Archaeological Interpretations 2019058803, 2019058804, 9780813066448, 9780813057545

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Archaeological Interpretations

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

Archaeological Interpretations Symbolic Meaning within Andes Prehistory

Edited by Peter Eeckhout

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

Cover: Mural paintings in Building B15, sixteenth century AD, Pachacamac. (Peter Eeckhout) Copyright 2020 by Peter Eeckhout All rights reserved Published in the United States of America 25 24 23 22 21 20

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Eeckhout, Peter, editor. Title: Archaeological interpretations : symbolic meaning within Andes prehistory / edited by Peter Eeckhout. Description: Gainesville : University Press of Florida, 2020. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2019058803 (print) | LCCN 2019058804 (ebook) | ISBN 9780813066448 (hardback) | ISBN 9780813057545 (pdf) Subjects: LCSH: Indians of South America—Andes—Antiquities. | Indians of South America—Andes Region—History. | Andes—Antiquities. Classification: LCC F2229 .A67 2020 (print) | LCC F2229 (ebook) | DDC 980—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019058803 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019058804 The University Press of Florida is the scholarly publishing agency for the State University System of Florida, comprising Florida A&M University, Florida Atlantic University, Florida Gulf Coast University, Florida International University, Florida State University, New College of Florida, University of Central Florida, University of Florida, University of North Florida, University of South Florida, and University of West Florida. University Press of Florida 2046 NE Waldo Road Suite 2100 Gainesville, FL 32609 http://upress.ufl.edu

Contents

List of Figures vii List of Tables x Preface xi Introduction: In Search of the Meaning Within 1 Peter Eeckhout

Part I. Monumental: Landscapes and Architecture 1. The Sunken Court Tradition in the South Central Andes 19 Abigail Levine and Charles Stanish 2. Reflective and Communicative Waka: Interaction with the Sacred 41 Frank Meddens

Part II. Images and Concepts 3. The Life Force Materialized in the Andean Religion 67 Christine A. Hastorf 4. Twisting and Spinning from Symbols to Signs: From Chavín to Tawantinsuyu 92 Gary Urton

Part III. Objects in Context 5. Different Shades of Early Shamanism in the Upper Amazon 111 Francisco Valdez 6. Metal in the Recuay Culture of Ancient Peru: Art, Imagery, and Social Context 145 George Lau

7. The Meaning within Moche Masks 180 Edward Swenson

Part IV. Rituals and Ontology 8. Ephemeral Memories: The Creation and Ritual Destruction of Architectonic Models in San José de Moro 215 Luis Jaime Castillo Butters 9. Farewell to the Gods: Interpreting the Use and Voluntary Abandonment of a Ritual Building at Pachacamac, Peru 240 Peter Eeckhout List of Contributors 271 Index 273

Figures

1.1. 1.2. 1.3. 1.4. 1.5. 1.6. 1.7. 1.8. 1.9. 2.1. 2.2. 2.3. 2.4. 2.5. 3.1. 3.2. 3.3. 3.4. 3.5. 3.6. 3.7. 3.8. 3.9. 3.10. 4.1. 4.2 4.3. 4.4.

Central Andes 20 Sunken court in Huaca Soto, Chincha Valley 21 Sunken court in Pukara, Puno 22 Huanca in Cachichupa, Puno 22 Carved Qaluyu monolith from the Taraco area, Puno 23 Map of Titicaca Basin 26 Sunken court in Lukurmata, Bolivia 28 Hilltop location of sunken court site HU-316 35 Hilltop location of sunken court site AR-1156 35 Guaman Poma (1936: 261): Topa Inca addressing Waka 48 Usccunta mountain with Waka summit 50 Spoon/spatula human figure 51 Inca Yupanqui addressing Waka 52 Example of cup-marked rock with superimposition 61 The Raimundi Stela from Chavín de Huantar, Peru 75 Formative Chiripa with excavations 77 Chiripa ceremonial core 77 Bennett’s vessel 79 Pucara drinking bowl image of female front-faced being 80 The Karwa Early Horizon 700 BCE cotton textile 81 Front-faced deities 82 The Formative Titicaca 83 Image of a front-faced being from the Casma Valley 84 Section of Middle Horizon Lambayeque silver beaker 86 The “Lord of Duality” 96 S-spin, Z-spin, Z-ply, and S-ply 97 Khipu from Chachapoyas 101 Common khipu structural elements 101

4.5. 5.1. 5.2. 5.3. 5.4. 5.5. 5.6. 5.7. 6.1. 6.2. 6.3. 6.4. 6.5. 6.6. 6.7. 6.8. 6.9. 6.10. 7.1. 7.2. 7.3. 7.4. 7.5. 7.6. 7.7. 7.8. 8.1. 8.2. 8.3. 8.4. 8.5. 8.6. 8.7. 8.8. 8.9. 8.10. 8.11. viii

Scheme of knot directional variability on a khipu 103 The Mayo Chinchipe–Marañón drainage basin 120 SALF site plan 122 The eastern platform built with concentric stone 128 A ceremonial hearth 128 Effigy bottle 131 Llipta box, effigy of an individual chewing coca 133 Iconographic representations engraved in polished stone bowls 134 Map of north central Peru, showing the location of Ancash 147 Copper metal objects from Chinchawas 152 Fluted, tubular macehead, cast copper metal, about 14 cm 153 Replica of Jancu gold metal headdress ornament 154 Recuay effigy vessel 156 Copper metal pins, recovered together in a Recuay tomb 157 Recuay copper metal and gilt pins 157 Copper metal nail-head pins with cast “iconic” images 158 Copper metal head 158 Recuay tenon head sculptures 165 Topographic map of Huaca Colorada 192 Human, animal, and copper foundation sacrifices 193 The stepped platforms 195 Ceramic mask depicting a wrinkle-faced figure 196 Fragments of ceramic masks 197 Face-neck jars recovered from the feasting midden 198 Face-neck jars from Huaca Colorada and Tecapa 200 Plan and photograph of the lower foundation sacrifice 203 Maqueta found in tomb M-U 314 216 Map of the North Coast 219 One of two funerary masks found in tomb M-U 1525 220 Tomb M-U 1727, a Late Mochica B chamber tomb 221 Tomb M-U 1525, a Late Mochica B/C chamber tomb 222 Tomb M-U 314 223 Three badly broken maquetas 225 A maqueta found in the southeastern corner of tomb M-U 41 225 One of the eight maquetas found in tomb M-U 1525 226 Maqueta found in one of the niches of tomb M-U 1045 227 Detail of one of the maquetas found next to the priestess 231

Figures

8.12. 8.13. 8.14. 9.1. 9.2. 9.3. 9.4. 9.5. 9.6. 9.7. 9.8. 9.9. 9.10. 9.11. 9.12.

Excavation on the eastern slope of Huaca la Capilla 231 Maquetas found in the floor of funerary chamber M-U 1525 233 Niches in tomb M-U 1525 containing ceramics 234 A 3-D map of the site of Pachacamac on the Central Coast 242 Aerial photography of Building B15 243 Sketch map of Building B15 243 Huanca stone with offerings in situ (Room 2, B15) 247 Offerings covering the floors of one room in B15 249 Ceramics from B15 251 Spondylus inlaid wooden cup, raw Spondylus, and ishpingo seeds 252 Feather artifact and tokapu textile 253 Wooden statuette of Chimu style and manuports 254 Engraved wooden box containing Spondylus powder 255 Mural paintings and painting implements in B15 257 Distribution of dismantled artifacts within B15 258

Figures

ix

Tables

5.1. 6.1. 6.2. 9.1. 9.2.

Chronology of the Mayo Chinchipe–Marañón culture 124 Chemical composition of select metal objects 161 Frequency of iconic figures across different media 163 14C dates from Building B15—phases 4 and 5 246 Summary of the offerings found in B15 250

Preface

The inauguration of a new president, a birthday party, the leaving drink for a colleague, the graduation ceremony at the end of university studies, a housewarming party . . . even as modern Western civilization claims to be more secular and pragmatic than any other past or present, many ceremonies and rituals remain, each with its symbols, its traditional words, its gestures, its decorum. This is a fortiori the case in societies where religion and beliefs are especially important, as was the case for pre-Columbian societies. The staging via the costumes, accessories, the architectural or natural setting, but also the images, the icons, the offerings of all kinds: the materiality of the ritual and the symbolic has partly come down through the centuries and the millennia to reappear as an interpretative challenge for archaeologists and art historians. This challenge is taken up in the following pages by Andeanist colleagues who I want first to thank for their availability, their patience, and their commitment to this project. The many exchanges and discussions we had at the Université libre de Bruxelles (ULB), as well as the excellent times we spent together, are precious memories. I would also like to acknowledge the doctoral students and young Americanist doctors of the ULB who contributed to make this meeting a success. Alexandra Cromphout was my right-hand woman; her efficiency and her innate sense of organization and communication were lauded by all participants. Pauline Clauwaerts, Christophe Delaere, Monica Minneci, Cynthia Salmon, Tatiana Stellian, Elodie Treffel, and Valentine Wauters supported us with deepest dedication. My thanks also to Serge Lemaître, curator in charge of the America collections at the Museum of Art and History of Brussels, who opened the Americanist rooms for the presentation of the posters of our young researchers. This first Brussels Pre-Columbian Meeting could not have taken place without the support of the ULB, the Fonds National de la Recherche Scientifique, and the ULB Foundation, especially its president, my friend Pierre Drion.

For the realization of the book, I could not have dreamed of a better partner than Meredith Babb, editor at UPF, who constantly and patiently supervised the editorial process with a professionalism and a kindness that I particularly appreciated. In Brussels, my longtime friend Nathalie Bloch, graphic designer for the Center for Archaeological Research and Heritage, took care of the realization of the plates and the graphic edition of some of the illustrations, for which I thank her very much. My thanks also go to Monica Barnes and the anonymous reviewers who, at different stages, have helped to improve the volume through their suggestions and constructive criticism, and also to my good friend Lisa DeYoung Triemstra who reviewed the language of my own contributions. At the end of the 1980s, I was very lucky to have Michel Graulich as my professor of pre-Columbian art and archaeology, whose assistant I became later at the ULB. A historian of art and religion, he has been a true mentor in symbolism studies and pre-Columbian rituals. He died in 2015, and all my thoughts are coming to him as I write these lines, so much I realize the intellectual imprint he has left on me. I have one more person to thank: Catheline Périer D’Ieteren, professor emeritus of the ULB and member of the Bureau of the ULB Foundation, who has played a key role in the entire project since its inception. It is to her, as well as to the memory of Michel Graulich, that I dedicate my contribution.

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Preface

Introduction In Search of the Meaning Within

Pet e r E e ck hou t

As I often reiterate to first-year students, the question of why is one of the most difficult to answer concerning material remains of preliterate societies. For some of these remains that may be related to subsistence, dwelling, and routine and daily production activities, interpretations are relatively easy. Social behaviors correspond to logics that we might more easily understand and reconstitute. There remains, however, an important part of the vestiges for which there is no obvious explanation. Examples include offerings, funerary practices, buildings (or parts of buildings that we might identify as temples or sanctuaries), certain objects with undefined function, various images that may be painted, engraved, molded, or carved with enigmatic iconography, etc. Since we cannot explain them and they do not fit into etic categories that are familiar to us, we consider them as “rituals.” Hence the classical joke in archaeology: “When one does not know what it is used for, it must be ritual.” This easy shortcut is, in reality, a sort of confession of impotence. This is also a way of relating the unexplainable to the domain of the irrational, which might be something that one cannot understand because it does not follow our Cartesian logic. Now it is evident that the men of the past (both physiologically and psychically our fellow men), were neither more nor less rational than ourselves. The logic that dictated the assembly of offerings, the burial processes, the design of the constructed spaces, or the creation of images is rational within the framework of their thought systems, their cultural referents, and their vision of the world. We can see it from the order that underlies all these mysterious vestiges, even if the justification of this order escapes us.

Thus, we tend to confuse the absence of rationality with the absence of Cartesian logic. This Cartesian logic characterizes modern Western society, and therefore it would be naive to think that it should be applied everywhere and at all times, for it would be tantamount to denying any form of diversity among human societies. On the contrary, it is precisely in this diversity and in these cultural particularisms that resides the explanation, the meaning within. It is this kind of ascertainment that, in recent years, has triggered the development of research on the ontologies of non-Western culture peoples, first in ethnography and then in archaeology. This trend is becoming increasingly important, as evidenced by the number of publications devoted to it. Ontology is a way of thinking about being and existing in the world, and therefore answers exist only in the realm of the mind, a place inaccessible to us prehistorians, since all members of the societies we study are long dead and have left behind no written historical records. Unlike ethnographic or historical societies, it is therefore only material remains that we can refer to. Is it possible, then, to consider that “the archaeology of the mind” is a desperate undertaking? Differentiating the ritual from other spheres, for example that of everyday activities, is perceived by some scholars as a profoundly etic enterprise and, in itself, Cartesian and Western (Berggren and Stutz 2010; Rosenfeld and Bautista 2017: 7; Swenson 2015a: 332). In the same vein, to distinguish a “religious” ritual from a “secular” ritual does not seem pertinent, since it is an irrelevant or, at the very least, difficult distinction to make in traditional societies, a fortiori those of the prehistoric past. The same remark applies to esoteric images, nonutilitarian objects, etc. This is the reason why I preferred to avoid the pitfall of the definition of ritual and speak here of symbolism, to be understood in its most elementary meaning, namely that of representation. What were the images produced in the past? What metaphors, metonymies, relations of all kinds, did their authors want to express through them? Why was this or that object used in the ceremonies of which the archaeologists exhumed the remains? But before asking why—something that is not easy to answer for preliterate societies—it seems essential to ask what these objects are, or more accurately what they were in the eyes of those who have fashioned them and used them. This ontological questioning is at the heart of the current research trend, which focuses on animism, perspectivism, and the agency of objects. It is appropriate to mention this research here in order to place this volume in its necessary theoretical framework. 2

Peter Eeckhout

In his celebrated work Beyond Nature and Culture, Descola (2005) highlights an “ontological fourfold” that will cover all cases of variations and continuities between humans and nonhumans, four ways of identifying the “existing” and grouping them together with common traits: — inner identity of beings consecrated and symbolized by a physical identity: this is the “totemism.” — difference of the inner principle, but identity of participation in the physical realm: this is the “naturalism.” — beings alike, with a proper spiritual identity but physically distinct: it is “analogism.” — inner identity but physical difference: it is “animism.” Animism is to give a spiritual nature to different categories of beings, including inanimate objects such as artifacts and landscape features (Tylor 1871). This earlier approach in anthropology had been rejected in the latter half of the twentieth century as being too simplistic, distorted, and tainted with evolutionary “primitivism” (Harvey 2006). However, there has recently been a revival of the concept in current research, particularly since the beginning of the present century (VanPool and Newsome 2012: 444). Nowadays scholars have realized that the interpretation of certain archaeological contexts (particularly those related to the spheres of ritual, offerings, and religion) is impossible if we stick to the logic of a Cartesian world, which would strictly separate objects as passive things used by humans from people who have a body and a mind. This is part of the ontological shift that affects social theory as a whole (i.e., Alberti et al. 2011; Costa and Fausto 2010; Henare et al. 2007; Nielsen et al. 2017; Olsen 2010). The shift also finds its detractors who (although not completely rejecting this new trend) denounce its excesses (Swenson 2015b; Turner 2009). In Pauketat’s words: “The religions of ancient America were based on relational ontologies that lacked rigid distinctions between animate and inanimate powers or human and non-human agencies” (Pauketat 2013: 181). The definition of the ontologies of specific cultures is a natural corollary to the “return of animism,” sometimes called New Animism (Pauketat 2013: 181). This concept coincides with perspectivism in ethnography, that is, “The conception, common to many peoples of the [American] continent, according to which the world is inhabited by different sorts of subjects or persons, human and non-human, which apprehend reality from distinct points of view” (Viveiros de Castro 2012: 46). These different sorts of subjects can therefore act on their own plane of real-

Introduction: In Search of the Meaning Within

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ity, something that corresponds well to the idea of the agency of objects (Alberti 2013; Sillar 2009; Van Oyen 2018). In concrete terms: to try to understand the ontological status of objects in a given culture is the indispensable premise for the interpretation of the contexts in which these objects were used (VanPool and Newsome 2012: 259). The definition of the ontology of ancient cultures is obviously a huge challenge. To enter this ontological specificity, which obviously belongs to the realm of the mind, the objects themselves can be of no use; they do not speak, or hold explicit writings or symbols. It is only the discourse developed around these objects that can inform us (i.e., what their creators say about them), but this also is inaccessible to us, since many objects have great antiquity, and knowledge of them can only be gained through archaeology. Therefore, it is logical to refer to concepts from ethnohistory and ethnography, as they are valid sources to assess the otherness (i.e., ways of thinking that are different from contemporary Western ones). This does not mean that the more or less accurate or detailed explanations provided by these sources may or must apply strictly to the earlier contexts, but they should invite us to reflect on how we must consider the objects (Jones 2014: 371).1 “Just as there is no singular Western ‘native anthropology,’ the same holds for the many diverse cultures of the Andean region” (Swenson 2015b: 3). According to the ethnographical theory of perspectivism (Viveiros de Castro 2012), the conventional sense of “representation” does not exist. As Allen (2017:11–12) argues, “Using representation (or metaphor) as an analytical concept in Andean contexts has a distancing effect, causing us to see symbolism when we should more accurately see consubstantiality and mutual enactment.” Thus, archaeological artifacts do not “make visible” the general principles of a culture or a society, but are examples, or manifestations of those principles (Alberti 2013: 46). Giving a spiritual nature to inanimate things is common in the world and in the Americas (VanPool and Newsome 2012: 243). The ánimo, as explained by current Andean populations, is the vital energy that animates life and can be found in animals, plants, rocks, etc. (Gose 1994: 115–124; Sillar 2009: 371). This concept is close to the pre-Columbian camac or camaquen, that is to say, a life force or essence of all things, a kind of Andean version of Polynesian mana (Bray 2009: 358); thus, the word huaca is both sacred and sacredness itself (Bray 2009: 359; Taylor 1974). The creative process in the Andes is different from the Western concept of creation. One does not “create” an object (i.e., form it from nothing or from raw materials), but rather “breathes” into it the camac, the vital essence, into 4

Peter Eeckhout

objects or things (Taylor 1974). A good example are the conopas—stones that are most often not worked, but chosen for their particular form or aspect, and thus identified as huacas (i.e., sacred entities full of camac; Arriaga 1999; Avila 1980). These stones, as well as the artifacts, are not “gifts” made to the dead or to such deity or spirit worshipped in the temple, but are in fact acting beings (Bray 2009; VanPool and Newsome 2012). Therefore, selecting or making these small objects, and depositing them, constitute acts of deep sacred significance. Among the Aztecs, the final stage of sculpture making was to give life to the statue through “the spark,” that is, inserting an obsidian stone in a small hole in the chest or the back (Graulich 1987). The birth of a vessel is its production, and the killing of a vessel is its voluntary break (VanPool and Newsome 2012: 248). Thus, in Amazonia for instance, one “makes” pots in the way that children are raised: they are not objects but subjects (Alberti 2013: 52). VanPool and Newsome (2012: 245) give the example of a Maya Lacandon pot dressed in a garment, which gives it the ontological status of a living being. Dransart (2000) says the same about anthropomorphic capacocha figurines, which are dressed as members of the Inca elite. Bray goes further, arguing that personification of iconic or even aniconic huacas is through the metaphor of the dress and clothing (Bray 2009: 364; see also Dransart 1992: 148; 2007: 173–75). In this respect it is interesting to note that the Titikalla (e.g., Sacred Rock) on the Island of the Sun on Lake Titicaca was covered with precious fabrics (Bauer and Stanish 2001). This particular ontology does not differentiate between spirit and matter as does Western rational thought, because objects, living or not, may be filled with camac, may be huacas, and intervene at different levels as efficiently as men do, or even more so. If we assume an emic standpoint and agree to see things in this way, miniature offerings then take on a logical and coherent sense: they are both manifestations of the piety or fidelity of different social groups in relation to the gods and the dead, and active elements of a “fully” animated universe. Thus, as emphasized by Bray (2009), gold and silver figurines associated with the capacocha sacrifices do not symbolically represent the emperor and the Coya: they are huacas playing themselves a specific role in the context of the ceremony.

Book Content and Organization The panel of contributors reflects my own Andean anchorage. This book is actually the result of a meeting organized in 2015 in Brussels under the auspices Introduction: In Search of the Meaning Within

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of the ULB Foundation. I had invited a series of colleagues as well as my PhD students and young doctors of the ULB in Americanist studies. The first ones presented papers that became the chapters of this book, while the latter participated in a poster session organized at the Royal Museums of Art and History. The common theme, that of the interpretation of symbols, rituals, and images, concerns in reality a majority of colleagues in the Americas. Given the fact that in pre-Columbian archaeology we all deal with traditional societies (whatever their level of social complexity), these traditions are rooted and expressed in part through rituals, artifacts, and images. The ambition here is not the exhaustiveness, nor even the relative representativeness of the geographiccultural areas or periods. Such a thing would have been, for the reasons I have just explained, quite impossible and illusory. The growing volume of literature in the field of ancient ontologies, for example, shows how vast this research trend has become (see references in Bray 2015; Rosenfeld and Bautista 2017; Swenson 2015b). It is, therefore, rather the kind of vestiges and methods or approaches used to decode them that prevailed for the scheduling of the chapters. This presentation is obviously subjective and is not the result of a preliminary selection or editorial guidelines, but rather a bottom-up process. It is from reading the various contributions that I have perceived the bridges and the relations between some of them, as well as similarities or at least commonalities between approaches that sometimes deal with apparently very distant subjects. I do not pretend, of course, that my reading is the only possible one. On the contrary, other bridges can be proposed, other bonds are visible, and I assume the arbitrariness, to a certain extent, of these comparisons. They may appear, I repeat, a little strange at first sight, for they do not correspond to the classical way of organizing this type of work, in areas and on the timescale. I hope, however, that the articulation of the chapters will be suggestive and thought-provoking for readers, whatever their specialty or particular field of research. In my mind, this goes beyond the usual cleavages between disciplines (ethnology, ethnohistory, archaeology, etc.). Many of the authors are transdisciplinary (Valdez, Urton, Eeckhout), and as far as ontological research in general is concerned, they are very often based on ethnographic comparisons without direct geographical (or obviously temporal) links with the archaeological societies and vestiges they address. I chose a presentation in four subthemes, relating to the type of vestige, context, or interpretative issue: (1) monumental architecture (Levine and Stanish about the Andean circular courts, Meddens on talking Huacas and their set6

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tings); (2) the images and concepts they convey (Hastorf on the Andean frontface divinity, Urton on symbols and signs in Chavín and in the Inca khipus); (3) objects in context and their social and symbolic connotations (Valdez on Ecuadorian shamanism, Lau on Recuay metal artifacts, Swenson on Moche masks); (4) the closing rituals and the ontology of the associated objects (Castillo on models in unbaked clay, Eeckhout on the voluntary abandonment of an Inca ritual structure). The first part, devoted to monumental architecture, opens with the contribution of Abigail Levine and Charles Stanish, which addresses a thousand-yearold tradition of the South-Central Andes: the sunken court. Appearing in the middle of the fourth millennium on the coast of Peru (Fuchs et al. 2009), these structures of various shapes (but generally circular, and later quadrangular) may measure from a few meters to nearly 80 meters in diameter. They are flanked by other constructions that range from humble domestic structures to very large and complex platform constructions (Levine and Stanish). The authors retrace the trajectory of this particular form, from the Late Archaic (ca. 3000–1800 BC) to the end of the Middle Horizon (ca. AD 600–1000), with particular attention to the Lake Titicaca basin (between Bolivia and Peru) where they estimate more than 400 examples of sunken courts have been constructed and abandoned over more than 2,000 years. Based not only on the architectural design but also on the nature of the activities revealed by the excavations, they propose that these spaces were not only devoted to rituals but also used for domestic and production activities, in a systematic way. In their own words, “There do not exist ritual courts without a substantial domestic component nearby.” According to excavations carried out at Huayr’a Moqo, it is indeed the cooperative relations in reference to artisanal production and trade that would be at the origin of the design and construction of the sunken court complexes. This ritualized economy involving banquets, wars, and exchanges goes hand in hand with the development of regional social complexity, until the final stage of the Tiahuanaco State. Thus, sunken courts transcend the dichotomy between religious (ritual) and secular (political-economic) and therefore emphasize the close intertwining between these domains, traditionally separated according to modern Western view. Such an entanglement transcends Andean time and space since evidence of it can be found from Archaic Titicaca to Late Horizon imperial sites. In his essay, Meddens focuses on how the Incas interact with stone huacas, especially those with oracular powers. If we accept the idea that certain things or elements Introduction: In Search of the Meaning Within

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of the landscape are ontologically similar or analogous to humans, how is communication with these entities established? Andean huacas are often referred to as speaking and are described as being consulted by the living elite. How were their words interpreted? These huacas had special links with the ancestors, and sometimes they themselves were ancestors turned into rocks. The dialogue with these huacas constituted a special office, and took place in sites and/or natural environments whose archaeological-acoustic properties were studied by the author, including Huanuco Pampa and Usccunta. As Meddens explains, “The landscape setting of the large open outdoor spaces used for group communication at some of the Inca’s sacred sites noticeably incorporate, and make use of reflective surfaces in their configuration.” Among traditional arts, those of ancient America undoubtedly offer the greatest diversity, probably in relation to the immense variation in the degree of complexity of the societies that produced these images (Graulich and Petit 1989). The concepts and visions of the world that underlie these images also appear to be of great durability, as evidenced by the chapters by Hastorf and Urton. Semiotics proved to be a valuable aid, and both authors agree on the distinction to be made according to the type of information, more or less general or precise, that these images convey. Christine Hastorf reconstitutes the trajectory of an essential figure of the Andean pantheons from the Formative period on: the front-face deity. She considers it as the materialization of the vital force, the sami or camay (or camac). In her essay, she focuses on the feminine aspect of the ontology of this vital force, that is, fertility and life cycles. According to the semiotic approach of Peirce (1985), she distinguishes several levels of signifiers: the icon, or faithful and realistic representation; the index, that is, the transfer or incarnation of the vital essence in objects or new images; and finally, the symbol, an object whose meaning is created by the person who uses it or carries it. According to Hastorf, the Andean camay “takes this meaning concept one step further, where the maker would be actively revealing the meaning, the essence through their crafting.” Here we are concerned with a fascinating feature of Andean cultures, evoked in other chapters (Urton, Castillo, Eeckhout), and which resides in the idea that the manufacture of an object is as important as the object itself, whereby the action is placed on the same plane as its materialization. By creating an object or an image, it is given a form of life, literally instilling the camay (Taylor 1974). This particular ontology obviously suggests a special relationship with the world, very different from that between animate/inanimate or 8

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conscious/nonconscious with which we are familiar, and which finds echoes in Amazonian ethnography, among others (Costa and Fausto 2010; Descola 1986, 2005; Viveiros de Castro 2009). Initially starting from the image of the front-face deity, Gary Urton chose to call him “Lord of Duality,” based on a series of iconographic features that refer to multiple levels of duality. He uses, like Hastorf, the notion of symbols, but in a different sense, that of arbitrary, abstract, and diffuse meanings, in opposition to signs whose meaning is precise and conventional. An example of a symbol is precisely this reference to duality in the way in which the hair of the divinity is represented, in the shells associated with the masculine or feminine sphere that it holds in the hands, etc. He concedes that, in view of their relatively general character, these symbols may seem rather abstruse for those who do not share the culture that produced them. But once this “black box” was opened, Urton succeeded in deriving from it numerous and rich deductions, notably on the balance/union of opposites, a recurring principle of the worldview in pre-Columbian America (see Freidel et al. 1993; Graulich 1987). This concept is symbolically present in the serpents intertwined from left to right or vice versa, which constitute the hair of the divinity, metaphorically assimilated to the twist and spin of the weaving technique. It is also to the twist and spin that Urton refers to illustrate the concept of sign, especially in the case of the Inca khipus. He demonstrates that the sense of twisting of the wires and nodes that make up these mnemonic tools used by the imperial administration carries precise meanings and denotes opposite categories: unmarked (more valued) and marked (less valued). Ultimately, Urton argues that if symbols can be found in all types of societies, the signs would be linked to the emergence and development of the state. Shamanism and the man-animal transformation that it implies has produced some of the most inventive imagery in America (Reichel-Dolmatoff 2005; Stone 2011). Urton also evokes it in his essay when dealing with the Lord of the Duality of Chavín. Obviously, its continuity and ubiquity on the continent indicate an ontological relationship specific to the world, beings and things. The great antiquity of shamanistic practice is attested by the discoveries of Francisco Valdez, in the Upper Amazon at the Formative period, which opens the third part of this volume, devoted to objects in context. Valdez relies on the perspectivism theory developed by Viveiros de Castro and explains that it is not a question of adopting a different point of view on things and the world but of a way of knowing or seeing worlds as qualitatively different. We are indeed Introduction: In Search of the Meaning Within

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at the heart of American cosmological ontologies, which often consider different levels or plans of the world (Freidel et al. 1993; Graulich 1987; Lankford 2007; Pauketat 2013; Urton 2013). In many societies, some individuals have the power to transform themselves (through trance, psychotropic intake, etc.) and to travel from one plane to another in order to accomplish a series of actions and tasks. We are speaking here about different levels of reality, and the possibility of acting on or in these. The individuals who master these metamorphoses in the Andes are called yachak, which we translate as shamans. It is believed that shamanism has been imported into the New World since the peopling of the continent, and that perhaps this role of ritual specialist has gradually been transformed into that of priest in more complex societies (Freidel at al. 1993; Moore 2005; Oyuela-Caicedo 2005). Through his analysis of the exceptional Formative funerary contexts of the site of Santa Ana La Florida (SALF, Ecuador), Valdez identifies shamanistic practices, coupled with a strong ideological system “that guided the actions of the inhabitants of this region.” His brilliant demonstration is based on the architectural context, the archaeological data, and the extraordinary iconography of the gravelot. According to the ethnographic works of Hugh-Jones (1996), there are two forms of shamanism: horizontal (including the practice of hallucinatory trance) and vertical (involving esoteric knowledge and dogmatic canons). The first would be associated with Amazonian-type hunter-gatherer societies, while the latter would be associated with complex and ranked societies. In this model, the “horizontal” shaman has little prestige and a low status, he is not involved in rituals, as opposed to the “vertical” shaman, who can accumulate secular and religious powers. The shamanism identified at SALF would be “in the shady limits between the two types” because the special character of the funerary context and the emblems associated with the main character make him appear as a shaman priest. Naturally, whatever their beauty, preciousness, or degree of technical completion, it must never be forgotten that in these traditional societies what we often call “ornaments” are in reality laden with meaning. These are prestigious objects that, in the words of George Lau, “served to affix people’s ‘social skin’— that frontier that mediates self and others.” Metal artifacts that constitute the focus of Lau’s essay are quite rare among the Recuay, compared to some other contemporary cultures of the central Andes. The author argues that this scarcity makes them obviously valuable objects, associated with the emerging elites, and carrying an iconography relaying the specific 10

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worldview of the Recuay culture. There are concepts present in other chapters such as dual oppositions, the role of mythical creatures, and so on (Hastorf, Urton, Valdez). The corpus of Recuay metal objects (mostly copper gilded with gold) includes pins, clubs/mace heads, small awls, axes, knives, and atlatl hooks. These are luxury items that were probably not used in everyday life but were carefully curated and finally deposited in the graves. The iconography, curiously, is similar to that of stone sculpture. Thus, for example, that of metal pins shows the same repertoire as that of head tenons. According to Lau, “They emphasize the notion of body parts as add-ons and extensions of noble corporal embodiments, whether real human bodies or structures.” To penetrate the deep meaning of the Recuay metalwork, the author draws inspiration from the ethnographic and theoretical literature relating to Amerindian ontologies. He emphasizes three useful premises: (1) the belief that nonhuman beings are invested with a form of life, such as the huanca stones in the Andes, considered as lithified ancestors; (2) the idea that these nonhuman beings may at times be involved in the field of social relations; and (3) the need to recognize the other, alterity, in the formation of the self: “One cannot . . . be sociable without interaction with an input from a host of social others.” Lau masterfully applies these early steps to the interpretation of metalwork Recuay, demonstrating their important role in the emergence and recognition of emerging elites during the first millennium AD. One unexpected context to investigate objects’ inner meanings would certainly be refuse deposits. Through the examination of the remains of broken ceramic masks excavated in feasting middens at the Moche ceremonial center of Huaca Colorada (Jequetepeque Valley, Peru), Swenson argues that “ritual performance plays a central role in the production of the meanings that materialized the alternate worlds variably described as past cosmologies, ontologies, or relational epistemologies.” Semiotics, again, are used to approximate the functions and meanings of ancient masking traditions. Much more than symbolic copies of supernatural beings, masks appear as living representations of venerated huacas or prestigious ancestors. They were used to channel a vitalizing force that the author compares to the later text-documented camay. Swenson explains that when masks and other artifacts ceased to be used for rituals, they were discarded, that is, sacrificed, de-animated. This is another example of specific ontologies detailed by Descola, especially analogism. This chapter also closes on a type of ritual, voluntary destruction or discard, which constitutes the perfect transition with the following, also dedicated to the Moches of the Jequetepeque. Introduction: In Search of the Meaning Within

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Luis Jaime Castillo is interested in Moche elites in the chapter that opens the last part of the book: closing rituals and the ontology of the associated objects. The Late Mochica necropolis of San José de Moro in Peru is famous for its “tombs of priestesses” and other high-status figures (Castillo 2006). It is from these funerary chambers that come the maquetas, or architectural models made of unfired clay, about fifty of which are known to date. These objects have unique characteristics. They are exclusive to the site, at certain times, to certain individuals, and above all, they do not seem to be designed to last but to be destroyed during funerals. Castillo shows that the models refer to real architectures, but symbolically, and thus attest to the link that existed between these buildings and the deceased with which the maqueta was associated. Thus, the maqueta participates in the definition of the identity of this deceased (perhaps a priest or a ritual operator). Its inevitable destruction, because of its fragility, appears as a sort of sacrifice: “Once the maquetas were used and broken, the identity and the relationship represented by them vanishes, ceases to exist, and dies with the object.” Here we find again concepts present in other essays, such as native ontology and the agency of objects, the preponderance of the act of manufacture/creation in relation to the created thing, and so on. It is also perceived that the funerary goods, duly analyzed, in their original context, allow access to levels of interpretation that go far beyond the simple “offering to the deceased” to which it is too often reduced. By destroying the identity link between the deceased and the building(s) with which he was associated, the destruction of the maquetas appears as a kind of ritual of termination. This type of ritual affects structures and even entire sites. In the case of building B15 at Pachacamac, a very large closing ceremony was highlighted. Hundreds of offerings of all kinds were deliberately destroyed, broken, torn, scattered throughout the corridors and rooms, probably shortly after the arrival of the Spaniards in the great Inca site at the beginning of the sixteenth century. The richness and abundance of the material attest not only to the importance of the ritual event, but also to the special function of the B15. The discussion addresses this crucial question: how to differentiate de facto refuse from what is related to the ritual of abandonment? For most of the evidence, they seem to reflect the activities that were originally held in the building: water worship, shell work, probable worship of the ancestors. For others, the interpretation is more delicate: the very numerous manuports can correspond to tools of healing of a curandero (healer) who officiated in the building when it was in function, or to offerings made by those who attended the ceremony of closure and destruction. 12

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The analysis shows that it was carried out in a systematic and organized way, and that the sacred objects were ritually killed, that is to say destroyed and then covered by the destruction of the walls of a part of the building itself. An act of this scope dramatically illustrates the specific ontological relationship that the natives maintained with the nonhuman sphere.

Note 1. Lévi-Strauss (1964) was much more circumspect and did not accept that animism is applicable to societies of the past.

References Cited Alberti, Benjamin 2013 Archaeology and Ontologies of Scale: The Case of Miniaturization in First-Millennium Northwest Argentina. In Archaeology after Interpretation: Returning Materials to Archaeological Theory, edited by Benjamin Alberti, Andrew Meirion Jones, and Joshua Pollard, pp. 43–59. Left Coast Press, Walnut Creek, CA. Alberti, Benjamin, Severin Fowles, and Martin Holbraad 2011 “Worlds Otherwise”: Archaeology, Anthropology, and Ontological Difference. Current Anthropology 52(6): 896–912. Allen, Catherine J. 2017 Connections and disconnections. A response to Marisol de la Cadena. Hau: Journal of Ethnographic Theory 7 (2): 11–13. Arriaga, Pablo Joseph de 1999 (1621) La extirpación de la idolatría en el Pirú. Centro Bartolomé de las Casas, Cuzco. Avila, Franciso de 1980 (1608?) Rites et traditions de Huarochiri. Texte quechua établi et traduit par Gérald Taylor. Editions l’Harmattan, Paris. Bauer, Brian, and Charles Stanish 2001 Ritual and Pilgrimage in the Ancient Andes. The Islands of the Sun and the Moon. University of Texas Press, Austin. Berggren, Åsa, and Liv Nilsson Stutz 2010 From spectator to critic and participant: A new role for archaeology in ritual studies. Journal of Social Archaeology 10(2): 171–197. Bray, Tamara L. 2009 An Archaeological Perspective on the Andean Concept of Camaquen: Thinking Through Late Pre-Columbian Ofrendas and Huacas. Anthropology Faculty Research Publications. Paper 1. http://digitalcommons.wayne.edu/anthrofrp/1, accessed October 5, 2017. 2015 Andean Wak’as and Alternative Configurations of Persons, Power, and Things. In The Archaeology of Wak’as. Exploration of the Sacred in the Pre-Columbian Andes, edited by T. L. Bray, pp. 3–22. University Press of Colorado, Boulder. Castillo, Luis Jaime 2006 Five Sacred Priestesses from San Jose de Moro: Elite Women Funerary Ritual on Peru’s Northern Coast. Revista Electronica de Arqueologia PUCP 1: 1–10.

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Costa, Luis, and Carlos Fausto 2010 The Return of the Animists. Recent Studies of Amazonian Ontologies. Religion and Society: Advances in Research 1: 89–109. Descola, Philippe 1986 La nature domestique. Symbolisme et praxis dans l’écologie des Achuar. MSH, Paris. 2005 Par-delà nature et culture. Gallimard, Paris. Dransart, Penny 1992 Pachamama: The Inka Earth Mother of the Long Sweeping Garment. In Dress and Gender: Making and Meaning in Cultural Contexts, edited by R. Barnes and J. Eicher, pp. 145–163. Berg, New York and Oxford. 2000 Clothed Metal and the Iconography of Human Form Among the Incas. In Precolumbian Gold: Technology, Style and Iconography, edited by C. McEwan, pp. 76–89. British Museum Press, London. 2007 Mysteries of the Cloaked Body: Analogy and Metaphor in Concepts of Weaving and Body Tissues. Trivium 37: 161–187. Freidel, David A., Linda Schele, and Joy Parker 1993 Maya Cosmos. Three Thousand Years on the Shaman’s Path. Morrow and Co., New York. Fuchs, Peter R., Renate Patzschke, German Yenque, and Jesús Briceño 2009 Del Arcaico Tardío al Formativo Temprano: las investigaciones en Sechín bajo, valle de Casma. Boletín de Arqueología PUCP 13: 55–86. Gose, Peter 1994 Deathly Waters and Hungry Mountains: Agrarian Ritual and Class Formation in an Andean Town. University of Toronto Press, Toronto. Graulich, Michel 1987 Mythes et rituels du Mexique ancien préhispanique. Mémoires de la Classe des Lettres 67, Académie royale des Sciences d’Outre-Mer, Bruxelles. Graulich, Michel, and Pierre Petit 1989 Art primitif et troisième dimension. Baessler-Archiv 37: 335–371. Harvey, Graham 2006 Animism: Respecting the Living World. Columbia University Press, New York. Henare, Amiria, Martin Holbraad, and Sari Wastell (editors) 2007 Thinking Through Things: Theorising Artefacts Ethnographically. Routledge, London. Hugh-Jones, Stephen 1996 Shamans, Prophets, Priests and Pastors. In Shamanism, History, and the State, edited by N. Thomas and C. Humphrey, pp. 32–75. University of Michigan Press, Ann Arbor. Jones, Andrew Meirion 2014 Review of Relational Archaeologies: Humans, Animals, Things, by Christopher Watts. American Antiquity 79(2): 370–371. Lankford, George E. 2007 Reachable Stars: Patterns in the Ethnoastronomy of Eastern North America. University of Alabama Press, Tuscaloosa. Lévi-Strauss, Claude 1964 Le Cru et le Cuit (Mythologiques, t. I ). Plon, Paris. Moore, Jerry D. 2005 Cultural Landscapes in the Ancient Andes: Archaeologies of Place. University Press of Florida, Gainesville. Nielsen, Axel E., Carlos I. Angiorama, and Florencia Ávila 2017 Ritual as Interaction with Non-Humans: Prehispanic Mountain Pass Shrines in the Southern Andes. In Rituals of the Past: Prehispanic and Colonial Case Studies in Andean 14

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Archaeology, edited by S. A. Rosenfeld and S. L. Bautista, pp. 241–266. University Press of Colorado, Boulder. Olsen, Bjørnar 2010 In Defense of Things: Archaeology and the Ontology of Objects. AltaMira Press, Lanham, MD. Oyuela-Caicedo, Augusto 2005 El surgimiento de la rutinización religiosa: los origenes de los Tairona-Kogis. In Chamanismo y sacrificio: perspectivas arqueológicas y etnológicas en sociedades indígenas de América del Sur, edited by J. P. Chaumeil, R. Pineda, and J.-F. Bouchard, pp. 141–163. Institut Français d’Études Andines IFEA—Banco de la República, Fundación de Investigaciones Arqueológicas Nacionales, Bogota. Pauketat, Timothy 2013 An Archaeology of the Cosmos: Rethinking Agency and Religion in Ancient America. Routledge, London and New York. Peirce, Charles S. 1985 Logic as Semiotics: The Theory of Signs. In Semiotics: An Introductory Anthology, edited by R. E. Innis, pp. 1–23. Indiana University Press, Bloomington. Reichel-Dolmatoff, Gerardo 2005 Goldwork and Shamanism. An Iconographic Study of the Gold Museum of the Banco de la República, Colombia. Villegas Editores, Bogota. Rosenfeld, Silvana A., and Stefanie L. Bautista 2017 Rituals of the Past: Prehispanic and Colonial Case Studies in Andean Archaeology. University Press of Colorado, Boulder. Sillar, Bill 2009 The Social Agency of Things? Animism and Materiality in the Andes. Cambridge Archaeological Journal 19(3): 369–379. Stone, Rebecca R. 2011 The Jaguar Within: Shamanic Trance in Ancient Central and South American Art. University of Texas Press, Austin. Swenson, Edward 2015a The Archaeology of Ritual. Annual Review of Anthropology 44: 329–345. 2015b The Materialities of Place Making in the Ancient Andes: A Critical Appraisal of the Ontological Turn in Archaeological Interpretation. Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 22(3): 677–712. Taylor, Gérald 1974 “Camay,” “Camac” et “Camasca” dans le manuscrit quechua de Huarochiri. Journal de la Societé des Américanistes 63(1): 231–244. Turner, Terry S. 2009 The Crisis of Late Structuralism. Perspectivism and Animism: Rethinking Culture, Nature, Spirit, and Bodiliness. Tipití: Journal of the Society for the Anthropology of Lowland South America 7(1): Article 1, available at: http://digitalcommons.trinity.edu/tipiti/vol7/iss1/1. Tylor, Edward B. 1871 Primitive Culture. G. P. Putnam’s Sons, New York. Urton, Gary 2013 At the Crossroads of the Earth and the Sky: An Andean Cosmology. University of Texas Press, Austin. Van Oyen, Astrid 2018 Material Agency. In The Encyclopedia of Archaeological Sciences, edited by Sandra L. López Varela, pp. 1–5. Wiley-Blackwell, London. Introduction: In Search of the Meaning Within

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VanPool, Christine S., and Elizabeth Newsome 2012 The Spirit in the Material: A Case Study of Animism in the American Southwest. American Antiquity 77(2): 243–262. Viveiros de Castro, Eduardo 2009 Métaphysiques cannibales: lignes d’anthropologie post-structurale. Presses Universitaires de France, Paris. 2012 Cosmological perspectivism in Amazonia and Elsewhere. HAU Network of Ethnographic Theory, Masterclass Series 1, Manchester.

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I Monumental Landscapes and Architecture

1 The Sunken Court Tradition in the South Central Andes A biga i l L ev i n e a n d Ch a r l e s Sta n ish

The Beginning of Social Complexity in the Central Andes Sometime in the late fourth millennium BCE, people in the central Andes (Figure 1.1) began enhancing their landscapes with special purpose architecture on a select few sites. These sites were characterized by constructions that were not domestic houses or residences of any kind. Rather, they were public ceremonial structures characterized by slightly sunken buildings surrounded by additional walls or rooms. These sites represent the beginning of social complexity in the Andes; the key architectural feature of this phenomenon is known as the sunken court. The sunken court is a monumental construction technique characterized by round, square, rectangular, or trapezoidal buildings sunk (Figures 1.2 and 1.3) partially or fully below ground level (Williams 1980: 397). It is also referred to variously as the sunken patio, sunken plaza, sunken temple, or semi-subterranean court. Sunken courts are virtually never found alone; rather, they are associated with other flanking or surrounding buildings that range from humble domestic structures to very large and complex platform constructions. The early courts of the early third and second millennium BCE in the north coast of Peru tend to measure 20 m in diameter or smaller. Later circular courts range from a few meters up to 80 m in diameter (Williams 1980: 405; Pozorski and Pozorski 1990: 487). In later sites, such as the Circular Plaza at Chavín de Huántar and semi-subterranean court at Tiwanaku—both constructed thousands of years after the tradition first appeared—the monumental sunken courts are comparably large, the latter measuring 26 m on its longest side.

Figure 1.1. Central Andes. (Charles Stanish)

In terms of construction techniques, most courts were built with field stones or are, at the very least, stone-lined. Their simple appearance belies what is often a complex construction replete with hydrological features, including canal systems, to facilitate drainage and maintain structural integrity. In some cases, features for the movement of water, which could produce amplified, roaring sounds, were integral to the sensory experiences associated with court activities (Lumbreras et al. 1976). Many courts are further plastered on the interior, and some are embellished with elaborate friezes or decorations. As Carlos Williams (1980) notes, the earlier sunken courts were soon worked into more elaborate architectural forms, terming this pattern the “sunken circular plaza-pyramid” complex. Unfortunately, most courts on the coast and highlands have been looted. However, careful work by two generations of archaeologists has provided insight into their original architectural characteristics. Research indicates that many courts held carved stone or wooden monoliths of some sort. In some cases these monoliths are mere upright, undecorated stele, known as huancas (Figure 1.4), while other monoliths were much more elaborate (Figure 1.5). Many courts also had shaped, undecorated slabs on the interior sides instead of plaster. Such

Figure 1.2. Sunken court in Huaca Soto, Chincha Valley. (Charles Stanish)

The Sunken Court Tradition in the South Central Andes

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techniques are common in major Formative period (ca. 1500 BCE–AD 400) population centers in the highlands, such as at the site of Taraco in the far northern Titicaca Basin. Like many settlements in the region in Middle Formative times (ca. 800–200 BCE), this settlement likely had multiple sunken courts during its apogee (Levine 2012, 2013; Stanish 2003).

Figure 1.3. Sunken court in Pukara, Puno. (Charles Stanish)

Figure 1.4. Huanca in Cachichupa, Puno. (Charles Stanish) 22

Abigail Levine and Charles Stanish

Figure 1.5. Carved Qaluyu (ca. 400 BCE) monolith from the Taraco area, Puno. (Charles Stanish)

Function of Sunken Courts There is little doubt that the sunken court was designed for various “special” activities to bring people together, and most scholars suggest that these activities were ritual in nature (Bruno 2014: 140; Cohen 2010; Janusek 2005: 170, 2007; Rick 2006; Stanish 2017; Vega-Centeno et al. 1998). The building technique of the early courts, for instance, is usually much finer than other architecture at the site. In some later cases, courts are architecturally part of a larger set of public buildings that were the spatial focus of the community. Janusek likewise describes the courts as “not only constructed ritual forms, but also were places where rituals were practiced and where significant ideological values were continually defined and expressed” (Janusek 2005: 170). Juengst (2017: 24) finds The Sunken Court Tradition in the South Central Andes

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that the Yaya-Mama sunken courts in the southern Titicaca basin were used to structure “communities around ancestry and extended kin networks.” Other scholars suggest that courts simply provided a venue for the congregation of large numbers of people. As such, sunken court structures may have served to house a number of economically and/or politically motivated social events including feasts and the exchange of goods (Burger 1992). Still others have advocated a more functional view of sunken courts and associated monumental structures including low platforms/pyramids, U-shaped structures, and stone enclosures. Around the entire central Andes, these types of non-domestic structures have been interpreted as loci of ritual activities and offerings (Kidder 1943; Mujica and Wheeler 1981), or as funerary monuments for the storage of mummies (Isbell 1997). Our research to date indicates that the sunken court was the central architectural feature that correlates with the development of social complexity in the Andes. From a theoretical perspective, courts promote the evolution of complexity by creating a common space where norms of group cooperation are reinforced and utilized (Levine 2013; Stanish 2017). These norms may be applied to ritual, economic, social, and other kinds of activities.

A Brief History of the Sunken Court Tradition in the Central Andes Circular Courts Williams’ (1980) pioneering work on the Peruvian north coast recognized distinct architectural traditions that developed in the Preceramic or Initial period. Williams first noted that the circular sunken courts were indigenous to the north central coast and then they spread to the Moche area in the north and to the south at least to the Mala Valley. Pozorski and Pozorski (1990: 487) observe that the circular sunken courts are concentrated in Casma, Supe, and surrounding valleys (and see Vega-Centeno et al. 1998). At the present time, the earliest securely documented monumental construction in the Andes is found at the site of Sechín Bajo in the Casma Valley (Fuchs et al. 2006; Malville 2014). The construction episode associated with a circular sunken court dates to around 3400 BCE. Other very early sunken courts were constructed in the Supe and surrounding valleys during the Late Archaic (ca. 3400–1800 BCE), with a major expression at the site of Caral. Ruth Shady and Carlos Leyva (2003) describe several Late Archaic sites in Supe with circular sunken courts. The site of Caral eventually contained a number of platform mounds and courts by approxi24

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mately 2200 BCE. It is presently unclear which of these are contemporary with each other, but the site would have been an impressive place with such complex architecture. Circular sunken courts also flourished in Casma and Supe during the Initial period (ca. 1800–800 BCE), as well as in the Santa, Huara, and Lurín Valleys (Cárdenas 1998; Tantaleán and Leyva 2011). Sunken courts are found throughout the Central Andes by 1000 BCE (e.g., see Chicoine 2010; Seki et al. 2008). There are many sunken courts that are built adjacent to or around monumental architecture. The large sunken circular plaza at Early Horizon Chavín was huge, and represents the apogee of this architectural style.

Quadrangular Courts Quadrangular courts continued to be built for millennia through the Middle Horizon (ca. AD 500–1100), after which time there was a virtual collapse of this architectural tradition. One could argue, however, that this form evolved into the large walled plazas that were built up to the Late Horizon. It is difficult to delineate with any precision the transition between a large square sunken court and the much larger walled plazas.

Sunken Courts in the Titicaca Basin In the Lake Titicaca Basin (Figure 1.6), the sunken court tradition began at least in the fifteenth century BCE and persisted for over two millennia, ultimately taking the monumental forms observed at the sites of Pukara and Tiwanaku (Hastorf 2008; Janusek 2005:162). The first corporate structures in the region were somewhat rudimentary, and appear to be elaborations of formerly domestic structures. At the site of Huatacoa, in the Pukara Valley, Cohen (2010) discovered one of the earliest sunken courts to date. Measuring approximately three hectares in size, Huatacoa is composed of a large principal mound with a central depression. Dating to the fourteenth century BCE, the earliest sunken court at Huatacoa was trapezoidal in shape and contained unlined pits filled with ash—features that Cohen interpreted as loci of repeated burning. The sunken court was also associated with a yellow clay patio floor that was characterized by “heavy in-situ burning across all areas excavated” (Cohen 2010: 156–157). These finds led her to suggest that the patio surface was the focus of ritual activity. The actual construction of this complex may have been somewhat informal, however; while a prepared platThe Sunken Court Tradition in the South Central Andes

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Figure 1.6. Map of Titicaca Basin. (Charles Stanish)

form was located adjacent to the court, no external wall marked the perimeter of the patio space. The site of Cachichupa (HU-14), excavated by Aimée Plourde in 1999, was likewise an important regional center for the far northeastern Titicaca Basin during the Middle Formative. Located in the Putina Valley, Cachichupa boasts a series of courts located at the base of a hill. A number of large terraces loomed over the entire settlement. Plourde’s excavation of these terraces yielded a pit containing a cache of smashed Qaluyu finewares, including large serving vessels embellished with Yaya-Mama style motifs. The date of this event was more or less contemporary with the construction of the courts at Huatacoa (Plourde 2005). She suggests that these terraces—specifically Terrace K—seem far too large to have been built for solely agricultural purposes. Terrace K is monu26

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mental in size, measuring 40 m in length and 20 m in depth, and at the time of construction, approached 5 m in height. As with Huatacoa, a thick surface of yellow clay was discovered near the modern surface of the terrace. This feature represents important evidence for the nonutilitarian use of the terraces; in addition to the data from Huatacoa, at Chiripa, the preparation of floor surfaces with yellow clay was commonly used to designate these areas as special purpose structures. To the south, in Bolivia, there are several other examples of very early sunken courts, including the Choquehuanca and Llusco structures at Chiripa. These structures, dating to 1000 BCE and 800 BCE, respectively, were investigated by the Taraco Archaeological Project (TAP), directed by Christine Hastorf. The unroofed, semi-subterranean Choquehuanca enclosure was trapezoidal in shape and oriented along cardinal directions. The artifacts associated with the structure suggest a focus on food consumption, including the imbibing of chicha beer. No evidence for burning was found on the floor surface, which had been plastered with yellow clay; however, a niche on the eastern side of the enclosure may be indicative of religious or ceremonial activities, and perhaps represents early evidence for ancestor presentation (Hastorf et al. 2005). Similar in form and size, the Llusco structure was also likely a locus of ritual and food consumption. Decorated ceramics were discovered scattered across the partially preserved white plaster floor; these included a well-preserved trumpet fragment, as well as pieces of braziers, along with fragments of cooking and serving vessels (Steadman 1999). A distinguishing feature of the Llusco enclosure is a stone-lined canal located in the structure’s northwest corner. The small size of the canal precludes the movement of substantial amounts of water, leading Hastorf to interpret a ritual purpose for the feature. Similar rituals surrounding water movement in canals have been well documented throughout the Andean area during later periods, most notably at the iconic sites of Chavín de Huántar (Lumbreras et al. 1976) and Tiwanaku. Other survey and excavation work in the south Basin has documented a number of early courts in other areas of Chiripa and at the site of Kala Uyuni, on the Taraco Peninsula, Chaupisawakasi in the far north (Tantaleán and Zapata Benites 2016), Allkamari and Ch’jini Pata, in the Tiwanaku Valley, Lukurmata (Figure 1.7), Titimani, in the southeastern Basin, and Palermo, in the western Basin (Bandy 2001; Cohen 2010). Kala Uyuni, also the focus of TAP excavations, provides important data about the development of nondomestic architecture in the southern Titicaca area, as this site was a major Late Chiripa The Sunken Court Tradition in the South Central Andes

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Figure 1.7. Sunken court in Lukurmata, Bolivia. (Charles Stanish)

site on the Peninsula, and one of a handful that became a major political center during the Late Formative. The Achachi Koa Kkollu sector of Kala Uyuni was first identified by Bandy during his survey of the Taraco of Peninsula (Bandy 2001), and was later excavated during the 2003 field season (Cohen and Roddick 2007). This work revealed two stone-lined sunken courts that were trapezoidal in shape. The excavation of the “Upper Court,” located to the east, yielded an in situ sandstone monolith that was still standing in the center of the enclosure, as well as a stone pestle that was carved in the Yaya-Mama style (Chávez and Chávez 1975). Both of these courts had undergone several episodes of extensive remodeling and expansion, a discovery that is perhaps indicative of residents’ shifting needs over the duration of the structures’ use lives. Also significant is that the two courts of the Achachi Koa Kkollu sector likely formed a cohesive unit; in addition to their close proximity, the structures were simultaneously in use and shared similar architectural styles. Cohen and Roddick argue that the size of these enclosures makes them the largest known courts of the Middle Formative, though Hastorf (2008) has suggested that the sunken court within the Mound at Chiripa may actually have been larger. Survey in the Huancané and Arapa areas discovered several dozen courts in an area of almost 1,000 km2. Sunken courts are ubiquitous in the region, 28

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and represent the primary monumental construction in the Early and Middle Formative periods (Stanish et al. 2014).

The Site of Huayra Moq’o During the Middle Formative period, sunken courts became a focal point of the Yaya-Mama Religious Tradition (Cohen 2010: 47; Chávez and Chávez 1975), a pan-Titicaca Basin ceremonial complex that also featured stone sculpture, ceramic ritual paraphernalia, and a distinctive iconographic repertoire (Chávez 1988). Recent evidence from the site of Taraco in the far northern Basin suggests a developmental trajectory for sunken courts beginning in the preceramic period that culminated in their formal use by the Middle Formative. As a major Middle and Upper Formative center with a long, uninterrupted occupation, Taraco is a natural laboratory for monitoring the evolution of corporate architectural patterns. The Taraco site complex is composed of a dense cluster of at least 18 contemporary settlements surrounding a principal mound. These settlements are connected by roads and possibly causeways, with an entire area of Formative occupation that totals well over 100 hectares. As with other Formative centers, such as Pukara, Taraco is home to a series of sunken courts along with other non-domestic architectural forms. In 2013, excavations of a sunken court on one of the peripheral mounds in Taraco called Huayra Moq’o exposed a large architectural complex with a long tradition of public, non-domestic activities dating from the seventeenth century BCE. Located just north of the modern town of Taraco, the sunken court in the southern sector of the Huayra Moq’o mound is associated with at least one carved stone stela. Some isolated architecture, made of cut stone blocks, is evident along the site’s perimeter. While occupational phases identified at Huayra Moq’o indicate a trend toward increasingly formal, and perhaps formalized, behavioral patterns over time, they further suggest that the developmental trajectory of corporate architectural forms that culminate in the massive courts and terraces seen at Pukara and Tiwanaku may be traced back to the earliest public events in the region; in this case, communal crafting behaviors practiced by preceramic populations. Dating to at least 1645 BC, the initial occupation of the Huayra Moq’o court was characterized by intensive lithic production, as evidenced by relatively high densities of debitage, animal bone, and deer antler. The lithic assemblage was comprised almost exclusively of debitage rather than finished points, lending The Sunken Court Tradition in the South Central Andes

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further weight to the idea that this area was a local spot for tool manufacture. No architecture was identified for this phase of occupation, and the majority of these strata were natural and cultural fill deposits with the exception of a level of compacted silty clay, which was associated with some degraded adobes and likely represents a cultural floor surface. Based on the ceramic data, the second occupation dates to the Middle Formative, and is associated with two phases of construction (Levine 2015). During the first phase, a circular (or semicircular) platform was built in what is now the center of the sunken court. The second phase was marked by a substantial renovation of the court that involved the deposition of over a meter of cobble fill in the center of the court, completely covering the platform, as well as the installation of stone-lined drainage canals and the construction of stone-faced terraces around the exterior. These canals bear striking similarity to those found in Pukara’s sunken court complex. These architectural features were then covered with clay floor surfaces. As at Pukara, they were likely invisible to the user, except for the openings at either end. The terrace above the canal was oriented roughly east-west, and was composed of three courses of cut stone blocks that had been carefully stacked with limited use of mortar. The bottom course was set into a thin mud mortar. Though it was badly degraded, evidence of adobe superstructure was also identified. The interior of the terrace was composed of multiple layers of fill with high gravel content, which, along with the canal, helped to keep the terrace well drained and to preserve its structural integrity. The third occupation is associated with an Upper Formative, or early Pukara phase, occupation, and consists of a series of sequential floors and tamped surfaces, the latest of which dated to the first century BCE. The majority (67 percent) of the ceramics recovered from this phase were serving wares, suggesting a focus on food consumption, rather than preparation or storage, in the area during this time. The data from the Huayra Moq’o excavations suggest that the earliest nondomestic, public activities in the northern Basin likely centered on supra-household, communal craft production—specifically intensive lithic production. Together with the radiocarbon dates, a complete absence of any ceramic material suggests that these cultural deposits date to the preceramic Terminal Archaic or Early Formative. And this was no fluke—five dates selected from three of these a-ceramic contexts cluster tightly in the seventeenth century BCE. This sets these contexts apart from all others excavated in the Taraco area (Chávez 2007, 30

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2008; de la Vega 2005; Zegarra 2014)—the only other times ceramics are absent are in strata that are culturally sterile. It must also be emphasized that while the earliest ceramics in the Basin date to around 2000 BC, there are no ceramics in the Taraco area until after 1420 BCE (Levine 2015). What is clear from this work is that the cooperative behaviors associated with communal craft production and exchange were ultimately materialized by the sunken court complex built during later phases. What is fascinating is at least part of the Formative architectural complex was constructed directly on top of what is interpreted as Terminal Archaic or Early Formative period deposits, suggesting a continuity and elaboration of these cooperative traditions. The construction of the complex began in the Middle Formative, or Qaluyu period, for use as a civic-ceremonial structure, and its use continued through the Upper Formative. During this time, the significant remodeling and construction occurred, which together served to formalize the boundaries of the court and create a delineated space, elevate the patio surface, and improve drainage of the area. Once completed, the court at Huayra Moq’o became a place of communal gatherings based in supra-household food serving, food sharing, and crafting. It was around the first century BC, during the middle of the Upper Formative, that the use of Huayra Moq’o’s sunken court ceased, likely as the platform in the principal mound was completed and assumed a central position in the social landscape of the greater Taraco area. It was also around this time that the scale of these public events increased, attracting participants from the greater Taraco area and other communities in the far northern basin (Levine 2012). The development of complex, territorially expansive polities defines the Upper Formative (500 BCE–AD 400), and, as witnessed at Huayra Moq’o, this period saw the dramatic intensification of corporate architectural features as well as the significant development in the sunken court complex. Courts not only become larger and increasingly formal, but also are suddenly restricted to selected larger sites—that ultimately developed into the region’s earliest major centers. The site of Pukara is located along the Pucara River in the northwestern Basin, approximately 80 km from the lake, at the base of an imposing sandstone outcrop (Klarich 2005b). Modern research indicates that it is at least 1.5 km2 in size, with three huge sunken courts and about a dozen smaller, unexcavated courts located on an imposing hill rise. A large and historically quite deep series of middens in front of the court complexes indicates that the site was also home The Sunken Court Tradition in the South Central Andes

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to a large resident population that lived and worked in this proto-urban center (Kidder 1943; Klarich 2005a). By 500 BC, Pukara was producing a distinctive, elaborate art style; however, by no later than AD 400 construction of the site had ceased, along with the production of its distinctive material culture (Mujica 1987; Plourde and Stanish 2006). In accordance with the traditional view of sunken court architecture, Sergio Chávez (1992) suggested that Pukara was a ceremonial center whose power relied on leaders’ abilities to control the production and distribution of supernatural imagery. However, more recent regional survey has indicated that Pukara was not simply a ceremonial precinct with uninterrupted control of the northern Basin; rather, it came to power out of a context of factional competition and shifting alliances (Cohen 2010; Stanish 2003). The appropriation of ideological power was likely an important component of Pukara’s success, but this was not its only pathway to power, nor was it a novel approach. The site’s multiple sunken courts, standardized suite of icons, and fine ceramic and lithic art styles were elaborations of earlier Middle Formative leadership strategies designed to entice local populations and pilgrims alike, attracting them away from competing settlements. The sunken court architectural complex reaches its height at the urbanized capital of the Tiwanaku state in Bolivia. At Tiwanaku, the sunken court is attached to the large plaza area called Kalasasaya. The court contains tenoned heads that most of us interpret to be trophies representing conquered villages or other areas. The court also contains the famous Thunderbolt stela. The famous monolith was created in the far northern Titicaca region near Arapa. It was broken in half and one piece was moved more than 275 km to the south where it was set up in the sunken court in the urban capital. This is also interesting because this monolith was carved around 200 BC–AD 200, and Tiwanaku did not enter the northern basin until at least AD 650. The Thunderbolt stela is therefore indirect evidence for the multiple century use of the elaborate carved monolith long after they were created. The collapse of the Tiwanaku state ushered in what we can call “the catastrophe of the tenth and eleventh centuries” in the highlands. The sunken court tradition collapsed in the region. The site of Tiwanaku was abandoned, and settlements dispersed. In the subsequent political vacuum, fortresses— pukaras—were constructed. Beautifully made pottery ceased, as did stelae carving, platform mound building, and other features of the former political economy. 32

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Discussion It is quite clear that sunken courts played an integral role in the highly ritualized economy involving feasting, war, and trade that likely underwrote the development of complex polities and early states in the region. For many years, sites with sunken courts were thought to be few and far between, representing isolated ritual centers that served the surrounding residential communities. However, recent systematic survey in the region, coupled with several seasons of intensive excavation and analysis has shown that this is not the case. Instead, the long-standing sunken court tradition of the Titicaca area begins relatively early in the history of human occupation, sunken court architecture is far more common than previously realized, and—perhaps most significantly—these sites are not simply ritual centers, but rather, they are loci of a full range of domestic and productive activities. In this chapter we demonstrate that, in contrast to the traditional view, sunken courts are extremely common and have a number of functions. Jonathan Haas and Winifred Creamer, for instance (2012: 296–297), discuss the density of sunken courts in the Norte Chico on the coast: “With more than 30 sites in an area of only 1,200 km2, and each having from one to seven large scale constructed mounds, the Norte Chico stands out as an exception in the Americas and world in general.” Our most recent work in the Titicaca region, data not available to Haas and Creamer, indicates that the courts are much more common and that the density of them in the Norte Chico in fact is not so rare. We see these courts as the material focus of communities that struggle to create “ritualized” economies—these are social arrangements that promote cooperation between distantly related individuals across a landscape (Stanish 2017; Tantaleán 2010). As such, courts developed in tandem with the rise of social complexity in the Andes. In a “formative” context of numerous independent communities, a correspondingly high density of courts will develop as groups seek to affiliate themselves with the emergent ideologies of cooperation that form in the region. Cohen’s discovery of one of the earliest sunken court constructions, dating to 1400 BC, roughly corresponds to Hastorf ’s earliest contexts at Chiripa. Plourde’s (2005) work at Cachichupa has likewise shown that the first use of massive agricultural terracing occurs at more or less the same time. We can now say with much certainty that the first forms of non-domestic architecture in the Titicaca region begin around the fifteenth century BCE. The Sunken Court Tradition in the South Central Andes

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In addition, extensive survey in the northern Basin has shown that there were actually many more sunken court sites than originally believed, and evidence suggests they were used frequently and over a very long period of time. Surveys of a number of regions have discovered scores, if not hundreds, of courts across the region. In one survey in the northern Titicaca Basin alone, we discovered around 35 confirmed sites with sunken courts, and about 40 with probable courts in an area smaller than the Norte Chico. In the southeastern Titicaca Basin, Ayala reports: “In Santiago de Huata more than half of the important settlements have plazas or sunken patios, eventually associated with stone stele with Yaya Mama [Middle Formative] iconography” (Ayala R. 2001: 22). This observation emphasizes how common the courts were in the region. Extrapolating to the entire Basin, we conservatively calculate that there were over 400 courts constructed and abandoned over about 2,000 years. We also now know that sunken court sites are not just ritual areas. Rather, these centers actually have substantial residential and industrial components, and are almost always associated with the manufacture of crafted goods. For instance, at the site of Huajje in Puno Bay, Carol Schultze identified evidence of silver production in a U-shaped pyramid structure beginning around AD 100 and continuing for 1,900 years (Schultze et al. 2009). This production debris was associated with ceramic ritual paraphernalia, including incense burners. Schultze also found domestic artifacts, such as weaving tools and utilitarian pottery, indicating that this structure was the site of a full range of residential, ritual, and industrial activities. This pattern of courts appearing together with residences and production areas can also be seen in other areas that have seen systematic, intensive investigation, including the early occupations at Huatacoa and Cachichupa. We now believe that there do not exist any ritual courts without a substantial domestic component nearby. New survey has also indicated increased competition among north Basin communities by ca. 500 BC, well before trophy head iconography first appears on the stelae at Pukara, and before the raiding activity documented at Taraco (Levine 2012; Stanish and Levine 2011). Survey work by Elizabeth Arkush has identified a number of hilltop fortresses—traditionally associated with the Late Intermediate period (ca. AD 1100–1450) occupation (Figures 1.8 and 1.9)—with substantial Middle and Upper Formative components (Arkush 2011; Arkush and Stanish 2005). Surveys in the Huancané-Putina region confirm this pattern as well. Lisa Cipolla excavated one of these hilltop settlements and obtained a radiocarbon date in the first century AD for the initial construction of the for34

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Figure 1.8. Hilltop location of sunken court site HU-316 near Huancané, Peru. (Charles Stanish)

Figure 1.9. Hilltop location of sunken court site AR-1156 near Arapa, Peru. (Charles Stanish)

tifications (in Stanish et al. 2014). Likewise, the excavations at Huatacoa yielded what appear to be trophy heads associated with the Late Qaluyu occupation, which dates to approximately 800–200 BCE (Cohen 2010: 205–209). Importantly, a number of these hilltop settlements were also associated with sunken court architecture, indicating that courts are ubiquitous in all types of settlements, even ones in defensible locations.

Conclusion These new data from the northern Titicaca Basin suggest a political landscape that is very different from the traditional model of culture history for the region. Neither Pukara nor Tiwanaku can be viewed as the culmination of a single, linear trajectory of cultural development, but rather represent two of what were likely many centers competing for regional economic and political power. Whether one views corporate architecture as having integrative effects to deal with stress (e.g., Flannery 1972), promoting community cohesion (Bandy 2004; Hastorf 2008), reinforcing social inequalities (Cohen 2010), or promoting cooperation between actors (Levine et al. 2013; Stanish 2017), the sunken court was central to the development of increasingly cooperative and complex forms of social organization in the Lake Titicaca Basin. It is clear that settlements containing such monumental architecture can attract followers through the production and distribution of ideology through rituals, feasts, and the dissemination of goods depicting supernatural imagery. For visitors, participation in these events conferred a measure of prestige—signaled, in the words of Plourde (2005), by newly acquired symbolic materials and specialized knowledge—that could be parlayed into power strategies in their nascent communities. The promise of prestige and status would bind these individuals into long-term reciprocal debt obligations, thereby establishing a large coalition of supporters for the aspiring center. When we consider the development of corporate architecture it is important not to divorce it from the economy—in the Titicaca area and throughout the south central Andes, resource acquisition and exchange is consistently wrapped in ritual and ceremony. From these new data we can now state with much certainty that sunken courts do not exhibit the Western dichotomy of “religious” and “profane,” rather, they functioned in multiple spheres, including the political, ritual, and economic realms. Ritual architecture is central to any cultural evolutionary process in the Andes and in the premodern world. 36

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Acknowledgments The authors thank the following institutions and individuals: the National Science Foundation, the National Geographic Society, the Cotsen Institute of Archaeology, Ministry of Culture of Peru, Bruce Hector, Charles Steinmetz, Deborah Arnold, Harris Bass, Cecilia Chávez, Henry Tantaleán, Edmundo de la Vega, Elizabeth Klarich, Amanda Cohen, Karl La Favre, Carol Schultze, and the people of Taraco.

References Cited Arkush, Elizabeth N. 2011 Hillforts of the Ancient Andes: Colla Warfare, Society, and Landscape. University Press of Florida, Gainesville. Arkush, Elizabeth, and Charles Stanish 2005 Interpreting Conflict in the Ancient Andes: Implications for the Archaeology of Warfare. Current Anthropology 46(1): 3–28. Ayala R., Patricia 2001 Las sociedades formativas del Altiplano Circumtiticaca y meridional y su relación con el Norte Grande de Chile. Estudios Atacameños 21: 7–39. Bandy, Matthew S. 2001 Population and History in the Ancient Titicaca Basin. Unpublished PhD dissertation, Department of Anthropology, University of California, Berkeley. 2004 Fissioning, Scalar Stress, and Social Evolution in Early Village Societies. American Anthropologist 106(2): 322–333. Bandy, Matthew S., and Christine A. Hastorf (editors) 2007 Kala Uyuni: An Early Political Center in the Southern Lake Titicaca Basin: 2003 Excavations of the Taraco Archaeological Project. Archaeological Research Facility, University of California, Berkeley. Bruno, Maria C. 2014 Beyond Raised Fields: Exploring Farming Practices and Processes of Agricultural Change in the Ancient Lake Titicaca Basin of the Andes. American Anthropologist 116(1): 130– 145. Burger, Richard L. 1992 Chavin and the Origins of Andean Civilization. Thames and Hudson, New York. Cárdenas, Mercedes 1998 Material diagnóstico del Periodo Formativo en los Valles de Chao y Santa, costa norte del Perú. Boletín de Arqueología PUCP (20): 61–81. Chávez, Cecilia 2007 Excavaciones arqueológicas en el sitio de Taraco-Puno: Temporada 2006. Report to the Comisión Nacional Técnica de Arqueología of the Instituto Nacional de Cultura. Lima. 2008 Excavaciones arqueológicas en el sitio de Taraco-Puno: Temporada 2007. Report to the Comisión Nacional Técnica de Arqueología of the Instituto Nacional de Cultura. Lima. Chávez, Karen 1988 The Significance of Chiripa in Lake Titicaca Basin Developments. Expedition 30(3): 17–26.

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Chávez, Sergio 1992 The Conventionalized Rules in Pucara Pottery Technology and Iconography: Implications of Socio-Political Development in the Northern Titicaca Basin. Unpublished PhD dissertation, Department of Anthropology, Michigan State University, Kalamazoo. Chávez, Sergio Jorge, and Karen L. Mohr Chávez 1975 A Carved Stela from Taraco, Puno, Peru, and the Definition of an Early Style of Stone Sculpture from the Altiplano of Peru and Bolivia. Ñawpa Pacha 13(1): 45–83. Chicoine, David 2010 Elite Strategies and Ritual Settings in Coastal Peru during the 1st Millennium BC. In Comparative Perspectives in the Archaeology of Coastal South America, edited by R. E. Cutright, E. López-Hurtado, and A. J. Martín, pp. 191–212. Center for Comparative Archaeology, Pittsburgh. Cohen, Amanda Beth 2010 Ritual and Architecture in the Titicaca Basin: The Development of the Sunken Court Complex in the Formative Period. Unpublished PhD dissertation, Department of Anthropology, University of California, Los Angeles. Cohen, Amanda, and Andrew Roddick 2007 Excavations in the AC (Achachi Coa Kkollu) Sector. In Kala Uyuni: An Early Political Center in the Southern Lake Titicaca Basin, edited by M. Bandy and C. Hastorf, pp. 41–65. Archaeological Research Facility, University of California, Berkeley. de la Vega, Edmundo 2005 Excavaciones arqueológicas en el sitio de Taraco-Puno. Report to the Comisión Nacional Técnica de Arqueología of the Instituto Nacional de Cultura, Lima. Flannery, Kent V. 1972 The Cultural Evolution of Civilizations. Annual Review of Ecology and Systematics (3): 399–426. Fuchs, Peter R., Renate Patzschke, Claudia Schmitz, Germán Yenque, and Jesús Briceño 2006 Investigaciones arqueológicas en el sitio de Sechín Bajo, Casma. Boletín de Arqueología PUCP (10): 111–135. Haas, Jonathan, and Winifred Creamer 2012 Why Do People Build Monuments? Late Archaic Platform Mounds in the Norte Chico. Early New World Monumentality, edited by R. Burger and R. Rosensweig, pp. 289–312. University of Florida Press, Gainesville. Hastorf, Christine A. 2008 The Formative Period in the Titicaca Basin. In The Handbook of South American Archaeology, edited by H. Silverman and W. Isbell, pp. 545–561. Springer, New York. Hastorf, Christine A., Matthew Bandy, William Whitehead, Lee Steadman, Katherine Moore, Paz Soria, Jose Luis et al. 2005 Proyecto Arqueológico Taraco Informe de las Excavaciones de la Temporada del 2004 en los Sitios de Kumi Kipa, Sonaji y Chiripa. Archaeological Research Facility Field Reports, Archaeological Research Facility, University of California, Berkeley. Isbell, William H. 1997 Mummies and Mortuary Monuments: A Postprocessual Prehistory of Central Andean Social Organization. University of Texas Press, Austin. Janusek, John W. 2005 Patios hundidos, encuentros rituales y el auge de Tiwanaku como centro religioso panregional. Boletín de Arqueología PUCP (9): 161–184. 2007 Centralidad regional, ecología religiosa y complejidad emergente durante el Periodo Formativo en la cuenca del lago Titicaca. Boletín de Arqueología PUCP (11): 23–51. 38

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Juengst, Sara L. 2017 Inclusive Communities in the Titicaca Basin during The Early Horizon. Archeological Papers of the American Anthropological Association (281):24–37. Kidder, Alfred, II 1943 Some Early Sites in the Northern Lake Titicaca Basin. Papers of the Peabody Museum of American Archaeology and Ethnology, Harvard University, vol. XXVII. Cambridge, Massachusetts. Klarich, Elizabeth A. 2005a From the Monumental to the Mundane: Defining Early Leadership Strategies at Late Formative Pukara, Perú. PhD dissertation, Department of Anthropology, University of California, Santa Barbara. 2005b ¿Quiénes eran los invitados? Cambios temporales y funcionales de los espacios públicos de Pukara como reflejo del cambio de las estrategias de liderazgo durante el Periodo Formativo Tardío. Boletín de Arqueología PUCP (9): 185–206. Levine, Abigail R. 2012 Cooperation, Competition, and the Emergence of Regional Centers in the Northern Lake Titicaca Basin, Peru. Unpublished PhD dissertation, Department of Anthropology, University of California, Los Angeles. 2013 The Use and Re-use of Ceremonial Space at Taraco, Peru: 2012 Excavations in the San Taraco Sector. Ñawpa Pacha 33(2): 215–226. 2015 A New Model for Early Complexity in the Northern Titicaca Basin, Peru. Paper presented at the 55th Annual Meeting of the Institute of Andean Studies, Berkeley. Levine, Abigail R., Charles Stanish, P. Ryan Williams, Cecilia Chávez, and Mark Golitko 2013 Trade and Early State Formation in the Northern Titicaca Basin, Peru. Latin American Antiquity 24(3): 289–308. Lumbreras, Luis Guillermo, Chacho González, Bernard A. Lietaer, and Ruth Shady Solís 1976 Acerca de la función del sistema hidráulico de Chavín. Museo Nacional de Antropología y Arqueología, Lima. Malville, J. McKim 2014 The Casma Valley of Peru: A Cradle of Pre-Inca Astronomy. Mediterranean Archaeology and Archaeometry 14(3): 169–178. Mujica, Elias 1987 Cusipata: una fase prepukara en la cuenca norte del Titicaca. Gaceta Arqueológica Andina 4(13): 22–28, Lima. Mujica, Elias, and Jane Wheeler 1981 Produccion y eecursos ganaderos prehispanicos en la Cuenca del Titicaca. Centro de Investigacion y Restauracion de Bienes Monumentales, Instituto Nacional de Cultura, Lima. Plourde, Aimée M. 2005 Prestige Goods and Their Role in the Evolution of Social Ranking: A Costly Signaling Model with Data from the Late Formative Period of the Northern Lake Titicaca Basin, Peru. Unpublished PhD dissertation, Department of Anthropology, University of California, Los Angeles. Plourde, Aimée M., and Charles Stanish 2006 The Emergence of Complex Society in the Titicaca Basin: The View from the North. In Andean Archaeology III, edited by H. Silverman and W. Isbell, pp. 237–257. Springer, New York. Pozorski, Shelia, and Thomas Pozorski 1990 Reexamining the critical Preceramic/Ceramic Period Transition: New Data from Coastal Peru. American Anthropologist 92(2): 481–491. The Sunken Court Tradition in the South Central Andes

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Rick, John W. 2006 Un análisis de los centros ceremoniales del Periodo Formativo a partir de los estudios en Chavín de Huántar. Boletín de Arqueología PUCP 10: 201–214. Schultze, Carol A., Charles Stanish, David Scott, Thilo Rehren, Scott Kuehner, and James Feathers 2009 Direct Evidence of 1,900 Years of Indigenous Silver Production in the Lake Titicaca Basin of Southern Peru. Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences 106(41): 17280– 17283. Seki, Yuji, Juan Pablo Villanueva, Masato Sakai, Diana Alemán, Mauro Ordóñez, Walter Tosso, Araceli Espinoza, Kinya Inokuchi, and Daniel Morales 2008 Nuevas evidencias del sitio arqueológico de Pacopampa, en la sierra norte del Perú. Boletín de Arqueología PUCP 12: 69–95. Shady Solis, Ruth, and Carlos Leyva (editors) 2003 La ciudad sagrada de Caral-Supe. Instituto Nacional de Cultura, Lima. Stanish, Charles 2003 Ancient Titicaca: The Evolution of Complex Society in Southern Peru and Northern Bolivia. University of California Press, Berkeley. 2017 The Evolution of Human Cooperation. Ritual and Social Complexity in Stateless Societies. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Stanish, Charles, Cecilia Chávez, Karl La Favre, and Aimée Plourde 2014 The Northern Titicaca Basin Survey: Huancané-Putina. Museum of Anthropology Monographs, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor. Stanish, Charles, and Abigail Levine 2011 War and Early State Formation in the Northern Titicaca Basin, Peru. Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences 108(34): 13901–13906. Steadman, Lee 1999 The Ceramics. In Early Settlement at Chiripa, Bolivia: Research of the Taraco Archaeological Project, edited by Christine A. Hastorf, pp. 61–72. Contributions of the University of California Archaeological Research Facility, No. 57. Berkeley. Tantaleán, Henry 2010 Ideología y realidad en las primeras sociedades sedentarias (1400 ANE–350 DNE) de la cuenca norte del Titicaca, Perú. Archaeopress, Oxford. Tantaleán, Henry, and María Ysela Leyva 2011 Los “Templos en U” del valle de Huaura, costa norcentral. Una aproximación preliminar a un problema monumental. Bulletin de l’Institut français d’études andines 40(3): 459–493. Tantaleán, Henry, and Carlos Zapata Benites 2016 Chaupisawakasi y la expansion Pukara en el Valle de Quilcamayo-Tintiri. Chungará 48(4): 607–628. Vega-Centeno, Rafael, Luis Felipe Villacorta, Luis E. Cáceres, and Giancarlo Marcone 1998 Arquitectura monumental temprana en el valle medio de Fortaleza. Boletín de Arqueología PUCP (2): 219–238. Williams, Carlos 1980 Arquitectura y urbanismo en el antiguo Perú. Historia del Perú. Mejía Baca, Lima. Zegarra, Walter Michiel 2014 Excavaciones arqueológicas en el sitio de Taraco-Puno: Temporada 2013. Final Report to the Comisión Nacional Técnica de Arqueología of the Instituto Nacional de Cultura. Lima.

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2 Reflective and Communicative Waka Interaction with the Sacred

Fr a n k M e dde ns

The Spaniards as they arrived in Peru in the sixteenth century, in a realm occupied by peoples who communicated with objects such as stones, mummified human bodies, idols, and mountains found it easy to understand such interactions. In their worldview it was obvious that objects could be possessed by devils and demons and that any speech they emitted was therefore the devil or his demons speaking through the possessed object. There were even individuals who attempted to be more critical of the stories they were told, such as Antonio de Calancha who recounts the story of a native shaman named Carimango who calls the people of Tauca together at a specific time and place. When they have assembled, we are told the shaman kicked the mountain, which resulted in a mighty rumbling, followed by the mountain collapsing to half its former size. Calancha states that he does not believe in magic and that therefore the demon (in Carimango) must have known in advance that an earthquake was about to occur (Calancha 1975[1638]: 473). From our current understanding such behavior does, however, merit some more in-depth investigation and explanation. Andean peoples are far from unique in considering the world they live in, in a manner which diverges from the Western worldview. They consider things and objects as having social identities, as being sentient and believe them to have the power to act independently; they consider them to have the ability to influence events beyond their immediate physical location (Sillar 2009: 371). They think that, like other living beings, all elements of nature are also alive. Pachamama, the apus, wakas, animate and inanimate beings, all aspects of nature, need food, drink, and respect

(Sillar 2009: 371; Bolin 1998: 43). Nature is therefore possessed of spirituality and is animated (Harvey 2005).

Context, Wakas or the Sacred The Incas conceptually marked out the environment they occupied by using both natural and cultural features in the landscape; such markers were seen as charged with sacred potential, a form of sacred animating essence. These features served integrated embedded social, economic, political, and religious roles, which operated to both legitimize the presence of all social actors as well as to anchor their activities in the yearly agricultural and social cycles. The sacred animating essence that existed in made objects and structures was present in trees, the mummified dead, and natural features as well as both portable and stationary objects and features such as stones, springs, lakes, and caves. Sacred mountains or apus and wamanis were among the major deities in kay pacha (this world and time) defining titular deities associated with local ayllus and regional ethnic groups, and rivers, lakes, and the sea were also included in the world of the wakas. Curatola discusses in detail the meaning of waka in its various vocalizations in the various early Quechua dictionaries and chronicles and clarifies its translation as “idol” or “sacred object,” and “oracle” as well as in its verb form as having a range of translations that center on crying, moaning, howling, and the making of animal noises, as well as the sounds of rivers and volcanos (2016: 259–304). Andean cultures have long held both stone and mountains in general in special regard. From an Andean perspective, the compact hardness of stones and bones is visible evidence of an earlier stage of creation recounted in myths; life crystallized, as it were. Hard, unusual stones (such as illas and istrillas) and bare bones (like the skull kept for khuyay [protection]) are held to be potent sources of energy. They are intimately connected with lightning and sunlight, whose power they absorb and condense (Allen 1988: 63). People start life flexible and moist and in death transform into hard bone, conceptually undergoing a process of lithification. Such a process of lithification occurs in many of the Andean myths and often also results in a means of appropriation, as is the case with the Inca myth of Ayar Auqui who takes possession of Cuzco. Ayar Auqui, on instruction of his brother Manco Inca, transforms into a bird and flies over to a designated spot where the bird changes 42

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into a huanca or mojón (Sarmiento de Gamboa 1988[1572]; Crickmay 2006: 73). This myth can be seen at Machu Picchu where, in the temple of the condor, the transmogrification of the bird into lithified property marker can be recognized in the image of the landing condor with its raised wings formed by the natural stone outcrop behind the sculpted head and body of the male bird visible in the stone of the “temple” floor. Smaller portable artifacts grouped under the term illa would be engaged on a household level. Such objects would also have been engaged with the sacred and the flow of animated essence directed to ensuring fertility, purity, and productivity.

Huauque The Incas deployed portable effigy type objects among which were the huauque (brother), and mallqui, or bulto (ancestor or ancestor mummies), which all had a community focus. The huauque, bulto, or mallqui would be a materialization of a deceased or living individual, who would be accompanied by a representative who would act on behalf of a living Inca, a dead kuraka or ancestor, a waka, or deity, engaged in activities relevant to the community or the state. Portable stones and assembled bundles that could include wood, hair, nails, organs, textiles, etc., and mummified bodies were conceived of as charged with camaquem and could represent huauque, deities, ancestors, and stone equivalents or “brothers” of the living. The huauque of the living Sapa Inca would represent the Inca on inspection tours of the provinces and could similarly accompany Inca armies into battle. The Inca’s huauque would represent the Sapa Inca’s interests and voice his wishes when so required in the living Sapa Inca’s absence. The Sapa Inca’s huauque would be attended by an extensive retinue, which would include a principal retainer who would speak for the “brother.” In the case of Atahuallpa, his huauque went by the name of Guaquin who was dispatched to the provinces where it was greatly honored. This same Guaquin is also known to have represented the Inca in his absence with his principal captains (generals), Quizquiz and Chalcuchima. Its principal servant was called Chima and it had a large entourage (van de Guchte 1996: 263–264). Guaman Poma de Ayala refers to the principal retainer of the Sapa Inca’s huauque and defines this individual as the Inca’s “assessor,” stating this servant’s title was “yncap rantin rimac,” Inca’s substitute speaker (1936[1583–1615], III), or Reflective and Communicative Waka: Interaction with the Sacred

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“yncap rantin rimaric capac apo,” Inca’s substitute speaker powerful lord (184). This title elucidates what this servant’s role was in his interactions between the Sapa Inca and the population (Gose 1996: 18–19). Huauque has been generally translated as signifying “brother.” This term can include a number of kin relationships other than first-line male descendent of the same set of parents. In the ruling or Sapa Inca’s immediate kin group, the first line of descent could include male descendants from brother-sister marriage of the Sapa Inca from a marriage with an Inca royal princess who was not a sister but from the panaca of the Sapa Inca, from a marriage with a woman from one of the other Inca panacas or ayllus, as well as from a marriage with a woman who was a daughter of one of the non-Inca subjugated regional groups/ ayllus. All these possible relationships could be classed as “brother.” That the Inca made distinctions to more precisely define variations in these relationships becomes clear from arguments centering on legitimacy to the succession in the civil war between Huascar and Atahualpa. Huascar was a son of Huayna Capac with Chinchi Ocllo, who were siblings, whereas Atahualpa appears to have been the offspring of a marriage with the daughter of a kuraka from one of the northern regional dynasties. In kinship terms there was therefore a difference between the two (half) brothers. In the case of Manco Inca who was the last of Huayna Capac sons to attain the Mascaypacha,1 three different early colonial sources attribute him to three different mothers. Garcilasco de la Vega names his mother as Mama Runtu (Huayna Capac’s first cousin; part 1, book VIII, cap VIII), Guaman Poma attributes him to Cayac Cuzco (1980, f114, 1: 83) and Pachacuti Yamqui to Çibi Chimpo Rontocay (1993[1613]: 247). Usually it is not the mother who is in doubt in human relationships, however, the confusion here may have more to do with the importance of such matters rather than any real confusion (Niles 1999: 111). The descent line of the mother of the Sapa Inca and therefore of his brothers appears to have been of importance with respect to claims to legitimacy. For this reason distinctions were made between categories of brothers in kinship terms. Sarmiento notes that Inca Yupanqui or Pachacuti had golden statues made of Viracocha Pacha Yachachic and Chuqui Ylla (the thunder), which were placed on either side of the sun, who Pachacuti took to be his huauque signifying brother or lineage member older than oneself (Julien 2000: 108). The first Inca said to have instituted the practice of having a huauque was Inca Yupanqui. When his huauque went to the provinces, it was honored and obeyed (Betanzos 1987[1551]: 220–221). The individual who would express the 44

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will of the Inca would potentially have been in a precarious position. He would have had to have been very well versed in the Sapa Inca’s opinions in order to successfully play his part. Chima, who was in this position with the huauque Guaquin, was a close relative of Atahuallpa, which certainly would have helped him to fulfil the role successfully. Betanzos uses the verb acatar for the response of Inca Yupanqui’s subjects to his huauque (Betanzos 1987[1551]: 221), which translates as “comply” or “obey.” This indicates that the huauque had wishes or instructions to convey that could then be complied with. The Inca when personally consulting his own huauque did so in private and perhaps alone with his “stone brother,” although the alternative where the retainer of the huauque would also be present and be able to transmit the results of the meetings of the huauque with far-off Inca captains and remote provincial ayllus would obviously have advantages, as the Inca could so be appraised of what occupied his more remote subjects. Cabello Balboa (1951[1586]) describes a gold figure of Mama Ocllo, the mother of Huayna Capac who fulfilled a role that would suggest the equivalent of a female huauque. An idol acts as the equivalent of a dead principal wife of the Inca. In the context that this idol is described, the term sister is not mentioned, and a female retainer speaks on its behalf in public (van de Guchte 1996: 263–264). Antonio Ricardo (1951) translates huauque in a variety of explanatory meanings as signifying brothers together or brother to brother, first cousin, and the statue or idol specific to each nation. Following his entry on brothers with its translation as huauque, there is a further entry for sisters (together), which is translated as ñañantin. These translations suggest that brother and first cousin could be subsumed under the same term; that huauque covers a stone-founding ancestor equivalent for ayllus in general and last but not least that there was a term with similar loading that could be used for sisters. A female equivalent to huauque may therefore have existed, perhaps ñañantin. If so, the limited referencing of such a female royal double in the early colonial documents may be the result of the limited numbers of female sources in the documentary record rather than for any other reason. The physical characteristics of the stone idols representing stone doubles of the Incas, landscape supernaturals, and other wakas, which were seen and described by the early Spanish conquistadors and extirpators have become clearer over the past half century. There were forms that were anthropomorphically based as well as rough natural shapes. Some of the latter examples have been identified at some of the high-altitude Inca shrines investigated over the last 50 years or Reflective and Communicative Waka: Interaction with the Sacred

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so (Beorchia Nigris 1985; Meddens et al. 2010; Reinhard and Ceruti 2010) and other Late Horizon shrines, such as the objects from the Cerro San Cristóbal located and identified by Chase (2015). Illustrations published by the Pedro de Cieza de Leon in 1551 and drawn up by Guaman Poma de Ayala have proven to be largely correct when compared with the objects identified archaeologically. The naturally shaped stones with some marginal sculpted modifications include elongated forms with either marginally modified bases or apexes that have proven popular, but round and more trapezoidal forms have similarly been identified. This places these portable objects easily within the corpus of Inca abstract stone sculpture. Such objects have occasionally also been found in association with natural stone slabs.

Royal Ancestors Each of the Inca royal panaca had a royal ancestor mummy of a former Sapa Inca at its head. These mummies would be treated as the living, were said to eat and drink, and would visit each other with their retinues. Every deceased Inca would have a designated principal male and female deputy or agent who would both (jointly) express the wishes of the dead, state when they wanted to eat or drink or wanted to be entertained, etc. Pizarro reported this behavior from direct personal observation (Pizarro 1978[1571]: 52–54). At the seasonal festivals in Cusco, these mummies would gather in Huacaypata, where they would partake and fulfill their function as panaca head again with their interpreters speaking for them (Pizarro 1978[1571]; Betanzos 1987[1551]). Cieza de León in describing how the mummies of departed Inca kings would be gathered in the principal plaza of Cuzco notes these would be there: with their families and much food and drink—for the devil would need to talk through these mummies, with deceitful spokespersons who would satisfy the people with cheerful words. (Cieza de León 1985[1553]: Cap XI 29)

Landscape Wakas There was a class of prophesy-producing supernaturals that were of importance across the whole of the Inca state, which were neither living nor dead human agency types. These comprised major landscape or geographic feature beings such as Apurimac, Catequil, Huanacauri, Oscconta, Pachacamac, Pariacaca, 46

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Titicaca, and others. They can be defined as landscape feature-based supernaturals (Gose 1996: 2–3). They attracted pilgrimages from far-flung communities and had considerable influence on regional and state elites. They would draw in substantial resources. The Titicaca-based shrines of the islands of sun and moon, for example, had elements of a considerable number of ethnic groups concentrated on the Copacabana peninsula to ensure access for the shrines to the natural resources controlled by these communities. The voices of these oracles might be heard directly such as that of the roaring Apurimac River, but such speech would be interpreted by the shrine’s priests. Inca rulers would frequently consult such major oracle supernaturals in their decision-making process for important decisions. Guaman Poma illustrated such events in pictures, suggesting that such landscape-type supernaturals could have portable representatives that could travel (Figure 2.1). In the case of Huanacauri there is a considerable body of evidence illustrating that a stone idol representing this supernatural would accompany Inca armies into battle (Bauer 1998: 108–110). It will be worthwhile to describe a few of these principal landscape supernaturals in more detail. Apurimac was a great deity and oracle with its shrine overlooking the Apurimac River. Pedro Pizarro’s description of the shrine is among the most detailed. He states that: Arriving at the Apurimac at this Apurimac the devil talked to them, it happened here in front of a Spaniard who had been taken prisoner by Manco Inca, by the name of Francisco Martin, it is he who made this devil speak in front of Francisco Martin, who said he heard the voice of the devil responding to Manco Inca, who said “look how my god talks to me.” (1978[1571]: 81) With this Apurimac was an elaborately painted hut (buhío) with placed inside a shaft wider than a very fat man with many cracks. It was covered in blood which they sacrificed to it. It had a palm wide gold band centered and soldered like lace, protruding from it were two large golden breasts, like of a woman, soldered to the same belt. . . . Next to this large post were many more in a row on both sides, which filled the chamber. These posts too were drenched in blood and were dressed in mantas like the large post. They resembled statues of women. From this large post they said the devil called Apurimac talked to them. Its priestess named Asarpay (as = this is, arpay = blood sacrifice) (Ricardo 1951[1561]: 170). . . . threw herself off the

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Figure 2.1. Guaman Poma (1936: 261): Topa Inca addressing Waka.

cliff from a great height near the descent to the bridge across the Apurimac river. After she had covered her head and with great courage she threw herself in the Apurimac river in the gorge that was more than 60m deep, to the idol in whose service she ministered. . . . Apurimac was among their principal idols. (Pizarro 1978[1571]: 82–83) 48

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It is not difficult to consider the soundscape of the mighty roaring Apurimac River with its shrine overlooking the gorge, where the high priestess would interpret the sound coming of the rushing waters and surrounding reflective surfaces for those needing its advice. This river was an obvious sentient being for all to see and hear, changing shape, size, and color as well as breathing sounds with the changing seasons throughout the year. González Holguín references variations on the term Rimac in an instructive manner with Rimani rimarini translated as hablar or “talking” (1989[1608]: 317), Rimarcurini hablar con enojo, meaning “talking in anger” (1989[1608]: 317), Rimachipuni alcahuetar, “gossip” or “mediate” (1989[1608]: 318), and Rimachipuni o rimapuni Ynterceder o hablar por otro, o en nombre de otro, signifying “intermediate” or “speak on behalf of another.” These elements conflate aspects of forceful speech with notions of mediation and negotiation. Despite detailed descriptions, the site of the actual shrine of Apurimac remains to be identified archaeologically. The site of Usccunta, a name that suggests a reference to a mountain cat (González Holguín 1989[1608]:265), was a major pilgrimage center situated in former Rucanas/Lucanas territory on the district boundary of Aucara with Cabana Sur, in the Department of Ayacucho. It was first investigated and reported on by Yuri Cavero Palomino (Cavero 2010: 36–71, 86–90). Usccunta was an important oracle and Usccunta currently still represents a major wamani in the mythology of the region. As noted by Cristobal de Albornoz, a rock on top of Usccunta was the principal waka of the Soras (Duviols 1984: 207). This stone is certain to be the rock feature still standing proud on the top of this mountain making it a distinguishing feature recognizable from 30 to 40 km away (Figure 2.2). The site constituted a seasonal pilgrimage center during the Late Intermediate period used by the Soras and Rucanas, which was subsequently appropriated and used by the Incas. The waka would have been consulted on important matters by the leaders of regional polities, and where this was considered necessary by the Inca. Usccunta is large, up to 80 hectares. It has two ushnu platforms and a range of other building types including kallanka, chullpa, and collca structures. It is flanked by three mountaintops: Usccunta, Warmitalle, and Canrarac, Usccunta being by far the largest of the three. It is rounded in shape and defined at various levels by very wide natural terraces delineated by vertical cliff faces. The summit representing the waka rises like a pinnacle out of the center of the peak. Warmitalle is immediately west of Usccunta and comprises a ragged stepped Reflective and Communicative Waka: Interaction with the Sacred

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Figure 2.2. Usccunta mountain with Waka summit. (Frank M. Meddens)

denuded peak. Southeast of Usccunta is a large plain at the southern limit of which the topography rises constituting Canrarac. The principal archaeological remains at Usccunta are spread across three sectors: the plain to the southeast, where besides the two platforms, rectangular and circular structures are present in the immediate vicinity of the ushnu platform nearest the Usccunta mountain (Intiwatana 2). The rectangular structures appear to comprise a very damaged patio group, at least some of the buildings of which were originally constructed of finely cut blocks of polygonal ashlar. The first natural terrace of the Usccunta mountain is accessed up a 1.5 m wide and 6 m high staircase built of carefully selected and modified fieldstone. The terrace thus accessed counts at least 3 kallankas and three patio groups with rectangular buildings and circular structures on the south and southwest side of the terrace. The rectangular buildings here include several of finely cut stone. Further west at this level there is no surface evidence for structural features, and to the north the remains of a series of circular corrals are found—with to the east a series of chullpa-like structures and other smaller buildings. The second terrace stage is accessed up a further staircase through an opening in a roughly 2.2 m high encircling wall, possibly of a defensive nature. This has a large number (> 100) of roughly built small circular structures of variable diameters, grouped in 3 to 5 units around patio-like 50

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spaces. These are all constructed of modified fieldstone and are suggestive of temporary perhaps seasonal occupation/use. They may represent a temporary accommodation for people visiting the oracle on a seasonal pilgrimage. The architectural forms present are characteristic of the Late Intermediate and the Late Horizon periods and have Inca and Chanca, Soras and Rucanas cultural affiliations. The cultural material collected at the site was limited to surface finds comprising lithics as well as pottery. Much of the assemblage pertains to the later pre-Hispanic periods, Late Intermediate and Late Horizon, with a small group of Inca ceramics, and a single badly eroded Middle Horizon face neck jar fragment (epoch 2). A small copper or silver spatula or spoon, with a human figure standing on top of the handle with the left hand pointing skyward and the right hand pointing earthward (Figure 2.3), is probably Late Horizon in date.

Figure 2.3. Spoon/spatula human figure. (Frank M. Meddens)

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Guaman Poma in his images in the Galvin manuscript (Murúa 2004 [1590–1609]: 96v) depicts Inca Yupanqui addressing a group of Waka including Pachayachachic (Figure 2.4). This group of animated objects significantly includes two conically shaped examples as well as two clearly human-shaped ones. Of the latter the one facing the viewer has one arm raised with the other

Figure 2.4. Inca Yupanqui addressing Waka. (Murúa 1986[1590–1609], v. 96: reproduced by kind permission of Sean Galvin) 52

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pointing down similar to the manner in which the human figure on the terminal of the small spoon found at Usccunta has its arms positioned (Figure 2.3), in a pose of mediation between the various sacred realms. This illustration accompanies a description made of sacrifices to the sun including that of human and child sacrifice and how Capac Yupanqui created the Quisuar Canch Pachayachachici temple. The positioning of the ushnu platforms, separated by 520 m on a wide open plain, with one situated slightly higher than the other, one on gray-white bedrock and the other on red material, expresses the dual social structure of Incadominated communities and the community interactions and displays that would be performed in this space. The three mountain features surrounding the open performance space presented the reflective surfaces that facilitated the acoustic operation of this public space. This part of the site would on occasion have accommodated large-scale publicly visible communal ceremonies. Sound testing at this site demonstrated that voice, drum, and in particular the shell trumpet sourced sounds could be effectively heard over considerable distances; in particular the pututu could be easily distinguished at distances of over 500 m. At such a distance individual features of the person producing the sound are lost, facial features are invisible, and hand and arm signals are difficult to distinguish with the naked eye (Meddens and Frouin 2011: 32).

Oracles Inca rulers would consult the principal oracles in advance of making important decisions, and these could be brought together in council for consultation (Gose 1996: 5). This would involve uniting their idols, stone huauques, and mummies with their agents. Yearly consultation of provincial communities would take place through the gathering of their local wakas in the citua festival when these, through their representative agents, would be consulted in Huacaypata (Gose 1996: 6). Records were kept of predictions and where oracles were deemed to have made errors or incorrect prophecies, this could result in severe punishment including the destruction of their principal shrine and the killing of its priests (Gose 1996: 6). Inca rulers destroyed oracles whose prophecies had been incorrect. The Spanish extirpators found it particularly difficult to destroy wakas. For example, Reflective and Communicative Waka: Interaction with the Sacred

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the Augustinians tried to destroy Catequil, where they witnessed their efforts resulting in a multiplication of shrines and idols of this deity with agency. Catequil is one of the most well-known oracle mountain deities accepted to have previously been destroyed by Atahuallpa following a false prognostication. It is doubtful that Inca rulers would have been unaware of the characteristics of waka that facilitated their revival and resurrection. Although there is no documented confirmation of this, it is probable that Atahuallpa’s punishment of Catequil included a withdrawal of state-sponsored tribute. Destruction and loss of resources would have been associated with a reduction in prestige, but its ultimate end goal is unlikely to have been the eradication of the associated cult. The Sapa Inca would have been fully aware of the waka’s resurrectional qualities. The priest or mediators of oracles would often get drunk and would only provide their response to consultations the following day (Polo de Ondegardo 1916[1571]: 29; Murúa 1986[1590–1609]: 434). During the consultation, it appears there would be more stress on sound effects than on explicitly worded replies. In numerous accounts it is noted that the voice of the medium was usually distorted (Romero 1918: 187). When asking advice of the oracles, their priests go before their idols, pull in their shoulders, planting their beards on their chests extending their chins so that they look like fierce devils and then they commence talking in a high singing voice. (Cieza de León 2005[1551]: XLI 390–391)

Speech of Wakas Little of the direct speech by wakas from the protohistoric period has been recorded nor do the extirpation documents of the colonial period reference what it was that the wakas said or the sounds they made at this time. It is as if the Spanish priests either considered the words used as unimportant or alternatively feared that recording them might involve a measure of risk. To be considered adequate, any waka would need to speak at least occasionally (Gose 1996: 3). From the Chanka war accounts there are descriptions of Inca Yupanqui’s interactions with Viracocha Pacha Yachachic for which some of the putative words of the deity have been chronicled. Betanzos expressed some of the dialogue with Viracocha Pacha Yachachic as direct speech. A noteworthy detail is that in his speech to this deity Inca Yupanqui here addresses Viracocha Pacha Yachachic (representing the creator) as “father” (Betanzos 1987: 32). 54

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Viracocha Pacha Yachachic came to Inca Yupanqui in the form of a man and said: “Son you shall have no fear as come the day you will give battle with your enemies you will rout them and be victorious” (Betanzos 1987: 32). And on a subsequent night the deity appeared again to him and stated: “Son tomorrow your enemies will come to give battle and I will save you with men so that you will rout them and be victorious” (32). The event is also referenced by Sarmiento who notes that the apparition occurred near Susurpuquio and was of a person appearing up in the air “like the sun,” but Sarmiento does not mention any direct speech by this supernatural being (Sarmiento 1988[1572]: 27, 87) Cristóbal de Molina describes Inca Yupanqui—Pachacuti’s vision writing: At Susurpuquio, he observed a crystal mirror fall in the spring in which he saw the figure of a man, who appeared as follows: from the back of the neck projected three shimmering rays, like the rays of the sun; from the armpits emerged coiled serpents; his head was covered in a royal fringe like the Inca’s, his ears were pierced and embellished with earspools. His clothes were like those of the Inca. From between his legs emerged the head of a lion (puma) and from the shoulders another lion’s (puma) head, the front legs of which appeared to envelop his shoulders; and like a snake covered his shoulders down. This alarmed Inca Yupanqui such that he wanted to flee. The idol cried out his name from within the spring, declaring: “Come here son, have no fear, for I am the Sun your father, and I know that you will subject many nations to your rule; vitally take notice of me, worship me and remember me in your sacrifices. Then the figure disappeared leaving the mirror in the spring which the Inca took, and they say in which he saw many things when he wanted to. (1989[c.1576]: 60) Cieza de León tells us of a cacique from the village of Ancerma who wanted to convert to Christianity and saw demons who wanted to frighten him away from his good intentions. And with them and the cacique came more than 200 Indians. More were so fearful of the demons that they did not dare to come close to the cacique. With the Christians some evil things took place, in which the demons took the cacique up in the air to throw him over a cliff. He spoke and said let me be a worthy Christian. The (demons) came for him. . . . All observed small stones falling off the house. And heard whistling similar Reflective and Communicative Waka: Interaction with the Sacred

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to when the Indians go to war and exclaim hu hu hu that this is how they heard the demons loud and in a frenzy. All appealed to our Lord as for his glory and health of the soul of this infidel, . . . They say that the Indian called Tamaracunga (the cacique) said that he could see the demons who looked fierce with their heads underneath and their feet up in the air. . . . They (the Indians) attacked them (the demons) and stole the Indian away and poured holy water over him and they heard whistling and whistles in the church and Tamaracunga saw them and they came for him and slapped him and threw him a hat which he pulled over his eyes so as not to see them (the demons) and. . . . nothing was heard not even the demons dared stop nor was the cacique further harmed. . . . (Cieza de León 2005[1551] Cap CXVIII 288–291) Acosta notes that the waka Pachacamac whistled or screeched horrifically when replying to its priest’s inquiries (Acosta 1591: book V, chap. 12, 216); while Calancha states that when the native priests consulted their deities, these responded with a frightening whistle (Calancha 1976[1638]: book II, chap. 11, 370). At the time of the Taqui Oncoy movement during the 1560s, the wakas were felt as having grown silent because they went hungry. The leaders and followers of the movement believed that the wakas had risen to defeat the Christian god. The wakas were seen flying around in baskets. It should be noted that one of the most obvious aspects of the Taqui Oncoy movement is that in this millenarian uprising the wakas spoke through people rather than stones, trees, etc. (Cavero 2001: 64). In present-day Andean rituals involving a dialogue with wakas and sacred entities, the curandero or shaman will perform the necessary exchanges with the sacred realm and either the waka’s responses will not be discernible by other participants in the ritual or the curandero will voice the waka’s side of the interchange in his or her own intonation or using a distinct tone of voice for the part of the waka (Larco 1997: 51; Platt 1998). In the example of Santiago de Pumpuri in the department of Oruro discussed by Tristan Platt, the shaman’s dialogue with the mountain deity Jurq’u enmeshes the shaman speaking both for himself and in a distinct voice for the mountain deity (Platt 1998: 9). Sound undoubtedly played a crucial role in the communication of Andean peoples with the sacred. A rhythmic element and specific frequencies of sound can have a deep emotional impact on the listeners, resulting in involuntary, 56

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automatic motor responses (Kemper 2004). The use of such elements in exchanges between Andean religious specialists and wakas would have been a normal part and parcel of any form of ritual communication, and is being used at present. Curanderos in the Moche Valley on the north coast of Peru deploy a wide range of sounds in their ritual curing ceremonies including chanting recitation, whistling, guttural and modulated sounds, as well as live instrumental music with rattles, violins, guitars, flutes, and harmonicas (Larco 1997). The background sounds of animals present may also be incorporated in the structuring of such events and used as interpretative tools (53).

Archaeoacoustics I postulate that the Incas proactively took acoustics into account in the planning of their public spaces. This would have been of prime importance for the pre- or proto-literate state where the communication of sometimes complex notions and instructions to large groups of people would have required public space where such instructions could be imparted using the human voice probably accompanied, where necessary, by use of codified musical and visual messages. Much of the Incas’ communal sacred space was out in the open air, with some enclosed spaces such as the hall like kallankas being limited to use during bad weather. Seasonality made the weather relatively predictable. Such halls would offer a relatively simple acoustic environment to support communication with any audience gathered inside. There were also much smaller temple spaces, the use of which would be limited to select individuals such as the priests and retainers assigned to these temples. In these spaces communication of complex ideas to any audience would be straightforward because of both the limited size of the space and therefore of any spectators. Communication in large open spaces sets significant challenges. Stobart notes, “the rocky riverine environment depicted by Guaman Poma certainly suggests the possibility of acoustic reflection,” and it is notable that in his Quechua-Spanish dictionary Diego González Holguín (1989[1608]: 357) translates Vrccop yachapaksimin (literally “the mountain speaks in imitation”) as El eco (“echo”; Stobart 2014: 138). This supports the notion that the Incas would favor spaces that had good reflective surfaces for use in any large-scale interactions with public gatherings. The antiquity and importance of sound at sites in the Andes, which have been interpreted as major oracle and pilgrimage sites have been confirmed at Reflective and Communicative Waka: Interaction with the Sacred

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the Early Horizon Chavín Temple in the Callejon de Huaylas. Here, iconography on relief-carved stone plaques has been identified depicting shell trumpet or pututu, playing supernaturals flanking its circular plaza, and an offering comprising 20 of these shell trumpets has also been identified (Rick and Lubman 2002) in the excavation of one of the temple galleries. Acoustic testing of the site has demonstrated that a series of ducts leading from near the mouth of the stone-sculpted supernatural monolith of the Lanzón, the principal stone effigy (interpreted as the “oracle” of the site) here are optimum for the reproduction of pututu sound to the sunken circular plaza facing the temple. As Kolar states, whether this demonstrates that the pututu was the voice of the oracle or not, it is clear that the architectural spaces would have facilitated the use of the pututu within the site’s ceremonial space (2018: 34). Acoustic research by Kolar et al. at the Inca administrative center of Huánuco Pampa has convincingly demonstrated that the soundscape presented by its 21 ha plaza there, with its centrally placed large ushnu platform, facilitated not just the possibility of actors standing on the edges of this platform efficiently communicating with people gathered in the plaza, but also the reverse possibility of communication from locations within the plaza with people situated on the platform. Their work furthermore confirmed the efficiency of the use of the shell trumpet for coded messaging over long distances even at times of elevated wind noise, which would drown out other forms of communication such as a drum or the human voice (Kolar et al. 2018). Soundscape research completed by the current author and Millena Frouin at the Late Intermediate period and Late Horizon Inca pilgrimage and oracle site of Usccunta has confirmed that the two ushnu platforms situated at opposite ends of the large level open performance space here, which is estimated as being greater than 16 ha and less than 20 ha, would have been ideal for use in public rituals. Here too the human voice, drum, and pututu tests completed confirmed that particularly the latter would have constituted the most efficient instrument to deploy for coded sound messaging across this area. This would have facilitated coded sound communication between individuals on both platforms and with individuals grouped anywhere within the open space between. The northern platform is positioned slightly higher than the southern one with the former being constructed on red bedrock material and the latter on gray. The building stone of both platforms offers a similar color difference and acoustically this duality is further confirmed with the sound-reflective characteristics of the northern platform being better than the southern equivalent (Meddens and Frouin 2011). 58

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The soundscape reconstructions at Usccunta and Huánuco Pampa confirm that the planners of sites like these were able to take into account the acoustic characteristics of very large open spaces in order to allow them to use these in communicating information to large group gatherings. The use of special instruments such as pututus and drums as well as elaborate visual prompts and choreography would have been deployed to achieve the required results. Without a doubt the various levels of communication at a state center like Huánuco Pampa and at a pilgrimage site such as Usccunta would have included dialogues with wakas in which reflective surfaces would have facilitated the reverberation of sound. The results of acoustic testing at Chavín the Huantar confirm the considerable time depth of acoustic planning in site use in the Andean context.

Discussion and Conclusions The etic perspective of the manner in which the waka network functioned, in particular its prophesying properties, is anchored in the fact that many of these wakas represented the mummies or symbolized representations of the ancestors of the Inca and regional elite. The individuals who gave these voice and agency, their soothsayers, expressed the wishes of the ancestors. Consultation was indirect—with the dead ancestors rather than with regional kurakas, powerbrokers, and potentially rival Inca factions. It was therefore with agents who had proven themselves reliable and trustworthy while alive. As these were in the category of deified ancestors, they would have been in an acceptable class for such a dialogue with the Inca god/king (Gose 1996). This further served to make Inca rule more secure than it might otherwise have been (Gose 1996). A state without the means of sounding out opinion across its population would quickly find itself unable to operate efficiently. The fact that wakas were fallible and could be devious in their dealings with the ruling elite could be very useful to the ruling class. Direct evidence for anger on the part of the wakas and apus would be very obvious to the ruled, in droughts, hail, floods, and disasters causing crop failures. This could result in the speedy removal of a kuraka from office where his mediation with the supernatural proved unproductive. It is in this context that mistakes made and deceitful behavior by oracles could be advantageous to the ruling elite. Such occurrences could be used to divert responsibility for problems away from the political leadership. Reflective and Communicative Waka: Interaction with the Sacred

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The Inca as living god, as son of the sun, could, like other oracles and supernaturals, not always communicate for himself but needed an agent or mediator, and for this purpose the huauque was deployed. It allowed the Sapa Inca to be present in more places at once and through the huauque’s retainer enabled the Inca to speak to his subjects as well as being present on distant battlefields. When consulting his personal huauque by talking with its principal retainer, the Inca would be able to get information about events that had taken place at considerable distance. The dialogue with the supernatural in the Andes is and was one that included modified speech, whistling, music, and song. It would also, where required, have been supported by the consumption of mind-altering substances (chicha, San Pedro cactus, ayahuasca, tobacco, etc.) for the priests, soothsayers, and representatives of the wakas as well as those on whose behalf consultations were being conducted. The soundscape in which these events took place would undoubtedly have contributed to the emotional state of all participants. As discussed by Dean, the modification of natural stone by the sculptor into a sanctified object, a waka, involved mediation by the sculptor with the animated stone being sculpted, a dialogue of the sculptor with the emerging waka (2019). The fact that such a dialogue could entail a long process in which a stone would be repeatedly addressed as part of a continuing exchange is obvious from the superimposition of sculpted elements in the case of the Piedra Cansada/ Collaconcho near Cuzco (Dean 2019) and many of the cup-marked rocks found in the Chicha Soras Valley (Figure 2.5; Meddens 2006). This superimposition shows that the sculptor repeatedly returned to the object modifying previously completed work and implies a continuing dialogue. The responses of the stones being worked would be clear from the sounds resulting from the stone being hammered. The sound made by stone being pounded continues to be used in seasonally played music in which large resonating boulders are struck for the sounds they produce at sites around Kalankira in Bolivia (Stobart 2006: 11, 32–35, 175, 228, 236, 267). Such bell stones have similarly been recognized in Peru (Herrera Wassilowski, personal communication 2013), albeit no longer in current use. The landscape setting of the large open outdoor spaces used for group communication at some of the Incas’ sacred sites noticeably incorporate and make use of reflective surfaces in their configuration. The wording used by González Holguín in his translation of Vrccop yachapaksimin as signifying “the mountain speaks in imitation” and “echo” is particularly revealing in such context (Stobart 60

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Figure 2.5. Example of cup-marked rock with superimposition in the Chicha Soras Valley. (Frank M. Meddens)

2014). It is in this setting that we should interpret the acoustic properties of those sites where soundscape research has been conducted such as Chavín de Huantar, Huánuco Pampa, and Usccunta.

Note 1. Royal fringe or Inca royal badge of office.

References Cited Acosta, Joseph 1591 Historia natural y moral de las Indias, En que se tratan las cosas notables, y elementos metales, plantas, y animales dellas: y los ritos, y ceremonias, leyes y gobierno, y guerras de los Indios. Iyame Cendrat, Barcelona. Allen, Catherine J. 1988 The Hold Life Has: Coca and Cultural Identity in an Andean Community. Smithsonian Institution Press, London. Bauer, Brian 1998 The Sacred Landscape of the Inca: The Cusco Ceque System. University of Texas Press, Austin. Beorchia Nigris, Antonio 1985 El enigma de los santuarios indigenas de alta montaña, Tomo 5, Revista del C.I.A.D.A.M., San Juan, Argentina.

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Betanzos, Juan de 1987[1551] Suma y narración de los Incas. Ediciones Atlas, Madrid. Bolin, Inge 1998 Rituals of Respect: The Secret of Survival in the High Peruvian Andes. University of Texas Press, Austin. Cabello Balboa, Miguel 1951[1586] Miscelánea Antárctica. Universidad Nacional Mayor de San Marcos, Lima. Calancha, Fray Antonio de 1975[1638] Crónica moralizada del orden de San Augustín en el Peru, con Sucesos ex. Exemplares vistos en este Monarchia Pedro. Vol. 1, Lacavalleria, Barcelona. Cavero Carrasco, Ranulfo 2001 Los Dioses Vencidos, Una lectura Antropológico del Taki Oncoy. UNSCH, Unicamp, Ayacucho. Cavero Palomina, Yuri I. 2010 Inkapamisan: Ushnus y Santuario Inka en Ayacucho, 2nd ed. Universidad Nacional de San Cristóbal de Huamanga/Municipalidad Distrital de Lucanas, Ayacucho. Chase, Zachary 2015 What Is a Wak’a? When Is a Wak’a? In The Archaeology of Wak’as, Exploration of the Sacred in the Pre-Columbian Andes, edited by T. Bray, pp. 75–126. University Press of Colorado, Boulder. Cieza de León, Pedro de 1985[1553] La crónica del Perú. Segunda parte (el Señorio de los Inkas), F. Cantú (ed.). Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú, Fondo Editorial, Lima. 2005 [1551] La crónica del Perú: el Señorío de los Incas. Editorial Biblioteca, Ayacucho. Crickmay, Lindsey 2006 Stone: Spanish “Mojon” as a Translation of Quechua and Aymara Terms for “Limit.” In Kay Pacha: Cultivating Earth and Water in the Andes, edited by P. Dransart, pp. 71–76. Archaeopress, Oxford. Curatola Petrocchi, Marco 2016 La voz de la huaca acerca de la naturaleza oracular y el trasfondo aural de la religión andina antigua. In El Inca y la Huaca, La religión del poder y el poder de la religión en el mundo andino antiguo, edited by M. Curatola Petrocchi and J. Szeminski, pp. 259–316. Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú, Fondo Editorial, Lima. Dean, Carolyn 2019 A Rock and an Art Place: The Inkas’ Collaconcho in Context. World Art. DOI: 10.1080/ 21500894.2019.1601131. Duviols, Pierre 1984 Albornoz y el espacio ritual andino prehispánico, instrucción para descubrir todas las Guacas del Piru y sus Camayos y Haziendas. Revista Andina 2: 169–222. González Holguín, Diego 1952[1608] Vocabulario de la lengua . . . Qquichua o del Inca. Instituto de Historia, Lima. 1989[1608] Vocabulario de la lengua general de todo el Peru llamada lengua Qquichua o del Inca. Universidad Mayor de San Marcos, Lima. Gose, Peter 1996 Oracles, Divine Kingship, and Political Representation in the Inka State. Ethnohistory 43(1): 1–32. Guaman Poma de Ayala, Felipe 1936[1583–1615] Nueva corónica y buen gobierno. Institut d’Ethnologie, Paris.

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1980[1583–1615] El primer nueva corónica y buen gobierno, edited by J. V. Murra, R. Adorno, and J. Urioste. Siglo Veintiuno editors, Mexico. Harvey, Graham 2005 Animism: Respecting the Living World. Hurst and Company, London. Julien, Catherine J. 2000 Reading Inca History. University of Iowa Press, Iowa City. Kemper Columbus, Claudette 2004 Soundscapes in Andean Contexts. History of Religions 44: 2, 153–168. Kolar, Miriam A. 2018 Archaeoacoustics: Re-Sounding Material Culture. Acoustics Today (Winter): 28–37. Kolar, Miriam A. Covey, R. Allan, and José Luis Cruzado Coronel 2018 The Huánuco Pampa Acoustical Field Survey: An Efficient, Comparative Archaeoacoustical Method for Studying Sonic Communication Dynamics. Heritage Science 6: 39. DOI: 10.1186/s40494-018-0203-4. Larco, Laura 1997 Encounters with the Huacas: Ritual Dialogue, Music and Healing in Northern Peru. The World of Music 39(1): 35–59. Meddens, Frank M. 2006 Rocks and Stones in the Landscape, Managing the Inca Agricultural Cycle. Antiquaries Journal 86: 36–65. Meddens, Frank M., Colin McEwan, and Cirilo Vivanco Pomacanchari 2010 Inca “Stone Ancestors” in Context at a High Altitude Usnu Platform. Latin American Antiquity 21(2): 173–194. Meddens, Frank M., and Millena Frouin 2011 Inca Sacred Space, Platforms and Their Potential Soundscape. Preliminary Observations at Usnu from Ayacucho. Revista Haucaypata 1: 24–40. Molina, Cristóbal de 1989[c. 1576] Relación de los ritos y fábulas de los Ingas. In Fábulas y Mitos de los Incas, edited by Henrique Urbano and Pierre Duviols, pp. 47–134. Crónicas de América Series. Historia 16, Madrid. Murúa, Martín de 1986 [1590–1609] Historia General del Perú. Edición crítica de John V. Murra y Rolena Adorno, traducciones y análisis textual del quechua por Jorge L. Urioste. 2004 [1590–1609] Códice Murúa. Historia y Genealogía de los Reyes Incas del Perú (Códice Galvin), edited by Juan Ossio. Testimonio Compañía Editorial, Madrid. Niles, Susan A. 1999 The Shape of Inca History: Narrative and Architecture in an Andean Empire. University of Iowa Press, Iowa City. Pachacuti Yamqui, Joan de Santa Cruz 1993 [1613] Relación de antigüedades deste reyno del Pirú. In Relación de Antigüedades deste Reyno del Pirú, edited by P. Duviols and C. Itier, pp. 181–268. Instituto Francés de Estudios Andinos/Centro de Estudios Regionales Andinos Bartolomé de las Casas, Lima and Cusco. Pizarro, Pedro 1978 [1571] Relación del descubrimiento y conquista de los reinos del Perú. Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú, Lima. Platt, Tristan 1998 El sonido de la luz: Comunicación emergente en un diálogo chamánico quechua. Guaraguao 2(6): 4–42.

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Polo de Ondegardo, Juan 1916 [1571] Informaciones acerca de la religión y gobierno de los Incas. In Colección de Libros y Documentos Referentes a la Historía del Perú. III: Lima. Reinhard, Johan, and Constanza Ceruti 2010 Inca Rituals and Sacred Mountains: A Study of the World’s Highest Archaeological Sites. Cotsen Institute of Archaeology Press, Los Angeles. Ricardo, Antonio 1951 [1561] Vocabulario y phrasis en la lengua general de los Indios del Perú, llamada Quichua y en la lengua Española, edited by G. Escobar Risco. Instituto de Historia de la Facultad de Letras, UNSM, Lima. Rick, John W., and David Lubman 2002 Characteristics and speculations on the uses of Strombus trumpets found at the ancient Peruvian center Chavín de Huántar. Journal of the Acoustical Society of America 112(5): 2366–2366. Romero, Carlos A. 1918 Idolatrías de los Indios Huachos y Yauyos. Revista Histórica 6: 192, 196–97. Lima. Sarmiento de Gamboa, Pedro 1988 [1572] Historia de los Incas. Biblioteca de Viajeros Hispánicos, Madrid. Sillar, Bill 2009 The Social Agency of Things? Animism and Materiality in the Andes. Cambridge Archaeological Journal 19(3):369–79. Stobart, Henry 2006 Music and the Poetics of Production in the Bolivian Andes. Soas Musicology Series, Ashgate, Hampshire, England. 2014 Staging Sound: Acoustic Reflections on Inca Music, Architecture and Performance Spaces. In Inca Sacred Space: Landscape, Site and Symbol in the Andes, edited by F. Meddens, K. Willis, C. McEwan, and N. Branch, pp. 133–146. Archetype Publications Ltd, London. Van De Guchte, Maarten 1996 Sculpture and the Concept of the Double among the Inca Kings. RES: Anthropology and Aesthetics 29–30: 256–268.

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II Images and Concepts

3 The Life Force Materialized in the Andean Religion Ch r ist i n e A . H a stor f

While not everyone believes in living religions, there are people who do, and surely there were people who did so in the past. The issue of how real a belief system is or is not can be debated, but here I want to propose that people in the past constructed their worlds and worldviews to make sense of what they experienced and to help them feel connected to their world through crafting, naming, and identifying belief systems that they experienced in their lived world. These could be materialized in various ways as rituals, images, and places where it was hoped that the belief systems were created and enacted. Through the materialization of worldviews (icons), meanings were communicated and instilled in the group, the family, and the individual. What were these meanings that changed daily and seasonal life for the people in the past? While we might not be able to get at these directly, we can assume that the powerful thoughts and values that dictated lives were engaged with regularly and even depicted in human-made things (Lechtman 1984). These objects carried many meanings, well beyond their physical existence, their meanings within. While we cannot really confirm what they meant, we can at least propose what was the range and import of beliefs and religions that the past Andean people lived by, when did such concepts begin, and when did they stop being believed in? Can we see any of these material manifestations in the remains of the past and trace their onset, existence, and decline, thus getting us a bit closer to past meanings? This chapter proposes that there was a religion that existed across the Andes from the early settled life through the Middle Horizon and into the Late Intermediate period in some places. Here, to elucidate an aspect of this religion as understood and practiced by ancient Andean peoples, I will focus on one icon of a religion that grew and flourished in the Andean region for thousands of

years, tracing its material and geographic spread and then decline, or at least transformation. This will allow us to pursue one aspect of the meaning within for the residents across this area, through the material expression that people created to express their beliefs. The religious belief of fecundity and vitality, in the central highlands today called sami (noun), is the energy and life force, essence that flows between things both organic and inorganic, and kamay (verb) to charge with being (sami or enq’a in Quechua) and ajayu in Aymara (Allen 1988; Catherine Allen personal communication, 2016; Bolin 1988; Salomon 1991; Yapita, personal communication, 2017). This broad concept is manifested in the front-faced personage encountered in the Formative (1500 BCE–AD 500) through the Middle Horizon (AD 500–1100) in the highlands.1 This image-being-religion seems to continue later through the Late Intermediate period along the north-central Peruvian coast, illustrating a different religious trajectory than the highlands (Carrión Cachot de Girard 2005[1959]; Mackey 2000). The materialization of this force took on many aspects and meanings, but clearly some core part of its materiality and related meanings continued throughout these cultures. This manifestation lasted for three thousand years, spreading across both the highlands and the coast, beginning in the highlands, spreading north, south, and west. It became a dominant ontological attribute of the highland and coastal Middle Horizon religions, but faded there with the end of the highland political entities (1100s), lingering within the northern coastal polities into the Late Intermediate times. Its variants have been evident in many different groups and images, as it was diversely portrayed. Here I want to focus on the materialization of the life-giving kamay force, materializing and representing fecundity, birth, and growth through images of females and living things. This icon was connected with the flows of energy in death as well, that is, there were manifestations that were intimately tied to transformation. These images on stone, cloth, and ceramic vessels do not represent gods or deities as we think about them today, nor were they always leaders dressed up as gods. I want to propose that they represent the life force that exists in all things, sami, manifested in different specific aspects of human-thing engagement.

Religion What religion does and how it participates in and is manifested by people’s daily lives is complex (Aldenderfer 2010; Bloch 1992). Religion as practice in 68

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the landscape, home, and through the things that are crafted to express these thoughts is entwined with belief. When believed in, religion creates a basis for the formation of individual and group identity; identifies non-human actors as elements of existence and provides mechanisms whereby they can be addressed; creates set of procedures or processes— such as ritual—that can be used to influence the course of events; presents a set of symbols—material, linguistic, and cognitive that conceptualize, reflect, capture, and represent the nature of existence, and finally, may become a kind of tool used by individuals or create new social and political spaces or resist their appearance.2 (Aldenderfer 2010: 81) Here I hope to elucidate an aspect of religion as understood and practiced by ancient Andean peoples through their materialization of their thought, in much the same way as Frank Salomon has recently done in his 2018 book. I want to focus on the agency of the materiality that people created and engaged with and what this might have meant to them, rather than how the practice of religion participated in political and economic change. That clearly happened, as the time and space that the focus of this chapter spans includes a wide range of societies and polities. But to remain focused, I want to pursue one aspect of the timeline of life force ontology, materially manifesting the female power across the Andes. This is an exercise in working with the meaning within. Religion and its practices are not static as they include the handmade items that manifest the residents’ beliefs. These things inform about the belief system with all of its variants. At times, form changes, and at other times it is constant. The stability as well as the change can inform us as to what past people were thinking about, were invested in, were dealing with in their lives, and what was important to them. To pursue this, I look at the images and the places where people created this manifestation of sami, thinking about these images and things that were imbued with kamay by the many participants up and down the Andean region. It is enough to assume that each creation linked to a sphere of centrifugal meanings and beliefs—what we are pursuing in this volume. The landscape is full of more than livelihoods, it is also a place of memories and connections, ancestors and forces, webs of social relations among things and people, past and present. Moving across the landscape and through their built landscapes concentrated experiences, helping to create a shared identity while enabling members of society to share their place in the world together (Ingold 1993). For highland Andean people, their constructed spaces mimic The Life Force Materialized in the Andean Religion

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and encapsulate their larger world, bringing together plains, lakes, rivers, and mountains on a human scale, done in order to unite and thereby enhance the experience of these symbolic powers of the greater world in one location. This marking of the landscape and materializing these dynamics escalated with settling and the more focused use of territories, allowing people to share aweinspiring events together. These engagements formed the early material evidence of Andean religion, where these experiences and forces were centripetally brought together in specific places, in architecture and in things (Fausto 1999). How specific rituals became materially manifested and what aspects of social life in the world were important enough to be reproduced and animated inform about community creation, exchange, and acceptance, illustrating the powerful narratives of peoples’ worldviews. Buildings suggest the value residents placed on manifesting a worldview, not only by the time invested but the form, orientation, and activities that occurred within them. A great deal of labor can go into the construction of ceremonial spaces as well as the rituals that occur within them, which, although buildings were created over time, held meanings for everyone in the community. While every local place elicited a memory for individuals in a community, the memories and meanings, when shared and rehearsed, worked together to form more significant nodes of core values and ways of organizing things—including religious forms. Many community-built spaces are situated in relationship to other significant places, especially in a topographically charged landscape. It is no surprise that early marked and built locations on the landscape in the Andes have been shown to have noteworthy viewsheds, often linked to important celestial events. These geographical links sustain centripetal energies in the minds of the inhabitants. These perspectives help to understand the crafted places on the landscape and importantly, potential meanings of these ritual locations and their community making. I believe that we can credit some past locations with such sacred meanings, and join with the earlier inhabitants in sensing at least some aspects of their religious components. Images represent meanings, myths, and stories, becoming signs that can provide deep meanings to new members. Some of these span long times over broad spaces. In our modern, Western world we see this operating with the image of the cross, reverberating out through many images, but all linking to Christianity in the mind of the seer when he or she encounters that image, whether they are Christians or not. Applying Peirce’s (1985) semiotic approach, linking objects to meanings, he 70

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set out three aspects or relationships for a sign: icon, index, and symbol. The first level, termed an icon, is a direct reproduction of the original form, a realistic resemblance, like a statue of Jesus for the son of God (Christie 2012: 616; Peirce 1985: 10–12). Such a reproduction can carry the potencies portrayed in the objects; through his index concept, Peirce allows for the transference or embodiment of some of the spiritual essence to the copy or new image, therefore, giving that thing agency (Gell 1998; Peirce 1985: 12–16). In this way holy water or church paraphernalia become imbued with some of the power of Christ due to their index. Important here is the active transference of the spiritual essence into the copy or manifestation, making it also powerful and active within society, like the original entity. The third tier, the symbol, illustrates how “meaning is generated in specific and personalized encounters” (Christie 2012: 619; Peirce 1985: 16–18). A symbol refers to the object with only those conventions created by the engager. Images of Christ on the cross worn around someone’s neck can make Christianity personal to the wearer and viewer. Thus, through the symbolization of concepts, like the concept of resurrection or redemption, the agency and impact of the sign can be uniquely active in many settings. Andean kamay takes this concept’s meaning one step further, where the maker would be actively revealing the meaning, the essence through their crafting of the object (Alberti and Bray 2009; Bray 2009; Sillar 2009). It is with these physical manifestations that people carry and link their webs of meaning by the use of their memory. Walter Benjamin (1999) has noted how the act of remembering collapses time, connecting the living and the dead, the past with the present, into a web of sacred events, things, and places across time. This collapsing time can merge generations who have participated in the same sacred spaces, and through this, each participant is connected to events of the past, present, and future, thus sustaining a religion over many years. This temporal implosion and valuation are manifested in the acts of pilgrimage and visitation, rite and ritual, and often is materialized in the participating objects that carry the essence of these actions and places. These events are materially manifested in building placements, constructions, imagery, paths, and sight lines (de Certeau 1989). By studying ritual locations and the material associated with them, we can visit the landscapes and sacred places of the past, and through this gain a better sense of what these ontologies might have been built of. The material crafted by people informs us as to their values and meanings; these objects and images speak to us about the meanings that they were trying to express. The Life Force Materialized in the Andean Religion

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An Andean Example I want to engage with the dynamics of religious places and things by tracing a small aspect of the ceremonial complex found in the southern Lake Titicaca region, located in modern Bolivia as it linked to a larger Andean religion. These data illustrate the creation of ritual material across the south-central Andean region when people first began to settle on the landscape. The structures that were built are witness to visible earth-place-person relationships, that include water and mountains but, also to invisible things, such as power dwellings, or hidden enclosures behind closed doors (Mannheim and Salas Carreno 2014). The sunken plazas that are evidenced early on reflect the collective performance of a group in demarcated space. How these were placed in relation to both the hidden and the visible spaces inform us about the values of that society. The images that were created reflect the spiritual world, the issues that brought the people together to create a basis for the formation of individual and group identity, that is religion. The front-faced female that was crafted and brought into these locations further displays the worldviews of the residents with their focus on fecundity and transformation. To present this briefly I must pick my data quite selectively, tracing this aspect of Andean religion. We are fortunate that there has been sufficient archaeology completed in the highlands now to be able to record parts of the sequence, including the earlier phases of dwelling and marking the landscape. Along with the architecture, the crafted things move us toward their lived lives but also what these people valued and paid attention to. While people moved into the Andean region 10,000 years ago, both along the coastline and through the Amazon along the rivers, the timing of settling, farming, and herding varied by region. The materialization of settling on the highland landscape reflects a shift in social relationships with the natural world by the residents who had previously moved seasonally with the larger herbivores, following the maturing plants. This settling, which is clearly evidenced by 2600–1500 BCE in the highlands, suggests that the inhabitants shifted their engagement with specific forces of nature that were important in their world. By viewing the Formative ritual gathering locations where people also resided at least for part of the year, ancestral participation through burials, iconographic images, and buildings was the materialization of these changing worldviews. From these traits we can sense how the early settled residents first formed and then maintained their communities through their 72

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shared religious beliefs and the materialization of their engagement with their ancestors and chthonic forces. I focus on the south-central Andes, not only because have I been working there for some years, but I see some early material evidence that I think reflects the larger ontological religious concept of being in the world: the animating essence, kamay/sami/fuerza/la energia concentrada (Allen 1988: 126; Bolin 1988: 232; Salomon 1991: 16). Core to this principle is the generative capacity within each thing, especially those things created by people. This engagement gives things an agentive possibility, a personhood in their own right (Allen 1988; Gell 1998). Such a concept links to animism and the dynamism in nature; in plants, animals, geology, water, climate, stars, sun, and moon, with which people live (Viveiros de Castro 2004). This concept allows us to work with the Peircean sign concept to link things to people and the meaning that is shared and interacted between them, based on the inner essences of the things in the universe (Allen 1988; Peirce 1985). The front-faced being has many facets and has been named many things in the Andean archaeological literature: the coastal icon, the warrior, the staff god, the predator, the sun god, the protector, the fertility god, the front-faced deity, the ancestors, etc. Here I focus on the female aspect, which I propose represents fecundity, the ability to generate life, to bring life into being. I suggest that when she was manifested, she reflected a focus on kamay/sami in the highlands with respect to female powers engaged in the process of local plant domestication. The archaeological record provides some examples of this being in various styles, which I want to trace here. These created images were not only direct icons (mimeses) of the power or tier 1 in Peirce’s logic, but were also tier 2—indices of the meaning that the concept held, the object holding these powers itself. This process of containing some spiritual and physical essence in its copy (miniature) is much like the huauques or doubles of the Inka (Bray 2009: 363; Christie 2012: 617; Lau 2008). Enlisting kamay, the power that animates (Garcilaso de la Vega 1963[1605]: XX) the replicas, as manifestations of the shared essence or power, operates also on the third level as symbols of the potency, contextualized in particular cultural and temporal settings. My point here is to trace not just the longevity of the front-faced deity as an index of this religion, but the female aspect and her specific powerful meanings. A huge question for south central Andeanists remains at the end of the Middle Horizon around AD 1000–1100. The Late Intermediate period settlements and their material culture display a major ontological The Life Force Materialized in the Andean Religion

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change that deletes earlier icons, indices, and symbols. Gone is the 3,000-year religious imagery of fecundity, life, and death cycles portrayed by the frontfaced images from across the highlands. How did that happen? While each creation of this image and engagement with it occurred in different places, participating in different social and political settings, there was a cluster of traits that materialized these concepts of energy, operable in every setting. These clearly were significant and valued by the residents throughout the highlands. Much like Christianity that has been experienced quite differently over the years and in different cultural and political settings, the image of the cross and some of its symbolism has remained constant (Swenson 2015). Some scholars see the early front-faced images and their associated religious tenets closely linked to the western Amazon ideologies, cosmologies, and rituals, as many eastern valleys connect to the highlands. This is most obviously evidenced in the Amazonian images at Chavín de Huantar in the highlands (Roe and Roe 2012; Tello 1960). Some see this image as fundamentally agricultural (Carrión Cachot de Girard 2005[1959]). Others have seen it as the core figure in a Middle Horizon corporate religion (the southern Andean iconographic series [SIAS]; Isbell and Knobloch 2006, 2009). There is clear material evidence that people moved back and forth between these ecological zones from the earliest times, carrying ideas as well as produce during the Archaic times. This movement is reflected in the four species of chili peppers (Capsicum spp.) domesticated in the Amazon yet earlier grown across the continent, with specific evidence in the early levels of Huaca Prieta by 2000 BCE (Chiou et al. 2014). The early images must index religious ideas or people would not have reproduced them with the same traits. The early front-faced images are manifested first in the northern Peruvian highlands called proto-Chavín/Cupisnique in the late Archaic, such as on a gourd at Pativilca (Haas et al. 2003: 9). Dated to 2250 BCE, a carved gourd found on a north central Peru coastal settlement depicts a front-faced being with feline traits, suggesting more of a human-predator power manifestation. Examples of the front-faced being become more widespread during the Formative times, from Chavín de Huantar to the Titicaca Basin, dating to around 1500–600 BCE (Quilter 2012). Chavín de Huantar is famous for its rich symbolic religious imagery, and one motif is clearly a front-faced image, illustrated by the Raimundi stela (Figure 3.1). The stone was not discovered in situ, making it difficult to note its Formative place of engagement (Burger 1992). This ungendered front-faced personage with a very elaborate headdress is holding two 74

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Figure 3.1. The Raimundi Stela from Chavín de Huantar, Peru. (www.studyblue.com, reproduced by kind permission)

elaborately growing poles, alluding items that have been suggested to be stalks of flowers, bamboo (charizo), spears, etc. The held items look alive and growing, illustrating this sense of growth and fecundity that this being embodies, a sense of sami, while simultaneously displaying an overt sense of power and ferocity, the potency of these multidimensional life forces. This stone carving’s small, detailed style assures us that it was experienced very personally; one has to be right up next to it to see the image and to sense the energies it emits. The Life Force Materialized in the Andean Religion

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Throughout this Formative time, there is evidence of increasing elaboration of ceremonial commemorations, materializing beliefs of growing gravitational forces within the dynamic sociopolitical developments. People throughout the central Andean region were focused on creating spaces for group gatherings and many of these included indexical images for the ritual activities; La Galgada, Kotosh, and Chavín are the most elaborate, long-lived central highland examples. At the same time in the Titicaca Basin a similar manifestation of this iconic engagement with similar signs existed. There, we have a growth of population clusters around the lake shore that Stanish discusses in this volume. Many of the communities put their energies into building sunken courts within plazas and often with a mound, which together create a place of congregation along with sacred, liminal built caves within mountains. Early Formative groups also materialized other powerful energies that interact with people, bringing these powers centripetally to specific ritual locations from across the landscape, as the residents built sacred spots on their landscape to concentrate, commemorate, and signify their engagement with the greater world around them. Chiripa is one of those centers that has been studied more extensively in the Titicaca Basin. Figure 3.2 provides the general scope of the settlement’s ceremonial core, with at least four sunken enclosures that have been studied, but it is likely that there were more sunken enclosures built throughout the Formative times here. At Chiripa we have a series of engagement levels for the ritual attendees, reflecting the potential range of religious experiences available. First (1 in Figure 3.3), a large open space was available for all who wanted to join in from near and far, with an upward gaze to the mountains to the east. Walking up and into the plaza within the mound, a smaller group would have been hindered from seeing their quotidian landscape, and not everyone could have been able to join in. Music, dancing, eating, drinking, and watching the heavens would have occurred in the interior sunken enclosure (2). The third space, the small, exclusive enclosures that surround the interior court, were elaborate rooms with image-filled niches. These were cave-like chambers for storing sacred items, for small ceremonies, and for completing private ceremonies. Almost surely hallucinogens were taken here, coca chewed, vilca (Anadenanthera colubrina) sniffed, and chicha beer drunk. Maize evidence first appears ceremonially in this Middle Formative phase at Chiripa (Logan et al. 2012). 76

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Figure 3.2. Formative Chiripa with excavations by the Taraco Archaeological Project with three sunken enclosures and one mound with a sunken enclosure within (montículo). The earliest is Choquehuanca dating to 1000 BCE. The mound with the interior enclosure dates to 800–400 BCE, the same place the vessel came from. (Christine Hastorf)

Figure 3.3. Chiripa ceremonial core with three levels of ceremonial engagement. (Christine Hastorf)

The early iconography that has been encountered at Chiripa and around the basin at this time is oriented toward fecundity, such as sprouting heads (tubers), wiggly fish, and living camelids. These can be associated with Chávez’s “YayaMama” religious concept that focuses on male-female power but has a specific focus on growth (2004). The personage in Figure 3.4 is part of a broader panAndean religious manifestation; here it is painted onto a drinking vessel found at Chiripa from the Middle Formative (800–200 BCE) mound deposit. She materializes fecundity on the vessel, suggesting that its liquid contents that will be incorporated into the partaker will transform them during their ceremonies. It displays a female being tethering a living camelid, an important creature in the residents’ lives as well as a major food source. The other hand holds a blooming plant, an image of life, fecundity, and vitality. This being materializes the modern concept of sami, the vitality of life (Allen 1988; Bolin 1988). This is not Yaya-Mama per se, in that it does not depict the male–female energetic balance, but focuses on the central female being’s powers (the vessel has two of these depicted vignettes running around it). Later, we see this female paired with male fecund images to the north, as another manifestation of chthonic powers in this religion. Due to space constraints I will not trace all paired examples of this fecund female. It displays an embodiment of the Formative residents’ ontological cohesion, as they marked their new ceremonial locations on the landscape, building congregating structures and living near each other in communities. Wendell Bennett excavated this vessel in 1934, collecting it from his trench through the Middle Formative stratigraphy of the Chiripa mound. He illustrated this ceramic vessel in his publication of his Chiripa excavations (1936: 437, Figure 26k). Whereas, when he published a roll-out drawing of the vessel with two personages and two camelids, in his drawing he forgot details that the painter knew were important: the white tether that links the living animal with the female being, animal to human. This tether is a materialization of the caretaker, the uywaña/uyway, nurturing these beings while animating their own sami and the kamay (life force) that is flowing between these beings, the plants, animals, and the woman. We can assume that such drinking vessels were passed around to the mound ceremony participants, incorporating the sami of the being with every gulp of the liquid in the vessel. At the next phase, the Late Formative, ranging between 200 BCE–AD 300, Sergio Chávez identified a local variant of this female being on ceramic drinking bowls at Pukara (Chávez 1992, 2002). These fragments were excavated by 78

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Figure 3.4. Bennett’s vessel showing a front-faced being with tethered camelid and flowering plant. (AMNH accession: 41.1.3909, reproduced by kind permission)

Alfred Kidder in the 1950s, located in the northern Titicaca Basin. This ceremonial center, like Chiripa, is built on a hillside, but all aspects are grander and more impressive in this later phase. A steeper hillside has huge terrace steps going up to a sunken enclosure with small rooms around it, like Chiripa. During use of this ceremonial construction, some niches were sealed with mud, containing carved stone images that are seen on the ceramics, reflecting some of the secretive aspects of this religion (Wheeler and Mujica 1981; Klarich 2005). Here, too, is the woman life giver, caring for a camelid and holding flowers, but in a different Pukara style, which took on some stylistic influences from the coastal Nasca during the Early Intermediate/Late Formative times. Figure 3.5 contains a line drawing of this incised ceramic image of this female being. This aspect of the being is clearly a woman, having tupu pins attaching her gown along with plaits and earrings. She has a tethered camelid and an idealized flower in her other hand, along with a netted bag. She is surrounded by huge flowers, suggesting that here she is Pukara’s version of this vitality deity. Meanwhile on the south-central coast in the Ica and Nasca Valleys, a series of Formative female beings are illustrated in textiles and ceramics in that local icon style. Figure 3.6 displays the famous cotton Karwa textile, often associated with Chavín stylistics. I do not see this other than in the eyes and teeth; I see a The Life Force Materialized in the Andean Religion

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Figure 3.5. Pucara drinking bowl image of the female front-faced being. (Chávez 2002, reproduced by kind permission)

local sensibility and style of this female fecund being. Holding two large blooming flowers, she wears a crown of flowers, and portrays the fierce power of her sex, with her predatory life-giving and life-taking vagina dentata. This clearly is a local take on the powerful growth-oriented female divinity, much like the Pativilca feline image. While quite different from the highland/altiplano styles, it is the same personage, reminding us of the various images of Jesus portrayed in various Christian churches around the world, sometimes with dark skin, sometimes light, and so on. The later phase, the Middle Horizon, is the culmination of the political trajectory that began in the Early Formative in the central highlands. Both the Wari and the Tiwanaku polities expand out around their centers to trade and extract resources and people who participate not only in their production and trade networks but also in their religious orders. Tiwanaku especially creates elaborate versions of the Formative basin religious architecture and ceremonies, with sunken enclosures on stepped platforms, and front-faced beings carved in stone. Figure 3.7 displays a series of front-faced images; the Tiwanaku image is on the far right of Anita Cook’s (1984) analysis of the Middle Horizon frontfaced deity. She sees this as a being that provides goods and largesse to the populace, again with a sense of giving based on fecund power. This figure com80

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Figure 3.6. The Karwa Early Horizon 700 BCE cotton textile of a front-faced deity. (Drawn by Helena Kansa, based on Lyon 1978: 144)

pares the Wari style of this being with the Tiwanaku gateway of the sun image. One can see their similarities easily but also their differences. Their squat bodies reflect the focus on importance, their heads and the power that it contains. Patricia Lyon (1978) has written about the Tiwanaku image being a female, but like the Raimondi Stela, many are not clearly gendered; they are manifesting an essence rather than a personage, but I agree that these certainly represent fecund generative power. These various images display slightly different objects that these beings are holding in their hands, but many of them evoke blooming flowers, especially the one from Pacheco. For both of these polities they continued to adhere to the Formative religion, creating fecund manifestations and honoring their powers, or at least indexing their powers. This was surely a strong religion of growth and fecundity, of plant and animal reproduction in the highlands up to AD 1100. The Life Force Materialized in the Andean Religion

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Figure 3.7. Front-faced deities from Middle Horizon stone and ceramics. (Cook 1984: 69, reproduced by kind permission)

Figure 3.8 is a provocative 3-D image painted on a ceramic bowl. It is exactly our highland version of the front-faced female being, with a camelid and mature maize plant, but centuries later and from the Ayacucho Valley, many kilometers north of the Titicaca Basin. Such a vessel with Middle Horizon Wari stylistic motifs informs us that this Titicaca Basin aspect of vitality was directly shared with the farmers of the Ayacucho Valley who focused on camelids and maize for their livelihoods. The personage is not clear as to gender, but fecundity is certainly indexed. Further north in the Callejón de Huaylas Recuay cultural group, this figure again turns up in the early Middle Horizon times at Chincawas, as the female of a paired male and female image carved at the entrance of a ceremonial building, discussed in some detail by George Lau (2008: 1034, Figure 51.3). These carvings link the Yaya-Mama dynamic symbol with the fecund female power. Carrión Cachot de Girard (2005[1959]), in a densely illustrated book on imagery from the central coast of Peru, has many images of the front-faced being from the Middle Horizon, again in different coastal iconographic styles. She is discussing the coastal MH-LIP religion linking these female and male manifestations (icon) to the sun. Whether or not it directly indexes to the sun, the female images are all linked to plant growth vitality. Most of them were stamped on mold-made pottery; being mass-produced, many could carry this image of vitality home for liquid libations. She has many ideas as to what the images rep82

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Figure 3.8. The Formative Titicaca basin being depicted in the Wari Middle Horizon of the Ayacucho Basin, holding a tethered camelid plus a maize plant, fully mature with three cobs. (Dumbarton Oaks # PC.B.609, reproduced by kind permission)

resent, again displaying how each community in their time indexed this potent symbol for their own needs and concerns. I present only one in Figure 3.9 for this discussion. This one is a female being holding stylized maize stalks in her outstretched hands. The author calls her the protector of maize, mother earth (Pachamama), indexing one aspect of the farmer’s interests along the Peruvian The Life Force Materialized in the Andean Religion

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coast. I see this as an icon of maize sami and the being’s kamay power. We see in this image the residents’ engagement with a broad and deep chthonic power, an image of potency coming to the aid of specific needs of a good harvest; like saints’ icons in the eastern Christian church today every home would have had one representation. In the case of the maize farmer, this liquid-holding vessel could have been brought to the fields to honor her plants as they grow. Many of the images Carrión Cachot de Girard presents and discusses come in pairs, a male and female aspect of the power on either side of the same jug, like the nearby Recuay pairing. These coastal vessels resonate with the Formative Titicaca Basin Yaya-Mama (male-female) concept. The final image I have included in this chapter comes from a stupendous silver drinking cup from the north coast of Peru (Figure 3.10). Like the images that Carrión Cachot de Girard presents in her book, this handmade vessel now in residence in the Denver Art Museum displays many versions of the front-faced being. Figure 3.10 presents only a portion of the images around the rim of the

Figure 3.9. Image of a front-faced being from the Casma Valley. (Carrión Cachot de Girard 1959: 84, Figure 68)

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silver vessel from Lambayeque of the early/middle Sicán era, that is, AD 800– 1100; the “terrestrial” front-faced beings as Mackey and Pillsbury (2013) call this group. These are terrestrial as they relate to aspects of life on the land, and are coupled with five marine life images also depicted as front-faced beings—suggesting that front-faced beings always have an essence of life giving sami and kamay. These five beings present a range of important material essences of the residents’ world. These personages relate to head lice, tubers, maize, legumes, and quinoa (from my plant interpretation of the images). This vessel, fully discussed in the article by Mackey and Pillsbury, displays many aspects of vitality incarnate. By this time on the coast, this being’s materialization related to many aspects of life—gathering fish, crabs, legumes, maize, and so on—all the things that those engaged in agriculture and fishing for their living were concerned about. I chose only this one section of images, as they are clearly index terrestrial fecundity (and the people who engage with these plant beings). Are these images on this vessel what coastal people propitiated to when they libated in the fields, danced, and sang, just like people did with the female image of the llama/ plant being of the altiplano? I am quite sure this was so. This qero tells us that the Formative religion continued in the north coast, for the farmers, fisherfolk, and the elite, whoever could afford to commission a silver qero honoring these fecund beings even after the Middle Horizon polities disbanded. This, in itself, is worthy of further study. This image icon and therefore this religion continue on in the north coast of Peru, up through the Middle Sicán until around AD 1100 (Eeckhout 2013; Jennings 2008). Figure 3.9, as Eeckhout notes, is only one aspect of the many frontfaced deities and their religious, ontological connotations he calls the coastal icon. Versions of this being exist on the coast from the late Archaic (Pativilca) into the Late Intermediate period. Sicán and Chancay settlements contain this imagery found on gourds, painted on cotton textiles and on ceramic surfaces. Many coastal archaeologists believe this image/icon and concept/symbol entered into the coastal region with the Wari polity influence, but clearly it and its associated religious beliefs were there well before the Wari polity both on the coast and in the highlands. This specific female index of this being, created and engaged with over so many generations and situations, displays its resilience and continuation as a core aspect of an Andean religion even in this dry coastal setting almost two thousand years later than the painted vessels at Chiripa and Pukara or the carving of the Raimundi stela. The Life Force Materialized in the Andean Religion

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Figure 3.10. Section of a Middle Horizon Lambayeque (Sicán) silver beaker with a series of front-facing aspects, which represent fecundity, from left to right linked to head lice, tubers, maize, legumes, and quinoa. (Mackey and Pillsbury 2013: 131, reproduced by kind permission)

Conclusion What was it about this personification of the sami/ajayu force that grabbed people’s sensibilities and channeled their spiritual engagements and worldviews, to recall, remember, and remake this image and its potent associated meanings over many generations and across vast distances? It is the meaning within this entity that continued to give strength and solace to those who engaged with her (and him, as it seemed to be able to be manifested in both genders in certain settings). Environmental phenomena express the essence of living things including the earth, sky, water, land, and weather. This essence, sami and its vitality, kamay, flows through all things, and thus is linked to all actions, both for good and bad, providing people a sense of the world over many generations across the Andean regions. While there were always ebbs and flows of natural and cultural events, bad weather, warfare, landslides, or disease, something else occurred at the end of the Middle Horizon/around AD 1100 in the highlands that caused this frontfaced being with all her manifestations to no longer be materialized (or remembered) in the lives of the people, as it stopped representing the dynamics of a religious focus and engagement with the chthonic powers of the inhabitants. Why did this image and religion die out after the Middle Horizon in the highlands and during the Late Intermediate period on the coast? This female, vitalityfilled being was one of the most significant icons that was ubiquitous across the Andes, almost defining what it was to be Andean; depicted and worshipped 86

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under many guises in a range of polities, political systems, and environments, like many of the saints in Christianity and gods in Hindu religion. Justin Jennings (2008) suggests that the Sicán deity lost its power at the end of the eleventh century due to a confluence of conditions—drought, flooding, and internal unrest—the usual suspects. It is not that this had not happened previously. Something else politically and socially was going on throughout the region to initiate this loss of faith for this sami being and all she stood for. In this moment of greater stress, the leaders could no longer work with or channel the kamay of the world around them, and thus everyone lost faith in these beings and their symbolic systems. The important point here is that this icon at the heart of ritual activities, the personifications of chthonic fecund powers, stopped being valued before the Inka began their conquests, not due to the Inka. This deity icon is not evident in the Late Intermediate period highland iconographies (as far as I know). This question of faith loss and religious destruction has only recently been a topic of study in the pre-Columbian Andean region but raises many questions about how political powers and ontologies interacted through the history of the region (Jennings 2008; Swenson 2015). This 3,000-year-old religion was materialized when people began settling on the landscape, and manifested at the early religious centers. The underlying principle was the essence of life, the kamay of the earth. This included a range of aspects and orientations—fecundity, life giving, life taking, warfare, physical power, sexual power, control of the weather, water, storms, and of the rocks. This chapter has concentrated only on the female fecund aspect of this essence, as those images are produced especially early in the Titicaca Basin, before the male images and before warrior images. These religious dynamics eventually participated in the growth, longevity, and influence of the highland Middle Horizon political orders, who shared this religion throughout the highlands. Such materializations created a shared identity across a broad expanse in the central Andes, if not a continuous political entity. This being’s actions, associations, and potencies were versatile and spoke to many people over 3,000 years. It was able to be reimagined in various guises for people in different places, cultures, and times, like Catholic saints since the early medieval times. These anthropomorphic beings were the materialization of sami ontologies to remember and honor the engagement with the world. The Life Force Materialized in the Andean Religion

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Through the icons, indexing, and symbols of this front-faced being, meanings were imbued in the images that interacted with people in many different settings. This seems understandable. What remains more difficult to understand is why did this religion fail along with the polities that accepted this religion across the highlands and then the coast? Other polities had come and gone as this religion continued. What were the new symbols and meanings that grew to dominate and replace this earlier chthonic religion? That question is an important one that remains to be investigated. In this chapter I simply wanted to focus on only one manifestation of this early pan-Andean religion, the female fecund being, and how her materialization was present across such a wide area, being meaningful for people for thousands of years as part of a multi-deified religion, and to begin to consider why such a being would have been jettisoned.

Acknowledgments I would like to thank Peter Eeckhout for inviting me to contribute to this volume. His comments on this chapter provided both corrections and insights to my thinking. Thanks also to the three reviewers who caught some senior moments. Several people provided permissions for me to reproduce their images, for which I am very grateful: Richard Burger, Sergio Chávez, Anita Cook, Joanne Pillsbury, Dumbarton Oaks, and American Museum of Natural History.

Notes 1. Most scholars have used the term staff god for aspects of this image, but this is a misnomer. The unifying theme of these personifications of potency is the front-faced open-armed accepting, watching aspect of these images, and therefore that is the term I use in this paper, front-faced. 2. While one could question the reality of religion and ask if religion has ever existed, I am not trying to question or discuss its existence or not in this essay but to recognize that for some there has been a reality of collective thought that can be reflected in materialities and agencies.

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Aldenderfer, Mark 2010 Gimme That Old Time Religion: Rethinking the Role of Religion in the Emergence of Social Inequality. In Pathways to Power: Archaeological Perspectives on Inequality, Dominance and Explanation, edited by T. Douglas Price and O. Bar-Yosef, pp. 77–94. Springer, New York. Allen, Catherine 1988 The Hold Life Has: Coca and Cultural Identity in an Andean Community. Smithsonian Institution Press, Washington, DC. Benjamin, Walter 1999 Excavation and Memory. Selected Writings, 2(part 2), 1931–1934. Bennett, Wendell C. 1936 Excavations in Bolivia (Vol. 35). American Museum of Natural History, New York. Bloch, Maurice 1992 Prey into Hunter: The Politics of Religious Experience. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Bolin, Inge 1988 Rituals of Respect: The Secret of Survival in the High Peruvian Andes. University of Texas Press, Austin. Bray, Tamara L. 2009 An Archaeological Perspective on the Andean Concept of Camaquen: Thinking Through Late Pre-Columbian Ofrendas and Huacas. Cambridge Archaeological Journal 19(3): 357–366. Burger, Richard L. 1992 Chavín and the Origins of Andean Civilization. Thames and Hudson, London. Carrión Cachot de Girard, Rebeca 2005[1959] La religión en el antiguo Perú: Norte y centro de la costa, período post-clásico. Tipografía Peruana, Lima. Chávez, Sergio J. 1992 The Conventionalized Rules in Pucara Pottery Technology and Iconography: Implications for Socio-political Developments in the Northern Lake Titicaca Basin. Unpublished PhD dissertation, Department of Anthropology, Michigan State University, East Lansing. 2002 Identification of the Camelid Woman and Feline Man Themes, Motifs, and Designs in Pucara Style Pottery. In Andean Archaeology II, edited by H. Silverman and W. H. Isbell, pp. 35–69. Springer, New York. 2004 The Yaya-Mama Religious Tradition as an Antecedent of Tiwanaku. In Tiwanaku: Ancestors of the Inca, edited by M. Young-Sanchéz, pp. 70–75. University of Nebraska Press, Lincoln. Chiou, Katherine L., Christine A. Hastorf, Duccio Bonavia, and Tom D. Dillehay 2014 Documenting Cultural Selection Pressure Changes on Chile Pepper (Capsicum baccatum L.) Seed Size through Time in coastal Peru (7600 BP–present). Economic Botany 68(2): 190–202. Christie, Jessica Joyce 2012 A New Look at Q’enqo as a Model of Inka Visual Representation, Reproduction and Spatial Structure. Ethnohistory 59(3): 597–630. Cook, Anita G. 1984 The Middle Horizon Ceramic Offerings from Conchopata. Ñawpa Pacha 22/23: 49–90. de Certeau, Michel 1989 The Practice of Everyday Life. University of California Press, Berkeley. The Life Force Materialized in the Andean Religion

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Eeckhout, Peter 2013 The Coastal Icon: A Reappraisal of Middle Horizon to Late Periods Iconography on the Central and North-Central Coast of Peru. Paper presented at the Society for American Archaeology, Honolulu, Hawaii. Fausto, Carlos 1999 Of Enemies and Pets: Warfare and Shamanism in Amazonia. American Ethnologist 26(4): 933–956. Garcilaso de la Vega, Inca 1963[1605] Comentarios reales de los Incas. Edited by Carmelo Saenz de Santa Maria. Biblioteca de Autores Españoles, Madrid. Gell, Alfred 1998 Art and Agency: An Anthropological Theory. Clarendon, Oxford. Gose, Peter 1993 Segmentary state formation and the ritual control of water under the Incas. Comparative Studies in Society and History 35(3): 480–514. Haas, Jonathan, Winifred Creamer, and Alvaro Ruíz 2003 Gourd Lord. Archaeology 56:9. Ingold, Tim 1993 The Temporality of the Landscape. World Archaeology 25(2): 152–174. Isbell, William H., and Patricia J. Knobloch 2006 Missing Links, Imaginary Links: Staff God Imagery in the South Andean Past. In Andean Archaeology III, edited by William H. Isbell and Helaine Silverman, pp. 307–351. Springer, New York. 2009 SAIS, the Origin, Development and Dating of Tiahuanaco-Huari Iconography. In Tiwanaku: Papers from the 2005 Mayer Center Symposium at the Denver Art Museum, edited by M. Young-Sanchez, pp. 165–210. Denver Art Museum, Denver. Jennings, Justin 2008 Catastrophe, Revitalization and Religious Change on the Pre-Hispanic North Coast of Peru. Cambridge Archaeological Journal 18(2): 177–194. Klarich, Elizabeth A. 2005 From the Monumental to the Mundane: Defining Early Leadership Strategies at Late Formative Pukara, Peru. PhD dissertation, Department of Anthropology, University of California, Santa Barbara. Lau, George 2008 Ancestor Images in the Andes. In Handbook of South American Archaeology, edited by H. Silverman and W. Isbell, pp. 1025–1043. Springer, New York. Lechtman, Heather 1984 Andean Value Systems and the Development of Prehistoric Metallurgy. Technology and Culture 25(1): 1–36. Logan, Amanda, Christine Hastorf, and Deborah Pearsall 2012 “Let’s Drink Together”: Early Ceremonial Use of Maize in the Titicaca Basin. Latin American Antiquity 23(3): 235–258. Lyon, Patricia J. 1978 Female Supernaturals in Ancient Peru. Ñawpa Pacha 16: 95–147. Mackey, Carol J. 2000 Los dioses que perdieron los colmillos. In Los dioses del Antiguo Perú, Tomo 2, edited by K. Makowski Hanula, pp. 110–157. Colecciỏn Arte y Tesoros del Perú. Banco de Credito, Lima.

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Mackey, Carol J., and Joanne Pillsbury 2013 Cosmology and Ritual on a Lambayeque Beaker. In Pre-Columbian Art and Archaeology: Essays in Honor of Frederick R. Mayer, edited by M. Young-Sánchez, pp. 115–141. Denver Art Museum, Denver. Mannheim, Bruce, and Guillermo Salas Carreno 2014 Wak’as Entification of the Andean Sacred. In The Archaeology of Wak’as: Explorations of the Sacred in the Pre-Columbian Andes, edited by T. L. Bray, pp. 47–72. University of Colorado Press, Boulder. Peirce, Charles S. 1985 Logic as Semiotics: The Theory of Signs. In Semiotics: An Introductory Anthology, edited by R. E. Innis, pp. 1–23. Indiana University Press, Bloomington. Quilter, Jeffrey 2012 The Staff God: Icon and Image in Andean Art. In Enduring Motives: The Archaeology of Tradition and Religion in Native America, edited by L. Sundstrom and W. DeBoer, pp. 131–141. University of Alabama Press, Tuscaloosa. Roe, Peter, and Amy Roe 2012 Of Iron Steamship Anacondas and Black Cayman Canoes, Lowland Mythology as a Rosetta Stone for Formative Iconography. In Enduring Motives: The Archaeology of Tradition and Religion in Native America, edited by L. Sundstrom and W. DeBoer, pp. 84–130. University of Alabama Press, Tuscaloosa. Salomon, Frank 1991 Introductory Essay. In The Huarochiri Manuscript: A Testament of Ancient and Colonial Andean Religion, edited by Frank Salomon and George Urioste, pp. 1–38. University of Texas Press, Austin. 2018 At the Mountains’ Altar. Routledge, London. Sillar, Bill 2009 The Social Agency of Things? Animism and Materiality in the Andes. Cambridge Archaeological Journal 19(3): 369–379. Swenson, Edward 2015 The Materialities of Place Making in the Ancient Andes: A Critical Appraisal of the Ontological Turn in Archaeological Interpretation. Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 22(3): 677–712. Tello, Julio C. 1960 Chavín. Cultura matriz de la civilización andina, Vol. 2. Universidad de San Marcos, Lima. Viveiros de Castro, Eduardo B. 2004 Exchanging Perspectives: The Transformation of Objects into Subjects in Amerindian Ontologies. Common Knowledge 10(3): 463–484. Wheeler, Jane, and Elías Mujica 1981 Prehistoric Pastoralism in the Lake Titicaca Basin, Peru, 1979–1980 Field Season. Final report to the National Science Foundation, Washington, DC.

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4 Twisting and Spinning from Symbols to Signs From Chavín to Tawantinsuyu

Ga ry U rton

As the invitation document for the first Brussels Pre-Columbian meeting, entitled “The Meaning Within: Interpreting Symbolic Activities, Artefacts and Images in Ancient America,” made clear, one of our greatest challenges in the study of the material cultures of the civilizations of the ancient Andes—a setting in which writing was never invented in pre-Columbian times—is that of interpreting with confidence the meaning of objects produced within those societies by their makers and users. The phrase emphasized in the preceding sentence is meant to suggest that, while intuition and experience often lead us to interpret this or that object or decoration or distribution of artifacts to have had a particular meaning, in almost all cases we must qualify our interpretations with disclaimers that we, in fact, have no solid, authoritative ground to stand on to support our interpretations. This is because, as the archaeological dictum goes, “artifacts do not speak for themselves,” and since those ancient artisans did not leave us with written testimony as to their motives and intentions in their production and consumption activities, we have no indigenous statements about what meanings were intended. We are in the unenviable position of having to project our interpretations onto items of pre-Columbian material culture based primarily on our experiences of viewing such objects or settings today and of building up from those experiences some modest degree of confidence in the salience of our claims for meaning on behalf of the people who used those objects. In such acts of interpretation, we are putting ourselves momentarily in the position of the native informants, reading into the objects what we believe their significance to have been for their makers and users.

The difficulty with this very general characterization of the processes of semiosis (meaning making, meaning interpreting) arises with respect to the phrase emphasized near the beginning of the previous paragraph: interpreting with confidence. The issue here is with whether or not, for the native informants who used and interpreted the meanings we are attempting to ferret out, those meanings were arbitrary, abstract, and diffuse, or if they were narrow, precise, and conventionalized. The former I will refer to as “symbols” and the latter as “signs.” These are obviously very complex and hoary issues (i.e., the difference and relationship between symbol and sign) that I will address only peremptorily here but return to later in the chapter. One particularly clear representation of how we commonly differentiate between these two sign forms, which does not seem to me to violate too greatly the deeply subtle and much more complex formulations of sign theorists (e.g., Charles S. Peirce 1955 [see my discussion of Peircean semiosis and the khipus in Urton 2003: 138–43]), and that will allow us to raise clearly the issues I want to address in this chapter, is the following pair of definitions: Symbols . . . are characterized by rich meanings that are multiple, fluid, diverse, layered, complex, and frequently predicated on metaphorical associations that assert an analogy between things from different contexts that normally may not be connected. Given that the referents of symbols tend to be general, abstract, and ambiguous, their personally or socially constructed significations may not be apparent except to those who make them. A sign tends to have a singular meaning, in that signifier and signified are closely connected and typically come from the same context, and the signification itself is mostly metonymic—that is, a part or attribute stands for the whole . . . When signs are used as codes it is because the relation between signifier and signified is conventional rather than intrinsic and because the signification is precise. (Encyclopedia, n.d.) Most readers will be aware of the different uses of symbols and signs in Western societies. As for the former, the cross is a fine example, having meanings and significance that go deeply into the past in connection with Judeo-Christianity and the institutionalized rituals and paraphernalia of Catholicism, but for all that, there cannot be said to be a single, absolute fixed meaning of the cross; its significance and values are diffuse and dispersed over large populations of believers. This is quite different from the situation that pertains to signs, which Twisting and Spinning from Symbols to Signs: From Chavín to Tawantinsuyu

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have more precise, delimited, conventionalized significance—a case in point: the stop sign. The intent of this well-known object is absolute and offers little room for individual interpretation. Other examples would be the signs of the alphabet, a misinterpretation or misreading of any one, or a combination, of which can lead to confusion and misunderstanding in writing and reading texts. These are not terribly complicated examples of symbols and signs, but they help at this point to clarify the general kinds of significance attached to each, and they point to the relationship between the two that I want to examine here in a very different context. My purpose in the remainder of this study is to consider the symbolism and signing significance and meanings of a phenomenon—a kind of productive activity—that was of great interest and importance to people in Andean societies from the earliest times to the moment of contact with Europeans (and certainly beyond): a twist or spin (nouns), and the processes/actions of twisting and spinning (verbs) two or more bodies together. I would note here that in the contexts I will be discussing, the English terms twist and spin may be considered as synonyms. I will argue that twisting/spinning was not only a major form of activity in Andean textile production, but it was also a core purveyor of Andean symbols and signs in a variety of media. Mannheim (1991) has discussed the etymology in the Quechua language for the range of concepts and actions with which we are concerned here. These include the following terms: q’iwi—“a crook or bend” q’iwiy—“to twist, to turn aside” t’ikray—“to reverse, to turn inside out, to change” k’ullku/killku—“very twisted”; denotes the twist in spun yarn or thread t’inkiy—“to tie together or twist in order to connect” t’inkinakuy—denotes two bodies, twisted around and through one another, intertwined in mutual desire (Mannheim 1991: 191–192) I will return to some of these terms later. I would note that while we do not know the language(s) spoken by the people of some of the Andean societies discussed here (especially Chavín), the terms adduced from Mannheim’s study of Quechua evoke a range of meanings related to twist/spin that had salience in late pre-Columbian, Inca society. Therefore, I think we have more grounds for drawing implications from the previously mentioned terms in addressing the Andean materials I will discuss later than we would have for terms and concepts drawn from English. 94

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Twisted/Spun Bodies—Symbolic Mode The first example I will discuss is drawn from the culture of Chavín (ca. 800– 200 BC), an expansive society of the north-central Peruvian highlands centered at the site of Chavín de Huantar, in the Callejón de Huayllas (see Burger 1992; Rowe 1962). The specific object I want to address is an engraved stone slab that was found on a terrace of what was formerly referred to as the New Temple, inside the entrance known as the Black and White Portal (Rowe 1962: 15). The image in question (Figure 4.1) was discussed in an earlier study by John H. Rowe, who read the upturned mouth of this figure as depicting a “cheerful deity.” Rowe referred to this image as “the Smiling God” (1962: 15 and 19). However, for reasons that will become clear as I proceed, I think it makes more sense, as I don’t think we can conclude whether this being is smiling, grimacing, or growling, and I see no reason to impute one sentiment over the other, to call this character the “Lord of Duality.” The standing image in this carving is likely related to a widespread, South American (especially Tropical Forest) notion of the shaman who is transforming, or has been transformed, into a feline, probably a jaguar (Reichel-Dolmatoff 1975). The image projects a powerful message of dualism—a being whose essence is part-human, part-animal/feline. In this, I suggest that we are seeing a process that could be read as referencing the concept of t’ikray (see the previous list), “reversing, turning inside out, or changing [i.e., transforming],” and in this case, the transformation is from a human identity to an animal one, the two being complementary, at least as formulated in Chavín ontological values relating to shamans and jaguars (Figure 4.1). There are other iconographic elements relating to the principle of dualism in the imagery of this figure. For instance, the figure holds shells in its hands; it holds a spiral strombus shell in its right hand and what has commonly been interpreted as a spondylus (Spondylus princeps) shell in its left hand (Rowe 1962:19). Lathrap suggested that these shells carried, respectively, male and female symbolic significance (1977: 340). I will accept Lathrap’s interpretation of the possible meaning of this pair of objects, as well as his suggestion that they were likely conceived of by the Chavín artisan(s) of this figure as complementary opposites. Therefore, the pair of shells also carries a symbolic message grounded in the principle of dualism. The aspect of dualism that I want especially to focus on and analyze here is the hair of the Lord of Duality. As we see, the hair falls from the head in pairs Twisting and Spinning from Symbols to Signs: From Chavín to Tawantinsuyu

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Figure 4.1. The “Lord of Duality.” (Drawn by Julia Meyerson from an original by Peter Roe)

of twisted bunches, two pairs per side. As is equally apparent, the “hair” terminates in snake or serpent heads; thus, we must interpret the hair as composed of twisted bodies of serpents. What is most interesting, however, is that the pairs on the figure’s right side (viewer’s left) are twisted in the Z direction, while those on the figure’s left side (viewer’s right) are twisted in the S direction. To clarify, if one were to imagine holding the heads of the pairs of twisted serpents on the figure’s right side between our fingers, we would twist these serpents to our left in order to produce the twist direction depicted; were we to hold the heads of the pairs on the figure’s left side in our fingers, we would twist these to the right. In sum, our left twisting produces Z-twisted bodies of serpents, while our right twisting produces S-twisted serpent bodies. For anyone familiar with the actions of spinning raw materials to produce threads and of then plying two or more threads together to produce string, or cord (i.e., acts referred to by the Quechua terms k’ullku, or k’illku; see the previ96

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ous list), the directional designations S and Z used previously are common notations. These sign notations are, in fact, “indices,” in the sense that the oblique axis of each (i.e., upper left to lower right [\] and upper right to lower left—[/] coincides with the oblique axes of cords twisted, or spun, respectively, in the S direction or the Z direction. As any spinner is aware, in making plied cords, the raw material is first spun in one or the other of these two directions, to produce threads, and then two or more resulting threads are usually plied together in the opposite direction (i.e., S-spun threads are Z-plied, and Z-spun threads are S-plied; see Figure 4.2). At this point, we might say that one “message” of our Lord of Duality is the exemplary opposition and complementarity of the two pairs of twisted serpents on either side of its head. This complementary opposition reinforces the dualisms of the strombus and spondylus shells held in the figure’s two hands, and the pairing of human and animal/jaguar identities of the core figure itself. If we accept these interpretations, this enlarges the range of material phenomena implicated in what I think was the central, didactic symbolic message of our figure:

Figure 4.2. a) S-spin, b) Z-spin, c) Z-ply, d) S-ply. (Gary Urton)

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the desirability of uniting complementary opposites and the celebration of the power inherent in, and emerging from, such a union. But does this exhaust the extent of the symbolism of the twisted serpents? I suggest that the message went much deeper for the makers and consumers of this image. To follow the additional extension I wish to make of the symbolism of twisted serpents, we need to recall that the people who produced and admired the imagery at the site of Chavín de Huantar lived in intimate contact with animals and the natural world. As has been frequently argued (e.g., Burger 1992; Lathrap 1977[1971]), the ecological settings for many of the animals depicted in Chavín imagery were not only the highlands of what is today Peru but also the region of the Amazonian tropical rain forest, to the east. The latter is the home territory of the most impressive wildlife depicted in Chavín iconography, such as the jaguar, anaconda, harpy eagle, and cayman (Burger 1992). My point here is that the people who frequented the sanctuary at Chavín de Huantar would have been intimately familiar with how the animals they depicted lived and behaved. Therefore, when the Chavín artisans depicted serpents with their bodies entwined, we should accept that the artisans were interested in and probably quite knowledgeable about the specific significance and meaning of entwined serpents. The question is: When and why do serpents entwine (twist/spin) their bodies together? What we find when we study the behavior of snakes and serpents when they twist their bodies together is that this occurs on two occasions, or in relation to two activities: combat and copulation. Field studies of multiple species of snakes and serpents have shown that when two or more male reptiles fight (usually for access to a female), they twist their bodies tightly around each other and, with their heads apart, may hiss at, attempt to bite, and knock heads with their opponent (Shaw 1951). On the other hand, in mating, when a male gains access to a female, he will stretch his body along hers, then wrap the lower part of his body around the female, attempting to bring the cloacal regions together in order to achieve hemipenal penetration, to inseminate the female. The male may, in some species, bite the neck of the female (Shaw 1951: 151; see also Breder 1946 and Gillingham et al. 1977). It has been observed that in the case of large female anacondas, as many as 10 or more males may wrap their bodies tightly around the female, attempting intromission (Rivas and Burghardt 2001: 3–4).1 The latter is the motive for the entwining of serpents’ bodies that may be designated by the Quechua reciprocal verb form t’inkinakuy, “two bodies twisted around each other, intertwined in mutual desire” (see the previous list). 98

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In sum, I argue that when viewing the interaction of snakes in the world around them, the Chavín artists and “natural historians” would have been well aware of the fact that serpents entwine their bodies during combat and copulation—two very different, opposed, yet complementary actions, which are often understood to be exemplary of a core, dialectical concept in Quechua/Andean ideology expressed by the term tinku—a clash, or a coming together, of opposing bodies or forces. Tinku is used to describe the joining of two rivers, the clash of opposing forces in military combat, or the joining of two copulating bodies. Therefore, the twisting together of two serpents’ bodies in combat and/or copulation is premised on the notion of two different, or opposing bodies or forces that come together, often violently, producing a new, hybrid state of affairs. I think that this was another (a behavioral) complementary oppositional value that was probably attached to the symbolic meanings conveyed by the Lord of Duality. In the discussion up to this point, I have characterized the dualisms that we have derived from viewing the Lord of Duality as “symbols.” I suggest by this that the significance and meanings attached to the various features we have discussed (human/animal, shells, twisted serpents) had a broad, abstract, and diffuse set of meanings centering on what I have termed the didactic projection of the value of the union of complementary opposites. However, no native Chavín informant has confirmed this interpretation for us, nor would I argue that these meanings had a precise, delimited message to communicate, as is generally attributed to signs (see next section). Rather, these meanings would have been for the Chavín people as profound, contextually rich, and variable as present-day Christians’ attention to and adoration of their cross. The image of the cross is not a sign to do this or that specific thing; rather, it is a symbol, rich, varied, and abstract in meaning informing the lives of Christian believers. Such would have been the case, I argue, for the effect of a viewing of the Lord of Duality for a Chavín person. A word of caution should be entered here with respect to whether or not I might be introducing a rigidity, unintended by the Chavín artists, to the symbolic meanings of the iconographic elements composing the figure we are analyzing. That is, am I overinterpreting, or inappropriately projecting, the concept of dualism in relation to the figure? Were the meanings and intentions of the elements that I have pointed to on the “Lord of Duality” really so strictly dual? Might there have been “third [or more] ways” embedded within, or intended by, each of the elements we have focused on? Perhaps the dualism is only an Twisting and Spinning from Symbols to Signs: From Chavín to Tawantinsuyu

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artifact of strictures, or conventions, on representation in the medium of carved stone? I suspect that such may have been the case—that is, that each of these suggestively dual elements (snakes’ bodies, shells, and the identity of the central character [jaguar/human])—may have been conceived of in more than a binary, dualistic manner. Of course, we can only interpret what we are shown, and we can’t know what was in the mind(s) of the person (or persons) who carved the image in question, in terms of other possibilities of being they might have conceived of for this figure and its adornments. I would suggest that any such “third ways” may have been projected into the spaces between what are clearly, on the surface, dualistic elements. That is, the space between the strombus and the spondylus (associated respectively with the right hand and the left hand) is the space of transformation within which any number of other types, or forms, of shells (or other objects) might be conceived of. The same can be suggested for the space between the Z- and S-ply hair/serpents. Unfortunately, this is a domain (i.e., metaphysics) of the Chavín worldview that we have no solid basis for entering with any confidence. Therefore, I leave this matter here—but with the previous caution intact. What we will investigate in the following is another setting from Andean societies in which twisted and spun bodies are valued not as symbols, but rather as “signs,” with precise meanings and referents. This will involve a discussion of the khipu, the principal device used for record keeping in the Inca empire, which emerged in the south-central Andean region some 1,500 years after the collapse of Chavín.

Twist and Spin as Signs In this section, I will first introduce you to the Inca khipus (Figure 4.3) and then turn to the question of how information was recorded on these devices and how these methods give us a further perspective on the relationship, and the difference, between symbols and signs in Andean artistic and material productions. Khipus were used by Inca authorities—the khipukamayuqs (“knot makers/ animators/organizers”)—to record information of interest to the state, such as censuses, tribute records, and other administrative and historical matters. The basic structural features of khipus are shown in Figure 4.4. The “backbone” of a khipu is a linear cord known as the primary cord. This is usually the thickest cord on a khipu, constructed of many sets of plied threads, the entire bundle of which generally is given a final S-twist. Attached to the primary cord, usu100

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Figure 4.3. Khipu from Chachapoyas—Centro Mallqui, Leymebamba, Peru. (Gary Urton)

Figure 4.4. Common khipu structural elements. (Gary Urton)

ally via a lark’s head knot, is a variable number of so-called pendant strings, or cords. Pendant cords may carry second-order cords, referred to as subsidiary cords, which themselves may carry subsidiaries. Some examples also bear what are termed top cords. These cords usually bind together the attachment loops of groups of pendant cords and then leave the primary cord in the opposite direction from the pendant cords. The majority of khipus have knots tied into their pendant, subsidiary, and top strings. The most common knots are of three different types: figure-eight knots (signing 1s), long knots (signing values between 2–9), and single knots (for full decimal values: 10s, 100s, 1000s, etc.). On decimally organized, quantitative khipus, the knots are tied in clusters at different levels in a place-value system of decimal numerical registry. With the khipus, we have left the domain of symbols and have entered the realm of signs, as defined earlier. That is, while some khipus (about ¼ of all samples) have knots tied and arranged in ways that do not conform to the decimal arrangement, the knots on the ¾ that do follow the decimal format are valued in accordance with precise decimal numerical values. These encoded quantitative data (e.g., census and tribute records) constituted critical administrative information. Therefore, the ability to record and read these values in a precise, consistent, and conventionalized way was of critical importance to state planners. In this regard, we are in a domain of signing that is very different from that of the shells and twisted serpents projecting generalized, abstract messages of the unity of opposing forces in Chavín cosmology. I expand on this point in the conclusions. In an earlier study, entitled Signs of the Inka Khipu: Binary Coding in the Andean Knotted String Records (Urton 2003), I argued that there is a strong principle of binary organization of signing units at work in much of khipu coding (see also Urton 1994). This involves the selection of one or the other pairs of binary construction techniques or visual qualities of cords as the bases for sign coding. The binary pairs in question included such features as the spinning and plying directions of cords (S or Z), which was discussed earlier; the attachment of pendant strings to primary cords, which I term verso or recto;2 the directionality of knot axes (S or Z; see Figure 4.5)3 color coding; and a few other features. On the basis of these observations, I argued that binary coding, which is a form of dualism (i.e., in that in such a coding system there are always and only two possibilities—e.g., on/off, yes/no—both of which must be present and available for selection, or not) was critical to the encoding of information 102

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Figure 4.5. Scheme of knot directional variability (S or Z) on a khipu from Pachacamac. (Gary Urton)

in the khipus. I further suggested that such coding was precise (not symbolic) in its referentiality in that the signs indicated unambiguously certain properties and qualities of the recorded data. Concerning further qualities of the messages transmitted by khipus signs outlined previously, I note that there is a significant difference in the occurrence, or frequency, of certain members of the binary pairs (e.g., S-plying was more common than Z-plying; S-knotting more common than Z-knotting). On the basis of these differences, I argued (Urton 2003: 143–146) that the meanings assigned to the binary elements may have operated according to the principle of “markedness” (Andrews 1990; Mannheim 1998). According to markedness theory, elements of paired binary oppositions are sorted into dominant items on one side (i.e., the “unmarked,” higher valued, or more common elements) of binary opposing pairs, as opposed to the more unusual, singular, uncommon items on the other side (i.e., the “marked,” or unusual element). While I did not have evidence with which to attempt actual “readings” of khipus based on their potential binary, markedness values (i.e., interpreting the precise meanings of the selection of any one or the other of these opposing pairs), such readings have now been accomplished. This is in the work of Dr. Sabine Hyland and her colleagues, in two articles published in 2014. Twisting and Spinning from Symbols to Signs: From Chavín to Tawantinsuyu

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I do not have space here to provide all the details pertaining to the analyses presented in Hyland (2014) and Hyland et al. (2014). Therefore, I will note the essential arguments of the two articles and leave it to readers to study the articles themselves. As for Hyland (2014), I cite from the published abstract, which succinctly summarizes her findings: Testimony from an Aymara-speaking khipu maker, collected in 1895 by Max Uhle and recovered [by Hyland] from Uhle’s unpublished field notes, combined with the analysis of his actual khipu [in the University Museum] provides the first direct evidence that ply was a signifying element in khipus. Moreover, the evidence suggests that ply signified through a principle of markedness in which S ply corresponded to the unmarked (more valued) category while Z ply corresponded to the marked (less valued) category. (Hyland 2014: 643) More precisely, Hyland found in this study that khipu cords were plied in one or the other of the two alternative directions (S or Z) to signify marked and unmarked categories of objects in a khipu that was collected in a Bolivian community by Max Uhle, a German archaeologist, in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. In her analysis of the specific referents of the coded elements in this khipu, she found that the selections of S- or Z-plying of cords indicated such identities and categories as: cows milked daily (S-ply) or cows not milked daily (Z-ply); males (Z-ply) or females (S-ply); and males castrated (Z-ply) or uncastrated (S-ply; Hyland 2014). The selections denoted one or the other of paired, specific meanings, the readings of which would provide a knowledgeable khipu keeper with the information necessary to render a narrative interpretation of the composition and disposition of herd animals, as well as of the status of other resources within the village where the cord record was made. In the second of the two studies published by Hyland and her colleagues, Gene A. Ware and Madison Clark (2014), they discovered a similar binary organization of information also linked with markedness; in this case, however, the findings pertained to a so-called “khipu board,” an object that is preserved in the Peruvian highland community of Mangas, in the central Peruvian highlands. Khipu boards were introduced into the Andes by the Mercedarian order in the sixteenth century and were apparently fairly common in communities throughout the central Andean highlands until the late eighteenth or early nineteenth centuries. These were paddle-like wooden boards on which were 104

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written (in Spanish script) the names of tributary heads of households in the villages. Holes were drilled next to each name and a khipu-like cord—which was spun, plied, often dyed bright colors, and usually knotted—was passed through the hole. Each khipu cord was manipulated (i.e., pushed in or pulled out) to indicate the status of the head of household with respect to such things as his attendance at mass, participation in community work parties, and other religious observances and communal activities (Hyland et al. 2014: 190–191). Hyland and her colleagues carried out ethnographic research in Mangas and determined the moiety affiliations (i.e., Hanan = Upper Half; Hurin = Lower Half) of many common community patronyms. Many of these same patronyms were also recorded on the khipu board. After linking patronyms recorded ethnographically and historically, Hyland and her colleagues were able to analyze the relationship between the names on the khipu board and the knots associated with each. As for their general findings, I quote from the abstract of Hyland et al.’s article: We recently analyzed the names and associated khipu cords in a newly discovered hybrid khipu/alphabetic text from the Central Andes. Results indicate a significant relationship in the text between knot direction and a form of social organization known as moieties, in which S-knots correspond to the upper (Hanan) moiety and Z-knots correspond to the lower ([H]Urin) moiety. This relationship suggests that knot direction was used to indicate moiety in Andean khipus . . . (Hyland et al. 2014: 189) This conclusion by Hyland and her colleagues is of enormous importance, as it is the first evidence we have that S and Z directionality—in this case in the construction of knots—was linked to the critical Andean dual organizational structure of moieties. Moieties were widespread in communities throughout the Andes in Inca times, including in the Inca capital city of Cuzco (Zuidema 1964). Therefore, it is likely that such critical social and political organizational identities and values are recorded on the extant Inca khipus.

Conclusion: From Symbols to Signs In this chapter, I have described and analyzed two examples of pre-Columbian Andean material culture—a Chavín engraving and Inca and Colonial era khipus. My intention has been to try to understand the differences and the relationship between symbols and signs in Andean material productions. One of my Twisting and Spinning from Symbols to Signs: From Chavín to Tawantinsuyu

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presumptions with respect to the Chavín example (which was not suggested nor confirmed by a native informant—for obvious reasons!) is that what I have termed the Lord of Duality probably did not carry or communicate precise, conventionalized messages; rather, I think that what was communicated by the complex iconography of this image was a general, critical desideratum—probably a core Chavín ontological principle—expressed in a number of different ways. That message was something like: The world is characterized by pairings of powerful objects that stand to each other as opposites but which are complementary; therefore, the proper state of things (i.e., the desideratum for living a proper life) is to balance these complementary opposites. If this is even vaguely on target for what the intention was in a Chavín artisan’s engraving of this slab of stone, then the nature of the message was symbolic—it spoke to and of a broad set of abstract values that were important to the people in Chavín society. As for the khipu recording practices discussed here, it is apparent both from study of these objects themselves as well as from the historical and ethnographic studies carried out by Hyland and her colleagues that the signing elements of cord recording depended on the formulation of what were precise, conventionalized signs. While formed in pairs (like the Chavín strategy of identifying operative/meaningful complementary opposite values), communication depended on the practice of making and displaying selections of one or the other of numerous binary pairs. I don’t want to suggest that the Incas did not make and manipulate symbols; it is clear that they did. However, I am not so certain, on the other hand, that the Chavín people made and manipulated what we have characterized here as conventionalized, standardized signs. While the “old Chavín” principle of dualism was still operative in khipu coding, something new had been added. I suggest that the motivation for that something new was the demands of the Inca administrative apparatus for precision and conventionalization of identities and values in specifying concisely the referents of the signs—whether those referents were census figures, tribute records, or other resource accounts. I argue that what accounts for the differences outlined previously between the privileging of symbolism or signing in one time and place or the other was the political context in which these operations and practices were performed. In the case of Chavín, this was a society that (as far as we are aware at present) lacked a centralized political bureaucratic hierarchy that demanded standardization of action, messaging, etc. In the case of the Incas, however, such standardization did exist and was vital to the ability of state functionaries to manage 106

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an empire that stretched from present-day Ecuador down to central Chile. In short, what differed in terms of the presence or absence of signing (rather than of creating symbols) was the presence or absence of that old shibboleth of anthropological theories—the state.

Notes 1. See anaconda mating video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HxcYJRUALY0). 2. Pendant strings are attached to the primary cords by what is known either as a “half-hitch,” or a lark’s head, knot. These knots are produced by first opening up one end of the plied pendant string and then passing the closed end of the string either over the primary cord from the front and down through the loop at the back of the primary cord (= r = “recto”), or from behind and up and over the primary cord, toward the maker, and down through the loop (= v = “verso”; see Urton 2003: 69–71). 3. Khipu knots are tied in two different ways to produce either S-knots (in which the dominant axis of the knot runs from upper left to lower right = \) or Z-knots (in which the dominant axis runs from upper right to lower left = /; see Urton 2003: 74–79).

References Cited Andrews, Edna 1990 Markedness Theory: The Union of Asymmetry and Semiosis in Language. Duke University Press, Durham and London. Ascher, Marcia, and Robert Ascher 1997 Mathematics of the Incas: Code of the Quipu. Dover Publications, London. Breder, C. M., Jr. 1946 On the Mating Behavior of Free Garter Snakes Associated with Water. Copeia 4: 236–241. Burger, Richard 1992 Chavín and the Origins of Andean Civilization. Thames and Hudson, London. Encyclopedia n.d. Signs and Symbols, http://www.encyclopedia.com/topic/Signs_and_symbols.aspx, accessed November 14, 2019. Gillingham, James C., Charles C. Carpenter, Bruce J. Brecke, and James B. Murphy 1977 Courtship and Copulatory Behavior of the Mexican Milk Snake, Lampropeltis triangulum sinaloae (Colubridae). The Southwestern Naturalist 22(2): 187–194. Hyland, Sabine 2014 Ply, Markedness, and Redundancy: New Evidence for How Andean Khipus Encoded Information. American Anthropologist 116(3): 643–648. Hyland, Sabine, Gene A. Ware, and Madison Clark 2014 Knot Direction in a Khipu/Alphabetic Text from the Central Andes. Latin American Antiquity 25(2): 189–197. Lathrap, Donald W. 1977 Gifts of the Cayman: Some Thoughts on the Subsistence Basis of Chavín. In Pre-Columbian Art History, edited by A. Cordy-Collins and J. Stern, pp. 333–352. Peek Publications, Palo Alto, CA.

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Mannheim, Bruce 1991 The Language of the Inka since the European Invasion. University of Texas Press, Austin. 1998 “Time, Not the Syllables, Must Be Counted”: Quechua Parallelism, Word Meaning, and Cultural Analysis. Department of Anthropology, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor. Peirce, Charles Sanders 1955 Philosophical Writings of Peirce [1940]. Selected and edited with an introduction by Justus Buchler. Dover Publications, New York. Reichel-Dolmatoff, Gerardo 1975 The Shaman and the Jaguar: A Study of Narcotic Drugs among the Indians of Colombia. Temple University Press, Philadelphia. Rivas, Jesús A., and Gordon M. Burghardt 2001 Understanding Sexual Size Dimorphism in Snakes: Wearing the Snake’s Shoes. Animal Behavior 62: 1–6. Rowe, John H. 1962 Chavin Art: An Inquiry into Its Form and Meaning. University Publishers, New York. Shaw, Charles E. 1951 Male Combat in American Colubrid Snakes with Remarks on Combat in Other Colubrid and Elapid Snakes. Herpetologica 7(4): 149–168. Urton, Gary 1994 A New Twist in an Old Yarn: Variation in Knot Directionality in the Inka Khipus. Baessler-Archiv Neue Folge 42: 271–305. 2003 Signs of the Inka Khipu: Binary Coding in the Andean Knotted-String Records. University of Texas Press, Austin. Urton, Gary, and Carrie J. Brezine 2005 Khipu Accounting in Ancient Peru. Science 309: 1065–1067. Urton, Gary, and Alejandro Chu 2015 Accounting in the King’s Storehouse: The Inkawasi Khipu Archive. Latin American Antiquity 26(4): 512–529. Zuidema, R. Tom 1964 The Ceque System of Cuzco: The Social Organization of the Capital of the Inca. Brill, Leiden.

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III Objects in Context

5 Different Shades of Early Shamanism in the Upper Amazon Fr a ncis c o Va l de z

The identification of a previously unknown early archaeological culture in the Upper Amazon frontier zone between southeastern Ecuador and northeastern Peru has shown evidence of early complexity that suggests that the tropical forest groups were actively participating in the initial process that characterized the Formative period in the Americas (Olivera Nuñéz 2014; Valdez 2008, 2013; Valdez et al. 2005). The material remains of this new culture have been identified throughout the Mayo Chinchipe hydraulic drainage basin, which flows down the eastern flanks of the Andes to its confluence with an important tributary of the Amazon, the Marañón River. Thus the newly discovered culture has been given the same name as the basin: Mayo Chinchipe–Marañón. Although some materials pertaining to this cultural complex have been previously reported on the Peruvian side of the border, the identification of its particular character or its early date was not made until 2004. Paule and Henry Reichlen (1949, 1950) reported polished stone vessels from the Cajamarca province and the Utcubamba valley (Amazonas department of Peru) in the late 1940s and 1950s. Later, in the 1960s, Pedro Ponce Rojas found fancy ceramic vessels and sculpted and polished stone materials in Huaca Huayurco, located in the lower Chinchipe/Tabaconas region of Peru. These materials were at the time attributed to a northeastern expression of the Chavin culture (Burger 1992: 217–219; Lathrap 1970: 108–109; Rojas Ponce 1986). Other than these simple observations, nothing was done on the region until the next decade. In 2000, a research project was proposed to Ecuador’s Instituto Nacional de Patrimonio Cultural (INPC) by the French Institut de Recherche pour le

Développement (IRD) to carry out a broad regional survey on the province of Zamora Chinchipe (Z-Ch). This province, located in the southern portion of Ecuador’s Upper Amazon, had been opened to scientific research after Ecuador and Peru signed a peace treaty in 1998 that put an end to a 200-year-old frontier dispute. In that year a team of French and Ecuadorian archaeologists (IRD/INPC)1 carried out the archaeological reconnaissance with the purpose of identifying and qualifying pre-Columbian evidence that was to be registered in the national archaeological inventory. The survey registered over 400 sites along the two major hydraulic systems of the province: the Zamora and the Chinchipe, both major tributaries of the Marañón. Among other interesting pre-Columbian features, the survey showed that a series of materials characterized by thin-walled ceramics and polished stone vessels were present in the southern portion of the province. The systematic survey of Z-Ch led to the discovery of a major site, called Santa Ana La Florida (SALF), that was located in a river valley (Valdez et al. 2005). The site is a small and compact settlement, with a clear distinction between public and apparent domestic spaces. The architectural layout, the presence of two artificial mounds and a meager amount of occupational debris, suggested that the site was a ceremonial center. As I will explain later, the site had a long sequence of three different phase occupations, during a period of over 5,000 years. The Mayo Chinchipe–Marañón culture was identified in the early portion of this period (5500/2120 BP) and has been divided in two succeeding phases: Palanda and Tacana. The Mayo Chinchipe–Marañón is characterized by a subtle and complex material culture that includes delicate pottery forms, varied fine polished stone vessels, intricate green stone body ornaments, and very probably fine cotton textiles. The iconography engraved in the stone vessels and present in the ceramics are tropical forest zoomorphic designs as well as naturalistic anthropomorphic representations. Organized architectural layouts have been recognized in some sites, with features that include earth and stone artificial platform mounds, circular stone structures, sunken plazas, and complicated stone spiral-shaped constructions (Valdez 2013). Subsistence was based in agriculture with varied products such as maize, manioc, yams, beans, and chili peppers (Zarrillo 2012). Long-distance interactions with the coeval inhabitants of the Pacific Ocean coast, as well as with the Andean highlands assured the trade of exotic goods, such as varied seashells, green stones, and panAndean ideological symbols (Valdez 2007, 2008). 112

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Many of these features have been found in the SALF site and on the lower Chinchipe Montegrande site of Jaén, Peru (Olivera Nuñéz 2014). Both of these sites were ceremonial centers, with a cemetery compound and adjacent habitation sites. The Mayo Chinchipe–Marañón culture covers a broad area of approximately 9,000 km2. Archaeological research carried out on and around the SALF site has produced unique material culture evidence that argues for a strong ideological component that could have acted as a prime force in the social organization of the early inhabitants of a transitional zone between the Amazonian lowlands and the Andean highlands. As you will see in the analysis of the material evidence, the underlying ideological factors that are expressed in several traits define the specific nature of a site, and its contents. The architectural features, the general layout of the habitation space, and the material remains of the past activities are marked by the specialized practice of crafts such as pottery or stonework, and in construction engineering skills (Valdez 2007). In both of these areas the ideological sphere is latent in the division of the pictorial fields in the iconography and in the organization of the habitat. The concepts that are manifest in the archaeological evidence translate an intimate connection between humans and the spiritual sphere that was summoned and confined in this early ceremonial center. The funerary paraphernalia that was excavated in several tombs suggests the presence of individuals that served as intermediaries between the community and the cosmic forces that are recurrently depicted with a high degree of perfection in ritual objects. These individuals are commonly named shamans in the anthropological literature, and their presence is one of the universal features of the traditional tribal societies. The evidence suggests a system that fits the model that Donald Lathrap prefigured as the Tropical Forest Culture (1970). The ideological structure apparent in the material evidence reflects the basic structure that will be omnipresent in the Andean cosmology since the Formative period. The triad composed of the feline, the snake, and the harpy eagle is clearly present in different supports, as well as the sacred dyad of Strombus/Spondylus seashells that appear both physically and in ceramic allegories (Lathrap et al. 1977). These are all part of the Formative period cosmology that is based on an existing ideological system that orders the social spheres. Other cosmological phenomena such as the sun, the moon, thunder and lightning, the mountains, and the large bodies of water were all part of the divine sphere but their presence is less specifically relevant in the iconography of the tropical forest culture of Mayo Chinchipe. Different Shades of Early Shamanism in the Upper Amazon

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The Shamanism and Neoshamanism Debate Shamanism has become a rather delicate subject in recent times, partly because it has become an easy synonym of the folk wisdom exercised by the traditional people of non-occidental ascendance and, as such, it is taken for a model of spiritual fulfillment in the new age scene. The problem is basically that its original nature and character have been rudely ignored in favor of an idealistic picture of the archaic essence of spirituality (Whitehead and Wright 2004). Carlos Fausto, a Brazilian anthropologist, has vividly described the romantic sense of the timeless shaman that is held by a “modern urban middle class.” Unfortunately this line of thought has re-created and commercially exploited a pseudo-natural religious consciousness. Fausto identifies several aspects of the trendy “Neoshamanic products: vision quest classes, ayahuasca tourism, healing consultancy, shamanistic aerobics, promises of illumination and spiritual holism” (Fausto 2004: 157). Shamanism is taken to be a sacred means of altering states of consciousness with the intermediation of psychotropic plants that help induce a trance, where the perception of the spiritual inner world is feasible. The shaman has the wisdom power (as the jaguar has the vision) that allows him “the capacity of understanding the patterns of chaos, of facilitating soul work and empowering the self, of shifting shapes and psychic sights” (cited in Fausto 2004: 157, from “Shamanism Working with Animals” at www.animalspirits.org). The shamanic cult is thus an attractive way to enlighten the followers of new age philosophy, which has met with great success in the uncontended classes of the modern capitalist world ruled by materialism. Neoshamanism seeks the contact with the spirit world where spiritual harmony must be sought through different rituals. Inspired by ancient shamanic practices, the new age practitioners seek the truth through vision quests induced by entheogens, such as peyote, ayahuasca, or psilocybin mushrooms. These are the vehicles to reach levels of consciousness that allow spiritual transcendence. This has nothing to do with shamanism or the role of the shaman in the Amerindian past or present world, which is why one must shed this simplistic image and understand the ideology that societies held in the pre-Columbian times. It seems that at one point, the mediator between the community and the unknown forces of the cosmos acquired the overall reconnaissance of the group, as a healer and as a spiritual force that protected the community from the invisible side of reality. Thus his prestige intervened in many aspects of the group’s social relations. In the animistic cosmology that characterized the Amerindian world, the forces of the universe were omnipresent and made no

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distinction between man and nature (Descola 2005). All things had the dialectic energy of life, with external and internal sides or aspects (body/souls); the balance within them was responsible for the harmony or the chaos that prevailed in the cosmos. In this ideological schema, shamanism was man’s most effective means of maintaining the balance between the forces. That is why shamanism, according to Mircea Eliade, was at the base of every religion, without being a religion (1951). In recent years, an interesting line of thinking has been developed in the theoretical stance that anthropology is taking through the work of Viveiros de Castro and others around the notions of “perspectival multinaturalism” (Viveiros de Castro 2012[1998], 1992; Bray 2009: 358). These authors argue that multiculturalism (the traditional logic of Western anthropology) “presupposes a single objective universe and many cultural interpretations of it,” while the proposed multinaturalism formula posits for multiple universes and a single mode of interpretation (Alberti 2013: 45). The theory that Viveiros de Castro developed through the study of Amazonian ethnographies states that a perspective is not a “different point of view” on a singular, natural world, but the same “point of view” on—the same way of knowing or seeing—qualitatively different worlds (Viveiros de Castro 2012: 46 cited in Alberti 2013: 45). Tamara Bray, citing Henare et al. 2007, calls this theoretical change the “ontological turn,” which moves away from questions of knowledge and epistemology toward those concerned with ontology. Viveiros de Castro’s perspectivism is based on the Amerindian ontology in which there are different worlds and it is possible to access these by attending to the “ontological anomalies” that are witnessed by anthropologists that study otherness and their perceptions of the world (Bray 2009: 358). In perspectivism indigenous thought is treated as a theoretical discourse on the nature of reality and not as an interesting interpretation of it. There are some concepts that are important in the Amazonian ontology: “correspondences, allusions, interrelationship among things and beings is the norm.” These play an important part in a universe where all things share a common human identity and essence. The discussion of the theoretical concepts that are involved in the ontological turn go beyond the scope of this chapter, but what’s interesting is the relation between “living beings and normally unanimated objects.” Alberti says, According to perspectivism, all species potentially share a way of knowing with humans. Their “essence” or “soul” is human; they see themselves

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as humans and others as animals. This is because species or subgroups are differentiated on the basis of the bodies they have. To occupy a body is to have a perspective on the world, to see and be in the world in a particular way. . . . The notion of “soul” rather than an essence denotes the capacity to transform. And transformation is always a matter of changing bodies. . . . Transformation is an ontological event, and it can be quite common among humans. They can transform into animals, trees, the dead, spirits and ghosts. . . . (2013: 48–49) In perspectivism transformation is a common experience, but the ability to transform is something that must be learned and mastered. In this assessment, the individual that masters this potentiality can take the lead and communicate with all aspects of existence, through a very human nature. This individual is known in the Andes as a yachak, a curaca, or a taita: a sage, a master, a father, or as a shaman in anthropological phraseology. Although these terms are in quechua, they tend to be used by many Upper Amazonian peoples, since this was the lingua franca of the Spanish missionaries that entered the lowlands beginning in the sixteenth century. As an archaeologist, Bray is interested in how the ontological change in the line of thought may affect the interpretation of the archaeological context, which deals almost entirely with material culture. Her preoccupation is with the meaning that can be attributed to material objects since “the possibility of multiple natural worlds” is a way of seeing the archaeological evidence in its proper perspective, in the perspective of those that created and lived with that material culture. That is why she stresses the work of Henare et al. (2007), to make an exercise of “thinking through things” and interpret the ontology of the Inca concepts of ofrendas and huacas. Although shamanism was not formally treated, Andean animism was discussed in terms of cause and effect and the relation that certain material objects and some places occupied in the cosmos and were materialized in society. Objects are a link with reality and often recall different aspects of reality. In the explanation of the cultural history of the Americas, the theoretical concept of shamanism has passed through a series of different cycles, from an initial acceptance as the ideological base of all different social units to a more or less formal rejection. It has been traditionally believed that it came into the new world with the first peopling of the continent at the end of the Pleistocene (Heckenberger 2004: 197). As the hunting and gathering populations conquered 116

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the vast American territories, the shaman played a key role in the adaptation to and in the transformation of the different ecological settings that the groups encountered. It was presumed that the shaman assured the health needs and was the spiritual contact with the masters of the animals on which the wandering tribes thrived. As the Neolithic gradually settled in, the shaman assumed new roles and became an expert on the plants and their potentials. His responsibilities increased, because he was now the intermediary between the forces of nature that enabled fertility and community well-being. In order to assure the productiveness of the land and sea, he promoted the goodwill of the spirits that control the rain and the tides. As the societies grew and expanded, the tasks of the shaman were diversified and his obligations were formalized. Public rituals and ceremonies became common duties within an intricate organization that soon became a spiritual institution. The shaman was not only an intermediary between men and the spirits, he was also a ritual performer on behalf of the community, and thus became an officiant, a priest with a certain recognized hierarchy (Oyuela-Caicedo 2005: 141–143). When the Spaniards conquered the New World in the sixteenth century, the priest shaman existed throughout most of the Americas. As such he became the target of the conquering religion and apparently soon lost his prominent status. The new Christian priests replaced him, and the institution the shaman represented became the seat of evil, assimilated to Satan. The solemn priest left the temples and went back to his more modest tasks—he was the healer and the expert on herbs, spells, and enchantments. Nonetheless the animistic ideologies subsist deeply rooted in many parts of the Americas, not only among the indigenous groups, since the creole descendants of the European conquest still feel the need for an intermediary between the natural and unnatural forces of the world they live in. Despite all the progress that science and technology has attained in the modern global scene, shamans and their mediation capacities still seem to be needed. The Neoshamanic fad has claimed thousands of followers since the 1960s and 1970s, and the feverish quest for personal meaning and fulfillment has created interest in the presumed psychic and physical benefits that the shamanic techniques can bring. The result has been a misunderstanding of the spiritual system and values that characterize the indigenous people’s way of life and the production of an incongruous combination of materials, rituals, and motifs taken out of context from different cultural sources. Nevertheless we must agree with Ester Langdon and admit that we must start “portraying the multiplicity Different Shades of Early Shamanism in the Upper Amazon

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of the shamanic phenomena, where there is less unity, more fragmentation and no clear boundaries” (Langdon 2007: 27). As she states, the taita’s “ideology is an expression of Indian response to globalized visions of shamanism, conceived as a spiritual practice with special primordial knowledge that honors and preserves the environment” (Langdon 2007: 29, 41–42). Politically it is a way of indigenous resilience, a form of survival facing other menacing worlds. Another aspect of the debate on shamanism is the dominant explanation model it has taken for many of the intricate issues that are common in archaeological interpretation of symbols and imagery. In an article with an ontological orientation, David Robinson states that the shamanic model has often ignored the archaeological context and the place of art in the indigenous world; in doing so the model assumes that all imagery can be interpreted through the logics of knowledge previously obtained in historic ethnographical case studies, where art manifestations are supposed reproductions of trance-produced visions (see Robinson 2013: 59–60, for a discussion of the interpretation of rock art and the shamanic paradigm). In the end the term shamanism has become an ill-famed pastiche that scholars now hesitate to take seriously. The study of numerous worldwide ethnographical accounts has permitted anthropological theory to progress and amplify the nature of the shamanist theory that Eliade outlined in the 1950s. Amid the Neoshamanic trends, the question is what happens when the excavation and the study of pre-Columbian cultural contexts reveal the settings and materials that seem to have been part of a past ideological system? How can one interpret the message within the formal categories that decode the construction of mental templates, which seem to have been translated into cultural practices as the materialization of the complex concepts of past cosmologies? At the risk of overinterpreting the evidence, we must not be afraid to allow a form of perspectivism to enter our theoretical interpretations and to focus on the meaning within the evidence. The study of archaeological objects has to be enhanced by the study of the cultural contexts in which they were found as the place of their final deposition often reflects, at least in part, their intended function or use. In some instances the apparent function is only a part of the actual purpose that the object served in a given society; in others, the meaning of the object may be multiple, but its particular connotation can only be defined by the specific context in which the object was found. Many of the objects that find their way to museum collec118

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tions lack this important feature, since their original provenience is unknown. In many instances the museum objects have been acquired from dealers who obtain them through illicit means. The objects may be esthetically pleasant, but their historic value has been greatly diminished by the lack of trustable context information. Typologies and constructed classes of artifacts are important features, but if the original context information is absent, all interpretations will necessarily be an approximation of the facts based on commonplace presumptions. This chapter will discuss the indications of presumed shamanistic activity that are found in the contexts of the SALF archaeological site. The specific nature of the site, its structure, and its contents argue for the existence of a strong ideological system that guided the actions of the inhabitants of this region.

Natural Setting The Upper Amazon is a term that was coined by Donald Lathrap in the late 1960s, and that was the title of one of his major contributions to Amazonian archaeology (Lathrap 1970). It was defined as the western part of the Amazonian biomass, which starts at the eastern lower flanks of the Andean Cordillera (usually between 2,000 and 200 m asl), where the headwaters of the Amazon are found. The slopes of the eastern Andes gradually form great river valleys, with various topographic formations. It is a region marked by constant humidity and lush vegetation that covers the deeply inclined foothills of the Andes. The region is a succession of multiple drainage basins that will eventually become the major tributaries of the Amazon hydraulic system. The Mayo Chinchipe– Marañón drainage basin is one such network; its rapids flow down the steep cordillera in southeastern Ecuador, and discharge into the Marañón at a place called el Pongo de Rentema, in northeastern Peru (Figure 5.1). Archaeological information about the Upper Amazon in Ecuador has been limited mostly to the northern and central sections of the country. The IRD/ INPC project was the first to cover the southeastern province of Z-Ch with a systematic regional survey that would contribute to the nation’s archaeological inventory. The results showed that most of the sites were activity areas belonging to a protohistoric culture known as the Bracamoro tribe. These people belong to the Jivaroan language stock and are associated with a late and crude ceramic tradition known as the corrugado (Guffroy 2006). Descendants of these preDifferent Shades of Early Shamanism in the Upper Amazon

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Figure 5.1. The Mayo Chinchipe–Marañón drainage basin in southeastern Ecuador and northeastern Peru. (Francisco Valdez)

Hispanic tribes are today known as the Shuar, and the Ajún (Aguaruna) and are still living in some regions of the Ecuadorian and Peruvian Upper Amazon (Taylor 1988). A different type of ceramic material appeared in the lower portion of the Z-Ch province, along the headwaters of the Mayo Chinchipe. The new pottery seemed to show a better quality: thinner walls, finer surface 120

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treatment, varied decoration techniques, etc. In comparison with the corrugado materials, its presence was less frequent throughout the basin, and very often the sherds were badly eroded with a general poor preservation. These factors obviously affected the visibility of this ceramic evidence. Nevertheless, in some cases the thinner materials appeared to be associated with polished stone figures and vessels, which were somewhat similar to the Huayurco materials from the lower Chinchipe/Tabaconas region of Peru (Rojas Ponce 1986). The IRD/INPC survey showed that the finer materials appeared mostly in the vicinity of the modern-day towns of Valladolid, Palanda, Isimanchi, and Zumba. The aid of local informants and their small collections were priceless in the search to localize and secure information on the provenience of these materials. The thorough survey led to the discovery of SALF, a site located near Palanda.

Santa Ana La Florida Site (SALF) SALF is located on a fluvial terrace over one of the meanders of the Valladolid river canyon. It is surrounded by a steep mountain range that gradually descends into the piedmont. Seen from above it is a ford, situated close to the confluence of the Palanda River. The site stands on the west bank of the Valladolid, one of the headwaters of the Mayo Chinchipe system at a mean altitude of 1,050 m asl. The stone architectural layout of the SALF site expands over a hectare; its arrangement reveals a small settlement of some 20 stone-based structures, scattered around a central sunken circular plaza. The plaza is demarked by a solid, double-faced stone retaining wall, 40 m in diameter. Another remarkable feature is the presence of two opposing earth and stone mound platforms, which stand out, on an east/west axis, at the extremes of the circular plaza (Figure 5.2). On the western end of the central plaza, a section of the foothills that delimit the site had been cut and modeled to form an inclined platform; it stands some 10 m away from the perimeter of the plaza. In front of the structure, the layout of the surrounding stonewall was interrupted and an inclined ramp gives access to a five-tiered staircase that rises to the summit of the platform. The structure stands 5 m above the plaza floor level. The cleared portion of the top of the platform now covers less than 100 m², but the original configuration was larger Different Shades of Early Shamanism in the Upper Amazon

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Figure 5.2. SALF site plan. Two platform mounds, at the extremes of the circular plaza, form an east/west axis. (Francisco Valdez)

and wider. Erosion and fallout from the upper flanks has covered much of the original surface (Valdez 2013). The platform located on the eastern end of the court presents an irregular oval form; it rises between 1 and 3 m over the plaza surroundings, and some 10 m above the edge of the steep riverbank. This platform originally covered an area of approximately 1,400 m² and served as the base of a circular stone structure, 12 m in diameter. Unfortunately the original mound platform was cut in two by bulldozers during the construction of a road in the early 1990s. Erosion, provoked by the usual heavy precipitation, has partly destroyed the eastern and southern flanks of the mound. To the north of the platform, the inclined lower terrace descends to the riverbank, bordering a sharp meander where the river clashes into a vertical stone cliff. Here, the current forms violent whirlpools that gradually dissolve as the water flows down in a moderate straight line. 122

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The site appears as a nucleated hamlet, with a clear distinction between public and domestic spaces. The probable domestic units are circular stone-based structures that have a diameter range between 5 and 10 m. The activity areas are hard to identify since special care appears to have been taken to clear the domestic residues out of the perimeter of the site. Middens have been found in the exterior limits of the settlement, close to the riverbanks. The interior space of the circular structures did not reveal a significant amount of refuse, and the exterior portions were also fairly free of any kind of habitation debris. The interior of the central plaza was also well maintained since there were very few spots where early ceramic residues were located. The most common features that were found during the clearing of the superficial levels of the site were different layers of gravel and stones of different sizes. These were all natural materials that piled up from the continuous fallout that came down from the flanks of the mountain range that limits the western end of the site. Erosion, wet landslides, and the force of gravity have gradually covered different parts of the flat terrace. Despite the cyclical damaging effects of these natural agencies, the stone architectural layout has remained fairly well preserved and the plan of the site has been re-created. Fieldwork has exposed a plan of what the site looks like today, but this image corresponds to the sum of many different phases of the successive occupations of the space that has now been identified as a unit. Naturally this does not correspond specifically to a given moment, not even to the last occupation period. At best it is an initial reconstruction of the physical appearance of the site more than 5,000 years after its original settlement. The only way to determine the chronology of the different occupations is through a delicate process of cross dating different sorts of evidence. Stratigraphy is the natural method to establish the different occupations of a component, but it is a well-known fact that often the normal deposition process of strata can be altered (and even inversed) by different factors. To solve these problems specific contexts have been analyzed, dated, and used as a reference to understand and place certain types of evidence as time markers for similar kinds of settings. Radiometric absolute dating is an important device, but it was not the only one available. Relative dating, made by comparison (formal, stylistic, etc.) with archaeological materials of a well-established time period, was also an interpretative instrument. All of these methods have been used to establish the occupational sequence of the SALF site, but the basic chronological outline has been made through 32 14C assays, made on organic charcoal from undisturbed closed contexts excavated at different places in the site. Of the 32 Different Shades of Early Shamanism in the Upper Amazon

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Table 5.1. Chronology of the Mayo Chinchipe–Marañón culture based on 14C assays Lab. # Service 13C/12C

Measured Conventional Age 14C Age 14C Calib 1 Sigma

Beta-312078 AMS -14.4%

4450 ± 30

4620 ± 30

3490/3360 BC 3500/3330 BC (5440/5310 BP) (5500/5300 BP)

X4 (17) midden 60/80 cm

Beta-197175 AMS -24.6% SALF 013-04

4300 ± 40

4300 ± 40

3023/2876 BC 3010/2880 BC (4972/4825 BP) (4960/4830 BP)

XII 6: level Residential 150 cm

GX#30044 AMS -25.6% Florida 003-03

4000 ± 71

4000 ± 71

2617/2461 BC 2857/2301 BC (4567/4411 BP) (4807/4449 BP)

XIV 8 Burnt floor Platform E 45/50 cm

GX#30043 AMS -24.9% Florida 002-03

3990 ± 70

3990 ± 70

2615/2459 BC 2841/2294 BC (4565/4409 BP) (4791/4422 BP)

XIV 8 Burnt floor Platform E 90 cm

Beta-172587 AMS -23.1% La Florida 01

3860 ± 40

3890 ± 40

2470/2270 BC 2460/2300 BC (4420/4220 BP) (4410/4250 BP) 2260/2220 BC (4210/4170 BP)

XIV 8 Burnt floor Platform E 90 cm

Beta-188265 AMS -25.9% N454STANA07

3830 ± 70

3820 ± 70

2453/2152 BC 2470/2040 BC (4423/3994 BP) (4420/3990 BP)

XIII 6 Burnt floor Platform E 50 cm

Beta-188263 AMS -25.6% N454STANA05

3820 ± 40

3810 ± 40

2334/2149 BC 2395/2375 BC (4283/4098 BP) (4345/4325 BP) 2355/2135 BC (4305/4085 BP)

XII 6 Burnt floor Platform E 90 cm

Beta-261400 AMS -24.7% SALF 01/09

3820 ± 40

3820 ± 40

2300/220 BC 2450 /2140 BC (4245/4150 BP) (4440/4090 BP)

XIII-10 Hearth 45/47cm

Beta-261413 AMS -24.6% SALF 14/09

3810 ± 40

3820 ± 40

2300/2200 BC 2450/2140 BC (4400/4090 BP) (4400/4090 BP)

IX, X 6/7 Residential 95/100 cm

Beta-210219 3790 ±160 Radiometric-25.7% SALF 02-05

3780 ±160

2466/2027 BC 2620/1750 BC (4415/3976 BP) (4570/3700 BP)

IX 8 level Residential 22/23 cm

Beta-398107 AMS-22.4%

3720 ± 40

3760 ± 40

2195/2170 BC 2265/2260 BC (4145/4120 BP) (4215/4210 BP) 2145/2110 BC 2205/2015 BC (4095/4060 BP) 1995/1980 BC 2100/2035 BC (4155/3965 BP) (4050/3985 BP) 3945/3930 BP)

IV 4 80 cm Residential Level

Beta-261402 AMS 25.8% SALF 03/09

3710 ± 40

3700 ± 40

2140/2030 BC 2200/1970 BC (4150/3920 BP) (4150/3920 BP)

XIV-4 (8, 9) Tomb 4 Fill material 192 cm

Calib 2 Sigma

Context Depth

Lab. # Service 13C/12C

Measured Conventional Age 14C Age 14C Calib 1 Sigma

Beta-261403 AMS-25.5% SALF 04/09

3710 ± 40

3700 ± 40

2140/2030 BC 2200/1970 BC III 5 (21, 16) Midden (4090/3980 BP) (4150/3920 BP) 50/60 cm

Beta-214742 3700 ± 60 Radiometric-19.1% SALF 04-05

3800 ± 60

2197/1983 BC 2450/2040BC (4146/3932 BP) (4400/3990 BP)

XII-4 (8) Tomb 2 shaft Entrance 60 cm

Beta-197176 AMS-22.9% SALF 014-04

3700 ± 40

3730 ± 40

2141/2031 BC 2270/2260 BC (4090/3980 BP) (4220/4210 BP) 2220/2020 BC (4170/3970 BP)

XII-4(8) Tomb 2 Chamber 220 cm

Beta-261408 AMS-27.4% SALF 09/09

3700 ± 40

3660 ± 40

2130/2090 BC 2140/1930 BC (4080/4040 BP) (4090/3880 BP) 2050/1970 BC (4000/3920 BP)

IX-8 Residential Burnt floor 30/45 cm

Beta-188266 AMS-25.4% N454STANA08

3690 ± 40

3680 ± 40

2139/2025 BC 2190/2170 BC (4088/3974 BP) (4140/4120 BP)

XII 5 spiral hearth 75 cm

Beta-398108 AMS -28.0%

3690 ± 30

3640 ± 30

2010/2000 BC 2030/1885 BC IV 4 midden 85/90 cm (3960/3950 BP) (3980/3835 BP) 1975/1915 BC (3925/3865 BP)

Beta-188264 3660 ± 90 Radiometric-28.4% N454STANA006

3610 ± 90

2205/1951 BC 2428/1781 BC (4150/3900 BP) (4377/3730 BP)

XII 6 Burnt floor Platform E 50 cm

Beta-261412 AMS-26.2% SALF 13/09

3630 ± 40

3610 ± 40

2020/1920 BC 2120 /1880 BC (4070/3830 BP) (4070/3830 BP)

III-5 (16) Midden 85/90 cm

Beta-261409 AMS-29.1% SALF 10/09

3620 ± 40

3550 ± 40

1940/1880 BC 2010/2000 BC (3890/3840 BP) (3960/3950 BP) 1980/1760BC 3930/3710 BP

X-5 (21) Midden 80/85 cm

Beta-261410 AMS-26.5% SALF 11/09

3600 ± 40

3580 ± 40

1970/1980 BC 2030/1780 BC (3920/3840 BP) (3980/3820 BP) 1840/1820 BC 3790/3770 BP 1790/1780 BC 3740/3730 BP

XIV-6 Residential level 50/80 cm

Beta-287173 AMS-25.5% VII-20 CLara

3580 ± 40

3570 ± 40

1960/1880 BC 2020/1870 BC (3910/3830 BP) (3970/3820 BP) 1850/1870 BC (3800/3730 BP)

VI 17 (20) Residential level

Calib 2 Sigma

Context Depth

(continued)

Table 5.1.—continued Lab. # Service 13C/12C

Measured Conventional Age 14C Age 14C Calib 1 Sigma

Beta-287175 AMS-25.4% VII8-1 CLara

3570 ± 40

3560 ± 40

1950/1880 BC 2020/1860 BC (3900/3830 BP) (3970/3810 BP) 1850/1770 BC (3800/3720 BP)

Beta-261411 AMS-23.7% SALF 12-09

3530 ± 40

3550 ± 40

1940/1880 BC 2010 /1760 BC X-5 level Residential (3890/3830 BP) (3930/3710 BP) 60/75 cm

Beta-287172 AMS-24.1% VII5-12 CLara

3430 ± 40

3440 ± 40

1880/1650 BC 1880/1650 BC VII 15 (12) Residential (3830/3600 BP) (3830/3600 BP) level

Beta-188267 AMS-26.1% N454STANA09

2280 ± 40

2260 ± 40

399/236 BC 405/208 BC XIV14 Midden Tacana (2348/2185 BP) (2354/2157 BP) level 35/55 cm

Beta-287171 AMS-27.8% II12-3h CLara

2210 ± 40

2210 ± 40

370/200 BC 390/170 BC (2320/2150 BP) (2340/2120 BP)

Beta-261405 420 ± 60 Radiometric-26.1% SALF 06/09

440 ± 60

1430/1490 AD 520/460 BP

1410/1640 AD IX -5 midden 540/310 BP 40/45 cm Bracamoro level

Beta-261407 250 ± 60 Radiometric-28.1% SALF 08-09

300 ± 60

1540/1540 AD 420/400 BP 1630/1670 AD 320/280 BP 1780/1800 AD 170/150 BP 1950/1950 AD

1480/1690 AD VII 4–5 470/260 BP 30/40 cm Bracamoro 1730/1810 AD level 220/140 BP 1920/1950 AD 30/0 BP

Beta-261406 AMS-28.6% SALF 07-09

130 ± 70

70 ± 70

1690/1730 AD 260/220 BP 1810/1930 140/20 BP 1950/1950

1660/1960 AD V 6, 5 280/0 BP 35–45 cm Bracamoro level

Beta-287174 AMS-26.5% VII721-22 CLara

90 ± 40

70 ± 40

1700/1720 AD (250 a 230 BP) 1820/1840 AD (130 a 110 BP) 1880/1920 AD

1680/1740 AD (270/210 BP) 1810/1930 AD (140/20 BP) 1950/1960 AD

Calib 2 Sigma

Context Depth VII 8 (1) Residential level 40 cm

VII 18 (22) Tacana level 55 cm

XIV 14 Bracamoro level 35/55 cm

assays, 25 are grouped between 5300–3500 BP, with a close clustering of dates around 4800/3800 BP (all dates are stated with 2-sigma calibration). The 7 remaining assays date the later phase occupations, including the protohistoric Bracamoro/Shuar habitats (Table 5.1).

Structural and Factual Traces of Early Shamanism: Architectural Components of Ritual Activities The general character of the site can be witnessed in the architectural layout previously described, but the special characteristics can be appreciated in the study of the construction and reconstruction sequence of the eastern platform. This mound structure was built at different times, and it probably had diverse functions throughout the succeeding periods. In the end we know that it served both as the monumental base of a ceremonial structure and a burial ground for special people. The engineering involved in the construction method is quite complicated since it combines symbolic and functional characteristics that have been termed spiral architecture. The original mound was built by the accumulation of undifferentiated earth sediments mixed with stone and gravel from the surrounding riverbank areas. Concentric stone retaining walls were later added with masonry to maintain the landfill in place. As the platform grew, the concentric rings developed like an onion. Height and volume were gained by placing new rings over the initial ones (Figure 5.3). At the summit, the spiral architecture became more evident as the concentric stone rings reached the vortex in a round closed structure. A concave core of 10 large stones, covered with clay and gravel, marked the center of the spiral. Over this point a ceremonial hearth was prepared and evidence of high-temperature combustion is seen on the partly baked clay walls. In the course of the excavation of the central hearth, an offering cache was found under the sediments. As protection for the offerings, a polished stone bowl had been placed upside down, covering two finely sculpted greenstone medallions and some 440 small turquoise beads. The location of the offerings, the precautions taken to protect them, and the nature of the medallions speak of the importance of the ritual made to mark the sacred center of the spiral (Figure 5.4). The medallions and the turquoise bead collars were most probably the emblems of an officiant, who used the central hearth to appeal to and treat with the forces. These features suggest that the closed round structure could have been some sort of a temple, a secluded space where activities were held over the hearth Different Shades of Early Shamanism in the Upper Amazon

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Figure 5.3. The eastern platform built with concentric stone retaining walls to maintain the landfill layers in place. (Francisco Valdez)

Figure 5.4. A ceremonial hearth marks the vortex of the spiral architecture. An offering cache was found under the baked clay base. In the left corner of the image: the entrance to the shaft tomb. (Francisco Valdez)

that could have been seen as a focal point (a sort of altar). The exercise of rituals or the manipulation of sacred things close to the floor hearth could have been done from the low stools that forest culture people usually have as symbols of power (McEwan 2001). The summit structure is 12 m in diameter, with circular stone walls that could have restricted the access to its functions to a very few. Another interesting feature that must be stressed is the fact that the platform was constructed and enlarged in at least three episodes. These were marked by the replacement of the ceremonial hearth on approximately the same central axis, at three different heights. The episodes can be dated with a certain preci128

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sion at 4450 ± 30 BP for the first event; 4300± 40 BP for the second event, and at 3820 ± 40 BP for the last episode. The three superimposed hearths marked the reconstruction episodes over a period of almost 800 years, in which the platform rose from 40 cm to 180/230 cm in height (Valdez 2016). We ignore the details of the functions in which the hearth was used, but some sort of a ritual activity seems suggested by the complicated form of the structure and the offering cache. Fire seems to be a central element in the ceremonies; its energy is summoned and encased by the spiral stone structure. The hearth is presented as a sort of altar where offerings or sacrifices were made. The stone medallions could be just one example of such instances.

Funerary Paraphernalia The complex architecture that characterizes the platform was also manifest underground. Several tombs and offerings have been found under the surface of the platform, some of them at the base of the curved retaining walls. Nevertheless, two of the most important inhumations yet found were located in the central part of the summit round structure. These tombs have yielded a great amount of information on many aspects of the ideological complexity that characterized the Mayo Chinchipe–Marañón culture (Valdez 2007). A shaft tomb was located close to the vortex of the ceremonial spiral. A stone-lined shaft led to a semi-elliptical funerary chamber 2 m below the surface. It contained the rest of at least two individuals; unfortunately the conservation of the human remains was very poor and it was impossible to determine the age or the gender of the deceased. The offerings included 8 ceramic vessels, 3 polished stone bowls, a polished stone mortar, several hundred greenstone body ornaments, and various fragments of Strombus sp. marine shells. It is unfortunate that the organic materials were not preserved in the acid and perpetually damp environment, but it is very probable that the bodies and the offerings were wrapped in textiles that have not survived the passage of time. This hypothesis is suggested by the presence of a curious feature: a rectangular mosaic of some 200 small turquoise sequins was found on the curved chamber wall and on the tomb floor. This element was probably part of a fabric that has disappeared, but that left its elegant rectangular trace to mark its presence. Although the offerings were placed close to the walls, three ceramic vessels were broken and some fragments were spread in different parts of the chamber, suggesting that some redisposition of the funerary bundles could have happened through the reuse of the tomb. Charcoal was found in different places in Different Shades of Early Shamanism in the Upper Amazon

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the chamber and samples were taken for radiocarbon analysis. Other charcoal samples were collected from the burnt floor that covered the surface of the round structure and sealed the entrance to the shaft tomb. Two 14C assays were performed on the samples and both gave the same results. The two dates place the interior of the tomb and the burnt floor above it at 4400/4210 cal BP. The most interesting items in the funerary paraphernalia were Strombus seashell fragments that had been placed among the body ornaments. We cannot be sure that the seashells were intact at the time of the interment, since only some parts of the shell have survived. The Strombus is a common ritual object in the Andean world, where it is used as a trumpet (a pututo) to summon the congregation and the spirits. Nevertheless, its real importance was ideological, as it was the masculine part of the sacred couple, composed with the female Spondylus princepts shell (Marcos 1995; Quilter 2014: 84). The physical presence of the Strombus is complemented in the tomb by a ceramic representation of the thorny oyster bivalve depicted in a stirrup-spout effigy bottle that was part of the funerary offerings (Figure 5.5). The presence of marine shells in the Upper Amazon by 4400 BP attests to an active chain of interactions between the Pacific Coast, the Andean highlands, and the Eastern tropical lowlands (Valdez 2008). Mayo Chinchipe was coeval with phase III of the Valdivia cultural sequence, where the Spondylus/Strombus cult was already fully in place (Marcos 1995, 2003, 2005). As of yet, we do not have enough information on other aspects of this interaction, but it seems clear that the ideological sphere was a key factor at both ends of the chain. The importance of the seashell cult found its way to the Upper Amazon, where it became an emblem of power and materialized the connection to the distant forces of the sea and its wet element symbolic nature of birth and fertility. This seems to be clearly explicit in the ceramic human effigy bottle just mentioned. The stirrup-spout vessel represents an individual emerging from the open bivalves of a Spondylus shell. The effigy portrays two human faces on each opposing side of the bottle: one is a normal head, while the other one depicts the image of a frowning man with a split lower lip that recalls the diagnostic Valdivia feline mouth. Both faces are also covered with a helmet like the Spondylus bivalve. The effigy bottle thus represents the point of origin of an individual that is transforming into a were-jaguar. Although Mayo Chinchipe–Marañón pottery seems to follow an independent tradition from the coastal Valdivia ceramics, the symbolic representation of the were-jaguar mouth is identical to the iconographic depiction the Valdivians used to treat the same subject. 130

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Figure 5.5. The effigy bottle represents an individual emerging from a Spondylus princepts bivalve. The two opposing faces of the bottle suggest the transformation of the individual into a werejaguar. (Francisco Valdez)

Another interesting feature is the nature of the contents of the stirrup-spout bottle. Botanical analyses have revealed that the vessel contained a liquid made from cacao. Starch granules retrieved from the inner walls of the bottle were identified as Theobroma spp. (Zarrillo 2012: 190). The presence of cacao in a complex iconography ceremonial vessel speaks of the importance that this plant had at the time. Among other qualities cacao has a high energetic component that has been recognized since antiquity in the Americas. Its use in sacred ceremonies has been well established among the high cultures of Mesoamerica: Olmecs, Mayas, and Aztecs (Coe and Coe 2004). The new evidence marks its presence in the Upper Amazon by the fifth millennium BP, which is, as of yet, the oldest known social use of cacao in the Americas. A direct 14C assay made Different Shades of Early Shamanism in the Upper Amazon

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on the organic remains of cacao places it between 5450/5300 cal BP (see Table 5.1 and Zarrillo 2012: 166, 190, 214, 250). This and other assays that date cacao in the SALF site are almost 1,500 years older than the earliest dated presence of its use in Mexico or in Central America. Other botanical analyses have identified traces of the use of maize and manioc in different contexts of the site (Zarrillo 2012: 207–213). These staples are still used to produce fermented beverages (different sorts of chicha) that are socially consumed in traditional forms during ritual activities and in the everyday gatherings of the Upper Amazon peoples. The sugar contents in cacao could have produced a fermented beverage, but it is also possible that cacao was mixed with other plants to make other sorts of ritual decoctions. Among the funerary offerings there is another ceramic container that has special significance. In the Andean world this type of vessel is known as a llipta (ash) box, as it contained a good quantity of lime (calcium carbonate). It is a four-footed closed bowl that shows the 3-D head of an individual chewing coca leaves (Erythroxylum coca). The characteristic bulge protruding from the right cheek of the individual vividly represents the act of chewing coca. The tomb in which this vessel was found has been dated at 4400/4210 cal BP (Table 5.1) and, as such, this is one of the oldest representations of a recurrent iconographic theme in the Andes. The effigy was enhanced with a turquoise collar placed around its neck, probably stressing the social status that the portrayed individual enjoyed in the Mayo Chinchipe society. Llipta boxes are considered sacred ritual items. The specialized crafts these people were practicing were directly connected to the ideological realm; the functional purpose of certain objects was heightened by the symbolic objectives they fulfilled. The high aesthetic technological achievements of the Mayo Chinchipe–Marañón were not limited to clay or to organic materials such as wood or bone. Stone was a strong medium for intense expression and materialization of cosmological concepts and metaphors (Valdez 2007). In the funerary chamber a small stone mortar with its small pestle were found near the ceramic llipta box. The mortar, made in red jasper, had been sculpted in the form of a bird, with a central cavity in the front face and two flat-line pedestals in the back. This type of mortar has ethnographical counterparts (mortar trays) that are used to prepare (grind) and consume hallucinogenic snuffs. These are inhaled directly from the mortar cavity. The bird figure depicted is a royal vulture (Cathartes aura), a scavenger that lives in the Upper Amazon, thriving on dead organic matter. Its head has been sculpted with care 132

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Figure 5.6. Llipta box, effigy of an individual chewing coca. (Francisco Valdez)

on both sides of the object to stress its symbolic nature. This particular type of bird acts like a mediator, or assistant spirit, between humans and the supernatural world. The llipta box and the mortar tray are common shaman instruments used to process and consume sacred plant by-products, which are an essential part of the ritual activities they are involved in (Figure 5.6). Chewing coca leaves mixed with lime liberates the cocaine alkaloids that induce trances, where the senses are powerfully increased and the concentration abilities are boosted. Coca is a stimulant, not a hallucinogen, but its energetic faculties are essential for the proper achievement of certain functions. The snuffs, on the other hand, are one of the common mediums used by shamans to move into the spiritual sphere, where he (or she) acts and intercedes for the community. The ritual importance of items, endowed with a rich symbolic iconography, is marked by the way in which the ideological motifs are displayed. Themes are often rendered in pairs, sometimes in complementing halves, or as opposing elements (male/female). The ideological significance is expressed in the way the representations are organized to accentuate the importance of each motif. This is particularly evident on the carved or incised iconography that is pictured on the outer surface of the polished stone bowls. The round-shaped support Different Shades of Early Shamanism in the Upper Amazon

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Figure 5.7. Iconographic representations engraved in polished stone bowls show anthropomorphic and symbolic abbreviations of the forces of nature. Certain mirror images depict the feline figure. (Francisco Valdez)

allows many possible arrangements, but one always observes a well-balanced symmetry in the depictions. The bipartition or quadripartition of the support reflects a codified norm that abstracts certain aspects of the ideological cosmos; it literarily shows the way it is supposed to be organized. Opposing or complementing figures are symmetrically poised either one over the other, or in opposite quadrants. Yet another remarkable iconographic feature is the use of symbolic abbreviations of certain signs, as well as the supposed mirror images that translate the full significance of a given theme (Figure 5.7). Felines, snakes, and birds are recurrent subjects that are portrayed in full or abbreviated form. The engraved images depicted on the stone ceremonial bowls may have induced visions of the supernatural forces the officiant was invoking.

Different Shades of Shamanism Was shamanism a system of magical knowledge that served as a catalyst of Formative period cultural development? Shamanism is a system of knowledge, but what kind of shamanism? British anthropologist Stephen Hugh-Jones (1996) recognized a distinction between two ideal types of shamanism in Amazonia: vertical and horizontal. These may be considered as part of the same ideological tradition of knowledge, and both forms may coexist in the same society. Although hierarchical difference may exist between them, they are not exclusive to a certain level of social organization. Hugh-Jones states that the distinction 134

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is not a synchronic typology, but rather a sort of specialization in the art, where hierarchy can be acknowledged by the extent of the actions each type performs (1996: 32–33). A formal hierarchical distinction involves relative degrees of knowledge and power. Horizontal shamanism can be considered a simpler form that involves the classic features of trance and possession with the use of hallucinogenic substances. Hugh-Jones claims that it seems more democratic, and it appears to be associated with egalitarian, forest-oriented societies with an ideological emphasis on warfare and hunting. Secular power is often separated from sacred power, and shamans may have relatively low status and prestige. The horizontal type is individualistic and “is only peripherally involved in the ritual reproduction of society” (1996: 33). In vertical shamanism power is based on esoteric knowledge that is recurrently sought in dogmatic mythological canons. This type of shamanism appears to be associated with more complex, ranked societies, where secular and ritual powers are merged and limited to a few powerful men. Hugh-Jones says these “enjoy prestige and high status and play a key role in social reproduction through elaborate ancestor oriented life crisis rituals” (1996: 33). In vertical shamanism trance or possession are less important and the use of hallucinogens is not restricted to the shaman; he often distributes them for others to use. In this case he is seen as an officiant of sacred rites more than as a witch doctor. He specializes in chanting, dancing, and leading ceremonies. His knowledge is more cosmological and, as such, his actions may be seen as closer to that of a priest than to a regular shaman. This dual form of shamanism has been witnessed in many parts of Amazonia. Hugh-Jones sees the distinction between “power and knowledge, achievement and ascription” in many societies where the shaman may be a part-time specialist who acts alone, and the officiant is a full-time specialist, a member of an institution, where he (or she) acts in collective ceremonies as a ritual specialist (1996: 35). Viveiros de Castro sees in this a socio-cosmic change. The shaman is the one that passes to the other side of the mirror—he sacrifices himself in the ritual, and he does not send representatives in his behalf. The priest, on the other hand, is the one that exercises the sacrifice—he is the officiant that oversees the ceremony that he controls. The participants, the congregation, execute the ceremony. In this he is no longer a shaman. There is no formal opposition between these duties; the priests are the guardians of the esoteric knowledge that the shaman exercises. Nevertheless, in some societies there are situations where Different Shades of Early Shamanism in the Upper Amazon

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the actions of the shaman are not well differentiated, and one could say that the same person holds both responsibilities (Viveiros de Castro 2005: 344–346). In such an instance the shaman is a full-time specialist that not only does but also preaches what he does. The evidence of early shamanism in the SALF site seems to be in the shady area between the two types.

Discussion Despite the fact that we cannot assume that the ethnographic Amerindian shamanism that we know today in many parts of the Americas was exactly the same as that of the distant past, we believe that some of the basic mechanisms of its practice share the essence of the mediation process and many of its means. Our hypothesis is based on the presented evidence, but as in most cases in archaeological interpretation, the speculative character of its assumptions must be thoroughly analyzed and discussed. It is evident that certainty will never be truly attained, but exploring the possibility of such an explanation is undoubtedly worthwhile. The materials reviewed in the SALF archaeological contexts we have described provide two different lines of evidence: 1—Structural: which includes the architectural layout, the forms of the buildings and the open spaces that it encloses. 2—Factual: the artifacts commonly used in the activities that took place on the site: ritual or ceremonial objects; funerary paraphernalia that includes prestige personal ornaments, offering/objects; and the iconographic symbolism associated with different forms of power. The general social context that this evidence portrays can be considered as testimonies of the activities of shamanism. The animist ontology that is reflected, both in the structural and in the factual evidence discussed, pleads for an individual (male or female) that has the capacity and the power to summon and enter in contact with the spiritual forces that control the universe. In the ethnographic examples of the Amazonian culture, the notion of shamans best fits this ability. The shamans are perceived as being related to the original beings (human/nonhuman) that have the capacity to enter the supernatural world, where they communicate with ancestors and spirits to make them speak. The shaman is a multiple being; he is seen as an auxiliary spirit that acts on the behalf of ordinary men. They have a diachronic dimension that gives them the power to transform into the nonhuman beings that live in the invisible world. The use of hallucinogens renders visible the invisible, so the quest of the vision is a formal shamanic technique. The shaman has the capacity 136

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of crossing the corporal barriers and to adopt the nonhuman perspectives in his mediatory role (Viveiros de Castro 2007: 48–62). Shamanism is a mode of knowledge and practice based on the existence of a multilayered cosmic sphere where all life relates and intermingles. The shaman (male or female) is an individual that has the capacity and the possibility to travel between these layers and mediates on behalf of his community in the visible and in the invisible spheres.

Structural: Ceremonial Architecture The structural evidence secured in the SALF site seems to set the scene for specific activities (public and secluded) that involved the intervention of specialists in ceremonies held for and by the community, and rites performed in open or closed spaces. The plaza is a place of communal gathering, where the two-level element (sunken versus elevated platforms) must have played an important part in the staging (mise-en-scène) of the activities. The centered circular form of the plaza makes it the focal point of the site, where the activities took place facing either the west side where the high five-tiered terraced platform dominated the attention of the participants. On the east side stood the more secluded temple platform. The floor of the plaza has not revealed much on the actual activities that took place there. Other than a few random ceramic fragments (bowls and small pots) there is no other pertinent evidence of any activity. The same is true for the west platform. On the other hand, the temple platform has the most revealing aspects of the site’s nature. The symbolic character of the spiral architecture, the central hearth/altar, and the location of the rich tombs found in the underground suggest that important events were probably carried out there. In this platform the metaphor of the cosmos is materialized. The two levels of the plaza now have a third level added with the subterranean world of the dead. The spiral architecture evokes motion, cosmic movement between the three realms of intangible reality: the supernatural sphere, the physical world, and the infra universe. In Andean animism a “fire altar” is often the place where special offerings are made, a sort of a sacred sending port, from where the community dispatches messages and contributions to the spirits as part of the intimate reciprocity that binds the different spheres of the universe (Sillar 2009: 374–375). The three levels of the interrelated cosmos are now visible: the sky and its cosmic energy; the earth, with all its living agents; and the underworld, the realm of the spirits, the ancestors, and in general all perennial forces. The temple is thus the meeting point where the community and the spirits interact through Different Shades of Early Shamanism in the Upper Amazon

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the mediation of some individuals that had the recognized abilities and powers to summon them. The site is a sort of representation of the three layers of the universe. Ritual practice facilitates the access to these superimposed realms. The vortex of the spiral hearth/altar feature reminds one of the uses of sacred fire that has been termed by Richard Burger and others as the Kotosh Religious Tradition (Burger and Salazar-Burger 1980; Pozorski and Pozorski 1996). The evidence found in Palanda is coeval with other Peruvian preceramic sites that share these traits, but the presence of the spiral, the elegant ceramic wares, and the location, on the lower flanks of the eastern Andes, strongly differentiates it from the coastal and highland Peruvian sites. The ritual activities involving ceremonial fire seem to be a common practice at this time, but the modalities may have changed in different settings. In the SALF site the secluded and esoteric structure of the temple advocates for the presence of an officiant that is endowed with the power to be integrated with the cosmic forces and to move through the different layers of the universe.

Objects, Iconography, and Esoteric Meaning The factual evidence provides the instruments and the emblems that were proper to a special group of individuals that were seen as the mediators between the community and the forces of the supernatural realm that are invoked and represented in the iconography. The images that have been studied reveal only one type of human figure in the recovered objects. This individual is always portrayed in connection to symbolic elements that remit to the ideological sphere. Two human representations are found engraved in stone and modeled in pottery vessels (Figure 5.6). The ceramic figures are individuals that are either chewing coca or transforming its attributes to assume the form of a feline. The characters represented on the back of two polished stone bowls are humans that are confronted by the dialectical forces of the universe that contour their space. In one instance the central figure seems to manipulate snakes and raptorial birds. In the other case the human figure has the shape of a bird with expanded wings and a forked tail, but the silhouette and the head are clearly that of a human being. The scene can be interpreted as that of a shaman in flight that communicates with the snake and hawks that surround him. In all cases these strong depictions of power can be considered as symbolic testimonies of the presence and of the activities of an important individual, known among the modern jungle Quichua as the yachak or sage (shaman). 138

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The emblems of prestige that have been recovered in the tomb are high-quality exotic materials that speak of the authority and power that these objects were bestowed with. The nature of their realm is seen both as natural and supernatural. These objects are not only emblems of power, they are actually considered as operators of the transformation process that an individual experiences when he contacts the spirit world. Nevertheless the objects retrieved from the tombs are only a small part of the universe of such goods. Organic materials, such as fangs (snake or jaguar), boar tusks, skins, and feathers unfortunately have not survived the passage of time in the acid and wet environment. The recovered apparel was made from different textured and colored types of rocks. Body ornaments were sculpted on chosen semiprecious stones such as turquoise, chrysocolla, malachite, amazonite, sodalite, and even quartz rock crystal. Yet greenstones seem to have been preferred over the more common gray or black mineral supports. Among the pre-Columbian people, green was the color associated with wisdom and benevolent power. This is still the case in many ethnographic examples from Ecuadorian Amazonia (Bilhaut 2011: 85). Greenstone body ornaments include sculpted human heads (with either calm or aggressive expressions) and carved coiled snakes (spirals). Other motifs include birds, apelike faces, and frogs. The ornaments found in the different tombs were in a large majority made of turquoise, a rare commodity that adds to the ritual prestige that seems apparent in these symbols. If we consider the general context and the specific objects that have been excavated in the graves, one can assume that these were the emblems of a very specific type of individual, one that can be characterized as a priest shaman. This supposition seems to be reiterated by the presence of the Strombus shell fragments retrieved in the paraphernalia. It seems obvious that we are dealing with exotic prestige materials that must not have been easily available. The nature of their symbolic value could have restricted its ownership and use to a very limited number of individuals that had achieved the formal recognition of the community. Jean-Pierre Chaumeil notes that the emblems needed in shamanic transformation had the eminent function of expressing, to all concerned, the power that was invested in the individual that possesses them. This power could be activated (or reactivated) at any moment. The acquisition of the forces that allowed the transformation of such an individual was also consummated by assessment that the other members of the community had of him. This would be one of the reasons why these emblems had to be buried with the individual—the reactivation of his powers passed by the action of these emblems (Chaumeil 2005:174). Different Shades of Early Shamanism in the Upper Amazon

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Implications for Social Interaction Systems The procurement of such items implies an exchange system of objects associated with ritual prestige that included things like Spondylus/Strombus seashells, exotic semiprecious stones, feathers, hallucinogens and other medicinal plants, and most of all “magical” or shamanic knowledge. The system had to be necessarily regional and it supposes the existence of similar ideological beliefs and needs along the chain of participants. Such a system implies a specialized “market” based on a strong “supply/demand” of this type of prestige goods. The ideological importance of the “users” of such goods must have been powerful enough to provoke social activities at all levels of the community (Lathrap 1973). The system seems to have had the characteristics of modern economic primers that move and organize different sectors of society to produce, trade, and consume such goods. In the end, the benefits of the social prestige, gained along the line among the participants, favored the community at large. Langdon identified such a shaman’s network within the territory of the modern Siona of Colombia that functioned between Indians and mestizos in the Sibundoy Valley and the Amazonian lowlands. The network was created on a regional scale and functioned between the local and global forces (Langdon 2007: 34–35). The archaeological evidence suggests that shaman networks seem to have been active in the pre-Columbian past. The funerary goods and tools that were recovered from the main tomb suggest the presence of an individual endowed with power. The body ornaments and the exotic materials from which these were made also speak of a special status that separated this individual from the other members of the community. The presence of the shaman is not seen here as that of a segregated individual, which limits his actions to the magical aspects of his trade. The formal layout of the site and, most of all, the eastern platform and its spiral architectural scheme speaks both of a public and a sacred domain where ceremonies are taken from the communal to the cosmic sphere. The funerary importance given to the supposed officiant speaks of the high level of social appreciation he was entitled to. The yachak is felt as a unifying social element that was capable of grouping and organizing the tropical forest culture communities under the force of a common ideology. Through his actions he not only mediated between humans and the spirit world, rather he mostly intervened and negotiated between men. His talents as a mediator and his acceptance among several communities allowed him to assemble dispersed groups and to stamp in them a common identity. Animist ideology was the initial cement that bound men and formed communities. 140

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The examples that have been presented from the SALF site are only a small part of the social components that characterized the Formative groups that thrived on the Mayo Chinchipe–Marañón drainage basin. The shared material culture, including the complex spiral architecture and the polished stone bowl tradition are found throughout several thousand km2, in which the varied ecological settings gradually change from the humid rain forest in the headwaters to the dry thorn forest of the Marañón confluence. The Montegrande and San Isidro sites located in the vicinity of Jaén are just two well-studied examples of the social complexity that was shared along the Chinchipe basin (Olivera 2014). In all these contexts one can still feel the different shades of shamanism.

Acknowledgments I would like to thank Peter Eeckhout for inviting me to participate in the “Meaning Within” seminar and in the fine suggestions he has made to enhance this chapter. Funding for the research that made this work possible was made by the IRD and the INPC. Special recognition must be made to Julio Hurtado and Alexandra Yépez for their commitment and invaluable contributions to our research project. In Peru, Quirino Olivera Núñez and Ulises Gamonal have always shared a generous dialogue that has greatly influenced our mutual efforts. All errors and shortcomings in this chapter are of course my own responsibility.

Note 1. The Zamora Chinchipe Project was carried out as part of an international convention signed in 2000, between Ecuador’s Instituto Nacional de Patrimonio Cultural and the French Institut de Recherche pour le Développement (INPC/IRD).

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6 Metal in the Recuay Culture of Ancient Peru Art, Imagery, and Social Context

Ge orge L au

Given its vast mineral wealth, the Central Andes are well known for being one of the heartlands for metallurgical developments in the ancient Americas. Studies demonstrate how ancient cultural traditions, such as the Chavín, Inca, Moche, Wari, Tiwanaku, and Chimu, integrated metals and metallurgy into their material, sociopolitical, and cosmological worlds (e.g., Carcedo Muro 1998; Helms 1981; Lechtman 1980, 1988, 2014; Shimada 1996). The sample of metalwork from the Recuay culture of north-central Peru is much smaller than these other traditions, and there has been less attention paid to it. One could argue, however, that the corpus deserves greater consideration, if only because it is so compact and manageable. Also, even the few items known of Recuay metalwork and existing technical studies have key implications for Andean cultural developments and can be pegged to more general trends in politics, technology, and religion during the first millennium AD. A systematic review of this sample also allows for a new, distinctive case to compare with other corporate traditions and their technical styles. What role does the metalwork have in social differentiation across regions? And how does it relate to (or have tensions with) other media of the same culture? Recuay metallurgical practices are instructive precisely because they are distinctive and feature rather uniquely in the record. In particular, this essay focuses on the rise of native lords, and attendant practices of social distinction and competition, which I argue contributed to affect the production and character of Recuay metal objects. As rare and precious items, metal objects also embodied and emphasized important cosmological structures of Recuay thought, especially

dual opposition, role of mythical creatures, valued material essences, and the notion of properly appointed and constructed noble bodies.

Setting and Chronology Recuay tradition groups occupied a large region of north-central Peru, in an area today more or less coinciding with the lands of the Department of Ancash (Figure 6.1). Best known for its highly diverse geography, this region encompasses many of the extreme environments of western South America, including desert coastlines, humid riparian zones, mountain glaciers, and the forested tropical montane areas leading into Amazonia. Many Recuay settlements flourished at the foot of the Cordillera Blanca, in the drainages associated with Rio Santa (Callejón de Huaylas) and the headwaters flowing into the Rio Marañon (Conchucos). The Callejón de Huaylas featured important residential and mortuary settlements throughout the valley, most located in high strategic areas to take advantage of agro-pastoral lands and overlook exchange routes (Bennett 1944; Lau 2011; Wegner 2007). In the Conchucos region, Recuay period occupations are also abundant, including an important reoccupation of Chavín de Huántar (Lumbreras 1977), an important early religious center and heart of early social complexity in the Central Andes. Other settlements have been identified in neighboring regions, but few have been investigated systematically (Diessl 2004; Ibarra 2009; Orsini 2003; Vega-Centeno 2008). The northern part of the Conchucos includes those regions associated with Sihuas and Pomabamba, and to the northwest, that of Pallasca Province. Pallasca Province, defined to the north by the Tablachaca drainage, was roughly the northern boundary of the Recuay style. The Cordillera Negra, west of the Callejón de Huaylas, also featured key Recuay developments (Herrera 2005; Lau 2010a, 2011; Ponte 1999, 2015; Tello 1929). Besides their agro-pastoral potential, these lands were important as the intervening region between the highlands and coast. Relationships formed with groups of the Moche culture, who dominated the lower valleys north of Nepeña. Stylistic and trade interaction was periodically interrupted by occasional conflict between Recuay and Moche groups, leading to the rise of fortified settlements and buffer zones (Ikehara 2015; Proulx 1982). From the moment that Recuay pottery was identified (Macedo 1881), Recuay has been one of the best recognized of all ancient Peruvian styles, a key component of Andean culture histories since the late nineteenth century. Only recently, 146

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Figure 6.1. Map of north central Peru, showing the location of Ancash (inset) and places mentioned in the text. (Francisco Valdez)

however, has the culture been studied to update theorization of its sociopolitical and diachronic developments. The primary advances over the last few decades have enhanced knowledge about the social organization, religious and warfare practices, and the value system of Recuay tradition groups (ca. AD 1–700). The Recuay cultural tradition can be divided presently into four main phases (Lau 2004, 2011). Radiocarbon dates are available that provide general age ranges for material styles, especially for pottery: Huarás (200 BC–AD 200), Early Recuay (AD 200–400), Middle Recuay (AD 400–600), and Late Recuay (AD 600–700). The primary developments are positioned, therefore, mainly during the Early Intermediate period. Different investigations add to the picture of a series of non-state groups, who flourished through highland agriculture, herding, and trade. Much of the principal kinds of material culture (namely, stone sculpture, pottery, monumental architecture) can be attributed to the politico-religious practices of emergent chiefly elites, who accumulated and displayed their wealth to legitimize their authority (Gero 1999; Lau 2011; Orsini 2007; Reichert 1977; Smith 1978; Wegner 2011). Recuay culture is significant for Andean archaeology because of its early manifestations of cultural expressions and practices typical of highland traditions. Some of these include ancestor veneration and associated death practices, internecine conflict, fortifications and defensive settlements, the rise of camelid herd wealth, offering traditions and social organization based on kin collectives,1 and chiefly warrior leadership (Lau 2011, 2013). These were harbingers for cultural patterns typically associated with the Inca or groups described by early Spanish writers. Just as important, Recuay is one of the only highland cultural traditions that actively imaged the human form. Unlike most earlier and later cultures (e.g., Chavín, Wari, Cajamarca, Inca, Wanka), Recuay visual arts depicted humans interacting in more or less real-world kinds of circumstances. Recuay arts were a new narrative form of ideology that incorporated the actions of lords and their respective collectives. Recuay artisans depicted representations of single anthropomorphic figures (probably ancestralized chiefs and supernaturals), as well as images of group ritual practices (drinking, dancing, veneration, etc.). Metalwork occasionally shows the first category. The Recuay material style also emphasized core cultural dispositions (“materiality”) across different media and techniques. Highly worked and ostentatious surfaces, brightly opposed colors, figure/ground reversals, and fine manufac148

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ture were essential in marking the exteriors of “chiefly,” noble bodies. These graced the surfaces of various images of chiefly warrior leaders: ancestor effigies and person-beings (kin, attendants, animals, palaces, and funerary buildings) associated with them. The surfaces afforded visual connections between things and persons who held very different ontological statuses, but nevertheless shared in their high standing and esteem (Lau 2010b, 2011). Material culture provided crucial links to define and articulate very different kinds of subjects—reminding us of a cognitive framework that Descola (2005) has categorized as “analogical.” The ways that the Recuay made and used special exterior surfaces helped to order and relate people to other subjects of special rank, even though they were of very different kinds (effigy forms in pottery, stone, and textiles; buildings; landscape features). As you will see, metals were another form that marked and extended “chiefliness.” The emphasis on surfaces is consistent with another aspect of Recuay materiality, which attributed great significance to fragments or small, inchoate forms, that are typically part of a larger collective (e.g., egg, seed, pebble, block of stone, fragment of a pot, or a mimetic image, such as a figurine or mummy bundle; Lau 2008, 2013). Recuay objects were certainly important for metonymic associations, where the part or small form signifies or instantiates the whole. But as in many traditional Andean cultures, the part also held the potential to share in and distribute the essence or vitality of the original (e.g., Allen 2015; Dean 2010; Hamilton 2018; Salomon and Urioste 1991), what some authors have theorized more generally as the “partible” or “distributed” quality of humans and nonhumans (e.g., Fowler 2004; Gell 1998). Such small items were valuable and highly desirable, gifted to others, circulated among family members, or placed to accompany the deceased. Andeans valued them not because of their monetary worth, but because they ensured the well-being and reproduction of the collective—that is, they helped to make proper social persons. In many ways, Recuay is perhaps the best pre-Inca highland style to inform how Andean groups saw and portrayed themselves before the coming of the Spaniards. Sometimes, the imagery manifested worldly beings in interaction (usually in concert with chiefly individuals), and other times, showing figures from a more mythical universe. Recuay culture thus provides a vital check for critically evaluating what Inca- and colonial-era descriptions have to say about Andean lifeways and their time depth. As a “veritable mine” (Lechtman 1980: 267), the Central Andes is renowned Metal in the Recuay Culture of Ancient Peru: Art, Imagery, and Social Context

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for its tremendous mineral wealth and long history of metalwork (Lechtman 2014; Oehm 1984; Petersen 1970). Highland Ancash has been a regular source of metal and mineral resources now and in colonial times (Cobbing et al. 1981; Garayar et al. 2003; Raimondi 1873). Today, large industrial mines actively extract gold, copper, zinc, and silver from highland Ancash; mines have sponsored archaeological efforts in impacted areas (Paredes 2012; Ponte 1999, 2015; Rick 2012). Like many prehispanic Andeans, Recuay peoples practiced forms of “verticality,” which exploited the compressed, “stacked” zonation of the Andean cordillera to optimize economic practices. The most common pattern was to locate sites at roughly 3700–4000 m asl, between the puna grasslands (highly suitable for camelid herding) and suni farmlands (best for tuber and cereal agriculture). It remains unclear when and to what extent mineral resources became part of vertical economies in ancient Ancash. Evidence for metal production is fairly limited. A few archaeological sites in highland Ancash have produced evidence of slag and broken crucibles, but investigations have yet to find a bona fide workshop. Prehispanic gold mining occurred in the Cordillera Blanca (Quebrada Llaganuco; Matsumoto 2006). Early colonial accounts also indicate that gold and silver were mined in highland Ancash (Espinoza Soriano 1978: 109, 131); their production was overseen by native lords, called curacas or caciques.2 It stands to reason that the rise of metalwork in Ancash prehistory went hand in hand with increasing specialization and control over metal sources, probably by Chavín times and very likely by Recuay. In the Inca empire, gold and silver exploitation was the royal prerogative of the Inca king; as his birthright and linked to dynastic oral traditions, all the mineral wealth of the empire notionally belonged to him (Lechtman 1984: 14). Chavín period (ca. 1000–400 BC) groups of northern Peru made and used metal objects—usually of hammered metal sheet (especially gold bodily adornments and ritual paraphernalia). But they are relatively rare in the record, occurring predominantly in high status burials and religious centers (Burger 1992; Lechtman 2014; Onuki 2011). Metal production overall was relatively low during the Early Horizon, particularly in comparison to the succeeding Early Intermediate period. By around AD 200, after a hiatus of several centuries with only a limited record of fancy material culture, groups in highland Ancash began to intensify the production of high-status arts and architecture. In addition to its highly recognizable pottery, increasingly successful Recuay groups effectively extended their 150

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noble style to other kinds of durable material culture. Sophisticated metalwork accompanied major innovations in other media (architecture, stone sculpture, and weaving) during the later phases of the Recuay tradition.

Forms of Recuay Metalwork The extant corpus of whole Recuay metal items might number, very roughly, about 300–350 specimens. Though far from complete, the record indicates widespread use of metal items across the Recuay world, in both small and large communities. However, metalwork never seems to have been abundant or frequent in assemblages, and certainly not in the quantities, for example, seen in Moche elite tombs (Millaire 2002). Most Recuay groups evidently had access to some metalwork, and it was used fairly consistently, but only in limited amounts. We can surmise that they were rare, prestige items with very special purposes, meanings, and limited contexts of use. Recuay metalwork featured especially prominently in burial contexts. Examples occur in many collections in Peru and around the world—it is almost certain that most of these holdings originate from tomb excavations and looting. Occasionally, metals have also been reported through systematic archaeology of funerary contexts (Gamboa 2010: 63; Gero 1992: 18; Grieder 1978: 118–131; Herrera 2005: 401–411; Lau 2010a: 346–351, 2011; Ponte 2015: 88–90; Vega-Centeno 2008: 60). A general review of these cases finds the metalwork almost exclusively dedicated to personal items and adornments. To date, Recuay does not show examples of architectural metalwork (e.g., clamps, plate veneers), or of metals being used for figurines or vessels. The implements consist of (in more or less their order of frequency): pins, club-/maceheads, small awls, axes, knives, and atlatl hooks (Figure 6.2). These objects tend to occur rarely in residential settings, suggesting they were not commonly employed for everyday household activities and tasks. Rather, they were probably luxury belongings and/or highly specialized implements that were curated and disposed of, most commonly, in burials. The awls may have been for fine working of leather, wood and/or sheet metal, such as to fashion embossed, chased, and/or repoussé surfaces (Figure 6.2f). One slender awl example (15.4 cm long) of copper metal, from Chinchawas, features two fine, slightly rounded work points (Figure 6.2d). The mid-shaft has four beveled edges, which may have helped to haft the object. Such objects may have also functioned as spear or harpoon points (Makowski et al. 1994: 353). Metal in the Recuay Culture of Ancient Peru: Art, Imagery, and Social Context

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Figure 6.2. Copper metal objects from Chinchawas: pins (A–C), awl (D), earring/bangle (E), pectoral/ ornament (F), atlatl hook (G), knife (H), axehead (I). (Drawings by Francisco Valdez)

Recuay maceheads were visually impressive weapons and made out of cast copper metal. They tend to be star-shaped, round (e.g., Schindler 2000: 306), or biconical (e.g., Herrera 2005: 404). Most maceheads were probably attached to wooden clubs. Given their bludgeoning purpose, the heads were usually cast as one piece—intentionally weighty and solid. Probably the most distinctive were those that employed cylindrical, fluted, or ribbed tubes, perhaps for composite scepter-like objects (Figure 6.3). These maceheads occur throughout highland Ancash, but again, very rarely. Examples are known from Gotushjirka (Herrera 2005: 408), Tinyash of eastern Ancash (Antúnez 1941: Figure 22)3, the Jimbe area of the upper Nepeña Valley (Gambini 1984: 121–124), the Chacas region (Wegner 2000: 15), and Chavín de Huántar (Tello 1960: Figure 135b).4 Where provenience is available, they are associated with Early Intermediate period burials (cf. Carcedo Muro 1998: 152

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Figure 6.3. Fluted, tubular macehead, cast copper metal, about 14 cm long. (Municipality of Chacas collection, photograph by Steve Wegner, reproduced with permission)

437). The maceheads were cast out of copper, and may feature six, seven, or eight flutes; some are gilt. Tello observed that the ribbed form resembled the columnar stem of the giant “gigantón” cactus Cereus trigonodendron (Tello 1960: 305–306; 2004: 318). Similar maceheads and casting techniques are known from other areas of northern Peru, especially the upper Marañon and highland Piura regions, suggesting that Recuay groups were part of a larger interaction sphere linked to warfare culture, exchange of rare metal weapons, and chiefly status. Metal items were also worn on the human body and appended to clothing and headdresses. Probably the most famous is a hammered thin, gold-foil headdress frontlet, found in the elaborate subterranean tomb of Jancu, east of Huaraz. Made to resemble feathered plumes, the frontlet was likely attached to a funerary bundle. A stem base facilitated its attachment. Only a replica of it exists today (Figure 6.4). Other metal funerary items were found at the ridgetop site of Gotushjirka, located above the lower Yanamayo River (Herrera 2005: 401–411). They were found in the deposits of collective burials, located in a collapsed hollow, an “artificial cave” that had been burrowed into bedrock. One notable piece is a Metal in the Recuay Culture of Ancient Peru: Art, Imagery, and Social Context

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Figure 6.4. Replica of Jancu gold metal headdress ornament. Museo Arqueológico de Ancash, Huaraz. (Photograph by author)

copper foil diadem; flat and crescentic in shape, it was worn over the head; two stems, one at either end, would have been inserted into a headband or another kind of armature that fit around the head. Several thin copper metal foil “plumes” were also probably headdress elements, perhaps stylized feathers or trophy hands (sometimes seen on the male headdresses in sculptural and pottery imagery). The excavations also encountered four anthropomorphic masks, in repoussé; with small holes, they were probably sewn onto the outer cloths of bundles (Herrera 2005: 401–411). A pair of garment pins and hammered cop154

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per sheet pendants, depicting top-down avians with stretched-out wings, were also recovered, all apparently part of the bundles’ funerary attire. Fancy pottery dates the burials to the early Intermediate period. Given the importance of the cloth in the Andes as a sign of identity, reciprocity, and social status, the physical “fixing” of garments to the person must have been highly significant (Lau 2014). The most common Recuay metal items were long pins (Figure 6.2a–c, 41) to fasten garments, and especially shirts or tunics. In the literature these have sometimes been called “tupus” or “ticpis.” The pins show a surprising diversity, suggesting both temporal and regional variability in styles. Most pins were made of copper and copper-based metal alloys. Pins may have also been made using organic materials (bone, wood, antler; e.g., Ponte 2015: 146), which are more perishable, but the existing record demonstrates them being mainly of metal. When affixed to garments, the sharp ends of the pins point toward the back, while the heads face the front. In practical terms, such pins may have been difficult to wear and still move around, without falling or pulling the tunic off the shoulder. The longest of the pins measure over 25 cm; most measure 15–22 cm, and weigh about 80–120 g. Recuay ceramic vessels most often show women wearing the pins (Figure 6.5), although there are some cases of stone sculptures that show male figures wearing similar objects (Cromphout 2014). When pins have been found in situ (or in collections), they often occur as pairs, suggesting that they were seen as complementary items that functioned together (Figure 6.6). Existing shafts are almost always solid. In general, even the “straight” shafts are slightly curved or bent away from the head. This is probably purposeful, and may be related to how they were attached and meant to be seen by others (faceto-face) just below the shoulders. Some shafts feature very evident bending, resulting in an elegant S-shape (e.g., Grieder 1978: 242). Some are found with the shaft curved about 90 degrees, and more commonly, bent about 180 degrees, like a fishhook. Their insertion probably necessitated a pulling back motion, whereas pins with straighter shafts can be pushed directly into the cloth folds. Some pin shafts are twisted or feature spiral fluting. Borrowing the terminology from textile studies, the direction of twisting can be S-twisted or Z-twisted (Figure 6.7e and f). On one matching pair of pins, one pin shaft is S-twisted and the other is Z-twisted.5 The pinhead was the primary place for elaboration. One type, with a flatMetal in the Recuay Culture of Ancient Peru: Art, Imagery, and Social Context

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Figure 6.5. Recuay effigy vessel, showing Janus-headed female figure holding bowl and infant, and wearing a nail-head pin. (Municipality of Chacas collection, photograph by Steve Wegner, reproduced with permission)

tened head, like a nail, is the most common, with diameters usually measuring 1–2 cm (Figure 6.2a and b). Occasionally the top flat part of the pinhead features cast images of key Recuay figures (Figure 6.8). Sometimes the pin stem may be slightly widened, flattened, and perforated near the head, presumably to thread string or another material to fasten it. The pin shaft near the head may also be scored with shallow parallel incisions (Figures 6.2a and 6.6). Besides their decorative function, the scoring would have provided a grip for fastening threads, or when pushed through a cloth. There were many other pin forms. One kind has flat figurative heads in geometric motifs, such as curling anchorlike edges and schematic front- or inter156

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Figure 6.6. (left) Copper metal pins, recovered together in a Recuay tomb at Pomakayán. Recuay pins are very often found in pairs. (Photograph by author) Figure 6.7. (below) Recuay copper metal and gilt pins, made from casting, from Pashash site. Note the S-twisting (E) and Z-twisting (F) on some pin shafts. (Drawing compiled by author, scanned and compiled from Grieder 1978: 239, 241, 242)

Figure 6.8. Copper metal nail-head pins with cast “iconic” images: (A) profile feline with frontal head and (B) frontal head with four feline-serpent appendages. Head diameter about 2.5 cm. (Pamparomás municipality collection; photographs by author)

Figure 6.9. Copper metal head, showing taruca deer with characteristic dual tine antler, from Yayno site. The pin was cast and gilt with a thin layer of gold. (Photograph by author)

locking top-view heads—with raised and thickened edges. Other kinds have pinheads that are cast effigies of heads (human or zoomorphic) or full-bodied animals (Figures 6.8 and 6.9). The most elaborate pinheads are the truncated-conical pinheads seen at Pashash (Grieder 1978: 118–131) and more sporadically elsewhere in highland Ancash (Ponte 2015: 20).6 These were made from casting, perhaps from a lostwax process (see later). Some variants may have been solid (see Schindler 2000: 304–305), but most of the truncate pinheads were hollow, with the tops and sides featuring cast or engraved imagery (Figure 6.7). Sometimes the top edge may feature small projections all around the rim fringe, like spiky tines or rounded scalloping. Recuay metalworkers also cast images of their most important mythical beings inside, including the frontal head (and appendages), feline heads, interlocking bicephalic serpents, or anthropomorphic heads. Pin designs and decoration, particularly the distinctive rim fringes, often match ear ornaments depicted on ceramics. In addition to pins, other metal personal ornaments include components of ear ornaments (circular disks [faces] and the grommet-like housings), small and large discs (perhaps pectorals; Figure 6.2f), wrist- or armbands, earrings (Figure 6.2e), and small thin sequin-like pieces (< 3 cm), or láminas, are known (Grieder 1978; Herrera 2005; Lau 2010a). A lámina disc of silver was found at the Amá IIB site (Ponte 2015: 175–176). Finally, the Recuay also made copper metal sheet bells, perhaps worn together around the neck (Grieder 1978; Velarde and Castro de la Mata 2010). It can be surmised that these items helped to distinguish their bearers, both visually (in terms of a shiny, glittering resplendence) and sonically (with their clinking, ringing), especially when in motion. To summarize, metal forms in Recuay culture focused largely on what might be considered personal items—special implements (including weapons) and adornments. The most common copper metal objects were clothing pins and maceheads of various forms. These were items that signaled identity and the high status of the individual holding/wearing the item. Finally, metalwork was strongly linked to the body and its capacities and social distinction, in public life and in death.

Metalworking Techniques Like other metalworking traditions of the Central Andes, Recuay groups very much focused on the use of copper in their metallurgical practices. Most ReMetal in the Recuay Culture of Ancient Peru: Art, Imagery, and Social Context

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cuay objects contain copper in some form—either largely on its own or in mixtures with other metals. Only a few items are known to contain gold or silver in major proportions (Table 6.1). Heather Lechtman analyzed eight metal fragments from Chinchawas. These were small metal sheet fragments, and some pin shafts. Nearly all were of pure copper, except several lámina fragments from the Middle Horizon, one containing 0.5% arsenic, and two others of a copper-silver alloy (H. Lechtman, in Lau 2010a: 349). Many of the objects at Pashash were predominantly copper metal, while copper-gold-silver alloys were used for gilding purposes (Velarde and Castro de la Mata 2010: 50). Ponte (2015: Table 4.9) also reported predominantly copper metal items from the site of Amá II, most with small quantities of gold (all less than 0.3%) and silver (all less than 0.1%). The Marcajirca site near Huaraz also revealed copper metal pins and gold-bearing ear ornaments; two large circular sheet discs (12.5 cm in diameter) were of a ternary copper-goldsilver alloy (Ponte 2015). While copper dominates in nearly all items, the published samples, therefore, show considerable variability in the chemical composition of Recuay metalwork (Table 6.2; see also Scott 1998). Very likely this results from purposeful recipes used for different object types, and variability in production and ore sourcing in time and space. Ponte (2015: 90) has argued, for example, that groups in the Pierina area mined different sources of copper ore than metalworkers in the Cordillera Blanca; some objects produced in the latter area show greater proportions of gold. Variability in chemical content can also be attributed to select combinations of metals within the same item (e.g., the gilt layer, core, shafts of pins), which will employ differing amounts of metal to take advantage of surficial and mechanical properties during production (see Velarde and Castro de la Mata 2010: Tables 1–5). The most comprehensive study of Recuay metalwork examined the fancy materials excavated at Pashash (Grieder 1978; Velarde and Castro de la Mata 2010). Using compositional, X-ray, and metallographic analyses, researchers were able to identify a large repertoire of diverse metalworking techniques in just one assemblage—comprising the tomb offerings, mainly personal items, of a noble individual at Pashash (Velarde and Castro de la Mata 2010). Forming or construction techniques can be broken down into two major categories: sheet metal hammering and casting. Ancillary techniques of the first category include chasing as well as repoussé. These were used to shape thin gilt copper and gold sheet adornments, such as headdress frontlets, láminas, and 160

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Table 6.1. Chemical composition of select metal objects from highland Ancash Site

Reference

Sample ID/phase/ object type

Cu (%) Ag (%) Au (%)

Other

Amá II

(Ponte 2015: 90)

49I41

67.18

0.276

0.098 0.266 (Zn)

Amá II

(Ponte 2015: 90)

49IV19

76.41

0.108

0.098

Amá II

(Ponte 2015: 90)

49II30

93.19

0.030

< 0.03

Amá II

(Ponte 2015: 90)

3420–1

68.78

0.264

< 0.03

Amá II

(Ponte 1999: 72)

3420–2 pin (early EIP)

80.98

0.098

< 0.03

Amá II

(Ponte 1999: 72)

49I76 pin (early EIP)

85.43

0.03

< 0.03

Chinchawas (Lau 2010a: 347)

MIT 5153 (Chinchawasi 1 phase, pin shaft)

100

Chinchawas (Lau 2010a: 347)

MIT 5162 (Chinchawasi 1 phase, awl/projectile point?)

100

Chinchawas (Lau 2010a)

MIT 5155 (Chinchawasi 2 phase: thin band)

100

Chinchawas (Lau 2010a)

MIT 5157, 5158 (Chinchawasi 2 phase: 2 pin shafts)

100

Chinchawas (Lau 2010a: 349)

MIT 5163 (Chinchawasi 2 phase, lamina)

99

Chinchawas (Lau 2010a: 349)

MIT 5154, 5159 (Warmi phase: 2 laminas)

72.7

27.3

Marcajirca (Huaraz)

(Ponte 1999: 33, 36–38)

64309 (one of a pair of circular discs)

81.15

0.44

Pashash

(Velarde and Castro de la Mata 2010: 50)

M8897(3 of 3) pin fragment

26.76

20.49

Pashash

(Velarde and Castro de la Mata 2010: 54)

M8891 (1 of 2) pin “tooth” or fringe

94.56

Pashash

(Velarde and Castro de la Mata 2010: 56–57)

M8911 (1 of 2) pin shaft

Pashash

(Velarde and Castro de la Mata 2010: 60)

M8890 (1 of 6) Cone, middle area of gilt layer

72.63

3.23

24.13

Pashash

(Velarde and Castro de la Mata 2010: 60)

M8890 (6 of 6) Cone, depletion gilding layer

35.49

2.91

58.6

Pashash

(Velarde and Castro de la Mata 2010: 61)

M8918b (1 of 6) Gilded lamina frag, core

Pashash

(Velarde and Castro de la Mata 2010: 61)

M8918b (1 of 6) Gilded lamina frag, gilt layer (electrochem. replacement)

5.33

63.13

0.53 (As)

4.43 various 5.44 (O)

100

100 31.54

0.39 (Fe) 0.098 (Zn)

metal bells. Joining techniques consisted of heating and mechanical joining. Pashash metalwork also occasionally shows examples of soldering. Casting, however, was the primary forming method at Pashash. In a few of the pin specimens, a whitish material was identified as the material of the mold core. Velarde and Castro de la Mata (2010: 57) identified this as “kaolinite” and argued that it was suitable mold material because it resists high temperatures without deforming. At least some of the casting may have employed the lostwax process (Grieder 1978: 119; Velarde and Castro de la Mata 2010: 57, 75). From a manufacturing standpoint, the recent study determined that the hollow truncate-conical pins needed at least three castings, one on top another. So the hollow head housing was the first, followed by the adding of extremities to the interior figure and rim fringe; the shaft was created last (Velarde and Castro de la Mata 2010). On a few of the Pashash pins, the artisans inserted very small stone inlays. This occurred most commonly on the pinhead (on the sides or in the hollow), or occasionally on pin shafts (diamond shapes). The inlay marked key bodily parts, such as eyes, ears (owls, felines), or pelage markings (felines). The inlays were of red-, green- and blue-colored stones. Some of the inlay pieces were drilled in the center, perhaps for another smaller bit of inlay. Many, if not most, Recuay personal adornments appear to have been gilt. The predominant method was of electrochemical gilding, where a thin plating of gold on the copper object would be deposited by dipping or painting copper metal with an aqueous salt solution with dissolved gold. Some of the Pashash pieces show solid state diffusion of the gold into the copper, indicating heat treatment around the time of the gilding process, probably to help achieve a more durable bond and even spread the gold over the surface (Velarde and Castro de la Mata 2010: 59–60). Meanwhile, depletion gilding was found on only one of the specimens from Pashash (Velarde and Castro de la Mata 2010: 59). Overall, gilding on Recuay-style metalwork appears to be much more similar to Loma Negra–style artifacts (of the Vicús area) than of the north coastal groups, such as Moche, who tended to favor surface enrichment (gilding or silvering), through hammering or depletion techniques (Lechtman 1984: 23–29).

Imagery and Meanings Despite considerable variability in execution, the Recuay tended to be very predictable in what they depicted on their objects. The range of images regularly 162

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occurred across different media, and metalwork was no different. The metalwork rarely shows a motif or design that does not exist in other media. Much of the metalwork imagery has already been identified: felines, crested animals, owls, frontal faces, standing frontal humans, and serpent-like creatures. These are Recuay’s “iconic figures,” single figure images typically framed in panels, cartouches, and pendant design fields (Lau 2011). Treated as a set, they are a handy diagnostic of the Recuay culture, and there are some interesting comparisons having to do with the frequencies of representation. Despite the small sample, all the typical “iconic” images are found on pins except, insofar as is known, those of condors and taruka deer. This is interesting when compared to a medium like textiles, which reverses the pattern somewhat: condors are readily pervasive but there is a lack of taruka, owls, and standing frontal humans. Perhaps this results from regional variation, or is affected by archaeological preservation; or, there may have been some cultural reason, which dictated that certain media avoid certain figures. For example, we know that groups in the Pashash region were more partial to owl imagery than their counterparts elsewhere in the Recuay world; the imagery of southern Ancash, meanwhile, emphasized camelids.

Table 6.2. Frequency of iconic figures across different media in Recuay culture Figure

Pinheads

Textiles

Feline-serpent

XXX

XXX

XXX

XXX

Feline frontal head

XXX

XX

XXX (tenon heads)

XXX

Profile crested animal

XX

XXX

XXX

XXX

Profile feline

XX

XX

XXX

XXX

Human frontal head

XX

XX

XXX (tenon heads)

XX

Frontal (bodiless) head with four appendages

XX

XXX

XXX

XXX

Standing frontal human

XX

XXX

XXX

Bicephalic creature

XX

XXX

XXX

Avian (owl-like)

X

XXX

XX

XXX

XXX

X

X

Avian (condor-like)

XX

XX

Taruka (huemul deer)

X

Stone sculpture Pottery vessels

Key: (XXX) Common; (XX) Periodic; (X) Rarely; ( ) No example known.

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The iconic figures were widespread designs and would have been well known across highland Ancash (Hohmann 2010; Wegner 2011). It seems reasonable to believe they were immediately recognizable by the diverse groups of the Recuay world as core elements in a shared cosmology. There are three plausible explanations for the iconic figure imagery. First, they portray the principal supernaturals or divinities of the Recuay pantheon. This would explain their ubiquity as well as the ways that they are represented (Makowski and Rucabado Yong 2000; Tello 1923). Second, it seems possible they depict beings associated with celestial bodies, like the sun, moon, and constellations (Hohmann 2010; Menzel 1977). And third, there is the possibility that these figures acted like crests or markers of some social organizational unit (Gero 1999), such as a moiety, house, or lineage. In this respect it should be mentioned that Recuay arts tend to resemble ethnographic cases where entire surfaces, in horror vacui, are blanketed with imagery and designs (Lau 2010b), which help to impart a skin-like social identity to items (e.g., Gell 1993; Gow 1999; Turner 1980), a topic I will discuss later. These three alternatives are not mutually exclusive, nor do we have, at present, a good sense of the variability in the use of the iconic figures over time. By way of contrast, it is worthwhile noting the other major category of Recuay figural imagery, which shows forms of social interaction (detailed in Lau 2011: chap. 7, 2013: chap. 3). These are “genres of action” which depict public activities and crucial life practices associated with chiefs and their interactions with other person beings (namely, wives and kinspeople, felines, camelids). The actions highlight forms of sociality and flows of effort and resources; they include scenes of veneration, public libations/dancing/mourning, presentations of drink, sacrifices, sexual intercourse, feeding, and reception of gifts such as bundles and headdresses. The chiefly figures are the main emphases of the action imagery, but they do not interact with the iconic figures. They wear them; or, their objects are decorated with them. Put another way, the iconic figures were appended to chiefly nobles, like adjunct cosmological parts that are identified with them. Hence, the iconic figure imagery runs parallel to and complements the “genres of action.” Metalwork rarely shows “genres of action” imagery. Rather, single figure representations of the iconic figures are usually featured (see Figures 6.5 and 6.8). And just like the pins, they are appended to the person. That is, the metalwork acted in a similar way to the imagery; it served as an extension added onto the wearer. They do not depict the wearer him- or herself, at least in the conventional, mimetic sense. 164

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Figure 6.10. Recuay tenon head sculptures: (A) side view showing carved end and stone projection (Museo Arqueológico de Cabana), (B) feline tenon head (Museo Arqueológico de Ancash, Huaraz), (C) human tenon head (Museo Nacional de Arqueología, Antropologia e Historia). (Image compiled by author)

It is interesting to note that, of all comparable media, the pin imagery bears the closest resemblances to what is shown on stone carving, and especially stone tenon heads (Figure 6.10). Tenon heads were monolithic 3-D carvings. Their back projections were inserted into walls (not unlike pin shafts pushed into textiles), so that the figural portion would hang cantilevered from a wall facade. Like the metal pins, tenon heads are generally depicted frontally, usually blocklike and depicting the bodiless heads of felines and humans. Thus the heads, in both pins and architecture, might be seen to protrude from the larger housing. It stands to reason that the projecting heads in pins are basically homologous to the stone tenon heads on buildings. They emphasize the notion of body parts as add-ons and extensions of noble corporal embodiments, whether real human bodies or structures (Lau 2010b, 2011). The pinheads and tenon heads also have Metal in the Recuay Culture of Ancient Peru: Art, Imagery, and Social Context

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these effects irrespective of scale: the miniature pin imagery works along similar lines as the life-sized (or larger than life-sized) tenon head carvings. It is useful to return to the notion of partibility and the role of fancy objects in shaping Recuay society (see previously, and Lau 2011: chap. 5, 2013: chap. 1). Suffice it to note that Recuay groups participated in what are called “gift economies”—where much fancy material culture and practices with them were crucial in social relations, and in particular the construction and the maintenance of personhood. In the Recuay case, the production and use of valuables (like metal pins, headdresses, tunics, and weapons) were part of fundamental programs of making and negotiating social statuses. As is common in gift economies, the circulation, exchange, and display of valuables (e.g., parts of and things for chiefly bodies) were highly political domains of action. A key pattern that emerges from this review concerns avian symbolism in metalwork. Not only does some of the metalwork depict avians (e.g., owls in the Pashash pins; also the dangling bird pendants of Gotushjirka), a number of sheet personal adornments are shaped, through hammering, to resemble the plumage of birds. The avian imagery probably related to Recuay death practices and cosmology. On the one hand, there is the idea that the metalwork helps to make the (dead) wearer of the metal items transcendent—as connoted by the (metallic) flash and brilliance of bird feathers (Herring 2015), and also perhaps their lightness, like the desiccation of corpses. Birds, in addition to felines, were creatures par excellence for being the fleeting vehicles who facilitate the Andean deceased into the afterlife (Walter 1997, 2006). On the other hand, Ann Peters (1991) has suggested that raptors (eagles, ospreys, hawks) in Paracas and Early Nasca textile imagery are crucial as metaphors of elders and leaders; apical predators in the animal world have counterparts in the human. Overall, the avian imagery on metalwork probably helped to emphasize the status of the wearer, and sought to perpetuate and articulate those meanings for the wearer’s afterlife.

Recuay and the Andean Metallurgical Tradition Recuay metalwork comprised part of a long history of regional variability and innovation in the metal technologies of the Central Andes, and is linked to broader Central Andean patterns by phase. On the one hand, they help to confirm the notion that Andean metal technology was not one of mere unilinear evolution from simpler to advanced techniques, or inexorably from copper to 166

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iron modes (Lechtman 1980, 1988). On the other, the Recuay developments both drew from and diverged from Central Andean metallurgical traditions. One example is Andean metallurgy’s strong emphasis in the principle of dual organization, or complementary opposites (e.g., Burger and Salazar-Burger 1993; Moore 1995; Urton 1997). Essentially, this view sees the world composed of paired but opposed forces; the two forces are not necessarily identical or equally constituted, but each requires the other for life, or equilibrium. In other Andean traditions, such as Moche and Inca, this cognitive structure is expressed through paired objects, or by juxtaposing gold and silver colors, or the combination of metals through alloying with complementary internal and surface properties (Lechtman 1996: 41). Dualism manifested in various ways in Recuay metalwork, but perhaps the most frequent pattern is simply the pairings of metal objects in tomb contexts. Pins are customarily found in matching pairs (Figure 6.6), as are ear ornaments (Figure 6.2e), plumes (Herrera 2005), discs (Ponte 2000), and the like. Ceramic imagery that shows the use of pins, also features them in pairs, one over each shoulder (Figure 6.5). The gold ornament of Jancu (Figure 6.4) is a single form that shows paired, complementary sets. The frontlet has an arrangement of 16 feather-like ends, which divide out of the one stem into units of two, then four, and then eight. Metalwork, therefore, illuminates Recuay’s overall value system, which highlighted the complementarity of paired elements. A fundamental change from earlier periods occurred in the forms and function of metal objects. Adornments worn on the body continued to be important. But by the first centuries AD, metals were also used to fashion personal items associated with the culture of warfare—something not as prevalent earlier in Chavín. Also, the previous manufacture of figurines and ritual implements, such as spatulas and spoons for snuff and lime, basically disappeared with the wane of the Chavín cult. Recuay metalwork was less about regional, proselytizing cult practices than about very specific local programs of ostentation, especially of warrior chiefs and noble women. The Recuay developed in northern Peru, but, crucially, many aspects of their metal material culture differed from their immediate antecedents and neighboring contemporaries. Early in its history, perhaps the most salient development was Recuay’s preference for cast metal items, rather than the “architectural,” sheet metal tradition made famous by their Chavín predecessors (Helms 1981). Although some Recuay objects employ hammered sheet, it seems they generally favored casting for their metal objects. Recuay, therefore, broke significantly Metal in the Recuay Culture of Ancient Peru: Art, Imagery, and Social Context

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from the Central Andean metallurgical tradition, typified more by sheet metal work and the shaping of solid (not liquid) metal (Lechtman 1988: 344). Another distinctive practice was to emphasize electrochemical replacement gilding, over depletion gilding (the practice made famous by the coeval Moche). To be sure, we need a greater sample, but these two general methods seem to diverge from, or at least are less typical of, Central Andean metallurgy. They set Recuay apart from their coastal Moche neighbors: Metallurgical practice may have acted as a source of boundary maintenance between elites of these two neighboring societies. Recuay’s distinctive methods seem to resemble those associated with Vicús and the northern Andean (highland) metalworking traditions. The cultural similarities to the northern Andes do not end necessarily with shared metallurgical techniques. Pottery production also shows distinctive resemblances, such as resist painting, a bevy of linear and geometric designs, key vessel forms, and crucially, many of the same tropes of human figural activities known in Recuay. More broadly, the northern Andes were also characterized by chiefly societies, steeped in the context and culture of warfare, with a new emphasis on the exaltation of warrior lords and their respective collectives. All of these traits together argue against simple technical convergence; future research will probably need to examine explanatory models that involve direct cultural contact, group displacements, itinerant craftsmen, and migrations. Recuay metal production burgeoned especially in the mid to late Early Intermediate period. Metalwork during the periods we associate with Huarás or Early Recuay pottery seems to have been fairly limited, if the current sample from Huarás burials is representative (for a notable exception, see Herrera [2005]). Very fancy metalwork was produced mainly from Middle Recuay and continued into Late Recuay. By the seventh century AD, we know that Pashash was on the decline, and other centers emerged to fill its vacuum. Perhaps the most notable development during the period was the rise of Wari state-style material culture in the region, which displaced many distinctive Recuay techniques of crafting. Many cultural media were affected, including metalwork. There were some continuities, such as nail-head pins, which are found occasionally in Middle Horizon contexts. Production of them may have continued, but it is also possible that some nail-head pins were curated as heirlooms from earlier times. The hollow truncate head pins and inlaid metal items, however, all but disappeared from most assemblages in highland Ancash. Cast maceheads were no longer 168

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as common. In general, casting became a lot less common, whereas hammered sheet objects surged. Recuay pin forms gave way to those with large flat disc heads7—that came to dominate production of metal personal accessories until the conquest.

Metals and Recuay Objects/Subjects Given the small sample, any assessment of the “materiality” of Recuay metals cannot be as comprehensive as studies of other media, such as stone or pottery (Lau 2011, 2016); nor can it have the diachronic precision of other special cultural practices, such as ancestor effigies and funerary treatments (Lau 2015). Future studies will require more data, in terms of more provenienced specimens and more fine-grained analysis of stratigraphic contexts, metallography, and compositional studies. Notwithstanding, the choices in production, imagery and use, and comparison to other Andean practices enable a provisional look at the key cultural dispositions of Recuay metalwork. Certainly, the colors and metallic shininess of gold and silver were highly valued. As noted previously, most Recuay metal objects were mainly of copper but given treatments to have gold or silver surfaces. The distinctive colors, as well as their luster and capacity to reflect light, very likely were esteemed because of celestial and divine associations, shared by different Andean groups (e.g., Helms 1981; Herring 2015; Lechtman 1984, 1996; Saunders 1998). Compared to other media, metal artifacts are relatively uncommon, no doubt because the raw substances themselves—primarily copper, silver, and gold—were rare, difficult to acquire, and/or required specialist knowledge to manipulate. Despite their relative durability, metal objects were fairly infrequent in the Recuay world. They were rare prestige objects that circulated only on occasion, predominantly in high-status groups and domains of special practice (e.g., display, funerary treatments, feasting). By now, most scholars agree that fuller understandings of Amerindian art and material culture need to consider native theories, or ontologies (Alberti and Marshall 2009; Costa and Fausto 2010; Santos-Granero 2009; Viveiros de Castro 2004). That is, the logic and meanings of objects are illuminated by how source groups might perceive the world, its beings and things, and their properties. This is part of the ontological “turn” in various scholarly disciplines, which has impacted studies of the ancient Andes, especially of special material forms (e.g., Bray 2009, 2015; Dean 2010; Lau 2008, 2013; Pellizzi 1998; Sillar 2009, 2012) Metal in the Recuay Culture of Ancient Peru: Art, Imagery, and Social Context

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and ritual practices (e.g., Eeckhout and Owens 2015; Shimada and Fitzsimmons 2015; Sillar 1992). The other key source behind the greater openness to native ontologies has been ethnography and related historical work, which have long emphasized the animacy of the Andean world, especially the agentive role of nonhumans and features of the landscape (e.g., Allen 1988; Bastien 1978; Flores Ochoa 1976; Gose 1994; Salomon and Urioste 1991). Three related premises of this literature are germane to Recuay metals. The first concerns the belief that nonhuman beings (e.g., objects, animals, the dead) are possessed of an interiority—variously theorized as life, vitality, soul, agency, viewpoint, or subjectivity—which can sense and act in the world (Allen 2015; Descola 2005; Viveiros de Castro 1998). Nowhere is this more evident than in the Central Andes, whose many inhabitants once considered huanca stone uprights as esteemed “lithified” forebears. Fixed onto the landscape as enduring features, they were named ancestors and cult objects who were venerated by the descendant group for oracular purposes, fertility, and well-being (Duviols 1979). A second premise is a rethinking of what is included under the rubric of “social relations” (Costa and Fausto 2010: 90; Lau 2013: 10–13). For many Amerindian groups, because nonhumans (e.g., objects, animals, spirits, gods, the dead) have subjectivity and the capacity to act in the world, they are, at least intermittently, implicated in the field of social relations; such beings can be fundamental in the creation, maintenance, and reproduction of society. Objects are not only enmeshed in networks of relations, however, they mediate them, as things standing in, for, and occasionally against human agencies. Sociality may also describe their formal arrangements, such as a range of snow peaks, a parliament of birds, or a chamber full of mummy bundles. If Amerindians apprehend these beings as having their own “social” organization, it is also true that that arrangement is often modeled on human societies (e.g., family, hierarchy). The third premise sees social others (human and nonhuman) as the key to Amerindian social identity, and, therefore, to status and personhood. It is the recognition of otherness, or alterity, which is crucial in the formation of self; one cannot know oneself, or be sociable or socialized, without interaction with and input from a host of social others. Those others are others because of their different bodies, their different exteriors and effects that generate their perspective on the world (Viveiros de Castro 1998, 2004). All three premises, I contend, help to interpret the use and distinctive look of Recuay metalwork. The current evidence suggests that most metal objects were parts of special beings—especially chiefly nobles. They were rare items of 170

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personal display, which also extended to them key cosmological associations that enhanced their chiefly, ancestral identity. Most important, metalwork formed part of Recuay’s overall emphasis on highly elaborate, ostentatious objects. This functioned at least on two levels. First, as noted before, metals were appended as components to exterior surfaces. They were all generally objects of status display, but they also featured as real, tangible extensions and enhancements of the body. Pins fastened tunics and decorated attire so as to be visually impressive or proper; metal maceheads extended the striking reach and power of the arm to engage opponents; similarly, awls and knives were hand instruments to modify other items. Thus, the metal objects extended (human) bodies to act in the world. The second level concerns how Recuay metalwork helped bodies to appear in the world. Because of its reliance on casting, it manifests a technical emphasis on “negativized” surfaces (figure-ground compositions, where images were created by “removing” or by impressions and molds). Negativizing occurred across many kinds of Recuay media, including textiles, pottery, and stone carving; it marked the exteriors of special kinds of objects, persons, and built environments. The surfaces blanketed them, connecting them stylistically (as coherently “noble”), but also vitalizing them with a cosmological subjectivity (Lau 2010b, 2011). In short, metalwork was part of Recuay’s great cultural emphasis on fancy material things that showcased the appearance and exteriors, the “social skins,” of individual and collective corpora (e.g., attire and ornament, facades of buildings, pottery effigies). Metals helped engineer engagements, both physical and cognitive, with social others.

Conclusions Overall, Recuay metalwork comprised part of the great technical advancements and innovations of the first millennium AD, a period of unprecedented dynamism in the Central Andes. Unlike Old World metallurgical innovations, Recuay metalwork did not feed directly into economic production or transport. It held minor importance in the equipment of farming or herding practices. Innovations in techniques and forms were less about optimizing subsistence resources than about enhancing human personal capacities and meanings. Like other Andean cultures, Recuay metallurgy was essentially copperbased, copper being the basis and “vehicle in which the real achievements of Andean metallurgy took place” (Lechtman 1980: 322). Most Recuay metalwork Metal in the Recuay Culture of Ancient Peru: Art, Imagery, and Social Context

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was gilt, therefore, reinforcing the Andean metalwork’s overall emphasis on the significance of color and substance over function or economy in raw materials. Much of Recuay metalwork, like other Central Andean traditions, was also steeped in the cultural insistence on complementary opposites and depiction of its core divinities. Recuay metalsmiths were among the most sophisticated and distinctive of their time. Much of the production of fancy material culture was to meet the demands of increasingly successful and powerful groups in Recuay society. Leaders and nobles used the materials, portable and monumental, in practices of social distinction (generosity, funerary practices, warfare, and exchange). Metalwork was incorporated to contribute to very localized projects of social prestige. The Recuay case gives further support to Heather Lechtman’s contention (1984: 15), made over 30 years ago: “The social arena in which metallurgy received its greatest stimulus in the Andes was the area dominated by status and political display.” Yet unlike the vast, resplendent displays we associate with the Moche or Inca lordships, the arenas for Recuay metalwork appear to have been, by comparison, rather more modest and circumscribed. The primary uses for metalwork consisted of personal items—bodily adornments, specialized tools, and weapons—items that were crucial for instantiating special kinds of Recuay persons. These were mainly, I argue, for small kin collectives and factions that feasted, warred, worked, and venerated their dead together. It is interesting to note that production and use of metal objects in Recuay culture remained fairly low, even if most Recuay peoples had some access to them. The metalwork might be classed broadly as valuables, as rare and special forms of wealth, that fed into the conspicuous kinds of behavior associated with emerging nobles typical of northern Andean highland chiefly societies. Unfortunately, little tells us about the use lives of these metal valuables, about where and how they circulated and gained fame, if any. We will probably never know whether club heads had names or pins were passed down from generation to generation. Some valuables were largely retired when they went into the tomb. The large clothing pins may have sat better on ancestor bundles than on live humans. Metalwork in Recuay culture expressed key attitudes to an ancient Andean world, now extinct. Given their resemblances to other media, some Recuay metal items were likely seen as add-ons or extensions to the person. Both object and imagery helped to distinguish special individuals, in life and in death. 172

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These highly personal items, emblazoned with distinct cosmological associations, emerged as central tokens of value and legitimacy in the Andean world during the first millennium AD. Finally, this survey of Recuay metalwork suggests refinements to how we might consider the function and significance of pre-Columbian arts. If objects have a function of conveying meaning and if imagery is meaningful at all, first they need to be recognized and apprehended by social others. This chapter has highlighted how metal artifacts were deeply embedded in the object worlds of Recuay people. I have emphasized how outer surfaces of various media are about fashioning social difference and orienting certain kinds of social relations. In addition to the “meanings within,” the examination of pre-Columbian materials and their ancient contexts must be cognizant of the “meanings without”—how meanings are apprehended by others, and the extent to which social others create, from objects, the subject.

Notes 1. Probably resembling groups, styled as “ayllu,” based on kin relations, collective work, residence, ritual practices, and common ancestor(s). 2. In segmentary, multi-valley polities, numbering in the thousands, led by a council of chiefly headmen in charge of each segment (variously referred to as ayllu, parcialidad, pachaca, guaranga). Confederation occurred during times of war, coalition, major corporate projects (irrigation canal making and cleaning, farming, wall-building, etc.). From the council, a primus inter pares emerged as the paramount (see Espinoza Soriano 1978; Zuloaga 2012). 3. Said to have come from a tomb at the site, Antúnez de Mayolo (1941: Figure 22) shows that the tubes could be combined to assemble a full metal club. Several maceheads are cast in the avian, probably owl, forms, and resemble examples said to come from the Vicús-Piura region (Carcedo Muro 1998: Lámina 130–134). 4. Tello (1960: 306) reported this macehead fragment as being out of stone, but this seems unlikely. 5. Two other pin shafts are S-twisted: Samples M-8896 and M-8898 (Velarde and Castro de la Mata 2010). 6. Ponte (2015: 20) calls these “crown” pinheads. 7. These are perhaps the pins that should be referred to as “tupu” (technically, an Inca/ colonial term and form).

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Makowski, Krzysztof, and Julio Rucabado Yong 2000 Hombres y deidades en la iconografía Recuay. In Los Dioses del Antiguo Peru, edited by K. Makowski, pp. 199–235. Banco de Crédito, Lima. Matsumoto, Ryozo 2006 Arqueología de Llanganuco: resumen de las excavaciones desde el año 2002 al 2004. Huaraz: Paper presented at the II Conversatorio Internacional de Arqueología de Ancash, Instituto Nacional de Cultura—Ancash (18–21 Agosto 2006). Menzel, Dorothy 1977 The Archaeology of Ancient Peru and the Work of Max Uhle. Lowie Museum of Anthropology, Berkeley. Millaire, Jean-François 2002 Moche Burial Patterns: An Investigation into Prehispanic Social Structure. BAR International Series 1066, Archaeopress, Oxford. Moore, Jerry D. 1995 Archaeology of Dual Organization in Andean South America: A Theoretical Review and Case Study. Latin American Antiquity 6(2): 165–181. Oehm, Victor P. 1984 Investigaciones sobre minería y metalurgía en el Perú prehispánico: una visión crítica actualizada. Bonner Amerikanistische Studien (12), Bonn. Onuki, Yoshio 2011 Gemelos prístinos: el tesoro del templo de Kuntur Wasi. 1. ed. Fondo Editorial del Congreso del Perú y Minera Yanacocha, Lima. Orsini, Carolina 2003 Transformaciones culturales durante el Intermedio Temprano el valle de Chacas: hacia el desarrollo de asentamientos complejos en un área de la sierra nor-central del Peru. In Arqueología de la sierra de Ancash: propuestas y perspectivas, edited by B. Ibarra, pp. 161–174. Instituto Cultural Runa, Lima. 2007 Pastori e Guerrieri: I Recuay, un popolo preispanico delle Ande del Peru. Jaca Books, Milan. Paredes, Juan 2012 El conjunto funerario de Ichic Wilkawaín: Exhibición en el Museo Arqueológico de Ancash, Huaraz. Pellizzi, Francisco (editor) 1998 Pre-Columbian States of Being (RES 33). Harvard Peabody Museum, Cambridge. Peters, Ann 1991 Ecology and Society in Embroidered Images from the Paracas Necrópolis. In Paracas Art and Architecture: Object and Context in South Coastal Peru, edited by A. Paul, pp. 240–314. University of Iowa Press, Iowa City. Petersen, Georg 1970 Minería y metalurgía en el antiguo Perú, Arqueológicas 12. Instituto de Investigaciones Antropológicas, Museo Nacional, Lima. Ponte, Víctor M. 1999 Análisis de los asentamientos arqueológicos en el área de influencia de la Mina Pierina. Report submitted to Mina Barrick Misquichilca and Instituto Nacional de Cultura, Huaraz. 2000 Evaluación arqueológica en El Pinar. Report for Compañía Minera Antamina, Huaraz. 2015 Regional Perspective of Recuay Mortuary Practices: A View from the Hinterlands, Callejón De Huaylas, Peru. Unpublished master’s thesis, University of Wisconsin, Milwaukee.

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Proulx, Donald A. 1982 Territoriality in the Early Intermediate Period: The Case of Moche and Recuay. Ñawpa Pacha 20: 83–96. Raimondi, Antonio 1873 El Departamento de Ancachs y sus riquezas minerales. Imprenta El Nacional, Lima. Reichert, Raphael X. 1977 The Recuay Ceramic Style: A Reevaluation. Unpublished PhD dissertation, University of California, Los Angeles. Rick, John W. (editor) 2012 Chavín de Huántar: protocolo de las intervenciones arqueológicas. Asociación Ancash and Instituto Andino de Estudios Arqueológicos–Sociales, Lima. Salomon, Frank, and George Urioste (editors) 1991 The Huarochirí Manuscript: A Testament of Ancient and Colonial Religion. University of Texas Press, Austin. Santos-Granero, Fernando (editor) 2009 The Occult Life of Things: Native Amazonian Theories of Materiality and Personhood. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Saunders, Nicholas J. 1998 Stealers of Light, Traders in Brilliance: Amerindian Metaphysics in the Mirror of Conquest. RES 33: 225–252. Schindler, Helmut 2000 The Norbert Mayrock Art Collection from Ancient Peru. Staatlische Museum für Völkerkunde, München. Scott, David A. 1998 Technical Examination of Ancient South American Metals: Some Examples from Colombia, Peru and Argentina. Boletín, Museo del Oro 44: 79–105. Shimada, Izumi 1996 Sicán Metallurgy and Its Cross-Craft Relationships. Boletín del Museo del Oro 41: 27–61. Shimada, Izumi, and James L. Fitzsimmons (editors) 2015 Living with the Dead in the Andes. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Sillar, Bill 1992 The Social Life of the Andean Dead. Archaeological Review from Cambridge 11(1): 107–23. 2009 The Social Agency of Things? Animism and Materiality in the Andes. Cambridge Archaeological Journal 19: 369–379. 2012 Patrimoine vivant: les illas et conopas des foyers andins. Techniques & Culture 58: 66–81. Smith, John W., Jr. 1978 The Recuay Culture: A Reconstruction Based on Artistic Motifs. PhD dissertation, Department of Art History, University of Texas, Austin. Tello, Julio C. 1923 Wira Kocha. Inca 1(1): 93–320; 1(3): 583–606. 1929 Antiguo Perú: primera época. Comisión Organizadora del Segundo Congreso de Turismo, Lima. 1960 Chavín: cultura matriz de la civilización andina. Publicación antropológica del archivo “Julio C. Tello” de la Universidad Nacional Mayor de San Marcos 2. Universidad Nacional Mayor de San Marcos, Lima. 2004 Arqueología de Cajamarca: expedición al Marañón, 1937. Fondo Editorial Universidad Nacional Mayor de San Marcos, Lima.

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Turner, Terence 1980 The Social Skin. In Not Work Alone: A Cross-Cultural View of Activities Superfluous to Survival, edited by J. Cherfas and R. Lewin, pp. 112–140. Temple Smith, London. Urton, Gary 1997 The Social Life of Numbers: A Quechua Ontology of Numbers and Philosophy of Arithmetic. University of Texas Press, Austin. Vega-Centeno, Rafael 2008 El Proyecto de Investigación Arqueológica Huacramarca: resultados preliminares. Investigaciones Sociales 21: 49–75. Velarde, María Inés, and Pamela Castro de la Mata 2010 Análisis e interpretación de los ornamentos de metal de un personaje de élite Recuay: Pashash. Arqueológicas 28: 33–86. Viveiros de Castro, Eduardo 1998 Cosmological deixis and Amerindian perspectivism. Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 4 (N.S.): 469–488. 2004 Exchanging Perspectives: The Transformation of Objects into Subjects in Amerindian Ontologies. Common Knowledge 10: 463–484. Walter, Doris 1997 Comment meurent les pumas: du mythe au rite à Huaraz (centre-nord du Pérou). Bulletin de l’Institut Français d’Études Andines 26(3): 447–471. 2006 Los sitios arqueológicos en el imaginario de los campesinos de la Cordillera Blanca (Sierra de Ancash). In Complejidad social en la arqueología y antropología de la sierra de Ancash, Peru, edited by A. Herrera, C. Orsini and K. Lane, pp. 177–190. Comune di Milano-Raccolte Extra Europee del Castello Sforzesco, Milan. Wegner, Steven A. 2000 Arqueología y arte antiguo de Chacas. Municipalidad Provincial de Asunción, Chacas. 2007 Huaraz prehispánico. Hirka 12: 6–10. 2011 Iconografías prehispánicas de Ancash (tomo II): cultura Recuay. Asociación Ancash, Lima. Zuloaga Rada, Marina 2012 La conquista negociada. Guarangas, autoridades locales e imperio en Huaylas, Perú (1532– 1610). Travaux de l’IFEA 299, Institut Français d’Etudes Andines, Lima.

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7 The Meaning within Moche Masks E dwa r d Sw e ns on

Ritual masks, defined as material objects that disguise, transform, and resignify the identity of a wearer, commonly serve as powerful agents in initiation rites, funerary rituals, theatrical displays, and reenactments of cosmogonic myths (Crumrine 1983; Højbjerg 2007; Napier 1986; Pernet 1992; Tooker 1983). The mask is especially good to think with, an exemplar of Gell’s cognitive trap, for it can act as a useful analytical foil to critically reevaluate the fate of “meaning” in recent archaeological studies that have embraced the ontological turn, the new animism, and the new materialism (Alberti 2016; Bennett 2010; Harvey 2006; Ingold 2012). Similar to other arresting pieces of art, masks constitute classic abductors of agency for “they are difficult to make, difficult to ‘think,’ difficult to transact. They fascinate, compel, and entrap as well as delight the spectator. Their peculiarity, intransigence, and oddness is a key factor in their efficacy as social instruments” (Gell 1998: 23). In this chapter, an investigation of masquerade among the Moche of the North Coast of Peru (AD 200–800) affirms that ritual performance plays a central role in the production of the meanings that materialized the alternate worlds variably described as past cosmologies, ontologies, or relational epistemologies (Bird-David 1999). I examine the remains of broken ceramic masks recovered in feasting middens at the Moche ceremonial center of Huaca Colorada (AD 650–900) in the southern Jequetepeque Valley of the North Coast of Peru. An interpretation of the significance and uses of these enigmatic artifacts must take into consideration the larger history of ritual practices of the site detectable in the archaeological record. Comparison of this database with Moche iconography, along with the cautious employment of ethnographic anal-

ogies, further permits an approximation of the symbolism and efficacy of these particular masks. One objective of the chapter is to demonstrate that Moche masking traditions varied in terms of the rites and social context in which they were employed; unsurprisingly, their significance defies reduction to the expression (or activation) of an all-encompassing ontological order. Instead, the ceramic masks depicting Moche powerful beings became deeply meaningful and engines of semiosis in their own right within specific frames of ritual action. Nevertheless, I also contend that the masks of Huaca Colorada, peculiar in their materiality and context of deposition, shed light on Moche theories of being and the workings of the world (i.e., “ontology”). The iconography of the masks suggests they were worn by officiants who reenacted heroic myths and stories of creation in rites that promoted agricultural bounty, life, and fertility. The discovery of mask fragments and musical instruments in middens containing a high quantity of face-neck jars used to store and decant corn beer further indicates that the masks were worn by ritual specialists during charged feasting events staged on ceremonial platforms. The masked figures and their replicated ambassadors, materialized in numerous portable jars sporting prominent faces, acted as conduits of life-giving fluids that were festively circulated among celebrants gathered at the site. The face-neck jars were delegates of elites who distributed corn beer, and ritual specialists appear to have worn masks as intermediaries of sacred beings associated with the pilgrimage center, as has been documented in later Andean traditions (Barraza 2009; Duviols and de Chacón 1986: 182–183; MacCormack 1991: 409–410). The shared ceramic medium of mask and visaged corn beer decanter reinforces the role of ritual specialists as providers of beer, sustenance, and vitality. The face-neck jars thus served as foot soldiers of sorts within a scalable hierarchy of being that channeled the generative power of the temple’s waka (or divinity) to the many congregants at the site. Wearing masks of Moche creator gods and drinking beer fermented in the ceramic body of a respected lord or avatar of the waka effectively forged a larger “body politic.” I argue in turn that this extended political body incorporated the living temple itself; the material projection of a powerful waka through the enchained surrogates of mountain, adobe monument, masked avatar, and the numerous face-neck jars found powerful expression in the conspicuous nesting of architectural renovations and sacrificial offerings in the main temple of Huaca Colorada. The repeated termination (sacrifice) and rededication of ceremonial platforms—altars “masked” by later altars—suggests that Moche masquerade The Meaning within Moche Masks

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entailed the layered projection of identities as a means to ensure energy transfers and reciprocal contacts between ontologically interconnected but distinct persons. Ultimately, I contend that the relationship of lord, mask, jar, and enfolded ceremonial platforms can be productively compared to later Andean camay theory in which powerful vitalizers, or camac (mountains, wakas, exceptional chiefs), transmitted the life force to their extended and multiple manifestations, or camasca (Taylor 2000: 5–6). However, in Moche religious thinking, a camay equivalent (circulating life essence) appears to have been explicitly linked to the transmission of fluids, including corn beer, blood, and water. An examination of the ceramic masks from Huaca Colorada proves useful in rethinking key ceremonies of Moche political theology, including the well-known Sacrifice Ceremony (Presentation Theme) in which elite figures impersonated powerful deities and were interred as avatars of these supreme beings. In the end, masks in the Moche context and beyond played an especially important role in ritually materializing the ontological underpinnings of political and religious ideologies.

A View from behind the Mask: Ontology and the Fate of Meaning Hodder’s classic call that archaeologists should strive to reconstruct “meaningfully constituted worlds”—wherein things are constituted by and constitutive of meaning—appealed to a generation of post-processual archaeologists embracing hermeneutic methodologies (Hodder 1982:13). However, meaning defies easy definition and has recently fallen prey to the new materialists who spurn the symbolic and representational (see Alberti et al. 2013; Barad 2003; Bennett 2010; Ingold 2012). There is little reason to presume that meaning is synonymous with signification or the expressive, for it also encompasses the experiential, embodied, material, and nonlinguistic (Boivin 2009: 282–283). Much of our activities, choices, and prospects are dictated by global capitalism, from the food we buy, our work schedules, circadian rhythms, and the houses we inhabit. Capitalism then would form a significant part of the “meaningful world” future archaeologists will need to consider to make sense of everything from the distribution of strip malls to the stratification of rapidly evolving electronic devices in landfills. Capitalism has profoundly shaped deep-seated dispositions and theories of “being,” but most scholars would be hard pressed to reduce it to an “ontology.” In his tour de force study, Beyond Nature and Culture (2013), Descola sub182

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sumes civilizations as different as Renaissance Europe, the Andes, Mesoamerica, and China as structured by an ontology of “analogism.” In analogical cultures, the world is encountered as a plethora of beings that differ in substance, essence, and subjectivity along an infinite scale of existence (unlike a singular materialism in naturalism or a universal personhood in animism). As Descola states (2013: 205): “In the elusive world of analogism, resemblance becomes the only means of introducing order” since such worlds contain “an infinite number of different things, each in a particular place and each at the heart of an idiosyncratic network.” He continues: “Analogy is a flexible and polyvalent means of producing resemblances that is likely to make use not only of symmetry but of various forms of inversion, encompassment, and division.” Examples of analogical thought include the link between macrocosm and microcosm, Chinese geomancy, connections of body parts with natural elements, and individual destinies determined by the constellations (Descola 2010a: 14; see also Salomon 2018). Andean camay theory, central to my interpretations mentioned later, follows an analogical logic, as do aspects of reciprocal and complementary opposition common in Andean cultures. Camay denotes a vitalizing essence or force. All sentient beings (camasca—tangible manifestation of camay) are energized and given substance through camac, a supernatural “vitalizing prototype” (Taylor 2000). For instance, the llama constellation is camac to all llamas on Earth, infusing a llama-specific generative essence to camelids that allows them to prosper and reproduce. All human groups themselves flourish through and are the products of specific camac, usually their huaca of origin (Salomon and Urioste 1991: 16). Camay philosophy is not equivalent to Platonic idealism for camay signifies a generative heat or electrical energy and not a mental archetype (Salomon and Urioste 1991: 16). Although analogical in structure, camay, emanating from wakas to animate their progeny, differs in significant ways from the highly individuated tonalli of the Mexicans or ch’ulel among the Mayas (see Descola 2013; Vogt 1976). Furthermore, analogical bonds between ontological others are activated and often brought to the level of consciousness in explicit ritual performances. As mentioned, social and cosmic dualisms and reciprocal bonds with wakas pervaded many aspects of traditional Andean life. However, the prevalence of these practices cannot be easily sought in a baseline analogical mode of thinking. Shades of analogism in Aztec and Renaissance philosophy would also fail to explain the vastly different historical trajectories of Europe and Mesoamerica. CompaThe Meaning within Moche Masks

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rable to Judeo-Christian notions of original sin or Mesoamerican theologies of original debt (Hamann 2002), core structuring principles such as camay are best analyzed as specific religious ideologies, founded, at least in part, on deep philosophical deliberations, and not as manifestations of universal or unconscious thought processes (analogical or otherwise). As Butler admonishes: “Power often dissimulates as ontology” and the ability to define what is real and forge relationships between beings confers considerable authority (Butler 2004: 215). Masks in particular serve to remind archaeologists that ritual plays a fundamental role in creating (or at times contesting) the meaningful worlds of past and present people (Goulard 2011). In truth, the central role of ritual performance in the creation of “beings” remains undertheorized by proponents of the ontological turn (see Swenson 2015a). This is perhaps ironic since archaeological investigations of ontology often foreground specific ritual contexts (for a review, see Swenson 2015b). Lévi-Strauss has shown that ritual masks most often dramatize cosmological narratives “capable of provoking true dramatic reversals, or sensational developments” a veritable “coup de théâtre” (Pernet 1992: 69). In his classic work, Cosmologies in the Making (1990), Fredrik Barth similarly identifies the extraordinary work performed by material culture—often exotic and beautiful items employed exclusively in ceremonial events—in inculcating values and establishing basic orientations both within and outside the ritual frame. He compares ritual specialists among the Baktaman of Papua, New Guinea, to poets and artists in terms of the creative influences they exert within their societies. Thus, interpretations of the agency of things in constructing distinct worlds demands consideration of representational practices and media. It could be argued that to “make present” and signify lies at the very heart of material agency. Pernet (1992: 106) also emphasizes the importance of creativity in understanding the particular efficacy of masks: “The mask wearers often take a great deal of trouble to learn and rehearse,” and they partake in months of practice, the memorization of myths and the mastery of complex choreography. The same can be said of the skilled and highly ritualized production of the masks themselves (and for the Andes, see Tassi 2012: 291–292).1 The efficacious power of masks lies in their polysemy and capacity to elicit a wide variety of emotions (fear, awe, humor, respect, memory, confusion, etc.).2 Masks activate transformation, illusion, trickery, storytelling, and so forth, and their liminal capacity to bridge distinctive ontological realms explains their common use as ritual media (Højbjerg 2007; Napier 1986; Tonkin 1979; Tooker 1983). 184

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Descola and colleagues have interpreted the striking masks of the Northwest Coast as “ontological camouflage” and emblematic of animistic societies (Descola 2010b). The masks, nested one inside the other, can be opened and closed to reveal the inner essence within. Wearing masks permits control of the interiority, perspective, and soul of others (Descola 2010b: 26, 36). Viveiros de Castro similarly notes that in Amazonian societies masks allow shamans to change perspectives and see the world from the viewpoint of another being. He writes (1998: 482): To put on mask-clothing is not so much to conceal a human essence beneath an animal appearance, but rather to activate the powers of a different body. The animal clothes that shamans use to travel the cosmos are not fantasies but instruments: they are akin to diving equipment, or space suits, and not to carnival masks. Viveiros de Castro’s take on masks is compelling for certain Amazonian cultures, and he recognizes the heightened ritual framework of mask-induced changes in perspectives. However, masks, including in the Amazon, cannot simply be treated as exemplars of a prevailing ontological condition, for they can also act to unsettle social norms and a sense of ontological security (Goulard 2011: 19–20). For instance, in certain societies documented in South America, masked figures often have license to engage in tabooed or forbidden acts including sexual aggression and violence (Goulard 2011). To provide an example, masquerade among the Matis of the Western Amazon entails a brutal form of socialization in which children are whipped with sticks by figures sporting ceramic masks of mariwin, formidable ancestor spirits who emerge as terrifying specters from the forest (Erickson 2011). This ritualized corporal punishment, in a culture in which children are rarely hit or mistreated, dispels laziness and ensures the growth of both the young and ripening corn. The arrival of the masked mariwin occurred during the maize harvest and was accompanied by the copious consumption of beer. The conjunction of drinking and masquerade was also a common feature of Andean ritualism, including in the Moche context discussed later. It is also telling that neighboring communities in the Amazon either rely heavily on masquerade or make absolutely no use of masks (Fausto 2011). As Pollock (1995) notes, the dominant semiotic field operative in different societies often determines the material scaffolding of specific ritual traditions, including the employment of masks. In cultures where oral and musical representation The Meaning within Moche Masks

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are esteemed more highly than visual symbols, masking (concealing/altering identity) often occurs not by disguising the face but by dissimulating the human voice through the medium of music (both vocal and instrumental) (Fausto 2011: 251).3 Differences in cosmology also explain the varying degree of importance of masquerade in Amazonian societies. For instance, Fausto (2011: 251) argues that Tupi speakers rarely made use of masks because their sense of cosmological order was not founded on the cyclical renewal of reciprocal bonds between cosmic beings and human communities. Instead, the predator-prey relation structured the sociocosmic round, thus explaining the importance of trophy curation over masquerade. Among other Amazonian peoples, donning masks intended not so much to change perspectives but to return to a primordial state of oneness with all beings before the speciation of the world into different animals (Taylor 2010: 42–43). In the end, a perusal of the ethnographic and historical records confirms that masks are often more fruitfully studied in terms of ideology rather than ontology. Masks fell out of favor with the spread of Christianity since the masked classical actor directly served the pagan gods (Napier 1986).4 Masks were condemned and associated with demonic forces for “in Christian beliefs all ambiguous personifications save the Trinity were both morally unacceptable and categorically harmful (Napier 1986: 12). In Christianity, masking was equated with duplicity and deceit, while in Greek theater it entailed not concealment but the manifestation of a moral character. In other cultures, masking afforded a consubstantiation of the person wearing the mask with the figure depicted on the artifact. In highlighting the ideological valence of masks, the work of Griaule and others further demonstrates that it could take years for both the anthropologist and initiate alike to decipher the complex meaning of masks (who they represented, what cosmogonies they enacted, what effects they precipitated; Griaule 1963; Pernet 1992: 48–53). Moreover, such meanings often changed radically or became more fully revealed as initiates graduated into higher ritual and status grades. Masks, then, as exemplars of Gell’s cognitive trap, often serve as ciphers of the hidden, sources of wisdom, and vehicles of social memory. No doubt, this realization will depress the archaeologist; if the meaning of masks proves so elusive for the ethnographer, what hope do we have of interpreting the significance of mask fragments from the midden context of a society lacking historical documentation? However, not all is lost. Following Pollock, attention to the larger semiotic field (or semiotic ideology, sensu Keane 2018) encoded in archaeological sites, especially ones as well preserved and struc186

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tured as Huaca Colorada, can permit an approximation of the functions and meanings of ancient masking traditions. A brief consideration of masquerade in the Andean context, the subject of the following section, can further assist in interpreting the patterns detected at the Moche center under study.

Masks and Masquerade in the Andes and Moche Civilization A comprehensive examination of Andean masking practices falls beyond the scope of a short chapter, and I simply touch on aspects relevant to understanding masquerade in Moche culture and at the site of Huaca Colorada. The importance of masks in Andean ritual is evident from all sources—ethnohistoric, ethnographic, iconographic, and archaeological (Barraza 2009; Donnan 2008; Doyon 2006; Elera 2009; Delgado-P. 1983; Romero 1993; Tassi 2012; Zuidema 1983). As mentioned previously, Andean ritual masks served diverse functions and conveyed different meanings. Among the aniconic Inca, masks appear to have been relatively rare, but they were used in dancing and harvest ceremonies and to communicate ethnic differences throughout the empire (Cobo 1990[1653]; Zuidema 1983). In addition, they commonly signaled extreme alterity and materialized “forces from the night, from the Underworld, and from outside the border of a civilized political unit, be this Cuzco or any other village or town” (Zuidema 1983: 150). In contrast, the widespread masquerade of the huacón dance, documented throughout the central Andes in the early colonial period, involved masked figures of old, wrinkled ancestors who incarnated the malquis and founders of distinct communities (Barraza 2009; Rostworowski 1984). These masked ceremonies allowed communion and reciprocal exchanges with tutelary wakas ensuring the reproduction of society, adequate rainfall, and a bountiful maize harvest. Masks were also made from the body parts of the deceased or from the flayed skin (huayo) of enemies to commune with wakas or absorb the camac of defeated adversaries into the victor’s community (Barraza 2009: 114; Salomon 1998: 12, 2002). Among the ancient Nasca, scroll masks appear to have personified both flowing and pooling water as living forces (Doyon 2006), while the standardized death masks of the Lambayeque (Sicán) culture perhaps assimilated deceased elites with an all-powerful, ancestral deity (Elera 2009: 98; Shimada and Samillán Torres 2014: 179). Elera (2009: 98) interprets the ubiquitous Huaco Rey depictions that crosscut artistic media not simply as representations of a supreme deity, such as Naymlap, but as a master symbol of the funeral mask The Meaning within Moche Masks

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itself. In other words, masks constituted the ultimate embodiment of ancestral/ divine power in Lambayeque religion.5 Donnan (2008) identifies three different kinds of masks in Moche culture— death masks, masks worn by the living, and masks affixed to cane coffins, and he argues that they differed significantly from the later Lambayeque (see also Shimada and Samillán Torres 2014: 181–182). The death masks, placed over the faces of high-status burials, were usually fabricated of copper sheets and are distinguished by closed eyes and mouths often inlaid with shells. The masks for the living were made of ceramic and perforated with holes along their upper edges. Cords strung through the perforations would have fastened the masks over the performers’ faces. The clay masks are distinguished by open mouths and eyeholes that would have permitted vision, singing, and eating. They most often depict Moche divinities such as Wrinkle Face and closely parallel iconographic depictions of masks worn by dancers and musicians (Donnan 2008). Both the different materiality and manufacture of masks suggest a distinct ontological condition for the living and the dead; the transformed perspective of the latter seems likely given the sealed orifices of the metal death masks. Donnan interprets the salient, alert shell eyes of the copper masks from Dos Cabezas in Jequetepeque as evidence that interred lords were endowed with an all-penetrating vision in death. The masks affixed to the cane coffins of the priestess burials at San José de Moro were also crafted of copper. They appear to have transformed coffins into enlivened watercrafts that transported the priestesses to the netherworld. Although it is important to acknowledge the differences in Andean masking traditions, general tendencies can be identified that prove useful in interpreting the dataset from Huaca Colorada discussed in the following section. Shared characteristics of Andean masks include their veneration as actual wakas and their capacity to channel the identity and life force (camay) of formidable beings. In addition, masking commonly occurred in festivals that entailed the copious consumption of corn beer and sacrificial offerings to wakas, including the masks themselves (Barraza 2009: 106; Polia 1999: 278–279). Masks could serve as the premier huacas of communities, as recorded among the Caqueguaca and Caruayacolca of the Cajatambo region (MacCormack 1991: 409). They were worshipped in caves in the same way as malquis, offered sacrifices, and one even owned a herd of 30 llamas (MacCormack 1991: 410). Furthermore, masks appear to have concentrated the camay (as camasca) of powerful camacs and served as conduits of camay to other things and beings—including performers and audiences in specific ritual events. Thus diverse Andean masks were more 188

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than symbolic copies of supernaturals but served as partible and living representations of powerful wakas or ancestral figures (Tassi 2012: 290). Masks, then, can be compared to other animated things documented in Andean culture including mummies, malquis, huancas, enqa, illa, canopa, paccha, and wawque (Allen 1997; Ramírez 2005; Sillar 2009, 2016). Such enlivened power objects constituted material, often miniaturized projections of the authority of great wakas, whether mountain apus in the case of illa, or of the Inca emperor himself, as demonstrated by the wawque, the stone and wood substitutes who served as living delegates of the Sapa Inca. The partible and synecdochal quality of masks is exemplified by the waka Ňamsapa documented in the Huarochirí manuscript. He granted his people the right to wear his face so he could dance with them in their ceremonies and confer his fertility, benevolence, and protection onto the larger community (Salomon and Urioste 1991; Tassi 2012: 293). Barraza notes (2009: 106): “The use of the masks conferred the camac of the ancestor and offered the vital force and soul, ensuring procreation and multiplication” (translation by author) (cf. Taylor 2000: 407).6 Tassi (2012: 294) also documents how masks served as “crucial ritual objects” for they represented the “detached parts” of wakas. He writes: “In the Huarochiri Manuscript, the Andean gods are the ones who lend their images, doubles, faces, and garments to their worshippers, who consequently acquire the same captivating beauty and power to bewitch the beholders.” Costumes and masks thus worked as a “wrapping image” that brought people into direct physical contact with the waka. Thus wearing a mask did not necessarily entail becoming possessed by the waka but ensured a necessary contact and point of mediation that facilitated a transfer of the waka’s power to its community or progeny (camasca) (in both life and death). The wooden masks (“false faces”) on Paracas and Lima culture mummy bundles (fardos) or the ceramic masks on the wooden statues of Chan Chan also seem to have functioned as synecdochal conduits linking different ontological realms (Waisbard and Waisbard 1966). Interestingly Carcedo de Mufarech (2013) interprets subtle differences in the funerary masks and depictions of Huaco Rey deities in Lambayeque art as reflecting the distinct lineages comprising the main Sicán polity as proposed by Shimada. She compares these icons with the Inca wawque (guauqui) as distributed substitutes of the founding ancestors of each royal kin group. In the end, the homeopathic or sympathetic connections linking wholes and parts in Andean animism seem highly relevant to understanding the ritual importance of masks in Andean culture (see Sillar 2009, 2016). The Huarochiri manuscript describes ritual specialists named huacsas, transThe Meaning within Moche Masks

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lated as huaca impersonators, who enacted the heroic deeds and cosmogonic feats of founding huacas (Salomon and Urioste 1991: 78). These ritual specialists differed from the yancas (priests) by assuming the personae and material attributes of the waka they served. The linguistic parallel between huaca-huacsa and camaccamacsa is striking, and great authority inhered in the huaca impersonators as they served as ciphers of the animating power of paramount wakas. For instance, the Inca assumed the role of huacsas for the great deity Paria Caca of the Huarochirí manuscript (Salomon and Urisote 1991: 94). They coopted his authority and became the arbiters of his animating force that sustained his larger community of supplicants in the Huarochirí region. The huacsas were renowned for their ritual knowledge, and they were often expected to dance continuously over the course of a number of days. They carried coca bags and abstained from sex and the consumption of salt when sporting the accoutrements and masks of their waka guardians. The huascas are comparable to the huacapvíllac described by the extirpators of idolatry (Arriaga 1968). These specialists talked to and spoke for the waka, and they were in charge of its care and well-being. Molina actually referred to them as the camasca of the wakas, as did Polo de Ondegardo for Andean ritual specialists in general (Taylor 2000: 5–6). The huayo skin masks were all denoted as camasca in several colonial documents (Arriaga 1968: 33). Archaeologists have recognized that Moche lords impersonated gods, as evidenced by the excavations of Sipan, San José de Moro, Ucupe, Cao Viejo, and Huaca de La Cruz. Elites in these tombs were dressed in the clothing and buried with the ritual equipment of supreme Moche divinities depicted in the iconographic corpus, including the fanged or rayed deity, the priestess, and the bird god—all protagonists in the famed Presentation/Sacrifice Ceremony (Alva and Donnan 1993). These figures may have channeled the blood and life energies of sacrificial victims to formidable gods who reciprocated with fertility, good harvests, and social order through the medium of their huasca/camasca doubles. As demonstrated in the following section, the masks recovered from Huaca Colorada played a similar role in channeling the life force of powerful wakas through an enchained series of extended persons, including face-neck jars and ceremonial architecture.

The Ceramic Masks and Face-Neck Chicha Jars of Huaca Colorada The ceramic masks of this case study were encountered from midden deposits at the ceremonial center of Huaca Colorada (AD 650–900), the largest Late Moche 190

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settlement located in the southern bank of the Jequetepeque valley in northern Peru (see Swenson 2012, 2017, 2018a; Figure 7.1). Occupying an area of roughly 24 ha, Huaca Colorada served as the headquarters of a powerful cult that dominated southern Jequetepeque. The pyramid mound was likely built in part to commemorate a Mochified waka (and possible oracle) associated with the nearby coastal massif of Cerro Cañoncillo (Swenson and Warner 2016). Excavations at Huaca Colorada have revealed that it served as a setting for elaborate ceremonies including pilgrimage, feasting, human sacrifice, copper production, and cyclical rites of architectural renovation (Swenson and Warner 2012; Swenson 2018b). The archaeological record indicates that communities from throughout the valley and beyond congregated at Huaca Colorada (Swenson 2018a). The high quantity of decorated feasting vessels unearthed in the expansive domestic and ceremonial sectors further reveals that artisans, pilgrims, and full-time residents of the site were prodigiously feted. Their labor, services, and offerings to the huaca were compensated with corn beer and protein-rich meals of seafood and llama meat (Swenson 2018b). A good number of the pilgrims occupied the site seasonally in two extensive domestic and craft production areas to the north (Sector A) and south (Sector C) of the principal ceremonial zone (Figure 7.1). The monumental complex (Sector B) was built in the central prominence of the site. It is comprised of a series of platforms, corridors, patios, stairs, and ramps, and formed the arena for elaborate feasting and sacrificial ritual. The ceremonial district was repeatedly renovated, and the sacrificial nature of reconstruction is exemplified by the decommissioning of eight separate ceremonial platforms, all of which were sealed under hard floors, later altars, or buried under thick deposits of clean sand (Swenson 2018b). The succession of renovations corresponds directly with the sacrifice of mainly female victims, whose death likely served to ensure rebirth and the continuation of life (Figure 7.2; Swenson 2018b). Copper and animal offerings were commonly interred along with the foundation sacrifices. One of the more prominent altars was unearthed in the southern end of a sunken and spacious chamber in the west half of the elevated temple complex. It supported two stuccoed roof columns and functioned as a stage for charged ritual encounters including the presentation and consumption of comestibles, especially corn beer (Figure 7.3). Stepped daises of this kind also formed the backdrop for key ritual practices depicted in Moche iconography such as feasting and sacrifice (Swenson 2012). The Eastern Terrace forms the dyadic counterpart to the Western Chamber. It was also anchored by an impresThe Meaning within Moche Masks

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Figure 7.1. Topographic map of Huaca Colorada. The locations of the Western Ceremonial Chamber, the Eastern Terrace, and the midden containing the mask fragments are indicated. (Edward Swenson)

Figure 7.2. Human, animal, and copper foundation sacrifices at Huaca Colorada. (Edward Swenson)

sive altar at its south end, which faced a spacious and roofed forecourt to the north (Figure 7.3). These two altars were both renovated and enlarged at least once. However, in a later phase, they were decommissioned and replaced by a succession of altars and associated architecture (Spence Morrow 2017; Swenson 2018a, 2018b). A deep midden of feasting detritus was dumped beyond the north and west perimeter wall of the main ceremonial precinct of the site in an area associated with kitchens that underwrote the ritual economy of the cult (Swenson 2017). These middens were deposited under and above a series of superimposed cooking stations along the north facade of the monument and outside the western perimeter of the Western Chamber. A great quantity of llama bone, shellfish, macrobotanicals (maize, peanuts, fruits, etc.), ash, Cajamarca tableware, musical instruments, and face-neck feasting jars were recovered from this deep midden (1.5 m deep). The latter, along with Late Moche fineline vessels, were also abundant in the lower domestic zones (Duke 2016; Swenson 2017). The mask fragments were found within these midden contexts to the north of the East Terrace and west of the Western Chamber. Thus, the masks were most likely worn during festive events, possibly entailing the reenactment of myths centered on the elaborate platforms of the dyadic ceremonial precincts. The most prominent example consists of a round ceramic mask recovered approximately 80 cm below the surface of the midden to the north of the East Terrace (Figure 7.4; Swenson et al. 2015: 121–123). The mask fragment measured 19 × 15 cm and just a few centimeters thick. Two adjacent perforations (0.5 cm in diameter) at its upper right edge indicate that the mask could have been tied to the head of a performer. The pupils of the two almond-shaped eyes were also perforated, allowing the masquerader to see. The mask itself was mold made and depicts the Moche god Wrinkle Face or his avatar. The wrinkles are represented as a parallel set of vertical grooves on the two rounded cheeks of the visage. Although broken, the mouth assumes an open rectangular shape and seems to bear teeth. Unfortunately, the lower left portion of the mask was broken. The grooved ear and round earspool resemble the ears mold impressed on “King of Assyria” face-neck jars (see next section). The most striking feature of the mask is a large tumi headdress. The handle of the tumi, extending upward from the eyebrows of the deity, is surrounded by a series of flexed arms with open hands. Three hands flex upward from a single flowing arm on either side of the tumi headdress (for six hands in total). The open hands point toward the tumi knife in possible supplication. This artifact resembles a ce194

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Figure 7.3. The stepped platforms anchoring the southern ends of the Western Chamber (middle) and the Eastern Terrace (left), and a reconstruction of these dyadic sectors defining the monumental nucleus of Huaca Colorada during an early phase of occupation. (Edward Swenson)

Figure 7.4. Ceramic mask depicting a wrinkle-faced figure recovered from the feasting midden (Sector B) of Huaca Colorada. (Edward Swenson)

ramic mask of Wrinkle Face in the Staatliche Museum in Berlin (Donnan 2008: 70). A few figurine fragments and face-neck jars of snarling felines were recovered from the midden in close proximity to the discarded ceramic mask. In addition, seven smaller fragments of masks have been discovered in different strata of the middens of Sector B, proving that rituals involving masquerade were integral to the religious cult of Huaca Colorada (Figure 7.5; see Swenson et al. 2012: 70, fig. 64; Swenson et al. 2013: 97, figs. 119 and 120). These smaller fragments are also comparable to ceramic masks known from museum collections and are distinguished by King of Assyria earspools and perforations to fasten the masks to the face of performers. As mentioned, the depiction of Wrinkle Face and prominent male elites suggests they were worn by officiants who reenacted heroic myths or stories of creation associated with the main wakas of the temple. The masks are stylistically connected to the hundreds of face-neck jars found in the middens and in the domestic zones of the settlement. They were used to store and decant corn beer, and the masks were likely worn when these vessels were exchanged during charged feasting events staged on and around the elaborate ceremonial platforms. “King of Assyria” was named by the German archaeologist Heinrich Ubbelohde-Doering for he found the serene expressions, moustaches, headdresses, and the ringleted hair of the jars to closely resemble sculptures of Assyrian rulers (Hecker and Hecker 1987: 46, 86–90; Ub196

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Figure 7.5. Fragments of ceramic masks recovered from the feasting midden (Sector B) of Huaca Colorada. (Edward Swenson)

belohde-Doering 1967: 63). Mass-produced with two-piece molds, they depict elite personages adorned with nose ornaments, large earspools, headdress, and braided or straight hair. The King of Assyria forms are often distinguished by moustaches (Hecker and Hecker 1987: 54–56) or swollen areas near the cheek, a likely representation of the bulge created by chewing a quid of coca. Moreover, floral and concentrically beaded earspools, rendered in a variety of attractive configurations, often characterize these distinctive vessels (Figure 7.6). Face-neck jars were not restricted to the King of Assyria type, and chicha decanters were commonly impressed with the faces of male elites, fanged deities, The Meaning within Moche Masks

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Figure 7.6. Face-neck jars recovered from the feasting midden and domestic areas of Huaca Colorada. (Edward Swenson)

wrinkle faces, and animals, including llamas, felines, and monkeys (Figure 7.6). The popularization of these vessels in the Late Moche Period appears linked to the unprecedented expansion of feasting economies during the Middle Horizon period (Goldstein 2003; Moseley et al. 2005; Swenson 2014; Valdez 2006). The King of Assyria cántaros, abundant at Huaca Colorada and found in ceremonial sites throughout the Jequetepeque Valley, resemble the iconic face-neck jars of the Wari feasting assemblage. Both vessel forms are distinguished by the depiction of male notables (see Cook and Glowacki 2003; Swenson 2006, 2014). Toward the end of the occupation of Huaca Colorada (AD 750–850) the highland-derived ceremonial site of Tecapa was built just to the east of Huaca Colorada’s pyramid. Face-neck jars are also common here along with the Cajamarca finewares from the sierras. The foundation of Tecapa suggests that a highland polity coopted or at least allied itself with the cult of Huaca Colorada. The ubiquity of the jars also falls in line with the great value placed on the face and portraiture in Moche culture—and the face appears to have formed a powerful locus of animation and personhood in North Coast civilizations (Donnan 2003). In light of this valuation of the face, it is unsurprising that masquerade would have assumed an important role in Moche ritualism (Pollock 1995)—whether elite impersonations of deities in the Sacrifice Ceremony or the sporting of festival masks at Huaca Colorada. In this light, it seems probable that the jars were seen as living, animated extensions (camasca) of both the elites who congregated at the center with their followers and of huasca-like ritual specialists in charge of the cult at Huaca Colorada. The shared ceramic medium of mask and jars, and their deposition in the same feasting middens, further indicate their integral role in the presentation and distribution of corn beer. The different depictions of the jars speak to a hierarchy of being in which a camay-like force was transmitted to different personages materialized in the same ceramic medium (animals, fanged gods, wrinkle faces, mortal humans, etc.). Archaeological evidence suggests that the face-neck jars were treated as animated persons since they were offered to the huaca in the same manner as human foundation sacrifices. For instance, a monkey-faced jar was placed under a ramp in the western quadrant of the ceremonial district, while King of Assyria vessels accompanied a burial of a seated woman and an offering cache in the domestic area of Sector A. It is noteworthy that face-neck jars of wrinkle-faced deities have also been recovered that closely match the ceramic mask of Figure 7.4. Significantly, deformed, wrinkle-faced masks were documented in the early The Meaning within Moche Masks

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Figure 7.7. Face-neck jars from Huaca Colorada and Tecapa depicting figures in the act of whistling or mochar. (Edward Swenson)

Colonial period and were employed in the huacón dance widespread in the north and southcentral Andes (see previously). Barraza describes the transfer of camay from the dancing masqueraders to their congregants—a ritual lubricated by the conspicuous consumption of corn beer (see previously). The dancers wore masks depicting grotesque figures with wrinkled faces to express ancestral power, wizened old age, and fertility (Barraza 2009: 110; Mujica 2005: 334; Orellana 1972: 469–470). Perhaps relevant to understanding the centrality of human sacrifice at Huaca Colorada, some Huacones were apparently offered human sacrifices to eat during the course of the great feasts (see next section).7 Four striking face-neck jars have been discovered from Huaca Colorada and the associated temple of Tecapa molded with the faces of whistling wrinklefaced individuals (Figure 7.7). At the time of the conquest, wakas spoke through their intermediaries in a shrill whistle—a kind of divine voice (Cieza de León 200

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1984[1553], 2: chap. 41). Musical instruments, such as ocarinas, also “translated” mortal tongues into the language of gods and wakas (Scullin and Boyd 2014). No doubt significant, whistles and ocarinas were also common in the midden where the mask fragments were collected (Figure 7.7). This whistled communication paralleled mochar, an act of worship documented by the chroniclers and the extirpators of idolatry. This tradition of veneration involved complex hand gestures as well as the puckering of lips and the making of sucking, whistling, or kissing noises (Arriaga 1968: 41; Martínez Cereceda 1995). Such sounds were made when making offerings to both wakas and lords. Mocha also denoted a potent breath and its exhalation that transmitted camay to and from the body of kurakas (Martínez Cereceda 1995: 116–126, 131). This transfer of breath/vitality ensured the well-being of the waka, presiding leaders, and the larger community. These whistling vessels, then, along with the masks, created a kind of camay transmission machine that transferred, beer, sustenance, and the life force to and from nested wholes and parts (monument, waka, masked cult leaders, lineage chiefs, envisaged jar delegates, and community members). The face-neck jars can also be fruitfully interpreted in terms of Sillar’s analysis of miniatures. He notes: “Andean miniatures are understood to have a vitalizing and regenerative force similar to children and seeds” (Sillar 2016: 444–445). The co-extension (and partible distribution) of peoples, places, and things as interdependent social actors appears foundational to Andean cosmology and sociology (Swenson and Jennings 2018). For instance, the paramount god of the Huarochirí manuscript, Paria Caca, took on multiple forms and could simultaneously be an icon, animal, sky god, and a place. The three nested arms on the headdress of the mask from Huaca Colorada described previously might speak to the partible and extended personhood of Moche wakas (Figure 7.4). Therefore, it seems the face-neck jars served as extended delegates of the huaca elite who distributed corn beer and donned masks as camac intermediaries of sacred beings associated with the pilgrimage center. The shared ceramic medium cross-cut cántaro and masquerader, and both served as receptacles and distributors of beer. The complexity of this transaction is indicated by the diversity of faceneck jars and King of Assyria vessels recovered from Huaca Colorada (Swenson 2018a). The serene faces of the former could be suggestive of a generic and idealized lordly status, symbolizing the generosity of respected authorities who distributed beer. However, differences in earspool designs can be traced to other regions of the Jequetepeque Valley, and it is possible that certain suites of vessels indexed particular groups and their chiefs who peregrinated to the center (Blennerhassett The Meaning within Moche Masks

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2017; Hecker and Hecker 1987, 1988). Nonetheless, styles specific to Huaca Colorada were also manufactured there as indicated by the discovery of a few molds and distinctive representations unique to the site, including the whistling jars, vessels decorated with corpulent faces, and King of Assyrias wearing tumi headdresses (Blennerhassett 2017). Pilgrims to the site may have made and contributed to the chicha stock while also drinking the sacred brew prepared at the huaca. This reciprocal exchange and consumption of beer—in vessels emblematic of distinct communities, their kurakas, and the larger cult of the huaca—would have forged an extended and encompassing body politic. Excavations reveal that lower status residents ate a rich and varied diet at Huaca Colorada, and the consumption of prized foods proved highly attractive for dispersed communities who congregated at this powerful place on set feast days (Duke 2016). The ingestion of special meals, including llamas bred at the center (a possibly sacred herd of the huaca), likely promoted the corporeal and spiritual unification of diverse celebrants with the huaca. The act of eating together fostered a sense of belonging to a larger social/cosmic body, and the consumption of shared food formed the basis of community affiliation in the Andes. Eating the same store of comestibles was thought to lead to the development of related bodies and biologies (Weismantel 2004: 502; Swenson 2018b). These bodies appear to have encompassed masked ritual specialists and the many face-jars assembled at Huaca Colorada. The larger architectural history of Huaca Colorada lends support to the argument that Moche masks served as conduits (or living camasca) of a vitalizing force comparable to camay. The scalable hierarchy of being that extended from masked figures to the face-neck jars also included the nearby mountain (as a possibly living waka) and the temple itself. The entire pyramid mound was built as a mimetic simulation of the nearby Cerro Cañoncillo, and the huaca replicates the same profile and contours of the mountain (see Swenson and Warner 2016). The three main zones also mirror the height and general shape of the mountain’s principal summits, and the monumental sector corresponded with Cerro Cañoncillo’s central peak. Hence, the pyramid mound can be interpreted as a mask (or miniature) writ large of the towering mountain. In addition, the foundation sacrifices, coinciding with the ritual closure of altars, ramps, and chambers sealed under floors and tons of sand, indicate that the Moche of Huaca Colorada were keenly aware of the power of masked (invisible) but immanently present agents incorporated into architectural constructions. The discovery in the renovated Eastern Terrace of an altar enclosing (terminating) an earlier dais, which in turn contained the remains of a sacrificed 202

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pregnant woman further points to an overarching semiotic ideology founded on analogy and synecdoche (Figure 7.8; Keane 2018). It was based in part on the nested codependence of visible/exteriorized and invisible/interiorized agents (nesting of baby in mother and dais in altar). The occlusion of offerings prefigured the creation of new altars and spaces, and this incorporation may have been understood as equivalent to ingestion or insemi-

Figure 7.8. Plan and photograph of the lower foundation sacrifice, nested altars, and offering of a pregnant woman placed in an earlier trapezoidal dais discovered in the southcentral sector of the East Terrace of Huaca Colorada (Sector B). (Edward Swenson)

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nation (Swenson 2018a). These rituals appear to have symbolically recapitulated the agricultural cycle, biological growth, sexual procreation, the movement of astral bodies (entering and remerging from the underworld), and the reciprocal feeding of the mountain huaca. The nested altars and offering of the pregnant woman remarkably froze in time the enchained transference of a camay-like vitality. In the end, the repeated termination of ceremonial platforms paralleled the doubling of identities in Moche masquerade and drinking parties making use of face-neck jars. Both sets of practices, likely forming part of an integrated ritual sequence, may have ensured energy transfers and reciprocal exchanges between ontologically different but interdependent beings. The exceptional architectural history of the center further suggests that masquerade did not entail the outright transformation of the ritual specialist into the figure depicted on the mask. Instead, whole and part, the original and its copy, prototype and replica, camac and camasca, seem to have been nested together in a generative tension. Thus a certain ambivalence—common to masks in general (Tooker 1983: 13)—may have underwritten both the constant architectural transformation of the center and the specific biographies of the ceramic masks in question. The masks were broken and cast into the middens along with spent face-neck jars, similar to how foundation sacrifices were buried under altars, ramps, and walls. Perhaps the ceramic artifacts were only animated with the camac-equivalent of a powerful being when filled with corn beer, and the cessation of rituals may have entailed their de-animation and subsequent discard. The exchange of fluids—blood, chicha, semen—was foundational to Moche cosmology, and fragile ceramic containers provided the embodied nodes that circulated lifegiving fluids (presentation theme goblets, erotic pottery, corn beer decanters, etc., see Weismantel 2004). This fragility differs from the metal death masks interred with elite Moche burials (Donnan 2008). Thus, the Moche may have drawn an ontological equivalence between clay, adobe, and flesh as malleable and impermanent substances (see also Alberti 2007). The fate of the artifacts in question was possibly one of sacrifice in which masks and face-neck vessels were returned to the adobe body of the huaca, as generative seeds, similar to the layering of humans and platforms in the monument. The transience and recyclability of camacsa-like vitality—fleeting manifestations of a more perduring camac power—seems to have been especially pronounced in Moche religious ideologies. This is perhaps unsurprising given the centrality of sacrifice and ritual violence in their worldviews. A philosophy of “original debt,” widespread 204

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in Mesoamerica and briefly mentioned previously, may have underwritten the remarkable analogical underpinnings of ritual practice at Huaca Colorada (Hamann 2002).8

Concluding Thoughts In light of the previous arguments, the religious traditions of Huaca Colorada would appear to conform closely to Descola’s “analogism,” one of his four ontological registers comprising his reformed structuralist anthropology. Although a “concert of analogies” was orchestrated at Huaca Colorada, similar to the remarkable shrine of Kaha Wayi in Rapaz studied by Frank Salomon, masquerade at the Moche center was meaningful and generated meaning in turn within specific rituals saturated with cosmic and political symbolism (Salomon 2018: 63). Thus the analogical dimensions of the rituals were not necessarily primary or determinative but formed the by-products of a cosmically ordained, ceremonial sequence. Philosophies on being and the nature of existence are not necessarily a priori but are often negotiated within specific ritual arenas and charged political events. Barth (1987: 9) has shown that ritual is based on metaphor and operates in an “analogic code, rather than digital codes exemplified by computer languages and assumed by most structuralist analyses of natural languages, myths, and rituals.” Therefore, the analogical underpinning of ritual practices transcends differences in ontological orders. Ritualism in animistic, totemic, and naturalist societies also relies heavily on resemblances, sympathetic magic, and so forth. In a similar manner, Lévi-Strauss (1981, 672) notes that ritual relies on “parceling-out” of events, objects, and people and makes “infinite distinctions and ascribes discriminatory values to the slightest shades of difference.” Walens argues that cross-culturally “masking establishes analogous patterns, and masks mediate and direct the flow of power within the system.” They thus “transform the death of one aspect into the birth of a second,” a process that would describe well the rituals of masquerade and architectural renovation at Huaca Colorada (Crumrine 1983: 6–7; Walens 1983). In the end, ritual commonly activates a specifically relational-analogical ontology, and it is unsurprising that recent archaeological research interested in non-Cartesian ontological orders have often focused their attention on ritualized contexts (Alberti and Bray 2009; Fowles 2013; Haber 2009). However, ontologies were not necessarily static in a given society, and the degree to which objects were “enlivened” and entangled with the social world, including the The Meaning within Moche Masks

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masks and face-neck jars of Huaca Colorada, may have been particularly pronounced in the context of ritual events (Swenson 2015b: 334). In conflating the physical, the inner, and the outer, the mask confuses the axes of interiority/ physicality so central to Descola’s differentiation of his four ontological orders. Religious experience often entails the violation of ontological domains; ritual forms the preeminent, relational frame in which ontological others are united, separated, or transformed.

Notes 1. Tonkin (1979: 240) notes that masks intensify a sense of ambiguity, a condition that promotes in turn imagination and creativity (see also Tooker 1983). This perspective aligns with Gell’s notion of art as cognitive traps mentioned briefly in the introduction of this chapter. 2. Recognizing masks as the ultimate power object, Crumrine (1983: 2–3) describes them as “power-generating, -concentrating, -transforming, and -exchanging objects.” 3. Pollock compares the prevailing visual semiotic field of the Kwakiutl of the Northwest Coast with the predominant aural semiotic modality of the Arawak Kulina of the Western Amazon. In discussing the latter culture, he contends (1995: 592): “My point is that because verbal performance is the primary conventional medium for indexing identity among Kulina, verbal performance is also, in semiotic terms, the appropriate channel for the indexing of transformed identity.” He continues: “Just as the expression of identity calls upon certain culturally ordered semiotic media, so too the masking of identity, whether in its disguise or substitution, can only take place through those same semiotic media. The mask, in this sense, is no more (and no less) enigmatic than conventional, everyday representations of identity.” 4. The Medieval Latin word masca (masque in French and maschera in Italian) signified witch, specter, and demon (Napier 1986: 11). 5. Markman and Markman (1990) similarly argue that the mask was not so much a symbol of divinity in ancient Mesoamerican culture but was its inherent condition. 6. “El uso de estas mascaras confería a sus portadores el camac del ancestro del cual habían sido obtenidas otorgaba su fuerza vital y su ánima que permitía asegurar la procreación y multiplicación.” 7. Ceramic masks, similar to Moche wrinkle faces, were recovered at Pachacamac and a site in the Cañete Valley (Barraza 2009; Schmidt 1929). 8. As Salomon notes (2018: 60): “Analogism’s signature action is sacrifice.”

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Alberti, Benjamin, and Tamara L. Bray 2009 Animating Archaeology: Of Subjects, Objects, and Alternative Ontologies. Cambridge Archaeological Journal 19(3): 337–343. Alberti, Benjamin, Andrew Meirion Jones, and Joshua Pollard (editors) 2013 Archaeology after Interpretation: Returning Materials to Archaeological Theory. Left Coast Press, Walnut Creek, CA. Allen, Catherine J. 1997 When Mountains Move Pebbles. Iconicity and Symbolism in Quechua Ritual. In Creating Context in Andean Cultures, edited by R. Howard-Malverde, pp. 73–84. Oxford University Press, New York. 2015 The Whole World Is Watching: New Perspectives on Andean Animism. In The Archaeology of Wak’as: Explorations of the Sacred in the Pre-Columbian Andes, edited by Tamara Bray, pp. 23–46. University of Colorado Press, Boulder. Alva, Walter, and Christopher B. Donnan 1993 Royal Tombs of Sipán. Fowler Museum of Cultural History, University of California, Los Angeles. Arriaga, Pablo Joseph 1968 The Extirpation of Idolatry in Peru. Translated by L. Clark Keating. University of Kentucky Press, Lexington. Barad, Karen 2003 Posthumanist Performativity: Toward an Understanding of How Matter Comes to Matter. Signs: Journal of Women in Culture 28(3): 801–831. Barraza Lescano, Sergio 2009 Apuntes histórico-arqueológico en torno a la danza del Huacón. Antropologica 27: 93–121. Barth, Fredrik 1990 Cosmologies in the Making. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Bennett, Jane 2010 Vibrant Matter: A Political Ecology of Things. Duke University Press, Durham. Bird-David, Nurit 1999 Animism Revisited: Personhood, Environment, and Relational Epistemology. Current Anthropology 40: 67–91. Blennerhassett, Tom 2017 Ritual Feasting and Fluid Ethnogenesis at Huaca Colorada, Peru. Master’s thesis, Department of Anthropology, University of Toronto. Boivin, Nicole 2009 Grasping the Elusive and Unknowable: Material Culture in Ritual Practice. Material Religion 5(3): 266–287. Butler, Judith 2004 Undoing Gender. Routledge, New York. Carcedo de Mufarech, Paloma 2013 Vasos para el otro mundo: cinco ejemplos de vasos ceremoniales encontrados en una mano de los fardos de personajes de la élite sicán. Revista Española de Antropología Americana 43(2): 555–578. Cieza de León, Pedro de 1984[1553] La Crónica del Perú. Pts. 1, 2. Obras Completas. Vol. 1. Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Cientificas, lnstituto Gonzalo Fernandez, Madrid. Cobo, Bernabe 1990[1653] Inca Religion and Customs. Translated and Edited by Roland Hamilton and Foreword by John Howland Rowe. University of Texas Press, Austin. The Meaning within Moche Masks

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Cook, Anita G., and Mary Glowacki 2003 Pots, Politics, and Power: Huari Ceramic Assemblages and Imperial Administration. In The Archaeology and Politics of Food and Feasting in Early States and Empires, edited by Tamara L. Bray, pp. 173–202. Kluwer Academic, New York. Crumrine, N. Ross 1983 Introduction: Masks, Participants and Audience. In The Power of Symbols: Masks and Masquerade in the Americas, edited by N. R. Crumrine and M. Halpin, pp. 1–11. University of British Columbia Press, Vancouver. Delgado-P, Guillermo 1983 The Devil Mask: A Contemporary Variant of Andean Iconography in Oruro. In The Power of Symbols: Masks and Masquerade in the Americas, edited by N. R. Crumrine and M. Halpin, pp. 128–145. University of British Columbia Press, Vancouver. Descola, Philippe 2010a Introduction: Manières de voir, manières de figurer. In La fabrique des images: Visions du monde et formes de La Représentation, edited by P. Descola, pp. 11–20. Musée Quai Branly, Somogy Éditions D’Art, Paris. 2010b Un monde animé. In La fabrique des images: Visions du monde et formes de La Représentation, edited by P. Descola, pp. 23–40. Musée Quai Branly, Somogy Éditions D’Art, Paris. 2013 Beyond Nature and Culture. University of Chicago Press, Chicago. Donnan, Chris 2003 Moche Portraits from Ancient Peru. University of Texas Press, Austin. 2008 Moche Masking Traditions. In The Art and Archaeology of the Moche: An Ancient Andean Society of the Peruvian North Coast, edited by S. Bourget and K. L. Jones, pp. 67–80. University of Texas Press, Austin. Doyon, Suzette J. 2006 Water, Blood and Semen: Signs of Life and Fertility in Nasca Art. In Andean Archaeology III, edited by W. H. Isbell and H. Silverman, pp. 352–373. Springer, Boston. Duke, Guy 2016 Consuming Identities: Communities and Culinary Practices in the Late Moche Jequetepeque Valley, Peru. Unpublished PhD dissertation, University of Toronto, Toronto. Duviols, Pierre, and Carlota Rosasco de Chacón 1986 Cultura andina y represión: Procesos y visitas de idolatrías y hechicerías Cajatambo, siglo XVII. Vol. 5. Centro de Estudios Rurales Andinos Bartolomé de las Casas, Cusco. Elera, Carlos G. 2009 I Modelli cosmovisionali del Andes Centrali in Epoca Preispanica. In Inca: Origine e Misteri della Civiltà dell’Oro. Brescia Exhibition Catalogue, Marsilio, Venice. Erickson, Philippe 2011 “Bats-moi, mais tout doucement . . .”: Mascarades Cinglantes et Peagogie rituelle chez les Matis (Amazonas, Brésil). In Masques des hommes visages des dieux: Regards d’Amazonie, edited by J. P. Goulard and D. Karadimas, pp. 107–128. CNRS Éditions, Paris. Fowles, Sev M. 2013 An Archaeology of Doings: Secularism and the Study of Pueblo Religion. SAR Press, Santa Fe. Fausto, Carlos 2011 Masques et trophées: De la visibilité des être invisibles en Amazonie. In Masques des hommes visages des dieux: Regards d’Amazonie, edited by J. P. Goulard and D. Karadimas, pp. 229–254. CNRS Éditions, Paris. Gell, Alfred 1998 Art and Agency: An Anthropological Theory. Oxford University Press, Oxford. 208

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Goldstein, Paul S. 2003 From Stew-Eaters to Maize-Drinkers: The Chicha Economy and the Tiwanaku Expansion. In The Archaeology and Politics of Food and Feasting in Early States and Empires, edited by T. L. Bray, pp. 143–172. Kluwer, New York. Goulard, Jean-Pierre 2011 Présentation: Le vertige des masques. In Masques des hommes visages des dieux: Regards d’Amazonie, edited by J. P. Goulard and D. Karadimas, pp. 9–26. CNRS Éditions, Paris. Griaule, Marcel 1963[1938] Masques Dogons. 2nd ed. Institut d’Ethnologie, Paris. Haber, Alejandro F. 2009 Animism, Relatedness, Life: Post-Western Perspectives. Cambridge Archaeological Journal 19(3): 418–430. Hamann, Byron 2002 The Social Life of Pre-Sunrise Things: Indigenous Mesoamerican Archaeology. Current Anthropology 43(3): 351–382. Harvey, Graham 2006 Animism: Connecting the Living World. University of Columbia Press, New York. Hecker, Wolfgang, and Gisela Hecker 1987 Pacanga. Eine Keramick der Nordperuanischen Küstenregion aus der Zeit des Mittleren Horizontes. Baessler-Archiv, Neue Folge 34: 45–102. 1988 Keramik des Späten Horizontes und der frühen Kolonialzeit aus der Region des unteren Jequetepeque-Tales, Nordperuanische Küste. Baessler-Archiv, Neue Folge 36: 149–252. Hodder, Ian 1982 Symbolic and Structural Archaeology. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Højbjerg, Christian Kordt 2007 Resisting State Iconoclasm among the Loma of Guinea. Carolina Academic Press Ritual Studies Monograph Series. Carolina Academic Press, Durham. Ingold, Tim 2012 Towards an Ecology of Materials. Annual Reviews in Anthropology 41: 427–42. Keane, Webb 2018 On Semiotic Ideology. Signs and Society 6(1): 64–87. Lévi-Strauss, Claude 1981 Introduction to a Science of Mythology. 4. The Naked Man. Jonathan Cape, London. MacCormack, Sabine 1991 Religion in the Andes: Vision and Imagination in Early Colonial Peru. Princeton University Press, Princeton. Markman, Roberta, and Peter Markman 1990 Masks of the Spirits: Image and Metaphor in Mesoamerica. University of California Press, Berkeley. Martínez Cereceda, José Luis 1995 Autoridades en los Andes, los atributos del señor. Pontificia Universidad Católica del Peru Fondo Editorial, Lima. Moseley, Michael E., Donna J. Nash, Patrick Ryan Williams, Susan DeFrance, Ana Miranda, and Mario Ruales 2005 Burning Down the Brewery: Establishing and Evacuating an Ancient Imperial Colony at Cerro Baul, Peru. PNAS 102(48): 17264–17271. Mujica Bayly, Soledad 2005 La Huaconada de Mito. In Generaciones: transmisión y re-creación de las culturas tradicionales, edited by Clorinda Zea, pp. 332–336. Dupligráficas, Ltda., Bogotá. The Meaning within Moche Masks

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Napier, A. David 1986 Masks, Transformation, and Paradox. University of California Press, Berkeley. Orellana Valeriano, Simeón 1972 La Huaconada de Mito. Anales Científicos de la Universidad del Centro del Perú 1: 457– 602. Huancayo. Pernet, Henry 1992 Ritual Masks: Deceptions and Revelations. Translated by Laura Grillo. University of South Carolina Press, Columbia. Polia Meconi, Mario 1999 La cosmovisión religiosa andina en los documentos inéditos del Archivo Romano de la Compañía de Jesús 1581–1752. Fondo Editorial de la Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú, Lima. Pollock, Donald 1995 Masks and the Semiotics of Identity. Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 1(3): 581–597. Ramírez, Susan E. 2005 To Feed and Be Fed: The Cosmological Bases of Authority and Identity in the Andes. Stanford University Press, Stanford. Romero, Raúl R. (editor) 1993 Música, danzas y máscaras en los Andes. Instituto Riva-Agüero, Lima. Rostworowski, María 1984 El baile en los ritos agrarios Andinos (Sierra Nor-Central, siglo XVII). Historia y Cultura 17: 51–60. Lima. Salomon, Frank 1998 How the Huacas Were. The Language of Substance and Transformation in the Huarochirí Quechua Manuscript. RES. Anthropology and Aesthetics 33: 7–27. 2002 “¡Huayra Huayra Pichcamanta!”: Augurio, risa y regeneración en la política tradicional (Pacota, Huarochirí). Bulletin de l’Institut Français d’Études Andines 31(1): 1–22. 2018 At the Mountains’ Altar: Anthropology of Religion in an Andean Community. Routledge, New York. Salomon, Frank, and George L. Urioste 1991 The Huarochirí Manuscript: A Testament of Ancient and Colonial Andean Religion. University of Texas Press, Austin. Schmidt, Max 1929 Kunst und Kultur von Peru. Propyläen Verlag, Berlin. Scullin, Diane, and Brian Boyd 2014 Whistles in the Wind: The Noisy Moche City. World Archaeology 46(3): 362–379. Shimada, Izumi, and César Samillán Torres 2014 Arte, religión, y cosmología de Sicán Medio: Nuevos enfoques. In Culturas Sican: Esplendor Preincaico de la Costa Norte, edited by Izumi Shimada, pp. 169–194. Fondo Editorial del Congreso del Perú, Lima. Sillar, Bill 2009 The Social Agency of Things? Animism and Materiality in the Andes. Cambridge Archaeological Journal 19(3): 369–379. 2016 Miniatures and Animism: The Communicative Role of Inka Carved Stone Conopa. Journal of Anthropological Research 72(4): 442–464. Spence Morrow, Giles 2017 Scaling the Huaca: Synecdochal Temporalities and the Mimetic Materialization of Late

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Moche Timescapes. In Constructions of Time and History in the Pre-Columbian Andes, edited by E. Swenson and A. Roddick, pp. 207–238. University of Colorado Press, Boulder. Swenson, Edward R. 2006 Competitive Feasting, Religious Pluralism, and Decentralized Power in the Late Moche Period. In Andean Archaeology III: North and South, edited by W. H. Isbell and H. Silverman, pp. 112–142. Springer, Boston. 2012 Moche Ceremonial Architecture as Third Space: The Politics of Place Making in Ancient Peru. Journal of Social Archaeology 12(1): 3–28. 2014 Los fundamentos cosmológicos de las interraciones Moche Sierra durante el Horizonte Medio en Jequetepeque. Boletín de Arqueología PUCP 16: 79–104. 2015a The Materialities of Place Making in the Ancient Andes: A Critical Appraisal of the Ontological Turn in Archaeological Interpretation. Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 22(3): 677–712. 2015b The Archaeology of Ritual. Annual Reviews of Anthropology 44: 329–45. 2017 Timing Is Everything: Religion and the Regulation of Temporalities in the Ancient Andes. In Religion and Politics in the Ancient Americas, edited by A. Joyce and S. Barber, pp. 210–233. Routledge Press, New York. 2018a Assembling the Moche: The Power of Temporary Gatherings on the North Coast of Peru. World Archaeology 50(1): 62–85. 2018b Sacrificial Landscapes and the Anatomy of Moche Biopolitics: (AD 200–800). In Powerful Places in the Ancient Andes, edited by J. Jennings and E. Swenson, pp. 247–286. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. Swenson, Edward R., and Justin Jennings 2018 Introduction: Andean Conceptions of Place, Landscape, and Power. In Powerful Places in the Ancient Andes, edited by J. Jennings and E. Swenson, pp. 1–54. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. Swenson, Edward R., and John Warner 2012 Crucibles of Power: Forging Copper and Forging Subjects at the Moche Ceremonial Center of Huaca Colorada, Peru. Journal of Anthropological Archaeology 31(3): 314–333. 2016 Landscapes of Mimesis and Convergence in the Southern Jequetepeque Valley, Peru. Cambridge Archaeological Journal 26(1): 23-51. Swenson, Edward R., Jorge Chiguala, and John Warner 2012 Proyecto de Investigación de Arqueología, Jatanca-Huaca Colorada, Valle de Jequetepeque: Informe Final de la Temporada de Investigación 2011. Technical report submitted to the Ministerio de Cultura, Lima. 2013 Proyecto de Investigación de Arqueología, Jatanca-Huaca Colorada, Valle de Jequetepeque: Informe Final de la Temporada de Investigación 2012. Technical report submitted to the Ministerio de Cultura, Lima. Swenson, Edward R., Francisco Seoane, John Warner, and Jorge Chiguala 2015 Proyecto de Investigación de Arqueología, Jatanca-Huaca Colorada, Valle de Jequetepeque: Informe Final de la Temporada de Investigación 2014. Technical report submitted to the Ministerio de Cultura, Lima. Tassi, Nico 2012 Dancing the Image: Materiality and Spirituality in Andean Religious “Images.” Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 18(2): 285–310. Taylor, Anne-Christine 2010 Voir comme un Autre: Figurations amazoniennes de l’âme et des corps. In La Fabrique

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des images: Visions du monde et formes de La Représentation, edited by P. Descola, pp. 41–51. Musée Quai Branly, Somogy Éditions D’Art, Paris. Taylor, Gérald 2000 Camac, Camay y Camasca: y otros ensayos sobre Huarochirí y Yauyos. IFEA, Lima. Tonkin, Elizabeth 1979 Masks and Powers. Man, New Series 14(2): 237–248. Tooker, Elisabeth 1983 The Many Faces of Masks and Masking: Discussion. In The Power of Symbols: Masks and Masquerade in the Americas, edited by N. R. Crumrine and M. Halpin, pp. 12–18. University of British Columbia Press, Vancouver. Ubbelohde-Doering, Henrich 1967 On the Royal Highways of the Inca: Archaeological Treasures of Ancient Peru. Praeger, New York. Valdez, Lidio 2006 Maize Beer Production in Middle Horizon Peru. Journal of Anthropological Research 62(1): 53–804. Viveiros de Castro, Eduardo 1998 Cosmological Deixis and Amerindian Perspectivism. Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 4(3): 469–488. Vogt, Evon Z. 1976 Tortillas for the Gods: A Symbolic Analysis of Zinacanteco Rituals. Harvard University Press, Cambridge, MA. Waisbard, Simone, and Roger Waisbard 1966 Mask Mummies and Magicians: A Voyage of Exploration in pre-Inca Peru. Praeger, New York. Walens, Stanley 1983 Analogic Causality and the Power of Masks. In The Power of Symbols: Masks and Masquerade in the Americas, edited by N. R. Crumrine and M. Halpin, 70–79. University of British Columbia Press, Vancouver. Weismantel, Mary 2004 Moche Sex Pots: Reproduction and Temporality in Ancient South America. American Anthropologist 106(3): 495–505. Zuidema, R. Tom 1983 Masks in the Incaic Solstice and Equinoctial Rituals. In The Power of Symbols: Masks and Masquerade in the Americas, edited by N. R. Crumrine and M. Halpin, pp. 146–153. University of British Columbia Press, Vancouver.

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IV Rituals and Ontology

8 Ephemeral Memories The Creation and Ritual Destruction of Architectonic Models in San José de Moro

Lu is Ja i m e C a st i l l o Bu t t e r s

One of the most intriguing and unique objects associated with the Late Moche burials (AD 650–850) excavated at San José de Moro is a class of artifacts best described as unfired ceramic 3-D representations of buildings,1 or maquetas (Figure 8.1). The maquetas of San José de Moro are small and portable rectangular artifacts, found exclusively in Late Moche elite burials, which represent walled buildings composed of plazas and rooms, side benches, podiums and ramps, columns and roofs. They were regularly decorated with painted details in white, black, yellow, and red, that were most likely crafted at San José de Moro, alongside other funerary articles produced at the site and bequeathed to exceptional individuals coming to the site for interment (Castillo et al. 1997, 2011; McClelland 2010). In contrast to other clay artifacts, the maquetas found in San José de Moro were consistently not fired, even though the kilns used by Late Mochica potters could have easily accommodated them. In this chapter I will explore their characteristic fragility, and the fact that all of them were severely affected by the way they were handled during the funerary rituals and ultimately by the careless disposal in the tombs. It is my contention that the maquetas were deliberately left unfired, that they were purposefully created as ephemeral objects, so that they would be destroyed in ritual and deposition, opening up opportunities for the establishment of new associations between loci, sacred or politically charged, and a new generation of individuals.

Figure 8.1. Maqueta found in tomb M-U 314 featuring a perimeter wall, central doorway, patio, benches, raised platforms and dais, columns, and roof. (Photo courtesy PASJM Archives)

Previously, three papers have examined aspects of the maquetas from San José de Moro. The first one dealt with the funerary contexts where we found the maquetas, discussing the first maquetas found in 1991 and 1992 in the large chamber tombs, three of which corresponded to Mochica priestesses, and an unusual finding of two maquetas in a boot-shaped shaft tomb also associated with females (Castillo et al. 1997). The second paper described in detail the material characteristics and formal aspects of the maquetas (McClelland 2010). Finally, the last paper in the series focused on a set of eight maquetas found in the funerary chamber M-U 1525, the largest number ever, and their remarkable formal similarities with Late Mochica architectural units identified in the Jequetepeque Valley (Castillo et al. 2011). Only in the last of these articles have we started to discuss the possible meanings of these peculiar artifacts, both symbolic and real, and the insights they offer us into the creation of symbolic meaning in Late Moche society. Because of their unexpected formal resemblance with existing buildings, we have argued that the maquetas could have been metaphorical representations not only of the buildings they uncontestably represent. The maquetas embodied the rela216

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tionships between the built and the natural world of the Late Mochica, on one hand, and the individuals buried in the San José de Moro lavish tombs, where the maquetas have been found, on the other. Alternatively, or even additionally, they might have represented the relationships between spaces, natural or cultural, and the dependents or tributaries contributing to the burials, whether individuals or communities. Our inquiry into the meaning associated with the maquetas stopped there, in the metaphorical representations of relationships between subject and loci, possibly because that article was written when we were still surprised by finding associations between maquetas and real buildings, an idea that Edward Swenson had postulated in his doctoral dissertation (2004). Several years have gone by and still these singular artifacts do not cease to impress us. In this chapter, I would like to explore several avenues of inquiry that can shed new light about the meaning and role of the maquetas: (1) the singularity of the structures chosen to be represented and the fact that in the maquetas the structures are bound by walls, when in reality they were part of building conglomerates; (2) the distortions and reinterpretations between real and represented architecture; (3) their emic view of what happened behind the walls; (4) the ritual destruction of the maquetas at the time of burial; and the implication of this symbolic act of destruction in regard to the termination of the symbolic metaphors discussed previously. Most of all, I would like to center the discussion on the ephemerality of the maquetas, on their liminal character, closely associated with death and funerary ritual, but also bridging death with regeneration by the sheer act of destruction, which places the fate of the maquetas in the same realm as other forms of Mochica sacrifice, real or symbolic, human or not.

The Late Moche Maquetas from San José de Moro, Form and Context Approximately 50 maquetas have been found in the funerary excavations at San José de Moro since research began there in 1991.2 The formal characteristics of the maquetas, their general forms and decorations, as well as the peculiarities of the archaeological contexts where they were found have been discussed before, particularly in an excellent article by Donald McClelland (2010). In two previous articles (Castillo et al. 1997; Castillo et al. 2011), I have discussed the materiality of these artifacts and the contextual information of the funerary settings where they were found, as well as explored their character as representations of The Creation and Ritual Destruction of Architectonic Models in San José de Moro

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actual buildings and as metaphorical representations of the immaterial relations established between subject and Late Mochica sites, such as San José de Moro, Cerro Chepén, San Ildefonso, and Portachuelo de Charcape. In what follows I would like to revisit some formal and contextual aspects of the maquetas previously discussed by McClelland.

Only in San José de Moro Elite Tombs Unfired maquetas have been found exclusively in San José de Moro (Figure 8.2), and within the site only in the largest and more lavish Late Mochica bootshaped and chamber tombs. No maquetas, nor even parts or fragments thereof, have been found in other Late Mochica sites nearby, and within the site they only show up in burials—never in rubble, middens, or fill. This exclusivity sets them apart from other objects, and permits us to define them as exclusively funerary artifacts. A number of artifacts have the same character, such as metal masks and other metal ornamentations covering the outside of coffins, certain forms of ceramics, crisoles, etc. (Figure 8.3). In contrast to maquetas, other exclusively funerary artifacts, such as funerary masks, are technologically complex, and required specialized craftsmanship and materials to be produced. Maquetas are not particularly difficult to produce, and require no specialized raw materials, only clay, some wood, and paint. What all these artifacts share is the fact that, whether difficult or easy to produce, their life on this earth was rather short, only existing and visible during the performance of the funerary rituals and for those individuals most intimately related with the ritual performance, the latter to disappear as the tomb that contained them was closed. The fact that we only find maquetas at the site of San José de Moro could be related to another kind of object that is also almost exclusive to the site, the Late Mochica fineline-painted ceramics. This kind of ceramics has been found mostly in the site, with few examples in other contemporaneous sites in the valley and elsewhere. I have hypothesized that the workshops that produced fineline ceramics must have been at the site of San José de Moro or nearby, controlled by the priests and priestesses that run the site (Castillo 2012). The beautifully decorated fineline ceramics, charged with narrative and explicit religious iconography, might not have been owned by the individuals that were brought to San José de Moro for burial, but they were given, in very small numbers, to them as part of the “services” provided by this regional ceremonial and funerary center. Fineline pots, at least one of them, seem to have been essential 218

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Figure 8.2. Map of the North Coast with indication of the Mochica territories. (Drawing courtesy PASJM Archives)

for a “proper” Late Mochica burial. The maquetas seem to have shared many characteristics with fineline ceramics, particularly their elite nature, their small numbers in each tomb, regardless of their size, and their exclusivity to the site. Were they produced by the same workshops that made fineline ceramics? Lacking technical sophistication, the maquetas might have been exclusive The Creation and Ritual Destruction of Architectonic Models in San José de Moro

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Figure 8.3. One of two funerary masks found in tomb M-U 1525. Maqueta found in tomb M-U 314 featuring a perimeter wall, central doorway, patio, benches, raised platforms and dais, columns, and roof. (Photo courtesy PASJM Archives)

items not because of their materials, the way they were made, or the iconography depicted in them, but by the symbolic meaning conveyed by them, a meaning that was represented in the burial ceremony and that only made sense, and was legitimate, in relation to the person being buried. Exclusivity was not a factor of materials and production, but an expression of the special relationship between subjects and landscapes. In a way, the maquetas are even more powerful conveyors of status than any other object, for instance fineline ceramics that were given to elite individuals arriving from the surrounding villages and polities in the valley (Castillo 2009). The maquetas could not have been given to anyone, in spite of rank or wealth. The social positioning and status of the individual, his or her role in the ritual hierarchies, were not conferred in the critical moment of burial, but were already fully developed by the time the individuals arrived at the site, and could not be falsified. One of the remarkable characteristics of maquetas is their scarcity. Maquetas, very much like fineline ceramics, were not in large supply, and there doesn’t 220

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seem to be a direct correspondence between the overall status of the individuals, expressed in the size and fittings of a tomb, and the number of maquetas found in them. Burial M-U 1727, an enormous double-chamber tomb, the largest ever dug archaeologically at San José de Moro, included only one, very deteriorated, maqueta (Figure 8.4), while burial M-U 1525 (Figure 8.5), a much

Figure 8.4. Tomb M-U 1727, a Late Mochica B chamber tomb featuring an antechamber and a formal funerary chamber. This is the largest Late Mochica tomb excavated in San José de Moro and the only one that featured a separated antechamber. (Photo and drawing courtesy PASJM Archives) The Creation and Ritual Destruction of Architectonic Models in San José de Moro

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Figure 8.5. Tomb M-U 1525, a Late Mochica B/C chamber tomb that contained eight maquetas, the largest number found in such a tomb. (Photos and drawing courtesy PASJM Archives)

smaller chamber tomb found only meters away from M-U 1727, contained eight maquetas, the largest number yet. Two of the smaller boot-shaped shaft tombs, M-U 314 and M-U 729, included two and one maquetas. In a 1997 paper, written with Andrew and Chris Nelson, we discussed a set of two maquetas discovered the year before in a large boot-shaped shaft tomb, M-U 314 (Figures 8.6a and 8.6b). This tomb included the bodies of two adult 222

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Figure 8.6. (a) Tomb M-U 314, a Late Moche C boot-shaped shaft tomb containing (b) two maquetas. (Photos courtesy PASJM Archives)

a

b

females and a child, and was associated with Late Moche polychrome ceramic artifacts dating to the last period of the Moche in the Jequetepeque Valley. Before that tomb, we had only found maquetas in chamber tombs, and thus we inferred that these artifacts were reserved only for the 1 percent of Mochica society. In the 20 years since that discovery, we have found more maquetas, mostly in chamber tombs and some in the largest boot-shaped shaft tombs, confirming their association with a very selective segment of this society.

Maquetas Chronology Chronologically the maquetas were produced during the Late Mochica period (AD 650–850) and the Early Transitional period (AD 800–900). During this rather lengthy time, corresponding to the last phase and the collapse of the Mochicas, there were several changes in the way maquetas were manufactured. We have never found maquetas in Middle Moche burials at San José de Moro, nor any indication that they ever existed. Making scale representations of architecture does not seem to be part of the Northern Moche tradition prior to the Late Mochica period. Although scale representations of architecture are present in Cupisnique-, Salinar-, and Viru-style ceramics, they do not seem to have been a subject matter of the Middle Moche tradition (Pardo 2011). The situation is quite different in the Southern Moche region, where 3-D representations of buildings are frequent, both as the main theme or as loci within which an action takes place (Pardo 2011). Producing 3-D maquetas, as a concept as much as a craft, might have arrived in the Jequetepeque Valley around AD 650, as part of the southern influences that, among other things, introduced finelinedecorated ceramics in San José de Moro (Castillo 2009, 2012). The oldest maquetas in San José de Moro were found in Late Mochica A phase burials (Castillo 2012), the earliest phase on the Late Mochica sequence (Figure 8.7). One of the most visible aspects of this period was the introduction of foreign ceramics from Wari, Nievería, and Cajamarca, and the almost immediate development of local versions of Cajamarca and Wari wares, in a new synthetic style that is referred to as polychrome Mochica. This phase of the Late Moche period also saw the sudden emergence of the Late Moche fineline ceramics, which presumably developed in the northern Chicama Valley as the Moche V ceramics style, and subsequently migrated to San José de Moro. In contrast to later maquetas, Late Mochica A phase maquetas were built as a single ceramic piece, without a separated base, which makes them particularly brittle (Figure 8.8).3 Almost all maquetas found in the floors of the tombs were 224

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Figure 8.7. Three badly broken maquetas found next to the priestess buried in Tomb M-U 41. These maquetas were not built on top of a slab or ceramic sherd. (Photo courtesy PASJM Archives)

Figure 8.8. A maqueta found in the southeastern corner of tomb M-U 41 below multiple artifacts and meters of fill. (Photo courtesy PASJM Archives)

badly damaged, and only maquetas that were placed in niches survived. An interesting additional set of items associated only with Late Moche A maquetas were metal miniature objects, shaped like shields, clubs, crowns, garments, plates, and goblets. These miniature items were placed as handfuls on top of the maquetas (McClelland 2010). A second set of maquetas date to the Late Mochica B and C phases (ca. AD 800–900), and were built on top of a large ceramic base. This large piece of pottery is none other than a broken piece of a large container, locally known as tinajas or paicas, that was broken and cut in a rectangular shape. Fragments that include the rim of the paica, and thus had a rather straight side, were preferred over irregular body fragments. The resulting bases, thus, were not flat but concave and certainly did not have very straight sides. Cutting a large rectangular piece out of a broken paica 2 or 3 cm thick was not easy, and the resulting slab was not very straight but rather had zigzag sides. The maqueta itself was built on top of the ceramic fragment, adapting to its general area and to the internal curvature of its body (Figure 8.9).

Figure 8.9. One of the eight maquetas found in tomb M-U 1525. Notice that the maqueta was built on top of a large ceramic fragment. (Photo courtesy PASJM Archives)

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Figure 8.10. Maqueta found in one of the niches of tomb M-U 1045, an Early Transitional chamber tomb. Notice that the maqueta has a sturdy ceramic base, almost a tile, featuring postholes. (Photo and drawing courtesy PASJM Archives)

Evidence of a third set of maquetas was found in Early Transitional period tombs at San José de Moro (ca. AD 850–900). There are only a few fragments of maquetas in these tombs, never an entire piece. Early Transitional maquetas seem to have been the subject of intense handling, and likely, some form of ritual performance, prior to their final placement in the tomb niches. The most important formal characteristic of Early Transitional maquetas is that they were built on top of an unusual ceramic slab, flat and square as a tile, with small holes for columns, which was modeled and fired in advance, and on top of it the walls, columns, and roofs of the maqueta were later built (Figure 8.10). This tile-like ceramic object replaced the large paica sherd of the previous period, signifying that the Transitional maquetas were more premeditated than their Mochica counterparts. Regrettably, none of them has survived in any way that we can detail them. The Creation and Ritual Destruction of Architectonic Models in San José de Moro

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The Singularity of the Structures Chosen to Be Represented as Maquetas Not every Late Mochica building was represented in the maquetas, but rather they represent singular buildings that, presumably, served a ritual or political function. Most maquetas feature rectangular structures, bound by walls, usually centered on a patio, in one side of which, usually opposed to an opening entryway in the wall, we can see a raised bench and a podium. The bench is usually covered by a roof supported by columns, and the entire setting is frequently ornamented with polychrome painting. Several variations of this formula can be found in individual maquetas, like rows of columns surrounding the raised bench and podium, a concentric wall surrounding the entire structure, or additional elements, like niches in the internal walls facing the raised benches. In other cases, the patio groups are complemented by additional rectangular rooms on the sides or behind the patios (Figure 8.9). These rooms could be living quarters, storage rooms, or kitchens, adding a domestic aspect to the formality represented by the patios with benches. It is particularly interesting to consider the nature of the structures chosen to be represented in the maquetas. Patios are gathering spaces, public, open, and inclusive, in contrast to the restrictive and limited nature of the rooms we find around them. Because of their public nature, patios tend to be more ornamented, and are clearly loci of public display. In contrast to the lack of centrality of patios, benches, podiums, and ramps leading to them focus the attention in a central point, ahead and in front of the gathering spaces, and because of their elevated position, embody hierarchical position and relations. Now, these aspects are certainly not created in or through the maquetas, but only represented in them. As previously discussed (Castillo et al. 2011), the maquetas found in San José de Moro tombs represent real buildings that existed in Late Moche sites in the Jequetepeque Valley. Thus, the maquetas did not invent the buildings, but represented them, or more precisely, they represented whatever the buildings meant to the people who controlled and used them. As with the Egyptian maquetas, they stood for the buildings and for the individuals that carry them. The structures represented in the maquetas could stand for themselves, that is, represent only the temples or patios they are imitating, or they can be formal synecdoches representing something larger, like the entire settlement or village, by representing only its most conspicuous and emblematic buildings, that is, the part of the whole. In large Late Moche sites, like San

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Ildefonso or Cerro Chepén, the most outstanding structures are “temples” that combine patios and raised benches, still today and even though the sites are no more than ruins. These structures could have been also the most decorated and ornamented structures, and if their interpretation as ceremonial or political function is correct, they could have served purposes that exceed the individual and family scope. If that was the case, the maquetas that represent these structures could commemorate the singularity of the structure, or they could stand for the entire site. A souvenir Eiffel Tower, or a model Statue of Liberty can be both a representation of the actual monument, or of the entire city—Paris or New York—and even the nation where they are located, and that is easily evoked by these singular structures. Is the Statue of Liberty just a scale replica of the original, or does it have the power to stand for all of New York City, or even for the “American dream”?

The Distortions between Real and Represented Architecture and the Emic Perspectives Several differences exist between the maquetas and the buildings they represent. Some of these differences can be explained by technical and artistic reasons, others by a purposeful attempt at reinterpreting the loci represented. We have no way of knowing if the Mochica architects and masons that actually built the real structures were the same people doing the maquetas that were going into the tombs of the elites. Having witnessed multiple constructions of roofed structures by local masons in San José de Moro, using traditional materials (adobe, algarobo beams and horcones, cane and esteras for roofing, soguillas and mud plastering), and organized under a somewhat more knowledgeable local albañil, it is evident that almost every adult male would know how to build, and at some point in their lives have participated in construction projects. It is likely that the same applies to the Late Moche, considering that the technologies and materials have hardly changed for 1,500 years. This would imply that almost everyone would know the ins and outs of how materials and techniques work to put together a small structure. In contrast, the maquetas are not built following the construction techniques and conventions used in real-life construction projects. We can assume, thus, that they were not meant to be exact replicas of the structures, in other words models for architects, but rather, the maquetas were impressionistic images of existing structures. The reinterpretation of the building, those things that are lacking and those that were added as the maThe Creation and Ritual Destruction of Architectonic Models in San José de Moro

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quetas were produced, provide us important clues to the meaning of both the structures and the models themselves. Among the differences between maquetas and real buildings, the most notorious is the fact that maquetas present walls surrounding the buildings. Ever since Edward Swenson reported the great similarity between maquetas excavated in San José de Moro and a structure he registered in Portachelo de Charcape (Swenson 2004) one thing was interesting: The real building did not include a surrounding wall. This same situation repeats itself in several of the patio and bench maquetas, and real structures found in San Ildefonso. I think that the distortion is not a testament to the real likeness of the buildings when they were in use, but rather they represent the way the Mochicas saw and conceived these buildings. Having a wall surrounding them, the maquetas seem to represent structures that stood alone, rather than being inserted into a complex architecture layout composed of multiple buildings, rooms, platforms, etc. And even though some of the buildings that have been found in Late Moche sites were isolated from the rest of the architecture, and truly stood alone, in other cases they were clearly integrated into the rest of the built environment. The fact that the Moche represented all of these buildings alone might give us a sense that they thought of these buildings as different and isolated from other structures. In reality they were immersed in the complex-built fabric of the sites, but they were perceived as unique and isolated. Walls, on the other hand, might be present as a representation of restricted access, whether they existed in reality or not. One interesting example of how the maquetas match real buildings comes from a comparison between a very fragmented maqueta found in tomb M-U 41, the first priestess burial excavated in San José de Moro and recent excavation conducted in the eastern slope of Huaca La Capilla, the central mound in San José de Moro by Luis Muro (Figure 8.11). The maqueta features a patio with an alignment of posts supporting a single slab roof in front of a wall with large niches (McClelland 2010: 219). Niches of that kind have never been reported in Moche architecture. In the excavations, a succession of four occupational floors were found forming the stratigraphy of the huaca, with the deepest floor at roughly 2 m below the modern surface. This patio featured an L-shaped dais or altar, decorated with low-relief geometric designs and evidence of post holes running parallel to a large wall that ran the entire eastern side of the space (Figure 8.12). The wall featured two rows of very large niches, more than 80 cm on the side. 230

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Figure 8.11. Detail of one of the maquetas found next to the priestess in tomb M-U 41. Notice the large niches in the back wall. (Photo courtesy PASJM Archives)

Figure 8.12. Excavation on the eastern slope of Huaca la Capilla, featuring an L-shaped altar and a large niche in a north–south running wall. (Photo courtesy PASJM Archives)

The Ritual Un/Intentional Destruction of the Maquetas at the Time of Burial The maquetas from San José de Moro seem to have been produced in such a way that they would be destroyed during the funerary ceremonies, whether intentionally or not. The Late Moche maquetas from San José de Moro were produced of clay, painted in white, black, and red, and were finely detailed; in contrast to other ceramic artifacts, they were not fired, and thus were left as utterly fragile artifacts. I presume that the lack of firing was intentional, since no technical restriction existed, neither in the clays used to build them nor in the kilns where other ceramic artifacts were fired. Colors might have changed upon firing, but that does not seem to be a reason not to fire the maquetas, leaving them so exposed. The fact that all the maquetas found archaeologically were unfired is indicative of an intention on the side of the producers, intentions that are likely directed at their symbolic significance, and at a chain of events that would be unleashed during the funerary rituals, and ultimately when the maquetas were finally placed in the tombs. Being so breakable the maquetas would have been affected by almost any handling during the funerary rituals, and were critically affected once they were placed in the tomb by the deposition of artifacts on top and around them, and later by the way the tombs were filled with compacted soil. Damage from handling must have been worse with the Late Moche A maquetas, which lack a solid base on top of which they were constructed (Figure 8.8). Late Moche B and C maquetas, built on top of a large ceramic base, would have been more resistant to manipulation (Figure 8.9). Most maquetas were found directly in contact with the floors of tombs or inside niches, indicating that they were among the first artifacts introduced in the tombs. The participants in burial ceremonies, and particularly those in charge of the tomb preparation and arrangements, which given the complexity of Late Moche chamber tombs must have been specialized officers, must have been fully aware that the fragile maquetas were going to be impacted by the layers of artifacts and fill. As a result, almost all maquetas found were broken in pieces by the sheer weight of the objects and fill, placed carelessly on top of them (Figure 8.13). A slightly different treatment was given to maquetas that were intentionally placed in niches. Chamber tombs in San José de Moro were real subterranean constructions, made with adobe walls, wooden roofing, and prepared floors, in ways that resemble the traditional residential constructions where Moche elites 232

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Figure 8.13. Maquetas found in the floor of funerary chamber M-U 1525, heavily impacted by other elements in the tomb. (Photo courtesy PASJM Archives)

lived. The walls were not very tall, but in their upper third they featured rectangular niches. This shape of niches contrasts with the typical pentagonal niches found in Southern Moche tombs (Donnan 1995; Donnan and Mackey 1978). The quantity of niches and their size varies greatly among chambers, as do the objects contained in them. Human and animal bones, ceramic bottles, and crisoles are usually found inside niches, although in many cases these are empty, The Creation and Ritual Destruction of Architectonic Models in San José de Moro

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Figure 8.14. Niches in tomb M-U 1525 containing ceramics, human and animal bones, and crisoles. (Photo courtesy PASJM Archives)

presumably because they contained organic materials, like textiles, feathers, or leather, which did not preserve (Figure 8.14). Niches are roofed, which protects the artifacts placed inside them, unless the niche is packed. The best preserved maquetas found in San José de Moro were found inside niches, but even then, compact filling of the chamber and other artifacts on top and around them, or their own fragility and lack of resistance to humidity, ended up destroying them. What was the difference between maquetas found inside niches and those found in the floor? It is not possible to find a proper answer to this question because all possible scenarios exist: that all maquetas were in niches (Tomb M-U 26), that all maquetas were in the floor (Tomb M-U 41), that the most complex maquetas were in niches and the simple ones were in the floor (Tomb M-U 1525). Thus far, the decision to place maquetas in niches, and protect them, seems to be random, and more dependent on the circumstances of the funerary rituals. Whether protected maquetas were more important or meaningful than the ones not protected is uncertain. 234

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One last kind of maqueta, considering its degree of preservation, is a subset of artifacts that seem to have been placed in the tombs already destroyed and incomplete. The only maqueta found in Tomb M-U 1727 (Figure 8.4) was almost completely destroyed, only the base and part of the floor plan remaining. Walls and roofs were missing, and the remaining element of floors, benches, and ramps were heavily weathered. The same thing happened in the maquetas found in the Early Transitional chamber tomb M-U 1045, where the only remains found in niches were the fired slabs, or tiles, on top of which the maquetas were built (Figure 8.10). Little fragments of the floors and walls were found on top of the slabs, but clearly not enough to make up for the entire structure. Destroyed maquetas do not seem to represent different buildings because, for example, the maqueta found in Tomb M-U 1727 is similar to other maquetas featuring a walled patio with side benches and a roofed central dais. These maquetas seem to have been destroyed prior to their deposition on the funerary chamber, or as a result of manipulations happening inside the tomb itself. The fragmentary maqueta found in Tomb M-U 1727 was part of an assemblage containing three individuals placed one on top of the other, a funerary mask, a metal goblet, metal ribbons, crisoles, and ceramic fragments, probably resulting from the manipulation of an older coffin containing a priestess. This outstanding doublechamber tomb seems to have seen two distinct occupations: an older one when a female priestess, associated with the mask and goblet, was the main occupant; and a second configuration when the priestess was tossed aside and the most prominent position was given to a male occupant. In any case, the outcome was that the maqueta was severely damaged and, due to its fragility, some parts went missing, particularly roofs and columns. Damage to the maqueta could have happened during the ritual preceding the original closing of the tomb, or as an outcome of manipulation of the older coffin and its associations, when the tomb was reconfigured to contain a male occupant. Therefore, it seems logical to assume that the participants in ritual burials chose to produce and use in the context of the burials unfired clay maquetas, even knowing that they were going to be destroyed as other artifacts were placed in the tombs. Thus, maquetas fall in the category of ephemeral artifacts, objects that are made not to last, but to convey a message and soon after disappear. If we have found them and brought them back from this ruin, it has been done because of careful excavations and painful restoration processes. Unfired ceramic artifacts are not only destroyed but deformed by the taphonomical changes that occur in the tombs. The Creation and Ritual Destruction of Architectonic Models in San José de Moro

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The destruction of the maquetas during the funerary rituals seems to have been an intentional and deliberate action. There might be a slight difference in the fact that some of the maquetas were found inside niches, while most of them were in the floor, receiving the biggest impact of the tomb fittings. However, even the maquetas found in niches were most of the time affected by the tomb fill and by other artifacts placed on top and next to them. Ritual destruction of artifacts as part of a funerary ritual is not rare, the cremation of the body and the associated offering being the extreme case. Another form of ritual alteration of artifacts as part of ritual practices at San José de Moro was found among Late Moche stirrup spout bottles decorated with fineline designs. These are frequently found without the spout. The spouts were nowhere to be found, meaning that they were not broken as part of the taphonomical process but that the breakage happened somewhere else. Actually, a close examination of this practice showed that stirrup spout bottles found in chamber tombs were much less likely to be found without the spout, while the same bottles found in boot-shaped shaft tombs usually lacked the spouts. Was this a form of ritual sacrifice? Breaking the spout from the chamber and tossing it was a recurrent, and surely ceremonial, handling of these objects during the funerary rituals.

Ephemeral Objects Even though there are numerous examples of ancient civilizations that crafted architectonic models as funerary goods (see, for example, Oppenheim et al. 2015; Pillsbury et al. 2015), the maquetas from San José de Moro seem to be the only case in which these artifacts were created to be systematically destroyed, to be wasted, as many ephemeral artifacts meet their end in association with liminal rituals and particularly in commemoration of death and transition. In contrast to these other traditions, which most likely tried to extend into eternity the ontological relationships between individuals and spaces, and thus produced materials in durable media, what was conveyed by the ephemeral Late Mochica maquetas of San José de Moro, was meant to die or to change in its nature, to terminate, in the burial ritual. Maquetas found in Middle Empire Egyptian tombs, particularly a large collection found in the Meketre tomb, a royal steward who served under King Nebhepetre Mentuhotep II (ca. 2051–2000 BC) until the early reign of

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Amenemhat I (ca. 1981–1975 BC; Oppenheim et al. 2015), were produced using sturdy materials, as they were supposed to represent for eternity the relationships between owners and their holdings. These relationships could be of ownership or dependency, right of usage, affinity, etc. Individuals wanted to take to the other world their worldly possessions, so that they could continue enjoying them in the afterlife. They wanted to take their servant, or representations thereof, so that they could continue serving them for eternity. Egyptian theology thus developed the notion that the object represented the real thing, and that the essence, one of the forms of the soul, of the object was captured by the representation. Similar to many other Egyptian traditions, likeness was quite important, and thus the maquetas were as accurate as possible to the real thing, or of a real thing, whether it had actually been owned or only desired. Representation gave the individuals the chance to grant themselves an even better status and quality of life in the other site, with more servants, more boats, and more buildings. The Egyptian maquetas are not only a representation of temples, as in the San José de Moro case, but of domestic and productive settings. One thing that is quite important to emphasize is the materiality of the Egyptian maquetas in contrast to the Late Mochica counterparts. Egyptian maquetas were meant to last, if possible an eternity, and Mochica maquetas were not. Ephemerality, the quality of lasting a short time, of being transitory, of disappearing soon after being created, gave the maquetas from San José de Moro a double life. First, the ephemeral object was created to signify and embody, in the case in hand representing the identity of the deceased and his or her relations with specific sacred or political spaces, loci, or landscapes. Additionally, the maquetas could have stood for immaterial concepts like love, affection, or beauty, or simply for the affinities and belongings of the deceased individuals. But, due to their fragility, ephemeral objects cease to exist soon after, opening up yet another opportunity for the construction of meaning and relationships. Once the maquetas were used and broken, the identity and the relationship represented by them vanishes, ceases to exist, expires with the object. If the act of creation, constructing the maquetas, has materialized something that otherwise would have been immaterial, the act of destruction brings an end to that symbolic construction. The destruction of the maquetas opens up new opportunities for significance, embodiment, and personal characterization, thus, the fragility and ephemerality of the Late Mochica maquetas.

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Notes 1. Hereon, for brevity and clarity, I will refer to them using the Spanish term “maquetas.” 2. Previously only a set of six maquetas were registered by Christopher Donnan in a private collection (see McClelland 2010, 210–213). At this point we do not know for sure if this set was originated in San José de Moro or other sites, although there are many similarities between maquetas dug in San José de Moro and this collection. It is not clear to us if these maquetas were originally unfired or fired, or even if they were originals, copies, or heavily restored objects. 3. For a detailed description of Late Moche A maquetas, see Donald McClelland’s article (2010). McClelland bases most of his observations on maquetas excavated in 1991 and 1992 in a cluster of tombs east of Huaca la Capilla, which corresponded to this early Late Moche phase.

References Cited Castillo Butters, Luis Jaime 2009 El estilo Mochica Tardío de línea fina de San José de Moro. In De Cupisnique a los Incas. El arte del Valle de Jequetepeque, La Donación de Pertus Fernandini al MALI, edited by L. J. Castillo and C. Pardo, pp. 208–243. Museo de Arte de Lima, Lima. 2012 San José de Moro y el fin de los Mochicas en el Valle de Jequetepeque, Costa Norte del Peru. Unpublished PhD dissertation, Anthropology Department, University of California, Los Angeles. Castillo Butters, Luis Jaime, Solsiré Cusiquanqui, and Ana Cecilia Mauricio 2011 Las maquetas arquitectónicas de San José de Moro, aproximaciones a su contexto y significado. In Modelando el mundo. Imágenes de la arquitectura Precolombina, edited by C. Pardo, pp. 112–131. Asociación Museo de Arte de Lima, Lima. Castillo Butters, Luis Jaime, Andrew Nelson, and Chris Nelson 1997 Maquetas mochicas, San José de Moro. Arkinka. Revista de Arquitectura, Diseño y Construcción 22: 120–128. Donnan, Christopher B. 1995 Moche Funerary Practice. In Tombs for the Living: Andean Mortuary Practices, edited by T. D. Dillehay, pp. 111–159. Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, Washington, DC. Donnan, Christopher B., and Carol J. Mackey 1978 Ancient Burial Patterns of the Moche Valley, Peru. University of Texas Press, Austin. McClelland, Donald H. 2010 Architectural Models in Late Moche Tombs. Ñawpa Pacha 30(2): 209–230. Oppenheim, Adela, Dorothea Arnold, Dieter Arnold, and Kei Yamamoto 2015 Ancient Egypt Transformed: The Middle Kingdom. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Pardo, Cecilia (editor) 2011 Modelando el mundo. Imagenes de la arquitectura Precolombina. Museo de Arte de Lima, Lima. Pillsbury, Joanne, Patricia Sarro, James Doyle, and Juliet Wiersema 2015 Design for Eternity: Architectural Models from the Ancient Americas. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

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Swenson, Edward R. 2004 Ritual and Power in the Urban Hinterland: Religious Pluralism and Political Decentralization in Late Moche Jequetepeque, Peru. Unpublished PhD dissertation, Division of Social Sciences, University of Chicago, Chicago.

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9 Farewell to the Gods Interpreting the Use and Voluntary Abandonment of a Ritual Building at Pachacamac, Peru

Pet e r E e ck hou t

Literature concerning the specific phenomenon of site abandonment is relatively abundant, including that concerning the pre-Columbian cultures (Inomata and Webb 2003). However, it rarely focuses on voluntary abandonment contexts. Nevertheless, these are relatively common in the Andes, for example, via the custom called temple entombment, known since the Preceramic period (Onuki 1993), but also attested later among the Moche on the north coast of Peru. For example, each phase of the Huaca de la Luna covers all or part of the previous one, without destroying it but rather maintaining it under a layer of adobes. This is especially true for murals at the site (Uceda 2001:56). On the Central Coast of Peru, there is also registered evidence of such practices. For instance, at the Huaca Puccllana in Lima, excavations have shown that a huge-scale ceremony marked the end and ritual closure of the Grand Plaza with Benches, atop the main pyramid, at the beginning of the Middle Horizon (ca. AD 600). Following Ríos Palomino (2015: 20–23), this ceremony involved at least 1,000 participants and can be subdivided into seven successive steps, which included a huge banquet, voluntary breakage of complete vessels on the floor, fire, and the destruction of architecture. However, rather than being considered a destructive phase, this custom is more akin to a step in a cycle that will soon see the beginning of a new architectural phase. The cases of voluntary and permanent abandonment are actually poorly documented and are usually the result of external factors, such as the difficult political context seen in Pampa Grande in the Late Moche V (Shimada 1994), at Cerro Baul at the end of the Wari Empire (Nash and deFrance 2019,

Moseley et al. 2005), or under the threat of Spanish invasion at Tambokancha near Cuzco (Farrington 2014).1 Natural disasters may also explain sudden abandonment, such as the Maya site of Joya de Ceren following the eruption of the volcano Ilopango in El Salvador (Sheets 2002). As Arkush notes, material evidence of abandonment left by residents depends on the time that they had to prepare their leaving, and if they planned on coming back or not (2017: 241–242). Arkush makes a distinction between different scenarios, namely (1) planned, permanent abandonment, (2) planned temporary abandonment, and (3) catastrophic ending. Within the first category, Arkush considers intentional ritual termination of structures as “good evidence that departing residents considered their abandonment to be permanent” (242). In the framework of this chapter, I attempt to clarify the meaning of such behavior through the unique example of a recently excavated spectacular context at Pachacamac. After a general presentation of the site and excavations, I will detail the abandonment process and the many associated offerings. All this will be used to inform a discussion on the motives and the meaning of this great event and the possible function of the building that was its setting.

Description of B15 and Excavations The monumental site of Pachacamac is immense and includes dozens of buildings (Figure 9.1). The full planimetric survey that we conducted allowed us to classify the buildings into six typological categories. Type 4 is defined as walled precincts with central structures, open spaces, and a single entrance. It is represented by three examples: B15, B4, and E3. None of these buildings had ever been excavated. The special design of the apparent architectural remains and the presence of traces of isolated paintings, as well as the remains of looted funerary contexts in and around these structures suggest that these could be mausoleums and/or buildings with a ritual function. It was for the purpose of collecting accurate data on the chronology, architecture, and use of this type of building that excavations were conducted in B15 during the 2014 and 2016 campaigns of the Ychsma Project. B15 covers an area of approximately 1,400 m2 (35 × 40 m), is slightly trapezoidal in shape, and is limited by a wall. The excavations were conducted in several different units within the complex, covering about 1/3 of its surface (Figure 9.2). To date, research has helped to expose about 300 m2 of the architecture of the central area (Figure 9.3). It consists of orthogonal rooms and Interpreting the Use and Abandonment of a Ritual Building at Pachacamac, Peru

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Figure 9.1. A 3-D map of the site of Pachacamac on the Central Coast of Peru. (Peter Eeckhout)

Figure 9.2. Aerial photography of Building B15 at the end of the 2014 field campaign. (Peter Eeckhout)

Figure 9.3. Sketch map of Building B15. (Peter Eeckhout)

narrow corridors, separated by walls about 1.50 m tall that were probably once covered by a roof made of perishable materials, as evidenced by postholes in different places. The plan is labyrinthine with most internal spaces reduced. Given this, it seems that most of B15 was accessible only to a very limited number of people. Based on the currently available data, it appears that the outer enclosure was at least 2.5 m in height and therefore prevented the interior part from being visible from the exterior. Interior access was through a single, northern, 1 m wide entrance decorated with painted polychrome motifs on a red background. Whether the enclosure was also painted on the outside has not yet been determined. Although looting has destroyed part of the entrance, it seems that once inside the building, one would head west toward two successive small platforms (R7) with a fitted stone pit and a tiered structure in the middle of one of the walls. All the walls of this part of the building were painted on both sides with polychrome motifs on a red background, most of which are unfortunately illegible today. From here, a zigzag corridor allowed access to another room (R4), which also contained a tiered structure, then on to two successive rectangular rooms. In the bottom part of the first room (R2) was the intrusive grave E272, detailed later. The second room (R1) seems very difficult to access due to a narrow corridor with a low lintel, which transforms into a kind of tunnel, where the floor is on a slope to a room with a large rectangular pit in the middle. To the southwest, there are several small platforms and benches (around R6) that have suffered looting in various degrees, and a large rectangular room (R3) preceded by a kind of anteroom with a niche (R6). The angular southern wall corresponds to a colonial reoccupation. A 30 m2 unit to the south of the central compound was excavated in 2016 and revealed domestic facilities including a cooking area, storage jars, and numerous low walls. It was built above the funerary chambers (see below). The rest of the original architecture of the building is not known at this time, but it seems that the entire southern part could be a large domestic space with additional rooms and corridors that remain to be excavated on all other sides. Excavation of Room 4 has allowed us to shed light on the sequence of building and occupation within the complex. Starting from the bottom, a Late Lima occupation was associated with an intrusive child burial dated cal AD 770–970. This precedes the construction of the architecture there, which on the basis of current evidence and C14 dates, began with a huge filling of sediment and cultural remains (Late Lima to early Late Intermediate period) including nu244

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merous offerings and the remains of ceremonial activities performed during the construction period (Erauw et al. 2019). The building’s extension in this period is currently unknown. It seems there were several construction/occupation stages, although at this moment we can only tentatively date three of them: the first one between AD 1000–1150, the second one ca. AD 1400, and the last one between AD 1440–1520 and associated with the Incas. The whole construction process seems to have been imbued with sacredness and special care, as evidenced, for instance, by the inclusion of exotic nectandra seeds within the mud mortar2 (Table 9.1). The first stage seems to have been constructed in deference to a wooden pole around which numerous rich offerings have been found, dated cal AD 880–1020. Above the wooden pole we found a huanca stone also associated with an incredible number of offerings of the most opulent nature (Spondylus, metal, semiprecious stones, etc.) (Figure 9.4). This huanca is situated in Room R2, the most restricted of the whole building, and was in use until its abandonment in the sixteenth century. This means that ritual activities, including offerings, were performed in this specific spot for at least half a millennium. At the end of the abandonment process, an elite burial (E272) was placed in Room 2 but was unfortunately looted shortly thereafter. A series of earlier burials have been found around the central architecture, within the precinct of B15. On the basis of available dates and excavated contexts, some of them partially disturbed while others remained intact, it seems that burials have been present in the inner area of B15 from the beginning of the eleventh century to the beginning of the thirteenth century AD (i.e., roughly between AD 1000–1200/1250). Most of the burials were gathered into small groups, possibly kin-based, in funerary chambers that were largely intruded and disturbed by later burials and modern looting. The first evidence of funerary chambers suggests that they were built of adobes along a wall (M47-1), which was later expanded and ultimately formed the northern side of the precinct of B15. We do not know if Wall M47-1 was freestanding or not, but the stratigraphic record of the eastern wall of the precinct shows that there was a platform on that side at the time of the cemetery, which was later also expanded (see Figure 9.3). In conclusion, the cemetery was not located in an open area but in a place that was progressively formalized by huge walls that ultimately formed the square precinct. At some moment in the thirteenth century, the cemetery was abandoned and covered by layers of domestic occupation, including areas of cooking and Interpreting the Use and Abandonment of a Ritual Building at Pachacamac, Peru

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124-c-0-H28

124-f-1-Cx02

124-d/e-1A-Cx16 Seed

124-f-1-M7

124R2-M59

Ych16-Cx30

124R4-b-2

124-h-1-Cx04

124R1-b-2

124-k-1-H34

124-s-1A-M5

RICH-22487

RICH-22549

RICH-22560

RICH-22482

RICH-24040

RICH-24044

RICH-24030

RICH-22544

RICH-24024

RICH-22583

RICH-22557

Calibrated 2 sigmas (95.4%)

Sediment Foundation B15-Wall 5

654±29BP AD 1290–1410

631±29BP AD 1300–1420

Sediment Huaquita—small huanca in last occupation floor

452±29BP AD 1440–1520AD (62.1%) AD 1540–1630AD (33.3%) 511±28BP AD 1410–1460

Remains of thatching

Straw found in the mud of the 446±30BP AD 1430–1510 (80.0%) floor (layer 2) of Re-4 AD 1580–1620 (15.4%)

422±30BP AD 1440–1520 (62.0%) AD 1540–1630 (33.4%)

333±28BP AD 1490–1600 (68.3%) AD 1610–1660 (27.1%)

Nectandra seed found in the construction of wall 59, associated Cx.32. Re-2 Camelid hair and fur. From Cx.30-Ele1, within Re-4

337±29BP AD 1490–1650

434±29BP AD 1440–1520 (73.4%) AD 1570–1630 (22.0%)

341±28BP AD 1490–1650

320±30BP AD 1500–1600 (60%) AD 1610–1670 (35.4%)

312±28BP AD 1500–1600 (52.1%) AD 1610–1670 (43.3%)

BP age

Foundation B15-Wall 7-inside mortar with mud plaster

Offering on the floor

Offering on the floor

Paintbrush

Offering on the floor

Event/Feature

Offerings beneath the walls

Vegetal

Reed

Vegetal

Organic

Seed

Seed

Seed

Charcoal

Seed

124-j-1-Cx13

RICH-22543

Sample

Field code

Lab reference

Table 9.1. 14C dates from Building B15—phases 4 and 5

First calibration most probable

Second calibration most probable

First calibration most probable

First calibration most probable

Comment

First calibration most probable

4-Occupation B15

4-Occupation B15

4-Ultimate remodelling Foundation W29 of B15 and 31

4-Occupation B15

4-Ultimate remodelling First calibration of B15-huanca stone most probable

4-Ultimate remodelling First calibration of B15 most probable

4-Occupation B15

4-Occupation B15

5-Abandonment B15

5-Abandonment B15

5-Abandonment B15

5-Abandonment B15

Phase

Figure 9.4. Huanca stone with offerings in situ (Room 2, B15). (Peter Eeckhout)

storage in the southern part of B15. This area was apparently associated with the main central compound until the end of the fourteenth century. The sequence described previously can be summed up in the following way: 1) A Late Lima occupation including low adobitos walls and an intrusive child burial (AD 800–1000); 2) A wooden pole and then a huanca stone, which were the focus of ceremonial activities within the central compound of B15 (AD 900–1550s?); 3) A cemetery with funerary chambers (AD 1000–1200/1250); 4) A building for ritual purposes with several stages of transformation and occupations (AD 1000–1550s) associated first with the cemetery and then with domestic facilities (ca. AD 1300–1400), and a probable Spondylus workshop (ca. AD 1470?–1533); 5) A huge abandonment ceremony including an elite burial E272 during the Transition period (AD 1533–1561). In the framework of this chapter, I will focus on the last step of this sequence— phase 5—and more specifically on the discoveries made in the rooms of the central compound of B15—Unit 124 according to field nomenclature. Once the windblown, sandy, superficial layer was cleared, several remnants of murals and painted rubble adobes emerged, as well as an offering of several dozen complete shells (Concholepas and Spondylus) and a large looting crater to the southwest. The surrounding fill contained the remnants of many artifacts, most in direct contact with the mud floor of the building. We thought at first that these were the grave goods of a looted tomb, but two clues quickly led us to revise this interpretation. First, cleaning the looting hole revealed no human bones, raw cotton, textiles, or any of the other usual evidence of burials, nor was there any formal layout of funerary context. There was no grave there, and, therefore, the looters did not find anything that interested them. On the other hand, the intact rubble fill covered artifacts in all other areas of the building, and these objects were all placed on the surface of the original floor. From this we can conclude that this was a voluntary deposit that preceded the destruction of the walls and was covered by debris. The fact that all of these objects were left on the floor of all rooms and corridors, sometimes concentrated, sometimes dispersed, also shows that it was impossible to move normally within the structure (Figure 9.5). This deposition is then the last evidence of activity before the building stopped being used. Moreover, excavation data strongly suggest that

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Figure 9.5. Offerings covering the floors of one room in B15. (Peter Eeckhout)

the destruction of the walls was part of the abandonment process, and that the offerings were thus covered immediately. We will see that there is plenty of evidence to support this interpretation and that we can also document, to some extent, the offerings’ deposition process.

The Finds A total of 327 offerings were listed, grouped into 24 distinct contexts, based on their arrangement and location within the complex.3 Note that these groupings were intended to facilitate field records and are not intended to correspond, except in certain specific cases, to explicit or voluntary subdivisions made in the past. Moreover, some of these offerings are composites, and, for example, include more than 1,200 stones of various sizes and shapes. There are in total hundreds of offerings covering the floors of rooms and corridors of B15. With the excep-

Table 9.2. Summary of the offerings found in B15 (2014 field campaign only) Class Ceramics Cups Spondylus—worked pieces Spondylus—pre-shaped Spondylus—raw flakes

30 9 442 47 1330

Spondylus—whole

48

Feather artifacts

24

Feathers—loose

434

Textiles

49

Metals

17

Wooden artifacts

39

Vegetals

24

Ishpingos

70

Stones

1259

Glass beads

24

Hair and fur

6

Guinea pigs

8

Human bones Other

250

MNI

Peter Eeckhout

3 12

tion of stones, all the objects have been deliberately destroyed, torn, damaged, dismantled, and their fragments scattered through the rooms and corridors. In general terms, they can be classified into 20 categories, which I will quickly review here (Table 9.2). Ceramics, all broken, are of the local Inca style, also called Inca-Pachacamac. Some are classical form, such as keros or ollas, while others are very original, like decorated plaques or kinds of models (Figure 9.6).

Figure 9.6. Ceramics from B15. (Peter Eeckhout)

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Nine cups with wooden pedestal Spondylus inlays were found (Figure 9.7). They are extremely similar to Chimu examples of the north coast in the Late Intermediate period (Tufinio 2012, 2013). However, the Pachacamac cup containers were made of Spondylus, and not of Conus. The amount of raw and worked shells is huge, especially Spondylus, of which 30 kilos were recovered in B15 only. Feather artifacts are also very numerous (Figure 9.8). They are all garments and adornments, again very similar to the examples of the North Coast, Chimu

Figure 9.7. (a) One of the cups with wooden pedestal Spondylus inlaids, (b–c) sample raw and worked Spondylus shell, (d) offering C19–13, which includes ishpingos, fragments of Spondylus and a metal miniature. (Peter Eeckhout) 252

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a

b Figure 9.8. (a) Feather artifact and (b) fragment of textile decorated with tokapus. (Peter Eeckhout)

and Sicán (cf. King 2012; Rowe 1984). Many are miniatures (comp. Uceda and King 2012). The ornithological study on the origin of feathers shows that most exotic birds are from the Amazonian lowlands (Ballón 2015). Textiles of all kinds abound, again among them miniatures, usually plain (comp. Bruce 1986), but also decorated with tokapu motifs (Figure 9.8). The metal is present as silver alloy square plates, probably clothing ornaments, but Interpreting the Use and Abandonment of a Ritual Building at Pachacamac, Peru

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Figure 9.9. (a) A wooden statuette of Chimu style, (b) manuport, birdlike shape, (c) manuport, Spondyluslike shape. (Peter Eeckhout)

also small gold pieces such as a fish or pendants, both from the central tomb. From the same context comes a wooden statuette of Chimu style, evoking a figure, likely an ancestor (Figure 9.9a, comp. Uceda 1997). Other wooden artifacts, most enigmatic, were recovered in various locations. The stones, as said, are extremely numerous. Some are worked, such as tools or figurines, but most are manuports—rough stones chosen for their particular aspect and shape (Figures 9.9b and c). The lithic and geological analyses show that they probably come from the highlands of the Lurin Valley (Yataco and Toledo 2015). Curiously, many of these stones have ferromagnetic properties. This characteristic can be compared to ethnographic data. Current curanderos use magnetite stones in their healing rituals (Eeckhout 2015). There are also other stones, semiprecious, and a series of 24 glass beads dispersed among different offering contexts. The preliminary study shows that they predate 1561 and, therefore, allow us to date the offerings of the early days of the Spanish conquest (comp. Donnan and Stillton 2011). Among the exceptional objects, an engraved wooden box containing Spondylus powder found 254

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Figure 9.10. (a) Engraved wooden box, (b) detail of the Spondylus powder found in the wooden box. (Peter Eeckhout)

in a sealed niche in R7 (Figure 9.10). Another example, partial, has also been discovered. The model is known from examples on the north and central coast in late periods (Lavalle 1988: 274; Lavalle and Lang 1982: 173; Purini and Emmerich 2006: 80; Schindler 2000: 249). Finally, there are also organic remains such as plants, animal remains (guinea pigs, birds), and a few human bones, including a subadult coxial bone fragment stuck in one of the painted walls. B15 is decorated with paintings, as previously mentioned (Figure 9.11a, b, and c). It is interesting to note that the number of paint layers differs depending on location, and the last layer appears to have been placed just before the destruction of the building (Colonna-Preti 2015). The style of these polychrome paintings is for some considered to be related to the north coast of Peru, and for others it is similar to the local style as illustrated on the Temple of Pachacamac (Pozzi et al. 2011: 27; Pozzi et al. 2013: cover). At first, we thought it was a form of syncretism, but closer study revealed that the northern-style paintings could be a late addition. Several interesting findings related to the paintings should be mentioned: a large mortar near the southeast corner of the central complex, a gourd containing pigments—probably the dried paint—not far away, and an abandoned brush at the foot of a wall4 (Figure 9.11d and e). Laboratory tests were conducted on these remains (Van Bos 2015), and will be published separately (ColonnaPreti et al. n.d.). The white pigment has been made with hydroxyapatite, a bone component. DNA tests should determine if animal or human bones were used. Although the study is still ongoing, several inferences can be made already at this stage of the analysis. Thus, among the most spectacular finds are wooden pedestal cups inlaid with carved Spondylus. Eight of these cups are concentrated in the southcentral sector—rooms A2 and R6. The ninth was found in the southern corner of room R1, under the removed stone slabs. Regarding dismantled inlaids of these cups, they are mainly found on the floors of the rooms of the south-central portion, and also in the passages that connect these parts to the outside of the complex (Figure 9.12). One disc was in room R1, close to the cup, which suggests that the ritual destruction process has affected the entire building, starting with the artifacts, and that they themselves were disassembled and their parts scattered from inside to outside of the complex, or vice versa. It is in a second stage that walls or pavements were then demolished. Some offerings found in or above the rubble layer are either a final step of the process, or 256

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Figure 9.11. (a–c) Mural paintings in B15, (d) abandoned brush, (e) gourd containing pigments— probably the dried paint. (Peter Eeckhout)

related to subsequent events. Furthermore, malacological analysis (Alarcón et al. n.d.) suggests that B15 was used as a shellfish workshop, particularly Spondylus. Not only did we find all evidence of working stages from the raw shell to polished ornaments, but we also have clues about the larger context and design of the workshop. For example, some stone artifacts, either movable or embedded in the floors, correspond to the descriptions of a workshop at Tumbes (Moore and Vilchez 2016; Velasquéz et al. 2006), while the specific arrangement of the architecture in Rooms A1/A2/R6 is very comparable to the Spondylus workshop described by Shimada (1994: 215) at Pampa Grande. This would explain why one found malacological remains throughout the complex but mainly concentrated in the central and western portion (Rooms R7, P1,

Figure 9.12. Distribution of dismantled shell inlays, feather artifacts, ishpingos, inlaid cups, and malacological evidence within B15. (Peter Eeckhout)

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P4), where the inferred workshop is located. Note that this is also where we found the engraved wooden box containing Spondylus powder. Conversely, most feather artifacts were found in the rooms and areas in the eastern part of the complex, and especially in rooms R1 and R2 and their immediate surroundings. This suggests that other activities were carried out in this sector. R2 also contains the grave E272. Although partially looted, it contained very rich and abundant material, undoubtedly signaling an important status. The individual was a young woman aged 18 to 22 years, probably accompanied by a young teenager. The funerary context was totally ransacked during the looting, but anthropophysical analysis however, provides very interesting information (Owens and Gilson 2014). It appears that the bones were chewed by dogs and then by rodents. The specific characteristics of the bites suggest that the body was then still relatively fresh—buried for less than a year. The looting took place shortly after the funeral.5 I have argued elsewhere that the seeds of Nectandra sp., commonly called ishpingos, were related to the deceased, either as part of the grave goods or as commemorative gifts (Eeckhout 2006). They also have painkiller, psychotropic, and lethal properties, depending on the amount ingested (Montoya 2015). It is interesting to note that ishpingos have been found all over B15, but with marked concentrations in Room R2, directly associated with Burial E272, and Rooms V1, R6, and R7. One offering in particular illustrates my point. This is the offering found in C19-13, which includes ishpingos, fragments of Spondylus, and a metal miniature. This is exactly the kind of assemblage that we found near a large funerary structure at Pampa de Flores, Lurín Valley (Eeckhout 1999: 337–338), or marking the voluntary closure of Pyramid with Ramp 3 at Pachacamac (Eeckhout 1999: 327–328). Concerning the stones/ conopas, it is impossible to know if they were already in the building before the abandonment ceremony. What is certain is that such a ceremony, with the architectural destruction it entails, would have gathered a large number of participants. One can imagine that in this general framework, the sacred stones may have been brought at that time to strengthen the ritual aspect of the whole. On the other hand, we can also consider that, given their specific properties, these stones may have been kept in a special area of the building and were later dispersed. It is possible that they are related to the function of the personage buried in Room R2.6 On the basis of this data and field observations, a sequence of events can be demonstrated, which are interpreted as follows: Interpreting the Use and Abandonment of a Ritual Building at Pachacamac, Peru

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1. Under the Incas, B15 was operating normally, with regular replacement paintings, and maybe the young woman E272 as officiant in rituals. Numerous evidence of a Spondylus workshop within B15 is associated with this period. 2. The Spaniards arrived and natives soon realized the danger they represented, not only for the precious metals they searched for in the graves but also for the idols and all that relates to indigenous cults (cf. Estete 1924[1533] describing events at Pachacamac in January 1533). They decided to leave B15 and organized a large abandonment ceremony during which objects were deliberately destroyed and scattered in the building. Then they knocked down some of the walls to hide and protect the whole. 3. At the end of this process the woman E272 is buried in B15. 4. Looters arrived shortly afterward in search of tombs and sacked the context and surroundings, which then fell into oblivion. The ritual character of the highly organized ceremony of abandonment is evident, particularly in the distribution and location of artifacts and fragments.7

Discussion: The Meaning Within Pompeii’s syndrome, which is to assume that the way a site appears at the time of its discovery corresponds to the way the last inhabitants have used it, has been defended by some researchers and fiercely denounced by others (Webb and Hirth 2003: 29). The multiple taphonomical problems as well as those related to the vicissitudes of human behavior in the specific context of abandonment oblige us to think about the formation process of the archaeological record. In this regard, the notion of de facto refuse developed by Schiffer (1987: 89) has had a great impact on the discipline. In simple terms, de facto refuse are “tools, facilities, structures and other cultural materials that although still usable (or reusable) are left behind when an activity area is abandoned.” Schiffer admits that de facto refuse variability is marked both between and within settlements. In the present case, the difference between the de facto refuse reflecting routine activities carried out in B15 and the complex ritual abandonment process requires careful consideration. I will first attempt to define the original function of the building. Based on the archaeological record, several assumptions can be made: a building linked to a water cult, a Spondylus workshop, a monument dedicated to the ancestors, a curandero facility. 260

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B15 undeniably appears as a building dedicated to worship, as are all the buildings adorned with paintings at Pachacamac (Bonavia 1985: 135–147; Eeckhout 2003; Franco and Paredes Botoni 2016; Paredes Botoni 1985). The purpose of the cult is difficult to define but could be related to water, as evidenced by the numerous Spondylus shells, the pit, and its duct fitted in Room R1, and iconographical details (Luján and Eeckhout n.d.a, n.d.b). The presence of cut flakes at all stages of manufacturing Spondylus artifacts, as well as tools and a suitable architectural configuration, makes quite plausible the idea that part of B15 was a workshop. The fact that a craft activity takes place in a context of religious architecture is not surprising. The symbolism of Spondylus is closely related to water, but also to the elite and rituals. At Pampa Grande, Shimada (1994) also notes the association between the workshop and areas of worship in Late Moche times. Spondylus powder is also mentioned in the myths of the north coast, where it is said that a special courtier named Fonga Sidge was responsible for scattering this powder on the way to the divine king, Naymlap (Cordy-Collins 1990). B15 is directly associated with an early necropolis. The cultic activities performed in the central area during 500 years or more took place at the very center of a cemetery. On the basis of available C14 dates, this cult even preceded the first burial chambers. Considering their spatial closeness, a relationship between the central ceremonial area and the tombs is highly probable, although difficult to pinpoint. The construction of special architecture in the center and the progressive formalization of the whole precinct underscores the growing importance of the cult. Strikingly, at some point, the wooden pole was replaced by a huanca stone (i.e., an ancestor turned into a rock) imbued with sacredness and possessing supernatural powers that are often related to fertility and the like (Figure 9.4). Such idols were very common in the Andes, and they were venerated by their descendants and by local populations (Duviols 1979). The huanca in B15 could have represented or been a replacement for the surrounding powerful ancestors, maybe it was even considered to symbolically be one of them. Offerings were given to the stone ancestors, and feasts were held within the precinct of B15’s. As the huanca cult proceeded until Inca times, it could logically be related to the water/life giving/fertility role attributed to the sanctuary in the Late Horizon. On the other hand, the possibility of a structure intended to cure the sick is not to be excluded, as suggested by the presence of all the magnetite stones. It has been argued that the site of Pachacamac was a kind of Prehispanic Lourdes, Interpreting the Use and Abandonment of a Ritual Building at Pachacamac, Peru

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a place of pilgrimage very popular under the Incas, especially because the deity was supposed to cure disease (Eeckhout 2010; Owens and Eeckhout 2015). It is therefore not impossible that B15 has hosted one or more healers. However, our only available argument in favor of this hypothesis is the presence of magnetite stones, which could actually be explained otherwise. Those who participated in the ritual of abandonment had to be numerous, and one can imagine that they also participated in the ceremony by symbolically each leaving a stone or apacheta in B15. Apachetas are “accumulations of small stones piled by [Andean] travelers at high mountain passes, places of precarious crossing, or otherwise significant parts of a journey, such as crossroads” (Dean 2006: 93). It is a similar idea to one developed by Cathy Costin (1999) about crisoles (coarse handmade miniature vessels) that are found by hundreds in elite tombs of the North Coast. The important thing is not that the offering would be beautiful or valuable, but above all that it is made. The act is more important than the object itself (see also Allen 1997, 2016). At this stage of the research then, manuports seem more related to the abandonment ritual than to the original use of the complex. Moreover, relations with the North Coast region—still famous today for its curanderos (traditional healers)—should also be clarified by future research, for instance, isotope studies of woman E272. The quantity and quality of northernstyle artifacts recovered within B15 is well over normal rates at the site. The presence of a Spondylus workshop is remarkable since shellcraft is not a local tradition,8 but rather a North Coast one (Moore and Vilchez 2016; Pillsbury 1996). So I would venture to suggest that those in charge of Spondylus work within B15 could be foreigners (i.e., a mitmaq9 of Chimu artisans) that moved to Pachacamac in Inca times in order to produce prestige items under imperial rule. Such a practice was quite common in the Late Horizon, as numerous sources testify (D’Altroy 2005). Finally, all those extremely diverse and exotic offerings fit quite well in the context of the Pan-Andean pilgrimage at Pachacamac under the Incas (Eeckhout 2008, 2013). If we therefore hold to the idea of an ancestor cult and water temple including a workshop of objects intended for worship, how do we explain the abandonment process? What is striking in the abandonment process is both the quality of the objects and the fact that they were deliberately destroyed and hidden under the rubble. In the words of Gamboa Velásquez (2015: 89): 262

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Termination events are identifiable in the archaeological record through the recovery of special materials placed intentionally on the floor of a structure or through cultural deposits overlaying structures that have been partially or completely dismantled. Such indications of termination events include the presence of scattered and purposefully smashed artifacts, the systematic defacement of architectural façades and sculptures, and the partial or complete burning of a building. . . . Such a definition fits almost in every detail with the evidence from B15. This pattern is very similar to that described by Farrington (2014) in Tambokancha, a site of the Cuzco region, contemporary of B15. There again vessels were thrown to the ground, their fragments scattered, and precious offerings scattered throughout the structure, which was then deliberately demolished. At Cerro Baul, again, a great feast and libations of chicha directly preceded the sudden abandonment of the site, which was burned. Moseley et al. (2005) report that effigy keros probably used previously by the lords of the region at their banquets are broken: they no longer serve, they became useless. Such logic could explain the dismantling of Spondylus inlaids from the cups at Pachacamac. These examples are comparable to termination rituals of the Maya region that will also mark the final closure of buildings by offerings of ceramics and other objects deliberately broken (Mock 1998). One could multiply the examples. As all evidence suggests a termination ritual, it raises the inevitable question of the motivation of this ceremony. I believe the answer to this thorny issue is to be found in the historical context of the event itself. When Hernando Pizarro arrived in the region at the end of January 1533, his hopes were commensurate with the journey he had just undertaken. Sent from Cajamarca by his brother the conquistador Francisco Pizarro, some three weeks earlier, he crossed Peru’s central coast in search of the gold and wealth of the great ceremonial center (Pizarro 1872[1533]). The first thing he did when arriving at the site was to enter the sacred shrine of the God Pachacamac—normally only accessible to a selected number of local priests—where he then took the idol that was there and destroyed it in front of the mass of pilgrims gathered in the huge plaza at the foot of the Temple (Estete 1924[1533]: 37–39). This event was perceived as a complete trauma by the native people. Pachacamac was one of the most respected and feared deities of the empire, the god of earth and death, among other things; his idol could not be removed from his shrine since it would make him angry and provoke earthquakes. Interpreting the Use and Abandonment of a Ritual Building at Pachacamac, Peru

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(Eeckhout 2004; Rostworowski 1992). But nothing of the kind happened when Pizarro broke the idol, and this absence of divine reaction was perceived as a paradigmatic shift: the deity had lost his power and the Spaniards were the new leaders (Estete 1924[1533]: 40). They stayed about a month in the settlement, looting temples, houses, and even graves (Estete 1924[1533]: 40). Even if the Incas quickly realized their conquerors were not the “Viracochas” they first thought, this first contact was decisive and probably triggered a chain reaction that eventually led to the closure of B15. Shortly after the conquest was completed, local cults were banned and priests were jailed and burned as heretics (Duviols 1971). Possibly with the intention of protecting the temple against profanation by looters and Christian priests (as suggested by Farrington for Tambokancha) or because the situation was so severe that traditional practices had become impossible, the building had to be closed. This closure, however, called for a very special operation, a process deeply rooted in local and Andean customs at large: a termination ritual.

Final Remarks It seems we touch on very deep concepts that may have to do with the unique ontology of these populations, something I have discussed in the introduction of the present volume, arguing that this particular ontology does not differentiate between spirit and matter as does Western rational thought, because objects, living or not, may be filled with camac, may be huacas, and intervene at different levels just as efficiently as human beings do, or even more so. Objects become animated through the process of their fabrication and de-animated when destroyed or dismantled. This is of course especially valid—but not only—for those artifacts displaying special iconography and/or made of special materials, which is the case of the majority of finds from B15. The building itself was first and foremost dedicated to ritual activity. The great care in its construction, including offerings in the construction fills and precious nectandra seeds—related to curing and the dead—within the wall’s mortar, along with the polychrome murals, all underscore its sacred importance. In this sense, it was “an enlivened thirdspace, a place, both real and imagined” (Swenson 2012: 17), a place where one could communicate with the powerful dead, beg for water and fertility, and even hope to be cured of severe diseases. Thus, the abandonment ceremony of B15 can be understood not only as dis264

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carding objects and destroying a building that cannot be used anymore, but as a real killing, followed by the burial of a series of active entities at a supernatural and sacred level. The irreversible nature of the operation and the specific context in which it took place—the chaotic time of conquest—makes all particularly poignant and explains the somewhat dramatic title chosen for this essay: farewell to the gods.

Notes 1. Other possible examples of Early Colonial abandonment practices include Huánuco Pampa (Bar Esquivel 2016; Barnes et al. 2012) and Túcume (Narvaez 1995: 110–111; Toyne 2015: 179). 2. About those seeds and their relationship with curing and the dead, see Eeckhout 2006; Montoya 2015. 3. This was during the 2014 campaign. More offerings were discovered during the following 2016 campaign but are under study at the moment of writing these lines. 4. Fifteen other paintbrushes and several gourds with pigments, as well as other implements for painting, have been found during the 2016 campaign (Colonna-Preti et al. n.d.) 5. There are other indications that looting has affected all of B15, including much earlier graves that lie underneath. 6. E272 was a young woman whose gravelot strongly suggests Northern Coast origins. Curanderos (traditional healers) from this region of Peru had—and still have—the reputation of being especially efficient and powerful, among them women, who are even represented in pre-Columbian iconography (Alcalde 2004; Glass-Coffin et al. 2004; Sharon and Donnan 1974). As a working hypothesis, E272 could be one of those Northern high-rank healers, moved to Pachacamac under Inca rule to use her talents for the sick pilgrims who gathered there (Eeckhout 2010; Owens and Eeckhout 2015). 7. For instance: • Offering CX20 (miscelanea) was deposited on the floor of the pit and then covered by stone slabs ripped from the siding, themselves surmounted by two offerings H24 (Spondylus and a broken vase) and H16 (Spondylus and Concholepas shells). • The torn shell inlaids were found mainly in the passages, thus “outgoing” from the main parts to the outside of the building. • The wooden box containing the Spondylus powder was in a niche sealed by stones without mortar, suggesting voluntary and hasty hiding. 8. At least to this degree of skill: known examples of Spondylus carving at Pachacamac don’t display such a high quality (comp. Eeckhout 2005: 115, Figure 9.5; Gorriti Manchego 2016). 9. “People who were moved from their home territory to another place to perform their particular expertise” (Urton 2015: 131).

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Contributors

Luis Jaime Castillo Butters is professor of archaeology at the Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú. He is the coeditor, with J. Quilter, of New Perspectives in Moche Political Organization. Peter Eeckhout is professor of art and archaeology at the Université libre de Bruxelles and coeditor, with L. S. Owens, of Funerary Practices and Models in the Ancient Andes: The Return of the Living Dead. Christine A. Hastorf is professor of archaeology at the University of California, Berkeley, and coeditor, with D. Y. Arnold, of Heads of State: Icons, Power, and Politics in the Ancient and Modern Andes. Abigail Levine is lecturer in anthropology at the University of California, Los Angeles, and the author of “The Use and Re-Use of Ceremonial Space at Taraco, Peru: 2012 Excavations in the San Taraco Sector” in Ñawpa Pacha: Journal of Andean Archaeology. George Lau is senior lecturer at the Sainsbury Research Unit at the University of East Anglia and the author of Ancient Alterity in the Andes. Frank Meddens is a specialist in the archaeology of Andean Peru. He is the coeditor, with K. Willis, C. McEwan, and N. Branch, of Inca Sacred Space: Landscape, Site, and Symbol in the Andes. Charles Stanish is professor of anthropology at the University of South Florida. He is the author of The Evolution of Human Cooperation: Ritual and Social Complexity in Stateless Societies.

Edward Swenson is assistant professor of anthropology at the University of Toronto and the coeditor, with A. P. Roddick, of Construction of Time and History in the Pre-Columbian Andes. Gary Urton is Dumbarton Oaks Professor of Pre-Columbian Studies at Harvard University and author of Inka History in Knots: Reading Khipus as Primary Sources. Francisco Valdez is research fellow at the Institut de Recherche pour le Développement in Paris. He is the author of Las Primeras Sociedades de la Alta Amazonia: La Cultura Mayo Chinchipe–Marañón.

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Index Page numbers followed by f and t indicate figures and tables. Acosta, Joseph, 56 Albornoz, Cristobal de, 49 Allen, Catherine, 4 Amá II site, 160 Amazon, Upper, 119, 130 Analogical cultures, 183 Analogism, 3, 205 Ancash metal production, 150, 152, 159, 161t, 163 Andean religion: overview of, 68; buildings, 70; duration of, 68, 87–88; Lake Titicaca ceremonial complex, 72; landscapes, 69–70; materials of, 69–70; objects, agency of, 73; Sami, 68–69, 73, 75, 84, 86; secretive aspects of, 79; and settlement, 72–73. See also Camac; Camay; Front-faced deities Andean settlement, 72 Andean worldviews, 41–42 Andes, northern societies, 168 Animism: overview of, 3; versus analogism, 183; and camay, 73; Claude Lévi-Strauss on, 13n1; contemporary, 117; contemporary views of, 4; fire altars, 137; man-nature distinctions, 114–15; and masks, 185, 189; New, 3, 180; and object interpretations, 4, 116; part-whole links, 189; and perspectivism, 3–4; the return to, 3; ritualism in, 205; and shamanism, 114–15, 136, 140 Ánimo, 4 Anthropology, 3, 115, 205 Antonio de Calancha, 56 Archaeoacoustics, 57–60 Archaic period, 30–31, 85, 240 Architecture: Huaca Colorada changes, 202–4; Late Moche, 216; Mayo Chinchipe-Marañón, 112; meanings of, 70; scale representa-

tions of, 224; Tiwanaku, 80–81, 82f. See also Santa Ana La Florida site; Sunken courts Arkush, Elizabeth, 34, 241 Avian imagery, 154–55, 166 Ayala, Patricia, 34 Aztec sculpture-making, 5 Bandy, Matthew, 28 Barraza Lescano, Sergio, 200 Barth, Fredrik, 184, 205 Belief system creation, 67 Bell stones, 60 Benjamin, Walter, 71 Bennett, Wendell, 78 Betanzos, Juan de, 45, 54 Binary coding, 102–4 Bolivia, 27–29, 60 Bray, Tamara, 5, 115–16 Butler, Judith, 184 Cacao, 131–32 Cachichupa site, 22f, 26–27, 33 Camac: overviews of, 4, 182–83; and creativity, 4–5; examples of, 182; and masked ceremonies, 187, 201, 204; objects containing, 4–5, 264. See also Front-faced deities Camasca: overview of, 182–83; face-neck jars as, 199; and masks, 188–90, 202, 204 Camay: overview of, 8, 68, 86, 182–83; analogical logic of, 183; of front-faced deities, 84; and generative capacities, 73; masks and vessels transmitting, 201; mentioned, 69; as religious ideology, 184; rituals activating, 183; semiotic functions of, 71; and settlement, 87; and wakas, 183

Capacocha figurines, 4–5 Capitalism and meaning, 182 Carcedo de Mufarech, 189 Cartesian logic, 1–3 Castro de la Mata, 162 Cavero Palomino, Yuri, 49 Central Andes map, 20f Ceramics: and camac, 5; fineline, 218–20, 224; Formative period, 78–79; front-faced deities on, 78–79, 80f, 82–84; Inca-Pachacamac style, 251; Mayo Chinchipe-Marañón, 130, 131f; Moche culture, 181, 224; Moche masks, 180–82, 188, 194, 196, 204; at Pachacamac, 251; Recuay, 146, 155, 156f, 167–68; at SALF, 123, 129–32, 137–38; at San José de Moro, 218–20, 224; in sunken courts, 27, 29–30; at Usccunta, 51; Zamora Chinchipe project findings, 112, 120–21. See also Maquetas Ceremonial spaces: Chavín de Huántar, 58–59; construction of, 70; Formative period, 78; Lake Titicaca complex, 72; sunken courts, 19, 29, 31–32; Tecapa, 199. See also Chiripa site; Huaca Colorada site; Pachacamac, building B15; Pukara site; Santa Ana La Florida site; Tiwanaku site Ceremonies: and fire, 138; Formative period commemorations, 76; and front-faced deities, 78; harvest, 187; maquetas and, 220, 229, 232; maquetas destruction, 232–37; masked, 181–82, 187, 189, 201, 204; material culture use in, 184; and resources, 36; ritual curing, 57; sacrificial, 182, 190; site abandonment, 12, 240, 259–60, 262–65; stirrup spout bottle breakage, 236 Cerro Baul, 240 Chacas region, 152 Chancay settlements, 85 Chan Chan and masks, 189 Chapter overviews, 5–13 Chaumeil, Jean-Pierre, 139 Chávez, Sergio, 32, 78 Chavín culture: overview of, 95; animal iconography, 98–99; Lord of Duality engraving, 95–100, 106; material misattributions, 111; metal use, 145, 150; sign use, 106; standardization, lack of, 106 Chavín de Huántar: overview of, 95, 146; acoustics, 58–59; front-faced deities at, 74–75; maceheads found at, 152, 173n4; Recuay occupations, 146; ritual imagery at, 76; sunken courts, 27

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Index

Chili peppers, 74 Chimu culture, 145, 252–53, 262 Chinchawas, 82, 151, 152f, 160, 161t Chiripa site: overview of, 76; front-faced deities, 78, 85; iconography at, 78; maps of, 77f; versus Pukara, 79; sunken courts, 27–28, 33 Cipolla, Lisa, 34 Clark, Madison, 104 Coca leaves, 132–33 Cognitive traps, 180, 186, 206n1 Cohen, Amanda, 25, 28, 33 Cook, Anita, 80–81 Cordillera Blanca, 150, 160 Cordillera Negra, 146 Cosmologies: Andean, 201; Chavín, 102; Formative period, 113; front-faced deities, 74; levels of reality, 10; and masks, 184, 186; and material culture, 184; Mayo Chinchipe– Marañón, 132; Moche, 204; Recuay, 145–46, 164, 166, 171, 173. See also Animism; Shamanism Costin, Cathy, 262 Creamer, Winifred, 33 Creativity and camac, 4–5 Curatola Petrocchi, Marco, 42 Dean, Carolyn, 60 De facto refuse, 260 Descola, Philippe, 3, 149, 182–83, 185, 205–6 Donnan, Chris, 188 Donnan, Christopher, 238n2 Dualisms, 167, 172, 183. See also Lord of Duality engraving Early Horizon period: Chavín Temple, 57–59; Karwa cotton textile, 79–80, 81f; metal production, 150 Early Intermediate period: maceheads and burials, 152; metal production, 150; Pukara art style, 79; Recuay metalworking, 168; Recuay pottery, 155 Ecuador, 112. See also Zamora Chinchipe project Eeckhout, Peter, 85 Elera, Carlos, 187 Eliade, Mircea, 115 Ephemeral artifacts, 235–37 Ethnographic research: ferromagnetic stones, 254; green ornaments, 139; in Mangas, 105–6; masks, 180, 186; ontologies, 2, 170; and otherness, 4; perspectivism, 3–4, 115; and shamanism, 118, 136

Face-neck jars. See Moche face-neck jars Faces, in North Coast civilizations, 199 Farrington, Ian, 263 Fausto, Carlos, 114, 186 Fire, ceremonial, 138 Formative period: ceramics, 78–79; ceremonial commemorations, 76; cosmologies of, 113; cultural development and shamanism, 134; drinking vessels, 78, 79f; Early, 20, 29, 80; front-faced deities, 74, 78–79; gathering locations, 72; Late, 28, 78–79; Mayo Chinchipe-Marañón culture, 111; Middle, 22, 28–30, 32, 34, 76, 78, 79f; political expansions, 80; Pukara art style, 79; religions, 68, 81, 85; sunken courts, 20–22, 28–32, 34; tropical forest groups, 111; Upper, 29–31, 34; Yaya-Mama concepts, 84. See also Chiripa Front-faced deities: overviews of, 68, 73, 88n1; camay and sami of, 84–86; at Chavín de Huántar, 74–75; at Chincawas, 82; coastal icons, 85, 86; earliest examples, 74; faith in, loss of, 86–88; fecund power of, 73, 80–82, 85; Formative period, 74, 78–79; Horizon period, 80–84, 86–87; indexical meanings of, 74, 76, 81–83, 85, 88; Intermediate period, 82, 87; Lord of Duality, Chavín, 95–100, 106; meanings of, 86, 88; and political orders, 87; Raimondi Stela, 74–75, 81, 85; silver vessel, 84–85, 86f; styles of, 80–81, 82; terrestrial, 85; Titicaca Basin, 74, 82, 87; at Tiwanaku, 80–81, 82f; and western Amazon cultures, 74; worldviews, revealing, 72; and Yaya-Mama concepts, 78, 82, 84; Z female aspect: Ayacucho Valley, 82; Casma Valley, 83–84; on ceramics, 78–79, 80f, 82–84; at Chiripa, 78, 85; early examples of, 87; Karwa textile, 79–80, 81f; male pairings, 82, 84; and ontological changes, 73–74; persistence of, 85; and plant domestication, 73; at Pukara, 78–79, 80f, 85; representing fecundity, 73, 82–84; stone carvings, 74–75; ubiquity of, 86–87 Frouin, Millena, 58 Garcilasco de la Vega, 44 Gell, Alfred, 180, 186, 206n1 Girard, Carrión Cachot de, 82–84 Gold mining, 150 Gotushjirka site metalwork, 152–53 Green, the color, 127, 129, 139 Griaule, Marcel, 186 Guaman Poma de Ayala, 43–44, 46–47, 52

Haas, Jonathan, 33 Hastorf, Christine, 27–28, 33 Hodder, Ian, 182 Holguín, González, 49 Huaca Colorada site: overview of, 190–91; altars, 191, 194, 195f, 203–4; architectural transformations, 202–4; ceremonial areas, 194, 196; and Cerro Cañoncillo mountain, 202, 204; as mask, 202–4; middens, 194, 196; sacrifice at, 191, 193f, 202–5; stepped platforms, 191, 195f; topographic map of, 192f; uses of, 191, 202. See also Moche masks Huaca de la Luna, 240 Huaca Huayurco, 111 Huaca impersonators, 190 Huacas. See Wakas Huaco Rey culture, 187–89 Huacsas, 189–90 Huanca stone uprights, 21, 22f, 23f, 170 Huarás pottery, 168 Huarochirí manuscript, 189–90, 201 Hugh-Jones, Stephen, 134–35 Hyland, Sabine, 103–5 Ica Valley, 79 Icons: coastal, 73, 82, 85; in cosmologies, 201; funerary masks, 189; at Pukara, 32; religious, 67, 73–74; semiotic, 8, 71, 73. See also Frontfaced deities Illa, 43, 189 Imagery: Avian, 154–55, 166; Moche face-neck jars, 197–99; Pashash region, 163; Recuay culture, 148–49, 162–66, 173; Recuay garment pins, 154–55, 158f, 159, 163, 165–66; ritual, 76; SALF site, 113, 136, 138–39; textile, 166; were-jaguar, 130 Incan culture and society: acoustics, use of, 53, 57–61; Atahuallapa, 43, 45, 54; AtahualpaHuascar civil war, 44; Chima, 45; dualism in, 167; gold and silver exploitation, 150; Huánuco Pampa administrative center, 58– 59; khipus, 100–6, 107nn2–3; kin groups, 44; mask use, 187; metal use, 145; moieties, 105; mummies, 46; oracles, 53–54; Pachacuti, 44; political organization, 106–7; ritual specialists, 190; sacred spaces, communal, 57; Sapa Inca, 43–44, 60; social structures, 53; symbol use, 106; Taqui Oncoy movement, 56; Viracocha Pacha Yachachic, 54–55; Yupanqui, 44–45, 52, 54–55

Index

275

Incan wakas: overview of, 42, 46–47; ancestors, representing, 59; anger of, 59; and Ayar Auqui myth, 42–43; fallibility of, 59; mummies, 46; Spaniards destroying, 53–54; speech of, 54–57, 60–61; and Taqui Oncoy movement, 56; Yupanqui’s address to, 52–53; Z huauque: overview of, 43; addresses to, 52–53; brother aspects, 43–45; female, 45; Guaquin, 43; instructions, conveying, 45; and lineage, 44; and masks, 189; at oracle consultations, 53; origins of, 44–45; representing living persons, 43–45, 60; representing places, 45–47; translations of, 44; types of, 43; ZZ places: acoustics, 57–59; Apurimac River, 47–49; Canrarac, 49–50; Catequil, 54; examples of, 42; oracles at, 47, 53, 59; resource use, 47; Usccunta, 49–53, 58; Warmitalle, 49–50 Indexes, semiotic: definition of, 71; front-faced deities as, 74, 76, 81–83, 85, 88; S and Z directions, 97 IRD/INPC project. See Zamora Chinchipe project Janusek, John, 23 Jennings, Justin, 87 Jequetepeque Valley, 191, 199, 201, 216, 224, 228 Joya de Ceren, 241 Juengst, Sara, 23 Kamay. See Camay Khipus, 100–5, 107nn2–3 Kidder, Alfred, 79 Kolar, Miriam, 58 Kotosh Religious Tradition, 138 Kotosh site, 76 La Galgada, 76 Lambayeque art, 189 Lambeyeque religion, 187–88 Láminas, 159–60 Landscapes and identity, 69–70 Langdon, Ester, 117–18, 140 Late Horizon period: and the huanca cult, 261; migrant works during, 262; sunken courts, 25; Usccunta site, 49–53, 58 Late Intermediate period: coastal icons, 85; front-faced deities, 82, 87; ontologies changing, 73–74, 87; pilgrimage sites, 49; religions, 68; Usccunta, 49–53, 58 Lathrap, Donald, 95, 113, 119

276

Index

Lau, George, 82 Lechtman, Heather, 160, 172 León, Cieza de, 46, 55 Lévi-Strauss, Claude, 184, 205 Leyva, Carlos, 24 Lord of Duality engraving, 95–100, 106 Lyon, Patricia, 81 Mackey, Carol, 85 Magnetite stones, 254, 261–62 Malquis versus masks, 188–89 Mannheim, Bruce, 94 Maquetas: overview of, 215, 228; bases, 224, 226–27, 232; chronology of, 224, 226–27; construction of, 229; destruction of, ceremonial, 232–37; ephemerality of, 235–37; excavations of, 217; exclusivity of, 218–20; and fineline ceramics, 218–19; fragility of, 215–18, 224, 232, 235; as funerary, exclusively, 218; meanings of, 216–17, 220, 228–29, 237; and metal miniatures, 226; Mohica A phase, 224, 226, 232; Mohica B and C phase, 226, 232; M-U 1525 set, 216, 226f; painting of, 215, 232; photographs of, 216f, 225f, 226f, 227f, 231f, 233f; prior research on, 216–18; in private collections, 238n2; production of, 218; and San José de Moro site, 215, 218; scarcity of, 220–222, 224; sites represented by, 228–29; structures represented by, 215, 228, 229–30; in tomb niches, 232–34, 236; Transitional period, 227; walls, 230 Maquetas, Egyptian, 236–37 Marañon, Upper, 153 Marcajirca site metalwork, 160 Markedness, 103–4 Masks: and agency, 180; ambivalence of, 204; animated object comparisons, 189; and camasca, 188–90, 202, 204; and camay, 188; changing perspectives, 185; and Christianity, 186, 206n4; as cognitive traps, 180, 186, 206n1; and cosmology, 186; and creativity, 184, 206n1; and Descola’s ontological orders, 205; and divinity, 188, 206n5; and festivals, 188; funerary, 187–88, 218, 220f; Huaco Rey deities, 187, 189; huacsas use of, 189–90; ideological views of, 186; importance variation, cross-cultural, 185–86; Incan, 187; interpretation methods, 186–87; and meaning, 184, 186; and Ňamsapa, 188; norms, unsettling, 185; and the ontological turn, 180, 184; partibility of, 188; power of,

184–85, 201n2; ritual, 180, 189–90, 200; and semiotic mode preferences, 185–86, 206n3; shaman use of, 185; as synecdochal, 188; and taboo violations, 185; thinking with, 180; and wakas, 187, 188–90; wrinkle-faced, 194, 196, 199–201. See also Moche masks Material agency, 184 Material culture: and animism, 116; and cosmologies, 184; discovery contexts, 118–19; interpretation and ontologies, 4; interpretation difficulties, 92–93, 118–19; Mayo Chinchipe-Marañón, 111–12, 141; and the ontological turn, 116; and perspectivism, 118; reasons behind, 1–2; and religion, 69; roles of, 184; Wari, 168. See also Recuay material culture; Semiotics of material culture Materialism, new, 180 Matis people, 185 Mayan site abandonment, 263 Mayo Chinchipe-Marañón culture: overview of, 111; architecture of, 112; area coverage, 113; ceramics, 130, 131f; Formative period, 111; funerary paraphernalia, 129; iconography of, 112; identification of, 111; at Jaén site, 113; material culture of, 111–12, 141; at SALF site, 113, 129, 141; stone use, 132; subsistence, 112; trade, 112; Valdivia cultural sequence phase, 130; were-jaguar imagery, 130 Mayo Chinchipe-Marañón drainage basin, 111, 119, 120, 141 McClelland, Donald, 217, 238n3 Meaning, 1–2, 67, 70–71, 182, 184 Metal production and use: Amá II site, 160; Ancash, 150, 152, 159, 161t, 163; Central Andean, 145, 149–50, 166–67; Chavín culture, 145, 150; miniatures, 226; offerings, 253–54; Pashash region, 159–60, 162; Piura region, 153. See also Recuay metalwork Metal use and production: Sicán, 84–85, 86f; and sunken courts, 34 Metalworking techniques, 160, 162 Middle Horizon period: feasting economies, 199; front-faced deities, 80–84, 86–87; metalwork, 161, 168–69; political expansions, 80, 87; religions, 68, 74; sunken courts, 25; Usccunta site ceramics, 51; Wari art style, 82, 83 Mochar worship, 201 Moche culture: and analogism, 205, 206n8; ceramic corn beer decanters, 181; cosmology of, 204; dualism in, 167; face-neck jars,

199; fineline ceramics, 224; fluids in, 182, 204; Late, 23, 199, 224, 229, 236, 240, 261; lords impersonating gods, 190; metal use, 145, 151, 188; metalworking techniques, 162; Middle, 224; polychrome ceramics, 224; portraiture in, 199; and Recuay cultural groups, 146; stirrup spout bottles, 236; temples, 229, 240; territories, 219f; tombs, 233, 240; workshops and worship, 261. See also Huaca Colorada site; Maquetas; San José de Moro Moche face-neck jars: camay transmission, 201, 204; imagery on, 197–99; manufacture of, 202; masks, connections to, 196, 199, 201, 204; versus miniatures, 201; ontology of, 199, 204–6; photographs of, 198f; and portraiture, 199; styles of, 196–98, 201–2; uses of, 196; whistling, 200–1 Moche masks: and altar rededications, 181–82; and camay, 182, 201–2, 204; ceramic, 180–82, 188, 194, 196, 204; coffin, 188; death, 188, 204; and face-neck jars, 181, 196, 199, 201, 204; fragments found, 180–81, 194, 196; iconography of, 181; interpretive methods, 180–81; for living persons, 188; materials used, 188; and meaning production, 180; ontology of, 181, 204–6; and political bodies, 181; in rituals, 181–82, 199, 205; types of, 188; and wakas, 180–81, 201; wrinkle-faced figure, 194, 196, 201 Moieties and knot construction, 105 Molina, Cristóbal de, 55 Montegrande site, 141 Multiculturalism, criticisms of, 115 Muro, Luis, 230 Ňamsapa, 189 Nasca society, 166, 187 Nasca Valley, 79 Naturalism, 3 Nectandra seeds, 245, 259 Nelson, Andrew, 222 Nelson, Chris, 222 Nepeña Valley, 152 New materialism, 182 Newsome, Elizabeth, 5 Ondegardo, Polo de, 190 Ontological fourfold concept, 3, 205–6 Ontological others, 205 Ontological turn, 116, 169–70, 180, 184

Index

277

Ontologies: overview of, 2; Amazonian, 115; Andean, 41–42, 170; changes in, 73–74; in ethnographic research, 2, 170; fourfold model of, 3; Late Intermediate changes, 73–74, 87; and material culture interpretation, 4; Moche, 181, 199, 204–6; native, 169–70; of objects, 264; research on, 2; and rituals, 205; in social theory, 3 Pachacamac, 241, 261–64 Pachacamac, building B15: overview of, 241, 244; burials and tombs, 244–45, 259–61, 265n6; cemetery, 245, 248, 261; ceremonial activities, 245, 248; chronology, 248, 260; construction stages, 244–45, 248; dates from, 246t; domestic occupation, 245, 248; functions of, 260; grave E272, 244, 259–60; lootings, 248, 259, 260, 265n5; maps of, 242f, 243f; migrant workers, 262; murals, 248, 256, 257f; nectandra seeds, 245, 259, 264; occupation stages, 244–45, 248; photographs of, 243f; place of healing evidence, 261–62; ritual activity at, 260–62, 264; ritual destruction of, 256; as shellfish workshop, 258, 260–62, 265n8; Spanish looting of, 263–64; Z abandonment of: architectural destruction, 250, 259–60, 265n7; ceremony, 12, 259–60, 262–65; and de facto refuse, 260; as killing, real, 264–65; offering assemblages, 259; offering destruction, 251, 256, 258, 260, 263, 265n7; reasons for, 260, 263–64; rubble fill, 248, 262; stone piles, 262; ZZ findings: box, engraved wood, 254, 255f, 259, 265n7; ceramics, 251; distribution of, 258f; feathers, 252–53, 259; glass beads, 250, 254; huanca stone, 245, 247f, 261; magnetite stones, 261–62; metal, 253–54; miniatures, 253, 254f, 259; organic matter, 256; painting implements, 256, 257f, 265n4; photographs of, 247f, 249f; quality of, 245, 262; quantity of, 250; ritual destruction of, 251, 256, 258; rubble fill covering, 248; Spondylus inlaids, 252, 256, 263, 265n7; Spondylus powder, 255f, 256, 259; Spondylus shells, 245, 247f, 248, 252, 259; stones, 250, 254, 259, 261–62; summary of, 250t; textiles, 253 Pachacuti Yamqui, 44 Palomino, Ríos, 240 Pampa de Flores, Lurín Valley, 259 Pampa Grande, 261 Paracas culture, 166, 189 Pashash region, 159–60, 162–63

278

Index

Pauketat, Timothy, 3 Peirce, Charles Sanders, 70–71 Pernet, Henry, 184 Perspectival multinaturalism, 115–16 Perspectivism, 3–4, 118 Peru: Callejón de Huaylas, 146; Caral, 24; Casma, 24–25, 84f; Ecuadorian border disputes, 112; Jaén, 113; lower Chinchipe/ Tabaconas region, 121; metalwork, 153; north-central, 146; ritual curing ceremonies, 57; site abandonment, 240; sunken courts, 19, 24–27; Supe, 24–25 Peters, Ann, 166 Pillsbury, Joanne, 85 Piura region metalwork, 153 Pizarro, Hernando, 263–64 Pizarro, Pedro, 46–47 Plourde, Aimée, 26, 33 Pollock, Donald, 185, 206n3 Pompeii’s syndrome, 260 Ponte, Victor, 160 Pozorski, Shelia, 39 Pozorski, Thomas, 39 Preceramic period, 30–31, 85, 240 Pukara site: overview of, 79; versus Chiripa, 79; drinking bowls found at, 78–79, 80f; front-faced deities, 78–79, 80f, 85; icons at, 32; sunken courts, 22f, 29–32, 34, 36 Pututu trumpets, 58–59, 130 Qaluyu, 26 Quechua language, 94, 116 Raimondi Stela, 74–75, 81, 85 Rationality, 1–3 Recuay culture: Andean groups, influence on, 149; area occupied by, 146, 147; gift economies, 166; iconic figure imagery, 162–64; and Moche cultural groups, 146; phases of, 148, 168; practices of, 148; social organization, 148, 173n1; vertical economies, 150 Recuay material culture: ceramics, 146, 155, 156f, 168; and chiefly elites, 148–49; and cognitive frameworks, 149; fancy objects, 155, 160, 166; imagery, 148–49, 162–66; negativization, 171; ostentatious, 171; small items, 149; stone tenon heads, 165–66; surfaces, emphasis on, 149, 171; visual arts, 148–49 Recuay metalwork: and Andean traditions, 166–67; awls, 151, 152; bells, 159, 162; chemical composition, 160, 161t; circulation of,

169, 172; copper use, 159–60, 169, 171–72; and cosmology, 145–46; and cultural dispositions, 169; and death practices, 151, 166; diadem, cooper foil, 154; as distinct, 145, 167–69; dualism in, 167, 172; early, 150–51; evidence for, 150; fancy, 168; and gift economies, 166; gold use, 153, 160, 167, 169; headdress ornaments, 153–54, 160; history of, 168–69; imagery, 148, 162–64, 173; láminas, 159–60; maceheads, 152–53, 171, 173n3; masks, 154; negativization, 171; object types, 151–52, 159; and ontologies, Andean, 170–71; ornaments, 152f, 159, 167, 171; as prestige and status objects, 169, 171; record of, 151; sample size, 145, 169; silver use, 160, 169; social emphasis of, 171–73; sophistication of, 172; techniques used, 159–62, 167–68, 171; use of, 151; in warfare, 167; Z garment pins: avian imagery, 154–55, 166; ceramic depictions of, 155, 156f, 167; drawings of, 152f, 157f; Gotushjirka site, 154–55; imagery, 158f, 159, 163, 165–66; materials used in, 155; pairing of, 155, 167; photographs of, 157f; pinhead designs, 155–59; size averages, 155; as status objects, 171; and stone tenon heads, 165–66; styles of, 155–56, 173n5; techniques for making, 162; truncated-conical, 159 Reichlen, Henry, 111 Reichlen, Paule, 111 Religion, 67–71 Representation and perspectivism, 4 Ricardo, Antonio, 45 Rituals: activating camay, 183; as analogical, 205; in animism, 205; being creation, 184; Chavín de Huántar imagery, 76; contemporary wakas in, 56–57; destruction, 251, 256, 258; and economy, 36; healing, 57; imagery, 76; masks in, 180–82, 189–90, 199–200, 205; material manifestation of, 70; and material remains, 1; meaning creation, 184; and metaphor, 205; and ontological others, 205; at Pachacamac, building B15, 260–62, 264; and rationality, 1, 3; religious versus secular, 2; and resources, 36; at SALF site, 113, 127–29; strombus seashells in, 130; and sunken courts, 23–24 Ritual specialists, 189–90, 189–90 Robinson, David, 118 Roddick, Andrew, 28 Rojas, Pedro Ponce, 111 Rowe, John H., 95

Salomon, Frank, 205 Sami, 68–69, 73, 75, 84, 86 San Ildenfonso, 228–30 San Isidro site, 141 San José de Moro: artifact alteration, ritual, 236; chamber tombs, 232–34; fineline ceramics, 218–20, 224; tombs excavated, 221–22, 223f, 230, 231f, 234–35. See also Maquetas Santa Ana La Florida (SALF) site: overview of, 112, 121; cacao samples, 131–32; charcoal samples, 129–30; chronology of, 123–27; discovery of, 112, 121; domestic spaces, 123; erosion damage, 122–23; iconography, 113, 136, 138–39; maize and manioc traces, 132; material culture evidence overview, 113; Mayo Chinchipe-Marañón culture, 113, 129, 141; middens, 123; ritual evidence, 113, 127–29; shamanism evidence, 113, 136–41; site plan, 121, 122, 123; size of, 121; Strombus seashell fragments, 113, 129–30, 139–40; Z architecture: altar, 137–38; domestic units, 123; eastern (temple) platform, 121–22, 127–29, 137–38, 140; hearth, 127–28; and the ideological sphere, 113; plaza, 121, 123, 137; as shamanism evidence, 136–38, 140; spirals, 127, 128f, 137–38, 140; western platform, 121–22 Santa Ana La Florida (SALF) site findings: body ornaments, 139–40; ceramic fragments, 137; ceramic residues, 123; ceramic vessels, 129–32, 138; effigy bottles, 129–31; green stone ornaments, 127, 129, 139; ideological motifs on, 133–34; llipta (ash) boxes, 132–33; prestige materials, 136, 139; as shamanism evidence, 136, 138–41; social interaction system evidence, 130, 140–41; stone bowls, 134f, 138; stone mortar, 129, 132–33; turquoise, 127, 129; Z funerary paraphernalia: funerary chamber, 129; ideological motifs, 133–34; implications of, 113, 140; offerings, 127, 128f, 129–34, 136, 138; prestige objects, 136, 139; tombs, 129, 137 Sarmiento de Gamboa, Pedro, 44, 55 Schiffer, Michael B., 260 Schultze, Carol, 34 Seashell cult, 130 Seashells. See Spondylus princepts shells; Strombus seashells Semiotics, Peircean, 70–71, 73. See also Indexes, semiotic

Index

279

Semiotics of material culture: challenges facing, 92–93, 100; Chavín Lord of Duality engraving, 95–100; Incan khipus, 100–5; Lord of Duality engraving, 95–100, 106; political contexts, 106–7; S and Z spins, 96–97; signs, 93–94, 100–5; symbols, 93, 95–100 Shady, Ruth, 24 Shamanism: overview of, 137; Andean terms for, 116; in animist ontologies, 114–15, 136; debates over, 116–18; hallucinogen use, 114, 133, 135–36; horizontal versus vertical, 134–36; new age, 114, 117–18, 136; political, 118; and religion, 115; SALT site evidence, 136–41 Shamans: and jaguars, 95; liminality of, 135–37; mask use, 185; networks of, 140; and nonhuman beings, 136; versus priests, 135; social roles of, 114 Shimada, Izumi, 261 Sicán culture, 84–85, 86f, 187 Sillar, Bill, 201 Silver mining, 150 Site abandonment: overview of, 240; Cerro Baul, 263; and de facto refuse, 260; documented cases of, 240–41, 265n1; material evidence of, 241; Mayan termination rituals, 263; offering destruction, 262–63; Tambokancha site, 263; temple entombment, 240. See also Pachacamac, building B15 Social identity and otherness, 170 Solomon, Frank, 69 Spondylus princepts shells: in Chavín engravings, 95, 97, 100; in Formative period cosmology, 113; ideological importance of, 130; at SALF, 113, 140; in the seashell cult, 130, 131f, 261; symbolism of, 261. See also Pachacamac, building B15 Spondylus workshops, 258–61 Stobart, Henry, 57 Strombus seashells: in Chavín engravings, 95, 97, 100; in Formative period cosmology, 113; ideological importance, 130; pututu trumpets, 58–59, 130; as ritual objects, 130; at SALF, 113, 129–30, 139–40 Sunken courts: overview of, 19, 33; Arapa area, 28; architectural characteristics, 21–23; in Bolivia, 27–29, 32; burning at, 25; Cachichupa, 22, 26–27, 33; ceramics, 27, 29–30; Chavín de Huántar, 27; Chiripa, 27–28, 33; Choquehuanca structure, 27;

280

Index

circular, 19, 24–25; construction techniques, 21; crafting at, 29–31, 34; and cultural development, 36; earliest forms, 33; Early Formative period, 20, 29; food consumption at, 27; Formative period, 21–22, 31; geographic density of, 33–34; hilltop fortresses, 34, 35; Horizon period, 25; Huaca Soto, Chincha Valley, 21f; Huajje site, 34; Huancané area, 28; HuancanéPutina region, 34; huancas, 21, 22f, 23f; Huatacoa site, 25–27, 36; Huayra Moq’o site, 29–32; hydrological features, 21, 27, 30; Initial period, 25; Kala Uyuni site, 27–28; Late Formative period, 28; Late Intermediate period, 34; lithic production at, 29–30; Llusco structure, 27; Middle Formative period, 22, 28–30, 32, 34; numbers of, 34; Peru, 19, 24–27; Pukara site, 22f, 29–32, 34, 36; quadrangular, 25; ritualistic uses, 23–24; and silver production, 34; sizes of, 19; and social complexity, 24, 33, 36; social gatherings, 24; and societal values, 72; Taraco area, 22, 23f, 27–31, 34; Terminal Archaic period, 30–31; Titicaca Basin, 22, 24–29, 33–34, 76; Tiwanaku site, 19, 25, 27, 29, 32, 36; tradition end, 32; trophy heads, 34, 36; Upper Formative period, 29–31, 34; uses and roles of, 23–24, 29–31, 33–34, 36; and Yaya-Mama tradition, 24, 26, 28–29; yellow clay, 25, 27 Swenson, Edward, 217, 230 Symbolism: overview of, 2; Incan uses of, 106; of spondylus princepts shells, 261; of twists and spins, 95–100, 106 Symbols, semiotic, 71, 93, 95–100 Tambokancha, 241 Tassi, Nico, 189 Tecapa ceremonial site, 199 Tello, Julio, 153, 173n4 Temple entombment, 240 Textiles, 79–80, 81f, 155, 166 Tinku, meanings of, 99 Titicaca Basin: ceremonial complex, 72; frontfaced deities, 74, 82; map of, 26f; sunken courts, 22, 24–29, 33–34, 76 Titikalla clothing, 5 Tiwanaku site: religious architecture, 80–81, 82f; sunken courts, 19, 25, 27, 29, 32, 36 Totemism, 3

Transitional period, 227, 235 Tropical forest culture, 111, 113. See also Mayo Chinchipe-Marañón culture Twists and spins: overview of, 94; Chavín engraving, Lord of Duality, 95–100, 106; cords, 96–97, 100–5, 107nn2–3; garment pins, Recuay, 155, 173n5; Inca khipus, 100–6, 107nn2–3; Quechua terms for, 94, 96, 98; S and Z directions, 96–97, 100, 102–4; as signs, 100–6; of snakes, 98–99; symbolic, 95–100, 106 Ubbelohde-Doering, Heinrich, 196 Uhle, Max, 104 Usccunta, 49–53, 58 Valboa, Cabello, 45 Valdivia culture, 130 Valladolid river canyon, 121 VanPool, Christine, 5 Velarde de la Mata, 162 Velásquez, Gamboa, 262 Vital force. See Camay Vitalizers. See Camac Viveiros de Castro, 115, 135, 185 Vultures, royal, 132–33

Wakas: overview of, 4, 42; bones, 42–43; camasca of, 189–90; and camay, 183; capacocha figures, 4–5; conopa stones, 5; in contemporary rituals, 56–57; household objects, 43; landscape markers, 42; lithification, 42–43; Machu Picchu, 43; and masks, 180–81, 187, 188–90, 201; masks as, 188; mountains, 42, 49–51; natural, 41–42; objects, 41, 264; personification via clothing, 5; reciprocal bonds with, 183; sculpted rock, 60; and sound, 56–57; Spaniards as, 41; stones, 42; whistling, 200–1. See also Incan wakas Walens, Stanley, 205 Ware, Gene, 104 Wari culture, 80, 85, 145, 168, 199 Williams, Carlos, 21, 24 Worldviews, materializations of, 67 Yaya-Mama tradition: Formative period, 84; and Front-faced deities, 78, 82, 84; iconography at Chiripa, 78; and Sunken courts, 24, 26, 28–29 Yellow clay at sunken courts, 25, 27 Zamora Chinchipe project, 111–12, 119–21, 141n1. See also Santa Ana La Florida site

Index

281