The Fabric of Resistance: Textile Workshops and the Rise of Rebellious Landscapes in Colonial Peru (Historical Archaeology in South America) 0817321152, 9780817321154

Examines the long-term social conditions that enabled large-scale rebellions in late Spanish colonial Peru   The Fabric

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The Fabric of Resistance: Textile Workshops and the Rise of Rebellious Landscapes in Colonial Peru (Historical Archaeology in South America)
 0817321152, 9780817321154

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THE FABRIC OF RESISTANCE

HISTORICAL ARCHAEOLOGY IN SOUTH AMERICA Series Editors Pedro P. Funari and Jacob J. Sauer Editorial Advisory Board  Réginald Augier Lúcio Menezes Charles E. Orser Jr. Jeffrey Quilter Melisa Salerno Mary Van Buren Parker VanValkenburgh Andrés Zarankin

THE FABRIC OF

RESISTANCE Textile Workshops and the Rise of Rebellious Landscapes in Colonial Peru

Di Hu

THE UNIVERSITY OF ALABAMA PRESS Tuscaloosa

The University of Alabama Press Tuscaloosa, Alabama 35487-­0380 uapress.ua.edu Copyright © 2022 by Di Hu All rights reserved. Inquiries about reproducing material from this work should be addressed to the University of Alabama Press. Typeface: Minion Pro Cover images: Sixteenth-­century Inka tunic pattern; courtesy of The Metropolitan Museum of Art, purchase, Fletcher Fund, Claudia Quentin Gift, and Harris Brisbane Dick Fund, 2017; colonial-­era map of study area; Bautista Saavedra, Defensa de los derechos de Bolivia ante el gobierno Argentino en el litigio de fronteras con la republica del Perú, 1906 Cover design: Lori Lynch The figures are available through CC by 4.0. Cataloging-­in-­Publication data is available from the Library of Congress. ISBN: 978-­0-­8173-­2115-­4 E-­ISBN: 978-­0-­8173-­9388-­5

To the pueblo of Pomacocha and in memory of Juan Teodulfo Palomino Salvatierra

CONTENTS

List of Illustrations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ix Acknowledgments . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xiii Introduction: From Fugitives to the “Most Addicted to Revolution” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

1

1 2 3

Legacies of Inca Imperialism . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13

4

Rising Cosmopolitanism in the Age of Andean Insurrections (1770–1815) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 103

5

Hats of Many Colors: Identity Formation in the Wars of Independence (1814–1824) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 129

Losing Ground, Expanding Horizons (1640–1740) . . . . . . . . . . . 43 Embers of Resistance in the Shadow of the Workshop (1690–1760) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69

Conclusion: Rebellious Networks and Landscapes as the Fabric of Resistance . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 157 Abbreviations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 163 Notes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 165 Bibliography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 203 Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 221

ILLUSTRATIONS

FIGURES

Figures are available through CC by 4.0. I.1. Approximate extent of the Spanish colonial province of Vilcashuamán . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .5 I.2. Stacked bar graph of the number of documented revolts and rebellions (Peru and Bolivia) in eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .5 I.3. Map of places mentioned in the book . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .9 1.1. Location of Yanawilka in relation to Inca settlements and travel times by foot . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 1.2. Rocky landscape of Yanawilka . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21 1.3. Aerial photo of the site of Yanawilka and locations of the two rocky outcrops called Yanawilka and Saqapayoq . . . . . . . . . 21 1.4. Map of the excavation units in relation to structures, topography, and large rocky outcrops at Yanawilka . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24 1.5. Map of nearest locations of arrowroot and cassava growing areas to Yanawilka . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26 1.6. Map of Conde and Tanquihua lands in the province of Vilcashuamán . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27 1.7. Three Inca tall-­necked jar lugs found in Unit Y1 underneath foundation stones . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 1.8. Artistic reconstruction of the mitmaq settlement of Yanawilka and its surrounding landscape . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31 1.9. Reducciones, haciendas, and land-­loss patterns of the Condes and Tanquihuas from 1533 to 1600 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38

x • ILLUSTRATIONS

2.1. Evolution of landholdings of the community of Vischongo, 1533–1690 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46 3.1. General configuration of the obraje of Pomacocha . . . . . . . . . . . 72 3.2. Architectural layout of the obraje, functions of the rooms reconstructed from colonial descriptions, archaeological excavations, and geophysical survey . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87 3.3. Justified access graph of the obraje of Pomacocha . . . . . . . . . . . 88 3.4. Intervisibility graph of the obraje of Pomacocha . . . . . . . . . . . . 89 3.5. Histogram of intervisibility indices at the obraje of Pomacocha showing overall high intervisibility . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89 3.6. Connectivity and integration of axial lines . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90 3.7. Integration of convex spaces at the obraje of Pomacocha . . . . . . . 91 3.8. Excavation units in the obraje of Pomacocha . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 94 3.9. Northern profile of the one-­by-­one-­meter extension of Unit 1 . . . . 95 3.10. Notable ceramics from Locus 10, midden . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96 4.1. Communities with documented support for the Tupac Amaru II rebellion in the region of Ayacucho . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 112 5.1. Locations discussed in chapter superimposed on detail of a facsimile of an 1801 map of the intendancy of Huamanga by Intendant Demetrio O’Higgins . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 137 5.2. Geographic distribution of castas and españoles in 1792 and in 1826 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 140 5.3. Map of the distribution of haciendas, estancias, and obrajes of the partido of Vilcashuamán in relation to doctrinas, parishes, and pueblos . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 141 5.4. Population change from 1792 to 1826 showing a general increase in population in areas with many haciendas, estancias, and obrajes . . 141 5.5. Demographic change of castas from 1792 to 1826 overlaid with the rebel Morochuco communities that the royalists burned . . . . 143 5.6. Distribution of the clusters of surname affinity through time in Vilcashuamán province/partido . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 145 5.7. Comparison of men’s and women’s surname clusters in 1826 . . . . 148 5.8. Percentage casta/Spanish and population size of communities in Vilcashuamán in 1826 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 151

ILLUSTRATIONS • xi

5.9. Graph of the inverse relationship between the percentage of castas/Spanish and the total population size of a community . . . . 152 5.10. Distribution of Morochuco communities with heatmap of the distribution of high proportions of Native Andeans . . . . . . . . . 152 5.11. Demographic composition of Vilcashuamán communities in 1826 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 153 TABLES

1.1. Plant foods recovered through flotation and starch grain analysis and their ecological zones . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25 1.2. Faunal remains and their distribution at Yanawilka . . . . . . . . . . 28 1.3. Charred bone proportion by NISP and mass of Y1 to the other three structures (Y2 + Y3 + Y4) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28 2.1. State profits (real hacienda) in tax assessments from Vilcashuamán province, 1717–1772, in pesos . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53 2.2. Unique surname proportions of men and women in colonial Peru . . 57 2.3. Summary of available ratios of men to women in repartimientos, 1570–1772 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59 3.1. Inventories of Pomacocha in 1681 and 1689 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71 3.2. Types of spaces in an archetypal obraje . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73 3.3. Main types of obrajes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74 3.4. Distribution of raw counts of plant and animal remains recovered by unit inside the Pomacocha obraje . . . . . . . . . . . . . 98 5.1. Adult male surname clusters in 1826 census of indios of the partido of Vilcashuamán . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 146 5.2. Adult male surname clusters generated from dataset that included both male and female surnames of the 1826 census of indios in the partido of Vilcashuamán . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 146 5.3. Adult female surname clusters generated from dataset that included both male and female surnames of the 1826 census of indios in the partido of Vilcashuamán . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 146 5.4. Distribution of surname clusters among men and women of the indio caste in 1826, partido of Vilcashuamán . . . . . . . . . 149 5.5. Unique surname proportions over time in the Peruvian Andes (1780–1826) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 149

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

T

his book would not exist without the help of many people. Primarily, I thank the community of Pomacocha. The community of Pomacocha’s long history of struggle against injustice continues to this day. I would like to thank my core excavation team, who were strong and supportive during a challenging field season: my codirector, Alicia Miranda; Edward Gutiérrez; Walter Najarro; Vilma Quispe; Hilda Bellido; and Milagros Zaga. In the community of Pomacocha, I am especially grateful to the Antonio Raymondi High School class of 2011 for their support and enthusiasm for the project. Much gratitude goes to Teodosio Huamaní and Juan Teodulfo Palomino, fellow enthusiasts of Pomacocha’s storied history. Their selfless dedication to their community and to its history is very admirable, and they enthusiastically volunteered their time and knowledge to the project. Pomacochano archaeologist Baldor Eusebio also volunteered his support for the project and was full of integrity at all times. The communities of Chanin, Chito, Vischongo, and especially Vilcashuamán were supportive and welcoming. Radio Chaski’s Christian Arango was always full of professionalism. I would like to thank the Cisneros and Najarro families of Vilcashuamán, especially Ruben Cisneros, Zósima Cárdenas, and Teodosia Ochoa. Others who helped in the field include Héctor Carhuas, Juan Carlos Arango, Iara Cury, Sergio Canchari, Ruben Cisneros, and Alberto Tello. The core laboratory analysis team was truly a pleasure to work with: Hector Carhuas, Ruddy Huillca, Sonia Laurente, Rosmery López de la Cruz, Henry Navarro, Carina Paullo, and Alberto Tello. They had amazing dedication to archaeology, and I will always remember our trip to Pongora to eat pacay fruit and our conversations over chicharrones de chancho, pollo a la brasa, and ceviche. I would also like to acknowledge Karina Aranda, Anays Amorín, and Betsy Merino for their help during lab analysis. Víctor Vásquez and Teresa Rosales Tham of ARQUEOBIOS were the consummate professionals.

xiv • ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The Dirección Desconcentrada de Cultura de Ayacucho and the Ministry of Culture-­Peru were very helpful during the permit application process. The Dirección Desconcentrada de Cultura de Ayacucho was especially helpful during the excavation season, and I gratefully acknowledge the director, Mario Cueto, José Amorín, and Jorge Soto for their unwavering support throughout all stages of this archaeological project. In the various archives visited, Yolanda Auqui of the Archivo General de la Nación (Lima); Juan Gutiérrez of the Archivo Regional de Ayacucho; Elino Caravassi of the Biblioteca Nacional del Perú; Alexander Ortegal of the Museo Nacional de Arqueología, Antropología e Historia del Perú; and Padre Percy Quispe of the Archivo Arzobispal de Ayacucho stand out as especially friendly and helpful. Over the years, various individuals have provided helpful advice about various aspects of fieldwork, history, and analysis: Sarah Abraham, Sergio Canchari, Teresa Carrasco, James Cheshire, Michael Chuchón, Enrique González Carré, Jorge Hidalgo Lehuedé, Sabine Hyland, Danielle Kurin, Ellen Lofaro, Víctor Maqque, Rosario Muñoz, Bruce Owen, Katharina Schreiber, Karen Spalding, Parker Van Valkenburgh, and Barbara Wolff. I am especially indebted to Miriam Salas, whose books on the obrajes of Vilcashuamán inspired me to do this archaeological project, and to Enrique González Carré and Teresa Carrasco Cavero, who helped me at various stages of fieldwork. María Benavides was a generous host and conversationalist in Lima on several occasions. Other colleagues and friends who have helped me overcome many obstacles along the book’s journey are Julie-­Anne Bouchard-­Perron, Katie Chiou, Anna Harkey, Julie Wesp, and Krystal Strong. I also thank my mentors Christine Hastorf, Kent Lightfoot, and Steve Shackley. Christine Hastorf was especially supportive throughout my scholarly journey, and I am indebted to her in many ways. I gratefully acknowledge Kylie Quave for her efficient copyediting and supportive comments. I also thank my editor, Wendi Schnaufer, for being enthusiastic about my book project from the beginning and being efficient, supportive, and understanding throughout this whole process. I gratefully acknowledge the generous funding that made this book’s research and writing possible: the John L. Simpson Memorial Research Fellowship, from the Institute for International Studies at University of California, Berkeley; a research abroad fellowship from Fulbright-­Hays; a fieldwork grant from Wenner-­Gren; the Wenner-­Gren Hunt Postdoctoral Fellowship; the Bancroft Library Study Award; the Stahl Endowment; and a fellowship from the Ford Foundation. My parents, Jiajian and Sulan, have worked extremely hard to make a better life for me and my little brother over the years, and I am grateful for their love. This book honors the memories of my grandparents, who were peasants

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS • xv

for most of their lives and mostly illiterate. I know they would be proud to see how far our family has come. I am grateful to Adam for always believing in my ideas. I thank him for our shared life together and the great efforts he put in to make this research project a reality. I also thank him for countless hours of taking care of our small, very particular, and sometimes reflux-­stricken child, Suyana, so I could work on the book. Those many hours of holding sleeping baby Suyana perfectly still at a specific incline while your legs went numb will not be forgotten, by you at least.

THE FABRIC OF RESISTANCE

INTRODUCTION

From Fugitives to the “Most Addicted to Revolution”

O

n September 13, 1729, Nicolás Huamán, the elected mayor of the textile workers of Pomacocha village, submitted a petition to the Protector of Natives in the city of Huamanga, Peru. He had made a perilous three-­day journey from Pomacocha to Huamanga. He pleaded “in the voice and name of the community of the Indians of the textile workshop of Pomacocha” that the Spanish administrators Don Domingo López del Pozo and Don Alonso García de Araujo be removed from their posts.1 Huamán complained that the workers were illegally exploited and imprisoned and asked to be freed from “slavery.” According to Huamán, López del Pozo and García de Araujo had previously administered the textile workshop for a period of eighteen years (1701–19). During that time, they had illegally shut the one hundred or so workers and their families inside the textile workshop and forced them to work off an illegally imposed debt of 30,000 pesos, equal to at least sixty thousand days’ wages. The workers toiled from four in the morning to eleven at night, including illegally on Sundays and holidays. Children as young as eight were also forced to work and prevented from receiving religious instruction. The administrators only left their posts when a major earthquake hit the area in 1719, killing most of the workers, who were locked inside the workshop. Their sudden return to the administration in 1729 came after maneuvering out a more well-­liked administrator, Friar Gómez. López del Pozo and García de Araujo threatened once again to put the workers in virtual slavery. Huamán and his community endured much heartache all those years, from constant work and hunger in prison-­like environments to the devastation of the community by the massive earthquake in 1719. The general epidemic of 1720–26 also affected his community, killing up to 40 percent of the total Andean population.2 After enduring such hardships, Huamán and his community resisted the return of their unscrupulous overlords. He asked that the

2 • INTRODUCTION

“powerful hand” of the Protector of Natives provide justice and shelter to the “extremely poor and overlooked” workers of Pomacocha. He begged for a judge who was not from Huamanga because the rich and powerful administrators were in collusion with the court officials there. His 1729 complaint failed, probably due to the webs of collusion that he had feared. Having exhausted legal options, the workers of Pomacocha subsequently voted with their feet. They fled the workshop en masse and did not return until Friar Gómez was reinstated a couple of years later.3 They understood that with the earthquake and general epidemic, labor was in short supply, giving them leverage to resist successfully. Less than one hundred years later, the Native Andeans of the Ayacucho region, where Pomacocha is located, became notorious for their revolutionary fervor. In 1815, the bishop of Huamanga wrote, “The Indians were the most addicted to the revolution . . . and their independence their principal attraction.”4 Soon, this revolutionary fervor made possible the independence of Spanish South America. With the help of the English general William Miller, the workers of Pomacocha and neighboring communities took over the textile workshop and converted it into a key rebel base in 1821.5 General Simón de Bolívar, arguably the most prominent “liberator” of South America, stayed overnight in Pomacocha in 1824, only three months before the decisive battle for South American independence near Huamanga.6 He was warmly greeted in Pomacocha by the community and the Native Andean governor they had elected. Far from a straightforward story of “rags to revolution,” the case of Pomacocha raises several questions. First, what prevented the workers of Pomacocha from violently rebelling against López del Pozo and García de Araujo during the eighteen years they were in power? Second, when they did overthrow their overlords in 1821, why did it take so long? From the workshop’s establishment in 1681 to 1794, there was not a single recorded instance of forceful resistance. Pomacocha’s case is not unusual. Open acts of revolt, rebellion, and revolution have been curiously infrequent despite their prominence in the annals of history. Their rarity is odd given that the “oppressed” usually vastly outnumbered the “oppressors.” Popular understandings of this pattern of resistance (or lack thereof) have an undercurrent of victim blaming. For example, in 2018, the rapper Kanye West said in an interview, “When you hear about slavery for 400 years . . . for 400 years? That sound like a choice.”7 When revolts, rebellions, and revolutions against oppression do happen, almost all are ruthlessly crushed or the gains for the oppressed are quickly reversed. Although open acts of armed resistance are relatively rare, nonviolent forms of resistance—the “weapons of the weak”—are continuously present but supposedly rarely change the rules of the game.8

INTRODUCTION • 3

When they do happen, revolts, rebellions, and revolutions seem to be contagious. What could explain the long periods of relative peace followed by clusters of open and coordinated rebellions? In this book, I argue that pessimistic accounts of resistance fail to recognize how nonviolent, everyday forms of resistance and forceful widespread coordinated resistance reinforce each other. In other words, moments of forceful and coordinated resistance are not isolated, random, or sporadic incidents. Rather, they are symptomatic of the long-­term development of social landscapes conducive to coordinated social movements. Such social landscapes of resistance are built from everyday routine forms of resistance. Such landscapes remain even if particular social movements are crushed. By investigating the link between coordinated, violent resistance on one hand and nonviolent, everyday forms of resistance on the other, we can avoid privileging the most visible revolts, rebellions, and revolutions as the only “real” kinds of resistance. Ultimately, this book explores the longue-­durée9 of resistance—the resilient underlying currents of history that inform short-­term events like rebellions. Broadly, this book examines the social movements of the late colonial Andes (1780s–1820s) from a bottom-­up perspective. The Andes saw a wave of forceful revolts and rebellions that began to be more coordinated among various groups, most famously the Tupac Amaru II rebellion in Peru, which was the largest indigenous-­led uprising ever in the Americas. The period from the late eighteenth to the early nineteenth centuries was a time of serious challenges to colonial regimes globally, but the social landscapes of the ordinary people who made up the bulk of the fighting forces are not well understood. Before the late eighteenth century, coordinated, forceful resistance was rare in the Andes because the Spanish colonial regime sowed mistrust through promoting social hierarchies based on racialized castes. Understanding how the common folk put aside long-­standing animosities that mapped onto class, caste, and ethnic lines is crucial to understanding why the rebellions quickly spread through the Andes starting in the late eighteenth century. Pomacocha is an ideal case study through which to study how long-­term cumulative changes in social landscapes enabled local revolts to spread into general rebellion. Pomacocha is located in Vilcashuamán province, in the modern region of Ayacucho, Peru (fig. I.1). It was the site of an important Spanish colonial hacienda and obraje, or agricultural estate and textile workshop, that, at its height, had more than one hundred working families and sold textiles all over the Andes. The textile workers at Pomacocha, as at other obrajes, were from diverse castes: indios (natives), mestizos (mixed native and European ancestry), and poor españoles (Spaniards). Most workers hailed from different Native Andean ethnic groups and were subsumed under the term indio, or

4 • INTRODUCTION

Indian. Labor at Spanish colonial Pomacocha was a mix of debt slavery and enslaved and prison labor. Prisoners had to serve out their sentences laboring for the obrajes. Textile workshops, mines, and agricultural estates were the three pillars of the colonial Spanish economy that became principal settings and targets of revolts and rebellions in the late colonial period, when we see a sharp rise in the number of local revolts and regionally coordinated armed rebellions (fig. I.2).10 With documented forceful resistance only starting in the late eighteenth century, the historical pattern of resistance at Pomacocha reflects the wider pattern of increasing forceful resistance in the Andes during the late colonial period. CAPITALISM AND THE EMERGENCE OF BIOLOGICAL CONCEPTIONS OF RACE

Capitalism and the Enlightenment are impossible to ignore in any social history of the Age of Revolution. The Spanish colonial Andes can provide new insights into the social history of the development of capitalism and how ordinary people experienced Enlightenment projects. Many have explored how modern conceptions of biological race were born out of colonial projects of capitalism and the Enlightenment.11 Nevertheless, the role that colonial workhouse-­type environments played in the rise of capitalism and biological conceptions of race is not well understood. The foundational texts on the development of capitalism, by Braudel, Foucault, and Marx, mainly focused on European historical trajectories and barely considered the role that the New World colonial situation played in the rise of capitalism. How did the social innovations that developed inside Spanish colonial obrajes like the one at Pomacocha contribute to the emergence of capitalism and biological conceptions of race? How were the projects of capitalism and biological conceptions of race resisted?12 According to some interpretations, obrajes operated under capitalist logic and were the direct forerunners of industrial factories or at least created the social conditions suitable for capitalism.13 Others argue that the obrajes’ inefficiency and reliance on coercion precluded them from providing the framework for later industrial factories.14 As such, obrajes represented an economic evolutionary dead end parallel to, and not part of, the development of capitalistic factories. More generally, the role that colonial Latin American economies played in the rise of capitalism, both local and European, has been hotly debated.15 Scholars of Latin America generally agree that the colonial economy, because of heavy reliance on coercion, was not capitalism in the strict Marxist sense of being based on free wage labor.16 Most scholars would agree that

Figure I.1. Approximate extent of the Spanish colonial province of Vilcashuamán, which comprised the contemporary provinces of Cangallo, Huanca Sancos, Victor Fajardo, and Vilcas Huamán. Digital elevation model generated from Shuttle Radar Topography Mission (SRTM) 3 Arc-­Second dataset. https://doi.org/10.6084/m9.figshare.13247312

Figure I.2. Stacked bar graph of the number of documented revolts and rebellions (Peru and Bolivia) in eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. https://doi.org/10.6084/m9.figshare.13247378

6 • INTRODUCTION

colonial Latin America had its own forms of capitalism, based on commercial capitalism aided by coercion and state collusion with monopolistic tendencies.17 This book argues that, while the obrajes themselves did not operate under capitalist logic in the Marxist sense, the social changes brought about by the obrajes and the techniques of social control developed in them created favorable conditions for the rise of colonial capitalism. The techniques of social control created racialized hierarchies in the workplace, which naturalized the association between a particular “racial” caste and the type of work. Spanish administrators sowed mistrust among the different underclasses by putting them in adversarial roles in labor institutions like the obraje. I argue that top-­ down juridical identity categories reinforced colonial capitalism, but Native Andeans resisted it on the local scale by creating a more cosmopolitan culture, out of which new rebellious identities—such as the Morochucos—sprang. Given the conditions that worked against the occurrence of coordinated rebellions, why did a wave of revolts and rebellions then grip the Andes starting in the late eighteenth century? Much of the historical literature focused on the shorter-­term causes involving changes in tax policies or the abrogation of privileges, for example, but is limited in addressing the long-­term, bottom­up causes. This book explores three main long-­term causes. First, while Spanish ideology proscribed intercaste social interaction, the Spanish colonial economy provided motivation and the social spaces for such interaction. Textile workshops, in particular, acted as the engines driving mass migration of diverse Andeans, escaping either from or to textile workshops to seek better labor conditions. The mass migration was likely gendered at times, with men doing most of the long-­distance migration to escape official labor obligations, and the women, who were officially exempt from such labor obligations, staying closer to their natal homes to preserve usufruct rights for the next generation. The male migrants would then marry the female locals, creating exogamous kinship networks and dynamic social landscapes. Second, within the walls of the textile workshops, cultural mixing and political solidarity arose. Long-­term cultural convergence also smoothed the way for intercaste alliances. When these alliances were activated in conscious acts of resistance, from legal petitions to coordinated escape and rebellion, they often drove the formation of new, cosmopolitan identities. Third, the maturation of popular folklore in the eighteenth century surrounding the Faustian nature of Spanish labor institutions helped workers from diverse backgrounds gain a systemic understanding of exploitation. This book discusses the link between colonial textile workshops and these enduring folktales. By examining the social changes in a community deeply enmeshed in the colonial economy, this book offers a view

INTRODUCTION • 7

of how colonial capitalism evolved and was resisted at the local scale from a bottom-­up perspective. AN ARCHAEOLOGICAL APPROACH TO THE EVOLUTION OF SOCIAL LANDSCAPES

How did Native Andeans create a social landscape conducive to rebellion? First, what is a social landscape? By social landscape, I mean the context in which humans survive, build community, and make meaning.18 The context itself is created and modified over many generations of human interaction.19 On a broad level, the social landscape is how humans organize themselves over the physical landscape that they helped create: how they produce food, how they ensure access to a variety of resources critical to biological and social reproduction, how their kin are distributed across the landscape, how they organize ritual circuits, and how they manage political alliances. On a more intimate level, the social landscape is also the spatial structuring of daily activities through architecture and settlement planning.20 Social landscapes are palimpsests, and new social landscapes are interwoven with the old. Economic systems are accumulative and incorporative,21 as are value systems and identity. I approach social landscapes from the combined lens of political geography and social network analysis. The discipline of political geography is concerned with how state-­society interactions create and are mediated through social space, especially bounded territory. The character of the social space has critical implications for identity and civil society formation.22 Archaeology is well suited to studying political ecology, a subdiscipline of political geography, which focuses on how politics results in differential access to and control of resources.23 Such differences can affect environmental health and the sustainability of livelihoods, especially for people with less access.24 Political ecology is the study of the struggle over both resources and meaning, or the discourses of power that inform the struggle.25 More recently, in contrast to the focus on bounded territory, archaeologists have explored the utility of representing social space through networks.26 For the purposes of this book, the two main advantages of a network approach versus a territorial approach are 1) it better represents the social interactions that cut across juridical boundaries27 and 2) it has more explanatory power regarding how well information, resources, and rebellion can spread through the network depending on its configuration.28 Social relations in network analyses are represented by two-­dimensional networks that do not account for political geography: the intertwined nature of geographical distance and topography, ecology, culture, uneven state capacity, and cumulative effects of historical landscapes. We gain a more complete understanding of

8 • INTRODUCTION

social landscapes through combining political geography with social network analysis by layering different analyses onto one another using geographic information systems (GIS) software. Archaeological methods are uniquely suited to uncovering past social landscapes, especially absent written documentation. The material traces that people leave behind in the form of artifacts, food remains, architecture, and landscapes tell us much about what their social landscapes looked like. Even when written evidence is available, doing a bottom-­up social history remains difficult. The bulk of evidence that we have of the past relates to elites, who leave behind fancy words, buildings, and artifacts, skewing historical narratives in favor of the winners.29 Methods can be combined from multiple disciplines to analyze a range of sources to construct a social history from the bottom-­up. I employ methods from archaeology, history, architecture, demography, GIS/ spatial analysis, and social network analysis to analyze a range of data sources: artifacts, food remains, architectural plans, account books, censuses, court documents, contracts, historical maps, and land title disputes. Each method provides a different lens into the social landscapes within which the workers of Pomacocha were entangled (fig. I.3). Combining the analysis of different kinds of social landscapes, from daily work organization to social ties over the wider landscape, we can understand how changes at the small and quotidian scale affected broader landscapes over the long-­term. To understand the evolution of colonial-­era Native Andean rebellions, one must understand the long-­term changes in identity and social cohesion.30 Resistance exists on a spectrum: on one end were forms of armed resistance and on the other end were “unconscious patterns of everyday behavior which do not quite add up to what the rulers expect of their subjects.”31 Multiple forms of resistance can be in play at the same time. Because many of the daily habitual and nonviolent forms of resistance are invisible in the archival record, I looked at multiple lines of evidence to understand the longue durée of resistance. Certain kinds of resistance are more visible in different types of evidence. For example, the written record often discusses armed revolt, whereas many forms of subconscious resistance, for instance, foodways, are more detectable in the archaeological record. Even when elites created documents, for example, account books and censuses, they contain many irregularities that reveal the contested nature of the colonial extractive economy.32 Since these documents ultimately reflect different political agendas,33 different participants’ documents on the same phenomenon can hint at power struggles and resistance strategies. By analyzing the accumulation of economic and demographic data, we are able to see “systematic patterns of societal change that the writers themselves could hardly see.”34

Figure I.3. Map of places mentioned in the book. Digital elevation model generated from Shuttle Radar Topography Mission (SRTM) 3 Arc-­Second dataset. https://doi.org/10.6084/m9.figshare.13247381

10 • INTRODUCTION

In the following chapters, I show how the reformulation of identity, labor, and relationship to the landscape at Pomacocha and elsewhere resulted in both effective methods of control as well as resistance. I show how the state policies of control and extraction also inspired workers at places like Pomacocha to actively challenge the Spanish identity categories that were built on divide and control. The book demonstrates how different actors created social landscapes that were conducive to certain acts of control or resistance. With this view, “oppressors” could create conditions more conducive to the downfall of an oppressive system and the “oppressed” could reify conditions conducive to exploitation.35 Furthermore, intercaste and interethnic alliances, and even the rejection of ethnic identification, often underpinned resistance strategies. The dichotomy between the native “oppressed” and the European “oppressors” is not useful to understanding the conditions and motivations behind resistance. By taking a close look at the particular historical realities of how people interacted with each other, rather than assuming the dynamics of ethnic or other kinds of identity,36 we can understand how the coevolution of labor, identity, and resistance at Pomacocha and elsewhere enabled unexpected, and often creative, cultural and political reformulation. STRUCTURE OF THE BOOK

Chapter 1 traces the origins of Spanish colonial labor institutions in the Andes, which included adapting social structures and landscapes from the Inca period. I draw mainly on archival and archaeological data on Pomacocha, to show how forcibly transplanted laborers (mitmaqkuna) during the Inca period tried to remake a sense of home. Their strategies survived after the Spanish conquest in the practices of Pomacocha’s workers during the colonial period. Chapter 2 takes a general view of the strategies Native Andeans used to counteract the desolation caused by epidemics, earthquakes, and land appropriation by Spanish textile workshops and haciendas. It also discusses the various myths and fertility ritual practices that helped Native Andeans gain a critical systemic understanding of the colonial exploitative structures. Chapter 3 examines the internal workings of the textile workshop institution: the abuses, the strategies of resistance, the administrative techniques of divide and control, and the inscription of racialized hierarchies in labor organization. It discusses how the Industrial Revolution and the cultural convergence of diverse workers in textile workshops aided intercaste alliances during rebellions. Chapter 4 begins by examining the policies and social and economic changes that preceded and contributed to the increase in armed revolts from 1760 to

INTRODUCTION • 11

1780. It shows how the Tupac Amaru II rebellion’s legacy spurred the workers to join in future coordinated rebellions. I use archaeological and historical evidence from Pomacocha and its wider region of Ayacucho to show that there was a significant current of cosmopolitanism among the working classes, despite the Enlightenment-­inspired rulers’ penchant for painting resistance as a race war against white people. The increasing cosmopolitanism of the working classes and their shared outrage against new European immigrants and against the rising prison population generated landscapes that were ripe for the spread of rebellion. Chapter 5 chronicles Pomacocha’s role in the wars of independence. Pomacocha was an important rebel base where the generals William Miller and Simón de Bolívar were active. The chapter discusses how and why Pomacocha workers enthusiastically participated in a global revolution. It traces the ethnogenesis of the Morochucos from the Vilcashuamán area, a collection of mestizo and Native Andean working-­class peoples who were pivotal to winning the wars of independence. The chapter uses social network analyses and demographic analyses to trace the changes in the social landscapes that occurred during the rise of the Morochuco identity. The conclusion briefly discusses the legacies of the Pomacocha workshop after independence.

1 LEGACIES OF INCA IMPERIALISM

M

ost of the Andean region experienced the rise of two colonial and imperial powers in quick succession: first the Incas and then the Spanish. In many ways, the Incas engineered social landscapes that favored state control. The Spanish fully took advantage of these divided social landscapes to divide and conquer. Conversely, the subjects of colonial empires also strategized to subvert state exploitation of community labor and resources. In this chapter, I outline the contours of the social landscape that the Incas created in Vilcashuamán province and how those contours continued to shape social relations after the Spanish conquest. I argue that resistance strategies developed by the Condes who inhabited the lands of Pomacocha under Inca colonialism continued to serve their interests in the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. Such strategies focused on negotiating with the conquerors and creating permanent ritual ties to the local landscape but at the expense of alliance building with neighboring native groups. Nevertheless, as Spaniards increased land appropriation in the seventeenth century, the competitive landscape and the narrow social horizons of the various native groups worked to the detriment of all. First, I describe the Inca conquest of Vilcashuamán province and how the Incas resettled people called the Condes to Pomacocha and surrounding areas in Vilcashuamán province as part of the policy called mitmaq. Second, I describe how the inhabitants of Pomacocha lived their daily lives under Inca rule and how different facets of their daily life, such as the built environment, food, and tools, reveal the Condes’ social landscapes. Third, I show how the Spanish benefited from the social landscapes created under Inca imperialism. THE INCA EMPIRE, A MOSAIC OF DIVERSITY IN A LANDSCAPE OF CONTROL

The Incas called their empire Tawantinsuyu, which in the Quechua language means “the four parts, together.” Tawantinsuyu was immense; it encompassed

14 • CHAPTER 1

parts of what are now Peru, Bolivia, Ecuador, Colombia, Argentina, and Chile and measured more than 2,400 miles long. Previous scholarship, mainly based on historical accounts, suggests that the Inca Empire reached its full extent in less than one hundred years after its initial imperial expansion outside of the Inca heartland in Cuzco.1 Traditionally, imperial expansion began with emperor Pachacuti in 1438. Recent radiocarbon analyses, however, suggest that expansion occurred at least a generation prior to 1438.2 Even with the revised dates, the Incas conquered and consolidated the most geographically extensive and socially diverse empire of the Western Hemisphere in less than 150 years, all over extremely mountainous terrain, which is usually a hindrance to the formation of states and empires. How? The answer lies in how the Incas organized their subject peoples over the landscape. To understand the Inca Empire, we can look to how the Inca emperors represented their empire through the clothes they wore. The royal tunic was completely covered in tocapu, square or rectangular designs with geometric motifs.3 Each motif represented different groups of people, whether ethnic groups or the military. The royal tunic conveyed expansionist conquest, the incorporation of diverse groups of people into the body of the Inca emperor.4 The tocapus of the royal tunic were arranged in no particular order, but the arrangement was far from random because no two identical motifs bordered each other. The Inca army echoed the iconography of the royal tocapu tunic: recruits from diverse backgrounds were required to dress distinctly from each other, so their ethnic identity could be recognized from a distance.5 One could interpret the seemingly unordered arrangement as how the Incas viewed a properly ordered social landscape. In contrast to an economically integrated empire with strong civil society cutting across diverse groups, the Incas maintained control through creating a politically fragmented mosaic of diversity. They did so through three means. First, they reshuffled up to a third of the total subject population across the landscape to prevent rebellion and to farm and craft for the Incas.6 This policy was called the mitmaq, and the people resettled under it were called mitmaqkuna. Second, the Incas instituted a nested hierarchical political bureaucracy with assigned leadership roles at every level of the bureaucracy, from every ten to every ten thousand households.7 The nested hierarchical bureaucracy ensured that all lines of authority vertically led to the Incas, with minimal horizontal political coordination among the groups. Third, the Incas strategically doled out privileges to individuals and groups, including fine tunics and even women.8 Doing so co-­opted potential resistors and sowed jealousies that minimized political coordination among the Incas’ subjects. The effect of these three main strategies was an empire of politically insular units.

LEGACIES OF INCA IMPERIALISM • 15

Of the three strategies, the mitmaq policy may have contributed the most to imperial consolidation. According to the sixteenth-­and early seventeenth-­ century chronicles, the Inca Empire would not have been possible without the invention of mitmaq policy by Pachacuti, the emperor generally credited with the beginning of imperial expansion outside of the Cuzco heartland.9 The mitmaq policy was perhaps the most ambitious and intrusive state social policy ever carried out in the Western Hemisphere. Out of an estimated pre-­ Hispanic population of 10 to 14 million in the Inca Empire,10 up to 4.5 million people were resettled under this policy. The mitmaq policy was so intensive that “there [was] hardly a valley or town throughout Peru where . . . mitimaes [mitmaqkuna] would not be found.”11 According to the chronicles, areas had to be reconquered many times until the mitmaq policy was implemented by Pachacuti. The mitmaq policy allowed for state consolidation, decreasing the likelihood of rebellions and the need for reconquests.12 With the help of clay models of the social landscapes of their enemies, the Incas implemented effective strategies of conquest and consolidation.13 By transplanting mitmaqkuna to a new land, suspicion between the mitmaqkuna newcomers and the natives led to mutual spying for the Incas.14 Second, in some cases of especially rebellious groups such as those in Inca Vilcashuamán province, the Incas would nearly completely depopulate their homeland and scatter them across the empire.15 The mitmaq policy effectively created a social landscape of mistrust and weakened political cooperation among different groups. By shuffling the social landscape to break up pre­ existing social bonds that cut across groups, the Incas could minimize the need for costly military action.16 The newly created social landscapes of the mitmaq policy did most of the work. Here, we have an Andean example of a state program of “legibility,” where nonstate spaces were transformed into controllable spaces through the reconfiguration of social landscapes.17 In response to the inhabitants of Vilcashuamán province putting up fierce resistance against the Incas, Pachacuti depopulated the area of all inhabitants except for an ethnic group called the Tanquihuas.18 The mitmaqkuna of Vilcashuamán came from nearly a dozen different ethnic groups from all over the empire. Vilcashuamán province was one of the most heavily affected by the mitmaq resettlement program in the Inca Empire.19 It was perhaps the first to have large-­scale and long-­distance resettlement in response to the long and difficult conquest of the Chankas, who were one of the ethnic groups present in Vilcashuamán province. The Royal Commentaries note that Pachacuti’s “first action was to promulgate laws that seemed necessary to prevent the recurrence of any risings similar to those of the past. To the Chanca [Chanka] provinces he sent people whom they called migrants [mitmaqkuna].”20 Almost all the

16 • CHAPTER 1

mitmaqkuna resettled into Vilcashuamán province were groups the Incas considered allies; the exception were the Cañaris from Ecuador.21 The Incas heavily invested in remaking the social and ritual landscape of Vilcashuamán.22 By creating a fragmented and docile social landscape, the geopolitically strategic core Vilcashuamán area was secured. The Incas transformed the town of Vilcashuamán into an important provincial capital and considered it the geographical center of their empire.23 This assessment is supported by a network analysis of Inca roads, which showed that Cuzco and Vilcashuamán enjoyed the highest relative centrality, and that Vilcashuamán had an even higher “degree centrality” than Cuzco.24 The provincial capital of Vilcashuamán during this period had a population around ten thousand, and its plaza could accommodate twenty thousand people.25 It was provisioned by thirty to forty thousand people.26 Under Inca rule, Vilcashuamán’s jurisdiction included parts of the modern regions of Andahuaylas, Ayacucho, Junín, and Huancavelica.27 The 1586 census of Viceroy Toledo registered thirty-­six thousand tributaries (adult men or heads of family), which was roughly extrapolated to seventy-­two thousand in the Inca period.28 According to the 1586 declaration of kuraka, or chief, Teófilo Willka of Wankaraylla (Huancaraylla), the population of the Inca province of Vilcashuamán was four hundred thousand people, which was more than halved in the span of fifty years due to disease and war.29 Despite the mitmaq’s central importance to the consolidation of the Inca Empire, we know surprisingly little about the millions of people affected by this policy. Until now, there have been no excavations of confirmed mitmaqkuna settlements.30 The chronicles paint a picture of the mitmaqkuna as willing and eager participants, owing to the alleged privileges given to them by the Incas. Nevertheless, we must be careful to accept the chronicles wholesale, as they represented elite Inca and Spanish perspectives. Most chronicles emphasized the terrifying power and good government of the Incas, which supposedly inspired most subjects and the mitmaqkuna to submit eagerly to Inca rule. This narrative, of course, smacks of state propaganda, serving both Inca and Spanish state interests. In the next section, I present archaeological evidence of what the social landscape of a mitmaqkuna community near the provincial capital of Vilcashuamán looked like. By doing so, I reveal narratives that challenge ethnohistorical accounts, from the supposed privileged existence of all mitmaqkuna to the totality of Inca control over mitmaqkuna economic and ritual life. LABORING UNDER THE INCA EMPIRE

According to Inca law, all land was divided into three parts, not necessarily of equal size or productivity.31 The first part was dedicated to worship of the sun

LEGACIES OF INCA IMPERIALISM • 17

Inti, the principal deity of the Incas, and to a lesser extent, of other gods. The second part sustained the Inca ruling class and state projects. The third part was reserved for sustenance of the subjects of the Inca Empire, including the mitmaqkuna. Roughly a third of all that the Inca subjects produced belonged to the Incas and to the Inca religion.32 The mitmaqkuna not only had to cope with the heavy burden of Inca taxation, but they also had to endure relocation far from their original home landscape, which in the Andes has always been the foundation of a community’s history, identity, and ritual.33 The Incas recognized the reluctance of people to leave their homes, so they offered “more privileges and freedoms” to the mitmaqkuna so they would appear more “noble” than their neighbors.34 Sixteenth-­century descriptions also described the coercive and restrictive side of Inca governance: people were not free to travel without special permission, hierarchical Inca bureaucracy replaced democratically elected leaders and compelled people to work harder, and each community had to give up children to serve the Inca state, whether as sacrifice in the qhapaq ucha ritual or as laborers such as the aqllakuna (chosen women) and yanakuna (retainers).35 Furthermore, the Incas heavily meddled in the ritual matters of their subjects by imposing their religion, destroying local huacas, and taking the principal huaca of each province hostage in the Inca capital of Cuzco.36 It is unclear, however, whether the supposed privileges and freedoms given to the mitmaqkuna exempted them from these coercive restrictions that applied to the general populace. Through archaeology, we can evaluate the major claims relating to autonomy in daily governance and ritual and freedom of movement over the landscape. Archaeological and historical investigations at a site called Yanawilka, located in the present-­day community of Pomacocha, showed it was a mitmaqkuna settlement.37 It was first settled in the Inca Late Horizon (1400–1532 CE), based on the oldest carbon sample embedded in a floor dated to 1419–1445 CE (485 ± 15, 2σ, IntCa120), consistent with the beginning of Pachacuti’s imperial expansion in 1438.38 Excavations revealed diagnostic Inca ceramics beneath several of the large foundation stones of one structure, which indicated it dated to after the beginning of the Inca Late Horizon. With the exception of one small structure, Yanawilka’s architecture was non-­Inca in form and lacked Inca-­style masonry. Other hallmarks of Inca settlements, like trapezoidal public spaces, were absent from Yanawilka. Documentary evidence supports that mitmaqkuna from the Conde ethnic group settled Yanawilka. The toponym Yanavilca or Yanawilka was inside the boundaries of the mitmaqkuna community of Vischongo in the sixteenth century. Therefore, the same mitmaqkuna group likely occupied Yanawilka under Inca rule.39 “Yanavilca” was one of the boundary markers of the former

18 • CHAPTER 1

“patrimony of the Incas.” Due to traditional usufruct rights, the Condes subsequently claimed Yanawilka as their own in the early Spanish colonial period.40 Because the Incas forcibly deported nearly all the pre-­Inca inhabitants of Vilcashuamán province to make room for mitmaqkuna groups, Yanawilka, with its post-­Inca-­conquest occupation, was probably a mitmaqkuna settlement.41 The Tanquihua people were the only original inhabitants not deported by the Incas. Their early Spanish colonial period communities, however, were far from Yanawilka, and therefore, they were unlikely to have inhabited Yanawilka under Inca rule. THE SOCIAL LANDSCAPES OF YANAWILKA, A MITMAQKUNA SETTLEMENT

From the analysis of data collected from excavations of four domestic structures, surface artifact survey, and settlement mapping, I argue that the inhabitants of Yanawilka exercised much autonomy over their daily lives and local landscapes. Their economic relationships to other groups, however, were limited by the Incas, which is consistent with what the ethnohistorical sources indicate. Nevertheless, the Incas were not able to completely stamp out interaction with other groups. First, I describe the geographic and ecological context of the mitmaqkuna settlement of Yanawilka. Second, I show how the spatial organization and the landscape architecture of the settlement shed light on daily governance and ritual. Third, I analyze obsidian artifacts used by the mitmaqkuna inhabitants to reveal that their obsidian exchange networks were politically mediated, probably by the Incas. Fourth, I analyze the foods that the mitmaqkuna produced and consumed to show that the mitmaqkuna of Yanawilka had access to a diversity of foods far from their settlement, implying less restriction in food networks than with obsidian networks. Yanawilka was most likely inhabited by agriculturalists who provisioned nearby Inca settlements. Yanawilka lacked evidence of craft specialization. Most tools found at Yanawilka were related to the procurement and preparation of food: agricultural tools, grinding tools, and flake tools. Other than tools related to food, a spindle whorl and bone weaving sword were also found, indicating low-­intensity textile production for personal use. There was no evidence of ceramic production occurring at Yanawilka from the excavations and the site surface survey. As an agricultural community provisioning for nearby Inca settlements, Yanawilka, at 3,050–3,090 meters above sea level, was ideally situated in the quechua (2,400–3,200 masl) ecological zone.42 In the quechua zone, a wide variety of foods can be grown.43 The three main staples of the Inca Empire—maize, potatoes, and quinoa—could all be grown in the quechua

LEGACIES OF INCA IMPERIALISM • 19

ecological zone. Contemporary climate (warm and wet) is similar to the climate during Inca rule.44 Located in the fertile and warm Pomacocha/Vischongo valley, Yanawilka was within a five-­hour journey to five major ecological zones: yunga fluvial (1,900–2,400 masl), quechua (2,400–3,200 masl), suni (3,200– 3,600 masl), puna (3,600–4,300 masl), and high puna (4,300–4,800 masl). Vilcashuamán was described in the sixteenth-­century Relaciones geográficas de Indias (RGI) as a fertile, mountainous region abounding with “pasture, fruits and food.”45 The important plant foods listed in the RGI for the Vilcashuamán area were cassava (Manihot esculenta), chile pepper (Capsicum L.), common beans (Phaseolus vulgaris), maize (Zea mays), oca (Oxalis tuberosa), olluco (Ullucus tuberosus), potatoes (Solanum tuberosum), quinoa (Chenopodium quinoa), squash (Cucurbita L.), tarwi (Lupinus mutabilis), and sweet potatoes (Batatas sp.). Prickly pear (Opuntia sp.) and molle (Schinus molle) trees also abound at Yanawilka and environs. Important faunal foods were deer, guanacos, guinea pigs, vicuñas, and viscachas.46 Local native fauna at the time included Andean cats, camelids, deer, foxes, pumas, skunks, viscachas, native birds, frogs, toads, and snakes.47 Local geology is composed of colluvial deposits (sedimentary clastic and calciferous rocks) and volcanic rocks,48 which provided most of the raw material for stone tools. With their settlement located only three hundred meters away from a major Inca road, the inhabitants of Yanawilka could easily travel to several major Inca settlements, including the royal estate at Pumaqocha-­Intihuatana (2.6 kilometers to the periphery and 4.5 kilometers to the palace by foot) and the important provincial capital of Vilcashuamán (5.2 kilometers by foot) (fig. 1.1). Both Pumaqocha-­Intihuatana and Vilcashuamán have extensive storage units or qolqas for food and other supplies.49 Yanawilka was a small settlement (sixty to seventy structures) and far away enough from Inca settlements to not pose a military threat. Mitmaqkuna settlements may have been purposefully small. Betanzos related that the Inca emperor Huayna Capac established many mitmaqkuna settlements of only twenty to fifty households in the Yucay valley.50 Yanawilka could also be easily monitored from the main Inca road, which agents of the Inca state patrolled.51 The mitmaq resettlement policy represented a significant rupture for inhabitants of Yanawilka. It relocated them from their original home. The origin beings, the pacarinas, lived in a community’s local landscape. The inhabitants of Yanawilka would have regarded their pacarinas, a class of huacas that included rivers, animals, trees or herbs, lakes, springs, caves, rocky outcrops, boulders or stones, as critical in the community’s ongoing creation and fertility.52 Separating a people from their pacarinas meant that they could no longer make regular offerings to their ancestral pacarinas, inviting calamity.53

20 • CHAPTER 1

Because the Incas shared similar beliefs and understood the reluctance of people to separate from their pacarinas, they allegedly re-­created the pacarinas of the mitmaqkuna’s original home landscape in their new location.54 How did they do this? Hyslop hypothesized that the Incas re-­created the pacarinas by moving small stones or pieces of the originals to the new location.55 The case study of Yanawilka, however, showed the inhabitants of Yanawilka re-­ created the pacarinas through finding similar surrogate features of the new landscape.56 Specifically, the surrogate features included two low hills, each with an associated large rocky outcrop, a rocky landscape, and small caves (figs 1.2 and 1.3). This particular landscape was chosen not for security or even convenience, as the settlement itself had no water sources. Its distinctive rockiness from the surrounding landscape indicates that the mitmaqkuna of Yanawilka purposefully chose it to re-­create sacred landscapes.57 The toponym of Yanawilka remaining in use for hundreds of years also reflects the importance of this place, and the people of Pomacocha continue to make offerings to the rocky outcrop of Yanawilka.

Figure 1.1. Location of Yanawilka in relation to Inca settlements and travel times by foot (walking). Digital elevation model generated from Shuttle Radar Topography Mission (SRTM) 1 Arc-­Second dataset. https://doi.org/10.6084/m9.figshare.13248428

Figure 1.2. Rocky landscape of Yanawilka. https://doi.org/10.6084/m9.figshare.13247462

Figure 1.3. Aerial photo of the site of Yanawilka and locations of the two rocky outcrops called Yanawilka and Saqapayoq. https://doi.org/10.6084/m9.figshare.13247465

22 • CHAPTER 1

The features of the new landscape, however, also helped reinforce a moiety social structure at Yanawilka, which the Incas encouraged to divide political will within communities.58 Although a moiety social organization does not necessarily imply that one had higher status than the other, two main lines of evidence suggest that the upper moiety, the western cluster, had a higher status than the lower moiety, the eastern cluster at Yanawilka. First, the upper moiety’s hill had more landscape modification: retaining walls were denser (820 meters/ha versus 719 meters/ha), there were stairs unlike in the lower moiety, and there was significant artificial fill in the upper, but not the lower, moiety. Second, the structures of the upper moiety had on average more interior space (22 meters² v. 16 meters², p-­value < 0.01, two-­tailed T test). Whether the inhabitants of Yanawilka re-­created the original moieties from their homeland or the Incas imposed the moiety structure onto them is unclear. Either way, organizing around a hierarchical moiety structure, with one moiety elevated in status over another, served Inca state interests. Political competition within communities divided the political will for rebellion. Sixteenth-­ century descriptions emphasized how the Incas changed the settlement organization of subject communities to imitate the moiety divisions of Cuzco.59 The subjects and their descendants gave testimonies in the 1570s that the Incas divided political will inside communities by assigning multiple chiefs organized on the Inca decimal system and by moiety.60 Furthermore, the Incas made leadership positions automatically hereditary, whereas many chiefs were chosen through consensus based on valor and skill before.61 Permanent and hereditary chiefdoms would make favored families more personally invested in obeying Inca rule, further dividing political will within communities. In general, it appears that the Incas employed indirect rule at Yanawilka and let the organization of the social landscape within and between communities do most of the work of keeping control. Within Yanawilka, the inhabitants had a degree of autonomy in settlement planning. Even if the Incas influenced how the inhabitants of Yanawilka organized their settlement in regard to encouraging a hierarchical moiety organization, it was clear that the Incas themselves did not design or build the landscape architecture. First, the vast majority (sixty-­two of sixty-­three) of the structures exhibited no Inca stylistic features, such as symmetrical quadrangular shapes, trapezoidal niches, and well-­fitting masonry. Furthermore, none of the retaining walls exhibited Inca-­ style masonry. Second, there was no evidence of an Inca administrative core. The central public area of Yanawilka was roughly circular, not the trapezoidal shape used in conventional Inca settlement planning. Third, the only structure that exhibited any Inca-­style architecture was a smaller-­than-­average (interior space of 2.2 x 2.3 meters) quadrangular structure. This structure exhibited

LEGACIES OF INCA IMPERIALISM • 23

more finely fitting masonry in the Inca style and was probably the home of an Inca administrator who occasionally visited the settlement. Located away from the central public area and isolated from the other structures, the possible Inca-­style structure was not well embedded in the daily life of the settlement. The structure was not as well connected and integrated into the network of paths of Yanawilka as the central public area, as a space syntax analysis of the paths’ axial network shows.62 Zooming out, did the social landscape of Yanawilka involve interaction with other communities, especially non-­Conde communities? Or were the inhabitants of Yanawilka self-­sufficient and isolated from other communities? According to the Spanish chronicler Cobo, trade and commerce between provinces increased under Inca rule, leading to abundance.63 In contrast, several chroniclers also noted that traffic on the roads was severely restricted. People needed special permission and to wear passports to travel.64 The restricted travel implies that economic exchange may not have been free for many subject communities. The case of Yanawilka indicates that communities may have experienced varying levels of abundance depending on the type of goods. The inhabitants of Yanawilka did seem to enjoy abundance and variety of foods, including foods they could not grow themselves, which implies they engaged in exchange with other communities. Nevertheless, exotic goods that had geographically concentrated origins, thus easy to control and restrict, were scarce at Yanawilka. Botanical remains of edible foods were recovered from excavations of four domestic structures at Yanawilka using flotation (carbonized remains) and starch grain analysis of stone tools (fig. 1.4). The remains show that the inhabitants of Yanawilka enjoyed a varied diet and had access to foods from ecological zones far from Yanawilka. The most ubiquitous remains were of maize, indicating that it may have been the most important staple for people at Yanawilka. Due to the calciferous bedrock and general environment of Yanawilka, the sediment conditions were highly alkaline, leading to the fragmentation and bad preservation of carbonized remains.65 The fragmentation resulted in the recovery of only two identifiable carbonized remains from flotation: a carbonized quinoa (Chenopodium quinoa) and an algarrobo (Prosopis sp.) seed. Two maize cupules were recovered from inside an animal bone, where they were protected from fragmentation-inducing alkaline soil. Recovering starch grains from stone tools proved much more fruitful. A total of fifty-­three stone tools were checked for starch grains. Considering both the carbonized and starch grain remains, at least ten edible species were identified (table 1.1).66 The majority of botanical foods could have been grown at Yanawilka itself. An analysis of the morphology of maize starch grains revealed that they came

Figure 1.4. Map of the excavation units (Y1 to Y4) in relation to structures, topography, and large rocky outcrops at Yanawilka. Digital elevation model generated from photogrammetry of balloon aerial photography conducted by the project. https://doi.org/10.6084/m9.figshare.13247477

LEGACIES OF INCA IMPERIALISM • 25

Table 1.1. Plant foods recovered through flotation and starch grain analysis and their ecological zones Taxa Zea mays (maize)

Elevation (masl)

Min. dist. from Yanawilka

Local?

0–4,000

0 km

Yes

Oxalis tuberosa (oca)

2,800–3,800

0 km

Yes

Solanum tuberosum (potato)

2,500–4,100

0 km

Yes

Manihot esculenta (cassava)

2,000–2,500

20 km

No

50–3,000

0 km

Yes

cf. Lupinus mutabilis (lupine)

2,800–3,850

0 km

Yes

Cucurbita cf. ficifolia (squash)

1,000–3,000

0 km

Yes

Marantaceae (arrowroot)

0–1,000

90 km

No

Chenopodium quinoa (quinoa)

0–4,000

0 km

Yes

Prosopis sp. (algarrobo)

0–3,000

0 km

Possibly

Phaseolus sp. (bean)

from a relatively homogenous population, increasing the likelihood that the inhabitants grew the maize themselves.67 Two of the ten species, however, grew in ecological zones too far away from Yanawilka to be energetically feasible to cultivate: cassava (Manihot esculenta) and arrowroot (Marantaceae). Cassava, in particular, is not easily taxable because it can grow in small patches in remote, forested areas without constant tending to.68 The consumption of these two tubers suggests that the inhabitants of Yanawilka were not isolated from surrounding groups. Although there were small patches at the upper limit of the cassava growing range 7.4 kilometers away, they were along a rocky and steep riverbank unsuitable for cultivation. A better candidate for the closest cassava-­friendly area was 19 kilometers to the east as the crow flies. The nearest suitable area for arrowroot was 80–90 kilometers away to the northeast, as it can only grow below 1,000 meters in elevation in tropical conditions (fig. 1.5). Because the nearest cassava-­growing area had Tanquihua settlements, the Condes of Yanawilka may have traded with the Tanquihuas. The nearest cassava-­growing area was also coincidentally in the area where there were mixed pockets of Conde and Tanquihua land use in the early colonial period, so it was likely that under the Incas they shared the use of the lands (fig. 1.6). Arrowroot had to be transported in some form, as rhizomes or flour, to Yanawilka from a tropical area at least four days’ travel away. The food exchange networks that the Condes engaged in were most likely not state-­sanctioned: cassava and arrowroot were uncommonly Inca-­endorsed

26 • CHAPTER 1

and -­controlled foods69 and were never mentioned as one of the tribute foods stored in Inca storehouses. Like the botanical foods, most faunal foods, specifically guinea pig and camelids, could have been procured close to home. Guinea pig coprolites were found in three out of the four structures excavated (units Y1, Y2, and Y4), indicating that they were widely raised within domestic structures. Camelid bones were the most common faunal remains, comprising 31 percent of the total number of identified specimens (NISP) and 67 percent of the total mass. Camelid bones were not evenly distributed among the four structures excavated. Structure Y1 had the greatest concentration, or 71 percent (109/154) of

Figure 1.5. Map of nearest locations of arrowroot and cassava growing areas to Yanawilka. Digital elevation model generated from Shuttle Radar Topography Mission (SRTM) 1 Arc-­Second dataset. https://doi.org/10.6084/m9.figshare.13247468

LEGACIES OF INCA IMPERIALISM • 27

Figure 1.6. Map of Conde and Tanquihua lands in the province of Vilcashuamán. The Condes and the Tanquihuas shared the use of many lands (area in dashed lines, which also included cassava-­growing areas). Digital elevation model generated from Shuttle Radar Topography Mission (SRTM) 1 Arc-­Second dataset. https://doi.org/10.6084/m9.figshare.13247471

the total camelid faunal assemblage by NISP (table 1.2). The high concentration and more frequently charred camelid remains in structure Y1 indicate that feasting took place there (table 1.3). Y1 is also only five meters away from the rocky outcrop of the lower moiety, so it may have been an important gathering place during occasional feasts. The Incas may have given the inhabitants choice cuts for special feasting occasions, as meat was rarely consumed except during feasts.70 Previous archaeological research has shown that the Incas increased access to camelid meat for subject communities.71 Y1 was also the only structure excavated that incorporated Inca tall-­necked jar (urpu) lugs under

28 • CHAPTER 1

foundation stones for dedicatory purposes (fig. 1.7). Given the overrepresentation of quality roasted camelid meats in Y1, the individuals who used Y1 were probably higher up in the Inca-­sponsored social hierarchy at Yanawilka. A comparatively high density of bone was discarded within the one structure (Y1), which also showed the most wealth in other lines of evidence (ceramics, diversity of obsidian sources, and Inca material culture). While faunal remains could have been discarded outside the structures, the comparative densities of faunal remains within structures should still reveal differences in consumption. The inhabitants of Yanawilka ate little meat compared with those at other sites in the Andes under Inca rule, judging by the comparative faunal bone densities.72 While Yanawilka had very low densities of bone compared with the Sausa sites, for example, the proportion of charred bones was much higher, showing that what little meat they ate was during special feasting occasions.73 Apart from feasts, daily meals were most likely stews for small groups of people. “Pot polish” was present on many of the faunal bones and cooking pots Table 1.2. Faunal remains and their distribution at Yanawilka Taxa

Y1

Y2

Rodentia

Y4

Total

Mass (g)

%

1

1

.2

.3

8

1.6

4.9

Cavia porcellus (guinea pig)

5

1

2

Odocoileus virginianus

7

2

1

1

11

2.2

Lama sp.

109

13

26

6

154

Artiodactyla

134

9

35

8

Mammal

140

3

Total

395

28

65

15

503

64

6

9

2

19

Density (NISP/m³)a a

Y3

% 0 .4

158

14

30.6

754.7

67

186

37

129.6

11.5

143

28.4

79

7

1126.5

NISP, number of identified specimens.

Table 1.3. Charred bone proportion by number of identified specimens (NISP) and mass of Y1 to the other three structures (Y2 + Y3 + Y4)

Y1 Y2 + Y3 + Y4

NISP charred

NISP charred %

NISP not charred

Total NISP

% mass charred

316

70.1

135

451

49.7

93

155

23.1

62

40

LEGACIES OF INCA IMPERIALISM • 29

Figure 1.7. Three Inca tall-­necked jar (urpu) lugs found in Unit Y1 underneath foundation stones. https://doi.org/10.6084/m9.figshare.13247489

were mostly small. The presence of deer in all structures indicates that hunting took place. Hunting requires some degree of mobility over the landscape outside of the settlement. Deer lived in wooded areas on the slopes of the mountains and the high plateaus, so the inhabitants of Yanawilka would have needed to go at least four or five kilometers to find deer. Despite the restriction of travel on Inca roads, the inhabitants of Yanawilka demonstrated some mobility. Because they needed to travel frequently to provision the nearby Inca settlements with agricultural goods, this may have provided them the permission to freely travel within a certain range, perhaps a radius of ten kilometers. Unlike some other communities subject to the Incas,74 Yanawilka was poor in luxury items such as spondylus shells, fancy ceramics, and metal. Fine ceramic sherds were extremely rare, comprising only a handful out of 5,734 sherds. Other luxury items such as spondylus shells and metal were completely absent. The scarcity of fine goods may reflect the lack of prestige of Yanawilka as a small community of agriculturalists. Obsidian, an important raw material for making tools, was surprisingly

30 • CHAPTER 1

scarce at Yanawilka given its central location among several major obsidian sources and proximity to a main road. Obsidian was both scarce and prized at Yanawilka, judging by the great care the inhabitants showed in conserving the material by using bipolar reduction and using even small flakes to collect and prepare food. The vast majority of obsidian (81 percent) came from Quispisisa, but most of the pieces were much smaller than expected given the large nodule sizes at the Quispisisa source. Bipolar reduction, usually reserved for small obsidian nodules, was performed on obsidian from this source. The low density of obsidian excavated at Yanawilka (4.94 obsidian artifacts per cubic meter excavated) was comparable to another nearby Inca-­administered Lucana community called Pulapuco (3.58 obsidian artifacts per cubic meter excavated).75 Before the Incas, nearby communities enjoyed abundant access to obsidian from several sources, judging by the much higher densities of obsidian artifacts (18–25 obsidian artifacts per cubic meter excavated).76 All else being equal, obsidian trade networks are not restricted if the frequency of a certain obsidian source is proportional to the distance to that obsidian source.77 For nearby pre-­Inca communities, this relationship held true, implying that there was little to no political restriction of obsidian trade networks. At Yanawilka, however, the relationship did not hold up, revealing that the obsidian trade at Yanawilka was politically mediated and restricted, probably by the Incas.78 Similar restriction and political mediation of obsidian trade networks occurred elsewhere in the Inca Empire.79 The Incas clearly influenced the obsidian trade. Was it purposeful or merely the consequence of the mitmaq policy destroying long-­existing trade networks? Whatever the case, restricted access to obsidian favored Inca rule, in part because obsidian was a valued raw material for weapons of war. The exclusion of Yanawilka in Inca trade networks of exotic goods is fully consistent with the narrative that the Incas divided social landscapes and restricted interregional traffic.80 The mitmaq policy, in both intent and effect, disarticulated economic re­ lationships related to the trade of exotic goods. Communities like Yanawilka had to rely on the generosity of the ruling Incas to gain access to most long-­ distance goods.81 For the subjects of the Incas, privilege was not based on the enjoyment of freedoms but of access to Inca-­given honors and privileges, which was based on how closely one was identified with Inca bureaucracy.82 In contrast, the realm of food provided an arena to exercise some freedom of association with other communities. Food was less restricted, probably because the geographic origins of exotic foods were more extensive and distributed and thus harder to control. Another not mutually exclusive possibility is that the Incas gave the inhabitants of Yanawilka more freedom in regards to trade

LEGACIES OF INCA IMPERIALISM • 31

and mobility of food because they were agricultural specialists provisioning the Incas. Either way, food provided a means of pushing back against the restrictions of Inca rule and against the disruption to wider exchange networks caused by the mitmaq policy. Two opposing tendencies marked the social landscapes of Yanawilka. On one hand, the Incas encouraged divided political landscapes within and between communities. This tendency was most evident in the restriction of exotic goods trade networks and the hierarchical moiety organization at Yanawilka. On the other hand, food landscapes were less restricted. Through the avenue of food, the inhabitants of Yanawilka may have started to create new social networks over the wider landscape, even as the Incas discouraged such autonomous intercommunity and interethnic interaction. These two tendencies continued to shape social landscapes after the arrival of the Spanish in Vilcashuamán in October 1533. Cosmopolitan networks, especially among nonelite natives, facilitated the rise of the Taki Onqoy movement, but the divided landscapes left by Inca imperialism also aided the loss of native lands to greedy Spaniards. In the next section, I explore the tumultuous early Spanish colonial

Figure 1.8. Artistic reconstruction of the mitmaq settlement of Yanawilka and its surrounding landscape. Courtesy of the author.

32 • CHAPTER 1

period (sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries) from the perspective of the Conde mitmaqkuna. The early Spanish colonial period was marked by another series of ruptures for the Condes: epidemics, overwork, resettlement to larger towns, and the loss of communal lands. I show how the legacies of Inca imperialism—specifically the politically divided social landscapes—aided Spanish extractive economies. TAKI ONQOY: INCIPIENT COSMOPOLITANISM INTERRUPTED

From 1533 to the 1543, Yanawilka was a dangerous place to live given the frequent battles that occurred there, first during the Spanish conquest and second during the Almagro-­Pizarro civil war. The Condes, however, still claimed the lands of Pomacocha, which included Yanawilka, despite all these years of disruption, as they were the ones who had worked the land and created relationships with sacred huacas over the landscape for several generations. During the early Spanish colonial period, many smaller Conde communities like Yanawilka were relocated into the community of Vischongo, less than an hour’s walk away from Yanawilka. Demographic collapse also contributed to Yanawilka not being resettled in the colonial period, although its surrounding agricultural lands were still cultivated. Before the 1560s and 1570s, the Condes controlled Pomacocha’s lands. Tribute and tax obligations were manageable during the period from 1540 to 1570, and a significant portion of the population was not counted in the tax rolls judging from the discrepancies between earlier censuses and the Toledan census.83 The former Inca provincial capital of Vilcashuamán became a major Spanish trade center because it was on the main road from Huamanga to Cuzco. With the Incas gone and Spanish state capacity low, Native Andeans enjoyed more freedom of movement and association over the wider landscape. In this context, cosmopolitan nativist religions flourished in areas like Vilcashuamán province, giving rise to the Taki Onqoy movement.84 This movement of the 1560s and 1570s put into relief class distinctions between the native elite and commoners.85 These class distinctions carried over from the Inca period, as the native elites appointed by the Incas continued to enjoy privileged positions under Spanish rule. Class tensions sometimes resulted in violence. Albornoz stated that in the communities of Huamanga (which included Pomacocha at the time) the Taki Onqoy adherents would kill local native priests to consolidate religious dominion over the populace.86 More often than not, the marginal members of the community would participate in the movement.87 Given the subordinate status of poor Native Andean women under Spanish colonialism, the prevalence of women, and at the highest ranks, in the Taki Onqoy

LEGACIES OF INCA IMPERIALISM • 33

movement is thus not surprising. The native elite, who were generally receptive to alliances and a hybridized modus vivendi with the Spaniards, were not the prime force behind Taki Onqoy, as they stood to lose power if the movement was successful.88 The Taki Onqoy (Quechua for “dancing/singing sickness”) movement shook much of south-­central Peru from the 1560s to the early 1570s. The core area of the movement was comprised of the provinces of Huamanga, Lucanas, Parinacochas, Soras, and Vilcashuamán and spread to neighboring areas.89 It was an anti-­Spanish religious movement whose message emphasized solidarity over ethnic, community, and emergent class divides.90 Events involved copious drinking, frenzied dancing and crying, after which many ceremonies and ancient rites were performed.91 Taki Onqoy’s adherents preached a rejection of all things and ideas Spanish, especially the Catholic religion, and a return to worship of the huacas.92 The adherents spread the word that the huacas burned by the Spaniards had come back to life and would reverse the world order in their favor: “But that now the world had turned, and God and the Spanish would be conquered this time and all the Spaniards would die, and their cities be flooded, and the sea would rise and drown them.”93 Those who did not heed their message would invite the wrath of the huacas and die from pestilence.94 After secular priests near Huamanga discovered the movement, its adherents, numbering at least eight thousand, were swiftly punished.95 Although the movement never resulted in violence against the Spanish, plans for an armed revolt related to the movement were discovered by Spanish magistrates in Cuzco, Huamanga, Huánuco, and Jauja.96 Cristóbal de Albornoz was tasked with eradicating the Taki Onqoy movement in the provinces of Huamanga (in which Pomacocha was located) from 1569 to 1571.97 Destroying huacas involved burning them, throwing them in the river, smashing them, or dismantling them.98 Despite initial punitive measures, embers of the movement continued for at least another ten years. Even though Taki Onqoy had not turned violent against the state, the Spaniards were unsettled by its scale and anti-­Spanish message. In the Spanish colonial province of Vilcashuamán, which was in the core area of Taki Onqoy, the suppression of the movement was brutal.99 Social tensions drove much native religious innovation during the early Spanish colonial period. Although the Taki Onqoy preached against Catholicism and Spanish culture, religious hybridity in the form of female “saints” with Christian names pervaded Taki Onqoy ideology.100 Hybridity seemed to be the rule, and not the exception, in native religion under both Inca and Spanish rule. Toward the end of the movement in 1579, Don Juan Uchapaucar, the principal chief of the Conde ethnic group in Vilcashuamán province, gave

34 • CHAPTER 1

testimony in favor of the conquistador Hernán Guillén de Mendoza regarding the condition of some lands on the eastern edge of Vilcashuamán province. Although the lands were in reality extremely fertile, Uchapaucar described them as “sickly,” “full of mosquitoes,” and of “no use.” Curiously, Uchapaucar gave no testimony about lands that belonged to his people, the Condes, but instead testified about the lands that belonged to the Tanquihuas. Guillén de Mendoza was the encomendero of the Tanquihuas, meaning he had the royally given right to their free labor. A Tanquihua man named Andres Guacra claimed the lands belonged to his ancestors, but because he lived far away from them, he could not tend to those fields. Guacra also reaffirmed Uchapaucar’s testimony that the lands were basically worthless, justifying the pitiful assessment of 100 pesos, the price of two good horses. Other chiefs from Vilcashuamán province, mostly from Conde villages, acted as witnesses to the assessment. No Tanquihua leader was present. Guillén de Mendoza paid Guacra 100 pesos and concluded the “sale.” The sale was a corrupt business deal to steal Tanquihua communal lands. Traditionally, Native Andean groups did not have the concept of titled land ownership. Lands were “owned” through usufruct rights and would revert to communal lands once no longer used.101 Guacra did not have the right to sell the lands to outsiders, but Guillén de Mendoza wielded considerable power over Guacra’s people. The lands that Guillén de Mendoza appropriated would turn into three profitable industries worth more than 10,000 pesos: the haciendas of Ayrabamba and Astania and the sugar mill of Chinchebamba.102 That the Spaniards greedily appropriated fertile native lands is hardly surprising. What is surprising is the complicity of Native Andeans in the appropriation, especially at a time of anti-­Spanish groundswell. This complicity was a direct result of the fractured social landscapes that the Incas had encouraged. Class distinctions were apparent among the Condes before and during Taki Onqoy. Doña Beatriz Guarcay Inquillay, the sister of Uchapaucar, owned vast stretches of Pomacocha lands. She established a hacienda where Condes worked and consolidated the land ownership through her marriage with a Spanish elite.103 These class distinctions meant that there were marginalized members of the community who did not own land and had to work in the hacienda for subsistence. These more marginalized members, who had to fulfill multiple tax and labor obligations, to the chief, to the hacienda, to the corregidor (chief magistrate of the province), to the Church, and to the Crown, would have been receptive to Taki Onqoy’s message. The combination of further impoverishment, rise in labor obligations, Hispanicization of the elite, rampant epidemics, and ruptures in traditional ritual made people receptive to Taki Onqoy.104

LEGACIES OF INCA IMPERIALISM • 35

CIVILIZING THROUGH LABOR: REDUCCIONES AND OBRAJES

The Taki Onqoy movement had far-­reaching legacies. The Spanish response to Taki Onqoy marked the end of relative autonomy and the beginning of the loss of the most productive lands for the Condes. The Taki Onqoy rebellion spurred more intrusive state reorganization of the social landscape in Vilcashuamán. The Spaniards began implementing policies and institutions to prevent threats to the colonial regime. The civilizing rhetoric of these policies, emphasizing policía, or civic life and order, justified strategies of control of the native populace in the coming centuries. I argue that for the natives of Vilcashuamán province, the reducciones program—the aggregation of smaller settlements into larger ones—facilitated the establishment of obrajes, or textile workshops, and sped up the loss of native lands. The Spanish emphasis on titled land gave rise to increasing antagonism between communities over exclusive rights to land. The Spanish economy also divided local ethnic groups into separate tax, labor, and religious doctrina units along the rough outline of Inca bureaucracy but, unlike Inca bureaucracy, prevented overlapping usufruct rights and resource sharing among these social units.105 To the Spaniards these policies would turn supposedly unruly, lazy, and pagan natives into productive and docile members of colonial society. Establishing obrajes was motivated by the common Spanish attitudes at the time about natives as “phlegmatic, lazy, evil liars, thieves, cowards, and ingrates” who were the “capital enemies of the Spaniards.”106 In 1567, Juan de Matienzo, in his influential treatise titled Gobierno del Perú (Government of Peru), characterized all the natives as “cowardly,” “timid,” “naturally melancholic,” “afraid,” “lazy,” “stupid,” “dishonorable,” “dirty,” “naïve,” “born and raised to serve,” “enemies of work and friends of laziness,” “friends of drunkenness and of idolatry,” “uncharitable,” “liars,” and “cruel.”107 Most central to Matienzo’s argument was that the natives only behaved when forced to do so under the threat of violence, out of fear. Left to their own devices, they were treacherous and murderous. Because the natives were “born to serve,” Matienzo believed that good government should rest on putting the natives to hard work: “They . . . were born to serve . . . and to learn mechanical trades, in which they have skill. They are very good weavers and painters.”108 Putting the natives to work would ensure that they could overcome their violent nature, he reasoned. Matienzo’s treatise became the basis of Viceroy Toledo’s tribute tax and reducción system.109 Such attitudes about the character of Native Andeans persisted throughout the Spanish colonial period. In Vilcashuamán province, conquistadors first established obrajes in the 1560s to 1580s, toward the end of the Taki Onqoy movement.110 Because the

36 • CHAPTER 1

obrajes of Vilcashuamán province were located at or near important huacas, they also played a key role in religious conversion. At Chincheros, where an important huaca of the Taki Onqoy movement was located, an obraje was established shortly after a public burning of the ancestor mummies and household deities, and the construction of the church cut off access to the huaca.111 Starting in the 1570s, Viceroy Francisco de Toledo began his reducción program, which “reduced” or aggregated smaller settlements into reducciones, larger settlements organized according to a grid. The primary purpose of reducción, according to Toledo, was to indoctrinate the native populace into the Catholic faith, which was thought necessary to overcome their natural state as “enemies of work.”112 The reducción program was inspired in part by the Inca mitmaq program, which the Spanish believed was integral to the Incas’ ability to put down rebellions and increase productivity.113 Before Viceroy Toledo’s reducción program, the process of resettlement and aggregation began as a consequence of demographic collapse caused by epidemics and overwork in the encomienda and repartimiento systems.114 The encomienda system granted conquistadors the right over a native group’s labor. The repartimiento system divided the native populace roughly along ethnic lines (although they sometimes split or aggregated ethnic groups) into units with specific tax and labor obligations to the Crown and Church.115 Both systems allowed for unchecked exploitation of native labor, which aggravated the depopulation of native communities and left many deserted, thereby “reducing” settlements. Out of a total of 676 settlements recorded in 1549 in Huamanga, only 252 continued to be inhabited in 1557 due to population decline.116 The Toledan reducción program began in the 1570s, but the process of resettlement continued long after Toledo.117 Obrajes and reducciones caused significant disruptions to daily life and social cohesion. They exacerbated depopulation, increased class tensions within the communities, and accelerated the loss of fertile lands for native communities. Obrajes made the aggregation of people feasible. Both obrajes and reducciones disrupted incipient intercommunity political cohesion and the modus vivendi of the 1540s to 1560s. The implementation and consequences of resettlement were uneven in the core Vilcashuamán area, and some groups, such as the Condes, fared better than others, such as the Tanquihuas. The difference was in part due to the Conde leadership collaborating with the Spanish to appropriate Tanquihua lands. The Conde elite strategies to accessing privilege by collaborating with the ruling class were refined under Inca rule, and it continued to serve them well under Spanish rule. In the long run, however, such collaborationist strategies hurt all native groups, as the Spanish land grab accelerated and community lands became more fragmented. As native

LEGACIES OF INCA IMPERIALISM • 37

lands became more fragmented, interethnic interaction decreased. Decline in interethnic cooperation only began to reverse in the mid-­to late seventeenth century (see chapter 2). In general, keeping the native population in reducciones long-­term was difficult. Walking great distances from the reducciones to tend to fields became too burdensome. Resettled people moved back to their former hamlets to be closer to their fields and huacas, as their previous local landscape was laden with meaning and history. 118 The implementation of reducciones was also slow: many reducciones were incomplete and nearly empty in the late sixteenth century.119 Endemic corruption made reducciones unsavory places to live. Commoners had to fulfill multiple, and often illegal, labor obligations.120 In contrast to the many deserted reducciones, nearly all of Vilcashuamán province’s reducciones have been continuously inhabited to the present day.121 Why? First, reducciones were most successful when they were located near a large labor force.122 Existing large population centers, haciendas, and obrajes nearby all made reducciones more likely to survive the challenges of escape and demographic collapse. Reducciones, in turn, also encouraged the growth of nearby haciendas and obrajes because of the proximity to labor. In the sixteenth century, the Native Andean peoples in Peru had to fulfill mita, or corvée labor obligations, at both obrajes and mines, especially at the mercury mines of Huancavelica.123 Because they also had to pay tribute in food, clothing, and cash, they needed to be close both to their fields and to cash-­paying haciendas and obrajes. The province of Vilcashuamán had a total of thirty-­four reducciones in 1586.124 Second, reducciones were located at preexisting population centers and were sustained by multiple local haciendas (fig. 1.8).125 The haciendas of Chanin and Paucarbamba (the site of the later obraje of Pomacocha) were close to the reducción of Vischongo. The obrajes of Canaria and Chincheros were in or near the reducciones of Canaria, Cayara, and Huamanmarca. The obraje of Cacamarca was near the reducciones of Chumbes and Ocros. The legacy of the Inca state in Vilcashuamán province was instrumental to the relative success of reducciones in Vilcashuamán. Because the Incas had already intensively reordered settlement patterns in the province of Vilcashuamán for suitable extraction of labor, the Spanish reducciones, founded on previous Inca period settlements, were already in optimal locations. Despite mapping onto many Inca-­era settlement patterns and ways of life, the reducción program in Vilcashuamán province, as elsewhere, wreaked havoc for native community sustainability. Reducciones enabled the Spaniards to appropriate the most fertile agricultural lands.126 All native groups experienced some degree of land appropriation, but Tanquihua land was especially diminished. The Condes, on the other hand, fared better in keeping some degree of

38 • CHAPTER 1

Figure 1.9. Reducciones, haciendas, and land-loss patterns of the Condes and Tanquihuas from 1533 to 1600. Digital elevation model generated from Shuttle Radar Topography Mission (SRTM) 1 ArcSecond dataset. https://doi.org/10.6084/m9.figshare.13247522

control over their lands well into the seventeenth century. In Vilcashuamán province, the Spaniards appropriated land in a consistent pattern. The Spaniards claimed the “lands of the Inca” as rightfully theirs. To do so, the Spaniards had to prove that the land used to belong to the Incas and to the Sun (Inti), that no one currently worked that land, and that the land was of ningún provecho, or useless, and enferma, sickly.127 If the native peoples still lived close to that land, they laid claim by continuing to use them, and it was difficult to prevent such intrusions with the low state capacity of the early colonial period.128 To counteract this, the Spaniards often used the reducción program as a pretense to move people away from coveted agricultural lands.129 The local implementation of the reducción program unevenly affected the communities. The Tanquihua people lost large tracts of land that were distant from their reducciones (see fig. 1.8). The complicity of Conde leadership with the Spanish in Tanquihua land appropriation was also evident by where the Spaniards chose the locations of reducciones. The Conde reducciones were located close to the traditional usufruct lands they shared with the Tanquihuas, but the Tanquihua reducciones were distant from the traditionally shared lands. Through this political geography sleight-­of-­hand, the Condes gained lands at the expense of the Tanquihuas.

LEGACIES OF INCA IMPERIALISM • 39

By 1690, the Tanquihuas had lost significant tracts of their ancestral lands. Members of their own communities illegally sold communal lands of those who had left or had died. Spanish enterprises such as ranches, sugar mills, and obrajes overworked natives and illegally purchased communal lands.130 The Native chiefs of Vilcashuamán province declared to inspector Alonso de la Zerda y de la Coruña that “as each married Indian is in the obraje with his wife and child, they cannot work their fields and therefore flee and sell all they have of their clothes or livestock so they can eat and subsequently die from hunger.”131 With communal lands ever shrinking and the heavy burden of the mita to Huancavelica and obrajes, there was little incentive for people who had fled to return. Although the Condes lost legal claim in the sixteenth century to the lands around Lake Pomacocha, they still used this land and put up fierce legal resistance over its loss for more than half a century.132 The difference between the Condes and the Tanquihuas was that the lands the Tanquihuas lost were too distant from their reducciones to allow for easy intrusions, whereas the Conde reducciones were located near all their prime agricultural lands. Furthermore, the Condes were not subject to mita labor in the deadly mercury mines of Huancavelica in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, unlike the Tanquihuas. The Condes had to fulfill mita labor in the form of chasqui work, or running messages and goods for Spanish officials, which was also tiresome, but at least they could work close to home. The numerous obrajes and haciendas near their reducciones also provided the Condes with ample opportunities to earn cash to pay their cash tax to the state. The loss of Tanquihua communal lands was further aided by native leaders from non-­Tanquihua ethnic groups who served as witnesses on behalf of the Spanish, testifying that the lands were of little value. The Conde and Sora ethnic groups gained land at the expense of the Tanquihuas during the process of land appropriation by the Spaniards. They received some Tanquihua land in exchange for testimony supporting the cause of the Spanish claimants. The legal process by which the Tanquihuas lost lands around the Astania, Ayrabamba, Cacamarca, and Pacomarca involved various Conde and Sora chiefs testifying that those lands were vacant, very hot, “sickly,” and of “no use to mountain Indians.”133 Those lands were shared by the Condes and Tanquihuas before reducción, so the establishment of only Conde reducciones in that area was a serious blow to Tanquihua claims to the land. At least one Tanquihua pre-­reducción town was named in land titles: Angascocha, which was only a few hundred meters from the site of the obraje of Cacamarca.134 The Tanquihuas were dealt another blow when the principal chief of the Sora, Don Martin Ayarche, testified in favor of Hernán Guillén de Mendoza that the Inca lands

40 • CHAPTER 1

near the town of Vilcashuamán were vacant for many years, lands that the Tanquihuas traditionally claimed.135 The rise of Spanish property in Vilcashuamán province fragmented the land holdings of the native communities. Because the geographical contiguity of land was paramount in supporting one’s legal claim to land, native communities always lost their disconnected satellite land holdings. The loss of satellite land holdings also decreased intercommunity exchange and cooperation because the communities became more geographically fragmented.136 The Condes experienced less interaction with Tanquihua communities when Spanish-­owned land divided Conde land from Tanquihua land. In general, as the most coveted lands were in the pampas (flat areas) and the bottoms of river valleys, the Spanish usurpation of these lands also meant that many communities no longer bordered each other and instead bordered Spanish property. The loss of the most useful lands devastated native economies, as the Native Andeans had to walk farther between isolated patches of arable land on steep mountainsides in order to sustain themselves and pay the various taxes.137 The Spaniards would complain that natives naturally gravitated and escaped to the steep mountainsides, eschewing religious indoctrination and civilization.138 They had little choice. Difficult terrain was most of what remained, which made travel more arduous. Each reducción had to fend for the control of its lands because the Spanish legal system did not normally recognize joint right-­of-­use among communities. As a result, native interethnic alliances decreased. The struggles against Spanish land appropriation would further strengthen community identity based on bounded territory. While the rise of community-­based identity did slow down land appropriation, it also led to a more divided political landscape among communities. This divided landscape ultimately hurt all native communities, as the Spanish were able to pit one community against another in legal processes of land appropriation. A divided political landscape was the norm in Vilcashuamán province until the late seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, when the political landscape began to emphasize alliances once more. From the Spanish conquest in 1534 to the early seventeenth century, Inca imperial policies continued to inform the thinking and lives of the Spanish rulers, native leaders, and native commoners. Many processes that occurred under Inca colonialism continued into the Spanish colonial period. Class differences continued to grow under Spanish colonialism, native communities continued to be forcibly resettled, and the social landscape continued to be divided due to the fragmentation and decline of community lands.139 In contrast to these fragmenting social processes, incipient cosmopolitanism based on ritual and economic interaction among the ordinary folk also continued

LEGACIES OF INCA IMPERIALISM • 41

from the Inca period. Incipient cosmopolitanism informed the Taki Onqoy movement. Nevertheless, the movement failed in part due to the lack of social cohesion within and between communities. Although the Spanish adapted and reinterpreted many aspects of Inca governance—and for the similar purpose of labor extraction—Inca and Spanish colonialism diverged in several major ways. The differences fundamentally changed the lived experience of imperialism for Native Andeans. First, although both the Inca and Spanish regimes were intrusive and disruptive to their subjects, Spanish colonialism ruptured native society more. Epidemics and the corrupt implementation of the labor tax system during early Spanish colonialism decimated native populations. Catholicism was much more alien and punitive to the Native Andeans than was the Inca religion. Second, the Spanish emphasized aggregation of populations in gridded towns for surveillance purposes from within but did not regulate traffic between communities. The Incas, in contrast, emphasized surveillance of movement between communities. In this way, there was more autonomy at the settlement level under Inca rule but more opportunity to escape under Spanish rule. The ability to escape one’s lot was crucial in fanning the embers of incipient cosmopolitanism, creating ever more exogamous and connected social landscapes in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.

2 LOSING GROUND, EXPANDING HORIZONS (1640–1740)

W

hat does a community need to survive? First, communities need enough land and control of their own labor. Second, they need to avoid inbreeding. Third, they need to have social cohesion through shared rituals. There are many other factors contributing to a community’s survival, but these three are key. Spanish colonialism challenged Native Andeans’ traditional ways of upholding these three pillars of community. Native Andeans lost control of their ancestral lands to the Spanish at an alarming rate, with most of the land out of native ownership by the mid-­seventeenth century.1 Disease, epidemics, and burdensome labor requirements devastated native populations, with up to a 90 percent population decline in some parts of the Andes in a little over a hundred years after the arrival of the Spanish.2 The forceful imposition of the Catholic religion, the destruction of native sacred beings, and the persecution of native ritual practices shook Native Andeans at their core. How did they rebuild sustainable communities given the challenges of Spanish colonialism? I argue that Native Andeans in places like Pomacocha expanded their social horizons to meet these challenges. They did so through strategic migration, legal petitions, and the creation of folktales that flagged the exploitative nature of Spanish labor institutions. Through these actions, they created social networks over the wider landscape that made their communities viable once again. Native Andeans used three major strategies to counteract the desolation caused by epidemics, earthquakes, and land appropriation by Spanish textile workshops and haciendas. First, Native Andean men evaded tax and labor obligations through hiding close to home or migrating elsewhere. Strategic and proactive migration lessened the burdens of the state and local corrupt officials, resulting in geographically expansive kinship networks. Second, localized revolts and petitions for justice involved alliances that crossed caste boundaries, paving the way for more coordinated efforts later. Third, various folktales and fertility ritual practices incorporating native and European elements helped

44 • CHAPTER 2

workers from different backgrounds gain a critical systemic understanding of labor institutions. These folktales and ritual practices also provided the groundwork for a broad imagination of a new and just world order. I show how labor institutions such as textile workshops were one of the primary incubators of these new cosmopolitan ritual practices and folktales. SPANISH APPROPRIATION OF NATIVE COMMUNITY LANDS

By the end of the seventeenth century, Native Andean communities lost a sizable chunk of their communal lands to Spanish haciendas and textile workshops. Even one of the more successful groups, the Condes of Vilcashuamán province, could not stop land loss in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Three reasons contributed to Native Andean communities everywhere losing large tracts of land to Spanish enterprises. First, descriptive boundaries in land titles were unclear, and outsiders, such as Spaniards and members from other native communities, frequently challenged the ownership of bordering lands. Such challenges were expensive to defend in court and communities racked up debts, making the sale of communal lands necessary. Second, Native Andeans fled their communities to avoid burdensome labor obligations to mines or died from introduced disease, leaving parcels of communal land untended. The existence of “empty” land encouraged illegal squatting and sale of communal lands. Third, the Church expanded their rural lands over time through purchases, donations, and dowries of recently admitted nuns. Because the Church rarely sold lands to private citizens, it became increasingly wealthy and powerful. Litigating against the Church was much more difficult than against private individuals, so Native Andean communities had little redress for winning back their lands. How the Conde community of Vischongo lost the lands of Pomacocha to the nuns of Santa Clara provides a typical case study of land loss.3 In the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, the Condes were relatively successful at fending off challenges to their own lands. Despite these early successes, they lost most of their lands in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Until the 1580s, the Condes effectively controlled all of Pomacocha’s lands, but the aggressive tactics of the Spaniards, in particular the nuns of the Monastery of Santa Clara of Huamanga, usurped all of the lands of Pomacocha over the course of one hundred years. Theoretically, community land was inalienable and could not be sold,4 yet the Condes of Vischongo did eventually lose about 80 percent of their land. Through what mechanisms did the Monastery of Santa Clara gain control of Conde land? The loss of Pomacocha’s lands to the Monastery of Santa Clara was a multi­ stage process characterized by aggregation of smaller landholdings. Private

LOSING GROUND, EXPANDING HORIZONS • 45

property was difficult for families to hold onto for multiple generations because of economic and demographic uncertainty, but the monastery had enough capital, singularity of purpose, and political power over multiple generations to keep its acquisitions. The Condes of Vischongo were able to slow down this process through a sixteenth-­century marriage alliance with a Spaniard, litigation, and squatting. The Condes were more successful than the Tanquihuas in holding onto their lands because they did not have to fulfill mita labor obligations to the mercury mines of Huancavelica, so with depopulation less severe, therefore, they had more people to occupy lands. Eventually, though, the Condes lost all the lands of Pomacocha due to native collaboration, debt, and legal trickery. During the pre-­Hispanic era, ownership of land was not based on individual land titles but rather on the active use of the land. The lands of the Incas became common land of the community during the early colonial period, and even under Inca rule, the Condes would have considered the lands they worked as their own in return for tax and labor.5 Almost all land was considered common property of the community and redistributed by its leaders based on the needs of each family. Under the Incas, Vischongo’s communal land was extensive, but by the 1680s, they had lost over 80 percent of their original communal lands (fig. 2.1).6 None of the lands had title until January 28, 1555, when formal ownership of the hacienda of Paucarbamba and its surrounding twenty-­one fanegadas of land or approximately sixty-­three arable hectares7 was given to the Spaniard Don Cristóbal de Gamboa and his Conde wife, Doña Beatriz Guarcay Inquillay, the sister of the chief of Vischongo, Juan Uchapaucar.8 Uchapaucar was not only the chief of Vischongo but was also the principal chief of the entire Conde repartimiento.9 The Conde elite, such as Uchapaucar and Guarcay Inquillay, readily made alliances with the Spaniards to consolidate their power by titling landholdings. The land was for communal use, and the titled status gave the Gamboa family the right to distribute it to people as they saw fit. Gamboa and Guarcay Inquillay administered the lands “without prejudice to the natives of the community of Vischongo and others.”10 The land and its hacienda would later become the site of the obraje of Pomacocha as well as the core of the community of Pomacocha. The hacienda Paucarbamba was located on the royal Inca road that served as the main highway from Huamanga to Cuzco. Located next to a bridge, it would have been coveted. Any lands deemed “vacant,” even if they were not, could be easily appropriated by outsiders who bribed Spanish authorities.11 Through an alliance by marriage with the Spaniard Gamboa, the Conde elite of Vischongo could maintain legal control of the fertile and strategic lands of

46 • CHAPTER 2

Figure 2.1. Evolution of landholdings of the community of Vischongo, 1533– 1690. Digital elevation model generated from Shuttle Radar Topography Mission (SRTM) 1 Arc-Second dataset. https://doi.org/10.6084/m9.figshare.13247480

Paucarbamba. This early strategy of alliance shows a mix of Inca-period and Spanish-style ownership: although the land was titled to the Gamboa family, Vischongo community members still worked the lands to fulfill tribute obligations to the state through the mediation of local elites. Native-Spanish alliances through marriage were quite common in the sixteenth century due to the dearth of Spanish women, and mestizo children of such marriages had the same legal status as their Spanish fathers in the sixteenth century.12 NativeSpanish alliances, through marriage, business, and political ties, were the basis of early Spanish colonialism in Huamanga and often challenged centralized Crown authority.13 Toledo’s reducción program and population decline opened up new opportunities for Spaniards to acquire land at the expense of the community of Vischongo. The Crown had declared that all lands formerly belonging to the Incas now belonged to the Crown, which meant that the lands that used to pertain to the palaces of the Incas around the shores of Lake Pomacocha now belonged to the Crown.14 The governor of Perú, Cristóbal Vaca de Castro,

LOSING GROUND, EXPANDING HORIZONS • 47

granted 50 fanegadas (approximately 150 hectares) of land around Lake Pomacocha to Gonzalo de Isidro under the pretense that these lands were left vacant in the 1550s or 1560s. This grant was confirmed on August 22, 1577. Isidro transferred the property to Doña Luisa Díaz Rojas, the widow of the conquistador Antonio de Oré, on February 10, 1578.15 From 1577 to 1594, various corregidores of Vilcashuamán, especially Pedro de Carvajal, fought over the possession of the lands around Lake Pomacocha through the use of amparo. Amparos were writs of protection against sudden changes to the legal status of the land and illegal occupation until a final legal decision had been reached.16 The community of Vischongo litigated against the loss of the lands around Lake Pomacocha. In response, Francisco de Oré, Antonio de Oré’s son, had to confirm possession of the lands several times through amparo and composición de tierras until a final decision was reached in 1627.17 A composición de tierra was a legal process of acquiring titles for vacant land.18 Although the amparo was supposed to protect the weak from the strong,19 in the case of Pomacocha, it was used against the community of Vischongo’s claims of rightful use. To argue against the community, Oré had convened a probanza, or proof, in 1586 with various leaders of Vilcashuamán province corroborating Oré’s claim that the lands were indeed the former patrimonio de los Incas, or patrimony of the Incas. Oré argued that Vischongo’s use of the lands did not negate the royal decree that the patrimony of the Incas become the property of the Crown.20 The probanza was corrupt because most Native Andean leaders at this time did not speak Spanish and because such questionnaires were asked in a leading manner and open to bribery.21 In the case of Oré, as he was both claimant and the person who convened the probanza of the native leaders, the probanza did not respect due process. On November 23, 1594, Oré paid twenty-­five pesos for a composición de tierras to juez visitador (land inspector judge) Don Gabriel Solano de Figueroa, who dispatched the land titles.22 Until the 1594 composición de tierras done by Solano de Figueroa, only twenty-­five pesos were officially exchanged for the fifty fanegadas of land, which were worth at least several thousand pesos; bribery, therefore, must have been rife, and legal decisions had to be ratified many times over the course of half a century because of contradictory claims. The legal process of settling land disputes would have contributed to political instability, as it did in early colonial Mexico.23 Such political instability resulted in a long process of legally confirming possession of the lands from 1577 until 1627. When the nuns of the Monastery of Santa Clara of Huamanga gained a legal foothold in Pomacocha’s lands, the tide began to turn against Vischongo. On June 19, 1624, Oré gave temporary authorization over the right of use of the lands and its hacienda to the monastery in place of a monetary dowry of 1,250

48 • CHAPTER 2

pesos for his daughter, Clara de Padilla, who had entered the monastery. The monastery was to enjoy the use of the hacienda of Pomacocha,24 the lands, and the rights over the “Indians of mita and services distributed over those lands” until Oré was able to pay the 1,250 pesos of Padilla’s dowry.25 Oré was able finally to settle his legal claim over the lands on February 25, 1627, and added another twenty-­five fanegadas through employing once again the composición de tierras.26 As a compromise with the Condes of Vischongo, he allowed them to have legal right of use over seven topos of land called Chacapampa and Molinopampa within the borders of the newly added twenty-­five fanegadas of land. Chacapampa and Molinopampa were the most fertile and strategically located of the lands. They were by the royal road of Huamanga to Cuzco and controlled a bridge. The Condes were aware of the alarming rate of Spanish usurpation of lands elsewhere and accepted the compromise to ensure Oré’s protection of Chacapampa and Molinopampa from future claimants. Oré may have never paid the dowry because the monastery gained legal title over the lands on June 17, 1648, adding another eighty fanegadas to the property through yet another composición de tierras.27 The 110 pesos that the monastery paid severely underestimated the true value of the 80 fanegadas of land,28 which was worth at least 4,000 pesos judging by the value of similar tracts of land in normal sale transactions nearby. Although the 1648 transfer did not legally affect the Condes’ claim to Chacapampa and Molinopampa, the Condes of Vischongo wanted to prevent future usurpation. They immediately reaffirmed their ownership of forty-­three fanegadas of communal land on June 26, 1648, after petitioning Protector of Natives Christobal Pizarro.29 The legal petition was a concerted effort of multiple ayllus (corporate kin group or community) and the Conde communities of Vischongo and Tincoc. The Condes wanted to confirm the boundaries of their land and affirm communal ownership of lands disconnected from their main landholdings around Vischongo. They said that without formal composición de tierras, those disconnected satellite pieces of land would be subject to illegal usurpation because they bordered other properties.30 The disconnected pieces of land were called Pariamarca, Omayo (Umaro), Guamanquero, and Chacamarca. As native land became more fragmented, it became easier for the Spanish to usurp. The need to preserve joint usufruct rights over their lands led to population dispersal, a reversal of Toledo’s reducción program. In the 1648 composición, many of the places listed were old pre-­reducción villages that were then resettled. Chacapampa and Molinopampa were included in the composición de tierras of the Condes, even though they already had clear legal claim to them in the titles of Pomacocha.31 The Condes were probably worried, and

LOSING GROUND, EXPANDING HORIZONS • 49

rightfully so, that the Monastery of Santa Clara had their eyes on these two pieces of land. They were successful in their petition and paid eighty pesos, forty of which they paid up front and another forty to be paid nine months later for the composición de tierras.32 The money was a significant sum for the Condes, as it was equivalent to a year’s salary for a chief, and a laborer only earned about an eighth to a quarter of a peso a day. That they could not pay the sum in full up front shows economic hardship. A provision in the new composición imposed a penalty of 500 pesos on any outsiders who would “cause trouble” in their lands. The Condes’ trust that their lands of Chacapampa and Molinopampa were secure was betrayed. The Monastery of Santa Clara of Huamanga usurped the lands through a lengthy legal process that began in 1664 and ended in 1681.33 The process was not peaceful, as the Condes had to be forcibly expelled in 1674. Chief Felipe Chuchón was kicked out of his home near the old mill in Molinopampa. Only through multiple expulsions and legal petitions was the monastery able to gain control. Even though the Condes had clear legal rights of use of Molinopampa and Chacapampa, their only concession for the usurpation was that those lands would be “substituted” with other lands, but the substitution never took place.34 How was the monastery able to usurp the lands of Molinopampa and Chacapampa? By 1673, the monastery had already started to rent out the hacienda of Pomacocha, now on the site of the hacienda of Paucarbamba, for 400 pesos a year.35 In that document, they noted that Don Christoval de Rojas y Sandoval oversaw the transaction. Christoval de Rojas was the maestro de campo, or field commander, of the military company of Vilcashuamán.36 He was also the corregidor of Vilcashuamán and occupied the lands and carried out the numerous evictions, presumably with the military’s help.37 The Condes were able to win a decision on September 14, 1680, under the authority of archiepiscopal viceroy Tomás Vásquez de Velasco, which affirmed their rightful possession of Chacapampa and Molinopampa, but the decision was not enforced and was later reversed. As the monastery worked to expel the Condes from Chacapampa and Molinopampa, the mestizo Gamboa family began to run into financial adversity and in the 1650s took out censo loans totaling 3,000 pesos against the lands of Paucarbamba. On June 27, 1683, under mounting debts and legal fees, Gabriel de Gamboa, the grandson of Cristóbal de Gamboa and Beatriz Guarcay Inquillay, sold the lands of Paucarbamba, which totaled 122 fanegadas, to the Monastery of Santa Clara for 4,000 pesos.38 How was the Gamboa family able to successfully manage and even significantly expand their landholdings of Paucarbamba for more than a hundred years before finally losing everything?

50 • CHAPTER 2

What were the legal actions that led to the sale of Paucarbamba? The Gamboa family was successful as long as the property was distributed among multiple family members and as long as none of the family members took out censo loans on the property. If one wanted a loan, one would sell a censo, which was the right for someone else to collect a certain sum each year until the original amount of money one received was repaid plus interest.39 Because usury was illegal, censos were used. Censos often led to the eventual loss of property and even imprisonment if the annual “rent” was not paid on time. The Gamboas successfully kept the lands of Paucarbamba under their control for over a hundred years by passing them down to their children without any accumulated debt. If we recall the legal battles over the lands around Lake Pomacocha from 1586 to 1594, we can infer that the titles of Paucarbamba had to be reaffirmed multiple times to prevent usurpation by outsiders. Because the titles of Paucarbamba came originally by way of royal authority as well as being the earliest set of titles, the Gamboa family won against all legal challenges. With the taxes earned from community members working on the land, the Gamboa family became politically influential enough that on July 29, 1619, Don Fernando de Palomino donated one fanegada of fertile land called Totorabamba to the Gamboas to curry favor.40 The Gamboa family was active in securing titles for more land, adding an additional two hundred fanegadas of lands to their legal titles from 1627 to 1630. The Condes of the communities Vischongo and Tincoc did not lay claim on any of Paucarbamba’s lands in their composición of 1648, even though two of their communities/ayllus, Pariamarca and Tincoc, were surrounded by Paucarbamba land (see fig. 2.1).41 Although Paucarbamba land disconnected Pariamarca and Tincoc from Vischongo, the Gamboas were essentially family, being the children and grandchildren of the principal chief of Vischongo. The fact that the other Conde chiefs did not lay claim to the lands of Paucarbamba shows that there was respect for the Gamboas’ rightful dominion. Some community members may have seen the Gamboas as part of the community, as they allowed people to continue working the lands, provided income through the hacienda, and could protect those lands from intrusion. The beginning of the end of the Gamboa family’s land holdings was when Don Juan de Gamboa and his sons Gabriel and Antonio sold a censo worth 2,000 pesos on the property of Paucarbamba to Diego Francisco Vandibelti on March 8, 1650, who collected the right to receive 100 pesos for every year the 2,000-­peso debt was not paid off. The lands of Paucarbamba were sold to the Monastery of Santa Clara to pay off the ever-­accruing debts. Precisely why the Gamboas encountered financial adversity is unknown, but we can infer some possible reasons. First, their income derived from taxes

LOSING GROUND, EXPANDING HORIZONS • 51

paid by community members who used their land for agriculture, so as the Gamboa family grew in size and demographic collapse and out-­migration continued to occur, there was not enough income to support the family’s privileged lifestyles. With the significant decrease in population, the Gamboas would have also run into difficulties with the costs of running the hacienda given shrinking economies of scale. As more of the Condes’ surplus money was siphoned by ever-­increasing demands for their labor from local Spanish authorities, the Gamboas found themselves with impoverished workers. That the communities of Vischongo and Tincoc could not even pay the entire eighty pesos up front for the 1648 composición de tierras shows just how little surplus was available. Furthermore, maintaining legal control of the lands was a costly endeavor. Legal battles would carry on for years, racking up significant debts, and any land invasion also had to be resolved in court. All of these possibilities could explain why the Gamboas resorted to numerous censos in the 1650s, which led to the loss of their lands. By 1657, only one fanegada of land called Totorabamba belonged to a member of the Gamboa family, Gabriel. As the lengthy legal battles went on, the related expenses, involving the costs of travel, notary, and lodging, mounted as Gabriel tried to save his family’s last fanegada of land, that of Totorabamba. His legal victory over Totorabamba was pyrrhic, as the costs of winning outweighed the actual value of the one fanegada of land. An old man now, he was defeated by debt and tired from fighting. Gabriel sold any rights he had over the hacienda of Paucarbamba, which was situated on Totorabamba, for 4,000 pesos to the Monastery of Santa Clara on June 27, 1683. The land that his grandmother gifted him thirty-­five years prior passed legally into the hands of the monastery. By then, the monastery had already established a small obraje on the site of the hacienda of Paucarbamba in 1681. With the lands of Pomacocha and Paucarbamba integrated as one, the nuns of Santa Clara had at their disposal 222 fanegadas of arable land with which to establish an obraje (see fig. 2.1). The monastery had patience, capital, and singularity of purpose on its side and came out on top with the land disputes. Because the property would not be divided through dowries or multiple heirs, once the Church acquired property, it rarely lost it. Similarly, other religious orders also became the premier property owners of Vilcashuamán province in the seventeenth to eighteenth centuries.42 HIDDEN POPULATION

Based on colonial censuses, historians have argued that the indigenous population of the Andean region declined by approximately 90 percent from the

52 • CHAPTER 2

time of the Spanish arrival to a population low point around 1720.43 According to the historical record, the tributary population (men ages seventeen to forty-­ nine) of Vilcashuamán province declined by approximately 85 percent from the 1570s to 1717.44 From 1532 to 1720, the population decline in Vilcashuamán province was even more severe, because pre-­Hispanic population estimates are at least twice the numbers recorded in the 1570s, and the Great Andean Epidemic of 1720 killed about 30 to 40 percent of the total Native Andean populace.45 Taking into account these considerations, Vilcashuamán province saw an estimated decline of 95 percent or more from 1532 to 1720, if the historical sources are to be believed. Nevertheless, though disease, malnutrition, and exploitation certainly decimated native populations, the dramatic declines of 90 percent or more may be overestimated, at least in the highland Andes. Although historians have long recognized that colonial censuses were inaccurate and reflected political interests,46 independent verification of the previous population decline estimates did not exist until recently. Genetic analyses have shown that while lowland indigenous populations did experience an effective population size decline of around 95 percent, highland populations only suffered an estimated 27 percent decline.47 What explains the discrepancy between the historical records and the genetic evidence in the highland Andes? Strong local incentives to hide tributaries from the census increased collaboration among native elites, local Spanish officials and priests, and the native tributaries.48 The larger the portion of those hidden, the more local actors could skim off the hidden surplus labor. Local influential Spaniards siphoned off the most profit.49 For the central government, however, the costs of providing local salaries to officials and services for the natives nearly always exceeded the income from tribute tax due to the large numbers of hidden tributaries.50 Vilcashuamán province, despite its economic dynamism, was very unprofitable for the central government. I analyzed all available profit data from sixty-­ two retasas, or tax assessments, from all eleven Vilcashuamán repartimientos from 1717 to 1772. Out of the sixty-­two retasas analyzed, only fifteen returned any profit. The central government lost an average of 317 pesos per repartimiento (table 2.1).51 The lack of profitability of native tribute for the Crown was further compounded by the costs of carrying out the retasas and censuses. Legal costs from native petitions for tax and labor adjustments and exemptions also exacerbated the financial situation for the central government. Of course, one could say that on balance the Crown did benefit from native labor in the province of Vilcashuamán because it contributed labor to the mita of Huancavelica. Taxes on mercury production in Huancavelica made up budget deficits.52 Nevertheless, the province of Vilcashuamán would have still been unprofitable overall for the Crown because it contributed very few mitayos,

LOSING GROUND, EXPANDING HORIZONS • 53

or labor draftees, at any given time. In 1726, only 18 mitayos out of a total of 447 were from Vilcashuamán province,53 and this number remained stable and then declined to zero toward the end of the eighteenth century.54 Local pushback against fulfillment of the Huancavelica mita in person contributed to its dramatic decline, and in the case of Vilcashuamán province, to its eventual replacement in the late eighteenth century with cash substitution.55 The Condes were perhaps the most successful repartimiento in Vilcashuamán province because of the presence of obrajes, which were successful in gaining royal exemptions from mita service for their workers. In fact, it was the only repartimiento that generally produced a profit for the state. To stop fraud, census takers were instructed to collaborate with priests to collate and compare data available from registers of baptisms, marriages, and deaths. The native authorities of each village were responsible for summoning everyone to the plaza and for ensuring the veracity of the names, ages, and status orally given by each tributary. The census officials did not carry out their instructions faithfully, although some officials were more conscientious Table 2.1. State profits (real hacienda) in tax assessments from Vilcashuamán province, 1717–1772, in pesos Repartimiento

1717

1728–30

1737–39

1753

1758

Condes de Pacomarca

n/aa

683.4

299.9

482.5

-­113.6

67.3

-­952.4

-­398.1

-­435.4

-­455.8

-­435.4

-­714.1

Hananchilques Huamanquiquia

n/a

305.4

-­207.1

165.3

-­175.9

n/a

Hurinchilques

-­852.5

-­938.8

-­330.3

6.3

-­920.1

-­593.3

Pabres

-­465.7

392.4

-­368.3

264.9

-­325.8

n/a

Paras Canchacancha

-­275.1

257.8

-­84.5

155.5

-­149.1

-­114.1

Quichuas Quilla Sacsamarca

-­1629.7

-­147.6

-­759.3

-­1582.4

Sancos

-­207.1

316.6

-­1021.4

-­880.1

Totos Quispillactas

-­488.1

Vilcanchos Chocorbos

Tanquihuas

Total a

1772

N/a, not available.

-­1026 -­76.5

-­1172

-­76.5

-­76.5

-­91.6

-­910

-­713.9

-­920.8

-­626.6

52.6

-­178.1

152.3

-­233.6

-­147.5

-­351.3

2

-­210.9

-­41.8

-­203.9

-­154.7

-­6243.3

-­354.4

-­3527.2

-­820.5

-­5137.1

-­3546.6

54 • CHAPTER 2

than others.56 The amount of work required to compare oral declarations with written documents discouraged diligence from census officials, who tried to do their jobs as quickly as possible.57 There was no benefit to doing a careful job, and on the contrary, they ran the risk of running afoul of powerful local interests who preferred to have a hidden population of tributaries. A common problem in Spanish Latin America, rises and declines in censuses reflected the individual choices of priests, which led to inconsistencies between censuses.58 Analysis of colonial censuses from Vilcashumán reveals several strategies that contributed to the large hidden population of tributaries. First, tributaries tended to have exaggerated ages, thereby decreasing the number of years they were eligible for labor and tax obligations.59 Second, local officials, priests, and native community members hid men and children from the census takers. Some census returns, such as that of 1717, probably undercounted tributaries by more than half. A comparison of two censuses of Vilcashuamán province (1719 and 1729) showed a fairly common practice of hiding whereby someone who should have existed in 1719 given their age in 1729 did not exist in the 1719 census. Women nearly always significantly outnumbered men, and children were underrepresented in the census returns.60 Third, to avoid the labor drafts, men often migrated out of their natal villages and repartimientos to become forasteros, or migrants without access to communal lands.61 Forasteros were effectively a hidden population because reassessments of the tributary population were infrequent. Because most communities in Vilcashuamán province were subject to labor obligations to the mercury mines of Huancavelica, it was far safer to become a forastero in a nearby community. Forasteros were not consistently noted in tax returns and census records until the reforms of Viceroy Duque de la Palata (1681–89).62 Up to then, they had avoided paying tax to the central government. Forasteros often comprised half or more of the population of Native Andean communities.63 After Palata’s reforms, they were required to pay tax in cash to the central government. Technically, forasteros forfeited usufruct rights to community lands, but an analysis of a 1683 census return from the Chocorbos repartimiento in Vilcashuamán province showed an ingenious migratory strategy to counter the disadvantages of becoming a forastero. Forasteros, who tended to be men, intermarried with local women, who had usufruct rights to communal land (see next section). MIGRATION, DEMOGRAPHIC SHOCKS, AND REVOLTS

In the Andes, native migration was pervasive in the colonial period and underpinned significant cultural and political change.64 Although the reasons for

LOSING GROUND, EXPANDING HORIZONS • 55

migration were diverse, most wanted to escape or minimize tax and labor obligations. Spaniards described native migration as chaotic and disruptive to civilized life. They emphasized how villages were left desolate and harped about the migrants supposedly living in pagan areas like the eastern lowland jungles.65 Was migration as chaotic as Spanish contemporaries made it out to be? Or was there a pattern in the migration that, on the contrary, strengthened native society over the wider landscape? How did Pomacocha, and obrajes in general, fit into larger patterns of resistance through migration in Vilcashuamán province? Instead of fleeing to pagan places outside of Spanish control, most Native Andeans who had migrated hid in plain sight in areas with the deepest political and economic penetration of the Spanish state, especially to haciendas and obrajes. As Saignes showed,66 migration was not as disruptive of wider native kinship networks (i.e., “destructuration” of ethnic, or caste, identity and its replacement with class identity) as commonly assumed.67 The particulars of social reformulation over the wider social landscape, however, are still not well understood. I show how Native Andeans in Vilcashuamán province rejected state-­imposed caste and ethnic categories and instead reproduced new kinds of kinship-­based identity that cut across state-­imposed identities. In contrast to the Spanish depiction of migration in colonial documents, most migration was not chaotic and did not involve fleeing to pagan frontiers outside of Spanish control.68 In Vilcashuamán province, as elsewhere in the highland Andes, most migration occurred within kinship networks that cut across repartimiento and provincial lines, which would help ensure census invisibility due to the difficulty of comparing census rolls between different jurisdictions. Migration was a form of voting with one’s feet to find less burdensome labor obligations.69 Late seventeenth-­century Peru’s population structure differed dramatically from the time of the Toledan reforms in the previous century. Not only did population dramatically decline, but the rise of the forastero class meant that about half of the total native population was not officially counted in censuses.70 In the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, obrajes employed young children, women, and old people because middle-­aged males had to fulfill mita labor at distant mines.71 Most of the permanent labor force of the obrajes would often be forced into debilitating debt that turned many community Indians into yanaconas, or permanently attached laborers.72 By becoming yanaconas, native peoples were sometimes able to lessen the proliferating labor obligations because they only needed labor for the hacienda or obraje and not for multiple overlords.73 Because obrajes and haciendas would often allow people to work on their former lands and therefore be close to their huacas, many people left their villages to become yanaconas in nearby

56 • CHAPTER 2

haciendas and obrajes. Nevertheless, sometimes the conditions of the obrajes were so unbearable that people had to escape them as well. For example, at Chincheros, many children escaped to the city of Huamanga.74 In the eighteenth century, migration was prevalent among the obraje labor force of Vilcashuamán province. The obraje-­hacienda would constantly attract people as well as push them out depending on the state of labor conditions. Obrajes were one of the engines of migration. Because they attracted people from diverse locales, they also provided opportunities for the creation of new kinship networks and alliances over the wider social landscape. Familiarity and friendships developed in obrajes would aid in migration strategies. Censuses are useful for the study of migration, though not at face value. Censuses are rife with statistical inconsistencies that reflect political negotiations over native tribute and labor. Spanish contemporaries complained about manipulations of tributary ages, hiding of tributaries, and passing of Indian tributaries as mestizos, which all deprived the Crown of revenue.75 A detailed 1683 census return of the Vilcanchos Chocorbos repartimiento of Vilcashuamán province76 showed that male forasteros tended to marry originario women,77 gaining access to communal lands. In this particular case, female surnames were passed down through the maternal line and showed less diversity than the male surnames, suggesting a pattern of matrilocality. Forastero men tended to migrate together from their original communities. The Vilcanchos Chocorbos census pattern of adult women having a lower diversity of unique surnames than adult men in any given place seems to hold true for other places in the Peruvian Andes in the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries (table 2.2). The lower diversity of surnames among women than among men in any given place implies that men moved around more than women. Such a pattern implied an ingenious strategy of avoiding onerous labor obligations for the male tributaries while still maintaining and creating kinship ties over the wider landscape. Migration was proactively pursued, especially by young adult males, as a general practice. That forasteros made up on average a quarter to a third of the total census population shows that perhaps half or more of the adult male population had migrated or were migrating at any given time.78 Migration was rampant but did not “destructure” native society. Migration was patterned, in that people migrated to places where kin had already migrated, and migration occurred in a circulatory manner, hopping from province to province. Knowledge regarding favorable working conditions traveled in this manner. Because the major economic activities all involved long-­distance trade, workers were also aware of other distant villages even if they had no kin there. The regional pilgrimages, such as the one to Cocharcas, drew people of all castes

LOSING GROUND, EXPANDING HORIZONS • 57

Table 2.2. Unique surname proportions of men and women in colonial Peru Population

Year

F_uniquea

F_totb M_uniquec M_totd

P_Fe

P_Mf

Vilcanchos Chocorbos

1683

155

263

154

245

.59

.63

Doctrina of Chuschi

1703

229

439

155

271

.52

.57

Obraje of Cacamarca

1729

91

148

48

68

.61

.71

Doctrina of Cajatambo

1670–89

79

134

95

139

.59

.68

Doctrina of Cajatambo

1700–49

136

221

153

224

.62

.68

Arequipa

1670–89

271

847

377

852

.32

.44

Arequipa

1710–29

346

1,166

389

1,172

.3

.33

1,307

3,218

1,371

2,971

.41

.46

Total

Sources: For Vilcanchos Chocorbos: Huertas, La revisita de los Chocorvos. For the Doctrina of Chuschi: “Padrón general de la doctrina del pueblo del Dulce Nombre de Jesús de Chusche y su anexo, que se hizo este año de 1703 de todos los que han cumplido con los preceptos de la confesión y comunión anual,” June 20, 1703, BNP, C9. For the obraje of Cacamarca: Manuel de Araindía, “Testimonio de la revisita y numeración de los indios tributarios residentes en el Obraje de San Juan Bautista de Cacamarca,” 1729, AGN, Derecho Indígena, Leg. 14., Cuad. 238. For the Doctrina of Cajatambo: “Peru, Diocese of Huacho, Catholic Church Records, 1560–1952,” Cajatambo, FamilySearch, Database with images, https:// FamilySearch.org, August 8, 2019, Diocesis de Haucho (Diocese of Huacho), Peru. For Arequipa: “Perú, registros parroquiales y diocesanos, 1603–1992,” Arequipa, FamilySearch, Database with images, https:// FamilySearch.org, August 8, 2019, Arzobispado De Arequipa (Archbishopric of Arequipa), Peru. Notes: Surnames of the bride and groom extracted and standardized from the marriage data from Cajatambo between the years 1670–89 and 1700–49. Only Cajatambo had continuous data for the years for comparison. All the surnames of the bride and groom extracted and standardized from the marriage data from Cailloma, Chivay, Huancas, Paucarpata, and Yanque, the only communities that had continuous data between the years 1670–89 and 1700–49. a

F_unique is the number of unique surnames among adult women.

b

F_tot is the total number of adult women.

c

M_unique is the number of unique surnames among adult men.

d

M_tot is the total number of adult men.

e

P_F is the proportion of unique female surnames to total number of adult women.

f

P_M is the proportion of unique male surnames to total number of adult men.

and were prime occasions to reconnect with kin from distant areas.79 As more people migrated, migration became more attractive because the web of knowledge of favorable living conditions expanded, and knowledge traveled faster with a larger migrating population. When labor drafts to the mines of Huancavelica were in full effect, women were more likely to remain in the general vicinity of their origin and birthplace and helped keep communal lands under native control. Incidents of native and mestiza women owning ancestral land were evident in the land title

58 • CHAPTER 2

documents relating to Pomacocha, for example.80 Forasteros marrying originario women could have been one of the mechanisms to eventually acquire usufruct rights to communal land. For example, in the doctrina of Sancos in Vilcashuamán province, a community from the province of Jauja had lived there since at least the 1680s as an ayllu called Luringuanca.81 Luringuanca or the hurin wanka was one of the ethnic groups in the Jauja valley in the pre-­ Hispanic and Spanish colonial periods. In the 1729 census, they were listed as the ayllu of “Xauja, Luringuancas y Hananguanca,” suggesting that by this time, more had migrated from the province of Jauja (note the additional ayllus of Xauja and Hananguanca). They were listed as forasteros without access to communal lands.82 By 1772, the forastero ayllu had become an originario ayllu called Sauxa with access to communal lands.83 Native women occupied communal lands to preserve usufruct rights and provide incentives for forasteros to marry and eventually gain rights to communal lands. Another line of evidence that women tended to stay near their home villages and men tended to migrate is the general overrepresentation of women in colonial censuses (table 2.3).84 The changes in sex ratios from one to the next were sometimes too drastic to be due to natural demographic shifts. Migration, hiding, and irregular census taking must have accounted for many of the discrepancies. The forasteros not captured by the censuses probably contributed to the general trend of overrepresentation of women in censuses. The 1683 Chocorbos return, for example, indicated that originario females outnumbered males, whereas forastero men outnumbered their female counterparts.85 The sex ratio in the 1683 Chocorbos data for originarios was 0.92 males per female (n = 521), whereas for forasteros, the sex ratio was 1.83 males per female (n = 291). Of the people who left their communities, the majority were unmarried men when they had fled (27/32 = 84 percent). To counter the effects of native migration, viceroys implemented general censuses to recapture the hidden population. Censuses always triggered a deluge of legal protests from native communities. Most legal protests concerned local abuses by priests or castas (people of mixed ancestry) and overcounting or illegally hiding tributaries for personal gain. The 1683–86 general census commissioned by Viceroy Palata triggered the first set of widespread complaints. Most sectors of colonial society immediately resisted Palata’s census when it was announced.86 Because Palata’s reforms threatened to upset the status quo, traditional enemies allied with each other to reverse the policies: hacienda owners, mine owners, obraje owners, and priests.87 Almost everyone was disadvantaged by the new policies because they triggered even more migration and tributaries becoming forasteros, leading to loss of profits from formerly hidden tributaries’ labor.88 For the repartimiento of the Condes, to which

LOSING GROUND, EXPANDING HORIZONS • 59

Table 2.3. Summary of available ratios of men to women in repartimientos, 1570–1772 Repartimiento Condes de Pacomarca

1570–75 1630 1683

1717 n/ab

1728–30 1737–39 1753 1772

.95

1.27

—a

.73

.93

1.58

Hananchilques

1.02

1.42



1.92

.77

.68

.63

1.01

Huamanquiquia







n/a

.88

.84

2.48

n/a

Hurinchilques

.89

.9



.78

.86

.64

1.88

.83

1

Pabres

.98

.81



.83

.76

.71

1.15

n/a

Paras Canchacancha







n/a

.9

n/a

.5

.74

Quichuas Quilla Sacsamarca

.89

1.32



.93

.83

.59

1.14

.83

Sancos







.59

.92

.6

n/a

1.01

Tanquihuas

.88

.87



.47

.59

.77

1.64

1.07

Totos Quispillactas

.82

.62



.61

1.04

.9

1.90

.99

Vilcanchos Chocorbos

.93

.83

1.08

.67

.73

.65

.68

.75

.82

.74

.74

1.25

.92

Overallc Sources: See chapter 2, note 51.

Notes: None of the retasas from 1758 included demographic information on the number of women, children, and men over the age of fifty. a

Dash indicates that this information was not collected in the past.

b

N/a, information is no longer available.

c

Years without complete information (either no longer available or never existed) are excluded from overall.

Pomacocha belonged, Palata’s census had more than doubled the number of tributaries from the previous retasa, from 216 to 481.89 Some people fled just days before the census takers arrived.90 Two demographic shocks, the earthquakes of 1716–19 and the Great Andean Epidemic of 1719–26, accelerated migration and the breakdown of state-­ imposed juridical boundaries and identities. The demographic shocks triggered general censuses and incentivized economic reforms. The censuses and Bourbon economic reforms, which aimed to rationalize and standardize economic policy, were strongly resisted by alliances of people from different social backgrounds and geographic origins.91 Because labor was in short supply after the epidemics, native commoners found more success in the legal system after

60 • CHAPTER 2

the great epidemic than before. In other instances, resistance became violent. Furthermore, the ever-­shrinking labor force increased competition for native labor among native and Spanish elites. Such competition would open up opportunities for new kinds of political alliances in the seventeenth to the early nineteenth centuries. The first cluster of forceful revolts in the Andes occurred around 1740, as a result of the 1725–40 general censuses of Viceroy Don Joseph de Armendariz Marquis of Castelfuerte, Bourbon economic reforms, epidemics, and labor shortages.92 Censuses provoked social upheaval when they increased the number of tributaries eligible for tax.93 The censuses were meant to standardize tribute and labor extraction. Because they radically increased the number of Indian tributaries from the previous numeration in 1717, despite demographic collapse, a general wave of discontent swept through the Andes.94 The Bourbon reforms imposed new tax obligations on castes previously exempt, particularly the mestizos, which opened up opportunities for intercaste alliances. When the mita was extended to forasteros after the Great Andean Epidemic, they fled their communities in large numbers and hiding became more prevalent. Complaints of illegal exploitation of Native Andean workers exploded all over the Andes after 1719, indicating intense pressures for native migration. Migration became an even more powerful tool after the epidemic because of the severe labor shortages, so the Crown took Native Andeans’ legal complaints more seriously. The native revolts beginning in the 1730s and 1740s were generally not radical in their aims and did not seek to overthrow the colonial system.95 An important exception was the 1742 rebellion on the eastern lowland jungle frontiers led by Juan Santos Atahualpa, who wanted to overturn the Spanish colonial order and install himself as the new Inca.96 One of the rebels’ central demands was the abolishment of “mitas to obrajes and bakeries.”97 Mostly, revolts pertained to local interests and maintaining ancient privileges and costumbre, or customary obligations between subjects and rulers.98 After the earthquakes and epidemic, Native Andeans exercised their legal voice more often, knowing that they had more leverage with the labor shortage. With competing Spanish interests, native workers had more power to vote with their feet, fleeing from one community, hacienda, obraje, mine, sugar mill, or ranch to another in search of better conditions. During and after the great epidemic of 1719–26, paternalistic protectionism was common in written documents. The epidemic was cited at every opportunity to increase sympathy for the plight of the natives. For example, in the 1739 retasas of Vilcashuamán, already many years after the epidemic, the great epidemic was described as a “tragic event” and that the “miserable natives of all Provinces . . . [were]ravaged,

LOSING GROUND, EXPANDING HORIZONS • 61

their pueblos desolated and ruined.”99 To the inspectors, the epidemic was a grave threat to civilized settled life in pueblos because it had “left the provinces totally deserted of Indians who lived there and the provinces exhausted of the parishioners who comprised them, this desolation happening in some having died of the rigors of this epidemic and others by fleeing from the tragic epidemic traveled to different and remote places.”100 Furthermore, because the epidemic had caused a great decline in state revenues, the Crown had economic incentives to promote better working conditions for Native Andean subjects to mitigate fleeing.101 The demographic crisis made portrayals of suffering tributaries more salient, and on April 20, 1720, a royal decree abolished the mita to Huancavelica altogether. Because of powerful local mining interests, however, the decree was not enforced, and by 1733, the mita was officially reestablished.102 Viceroy Casaconcha’s justification for not carrying out the 1720 decree was that it was impossible to find enough voluntary labor.103 According to Casaconcha, “It was not possible to mine the necessary metals called mercury that this kingdom needs with voluntary workers . . . and no amount of payment can increase their numbers.”104 Royal decrees of 1732 and 1733 also extended mita obligations to previously exempt forasteros, but local officials did not enforce these decrees, as evidenced by numerous complaints from the mine owners.105 In addition to the Huancavelica mercury mines, the local mines in Vilcashuamán province also relied on mita labor. Local officials noted that the Indians complained the mines were one of the principal causes of their “annihilation”: “By fear or horror they have towards the mine of San Juan de Lucanas, where seven Indians of mita suffer every two months, they leave their pueblos and do not return to them.”106 The demographic shocks made the competition over native labor between mining interests and local business interests more acrimonious. Native Andeans were able to leverage this competition to gain better working conditions. What did native migration look like after the Great Andean Epidemic? Fortunately, two of the most comprehensive censuses in the province of Vilcashuamán occurred only about ten years apart, in 1719, before the epidemic, and in 1728–29, shortly after the epidemic.107 The following analysis shows that men tended to migrate outside of their repartimientos, which would have frustrated census taking in the reassessment of tax and labor obligations. There is no protocol for judging the reliability of censuses, as they were unreliable in different ways. Theoretically, it should be possible to track migrations within the Vilcashuamán province between 1719 and 1729 by comparing the names and ages of the tributaries. Unfortunately, there was little continuity

62 • CHAPTER 2

between the 1719 and 1729 censuses. In fact, only 391 out of 1,457 individuals in the 1719 census even had their name and surname combination exist in the 1729 census. Out of the 391 individuals whose names and surnames were present in the 1729 census, only 213 of those likely referred to the same person. There were 690 individuals in 1719 ages 18 to 39, individuals who should have shown up in the 1729 census, but only 163 of the 690 had probable matches in 1729. The matching individuals between the censuses were judged along the following characteristics: 1) in both censuses, the name and surname combination was unique, 2) in both censuses, the individual lived in the same pueblo or a nearby pueblo, and 3) the age difference of the individual between the censuses was reasonable. The 213 individuals I identified obeyed at least two out of the three characteristics. The high proportion of unique surnames and the relatively low tributary numbers made matching individuals relatively easy, as two individuals sharing the same name and surname was unusual. Even if we account for high mortality due to the epidemic and aging population, continuity between the censuses is much lower than expected. The lack of continuity between censuses was likely due to a combination of high mortality, migration to other provinces, and hiding of tributaries in 1719. The 1719 census certainly hid a sizable proportion of the population because the tributary population almost doubled from 1719 to 1729 despite the Great Andean Epidemic decimating at least a quarter of the local population. The 1729 census had the most realistic age distribution.108 The 1729 census was also the census least beholden to local interests, as the person responsible, Manuel de Araindía, was more allied with Huancavelica mining interests. Thus, manifesting hidden tributaries was a top priority. Out of the 213 individuals who existed in both the 1719 and 1729 census, 37 were listed in a different community in 1729. Migration was mostly exogamous, or between different ethnic repartimientos. We find that for Vilcashuamán province, most migrations, at least 68 percent (25), were to different repartimientos, and 30 percent (11) were to communities in the same repartimiento. Five out of the 11 migrations to the same repartimiento pertained to the Conde repartimiento. As the Conde repartimiento had no labor obligations to Huancavelica, this could explain why more people were willing to remain. There were also four internal migrations pertaining to the Quichuas Quilla Sacsamarca repartimiento. However, all the individuals who had migrated were native leaders exempt from the mita to Huancavelica to begin with, so they would have no strong incentive to move repartimientos. The migration network presented here is only the tip of iceberg, as most migration was not visible in the censuses because many simply disappeared or were never recorded.

LOSING GROUND, EXPANDING HORIZONS • 63

In contrast to the contemporary Spanish attitudes about the reactive and chaotic nature of native migration, patterns of migration remained fundamentally consistent from at least the late seventeenth century to after the Great Andean Epidemic. The longevity of these patterns contributed to long-­term buildup of civil society over the wider landscape, eventually enabling alliances that would pose a serious threat to the colonial order in the late colonial period. Native migration was intimately linked to Spanish businesses. The more involvement with the Spanish economy, the more migration occurred. The Huancavelica mines, while creating incentives for tributaries to flee their villages, also created vibrant economic spaces for other Spanish businesses to flourish. Native labor sustained such businesses, which were crucial to providing places of refuge. Obrajes, such as the one at Pomacocha, are examples of businesses that flourished because of the mining sector markets, but they also competed over native labor. Migration was not chaotic and did not desolate native communities. People seemed to migrate in cycles and kept in touch with their natal or ancestral origin communities. Migration was calculated and preempted policies of labor exploitation rather than just as a reaction to them. The cycles of migration also created kinship bonds among different provinces and across repartimiento and ayllu distinctions, expanding social horizons. In the late seventeenth century, patterns of migration may have differed for men versus women. Men were more likely to migrate outside of their home provinces to escape tribute obligations, whereas women generally did not migrate or migrated within their home provinces. The complementarity is also evident in the apparent bilateral descent of Vilcashuamán native communities, where many men inherited surnames from their fathers and women inherited surnames from their mothers. The exogamous migration pattern on the male side complemented the women staying close to home, ensuring a strategy that mitigated the effects of demographic decline and labor exploitation. Women played a big role in keeping communal lands within their control and found marriage partners in forasteros, who were exempt from labor obligations and therefore could have a more stable presence in the community. Although migration occurred at all times, the demographic crisis of the 1720s may have accelerated it. The demographic crises also accelerated long-­ term processes of building new kinship networks that cut across traditional ethnic lines and juridical boundaries. Even though intracommunity and inter­ community tensions arising from differences in ethnic origin may have continued, there was little geographic contiguity in such tensions due to the numerous overlapping exogamous kinship networks over the wider landscape. The new kinship networks also accompanied more vocal and frequent legal

64 • CHAPTER 2

challenges to labor exploitation, and the seeds of a wider political consciousness among native laborers were planted for the age of rebellion in the late eighteenth to early nineteenth centuries. FOLKTALES, EXPANDING HORIZONS, AND THE EMBERS OF REBELLION

Stories travel when people travel. In the colonial Andes, travel was frequent and multifaceted: permanent and seasonal migration, economic trade, religious pilgrimages, and mita-­related travel, among many other kinds. These journeys spread folktales far and wide across the Andes so that even today, villages thousands of kilometers apart will share similar folktales. Certain folktales were intimately associated with Spanish colonial obrajes and spoke of exploitation as Faustian insatiability. Of this type, the two most common were that of a light-­skinned vampire-­like creature who sucked human fat and sirens who enchanted people into unpayable debts. As the social horizons of Native Andeans expanded through economic interaction and expanding kinship networks, folktales provided a shared consciousness about the unfairness of colonial labor institutions. Faustian folktales may have originated around mines, obrajes, and haciendas. Another kind of folktale regarding the return of the Incas and the overthrow of the corrupt colonial order was also widespread. These two kinds of folktales, one Faustian and one messianic, gave people from diverse places and social backgrounds a common vocabulary to understand exploitation and coordinate rebellious political action. The pishtaku or ñak’aq was a light-­skinned vampire-­like creature who preyed on indigenous people’s fat. This creature features prominently in Ecuadorian, Peruvian, and Bolivian folklore and is often associated with mestizos’ or white people’s exploitation of indigenous labor.109 I first encountered this folktale in the village of Ccaccamarca in 2008, where the colonial obraje of Cacamarca now lies in ruins. Aureliano Quispe, the president of Ccaccamarca (Cacamarca) at that time, told me that the Spaniards responsible for building the church of the obraje burned human fat to cast the church bells. He told me that the Spaniards believed that the more human fat they used, the sweeter the church bells would ring. The Spanish administrators of the obraje of Cacamarca were the pishtakus. In reality, many Native Andeans did die building these obrajes, showing how this folktale revealed the exploitative truth of these institutions. The pishtaku folktale may have originated in the sixteenth century, shortly after Spaniards arrived. The earliest mention of this folktale was in relation to the Taki Onqoy movement, when a belief arose among the natives that people “had been sent from Spain to this kingdom [to search] for an ointment of the

LOSING GROUND, EXPANDING HORIZONS • 65

Indians to cure a certain illness for which no medicine was known except for that ointment. In those times [and] for this reason, the Indians went about very secretively, and [they] distanced themselves from the Spaniards to such a degree that no [Indian] wanted to take firewood, herb[s], or other things to a Spaniard’s house. They say that [in this way, the Indian] would not be killed inside by having the ointment extracted from him.”110 This ointment referred to fat or grease.111 This belief reflected the anxieties of native commoners: that the Spaniards would extract their “fat” (labor and power) to the point of death so that the Spaniards could cure themselves of some unknown illness. This “illness” could have been a metaphor for greed for gold, or it could have been more literal, as Spaniards were known to use human fat as a salve for their wounds.112 “I and my companions suffer from a disease of the heart which can be cured only by gold” is a famous quote attributed to Hernán Cortés, the conquistador of the Aztecs.113 Guaman Poma also noted how the Spanish obsession with gold led Andeans to believe that they ate gold to survive; he relates a story where an Inca asked, “Is this the gold that you eat?” and the Spaniard replied, “This gold we eat.”114 In the pishtaku folktale, the Spaniard or the mestizo has transformed into the predatory pishtaku as a result of an insatiable appetite for gold and native bodies. An implicit Faustian bargain had been made: one’s humanity in exchange for predatory wealth. Folktales about sirens or merpeople (Quechua: sirinu) were common throughout the Andes.115 These folktales drew inspiration from Eurasian and probably also pre-­Hispanic Andean beliefs about female water spirits.116 A core narrative among these folktales was that sirens were enchanting yet dangerous creatures most often found in watery places such as lakes, ravines, cataracts, and rivers. The sirens would make deals with musicians, enchanting their voices or instruments so they could find fame, love, and fortune, but they also took their lives or gave them unpayable debts.117 In the Peruvian film La teta asustada (Milk of sorrow), the protagonist Fausta leaves her village in Ayacucho to become a domestic servant for a rich white female musician. The musician steals the melody of the song Fausta sings and wins acclaim, and Fausta is left with nothing but mistreatment. The song that the white musician plagiarizes is about a mermaid’s contract with musicians from Fausta’s village. The musicians ask the mermaid how long the contract will last, and the mermaid replies that the contract will last one year for every quinoa seed in a handful of quinoa seeds. Once the mermaid finishes counting, then she takes the musicians and releases them into the sea. Because quinoa seeds are tiny, a handful of quinoa represents hundreds of years, longer than a human lifespan. The gift becomes the lifelong curse that only death, being released into the sea, can cancel.

66 • CHAPTER 2

Currently, the only clear Spanish colonial reference to the siren folktale was a 1737 Spanish testimony of the mistreatment of Native Andeans by the obraje of Tacunga in the Audiencia of Quito.118 One of the Spanish witnesses said that the nearby town of Otavalo had unusual numbers of blind male Indians and that the local folktale attributed the blindness to “the effect of the sirens of the surrounding lakes.”119 When the witness asked one of the blind Indians, however, he said that the blindness was not due to the sirens but to their own mothers, who “seeing that they were born male, those [mothers] who were more pious blinded them, others killed them so that they would not be subjugated by the obraje.”120 Why would the watery and musical sirens be associated with blind men and with obrajes? In the same case, witnesses testified that the aforementioned obraje utilized blind Native Andean men to sing and give mass on Sundays inside the obrajes, so the workers would not need to stop working on Sundays. One could see how people understood the fates of the blind men and the obraje workers through the siren’s folktale. The obraje was in essence the siren. The blind men exchanged sight for the gift of music, but they still fell under the shadow of the obraje, forever linked to it by necessity because employment for the blind was scarce. Ironically, their mothers’ hopes that blinding them would free them from the curse of the obraje only ensnared them more to it. The association of obrajes with sirens is even more compelling when one considers the ubiquity of water in and around obrajes. All obrajes were built near flowing sources of water and had internal canals. Dungeons were common in obrajes and were described as dark and humid, reinforcing the link between sirens and the humid underworld.121 The workers fell under the spell of the obraje/siren through debt slavery. The obrajes promised riches through pay advances, only to trap the workers inside, where they died working. The association of obrajes and the siren folktale helped people be wary of the dangers of the obraje and its false promises of wealth. In addition to the Faustian folktales, a hopeful folktale about the return of the Incas bringing justice and prosperity, also known as the folktale of Inkarrí, began in the seventeenth century and reached the height of popularity in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries.122 The myth of Inkarrí drew messianic elements from Christianity.123 In the mid-­seventeenth to eighteenth centuries, plays that reenacted Inca history became popular even among mestizos and Spaniards, making public currency the ideas about an upcoming Inca-­led utopia.124 Native elites claimed Inca descent and used paraphernalia with Inca iconography to tap into the memorialized Incas’ legitimacy and prestige.125 Invoking the myth of Inkarrí, rebel leaders such as Juan Santos Atahualpa

LOSING GROUND, EXPANDING HORIZONS • 67

and Tupac Amaru II gained wide followings who believed they were the Incas prophesied to return.126 The Faustian and Inkarrí folktales worked together to give common currency to narratives of exploitation and of hope of a new world order. These narratives underpinned widely shared ideological motivations for general rebellions. The combination of shared folklore and geographically expansive social networks based on kinship, trade, and religious pilgrimage festivals would give rise to social landscapes conducive to generalized rebellion in the late eighteenth century.

3 EMBERS OF RESISTANCE IN THE SHADOW OF THE WORKSHOP (1690–1760)

T

extile workshops employing native labor needed royal licenses to operate, ostensibly to prevent abuse and regulate commerce. In a 1666 petition to the Crown, the nuns of Santa Clara of Huamanga asked to establish a small obraje of three or four looms in their hacienda at Pomacocha.1 The nuns justified the need for a textile workshop because their “nakedness and being without sufficient cloth day and night caused terrible sickness.”2 Furthermore, they promised that the obraje would be “useful to the neighboring Indians” and cause no harm.3 Their petition was accepted, and a small obraje of three looms opened at Pomacocha in 1681. Construction of a larger formal obraje of sixteen looms on the same site was completed in 1689.4 The obraje became very profitable, but did the nuns keep their promise not to harm the Native Andean workers? The written evidence is mixed. On one hand, the Pomacocha obraje secured a royal license from Duque de la Palata in 1686 that freed the workers from the onerous mita labor draft to the mercury mines of Huancavelica.5 Royal protection from the Huancavelica mita labor draft made the obraje attractive to work at for many. Nevertheless, the obraje could be a brutal place. When an 8.6 magnitude earthquake leveled the Pomacocha obraje on February 11, 1716, only one in seven workers survived.6 Given the multiple open-­air patios of the obraje to which people could flee, why was mortality so high? Most likely, the workers were crushed because they were illegally locked inside the various rooms of the obraje.7 Workers navigated different styles of administration, from brutal to paternalistic. Colonial documents at the time portrayed native workers as miserable and helpless children who needed protection from the powerful.8 In reality, the workers at Pomacocha and elsewhere had at their disposal a wide repertoire of resistance strategies. Although daily life could be harsh in the shadow of the obraje, conditions were not evenly horrid, mostly due to workers’ active resistance. The interaction of resistance and control produced a moral economy,

70 • CHAPTER 3

a costumbre or customary understanding of duties between the workers and those who managed them. At the height of Pomacocha’s profitability (1690– 1760), the workers adopted nonviolent resistance strategies such as mass fleeing, petitioning for justice, defending costumbre, and being resourceful in supplementing meager rations. How did the obraje create both social division and social cohesion? How did obrajes help lay the groundwork for the kinds of geographically dispersed cross-­caste alliances that characterized the general rebellions of the late colonial period (1780–1824)? I answer these questions through a combination of archival research, architectural analysis using space syntax, and archaeological excavations in the obraje of Pomacocha. First, I describe how the typical architecture and organization of labor inside Spanish colonial obrajes reinforced attitudes about social hierarchies. I then outline how the architecture of Pomacocha’s obraje fits within the general architecture of obrajes. I use space syntax methods to evaluate if Pomacocha’s architecture was more conducive to social separation or integration. Finally, I discuss how the prisoner and nonprisoner workers of Pomacocha experienced different kinds of commensal community. The prisoner population ate in small groups or in solitude and the nonprisoner population ate together in large groups. With the ever-­increasing proportion of prison workers to nonprisoners in obrajes in the late eighteenth century, respect for socially cohesive foodways was violated more often. More frequent violations of commensal traditions, or costumbre, contributed to the widespread ire against the obraje institution that motivated many people to join the general rebellions. BUILDING A PROFITABLE OBRAJE

By 1686, Pomacocha had sixty-­eight families working and living in the obraje and its satellite haciendas of Paucarbamba and Chanin.9 Pomacocha was built to its full physical size in 1689. The dimensions were 110 varas long (100 meters), 106 varas wide (94 meters), with walls 12 varas (10 meters) high and half a vara (0.4 meters) thick.10 The three looms installed in 1681 apparently made a great profit, and the obraje expanded to sixteen looms in 1689. To support the obraje’s growing working population and to satisfy the monastery’s need for food, the monastery established a hacienda called Pucaguasi (Quechua for “red house”) in 1681.11 The scale of operations greatly increased from 1681 to 1689, judging by the difference in inventories (table 3.1). By 1689, the obraje of Pomacocha already needed to look farther afield for wool in Bombón, twenty-­five kilometers away. By 1689, Pomacocha would have employed around 240 Native Andeans as carders, spinners, weavers, warpers,

Table 3.1. Inventories of Pomacocha in 1681 and 1689 Inventory in 1681

Inventory in 1689

Additional items in 1689

26 oxen

103 oxen for plowing

2,000 arrobas of white wool

10 plowshares

31 plowshares

1,000 arrobas of black wool

26 spindle whorls

80 spindle whorls

83 pounds of indigo

31 spinning wheels

80 spinning wheels

2 bronze bells for the chapel

21 cranks (for spinning wheels)

80 cranks

1 ax

10 pairs of carding combs

50 pairs of carding combs

1 pruning shears

6 crowbars? (barretas)

8 crowbars?

2 pairs of scissors

12 spits

14 spits

2 sacks for measuring seeds

1 hoe

1 hoe

27 fanegas of barley seed

1 steelyard balance

2 steelyard balances

225 cattle

2 padlocks

7 padlocks

562 sheep

2 locks with bolts

2 locks with bolts

57 horses

1 bolt without a lock

(not listed in 1689)

30 donkeys

3 looms

16 looms

30 tinajas for dyes

1 warp loom

1 warp loom (implied)

2,000 pesos

1 large chisel

1 large chisel

2 adzes

2 adzes

1 large copper dish

4 large dishes for dyes

1 copper cauldron

2 cauldrons

2 footrests (escabeles)

2 footrests

1 iron pick

1 iron pick

1 flat iron

1 flat iron

1 top and bottom clothespress

1 top and bottom clothespress

1 small saw

1 small saw

1 bronze die? (dado)

1 bronze die (dado)

1 bronze rod? (gorrón)

1 bronze rod (gorrón)

15 fanegas of wheat

53 fanegas of wheat seed

1.5 fanegas of maize

51 fanegas of maize seed

4 fanegas of potatoes

13 fanegas of potatoes

72 • CHAPTER 3

dyers, pressers, fullers, and perchers. If we add the carpenter, blacksmith, majordomo, administrator, mule-­drivers, and porters, there were around 260 people fully employed by 1689. Because spinning wool was mostly done by women and children, the eighty spinning wheels show that there must have been over 100 women and children at Pomacocha, as it takes at least 2 people to work each wheel. The large number of coins (16,000 one real coins valued at 2,000 pesos) in the 1689 inventory was presumably to pay the workers and for buying necessary supplies from surrounding native communities. By 1694, the number of tax-­paying adult men (tributaries) granted to the obraje of Pomacocha had increased from 26 to 80.12 The three largest obrajes in the province of Vilcashuamán were Cacamarca, Chincheros, and Pomacocha. The size of Pomacocha’s working population was the second largest, after Cacamarca’s. Like Pomacocha, both Chincheros and Cacamarca greatly increased production from 1670 to 1700.13 Based on the inventories, Pomacocha’s production capacity was the greatest around 1717, when it had nineteen looms, one hundred spinning wheels, and fifty pairs of carding combs.14 The inventories also give clues to the functions of the obraje and labor organization. Agriculture and raising livestock were integral to the functioning of the obraje. Between agriculture, raising livestock, and textile manufacturing, the workers of Pomacocha were occupied year-­round in the activities of the obraje. The obraje was also where the workers received seeds

Figure 3.1. General configuration of the obraje of Pomacocha with an excerpt of a 1962 aerial photo from the Instituto Geográfico Nacional as backdrop. https://doi.org/10.6084/m9.figshare.13247492

RESISTANCE IN THE SHADOW OF THE WORKSHOP • 73

for planting. The numerous locks and padlocks show the importance of locked doors at the obraje. Spatial and labor organization became more complex as obrajes became Table 3.2. Types of spaces in an archetypal obraje Type of space

Essential?

Pomacocha

Patio(s)

Yes

Yes

Chapel on or near obraje premises

Yes

Yes

Water source and canal(s) flowing through obraje

Yes

Yes

Batán (fulling mill)

Yes

Yes

Majordomo’s room/house

Yes

Yes

Administrator’s house

Yes

Yes

Corridors and rooms for spinning

Yes

Yes

Rooms for weaving

Yes

Yes

Warp room(s)

Yes

Yes

Press room(s)

Yes

Yes

Dye room(s)

Yes

Yes

Corridors or rooms for carding wool

Yes

Yes

Corridors or rooms for brushing and evening the nap

Yes

Yes

Corridors or rooms for final inspections

Yes

Yes

Room of work assignments (tareador)

Yes

Yes

Kitchen and pantry

Yes

Yes

Storage room(s) for grains and food

Yes

Yes

Storage rooms for finished pieces

Yes

Yes

Storage rooms for raw materials and tools

Yes

Yes

Jail and dungeon

No

Yes

Mill for grinding flour

No

Yes

Forge

No

Yes

Carpenter’s quarter(s)

No

No

Chaplain’s quarter(s)

No

No

Jail guard quarter(s)

No

Yes

Garden

No

Yes

Animal pen(s)

No

Yes

Tannery

No

Yes

Hostel

No

Yes

Hospital

No

No

74 • CHAPTER 3

Table 3.3. Main types of obrajes Type

Description

Obrajes de la comunidad

Obrajes of the community: Obrajes installed in native communities for the express purpose of providing the tributaries means of earning cash to pay tribute tax. Spaniards generally ran these obrajes, though there were notable exceptions where native curacas or caciques (chiefs) owned or ran the obraje.

Obrajes enteros

Complete obrajes: Obrajes operated under royal license with a stipulated number of native workers. These obrajes had more than twelve looms and were often operated by religious orders.

Obrajes medios

Half obrajes: These obrajes had six to twelve looms.

Obrajes abiertos

Open obrajes: These privately owned obrajes were often illegal and operated without royal consent.

Chorrillos

Small textile workshop: Chorrillos were not technically obrajes because they had fewer than six looms. They did not have a fulling machine (batán) and were often operated by nuclear families.

more profitable. Obrajes increased the number of specialized spaces and roles.15 At their height, each obraje had multiple satellite haciendas to supply food and seeds for the workers of the obraje and ranches to ensure a stable supply of food and wool.16 Pomacocha was a typical obraje in form, being quadrangular with multiple interior patios (fig. 3.1).17 A chapel or church was always located in or near the premises of the typical obraje. A series of internal patios, each associated with a production stage, subdivided the obraje. Each patio had a series of rooms and/or a covered corridor around its perimeter. The main entrance of the obraje led into the principal patio. Every obraje needed to be near a water source, and running water by way of canals powered the fulling mill and the grist mill. The canals also allowed for cooking food and wool washing and dyeing. Usually, only the administrators, officials, and prisoners had dedicated living spaces inside the obraje; the workers slept in the work spaces among equipment.18 The average number of looms in the obrajes of the Virreinato of Perú was twelve.19 Obrajes, unlike smaller compounds such as trapiches and chorrillos, contained spaces for all stages of textile production and residence for a substantial number of specialized workers.20 Pomacocha had all the essential features of a typical obraje, with additional features (table 3.2).21 There were several types of obrajes (table 3.3).22 The obraje of Pomacocha was an obraje entero, or complete obraje, because it functioned

RESISTANCE IN THE SHADOW OF THE WORKSHOP • 75

under a royal license. Although illegal, administrators and majordomos of obrajes often shut in the workers, sometimes through the night, to prevent escape.23 Locking in workers led to catastrophic death tolls during earthquakes, for example in Tacunga (Ecuador) in 173624 and in Pomacocha and Cacamarca in 1716 and 1719. Work consumed the daily life of the workers at the obraje of Pomacocha. To a great degree, needs of the obraje dictated all aspects of their daily life, from eating, to sleeping, to social interaction, to political affiliation, and to daily tasks. While some workers did live outside the obraje walls, they were generally doing hacienda-­related activities. MAKING SOCIAL HIERARCHIES AND DIVISIONS

The obraje system was fragile, complex, inefficient, and costly; obrajes could only secure sufficient labor through coercion and the arm of the colonial law.25 Given their inefficiency, why were they long-­lived? I argue that the obraje was primarily designed to control and discipline its working population and secondarily to make a profit. Control of the working populace and making a profit are obviously not mutually exclusive, but administrators often acted in ways that lessened profits to increase (perceived) control. The obraje racialized and gendered labor organization. While the high degree of specialization could provide opportunity for sabotage,26 it could also serve as a method of socially separating the workers to prevent revolt. The hierarchical and specialized labor organization coupled with spatial division inside obrajes was intended to keep the potentially rebellious workers in check. Workers generally had only one role and were paid a specific wage for that role.27 By linking the hierarchies of caste and work tasks, obrajes reinforced social hierarchies. The workers were divided by competing interests: the elevation of one group necessarily depended on the subjugation of another. As each caste—Spanish, mestizo, and indio—had distinct privileges, they labored to maintain those privileges. Fluidity of movement from one caste to another was not born of a sense of egalitarianism but rather of the opposite. There was a distinct pattern in how people petitioned to switch their caste classification: always upward on the Spanish colonial hierarchy toward more Hispanicization because doing so would grant one further privileges. At the top, the administrator took care of the account books, made sales, and handled the money. The administrator was almost always Spanish. Below the administrator was the mayordomo, or majordomo, who was in charge of the daily running of the obraje: distributing tasks and equipment; managing the work schedule for the day; recording the daily productivity of the workers; distributing rations; unlocking and locking the doors to the work rooms, jail,

76 • CHAPTER 3

and storage rooms; and meting out punishment. The mayordomo was often a mestizo because speaking Quechua was absolutely necessary for the job, and they sometimes taught the administrator necessary Quechua phrases to communicate with the workers.28 Below the mayordomo were various people (maestrillos or guatacos) who acted as the “muscle” of the obraje: enforcing discipline, capturing escapees, guarding doors, and carrying out physical punishment. The people employed as muscle were rarely indigenous and mostly hailed from the mestizo or Afro-­ descendant castes.29 The widespread abuses carried out by the maestrillos of the obrajes prompted a series of royal decrees prohibiting the social mixing of castes.30 With little incentive to enforce these decrees, they were practically ignored.31 Also below the mayordomo, but of higher status than the indios, were skilled workers who repaired the tools of the obraje: blacksmiths and carpenters. Among the Indian workforce were elected leaders such as mayors (alcaldes) and foremen (caporales). A cook, usually female, was also hired. At the nearby obraje of Cacamarca, a sambo woman (African and Native Andean descent) was hired as the cook and was paid eight pesos a month.32 Obrajes were also known to have used coerced mita labor of Native Andean women as cooks.33 The bulk of the manual labor at obrajes in the colonial Andes was done by the indio caste. Within that labor force, work was gendered depending on the task: for example, spinners were usually female, and dyers and fullers were always male; tasks that went to the men had higher pay. Tributaries were supposed to be paid forty pesos and four reales a year for their work, but such decrees were not followed, and they were paid only if they fulfilled a daily quota. Children were supposed to be paid twenty-­four pesos and two reales a year, but they were often not compensated because they were helping their parents make the unrealistic quotas.34 Because the workers had to pay for their food and accommodation inside the obraje at elevated prices, most were indebted to the administrators and could never climb out of debt no matter how much they had worked, becoming debt slaves. Obrajes also ensnared debt slaves by giving large cash advances, which most would not be able to repay once they started working in the obraje due to the predatory charges for food and accommodation. At the obraje of Cacamarca, poor young illegitimate Spaniards (mozos españoles) and mestizos were employed as the maestrillos. Although paid the same as the Native Andean workers, the maestrillos had elevated status and authority because they were given nicer clothes. Inside obrajes, only the enslaved would be rationed tobacco, which set them apart from the native working populace. Mistrust festered between the “muscle” and the working populace

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in obrajes. According to the administrator at Cacamarca, the Native Andeans were terrified of the enslaved Black workers.35 The obraje of Cacamarca also employed Native Andean chasquis, or runners, to capture simarrones, or escaped enslaved people.36 Complaints of multiple broken ordinances regarding the prohibition of using castas, especially “negros” and mestizos, to physically punish Native Andeans in mines and obrajes attest to how these institutions commonly sowed racial mistrust and enacted social hierarchies. For example, at Cacamarca, the oldest of the three enslaved workers, Dionisio Pacheco, the guard of the main door, had escaped after many years of service when he was about ninety years old and afflicted with gout. According to the administrator, he probably escaped to his birthplace, the hacienda of Belén on the coast. The social rejection of enslaved Africans was enough to drive people like Dionisio away, risking punishment to escape to where they felt more a part of the community. We do not have evidence that the Pomacocha obraje used enslaved people, but we do know that their mayordomos were generally mestizo, so Pomacocha’s maestrillos may have included mestizos as well.37 The obraje, by using mestizos and people of African descent as the vehicles of punishment, reproduced stereotypes that people of different castes were natural enemies of each other. Distinct, naturalized roles for the castes were often reenacted in obrajes for social control. In Spanish colonial documents where Native Andeans petitioned for justice, a familiar trope was to emphasize the natural enmity of the casta (caste) categories.38 A common racial stereotype was that of the Black enslaved worker carrying out physical punishment on the Indian at the behest of the Spaniard.39 Such stereotypes also extended to mestizo-­indio relations. A contemporary prosecutor said obrajes were maintained like prisons because their doors were always shut and guarded by maestrillos and guatacos of “bad condition and quality,” who forced the Native Andeans to work under threat of lashing. He described the maestrillos or guatacos as “mulatos, negros, zambos, or mestizos” and called them “cruel men, and enemies of the Indians.”40 Outside of obrajes and other coercive Spanish labor institutions, especially in urban settings, cultural and economic intercaste interactions were generally amicable.41 THE PRISON MANUFACTORY COMPLEX AND MAKING COLONIAL CAPITALISM

How did the obraje contribute to the development of capitalism? Coercion and collusion with the state characterized colonial capitalism, as opposed to being based on the free wage labor of industrial capitalism.42 The concept of colonial

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capitalism is consistent with Braudel’s conception of capitalism because production was not strictly capitalistic in the Marxist sense of alienated laborers working in factories with expensive equipment.43 Braudel emphasized the role that the state played in the triumph of capitalism.44 Unlike Marx, Braudel did not see capitalism as characterized by any one type of production, such as domestic economies versus manufactories. Rather, capitalists were characterized by predatory adaptability in inserting capital in a variety of enterprises, depending on opportunity to make profit.45 While capitalism often did result in increased specialization and division of labor, it was not the aim of capitalists to restructure labor organization for its own sake.46 The capitalists at every turn aimed to monopolize access to capital with the help of the state.47 Capitalists did not create hierarchy, but capitalism flourished in areas where social hierarchies were strong and cheap labor thus plentiful.48 Braudel emphasized how capitalism encroached on daily market relations, eroded viability of alternative economies, and reinforced hierarchies. Because obrajes sapped the labor of Native Andeans and enacted social hierarchies, they were incubators of colonial capitalism. Obrajes had to rely on the coercive power of the state to secure labor.49 The obraje was an integral part of both the mita labor draft and the reparto system of forced purchase of merchandise that characterized colonial capitalism. The obraje was part of what I call the prison manufactory complex,50 which targeted Native Andeans. After the Crown charged Jorge Juan and Antonio de Ulloa with a fact-­ finding mission to Ecuador and Peru (1737–45), they wrote a scathing indictment of endemic corruption and abuse of natives.51 Juan and Ulloa’s complaints centered on the endemic abuse of Indians by corrupt local authorities, such as corregidores, clergy, and Spanish estate owners.52 Obrajes in particular were singled out as responsible for the worst abuses of Indians.53 Although forced labor drafts to obrajes had declined significantly by the eighteenth century, the practice of forcing Native Andeans to buy European goods at elevated prices (reparto) proliferated in the eighteenth century. The reparto led to debt and then imprisonment of the workers in obrajes as debt slaves. The reparto had succeeded where the mita had failed and successfully coerced a large working population into debt slavery. Although the reparto was officially illegal until the late 1750s, Spanish colonial elites had no financial incentive to carry out the law, given how much profit they made. In addition to corregidores imposing the reparto on their Native Andean subjects, there was a myriad of ways debt slavery in obrajes could occur. Native Andeans could easily fall into debt if they were double charged for tax or not paid high enough wages to offset the costs that the obrajes imposed for shelter and food. By the early eighteenth century, the widespread illegal practices of the

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reparto and debt slavery provided significant capital to the Spanish elite.54 For example, from 1701 to 1719, the workers of Pomacocha endured harsh debt slavery under the administration of Spaniards Alonso García de Araujo and his brother-­in-­law Domingo López del Pozo.55 To pay off their personal debts of 30,000 pesos, they made the workers of Pomacocha debt slaves. Thirty thousand pesos amounted to around 80,000 days’ wages, or 220 years for one person. There were more than 200 people working in the Pomacocha obraje during this time, and theoretically, it should have been possible to pay off the 30,000-­peso debt within five years. These debts, according to the workers of Pomacocha, were accrued due to the illegal trade in foreign cloths such as Brittany and Cambric, which the administrators also forced the workers to buy (with their labor) at exceedingly elevated prices. The complaint did not make clear whether the workers actually received the goods at the outset, as was usually the case with reparto debts. That the debt was still not fulfilled after 18 years of labor testifies to the administrators’ charging prices for lodging and food that exceeded the workers’ wages. García de Araujo and López del Pozo’s trade in illegal luxury cloth needed a continuous flow of significant capital, and debt slavery provided that capital. Debt slavery was risky as a business strategy due to a lack of resilience to external demographic and economic shocks. Once demand dried up for the luxury cloth, due to depression of the economy from a combination of piracy, stricter laws, epidemics, labor shortages, and earthquakes, the administrators found themselves with considerable debt and not enough flow of capital to pay the debt. In 1723, López del Pozo and the relatives and heirs of the recently perished García de Araujo settled a considerable sum of debt (125,115 pesos) in favor of Don Domingo Rodriguez de Muiñoss.56 To put this amount of money into perspective, a dozen eggs at the time cost about a real, which was an eighth of a peso. The daily pay for obraje workers was 2 to 4 reales a day. The debt incurred by the administrators and their immediate families was equivalent to at least $10 million today. Imported cloth was exorbitantly expensive, and the administrators probably borrowed the money to buy such cloth. As the corregidor of Vilcashuamán province, García de Araujo would have had the power to siphon off labor and cash from hidden Native Andean tributaries. Corregidores forcing the sale of European luxury goods on Native Andeans was common during the 1730s and 1740s.57 But the severely reduced native population, due to epidemics and earthquakes, greatly reduced the ability to siphon off surplus. Colonial capitalism was brutal and exploitative toward Native Andean and Afro-­Andean populations. Classic characterizations of capitalism do not emphasize the active role of the workers themselves in the creation of or resistance

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against landscapes of capitalism.58 Capitalism is assumed to overpower all competing ideologies and economic practices once established. Capitalists are seen as active and dynamic, whereas laborers, domestic economies, and daily markets are conservative and reactionary abstract units that “receive” the changes brought by capitalism rather than possessing dynamism of their own.59 In reality, far from being passive victims, unfree and enslaved laborers in the Andes actively undermined colonial capitalism and its proscriptions against cross-­caste mixing. Next, I show how people from diverse social backgrounds frustrated colonial capitalism by creating social contracts of custom (costumbre) and forming cross-­caste political alliances to protect these social contracts. MAKING COMMUNITY THROUGH DEFENDING COSTUMBRE

In the eyes of the Spanish, an ideal obraje reified what they thought were natural social hierarchies. According to this line of reasoning, the enforcement of natural hierarchies produced obedient and productive native subjects. Native Andeans were characterized as naturally lazy and unmotivated by money, and they needed to be coerced to work.60 Native Andeans made coercive colonial capitalism unprofitable in the long run through collective political action. One of the main ways workers resisted was collectively defending costumbre. Costumbre resembled Inca-­period obligations between the Inca elite and their subjects, in which gift giving masked exploitative working conditions. The Spaniards, like the Incas, were notorious for taking advantage of and encouraging social tensions by selectively doling out privileges as part of a divide-­and-­rule strategy to quell rebellion.61 While a labor institution that upheld costumbre still exploited its workers, defending costumbre mitigated vicious enforcements of social hierarchies and proscription of social mixing. Collectively defending costumbre formed the basis of community identity in labor institutions like the obraje and hacienda. In a politically unstable world full of corruption, the stability and sense of community that costumbre offered to workers made certain obrajes and haciendas bearable, though still exploitative, places to work. Labor institutions that adhered to costumbre encountered fewer legal complaints by the workers and were more profitable because of less sabotage and a decreased need to hire extra muscle. Workers defended costumbre and established a sense of community, especially at obrajes where the administrators and mayordomos were adept at gift giving and playing the role of the benevolent lord or father.62 Legal complaints usually cited violation of costumbre but did not call for the abolition of labor institutions as a whole.63 In obrajes and haciendas, costumbre referred to a

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variety of obligations, including the daily quota of finished materials, amount of grain distributed to the workers for agriculture, ration amounts, punctual payment in cash and clothes, number of rest days, gifts on holidays, and the administrators paying for funeral or baptism costs.64 The obraje of Pomacocha established a culture of costumbre from its founding. The nuns of Santa Clara emphasized that the tributaries granted to work for them did not have to go personally to Huancavelica and only had to pay their chiefs and cobradores (tax collectors) the tribute tax. Additionally, the administrators of the obraje and haciendas handled the workers’ contributions by deducting from their salaries. The nuns of Santa Clara affirmed their paternalistic protection at the outset: “If any corregidor, cacique, or cobrador wishes to do [the workers] harm or cause them trouble, it is necessary for this monastery as owners to speak up and defend them.”65 The negotiated rule between the administrators and workers at Pomacocha was typical of Hapsburg rule: “Premised on the simultaneous protection and exploitation of native peoples, the practices of negotiated rule became costumbre, enshrined and established custom, especially within native villages.”66 What happened when costumbre was violated? At Pomacocha, the violation of costumbre spurred collective political action in the form of sabotage, legal complaints, and, finally, fleeing en masse. Before 1780, the only lapse of costumbre at Pomacocha occurred under the Spanish administrators García de Araujo and López del Pozo, the brothers-­in-­law who rented and administered the obraje and its haciendas from 1701 until 1719. They were immigrants from the Galician region in Spain and had rapidly climbed the ladders of power aided by the profits of Pomacocha.67 García de Araujo and López del Pozo violated costumbre and the law in many ways. According to Nicolás Huamán, the elected mayor of the Pomacocha workers, they were forced to work from four in the morning until eleven at night and were not given customary days of rest on Sundays and festivals. Even the children as young as eight were obliged to work in the obraje to pay off the debts of seventy or eighty pesos a year per child. The children worked without the permission of the tutor of their school and unbeknownst to the Protector of Natives. The Condes, the larger ethnic group to which the community of Pomacocha belonged, paid thirty pesos a year for a tutor to teach their children to speak and write Spanish and to become fluent in the Catholic doctrine, which were crucial to their success in the Spanish legal system.68 By depriving their children of their right to learn, the administrators violated an important part of costumbre at the obraje of Pomacocha. During López del Pozo and García de Araujo’s brutal administration, the communities of Pomacocha and Vischongo were still politically unified. The

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natives sabotaged dyeing operations and squatted on ancestral lands in Molinopampa and Chacapampa to bring work to a halt around 1712.69 Regarding the sabotage, the Monastery of Santa Clara and the administrators blamed sea pirates for hampering the acquisition of indigo and other materials, which forced the suspension of activities “for a considerable time . . . to the prejudice of the . . . renters.”70 This stated reason is suspect because none of the materials, including indigo, were impossible to acquire from terrestrial trade, and none of the accounting documents from the obrajes of Vilcashuamán ever showed a reliance on trade by sea. At that time, neither the obraje of Chincheros nor Cacamarca reported any suspension of work due to the lack of supplies. The suspension of work was likely partly due to sabotage by the workers. Indigo dye, for example, could be spent quickly by adding more than was needed or by flushing it down the numerous canals that ran through the obraje. Even though work was suspended, the administrators were able to convince the monastery that they needed a new batán, or fulling mill, and canal. Also suspicious was the fact that the administrators “purchased” for 200 pesos from the community of Vischongo the lands of Chacapampa and Molinopampa, on which to construct the aforementioned fulling mill and canal, even though those lands already had legally belonged to the monastery for more than thirty years. Conflict with the community of Vischongo and with the workers of Pomacocha likely contributed to the suspension. The administrators and the monastery probably believed that having a permanent building on the contested lands would prevent further squatting by the Condes of Vischongo. The 200 pesos paid for the purchase of these lands was probably a bribe, as there was no legal necessity to pay for lands that the monastery already owned. It is also possible that the administrators had forced the workers of Pomacocha to build the aforementioned fulling mill, as Nicolás Huamán had complained about the administrators forcing them to work for free in faena, or unpaid communal, building projects. Natural disaster finally ousted García de Araujo and López del Pozo from their posts in 1719. Toward the end of their administration, several major disasters struck Pomacocha. The first was a major earthquake that destroyed the obraje in 1716, and another major earthquake shook the region in 1719, this time destroying both the obrajes of Pomacocha and Cacamarca. The third was the Great Andean Epidemic of 1718–26, which ravaged the Vilcashuamán area from 1720 until 1726. Upward of two-­thirds of the native population perished in the epidemic, probably of influenza and/or plague.71 Although we do not have statistics for Pomacocha, the nearby Cacamarca obraje lost three-­ quarters of its workforce (three hundred workers out of about four hundred) due to the epidemic,72 and Pomacocha would have seen similar devastation.

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With Pomacocha’s working population devastated by exploitation, earthquakes, and epidemics, the obraje did not resume operations until its reconstruction in 1723. The workers of Pomacocha put forth the formal complaint against López del Pozo and the relatives of García de Araujo in 1729, ten years after they left their administration. The nuns of Santa Clara appointed Friar Lorenzo Gómez as the administrator from 1720 until 1729, when López del Pozo and others ousted him from his position to take charge of the Pomacocha obraje once again. Because the ex-­administrator tried again to pass off debt onto the workers of Pomacocha, the workers of Pomacocha organized to prevent a repeat of their suffering. Allegedly, the workers of Pomacocha preferred the “smooth and gentle” administration of Friar Gómez.73 Spanish witnesses testified that they never saw any of the workers at Pomacocha imprisoned and declared that Friar Gómez treated the workers “with much charity, aiding them with food, clothing and money.”74 According to the witnesses, Friar Gómez treated the native workers of Pomacocha and the mestizo prisoners so well that when he was removed from his post by the corregidor general Don Gregorio de Vega y Romani (an ally of López del Pozo and García de Araujo) the workers fled the obraje en masse on two occasions and complained against his removal to the Monastery of Santa Clara. Only when Friar Gómez was restored to his position did the workers voluntarily come back.75 The unusually high rate of absenteeism in Pomacocha in the 1729 census supports the claim that the workers fled en masse. Forty-­six tributaries were listed as absent, out of a total of seventy-­nine.76 One of the Spanish witnesses, Francisco Aruisuri of Vilcashuamán, was the tutor of the Conde children of Pomacocha. Aruisuri said that Friar Gómez was so benevolent that even the prisoners, who were from other provinces, chose to stay in the obraje once their sentences were done and were only incarcerated at night. In his 1729 complaint, Huamán and the community of Pomacocha saw the tutor as an ally, and given that the tutor only had good things to say about Friar Gómez, it is clear that the workers of Pomacocha preferred Gómez as administrator. Gómez respected costumbre through his prompt payments, lack of physical punishment, allowing a tutor, giving of gifts and money for special occasions, and for his unwillingness to shut the workers in. García de Araujo and López del Pozo subleased the lands of Pomacocha to various mestizos and Spaniards, to the prejudice of the Native Andean workers who claimed usufruct rights. By allowing the use of Pomacocha lands to outsiders, García de Araujo and López del Pozo violated the costumbre of the obraje. When Friar Gómez tried to put a stop to this so that the workers could enjoy the use of Pomacocha’s lands, he became the target of many accusations. One witness, the Spaniard Domingo de Gamboa, summed up the reasons for

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the lawsuits against Friar Gómez: “All of the lawsuits originated from the said Father’s defense of the lands and pastures of the Monastery, and the residents of this pueblo [Vilcashuamán] wanted to appropriate [the lands] because they controlled those lands in the time when the renters [García de Araujo and López del Pozo] administered the obraje; Father Lorenzo treats the Indians well and pays their daily wages on time, as he does with all the employees of the aforementioned obraje.”77 By 1734, Friar Gómez was reinstated to the administration of Pomacocha,78 as a result of the coordinated escapes and petitioning of the workers of Pomacocha. Nevertheless, paternalistic costumbre had a dark side. Friar Gómez ran the obraje of Pomacocha like a mafia don, inspiring loyalty through fear and baubles. Gómez manipulated the community of Pomacocha to usurp more native land from Vischongo and to threaten his numerous political enemies. Gómez drove a wedge between Vischongo and Pomacocha, which, up until his administration, had been politically close. Martin Acha, a former community member of Vischongo, had moved to the obraje of Pomacocha, and Friar Goméz incorporated Acha’s usufruct lands called Mishcabamba into Pomacocha’s. Don Juan Canchumanta, representing the community of Vischongo, complained that Acha did not own the lands of Mishcabamba, which legally belonged to the community of Vischongo. Canchumanta argued that although Acha did have the lands of Mishcabamba distributed to him for his use, he forfeited all rights when he moved to the obraje of Pomacocha. Acha claimed that his ancestors had purchased the lands and had the legal titles for them, but through “trickery,” the leaders of Vischongo had taken them away. Friar Gómez defended Acha’s claim to Mishcabamba to annex it to the lands of Pomacocha.79 Mishcabamba was clearly titled to the communities of Vischongo and Tincoc and not to Pomacocha.80 Canchumanta’s complaint showed that Friar Gómez ostensibly acted in favor of the workers of Pomacocha, defending their ancestral usufruct rights, but to the detriment of the communal lands of Vischongo. Friar Gómez had also allowed the native community members of the nearby village of Vilcashuamán to use the extensive pastures of Pomacocha and had given them gifts and money on special occasions.81 By attracting workers from nearby native communities, and subsequently defending their usufruct rights, administrators like Friar Gómez were able to use paternalism to further usurp native communal land and divide political loyalties among native communities. Friar Gómez’s apparent “benevolence” was in the interests of the nuns of Santa Clara not in the interests of the workers. Gómez knew that having numerous Native Andean allies in the area would protect him from his Spanish political enemies, the powerful and numerous family members and allies of

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the ex-­administrators. Gómez leveraged the workers of Pomacocha as muscle to prevent the tithe collector from collecting tithes from the workers and from the obraje. According to the tithe collector Don Josef de Oré in 1736, Gómez had continuously refused to pay tithes and impeded the tithe collectors from collecting tithes from the Native Andean, Spanish, and mestizo workers of Pomacocha. Gómez had argued that because Pomacocha was official church property of the nuns of Santa Clara, they were exempt from tithes, but Oré argued that this was never official custom. In Gómez’s eyes, the fact that he never paid tithes amounted to established custom. The government assigned a judge named Don Calisto del Pino to enforce tithe collection at Pomacocha, but the judge soon wrote a letter of resignation, saying Gómez had fulfilled the tithe debts. Strangely, the judge also asked to be posted far away, in Ongoy. Oré then complained that while the judge had cooperated with the legal proceedings initially, Gómez had threatened the judge and that now they were in cahoots. According to Oré, the workers of Pomacocha and its haciendas only supported Gómez because they were threatened with punishment.82 Gómez was an iron fist in a velvet glove. In the long run, an administration characterized by respect for costumbre was more profitable than a brutal and coercive one. By providing small perks and protection from the mercury mines labor draft, obrajes could attract and keep labor without resorting primarily to force. The obraje workers were less likely to flee en masse and sabotage production, leading to better efficiency and higher profits. As labor became scarce due to epidemics, exploitation, and earthquakes in the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, labor institutions competed to attract Native Andean labor through generous costumbre. Under Friar Gómez’s costumbre-­respecting administration, Pomacocha was so successful that the nuns of the Monastery of Santa Teresa of Huamanga, the owners of the obraje of Cacamarca, complained about how the Monastery of Santa Clara was obscenely wealthy and how they themselves languished in poverty: “We find ourselves poorer and with much less rent than the nuns of Santa Clara because they quickly accumulate surplus thousands [of pesos] in their bank as a matter of fact, and what we receive from censos and nothing else, we cannot even get a real to eat a piece of bread.”83 The obraje of Cacamarca already had a royal exemption for forty-­seven tributaries and their families, but the working population had increased.84 To compete with Pomacocha in attracting labor, the Monastery of Santa Teresa petitioned for thirty years to secure an exemption from the Huancavelica mercury mine labor draft for all of their workers and were finally successful in doing so in 1748.85 By 1736, the workers of the obraje of Pomacocha acted as a separate political community from Vischongo, as now they had competing interests. Huamán

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was not acting in the “voice and name” of the community of Vischongo but of the Indian workers of the obraje of Pomacocha. The earthquake and epidemics also played a factor, decimating most of the original population of Pomacocha, who were politically unified with Vischongo. In-­migration from other provinces and other castes also changed the demographic composition of Pomacocha. The intercaste alliances in the battles over Pomacocha lands reveal that the juridical trope of natural intercaste enmity was not the dominant political reality. At Pomacocha, social control manifested in costumbre much more than in the explicit social division of its working populace along caste lines, and this resulted in a degree of political unity among the native workers. This political unity was useful to counterbalance the administrators’ abuses of costumbre. Depending on whom the administrator was, strategies of control could be radically different, from the strategy of coercive plunder to upholding costumbre. MAKING SOCIAL DIVISION AND COMMUNITY THROUGH ARCHITECTURE

What was the potential for control and surveillance inside the Pomacocha obraje? Was the obraje spatially more conducive to social integration or social division? The analysis of architectural plans to show how they affected social interaction and reflected dominant ideologies has been a fruitful avenue of research in archaeology.86 Space syntax is a set of quantitative methodologies used to describe the social potentials of built environments and is particularly suited to the analysis of architecture.87 In conjunction with other lines of evidence that provide social and historical context, space syntax analysis is a powerful tool for understanding the spatial dimensions of social cohesion.88 From colonial descriptions of the internal organization of the Pomacocha obraje, it is possible to identify the functions of most of the rooms and patios.89 The obraje’s internal organization was complex, with multiple subdivisions (fig. 3.2).90 There were four quadrants, each with a different activity focus, and three patios related to the obraje’s textile production. The main patio (southeast quadrant) housed administrative activities, hosteling, blacksmithing, carpentry, and activities related to the later stages of textile production (e.g., dyeing); this was also the location of the only entrance to the compound. The fulling mill, kitchen, animal pens, and eating area were located in the southwest quadrant. The northwest quadrant was the main part of the textile workshop, where the spinning, carding, warping, and weaving occurred. The jail cells were also located in this quadrant. The northeast quadrant was probably where

Figure 3.2. Architectural layout of the obraje, functions of the rooms reconstructed from colonial descriptions, archaeological excavations, and geophysical survey. 0, main entrance; 1, majordomo’s quarters; 2, granary/storage for blue dyes; 3, room for black dyes; 4–5, rooms for dyeing wool and storage of ash; 6–7, unknown; 8–9, forge; 10, refurbished room; 11, hallway; 12a–12b, rooms for officials and guards of the jail; 13, hallway; 14, spun wool storage room; 15, storage room of finished pieces; 16, storage room of wool; 17, batán?; 18–20, worker eating/sleeping areas; 21, kitchen; 22, pantry; 23, kitchen patio; 24–26, 1iving quarters of the administrator; 27, porch of administrator’s house; 28, guest room; 29, breadmaking room/dining room; 30, principal patio; 31, corral (washing, drying, raising the nap, and inspecting finished cloth area?); 32, weaving room; 33, tara storage room; 34, women’s jail; 35, men’s jail; 36, main work patio; 37, hallway; 38, storage room for trosos de pañete (pieces of cloth); 39, tareador or work assignment room; 40, storage room; 41, secondary work patio/tanning hides area; 42, gallery for spinning wool; 43, garden? https://doi.org/10.6084/m9.figshare.13247501

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the gardens of the obraje were located. The obraje was largely self-­sufficient, and activities were spatially prescribed. A justified access graph of the obraje shows that, overall, the architectural layout was more conducive to social separation than social integration because it was more “treelike” than “ringy” (fig. 3.3). A treelike justified access structure meant that there was a hierarchy of spaces, going from more to less integrated and that one had to pass through more integrated spaces to get to less integrated spaces, whereas a ringy justified access structure showed that the architectural layout had more flexibility in how people could circulate through the spaces.91 Despite its overall treelike structure, the obraje of Pomacocha nevertheless demonstrated both hierarchical treelike structure and integrative ringlike structure. The justified access graph represents the relationship of the spaces within the obraje when all the doors were open, showing some ringy integration. If, however, certain doors were closed, the structure would be even more treelike. The architecture of the obraje of Pomacocha, therefore, could promote both social integration and social separation given how one configured the doorways. Under administrators who used more coercion and shutting in of workers, the spatial structure of the obraje would serve social separation, whereas under administrators such as Friar Gómez, who relied more on costumbre to motivate the workers, the obraje could be a socially integrative space.

Figure 3.3. Justified access graph of the obraje of Pomacocha created with AGRAPH. Numbers correspond to fig. 3.2. Darker circles mean lower integration. https://doi.org/10.6084/m9.figshare.13247483

Figure 3.4. Intervisibility graph of the obraje of Pomacocha. Toward white is more intervisible, and toward black is less intervisible. The unit of analysis is a one-by-one-meter cell. https://doi.org/10.6084/m9.figshare.13247486

Figure 3.5. Histogram of intervisibility indices at the obraje of Pomacocha showing overall high intervisibility. https://doi.org/10.6084/m9.figshare.13247507

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An analysis of the patterns of visibility showed that surveillance capacity of the architecture of the obraje was high. The intervisibility of any one-­by-­one-­ meter space in the obraje was measured by the number of one-­by-­one-­meter cells visible from that particular space. Inside the obraje, the architectural layout ensured high intervisibility in most areas (figs. 3.4 and 3.5). The kitchen had the lowest intervisibility, and the principal patio, where later stages of textile production occurred and where the majordomo’s and the administrator’s quarters were, had the highest intervisibility. The architecture of the obraje also was conducive to corralling the working populace. First, the walls were over six meters high and a meter thick, ensuring effective enclosure of the workers and minimizing opportunities for escape. There was only one entrance to the whole compound, and the workers had to pass through more than one door to exit the compound. An axial line analysis and convex space integration analysis of the obraje show that the most integrated and connective space was the main patio of the obraje, and the second-­most integrated and connective was the patio around which most of the textile production occurred (figs. 3.6 and 3.7). The axial line and convex space integration analyses are consistent with the archival evidence that show that most of the daily activities centered on these two patios. Most of the axial lines pass through one or more doors, and because axial lines are good proxies for traffic, opening and shutting of doors could easily regulate the working populace’s social interaction.92

Figure 3.6. Connectivity (left) and integration (right) of axial lines. Toward black are higher indices and toward white are lower indices. The most integrated path passes in front of the administrator’s house. https://doi.org/10.6084/m9.figshare.13247552

RESISTANCE IN THE SHADOW OF THE WORKSHOP • 91

Figure 3.7. Integration of convex spaces at the obraje of Pomacocha. Toward white is more integrated. Toward black is less integrated. https://doi.org/10.6084/m9.figshare.13247504

The justified access graph, intervisibility analysis, and axial line analysis appear to show that the areas where Native Andean workers, especially the women and children, did the most work were more private and farther away from the more public areas of the principal patio. Generally, earlier stages of textile production occurred in deeper parts of the obraje, whereas the later stages, such as dyeing, which were usually done by men, occurred in shallower areas (closer to the main entrance). The principal patio was also the center of activity for people of more highly ranked castes: españoles and mestizos. It was also a male space, in that only activities associated with men occurred there. The space inside the obraje of Pomacocha was organized to divide and rank people by occupation, caste, and gender. The space syntax analyses also show that the obraje of Pomacocha was flexible in design depending on the status of the doors. The obraje was self-­ sufficient, and, under costumbre-­respecting administrators like Friar Gómez,

92 • CHAPTER 3

it was a socially integrative place. The layout of the obraje contributed to the workers of Pomacocha developing a political and cultural identity distinct from the community of Vischongo. Before, under the administration of López del Pozo and García de Araujo, the workers of Pomacocha were still politically and culturally unified with the community of Vischongo. In contrast to the closed-­door policy of López del Pozo and García de Araujo, Gómez’s open-­ door policy aided in the social integration (and self-­policing) of workers from diverse social castes inside the obraje of Pomacocha. MAKING COMMENSAL COMMUNITY

Commensality, or eating together, makes community. Who eats with whom and how they eat reproduce divisions in wider society.93 Commensal practices, therefore, provide a powerful lens in understanding past social landscapes. What was commensality like inside textile workshops like Pomacocha? What did people eat? Did they have enough? Did they eat in small or large groups? How did commensal practices contribute to social integration or division? What are the long-­term implications of commensality inside the textile workshop of Pomacocha? Using multiple lines of evidence, including archival, ceramic, botanical, and faunal, I show that the workers of typical obrajes like Pomacocha overcame scarcity through cooperative acquisition of additional food sources inside the walls of the obraje. Generally, workers ate together in large groups, increasing social integration among diverse groups over time. Eating together in large groups occurred daily as well as on special occasions and became a cherished custom—costumbre—that blunted the edge of exploitation. Nevertheless, prisoners, a separate population from the normal workers, ate alone or in small groups. An important implication is that as the prisoner population increased in the late eighteenth century, costumbre in commensality was violated. The violation of communal commensal costumbre through expanding prison commensal culture was a notable source of anger toward Spanish labor institutions during the late colonial general rebellions of the Andes. The bulk of colonial descriptions of diet in obrajes come from either legal cases against obrajes or from political treatises hostile to the obraje as an institution. These descriptions generally emphasized the insufficient quantity and quality of available food inside obrajes. The available food was also a financial liability for the workers because they had to pay the administrators elevated prices for it. Obrajes mostly paid the workers in overpriced food rations and from the cloth that the workers produced. The workers would fall into further debt because they were paid less in the market value of cloth and paid more than the market value for food.

RESISTANCE IN THE SHADOW OF THE WORKSHOP • 93

To survive in the obraje, the workers often had to supplement their diet with food provided by relatives outside the obraje. For example, in a court case against abusive obrajes in the Audiencia of Quito (Ecuador), witnesses described how the obraje of Otavalo had such paltry and inedible rations that the women would carry totora roots to their relatives imprisoned in the obraje to consume.94 In the same case report, a witness described how the rations were “indecent” and consisted of rotten leather and fragments and cuts of fruits that were collected from the kitchen trash. Other witnesses testified that rations consisted of a half a pound of meat, salt, and chili pepper each day. The workers were often paid in sweets called “Rezo Latinos” at elevated prices. Although these sweets were worth only four to six reales a unit, the administrators valued them at forty-­eight reales. The workers would sell the Rezo Latinos and use the money to buy mazamorras, chicha, and cane alcohol (aguardiente de caña). The meat rations sold to the workers were from animals that had died of disease and were thrown to the dogs.95 About ninety years later, General William Miller described the obraje diet in much the same way. According to Miller, the workers were paid so little they were only just able to afford chicha.96 Because the workers were not allowed outside of the obraje, the administrator sold to the workers the lowest-­quality food rations for half a real, which consisted of maize or barley that had become rotten in the granaries of the obraje and of meat from cattle that died from disease. Many workers thus died of hunger. Miller saw this for himself: “The view of the bodies of these persons, when they are brought out dead from such houses, would move the most flinty heart to compassion. They are mere skeletons[,] . . . and they often expire in the performance of the tasks allotted to them, with the very instruments of labour in their hands; for notwithstanding the symptoms of their dreadful malady manifested in their looks, the barbarous task-­masters do not consider it a sufficient reason to exempt them from labour, or to be at the expense of medical aid.”97 Although politically motivated, the descriptions nevertheless did describe the food situation in the most exploitative obrajes. There was much continuity in what foods the workers of the Pomacocha obraje and its haciendas produced and consumed over many years. A 1736 document revealed that the majordomos, Native Andean, mestizo, and Spanish workers of Pomacocha grew and made food for the obraje, a portion of which they kept as payment for their labor. Maize was the principal food. Other foods included potatoes, barley, wheat, peas, quinoa, beans, and cheese.98 The obraje of Pomacocha also raised sheep, goats, pigs, and cattle on its lands. In 1793, there was a piggery with nine pigs and a pen for three cows in the patio of the kitchen, showing that the obraje also raised its own animals for

94 • CHAPTER 3

consumption.99 According to the 1793 document, foods consumed in the obraje included beans, peas, barley, colored chili (ají colorado), maize, aguardiente liquor, cheese, bread, potato, dried meat, lard, and wheat.100 An orchard inside the obraje had peach, pear, and apple trees. The renters were supposed to send half of the fruit as well as a portion of the livestock offspring to the monastery for its sustenance.101 The colonial documents on Pomacocha and other obrajes suggest that a cook hired by the administration cooked for everyone.102 The kitchen at Pomacocha and at other Vilcashuamán obrajes was located in the same compound so that the workers did not need to leave the compound to eat. Written information about obraje foodways comes from either people who were politically motivated against obrajes or from the official account books of the obraje administrators. Thus, archaeology can provide a valuable independent

Figure 3.8. Excavation units (1 to 6) in the obraje of Pomacocha. The compound currently functions as a high school. See chapter 3 note 90 for sources used in the reconstruction of the functions of the rooms. https://doi.org/10.6084/m9.figshare.13247525

RESISTANCE IN THE SHADOW OF THE WORKSHOP • 95

perspective on what obraje foodways were like. The archaeological evidence from Pomacocha points to two different types of commensality that existed at the same time, one for the normal workers and one for the prison workers. Nearly all of the archaeological remains related to food (ceramic, botanical, and faunal) were recovered from two areas in the obraje, in a midden near the kitchen, associated with normal workers, and in the jail cells, associated with prison workers (fig. 3.8). Detailed descriptions of the excavation and identification of these excavated units are found elsewhere, and only the archaeological material recovered from the colonial contexts are analyzed here.103 The midden (Locus 10) was deposited around the time of the earthquakes because it was covered by large pieces of broken roof tile (Locus 9) and contained a lot of burned wood, interpreted as a collapsed roof or as the intentional covering of the midden with recently broken roof tiles (fig. 3.9). There was a high density of stones, roof tiles, charred remains, ceramics, fragmentary egg shells, and animal bones. The ceramic remains were mainly from large stew pots or ollas. Among the unusual ceramic pieces were a piece of Chinese polychrome overglaze porcelain from the Kangxi or Qianlong period of the Qing Dynasty (1654–1799), three pieces of the same Spanish majolica dish, a

Figure 3.9. Northern profile of the one-by-one-meter extension of Unit 1. Note the relationship between Locus 9 (roof tiles) and Locus 10 (midden). https://doi.org/10.6084/m9.figshare.13247510

96 • CHAPTER 3

Figure 3.10. Notable ceramics from Locus 10, midden. Top row, left to right: Native Andean modeled ceramic piece, Qing dynasty porcelain, and broken spindle whorl. Bottom row, left to right: Spanish majolica 1, Spanish majolica 2, and Spanish majolica 3. https://doi.org/10.6084/m9.figshare.13247495

broken spindle whorl made from a roof tile, and a modeled fragment of pottery with a style reminiscent of the Late Intermediate Period (fig. 3.10). From the archival documents, the area was interpreted as the food preparation and animal pen area, and the contents of the midden support this interpretation. The midden itself was deposited in a short time frame, possibly all at once given the absence of internal stratigraphy, its overall looseness, and its overwhelmingly food-­and kitchen-­related nature. Three pieces of evidence suggest that commensality differed between normal workers and the prison workers. First, the midden, associated with normal obraje workers, contained larger than normal ollas. A total of forty-­two rim fragments were recovered from the colonial contexts inside the obraje. Removing the rim fragments that were part of the same vessel, there were forty rims represented. The average diameter of the rims in the midden was twenty-­three centimeters and many belonged to large ollas that would have been able to hold enough food and liquid for large numbers of people. There was no statistical difference between the rims found in the jail cells (mean of 15.9 centimeters) and Yanawilka (mean of 15.8 centimeters), indicating that the prisoners may have prepared or consumed food in smaller groups away from the nonprisoner workers of the obraje.

RESISTANCE IN THE SHADOW OF THE WORKSHOP • 97

Second, as evident in the ceramic assemblage, the normal workers and the prison workers had different table practices. In the midden, the ratio of unrestricted to restricted forms was nearly 1:1. For the jail cell contexts, the ratio is approximately 1:4.3, which is the same as at Yanawilka. Again, the difference between the kitchen-­associated midden compared to the jail cell contexts is highlighted. The midden context (Unit 1) had more ceramic serving vessels such as plates or bowls relative to cooking or storage vessels. This difference shows the more integrative commensality of the nonprisoner population. Given that around the time of the midden’s deposition, the jail cells housed shamans convicted of crimes against the Catholic faith, their separation from the working population during meals would have been prudent for the administrators. Third, the presence of molle seeds in the midden indicates that the normal workers produced and consumed chicha de molle, a traditional fermented drink made of molle fruit. Chicha was an essential part of the workers’ diet in obrajes and of Native Andeans in general. The preparation and consumption of chicha involved large groups of people and was integral to solidarity. Chicha was likely prepared on site because it goes bad within a couple of days. Some colonial descriptions of the obraje diet indicate that if the workers had to choose between chicha and food, they chose chicha.104 All in all, a picture emerges of large group commensality among the normal workers and small group commensality among the prison workers. Rations were generally too meager to sustain one’s health. For example, if the workers of the Cacamarca obraje only ate the rations given to them, they would only be consuming 853 calories per day.105 Given the physical intensity of work inside the obraje, the workers would not have been able to survive on rations alone. How did the workers manage to feed themselves? Analysis of the botanical and faunal remains recovered from the obraje of Pomacocha supports Nicolás Huamán’s account of López del Pozo’s and García de Araujo’s corrupt administration. The midden revealed a diet of desperation inside the obraje. The workers supplemented their rations with foods not listed in the account books and colonial descriptions (table 3.4). The presence of small wild animals such as doves and bats in the midden might indicate these animals were consumed to supplement the meager rations. Supplementing rations with small wild game was also an important part of enslaved people’s diets in the United States.106 It is also possible that these remains, such as the bat remains, were intrusive or commensal and thus not consumed. Nevertheless, these remains were well inside the heart of the midden, which showed little signs of disturbance and was quickly covered with roof tiles after its deposition. Because the midden was created quickly and had

Table 3.4. Distribution of raw counts of plant and animal remains recovered by unit inside the Pomacocha obraje Taxa (plants)

Midden (1)

Jail cell #1 (5)

Jail cell #2 (6)

Alnus sp. (alder)

2

2

Amaranthus sp. (kiwicha seed)

1

3

Cactaceae (cactus seed)

2

Euphorbia sp. (spurge)

1

Poaceae (grass)

5

Prunus persica (peach pit)

16

Schinus molle (molle seed)

4

Solanum melongena (eggplant seed)

3

Solanum sp. (wild potato)

6

1

Unidentified seed #1

1

1

Unidentified stem Total ct. (plants)

1 20

15

14

42

12

8

Taxa (animals) Artiodactyla (even-toed ungulate) Ave unidentified (unidentified bird)

3

Bos taurus (cattle)

46

Capra hircus (goat)

11

Caprine (sheep/goat)

14

Cavia porcellus (guinea pig) Chiroptera (bat)

1 3

2 3

Gallus gallus (chicken)

11

Ovis aries (sheep)

12

3

Sus scrofa (pig)

2

3

Unidentified coprolite

1

Zenaida asiatica (white-winged dove)

2

Zenaidura auriculata (eared dove)

2

Total (NISP faunal) a

a NISP, number of identified species.

3

151

21

12

RESISTANCE IN THE SHADOW OF THE WORKSHOP • 99

kitchen-­related remains, the bat remains may indicate bats were consumed. Another possibility is that a bat randomly died near the obraje kitchen and was discarded with the other kitchen trash. Given the scarcity of meat in the obraje, I find it unlikely that the workers would not try to eat the dead bat. The presence of wild birds suggest that the workers either had access to people outside giving them food or that they had set up nets inside the obraje to trap flying animals to eat. Given that they made textiles, the latter is a possibility. Because the workers received so little food from outside the obraje’s walls, I find it more plausible that they were able to trap birds from inside the obraje. Bats may have been incidental captures. The presence of wild animals may indicate that the rationed domesticates did not provide sufficient food for workers’ survival. The cattle were more than two years old when they died. Given that on a yearly basis the administrators had to give the monastery all the young animals that had been born, the workers probably only ate the old or sick cattle. The healthy, reproductive cattle were for the administrators’ and monastery’s use. The large quantity of peach pits recovered in the midden shows that the workers likely ate peaches that were grown inside the walls of the obraje to supplement their meager rations. The workers may have also supplemented their rations with prickly pear, which can be found near the obraje and currently grows in abundance in the community of Pomacocha. Neither peaches nor cactus fruits were part of the worker foods listed in ration lists, account books, and other documents at Pomacocha and nearby obrajes. That the workers consumed these foods show how they were able to supplement their meager rations with a variety of plants and animals procured from within the walls of the obraje compound. The archival and archaeological records differ in several important ways. While both have good agreement on the most common animal foods consumed at Pomacocha, the presence of cactus fruit, eggplant, wild potato, molle, peach pits, eggshells, wild birds, bats, and guinea pigs shows that workers’ diets were more diverse than what the documents described. The archival record also did not hint at any divergence in normal versus prison worker commensality. Even the most detailed account books and colonial descriptions do not provide a full picture of worker foodways and commensality. Archaeology shows that at Pomacocha, even as the workers experienced food scarcity, they maintained the cherished custom of preparing and consuming food together, creating a strong sense of community. The importance of chicha and religious festivals in forging group solidarity continued throughout the colonial period to today. Even though the workers did not officially own any land, by working the land and inside the obraje, they built a sense of community that could become the basis of coordinated political action. The

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production of paternalistic relationships between the administrators, mayordomos, and the workers of the obraje crystalized into costumbre of both workers and administrators of the obraje. As long as labor institutions like obrajes respected costumbre, workers rarely deployed coordinated political action against these institutions. As wider economic and political forces threatened these customs, workers became increasingly angry and mobilized forcefully against violations of costumbre. THE ECONOMIC DECLINE OF OBRAJES

By the mid-­eighteenth century, production began to slow at obrajes such as the one at Pomacocha. The decline in production was due to fluctuations in mining productivity and competition from black market foreign textiles and domestic household textile industries (chorrillos).107 Securing enough labor was perhaps the biggest challenge to productivity at Pomacocha. The informal market became an ever more important part of the economic life of ordinary folk from all castes. From 1753 to 1772, there was no real official increase in the number of tributary workers at Pomacocha.108 A partial accounting record from the obraje of Pomacocha in the 1750s documented, “First, thirty thousand varas of cloth was produced in the obraje this year . . . with the current warning that there are years when fewer varas were produced because of the lack of people [to work].”109 At this time, there were about 13 to 16 looms functioning in the Pomacocha obraje, resulting in an average loom productivity of around 2,000 varas per loom per year. At the obrajes of Chincheros and Cacamarca, average loom productivity began to steadily decline starting in the 1730s, from over 3,000 varas per loom from 1640 to 1730 to around 1,500 varas from 1730 to 1760.110 Production at Pomacocha followed the same pattern of decline but was more successful than its counterparts at Cacamarca and Chincheros. In the 1750s, Cacamarca and Chincheros only had an average loom productivity of 1,099 varas per year, whereas Pomacocha had nearly double that in a bad year in the 1750s. Despite the pattern of decline, the obraje at Pomacocha was nevertheless still profitable: the nuns made a profit of 5,100 pesos even in that bad year in the 1750s.111 Demand for cloth was still high in the 1750s, but the market diversified and the competition for labor intensified. Beginning in the 1760s, the obrajes of Vilcashuamán and in most of the Andes began a definite decline, and their activities focused more and more on agriculture.112 The workers and mayordomos were resistant to changes in costumbre, and they often allied with one another when administrators threatened to act against costumbre. As a result, obrajes were not economically or

RESISTANCE IN THE SHADOW OF THE WORKSHOP • 101

technologically innovative places.113 The lack of technological innovation put obrajes at a distinct disadvantage with cheaper and higher quality cloth from Europe beginning in the latter half of the eighteenth century due to the Industrial Revolution.114 The Cacamarca obraje, historically the largest in Vilcashuamán province, saw a catastrophic decline in productivity. In the 1750s, the average annual production was 56,078 varas per year, but from 1786 to 1799, the average was only 7,526 varas per year.115 In the mid-­1750s, Pomacocha typically exceeded 30,000 varas of cloth, but in 1789, the obraje only produced 12,431 varas. This was a more dramatic decline than the decline in the number of workers, showing that Pomacocha had become even less efficient.116 Clearly, the obrajes were much less profitable than before. As the local textile economy declined because of competition from inexpensive and higher-­quality European cotton,117 obrajes declined in importance. Chorrillos, the smaller domestic workshops, began to replace the unreliable and unpopular obrajes.118 Obrajes also diversified their products in the late colonial period. For example, at Pomacocha, tanning hides and grain storage for agriculture became more important in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries.119 At the Chincheros obraje, activities also turned to agriculture and crafts, such as making buttons, rosaries, spoons, combs, and mates (gourds to contain liquids).120 The diversification of the economic activities of obrajes, especially agricultural activities, meant that a smaller proportion of the native population were shut inside the obraje compounds, offering more opportunity for political activities away from the eyes of the administrators and majordomos.121 The absolute number of workers subject to coercive, hierarchical labor declined. However, obrajes were powered by increasingly higher proportions of prison labor, representing increasing violations of costumbre because administrators did not have to treat prison labor with the same paternalistic reciprocity as the normal workers. The increasing ire against the use of prison labor on one hand and the rising intercaste and intercommunity cooperation on the other contributed to cosmopolitan social landscapes of resistance in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries.

4 RISING COSMOPOLITANISM IN THE AGE OF ANDEAN INSURRECTIONS (1770–1815)

T

he late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries were a time of serious challenges to colonial regimes globally, including in the Andes with rebellions such as those of Tupac Amaru II and Tomás Katari/Tupac Katari. The Andes saw a wave of revolts and rebellions that began to be more coordinated among various groups, such as the Tupac Amaru II rebellion in Lower Peru (modern Peru) and the Tomás Katari/Tupac Katari rebellions in Upper Peru (modern Bolivia). A defining characteristic of 1770–1840 was the expansion of local revolts into a regional and even global scale. Knowledge of Andean insurrections was common currency in the Atlantic world in the 1780s. Revolutionary antimonarchy ideas about equality and justice from France spread to the Americas. News of other revolutions in the Caribbean and the United States emboldened those who were deeply unhappy about losing former privileges.1 What were the local motivations for joining? Who were the local leaders in these movements? What were the material paraphernalia and conditions that facilitated the spread of rebellion during the “Age of Revolutions”? I argue that obrajes such as the one at Pomacocha helped reinforce long-­ distance social ties, which did not break down even when obrajes began to decline in profitability due to the cheaper imports of the Industrial Revolution in Europe. During the long period of obraje profitability (1680–1760), long-­ distance social networks were created through the conduction of resources, finished goods, prisoners, and native labor.2 The social ties developed in the time of economic profitability underpinned alliances that would later pose serious and forceful challenges to Pomacocha and other obrajes. Frequent local revolts and legal petitions strengthened alliance building among different castes over the wider landscape, which made coordinated rebellion more likely. Alliance building among different castes accelerated as the informal economy—the economic activities that escaped state purview and taxation— grew. Increasing numbers of immigrants from Europe became the common enemy of poor Spanish creoles, mestizos, and Native Andeans. Peninsular

104 • CHAPTER 4

Spaniards dominated posts of power and became rich. They were stereotyped as disrespectful to costumbre. Peninsular Spaniards also brought with them a more biologically racialized and adversarial view of natives, sparking further animosity among Native Andeans against them. Despite the Enlightenment-­ inspired rulers’ penchant for painting resistance as a race war against whites, archaeological and historical evidence from Pomacocha and the wider region of Ayacucho show a significant current of cosmopolitanism among the working classes. In this chapter, I first explore how policies of the mature Bourbon period (post-­1760) interacted with the decline of obraje profitability. The growing informal economy coincided with the growth of the native population not subject to large, coercive labor institutions such as obrajes. The Bourbon economic reforms antagonized almost all sectors of society and spurred the growth of a sizable tax-­dodging informal market. Second, I review forceful resistance in Vilcashuamán province prior to and during the 1780–81 Tupac Amaru II rebellion. Specifically, I show how the native commoners of Vilcashuamán province participated widely in the rebellion. The ordinary people who fought were motivated by the general groundswell of anger against violations of costumbre, the increase of taxes, and the reparto system of forced purchase of merchandise. Third, I review the workers’ revolts that followed the rebellion at Pomacocha and other obrajes of Vilcashuamán province. I then describe the reasons why forceful revolts became commonplace among the obraje workers only after the Tupac Amaru II rebellion. REFORMS OF THE MATURE BOURBON PERIOD AND THE GLOBALIZATION OF CONFLICT

Reforms of the mature Bourbon period (post-­1760 to independence) were reactions to the declining power of the Spanish Empire, due to foreign enemies and local challenges to state power.3 Reeling from defeat by England in the Seven Years’ War (1756–63), the Crown was desperate to raise revenue and keep a tight hold on its colonies. French Enlightenment ideas about rational economics, emphasizing the free market and taxation on all individuals regardless of social background, gained currency.4 The Crown’s desire to centralize political power provoked ire among all castes of colonial Peru. The Crown’s centralizing reforms were motivated by three main considerations. First, rampant corruption and disobedience of royal decrees deprived the Crown of significant revenue. Second, the general decline of the Spanish Empire’s prestige and power stoked insecurities that underlay sweeping and heavy-­handed reforms. These reforms negatively affected all nonpeninsular

COSMOPOLITANISM IN THE AGE OF ANDEAN INSURRECTIONS • 105

Spanish castes and led to a widening rift between rich and poor. Bourbon reforms rejected emphasis on costumbre and special privileges for different social groups, favoring rationalization and standardization of policy.5 Third, animosity between peninsular Spaniards and groups who considered themselves Peruvians or Americans (mainly Creole Spaniards, Native Andeans, and mestizos) increased from the mid-­eighteenth century to independence. Mestizos and Creole Spaniards were increasingly indigenized in the eighteenth century, which distinguished them culturally from the recent immigrants from Europe.6 Many Creole Spaniards were impoverished and had to work in the same obrajes as the native commoners, which generated more shared hatred toward the peninsular Spaniards, who dominated positions of power in obrajes.7 The Crown expelled Jesuits from the colonies in 1767. Jesuits were widely regarded as efficient and costumbre-­respecting administrators of haciendas and obrajes.8 They were also regarded as less corrupt than other local officials and had been a reliable source of revenue for the Crown. The Crown saw the Jesuits’ stunning economic success, respect for local customs, and political autonomy as impediments to economic centralization and rationalization.9 Their expulsion and replacement with European administrators with little respect for costumbre stoked resentment against Europeans.10 The main Bourbon reforms were the legalization and expansion of reparto, the increase and extension of taxes, and the establishment of the intendancy system. Perhaps the most hated reform was the legalization of the reparto (reparto de mercancías or reparto de comercio) in 1751–56.11 Taken together, the reforms “angered virtually every group in Peru.”12 Reparto was a favorite practice of corregidores or the chief magistrates of provinces to enrich themselves, and the practice expanded rapidly during economic depression when there was low demand for luxury goods. The two most common goods corregidores forced their native subjects to purchase were cloth and mules.13 In 1754, there were 1,928 tributaries in Vilcashuamán province, and each tributary had to pay an average of 48 pesos to buy overpriced cloth, European goods, and iron tools.14 Vilcashuamán province was not the hardest hit by the reparto in the Ayacucho region: the corregimiento of Huamanga had a staggering 324 pesos of reparto per tributary. Given that the daily wages were only a quarter to a half a peso a day, Native Andeans could not afford to pay and were forced into debt slavery in obrajes at an alarming rate. Given previous royal decrees against this practice, why was the reparto then legalized? The practice of reparto had existed since at least the late seventeenth century.15 The illegality of the reparto did not dissuade its practice because the same people charged with carrying out the laws were the ones who benefited the most from reparto: the corregidores. The Crown, seeing that a lot

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of potential revenue was lost, wanted to legalize reparto so that the practice could be regulated. The logic behind legalizing reparto was to stem the corruption of the corregidores, who spent hundreds and sometimes thousands of pesos to acquire their posts and subsequently tried to recover costs by illegally imposing reparto. By legalizing reparto and setting a limit to the value of merchandise distributed, the Crown hoped it would be sufficient to dissuade corregidores from the worst abuses that spurred localized revolts and rebellions in the 1740s.16 Far from alleviating abuses and protecting revenue, the legalization of reparto concentrated more power in the hands of local authorities. The local authorities regularly far exceeded the value of goods they were allowed to distribute and continued to falsify tribute lists. The legalization of the reparto led to another series of localized short-­lived revolts.17 The reparto increased the rift between the rich and poor because of the intense competition of elites over capturing any surplus from native commoners. The increase in native population also increased class-­based social conflict within native communities over the distribution of limited communal lands, which were already constricted by centuries of attrition.18 Native tribute never made an overall profit for the Crown due to local corruption. The Crown sought revenue sources outside of native tributary tax such as sales taxes, reparto, and prison labor. The Crown increased and vigorously enforced the sales tax of goods traded by non-­Indians (alcabala) from 2 to 6 percent from 1772 to 1776.19 The imposition of European power, erosion of costumbre, and the rising dependence on reparto and prison labor spectacularly backfired on the Bourbons in the 1780s with the Tupac Amaru II and Katarista general rebellions. As obrajes were both the source of many of the reparto products and the enforcement of punishment for reparto debts, they became prime targets of revolutionary anger among native commoners.20 Among all groups of people who participated in the rebellions, the loss of old privileges was cited as one of the main reasons for joining. The proliferation of local grievances, commonalities in domestic rituals and folklore, and the speed by which mule drivers communicated the rebellions all contributed to popular participation.21 The general rebellions spurred emergency reforms. When the intendancy system replaced the corregidores system, reparto was formally abolished.22 Corregidores were replaced by royally appointed bureaucrats called intendants, who oversaw subdelegates, a system modeled after France. The new intendancy system, established in 1784, was supposed to make local government more answerable to the Crown but in practice was unsuccessful in stemming corruption by local elites.23 The declining prices of obraje-­produced cloth owing

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to increased competition with less expensive and higher-­quality foreign goods put additional pressure on local elites to increase the use of forced labor and the reparto.24 As a part of the rationalization of society and in reaction to the general rebellions, the Crown aimed to Hispanicize Native Andeans by banning commemorative plays about the Incas, any items that had Inca imagery, and clothes that distinguished them as Native Andeans or Incas.25 The reforms did not stem the frequency of localized revolts and regional rebellions however.26 Debates over the advantages of economic rationalization versus forced labor and distribution of goods dominated political discourse since the seventeenth century. The proponents of an unfree economy usually won because coerced labor had benefited the central government through mining revenues. Obraje owners, as they began to rely more on prison labor, became heavily invested in the perpetuation of coerced labor. The viceroy Francisco Gil de Taboada Lemos y Villamarin in 1796 summarized the main political debate at the time: “There is a debate between politicians, if it was or can be beneficial or prejudicial to the Indian, on the widespread legalization of repartos; those who adopt the first opinion sustain their argument on the natural desire of this nation requiring the motivation of debt, so abandoning laziness they dedicate themselves to work. Others feel that those authorities connected to commerce have the accurate end [being against] the condemned usury . . . by which the unhappy Indians receive goods at elevated prices and that they do not need them for their agriculture, daily grinds, and other operations, [which is] against the principles of moral health, and politics, solid fundamentals of freedom.”27 Colonial Andean society was also divided between recent European immigrants and native-­born Creoles. Europeans disdained the Creoles, whom they blamed for mismanagement of the colonies and oppression of the Native Andeans. The Europeans called Creoles lazy, entitled, mixed-­bloods, corrupt, greedy, resistant to innovation, prideful, and jealous.28 Creoles felt that Europeans were unfairly placed in most positions of power and were arrogant and incompetent immigrants who knew little of proper costumbre.29 Tupac Amaru II saw the Creole Spaniards as his “brothers united in one body” to destroy the Europeans and free themselves of their “unbearable yoke.”30 Creole Spaniards, who were sometimes considered mestizos by the recent European immigrants, often claimed royal Inca heritage to distinguish themselves from the peninsular Spaniards and identified as Americans. With their racialized view of heritage, however, peninsular Spaniards only held these genealogical sources of pride with contempt, hence the derogatory characterization of Creole Spaniards as “mixed-­bloods.”31 As Bourbon rule progressed, the official paternalism of the Hapsburgs declined as the long-­standing contempt against natives became framed in racial

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terminology among the peninsular elite. As one Spaniard in 1771 put it, Indians were “victims of their race . . . born to poverty, bred in destitution and controlled through punishment.”32 After the Tupac Amaru II rebellion, coercion in obrajes and mines was further justified for security reasons.33 As peninsular Spaniards gained more political posts, Native Andeans, poor Creole Spaniards, and mestizos resented them all the more. Enlightenment-­era ideas about race colored conflicts of the late colonial period. Spaniards, mestizos, and natives alike sometimes used the language of extermination and caste war in their conflicts. The sistema de castas (system of castes) pretended toward a racial science during the late colonial period, as it became concerned with precise terminology and percentage of admixture being associated with moral character. Previously, the system of castes was less biologically defined and more contextual.34 With most previous revolts, the native and Spanish elite paternalistically regarded the native participants as children who were led astray by other castes, especially mestizos and Spaniards.35 With the native rebellions of the late colonial period, people on all sides invoked the language of caste war and extermination, which raised the stakes for even local conflicts.36 Native Andean commoners were accused of being receptive to the language of caste war, something that the Katarista leadership had embraced, but the Tupac Amaru II leadership had rejected.37 If anything, the motivations of participants in the social movements of the late colonial period were contradictory. The language of caste war coexisted with French antimonarchical thought, as well as the language of intercaste cooperation to regain former privileges. In practice, Creole Spaniards had become indigenized. Many spoke Quechua, ate the same foods, and sometimes even did menial labor in the same obrajes and haciendas, and thus their economic interests converged with Native Andeans due to the reforms of the mature Bourbon period.38 Participation in social movements did not necessarily mean one had to subscribe to a unified ideological platform. Most participants were motivated by local grievances, even if they used more general language. PRECURSORS TO THE TUPAC AMARU II REBELLION IN VILCASHUAMÁN PROVINCE

Shortly before the Tupac Amaru II rebellion, there was one documented instance of revolt in Vilcashuamán province. The nonviolent revolt was due to peninsular contempt for costumbre, just like at Pomacocha more than fifty years prior. In April 1774, Don Carlos Rodríguez Carvallo, the administrator of Cacamarca obraje, resented that the workers customarily kept a portion of

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the yarn that was distributed for weaving and discovered that the mule drivers of the obraje had been sabotaging his reparto of mules.39 Recently appointed to his post in 1773 by the central government to replace the expelled Jesuits, Rodríguez wanted to affirm his power and put a stop to these practices. He dismissed the worst offenders and charged them for the “stolen” yarn.40 The majordomo Joseph Pareja, a mestizo who had worked in the obraje since childhood, allegedly threatened the administrator in a loud voice within earshot of all the men and women of the obraje: “If this is done, they will revolt.”41 After this confrontation, Rodríguez continued with his heavy-­handed administration by charging a four-­real penalty for those who had not attended mass, lowering wages from three reales a day to two reales a day, and reducing their food rations. He sent enforcers to collect the penalties for not attending mass, and workers’ roosters and hens were confiscated if they could not pay.42 When Rodríguez entered the obraje the next day, the workers surrounded him and chanted in unison that they had “nothing with which to pay the penalties, not even garments they could give.”43 The women spinners of the obraje were especially vocal, shouting that because the administrator had mistreated their majordomo (Joseph Pareja), they needed to defend him, and if the majordomo was fired, they would desert the obraje. Rumors of open riot circulated, and Pareja advised the workers to not revolt because “all would be lost, Indians and Spaniards alike.”44 Due to paternalistic attitudes regarding native agency, Rodríguez assumed that Pareja, being a Creole mestizo, was naturally the leader of the revolt. Rodríguez fired him and asked that Pareja be replaced with “one of ours,” referring to a peninsular Spaniard. Rodríguez’s actions backfired spectacularly, and the workers deserted the obraje, just as they had threatened.45 Embarrassed by his failure to get the workers to cooperate, Rodríguez blamed Pareja, saying that he was corrupt and in league with the Native Andean workers to enrich himself. Rodríguez blamed the “bad customs” of the Indian workers, the mestizo mule drivers, and majordomo for his troubles. The Indian authorities of the obraje sent a formal complaint to Rodríguez’s employer in Lima. The complaint detailed the heavy-­ handed and tone-­deaf measures taken by Rodríguez: “We complain against the administrator Don Carlos Rodríguez Carvallo who threatened to kill us, arming soldiers with metal pieces and other arms in the presence of our majordomo, saying that we are a poor lot and that we are ignorant . . . because he wanted to charge us a penalty of four reales each Sunday for Mass and Catechism because we sometimes lack our necessities (to live).”46 Rodríguez sent a resignation letter on May 12, 1774, and left his post in 1775. Workers of different castes united against peninsular Spanish arrogance and won. The workers came to share a similar culture, with the mestizos and

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poor Spaniards speaking primarily Quechua and sharing the same cuisines as the native workers.47 Rodríguez exemplified peninsular Spanish arrogance. He disrespected costumbre and used forceful coercion. Contrast his administration with that of the previous administrations of the obraje. The La Maza family and later the Jesuits had administered Cacamarca for over a hundred years beginning in 1634. They had adhered to the principles that good treatment of and punctual payment for the Native Andean workers was “very necessary . . . because even if the provisions and money were abundant, if the conditions are harsh, the obraje would decline, and furthermore would cause much ruin in the profits.”48 After Rodriguez’s removal, more was spent on religious festivals and the number of Native Andean authorities was increased to satisfy the workers.49 Costumbre practices, for example giving chocolates and meat on special occasions such as the birth of a child, were crucial for creating smooth, if hierarchical, relationships among the employees of the obraje, from the administrator all the way down to the Native Andean workers and the enslaved.50 Although the revolt at Cacamarca did not qualitatively differ from the earlier nonviolent revolts against obrajes elsewhere in Vilcashuamán province, it was part of the increasing frequency of violated costumbre as more peninsular Spaniards gained control of obrajes. THE TUPAC AMARU II REBELLION IN VILCASHUAMÁN PROVINCE, 1780–1781

That the reparto played an important role in triggering revolts and rebellions is a general consensus among scholars, but the social mechanisms that enabled the general, coordinated rebellions of the late colonial period are not well understood. Like other Bourbon reforms, the reparto predated the general rebellions by several generations, so we must reject explanations that solely focus on economic policies as triggers for rebellion. Other than a few references to the involvement of the Vilcashuamán area in the Tupac Amaru II rebellion,51 our current understanding of the motivations of non-­Cuzqueño commoners who joined the rebellion is unclear. Why would commoners from an area far from the local political intrigues and allegiances of Cuzco enthusiastically participate? I argue that ritual and economic circuits played an important role in popular mobilization in the Vilcashuamán area post-­1760.52 Obrajes were a principal target of the Tupac Amaru II rebels because of their association with forced labor and debt slavery.53 Oddly, the obraje workers of Vilcashuamán did not join the Tupac Amaru II rebels. I argue that at the time of the Tupac Amaru II rebellion, the nonprisoner workers of obrajes

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and the ordinary Native Andean villagers had divergent economic interests. Many obrajes like the one at Pomacocha still respected costumbre for their nonprisoner workers at the time of the Tupac Amaru II rebellion, so the rebels posed a threat to these workers losing what little privileges remained. After the rebellion, however, obrajes increasingly violated costumbre and increased the prisoner working population, to the chagrin of the nonprisoner workers. Only then did the workers of the obraje participate in local and regional revolts and rebellions. The social cohesion developed because the obraje had made general rebellions more likely and more successful once the workers did decide to rebel. The Tupac Amaru II rebellion found popular support in the northern part of the region of Ayacucho, which included Vilcashuamán province. Revolts and rumors of revolt were recorded in Cacamarca, Chiribamba, Anco, Chungui, Huanta, Mansanayoc, Vilcashuamán, Vischongo, and Quinua (fig. 4.1).54 The revolts were also triggered by the forced drafting of commoners to suppress the Tupac Amaru II rebellion in Cuzco.55 According to the administrator of Cacamarca obraje, Manuel Ruiz de Ochoa, almost all of Vilcashuamán province was in revolt.56 Notably, the textile workers of the obrajes of Vilcashuamán did not join the Tupac Amaru II rebellion, even though the mule drivers linked to the obrajes did. I argue that the cause of the division between obraje workers and normal communities had to do with who benefited from the reparto; the obraje workers did (around the time of the Tupac Amaru II rebellion), but other communities suffered greatly from the reparto. Later, as prison workers made up a larger proportion of the working population in obrajes, the political interests of the normal obraje workers and surrounding communities began to align. Shortly before the Tupac Amaru II rebellion, the obraje workers of Vilcashuamán province were exempt from the reparto and even benefited from it because it was a major source of profits for the declining obrajes.57 People resented being sent to obrajes for their prison sentences, usually for debts incurred by reparto. The terrible working conditions of obraje prisons and the burgeoning prison population were major grievances that garnered sympathy for the rebels in Vilcashuamán province.58 Mule drivers, who were mostly mestizos or poor Spaniards, were not exempt from the reparto, which mobilized them in support of the Tupac Amaru II rebellion.59 The divide between native communities and obraje communities was evident in a 1756 complaint by the native leaders of communities surrounding the Cacamarca obraje. They complained that the authorities of the obraje were pressuring people to work in the obraje against their will because a measles outbreak caused a labor shortage.60 The workers already resident in Cacamarca for generations did not complain

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Figure 4.1. Communities with documented support for the Tupac Amaru II rebellion in the region of Ayacucho. 1, Huanta; 2, Quinua; 3, Anco; 4, Chungui; 5, Mansanayoc; 6, Chiribamba; 7, Vischongo; 8, Vilcashuamán; 9, Cacamarca. Digital elevation model generated from Shuttle Radar Topography Mission (SRTM) 3 Arc-Second dataset. https://doi.org/10.6084/m9.figshare.13247531

about working there during this time when the Jesuits were administrators. Even so, surrounding native villages resented coercion into obrajes. In the case of Pomacocha, the workers had a generous administrator who had died in 1780, just as the Tupac Amaru II rebellion was picking up in the area. Thus, they were not predisposed to joining the rebels. The administrator from 1772 to 1779 was cleric Don Luis Suárez.61 Judging by the generosity and kind words of his written will toward the Native Andean workers of Pomacocha obraje, Suárez was well liked.62 He had paid workers’ taxes, and paid them punctually in grains, aguardiente liquor, and cloth at fair valuations. Notably,

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he donated twenty-­four varas of cloth to each Native Andean worker in the Pomacocha obraje and its satellite hacienda Chanin. Each vara was worth 3.5 to 4 reales, so he was giving each worker the equivalent of at least a month’s wages. Afraid that his instructions regarding the Native Andean workers would not be fulfilled, Suárez ordered that the executor of his will make sure the accounts with the workers were fulfilled before the obraje was turned over to the monastery. Suárez had also donated all his worldly possessions to either the Native Andean workers or to the Monastery of Santa Clara. As the workers were in a time of transition and probably mourning for their deceased administrator, they were disinclined to join with the disaffected surrounding communities. Furthermore, joining the rebels would jeopardize their access to the privileged costumbre of the Pomacocha obraje. Pomacocha was surrounded by native communities sympathetic to Tupac Amaru: Vischongo, Vilcashuamán, Cacamarca mule drivers, and Mansanayoc. Vischongo, only four kilometers away, was the hotbed of rebel sympathy and activity in Vilcashuamán province.63 In August 1781, after Tupac Amaru was already dead, the inhabitants of Vischongo held a great festival around the time of the festival of Virgen de Cocharcas to celebrate him. Spanish merchants passing through Vischongo overheard and decided to beat up the attendants, after which the people of Vischongo immediately rioted and “took to the hills because they were rebellious.”64 During the Tupac Amaru II rebellion, the workers of Cacamarca were ready to fight against those of Vischongo if the obraje was threatened.65 The workers of Cacamarca were allied with the administrator Manuel Ruiz de Ochoa, whose father, Cayetano, was the main general leading troops from Ayacucho against the Tupac Amaru II rebellion. Cayetano’s tenure as administrator in the late 1760s and early 1770s was respected (and feared) by the workers, and his son provided provisions for the infantry against Tupac Amaru.66 Cacamarca was one of the communities where authorities were killed in 1780, showing that obrajes were a prime target of the rebels in Vilcashuamán province.67 In Vilcashuamán province, and in the Ayacucho region in general, the Tupac Amaru movement was populist and organized from the bottom-­up. How was the Tupac Amaru II rebellion able to gain so much sympathy and support in the region of Ayacucho? In the Cuzco region, the supporters and detractors of the movement generally fell along long-­standing lines of enmity among noble native families.68 In both regions, we do not have a good understanding of the folk religious practices and leaders who mobilized the masses. The available clues point to the central role of religious events and curanderos, or shamans, in the dissemination of rebel rhetoric. Even after the rebellion was squashed in 1781, the rebellion continued to capture the imagination of

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native commoners and mestizos in the Ayacucho region. Two escaped itinerant native curanderos named Diego Jaquica and Pablo Chalco continued their preaching of Tupac Amaru II’s accomplishments and a future order without corregidores, judges, priests, and taxes.69 Jaquica attended public celebrations such as marriages and religious festivals to preach, and Chalco and his mother, Maria Sisa, were already well-­known healers when they proselytized in support of Tupac Amaru. Language about fertility contrasted with Spanish extractive rule and dominated popular narratives about revolt. The idea of a new order, with the return of a benevolent Inca king, also captured popular political imagination.70 These narratives were not new. Rather, they were cogent reformulations of local folk narratives that had existed since the sixteenth century. Apart from the narratives, the material culture and the specific practices related to the dissemination of these narratives are currently not well understood. In the case of Chalco, we have an intriguing glimpse into the ritual aspects and material culture of rebellion.71 According to a 1780 census, he was a forastero with access to the community lands of Chungui in the eastern highland jungles of Ayacucho.72 The forty-­year-­old Chalco was living with his wife, Petrona Canchari; his daughter, Paula Chalco; and his mother. Chalco was originally from the province of Cuzco but had settled in Chungui as a coca farmer, livestock raiser, and agriculturalist. He had lived in Chungui since at least 1762.73 His wife was originally from the city of Huamanga, not far from Chungui. His family was successful in their new home and resided at their lower elevation coca plantation in the mountains of Guarancanqui part of the year. They owned considerable livestock, cloth, and foodstuffs. He exemplified the forastero who had “made it.” His case shows that it was not just the poor and marginalized who had flocked to the Túpac Amaru II rebellion; the Chalco family had much to lose if the movement was not successful. The court case against the Chalco family accused them of various acts of idolatry and witchcraft.74 The specific accusations against Pablo Chalco were that he was the head of a conspiracy against the Crown in support of Tupac Amaru, that he was a notorious idolater who publicly healed livestock by scattering coca leaves in the air, and that he had incited the masses to throw stones at the ex-­corregidor Don Raymundo Necochea, the local priest Nicolás Álvares, and other Spanish authorities. He was accused of thanking the mountains instead of God for the healed livestock, saying that the healed livestock was produced by the mountain. According to native witnesses, he frequently proclaimed in public, especially during festivals, that Tupac Amaru had been crowned king, ordered people to not pay tribute tax, and predicted that there would no longer be priests or corregidores.

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Canchari and Sisa were accused of being witches. In the list of items confiscated from their house, there was a yellow bag with an assemblage of items inside. The items were seashells, coca, bread, sweets (chancaca), chili pepper, ashes, “various small stones in diverse figures, ground chuño, pigs, young corn cobs, gold dust, rosary beads, knucklebone, lipe rock, bird excrement, camelid grease, a comb, and many other rubbish . . . as well as a bit of grass from the puna in round figures, each tied with belts of different colors, and a black stone made of volcanic rock shaped like a bone, which she said was of the Inca.”75 The seashells, coca, small stones, grease, and young corn cobs were integral parts of domestic ritual all over the Andes for thousands of years and the incorporation of rosary beads show how incorporative and enduring these practices were. Canchari and Sisa were lashed to extract confessions about the function of the items. The lashes could not make Sisa confess, but Canchari confessed that her husband, under the influence of his mother, had purchased the items. She confessed that her husband, her mother-­in-­law, and other relatives of hers made her believe that those items would provide happiness and freedom from the persecution by the justice system, as well as increase agricultural and livestock fertility. Canchari cited evidence for the fertility, saying that in only five years, three female livestock had given birth to around twenty healthy offspring. Canchari explained that these items were harmless to the Spanish authorities, explaining “that the seashells and the coca, with which everyone said that one would be free from misfortunes and that it would not be harmful to the judges and that no one had to be afraid: that the corn cobs were useful for the increase of her livestock. That as for the stone, she discovered a mountain that was reverberating in the sun, and that she had kept the stone [from the mountain] for the increase of her potato harvests. That the other rock, she kept with the other items because they looked like a bone of gentiles.”76 Canchari also confessed that her mother-­in-­law was a famous witch and that it had been “public and notorious” that people had attributed the witchcraft of Sisa to the death of a man who had disputes with her. Chalco, Canchari, and Sisa were all sent to prison. From prison, Chalco protested his innocence by saying that his accusers were all jealous of him and concocted the accusations to usurp his property. While his characterization that his accusers were motivated by jealousy was probably true, his sympathy for Tupac Amaru was certainly true as well. He subsequently escaped from the prison of Ninabamba, a notorious hacienda-­ obraje, and continued his rebel activities.77 His written defense was in fluent Spanish with assured penmanship, showing he was familiar with Spanish institutions. The great quantity and quality of cloth in his possession showed that he participated in the informal cloth economy.78 Economic interests among

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Native Andeans, mestizos, and Creole Spaniards all converged with the prohibition of the commerce of certain items of clothing and the 1780 census enrollment of Anco. The frequency of anonymously written political lampoons against royal authority placed in public areas all over Peru shows widespread antigovernment sentiment.79 The agitations of the Chalco family did not escape viceroy Don Manuel Guirior’s notice. In his summary of the revolts related to the Tupac Amaru II rebellion, he noted that Anco and its surrounding villages, including Chungui, were in open rebellion “over ancient privileges that the Indians enjoyed in not being a part of the enrollment of tributaries.”80 Viceroy Guirior described the revolts in Anco as “very reprehensible demonstrations of tumult, fomenting with each day disobedience and disturbance of its people, with anonymous papers conceived in terms of great audacity.”81 In addition to the hated census of January 1780, the revolts were also triggered by the 1778 prohibition of the “production and commerce of socks, stockings, and caps of cotton, in force of the orders concerning similar foreign effects by the royal decree of 14 of July of 1778.”82 This prohibition negatively affected local informal economies but propped up the reparto-­obraje complex. The corregidor Pedro García de la Riestra wrote that the people in the area of Anco and Chungui were given to drunkenness, were lax in the repair of roads and haciendas, and frequently participated in “prejudicial and scandalous meetings.”83 Civil society, aided by meetings and the circulation of written papers, was clearly strong in areas that participated in the Tupac Amaru II rebellion. The case of Chalco shows that shared domestic ritual language made popular mobilization possible. He and his mother had a public reputation for using private rituals for economic and political success. This reputation for being effective practitioners of widely shared domestic ritual practices gave them great legitimacy to mobilize people. People were primarily concerned with the efficacy of the Chalco family’s magic. Chalco, Canchari, and Sisa were all healers who had increased their agricultural and livestock yields, despite their humble beginnings. Sisa’s fame for killing a man with magic also showed that she had the ritual power to defeat agents of the state. While historians have inferred the importance of pilgrimages and folklore in coordinated rebellion before,84 the mechanisms are not well understood. Specifically, the materiality of rebellion in relation to ritual has been neglected. Material paraphernalia such as proclamations, lampoons, ritual items, coca, and cash silver created and reinforced rebellious networks. Through the case study of the Chalco family, I show how there may not be a contradiction between what some scholars refer to as the Andean utopia in the rhetoric of native commoners and the lack of real political coherence in specific goals.85

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The case of the Chalco family has elements of utopianism (or messianism) in their message about an Inca-­ruled new world order without taxes, judges, or corregidores. Nevertheless, real political rifts within native society, often within the same communities, show that there was no single unifying ideology that motivated people. What did mobilize people, however, was the demonstrated effectiveness of fertility rituals that the Chalco family practiced. The extirpation of idolatries in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries did not stamp out folk beliefs and ritual practices. Instead, belief in and practice of these magical rituals were creatively reformulated with African and European counterparts.86 People from different social backgrounds shared a similar language of ritual and magic. Syncretism in folk religious practices underpinned resistance since the Taki Onqoy movement in the sixteenth century. The imprisonment of shamans and healers like Chalco in obrajes also increased ire against this institution. Their mingling with the prison population, who were from diverse places, further generalized revolutionary language. The prison in the obraje of Pomacocha often housed shamans, and under costumbre-­ respecting administrators they brought doses of Andean cosmopolitan religiosity as they mingled with the general population. With brutal administrators, the abuse of prisoners led to rising ire against obrajes and their generally peninsular Spanish administrators.87 Religious pilgrimages and festivals were prime contexts for the dissemination of revolutionary rhetoric. The popular participation of the masses outside of Cuzco was made possible by the expanding ritual horizons of native, mestizo, and even Creole Spanish commoners. The general Andean rebellions of the late eighteenth century marked the beginning of a period of open, coordinated armed resistance.88 The Tupac Amaru II rebellion failed because of existing intra-­and intercommunity tensions and among different castes.89 Divisions within native society undermined Chalco’s movement. Many community members, especially the authorities, had resented his rise to prominence and wealth and his forastero status. All the witnesses against him, such as the mayor of Chungui, were native members of his own community. Although the Tupac Amaru II movement ultimately failed, intercaste alliance building continued to gain strength as obrajes declined. TOWARD FORCEFUL RESISTANCE IN THE AFTERMATH OF THE TUPAC AMARU II REBELLION

Not until after the Tupac Amaru II rebellion did forceful resistance in obrajes become commonplace due to the ire against the rising prison population and the erosion of costumbre. From the beginning of the eighteenth century to the

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eve of the Tupac Amaru II rebellion, there were only seven recorded revolts against obrajes in the entire Andes, and most of them were not violent.90 In Vilcashuamán province, only four revolts against obrajes before the Tupac Amaru II rebellion were recorded, and none were forceful.91 Resistance against obrajes at Pomacocha and in Vilcashuamán province never resulted in actual violence against Spanish business owners or the state, only threats and rumors, until during and after the Tupac Amaru II rebellion. Although revolts happened significantly more in the decade before the Tupac Amaru II rebellion, they did not qualitatively differ from the revolts that occurred before, being localized and generally nonviolent. After the Tupac Amaru II rebellion, resistance became coordinated, most often involving intercaste alliances and several communities at a time. Why did coordinated forceful resistance in or immediately surrounding the Pomacocha obraje occur only after the Tupac Amaru II rebellion? I argue that three trends contributed to forceful resistance in Pomacocha and its environs after the Tupac Amaru II rebellion. First, declining local economies and increasing taxes cut into the profits of small-­time merchants, especially textile merchants, of all castes. Obrajes, even with reparto profits and cheap prison labor, also declined due to the bottom dropping out of locally produced and inferior cloth. A report in 1794 summarized the abysmal state of the local textile economy in the Ayacucho region: The baizes and tocuyos [coarse cloth] that were produced in the past were sold at good prices in the coast, they sell them now at the same price that one pays in the city [of Huamanga], and the few Indians who commerce with these effects, they content themselves with the small profits from each vara, that is bought with the name of a pulgada [inch], because in the places where they take [the small pieces of cloth], they sell only enough for personal use; but this is so unprofitable that afterward, the Indian, before having paid alcabala taxes, or any other fee, and after having experienced the most miserable treatment in his journey, does not earn even an eight percent profit; the Spaniard would not gain anything, thus as Your Honor yourself have seen with the rest of those same Indians, that they have travailed to little fortune, they have not been able to repay their contracted debts in that commerce [of textiles], and in the end, the creditor and debtor were both ruined.92

The added transportation costs to the urban textile markets made rural, large-­ scale obrajes like the one at Pomacocha less competitive than the chorrillos. Securing labor was always a challenge for obrajes but in a declining economy

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even more so. The local economy became more informal, further creating social space for intercaste alliances in contrast to the mistrust often reinforced within obrajes. In a booming textile economy, obrajes were competitive because of economies of scale, but with domestically produced textiles garnering so little profit in the late colonial period, obrajes could not afford to incur any loss from an unstable labor force. Second, obrajes became more coercive, and prisoners became a larger part of the workforce. The ability to secure a reliable labor force was always a challenge for obrajes, and heavy coercion frequently provoked strong responses from the workers. As the market became oversaturated with local goods, the Spanish businesses relied more on the reparto to find a market for the unwanted goods.93 Because they were imposed by the Crown on goods produced by Spanish businesses, alcabala taxes also hurt the profitability of obrajes. Coerced labor increased as obrajes became less profitable. Obrajes could no longer offer material incentives to attract workers and still remain competitive with obrajes that relied on prison labor. With the reparto-­to-­obraje prison pipeline, obraje labor became more uniformly coercive than before. Punishment was rationalized in that people from all castes could end up in an obraje prison to work, not just Native Andean commoners. The divide between the República de Indios and República de Españoles, while never a social reality, ceased to become a legal reality as well. The Bourbon regime was never wedded to the idea of repartos, but by legalizing it, legal outlets to complain about abuses were closed. The reparto was firmly ensconced in local economies and practiced by Creole and peninsular Spaniard alike, and the imposition of the reparto secured Native Andean labor through debt.94 When the intendant of Huamanga (Ayacucho region), Demetrio O’Higgins, complained about the dissatisfaction that the reparto caused, especially of textiles and mules, the viceroy called him a disturber of good order.95 The general attitude in Spanish America was that the Indians were naturally lazy and prone to violence if not controlled through supervised labor. In 1796, the viceroy Francisco Gil de Taboada Lemos y Villamarin described the whole “Indian nation” as lazy and vicious, with the “exception of those who work in the obrajes, and in the mines, whose bosses are careful to have them subjected to the chains of debt from where the injury is born: all the rest of this nation is given to a reprehensible laziness.”96 The general worsening of working conditions in obrajes and the introduction of poor prisoners from all castes reinforced the widespread resentment against this institution. The humiliating and public transfer of prisoners to obrajes inspired the sympathy of many onlookers and provoked forceful revolts (see next section).

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Third, the 1780s were a time of Andean and global rebellions, which expanded the imagination of Creoles and Native Andeans alike to see that the Spanish Empire was not invincible. As the viceroy said, “the frightening events of the French Nation” in the 1789 French Revolution brought “agitation to all the land.”97 In 1792, the bishop of Huamanga received an anonymous lampoon stating, “Long live French liberty and out with tyranny!”98 As the justice system had even fewer checks and balances than before, overthrowing the whole system and taking up arms became more attractive. Many working relationships and alliances formed among Native Andeans, mestizos, and poor Creole Spaniards, whose cultures became increasingly similar in the late colonial period. They shared the same grievances against taxation and prison labor in haciendas, mines, and obrajes. Although the nonprisoners in the obraje were reluctant to join their neighbors in the Tupac Amaru II rebellion because they feared losing certain privileges, the Tupac Amaru II rebellion’s legacy spurred the workers to join in future coordinated rebellions. The knowledge of rebellions against colonial regimes worldwide excited diverse groups of people in the Andes. The influence of the Enlightenment on ideas of social and racial purity also pitted recent European immigrants against the Creolized Europeans, who were often poor and of mixed heritage, and this helped spur the formation of new American identities. The increasing cosmopolitanism of the working classes and their shared outrage against new European immigrants and against the rising prison population resulted in social landscapes that were ripe for the spread of rebellion. These general trends held true for the revolts that occurred in Pomacocha and surrounding communities in the years that followed the Tupac Amaru II rebellion. REVOLTS AGAINST SPANISH AUTHORITIES IN VISCHONGO AND POMACOCHA IN 1787–1788

In the years following Tupac Amaru II’s execution in May 1781, numerous Amarista-­inspired revolts sprang up.99 During the tumult, tribute tax and reparto were laxly enforced. Renewed efforts to impose the reparto and collect back tribute taxes were resisted. In the case of Vischongo, a hotbed of Tupac Amaru sympathy, many tax collectors had been rebuffed.100 Resistance turned violent when Felix Lisbona entered Vischongo on Christmas day in 1787 to collect 300 pesos in back taxes and debts from the reparto of mules. Lisbona detained and jailed whomever he came across, regardless of whether they owed any debts. The community denied Lisbona ten mules to transfer some prisoners to the obraje of Pomacocha. That very night, a community authority (regidor) released the prisoners, and three villagers armed with knives untied

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and freed Lisbona’s confiscated mules. They also tried to imprison Lisbona, but Lisbona attacked with his saber and cut into the face of the regidor. Enraged at the sight of her bleeding and dying husband, the regidor’s wife threw stones at Lisbona and rang the church bells to call Vischongo villagers to his aid. Over two hundred people, men and women, materialized to stone Lisbona, who fled toward Vilcashuamán for reinforcements. Lisbona was quickly recaptured within half an hour. According to Lisbona’s testimony, he was captured by men, but according to a Spanish witness, the women had overtaken and captured Lisbona. The discrepancy was probably due to Lisbona’s shame of being captured by Native Andean women. The villagers removed his saber, his watch, and his buckle and called him a thief. As they marched him back to Vischongo barefoot, they stoned him and threw him into a gulley twice, almost killing him. They also rounded up the other Spaniards who had accompanied Lisbona. Lisbona was rescued by the priest Melchor Peralta (administrator of Pomacocha obraje) and ten of his men. The regidor’s brother rang the church bells again to assemble the community to recapture Lisbona, shouting, “This thief left my brother for dead. I am likewise going to kill him!”101 The leaders of the community then marched the recaptured Lisbona to Huamanga, a three-­day journey, to bring him to justice. During their march, the leaders, including women, were drinking chicha and saying that they will “liberate themselves of those roguish thieves.”102 Lisbona called the Native Andean villagers of Vischongo “the most insolent people that one can imagine.”103 According to Lisbona, previous tax collectors had the same kind of trouble in Vischongo and feared going there. Unsurprisingly, the community of Vischongo did not find justice in court, and Lisbona was exonerated. The inhabitants of Vischongo were sympathetic to the plight of prisoners they liberated, saying that they were men of valor. As Vischongo was close to the Pomacocha obraje and its prison, many community members may have been placed inside for unpaid debts, which could explain their hostility toward Peralta during their altercations with Lisbona. Peralta, an unpopular administrator, did not regularly pay the workers and forced to live inside the obraje’s walls, which provoked more than fifty of the workers to flee the obraje in 1788. With a depleted workforce, Peralta became insolvent and unable to pay the Monastery of Santa Clara the full rent. Peralta was subsequently removed from his post.104 Given that both revolts at Vischongo and at Pomacocha occurred within a year of each other, they were clearly linked. Both revolts were against the corrupt administration that accompanied the reparto-­to-­obraje prison pipeline. The revolts in Vischongo and Pomacocha were not radical in that they did not intend to overthrow Spanish rule, only free themselves from excessive

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tax, reparto debts, and costumbre-­violating administrators. The boldness of the armed resistance in the Vischongo revolt, however, was radical in that no armed resistance against Spanish tax collectors or officials had ever occurred in the area apart from the Tupac Amaru II rebellion. Clearly, the general rebellion shifted acceptable forms of resistance toward more forceful means. Their lack of success in court would inspire Vischongo and surrounding communities to participate in more radical movements in the coming decades. Because the Bourbon regime drew a harder line in controlling the native population through punishment and imprisonment, natives rarely found success anymore in the justice system. 1793–1794 WORKERS’ REVOLT AND DESERTION OF POMACOCHA

Consistent with the general trend of intercaste alliances in coordinated forceful resistance, the first direct forceful challenge by the workers of the Pomacocha obraje involved alliances with a Spanish ex-­administrator and the priest of Vischongo.105 The workers’ grievances were against the priest named Bernardo de Mendoza, who was the administrator of Pomacocha from 1791 to 1795. Mendoza was accused of lashing, falsely imprisoning, and violating costumbre. The case became a general scandal and embroiled many people from Vilcashuamán and Huamanga partidos.106 The scandal sowed dissension among the nuns of Santa Clara and the clerics of Huamanga. The complaint revealed complex webs of alliances, the cooperation of members from several native communities, and the increased mobility of the Pomacocha’s workers. After the death of Luis Suárez in 1780, the obraje of Pomacocha was without a monastery-­appointed administrator until 1782. From Suárez’s death until 1782, the obraje was temporarily under the charge of Manuel Ruiz de Ochoa and his father, Cayetano Ruiz de Ochoa, the administrators of the Cacamarca obraje and heads of the Ayacucho infantry divisions sent to suppress the Tupac Amaru II rebellion. Under their administration, the prison populations of both Cacamarca and Pomacocha swelled illegally. In February 1782, the viceroy Agustín de Jáuregui ordered an official inspection of the obrajes of Cacamarca and Pomacocha due to “reports that have been made about how much the Indians and servants have suffered, that in those [obrajes] they are imprisoned against what is proscribed by laws and by the same humanity.”107 Manuel Ruiz de Ochoa did not obey the order. The viceroy again decreed on May 20, 1782, that the administrators of the two obrajes, specifically the Ruiz de Ochoas, “with no motive nor pretext should order to serve in the obraje that is under their charge, nor admit as prisoner anyone without notice and knowledge of the corregidor of the province.”108

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Although the decree did not put an end to the illegal practices of imprisoning people in obrajes without due process, it did allow the monastery to reassert its ownership of the obraje of Pomacocha. From 1783 to 1787, the monastery appointed Peralta as administrator. The obraje of Pomacocha was much less profitable than before the Tupac Amaru II rebellion. The infrastructure was in a “ruinous” state and needed significant capital to refurbish and to replenish supplies.109 Don Alejo Lagos provided the capital. Lagos, an important creditor from Huamanga and the administrator of the obraje of Chincheros, then became the administrator of Pomacocha by leveraging his loan and criticizing Peralta’s unprofitable and unreliable administration.110 According to Peralta, Lagos manipulated the monastery to usurp his position as the procurator of the Monastery of Santa Clara and the administrator of Pomacocha obraje. From 1788 to 1791, José Lagos, one of Alejo’s sons, was the administrator of the obraje of Pomacocha and became the monastery’s procurator. In 1791, the monastery removed Alejo and José Lagos from their posts because of the continued lack of profitability of the obraje and a number of administrative irregularities.111 The Monastery of Santa Clara appointed a priest named Bernardo de Mendoza as the new administrator of Pomacocha obraje in 1791. Desperate to bring the obraje up to profitability, Mendoza violated hallowed costumbre and drew the ire of the workers. According to the workers, Mendoza maliciously erred in account keeping, had doubled the value of cloth and seeds given as wages, did not pay the workers consistently, and gave some more than others.112 Mendoza was also accused of being a brutal administrator who illegally lashed the workers at the smallest provocations, such as having relations with a woman or complaining about the elevated prices. As an example of his brutality, when one of the workers, Feliz Rojas, was put on the ground and given one hundred lashes, his mother came to plead for her son but was thrown to the ground. Although a priest, he ordered the workers to work on Sundays and religious holidays. In addition to the workers’ complaints, Mendoza falsely imprisoned a Native Andean from Huamanga, Manuel Delgado, when he went to the obraje to pick up a mule his mother purchased from a worker named Yldefonzo Taype.113 Mendoza accused Delgado of stealing the mule and imprisoned him for over nine months, forcing him to work inside the obraje. He was only released after his mother’s petition to the bishop of Huamanga had succeeded. The workers complained that Mendoza violated costumbre by not giving 1) twelve reales’ worth of cheese during customary times, 2) an arroba (approximately 12 kilograms) of dried meat to each individual, 3) aid in seeds, liquor, and candles during times of sickness, 4) two reales to each individual for each

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of the four major festivals of the year, 5) six collos (gourdfuls) of seeds during planting season to each individual, 6) a real’s worth of bread and a real’s worth of candles for All Saints’ Day, 7) two reales’ worth of candles for Lent, and 8) payment for burials, marriages, and other religious services to the priest of Vischongo. The complaint ended with a petition to remove Mendoza from his post as administrator, to investigate his unlawful actions, and to correct the accounts in the city of Huamanga in front of the Protector of Natives. The workers had testified that previous administrators had respected costumbre and said that the administration of the previous administrator, José Lagos, was “gentler” than that of Mendoza.114 Mendoza’s defense was full of ad hominems and evasive language. He discredited the character of the workers who had complained, calling them drunkards and coconspirators.115 He identified Alexo Enciso, the priest of Vischongo, as the principal agitator. Mendoza said Enciso was his “capital enemy who has perturbed and incited all the people, seducing them against me without cause or motive other than to exercise his rebellious genius.”116 His characterization of the workers as essentially passive unless put up to bad behavior by other castes demonstrated exactly the kind of arrogance the workers found so off-­putting. According to Mendoza, Enciso constantly criticized Mendoza’s conduct and defended and supported the workers’ complaints. By doing so, Enciso became a “shield” with which the workers became “incorrigible and insolent, neglecting their respective tasks . . . to the prejudice of the interests of the poor nuns. . . . They [went] about like lazy vagabonds in those places [around Pomacocha] as well as in this city [Huamanga].”117 Contrary to Mendoza’s narrative of Native Andean passivity, the workers were the initiators by telling all the Spaniards who lived nearby, including the priest, the truth of what transpired in the obraje.118 Mendoza justified why he was not able to uphold costumbre and pay the workers regularly. Mendoza never directly answered the charges that he physically punished the workers, though he did admit to most of the accusations that he had not paid them in a regular manner; he blamed the dire financial straits that the obraje was in when he had taken over as administrator.119 He specifically denied only a couple of the accusations, including the accusation that he had not paid for the workers’ religious services. He claimed that Enciso had double charged the workers and that he had the receipts to prove it (but he did not produce the receipts). He also denied that he exaggerated the value of the cloth and seed used to pay the workers, saying that the values had been preapproved by the Monastery of Santa Clara and all was done according to custom. The Monastery of Santa Clara defended Mendoza not by denying that the

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abuses had happened but by saying that the Native Andean workers of the obraje had been incited to revolt by Alejo Lagos and Enciso.120 In their petition against Lagos’s interference with the administration of Pomacocha, the monastery detailed the various aggressive acts committed by the workers. To emphasize Lagos’s alleged manipulative character, the petition stated that Lagos only won previous lawsuits because he had used “accustomed iniquities” to trick “the judges with his [appearance of] concern.”121 First, they accused Lagos of conspiring with Enciso to turn all the workers of the obraje against Mendoza, with the intention of taking over the obraje. The paralysis of the obraje’s operations due to workers deserting en masse had already cost the monastery 1,500 pesos. As the obraje was the monastery’s principal source of food, they accused Lagos of “wanting to return to our obraje to kill us by starvation as he had done during the time of his administration working only for himself, taking his advantage of the products and fruits of the hacienda.”122 According to the monastery, Lagos had riled the Native Andean women of the obraje to rise up and say that they would burn the obraje down with the administrator inside. Lagos’s sons, José and Alejandro, had forcibly evicted two of the monastery’s allies from the obraje with punches and lashes and threatened others against testifying in favor of the monastery. The monastery alleged that Lagos encouraged all the workers to leave the obraje to file various complaints against Mendoza in Huamanga. Even worse, according to the monastery, one of the Native Andean women named Maria had forcibly entered the monastery to convince the servants of the monastery to lose respect for Mendoza. The monastery petitioned for Maria to be put in prison as “an example to the other rebels.”123 Given the monastery’s official duty to protect the Native Andean workers from harm, why did the monastery defend Mendoza’s conduct? First, Mendoza’s stinginess did result in higher profits for the monastery. Such profits would be difficult to maintain in a depressed textile economy if Mendoza honored costumbre. Comparing the salaries paid to the workers of Pomacocha in 1788–90 (3,534 pesos per year) versus the 1750s (4,727 pesos per year), the work force of the obraje had shrunk significantly.124 In 1788, under the administration of José Lagos, the adult working population of the Pomacocha obraje was only fifty-­five, and each owed an average of twenty-­four pesos, showing the lack of surplus capital among the workers.125 The labor force was less stable, requiring the hiring of guayras, or temporary workers, to make up the labor shortages.126 Second, the abbess Manuela Gálvez, the primary author of the petition, shared the same attitudes about Native Andeans as Mendoza. They both saw the Native Andean workers as essentially passive unless put up to bad behavior

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by Spaniards, which should be swiftly punished to set an example for the others. Both saw complaints as showing a loss of respect and unbefitting for a Native Andean worker’s station. The general attitude was that “Indians” were naturally passive unless they were drunk or in the company of mestizos or other cholos (young Native Andeans with more Hispanicized culture). In the company of mestizos and other castes, according to this popular stereotype, they gained the courage to be rebellious.127 Native women, however, were considered humble and hardworking, so Maria’s “insolence” was especially threatening and had to be harshly punished.128 Judging from their written testimonies, it never crossed the minds of the abbess and Mendoza that the workers themselves instigated political action due to legitimate grievances. The monastery and Mendoza automatically assumed that because Alejo Lagos and Enciso provided support to the workers that the revolt must have been the Spaniards’ doing. Third, the case had exacerbated long-­standing political tensions within the enclosed community of nuns of the order of Santa Clara in Huamanga. In the petition, Gálvez specified that José Lagos be notified that he should not set foot on the premises of the monastery “to avoid dissension between the nuns because of the discord that will be put against our procurator, and incite the monastery.”129 Gálvez was not respected by many of the nuns. For example, in 1783, many of the sisters had filed a formal complaint against her and her biological sister Inés.130 Certainly, there were nuns who were more sympathetic to the native workers or to Alejo Lagos. The political tensions would have made the abbess loath to admit any mistakes in her leadership. In the end, the courts ruled in favor of the Lagos family and the workers. The bishop of Huamanga emphasized that Mendoza had not cooperated fully with the investigation nor had he provided written proof of his claims.131 The bishop’s independent investigation had supported the workers’ claims. The bishop decreed that because Mendoza had been “managing interests that were improper for his high status” that he be notified that “not even with the pretext of being a chaplain should he return to set foot in that hacienda [of Pomacocha]” and that he needed to satisfy “what is justifiably earned by the miserable Indians in their accounts.”132 Calling the obraje of Pomacocha “a disguised prison,”133 the bishop implied that Mendoza had been illegally imprisoning people for his own profit. Fulfilling the workers’ wishes, the bishop decreed that a new administrator should be appointed. According to the bishop, the new administrator should have the duty of giving Mass, teaching the Christian doctrine, explaining the sacred evangelism, correcting the vices, and giving a good example to the people without being involved in “cartels, punishments, imprisonments, [which] are

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so far from the celestial state.”134 Because of the decree and the unwillingness of the workers to return to the obraje, Mendoza was replaced by Friar Gregorio González Buenosvinos.135 The 1793–94 workers’ revolt at Pomacocha demonstrated many of the social trends of the late colonial period. First, the case demonstrated the geographic expansiveness of intercaste alliances. The workers had traveled to Huamanga to plead their case. People from the population centers of Pomacocha, Vischongo, Vilcashuamán, Cangallo, and Huamanga were part of the workers’ alliance against Mendoza.136 Some of the workers were even housed by Lagos while they were in Huamanga.137 Second, the visibility in the archival record of women’s leadership in late colonial revolts and rebellion was clear in Pomacocha’s case as well. Contrary to the highly gendered Spanish thinking that women were incapable of political action, both the nuns of Santa Clara and the Native Andean women of the Pomacocha obraje were arguably the real leaders on both sides. Third, the coordination of the workers’ revolt meant that they were effective in leaving the obraje en masse. The working population in 1793 was sharply divided between free labor and the surging prison population. The free labor traveled relatively frequently because they needed to send the monastery the fruits of their agricultural labor regularly, creating ample opportunities for intercaste alliances across the wider landscape. As the obraje focused more of its activities on agriculture, it became harder to police workers,138 and the reparto and growing prison population added resentment from the poor of all castes. WEAVING A REBELLIOUS SOCIAL LANDSCAPE

The stereotypes that Native Andeans were passive and impressionable like children were incorrect. However, the stereotypes did have a grain of truth when they noted that revolts and rebellions involved intercaste alliances. While intercaste alliances characterized nearly all coordinated forceful resistance in the late colonial period, such alliances were not sufficient in themselves to cause coordinated forceful resistance. Nevertheless, the existence of intercaste alliances in political action greatly increased its probability and success. The Vischongo and Pomacocha revolts were part of a larger trend of rapid and widespread mobilization in the late eighteenth century. This trend was enabled by long-­term reinforcement of expansive social networks, which made a social landscape conducive to coordinated political action. In addition to migration and shared ritual horizons, social networks expanded through repeated legal petitions. Native Andeans’ use of the courtroom went hand in hand with violent rebellion. That is, the use of the courtroom did

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not “let off steam” and prevent forceful resistance. Legal means of resistance activated the same kinds of social networks that made coordinated forceful resistance possible. Because one needed various alliances to furnish witnesses and mobilize the wider community, the social network needed for organized protests or forceful action would already be in place if the legal outcome was not favorable.139 Furthermore, the use of the courtroom also activated generalized political language for both sides, automatically contextualizing local grievances in acrimonious wider political debates.140 Legal action strengthened intercommunity and intercaste alliances in coordinated political action, creating rebellious social landscapes.141 Communities with a history of coordinated resistance, such as Cacamarca, Vischongo, and Pomacocha, would continue to grow more rebellious, coordinated, and forceful. The coordination did not necessarily mean leadership was organized around a central figure and orders were given from the top-­down. The examples of revolts in this chapter demonstrate that rapid and spontaneous coordination occurred organically with the participation and situational leadership of many people. In effect, the agency of any given person was magnified by the rising rebelliousness of social landscapes in the late colonial period. A personal or localized grievance could quickly snowball into a generalized grievance mobilizing hundreds of people within minutes. In the early nineteenth century, social landscapes became increasingly conducive to coordinated political action on a large scale, involving thousands and even tens of thousands of people. These rebellious social landscapes enabled the creation of political communities that successfully overthrew the state.

5 HATS OF MANY COLORS

Identity Formation in the Wars of Independence (1814–1824)

M

omentous changes occurred between 1814 and 1824. Tens of thousands of Native Andeans participated in general rebellions alongside mestizos, people of African descent, Creole Spaniards, and foreigners from as far away as England. Local revolts were no longer isolated but part of larger social movements emphasizing independence from Spain. On December 9, 1824, the decisive battle for South American independence was won on the Pampa of Quinua, Ayacucho. A people called the Morochucos, who made up a sizable proportion of the rebel forces, were the first to charge.1 Who were the Morochucos? The word Morochuco roughly translates to “hat of many colors” in Quechua, possibly referring to the kinds of hats they wore. In Vilcashuamán province, the Morochuco identity was forged in the long process of alliance building during resistance movements. The repeated activation of alliances strengthened shared political consciousness among different communities, which was crucial in the recruitment of people from diverse backgrounds in social movements. Morochucos referred to all the Native Andean and mestizo residents of the Vilcashuamán (Cangallo) area and to some of the poor Creole Spaniards. They practiced a mixture of Native Andean and Creole Spanish customs and preferred to speak Quechua. They were already a formidable political identity after the 1814 indigenist rebellion of Angulo and Pumacahua and became fearsome rebels in support of Peruvian independence.2 Although we are not certain how the Morochucos in the late colonial period conceptualized their identity, Morochuco identity became a source of pride for those peoples postindependence and continues to be in the present day. According to a contemporary eyewitness in the late colonial period, Vilcashuamán province, “Indians [who] were called Morochucos, had been in a perpetual state of war against the Crown since 1814.”3 It was through the participation in the War of Independence that the Morochucos, a diverse

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conglomeration of peoples, were recognized as a unified identity.4 The inhabitants of Pomacocha numbered among the Morochucos during the Wars of Independence. The local Morochucos took over the obraje of Pomacocha and turned it into an important rebel base.5 Royalist Spaniards were patronizing toward the Morochucos. Although they acknowledged the Morochucos’ fighting prowess, they saw them as impressionable children who were easy to manipulate.6 In a proclamation to the Morochuco communities of Vilcashuamán, the Royalist general José Carratalá sneered, “Being seduced, you are unable to see that the supposedly proindependence faction is nothing but a group of demoralized men. . . . If one leaves his village and follows these villains, he will suffer all the harshness of war and the law.”7 Carratalá in his proclamation appealed to fear and the desire to keep one’s family safe. Carratalá severely underestimated the broad political horizons of the Morochucos, who were willing to risk their lives to win their independence and freedom from onerous tax, reparto, and labor obligations, and ownership of their ancestral lands.8 The rebel general Bernardo O’Higgins, who fought with the Morochucos, appealed to these broad political horizons when he proclaimed: “Brothers and compatriots: The day of liberty for America has arrived, from the Mississippi to Cape Horn in a zone that almost occupies half of the world, proclaiming the independence of the New World.”9 After independence, Morochuco became more associated with mestizos and poor Creole Spaniards of an area in the partido of Vilcashuamán called Pampa Cangallo.10 These particular Morochucos were granted privileges and tax exemptions due to their military service.11 The recognition of only the mestizos or poor Spaniards as Morochucos after independence may reflect the continuing racial biases against Native Andeans’ capacity for political agency. Contrary to the popular whitewashed narrative that Morochucos were homogenously descendants of Creole Spaniards and mestizos,12 the Morochucos were in fact a conglomeration of diverse peoples, primarily of the Indian caste, who had allied with each other during the wars of independence from 1821 to 1824.13 In a similar vein, traditional historiography has emphasized the role of leaders, almost all white and all foreign to Peru, in winning South American independence without regard to the numerous local leaders among the Morochucos who played decisive roles.14 Not until recently have historians vindicated the primacy of local, mostly Native Andean, actors in the Wars of Independence.15 Nevertheless, none have systematically traced how these local actors made social landscapes conducive to general rebellion over the long ­term. To understand how regional political alliances that characterized the Wars

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of Independence could have been possible in the first place, I first discuss how the economic networks of Vilcashuamán obrajes promoted interaction among diverse peoples and communities. These networks of economic interaction grew stronger as obrajes declined. Second, I discuss the 1814 Angulo-­ Pumacahua rebellion that started in Cuzco and quickly spread to other areas in the Andes. I show how the Angulo-­Pumacahua rebellion spurred continuous resistance against the Crown and combined local messianic folktales about the return of the Incas with global revolutionary discourse. In this context, the Morochucos became an identifiable political community. Third, I give a short overview of the role that Morochucos played in the Wars of Independence and how obrajes like the one at Pomacocha played a critical role in their origins and tactical success. Fourth, I use Lasker coefficient analysis of surname similarity and demographic statistics to trace the evolution of social landscapes that accompanied the rise of the Morochucos. I show that the Native Andean communities of Vilcashuamán were plugged into geographically widespread kinship networks around the time of independence, and that the networks were more geographically distributed than a century prior. Fifth, I analyze two 1826 censuses of the partido of Vilcashuamán (Cangallo) to show that the Morochucos were definitely diverse in origin and not limited to Spanish and mestizo hacienda and ranch communities as was popularly thought. Finally, to complement the long-­term perspectives afforded by quantitative analyses of historical censuses, I give an overview of the short-­term mechanisms of mobilization in the social movements of the era of independence. THE DECLINE OF OBRAJES AND THE FABRIC OF RESISTANCE

In the early nineteenth century, Pomacocha was dilapidated and barely functioning. The obraje had a free working population of only thirty-­four adults in 1821.16 Rental contracts for the Pomacocha obraje in the early nineteenth century mention the ruinous and roofless state of the infrastructure.17 Archaeological excavations inside the obraje of Pomacocha confirm these descriptions. There were thick accumulations of melted adobe and fallen walls in the jail cells and the eating area near the kitchen. How did an obraje community in decline become so central in South American independence and mount cosmopolitan anticolonial resistance? What economic factors gave rise to the coordinated populist movements in the early nineteenth century? Who were the Morochucos who took over Pomacocha? I argue that the economic circuits that obrajes had promoted over hundreds of years were critical in the geographic scope of who participated in coordinated resistance, even as the obrajes themselves declined in importance.

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Obrajes generated integrative economic circuits because they attracted workers from all over and also because they pushed out workers trying to flee from them. The muleteers of each obraje also moved around seasonally to supply and deliver goods for the obrajes. In the social milieu surrounding the obraje and their satellite haciendas and estancias (ranches), cosmopolitan indigenist identities like the Morochucos were forged. The obrajes of Vilcashuamán were shells of their former selves in the early nineteenth century. In their prime, their geographically far-­flung economic circuits integrated markets all over the Andes, from Panama to Potosí in southern Bolivia and Tucumán in northwestern Argentina.18 After about 1770, however, the geographic extremes of their economic circuits, such as Oruro and Potosí in Bolivia, were no longer economically viable places to receive or send goods, in part due to lower valuations and in part due to rising alcabala taxes.19 In the case of Pomacocha, Potosí ceased being a market to send textiles in the 1790s due to the alcabala. Customs houses strictly imposing the alcabala led the monastery in 1789 to petition to keep their long-­standing exemption from the alcabala tax, which had existed since the 1730s, but apparently without success.20 Smaller, domestic textile manufactories called chorrillos became more economically viable because they produced for local markets.21 The woolen cloth produced by chorrillos were generally inferior to those produced in obrajes, giving rise to worker discontent when they were paid in chorrillo rather than obraje cloth.22 Although the economic circuits of early nineteenth century obrajes became more geographically contracted, they still integrated regional markets. The economic circuits of Vilcashuamán obrajes, even in their decline, had generated and reinforced social relationships over the wider landscape. Some of the social relationships, especially at the regional level from which labor was drawn, produced and reinforced kinship networks, and others reinforced the networks of popular communication over long distances. Economic circuits created by the mita labor draft of Huancavelica, for example, mapped onto the boundaries of different linguistic dialects.23 Likewise, the geographic distribution of where the Vilcashuamán obrajes drew their labor would have also created zones of cultural affinity. News of rebellion traveled over thousands of kilometers in a matter of weeks due to the thickly integrated economic networks. Mule drivers, such as those connected to or employed by obrajes, were especially effective heralds of news of rebellion.24 Many of these mule drivers’ descendants became the horse-­riding Morochucos of the Wars of Independence, who used their intimate knowledge of the road system to intercept enemy correspondence and harass their movement.25

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Pomacocha fared well compared with Cacamarca in terms of cloth production in the early nineteenth century, perhaps due to its convenient location on the main highway and the astute business practices of the nuns of the Santa Clara order.26 In 1814, the obraje of Pomacocha commanded 1,100 pesos in rent each year compared to only 500 pesos each year for the obraje of Cacamarca.27 In the early nineteenth century, the obraje of Pomacocha still received wool from a ranch called Tucle, 250 kilometers to the northwest in Junín province.28 As late as 1791, Pomacocha had received wool from the valley of Jauja, 300 kilometers to the northwest, and from Collao 550 kilometers to the southeast.29 During Pomacocha’s prime, it received wool from the aforementioned places as well as Bombón in Apurimac, which was 25 kilometers to the northwest.30 Markets also regionalized in the early nineteenth century, with Cocharcas, Huamanga, Cerro de Pasco, Ica, and Lima becoming the most important outlets for Vilcashuamán obrajes.31 The geographic scope of the general Andean rebellions of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century coincided perfectly with the economic circuits of obrajes during the time of rebellion. I doubt the concordance was coincidental. With each general rebellion, political action was activated among diverse groups along these economic circuits, which further strengthened networks of coordinated political action in the future. Local animosities no longer prevented coordinated political action because one could plug into a wide network of political cooperation, which does not require a socially or politically homogenous landscape. THE ANGULO-­P UMACAHUA REBELLION (1814–1815)

After the general Andean rebellions of the 1780s, the next major indigenist general rebellion was initiated by the prominent Native Andean chief Don Mateo García Pumacahua and the Creole Spanish José Angulo in Cuzco in 1814. At its height, the rebellion found popular support and participation in the intendancies of Cuzco, Huamanga, Huancavelica, Arequipa, Puno, and La Paz, roughly the same geographic scope as the Tupac Amaru II and Katarista rebellions.32 Women played an active role in the rebellion.33 Native Andean women brought the city of Huamanga to its knees during the rebellion. When four hundred Native Andean commoners were forcibly drafted by the government to put down the Angulo/Pumacahua rebellion, their wives, mothers, and sisters revolted and broke the doors of their cells, commandeered arms, and sacked stores and houses in Huamanga. They attacked the house of the intendant, and the Europeans and some Creole Spaniards had to flee toward

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the city of Huanta for refuge.34 In a letter dated February 25, 1815, the abbess of the Monastery of Santa Clara, Sor Maria Antonia del Sacramento y Tapia, complained that the nuns were starving to death without any bread or meat for six months because all of their rural properties were “found sacked and in power of the insurgents.”35 Given that the obraje was considered a rural property, or finca, by the monastery and that it supplied food on a regular basis, it is highly likely that Pomacocha was among the properties sacked. The area surrounding Pomacocha, and indeed almost all rural areas of Ayacucho, was sympathetic to the rebellion. During the Angulo-­Pumacahua rebellion, the Morochucos first became an identifiable rebel group and would continue their military operations after the rebellion had officially ended. The 1814 Angulo/Pumacahua rebellion was sparked by the crisis of political authority that began when Napoleon invaded Spain in 1808 and forced King Charles IV and his son Ferdinand off the throne.36 A new constitution was ratified in 1812 by the Spanish government in exile. Known as the Constitution of Cádiz, it abolished the Indian head tax.37 Viceroy Abascal ignored the new constitution and refused to enforce it.38 In Vilcashuamán province, the head tax continued to be collected.39 Although the abolition of the Indian head tax would have meant the loss of legal protection of native communal lands and would have made Native Andeans subject to various sale taxes, the majority of Native Andeans supported the abolition.40 Because illegal usurpation or sale of communal lands and subjecting Native Andeans to alcabala taxes were already the de facto status quo, the Native Andeans who had supported the abolition of the head tax had little to lose. The Angulo/Pumacahua rebellion’s beginnings were complex and involved tensions between the Creole and peninsular Spanish over the implementation of the 1812 constitution. The peninsular Spanish generally opposed its implementation, and the Creole Spanish generally favored it, as it would have allowed Indians, who were more sympathetic to the Creoles, to vote and count in representation. Angulo was the leader of a group of prominent Creole Spanish cabildo (municipal council) members who had been imprisoned by the peninsular Spanish–dominated real audiencia (royal audience) for allegedly harboring revolutionary sympathies.41 After Angulo and the other cabildo members escaped from prison, they fomented a revolt among the lower classes, imprisoning many Spaniards. Don Pumacahua, the prominent chief of Chincheros, joined the rebellion because the real audiencia had humiliated him two years earlier. Pumacahua had been a loyal royalist who had led forces against the Tupac Amaru II rebellion and other antigovernment insurgencies. He was rewarded for his service with the appointment as president of the real audiencia of Cuzco but was quickly and unceremoniously

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stripped of his post, in part due to peninsular Spaniards’ disdain for his Native Andean heritage.42 As the rebellion gained momentum in other regions and among the masses, the original goals of the leadership and the goals of the Native Andean commoners who had supported and participated in the rebellion diverged.43 Native Andean commoners often harbored radical goals of expelling all despised authorities, completely abolishing all taxes, and establishing a new Inca order. The rebels allegedly invoked the language of caste war: “It had been declared the extermination of all people known as the class of Spaniards, so that only Indians remain in this province.” 44 A Spanish colonel named Don Fernando Cacho described the Native Andeans as “very untrustworthy, false, liars, thieves, [and] bloodthirsty”45 and accused them of waging “a war of desolation, a war of extermination, in which the color of the face would be the signal of destruction”46 against all whites. According to him, Pumacahua told his followers before battle, “In defeating the troops, we should not let even white dogs live, and if our women are white, or if by some lineage descend from whites, they also have to die.”47 Interclass cooperation faltered because the Creole Spaniards, middle-­class mestizos, and even the native elite became alarmed at the language of caste war, fearing that the rebellion would spiral out of their control and threaten their elevated status in society.48 Although the Angulo-­Pumacahua rebellion was officially put down in 1815, popular sentiments combining Inca messianism and global revolutionary discourse continued to underpin the frequent revolts and rebellions that followed. In 1816, the Argentinian rebel General Manuel Belgrano issued the following proclamation to Peruvian villages: “Already resolved, written, and sworn is our separation and independence, ripped from the hands and power of those beasts. Our fathers of congress have already resolved to revive and revindicate the blood of our Incas, so that they govern us. And I myself have heard from the fathers of our country, together, with overflowing joy speak and resolve to make our king the sons of the Incas.”49 The promise of just governance under indigenous Inca rule mobilized people because the folktale about the return of the Incas was widely cherished for many generations. Flores Galindo’s thesis that the imagination of a pan-­ Andean utopia is an ongoing process that underpins millenarian movements is relevant here.50 He argues for the importance of memory of the past and utopian visions in the creation of unifying identities. In the early nineteenth century, claiming Inca ancestry was popular even among the Creole Spanish as a way to differentiate themselves from the peninsular Spanish.51 The shared wish to fulfill the prophecy expanded people’s political horizons, providing

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a shared point of reference among Native Andeans, mestizos, Creole Spaniards, and Afro-­Andeans. THE MOROCHUCOS OF POMACOCHA

Around the time that José de San Martín declared Peruvian independence on July 28, 1821, Don Ignacio Oré petitioned to not pay the Monastery of Santa Clara of Huamanga for his rent of the obraje of Pomacocha and its haciendas Chanin and Champacancha because they “had been appropriated by the enemy dissidents called Morochucos.”52 Shortly after, on February 12, 1822, a major battle between rebels and royalists occurred in the “heights of Pomacocha.” A force of thirty rebels from Ica had joined eight hundred Native Andeans and mestizos in Pomacocha and fought the royalist forces of Carratalá. The royalists had “won” the battle with only four injured. In a letter to the viceroy on February 18, 1822, Carratalá boasted: “Most excellent Sir: The twelfth of the present [month] I was able to meet on the heights of Pomacocha a team of thirty enemies from Ica, to those which had united around eight hundred Indians and mestizos, all whom were well situated in three strong positions. I advanced with sixty infantry from the first regiment and thirty horsemen of San Carlos, and penetrating speedily in the center of the enemy line I divided in two halves the cavalry, which at the charge effectively surrounded the rebels putting them in hasty escape, and causing them in brief moments the loss of forty [lives] and many wounded: they also left in our power five rifles, six lances and some horses.”53 Carratalá may have won the battle, but the royalists did not maintain control because the rebels used guerrilla warfare.54 From Carratalá’s own description of the battle, the hasty retreat of the rebel forces after a quick initial confrontation was indicative of guerrilla tactics. The overwhelming majority of Native Andeans and mestizos in Pomacocha and its surrounding areas supported the rebel cause. To put the number of eight hundred Native Andeans and mestizos who fought against Carratalá at Pomacocha in perspective, the total number of adult men ages seventeen to forty-­nine (Native Andean, Spanish, and mestizo) in the partido of Vilcashuamán in 1826 was only 6,256.55 Almost exactly two months after Carratalá’s self-­congratulatory letter, Colonel Don Gabriel de Herboso wrote about the impossibility of collecting tribute tax (única contribución) in the partido of Vilcashuamán.56 From 1820 to 1822, Herboso and his team tried to collect tribute tax from the communities of Vilcashuamán, but the heavy insurgency in all parts of Vilcashuamán had almost cost him his life: “Miraculously I had been able to save my life, or at least I had escaped from falling prisoner in the hands of the rebel dissidents.

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Do not ignore, your Lordship, that from the moment I acquired the order I had exposed my life to [imminent] danger of losing it; neither doubt that [Vilcashuamán] partido and all its neighboring places are and have been the most agitated points.”57 The rebels were in clear control of Pomacocha and its neighboring areas from 1821 until after independence. The obraje of Pomacocha ceased to function during this time and became an important rebel base. The obraje of Pomacocha was situated on the main highway known as the camino de las tropas (soldiers’ road) and was a choke point because it was also next to a bridge (fig. 5.1).58 Its proximity to the royalist base of Vilcashuamán ensured that the royalists would have difficulty maintaining control of the countryside. Pomacocha was in a highly defensible location because it was surrounded by mountains and rocky places of refuge, allowing for continuous potential control of the whole area even in retreat. According to the subdelegate of Lucanas in 1821, the people of the partido of Vilcashuamán “had always been rebellious people, and addicted to insubordination.”59 Rebel control and sympathy in the partido of Vilcashuamán paved

Figure 5.1. Locations discussed in chapter superimposed on detail of a facsimile of an 1801 map of the intendancy of Huamanga by Intendant Demetrio O’Higgins. Base map from Saavedra Bautista, Defensa de los derechos de Bolivia ante el gobierno argentino en el litigio de fronteras con la república del Perú (J. Peuser, 1906), 36. https://doi.org/10.6084/m9.figshare.13247546

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the way for military operations by Simon de Bolívar in 1824. On September 20, 1824, Bolívar stayed overnight in the obraje of Pomacocha while on his way to Vilcashuamán.60 The next day, a battalion of Bolívar’s troops led by General Bernardo O’Higgins also stayed in the obraje of Pomacocha.61 The governor of Pomacocha who had fed O’Higgins’s troops was the leader in the 1821 takeover of Pomacocha, acting with the rebel general and Englishman William Miller. Later that day, O’Higgins and his troops left Pomacocha and arrived in Chanin, where they met up with locals whom he called “guides.” They had appropriated all of the buildings of Chanin, one of Pomacocha’s satellite haciendas, and formed a part of the rebel cavalry.62 The memoirs of General Miller and the rental documents of Pomacocha (1824–33) show that the “Morochucos” who had “usurped” the obraje of Pomacocha were local Native Andeans from the communities of Vischongo, Vilcashuamán, and Carhuanca. General Miller called the Morochucos who served with him in 1821 “Morochucos Indios.”63 When Carratalá defeated eight hundred Indians and mestizos and thirty rebel troops from Ica in February 1822, he defeated a conglomeration of local Indians and mestizos from multiple communities. Morochuco leaders hailed from communities distributed throughout the partido of Vilcashuamán. Remember that many workers in the Pomacocha obraje in the 1793 complaint were from Cangallo, the community with the most Morochuco leadership activity. On April 20, 1824, when the war was still raging, the Monastery of Santa Clara managed to find a renter for the obraje of Pomacocha. In the conditions, the monastery stipulated that “it will be to the account of the renter to restore at his cost all the lands that the Indians of the pueblos of Vischongo, Vilcas [huamán] and Carhuanca have usurped.”64 The monastery’s description of the status of the obraje of Pomacocha and its satellite haciendas clearly identifies the people who had usurped the obraje since 1821: the Native Andean members of Vischongo, Vilcashuamán, and Carhuanca. Far from the invasive pillaging reputation of the Morochucos, the case of Pomacocha demonstrated that, more likely, Morochucos were diverse residents of the partido of Vilcashuamán who had supported the rebels so they could reclaim their ancestral lands. Pomacocha was the ancestral property of the community of Vischongo, Chanin was the ancestral property of the community of Vilcashuamán, and Champacancha was the ancestral property of the community of Carhuanca. All three communities banded together with rebels from further afield (including internationally!) to achieve success. In 1824, people in Pomacocha had remembered General Miller fondly regarding their 1821 operations winning control of the obraje. Women led and fought alongside men in coordinated resistance among the rebel forces. A

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famous leader of bandits from the partido of Vilcashuamán, Marcelino Quiros, had fought alongside his wife and counted on a woman named Maria Parado de Bellido, whose husband was a postmaster, for intelligence on the movements of royalist troops.65 Quiros was a leader of the montoneros of the rebel forces, who were in charge of guerrilla warfare and picking off royalist stragglers after battles between Huamanga and Jauja.66 The montoneros from the intendancy of Huamanga were commonly called Morochucos. Compare the generally warm reception of the rebel forces to the royalist forces avoiding entering villages while on the march.67 A major reason most rural population centers supported the rebels, and not the royalists, was because of the royalists’ massacres and burning of villages suspected of rebel sympathy. For example, the community of Cangallo was burned and razed to the ground four times, and its community members were indiscriminately slaughtered by the royalist General Carratalá.68 Morochucos paid a dear price for independence, as many died and many of their villages were burned and razed to the ground by royalist forces.69 Hundreds of Native Andean men were listed as injured, maimed, disabled, or insane in an 1826 census of Vilcashuamán, reflecting the lasting human costs of war. The inhabitants of Pomacocha changed in demographic composition between its earliest census in 1686, when all were listed as indio or Indian, and 1826. In 1826, there were 12 Spaniards living in Pomacocha, all of whom had married Native Andean women, and there were 13 children among the 12 couples. The 1826 census does not indicate how many of the 248 inhabitants were mestizo, but they certainly made up a bigger proportion than the Spaniards because mestizos were about a quarter to a fifth of the total inhabitants in Vilcashuamán province, while Spaniards only made up around 1 percent. Unfortunately, the intervening censuses did not list the non–Native Andeans at Pomacocha, but mestizos and poor Spaniards did work at Pomacocha starting as early as the 1730s under Friar Gomez’s administration. The Morochucos of Pomacocha around the time of independence were mostly Native Andean, with a significant portion being mestizos and poor Spaniards. ENGENDERING THE SOCIAL LANDSCAPE OF THE MOROCHUCOS

Because contemporary royalist observers said that the whole partido of Vilcashuamán was in open rebellion, one might assume that Vilcashuamán was politically unified. Nonetheless, the rebel general Miguel García complained that he would have won a key battle if it were not for certain Morochucos being “seduced” into inaction by the royalist Morochuco leaders “Felipe Rocél, Miguel Huamaní, and other rogues.” General García accused these Morochucos, who

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aided the royalists and impeded the rebels, of robbery and “all classes of crimes” against the villages of Vilcashuamán.70 The social landscape of the partido of Vilcashuamán was not homogenous on the eve of independence. Although most Morochucos supported the rebels, some supported or aided the royalists. What demographic changes in the partido of Vilcashuamán coincided with the rise of the Morochucos in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries? How did kinship networks evolve in the hundred years prior to independence? How did the evolution of women’s kinship networks contribute to the making of rebellious landscapes? Were the rebel Morochucos part of the same kinship network? The geographic distribution of Native Andeans (indios) versus castas (mestizos, mulatos, etc.) and Spaniards in 1792 to 1826 censuses dramatically changed (fig. 5.2). Nevertheless, during this period, the comparative proportions of indios, castas, and españoles did not dramatically change. There was only a slight increase in the total percentage of those in the castas category, 19.7 percent in 1792 and 20.8 percent in 1826, with a negligible number of Spaniards—fewer than one hundred—in both years.71 South of the Pampas River and to the west of the partido saw declines in the percentage of castas and Spaniards. The southeastern part of the partido, which had the highest percentage of castas

Figure 5.2. Geographic distribution of castas and españoles in 1792 and in 1826. The communities shown are those that existed in 1826. https://doi.org/10.6084/m9.figshare.13247549

Figure 5.3. Map of the distribution of haciendas, estancias, and obrajes of the partido of Vilcashuamán in relation to doctrinas, parishes, and pueblos. The white halos represent areas with a high percentage of castas in 1826. https://doi.org/10.6084/m9.figshare.13247498

Figure 5.4. Population change from 1792 to 1826 showing a general increase in population in areas with many haciendas, estancias, and obrajes. https://doi.org/10.6084/m9.figshare.13247543

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in 1792, saw an especially dramatic decline in castas. The northeastern part of the partido, which had a low percentage of castas in 1792, saw an especially dramatic increase in castas. The massive influx of castas occurred to the east of the partido and to the north of the Pampas River, where almost all the haciendas, estancias, and obrajes were located (fig. 5.3). These haciendas, estancias, and obrajes were located on lands owned by the Spanish and castas, lands that were mainly taken from the Condes and the Tanquihuas (see chapter 2). The demographic changes appear to be internal to the partido because areas that saw the highest increase in the percentage of castas also saw the highest increases in population, and the areas that saw the highest decreases in the percentage of castas also saw the highest decreases in population (fig. 5.4). The castas migrated out of Native Andean villages in the south of the Pampas River and in the western part of the partido to the north of the Pampas River and to the east. The dramatic demographic shift was related to the intensification of hacienda activity as obrajes declined. Castas and Spaniards founded new haciendas and estancias and intensified agricultural activity in the early nineteenth century on the Spanish-­owned lands to the north of the Pampas River and to the east of the partido. The haciendas and estancias drew in the labor of castas, probably kin, distributed throughout the partido and geographically concentrated them. The dramatic demographic shift that occurred with the decline of obrajes, which used mostly Native Andean labor, and the rise of haciendas, which were generally small and employed mostly castas and poor Creole Spaniards, was related to the rise of the Morochucos. The royalists burned down the most rebellious Morochuco villages. These villages were generally in the areas that experienced a significant intraprovincincial exodus or influx of castas, implying these burned communities had a lot of kinship ties despite having very different proportions of castas (fig. 5.5). I suspect that the exodus of castas from Native Andean villages into haciendas and estancias strengthened alliances over the wider landscape. Castas originated with Spaniards or Europeans intermarrying with mestiza or Native Andean women. There was no documented case of men categorized as Indian marrying mestiza or Spanish women.72 The exodus of castas from native villages, who obviously had strong kinship ties to the communities they left behind, created “small-­world” networks where different kinship networks were distinct but not exclusive or geographically clustered. A small-­world social network has distinct clusters that are well integrated with each other, such that any two individuals are connected to each other with only a few degrees of social separation. Small-­world networks combined with deep connections between them facilitate the rapid spread of information and social movements.73 This

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Figure 5.5. Demographic change of castas from 1792 to 1826 overlaid with the rebel Morochuco communities that the royalists burned. https://doi.org/10.6084/m9.figshare.13247537

geographic dispersal and connectedness of relatively distinct kinship networks were crucial for widespread mobilization in social movements. Were rebel Morochuco communities part of the same kinship network? Were the kinship networks geographically clustered or dispersed? To trace networks of surname affinity in the province/partido of Vilcashuamán through time, I combine Lasker coefficient analysis and network analysis of the available censuses (1683, 1686, 1719, 1729, and 1826).74 Networks of surname affinity are good proxies of kinship networks.75 As with the case of the American Revolution,76 I show that a population does not need to be homogenous for successful mass mobilization. The networks only need to be extensive and connect diverse groups of people. The Lasker coefficient of isonymy is defined as “the probability of members of two populations or subpopulations having genes in common by descent as estimated from sharing the same surnames.”77 The Lasker coefficient is calculated as RAB = (piA x piB)/2 and where “piA is the relative frequency of the ith surname in population A and piB is the relative frequency of the ith surname in population B.”78 To calculate a Lasker coefficient similarity matrix, I first standardized alternative spellings of surnames (e.g., Puma and Poma being the same surname) of the Vilcashuamán censuses of 1683–86, 1719, 1729, and 1826. I then ran the package “Biodem” in the statistical software R, which has

144 • CHAPTER 5

a function (lask.kin) to calculate a matrix of Lasker coefficients of isonymy. The matrix of Lasker coefficients was then converted into edge weights in an adjacency list. The adjacency list was loaded into Gephi 0.9.2 to detect clusters of surname similarity. Each node on the network is a community and each edge (line) represents shared surnames. The thickness of the line is proportional to the Lasker coefficient of isonymy. The modularity algorithm in Gephi identifies clusters of nodes that are more densely connected to each other than to other nodes in the network.79 The resolution of the modularity analysis was set at the default value of 1.0. Because heritable surnames were the norm in Vilcashuamán province from at least the early seventeenth century, Lasker coefficient analysis is an appropriate methodology to use to delineate genetic similarity.80 Great Britain, for example, shows remarkable endogamy in surnames, with clearly delineated geographic clusters emerging from surname similarity.81 The surname regions correspond to cultural and genetic regions of similarity. We know that at least some Andeans, for example in Colcatona (Cuzco), recognized that surname similarity meant kinship and friendly relationships.82 An analysis of Spanish colonial period Native Andean names and surnames in Inca Quito revealed cultural changes and dissimilarity.83 Because only the Native Andean adult men consistently had their surnames listed in the available censuses for Vilcashuamán province/partido, only male surname similarity through time is analyzed. While it may be appealing to treat men’s surname affinity as good proxies for women’s, we cannot assume they were the same because men and women may have had different migration patterns, as we saw in chapter 2. Comparing the surnames of adult men in 1683–86, 1719, 1729, and 1826, the surname clusters were geographically distributed, especially in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries (fig. 5.6). All surname clusters cut across juridical boundaries, whether they be parish boundaries or ethnic repartimiento categories. A comparison of the complete censuses (1719, 1729, and 1826) shows a good deal of continuity in the surname affinity clusters over time.84 For example, in 1826, thirty-­two out of forty-­ five communities (71 percent) still belonged to the same surname cluster from 1729. The partido of Vilcashuamán had long-­lived geographically expansive and overlapping networks of surname affinity, showing that native society for men was not “destructured” even with rampant migration. As shown in chapter 2, migration was patterned. These patterns make sense because one would have to have known kin or friends in the place they intended to migrate to. This “chain migration” was circulatory, reinforcing geographically dispersed, yet long-­lived, kinship networks. This migration pattern

HATS OF MANY COLORS • 145

Figure 5.6. Distribution of the clusters (each cluster is represented by a circle, triangle, square, or diamond) of surname affinity through time in Vilcashuamán province/partido. Note that the clusters are geographically dispersed and overlapping. Digital elevation model generated from Shuttle Radar Topography Mission (SRTM) 1 Arc-Second dataset. https://doi.org/10.6084/m9.figshare.13247516

was ideal to evade census taking and labor obligations to the mines of Huancavelica because one only had to move a short distance across juridical boundaries to frustrate state efforts of record keeping. This strategy was so successful in frustrating coerced labor drafts to the Huancavelica mercury mines that by the late eighteenth century, the draft was abolished. It was much more expensive to do the record keeping compared to the actual labor value of the eighteen people in Vilcashuamán province drafted to go, for example.85 Did certain surname clusters correlate with documented rebel Morochuco communities? There was no apparent association between certain surname clusters and communities with documented Morochuco leadership and activity (tables 5.1, 5.2, and 5.3). All surname clusters included rebel Morochuco communities. This pattern is consistent with the small-­world model, showing that the Morochuco social landscape was integrated among somewhat distinct kinship networks.

Table 5.1. Adult male surname clusters in 1826 census of indios of the partido of Vilcashuamán Surname cluster Documented Morochuco communities

Cluster A

Cluster B

Cluster C Cluster D

Total

11

14

2

1

28

Not burned

7

9

2

1

19

Burned

4

5

9

Not documented communities

16

14

2

5

37

Total

27

28

4

6

65

Note: Clusters were generated from a dataset that included adult male surnames from the 1683, 1686, 1719, 1729, and 1826 census returns from Vilcashuamán province/partido.

Table 5.2. Adult male surname clusters generated from dataset that included both male and female surnames of the 1826 census of indios in the partido of Vilcashuamán Surname cluster

Cluster A

Cluster B

Cluster C Cluster D

10

6

2

Total

Documented Morochuco communities Not burned Burned

1

19

5

2

2

Not documented communities

9

15

10

10

2

37

Total

30

18

14

3

65

Table 5.3. Adult female surname clusters generated from dataset that included both male and female surnames of the 1826 census of indios in the partido of Vilcashuamán Surname cluster

Cluster A

Cluster B

Cluster C Cluster D

Total

Not burned

9

8

2

19

Burned

5

2

2

9

Documented Morochuco communities

Not documented communities

12

13

1

11

37

Total

26

23

1

15

65

HATS OF MANY COLORS • 147

The presence of somewhat distinct and long-­lived surname clusters (and thus kinship networks) would help explain why some, though a small minority of, Morochucos aided the royalist cause. Even though there was a lot of mixing and migration, people still circulated in somewhat enduring distinct kinship networks. This implies that Vilcashuaman province was never politically coherent. Having political coherence is not necessary to have a social landscape conducive to general rebellion. The kinship/political networks only need to be geographically expansive and well-­connected in a small-­world structure. What did kinship networks look like for Native Andean men and women around the time of independence? I analyzed a dataset of adult men and women’s surnames of the indio caste from 1826. Because the census was taken in 1826, only two years after independence, it approximates independence-­era demographics. As the 1826 census was shortly after a war, there might be some demographic distortion if certain communities experienced more casualties. Nevertheless, the surname similarity networks should remain unaffected if we assume that survivors tended to stay in the same village after the war. Furthermore, the bulk of the 1826 indios census information may have been based on lost prewar parish records because a different hand edited the entries to show who had perished and who had moved to other communities. All surname clusters are geographically dispersed, implying that both men and women often married outside of their home communities, disregarding distance (fig. 5.7). In forty-­two out of sixty-­six communities, men and women belonged to the same surname cluster (table 5.4). The lack of cluster concordance in more than one-­third of the communities shows that men and women still migrated and married in different patterns around the time of independence. If they moved in the same way, we would expect that the vast majority of surname clusters would be the same among men and women in a given community. Clusters C and D saw the least concordance within the same community because men were overrepresented in cluster C and women were overrepresented in cluster D. Twelve out of the twenty-­four communities that switched clusters between men and women involved switches between clusters C and D. Interestingly, the geographic distribution of clusters C and D between men and women have good concordance, meaning that if men were in cluster C in a community, women tended to be in cluster D, and vice versa (fig. 5.7). Clearly, clusters C and D were related to the same kinship network, even if the migration pattern within this network was different from clusters A and B. These distinct kinship networks were not completely endogamous, however, so a small-­world pattern characterized the overall network. Other lines of evidence also suggest that women had geographically expansive kinship networks in the late colonial period, in contrast to the seventeenth

148 • CHAPTER 5

Figure 5.7. Comparison of men’s and women’s surname clusters (A to D) in 1826. Analysis was done on a dataset that included the adult surnames of men and women in the 1826 census of indios in the partido of Vilcashuamán. Digital elevation model generated from Shuttle Radar Topography Mission (SRTM) 1 Arc-Second dataset. https://doi.org/10.6084/m9.figshare.13247519

and early eighteenth centuries. First, the proportion of female-unique surnames to total-female surnames in the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries was smaller than that of men’s. From 1683 to 1729, 1,307 (41 percent) out of 3,218 females had unique surnames; 1,371 (46 percent) out of 2,971 males had unique surnames. The pattern equalized or reversed in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries (table 5.5). This means that women moved around just as much if not more than men in the late colonial period, whereas before, men moved around more than women. In the partido of Vilcashuamán, the betweenness centrality of women was on average higher than that of men (1.01 × 10^-­3 versus 0.71 × 10^-­3) in the year 1826. Betweenness centrality measures how well-­connected a node, in our case men or women in a particular community, is to every other node in the network. Higher betweenness centrality would mean a higher diversity of surnames and would result from out-­migration from one’s natal community and in-­migration from other

HATS OF MANY COLORS • 149

Table 5.4. Distribution of surname clusters among men and women of the indio caste in 1826, partido of Vilcashuamán Cluster A

Cluster B

Cluster C

Cluster D

1826 men

30

18

15

3

1826 women

26

24

1

15

Men and women in same cluster

24

18

0

0

Table 5.5. Unique surname proportions over time in the Peruvian Andes (1780–1826) Population

Years

F_uniquea F_totalb

M_uniquec M_totald P_Fe P_Mf

Anco

1780

61

133

58

136

.46

.43

Chungui

1780

80

156

94

185

.51

.51

Chinchero

1798

44

88

60

136

.50

.44

Cajatambo

1770–89

273

492

278

508

.55

.55

Cajatambo

1810–29

298

629

304

643

.47

.47

Arequipa

1770–89

518

1,879

475

1,896

.28

.25

Arequipa

1810–29

541

2,584

589

2,584

.21

.23

Vilcashuamán 1826

2,194

5,824

1,785

5,237

.38

.34

Total

4,009

11,785

3,643

11,325

.34

.32

Sources: Anco and Chungui: “Numeras./n y Empadronam./to Probisional hecho en la capital de Anco,” January 27, 1780, ARAY, Notariales, Jose Medina, Leg. 125, f. 8r; Chinchero: “Libro matriz del obraje de San Marcos de Chincheros,” 1798, ARAY, Cabildo-Libros, Leg. 16, Libro 24; Cajatambo: “Peru, Diocese of Huacho, Catholic Church Records, 1560–1952,” FamilySearch, Database with images, August 8, 2019, https://FamilySearch.org; Diocesis de Haucho (Diocese of Huacho), Peru; Arequipa: “Perú, registros parroquiales y diocesanos, 1603–1992,” FamilySearch, Database with images, August 8, 2019, https:// FamilySearch.org; Arzobispado De Arequipa (Archbishopric of Arequipa), Peru; Vilcashuamán: “Revisita de indígenas de la provincia de Cangallo hecho por don Manuel Valdivia, año de 1826” and “Contribución general, padrón de contribuyentes [de castas],” 1826, MNAAH, Libros Manuscritos. Notes: a

F_unique is number of unique surnames among adult women.

b

F_tot is the total number of adult women.

c

M_unique is the number of unique surnames among adult men.

d

M_tot is the total number of adult men.

e

P_F is the proportion of unique female surnames to total number of adult women.

f

P_M is the proportion of unique male surnames to total number of adult men.

communities that are not necessarily neighbors. This pattern is consistent with the unique surname proportion of women being higher than that of men. What could explain this change? As mentioned, the forced labor drafts to the mercury mines of Huancavelica motivated much of the migration of Native

150 • CHAPTER 5

Andean men who wished to evade them. The women tended to stay to keep usufruct rights over land in the communities. Over the eighteenth century, cash substitutions more and more replaced the draft quotas, largely due to the resistance of Native Andeans to the draft and their evasive strategies. When cash payment completely replaced the draft to Huancavelica in the late eighteenth century,86 this migratory pressure on men was removed. With the increased mobility of Native Andean women in the late colonial period came greater cultural cosmopolitanism. Women were responsible for most of the cultural socialization of children, and if women moved around more widely, local cultures expanded geographically and increasingly overlapped, creating cosmopolitan social landscapes. The case study of the Morochucos of Vilcashuamán exemplifies this general pattern. Native Andean women “indigenized” mestizo and poor Creole Spanish culture, so much so that those who looked whiter or mestizo could not speak Spanish well and preferred to speak in Quechua. The expansive female kin networks in Vilcashuamán gave rise to the new rebellious identity of the Morochucos, who were characterized by their physical and geographic diversity but not their cultural diversity (language, food, and customs). The reasons why women migrated more in the late colonial period are still unclear, though I suspect it was due to a combination of population increase putting uneven pressures on available land and the seismic economic shifts in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. Both factors of seeking available land elsewhere and available income elsewhere (intensification of haciendas and estancias) would encourage out-­migration for both men and women. MOROCHUCO DEMOGRAPHIC COMPOSITION AROUND THE TIME OF INDEPENDENCE

What did the social landscape of the partido of Vilcashuamán look like around the time of independence? Geospatial statistics back up recent literature arguing that most Morochucos were not mestizos or Creole Spaniards tied to haciendas and estancias, as traditionally thought. I compare the population centers’ percentage of Native Andeans versus castas/Spaniards with the distribution of Morochuco communities that royalists burned down or that had documented rebel Morochuco leadership.87 I show that most rebel Morochuco communities were predominantly Native Andean. In 1826, the largest communities were predominantly Native Andean. Castas and Spaniards populated lands that were the expropriated ancestral lands of the Native Andeans, especially those of the Condes and the Tanquihuas (fig. 5.8). There were many communities that were either all castas/Spaniards or all

HATS OF MANY COLORS • 151

Native Andeans, and communities that were predominantly castas/Spaniards tended to have a smaller population (fig. 5.9). Documented Morochuco communities were predominantly Native Andean, with 78.1 percent of the total population being from the Indian caste (7,195/9,209). The communities that currently do not have any archival documentation or folklore/oral history of rebel Morochuco activity had only a slightly higher, though statistically significant, percentage of Native Andeans at 80.5 percent (7,275/9,033). Communities with documented rebel Morochuco activity and leadership generally had high proportions of people from the Indian caste (fig.5.10). Communities with documented rebel Morochuco activity were distributed throughout the partido of Vilcashuamán. If rebel Morochucos were predominantly Native Andean, from where did the traditional historiography and stereotype arise that Morochucos were generally mestizos and poor Creole Spaniards? I argue that the stereotype originated with the royalists’ prejudices against recognizing Native Andean political agency and leadership. The communities that they burned were overrepresented by communities with high casta percentages (fig. 5.11). The royalists

Figure 5.8. Percentage casta/Spanish and population size of communities in Vilcashuamán in 1826. Digital elevation model generated from Shuttle Radar Topography Mission (SRTM) 1 ArcSecond dataset. https://doi.org/10.6084/m9.figshare.13247513

Figure 5.9. Graph of the inverse relationship between the percentage of castas/Spanish and the total population size of a community. Communities with higher casta/Spanish percentages tend to be smaller in population size. https://doi.org/10.6084/m9.figshare.13247540

Figure 5.10. Distribution of Morochuco communities with heatmap (light halos) of the distribution of high proportions of Native Andeans. Burned Morochuco communities are noted by the flame icon. https://doi.org/10.6084/m9.figshare.13247528

HATS OF MANY COLORS • 153

Figure 5.11. Demographic composition of Vilcashuamán communities in 1826 showing that while documented rebel Morochuco communities were similar demographically to those without documentation, burned rebel Morochuco communities were overrepresented by communities that were entirely casta/Spanish. https://doi.org/10.6084/m9.figshare.13247534

tended to punish more severely those who they thought were more likely to be the instigators and leaders of the Morochucos, namely those who looked whiter. The demographic composition of the burned villages, at 37.2 percent casta/Spanish, was significantly higher than those not burned (17.8 percent). When the rebel leaders honored the Morochucos, they only honored the cluster of burned villages in an area of significant casta representation (Cangallo and surrounding villages) but not the cluster of five villages to the south of the province that were nearly entirely of the indio caste (see fig. 5.10). Racial prejudices promoted their oversight. MOBILIZATION IN THE INDEPENDENCE ERA

What were some of the more proximate causes of popular mobilization? First, both legal complaints against mistreatment and revolts or rumors of revolts had proliferated in the intendancy of Huamanga and elsewhere in the Andes after 1810.88 Although the complaints and revolts had diverse causes, they shared dissatisfaction with paying tribute and proliferating economic obligations. In all the areas that participated in the Angulo/Pumacahua rebellion,

154 • CHAPTER 5

rumors of antigovernment conspiracies and rebellions preceded the rebellion.89 In the Ayacucho region, as elsewhere, native communities were among the most organized political entities in the countryside, and when the Angulo/Pumacahua rebellion spread there, the political organization of native Ayacuchan communities, reinforced by centuries of coordinated legal action, facilitated popular participation. Second, the circulation of antigovernment proclamations in Quechua helped mobilize the Quechua-­speaking Native Andeans and mestizos.90 Pasquines (or political lampoon leaflets) were common in Spanish America from the latter half of the eighteenth century, but they were generally written in Spanish. The proliferating use of Quechua after 1808 expanded the political horizons of both Native Andeans and non–Native Andeans.91 The circulated proclamations often demarcated a boundary between Americans and peninsular Spaniards. For example, the rebel general active in Huamanga in the 1814–15 Angulo/ Pumacahua rebellion, Manuel Hurtado de Mendoza “Santafecino,” proclaimed that “the glorious American nation, Indians as well as Creoles, that all enjoy the union, and true brotherhood, [should] shake off the yoke and tyrannical government of the chapetones, pucacuncas, chupasapas.”92 Later, during the Wars of Independence, a rebel proclamation invoked native pride of notable, especially Incan, ancestors: “I take pride that you will demonstrate your dignified ancestry from Manco Cápac, from Guayna Cápac, from Túpac Yupanqui, from Paullo Túpac, relatives of Túpa Amaro, from Tambo Gaucso, from Puma Cagua, parishioners of Dr. Muñecas and that you will cooperate with all your strength to triumph in the expedition of liberation, on which your liberty depends, your fortune and your gentle repose, likewise the perpetual well-being of your children. Have complete trust in the protection of your friend and countryman the General José de San Martín.”93 Native Andeans highly valued the materiality of written documents due to the traditional importance of land titles, receipts, and court decisions. The rebel colonel Segundo Roca wrote that General San Martín had sent secret emissaries to print proclamations in both Spanish and Quechua. Once acquired, they were kept with a “reverent faith and enthusiasm as if a valuable acquisition and were used by them as a passport or title, which showed to us [rebels] proof of their patriotism and adhesion to the cause of independence.”94 Circulating proclamations before military action won the rebel patriots enthusiastic welcomes in native villages.95 Third, the higher respect for American costumbre among the rebels also aided their cause. During the Wars of Independence, respect for costumbre and relative egalitarianism was practiced by the rebel generals most active in the partido of Vilcashuamán: Bolívar, O’Higgins, and Miller. Eager to recruit

HATS OF MANY COLORS • 155

popular support in light of meager funds, they relied heavily on cultural respect and promoted egalitarianism among its diverse recruits. For example, General Miller was famous for chewing coca, which won him many recruits among the Native Andeans.96 All soldiers, Spaniards, Europeans, mestizos, Native Andeans, and people of African descent ate from the same stew pots steaming with a mix of rice, vegetables, lard, and meat. Four or six soldiers at a time ate from the same roasted joints of meat, and music, folktales, and dance permeated camp life.97 Despite the common royalist Spanish stereotype that Native Andeans hated all whites simply because of their color, the cosmopolitanism of rebel forces, in this case Miller’s, shows that Native Andeans reacted violently not to skin color as much as disdain for their costumbres.98 Castes who were supposedly “natural enemies” were as easily natural friends through shared cultural values and political aims. Rebel forces statistically reflected the demographic composition of Peru. About three-­quarters were Native Andeans, with the rest being mestizos, people of African descent, and Creole Spaniards.99 The assumption that the Native Andean sector of society was not politically active in the War of Independence, even though they made up most of the fighting forces on both sides, is simply untrue. The assumption was that the War of Independence arose from the conflicts and factions in Spanish society (notably Creole versus peninsular) or had resulted from crises in political authority in Spain itself, rather than originating in the colonies. Unfortunately, these assumptions are consistent with the pervasive colonial preconceptions that native commoners lacked political agency. As Méndez incisively pointed out,100 the motivations and political networks of natives were not taken seriously by many historians because they had assumed that their mobilization did not need explanation or that it was easily explained by patriotism toward the nation or local loyalties to Creole elites. On the contrary, native commoners mobilized not because they were put up to it by other castes but because they had their own diverse political agendas. In the case of Pomacocha, it was to regain the ancestral lands lost to the Monastery of Santa Clara in Huamanga. Another related assumption is that native groups that banded together with the rebels lacked political coordination and military effectiveness due to the lack of a hierarchical centralized command. While it is true that there was no formal hierarchical centralized command, the Morochucos effectively controlled the countryside due to guerrilla tactics and because they knew the lay of the land much better than the royalists. They effectively coordinated with rebel generals such as Bolívar, Miller, and O’Higgins, merging forces at crucial moments and harassing royalist stragglers. Rebel native groups such as the Morochucos also had higher morale because they were fighting to regain their ancestral lands.

156 • CHAPTER 5

The Morochucos, a conglomeration of diverse peoples in Vilcashuamán united by similar customs and political aims, were pivotal in winning independence for all of South America. They heavily participated in the decisive battles that were fought on their land and in the greater south-­central Peru. The social landscapes that they and their ancestors created over generations were arguably even more important. From the Inca period onward, the ancestors of the Morochucos built up social landscapes that interwove destinies of people from diverse backgrounds, enabling the rise of cooperative resistance and rebellious identities. Through many individual acts of migration, marriage, telling of folktales, celebrating religious festivals, taking legal action, working together in obrajes, haciendas, and estancias, sabotage, and revolts, they built a social landscape that eventually won their independence and their ancestral lands, at least for a short time. Without these rebellious landscapes, individual leaders would have been ineffectual.

CONCLUSION

Rebellious Networks and Landscapes as the Fabric of Resistance

W

hy do the oppressed not rebel more often, especially when they vastly outnumber their oppressors? And when they do rebel, why do the rebellions and forceful acts of resistance cluster together in time? Stories of underdogs winning against states and the powerful capture our imaginations. These stories emphasize both sides’ leaders’ personalities and morality as key to understanding why one side wins. Only rarely do these stories offer plausible social landscapes, which are more important for why rebellions occur and whether or not they are successful. This book explores the rise of such rebellious landscapes and how they underpinned the increasing frequency of revolts and rebellions in the late colonial period in the Andes. Diverse Native Andean groups and other “oppressed” castes of the colonial Spanish Andes wove rebellious landscapes by working, migrating, marrying, and rebelling together, thereby expanding kinship networks and political and ritual horizons. Forceful kinds of resistance should not be privileged above everyday forms of resistance, as everyday forms of resistance do most of the work knitting rebellious landscapes. Scholars have noted the “ethnographic thinness” of resistance/oppression frameworks in explaining Spanish colonialism in the Andes.1 This book highlights the complexity of worker resistance at the obraje of Pomacocha. While the popular conception of exploitation emphasizes brutality and the oppressors’ bald disdain, this book shows that exploitation was most effective when couched in the framework of costumbre, or customary paternalistic relationships between workers and their overseers/administrators. This costumbre was developed and reinforced over centuries of rule by first the Incas and then the Spaniards. Nevertheless, costumbre also contributed to the rise of rebellious landscapes. Obrajes like the one at Pomacocha facilitated intercaste alliances by promoting shared cultural understandings and practices and by driving strategic migration over the wider social landscape.

158 • CONCLUSION

The obrajes of Vilcashuamán, including that of Pomacocha, had created and reinforced networks of social cohesion over a long time. Dodging tax and labor obligations manifested in various strategies of resistance, such as migration, and hiding in one’s own village and in haciendas and obrajes. These strategies of dodging state demands created kinship and cooperation networks. The long-­ term cultural convergence of different castes inside obrajes helped pave the way for intercaste political alliances crucial to coordinated rebellion. Political and ritual horizons kept expanding after the general Andean rebellions of the 1780s. Expanding social horizons had facilitated cohesion in the rebel troops, who were a mix of Native Andeans, mestizos, mulatos, Creole Spaniards, and Europeans, during the Wars of Independence. Shared political purpose and participation combined with the increasingly similar cultural and ritual practices among diverse castes to invigorate identity formation, or ethnogenesis, as in the case of the Morochucos. The Late Intermediate Period ethnic distinctions that were reinforced under the Incas and used as the basis for tax and tribute obligations under the Spanish no longer had salience for the natives themselves in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries in Vilcashuamán. Geochemical analysis of obsidian artifacts from the Inca period at Pomacocha reveal that the Incas controlled interregional traffic, which enabled them to mitigate political alliances among politically hostile ethnic groups. At the settlement level, however, the Incas rarely intruded on daily life. During the Spanish colonial period, this pattern reversed: there was direct control over daily life at labor sites such as textile workshops, but intercommunity traffic was fluid. Although both regimes officially endorsed the political and spatial separation of ethnic groups and castes, the Spanish colonial economy drove continuous mass migration and provided dynamic spaces of social mixing. Migrations between villages cut across ethnic categories and juridical boundaries. Because fleeing from one’s natal village and being over fifty years old exempted one from onerous labor obligations, people circulated in geographically dispersed kinship networks and exaggerated their ages to hide themselves from Spanish bureaucracy. The result was a constant churning of the social landscape and overall exogamy. Textile workshops, like the one at Pomacocha, were spaces where social mixing was particularly intense and drove mass migration. Space syntax analysis of the Pomacocha textile workshop showed it could effectively promote group division along gender, race, and caste lines. By reinforcing hierarchical distinctions with architecture, the obraje could effectively maintain political fragmentation among the workers. Nevertheless, even at the height of profitability, the Pomacocha textile workshop could not prevent cultural exchange among its diverse workers, especially in matters of food

CONCLUSION • 159

and ritual, paving the way for the possibility of future intercaste alliances. As the textile industry declined toward the end of the eighteenth century, the economic activities of the Pomacocha workshop shifted toward agricultural production, which meant that it was harder to maintain the same level of surveillance as fewer workers were within the compound’s walls. This helped in uniting various formerly divided peoples in armed rebellions against the textile workshop. The wider rebellious networks created over the landscape due to the increased frequency of intercaste alliances in revolts also aided in the overthrow of the Spanish colonial regime. Women were instrumental in creating rebellious social landscapes. Women were often leaders and sometimes even fought alongside men.2 The most famous example was the central role that Micaela Bastidas Puyucahua, the wife of Tupac Amaru II, played in the rebellion.3 In the region of Ayacucho, the mother of Pablo Chalco, Maria Sisa, played just as important a role as Chalco himself. Mothers were motivated to protect their sons from punishment. Mothers intervened on behalf of their sons in the 1793 Pomacocha revolt. Sometimes women mobilized en masse. The 1787 Vischongo revolt demonstrated how women were often at the vanguard of forceful action, capturing the Spanish official Felix Lisbona. When Native Andean men were drafted and imprisoned to put down the Angulo/Pumacahua revolt in 1814, their sisters, wives, and mothers coordinated a violent revolt and successfully freed them. Women made up some of the leadership in the 1814 Angulo/Pumacahua rebellion.4 Morochuco women also fought: the wife of the Morochuco captain Marcelino Quiros fought and died by his side. Spaniards underestimating the level of political agency of native women severely undermined their own efforts at preventing revolts and rebellion. Even more important than individual women leaders were women’s roles in connecting different social castes together in the late colonial period. They “indigenized” those whose appearance was considered white or mestizo by socializing their children into indigenous language and customs. Native Andean women likely had increased mobility in the late colonial period, due to the decline of obrajes, population increase, intensification of hacienda and estancia activity, and the abolishment of the labor draft to the mercury mines of Huancavelica. With this increased mobility, women were able to create cosmopolitan cultures that blended customs from diverse backgrounds. The tenacity of native communities in defending their lands was remarkable, and the persistence of toponyms and of the same communal lands over the centuries testifies to their success. Because community identity was always tied to local huacas, the ritual power of the sacred landscapes acted against the development of full-­blown capitalism. One of the foundations of capitalism,

160 • CONCLUSION

the loss of communal lands, had a hard time gaining ground in the Andes due to people’s sacred attachments. People could not forget the lands they lost and fought continuously to win them back. To this day, the people of Pomacocha make offerings to the same rocky outcroppings, caves, and mountains to ask for good fortune and fertility. Women in the province of Vilcashuamán were instrumental in the defense of communal lands, especially when their male family members migrated to other communities or were away working in haciendas, obrajes, and mines. Native Andean communities were politically heterogeneous, which challenges the popular conception of a traditional, politically cohesive, and inward-­ looking peasant community. Each community plugged into multiple long-­ distance kinship networks over the wider landscape, which in the long-­run provided the necessary social conditions for coordinated rebellion. One does not need politically homogenous areas to have successful coordinated rebellion, only wider networks of political cooperation. One does not need political unity within the geographic limits of a village, only some kind of solidarity over the wider landscape. Far from parochial, the workers of Pomacocha and its surrounding communities had been knitting cooperative social networks for hundreds of years in a formerly ethnically fractured landscape. The regional cosmopolitanism of places like Pomacocha had facilitated coordinated rebellion with foreigners and people from other castes during the Wars of Independence. This book offers three broader contributions for Andean and resistance studies. First, even at the height of Spanish state capacity, top-­down policies had limited power on the ground. Local bottom-­up political dynamics generally had more effect on what happened on the ground than polices from on high. In fact, the top-­down policies were generally reactions to the diverse tactics of resistance that people on the ground employed. The state policies themselves were contradictory and reflected acrimonious political debates of the day. To understand rebellion, we need to move beyond short-­term changes in political or economic policies, which were often contradictory and ineffectual, and trace the long-­term evolution of the materiality of social relations. By doing so, we emphasize the political agency of commoners. The spatial dimensions of social cohesion over the landscape and its evolution are crucial to understanding the timing and nature of coordinated revolts and rebellions. Generally, the more geographically expansive and multicaste a social network was, the more successful resistance was. By plugging into wider political debates, rebellion became more salient for a wider swath of colonial society. Long-­term cultural rapprochement smoothed the way for such intercaste and sometimes global alliances.

CONCLUSION • 161

Second, cultural hybridity was a two-­way street for Native Andeans and Spaniards. There was as much indigenization as Hispanicization, and converging ritual horizons and common domestic practices fueled the exchange. The indigenization of mestizos and Creole Spaniards helped frame the main political debates of the eighteenth and nineteenth century. The indigenization of mestizo and Creole Spanish society reflected just how successful bottom-­up political dynamics pushed back on hegemonic regimes. For the Spanish colonial system to function, it had to be sensitive to local customs, which were an amalgam of Native Andean and Spanish political cultures. Remember that in the early colonial period, there were few Spanish women, so Spanish men intermarried with Native Andean elite women. Many early Spanish encomenderos acted like Inca lords and the seeds of costumbre were sown.5 In the mid­ to late colonial period, marriage, unions, and political alliances occurred with increasing frequency among all castes and of all economic classes. The complexity of relationships, not only those based on kinship, facilitated the creation of dynamic spaces of intercaste interaction and alliances in colonial Latin America.6 Third, Andean peasantry was the result of hundreds of years of globalized and dynamic social interaction. As many have noted, there is no timeless Andean peasant. Rural indigenous villages were the result of intense social dynamism. In the Vilcashuamán area, resistance and culture change combined to manifest as the ethnogenesis of the Morochucos. Rather than eradicating the old, ethnogenesis continuously revived Andean traditions and revitalized common ritual horizons (commonalities in domestic rituals and folklore) among diverse groups, especially among commoners. Unsurprisingly, then, that Andean traditions were often strongest where the Spanish colonial economy was the most pervasive and where general Andean rebellions most often occurred. The weapons of the weak were not weak weapons and were often most effective when enacted within areas of state control. Despite the great sacrifices of the Morochucos in winning the Wars of Independence, they eventually lost the rights and lands they gained beginning in the late 1830s, when the new Peruvian state and former landlords reconsolidated power.7 To add insult to injury, the efforts of Native Andean Morochucos were downplayed in the annals of history because of racism. Hopefully, this book can help put the Morochucos and other people of indigenous descent back into their proper esteemed place in written history. Colonialism cast a long-­lived shadow on Pomacocha. The hard-­won autonomy of the workers during the Wars of Independence and the ten years after independence was lost as the monastery reestablished control over Pomacocha and its lands by 1841. Many of the repressive tactics from the colonial

162 • CONCLUSION

period were renewed, and the workers were obligated to work for free on the monastery’s haciendas as well as pay for the use of their agricultural lands. Intercaste cooperation was short-­lived after independence. The reification of Enlightenment ideas about biological purity rendered native workers of places like Pomacocha completely without legal protections. Under colonialism, the Hapsburg image of Native Andeans as vassals deserving of paternalistic protection from unscrupulous powerholders had lingered to counterbalance some of the subsequent Bourbon emphasis on state-­imposed order and social hierarchy. After independence, Bourbon Enlightenment-­inspired policies matured. It was not until another era of cosmopolitanism and awareness of global revolutionary movements (1940s through the 1960s) that the workers of Pomacocha finally freed themselves from the yoke of their postcolonial landlords, the nuns of the Monastery of Santa Clara. In 1962, the people of Pomacocha, who proudly called themselves Yanaconas even into the twentieth century, violently expelled the Monastery’s hacendados, or hacienda administrators, from Pomacocha and its haciendas.8 In 1962, as in 1821, Pomacocha was a vanguard of a wave of resistance that led to historical changes. In 1821, the people of Pomacocha wrested control of their community from the Monastery of Santa Clara, bringing an early success in the war for South American independence. The 1962 actions of the workers of Pomacocha predated and presaged the agrarian reforms of Juan Velasco that wrested hacienda and estancia lands from powerful postcolonial oligarchs like the Monastery of Santa Clara and gave legal title back to the original indigenous communities.

ABBREVIATIONS

AAA

Archivo Arzobispal de Ayacucho (Ayacucho, Peru)

AGI

Archivo General de Indias (Sevilla, Spain)

AGN

Archivo General de la Nación (Lima, Peru)

ARAY

Archivo Regional de Ayacucho (Ayacucho, Peru)

ARC

Archivo Regional de Cusco (Cusco, Peru)

ASF

Archivo San Francisco de Lima (Lima, Peru)

BL

British Library (London, United Kingdom)

BNP

Biblioteca Nacional del Perú (Lima, Peru)

MNAAH Museo Nacional de Arqueología, Antropología e Historia del Perú (Lima, Peru) NMA

Notario Aparicio F. Medina Ayala (Ayacucho, Peru)

NOTES

Introduction 1. Emilio Mendizabal Losack, “Dos documentos sobre los obrajes de Huamanga,” Revista del Museo Nacional de Historia 27 (1958): 275. 2. Adrian J. Pearce, “The Peruvian Population Census of 1725–1740,” Latin American Research Review 36, no. 3 (2001): 69–104; Flare-­ups of the great epidemic lasted until at least 1726, see “Autos y testimonios de autos: Quejas de los indios,” May 12, 1726, AGI, Lima 495, f. 3r: “Por lo que mira la despoblasion delos Yndios Todabia permanece la peste por las provincias.” 3. Araindía, “Autos seguidos sobre las tierras de Pomacocha en testmonio,” 1732, AAA, Causas Civiles, No. 108, f. 32v. 4. Núria Sala i Vila, Y se armó el tole tole: Tributo indígena y movimientos sociales en el virreinato del Perú, 1790–1814 (Huamanga, Ayacucho: IER José María Arguedas, 1996), 231. All English translations by author unless otherwise noted. 5. “Expediente sobre la remisión de las relaciones de causas criminales y civiles que envió de mutuo propio el juzgado de la ciudad de Guamanga provisionalmente al Tribunal de la Audiencia de Cusco,” 1822, ARC, Real Audiencia, Administrativo, Legajo 178, Folio 32, Expediente 31, f. 9v; Bernardo O’Higgins, “Diario del viaje del General O’Higgins en la campaña de Ayacucho—Segunda parte,” Revista Chilena de historia y geografía 20, no. 24 (1916): 119–20. 6. Simón Bolívar, Obras completas, vol. 2 (Habana: Editorial Lex, 1950), 25. 7. Kanye West, “Kanye West Stirs Up TMZ Newsroom over Trump, Slavery, Free Thought,” TMZ Live, May 1, 2018, https://www.tmz.com/2018/05/01/kanye-­west-­tmz -­live-­slavery-­trump/. 8. James C. Scott, Weapons of the Weak: Everyday Forms of Peasant Resistance (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1985). 9. Fernand Braudel, Le Mediterranée et le monde mediterranéen à l’epoque de Philippe II (New York: HarperCollins, 1972). 10. Secondary source data from Di Hu, “Labor under the Sun and the Son: Landscapes of Control and Resistance at Inka and Spanish Colonial Pomacocha, Ayacucho, Peru,” PhD diss., University of California, Berkeley, 2016; Lorenzo Huertas, “El movimiento de Túpac Amaru en Ayacucho,” in Flores Galindo, Túpac Amaru II—1780, 83–105; Scarlett O’Phelan, Un siglo de rebeliones anticoloniales: Perú y Bolivia,

166 • NOTES TO INTRODUCTION

1700–1783, 2nd ed., Travaux de l’Institut Français d’Études Andines 287 (Lima: Instituto Francés de Estudios Andinos, Instituto de Estudios Peruanos, 2012); Alexander Menaker, “Becoming ‘Rebels’ and ‘Idolaters’ in the Valley of Volcanoes, Southern Peru,” International Journal of Historical Archaeology 23, no. 4 (2019): 915–46; Jaime Urrutia, “Huamanga: Región, proceso e historia: 1536–1770,” licenciatura thesis, Universidad Nacional de San Cristóbal de Huamanga. Programa Académico de Antropología, 1984; Núria Sala i Vila, “Revueltas indígenas en el Perú tardocolonial,” PhD diss., Universitat de Barcelona, 1989, http://www.tdx.cat/handle/10803/729; Sala i Vila, Y se armó el tole tole; Miriam Salas, Estructura dolonial del poder español en el Perú: Huamanga (Ayacucho) a través de sus obrajes: Siglos XVI–XVIII, vol. 1 (Lima: Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú, Fondo Editorial, 1998), 608; Steve J. Stern, “Introduction to Part II,” in Stern, Resistance, Rebellion, and Consciousness, 143–47. Archival data from: “Francisco Xavier Gallegos, por inobedencia a los preceptos de su prelado y fomentar tumulto y rebelion de la feligresía,” 1732, AAA, Causas Civiles, No. 107; “Averiguación y castigo del alboroto occurido en estas cárceles,” Huamanga, April 26, 1806, ARAY, Cabildo, Causas Criminales, Leg. 61, No. 1230, f. 18r; “Auto promovido por Doña Rosa Garibaldo contra el indio Santo Tinco por ser jefe del motín sucedido en la hacienda Cochapata en el Partido de Cangallo,” 1812, ARAY, Intendencia, Leg. 48, Cuad. 54; “La comunidad de indios de Sancos, en Vilcashuamán, solicita la restitución de las tierras de Ingahuasi que les fueron despojadas por los padres de la compañía de Jesús del Cuzco, administradores de la hacienda San José. Ante Antonio José de Mendoza Caamaño y Sotomayor, Marqués de Villagarcía, virrey del Perú,” Sancos, 1695–1737, AGN, Derecho Indígena, Leg. 12, Cuad. 196, GO_BI_BI1_027, 134; “Revisita de indios,” Huancavelica, 1753, AGN, GO_RE_RE1_009,151, ff. 9r–18v, 27r; “Auto del Real Acuerdo de Justicia relativo a la causa criminal que remitió el teniente general de Huaylas contra Magdalena Tafur y otros por haber intentado la fuga de un reo y fomentar tumultos en Huaraz,” October 11, 1764, AGN, GO_RE_RE1_021,495; “Relación sobre la rebelión del indio José Gabriel Tupac-­Amaru,” Lima, December 31, 1780, AGI, Estado, 74, N.57, f. 1r; “Pacificación y población de los indios Bopis,” Chulumani, October 11, 1797, AGI, Estado, 76, N. 48; “Provisión de retasa del tributo que han de pagar los indios del repartimiento de Quichuas, Quilla, Sacsamarca, de la provincia de Vilcashuamán, etc.,” April 28, 1717, Vilcashuamán, BNP, C66, f. 13r; “Testimonio de la vista de ojos que se hizo cuando sucedió la ruina al pie de las siete revueltas y junta que hizo del mineraje para la suspensión del trabajo de la Real Mina,” Huancavelica, 1714, BNP, C1636; “Expediente formado sobre la averiguación de las causas e incidencias del asalto al pueblo de Ichuña por una facción de indios rebeldes del bando de Túpac Amaru,” Moquegua, September 6, 1781, BNP, C1186; “Expediente muy reservado sobre las ocurrencias de motín de alzamiento en esta provincia,” Cusco, November 24, 1799, BNP, C3947; “Provisión real citada y compulsoria dirigida a don Antonio Martínez y Negrete, juez subdelegado del partido de Angaraes para la procecusión de la sumaría que está siguiendo contra el insurgente Miguel Condori de la doctrina de Aconia del pueblo de Iscuchaca,” Huancavelica, November 5, 1800, BNP, Archivo Raúl Porras Barrenechea, XPD/D3. 11. See Frantz Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth (New York: Grove Press, 1965); Monica Heller and Bonnie McElhinny, Language, Capitalism, Colonialism: Toward a

NOTES TO INTRODUCTION • 167

Critical History (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2017); Tayyab Mahmud, “Colonialism and Modern Constructions of Race: A Preliminary Inquiry,” University of Miami Law Review, 1999, 1219–46; Deborah Poole, Vision, Race, and Modernity: A Visual Economy of the Andean Image World (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1997); David J Weber, Bárbaros: Spaniards and Their Savages in the Age of Enlightenment (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2005). 12. See Ann Zulawski, They Eat from Their Labor: Work and Social Change in Colonial Bolivia (Pittsburgh, PA: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1995), for a discussion of how capitalism was undermined by Spanish and indigenous attitudes. 13. See Nicholas P Cushner, Farm and Factory: The Jesuits and the Development of Agrarian Capitalism in Colonial Quito, 1600–1767 (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1982); Luis Chávez Orozco, El obraje: Embrión de la fábrica, Documentos Para La Historia Economica de México, vol. 11 (Mexico: Talleres gráficos de la nacíon, 1936); Miriam Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español en el Perú: Huamanga (Ayacucho) a través de sus obrajes: Siglos XVI-­XVIII, vol. 1 (Lima: Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú, Fondo Editorial, 1998); John Tutino, Making a New World: Founding Capitalism in the Bajío and Spanish North America (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2011). 14. See Manuel Miño Grijalva, La protoindustria colonial hispanoamericana (Mexico: El Colegio de Mexico, 1993); Manuel Miño Grijalva, Obrajes y tejedores de Nueva España, 1700–1810: La industria urbana y rural de una economía colonial (México, D.F: El Colegio de México, Centro de Estudios Históricos, 1998); Richard J. Salvucci, Textiles and Capitalism in Mexico: An Economic History of the Obrajes, 1539– 1840 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1987). 15. See Carlos Sempat Assadourian, El sistema de la economía colonial: Mercado interno, regiones y espacio económico, Estudios Históricos 10 (Lima: Instituto de Estudios Peruanos, 1982); Brooke Larson, Cochabamba, 1550–1900: Colonialism and Agrarian Transformation in Bolivia, expanded ed. (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1998); Salvucci, Textiles and Capitalism; Karen Spalding, Huarochirí, an Andean Society under Inca and Spanish Rule (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1984); Steve J. Stern, “Feudalism, Capitalism, and the World-­System in the Perspective of Latin America and the Caribbean,” American Historical Review 93, no. 4 (1988): 829– 72; Steve J. Stern, “The Variety and Ambiguity of Native Andean Intervention in Markets,” in Ethnicity, Markets, and Migration in the Andes: At the Crossroads of History and Anthropology, ed. Olivia Harris, Brooke Larson, and Enrique Tandeter (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1995), 73–100; Tutino, Making a New World. 16. Steve J. Stern, “Latin America’s Colonial History: Invitation to an Agenda,” Latin American Perspectives 12, no. 1 (1985): 4–5; Steve J. Stern, Peru’s Indian Peoples and the Challenge of Spanish Conquest: Huamanga to 1640, 2nd ed. (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1993), 220. 17. Peter Guardino and Charles Walker, “The State, Society, and Politics in Peru and Mexico in the Late Colonial and Early Republican Periods,” Latin American Perspectives 19, no. 2 (1992): 14–15; Stern, Peru’s Indian Peoples, 37. 18. Di Hu, “Advancing Theory? Landscape Archaeology and Geographical Information Systems,” Papers from the Institute of Archaeology 21 (2011): 80–90.

168 • NOTES TO INTRODUCTION

19. Spalding, Huarochirí, 298. 20. Michel Foucault, Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison, trans. Alan Sheridan (New York: Vintage Books, 1979); Mark P. Leone, “A Historical Archaeology of Capitalism,” American Anthropologist 97, no. 2 (1995): 251–68. 21. Kenneth Hirth and Joanne Pillsbury, “Redistribution and Markets in Andean South America,” Current Anthropology 54, no. 5 (2013): 642. 22. Noel Castree, Rob Kitchin, and Alisdair Rogers, “Political Geography,” in A Dictionary of Human Geography (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013); Alexander B. Murphy, “Political Geography,” in International Encyclopedia of the Social and Behavioral Sciences, 2nd ed., ed. James D. Wright (Oxford: Elsevier, 2015), 374–79. 23. Wendy Ashmore, “Why the Archaeology of Political Ecology Matters,” Archeological Papers of the American Anthropological Association 29, no. 1 (July 1, 2018): 175–84; Christopher T. Morehart, John K. Millhauser, and Santiago Juarez, “Archaeologies of Political Ecology—Genealogies, Problems, and Orientations,” Archeological Papers of the American Anthropological Association 29, no. 1 (July 1, 2018): 5–29. 24. Michael Watts, “Political Ecology,” in A Companion to Economic Geography, ed. Eric Sheppard and Trevor J. Barnes (Malden, MA: Wiley-­Blackwell, 2003), 257–74. 25. Tor A. Benjaminsen et al., “Political Geography and the Environment,” Political Geography 56 (January 1, 2017): A1–2. 26. See David Jenkins, “A Network Analysis of Inka Roads, Administrative Centers, and Storage Facilities,” Ethnohistory 48, no. 4 (2001): 655–87; Carl Knappett, ed., Network Analysis in Archaeology: New Approaches to Regional Interaction (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013); Barbara J. Mills et al., “Transformation of Social Networks in the Late Pre-­Hispanic US Southwest,” Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences 110, no. 15 (April 9, 2013): 5785–90; Matthew A. Peeples, Connected Communities: Networks, Identity, and Social Change in the Ancient Cibola World (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2018). 27. Merrick Lex Berman, “Boundaries or Networks in Historical GIS: Concepts of Measuring Space and Administrative Geography in Chinese History,” Historical Geography 33 (2005): 118–33; Claudia Glatz, “Empire as Network: Spheres of Material Interaction in Late Bronze Age Anatolia,” Journal of Anthropological Archaeology 28, no. 2 (2009): 127–41; Michael E. Smith, “Bounding Empires and Political/Military Networks Using Archaeological Data,” Journal of Globalization Studies 8, no. 1 (2017): 30–47; Monica L. Smith, “Networks, Territories, and the Cartography of Ancient States,” Annals of the Association of American Geographers 95, no. 4 (December 1, 2005): 832–49. 28. Damon Centola and Michael Macy, “Complex Contagions and the Weakness of Long Ties,” American Journal of Sociology 113, no. 3 (2007): 702–34; Mark S. Granovetter, “The Strength of Weak Ties,” American Journal of Sociology 78, no. 6 (May 1, 1973): 1360–80; Mark Granovetter, “Threshold Models of Collective Behavior,” American Journal of Sociology 83, no. 6 (1978): 1420–43. 29. James C Scott, The Art of Not Being Governed: An Anarchist History of Upland Southeast Asia (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2009). 30. Spalding, Huarochirí, 239–69; Steve J. Stern, “Introduction: New Approaches to the Study of Peasant Rebellion and Consciousness: Implications of the Andean Experience,” in Stern, Resistance, Rebellion, and Consciousness, 11–18.

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31. Michael Given, The Archaeology of the Colonized (New York: Routledge, 2004), 11. 32. Brian M. Evans, “Census Enumeration in Late Seventeenth-­Century Alto Perú: The Numeración General of 1683–1684,” in Studies in Spanish American Population History, ed. David J. Robinson (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1981), 25–44; Pearce, “The Peruvian Population Census”; Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, vol. 1. 33. Kathryn Burns, Into the Archive: Writing and Power in Colonial Peru (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2010). 34. Frank Salomon and Sue Grosboll, “A Visit to the Children of Chaupi Ñamca: From Myth to History via Onomastics and Demography,” in History and Language in the Andes, ed. Paul Heggarty and Adrian J. Pearce, Studies of the Americas (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011), 49. 35. Barbara L. Voss, The Archaeology of Ethnogenesis: Race and Sexuality in Colonial San Francisco (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2008). 36. Frank Salomon, “Unethnic Ethnohistory: On Peruvian Peasant Historiography and Ideas of Autochthony,” Ethnohistory 49, no. 3 (2002): 475–506.

Chapter 1 1. Miguel Cabello Balboa, Obras, vol. 1 (Quito: Editorial Ecuatoriana, 1945); John H. Rowe, “Absolute Chronology in the Andean Area,” American Antiquity 10, no. 3 (1945): 265–84. 2. Erik J. Marsh et al., “Dating the Expansion of the Inca Empire: Bayesian Models from Ecuador and Argentina,” Radiocarbon 59, no. 1 (2017): 117–40. 3. Rebecca Stone, “‘And All Theirs Different from His’: The Dumbarton Oaks Royal Inka Tunic in Context,” in Variations in the Expression of Inka Power, ed. Joanne Pillsbury et al. (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, 2007), 385–422. 4. Stone, “‘And All Theirs Different from His,’” 397–99. 5. Bernabé Cobo, History of the Inca Empire: An Account of the Indians’ Customs and Their Origin, Together with a Treatise on Inca Legends, History, and Social Institutions, ed. Roland Hamilton, Texas Pan American Series (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1979), 197. 6. Cobo, History of the Inca Empire, 189; Terence N. D’Altroy, The Incas, 2nd ed., The Peoples of America (Chichester, UK: Wiley Blackwell, 2014), 273. 7. Catherine J. Julien, “How Inca Decimal Administration Worked,” Ethnohistory 35, no. 3 (1988): 257–79. 8. Cobo, History of the Inca Empire, 220–21; Pedro de Cieza de León, The Second Part of the Chronicle of Peru, ed. Clements R. Markham (London: Hakluyt Society, 1883), 37, 68; Roberto Levillier, Los Incas (Sevilla: Escuela de Estudios Hispana-­ Americanos de Sevilla, 1956), 54. 9. Juan de Betanzos, Narrative of the Incas, ed. Roland Hamilton and Dana Buchanan (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1996), 85; Pedro de Cieza de León, The Incas, ed. Victor Wolfgang Von Hagen, trans. Harriet De Onis, The Civilization of the American Indian Series (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1959), 56–57; Cobo, History of the Inca Empire, 136–50; Juan Polo de Ondegardo, “Report by Polo de Ondegardo of the Lineage of the Yncas, and How They Extended Their Conquests,” in

170 • NOTES TO CHAPTER 1

Narratives of the Rites and Laws of the Yncas, ed. Clements R. Markham, Works Issued by the Hakluyt Society 48 (London: Hakluyt Society, 1873), 152–55; Pedro Sarmiento de Gamboa, History of the Incas, ed. Clements R Markham (Farnham, Surrey: Ashgate, 2010), 146. 10. Noble David Cook, Demographic Collapse, Indian Peru, 1520–1620 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981), 53. 11. Cobo, History of the Inca Empire, 191. 12. Cobo, History of the Inca Empire, 190; Cieza de León, Incas, 57; Sarmiento de Gamboa, History of the Incas, 119–20; Francisco de Toledo, “Informaciones acerca del señorío y gobierno de los Ingas, hechas, por mandado de Don Francisco de Toledo, Virey del Perú 1570–1572,” in Memorias antiguas historiales y politicas del Perú, ed. Marcos Jiménez de la Espada (Madrid: Imprenta de Miguel Ginesta, 1882), 188. 13. Sarmiento de Gamboa, History of the Incas, 119–20. 14. Cieza de León, Incas, 60–61; John H. Rowe, “Inca Policies and Institutions Relating to the Cultural Unification of the Empire,” in The Inca and Aztec States, 1400– 1800: Anthropology and History, ed. George Allen Collier, Renato Rosaldo, and John D Wirth (New York: Academic Press, 1982), 110; Sarmiento de Gamboa, History of the Incas, 121. 15. Lidio M. Valdez and Cirilo Vivanco, “Arqueología de la cuenca del Qaracha, Ayacucho, Peru,” Latin American Antiquity 5, no. 2 (June 1, 1994): 144–57. 16. Sarmiento de Gamboa, History of the Incas, 120. 17. James C. Scott, Seeing Like a State: How Certain Schemes to Improve the Human Condition Have Failed (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1998); Scott, Art of Not Being Governed. 18. Cieza de León, Incas, 125, 231; Inca Garcilaso de la Vega, Royal Commentaries of the Incas, and General History of Peru, trans. Harold V. Livermore (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1989), 218–19; Pedro de Carabajal, “Descripción fecha de la provincia de Vilcas Guaman por el illustre señor Don Pedro de Carabajal, corregidor y justicia mayor della, ante Xpristobal de Gamboa, escribano de su juzgado, en el año de 1586,” in Relaciones geográficas de Indias, ed. Marcos Jiménez de la Espada, vol. 1(Madrid: Ministerio de Fomento del Peru, 1881), 168. 19. Miriam Salas, “Advenedizos y traspuestos: Los mitmaquna o mitimaes de Vilcashuamán en su tránsito de los tiempos del Inka al de los ‘Señores de los mares,’” Boletín de arqueología PUCP 6 (2002): 57–78; Jaime Urrutia, Aquí nada ha pasado: Huamanga siglos XVI–XX (Lima: IEP, Instituto de Estudios Peruanos, 2014), 25. 20. Garcilaso de la Vega, Royal Commentaries, 303. 21. Salas, “Advenedizos y traspuestos.” 22. Julio I. Santillana, Paisaje sagrado e ideología Inca: Vilcas Huaman (Lima: Fondo Editorial de la Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú, 2012). 23. Antonio de la Calancha, Cronica moralizada d[e] Antonio d[e] la Calancha, ed. Ignacio Prado Pastor, Crónicas Del Perú 4–9 (Lima: Universidad Nacional Mayor de San Marcos, 1974), book 1, 224; Pedro de Cieza de León, Crónica del Perú, ed. Franklin Pease G. Y., Miguel Maticorena Estrada, and Francesca Cantù, Colección Clásicos Peruanos (Lima: Fondo Editorial de la Pontificia Universidad Católica del

NOTES TO CHAPTER 1 • 171

Perú, Academia Nacional de la Historia, 1984), first part, 252; Sarmiento de Gamboa, History of the Incas, 175. 24. Jenkins, “A Network Analysis of Inka Roads,” 665, 668. 25. Carabajal, “Descripción,” 167; Santillana, Paisaje sagrado, 315. 26. Carabajal, “Descripción,” 166. 27. Santillana, Paisaje sagrado. 28. Lorenzo Huertas, “Estudio preliminar,” in Las tribus de Ancku Wallokc, ed. Lorenzo Huertas, 2nd ed. (Lima: Impreso en el Perú, 1983), xv. 29. Abdón Yaranga Valderrama, “Las ‘reducciones,’ uno de los instrumentos del etnocidio,” Revista complutense de historia de América 21 (1995): 244. 30. Di Hu, “Making Space under the Inca: A Space Syntax Analysis of a Mitmaq Settlement in Vilcas Huamán Province, Peru,” Antiquity, 2019, 1–19; Di Hu and M. Steven Shackley, “ED-­XRF Analysis of Obsidian Artifacts from Yanawilka, a Settlement of Transplanted Laborers (Mitmaqkuna), and Implications for Inca Imperialism,” Journal of Archaeological Science: Reports 18 (April 1, 2018): 213–21. 31. Cobo, History of the Inca Empire, 211. 32. Polo de Ondegardo, “Report,” 155. 33. Catherine J. Allen, The Hold Life Has: Coca and Cultural Identity in an Andean Community (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1988); Alexander Herrera, “Social Landscapes and Community Identity: The Social Organisation of Space in the North-­Central Andes,” in Defining Social Complexity: Approaches to Power and Interaction in the Archaeological Record, ed. Sheila Kohring and Stephanie Wynne-­ Jones (Malden, UK: Oxbow Books, 2007), 161–85; John Hyslop, Inka Settlement Planning (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1990); Rowe, “Inca Policies and Institutions.” 34. Cieza de León, Incas, 57–59, 60–61; Cobo, History of the Inca Empire, 190; Sarmiento de Gamboa, History of the Incas, 146. 35. Cieza de León, Second Part of the Chronicle , 91–93; Cobo, History of the Inca Empire, 196, 240–41; Felipe Guamán Poma de Ayala, “El primer nueva corónica y buen gobierno,” Guaman Poma Website, 1615, http://www.kb.dk/permalink/2006 /poma/info/en/frontpage.htm, 546; Levillier, Los Incas , 46, 57–58; Cristóbal de Molina, Account of the Fables and Rites of the Incas, ed. Brian S. Bauer, Vania Smith-­Oka, and Gabriel E. Cantarutti (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2011), 77–82; Craig Morris and Donald E. Thompson, Huánuco Pampa, an Inca City and Its Hinterland (London: Thames and Hudson, 1985), 70; Rowe, “Inca Policies and Institutions.” 36. Carabajal, “Descripción,” 149; Cobo, History of the Inca Empire, 191; Santillana, Paisaje sagrado. 37. Hu and Shackley, “ED-­XRF Analysis of Obsidian Artifacts.” 38. Marsh et al., “Dating the Expansion of the Inca Empire.” 39. Hu, “Labor under the Sun,” appendix D; Jean Piel, Capitalismo agrario en el Perú (Lima: IFEA, 1995). 40. Hu, “Labor under the Sun,” appendix D, 6–8, 13–15. 41. Carabajal, “Descripción,” 168. 42. Manuel Cama Salazar and Juan Paucarima Cerón, Análisis territorial de Vilcashuamán: Campaña 2004 (Lima: Instituto Nacional de Cultura, 2005), 26–28; Javier

172 • NOTES TO CHAPTER 1

Pulgar Vidal, Historia y geografía del Perú: Las ocho regiones naturales del Perú (Lima: Universidad Nacional Mayor de San Marcos, 1946). 43. Christine A. Hastorf, Agriculture and the Onset of Political Inequality before the Inka (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993). 44. Lonnie G. Thompson and Mary E. Davis, “An 1800-­Year Ice Core History of Climate and Environment in the Andes of Southern Peru and Its Relationship with Highland/Lowland Cultural Oscillations,” in Inca Sacred Space: Landscape, Site and Symbol in the Andes, ed. Frank Meddens et al. (London: Archetype Publications, 2014), 261–68. 45. Carabajal, “Descripción,” 146. 46. Carabajal, “Descripción,” 147. 47. Cama Salazar and Paucarima Cerón, Análisis territorial de Vilcashuamán, 46–47. 48. Cama Salazar and Paucarima Cerón, Análisis territorial de Vilcashuamán, 19–21. 49. Santillana, Paisaje sagrado. 50. Betanzos, Narrative of the Incas, 170. 51. Cieza de León, Incas, 127. 52. Pierre Duviols, “Un inédit de Cristobal de Albornoz: La instrucción para descubrir todas las guacas del Pirú y sus camayos y haziendas,” Journal de la société des Américanistes 56, no. 1 (1967), 20. 53. Hyslop, Inka Settlement Planning. 54. Duviols, “Un inédit de Cristobal de Albornoz,” 20. 55. Hyslop, Inka Settlement Planning. 56. Hu, “Making Space under the Inca.” 57. Hu, “Making Space under the Inca.” 58. Cobo, History of the Inca Empire, 195–96; Levillier, Los Incas, 46. 59. Cobo, History of the Inca Empire, 195–96; Garcilaso de la Vega, Royal Commentaries, 45. 60. Levillier, Los Incas, 46; Toledo, “Informaciones.” 61. Levillier, Los Incas, 46, 57. 62. Hu, “Making Space under the Inca.” 63. Cobo, History of the Inca Empire, 190. 64. Cobo, History of the Inca Empire, 196; Guamán Poma, “El primer nueva corónica,” 546. 65. F. Braadbaart, I. Poole, and A. A. van Brussel, “Preservation Potential of Charcoal in Alkaline Environments: An Experimental Approach and Implications for the Archaeological Record,” Journal of Archaeological Science 36, no. 8 (2009): 1672–79. 66. Hastorf, Agriculture and the Onset of Political Inequality; J. Esteban Hernández Bermejo and J. León, eds., Neglected Crops: 1492 from a Different Perspective, FAO Plant Production and Protection Series, no. 26 (Rome: Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations, 1994); Linda Perry, “Starch Remains, Preservation Biases, and Plant Histories: An Example from Highland Peru,” in Rethinking Agriculture, Archaeological and Ethnoarchaeological Perspectives., ed. Timothy P. Denham, Iriarte José, and Luc Vrydaghs (Walnut Creek, CA: Left Coast Press, 2007), 241–55; Dolores

NOTES TO CHAPTER 1 • 173

R. Piperno and Deborah M. Pearsall, The Origins of Agriculture in the Lowland Neotropics (San Diego: Academic Press, 1998). 67. Hu, “Labor under the Sun.” 68. Scott, Art of Not Being Governed, 190, 195, 206. 69. Justin Jennings and Guy Duke, “Making the Typical Exceptional,” in The Oxford Handbook of the Incas (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018), 303–22. 70. Christine A. Hastorf, “Andean Luxury Foods: Special Food for the Ancestors, Deities and the Élite,” Antiquity 77, no. 297 (2003): 545–54; Jennings and Duke, “Making the Typical Exceptional.” 71. Cathy Lynne Costin and Timothy Earle, “Status Distinction and Legitimation of Power as Reflected in Changing Patterns of Consumption in Late Prehispanic Peru,” American Antiquity 54, no. 4 (1989): 691–714; Elsie Sandefur, “Animal Husbandry and Meat Consumption,” in Empire and Domestic Economy, ed. Terence N. D’Altroy and Christine A. Hastorf (New York: Kluwer Academic/Plenum, 2001), 179–202. 72. Di Hu and Kylie Quave, “Prosperity and Prestige: Archaeological Realities of Unfree Laborers under Inka Imperialism,” Journal of Anthropological Archaeology 59 (2020): 101201. 73. Sandefur, “Animal Husbandry and Meat Consumption.” 74. The Lucana site of Pulapuco had metal; see Sarah Abraham, “Provincial Life in the Inca Empire: Continuity and Change at Pulapuco, Peru,” PhD diss., University of California, Santa Barbara, 2010. Spondylus shell was found at the possible mitmaqkuna site of Pueblo Viejo-­Pucara; see Krzysztof Makowski, “Arquitectura, estilo e identidad en el Horizonte Tardío: El sitio de Pueblo Viejo-­Pucará, valle de Lurín,” Boletín de arqueología PUCP 6 (2002): 137–70; Krzysztof Makowski and Milena Vega Centeno A., “Estilos regionales en la Costa Central en el Horizonte Tardío: Una aproximación desde el valle del Lurín,” Bulletin de l’Institut Français d’Éétudes Andines 33, no. 3 (2004): 681–714. Metal, shell, and semiprecious stone were common at Sausa sites; see Bruce Owen, “The Economy of Metal and Shell Wealth Goods,” in Empire and Domestic Economy, ed. Terence N. D’Altroy and Christine A. Hastorf (New York: Kluwer Academic/Plenum, 2001), 265–93. 75. Abraham, “Provincial Life in the Inca Empire.” 76. Lucas C. Kellett, Mark Golitko, and Brian S. Bauer, “A Provenance Study of Archaeological Obsidian from the Andahuaylas Region of Southern Peru,” Journal of Archaeological Science 40, no. 4 (2013): 1890–1902; Hu, “Labor under the Sun”; Hu and Shackley, “ED-­XRF Analysis of Obsidian Artifacts.” 77. Marc N. Levine, Arthur A. Joyce, and Michael D. Glascock, “Shifting Patterns of Obsidian Exchange in Postclassic Oaxaca, Mexico,” Ancient Mesoamerica 22, no. 1 (2011): 123–33; M. Steven Shackley, Obsidian: Geology and Archaeology in the North American Southwest (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2005), 137. 78. Hu and Shackley, “ED-­XRF Analysis of Obsidian Artifacts.” Although obsidian was restricted at Yanawilka, one particular structure (Y1) had obsidian from significantly more diverse sources, see Hu, “Labor under the Sun,” 104–6. Y1 was also the structure that had the richest faunal, ceramic, and stone tool assemblages. The richness of the assemblage and the proximity to the rocky outcrop of Y1 suggests that

174 • NOTES TO CHAPTER 1

its inhabitants had greater wealth and access to obsidian trade networks, even as the amount of obsidian was restricted. 79. Hugo D. Yacobaccio et al., “Long-­Distance Obsidian Traffic in Northwestern Argentina,” in Geochemical Evidence for Long Distance Exchange, ed. Michael D. Glascock (Westport, CT: Bergin and Garvey, 2002), 167–203; Hugo D. Yacobaccio et al., “Quest for Ancient Routes: Obsidian Sourcing Research in Northwestern Argentina,” Journal of Archaeological Science 31, no. 2 (2004): 193–204. 80. Tamara L. Bray, “Archaeological Survey in Northern Highland Ecuador: Inca Imperialism and the Pais Caranqui,” World Archaeology 24, no. 2 (1992): 218–33. 81. Ethnohistorical evidence suggests that the Incas frequently restricted exotic goods. In the early 1570s, native witnesses testified that the Incas controlled the trade of coca, a leafy plant from the jungles of the eastern slopes of the Andes, and selectively gifted bags of coca to favored subjects, while ordinary people did not have enough, see Toledo, “Informaciones,” 198. 82. Rowe, “Inca Policies and Institutions,” 97. 83. María Rostworowski, “La tasa ordenada por el licenciado Pedro de La Gasca (1549),” in Ensayos de historia Andina I. élites, etnias, recursos, vol. 5, Obras completas de María Rostworowski (Lima: IEP, Instituto de Estudios Peruanos, 2005), 251–302. 84. Pablo Joseph de Arriaga, La extirpación de la idolatría en la Peru, Coleccion de Libros y Documentos Referentes a La Historia Del Peru 2 (Lima: Imprenta y Libreria SanMarti y Co., 1920), 83; Scotti M. Norman, “Defining Identity during Revitalization: Taki Onqoy in the Chicha-­Soras Valley (Ayacucho, Peru),” International Journal of Historical Archaeology 23, no. 4 (2019): 947–79. 85. Stern, Peru’s Indian Peoples, 65–66. 86. Duviols, “Un inédit de Cristobal de Albornoz,” 36. 87. Stern, Peru’s Indian Peoples, 65. 88. Stern, Peru’s Indian Peoples, 65. 89. Duviols, “Un inédit de Cristobal de Albornoz,” 36; Molina, Account of the Fables and Rites, 84; Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 1:542–43; Urrutia, Aquí nada ha pasado, 65. 90. Stern, Peru’s Indian Peoples, 59–61. 91. Duviols, “Un inédit de Cristobal de Albornoz,” 36; Luis Millones and Sara Castro-­Klarén, eds., El retorno de las huacas: Estudios y documentos sobre el Taki Onqoy, siglo XVI, Fuentes e Investigaciones Para La Historia Del Perú 8 (Lima: Instituto de Estudios Peruanos, Sociedad Peruana de Psicoanálisis, 1990). 92. Huacas were creator-­animator deities that usually had a physical manifestation on the landscape: outcroppings, mountaintops, and large boulders. For example, see George Lau, “Ancestor Images in the Andes,” in Handbook of South American Archaeology, ed. Helaine Silverman and William H. Isbell (New York: Springer, 2008), 1027–45. 93. Jeremy Mumford, “The Taki Onqoy and the Andean Nation: Sources and Interpretations,” Latin American Research Review 33, no. 1 (1998): 152. 94. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 1:539. 95. Luis Millones, Las informaciones de Cristóbal de Albornoz: Documentos para el estudio del Taki Onqoy, Sondeos 79 (Cuernavaca, México: Centro Intercultural de Documentación, 1971), 63–64.

NOTES TO CHAPTER 1 • 175

96. Molina, Account of the Fables and Rites, 88, 120. 97. Duviols, “Un inédit de Cristobal de Albornoz,” 35. 98. Duviols, “Un inédit de Cristobal de Albornoz”; Arriaga, La extirpación de la idolatría. 99. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 1:548. 100. Stern, Peru’s Indian Peoples, 66. 101. Susan E. Ramírez, The World Upside Down: Cross-­Cultural Contact and Conflict in Sixteenth-­Century Peru (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1996). 102. “Visita y composición de las tierras Ayrabamba de ingenio de Chinchepampa y de la hacienda Astania,” Vilcashuamán, 1723, AGN, Títulos de propiedad, Leg. 26, Cuad. 508. 103. Hu, “Labor under the Sun,” appendix D, 14–15. 104. Brian S. Bauer, “Introduction,” in Account of the Fables and Rites of the Incas, ed. Brian S. Bauer, Vania Smith-­Oka, and Gabriel E. Cantarutti (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2011), xiv–xxv; Stern, Peru’s Indian Peoples. 105. Ramírez, World Upside Down, 57–59. 106. “Tratado sobre Guamanga,” February 22, 1586, BL, Add MS 17586, ff. 6–7. 107. Juan de Matienzo, Gobierno del Perú (Lima: L’institut Français d’études andines, 1967), 85–87. 108. Matienzo, Gobierno del Perú, 86. 109. Jeremy Ravi Mumford, Vertical Empire: The General Resettlement of Indians in the Colonial Andes (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2012), 69; Toledo, “Informaciones,” 202–3. 110. Miriam Salas, De los obrajes de Canaria y Chincheros a las comunidades indígenas de Vilcashuamán, siglo XVI (Lima: Sesator, 1979); Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, vol. 1. 111. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 1:548; Pierre Duviols, La lutte contre les religions autochtones dans le Pérou colonial: L’extirpation de l’idolâtrie entre 1532 et 1660 (Toulouse: Presses Universitaires du Mirail, 2008), 132; Hu, “Labor under the Sun,” 176–77. 112. Héctor O. Noejovich, “La transición del sistema prehispánico al sistema económico colonial,” in Compendio de historia económica del Perú, II: Economía del período colonial temprano, ed. Carlos Contreras Carranza (Lima: Banco Central de Reserva del Perú–IEP Instituto de Estudios Peruanos, 2009), 67. 113. Toledo, “Informaciones,” 191; Mumford, Vertical Empire, 106. 114. Yaranga Valderrama, “Las ‘reducciones.’” 115. Stern, Peru’s Indian Peoples. 116. Damian de la Bandera, “Relación general de la disposición y calidad de la provincia de Guamanga, llamada San Joan de la frontera, y de la vivienda y costumbres de los naturales della,” in Relaciones geográficas de Indias, ed. Marcos Jiménez de la Espada, vol. 1(Madrid: Ministerio de Fomento del Peru, 1881), 96. 117. Mumford, Vertical Empire. 118. Mumford, Vertical Empire, 139–45. 119. Mumford, Vertical Empire, 139. 120. Mumford, Vertical Empire, 149–51.

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121. Nozomi Mizota, “Pervivencia y cambios de las reducciones en la región de Huamanga, siglo XVII,” in Reducciones: La concentración forzada de las poblaciones indígenas en el virreinato del Perú, ed. Akira Saito and Claudia Rosas Lauro, Colección Estudios Andinos 21 (Lima: National Museum of Ethnology and Fondo Editorial de la Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú, 2017), 347–83. 122. Mumford, Vertical Empire, 120. 123. Salas, De los obrajes de Canaria y Chincheros; Yaranga Valderrama, “Las ‘reducciones.’” 124. Carabajal, “Descripción.” 125. Cushner, Farm and Factory; Valdez and Vivanco, “Arqueologia de la cuenca del Qaracha”; Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, vol. 2. 126. Mumford, Vertical Empire, 146. 127. “Composición de las tierras denominadas Chinchepampa, Ayabamba, Higos-­ pampa y otras, partido de Huamanga,” June 1, 1712, AGN, Títulos de Propiedad, Leg. 18, Cuad. 451, ff. 14–15; Hu, “Labor under the Sun,” appendix D. 128. Piel, Capitalismo agrario. 129. Ramírez, World Upside Down. 130. “Composición de las tierras denominadas Chinchepampa.” 131. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 1:371. 132. Hu, “Labor under the Sun,” appendix D; Piel, Capitalismo agrario, 175–76. 133. “Composición de las tierras denominadas Chinchepampa.” 134. Santillana, Paisaje sagrado, 319. 135. Santillana, Paisaje sagrado, 315. 136. “Copia certificada del título de la comunidad campesina de Vischongo,” Ayacucho, 1648, NMA, Título de comunidades campesinas, 1–2. 137. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 1:355. 138. Luis Miguel Glave, “Propiedad de la tierra, agricultura y comercio, 1570– 1700: El gran despojo,” in Compendio de historia económica del Perú, II: Economía del período colonial temprano, ed. Carlos Contreras Carranza (Lima: Banco Central de Reserva del Perú–IEP Instituto de Estudios Peruanos, 2009), 313–446. 139. Mumford, Vertical Empire; Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, vol. 1.

Chapter 2 1. Glave, “Propiedad de la tierra”; Piel, Capitalismo agrario; Ramírez, World Upside Down; Stern, Peru’s Indian Peoples. 2. Cook, Demographic Collapse; Noble David Cook, “Population Data for Indian Peru: Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries,” Hispanic American Historical Review 62, no. 1 (1982): 73–120; Noble David Cook, “Avances en el estudio de la población andina colonial,” Historica 26, no. 1–2 (2002): 15–81; John Lindo et al., “The Genetic Prehistory of the Andean Highlands 7000 Years BP though European Contact,” Science Advances 4, no. 11 (2018): eaau4921. 3. Piel, Capitalismo agrario. 4. Mumford, Vertical Empire, 163. 5. See Bandera, “Relación general,” 102. 6. “Copia certificada del título,” 1–2.

NOTES TO CHAPTER 2 • 177

7. A Spanish fanegada at the time was defined as 288 x 144 varas, with each vara equivalent to 0.84 meters. Therefore, a fanegada is roughly 242 x 121 meters, or 3 hectares. The fanegada can vary significantly depending on the fertility of the soil, as it is defined by the amount of land needed to harvest a certain amount of wheat. See Ramírez, World Upside Down, 54. 8. Hu, “Labor under the Sun,” appendix D, 15. 9. Santillana, Paisaje sagrado, 321–22. 10. Hu, “Labor under the Sun,” appendix D, 15. 11. Mumford, Vertical Empire, 145–46. 12. Karen Vieira Powers, Andean Journeys: Migration, Ethnogenesis, and the State in Colonial Quito (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1995), 72–89. 13. Stern, Peru’s Indian Peoples. 14. The lands were described as: “Que originariamente fueron pertenecientes a los Incas y que, habiendo quedado vacantes y en cabeza de los Reyes de España” ([Lands] that originally pertained to the Incas and which, having been left vacant and therefore in charge of the Kings of Spain). Hu, “Labor under the Sun,” appendix D, 7. 15. Hu, “Labor under the Sun,” 7–8. 16. Brian Philip Owensby, Empire of Law and Indian Justice in Colonial Mexico (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2008). 17. Piel, Capitalismo agrario, 175–76. 18. Owensby, Empire of Law and Indian Justice; Stern, Peru’s Indian Peoples, 100. 19. Owensby, Empire of Law and Indian Justice, 59. 20. Hu, “Labor under the Sun,” appendix D, 8–9. 21. Mumford, Vertical Empire. 22. Hu, “Labor under the Sun,” appendix D, 8. 23. Owensby, Empire of Law and Indian Justice, 19. 24. At this time, the hacienda of Pomacocha and the hacienda of Paucarbamba were two distinct entities. The hacienda of Paucarbamba still belonged to the Gamboa family. 25. Hu, “Labor under the Sun,” appendix D, 6–7. 26. Hu, “Labor under the Sun,” appendix D, 8–9. 27. Hu, “Labor under the Sun,” appendix D, 4–5. 28. Guaman Poma said that a horse was worth about fifty pesos, so the Monastery of Santa Clara paid the equivalent of about two horses for the land. Felipe Guamán Poma de Ayala, Letter to a King: A Peruvian Chief ’s Account of Life under the Incas and under Spanish Rule, trans. Christopher Wentworth Dilke (New York: Dutton, 1978), 215. 29. “Copia certificada del título,” 1–2. 30. “Copia certificada del título,” 3. Original: “Y atento que las dichas sobras, no son, ni pueden en una sola parte y paraje, sino en diferentes, y que si se hubieren de vender, sería en mucho mas perjuicio de los indios, por estar tan mescladas, en cuya consideracion y mediante lo que su majestad manda por sus reales cedulas que de este tartan, admitia y admitio a los dichos indios de los dichos pueblos y en su nombre a don Blas Antonio Cusiatau, gobernador de ellos, a composición de las dichas demasias, para que se les pase de haberla queden por suyas propias para el comun de los dichos pueblos.”

178 • NOTES TO CHAPTER 2

31. “Copia certificada del título,” 1. 32. “Copia certificada del título,” 3. 33. “Copia certificada del título,” 5–6. 34. “Copia certificada del título,” 5. 35. “Arrendamiento el monasterio de monjas de Santa Clara de esta ciudad a Joseph De Viloria de la hasienda de pomacocha por un año en 400p,” Huamanga, November 15, 1673, ARAY, Notariales, Joseph Benites Cortes Cavezas, Leg. 25, Protocolo 35, ff. 752r–754v. 36. “Arrendamiento el monasterio,” f. 753v. 37. Hu, “Labor under the Sun,” appendix D, 5. 38. Hu, “Labor under the Sun,” appendix D, 9–10. 39. Kathryn Burns, Colonial Habits: Convents and the Spiritual Economy of Cuzco, Peru (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1999), 64. 40. Burns, Colonial Habits, 14. 41. “Copia certificada del título.” 42. Piel, Capitalismo agrario. 43. Cook, Demographic Collapse; Cook, “Population Data for Indian Peru.” 44. Cook, Demographic Collapse; Hu, “Labor under the Sun,” 250. 45. Henry F. Dobyns, An Outline of Andean Epidemic History to 1720 (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University, Institute of the History of Medicine, 1963), 512; Pearce, “Peruvian Population Census.” 46. Evans, “Census Enumeration”; Robert H. Jackson, Race, Caste, and Status: Indians in Colonial Spanish America (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1999), 29; Pearce, “Peruvian Population Census”; Ann Zulawski, “Mano de obra y migración en un centro minero de los Andes: Oruro, 1683,” in Población y mano de obra en America Latina, ed. Nicolás Sánchez-­Albornoz (Madrid: Alianza Editorial, 1985), 95–114. 47. Lindo et al., “Genetic Prehistory of the Andean Highlands.” 48. Evans, “Census Enumeration”; Pearce, “Peruvian Population Census”; Powers, Andean Journeys. 49. Jorge Juan and Antonio de Ulloa, Secret Expedition to Peru; or, The Practical Influence of the Spanish Colonial System upon the Character and Habits of the Colonists (Boston: Crocker and Brewster, 1851), 76–79. 50. See Robert Patch, Indians and the Political Economy of Colonial Central America, 1670–1810 (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 2013), for similar patterns of competing interests in the colonial Central American economy. 51. BNP, C1130, C1212, C1132, C982, C66, C1133, C1211, C64, C1131, C1950, C1953, C2077, C2053, C1939, C2052, C2062, C2054, C1937, C1949, C1952, C113, C1962, C115, C114, C2074, C2070, C109, C108, C111, C2073, C2065, C1610, C2171, C2341, C2169, C2350, C2168, C2165, C2349, C2347, C2166, C2167, C2358, C2359, C2360, C2154, C2153, C2333, C2449, C2361, C2357, C2763, C1602, C2791, C2485, C2792, C2433, C1599, C1601. 52. Cameron D. Jones, In Service of Two Masters: The Missionaries of Ocopa, Indigenous Resistance, and Spanish Governance in Bourbon Peru (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2018), 100.

NOTES TO CHAPTER 2 • 179

53. Eighteen were serving at any given time; the number of tributaries eligible for the mita was a much higher number. 54. Silvio Zavala, El servicio personal de los indios en el Perú, vol. 2 (Mexico: El Colegio de México, 1979), 162, 175. 55. Isabel María Povea, Minería y reformismo borbónico en el perú. Estado, empresa y trabajadores en Huancavelica, 1784–1814 (Lima: Instituto de Estudios Peruanos– Banco Central de Reserva del Perú, 2014); By 1779, only the province of Chumbivilcas had to supply people (one hundred) for the labor draft to Huancavelica, see Zavala, El servicio personal de los indios, 162. 56. Evans, “Census Enumeration.” 57. Pearce, “Peruvian Population Census.” 58. Jackson, Race, Caste, and Status, 29. 59. Hu, “Labor under the Sun,” 252–62. 60. Hu, “Labor under the Sun,” 262–64. 61. Forastero means “stranger” or “outsider.” Forasteros were people who were living in a community that was not their ancestral home (defined as Toledan-­era ancestry). See Powers, Andean Journeys; Ramírez, World Upside Down; Ann Wightman, Indigenous Migration and Social Change: The Forasteros of Cuzco, 1570–1720 (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1990); Zulawski, “Mano de obra y migración,” 104. 62. Evans, “Census Enumeration”; Zulawski, “Mano de obra y migración.” 63. Powers, Andean Journeys, Wightman, Indigenous Migration and Social Change; Ann Wightman, “‘Residente en esa ciudad’: Urban Migrants in Colonial Cuzco,” in Robinson, Migration in Colonial Spanish America, 86–111. 64. Noble David Cook, “Migration in Colonial Spanish America: An Overview,” in Robinson, Migration in Colonial Spanish America, 41–61; Evans, “Census Enumeration”; Martin Minchom, “The Making of a White Province: Demographic Movement and Ethnic Transformation in the South of the Audiencia of Quito (1670–1830),” Bulletin de l’Institut Français d’Études Andines 12, no. 3–4 (1983): 23–39; O’Phelan, Un siglo de rebeliones; Pearce, “Peruvian Population Census”; Karen Vieira Powers, “Indian Migrations in the Audiencia of Quito: Crown Manipulation and Local Co-­Optation,” in Robinson, Migration in Colonial Spanish America,, 313–23; Powers, Andean Journeys; David J. Robinson, “Introduction: Towards a Typology of Migration in Colonial Spanish America,” in Robinson, Migration in Colonial Spanish America, 1–17; Thierry Saignes, “Indian Migration and Social Change in Seventeenth-­Century Charcas,” in Exchange and Markets in the Sixteenth Century: A View from the North, ed. Olivia Harris, Brooke Larson, and Enrique Tandeter (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1995), 167–95; Nicolás Sánchez-­Albornoz, “Mita, migraciones y pueblos: Variaciones en el espacio y en el tiempo,” Historia Boliviana 2 (1983): 11–19; Wightman, Indigenous Migration and Social Change; Zulawski, They Eat from Their Labor. 65. “Obligación de mita en Huamanga,” April 12, 1740, AGN, Derecho Indígena, Leg. 15, Cuad. 264, f. 90r; “Vista al S./or Fiscal y Protector Grâl,” August 25, 1727, AGI, Lima 495, Paja 11, fs. 1r-­6r; “Provisión de retasas . . . de los indios Tanquihuas,” 1717, BNP, C1130, ff. 1v–2r; Jorge Juan and Antonio de Ulloa, Noticias secretas de America sobre el estado naval, militar y politico de los reynos del Peru y provincias de Quito, costas de Nueva Granada y Chile, gobierno y regimen particular de los pueblos

180 • NOTES TO CHAPTER 2

de indios, cruel opresion y extorsiones de sus corregidores y curas (London: R. Taylor, 1826), 250. 66. Saignes, “Indian Migration and Social Change.” 67. David Cahill, “Colour by Numbers: Racial and Ethnic Categories in the Viceroyalty of Peru, 1532–1824,” Journal of Latin American Studies 26 (1994): 325–46; Ward Stavig, The World of Túpac Amaru: Conflict, Community, and Identity in Colonial Peru (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1999); Nathan Wachtel, The Vision of the Vanquished: The Spanish Conquest of Peru through Indian Eyes, 1530–1570 (Hassocks: Harvester Press, 1977); Wightman, Indigenous Migration and Social Change. 68. Wightman, Indigenous Migration and Social Change. 69. Mumford, Vertical Empire, 153. 70. Wightman, “‘Residente en esa ciudad.’” 71. Salas, De los obrajes de Canaria y Chincheros, 71–72. 72. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 1:372–73. 73. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 1:372–73. 74. Salas, De los obrajes de Canaria y Chincheros. 75. Evans, “Census Enumeration”; Pearce, “Peruvian Population Census”; Powers, Andean Journeys. 76. Lorenzo Huertas, ed., La revisita de los Chocorvos en 1683 (Ayacucho [Huamanga]: Universidad Nacional de San Cristóbal de Huamanga, 1976). 77. Originario means native. Originarios were people who were living in their ancestral community (defined as Toledan-­era ancestry). The definition of an originario was not strict, as it was often applied to those who were living in the village where they were born. See Wightman, Indigenous Migration and Social Change; Zulawski, “Mano de obra y migración,” 104. 78. Wightman, Indigenous Migration and Social Change. 79. Emily Engel, “Visualizing a Colonial Peruvian Community in the Eighteenth-­ Century Paintings of Our Lady of Cocharcas,” Religion and the Arts 13 (2009): 299– 339; Emily Engel, “Our Lady of Cocharcas,” Object Narrative, in Conversations: An Online Journal of the Center for the Study of Material and Visual Cultures of Religion (2014), doi:10.22332/con.obj.2015.2; Sabine Hyland, The Chankas and the Priest: A Tale of Murder and Exile in Highland Peru (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2016), 121–22; Richard L. Kagan, Urban Images of the Hispanic World, 1493–1793 (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2000), 142–44. 80. Araindía, “Autos seguidos sobre las tierras”; Juana de Leon, “Papeles correspondientes a los terrenos de Champacancha, Yanamarca en la provincia de Cangallo,” Cangallo, November 11, 1698, BNP, Archivo Astete Concha, Z499, ff.6r–8r. 81. “Poder, los indios de la provincia de Villcas Guaman al D/r D. Thomas Alexo del Cepedaza D. Manuel Juan de Zarate,”1682–85, ARAY, Notariales, Francisco Blanco de Cassazua, Legajo 28, ff. 1249r–50r. 82. “Provisión de retasa del tributo que deben pagar los indios originarios y forasteros de Totos de Quispillatas,” 1738, BNP, C2073, f. 8v. 83. “Provisión de retasas . . . Sancos, Chávez, Barrientos,” 1772, BNP, C2792, ff. 5v–6r. 84. Cook, Demographic Collapse; Huertas, La revisita de los Chocorvos; Francisco

NOTES TO CHAPTER 2 • 181

de Toledo, “Libro de la visita general del Virrey Toledo (1570–1575),” Revista histórica 7, no. 2 (1924): 114–216. 85. Huertas, La revisita de los Chocorvos. The data here includes males and females of all age groups: Espite originario males/females, 142/159; Espite forastero males/ females, 128/103; Viscapalca forastero males/females, 55/37; Vilcanchos originario males/females, 108/112; Vilcanchos forasteros males/females, 188/103. 86. Jeffrey A. Cole, The Potosi Mita, 1573–1700: Compulsory Indian Labor in the Andes (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1985); Wightman, “‘Residente en esa ciudad.’” 87. Wightman, Indigenous Migration and Social Change, 31. 88. Wightman, Indigenous Migration and Social Change, 34. 89. Duque de la Palata, “Un exemplar de la provisión de retasa . . . de la provincia de Vilcas Guaman, Charcas 270,”1686, AGI, Charcas, Roll 22A, f. 29r. 90. See Huertas, La revisita de los Chocorvos, 32. 91. O’Phelan, Un siglo de rebeliones. 92. Kenneth J. Andrien, Andean Worlds: Indigenous History, Culture, and Consciousness under Spanish Rule, 1532–1825 (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2001); O’Phelan, Un siglo de rebeliones; Pearce, “Peruvian Population Census”; Susan E. Ramírez, “Recent Research on the Andes before Independence: Ethnohistory, Social History, and Revolt and Revolution,” History Compass 7, no. 3 (2009): 800–836. 93. O’Phelan, Un siglo de rebeliones; Pearce, “Peruvian Population Census.” 94. O’Phelan, Un siglo de rebeliones. 95. O’Phelan, Un siglo de rebeliones. 96. Jones, In Service of Two Masters; Steve J. Stern, “The Age of Andean Insurrection, 1742–1782: A Reappraisal,” in Stern, Resistance, Rebellion, and Consciousness, 34–93, 43–46. 97. Scarlett O’Phelan, Rebellions and Revolts in Eighteenth Century Peru and Upper Peru (Köln: Böhlau, 1985), 17. 98. For an excellent treatment of how violations of traditional obligations of leaders to their constituency were a common cause for insurrections, see Sinclair Thomson, We Alone Will Rule: Native Andean Politics in the Age of Insurgency (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2002). 99. “Provisión de retasa del tributo que deben pagar los indios originarios del repartimiento de Tanquihuas,” 1739, BNP, C111, f. 1v. 100. “Provisión de retasa . . . de Tanquihuas,” ff. 1v–2r. Original: “Aver quedado las Provinzias totalmente desamparadas de los Yndios que las havitaban y las Provinzias exhhaustas de los feligreses que las /f.2r/ componían succediendo esta desolasion en Unos por haverse muerto arrigores del estrago y otros que Vllendo de tan lastimosa epidemia se transportaron a parajes distintas y remotas.” 101. “Provisión de retasa . . . de Totos de Quispillatas,” ff. 1v–2r. 102. Pearce, “Peruvian Population Census,” 83. 103. “El Marq./s de Casaconcha, en consequencia del Rl. Despacho de 5 de Abril de 1720—representa la dificultad insuperable que halla en mantener aquella mina sin mita, y con yndios voluntarios,” 1729, AGI, Lima 469.

182 • NOTES TO CHAPTER 2

104. “El Marq./s de Casaconcha,” f. 1v. Original: “No era possible sacar de la Mina los metales necessarios que diessen el Azogue que este Reyno necessita con la gente voluntaria . . . y que por ningun dinero podia aumentarse.” 105. Pearce, “Peruvian Population Census,” 83. 106. “Provisión de retasas . . . Paras Canchacancha,” 1739, BNP, C2070. Original: “Por temor u horror que tienen a el mineral de San Juan de Lucanas a donde sufragan con siete Yndios de mita cada dos meses, se ausentan de sus Pueblos y no buelben mas a ellos.” 107. “Copia de la numeración de yndios hecha en la provincial de Vilcasguaman,” 1719, BNP, C1924; “Padrón de los indios tributarios de la provincial de Vilcas-­ huaman, obispado de Huamanga, en que se comprenden todos los pueblos, ayllos, estancias, obrajes y haciendas de la dicha provincia,” 1729, AGN, Derecho Indígena, Leg. 14, Cuad. 248. 108. Hu, “Labor under the Sun,” 258. 109. Jan Szeminski, “Why Kill the Spaniard? New Perspectives on Andean Insurrectionary Ideology in the 18th Century,” in Stern, Resistance, Rebellion, and Consciousness, 170; Mary Weismantel, Cholas and Pishtacos: Stories of Race and Sex in the Andes (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2001). 110. Molina, Account of the Fables and Rites of the Incas, 84–85. 111. Bauer, “Introduction,” xxxiii. 112. Szeminski, “Why Kill the Spaniard?,” 171. 113. Francisco López de Gómara, Cortés: The Life of the Conqueror by His Secretary, ed. Lesley Byrd Simpson (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1966), 58. 114. Guamán Poma, “El primer nueva corónica,” 371. 115. Henry Stobart, “Devils, Daydreams, and Desire: Siren Traditions and Musical Creation in the Central-­Southern Andes,” in Music of the Sirens, ed. Linda Phyllis Austern and Inna Naroditskaya (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2006), 105– 39; Thomas Turino, “The Charango and the ‘Sirena’: Music, Magic, and the Power of Love,” Latin American Music Review 4, no. 1 (1983): 81–119. 116. Stobart, “Devils, Daydreams, and Desire.” 117. A similar folktale associated with miners is the devil’s bargain, where the supplicant makes a deal with the devil in exchange for riches, but the supplicant dies a premature death. See June C. Nash, We Eat the Mines and the Mines Eat Us: Dependency and Exploitation in Bolivian Tin Mines (New York: Columbia University Press, 1979); Michael T. Taussig, The Devil and Commodity Fetishism in South America (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1980). 118. Joseph Araujo y Rio, A Report on Obrajes of the Audiencia of Quito, August 12, 1737, AGI, Quito 133, No. 26a. 119. Araujo y Rio, Report on Obrajes, f. 22v. Original: “Aefecto de los serenos de las lagunas inmediatas.” 120. Araujo y Rio, Report on Obrajes, f. 22v. Original: “Viendo, q nacian varones, vnas q eran mas piadosas los cegavan, otras los matavan porq no quedasen subyugados a dho obraje.” 121. Araujo y Rio, Report on Obrajes, f. 37v, 42r; Stobart, “Devils, Daydreams, and Desire.”

NOTES TO CHAPTER 3 • 183

122. Leon G. Campbell, “Ideology and Factionalism during the Great Rebellion, 1780–1782,” in Stern, Resistance, Rebellion, and Consciousness, 110–39; Alberto Flores Galindo, ed., Túpac Amaru II—1780: Sociedad colonial y sublevaciones populares (Lima: Retablo de Papel Ediciones, 1976); Alberto Flores Galindo, Buscando un Inca: Identidad y utopia en los Andes (Lima: Consejo Nacional para la Cultura y las Artes, Dirección General de Publicaciones, 1987); Franklin Pease, “El mito de Inkarrí y la visión de los vencidos,” in Ideología mesiánica del mundo andino, ed. Ossio Juan (Lima: Ignacio Prado Pastor, 1973), 439–60; Helaine Silverman and Donald Proulx, “Representación gráfica del mito Inkarrí: Los tejidos Q’ero,” Boletín de Lima 48 (1986): 59–71. 123. Rosalind Gow, “Inkarrí and Revolutionary Leadership in the Southern Andes,” Journal of Latin American Lore 8, no. 2 (1982): 197–223. 124. Raquel Chang-­Rodríguez, Hidden Messages: Representation and Resistance in Andean Colonial Drama (Lewisberg, PA: Bucknell University Press, 1999); Flores Galindo, Buscando un Inca. 125. David Cahill, “Becoming Inca: Juan Bustamente Carlos Inca and the Roots of the Great Rebellion,” Colonial Latin American Review 22, no. 2 (2013): 259–80; Tom Cummins, Toasts with the Inca: Andean Abstraction and Colonial Images on Quero Vessels, History, Languages, and Cultures of the Spanish and Portuguese Worlds (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2002), 295. 126. Campbell, “Ideology and Factionalism”; Flores Galindo, Buscando un Inca; Gow, “Inkarrí and Revolutionary Leadership.”

Chapter 3 1. Monastery of Santa Clara and Martin de Herquinigo Velarrinaga, Proposal to Establish an Obraje on the Site of the Hacienda of Pomacocha, July 3, 1666, ASF, Registro I-­10, Legajos 21A, 22, 22A. 2. Monastery of Santa Clara and Martin de Herquinigo Velarrinaga, Proposal, Leg. 21A, f. 200v. Original: “La desnudes y menos abrigo de Dia y de noche les sobrebienen tantos achaques.” 3. Monastery of Santa Clara and Martin de Herquinigo Velarrinaga, Proposal, Leg. 21A, f. 200r. 4. “Arrendam./to El Monasterio de S./ta Clara de esta Ciudad=al Cap,/n esteban de Maisondo de las Hasiendas de Pomacocha, chanin y pucaguasi en 1500. P ambas=cada año,” Huamanga, June 19, 1681, ARAY, Notariales, Francisco Blanco de Cassazua, Leg. 27, f. 826r; “Administración. El Monasterio de Monjas de Santa Clara al Cap,/n Esteban de Maysondo y a otros del obraje, de, Pomacocha y otras Haziendas,” Huamanga, January 15, 1689, ARAY, Notariales, Francisco Benegas de Toledo, Leg. 20, f. 263v. 5. “Administración. El Monasterio de Monjas de Santa Clara,” ARAY, ff. 263r–66r. 6. Araindía, “Autos seguidos sobre las tierras,” f. 38v; Mendizabal, “Dos documentos sobre los obrajes,” 275; Leonidas Ocola, Proyecto de sismicidad andina SISAN, vol. 3, Catalogos sismicos (Lima: Instituto Geofísico del Perú, 1984). 7. Mendizabal, “Dos documentos sobre los obrajes,”275. 8. Carlos A. Forment, Civic Selfhood and Public Life in Mexico and Peru, vol. 1 of

184 • NOTES TO CHAPTER 3

Democracy in Latin America, 1760–1900, Morality and Society Series (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2003). 9. “Arrendam./to El Monasterio de S./ta Clara”; Duque de la Palata, “Un exemplar de la provisión de retasa,” 25–27. 10. “Arrendam./to El Monasterio de S./ta Clara,” f. 827v. 11. “Arrendam./to El Monasterio de S./ta Clara.” 12. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 1:392. 13. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 2:270. 14. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 2:268. 15. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 1:245–307. 16. Cushner, Farm and Factory; Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, vol. 1. 17. Salvucci, Textiles and Capitalism, 38. 18. Salvucci, Textiles and Capitalism, 37. 19. Fernando Silva Santisteban, Los obrajes en el virreinato del Perú (Lima: Museo Nacional de Historia, 1964), 31. 20. Salvucci, Textiles and Capitalism, 38. 21. Cushner, Farm and Factory; Carlos Hurtado Ames, Curacas, industria y revuelta en el valle del Mantaro, siglo XVIII (San Borja, Lima: Consejo Nacional de Ciencia, Tecnologia e Innovacion Tecnologica, CONCYTEC, 2006); Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 1:167–219; Salvucci, Textiles and Capitalism, 32–47; Silva, Los obrajes en el virreinato, 39–40. For Pomacocha, see Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 1:213–17; “Arrendam./to El Monasterio de S./ta Clara,” ff. 825r–29r; “Administración. El Monasterio de Monjas de Santa Clara,” ff. 263v–66v; “Compulsa de los autos que sigue Don Melchor José Mendoza, procurador del Monasterio con Don Alejos Lagos sobre cantidad de pesos,” 1793, ARAY, Compulsas Ordinarias, Leg. 25, Cuad. 3; Eugenio Lanuza y Sotelo, Viaje ilustrado a los reinos del Perú en el siglo XVIII, 1st ed. (Lima: Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú, Fondo Editorial, 1998), 116. 22. Christina Borchart de Moreno, “Beyond the Obraje: Handicraft Production in Quito toward the End of the Colonial Period,” Americas 52, no. 1 (1995): 1–24; Carlos Contreras Carranza, “El desarrollo de nuevas actividades económicas: Minería, hacienda, obrajes,” in Historia general de América Latina, ed. Franklin Pease and Germán Carrera Damas, vol. 2 (Madrid: Editorial Trotta, 1999), 373–90; Hurtado, Curacas, industria y revuelta; Silva, Los obrajes en el virreinato. 23. Mendizabal, “Dos documentos sobre los obrajes”; Salvucci, Textiles and Capitalism; Salas, De los obrajes de Canaria y Chincheros; Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, vols. 1 and 2; Silva, Los obrajes en el virreinato, 39–40. 24. Araujo y Rio, Report on Obrajes, f. 15r. 25. Salvucci, Textiles and Capitalism. 26. Salvucci, Textiles and Capitalism, 52. 27. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 1:242–303. 28. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 1:322–23. 29. “Fiscal en vistta de esta cartta del presidenta de la Audiencia de Quito, en que dá quenta de las vejaciones que padecen los indios en los obrajes de aquella ciudad,” May 15, 1740, AGI, Quito 133, No. 22.; Silva, Los obrajes en el virreinato, 85.

NOTES TO CHAPTER 3 • 185

30. Silva, Los obrajes en el virreinato, 85. 31. “Y otra de 1680 a el mismo y alos presid.tes de las Aud.s p.ta q informen sobre obrages y con q licencia estan fundadas, y otras cosas,” February 22, 1680, AGI, Lima 474, f. 3r. 32. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 1:341. 33. Silva, Los obrajes en el virreinato, 93–94. 34. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, vol. 1. 35. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 1:429–39. 36. “Libro de cuentas Cacamarca,” 1731–61, AGN, Temporalidades, Compañía de Jesús, Leg. 83, Cuad. 2, ff. 153v–54r. 37. Araindía, “Autos seguidos sobre las tierras”; Josef de Oré, “Causa que sigue el diezmero de la provincia de Vilcashaman contra el fray Lorenso Gomes, administrador del obraxe de Pomacocha, indios, mestizos y demás personas sobre que paguen los diezmos de las semillas y ganados que cogieron de dicho obraxe,” 1736, AAA, Causas de diezmos, No. 52. 38. Vicente Morachimo, “Manifiesto de los agravios bexaciones, y molestias, que padecen los indios del reyno del Peru,” Letras 105–6 (2003): 171–94; Rachel Sarah O’Toole, Bound Lives: Africans, Indians, and the Making of Race in Colonial Peru, Pitt Latin American Series (Pittsburgh, PA: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2012). 39. O’Toole, Bound Lives, 160. 40. Araujo y Rio, Report on Obrajes, f. 11r. Original: “Es tambien en gran manera perjudicial a la livertad y alibio de los Yndios q trabajan en dhos obrajes el q sus puertas estem siempre cerradas y q aya para ellas portero, ó Alcay de como en las carzeles publicas, y q estos ordinariamente son de mala condicion y calidad de los quales con el nombre de Maestrillos, ó Guatacos, tienen por oficio obligar a dhos Yndios al trabajo a fuerza de azotes, y q regularm./te aplican para estos oficios, mulatos, negros, zambos, ó mestizos a quienes p.r ser hombres crueles, y enemigos de los Yndios.” 41. O’Toole, Bound Lives, 116–21. 42. Guardino and Walker, “State, Society, and Politics,” 14–15; Stern, Peru’s Indian Peoples, 37. 43. Tutino, Making a New World, 12. 44. Fernand Braudel, Afterthoughts on Material Civilization and Capitalism, trans. Patricia M. Ranum (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1977), 63. 45. Braudel, Afterthoughts on Material Civilization and Capitalism, 47, 59, 61. 46. Braudel, Afterthoughts on Material Civilization and Capitalism, 59–61. 47. Braudel, Afterthoughts on Material Civilization and Capitalism, 50–58, 113–14. 48. Braudel, Afterthoughts on Material Civilization and Capitalism, 74–75, 92–93. 49. Salvucci, Textiles and Capitalism, 42–43, 114. 50. I derive this term from “Prison Industrial Complex,” which was coined by Angela Davis and Eric Schlosser to describe the partnership between private businesses and state prisons that has underpinned a burgeoning prison population. Angela Davis, “Masked Racism: Reflections on the Prison Industrial Complex,” Indigenous Law Bulletin 24, no. 27 (2000): 4–7; Eric Schlosser, “The Prison-­Industrial Complex,” Atlantic Monthly, December 1998, https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine /archive/1998/12/the-­prison-­industrial-­complex/304669/.

186 • NOTES TO CHAPTER 3

51. Anthony McFarlane, “Identity, Enlightenment and Political Dissent in Late Colonial Spanish America,” Transactions of the Royal Historical Society 8 (1998): 309–35; Luis Javier Ramos Gómez, Epoca, genesis y texto de la “Noticias secretas de America,” de Jorge Juan y Antonio de Ulloa (Madrid: Editorial CSIC—CSIC Press, 1985). 52. Juan and Ulloa, Noticias secretas de America. 53. Juan and Ulloa, Noticias secretas de America, 275. 54. Hurtado, Curacas, industria y revuelta, 84; Neus Escandell Tur, Producción y comercio de tejidos coloniales: Los obrajes y chorrillos del Cusco, 1570–1820, Archivos de Historia Andina 23 (Cusco, Perú: Centro de Estudios Regionales Andinos, Bartolomé de Las Casas, 1997), 391. 55. “Ricvo El Cap/n D/n Luis de la fuente a fabor del Monasterio de Monjas de S/ta Clara de los aperos y peltrechos del obrage de Pomacocha,” January 15, 1701, ARAY, Notariales, Francisco Benegas de Toledo, Leg. 79, Prot. 99, ff. 422v–24r; “Arendam,/to el obraxe de Pomacocha al cap/n D/n Luis de la fuente a sus dos hermanos,” October 5, 1705, ARAY, Notariales, Juan Urbano de los Reyes, Leg. 128, ff. 1247v– 255r; “Sobre el arrendamiento del obraje de Pomacocha,” August 7, 1712, ARAY, Notariales, Juan Urbano de los Reyes, Leg. 130, ff. 119r–25r; “Sobre reservir 20 (2000) pesos en el obraxe de Pomacocha,” August 31, 1723, ARAY, Notariales, Juan Urbano de los Reyes, Leg. 132, ff. 171r–73r. 56. “Finiquitto=el G/1 D/on Dom. Lopez del Pozo y sus sobrinos A D/nomingo Rodriguez de Muiñoss,” September 20, 1723, ARAY, Notariales, Juan Urbano de los Reyes, Leg. 132, ff. 193r–94r. 57. Juan and Ulloa, Noticias secretas de America, 236–50. 58. Andrew Herod, “From a Geography of Labor to a Labor Geography: Labor’s Spatial Fix and the Geography of Capitalism,” Antipode 29, no. 1 (1997): 1–31. 59. Herod, “From a Geography of Labor,” 16–17. 60. Weber, Bárbaros, 50. 61. Spalding, Huarochirí, 288–89. 62. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 1:523, 527. 63. Brian P. Owensby, “Between Justice and Economics: ‘Indians’ and Reformism in Eighteenth-­Century Spanish Imperial Thought,” in Legal Pluralism and Empires, 1500–1850, ed. Laura Benton and Richard J. Ross (New York: New York University Press, 2013), 143–69. 64. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, vol. 1. 65. “Administración. El monasterio de monjas de Santa Clara,” f. 264r. Original: “Si algun Correxidor Casique o cobrador que siere haserles algun agrabio o molestia a de salir a la voz y defenza, este monasterio como dueño.” 66. Owensby, “Between Justice and Economics,” 149. 67. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 1:151. 68. Provisión de retasa . . . Condes de Pacomarca,” 1753, BNP, C1610, f. 20v; See also BNP, C1950, f. 11r. 69. “Sobre el arrendamiento del obraje,” ff. 119r–125r. 70. “Sobre el arrendamiento del obraje,” f. 119v. Original: “Atendiendo a que trabajar en dho obraje necesitan de tiempo considerable por aver deprebeñase de Añil y de otros materiales ultra marinos y que por falta deavios nos esuspenda la administración

NOTES TO CHAPTER 3 • 187

de dho obraje En perjuicio de los dhos arrendatarios y ser publica y notorio q los mares de estas Costas estan ynfestados de pirattas enemigos que Pueden apresar la condución de dhos materiales y que assi para haver el gastto en ellos que an de ser considerables quieren a Seguir a continuacion de dho nuebo Arrendamiento que son razones Justos Antes de Salir a este tratatado comboco./a a toda la comunidad.” 71. Dobyns, Outline of Andean Epidemic History, 512; Pearce, “Peruvian Population Census.” 72. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 1:399. 73. Araindía, “Autos seguidos sobre las tierras.” 74. Araindía, “Autos seguidos sobre las tierras,” f. 32r. 75. Araindía, “Autos seguidos sobre las tierras,” f. 30r. 76. “Padrón de los indios tributarios.” 77. “Padrón de los indios tributarios,” f. 41r. Original: “Todos los pleitos se originan, porque el dho P./e defiende las tierras, y Pastos del Monasterio, que se querian apropriar los Vesinos de este Pueblo; por haverlos tenido a Sumandar, en los tiempos que ha hestado el obraje de Pomacocha, em poder de Arendatarios; que el P./e fr. Lorenco, trata vien a los Yndios, y les pasa com puntualidad sus jornales; como a todos los demas, que sirven en dicho obraje.” 78. Mendizabal, “Dos documentos sobre los obrajes,” 279. 79. Araindía, “Autos seguidos sobre las tierras.” 80. “Copia certificada del título.” 81. “Copia certificada del título,” 37r. 82. Oré, “Causa que sigue el diezmero.” 83. “Obligación de mita en Huamanga,” f. 98v. Original: “Nos ottras nos hallamos mas pobre y con muchisimos menos rrentas que las Religiosas de Santta Clara pues a esttas les sobre muchos miles en su caxa como de factto a poco tiempo que lo sacamos para inposicion de senzos y noottras aun no nos hallamos con un rreal para comer un pedazo de pan.” 84. “Provisión de retasa de un tributo que en cada un año deben pagar los indios originarios del repartimiento de Chavez Barrientos de la provincia de Vilcashuaman ya ha de correr esta cuenta desde el tercio de navidad inclusive del año pasado de 1737 por haberse acabado la revisita por el mes de setiembre de el como va prevenido,” 1739, BNP, C108, f. 5r. 85. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 1:401. 86. See James Deetz, In Small Things Forgotten: The Archaeology of Early American Life (Garden City, NY: Anchor Press/Doubleday, 1977); Ross W. Jamieson, Domestic Architecture and Power: The Historical Archaeology of Colonial Ecuador (New York: Kluwer Academic/Plenum Publishers, 2000); Leone, “Historical Archaeology of Capitalism”; Jerry D. Moore, Architecture and Power in the Ancient Andes: The Archaeology of Public Buildings (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996). 87. Bill Hillier and Julienne Hanson, The Social Logic of Space (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984); Julienne Hanson, Decoding Homes and Houses (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998). 88. After Hanson, Decoding Homes and Houses, and Jamieson, Domestic Architecture and Power, 62.

188 • NOTES TO CHAPTER 3

89. “Compulsa de los autos que”; Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 1:213–17. 90. “Alejo de Lagos procurador del Monasterio de Santa Clara de esta ciudad inicia proceso contra Melchor Peralta—arrendatario del obraje de Pomacocha (Vilcashuamán) perteneciente a dicho Monasterio, por la deuda de una cantidad que debe por arrendamientos atrasados,” 1788, ARAY, Intendencia, Asuntos Ecclesiásticos, Leg. 49, Cuad. 3, ff. 49r–53r; “Compulsa de los autos,” ff. 188v–94r; Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 1:213–17. 91. Hanson, Decoding Homes and Houses. 92. Hu, “Making Space under the Inca.” 93. Christine A. Hastorf, The Social Archaeology of Food: Thinking about Eating from Prehistory to the Present (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2017). 94. Araujo y Rio, Report on Obrajes, f. 22v. 95. Juan and Ulloa, Noticias secretas de America, 54. 96. John Miller, Memoirs of General Miller, in the Service of the Republic of Peru, 2nd ed., vol. 1 (London: Longman, Rees, Orme, Brown, and Green, 1829), 9. 97. Miller, Memoirs of General Miller, 1:9. 98. Oré, “Causa que sigue el diezmero.” 99. “Compulsa de los autos,” f. 193v. 100. “Compulsa de los autos,” f. 36v, 38r, 42r, 72r, 73v–74r, 75r, 83v; “Querella de los indios de Pomacocha contra Don Bernardo Mendoza,” 1793, BNP, C2011. 101. “Arrendam./to que hacen las religiosas del monast./o S./ta Clara á favor de Melchor Fernandez y Dorotea Ximenez, del obraje de Pomacocha,” October 26, 1804, ARAY, Notariales, Esteban Morales, Leg. 163, f. 225v; “Arrendam./to q./e hacen las religiosas del monast./o de S./ta Clara, a fabor de D./n Ygn./o Oré del obrage de Pomacocha por ocho años,” November 10, 1809, ARAY, Notariales, Esteban Morales, Leg. 165, f. 464r. 102. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 1:341. 103. Hu, “Labor under the Sun,” 334–39, 350–60. 104. See Miller, Memoirs of General Miller, 1:9. 105. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 1:487. 106. Jessica Bowes, “Provisioned, Produced, Procured: Slave Subsistence Strategies and Social Relations at Thomas Jefferson’s Poplar Forest,” Journal of Ethnobiology 31, no. 1 (2011): 89–109; Maria Franklin, “The Archaeological and Symbolic Dimensions of Soul Food: Race, Culture, and Afro-­Virginian Archaeology of Identity,” in Race and the Archaeology of Identity, ed. Charles E. Orser (Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 2001), 88–107; Maria Franklin, An Archaeological Study of Rich Neck Slave Quarter and Enslaved Domestic Life (Williamsburg, VA: Colonial Williamsburg Foundation, 2004). 107. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, vol. 1; Urrutia, Aquí nada ha pasado. 108. “Provisión de retasa . . . Condes de Pacomarca”; see also BNP, C2358 and C2763. 109. “Razon de la entrada y gasto que tiene el obrage de Pomacocha del monasterio de Santa Clara de esta ciudad de Huamánga,” 1754?, ASF, Registro I-­10, No. 1, 5A, f. 25r. Original: “Primeramente se han labrado este año en dho obrage treynta mill baras

NOTES TO CHAPTER 4 • 189

de ropa las quales se han vendido a quatro r./e vara, que importan quinze mill p./e con advertencia de p. ay año en que se labran menos v./s por falta de Gente.” 110. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 2:270. 111. “Razon de la entrada y gasto,” f. 25v. 112. Hurtado, Curacas, industria y revuelta; Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, vols. 1 and 2. 113. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 2:323–33. 114. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 2:242. 115. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 2:270. 116. “Razon de la entrada y gasto”; “Compulsa de los autos,” ff. 205r–18r. 117. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 1:242. 118. Escandell Tur, Producción y comercio de tejidos coloniales; Hurtado, Curacas, industria y revuelta. 119. See “Compulsa de los autos.” 120. “Libro matriz del obraje de San Marcos de Chincheros,” 1798, ARAY, Cabildo-­Libros, Leg. 16, Libro 24. 121. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 1:155, 520, 522.

Chapter 4 1. Sinclair Thomson, “Sovereignty Disavowed: The Tupac Amaru Revolution in the Atlantic World,” Atlantic Studies 13, no. 3 (2016): 407–31. 2. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, vols. 1 and 2. 3. Andrien, Andean Worlds. 4. Gregory Ludlow, “The French Revolution of 1789 and Its Impact on Spanish-­ American Independence,” in The French Revolution of 1789 and Its Impact, ed. Gail M. Schwab and John R. Jeanneney (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1995), 258. 5. John Robert Fisher, Government and Society in Colonial Peru: The Intendant System 1784–1814, University of London Historical Studies 29 (London: University of London, 1970); Patricia H. Marks, Deconstructing Legitimacy: Viceroys, Merchants, and the Military in Late Colonial Peru (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2007); Owensby, “Between Justice and Economics.” 6. Juan and Ulloa, Noticias secretas de America; McFarlane, “Identity, Enlightenment and Political Dissent.” 7. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 1:435. 8. Kendall W. Brown, “Jesuit Wealth and Economic Activity within the Peruvian Economy: The Case of Colonial Southern Peru,” Americas 44, no. 1 (1987): 23–43; Juan and Ulloa, Noticias secretas de America, 145. 9. Catherine Ballériaux, Missionary Strategies in the New World, 1610–1690: An Intellectual History (New York: Routledge, 2016). 10. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, vols. 1 and 2. 11. Andrien, Andean Worlds, 202–3; Hurtado, Curacas, industria y revuelta, 102; Nils Jacobsen, Mirages of Transition: The Peruvian Altiplano, 1780–1930 (University of California Press, 1993), 93. 12. Charles Walker, Smoldering Ashes: Cuzco and the Creation of Republican Peru, 1780–1840 (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1999), 23.

190 • NOTES TO CHAPTER 4

13. Juan and Ulloa, Noticias secretas de America. 14. Jürgen Gölte, Repartos y rebeliones: Túpac Amaru y las contradicciones de la economía colonial, Serie Estudios Históricos 6 (Lima: Instituto de Estudios Peruanos, 1980); Urrutia, “Huamanga,” 128; Javier Tord Nicolini and Carlos Lazo García, Hacienda, comercio, fiscalidad y luchas sociales (Perú colonial) (Lima: Biblioteca Peruana de Historia, Economía y Sociedad, 1981). 15. Nicholas A. Robins, Genocide and Millennialism in Upper Peru: The Great Rebellion of 1780–1782 (Westport, CT: Praeger, 2002), 42. 16. David T. Garrett, Shadows of Empire: The Indian Nobility of Cusco, 1750–1825 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005); Jacobsen, Mirages of Transition, 93–94. 17. John H. Elliott, Empires of the Atlantic World: Britain and Spain in America, 1492–1830 (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2006), 357. 18. Jorge Hidalgo Lehuedé, “Rebeliones andinas en Arica, Tarapacá, y Atacama 1770–1781,” in Entre la retórica y la insurgencia: Las ideas y los movimientos sociales en los Andes, siglo 18, ed. Charles F. Walker (Cusco: Centro de Estudios Regionales Andinos “Bartolomé de Las Casas,” 1995), 173–204; Stavig, The World of Túpac Amaru. 19. Jacobsen, Mirages of Transition; Walker, Smoldering Ashes, 23. 20. Gölte, Repartos y rebeliones; Walker, Smoldering Ashes, 43. 21. Flores Galindo, Túpac Amaru II; Flores Galindo, Buscando un Inca. 22. Walker, Smoldering Ashes, 59–62. 23. Emily Berquist Soule, The Bishop’s Utopia: Envisioning Improvement in Colonial Peru (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2014), 94; Walker, Smoldering Ashes, 61. 24. Walker, Smoldering Ashes, 24. 25. Soule, Bishop’s Utopia, 94; Charles F. Walker, The Tupac Amaru Rebellion (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2014), 258. 26. Sala i Vila, Y se armó el tole tole. 27. “Relation . . . by Francisco Gil de Taboada Lemos y Villamarin, Viceroy of Peru,” 1796, BL, Add MS 17582, ff. 45r–45v. Original: “Se ha hecho un problema entre los Políticos, si era, ó puede ser beneficio, ó perjudicial al Yndio, el amplio permiso de los repartos, fundandose los que adoptan la primera opinion, en que la Natural desidia de esta Nacion exhije el estimulo de la deuda, para que abando-­/f.45v/ nando el ocio se dedique al travajo. Los otros sienten, que la autoridad enlasada con el Comercio, tiene por termino preciso la repovada usura, por que obligado por medio de aquella, á que los infelises Yndios reciban efectos á subidos precios, y que no necesitan para su Agricultura, tragines, y demas relatibo á sus operaciones, se exercita el gravamen, contra los principios de la sana moral, y Politica, solidos fundamentos del permiso.” 28. See Juan and Ulloa, Noticias secretas de America; McFarlane, “Identity, Enlightenment and Political Dissent.” 29. McFarlane, “Identity, Enlightenment and Political Dissent”; Walker, Smoldering Ashes.

NOTES TO CHAPTER 4 • 191

30. “Relación sobre la rebelión del indio José Gabriel Tupac-­Amaru,” Lima, December 31, 1780, AGI, Estado, 74, N.57, f. 5v. 31. McFarlane, “Identity, Enlightenment and Political Dissent,” 322. 32. McFarlane, “Identity, Enlightenment and Political Dissent,” 320. 33. Juan de la Rosa, “Descripción general de la América Meridional,” 1789, AGI, MP Libros Manuscritos, No. 9, ff. 10r–12v; “Relation . . . by Gil de Taboada,” f. 46r. 34. María Elena Martínez, Genealogical Fictions: Limpieza de Sangre, Religion, and Gender in Colonial Mexico (Palo Alto, CA: Stanford University Press, 2008); O’Toole, Bound Lives. 35. Owensby, “Between Justice and Economics.” 36. Robins, Genocide and Millennialism in Upper Peru; Ward Stavig and Ella Schmidt, The Tupac Amaru and Catarista Rebellions: An Anthology of Sources (Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing, 2008), 183; Walker, Tupac Amaru Rebellion. 37. Andrien, Andean Worlds; Walker, Tupac Amaru Rebellion, 56. 38. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 2:330. 39. O’Phelan, Un siglo de rebeliones, 105–6; José Luis Igue, “Bandolerismo, patriotismo y etnicidad poscolonial: Los ‘Morochucos’ de Cangallo, Ayacucho en las Guerras de Independencia, 1814–1824,” licenciatura thesis, Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú, 2008, 39–40; José Luis Igue, “Bandolerismo y etnicidad en las Guerras de Independencia: El caso de los Morochucos de Cangallo, Ayacucho (1814–1829),” in En el nudo del imperio: Independencia y democracia en el Perú, ed. Carmen Mc Evoy, Mauricio Novoa, and Elías Palti (Lima: Instituto de Estudios Peruanos-­Instituto Francés de Estudios Andinos, 2012), 207–28. 40. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 1:346. 41. O’Phelan, Un siglo de rebeliones, 105; Original: “Que si eso se hiciese se levantarían.” 42. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 2:242. 43. O’Phelan, Un siglo de rebeliones, 105. 44. O’Phelan, Un siglo de rebeliones, 105. Original: “Todos quedaban perdidos, indios y españoles.” 45. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 1:322, 325–26, 480, 570. 46. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 1:333. Original: “Nos querellamos contra el administrador Don Carlos Rodríguez Carvallo que nos tiene amenazados de quitarnos la vida harmando soldados con chafalonía y otras armas en presencia de mi mayordomo diciendo que nosotros somos un pobrecito y que somos ygnorantes . . . porque nos quiere pedirnos multa en cada domingo quatro reales de la misa de salve y de la doctrina porque faltamos algunas veces nos falta nuestra necesidad.” 47. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 1:333, 435, 2:330. 48. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 2:405. Original: “Buen tratamiento de los yndios es tan necesaria . . . porque aunque los avios y plata estén abundantes si la condición es áspera, se menoscabará el obrage, y aun Le causara mucha ruyna consiguientemente en las rentas.” 49. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 2:570. 50. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 2:527.

192 • NOTES TO CHAPTER 4

51. See Huertas, “El movimiento de Túpac Amaru”; Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 2:302. 52. Flores Galindo, Buscando un Inca; Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español. 53. O’Phelan, Un siglo de rebeliones; Walker, Smoldering Ashes. 54. Huertas, “El movimiento de Túpac Amaru,” 95, 103; Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 1:608; Stern, “Age of Andean Insurrection,” 69. 55. Huertas, “El movimiento de Túpac Amaru,” 93–94. 56. Igue, “Bandolerismo, patriotismo y etnicidad poscolonial,” 19; Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 1:608–9. 57. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 1:609. 58. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 1:422–23, 426. 59. Igue, “Bandolerismo, patriotismo y etnicidad poscolonial,” 19. 60. “Real provisión sobre aprobación del empadronamiento de indios en el obraje de Cacamaca,” 1756, AGN, Derecho Indígena, Leg. 17, Cuad. 292. 61. “3 tratados de Nra. Madre S./ta Clara sobre nombrar administrador en Pomacocha,” Huamanga, May 6, 1772, ARAY, Notariales, Bartholome García Blasquez, Leg. 88, ff. 343r–45v. 62. “Autos seguidos contra el presbítero Dn. Luis Suarez, administrador del obraje de Pomacocha, por multiples deudas que contrajó en vida,” Huamanga, 1780, ARAY, Corregimiento, Causas Ordinarias. 63. Huertas, “El movimiento de Túpac Amaru,” 95; Stern, “Age of Andean Insurrection,” 69. 64. Huertas, “El movimiento de Túpac Amaru,” 95. 65. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 1:608–9. 66. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 1:610. 67. Huertas, “El movimiento de Túpac Amaru,” 103. 68. Stavig and Schmidt, Tupac Amaru and Catarista Rebellions, xxix. 69. Huertas, “El movimiento de Túpac Amaru,” 95–102. 70. Campbell, “Ideology and Factionalism.” 71. “El corregidor Dn. Pedro García de la Riestra, contra el insurgente: Pablo Chalco,” 1781, ARAY, Corregimiento, Causas Criminales, Leg. 19; Huertas, “El movimiento de Túpac Amaru.” 72. “Numeras./n y empadronam./to probisional hecho en la capital de Anco,” January 27, 1780, ARAY, Notariales, Jose Medina, Leg. 125, f. 8r. 73. “Padrones de los tributarios de la Doctrina de Anco,” 1762, ARAY, Corregimiento, Asuntos Administrativos, Leg. 39, No. 655, f. 2v. 74. “El corregidor.” 75. “El corregidor,” f. 2v. Original: “Barias Piedresillas en diversas Figuras, chuño molido, cerdas, Masorcas de Mais, oro Pimienta, cuentas de Rosario, tava de Gueso, piedra lipe, estrielcól de sierto Paxaro, cevo de Carnero de la tierra, un Peyne, y otras muchas porquerías . . . como tamvien un poco de Paxa de Puna en figuras redondas, forradas cada una con sintas de distintos colores, y una Piedra negra de Alaymosca en figura de gueso, la q./e dijo ser del Ynga.” 76. “El corregidor,” f. 13r. Original: “Que las conchas, y coca, con todos dijeron que estaria libre de desgracias, y que no seria perjudicada de los Juezes, y que tenia

NOTES TO CHAPTER 4 • 193

temer a nadie: que las masorcas de Mais era util para el aumento de sus Ganados. Que la piedra hallo un serro q./e estaba reberberando en el sol. y que le havia guardado para q/e aumentase su sementera la Papas. Que la otra Piedra la guardó con las demas expecies por paresense un Gueso del Jentil.” 77. Huertas, “El movimiento de Túpac Amaru,” 98. 78. Of the cloth-­related items, Chalco had four balls of woolen yarn, two blankets, a vara of blue paño (cloth) from Quito, three new pleated sashes, a paño with a yellow neck, twelve varas of blue belts, five balls of cotton yarn, two new cumbi ponchos, ten ponchos of sheep and llama wool of different colors, five bed coverings of different colors, another blanket, two paños of vicuña wool, a llama wool saddle blanket, a black woollen saddle blanket, two more saddle bankets, two thin pieces of Brittany, a brown woollen paño, two girdles, a green skirt (pollera), and a small cumbi cushion. “El corregidor,” f. 6r-­6v. 79. “Relation of the State of the Kingdom of Peru, Written by the Viceroy [Don Manuel de Guirior] for the Instruction of His Successor,” August 23, 1780, BL, Egerton MS 1811, ff. 57r–79r. 80. “Relation of the State of the Kingdom,” f. 71r. Original: “Sobre antiguos privilegios que gozavan sus Yndios de no ser compreendidos en la Matricula de Tributarios.” 81. “Relation of the State of the Kingdom,” f. 71v. Original: “Mui repreensibles demostraciones de Tumulto, fomentadose cada dia la inovediencia, y alboroto de su Pleve, con papeles Anonimos concevidos en terminos de grande audacia.” 82. “Relation of the State of the Kingdom,” f. 71v. Original: “Su labor, y Comercio de Calcetas, medias, y Virretes de Algodon, en fuerza de lo dispuesto sobre iguales efectos estrangeros por Real Cedula de 14 de Julio de 1778.” 83. Lorenzo Huertas, “Chungui y el movimiento de Tupac Amaru,” in Chungui, ed. Juan García Miranda (Lima: Seferis Ediciones, 2009), 73. 84. See Flores Galindo, Buscando un Inca; Huertas, “El movimiento de Túpac Amaru.” 85. Cecilia Méndez, The Plebeian Republic: The Huanta Rebellion and the Making of the Peruvian State, 1820–1850 (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2005), 11. 86. Claudia Brosseder, The Power of Huacas: Change and Resistance in the Andean World of Colonial Peru (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2014); Leo J. Garofalo, “Conjuring with Coca and the Inca: The Andeanization of Lima’s Afro-­Peruvian Ritual Specialists, 1580–1690,” Americas 63, no. 1 (2006): 53–80. 87. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 1:425–6. 88. See Sala i Vila, Y se armó el tole tole. 89. McFarlane, “Identity, Enlightenment and Political Dissent,” 322. 90. O’Phelan, Un siglo de rebeliones, appendix 1. 91. Salas, De los obrajes de Canaria y Chincheros, 165–66; “Sobre el arrendamiento del obraje,” ff. 119r–125r; Araindía, “Autos seguidos sobre las tierras”; O’Phelan, Un siglo de rebeliones, 105; Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 1:346. 92. “Memorial dirigido al yntendente de Guamanga por los dueños y poseedores de casas y haciendas de esta yntendencia, para que se redusca el canón del 5% al cual están afectos,” 1794, ARAY, Intendencia, Leg. 47, Cuad. 59, f. 5r. Original: “Las Bayetas y Tocuyos que se Labran y que en tiempos pasados se vendían a buen precio en

194 • NOTES TO CHAPTER 4

la Costa, se venden hoy al mismo que se paga en la Ciudad, y los pocos Yndios q.e comercian con estos efectos, se contentan con el corto exeço q.e llevan en cada Vara, que compran con el nombre de pulgada, por que en los lugares donde las llevan, los venden sin ese exeso que utilizan; pero esto es tan corto, que el Yndio después no haver pagado Alcavalas, ni otro Derecho, y después de haverse acomodado al mas misero trato en su viage, no adquiere ni áun un ocho por ciento; el español no ganaría cosa alguna, pues como V.S. mismo ha visto los mas de esos mismos Yndios, que han trabajado con ageno caudal, no han podido satisfacer las deudas contratadas, para áquel comercio, y al fin acretiedor, y deudor se han perdido.” 93. Walker, Smoldering Ashes, 24. 94. José Luis Igue, “De Cangallo y Huamanga a fines de la época colonial: Antecedentes populares y políticos de la insurrección patriota del año 1814,” Huari: Boletín de Estudios Históricos y Sociales 1, no. 2 (2013): 10. 95. Demetrio O’Higgins, “Informe del intendente de Guamanga D. Demetrio O’Higgins al ministro de Indias d. Miguel Cayetano Soler,” in Noticias secretas de America (Buenos Aires: Ediciones Mar Océano, 1953), 509. 96. “Relation . . . by Gil de Taboada,” f. 46r. Original: “Á excepcion de aquellos que laborean en los Obrajes, y en las Minas, cuyos Dueños tienen el cuidado de tenerlos sujetos á la cadena de la Deuda de donde nace el agravio: todo el resto de esta Nacion está entregada á una reprehensible ociosidad.” 97. “Relation . . . by Gil de Taboad,” f. 65r. Original: “Los espantosos sucesos de la Nacion Francesa, que traen en agitacion á toda la Tierra.” 98. Max Aguirre Cárdenas, El ciclo independentista Huamanguino: La revolución de los Morochucos y la batalla de Ayacucho: Errores y silencios (Lima: A&C Soluciones Gráficas, 2017), 93. 99. Sala i Vila, Y se armó el tole tole, 24. 100. Pedro Lisbona, “Causa seguida por Pedro Lisbona, teniente visitador del partido de Cangallo, contra los indios del pueblo de ‘Vischongo’ quienes se tumultuaron e intentaron matarle por no pagar la cantidad de pesos que debían al real ramo de tributos,” Huamanga, 1787, ARAY, Cabildo, Causas Criminales, Leg. 57, Cuad. 1100. 101. Lisbona, “Causa seguida por Pedro Lisbona,” f. 8r. Original: “Ay dejado a mi hermano por muerto p./r este ladron yo lo boy también a matar.” 102. Lisbona, “Causa seguida por Pedro Lisbona,” f. 2r. Original: “Librarnos de esos picaros ladrones.” 103. Lisbona, “Causa seguida por Pedro Lisbona,” f. 2v. Original: “En fin S./or es la Jente mas Ynsolente q./e se puede imaginar.” 104. “Alejo de Lagos procurador del Monasterio de Santa Clara de esta ciudad inicia proceso contra Melchor Peralta—arrendatario del obraje de Pomacocha (Vilcashuamán) perteneciente a dicho Monasterio, por la deuda de una cantidad que debe por arrendamientos atrasados,” Huamanga, 1788, ARAY, Intendencia, Asuntos Ecclesiásticos, Leg. 49, Cuad. 3. 105. “Querella de los indios.” 106. The partido of Vilcashuamán, also known as the partido of Cangallo, was called the province of Vilcashuamán before 1784. 107. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 1:426. Original: “Por motivo de

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los informes que le habían ministrado de lo mucho que padecen los yndios y sirvientes que en ellos se encierran contra lo prevenido por leyes y a la misma humanidad.” 108. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 1:426. Original: “Que con ningún motivo ni pretexto ordenen a servir en el obraje que esta a su cargo ni admitan en el preso alguno sin que proceda la notisia y consentimiento del corregidor de la Provincia.” 109. “Auto seguido por don Melchor Peralta contra los herederos de don Alejo Lagos sobre prejuicios y atropellamiento,” 1794, ARAY, Intendencia, Causas Civiles, Leg. 5, Cuad. 12, f. 5r. 110. “Auto seguido por don Melchor Peralta,” f. 5r; “Compulsa de los autos,” ff. 90r–92r, 96r–99r. 111. “Compulsa de los autos”; “Querella de los indios,” f. 10v. 112. “Querella de los indios,” ff. 1r–4r. 113. “Querella de los indios,” ff. 6r–8v. 114. “Querella de los indios,” f. 1r; “Compulsa de los autos,” ff. 123r–123v. 115. “Querella de los indios,” f. 10v. 116. “Querella de los indios,” f. 10r. Original: “Mi Capital enemigo quien tiene pertubada, y alboratada toda aquella Jente seduciendolos en contra mia sin mas causa ni motibo que exerser su Jenio Reboltoso.” 117. “Querella de los indios,” f. 10r. Original: “Y con este escudo estan Yndomitos é Ynsolentes sin asister a sus Respectivas tareas en dho Obraxe en perjuicio de los Yntereses de las Pobres Religiosas . . . pues con este motibo andan vagando ociosos asi en aquellos Lugares como en esta ciudad.” 118. “Querella de los indios,” f. 1r. 119. “Querella de los indios,” f. 10v. 120. “Expediente iniciado por Doña Manuela Galbes abadesa del Monasterio de Santa Clara de esta ciudad contra Alejo Lagos para que no se entrometa en la administración del obraje de Pomacocha,” 1793, ARAY, Intendencia, Pedimentos, Leg. 47, Cuad. 50. 121. “Expediente iniciado por Doña Manuela Galbes,” f.1v. Original: “Usando de sus acostumbradas iniquidades engañando a los Señores Jueces con su Cabilacion.” 122. “Expediente iniciado por Doña Manuela Galbes,” f.1v. Original: “Su fin es el querer volber a nro Obraje para matarnos de anbre como lo hiso en todo el tiempo q/e administró trabanjando solo para si, áprobechandose de los productos, y frutos de la Acienda.” 123. “Expediente iniciado por Doña Manuela Galbes,” f. 2r. Original: “Para exemplo de las demas tumultuantes.” 124. “Razon de la entrada y gasto,” f. 25r; “Compulsa de los autos,” ff. 14v–15r. 125. “Auto seguido por don Melchor Peralta,” ff. 11r–11v. 126. “Compulsa de los autos,” f. 15v. 127. “Descripción general de la América Meridional,” f. 85v. 128. “Descripción general de la América Meridional,” f. 85v. 129. “Expediente iniciado por Doña Manuela Galbes,” f. 2r. Original: “Para ebitar disencion entre las Religiosas por la sisaña que biene ameter contra nro Procurador, y Alborotar el Monasterio.”

196 • NOTES TO CHAPTER 5

130. “Causa promovido por las madres religiosas de Santa Clara, contra sus hermanas Inés y Manuela Galvez,” Huamanga, 1783, ARAY, Corregimiento, Causas Ordinarias, Leg. 16, No. 265. 131. “Querella de los indios,” ff. 11r–11v. 132. “Querella de los indios,” f. 11r. Original: “Manexando intereses, impropios de su alto estado, se le hara saver, que ni con pretexto de Capellan vuelva á poner los pies en aquella en aquella Hacienda, satisfaciendo, lo que justamente al canzas en los miserables Yndios en las cuentas.” 133. “Querella de los indios,” f. 11r. Original: “Obraxe de Pomacocha, que es un disimulado Presidio.” 134. “Querella de los indios,” f. 11v. Original: “Consorcios, en castigos, y prisiones, tan ajenas del estado Celesiar./o.” 135. “Auto seguido por Don Bernardo Mendoza presvítero con el procurador del Monasterio de Santa Clara de esta ciudad sobre liquidación de cuentas, resultiva de la administración del obraje de Pomacocha,” 1796, ARAY, Intendencia, Pedimentos, Leg. 47, Cuad. 72. 136. “Compulsa de los autos,” ff. 121v–126v. 137. “Querella de los indios,” f. 1v. 138. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 1:522. 139. Walker, Smoldering Ashes, 82–84. 140. José Carlos de la Puente Luna, Andean Cosmopolitans: Seeking Justice and Reward at the Spanish Royal Court (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2018). 141. Sergio Serulnikov, Subverting Colonial Authority: Challenges to Spanish Rule in Eighteenth-­Century Southern Andes (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2003); Sergio Serulnikov, Revolución en los Andes: La era de Túpac Amaru, Nudos de La Historia Argentina (Buenos Aires: Editorial Sudamericana, 2010).

Chapter 5 1. Aguirre, El ciclo independentista Huamanguino, 136–37. 2. Aguirre, El ciclo independentista Huamanguino; Igue, “Bandolerismo, patriotismo y etnicidad poscolonial”; Igue, “Bandolerismo y etnicidad”; Igue, “De Cangallo y Huamanga,” 9–20. 3. Mariano Torrente, Historia de la revolución de la independencia del Perú, Colección Documental de la Independencia del Perú, t. 26 (Lima: Comisión Nacional del Sesquicentenario de la Independencia del Perú, 1971), 202. 4. Aguirre, El ciclo independentista Huamanguino; Igue, “Bandolerismo, patriotismo y etnicidad poscolonial,” 38. 5. Bolívar, Obras completas, 25; O’Higgins, “Diario del viaje,” 119–20; “Expediente sobre la remisión,” f. 9v; “Arrendam./to el Monasterio de Santa Clara y en nombre la M./e Abadesa y difinidoras en fabor de D./n Antonio Garcia del obraje de Pomacocha, por 9. años y en 800 p./s por año,” April 30, 1824, ARAY, Notariales, Esteban Morales, Leg. 171, Protocolo 205, f. 581r. 6. Manuel de Odriozola, Documentos historicos del Peru en las épocas del coloniaje después de la conquista y de la independencia hasta la presente, vol. 3 (Lima: Tip. de A. Alfaro, 1863), 367.

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7. Odriozola, Documentos históricos del Perú, 4:367–68. 8. Aguirre, El ciclo independentista Huamanguino, 116. 9. Comisión Nacional del Sesquicentenario de la Independencia del Perú, ed., La expedición libertadora, vol. 8, tomo 3, Colección Documental de la Independencia del Perú (Lima: CNSIP, 1971), 198–99. Original: “Hermanos y campatriotas: Ha llegado el día de la libertad de América y desde el Misisipi hasta el cabo de Hornos en una zona que casi ocupa la mitdad de la tierra, se proclama la independencia del nuevo mundo.” 10. Aguirre, El ciclo independentista Huamanguino, 49. 11. Igue, “Bandolerismo, patriotismo y etnicidad poscolonial,” 38. 12. See as examples Jane Dolinger, Gypsies of the Pampa (New York: Fleet Publishing, 1958); Carlos Mendívil Duarte, Los Morochucos y Ayacucho tradicional (Lima: La Confianza, 1968); Manuel J. Pozo, Lo que hizo Huamanga por la independencia, historia local (Ayacucho: Tipografía de “La República,” 1924). 13. Aguirre, El ciclo independentista Huamanguino; Igue, “Bandolerismo, patriotismo y etnicidad poscolonial.” 14. Aguirre, El ciclo independentista Huamanguino, 183–85. 15. Aguirre, El ciclo independentista Huamanguino; Igue, “De Cangallo y Huamanga”; Méndez, Plebeian Republic; Sala i Vila, Y se armó el tole tole. 16. “Don Ignacio Ore vecino de esta ciudad arrendatario del obraje de Pomacocha en el partido de Vilcas Huaman, propia del Monasterio de Santa Clara, reclama sus derechos locatario de dicho obraje,” July 24, 1824, ARAY, Intendencia, Pedimentos, Leg. 48, Cuad. 152. 17. See “Arrendam./to q./e hacen las religiosas del monast.,” f. 464r. 18. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 2:map 5. 19. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 2:392–94, 501. 20. Mendizabal, “Dos documentos sobre los obrajes,” 276–82. 21. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 2:405. 22. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 2:413–14. 23. Adrian J. Pearce and Paul Heggarty, “‘Mining the Data’ on the Huancayo-­ Huancavelica Quechua Frontier,” in History and Language in the Andes, ed. Paul Heggarty and Adrian J. Pearce (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011), 87–109. 24. Flores Galindo, Buscando un Inca. 25. Andrés García Camba, Memorias del General García Camba para la historia de las armas españolas en el Perú, 1809–[1825], vol. 2, Biblioteca Ayacucho (Madrid: América, 1916), 6–7. 26. See Burns, Colonial Habits. 27. “Arrendam./to el Monas/o de S./ta Clara, a fabor de d/n Ygnacio de Ore del obrage de Pomacochas y sus tierras,” Huamanga, August 16, 1814, ARAY, Notariales, Esteban Morales, Leg.168, Protocolo 202, ff. 172v–174r; “10 Tratado la comun/d de religiosas del Monast/o de Santa Teresa de Jesus sobre la venta en enfiteusis del obraje de Cacamarca, a D/n Gaspar Mendieta,” Huamanga, September 10, 1814, ARAY, Notariales, Esteban Morales, Leg. 168, Protocolo 202, ff. 186r–193r. 28. Urrutia, Aquí nada ha pasado, 63. 29. “Compulsa de los autos,” f. 37v.

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30. “Ricvo el Cap/n D/n Luis de la fuente,” f. 424r. 31. Salas, Estructura colonial del poder español, 2:413; Urrutia, Aquí nada ha pasado, 105–7. 32. Sala i Vila, Y se armó el tole tole, 228. 33. Luis Miguel Glave, “Las mujeres y la revolución: Dos casos en Huamanga y Cuzco durante la revolución de 1814,” Historia y Región 1 (2013): 77–93. 34. Sala i Vila, “Revueltas indígenas en el Perú tardocolonial,” 657. 35. Maria Antonia del Sacramento y Tapia, letter to Gaspar Carillo about the sacking of rural properties, Huamanga, February 25, 1815, BNP, Z75, f. 24r. Original: “Nuestras fincas todas ellas se hallan saqueadas y en poder de los insurgentes.” 36. Andrien, Andean Worlds, 226. 37. Walker, Smoldering Ashes, 94. 38. Andrien, Andean Worlds, 227. 39. Heraclio Bonilla, El futuro del pasado: Las coordenadas de la configuración de los Andes (Instituto de Ciencias y Humanidades, 2005), 1070. 40. Walker, Smoldering Ashes, 95. 41. Walker, Smoldering Ashes, 97. 42. Walker, Smoldering Ashes, 98. 43. Walker, Smoldering Ashes, 103; Sala i Vila, Y se armó el tole tole, 228–38. 44. Sala i Vila, Y se armó el tole tole, 238. Original: “Tenía decretado el exterminio de toda persona conocida de clase de Españoles, para que sólo quedasen indios en esta provincia.” 45. Fernando Cacho, “Sobre el carácter de los indios del Perú segun lo pinto un militar español europeo, nombrado Dn. Fernando Cacho, teniente coronel, que sirvió en aquel pais en la guerra de la independencia de Buenos Ayres contra el alto Perú,” 1818, BL, Add MS 17588, f. 63. Original: “Muy desconfiados, falsos, mentirosos, ladrones, sanguinarios.” 46. Cacho, “Sobre el carácter de los indios,” f. 63. Original: “Una guerra de desolacion, guerra de exterminio, en la que el color del nostro seria la señal de incendio.” 47. Cacho, “Sobre el carácter de los indios,” f. 63. Original: “En derrotando las tropas, no hemos de dejar ni perros blancos entre nosotros, y si nuestras mugeres son blancas, ó las que por alguna linea deciendan de blanco, tambien an de morir.” 48. Walker, Smoldering Ashes, 103; Sala i Vila, Y se armó el tole tole, 231–38, 261–63. 49. Jorge Cornejo Bouroncle, Tupac Amaru, la revolución precursora de la emancipación continental: Estudio documentado (Cuzco: Edit. H. G. Rozas, 1963), 13. Original: “Ya está resuelto, escrita y jurada nuestra separación e independencia, arrancándola de las manos y poder de esas bestias. Ya nuestros padres del Congreso han resuelto revivir y reivindicar la sangre de nuestros Incas para que nos gobiernen. Y, yo mismo he oído a los padres de nuestra Patria, reunidos, hablar y resolver rebosando de alegría, que pondrán de nuestro Rey a los hijos de nuestros Incas.” 50. Flores Galindo, Buscando un Inca. 51. McFarlane, “Identity, Enlightenment and Political Dissent,” 321. 52. “Expediente sobre la remisión,” f. 9v. Original: “Año de 1821 . . . D./n Ygnacio de Ore ha promovido, instancia sobre no debe pagar a la comunidad de las Monjas de

NOTES TO CHAPTER 5 • 199

Santa Clara los arrendamientos del obraje, y Hacienda de Poma Cocha en virtud de haberse apropriado los Enemigos disidentes llamados Morocuchos.” 53. José Carratalá al virrey La Serna. Huamanga, February 18, 1822, Gaceta del gobierno legítimo del Perú, Cuzco, March 1, 1822. Excerpt of transcription from Guillermo Lohmann Villena, Documentación oficial española: Gobierno virreinal del Cuzco, Colección Documental de la Independencia del Perú, t. 22, vol. 3 (Lima: Comisión Nacional del Sesquicentenario de la Independencia del Perú, 1973), 142. Original: “Excmo. Señor: El 12 del actual pude encontrar sobre los altos de Pomacocha a una partida de treinta enemigos procedentes de Yca, a los que se habían unido como ochocientos Yndios y Mestizos, colocados todos en tres fuertes posiciones. Me adelanté con sesenta infantes del primer Regimiento y treinta Caballos de San Carlos, y penetrando velozmente por el centro de la línea enemiga dividí en dos mitades la caballería, que a la carga embolvió acertadamente a los rebeldes poniéndoles en precipitada fuga, y causándoles en pocos momentos la pérdida de quarenta muertos y muchos heridos: dejaron también en nuestro poder cinco carabinas seis lanzas y algunos Caballos.” 54. Igue, “Bandolerismo, patriotismo y etnicidad poscolonial,” 74; McFarlane, “Identity, Enlightenment and Political Dissent,” 322. 55. “Revisita de indígenas de la provincia de Cangallo hecho por don Manuel Valdivia, año de 1826,” MNAAH, Libros Manuscritos; “Contribución general, padrón de contribuyentes [de castas],” 1826, MNAAH, Libros Manuscritos. 56. “Razón y lista que yo don José Joaquín de Garayoa, Juez Comisionado del partido de Vilcashuamán, formo del dinero que he recaudado perteneciente al ramo de la única contribución especial designación de los pueblos, estancias, pagos y haciendas y con distinción de las cantidades que han pagado, y de quanto restan los suso dichos que no han satisfecho á pesar de muchas recombenciones, por oficios, recados, propios y demas diligencias por la combulsion del tiempo, y p./r la imbasion de los disidentes, cuya cobranza se ha hecho con arreglo al padronsillo que seme há entregado p./r los señores e ministros de la caxa adicional,” April 22, 1822, BNP, D620, ff. 3r–3v. 57. “Razón y lista.” Original: “Milagrosamente he podido salvar mi vida, ó al menos hé escapado de caer prisionero en manos de los rebeldes disidentes. /f. 3v/ No ignora VS. q/e desde el momento q./e me posecioné del mando he expuesto mi vida al eminente peligro de perderla; tampoco duda que aquel Partido y todas sus comarcas son y han sido los puntos mas alterados.” 58. Bautista Saavedra, Defensa de los derechos de Bolivia ante el gobierno argentino en el litigio de fronteras con la república del Perú (Buenos Aires: J. Peuser, 1906), 36. Original map: “Mapa original de la Intendencia de Guamanga en el Perú. Dividida en sus seis partidos o subdelegaciones, y subdividida en 56 doctrinas. Levantada de orden de su Gobernador Intendente don Demetrio O’Higgins, por varias observaciones astronómicas y demarcación general de ella, hechas sobre el terreno en 1803 y 4, siendo el primer plan que se ha levantado metódicamente de estos países,” 1808, AGI, Mapas y Planos, MP-­PERU_CHILE,158BIS, 1808. 59. Igue, “Bandolerismo, patriotismo y etnicidad poscolonial,” 65. Original: “Siempre ha sido de gente altanera, y adicta a la insubordinación.” 60. Bolívar, Obras completas, 25.

200 • NOTES TO CHAPTER 5

61. O’Higgins, “Diario del viaje,” 119. 62. O’Higgins, “Diario del viaje,” 120. 63. Miller, Memoirs of General Miller, 1:356. 64. “Arrendam./to el monasterio de Santa Clara,” f. 581r. Original: “Que sera de cuenta del arrendatario restaurar a costa suya; todas las tierras que los Yndios de los Pueblos de Vischongo: Vilcas y Carhuanca tienen usurpadas.” 65. Max Aguirre Cárdenas, Ayacucho: Vilcashuaman y Cangallo (Lima: Servicios Múltiples El Sur EIRL, 2008), 456–57; Miller, Memoirs of General Miller, 1st ed. (London: Longman, Rees, Orme, Brown, and Green, 1828), 341. 66. Miller, Memoirs of General Miller, 1st ed., 328. 67. Miller, Memoirs of General Miller, in the Service of the Republic of Peru, 2:189. 68. Aguirre, Ayacucho, 435–75. 69. Aguirre, El ciclo independentista Huamanguino; “Revisita de indígenas . . . por don Manuel Valdivia.” 70. Miguel García, “Correspondencia al señor Guillermo Miller sobre varios asuntos,” Alcamenga, September 21, 1821, BNP, XI-­FN1268. 71. “Virrey del Perú acompañando estado de la población del Perú,” November 5, 1792, AGI, Estado 73, No. 40, ff. 16r–16v; “Revisita de indígenas . . . por don Manuel Valdivia”; “Contribución general, padrón de contribuyentes [de castas].” 72. This asymmetry was due to the intersectionally racist and sexist hierarchies that the Spanish imposed. In a 1789 description of South America, the Spaniard Juan de la Rosa summed up the racist attitude that there were two kinds of mestizos. The kind that was the result of the admixture of white men and native women was of “appreciable quality,” while those who were the result of white women and native men were “depreciable and shameful.” See Rosa, “Descripción general de la América Meridional.” Nevertheless, some of the “Spanish” men listed in the “Revisita de indígenas . . . por don Manuel Valdivia” had Native Andean surnames (Osno, Cuya, and Llacsa), showing biological fluidity in these “racial” categories. 73. See Tony D. Sampson, Virality: Contagion Theory in the Age of Networks (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2012). Recent literature has complicated the small-­world networks’ and strength of weak ties’ automatic correlation with the rapid spread of all types of behaviors. Some behaviors such as mobilization in rebellion, need multiple reinforcing ties between nodes, as long-­distance weak ties are not enough. The case of Vilcashuamán shows how small world networks could also have meaningfully deep ties with each other through kinship, which facilitates both trust and rapid spread of rebellion. There is a delicate balance needed between the classic small-­world network model and the importance of deep connections for general rebellions to take hold. See Centola and Macy, “Complex Contagions”; Damon Centola, How Behavior Spreads: The Science of Complex Contagions, Princeton Analytical Sociology Series (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2018). 74. Huertas, La revisita de los Chocorvos en 1683; Duque de la Palata, “Un exemplar de la provisión de retasa”; “Copia de la numeración de yndios hecha”; “Padrón de los indios tributarios”; “Revisita de indígenas . . . por don Manuel Valdivia”; “Contribución general, padrón de contribuyentes [de castas].” 75. Jens Kandt, James A Cheshire, and Paul A Longley, “Regional Surnames and

NOTES TO CHAPTER 5 • 201

Genetic Structure in Great Britain,” Transactions 41, no. 4 (October 2016): 554–69; Pablo Mateos, Names, Ethnicity and Populations: Tracing Identity in Space, Advances in Spatial Science (Berlin: Springer-­Verlag, 2014). 76. Rebecca Starr, “Political Mobilization, 1765–1776,” in A Companion to the American Revolution, ed. Jack P. Greene and J.R. Pole (New York: John Wiley and Sons, 2000), 222–29; Shin-­Kap Han, “The Other Ride of Paul Revere: The Brokerage Role in the Making of the American Revolution,” Mobilization: An International Quarterly 14, no. 2 (2009): 143–62. 77. Gabriel Ward Lasker, Surnames and Genetic Structure, Cambridge Studies in Biological Anthropology 1 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985), 142. 78. Paul A. Longley, James A. Cheshire, and Pablo Mateos, “Creating a Regional Geography of Britain through the Spatial Analysis of Surnames,” Geoforum 42, no. 4 (2011): 507. 79. Vincent D. Blondel et al., “Fast Unfolding of Communities in Large Networks,” Journal of Statistical Mechanics: Theory and Experiment 2008, no. 10 (2008): P10008. 80. James Cheshire, Pablo Mateos, and Paul A. Longley, “Delineating Europe’s Cultural Regions: Population Structure and Surname Clustering,” Human Biology 83, no. 5 (2011): 573–98; Longley et al., “Creating a Regional Geography of Britain.” 81. Longley, Cheshire, and Mateos, “Creating a Regional Geography of Britain.” 82. Stavig, World of Túpac Amaru, 113. 83. Frank Salomon and Sue Grosboll, “Names and Peoples in Incaic Quito: Retrieving Undocumented Historic Processes through Anthroponymy and Statistics,” American Anthropologist 88, no. 2 (1986): 387–99. 84. From 1719 to 1729, thirty-­six of forty-­eight communities remained in the same surname cluster. From 1719 to 1826, twenty-­six of forty-­three communities remained in the same surname cluster. From 1729 to 1826, thirty-­two of forty-­five communities remained in the same surname cluster. 85. In 1753, the province of Vilcashuamán was assessed with providing 18.25 persons to work in the mines of Huancavelica on a rotating basis at all times. “El Gremio de Mineros de Huancavelica, sobre revisita de indios por la carencia que existe en las mitas de Yauyos, Aymaraes, Huaura, Jauja, Castrovirreyna, Tarma, Andahuaylas, Angaraes, Parinacochas, Lucanas, Vilcashuamán, Chumbivilcas y Cotabambas, para que se pague la contribución que dejó de remitir el corregidor José Mendieta,” AGN, GO_RE_RE1_009,151, f. 42v. 86. Povea, Minería y reformismo borbónico. 87. “Revisita de indígenas . . . por don Manuel Valdivia.” 88. Aguirre, Ayacucho; Igue, “Bandolerismo y etnicidad”; O’Phelan, Un siglo de rebeliones; Sala i Vila, Y se armó el tole tole. 89. Igue, “De Cangallo y Huamanga”; Sala i Vila, Y se armó el tole tole; Walker, Smoldering Ashes. 90. Alan Durston, “Quechua Political Literature in Early Republican Peru (1810– 1876),” in History and Language in the Andes, ed. Paul Heggarty and Adrian J. Pearce (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011), 165–86; Igue, “Bandolerismo, patriotismo y etnicidad poscolonial.” 91. Igue, “De Cangallo y Huamanga,” 13.

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92. Igue, “De Cangallo y Huamanga,” 17. Original: “La gloriosa Nacion Americana, así Yndios como Criollos, que todos gosamos de la Union, y verdadera hermandad, para sacudirnos del yugo, y govierno tiranico de los Chapetones, pucacuncas, chupasapas.” Pucacunca is a derogatory Quechua term for whites, especially peninsular Spaniards, meaning “redneck.” 93. Igue, “Bandolerismo, patriotismo y etnicidad poscolonial,” 48. Original: “Lisonjeo de que os mostraréis dignos descendientes de Manco Cápac, de Guayna Cápac, de Túpac Yupanqui, de Paullo Túpac, parientes de Túpa Amaro, de Tambo Guacso, de Puma Cagua, Feligreses del Dr., Muñecas y que cooperaréis con todas vuestras fuerzas al triunfo de la expedición libertadora, en la cual están envueltos vuestra libertad, vuestra fortuna y vuestro apacible reposo, así como el bien perpetuo de todos vuestros hijos. Tened toda confianza en la protección de vuestro amigo y paisano el General José de San Martín.” 94. Igue, “Bandolerismo, patriotismo y etnicidad poscolonial,” 46. Original: “Los guardaban con una fe reverente y entusiasta como una valiosa adquisición, y se servían de ellos como de un pasaporte o título, que nos enseñaban para comprobar su patriotismo y adhesión a la causa de la independencia.” 95. In the intendancy of Huamanga, only the areas of Huanta, Quinua, Luricocha, and Huamanguilla posed armed resistance from the Native Andean populace against the rebels. See Igue, “Bandolerismo, patriotismo y etnicidad poscolonial,” 45–46; Miller, Memoirs of General Miller, 1:191; O’Higgins, “Diario del viaje”; Sala i Vila, Y se armó el tole tole. 96. Miller, Memoirs of General Miller, 2:229. 97. Miller, Memoirs of General Miller, 2:10, 109–10. 98. See Sala i Vila’s Y se armó el tole tole for examples of peninsular disdain for native customs, especially during religious festivals. 99. Miller, Memoirs of General Miller, vol. 2. 100. Méndez, Plebeian Republic, 5–6.

Conclusion 1. Méndez, Plebeian Republic, 12; Walker, Smoldering Ashes, 229. 2. Leon G. Campbell, “Women and the Great Rebellion in Peru, 1780–1783,” Americas 42, no. 2 (1985): 163–96. 3. Walker, Tupac Amaru Rebellion. 4. Glave, “Las mujeres y la revolución.” 5. Stern, Peru’s Indian Peoples. 6. Barbara L. Voss, “Narratives of Colonialism, Grand and Not So Grand: A Critical Reflection on the Archaeology of the Spanish and Portuguese Americas,” in Archaeology of Culture Contact and Colonialism in Spanish and Portuguese America, ed. Pedro Paulo A. Funari and Maria Ximena Senatore (Springer International Publishing, 2015), 353–61; Barbara L. Voss, “What’s New? Rethinking Ethnogenesis in the Archaeology of Colonialism,” American Antiquity 80, no. 4 (2015): 655–70. 7. Urrutia, Aquí nada ha pasado. 8. Michael Chuchón, “Partidos políticos en Pomacocha: Un estudio de caso, 1945– 1975,” licenciatura thesis, Universidad Nacional de San Cristóbal de Huamanga, 2006.

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INDEX

Page numbers followed by f refer to figures; page numbers followed by t refer to tables. Abascal y Sousa, José Fernando de, 134, 136 Acha, Martin, 84 Africans, 77, 129, 155 Afro-Andeans, 76, 79, 135–36 Age of Revolution, 4, 103 agricultural activities: at obrajes, 100– 101, 159; in Vilcashuamán, 19; at Yanawilka, 18, 23, 25, 32 aguardiente de caña, 93–94 Albornoz, Cristóbal de, 33 alcabala tax, 106, 118, 119, 132, 134 algarrobo (Prosopis sp.), 23, 25t Almagro-Pizarro civil war, 32 Álvares, Nicolás, 114 amparos, 47 Anco, 111, 112f, 116, 149f Andahuaylas, 16 Angasocha, 39 Angulo, José, 129, 133 Angulo-Pumacahua rebellion, 129, 131, 133–35, 153–54, 159 aqllakuna,17 Arandía, Manuel de, 62 archaeology: and Pomacocha obraje, 94f, 95–97, 98t, 99, 131; social landscapes understood from, 7–8; and Yanawilka, 18, 23, 24f, 25–30 Arequipa, 57f, 133, 149f

Armendariz, Joseph de, 60 arrowroot (Marantaceae), 25–26 Artiodactyla, 28t Aruisuri, Francisco, 83 Astania, 34, 39 Atahualpa, Juan Santos, 60, 66–67 axial line analysis, 90f, 91 Ayacucho, 3, 16, 104; independence won in, 129; and rebellions, 2, 5f, 11, 111, 112f, 113–14, 134, 154; reparto in, 105 Ayarche, Martin, 39–40 ayllus, 50, 58 Ayrabamba, 34, 39 barley, 93–94 beans, 93–94 beans (Phaseolus), 19, 25t Belgrano, Manuel, 135 Bolívar, Simón de, 2, 11, 138, 154–55 Bolivia, 64 Bourbon reforms, 59, 60, 104–8, 110 Braudel, Fernand, 4, 78 Cacamarca: and costumbre violations, 108–10; decline of obraje of, 100–101, 133; and earthquakes, 75, 82; and epidemics, 82; and folktales, 64; food availability at obraje of, 85, 97; and labor exemptions, 85; obraje in, 37, 39, 64, 72, 75, 76–77; prison labor increase at obraje in, 122; and rebellions, 113; and resistance, 128; and revolts, 111– 12; Tanquihuas in, 39

222 • INDEX

Cacho, Fernando, 135 cactus, 98t, 99 Cajatambo, 149f camelids, 19, 26–28 Canaria, 37 Cañaris, 16 Canchari, Petrona, 114–17 Canchumanta, Juan, 84 cane alcohol, 93 Cangallo, 5f, 127, 194n106; Morochucos in, 129, 131, 138, 139 capitalism, 4, 159–60; in colonies, 4, 6–7, 77–80; and obrajes, 78 Carhuanca, 138 Carratalá, José, 130, 136, 138, 139 Carvajal, Pedro de, 47 Casaconcha (Viceroy), 61 cassava (Manihot esculenta), 19, 25–26 castas: and census abuses, 58; demographic change of, 143f; geographic distribution of, 140, 141f, 142, 143f, 150–51; population of, 150–51, 152f; in workshops, 77, 142 caste war, 108, 135 Catholic Church, 41, 81; and indoctrination, 36, 40, 43; land acquired by, 44, 51; rejection of, 33 Cayara, 37 censo loans, 49–51 censuses, 16; church records used in, 53–54; complaints against, 58–59; and geographic distribution of communities, 139–40; and hidden populations, 53–54, 58; inaccuracy of, 32, 51–53, 56, 58, 61–62; and migration, 55, 56, 58–62, 83; Morochucos in, 131, 139; social history constructed from, 8; social upheaval created by, 60, 116; and surname affinity, 143–45, 146f, 147, 148f Cerro de Pasco, 133 Chacamarca, 48 Chacapampa, 48–49, 82 Chalco, Pablo, 114–17, 159, 193n78 Chalco, Paula, 114 Champacancha, 136, 138

Chanin, 37, 70, 113, 136, 138 Chankas, 15 Charles IV, 134 chasquis, 77 chicha, 93, 97 chile pepper (Capsicum L.), 19 chili, 93–94 Chinchebamba, 34 Chincheros, 134, 149f; huaca of, 36, 56; obraje in, 37, 72, 82, 100–101 Chiribamba, 111, 112f Chocorbos, 54, 58, 181n85 chorrillos, 74, 100, 101, 118, 132 Chuchón, Felipe, 49 Chumbes, 37 Chumbivilcas, 179n55 Chungui, 111, 112f, 114, 116, 149f class identity, 3; and alliances, 161; and conflict, 6, 106, 120, 134–35; and migration, 55; under Spanish colonialism, 40, 75; and Taki Onqoy movement, 32–34, 41 Cobo, Bernabé, 23 Cocharcas, 56–57, 133 commensal practices, 92, 96–97 communal lands, 44, 45, 159–60; women owning, 6, 56–58, 63, 160 composición de tierras, 47–51 Condes, 13, 81; collaboration of with ruling class, 34, 36; haciendas of, 38f; labor exemption of, 53, 62; and land, 27f, 32, 37–39, 45, 48–49, 82; land appropriated from, 35, 44, 142, 150; and migration, 62; population of, 58–59; reducciones of, 38, 39; resettlement of, 32, 36; and Taki Onqoy movement, 34; and Tanquihuas, 25. See also Yanawilka conquistadors, 34, 35–36 Constitution of Cádiz, 134 corregidores, 47, 114, 117; and reparto, 78, 79, 105–6 corruption: land acquired by, 34, 47; at obrajes, 78, 80, 97, 106, 121; at reducciones, 37; in tax system, 41 Cortés, Hernán, 65 costumbre: erosion of, 105–6, 117; and

INDEX • 223

exploitation, 80–81, 157; at haciendas, 80–81; and Incas, 157; and Jesuits, 105; at obrajes, 70, 80–81, 99, 100–101, 111; political alliances created by, 80, 84–86, 88; and rebellions, 60, 154–55, 181n98; violations of, 81, 83–84, 108– 10, 123–25 Creole Spaniards, 3; alliances built by, 103–4, 108–9, 116, 120, 135–36, 158; characterizations of, 107; indigenization of, 105, 107–8, 135, 150, 154, 161; as Morochucos, 130, 139, 142; population of, 105, 139; and rebellions, 117, 129, 133–36, 155, 157, 158; and reparto, 119 Cusiatau, Blas Antonio, 177n30 Cuzco: expansion of Inca Empire from, 14, 15; huacas held in, 17; and rebellions, 110–11, 113, 131, 133; and road system, 16, 45, 48; social networks in, 22, 144; Taki Onqoy movement in, 33 dairy products, 93–94, 98t, 99 debt slavery, 1, 76; at obrajes, 4, 79, 92, 105–6, 110; and reparto, 78–79, 105, 111 deer, 19, 28t, 29 Delgado, Manuel, 123 demographics: analyses of, 11; and castas, 143f; of Morochucos, 11; at obrajes, 3; in Pomacocha, 86, 139; in Vilcashuamán, 140, 142, 150–51, 152f, 153f Díaz Rojas, Luisa, 47 earthquakes: at Cacamarca, 75, 82; desolation caused by, 43, 60, 69, 85; and migration, 59; at Pomacocha, 1–2, 75, 79, 82–83, 86 ecological zones, 18–19 economic circuits, 7, 110, 131–33 Ecuador, 64 eggplant, 98t, 99 Enciso, Alexo, 124–26 encomienda system, 36 Enlightenment, 4, 11, 104, 108, 120, 162 enslaved labor, 76–77

epidemics: flare-ups of, 165n2; and labor shortages, 2, 60, 79, 82–83, 85, 111; and migration, 2, 60–63; and population decline, 1, 43, 52, 59, 60–61, 86 españoles (caste category), 3, 76, 91, 140 estancias: distribution of, 141f, 142; indigenous communities reclaiming, 162; and migration, 60, 150, 159; and Morochucos, 131–32; overwork of laborers at, 39; and rebellions, 156, 157; as satellite of obraje, 74, 133 ethnic identity: and alliances, 10, 31, 33, 37, 39–40; and Incas, 14–16, 158; and migration, 62–63, 144, 158; and rebellions, 3; rejection of, 55; and tax obligations, 35–36, 158 exploitation: and alliances, 6, 10, 92; and costumbre, 80–81, 157; and folktales, 6, 10, 43–44, 64–67, 182n117; and labor shortages, 85; and migration, 60, 63–64, 83; of obrajes workers, 1, 82–83, 93; and population decline, 52, 83; and resistance, 13, 43, 79–80; under Spanish colonialism, 36 Ferdinand VII, 134 Flores Galindo, Alberto, 135 flotation, 23, 25t folktales: on exploitation, 6, 10, 43–44, 64–67, 182n117; and rebellions, 156; on return of Incas, 64, 66–67, 114, 131, 135 food availability, 85, 92–93, 97 forasteros, 54–56, 58, 60, 61, 179n61, 181n85 Foucault, Michel, 4 fruit trees, 94, 98t, 99 Gálvez, Inés, 126 Gálvez, Manuela, 125–26 Gamboa, Antonio de, 50 Gamboa, Cristóbal de, 34, 45, 49 Gamboa, Domingo de, 83–84 Gamboa, Gabriel de, 49–51 Gamboa, Juan de, 50 Gamboa family, 45–46, 49–51, 177n24

224 • INDEX

García, Miguel, 139–40 García de Araujo, Alonso, 1–2, 79, 81–84, 92, 97 García de la Riestra, Pedro, 116 gender: and migration, 6; and obrajes, 75, 76, 91, 158; ratios of, 58, 59t Gephi, 144 Gobierno del Perú (Matienzo), 35 Gómez, Lorenzo, 1–2, 83–85, 88, 92, 139 González Buenosvinos, Gregorio, 127 Great Andean Epidemic. See epidemics Guacra, Andres, 34 Guamanquero, 48 guanacos, 19 Guarancanqui, 114 Guarcay Inquillay, Beatriz, 34, 45, 49 guatacos, 76–77 Guayna Cápac, 154, 202n93 guerrilla warfare, 136, 139, 155 Guillén de Mendoza, Hernán, 34, 39–40 guinea pigs (Cavia porcellus), 19, 26, 28t, 98t, 99 Guirior, Manuel, 116 haciendas: and costumbre, 80–81; distribution of, 141f, 142; indigenous communities reclaiming, 162; and labor obligations, 55–56; in Pomacocha, 3, 69; and rebellions, 4, 157; and reducciones, 37; and social networks, 156, 158 Hananguanca, 58 Herboso, Gabriel de, 136–37 high puna zone, 19 huacas, 17, 33, 36, 55, 159–60, 174n92 Huamán, Nicolás, 1–2, 81, 82, 85–86, 97 Huamanga, 137f; appeal to by workers, 1–2, 127; highway to, 45, 48; and labor obligations, 132; market of, 133; and population decline, 36; and rebellions, 2, 133, 139; reparto in, 105; and revolts, 153; and Spanish colonialism, 46, 120; Taki Onqoy movement in, 32, 33 Huamanguilla, 202n95 Huamaní, Miguel, 139

Huamanmarca, 37 Huanca Sancos, 5f Huancaraylla, 16 Huancavelica, 16; abolishment of labor obligations in, 61, 145; exemption from labor obligations in, 69, 85; labor obligations in, 37, 39, 45, 52, 57, 179n55; and migration to avoid labor obligations in, 63, 145, 149–50; and rebellions, 133 Huanta, 111, 112f, 134, 202n95 Huánuco, 33 Huayna Capac, 19 Hurtado de Mendoza, Manuel, 154 Ica, 133, 136, 138 identity formation, 10; and alliances, 40; and costumbre, 80; and kinship networks, 55; of Morochucos, 6, 11, 129–30, 132, 134, 150, 158, 161; and obrajes, 91–92; and resistance, 6, 8; and social space, 7 Incas: communal lands under, 45; control of trade by, 30, 158, 174n81; and costumbre, 157; and ethnic identity, 14–16, 158; expansion of empire of, 14, 15; folktales on return of, 64, 66–67, 114, 131, 135; imagery of banned under Spanish colonialism, 107; land division by, 16–17; and mitmaqkuna settlements, 4, 15, 18, 22, 37; policies of under Spanish colonialism, 40–41; pride in ancestry of, 154; social landscapes created by, 13–15, 34; travel restrictions by, 17, 29, 41 Indian head tax, 134 Industrial Revolution, 10, 101, 103 Inkarrí, 66–67 intendancy system, 105, 106 intervisibilty analysis, 89f, 91 Inti, 17 Isidro, Gonzalo de, 47 Jaquica, Diego, 114 jar lugs, 27–28, 29f Jauja, 33, 58, 139

INDEX • 225

Jáuregui, Agustín de, 122 Jesuits, 105, 109–11 Juan, Jorge, 78 Junín, 16 justified access graph, 88f, 91 Katarista rebellion, 103, 106, 108, 133 kinship networks: created by resistance strategies, 158; created in obrajes, 56, 132; and identity formation, 55; and migration, 6, 56–57, 63–64, 142–45; and rebellions, 157, 160; as smallworld, 145, 147; and spread of folktales, 64, 67; in Vilcashuamán, 55, 143–45, 146f, 147–50 labor obligations, 201n85; abolishment of, 61, 145; avoidance of, 43, 44, 52–53, 158; exemptions from, 39, 45, 53, 69, 81, 85; and folktales, 64; and forasteros, 60, 61; and haciendas, 55–56; to Huancavelica, 37, 39, 45, 52, 57, 179n55; and migration, 6, 54, 55, 63, 145, 149–50, 158; and obrajes, 37, 55–56, 76, 78; and rebellions, 34, 130; and repartimiento, 36; and social networks, 132 labor shortages, 100, 118–19, 125; and earthquakes, 43, 60, 69, 85; and epidemics, 2, 59–60, 79, 82–83, 85, 111; used to gain better working conditions, 2, 59–61 Lagos, Alejandro, 125 Lagos, Alejo, 123, 125–27 Lagos, José, 123–26 Lake Pomacocha, 39, 46–47, 177n14 Lama sp., 28t La Maza family, 110 land appropriation: from Condes, 35, 44, 142, 150; and reducciones, 38, 46; under Spanish colonialism, 13, 34, 36–40, 43, 48; from Tanquihuas, 34, 36–40, 45, 142, 150 La Paz, 133 Lasker coefficient analysis, 143–44 La teta asustada (Milk of sorrow), 65

legal action: alliances created by, 6, 43, 103, 127–28, 154, 156; over abuses of workers, 1–2, 59–60, 63–64, 80–81, 92, 153; over censuses, 58; over land ownership, 39–40, 45–51, 84–85; over tax and labor obligations, 52 Lemos y Villamarin, Fancisco Gil de Taboada, 107, 119 Lima, 133 Lisbona, Felix, 120–21, 159 livestock, 98t, 99 López del Pozo, Domingo, 1–2, 79, 81–84, 92, 97 Lucanas, 33 lupine (cf. Lupinsu mutabilis), 25t Luricocha, 202n95 Luringuanca, 58 luxury goods: control of by Incas, 18, 29– 30, 158, 173n78; and reparto, 78–79, 105 maestrillos, 76–77 maize (Zea mays), 19, 23, 25t, 93–94 majordomo, 75–76 Manco Cápac, 154, 202n93 Mansanayoc, 111–12 marriage: alliances created by, 46, 142, 156, 161; and land ownership, 34, 45–46, 63 Marx, Karl, 4, 6, 78 Matienzo, Juan de: Gobierno del Perú, 35 matrilocality, 56 mayordomos, 75–77, 80–81, 100 mazamorras, 93 meat, 93–94 Mendoza, Bernardo de, 122, 123–26 merpeople, 65 mestizos: alliances built by, 108–9, 120, 135–36; characterizations of, 126; geographic distribution of, 140; indigenization of, 150, 154, 159, 161; as Morochucos, 11, 129, 130, 139; at obrajes, 3; population of, 105, 139; and rebellions, 135, 136, 138, 155, 157, 158 migration, 159; to avoid labor obligations, 6, 54, 55, 63, 145, 149–50, 158;

226 • INDEX

and censuses, 55, 56, 58–62, 83; and epidemics, 2, 60–63; and exploitation, 60, 63–64, 83; and kinship networks, 6, 54–57, 63–64, 142–45; patterns of, 62–63, 144; and rebellions, 157; and social networks, 6, 43–44, 156 Miller, William, 2, 11, 93, 138, 154–55 mines: abolishment of labor obligations to, 61, 145; exemption from labor obligations to, 69, 85; fluctuations in, 100; labor obligations to, 37, 39, 45, 52, 57, 179n55; and migration to avoid labor obligations to, 63, 145, 149–50; racial hierarchies maintained in, 77; and rebellions, 4 Mishcabamba, 84 mita. See labor obligations mitmaqkuna settlements, 4, 10, 13–19, 31f, 36, 173n74 moiety social structure, 22 Molinopampa, 48–49, 82 molle (Schinus molle) trees, 19, 98t, 99 Monastery of Santa Clara: and costumbre, 81; effects of rebellion on, 134, 136, 138; food from obraje sent to, 94, 99; haciendas of, 162; land acquired by, 44, 47–51, 82, 155, 161, 177n28; obraje of, 69, 82–85, 112, 123, 124–25, 133; responses of to worker revolt, 125–26 Monastery of Santa Teresa, 85 montoneros, 139 Morochucos: aiding royalists, 139–40, 147; demographics of, 11; destruction of villages of, 142, 151, 153; and guerrilla warfare, 155; identity of formed, 6, 11, 129–30, 132, 134, 150, 158, 161; and kinship networks, 145; montoneros as, 139; Native Andeans as, 11, 129, 138, 139, 150–51, 152f; and rebellions, 129–31, 136, 138, 139, 155–56; women fighting with, 159 mule drivers, 106, 111, 113, 132 mules, 105, 109, 119–21 ñak’aq, 64–65 Napoleon, 134

Native Andeans: abuses of in obrajes, 77, 119; alliances built by, 108, 120, 135– 36, 161; characterizations of, 80, 125– 27, 130, 151, 155, 162; and colonial capitalism, 79; and costumbre, 154–55; geographic distribution of, 140; kinship networks of, 147; and migration, 149–50; as Morochucos, 11, 129, 138, 139, 150–51, 152f; at obrajes, 3, 110; oppression of, 107; population of, 105, 139; racial bias against, 135, 162; and rebellions, 133, 135, 136, 155, 157, 158; resistance strategies of, 6, 10; surnames of, 144; and taxes, 134 Necochea, Raymundo, 114 O’Higgins, Bernardo, 130, 138, 154–55 O’Higgins, Demetrio, 119, 199n58 obrajes: abuses at, 75, 77, 78, 119, 127; agricultural activities at, 100–101, 159; building social landscape, 156; and capitalism, 78; commensal practices at, 92; corruption at, 78, 80, 97, 106, 121; and costumbre, 70, 80–81, 84–85, 99, 100–101, 111; and debt slavery, 4, 79, 92, 105, 106, 110; decline of, 100–101, 103, 118, 133, 142; demographics at, 3; disruptions caused by, 36; and earthquakes, 69, 75, 82; establishment of, 35; estancias as satellite of, 74, 133; excavations of, 94f, 95–97, 98t, 99, 131; exploitation at, 1, 64, 66, 82–83, 93; food availability at, 85, 92–93, 97; forced labor at, 111–12; and gender roles, 75, 76, 91, 158; geographical distribution of, 141f; haciendas as satellite of, 70, 74, 132; and identity formation, 91–92; and kinship networks, 56, 132; and labor obligations, 37, 55–56, 76, 78; and labor obligations exemptions, 52–53, 85; and labor shortages, 2, 59–60, 79, 82–83, 85, 100, 111, 118–19, 125; and migration, 56; mistrust at, 6, 76–77; of Monastery of Santa Clara, 51, 69, 82–85, 112, 123, 124–25, 133; organization of, 73–76; overwork of

INDEX • 227

natives at, 39; prison labor at, 4; prison labor increase at, 11, 106–7, 111, 119– 22, 127; and rebellions, 4, 110, 157; and reparto, 78; resistance strategies at, 69–70, 118, 157–58; and revolts, 229; social hierarchies at, 6, 75–78, 88, 89f, 90–92, 158; and social networks, 6, 10, 103, 111, 127, 131, 132, 158–59; types of, 74t. See also Cacamarca; Chincheros; Pomacocha obrajes abiertos, 74t obrajes de la comunidad, 74t obrajes enteros, 74t obrajes medios, 74t obsidian, 18, 29–30, 158, 173n78 oca (Oxalis tuberosa), 19, 25t Ocros, 37 olluco (Ullucus tuberosus), 19 Omayo (Umaro), 48 Oré, Antonio de, 47 Oré, Francisco de, 47–48 Oré, Ignacio, 136 Oré, Josef de, 85 originarios, 56, 58, 180n77, 181n85 pacarinas, 19–20, 21f, 22f Pachacuti, 14, 15, 17 Pacheco, Dionisio, 77 Pacomarca, 39 Padilla, Clara de, 48 Palata, Duque de la, 54, 58–59, 69 Palmino, Fernando de, 50 Pampa Cangallo, 130 pampas, 40 Parado de Bellido, Maria, 139 Pareja, Joseph, 109 Pariamarca, 48, 50 Parinacochas, 33 pasquines, 154 paternalism: after epidemic, 60–61; at obrajes, 69, 81, 84–85, 100, 157; by Spaniards, 107–9, 162 Paucarbamba: hacienda of, 37, 45, 49, 70, 177n24; lands of, 46, 49–51 Paullo Túpac, 154, 202n93 peas, 93–94

Peralta, Melchor, 121, 123 pirates, 82 pishtaku, 64–65 Pizarro, Christobal, 48 political alliances, 7, 60, 130–31, 158, 161; and costumbre, 80, 84–86, 88 political ecology, 7 political geography, 7–8 Poma, Guaman, 65 Pomacocha, 3, 5f; abuses at obraje in, 1–2; animals raised at obraje in, 93–94, 99; and commensality, 96–97; and Condes, 32, 44; and costumbre, 81; and costumbre violations, 81, 83–84, 123–25; debt slavery at obraje in, 4, 79; decline at obraje in, 100–101, 123, 131–32; demographic changes in, 86, 139; and earthquakes, 1–2, 69, 75, 79, 82–83, 86; excavations of obraje in, 94f, 95–97, 98t, 99, 131; food availability at obraje in, 93–94, 96–97, 98t, 99; growth of obraje in, 70, 72; hacienda in, 34, 49, 69, 70, 162, 177n24; illegal imprisonment of people at obraje in, 126; inventory of obraje in, 71t, 72; labor shortages in, 2, 100, 125; layout of obraje in, 72f, 73t, 74, 86, 87f, 88, 94f; and Morochucos, 130, 139; obraje in, 37, 45, 84–85, 133; pacarinas of, 20; population decline in, 43, 82–83; prison labor increase at obraje in, 121, 122; rebel base at obraje in, 2, 11, 130, 136–37; and rebellions, 11, 111–13, 134, 136– 38; and resistance strategies at obraje in, 69–70, 118, 128, 157; and revolts, 120, 123–27, 159; sacred lands of, 160; social hierarchy at obraje in, 88, 89f, 90–92, 158; social networks created at obraje in, 158–60; and Vischongo, 81–82, 84, 85–86, 92, 127 population: of castas, 150–51, 152f; of Condes, 58–59; of Creole Spaniards, 105, 139; decline in, 36, 43, 46, 51–52, 62, 82–83; decline in from epidemics, 1, 43, 52, 59, 60–61, 86; decline in from exploitation, 52, 83; hidden from

228 • INDEX

censuses, 52–54, 56, 58, 158; of mestizos, 105, 139; of Native Andeans, 105, 106, 139; of Spaniards, 150–51, 152f; of Vilcashuamán, 16, 52, 136, 139, 141f potatoes (Solanum tuberosum), 19, 25t, 93–94, 98t, 99 Prickly pear (Opuntia sp.) trees, 19 prison labor: increase of at obrajes, 11, 92, 101, 106–7, 111, 117, 119–22, 127; at obrajes, 4, 83, 96–97 prison manufactory complex, 78, 185n50 pucacunca, 154, 202n92 Pucaguasi, 70 Pueblo Viejo-Pucara, 173n74 Pulapuco, 173n74 Pumacahua, Mateo García, 129, 133, 134– 35, 154, 202n93 Pumaqocha-Intihuatana, 19 puna zone, 19 Puno, 133 Puyucahua, Micaela Bastides, 159 qhapaq ucha ritual, 17 Qing Dynasty, 95 Quechua, 129, 150, 154 quechua zone, 18–19 Quichuas Quilla Sacsamarca, 62 quinoa (Chenopodium quinoa), 19, 23, 25t, 93 Quinua, 111, 112f, 202n95 Quiros, Marcelino, 139, 159 Quispe, Aureliano, 64 Quispisisa, 30 Quito (Ecuador), 93 race, 4, 6, 77 ranches. See estancias rebellions, 5f, 103, 106; and economic circuits, 110, 131–33; and estancias, 156, 157; and ethnic identity, 3; and folktales, 156; and haciendas, 4, 157; and kinship networks, 157, 160; and labor obligations, 34, 130; and mestizos, 135, 136, 138, 155, 157, 158; and migration, 157; and mines, 4; and Morochucos, 129–31, 136, 138, 139, 155–56; and

Native Andeans, 133, 135, 136, 155, 157, 158; and obrajes, 4, 70, 110, 157; opposition to, 202n95; in Pomacocha, 11, 111–13, 134, 136–38; and social networks, 110, 131, 157, 160 reducciones, 35–39, 46, 48 Relaciones geográficas de Indias (RGI), 19 religion, 202n98; building social landscape, 99, 156; imposed by Incas, 17; and rebellions, 113–17; and spread of folktales through pilgrimages, 64, 67; and Taki Onqoy movement, 32–33, 36 repartimiento system, 36 reparto: abolishment of, 106; abuses of, 107; and corregidores, 78, 79, 105–6; and Creole Spaniards, 119; and debt slavery, 78–79, 105, 111; expansion of, 105; legalization of, 105–6; and luxury goods, 78–79, 105; and obraje prison labor, 119; and rebellions, 111, 130; and revolts, 106, 110, 127 resistance strategies, 10, 69–70, 157, 158; against capitalism, 79–80; forms of, 2–3, 8; at obrajes, 69–70, 101, 118, 128, 157–58; and social networks, 6 revolts, 111, 112f, 116, 202n95; increase in, 153; and reforms, 60, 106, 107; and social networks, 127–28, 156, 157, 160 Rezo Latinos, 93 ritual practices: and local landscape, 13, 17–19; and rebellions, 106, 110, 114, 116–17, 157–59, 161; and social landscape, 7, 16, 43–44, 127; and Taki Onqoy movement, 34, 40, 117 Roca, Segundo, 154 Rocél, Felipe, 139 Rodentia, 28t Rodríguez Carvallo, Carlos, 108–10, 191n46 Rodríguez de Muiñoss, Domingo, 79 Rojas, Feliz, 123 Rojas y Sandoval, Christoval de, 49 royalists, 155; and battles, 136–37; and Morochucos, 130, 139–40, 142, 143f, 147, 150–51, 152f, 153; and Pumacahua, 134–35

INDEX • 229

Ruiz de Ochoa, Cayetano, 113, 122 Ruiz de Ochoa, Manuel, 111, 113, 122 sabotage, 75, 80–82, 156 Sacramento y Tapia, Maria Antonia del, 134 Sancos, 58 San Juan de Lucanas, 61, 182n106 San Martín, José, 136, 154, 202n93 Sausa sites, 28, 173n74 Sauxa, 58 Seven Years’ War, 104 shamans, 97, 113–17 sirens, 65–66 sirinu, 65 Sisa, Maria, 114–17, 159 sistema de castas, 108 social hierarchies, 3, 80; and commensal practices, 92, 96–97; at obrajes, 6, 75– 78, 88, 89f, 90–92, 158 social landscapes: archaeology used to understand, 7–8; changes in, 11, 40; created by Incas, 13–16, 34; creation of, 10, 156; and migration, 6; and rebellions, 3, 156, 157; and religion, 99, 156; and ritual practices, 7, 16, 43–44, 127 social networks, 10; analysis of, 7–8, 11; and exploitation, 13, 43, 79–80; and identity formation, 6, 8; of Native Andeans, 6, 10; at obrajes, 6, 10, 103, 111, 127, 131, 132, 158–59; and rebellions, 110, 131, 157, 160; and revolts, 127–28, 156, 157, 160; as small-world, 142, 200n73 Solano de Figueroa, Gabriel, 47 Soras, 33, 39 space syntax analysis, 8, 86, 158; and social division, 88, 89f, 91–92 Spaniards: characterizations of native populations by, 35, 55, 104, 107–8, 124, 130, 135, 159; and corruption, 52; and costumbre, 110, 157; creating social tensions, 77, 80; folktales about, 64–67; geographic distribution of, 140; marrying native women, 142;

placed in positions of power, 105, 107; population of, 104, 139, 140, 150–51, 152f; and reparto, 119; and Taki Onqoy movement, 33–35 Spanish colonialism: appropriation of lands during, 13, 31, 34, 36–40, 44–48, 83–84; and Bourbon reforms, 104–8; and Condes, 31–32; extent of, 5f; migrations under, 158; using Inca legacy in policies, 40–41 squash (Cucurbita), 19, 25t starch grain analysis, 23, 25t Suárez, Luis, 112–13, 122 sugar mills, 39 suni zone, 19 surface artifact survey, 18 surnames, 62, 63; analysis of, 143–44; clusters of, 146f, 147, 201n84; diversity of, 56, 57t; geographical distribution of, 144, 145f, 147–50; as proxy of kinship networks, 143 sweet potatoes (Batatas sp.), 19 Tacunga, 66, 75 Taki Onqoy movement, 31–36, 41, 64–65 Tambo Gausco, 154, 202n93 Tanquihuas, 15, 18; appropriation of lands of, 34, 36–40, 45, 142, 150; and Condes, 25; reducciones of, 38; resettlement of, 36; in Vilcashuamán, 27f tarwi (Lupinus mutabilis), 19 Tawantinsuyu, 13–14 taxes, 34; alcabala, 106, 118, 119, 132, 134; assessments of, 52, 53t, 60–61; avoidance of, 43, 136–37, 158; and corruption, 41; and ethnic identity, 35–36, 158; increase in, 105; and rebellions, 130, 135, 153; resistance to, 120–22 Taype, Yldefonzo, 123 textiles, 18, 100, 101, 105–7, 118 textile workshops. See obrajes Tincoc, 48, 50, 51 Toledo, Francisco de, 35, 36, 46, 55 Tomás Katari/Tupac Katari rebellions, 103, 106

230 • INDEX

Totorabamba, 50, 51 trapiches, 74 tributaries: and ethnic identity, 158; and hidden populations, 52–53, 56, 58, 79, 83, 158; at obrajes, 72, 76, 81 Tupac Amaru II, 66–67, 120, 154, 159, 202n93 Tupac Amaru II rebellion, 3, 122, 133; influence of, 11, 103, 120; and obrajes, 106, 110, 111, 113; opposition to, 122, 134; rejection of caste war by, 108; and religion, 113–17; support of, 112f Túpac Yupanqui, 154, 202n93 Uchapaucar, Juan, 33–34, 45 Ulloa, Antonio de, 78 Vaca de Castro, Cristóbal, 46–47 Vandibelti, Diego Francisco, 50 Vásquez de Velasco, Tomás, 49 Vega y Romani, Gregorio de, 83 Victor Fajardo, 5f vicuñas, 19 Vilcanchos Chocorbos, 56 Vilcas Huamán, 5f Vilcashuamán, 3, 5f, 19, 27f, 194n106; agricultural crops of, 19; demographics in, 140, 142, 150–51, 152f, 153f; and epidemics, 82; and kinship networks, 55, 143–45, 146f, 147–50; and labor obligations, 52–53, 61, 179n53, 201n85; land ownership in, 47, 160; military company of, 49; and mitmaq policy, 15; Morochucos in, 11, 129–31, 138, 151, 161; obraje in, 35–36, 56, 72, 118, 127, 132, 141f; population of, 16, 52, 136, 139, 141f; and rebellions, 110– 11, 137–38; and reducciones, 35–37; and revolts, 111–12; social landscapes in, 13; under Spanish colonialism, 31– 32, 35; Taki Onqoy movement in, 33; tax assessments from, 52, 53t, 60–61; tax avoidance in, 53, 136–37 Virreinato, 74 viscachas, 19 Vischongo, 17; financial problems of,

51; lands in, 45, 46f, 47–48, 84; Morochucos in, 138; and Pomacocha, 81–82, 84, 85–86, 92, 127; reducciones of, 37; relocation of Condes to, 32; and resistance, 128; and revolts, 111– 12, 112f, 120–22, 127, 159 visibility patterns, 89f, 90 Wars of Independence, 2, 129–32, 154–56, 158, 160, 161 West, Kanye, 2 wheat, 93–94 wild game, 97, 98t, 99 Willka, Teófilo, 16 women: increased mobility of, 148–50, 159; and land ownership, 6, 56–58, 63, 160; as originarios, 56, 58; and rebellions, 133, 138–39, 159; and revolts, 120–21 Xauja, 58 yanaconas, 55–56, 162 yanakuna, 17 Yanawilka, 17–18, 31–32; and architectural style, 22–23; ecological zones of, 18–19; excavations at, 18, 23, 24f, 25–30; food consumed at, 18–19, 23, 25–31; luxury items at, 29–30, 173n78; pacarinas of, 19–20, 21f, 22 Yucay valley, 19 yunga fluvial zone, 19 Zerda y de la Coruña, Alonso de la, 39