Peter Gow was one of the most original and sensitive anthropologists I have known.

His doctoral
thesis, an ethnography of the Piro/Yine people of Peruvian Amazonia, published in 1991 with the title
"Of Mixed Blood," revolutionized—I'm not exaggerating—Americanist studies. In that book Peter
critique current theories of so-called "interethnic contact" and describe the cultural vitality of a people
who, in a certain realm of anthropology at the time, would be considered "acculturated." This book had
a profound impact in my work with the Wari', and my enthusiasm was shared with my students, who
were equally taken by the power of Peter's analysis.
The monograph that followed, "An Amazonian Myth and Its History," generated another
revolution. The mythic analysis, with Lévistraussian inspiration, is placed in the context of everyday
interactions, attending to the story itself and its relational context. With this, Peter shows us, little by
little, how a myth interacts with history, revealing this history through its counterpoint, that is, through
the effacement of events. Through myths and their transformations we understand the history of the
Piro/Yine.
"An Amazonian Myth and Its History" was written in Rio de Janeiro, more specifically in Cosme
Velho neigbourhood, in an apartment Peter rented for a stay as visiting professor at the Museu
Nacional. I was able to attend some of his classes, which seemed more like informal conversations with
the students, always in Portuguese, which he had learned with impressive speed. Peter's books, and his
many articles, are also like that: they seem like conversations, telling stories, and then there in the
middle, almost hidden, emerge new concepts, ideas, and absolutely original thoughts.
With a radiant affection, Peter made friends everywhere. How many times I heard him talk
about his Piro/Yine compadres, comadres, and godchildren. Having begun fieldwork very young, Peter
saw these children grow up, living with them for almost forty years. He made family among the
Piro/Yine and I am sure that they see him as a beloved relative. They must be mourning now.
Peter was a dear and very close friend. We were born the same year, 1958. Me in April and he in
June. We joked that we were contemporaries of Madonna, Michael Jackson and Prince. We had
arranged to make a big trip together to celebrate turning 50. We decided on Polynesia and an island
called Morea. I had already bought my ticket but Peter backed out, perhaps with presentiment of his
mother's death, which came soon after.
Before this we had made a lot of trips together, one of which was to one of the places most
precious to me, Aventureiro, on Ilha Grande, where my own compadre, comadre, and godson live. On
that occasion, my son Francisco, today 30 years old, was very small. I remember sitting with Peter in the
door of a house, with our feet in the beach sand, and Francisco beside us drinking milk from a baby
bottle. The adventure was complete: the sea "turned" (became very agitated) and our food was running
out. We decided to leave and go to a neighboring beach, Provetá, more secluded and from which we
could get a boat to the mainland. We left in early morning and, since Francisco was little, Peter helped
carry him on his shoulders. We slept in sleeping bags in a house in Provetá, waiting for the possible
departure of a boat the next day.
With André, my younger son, I had a long stay in Peter's house in London. It was a Victorian-
style house with stained glass above the door, blues and reds, if I remember right. We stayed in a room
upstairs, which had a marvelous mattress and was so quiet that I slept more than ten hours a night.
Peter liked to sleep late and I remember that, after dinner, I would leave the room where we had been
talking to put André to sleep, saying I would come back. In that warm room, I fell asleep beside André
and saw Peter only the next day. It was on that occasion, in a bus in which the three of us were
returning from a trip to Oxford, that André spoke his first word: "Pete."
On a visit to Cambridge, Peter introduced me to two anthropologists I admired—and admire—
immensely: Stephen Hugh-Jones and Marilyn Strathern, who became interlocutors and dear friends.
Through Stephen I became an invited professor at Cambridge more than once, periods that definitively
shaped my academic career. When I lived there we saw Peter a lot, and Francisco and I spent a
memorable birthday with him walking in the Scottish Highlands. The two of them gave me one of those
pocket knives with spoon, fork, knife for camping, which I keep fondly to this day.
Together we lived two of the most moving moments in my life, visits to the office of Lévi-
Strauss, our most important intellectual referent. I remember, on our first visit, the two of us sitting in
front of the Collège de France, nervous, marking time until the appointed hour. After our meeting,
thrilled, we sat in a café recalling point by point what he had said to us, so we would always remember.
That night we went to dinner in the Marais to celebrate.
As soon as Peter bought his house in Dundee, before he moved, he took me to see it. He was so
happy to finally return to his birthplace, Scotland. The house was empty but we didn't have a key.
Needing to pee, I inaugurated his garden, which we laughed about ever after. On another visit, with
Peter in the new house, he invited me to get to know his father's homeland. We stayed in the most
Scottish hotel that could exist, with green and red plaid wallpaper in all the rooms. Sitting beside the
fireplace, we ate an incredible dinner and the next morning had the best breakfast of my life, with black
pudding, one of my favorite delicacies. Some of his students met us there and we went walking in a fine
rain. All of them adored him. Besides being an attentive advisor, he treated them like his own sons and
daughters, hosting them, making them special dishes.
 Peter liked to cook and was an excellent cook. I'll never forget his lamb in mint sauce! The last
time we saw each other, at a dinner in November 2019 in his house, he told me he was writing a book of
recipes, some learned from his mother (which I later received by email). He gave me a present, a Huichol
tapestry, in which a shaman prepares a potion in a big pot next to a cornstalk. I have it in front of me
right now. That night was very cold and we learned that it was the coldest night of the year. Peter didn't
like heating (I'm Scottish, he would say!).
It's cold today, but now the cold is inside me. I can't imagine the world without Peter. Francisco
came to keep me company. They liked each other very much. On his last visit to Rio, Peter wanted to see
his new house and Francisco arranged a dinner for us of Arabic meat pies from Largo do Machado.
Yesterday we were remembering these and other moments. Peter's mannerisms, his rolling laugh, his
elegance, always in linen shirts and leather shoes, his droll way of exclaiming "puta merda!", and the
seriousness with which he listed to children and interacted with them. We are all orphans now.

A recipe from Peter:

Mealie Pudding

(This recipe is effectively useless to you, Aparecida, since the ingredients are not available, to my
knowledge, in Brazil). This recipe was developed in dialogue with my brother.

As to Mealie Pudding, the recipe is really simple, the problem is the technology.
 
The recipe is basically finely diced onions, grated carrots, what have you in terms of seasoning, mixed
with oats (the old-fashioned cracked ones, not “porridge oats”) and suet, some water, mixed together,
put into a pudding bowl and then cooked until done.
 
Mum’s pudding bowl was metal with a tight cap. It fitted into a large sauce pan. I wish that I possessed
it. If you possess it, keep it. Mine is plastic, so has to be mediated by my steamer, which is a bit of a
faffle, so basically I do not bother with mealie pudding. Which is a shame, given that it is a great recipe.