Andean Ontologies : New Archaeological Perspectives 2018047756, 9780813056371

Table of contents :
Cover
Andean Ontologies
Title
Copyright
Dedication
Contents
List of Figures
List of Tables
Preface
1. Andean Ontologies: An Introduction to Substance
2. Huaca Salango: A Sacred Center on the Coast of Ecuador
3. Analogism at Chavín de Huántar
4. Indigenous Anatomies: Ontological Dissections of the Indigenous Body
5. Moche Corporeal Ontologies: Transfiguration, Ancestrality, and Death; A Perspective from the Late Moche Cemetery of San José de Moro, Northern Peru
6. Moche Mereology: Synecdochal Ontologies at the Late Moche Site of Huaca Colorada, Peru
7. The Head as the Seat of the Soul: A Medium for Spiritual Reciprocity in the Early Andes
8. Toward a Situated Ontology of Bodies and Landscapes in the Archaeology of the Southern Andes (First Millennium AD, Northwest Argentina)
9. Ontological Foundations for Inka Archaeology
10. A Past as a Place: Examining the Archaeological Implications of the Aymara Pacha Concept in the Bolivian Altiplano
11. Rock Art, Historical Ontologies, and the Genealogy of Landscape: A Case Study from the Southern Andes (30° lat. S)
12. Final Commentaries: A Matter of Substance, and the Substance of Matter
List of Contributors
Index

Citation preview

Andean Ontologies

University Press of Florida Florida A&M University, Tallahassee Florida Atlantic University, Boca Raton Florida Gulf Coast University, Ft. Myers Florida International University, Miami Florida State University, Tallahassee New College of Florida, Sarasota University of Central Florida, Orlando University of Florida, Gainesville University of North Florida, Jacksonville University of South Florida, Tampa University of West Florida, Pensacola

AN DEAN ONTOLOG I E S New Archaeological Perspectives

pppppppppppp Edited by María Cecilia Lozada and Henry Tantaleán

University Press of Florida Gainesville · Tallahassee · Tampa · Boca Raton Pensacola · Orlando · Miami · Jacksonville · Ft. Myers · Sarasota

Copyright 2019 by María Cecilia Lozada and Henry Tantaleán All rights reserved Published in the United States of America. This book may be available in an electronic edition. 24 23 22 21 20 19

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Lozada, María Cecilia, editor. | Tantaleán, Henry, 1974– editor. Title: Andean ontologies : new archaeological perspectives / edited by María Cecilia Lozada and Henry Tantaleán. Description: Gainesville : University Press of Florida, 2019. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2018047756 | ISBN 9780813056371 (cloth : alk. paper) Subjects: LCSH: Ontology—History. | Indians of South America—Andes Region—History. | Ontologism—History. Classification: LCC BD357 .A53 2019 | DDC 111.0985/0902—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018047756 The University Press of Florida is the scholarly publishing agency for the State University System of Florida, comprising Florida A&M University, Florida Atlantic University, Florida Gulf Coast University, Florida International University, Florida State University, New College of Florida, University of Central Florida, University of Florida, University of North Florida, University of South Florida, and University of West Florida. University Press of Florida 2046 NE Waldo Road Suite 2100 Gainesville, FL 32609 http://upress.ufl.edu

This book is dedicated to Charles Stanish Mentor, Inspiration, and Friend

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Contents

List of Figures ix List of Tables xiii Preface xv Henry Tantaleán and María Cecilia Lozada 1. Andean Ontologies: An Introduction to Substance 1 Henry Tantaleán 2. Huaca Salango: A Sacred Center on the Coast of Ecuador 49 Richard Lunniss 3. Analogism at Chavín de Huántar 79 Nicco La Mattina and Matthew Sayre 4. Indigenous Anatomies: Ontological Dissections of the Indigenous Body 99 María Cecilia Lozada 5. Moche Corporeal Ontologies: Transfiguration, Ancestrality, and Death; A Perspective from the Late Moche Cemetery of San José de Moro, Northern Peru 116 Luis Armando Muro, Luis Jaime Castillo, and Elsa Tomasto-Cagigao 6. Moche Mereology: Synecdochal Ontologies at the Late Moche Site of Huaca Colorada, Peru 150 Giles Spence-Morrow and Edward Swenson 7. The Head as the Seat of the Soul: A Medium for Spiritual Reciprocity in the Early Andes 183 Mary Glowacki

8. Toward a Situated Ontology of Bodies and Landscapes in the Archaeology of the Southern Andes (First Millennium AD, Northwest Argentina) 213 Benjamin Alberti and Andres Laguens 9. Ontological Foundations for Inka Archaeology 240 Bruce Mannheim 10. A Past as a Place: Examining the Archaeological Implications of the Aymara Pacha Concept in the Bolivian Altiplano 271 Juan Villanueva Criales 11. Rock Art, Historical Ontologies, and the Genealogy of Landscape: A Case Study from the Southern Andes (30° lat. S) 301 Andrés Troncoso 12. Final Commentaries: A Matter of Substance, and the Substance of Matter 332 Catherine J. Allen List of Contributors 347 Index 351

Figures

0.1. The main archaeological sites and cities in the volume xvii 2.1. Map showing the relation of Salango to other coastal Ecuadorian sites mentioned 51 2.2. Map of the area of the Salango sanctuary 53 2.3. Plan of the Middle Engoroy House 55 2.4. Plan of the Late Engoroy Platform 58 2.5. The head of a spirit being modeled on the Late Engoroy whistling bottle from the shaman’s grave 60 2.6. Sector 141B of the Bahía II funerary enclosure 62 2.7. The spirit being on a Salaite ware double bottle 65 2.8. Heads of the male-female spirit being 66 2.9. Early Guangala male anthropomorphic whistling figurine 66 2.10. Bahía II female anthropomorphic whistling figurine 68 2.11. Composite Early Guangala vessel base in the form of a spirit being 69 3.1. Chavín de Huántar and site sectors 80 3.2. Roll-out drawing of the Black and White Portal 86 3.3. Tello Obelisk 88 5.1. Evidence of feasting associated with Late Moche chamber tombs MU-1525 and MU-1727 123 5.2. Moche sculptural vessel depicting an act of corpse manipulation 126 5.3. Evidence of postmortem corporeal modifications within Chamber MU-1525 127 5.4. Evidence of postmortem corporeal modifications within Chamber MU-1727 129

5.5. Evidence of postmortem corporeal modifications within Chamber MU-2111 131 5.6. Evidence of postmortem alteration of Os coxae in Chamber MU-1525 133 5.7. Human skulls registered within short-term structures located at funerary patios of San José de Moro 133 5.8. Face-neck jars with ancestor imagery registered embedded in the occupational floors of funerary patios at San José de Moro 136 6.1. Map of Jequetepeque with location of Huaca Colorada 159 6.2. Map of Huaca Colorada sectors 160 6.3. Isometric model of the Western Chamber and Eastern Terrace in relation to each other 162 6.4. Construction phases of the Western Chamber 162 6.5. Comparison of Moche iconographic representation of the cover platform 163 6.6. Sacrificial locations in relation to the eastern public ramp and platform complex and the western private platform chamber 164 6.7. Human sacrifice 166 6.8. Eastern public platform 167 6.9. Post emplacements in the eastern public platform terrace 168 6.10. Ramp iconography 170 6.11. Sacrificial burials and Tumi knife 171 6.12. Pregnant sacrifice in situ beneath clay floor cap and in relation to eastern ramped platform reduction 172 7.1. Drawing of Paracas ecstatic shaman in flight and drawing of Paracas ecstatic shaman in the process of transformation 190 7.2. Moche effigy vessel showing human’s alter ego, his animal self 191 7.3. Images of the Raimondi Stella 193 7.4. Chavín tenon heads, ordered to illustrate the process of transformation 194 7.5. Image of Chavín figure exhibiting elements of kenning 196 7.6. Inca headdress with human hair braids 197 7.7. Nazca human effigy head bowl 199 8.1. Map of the geographic areas mentioned in the text 226 8.2. La Candelaria zoomorphic ceramic vessel 228 8.3. The yungas 229

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Figures

8.4. 8.5. 8.6. 10.1. 10.2. 10.3. 10.4. 10.5.

10.6. 10.7. 10.8. 11.1. 11.2. 11.3. 11.4.

11.5. 11.6. 11.7. 11.8. 11.9.

Tafi del Valle 229 The Santamaria Valley 230 Vase from the La Candelaria core area 231 Different scales of the concept of pacha 275 Location of Pariti Island, Condoramaya, and K’amacha and Kusillavi, Carangas 278 Decorative motifs in Pariti ceramics 280 Relationship between the chronological origin of icons and vessel shapes 282 Similar relationships of opposition, regarding decorative structure, between ceramic jars and bowls, and between textile mantles (awayus) and sacks of the central altiplano 285 Distribution of ceramic offerings related to burials from the Condoramaya cemetery 286 Location of settlements and chullpares in southwestern Carangas 289 Distribution of ceramic pastes according to their sources, southwestern Carangas 290 Map of Valle El Encanto 303 Some examples of rock paintings and bedrock mortars in Valle El Encanto (Moment I) 309 Distribution of rock paintings in the site 310 Central sector of Valle El Encanto during Moment I, showing the large outcrop and the most-painted rock of the site associated with the outcrop 311 Some examples of the petroglyhs of Moment II 314 Comparison of the depth of the petroglyph grooves at Moment II and Moment III 315 Distribution of petroglyphs of Moment II in the site 317 Some examples of petroglyphs of Moment III 319 Distribution of petroglyphs of Moment III in the site indicating the placement of heads 321

Figures

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Tables

2.1. Distribution of excavated Early Regional Development burials at Salango 62 3.1. Connections between religious authority and practice 90

Preface

As Andean archaeologists, our interpretations regarding how pre-Hispanic societies viewed and experienced their world is rooted in our own experience and praxis. When dealing with the past, we are confronted with diverse and complex challenges surrounding the examination of themes such as ancestral knowledge, worldviews, and the valorization of past and contemporaneous indigenous societies. After many long conversations about archaeological practice, interpretation, and theoretical tendencies in Peru, we decided to open a dialogue on this subject by organizing a symposium at the Society for American Archaeology Meeting of 2016, in which we invited an international group of scholars from different academic traditions and generations. As the goals of their research were very much aligned with ours, we wanted to discuss new theoretical and methodological approaches that have been used to evaluate these themes. In addition to archaeologists, we invited other colleagues from the fields of bioarchaeology, art history, ethnohistory, and linguistics in order to create a multidisciplinary perspective on past and current Andean ontologies. Our symposium in Orlando was well attended, and the papers were innovative and thought-provoking. We had productive engagements with our guests, participants, and researchers, all of whom shared their own opinions and work regarding indigenous worldviews. These works offered unique insight into ways in which indigenous groups conceptualized and experienced the world around them, including the landscape, notions of time, the relationship between beings, objects, and life and death cycles. Before the SAA meeting, we received an invitation from Meredith Babb to consider publishing the papers presented in this symposium through the University Press of Florida. Since the meeting in Orlando, we have solicited and received manuscripts

from participants in the conference and other invited scholars, which serve as the basis for this volume. It is our hope that the Andean perspective of the world, encapsulated in this book, will stimulate further discussions regarding these topics alongside perspectives from other parts of the world.

The Chapters in This Book This book is made up of research from different geographical and temporal contexts. Unlike other published treaties that focus on the Central Andes of Peru, our intention from the beginning was to incorporate perspectives from multiple South American countries such as Ecuador, Bolivia, Chile, and Argentina (see figure 0.1, which illustrates the main archaeological sites and cities mentioned in this book). It is also important to point out that a majority of the research in this book was conducted by native researchers. As a result of having published in Spanish, their work is mostly known in Spanish-speaking contexts. By translating these works, we seek to connect people from different nationalities and academic backgrounds in an effort to democratize a longoverdue dialogue among researchers working in different regions of the Andes. As stated earlier, the contributors are not only archaeologists, but bioarchaeologists, linguists, and art historians as well. This multidisciplinary approach helps to ensure a multifaceted perspective on Andean ontologies. Altogether, the publication of this book in English will help with the dissemination of this localized research, serving as a comparative platform for other Andean, and even non-Andean, studies. In the first chapter, Henry Tantaleán offers a roadmap that introduces the readers to the sources and current debates regarding Andean ontologies. Tantaleán defines and discusses essential notions of the Andean worldview that will be explored throughout the book. This chapter is followed by research organized chronologically and geographically, showcasing diverse themes and approaches from their respective authors. Richard Lunnis, a British researcher living in Ecuador, offers a rich interpretation of Salango, one of the most important ceremonial centers, or huacas, on the Ecuadorian coast. The unique features of Salango, dating back to the Formative Period, highlight its fundamental role as a powerful ritual center in the past, where many ontological principles were enacted and reproduced for several centuries. Lunnis reconstructs a complex history of events from its initial use until the arrival of the Spaniards. xvi

Preface

Figure 0.1. The main archaeological sites and cities in the volume.

Chavín de Huántar has been at the heart of archaeological research in Peru for decades. Nicco La Mattina and Matthew Sayre propose a novel interpretation of this formative site located in the north highlands of Peru. This famous Andean pilgrimage center is interpreted using a Descolian perspective, adding another dimension to the long tradition of studies initiated by Peruvian archaeologist Julio C. Tello. In the following chapter, María Cecilia Lozada discusses three bioarchaeological case studies that illustrate the ways in which the body, society, and Preface

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the landscape interacted as a unit in the past. Her interpretation is based on indigenous definitions of the human body, ethnohistorical accounts, human remains to evaluate life cycles of the living and the dead, gender construction, and sickness ideology. We have recovered important information about past societies from the excavation of monumental tombs and cemeteries from the north coast of Peru. In a study written by Luis Muro, Luis Jaime Castillo, and Elsa Tomasto-Cagigao, the concepts of the social and physical body are fully discussed from a theoretical perspective at the famous Moche site of San José de Moro. These authors reconstruct the process of ancestralization of the Moche bodies through a detailed study of the physical remains of the dead, their position, and location in the site unique to this coastal society. Close to San José de Moro, one finds Huaca Colorada, also affiliated with the Moche. Based on a rich and textured analysis of the archaeological contexts, Giles Spence-Morrow and Edward Swenson evaluate the architectonic changes and transformations of Huaca Colorada alongside evidence of human sacrifices in an effort to examine the significance of such events within a unique Moche worldview. Mary Glowacki centers her study on the meaning of the human head in multiple Andean contexts, from the Formative Period onward. Using a comparative analysis of ethnographic, ethnohistorical, and archaeological sources, Glowacki explains how the head was a symbol of power, with inherent regenerative properties. Through this symbolism and perceived power, the head served as a locus of personhood and energy in the Andes. Benjamin Alberti and Andrés Laguens take us to the northwest part of Argentina and discuss the La Candelaria tradition. Initially settled in the yunga area, the inhabitants of La Candelaria expanded to other ecological niches. These authors interpret the expansion of La Candelaria using Amazonian Perspectivism, as opposed to Murra’s verticality model. In this respect, the body and the landscape are seen as a complete and malleable unit that could adapt to other geographical contexts. Bruce Mannheim brings a linguist’s perspective to the discussion of Inka ontological perspectives with his vast knowledge of Quechua. Mannheim discusses the complexities that exist in approaches to reconstruct dimensions of ontologies in the past, as these are bounded by highly contextualized social activities. In addition, he includes in his discussion the importance of understanding the allocentric nature of Quechua, as opposed to the egocentric xviii

Preface

nature of Spanish and English. This distinction is important as the two represent significantly different frames of reference. Knowledge of the world and interrelationships with its components is yet another theme that needs to be considered when attempting to reconstruct worldviews of the past. Juan Villanueva Criales deals with archaeological contexts from Bolivia. His research encompasses a rich discussion about the pacha term that simultaneously encapsulates the concepts of time (temporality) and place (spatial location). His detailed ethnohistorical, iconographic, and archaeological studies allow the interpretation of the notion of pacha within three archaeological settings in the Andes, although manifested in a variety of ways. Villanueva’s study highlights the need for highly contextualized and multidisciplinary interpretations of the archaeological record to prevent generalizations based on the uncritical use of ethnohistorical research. From a different angle, area, and materiality, Troncoso offers an ontological study of the landscape and rock art in the central north of Chile. In his study, he develops an approximation of the historical dynamics of pre-Hispanic ontologies based on an evaluation of the production and consumption of rock art at a specific site in the southern Andes. He develops a genealogy of the Valle El Encanto site, which shows a sequence of occupation and production of rock art from the beginning of the late Holocene (circa 2000 a.C.) until contact with the Spanish Empire (circa 1530 d.C.) by hunter-gatherer and agricultural societies. Finally, Catherine Allen, who has inspired much of the research in this volume, offers a rich analysis of each of the chapters. She threads common themes and delineates the overarching implications of these research approaches for Andean archaeology as a whole. Her extensive knowledge of Andean ethnography serves as a powerful framework within which to evaluate the ontological studies that make up this volume.

Acknowledgments The editors wish thank the authors who have contributed to this book. Some of the presenters in the SAA symposium, such as Tamara Bray, were not able to provide a chapter although their participation in Orlando enriched our perspectives. We also extend our gratitude to Gary Urton for his comments on the first version of this manuscript. From the moment this project started, Meredith Babb from the University Press of Florida has provided invaluable Preface

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assistance and important insights that have helped shape this volume. Three anonymous reviewers gave us significant and constructive commentaries. Thanks to them we have enhanced this book. Some of the texts were translated from Spanish to English, and significant editorial comments were provided by Brandy Norton, Claudia Giribaldi, Ariel Singer, and Sylvia Cheever from the University of Chicago. Charles Stanish offered a generous travel grant to Henry Tantaleán through the Cotsen Institute to travel and attend the meetings in Orlando. Henry Tantaleán María Cecilia Lozada

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1 Andean Ontologies An Introduction to Substance

H e n ry Ta n ta l e á n

In ancient times the sun died. Because of his death it was night for five days. Rocks banged against each other. Mortars and grinding stones began to eat people. Buck llamas started to drive men. (The Huarochirí Manuscript, circa 1598. In Salomon 1991: 53)

Humans have long reflected on the reasons why they inhabit a changing world and have always questioned the nature of that world. Most importantly, humans have explored different conceptualizations and understandings of the substances from which objects and beings (including humans) are made, as well as the forces that animate them. In this context, thinking about the world and its constituent elements—essentially generating philosophical thought—is an inherent and fundamental human quality. Nevertheless, the historical and philosophical display of reality is mostly viewed from Eurocentric and anthropocentric perspectives. Contemporaneous hegemonic thought has become the dominant frame through which to interpret the world. This is mostly the result of Western colonialism, which forced the adoption of westernized worldviews globally through the subordination, persecution, and exclusion of other perceptions, beliefs, and forms of knowledge. This process is quite evident in the Andes. More and more, scholars have become aware of this bias. Social researchers

know that even though these worldviews were ignored, these societies maintained their own ways of explaining their world.1 Their perception and understanding of the world provided, and continues to provide, a frame for their material and ideal existence, if there is, in fact, a differentiation among these types of existence. This awareness is quite evident, and even necessary, when dealing with nonliterate societies of the past. The lack of written records does not allow scholars to know and discuss profound and complex themes, for instance, knowledge of how reality was conceived, the substances from which objects and beings are made, and their essences. An understanding of past peoples’ ontologies and theories of reality is essential in comprehending their views on vital reproduction and relationships with other nonhuman beings. Fortunately, in the last few decades within the social sciences realm, there has been a substantial change known as the “ontological turn” (Alberti 2016; Kohn 2015). This theoretical approach has been essential in challenging Eurocentric, modernist, and anthropocentric perspectives of the world. In this way, there is a significant theoretical corpus from different fields, such as sociology (Latour 1993, 1999, 2005), art history (Osborne and Tanner 2007), anthropology (Gell 1998), ethnography (Descola 2013 [2005]; Viveiros de Castro 1998, 2014 [2009]) and archaeology (Ingold 2000). It is precisely in this vein that there are some important theoretical contributions in archaeology. For instance, it is understood that objects and other beings have a similar status to humans in the construction of the world in what is known as symmetrical archaeologies (Olsen 2012; Olsen et al. 2012; Webmoor 2012), the theory of objects (Lull 2007), entanglement theory (Der and Fernandini 2016; Hodder 2012, 2016) and relational archaeologies (Watts 2013). In parallel, critiques of the Western views on how to practice and think about archaeology have been developed in the last decades through decolonizing archaeologies (Gnecco 1999, 2013; Haber 2009, 2016; Hamilakis 2016), indigenous archaeologies (Atalay 2006, 2008; Nicholas 2001; Smith and Wobst 2005), and archaeological proposals inspired by Amerindian perspectivism (Lau 2013; Weismantel 2013). These three perspectives have also emerged in part due to the richness and continuity of indigenous traditions in the Americas. As a result, an ontologic turn was generated to explain indigenous societies, especially “Amerindian societies” (sensu Viveiros de Castro 2014 [2009]), not from a classical and external view, but instead from an internal, innovative and localized view. These perspectives have incorporated worldviews from the same 2

Henry Tantaleán

indigenous societies. This turn has also been accompanied by a methodological change that invites researchers to reflect upon the sources to be considered when explaining the indigenous perspectives of these societies. In many ways, this book contributes to such changing viewpoints. As will be discussed in this chapter, many of these studies have been influenced by work conducted in the Andes from the beginning of the twentieth century. In this way, there exists an important tradition in the utilization of indigenous perspectives for the explanation of the South American past, which emerged from local, as well as a few international, scholars. These studies have become visible, and are enhanced, through recent and contemporaneous Western academic practices.

Andean Ontologies How did the inhabitants of the pre-Hispanic Andes understand their world? Which beings, substances, and forces formed these worlds? What were the relationships between humans, animals, plants, objects, and landscapes? What explanations were given to understand events and changes? All of these questions may be thought of as mostly philosophical or metaphysical; however, they are based on the experience and empirical knowledge of the world, both past and present (Broda 2018: 4; Mannheim and Salas Carreño 2015; Swenson 2015). Ontology deals with questions related to being and existence. In the past, as well as today, there were various ontologies, even synchronic, that cohabited within a spacial and temporal frame as extensive as the Andean region and with a long prehistory (see also Trever et al. 2009: 11). The challenge, of course, will always be to try to adapt any recovered ontology from a particular spacial and temporal context to a different archaeological and anthropological setting. I think that, epistemologically and methodologically, the use of ontological Andean categories can contribute significantly to our understanding of social practices in this part of the world. In fact, as demonstrated by the history of archaeology (Trigger 2006), the praxis of scholars dealing with the past has always been characterized by the use of Western ontologies. In this sense, I believe that, at the heuristic level, Andean ontological concepts possess an important explanatory potential that complements Western explanations, and that they are worth exploring. As will be seen in this book, Andean ontologies fit very well when applied to local contexts, in contrast to Anglo-Saxon ontological concepts or other European models derived from ethnographic cases, Andean Ontologies: An Introduction to Substance

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which are spatially and temporally removed from the Andes. When using such concepts, it is important to highlight the fact that the adaptation of Andean ontologies to pre-1532 realities will depend, for the most part, on the nature of the archaeological contexts to be studied (also see Swenson 2015). It is also necessary to keep in mind that the Incas, the late pre-Hispanic empire of the Andes, imposed an official culture and a dominant ideology which was used to establish order and to justify their power within conquered territories (Silverblatt 1990: xxiv). As such, one needs to be cautious when using certain Inca notions across all Andean settings, cultures, and time periods, as they most likely represent a narrative developed by one particular indigenous group in a specific period of time, and in part by the Cuzco elite. As such, this book does not seek to essentialize the ancient and present peoples of the Andes under a single ontology or understanding, as this would not encapsulate the diversity of philosophies, ideologies, and worldviews adopted by Andean cultures and peoples throughout time (discourse also known as “Lo Andino”). For this reason, it is also important to emphazise the fact that, in a society, there are not only general ways in which to interpret the world, but there are also particular, coexisting ways in which to view the world. Depending on the nature of the organization of a society, ontologies may even be in conflict (see Salomon 2018, chap. 6, for a discussion from the ethnography). This happens, for instance, when a community is invaded by another, or when, in the same society, a new view of the world is generated (also known as an ideology) by elites (or other social groups with power) and forced upon the rest of the society (Patterson 1987). These ontologies in conflict need to be “situated,” “tied,” and “adjusted” in order to fit the archaeological and social context under scrutiny. In this book, the authors offer a variety of case studies whose main goal is to “situate” ontologies in the empirical field. Thus, in this book the authors support the existence of a variety of Andean ontologies, defining the Andean region as the vast areas that encompass the coastal shores watered by the Pacific Ocean, the Andean mountains, and the areas that stretch to the eastern slopes of the Andes (see also Depaz 2015: 21). This region overlies the countries of Colombia, Ecuador, Perú, Bolivia, Chile, and Argentina and coincides with two of the most widely spoken native language families in the area: Quechua and Aymara (Mannheim 2018). This book is not the first attempt in this effort. In fact, in the last few decades there have been significant discussions of Andean ontologies (Bray 2015; Depaz 2015; Jennings and Swenson 2018; Quilter 1990, 1998; Swenson and Roddick 2018; 4

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Szremski et al. 2009; Trever et al. 2009) and the publication of a series of studies dealing with the way Andean societies, both in the past and present, describe and define their world and constituent elements (Allen 2008 [1988]; Bray 2015; Earls and Silverblatt 1978; Urton 1981, 1997). Many of these ontological perspectives have reconstructed the worldview of these groups from different perspectives and with differing results. Obviously this is an extensive discussion and is beyond the scope of this chapter.2 Instead, I will focus on three main themes: 1) Main ontologies found in the Andes and their primary sources 2) Four fundamental Andean concepts: Camay, Pacha, Huaca, and Runa 3) Advantages of using Andean ontologies in archaeological explanations and narratives in the Andes.

Main Ontologies Found in the Andes and Their Primary Sources Today, in Andean archaeology, it is possible to talk about multiple lines of research that are related to ontology. These have been developed from many disciplines including linguistics, ethnography, anthropology, and/or history. In this respect, the singularities of these approaches are based on the types of sources used to establish, explain, and/or interpret Andean ontologies. Obviously, researchers use many of these sources when expressing their views on Andean ontologies. Here, I will synthesize these perspectives, based on their approaches, starting with the earliest ones up to the most recent ones. These ontologies are based in ethnohistory, linguistics, ethnography, materialities studies, iconography and semiotics, and phenomenology. By no means is this an exhaustive account of all the research that deals explicitly with ontologies of the Andes, but these are the works that have had an important impact in the field. From a methodological and hermeneutic perspective, the sources that provide an important contribution to the understanding of Andean ontologies are the ones that are related to the description of religion, mythology, ritual practices, and pre-Hispanic Andean beliefs. A significant element that needs to be highlighted here is the existence of different historic narratives that challenge the work of the first chroniclers. This has to do with the fact that history was perceived differently in the Andean setting. This aspect of perception is relevant, as these particular temporal coordinates are the ones used to organize our viewing of the world and to locate different phenomena within a particular sequence. As an example, for societies such as the Inca, for which there is quite a bit of information, the succession Andean Ontologies: An Introduction to Substance

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of facts and temporal coordinates are significantly different from Western narratives. As Frank Salomon points out (1984: 8): “For Andeans, the sources of diachronic knowledge are completely different and, furthermore, were never organized on principles of absolute chronology, cause and effect, or escathology. The useful past was centered on the dynastic oral tradition, the knotted system of khipus, the constellation of royal mummies, and the spacial-ritual calendar, [and was] structured on the system of sanctuaries that surrounded the Inca capital.” In this respect, scholars are confronted not only with the conception of phenomena in the pre-Hispanic world, or ontology, but also with the temporal order of these phenomena. This represents a methodological challenge when locating Andean phenomena and their materialization in a frame of time and space, as pre-Hispanic societies did not have a writing system (Salomon 1999: 20). Because of this, the acknowledgment of the existence of a different perception of space and time from that of literate, European, and European-derived societies, is an important element in this book. Finally, it is necessary for the reader to note that perspectives developed in this chapter are predominantly based on studies from Peru and a few neighboring countries. This chapter does not intend to be an encyclopedic treatment of the topic. However, I hope to offer a series of axes that I believe are essential to begin working on the explicit correlation of Andean ontologies and their materializations in the Andean world.3

Ontologies Based on Ethnohistory Ethnohistory has been an important source in establishing and explaining the existence of Andean ontologies. In fact, the explanation of archaeological remains from an ethnohistoric perspective is an important scholarly tradition in the Andes, especially during the twentieth century (Jijón y Caamaño 1919; Murra 1955; Rostworowski 1988; Rowe 1946; Tello 1909; Valcárcel 1912; and so on). Its relevance is rooted in the fact that ethnohistorical accounts were the best sources from which to translate earlier views of the inhabitants of the Andes upon the arrival of the Spaniards. Many earlier works by chroniclers such as Miguel de Estete (1891 [1534]), Pedro Cieza de León (1995 [1554]), Juan de Betanzos (2010 [1551]), Polo Ondegardo (2012 [1571]), Cristóbal de Molina (2008 [1572]), Guamán Poma de Ayala (1987 [1615]), Martín de Murúa (2001 [1616]) and Bernabé Cobo (1964 [1653]) which described the Andean worldview, and various concepts discussed in this book, are based on these sources. 6

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Henrique Urbano (2008) in particular has highlighted the work of Cristóbal de Molina, el Cuzqueño, as he had a vast knowledge of Quechua, an element that provided him with a closer understanding of Andean ontologies. Furthermore, his priestly formation and his work as part of the Catholic offensive against the indigenous rites converted him to a trained scholar who dwelt between two ontological worlds and who could offer a close translation of the native world, especially from the capital of the Ancient Tawantinsuyu: Cuzco. In addition to all of these chroniclers, it is necessary to consider a tradition of chroniclers that depicted scenes, personages, and customs of the Inca period. Among them, Felipe Guamán Poma de Ayala, in his “Nueva Corónica y Buen Gobierno,” offered 398 line drawings about Inca and early colonial times (Trever 2011). On the another hand, Martin de Murúa’s manuscripts include color drawings, mainly illustrating scenes of the Inca elite (Cummins and Anderson 2008). Finally, Juan de Santa Cruz Pachacuti Yamqui Salcamaygua (1995 [1613]) offered an important description of Inca religious customs and also represented the composition and organization of the Inca world in his famous line drawing on a wall of the Coricancha temple in Cuzco (Duviols 2016). Other texts such as “Relaciones” and “Descripciones” (for example, see Jiménez de la Espada (comp.) 1881–1897) and the “Visitas” (Diez de San Miguel (1964 [1567], Ortiz de Zuñiga 1967 [1562]) offer relevant information regarding Andean worldview, geography, and social practices, especially related to rituals in specific regions of the Andes. Earlier texts, such as the colonial Quechua “Manuscrito de Huarochirí” (Ávila 1966 [1598?]; Salomon 1991; Taylor 2008) are important sources in understanding the way in which the indigenous people viewed their world and the ways in which they explained natural and social phenomena and their interrelations4 (Depaz 2015; Millones 2010). The Huarochirí Manuscript5 is one of the most important colonial documents written in the indigenous language that describes the Andean religious tradition (Salomon 2016: 1245; Silverblatt 1990: xxi). As will be seen in this chapter and this book, the Huarochirí Manuscript is fundamental to understanding Andean ontologies (Depaz 2015). While it is an extremely valuable source, it should be noted that there is debate regarding the author, the origin (Depaz 2015: 23; Salomon 1984: 91), the language used (as it is a Quechua dialect that has disappeared6 [Taylor 2000: 2]), the different Spanish versions (Salomon 1991: 28; Taylor 2000: 2), the fact that their authors or informants were already influenced by the processes of Catholic conversion Andean Ontologies: An Introduction to Substance

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(Salomon 1991: 1–2, 28), and the fact that their narrative was already conditioned by European historicity (Salomon 1991: 3). In spite of all of this, as Salomon (1991: 28) stated: The testimonies of the [extirpatory campaigns’] victims retain freshness and unfamiliarity that give prima facie evidence of an origin other than Iberian demonology or the classical legacy as enshrined in seminary curricula. Perhaps because many of them were provincials lacking the knowhow to package and process their culture in terms familiar to Spanish speakers, the myth tellers in the Huarochirí Manuscript created an image still largely framed by conceptual categories proper to local thought. The Huarochirí stories retain for us an irreducible strangeness, resistant to translation, because unlike the pre-processed Inca lore available in chronicles, they were seized by Spain but not made for it. In addition, its relevance is fundamentally based on the fact that within this manuscript there is a series of ontological categories tied to Andean beliefs that appear narrated, exemplified, and bound to a concrete territory, notions that the Spanish priests sought to understand. In particular, there are questions regarding the nature and form by which the indigenous people related with their “gods” and the world. Furthermore, descriptions of the indigenous perceptions from a particular area in the highlands of Lima supplement the official or hegemonic views of the Inca empire. In this respect, the Huarochirí manuscript complements the versions written by chroniclers based on informants of the Inca elite or the personal experiences of the authors in the area of Cuzco, such as the ones written by Cristóbal de Albornoz, Polo Ondegardo, or Cristóbal de Molina, el Cuzqueño. Documents on extirpation of idolatries are also useful, as these had the greatest number of references to religious and ritual forms different from the European-derived ones. The authors of such documents attempted to adapt them to European ontologies with differing results. Frank Salomon (for example, 1991) offers an excellent source of ethnohistorical documents from which to understand Andean ontologies. As such, archaeologists have benefited significantly from such research (for example, Chase 2015). In fact, the use of ethnohistorical sources in archaeology to understand indigenous ontologies can be traced to the early work of Julio C. Tello. “Wiracocha” (Tello 1923) is one of the most significant publications to influence early research regarding the understanding of Andean perspectives. Tello sought to 8

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understand views of pre-Hispanic societies, in particular those aspects related to religion. His research on the deity Wiracocha accompanied him thoughout his life, as he intended to distinguish the main religious elements that transcended societies such as Chavín, Paracas, Nazca, and Tiwanaku. Through his work, the power of Huacas—or sacred things—becomes visible as he integrated ethnohistorical documents and archaeological data. Later on, many researchers, in particular archaeologists, have used ethnohistorical sources in order to test their hypotheses. In this context, scholars were able to identify social practices, sites, regions, or landscapes suggested by such descriptions (that is, Quilter 1990; Bauer 2016; Chase 2016). However, it is also important to scrutinize these documents and not necessarily apply them mechanically to the archaeological data. Furthermore, historians and ethnohistorians recognize the limitations of such sources. Nevertheless, these documents represent an inexhaustible source of information with which to generate working hypotheses, as will be seen in this volume.

Ontologies Based on Linguistics Linguistics is another important source that has been used since the beginning of Andean archaeology. Andeanists have been quite fortunate to have the first dictionaries and grammar books of Quechua and Aymara (Bertonio 1612; González Holguín 1989 [1608]; Santo Tomás 1560, 1586). These early documents have allowed researchers to know and understand certain indigenous concepts and terms, and their translations or homologations to Spanish—all of this, in spite of the fact that there are inherent problems with the translation of native concepts and terms to Spanish. Scholars, such as Johann Jakob von Tschudi, Ernst Middendorf, Heinrich Brünning or Max Uhle, made an effort to gather and understand Andean notions and concepts in Quechua, Aymara, and even Muchik. Some of these terms were even used to explain certain cultural phenomena, such as the expansion of pre-Hispanic and Hispanic groups. Later on, contributions to “Andean historical linguistics” were made by researchers such as Gary Parker (1963), Alfredo Torero (1964, 1970), Hardman de Bautista (1975 [1966]) (Cerrón-Palomino and Kaulicke 2010), and most recently by Rodolfo Cerrón-Palomino (2001, 2005, 2013), Willem Adelaar (2004), and Bruce Mannheim (1991, 2018, and this book). All of them have proposed the origins, dispersion, and features of indigenous pre-Hispanic languages. By utilizing linguistics, they have assisted archaeologists with the interpretation of the origins, development, and dispersion of archaeological cultures. Andean Ontologies: An Introduction to Substance

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Nowadays, such sources are being used to deepen the understanding of terms and concepts that have become more and more complex. The dispersion of languages in the pre-Hispanic world (Heggarty and Beresford-Jones 2012; Kaulicke et al. 2010) is a field of study that has been approached with interest, as language dispersion frequently mirrors the occupation patterns of the ethnic group from which said language originates. Since languages are the means by which notions about the world are communicated, and those seem to have wide dispersions and interrelationships even before the Incas (Heggarty and Beresford-Jones 2010: 36), particular cosmovisions must also have been shared by many populations among the Andes (also see Mannheim 2018). As expected, archaeologists have also used linguistic studies to attempt to understand the ontologies of pre-Hispanic social groups (Fernandini 2015: 656–657; Heggarty and Beresford-Jones 2012; Kaulicke et al. 2010; Pino Matos 2017; Ramón 2017; Urton 1996; among others). As we will see, this book follows the road opened up by these scholars.

Andean Ontologies Based on Ethnography Ethnography is yet another valuable source for the reconstruction of native worldviews. For instance, multiple field investigations have helped us to understand the views of Andean hunters, farmers, and herders regarding the world, plants, and animals. There is a long tradition of ethnographic studies from which one can identify a series of ontological principles and categories from Quechua- and Aymaraspeaking communities and Amazonian groups (MacCormack 1999). Again, Tello was a precursor in this endeavor as he used ethnographic analogy in order to explain diverse archaeological contexts, objects, and structures. Interestingly, in his work Tello even used examples from the Amazonian region (Tello 1918, 1923). Some of the earlier Aymara ethnographies were developed by Harry Tschopik (1946, 1951) and Weston La Barre (1948, 1966). It is also worth mentioning the work of Gabriel Martínez (1976) and his first ethnography of Isluga in northern Chile, and the ethnography of Joseph Bastien (1996 [1978]) on the Kallawaya to the northeast of the Titicaca basin (Cavalcanti-Schiel 2014: 458). Finally, the work by Nathan Wachtel (2001) on the Chipaya and the study by Thomas Abercrombie (1998) regarding the native communities in Oruro, Bolivia, are also important ethnographic contributions to the field. As pointed out by Ricardo Cavalcanti-Schiel (2014: 458): “In the 1990’s in the Cuzco region many researchers conducted ethnographies in order to record 10

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aspects of economic production (Gose 1994) or ritual activities (Bolin 1998).” Also, it is during these years that research was done in the Aymara altiplano by Hans van den Berg (1989: 118–143; Cavalcanti-Schiel 2014: 458). Most recently, Quechua ethnographies that record Andean ontologies are the ones by Eduardo Kohn (2013) in the Ecuadorian “edge of the jungle” or “ceja de selva,” and the ethnography done by Marisol de la Cadena (2015) in Cuzco. Likewise, it is important to recognize the ethnographic approaches of researchers who have spent time in Andean communities in order to understand specialized activities, such as the production of ceramics or textiles. These scholars have recovered essential notions about the way in which the producers relate to the raw materials, the artifacts themselves, and how they relate in their mutual biographies (Arnold et al. 2007; Ramón 2013; Sillar 2000; Silverman 2008). In addition, ethnographies, such as the one by Catherine Allen, have been an important source for archaeologists who study the Andes and who have fully benefited from concepts published in “The Hold Life Has” (Allen 2008 [1988]). For instance, the notion of sami offers a unique way of explaining the force or energy of objects7 in the Andean world (for example, Brown-Vega 2015; Jennings 2003, and see Muro et al. in this book). Another important ethnography from the Cuzco area is the one by Inge Bolin (2006) who deals with the concept of enq’a8 (vital force). Furthermore, work by Gary Urton (1981) on the cosmology of communities from the south central Andes in Peru is particularly important, as it establishes an understanding of their interpretation of the sky and the way in which the sky organizes their terrestrial world and cosmovision. Of course, Amazonian ethnography was a field fully developed during all of the twentieth century. Anthropologists, ethnologists, ethnographers, and even archaeologists were very engaged with the discovery and understanding of the richness of the cosmology and ontology of these groups (Lathrap 1970; Smith 1977; Regan 1993; Roe 1980; Varesse 1968; among others). In fact, in the last few years, a significant number of scholars have been reincorporating concepts such as animism, a classic theme in ethnography and anthropology of religions (Costa and Fausto 2010; Durkheim 1915; Varesse 2011: 34), in order to explain the pre-Hispanic Andean worldview (Sillar 2009). As we said before, this renewed interest in animism has also been propelled by the studies of Eduardo Viveiros de Castro and Philippe Descola (Allen 2015). These studies produced a significant corpus of ethnographies and understandings of Amazonian groups, developing such significant concepts as “Animism”9 (Descola 1997, 2013[2005]) Andean Ontologies: An Introduction to Substance

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and “Amerindian Perspectivism”10 (Lima 1999; Viveiros de Castro 1998, 2014 [2009]). Today, based on these studies there is a fruitful field from which different and alternative views to the Western ones can be observed, especially in the prehistoric Andean area (Lau 2013; Szremski et al. 2009; Weismantel 2013, 2015, and see several examples in this book). Although there is an ongoing debate regarding the way Viveiros de Castro presents an immutable and even idealized indigenous perspective, authors such as Mary Weismantel (2015: 142–143) defend its heuristic potential when applied to archaeology and studies on materiality in specific contexts. As Weismantel points out: An archaeological perspectivism will be materialist and historical. It will be materialist in seeing humans as actors and makers who co-create the world together with other beings and things, rather than standing back to think and observe. And it will be historical in its deep temporal perspective on the indigenous Americas, in contrast to the oddly timeless “Amerindian” world evoked by Viveiros de Castro. A materially and historically situated use of perspectivism that juxtaposes it with the very specific social and political realities of a particular place, such as Chavín, is more likely to realize Viveiros de Castro’s avowed aim of decolonizing anthropology by avoiding the retrogressive return to romantic primitivism that sometimes marks the ontological turn. Instead, an archaeological perspectivism can produce forms of scholarly practice that are aware of and responsive to the historical contingencies and power relations that shape indigenous lives in the present, as well as in the distant past. In this book, we will present a series of chapters that also defend the use of these recent approaches based on Amazonian and Andean ontologies in Andean archaeology. Finally, ethnoarchaeology is yet another field that incorporates ethnography and studies of material cultures and where a significant number of themes related to ontologies can be found (Sillar and Ramón 2016). Bill Sillar’s research with ceramists and their ontology exemplifies this approach (Sillar 2000), and this perspective intersects quite well with the research on materiality in this book. Furthermore, the ethnoarchaeological approach based on the ethnographic study of the Nukak in Colombia by Gustavo Politis (2007) is yet another important contribution that invites reflection on the ontologies of Amazonian indigenous groups and their materialities. 12

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Ontologies Based on Iconography and Semiotics An analogical perspective, in particular when based on forms and decorations of portable objects, sculpture, and murals, has been used since the beginnings of archaeology. In the twentienth century, iconographic studies by Erwin Panofsky (1939) and followers formed the foundation of such an approach. These researchers applied this approach to artifacts with decorations with significant results. Later, their efforts were strengthened in the archaeological discipline through the interpretation of meaning of the artifacts and archaeological contexts driven by the contextual and symbolic archaeology developed by Ian Hodder (1982, 1986). Moreover, other scholars, using structuralist and semiotic approaches, tried to decode the contents and meanings of the signs and symbols embedded or depicted in the material culture (Sahlins 1981). In particular, in Andean studies, iconographic studies have been applied to the material culture of Chavín (Bischof 2008; Campana 1995; Roe 1974; Rowe 1977 [1962]; among others) and Moche (Donnan 1978; Donnan and McClelland 1999; Golte 2009; Hocquenghem 1987; Makowski 2001; among others). Most of such iconographic approaches have been based on highland Andean ethnohistorical and ethnographical sources, allowing for a closer interpretation. Jurgen Golte (2009: 20–22), for instance, has explicitly used Quechua ontologies for a more nuanced explanation of Moche iconography. Amazonian ethnography was also used to interpret some Moche iconographic scenes (Benson 1974; Lyon 1981; Regan 1999, 2011; Roe 1982). Moreover, a semiotic perspective, inspired especially by the philosophical and linguistic research of Charles Sanders Peirce (1931–1958), now promotes an approach that deals specifically with the meaning of cultural material and the society that produced it, at many different levels (Preucel 2006; Thomas 2000; Watts 2008). This last approach has not been fully applied to Andean archaeology, although in some cases, very specific concepts have been considered (see examples in Christie 2016: 98; Coben 2006: 226–228; Szremski et al. 2009; Urton 2003: 139–143).

Ontologies Based on Materialities Archaeology is the study of the human societies through their material remains. For this reason, independent of their theoretical approaches, all archaeologists are materialists. Since the twentieth century, archaeologists and anthropologists have been busy developing and analyzing archaeological remains in different Andean Ontologies: An Introduction to Substance

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ways. Materialities, as a field of study, was mostly developed in England. Specifically, the studies of material culture by Daniel Miller (1987, 1994, 1998) were quite influential in their applications to the archaeological discipline (for example, DeMarrais et al. 2004; Meskell 2005). In fact, thanks to the development of processual archaeology with its significant advances in analysis of material culture and landscapes, it was possible to reflect on objects in their multiple dimensions, and even consider their symbolic and ideological contents (Renfrew and Zubrow 1994). Obviously, in their moment, postprocessualist archaeologists offered their own interpretation of material culture (Hodder 1986; Hodder et al. 1995; Shanks and Tilley 1987). Actually, much of what is known today as “New Materialism” is the result of a return to the study of material culture from a more sophisticated perspective: one that considers agency and centrality of material culture in the coproduction of the world (Ingold 2007; Olsen 2013; Witmore 2014). In the Andean countries, especially in Peru, this perspective adapted quite well to the classic and empirical form of interpreting archaeological objects within cultural-historic and processual approaches. As discussed above, ethnohistorical and ethnographic studies have provided a series of concepts and terms that allow the study of agency in objects, in part due to the revitalization of the animism concept. The study of materiality is particularly relevant in archaeological and art historical research, in contrast to other fields in the social and humanistic sciences. As a result, it is a rich and attractive avenue in which to test ontological explanations. The relationship between objects and subjects within a modernist perspective is typically considered in archaeological studies worldwide and the Andean region is not an exception. This approach is the most popular in Andean archaeological studies, especially from cultural-historic, processual, and Marxist perspectives (Tantaleán and Astuhuamán 2013; Tantaleán 2014). However, in the past couple of decades, the challenge has been to break with these binary and Cartesian views and establish more symmetrical perspectives between individuals and objects (González-Ruibal 2007; Hodder 2012; Shanks 2007; Witmore 2007). As we will see, these approaches found an important source of inspiration in the phenomenological philosophy. Examples of these studies developing such approaches based on materiality in Andean pre-Hispanic periods are beginning to impact in the conception and perception of artifacts, bodies, landscapes, and their relationships (Acuto and Franco 2015; Fernandini 2016; Lazzari 2005; Swenson 2015, Weismantel 2015; among others). 14

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Andean Ontologies Based on Phenomenology Lastly, an archaeological perspective based on phenomenology was promoted by European researchers, such as Christopher Tilley (1994, 2004) or Julian Thomas (2000). For instance, Tilley’s phenomenology, applied to archaeology, includes the philosophical principles of Edmund Husserl, Martin Heidegger, Maurice Merleau-Ponty, and other phenomenologists of the twentienth century. Such perspective intends to describe and explain the relationships between sets of external objects and people and the ways in which these are incorporated in their consciousness and experience of the world (also see Ingold 2000). In the Andes, such phenomenological perspective has also been applied to archaeology with interesting results (Acuto and Gifford 2007; Isbell and Vranich 2004; Leibowicz 2013; Moore 1996; Szremski et al. 2009; Vaquer 2010; Villanueva 2015; Vogel 2016; and see some chapters in this book [Muro, Castillo, and Tomasto]). Other specific examples include research on the Nazca lines by Clive Ruggles and Nicholas Saunders (2012), studies of Chavín de Huántar by Mary Weismantel (2013, 2015) which also include aspects of Amerindian perspectivism, studies by Jessica Joyce Christie (2016) in understanding the use and transformation of rocky outcrops in the Inca period, and Stella Nair’s study (2015) of the Inca architecture of Chinchero. In the same vein, Carolyn Dean’s work (Dean 2010) is a milestone of Inca architecture studies, especially their main construction material: rocks. All of these studies incorporate phenomenological perspectives in archaeological narratives in order to establish a link between the perception of the past, and its explanation today. Because such ontologies and epistemologies are based on Western philosophy, there is always a risk in moving external perspective, present-minded view, and hypersubjectivity to the Andean reality. However, the possibility of experiencing the rich material culture, architecture and landscapes, represents an important alternative approach, through our own senses, to recovering perceptions of the Andean past. In fact, one cannot negate the importance of experiencing emotions, landscapes, sounds, and feelings in the Andes to any scholar who deals with the past and the present, as anthropology and ethnography have already demonstrated (García 2018; Mendoza 2010; Salas Carreño 2014; among others). Given the fact that there is such a considerable number of sources that inspire knowledge of Andean ontologies, it is important to note that there are significant advantages to the development of critical methodological frames Andean Ontologies: An Introduction to Substance

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when using these sources in the explanation of Andean ontologies. In this respect, these sources are capable of generating heuristic tools for our own research. In particular, this cornerstone is embedded in this book. There are a number of powerful themes associated with the understanding of spatial and temporal dimensions in Andean ontologies which can help with a better explanation and understanding of past Andean societies. Due to their richness, such categories and concepts extracted from native languages and thoughts have a fundamental value for explanations of the ancient Andean societies. Given the rich Andean and Aymara Quechua vocabulary, it will be impossible to discuss all of them in this chapter; although, as it will be seen in this book, the authors have selected their own concepts for their case studies. In this chapter, I will only discuss four notions that I believe are quite significant as they explain important aspects of the world inhabited by preHispanic societies and that will be useful when exploring Andean ontologies from the archaeological perspective. Most of them are discussed in the chapters of this book. These terms are fundamental and essential concepts used to explain some archaeological contexts. These are: camay, pacha, huaca, and runa.

Four Fundamental Andean Concepts: Camay, Pacha, Huaca, and Runa There is some debate regarding the validity of transposing Quechua and Aymara concepts from the Inca and early colonial periods (the earliest ones, and as such the closest to the native Andean ontologies) to the entire Andean area. Furthermore, it can be argued that these conceptions most likely went through some transformation as a result of incorporation and hybridization with the European cultures when they were registered. In fact, it should be noted that there was some resistance to the changes by specialists and those who practice Andean rituals (Brosseder 2014). In spite of this, it is important to understand that individuals in the past established a particular relationship with their world and the objects embedded within their native culture: there were situated, contextual, and historical ontologies. In this respect, the challenge is to recover aspects of the hegemonic or ideologicaly dominant culture of that particular moment (Silverblatt 1990: xxiv). Such Andean notions or conceptions, in our studies in particular, are the ones that are related to the materiality produced in the past. 16

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As already stated, there is a series of concepts from a variety of sources, in particular from ethnohistorical accounts. These notions “had a pan Andean scope and had some variations or equivalents in other languages that were widely distributed, as was the case with Puquina, and Aru (Aymara is its main variation, and includes Yawyu spoken in the highlands of Lima) and Quechua” (Depaz 2015: 42). In this chapter and others of this book, certain notions are derived mainly from Quechua and Aymara, which share the same ontological substratum (Depaz 2015: 307) and have converged over time (Cerrón-Palomino 2008; Mannheim 2018). However, it is important to remember that such notions taken from Quechua and Aymara were collected, registered, and/or interpreted mostly by people of Hispanic and Mestizo origin (Salomon 1999). Since the Andean precolonial population “did not develop phonographic writing, be it syllabic or alphabetical” (Garcés and Sánchez 2016), the task of interpretation and translation of native concepts to Spanish can be challenging. Likewise, in the documents that are used as a source for the reconstruction of Andean ontologies, there are native languages or localisms that have been lost or transformed over time (Mannheim 2018). Therefore, researchers have significant bias in relation to areas where relevant concepts have not been registered and where Quechua and Aymara were not spoken. The most significant sample is restricted to the central and southern central Andes, especially the central highlands; southern Peru; and northern Bolivia (also see Ramón 2017). Moreover, it is necessary to remember that in Quechua and Aymara, the words and concepts only make sense in relationship with social practices and objects (Mannheim and Salas Carreño 2015). Therefore, like all verbalization and enunciation of reality, these words and concepts cannot be abstracted from their relationality and materiality (Salomon 2018: 202). By doing so, it would remove them from their Quechua and Aymara ontological categories, away from their real relationship with reality and would alienate them from social practices that provide them with meaning. Therefore, a methodological challenge is to try to interpret such concepts within their matrix of enunciation, oral or written, so that our investigations do not remove their historical and situational context. Even so, in this book it is clear that those fundamental concepts allow a new vision of the world that is closer to that of native societies in the past and present. In relation to the previous discussion, an important aspect of the Andean worldview is the existence of relationships between opposing and complemenAndean Ontologies: An Introduction to Substance

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tary elements that need each other and only find meaning in their relationship (Depaz 2015: 32, 80): a kind of Andean dialectics (Broda 2018: 17; Swenson and Roddick 2018: 18; Tantaleán 2015). This idea is very related to the term Yanantín. As John Topic (2015: 381) explains: “Yanantin refers to a complementary pair in which both parts are necessary to the proper functioning of the whole (González Holguín 1989 [1608]: 181, 364). In Andean thought, the complementary pair par excellence is the male and female couple” (also see Platt 1978; Isbell 2005 [1985]). Thus, the search for equilibrium and complementarity of the forces and elements that exist in the world and in the human life, is a constant theme in the different ethnohistoric and ethnographic sources (also see Salomon 1991: 10; Szremski et al. 2009: 5). Manifestations of this complementariety or duality have been explored in archaeology as well (Burger 1994; Hocquenghem 1987; Isbell 1977; Lau 2004: 177, 2014: 314; Moore 1995, Swenson 2015, Tantaleán 2015). Furthermore, moments of encounter (tinkuy11) between such opposing but complementary elements generate an important third element as a result of this relationship, which, when materialized in the geographic space, receives the name of chaupi in Quechua and taypi in Aymara (Depaz 2015: 81). As will be seen, it appears in many geographic spaces and huacas can be easily related to these concepts. Although it could sound strange for those existing romantic and idealized views of Andean societies, none of these notions are disassociated from materiality. As Catherine Allen (2008: 72) points out: “The Andean conception of the world does not accommodate the Western dualism of the body and soul. For the Andean people, all matter is somehow alive and inversely, all life has a material base.” Thus, one of the main features of the Cartesian model that separates the body and soul does not apply to Andean ontology. On the contrary, such relationships are fundamental in understanding the Andean worldview. As noted above, in this section I will cover four fundamental concepts that will appear regularly in this book: camay, pacha, huaca, and runa. The rationale regarding the selection of these concepts is their relevance in early colonial written sources and their reiteration in ethnohistoric and ethnographic narratives. Further, I have selected these concepts instead of others because of their relationship with materiality and due to the fact that they can be inferred from the archeological context.12 However, with respect to those notions, especially camay, it is important to remember the warning of Gerald Taylor (2000: 3): 18

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The first evangelists were not concerned with the clarification of spiritual indigenous concepts (which they hoped to eradicate), but with the imposition of Christian concepts, which explains the appropriation of a poorly assimilated religious vocabulary whose confused values are maintained in a hybrid world of Andean Catholicism until this day. For the Christian priest, a creative god and a soul were needed in order to save. The first was found in the camac term. The second was more problematic: the words cama, “ánima,” according to Garcilaso, and camaquenc, camaynin, songo of the Lexicón of Santo Tomás were mistrusted. The Spanish term ánima was preferred and, unfortunately, the usage of this Hispanicism in the Huarochirí Manuscript makes it impossible to know the Quechua word that was assigned to the soul of the dead, which in context, acted very differently from a Christian soul. As will be seen, the heuristic potential of such concepts, as with many others which originated in other spaces and times throughout the world, remains important for the understanding of precolonial social phenomena (also see Depaz 2015: 29).

Camay Camay is the force that moves the world. In the Quechua vocabulary of Santo Tomás (1586), the word “camac” appears translated as “creator” and “camaquey” is defined as “my creator.” It does not mention “ánima” or soul (also see Taylor 2000: 4). In the Aymara vocabulary of Ludovico Bertonio (1612: 75), the word “cchama” is translated as “force” and “cchamani” (interchangeable with “Sinti”) is translated as “strong man and anything else.” Additionally, in the vocabulary of Gonzáles Holguín (1989 [1608]: 36), the term “callpa” appears translated as “the forces and power of the soul, or body.” Taking into account Santo Tomás (1560: 114), callpay (“forces”) seems to be more related with human beings and force, in the sense of energy with which to carry out physical activities. According to Tamara Bray (2009: 358): A key Andean concept . . . is camay, a native Quechua term that has no clear equivalent in Spanish or English. Salomon & Urioste (1991: 45) translate camay as “to charge” or “to charge being with,” “to make,” “to give form and force,” or “to animate” (see also Taylor 1974–1976, 1987). Camay is fundamentally understood as a specific kind of essence, force, or power, Andean Ontologies: An Introduction to Substance

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rather than as something abstract or generalized. Salomon (1991: 16) invokes the idea of “species power” with respect to this term, as, for instance, in the case of the patron animals of shamans, who infuse the latter with their valued species traits, such as visual acuity, speed, or strength. Camay also carries the connotation of bringing something extant into being through the energizing of existing matter (as opposed to creating something from nothing). . . . Unlike the simple act of creation, which once done is over, camay intends something of continuity in sustaining the being, a condition that involves an ongoing relationship between the camac (e.g. the “camay-er”) and its camasca (e.g. its tangible instantiation). (Salomon 1991: 16–17) Likewise, from an ethnographic perspective, the existence of the notion of sami, a force contained in objects, has been indicated. In general terms, it can be said that this is the camaquen, or the vital force, that has been preserved in objects. As noted by Brown Vega (2015: 227), “Another force discussed in the Andean literature is ‘sami’ (Allen 1988: 49–50). ‘Sami,’ an animating essence, is found in people, mountains, objects, or anything perceived to have an ‘inherent liveliness’ or power (p. 51). ‘Sami’ is in constant flow. Objects that have ‘sami’ may lose it or regain it, and it is transferable between objects. ‘Camaquen’ or ‘sami’ are in constant circulation, emanating from places, people and objects.” Therefore, camay is found in all of the objects of the world: in the universe, in the sky, in the earth, in the huacas, in the people, in the plants and animals. It is the force that, when it flows, animates or brings life to the cosmos (Depaz 2015: 212). However, it is not something given, but it is something that could also be exhausted, lost, and consumed. In these cases, the Andean inhabitant, or runa, in some circumstances, must re-create that force through concrete actions, which are defined as rituals. In fact, in Quechua, the act of producing, engendering, generating, and creating by human beings was called “camayoc” (cama “vital force” and yoc “the one who possesses it”) (Santo Tomás 1560, also see Depaz 2015: 222; Taylor 2000: 8). With this, it is understood that human beings shaped new forms, (re)created and took care of new beings and objects in this world thanks to “camay,” which flowed through its being (also see Szremski 2009: 9–10). The study of the huacas, as geographic landmarks and other constructions, provides a glimpse of the physical features or receptacles of camay. Similarly, ethnographic and ethnohistorical studies point to the existence of objects that possessed these characteristics, known as enqas or illas (Brosseder 2014). Fi20

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nally, the same bodies of the ancestors contained camay, especially the mummies of the Incas, as learned early on by the extirpators of idolatries. As ethnohistorical sources point out, there were primordial subjects, such as Wiracocha, which created and gave life (camay) to the world and its beings (for instance, see Betanzos 2010 [1551] or Molina 2008 [1572], also see Depaz 2015: 29, 224; Salomon 1984; Urbano 2008). However, it is also necessary to take into consideration the weight that the Catholic church had imposed on Andean societies with respect to the reproduction of the idea of world creation by a Judeo-Christian God (MacCormack 2016 [1991], Sánchez Garrafa 2014; Silverblatt 1982).

Pacha In the Quechua vocabulary of Santo Tomás (1586: 122), the word pacha translated to Spanish appears to translate as “time, soil, place, clothing, garb.” In the “Vocabulary of the Aymaran Language” from Ludovico Bertonio (1612: 242), “pacha” also appears to translate to “time.” Additionally, “alakh pacha” would be the sky, “aca pacha” the earth, and “mancca pacha” would be hell, following, obviously, the Catholic tripartition. Inversely, the translation of “world” in Aymara would be “Aca pacha, aca vraque (uraque13), pusi sun” (Bertonio 1612: 325). Thus, pacha is the world/time: an inextricable unity (also see Bouysse-Cassagne and Harris 1987; Depaz 2015: 25; Salomon 1991: 14). This concept indicates that the world is in constant movement; it further suggests that history is not linear, but circulatory (Swenson and Roddick 2018: 18). The change and transformation in pacha is a very important element in understanding how the world, nature, society, and earth is conceived. The sacred landscape is related to the forces that exist on earth and their connections to other worlds, such as the one from above and the underworld. Human beings are inextricably connected to the pacha and they establish a balance with it. This relationship incorporates the other components of the world, both material and immaterial. As discussed above, the main force that drove pacha and all of its components, including human beings, was camay. According to ethnohistorical and ethnographic sources, everything that happens in pacha did not happen in absolute or sequential Western time (BouysseCassagne and Harris 1987, Rivera Cusicanqui 2010: 54). As noted by Salomon (1984: 7): “‘The Andean meaning of history’ requires, not a chain of events, but a pattern of events.” As many authors have indicated in the pre-Hispanic Andes, there exists a mythical and cyclical time (Earls and Silverblatt 1978; Zuidema Andean Ontologies: An Introduction to Substance

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1964).14 In this respect, there were many issues faced by the colonial authors when narrating pre-Hispanic history. Even so, different ethnohistoric, anthropological, and archaeological studies have tried to elucidate the ways in which time was measured in the Andean world (Ziolkowski 2015; Zuidema 2010, and see Villanueva in this book). As noted, this time is tied to phenomena in the firmament, the earth, and even the sea (Depaz 2015: 178, García 2018: 93; Sakai 1998; Urton 1981).

Huaca In the Quechua vocabulary of Santo Tomás (1560: 131), “guaca” is described as the “temple of idols or the idol itself.” In his later version (Santo Tomás 1586: 103), huaca appears translated as “worshipped idol or anything defined by nature.” In the Aymara vocabulary by Bertonio (1612: 143), the term “huaka” appears translated as “Idol in the form of a man, ram, etc. and the mountains that worship in their gentleness.” Similarly, ethnohistory has been responsible for giving meaning and substance to this very important concept of pre-Hispanic social life, but is especially important for the Inca (Curatola 2015, Curatola and Szemiński 2015). Thus, according to John Staller (2008: 269–270): The chronicler Garcilaso de la Vega conveyed the sense of this important term in 1609 when he said that huaca means: “a sacred place” . . . “a sacred thing” such as . . . idols, rocks, great stones, or trees which the enemy [Devil] entered to make the people believe he was a god. They also gave the name huaca to objects they offered to the Sun, such as figures of men [figurines and statues], birds, and animals made of silver, gold or wood. . . . Huaca is applied to any temple, large or small, to the sepulchers set up in fields and to the corners in their houses where the Devil spoke to their priests. . . . They use the same word huaca . . . to very high hills that stand above the rest as high towers stand above ordinary houses, to steep mountain slopes. . . . All these objects and others like them were called huaca, not because they were considered gods and therefore worthy of adoration, but because of their special superiority over other common run of objects . . . they were regarded and treated with veneration and respect. As has been stated, Garcilaso de la Vega clearly establishes that for the Inca, the huacas were embodied in concrete objects on the earth with an infinite variety 22

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of forms, such as mountains (apus) and rocks (Depaz 2015; Sánchez Garrafa 2014). Even some human beings were considered huacas or could turn into one (Salomon 1991: 17). However, even though they were objects, they were also animated or energized by camay. Therefore, the concept of huaca is one of the most powerful concepts in Andean literature (Brosseder 2014; Curatola 2015: 268) and the concept that has permeated most of the archaeological explanations (Bray 2015; and see Lunnis in this book). Its transcendence in Andean contemporary societies is a reminder of the power and strength that these entities had in the precolonial period. In addition, it is important for archaeologists because the huaca are the most important geographic and/or building features, with significant investment put into their construction and maintenance. Furthermore, huacas have been in existence since the earliest communities and continued to be venerated and constructed in state-level societies, reaching impressive monumentality along the Andean landscape (Moore 1996). For an Andean human being, or runa, huacas have a power and strength that surpasses that of humans. Most importantly, the power, or camay, of human beings could come from its huaca of origin (Salomon 1991: 17). According to ethnohistory and ethnography, these huacas were already present before the appearance of human beings and they predetermined and even controlled their lives. In this way, huacas would have “agency,” as is currently proposed. Similarly, in many contexts, individuals used the natural huacas and constructed on top of them artificial extensions.15 The greatest huacas of the Andean world were thus perpetuated through the passage of time and across many societies. Their ontology places them in an animated world in which the existence and relations between them are similar to human life (Depaz 2015: 168). As pointed out by Salomon (1991: 17) some people could be huacas. For instance, as described in the Huarochirí Manuscript, they could turn into humans. Also, the reverse could happen as some individuals could also be transformed into huacas, as, for instance, in the legend of the brothers Ayar (Betanzos 2010 [1551]: 59). Hence, the incarnation, transubstantiation, and transformation of the huacas to different bodies are very important aspects, which are also necessarily linked to the existence of camay, or vital force. Therefore, the huaca concept is important for Andean archaeology, anthropology, and ethnography. In this sense, another important concept that comes from ethnography is the tirakuna16 (Allen 1982), which could be translated as “a sacred landscape composed of huacas that have relationships between them Andean Ontologies: An Introduction to Substance

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and that are also hierarchical with each other.” Their substrates and roots are in pacha. Through archaeology, much effort has been made to establish the materiality of these huacas, their physical characteristics, and associations with the landscape and objects (Bauer 2016; Bray 2015; Curatola 2016; Reinhard 2007; Van de Guchte 1990; among others).

Runa In the Quechua vocabulary of Santo Tomás (1560: 166; 1586: 151), the word “runa” is translated into Spanish as “person man or woman,” and “runacona” as “people or gentío.” In the Aymara vocabulary of Bertonio, the term “man” in the generic sense is included, as well as woman, as haque17 (Bertonio 1612: 267). In this way, the runa is the human inhabitant of pacha. Its presence in this world has mythical origins and is protected and controlled by a series of suprahuman entities. Obviously, throughout history, each force, deity, or suprahuman entity has modified the decision and mandate of the runakuna (plural of runa in Quechua) and this is what allows the richness in the development of indigenous worldviews (also see Muro et al. in this book for the use of the runakuna concept in the context of an archaeological explanation). The runakuna relate to each other and form communities, or ayllus (Spalding 1984: 28–29), but they also relate with other entities that inhabit pacha such as animals, plants, and the same huacas in their landscape (tirakuna). Depending also on their productive activities, the runakuna possess a series of elements that dominate and control their lives. These elements range from the same material issues as their production space to the very deities that control production and reproduction. Because of this, research regarding lineages are fundamental to understanding the relationships between humans and other entities. The ethnohistoric and ethnographic sources offer a series of fundamental elements to enter the complex network of intersocial and communal relationships, which highlight reciprocity and cooperation (Allen 2008 [1988]; Isbell 2005 [1985]; Mayer and Bolton 1980; Silverblatt 1988; among others). Of special interest are the forms of social relations generated during the Inca period that help us to understand the possible relationships in previous societies. Of course, scholars cannot leave behind issues related to the health and illness of human beings. These discussions are especially pertinent because the existence or decay of vital forces such as the camay or animu were part of such conditions, and were of special interest to the Catholic Church because 24

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of their direct relationship with the worship of deities and ritual practices, practices considered idolatry and witchcraft. The study of folk medicine, plants, and health recovery has especially developed as a field in ethnohistory and anthropology in the last decades (Sharon 1980; Silverblatt 1983; Vergara 2009). Likewise, studies of gender are an important element within the reconstruction of identities and aspects of pre-Hispanic social groups (Silverblatt 1978). It is important to recognize the true status and roles of women, above anything, especially since the colony reproduced an androcentric view of the societies that were collected from the perspective of the Inca elites. Fortunately, ethnohistoric sources help to establish the roles and significance of women in social practices and how they were perceived at different levels. Studies by Irene Silverblatt (1990) and Joan Gero (1992) have been pioneers in this regard. On the other hand, the ancestors, mallquis, or chullpas, also played an important role, and their conservation as part of the community was vital (Salomon 1991: 20). In fact, death was part of life and it transcended the limits that were imposed later on during the colonial period. Such conception of death required a treatment similar to the living (Depaz 2015: 176). Thus, the cult of the ancestors, or mallquis, was an important part in the life of the communities. The conservation of the body and the construction of tombs was a primordial practice that involved also the construction of huacas. In fact, some mallquis themselves were considered huacas (Salomon 1991: 20). In archaeology, an important study was pioneered by William Isbell (1997). Archaeological research in the last decades, which includes physical anthropology and/or bioarchaeology, also allows us to understand the nature of pre-Hispanic inhabitants with respect to their diet, diseases, sacrifices, and modifications of the body (Eeckhout and Owens 2015; Fehren-Schmitz 2010; Tung 2013; Verano 2016; and see Lozada in this book). All of these issues have an intimate connection with the way in which the body was conceived and its interrelations with other elements around the world. Finally, the notion of llacta, which appears in the vocabularies already mentioned, is translated simply as “city” or “town,” and can also be found in the Huarochirí Manuscript (Salomon 1991: 23; Taylor 2000: 13). The notion of llacta helps to perfect the idea of how the social landscape was conceived and constructed in the Andean world. The notion of llacta does not refer to only the encounter of architecture and human beings in a single place, but also to the Andean Ontologies: An Introduction to Substance

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encounter of other objects with deeper meaning (also see Swenson and Roddick 2018: 6). According to Taylor (2000: 13): “Llacta represents the community, the living space and the local ‘god protector’ in the same way that a unique name designs the three elements: the pachacámac [people], the territory of the pachacámac and the pachacámac god.” In this way, Andeans conceived of their social and constructed space and their social framework as part of broader and more profound ontological notions, as has been raised previously. In this manner, these four examples of Andean notions, and many more that have emerged, include a rich source of conceptions of the world and their members that archaeologists can benefit from. Thus, the purpose is to continue to delve into such conceptions that could be coherent with the understanding of objects, subjects, constructions, and landscapes that scholars find in their research. To close this chapter, I would like to comment on some of the advantages that would arise from the use of Andean ontologies and that, in a way, provide the justification for publication of this volume.

Advantages of Using Andean Ontologies in the Explanations and Archaeological Narratives in the Andes Clearly, there are more benefits than harm when using the categories and Andean concepts extracted from the different sources mentioned above. In fact, many researchers, implicitly or explicitly, are using such concepts and categories. Thus, in this book, the different possibilities and opportunities given by the study and use of Andean ontologies are evident as listed in the following paragraphs.

It is a situated view that allows the incorporation of ancestral knowledge related directly with the landscapes, landmarks, and objects in the Andean world The use of Andean categories allows the opportunity to explore the richness of ancestral knowledge; and contemporary ethnography can assist us with conceiving, perceiving, and experiencing the Andean world. As such, this is a situated perspective that provides access to the past from the same living experience of a world that was also inhabited by social groups in the past. In addition, existing indigenous groups can contribute with their own experience and interpretation of their own landscapes. 26

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It is an intimate perspective that allows researchers to recover the affective and sensorial part of the past Andean beings (and present ones) In this chapter I have made it clear that there is an intimate relationship between past human beings and their physical and mental spaces. This is an important perspective that needs to be recovered as it directly affects our relationship with past and present societies. In fact, some chapters of this book demonstrate that it is important to take into consideration this aspect, which, while quite subjective, is not inseparable from the existence of past societies, and also from present ones. Andean ontologies most likely explain many practices and features of the landscape that appear irrational according to the current and Western way of conceptualizing the world.

It is an alternative view that opens the current field of explanations and narratives As it has been stated before, the way in which archaeological interpretations have been generated, almost from the initial contact with the Spaniards in the sixteenth century, was conditioned by Western forms of their immediate reference. Therefore, unrelated interpretations of the Andean way of life have been formulated. Thus, I believe that Andean ontologies complement some perspectives, allowing for a more regional and a local view of the pre-Hispanic archaeological contexts.

It is a democratic and open perspective that allows a more fruitful dialogue with other archaeological and historical approaches This discussion allows for an “opening of the field” in order to generate more symmetric dialogues between Andean and Western perspectives. Likewise, it proposes scenarios in which ancestral knowledge can be valued in its true and proper dimension as valid knowledge for archaeological interpretations.

It is an important heuristic which allows the construction of working hypotheses that may make more sense than those abstracted or imported from other realities As seen above, at the methodological level this will allow us to develop testable hypotheses. Like all intellectual work, researchers do fieldwork loaded with their own ideas about the past, and in many cases, ideas that were grasped or Andean Ontologies: An Introduction to Substance

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developed from experiences and knowledge distanced from the Andean reality, both past and present. Thus, when these views of Andean categories are opened and made explicit, there is a possibility to improve the enunciation of our working hypotheses.

It is contrastable and can be compared with objective evidence, such as those recovered through archaeology Finally, this volume seeks to contribute to the reconstruction of such ontologies, even loaded with our present methodologies and scientific views, with notions that are useful and with explanations that can be guaranteed through archaeological Andean research. This book aspires to present scenarios in which the explicit use of Andean ontologies can explain various social contexts in a world in which we as authors work and live.

Final Comments As we have seen in this chapter, although proposals as successful as those by Viveiros de Castro and Descola recently have been fully extended in academia, worldviews of Amazonian and Andean groups have been included in the archaeological interpretations of native and foreign archaeologists during the twentieth century. Thanks to research conducted in the last few decades, especially from those who recognize the importance of anthropologic and ethnographic research as ways to reconstruct indigenous views, it has been possible to establish explicit and meaningful concepts and dynamics for the comprehension of native worldviews. Furthermore, other sources have been relevant to understanding such ontologies. Thanks to ethnohistory, Andean scholars have made significant progress, and it has become an important heuristic instrument for Andean studies. Similarly, linguistic studies that started with the analyses of the first indigenous grammars in the Andes have opened the doors into oral and Andean thought. Altogether, these studies provide evidence of the existence of an important and alternative way of conceptualizing the world by indigenous societies that is complementary to existing conceptualizations. This chapter attempts to briefly summarize and demonstrate the richness of all developed perspectives in understanding the Andean worldview, especially when approached from an archaeological perspective. In the following chapters, the contributors establish

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and make explicit a series of notions, concepts, and/or categories that were only outlined here. Most importantly, they present archaeological evidence that can offer substance to these ideas and hypotheses based on the ontologies outlined. In this sense, this book itself becomes a tinkuy, a place where Western and Andean worlds come together and communicate. As stated in the opening of the Society for American Archaeology symposium in Orlando, this is an open invitation to explore these Andean ontologies. There is significant work to be done and this book is only a part of this exciting journey.

Acknowledgments I would like to thank Bruce Mannheim for his productive conversations and also for providing a relevant bibliography for this manuscript. Thanks also to Gary Urton, María Cecilia Lozada, Lisa Trever, and Stella Nair, who offered important recommendations to an earlier draft of this chapter. Three anonymous reviewers gave excellent commentaries to an early version of this introduction. And thanks to David Beresford-Jones for providing some of the texts that were instrumental to my research. Also, I want to extend my gratitude to the presenters of the symposium in Orlando for their brilliant and provoking papers. This text was translated by Claudia Giribaldi and edited by Brandy Norton and Sylvia Cheever from the University of Chicago. I am deeply thankful to them. Finally, I want to thank Charles Stanish who has been and is a permanent inspiration to me for overcoming all of the obstacles to reach my career goals.

Notes 1. In this chapter, I will not discuss the existence of an “Andean Philosophy.” Please refer to the work of Josef Estermann (2006), Mario Mejía Huamán (2005), David Sobrevilla (2008), among others, for this theme. Here, I assume the existence of an indigenous worldview, or even better, an indigenous cosmopraxis (De Munter 2016) in the pre-Hispanic Andes. 2. For a synthesis of the main ontological perspectives in Andean archaeology, see work by Trever et al. 2009. 3. There is a vast body of literature that can be consulted (see Degregori 2000; Heggarty and Beresford-Jones 2010, 2012; Nuñez 2013; Muñoz y Gil (coord.) 2014; Porras Barrenechea 1954; Pillsbury, in Pachacuti Yamqui Salcamaygua 2016; among others). 4. Another earlier text in which the indigenous view is transcribed into Spanish (1570) is the one by Diego de Castro Titu Cusi Yupanqui (2006 [1570]). However, its relevance is mostly associated with the narration of the Spanish conquest and not necessarily with

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an earlier period. Furthermore, there is not much detail regarding the beliefs of the indigenous pre-Hispanic societies. 5. The importance of the Huarochirí Manuscript was identified early on by Clements Markham who translated it from Quechua to English in 1873 (Markham 1873). 6. According to Taylor (2000: 2): “It is quite possible that the Quechua dialect used in the Manuscript was the ancient koïne from the south coast. It has affinities with the “Chinchaysuyos” dialects from central Peru and a substratum reminiscent of Aymara. Some unusual expressions suggest that Quechua was not the mother tongue of the authors of the Manuscript and that they may have spoken an Aymara dialect of the haqaru type.” For a discussion about Quechua dialects seen in the manuscript, see also Salomon 1991: 30–31. 7. In the case of the runakuna, the concept of “animu” is closer to the Christian term “soul” (Allen 2008 [1988]: 69), but this “animu” can also be applied to an animal. In the Léxicon of 1560 by Santo Tomás (page 40), “Anima” is translated as “camaquenc, or songo, or camaynin.” Interestingly in the 1598 edited version, the Spanish terms of anima and soul (also used interchangably) do not have a Quechua translation; further, the phrase “camaynin” is not listed. “Sonco” appears as “heart, entrails, stomach, etc.” According to Bertonio (1612: 39) Aymara speaking people use the Spanish term “alma” without offering a similar term in their indigenous language. On the other hand, in Santo Tomás Vocabulary (1568:148) the term “sami” appears translated as “blissful luck, happiness etc.” In Bertonio’s (1612:307) it is translated as “blissful, strong” and equivalent to “Cusi” (“Blisful, luck”). 8. Bolin (2006: 114) indicates that enqa is: “the life force that animates pacha—the universe of space and time.” We also find in her glossary “enqa: life force contained in the enqaychu” (Bolin 2006: 180) and “enqaychu: a small, natural, or slightly worked stone, usually resembling an animal but sometimes resembling a human or an object, believed to contain life force and the power to promote fertility, happiness and luck.” (Bolin 2006: 181). 9. As Descola (2013[2005]: 129) put it: If one strips the definition of animism of its sociological correlations, there remains one characteristic that everybody can accept and that the etymology of the term indicates, which is why I chose to preserve it despite the dubious uses made of it in the past. That characteristic is the attribution by humans to nonhumans of an interiority identical to their own. This attribution humanizes plants and, above all, animals, since the soul with which it endows them allows them not only to behave in conformity with the social norms and ethical precepts of humans but also to establish communicative relations both with humans and among themselves. This similarity of interiorities justifies extending a state of “culture” to nonhumans, together with all the attributes that this implies, ranging from intersubjectivity to a mastery of techniques and including ritualized conduct and deference to conventions. All the same, this humanization is not complete, since in animist systems these, as it were, humans in disguise (that is, the plants and animals) are distinct from humans precisely by reason of their outward apparel of feathers, fur, scales, or bark—in other words, their physicality.

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10. In Viveiros de Castro’s words (2014 [2009]: 68): “Amerindian perspectivism, then, finds in myth a geometrical locus where the difference between points of view is at once annulled and exacerbated. In this absolute discourse, each kind of being appears to other beings as it appears to itself—as human—even as it already acts by manifesting its distinct and definitive animal, plant, or spirit nature. Myth, the universal point of flight of perspectivism, speaks of a state of being where bodies and names, souls and actions, egos and others are interpenetrated, immersed in one and the same presubjective and preobjective milieu.” 11. Please consult the notion of tinkuy in Earls and Silverblatt (1978) and Barraza (2013). 12. Other notions also relevant in understanding Andean worldview are discussed by Depaz 2015 and Swenson and Jennings 2018. 13. Following Bertonio (1612: 378) “(Vraque) Uraque: The earth, an inferior world, the topsoil.” 14. In the same vein, but from an ethnographic perspective, Pablo García (2018: 93) highlights the use of the quechua concept of muyuy in the community of Chinchero, Cusco: “El muyuy abarcaba un mundo ya inmerso en otros movimientos cósmicos, generando una multiplicidad de ritmos que acentuaba un fuerte sentido de alternancia y circularidad.” 15. As noted by Taylor (2000: 6), and based on the manuscript of Huarochirí: “A man that benefits from the transmitted powers by a huaca is defined as camasca and many times, as very camasca.” This term was translated generally in the colonial lexicons as the “sorcerer” (Brosseder 2014). 16. According to Allen (2008: 55): “The tirakuna appear to be locations or incarnations of the vitality that animates the Earth, like a large unit.” Also see de la Cadena 2015. 17. Also in Aymara one could say something composed like “Taqquepacha,” which would mean “All of the men or people” (Bertonio 1612: 243).

References Abercrombie, Thomas 1998 Pathways of Memory and Power. Ethnography and History among an Andean People. University of Wisconsin Press, Madison. Acuto, Félix, and Valeria Franco (editors) 2015 Personas, Cosas, Relaciones. Reflexiones Arqueológicas Sobre las Materialidades Pasadas y Presentes. Abya-Yala, Quito, Ecuador. Acuto, Félix, and Chad Gifford 2007 Lugar, Arquitectura y Narrativas de Poder. Experiencia y Percepción en los Centros Inkas de los Andes del Sur. Arqueología Suramericana 3(2): 135–161. Adelaar, Willem 2004 Language of the Andes. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Alberti, Benjamin 2016 Archaeologies of Ontology. Annual Review of Anthropology 45: 163–179. Allen, Catherine 1982 Body and Soul in Quechua Thought. Journal of Latin American Lore 8(2): 179–96.

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Ruggles, Clive, and Nicholas Saunders 2012 Desert Labyrinth: Lines, Landscape and Meaning at Nazca, Peru. Antiquity 86: 1126–1140. Sahlins, Marshall 1981 Historical Metaphors and Mythical Realities. Structure in the Early History of the Sandwich Islands Kingdoms. University of Michigan Press, Ann Arbor. Sakai, Masato 1998 Reyes, Estrellas y Cerros en Chimor. El Proceso de Cambio de la Organización Espacial y Temporal en Chan Chan. Horizonte, Lima. Salas Carreño, Guillermo 2014 The Glacier, the Rock, the Image: Emotional Experience and Semiotic Diversity at the Quyllurit’i Pilgrimage (Cuzco, Peru). Signs and Society 2 (Supplement 1): S188–S214. Salomon, Frank 1984 Crónica de lo Imposible: Notas Sobre Tres Historiadores Indígenas Peruanos. Chungara 12: 81–97. 1991 Introductory Essay: The Huarochirí Manuscript. In The Huarochirí Manuscript: A Testament of Ancient and Colonial Andean Religion, edited by Frank Salomon, and George Urioste, pp. 1–38. University of Texas Press, Austin. 1999 Testimonies: The Making and Reading of Native South American Historical Sources. In The Cambridge History of the Native Peoples of the Americas, edited by Frank Salomon and Stuart Schwartz, pp. 19–95. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. 2016 Huarochirí, Manuscrito Quechua de. In Fuentes Documentales para los Estudios Andinos, 1530–1900, vol. II, edited by Joanne Pillsbury, pp. 1245–1258. PUCP, Lima. 2018 At The Mountains’ Altar. Anthropology of Religion in an Andean Community. Routledge, London. Sánchez Garrafa, Rodolfo 2014 Apus de los Cuatro Suyus. Construcción del Mundo en los Ciclos Mitológicos de las Deidades Montaña. IEP/CBC, Lima. Santa Cruz Pachacuti Yamqui, Juan de 1995 [1613] Relación de Antigüedades de Este Reino del Perú. Edition, analytical índex and glossary by Carlos Araníbar. Fondo de Cultura Económica, Lima. Santos-Granero, Fernando 2013 Introduction. Amerindian Constructional Views of the World. In The Occult Life of Things. Native Amazonian Theories of Materiality and Personhood, edited by Fernando Santos-Granero, pp. 1–29. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Santo Tomás, Domingo de 1560 Vocabulario de la Lengua General dé los Indios del Perú llamada Quichua. Printed by Francisco Fernández de Cordoua, Valladolid. 1586 Arte y Vocabvlario en la Lengva General del Perv Llamada Quichua, y en la Lengua Española. Printed by Antonio Ricardo, Lima. Shanks, Michael 2007 Symmetrical Archaeology. World Archaeology 39(4): 589–596.

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Shanks, Michael, and Christopher Tilley 1987 Social Theory and Archaeology. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. Sharon, Douglas 1980 El Chamán de los Cuatro Vientos. Fondo de Cultura Económica, México, D.F. Sillar, Bill 2000 Shaping Culture: Making Pots and Constructing Households: An Ethnoarchaeological Study of Pottery Production, Trade and Use in the Andes. British Archaeological Reports, Oxford. 2009 The Social Agency of Things? Animism and Materiality in the Andes. Cambridge Archaeological Journal 19(3): 367–377. Sillar, Bill, and Gabriel Ramón 2016 Using the Present to Interpret the Past: The Role of Ethnographic Studies in Andean Archaeology. World Archaeology 48(3): 656–673. Silverblatt, Irene 1978 Andean Women in the Inca Empire. Feminist Studies 4(3): 36–61. 1982 Dioses y Diablos: Idolatrías y Evangelización. Allpanchis Phuturinqa XVI(19): 31–47. 1983 The Evolution of Witchcraft and the Meaning of Healing in Colonial Andean Society. Culture, Medicine and Psychiatry 7: 413–427. 1988 Imperial Dilemmas, the Politics of Kinship, and Inca Reconstructions of History. Comparative Studies in Society and History 30(1): 83–102. 1990 Luna, Sol y Brujas. Género y Clases en los Andes Prehispánicos y Coloniales. Centro Bartolomé de las Casas, Cuzco, Perú. Silverman, Gail 2008 A Woven Book of Knowledge. Textile Iconography of Cuzco, Peru. University of Utah Press, Salt Lake City. Smith, Claire, and Martin Wobst (editors) 2005 Indigenous Archaeologies: Decolonizing Theory and Practice. Routledge, London. Smith, Richard 1977 Deliverance from Chaos for a Song: A Social and Religious Interpretation of the Ritual Performance of Amuesha Music. PhD dissertation, Cornell University, Ithaca, New York. Sobrevilla, David 2008 La Filosofía Andina del P. Josef Estermann. Solar 4(4): 231–247. Spalding, Karen 1984 Huarochirí: An Andean Society under Inca and Spanish Rule. Stanford University Press, Stanford, California. Staller, John 2008 Dimensions of Place: The Significance of Centers to the Development of Andean Civilization: An Exploration of the Ushnu Concept. In Pre-Columbian Landscapes of Creation and Origin, edited by John Staller, pp. 269–313. Springer, New York. Swenson, Edward 2015 The Materialities of Place Making in the Ancient Andes: A Critical Appraisal of the Ontological Turn in Archaeological Interpretation. Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 22(3): 677–712. 44

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2 Huaca Salango A Sacred Center on the Coast of Ecuador

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Approaches to the understanding of pre-Columbian sacred centers of the Andean region increasingly take guidance from native epistemologies and ontologies, both historic and contemporary (for example, Bray 2015; Staller 2008). In particular, Quechua mythologies and glossaries recorded in the century after the Spanish conquest, as well as early histories of Inca religion, provide invaluable evidence for pre- and non-European ideas concerning the sacred and other aspects of being (Allen 1998, 2015; Mannheim and Salas Carreño 2015; Salomon 1991, 1998, 2015; Tantaleán, this volume). Continued study of such sources will undoubtedly contribute further and greatly to the interpretation of remains recovered through excavation. Philosophical concepts born of indigenous Andean societies such as the Incas may also be helpful, when used with care, in the exegesis of centers both beyond the Andean region proper and occupied well before the emergence of the Inca state. As a case in point I shall discuss Salango, a site of coastal Ecuador whose register as a sacred center begins with the first millennium BC and ends with the Spanish conquest. But sites with rigorous organization and a long history such as Salango’s must also, and in large part, serve as models for their own interpretation. Embedded in localized social, economic, political, and religious contexts as well as in their own natural settings, they reflect specific and sustained responses to the challenge of existence, and any attempt to explain their meaning should take full account of their particularities. It is necessary then to use the subtle possibilities suggested by the linguistic

data to illuminate the evidence afforded by excavation without distorting or obscuring the very concrete realities of the archaeological record. The applicability of the term “Andean” to regions either side of and away from the Andean mountains themselves, and in particular to the Ecuadorian coast, has not gone unquestioned (Burger 2003). It may also be doubted whether colonialperiod Quechua terminology might shed light on the archaeology of sites located in natural environments distant and radically different from those in which Quechua had originally emerged (Mannheim and Salas Carreño 2015). However, the word huaca seems to be immediately germane to the interpretation of Salango. Huaca, like another Quechua word, ayllu, refers simultaneously to certain aspects of being that, to Western minds, are more readily understood as quite separate entities. Both words are concerned with place, the sacred, and those who belong to it. The fundamental interrelatedness of these elements cannot be overemphasized. Preconquest definitions of ayllu, while variable, embrace a community of living people, the land this community occupies, and the sacred beings, especially ancestors, that also inhabit that place (Allan 2002; SpenceMorrow and Swenson, this volume). Huaca, meanwhile, referred to a sacred being as embodied in substance or place, whether a built temple, tomb, or sculpture, mountain, spring, or some other natural feature, with the refinement that this being was both partitive and agentive (Tantaleán, this volume). Indeed, huacas were persons who participated actively in reciprocal relationships with the social world of humans (Mannheim and Salas Carreño 2015). As “dense clusters of social, historical, and cultural gravity” (Chase 2015), huacas can contribute, via the archaeological record, detailed and structured information on the societies that maintained them. First, they were points around which human lives revolved, at which identities were defined, at which time was calibrated and space mapped out, and at which society engaged with the spirit world and sought to guarantee its well-being. Far from being simply places of peaceful contemplation or withdrawal, they were the settings for religious action that was practical and political. Second, then, huacas that were visited over extended periods of time reflect social and political as well as religious change.

Salango: The Setting and General Considerations Set in a hilly region of tropical dry forest and scrub at the center of the Ecuadorian coast (Figure 2.1), Salango has a multicomponent pre-Columbian history that spans 5,500 years from an aceramic and possibly Late Archaic phase of 50

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Figure 2.1. Map showing the relation of Salango to other coastal Ecuadorian sites mentioned. Source: Richard Lunniss.

occupation through to the time of the Spanish conquest (Lunniss 2016, 2017b; Norton et al. 1983). Of the many aspects of Salango’s ancient past, the most significant and lasting was its role as a place where contact could be made with the spirit world. Other such sacred centers in the region include La Plata Island, which stands on the northwest horizon 44 km from Salango, and which has an archaeological sequence that runs closely parallel to Salango’s, but which was distinct in terms of the rituals performed (Dorsey 1901; Marcos and Norton 1981; McEwan 2015). Salango Island, separated from the mainland site by a narrow channel, was reported in the sixteenth century to be a sanctuary occupied by a female spirit embodied in a statue with healing powers (Sámano and Xerez 1967). No arHuaca Salango: A Sacred Center on the Coast of Ecuador

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chaeological evidence has been found on the island to support this statement directly. But in light of the known record of La Plata Island and that of Salango itself, it seems most likely that a Manteño sanctuary did in fact exist there, and that the island had been considered a sacred place since much earlier times. In this chapter, however, I shall be discussing the ceremonial complex that evolved during the centuries 600 BC to AD 600 immediately behind the mainland shore, at the northeast-facing foot of the headland that rises opposite the island. This complex was constructed as an architectural extension of the headland and provided access to its Otherworld counterpart. The 1,200-year span consists of four archaeological phases: Middle (600–300 BC) and Late (300–100 BC) Engoroy, which both correspond to the Ecuadorian Late Formative, and then Bahía II and Early Guangala (100 BC–300 AD), and Middle Guangala (300–600 AD), which belong to early and middle stages of the Regional Development period. At the heart of the site is a series of nineteen main episodes of construction and use of a central space and structure excavated, within the confines of a fish factory, as Sector 141B (Figure 2.2). Through time, the area surrounding the center was gradually organized, and the ceremonial complex grew to cover 3 ha, eventually being delimited by a formal boundary. While some layers were clearly the result of natural formation processes, in particular colluvial deposition, all anthropogenic contexts so far recovered can be interpreted within the terms of an overall religious function, serving as elements of, contributions to, or by-products of ceremonial architecture and ritual performance. Each phase was in several ways quite distinct, but the most radical changes occurred in the transition from Late Engoroy to Bahía II and Early Guangala. These went beyond the gradual adoption of new pottery styles, technologies, architectural forms, burial configurations, and ritual performances in general. There was in addition a thorough transformation of the ways in which society was organized, of the nature of its spirit beings, and of the manner in which humans interacted with the spirit world. The material components of the structures, such as clay floors and walls, wooden posts, and roofs, were but the visible aspects of an architecture that depended for its vitality and efficacy on spirit power (sami in Quechua; Tantaléan, this volume; Muro, Castillo, and Tomasto, this volume). Such power was channeled into the site and its arenas of action in different ways. First, it was enabled by the location, positioning, and form of the architecture. But it was also obtained through ritual performance, sacrifice, and the making of offerings. Some of the 52

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Figure 2.2. Map of the area of the Salango sanctuary, showing sectors and trenches excavated in 1979–1989 and 2014–2016 in relation to the fish factory, street system, and topography. Source: Richard Lunniss.

offerings were burnt, others have disintegrated. But a large number of more durable artifacts gifted to the spirits have survived for our scrutiny. And again, the selection, placement, and ordering of the offerings were always critical. Finally, sacred beings were represented by images whose locations, at key points of the site’s design, suggest that these were the spirit owners of the place, and thus those to whom, or under whose aegis, society addressed its ritual performances. The structuration of the ceremonial complex at Salango is remarkable. And this refers to all levels, from that of the smallest hole up to that of the overall Huaca Salango: A Sacred Center on the Coast of Ecuador

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design of the place as it gradually grew over the centuries. It refers also to the individual artifacts that, through burial as offerings, were incorporated in, and so became aspects of, the site. Thus we can trace, through the coherence of the material, an ontology in which the social, natural, and spirit dimensions of existence were completely if variably conjoined. But while many of the objects deployed were reflections of the nature of local dependence on the land and the sea, it is notable that others are closely matched in Andean religious iconography and practice. Coherence is most clearly evident through an analysis of the repeated patterns of differential distribution of artifact offerings and animal, bird, and, especially, human burials in relation to the visible architectural design. These show that locations across the site were associated with their own relative values or sets of values, and that although the material and symbolic expression of these values varied through time, the deep underlying structures of order that they represented remained constant. Of primary importance was alignment on a northeast-southwest axis, and structure was in the first place embodied in the complementary opposition between its twin poles. There was also a secondary division that distinguished the right/southeast and left/southwest sides of the axis, which were related, respectively, with the northeast and southwest. Finally, Salango, with its island and prominent headland, marks the geographic center point of the coast between Cabo San Lorenzo and Manta to the north, and the Santa Elena Peninsula and La Libertad to the south. For the Late Formative and Regional Development periods, the northerly region was associated, respectively, with the successive Phases I and II of the Bahía culture, and the other, first with Engoroy, and then Guangala. In south Manabí, the two culture zones overlapped. Salango was a particular point of convergence, and the sacred value of the site in part served in the mediation of sociopolitical relations between groups of the two regions.

Salango: The Archaeological Sequence I shall extract, and present in necessarily oversimplified form, a small number of the more significant expressions of sacred design that best demonstrate both the means by which such design was achieved and the significance that design had in relation to social structure and political interaction. These examples show how the site underwent changes of different sorts. But they also show how a consideration of the site through time permits understanding of any one stage 54

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to inform the reading of other stages. Indeed, interpretation of the site may be not only incremental, respecting linear or historic time, but also recursive, so reflecting, however distantly, the cyclical nature of sacred time and the return to the originary principles that informed the constant re-creation of the site.

Middle Engoroy The incorporation of sacred value in architectural design is first found with a Middle Engoroy ceremonial house excavated at Sector 141B (Lunniss 2001, 2006, 2008; Figure 2.3). Of rectangular form and rising over a thick floor of yellow clay, this structure measured around 10 m by 7.5 m. There was an outer wall or fence of more slender posts surrounding an interior divided by various partitions and centered on an open hearth. Its main axis, aligned southwest to northeast, was marked out by foundation offerings in the two rearward postholes of the central row of roof supports. Among these were a juvenile Spondylus princeps in the hole

Figure 2.3. Plan of the Middle Engoroy House, showing the position of the burials and offering pits in relation to the roof supports and original wall trench. Entrance to the northeast. The S. princeps and V. caestus shells were set in the rearmost (1) and penultimate (2) holes, respectively, of the central row of roof supports. Source: Richard Lunniss.

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furthest to the southwest, and a much-worn conch of the species Vasum caestus in the hole 2.5 m to the northeast. Neither shell was worked. The conch, represented by different biological species according to time and place, and the Spondylus, are well-known symbols of Andean dualism (Paulsen 1974). In the first millennium BC, they were aspects, male and female, solar and terrestrial, of successive Chavín deities as portrayed in stone sculptures of the Old and the New Temples, which together straddle the date of the Engoroy house (Burger 1992; Lathrap 1973). They were also expressly associated with the right and left hands. At Middle Engoroy Salango, in turn, they were situated in linear fashion at points associated with the rising and setting sun, and perhaps more specifically identified with sunrise at the June solstice and sunset at the December solstice. But it seems likely that, here too, the creamy white conch and the red spiny bivalve each encapsulated a cluster of symbolic meanings, including, not least, the male and the female. The shells thus represented the main principle of binary division, their respective values were embedded in the foundation of the house, and they aligned the building with time and space as mapped by the sun’s annual movement according to practices established by Early Formative Valdivia times (Zeidler 1998). Their arrangement also underlay and supported the entire sequence of architecture and ritual of the next millennium and more. Out of its highly condensed symbolism, what follows can be seen as a long, intricate unfolding of cosmic substance and signification. Late use of the house culminated with the primary burial of five human individuals. Each of these was placed, according to age and other social considerations perhaps beyond our grasp, with strict regard for location relative to the structure of the house. Inside the center-rear section of the house was a single adult, flexed on the left side, head to the southeast and facing southwest. By this stage, the outer wall had been dismantled, and three infants were set on or next to the line of the earlier wall trench. Finally, one child was buried in a grave cut into the clay floor immediately behind the house. The adult, who also had a rather worn and slightly broken tripod bowl, and one infant, were each accompanied by a string of polished white shell beads. The house had been earlier created as a setting for religious ritual action. It seems likely then that the now-buried adult, who strictly speaking was the sole occupant of the house, would have been the shaman or religious leader who managed the ceremonies. That the children were of this person’s family cannot be shown, although the shared accompaniment of the shell beads points to some equivalence between the 56

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adult and one infant. However, the spatial association of the infants with the old wall trench suggests that they were buried more in the order of offerings to the house than as its occupants—the same wall trench, on the northwest side, was the site for three other offering pits, two of which included ash, while the third had a collection of small stones likely used for various shamanic functions. Meanwhile, the older child, extended and supine, was buried perpendicular to the central axis, with the head set precisely on that line and with the feet to the northwest. Its burial at this specific point was clearly designed to incorporate human spirit power in the structure and process first established by the shells placed at the base of the roof supports. The position of the body as a whole also suggests an association of the southwest, where the head lay with respect to the orientation of the house, with the northwest, where the feet lay with respect to the head. Thus the ceremonial house, first created as a place of interaction with the spirit world, became a founding Ancestor House. And subsequent structures would have derived much of their own power from the buried presence of the house and the dead beneath it. In particular, the burial there of the religious leader would have imbued the place with the extraordinary attributes for which that person had been recognized as a spiritual authority. At the same time, it is notable that the rearward position of the graves was repeated during later episodes of burial. In other words, from this moment on, just as the entrance would always face the northeast, so the proper place of the dead would be to the southwest. This confirms the interpretation that, according to the principle of complementary opposition, these directions were chosen as coordinates, respectively, of the birth and death of the sun.

Late Engoroy By the end of Late Engoroy, the house had been replaced by a low yellow clay platform 14 m square and surrounded by a reddish clay wall 3 m thick and 80 cm high at the front (Lunniss 2001, 2006, 2008; Figure 2.4). The wall, in turn, was surrounded on all sides by a floor of reddish clay. By now there was also an elaborate northeast approach with an earth ramp and clay steps leading to a raised proscenium situated directly inside the entrance; and the entrance way had become a site for the burial of dedicatory and other offerings. More importantly, the platform and surrounding floor had become a place of diverse religious performances collectively relating to ancestral origins. There were two main separate ritual sequences. The first centered on the priHuaca Salango: A Sacred Center on the Coast of Ecuador

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Figure 2.4. Plan of the Late Engoroy Platform, showing the positions of the human burials, including the shaman’s grave, and the empty grave. Source: Richard Lunniss.

mary burial of humans in long pit graves. Twenty-four burials were found in the rear, southwest half of the platform, where each interment was also accompanied by the burning of a fire in a small, carefully dug pit, and by the offering, in another hole, of pottery fragments and other remains of the funeral feast. The burials were mostly of adults, with just one child and three infants present, one of these accompanying an adult female, presumably the mother. Male and female genders were evenly represented. The graves were all perpendicular to the axis of the platform, with half oriented northwest to southeast, half in the other direction, suggesting a moiety division related to the religious function of the site. Most individuals were in an extended supine position, with the head either facing straight up or else to the northeast. Of the grave goods, the most common were single pottery vessels, single greenstone beads, and single or paired obsidian flakes. Meanwhile, at the center of the proscenium, in the front, northeast half of the platform, there was a grave with offerings but no human occupant. This empty grave, uniquely, was aligned parallel to the main axis. The preponderantly adult population was not natural. It is also notable that 58

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the burials took place over what was most likely a period of around 200 years, at an average of one every 8 years. This suggests that, rather than a general cemetery, the site was for individuals who were carefully chosen according to a specific set of requirements relating to the wider function of the site. The adults, in particular, were most likely selected for their suitability as new ancestors, representatives of human society among the spirits of the Otherworld (DeLeonardis and Lau 2004; Lau 2015). The second and parallel set of rites involved placing upright stone figurines in small holes dug into the clay floor around the platform (Lunniss 2011). The figures were not covered with soil upon deposition, and their heads rose over the tops of the holes: they were designed, then, to be seen to emerge from the ground. Mostly they were anthropomorphic, tusk-shaped, and composed of tuff. Any hole might include a single figure, or several. Figurines faced in all directions, but with a preference for the northeast and southwest. Some were painted green, and a few were accompanied by greenstone beads or obsidian flakes. The periodicity of the rites is probably impossible to estimate, but dozens of such depositions were involved. Initially closer to the platform, with time they spread outward, in the end extending more than 50 m in all directions. The figurines thus shared certain characteristics with the burials: human form, greenstone beads, and obsidian flakes, and general association with the platform. But in other ways they were very different: vertical rather than horizontal, they tended to respect the main axis instead of crossing it; they were much more numerous than the burials, and included multiple depositions as well as single; they surrounded the platform instead of standing on it, and they rose out of the ground instead of sinking into it. In brief, this is another instance of complementary opposition. The most economic interpretation is that the two sets of features each represented one half of a cycle, in which the human dead descended via the platform into the underworld, while all around from that same underworld the figurines surfaced via the ceremonial floor. In this context, the figurines were the original ancestors as they first emerged to populate the earth, and the recent dead were newly created ancestors sent in offering as exchange for those founder humans, who in turn stand also for generations yet to come. In other words, Salango was re-created in explicit form as an origin site. Meanwhile, the yellow and red of the platform and floor were symbols of the two essences of biological life, as were the yellow and red shells of the first house. The process represented by the total ritual sequence, then, is also couched in terms of the necessary union of these essences. Huaca Salango: A Sacred Center on the Coast of Ecuador

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It was at the literal center of the site and its multiple ritual performances that two representations of a supernatural being were buried. One was in a grave lying across the central axis at the front of the burials in the southwest half of the platform. Its human occupant was 35–45-year-old man. Unlike all others buried on the platform, he lay flexed on his back, leaning slightly to the northeast. Under the chin was a greenstone bead. Under the left leg, was a long bone baton. And by the left shoulder, there was one of Salango’s most extraordinary artifacts—a small container made out of the modified skull of a white-tailed deer, with a lid of mother of pearl. The combined set of associated artifacts points to this having been a shaman or other spirit professional. For he was also accompanied by a whistling bottle in the form of a four-legged animal, which had been set under his lower back (Figure 2.5). That this was a mythic creature and not one of the natural world, is shown by the use of red paint to color the feet and of yellow for the chest and

Figure 2.5. The head of a spirit being modeled on the Late Engoroy whistling bottle from the shaman’s grave. Source: Richard Lunniss.

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neck. The image then was explicitly endowed with the values of those colors. The identity of the being we shall consider later. For the moment, we can suggest that the man was buried with the bottle because it represented the specific spirit to which he addressed himself. Meanwhile, a few meters away, at the top of the platform, the grave empty of human remains also contained a greenstone bead and a second whistling bottle representation of the mythic creature, although of slightly different form and style, decorated this time with iridescent paint. The absence of a skeleton is perhaps puzzling, but the combined presence of bottle and bead, the form of the pit, and the location at the high center of the platform indicate that this was a counterpart to the burial of the shaman: one high, one low; one aligned with the central axis, the other crossing that axis; one without skeleton, the other with skeleton. The pits and their contents, even as they defined basic principles of organization, commanded the platform and the space around it in which the rites were conducted. We must conclude that the spirit being and shaman were central not only to the physical design of the Late Engoroy platform and surrounds, but also to the meaning and action of the place. For the spirit would have been the ultimate owner of the place. And the shaman, even in death communicating with the mythic creature, directed the flow of energy as it simultaneously entered the ground through the burials and rose from it in the form of the stone figurines. This, then, is perhaps the clearest expression of the importance and nature of the role of the shaman as spiritual intermediary to be found at Salango.

Early Regional Development Ceremonial Structures and Burials Around 100 BC, there began a notable expansion of the area of Salango devoted to human burial, and around the architectural nucleus at the base of the headland, a larger ceremonial complex developed. In due course, this reached as far as the ancient river estuary, 150 m away, where a north entrance to the complex has recently been identified, and from which a processional way would have led to the main structures (Figure 2.2). Three separate groups of burials have been identified, along with a number of scattered single graves (Table 2.1). The first and main set of around 70 was set inside a specially built funerary enclosure that arose over the Late Engoroy platform at Sector 141B (Lunniss 2001, 2017a; Figure 2.6). This enclosure went through seven episodes of construction and use, reaching maximum dimenHuaca Salango: A Sacred Center on the Coast of Ecuador

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Figure 2.6. Sector 141B during excavation of the walls of the west corner of the Bahía II funerary enclosure. View to the east. The northeast-facing entrance lies between the two double rows of post holes at upper left. Stones of the final Middle Guangala construction episode are visible at the north corner. Source: Richard Lunniss.

Table 2.1. Distribution of excavated Early Regional Development burials at Salango Main Funerary Enclosure, Sector 141B

50 Meters to North of Main Enclosure, Sector 141C

North Perimeter of Sanctuary, Trenches 1 and 2, Calle 22

North Entrance to Sanctuary, P18, Calle 22

Number of Burials

69

18

8

1

Number of Adults

69

16

7

0

Number of Infants

0

2

1

1

Dominant Cultural Imagery

Bahía II

Early Guangala

Early Guangala

Bahía II

Primary Orientation

NE

Not known

SW

NE

Source: Compiled by author.

sions of 17 m by 15 m. Each episode saw the building of a clay wall around an initially empty central space that was gradually occupied by more and more human burials. Further demarcation of the enclosed space was provided by different arrangements of freestanding wooden posts along the front and sides of the wall. There was an entrance through the wall on the northeast side. All around, there was a clay floor that was kept clean and empty. In two episodes, relatively massive posts were set along the side walls and front in holes 2 m deep. They were supported by large stones. On the landward southeast half, these were grinding stones, while those of the seaward northwest half were anchors for balsa rafts. The enclosure then can be read as a built symbol of dualistic structure, in which the grinding stones represented maize, farmers, and the land, while the anchors symbolized the fruits of the sea, the men who worked the sea, and the ocean itself.1 The northeast itself was also associated, through the placement of grinding stones in holes in or to either side of the entranceway, with the land, and the southwest, by extension, would have been associated with the sea. The human burials were mostly seated primary interments in circular pits of adult males and females endowed with elaborate and formalized grave offerings, but there were also two secondary burials, one occupying a large urn and the other wrapped in a cloth bundle. These were all set at a distance from the northeast front wall and entrance, mostly facing northeast, north, or northwest. The seated individuals were either flexed or cross-legged. Although, then, the respective funerary rites would have taken place at an average of once every six or seven years, roughly the same as that for Late Engoroy, the group was more select and of more aristocratic character. And while the burial configuration was quite different, the in situ funerary rites were also changed in that they no longer included the burning of fires or the burial of feasting remains. In general terms, then, the southwest continued to be the place of the dead. At the entrance, however, there were two sequentially placed burials which, while accompanied by standard goods, were quite distinct from the rest in two ways. First, the graves themselves were boot-shaped, with a short vertical pit leading to a lateral chamber on the southwest side. Second, the individuals looked toward the southwest and southeast, facing and thus opposed to the graves of the main group, even as they guarded the entrance that led to them. At the same time, one of the two was seated cross-legged, and the other flexed. In this way, they also seem to have represented the principle division of the main group. The pottery vessels that accompanied the graves, on average two or three Huaca Salango: A Sacred Center on the Coast of Ecuador

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each, while mostly of local manufacture, had multiple origins and included imports from the lower Guayas Basin, the Santa Elena Peninsula, and elsewhere (Lunniss 2004). But Bahía II influence is dominant, and within that tendency, pottery reflecting the religious vision of the nearby funerary center of Salaite is important.2 No Guangala images are present. Most vessels were fine ware bowls, pedestaled cups and plates, polypod plates, and bottles and jars. Of these, double compoteras (pedestaled plates) and double whistling bottles are of special interest, as they carried images of a powerful spirit being. The creature is modeled on the forward chamber of five Salaite-style double bottles as a single seated figure (Figure 2.7). While in each case the details are different, essentially we seem to be faced by a mutable being that may be more human or mammalian, having mixed and variable bodily attributes, but is always human in its posture, and is sometimes adorned with a feathered crown or crest. The double-headed serpents that embrace two of the figures are probably symbolic of water, and the creature itself can be interpreted as a Spirit of the Waters. Meanwhile, on two double compoteras, it is just the head that is represented, in iridescent paint on a dark smudged background (Figure 2.8). However, the head of one plate of each compotera is larger than the other, and some details are different, suggesting that these are representations of male-female pairs. They are also placed in rotational symmetry, so that the combined image is potentiated and dynamic, rather than balanced and static, and the two principles of gendered existence follow each other in an unending cycle. The two other sets of graves were excavated north of the central funerary enclosure. These most likely belonged to larger groups whose full extent remains unknown, but in neither case was there any evidence of any sort of enclosing structure. Both sets were accompanied by goods of Guangala type, reflecting the fact that the site lay physically inside the northern limit of direct Guangala influence. Thus first, 50 m to the north at Sector 141C, of the sixteen adult primary burials and two secondary child burials, one adult had a set of grave goods that included a whistling Guangala figurine of Estrada’s (1957) Type B (Kurc 1984; Figure 2.9). A further 100 m north, at Trenches 1 and 2 in Calle 22, there were seven primary adult burials and one secondary urn burial, probably originally that of an infant (Lunniss 2016). These lay close to the northern boundary of the sanctuary, with the ancient bank of the river estuary just beyond. The primary burials share the seated position of the enclosure burials, and were accompanied by similar pottery vessels. In particular, two of the Calle 22 burials were 64

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Figure 2.7. The spirit being on a Salaite ware double bottle. Source: Richard Lunniss.

of individuals seated on very large Guangala pedestaled plates. In the central enclosure, three burials were of this type, and among the group just to the north at 141C there was at least one more. In all cases, the plates had been mutilated before burial by removal of the base, and occasionally a small hole had also been knocked in the bottom. This form of burial, then, crosscut the other differences presented by each area. It also gives further support to the idea that the graves of the three areas were contemporary. Huaca Salango: A Sacred Center on the Coast of Ecuador

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Figure 2.8. Heads of the male-female spirit being pair in iridescent paint on a Bahía II phase double compotera. Source: Richard Lunniss.

Figure 2.9. Early Guangala male anthropomorphic whistling figurine. Source: Richard Lunniss.

However, other aspects differ. First, the dead at Calle 22 were occasionally also accompanied by small artifacts, including a small polished axe, a spindle whorl, and a grooved stone weight, identical to those reported by Bushnell (1951) for Guangala graves at La Libertad. Such objects were not found in burials of the central enclosure. Second, they all faced southwest. The Calle 22 group, then, not only was physically removed from the graves at the center, it was also distinguished from them both by accompanying offerings and by burial orientation. Indeed, this orientation placed the burials in direct opposition to those of the enclosure. One primary burial then presents evidence for a practice so far not reported elsewhere at Salango. This relates to the manner of filling the grave after the deceased has been put in place. Three soil types were carefully used in sequence: white sand, yellow clay, and brown loam. Given the selection and the ordering of the elements in this way, and given the general context of a site where order is generally significant of some aspect of cosmic structure, it seems likely that this manner of filling the grave also had symbolic meaning and ritual function. The sand is from the sea, the clay is the material out of which the local hills are made, and the loam is derived from areas of human activity. The soils, then, each represent one of three aspects of the world that meet at Salango. In the area of these graves, in particular, there is a clear history of repeated intersection of these dimensions: clay would wash down from the hill slope directly to the east, sand would be blown up off the beach immediately to the west, and cultural occupation of the site would successively cover and be covered by these incursions. In other words, the tomb fills reconstruct the three-part being of the site, and the deceased individual, at the center of this representation, mediates between the different worlds. First, however, a Vasum caestus conch was set below the right hip, and one half of a Pinctada mazatlanica below the left. The same conch we have already met in the forward, northeast posthole of the first ceremonial house, paired in the southwest hole by a Spondylus princeps. Now, another bivalve, a mother-ofpearl, has taken the place of the Spondylus, but it is essentially the same malefemale polarity that is symbolized. This pair then explicitly embodies duality at the base of the tomb, either side of the vertical axis of the body that rises through the levels of the different dimensions of sea, land, and society. Meanwhile, a secondary infant burial at P18, 30 m away to the east, most likely marked and protected the north entrance to the complex of these times, being situated at the top of the old river bank and at the beginning of the stretch of flat ground that led to the central enclosure. Inside a large kitchen ware jar decorated Huaca Salango: A Sacred Center on the Coast of Ecuador

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with red finger paint, the loose bones were ordered along a linear axis, with the skull on top to the northeast. Outside the urn to the northeast was a small polished fine ware jar. Below that to one side was a fine ware plate supported by a short ring base. Meanwhile, under the small jar and next to the plate lay a female Bahía whistling figurine (Figure 2.10). The front view has the woman dressed in a

Figure 2.10. Bahía II female anthropomorphic whistling figurine. Source: Richard Lunniss.

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skirt of elaborate colored design, with a two-stranded stone bead necklace, a gold nose-ring, and ear studs. Her hair is held by a wide band across the forehead. Seen from the back, however, she is undressed, and her long hair falls straight to her waist. There are obvious references here to two opposed states of being. Most relevant to our purposes, however, is the orientation of the figure, like that of the set of bones, to the northeast, and the fact that they both carried to this further position the direction of the central precinct. The burial is unique at Salango for the period, situating a young child at a place of critical importance in definition of the total ceremonial complex. The figurine most likely came from Manta, or thereabouts—it is emblematic of the Bahía II ceremony that was centered there. It can in turn, then, be read as a pointer to the place from which it came. And so the grave links the site with Manta, even as it marks the processional way along which the dead were carried to the funerary enclosure. A few meters away in Calle 22 at Trench 3, on the west side of this entrance to the complex, a pit offering contained the pedestal base of a large composite Guangala vessel, configured as the head of a powerful spirit being (Figure 2.11).

Figure 2.11. Composite Early Guangala vessel base in the form of a spirit being. Source: Richard Lunniss.

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Just one other example is known, and was found by Bushnell (1951) at La Libertad. Both were composed of the same red paste used to make the large pedestaled plates, and in both cases, most of the upper section had been removed, leaving only the part that directly covered the base. Although neither head was recovered intact, the general design is clear. The eyes are circular holes through the wall. Over them curve the bodies of two snakes whose heads project to either side at the back of the face, and whose tails merge as a third head and form the nose. The mouth is a wide cut with two large fangs, one descending and the other rising, either side of a long tongue that falls down over the chin. There are two feline ears, and behind them, two composite projections perhaps representing supernatural sense organs. The tongue and the serpents in particular, while different in details of design, match those of the Salaite bottles from the burials at Salango, and it is clear that we are dealing with a creature of the same order. Such imagery is widespread in the Bahía zone, and is also closely associated with the more northerly coast, where it finds its highest expression in Jama Coaque and La Tolita pottery and gold artifacts. But it is not at all a common feature of Guangala. The two heads could then have been made specifically in order to meet the requirements of a ritual event, centered on the supernatural being, which took place both at Salango and La Libertad, perhaps even simultaneously. How else are we to explain the identical nature of the images, and the identical removal of the upper part of the vessel prior to burial? We have no register of the precise context of the head from La Libertad. But at Salango, the offering was made at the side of the way as it entered the final stretch to the funerary precinct at the base of the headland. Thus, first, although made elsewhere and according to another design, the head represented a parallel vision of the Water Spirit incarnated by the modeled figures of the double bottles and the iridescent painted designs of the double compoteras. Second, like the child burial with the figurine, the head was set here as a marker, this time indicating that the ceremonial complex, and the invisible territory of the spirit world to which it gave access, lay in the control of this creature. Early Regional Development Salango, then, presents a far more complex image of sanctuary design. At the center, the point of maximum sacred charge, was the set of buried aristocrats of Bahía II affiliation, enclosed by clay walls, wooden posts, and a surrounding floor. This central enclosure was accessed by a processional way leading from the sanctuary’s northeast entrance, itself marked on either side by a Bahía II child burial and the offering of a Guangala 70

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spirit effigy. Of at least two secondary groups of burials, both of Guangala affiliation, and both to the right side of the way, one lay by the north perimeter of the sanctuary and the other somewhat closer to the center. In other words, we find with this phase a very clear statement of the importance of the dead, not only in making contact with the spirit world, but also in negotiating access to it for the different groups making claims on the place.

Middle Guangala The central funerary enclosure was eventually filled in and converted into a low platform edged at the summit by a clay curb, although in the final, third construction episode this clay was replaced by a single course of stones. Bahía II and Early Guangala pottery was replaced by a purely Middle Guangala repertoire, which extended across the entire complex. In particular, imagery of the more recognizable Bahía Water Spirit was replaced by that of the highly stylized three-color fine ware pottery of the mythic being of Guangala (Bushnell 1951). At the same time, in the absence so far of any burials for this phase, it seems that use of the sanctuary for human interment, at least at any significant scale and in the spaces previously used for such practice, came to an abrupt end. In other words, there was a change both of sanctuary function and of sanctuary ownership. The continued importance of Salango as a sacred place in these changing circumstances is, however, shown by the construction of a formalized boundary around the complex. Growth of the complex to the north was limited by the ancient river estuary and the beach. In the previous phase, the north entrance had been defined, minimally, by the burial of the child and the offering of the effigy vessel. Now, a retaining wall was built that probably extended from the north entrance down to the back of the beach and then along the shore to the base of the headland. The ground behind the shore was mainly loose sand left by the retreating sea, and one of the objectives of the wall was to consolidate the edge of this unstable matrix. The section of wall found was part of an inclined structure 2 m from front to back, and a meter deep. It consisted of two steeply sloping sections either side of a horizontal central step. The substance of the wall was a repeated sequence of layers of three basic soil types, each sequence perhaps representing a renovation of the structure. Generally speaking, first was a layer of black loam rich in charcoal and further distinguished by the presence of abundant fish bones Huaca Salango: A Sacred Center on the Coast of Ecuador

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and various artifacts. The fish bones, often densely packed, included articulated vertebrae as well as heads, tails, and fins. These suggest the remains of complete or almost complete fish, and it seems probable, given the carbon content of the layer, that they had been cooked first. The artifacts included shell fish hooks, pottery stamps, flakes, and worked pieces of obsidian, shell ornaments, and pottery sherds bearing painted, polished, or painted designs. These and others were all selected objects, some highly crafted, some bearing images of spirit beings or designs of cosmic structure, and some of precious raw materials. Next would be a thin layer of grey ash. And on top there was the main structural layer of relatively thick, durable, and impermeable yellow clay, which served to cap the underlying deposits and present a clearly and consistently colored surface along the entire perimeter. The use of the three soil types in sequence is reminiscent of that of the sand, clay, and brown loam in the earlier pit grave, although the symbolism will have differed. Strictly material-functional considerations will, of course, have been important, especially in the use of clay as a sealant. But the fish remains and artifacts can only have been added for their magical properties. They will have been put in place each time in accordance with a specific ritual procedure. And this procedure will have been repeated, perhaps with slight variations, each time a new layer of soil charcoal, fish, and artifacts was added. Each time, the sacred powers and meanings carried by the different offerings will have been renewed, such that the wall would not only contain the sand and mark the boundary, but also protect the invisible spirit-inhabited space it enclosed. The actual function or actions performed at the Middle Guangala sanctuary remain unclear. It is first notable, however, that while the central platform received little investment, much effort was given to the construction of the sanctuary perimeter wall, in terms both of scale and offerings. Second, it is striking that the offerings made in that wall were of a quite different order from those of more formal and structured types associated with the Late Engoroy platform and Bahía II enclosures. For while we can see in the repeated sequence of deposits that made up the wall; for example, an echo of the soil sequence of the Early Guangala burial at Calle 22, the relative abundance of sometimes complete fish skeletons, charcoal, obsidian, and other selected small artifacts are unmatched elsewhere at the site at any time. Further study is required before the full significance of the adoption of this specific offering configuration can be understood. 72

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Discussion The history of Salango’s ceremonial complex is that of multiple changes anchored to the architectural design that lay at its center. On average a new major structure may have been built every 60 or 70 years. Reconstruction, however, was perhaps required not so much on account of the poor state or collapse of its main visible structures, but as a material embodiment of change relating to some external principle or determinant of chronological order and rhythm, although it is possible that newly emerging political and other histories were also taken into account. Throughout, the center incorporated the select dead in its substance, and with differing degrees of intensity all human burials made statements about place. For the status and origins of the individuals concerned, along with the transforming ritual of burial itself, assigned or affirmed the value of the location of each tomb. Thus specific points of the site were identified as places of different but complementary and mutually necessary values. In Engoroy times, this was limited to the central structures. But with the Early Regional Development, we see the complex internal ordering of the main funerary enclosure extended to and answered by the organization of the complex as a whole. The sum total was a general statement of cosmic order and its relation, via the ancestors, to social and political divisions. In Late Engoroy, the myth of ancestral origin emphasized unity. All material and ritual components of the center were coordinated within a single grand design of cosmic flow. The funeral rituals brought together the families and groups associated with each of the dead, and made of them one whole, all with access to and claims on this origin site. The much more numerous rituals of figurine deposition all around may have been performed by the same groups. But they may rather have involved individuals not related to the dead; members of local communities who through participation in the rites also registered their association with the site. Whatever the case, the site speaks of integration. Following the great transition into the new world of Bahía II and Guangala, however, Salango’s ceremonial complex was occupied and explicitly claimed simultaneously by two distinct major sociocultural groups. And as a sacred place at the frontier of their respective territories, it became a point of intense political interaction. Moreover, there was a clear intent on the part of the Bahía II affiliated groups who controlled the funerary center to set themselves apart from and exclude those who buried their dead elsewhere at Salango. For the Huaca Salango: A Sacred Center on the Coast of Ecuador

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central enclosure was separated from the surrounding burial areas by a open ground apparently not occupied either by burials, architecture, or offerings. The Bahía presence at the center, then, represented a most determined effort by an essentially foreign influence to maintain religious control of the site. But through Late Engoroy as well as Bahía II and Early Guangala times, the spirit world at Salango was dominated by a mythic supernatural that also underwent drastic transformation over the transition from the first period to the next. The iconography of the imagery points to this having been a powerful Water Spirit. But although it was a single being, it was made manifest through multiple and different contemporary representations. There were also important changes in the way the spirit imagery was distributed within the burial contexts. For while the Late Engoroy bottles lay at the center of the funerary platform, the Bahía II–Early Guangala phase double compoteras and bottles were neither so centrally situated nor necessarily associated with individuals identifiable as spirit professionals. Rather they accompanied members of a new general aristocratic class that had appropriated to itself, although by no means exclusively, the rights of access to the spirit world and its sacred power through association with the water spirit. At the same time, the offering of the Guangala effigy at the entrance may have been part of a larger ritual performance that linked Salango and La Libertad. For these identical vessels, identically treated, would have necessarily taken to each site of burial the identity and substance of the same spirit being. What happened in Salango were not events of purely local interest, and the rituals performed there did not limit themselves to establishing the value of Salango as a site in itself, as it were. They were performed with reference to a social, political, and territorial context of a much wider scale. An important function of the principal spirit, then, in all its different guises, was that of mediating and reconciling sociopolitical difference. Of course, the primary role was that of guaranteeing water. But in that sense, the supernatural can also be understood as a supreme force controlling human destiny. And thus it would have been logical that all appeal be addressed to this being, and all ritualized interaction, at the highest level, recognize its authority and power. In sum, and first at a philosophical and general level, thinking of Salango as a huaca, by directing us to the idea of the sacred in terms of place and spirit engaged in active relationships with human society, requires us to contemplate the ever-changing and richly textured design of the site in terms of the ritual 74

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performances conducted there and to attempt to recreate the mythical context of those events. Second, and in parallel, the archeological record points to the enormous importance of human burial and artifact offerings in organizing and maintaining the sacred energy that flowed through the earth at this point. For it was precisely in the context of this channeling of spirit force that the different groups who occupied, visited, and claimed Salango were able to negotiate and confirm their own social and political relationships. Third, while the foundation offerings of shells beneath the first house are perhaps the most vivid example of Salango’s participation in a system of religious values of macroregional scale, other substances, devices, and structuring principles described will also be familiar to students of Andean archaeology. This does not mean, however, that Salango or other peri-Andean sites should be seen as secondary manifestations of a purer or more valid “Andean” ontology. Rather, we should see in what ways comparison in both directions helps us understand the original values that each place itself had for those who visited them.

Acknowledgements Excavation of the main structures at 141B was carried by the Programa de Antropología para el Ecuador between 1979 and 1989. Rescue excavations at Calle 22 were carried out in 2014–2016 by the Universidad Técnica de Manabí, Portoviejo. I thank María Cecilia Lozada and Henry Tantaleán for the opportunity to present this first synthesis of the data, and Luke Dalla Bona for preparing the site map and structure plans.

Notes 1. This raises the possibility that the two principal burial orientations of Late Engoroy may have reflected a similar differential association with the land and the sea. 2. Salaite is a looted site of definitive significance for the central coast, but has still to be discussed in more than anecdotal terms.

References Allen, Catherine J. 1998 When Utensils Revolt: Mind, Matter, and Modes of Being in the Pre-Columbian Andes. RES 33: 18–27. 2002 The Hold Life Has. 2nd edition. Smithsonian Institution Press, Washington, DC, and London.

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The Sadness of Jars. In Living with the Dead in the Andes, edited by Izumi Shimada and James L. Fitzsimmons, pp. 304–328. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Bray, Tamara L. 2015 The Archaeology of Wak’as: Explorations of the Sacred in the Pre-Columbian Andes. University Press of Colorado, Boulder. Burger, Richard L. 1992 Chavín and the Origins of Andean Civilization. Thames and Hudson, London. 2003 Conclusions: Cultures of the Ecuadorian Formative in Their Andean Context. In Archaeology of Formative Ecuador, edited by J. Scott Raymond and Richard L. Burger, pp. 465–486. Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, Washington, DC. Bushnell, G.H.S 1951. The Archaeology of the Santa Elena Peninsula in South-west Ecuador. Occasional Papers of the Cambridge University Museum of Archaeology and Ethnology, no. 1. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Chase, Zachary J. 2015 What is a Wak’a? When is a Wak’a? In The Archaeology of Wak’as: Explorations of the Sacred in the Pre-Columbian Andes, edited by Tamara L. Bray, pp. 75–126. University Press of Colorado, Boulder. DeLeonardis, Lisa, and George F. Lau 2004. Life, Death and Ancestors. In Andean Archaeology, edited by Helaine Silverman, pp. 77–115. Blackwell, Oxford. Dorsey, George 1901 Archaeological Investigations on the Island of La Plata. Field Museum of Natural History, vol. 2, no. 5. Chicago. Estrada, V. Emilio 1957 Prehistoria de Manabí. Publicación del Museo Víctor Emilio Estrada No. 4. Museo Víctor Emilio Estrada, Guayaquil, Ecuador. Kurc, Alicia 1984 Informe acerca de las excavaciones en el Sitio OMJPLP-141C. Unpublished report, Museo Arqueológico de Salango, Ecuador. Lathrap, Donald W. 1973 Gifts of the Cayman: Some Thoughts on the Subsistence Basis of Chavin. In Variation in Anthropology: Essays in Honor of John C. McGregor, edited by Donald W. Lathrap and Jody Douglas, pp. 91–103. Illinois Archaeological Survey, Urbana. Lau, George F. 2015 The Dead and the Longue Durée in Peru’s North Highlands. In Living with the Dead in the Andes, edited by Izumi Shimada and James L. Fitzsimmons, pp. 200–244. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Lunniss, Richard 2001 Archaeology at Salango, Ecuador: An Engoroy Ceremonial Site on the South Coast of Manabí. PhD dissertation, University of London. University Microfilms International, Ann Arbor. 2004 La Cerámica del Desarrollo Regional Temprano del Sitio OMJPLP-141B-T3, 2015

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Salango. Unpublished report, Museo de Antropología y Arte Contemporáneo, Guayaquil, Ecuador, and Dumbarton Oaks Research Library, Washington, DC. 2006 La Interpretación y Evaluación de la Secuencia de Estructuras Ceremoniales del Formativo Tardío del Sitio Salango OMJPLP-141B. Unpublished report, Museo de Antropología y Arte Contemporáneo, Guayaquil, Ecuador, and Dumbarton Oaks Research Library, Washington, DC. 2008 Where the Land and the Ocean Meet: The Engoroy Phase Ceremonial Site at Salango, Ecuador, 600–100 B.C. In Pre-Columbian Landscapes of Creation and Origin, edited by John Edward Staller, 203–248. Springer, New York. 2011 Los ancestros y el mito de origen: una interpretación de los figurines de piedra asociados con una plataforma funeraria del Engoroy Tardío en el sitio Salango, Provincia de Manabí, Ecuador. Ñawpa Pacha 31(2): 153–169. 2016 Investigaciones Arqueológicas en Salango: Nuevos Aportes al Estudio de un Antiguo Sitio Sagrado. ReHuSo 1(2):1–38. Universidad Técnica de Manabí, Portoviejo, Ecuador. 2017a Coca Ritual, Aristocrats and the Landscape of Power on the Coast of Ecuador in the Early Regional Development Period (100 BC–AD 300). Ñawpa Pacha 37(2): 155–174. 2017b Los Sitios de Pesca del Arcaico Tardío en la Costa Central del Ecuador: Nuevas Evidencias de Salango. Paper presented at Primera Convención Científica Internacional, Universidad Técnica de Manabí, Portoviejo, Ecuador, October 20, 2017. Mannheim, Bruce, and Guillermo Salas Carreño 2015 Wak’as: Entifications of the Andean Sacred. In The Archaeology of Wak’as: Explorations of the Sacred in the Pre-Columbian Andes, edited by Tamara L. Bray, pp. 47–72. University Press of Colorado, Boulder. Marcos, Jorge G., and Presley Norton 1981 Interpretación sobre la Arqueología de la Isla de la Plata. Miscelánea Antropológica Ecuatoriana 1: 136–154. Museos del Banco Central del Ecuador, Guayaquil. McEwan, Colin 2015 Ordering the Sacred and Recreating Cuzco. In The Archaeology of Wak’as: Explorations of the Sacred in the Pre-Columbian Andes, edited by Tamara L. Bray, pp. 265–291. University Press of Colorado, Boulder. Norton, Presley, Richard Lunniss, and Nigel Nayling 1983 Excavaciones en Salango, Provincia de Manabí. Miscelánea Antropológica Ecuatoriana 3: 9–72. Museos del Banco Central del Ecuador, Guayaquil. Paulsen, Allison C. 1974 The Thorny Oyster and the Voice of God: Spondylus and Strombus in Andean Prehistory. American Antiquity 39(4): 597–607. Salomon, Frank 1991 Introductory Essay: The Huarochirí Manuscript. In The Huarochirí Manuscript: A Testament of Ancient and Colonial Andean Religion, edited by Frank Salomon and George L. Urioste, pp. 1–38. University of Texas Press, Austin. 1998 How the Huacas Were: The Language of Substance and Transformation in the Huarochirí Quechua Manuscript. RES 33: 7–17.

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Turbulent Tombs. In Living with the Dead in the Andes, edited by Izumi Shimada and James L. Fitzsimmons, pp. 329–347. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Sámano, Juán de, and Francisco de Xerez 1967 Relación (1527–1528). In Las relaciones primitivas de la conquista del Perú, edited by R. Porras Barrenechea. Cuadernos de Historia del Perú 2: 63–68. Lima. Staller, John E. 2008 Pre-Columbian Landscapes of Creation and Origin. Springer, New York. Zeidler, James A. 1998 Cosmology and Community Plan in Early Formative Ecuador: Some Lessons from Tropical Ethnoastronomy. Journal of the Steward Anthropological Society 26(1–2): 37–68. 2015

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pppppppppppppp

3 Analogism at Chavín de Huántar

N ic c o L a M at t i na a n d M at t h ew Say r e

Approaches to understanding the core beliefs and worldviews of ancient peoples are, of course, not superficially facilitated by the predominately material archaeological record. Sometimes, pre-Columbian people are compared by analogy to presumably similar contemporary people; that is, a theoretical framework applicable to certain modern peoples is applied a priori in the investigation of a pre-Columbian site. This chapter argues that, at Chavín de Huántar, interpretations centered around animism and shamanism employ these concepts a priori as ways of understanding the material record. Many of the references to shamanism make specific analogies to Amazonian practices and import these ideas to Chavín de Huántar. Furthermore, this chapter argues that, if the iconographic and material record at Chavín de Huántar, as well as interpretations of these in the established literature, are carefully evaluated, interpretations centered around animism and shamanism will not follow; that is, these are not supported by the material record per se. Rather, as this chapter hopes to demonstrate, the analogist ontology formulated by Descola (2005) finds a firmer grounding in the iconographic and material record when these are considered together.

Site Background Chavín de Huántar is a major Formative Period archaeological site (circa 1200–200 BCE) in the north central highlands of Peru (Rick et al. 2009), consisting of a monumental temple and associated occupation areas (Figure 3.1). The site is known for its elaborate stone iconography as well as its fine ceramic ware, extensive labyrinth galleries, and large stone sculptures. The early

Figure 3.1. Chavín de Huántar and site sectors (from Rick 2005).

spread of Chavín iconography across the central Andean region is captured in what was traditionally called the “Chavín Horizon” or the “Early Horizon” (Burger 1992). Julio C. Tello (1960, 2009a) described Chavín as the ritual center of the mother culture of the Andes, although later radiocarbon dating has demonstrated that several monumental sites predate Chavín itself (Burger 1992). Tello first visited the site of Chavín in 1919 as part of his larger survey of the Marañon River (Tello 1943), where he searched for evidence in the highland region for the independent development of Andean civilization, as opposed to the prevailing diffusionist views of the time such as those of Max Uhle (1902). The formal rediscovery of the temple did not initially lead to extensive excavations, rather the first visits to the temple were devoted to cleaning and map80

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ping, but soon after the site was cleared it became host to a parade of archaeologists excavating and analyzing the site. Little of this early work challenged the assumption that Chavín was the primordial site of Andean civilization. In recent years (Shady Solis 2005), this view has been mostly discredited, but the site continues to be a source of great debate in broader discussions of the rise of political authority in the region (Rick 2008). Chavín was predominantly in use as a ceremonial center between 900 and 500 BCE (Kembel 2008; Rick 2008; Rick et al. 2009), although archaeological investigations at the site over the last 20 years have revealed that the architecture of the monumental center changed dramatically over time (Kembel 2008). There were initial construction events that focused on the creation of gallery space, but there were also significant building events that were focused on the construction of public space. The Mosna River’s course was shifted in order to provide additional space for the creation of a large and open square plaza (Rick 2008). This focus on communal space was later replaced by a greater focus on enclosed spaces that were likely the center of elite ritual events (Rick 2008). While the construction of monumental buildings ceased around 500 BCE, there continued to be people living in the monument until modern times. Basic facts about Chavín’s economy are fairly well established. The site is located among diverse and highly agriculturally productive lands in which a “larger-than-normal” stratified farming population may have developed (Rick 2008: 4, 9). The local economy centered on farming and pastoralism (Rosenfeld and Sayre 2016; Sayre 2010), including camelids, which were raised on site. Among the major crops are included corn (Zea mays), quinoa (Chenopodium quinoa), and beans (Phaseolus sp.) (Sayre 2010). Furthermore, research at the site has confirmed that Chavín had broad economic ties to external regions of the Andes (Contreras 2011; Sayre et al. 2016). There is abundant evidence for the exchange of exotic goods such as obsidian, spondylus shell (Spondylus princeps), strombus trumpets (Strombus galeatus), cinnabar, and marine bone (Burger 1992; Contreras 2011; Sayre and López Aldave 2010; Sayre et al. 2016; Van Valkenburgh 2005). This evidence for exchange of relatively lightweight exotic goods is contrasted with limited evidence for the trade of staple goods such as agricultural products (Sayre et al. 2016). This research strongly suggests that Chavín’s local population was dependent on regional food production, although also bound in an extensive trade network by the power and importance of its ritual and political connections. The art at Chavín, recognizable from its unique patterns and chimerical figures, has also been the subject of considerable examination (Burger 1993; Analogism at Chavín de Huántar

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Conklin 2008; Lathrap 1973; Roe 2008; Rowe 1962; Tello 2009b; Urton 2008; Weismantel 2013, 2015). Its distinct surreal iconography—the Lanzón sculpture, agnathic teeth, pendant eye, and the Janabarriu ceramic style—defined the Chavín-style horizon. The figure of the staff god and some of core Chavín imagery may appear earlier at other sites west and south of Chavín, suggesting that this site is more of a culmination of this phase rather than its instigator (Shady Solis and Leyva 2003). As Burger (1985) and Williams Leon (1985) have noted, there were clear antecedents on the coast, such as Cardal and Garagay, for many of the architectural forms constructed at Chavín.

Ontology When we examine Chavín de Huántar ontologically, we necessarily enter into the discourse of the “ontological turn” (Kelly 2014) in which the meanings of terms are contested, the raisons d’être are disparate (if not antithetic at times), and the starting points of analysis are various. It is perhaps appropriate to extend Geoffrey Lloyd’s (2012, 2015a, 2015b) consideration of incommensurability between ontologies to a similar consideration of incommensurability between anthropological ontologisms. Are, for instance, Philippe Descola and Eduardo Viveiros de Castro both truly engaged in the same project, and to what extent is their work cross-pollinating? If we, as so many etymologists, look to the foundations of the “ontological turn,” we might reasonably consider the “turn” to be the development of anthropological theories out of the dissolution of the nature-culture divide, at least insofar as the “belief that nature does exist” is historically situated (Descola 1996: 88) and not universally equivalent (“Culture is the Subject’s nature” [Viveiros de Castro 1998: 477]). Drawing on Hallowell’s (1958, 1969) “ethno-metaphysics” of the Ojibwa, sometimes troublingly compatible with Tempels’ (1945) “logically coherent” ethno-ontological determinism,1 the various projects of OTers (that is, “ontological turn”ers [Graeber 2015]) sometimes take as their object “the roots of human diversity . . . where basic inferences are made about the kinds of beings the world is made of and how they relate to each other” (Descola 2014b: 273). Instead of a program for the investigation of “basic interferences,” Viveiros de Castro’s work instead seeks to further antagonise and destabilise “Western philosophy” (Latour 2009; Viveiros de Castro 2015b: 22–23). Viveiros de Castro (2014: 81–84; compare 2015b: 87) has criticized Descola’s typology, and rather than distinguish between animism and naturalism, the distinction is between 82

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multinaturalism and multiculturalism with a perspectivist mechanic. Perspectivism is not meant to denote a configuration of interiority and physicality, but rather “a mode of functioning” (Viveiros de Castro 2014: 82) between the distinctions. In this sense, multinatural perspectivism holds that “humanity is reciprocally reflexive” (Viveiros de Castro 2014: 69) such that jaguars are (1) jaguars to humans, but (2) humans to other jaguars. Humans are (1) prey animals to jaguars, (2) humans to other humans, but (3) cannibalistic spirits to prey animals. The oscillation between these perspectives by a shaman destabilises the fixity or the ontological integrity of any given being, and so too poses a challenge to uninaturalist philosophies of being. Although Viveiros de Castro’s ontological perspectivism, by challenging naturalist-rooted interpretations, is a useful tool for understanding at least one animistic mode or relation (Weismantel 2013, 2015; Willerslev 2011), our investigation takes Descolian ethno-ontology2 as its framework in order to argue for an analogist ontology at Chavín de Huántar, where animism (variously defined) is typically presumed.

Ontology from a Descolian Point of View Ethno-ontological regimes are distinguished not by their social relationship to nature (Descola 1992, 1996), but rather by their understanding of interiority— understood variously as the soul, mind, or essence—and physicality (Descola 2005), whereby animism, totemism, naturalism, and analogism are established. Within Descola’s fourfold framework, animism is understood as a continuity of interiority and a discontinuity of physicality, such that nonhuman animals share with humans a common spiritual or social substrate against a background of differing appearances and physical compositions. In this sense, Descola’s animism accounts for the personhood of nonhuman animals in the classic analysis of Ojibwa “ethno-metaphysics” by Hallowell (1969) as well as the social inclusion of animals in his own ethnography of the Achuar (Descola 1986). Unlike in Descola’s earlier writings, and very unlike Tylorian animism, this new Descolian ontological animism is about a tacit inference about reality on the part of animists. Rather succinctly, this point is described by Hallowell 60 years earlier when he notes that the soul “defines the conceptual substratum of beings with self-awareness and other related attributes (speech, memory, volition, and so on) that we associate only with a stabilized anthropomorphic structure” (1955: 180), famously remarking that “the soul is the only necessary substratum. Any particular form or appearance is incidental” (1955: 176). Analogism at Chavín de Huántar

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Naturalism is no longer simply the belief in nature, but is now the inverse of animism: humans have a unique interiority in that they are conscious, setting them distinctly apart from other animals, but physicality is universal such that “natural laws” govern the movement of the stars, the falling of apples from trees, and even the mechanical operation of the body. The naturalist ontology, furthermore, considers these two fields (interiority and physicality) to be unities, which is to say that all of physical reality is subject to the same natural laws, and the person is normally an indivisible unit. The Descolian totemism has continuities of both interiority and physicality within analytically relevant classes such as moieties. Again, rather than classical formulations of totemism, wherein the totem group is essentially the fetish of a plant or animal, or even the “intellectualism” of Lévi-Straussean totemism (Descola 2005: 203–204), this ontological totemism entails the tacit recognition of a shared substance or even a consubstantiality of members within a totemic group. To eat the plant or animal with which one shares a totemic group is regarded as cannibalism or even auto-cannibalism (Lévi-Strauss 2008a: 639; 2008b: 483), that is, the eating of the shared substance in the former or the eating of one’s-self through the consubstantial in the latter. In its first formulation, analogism is an inversion of Descolian totemism, which is to say that it is a discontinuity of both interiority and physicality, although as a consequence it is perhaps more fitting to describe analogism as the ontology of a priori discontinuity (Descola 2005: 286, 288) of which analogical links are only a consequence (281). Descola states, following logically from its configuration, that a dominant aspect of all analogist ethno-ontologies is the plural nature of every existent, each depending on the correct order of said plurality to maintain stability (295). As such, analogist regimes logically take the form of “holistic and hierarchically organized collectives,” (2010a: 220), although not necessarily in the form of states or empires (2005: 376). Descola explains that “in collectives that function under an analogist regime, humans and nonhumans always appear as constitutive elements of a wider set, coextensive with the universe” (2010a: 221; emphasis added), which is to say that analogist ethno-ontologies place exceptional emphasis on the relationship between the microcosm and the macrocosm, especially on the correspondences between humans and the cosmos (2005: 286–287). Hierarchy is, as it were, necessitated by the fact that the person is not a bounded and isolate entity whose freedom is of its own will, but rather is made meaningful only as a component of a cosmos within which its coherence is imperative. 84

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Perspectivism, Analogism, and Chimeras Returning to Chavín de Huántar, this section will review the literature on the site’s iconography. First, two other approaches to the material will be evaluated—the naturalist and the perspectivist—before moving on to Descola’s conception of a chimera, which will be followed by interpretations of Chavín iconography by Tello and Urton that are largely consistent with analogism and Descolian chimeras. This section, then, intends to demonstrate that, when a theoretical construct per se is not taken a priori as the method for understanding the materials, as is more closely the case in Urton and especially Tello, the iconography and interpretations of it are much more closely in line diagnostically with analogism. In his classic analysis of Chavín art, John Howland Rowe proposed a “figurative treatment of [the] representations” (1962: 15). For Rowe, the composite nature of the images at Chavín is deconstructed to “comparisons by substitution . . . in a figurative or metaphorical fashion” (1962: 14), such as the direct comparison suggested between hair and snakes, which is to say that the hair is kenned by snakes, almost evoking a proper kenning in the form of “headsnakes” and possibly more abstractly, as pointed out by Urton (2008: 220), simply “nest of snakes.” If hair is kenned as snakes simply to add an artistic figuration, then we might reasonably conclude that Chavín’s art was merely aesthetic; that is, Rowe’s interpretation of the chimeras can be understood as assuming a naturalist ontology. Nonetheless, Rowe recognized several affordances of the iconography that, as will be shown, are diagnostic of analogism: namely, that they contain composite wholes comprising heterogeneous assemblages of various natural species. To assume that these composites were simply artistic figuration neutralizes their potential cosmological significance. In his 2010 Malinowski Memorial Lecture, Rane Willerslev (2011) proposed a possible solution to the interpretation of chimeras: namely, as the product of a “view from everywhere.” Building off of the phenomenology of Merleau-Ponty and the perspectivism of Viveiros de Castro, Willerslev claims that The “Dancing Sorcerer” of Les Trois-Frères “is a person, human or non-human, seen from all predatory viewpoints at once. This would explain why . . . his body is a mosaic of animal body parts, since each external perspective perceives him as one kind of prey or another” (2011: 522; emphasis added). Mary Weismantel (2013, 2015) applies a similar method to the interpretation of the chimerical figures of Chavín de Huántar, writing of the so-called “guardian angel figure” from the north column of the Black and White Portal (Figure 3.2) that “it’s what humans see . . . when they Analogism at Chavín de Huántar

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Figure 3.2. Roll-out drawing of the Black and White Portal (modified from Rowe 1962).

hunt. They glimpse the animal from multiple perspectives. . . . So here we have an inside-out, living-dead jaguar/human/bird that we see from too many different perspectives to ever achieve a coherent whole” (2015: 149; emphasis added). The prime difference between Willerslev’s chimera and Weismantel’s is that in the latter the materiality and complexity of the chimera is the catalyst for a perspectivist oscillation whereby the mode of functioning of the shaman, instead of just the vision, is made available to the viewer. Where they are similar, however, is that for each there is a multitude of bodies and body-affects alongside a psychic unity, which is to say that their chimeras assume an animist ontology. Descola finds chimeras, or composite beings, to be diagnostic of an analogist ontology. Interiority and physicality, both being discontinuous, are pluralities. 86

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The classic figure of the analogist ontology, which allows for the highest probability of correct identification, is the chimera, a being composed of the attributes belonging to different species while exhibiting a certain anatomical coherence. The chimera is a hybrid whose constitutive elements are derived from heterogeneous sources—from animal species taken from different classes and orders, or even the human species—but which are uniquely assembled in a being sui generis, which is rarely thought of immediately as imaginary, sometimes envisaged as a singular animal or a divinity, more often perceived to be a member of an uncommon species although real. (Descola 2010b: 165–168; translation ours) In this way the chimera reflects society, being reminiscent of Descola’s remark that “the analogist collective is unique, divided into hierarchized segments and in almost exclusive relation with itself” (2010a: 222; emphasis added). The person is comprised of different aspects whose correct ordering establishes harmony and the person is an aspect of a larger whole, the macrocosm, with which it is coextensive or iterative. In fact, the nature of the relationship between the microcosm and the macrocosm is only given a posteriori, such as was the case in ancient China where the macrocosm and the microcosms (the state and the person) were variously understood as either analogously related or else forming a seamless whole (Lloyd and Sivin 2002: 174; compare Lloyd 2015a: 44). The iteration of the microcosm into the macrocosm, fractal holography, is another manner of analogist relation, which Mosko describes among the Trobrianders where “yams and people are analogous” and “children are fractal recursions of their parents” (Mosko 2010: 155, 165). The person is comprised of different aspects whose correct ordering establishes harmony, and society is comprised of different persons whose correct ordering establishes harmony, ad infinitum. Julio C. Tello, the legendary archaeologist after whom the Tello Obelisk takes its name (Figure 3.3), wrote of the obelisk’s inner arrangement, that “all these different elements which appear reunited here in a complex and mysterious whole surely form part of a mythological cycle that is related to the powers of nature which directly influence the preservation or destruction of the socioeconomic values of humanity” (2009b: 198). The different, let us say heterogeneous, elements forming a complex whole are the very ontological constituents characteristic of an analogical ontology. Tello’s suggestion that these wholes represent a mythological cycle is itself in keeping with Descolian analogical chimeras, who, we will recall, are “illustrations of the stories that describe their qualiAnalogism at Chavín de Huántar

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Figure 3.3. Tello Obelisk (modified from Urton 2008).

ties” (2010b: 172), which Roe echoes when he suggests that Chavín iconography in general consists in “instantiated myths, sacred oral tales” (2008: 214). Roe describes the bodies of the chimeras as “cosmological bodies with an intricate somatic geography” (2008: 190), such that “all Chavín depictions are really projections, maps of ancient cosmological bodies, rather than mere portraits of naturalistic beings” (182). The difference between naturalistic beings—which as naturalists “we are wont to see”—and Chavín beings is that a Chavín body does not comprise physical unity, but rather consists in cosmological aggregates. The legacy of Tello’s broadly analogist interpretation is also found in Urton: Chavín art represent models of and for structured relations among actors (or other elements), processes, and systems of classification in other domains of life (for example, kinship, hunting, curing, eating). The “mapping” of sets of non-corporeal objects and relations onto the body represented the strategy whereby Chavín artists constructed their iconographic conventions on the proper and “natural” order of things according to Chavín cosmology. The resulting frameworks and paradigms of the body constituted what I refer to here as the “well-ordered body.” (2008: 221) Urton’s “well-ordered body” situated in a network of relations comprising the Chavín cosmology is very neatly in alignment with an analogist ontology, even without employing Descolian analogism in the interpretation.

The Case for Analogism at Chavín de Huántar Sahlins (2014) takes analogism to be the animism of hierarchically organized collectives. It is perhaps problematic to ascribe particular ethno-ontologies to certain types of social organization, and in fact Descola (2014a) cautions against doing just this, but social hierarchy at Chavín de Huántar is also diagnostic, if only loosely, of analogism (or at least the emergence of analogism). This is to say that the established literature is consistent with Descolian analogism, as will be shown, rather than animism, through a bottom-up investigation of various lines of evidence including site organization, agricultural practices, and economic activity. Before considering the literature and how it fits into an analogist interpretation, it is important to caution that these are diagnostically suggestive, but not sufficient in themselves, to argue for analogism. Pre-ontologically minded interpretations (see especially Rowe 1962) typically extended to the Chavín a real metaphoric binary, itself a transformation Analogism at Chavín de Huántar

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of the nature-culture binary, which in turn made naturalists of them. Many of the contemporary approaches to the archaeology of the pre-Columbian Andes instead assume an animist ontology among the highlanders, extending the ethnographic context of a few contemporary Amazonian peoples to the “high cultures” of the Andes, which Viveiros de Castro is careful to not do in his own analysis (2015a: 212). For example, recall that in Weismantel (2015: 149) the Chavín chimeras are “what humans see . . . when they hunt”; applying animist hunting theories to an agricultural economy. Finding “animism,” broadly understood, among present-day Quechua speakers as well as in the text of Spanish chroniclers, animism is often attributed to the Andes, and even projected backward into the pre-Columbian past as far back as to Chavín itself (Bray 2015: 12). But, although we must always be critical of such attributions, we must also consider whether terms like animism and shamanism are even relevant to the context as given. Here we consider analogism as the appropriate ontology in which to frame the investigation into the Andean past, especially with regard to Chavín, which we take to be the frame of reference for our claim. Jerry Moore’s writings serve as a useful analysis of other archaeologists’ work and provide insights that can be used to further future research. His survey of the connections between South American religious practice and architectural forms is detailed in Table 3.1.

Table 3.1 Connections between religious authority and practice South American Ethnographic Case

Medium

Ecstatic Shaman

Canonist Ceremonial Architecture

Yanomamo

+

No ceremonial architecture

Waiwai

+

Shaman’s hut only

Bororo

+

Men’s house, dance area

Mehi

+

Men’s house, dance area

Guaraní

+

Dance area, shrine

Warao

+

Dance area, shrine, temple

Kogi

+

Dance areas, temples, sacred centers

+

Dance areas, shrines, mounds

Mapuche

+

Source: Religious authority/practice based on Sullivan (1988: 387); ceremonial architecture reproduced from Moore (2005: 85).

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One important conclusion from Moore’s work is that we should reconsider certain assumptions about Chavín, in particular the nature of religious practice and formal societal roles. Moore notes (2005: 220) there is broad consensus that these Formative Period structures were religious constructions; he also states that there are distinct differences between theorists on the nature of authority at these sites. The ethnographic record of South America does not appear to support the idea that there were formal temples run by ecstatic shamans (see Klein et al. 2002 for a similar discussion of shamanism in Mesoamerica). Shamans were generally described as ritual practitioners imbued with special powers that they enact in unique, charismatic events; usually their powers were not considered to be rooted in established institutions. Rather, every time we see formal temples we see examples of priests who practice some form of a canonical religion. The canon may not have been inscribed in written language but there are elements of the iconography at Chavín that would have been clearly decipherable to visitors to the monument, or else at least to priests or other specialists, as priests are considered to be ritual practitioners granted societal positions based on their specialized religious knowledge. Based on this analysis as well as a five-point variable architectural study of permanence, centrality, ubiquity, scale, and visibility, Moore (2005: 220) concludes that priests—not ecstatic shamans—directed the activities, as well as possibly informed the iconography, of Chavín and similar sites. Insofar as shamanism—especially ecstatic shamanism—is an animist institution, it is perhaps safe to rule out shamanism as such, as well as animism narrowly defined (sensu Descola 2005), from Chavín. Rather, the “theological engineering” of priests is diagnostic of analogism (Viveiros de Castro 2014: 128), and so where we find priests rather than shamans we should expect analogism as opposed to animism narrowly defined. But here we should clarify why we must insist on distinguishing animism narrowly defined—which is to say Descolian animism—for animism broadly defined, which is simply the recognition of agency beyond the human (so that it is always in opposition to naturalism). Analogists may recognize animacy, and thus may appear as animists in some ways, and may in fact recognize animacy in a broader array of beings than animists, but analogists recognize animacy in degrees according to the possession and ordering of certain component parts (Descola 2005: 295–296). Hence, when Allen (1982: 179) describes the “animistic ideology” of the Sonqo Quechua of southern Peru as holding that “all material things partake of life—although in various modes and to different degrees”—she is Analogism at Chavín de Huántar

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perhaps more accurately describing a hierarchical “animistic” tenet of Quechua analogism. The economy of the ancient inhabitants of Chavín de Huántar is fairly well established. It is documented that hunting declined over time (Miller and Burger 1995), and recent research demonstrates that there is solid evidence for the raising of domesticated camelids on site (Rosenfeld and Sayre 2016). The botanical evidence supports this line of reasoning as it provides data that indicates that highland plants were grown nearby, and there is limited evidence for the extensive importation of foodstuffs from outside regions (Sayre 2010). These analytical lines, when combined with the abundant ceramic and architectural evidence for long-term settlements, reveal that inhabitants of the site were producing their own goods while engaging in trade for exotic artifacts (Contreras 2011; Sayre et al. 2016). Accordingly, any ontologically minded exploration of the site and its materials should consider them in relation to a people engaging primarily in nonhunting subsistence activities. The discussion of hierarchy at Chavín may not have here been considered in itself, but rather is immanent in much of the preceding discussion, although much work has indeed focused on the hierarchy and the emergence of relations of power in the Andes and specifically of Chavín de Huantar (Lumbreras 1974, 1989; Moore 1996; Rick 2005, 2008; Sayre et al. 2016). While the site is considered to be a religious center that received pilgrims from across the region, there were undoubtedly political and economic aspects associated with the religious activities that took place at the site. While the lack of burials at the site limits the direct evidence for powerful individuals, there is ample iconographic evidence that depicts powerful priests and warriors marching procession at the site (Rick 2008: 21). This material record, when combined with the architectural evidence of a site that was constructed over the course of centuries, reveals that there was long-term planning and a shifting emphasis from basic structure building to the construction of both constrained and limited internal spaces (such as galleries and canals), along with plazas, that could hold large masses of people who may not have been permitted into the internal galleries. It allows us to postulate that there was an emphasis on attracting elite pilgrims from distinct regions and impressing them with the sheer magnitude of buildings and experiences that were not available elsewhere (Kembel 2008; Rick 2005). Importantly, hierarchy here is not being taken for analogism in a vacuum—we believe that when taken together, composite beings represented in the iconography, an agricultural rather than hunting population, arranged 92

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hierarchically, as well as the likely presence of priests as opposed to shamans, make a clear case for analogism as opposed to animism.

Conclusion In making the case for an analogist ontology at Chavín de Huántar, this chapter hopes to contribute to the investigation of the site by problematizing some of the current frameworks in which questions about the site are formulated, which we take to be animist/perspectivist, as well as to propose another way of approaching the site: as an analogist collective. It is important to note, however, that a Descolian ethno-ontology is not meant to give an account of a culture, and so is not identical with culture (compare Venkatesan et al. 2010), but is rather a “thought experiment” of “the kind of worlds which would be generated by the strict application of rules of composition of principles of identity and difference” (Taylor 2013: 201). This is to say that analogism is not meant to describe and classify a culture, nor is it meant to provide rigid deterministic mechanics for the types of cultures, but it is rather a tool both for thinking about and taking seriously the worlds in which people live, as well as for framing questions without importing distinctions and categories that may not have been meaningful. As this chapter has demonstrated, when animism and shamanism are not employed a priori in the analysis of Chavín de Huántar, they do not easily follow; in other words, Chavín’s iconography is not best understood by transposing an ontological mechanism (that is, ontological perspectivism) out of an Amazonian context. This chapter has argued that when the site’s characteristics are considered as justification for presuming an ontological regime, a clearer case for analogism can be made. It is in this vein that we propose that the investigation of the agricultural economy, social organization, and iconography of Chavín provide greater insights into the ontological orientation and general worldview, so far as these can be discerned, of those who built and maintained the site throughout the Formative Period.

Notes 1. “[L’]ontologie . . . pénètre et informe toute la pensée du primitif, elle domine et oriente tout son comportement” (Tempels 1945: 9). 2. We may use the prefix ethno-, in the spirit of Hallowell (1969), to capture the individual philosophies that are the object of Descola’s logical metaphilosophy, but it also hopes to capture the distinction made by Graeber (2015) between Ontology1 and Ontol-

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ogy2, where the former designates the systematic investigation of reality per se, and the latter is “the sort of Ontology1 one imagines the people one is studying would construct, were they the sort of people who spent their time engaging in speculative philosophy” (Graeber 2015, 19).

References Allen, Catherine J. 1982 Body and Soul in Quechua Thought. Journal of Latin American Lore 8(2): 179–196. Bray, Tamara L. 2015 The Archaeology of Wak’as: Explorations of the Sacred in the Pre-Columbian Andes. University Press of Colorado. Burger, Richard L. 1985 Concluding Remarks: Early Peruvian Civilization and Its Relationship to the Chavín Horizon. In Early Ceremonial Architecture in the Andes, edited by C. B. Donnan, pp. 262–289. Dumbarton Oaks, Washington, DC. 1992 Chavin and the Origins of Andean Civilization. Thames and Hudson, New York. 1993 The Chavín Horizon: Stylistic Chimera of Socioeconomic Metamorphosis? In Latin American Horizons: A Symposium at Dumbarton Oaks, 11th and 12th October 1986, edited by D. S. Rice, pp. 41–82. Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, Washington, DC. Conklin, William J. 2008 The Culture of Chavín Textiles. In Chavín: Art, Architecture, and Culture, edited by W. J. Conklin and J. Quilter, pp. 261–278. Cotsen Institute of Archaeology, Los Angeles. Contreras, Daniel 2011 How Far to Conchucos? A GIS Approach to Assessing the Implications of Exotic Materials at Chavín de Huántar. World Archaeology 43(3): 380–397. Descola, Philippe 1986 La Nature domestique: symbolisme et praxis dans l’écologie des Achuar. Fondation Singer-Polignac and Éditions de la Maison des Sciences de l’Homme, Paris. 1992 Societies of Nature and the Nature of Society. In Conceptualizing Society, edited by A. Kuper, pp. 107–126. European Association of Social Anthropologists. Routledge, New York. 1996 Constructing Natures: Symbolic Ecology and Social Practice. In Nature and Society: Anthropological Perspectives, edited by P. Descola and G. Pálsson, pp. 82–102. European Association of Social Anthropologists. Routledge, New York. 2005 Par-delà nature et culture. Bibliothèque des sciences humaines. Gallimard, Paris. 2010a From Wholes to Collectives: Steps to an Ontology of Social Forms. In Experiments in Holism: Theory and Practice in Contemporary Anthropology, edited by O. Ton and N. Bubandt, pp. 209–226. Wiley-Blackwell, Oxford. 2010b Un monde enchevêtré. In La Fabrique des images: visions du monde et formes de la représentation, edited by P. Descola, pp. 164–183. Musée du Quai Branly. Somogy, Paris.

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2014a The Difficult Art of Composing Worlds (and of Replying to Objections). HAU: Journal of Ethnographic Theory 4(3): 431–443. 2014b Modes of Being and Forms of Predication. HAU: Journal of Ethnographic Theory 4(1): 271–280. Graeber, David 2015 Radical Alterity is Just Another Way of Saying “Reality”: A Reply to Eduardo Viveiros de Castro. HAU: Journal of Ethnographic Theory 5(2): 1–41. Hallowell, Irving 1955 Culture and Experience. Schocken Books, New York. 1958 Ojibwa Metaphysics of Being and the Perception of Persons. In Person Perception and Interpersonal Behavior, edited by R. Tagiuri and L. Petrullo, pp. 65–84. Stanford University Press, Stanford, California. 1969 Ojibwa Ontology, Behavior, and World View. In Primitive Views of the World, edited by S. Diamond, pp. 49–82. Columbia University Press, New York. Kelly, John D. 2014 The Ontological Turn in French Philosophical Anthropology. HAU: Journal of Ethnographic Theory 4(1): 259–269. Kembel, Silvia 2008 The Architecture of the Monumental Center of Chavin de Huantar: Sequence, Transformation, and Chronology. In Chavin: Art, Architecture, and Culture, edited by W. J. Conklin and J. Quilter, pp. 35–81. Cotsen Institute of Archaeology, Los Angeles. Klein, Cecelia F, Eulogio Guzmn, Elisa C Mandell, Maya Stanfield Mazzi, Claude Franois Baudez, James A Brown, Christopher Chippindale, et al. 2002 The role of Shamanism in Mesoamerican Art: A Reassessment. Current Anthropology 43(3): 383–419. Lathrap, Donald Ward 1973 Gifts of the Cayman: Some Thoughts on the Subsistence Basis of Chavín. In Variation in Anthropology: Essays in Honor of John C. McGregor, edited by D. W. Lathrap and J. Douglas, pp. 91–105. Illinois Archaeological Survey, Urbana. Latour, Bruno 2009 Perspectivism: “Type” or “Bomb”? Anthropology Today 25(2): 1–2. Lévi-Strauss, Claude 2008a La Pensée sauvage. In Œuvres, pp. 553–872. Gallimard, Paris. 2008b Le Totémisme aujourd’hui. In Œuvres, pp. 447–551. Gallimard, Paris. Lloyd, Geoffrey E. R. 2012 Being, Humanity, and Understanding: Studies in Ancient and Modern Societies. Oxford University Press, Oxford. 2015a Analogical Investigations: Historical and Cross-Cultural Perspectives on Human Reasoning. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. 2015b On the Very Possibility of Mutual Intelligibility. In Translating Worlds: The Epistemological Space of Translation, edited by C. Severi and W. F. Hanks, pp. 295–311. HAU Special Issues in Ethnographic Theory Series. HAU Books, Chicago.

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Lloyd, Geoffrey, E. R., and Nathan Sivin 2002 The Way and the Word: Science and Medicine in Early China and Greece. Yale University Press, New Haven, Connecticut. Lumbreras, Luis Guillermo. 1974 Informe de labores del Proyecto Chavín. Instituto de Investigaciones Antropológicas, Museo Nacional de Antropología y Arqueología, Limsa, Peru. Miller, George, and Richard Burger 1995 Our Father the Cayman, Our Dinner the Llama: Animal Utilization at Chavin de Huantar, Peru. American Antiquity 60(3): 421–458. Moore, Jerry D. 1996 Architecture and Power in the Ancient Andes: The Archaeology of Public Buildings. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. 2005 Cultural Landscapes in the Ancient Andes: Archaeologies of Place. University Press of Florida, Gainesville. Mosko, Mark 2010 Deep Wholes Fractal Holography in Trobriand Agency and Culture. In Experiments in Holism: Theory and Practice in Contemporary Anthropology, edited by O. Ton and N. Bubandt, pp. 150–173. Wiley-Blackwell, Oxford. Rick, John W. 2005 The Evolution of Authority and Power at Chavín de Huántar, Peru. Archaeological Papers of the American Anthropological Association 14: 71–89. 2008 Context, Construction, and Ritual in the Development of Authority at Chavín de Huántar. In Chavín: Art, Architecture, and Culture, edited by W. J. Conklin and J. Quilter, pp. 3–34. Cotsen Institute of Archaeology, Los Angeles. Rick, John, Rosa Rick, Silvia Kembel, Daniel Contreras, Matthew Sayre, and John Wolf 2009 La cronología de Chavín de Huántar y sus implicancias para el Periodo Formativo. Boletín de Arqueología PUCP 13: 87–132. Roe, Peter G. 2008 How To Build a Raptor: Why the Dumbarton Oaks “Scaled Cayman” Callango Textile is Really a Chavin Jaguaroid Harpy Eagle. In Chavín: Art, Architecture, and Culture, edited by W. J. Conklin and J. Quilter, pp. 181–216. Cotsen Institute of Archaeology, Los Angeles. Rosenfeld, Silvana A., and Matthew P. Sayre 2016 Llamas on the Land: Production and Consumption of Meat at Chavín de Huántar, Peru. Latin American Antiquity 27(4): 497–511. Rowe, John Howland 1962 Chavín Art: An Inquiry into Its Form and Meaning. Museum of Primitive Art, New York. Sahlins, Marshall 2014 On the Ontological Scheme of Beyond Nature and Culture. HAU: Journal of Ethnographic Theory 4(1): 281–290. Sayre, Matthew P. 2010 Life across the River: Agricultural, Ritual, and Production Practices at Chavín de Huántar, Perú. Unpublished PhD dissertation, Department of Anthropology, University of California, Berkeley.

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Sayre, Matthew P., and Natali L. López Aldave 2010 Exchange at Chavín de Huántar: Insights from Shell Data. Andean Past 9: 340– 345. Sayre, Matthew P., Melanie J. Miller, and Silvana A. Rosenfeld 2016 Isotopic Evidence for the Trade and Production of Exotic Marine Mammal Bone Artifacts at Chavín de Huántar, Peru. Archaeological and Anthropological Sciences 8(2): 403–417. Shady Solis, Ruth 2005 Caral Supe, Peru: la civilizacion de Caral-Supe: 5000 anos de identidad cultural en el Peru. Instituto Nacional de Cultura, Proyecto Especial Arqueologico CaralSupe, Lima. Shady Solis, Ruth, and C. Leyva 2003 La ciudad sagrada de Caral-Supe: los origenes de la civilizacion andina y la formación del Estado pristino en el antiguo Peru. Instituto Nacional de Cultura, Proyecto Especial Arqueologico Caral-Supe, Lima. Sullivan, Lawrence E. 1988 Icanchu’s Drum: An Orientation to Meaning in South American Religions. Macmillan, New York. Taylor, Anne-Christine 2013 Distinguishing Ontologies. HAU: Journal of Ethnographic Theory 3(1): 201–204. Tello, Julio C. 1943 Discovery of the Chavin Culture in Peru. American Antiquity 9(1): 135–160. 1960 Chavín: Cultura Matriz de la Civilización Andina. Publicación Antropológica del Archivo “Julio C. Tello.” Universidad Nacional Mayor de San Marcos, Lima. 2009a The Discovery of the Chavín Culture in Peru. In The Life and Writings of Julio C. Tello: America’s First Indigenous Archaeologist, edited by R. L. Burger, pp. 125–164. University of Iowa Press, Iowa City. 2009b The Feline God and Its Transformations in Chavín Art. In The Life and Writings of Julio C. Tello: America’s First Indigenous Archaeologist, edited by R. L. Burger, pp. 165–234. University of Iowa Press, Iowa City. Tempels, Placide Frans 1945 La Philosophie bantoue. Translated by A. Rubbens. Lovania, Elisabethville, Congo. Uhle, Max 1902 Types of Culture in Peru. American Anthropologist 4: 753–759. Urton, Gary 2008 The Body of Meaning in Chavín Art. In Chavín: Art, Architecture, and Culture, edited by W. J. Conklin and J. Quilter. Cotsen Institute of Archaeology, Los Angeles. Van Valkenburgh, Parker 2005 Preparing for Progress: Historical Mobilities and the Reconfiguration of Place in Chavín de Huántar, Peru. Unpublished master’s thesis, University of London. Venkatesan, Soumhya, Michael Carrithers, Matei Candea, Karen Sykes, and Martin Holbraad 2010 Ontology Is Just Another Word for Culture: Motion Tabled at the 2008 Meeting

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of the Group for Debates in Anthropological Theory, University of Manchester. Critique of Anthropology 30(2): 152–200. Viveiros de Castro, Eduardo 1998 Cosmological Deixis and Amerindian Perspectivism. Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 4(3): 469–488. 2014 Cannibal Metaphysics: For a Post-Structural Anthropology, edited and translated by Peter Skafish. Univocal, Minneapolis, Minnesota. 2015a Cosmological Perspectivism in Amazonia and Elsewhere (Four Lectures given in the Department of Social Anthropology, University of Cambridge, February– March 1998). In The Relative Native: Essays on Indigenous Conceptual Worlds, pp. 189–294. HAU Books, Chicago. 2015b The Relative Native. In The Relative Native: Essays on Indigenous Conceptual Worlds, pp. 3–37, translated by J. Sauma and M. Holbraad. HAU Books, Chicago. Weismantel, Mary 2013 Inhuman Eyes: Looking at Chavín de Huántar. In Relational Archaeologies: Humans, Animals, Things, edited by C. Watts, pp. 21–41. Routledge, London. 2015 Seeing like an Archaeologist: Viveiros de Castro at Chavín de Huántar. Journal of Social Archaeology 15(2): 139–159. Willerslev, Rane 2011 Frazer Strikes Back from the Armchair: A New Search for the Animist Soul. Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 17: 504–526. Williams Leon, C. 1985 A Scheme of the Early Monumental Architecture of the Central Coast of Peru. In Early Ceremonial Architecture in the Andes, edited by C. B. Donnan, pp. 227–240. Dumbarton Oaks, Washington, DC.

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4 Indigenous Anatomies Ontological Dissections of the Indigenous Body

M a r í a C e c i l i a L oz a da

Any attempt to understand indigenous anatomy and perceptions of the body from an emic perspective in the Andes is a challenging endeavor, beginning with basic definitions that differ substantially from Western traditions (Classen 1993; Stark 1969). Furthermore, definitions changed across space and time throughout Andean prehistory, making it challenging to discuss the topic in a unified, monolithic manner. However, as stated in Tantaleán’s introductory chapter, there are a variety of ontological data on this subject in the Andes. These are based on ethnohistorical, linguistic, ethnographic, materiality, and phenomenological studies that provide insights into an emic perspective of the Andean worldview, including perceptions of the body. Interestingly enough, bioarchaeologists and mortuary specialists are just beginning to take part in such ontological studies (Boutin 2016; Buikstra and Nystrom 2015; Marsteller et al. 2011; Shimada and Fitzsimmons 2015; Sofaer 2006; Tiesler and Lozada 2018; Weismantel 2015). I would argue that by using a multidisciplinary approach to analyze human remains, we are uniquely equipped to explore conceptions of the body and its place in indigenous worldviews. As bioarchaeologists and mortuary specialists, we deal directly with the physical body: a biological unit that takes on cultural and social meaning when interpreted within a particular context. As the concept is broad and fluid, scholars need to address specific research questions using multidisciplinary approaches in order to avoid making generalizations or oversimplifying various concepts of the body. We are quite fortunate in Peru because organic material is extremely well

preserved in archaeological contexts. Furthermore, there is a wealth of detailed ethnohistorical accounts written during and after the Spanish conquest that helps to create contextualized models of interpretation. However, it should be emphasized that they are not direct sources, and therefore must be approached with some degree of caution. In this chapter, I will provide a brief introduction to studies regarding the Andean body, and offer three examples from diverse archaeological and contextual settings that illustrate how the body was seen in the Andes during pre-Columbian times using an integrated approach. There are many key anthropological themes such as life cycles, illness, and disability that require some reflection as they are central to issues regarding the relationship between the biological and cultural body, and thus to an understanding of the body as a whole, and its place it the indigenous world.

Anatomy of the Andean Body Perhaps one of the most complete treatises regarding the way the body was understood by the pre-Hispanic peoples of Peru is the one provided by Constance Classen in her book, Inca Cosmology and the Human Body (1993). In this detailed ethnohistorical study, she argues that the human body served as an essential model to understand the external world, including the natural landscape and structure of the universe. In this respect, the body was an essential organizing model for the Inca worldview. This view included the concept of duality based on body morphology and anatomical landmarks, body parts, and bodily functions. The body, or ucu, was conceptualized as an entity comprised of right/left, high/low, external/internal, male/female elements (Classen 1993: 12). These structural principals were also essential to understanding the world and social order, as male was associated with right, high, and external, while female was associated with left, low, and internal elements. In turn, each of these groups also had specific features such as structure, clarity, and fertilizing power for the first one, while the second group was connected to fluidity, obscurity, and fecundity. The term yanantin in Quechua defines the contributing and complementary forces that each of these elements adds to a fundamental unit of well-being in the body and, by extension, the natural world. Unlike Western thought, however, such elements are seen as interdependent but not contradictory, as the concepts of good and evil (Webb 2012). While this worldview of “complementary op100

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posites” was documented for the Incas, it remains a distinctive feature in many contemporary Andean societies (Flores Ochoa 1989; Platt 1986; Webb 2012). This system exemplifies the essential perspective of complementarity; however, it is also relevant to highlight the fact that the body as a whole, with its physical components, represented a metaphor for the natural world. This intrinsic relationship has been documented linguistically by Louisa Stark (1969) who states that in Quechua there is a significant overlap between body terminology and geographical features in the Andes. Furthermore, Classen provides an extensive list of Quechua body terms that reinforce this particular way of conceptualizing the body and the natural world (Classen 1993; see also Mendoza 2003: 231). Uma, for instance, refers to the head as well as a mountain peak. Urton (1997) argues that the sequence of numbers in Quechua also follow notions of the body, with the first number spatially located in the head. The Andean head, as stated by Arnold and Hastorf (2008), is considered the most essential part of the body, as it represents the seat of the soul (see also Glowacki in this volume; Tiesler and Lozada 2018; Weismantel 2015). In addition, the term denotes its paramount location in the upright human body position similar to a mountain embedded in the natural landscape. Unlike other body parts, the human head in archaeological contexts is often modified, severed, decorated, venerated, or intentionally destroyed throughout nearly all pre-Hispanic societies in the Andes, highlighting its unique status in the indigenous body and worldview (Tiesler and Lozada 2018). As seen above, salient features and body parts such as the head are equated with features of the natural landscape. Even more important in this body cartography are the in-between areas that are seen as “dividers and mediators” of two complementary parts. For instance, there is a specific term that denotes the vertical space between the shoulder blades “wasa wayq’u” (right and left parts), and the horizontal furrow between the chest and the stomach is known as “q’squ puxyu” (upper and lower parts). For the face, similar concepts govern the spatial and functional features. As an example, “simi pata” describes the area between the nose and upper lip (Stark 1969). Likewise, features in the landscape that divide, such as cracks, rivers, and caves, are also viewed as liminal, and even sacred, as they are considered areas of transition (Dean 2010). This same manner of conceptualizing space using the body is further extended to Quechua terms that refer to day cycles, specifically those that describe transitional times from day to night and night to day (Urton 1981). Based on her extensive research, Classen asserts that, among the Inca, the human body and its physical Indigenous Anatomies: Ontological Dissections of the Indigenous Body

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constituents mirrored the cosmos, including both the terrestrial and celestial spaces as defined by Urton (1981), and that the well-balanced relationship of parts was essential for its existence and survival. In this sense there was a notion of reciprocity, not only with community members but also with their environment. As will be discussed below, any transgression or disruption of this system could cause illness, death, and even destruction such as that committed by the European conquest. While Classen bases her study on linguistic and ethnohistorical accounts, another key treaty regarding the body from the ethnographic perspective is the one provided by Joseph Bastien (Bastien 1978). The Kallawaya (also Qollahuaya) is a Quechua-speaking ethnic community that resides in the northern part of Lake Titicaca in Bolivia and they are known particularly for their healing and curative abilities as documented by the Spaniards and also Bastien (1981). Similar to the Incas, the Kallawaya believed that the body was represented in the natural landscape including its hydraulic system. Not surprisingly, the title of Bastien’s ethnographic study, “Mountain/Body Metaphor in the Andes” (1978), alludes to the fact that features in the Kallawaya human anatomy corresponded to features in their landscape. The Kallawaya “geographic body” was divided into three parts that corresponded to different altitudinal levels. The head was in the upper level, specifically located on the top of the mountain and also considered the place of origin of ayllus. The central level was the trunk, and the lower level comprised the legs. These elements in the landscape were part of a whole and geographically linked through wellbalanced underground hydraulic and tunnel systems. In this context, diseases were viewed as a disruption of the well-balanced systems both in the body and the landscape. The etiology and classification of diseases were based on the way liquids and semiliquid elements were dispersed, and absorbed both in the internal and external part of the body (Bastien 1978; Mendoza 2003). As explained above, the studies by Stark, Classen, and Bastien reflect, in a variety of contexts, a similar structuring principle of the Andean worldview based on the perception and cognition of the human body. Since there is significant overlap between the Inca and Kallawaya ideology, it is conceivable that these principles had their roots in the earlier societies that inhabited the Andes. In the absence of written sources, it is challenging to recover these cognitive dimensions from the archaeological context, although iconographic and semiotic studies have proven to reveal some key elements of such views (Bourget 2001; Cereceda 1986; Weismantel 2015). 102

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For the bioarchaeologist and mortuary specialist, such emic views of the body may be more difficult to decipher. The spatial arrangement of a dead individual and grave goods may also reflect the basic world structure, although not necessarily the one described above (see, for example, Lau 2015). In addition, the basic concept of body complementarity may also be seen in the position of the body, body parts, and arrangement of the bones in secondary burials as well as in artistic depictions as observed, for instance, among the Moche (Donnan 1978). Ultimately, as the body metaphor has been used to describe the residential spatial layout of the Qollahuayas, and the Incas in ancient Peru,1 the location of pre-Hispanic cemeteries within the landscape may also be linked to this metaphorical conception.

Life and Death Stages Comprised of multiple individual components, the body functioned as a harmonious system within the living cosmos. It was not static, but in perpetual change (Classen 1993). In fact, life as seen by the Incas had different stages (Rowe 1958), some of which were marked by rites of passage that combined both biological and cultural milestones. For instance, the birth of a baby was celebrated by multiple festivities, as were his/her weaning, puberty, marriage, and death rites (Classen 1993; D’Daltroy 2015). Life stages of the ancient Andes were seen as transitional and cyclical stages that mirrored terrestrial and astronomical cycles, including the “living body” and the “dead body” that gave rise to a new life (Gose 1994; Isbell 1997; Lau 2015; Shimada and Fitzsimmons 2015). Understanding life stages in the past is of particular relevance in the attempt to delineate organizing principles of societies. Our own perception of time and age norms have changed through time, as society has become more conscious of time, and therefore age (see Chapters 6 and 10 in this volume for a more detailed discussion of the concept of time in the Andes). For the osteologist or biologist, the age of an individual is synonymous with chronological age, that is, the number of years a person has lived. This definition is quite relevant for the construction of life tables and paleodemographic profiles, and also for comparisons between skeletal samples from different archaeological contexts. Within specific cultural contexts, however, a person’s age was viewed as a sequence of phases through which an individual passed throughout his/ her life, not necessarily linked to chronological age. These phases have been Indigenous Anatomies: Ontological Dissections of the Indigenous Body

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described as life stages, a term that represents the merging of both biological and social stages of life. I would contend that these categories, much like status, represent social constructions particular to individual societies. In the Andes, Guaman Poma offers a detailed account of the life stages used by the indigenous people prior to the Spanish conquest. Poma used the term “calles” (the Spanish for paths or roads), to describe 12 life stages based on age grades in pre-Hispanic Peru. The series starts with the age group for both men and women that appears to be most important to society (ages 25–50), then continues upward with the “retired” but “active,” then the “aged and inactive.” The next category has no age associated with it, but contains the sick and handicapped. An important determinant of each life stage was the activity level of the individual or, more importantly, their productivity. Disease and/or disability could dramatically change an individual’s perceived life stage by interfering with their productivity, even if it did not alter their chronological age. This view simply underscores the differences in how the term “age” may have been defined, and what it was meant to measure: productivity as opposed to chronology, which was, for them, a more practical issue. The rest of the series goes chronologically downward from young adults to newborns. The order of this presentation does not seem to be random, and appears to correspond to the importance of social and/or physical productivity in each life stage. Furthermore, his categories are not based on exact age ranges, such as those used in Western analyses by osteologists—0–5, 5–10 years, and so on—again reflecting the importance of social and biological transition as the foundation of this system. Even the term “calle” conveys the notion that each life cycle was a stage along the journey of life. As with the unique notions of the body, the interpretation of such life transitions demonstrates how closely interwoven biological and cultural dimensions were in the Andes. In this respect, life cycles represented a blueprint for how the Incas conceptualized and organized society as a whole. While the system of “calles” described above was documented for this imperial society, I was interested in determining whether this or a similar system was used in other pre-Hispanic societies. In order to explore this question, I examined a large mortuary collection of individuals recovered from Chiribaya Alta in southern Peru. The Chiribaya developed during the Late Intermediate Period before the Inca (AD 900–1350), and in a mid-valley context that was substantially different from the altiplano. The well-documented mortuary assemblages are extensive and there is excellent preservation of both organic and inorganic material. As 104

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mentioned by chroniclers, Andean societies interred the deceased with their own belongings. In this sense, an analysis of grave goods compared to the skeletal age (through an osteological estimation) of an individual may enable the identification of some of the life stages described by Poma. I mentioned that life stages were not purely defined by chronology; however, I was interested in determining if material culture and burial patterning was age-specific and whether any of these life transitions could be identified archaeologically. In order to test this hypothesis, age and sex were estimated following standard procedures in physical anthropology, and the skeletal collection was divided into the categories described by Poma. There were a total of 234 individuals. Furthermore, burial items were classified into one of 15 categories, and the presence or absence of each artifact type was registered for each burial. Differences in artifact frequency between age categories were explored statistically (Lozada and Rakita 2013). Our initial analysis did not reveal any correlations between individual “calles” and associated categories of material culture. The lack of any correlations could be due to one of several possibilities. First, it is possible that these life transitions were not manifested in the associated mortuary artifacts but in other ways such as the use of new clothing, hair style, tattooing, or rituals that included fasting, exercising, and the piercing of the ear lobes (D’Altroy 2015). Another possibility is that the system described by Poma was unique to the Inca system, and did not reflect that used by coastal groups from the Late Intermediate period. Although associated artifacts do not appear to have reflected differences in an individual’s life cycle, that was not completely the case with respect to burial practices. We found that children under 6 years old were mostly buried in urns. Interestingly, no adults were buried in urns. Although this may simply reflect differences in size and the logistics of the burial process, the transition in the life cycles that occurs at this time is perhaps one of the most important in the Andes—the transition from dependent child to one who begins to work with the family as a productive member. While Guaman Poma did not discuss the concept of age categories apart from his depictions, current ethnographic studies in the Andes that are specific to children suggest that children between 5 and 6 years of age go through a number of social transitions. For instance, children at this age become productive members of society and, as a result, are viewed as part of the adult realm as recorded by Urton (1981) in the Misminay community in Cuzco. Furthermore, Classen indicates Indigenous Anatomies: Ontological Dissections of the Indigenous Body

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that among the Incas the weaning period was marked by the first hair-cutting ceremony called “rutuchico”; in this ritual, the child was integrated into the adult community and also given also a new name (Classen 1993: 62). Among the Chiribaya, grave goods do not seem to reflect the age categories depicted by Poma as these groups many not be tied exclusively to distinctive chronological ages. However, the integration of children into society at large seems to have been marked by a change in burial practices, with children older than 6 buried according to the customs used for adults. The urn used for younger children was typically a globular container, and children were placed in a fetal position. This practice suggests that the urn may have served as a symbolic “womb,” emphasizing the dependence of children under the age of 5–6 on the society at large, much like an unborn child on its mother. Thus, the mortuary ritual among the Chiribaya marks an important life stage transition: the passage from child to the adult world. Elucidating life stages in the Andean past in other contexts also has been documented through skeletal and mortuary analysis. For instance, at the highland Tiwanaku-affiliated cemetery of Rio Muerto M7OB in Moquegua, southern Peru, Baitzel and Goldstein (2016) have found that older adult individuals (45+ years) were not buried along with other members of their community. Poor preservation does not explain the absence of older individuals, as even very young infants have been recovered from this cemetery. The authors suggest that older individuals, who may not have been seen as productive, may have had to return to their homeland (that is, the highlands) prior to death. Alternatively, they might have been buried in Rio Muerto; however, their remains might have been “expatriated” back to the highlands in the Titicaca Basin at a later time. Regardless of the specific rationale, this serves as another example of how mortuary behavior is influenced by culturally determined age categories, many of which, in the case of the Andes, are strongly determined by functionality, not chronology. In sum, ethnohistorical and ethnographic models of life transitions serve as a basic model to reconstruct perceptions of social structure, all of which become incorporated into the biological and cultural body that determines how individuals were treated in life and in death. Although the Inca model of life stages as proposed by Guaman Poma has not been detected in the archaeological record, this pre-Hispanic model of life stages highlights the lack of a linear chronological narrative in a person’s life, and invites scholars to consider other social structure dimensions when reconstructing individual life histories. 106

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Illness and Disability in the Andes Similar to the study of life cycles in the past, the study of ancient diseases using archaeological materials needs to be interpreted within a robust biocultural context. Since disease states can cause functional impairment, and physical and social functionality appear to be the key defining component of life stages, diseases can also cause dramatic changes in life cycles. In this respect, palaeopathological research helps to shed light, not only on health per se, but also on those social and cultural perceptions that influence an individual’s physical well-being. Many technological advances in medicine have been translated into the field of paleopathology, such as ancient DNA and other sophisticated diagnostic assays, resulting in an increased accuracy in the identification of specific disease entities in ancient societies. With some exceptions, paleopathologists often stop at the diagnosis, and overlook how disease was interpreted by the individuals themselves (Boutin 2016; Klaus and Ortner 2014; Marsteller et al. 2011; Mendoza 2003; Verano 1997). The ways in which diseases were organized, causality assessed, and treatments rendered varied considerably in the past, as attested to by ethnohistorical and ethnographic research (Bastien 1978; Mendoza 2003). As such, disease states can be viewed, at least in part, as culturally constructed entities, and I would propose that studies of disease must be interpreted also in a context-specific manner. In the third part of this chapter, I would like to review three paleopathologic conditions from southern Peru, to highlight how disease was interpreted by pre-Hispanic populations using both ethnohistorical and ethnographic data. One of the most significant manuscripts with regard to the perception of diseases in the Andes is Runa Indio Ñiscap Machoncuna, which describes specific cases of diseases in the Andes, and their perception by local communities (Urioste 1981). This document was written in Quechua at a time when eyewitnesses of precolonial times could still be used as informants. According to the manuscript, illness was seen as a disruption of the body fluid system, which eventually led to the gradual disintegration and drying up of the body, a natural process that was influenced and often accelerated by a number of nonphysiological factors such as imbalances of nature, departures from normative behavior, divisions within family lineages, or even the wrath of ancestors. For instance, Urioste (1981) makes the following observations regarding the way venereal diseases were perceived in the minds of precolonial indigenous people: Venereal diseases were felt to be the result of a breach of custom or Indigenous Anatomies: Ontological Dissections of the Indigenous Body

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ritual, and could afflict anyone, regardless of rank, including the supreme lord. Most cases could be reversed. In many instances, the illness was not caused by the actions of the afflicted, but rather by close relatives or associates. In fact, Urioste gives an example of a man whose illness was felt to be caused by the actions of his wife. Interestingly, the causal chain of adulterous transgressions could also include nonhuman intermediate agents such as two-headed toads or a snake. Often, the illness was only one part of a larger constellation of punishments that affected the sick person, most of which affected his/her residence and his/her food, symbols in the Andean world for the household and subsistence activities. The specific breach of custom that led to the illness generally remained unknown until it was identified by a diviner, or curandero. In this respect, the Andean idea of transgression is significantly different from the Western European concept of sin, which is an intentional and immoral act (Urioste 1981). Diseases, according to this scholar, were produced by huacha, a term that evokes the concept of sin, but without the moral infusion. While Urioste describes cases in a pre-Hispanic coastal region located in San Damián of Chiqa, close to Lima, Classen also affirms that, among the Incas, diseases were caused by huacha and that it was not necessarily knowingly or intentionally caused by the individuals involved (Classen 1993). Although the example above described a case of a venereal disease in an adult lord, it can be applied to other categories of diseases. Additional studies suggest that indigenous inhabitants of the Andes did not attribute the cause of most illness to biological factors (Bastien 1978; Mendoza 2003). As explained above, the Qollahuayas in Bolivia, for example, drew parallels between their body and their landscape, which meant that their health was seen through the physical state of their local mountain, Kaata (Bastien 1981). The parallels between the body and the mountain extended to cases of diseases, implying that illnesses were a sign of disequilibrium between man and the natural world (Bastien 1981). For example, diseases were seen as disruptions of the landscape and equated to landslides on the mountain that cause portions of the mountain to collapse. Also, diseases were not seen as being isolated to one individual, but affected the entire immediate social group, whether they had symptoms of the disease or not. The key to reversing disease states was related to restoring balance in the natural world, and most particularly to their local mountain. In turn, this would restore the social order within the immediate group and help to eradicate the disease (Bastien 1978). In this manner, the health of a community was seen as a proxy for the state of the natural world around them. 108

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In the archaeological record, there is evidence that supports the notion that disease states were not viewed as individual afflictions. At the site of Omo M11 in southern Peru, for example, my colleagues and I have previously described one of the earliest examples of juvenile rheumatoid arthritis (JRA) (Buikstra et al. 1990). The burial dates between AD 900 and 1050, and the Omo site served as a provincial center in the Osmore Drainage for the Tiwanaku state. The individual was an adolescent between 12 and 16 years old who was placed in a pit in a semiflexed position facing east, as was customary. Sex cannot be accurately assessed in subadults, so it is not clear whether the individual was female or male. On evaluating the skeletal remains, the most notable changes occurred in the joints, where there was extensive and symmetric destruction. Also, dental measurements indicate that there was a significant decrease in permanent tooth size in this specimen, and the overall size of the face was small compared to the cranial vault. The osseous lesions of this individual indicate that this disease was progressive and chronic, and the overall constellation of findings is highly supportive of a diagnosis of juvenile rheumatoid arthritis. Based on the severity and diffuse nature of the disease in this case, normal movement would not have been possible for this adolescent during a significant portion of his/her life. The destructive pattern suggests that this individual was frequently in a seated position with the arms and legs flexed. Bipedal locomotion, functional use of the upper extremities, and mastication would have been extremely limited if not impossible for this Tiwanaku individual. The abnormalities in dental and osseous development observed in the mandible suggest that the onset of the disease was probably during the first years of life. Although we may never know how this Tiwanaku adolescent felt, the archaeological record suggests that he/she was not isolated or shunned by the local community. Based on mortuary treatment, this individual was well integrated into the society and was buried following the funerary traditions used for healthy members of the Tiwanaku community in Moquegua. Given the advanced changes seen in the skeletal remains, the individual would have been visibly deformed, and it is unlikely that he/she could have walked independently or even eaten normally. If this is indeed the case, it suggests that the local community invested considerable resources to sustain the adolescent throughout the course of the disease. This case represents an example of a very rare disorder, which would not have been familiar to the community based on symptoms. Furthermore, it could not be cured, and in fact progressed slowly as a chronic condition. Still, there are no signs that the individual was ostracized, Indigenous Anatomies: Ontological Dissections of the Indigenous Body

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or blamed, for his/her disorder; on the contrary, he/she was fully embraced by the local community both in life and after death. Within the same Tiwanaku community, although buried in a different cemetery, Allisen Dahlstedt (2015) recently identified an individual with treponemal lesions and two individuals with tuberculosis, a disease that was likely endemic to the region as it has also been observed among later groups such as Estuquiña (Buikstra and Williams 1991) and Chiribaya (Burgess 1999). Tuberculosis is a communicable disease, and can be spread by secondary vectors or directly through airborne transmission during its more virulent phase (Roberts 2003). The notion of disease communicability, as implied by the word “contagion,” was understood in the Western world regarding many infectious diseases and led to the separation of diseased individuals from healthy individuals, as occurred in sanatoriums or leper colonies (Baker and Bolhofner 2014). After death, sick individuals were buried in separate areas, continuing their expulsion from the social order even after death. In stark comparison, the individuals with osseous evidence of tuberculosis, many cases of which were very advanced, were interred alongside other members of the community. Similar to the individual with JRA, many of these individuals would not have been capable of sustaining themselves, and would have required ongoing care for basic subsistence. These examples, along with the absence of separation during burial, suggest that the Tiwanaku inhabitants of Omo may not have ascribed personal responsibility for disease conditions such as endemic tuberculosis or rare conditions such as JRA. This pattern of mortuary inclusivity was also documented in two pre-Hispanic cemeteries in Northern Chile where five adult females with extreme facial defects produced by a type of lepra known as leishmaniasis were buried following the same mortuary patterns as the individuals in their communities who were not visibly sick (Marsteller et al. 2011). Recently, I have excavated a cemetery from a Nasca-influenced tradition known as La Ramada in the valley of Vitor, southern Peru, dated to 550 BC. Within the skeletal collection, an adult male skeleton shows evidence of an inflammatory arthritis most consistent with a diagnosis of ankylosing spondylitis. The advanced stage of this disease in this individual would have also resulted in significant functional limitations. In fact, it would have made this individual dependent on his family and community. However, following a similar pattern observed with the Tiwanaku adolescent, this adult male was buried with the same funerary rituals of his community. As mentioned earlier, among the Quechuas of Qollahuayas, there is evidence 110

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that disease causality was often ascribed to the actions of the entire community or natural world, even when the disease was confined to one individual. There is no way to know with certainty whether the inhabitants of Omo, who lived over 500 years before the arrival of the Spanish, or of La Ramada, who lived 500 years earlier, held similar views. Yet, the inclusiveness of the mortuary traditions in both contexts suggests that sick individuals were not treated differently. Quite the opposite, they were buried alongside the nondiseased members of community, an extremely potent symbol of integration in death, even if their disease distinguished them from others during life. If humans were felt to be agents of disease, it does not appear to have been attributed to the individual with the disease. Instead, human causes of disease could be other community members, or even curanderos or maleros. Furthermore, Urioste (1981) explains that diseases in the Andes were not necessarily seen as permanent conditions. In fact, within the Andean view, illness was a condition that could be reversed. As such, it should not be surprising that individuals with such debilitating conditions were buried with their belongings alongside their fellow healthy community members. This view of age and disease is premised on changes in functionality, and does not ascribe undue personal responsibility for the specific timing of transitions between different life stages. It is also quite possible that a funerary pattern similar to other members of the community would in many ways symbolize the transition to a disease-free phase. The archaeological findings in the Osmore Drainage and Vitor Valley provide some archaeological support for ethnohistorical and ethnographic sources in the Andes, and suggest that the perception of diseases and their causes may have been extremely different from our own views. These examples highlight some indigenous views of the cycles of the sick body before the arrival of the Spaniards. However, after the arrival of the Spaniards, Christianization dramatically changed the indigenous concept of the body. As an example, Klaus and Ortner (2014) document the different burial treatment of a sick adult female dated to the Early Colonial period in northern Peru. Her skeleton exhibited extensive treponemal infection. This woman would have shown obvious physical signs of her sickness while alive, and would have been severely handicapped. According to Klaus and Ornter (2014), it appears that she was thrown into the burial pit and interred in a different pattern. This mortuary treatment stands in stark contrast to the individual from Omo with similar treponemal lesions, and I would argue that Spanish ideologies regarding the body and diseases may Indigenous Anatomies: Ontological Dissections of the Indigenous Body

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have influenced the way she was treated at death and, quite possibly, while she was still alive. In light of these findings, I would propose that paleopathological conditions be carefully interpreted in their appropriate cultural and historical context to ensure that they are understood, not just in their modern sense, but in the same manner in which the individuals themselves viewed them. These bioarchaeological cases illustrate highly contextualized multidisciplinary research central to the notions of the indigenous body. Although challenging, our ultimate goal is to provide emic insights of such native worldviews by developing specific research questions and using all lines of evidence available to us.

Note 1. When referring to Peru, Garcilazo de la Vega indicates that “all Peru is long and narrow like the human body.”

References Cited Arnold, Denise, and Christine A. Hastorf 2008 Heads of State: Icons, Power, and Politics in the Ancient and Modern Andes. Left Coast Press, Walnut Creek, California. Baitzel, Sarah, and Paul Goldstein 2016 No Country for Old People: A Paleodemographic Analysis of Migration Dynamics in Early Andean States. International Journal of Osteoarchaeology. DOI: 10.1002/oa.2511. Baker, Brenda, and Katelyn L. Bolhofner 2014 Biological and Social Implications of a Medieval Burial from Cyprus for Understanding Leprosy in the Past. International Journal of Paleopathology (4): 17–24. Bastien, Joseph 1978 Mountain of the Condor: Metaphor and Ritual in an Andean Ayllu. Waveland Press, Prospect Heights, Illinois. Bastien, Joseph, and John Donaue (editors) 1981 Health in the Andes. American Anthropological Association. Washington, DC. Blom, Deborah In press Child Sacrifice in the Ancient Andes. In Oxford Handbook or the Archaeology of Childhood, edited by Sally Crawford, Dawn Hadley, and Gillian Shepherd. Oxford University Press, Oxford. Bourget, Steve 2001 Children and Ancestors: Ritual Practices at the Moche Site of Huaca de la Luna, North Coast of Peru. In Ritual Sacrifice in Ancient Peru, edited by Elizabeth P. Benson and Anita G. Cook, pp. 93–118. University of Texas Press, Austin. Boutin, Alexis 2016 Exploring the Social Construction of Disability: An Application of the Bioarche112

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ology of Personhood Model to a Pathological Skeleton from Ancient Bahrain. International Journal of Paleopathology: 17–28. Buikstra, Jane and Kenneth C. Nystrom 2015 Ancestors and Social Memory: A South American Example of Dead Body Politics. In Living with the Dead in the Andes, edited by Izumi Shimada and James L. Fitzsimmons, pp. 245–266. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Buikstra, Jane, Arthur Poznanski, María Cecilia Lozada, Paul Goldstein, and Lisa Hoshower 1990 A Case of Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis from Pre-Columbian Peru. In A Life in Science: Papers in Honor of J. Lawrence Angel, edited by Jane E. Buikstra, pp. 90–129. Center for American Archaeology Science Paper, Kirksville, Illinois. Buikstra, Jane, and Sloan Williams 1991 Tuberculosis in the Americas: Current Perspective. In Human Paleopathology: Current Synthesis and Future Options, edited by Donald J. Ortner and Arthur C. Aufderheide, pp. 161–172. Smithsonian Institute, Washington, DC. Burgess, Shelly 1999 Chiribayan Skeletal Pathology on the South Coast of Peru. Patterns of Production and Consumption. PhD dissertation, University of Chicago. University Microfilms, Ann Arbor, Michigan. Cereceda, Verónica 1986 The Semiology of Andean Textiles: The Talegas of Isluga. In Andean Anthropological History of Andean Polities, edited by John Murra, Nathan Wachtel, and Jaques Revel, pp. 149–173. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Classen, Constance 1993 Inca Cosmology and the Human Body. University of Utah Press, Salt Lake City. Dahlstedt, Allisen C. 2015 Infectious Disease within the Prehistoric Andes: Early Cases of Tuberculosis and Treponematosis in Southern Peru. Poster presented at the SAA 80th Annual Meeting, April 15–19, San Francisco, California. D’Altroy, Terence N. 2015 The Incas. 2nd edition. Blackwell, Malden, Massachusetts. Dean, Carolyn J. 2010 A Culture of Stone: Inka Perspectives on Stone. Duke University Press, Durham, North Carolina. Donnan, Christopher B. 1978 Moche Art of Peru. Museum of Cultural History, University of California, Los Angeles. Flores Ochoa, Jorge 1979 Pastoralists of the Andes: The Alpaca Herders of Paratía. Institute for the Study of Human Issues, Buenos Aires. Garcilaso de la Vega, El Inca 1943 [1609] Comentarios reales de los Incas. Emecé, Buenos Aires. Gose, Peter 1994 Deathly Waters and Hungry Mountains: Agrarian Ritual and Class Formation in an Andean Town. University of Toronto Press, Toronto. Indigenous Anatomies: Ontological Dissections of the Indigenous Body

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Isbell, Billie Jean 1997 De inmaduro a duro: lo simbólico femenino y los esquemas andinos de género. In Más allá del silencio: las fronteras de género en los Andes, edited by Denise Arnold, pp. 253–301. ILCA/CIASE, La Paz, Bolivia. Klaus, Haagen D., and Donald J. Ortner 2014 Treponemal Infection in Peru’s Early Colonial Period: A Case of Complex Lesion Patterning and Unusual Funerary Treatment. International Journal of Paleopathology (4): 25–36. Lau, George 2015 The Dead and the Longue Durée. In Living with the Dead in the Andes, edited by Izumi Shimada and James L. Fitzsimmons, pp. 200–244. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Lozada, María Cecilia, and Gordon Rakita 2013 Andean Life Transitions and Gender Perceptions in the Past: A Bioarchaeological Approach among the Pre-Inca Chiribaya of Southern Perú. In The Dead Tell Tales: Essays in Honor of Jane E. Buikstra, edited by M. C. Lozada and B. O’Donnabhain, pp. 114–122. Cotsen Institute Press, Los Angeles. Marsteller, Sara J., Christina Torres-Touff, and Kelly J. Knudson 2011 Pre-Columbian Andean Sickness Ideology and the Social Experience of Leshmaniasis: A Contextualizad Analysis of Bioarchaeological and Paleopathological Data from San Pedro de Atacama, Chile. International Journal of Paleopathology (1): 24–34. Mendoza, Ruben G. 2003 Lords of the Medicine Bag: Medical Science and Traditional Practice in Ancient Peru and South America. In Medicine across Cultures: History and Practice of Medicine in Non-Western Cultures, edited by Helaine Selin and Hugh Shapiro, pp. 225–257. Kluwer Academic, The Netherlands. Platt, Tristan 1986 Mirrors and Maize: The Concept of Yanatin among the Macha of Bolivia. In Anthropological History of Andean Polities, edited by John Murra, Nathan Wachtel, and Jaques Revel, pp. 228–259. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Roberts, Charlotte 2003 The Bioarchaeology of Tuberculosis: A Global View on a Reemerging Disease. University Press of Florida, Gainesville. Rowe, John 1958 The Age-Grades of the Inca Census. In Miscellanea Paul Rivet, Octogenario dicata. Trigésimo primero Congreso Internacional de Americanistas, vol. 2: 499– 522. Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, México. Salomon, Frank, and George L. Urioste (editors) 1991 The Huarochirí Manuscript: A Testament of Ancient and Colonial Andean Religion. University of Texas Press, Austin. Shimada, Izumi, and James L. Fitzsimmons 2015 Introduction. In Living with the Dead in the Andes, edited by Izumi Shimada and James L. Fitzsimmons, 3–49. University of Arizona Press, Tucson.

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Sofaer, Joanna 2006 The Body as Material Culture: A Theoretical Osteoarchaeology. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Stark, Louisa 1969 The Lexical Structure of Quechua Body Parts. Anthropological Linguistics: 1–15. Tiesler, Vera, and María Cecilia Lozada (editors) 2018 Social Skins of the Head. Body Beliefs, and Ritual in Ancient Mesoamerica and the Andes. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. Urioste, George L. 1981 Sickness and Death in Preconquest Andean Cosmology: The Huarochirí Oral Tradition. In Health in the Andes, edited by Joseph W. Bastien and John M. Donahue, pp. 9–18. American Anthropological Association, Washington, DC. Urton, Gary 1997 The Social Life of Numbers: A Quechua Ontology of Numbers and Philosophy of Arithmetic. University of Texas Press, Austin. 1981 At the Crossroads of the Earth and the Sky: An Andean Cosmology. University of Texas Press, Austin. Verano, John 1997 Advances in the Paleopathology of Andean South America. Journal of World Prehistory: 11(2): 237–268. Webb, Hillary S. 2012 Yanantin and Masintin in the Andean World. Complementary Dualism in Modern Peru. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. Weismantel, Mary 2015 Many Heads Are Better Than One: Mortuary Practice and Ceramic Art in the Moche Society. In Living with the Dead in the Andes, edited by Izumi Shimada and James L. Fitzsimmons, pp. 76–100. University of Arizona Press, Tucson.

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5 Moche Corporeal Ontologies Transfiguration, Ancestrality, and Death A Perspective from the Late Moche Cemetery of San José de Moro, Northern Peru

Luis Ar m ando Muro, Luis Jaime Castillo, a n d El sa Tom asto - Cagigao

In the last three decades, social sciences have witnessed a growing and renovated interest in the study of the body, both of its physical-natural and culturalsocial dimensions (Bourdieu 1977; Carman 1999; Csordas 1999; Foucault 1977; La Fleur 1998; Mauss 1973; Turner 1984, 2012). In archaeology, the theorization of the body is a relatively recent phenomenon that has been boosted by the development of feminist archaeologies and discussions of gender identities. The body, which within the archaeological rhetoric refers to the human body, has always been considered in relation to personhood, subjectivity, and agency, that is, to attributes peculiar to “the human” (Nanoglou 2012: 157). Nonetheless, recent theoretical developments emerging predominantly from Melanesian and Amazonian ethnographies have seriously questioned the ontological status of the body. Here, the body is no longer perceived as unitary, indivisible, and socially constructed, conceptualizations derived from Western epistemologies; but as rather fractal, unstable, and changing. Under the lens of this alternative (non-Western) ontology, there is not, and never was, a single body, but a multiplicity of human and nonhuman embodiments inhibiting the natural and social world. Taking the ontological turn in archaeology as a starting point, this chapter

intends to contribute to the theoretical repositioning of the body within the discourse of Andean archaeology, which has remained isolated from the production of a local social theory of the body. This lack of theoretical production is paradoxical given the great amount of cross-temporal and cross-cultural data to which Andean scholars have access. In this chapter, we characterize Viveiros de Castro’s perspectivist ontology, and apply it to the study of past bodies. In doing so, we review part of the historiography of the study of the body in archaeology (Meskell 1996, 2000), and assess how an ontological understanding of the body problematizes the traditional paradigms of representation and embodiment. These two paradigms have been predominant in the study of the body in the archaeological discipline. Furthermore we contextualize the body within its own cultural and historical reality in order to explore its manifestations and limitations in the pre-Hispanic Andean cosmology. Archaeological evidence recovered at the Late Moche cemetery of San José de Moro offers new glimpses into how the body was conceived and symbolically constructed by the Moche from the Jequetepeque Valley, northern Peru in the seventh–ninth centuries AD. The ambivalence between malleable body and rigid body is explored through bioarchaeological and archaeological data, and then used to conceptualize a Moche corporal ontology. This corporeal ontology is opposed to the traditional object-centered approach to death under which the bodies are interpreted as phenomena exclusively linked to hierarchy, status, and power. The evidence from San José de Moro is finally contrasted with the ethnographic information recovered by Catherine Allen (2002) in the Central Andes. The Andean concepts of sami and machula aulanchis particularly echo the notions of fractality, transfiguration, and rigidity presented in this chapter. Moche corporeal ontology is particularly understood in the context of the rites of symbolic transformation of corpses and of ancestrality at San José de Moro. These rites had a twofold purpose: to attain the transcendence of the body to other forms of existence and to legitimize the social and political order within the ever-fragmented Moche world of the Jequetepeque Valley.

The Body in Archaeological Discourse: Multiple Trajectories The study of the body in archaeology has followed multiple trajectories that reflect major epistemological shifts in the discipline. Joyce (2005) has defined three major breakthroughs in the understanding of the body: (1) the body as a metaphor for society (legacy of social constructionism); (2) the body as a canvas Moche Corporeal Ontologies in the Cemetery of San José de Moro, Northern Peru

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for inscription (legacy of inscriptivism); and (3) the body as the basis of experience (legacy of phenomenological philosophy). It is pertinent to characterize each of these in order to grasp the relevance of the ontological turn in the study of the body in archaeology. The body first came to the theoretical arenas of archaeology as a consequence of anthropological understandings of the body as a micro version of larger social entities—that is, as a passive and dependent “mirror of society” (Foucault 1977; Mauss 1973). This notion impacted early archaeological studies of the body, which were initially concerned with the ways in which past bodies were represented and publically shown through images. An emphasis on the aesthetics of representation rapidly led to the conceptualization of the body as a discursive and textual reality (Joyce 2005; Meskell 1996, 1999, 2000). For instance, under this view, costumes and body ornaments were irrefutable markers of identity and social status for those who wore them. Therefore, there was an implicit understanding of the surface of the body as always public and visible (Joyce 2005: 142). This conceptualization of the body also fueled the initial development of an archaeology of death, in which dead bodies were considered as mere conveyers of identity, status, and power. Likewise, bodily treatments were understood as analogous to the treatments conferred to individuals in life; they represented hence the fossilized terminal status of individuals. Complementary to this view, the notion of the body as a “surface of inscription” emerged from the concept of “social skin” coined by White (Turner 1980; White 1992). White (1992) argued that “the body’s surface is the point of articulation between an interior self and exterior society, namely, between a physical body and its symbolically transformed social presentation” (taken from Joyce 2005: 144). The idea of the body as textualized or a surface of inscription also resonated with the notion of the body as a “plane of consistency” or “body without organs” (Deleuze and Guatarri 1988), onto which meanings are written by a process of cultural inscription. The development of feminist critiques in the early 1990s brought the discussion of gender and gendered bodies into the terrain of archaeological debate. The body, especially the female body, was moved from the periphery to the center of the research agenda of the discipline. In this context, previous conceptualizations of the body were criticized as reductionist and simplistic as they reinforced preconceptions of the body as biologically determined. This reaction was accompanied by a harsh critique of the Foucauldian legacy on the archaeological studies of the body (Meskell 1996, 1998, 1999, 2000). For Foucault (1977, 1978, 1986) the body’s free will and desires are constantly conditioned by 118

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discursive discipline and power structures. Scholars accused Foucault of suppressing the individuality of past people and depersonalizing history (Meskell 1996: 8; Meskell and Joyce 2003). Joyce was pivotal in this context (Joyce 1993, 1998, 1999, 2001) as she advanced the debate of past bodies from the idea of the “body as a site of representation” to the “body as a subject for reflection and discourse” (Joyce 1998: 148). Based on the concepts of performativity and iterability developed by Butler (1990, 1996), Joyce argued that elaborated and public representations of the body and its parts in pre-Columbian Mesoamerica “marked the limits of the intelligibility of the culturally formed pre-discursive body. The body, then, actively constituted and re-affirmed its potential and limits, thereby marking the acceptable ways of being-in-the-world” (Joyce 1998: 149). At the same time, phenomenology came into the terrain of the archaeological theory as a means to de-emancipate the body from social constructionism, as well as to better understand the reflexive relations between practice, perception, and experience. Here, it is important to differentiate the use of phenomenology by early British scholars who, more engaged with Heideggerian concerns, made use of their own bodily experience to “bring into life” past people’s experiences and perceptions (Tilley 1994). This approach was rapidly accused of bias since it not only dehistoricized past people’s experiences but also promoted the notion of a “universal body that responds in universal ways to external stimuli” (Barrett and Ko 2009; Hodder and Hutson 2003: 115). The more accepted applications of phenomenology were developed by archaeologists engaged with Merleau-Ponty’s philosophical agenda (Meskell 1999; Meskell and Joyce 2003). Meskell and Joyce’s contributions have been critical in this regard as they called for an archaeology focused on past bodies whose emotions, feelings, and desires are historically and culturally constituted through individual experience, personhood, sex, age, power, and so on. It is important here to point out how the ontological paradigm inserts into this historiography of studies of the body. The ontological turn can be defined as the set of theoretical approaches that emerge from Amazonian ethnographies (and to a certain extent Melanesian ones) and that question the already-assumed relations between nature and culture. Within the modernist philosophy, nature and culture are seen as complementary, yet antagonistic, realities (Descola 1994, 2013, 2014; Viveiros de Castro 1998, 2004). The ontological turn posits an alternative intellectual landscape to reassess not only the nature-culture relationship (questioning what is “the real”) but also the body-mind dichotomy inherited from Cartesian philosophies. Thus, while the paradigm of embodiment humanMoche Corporeal Ontologies in the Cemetery of San José de Moro, Northern Peru

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ized past bodies, bestowing upon them experiences, feelings, and desires, the ontological turn dehumanizes them by bestowing upon them relationality, instability, and properties of transmutability, all of which are nonhuman features. Amerindian perspectivism, as developed by Viveiros de Castro (1998, 2004) has been pivotal in a reconceptualization of the body in the context of the ontological turn, which is further impacting contemporary archeological theory. For Viveiros de Castro, the Amazonian material world is understood based on an extended notion of the human: “a notion that comprises a series of beings (human, animals, and objects), and that is defined above all as a position—an ephemeral vantage point, the temporary outcome of a complex play of perspectives” (Vilaça 2009: 133). Here, the concept of equivalence is extremely relevant. According to Amerindian ontology, the way a person acts is determined by “how the person looks” or “what his/her body is like,” that is, its physical appearance (Alberti and Marshall 2009; Alberti and Bray 2009). This applies to both living (human and animals) and nonliving beings (things). This acting involves not only selfawareness but also thinking, affection, and memory, all of which condition the nature of social relationships among entities (Vilaça 2009: 133). Viveiros de Castro (1996, 1998) has coined this type of ontology perspectivist or multinaturalist, which is opposed to traditional multiculturalism: “instead of the same nature and multiple cultures, Amerindians posit the same culture and diverse natures” ( Vilaça 2009: 133). Vilaça further explains perspectivism as follows: The perspectivist reading allows us to discern original properties in this same Amazonian empirical material, enabling the emergence of a body whose central feature is no longer its mindful aspects (although these are not denied) but its capacity to differentiate types of subjects within a universe far transcending the limits of what we conceive as human. These different bodies do not afford specific views localized within a given (single) universe, but inhabit different and incommensurate universes. (Vilaça 2009: 130) Amazonian perspectivism thus evokes the idea of the instability of bodies that are constructed as relational configurations. In this view, both animate and inanimate beings possess the capacity for metamorphosis and transfiguration, thereby inhabiting an unstable reality of perpetual change that affects the bodies of humans and other-than-human beings. The understanding of a body inhabiting different worlds is extremely relevant to our discussion. The idea that 120

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both human and nonhuman entities present changing physical qualities has been widely accepted not only by Amazonian but also Andean ethnographers (Allen 2002). For instance, as we will discuss in greater detail later on, the concept sami is particularly relevant in the corporeal ontology of some modern Andean groups. In both Amazonian and Andean ethnographies, there is not a universally conceptualized “basic” body; instead, there are multiple historically and culturally constituted bodies. Recognizing these bodies and exploring how they manifested both in the material and social world becomes a critical task for Andean archaeologists. This task is particularly promising as it allows us to recognize the “otherness” of the past and, as Julian Thomas puts it, the different “humanities that inhabited it” (Thomas 2002). It follows to ask, how does Viveiros de Castro’s perspectivist ontology challenge our taken-for-granted conceptualization of the body in Andean archaeology? While the lack of a written record system might represent an important limitation to approach an emic understanding of the body in pre-Columbian societies, a critical and reflexive integration of archaeological and bioarchaeological data, as this case study aims to demonstrate, offers a unique opportunity to elucidate alternative understandings of the body, its transformative capacities, its materiality, and its agency. In Andean archaeology there is no better opportunity to explore these aspects than through ancient funerary areas, where the body, and its sequential transformations, must have been a latent concern for pre-Hispanic populations. This chapter draws particular attention to the immanent relationships between the body, death, and ancestrality. As largely described in ethnohistorical accounts, death and ancestrality played a pivotal role in the lives of the ancient people of the Andes. However, while the importance of ancestors in the social and political life of past Andean people has been recognized, little attention has been placed on examining the corporal process involved in the “making of ancestors” and how these processes, in turn, suggest alternative conceptualizations of bodies in the past (see recent advances on archaeology of ancestors in Lau 2008, 2013; Hill 2016; Matsumoto 2014). Rites of ancestrality should have involved the essential transformation of corpses from a human and unitary entity to one that is divisible and relational (Kaulicke 2000; Lau 2008; McAnany 1995). This chapter suggests that this transformation was not only symbolical and metaphorical, but also, and most importantly, physical and corporeal involving the manipulation of the corpse of certain individuals, as well as their simulacra. The idea that the body is permeable and its boundaries are permanently transMoche Corporeal Ontologies in the Cemetery of San José de Moro, Northern Peru

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gressed and redefined through various practices resonates with the archaeological evidence found in various funerary spaces of the Moche territory. The Late Moche (AD 650–850) cemetery of San José de Moro in the JequetepequeChamán basin in northern Peru offers a unique possibility to contextualize the practice of “the making of ancestors” both in time and space. We analyze, first, specific instances of the alteration and modification of corpses within three Late Moche elite mausoleums. Then, we examine how the ancestor simulacra were utilized in commemorative feasting orchestrated in the funerary plazas of the cemetery. We propose that partition (destruction), rearrangement (restitution), and stability (hardening) of dead bodies were in-between steps in the process of “making the ancestors,” and express alternative ways to conceptualize the Moche body. The transmutability of the persona into a divine entity involved a process of “hardening” that was mediated through firing. This case study intends to reposition the ontological status of the body and its embodiment in the Moche world as well as offer new insights on how the body was inscribed in the material and social world. This chapter thus contributes to the study of the various ways of being-in-the-world that are present in the pre-Hispanic Andean world.

San José de Moro and the Jequetepeque Valley in Late Moche Times (AD 650–850) San José de Moro is an extensive pre-Columbian cemetery and ceremonial center located on the right bank of the Jequetepeque-Chamán drainage in northern Peru. The site extends over a plain of nearly 10 hectares surrounded by dozens of medium-scale cultural mounds. The site has been the object of preliminary explorations since the late 1950s (Chodoff 1979; Disselhof 1958) and of intense excavations since the early 1990s (Castillo 2000, 2001; Castillo et al. 2008; Donnan and Castillo 1992). Excavations led by Luis Jaime Castillo have revealed a long-lasting cultural history spanning the fourth to the fourteenth centuries AD. Throughout this time, different cultural groups intensively used the site as a funerary area, pilgrimage center, and production center of chicha beer (chicherío). While the site played an important role in the religiosity of the pre-Columbian populations of the Jequetepeque Valley, it was during the Late Moche (AD 650–850) period that it seems to have acquired regional relevance as a cemetery and pilgrimage center (Castillo 2000, 2001). San José de Moro, in fact, concentrates the greatest amount of Late Moche elite burials archaeologically excavated in the valley as well as evidence of large-scale funerary feasting in direct association with these burials. 122

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Complex chamber tombs have been documented across the cemetery’s plains. These chamber tombs contained elite individuals exquisitely ornamented with objects made of wood, metal, ceramic, and semiprecious stones. Interestingly, these elite individuals were inhumed by personifying mythological beings as depicted in the Moche narrative art (Castillo and Rengifo 2008; Donnan and Castillo 1992; Mauricio and Castro 2008b; Muro 2010b; Saldaña et al. 2014). It is remarkable, and still intriguing, that the majority of the elite chamber tombs at the site belonged to female individuals1 embodying “The Moche Female Deity,” also known as “Personage C.” The identification of these women with this mythological character has been performed based on the recognition of a set of material and iconographic attributes as Castillo and others have demonstrated elsewhere (Donnan and Castillo 1992; Castillo and Rengifo 2008). Furthermore, the evidence uncovered at San José de Moro indicates an un-

Figure 5.1. Evidence of feasting associated with Late Moche chamber tombs MU-1525 and MU-1727. Photo of the archive of the San José de Moro Archaeological Program (published in Muro 2012).

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questionable and direct correlation between Moche elite funerary chambers and large-scale funerary feasting (Castillo 2000; Delibes and Barragán 2008). Large ceramic vessels intended for the production and consumption of maizebased beer, chicha, have been found embedded into occupation floors chronologically associated to the funerary chambers (Figure 5.1). In addition, in association with this floor, a significant density of organic garbage accumulated, both in burning and discarding zones, have been recovered. This strongly suggests massive preparation and consumption of foodstuffs regularly occurring around Moche mortuary structures (Muro 2009, 2010b). Although it has been argued that these remains could constitute the evidence of the rituals of death themselves (Castillo 2000), it is more likely that they correspond, in reality, to postinhumation commemorative practices. The dense superposition of celebration floors in direct association with the funerary mausoleums suggest evercontinuous rites of ancestor veneration, which, in concordance with annual ritual calendars, must have congregated considerable amounts of participants (Castillo 2000). It follows that, although feasting was a recurrent activity at the site, they seem not to have been formally organized events, but rather spontaneous and short-term. The archaeological evidence indicates that these events involved the temporal construction of facilities intended for social congregations of small audiences, as well as their subsequent and rapid destruction (Muro 2009, 2010a). These structures, made of mud and wattle and daub, seem to have delimited differentiated spaces, giving shape to patio-like structures. In this chapter, we refer to these spaces as “celebratory funerary patios.” Celebratory activities at San José de Moro have to be particularly understood within the context of the sociopolitical fragmentation that characterized the Jequetepeque Valley between the seventh and ninth centuries AD. The settlement pattern in the valley and the defensive nature of Middle (AD 450–650) and Late Moche (AD 650–850) sites indicates a politically fragmented valley with diverse Moche polities competing with each other for water sources and arable land (Castillo 2001, 2010). Nonetheless, the political tension in the valley could not have been permanent, but rather circumstantial. As Castillo has suggested elsewhere (Castillo 2010), sporadic political integration could have occurred under specific circumstances such as the celebration of large-scale rituals, the construction and maintenance of irrigations canals, and the defense against external political threats. In other words, “an ever-fluctuating political organization that turned into either an integrated or disintegrated political system depending on the opportunities and/or threats in the system” (Castillo 124

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2010: 106). In this setting of fragmentation and opportunism, medium-scale ceremonial centers such as San José de Moro and Huaca Colorada, in the northern and southern side of the Jequetepeque, respectively, appear to have operated as shared cult centers thus diminishing latent disputes over resources (Castillo 2000, 2010; Swenson 2004, 2008; Swenson and Warner 2015). Why did San José de Moro acquire such relevance in the political and religious world of the Moche from the Jequetepeque Valley? What made San José de Moro become one of the principal pilgrimage sites regularly visited by populations from the Jequetepeque Valley and beyond? It is provocative to think that San José de Moro’s influence as a cult center was based on its prestige to promote the transcendence of the persona after death. San José de Moro could have constituted such a sacred place where the Moche body was physically and symbolically prepared to initiate its journey to the afterlife. As described in great detail for Dynastic Egypt, this process should have entailed complex rites of preparation, manipulation, and transformation of corpses that culminated with the transcendence and immortalization of a given individual, that is, its conversion into an ancestor. Although there is nothing as detailed and descriptive as the Egyptian “Book of the Dead” for the Moche world, Moche narrative and figurative art offers important clues to trace actions possibly associated with rites of corpse manipulation. This can be seen in sculptural vessels of the Moche III style (Figure 5.2), and, in very great detail, in “The Moche Burial Theme” (Donnan and McClelland 1979, 1999). The actions represented in these vessels invite us to move away from object-centered approaches of death and reposition the body in the foreground of the debate of death and its role as a mediator between the social-material and cognitive-immaterial world. San José de Moro is a site particularly critical to explore the real and symbolic boundaries of the body in the Moche world. The large amount of material data recovered from the site constantly evokes the body and its diverse forms and expressions: ornamented bodies inside coffins; bodies altered by the removal of their parts; sacrificed bodies; desacralized bodies; body representations in the form of figurines and jars; and so on. It is provoking to think that all ritual activity at the site revolved around a central concern in the body: its manipulation, its transformation, its movement, and its public display. This is, following Foucault, in the immanence of the body-as-spectacle (Foucault 1977). In spite of San José de Moro having been intensively explored in the last two decades (Castillo et al. 2008), the nature of corporeal rituals associated with death remains unknown. Moche narrative art suggests that the death rituals Moche Corporeal Ontologies in the Cemetery of San José de Moro, Northern Peru

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Figure 5.2. Moche sculptural vessel depicting an act of corpse manipulation where skeletal figures are involved. Image credits: President and Fellows of Harvard College, Peabody Museum of Archaeology and Ethnology, PM#16-62-30/F724 (digital file #95710012 and #98540071).

of elite individuals could have occurred in highly decorated public spaces and involved the participation of large audiences, individuals impersonating Moche deities, and ornamented corpses being manipulated through funerary processions (for example, “The Moche Burial Theme” and the “The Moche Procession Theme”; Donnan and McClelland 1979). These acts constituted true ritual spectacles orchestrated around the symbolic removal and reinscription of new identities on corpses. In this chapter, our main interest is the rites associated with the “making of ancestors.” These rites could have constituted the final stage of a larger sequence of actions through which given individuals went in order to attain the final conversion into divine entities subject to cult. A close examination of bioarchaeological data recovered from Late Moche chamber burials at San José de Moro provides important information on postmortem manipulations of corpses that could be critically interpreted as practices aimed at the symbolic transformation of the human essence: the creation of a new embodiment. 126

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An Ontology of Malleable Bodies: Corpses Three Late Moche funerary chambers discovered in the central plain of San José de Moro are particularly useful for illustrating what appear to be intentional practices of corpse manipulation. The recurrence of these practices, from chamber to chamber, seems to reveal sequential and scripted acts of corpse alteration as well as intentionality in the placement of specifically disarticulated bodies at specifically arranged locations within funerary structures. We will describe in greater detail each context below. Chamber MU-1525 is an underground and rectangular-shaped mausoleum from the Late Moche C period. It contained the remains of at least 14 human bodies presenting varied states of disarticulation and decomposition (Figure 5.3). Two women (A) showed no evidence of disarticulated bones, which indicates that they could be primary burials. The first individual (25–35 years old)

Figure 5.3. Evidence of postmortem corporeal modifications within Chamber MU-1525. A: Primary burials; B: Skeletons preserving their individuality; C: Individuals commingled and cornered; D: Main occupants. Photos of the archive of the San José de Moro Archaeological Program (published in Mauricio and Castro 2008a and adapted by the authors).

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was located on top of the grave goods, whereas the second individual (40–50 years old) was cornered toward the southwestern chamber wall. The carelessness observed in their mortuary treatment suggests that these individuals could have died being sacrificed, as has been described elsewhere2 (Tomasto-Cagigao et al. 2016). By contrast, a third woman and a juvenile female (B), both located on the chamber floor (not on the main platform) showed significant evidence of disarticulation and movement of the thoracic, hip, and limb bones. This pattern is distinctive of what Nelson (1998) describes as “wandering bones,” namely, bones displaced out of anatomical position in such a random manner as if the coffin, containing decomposed corpses, was paraded (Nelson 1998: 22). Interestingly, despite the patterns of displacement, both skeletons were found nearly complete and distinctively separated from other individuals. This suggests that, while the bodies were altered postmortem, there was an intentional desire to keep their individuality and oneness. Relevant enough is the fact that the two skeletons were placed in spots within the mortuary structure that could represent transitory spaces, that is, spaces that articulate internal subdivisions within the chamber (for example, entrance, platform, floor). These locations could be interpreted as “liminal zones”: the juvenile female was placed right next to the chamber entrance and the adult woman was placed in the middle of the chamber, delimiting the area where the only two male individuals were laid with the rest of the occupants. The only two male individuals (C), a young and a middle adult, were located in an area adjacent to the main platform, namely, on a space that delimited the lower and the upper sectors of the funerary structure. Moreover, three children accompanied these two male individuals. This array of five bodies was apparently pushed and cornered against the bench located to the eastern side of the chamber. The five skeletons displayed evidence of severe disarticulation as well as of having been drastically manipulated and commingled. Finally, the two principal individuals (D) were identified as elderly women and were located on the most prominent location of the mausoleum, the raised platform. They presented the most drastic pattern of disarticulation documented in the whole structure: their bones were completely out of anatomical position and their skeletons mostly incomplete. One of the women was placed inside a wooden coffin, which was in turn located near the chamber’s rear wall. The coffin was well ornamented with copper plaques and a frontal mask. 128

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It is interesting that this pattern of disarticulation and alteration, as well as of body placement, is recurrent in other two Late Moche funerary mausoleums. Chamber MU-1727 is a double-chambered funerary structure from the Late Moche B period. It presented at least four different bodily treatments and states of body decay (Figure 5.4). A young male individual (A), located at the foot of the raised platform, is presented with all his bones anatomically organized, yet with

Figure 5.4. Evidence of postmortem corporeal modifications within Chamber MU-1727. A: Primary burials; B: Skeletons preserving their individuality; C: Individuals commingled and cornered; D: Main occupants. Image of the archive of the San José de Moro Archaeological Program (published in Muro 2012 and adapted by the authors).

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a very atypical position and orientation. While it could perfectly correspond to a primary burial, the similarity between this context and others registered in Moche burials (for example, in Sipán) suggests that this individual was a possibly sacrificed guardian.3 Two other skeletons (B), also corresponding to two young adults, showed a high degree of disarticulation of the thoracic bones as well as of intentional movement of the limb bones. Similarly to those described in the chamber MU1525, and despite the registered alterations, there was an intentional desire not to alter the individuality of the bodies. In the same manner as the previous example, these skeletons were placed in transitory spaces or “liminal zones” within the structure. The first skeleton (15–20 years old) was located at the antechamber and the second one (15–23 years old) at the center of the main chamber, that is, in the area that delimited the space occupied by the main individual, his guardian, and two other skeletons (C). These latter skeletons (C) corresponded to two adult individuals, a female and a male, that were placed one on top of the other. Both individuals were found partially disarticulated and cornered against one of the chamber walls. Elongated copper plaques and other metal ornaments were found surrounding these corpses, suggesting that at least one of them was placed inside a coffin. The main individual of the funerary chamber was a middle-aged man (D) (40–50 years old) whose body was placed inside a well-elaborated wooden coffin decorated with copper plaques arranged in hatched designs. The coffin was placed on top of the raised platform located on the western side of the chamber. This skeleton, similar to its analogues, showed the most drastic pattern of alteration registered in the whole chamber. His bones were found completely out of their anatomical position and with significant evidence of disturbance and manipulation. The same aforementioned patterns have also been documented in a third Late Moche funerary structure: Chamber MU-2111 (Figure 5.5). Chamber MU2111 is a quadrangular mausoleum belonging to the Late Moche C period. It contained at least five individuals. Two skeletons (B), one corresponding to a pregnant woman and the other to a male individual, showed evidence of severe disarticulation of the thoracic bones as well as intentional movement of the limb bones. The male was located delimiting the space occupied by four other individuals whose skeletons (C) were incomplete, commingled, and cornered near one of the chamber walls. A primary burial, belonging to an adult male (A/D), was registered atop the raised platform. This location suggests that this 130

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Figure 5.5. Evidence of postmortem corporeal modifications within Chamber MU-2111. A: Primary burials; B: Skeletons preserving their individuality; C: Individuals severely commingled and cornered; D: Main occupants. Photo of the archive of the San José de Moro Archaeological Program (published in Saldaña et al. 2014 and adapted by the authors).

individual was the main occupant of the chamber, although in this case there was no evidence of a coffin. While all these postmortem alterations are usually assumed to be intentionally driven actions, the symbolic connotations of these practices are still a matter of debate. Sequence and partition appear to have been key notions within the “Moche thinking of death,” and within what we define here as an ontology of malleable bodies. The bioarchaeological evidence suggests that the body was perceived as an entity in constant change, even after death (see also Lozada in this volume). Sequential states of decomposition and alteration of the body are observed within the same funerary structures. As has been previously argued, the corpses in San José de Moro could have been stored for long spans of time before their final placement within mausoleums (Castillo 2000; Nelson and Moche Corporeal Ontologies in the Cemetery of San José de Moro, Northern Peru

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Castillo 1997). The evidence presented here also suggests that the deterioration of corpses was a process conceptualized not only as mediated by biological and natural causes, but also by human intervention. Postmortem practices of body alteration seem to reveal a desire to speed up the process of decay in the corpses, which was attained through their direct manipulation in situ. Here, the “deteriorated bodies” appear to represent a desired condition. We argue that the body decay was perceived as a process of destruction but at the same time a necessary step for subsequent (re)transformations and rebirth of the body into a different entity. This destruction of the body involved not only the evanescence of its own materiality but also the eradication of its “human essence”: its dehumanization. It is interesting to note that while in pre-Hispanic groups contemporary to the Moche (for example, Nazca and Wari) there was an explicit desire to immortalize the materiality of the body through complex processes of mummification, the Moche of San José de Moro seem to have opted for its constant and continuous alteration. The Moche, hence, seem to have had no intention of preserving the corporal qualities of the body but rather the essence of its embodiment. This essence was immortalized through the transfiguration from an abstract to a material entity. We will come back to this point later. Furthermore, the destruction of the human qualities of the body seem to have entailed specific practices of desexualization aimed at altering and neutralizing the sexual identity of individuals. A recurrent pattern of manipulation of pelvic bones has been documented in at least three out of six Late Moche funerary chambers found at the site (Figure 5.6). For instance, in Chamber MU-1525 the pelvic bones and sacrum of the individual located at the chamber’s entrance were intentionally, yet very carefully, twisted and relocated on the upper part of the legs. The two individuals cornered near the bench also showed a similar treatment. The same pattern of pelvic modification has been documented in Chamber MU-2111, specifically, in one of the individuals cornered near one of the chamber walls. The concept of “destruction” appears to be intimately linked to that of partition and fractalism, as developed by Strathern based on her Melanesian ethnographies (Strathern 1988). Practices of dismembering bodies have been documented in several Late Moche elite burials at San José de Moro presenting evidence of reopening and reentering (Figure 5.7). Skulls and limbs are the parts of the body frequently elected for being extracted from elite burials and relocated somewhere else. It seems evident that the “consumption” and circula132

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Figure 5.6. (left). Evidence of postmortem alteration of Os coxae in Chamber MU-1525. Os coxae were carefully removed from their anatomical position and replaced. Photo of the archive of the San José de Moro Archaeological Program.

Figure 5.7. (below). Human skulls registered within short-term structures located at funerary patios of San José de Moro. This structure was associated with the Chamber MU-1727 and was likely used for postinhumation activities. Photo of the archive of the San José de Moro Archaeological Program (published in Muro 2010b and adapted by the authors).

tion of these body parts were practices exclusively controlled by elite members (Weismantel 2015). As Hill has previously suggested, the process of corpse dismemberment and partitioning seems to have had an intention of dehumanizing and depersonalizing the body (Hill 2000, 2003, 2005). In analyzing scenes of sacrificial victims, Hill argues that the practice of dismembering sacrificial victims aimed to “transform the sacrificed body and its parts into sacred, cathected objects, or sacra—objects charged or imbued with emotional or psychic energy and meaning” (Hill 2003: 286). Following Hill, we argue that practices of human sacrifice registered in various Moche temples also sought to dehumanize corpses through postmortem manipulation. Hence, the dismembering of the bodies of both the sacrificial victims and the corpses of San José de Moro seems to have aimed to alternately empty the body of meaning (depersonalize it) and then transform it into a sacred (commodified) form before its circulation. The Moche practice of body dismemberment also echoes Chris Fowler’s concept of fractality, which refers to the immanent relationships between “the part” and “its whole” (Fowler 2002, 2004, 2008). Bringing up the concept of relational personhood (which applies to both objects and bodies), Fowler argues that the body is composed of fractal relations; therefore, it is divisible and partible. This means that the personal essence can be transferred between bodies of both living and nonliving entities (Fowler 2008: 50). The body is also inseparable from the life force that animates it, so the state of the body and the persona are mutually dependent and affective. This is a generalized concept that is also present in Andean ethnographies, and perfectly applicable to the Moche, as we will discuss below in greater detail. In San José de Moro, for instance, body parts of different individuals are distributed throughout the cemetery (inside and outside burials) and landscape. It can be argued then, the fractal nature of the body and its parts connects the person’s essence with the nearby and distant world, with the material and immaterial world (see Lozada in this volume). Sequence and partition thus characterize what appear to be a type of ontology where the body is conceptualized as unstable, changing, and malleable—a malleability that is sought, desired, and necessary so that the body begins, and traverses, its own process of “destruction” and, in this manner, advances to a new (sequential) corporal reality. Achieving this new corporal reality entailed the transfiguration of the body, that is, its rebirth as a “revitalized body” whose agency surpassed the limitations of death, a real ancestral entity. 134

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An Ontology of Rigid Bodies: Ancestor Imagery The frontier between the “real body” and the “represented body” fades away when we look through the lens of an alternative corporeal ontology. In this chapter, we argue that an essential part of the ancestrality rites was to turn the body into a lasting entity. This was attained through the construction and use of a new corporality, a rigid body, which becomes a new physical receptacle for the newly ancestralized individual. This rigid body (expressed in the form of a jar, a figurine, or a pot) is no longer a representation but a body of its own, interacting with the living in diverse contexts, especially celebratory events. Excavations in the areas adjacent to the Late Moche funerary chambers have demonstrated the ubiquitous presence of body simulacra both inside and outside the funerary structures. As described earlier, open patios spatially defined by short-term adobe and wattle and daub structures have been documented in the areas surrounding chambers MU-1525, MU-1727, and MU-2111 (Mauricio and Castro 2008a; Muro 2009, 2012; Saldaña et al. 2014). These patios are articulated with each other through corridors, passageways, and other enclosures, giving shape to medium-scale architectural complexes. Excavations within these complexes have revealed direct relationships between activities of production and consumption of foodstuff and large amounts of chicha beer, judging by the presence of large ceramic containers (paicas) and face-neck jars. Face-neck jars are frequently found embedded in occupational floors. They depict realistic face portrayals of anthropomorphic and zoomorphic entities ornamented with body adornments such as earspools (of notorious size), headdresses, necklaces, and what could be interpreted as facial painting (Castillo 2001; Muro 2012) (Figure 5.8). Animal faces are sometimes depicted with exaggerated attributes and disproportionate sizes. Interestingly, while occupational floors show clear evidence of having been periodically repaired, replastered, and even covered and reconstructed, face-neck jars were used continuously through subsequent floor remodeling and reconstruction. This gave them a particular sense of durability, permanence, and ubiquity. Under the lens of a perspectivist ontology, these bodies “are” and “behave” based on “what they look like.” In other words, they are not mere mimetic representations of human beings or animals, they are persona in their own right (Alberti and Marshall 2009; Karadimas 2012; Vilaça 2009; Viveiros de Castro 1998, 2004). The relationship between the malleable bodies contained in the burials and the rigid entities located in the funerary plazas becomes clear when Moche Corporeal Ontologies in the Cemetery of San José de Moro, Northern Peru

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Figure 5.8. Face-neck jars with ancestor imagery registered embedded in the occupational floors of funerary patios at San José de Moro. They depict realistic portrayals with anthropomorphic (left) and zoomorphic (right) features. Photos of the archive of the San José de Moro Archaeological Program.

we think through the ancestors. Here, it is the vision of the world according to a species-specific corporeal form that prevails, that is to say, his/her perspective. The tangibilization (rather than materialization) of ancestral entities sought to make their bodily presence more lasting, and, thus, bring their own essence into life. As one of the authors has suggested elsewhere (Muro, in press), the symbolic transition between a malleable body and a rigid body could have involved a process of transfiguration and transmutability that was mediated by clay and fire. Fire is a symbolic element used by some preindustrial societies in their mortuary rites and practices of spiritual invocation—a remarkable case is the spectacles of cremation in Varanasi, India (Parry 1994). Likewise, in the Moche world, fire could have been seen as an element of alteration as well as of transformation both material and symbolic. Fire could have constituted a vehicle of transfiguration so that the bodily existence transmutes from one entity to another (Parry 1994: 184). In Parry’s words: “The vital breath of given (and influential) individuals transmute from his/her human and unitary body to a new corporeal entity, which is fractal and relational. This assures a new mode of existence, as an ancestor” (Parry 1994: 186). 136

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It is interesting to note that fire and its effects are metaphorically present in the material world of San José de Moro. In San José de Moro, the material world could be classified in fired and unfired objects. This ambivalence is remarkably visible in the grave goods of Late Moche chamber tombs. For instance, architectural models and crisoles (ceramic miniatures), which are extensively documented in chamber tombs, are objects of important symbolic value in the Moche material world. These objects, although carefully modeled, are made of mud and unfired clay. It seems evident that there was an intention of not exposing these objects to fire, therefore avoiding its “hardening.” “Hardening” can be seen as an ontological condition of permanent stability and durability. In this sense, it is likely that the action of “firing modeled clay” was an action charged with magic, symbolism, and agency. Viveiros de Castro’s concept of the “unstable body” has important parallels with the idea of “hardening.” In Amazonian ethnographies, both matter and physical form are considered as inherently unstable and changing. Here, fire “brings bodies to life” through stabilization and rigidity. As Viveiros de Castro describes, “The final destruction of an unstable body entails the making of its alter ego, a new ontologically-rigid body. The transition between a malleable entity to a hardened one expresses a concern with “shortening-up” the body, thus inhibiting its conversion into a undesirable entity with an undesirable perspective” (Viveiros de Castro 1996, 1998). Regarding the body simulacra found in the funerary patios, these simulacra could have been conceived as “hardened bodies.” “Hardening” the body could have been a necessary step to transforming the body into an entity amenable to cult and social interaction. The ways in which the Moche people physically engaged with personified entities must have constituted vital and essential forms of sociality (Lau 2013: 153). This is clearly visible in the archaeological context associated with feasting activities. The celebratory funerary patios located either on top of or next to the funerary mausoleums should have constituted not only the spatial receptacles for encounters and interactions among the living but also the loci ancestral entities “inhabited” through their physical presence. In these patios, ancestor imagery is frequently placed in an upright position, as if standing. The only part of the body visible is the head and face, giving the sense that the remaining part of the body was absent or even covered. Lau (2013) has noticed the same pattern in Recuay ancestor simulacra in Peru’s northern highlands (AD 1–700). He has argued that the head and face appear to have been essential in the Andean bodily Moche Corporeal Ontologies in the Cemetery of San José de Moro, Northern Peru

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ontology associated with ancestors (Lau 2013: 142). The face was an important locus of recognition since this, through facial markers, was a means for the adscription and recognition of individual and group identity. Likewise, different types of ear ornaments, headdresses, and other bodily ornaments could have indicated an identity, affiliation, or rank among the entities themselves (Lau 2013: 162). In addition, the head was an essential locus of interaction. This was considered the prime vehicle of communication and direct mediator between the social actors and ancestors (see Glowacki in this volume). As Lau states: Most of the physical interaction was directed to the ancestor’s ears (songs), nose (aromas), and mouth (feeding). The eyes were an important means for co-presence and ubiquity. The always oversized and wide-open eyes marked the ancestor’s capacity to witness, observe, and give acquiescence of living people’s action. It was impossible to pass by an ancestor’s imagery without its recognition and acceptance. (Lau 2013: 143) (see Figure 5.8) At San José de Moro, it seems to be evident that the living-ancestor interaction was mediated by the production, circulation, and consumption of foodstuffs and chicha beer. Chicha beer must have prompted a specific form of sacred intersubjectivity, which was facilitated (and even heightened) through intoxication and drunkenness. It is worth mentioning that some Andean ethnographers suggest a metaphoric relationship between chicha beer and human blood, both contained in and emanating from ancestors’ bodies (reference taken from Kaulicke 2000: 261). Likewise, analogies between the preparation of dead bodies and the preparation of chuño-dried potatoes and chicha beer have been identified and documented in contemporary groups from the Peruvian northern highlands (Doyle 1988; Sillar 1996). As Lau has also suggested, “like these products, the ancestral dead, once transformed, became an enriched source of renewable substance, a kind of future-looking risk management” (Lau 2013: 146). The idea that the process of chicha aging parallels the ancestor aging and, therefore, their own empowerment, offers a new alternative to link ancestrality with the political economy promoted by funerary rites at San José de Moro.

Pre-Hispanic Corporeal Ontologies Despite differences in the spatial-temporal contexts, ethnographical accounts from specific zones of the Central Andes offer relevant information on preChristian corporeal ontologies, which present suggestive parallels with our case 138

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study, specifically with the idea of an “vital breath” capable of transforming and transmuting. These ontologies can hardly be extended back to the whole deep past; however, when critically analyzed, they can constitute an important source of information to interpret archaeological deposits. Catherine Allen (2002) offers an important case in point: the Runakuna from the central highlands of Peru. The Runakuna are a traditional Quechua-speaking group located in the Sonqos province, modern-day Cuzco. Although not genetically related with the Moche from the north coast of Peru, many aspects of the Runakuna’s ideology of death have survived from pre-Hispanic times, and seem to echo the Moche conceptualization of the body and death. The Runakuna conceptualize their own world as a multiverse composed of multiple temporal and spatial realities. On one hand, time is discontinuous and is composed by a series of stages disrupted by apocalyptic interruptions (Allen 2002: 47). On the other hand, space is divided into three states of existence: Ukhu Pacha (inner world), Kay Pacha (this world), and Hanan Pacha (upper world) (47). Human beings live in Kay Pacha along with a multiplicity of other in-between beings: nonhuman entities; living entities; wandering deceased; movable or not movable objects; and evil and kind entities. The main difference among all these existing entities is their corporeal state, which is, in turn, conditioned by their sami. Sami is the animating essence present in objects, humans, and even landscapes. It transfigures, transmutes, and even renovates. Sami, in humans, can be removed and transfigured from one (human) body into another (nonhuman) one. Interestingly, sami is a fractal and divisible essence. For instance, when one extracts the skulls of machulas (grandparents) from their places of origin and placing them somewhere else, one transfers part of the machulas’ sami, which is considered a source of protection, health, and fertility (khuyay) (Allen 2002: 41). Relevant to our discussion is the way in which the Runakuna conceptualize the sequential stages of the body after death. These states are not only linked to the progressive decay of the body but also to the sequential degree of “dangerousness” of sami. These sequential states might have certain parallels to the different states of corpse alteration identified within the Moche chamber burials of San José de Moro. For the Runakuna, the transformation of the body begins with the putrefaction of the corpse’s soft tissue. This is a long and hazardous process. It is only when the bones are fully cleansed of flesh that the body initiates its true transformation into a new mode of existence, characterized by its perfection and Moche Corporeal Ontologies in the Cemetery of San José de Moro, Northern Peru

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pureness. Sinful individuals are unable to attain this state of transformation. They become kukuchis: errant individuals (zombie-like creatures) condemned to ramble in search of human flesh. Likewise, they can become machukuni, the animated dead who attack living individuals at night. Both kukuchi and machukuni are described as evil entities, although possessing different corporalities. While kukuchi are described as boneless and putrid flesh entities, machukuni are dry bones or desiccated mummies (Allen 2002: 45). Both are described as in-between entities, between a fleshy and skeletal condition, and sinful and evil. None of these creatures can attain the proper separation of flesh and bone after death since they are possessed by hucha (sin) and quayqa (the evil atmosphere surrounding corpses) (45). The proper process of separation of flesh and bones only occurs when flesh merges with the Earth. This is a condition of purity only attained by machula aulanchis. These are entities composed of “dry bones whose flesh has been properly washed away by water and absorbed by the Earth” (Allen 2002: 45). When this condition is achieved, machula aulanchis become protective entities and “continue their influence from death as they convert in energy collaborating in life regeneration, for instance, through channels that fertilize agricultural fields” (45). Besides, their influence is intimately linked to seminal and sexual power. Machula aulanchis, thus, is considered as a state of purity that is not only spiritual, but also, and fundamentally, corporeal. The Runakuna’s corporal ontology seems to echo the practices of corpse modification evidenced in San José de Moro in Late Moche times. The Runakuna conceptualize dead bodies as entities that go across different states of decay, which symbolizes its advancement to a state of maximum purity and perfection: an ancestor. Here the separation of the flesh and bones seems to be key. The Moche from San José de Moro seem to have perceived the transformation of the body in a very similar fashion. The destruction of corporeal qualities of corpses might have guaranteed such a state of perfection. For both the Moche and Runakuna, the malleable and fragmentary state of the body is a condition highly desired. Moreover, the process of transformation of dead bodies is mediated by natural forces and/or human intervention. On the other side of the spectrum, references to the fragility/rigidity of bodies are also largely present in Ranakuna ideology of death. Stones, bones, and statues are considered rigid entities. This involves not a lack of animation but rather a different state of animation (Allen 2002: 46). Here, sami is found crystallized, yet with the same capacity to influence and alter the fate of other 140

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living and not living entities. A crystallized sami can interestingly absorb and condense energy, for instance, lightning and sunlight. Because of this capacity, these entities are considered the most powerful source of energy in the Andean world as a whole (46). In the same regard, human-like rigid objects possess a type of petrified sami, which is a by-product of sequential stages of the transfiguration of dead body. This has a suggestive parallel with Viveiros de Castro’s perspectivist ontology and, in turn, with what we define here as a Moche corporeal ontology. Here, human-like pots act not only based on what “they look like,” but are also boosted by an immanent vital force, a sami, which transfigures from one corporality to another after death. In the Runakuna cosmology, as likely in the Moche one, the quality of rigidity (hardening) of bodies is highly valued, esteemed, and desired since it is considered a state of purity, supremacy, agency, and maximum power. Rigid bodies posses a destructive and generative power ever affecting the spiritual, material, and social world.

Moche Corporeal Ontology in San José de Moro A Moche corporal ontology can be thus defined as a way to conceptualize the human body as relational, changing, and unstable. These corporeal features were deployed once the human body transversed the threshold of death, that is, the cessation of its physical existence. As indicated above, the sequential transformations of the body after death must have been part of a complex and long ritual process, which initiated with the preliminary preparation of the deceased’s body at special, sacred enclosures (such as that recently discovered in Huaca La Capilla-San José de Moro, Muro 2016). Although not described in great detail in this chapter, the dead body, and its diverse manifestations, seems to be a central topic in Moche art overall. For example, scenes such as “The Burial Theme” suggest that the corpses of elite individuals were publicly transformed, exhibited, and transported in extensive funerary processions. The public exhibition of the dead body seems to have constituted a key aspect of the mortuary rites at San José de Moro, as is suggested by the displacement pattern of bodies inside funerary coffins. Some other scenes show actions orchestrated by nonhuman entities (skeletal beings) who seem to be involved in (either helping or avoiding) the transition of the deceased to a differentiated plain of existence (Bourget 2006: 180). In this chapter, we have focused on the rites and practices orchestrated after the placement of the individuals in the Moche Corporeal Ontologies in the Cemetery of San José de Moro, Northern Peru

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funerary chambers; whereas in the mythological realm, these practices would have ended with the rebirth of the individual as a mythological ancestor, in the real world, in his/her transformation as an ancestor transfigured with a new embodiment: a rigid body. An ontological understanding of the Moche body draws attention not only to “what the body is,” but also to “what it can do.” Therefore, to explore the effect of the body in the Moche world, the body needs to be incorporated within a specific historical and cultural reality—in this case, the fragmented political world of the Moche from Jequetepeque. As Hill (2005) has suggested, the body in the Moche world was seen as an entity eminently charged with political symbolism and imbued with agency. The sequential transformation of the dead body, from a malleable to a rigid condition, not only altered its corporal essence but also marked its conversion from a private to a public entity. The possibility to experience such a public—and now revitalized—body should have had significant impact on those who regularly visited the celebratory patios of San José de Moro, although the question of who exactly participated in funerary feasting is still matter of debate. The process of symbolic and corporeal transformation of the dead bodies carried out in San José de Moro should have been exclusively reserved for the members of the Moche elite; but not all of them. Deciding which members of the elite were ancestralized was crucial and should have involved political negotiation among the various Moche polities from the Jequetepeque Valley. In the same manner, experiencing the ancestral bodies through feasting was an essential activity in the legitimization of political and economic rights of every group. The identification with specific mythological ancestors could have served to claim rights over lands, water, and other resources, all of which were objects of constant dispute in the valley. Participating in rites of ancestral veneration at San José de Moro thus could have been the only valid mechanism for claiming control over specific resources. Reinforcing social, political, and religious ties with the ancestral entities was hence pivotal in this political setting.

Conclusions Viveiros de Castro’s perspectivist ontology has been used, in this particular case study, as a theoretical framework to characterize a Moche corporal ontology. By using contextualized bioarchaeological and archaeological evidence recovered from the Late Moche cemetery of San José de Moro, this chapter suggests that 142

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the Moche from Jequetepeque conceptualized the body as inherently unstable, mutable, and constituted of relationships. Here, the physical and real transformations of the body represented, at the same time, its symbolic and metaphysical transformations: from a human to a divine entity—a process of ancestrality. The dichotomy between instability/fragility and stability/hardness seems to have been implicit not only in the Moche conception of death but also beyond. It could be argued that both the body and the matter were conceived as gradually unstable. Hence, “stabilizing” them could have been a highly desired process. The process to transform the changing nature of these entities involved a direct intervention of their physical properties and, more importantly, of their social nature. Entering into the sphere of social circulation (transformation, use, and discard) entailed “bringing these entities into life,” from a generalized background of changing and depersonalized matter to that of stability. As Alberti and Marshalls posit, “The issue is no longer how things get movement but rather how they stabilize. Fragility is an inherent quality of matter and hence constituted an ever-continuous threat to stabilization” (Alberto and Marshall, 2009: 353). This particular ontology of changing and alternating bodies resembles the corporeal ontology still present among the Runakuna from Sonqos. The Runakuna conceptualize bodies as inhabited by an animating force (sami) that is capable of transfiguring and crystallizing as rigid entities amenable to worship. Reminiscence in the belief systems in modern Andean communities offers a fascinating vantage for Andean archaeologists to explore emic conceptualizations of the body. Moreover, these belief systems provide an alternative interpretative framework through which researchers can analyze the past—a past composed of multiple beings whose corporealities are further accessible to Andean archaeologists.

Notes 1. Identification based on bioarchaeological analyses. 2. The hypothesis of the sacrifice is based on the atypical position and location of specific bodies, which were carelessly disposed among the offerings (see Tomasto-Cagigao et al. 2016 for further argumentation). 3. Individuals found either in prone, flexed, or otherwise aberrant positions are frequently called “guardians”; one can infer that they were placed in the tombs so as to safeguard the main occupant. See Tomasto-Cagigao et al. 2016 for a developed and detailed explanation about Moche individuals possibly sacrificed with no visible bone trauma.

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Matsumoto, Go 2014 Ancestor Worship in the Middle Sicán Theocratic State. Doctoral dissertation, Southern Illinois University, Carbondale. Mauricio, Ana Cecilia, and Jessica Castro 2008a La Última Sacerdotisa Moche en San José de Moro, Excavaciones en el Área 42. In Programa Arqueológico San José de Moro. Informe Ejecutivo de la Temporada 2007, edited by Luis Jaime Castillo, pp. 66–117. Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú, Lima. 2008b Excavaciones en el Área 42 de San José de Moro-Temporada 2007. In Programa Arqueológico San José de Moro. Informe de Excavación. Temporada 2007, edited by Luis Jaime Castillo, pp. 114–164. Informe Técnico presentado al Ministerio de Cultura, Lima. Mauss, Marcell 1973 Techniques of the Body. Economy and Society 2(1): 70–88. McAnany, Patricia 1995 Living with the Ancestors: Kinship and Kingship in Ancient Maya Society. University of Texas Press, Austin. Meskell, Lynn 1996 The Somatization of Archaeology: Institutions, Discourses, Corporeality. Norwegian Archaeological Review 29(1): 1–16. 1998 The Irresistible Body and the Seduction of Archaeology. In Changing Bodies, Changing Meanings: Studies on the Human Body in Antiquity, edited by Dominic Monserrat, pp. 139–161. Routledge, London. 1999 Archaeologies of Social Life: Age, Sex, Class et cetera in Ancient Egypt. Blackwell, Oxford. 2000 Writing the Body in Archaeology. In Reading the Body. Representations and Remains in the Archaeological Record, edited by Alison Rautman, pp. 13–24. University of Pennsylvania Press, Philadelphia. Meskell, Lynn, and Rosemary Joyce 2003 Embodied Lives: Figuring Ancient Maya and Egyptian Experience. Routledge, New York and London. Muro, Luis Armando 2009 Espacios Públicos, Encuentros Sociales y Rituales Funerarios en San José de Moro: Análisis de la Ocupación Mochica Tardío en el Área 45, Sector Oeste de San José de Moro. Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú. Tesis de Licenciatura. 2010a La Tumba del Sacerdote de San José de Moro. In Programa Arqueológico San José de Moro. Informe Ejecutivo de la Temporada 2009, edited by Luis Jaime Castillo, pp. 280–397. Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú, Lima. 2010b Actividades Rituales y Ceremoniales en el Periodo Mochica Tardío: Evidencias Recuperadas en las Áreas 42, 44, 45 y 46 del Sector Oeste de San José de Moro. In Programa Arqueológico San José de Moro. Informe Ejecutivo de la Temporada 2009, edited by Luis Jaime Castillo, pp. 197–279. Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú, Lima y Trujillo. 2012 Excavaciones en el Sector Oeste de San José de Moro: Äreas integradas 42, 44, 45 y 46-Temporada 2011. In Programa Arqueológico San José de Moro. Informe de Moche Corporeal Ontologies in the Cemetery of San José de Moro, Northern Peru

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Excavación. Temporada 2011, edited by Luis Jaime Castillo, pp. 299–392. Informe Técnico presentado al Ministerio de Cultura, Lima. In press (2019) Ontología Corpórea Moche. Construyendo y Experimentando a los Ancestros. In Boletín de Arqueología PUCP N23: Cuerpo, Espacio y Materialidad, edited by Francesca Fernandini and Luis Armando Muro. Fondo Editorial de la Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú, Lima. Muro, Luis Armando (ed.) 2016 Programa Arqueológico San José de Moro. Field Report 2015. Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú. Field Report Submitted to the Ministry of Culture of Peru, Lima. Nanoglou, Statos 2012 From Embodied Regulations to Hybrid Ontologies. Questioning Archaeological Bodies. In The Routledge Handbook of Body Studies, edited by Bryan Turner. Routledge Handbooks, New York. Nelson, Andrew 1998 Wandering Bones: Archaeology, Forensic Science and Moche Burial Practices. International Journal of Osteoarchaeology 8(3): 192–212. Nelson, Andrew, and Luis Jaime Castillo 1997 Huesos a la Deriva: Tafonomía y Tratamiento Funerario en Entierros Mochica Tardío de San José de Moro. Boletín de Arqueología PUCP 1: 137–163. Parry, Jonathan 1994 Death in Banaras. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Saldaña, Julio, Carito Tavera, Karla Patroni, and Tatiana Vlémicq 2014 Informe Técnico de las Excavaciones en el Área 47 de San José de Moro-Temporada 2013. In Programa Arqueológico San José de Moro. Informe de Excavación. Temporada 2013, edited by Luis Jaime Castillo, pp. 160–219. Informe Técnico presentado al Ministerio de Cultura, Lima. Sillar, Bill 1996 The Dead and the Drying: Techniques for Transforming People and Things in the Andes. Journal of Material Culture 1: 259–289. Strathern, Marylin 1988 The Gender of the Gift: Problems with Woman and Problems with Society in Melanesia. University of California Press, Berkeley. Swenson, Edward 2004 Ritual and Power in the Hinterland: Religious Pluralism and Political Descentralization in Late Moche Jequetepeque, Peru. Doctoral dissertation, University of Chicago, Chicago. 2008 San Ildefonso and the “Popularization” of Moche Ideology in the Jequetepeque Valley. In Arqueologia Mochica, Nuevos Enfoques, edited by Julio Rucabado, Gregory Lockar, Luis Jaime Castillo, and Helaine Bernier, pp. 411–432. Fondo Editorial de la Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú, Lima. Swenson, Edward, and John Warner 2015 Landscapes of Mimesis and Convergence in the Southern Jequetepeque Valley, Peru. Cambridge Archaeological Journal 26(1): 23–51.

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Thomas, Julian 2002 Archaeology’s Humanism and the Materiality of the Body. In Thinking through the Body. Archaeologies of Corporeality, edited by Y. Hamilakis, M. Pluciennik, and S. Tarlow, pp. 29–45. Kluwer Academic/Plenum, New York. Tilley, Christopher 1994 A Phenomenology of Landscape: Places, Paths and Monuments. Berg, London. Tomasto-Cagigao, Elsa, Mellisa Lund, Luis Jaime Castillo, and Lars Fehren-Schmitz. 2016 Human Sacrifice. A View from San José de Moro. In Ritual Violence in the Ancient Andes: Reconstructing Sacrifice on the North Coast of Peru, edited by Haagen D. Klaus and Marla Toyne, pp. 291–314. University of Texas Press, Austin. Turner, Bryan 1984 The Body and Society. Basil Blackwell, Oxford. Turner, Bryan 2012 The Routledge Handbook of Body Studies. Routledge Handbooks, London Turner, Terrence 1980 The Social Skin. In Not Work Alone: A Cross-cultural View of Activities Superfluous to Survival, edited by J. Cherfas and R. Lewin, pp. 112–245. Temple Smith, London. Vilaça, Aparecida 2009 Bodies in Perspective: A Critique of the Embodiment Paradigm from the Point of View of Amazonian Ethnography. In Social Bodies, edited by Helen Lambert and Mayron McDonald, pp. 129–147. Berghahn Books, New York and Oxford. Viveiros de Castro, Eduardo 1996 Os pronomes cosmológicos e o perspectivism ameríndio. Mana: Estudos de Antropologia Social 2(2): 115–143. 1998 Cosmological Deixis and Amerindian Perspectivism. Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 4(3): 469–488. 2004 Exchanging Perspectives: The Transformation of Objects into Subjects in Amerindian Ontologies. Common Knowledge 10(3): 463–484. Weismantel, Mary 2015 Many Heads are Better than One: Mortuary Practice and Ceramic Art in Moche Society. In Living with the Dead in the Andes, edited by Izumi Shimada and James Fitzsimmons, pp. 76–100. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. White, Randall 1992 Beyond Art: Toward an Understanding of the Origins of Material Representation in Europe. Annual Review of Anthropology 21: 537–64.

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6 Moche Mereology Synecdochal Ontologies at the Late Moche Site of Huaca Colorada, Peru

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Parts of the Whole: Toward a Moche Mereology An interpretation of architecture to infer past worldviews, including deep ontological orders, must start with an analysis of the component parts of the built environment. Of course, individual bricks or posts alone cannot account for the value systems of the builders; we can only approximate the motivations, conceptual schemes, and even the underlying ontologies of place through an examination of a larger “structure” comprised of the meaningful collection of architectural elements. Accordingly, the definition of these fundamental component parts is entirely dependent on the context at hand, as directly related to the scale of the objects and settings themselves, from the domestic to the monumental. In this light, it has recently been argued that archaeological scholarship largely operates according to principles of mereological reasoning, a framework of interpretation in which partial perspectives sum up to a more complete understanding of a whole (Strathern 2010: 175; Webmoor 2013: 107; Webmoor 2014: 473). As a branch of philosophy, mereology (the study of parts and wholes and their relationship to one another) is seldom compared to the ontologies of contemporary and ancient peoples (Casati and Varzi 1999; Descola 2013; Viveiros de Castro 2004). In his recent ethnographic work on mereological cosmovisions among Carib-speaking groups in Venezuela and Colombia, Ernst Halbmayer stresses this paradox,

suggesting that the contemporary anthropological obsession with ontologies would benefit from efforts to reconsider the parthood relations of the components comprising larger ideological structures (Halbmayer 2012: 110). This particular mode of interpretation would proceed by playing off ethnographic and archaeological data in order to rethink our own analytical concepts (Halbmayer 2012: 104; Carrithers et al. 2010; Zeitlyn 2009). In relating parts to wholes, archaeological interpretation relies upon the accumulated knowledge of variably delimited and interrelated components of both the material record and established theories used to reconstruct past social realities. In order to approximate past behavior through an analysis of the diverse traces of action, archaeological research can only proceed by arranging parts to form a whole, and, conversely, to deconstruct wholes through an analysis of their parts. Archaeological interpretation thus entails a constant process of splitting and division through which the unity of the “site” is physically deconstructed into numerous parts followed by a conceptual reassembly as a multilevel parts-whole structure. The varied integrations and changing parthood of archeological objects and their referents are determined by the form and style of the objects as well as the meaning and intentions we impart to them in light of their location and distribution in space (Casati and Varzi 1999; Halbmayer 2012). In examining the relations among wholes, parts, parts of parts, and the boundaries between parts, philosophers Roberto Casati and Achille C. Varzi (1999) developed the theoretical framework of mereotopology in which mereology and topology are combined. The latter term refers to the ways constituent parts are interrelated and (re)arranged. The formal logic of mereotopology effectively captures how archaeological method is grounded in the analysis of parts, wholes, and the boundaries and connectivity of parthood relations. This mereological or mereotopological framework extends to the consideration of the built environment, as archaeologists tend to focus on the relationship between sequences and phases of a structure’s development as expressions of changing social circumstances. At this particular scale of analysis, archaeologists attempt to read ideology through mereological modes of definition and deconstruction of inferred spatial patterns as materialized in stone, brick, and wood. For our purposes, stressing the archaeological method as inherently mereological is particularly relevant to our argument given that certain ontological orders were predicated on similar principles across the ancient Andes. This is not to say that contemporary archaeologists and the Moche of our case study thought identically or built worlds following the same logic or procedures. Synecdochal Ontologies at the Late Moche Site of Huaca Colorada, Peru

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Instead, we emphasize that Moche ritual interventions in space permit an archaeological reconstruction of their underlying conceptions of space given the parallel structures underling Moche ritual semiosis and archaeological interpretation. The parallels between archaeological interpretation and Moche ritualism lie in the realm of seeking and making order through the interplay of part and whole, but the analogy obviously ends here. Indeed, the underlying ontologies are obviously different; for the Moche, part and whole were understood as enlivened and materially co-constitutive. This chapter will focus on the mereological relationship between human bodies and the spaces they constructed as constituent parts of an integrated whole. More specifically, we examine how human bodies and buildings constituted intertwined and enfolded actors in Moche spatial ideologies. Detailed architectural analysis of the construction sequence of the Late Moche ceremonial center of Huaca Colorada (AD 650–850), demonstrates that the site was characterized by cycles of ritualized architectural renovation that coincided with human and animal sacrifices. These findings provide interesting insights on Moche philosophies of embodiment and space that appear to have been grounded in deep-seated dispositions on the nature and interrelationships of beings (Descola 2013: 274). These often unquestioned orientations are commonly equated with “ontology” in recent archaeological research (Alberti 2016), but they no doubt were shaped by religious discourse and political ideologies. As Butler admonishes: “Power often dissimulates as ontology” and the ability to define what is real and forge relationships between beings confers considerable authority (Butler 2004: 215; also see Govindrajan 2018: 12). In considering the ontological orientations of Moche worldviews, the data strongly suggest that the Moche perceived architecture as an animate, changing, and metabolizing body, the life history of which paralleled the trajectory of different biological entities (human, divine, environmental) (Swenson 2012, 2015; Swenson and Warner 2016; Swenson 2018a). The joint sacrifice of architectural and living beings provides important data on Moche worldview as pertains to constructions of place and personhood in the Jequetepeque Valley during the Middle Horizon Period. Ultimately, an investigation of the maintenance, renovation, and ritual treatment of architecture at Huaca Colorada and other Moche sites offers a means to interpret Moche ideologies of life, death, and vitality as founded on the corporeal interdependencies—and nested part-whole interchanges—between individuals and the spaces that they produced. 152

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Synecdochal Ontologies in the Andes Comparable to social theories documented in Andean ethnographic materials, Moche conceptions of being and life appear to have been predicated on reciprocally propelled rites of consumption that forged bonds and interdependencies between ontological others: As Allen notes: That the human body could serve as a conduit transmitting material sustenance at a distance to different categories of being implies understandings of body and soul, mind and matter, animate and inanimate objects that are very different from “western” thinking. Taking this animistic attitude seriously requires in the words of Eduardo Vivieros de Castro, an “ethnographically-based reshuffling of basic conceptual themes.” (Allen 2014: 74; Viveiros de Castro 1998: 470) Allen argues that contemporary Andean ritual practice is based on the idea that all beings (animate or otherwise) are interconnected through ayni, the fundamental reciprocal “give-and-take” that controls and circulates vitality between interconnected agents. As a cosmology that does not separate between mind and matter, material objects could become animate and agentive. This reciprocal consubstantiality between people, places, animals, and things also relies on a sense of envelopment or synecdoche, with parts standing for the whole, and the whole standing for the part (see also Swenson 2015, Swenson and Warner 2016). She argues that the synecdochal exchangeability of the whole and part act more as a figure of thought and mode of practice as opposed to a figure of speech. Allen notes (1997: 81): “Synecdochal thinking comprehends the world in terms of mutually enveloping homologous structures that act upon each other: ayllus [Andean lineages] are contained in ayllus; places are contained within places; every potato field contains its own vertical ecology; thus every microcosm energizes its macrocosm and vice-versa.” As mentioned in the introduction, an important objective of the chapter is to demonstrate that just such a material and reciprocal interpenetration of whole and part was materialized in the recurrent architectural reconstructions documented at Huaca Colorada. Human and architectural bodies were comingled as nested components of each other at Huaca Colorada, exemplifying a worldview predicated on the mereological relationality between parts and wholes. A Moche synecdochal corporeality is thus expressed in the material interactions between human and architectural actors. The incorporation or even ingestion Synecdochal Ontologies at the Late Moche Site of Huaca Colorada, Peru

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of human bodies into the adobe fabric of the structure points to a particular synecdochal ontology in which humans and buildings could alternate between subject and object, as well as serve as representative parts that engendered and vitalized the whole (Spence-Morrow 2017). An examination of the meretopological linkage of corporeal and architectural sacrifices at Huaca Colorada will be preceded by a brief discussion of the theoretical limitations of identifying ontological categories from archaeological remains.

The Archaeological Analysis of Ontology: Problems, Potentials, and Limitations Archaeologists increasingly base their analysis of past Andean practices and institutions as embedded in distinct relational ontologies (Alberti and Bray 2009; Bray 2009). In such realities, places, peoples, and things formed part of interdependent and animated collectivity, and nature and culture are not perceived as opposed or absolute categories. Indeed, proponents of the ontological turn have made an invaluable contribution, especially in recognizing that being, reality, and subjectivity are irreducible to symbolic representations, but rather are the product of deeply seated material and cultural constructions of the world. With that said, we argue that Moche place making was not simply predetermined by some deep-seated and static Andean ontology. In truth, privileging the latter as a cultural substratum of sorts risks sublimating Amerindian structures of practice to the realm of the nondiscursive (for a more extensive critique of the possible pitfalls of the ontological turn, see Graeber 2015; Swenson 2015).1 Certainly, a world understood as animated by interdependent and partible persons, places, materials, and sacred powers no doubt shaped doxic dispositions in a number of pre-Columbian societies (Alberti and Bray 2009; Zedeño 2009). However, in elevating the ontological, archaeologists run the risk of unwittingly homogenizing Amerindian cultures, an approach that perpetrates a West-vs.the-rest interpretive framework (Harrison-Buck 2012; Swenson 2015). In examining politically and religious charged spectacles centered on human sacrifice, grounding interpretations in taken-for-granted or nondiscursive realities obviously has its limitations and fails to capture the conscious manipulation of both human and architectural bodies. Indeed, religious ideologies, including that of the Moche, were no doubt embedded in certain constructions of reality, but they may also have contradicted or disrupted pre-existing ontological orders. Of course, different religious and political ideologies can often best account for 154

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the remarkable variation in Andean social institutions and landscapes, and it would be wrong to assume that nature was socialized (or materialized) in any predictable way. Indeed, the privileging of a relational ontology in the singular to explain Andean landscapes could be charged with perpetuating lo Andino essentialism. In the end, ontology is a useful heuristic if one rejects that it is all-determining or monolithic. The prevalent ontological order of the postindustrial west (methodological individualism, nature as objectified, existence as driven by scarcity, commodity fetishism, and so on) may have roots in the JudeaoChristian cosmology, but it has been most forcibly shaped by capitalism (see Sahlins 1995; Swenson 2015). However, to call capitalism an “ontology” is as specious as reducing Moche culture to the same category. In other words, equal room must be made for the ideological and cosmological, and it is a dangerous, Eurocentric assumption that ideas, beliefs (philosophies), and innovation were only “movers” in an exclusively Cartesian and Enlightened world. Ontology is commonly defined as the way the world works, and epistemology as the way people come to understand these workings. However, it is important to keep in mind that epistemology can radically rework basic ontological frames. We argue that the synecdochal interchangeability of people and buildings among the Moche is reflective of a historically particular relational ontology. Perhaps the more interesting story is how the understanding of the world was variably materialized and explicitly politicized. In considering the Moche (Mochica) more specifically, this label designates not so much a bounded culture but a politico-religious ideology propagated throughout the desert north coast of Peru during the Andean Early Intermediate and Middle Horizon periods (AD 100–850) (Bawden 1996; Shimada 1994; Quilter and Castillo 2010; Uceda and Mujica 1994, 2003). Archaeologists have argued that societies structured according to this particular ideology were defined by unprecedented social stratification, forming among the earliest state polities in the Americas (Bawden 1996; Billman 2002; Shimada 1994; see Quilter and Castillo 2010). However, recent investigations have questioned the existence of territorial Moche state(s), and it seems increasingly apparent that Moche political organization varied considerably from region to region (see Castillo and Donnan 1994a, 1994b; Quilter 2002; Quilter and Castillo 2010). The exceptional beauty and iconographic richness of Moche material culture certainly points to shared religious conventions and moral philosophies that transcended social and political divisions (Benson 1972, 2012; Donnan 1978, 2010). Synecdochal Ontologies at the Late Moche Site of Huaca Colorada, Peru

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However, few archaeologists have attempted to analyze the corpus in terms of deeper ontological structures that could be compared, for instance, with one of Descola’s “modes of identification” or Vivieros de Castro’s Amazonian “perspectivism” (Descola 2013: 138–143, Viveiros de Castro 2004). Certainly, iconographic themes, including the famous “revolt of the objects,” suggest that animistic ontologies may have informed Moche culture and religious thought (see Quilter 1990). The depiction of weaving implements, mats, belts, helmets, clothing, and other objects taking up arms and rebelling against human masters find parallel in Amazonian ethnographies and the famed Huarochiri manuscript of the highlands (Allen 1997; Jackson 2008: 145–146; Kroeber 1930; Levi-Strauss 1964; Quilter 1990; Santos Granero 2009: 3). This scene, which likely forms part of a larger narrative of cosmological upheaval and reordering, points to how objects as “subjected companions” (and not necessarily as subjects per se) could assume alternate forms of agency in particular mythic or ritual conjunctures (see Quilter 1990; also Santos Granero 2009: 22). Other scenes on ceramics and wall murals also depict clothed and anthropomorphic objects waging war, and weapons in particular (helmets, clubs, armor) are commonly animated (Benson 1972: 57–58), suggesting that the predatory actions of such objects may have determined the degree to which they were subjectively empowered (whether in real or possibly ancestral times) (Santos Granero 2009: 20–21). Anthropomorphized animal figures, clad in warrior garb, are also frequently engaging in warfare or assisting in sacrificial rituals (Donnan and McClelland 1999). Jars of sacrificial blood (some walking with legs) seemed also to have served as metonyms of bound captives destined for sacrifice, further suggesting that blood may have been perceived as animating, a transferable life force between different kinds of bodies (Donnan and McClelland 1999: 113, 281–283; McClelland et al. 2007: 30, 122). The famed Sacrifice Ceremony or Presentation Theme of Moche iconography represents one of the premier myths of Moche religion re-enacted by elites in elaborate ritual performances (Alva and Donnan 1993). Decorating wall murals and fineline ceramics, the theme depicts the consumption of sacrificial blood by the principal fanged divinity, suggesting that the cosmos was sustained by the consubstantial exchange of life-giving forces between interdependent but possibly distinct and changing beings—a kind of ontological predation as theorized by Viverios de Castro among the Tupi-Guarani of the Amazon. Ultimately, we will never fully understand the hierarchies of being specific to Moche communities, or how they differed from distinctive Amazonian or later Andean “object regimes” and constructions of personhood (see Hugh-Jones 156

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2009). However, much has been written on Moche religion and cosmology, analytical categories that implicate ontological questions. As intimated above, Moche cosmology was clearly grounded in a particular sacrificial construction of the world. Moche political theology was defined by cycles of warfare, prisoner capture, and human sacrifice that likely conformed to poorly understood cosmogonic myths and ideologies of legitimate religious authority and social reproduction (Bawden 1996; Bourget 2006; Donnan 1978, 2001; Alva and Donnan 1993; Swenson 2003, 2012). Moche elites both directed spectacles of human sacrifice and appear to have been the desired victims (Donnan 2001). At its fundament, adherents of Moche religious ideology perceived death as a prerequisite of life and regeneration, if not to the overall movement of space-time. Ritually encapsulated material destruction was conceived in an alimentary and metabolic sense as the reciprocal enabler of creation, a force generative of life, cosmos, time, and ultimately political power (Swenson 2003; Swenson 2018a). The central role of ingestion (eating) and transferring vital substances between different entities (gods, places, buildings, pots) is exemplified by the abovementioned Presentation Theme and in foundation sacrifices at Huaca Colorada discussed in the following section (see also Weismantel 2004). In fact, such reciprocal and sacrificial exchanges cemented ritual interdependencies between persons and animated places and things among many traditional Andean people (Salomon and Urioste 1991). Death was not understood as an end but as the ultimate nexus of material transformation and mode of becoming; the sacrificial control of reproduction constituted a means to intervene in and become part of the fluid continuum of “being” that likely subsumed Western categories of human, animal, landscape, artifact, society, and the divine (Swenson and Warner 2012). In fact, the religious and political landscapes of the Moche are fruitfully understood in terms of this specific sacrificial ontology, and the prevalence of architectural dedication and termination rites in Moche centers suggests that Moche conceptions of place resembled tenets of material-relational theories in contemporary human geography (Swenson 2011, 2012; Uceda 2010; Thrift 2010). The study of Moche artifacts, including the famed fineline stirrup vessels and naturalist portrait vessels depicting Moche elites, also point to complex object biographies. Indeed, certain pots appear to have been incorporated into sacrificial life cycles similar to high-status humans, as exemplified by extraordinary portrait vessels that depict specific individuals at different ages of development (youth, maturity, and sacrificial death) (Donnan 2001). Anthropomorphic vessels were also deliberately broken and deposited alongside executed human vicSynecdochal Ontologies at the Late Moche Site of Huaca Colorada, Peru

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tims at Huaca de la Luna and other sites (Verano 2001). In this light, it is worth considering that portrait vessels and other figurative ceramics acted as persons, living substitutes or partitive subjects that distributed in space and time the agency of their human co-essences (Gell 1998; Jackson 2008: 45; Strathern 1992). Therefore, the Moche likely perceived certain kinds of objects as alive, imbued with personhood, and infused with vital agency. Matter in general was perhaps experienced as ecologically intermeshed and vibrant, where “people are not united in belief but in a way of being that is alive and open to a world in continuous birth” (Ingold 2006: 9; see also Bennett 2010). In this regard, Moche materialism would seem to have aligned closely with Ingold’s redefinition of animic ontologies (see Ingold 2006). However, are the Moche best understood in terms of “people united in being” when both human and things were alternatively subjectified, objectified, even abjectified in highly politicized sacrificial rituals (Nilsson Stutz 2008)? To be sure, struggles over the means to harness or activate the agency (animacy) of various peoples, places, and things likely lay at the heart of both Moche political conflicts and building projects alike.

Made of Its Makers: The Nested Biographies of Huaca Colorada and Its Builders The complex, multigenerational construction of the ceremonial architecture at Huaca Colorada clearly functioned to anchor people in space and time. Analysis of the sequence of building phases have allowed us to sketch a nuanced architectural biography marked by specific cycles of ritual construction and pilgrimage to the site that were likely timed with public feasting events. Communal acts of ritualized renovation that took place at Huaca Colorada served to embody a collective memory about the past that formed a salient bond between members of this particular community. The sequential spatial renovations of the ceremonial architecture at Huaca Colorada were commemorated with at least 14 human and animal sacrifices with subjects literally incorporated into the fabric of the sacred space to enliven the built environment. Huaca Colorada was the most prominent Late Moche ritual locale in the southern Jequetepeque Valley (Swenson 2012, 2014; Swenson and Warner 2012). The center is located approximately 100 km north of the Huacas de Moche, situated at the base of the Cerro Cañoncillo mountain range of the arid Pampa de Mojucape (Figure 6.1). Surrounded by a largely agricultural settlement covering approximately 24 ha, Huaca Colorada is dominated by an elongated adobe brick 158

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platform structure built atop a modified sand dune. It measures approximately 390 m by 140 m and rises nearly 20 m at its highest point above the agricultural fields that surround it. The principal ceremonial precinct under investigation, Sector B, is located at the peak of the structure above and between two manufacturing and residential areas to the north and south, Sectors A and C, respectively (Figure 6.2). Serving as the ceremonial and political headquarters of a powerful polity, the principal religious constructions of the monumental core of Huaca Colorada consist of 11 daises or altars, all of which were intentionally interred under floors or construction fill (Swenson 2012; Swenson 2017, SpenceMorrow 2017). The ceremonial precincts of Huaca Colorada were places of conspicuous consumption, with feasting middens found in direct association with the ceremonial precinct containing high quantities of prestige food remains and ceramic vessels.

Figure 6.1. Map of Jequetepeque with location of Huaca Colorada. Source: Giles Spence-Morrow and Edward Swenson.

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Figure 6.2. Map of Huaca Colorada sectors. Source: Giles Spence-Morrow and Edward Swenson.

It is clear that feasting events were fundamental to the use of this space; human participants ate with the huaca, feeding offerings to the monument through structured deposits of exotic refuse (Lynch 2013; Swenson 2018a; Swenson and Warner 2016: 46). Commensal rites involving individual sacrifices of animals, peoples, and things may have been deemed necessary to nourish the huaca, and to ensure the boons of fertility and community well-being that the huaca re160

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ciprocated in return. As Bruce Mannheim and Mary Weismantel have recently argued, the act of eating with and feeding huacas formed the nexus of reciprocal and ritual bonds uniting great powers and their human dependents (Mannheim and Salas Carreño 2015, Weismantel 2004, 2009; Weismantel and Meskell 2014). This central ceremonial district was comprised of two complementary but opposed parts, each anchored by a stepped ritual platform at the southern end of two precincts (which will be referred to as the Western Chamber and the Eastern Terrace) (Figure 6.3). The ritually terminated and well-preserved Western Chamber measures 10 m (NS) by 7 m (EW) and contains a two-stepped platform or dais that served as a stage for ritual performances (Swenson et al. 2010, 2011; Swenson 2012). Excavations have revealed that this Western platform chamber was repeatedly remodeled, with each renovation raising the level of the previous floor while simultaneously diminishing the overall length of the room, compressing the space both laterally and vertically, incrementally reducing the original area from 154 m2 to 70 m2 prior to termination and abandonment (Figure 6.4). In fact, the ceremonial precinct of Huaca Colorada appears to have been in a constant state of renovation, and it is evident that there was a religious expectation to ritually terminate and rededicate altars, rooms, and platforms, perhaps as dictated by a religious calendar or festival round (Swenson 2012: 11). Measuring 2 m long by 4 m wide, the two-stepped platform located in the southern end of this central chamber maintained its position and dimensions across all phases of construction, indicating that this altar clearly served as the point of focus for the activities that took place in this interior space throughout all occupation phases (Figure 6.2). As mentioned, the ultimate phase of use of the platform chamber had compressed the space to cover an area of less than half the original dimensions, and it was extraordinarily well preserved due to an intentional decommissioning episode that saw the entire chamber filled with upward of 180 m3 of clean sand fill. This singular termination event encased and preserved two plaster-coated wooden pillars found rising from the platform, highly curated architectural components that once supported a simple gable roof commonly depicted in Moche iconography (Figure 6.5). We have discovered at least seven distinct phases of renovation of the West Chamber, each of which incrementally reduced the precinct while carefully maintaining and reiterating fundamental components of its spatial organization. These lateral reductions maintained the overall width of the chamber throughout every phase of use, with new points of access built through walls as the chamber area was reduced. These entrances through the eastern, westSynecdochal Ontologies at the Late Moche Site of Huaca Colorada, Peru

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Figure 6.3. Isometric model of the Western Chamber and Eastern Terrace in relation to each other. Source: Giles Spence-Morrow and Edward Swenson.

Figure 6.4. Construction phases of the Western Chamber in profile (bottom) with a photo of northern wall reductions and a sequence of isometric models of each phase (top left and right). Source: Giles SpenceMorrow and Edward Swenson.

Figure 6.5. Comparison of Moche iconographic representation of the cover platform (top left) in relation to the western private chamber platform with posts in situ (upper and lower right), and the complete western platform chamber following excavation (lower left). Source: Giles Spence-Morrow and Edward Swenson.

ern, and southern walls of the room were carefully re-created in each phase, maintaining access patterns into and out of the chamber through time. These reductions clearly defined the use of this space as focused on the gable-roofed structure found at the southern end of the central chamber. Most of these architectural renovations were commemorated by the incorporation of human sacrificial victims beneath successive floors and within the construction fill behind various reductions of the northern wall of the chamber (Swenson et al. 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2015) (Figure 6.6). Within the West Chamber, the discovery of six foundation sacrifices associated with both the closure and rededication of the different phases of use of the altar platforms corroborates the hypothetical linkages between corporeal and architectural sacrifice. The periodic ritual renovations of the monumental chamber thus seem to exemplify a concern to control and regulate the moveSynecdochal Ontologies at the Late Moche Site of Huaca Colorada, Peru

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Figure 6.6. Sacrificial locations (ovals) in relation to the eastern public ramp and platform complex (left), and the western private platform chamber (right). Source: Giles Spence-Morrow and Edward Swenson.

ment of time itself (see Swenson 2011, 2012, 2014, 2017; Spence-Morrow 2017). As a direct materialization of Moche conceptions of time, these changing spaces served as a “chronotope” of sorts that was animated by the sacrificial incorporation of young women. Therefore, the multiple rebuilding phases encapsulated the metamorphic and possibly the procreative power of Huaca Colorada’s ceremonial architecture (Bakhtin 1981: 7; Swenson 2015: 689, Swenson 2017; Spence-Morrow 2017). The incorporation of human burials as offerings during ritualized closure of altars, ramps, and chambers sealed under floors and tons of clean sand indicate that the Moche of Huaca Colorada were aware of the power of invisible but immanently present agents as vitalizing components of the architectural constructions. In previous publications, it has been argued 164

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that Huaca Colorada formed part of a “sacramental landscape” involving the consubstantiation of humans and architecture, wherein the foundation sacrifice of young women perhaps served to transfer the life force and youthful vigour of the offerings to the sacred space in question. (Swenson 2015: 690). Excavation of the final phase of construction within the Western Chamber uncovered adjacent burial cuts containing two adolescent women laid supine before the dais (Figure 6.6). Located immediately north of the bottom step of the twin-stepped platform, these two individuals were oriented with their heads to the south and both bore evidence of rope ligatures around their necks. The pair of burials was accompanied by a dog and a guinea pig (cuy) that had been deposited immediately to the west. It is clear that these sacrificial offerings and the act of renovation occurred in short order, if not simultaneously, as the open grave was filled with clean sand fill before being encased in a new compact clay floor that covered the entire area of the chamber as a final reduction. Three additional female sacrificial burials were found in direct association with a small terrace that abutted the exterior of the southern wall of the central ceremonial chamber, each placed in shallow single graves in semiflexed supine positions (Figure 6.6). Found in close proximity to one another, each of these individuals was between 13 and 25 years of age; two bodies were buried supine and the third laid in a somewhat haphazard position with her right arm extended above their head. Evidence of the ceremonial relationship between the sacrifice of human and architectural bodies is best illustrated by one particularly noteworthy sacrificial burial found within the construction fill that served to terminate the penultimate lateral reduction of the central platform chamber. Oriented with her head to the east toward Cerro Cañoncillo, this 25–35-year-old female was sprawled supine across the area between the newly constructed northern perimeter and the wall that preceded it, seemingly tossed into the rubble while the space was being closed (Swenson et al. 2012). Directly beneath this individual were the fragile remains of a large wooden post, approximately 30 cm in diameter and nearly 2 m long, laid in the adobe rubble in an almost identical orientation and position as the sacrificial victim. The combined offering of these two distinct yet connected dedications speaks to the shared importance of both human and architectural subjects as vital component parts in the creation and sustenance of Huaca Colorada (Figure 6.7). The Eastern Terrace of Sector B was in use simultaneously with the various phases of the more enclosed Western Chamber and constituted important Synecdochal Ontologies at the Late Moche Site of Huaca Colorada, Peru

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Figure 6.7. Human sacrifice (left) in relation to a sacrifice post directly below burial (right). Source: Giles Spence-Morrow and Edward Swenson.

foci for more public ceremonial activities. The public Eastern Terrace of the huaca was covered by a roofed veranda that sheltered a second stepped platform and ramp complex, which served as the public counterpart to the more private dais found in the central chamber (Figure 6.8). Recent investigations west of the Western Chamber exposed a tiered sequence of landings ascending to the south beside a monumental ramp that provided access to the interior ceremonial chamber. Akin to a broad staircase, this western terrace appears to accentuate what is now understood to be the major access route along the western side of the ceremonial sector. Excavations of the eastern and western terraces presented a complex sequence of remodeling episodes that both paralleled and differed from construction phases in the central chamber. Renovation of these exterior terraces was renewed with vertical shifts rather than horizontal reductions, encasing earlier platforms by increasing the elevation of the surrounding floors. On the Eastern Terrace, this vertical growth required careful extraction 166

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Figure 6.8. Eastern public platform. Source: Giles Spence-Morrow and Edward Swenson.

and reuse of substantial wooden posts that supported the roofed areas of this visible public area. Recent investigations on the eastern terrace uncovered alignments of unusual circular adobe-lined pits that acted as the supporting bases for large wooden posts, two of which held dedicatory offerings of finely worked spondylus shell (Figure 6.9). The construction of these post emplacement bins is now interpreted as acts of architectural curation, built one atop each other in synch with the construction of new and superimposed clay floors that allowed the eastern terrace to change and grow between phases while maintaining the relative positions of individual architectural elements through time (Swenson et al. 2010, 2011, 2012). This desire to maintain the location of features could easily have been achieved in other ways, but it seems that the continuity of post emplacements cited the previous construction sequences, creating physical conduits through which an association with the past was maintained, affirming a continual connection to the earliest iteration of the structure and its ancestral inhabitants. The transference of cultural knowledge through the process of removing, preparing, and resetting these posts may have allowed multiple Synecdochal Ontologies at the Late Moche Site of Huaca Colorada, Peru

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Figure 6.9. Post emplacements in the eastern public platform terrace. Source: Giles Spence-Morrow and Edward Swenson.

generations of the builders of Huaca Colorada to commune through the materiality and animated agency of the posts themselves (Pauketat and Alt 2005: 217). This particular construction tradition was a vital and repeated component of each major renovation event punctuated by combined human and architectural sacrifices that marked and put into motion temporal cycles at Huaca Colorada (Swenson 2017; Spence-Morrow 2017). Excavations of the later Sican Period (circa AD 900–1100) Huacas Loro and Lercanlech in the Lambayeque Valley (Batan Grande) have uncovered hundreds of similar adobe brick post emplacement boxes or sockets that appear to have served the same function as those at Huaca Colorada (Shimada 1990, Klaus and Shimada 2016). However, within each of these later post sockets, along with small foundation offerings of copper and shell, nearly half of all the post emplacements at the Sican huacas contained sacrificial victims, often found blindfolded and their limbs bound to the posts with rope, embracing the base of the pillar just below the floor level (Klaus and Shimada 2016). The presence of these remarkable 168

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human offerings at Batan Grande suggests a significant intensification of dedicatory rites in the Sican Period specifically linking human and architectural sacrifice as interdependent propitiatory acts. Although the post burial found at Huaca Colorada is unique and admittedly less dramatic than the multiple Sican period examples, similar beliefs may have been in play at the earlier Moche site. The recycling, erection, and reanimation of posts may have served to maintain and circulate vital energies, and this distinctive form or renovation differs from the envelopment of earlier sacrifices and altars under new floors. Repeated acts of human and architectural sacrifice played a vital role in the renewal of Huaca Colorada; the deposition of synecdochally nested organic and inorganic bodies, bounded wholes that became porous parts and vice-versa, were no doubt seen as integral to sustaining the larger structure as a living totality. The ceremonial platform found at the southern end of the Eastern Terrace was slightly larger than the equivalent platform in the West Chamber but was otherwise identical in form, composed of two steps in exactly the same north-facing orientation (Swenson et al. 2015). Unlike the central platform, the dais of the eastern terrace was accessed by a central 2-m-wide ramp immediately north of the platform, a configuration that is commonly portrayed in iconographic depictions of Moche ceremonial platforms (Bourget 2006; Donnan and McClelland 1999) (Figure 6.10). With this iconic ritual stage located at the very eastern edge of the huaca, this terrace would have been clearly visible from the open plaza that stretches eastward from the base of Huaca Colorada toward the ruins of the site of Tecapa (Swenson et al. 2015). Investigation of this public platform revealed that it was enlarged laterally at least once before being intentionally destroyed in an intense burning episode. This dramatic termination event effectively “fired” the floor surfaces of both the platform and surrounding area as well as the claycoated gabled roof that once stood over the eastern ramped platform (Figure 6.8) (Swenson 2018a, 2018b). Considerable amounts of fragmentary burnt roof plaster, bearing impressions of cane, were found across the surface of the entire southern limit of the eastern terrace. Considering the size of the platform, the clay-covered cane roof would have been of considerable weight, requiring the support of large wooden columns, the burnt bases of which remained deeply embedded in the floor of the platform within the adjacent post emplacement bins. The concentration of burnt rubble and the extent of the burning across the entire eastern platform area indicates that it was intentionally immolated, likely requiring considerable volumes of combustible material to be amassed in preparation for this dramatic act of architectural termination. Synecdochal Ontologies at the Late Moche Site of Huaca Colorada, Peru

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Figure 6.10. Ramp iconography (modified from Bourget 2006).

Recent excavations immediately north of the eastern ramp and platform complex exposed two superimposed north-facing platforms (Swenson 2018a, 2018b, 2018c). These were built in succession following the burning of the original dais, which was sealed under a thick floor immediately after the ritualized immolation. Built upon a sequence of solid floors and compact rubble, each of these finely plastered platforms was also directly associated with dedicatory sacrificial burials of young women. The earlier of these two burials, an adolescent female, was found supine on the burnt surface of the floor of the original ramp and platform complex within a thick sand fill that terminated and elevated this early phase of the eastern terrace. In other words, this human burial directly coincided with the ritual firing of the first dais. Oriented with her head to the south and her face tilted toward Cerro Cañoncillo, this commemorated the closing of the original public platform in a manner that paralleled the treatment of the double sacrifices found immediately north of the more private platform to the west (see above). Since the original phases of the eastern and central platforms were occupied concurrently, these three dedicatory burials occurred in a single phase of architectural termination on either side of the central dividing wall differentiating the private and public ceremonial spaces. Two additional burials were found during excavations of this early floor level at the northern extreme of the eastern terrace. Both of these individuals were juveniles; the youngest, aged approximately 3 years, was buried supine while the elder female individual (11–14 years old) was sprawled on her left side. The latter was associated with the building of an170

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Figure 6.11. Sacrificial burials and Tumi knife, detail. Source: Giles Spence-Morrow and Edward Swenson.

other platform to the north. Considering the stratigraphic relation of these early burials to others found across the eastern terrace, it seems that these two individuals may have served as foundation sacrifices for the entire area, which appears to have coincided with the completion of the initial construction phase of Huaca Colorada. Immediately above these individuals, a finely made copper tumi knife decorated with an interlocking fish and bird motif was found imbedded in the clay floor that capped these two burials, further alluding to the importance of this particular offering (Figure 6.11). Synecdochal Ontologies at the Late Moche Site of Huaca Colorada, Peru

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Following the immolation and closure of the original public ramped platform complex, the first of two superimposed platforms contained a second dedicatory burial, almost immediately above the first. Nevertheless, it remains unclear whether the intention of each rite was to serve as a propitiatory act commemorating the foundation or closure of either phase. This second burial was found carefully laid within the floor of the earlier platform, with a cap of fine plaster placed over the burial cut to seal the individual within the interior of the dais (Figure 6.12) (Swenson 2018b, 2018c). This interred individual was a pregnant woman in her third trimester. She was placed directly within the most visible ceremonial structure during this phase of occupation. The 23–29-year-old woman was oriented with her head to the east toward Cerro Cañoncillo following a clear pattern shared by half of the discovered burials discovered within the monumental complex. All of the burials oriented east are associated with the later construction phases, and they differ from the earlier interments (heads are oriented to the south). It is important to note that 12 of the 15 sacrificial burials found within the ceremonial sector were securely sexed as female (excluding one juvenile of indeterminate sex). Therefore, the recurring dedicatory rites of architectural renewal appear to have been founded on harnessing and transferring the powers of female creation and fertility (Swenson 2018a; Swenson and Warner 2012). Stratigraphic comparison of the construction sequence of Sector B has shown that the Eastern Terrace and the Monumental Entrance Terrace to the west of

Figure 6.12. Pregnant sacrifice in situ beneath clay floor cap (left) and in relation to eastern ramped platform reduction (right). Source: Giles Spence-Morrow and Edward Swenson.

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the West Chamber were built contemporaneously to the earliest phases of the central chamber, indicating that public and private ceremonial performances could have been held concurrently on these ritual stages, linked by a phased sequence of entrances (Swenson et al. 2015). As the Western Chamber was reduced in length and volume, doorways that provided access to the east and west were carefully bricked up and plastered over, actively maintaining accessibility between these spaces over time. While the Eastern Terrace would have been visible to audiences that could have gathered in the plaza at the base of the huaca, the more private chamber to the west was an intimate space wherein access and movement was highly controlled. The dualistic configuration of public and private spaces within the ceremonial nucleus of Huaca Colorada materialized the synecdochal relationship between variable nested “bodies”; the whole edifice was enlivened through the operation of two separate but interdependent and complementary parts. Some of the oppositions between the East Terrace and West Chamber, each anchored by comparable stepped platforms, further express this interplay of whole as parts forming larger wholes. The Eastern Terrace was public, higher, and renovated through vertical reconstructions, with phases of use that were clearly terminated by fire. In contrast, the Western Chamber was private, lower, public, and characterized by phased, horizontal reductions, and was terminated by interment in rubble and sand. The incremental and repeated architectural terminations in the three main sectors of the ceremonial zone (the East Terrace, West Chamber, and Monumental Entrance Terraces) provide further testament to this synecdochal continuum of bodies and buildings—in which wholes were continually divided into parts, each part containing and enveloping the essence of the whole. This relationship was maintained in each iteration, speaking to the continuity of a particular architectural tradition that was clearly remembered, repeated, and revered as a fundamental component of building this structure. Both the labor involved in the construction of the huaca and the physical incorporation of bodies served to enliven the monument through the consubstantiation of parts (humans, animals, bricks, posts) within the growing and contracting whole of the entire structure.

Conclusion As Swenson and Warner note (2016: 45): “Rituals of cosmic and somatic reassembly at Huaca Colorada appear to have been propelled by comparable acts of eating, digestion and growth, as evidenced not only by the paramount imporSynecdochal Ontologies at the Late Moche Site of Huaca Colorada, Peru

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tance of commensal rites at the site, but by the juxtaposition of distinct material elements bundled into the sacrifices of architectural remodelling.” The celebrants at Huaca Colorada viewed the monument as an integrated organic whole composed of interdependent and substitutable peoples, places, and things. This mereological or synecdochal control of the life force is immediately evident in the interplay of the individual human sacrifices, the decommissioned posts, and the remarkably compressed rededication rites. These exceptional “structured deposits” (Richards and Thomas 1984) lend themselves to archaeological interpretation that inevitably relies on the identification of meaningful parts and wholes. In light of the apparent interconnection of human and architectural sacrifice described in this chapter, it is clear that the Moche perceived adobe walls and matter in general to be in a state of “continuous birth” and “continuous movement” (Ingold 2006: 12–13; see Swenson 2015: 691). The ritual renovations further suggest that matter was perceived as fluid, constantly in flow and in formation, a viewpoint that would appeal to Ingold’s particular brand of ecological thinking (Ingold 2012). Architectural constructions at the site thus mirrored generative processes of growth and change (food preparation, eating, pregnancy, gestation, and birth), propelled by the dissolution, re-assembly, and fabrication of matter (Hugh-Jones 2009: 41; Swenson 2015: 691). As Swenson notes (2015: 691): “Huaca Colorada’s ceremonial architecture was clearly grounded in an aesthetic of violence that celebrated rebirth, creation, and fertility. This aesthetic appears to have been linked to a particular conception of temporality [and spatiality] understood as gestational, animated, and inherently material.” As mentioned, almost all of the sacrificial victims offered in conjunction with the ritual termination and rededication of ceremonial architecture at Huaca Colorada were adolescent or young women (Swenson 2016; Swenson et al. 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013). The discovery of female sacrificial offerings deposited to commemorate the ritual closure of the numerous platforms thus points to the transference of the youthful vitality of the offerings to the sacred space in question. The presence of a pregnant sacrificial victim at Huaca Colorada powerfully underscores this procreative symbolism, as the inherently nested relationship between mother and unborn child provides the most salient example of the synecdochal foundation of life and creation. Indeed, a pregnant woman—interred in a series of nested altars—perfectly exemplifies the generative indivisibility of part and whole in Moche worldview, one that finds analogy with the mereotopological foundations of archaeological interpretation. In the end, Huaca Colorada can be productively interpreted as a topology 174

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as theorized by Deleuze and Guattari or even as a mereotopology as theorized by Casati and Varzi (Casati and Varzi 1999; Deleuze and Guattari 1987; see also Harris 2005, DeLanda 2005, Knappett 2011; Witmore 2007; Swenson 2015: 691; 2017). The continual rebuilding of the huaca appear to have conformed to a set template or architectural blueprint, however the multiple renovations varied notably in configuration, scale, and morphology reflecting the changing social realities of each generation of builders (Swenson et al. 2010, 2011, 2012). Accordingly, the morphing monument appears to have encapsulated an “activity of metabolization,” and an “idea of vital materiality” whereby the outside and inside mingle and recombine as an amalgam of interdependent parts and wholes (Bennett 2010: 50; Swenson 2015: 693). Standard archaeological techniques of excavation, mapping, drawing, and photography are inherently reductive operations, and it is only once these partial media are recombined that complex patterns become tangible and amenable to interpretation (Lucas 2001: 102–106). The reduction of the complex assemblage of material traces of an archaeological site into constituent “types” or categories entails the splitting of wholes into parts so that their “functions” or “meanings” may be better grasped. In his discussion of the mereological foundations of archaeological practice, Timothy Webmoor notes: “The material whole may not be reassembled, but the bits of knowledge are summed up to a supposedly more complete understanding. It is additive knowledge” (Webmoor 2014: 473). Of course, the inherent mereological procedures of archaeological research have little in common with Moche ontology—understood as a deep-seated disposition toward being, reality, and life. If anything, it highlights the analytical limitations of the latter term. The complex rituals of architectural renovation documented at Huaca Colorada demand the equal application of other etic categories—including ideology, epistemology, and philosophy. Nevertheless, the synechodocal thinking informing Moche architectural projects reinforces our understanding of how the Moche construction of the world and being was predicated on the concept of parts engendering and enlivening the whole and vice-versa, as materialized in the exceptional structured deposits of Huaca Colorada. The ritual creation and recreation of the monument resulted in an “archaeological record” readily amenable to interpretation. The meanings we derived also inevitably relied on inferring the interrelationship of defined wholes and parts through inductive-deductive reasoning. In the end, the archaeological reliance on interpreting wholes from a myriad of parts was ideally suited for the analysis of place making at Huaca Colorda founded on a mereological logic specific to the Moche. Synecdochal Ontologies at the Late Moche Site of Huaca Colorada, Peru

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Note 1. Much of the critique presented in this section was first published in Swenson 2015.

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Mannheim, Bruce, and Salas Carreño, Guillermo 2015 Wak’as: Entifications of the Andean Sacred. In The Archaeology of Wak’as: Explorations of the Sacred in the Pre-Columbian Andes, edited by Tamara Bray, pp. 47–74. University of Colorado Press, Boulder. McClelland, Donna, D. McClelland, and Christopher Donnan 2007 Moche Fineline Painting from San José de Moro. Cotsen Institute of Archaeology, UCLA Press, Los Angeles. Millaire, Jean-François 2016 Posts and Pots: Propitiatory Ritual at Huaca Santa Clara in the Virú Valley, Peru. In Ritual Violence in the Ancient Andes: Reconstructing Sacrifice on the North Coast of Peru edited by Haagen D. Klaus and J. Marla Toyne, pp. 342–358. University of Austin Press, Austin, Texas. Nilsson Stutz, Liv 2008 Capturing Mortuary Ritual: An Attempt To Harmonize Archaeological Method and Theory. In Religion, Archaeology, and the Material World, edited by L. Fogelin, pp. 159–178. Center for Archaeological Investigations, Occasional Paper No. 36, Carbondale, Illinois. Pauketat, Timothy R., and Susan M. Alt 2005 Agency in a Postmold? Physicality and the Archaeology of Culture-Making. Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory. 12(3): 213–237. Quilter, Jeffrey 1990 The Moche Revolt of the Objects. Latin American Antiquity 1: 42–65. 2002 Moche Politics, Religion, and Warfare. Journal of World Prehistory 16: 145–195. Quilter, Jeffrey, and Castillo, Luis Jaime 2010 New Perspectives on Moche Political Organization. Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, Washington, DC. Richards, Colin, and Julian Thomas 1984 Ritual Activity and Structured Deposition in Later Neolithic Wessex. In Neolithic Studies: A Review of Some Recent Research, edited by R. Bradley and J. Gardiner, pp. 189–218. British Archaeological Report 133, Oxford. Sahlins, Marshall 1985 Islands of History. University of Chicago Press, Chicago. Salomon, Frank, and George. L. Urioste 1991 The Huarochirí Manuscript: A Testament of Ancient and Colonial Andean Religion. University of Texas Press, Austin. Santos Granero, Fernando 2009 Introduction: Amazonian Constructional Views of the World. In The Occult Life of Things: Native Amazonian Theories of Materiality and Personhood, edited by F. Santos-Granero, pp. 1–32. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Shimada, Izumi 1990 Cultural Continuities and Discontinuities on the Northern North Coast of Peru, Middle-Late Horizons. In The Northern Dynasties: Kingship and Statecraft in Chimor, edited by Michael Moseley and Alana Cordy-Collins, pp. 297–392. Dumbarton Oaks, Washington, DC. 1994 Pampa Grande and the Mochica Culture. University of Texas Press, Austin. Synecdochal Ontologies at the Late Moche Site of Huaca Colorada, Peru

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Spence-Morrow, Giles 2017 Scaling the Huaca: Synecdochal Temporalities and the Mimetic Materialization of Late Moche Timescapes. In Constructions of Time and History in the Pre-Columbian Andes, edited by Edward Swenson and Andrew Roddick, pp. 207–238. University of Colorado Press, Boulder. Strathern, Marilyn 1992 Reproducing the Future: Anthropology, Kinship and New Reproductive Technologies. University of Manchester Press, Manchester, UK. 2010 Commentary. Boundary Objects and Asymmetries in Archaeology and Anthropology: Understanding Similarity, Exploring Difference, edited by Duncan Garrow and Thomas Yarrow, pp. 171–178. Oxbow Books, Oxford. Swenson, Edward R. 2003 Cities of Violence: Sacrifice, Power, and Urbanization in the Andes. Journal of Social Archaeology, 3 (2): 256–296. 2011 Architectural Renovation as Ritual Process in Late Intermediate Period Jequetepeque. In From State to Empire in the Prehistoric Jequetepeque Valley, Peru, edited by C. M Zori and I. Johnson, pp. 129–148. BAR International Series, 2310. British Archaeological Reports, Oxford. 2012 Moche Ceremonial Architecture as Thirdspace: The Politics of Place-Making in the Ancient Andes. Journal of Social Archaeology 12(1): 3–28. 2014 Los Fundamentos Cosmológicos de las Interacciones Moche-Sierra durante el Horizonte Medio en Jequetepeque. In Los rostros de Wari: Perspectivas interregionales sobre el Horizonte Medio, edited by Luis Jaime Castillo and Justin Jennings, pp. 79–104. Lima: Boletín de Arquelogia PUCP 16. 2015 The Materialities of Place Making in the Ancient Andes: A Critical Appraisal of the Ontological Turn in Archaeological Interpretation. Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 22: 677–712. 2017 Topologies of Time and History in Jequetepeque, Peru. In Constructions of Time and History in the Pre-Columbian Andes, edited by Edward Swenson and Andrew Roddick. University of Colorado Press, Boulder. 2018a Sacrificial Landscapes and the Anatomy of Moche Biopolitics: (AD 200–800). In Powerful Places in the Ancient Andes, edited by Justin Jennings and Edward Swenson. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. 2018b Assembling the Moche: The Power of Temporary Gatherings on the North Coast of Peru. World Archaeology. DOI: 10.1080/00438243.2018.1474132. 2018c Trace, Revelation, and Interpreting in Archaeological Research: The Graffiti of Huaca Colorada, Peru. Signs in Society 6(2): 349–378. Swenson, Edward R., and John P. Warner 2012 Crucibles of Power: Forging Copper and Forging Subjects at the Moche Ceremonial Center of Huaca Colorada, Peru. Journal of Anthropological Archaeology 31(3): 314–333. 2016 Landscapes of Mimesis and Convergence in the Southern Jequetepeque Valley, Peru. Cambridge Archaeological Journal 26(1): 23–51. Swenson, Edward R., Jorge Y. Chiguala, and John P. Warner 2010 Informe Final Proyecto Arqueológico Jatanca-Huaca Colorada, Valle Jequete180

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peque Temporada 2009. University of Toronto, Pacasmayo. Unpublished report submitted to the Instituto Nacional de Cultura, Lima. 2011 Informe final de la temporada de investigación 2010. University of Toronto, Pacasmayo, Peru. Unpublished report submitted to the Instituto Nacional de Cultura, Lima. 2012 Informe Final Proyecto Arqueológico Jatanca-Huaca Colorada, Valle Jequetepeque Temporada 2011. University of Toronto, Pacasmayo. Unpublished report submitted to the Instituto Nacional de Cultura, Lima. 2013 Informe Final Proyecto Arqueológico Jatanca-Huaca Colorada, Valle Jequetepeque Temporada 2012. University of Toronto, Pacasmayo. Unpublished report submitted to the Instituto Nacional de Cultura, Lima. 2015 Informe Final Proyecto Arqueológico Jatanca-Huaca Colorada, Valle Jequetepeque Temporada 2014. University of Toronto, Pacasmayo. Unpublished report submitted to the Instituto Nacional de Cultura, Lima. Thrift, Nigel 2008 Non-representational Theory: Space, Politics, Affect. Routledge, London. Uceda, Santiago 2010 Theocracy and Secularism: Relationships between the Temple and Urban Nucleus and Political Change at the Huacas de Moche. New Perspectives on Moche Political Organization, edited by Jeffrey Quilter and Luis Jaime Castillo, pp. 132– 158. Dumbarton Oaks, Washington, DC. Uceda, Santiago, and Elias Mujica 1994 Moche: Propuestas y Perspectiva. Travaux de l’Institut Français d’Etudes Andines, Lima. 2003 Moche Hacia el Final Del Milenio (Vols. 1 and 2). Fondo Editorial, Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú and Universidad Nacional de Trujillo, Lima and Trujillo. Verano, John 2001 War and Death in the Moche World: Osteological Evidence and Visual Discourse. In Moche Art and Archaeology in Ancient Peru, edited by J. Pillsbury, pp. 111–126. Yale University Press, New Haven. Viveiros de Castro, Eduardo 1998 Cosmological Deixis and Amerindian Perspectivism. Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 4: 469–488. 2004 Exchanging Perspectives: The Transformations of Objects into Subjects in Amerindian Ontologies. Common Knowledge 10(3), 463–484. Webmoor, Timothy 2013 STS, Symmetery, Archaeology. In The Oxford Handbook of the Archaeology of the Contemporary World, edited by Paul Graves-Brown, Rodney Harrison, and Angela Piccini, pp. 105–20. Oxford University Press, Oxford. 2014 Object-oriented Metrologies of Care and the Proximate Ruin of Building 500. In Ruin Memories: Materialities, Aesthetics and the Archaeology of the Recent Past, edited by Bjørnar Olsen and Þóra Pétursdóttir, pp. 462–485. Routledge, London. Weismantel, Mary 2004 Moche Sex Pots: Reproduction and Temporality in Ancient South America. American Anthropologist 106(3): 495–505. Synecdochal Ontologies at the Late Moche Site of Huaca Colorada, Peru

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2009 Have a Drink: Chicha, Performance and Politics. In Drink, Power, and Society in the Andes, edited by Justin Jennings and Barbara Bowser, pp. 258–278. University Press of Florida, Gainsville. Weistmantel, Mary, and Lynn Meskell 2014 Substances: “Following the Material” through Two Prehistoric Cases. Journal of Material Culture 19: 233–251. Witmore, Christopher 2007 Landscapes, Time, Topology: An Archaeological Account of the Southern Argolid, Greece. In Envisioning Landscape: Situations and Standpoints in Archaeology and Heritage, edited by D. Hicks, L. McAtackney, and G. Fairclough, pp. 194–225. Leftcoast Press, Walnut Creek, California. Zedeño, Maria. N. 2009 Animating by Association: Index Objects and Relational Taxonomies. Cambridge Archaeological Journal 19(3): 407–417. Zeitlyn, David 2009 Understanding Anthropological Understanding: For a Metrological Anthropology. Anthropological Theory 9(2): 209–231.

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7 The Head as the Seat of the Soul A Medium for Spiritual Reciprocity in the Early Andes

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There are many archaeological representations and historic accounts spanning the temporal and geographical dimensions of the early Andes that point to man’s spiritual being associated with the head and its hair. These examples suggest that this power was transferable and facilitated the reciprocal balance between men, man and nature, and the earthly and supernatural realm. This chapter discusses the human head and head hair in Andean belief as a conduit for this flow of spiritual power, drawing on archaeological, ethnographic, and historic examples. The intent is to demonstrate how, among early Andean peoples, human essence, or sami,1 and its transcendence emanated from the head and head hair, and that the basic Andean concepts, namely, reciprocity and symmetry or balance, are heuristic to understanding this ontological interpretation. As is known from historic and contemporary traditional Andean peoples, everything depends on maintaining an equilibrium—a balance in social ties and relations, resources, political power, the natural and supernatural worlds, and the living and the dead. It is argued that the head and head hair figuratively serve as the medium for this process, and that this belief has great time depth and spatial distribution. Thus, the balanced, back-and-forth (reciprocal) exchange made by individuals and social groups via food, drink, and coca, and by individuals and societal representatives and the cosmic realms via spiritual essence, is mediated by the head and head hair. This discussion focuses on the latter.

Heads and Head Hair as Ontological Elements The Universal Heads and head hair universally have been given special significance by cultures, and among many groups they provide an ontological perspective of how “being” and “existence” is reckoned. While the head is the source of the hair, the hair manifests its essence. Edmond Leach (1958: 160) in his early, formative article entitled “Magical Hair,” addressed this very subject. He wrote that “it has been a common postulate among anthropologists that human [head] hair has some universal symbolic value. . . . [and] the general consensus [is] that hair stands for the total individual or for the soul, or for the individual’s personal power (mana).” Here are some examples that show how the head and head hair have been given such empowerment cross-culturally, as Leach described. The first example comes from Judeo-Christian scriptures, the story of Sampson, one of the last judges of the ancient Israelites (Judges 13–16). He was given supernatural strength by God to combat his enemies and perform heroic feats. Samson’s power was contained in his head hair, and when his love, Delilah, cuts it, his pact with God is broken; hence, the loss of his gift. The Old Testament likewise established the tradition of payot, maintaining sidelocks or sidecurls among Orthodox Jewish men, based on a biblical prohibition of cutting certain head hair (Leviticus 19: 27). According to Maimonides, one of the most prolific and influential Torah scholars and philosophers of the Middle Ages, shaving the sidelocks was a heathen practice, suggesting that one’s identity as a Jew (versus a non-Jew) was traditionally associated with head hair. In this case, the collective “self ” is the Jewish body, and head hair (sidelocks) holds this ethnic quality. Another example of how head hair is viewed as possessing the spiritual embodiment of a person is tonsure, an ancient Hindu custom of cutting the hair or shaving the head after the death of an elder member of the family. In Hinduism, cutting one’s hair is considered a symbolic offering to the gods, representing a sacrifice of beauty and self (Rajbali 2013). Therefore, shaving one’s head is an effort to express one’s grief by giving of one’s self for the departed soul. There are several interesting beliefs among various native groups of North America that likewise express a spiritual or soulful quality of head hair. For example, among traditional Yakutat Tlingit of the northwest coast, a shaman’s life force and curative strength was his hair. He was prohibited from cutting it or combing out the long locks (De Laguna 1972: 684). The Yakutat shamans as de184

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scribed by the missionary, Albin Johnson (2014 [1924]: 43), were “ragged, their clothes were filthy, as if they had been dipped in seal fat, stinking, the hair long, a braid dragging several feet behind them as they walked.” De Laguna remarks it could not have grown so long on its own, but had been combined with extra hair, “fastened on with filth, to give people the impression of magical power or authority over the evil spirits, and [ability to] drive out illness.” In ancient Japan, Shinto religious beliefs, which took the form of animism, also connected human head hair and spirituality. A person’s hair contained his tama, his life essence or spirit. In women it was not only the source of life but also fertility. The tama could travel, protect, cause harm or prosperity, and attract other spirits to it (Ebersole 1998: 86–97). Although these examples are few, the literature is replete with accounts that point to the head, and by extension, head hair as being tied to the core of man’s being. So, while this volume is focused on seeking indigenous etic ontological perspectives (Tantaleán, Chapter 1), it is important to acknowledge that there are human universals that help to recognize beliefs and practices that may not be easily understood from a purely native view. And from this vantage point, it is clear there is some basis for an overarching Amerindian universal with many local and regional differences across time and space. In the Andes, it is particularly compelling.

The Andean Ontology From the earliest Andean cultures to the present, human heads and head hair are common themes expressing spiritual identity and power. For example, among prehistoric peoples, decapitation was a pre-eminent form of ritual sacrifice (Benson 2001: 5). In her discussion of human sacrifice in the ancient Andes, Elizabeth Benson references art and archaeological illustrations of ritually decapitated heads and trophy heads; two examples are a tomb built for only a decapitated head found at Alto Huallaga (Onuki 1993: 84) and a gold crown decorated with trophy head images from Kuntur Wasi (Millones and Onuki 1993: lámina I-I). Donald Proulx (2001: 121) states that “every major culture in the long sequence for this area, including Chavín, Cupisnique, Moche, Paracas Nazca, Huari, Chimú, and Inca, practiced the tradition of taking heads for ritual use,” demonstrating the fundamental importance of the head in Andean belief. Another example is the predominance of faceneck/portrait head vessels from the Middle Horizon through the Late Horizon, interpreted to have been used The Head as a Medium for Spiritual Reciprocity in the Early Andes

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for imbibing rituals associated with the transference of spiritual power (see, for example, Turner 2011: 6). And, ethnographic studies of traditional Andean peoples show that the human head and head hair continue to be part of significant rituals perpetuating life and spirit. One is the head-hair-cutting ritual of young children as a rite of passage into society. It is tied to the concept of the Quechua word tejjsie, “origin,” head hair metaphorically representing the source of a person’s being (Bastien 1978: 113). Another is the use of ancestors’ skulls to imbue a family or community with spiritual protection. During Bolivia’s Day of the Skulls (Olsen 2012), ancestors’ skulls are decorated and paraded through the town to spread their life-giving force. The point here is that there is a long Andean tradition of ritual focus on the human head and head hair, which can be traced back to the earliest occupants of the New World and their practice of shamanism. This system of belief places the seat of the soul and one’s spiritual essence at the head, emanating through head hair. A discussion of this belief system follows.

Ideological Origins and the Universal The origin of key Andean ontological and ideological concepts can be traced to early religious belief and practice—that is, shamanism. Shamanism was fundamental to many early Old and New World religions and is still practiced by tribal and traditional societies (Harner 1980; Langdon and Baer 1992; Pearson 2002; Reichel-Dolmatoff 1975; Stone 2012: 2). It is within the fundamental shamanic teachings that the head and head hair are given focus. It is useful to start by reviewing some of the basic aspects of shamanism relevant to this discussion. As various scholars have documented, the antiquity of shamanism can be traced to at least as early as the Upper Paleolithic period (Hayden 2003; Winkelman 1990), between 50,000 and 10,000 years ago. This is documented in rock art (Clottes and Lewis-Davis 1998) and burials from the Upper Paleolithic and Late Mesolithic periods in Europe (Oliva 2000; Porr and Alt 2006) and Israel (Grosman et al. 2008). Shamanism came to the New World with the occupation of the Americas. Archaeological evidence dating to the Paleoindian period recorded in North, Central, and South America demonstrates its Old World antiquity and seminal presence in early hunter-gatherer societies and small settled groups (Dillehay 1997, 2008; Harner 1980; Hayden 2003; Jodry and Owsley 2014: 589; Winkelman 1990). As time progressed and societies regionally adapted and grew, evidence shows how shamanism remained rooted in 186

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the new religious and political systems (Reilly 1989). For example, Maya priests are argued to have evolved from the older shamanic tradition (Danien 1992: 95– 97), rooted in nonelite farming populations. According to Robert Sharer (2009: 215), “shamans undoubtedly helped establish the basis of the Maya calendar and were seen as essential to the World order because they knew how to tract the cycles of time reckoned by the movements of the ‘Sky Wanderers.’” It can be argued that shamanism’s long and widespread influence occurred because of its important role in maintaining reciprocal balance between man and nature by mediation of the earthly and spiritual world (Furst 1972: ix). In South America, it is interesting to see how early complex societies of the Andes were influenced by shamanism practiced in the Amazonian lowlands. Art and other material culture from the Early Horizon (900–200 BC) and Early Intermediate Period (200 BC–AD 600) provide an excellent illustration of this exchange of ideology (Burger 1995; Cordy-Collins 1977). The focus will be on some of these examples with reference to the head and head hair as the conduit of spiritual transformation. The interpretation of this imagery is facilitated by the fact that some tribal societies of lowland South American still preserve core shamanic views and practices (Stone 2012: 2), serving as an analogy for views and practices in traditional sierra societies and in societies that preceded them.

Fundamental Shamanic Traits and Associations Some common South American shamanic traits associated with spiritual healing help shed light on the prehistoric archaeological record and related art imagery, ultimately leading back to the human head and head hair. Most basic to this chapter is the notion that in order to mediate the spiritual and mortal worlds to maintain cosmological order and balance, the shaman must spiritually transform (Reichel-Dolmatoff 1975: 108; Sharon and Donnan 1974: 57). This transformation process is physically described as reversing oneself inside out and upside down as though falling backward, both being facilitated by the head and head hair (Reichel-Dolmatoff 1975: 120). In South America, during the transformation process, the shaman becomes his alter ego, which is most often the jaguar or other feline, but the cayman is also common in Amazonian contexts (Furst 1968: 154; Stone 2012: 63). One character that may be involved in the shaman’s transformation is the bird, which can mediate and guide this process. This is said to be because the bird can fly, facilitating movement between earthly and spiritual worlds (Roe 1982: The Head as a Medium for Spiritual Reciprocity in the Early Andes

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121, 258; Whitten 1976: 44). The snake is also a key figure in shamanic transformation, serving as a mediating figure as well. The snake can slither between the earthly and underworld, likewise aiding in cosmic interaction. It is frequently represented and substitutes for the shaman’s staff, a fundamental tool of the shaman (Roe 1982: 136–138, 152), or as a belt worn around the shaman’s waist (see, for example fig. 42 from Cordy-Collins 1976, depicting Chavín Staff God figure with snake staffs and belts, derived from Amazonian shamanism). Other associations are the shaman’s tools of the trade. The first is his power object, generally taking the form of a staff, a spear, or a knife (Reichel-Dolmatoff 1971: 128). The importance of the shaman’s power device must be emphasized. In mythology of the Tukano (peoples of the northwestern Amazonian region), it is associated with the axis mundi, the bridge between worlds, in addition to serving as a fertility object (Roe 1982: 136–138). Various and sundry objects may be used as well, such as crystals and other amulets, to make up the shaman’s mesa. The mesa is the table that the shaman uses, much like a surgical table, to spiritually invoke the supernatural powers (Sharon and Donnan 1974: 52–57). Another essential item employed by the shaman toward his spiritual quest is psychotropic drugs, which facilitate crossing worlds through an altered state. There are numerous drugs that have been identified with South American shamanic practice. A few common ones include Ayahuasca/yaje or Banisteriopsis caapi and inebrans, vilca or Anadenanthera colubrina, tobacco or Nicotiana tabacum, and San Pedro cactus or Trichocereus pachanoi. The use of these substances creates the experience of spiritual death necessary to transcend realms (Furst 1972: 65; Reichel-Dolmatoff 1975: 28; Schultes 1972: 35; Wilbert 1972: 55). Peter Furst, in his assessment of the role of these drugs in Amazonian shamanic practice, asserts: The narcotic substances taken by the shaman do not cause him to assume jaguar form but rather allow the jaguar already within to reveal himself. . . . Nor is the shaman in the power of the intoxicant; it is he who controls it, and through it, the spirits of nature. (Furst 1968: 163) And, to underscore the theme of this chapter, head hair is seen as a fundamental element to the shaman’s curative operations. A traditional, contemporary shaman of Peru’s north coast named Eduardo Calderon was consulted by Douglas Sharon and Christopher Donnan to interpret Early Intermediate period Moche imagery associated with shamanic practice. The archaeologists observed: Hair is still important today in Eduardo’s shamanism. He keeps hairs from the crown of his head in a jar along with perfumes, saint’s medals, magical 188

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herbs, etc. This jar, which Eduardo considers to be his alter ego, is used to divine the cause of a patient’s malady during night curing sessions. One of the most common ailments so divined is witchcraft performed with hair from the head of victims. (Sharon and Donnan 1974: 58) Sharon (1972: 133–134) further relates his observations of Eduardo’s therapy during which participants claimed to see a monster pulling the patient’s hair from behind. “It seems that today—as in the past—head hair is believed to have a vital link with the life force.”

Examining the Archaeological Record Having laid the ground work for understanding the operational role of the South American shaman, the discussion turns to archaeological examples that suggest shamanism underlaid the beliefs of earlier societies of the Andes, and that the head and head hair were considered to be the seat of spiritual essence and fundamental to spiritual transcendence.

Paracas Burials, Shamanic Imagery, and Death as Spiritual Transformation Paracas culture flourished on the south coast of Peru from the late Early Horizon to the Early Intermediate period, that is, between circa 450 and 175 BC. The coastal climate allowed for excellent preservation of elite burials, which were comprised of the dead placed in a seated, fetal position and wrapped with layers of textile shrouds. One frequently depicted image on many Paracas mortuary textiles is a figure identified as a shamanic personage in spiritual flight (see Figure 7.1) (Stone-Miller 1995: 63–64, and figs. 48, 49). While we are not sure why this being is depicted so commonly on funerary cloth, it should be noted that the shaman must spiritually die in order to engage in supernatural battle. Death, then, may be seen as the ultimate spiritual crossover. So, perhaps one of the shaman’s duties is to spiritually escort the dead into the supernatural afterlife. Note how the shaman appears emaciated and death-like, depicted with an exposed ribcage and a skull-like head. He holds his power object, ready to fight or guide, and his hair is flowing, a sign of spiritual activity of the soul and self, as will be further discussed below. The shaman figure, as referenced above, is depicted in two orientations. Not only is he shown in spiritual flight, but he is also shown bending backward, an act to physically initiate the transformation process. This individual is shown The Head as a Medium for Spiritual Reciprocity in the Early Andes

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A.

B.

Figure 7.1. (a) Drawing of Paracas ecstatic shaman in flight (courtesy of Mary Frame); (b) drawing of Paracas ecstatic shaman in the process of transformation (courtesy of Mary Frame).

not only as an ecstatic shaman, but also one in the process of reaching that status. What is interesting about this Paracas textile figure is that both shaman orientations are repeated over and over on a single cloth, stressing that the message they convey is the process and the outcome of transformation. And, to further emphasize the importance of this dual imagery, various other Paracas mortuary mantles bear it, suggesting its fundamental role in connecting and mediating the natural and supernatural worlds. One intriguing example that underscores this concept is burial bundles or fardos from Paracas Necropolis recorded by Jane Dwyer (1979: 121). According to Dwyer, a single individual’s spiritual transformation was depicted by his burial shrouds. The textile motifs vary through the different layers, so that as each is unwrapped, the image shows greater transformation of the personage. Just like reading a book page by page, these textile layers depict the gradual transformation of the deceased individual from a mortal to a spiritual status.

Moche Effigy Vessels: The Shaman’s Head and His Alter Ego as Transformational “Shorthand” Now that it has been shown that the shaman is a key figure in Paracas mortuary art, the discussion turns to partial shamanic traits, with the emphasis on the head and head hair, seen in other Andean imagery. The first is the shaman and his alter ego, the head being the locus of its depiction (see Figure 7.2). Several of these figures are rendered in Moche pottery. During the Early Intermediate period (approximately 200 BC–AD 600), the Moche city-states of the north coast 190

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produced a wide array of mortuary art, with ceramic vessels being a principal item. One class of vessel was the effigy pot, a number of which had human bodies with animal heads. While Moche scholars have interpreted these figures in many different ways (for example Donnan 1976; Hocquenghem 1987), and debated the issue of whether or not these figures were impersonating supernatural beings or were actually supernatual beings themselves, it is argued that what is most meaningful is the nonhuman heads. If the head is central to the transformation process, then we may interpret these figures as shamans or shaman-like personages possessing other-self qualities. The other “self ” or latent ego is be-

Figure 7.2. Moche effigy vessel showing human’s alter ego, his animal self. Courtesy of the Lowe Art Museum, University of Miami, artifact 87.0183.

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ing revealed in the head. These figures represented as effigy pots may be either impersonators or actual beings manifesting their spiritual selves. Scholars have interpreted comparable Olmec period (1,800–200 BC) vessels and images in a similar fashion, referencing back to early shamanic belief identified in the Veracruz region of Mexico (see, for example, Diehl (2004: 106). This interpretation is supported by the shamanic research of Rebecca Stone (2012: 76–85). In her book on Central and South America pre-Columbian art and shamanic representation, similar interpretations are offered as examples of “cephalocentrism,” the focus of the head in artistically depicting a shaman’s alter ego or double. Stone’s view is that the emphasis of the head in these art depictions can take different forms, some of which are subtler than merely an animal substitution. However, whether symbolically or abstractly represented, the principal is the same. The head serves as the source of the spiritual self.

Chavín Art, Transformation through Reversal, and the Head and Head Hair as the Conduits In Chavín art, head representations explicitly express the reversal process of the shaman by way of the head and head hair. This is from Chavín de Huántar, an important late Initial period–Early Horizon (approximately 1200 BC–200 BC) site complex in the central highlands, which had easy access to the tropical lowlands. Chavín imagery shows contact with or knowledge of Amazonian peoples, including the belief in shamanism (Burger 1992: 129, 151–159; Lathrap 1971), which had a significant impact on Chavín religion. It, in turn, influenced many contemporary and subsequent Andean societies. Many of the examples were reported from the religious ceremonial complex of Chavín. The Chavín complex was constructed and modified in two phases. During the first phase, a temple was built, which housed a stone carving of a cayman deity known as “Lanzón.” A later temple was constructed subsuming the earlier temple. Its central deity was represented on a carved stone stela (the Raimondi Stela; see Figure 7.3), which combined the Lanzón creature with a feline deity referred to as “Staff God.” Staff God is the predominant image on the stela, with the Lanzón figure known as “Smiling God” as secondary. Staff God has many shamanic qualities. He holds two staffs, one in each hand, he wears a belt around his waist represented by snakes, and, on the basis of other contexts of Staff God, he is associated with birds, an eagle and a hawk. In the case of the Raimondi Stela, while it was not found in context, its location is believed to have been flanked by two existing stela carvings of these birds (Burger 1992: 128–164; Rowe 1967: 74–76). 192

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Most important to this chapter is that Staff God is in a transformation pose, with his eyes gazing upward. Out of the top of his head and head hair emerges Smiling God, which is clearly observed when the stela is reversed. What is depicted is the spiritual transformation process from human-feline to cayman creature (Staff God to Smiling God) by way of the head and head hair. It occurs by the figure reversing itself by bending backward, and inside out by another figure emanating from the head. Observing the Raimondi Stela both right side up and

Figure 7.3. Images of the Raimondi Stella, upright and in reverse (after Rowe 1967).

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upside down, we can see the spiritual transcendence from Staff God to his alter ego, Smiling God. Like the shaman figures in Paracas imagery, the carving seems to have been intended to be viewed to observe both perspectives. Moreover, this piece probably would have been displayed from the ceiling, to view it looking up, or on the floor, to view it looking down, for the sole purpose of seeing both images simultaneously, neither having dominance over the other.

Chavín Imagery, Hallucinogens and Related Paraphernalia, and Spiritual Transformation

The Head as Graphic Illustration Another shamanic trait associated with spiritual transformation is the use of hallucinogens, and it, too, is physically and symbolically tied to the head. Surrounding the exterior of the Old Temple were a series of large stone-carved head sculptures (see Figure 7.4). They are believed to have been displayed in an order to physically show the process of a human inhaling a hallucinogen, which causes mucous to exude from the nostrils, and then its transformation to its alter ego, nonhuman self (Burger 1992: 157–158; Tello 1960). Again, what is significant is that the sculptures are only of heads, emphasizing that spiritual transformation is initiated at the head, where one’s essence is concentrated. In addition to the pervasiveness of Chavín-influenced art that is clearly tied to shamanic and supernatural themes associated with drug use, there are also a number of examples of artifacts recovered from Chavín and Chavín-period

Figure 7.4. Chavín tenon heads, ordered to illustrate the process of transformation (Latinamericanstudies.org).

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sites that were likely employed in the ingestion or inhalation of hallucinogens. One very interesting example was collected by Rafael Larco Hoyle at the large ceremonial center of Pacopampa, a site contemporary with Chavín located in the northern highlands region of Cajamarca. The find was a mortar and pestle, likely used for grinding hallucinogenic snuff (see Burger 1992: 200 for illustration; also citing Duvoils 1967: 22; Kaulicke 1976: 44; Larco 1946, pl. 65; Rowe 1946: 292; von Reiss Altschul 1967: 304). Its form mimics the Raimondi Stela carving, with Staff God below as the mortar and Smiling God emerging from above as the pestle, and certainly conveying the same meaning as the actual Raimondi Stela.

Chavin Art, Spiritual Transformation, and the Head in Metaphoric Expression A further example of the shamanic transformation process and the head serving as its conduit is expressed in “kenning” (see Figure 7.5), an artistic device originating in Chavín art, identified and coined by John Rowe (1967: 78). Derived from Norse poetry, kenning is a verbal substitution of a word or phrase with a metaphor, for example, the sea = the alluring woman. One needs only to know the references, that is, the “code,” in order to understand the full literary statement. This literary reference was applied by Rowe to Chavín art; he saw significant, repeated patterns paralleled in its visual representation. Some years ago, the author reviewed Chavín’s visual art substitutions not only within Chavín art proper, but also in related applications of other Andean art (Glowacki 1986). This artistic expression showed strong consistency with the focus being on the head. In particular, the primary substitution in Chavín kenning is heads with tongues sticking out of mouths, which equated to spiritual transformation (inside out). Heads allow for the essence to leave, and thus, transform. The secondary substitution in Chavín kenning is locks of head hair, wrinkles, eyebrows, whiskers, and corners of eyes that turn into snakes. Lesser hair and surface treatment thus facilitate the transformation process just as snakes facilitate transformation for the shaman. The point here is twofold: First, that kenning is high-patterned and consistent, indicating that it held importance and had to be rendered correctly; secondly, and more importantly, it clearly focuses on the head and its spiritual centrality. It has been proposed that Chavín textiles served as catechisms or ideological instruction manuals (Cordy-Collins 1976, 1977). They were easy to transport and carried key information about fundamental Chavín beliefs, helping to spread “the word” to other groups. Whether or not the “full” meaning embedThe Head as a Medium for Spiritual Reciprocity in the Early Andes

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Figure 7.5. Image of Chavín figure exhibiting elements of kenning. After Rowe 1967.

ded in the designs was conveyed, elements of kenning and possibly its related meaning can be found in various early Andean art styles spanning significant geographic and temporal distance (Glowacki 1986). For this reason, it is argued that kenning conveyed a fundamental Andean concept that was broadly understood, that is, the process of spiritual transformation emanating from the head and the spiritual essence of hair.

Derived Expression

Andean Head and Head Hair as Donned Political Power One example of derived kenning influence is seen in Paracas art associated with “impersonator” figures (Dwyer 1971: 42–46). These figures appear to be shamanic in nature, but instead of being depicted as actually transforming beings, they wear costumes, which convey the same concept. The headdresses that are worn are very elaborate and portray creatures and other forms emerging from them. They are much like what is shown emerging from the head of the Raimondi Stela Staff God, but in the case of the Paracas impersonators, they are actual headdresses. Perhaps by donning a headdress the personage takes on the qualities of his alter ego, his spiritual self, thus making the process of transformation conceptual or figurative, not literal. Anne Paul (1990: 98–99), in her publication of Paracas ritual attire, discusses the ritual quality of imitation and the role of the “impersonator” in Paracas art. Citing A. Holcart (1970 [1936]: 46–47), who explains how imitation allows the individual to become identical with what or whom he imitates, Paul surmises that the impersonators represent 196

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the broad office of rulership of the ones interred. This speaks to the metaphoric nature of “heads of state,” whereby the headdress signifies the political power of leaders. Thus, to impersonate a supernatural being makes him one. Additionally, Paracas mummy bundles included facial masks and headdresses, perhaps ensuring, through emphasis—much like the impersonator figures—that the soul of the dead was transported to the spiritual world after interment. It is the head of the mummy bundle that receives the added adornment, accentuating the part of the body where this process took place. This discussion should include mention of royal Inca (AD 1438–AD 1532) headdresses made from human hair. One example is in the University of Miami’s Lowe Art Museum collection, but other similar pieces exist. This piece (see Figure 7.6) was made from more than four pounds of human hair, woven into 160

Figure 7.6. Inca headdress with human hair braids (Courtesy of the Lowe Art Museum, University of Miami, artifact 87.0183).

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braids. Here again, this headdress suggests that by actually wearing it, the individual takes on the spiritual strength and qualities of those whose hair comprised it, not so unlike the role of headdresses worn by Paracas impersonators.

The Andean Spiritual Quintessentials

Trophy Heads and Skulls Other examples of head representations associated with the seat of the soul concept are Paracas trophy head effigy vessels. The trophy head is a very common theme in Paracas art, and its representation as a vessel from which someone would drink is particularly telling, if we consider ethnohistoric accounts of Amazonian head taking. Throughout much of this general lowland region, taking and ritually treating heads and scalps was once commonly practiced (Karsten 1926: 62). The Jívaro of northern Peru and eastern Ecuador, and the Mundurucús of the Rio Tapayo (Karsten 1923: 32, 87) were renowned for taking trophy heads and shrinking them (Steward and Métraux 1948: 625; Stirling 1938: 61; Harner 1962: 265). This was because the head and head hair contained the spiritual essence of a person, and taking it gave power to the possessor (Karsten 1923: 66). Among the Jívaro, the trophy head, or tsantsa, was treated to contain the soul of the dead. It had to be shrunk and the orifices magically sealed, hence the sewn mouth. The taker then consumed a beverage made from Banisteriopsis caapi, tobacco water, and manioc from it to achieve the spiritual benefits (Karsten 1923: 70–71). Returning to the Paracas trophy head vessels, one could infer that by imbibing from a vessel of this form, one may be seen as symbolically consuming human spiritual essence and power. If this is the case, then these vessels as well as other Paracas depictions of trophy heads may not be as much about warfare undertaken to defeat the enemy as controlling and enhancing spiritual power. And in turn, other images of trophy heads in other early Andean contexts may be similarly interpreted. For example, various Moche themes depict head taking that appear as battle scenes (see, for example, Kutscher 1983, fig. 267; Laurencich-Minelli 1984, fig. 19) yet are set in ceremonial and supernatural contexts. This trophy head imagery suggests that head taking was much more ritually tied to acquiring spiritual power than solely vanquishing the enemy. After years of inventory and analysis of early trophy skulls and heads from the Andean region and observing their thematic focus in art styles spanning from the Initial Period through the Later Horizon (approximately 1800 BC–AD 1532), John Verano indicates that 198

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there is certainly some validity to this view. In a discussion of ritual sacrifice in the Andes, he remarks, “Indeed, decapitation at the hands of supernatural beings seems to be the quintessential signifier of ritual death in the Andean world” (2001: 172), placing many examples of head taking into a sacred status. In the same vein, it is telling that other early Andean cultures also valued drinking from trophy heads and effigy head vessels. Historic accounts (Betanzos 1880 [1551]; ch. 1; Sarmiento de Gamboa et al. 1906, ch. 33; Guaman Poma de Ayala 1936 [circa 1615]: 153, 194) tell us that Inca military officers toasted special victories by drinking from the skull of the defeated. Perhaps Inca effigy head keros (tall drinking cups) served a similar purpose. In light of what we know about Inca warriors and drinking from an enemy’s skull, there are other examples that should be assessed in terms of their function, such as Moche, Nazca (Figure 7.7), Chimú, and Tiwanaku portrait vessels, as well as Wari effigy head and faceneck vessels. These vessels likewise could have been used to symbolically imbibe another’s soul. In some instances, as part of ancestor worship or acknowledging the greatness of an historic personage, one symbolically drank his spiritual essence.

Figure 7.7. Nazca human effigy head bowl. Courtesy of the Lowe Art Museum, University of Miami, artifact 94.0064.06.

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Going back to the idea that human heads and skulls were trophies imbued with spiritual power, an example from the Wari period is noteworthy. At the Wari southern provincial complex of Huaro, located southeast from the city of Cuzco, an early elite cemetery known as Ccotototuyoc was identified (Glowacki and Arredondo Dueñas, in press). Associated with one of the interments was a human trophy skull, placed there as a grave good. While there is evidence for militarism in Wari society, many art examples suggest a spiritual association with head taking in addition to its obvious role in warfare. For example, a cache of figurines was excavated in 2004 at the Wari complex of Pikillacta, approximately 17 km northwest from Huaro. Archaeologists with the then–Peru Institute of Culture discovered a ceremonial dedication to the site, a deeply buried offering cache placed in the southeast corner of Sector 1. The principal offering included 56 figurines crafted of metal, stone, and shell, all of which were associated with warfare. These included figurines of warriors and prisoners, as well as supernatural creatures. What is curious about the cache is that there were no actual weapons or victims included, only objects supporting symbolic or ritual warfare (Arriola Tuni and Tesar 2011). With regard to the trophy skull from Ccotocotuyoc, it displayed evidence of ritual treatment. It was highly modified with a large carved-out skull base, artificial dentition, and scalping cut marks, along with gold alloy tacks designed to readhere portions of the hair. Great effort was made to treat this skull, suggesting that it was more than just a trophy of war. Rather, it seems more like a Jívaro tsantsa, ritually processed and preserved to possess the spiritual power of the victim’s head and head hair. Moreover, the modifications to it strongly indicate that this trophy skull most certainly was used as a vessel from which to drink (see other comparable examples in Verano 2008: 1054, fig. 52.8). While some Wari trophy heads were taken from societal members and served as relics in ancestor-veneration rites, strontium analysis from Wari trophy skulls recovered from the Ayacucho ceremonial site of Conchopata indicate that certain skulls were nonlocal peoples, likely the victims of warfare (Tung and Knudson 2008: 916, 923). The point that I emphasize is that head taking by the Wari may have been important in rituals because of the spiritual power the heads and hair contained, be it of an ancestor or an enemy. This discussion should also address trephanation—perforating the skull for medical curing—practiced by many early Andean societies. A formidable sample was studied by John Verano (2016) with an especially high percentage recorded from the early Paracas cemeteries of Paracas Cabeza and Necropolis 200

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(Verano 2016: 92–101). The latter sample may reflect ritual warfare over time, since the associated tombs were too elaborate and planned out to suggest an immediate response to a series of battle losses. While the majority of trephanations have been identified as efforts to heal head wounds, particularly blows to the head, there are others that were performed to relieve different head ailments. Still others do not seem to have had any obvious purpose. Curiously, the Paracas trephanated openings are distinctively large—in fact, the largest in the ancient Americas (Verano 2016: 90). Is it possible that trephanation was performed not only to relieve pressure to the brain due to an injury or illness, but also to release the spirit as a nonphysical medicinal treatment? Could it be that regardless of the type of trauma, be it physical pain or mental suffering of a patient, early Andeans perceived such problems to be associated with things causing pain to the soul? Verano (2016: 250–258) references modern-day trephanation practices in Western culture, considered to be ways in which to expand one’s mind and consciousness, inviting the idea that pre-Columbian peoples may also have considered trephanation to achieve similar objectives. Additionally, archaeological sites on the south coast of Peru, and particularly those associated with Paracas culture, have produced the largest Peruvian sample of head deformation/modification. These are primarily from the tombs of Cabeza Larga, named for the numerous deformed skulls recorded there (Verano 2016: 98–99). Head deformation took two forms: elongated and bilobular, the latter emphasizing lateral accentuation of the parietal bones. While there is not enough information to assign meaning to these different head modifications, it is not unreasonable to suggest that the key to head variation was to amplify the size, thereby underscoring the spiritual power associated with the head. One distant analogy is people of the Tomman Island and the south-southwestern Malakulan (Australasia). An individual with an elongated head is believed to be more intelligent than those without this head modification, as well as being of higher status, and thus closer to the spiritual world (Barras 2014). According to Mercedes Okumura (2014), there is bioarchaeological evidence that in certain populations in ancient Peru (Okumura addressed burials from Pasamayo [AD 1200–1450] on the central coast), individuals with cranial modification were likely to have better health than their nonmodified counterparts, suggesting that social status played some part in determining who would undergo this head treatment. And we know that the Inca used cranial deformation to mark themselves as elite in order to stand out from the rest of the imperial population (Hoshower et al. 1995), and perhaps even to distinguish themselves as godly. The Head as a Medium for Spiritual Reciprocity in the Early Andes

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The Andean Body Paradigm and the Spiritual Role of the Head Somewhere in the evolution of Andean society, many groups recognized an ideological parallel of the human body and the landscape. As is well summarized by Maria Lozada in Chapter 4, the Andean body, both past and present, has many metaphorical references that provide valuable insight into the ontologies of indigenous peoples of the region, and, when drawing on various sets of data, is an effective approach to understanding the pre-Columbian Andean past. These body paradigms typically cast the head as the seat of the “soul.” A number of ethnographic and ethnohistoric studies document this. Joseph Bastien’s research among western Bolivian Aymara from the community of Kaata focuses on this ideological belief. According to Bastien (1978: 46–47), the Kaata perceive the mountain that they lived on to be analogous to the human body: The highlands are the head (uma). Bushgrass grows near the summit of the mountain, as hair on the head. The wool of llamas that graze on this grass resemble [sic] human hair. As new hair grows after cutting, so do llama wool and bushgrass continually grow in the highlands. . . . Animals and people originated from and return to the head of the mountain. It is the place of origin and return, like the human head which [is] the point of entry and exit for the inner self. The Kaata also believe that Uma Pacha (earth), the mountain peaks, are the origin place of both time and space, “from which all originates and to which all returns” (Bastien 1978: 157). So, if we were to project from this concept to a more cosmological level, we have again the sense that the head is the point at which the spirit may travel to the supernatural realm and move from the earthly plain of existence to death and the afterlife. This mountain-body metaphor corroborates the archaeological record of human head representations in the early Andes as symbolizing the seat of the soul. The Kaata’s body paradigm could certainly have its origins in Inca ideology. Lozada (Chapter 4) references Constance Classen’s ethnohistoric research (1993) on the Inca human body as a model for understanding many aspects of the Inca worldview. The head plays a similar metaphoric role as the head in Kaata society. For example, the Inca employed the body metaphor in relation to the sacred landscape. They interpreted the city of Cuzco, their capital, as the body of a puma (Betanzos, cap. XVII; 1880 [1551]: 116–117; Zuidema 1985: 212). 202

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The head of the puma was the fortress of Saqsayhuaman, located on a hilltop to the north of the city (Sarmiento de Gamboa 1947: cap. 53, 233). Today archaeologists view this site as a ceremonial center, where many important events and rites were carried out (Barreda Murillo and Valencia Espinosa 2007: 149; Silva Gonzalez 2007: 179; Valencia Zagarra 2007: 207). The ceremonial nature of Saqsayhuaman provides us with a better understanding of the body metaphor for Cuzco, making it the spiritual seat of the Inca capital. A further example would be the death of the royal Inca Atahualpa at the hands of the Spanish. While Spanish history tells that Atahualpa was garroted, Andean accounts refer to his beheading (Classen 1993: 114; and referencing Guaman Poma de Ayala, vol. 2, fig. 16). According to Classen, Guaman Poma de Ayala’s depiction of Atahualpa’s execution by beheading signified not only the death of the ruling Inca but the disembodiment of the imperial body—the head, in this case, representing human and the political life essence.

Evaluating Analogies across Time and Space This discussion would not be complete without addressing the legitimacy of interpreting ontological associations of societies separated by temporal and spatial differences. First, the ethnographic records and archaeological data provide many examples of shamanic practice as far back as possibly the Neanderthals (Solecki 1975) and as recent as today. When considering the continuity of its core features, it is hard to dispute that shamanism was so basic to early and noncomplex societies that it continues to be a widely practiced spiritual institution. Together, the strength of these sources validates the use of a shamanic “structure” to derive meaning from early imagery and other archaeological associations. Second, there are many scholars who report remarkable continuity in Andean culture, making comparisons within the Andes a viable method of interpreting ideology of ancient societies there. Claude Levi-Strauss (1963: 269–273) demonstrated how oral traditions and their thematic art can survive intact for centuries and spread to distant places, maintaining both meaning and form, having illustrated this case with prehistoric south coast pottery imagery. And, Catherine Allen (1988: 2), who has spent years studying traditional, contemporary Andean communities, had this to say about Andean cultural continuity: Five hundred years after the Spanish Conquest I did not expect analogies to exist at the level of specific detail but in general ways of thinking. . . . The Head as a Medium for Spiritual Reciprocity in the Early Andes

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[However,] the mental shifts I had to make [as an ethnographer] to enter the discourse of my Andean acquaintances might help us “interrogate” the pre-Columbian material. Moreover, cultural continuity can be demonstrated using certain criteria. From a structuralist perspective, a highly complex configuration of cultural elements is less likely to be misinterpreted. And, when other aspects of culture besides those of ideology are analyzed, such as technological, political, and social elements, which are ordered by the same underlying system, it increases the chances of accurate interpretation of meaning (Isbell 1976: 271; Schneider 1976: 209). Furthermore, it helps avoid the pitfall of a priori assumptions (see Sayre and La Mattina, Chapter 3). While some consider a structuralist approach to be passé, it has, in fact, been shown to be highly effective in systematically examining and interpreting culture, particularly its underlying ideology. Finally, there are numerous examples of regular interaction among peoples of the early Andes, despite the geographic distance and variability of the regions (for example, the Spondylus and feather trades, llama caravans, Inca chaskis, to name a few). Thus, actual exchange of ideas and things by people facilitated continuity in their meanings and functions. Why should we think that the commonalities of tradition Andean lifeways, such as diet, dress, and livelihood, should not include various ideological beliefs? This is not to promulgate panAndean culture practices (Isbell 1976: 270), but to propose that religion, being the most resilient aspect of culture to change, could certainly have perpetuated fundamental aspects of these indigenous beliefs.

Conclusion In attempting to understand early Andean ideologies and ontological perspectives, it is important to recognize the congruence of certain basic Andean concepts—the head as the seat of the soul, its role in spiritual transformation, and the balance this process maintains between and across different groups and spheres. A society’s prosperity—it’s economic productivity, success in war, political power, and health and well-being—all seem connected to the spiritual essence of the individual and the cultural collective. The head, whether symbolic or physical, is this agency. It allows for the cyclical, reciprocal flow of the Andean worlds: kay pacha, the human here and now; hanan pacha, the upper, celestial world; and ukhu pacha, the underworld of death and new life. With such a central role, the spiritual essence of head, and, by extension, head hair, is possibly 204

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the quintessential ontological element of the early Andes. By considering the cephalocentric nature of much of ancient Andean art (as discussed by Stone 2012: 76–85), it becomes clear that the head not only serves as the seat of the soul, as a point of spiritual transformation, but also as a way of thinking about the larger ontological scheme that underlies much of early cultures of the region. In order to reach such an interpretation, it vital to understand, step-by-step, the process that led to this ontological perspective. It is not a casual “throw and see what sticks” approach, but one that takes a structural view of cultural organization by seeking relevant elements in finding commonality. In an age of academic interest in identifying and interpreting early indigenous ontologies, structural, cognitive approaches should not be forgotten.

Note 1. I am referring to an idea akin to the Quechua “sami.” As discussed in Catherine Allen’s ethnography of a southern highland, in an Andean community known as Sonqo, three spiritual concepts are recognized. The first two, animu (a spirit animating a living being) and alma (a soul or bones of the dead), are of Spanish origin. While they play a role in the way people of Sonqo think about spirituality, the term that seems more relevant is sami (animating essence). Similar to the Polynesian concept of mana, sami is an indigenous concept that expresses a life force that exists in everything. All things revolve around controlling and directing this flow of life (Allen 1988: 49–50, 207–208, 257, 262). Although Catholicism is part of traditional Andean societies, pre-Columbian religious beliefs may be better understood by focusing on the concept of sami in interpreting early ideology.

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Conference on Chavín, edited by Elizabeth P. Benson, Anne Pollard Rowe, and Ann Schaffer, pp. 73–100. Dumbarton Oaks, Washington, DC. Laurencich-Minelli, Laura 1984 Terrecotte del Peru precolombiano. Civiche raccolte d’arte applicate Castello Sforzesco, Milano. Leach, Edmond 1958 Magical Hair. Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute of Great Britain and Ireland 88(2): 147–164. Lecker, Michael 1997 Zayd B. Thābit, A Jew with Two Sidelocks: Judaism and Literacy in Pre-Islamic Medina (Yathrib). University of Chicago Press, Chicago. Leví-Strauss, Claude 1963 Structural Anthropology. Basic Books, New York. Millones, Luis, and Yoshio Onuki (editors) 1993 El Mundo Ceremonial Andino. Senri Ethnographic Studies no. 37. National Ethographic Museum, Osaka. Okumura, Mercedes 2014 Differences in Types of Artificial Cranial Deformation Are Related to Differences in Frequencies of Cranial and Oral Health Markers in Pre-Columbian Skulls from Peru. Boletim do Museu Paraense Emílio Goeldi. Ciências Humanas, Belém, 9(1): 15–26. Oliva, Martin 2000 The Brno II Upper Paleolithic Burial. In Hunter of the Golden Age: The Mid Upper Paleolithic of Eurasia 30,000–20,000 BP, edited by Wil Roebroeks, Margherita Massi, Jiří Svoboda, and Kelly Fennema, pp. 143–152, University of Leiden, The Netherlands. Olsen, Eric 2012 Bolivia’s Day of the Skulls. http://www.the-line-up.com/day-of-the-skulls. Accessed 2016. Onuki, Yoshio 1993 Las Actividades Ceremoniales Tempranas en la Cuenca del Alto Huallaga y Algunos Problemas Generales. In El Mundo Ceremonial Andino, edited by Luis Millones and Yoshio Onuki, pp. 69–96. Senri Ethnological Studies no. 37. National Ethnographic Museum, Osaka. Paul, Anne 1990 Paracas Ritual Attire: Symbols of Authority in Ancient Peru. Civilization of the American Indian Series. University of Oklahoma Press, Norman. Pearson, James L. 2002 Shamanism and the Ancient Mind: A Cognitive Approach to Archaeolgy. AltaMira Press, Lanham, MD. Porr, M., and K. W. Alt. 2006 The Burial of Bad Dürrenberg, Central Germany: Osteopathology and Osteoarchaeology of a Late Mesolithic Shaman’s Grave. International Journal of Osteoarchaeology 16(5): 395–406.

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Proulx, Donald A. 2001 Ritual Use of Trophy Heads in Ancient Nasca Society. In Ritual Sacrifice in Ancient Peru, edited by Elizabeth P. Benson and Anita G. Cook, pp: 119–136. University of Texas Press, Austin. Reichel-Dolmatoff, Gerardo 1971 Amazonian Cosmos: The Sexual and Religious Symbolism of the Tukano Indians. University of Chicago Press, Chicago. 1972 The Cultural Context of an Aboriginal Hallucinogen: Banisteriopsis Caapi. In Flesh of the Gods: The Ritual Use of Hallucinogens, edited by Peter T. Furst, pp. 114–135. Praeger, New York. 1975 The Shaman and the Jaguar. Temple University Press, Philadelphia. Rajbali, Pandey 2013 Hindu Sam ˙ skāras: Socio-religious Study of the Hindu Sacraments, 2nd edition. Motilal Banarsidass, India. Reilly, F. Kent, III 1989 The Shaman in Transformation Pose: A Study of the Theme of Rulership in Olmec Art. Record of the Art Museum, vol. 48, no. 2: 4–21. Princeton University Press, Princeton, New Jersey. Roe, Peter G. 1982 The Cosmic Zygote: Cosmology of the Amazon Basin. Rutgers University Press, New Brunswick, New Jersey. Rowe, John Howland 1946 Inca Culture at the Time of the Spanish Conquest. In Handbook of South American Indians, edited by Julian Steward, vol. II, pp. 183–333. Bulletin 43. U.S. Government Printing Office, Washington, DC. 1967 Form and Meaning in Chavín Art. In Peruvian Archaeology, edited by John Howland Rowe and Dorothy Menzel, pp. 72–87. Peek, Palo Alto, California. Sarmiento de Gamboa, Pedro, Richard Pietschmann, and Universität Göttingen 1906 Bibliotek. Geshichte des Inkareiches. Weidmann, Berlin. 1947 Historia de los Incas (1572). Biblioteca Emecé de Obras Universales, Sección X, Historia y Arqueología, no. 85, Tercera edición. Emecé Editores, Buenos Aires. Schneider, David M. 1976 Notes Toward a Theory of Culture. In Meaning in Anthropology, edited by Keith H. Basso and H. A. Selby, pp. 187–220. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. Schultes, Richard E. 1972 An Overview of Hallucinogens in the Western Hemisphere. In Flesh of the Gods: The Ritual Use of Hallucinogens, edited by Peter T. Furst, pp. 3–54. Praeger, New York. Sharon, Douglas 1972 “The San Pedro Cactus in Peruvian Folkhealing.” In Flesh of the Gods: The Ritual Use of Hallucinogens, edited by Peter T. Furst, pp. 114–135. Praeger, New York. Sharon, Douglas, and Christopher B. Donnan 1974 Shamanism in Moche Iconography Monograph IV, Archaeological Survey. Institute of Archaeology, UCLA, Los Angeles. 210

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8 Toward a Situated Ontology of Bodies and Landscapes in the Archaeology of the Southern Andes (First Millennium AD, Northwest Argentina)

Ben ja m i n A l berti a n d A n dr e s L agu ens

Archaeologies of landscape implicitly work from a particular idea of what a body is. What happens to the archaeological notion of landscape when one starts from an idea of body that differs ontologically from the default universal body of embodiment theory? Underlying conventional responses to how people live in different environments are both the idea of body, in which body and landscape are separate, if related, things, and the idea that human groups adapt to certain ecological niches. Leaving one’s environment is assumed to cause cultural stress and lead to culture change. In this chapter, we first examine conventional and more recent ideas of landscape and the bodies implied, drawing inspiration from recent phenomenological and ontologically oriented research in archaeology and anthropology. We then part ways with such approaches, arguing that they retain a notion of perceiving subject—implicitly human—as central to the engagement between landscapes and being. Subsequently, we explore the potential of Amazonian perspectivism with its radically different ontology of bodies to inform a new archaeology of landscapes. Approaches to past ontologies of the Andean world have been explored, not only in relation to landscapes, where local notions such as Apu, wa’ka, and Pacha (see Bray 2015) provide theories of a relational and animated world, but also in relation to material culture from Amazonian perspectivism, such as within Chavín and Recuay (Lau 2013; Weismantel 2015). We intend to go a step further: we propose an archaeology that takes into account local theories as on a par with our own anthropological theories (see

Alberti and Marshall 2009). We therefore start from a fundamentally different ontological premise: things do not need to be animated, nor are they simply believed to be animated. Rather, they just are fundamentally animated. More precisely, “subjectivity” is a condition of being and relating as much as its result. Here we explore the consequences for an archaeology of landscape. We choose to work with Amazonian perspectivism as a broad-based Amerindian ontology, and, as such, is valid for our Andean case study, because it deliberately challenges ontological assumptions beginning from the body. According to this theory, undifferentiated humanity is the universal and original condition of all entities, human and nonhuman (Viveiros de Castro 2002). A humanlike subjectivity is shared: everything potentially has a human spirit or soul; anything might be a person. We take dwelling, therefore, as inherently relational where human and nonhuman bodies participate actively. Our position is that this notion of what the body is does not work with a conventional idea of “landscape” as conventionally understood, but rather points toward ecologies of multiple selves (Kohn 2013) that constitute relationally every element of their worlds. Recognizing the theoretical mutuality of the concepts of body and landscape, we explore what happens to landscape when we start from an alternative ontology of bodies. We develop these ideas in relation to a case study of the first-millennium La Candelaria archaeological culture of northwest Argentina. Although La Candelaria culture is traditionally understood to occupy an area from the yungas, or tropical forest, to the relatively lowland eastern part of the region, similarities in material culture across a broader area and into the semiarid valleys to the west demand explanation. We therefore explore the relationships between La Candelaria and these two different environments. We argue that perceptual and experiential engagement with landscapes should not be theoretically primary in understanding this case, but rather “social” relationships between all beings that made up their worlds.

Landscape in Archaeology The common archaeological idea of the landscape as a set of resources to be adapted more or less successfully by human groups is a powerful one—it allows us to understand the limits and potentials of certain places for human settlement or life. Nonetheless, as its critics have remarked, it tends to reduce ideas about those landscapes—whether economically based or ideological—to 214

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epiphenomena of the resource structure (David and Thomas 2008; Van Dyke 2007). Any idea of landscape clearly depends on and is part of more general ontologies and theories of world. As such, the concept of landscape goes handin-hand with quite specific ideas about personhood, individuals, subjects, and bodies. All imply each other; they make an ontological whole. Working with a particular notion of landscape by extension involves a particular ontology of personhood, and so on. Each idea of landscape implies both a particular type of body and certain types of relationships between that body and the landscape. Notwithstanding exceptional work that endeavors to bridge the gap, in essence, we argue, all contemporary archaeological ideas of landscape rely on a prior separation of body from landscape, in which the body is a universal, generalized unit endowed with certain capacities, and the landscape is an environment that impinges on and can be modified by that body. While physical landscapes are in some ways relativized by talk of “multiple” landscapes, the bodies that move around these landscapes are based on a single concept of body. The end result is a very particular Western idea of landscape, one associated with a particular idea of body. A new ontology of the body, as we will show, changes the nature of the relationship. The idea of the culturally constructed landscape replete with meaning took force in archaeology during the postprocessualist response to processualism’s focus on environmental factors. Already by the early 1990s, Ingold’s (1993) fundamentally important article on the temporality of the landscape demonstrated the weaknesses of the model. The model of “cultural construction,” he showed, relies on Cartesian notions of time and space and the separation of culture from nature, resulting in a strange dislocation of bodies and landscapes. The result is a human body or person standing inside a three-dimensional space, bestowing meaning on the objects within that space. Ingold’s paper and subsequent work is widely cited, although its lessons continue to be overlooked (Alberti et al. 2011; Hicks 2016). Phenomenological approaches to landscape have since dominated (Johnson 2012; Thomas 2008; Tilley 1994; Van Dyke 2007). Perhaps the most rigorous has been Thomas’ development of Ingold’s “dwelling perspective.” Here, the concern is very much to think landscapes and bodies together, challenging the Cartesianism of cultural construction models. In fact, Thomas is at pains to point out that the type of landscape conceptualized by both cultural construction and phenomenological approaches is one that “implies a quite particular understanding of what landscape is: a set of things or entities that can be objectively described” (Thomas 2008: 301). Toward a Situated Ontology of Bodies and Landscapes in the Southern Andes

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It is clear that both Ingold and Thomas move from strongly worked out ontological positions based on the work of philosophers such as Deleuze and Heidegger. Rather than challenge the conclusions of their work—whether they do in fact unite body, mind, and landscape—our concern is with the type of body that continues to be implied by such approaches and, by extension, a particular ontology of landscape. Earlier critiques have shown that the neutral objective observer necessary for both functionalist and symbolic construction approaches relies on a position-less, universal subject. This body-less subject is, in fact, very much embodied. We agree, therefore, with Johnson (2012), who points out in a recent survey that a situated subject can and should be the basis for analytical and interpretive work. In characterizing phenomenological approaches to landscape in archaeology, authors such as Thomas (2008) and Johnson (2012) are careful, therefore, to include the variability inherent in varied “bodily experiences.” In his move from the symbolic approach to a dwelling perspective in archaeology, Thomas (2008: 305) argues that the question shifts from “What was the symbolic structure?” to “How did people relate to [the landscape]?” The move is not trivial, as it involves a new conceptualization of what it means to be, and a recognition that the substantivist view of ontology motivates the first question and a phenomenologically more accurate view of ontology, the second. We take a further step in the direction Thomas indicates, by relativizing the ontological question in light of ontological theory from outside the Western tradition. As we will see, relations do turn out to be key, but the type of “landscape” dwelled in turns out to be very different. The route to demonstrating this difference is through the body.

From Embodiment to Perspectivism The varieties of bodily experience are a foundational point for phenomenologically oriented approaches. The general metaphysical model that underlies the dwelling perspective corresponds to a model of the body that is thoroughly integrated with its world—not a freestanding, neutral apparatus for sense selection and perception, but a living organism among other organisms. Thomas’ (1996) thorough grounding in Heideggerian phenomenology leads to bodies that are not ontologically given but rather come into being through practice in a world already significant. Nevertheless, phenomenological approaches can fall foul of a similar critique as that leveled at processualism: while their subjects 216

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are firmly rooted in bodies, and bodies have become diversified, a universalism still lies in the relationship between the capacities of these varied bodies and the environment in which they reside. A particular kind of sensing body is implied. Underlying Thomas’ generalized ontology, therefore, is a universal notion of what a human body is and, therefore, what a landscape is. The problem continues in nonrepresentational approaches to understanding landscape (see below): both see the distancing effect of the Cartesian notion of space as a problem and focus on proximity and relations established through bodies and their abilities to be affected and to produce meaning. But are all bodies unitary, sensing things? If our contention is that a specific landscape theory implies a specific kind of body, and that that kind of body is most frequently aligned with a singular, biologically constituted, perceptually informed organism, then what happens when we start from another kind of body? In asking whether embodiment is useful as a cross-culturally valid analytic, Vilaça (2009: 129), for example, argues that embodiment as a theory has been imposed wholesale on the anthropology of the Amazonian region precisely because of the apparent close fit between phenomenological and local notions of bodies. The theory, however, is based on the Euro-American concept of the individual, which has no counterpart in the Amazon. It treats Amazonian bodies as examples of a kind—the mindful body—the prototype for which belongs to the industrialized West. What it misses out, she argues, is the peculiarity of Amazonian theories of subjects and bodies. What difference would that kind of body make to how we conceive of landscape? In what follows, we draw from archaeologies of landscape that recognize the theoretical mutuality of the concepts of body and landscape and ideas of bodies that come from Amazonian ethnographies, to both illustrate this incredibly close relationship as well as provide an alternative idea of landscape that archaeologists can use. Instead of a relationship between a generic body (however socially modified) and a variety of container-type landscapes, we see a landscape/body constituted by multiple beings through relationships. In effect, the distance between bodies and landscapes collapses. For example, as we explore the literature on Amazonian bodies and space, we see that rather than an open space of encounter, people live in worlds constituted by multiple subjectivities, or persons. Space or landscape is conceived as relations among living beings, or an “ecology of selves” (Kohn 2013; see below). If we extend these relations to include landforms, plants, and so on (something that Kohn can only do to a limited degree, see De la Cadena 2014), we have a world that is made up of Toward a Situated Ontology of Bodies and Landscapes in the Southern Andes

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interactions among beings—a society through and through. Much the same is valid for the Andes, where for many societies the world is peopled with multiple potential subjectivities, including stones, mountains, rivers, the sky, animals, ancestors, objects, and many other animated entities. Terms such as camay (Salomon 1991), sami (Arnold and Hastorf 2008), and wak’a (Allen 2015; Bray 2015) are some of the concepts that synthesize a world that blurs boundaries between humanity, materiality, and subjectivity. When thinking about alternative ontologies of bodies that could lead to new notions of landscapes, a number of options are apparent. Strathern’s “dividuals” and Wagner’s concept of fractal bodies have been used by archaeologists to theorize the relationship between bodies, persons, and material culture (Fowler 2004). Both fractality and dividuality have been taken up in recent work on the Amazon and in the Andes (for example, Allen 2015). In particular, in the Quechua world the notion of body is inconceivable without landscape—body and mountain are reciprocal metaphors (Bastien 1978), and the human body is linked to topography by common terms used to describe its internal and external parts. Notwithstanding these possibilities, we choose to work with Amazonian perspectivism—a theory developed by Brazilian anthropologists on the basis of a broad-based Amerindian ontology—because it deliberately challenges our basic ontological assumptions about culture and nature beginning from the body. Moreover, its geographic proximity to our case study lends it some authority as a locally situated alternative ontological model.

South American Perspectivist Archaeologies Perspectivism, both as theory and practice, is grounded in the anthropology of Amerindians, mostly lowland South American native groups, although it has also been attributed to other geographically located people (for example, Pedersen 2007; Willerslev 2007). The theory was developed principally by Brazilian anthropologists, among whom Viveiros de Castro (1998; 2004a; 2010) and Lima (1999, 2000) stand out. Viveiros de Castro summarizes perspectivism as follows: I use “perspectivism” as a name for a set of ideas and practices found throughout indigenous America and to which I shall refer . . . as though it were a “cosmology.” This cosmology imagines a universe peopled by different types of subjective agencies, human as well as non-human, each

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endowed with the same generic type of soul, i.e. the same set of cognitive and volitional capacities. The possession of a similar soul implies the possession of similar concepts, which determine that all subjects see things in the same way; in particular, individuals of the same species see each other (and each other only) as humans see themselves; that is, as beings endowed with human shape and habits, seeing their bodily and behavioral aspects in the form of human culture. What changes when passing from one species of subject to another is the “objective correlative,” the referent of these concepts: what jaguars see as “manioc beer” . . . humans see as “blood;” where we see a muddy salt-lick on a river bank, tapirs see their big ceremonial house, and so on. Such difference of perspective— not a plurality of views of a single world, mind you, but a single view of different worlds—cannot derive from the soul, since the latter is the common original ground of being; such difference is located in the bodily differences between species, for the body and its affections . . . is the site and instrument of ontological differentiation and referential disjunction. (Viveiros de Castro 2004b, 3–4) Amerindian perspectivism is an indigenous conception according to which the world is populated by different entities, agents, or persons (that is, certain animals, spirits, objects, phenomena of nature, artifacts, and plants) all of which are considered subjects, and who, as such, see the world in the same way as humans do. The distinctiveness resides in their bodies, which are the home of subjectivity and of their point of view or perspective. Consequently, different types of beings do not see the same things, but see things specific to their own cultural world. For example, humans see peccaries as animals, but peccaries see themselves as persons and see humans as prey or enemies. The way of seeing, therefore, is always the same—it is a cultural act. What is different is what is seen. Culture is one, what changes is the world, or nature. This is the basis of what Viveiros de Castro calls “multinaturalism” as opposed to multiculturalism. Understanding the archaeological record from a perspectivist standpoint has a certain popularity at present (for example, Betts et al. 2012; Conneller 2004; Lau 2013; Weismantel 2015). Of particular interest is the work of Brazilian archaeologists who are thinking in new ways about precolonial Amazonian cultures. Items of material culture (mainly ceramic vessels and funerary urns, as well as stone and ceramic figurines) were traditionally taken either as evidence of cultural types or, later, as indexes of social complexity (Barreto 2014;

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Gomes 2001, 2010). A new perspective has gained ground since the publication of the edited volume Unknown Amazon (McEwan et al. 2001), since which work regularly takes into account current contributions from Amazonian ethnology. Cosmology has become a source for new interpretations of art, material culture, and agency (for example, Barcelos Neto 2009; Lagrou 2007; Santos-Granero 2009). Perspectivism has inspired several of these interpretations. For example, Gomes (2010) has analyzed the Santarem Culture (CE 1000) ceramic iconography, in particular modeled depictions of human/animal metamorphoses, anthropomorphic vases of sitting humans, and spatial distributions of ceramic residues at Santarem sites on the basis of perspectivist ontology. She concludes that material culture materializes a relationship that exists among the processes of social complexity, shamanism, and perspectivist cosmology. Barreto (2014) resorts to a perspectivist idea of body in her discussion of ceramic objects and lithic statuettes. Drawing on the transformational and constructed characteristic of bodies in this pan-Amazonic ontology, she analyses how bodies (human and animal, and human-animal hybrid bodies) were depicted in ways that clearly made allusion to reproduction and transformation. Interestingly, she considers how human-modeled depictions in anthropomorphic funerary urns placed in cemeteries as memorials were intended to stabilize bodies, preventing the loss of their humanity (see Alberti 2007). Perspectivist approaches to archaeological objects and contexts have also been attempted in the Andes. George Lau (2012, 2013) turns to Amazonian perspectivism in attempting to understand alterity in Recuay societies of the central Andes during the first half of the first millennium CE. Drawing on Viveiros de Castro’s notion of “ontological predation,” Lau argues that predation is a unifying principle behind a symbolic economy of alterity, found in hunting, warfare, and also in Andean ancestrality. Here, identity building is a relational process based on the symbolic as well as the material appropriation of the other, human or nonhuman. This is expressed through different archaeological materials, mainly in ceramic and stone-carved iconography. Also working in the Andes, Weismantel (2015) proposes a new, perspectivist reading of Chavín (3000 BCE) lithic ceremonial sculptures. She argues that the images in their particular materiality impose their point of view on the observer in a mutual relationship of seeing and being actively seen. The images do not merely represent a world, but rather enact an animist ontology in practice (2015: 15). It is noteworthy that these approaches to perspectivism in the Andes, although different in scope, demonstrate its widespread contemporary and his220

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torical valence among many South American peoples. Methodologically, they center on objects of material culture, suggesting new readings of particular materialities, whether sensory, experiential, textual, or theoretical interpretations. Although suggestive, they do not appraise the very notion of materiality or the particularity of the body in perspectivist terms. Perhaps Lau’s approach is furthest from a Western body, since he writes about alterity in a way that implies relationships among peers, that is, what the Others were for a perspectivist society. While Weismantel’s approach is closer to a perspectivist notion of an object (as unstable, multifarious, and agentive, although not explicitly endowed with subjectivity), her notion of relatedness and experience would appear to rely on a Western kind of body or subject. In contrast, we seek to understand the archaeological record and its materiality in terms of a perspectival world. This is not, therefore, about a particular interpretation of certain iconographic and morphological attributes and associations, but about utilizing the fundamental principles of a relational ontology when confronted by the archaeological record and its objects. This is not, then, about objects, bodies, landscape, or any other entity; rather, is about another conceptualization of humankind and otherness which fully encompasses the former terms.

Perspectivist Bodies Perspectivism jettisons the idea of landscape altogether, we argue, because everything you are interacting with could be a being if it has a body. Bodies are of central importance to perspectivism. According to Viveiros de Castro, bodies are not so much the biological component of our selves but are “bundles of affects,” a series of capacities and ways of responding that bodies share with like bodies. All beings share the same capacity to see and know the world, as we have seen. What differentiates them are their bodies—bodies that are not stable objective referents, but must be worked on and capacitated to produce the correct “bundle of affects” that ensures they will do and see the same way as their kin or species members. Perspectives are thus situated in bodies. Bodies are what differentiate subjects and, ultimately, the worlds they occupy. Whereas the theory of embodiment presupposes a “mindful body” as the site of difference among subjects defined by their shared bodies, perspectivism considers that bodies differentiate among subjects; embodiment presupposes subjects in advance. Perspectivism argues that there is “no pure perception anterior to the interactions” between subjects and objects (Vilaça 2009: 136). The consequences are Toward a Situated Ontology of Bodies and Landscapes in the Southern Andes

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far from trivial, as Vilaça (2009, 136) points out: different sets of relations do not produce different objectifications of a singular object world, but “different bodily constitutions of the subject,” and hence different worlds. It is notable that recent work in nonrepresentational theory—an explicitly ontologically oriented approach originating largely in human geography (see Waterton 2013)—uses the same language of “affects” to talk about how bodies and worlds come together. The nonrepresentational research agenda includes a focus on bodies and landscapes, where the relationship between the two is recognized to be inevitable and necessary. Concepts such as “affect” and “performativity” mark out a research agenda that encompasses the multiple extradiscursive elements of experience and how to present them. Proximity, relations, and affect can provide us with a much more vivid sense of what it means to be in a landscape, to live in relation and prediscursively. Bodies are sensing, living things, brought into being and bringing into being a particular environment/landscape. By positing the variety of human responses to landscape as various bodily experiences, a specific definition of a universal body is avoided, as experience becomes the relevant arbiter of cultural difference. Here the idea is that sentient bodies experience and form affective ties with their surroundings, hence constituting meaningful places even when obvious symbolization is not present. However, even though a great deal of sensitivity is added to the body-landscape relationship, landscape remains a thing external to the human subject—formative of human experience, yes, but not ultimately constituted by that relationship. Perspectivist understandings of bodies beg the question of what happens when the ontology of bodies (as precisely universal, if situated, thinking-feeling machines) is challenged. Amazonian bodies start from a different premise that collapses landscape/body because the body is the point of view and the world is full of beings and relations, not inert “world” ready to be sculpted by human action. Bodies are perspectives; they are what make a world appear in a given way. “Affects” in perspectivism are precisely what distinguish bodies and therefore worlds; they are not generalized ways in which a generalized body distinguishes itself in its relationship with a generalized landscape, hence making it specific.

Amazonian Non-landscapes It is conspicuous that Amazonian perspectivism is silent on the topic of landscape. It is noteworthy that neither Kohn (2013) in How Forests Think, nor Vi222

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veiros de Castro1 use the term. The fact that the people with whom they have worked are more concerned with the cosmological or with the intimacies of more ecological type relations goes some way to explaining the absence. Ecology rather than landscape holds theoretical sway.2 Landscape has, however, been a topic of debate in recent archaeological literature on the Amazon. Traditionally considered as pristine nature, archaeologists have recently demonstrated that the Amazon’s current state is in fact the outcome of very ancient, continuous, and deep transformations due to human interactions with the environment (Balée 2010; Erickson 2008; Heckenberger 2005). There is no nature to be found in the Amazonia but a profoundly domesticated landscape (Balée 2010; Erickson 2008, 160; Raffles 2002). Known as “historical ecology,” authors in the field reject mere adaptation and envision landscape as a relational effect of human knowledge, intentions, and practices. The idea of anthropogenic cultural landscapes has revolutionized the archaeology of the Amazon, giving it historical depth and significance. One could read perspectivism as supporting a strangely similar version of the Amazon: rather than a pristine “nature” that exists above and beyond humans, the rainforest is alive and fully cultural. The difference is that while Erickson posits the complex modification of a landscape over time, it remains a cultural-natural artifact. For perspectivism, in contrast, “nature” is part and parcel of society, so is a priori historical. Indigenous ecologies reverse the relationship between nature and culture. Mora (2006) illustrates the difference that such a reversal makes when he combines Amazonian history, anthropology, and archaeology with Indigenous histories from contemporary Amazonian peoples. The result is a local perspective on landscape—a form of animism or perspectivism—which takes into account local ontologies and cosmologies in ecological relations. Such relationships, Mora (2006: 15) argues, are in fact socioecological relationships, since all species are conceived as social beings, and any geographic space is defined and occupied by social relationships. The organizational principle that governs the universe is that of social relationships and kinship between peers—of any species. Through social relationships, different beings self-define as humans. They inhabit worlds very similar to ours in which real humans are seen as other creatures of the universe with which they maintain relationships of affinity and reciprocity. Thus, space or geography is in permanent movement and transformation, while at the same time being the outcome of history and mythic narratives that are continuously actualized through socioecological relationships. To live in that landscape is not to maintain mere Toward a Situated Ontology of Bodies and Landscapes in the Southern Andes

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ecological and economic relationships with a given space, but to live in a world inhabited by many living others.3 What one begins to see here is a landscape that is a “non-landscape,” a space that is impossible to either settle or distance oneself from—something that refuses to be different in kind from other entities, of which it is fully composed. The self-consciously perspectivist-influenced work of archaeologists Green and Green among the Palikur (Green and Green 2013) and Kohn’s (2013) work provide important clues to how we might go about an archaeology of these “non-landscapes.” Kohn (2013) points strongly toward an alternative ontology of landscape, although he does not refer to it as such, from the vantage point of his ethnographic work among the Runa in the Ecuadorian Amazon. While Runa people are perspectivist, Kohn combines this ontology with Pierce’s semiotic without reproducing or translating native into Western terms, rendering instead a new anthropological ontology. For our argument, his concept of ecologies of the selves is key. According to Kohn, all beings are selves, as long as they have the capacity to manage signs and representations. A monkey in the forest hears the noise of a broken branch made by a hunter, and reacts; he interpreted that noise as a sign, and acted in consequence. All beings are constitutively semiotic. Sensing beings are thinking subjects and the forest is an ecology of selves: a complex web of relations between thinking beings in interaction that “merge, dissolve, and also merge into new kinds of we as they interact” (Kohn 2013: 15, original emphasis). As a consequence, forests think. In our case, it is landscapes as a whole that can “think” in this way. All selves have points of view, and humans must be alert when entering relationships not to lose their own in acts of ontological predation. The forest—or landscape—is a space of unstable and ambiguous relationships among peers. Kohn’s ontology clearly challenges much that we take for granted when thinking about ecology. We have moved far from landscape as a piece of perceived and experienced materiality from a human point of view. It is not a Cartesian space of stable, nonhuman entities that can be animated by humans into active relationships. Landscape is peopled by living—not “animated”—and thoughtful beings with whom humans come into relation. From this perspective, to live in a landscape is to inhabit a space of relationships with others, humans and otherthan-humans, with communicative capacities. It is not just a landscape; it is a space that is fully made up of interacting selves. The archaeological possibility of a situated ontological approach to Amazonian (non-)landscapes is illustrated by the work of Green and Green (2013) among the 224

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Palikur community of northeast Brazil. Dissatisfied with distanced, scientific discourse and shamed, to a degree, by their hosts, they ultimately found that they needed to particularize radically their archaeological discourse in line with local concepts of time, space, and the definition of archaeology itself. The Palikur, the Greens explain, live with an ontology that stresses movement, traces, and worlds brought into being through continuous interactions (Green and Green 2013: 148). The Greens begin with a critical reading of space and place, rather than landscape, moving from these more general terms to a consideration of Palikur topologies. This critical reading provides us with some important clues on how to develop a notion of landscape that encompasses other ontologies rather than reproduces our own. The Palikur notion of space is clearly in contrast to Euclidian geometry. According to the Greens, the Palikur think about space as relational, including landforms, persons, and certain animals, all of which are “partners and participants in movements” (Green and Green 2013: 144). They write: “As one moves through the world, one is making space by naming forms. Yet the naming of those forms is not confined to the forms of objects—round rock, cylindrical finger—but attends also to the interaction of forms: something is not just ‘on’ but ‘on-round’ or ‘on-flat.’ Yet . . . the forms themselves are not confined to the familiar range of solid shapes” (Green and Green: 145–146). Space is topologically conceived, demonstrated through narratives that mix time and place and ignore distance while following established paths. We begin to see how a perspectivist account might take into consideration landscape without falling foul of constructivist understanding. The continuous interaction that forms the world accords with our thinking.

Case Study: La Candelaria Taking the La Candelaria culture of northwest Argentina as a case study, we ask why stylistically similar material culture is found across distinct environmental zones—in this case, yungas (subtropical forests) and the arid sub-Andean valleys (see Figure 8.1). Traditionally, when stylistically similar material culture is found in very different environmental areas in the Andes, it has been interpreted in a variety of ways, from evidence for the existence of distinct cultures, to cultural contact, diffusion, and political dominance, firmly based on environment—culture correspondence. Alternatively, the pieces that differ somewhat and in a regular, iterative way are assigned to a local cultural manifestation, often left unnamed. Murra’s (1972) models of ecological complementarity were parToward a Situated Ontology of Bodies and Landscapes in the Southern Andes

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Figure 8.1. Map of the geographic areas mentioned in the text.

ticularly innovative as economic and political explanations. We lack, however, a good standard explanation for the disparity in more specific terms. Here, we make two parallel arguments. The first is based on material culture similarities and differences in patterning principally across two different landscapes. The absence/presence of stylistically similar—although not identical— material culture can be taken as evidence of the presence of peoples with shared cultural affiliation, or modes of life, and ontological commitments. The specific form and type of material culture is irrelevant as we are making an argument about general presence/absence in different physical environments. The material is similar enough to raise the question of why they are treated as evidence of 226

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distinct cultures. Our second argument is that a perspectivist-influenced theory of landscape that is built on the notion that bodies/landscapes are relationally constituted provides a model for understanding how people were able to move between and coexist in distinct environments without changing their material culture substantially, which they did by “carrying their landscape” with them. The material is amenable to a perspectivist-influenced analysis partly because of the form of the material culture, principally the ceramics (Alberti 2007, 2014). In essence, ontology rather than economy or diffusion provides a better framework to understand this material patterning. La Candelaria culture is characterized by ceramic stylistic similarities in a core area centered on east-central Tucuman and southern-central Salta provinces, northwest Argentina (north of Cadillal, west of the Sierras de Santa Barbara, east of the Aconquiqa, and south of Rosario de la Frontera in Salta Province) (see Figure 8.1). The ceramic style was described originally on the basis of a “female” prototype anthropomorphic vessel found not in this area but further west, in the Santamaria Valley (Gonzalez 1977). What constitutes a Candelaria style, according to Gonzalez (1977), are jars in the form of a truncated cone or cylinder, double vases, pucos or bowls, and timbales. The quality of the paste is excellent, and the larger urns are notable for their thin walls. Most ceramic is grey or black, with some pieces in red. Very few pieces are painted; molded and incised decoration dominates. Most representative are molded “effigy” vases, representing humans, animals, and fantastical creatures (Figure 8.2). Occasionally a human face is molded and incised on the neck of both small vessels and urns, often including a pointed “beard,” coffee grain eyes, a notable brow, and incised features (Gonzalez 1977: 134–36). Pronounced bulges on many pieces are also representative (“mamelones”). While heavily based on the identification of stylistically diagnostic ceramics, associated materials that make up a good Candelaria assemblage include the distinctive use of primary burial in urns of both adults and children. Funerary goods included ceramic pieces within or near the burial urn (Heredia 1974; Ryden 1936). In the traditional Candelaria area, settlements are sparse, poorly preserved, and probably relied on perishable building materials to a large extent. At some sites, evidence of the La Candelaria settlements is sufficient to characterize them as consisting of small, subcircular patio grouped structures, dispersed rather than agglomerated (Heredia 1969, 1974). This is fairly characteristic of a range of cultures from the formative period of northwest Argentina. Much of the material was found as increased density of artifact scatters. Sites were Toward a Situated Ontology of Bodies and Landscapes in the Southern Andes

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Figure 8.2. La Candelaria zoomorphic ceramic vessel.

located on the shoulders of low hills within an environment of dense undergrowth. The yungas would have presented a sea of green to people at the time, interspersed with areas of rolling hills to the east, and the impressive wall of the Anconquija rising to the west (Figure 8.3). Traveling southwest, one reaches the alpine Tafi Valley, with its grazeable grasslands and numerous formative period settlements (Figure 8.4). A sudden change in life announces entry into the arid valleys beyond to the west, dominated by the cardon cactuses and dispersed algarrobo of the Santamaría and Calchaquí Valleys (Figure 8.5). It is at this point that the change in environment is privileged in the determination of cultural type in conventional archaeological accounts. The Tafi Valley is intimately connected to the history of the Candelaria culture. The earliest of the five periods of Candelaria are found at the El Mollar site, the largest in Tafi. Yet it is not considered part of La Candelaria. Moving west, into the Santamaria Valley and Calchaqui valleys, the history with Candelaria has been more spotted but no less important. The relationship between the styles of the ceramics in this area and that from the heartland of the La Candelaria has long been recognized (Heredia 1974; Scattolin 2006). When a piece is sufficiently Candelaria-like, it is explained as an intrusion, brought in by trade, or made by intrusive immigrants from lands to the east. Alternatively, the pieces that 228

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Figure 8.3. The yungas, looking west toward the Aconquija mountain range.

Figure 8.4. Tafi del Valle.

differ somewhat and in a regular, iterative way are assigned to a local cultural manifestation, often left unnamed. Gonzalez’ student, Heredia (1969, 1974), further delimited the La Candelaria culture and its relationship to the environment. He identified five chronological phases on the basis of percentages of types of ceramic decoration. These, however, were based on particular sites rather than a series, and could instead have Toward a Situated Ontology of Bodies and Landscapes in the Southern Andes

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Figure 8.5. The Santamaria Valley.

been used to reinforce the spread of Candelaria ceramics across distinct environmental zones. They are geographic as much as temporal. Heredia (1974) did in fact recognize at least four distinct “zones” along with the five phases. Nonetheless, the conclusions reached by Heredia minimized the geographic spread of the culture and establish an enduring sense of an eastern, yungas, society. It is possible, however, to identify the material expression of a stylistically similar cultural manifestation across a broad geographic area, bearing in mind the base similarity in settlement form. Numerous archaeologists have identified Candelaria-style material culture in the Tafi, Santamaria, and Calchaqui valleys, what we will call “local” Candelaria. Notably, Heredia (1974) recognized the stylistic similarities of material in the Santamaria Valley, but named this latter group the San Carlos culture. There is as much variation within the core Candelaria area as between this and the various local Candelaria. For example, one primary evidence type—the jars with oblique neck profiles—are common outside the core area and show a great deal of variation within it (Figure 8.6). In other words, the relationship between the styles of the ceramics in these areas and that from the heartland of the La Candelaria has long been recognized but its significance reduced. 230

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Figure 8.6. Vase from the La Candelaria core area.

Beyond the Geographic Model of Culture In the classic cultural scheme, the Candelaria are people of the yungas, or forest—that is their signature environment. But, what, therefore, are they doing in the arid valleys to the west? In the classic archaeology of northwest Argentina, culture areas dominated as a comprehensive analytical tool as national archaeology grew (Politis 1995). It is the glue-like relationship between culture area and environment that has produced distinct interpretations of the different cultures of the northwest, and has heavily influenced the panorama of the formative period population of the area. The environment acts as a trap that prevents alternative explanations for culture change from being developed. This danger has been recognized most forcefully in the work of Scattolin (2006; Scattolin et al. 2009), who has commented on the structural divide between the east and west in the archaeology of the Argentine northwest. The east—lowland, yungas, stylistically more Amazonian than Andean—has been associated with the feminine and is less studied. The west is dominated by the archaeology of the famous Aguada culture, with its images of felines and warriors—hence Andean, masculine, and much more researched. Scattolin shows that this line is essentially illusory. The supposed presence of Aguada in the dry valleys of the west is null. In fact, although she is cautious not to use any classificatory schema that relies on culture areas, she shows time and again Toward a Situated Ontology of Bodies and Landscapes in the Southern Andes

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that the material culture is most closely related to Candelaria (for example, Scattolin 2006). The environmental determinism that Scatollin uncovers can clearly be seen working in the different treatment of the two cases of the Aguada and Candelaria when internal variations are considered. The Aguada are assumed to be a homogenizing force, spreading a single ideology and more or less standardized material culture across a broad area during the latter half of the first millennium CE. It is well known, however, that there are in fact two quite distinct areas with distinct manifestations of the Aguada style: the Aguada of the Hualfin Valley and the Aguada of the Ambato Valley. Nobody, however, denies that these are both Aguada. The similarities between the material culture of the core Candelaria area and the “local” Candelaria, however, are not recognized as the same phenomenon. Rather than culturally continuous, they are conventionally treated as intrusive. The reason for the difference, we suggest, has to do exactly with this delimitation of environmental zones and their classic association with archaeological cultures. The Aguada can continue to be Aguada although there are internal differences because they occupy the same environment; the Candelaria cannot be Candelaria in Santamaria, for example, because this is a different environmental zone.

Carrying Their Landscapes with Them The Candelaria were lowland people of the forests: it is this bias with its deep roots that we want to question with a new approach to bodies and landscape. We argue that adopting a position of ontological continuity better enables us to understand the continuity in material culture manifestation. Once an ontological view—perspectivist in our case—is adopted the presence of the material culture in the two areas demands explanation. We need not resort to economic or diffusionist models to explain the spread of material culture when we could understand this ontologically, as local developments of a shared ontology of body-landscape. Heredia’s phases, therefore, can be understood as local manifestations or materializations of the same ontology in a different place. Moving into a new area goes beyond learning to adapt to a new set of resources. In the case of La Candelaria and its local manifestations, we argue that it was this shared ontology that enabled people to adapt without changing radically their physical imprint on the environment, nor their form of material culture. One could understand this model as “carrying their landscape” with them. 232

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Rather than imagining the movement of people from an established to a new landscape, which imposes itself on the group, we could think of La Candelaria as carrying their landscape—their point of view, anchored in their bodies— with them when they moved from lowlands to highlands. This implies a type of relationship with other inhabitants of the world (subjects, bodies, humans and nonhumans) that is co-constitutive of all elements of that world, humans and nonhumans. The world is made up these social relations of affinity. And the world itself, rather than external to this process, in a very literal sense was the same, irrespective of whether the “bodies” were externally distinct (such as trees, mountains, the stars, and so forth). Consequently, the variation in the details of the material culture within and between what we have called the local Candelaria areas is less important than the morphological similarities. That is, similarities in bodies (see Alberti 2007) indicate underlying relationships of a similar type (including practical relations). As such, differences in material culture can be understood to reflect the contingency and ongoing nature of the formation of relationships constitutive of all beings through a perspectivist ontology. In a study of the Yine (Piro) people of Amazonia, Opas (2005) argues, in common with other Amazonian accounts, that bodies are relationally constituted and likewise act to constitute social relations. Human and nonhuman are bound through relations of mutual generativity. Opas (2005) stresses the morally grounded boundary formation (between the human and nonhuman) that such relations engender. These relations are always incomplete, or unstable, just as the corporeal forms that characterize La Candelaria ceramics are incomplete and, as Alberti (2007, 2014) has argued, ultimately unstable. In sum, we need to shift attention away from environmental difference. What is of concern is an alternative means of adaptation that relies on a different notion of body and hence landscape. In the traditional model, bodies and landscapes are distinct: the former has the tools to adapt to the latter. Humans must learn to conquer, or, more kindly, live with their environments. When one starts from an ontological perspectivism, in contrast, what matters is how the change in environment is locally and ontologically resolved. The move is from relation between humans and world to relation among many beings, including all elements of what is traditionally called the landscape. The way of relating and constituting oneself as human or nonhuman among the multitude of selves is what made life possible for the La Candelaria in these different places. Toward a Situated Ontology of Bodies and Landscapes in the Southern Andes

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Conclusion: Alternative Ontologies of Landscape We are at pains to stress that this is not ethnographic analogy. We do not expect to find Amazonian bodies and landscapes, whatever they might be. We are developing an alternative way to look at the idea of landscape that accords better with what we might find archaeologically by working through theories developed on the basis of other ontologies (see Alberti and Marshall 2009). Our argument is that we cannot get at these archaeological landscapes from traditional theories because they imply a specific kind of conceptualization of the body that cuts off a host of ontological alternatives. The very idea of landscape is an artifact or effect of the Western concept of bodies as either neutral platforms of observation, or sensing things through which we form relations with and bring particular landscapes into being. In this chapter, we have explored Amazonian theories of bodies as our entry point to ask after the relationships that make up the distinct elements of the La Candelaria landscapes. Of course, working this way marks “elements of landscape” as a placeholder for whatever results from thinking about landscape through these Amazonian bodies. As we saw, landscape as concept is at risk of disappearing, or being transformed to such a degree that it is no longer recognizable. As others have noted, the validity of the concept depends on the archaeological case in question. Rather that turn to available, phenomenological alternatives, we have argued that we need to work from new ontologies to understand how people in the past existed with their worlds and explored new ones. We have indicated in a very preliminary fashion how a particular archaeological case, that of the geographic extension of the La Candelaria culture of northwest Argentina, could look quite different from such a perspective. There are further implications for the archaeology of the region, including the integrity of the concept of the formative period. One could also understand the crises that heralded the late period in the area— new, agglomerated settlements in defensive positions, among other changes— as born from ontological tension or rupture rather than economic or social strife.

Notes 1. A search for the keyword “landscape” turned up nothing in our readings of the works of Eduardo Viveiros de Castro.

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2. It occurs to us that the notion of landscape requires a kind of visual distancing that is impossible in the rainforests of their accounts—a further lesson, perhaps, in the limitations of a visually inspired, modern concept that requires a vantage point where one can set up one’s easel. 3. This points toward a subtle bias often found in landscape archaeology: that of the underlying association of landscape with open spaces. This, for instance, contrasts with the Andean world, where there exist particular ontologies of landscapes, and notions such as Apu, wa’ka, and Pacha, among others, lend support to theories of a relational, animated world (Wilkinson 2013; Bray 2015).

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9 Ontological Foundations for Inka Archaeology

Bruce M a n n h ei m

This chapter outlines a research program for grounding Inka archaeology in an ontologically driven integrated view of Inka culture and language.1 By “integrated” I mean that the several anthropological subdisciplines are treated as supplying distinct kinds of evidence for common analytic questions; by “ontologically driven” that my key concern is what there is in the world, social and material, the causal relations among what there is in the world, and the distinctively Inka (and southern Quechua) ways of interacting with it. I locate the project squarely within what has been called “the ontological turn” in anthropology, a cluster of theoretical approaches that share only the most abstract of precepts: (1) a rejection of treating the social as bounded by the activities of humans; (2) an opening to the agency of other-than-humans (a position that was already well established by analytic philosophers studying causality, for example, Harré and Madden 1975); (3) an ethnographic view of language and culture as actively engaged in making the world we take for granted, rather than representing it. My goal is to identify interconnections among ontological principles, embodied in language, cognition, social relations, and material culture—interconnections that are strong enough to identify certain of these principles as mutually compatible, and others as incompatible, within a relational typology, one that can warrant certain material outcomes and not others, such as the incompatibility of allocentric frame-of-reference with lineage structures. These in turn can be tested archaeologically. I call these interconnections “fields of interaction” or “sectors”; critical here are the interconnections, not that they are closed systems or correspond to named institutions.

For expository purposes, I focus on three interrelated ontological fields of interaction, each with specific material consequences: (1) Properties of the world. Kinds of objects vary in the properties attributed to them and in the relationships that they have to other kinds. These are projected through social activities, and always as parts of conceptual assemblages, rather than atomistically. That Quechua-speaking herders follow animals rather than lead or herd them is grounded in the organization of herding as a social activity as well as by the Quechua semantics of agency. (2) Frame of reference. In “allocentric” systems (like Quechua), social interaction (in all activities, important and mundane) is anchored primarily in the physical space surrounding the interaction rather than in the participants; in contrast, in “egocentric” systems (like English), the frame of reference is projected from the speaker. Among the consequences is that Quechua speakers move through geographic and settlement space placeby-place rather than through a top-down abstract spatial layout. (3) Causal structures. Concepts emerge from more general and broad knowledge that people have about the world; in other words, concepts are embedded in overarching theories, called “domains,” such as living kinds, social kinds, nonliving natural kinds, and artefacts (Gelman 2012: 545–546). These tacit theories establish ontologies (in the first sense), causal relationships, and unobservable entities specific to domains. For causal structures, Quechua adults are naturalists with respect to living kinds, and U.S. adults, artifactualists, the crosscultural variability in domain membership notwithstanding. So for Quechua adults, animals have certain properties because that’s just the way they are; for English-speaking adults in the United States, it’s because of what the properties accomplish functionally, particularly for the benefit of humans.

Some Methodological Preliminaries In distinguishing a representational from an ontological approach to analysis, it is important to further specify the notion of “representation,” which is complex and multivocal (Dokic 2014). Relevant here are two radically different uses of the word “representation,” one grounded in folk ideas of language and cultural forms “standing for” things (I’ll call this “representation1”) and the other which means roughly “essential properties” of an expression (I’ll call this use “representation2”). Representation1 is commonplace in interpretative anthropology, in archaeology, in art history, and in literary studies. Representation2 is commonplace in mathematics, linguistics, and cognitive science. When I call for “an ethOntological Foundations for Inka Archaeology

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nographic view of language and culture as actively engaged in making the world we take for granted, rather than representing it,” I am rejecting representation1 in favor of representation2 (see Dean 2014). Anthropologists have traditionally treated the world as an always-already constituted set of representational affordances for culture. There are notable exceptions: Edward Sapir (1929) and Irving Hallowell (1960, 1991) to name two, but even relativists such as Benjamin Lee Whorf (1945) tended to see culture and language as variables against a constant, uniform world. The “ontological turn,” as it is called, strikes a novel path in suggesting that the material interactions of people and their physical and social worlds can vary from society to society (see Salomon 2018: 184–204; Swenson 2015: 678). Under representational approaches, the differences between a set of practices in one culture and another are treated as matters of distinct knowledge; for an ethnographer, the other culture is densely symbolic, with people speaking in figures; for the archaeologist, the serpent carved into rock stands for water. Under ontological approaches, the nature of the world, of the interactions between humans and the world, and of social relations, vary from society to society (see Keane 2018a: 33–34; 2018b). Where I differ from other researchers working within this program is that I regard ontological variability as limited, constrained by cognitive processes (not by representations; Mannheim 2015b), restricted by the compatibility or incompatibility of social forms and institutions with each other (compare Descola 2005: 119, 137), and constrained historically. The constraints on ontological variability are relational, and do not lend themselves to an easy sortal typology. But can we follow the representational approach (that is, a representational approach in the first sense) and treat language and culture as simply carving the world at its joints?2 In the 1960s, the philosopher W.V.O. Quine (1960) argued that linguistic reference is inscrutable, that words and other linguistic and cultural forms do not—in fact, cannot—be anchored in a pre-existing ontology. Quine instead assumed a flat, austere ontology in which the objects of reference were projected from languages, not languages from ontologies. To echo a famous thought experiment in his Word and Object, imagine a linguist in a forest making contact with an individual who speaks only a language that the linguist does not; the linguist has no intermediaries, no translation manuals such as bilingual dictionaries, and no interpreter. During their interaction, a rabbit darts by, and the linguist’s interlocutor points to it and says “gavagai.” The linguist makes a mental note of it as gavagai = rabbit. But, Quine observers, the linguist’s equivalence, gavagai = rabbit, is not warranted by the stimulus. For example, it might 242

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be a guess on the part of the linguist’s interlocutor, as rabbits had been seen in the area; it might be rather “animal,” its color, “rabbit flies,” “it runs,” “undetached rabbit parts,” “rabbit in a 10-second slice of time,” and so forth. Here Quine suggests that the linguist’s translation of “rabbit” as an integral whole is a product of the obligatory grammatical categories of English (in the Boasian sense; Jakobson 1959; Whorf 1945) rather than something that is given a priori, and thus that a calibration of gavagai = rabbit depends on the prior translational calibration of grammatical categories such as definiteness, number, and person (see Silverstein 2003a). Calibration maintains, rather than sutures, ontological differences (Castro 2004: 20). Radical translation is thus “epistemolophobic” (to echo a coinage by the master Indo-Europeanist Antoine Meillet [Saussure 1894]).3 Not only is reference indeterminate on the basis of individual stimuli; so too is ontology projected onto the world by the structures of the languages and the linguistic practices of the speakers. For Quine, radical translation entailed an equally radical ontological relativity (Quine 1968). But in the half-century since the publication of Quine’s influential book, Word and Object (which directly or indirectly shaped analytical philosophy through the remainder of the twentieth century and the first decades of the twenty-first), substantial research in cognitive psychology and in linguistic anthropology falsified some of Quine’s examples, and placed the principle of ontic projection (my term for Quine’s principle that entities are projected from the grammatical categories of languages) in a much more complex setting than Quine suggested. In my recent article, All Translation Is Radical Translation (2015b), I proposed reimagining Quine’s radical translation through three more recent research programs (and their consequent findings) and showed how doing so allowed us to investigate the social and historical complexities of Quechua word meaning in ways that more traditional ways of translating Quechua word meanings and concepts—Inka, colonial, and contemporary—could not. The three programs ask us to reimagine the relationships between word and object—and among social practices in ways that efface the distinctions between culture and the material world, between the universal and the language-specific, and between language and other social practices. For example, the individuation of objects such as rabbits is accomplished by mental structures that psychologist Susan Carey (2009, chap. 3) calls core cognition, “highly structured innate mechanisms designed to build representations with specific content” in the case of individuation identifiable in very young infants, younger than a year old, with converging evidence provided by numerous other researchers.4 Their reliance on spatiotemporal features to individuate Ontological Foundations for Inka Archaeology

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objects effectively rules out translations such as “undetached rabbit parts” or “rabbit in a particular slice of time.”5 Notice, however, that core cognition constrains, but does not specify, a denotational set of ontological categories. Indeed, while Quine’s gavagai example is absolutely falsified by Carey’s findings, there are features of the Quinean framework that are compatible with core cognition. Core cognition retains Quine’s a priori ontological austerity (the world does not contain a priori entities that are merely named); and its ontological projection (“entification begins at arm’s length”), although grammatical categories do not have the exclusive (or perhaps any) role in projecting ontological categories; and within the limits of core cognition, ontological relativity. The development of concepts for kinds (dogs, llamas, gold, chairs, chicha de jora) produces a similar picture (Gelman and Coley 1991; Gelman 2003; Mannheim and Gelman 2013). In a traditional, representational framework, the world was populated with entities, and concepts built up by observing similarities among the entities. In contrast, cognitive psychologists have adduced evidence that concepts emerge from a more general and broad knowledge that people have about the world—that concepts are embedded in overarching theories (for example, Gelman and Williams 1998; Gopnik and Wellman 1994; Keil 1991; Murphy and Medin 1985; Simons and Keil 1995; Wellman and Gelman 1998). These tacit theories establish ontologies, causal relationships, and unobservable entities specific to domains. From this point of view, the early acquisition of concepts is not strictly perceptual in origin but is related to broader ontological configurations (for example, a distinction between animate and inanimate entities) and expectations regarding the causal laws of which the concepts are part (for example, a dog is initially classified as a living being, an agent capable of autonomous movement). The tacit theories that scaffold concept formation are specific to domains (psychology, biology, physics, and so forth), and have domain-specific object-ontologies built into them, and these are in turn attributed to the kinds subsumed by them. (Kinds are routinely subsumed under multiple domains.) Yet there is cross-linguistic and cross-cultural variability in the recruitment of concepts to domains (in Quechua, both mountains and rock are frequently treated as living kinds, whereas in English neither is) and in the causal structures assigned to domains. For both Quechua and Englishspeaking adults, as we’ll see later, properties of artifacts are normally explained in terms of human-directed teleology; however, Quechua adults commonly explain the properties of living kinds by appealing to an inevitable natural order to the animal world, whereas U.S. adults had more of a “design” perspective on 244

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biological features, constructing explanations of animal features as if they were artifacts (Sánchez Tapia et al. 2016). These findings upset the usual perspective baked into much recent anthropological work on ontology (for example, Descola 2005: chap. 8), which take for granted that we understand how ontology works for Europeans and for Euro-Americans—in which we are naturalists and understand other people from a naturalist ground. Sánchez Tapia et al. (2016) identify southern Quechua speakers—primarily monolinguals—as naturalists, and we are something that’s entirely distinct (and falls off of Descola’s typology of ontological regimes), artifactualists. Like core cognition, domain-specific theory constrains but does not specify concepts and ontology. (Indeed, as analytic frameworks, core cognition and domain-specific theory may well be fully continuous.) Assignment of entities to domains can vary culturally, and the causal structures vary both culturally and developmentally. Key aspects of “radical translation” are retained in the two cognitive frameworks, particularly what I will call “ontic projection”—that is, that the objects of denotational relationships are not a priori but are projected from encompassing cognitive structures. Finally, concepts are also embedded in assemblages of indexical relationships that connect them to each other (through “collateral acquaintance” [Parmentier 2016: 34, after Peirce; Benveniste 1954), to material qualia (Gal 2015, Keane 2006, Harkness 2015, and Lemon 2013),6 and that embed them in concrete social practices (Hanks 1992; Irvine and Gal 2000; Severi 2015; Silverstein 1976, 2003b, 2016). These indexical linkages connect the expressions to verbal and behavioral contexts and imbue them with cultural and social value. While anthropologists, linguists, and philosophers have emphasized the role of indexicality in embedding signs in concrete social practices and to material qualia, indexes of collateral acquaintance, binding signs to the contexts of their occurrence—often arrayed in complex, interlacing networks—are critically important as well. Consider some simple examples: The scarlet gentian, phallcha in Quechua, is a critical element of animal increase rituals in southern Peru, so much so that one of the recurrent occasions for such rituals—Carnaval—is often called “phallcha,” and the word is used as a synecdoche for the ritual as a whole. So it is not surprising to find it used as an epithet for the Virgin Mary in a seventeenth-century Quechua hymn praising her for her fecundity (Mannheim 1998b). For the Inkas, worked stone frequently indexed water sources (Cummins and Mannheim 2011: 14; Dean 2010: 32). Similarly, the Quechua vocabulary of twists and turns, along with words for physical deformities, is bound into Ontological Foundations for Inka Archaeology

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an indexical network by glottalization (and likely by retraction of the tongue root), the phonetic feature rhematizing or iconizing the network of mutually interinanimating meanings (Mannheim 1991: 192–193). The key here is that the individual signs themselves are not loaded with rich symbolic meanings to be unpacked through an anthropologist’s free associations; rather, the indexical relationships among the signs constrain their individual meanings. As with the two cognitive frameworks, it is the whole that constrains the meanings of the parts, not the other way around—constrains not determines. At this point in the argument, there are five major take-aways: 1. Ontology—what there is in the world, and the relationships among things in the world—is constrained cognitively and sociohistorically. 2. Two popular approaches to materiality are ruled out: A precultural ontology that is appropriated culturally; a material world with unspecified affordances that are hooked into by individuals. (The language of affordances is methodologically nonce unless they are specified along the lines of the three frameworks discussed earlier; see Davidson 1984: 195.) 3. The objects of study are material social practices rather than representations of the practices, such as beliefs or cosmologies. Beliefs and cosmologies inhere in a distinct, metacognitive linguistic register, which has semantic and social properties of its own. Anthropologists working within a representational framework often confuse concepts (which may or may not be accessible to conscious awareness) with metalinguistic beliefs (Gal 2015: 232–233), assuming (falsely) that people normatively act by virtue of consciously aware beliefs and intentions. And while it is often suggested that metacognitive representations—“explicit, reportable representations of ‘who knows’” (Heyes 2016: 214), such as explicit beliefs and cosmologies—are absolutely essential for human social learning, this is clearly false, both developmentally and comparatively. Metacognitive representations— explicitly expressible through language—are unevenly distributed across domains of social practice and among societies (Nuckolls and Swanson 2018; Proust and Fortier 2018). For southern Quechuas—as is likely for their Inka ancestors—there are no public institutions through which a coordinated cosmology can be established, in contrast to—for example—the pre-Columbian societies of Mesoamerica. (See Mannheim 1986 and 2015d.) 246

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4. The distinct structures discussed here, up to this point and in the remainder of this chapter—core cognition; concepts-and-theories; bundled indexicalities; lexical concepts; generics; frame-of-reference; settlement patterns; mortuary practices; social organization—each have their own organizational principles, orthogonal to the other structures at the same time as they interact. Interaction between, for example, biocognitive systems and historically grounded, structured material practices neither requires nor permits the one to be reduced to the other,7 Rather, the interconnections are mutually constraining. As a methodological strategy, this means that they need be approached consiliently; evidence from distinct disciplines converge to account for distinct aspects of the fields of interaction. A consilient approach, one that brings the methods and evidence of distinct disciplines to bear on a single object, requires a particular ethic of terminology; one must not do terminological violence to analyses from other disciplines. As a result, the reader will occasionally encounter technical terms from other disciplines—for instance, egocentric, ancestor, concept, domain—that seem familiar but are being used in the sense of the other discipline. 5. While in the structure-and-practice discussions of the late 1970s and the 1980s, it was commonplace to imagine “structure” as a unified template for practice—and to criticize it as such,8 here I use “structure” and “structures” for any organized domain, be they cognitive or material, individual or interactional, social organizational or capillary, embedded in practices—with no scalarity claims whatsoever. Structured externalities (“cultural logic” [Enfield 2000]; “replicators” [Urban 1996, 2017; Mannheim 2014]) configure the input to developing neurocognitive structures, for example, song couplets configuring the relationships among lexical concepts, which are also configured through material installations (below, “Properties of the world”); gesture, movement through space, settlement pattern, and other structured practices configuring frame of reference (below, “Frame of reference”); and generic syntactic expressions circumscribing input to natural kind concepts (Cimpian and Markman 2009; Gelman et al. 1998; Goldin-Meadow et al. 2005; Leslie 2008).9 My primary interest is understanding Andean social, cultural, and linguistic forms from the Late Intermediate period (LIP) up to the present, centered Ontological Foundations for Inka Archaeology

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on the Inka. The extension backward to the Late Intermediate period recognizes that, culturally and organizationally, there is no sharp boundary from the LIP to the Inka Horizon. An extension forward recognizes that despite organizational changes among Quechua speakers since the European invasion in 1532, there are substantial continuities cognitively and linguistically, and these maintain significant organizational and material practices in place, albeit unevenly. Geographically, there are substantial discontinuities between Pacific coast societies attested archaeologically and those of the central highlands of Peru and Bolivia.10 The commonplace of treating the highlands and the coast of the modern Andean republics as a single unit across which easy generalizations can be made, set in stone in Julian Steward’s typologies of native South American peoples (Steward 1946; Steward and Faron 1959), has always had more purchase as a way of organizing academic research than it had empirically. At the same time, it is important to recognize that discontinuities are the very stuff of comparison. The fields of interaction can be set into a comparative framework that reaches out toward other native South American societies by means of relational typology, with the goal of identifying compatibilities and incompatibilities among social institutions and practices, following a tradition of relational comparison that goes back to the linguist N. S. Trubetzkoy (1939) and the social anthropologist Lévi-Strauss (1949; see also Mannheim et al. 2018: 224–225). In a relational typology, relations of compatibility or incompatibility between structures or institutions define a space within which one can get cross-cultural variability. A relationship can be falsified by the existence of structures that are hypothesized to be impossible. In a canonical typology, such as Weberian ideal types or the stadial typologies of societies that were popular in the archaeology of the 1960s, there are no such implications. A structure that falls outside of the predicted range of variation is simply an outlier to the canonical types.

Three Relational Fields of Interaction Drawing on evidence—ethnographic, grammatical, cognitive, and visual— from the central Andes (and principally from southern Quechua language and society), I discuss three sets of ontological phenomena: properties of the world; spatial orientation; and causal structures within conceptual domains. Each field defines a range of material and social practices that is compatible with Inka practices, some linguistic, some social, and some material: exchange, settlement 248

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patterns, engineering, mortuary practices, visual design, textual structures. Within each case there is a range of interrelated practices that makes it fruitful to consider them together, and there are interrelationships among the sets.

Properties of the World “Properties of the world” is the most commonplace sense of “ontology.” These can include such commonplaces as that maki refers to hand and arm without distinguishing between them, that a pencil has an uma (“head”) and a siki (“ass and loins”); that rocks and mountains have insides in which beings can dwell; that named places are social beings; that a lake and the ocean are the same kind of object; that the same verb is used for a liquid leaving the body, regardless of whether it is urine, the blood from a wound, menstrual blood, or feces; but also more complex ones, such as that artifacts are frequently named with verbs for the activity that one does with them regardless of form, so tiyana is a place to be, whether it is a chair, a stool, a bench, or a rock; that textiles have mouths, and mountains have portals. Properties attributed to everyday objects also vary culturally: one does not herd animals, one follows them. Similarly, an irrigation canal does not carry water; it rather guides (pusay) it. The objects “in the world” for Quechua speakers11—and “in the world” for their Inka ancestors—are not the same objects as for Spanish speakers or English speakers. This is not a matter of “symbolic richness” or of “figurative language”—this is truly the world. While one might be tempted to describe these piecemeal, as idiosyncratic word meanings, it is important to recognize that each of them is a part of a ontological-semantic assemblage, and an analysis, be it ethnographic, historical, archaeological, or linguistic, requires attention to the constellation of practices within which it occurs. The relationships among kinds of things—objects and actions—vary culturally. In southern Quechua, conceptually related objects and events are taken up in semantic couplets, pervasive in huaynos (and so heard in many everyday settings; Mannheim 1998a), but also in ritual song (Mannheim 2015c, drawing on Guaman Poma’s description of a rite in Inka Cuzco). For example, in a huayno from the 1960s, Urpischallay, the singer asks: Maytaq chay munakusqayki Maytaq chay wayllukusqayki But where is your desire (munakusqa)? But where is your affection (wayllukusqa)? And then asserts, Ontological Foundations for Inka Archaeology

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Mayullawaqchá aparachiwanki Qaqallawaqchá ñit’irachiwank Perhaps you’ve had river (mayu) carry me off Perhaps you’ve had rock (qaqa) crush me The huayno lyrics are organized by semantic parallelism, in which the lines are organized in pairs with identical grammatical morphology and lexical stems that “rhyme” semantically. In the first couplet, the verb munay, “to want” is paired with the verb waylluy, “to care for, with shows of affection.” These are a semantic minimal pair in Quechua—they are as closely related to each other semantically as two words can be, with no third value coming between them (so there is no verb for “slightly affectionate,” for example). But what do we make of the second couplet, in which “river” (mayu) pairs with “rock” (qaqa)? These two are a conceptual minimal pair, and the stem qaqa (rock as a substance) in turn is paired with rumi “individuated stone.” The river/rock couplet is common in Quechua song, and its patterning is no different from that of more transparent couplets such as the munay “want” / waylluy “to care for with shows of affection.” These couplets entail specific ontic relationships among the objects that they refer to, and so project them into the Quechua world. Thus, famously, in Machu Picchu, living rock is carved in tapers, crossing agricultural terraces, so as to appear to flow across the mountainside as a rushing river would, a river of living rock flowing toward the Urubamba River below (Cummins and Mannheim 2011: 8–12). Similarly, stepped fret designs around portals carved into living rock, which can be activated either by water flowing through them or by water being poured on them—a motif found at multiple Inka sites—are not figurations of water, but are indexes (actually metaindexes) that signal the ontic bind between mayu and qaqa as substances. The relationship between qaqa as a substance and rumi as individuated stone is replicated elsewhere in the Quechua lexicon, for example, by rit’i as frozen water—ice or snow—and chullunku as individuated chunks of glacial ice or even ice cubes, or (historically) unu—water as a substance—and yaku—water flowing in a natural or artifactual channel, as, for example, irrigation water. Similarly, social ontology—what there is in the social world, and the relationships that persons of distinct kinds have to each other—are grounded in song and narrative, below the threshold of awareness (Mannheim 2015a). Three mechanisms—semantic presupposition (Chierchia and McConnell-Ginet 1990: 280; Karttunen 1974),12 implicature (Grice 1975; Sperber and Wilson 250

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1986), and interactional lamination (Irvine 1996; Mannheim 2015a) are built into practices in such a way as to interpret an utterance, even nonconsciously, that requires one to acquiesce in the ontic commitments entailed by the utterance, including (or perhaps especially including) social commitments). Merely listening to the opening quatrain of a popular huayno—a highland song genre (discussed in Mannheim 2015a)—entails acquiescing in the power of a state that can imprison a bird arbitrarily for doing what comes naturally to it, much as it can impress a youth into military service by picking him up as he walks home from his field. Chuchiku Lima-pi-ña-s prisu thrush Lima-in-already-reportive prisoner It is said that the thrush is already imprisoned in Lima Chuchiku Lima-pi-ña-s prisu thrush Lima-in-already-reportive prisoner It is said that the thrush is already imprisoned in Lima Hawas-pa t’ika-cha-n palla-ri-sqa-n-manta, chuchiku Favas-of flower-diminutive-it’s gather-begin-past participle-it’s-about thrush For gathering fava flowers, thrush Hawas-pa t’ika-cha-n wis.i-ru-sqa-n-manta, chuchiku Favas-of flower-diminutive-it’s spill-purposefully-past participle-it’s-about thrush For spilling fava flowers, thrush Similarly, a small detail in a narrative about an old man who is thrown out of a wedding party gives it verisimilitude. The wedding party takes place in a city that is flooded by the old man. A caring woman follows the old man out of the city, but when she disobeys his instruction not to look back she is turned to stone. The stone is today an index of the verisimilitude of the story (Allen 2011: 214–215; the story is discussed in Mannheim and Van Vleet 1998). Listening to a song might entail acquiescing to the arbitrary power of the state or to a narrative that a rock is the trace of a narrative protagonist, acquiescences that are inescapable, and—like other social processes that unfold in the small spaces of everyday life—habitual (Canessa 2012). In all these cases, public material practices—song, or carving live rock to resemble water flowing down a hillside—entail specific ontic commitments on the part of their users. Ontological Foundations for Inka Archaeology

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Frame of Reference Frame of reference is a cognitive/linguistic system that partitions space and locates people within space, by a single set of principles that coordinates cognition, language, and physical movement. There is substantial comparative research (for example, Danziger [2010]; Haviland [1998]; Levinson [2003]; Levinson and Wilkins [2006]; Majid et al. [2004])—largely experimental—that shows variability among languages, constrained within narrow typological parameters. The frame of reference system constrains the semantics of grammar, gestures, the relationship of behaviors to the immediate topography, movement through the landscape, and such large-scale matters as engineering (constructed relationally rather than on a grid), and settlement pattern. Inasmuch as the frame of reference is habitual, structured, and nonconscious, the physical relationships within a specific frame of reference appear to speakers to be features of the world rather than features of the culture. Frame of reference systems identify an object as a figure against a ground, the linkage established by an anchor (Danziger 2010; Levinson 2003). Here’s the point at which it becomes linguistic. If the anchor is a participant in the speech situation, such as the speaker or the addressee, the frame of reference is egocentric. If the anchor is not part of the speech situation—say it is a place, or a llama, or a cardinal direction—then the frame of reference is allocentric. The distinction between “egocentric” and “allocentric” is well established in neuroscience, cognitive psychology, art history, and linguistic anthropology, with senses that overlap. Neither makes the moral claims that might be suggested by lay uses of “egocentric.” Egocentric frame of reference is anchored in the “I”s and “you”s; allocentric frame of reference is anchored elsewhere, for example, in a feature of the landscape or in the relationship between two objects. Within these two types, the anchor can be identified with the ground or not. If an egocentric anchor is part of ground, the frame of reference is direct egocentric (essentially the case in English or in Spanish); if it is not part of the ground, it is relative or relational deictic (a common—but not the only—system in Mesoamerica). Similarly, if an allocentric anchor is part of the ground, it is intrinsic or object-centered. If it is not part of the ground, it is absolute. In living populations, each of these distinctions can be identified through experiments using nonlinguistic stimuli. Comparative research has identified additional frame of reference schemes that build on these and circumstances that afford a shift from one frame of reference 252

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to another (for example, whether the participants are in an enclosed space), but for the purposes of our discussion the basic typology will suffice.13 Although frame of reference is technically established by means of experiment, and defined by means of language, the dominant frame of reference spills out into all fields of endeavor, including interactions with the natural and built environments (compare Alberti and Laguens, this volume). While the gold standard for identifying frame of reference is experimental, which means that it can be done only with living populations, the material signatures of an allocentric absolute system are clear enough that it should be possible to read the frame of reference back from settlement pattern and other aspects of material culture for archaeologically attested peoples. No population has a single frame of reference. Rather, each seems to have a basic frame of reference that undergirds a range of social practices—from grammar to settlement pattern—with additional strategies available for specialized situations. Up to now, little work has been carried out among native South Americans. Meira (2006: 350) identified Tiriyó (Carib) as primarily absolute and objectcentered—that is, allocentric; Rybka (2016) identified two allocentric frames of reference as primary in Lokono, an Arawakan language of Guiana, and suggested that “relative” (egocentric) frames of references had few grammatical affordances; Shapero (2014, 2017a, 2017b), working with Ancash Quechua agriculturalists and pastoralists in Huaraz (which is a good experimental proxy for the southern Quechua/Inka pattern), observed a basic absolute (allocentric) pattern. According to Shapero (2017a), pastoralists showed a stronger absolute allocentric bias than agriculturalists, regardless of exposure to Spanish (which is primarily egocentric). For Ancash Quechua speakers, the allocentric absolute frame of reference means that that spatial orientation is established with reference to external, physical objects (which can be mobile, such as a cow, or fixed, such as a particular mountain). In all of these cases, the primary frames of reference were overlain with a geocentric frame, one in which people moved through the landscape by means of named, and singular, places. Frame of reference is a critical lynchpin of Andean ontology, one that has implications across multiple fields of practice, including personhood (Mannheim et al. 2018), local-level social organization, settlement pattern, landscape and movement through landscape (Kosiba 2015a), political organization, exchange and redistribution, and mortuary practices. For example, a lineage structure— and by extension, a system of ancestor veneration—is built up by projecting an apical ancestor from an ego, and requires an egocentric frame of reference. That Ontological Foundations for Inka Archaeology

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Quechua speakers use an allocentric frame of reference would predict that there are no lineages as such, but that inheritance is established through much shallower social configurations, and consequently predict the absence of systems of ancestor veneration.14 Indeed, although scholars have suggested that both existed in the Inka state, there arguably is no clear archaeological evidence of either one. The earliest historical evidence is similar. A striking feature of early colonial documents (pre-1580 or so)15 claiming royal descent is that they conform to a residence-based house model—rather than a lineage, with no identified ancestor further than three generations removed from the claimant. The Inka “royal dynasty” is a single, marked exception, but the historiography of the royal dynasty is far more complex than a simple king list would suggest (Covey 2006; Ramírez 2006; Yaya McKenzie 2012; Zuidema 1964). The order of royal names in pre-1580 Spanish sources may have been signaling social hierarchy rather than chronology (Yaya McKenzie 2011: 49ff; indeed, in the case of Diez de Betanzos 2015 (1551), within a single elite house, House Qhapaq). Sources from the earliest period after Spanish control of Peru generally show the shallow inheritance structure that is characteristic of residence-based kinship systems (“house societies” or “sociétés à maison”; Yaya McKenzie 2012: 33–34),16 and consistent with an allocentric frame of reference, as the social unit is constituted externally to an ego and identified with a physical place. Individuals are recruited to the “house,” potentially by multiple mechanisms— “house” in this case referring to an actual house structure or to a patio group. People move through the social unit—self-identified with the place, and are buried in the place (in the Late Intermediate period and in the Inka Horizon, often in house burials but also in localized aboveground tombs [Kosiba 2015b] and in mortuary structures built into the side of a tutelary mountain [Velasco 2018; Wernke 2013: 140–143]). The Inka ruler himself was the very embodiment of place. His title—and perhaps name—was Cuzco (Ramírez 2005: chap. 2). In short, I would suggest that, consistent with an allocentric frame of reference, the Inkas were a société à maison, as indeed are their contemporary descendents. Frame of reference also plays a critical (external) role in Inka and contemporary Quechua principles of semiotic interpretation. The visual and literary art of the early colonial period (sixteenth and seventeenth centuries) are divided between literary and visual forms that functioned by means of allocentric principles, forms that functioned by means of egocentric principles, and composites that could be interpreted through both systems, each one accounting for many, but not all, the properties of the object (Mannheim 1998b, 2019b chap. 9). Span254

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iards introduced visual forms—for example, two-dimensional paintings, even paintings by Native Andean artists—that required an egocentric frame of reference to be interpretable, using a mix of perspective and other compositional techniques, such as color and spatial hierarchy to construct a two-dimensional system of representational art to contest the primarily (although not exclusively) geometric forms used by Native Andeans. In contrast, Native Andean visual and literary forms used several strategies to build the interpretation into the object itself. For example, the Warikza arawi song text in Guaman Poma has a synecdoche of the whole within the song text itself in the form of two interspersed couplets in Quechua (Mannheim 2015c); the Dumbarton Oaks tunic has multiple representations of a tunic, perhaps of the tunic itself, woven into it; Inka khipus have summary strings that interpret the data coded into it (Urton 2010: 65), similarly building the interpretation into the object itself. Other objects repeat structural relationships in nested hierarchies, a common strategy followed in southern Quechua textiles, a strategy of involution, in which a single relationship or figure is replicated at several levels of scale (compare Spence-Morrow and Swenson, this volume). A similar strategy of structural involution is followed in the internal structure of the system of the radial ziqi (ceque) lines that connect named sacred places to the landscape surrounding Inka Cuzco (Zuidema 1964). A third strategy was to use a smaller scale object to signal the presence the proximity of an object organized by the same principles, as, for example, the Sayhuite stone east of Abancay (and other so-called maquetas of settlements), in which the parts of a settlement, including houses organized around patios and irrigation canals, are carved into the stone. These strategies constructed a world of objects and forms that were self-interpreting—an introversive semiosis (Allen 1997, 1998; Mannheim 2019b: chap. 9; Molinié 2012; Smith 2010, 2016; and La Mattina and Sayre, this volume). The effect on the viewer—the social subject—was to be pushed away from the object, which could live an interpretative life of its own perfectly well without a viewing subject. The key distinction here is that extroversive semiosis establishes a direct relationship with the interpreter as an embodied social subject, precisely in the way that egocentric frames of reference do. In contrast, Inka introversive semiosis achieved semiotic closure object-to-object, just as allocentric frames of reference do. Although the Inkas did indeed use representational forms, they did so exclusively in portable, three-dimensional objects such as drinking vessels and miniatures (see Allen 1997, 1998; Cummins 2002). In an allocentric world, the space of social action is delineated by objects Ontological Foundations for Inka Archaeology

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and places; it would be easy to think of speakers who establish frames of reference using allocentric strategies as “animists” but for the fact that frame-ofreference analysis precisely delimits the mechanisms and scope of allocentric frame of reference in a way that a theory of animism does not. In addition, while animism is normally attributed to people on an ad hoc, case-by-case basis, a specific frame of reference (or a skein of related frames of reference) can be identified in living communities through formal experimental methods. A strategy for extending frame of reference to prehistory is to identify the social and material entailments of a specific frame of reference (as I have sketched above) in specific material assemblages.

Causal Structures Cognitive psychologists have adduced evidence that concepts emerge from a more general and broader knowledge that people have about the world. Moreover, they are not atomistic “building blocks” of thought (Keane 2006); rather, from the very beginning they are embedded in overarching theories (for example, Gelman and Williams 1998; Gopnik and Wellman 1994; Keil 1991; Murphy and Medin 1985; Simons and Keil 1995; Wellman and Gelman 1998). These tacit theories, or domains, establish ontologies (in the first sense in this chapter; that is, “what there is” in the world), causal relationships, and unobservable entities specific to the domains. From this point of view, the early acquisition of concepts is not strictly perceptual in origin but is related to broader ontological configurations (for example, a distinction between animate and inanimate entities) and to expectations regarding the causal laws of which the concepts are part (for example, a dog is initially classified as a living being, an agent capable of autonomous movement). The tacit theories that scaffold concept formation are specific to domains (psychology, biology, physics, and so forth), and have domain-specific object-ontologies built into them, and these are in turn attributed to the kinds subsumed by them. (Kinds are routinely subsumed under multiple domains.) Central to this account are two observations: that there is a disjunction between appearances and underlying realities, the underlying realities bound to an ontological configuration (the “domain”), so that the construal of an underlying reality is domain-specific; and that kinds have underlying psychological essences (Gelman 2003). While the same domains are found across cultures, there is cross-linguistic and cross-cultural variability in the recruitment of concepts to domains. For example, in Quechua, both mountains and rock are frequently treated as liv256

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ing kinds, whereas in English neither is (see “Properties of the World,” above). Linguistic and social factors, such as syntactic generics (Mannheim et al. 2011) and other grammatical affordances identify concepts as kinds and assign them to domains. Distinct domains may have distinct causal structures assigned to them. An English-speaking adult might explain a zebra’s stripes as allowing it “to get away from predators” (Sánchez Tapia et al. 2016: app. S4), assigning a teleological causal structure to the concept in which the morphology of the neck benefits the animal itself. Conversely, for both Quechua- and English-speaking adults, properties of artifacts are normally explained in terms of human-directed teleology of design: clocks are for telling time, a tiyana is for sitting. These findings generalize to the domains of “living kinds” and “artifacts,” respectively. For living kinds however, Quechua adults commonly explain their properties by appealing to an inevitable natural order to the animal world (frogs catch flies because “that’s the way they are”), whereas U.S. adults had more of a “design” perspective on biological features, constructing explanations of animal features in an artifactualist mode (Gelman et al. 2015; Sánchez Tapia et al. 2016: 754; compare Muro, Castillo, and Tomasto-Caggigao, this volume). Within Descola’s four-fold typology of ontological regimes—naturalism, animism, totemism, and analogism, then—Quechua adults tend toward naturalism with respect to living kinds, and U.S. adults toward something that falls outside of this scheme—artifactualism, the cross-cultural variability in domain membership notwithstanding. Languages and societies differ in the causal structures that they assign to conceptual domains, differences that can be detected both developmentally and comparatively. What implications do these differences play out in interactions between humans and living kinds in the two societies? What are the externalities, linguistic and cultural, that give shape to these differences? These questions can be answered only through a combination of experimental research with immersive ethnography.

Conclusions In this chapter, I have proposed a set of ontological foundations for Inka archaeology, constrained on the one hand by independently attested cognitive processes, and on the other by local, culturally specific indexicalities, through which Quechua speakers—like their Inka ancestors—commit themselves to it, below the threshold of awareness, and I have traced them through three fields Ontological Foundations for Inka Archaeology

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of interaction. Each field of interaction integrates different kinds of evidence— cognitive, linguistic, social, and material—with the goals of identifying compatibilities (and incompatibilities) among them, and of identifying the material signatures of cognitive, linguistic, and social processes. For each of the fields of interaction, there are substantial cultural and linguistic continuities between contemporary Quechua-speaking smallholders and pastoralists and their Inka ancestors. (Indeed, this chapter might be seen as an extended brief for bringing the direct historical method more centrally into Inka studies.) For each of these core ontological fields, I discussed the cognitive principles and social mechanisms through which Andean people project the world they inhabit, tacitly, through mundane social practices.

Notes 1. The current chapter draws extensively on ideas discussed in three prior publications, Mannheim (2015 and 2019a) and Sánchez Tapia et al (2016). I am grateful to Linda J. Seligmann for her comments on an earlier draft. 2. This is essentially the position of Ingold (1993, 2018) who rejects what he calls “cognitivism” (although, if I understand him correctly, he means “concepts”) in favor of a noncultural, fully specified field of perceptual objects that offer precognitive and precultural “affordances.” His version of “cognitivism” is an impoverished version of contemporary cognitive science. 3. Amira Salmond (2014: 172ff.) discusses the limited, primarily epistemological impact of Quine’s radical translation in anthropology. 4. Notice that Carey’s (2009) use of “representation” here falls into the second sense of “representation” that I discussed above. 5. In addition to individuation of objects, there is neurological evidence that object motion allows the visual system to project details from incomplete sensory information (Chong et al. 2016). 6. Qualia “can be words, gestures, images, demarcations of space, etc., by which people indicate what they perceive (or misrecognize) to be a material affordance or quality, here especially qualities considered to express the essence of relationship” (Lemon 2013: 68). 7. For a classic account of the failure of reductionist programs in the social and cognitive sciences, see Fodor (1974). 8. For three excellent entryways into this vast discussion, see Ortner (1984) and Sewell (1992), and—specifically speaking to archaeologists—Beck et al. (2007). 9. Polemic notwithstanding, an architecture in which structured externalities supply input to developing conceptual systems is commonplace in studies of language and cognition, including all parameter-setting models in formal syntax. 10. Compare Villanueva Criales’s discussion of chronological variability on the Bolivian altiplano (this volume). 11. When I use the expression “Quechua speaker” here, I refer to speakers of the

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monolingual or the Quechua-dominant bilingual registers of Quechua, not to speakers of the Spanish-regimented “overlay.” For an explanation of these differences, see Mannheim and Huayhua (2016) and Mannheim (2018). Experimental research by Margarita Huayhua (2019) shows that the difference between the the monolingual and Quechua-dominant bilingual registers of Quechua on the one hand and the Spanishregimented overlay is observable to speakers of both, below their thresholds of awareness, and is a focus of social discrimination. 12. Levinson (1983: 181–184) and Karttunen (2016), among others, have suggested that presupposition is not a linguistically uniform mechanism. That does not affect the proposal here. 13. Levinson and his collaborators (Levinson and Wilkins 2006) and Shapero (2017b) use a closely related three-category typology with similar formal properties. Since both typologies include a primary split between allocentric and egocentric frames of reference, the differences between Levinson’s typology and Danziger’s does not materially affect the argument here. 14. Indeed, in contemporary Southern Quechua communities, it is critical to maintain a distance between the living and the dead. While the recent noninfant dead are buried in individual graves and fed ritually on All Saints Day, their bones are eventually disinterred and added to an ossuary heap, in which they lack any distinguishable social identity (Allen 1988, 2015b; Robin Azevedo 2008; Salas 2018). 15. Mannheim (2015c) identifies a “generic fade” in colonial sources on the Inka, in which references to particular events and practices are replaced with generic statements about classes of events and practices. This can be traced by comparing the specific language used in two or more descriptions of “the same” events. 16. “Société à maison” is a framework for kinship analysis, developed since the late 1970s. See Lévi-Strauss 1974, 1979]; Feeley Harnik (1980): Carsten and Hugh-Jones (1995); Gillespie (2000); Hamberger (2012).

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2015c What Kind of Text Was Guaman Poma’s Warikza Arawi? In Unlocking the Doors to the Worlds of Guaman Poma and His Nueva Corónica, edited by Rolena Adorno and Ivan Boserup, pp. 161–182. Museum Tusculanum Press, Copenhagen. 2015d La historicidad de imágenes oníricos quechuas sudperuanos. Letras (Lima) 123: 5–48. 2018 Xavier Albó’s “The Future of the Oppressed Languages of the Andes” in Retrospect. In Authority, Hierarchy, and the Indigenous Languages of Latin America: Historical and Ethnographic Perspective, edited by Alan Durston and Bruce Mannheim, pp. 207–230. University of Notre Dame Press, South Bend, Indiana. 2019a Southern Quechua Ontology. In Sacred Matter: Animism and Authority in the Americas, edited by Steven Kosiba, Thomas Cummins, and John Janusek. Harvard University Press for Dumbarton Oaks, Cambridge. 2019b The Horn of Time, chap. 9. Unpublished manuscript, Department of Anthropology, University of Michigan. Mannheim, Bruce, Allison R. Davis, and Matthew C. Velasco 2018 Cranial Modification in the Central Andes: Person, Language, Political Economy. In Social skins of the Head. Body Beliefs and Ritual in Ancient Mesoamerica and the Andes, edited by María Cecilia Lozada and Vera Tiesler, pp. 223–233. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. Mannheim, Bruce, and Susan A. Gelman 2013 El aprendizaje de los conceptos genéricos entre niños quechua hablantes monolingües. Bulletin de l’Institut Français d’Études Andines 42 (3): 353–368. Mannheim, Bruce, Susan A. Gelman, Carmen Escalante, Margarita Huayhua, and Rosalía Puma 2011 A Developmental Analysis of Quechua Generics. Language Learning and Development 7: 1–23. Mannheim, Bruce, and Guillermo Salas Carreño 2015 Wak’a: Entifications of the Andean Sacred. In The Archaeology of W’akas: Explorations of the Sacred in the Pre-Columbian Andes, edited by Tamara Bray, pp. 46–72. University of Colorado Press, Boulder. Mannheim, Bruce, and Margarita Huayhua 2016 El quechua es un idioma multi-registral. In Dilemas de la gobernabilidad en el Sur Andino al 2021, edited by Anael Pilares, pp. 152–156. Centro de Estudios Regionales Andinos “Bartolomé de las Casas,” Cusco, Peru. Mannheim, Bruce, and Krista E. van Vleet 1998 The Dialogics of Quechua Narrative. American Anthropologist 100(2): 326–346. Meira, Sérgio 2006 Approaching Space in Tiriyó Grammar. In Grammars of Space. Explorations of Cognitive Diversity, edited by Stephen C. Levinson and David Wilkins, pp. 311– 358. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Molinié, Antoinette 2012 La monnaie sauvage: une énigme andine de la monnaie, In Monnaie antique, monnaie moderne, monnaies d’ailleurs . . . In Métissages et hybridations, edited by P. Pion and B. Fornoso, pp. 175–187. Colloques de la Maison René-Ginouvès, 8, Nanterre, France. 266

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10 A Past as a Place Examining the Archaeological Implications of the Aymara Pacha Concept in the Bolivian Altiplano

J u a n V i l l a n u e va C r i a l e s

The past is a key element in the construction of narratives for quite evident reasons. The past is constructed from social practices, it is conceptualized within specific cultural contexts and, according to its ontological status, it may be subject to interactions that leave material traces. In this chapter, I discuss the topic of time in the pre-Hispanic high plateau, or altiplano, of today’s Bolivia, from a concept well established in Andean ontology studies: pacha or time/space. By the inextricable union of space and time, the pacha concept locates the past in a place, identifiable and adjacent to the present. If the past is conceptualized as inhabited by active entities that affect the world of the living, as has been often suggested within the animist Andean ontological framework, relationships with the past through a matrix of mutual feeding and consumption could be established. These concepts can be considered common among Andean societies of different places and times. However, as archaeologists we run the risk of falling into an essentialism if we extrapolate the specific forms of the relationship with the past from one moment to the other, without considering material changes in detail. The main argument of this chapter is that the same ontological framework that governs the relationships between the living and the past, allows for multiple material expressions, specific to ideological and historic moments, to potentially emerge. The agents that reside in the past, their location, and the material forms crafted and employed to interact with them, can vary significantly between moments and places. To illustrate and reflect on these topics, I

discuss three case studies from the following periods: (1) Middle Horizon (AD 900–1100), (2) the beginnings of the Late Intermediate period (AD 1100–1300), and (3) the later part of the Late Intermediate period (AD 1300–1450). These cases come from the Bolivian altiplano, specifically the Titicaca Basin and the neighboring central plateau. I start this chapter with a brief theoretical discussion regarding time, including a description of the model of Andean space/time, or pacha. Subsequently, I will describe the three case studies and end with a discussion and some closing thoughts.

Brief Notes about the Archaeology of Time This section discusses the ontological status of time in the pre-Hispanic altiplano in today’s Bolivia. The theoretical discussions about time in archaeology are typically postprocessual, mainly from the beginning of the 1990s, and problematize the role of time within archeological interpretation from different angles. Some authors have criticized the interpretative character of archeological chronologies (Lucas 2005), or have worked with alternative models of multilinear change, as antidotes for the unilineal and usually forced approach toward archeological chronologies (McGlade 1999). Other standpoints advocate for the employment of an experiential concept of time and its socially constructed character (Gosden 1994, Thomas 1996). Additionally, some scholars have discussed the multitemporal nature of the archeological record, frequently overshadowed by chronological perception (Olivier 2001). In the following, I explore some of these ideas. According to Lucas (2005), archaeology is traditionally based on chronologies, understood as systems for computing dates. This author underlines the influence of chronological thinking in the interpretation of the past, as it is represented as a uniform and linear phenomenon. In this sense, historical phenomena tend by analogy to be seen as uniform and linear, supporting major interpretations or historical narratives, such as evolution (Lucas 2005). Alternative approaches to this idea of linear historic change have been explored, suggesting that historic phenomena occur at different temporal scales. From the theory of history, some of the first and most important contributions come from the French school of Annales (Braudel 1980), which recognizes three historical time scales: long, medium, and short, related respectively to very slow processes such as those related to the environment; to phenomena of social 272

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or structural history; and to events and individuals. These notions influenced archaeology through the work of Knapp (1992), among others. This chapter considers the issue of time scales, but places a stronger focus on the inherent characteristics of chronological time. From an anthropology-oftime perspective, it has been proposed that the omnipresence of time-measuring devices, such as clocks and calendars, in Western culture, usually leads us to forget the social character of time. Indeed, according to Adam (1994), every society, be it “Western” or “traditional,” constructs time in reference to events, processes, and social relationships. In other words, the objectification of time, or its transformation into a resource even measurable in monetary terms, is a consequence of Western industrialization. Such objectification leads us to perceive time as an entity per se (Adam 1994; Ingold 2000), when in reality it is permanently constructed by human practices. In the same vein, McGlade (1999) criticizes the common archaeological assumption of an objectified, static chronological time, an abstract container for human activities, in which multiple periodicities are reduced to a date sequence. This author claims there is an approach based on a social or kairological time linked to human experiences and activities. Another important aspect discussed by Adam (1994) is that human beings tend to construct their notions of time based on the extension of their existences, being the idea of temporal transcendence fundamental for any conceptualization of time. This results in a universal presence of myths and beliefs concerning the relationship of human beings with life and death. This also leads to the creation of tools, artifacts, and spaces that allow an extension of past and future to wider scales of transcendence, such as the seasonal cycle or a person’s lifespan (Adam 1994). As a consequence, the division between life and death is blurred, and the dead, modernly conceptualized as part of a distant past, become present. In this chapter, I emphasize this characteristic of time: its potential to project vital human experience toward other moments and places. All of these aspects consistently point to the idea that the ways to articulate and represent time are subjected to significant cultural variation (Lucas 2005). According to Leone (1978), one of the first archaeologists to discuss time, it is possible to apprehend the different time perceptions of past societies through the archaeological record. In this respect and in relation to the scale of historical or ancestral time discussed above, Gosden (1994) suggests that prehistoric societies always oriented their actions with the past in mind, and that ritualized actions could have had special properties regarding time management. ThereArchaeological Implications of the Aymara Pacha Concept in the Bolivian Altiplano

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fore, the identification of places and material assemblages related to ritualistic activity could be important in order to understand a group’s notion of past. In a similar vein, Connerton (1989) emphasizes the commemorative practices— those intentionally dedicated to the collection of past—of past societies, attributing a central role to ceremonies and material culture. I synthesize the brief theoretical notes in five points: (1) the notion of time is constructed from human social practices; (2) ontologies of time vary among societies; (3) the ontological status of the past relates to the temporal transcendence in relation to human death and the extension of vital limits; (4) ritualized actions and their related spaces and objects are important to trace conceptions of time and past, due to their commemorative character; and (5) a given moment in the past can be a palimpsest composed of various elements that proceed from different temporalities. Hereinafter, I will focus on the Andean altiplano, using analogical referents that come from ethnography and ethnohistory: the concept of time/space or pacha, and past time/space conceived as a realm inhabited by diverse entities.

Pacha and Uywaña: Relating to the Realm of the Past Significant ethnographic and ethnohistoric work has been devoted to Andean concepts like auca, puruma, and tinku (Bouysse-Cassagne and Harris 1987; Cereceda 1987; Harris 1986; Platt 1986). Auca is the differentiation or precise disjunction between complementary opposites, expressed metaphorically, for example, in the man/woman division. In opposition to auca, puruma (Bouysse-Cassagne and Harris 1987) is the virginal, “wild,” and liminal, with connotations of darkness, mixing, lack of differentiation, and diffused contours. Cereceda (1987) also highlights the germinating role of puruma, by assimilating the concept to the function of the plain part of a textile, pampa or tayqa (mother). Puruma is associated with deep water, subsoil, and the highest summits; in other words, with the social margins, but also with provision and care. Another important notion is tinku. Following Platt (1986), tinku is the way to balance momentarily the auca or nonidentical pairs. For Cerceda (1987), it is more a process or structure than a contact point or instance. I consider that tinku should be thought not only as a moment/place of union for both auca halves, but ultimately as a transitional action between the auca and puruma moments, namely, between the realms of the differentiated and the nondifferentiated. 274

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The Andean world has in the term pacha a concept that signifies both time and space, as has been long established by ethnohistory and anthropology (Bouysse-Cassagne 1986; Bouysse-Cassagne and Harris 1987). Following an idea similar to that of the school of Annales, I add the possibility of a certain degree of fractality within the concept of pacha, thus applicable to many spatial and temporal scales, since it involves the space and time for daily tasks as well as, for instance, communal territory, annual cycles, and even the times of myth and history, inscribed in the landscape. The different scales of time and space share the same substances and principles (Figure 10.1). On a daily scale, pacha is differentiated between the areas/moments of auca and puruma. In temporal terms, it is expressed by the day/night division. The day is a time of solar light, with marked contrasts and activities based on age and gender, and spatially differentiated. During the daytime, puruma is confined to the unworked lands, and to the marginal summits and depths. In contrast, night time is puruma domain: an obscure or dimly lighted space—the moon is the presolar light of the chullpas, inhabitants of ancient times, with blurry surroundings and thus lacking differentiation. Nocturnal spaces are dominated by dangerous spirits (Speeding 1992), explaining why rural Andean people tend to avoid going out at night. But even at home, night is when/where the boundaries of differentiation dilute: during sleep, in the

Figure 10.1. Different scales of the concept of pacha. Source: Juan Villanueva Criales.

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oneiric experience, limits are blurry, and the dead spirits use this instance to communicate with living humans. The encounters, or quotidian tinkus, are those transitions between day and night; sunrises and sunsets are important moments for family gatherings (Sillar 2000). In that sense, home can be a taypi or meeting point. The seasonal scale of the community requires a more extended, annual time. The year is divided into dry and rainy seasons that define neatly differentiated activities. Dry season is a time for semiautonomous labor of each domestic unit (Sillar 2000). In contrast, rainy season is the moment of communal endeavors, in which family activities are integrated into the community, and it is also the time of agricultural germination promoted by ancestral entities. During the rainy season, the interaction between the living and the dead or between present and past becomes fluid. With solar luminosity hidden by clouds, rain and thunder communicate in the upper and lower realms. This season of fusion is conceptually related to puruma, contrasting sharply with the auca characteristic of the dry season. The tinkus in this scale are represented by the tinkus or encounters between partialities of the ayllus (Platt 1986), strongly associated with the spaces of the dead or with other sacred spaces or taypi. These meetings occur in the two annual festivities that signal interseasonal transition, currently translated in terms of the Gregorian European calendar as the welcoming of the dead—All Saints—and their farewell—Carnival (Sillar 2000). Another result of the wet season at the spatial level is the establishment of a physical relationship between the altiplano and Eastern regions such as the Amazon lowlands, understood as the origin of rainy clouds (Bouysse-Cassagne 2004). Finally, the cosmogonic scale is the scale of historical time and cosmological space. A common denominator in the Andean view of history is the existence of a past of darkness and constant transformation, lacking differentiation: the time of the chullpas or ch’amak pacha, associated with puruma and preceding the sun itself (Bastien 1996; Bouysse-Cassagne 1988; BouysseCassagne and Harris 1987; Dransart 2002). In ch’amak pacha, the ancestors traveled traversing the subsoil, later emerging to the light of differentiation through their points of origin (Bouysse-Cassagne and Harris 1987). In spatial terms, this implies a differentiation between the underworld (uku pacha), the world in the middle (kay pacha), and the upper world (alax pacha). The underworld, dark and nondifferentiated, but with a germinating potential as it is also the place for seeds and agricultural growth, is puruma, the world of the 276

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ancestors. On the other hand, alax pacha is inhabited by forces of light like the sun, and is the world of colors and differentiation, of day, light and clear contrasts. To inhabit the kay pacha as a living person may be understood as a suspended state between present and past. As such, tinkus at this scale involve the processes of making and “un-making” a person, although they cannot be simply equated to birth and death. The Andean person is not born already made up, but becomes one in a relational and gradual manner (Sillar 2004; see chapter 4 of this volume for a more extensive consideration of Andean life stages). Similarly, a person does not end immediately after death, but undergoes a process of disintegration of bodily matter and of its various spiritual components or souls, such as ayaju and q’amasa (Paredes 1920), until becoming and indistinguishable part of the collective dead (amaya), which are considered in turn as seeds, or generators of new life (Arnold 2006). The three-fractal scales of the time/space or pacha concept characterize puruma as obscure, undefined, and with blurry contours, while at the same time fertile and with germinating properties. Puruma is associated with the past and the spirits of the dead, the night, the wet season, the lowlands, and the subsoil. Puruma, then, does not contain an abstract or purely conceptual past, but a past that can appear in different instances and places, inhabited by agents that exert an influence on the present. An animist ontology that attributes agency to objects and to the landscape, from which the notion of a flux of vital essence is derived, has been well documented in the Andean world (Allen 1997; Arnold 2006; Jennings and Bowser 2008; Sillar 2004). Andean sociality is a relational network that involves humans, landscapes, spirits, animals, and objects (Allen 1997; Crickmay 2002). Haber (2007) defines uywaña as the concept that governs these relationships or relationship between relationships. Uywaña describes a substantial reciprocal flux, expressed through metaphors of maternal/paternal care and feeding, which Sillar (2004) calls “mutual consumption,” and implies that social relationships between humans and nonhumans are expressed frequently through the sharing of food and drink (Bouysse-Cassagne and Harris 1987; Jennings and Bowser 2008; Sillar 2000). Then, if the past as an identifiable phenomenological realm can be conceptualized as an agent or a conglomerate of agents with an effect on the present, social interactions with such a past will be expressed by mutual feeding. In the following section, I present briefly three case studies from the Bolivian altiplano, Archaeological Implications of the Aymara Pacha Concept in the Bolivian Altiplano

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Figure 10.2. Location of the cases discussed in this chapter: (1) Pariti Island; (2) Condoramaya; (3) K’amacha and Kusillavi, Carangas. Source: Juan Villanueva Criales.

correspondent to three consecutive chronological phases, in order to illustrate changes in the ceremonial materiality that could be correlated with changes in the conceptualization and the relation with the past (Figure 10.2). These three cases include the Tiwanaku ceramic offerings of Pariti Island, in the southern area of Lake Titicaca and dated to the Late Middle Horizon (AD 900–1100); the necropolis of Condoramaya, in the northern part of the central altiplano and dated to the beginning of the Late Intermediate period (1100–1300 AD); and the funeral towers, or chullpares, of the central altiplano, which date from the second half of the Late Intermediate and Inka periods (AD 1300–1500). I will first describe each case separately, to discuss them later in relation to diachronic changes in funerary and ceremonial customs.

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Pariti Island Ceramics are often seen as the main markers of Tiwanaku influence, displaying a sophisticated iconography akin to that carved in the lithic stelae and architectural components of the monumental center, and widely used for commensalist and ceremonial purposes throughout the south-central Andes during the Middle Horizon (Anderson 2008; Goldstein 2003; Janusek 2005). The pottery offering of Pariti Island adds more layers of complexity to the Tiwanaku morphologic and iconographic repertoire. The Bolivian-Finnish archaeological project “Chachapuma” conducted fieldwork on Pariti between 2003 and 2006. Excavations documented two deep pits filled with fragmented pottery, which corresponded to more than 400 Tiwanaku semicomplete vessels with diverse shapes and iconographic motifs, dated by C14 to AD 900–1100 (Korpisaari et al. 2012). There is a tendency to interpret the offerings of Pariti as the result of a large feasting ceremony, since pots were intentionally smashed before being deposited in the pits (Korpisaari and Pärssinen 2011, Korpisaari et al. 2012), and appeared intermixed with faunal remains corresponding to dozens of consumed llamas (Callisaya 2005). Moreover, the set is fundamentally made of ceremonial ceramic shapes (Korpisaari et al. 2012, Väisänen 2008). A recent approach to the Pariti ceramic offering analyzed the morphological/performative aspects of the ceramics in the commensalism ritual, as well as their chromatics and iconography (Villanueva and Korpisaari 2013), identifying four subsets as a result: common ceramics, sculptural ceramics, transitional ceramics, and funnel-shaped vessels, or ch’alladores. I will compare the common ceramics and ch’alladores subsets, which display rich painted iconographies with significant chromatic differences: while common ceramic presents red slips, they are mainly black or multicolor in the ch’alladores subset. An analysis of the iconographic contents of the common ceramics subset shows a very restricted and organized repertoire, with icons such as: (1) radiated frontal faces with appendixes ending in feline or bird heads; (2) hybrid beings presenting bird and feline features, usually a profile gray feline with avian head and wings; (3) gray-colored profile felines, usually interpreted as wildcats or titis (Alconini 1995, Villanueva 2007); (4) stepped motifs ending in yellow bird heads, possibly of eagles (paka) or falcons (waman) (Alconini 1995; Villanueva 2016); and (5) human heads in profile. These icons are strongly related to specific ceramic shapes, and mostly depict steps in an organized transition of feline

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Figure 10.3. Decorative motifs in Pariti ceramics. Above: common ceramics. Below: ch’alladores. Source: Juan Villanueva Criales.

and bird motifs, from full differentiation toward complete fusion (Figure 10.3). The common ceramic subset maintains strong similarities with ceremonial and commensalist pottery from other areas of the wider Tiwanaku sphere of influence, and also with iconography shown in other material supports, such as lithic sculpture (Agüero et al. 2003) or wooden snuff tablets (Llagostera 2006). Turning to the ch’alladores subset, the disposition of icons in these vessels is much more clashing and heterogeneous (Figure 10.3); it is practically impossible to find two ch’alladores sharing the same combination of pictorial motifs, thus they differ sharply from the previous ceramic subset. Their motifs are also much more diverse, including: (1) profile heads frequently incorporated to the feline-man or chachapuma theme; (2) spiral fretwork of various sizes and colors; (3) an assortment of hybrid animal motifs that incorporate anatomical parts of animals from highland, lowland, or even unrecognizable origins; (4) serpents, either with ophidian or feline heads; (5) amphibians, in some cases with human characteristics; (6) circles with several internal motifs and geometric motifs; and (7) hands with five, four, or three fingers. Unlike common ceramics, ch’alladores, especially those displaying such complex iconography, are quite unusual in other Tiwanaku contexts. A consideration of the moments when these icons were first created or introduced to the Titicaca basin shows great diversity (Villanueva 2015c). The frontal radiated face or “Staff God” is a typical Middle Horizon theme (Makowski 2002; Portugal Ortíz 1998), although some earlier examples of Pukara materials from the northern region by Titicaca have been also identified (Chávez 2004; YoungSánchez 2004). Instead, birds, human heads, and profile hybrid beings appear first in the Late Formative Pukara ceramic and sculptural iconography (circa 200 BC–200 AD) (Chávez 2004), marking a strong departure from the Early/ Middle Formative period sculptural traditions. Feline motifs begin to appear in the Mocachi substyle from the Pa-Ajanu sculpture of the Middle Formative period (circa 600–200 BC) (Browman 1997), although they are present afterward in the Pukara tradition, and in Late Formative Pukara–influenced styles in the southern Titicaca basin such as Kalasasaya or Qeya pottery (Bennett 1934; Wallace 1957), or Late Formative 2 period sculpture (Janusek 2008; Portugal Ortíz 1998). Toads, serpents, and circles are associated with the sculptural substyle Asiruni from the Middle Formative (1997), the most ancient sculpture of the Titicaca basin. Finally, the hand icon does not have precedents in ceramics or sculpture from the Titicaca basin, the closest hypothetical reference being rock art from the Chuquisaca valleys (Ibarra Grasso and Querejazu Lewis 1986, Archaeological Implications of the Aymara Pacha Concept in the Bolivian Altiplano

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Figure 10.4. Relationship between the chronological origin of icons and vessel shapes in the aforementioned Pariti ceramic subsets. Source: Juan Villanueva Criales.

Lizárraga-Mehringer 2004), estimated to date from Late Archaic to Early Formative times. Noticeably, the antiquity of these motifs tends to relate to their location on certain vessel shapes within the Pariti set (Figure 10.4). Later motifs, such as frontal faces and birds, are present only on the common, red-slipped ceramic subset. Something similar happens with the motifs of Late Formative origins, such as hybrid profile characters, heads, and felines, although the last two appear also, less frequently, on certain painted ch’alladores. The serpent, strongly related to the Middle Formative, appears especially on the ch’alladores subset—although also on some transitional shapes such as basins and vegetable skeuomorphs. Toads and circles, originated in the earliest Middle Formative sculpture, appear exclusively on painted ch’alladores. The same occurs with the 282

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hand motifs, presumably related to Late Archaic to Early Formative rock art from Western valley areas related to Tiwanaku. Considering the principle of present as a palimpsest (Olivier 2001), it seems logical to suggest that those who crafted and used the Pariti vessels during the Middle Horizon, would have coexisted with material manifestations—especially sculpture, but also ceramics and rock art, that by then were already remnants of the past. The integration of such icons in the Pariti ceramic assemblage reflects a reinterpretation of that past in terms of Tiwanaku ontology and worldview. The time/space or pacha past is represented not only in the ancient origin of the icons in the ch’alladores, but in the relation of those icons to the lowlands, the use of black slips that evoke nocturnal contexts or the underworld, their disorganized, mottled nature, and their hybridization that suggests a realm of blurry boundaries and darkness. Archaeological Implications of the Aymara Pacha Concept in the Bolivian Altiplano

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The role of ch’alladores in the ritual is also radically different from that of common ceramics. While the common shapes—such as jars, vases, bowls, or bottles—were probably employed for political commensalism and feasting interaction between humans, the ch’alladores are not morphologically apt for that kind of ceremonial function. With their perforated bases, they are not strictly containers, but funnels intentionally designed to allow liquids to flux into the ground, relating their human users with “the world below.” Apparently then, the ch’alladores from Pariti are linked with the past not only in terms of narrative or evocation, but in terms of effective performance. Through the use of these objects, a social relationship of feeding is established with the spatial realm of the past.

Condoramaya The Middle Horizon to Late Intermediate period transition in the Titicaca basin is commonly seen today as a process of politic disaggregation with population continuity (Albarracín-Jordán 1996; Janusek 2004), that entails strong changes in materiality. One of these changes is the abandonment of the lithic cist as the preferred interment structure, and its replacement by either lithic chambers, slab tombs, or burial towers in the southern Titicaca region (Janusek 2008; Korpisaari 2006). However, research in the altiplano south of Tiwanaku shows increasing evidence of the replacement of Tiwanaku lithic cists with direct underground interments (Patiño and Villanueva 2008; Plaza 2017). One of those cases is a funerary context documented by “Amaya Uta” Archaeological Project between 2007 and 2008 in the site of Wayllani-Kuntur Amaya. Although the site’s most noticeable components are the numerous burial towers, chullpares, (Sagárnaga 2003), our excavations also found an extensive underground cemetery area, with individual flexed burials in simple pits, accompanied by complete ceramic offerings (Patiño Sánchez and Villanueva 2008). The excavated sample of this necropolis is stratigraphically located over a Tiwanaku lithic cist, and under Late Horizon Inka and Pacajes-Inka ceramic materials. Those materials are also found on the site surface, suggesting that feasting associated with the construction and use of burial towers started later than the underground interments, possibly at the beginning of the fourteenth century. Complete vessels associated with the Condoramaya underground burials correspond to the Pacajes style as defined by Albarracín-Jordán (1996), without any presence of Inka components. One of the most noticeable changes between 284

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Figure 10.5. Similar relationships of opposition, regarding decorative structure, between ceramic jars and bowls, and between textile mantles (awayus) and sacks of the central altiplano. Source: Juan Villanueva Criales.

the Tiwanaku and Late Intermediate periods is the abandonment of the Tiwanaku figurative iconography in all material domains (Janusek 2004), including a sharp reduction of the Tiwanaku wide repertoire of ceramic serving shapes. In fact, the pottery that accompanies the burials of Condoramaya corresponds only to three shapes: pots, jars, and bowls. The last two have a red slip and geometrical motifs painted in black or dark brown. Elsewhere I suggested that the two painted ceramic shapes could have had separate functions possibly associated with gender divisions during commensalist ceremonies (Villanueva 2015a). Their pictorial structures, bipartite in jars and rather radial in bowls, could imitate some designs seen in ethnographic textile pieces such as mantles or awayus and sacks (Figure 10.5), which nowadays distinguish the serving and transportation of vegetables by women (using Archaeological Implications of the Aymara Pacha Concept in the Bolivian Altiplano

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awayus) from the serving of meat by men (using bags) in feasts. Hypothetically, the inside of the drinking domain bowls and jars would have been conceptualized metaphorically based on similar divisions, given their performative and iconographic differences. Excavations in the Condoramaya underground cemetery documented dozens of male, female, and infant burials, and numerous ceramic offerings. Two main observations can be made regarding their distribution. First, the ceramic offerings are not accompanying the deceased bodies inside the tombs, showing a radical departure from the funerary tradition started in the Late Formative (Machicado 2009) and strongly standardized among the cist burials of the Tiwanaku period (Korpisaari 2006). In Condoramaya, vessels are rather placed in their own small pits, and do not relate spatially to any particular burial, being randomly distributed (Figure 10.6). Secondly, ceramic offerings are not re-

Figure 10.6. Distribution of ceramic offerings related to burials from the Condoramaya cemetery. Source: Juan Villanueva Criales.

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stricted to any specific shape, presenting rather varied combinations of jars, pots, and bowls, in different positions. We were not able to detect patterns relating specific vessel shapes either to burial types or to gender or age categories of the deceased individuals. If the ceramic vessels were in fact differentiated conceptually through gender metaphors in daily or feasting contexts, as suggested by previous research (Sillar 2000; Villanueva 2015a), we would expect a stronger relationship between pots or jars and female interments, on one side, and between bowls and male interments on the other. A similar pattern is seen in other grave goods such as pins (tupus) or spinning wheels, associated more with female burials (in the case of pins as part of the dress), and boleadoras and hair tweezers, associated with male burials. The absence of these associations in the realm of ceramic funerary offerings, suggests that those materials external to burial pits function in quite a different way than the grave goods placed inside burials. According to our hypothesis, these offering were not dedicated to a specific deceased individual, but to the subsoil seen as a space of the dead. This world would be the uku pacha, the place where the dead are buried but also the ancestral time of the puruma. In the underworld, then, both vessels and people appear to participate in a nondifferentiated realm, where/when individual limits are dissolved. The ceramics from the Condoramaya cemetery are not offered to an individual, arguably, because in this world individual persons would not exist, but instead to the dead (amaya) as a collective. Thus, the use of the objects in the burial context would imitate a person’s disaggregation and its integration to other collectives of nonhuman beings.

Chullpares of Carangas The site of Condoramaya exemplifies the trend of building chullpares frequently over earlier burials, such as simple pits or cists, throughout the altiplano. Some research regarding radiocarbon dating of chullpares suggests that their construction began around the thirteenth century AD, increasing their popularity during the fourteenth century and continuing even during Inka times (Kesseli and Pärssinen 2005). Thus, burial towers correspond to the second half of the Late Intermediate period in the central altiplano in a similar way to the neighboring Lípez region (Nielsen 2002). In this section, I will discuss one of the cases studied by the “Altiplano Central” Archaeological Project between 2012 and 2014, whose main goal was to Archaeological Implications of the Aymara Pacha Concept in the Bolivian Altiplano

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study: (1) the boundaries used to define archaeological constructions, and (2) the dynamics of the formation of imagined communities in the Carangas altiplano (Villanueva 2015b). Although the project covered four dispersed regions over the vast Carangas altiplano, studying funerary architecture, residential sites, and associated ceramics, I will focus my attention on the southwestern region of Carangas. This area is marked by the presence of two high hills known as Kamacha and K’usillavi, which dominate the landscape. The southwest is the most arid region of the Carangas altiplano. It is different from others because of its limited land for cultivation and lack of big wetlands for intensive alpaca pastoralism. In this area, the life of people and flocks would depend on water from the streams that flow from both hills during the wet season. Fortified settlements or pukaras constitute a well-documented settlement pattern during the Late Intermediate period over most of the altiplano, from northern Lípez (Nielsen 2002) to the whole Titicaca basin (Arkush 2012; Janusek 2008), obviously including the central altiplano of Pacajes and Carangas (Gisbert 2001; Michel 2000; Pärssinen 2005). However, in contrast to northwestern Carangas, where pukaras extend over lengths of 18 to 20 ha, in the southwest, settlements are usually open with nearby but much smaller fortified refugees that range from 2 to 4 ha. They are also more numerous and less spread out. In this area we documented seven settlements, four in Kamacha hill and three in K’usillavi. Chullpares in this region are located at the base of hill slopes, at about 2 km from the settlements and concentrated in discrete clusters (Figure 10.7). These towers were looted between the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, but human bones inside and surrounding them suggest that they were used extensively as tombs. Likewise, as in all of the central altiplano, the surface immediately surrounding chullpares is littered with serving pottery sherds, evidencing feasting practices during the Late Intermediate period, and in some cases also during the Late Horizon. A petrographic analysis of ceramic pastes from these funeral/ceremonial sites, in comparison to neighboring settlements, indicates that all pastes tend to be associated with certain regions of the Carangas altiplano, with the exception of paste 2, which is more widely distributed. Paste 1 is associated with the northwest (Sajama and Curahuara from Carangas), paste 6 with the northeast (Chuquichambi), and pastes 3, 4, and 5 with the southwest. In the southwestern case, the presence of all six pastes suggests strong ceremonial ties with other regions of the Carangas altiplano. Also, the distribution of pastes between localities within the southwest suggests strong internal heterogeneity. In the case 288

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Figure 10.7. Location of settlements and chullpares in southwestern Carangas. Source: Juan Villanueva Criales.

of K’amacha, three of its four localities (Escara, Romero Pampa, and Payrumani) share similar proportions of ceramic components. In contrast, Charcollo presents a composition with high quantities of paste 1 related to the northwest. On the other hand, at Kusillavi hill, the westernmost Florida province site, the composition of the ceramic components is distinctively marked by ample use of the local paste 4; Esmeraldas, in the east, has high proportions of paste 6, suggesting particular ties with northeastern Carangas. A striking pattern is noticeable when comparing settlements and sites with chullpares (chullperíos) from each locality. The ceramic composition of a settlement can resemble more closely a chullperío situated many kilometers away than most chullperíos nearby. At the same time, the paste compositions of these last chullperíos may be akin to quite remote settlements (Figure 10.8). Archaeological Implications of the Aymara Pacha Concept in the Bolivian Altiplano

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Figure 10.8. Distribution of ceramic pastes according to their sources, southwestern Carangas. Source: Juan Villanueva Criales.

If we attempt to trace directions and fluxes of exchange, social interaction, and/or extended kinship through ceramic materials, the chullperíos of Carangas, in particular its southwestern portion, were local arenas aimed to construct and reproduce wider imagined communities through periodical feasting. In the segmentary context of the Andean altiplano (sensu Albarracín-Jordán 2007), the commensalist festivity is fundamental to supralocal political articulation and to the corporative management of authority and power (see also Nielsen 2006). According to these data, even the burial towers clearly affiliated to a residential or natural community defined by a neighboring settlement could have been used to construct community with those who lived further away. In this sense, both the deceased contained in a funerary tower and the landscape, conceived ontologically as animated, could have played a fundamental role in chullparian ceremonies (Gil García 2010). However, it is worth it to emphasize that, in spatial terms, these dead bodies have been already 290

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extracted from the underground and transferred to the world of the living. Burial towers permitted the physical conservation of dead bodies in order to maintain a social and almost personal relationship with them through regular feeding, dressing, and a wide range of ceremonial actions, similar to those recorded, for example, by Andean ethnohistory (Salomon 1995).

Discussion The ethnohistorical influence over Andean archaeology entails a tendency to extrapolate the existence of practices based on the conservation, feeding, and cult of the dead, recorded in fifteenth and sixteenth century writings, to earlier periods. An example of this phenomenon, in the case of the Bolivian altiplano, is the suggestion that mummies similar to those from the Inka period could have been located in certain specialized ceremonial architecture of the Middle Horizon, such as the Putuni compound of Tiwanaku (Couture and Sampeck 2003). However, other authors notice that the Tiwanaku underground stone cists seem to cause a rather adverse effect on the conservation of a “mummy,” as concentrated humidity produces the disintegration of the dead body (Korpisaari 2006); also, in sharp contrast to the neighboring Wari, Tiwanaku burials do not possess holes or any opening designed to allow communication with the interment (Isbell and Korpisaari 2012). This tendency seems to have a precedent in Middle Formative and Late Formative funerary customs in the Taraco peninsula of the southern Titicaca basin, where the postburial “ancestral” treatment common in later pre-Hispanic times is absent (Machicado 2009). The finding of a technique for the reduction of corpses to bones, using quicklime during Tiwanaku times in Khonkho Wankane (Smith and Pérez 2015), supports the idea of dead bodies being dismembered or dissolved rather than preserved. It will be difficult to know if these “dissolved” dead belonged to a defined place of the past, but we do know that the repertoire of Tiwanaku iconography in ceramic funnels performatively associated with the underground, which can be interpreted as the place of the past, was certainly populated by other kinds of entities. Animals related to the lowlands, to night and humidity, such as toads and snakes, in constant mutation and combination, were the main protagonists of this mottled iconographic realm, which rarely makes reference to dead humans. In fact, the human head was part of the opposite sphere: the sphere dominated by order and marked contours that is portrayed in the common ceramics, destined mainly to commensalism among humans and Archaeological Implications of the Aymara Pacha Concept in the Bolivian Altiplano

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not precisely to establish a feeding link with the subsoil (Chapter 7 of this volume focuses on the ontology of the Andean human head). An interesting point when considering the concepts of what is located in the subsoil/past sphere during Tiwanaku times is the strong emphasis placed in representing this realm—and cosmology in general—through a diverse and richly elaborated iconography, carefully executed both in ceramics and in other material domains, from textiles and wood carvings to sculpture and architecture. It seems that, as emphasis on iconographic and architectural domains increased, the relevance of dead bodies within the mortuary realm decreased, reaching its lowest point in Tiwanaku times. Coincidentally, the ideological breakdown around the year AD 1100 involves the reversal of both tendencies. The construction and use of monumental sculpture and architecture ceases (Albarracín-Jordán 1996; Alconini 1995), and there is a marked rejection of Tiwanaku iconography in every material domain (Janusek 2005). Simultaneously, the importance of dead humans as inhabitants of the past seems to increase. The case of Condoramaya testifies to the abandonment of the lithic cist and its replacement by other forms of underground burial, but also to the establishment of social ties with a space for the dead through ceramic offerings. This pottery, iconographically and morphologically less elaborate, does not portray the entities of this underground space, although the subsoil is now shared with actual dead bodies. The dead do not seem to be personalized; they are probably still dissolved within a collective—and the offerings are thus destined to a general space of the dead, a place of the past clearly located in the subsoil. It is even possible for these ceramic offerings to be changed and renewed periodically without disturbing the actual human burials, a conduct that would anticipate the later tendency of periodically feeding the dead. The figurative iconography will not return to the ceramic styles of the Bolivian altiplano, but the dynamics of ceremonial construction will. From the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries on, human communities from the whole altiplano get involved in the building of burial towers in a scope and quantity that suggest a significant labor investment. However, two main differences distinguish this new period of monumental building from the earlier one: first, its dispersed nature, opposed to the centralization of the ceremonial/sculptural activities during Tiwanaku times; secondly, its primarily funerary function, preserving dead bodies and thus allowing physical interaction between them, as separate individuals, and the living human communities. In a way, the past 292

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is extracted from the subsoil in this moment. Its place stops being adjacent to the living and coexists, even discontinuously, with the living. The dead that had gained importance gradually during previous centuries occupy now the apex of the social altiplano hierarchy, with an ancestral status tied to the social segments of the living humans within corporative social constructions, as suggested by Nielsen (2006) and documented in ethnohistorical testimonies. Then, the powerful entities of the past, now discretely individualized as ancestors, will act as an axis through which the living will negotiate supralocal community articulation and power. As an epilogue, these links of ancestral familiarity with the dead seem to break only with the reduction and extirpation of idolatry policies imposed by Spanish Viceroy Toledo from the sixteenth century on. The alienation of the living regarding the dead, enacted through the destruction of mummies and a demonization of any practice of interaction with the dead and with ancient places, will attempt to send dead Christian souls to a distant heaven, recasting local ontologies into a modernist and representationalist, allochronic ontological framework. The underground and the ancient sites will then be repopulated with mythical beings like the chullpas, moros, gentiles, or antiguos, thought to cause damage and disease (Villanueva et al. 2019). However, those beings were rapidly understood as people from “other times”; thus, Christianization was not completely successful in eradicating the notion of a past inhabited by active entities that, being capable to influence the present, deserve proper treatments of ceremonial interaction. I believe that the uywaña, or mutual feeding logic, is maintained throughout the long sequence, governing the relationships with that space/time or pacha of the past.

Closing Thoughts The three case studies described above employ distinct methodological approaches as well as different sets of evidence, although the use of ceramics as data is a common feature. This is not coincidental since ceramics, as containers of food and beverages, were tools frequently used to create social ties with, among other entities, the past itself. It is possible that the ontological status of the past as a concrete, identifiable space/place, based on the concept of pacha, was a common construct to the altiplano populations from pre-Hispanic times to current days. This ontological construct permits the establishment of relational and material links, rather than Archaeological Implications of the Aymara Pacha Concept in the Bolivian Altiplano

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purely symbolic or evocative ones. Such a past, endowed with agency over the present, is a neighboring past. However, along the sequence there were clearly many ways to conceptualize the entities of such a past and to interact with them. In this chapter, I intended to distinguish and illustrate three of these ways, which without a doubt respond to different historical, sociopolitical, and ideological circumstances. I consider that a detailed understanding of the concepts of the past in diverse Andean societies is essential for our depiction of them, given that past is an ontological extension of human vital time, and as such an important indicator of the values held by a society. Likewise, through these examples I hope to generate a discussion regarding the variety of behaviors and material practices that can be enacted, even within a posited common ontological framework. I also hope these examples will be employed as antidotes to the essentialisms that usually occur in our narrative constructions of the pre-Hispanic Andean past.

Acknowledgments I want to thank the community of Isla Pariti and the “Chachapuma” Project 2005– 2006 team, especially its directors Jédu Sagárnaga and Antti Korpisaari, for the constant openness that allowed me to continue inquiring about the fascinating Pariti iconography. I also thank the “Amaya Uta” Archaeological Project 2007– 2008 team, especially to its director Jédu Sagárnaga, and also to the communities of Cóndor Amaya and Wayllani. My gratitude also goes to the team of “Altiplano Central” Archaeological Project and the municipalities of Escara and Huachacalla. Professor Marcela Sepúlveda guided this project within the PhD Anthropology program at Universidad Católica del Norte–Universidad de Tarapacá in Arica, Chile, with funding support of MECESUP2. Finally, I want to thank María Cecilia Lozada and Henry Tantaleán for their gentile invitation to participate in this volume, and to Claudia Giribaldi and Brandy Norton from the University of Chicago for the translation and helpful editorial comments of this chapter.

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Lizárraga-Mehringer, Yara 2004 Viscachani y el Precerámico en Bolivia, Tomo 1. PhD dissertation, University of Köln. Llagostera, Agustín 2006 Contextualización e Iconografía de las tabletas psicotrópicas Tiwanaku de San Pedro de Atacama. Chungara 38 (1): 83–111. Lucas, Gavin 2005 The Archaeology of Time. Routledge, London and New York. Machicado, Eduardo 2009 Las Tumbas de la Península de Taraco: Trayectorias de cambio en prácticas funerarias durante la transición entre el Formativo Medio y el Formativo tardío. Lic diss., Universidad Mayor de San Andrés, La Paz. Makowski, Krzysztof 2002 Los personajes frontales de báculos en la iconografía Tiahuanaco y Huari: ¿tema o convención?. Boletín de Arqueología PUCP 5: 337–373. McGlade, James 1999 The Times of History: Archaeology, Narrative and Non-linear Causality. In Time and Archaeology, edited by Tim Murray. Routledge, London. Métraux, Alfred 1931 Un mundo perdido. La tribu de los Chipayas de Carangas. Sur 1 (3): 98–131. Michel, Marcos 2000 El Señorío prehispánico de Carangas. Dipl. diss., Universidad de la Cordillera, La Paz. Nielsen, Axel 2002 Asentamientos, conflicto y cambio social en el altiplano de Lípez (Potosí). Revista Española de Antropología Americana 32: 179–205. 2006 Pobres jefes: aspectos corporativos en las formaciones sociales pre-inkaicas de los Andes circumpuneños. In Contra la Tiranía Tipológica en Arqueología, una visión desde Suramérica, edited by Cristóbal Gnecco and Carl Henrik Langebaek, pp. 121–150. Universidad de Los Andes–CESO, Bogotá. Olivier, Laurent 2001 Duration, Memory and the Nature of the Archaeological Record. In It’s About Time. The Concept of Time in Archaeology, edited by Hakan Karlsson, pp. 61–70. Bricoleur Press, Göteborg. Paredes, Manuel Rigoberto 1920 Mitos, supersticiones y supervivencias populares de Bolivia. Atenea, La Paz. Pärssinen, Martti 2005 Caquiaviri y la provincia Pacasa. Desde el Alto-Formativo hasta la conquista española (1–1533). CIMA, La Paz. Patiño, Tania, and Juan Villanueva 2008 En la ciudad de los muertos: Excavaciones arqueológicas en Wayllani/Kuntur Amaya. Chachapuma 3: 23–35 Platt, Tristan 1986 Mirrors and Maize, the Concept of Yanantin among the Macha of Bolivia. In An-

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thropological History of Andean Polities, edited by John Murra, Nathan Wachtel, and Jacques Revel, pp. 228–259. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Plaza, Víctor 2017 Conservando el legado de Tama Chullpa. Solidar Suiza/Ministerio de Culturas y Turismo, La Paz. Portugal Ortíz, Max 1998 Escultura Prehispánica Boliviana. Carrera de Arqueología y Antropología, Universidad Mayor de San Andrés, La Paz. Sagárnaga, Jedu 2003 Diccionario de la Cultura Nativa en Bolivia. CIMA, La Paz. Salomon, Frank 1995 “The Beautiful Grandparents”: Andean Ancestor Shrines and Mortuary Ritual as seen through Colonial Records. In Tombs for the Living: Andean Mortuary Practices, edited by Tom D. Dillehay, pp. 315–353. Dumbarton Oaks, Washington DC. Sillar, Bill 2000 Shaping Culture, Making Pots and Constructing Households, An Ethnoarchaeological Study of Pottery Production, Trade and Use in the Andes. BAR International Series, Oxford. 2004 Acts of God and Active Material Culture: Agency and Commitment in the Andes. In Agency Uncovered. Archaeological Perspectives on Social Agency, Power, and Being Human, edited by Andrew Gardner, pp. 153–189. Institute of Archaeology, University College of London, London. Smith, Scott C., and Maribel Pérez 2015 From Bodies to Bones: Death and Mobility in the Lake Titicaca Basin, Bolivia. Antiquity 89: 106–121. Speeding, Allison 1992 Almas, anchanchus y alaridos en la noche: El paisaje vivificado de un valle yungueño. In Etnicidad, economía y simbolismo en los Andes, edited by Silvia Arze, Rossana Barragán, Laura Escobari, and Ximena Medinacelli, pp. 299–330. IFEAHISBOL-Sociedad Boliviana de Historia, La Paz. Thomas, Julian 1996 Time, Culture and Identity. An Interpretive Archaeology. Routledge, London. Väisänen, Riikka 2008 Pacha Mama’s Treasures: A Study of the Morphological Types of Ceremonial Tiwanaku Ceramics Found on the Island of Pariti, Lake Titicaca, Bolivia. M.A. dissertation, University of Helsinki. Villanueva, Juan 2007 Las escudillas del rasgo 1 en la isla de Pariti: Interpretación y consideraciones desde un enfoque iconográfico. Chachapuma 1: 53–63. 2015a Yachay, Pacha, Tinku. La mutua constitución de la persona y los ceramios en el Período Intermedio Tardío (1100–1450 d.C.) del altiplano central de Bolivia. In Personas, cosas, relaciones. Reflexiones arqueológicas sobre las materialidades pasadas y presentes, edited by Félix A. Acuto and Valeria Franco Salvi, pp. 117–150. Ediciones Abya-Yala, Quito.

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2015b De la Pukara al Chullperío: Evaluando la articulación de comunidades imaginadas en el Carangas preinkaico. Arqueoantropológicas 5: 23–50. 2015c En torno a concepciones del tiempo en Tiwanaku. Consideraciones en base a la iconografía de los ch’alladores de Pariti. Cuaderno de Campo 6(1): 16–35. 2016 Aves doradas, plantas plumarias y ojos alados. Vías para interpretar la iconografía aviaria en Tiwanaku. Anales de la Reunión Anual de Etnología 29: 68–81. Villanueva, Juan, and Antti Korpisaari 2013 La Cerámica Tiwanaku de la Isla Pariti como recipiente: Performances y narrativas. Estudios Atacameños 46: 83–108. Villanueva, Juan, Pablo Alonso, and Patricia Ayala 2019 Arqueología de la ruptura colonial: mouros, chullpas, gentiles y abuelos en España, Bolivia y Chile en perspectiva comparada. Estudios Atacameños 60. Wallace, Dwight Tousch 1957 The Tiahuanaco Horizon Styles in the Peruvian and Bolivian Highlands. PhD dissertation, Department of Anthropology, University of California, Berkeley. Young-Sánchez, Margaret (editor) 2004 Tiwanaku: Ancestors of the Inka. Denver Art Museum–University of Nebrsaska Press, Lincoln and London.

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11 Rock Art, Historical Ontologies, and the Genealogy of Landscape A Case Study from the Southern Andes (30° lat. S)

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The ontological turn in the social sciences has led to a reconsideration of the traditional divisions between humans and other-than-humans, opening the door to questions regarding the formation of premodern worlds and their collectives (Alberti et al. 2011; Bird David 1999; Descola 2005, 2012; Viveiros de Castro 1996, 2010). The recognition of the relational character of all ontologies (Descola 2012) has marked the beginning of archeological debates about affective abilities and the role of the other-than-humans in the formation of social relations and the reproduction of premodern communities (Alberti and Marshall 2009; Brown and Walker 2008; Harris 2013; Laguens and Gastaldi 2008; Pauketat 2013; Watts 2013). These proposals have had important repercussions in Andean archeology. This is due to, among other things, the rich corpus of ethnographic, linguistic, and ethnohistorical information that shows the relevance of a series of nonhuman actors in the production of social life (Allen 2002, 2015; Bray 2009, 2015b; Haber 2009; Laguens and Gastaldi 2008; Mannheim and Salas Carreño 2015; Sillar 2009). The relevance of these actors is based on their particular animation abilities because, in the Andes, “the material world is experienced as animate, powerful, and responsive to human activity” (Allen 2002: 22). Archeological research has focused on the central Andes and later periods, specifically on the Inka period. Despite the contributions of these proposals, interpretation cannot be founded upon the primacy of ethnohistorical and linguis-

tic data in all regions of the Andes. Accordingly, although these perspectives enrich interpretation, they do not always allow us to recognize the heterogeneities and the historically constituted nature of ontologies. Therefore, it is necessary to historicize Andean ontologies, acknowledging “the historical contingency and dynamism of material-ontological orders” (Swenson 2015: 679). In this study, we develop an approximation of the historical dynamics of pre-Hispanic ontologies based on an evaluation of the production and consumption of rock art at a specific site in the southern Andes. We develop a genealogy of the Valle El Encanto site (a hydrographic watershed of the Limarí River in north-central Chile, 30° S), which shows a sequence of occupation and production of rock art from the beginning of the late Holocene (circa 2000 BC) until contact with the Spanish Empire (circa AD 1530) (Figure 11.1). Due to this long occupation, it presents rock art associated both with huntergatherer and agricultural communities, making it a particularly useful case study for this kind of research. This is the only site in the region with such a long history of rock art production, as the rock art produced by hunter-gatherer communities and agricultural groups are usually spatially segregated. It is expected, then, that within this site, different historical landscapes and ontologies were shaped. As noted by different authors, ontologies express and reproduce themselves through relational fields that are historically constituted (Jones and Alberti 2013; Pauketat 2013; Robb and Pauketat 2013; Watts 2013). The structure of collectives and the animation capacities of the other-than-humans are distributed throughout these relational fields (Descola 2012; Pauketat 2013; Watts 2013; Zedeño 2009). The creation of a genealogy of the Valle El Encanto site based on the production and consumption of rock art allows us to discuss how one space, one practice, and materiality insert themselves into differential relational fields that are historically constituted throughout the regional sequence. Through this genealogy of “making place,” we can understand how these historical ontologies articulate with the practices and social dynamics in the pre-Hispanic world (Swenson 2015). To develop this study, we combine visual, spatial, and technological data about rock art and the results of stratigraphic excavations. This information is integrated with the social, spatial, and material dynamics that are recognized at the regional level. The temporal depth of our work and the absence of documentary sources imply that this debate is structured from a purely archeological perspective. Despite its interpretative limitations, our work contributes to the 302

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Figure 11.1. Map of the area of study including detail of Valle El Encanto. Source: Andrés Troncoso.

development of relational perspectives that draw from materiality itself to gain a better understanding of pre-Hispanic historical ontologies.

Framing Historical Ontologies: Some Theoretical Remarks The ontological turn has had the rich South American ethnographic record as one of its principal sources (Descola 1996, 2005; Viveiros de Castro 1996, 2010). This situation has established Andean anthropology and archeology as areas of study that are particularly favorable for debating such proposals. Therefore, a Rock Art, Historical Ontologies, and Landscape in the Southern Andes

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series of authors have evaluated the participation and animation of a series of other-than-human beings in a diversity of social practices and material spheres (Allen 2002, 2015; Bray 2009, 2015a [see papers therein]; Haber 2009; Laguens and Gastaldi 2008; Sillar 2009; Weismantel 2013, 2015). These authors’ contributions notwithstanding, we feel that it is necessary to explore the historical character of these ontologies. As noted by Robb and Pauketat (2013), ontologies respond to and are the product of situated historical processes. For this reason, they are not timeless, nor are they necessarily internally homogenous (see also Harris and Robb 2012; Pauketat 2013; Swenson 2015). Historical ontologies make references to bounded cultural worlds that provide orientational frameworks for social action, including historically specific proposals regarding being, presence, collectives, reality, and personhood (Kohn 2016; Robb and Pauketat 2013). Understanding these historical ontologies allows us to consider how collectives have been constituted by different types of beings and how the animation capacities of the other-than-humans have changed throughout history. With this understanding, beyond recovering just the otherness of the past (Alberti and Marshall 2009), we can begin to explore the interplay and unfolding among practices, being, substances, places, and past social processes (Pauketat 2013; Swenson 2015). The fact that these collectives are neither static nor unchanging implies the recognition that their constituents, properties, and animacies are historically, spatially, and experientially distributed and positioned within these meshwork (sensu Ingold 2011, 2015). In the Andes, Mannheim and Salas Carreño (2015) have discussed the relevance of these relational positions for understanding the agentive abilities of the wak’as and the nature of their being. Therefore, focusing on historical ontologies means approaching how these relational meshworks constitute themselves over time, the ways in which different beings engage in their inner workings, and their differential possibilities of animation and affect on social life. The formation of these meshworks (or bundles, sensu Pauketat 2013) is a process that is continuously unfolding through the reiterative articulations that occur among different entangling beings. Through this constant movement over the course of human history, the other-than-humans and places can perform bundling in various ways, entangled, disassembled, or dispersed in particular webs of relationships (Pauketat 2013; see also De Landa 2006). Similarly, the intensities and extensities of the connections themselves are subject to these historical unfoldings (Pauketat 2013; Robb and Pauketat 2013). For the above reasons, understanding historical ontologies in the Andes 304

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requires recognizing their spatial and historically situated nature, thus unfolding a diachronic approach based on an understanding of the genealogies of material practices and their engagement with the landscape (Bray 2015b; Pauketat 2013; Robb and Pauketat 2013). Through the genealogy of material practices, we can understand how articulations and differential meshworks establish themselves over time among humans, other-than-humans, and landscapes as well as the multiple games of affection that they weave among them. The relevance that Ingold (1993, 2015) gives to the process of making and taskscapes shows how, through this practical interlacing, animations, affections, experiences, and engagements unfold and reproduce themselves, allowing us to gain a better understanding of the different nodes of these meshworks and the positions that their members take on. These genealogies of material practices are completely interlaced with processes of spatial construction and the formation of historical landscapes (Ingold 1993; Pauketat 2013, Robb and Pauketat 2013; Swenson 2015). This is a result of the relevance that space has in the formation of social-historical experiences and social collectives and because one of the threads that ties the knots in which the different beings of these meshworks are interlaced necessarily has a spatial dimension (Ingold 1993, 2015). For this reason, historical landscapes show particular assemblages and similarly long-lived places throughout their history (Robb and Pauketat 2013). Understanding space along these lines implies changing the manner in which we view it: from its constitution as context to its formation as one more element of the assembly of specific historical ontologies. We must understand how space, or some places, affected and were engaged in different assemblages throughout the history of human occupation in an area (Jones and Alberti 2013). Following this line of study from an archeological perspective implies deploying contextual perspectives that allow us to understand the unfolding of the different members that compose these relational meshworks rather than conducting an isolated study of elements of material culture. Only by understanding these historically constituted relationships can we begin to understand the otherness of collectives in the past, the different animacies of beings, and the distinguishing sociohistorical features of these meshworks. By contrast, although an archeological perspective that centers exclusively on isolated objects may contribute to discussions, it is not possible from this perspective to perform a profound evaluation of these bundles because it does not articulate the units within their relational fields. Rock Art, Historical Ontologies, and Landscape in the Southern Andes

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For this reason, one way of understanding how these historical meshworks unfold is by using the genealogy of particular spaces. The genealogies of places have focused on discussing the formation of memories, the dynamics of recollection, and the biographies of places, among other aspects (Bradley 1993; Tilley 1997). In many cases, they have been founded upon representational logics that attempt to illuminate the different meanings assigned to places or the value ascribed to them in the past. Recently, Moore (2010) has criticized these perspectives due to the equality they make among memory and reiteration of practices in the same space, without recognizing that the latter are articulated with structures and differential dynamics over time. Similarly, we can understand the genealogy of a space as being a product of a series of reiterative practices that are performed in the same place. However, these practices engage in differential relational fields through the production and reproduction of different articulations among humans, other-than-humans, and a specific place. We can approach a genealogy of these historical ontologies through these different articulations, evaluating the different positions and animations that the otherthan-human being presents, the characteristics of the collectives that unfold therein, and the differential affection that the same place generates for humans (Fowler in Alberti et al. 2011). Based on these proposals, we define our approach to studying the genealogy of Valle El Encanto. This site was occupied for 3,000 years, and during this time, the same practice was reiterated in it: the production of rock art (Troncoso et al. 2008). In particular, we understand rock art to be more than a simple visual display. Instead, it is the material result of a specific practice (inscription on rocky foundations). In its execution, rock-art making establishes and produces a field of relationships among practices, beings, imaginaries, and a place or network of places. The resulting matter (a marked rock) reproduces and spatializes a determined imaginary; at the same time, it fixes a combination of relationalities among practices, substances, spaces, and beings. In this manner, evaluating how the production and distribution of blocks of rock art occurred at a particular site such as Valle El Encanto allows us to discuss these relational genealogies without depending on, and without founding studies exclusively upon, the ethnographic and ethnohistorical narratives that are associated with this material record. This has been the tendency in studies of rock art that use relational perspectives (Brady and Bradley 2014; Brady et al. 2016; Porr and Bell 2012; Robinson 2013). In this case, our discussion of these themes is based on the very substance of rock art and its practical unfolding. 306

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An Archaeological and Relational History of Valle El Encanto The Valle El Encanto site is located in the north-central part of Chile, specifically in the hydrographic watershed of the Limarí River. It runs along a narrow ravine approximately 1.5 km long that is bathed by the Estero Las Peñas. The site was recognized early on in archeological surveys of the region, which is known for having a large quantity of rock art (Ampuero 1992; Ampuero and Rivera 1971; Iribarren 1949). Previous works on the site have been focused on the characterization of rock art, its contextualization at a regional level, and evaluations of the occupations identified in archaeological excavations, which date to the Late Holocene (Ampuero 1992; Ampuero and Rivera 1964, 1971), and were produced by hunter-gatherer communities. There are few interpretations linking rock art with social and historical dynamics and with the logic behind the use of this space. This is also the case for the broader region, where studies have focused mainly on the ritual role—sometimes associated to shamanism—of rock art, without dealing with its relationship to sociohistorical processes (Niemeyer and Ballereau 2004). Our work in the region has centered on evaluating the spatial, visual, and technological variability of rock art as well as its relationship with regional preHispanic social processes. To that end, we have performed regional surveying that covers an area of approximately 150 m2, including excavation of archaeological sites, and recording of rock art sites. Using that data, we raised a series of proposals regarding regional prehistoric settlement patterns and social dynamics (Troncoso et al. 2016). The regional sequence of rock art production covers a period of almost 3,500 years starting with the hunter-gatherers at the beginning of the Late Holocene and ending in the era of contact with the Spanish conquerors. Although the chronological-cultural assignation of rock art is always complex, we have based our proposal on the conjugation of a set of lines of evidence that address the three basic levels of variability of this materiality: visual, technical, and spatial. We have conducted iconographic analyses, analyses of symmetry, composition of panels and typological and technological analyses, as well as stratigraphic excavation next to rocks marked. Visual characteristics of rock art have been compared to the visuality of other medias. Finally, we have studied the spatial distribution of the rock art and, in the case of paintings, we obtained radiometric datings. Using this corpus of information, we have proposed three large groups of rock art that differ from one another in their spatial, visual, and technical aspects (Troncoso et al. 2008, 2015a, 2016). Rock Art, Historical Ontologies, and Landscape in the Southern Andes

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Within the regional context, Valle El Encanto is an exceptional site. On the one hand, it is the only site where we have found the complete historical sequence of rock art. On the other hand, the characteristics of its parietal manifestations are representative of the variety of rock art in the region. This latter aspect of the site has been previously noted by other authors (Ampuero 1992). Valle El Encanto is then the only known site in the region that combines rock art produced by hunter-gatherer and agricultural communities. These characteristics render Valle El Encanto an excellent case study for the evaluation of how different relational meshworks unfold in this place through the production and consumption of rock art. In fact, based on its long occupational history and its grouping of rock art produced by communities with different economic and social features, it is possible to hypothesize that in this site different landscapes and ontologies were displayed and lived through time. Archaeological characterisations of the site show that hunter-gatherer occupations are different from those of groups with agricultural technologies. While both groups produced rock art, hunter-gatherer occupations have been characterized as residential camps with bedrock mortars; agricultural communities did not produce the latter, marking rocks only through rock art, and did not occupy the site as a residential area. Regardless of the ubiquity of rock art in the site, no explanation has been given to the reasons behind this intensive production. One could initially argue, nonetheless, that Valle El Encanto is located in a watercourse that is an excellent natural route linking inland and coastal areas, allowing for a movement through different spaces and environments. Also, the watercourse in the site is permanent, a unique feature in an area characterized by seasonally fed ravines. This creates good conditions for habitation and use as a route. Finally, the area where the site is located, shows a widening of the ravine, with terraces that allow the aggregation of large numbers of people around the rocks. All these characteristics make Valle El Encanto an optimal space for human movement and habitation, as well as for the unfolding of different social practices. This is different from other rock art sites in the area, which are located in hillsides or narrow ravines where only few people could be gathered and have poorer conditions for habitation. Nevertheless, due to present-day alteration of the area, it is impossible to identify pre-Hispanic roads or paths. In light of the above, in the next pages we focus on the relational dynamics that correspond to each of the groups that are defined for the region in general and for the site in particular. 308

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Moment I: Pigments and the Animacy of a Space As said before, the earliest evidence of site occupation and rock art in Valle El Encanto links it to the hunter-gatherer groups of the beginning of the Late Holocene. This rock art corresponds to red paintings that represent only nonfigurative motifs such as lines and circles (Figure 11.2). We have identified 14 rocks marked (Figure 11.3). These manifestations are similar to other rock art paintings recognized in other sites of the region and ichnographically similar to the decorations of bone tools from the same era. We have a set of direct absolute

Figure 11.2. Some examples of rock paintings and bedrock mortars in Valle El Encanto (Moment I). Source: Andrés Troncoso.

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Figure 11.3. Distribution of rock paintings in the site. Source: Andrés Troncoso.

dates of rock paintings ranging between around 2000 and 300 d.C. (Troncoso et al. 2015b). Although none of them is from Valle El Encanto, the earliest dating of the site coincides with the appearance of paintings in the region (Troncoso et al. 2015b, 2016). Together with the creation of rock paintings in this place, there was a series of other social practices related to the use of Valle El Encanto as a residential site of hunter-gatherers. Excavations in different sectors show stratigraphic evidence that reveals the production and reactivation of lithic instruments, the final stages of mammals consumption, and even funerary practices, as evidenced by a pair of isolated burial sites located below the occupied layers (Ampuero and Rivera 1964). The presence of bedrock mortars (piedras tacitas) suggest an intense practice of grinding plant resources and pigments. These occupations have been interpreted to be residential camps integrated into a mobility system that covers different sectors of the lower basin of the Limarí. This system connects sectors such as Valle El Encanto with the neighboring coast, where many other sites show the presence of rock paintings (Ampuero 1992; Ampuero and Rivera 1964; Troncoso et al. 2016). Although Valle El Encanto is the site with the most painted rocks in the region, it is certain that the practice of marking rocks was not intense throughout the nearly 2000-year period in which hunters-gatherer occupied this place. This can be observed not only in the quantity of rocks painted but also in the fact that 310

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the number of motifs on each panel is low, generally one or two. Moreover, once a motif was painted, it was not modified by the superposition of other paintings or by repainting. Therefore, rocks marked tend to show a painted face with a low visual load and on which each motif under question can be clearly distinguished. Spatially, many paintings are located in the central sector of the site (Figure 11.3 and 11.4), specifically in the area surrounding and close to a large rock outcrop that cuts the ravine and produces a bifurcation in the water: on certain occasions, the water bathes the rocks and then falls again into the bottom of the ravine; on other occasions, the water circulates subterraneously without bathing the rocks but then emerges to the surface meters downriver. It is at the highest point of this same space where we find the rock with more complex paintings. This rock has over a dozen motifs, including superimpositions, suggesting the existence of several painting events (Figure 11.4). In this sector, we also find the greatest concentration of bedrock mortars in the site. Some rocks painted are set apart from this space, but they have a direct spatial relationship to the water. Some of them are located at the bottom of the ravine itself and are therefore bathed by the circulating water, whereas others are immediately adjoining the bottom. In all cases, there are bedrock mortars in the vicinity of these painted rocks.

Figure 11.4. Central sector of Valle El Encanto during Moment I, showing the large outcrop and the mostpainted rock of the site associated with the outcrop. Source: Andrés Troncoso.

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The creation of paintings in Valle El Encanto shows an initial entangling of practices, humans, other-than-humans, and this specific space. This entangling is the result of the unfolding of a series of quotidian activities and paintingmarking practices of the space in the context of a regional residential mobility system. The paintings become a central element for mediating the occupation of this space and also for establishing articulations with the circulating water. In this dynamic, the engagement with rock art is a collective practice and experience that includes all members of the social group who live in the residential camps. Similarly, this experience is inserted into a complex sensory field that is not only brought about by the elements belonging to these surroundings, such as the movement of water, but also by the stimulus itself that is generated through quotidian practices. The homogeneity of the practice of painting notwithstanding, it is the case that one sector is painted or marked more than another and in association with the particular geological formation and the water mobility at this point. The particular nature of this microspace also permits the principal rock on the outcropping to be clearly observed and be recognizable. Compared to the majority of the other paintings that were scarcely visible (due to the low number of designs), the visibility of the rock under question lends it important abilities of visual attraction. Pigments would have been a privileged substance in this context and place. They are used not only in the creation of rock art but also as coating on projectile points as well as on burials and sediments in funerary spaces (Schiappacasse and Niemeyer 1965–1966). This situation illuminates the important animation capacities of pigments. Pigments are a central element for setting the world into motion and for weaving relationships in this moment. This corresponds to what Zedeño (2009) has called index objects. In the case of Valle El Encanto, the paintings would have animated the ravine and its residential areas, making possible the articulation of the different members of the mobile group around the pigments and marked rocks. The presence of pigments in bedrock mortars and stratigraphic deposits shows that the last stages of their production are performed in this residential context, in tune with the collective nature of the experience of observation and knowledge of this material and practice. The animation capacities of the paintings emphasizes another nonhuman element that is, however, in constant motion: water. This emphasis is also recognized in other groups of paintings of the region (Nash and Troncoso 2017). Although water itself can be a relevant and animated element (Strang 2014), the particular abilities of pigments cause them to act upon the circulation and the 312

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productive and fertile potential of water in Valle El Encanto. This should come as no surprise, considering the given context associated with mobile communities that are transitioning, from an economy revolving around hunting, to an economy focused more on the use of plant resources (Schiappacasse and Niemeyer 1965–1966). In other words, the pigment’s animacies strengthen the generative abilities of water in the formation of the lifecycle and the germination of different plant resources that were used by hunters in Valle El Encanto. The effect of the animacies of the pigment was that, once the rock was painted, it was not painted again in the site. In this context, although the pigment animated a rock, the rock with the pigment allowed the continuation of these capacities at different points of Valle El Encanto. Moreover, pigments not only weave a meshwork of relationships within the site but also do so on a large scale within the regional landscape. This occurs because of the citationality that painting motifs generate in Valle El Encanto in conjunction with the visuality of other sites with rock art. It also occurs because of the citationality generated by the animation that the pigments of Valle El Encanto produce with other spaces, beings, substances, and practices in which the same procedure is performed. Therefore, pigments were central actors in the formation of this space and in the social dynamics of the human groups that resided in this sector.

Moment II: Extracting Substances from Rocks Toward the middle of the first millennium of our era, a change in the practice of manufacturing rock art is observed in Valle El Encanto. This change has been observed in other spaces in the region and consists of a transformation from the painting to the carving of rocks. We have suggested that this new form of manufacturing art spreads in the region between AD 500 and 1000. This assertion is based on the latest dating that we have for the paintings, a superposition of these carvings over the paintings, the similarities among the decorative patterns, and the symmetry of some carved designs and pottery motifs dated for this period (Troncoso et al. 2008, 2016). The iconography of these carvings shows a change in relation to what is known regarding the paintings. It basically consists of anthropomorphous and a few nonfigurative motifs. Isolated heads with large cephalic headdresses known as tiara-heads are recurrent (Figure 11.5). Other anthropomorphous representations are simple bodies with volume and small headdresses. The nonfigurative motifs are basically circles with interior lines indicating some visual continuity Rock Art, Historical Ontologies, and Landscape in the Southern Andes

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Figure 11.5. Some examples of petroglyhs of Moment II. Source: Andrés Troncoso.

with previous visualities. As in the case of the paintings, these carvings are representative of what is observed at the regional level. A particular characteristic of this grouping is that the grooves that delineate the motifs reach depths of up to 3.6 cm (Figure 11.6a). This characteristic is the product of a continuous and repetitive practice of chipping and scraping the 314

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rock along one groove, which slowly deepens the motifs and lends these petroglyphs its own peculiar quality (Vergara and Troncoso 2015). The implication is that this practice is less concerned with marking multiple rocks as it is with remarking motifs, which would explain the low number of marked rocks (n=11) and the scarcity of motifs made on each rock. The petroglyphs would not have been painted, as suggested by the absence of pigment in their grooves. This is in line with the same manufacturing principles, given that each time a mark was placed, it would have removed the paint. Although the manner of marking the rocks changes, the spatial dynamic of the carvings continues to be the same. The petroglyphs are once again concentrated in the central sector of the site and in relation to the rocky outcroppings that are associated with the appearance/disappearance of water. There are other isolated blocks along the length of the ravine. However, they are not a grouping and do not have a direct spatial relationship with the bedrock mortars of previous times. Indeed, it is possible that these last were hardly used in this moment. In the excavations associated with the bedrock mortars, we have not obtained datings from this time (Troncoso et al. 2016). This situation is repeated to a large extent at the regional level. The rocks with petroglyphs are not located along the course of the ravine itself. With one exception, paintings and petroglyphs do not coexist on the same rock. Although both share a general space (the site) and distribution within the space, paintings and petroglyphs do not cohabit the microspace of the rock. (Figure 11.6(b)) The excavations have allowed us to identify residential occupations in the ravine. This suggests that, as with the paintings, the production and consumption

Figure 11.6. Comparison of the depth of the petroglyph grooves: (A) Moment II, (B) Moment III. Source: Andrés Troncoso.

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of these carvings are associated with residential contexts. However, the characteristics of these contexts are slightly different from those of previous times. On the one hand, there is a greater frequency of pottery fragments, and the vessels are large in size. On the other hand, the lithic groups show less variability of raw materials and greater use of local raw materials. Both of these aspects, together with the greater regional intensity of occupations, suggest a reduction in the patterns of residential mobility. This hypothesis is supported by the reduction in evidence of malacological resources on the neighboring coast. This situation is repeated in other spaces of the region (Troncoso et al. 2016). Although there is a change in mobility dynamics, habitation in Valle El Encanto is mediated again by rock art and by the formation of a collective experience with multiple sensory fields. However, these same experiences and sensorialities go hand in hand with a different way of engaging with rocks and with space, as evidenced by the existence of petroglyphs in sectors that did not previously contain paintings. We can perceive a game of continuities and transformations in the field of relationships woven from rock art in relation to previous times. The continued use of the same space and emphasis on practice in the same sector affirm a way of engaging with this space (Figure 11.7). However, it would appear that a change in the affective capacities of water occurs. Although there are carvings at the bottom of the ravine, these unfold adjacent to it and without any further contact with the circulation of this element. Nevertheless, the area where the water appears and disappears is the spot most marked during this moment, and it maintains its affective influence on the practice of marking the space. It could be thought that it is mostly the paintings that unfold their affective capacities on the carvings, but there are no observed coexistences between these on the rocks. The maintenance of residential activities once again forms a collective experience that is associated with the production and consumptions of rock art, even though the unfolding of these residential activities has changed in relation to previous times. Despite these continuities, the ways of articulating with rock (technical and visual) have changed showing transformations in the imaginaries, discourses, and relationships with this place and its rocks. What is most relevant in this context is the pigment’s loss of animacies given the technological transformation of the productive process. At the same time, the rock would acquire relevance and capacities that it previously did not present. Although the practice of painting rests on the application of a substance to a rock foundation, it would now be focused on making images 316

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Figure 11.7. Distribution of petroglyphs of Moment II in the site. Source: Andrés Troncoso.

move outward, through the extraction of the rock’s crust. Painting’s relationship with the rock changes from additive to extractive. This change occurs not only through the act of carving itself but also as a result of the need to constantly reactivate the grooves. It is an act of repeatedly extracting material, which is what allows the rocks’ animacies to be maintained and reactivated throughout this moment. The citationality of this new practice is notably reduced. Neither anthropomorphous figures nor heads are found on the pottery of this era. The absence of covering substances prevents entanglement with other spaces and practices. The only citationalities that unfolded were with other rock art sites and also with pottery. The decoration of the pottery pieces was mostly incisions that were produced through extraction from the surface of the vessels just as the crust was extracted from the rock in the petroglyps. This decrease in citationality is in tune with the reduction of the mobility of these communities and the unfolding of a semisedentary life, which reveals that there were occupations of longer duration at the sites. However, these new practices of animating space in Valle El Encanto articulate with new discourses and imaginaries associated with humans and especially with heads and headdresses that form an inseparable totality. When the bodies are carved, even the small heads are given headdresses, acquiring the capacities extracted from the rock through this continuous act of marking. Rock Art, Historical Ontologies, and Landscape in the Southern Andes

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Heads with headresses would acquire a relevant position within this meshwork by virtue of their visibility (they are the largest designs in metric terms), their work inversion (they demand the most work because of their metric attributes and their depth), and their preferential location in the central sector. Accordingly, although the site’s central sector was formerly animated only by the presence of pigments, this now occurs through the capacities extracted from the rock but conveyed through the heads with the headdresses carved there. This greater centrality of humans as discourse and entity is supported by the appearance of large cemeteries in the region, which are located on the summits of hills. These cemeteries constitute true landmarks that organize the landscape due to their wide regional visibility. The presence of stone rounded structures and a subterraneous architecture associated with cemeteries reveal an important inversion of manual labor oriented toward the monumentalizing of ancestors and their tombs. New relationships are constructed and others are maintained in Valle El Encanto during this moment, emphasizing the disassembled pigments, the centrality that the rocks and their crusts acquire, and the discourses and imaginaries associated with humans and heads.

Moment III: Marking to Bring Order to the World A final moment of rock art production and consumption in Valle El Encanto occurs during the Late period in the region (AD 1000 to 1530) with the presence of the Diaguita culture. The end of the manufacturing of rock art in the site coincides with the Spanish conquest of the region and the processes associated with this colonial dynamic. These rock art manifestations are the most frequently reoccurring within the site (n=47). They correspond to petroglyphs that display technical and visual differences compared to those of previous times. In technical terms, the petroglyphs are composed of superficial grooves, which implies that their manufacture is the result of a low number of strokes. For this reason, the motifs are not used again to reactivate the grooves with new blows, nor are they used to construct new figures. Each motif is the result of a single productive act. Visually, this group is more heterogeneous. Nonfigurative representations such as circles with interior lines and isolated or squared lines are predominant. There are fewer figurative motifs, which basically consist of anthropomorphous figures. These can be found to correspond to lineal bodies but with representations 318

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Figure 11.8. Some examples of petroglyphs of Moment III. Source: Andrés Troncoso.

of extremities. There are also figures of heads known in the literature as masks that, in Valle El Encanto, are similar to the head-tiaras but differ in the composition of the faces and headdresses. These petroglyphs are associated with the Diaguita culture given their patterns of symmetry, which are characteristic of the pottery of this culture (Figure 11.8). Rock Art, Historical Ontologies, and Landscape in the Southern Andes

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The practice of marking rocks and its resulting visuality construct a new way of articulating with the site, thus breaking with the two previous moments. On the one hand, it broadens the zone of intervention through the emplacement of petroglyphs in sectors that are more toward the extremes of the ravine. Although these interventions follow the orientation of the ravine, they now use higher spaces such as the summits and slopes of several low ridges, which suggests a less significant relationship with water and its circulation. On the other hand, the practice of marking rocks becomes more intense, with more rocks being marked and more motifs per rock. Among these are included large boulders that increase the visibility of the petroglyphs. However, as occurred in the previous cases, only one or two faces of the rock are carved, which makes it easier to observe the panels even though the greater abundance of motifs makes it more difficult to appreciate them individually. An important transformation occurs in the distribution of the marked rocks (Figure 11.9). The inscriptive practices are no longer concentrated on the geological formation associated with the flow of water. This situation reaffirms the water’s loss of affective capacities and its influence on the practice of marking. It would appear that there does not exist an area of greater relevance in terms of the inversion in rock art, the petroglyphs being continuously distributed along the entire length of the ravine. However, different authors have noted the relevance that heads have within these visual repertoires (Ampuero and Rivera 1964; Cabello 2011). Our work has suggested that heads tend to be located in central positions associated with changes to visibility and movement, thus acting as structuring centers of landscape rock art (Troncoso et al. 2015a, 2016). This situation occurs in Valle El Encanto. The heads are located at points where there are inflections that change the visual field from the lower sector to the central and upper sectors of the ravine (Figure 11.9). As such, the heads construct a new center that is some distance from the older principal sector of the site. Another element that produces a difference between this and previous situations is the fact that the excavations do not indicate the presence of deposits that are associated with this moment. Surveys performed in areas adjoining the site have revealed a similar situation. The practices of rock art production and consumption would separate themselves in particular from residential and everyday spaces and practices. As occurs in other places of the region (Troncoso et al. 2014, 2016), this location and distribution of petroglyphs is associated with the intra and interregional dynamics of mobility because Valle 320

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Figure 11.9. Distribution of petroglyphs of Moment III in the site indicating the placement of heads. Source: Andrés Troncoso.

El Encanto is part of a natural route of movement that connects the valleys with the adjoining coast.At the same time, the lineal ordination of the rocks and the predominance of a particular orientation imply that these can only be appreciated by following an axis of circulation: from west to east. In this moment the practice of producing and consuming rock art differs from that of previous time with no clear continuities among them. On the one hand, although a practice of engraving rock is maintained, the principles upon which it operates are different from those of previous times and focused on an extensive practice of hammering. Its visual results are also different, showing a certain continuity only in the representations of heads, even though the visuality and spatiality of these heads are different. On the other hand, the experiential and sensory contexts are different in that they separate themselves completely from the residential spaces and associate themselves with mobility. For this reason, it is possible that their observation is not a collective experience, nor do they imply the combination of a previously recognized stimulus. Finally, the inner space of Valle El Encanto differentially affects these communities, which therefore structure their practice of marking rocks in another manner, creating a new center with the heads. Therefore, the absence of carvings associated with representations of previous moments on the same rock once again indicates the idea of separation and segregation, as does the absence of the use of bedrock mortars. Rock Art, Historical Ontologies, and Landscape in the Southern Andes

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These inflections in relational fields woven from rock art are also recognized in the citationality that this materiality unfolds, generating ties with other petroglyph sites. The recognized motifs are not found rendered in other medias, nor are the techniques of extraction of material observed on other material foundations. Neither do the engraved representations show scenes of everyday life or even of human/human or human/animal interaction that would generate this citationality. In this manner, an entirely new relationship with the place and the elements present therein unfolds through these petroglyphs. Water is not an element that significantly affects the production of carvings. Although rock continues to have a relevant position, the practice becomes more than a simple extraction and bringing forth of representations from its depths, and centers on the hammering of the rocks in different moments and places without ever following the same groove. Thus, each productive act generates something that is visually new. This situation opens the field to a greater participation of the rocks in this process of spatial engagement. The same heads that change their visual formation also transform their spatial relations. They articulate with that which is visible and with the movement of bodies within the site by situating themselves on these points of visual inflection. Finally, the experience of being and moving within the site is a particular experience that is separated from the other phenomenical spheres of Diaguita inhabitance in the region. Nonetheless, marking these rocks and moving between them would be a central practice in the integration of this community. Given the limited spatial integration of Diaguita groups due to their dispersed patterns of settlement, the rocks would animate these communities to the extent that they behaved as central spaces that made possible interactions between different human members based on the visualities and presence of the marked rocks (Troncoso et al. 2014, 2016). In Valle El Encanto, marking the rocks was an intense and recurring practice. Through this practice, the subjects who traverse this space articulate and construct community with others who unfold similar practices and visualities in the same place as well as with the marked rocks that are part of these communities. As we have discussed elsewhere, this practice animates not only the community but also a series of other nonhuman members (Troncoso et al. 2015a). The ethnohistorical references and Diaguita decorative patterns indicate that duality and complementary opposites are a characteristic that structures multiple spheres and practices of these communities. As a site that not only allows 322

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human mediation but also contains places with different types of practices and connotations, Valle El Encanto constitutes a center in which the different opposites and halves that compose the world are integrated. This idea of mediation is expressed in Diaguita pottery, with pieces being organized into two fields but with a human/feline figure set in the center between them, mediating between each half (Latcham 1926). In the Andes, these spaces of mediation become dangerous. They are spaces where a series of other-than-human beings act and that should be controlled and articulated by a center, a mediator that makes order possible and maintains equilibrium between the halves and reproduction of the world (Cereceda 1988; Harris and Bouysee-Cassagne 1988). The production of petroglyphs is oriented to mark this center and, through the animation of rocks, to mediate between the different halves that are found in Valle El Encanto. This makes it possible to maintain the balance and order of the world by preventing the halves of the world, with their different beings, from becoming integrated or from mixing together in a disordered totality. This must be avoided given the dangers implied if these segments of the world were to come into contact with one another (Cereceda 1988; Harris and Bouysee-Cassagne 1988). The location of the heads, as new centers that mediate between two visually segregated spaces in Valle El Encanto, reaffirms their relevance and forms them as the principal mediating element within an already-central space. The rock would be an other-thanhuman entity that articulates humans not only with other humans but also with other nonhumans. Thus, it reaffirms this notion of center and allows its own permanence.

Rock Art in Movement: Historical Ontologies in Valle El Encanto Robb and Pauketat (2013) have suggested that, through genealogies of practices, we can become closer to understanding both historical ontologies and historical landscapes. Following this hypothesis, we may ask ourselves how these different lattices and genealogies of practices articulate with historical ontologies, recognizing that not all of the transformations in the archeological record necessarily articulate with ontological changes (Swenson 2015). Understanding these dynamics requires recognizing that these ontological transformations are discernible only when viewed along a longer time scale, such as that which we have described in this case study. We think that, in Valle El Encanto, it is possible to recognize a dynamic Rock Art, Historical Ontologies, and Landscape in the Southern Andes

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of reproduction and transformation of two specific historical ontologies. The first of these would be associated with the hunter-gatherers associated with the rock paintings that unfold a meshwork centered on the animation of pigments. The second ontology would be more specific to the Diaguita and could be understood as an Andean ontology. This last aspect had already been proposed early on by a series of authors (González 2013; Latcham 1926), and it is consistent with the appearance of an entire iconography associated with felines, the notion of transformation, dual patterns, tripartites and quadripartites in their visuality, and the presence of heads as relevant elements. It appears to us that the group associated with the second moment reveals the process of transformation from one historical ontology to another. It is for this reason that this group maintains ties and continuities with preceding and succeeding groups. This displacement not only implies differential forms of unfolding social practices. It also implies positionings of substances, animation abilities of elements and beings, and differential capacities to affect space. Thus, understanding the occupation of this landscape, before accounting for a dynamic of memory, implies a presentation of the path of these ontological histories that position, reposition, and displace some elements/beings over time. This dynamic is more of an abrupt change than it is a continuous movement. As Pauketat indicates (2013), in history, these fields can perform bundling in various ways, entangling or disassembling elements. In parallel, an element can move itself, occupying different positions and assemblages differentially over time. This situation is clearly expressed with the progression of four differential elements: pigments, rocks, heads, and water. In the case of the pigments, although these are a central substance in the first ontological dynamic, they lose their centrality in the transition and thereafter. The rocks, however, acquire greater relevance insofar as the act of hammering allows the extraction of abilities and the fixing of relationships around a center. They cease to be simply receivers of a substance that is added to them. The heads initially do not form part of any network, but they subsequently become relevant in the other two relational fields, even though in these last two cases they assemble themselves differently. In moment II, they articulate with water in the central sector defined by the paintings, whereas in moment III, they construct a new center based on a dual organization of space that is centered on fields of visibility. This last situation also refers to the displacement of a fourth other-than-human entity, namely, water. In moment I, water has far-reaching 324

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abilities of affection and animation of space. In moment II, these abilities are concentrated only in relation to a particular space of Valle El Encanto. Finally, in moment III, these capacities are completely absent. On a large scale, these repositionings and reorganizations of the relational fields show that historical ontologies are not static entities. Instead, they are constantly in motion and unfold throughout history, undergoing transformations at different scales and in different spheres. In parallel, this movement occurs in microtime, given that each marking act in Valle El Encanto was a formative practice of these historical ontologies that put into play the relationships among this place, humans, and the other-than-humans. This historical genealogy of Valle El Encanto therefore shows that what we can call Andean ontology, which proposes a certain articulation among humans, the other-than-humans, and places, only develops in the final moments of regional prehistoric history.At the same time, although it presents elements that are specific to other spaces in the Andes, what is certain is that these elements also display local characteristics that we think exhibit the same historical and localized nature from which it emerges. Therefore, although a long tradition of practice is maintained in the zone, the formation of this historical ontology activates new fields of relationships, rests on differential animations of other nonhumans, and displays an affection of a series of other-than-humans and phenomena that are different compared to previous times. The transformation that we have identified in Valle El Encanto can also be observed at the regional level (Troncoso and Pavlovic 2013). Although it is necessary to deepen our approach to the analysis of this transformation, what is clear is that the latter cannot be thought of as a product of migration processes. To the contrary, we think of it as a concurrence of different events that partly explain this process. On the one hand, this transformation is the result of the circulation of discourses, knowledge, practices, and materialities that are associated with the new ontologies and affective capacities of the other-than-humans and are appropriated by local communities. On the other hand, it is the result of a dynamic of practices and affections of the otherthan-humans and their impact on local communities that manage to establish practical, experiential, discursive, and material relationships with these different elements that circulate throughout the different regions of the Andes. In the movement and construction of relationships and articulations between these actors, the history of the region and of Valle El Encanto unfolds while also constituting an Andean ontology in the region. Rock Art, Historical Ontologies, and Landscape in the Southern Andes

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As argued by Moore (2010), in relation to processes of the reuse of space, the historization of Valle El Encanto shows that, before constructing a memory that unites different times, what unfolds in this space is a reiteration of practices that are not differentially structured in time. Nonetheless, this historization indicates that this is more than a matter of a reiteration of practices that establish particular relationships with their particular social contexts. Through these reiterations in Valle El Encanto, historical ontologies and worlds that are animated by the other-than-humans were produced, reproduced, and transformed. With them, humans constructed different relationships based on the practices and experiences unfolded therein.

Concluding Remarks As Bray has suggested (2015a), an Andean ontology is composed of a series of other-than-human phenomena that are relevant for social reproduction. In this study, by exploring the genealogies of practices in one space, we have addressed how historical ontologies are produced and reproduced in a southern region of the Andes. The absence of ethnohistorical and/or ethnographic records that are specific to the region makes it necessary to explore these themes from purely archeological perspectives, centered on the affective abilities of a series of otherthan-human phenomena and using genealogies of human practices. Although this type of perspective has a number of limitations, especially interpretative limitations, it allows us to perceive large-scale processes that show how different historical ontologies occur in the same territory. Following Robb and Pauketat (2013), the reoccupations of Valle El Encanto therefore constitute differential historical landscapes over time that, during their last period, showed the unfolding of two different historical ontologies in the zone and their process of transformation. Therefore, these ontological genealogies are points of departure from which to explore, in greater depth and at the regional level, the particular meshwork that comprises each of these ontologies, the different animations of the other-than-humans, and the understanding of sociopolitical processes based on a recognition of the particular characteristics of the worlds that unfolded in the area and in preHispanic communities.

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Sillar, Bill 2009 The Social Agency of Things? Animism and Materiality in the Andes. Cambridge Archaeological Journal 19 (3): 367–377. Strang, Veronica 2014 Fluid Consistences. Material Relationality in Human Engagements with Water. Archaeological Dialogues 21(2): 133–150. Swenson, Edward 2015 The Materialities of Place Making in the Ancient Andes: A Critical Appraisal of the Ontological Turn in Archaeological Interpretation. Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 22(3): 677–712. Tilley, Christopher 1997 A Phenomenology of Landscape. Berg, Oxford. Troncoso, Andrés, Felipe Armstrong, Francisco Vergara, Paula Urzua, and Pablo Larach 2008 Arte rupestre en el valle El Encanto: Hacia una reevaluación del sitio-tipo del Estilo Limarí. Boletín del Museo Chileno de Arte Precolombino 13(2): 9–36. Troncoso, Andrés, and Daniel Pavlovic 2013 Historias, Saberes y prácticas: un ensayo sobre el desarrollo de las comunidades alfareras del norte semiárido de Chile. Revista Chilena de Antropología 27: 101–140. Troncoso, Andrés, Francisco Vergara, Paola González, Pablo Larach, Mariela Pino, Francisca Moya, and Renata Gutiérrez 2014 Arte Rupestre, prácticas socio-espaciales y la construcción de comunidades en el norte semiárido de Chile (Valle de Limarí). In Distribución Espacial en Sociedades No Aldeanas: Del registro a la interpretación, edited by F. Falabella, L. Sanhueza, L. Cornejo, and I. Correa, pp. 89–115. Monografías SChA, Santiago. Troncoso, Andrés, Felipe Armstrong, and Francisco Vergara 2015a Nurturing and Balancing the World: A Relational Approach to Rock Art and Technology from North Central Chile (Southern Andes). Paper presented at Technology: Ideology, Economics and Power in the Andes. UCL, London. Troncoso, Andrés, Francisca Moya, Marcela Sepúlveda, and José Cárcamo 2015b First Absolute Dating of Andean Hunter Gatherer Rock Art Paintings from North Central Chile. Archaeological and Anthropological Science, 9(2): 223–232. Troncoso, Andrés, Francisco Vergara, Daniel Pavlovic, Paola González, Mariela Pino, Pablo Larach, Antonia Escudero, Natalia Lamura, Francisca Moya, Isidora Pérez, Renata Gutierrez, Carolina Belmar, Mara Basile, Patricio López, Cristian Dávila, María José Vásquez, and Paula Urzúa 2016 Dinámica Espacial y Temporal de las ocupaciones prehispánicas en la cuenca hidrográfica del río Limarí (30° Lat. S). Chungara 48 (2): 199–224. Vergara, Francisco, and Andrés Troncoso 2015 Rock Art, Technique and Technology: An Exploratory Study among Hunter Gatherer and Agrarian Communities in Prehispanic Chile (500 to 1450 A.D.). Rock Art Research 32(1): 31–45.

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Viveiros de Castro, Eduardo 1996 Os pronomes cosmológicos e o perspectivismo amerindio. Mana 2(2): 115–144. 2010 Metafísicas caníbales. Katz Editores, Barcelona. Watts, Christopher 2013 Relational Archaeologies: Roots and Routes. In Relational Archaeologies: Humans, Animals, Things, edited by Christopher Watts, pp. 1–20. Routledge, London. Weismantel, Mary 2013 Inhuman Eyes: Looking at Chavín De Huantar. In Relational Archaeologies: Humans, Animals, Things, edited by Christopher Watts, pp. 21–42. Routledge, London. 2015 Seeing like an Archaeologist: Viveiros de Castro at Chavín de Huantar. Journal of Social Archaeology 15(2): 139–159. Zedeño, Nieves 2009 Animating by Association: Index Objects and Relational Taxonomies. Cambridge Archaeological Journal 19(3): 407–417.

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12 Final Commentaries A Matter of Substance, and the Substance of Matter

C at h e r i n e J. A l l e n

I am honored and bit surprised by this opportunity to comment on this innovative volume edited by María Cecilia Lozada and Henry Tantaleán. I say surprised because years ago I changed my focus from archaeology to ethnography. I found archaeological materials interesting but I couldn’t figure out how to think about them. For example, while reading an otherwise admirable paper on the iconography of Nasca ceramics, I came across a hypothesis about why depictions of trophy heads are more numerous in the later, more abstract phases of the ceramic sequence. More depictions of trophy heads, it was suggested, reflected a societal shift from religiosity to militarism (Roark 1965: 56). This didn’t sit right with me—in the first place because (as we know to our sorrow) religiosity and militarism are not mutually exclusive; more to the point, it seemed inappropriate to impose those categories on Nasca potters, of whom we knew next to nothing. Moreover, there seemed no reason to assume that changes in iconography transparently reflect other kinds of social changes. In my one and only archaeological publication (Allen 1981), I suggested that trophy head traditions among contemporary Amazonian peoples might point us toward more appropriate interpretive categories. I did manage to get the paper published in an obscure and now-defunct journal even though one of the readers declared my approach “indefensible.” In those days that kind of speculation was being done only on the fringes of the discipline. As this volume so clearly demonstrates, things have changed. The “ontological turn” in the social sciences challenges anthropologists to engage seriously

with alternate realities that defy the analytical terms of “Western” intellectual tradition. We are challenged to think differently. Martin Holbraad, for example, declares that: anthropological and archaeological analysis must ultimately take the form of what one might call thought-experimentation. Effectively, this approach commits the analyst to a radical and copious effort to overcome the contradictions in which his or her initial descriptions . . . are necessarily mired, by reconceptualizing the very terms in which these descriptions are cast. (Holbraad 2009: 434) But how are we to engage in thought-experimentation without going off the proverbial deep end? How is it different from what E. E. Evans-Pritchard (1965: 108), in his criticism of E. B. Tylor’s theory of the origins of religion, famously characterized as “if I were a horse” speculation? Evans-Pritchard was alluding to an anecdote about a farmer who searched for his wayward horse by standing in the paddock, munching grass, and musing, “If I were a horse where would I go?” While I think this is a fair enough criticism of Tylor, I’ve always thought it rather unfair to the farmer—who presumably knew a lot about horses and might indeed have been able to put himself in an equine frame of mind and imagine why, how, and where his horse had strayed. (Eating grass was a bit over the top, but I suppose even that might serve a purpose.) Tylor, on the other hand, drew on disparate sources to develop a composite notion of “primitive man” whose head he then populated with primitive thoughts. He was a great scholar but his theory presumed a subject that never existed. The thought experiments Holbraad advocates are rather like well-informed “if I were a horse” musings. I emphasize “well-informed” because the strategy is workable only if one is deeply familiar with horses. The farmer knows perfectly well that he can’t actually think horse thoughts, but he knows the creatures well enough to surmise what he might do their place. The proof of his musing is in the finding. Does he find his horse, or at least get within whinnying distance? But enough of metaphorical horses. Our thought experiments concern human beings and their creations, an endeavor both simpler than the farmer’s (because we can converse together as members of the same species) and more complex (for the same reason; compare Mannheim, this volume, Chapter 9). Archaeologists are doubly challenged because they cannot converse directly with people long dead, but must be guided by the material objects these people Final Commentaries: A Matter of Substance, and the Substance of Matter

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have left behind. Objects guide their archaeologist-interlocutors by displaying apparent contradictions that resist the usual analytical approaches, or by presenting anomalies that contradict our expectations. These thought-experiments “work” if they make sense of what was otherwise inscrutable—and continue to do so in light of new discoveries and scholarship. Such an approach recognizes that, ideally, material remains should be understood in their own terms (which are the terms of their makers). It may even point us, to paraphrase Holbraad, toward a reconceptualization of the very terms in which archaeological descriptions are cast. The contributors to the present volume address a range of questions raised by the Andean archaeological record. Henry Tantaleán’s introductory chapter provides a comprehensive and well-chosen overview of the kinds of sources from Andean ethnography, ethnohistory, and linguistics that may inform archaeologists in this endeavor. He suggests that the material traces left by ancient Andean peoples be approached in ontological terms, that is, as expressions of these peoples’ orientations to existence. This, in effect, means asking, “If I try to think about this site (or burial practice, iconography, landscape, and so on) in terms of the concepts and perspectives of its creators, can I make sense of what otherwise resists explanation?” Of course, we can never know precisely what these concepts and perspectives were, but we can try to come up with wellinformed approximations. All the authors in this stimulating collection espouse an ontological approach. Although I welcome the “ontological turn” as long overdue, I have some misgivings about such a broad use of the term “ontology,” which properly refers to a theory (logos) about the nature of existence. Like Spence-Morrow and Swenson (this volume, Chapter 6), I doubt that many (if any) societies can be characterized as “having” a self-contained, internally consistent theory of being, but I do think that members of a society may share certain orientations to existence, that is, they share deeply ingrained tacit assumptions about how the world works; orientations and assumptions that may be passed on through the generations. Thus I prefer to refer to ontological orientations rather than ontologies. Contributions to this collection approach ontology in various ways. All prioritize the explanatory capacity of indigenous ideas about the world, rejecting a treatment of these ideas as epiphenomenal expressions of environmental and economic factors. Nevertheless, they employ a spectrum of approaches ranging from a prioritization of worldview to the more radical re-envisioning that 334

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Benjamin Alberti calls “critical ontology,” which “aims to reconfigure archaeology theoretically and conceptually on the basis of indigenous theory” (Alberti 2016: 164; see also Sillar 2004). In this volume, Alberti and Laguens “propose an archaeology that takes into account local theories as on a par with our own anthropological theories” (Chapter 2). Most of our authors fall between the two ends of the spectrum, with Glowacki, Troncoso, and Lozada near the “worldview” end, and Alberti and Laguens (not surprisingly) at the “critical ontology” end. Glowacki brings a wealth of comparative data to bear on the head and hair, ubiquitous in Andean iconographies spanning two millennia. She draws intriguing connections with Amerindian shamanic traditions of spiritual transcendence. Troncoso approach huntergatherers’ rock art sites as communication hubs for social networks, providing the spatial environment with a semantic structure. Lozada’s study equates ontology with an emic approach, characterizing the body as “a biological unit that takes on cultural and social meaning when interpreted within a particular context” (this volume, Chapter 4). Because emic is meaningful in relation to etic, the emic/etic terminology implies the possibility of value-free (that is, etic) description, an important aspect of Lozada’s bioarchaeological research. Hard-core Ontological Turners, in contrast, question the possibility of neutral, objective observation: “our” worlds are no more real than “their” worlds (for example, Viveiros de Castro 2004). Mannheim’s contribution is harder to place on the spectrum. Rather than engaging in thought-experimentation about Inka archaeology, he attempts to lay a groundwork that might inform such thought-experiments. He characterizes his approach as ontological, ethnographic, and empirical. Like more radical proponents of the “ontological turn,” he rejects “representational” approaches, holding that, through cognitive and social processes, people project (rather than represent) their worlds. Language and other factors condition these processes, he tells us, and this conditioning can be studied experimentally. It seems to me that this appeal to controlled experimentation puts him in the emic/etic camp and possibly contradicts his otherwise “critically ontological” stance. Be that as it may, the idea of frame of reference, the most original contribution of this rich and highly technical chapter, emerges from his collaboration with cognitive psychologists. According to Mannheim, frame of reference is “a cognitive/linguistic system that partitions space and locates people within space, by a single set of principles that coordinates cognition, language, and physical movement.” Experiments indicate that English and Final Commentaries: A Matter of Substance, and the Substance of Matter

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Spanish speakers operate in egocentric frames anchored in the participants in the action, while Quechua speakers’ allocentric frames are anchored in action outside the speakers. “The material signatures of an allocentric absolute system are clear enough that it should be possible to read the frame of reference back from settlement pattern and other aspects of material culture for archaeologically attested peoples” (this volume, Chapter 9). For example, he points out that lineage, conceived as a long line of descent from an apical ancestor to ego, implies an egocentric frame. An allocentric frame predicts broader and shallower systems of inheritance and social configurations characteristic of what is commonly called a “house model.” This supports ontologically informed historiography that questions colonial Spaniards’ accounts of Inka rulers in dynastic (lineage) terms (for example, Urton 1990; Zuidema 1964), and also suggests a more nuanced understanding of Inka mortuary practices in the archaeological record. The dead would have maintained powerful connections with their descendents as members of the same houses rather than as a series of biblical-type “begats” stretching back generations. Within this volume’s intriguingly broad ontological umbrella, I was struck by three common themes: (1) using indigenous, postconquest concepts to interrogate pre-Columbian materials; (2) rethinking the status of the human body; and (3) applying relational, or mereological, thinking to illuminate the Andean archaeological record.

Prioritizing Indigenous Concepts Tantaleán’s introductory chapter suggests several concepts that have heuristic value in relation to remains from the pre-Columbian past. These concepts, which surface repeatedly in ethnohistorical and ethnographic sources, are, in Quechua (and very roughly translated): cama (form-infusing force), pacha (world: a configuration of time, space, matter, and consciousness), huaca (energetically powerful place), and runa (human being). Tantaleán is not arguing that these very concepts, with their Quechua terminology, should be applied to much earlier people like the Moche; rather that they expose us to certain ontological premises about matter, agency, and animation that may guide our thinking in new channels. I was a bit surprised that our authors drew less on cama than on my discussion of sami (flow of animating force) in Sonqo, a contemporary Quechua-speaking community in southern Peru. I do think the notion of sami, as I came to understand it, expresses an enduring ontological orientation 336

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in the Andes and that the analogies suggested, for example, by Muro, Castillo and Tomasto, are reasonable and valid. It is worth noting, however, that sami, as used in Sonqo, is a local expression of a more widespread orientation to the consubstantiality and animation of the world. The word had, moreover, a somewhat different semantic range in Inka times (as luck and bliss; see Tantaleán’s note 8, this volume, Chapter 1). The word cama is seldom used anymore but, as described by early sources, the concept entailed not simply a flow of force, but the (always transitory) fixing of force in substantial form. In my recent work on ritually powerful miniatures (enqaychus; Allen 2016a, 2016b), I found particularly helpful Xavier Ricard Lanata’s (2007) nuanced discussion of cama in relation to contemporary uses of the word anímu (glossed as esencia en acto; see also Arnold and Yapita 1998). Pacha is another fundamental concept. I felt it hovering in the background of several papers (for example, Spence-Morrow and Swenson, Alberti and Laguens), but it comes to the fore only in Villanueva’s nuanced exploration of its implications for Bolivian archaeology. He makes the important point that ontological premises may be widely shared and may persist over time, yet may “have a multitude of possible material expressions.” Guided by a wide array of ethnographic sources, Villanueva examines varying manifestations of the pacha concept in different periods and areas of the Bolivian altiplano. Because pacha entails time and space together, “the past is a place,” an idea Villanueva explores in relation to evidence of varying ritual orientations in different archaeological sites.

Andean Bodies Collectively, the contributors to this volume make a compelling argument that human bodies have to be understood as intrinsically connected to the landscape. Lozada draws particularly on the “mountain metaphor” as described in Joseph Bastien’s (1985[1978]) compelling ethnography of a Bolivian Qollahuaya community whose inhabitants describe the topography of their mountain home in terms of human anatomy. From this perspective, the human body provides an organizing model for other entities in the natural world. Like the human body’s inner circulation of blood, the mountain contains an inner circulation of water. Disease is understood as an imbalance of this interior hydraulic system. For archaeologists, Bastien’s insightful account of the parallel constitutions Final Commentaries: A Matter of Substance, and the Substance of Matter

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of body, community, and mountain is highly suggestive. If, however, we are thinking in ontological terms, we should scrap the words “metaphor” and “model.” Ontologically speaking, the Qollahuaya body-mountain connection is not a figure of speech, nor does the body provide a cognitive model for understanding other aspects of the world: human bodies and mountain bodies are fundamentally the same. Lozada uses Bastien’s insights, along with other colonial and contemporary sources, to illuminate the bioarchaeological record in various Middle Horizon and Late Intermediate sites in southern Peru. She argues that because biological and cultural dimensions of Andean life were interwoven, human remains need to be interpreted in terms of cultural practices that have to be inferred from indirect sources. Designing her research hypotheses in terms of indigenous beliefs and practices produced mixed, but always interesting, results. She found that Inka understandings of the life cycle did not illuminate burial practices at the sites under consideration, while information about the etiology of disease was more helpful. Colonial sources and contemporary ethnography agree that disease was understood as the individual manifestation of a communal problem that called for collective treatment. This Lozada illuminates in the mortuary traditions under study, as diseased individuals were not segregated from their community but buried right along with their fellows. Muro, Castillo, and Tomasto-Cagigao, as well as Alberti and Laguens, aim for a more radical theoretical repositioning of the body in archaeological discourse “Under the lens of an alternate (non-Western) ontology there is not, and never was, a single body, but a multiplicity of embodiments of human and nonhuman entities inhabiting the natural and social world” (this volume, Chapter 5). Orienting their analysis according to the premises of Amerindian perspectivism (Viveiros de Castro 1998), the authors suggest that human bodies were understood as inherently unstable manifestations of a world characterized by relational processes ever in flux. In a fascinating discussion of San José de Moro, they argue that bodies of the dead were treated as malleable—altered, disarticulated, and sequentially repositioned—while ritual paraphernalia at the site indicates a contrasting concern with controlling this flux by “hardening” certain individuals into a more permanent, ancestor-like condition. The exciting contribution by Alberti and Laguens uses this perspectivist orientation to rethink the relationship between body and landscape in the context of La Calendaria culture in northwest Argentina. They argue that assumptions 338

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we normally take as given, such as the individual integrity of the body, and the essential difference between body and environment, cannot illuminate the archaeological records of non-Western peoples. “Our argument is that we cannot get at these archaeological landscapes from traditional theories because they imply a specific conceptualization of the body that cuts off a host on ontological alternatives.” Drawing on perspectivist premises and Andean sources, they advocate a “radically different ontology of bodies” in which people and landscape are mutually constitutive. Thinking about the archaeological record of La Calendaria “as if I were a perspectivist” collapses the landscape/body distinction and makes sense of otherwise anomalous data. It is important to note that Alberti and Laguens do not assume a priori that the La Calendaria people were perspectivists. Their thought-experiment allows them to try on this general orientation to the world and see if it helps makes sense of anomalous data. Environmental determinist models, they argue, cannot explain why the Candelaria material culture extends, essentially unchanged, over different environments; in fact, such approaches fail even to recognize that it is the same culture. (Troncoso, although not adopting Alberti and Laguen’s critically ontological approach, offers a similar critique of environmental determinism.) Alberti and Laguens argue that the archaeological data make more sense when viewed in terms of ontological perspectivism; “The way of relating and constituting oneself as human or nonhuman among a multitude of selves is what made life possible for the La Calendaria in these different places” (this volume, Chapter 8). They “carried their landscape with them.” Human life was not a matter of interacting with other humans while acting on objects, but of intraacting with the whole range of animate beings in the universe. This constant flux of intrarelationship is central to ontological understanding of all bodies, human and nonhuman. I borrow intraaction from physicist Karen Barad (2007) who introduced the term to describe situations in which entities bring about each other within a relation (as opposed to interaction in which the entities pre-exist their relation). In her book, Earth Beings: Ecologies of Practice across Andean Worlds (2015), Marisol De la Cadena adapts the concept to an Andean context: “Rather than being instilled in the individual subject, the substance of the runakuna [humans] and the other-than-humans that make an ayllu [community] is the co-emergence of each with the others” (De la Cadena 2015: 102). While Alberti and Laguens do not use this terminology, I think intraaction encapsulates well the orientation they describe. Final Commentaries: A Matter of Substance, and the Substance of Matter

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The World as a Play of Relationships This brings us to the third theme that runs through this collection: the play of relationships, especially part-whole relationships. Here, I think, is the crux of understanding Andean orientations to substance as animate, unstable, and subject to transformation. John and Marcia Ascher (1997[1981]), early pioneers in the study of Inka quipus, used the term “Inca insistence”1 to describe a habitus, that is, an ingrained way of doing things that is manifested over and over again in the things Inkas made, particularly in woven cloth, stone walls, and, of course, khipus. One aspect of Inca insistence is a concern with spatial arrangement: with fit (as mutual adjustment), and with symmetry and repetition. Although the Aschers referred specifically to the Inka, I observed a similar insistence in my research in contemporary communities. Boundaries, encounters, ruptures, repetitions, and inversions are significant in themselves (Allen 2011, 2016a, 2016b). Essays in this volume make it abundantly clear that a similar insistence crops up in pre-Inka contexts as well. Spence-Morrow and Swenson provide a lucid discussion of spatial relations in terms of mereology (a branch of philosophy that studies part-whole relations). Part-whole relations are an important aspect of many realms of human endeavor; in fact, Spence-Morrow and Swenson observe, archaeology itself is a mereological enterprise.2 In my studies of miniaturization, weaving patterns, and narrative composition (that is, Allen 1998, 2011), I noted a dynamic mode of relationality that entails the interchangeability of whole and parts. I described as this as synecdoche, although in some contexts fractality (where a form is recursively reiterated at descending levels of scale) would do as well. Mannheim describes this mode of relationality as a strategy of involution that builds interpretation into the object itself (this volume, Chapter 9). Spence-Morrow and Swenson’s carefully argued paper focuses on sequential renovations of ceremonial architecture at the late Moche site of Huaca Colorada. Each renovation “incrementally reduced the precinct while carefully maintaining and reiterating fundamental components of its spatial organization” (this volume, Chapter 6). Each fractal iteration evoked its predecessors, and, judging from the archaeological evidence, each iteration was inaugurated with human and other kinds of sacrifice. The authors suggest that this dynamic architectural biography provides a sense of “the internal mereological logic specific to the Moche” (Chapter 6). What might seem like a random piling up of structures and sacrifices makes sense once one perceives 340

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it as “predicated on the part engendering and enlivening the whole, and vice versa” (Chapter 6). Playing with fractal structures was not simply a matter of restless intellectual play: “the apparent interconnection of human and architectural sacrifice [indicates} that the Moche perceived adobe walls and matter in general to be in a state of ‘continuous birth’ and ‘continuous movement’” (Chapter 6). Huaca Salango, the Ecuadorean site discussed by Richard Lunnis, is another marvelously rich site that underwent periodic processes of renovation. Lunnis emphasizes that Salango was indeed a huaca—that is, it appears to have been experienced as a powerful and intensely energetic place, a site of pilgrimage and focus of human social and ritual activity. Ceremonial architecture was periodically renovated, with new structures anchored to the architecture design at their center. Each phase was characterized by complex sacrifices. Although Lunnis does not discuss the site in mereological terms, his careful discussion suggests parallels with Huaca Colorada. La Mattina and Sayre explore the play of relations at the famous site of Chavín de Huantar. Unlike authors in this collection who draw upon the premises of Amerindian perspectivism as articulated by Viveiros de Castro (1998), they take as their starting point Philippe Descola’s scheme of “ethno-ontological regimes” (2013[2005]). Descola’s categories hinge on what he interprets as the interplay of interiority (inner subjective experience) and physicality (body, substance). Animists, in his terminology, assume that existent beings (human and nonhuman) share the same kind of interiority but have different bodies. Analogists assume that beings differ from each other in both dimensions; analogism is “a mode of identification that divides up the whole collection of existing beings into a multiplicity of essences, forms and substances separated by small distinctions . . . so that it becomes possible to recompose the system of initial contrasts into a dense network of analogies.” (Descola 2013 [2005]: 201). According to this scheme most (probably all) Andean cultures are analogistic. Indeed, anyone familiar with the play of relationships in the Andean ethnographic and ethnohistoric record (see above) will agree with this designation. Arguing in terms of Descola’s categories, La Mattina and Sayre take issue with scholars who interpret Chavín iconography as manifesting an animistic orientation. Here the problem is partly a matter of terminology. Descola uses “animism” in a restricted sense, while other scholars, including myself, use animism more broadly to describe an ontological premise that attributes mindful Final Commentaries: A Matter of Substance, and the Substance of Matter

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life to nonhuman material forms. From this perspective, animism underlies the shifting relationality of analogism (compare M. Sahlins 2014: 281). Perhaps, as Mannheim implies (this volume, Chapter 9), we should just scrap the term animism in favor of something else. More substantively, La Mattina and Sayre do well to emphasize the intense emphasis on relationality in Chavín iconography. Their caution against applying Amazonian schemes a priori to Andean material is well taken, and should encourage more nuanced approaches to the complex individuality of this important site. Likewise, they make a good point, that religious specialists at the pilgrimage site should be considered priests rather than shamans because the institutional framework in which they operated was clearly distinct from that of tropical forest shamans. Nevertheless, it is also worth keeping in mind that affinities between Chavín and Amazonian cultures are well-attested (for example, Lathrap 1973) and it is not unreasonable for interpreters of Chavín to look to the forests to the east for guidance (for example, Urton 2008). Similarly, while Chavín religious practice must have operated within a canonical framework with a resident hierarchy of ritual specialists, Chavín iconography manifests exuberant transformations (for example, snake-hair, manioc-penis) that resonate with shamanistic orientations. La Mattina and Sayre’s Descolean interpretation of the Tello Obelisk as a chimera brilliantly demonstrates a special kind of animic-analogism (for lack of a better term). The hybrid creatures of the Tello Obelisk—caymans whose body parts are felines, raptors, serpents, shellfish, and various plants—bring us back to ontologies of the body (previous section). It evokes Muro, Castillo, and Tomasto’s remark that there “is not, and never was, a single body, but a multiplicity of embodiments of human and nonhuman entities inhabiting the natural and social world” (this volume, Chapter 5). The authors show that bodies at San José de Moro were malleable—disarticulated, dispersed, and rearranged. But they also perceive a countertendency toward hardening, stabilizing bodies and making them orderly. The Tello Obelisk beautifully manifests these counterposing tendencies; an otherwise motley array of beings is contained and organized as the cayman’s well-ordered parts. Yet the caymanchimera is not single, but double. On close examination (Figure 3.3) one sees that the obelisk’s two sides depict nearly, but not exactly, identical caymans. Certain locations in each cayman’s body are occupied by different creatures: on one side, for example, the cayman is capped by a raptor; on the other, by a fanged and snaky-tongued spondylus shellfish. The two identically structured 342

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chimeras are differentiated and brought into dialogue with each other. As La Mattina and Sayre observe, echoing Descola’s language, the chimera exists “in almost exclusive relationship with itself ” (this volume, Chapter 3) as a play of part-whole relationships. “The person is comprised of different aspects whose correct ordering establishes harmony, and the person is an aspect of a larger whole, the macrocosm, with which it is coextensive or iterative” (this volume, Chapter 3). “In almost exclusive relationship with itself ”: this, in effect, is how Mannheim describes the products of Andean expressive culture. He comments, “Native Andean visual . . . forms used several strategies to build the interpretation into the object itself. . . . These strategies constructed a world of objects and forms that were self interpreting—an introversive semiosis” (this volume, Chapter 9). As an ethnographer, I learned that my interlocutors were not prone to exegesis—which meant I would get little help when I asked for interpretations of things people made or did. While listening to oral narratives in order to understand the tellers’ compositional strategies, I realized that Quechua and Aymara expressive cultures insist upon what might be called entegesis: a kind of inner self-reflection that produces an oblique auto-commentary (Allen 2011). It is indeed “a world of objects and forms that are self-interpreting.” That this held in past Andean cultures is well illustrated by the chimerical Tello Obelisk, and the iterative renovations at Huaca Colorada and Salango. It has been fascinating to see, in this collection of thought-experiments, how archaeologists are learning to hear the interpretations Andean objects carry within themselves.

Notes 1. The Aschers borrowed the rather odd term “insistence” from Gertrude Stein, as exemplified in her famous aphorism, “A rose is a rose is a rose.” 2. Archaeology proceeds in a mereological fashion by identifying “traces of action” in a site and arranging them to form a notion of the whole—which is then analyzed by deconstruction into its parts.

References Alberti, Benjamin 2016 Archaeologies of Ontology. Annual Review of Anthropology 45: 163–179. Allen, Catherine J. 1981 The Nasca Creatures: Some Problems of Iconography. Anthropology 5: 34–70.

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Foxboy: Intimacy and Aesthetics in Andean Stories.University of Texas Press, Austin. 2016a Stones Who Love Me: Dimensionality, Enclosure and Petrification in Andean Culture. Archives de Sciences Sociales des Religions 174: 327–346. 2016b The Living Ones: Miniatures and Animation in the Andes. Journal of Anthropological Research 72(4): 416–441. Arnold, Denise Y., and Juan de Dios Yapita 1998 Río de Vellón, Río de Canto: Cantar a los Animales, una Poética Andina de la Creación. ILCA/hisbol, LaPaz. Ascher, Marcia, and Robert Ascher 1997 Code of the Khipu: A Study of Media, Mathematics and Culture. Dover Books, New York. [Originally published in 1981 as Code of the Quipu. University of Michigan Press, Ann Arbor.] Barad, Karen 2007 Meeting the Universe Halfway: Quantum Physics and the Entanglement of Matter and Meaning. Duke University Press, Durham, North Carolina. Bastien, Joseph 1985 (1978) Mountain of the Condor: Metaphor and Ritual in an Andean Ayllu. Waveland Press, Prospect Heights, Illinois. De la Cadena, Marisol 2015 Earth Beings: Ecologies of Practice across Andean Worlds. Duke University Press, Durham, North Carolina. Descola, Philippe 2013 (2005) Beyond Nature and Culture. University of Chicago Press, Chicago. Evans-Pritchard, E. E. 1965 Theories of Primitive Religion. Clarendon Press, Oxford. Holbraad, Martin 2009 Ontology, Ethnography, Archaeology: An Afterword on the Ontography of Things. Cambridge Archaeological Journal 19 (3): 431–41. Lathrap, Donald Ward 1973 Gifts of the Cayman: Some Thoughts on the Subsistence Basis of Chavín. In Variation in Anthropology: Essays in Honor of John C. McGregor, edited by Donald Ward Lathrap and Jody Douglas, 91–105. Illinois Archaeological Survey, Urbana. Ricard Lanata, Xavier 2007 Ladrones de Sombra: El Universo Religioso de los Pastores del Ausangate. Centro Bartolomé de las Casas, Cuzco. Roark, Richard Paul 1965 From Monumental to Proliferous in Nasca Pottery. Ñawpa Pacha 3: 1–92. Sahlins, Marshall 2014 On the Ontological Scheme of beyond Nature and Culture. HAU: Journal of Ethnographic Theory 4(1): 281–290. Sillar, Bill 2004 Acts of God and Active Material Culture: Agency and Commitment in the An2011

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Contributors

Benjamin Alberti, associate professor, Framingham State University, is author of “‘Worlds Otherwise’: Archaeology, Anthropology, and Ontological Differences,” in Current Anthropology. Alberti’s primary research areas are in Northwest Argentina, where he explores concepts of bodies and alternative ontologies among the cultures of the first millennium AD. Currently he is researching anthropomorphism and notions of materiality in northwest Argentina. Catherine J. Allen, professor emerita at George Washington University, is a cultural anthropologist with an abiding interest in the relationship between the Andean present and the pre-Columbian past. Her publications include articles on pre-Columbian iconography as well as The Hold Life Has: Coca and Cultural Identity in an Andean Community, Foxboy: Intimacy and Aesthetics in Andean Stories, and Condor Qatay: Anthropology in Performance. Luis Jaime Castillo is principal professor at the Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú, and has been director of the San José de Moro Archaeological Program since 1991. He was also codirector of the Archaeological Project at Pampa Grande from 2004 to 2006. Professor Castillo has written numerous articles relating to funerary and ceremonial practices of the Moche, the priestesses of San José de Moro, the role of women in northern coastal preHispanic societies, representations of warriors in Moche art, and the Sacrifice Ceremony. Mary Glowacki serves as state archaeologist for the State of Florida, Division of Historic Resources. Her research focus is on early complex societies of the Andes—in particular, Wari imperialism (AD 600–1000). She is the author of “The Huaro Archaeological Site Complex” in Rethinking the Huari Occupation of Cuzco, and has a forthcoming publication on site looting, the

escalation of Internet antiquity sales, and the state’s role in protecting the state’s cultural resources. Andres Laguens, of the Institution National University of Cordoba, Argentina, is the author of Social Space and the Archaeology of Inequality: Insights into Social Differences at Ambato Valley, Southern Andes, Argentina. Nicco La Mattina is a linguistic anthropologist principally concerned with understanding linguistic identities as founded on a complex of discursive practices and dispositions. His research interests include the ontology of language, the economy of linguistic exchanges, and language as the object of discourse. María Cecilia Lozada, research associate in anthropology at the University of Chicago, is coeditor of Archaeological Human Remains: Legacies of Imperialism, Communism and Colonialism. Richard Lunniss is associated with the Universidad Técnica de Manabí, Portoviejo, Ecuador. From 1983 to 1987, he directed fieldwork at Salango and since then has, in one way or another, devoted most of his time to the study of that site, publishing his results in Ecuador and abroad. Additionally, he has had opportunity to excavate on Cerro Jaboncillo, the largest known Manteño ceremonial center, and to investigate other sites of the period in Central and South Manabí. His principal interests concern the nature and history of preColumbian ritual practices, cosmology, iconography, sacred architecture, and sacred landscapes. Bruce Mannheim is professor of anthropology, University of Michigan, and the editor of the Dialogic Emergence of Culture and Language of the Inka since the European Invasion. He is a leading linguistic anthropologist who studies the interrelations among language, culture, and history, particularly in South America. Luis Armando Muro, lecturer, Stanford University, is a Peruvian archaeologist who graduated from Católica del Perú (PUCP). His research interest focuses on the study of funerary spectacles, corporality, and monumental public spaces in the ancient Moche world. He is coeditor of Huaca 20: A Lima Site in the Ancient Maranga Complex. 348

Contributors

Matthew Sayre is chair and professor at the University of South Dakota. Professor Sayre works at the site of Chavín de Huántar in the Peruvian Andes. His work focuses on the ecological, agricultural, economic, and ritual practices of people in the Andes. He is the author of “A Synonym for Sacred: Vilca Use in the Pre-hispanic Andes” in Ancient Psychoactive Substances, edited by Scott Fitzpatrick. Giles Spence-Morrow, University of Toronto, is currently assistant to the director of the Archaeology Centre and the author of “A New Aerial Photogrammetric Survey Method for Recording Inaccessible Rock Art,” in Digital Applications in Archaeology. His research has focused on spatial analysis of Moche ceremonial architecture in the Jequetepeque Valley of northern coastal Peru. Edward Swenson, associate professor, University of Toronto, has worked in the Jequetepeque Valley of northern Peru since 1997, and he is currently conducting archaeological fieldwork at the Moche Centre of Huaca Colorada in northern Peru. Swenson’s theoretical interests include the preindustrial city, violence and subject formation, the archaeology of ritual, and the politics of time, landscape, and social memory. He is the author of “The Archaeology of Ritual” in Annual Review of Anthropology. Henry Tantaleán, professor in archaeology at Universidad Nacional Mayor de San Marcos and associate director of the Institute for the Advanced Study of Culture and the Environment at the University of South Florida, is the author of Peruvian Archaeology: A Critical History. Elsa Tomasto-Cagigao is a lecturer at Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú, and her research area is coastal and highland Peru. Her interests include mortuary practices, pathology, warfare, and human sacrifice. She is the author of “Paracas Funerary Practices in Palpa, South Coast of Perú” in Current Anthropology. Andrés Troncoso, Universidad de Chile, is the editor of Archaeology of Rock Art: South American Perspectives. He has directed several projects in Chile, and his research focuses on the way rock art was engaged in the social reproduction of past communities, ancient ontologies, and the construction of landscapes. Contributors

349

Juan Villanueva Criales of the Museo Nacional de Etnografía y Folklore, La Paz, is the editor of Personas, Cosas, Relaciones: Reflexiones arqueológicas sobre las materialidades pasadas y presentes. His research area is the Bolivian altiplano with a focus on the ceramic materiality and iconography of Middle-Horizon Tiwanaku and Late Intermediate period Carangas. His research includes the role of ceramics in commensalism, rituality, and mortuary practices, and the role of funerary architecture in the construction of communities, among other current anthropological themes, in La Paz City.

350

Contributors

Index

Abancay, 255 Abercrombie, Thomas, 10 Aca pacha, 21 Achuar, 83 Aconquija, 229 Adelaar, Willem, 9 Adolescent, 109 Adults, 106, 111, 128, 130 Afterlife, 202 Age, 105, 111, 119, 275 Agency, 14, 23, 91, 116, 121, 134, 137, 141, 142, 158, 168, 204, 220, 240, 241, 294, 336 Agency (in objects), 14, 277 Agricultural fields, 140 Aguada (archaeological culture), 231 Alakh pacha, 21 Alax Pacha, 276, 277 Albarracín-Jordán, Juan, 284 Alberti, Benjamin, 335, 338, 339 Albornoz, Cristóbal de, 8 Allen, Catherine, 5, 11, 18, 31, 91, 117, 139, 153, 203, 205 Allocentric (frame of reference), 240, 252, 253, 254, 255, 256, 259, 336 Alma, 30, 205 Alpaca, 288 Alterity, 220, 221 Alto Huallaga, 185 Amaya, 277, 287 Amazonia, 188, 217, 233 Amazonian ethnography, 11, 13, 116, 119, 137, 156, 217 Amazonian groups, 10, 11, 12 Amazonian peoples, 90, 192, 223, 332 Amazonian perspectivism, 120, 156, 213, 214, 218, 220, 222 Ambato valley, 232 Amerindian ontology, 120, 214, 218

Amerindian perspectivism, 2, 11, 15, 31, 120, 219, 338, 341 Amerindian societies, 2 Analogism, 79, 83, 85, 89, 91, 93, 257, 341, 342 Analogist ontology, 79, 87 Analogy, 79, 138, 152, 187, 203, 272, 337 Anatomy, 99, 100, 102, 337 Ancestors, 21, 25, 50, 57, 59, 73, 107, 121, 122, 125, 126, 135, 136, 137, 138, 140, 142, 167, 186, 199, 200, 218, 246, 247, 257, 258, 276, 277, 293, 318, 338 Ancestor veneration, 124, 142, 253, 254 Ancestrality, 116, 117, 121, 135, 143, 220 Anchors, 63 Andean archaeologists, 121, 143, 291 Andean archaeology, 5, 9, 13, 23, 29, 75, 117, 120, 121, 301 Andean area, 16 Andean civilization, 80, 81 Andean countries, 14 Andean concepts, 26, 117 Andean cultures, 4 Andean dualism, 56 Andean landscape, 23, 26, 155 Andean mountains, 4, 50 Andean notions, 16, 26 Andean ontologies, 3, 4, 6, 15, 16, 17, 26, 27, 28, 29, 154, 185, 253, 301, 302, 324, 325, 326 Andean past, 15, 90, 106 Andean prehistory, 99 Andean region, 3, 4, 49 Andean rituals, 16 Andean societies, 18, 21, 101, 105 Andean thought, 18 Andean world, 6, 22, 23, 25, 26, 108, 141, 199, 235, 275, 277 Andean worldview, 6, 17, 18, 28, 31, 99, 102

Androcentric view, 25 Ánima, 19, 30 Animal, 3, 20, 22, 24, 30, 31, 54, 83, 84, 87, 120, 135, 153, 157, 173, 191, 218, 219, 225, 227, 243, 245, 257, 277, 281, 291, 322 Animation, 140, 312, 336, 337 Animism, 11, 14, 30, 79, 82, 83, 84, 89, 90, 91, 93, 185, 223, 257, 341 Animist ontology, 86, 90, 220, 277 Animu, 24, 30, 205, 337 Annales (French school of), 272, 275 Anthropocentric perspectives, 1, 2 Anthropological studies, 22 Anthropology, 2, 5, 11, 12, 15, 23, 25, 213, 217, 240, 275 Anthropomorphic, 59, 66, 68 Apus, 23, 213, 235 Archaeological approachs, 27 Archaeological context, 4, 13, 18, 27, 100, 102, 103, 137 Archaeological discipline, 14, 117 Archaeological discourse, 117, 338 Archaeological evidence, 29, 117, 122, 124, 142, 340 Archaeological explanation, 23, 24 Archaeological interpretation, 26, 27, 28, 151, 152, 174, 272 Archaeological investigation, 81 Archaeological materials, 107, 220 Archaeological method, 151 Archaeological narratives, 26 Archaeological perspective, 16, 28, 305 Archaeological record, 50, 75, 79, 109, 175, 189, 202, 221, 272, 336, 338 Archaeological remains, 6, 154 Archaeological sequence, 54 Archaeological studies, 14, 22 Archaeological theory, 119, 120 Archaeology, 28, 116 Archaeology of death, 118 Architectural design, 54, 55, 73 Architectural evidence, 92 Architecture, 15, 25, 52, 74, 81, 150, 292 Argentina, 4, 213, 214, 225, 227, 231, 234, 338 Arnold, Denise, 101 Art history, 2 Arthritis, 110 Artifacts, 11, 14, 53, 54, 60, 67, 70, 72, 105, 157, 219, 249 Aru (language), 17 Astronomical cycles, 103

352

Index

Atahualpa (Inca), 203 Auca, 274, 275, 276 Awayus, 285 Axis mundi, 188 Ayahuasca, 188 Ayala, Felipe Guamán Poma de, 6, 7, 104, 105, 106, 203, 255 Ayllu, 24, 50, 102, 153, 276, 339 Aymara (language), 4, 9, 17, 30, 31, 343 Aymara concepts, 16 Ayni, 153 Bahía (archaeological culture), 52, 54, 61, 62, 64, 68, 69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74 Balsa rafts, 63 Barad, Karen, 339 Barreto, Cristiana, 220 Bastien, Joseph, 10, 102, 202, 337, 338 Batán Grande, 168, 169 Bautista, Hardman de, 9 Beach, 71 Beans, 81 Beings, 1, 2, 3, 12, 19, 20, 21, 23, 27, 31, 50, 60, 61, 64, 65, 69, 70, 71, 72, 74, 82, 83, 86, 87, 89, 91, 92, 120, 123, 135, 139, 141, 143, 152, 153, 156, 157, 183, 189, 190, 192, 196, 197, 199, 205, 214, 217, 218, 219, 221, 223, 224, 233, 244, 249, 256, 279, 281, 287, 293, 304, 305, 306, 313, 323, 324, 333, 339, 341 Belief systems, 143 Benson, Elizabeth, 185 Bertonio, Ludovico, 9, 19, 21, 22, 24, 31 Betanzos, Juan de, 6 Bioarchaeological data, 126, 142 Bioarchaeological evidence, 131 Bioarchaeological record, 338 Bioarchaeologist, 103 Bioarchaeology, 25 Biography, 158 Bird, 22, 54, 86, 171, 187, 192, 251, 279, 280, 281, 282 Birth, 57, 103, 158, 174, 277 Body (human), 14, 18, 21, 57, 99, 100, 101, 102, 103, 104, 108, 111, 116, 117, 118, 119, 121, 125, 129, 131, 132, 134, 135, 137, 139, 140, 141, 142, 143, 197, 202, 203, 213, 216, 214, 218, 335, 337, 338, 339, 341 Body (modifications), 25 Body parts, 134, 342 Bolin, Inge, 11, 30 Bolivia, 17, 102, 108, 186, 202, 248, 271, 272

Bolivian altiplano, 258, 271, 272, 277, 291, 292 Bolivian archaeology, 337 Bones (human), 103, 129, 130, 139, 140, 205, 288, 291 Bororo, 90 Botanical evidence, 92 Bray, Tamara, 19, 326 Brick, 151 Brünning, Heinrich, 9 Burial (human), 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59, 60, 61, 63, 64, 65, 67, 71, 73, 74, 75, 92, 103, 105, 106, 109, 122, 128, 130, 131, 132, 134, 164, 170, 172, 189, 287, 292, 334 Burial bundles (fardos), 190, 197 Burial towers, 284, 287, 290, 291, 292 Bushnell, G., 70 Butler, Judith, 119, 152 Cabeza Larga (archaeological site), 201 Cabo San Lorenzo (Ecuador), 54 Cadena, Marisol de la, 11, 217, 339 Cajamarca, 195 Calchaquí valley, 228, 230 Callpa, 19 Camac, 19, 20, 336, 337 Camaquen, 20 Camaquenc, 19, 30 Camasca, 20, 31 Camay, 5, 16, 18, 19, 20, 21, 23, 24, 218 Camaynin, 19, 30 Camelids, 81, 92 Cannibalism, 84 Capitalism, 155 Carangas, 278, 287, 288, 289 Cardal (archaeological site), 82 Carnaval, 245 Cartesian model, 18 Cartesian notions, 215, 217 Cartesian philosophies, 119 Cartesian view, 14 Casati, Roberto, 151, 175 Castillo, Luis Jaime, 122, 123, 124, 337, 338, 342 Castro Titu Cusi Yupanqui, Diego de, 29 Catholic Church, 21, 24 Catholicism, 19, 205 Cavalcanti-Schiel, Ricardo, 10 Cave, 101 Cayman, 187, 192, 193, 342 Cchama, 19

Cchamani, 19 Ccotototuyoc (archaeological site), 200 Cemetery, 59, 106, 116, 117, 121, 123, 134, 143 Central America, 192 Central Andes, 80, 117, 138, 220, 248, 301 Ceques, 255 Ceramics, 11, 123, 124, 227, 283, 284, 292 Ceramic vessels, 124, 159, 191, 219, 228, 287 Cereceda, Verónica, 274 Ceremonial architecture, 52, 90, 158, 164, 174, 291, 340, 341 Ceremonial center, 81, 122, 124, 203 Ceremonial complex, 52, 53, 61, 69, 70, 73 Ceremonial house, 67, 219 Ceremonial structures, 61 Ceremonies, 56, 274 Cerro Cañoncillo (Jequetepeque), 158, 165, 170, 172 Cerrón-Palomino, Rodolfo, 9 Chachapuma, 281 Ch’alladores, 279, 280, 281, 282, 283, 284 Ch’amak pacha, 276 Chaupi, 18 Chavín (archaeological culture), 9, 13, 56, 81, 89, 91, 185, 188, 213, 220, 342 Chavin art, 85, 89, 192, 195, 196 Chavín de Huántar, 15, 79, 80, 81, 82, 83, 85, 89, 92, 93, 192, 341 Chavín Horizon, 80, 82 Chicha beer, 122, 124, 135, 138, 244 Children, 105, 106, 128 Chile, 4, 110, 307 Chimeras, 85, 86, 87, 89, 90, 342, 343 Chimú (archaeological culture), 185, 199 China, 87 Chinchero (Cuzco), 15, 31 Chipaya (ethnic group), 10 Chiribaya (archaeological culture), 106, 110 Chiribaya Alta (archaeological site), 104 Christian concepts, 19 Christianization, 111, 293 Christie, Jessica Joyce, 15 Chronology, 105, 106, 272 Chronotope, 164 Chullpares, 278, 287, 288, 289 Chullpas (ancestor bodies), 25, 275, 276, 293 Chullperíos, 289, 290 Chuño, 138 Chuquisaca valleys, 281 Cieza de León, Pedro, 6 Cinnabar, 81

Index

353

Classen, Constance, 100, 102, 105, 108, 202, 203 Clay, 72, 136, 137 Clubs (weapon), 156 Cobo, Bernabé, 6 Coca, 183 Colombia, 4, 150 Colonial period, 25, 111 Complementariety, 18, 101 Complementary opposition, 54, 57, 59, 100, 161, 274, 322 Conchopata (archaeological site), 200 Condoramaya, 278, 284, 286, 287, 292 Connerton, Paul, 274 Contextual archaeology, 13 Cooperation, 24 Copper, 130, 168 Coricancha (temple of), 7 Corporality, 135, 140, 141 Corporeal ontology, 120, 138, 141, 142, 143 Corpses, 127, 130, 131, 132, 134, 139, 140, 141 Cosmic order, 73 Cosmology, 11, 117, 141, 153, 157, 218, 220, 246, 292 Cosmos, 20, 84, 156, 157 Cosmovision, 11 Crisoles, 137 Cultural-historic approach, 14 Culture, 30, 93, 119, 120, 154, 215, 219, 223, 231, 240, 242, 252 Cupisnique (archaeological culture), 185 Curandero, 108, 111 Cusi, 30 Cuzco, 4, 7, 10, 11, 139, 200, 202, 203, 255 Cyclical time, 21 Dead, 103, 138, 140, 141, 183, 189, 197, 198, 205, 259, 273, 276, 287, 291, 292, 293, 338 Dean, Carolyn, 15 Death (human), 25, 106, 110, 112, 121, 134, 139, 140, 141, 143, 157, 189, 277 Death rituals, 125 Decapitation, 185 Decolonial archaeology, 2 Deleuze, Gilles, 216 Descola, Philippe, 11, 28, 30, 79, 82, 83, 84, 87, 89, 156, 257, 341, 343 Descolian ontological animism, 83 Devil, 22 Diaguita (archaeological culture), 318, 322, 323, 324

354

Index

Diet, 25 Disability, 107 Diseases, 25, 102, 104, 107, 108, 109, 110, 111, 337, 338 Dividuality, 218 Divinity, 87 DNA (studies), 107 Donnan, Christopher, 188 Duality, 18, 67, 100, 322 Dwelling perspective, 215, 216 Dwyer, Jane, 190 Dynastic Egypt, 125 Early Formative (period), 282, 283 Early Horizon, 80, 187, 189, 192 Early Intermediate Period, 155, 187, 188, 189, 190 Early Regional Development (period), 73 Ear ornaments, 138 Earth, 21, 22, 31, 59, 75, 140 Ecology, 153 Ecuador, 4, 49, 75, 198 Egocentric (frame of reference), 252, 253, 255, 259, 336 Elite, 4, 123, 124, 126, 132, 134, 142, 157, 200 Embodiment, 120, 126, 132, 142, 216, 217, 221, 342 Emic perspective, 99, 121, 335 Emic view, 103, 143 Empires, 84 Energy, 19, 61, 75, 140, 141 English (language), 19, 30, 241, 243, 244, 249, 257, 335 Engoroy (archaeological culture), 52, 54, 55, 56, 57, 61, 63, 72, 73, 74, 75 Enq’a, 11 Enqa, 30 Enqas, 20 Enqaychu, 30, 337 Entanglement theory, 2 Epistemology, 3, 15, 49, 155, 175 Estermann, Josef Estete, Miguel de, 6 Estuquiña (archaeological culture), 110 Ethnoarchaeological approach, 12 Ethnoarchaeology, 12 Ethnographical accounts, 138 Ethnographical sources, 13, 18, 21, 111, 336, 337 Ethnographic analogy, 10, 234 Ethnographic approaches, 11

Ethnographic perspective, 20, 102 Ethnographic record, 91, 203, 303 Ethnographic research, 28, 107 Ethnographic study, 12, 14, 20, 24, 99, 105, 202 Ethnography, 2, 5, 10, 15, 23, 83, 334, 337, 338 Ethnohistorical accounts, 6, 17, 100, 102, 121, 198 Ethnohistorical documents, 8 Ethnohistorical research, 107, 202 Ethnohistorical sources, 13, 18, 21, 25, 111, 336 Ethnohistorical studies, 14, 20, 22, 24, 99, 100, 202 Ethnohistoric perspective, 6 Ethnohistory, 6, 22, 23, 25, 28, 275, 291, 334 Ethno-metaphysics, 82, 83 Etiology, 102, 338 Eurocentric perspective, 1, 2 European conquest, 102 European cultures, 16 European societies, 6 Evans-Pritchard, E., 333 Exotic goods, 81 Extirpation of idolatries, 8, 21, 293 Face, 90, 101, 109, 135, 137, 138, 227, 319 Face-neck jars, 135, 136 Facial painting, 135 Farmers, 63 Farming, 81 Feast, 58, 124, 286 Feasting, 122, 123, 124, 137, 142, 158, 159, 160, 279, 284, 286, 288, 290 Fecundity, 100, 245 Feline, 70, 187, 192, 193, 279, 281, 282, 323, 324, 342 Female, 56, 58, 63, 100, 109, 111, 118, 123, 128, 130, 168, 286 Feminist archaeologies, 116 Fertility, 30, 139, 160, 172, 174, 188 Fetal position, 106 Figurines, 59, 61, 64, 66, 68, 69, 70, 73, 125, 135, 200, 219 Fineline stirrup vessels, 157 Fire, 136, 137 Fish, 72 Flesh (human), 139, 140 Folk medicine, 25 Food production, 81 Force (vital), 20

Formative period (central Andes), 79, 91, 93, 281 Foucault, Michel, 125 Fowler, Chris, 134 Fractal, 116, 134, 139 Fractality, 117, 134, 218, 275, 340 Funerary area, 122 Funerary chambers, 124, 127, 130, 132, 135, 142 Funerary platform, 74 Funerary processions, 126, 141 Funerary rituals, 110, 138 Funerary structure, 128, 130, 131, 135 Furst, Peter, 188 Garagay (archaeological site), 82 García, Pablo, 31 Garcilaso de la Vega, Inca, 22, 112 Genealogy (Foucauldian), 301, 302, 306, 325, 326 Gender (studies), 25, 116, 118 Geographic space, 18 Gero, Joan, 25 Glowacki, Mary, 335 God, 22, 157 Gold, 22, 244 Golte, Jurgen, 13 González Holguín, Diego, 9, 19 Gosden, Chris, 273 Grave, 67, 165 Grave goods, 58, 103, 105, 106, 128, 137, 287 Grinding stones, 63 Guaca. See Huaca Guangala (archaeological culture), 52, 54, 61, 62, 64, 65, 66, 67, 69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74 Guaraní (ethnic group), 90 Guayas Basin, 64 Guinea pig (cuy), 165 Haber, Alejandro, 277 Hair (human), 69, 85, 183, 184, 185, 186, 188, 189, 196, 198, 202, 204 Hallowell, Irving, 242 Hallucinogens, 194, 195 Hanan Pacha, 139, 204 Haque, 24 Hardening, 122, 137, 141 Hastorf, Christine, 101 Headdresses, 135, 138, 196, 197, 198, 313, 317, 318, 319 Head modification, 201

Index

355

Healing, 51, 102, 187 Health, 24, 25, 107, 108, 139, 201, 204 Hegemony, 1 Heidegger, Martin, 15, 216 Helmets, 156 Hermeneutics, 5 Heuristics, 3, 12, 16, 19, 27, 28, 155, 183, 336 Hill, Erica, 134, 142 Hills, 67 Hinduism, 184 History (discipline), 5 Hodder, Ian, 13 Holbraad, Martin, 333, 334 House, 56 Huaca, 5, 9, 16, 18, 20, 22, 23, 24, 25, 31, 49, 50, 74, 160, 161, 166, 168, 169, 173, 175, 213, 218, 235, 304, 336, 341 Huaca Colorada (Jequetepeque), 125, 150, 152, 153, 157, 158, 159, 160, 161, 164, 165, 168, 169, 173, 174, 175, 340, 341, 343 Huaca de la Luna, 158 Huaca Lercanlech, 168 Huaca Loro, 168 Huacha, 108 Hualfin valle, 232 Huaraz, 253 Huaro (Cuzco), 200 Huarochirí Manuscript, 7, 8, 19, 23, 25, 30, 31, 156 Huayno, 249, 250, 251 Hucha, 140 Human beings, 19, 20, 21, 23, 24, 25, 135, 139, 333, 336 Human blood, 138, 249, 337 Human body, 25, 100, 102, 112, 127, 141, 152, 153, 154, 215 Human head, 57, 101, 102, 137, 138, 165, 183, 184, 185, 186, 187, 189, 192, 194, 198, 200, 202, 204, 281, 291, 292, 317, 318 Humanistic sciences, 14 Humanity, 83, 87, 214, 218, 220 Humanization, 30 Human life, 18, 23, 106 Human remains, 61, 99, 338 Humans, 30, 64, 83, 84, 85, 91, 111, 120, 121, 139, 143, 157, 158, 173, 218, 220, 223, 227, 233, 277, 284, 301, 306, 312, 317, 326, 339, 341, 342 Human sacrifices, 154, 157, 160, 163, 166, 174, 185 Human skull, 133, 139, 186, 198, 199, 200, 201

356

Index

Hunter-gatherer societies, 186, 302, 307, 308, 309, 310, 324, 335 Hunting, 89, 92, 220 Husserl, Edmund, 15 Hybridization, 16 Hypothesis, 27, 29, 105, 143, 332 Iconographic approach, 13 Iconography, 5, 13, 54, 74, 79, 82, 85, 89, 91, 92, 93, 102, 220, 279, 280, 281, 285, 291, 292, 324, 332, 334, 335, 341 Identity, 118, 138, 185, 220 Ideology, 4, 102, 140, 151, 157, 175, 187, 203, 204, 205 Idol, 22 Idolatry, 25 Illas, 20 Illness, 24, 107, 108, 111, 185, 201 Inca (archaeological culture/society), 4, 5, 7, 8, 21, 22, 49, 101, 102, 103, 104, 105, 106, 185, 197, 199, 201, 202, 240, 243, 245, 246, 248, 254, 255, 257, 258, 259, 335, 338, 340 Inca architecture, 15 Inca elites, 25 Inca period, 15, 16, 24, 104, 278, 291, 301 Inca religión, 49 Indigenous archaeology, 2 indigenous cosmopraxis, 29 Indigenous groups, 26 Indigenous peoples, 104, 202 Indigenous perspectives, 3 Indigenous societies, 3 Indigenous views, 28, 111 Indigenous world, 100 Indigenous worldviews, 24, 29, 99 Individuality, 130, 131 Infant burial, 67 Ingold, Tim, 158, 174, 215, 216, 258, 305 Initial Period (Central Andes), 198 Inka. See Inca Interiority, 30, 83, 84, 86 Intersubjectivity, 30, 138 Iridescent paint, 61, 64, 66 Isbell, William, 25 Island, 51, 54 Israel, 186 Jaguar, 83, 86, 187, 188, 219 Jama Coaque pottery, 70 Janabarriu ceramic style, 82 Japan, 185

Jequetepeque-Chamán drainage, 122 Jequetepeque valley, 117, 122, 124, 125, 142, 143, 152 Jívaro (ethnic group), 198, 200 Joyce, Rosemary, 117, 119 Kaata (community), 202 Kaata (mountain), 108 Kalasasaya (pottery), 281 Kallawaya (ethnic group), 10, 102 K’amacha, 278, 288, 289 Kay Pacha, 139, 204, 276, 277 Kenning, 85, 195, 196 Keros, 199 Khipu/Quipu, 6, 255, 340 Khonkho Wankane (archaeological site), 291 Khuyay, 139 Knapp, Bernard, 273 Knowledge, 2 Kogi, 90 Kohn, Eduardo, 11, 217, 222, 224 Kukuchis, 140 Kuntur Wasi (archaeological site), 185 Kusillavi, 278, 288, 289 La Barre, Weston, 10 La Candelaria (archaeological culture), 214, 225, 227, 228, 229, 232, 234, 338, 339 Laguens, Andrés, 334, 338, 339 Lake Titicaca, 102, 278, 284 La Libertad (Ecuador), 54, 67, 70, 74 La Mattina, Nicco, 341, 342, 343 Lambayeque valley, 168 Land, 54, 63, 75, 142 Landmarks, 26 Landscape, 3, 14, 15, 24, 25, 26, 100, 103, 108, 134, 139, 155, 157, 202, 213, 214, 217, 218, 221, 222, 223, 225, 226, 227, 232, 234, 235, 252, 253, 255, 275, 277, 288, 290, 301, 302, 305, 308, 313, 320, 323, 324, 334, 337, 338, 339 Lanzón sculpture (Chavín), 82, 192 La Plata Island (Ecuador), 52 La Ramada (archaeological culture), 110, 111 Larco Hoyle, Rafael, 195 Late Archaic (period), 282, 283 Late Formative (period), 291 Late Holocene, 307, 309 Late Horizon/Inka Horizon, 185, 198, 254, 284

Late Intermediate Period (Central Andes), 104, 105, 247, 248, 254, 272, 278, 284, 287, 288, 338 Late Moche (period), 116, 117, 122, 123, 124, 126, 127, 129, 130, 132, 135, 137, 140, 143, 150, 158, 340 La Tolita pottery, 70 Lau, George, 137, 138, 220, 221 Leishmaniasis, 110 Leone, Mark, 273 Levi-Strauss, Claude, 203, 248 Lexicón, 19, 30 Life cycles, 104, 105, 107, 157, 313 Life force, 30, 134, 165, 189, 205 Life stages, 103, 104, 105, 106, 107, 111 Lightning, 141 Lima (city), 8, 108 Lima, Tânia, 218 Limarí valley, 307, 310 Liminal, 101, 130, 274 Linguist, 242, 245 Linguistics, 5, 9, 28, 99, 102, 246, 334 Lípez region, 287, 288 Lithic sculpture, 281 Llacta, 25, 26 Llamas, 1, 201, 204, 244, 252 Lloyd, Georey, 82 Lo Andino (discourse), 4, 155 Lokono (arawakan language), 253 Lowe Art Museum, 197 Lozada, María Cecilia, 202, 332, 335, 337, 338 Lucas, Gavin, 272 Lunnis, Richard, 341 Machukuni, 140 Machula aulanchis, 117, 140 Machulas, 139 Machu Picchu, 250 Maimonides, 184 Maize, 63, 81, 124 Maki, 249 Malakulan (Australasia), 201 Male, 56, 63, 100, 109, 129, 130, 286 Mallquis, 25 Mana, 184, 205 Manabí (Ecuador), 54 Mancca pacha, 21 Manioc, 198 Mannheim, Bruce, 9, 161, 304, 333, 335, 340, 342, 343

Index

357

Manta (Ecuador), 54, 69 Manteño (archaeological culture), 52 Mapuche, 90 Marañon River, 80 Markham, Clements, 30 Martínez, Gabriel, 10 Marxist perspectives (in archaeology), 14 Material culture, 12, 13, 14, 15, 105, 213, 214, 218, 219, 220, 221, 225, 226, 232, 233, 240, 253, 274, 305, 336, 339 Materiality, 12, 14, 16, 17, 18, 24, 86, 121, 132, 168, 175, 218, 220, 221, 246, 278, 284, 307 Materiality study, 5, 13, 14, 99 Material record, 79, 92, 306 Material remains, 13 Matter, 18, 20, 137, 143, 153, 158, 174, 277, 306, 332, 336 Mausoleum, 122, 124, 127, 128, 129, 130, 131, 137 Maya, 186, 187 Mayu, 250 Meaning, 17, 18, 61, 72, 82, 118, 134, 175, 196, 203, 204, 215, 217, 246, 335 Mehi, 90 Mejía Huamán, Mario, 29 Melanesian ethnography, 116, 119, 132 Memory, 120, 158, 306 Mereology, 150, 151, 174, 340, 343 Mereotopology, 151 Merleau-Ponty, Maurice, 15, 85, 119 Mesa (Shamanic), 188 Meshworks, 304, 305, 306, 308, 313, 318, 324, 326 Meskell, Lynn, 119 Mesoamerica, 119, 246, 252 Metal, 123, 130, 200 Metaphor, 117, 195, 203, 218, 287, 337, 338 Mexico, 192 Middendorf, Ernst, 9 Middle Ages, 184 Middle Formative (period), 291 Middle Horizon Period, 152, 155, 185, 272, 278, 279, 281, 283, 284, 291, 338 Miller, Daniel, 14 Mind, 83, 153, 216 Misminay (Cuzco), 105 Moche (archaeological culture), 13, 103, 116, 117, 122, 125, 132, 134, 136, 137, 139, 140, 141, 143, 150, 151, 152, 155, 157, 185, 188, 190, 199, 336, 341 Moche (period), 124, 127, 129, 130

358

Index

Moche art, 141, 198 Moche iconography, 13, 156, 161 Moche religion, 156, 157 Modernist perspective, 14 Moeity, 58, 84 Molina, Cristóbal de (El Cusqueño), 6, 7, 8 Monument, 91 Monumental center, 81, 279 Monumentality, 23 Moon, 275 Moore, Jerry, 90, 91, 306, 326 Moquegua, 106, 109 Mortuary analysis, 106 Mortuary assemblages, 104 Mortuary practices, 247, 249, 253, 336 Mortuary ritual, 106, 136, 141 Mortuary traditions, 111 Mortuary treatment, 109, 111, 128 Mosna river, 81 Mountains, 20, 23, 50, 101, 102, 108, 202, 218, 233, 244, 249, 254, 256, 337, 338 Muchik (language), 9 Multiculturalism, 83 Multinaturalism, 83, 219 Multinatural perspectivism, 83 Mummification, 132 Mummy, 21, 140, 291, 293 Munay, 250 Mundurucú (ethnic group), 198 Muro, Luis, 32, 257, 337, 338, 342 Murra, John, 225 Murúa, Martín de, 6, 7 Muyuy, 31 Mythical time, 21 Mythology, 5, 188 Nair, Stella, 15 Native languages, 16 Native societies, 17 Native worldviews, 112 Naturalism, 82, 83, 84, 257 Natural landscape, 102 Natural world, 101, 108 Nature, 21, 83, 84, 87, 119, 120, 154, 183, 188, 215, 219, 223 Nazca (archaeological culture), 9, 132, 199, 332 Nazca lines (geoglyphs), 15 Necklaces, 135 New Materialism (approach), 14 Nielsen, Axel, 293

Nonhumans, 30, 84, 85, 139, 218, 220, 233, 287, 322, 325, 339, 341, 342 Nukak, 12 Objects, 20, 23, 24, 26, 54, 120, 134, 137, 139, 141, 215, 218, 219, 221, 255, 277, 305, 334, 340, 343 Obsidian, 58, 59, 72, 81 Offerings, 52, 53, 54, 55, 57, 58, 63, 67, 71, 72, 74, 75, 143, 164, 165, 167, 168, 171, 174, 184, 200, 278, 284, 286, 287, 292 Ojibwa, 82, 83 Old Testament, 184 Olmec period, 192 Omo (archaeological site), 109, 110, 111 Ondegardo, Polo, 6, 8 Ontological orientations, 334 Ontological status, 116, 122, 271, 272, 274, 293 Ontological turn, 2, 82, 116, 118, 119, 120, 154, 240, 242, 301, 303, 332, 334, 335 Ontology, 3, 23, 49, 54, 82, 84, 90, 116, 127, 134, 135, 143, 150, 152, 154, 155, 175, 213, 214, 215, 216, 232, 242, 245, 246, 249, 283, 292, 324, 334 Orlando (Florida), 29 Oruro (Bolivia), 10 Osmore drainage, 109, 111 Osteologists, 104 Other-than-humans, 120, 224, 240, 301, 302, 304, 306, 312, 323, 324, 325, 326, 339 Pacajes, 288 Pacajes style, 284 Pacha, 5, 16, 18, 21, 24, 213, 235, 271, 272, 274, 275, 277, 283, 293, 336, 337 Pachacamac (god), 26 Pacific Ocean, 4 Pacopampa, 195 Paicas, 135 Paleoindian period, 186 Paleopathological research, 107 Palikur (ethnic group), 224, 225 Palimpsest, 274, 283 Pampa, 274 Panofsky, Erwin, 13 Paracas (archaeological culture), 9, 185, 189, 190, 194, 196, 198, 200, 201 Paracas Necropolis, 190, 200 Paradigms, 117, 119 Paraphernalia, 194, 338

Pariti Island, 278, 279, 280, 282, 284, 294 Parker, Gary, 9 Pastoralism, 81 Pauketat, Tim, 304, 323, 324 Paul, Anne, 196 Peccaries, 219 Peirce, Charles Sanders, 13 People, 20, 153, 154, 158, 160, 174 Perception, 5, 14, 15, 102, 107, 119 Perception of space, 6 Performance, 52, 53, 57, 60, 74, 75, 156, 161, 173, 284 Performativity, 119 Personhood, 116, 119, 134, 156, 158, 215, 304 Perspectivism, 85, 117, 120, 218, 220, 221 Perspectivist ontology, 117, 121, 135, 141, 142, 233 Peru, 4, 6, 14, 17, 79, 99, 100, 104, 106, 110, 111, 112, 116, 117, 139, 150, 188, 198, 200, 201, 245, 248, 254, 336 Petroglyphs, 314, 315, 316, 317, 318, 319, 320, 322, 323 Phallcha, 245 Phenomenological approaches, 215, 216 Phenomenological perspective, 15 Phenomenological philosophy, 118 Phenomenology, 5, 15, 119, 216 Philosophy, 94, 150, 175 Physical anthropology, 25, 105 Physicality, 30, 83, 84, 341 Pigments, 309, 310, 312, 313, 318, 324 Pikillacta, 200 Pilgrimage, 125, 158, 341, 342 Pilgrimage center, 122 Pilgrims, 92 Pinctada mazatlanica, 67 Place, 20, 50, 51, 53, 61, 74, 153, 154, 157, 158, 174, 225, 271, 291, 304, 306, 310, 322 Plants, 3, 20, 24, 25, 30, 31, 84, 92, 217, 219, 342 Platform (architecture), 58, 59, 60, 61, 72, 130, 161 Platt, Tristan, 274 Plazas, 92, 122, 135 Political interaction, 73 Political order, 117 Political relationships, 75 Politis, Gustavo, 12 Portrait vessels, 157, 158 Postmortem, 126, 127, 128, 129, 131, 132, 133 Postmortem manipulation, 134

Index

359

Postprocessual archaeology, 14, 215, 272 Potato, 138, 153 Pottery fragments, 58, 316 Pottery sherds, 72 Pottery style, 52 Pottery vessels, 58, 63, 64 Power, 119 Predation, 156, 220 Pre-Hispanic Andes, 21 Pre-Hispanic social groups, 25 Pre-Hispanic societies, 104 Presentation theme, 156, 157 Prey animals, 83 Priests, 91, 92, 93 Prisoners, 200 Processual approach, 14 Processual archaeology, 14, 215, 216 Proulx, Donald, 185 Psychotropic drugs, 188 Public space, 81, 126 Pukara (archaeological culture), 281 Puma, 202, 203 Puquina (language), 17 Puruma, 274, 275, 276, 277, 287 Qaqa, 250 Qeya (pottery), 281 Qollahuayas, 103, 108, 110, 337, 338 Q’squ puxyu, 101 Quayqa, 140 Quechua (language), 4, 9, 17, 30, 50, 90, 100, 101, 102, 107, 240, 241, 243, 244, 246, 248, 249, 250, 253, 254, 255, 256, 257, 258, 259, 336, 343 Quechua concepts, 16 Quechua ontology, 13 Quechua vocabulary, 21, 22 Quine, Willard van Ormann, 242, 243, 244, 258 Quinoa, 81 Radiocarbon dating, 80 Raimodi stela, 192, 193, 195, 196 Rank, 108, 138 Raptors, 342 Raw materials, 72 Reciprocity, 24, 102, 183 Recuay (archaeological culture), 137, 213, 220 Relational, 120, 121, 134, 136, 141, 225, 301, 306, 308 Relational archaeology, 2

360

Index

Relationality, 17, 340, 342 Relational ontology, 154, 155 Religion, 5, 91, 204, 333 Religiosity, 122, 332 Religious calendar, 161 Religious center, 92 Religious leader, 57 Religious practices, 91 Revolt of the Objects (Theme), 156 Ricard Lanata, Xavier, 337 Rio Muerto M7OB (Archaeological site), 106 Rites, 59, 61, 63, 117, 121, 141 Rites of passage, 103, 186 Ritual, 51, 59, 72, 73, 105, 106, 108, 124, 125, 126, 158, 173, 175, 185, 186, 196, 200, 249, 283, 284, 338 Ritual center, 80 Ritual events, 81 Ritual function, 67 Ritual performances, 52, 53, 57, 60, 74, 156, 161 Ritual practices, 5, 25 Ritual process, 141 Ritual sacrifice, 199 Ritual termination, 174 Ritual warfare, 201 River, 61, 71, 101, 218 Robb, John, 323, 326 Rock art, 186, 283, 301, 302, 306, 307, 308, 312, 313, 316, 317, 318, 322, 323 Rock paintings, 309, 310, 324 Rocks, 23, 225, 242, 244, 249, 250, 251, 256, 311, 312, 313, 315, 316, 317, 320, 321, 323, 324 Roe, Peter, 88 Rowe, John, 85, 195 Ruggles, Clive, 15 Rumi, 250 Runa, 5, 16, 18, 20, 24, 336 Runa Indio Ñiscap Machoncuna (Manuscript), 107 Runakuna, 24, 30, 339 Runakuna (from Sonqos, Cuzco), 139, 140, 141, 143 Rutuchico, 106 Sacred beings, 50, 53 Sacred center, 49, 51 Sacred landscape, 21, 23, 202 Sacred place, 51, 73 Sacrifice Ceremony (theme), 156

Sacrifices, 25, 52, 156, 158, 168, 340 Sacrificial victims, 134, 168, 171, 174 Sahlins, Marshall, 89 Salaite (archaeological site), 64, 65, 70, 75 Salango, 49, 50, 52, 53, 54, 59, 60, 61, 67, 69, 70, 71, 73, 74, 75, 341, 343 Salas Carreño, Guillermo, 304 Salomon, Frank, 6, 8, 19, 21, 23 Salta, 227 Sami, 11, 20, 30, 52, 117, 121, 139, 140, 141, 143, 183, 205, 218, 336, 337 Sanctuary, 53, 64, 71, 72 Sand, 67, 71, 72 San Damián de Chiqa (Lima), 108 San José de Moro, 116, 117, 121, 122, 123, 124, 125, 126, 131, 132, 133, 134, 136, 137, 138, 139, 140, 141, 142, 143, 338, 342 San Pedro cactus, 188 Santa Elena Peninsula, 54, 64 Santa Maria valley, 227, 228, 230 Santarem (archaeological culture), 220 Santo Tomás, Domingo de, 9, 19, 21, 22, 30 Sapir, Edward, 242 Saqsayhuaman, 203 Saunders, Nicholas, 15 Sayhuite stone, 255 Sayre, Matthew, 79, 341, 342, 343 Sea, 22, 54, 63, 67, 71, 75 Semiosis, 151, 343 Semiotic approaches, 13 Semiotics, 5, 13, 102 Serpents, 64, 70, 242, 281, 282, 342 Settlements patterns, 124, 247, 252, 253, 288, 307, 336 Sex, 105, 109, 119 Shaman, 20, 56, 60, 61, 83, 86, 90, 91, 93, 184, 187, 188, 190, 192, 194, 195, 342 Shamanism, 79, 90, 91, 93, 186, 203, 220 Sharer, Robert, 187 Sharon, Douglas, 188, 189 Shells, 56, 57, 59, 72, 75, 168, 200, 342 Shrine, 90 Sicán (archaeological culture), 168 Sicán period, 169 Sick, 111 Sickness, 111 Signs, 13, 246 Siki, 249 Sillar, Bill, 12 Silver, 22 Silverblatt, Irene, 25, 31

Simi pata, 101 Sipán, 130 Skeletal remains, 109, 110 Skeleton, 111, 127, 128, 130, 131 Sky, 11, 13, 20, 21, 218 Smiling god, 192, 193, 194, 195 Snakes, 70, 85, 108, 188, 192, 291 Sobrevilla, David, 29 Social order, 117 Social organization, 93 Social practices, 3, 17, 25 Social sciences, 14, 116, 301 Social status, 118 Social stratification, 155 Society for American Archaeology, 29 Sociology, 2 Solstice, 56 Sonco, 30 Songo, 19, 30 Sonqos province, 139, 143, 336, 337 Soul, 18, 19, 30, 83, 101, 153, 183, 189, 198, 199, 201, 202, 205, 214, 219, 277, 293 South America, 91, 187, 188, 192, 218, 248 Spaniards, 6, 27, 102, 111, 254 Spanish (language), 19, 30, 259 Spanish chroniclers, 90, 105 Spanish conquest, 49, 51, 100, 104 Spanish Empire, 302 Spence-Morrow, Giles, 334, 340 Spindle whorl, 67 Spirit beings, 52, 61, 64, 66, 69, 72, 74 Spirit force, 75 Spirits, 53, 59, 74, 185, 219, 275, 276, 277 Spondylus princeps, 55, 56, 67, 81, 167, 204 Staff god, 192, 193, 194, 195, 196, 281 Staller, John, 22 Stark, Louisa, 101, 102 Stars, 84, 233 State-level societies, 23, 84, 155 Statues, 22, 140 Stein, Gertrude, 343 Steward, Julian, 248 Stone, 22, 57, 71, 140, 151, 200, 218, 245, 251, 255 Stone, Rebecca, 192 Stone sculptures, 56, 79, 194, 220 Strathern, Marilyn, 132, 218 Strombus galeatus, 81 Structuralist approaches, 13, 204 Style, 52, 61, 64, 82, 125, 151, 196, 227 Subjectivity, 116, 154, 214, 218, 219, 221

Index

361

Subsistence, 108 Sun, 22, 57, 276, 277 Sunrises, 276 Sunsets, 276 Supernatural being, 60, 70, 191, 199 Suprahuman entity, 24 Swenson, Edward, 173, 174, 334, 340 Symbol, 13, 59, 108, 111 Symbolic approach, 216 Symbolic archaeology, 13 Symbolic meanings, 56, 67, 246 Symbolism, 56, 72, 137, 142, 174 Symmetrical archaeology, 2, 14 Synecdochal ontologies, 153, 154 Synecdoche, 153, 174, 245, 255, 340 Tafi valley, 228, 229, 230 Tama, 185 Tantaleán, Henry, 99, 332, 334, 336, 337 Tapir, 219 Taraco peninsula, 291 Tattooing, 105 Tawantinsuyu, 7 Tayca, 274 Taylor, Gerald, 18, 25, 30, 31 Taypi, 18, 276 Tejjsie, 186 Teleology, 244 Tello, Julio César, 8, 10, 80, 85, 87 Tello Obelisk, 87, 88, 342, 343 Temple, 22, 50, 79, 90, 134, 192 Termination event, 169 Textiles, 11, 189, 195, 249, 255, 274, 285 Theoretical approach, 13, 119 Theoretical framework, 79, 142 Things, 12, 22, 89, 91, 120, 143, 153, 154, 157, 158, 160, 174, 205, 213, 214, 217, 219, 246, 249, 340 Thomas, Julian, 15, 121, 215, 216, 217 Tilley, Christopher, 15 Time, 103 Time/space, 271, 276, 277, 283, 293 Tinku, 274, 276, 277 Tinkuy, 18, 29, 31 Tirakuna, 23, 24, 31 Tiriyó, 253 Titicaca Basin, 106, 272, 281, 284, 288, 291 Tiwanaku (archaeological culture), 9, 109, 110, 199, 278, 279, 280, 283, 285, 286 Tiwanaku (site), 291 Tiyana, 249

362

Index

Toads, 108, 281, 282, 291 Tobacco, 188, 198 Tomasto, Elsa, 32, 257, 337, 338, 342 Tombs, 25, 50, 67, 73, 123, 143, 201, 254, 286, 318 Tomman Island, 201 Topography, 218, 252, 337 Topology, 151, 174, 225 Torah, 184 Torero, Alfredo, 9 Totemism, 83, 84, 257 Trade network, 81 Transfiguration, 117, 120, 132, 134, 136 Transformation, 15, 16, 21, 23, 52, 74, 89, 117, 121, 125, 126, 132, 134, 136, 139, 140, 141, 142, 143, 157, 187, 188, 189, 190, 193, 194, 195, 196, 205, 220, 313, 316, 320, 324, 325, 340 Transmutability, 136 Trauma, 143, 201 Trephanations, 200, 201 Troncoso, Andrés, 335, 339 Trophy head, 185, 198, 199, 332 Trubetzkoy, N. S., 248 Tschopik, Harry, 10 Tschudi, Johann Jakob von, 9 Tuberculosis, 110 Tucuman, 227 Tukano (ethnic group), 188 Tumi knife, 171 Tupi-Guarani, 156 Tupu, 287 Tylor, E. B., 333 Tylorian animism, 83 Uhle, Max, 9, 80 Ukhu Pacha, 139, 204 Uku Pacha, 276, 287 Uma, 101, 202, 249 Underworld, 21, 59, 276 Upper Paleolithic period, 186 Uraque, 31 Urbano, Henrique, 6 Urioste, George, 107, 108, 111 Urn (ceramics), 105, 106, 219, 227 Urton, Gary, 11, 85, 88, 89, 101, 102, 105 Urubamba river, 250 Uywaña, 274, 277, 293 Valdivia (archaeological culture), 56 Valle El Encanto, 302, 306, 307, 308, 309,

310, 312, 313, 316, 317, 318, 319, 320, 321, 322, 323, 325, 326 Varanasi (India), 136 Varzi, Achille, 151, 175 Vasum caestus conch, 67 Venereal diseases, 107 Venezuela, 150 Verano, John, 198, 200, 201 Viceroy Toledo, 293 Vilaça, Aparecida, 120, 217, 222 Vilca (Anadenanthera colubrina), 188 Villanueva, Juan, 337 Violence, 174 Vital force, 20, 23, 24 Vitor (valley), 110, 111 Viveiros de Castro, Eduardo, 2, 11, 12, 28, 31, 82, 85, 90, 117, 120, 121, 137, 141, 142, 153, 156, 218, 220, 221, 222, 234, 341 Wachtel, Nathan, 10 Waiwai, 90 W’aka. See Huaca Warao, 90 Warfare, 156, 157, 200, 220 Wari (archaeological culture), 132, 185, 199, 200, 291 Warriors, 92, 200 Wasa wayq’u, 101 Water, 64, 74, 124, 140, 142, 242, 245, 249, 250, 251, 274, 311, 312, 316, 322, 324, 337

Wayllani-Kuntur Amaya (archaeological site), 284 Weapon, 156, 200 Weismantel, Mary, 12, 15, 85, 86, 90, 161, 220, 221 Western categories, 157 Western epistemologies, 116 Western narrative, 6 Western ontology, 3 Western philosophy, 15 Western thought, 100 Western view, 2 Whistling bottles, 64 Whorf, Benjamin Lee, 242 Willerslev, Rane, 85, 86 Wiracocha (deity), 9, 21 “Wiracocha” (Tello publication), 8 Witchcraft, 25, 189 Womb, 106 Women, 25, 111, 123, 164, 165, 172, 174 Wood, 123, 151 Wood carvings, 292 Wool, 202 Worldviews, 2, 79 Writing system, 6 Yanantín, 18, 100 Yanomamo, 90 Yire (Piro) (ethnic group), 233 Zoomorphic, 135, 136, 227

Index

363