THE MORAL ECONOMY OF WATER REEXAMINED ...

THE MORAL ECONOMY OF WATER REEXAMINED Reciprocity, Water Insecurity, and Urban Survival in Cochabamba, Bolivia

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Amber Wutich School of Human Evolution and Social Change, Arizona State University, PO Box 872402, Tempe, AZ 85287-2402, Email: [email protected] KEY WORDS:

Reciprocity, Water insecurity, Water scarcity, Moral economy, Self-help, Selfinsurance, Vulnerability, Bolivia

Recent debates have questioned whether reciprocity constitutes a threatened form of social insurance or a nascent and promising pathway toward development. This debate is of vital importance for understanding how the urban poor survive in the face of subsistence challenges that are likely to intensify in the future. In this article, I present an in-depth analysis of reciprocal exchanges of water in a water-scarce squatter settlement in Cochabamba, Bolivia. Drawing on qualitative and quantitative analyses, I demonstrate (1) how reciprocal exchanges of water are conducted in an urban setting; (2) that these water exchanges conform to a social insurance model of reciprocity; and (3) that such reciprocal exchanges are consistent with the moral economy of water documented elsewhere in the Andes. I conclude that reciprocity, while capable of safeguarding subsistence, is not a solution for people whose survival is continually threatened by larger political and economic forces that create water insecurity, resource inequity, and social exclusion among the urban poor. ACCORDING TO THE SEMINAL WORK OF JAMES SCOTT (1976:167), the moral economy is a kind of alternative social order based on two fundamental principles: the right of everyone to have access to the means of subsistence and survival, and the accompanying obligation to give and receive, thus obeying the norms of reciprocity. Anthropologists have made an important contribution to our understanding of the moral economy by examining how institutions based on reciprocity, such as !Kung hxaro (Wiessner 1982), the Andean ayllu (Murra 1972), and the Kwakiutl potlatch (Piddocke 1965), are used to safeguard subsistence among people facing resource insecurity. Reciprocity, in these cases, is a form of exchange that involves the repeated transfer of goods or services, is embedded in social relationships, is not governed by the law of supply and demand (Lomnitz 1977; Polanyi 1968), and may involve a requirement that return gifts be delayed rather than immediately given (Mauss 2000; Sahlins 1972). When exchanges are used to redistribute risks and enhance the security of both participants over time, reciprocity can clearly act as a kind of social insurance (Cashdan 1985; Wiessner 1982). The social insurance model of reciprocity was first developed and tested in hunter-gatherer and peasant agricultural societies, with a particular emphasis on exchanges of food. In cities, ethnographers have since documented how the urban poor similarly use Journal of Anthropological Research, vol. 67, 2011 Copyright © by The University of New Mexico 5

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JOURNAL OF ANTHROPOLOGICAL RESEARCH

reciprocal exchanges to buffer themselves against economic risks such as poverty and joblessness (Lobo 1982; Lomnitz 1977; Safa 1974; Stack 1974). More recently, the World Bank and other international development agencies have argued that this kind of social capital can play a crucial role in reducing urban poverty (Narayan and Pritchett 1997). One form of social capital is the personal network, in which community members reciprocally provide each other with loans and other forms of assistance (World Bank 2008). Proponents of the reciprocal exchange network concept argue that they can be mobilized and transformed into self-help development projects in which impoverished communities build their own infrastructure and institutions (Vajja and White 2008). However, González de la Rocha (2001, 2007) argues that this self-help model of development fundamentally misapprehends the role that reciprocity plays in the survival of the urban poor. In an analysis that reflects the anthropological understanding of reciprocity as a form of social insurance, González de la Rocha finds that increasing economic insecurity among the urban poor in Mexico has left them with few resources to invest in reciprocal relationships, or the social relationships in which reciprocal exchanges are embedded. In a manner similar to the findings in classic famine research (e.g., Dirks 1980; Turnbull 1972), recent studies show that deepening poverty has eroded the urban poor’s capacity to cooperate and to maintain reciprocal relationships in sites as varied as Puerto Rico (Safa 2004), Ecuador (Moser 1997), Malawi (Devereux 1999), and Zambia (Moser 1997). Based on their long history of cross-cultural research on reciprocity, anthropologists have much to contribute to the unresolved debate over whether reciprocity constitutes a threatened form of social insurance or a nascent source of future development. To date, anthropological studies of urban reciprocity have been focused primarily on economic risks (e.g., unemployment) and have largely ignored ecological risks (with the exception of some disaster research; e.g., Oliver-Smith and Hoffman 1999). One area where this omission is particularly noteworthy is in research on water—a subsistence resource as vital to human survival as food. Worldwide, currently an estimated 170 million urbanites lack adequate water access, and that number is projected to increase to 240 million by 2015 (World Health Organization and UNICEF 2006). Recently, anthropologists and scholars in allied fields have examined how the commodification of water can give rise to water insecurity in urban settings (Bakker 2007; Johnston and Donahue 1998; Whiteford and Whiteford 2005). For instance, squatter settlements are often denied access to municipal water systems. Forced to purchase water elsewhere as a result, people living in squatter settlements typically pay between 10% and 40% of their incomes for private water delivery (Marvin and Laurie 1999; Ruel et al. 1999). When they are unable to buy water, squatters run the risk of hygiene and stressrelated illnesses, dehydration and thirst, and hunger (Wutich and Ragsdale 2008). The literature on urban water scarcity documents a number of coping strategies that people use to acquire the water they need to survive. Among these are reports that people beg for water from their neighbors (e.g., Bapat and Agarwal 2003); but it is not known whether this is a last-ditch survival tactic or part of a more structured set of reciprocal relations used to self-insure against water insecurity.

THE MORAL ECONOMY OF WATER

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In this study, I examine the extent to which water exchanges conform to the social insurance model of reciprocity among water-poor households in Villa Israel, a squatter settlement in Cochabamba, Bolivia. Although I argue that resource access shapes reciprocal water exchanges, I do not contend that reciprocity can be reduced to a bare-bones analysis of risk redistribution. Reciprocal exchanges are embedded in and reflective of a wide range of social relations and norms (Mauss 2000; Polanyi 1968). In the Andes, where this research was conducted, reciprocity has long been considered a defining characteristic of rural society. In his analysis of reciprocity in Tangor, Peru, for instance, Mayer (2003) explained that labor exchanges took on a range of types, including voluntad (generalized exchanges dictated by kinship or fictive kinship ties), ayni (balanced exchanges between social equals), and minka (asymmetrical and perhaps unbalanced exchanges, often embedded in exploitative patronclient relations). This continuum of reciprocal relations reflects Sahlins’s (1972) proposition that the degree of self-interest in a reciprocal exchange increases with the social distance between actors. Following Scott and Mayer, Trawick (2001, 2003) used the “moral economy” concept to analyze the principles of traditional water management in the countryside. Drawing from his work on Peruvian irrigation systems, Trawick (2001:273) argued that customary Andean institutions reflect a shared “moral economy of water” in which all community members have, first, the obligation to participate in reciprocal labor exchanges to maintain the irrigation system and, second, the “right to a share of the basic resources necessary for subsistence and survival”—in other words, to the water that they receive in return. Trawick proposed that the moral economy of water could be found throughout the Andes, but this assertion has not yet been examined in urban areas. Historically, scholars have argued that few of the complex rituals of reciprocity documented among the Andean peasantry, including ayni and minka, are performed in squatter settlements. As Lobo (1982:133) explained in her ethnography of squatter settlements in Lima, Peru, the formation of reciprocal ties in a “squatter settlement shares many traditional forms with the highlands, but is often adapted to urban needs and carried out through urban means.” For instance, urban migrants in Lima maintained compadrazgo (fictive kin) ties as part of Catholic religious doctrine but eliminated some related practices, such as the cortepelo (first hair-cutting ceremony), owing to the expense involved. Elaborate fiestas (parties) honoring the community’s patron saint continued to be funded through the assignment of cargos (ritual obligations). In Goldstein’s (2004) ethnography of Villa Pagador, a squatter settlement in Cochabamba, he found that compadrazgo and the solicitation of fiesta sponsorship still occurred, although the practices appeared to be less common than in rural villages. Despite the waning nature of ritualized reciprocity in Andean cities, there is some evidence that reciprocal exchanges continue among the urban poor (e.g., Gill’s 2000 ethnography of El Alto, Bolivia). Further, Weismantel (2006) argues that an Andean cultural revitalization movement has widely sparked new interest in reciprocal institutions. In what may be a result of that movement, I found the residents of squatter settlements in Cochabamba to be quite interested in discussing reciprocity, the local norms that shape it, and its role in promoting

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urban survival. These local narratives form an important part of the analysis of urban water exchanges presented here. This article has four main objectives: to determine (1) how reciprocal exchanges of water are conducted in Villa Israel; (2) if water exchanges conform to the social insurance model of reciprocity; (3) if reciprocal water exchanges are consistent with the moral economy of water; and (4) if reciprocity is strong enough to provide a basis for a self-help model of development. To do so, I use a multi-method approach to analyze quantitative and qualitative data collected via participant-observation and ethnographic interviews. In the first section, I use observational data, descriptive statistics, and three case studies to characterize reciprocal water exchanges. In the second section, I examine the extent to which reciprocal water exchanges conform to the social insurance model of reciprocity using multiple regression analysis. This approach has the advantage of testing how well a social insurance model (based on water-related risks and risk redistribution relationships) explains two types of reciprocal water exchanges (giving and receiving water). In the third and fourth sections, I use the results of participant-observation and text analysis to explore social norms and local community development activities. This approach has the advantage of using themes identified in respondents’ experiences and narratives to characterize reciprocal exchanges. Together, the use of mixed qualitative and quantitative methods in this study enriches the analysis and enhances the reliability of the findings. FIELD SETTING The field research was conducted in Cochabamba, Bolivia, a large city situated in the eastern slopes of the Andes. Outside of Bolivia, Cochabamba is widely known as the site of the “Water War of 2000,” a three-month period of protest and unrest that erupted over the privatization of the municipal water system. In an analysis of the water war’s origins, Perrault (2006:159) found that the first waves of urban protesters were migrants who sought to defend “water cooperatives” and other “customary uses” that “constituted a moral economy of water rights.” This analysis provides an intriguing indication that a “moral economy of water,” first proposed by Trawick (2001), may exist in Cochabamba’s squatter settlements. However, there is no evidence of a broader moral economy of water in the city of Cochabamba, given squatters’ continued exclusion from the municipal water system. Even after the protesters secured the return of Cochabamba’s water resources to government control, approximately 30% of the population—mainly impoverished residents of Districts 7, 8, 9, and 14 on Cochabamba’s south side— had no access to municipal water systems (CEDIB 2007). Because Cochabamba is located in a semi-arid region with little surface water and inaccessible groundwater, south-side residents’ exclusion from the municipal water system leaves them few viable alternatives for water acquisition. As a result, residents of Districts 7, 8, 9, and 14 face many water-related risks, such as water shortages, water pollution, and waterborne diseases (Antequera Durán 2007). Water scarcity notwithstanding, Cochabamba is an economically active market center that attracts migrants from across the country (CEDIB 2007).


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Figure 1. Map of Cochabamba, Bolivia (drafted by Jake Lulewicz).

Cochabamba’s District 9 contains predominately indigenous Quechua residents, many of whom are recent migrants from the countryside. District 9 residents work mainly in the informal economy in low-income sectors (CEDIB 2007). This study was conducted in Villa Israel, a neighborhood located at the far southern end of District 9. Sloping up barren foothills, the community spreads out over Cochabamba’s dry, dusty outskirts. Villa Israel was founded approximately 25 years ago, largely by Quechua miners displaced by the collapse of the Bolivian mining industry in the 1980s. Villa Israel’s original settlers were primarily evangelical Christians. The strong influence of evangelicals on Villa Israel distinguishes the community from many of Cochabamba’s south-side settlements, whose occupants are predominately Catholic. Although Villa Israel later came

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to have a large Catholic minority, it is still politically and culturally dominated by evangelicals. Each Sunday, Villa Israel comes alive when residents assemble to participate in church services, lively soccer games, town hall meetings, and open-air marketing. During the work week, however, the community’s streets are nearly deserted as its residents spend long hours toiling as market vendors, taxi drivers, and construction workers in the city center. Established as a squatter settlement, the community was settled in an illegally subdivided greenbelt region (Goldstein 2004). Since then, Villa Israel has obtained semi-legalized land titles, electric and telephone service, bus and taxi-trufi (a shared, fixed-route taxi) service, two schools, a health clinic, and other amenities. Like many of Cochabamba’s squatter settlements, Villa Israel is governed by a neighborhood council, water committee, school committee, and other community organizations. Despite community members’ best efforts, however, Villa Israel has been unable to secure access to the municipal water system or sufficient groundwater supplies for universal water access. Most residents purchase water from vending trucks, which circulate irregularly and provide an insufficient quantity of water to satisfy community demand on any given day. With the help of an international nongovernmental organization (NGO), the community built a small tapstand system that regularly delivers groundwater to approximately 30% of households; however, the output is limited to a meager 40 liters per household per day owing to groundwater scarcity. People also use unreliable seasonal sources such as rainwater or a seasonal creek to collect water. Nearly 75% of households are unable to obtain even 50 liters of water per person per day (Wutich 2006), the minimum international water provision standard (Gleick 1996). Water insecurity puts many Villa Israel residents in a highly vulnerable situation, which may necessitate their engagement in reciprocal exchanges of water. METHODS Participant Observation This study began with participant observation conducted during the dry season of 2003 and the wet season of 2004. This involved living in Villa Israel and participating in a range of community activities, including neighborhood council meetings, volunteer construction projects, water distribution at tapstands, church services, and soccer games. Through participant-observation, I documented the strategies that allow people to subsist under water-scarce conditions, including how to buy water from elusive water vendors, collect rainwater, clean underground water tanks, and wash clothes in the creek. Conducting participant-observation at the height of the wet and dry seasons afforded me the opportunity to observe social relations and survival strategies when water was relatively abundant and when it was extremely scarce. Ethnographic Surveys Using my field notes as a starting point, I adapted Stack’s (1974) urban reciprocity protocol and developed new questions about water insecurity (Wutich 2006:68–69, 134). A week-long recall period was selected because significant


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economic events (e.g., marketing days), social encounters (e.g., soccer games), and water-use tasks (e.g., laundry) occur weekly in Villa Israel. A panel design was developed, in which participants would be asked the same set of questions over four time slices (with one week-long recall period each). Along with four Bolivian co-researchers, I pre-tested the protocol with key informants using cognitive interviewing techniques. The survey interviews were conducted with a simple random sample of 73 households (76% response rate). Interviews were conducted with all “household heads,” defined as people responsible for the acquisition and distribution of household goods. In total, we interviewed 101 household heads; I used these data for the qualitative analysis. To ensure that the multiple regression analysis was performed with a representative sample, I selected the most knowledgeable household head to represent the household in the statistical analyses. Four ethnographic survey interviews were conducted with each household head at two-month intervals spanning the dry-to-wet season cycle (June 2004– January 2005), with follow-up visits in 2008. Respondents were interviewed in Spanish (90%), Quechua (9%), or Aymara (1%) at their home or workplace. Two researchers conducted each interview; this allowed the interviewer to do a full inventory of reciprocal exchanges using extensive probes and cross-checks on accuracy (e.g., Brewer 2002) while the second researcher recorded the data. Such measures are particularly important to avoid common biases in recall data on social interactions (Bernard et al. 1984). Identifying Reciprocal Exchanges in Local Language Villa Israel residents have no Spanish term that translates directly to the English term “reciprocity”; rather, they use a variety of words and phrases to discuss reciprocal exchanges. These terms, which are organized here along a continuum ranging from generalized to balanced reciprocity (Sahlins 1972), include invitar (to treat to), regalar (to gift or give), dar regalado (to give away), dar (to give), ayudar (to help), hacer un favor (to do a favor), compartir (to share), prestar (to loan/borrow), and intercambiar (to swap). In my own discussion of reciprocity, I have chosen very broad terms—“to provide” and “to receive”—to describe any exchange that falls along the continuum between generalized and balanced reciprocity. In respondents’ verbatim quotes, I provide the English translation (and the Spanish term in parentheses) to help clarify their contextual use of specific terms. However, respondents’ word choice sometimes reflected the original wording of the interview questions (e.g., we asked about “ayuda” and the respondent replied using the word “ayuda”). As a result, I avoid placing too much analytic importance on the specific words respondents used to describe exchanges. Rather, I use case studies and specific examples of exchanges to illustrate when, how, and with what obligation to reciprocate water exchanges were conducted. Data Analysis The household data analysis included quantitative and qualitative components. For the quantitative analysis, I present descriptive statistics and multiple regression analyses based on data collected over the four survey interviews. The regression

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analyses included four explanatory variables: (1) a nine-point scale measuring the severity of water insecurity (Hadley and Wutich 2009); (2) distance from Villa Israel’s center, where water is most accessible (a four-point scale); (3) water storage capacity (in liters); and (4) number of reciprocal exchanges (mean reciprocal exchanges of material items such as money, tools, or cooking ingredients). Regression analysis was conducted for two outcome variables: the mean percentage of times that a household head reported (1) obtaining water from and (2) providing water to other residents of Villa Israel over the week-long recall period. Preliminary tests of the regression analyses yielded no evidence of multicollinearity or non-normality. For the qualitative analysis, I analyzed field notes collected during participantobservation and from narratives collected from 101 household heads. To begin, I selected all texts pertaining to water issues. I assigned these texts a series of inductive codes based on (1) native categories describing reciprocal water exchanges and (2) social relations and values. Results of the theme analysis are presented via cross-case summaries and verbatim quotes. I also present three cases in greater depth (at the respondents’ request, pseudonyms were used to protect individual identities). These cases were chosen to exemplify key themes and to demonstrate the range of salient factors present in those themes (e.g., the role of kin in reciprocal water exchanges). I supplement the presentation of thematic text analyses with my own observations from the field, which provide additional information on context and process not available in the interview responses. RESULTS Reciprocal Exchanges of Water Over the course of four interviews, two-thirds (66%) of household heads reported that they received or provided water at least once during the four weeklong recall periods. Household heads generally reported that they exchanged small amounts of water (up to 20 liters) with family members, neighbors, friends, and other acquaintances. People who received water frequently or in large quantities tended to establish reciprocal relationships with family members. Kin-based reciprocal exchanges were rarely restricted to water; rather they involved a wide range of goods and services. With non-kin, such as neighbors and friends, some respondents also said they had long-standing exchange relationships in which they frequently received small amounts of water and other household goods from each other. More often, however, respondents emphasized that they would only ask neighbors, friends, or other acquaintances for water in order to avoid a serious water shortage. These trends characterize reciprocal water exchanges at the community level very broadly. Below, I focus on the stories of three families to explore, in specific cases, how people conduct water exchanges, with whom, and why. Case Studies: Three Families Don Félix and Doña Emilia’s family Don Félix and Doña Emilia lived at the far northern side of Villa Israel, just a block from the main thoroughfare. The couple and their two children shared rooms


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located across a courtyard from the rooms occupied by Don Félix’s parents. The couple was evangelical Christian, although they were no longer active members of their local church. Don Félix was employed as a contract construction worker, while Doña Emilia worked intermittently on community construction projects funded under Bolivia’s PLANE (National Plan for Emergency Employment) program. Together they earned enough to get by, but they were vulnerable to water insecurity because they owned only one 200-liter water storage container. Being able to store so little water meant that Doña Emilia or Don Félix had to buy water from a cistern truck every few days or depend solely on their 40-liter-per-day tapstand allotment. About once a month, they ran out of water or money, could not find a vendor, or the tapstand ran dry. When this happened, Don Félix’s parents often gave them a few 10-liter buckets of water; in return, the couple frequently gave Don Félix’s parents food and household goods. In addition to her in-laws, Doña Emilia relied on her next-door neighbor for water. Explaining how the giveand-take between them worked, Doña Emilia recounted, “My neighbor had been on a trip and, when she got back, she had no water. I lent (prestar) her some. A few days later, I ran out of water and borrowed (prestar) some from her.” Here, Doña Emilia’s use of prestar (to borrow/to loan) underscores the back-and-forth nature of the reciprocal relationship but does not necessarily imply a market model of borrowing and loaning in which debts must be repaid on a fixed timeline or with interest. Doña Emilia went on to explain that she was in the habit of constantly exchanging goods and other forms of non-tangible assistance (e.g., keeping an eye on someone’s house when they go out) with her neighbor and in-laws. Don Félix concurred, and noted that their acquaintances from the church, PLANE, or neighborhood sports teams could also be depended on to help out in a pinch. Don Ronaldo and Doña Sofia’s family Don Ronaldo, Doña Sofia, and their two daughters lived in a tidy rented room at Villa Israel’s edge, in one of the last clusters of houses before the community gives way to barren open land. Don Ronaldo’s two brothers also rented rooms in the community, but they were usually posted on military duty out of town. The couple was nominally Catholic, but Doña Sofia had recently begun the process of conversion to evangelical Christianity. Don Ronaldo made a good living in the family construction business, and Doña Sofia stayed at home to look after the girls. In their remote location, there were no nearby tapstands and the water trucks rarely passed their home. With only two 200-liter water storage containers, the family constantly ran low on water for bathing, washing, and cooking. Doña Sofia and her tight-knit circle of neighbors, many of whom faced the same predicament, habitually gave each other one or two 10-liter buckets of water. Doña Sofia preferred to approach her elderly neighbor across the street, who had a 5,000liter underground tank, for water. Yet, on some occasions, her neighbors refused requests for water with the explanation that they had only a few buckets of water left for their own family’s use. On these occasions, Doña Sofia desperately sought water from distant neighbors or, when this failed, tried to convince the owners of general stores located several blocks away to sell her a bucket of water. In one incident, Doña Sofia recounted that “I was not able to buy (comprar) water [from

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the water truck]. None of my neighbors had water. Only the granny (la abuelita) has water and she wasn’t at home. . . . Doña Eugenia’s general store was closed.” Here, Doña Sofia explains how, when neighbors lacked water, she sought water from a general store. Such exchanges—which occur beyond the scope of regular reciprocal relationships—are generally monetized, as Doña Sofia’s use of the word comprar demonstrates. When she could not obtain water from her neighbors or buy water from the general store, Doña Sofia’s family was unable to prepare meals, bathe, or wash for hours or days. Don Victor and Doña Teodosia’s family Don Victor and Doña Teodosia owned a modest home near the bluff overlooking Villa Israel’s dry creek; this zone was accessible to the water trucks, but it had no tapstand service. Along with their three children, the couple shared rooms with Don Victor’s cousin, a young, economically independent salesgirl. The family was devoutly Catholic. Although they did not often attend church locally, they had held cargo (ritual) obligations and maintained compadrazgo (fictive kin) relationships in their rural hometown. Doña Teodosia operated two thriving snack stand businesses in Villa Israel, while Don Victor struggled to find work as a day laborer. The couple had a good-sized 2,000-liter underground water tank, but the food preparation, cooking, and cleaning associated with Doña Teodosia’s businesses quickly tapped their water supplies. Don Victor’s cousin was generally willing to give water to the family, but her tiny jerrycans did not provide enough water to sustain Doña Teodosia’s business operations. Further, the cousin routinely used large quantities of water from the couple’s tank for washing and cleaning, which contributed to the frequent water shortages Don Victor and Doña Teodosia endured. Unlike Doña Emilia and Doña Sofia, however, Doña Teodosia had few close friends or neighbors she could rely on for help. Doña Teodosia explained that the success of her businesses had caused jealousy (envidia) and resentment among other women in the community. As a result, Doña Teodosia said, “I am afraid to ask for help (pedir ayuda) and be refused (ser negada). . . . There is no one I can trust to count on (poder contar) or ask favors of (pedir favores)” in the community. Doña Teodosia’s use of the word favores is noteworthy because it carries the connotation of patron-client relations, a form of reciprocal relationship rarely invoked in Villa Israel. As her statement implies, it shows that Doña Teodosia’s understanding of how reciprocity should function is somewhat out of step with the dominant discourse around reciprocity in Villa Israel. Without neighbors or friends they could rely on for water, the family’s ability to earn income from the snack stand businesses depended entirely on the unpredictable delivery schedule of the water trucks. In each of the cases presented above, a family faced serious and chronic water insecurity. Running out of water meant that family members were unable to bathe, cook meals, or engage in income-generating activities. Across the three households, the risks that shaped water insecurity varied, depending on the physical location of the household, the family’s water storage capacity, and the family’s specific needs for water. The tactics each family used to confront


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water insecurity also varied, depending on whether the household had family members living nearby, close neighbors or friends they could rely on for water, or reciprocal relationships with other community members. The role of the household head—the person responsible for the acquisition and distribution of household goods—was crucial, as it was this person who generally noticed impending water shortages and mobilized reciprocal relationships to prevent a crisis. In each of the cases discussed here, the household head was a woman, and the social ties formed between women could provide an informal safety net for water-scarce households. However, some Villa Israel households were headed by men, and even in those that were not, men often played an important role in facilitating water exchanges with their own extended families. While these three cases are highly illustrative, it is helpful to explore whether or not these trends hold for the entire sample of 73 randomly selected Villa Israel households. In the next section, I examine the extent to which reciprocal water exchanges in Villa Israel conform to the social insurance model of reciprocity. The Social Insurance Model of Reciprocity For reciprocity to function as a form of social insurance at the community level, people who are vulnerable to resource insecurity must be able to form exchange relationships in ways that redistribute risk across participants (Cashdan 1985; Wiessner 1982). The social insurance model of reciprocity provides a way of looking at whether or not key factors (i.e., water-related risks and risk redistribution) play a significant role in shaping water exchanges. Specifically, I examine how three measures of water-related risk—(1) water insecurity (Hadley and Wutich 2009), (2) distance from water sources (Gleick 1996; United Nations Development Programme 1993), and (3) water storage capacity (Whittington, Lauria, and Mu 1991)—are associated with household participation in reciprocal water exchanges. In addition, I examine whether one measure of risk redistribution—(4) the household head’s reciprocal relationships—is associated with household participation in reciprocal water exchanges. This is an important question: if we find no evidence that water exchanges conform to the social insurance model, we can assume that these exchanges are simply haphazard, last-ditch survival tactics. However, if there is evidence that water exchanges do conform to the social insurance model, there is justification for examining more deeply the social norms and values that shape how people use reciprocal exchanges of water to enhance their security and well-being. I begin by presenting the sample characteristics in Table 1 and basic descriptive statistics in Table 2. As Table 1 shows, the majority of household heads who provided data for this analysis were women, evangelical, and spoke Spanish. However, the respondents also included men, Catholics, and speakers of Quechua and Aymara. In this way, the sample provided a good representation of Villa Israel household heads. Table 3 presents information regarding the fit of the social insurance model with the data. In the analysis of receiving water, p < 0.0005; in the analysis of providing water, p = 0.008. Therefore, we can conclude that the findings are statistically significant and highly unlikely to occur by chance alone. The model explains 27% of the variance in receiving water and

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19% of the variance in providing water. Although the model is a better predictor of receiving water than providing water, it makes a significant contribution to explaining both phenomena. That said, it is also important to acknowledge that the results imply that there may be other factors that shape water exchanges beyond those measured in the social insurance model (such as rapport-building, prestige, or costly signaling), particularly in the case of water provisioning. Having ascertained that the social insurance model is associated with the outcomes, it is appropriate to assess the role that individual measures of water-related risk and risk redistribution play in the model. TABLE 1. Sample Characteristics Characteristic Female Male Catholic Evangelical No religious affiliation Primary language: Spanish Primary language: Quechua Primary language: Aymara

% 89 11 34 58 8 90 9 1

TABLE 2. Descriptive Statistics Variable

Mean

Water insecurity 3.47 Distance 2.18 Storage capacity 2,352 (liters, rounded) Reciprocal relations 3.87 Borrowing water 0.13 Lending water 0.23

SD 1.90 0.84 3,486 3.43 0.21 0.23

Min.

Max.

0.00 1.00

7.25 4.00

220

16,000

0.00 0.00 0.00

17.80 1.00 1.00

TABLE 3. Regression Parameters for Models Predicting Reciprocal Water Exchanges Analysis 1: Borrowing Water Explanatory B SE ȕ t Variables Constant í0.06 0.09 — 0.72 Water 0.05 0.01 0.46 4.18**** Insecurity Distance í0.02 0.03 í0.08 0.75 Storage 0.00 0.00 0.12 1.13 Reciprocal 0.01 0.20 1.82* 0.01 Relations Model Statistics r2 = 0.27, F = 6.04****

Analysis 2: Lending Water B

SE

ȕ

0.18

0.10

—

1.73*

0.03

0.01

0.20

1.74*

–0.06 0.00

0.03 0.00

í0.20 0.27

1.77* 2.31**

0.01

0.01

0.18

t

1.56

r2 = 0.19, F = 3.76***

Significance: **** p 0.001, *** p 0.0, ** p 0.05, * p 0.10.


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The first measure of water-related risk, water insecurity, was significantly and positively associated with receiving and providing water, although its effect on receiving water was stronger and more significant than its effect on loaning water. This finding was illustrated by the case of Doña Emilia, who experienced chronic water insecurity. Doña Emilia actively received and provided water, particularly in exchanges with her next-door neighbor. The give-and-take of water between Doña Emilia and her neighbor ensured that each woman could rely on the other in times of need, thus enhancing the water security of both. The other measures of water-related risks, proximity to water sources in Villa Israel’s center and water storage capacity, were significantly associated only with providing water. Water storage capacity had a stronger and more significant effect than distance from Villa Israel’s center. The case of Doña Sofia provides a clear example of these findings. Doña Sofia always sought water from her elderly neighbor who had a 5,000-liter tank before approaching her worse-off neighbors for help. Additionally, Doña Sofia’s distance from water sources meant that, although she had good relationships with her neighbors, her requests for water were sometimes refused because they also lacked access to secure water supplies. Finally, the measure of risk redistribution—reciprocal relationships—had a marginally significant positive association only with receiving water. The contrast between Doña Emilia and Doña Teodosia is instructive here. Doña Emilia had a very active reciprocal relationship with Don Félix’s family, in which they often exchanged food and household goods. Although she never reported providing water to her in-laws, Doña Emilia was able to rely on her in-laws for water when she needed it. Doña Emilia’s participation in a range of reciprocal exchanges facilitated her access to water. In contrast, Doña Teodosia had been unable to establish reciprocal relationships with her neighbors and acquaintances. As a result, she felt there was no one in the community that she could approach with a request for water when her household experienced shortages. In the social insurance model of reciprocity, exchange partners can “store” obligations to reciprocate past “gifts” of water, labor, or household goods. For insurance-oriented reciprocity to thrive, it is necessary for participants to experience enough risk that they are motivated to engage in costly exchanges to decrease their overall vulnerability. If past obligations can be redeemed when either partner is in need, reciprocity can redistribute risks and maximize the security of both partners. The analyses conducted here offer evidence that reciprocal water exchanges in Villa Israel operate, at least in part, according to the social insurance model. First, household heads that experienced elevated water insecurity were more likely to provide and receive water. The fact that water-insecure households actively participated in a range of reciprocal water exchanges—not just soliciting but also providing water—indicates the presence of some risk redistribution. Second, household heads that participated in reciprocal exchanges of other goods were also more likely to receive water. This indicates that reciprocal exchanges of water may occur in the context of much broader exchange relationships, making both partners more resilient to resource stress. Beyond these findings, additional associations highlight how different

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aspects of water security, such as the household’s water storage capacity and location, shape its participation in reciprocal exchanges of water. The Moral Economy of Water Having examined the role that resource access plays in shaping reciprocal water exchanges, I proceed to an examination of how social norms and values shape these exchanges. As I argued above, two principles of the moral economy— the right to subsistence and the duty to follow the norms of reciprocity—have been found in subsistence-oriented reciprocal institutions across cultures. Research in the rural Andes indicates that these values exist with regard to water. To determine whether or not these values play a role in shaping reciprocal water exchanges in Villa Israel, I began by scrutinizing the reasons people provided for giving water to other community members. When asked why they provide water to other community members, respondents repeatedly made such statements as “My neighbors begged (rogar) me [for water] so I gave (regalar) it to them.” To explain why they felt compelled to respond to these pleas, people frequently invoked notions of Christian charity. Drawing on lessons learned in Bible study, a number of people told me that “God says that you must help (ayudar) those in need.” Many of these respondents were parishioners in one of Villa Israel’s fourteen evangelical Christian churches. Notably, they emphasized the importance of providing water to all those in need equally. As one devout middle-aged man explained, “I would help (ayudar) those who are in the most need, without showing any preference toward anyone.” Another woman, an active member of Villa Israel’s Unión Cristiana Evangélica church, said, “I would help (ayudar) the neediest people; to me, it doesn’t matter who it is.” Several respondents also emphasized the importance of assisting marginalized members of Villa Israel society, saying “even with atheists” or “even if it’s a drunk, I must give (dar).” At least three respondents explained that it was important to uphold this subsistence ethic, even if it meant making personal sacrifices. As one woman explained, “I would give (regalar) to those who truly have nothing . . . especially the children . . . we adults can bear to go longer without eating.” Yet, even those who suffered from severe water scarcity made personal sacrifices to provide water to others. For instance, an extremely impoverished Adventist family reported missing meals because they had no water to cook. Despite experiencing a high degree of water insecurity, they regularly lent 10-liter buckets of water to their neighbors. For families experiencing both plenty and poverty, Christian charity was the dominant value shaping Villa Israel’s subsistence ethic. This indiscriminate charity norm is somewhat in conflict with the customary norms of Andean reciprocity that, while also upholding a subsistence ethic, do so in the context of formal ties that help people discriminate among reciprocal partners and requests for help. Aside from kinship bonds, formalized reciprocal ties were rarely, if ever, formed in Villa Israel. The evangelical majority did not participate in fiestas (parties), cargos (ritual obligations), the initiation of new compadrazgo (fictive kin) relationships, or any of the other customary Andean reciprocal institutions. Like Don Victor and Doña Teodosia, many Catholics maintained compadrazgo relationships and cargo responsibilities in their sending


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communities, but such ties rarely existed between Villa Israel residents. Doña Teodosia’s frustrations about her inability to rely on others for favors and her fear of rejection demonstrate how difficult it was for some Catholics to adjust to the unfamiliar norms of reciprocity in Villa Israel. The absence of a local Catholic church and the political dominance of evangelicals stifled customary institutions among Catholics. As one Catholic retiree noted, “The majority of the people here are Protestants . . . the Protestants always separate themselves [from Catholics] in an antisocial manner.” Although Doña Teodosia attributed her social exclusion primarily to business rivalries, her family’s Catholicism contributed to the difficulties they had establishing reciprocal relationships with neighbors. The dearth of ritualized reciprocal bonds between non-kin, when combined with the social obligation to be charitable, made it difficult for evangelicals and Catholics alike to prioritize exchange partners and requests in Villa Israel. As a result, the social obligation to act charitably could become extraordinarily burdensome for those perceived to possess water surpluses. As the analysis of social insurance model of reciprocity demonstrated, people with large water tanks and more access to centrally located water sources were frequently targeted for water requests. The experiences of one household, which was located on the main avenue and had a 10,000-liter water tank, are illustrative of this problem. As their teenaged daughter explained, “We have a water tank. People always come— sometimes every day, sometimes once or twice a week—and we always give (regalar) them water.” For this water-secure family, neighbors’ constant requests could be overwhelming. The problems caused by the indiscriminate charity norm and lack of formal reciprocal ties were intensified by a third factor: the lack of a strong social obligation to reciprocate when water is given. A brief examination of the ways in which people use prestar and regalar to describe water exchanges illustrates this. The term prestar, when translated literally, means to loan or borrow. Yet, in Villa Israel, prestar did not necessarily imply that a debt is created or would be repaid. Rather, prestar described an exchange that fell somewhere between generalized and balanced reciprocity. In some cases, people did return loaned water or reciprocate in some other way. However, my field notes indicate the term prestar was often used as a euphemism by people who requested water and had no intention of reciprocating. Indeed, when I asked respondents if prestar water created a reciprocal obligation to return anything at all, most people laughed or said “I wish.” As one woman explained, “People will tell you ‘I am going to return (voy a volver) [the water],’ but they never do.” One young woman pithily summed up the issue: “prestar (to loan) really means regalar (to give).” In recognition of this, people providing water generally used the term “regalar” (to give), which reflected their understanding that the water was unlikely to be returned—even if they were approached with a request to prestar water. As one well-off shopkeeper explained, rather than prestar, “I always give (regalar) water to my neighbor because I know she is not going to return (devolver) it.” It was very common for people to report that they gave water as a pure gift, with no expectation or likelihood of reciprocation. This is consistent with the charity norm: although givers of water would prefer reciprocal partners rather than charity cases, they

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seemed to feel that they should give water whether or not the recipient could be trusted to reciprocate. Thus, in Villa Israel, there was a strong obligation to give water, but only a weak implication that people should reciprocate. The leveling effect, in which the obligation to give makes it difficult for people to accumulate valuable goods, has been observed across cultures (Cashdan 1985; Wiessner 1982). For reciprocity to endure, the leveling effect should not be so burdensome that it threatens the survival of participants. Yet, given the strong obligation to give water and weak obligation to reciprocate, we might expect that the leveling effect was a major threat to people with small water surpluses. In Villa Israel, there were two socially acceptable ways to violate the subsistence ethic and avoid the leveling effect. First, people could refuse to provide water on the basis of neediness if they lacked “something to give.” Doña Emilia recalled how her in-laws invoked this neediness norm during the dry season: “The water ran out. It had been two days since the tapstand went dry. . . . I wanted to borrow (prestar) water, but [my in-laws refused because] they too were waiting for the water truck.” When regional or seasonal factors caused water shortages— making it impossible for neighbors to redistribute risks among themselves—the neediness norm helped water-insecure households safeguard their own survival. The second socially acceptable way of avoiding the leveling effect was to request or accept cash compensation for water. People could exchange water for money without stigma under the following circumstances: to reimburse impoverished or water-insecure reciprocal partners, to ensure water requests were not rejected, to avoid indebtedness, as part of a larger business operation (e.g., general store or restaurant), or to obtain a large quantity of water. For example, one savvy long-time resident of Villa Israel explained that people will generally give away (regalar) or loan (prestar) small amounts of water (10–20 liters), but they prefer to sell (vender) larger quantities (more than 100 liters). The neediness and compensation norms enabled households with small water surpluses to refuse water requests or solicit cash compensation in socially acceptable ways. Yet these norms also created an opportunity for people to categorically reject water requests or opportunistically demand compensation for water. One young woman, discussing the abuse of the compensation norm, said she had to “buy (comprar) water from my neighbor because she is too cheap” to give it away. Another woman, explaining how the neediness norm was overused, said many of her neighbors “would not even give (regalar) me a glass of water” if she asked for it. Complaints about self-interest and the misuse of the neediness and compensation norms were common in Villa Israel. A moral economy of water should comprise two key principles: the right to subsistence and the norms of reciprocity. In Villa Israel, there was clear evidence that community members endorsed a right to subsistence, which they cast in terms of the Christian obligation to act charitably toward those in need. Many community members, mainly members of Villa Israel’s dominant evangelical majority, stressed the importance of helping anyone who needed water, regardless of their personal relationship, status in the community, or the effects on one’s own well-being. This charity-oriented subsistence ethic was often effective in safeguarding the survival of the community’s most water-insecure residents.


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However, it also undermined the second principle of the moral economy—the norms of reciprocity—by compelling Villa Israel residents to give water to those who were clearly unable or unwilling to reciprocate. Although people did maintain long-standing reciprocal relationships with kin, neighbors, and other community members, the absence of formalized reciprocal institutions and the indiscriminate charity obligation burdened households with small water surpluses. The existence of socially sanctioned exceptions to the subsistence ethic allowed people to refuse water requests or solicit cash compensation, but these norms could also be used to neglect or exploit water-insecure households. While the evidence indicates that a moral economy of water does exist in Villa Israel, the presence of a strong charity-oriented subsistence ethic combined with weak norms of reciprocity created vulnerabilities and uncertainties for watersecure and water-insecure households alike. Reciprocity and the Self-Help Development Model Given the pervasiveness of reciprocity in Villa Israel, it is possible that reciprocal networks play an instrumental role in organizing self-help development projects, as the World Bank and other development agencies have argued. There is strong evidence, for instance, that Villa Israel and other Cochabamban squatter settlements seize every possible opportunity to initiate new community development projects (cf. Goldstein 2004). Over a five-year period (2003–2008), for instance, Villa Israel residents built two bridges, a system of canals to safely channel runoff through the community, a tree-lined median on the main avenue, cement street curbs, a concrete sports court, a covered open-air market, and a large high school. In each of these projects, community members worked cooperatively on construction, brought their own tools to work, and contributed funds or goods to assist the construction. At first glance, then, it may appear that the community has harnessed its social capital to produce successful self-help development projects. A closer look, however, reveals the flaw in this argument. Each of the completed projects listed above was funded by organizations from outside the community, such as the PLANE program, a federal education fund, and international NGOs. Given that most community members work six or even seven days a week, few could afford to contribute their labor regularly if they had not received wages from these external funding sources. In the case of PLANE, in fact, the entire purpose of the program was to provide employment for impoverished Bolivians (much like the Works Progress Administration program instituted during the American depression in 1935). While the presence of social capital in the community undoubtedly assisted in the completion of these projects, there is no evidence that these successes can be attributed to self-help development in which the community provided itself with infrastructure. To assess whether or not reciprocal relations have the ability to lift people out of poverty in Villa Israel, I examine a genuine case of self-help development: the construction of local tapstands. After an initial investment from an international NGO, Villa Israel’s local government assumed ownership and operation of a smallscale groundwater system. In order to participate in this system, residents of each zone must organize themselves to build a local tapstand. This involves making

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construction plans, raising funds for building materials, purchasing the materials, and physically constructing the tapstand. If reciprocity engenders self-help development, we might expect that the zones with the highest degree of reciprocal exchange among neighbors would be among the first to organize and construct their tapstands. However, the case of Doña Sofia’s zone is instructive. Doña Sofia and her neighbors participated in an active reciprocal water exchange network, yet these neighbors made no progress whatsoever toward the construction of a local tapstand. The poverty of Doña Sofia’s neighbors presented an insuperable barrier to effective self-help development. Even when local zones have organized and completed some steps toward tapstand construction, residents’ paucity of resources can derail the project. In a zone abutting the creek, for instance, residents had initiated the construction of a tapstand. Construction was halted when one of the residents was unable to afford her share of the materials. As she explained, “We all have to complete eight meters of pipe for the tapstand, but I have only completed about half of my part. My neighbor from across the street came out and berated me. I did not say anything in response, but her criticism reached my heart.” Again, although there was a high degree of social capital in this zone, it could not overcome local residents’ economic inability to contribute necessary resources for the development project. Such problems were common in many Villa Israel zones and helped explain why they had no tapstand and no plans to construct one. Given that poverty poses an insurmountable challenge to a small-scale and inexpensive project such as tapstand construction, it is unrealistic to conclude that reciprocal networks can be galvanized into the larger-scale selfhelp projects that development agencies envision. DISCUSSION AND CONCLUSIONS In this paper, I have examined the extent to which reciprocal exchanges of water help people safeguard subsistence in a water-scarce urban environment. To do so, I explored how two key factors—the distribution of risks and local social values—shape reciprocal exchanges of water in Villa Israel. The study yielded two main results. First, I found that reciprocal water exchanges conform, at least in part, to the social insurance model of reciprocity. This is the first time that reciprocity has been shown to redistribute risks related to water insecurity in an urban environment. Second, I found evidence of a unique moral economy of water in Villa Israel, characterized by a strong charity-oriented subsistence ethic and weak reciprocal norms. This supports Trawick’s (2001) proposition that the moral economy of water could be found throughout the Andes, although the features of reciprocal water exchange in a Bolivian squatter settlement differ substantially from those of an irrigation system managed by Peruvian peasants. Based on this evidence, I conclude that the characteristics of reciprocal water exchange in Villa Israel, although embedded in local values and practices, are consistent with those of other reciprocal institutions found to redistribute ecological risks across the ethnographic record. This analysis demonstrates how, even in the face of vast structural inequities and cultural transformations, the urban poor can sustain a mutually beneficial


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set of reciprocal exchange relationships. Reciprocity, which generally receives only a cursory mention in accounts of people coping with urban ecological risks, is crucial for urban survival in Villa Israel. In coming years, reciprocity may become more, not less, important for urban survival, as global climate change is expected to intensify chronic ecological risks, including flash-flooding, heat stress, drought, and water insecurity. Future research might focus, first, on how reciprocal exchanges are used to safeguard survival in the context of these diverse ecological risks and, second, how reciprocity interfaces and interacts with different systems of water provision. The finding that Villa Israel residents actively participate in reciprocal exchanges of water seems to rebut González de la Rocha’s (2001) finding that reciprocity is waning among the urban poor. Further, it supports Weismantel’s (2006) observations regarding the revitalization of Andean reciprocity. Even so, there is clear evidence that reciprocal exchanges in Villa Israel were not conducted according to the time-honored “rules of the game” of Andean reciprocity described by Mayer (2003). None of the customary rituals that reinforce reciprocal relationships (e.g., ayni or minka) are practiced. Cargo obligations and compadrazgo relationships were rarely, if ever, initiated in the community. In fact, kinship was the only type of formalized reciprocal relationship commonly found in Villa Israel. An important factor to consider here is the cultural dominance of evangelicals in Villa Israel; different trends may be found in predominately Catholic settlements. Yet reciprocal customs are universally important because they create preferential relationships, set priorities for the allocation of scarce resources, and help disguise self-interest in reciprocal exchanges between nonkin (Mayer 2003). In the absence of these customs, people in Villa Israel were overburdened with requests for water and the social obligation to help everyone in the community. To avoid these burdens, some people abused social norms that allowed the refusal of water requests or compensation for water. Thus, the lack of clear reciprocal rules and norms created uncertainty and vulnerability for people on both sides of water exchanges. Although reciprocal relations were clearly not utopian in Villa Israel, I believe that reciprocity provided a vital form of self-insurance among those vulnerable to the risks associated with water insecurity. My conclusions were confirmed when I returned in 2008 to present the results of my research at a community meeting in Villa Israel. When I described “the moral economy of water” and how I believed it characterized reciprocal water exchanges in Villa Israel, I was met with a roomful of people nodding in agreement. Initially surprised, I soon remembered that the squatters’ central argument in the Cochabamba Water War was that privatization violates people’s basic right to subsistence because “agua es vida” (water is life). My findings demonstrate how squatters make daily sacrifices to uphold this subsistence ethic within their own extremely water-scarce community. Although there were instances of exploitation and abuse, there were many more cases in which community members were willing to share their own meager water supplies to ensure their family, neighbors, or friends had enough water to stave off thirst and hunger. Despite the crucial role that reciprocity plays in enhancing water security for Villa Israel residents, it is important to recognize the limits of self-organization

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among the urban poor. Castells (1983) explained more than 25 years ago that, as city outskirts and the demands of their residents grew, municipalities became increasingly incapable of meeting the needs of new squatters. In reality, intracommunity reciprocity—no matter how active—cannot overcome the fact that communities like Villa Israel are excluded from municipal water systems and possess insufficient surface and groundwater resources to ensure their residents’ health and well-being. Further, even the most active reciprocal networks cannot generate the materials needed to construct large-scale water supply or development projects. To imply that reciprocal relationships can overcome these challenges is to essentially mask profound disparities in urban resource access. In this sense, González de la Rocha’s (2007) trenchant critique of development ideology is correct. Reciprocity, while capable of safeguarding subsistence, is not a solution for those whose survival is continually threatened by the larger political economic forces that create water insecurity, resource inequity, and social exclusion among the urban poor. NOTE This research was supported by the National Science Foundation (Award BCS-0314395), Fulbright-IIE, the Tinker Foundation, Paul and Polly Doughty, and the University of Florida Center for Latin American Studies, and Arizona State University’s School of Human Evolution and Social Change. I am also grateful to Jake Lulewicz for creating the map of Bolivia included in the text.

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