landed in Brazil three months ago. Again this was blamed on the threat they presented to large corporations. It is still hard to come to terms with the fact that Ari, who in my eyes is as good a man as can be, who is loved and respected by the people of his community, is a criminal in the eyes of the Law.

I find a chair in the courtyard outside Ari’s house, and talk to Ari and Fernando’s uncle about the exchange fair that was about to take place at 3:00, as is the case every Sunday. Ari hands over a piece of printed-paper in the shape of a bank note. I am holding in my hand one Tupi. Ari explains that this is equivalent to one hour of work, which is equivalent to ten Reals. I ask Ari why ten. “It is based on information from the Brazilian Institute for Economic research, that an average worker, to satisfy his or her basic needs, needs R$ 1,400 per month, equivalent to R$10 per hour”. Half a Tupi is equivalent to fifty Mirins. Ari explains that a manufactured product is valued by the time it takes to produce the item, plus the value of the raw materials used to produce it. A service is valued the same way.

I ask Ari why use Tupis and Mirins as opposed to Reals. He explains, “First of all people here do not have Reals. Here in this community there are very few Reals. In fact in Brazil there is little amounts of Reals circulating. So by introducing this social currency here in the village, we achieve a ‘triangular’ exchange. The currency is a means of exchange. Second, the real devalues, but not the Tupi. The Tupi has a value worth one hour of work”.

Tupis are not actually convertible into Reals. This rate of R$10 to one Tupi is a way of valuing different products for exchange. It is not meant to be an exact science, simply a way of putting a rough value to a product for exchange. Which makes sense, because if you were about to barter a product for another, you would have a very rough idea of what your product and your counterpart’s product are worth. This rough approximation, with a little negotiation is all you need to value and trade those products. The Tupi offers a benchmark for valuing products for exchange, and thus allows what Ari calls ‘triangular exchange’.

Furthermore, everyone who arrives with a product for exchange receives a five Tupi loan, payable a week or so in the future if not later that afternoon. This simple system is effectively a way of generating micro-loans. One could use the loan to buy say oranges, turn the oranges into jam, and exchange it the next week for some oranges and some bread, as the profit is the work it took to make the jam. As there is no interest on the loan, and no loan shark exploiting the vulnerability of the poor, this system offers an honest path to the development of this community.

Children and young people are active participants in this system of exchange. It is a wonderful educational tool, as children learn the true value of money as a note that represents the work done, and the value of the end product to the community. Therefore work is of more value than money, and not the other way round. It also encourages children, as well as adults, to become productive within the community, and think how they could turn the resources around them as well as their skills into sought after products and services. A child could buy the ingredients to make biscuits one week, using the micro-loan, and exchange the ready-to-eat biscuits the next week. If these biscuits prove to be very popular, ‘customers’ will drive its ‘price’ up by out-bidding each other, from say 1 Tupi to 1 ½ Tupis, which should encourage others to make biscuits for the following week.

Today is a cold and rainy day, so only one table was needed for just a few participants brave enough to venture out and go ‘shopping’. The painted cotton sign in the background says “Let us together build another Brazil that we all want, with little money and a lot of exchange, without corruption and with a great deal of solidarity”.       Today about thirty people turn up, which is half the usual number. Products include home made products such as bread and biscuits, which prove to be the most popular; home grown fruits and vegetables, such as lemons, bananas and lettuce; and second-hand products such as belts, a harmonica (Fernando’s brother is delighted to earn/buy that one; now you can always tell when he is nearby) and books. Everything was exchanged within a few minutes. Without the Tupi and the accounts held by a ‘rotating bank’ (Ary is covering for someone else who is in charge of overlooking the accounts this period), this system of exchange would be impossible. How would you split a harmonica in half and buy its equivalent value from two people selling fruits and bread? It would be impossible. This is what Ari is talking about when referring to their system of ‘triangular exchange’.

Ary explains how this system of exchange is extended to ‘cooperatives’. For example many households own chickens that give eggs, which are exchanged within the community. Unfortunately the price of corn to feed the chickens is very high, as it is set by the global market (with influences beyond the control of this community, such as the exchange rate). So they are creating a ‘cooperative’ to work in the fields and grow corn. These workers will ‘exchange’ the corn for Tupis, and households with chickens can ‘exchange’ their Tupis for the corn. Ari’s dream is for this community to become as self-sufficient as possible. “We are building a chain of solidarity economics. We are becoming self-sufficient within our community. If we need something, we make it… all this creates work and creates income within the community and we strive towards self-sufficiency. For example today we have bread, which is made here in the community. So the exchange fair offers a solution for our basic needs, as people start producing those basic needs and exchanging them in the exchange fair.” Ary is thinking of encouraging the production of cleaning products such as soaps, shampoos, detergents and other home made products. These are good for the environment as they are made of natural ingredients, and are cheaper than the chemical-based products on the market. This would be one step nearer Ary’s dream of self-sufficiency for the people of Paso dos Peisces. Ary believes this system of exchange therefore breaks the traditional dependence people have on money, and frees the people to produce and ‘earn a fair exchange’.

“How does the cooperative system reflect the difference in effort and skill in a group of workers, if they all earn the same Tupi per hour of work?” I ask, self-conscious of how ludicrous this question must sound within this set-up of four hundred close-knit community members. Ary responds, “In a cooperative, there is no need to differentiate these quantities, because in the example of the maize cooperative for instance, people work together to harvest the ground. So there is no need to measure who works harder or who works less hard. What we measure is the number of hours worked by each person. For certain activities however we have a scale from 1 to 5… For example if a doctor comes here, the hour of work is worth more because he or she had to invest more to become a doctor… So the doctor would earn 5 Tupis per hour of work. This is a negotiation between both parties. So people in the group understand that some work is of higher value than other work. But you can never surpass the upper limit of five”. This creates a maximum level of income as well as a minimum level of income. “In a cooperative this system makes sure that no one earns more than five Tupis per hour, and no on earns less than one”.

Before visiting this community I was very sceptical about this ‘alternative money’ they had created. It turns out my mistake was the thinking cap I wore. I thought about this system with a purely capitalist mind frame, tending the concept to its limits, imagining thousands or millions of people participating in exchange fairs as an alternative to our capitalist system. But soon I realise that this is not meant to be a system that could be adapted to the entire world. Far from it, it’s a system that generates a form of capital in the monetarily dry pockets of excluded communities. It is a way for people to strive towards self-sufficiency, to generate self-esteem, to be creative, to live. Capitalism through free markets, despite its promise to spread wealth through the ‘Heineken’ economic theory of trickle-down economics, has failed to penetrate forgotten and excluded communities such as this one. But poor people are not sitting there passively, waiting for this external power to come and transform their lives. No, they are taking their destinies into their own hands and carving a path ahead.

This is not to say that the wider capitalist system has nothing to learn from the people of Paso do Peisce. On the contrary; this perspective reminds me what money was meant to be in the first place, its essence: A tool for ‘triangular’ exchange, a value of the work done. Their system encourages creativity and entrepreneurship on a fair playing field, with the objective of self-sufficiency and sustainability within their environment and community. They are striving to grow together, with an emphasis on self-employment. Even the workers in the cooperative are self-employed in the absence of an owner or manager reaping all the rewards. Yet their 1 to 5 scale allows for higher incentives for highly valued work, while maintaining a fairly flat pyramid, supporting a minimum wage worthy of a decent existence, and limiting the abuse of the law of supply and demand on the upside.