Returning to Q'ero: Sustaining Indigeneity in an Andean Ecosystem 1969-2020 (Palgrave Studies in Anthropology of Sustainability) 3031049713, 9783031049712

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PALGRAVE STUDIES IN ANTHROPOLOGY OF SUSTAINABILITY

Returning to Q’ero Sustaining Indigeneity in an Andean Ecosystem 1969–2020

Steven Webster

Palgrave Studies in Anthropology of Sustainability Series Editors

Marc Brightman Department of Anthropology University College London London, UK Jerome Lewis Department of Anthropology University College London London, UK

Our series aims to bring together research on the social, behavioral, and cultural dimensions of sustainability: on local and global understandings of the concept and on lived practices around the world. It publishes s­ tudies which use ethnography to help us understand emerging ways of living, acting, and thinking sustainably. The books in this series also investigate and shed light on the political dynamics of resource governance and ­various scientific cultures of sustainability.

Steven Webster

Returning to Q’ero Sustaining Indigeneity in an Andean Ecosystem 1969–2020

Steven Webster Honorary Research Fellow in Social Anthropology and Maori Studies The University of Auckland Auckland, New Zealand

ISSN 2945-6657     ISSN 2945-6665 (electronic) Palgrave Studies in Anthropology of Sustainability ISBN 978-3-031-04971-2    ISBN 978-3-031-04972-9 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-04972-9 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive licence to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors, and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the ­publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and ­institutional affiliations. Cover image: courtesy of the author. He took this photo in 1970, looking SE from the vicinity of Hatun Q’asa toward Qawiñayoq and beyond (see Figs 1.3, 8.2). The saywa (rock cairn) in the foreground guards the crest of the pass. This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG. The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

Preface (2022)

This volume is my ambitious attempt to ‘return’ from New Zealand to the high Andean community in southern Peru where I and my family did my fieldwork for my PhD dissertation at the University of Washington, U.S.A. I was in Q’ero (now called ‘Hatun Q’ero’) for most of 1969 and 1970, and returned with my family for a few months in 1977. Since then, while the Q’eros increasingly became a focus of tourist interest in indigenous peoples, my anthropological efforts became increasingly absorbed with the Māori of New Zealand. Although I intended to return to Q’ero and the Andes again, and missed a chance to rendezvous there with Andeanists Holly Wissler and John Cohen several years ago, I have not actually returned since 1977 and am increasingly unlikely to do so. Although I like to think I could still handle the altitude and the Ayakachi (‘salted-corpse’!) Range, I was already in my 30s when I first went there in 1969. So, this ambitious effort is necessarily an ‘armchair’ ethnohistory that could not be done without the fieldwork of surprisingly few other social anthropologists in Hatun Q’ero, other communities of what has come to be widely known as the indigenous Q’ero Nation, or the surrounding region of Cuzco. I have presumed to devote more than half of this volume (Part I) to my original unpublished dissertation (1972: ‘The Social Organization of a Native Andean Community’) and a published but obscured 1974 article that used the pseudonym Ch’eqec rather than Q’ero. I have done this because these are period-pieces in the history of what has become a rather famous indigenous community internationally, but also because the dissertation included ethnohistorically important maps and figures as well as v

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details that have not yet seen the scholarly light of day. It also happens that my dissertation was devoted to an ecological as well as social analysis of the Q’ero community as an ecosystem. This perspective turns out to complement the few subsequent anthropological fieldwork reports on Q’ero or the Q’ero Nation, which are more concerned with cultural than the social and ecological features of this iconic community. Both the Preface (original) and Introduction (augmented to preview all of Part I) of the 1972 dissertation are included below in the frontmatter of this volume so that they are freely available on-line to interested readers. The Preface was my candid account of the notorious difficulty of fieldwork with the Q’eros that I hope reveals their unique personality. Some Andeanists had actually warned me against attempting fieldwork among them. Drawing on these divergent ethnographic perspectives then, Part II of this volume is my detailed ethnohistorical reconstruction of what has happened in (Hatun) Q’ero in the 50 years since my own detailed ethnography in the 1970s. A sufficient introduction to this ethnohistorical half of the volume is outlined in the Table of Contents below and thoroughly detailed in ‘A Summary of Parts I and II’ in the backmatter (also freely available on-line to interested readers). As will be explained in the ‘Conclusions’ of Part II, it also happens that my own ecosystematic approach in the 1970s, the cultural or semiological approaches of more recent ethnographies, and the Q’eros’ own relationship with the natural environment mediated by their shamans, come together in the rising importance of environmentalism and the global climate crisis. The inclusion of both my original account of Q’ero and my ethnohistorical reconstruction of changes since then in this single volume has required some pruning of the dissertation and specially marked notations throughout Part I (as well as the 1972 Preface and Introduction to it below), that should be explained to the reader here. Although there has been no major revision of my dissertation for Part I, I have deleted parts of the text, figures, or endnotes for the sake of keeping the final volume to reasonable length. These deletions, and insertions of my contemporary comments or original page numbers, are marked in square brackets: […] or […]. I have also rephrased pretentious phrases or words that betrayed my naive academic over-confidence as a 33-year-old PhD candidate, having already travelled and mountaineered widely, resigned a career commission in the US Marine Corps, and completed an MA in Philosophy. The main deletions are in the sociological analyses of Chaps. 5, 6, and 7, and

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are relatively arcane academic or methodological issues that detract from the more descriptive ethnography (these issues emerge in the Summary of Part I, but only briefly). Where significant parts of the original have been deleted, the note includes the page numbers of the original dissertation or article so that interested readers can access them as cited in the references and examine the deleted part. I also deleted most citations from the text where scholarly interest in my pre-1972 sources is likely to be limited, but left important surnames so that their publications could be found in the remaining bibliography at the end of Part I. Part II, my contemporary ethnohistorical reconstruction of changes in Hatun Q’ero since 1969–77, has benefitted primarily from the invaluable work of the few ethnographers who have done research there since then. I have also been able to unearth additional details from some of the remnants of my original fieldwork which fortunately I had brought from the U.S.A. to New Zealand. As well as a few photos, these materials include copies of detailed genealogies of all the families in the community as well as my six field notebooks. (Now that the confidentiality of the genealogies is largely expired, I would be pleased to e-mail copies to interested Q’eros or their friends.) The notebooks display in hurried scrawls, almost illegible asides, and belated but undated insertions of my efforts in the darkening cold of one or another family hut to expand on my memories of the day’s encounters before I collapsed for the night in my sleeping bag. On the other hand, apparently nothing remains of our few months’ return in 1977 except our 12-year-old eldest son’s diary and a semi-fictional personal ethnography that I never finished. Auckland, New Zealand Steven Webster

Original Preface to Part I (1972)

I was initially motivated to carry out fieldwork in the south Central Andes because this area combined a spectacular mountain topography and opportunity for research among an aboriginal mountain people. As my research plans progressed I was excited to realize that opportunities for original contributions abounded. Despite the size and importance of monolingual Quechua and Aymara linguistic groups, modern ethnographic study among the native communities of this area remained surprisingly sparse and superficial.1 I hoped to advance my research sufficiently in domains of social organization to contribute toward the knowledge that was just beginning to accumulate on the Quechua, and concern myself especially with matters of law and morality in the native community. [v] My objectives in this last regard could have been achieved had I chosen a somewhat more acculturated native community less remotely situated than Q’ero. But instead I succumbed to the temptation to do my research in one of the most traditional communities among the many ethnic enclaves of the area, and in a striking ecological system that also seemed to cry out for closer examination before the slow but steady march of social change radically modified it. I think that what I was able to learn of Q’ero social organization and ecology is the best contribution I could hope to make to Central Andean ethnography at this time, and I do not regret my decision. However, although the full implications were not immediately apparent to me, the cultural and geographical remoteness entailed in my decision to carry out research in Q’ero gradually forced me to forego my intentions of ground-breaking research in law and morals and a cooperative research experience with my family. ix

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The awareness of ignorance and inundation of humility that fieldwork in an alien society should precipitate in the social anthropologist was never relieved by candid cooperation from the Q’eros, who were unable fully to trust, or even comprehend, my motives for living with them. Although the more fundamental features of their social organization gradually became clear to me, understanding of its elaborations in native polity, law, and supernatural powers could not be gained in this first short apprenticeship. The community is composed of some eighty mobile families widely dispersed in a basin of several rugged mountain valleys, furthermore removed from roads by one to three days of narrow trails and high passes which can be traversed only on foot or by horseback. The grim portents of usually foul weather, resupply difficulties, emergency evacuation, the necessity of my usual absence from any central location in pursuit of the highly mobile community, and the difficulty of joint research with Lois in such a situation while caring for ourselves and our two little boys, only slowly overcame my idealistic plans. Although Lois and the boys immensely enjoyed our two periods together in Q’ero, and suffered in good spirit the difficult and exhausting exposures of the journey there, it soon became apparent that they would best remain in Cuzco during most of my research. I joined them there periodically for companionship, reassurance, and the indulgence of my other ethnocentric needs as a child of my culture. I was in the Central Andes for about fifteen months and my research [in Q’ero] was underway from October 1969 to November 1970. I departed with an understanding for the rudiments of their way of life, and groundwork for further research. Every social anthropologist faces the difficulty of comprehending despite the confrontation of his subjects’ ethnocentricity and his own. In tribal cultures, unburdened by particular prejudices toward particular alien roles, he hopes to overcome a general fear and confusion harbored by the people regarding outsiders, and become accepted as a naive child who needs to learn. On the other hand, in a peasant society or any colonialized society, he confronts an array of established prejudices and presumptions about alien roles all too familiar to the subjugated people. He hopes at least to win the confidence of these people by demonstrating that he fits none of the suspect roles and that his purposes pose no threat to them; only at best will he be accepted, and accept, as a child. [vii] In Q’ero I was confronted by the vague fear and confusion characteristic of an isolated tribal people, but grown impenetrable and hostile through a millennium of accommodations to highland colonial regimes.

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The Q’eros were not a peasant people in the usual sense, and had no particular presumptions or prejudices which I could hope to overcome; rather they simply did not know how to classify me, not even in terms of the surrounding mestizo culture with which they remain unfamiliar. But neither could they fully accept me as unthreatening, nor as a child; a succession of dominant highland societies from before Tiahuanaco, through the Incas and the Spanish Viceroyalty to the present Republican nation, had evidently taught them an adamant, if vague, suspicion. I could not effectively counter their suspicions that I was coveting their land as a patron, or preparing an inquisition of their customs as a priest, or representing the new and fearful powers of the Reforma Agraria, because their ideas of these roles were amorphous. In general, I fell into an ambivalent role as merely a strange interloper in the accustomed tranquility and privacy of the community, to be treated with impatient evasion if I was requiring a response, or teased like a boring child if they required a response. The evasiveness and suspicion characteristic of the Q’eros, and probably to a lesser degree of most Andean natives and peasants, is certainly based on a long habituated strategy of anonymity and obscurity which has been successful in protecting them from the incursions of militant religions and exploitative colonial economies. The intensity of this behavior pattern reduces in direct proportion to the degree of threat which the Q’eros perceive in an outsider, and they usually treat one another with warmth and openness. Some evidence suggests, on the other hand, that secrecy is also motivated by a need to maintain appropriately sacrosanct relations with extraordinary powers of the native pantheon. My first contact with the Q’eros was in an exploratory hike through their region with a friend who was interested in the heavily glaciated Ayakachi Range, behind which Q’ero is located (see Fig. 1.1). Rain and dense fog, sweeping up from the montaña 10,000’ below, was only occasionally relieved by sunshine. We passed through several of the Q’ero hamlets, found them deserted, and encountered (or rather, surprised) only two people in as many days. When I arranged a meeting with several of them, in a village outside their region where they were buying llamas, they met my request to return with them with a firm negative consensus, countering simply “What would the others say if we brought him back with us?” I entered their region again alone, managed to encounter their most acculturated leader in a high pass (in driving sleet), and arranged to meet him in Cuzco. There I sought the recommendation of Professor Oscar Núñez del Prado, an eminent Peruvian anthropologist who had gained

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the guarded trust of the Q’eros by managing the expropriation of their lands in their behalf and by demonstrating continuous interest and concern for their culture. Núñez del Prado vouched for the harmlessness of my goals in Q’ero, winning me admission to the community; but I eventually realized that this involved the acquiescence of only one Q’ero leader who bore no special authority (and who never risked telling others of his experience). In effect the permission only furnished me with limited rights to live temporarily in the house of a friend of his. His friend turned out to be one of the most powerful oracles in the community, so the strength of the respect he enjoyed weathered the criticism he received for accepting me. My rights to stay, however, had continuously to be vindicated by explanations and discussion. I proceeded to make the necessary logistic preparations for travel between Cuzco and Q’ero, and residence in Q’ero. Fortunately, Otto and Eduardo DeBary and their families lived on their hacienda near the road-­ head nearest to the region, and through interest in my research and extraordinary hospitality furnished me with accommodation and comfort whenever I passed to or from Q’ero.2 No public transportation passed between Cuzco and the road-head (132 kilometers) except unscheduled, open, and dangerous cargo-trucks, and after several trips on them I decided to buy an automobile. I had twice traveled on foot the fifty kilometers between the road-head and Q’ero (and would several times again) and similarly determined to buy a horse (see Fig. 10.1). Atuh Saruh (“one-­ who-­steps-on-foxes”) was sufficiently strong and sure-footed to get me and many provisions (or on other occasions Lois or the children) to Q’ero, and swift enough, at least on returning, to furnish rapid transport to the Hacienda Ccapana in case of emergency.3 The narrow and steep trails sometimes collapse and are disconcertingly close to the brink of precipices of several hundred feet, but also provide magnificent panoramas of the glacier-laden Cordillera Vilcanota. I was established in the ritual center of Q’ero about two months after my first exploration of the region. [ix] My presence was tolerated. I became the object of open curiosity from the youths, and speculative suspicion from the adults. The village in which I settled, although the location most central to the scattered hamlets of the community, proved to be empty most of the time. The Q’eros spent a good deal of their time in the valley-head herding hamlets 2–3000’ higher in the basin, but more than half of their time was spent in widely dispersed pastures and fields, and crossing 14,000’ passes or descending gorges to as low as 6000’ to get to these locations (see Fig. 1.2). The rare times that I

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could locate them at rest in their huts or camps, or lure them to my own hut, one or both of us was taking refuge from the cold rain and foggy mist which is usual in Q’ero. We would spend some time in the exchange of formalities of hospitality and graciousness, and often before any conversation could begin the encounter would be interrupted by one of us falling into exhausted sleep. After the preliminaries of hospitality, and when I felt my hosts had adjusted to my presence, I would perhaps begin some questions.4 Rarely were answers straightforward. The Q’eros usually met my direct questions, no matter how innocuous and casual, with simple denials, pleas of ignorance, or elaborate evasions. Almost never was information volunteered, no matter how trivial. Their objective was to break off serious discussion with me, and return to the random chatter of weather or trips, or better still, politely to encourage my departure from their hamlet. If I took the tactic of trying to follow their conversation, asking relevant questions on opportunity, they would similarly brush the questions off and change the subject. I would carefully try to avoid direct questions bearing on sensitive topics such as property, production, customary litigation, or supernatural practices. My most innocent questions, however, were supposed to be insidious. My request for a person’s name was sometimes taken as an affront and always answered with a noncommittal “Naa..aaa” (“umra…”) or, if I was insistent, perhaps a first name would be divulged. I was frequently given an altogether false name, or the name of someone else in the community. I struggled in my genealogies with “Marianu Acarapi” until I was ultimately told (soon before my final departure) that no such person existed, and it dawned on me that Akarapi in Quechua means roughly “really in the shit.” Indeed, I repeatedly met people who purported to be him when they realized that I was not sure whom they really were. (Of the highly mobile community of eighty-two families, I remained unsure of my ability to recognize and place most of the females and several of the younger males even late in my research.) [xi] Although the Q’eros live in almost a dozen hamlets scattered in the valley-heads several kilometers above the central village named Q’ero, and the latter is usually completely deserted, the people nevertheless invariably respond “Q’ero” when asked where they live. This sort of vagueness is customary with all outsiders including itinerant merchants, unless they are personally known. Also in this case, patient and gentle insistence was often an affront, resulting in my deception, or perhaps a grudging admission such as the following: “Where do you live?” “In Q’ero.” “Yes, but where,

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Qolpa K’uchu? Qocha Moqo? Chuwa Chuwa? or one of the other hamlets in Q’ero?” “Yes, there.” “But which one?” “The one over there.” “Oh, Qolpa K’uchu?” “Well, I might live there, but don’t you already know?” Another time I approached a little boy, about six years old, and asked him his name, giving him candy, and cigarettes for his family: “What’s your name?” “Kaa.. aaa.” “I’m Esteang—what’s your name?” “Kaa..aaa.. Santus.” “Santos what?” “Yes, Santus.” “What are your father’s and mother’s names?” “I’m sorry, I can’t tell you that.” It was another little boy and girl from whom I first gathered the fictitious and ridiculous name of “Marianu Akarapi,” their alleged father. Extracting genealogy was even more harrowing. When it provided convenient evasion, the names of the dead, could not be uttered at all. Most people would brush off my first probes with the claim that they had no family, and were left waxcha (“poor” or “orphaned”). Questions of a more complex nature, phrased to require more than a “yes” or “no,” were ignored or treated as incomprehensible. I would often finally be forced to convert them into mere leading questions, at which time the informant would delightedly comprehend my meaning, and casually say “no.” This answer usually left me with no recourse but to leave off questioning, at least on that topic. Simple denials are hard to elaborate upon or gently controvert for the sake of further discussion; persistence quickly exasperates the Q’eros. Usually the impatient evasion at which the Q’ero were so expert outlasted my boldness and injured the cheek I needed to begin questioning in the first place. I would often be satisfied to retreat to chatter about the weather and trips, and become sufficiently quiet and polite to assure myself a departure from the family at least more amiable than my arrival. When such disheartening responses reduced me to silence, or when I was exhausted by travel or preoccupied in the drudgeries necessitated by eating, sleeping, movement around the region, and recording data, I became the object of the Q’eros’ wonderful sense of humor. When I was not requiring responses of them their guard was dropped and they became natives sovereign in their own domain, evincing little respect for the outsider. I spent a great deal of time in the valley-head hamlets and so often slept in their houses. They would awake several hours before dawn and while filling the low windowless stone and thatch huts with the smoke of their cooking fires, chatter and laugh endlessly, and poke my sleeping bag. At about dawn, when I had had enough, and was awake and ready to converse, they would either leave for work in their fields or pastures, or go

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back to sleep. Other times when they knew I was not ready to ask questions, they would huddle so close around me (with noses pressed to my notebook, hilariously pretending to each other that they were reading) that I would stifle in the sweat and smoke-soaked folds of their several ponchos. The younger men would even sprawl in my lap, showing off their familiarity. Most of their jokes, of course, I could not understand; I would silently pout, supposing that they were at my expense, and they would redouble their efforts to force me to do something else entertaining. An attempt to ask questions of a group of Q’eros usually disintegrated into jokes and banter, during which anything I would say occasioned great mirth and no answers. [xiii] This burlesque and hilarity, appearing when defensive evasions were not deemed necessary, at least had welcome overtones of friendliness. Rarely was a hostility manifest. Once when Lois and I were crossing a shallow stream at dusk, with our children in our arms and leading the horse, large rocks were thrown down on us from the dark bluff high above. Of course my pursuit ended fruitless in silent moonlight, and I was assured by several sincere Q’eros that it was only the pranks of children, or a kukuchi (ghost). Twice my horse was set free from his tether, and he returned loose to his distant hacienda home, leaving me to walk out the forty miles to the road-­ head to recover him. But this was prank rather than malice, at least the first time. Only a few times was I involved in altercations with other men, and these were limited to verbal bluffs and implied threats; my efforts at reserve and tranquility, their own most respected response, seemed to acquit me well and leave me on good terms with them. In my more objective moments, I realized that the expression of such open anger, like the joking and ridicule at my expense, tacitly demonstrated that I was often considered an equal. At least I was not simply subjected to the inscrutable obsequious duplicity tendered the Peruvian mestizo in order to perpetuate his illusion that the indio is a dull and unmanageable “brute.” Despite the frequent frustrations of my efforts, my respect for the Q’ero grew, and I came to feel a great deal of affection for some of them. Loneliness, living intimately with them, and sharing the same difficult environment, made me feel close to them even though many aspects of their way of life continued to evade my understanding. My knowledge of their culture was derived from many moments with many of them in many settings all over their region, many fragments pieced together. Never was I able to develop a stable relationship with a special informant. The difficulty of locating a particular individual led me to depend more on several

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families whose guarded trust I won, one of whom I could usually locate within a few days of searching through the scattered hamlets and camps. I was sometimes hurt that my warmth and trust toward the Q’cros was not more often reciprocated as it was among themselves. Only rarely did I feel accepted, even liked: the sharing of coca leaves as among equals; the serene silence of a night vigil in the cold mist of a mountain side; mourning the death of a mutual friend; long hard hours on the journey of a pilgrimage, through the tangled vines of the jungle or climbing toward an icy white peak in the night; carrying a fearful Q’ero boy across a log over the turbulent river; being ritually handed and forced to drink the two wooden q’eros of maize beer, in the crowded, sweaty, flute-piping, foot-thumping darkness of a house. But to the end I remained an interloper in most social contexts of the Q’ero. [xiv]

Notes 1. I have surveyed the ethnographic literature bearing on social organization of highland Peru in an annotated bibliography which [was published in 1970 in Behavior Science Notes]. In this bibliography I argue briefly that indigenous (native) cultural components of highland society have generally been neglected in research, which on the other hand has progressed recently in cultural components best characterized as “mestizo.” I pursued this perspective, and in a paper read at the 1971 meetings of the American Anthropological Association, suggested the fruitfulness of the plural society model as it has so far been developed primarily with African studies [deletion, p. xiv]. 2. A close friendship developed between the DeBarys and ourselves, and the gracious Hacienda Ccapana was often a home for Lois and our boys while I was in Q’ero (and care for my horse when I was not). The DeBary family was multilingual (Eduardo possesses the rare skill of fluency in Quechua and bilingualism in English and Spanish) and had some familiarity with Q’ero as well as a sincere interest in the folkways of the region. Although the laborious management of their progressive hacienda left them little time to directly assist me, their constant preoccupation to support my research effort and guard against emergencies was a great assurance. 3. Unless otherwise noted, glosses will be from the Cuzco dialect of Quechua. Orthography of native terms is in accord with the standard linguistic notation utilized by Donald Sola, a modern linguistic authority on the various dialects of Quechua. Sola has for several years organized courses in elemen-

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tary Quechua for Cornell University [I attended his course in 1969], but most of his grammars and texts remain available only in mimeographed form. 4. The Q’eros speak only Quechua, with virtually no ability in Spanish. My first several months of research was without benefit of interpreter or assistant, because I wished to avoid the increased hostility and evasion which would unavoidably result were I to bring with me a bilingual in Quechua and Spanish. Such a misti (mestizo, or Peruvian of mixed culture) is ipso facto a representative of the surrounding dominant society, and would be assumed to be a threat even more clearly than I. I also wished to learn Quechua and insofar as possible carry out my research directly with the Q’eros without hazarding the distortions and ellipses tendered by an assistant who enjoys the questionable advantage of “knowing” the people. Toward the end of my research, when I had won the reserved trust of some of the Q’eros and knew them all, and had sufficient ability in Quechua to detect some distortions of translation, I began to work part of the time with a particularly sensitive and bright Quechua native of a nearby hacienda community. Luychu (“valley deer”) could speak Spanish about as poorly as I could, and was beginning to guardedly display other symbols of class mobility. But he was previously known by some of the Q’eros and remained sufficiently native in cultural orientation to win the trust of many of the others [see Fig. 10.1]. Luycho and I worked with one another in both Quechua and Spanish. Of course his fluency in Quechua enabled me to avoid confusions which alone I had to accept and work out. He was also a second pair of eyes and ears attuned to the broader outlines of Q’ero culture; we would discuss these things at hours when we were unable to find informants. Although Luychu was with me for only short periods, my information input was vastly increased at these times. Another person who was of assistance to me in this regard was Edmundo Gongora, an anthropology student at the University of Cuzco who was fluent in Quechua (a rare skill among those fortunate enough to attend the University) as well as avidly interested in native culture and adventurous enough to undertake an expedition to Q’ero. He accompanied me and Luychu in a two-week census and questionnaire program throughout the community.

Acknowledgements (2022)

Like my actual field research, this retrospective or ‘armchair’ return to Q’ero in Part II has been made possible by my family (the same Lois and our two little boys who were there with me in the 1970s, plus a third son born in New Zealand in 1978). Our actual research in the 1970s was facilitated by Professors Oscar Núñez del Prado and Jorge Flores Ochoa of the University San Abad of Cuzco, Peru, who had worked with Q’ero since 1955 to expropriate the hacienda exploiting them, or with similar pastoral regimes elsewhere in the southern Andes. Their student Edmundo Gongora, joined me for a week to help undertake a census of Q’ero. My fieldwork often gained greater depth when Luychu was able to join me from his work in the Hacienda Ccapana on the other side of the Ayakachi Range (Fig. 8.1); as more runa (‘ordinary person’) than cholo or mestizo (‘western’ or colonising people), Luychu was able to gain the trust of the Q’eros, and his ability in Spanish as well as his fluency in Quechua eased the difficulties I had speaking Quechua with the monolingual Q’eros. The de Bary family, immigrant Germans who owned the Hacienda Ccapana, frequently hosted me and my family on my way from Cuzco to Q’ero, and took care of my horse when I was with my family in Cuzco. Among other Andeanist anthropologists and colleagues in Peru who have supported my research in various ways, currently or in the 1970s, are John Cohen, Holly Wissler, Geremia Cometti, Guillermo Salas Carreño, John Ricker, Enrique Mayer-Behrendt, Ralph Bolton, Juan Núñez del Prado, Glynn Custred, and Peter Gose. As will be seen, the recent research of Holly Wissler, Geremia Cometti, and Guillermo Salas in Q’ero or the Q’ero Nation is the xix

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main source of the factual detail enabling my ethnohistorical reconstruction of changes in the community since the 1970s. In similar scholarly terms, I owe what ability and confidence I have to undertake such an armchair ethnohistory of a surviving community on the other side of the Pacific Ocean to my discovery of how crucial it is to understand something of the history of a colonised people. Although I am relieved that there is some of this insight in my dissertation, cultural anthropology remained naively uninterested in the history of its hosts and their culture until the 1980s, when I myself became more fully awake to it among my colleagues and Māori hosts in New Zealand. Like Marx said, people make their own history, but not just as they please; whether in revolution or reaction, they must start with the circumstances given in their past. My scholarly turning point in this regard is the 1980–90s work of Eric Wolf and other anthropologist converts to ethno-historical research. Nevertheless, my deepest acknowledgement in this volume is to the patience and indulgence of our Q’ero hosts in the 1970s, whose animu (‘spirits’) have risen up (warmly, not threateningly!) from my old field notes, photos, and genealogies as well as my later reports. Urpichay, sonqochay (‘my little bird, my heart’). Most of them have now moved on to hanaq pacha (‘the upper world’), but a few of the toddlers of the 1970s who have survived their difficult lives may still be elders of the present Q’ero community. When their predecessors glance at me out of these old black-and-white photos, even some of their names appear suddenly on the tongue of my failing memory and are confirmed in my genealogical notes. The selection of old photos I have been able to include in this volume speak for themselves.

A Note on Translations and Place-names (2022)

My dissertation included words and phrases in Spanish as well as Quechua that I have continued to use in Part II as well as Part I, but they are generally followed by their English translation in parentheses, sometimes assisted by dictionaries. Spelling of Quechua words and transliteration of Spanish words in Quechua is often inconsistent due to continuing social prejudice and suppression of Quechua as well as their radically different phonemic systems and regional variation. I have tried to use consistently spelled forms in both Parts I and II. In Part II, my few translations from French are similarly assisted by the internet, and in all cases I take full responsibility for any mis-translation. The situation with place-names in Q’ero (for mountains, valleys, rivers, hamlets, etc.,) is potentially confusing. Most of those used by the Q’eros in the 1970s appear in my detailed maps (Figs. 1.2 and 1.3) but are translated only in endnote 5 of Chap. 2. For the sake of consistency, I have continued to use these same 1970s place-names in Part II even though many appear to have been changed according to Holly Wissler’s and Geremia Cometti’s reports 30–40  years later on the same community (which itself had come to be called ‘Hatun Q’ero’ rather than merely ‘Q’ero’). Where confusion is likely, I have sometimes noted the different place-name used by Wissler or Cometti. As shown in endnote 4 of Chap. 2, the literal translation of the 1970s place-names is often ludicrous and, as described in the original Preface to Part I (1972) preceding the Introduction above, the Q’eros people were sometimes able to fool me about various things. Nevertheless, my use of these place-names was repeatedly confirmed in ordinary conversation with the Q’eros in 1969–70 xxi

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and again in 1977. Perhaps it was normal that the Q’eros knew several different names for a given hamlet or other place and, characteristically, preferred to keep this to themselves? Interestingly, this may also be the case in regard to their apu and awki, the awesome alpine peaks and hills with which they seek to keep in close communication through their shamans.

Contents

Part I The Social Organisation of a Native Andean Community (1969–1977)   1 1 The  South Central Highlands and the Q’ero Cultural Region: An Ethnic Enclave  3 1 Area Geography and the Precontact Situation  3 2 The Colonial Era and Hacienda Dominion 12 3 Contemporary Highland Society and the Accommodated Tribal Community 16 2 Settlement Pattern 37 3 The  Structure of the Community Niche 61 1 Pastoralism and Domestic Animals 62 2 Wayq’o and Qeshwa Resources 79 3 Monte Resources 85 4 Subsistence Strategy 95 1 Cyclic Strategies 96 2 Compensatory Strategies109 3 Demographic Processes and the Ecosystem114

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5 Family  Organization and the Domestic Group127 1 Seasonal-Cycle Ritual in the Family127 2 Structure and Variations in the Domestic Group132 3 Domestic Group Development138 4 Matrilocal Residence147 6 Kinship and Affinity155 1 Ideal and Practical Patterns of Kinship157 2 Patterns of Affinity165 3 Ecosystematic Processes in Kingroup and Marriage169 7 Social  Ranking, Hierarchy, and Leadership [1974]175 1 Wealth180 2 Prestige184 3 Cargos185 4 Cultural Brokers189 5 Shamanism191 Summary of Part I (1972), Chapters 1–7 197 Selected Bibliography 203 Part II Returning to Q’ero—Sustaining Indigeneity in an Andean Ecosystem 1969–2020 207 8 The  Wider Ecosystem of Hatun Q’ero215 1 Some Theoretical Directions for Returning to Q’ero215 2 The “Fourth Ecological Level” of Hatun Q’ero223 Maps, Peaks, and Glaciers of the Ayakachi Range 226 Mobility: Routes, Footpaths, and Roadways 236 Hatun Q’ero as Both Remote and Cosmopolitan 242 References250 9 Ethnohistorical  Changes in Hatun Q’ero253 1 Emigration from Hatun Q’ero253 2 Community Population259 3 External Agencies and Tourism263

 Contents 

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4 Mining272 5 Herding278 6 Maize282 References291 10 Indigeneity  and Resistance in Hatun Q’ero295 1 Potatoes and Potato Skins295 2 Well-being300 Wealth, Poverty, and Mortality 301 Festivals 307 Prestige and Leadership 314 3 The Ten-Year Plan of the National Institute of Culture319 References328 11 Conclusions331 1 Capitalism and Shamanism as Opposed Forms of Commodity Fetishism331 2 Manwel Quispe Consults with Wamanripa343 3 Hatun Q’ero shamanism as a Workers’ Self-Directed Enterprise344 References354 A Summary of Parts I and II 357 Index367

About the Author (2022)

Steven  Webster  I immigrated with my family from the USA to New Zealand in 1972 and taught courses in social anthropology and Māori Studies at the University of Auckland until retiring in 1998. I continue there as an honorary research fellow. My 1972 PhD thesis from the University of Washington, Seattle, was on kinship, ecology, and ethnicity of an indigenous community in the southern Peruvian Andes, but in New Zealand I took up research among Māori in the Urewera mountains and the university. I continued to teach about Latin America until the 1980s by which time my focus had shifted to New Zealand. My teaching subjects developed from kinship, ethos and worldview, ethnicity, history of anthropology, and Māori land history in colonial New Zealand to political-economic critique of ideologies. After retiring in 1998, I taught a few years as a visitor at the University of Washington and the Northwest Indian College in Tacoma, Washington, and at Princeton University in New Jersey, lecturing on ‘Pacific Rim’ societies including First Nation communities of Washington and British Columbia, Canada, as well as the Peruvian Andes and New Zealand. Back in New Zealand I completed ethnohistorical research for the Waitangi Tribunal 2003–04 on the Urewera District Native Reserve, Crown purchase campaign, and Consolidation Scheme 1894–1926, and I continue ethnohistorical and other research regarding the Māori and indigeneity movements.

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List of Figures

Fig. 1.1 Fig. 1.2 Fig. 1.3 Fig. 2.1 Fig. 3.1 Fig. 3.2 Fig. 3.3 Fig. 4.1 Fig. 4.2 Fig. 4.3 Fig. 4.4 Fig. 4.5 Fig. 7.1

South Central Andes and the Q’ero cultural region 5 Q’ero basin 9 Q’ero upper basin 10 Settlement pattern, vertical and lateral matrices 52 Major ecological zones (by location) 63 Major ecological zones (by altitude) 66 Regional substrates and concordance of waylla, maize, and lakes 70 Subsistence strategy: annual phases and tempo of integration 97 Subsistence strategy: rhythm of perennial rotation (qeshwa and wayq’o) 98 Migration incidence and proportions (ca.1910–70) 117 Migration—sex [gender] and approximate decade 118 Relative proportions of pasture, herd, and population by valley habitat123 Festival houses (puxllay wasi) and owners, Q’ero Llaqta ritual center. (Legend: House leaders: A: Alberto Sunqu Apasa; A’: Francisco Ordonez Champi, Luis Perez?; B: Kayloru Lonasqu Puloris; B’: Simona Samata Espinosa; C: Domingo Paucar Salas; C’: Benito Waman (?); D: Hisku Machaqa Samata; D’: Manwel Chura Kurus; E: Manwel Quispe Apasa; E’: Simon Quispe Quispe; F; Luis Ordonez Apasa; F’: Paskwal Samata; G: Hisku Apasa Puloris; H: Domingo Quispe Perez; I: Manwel y Martin Machaqa Samata; J: Juan Paucar (and Santos Puloris?); K: Santos Machaqa Apasa; L: Lazaru Quispe Puloris; M: Paulo Machaqa Waman; N: Toribio Quispe Perez; O: Antes Machaqa Samata; O’: Esteban Puloris (?); P: Ilario Quispe Apasa (?); P’: Donysu Apasa Quispe, Santiago xxix

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Fig. 8.1 Fig. 8.2 Fig. 8.3 Fig. 8.4 Fig. 9.1 Fig. 9.2 Fig. 9.3 Fig. 10.1 Fig. 10.2 Fig. 10.3 Fig. 10.4

Machaqa Samata; Q: Domingo Hakeywa; R: Santos Paucar Macaqa, Asencio Quispe Puloris; S: Felix Machaqa Apasa; T: Filipa? Francisca Ordonez Apasa; U: Ausencio Sunqu? Quispe Puloris?, Agustin Quispe Puloris? V: Juan Quispe Perez; W: Wilnawil Quispe Apasa; W’: (?); X: Marianu Samata; X’: Rosas Puloris Mendoza; Y: Marcosa Apasa Samata, Santos Puloris Quispe; Z: Agustin Quispe Puloris? Asencio Sunqo Quispe?) 177 Atuh Saruh, me, and Luychu (1970) 216 Qawiñayoq (5350 metres), looking SE across Ayakachi Range from Wallataniy Q’asa (1970) 217 Chuwa Chuwa: Manwel Quispe Apasa curing sheep, with Polonia Yapura Quispe and children Micolas and Asunta (1970) 218 Totoraniy ritual centre, looking across Chuwa Chuwa Mayo (1969)219 Qolpa Pampa: Manwel Chura Kurus (1970) 275 Wañuna Pampa: Dominga Chura Quispe with grandchildren (1970)286 Wañuna Pampa: Pawiyan Quispe Apasa (1970) 287 Paskwa festival in Q’ero Llaqta ritual centre: varayoq and elders; vara staffs in foreground; visiting merchants, unku dancer, looking on 308 Paskwa festival in Q’ero Llaqta ritual centre: varayoq with elders: capillayoq, regidor, alcalde, mandon at table; aguaciles attending309 Q’ero Llaqta in Paskwa festival: weavings raised on arko by men; looking north down Q’ero Mayo towards Inka ñan road and Puskero 310 Q’ero Llaqta in Paskwa festival: women watching raising of arko with their weavings 311

Original Introduction to Part I (1972)

[This has been revised by adding the introductions of some chapters to the original introduction, resulting in a comprehensive preview of Part I of this volume]

This study is concerned with the social organization of a native Andean community. My understanding of the “native” community, as distinct from other major components of south Central Andean social organization, is discussed in Chap. 1. [deleted two sentences] Q’ero is located about 100 miles due east of Cuzco on the flanks of the eastern cordillera of the south Central Andes, and in 1969 and 1970 was composed of about 376 persons in 82 families and 52 domestic groups, living in more than a dozen settlements dispersed throughout a mountainous basin several miles in diameter. It is best defined as a community because, although it is not a single localized settlement, it is tightly integrated socially, economically, ritually, and politically. Internally these bonds strengthen still more, but take on the quality of kinship or affinity [related by marriage]; externally they attenuate rapidly and take on the quality of the dominant economy and polity of the area and nation. These same parameters apply similarly to the wider cultural region of Q’ero; however, it is best to perceive this region as composed of several native communities insofar as each is predominantly endogamous [marrying among themselves], as well as economically, ritually, and politically independent of one another. The community of Q’ero appeared to me to be an ideal “social isolate,” small and integral enough for eventual comprehension through the method of participant observation, yet geographically large and diverse enough to xxxi

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magnify the features of its ecological setting in a high mountain environment. The obvious characteristics of social organizational integrity and spectacular ecosystematic adaptation drew me to Q’ero. My theoretical biases inclined me to favor the former in my research, but the overbearing importance of the natural environment in the Andean setting increasingly forced a broadening of my attentions, and occupies over a third of my analysis in this study [Part I, Chaps. 2, 3, and 4]. The ecosystem of Q’ero was omnipresent between the awesome glistening silence of the peaks and glaciers and the misty abyss of the jungle which bracket the upper and lower extremities of the community. My analysis of the social organization of Q’ero must first take careful account of the ecological “niche” of the community [how a component fits into the total ecosystem], in which framework the social system and ecosystem are two sides of the same coin. The ecosystematic point of view facilitates the discussion of the settlement pattern and native economy of the community. It is only after these fundamentals (also routine preoccupations of the Q’eros) have been discussed that closer examination of the social organization can appropriately be undertaken. But furthermore, because neither Q’ero nor any other community is really a “social isolate,” an understanding of the native economy and other aspects of social organization must be based on some appreciation of the wider social and cultural context of the community in the surrounding area of the south Central Andes.

The South Central Highlands and the Q’ero Cultural Region: an Ethnic Enclave Consequently, the first part of the study [Part I, Chap. 1] is devoted to a brief consideration of some of the more important external influences bearing on the development and current social organization of the community [Area Geography and the Precontact Situation; The Colonial Era and Hacienda Dominion; Contemporary Highland Society and the Accommodated Tribal Community]. The momentous and penetrating effects of the Hispanic colonization regimes, probably even more than that of still earlier precontact empires, left no region of nuclear America unaffected. Moreover, the dense aboriginal population and network of commerce and communication which persists to the present tends to homogenize highland culture in its continuous processes of change. The

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cultural region of Q’ero clearly constitutes an ethnic enclave in the south Central Andes, but its internal organization is to some considerable extent a product of interaction with surrounding influences in the past and present. My concern in this first chapter is to assess the nature and extent of these influences insofar as the available evidence indicates. Implicit throughout this discussion is the analytic distinction between a “peasant” and a “tribal” society, a discrimination which is useful only insofar as it clarifies the form of economic, social, and political interaction between social groups. I assume that subordination of these domains to their counterparts in the social organization of the surrounding area reflects peasant social organization, whereas autonomy or parity reflect tribal social organization. On this basis I argue that Q’ero social organization is more tribal than peasant, despite its de jure status as subordinate to a national polity and economy. On the other hand, I try to take careful account of some of the manifold ways in which the social organization of Q’ero has accommodated outside influences. Regarding both native and accommodated aspects of Q’ero political organization my remarks are limited to the last section of Chap. 1, because this is an important topic somewhat less central to my concern with social organization, and a fuller consideration of it would exceed the bounds of this study [in 1972; but see Part II, Ch.8, and Webster 1980].

Adaptation to the Local Environment: An Interzonal Ecosystem [for an introductory orientation, see Figs. 1.1, 1.2, and some 1969–70 photos: Figs. 8.1, 8.2, 8.3, 8.4, 9.1, 9.2] The discussions in this second part [of Part I, Chaps. 2, 3, and 4] focus on the local ecosystem of the Q’ero community, viewed as the integral organization of fundamental aspects of the social system and the natural environment: [Settlement Pattern; The Structure of the Community Niche; Subsistence Strategy]. My concern in these chapters is to reveal and analyze the socio-economic integration and close adaptation of the community despite its dispersion over a broad basin of several valleys and great altitudinal differentials. The basic aspects of social organization which I approach from this point of view are the settlement pattern, key components of the pastoral, agricultural, and horticultural regimes, and the strategy of subsistence which manages these components. My most abiding

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impression of the daily world of the Q’eros is a fluid continuity comprised of interlocked cycles, harried and strenuous efforts, and interludes of languorous repose. The regularity of these manifold cycles is such that anyone familiar with the strategy can predict where in their circuit of locations and course of concerns the Q’eros will be in any given month and year. In addition, I try to take careful account of some of the more important irregular contingencies faced by each family. Their moments of tranquility and dignity in this routine attest to the general attunement of their ecosystem. Most ethnographic studies of Andean peoples have taken insufficient account of ecosystematic determinants of social organization; the oversight is particularly debilitating to analyses which deal with communities in close confrontation with extremes of altitude, climate, and substrate, as is usually the case throughout the highlands. [part deleted] Along with its local natural habitat the community of Q’ero can be seen to form a close organization of biotic populations and abiotic factors, or an ecosystem. The perspective at this point of explanation must be the ecosystem of Q’ero, i.e., the network of interrelationships of the human community, local plant and animal populations, topography, climate, and soil. The severity and overbearing influence of the physical environment alone in the culture of the Q’ero requires an ecological approach to the understanding of the community. Furthermore, the absence of a community in the localized or nucleated sense precludes facile assumption of a simplistic understanding of the concept of community, and directs attention to the more significant ecological parameters of the community as an integral social and economic system. I was initially attracted to the prospect of research in Q’ero because of its relative insulation from external influences, its close association with a diverse and demanding natural habitat, and its small population, widely dispersed yet apparently closely integrated. [parts deleted] [Added comment, 2022: as will be discussed in Part II, the above distinction between “biotic populations and abiotic factors” could be challenged by some ethnographers since the 1980s and more recently as a false dualism blurring the role of Apu (“mountain peaks”) as both biotic and abiotic mediators between the human community and the “natural” environment. In Part I, I describe these phenomena as “extraordinary forces” or (only a few times) “supernatural powers,” communicated with by Q’ero shamans (paqo, misayoq, or altomisayoq). The term “supernatural” is a good example the misleading dualism challenged by this new form of ethnography]

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On the other hand, my primary concern is with the social organization of the Q’eros, and my competence to deal in detail with the flora, fauna, edaphic, geological, and climatic features of the ecosystem, is limited. In ecological terms, the objective of the analysis is only to clarify the nature of the niche which the Q’ero community occupies in the ecosystem, i.e., the adaptive role of the human community, and other components of the habitat insofar as they critically bear on the human community. First, the settlement pattern of the community will be examined as an adaptive spatial disposition of the population in the physical habitat. Secondly, each of the subsistence resources will be discussed in more detail, with special reference to the particular niches of the domestic herds, tubers, and subtropical crops of the ecosystem. Finally, the subsistence strategy of the Q’eros will be viewed dynamically in terms of cycles in tempo and phase. A brief review of the state of research [by 1972] in relevant aspects of Andean ethnography will put the discussion of the Q’ero mode of adaptation in clearer perspective. Altitudinal zones, systematic local mobility or transhumance, and pastoralism, are key aspects of the Q’ero ecosystem. Like the concept of the native community itself, none of these notions have served to guide more than a very few recent research projects in the Andes. This is surprising, because just as the native community is a fundamental segment of the highland plural society, altitude, transhumance, and pastoralism are all key components in the adaptation of many contemporary highland communities, and have undoubtedly always been crucial in their development. J.V. Murra’s research of the last few years has been especially concerned with the influence of altitudinal zones on the development of Andean culture; his inquiries have revealed that “verticality” has been an important determinant in early historic systems of trade, colonialization, and exploitation. T.F. Lynch’s excavations in Ancash Department have begun to confirm that transhumance across such altitudinal zones characterized very early occupation of the highlands [see Part I Bibliography]. In accordance with Murra’s suspicions that “verticality” is a neglected yet revealing approach to contemporary ethnography in the Andes, Mayer, Custred, and Burchard have recently concluded research projects revealing complex trade relations between communities in dispersed altitudinal zones. However, these projects have dealt with communities primarily as components in a wider interzonal system. There are apparently numerous peasant and native communities which, as is the case with Q’ero, in themselves span a complex system of altitudinal zones; as far as I know no such

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adaptive system has yet been described, although cursory mention of them occurs. [Oscar] Núñez del Prado, the first anthropological investigator of the Q’ero community fifteen years ago [1955], has brilliantly but briefly examined their mode of adaptation as a community highly mobilized in response to the physical environment, but aside from this unelaborated description, there is no specific appraisal of systematic mobility of an Andean community. This is not because such systems are rare in the Andes; on the contrary they are apparently numerous. Closely associated with the issue of altitudinal zones and transhumance is pastoralism. Although early colonial chronicles imply the important role of alpaca and llama herds in the rise of the precontact Andean states, ethnography to the present usually maintains the dogma that pastoralism was nowhere a key adaptive mode in the aboriginal New World. Mishkin reported that many communities of the high south Central Andean puna were primarily herding groups, but until recently, the ethnographic question remained open. Just as Murra has revealed evidence of the crucial role of domestic herds in the Andean kingdoms, recent ethnographic research by Jorge Flores and Horst Nachtigall has shown that the relatively independent pastoral community is probably a much more frequent Andean phenomenon than has been commonly supposed. It appears likely that such communities, usually practicing camelid husbandry (alpaca and llama) in a traditional and probably aboriginal manner, are numerous in the puna of the south Central Andes. Mixed pastoral economies such as that of Q’ero have either received no special attention in research, or the unwarranted assumption that all Andean adaptations are predominantly agricultural has biased research which might otherwise have revealed the preeminent role of pastoralism in such communities. [part endnote added:] I would further speculate that communities with mixed pastoral regimes including agriculture predominate along the ceja de la montaña [“eyebrow of the subtropical lowland”], and major intermontane valleys where they penetrate the ceja, in any situation where control has been maintained over the higher regions necessary for alpaca pasture. In such situations, as is the case with Q’ero, the management of agricultural regimes concurrently with herding probably often necessitates a transhumant pattern which is oriented around cultivation rather than pasturing. [emphasis added]

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Social System and Ecosystem In Chap. 1 of the study I briefly examined the encompassing ecosystem of the south Central Andes, in which the native community of Q’ero must be understood as accommodated in several respects to a plural society context with geographic, historical, and cultural dimensions. Chapters 2, 3, and 4 are an examination of the community as an ecosystem. The third and last part of this study [Part I, Chaps. 5, 6, and 7] is devoted to a more detailed analysis of some key aspects of the social system, and the ecosystem becomes background: [Family Organisation and Domestic Group; Kinship and Affinity; Social Ranking, Hierarchy, and Leadership]. My data on the family, domestic group, kinship, and affinity are ample, and I try to pursue these issues comprehensively. Ethnographic ignorance of social organization is greatest in these fundamental domains, regarding both mestizo and native communities throughout the Andes [Webster 1970]. On the other hand, I have not tried here to discuss differentiation of rank status, native political organization, ritual, or relationships with extraordinary powers, except where analysis of other aspects of social organization has required it. [The addition of Chap. 7 to Part I elaborates on these topics; Webster 1974.] All of these domains are highly developed in Q’ero culture and generally little understood regarding the highlands. In matters of politics, ritual, and the supernatural the Q’eros are as reticent with outsiders as they are about litigation and resolution of moral problems. However, the analytic categories of family, kinship, and affinity comprise an integral social whole from the native point of view, and are furthermore obscured to the analyst by tenuous extension and continual movement over distances and altitudes. In the conventional dismembering of the social whole that is necessary for systematic analysis, I try to indicate how these aspects of social organization merge. These relationships are most apparent in the ritual occasions which collate the life cycle and the seasonal cycle of Q’ero, and it is in this concrete perspective that each chapter [Part I, Chaps. 5, 6, and 7] is grounded. In Q’ero, as in other societies, social organization tends to be most revealingly exposed in the interplay of social ideal, pragma, and actual behavior that is often staged in such ritual occasions [or celebrations]. Finally in each chapter, I consider the ecosystematic implications of some of the forms of domestic group, kingroup, and marriage pattern which emerge from the discussion. In many further respects, comprehension of the local ecosystem is prerequisite to understanding the community social organization. But as the

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outermost layers of social organization are penetrated by analysis, the community again appears less an ecosystematic reflex, and increasingly takes the form of a social system responding primarily to a cultural heritage and a social context. Implicit in [these] discussions is a social system which is adapted to the habitat through opposite structural tendencies. On the one hand, the ecosystem in general requires the fragmentation and dispersion of the community in space, and social organization is congruent with this requirement. Primary domiciles are separated into numerous isolated hamlets and homesteads; subsistence requires continuous mobility, transhumance, and frequent translocation between hamlets; and all community reunions must be organized in a ritual center that is usually unoccupied. [emphasis added] On the other hand, adaptation of the social organization to the habitat also clearly involves a countervailing tendency to cohere despite the centripetal influences of the ecosystem. The original coalescence of the community as an integral social organization was probably precipitated by the few aspects of the ecosystem which nevertheless tend to focus the population: the system of intervalley passes, the converging topography, and the increasingly restricted and isolated areas amenable to Andean tuber and maize cultivation. Expressions of this coherence are a shared political and ritual tradition socially separate from adjacent native communities, and prevalent exogamy between the constituent valleys of the community that reverses to prevalent endogamy at its borders. Congruence with the divergent structure of the ecosystem obscures the community as a physical whole, but cohesion despite it thrusts the social system into a prominence perhaps not so clear in a less varied and extensive habitat.

PART I

The Social Organisation of a Native Andean Community (1969–1977)

CHAPTER 1

The South Central Highlands and the Q’ero Cultural Region: An Ethnic Enclave

[For preview of each chapter in Part I, see Original Introduction to Part I (1972) in frontmatter]

1   Area Geography and the Precontact Situation The Andean highlands of southern Peru and northern Bolivia have evidently long been a distinctive culture area. In recent prehistory, at least, the Tiahuanacan and subsequent Incan cultural fluorescences originated here. The dialects of Quechua in the area bear a close affinity to each other but contrast with those of the highlands of central and northern Peru. Cultural distinctiveness of the area may respond to its ecological distinctiveness: the flanks of the cordillera, expansive high plateaus (puna), and altiplano of the Lake Titicaca region have a much higher mean altitude than Andean highlands to the north or south, yet intermontane valleys of the area drop to temperate middle altitudes; the whole highland complex of this area declines precipitously into Pacific coastal plains or the upper Amazon basin within relatively short distances to the southwest and northeast. Developing tribal groups probably thrived in isolated regions where multiple access to the highly fragmented habitat encouraged diversification of resources. Early domestication of llama and alpaca, two native camelids adapted to the high puna, and development of a wide variety of tubers, adapted to high and middle altitudes, furnished key staples.

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 S. Webster, Returning to Q’ero, Palgrave Studies in Anthropology of Sustainability, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-04972-9_1

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Preservation of the tubers and [7] meat by desiccation in the regular frosts and dry air of the higher altitudes rendered these staples dependable resources. The eventual adaptation of corn and irrigation to the highlands probably greatly increased the yield of grain crops in the intermontane valleys, and helped to precipitate there the development of integrated political systems based on wider social and economic exchange between still more diverse ecological zones. 1 The Q’eros are apparently one of the remnants of an early mosaic of tribal groups likely to have populated this area before political consolidation. The community in which my research was primarily based occupies several converging valleys, but is only one of several communities sharing the Q’ero culture (Fig.  1.1). These several communities extend over a region occupying some 1700 square kilometers of the ceja de la montaña (outer flanks of the Andes, or “eyebrow” overlooking the upper Amazon basin) primarily in Paucartambo Province, Department of Cuzco. Geographically, the Q’ero region is located on the north[west]ern flanks of the Ayakachi (“corpse-salt” [see Fig. 8.2]), an isolated knot of 51–5400-­ meter (17–18,000’) peaks and glaciers adjunct to the vast Cordillera Vilcanota. The headwaters of the Madre de Dios and the Imamburi, tributaries which join the Amazon in western Brazil, descend [north]eastward from these flanks. The Q’ero basin extends from the icefields and rolling pastures of the Ayakachi, down several converging gorges to restricted but arable valleys at 32–3700 meters (10,500–12,300’) and then finally through steep and dense montane foliage to the selva (subtropical jungle) at 1800 meters (6000’). The distance involved is only about 30 kilometers. The descent is so precipitous that one can walk (or at least the Q’eros can) the trails from glaciers and alpaca pastures to the jungle clearings and cornfields in a single day, traversing a vast array of ecologically diverse zones. [9] The region is about 130 kilometers due east of the Vilcanota Valley, the major intermontane basin in which Cuzco and its outlying centers developed, but has probably always been rather isolated from main routes of commerce and communication. The massif of the Ayakachi [see Fig.  8.2] has limited access to or from the region on the west, and the main route through the eastern cordillera from the Vilcanota Valley to the montaña of the Madre de Dios passes more than 90 kilometers to the north[east]. About 50 kilometers to the south, a major route has been developed only within the last 40 years. No communication at all occurs to or from the [north], which is engulfed in virtually impenetrable subtropical jungle. The difficulty which these geographic features pose against

1  THE SOUTH CENTRAL HIGHLANDS AND THE Q’ERO CULTURAL REGION… 

Fig. 1.1  South Central Andes and the Q’ero cultural region

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access of exploitive interests from the outside, as well as communication and commerce of the Q’ero natives with the outside, is undoubtedly a significant factor in their cultural distinctiveness. This distinctiveness may be rooted in some aboriginal tribal group which antedates the rise of the prehistoric regimes, but it is more certainly a response to the particular habitat, its relative isolation, and the social and economic influences which have been brought to bear on the cultural region since that time. From the point of view of these factors, the Q’ero cultural region is an ethnic enclave. No accurate maps yet exist of the eastern and northeastern slopes of the Cordillera Oriental in southern Peru. From the patchwork of estimates available, I suspect that some ecologically comparable situations exist along the outward flanks of the huge cordilleras of Urubamba and Vilcanota, and perhaps those of Carabaya, Aricoma, and Apolobamba further to the southeast. These heavily glaciated ranges may harbor conservative native communities which, relatively insulated from interference and acculturation, might carry on a similarly diversified and autonomous subsistence. Reports of travelers suggest that such communities do indeed exist along the northeast flanks of the Urubamba, isolated from the few routes which penetrate that cordillera, and situated where the descent from the high frigid puna to the low subtropical montaña is sufficiently rapid that a single community may have access to the resources of both extremities.2 On the other hand, confirmation is lacking of any such communities behind the Cordillera Vilcanota. Descriptions indicate that the communities here are not economically self-sufficient but rather specialized in herding and production of ch’uñu and ch’arki, and dependent on exchange with distant communities for their corn and even for part of their potatoes. I have been told that small adjunct ranges similar to the Ayakachi lie off the northeast of the Cordillera Vilcanota, separating it from the final descent of the puna to productively arable altitudes. Community ecosystems comparable to Q’ero may be found here. Further to the south in this region, in the vicinity of Ayabamba where access to lower altitudes is not precluded, Chavez Ballon has reported one community which maintains a diversified and apparently self-sufficient economy. Whereas self-sufficiency is promoted by proximity of ecologically diverse zones, it appears that greater distance between such zones may force communities into trade for staples not obtainable in their own domain, precipitating further economic and social integration. This situation appears to obtain in the puna of Qanchis and Chumbivilcas (also

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provinces of Cuzco Department) and the puna of the Departments of Puno, Ayacucho, and Apurimac. A corollary of the economic interdependence of dispersed communities in these situations has probably been their integration in the prehistoric highland political systems, and, since contact, their early incorporation into the colonial system of development and exploitation. More rapid acculturation into the national cultural milieu of Peru has followed. A deduction one may draw from this perspective is that geographic isolation is a necessary but not sufficient condition of the ethnic enclave in the south Central Andes. Thoroughly westernized mestizo communities may be encountered in even the most remote recesses of the cordillera. Among the many other conditions apparently necessary for the continuity of an ethnic enclave seems to be sufficient ecological fragmentation of the community domain to offer access to key staples and support a high degree of economic self-sufficiency. Under the prehistoric regimes the Q’eros may have occupied a similarly marginal position, contributing little to and consuming few products of the state economy. There is some evidence, however, that their integration was somewhat more firm under the Incas than it has been since that era. Whereas nothing but narrow and infrequently traveled trails penetrate the region now, a few remains of roads and ramps built in the style of the Incas imply that access was once more frequent. Aspects of the Q’ero material culture and dress reflect influence of that period, especially the unku tunic, which is still worn, and the simp’a hair braid worn until 1945. They are popularly regarded as the most traditional vestige of the “Incas” in Peru and even mythically account themselves as their collateral descendants. Other myths of the Q’eros suggest a period of ruthless control and military occupation under the Incas, and clearly express hatred and contempt of them [Yabar; see en 4]. Exploitative pressures since that time have apparently been weak, and it seems that the Q’eros have accommodated themselves similarly, accepting nominal demands for tribute of labor and goods as part of their natural situation. Even within the last century, under the dominion of a distant hacienda system, the Q’eros managed to suffer only nominal exploitation and control. In the opinion of the former owners, a more serious hacienda regime would not have been worth the trouble necessary to operate it. The Q’ero region has not offered sufficient potential for development of a surplus beyond subsistence needs of the indigenes to warrant breasting the problems of control in such a remote and uncooperative community.

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Ruins in a building style characterized by Peruvian archeologists as “provincial Incaic” are located in various sites throughout the Q’ero region. Ruins and place-names suggest that the central village of Q’ero, Q’ero Llaqta (“Q’ero place”), was originally located near Hatun Q’ero (“Big Q’ero”), across the valley from the present location (see Figs. 1.2 and 1.3). An arrangement of high close terraces, small corrals, and small circular house walls portray a distinctive former settlement pattern since modified. Most former living sites such as this are located on protected terrain, and in close association with a series of defensive redoubts built up a steep ridgeline with severely restricted approaches. It appears that at one time, probably during the Incaic and early Colonial periods, hostilities and raids dictated the settlement pattern. A likely deduction from this is that political integration with concurrent highland regimes was weak, setting the scene for raids upon Q’ero from the outside, or between the communities of the cultural region. One can speculate, once again guided by the contemporary ecology and social organization of the Andean highlands, that early political integration was limited to major intermontane valley systems. Control of some regions of the extensive puna, and parts of the ceja de la montaña like the geographic enclave still occupied by the Q’ero, was probably never fully consolidated. Contemporary mestizo (westernized Peruvian) culture dominates the main valley systems of the highlands, leaving expanses of puna only partly acculturated, and not extending into the montaña until relatively recently. An ethnic taxonomy and corresponding attitudes are still employed by the Q’eros, probably reflecting such an earlier mosaic of ethnic enclaves. Qeshwa and Qolla designate two distinct ethnic groups, apparently representing the two highland regimes with which the Q’eros have had contact since prehistoric times [see Fig. 1.1]. The Qolla are the people of the puna of Vilcanota and the Lake Titicaca altiplano, i.e., the present-day highland province of Qanchis and Department of Puno. Contemporary contact with these people is limited to long distance trade arrangements through itinerant merchants, or occasionally undertaken by the Q’eros themselves. These merchants are considered runa (“people,” i.e., native in culture) rather than misti (mestizo), and are received with dignity and relaxed hospitality manifesting little suspicion and evasion. The character of the trade relations, dealing largely in native staples, as well as the enthusiastic acceptance of these merchants, suggests long-established patterns.

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Fig. 1.2  Q’ero basin

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Fig. 1.3  Q’ero upper basin

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The contemporary Qeshwa—in the ethnic taxonomy of the Q’eros— occupy all the major highland valley systems of their area (Vilcanota and Urubamba, Paucartambo and Mapacho, and Imamburi), surrounding their own ethnic region on all sides except the east. The Qeshwa are misti (mestizo) or asinda runa (“hacienda people,” partly native in culture but acculturated by a hacienda regime) rather than runa. They are treated with reserved hospitality, ambiguous deference, obsequiousness, or evasion and hostility, depending on how mistiyasqa (“mestizoized”) they are perceived to be. The ethnic classification Qeshwa refers to the contemporary dominant and exploitive culture of the highland mestizo, but probably originated with the first highland regime that consolidated control of the main valley system. (Qeshwa, in Quechua, means “braided” or “twisted,” referring especially to the broader and lower riverine valleys which take this shape.) Since then the meaning has apparently been extended through the colonial era, referring to successive regimes occupying the most lucrative territory and efficient routes of communication. The potentially exploitive role of these regimes explains the reserved attitudes of the Q’eros toward people they perceive as Qeshwa. The version of the nak’ah (“butcherer”) myth known among the Q’eros suggests, however, that the misti is still perceived as a merely potential threat, manarah chayankuchu Q’eroman (having “not yet arrived in Q’ero”). 3 Ch’unchu (“savage”) is a generic term which the Q’eros use to designate any of the tribal peoples of the montaña, all of which are perceived as ethnically distinct from and inferior to any native highland group. Ch’unchu and misti are interesting antitheses to runa, both perceived as “non-people,” but for apparently different reasons, being uncivilized in different ways. Aside from the three large and heterogeneous ethnic types Qolla, Qeshwa, and Ch’unchu, the Q’ero employ a great variety of terms (e.g., Ch’uchu, the relatively unacculturated runa of the provinces of Chumbivilcas and Espinar [and the Ch’ilqa Qolla of Kanchis Province]) designating other ethnic divisions, based on occasional contact or hearsay. The term Q’ero constitutes a further type in the Q’eros’ own ethnic nomenclature. The term is often familiar throughout the Department of Cuzco, being vaguely known to refer to a region in the province of Paucartambo, and a group of indigenes who are isolated, barbaric in their living habits and beliefs, disrespectful in service and recalcitrant in labor conscription, but adulated for their magnificent weavings and tenacious adherence to costumbres de la Incaica. However, throughout the province of Paucartambo, and among the Q’eros themselves, a distinction is made

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among several dispersed communities within the cultural region of Q’ero ([Fig. 1.1]). Only one of these communities is itself called Q’ero (the location of most of my research). The other communities of the Q’ero cultural region are Hapu, Kiku, Totorani, Markachea, Kallakancha, K’achupata, and Mollemarca. Each of these communities is composed of several hamlets dispersed in the headwaters of one or more valleys draining the Ayakachi Range. Q’ero is the most central and isolated community of the region, and has the largest population [see Figs. 8.2, 8.3, 8.4, 9.1, 9.2]. Each of these communities in the cultural region has developed a comparable adaptation to a parallel series of ecological niches. Their culture tends to be homogeneous in general social organization, dialect affinity, interpersonal, family, and community ritual, weaving technique and motifs, and dress. They furthermore intermarry and carry on economic exchange with one another, although the great preponderance of this activity remains within the confines of each component community. All of these measures of cultural homogeneity tend to weaken in proportion to proximity to the highways and mestizo pueblos on the outer peripheries of the cultural region. Their radical modification at the boundaries of the region marks the penumbra of the ethnic enclave. Within the cultural region, on the other hand, the contemporary native communities are socially distinguishable from one another on the basis of a strongly prevalent endogamy, independently operating native political and ritual institutions, and relative economic self-sufficiency. The early distinctiveness of each community is suggested in their separate names, said by previous owners to be mentioned in land titles dating back at least a few centuries. A separate self-consciousness accompanies each name. As I mentioned in the Preface, the inhabitants simply identify themselves to strangers as “from Q’ero” (or “Hapu,” “Kiku,” “Markachea” etc.), frustrating any attempt to locate their primary domicile in any one of the several widely separated hamlets comprising each of these communities. They furthermore tend to avoid marriage with other communities of the cultural region, sometimes saying that chayman warmichakuspan hakaypi wañukunampis (“marrying there, one will die there”). There is some evidence that colonial and early hacienda regimes may have promoted, at least superficially, a more unified superstructure of leadership nominally uniting the several communities of the region in a hierarchy with the community of Q’ero in superordinate position. Furthermore, alternate terms still employed for some offices in the early twentieth century suggest that these more centralized roles may have been instituted under the Inca regime. Although no longer in currency, the Quechua terms Inka Qapah

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and Inka Pampachaq (“powerful” Inca and “judicial” Inca) were used synonymously for the Spanish mandon (“overseer”) and alcalde (“mayor”) as late as 1922.4 Soon after the nineteenth century, the hacienda regime by then nominally controlling the region was divided into zones congruent with the constituent communities, and this weakly instituted political super-structure apparently has since given way to the separate systems of each community. [18]

2  The Colonial Era and Hacienda Dominion Although legal title to the Q’ero region may have existed since early colonial times, hacienda dominion apparently did not begin until sometime in the nineteenth century. Colonial and Republican documents regarding the region may exist, but I was not able to locate them in the short time that I devoted to that end.5 By about the middle of the nineteenth century a powerful family of the provincial capital of Paucartambo had gained control of the entire cultural region of Q’ero, as well as some of the fertile qeshwa of the Paucartambo valley, comprising more than one-quarter of the huge province. It is possible that prior to that time, throughout the colonial period, the Q’eros had maintained at least de facto control of their land. I would speculate that the sixteenth-century institution of encomienda (a system of labor exploitation, tribute exaction, and Christianization) was extended to Q’ero. This was sufficient to introduce to them a few rituals, symbols, and dogmas of Catholicism which they continue to practice independently, as an adjunct to their native religion.6 Aside from this important change however, the requirements of tribute in kind and mita (repartimiento or conscripted labor in service of the provincial parish) would simply have been accommodations congruent to those previously tendered the Inca regime. The labor scarcity suffered in the Viceroyalty through the seventeenth century (a result of the decimation of the indigenous population the previous century in epidemics and the brutalities of encomienda) probably resulted in increased pressure on the Q’eros in form of periodic conscription and peonage in the vicinity of Paucartambo, but it appears likely that they were left a domestic refuge in their own remote region. [20] The meager agricultural potential of the Q’ero region may not have been coveted until the nineteenth century, at which time private dominion was probably extended more for closer control of the labor resource than for exploitation of the land. Present distribution of agricultural plots in Q’ero indicates that the natives never relinquished control of their better

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sections of terrain, and that asinta surti (hacienda fields) were limited to scattered plots of mediocre land. The distribution of these tribute plots is such that the term “allocation” is appropriate, implying considerable initiative remaining with the natives.7 It appears that even the hacienda system of the twentieth century had to compromise, at least with the more powerful Q’ero families, for the sake of assuring some cooperation in their exactions. Nor were mayordomos, mestizo overseers representative of the land owner and resident on the hacienda, ever instituted in the management of Q’ero. Rather than employ outside foremen, one of the Q’eros themselves was periodically appointed mandon, and charged with the organization and supervision of the hacienda owner’s orders. This was likewise an effort to avoid developing undue hostilities among the Q’eros against their hacendado, and maintain a delicate balance between a profitable exploitation and prudent concession for the sake of cooperation. During the dominion of the Yabar family in the nineteenth and early twentieth century, the more remote communities of Q’ero were probably controlled primarily for access to a constant labor pool. This in turn was used for the efficient and virtually costless exploitation of the more productive qeshwa haciendas in the broad valleys nearer Paucartambo. In about 1920 the cultural region of Q’ero was divided up into haciendas congruent with its constituent communities, and distributed among the several Yabar sons. At this time attentions to agricultural and livestock production within each of the new haciendas may have increased, but even in the 1950s a prime concern was the transfer of manpower for short periods, especially at harvest time, to the more productive and less remote haciendas. In Q’ero and the other more remote communities, the productive efforts of the hacienda management were restricted to potatoes and their dehydrated forms, and the pasturing of small herds of cows, sheep, and pigs. The labor requirements for these hacienda enterprises apparently were not large.8 Although the labor resources of the Q’eros are extremely extended in their own economy, they met these requirements by rotating routine hacienda duties between family members, and assigning special duties to community members on a rotational basis. [22] Apparently there was never an attempt made to exploit the prime concern of the native economy: alpaca and llama herds. Nor was maize, a key staple of Q’ero economy, ever seriously exploited. Efficient hacienda management was practicable only in the middle altitudes of Q’ero, because convenient access to the region was geographically restricted to this zone. Production of potatoes and middle altitude livestock was therefore most

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accessible to hacienda supervision, and consequently the most practical form of tribute which could be expected; on the other hand, production of alpacas, llamas, and maize, being at extreme removes in opposite directions from the point of hacienda access, could not be efficiently controlled in the face of native recalcitrance. This limitation of the hacienda regime was probably also a concession to the Q’eros, trading them relatively unmolested independence in their primary domiciles (the pastures in the upper reaches of the region), in exchange for continued tribute of some agricultural produce and supervision of the hacienda livestock. Restraint on the part of a hacienda regime, and containment of its affects and demands by the natives, are incongruous with the general history of the hacienda in Peru. Usually throughout the Andes, the pre-­ emption of native lands and the resulting peonage and impoverishment have left the indigenous population powerless to resist exploitation and autocratic land-owners unlimited in their license to pursue it. Native culture in such situations usually atrophies, and native social organization, insofar as it is not a reflex of the hacienda administration, becomes the institutionalization of defense postures for self-preservation. But the institution of the hacienda has not always had this effect. Especially relevant to the situation of Q’ero, I believe, is that ownership of the Latin American hacienda in general, and especially the Andean hacienda, was not a rationalistic enterprise managed for the production of goods, but directed importantly to maintenance of upper-class status requisites. These were primarily not capital accumulation and expansion, but rather merely land ownership per se, control of sufficient manpower to insure the avoidance of personal labor, and leisure to receive an education and pursue a variety of bureaucratic and social roles. Apparently in the case of the Q’ero cultural region, or at least in the case of Q’ero itself, the vast extent of the holdings controlled by the Yabar family insured maintenance of these requisites without the necessity of bringing the land and population fully under the regime. The family remained primarily in Paucartambo and even more distant Cuzco, dominating the provincial class structure. When ownership was divided among sons, many had taken up professional status and moved to Lima (the owner of Q’ero until sometime in the 1940s was a dentist in Lima), having even less reason to mobilize the potential of their land-holdings. Under such negligent regimes as this, native hacienda communities may frequently retain more of their aboriginal culture and social organization than “independent” communities which are not under a hacienda dominion. These latter communities often either become pools

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of effectively bonded labor through the loss of their lands, or acculturate rapidly through the mobilization of their efforts to resist this by legitimate means. Similarly, during the early post-contact period the resisting enclaves of Incas tended to acculturate more rapidly, while those who passively accepted pacification and the colonial regime were often able to continue their way of life with little substantial change.

3  Contemporary Highland Society and the Accommodated Tribal Community [paragraph deleted] [26] Contemporary highland Peruvian culture is often characterized as mestizo by outsiders, especially those of the more westernized culture on the Peruvian coast and in some other Andean countries. The term denotes mixed blood, but in popular usage connotes cultural mixture as well as biological, the two being confused. Biological homogenization has proceeded rapidly, but a multiplicity of cultural distinctions has been promoted by the rapid acculturation and social mobility of the last few decades. The cultural distinctions are complex in any given region of the highlands, reflecting local social organization and rendered ambiguous by defensive identifications and blurred racial attributes nevertheless perceived as important criteria. To admit one’s cultural identity as an indio in the highlands is to accept pariah or absolute lower-class status. The Q’eros and many other natives of the area call themselves runa (“people”), and in this way consider themselves outside the highland class structure. All highland Peruvians with claim to status in the class system use the term indio to denigrate others with more equivocal claim, and the Limeños or costeños (people of Lima or the coast) frequently lump all serranos (people of the highlands) together as indios, irremediably barbaric. In analytic usage social scientists have adopted the popular indio, cholo, mestizo, and blanco for social class analysis generally throughout the Andes, but have found that the same term can denote culturally diverse classes in different regions, as well as bear the ambiguities of self-conscious class mobility within any particular region. In most general definition, this series of terms denotes a cultural continuum, distinguishable only vaguely into three or more classes, between native Andean and Hispanic-European culture. The extremes are only ideal types: even the most culturally indigenous community bears effects of the pervasive Spanish colonization and 450 years of contact, and blanco (“white”) is used only in obsequious

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reference or personal conceit. In the south Central Andes, indio (Indian), or indigena (native) is popularly extended to any local lowest class whether natives, hacienda peones, or servile urban statuses. However, it is best reserved in scholarly usage for members of a native cultural orientation which adheres by preference to agrarian self-sufficiency and unspecialized enterprise, traditional forms of education, customary dress, ritual use of coca leaf, native monolingualism in Quechua, distinctive values and principles of social organization, and participation in a system of prestige and leadership based on native concepts of power and wealth [added to Part 1 as Ch. 7]. (I usually use the term “native” with reference to this more specific definition of cultural orientation, and in order to avoid the ambiguities of indio, indigena, or Indian, all loaded with confusions of stigma or provenience.) Cholo denotes members of the complex transitional cultural sector who have determined to divest themselves of indio attributes and undertake competition in the mestizo’s own schedule of values, including formal education, non-agrarian occupation, commercial enterprise, participation in national politics, and other attributes of western culture. Mestizo denotes the members of a complex of classes who have achieved these values in varying degrees. Mestizo and indio are relatively stable statuses: the mestizo has achieved his sought values to some degree consonant with his given social milieu, and the native, either through poverty of means, contentment, or a wise preference, does not even compete in this alien schedule of values. Transition from the status of indio to cholo involves a psychological revolution, even inversion, of values; transition from cholo to mestizo is impeded by time and poverty of means, and lack of recognized name, developed education, capital, enterprising contacts, and the westernized sophistication of the mestizo. [28] Utilizing these loose cultural distinctions, a provisional typology of south Central Andean communities can be constructed for the purpose of defining the social organization of Q’ero in comparison with that of other communities of the area. The highland pueblo community may be of various sizes and is more or less urbanized, evincing broad economic specialization, community services, and a stratified social organization of cholos and mestizos, with the latter dominating the local economy and polity. The cultural orientation of the pueblo community is heterogeneous, with the predominant mestizo or westernized schedule of values shading into vestiges of native cultural orientation among lower-class cholos resident in the community, and others whose provenience is from nearby peasant pueblos, variously termed aldeas, anexos, or parcialidades. These latter

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communities are essentially of the same pueblo type, with a stronger agrarian constituency, a greater majority of cholos, and fewer specializations and services, but with these similarly dominated by a small class of mestizos. In Eric Wolf’s terms [see Part I Bibliography], these peripheral peasant pueblos may evince a “closed corporate” social organization, whereas the focal pueblo communities are “open.” The polar type of contemporary Andean settlement is the native community. It is outside the economic status of peasant satellite to the pueblo community, purely agrarian and relatively self-sufficient in subsistence, without economic specialization or community services other than traditional forms, and adherent by preference to the native cultural orientation outlined above. The social structure of the native community further differs in the absence of a dominant mestizo or cholo class, however small, and hierarchical organization by rank rather than stratification [see Ch. 7]. This rank order is determined by competition in the distinctively native values previously mentioned, and the mestizo schedule of values may actually be rejected. This type of community tends to remain culturally homogeneous because any individuals who, through various acculturative influences, adopt the mestizo orientation of values (i.e., become cholos) either see fit to leave, or are ostracized from the community. A third type of settlement is the hacienda community, comprised of indios and cholos. It is usually too dependent on an external polity and economy to be a native community, and too indigenous in cultural orientation to be a pueblo. Although the diversity of community types under a hacienda regime is apparently great, I suspect that the administrative and economic structure of the hacienda management usually is an equivalent of the dominant classes of a pueblo community, pre-empting much of the social organization of the native culture. On the other hand, as mentioned above, this same superstructure may function as a buffer against acculturative influences, perpetuating aspects of the native cultural orientation which are not inconsistent with the hacienda regime. The perpetuation of conservative culture may also be promoted by the regime’s prohibition of formal education and migrant labor, and protection from military conscription. These last three factors are probably the most significant acculturative forces in the highlands. [30] Q’ero does not fit easily into this typology. Until recently it has been, at least nominally, a hacienda community, but nevertheless much of its native culture and social organization have been left intact. It is largely economically independent, purely generalized agrarian in subsistence, and

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completely without economic specializations. It is culturally homogeneous in all the respects enumerated above for the native cultural orientation, admitting virtually none of the mestizo cultural orientation and the consequent social stratification. Q’ero remains essentially a native community, as though its native culture had been insulated from outside acculturative influences by the hacienda dominion, but yet had escaped the debilitation of social organization likely to result from a hacienda regime. On the other hand, Q’ero has one modern community service, a school and mestiza teacher which has been more or less established since 1958, and drills a minority of the Q’ero children in Spanish (the official national language, called Castellano), catechism, and some other aspects of the national culture. There is also a certain restricted amount of economic dependency on and production for the outside. Furthermore, one or two individuals whose deviant behavior leans toward choloficacion have appeared. But as will be seen, these aberrations from the ideal type have so far had negligible effect on the basic native cultural orientation of Q’ero. I distinguish two further analytic types as subclasses of the native community: accommodated tribal and marginal peasant communities. [parts deleted] Q’ero, as an actual native community, could be examined from either point of view. It could be seen as either basically a tribal society which has accommodated in various ways the peasantizing influences of the mestizo society which surrounds it, or it could be examined from the point of view that it is on the margin of peasantization, having compromised its economic and political autonomy rather than merely accommodating it to outside forces. The balance of the evidence seems to suggest, however, the Q’ero is best seen as an accommodated tribal society. The net effect of a diversified subsistence strategy and the self-­sufficiency which it supports has been the maintenance of the Q’ero community outside the expanding provincial network of peasant production and dependency. The Q’eros utilize the products of a wide array of ecological zones, extending their own ecological niche to the limits of their ability to control it. The alpacas and llamas raised in the high pasture zone transport burdens and provide meat, wool, clothing, bedding, fertilizer, wealth, status, and capital for trading. The tuber crops of the middle altitudes furnish 80% of the diet. The maize raised in the lower extensions of the region is a necessity in ritual, and, like the other vegetables raised there, important in diet and exchange. Details of this adaptation will be discussed more fully in Chaps. 3 and 4. This diversified subsistence strategy produces almost everything the inhabitants need for consumption, and enables

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them to remain relatively independent of outside sources of supply. Maintenance of a largely autonomous economy is probably essential to the maintenance of Q’ero as a native community. Although maintenance of the community itself is not a conscious purpose of the subsistence strategy, intention of independence and frugality constitute its individual expression. A Q’ero will say “Why should I buy corn when I can grow it?” or “One has no time for journeys outside if he attends to his labors here.” He sanctions with overtones of moral obligation the full utilization of the potentials of their domain, and the full extension of labor resources to carry it out. Their reasons tend to be straightforwardly pragmatic: “Getting something from the Qeshwa always involves a loss in the bargain, as well as a long trip; raising it here only costs us our labor.” The Q’eros are also aware of the compromises which adjacent native communities of the cultural region have had to make, and their consequent loss of economic and social independence. In the communities of Totorani and Hapu, on either side of Q’ero, the loss of control over the maize producing zone has led to migrant labor and dependence on outside sources for this component of the diet also crucial in native ritual. In the case of Hapu, loss of control of some high pastures has led to impoverishment of the alpaca herds and perhaps as a consequence to the general impoverishment of the community (and the labor resources necessary to maintain the production of maize), migratory labor and its acculturative effects, and demise of the native ritual cycle. The tendency in the mestizo economy is toward specialization in particular ecological zones, exchange of products, and interdependence. The accommodated tribal community faces the threat of conversion into a marginal peasant community through loss of some of its key resources and increasing motivation to develop others into an exchangeable commodity. The Q’eros, through maintaining a diversified strategy of subsistence, have so far avoided this. [33] Social intercourse with the outside has also been limited by general endogamy (78%) within the community. Within the memory of the Q’eros, no marriage residence or emigration has ever been established outside the cultural region by a member of the community. Nor do any individuals of this outside origin now live in Q’ero, and none is remembered. The few Q’eros who have moved out of the community are mostly females, have done so through marriage to another native of Q’ero culture, and have settled in another native community of the cultural region. Only a very few Q’eros have moved out of the community without marrying outside; all of these have been moves to nearby native communities

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of the region and motivated by events such as ostracism or political incompatibility. Similarly, of the few individuals who have moved into the Q’ero community, all are from other native communities of the Q’ero cultural region, virtually all have done so through marriage to a resident of the community, and almost all of them have been females. These patterns will later be examined more closely with special attention to structures of affinity, but it is clear that concourse in this regard is negligible with the non-native outside, and even restricted with the adjacent native communities of the cultural region. [deleted parts] There is no prescriptive endogamic rule in Q’ero, nor is there specific sanction against migration out of or into the community, either with regard to the native cultural region or the mestizo outside. However, there are diffuse sanctions against involvement. The term purih (“walker,” especially migrant laborer) may express a certain ambivalent admiration, but always connotes general disapproval. Similarly, marrying outside, even to an adjacent native community, is often ironically expressed as dying there. The austerity of the Q’ero material household is a further expression of their economic independence from outside supply, as well as a necessity in their mobile way of life. Necessary equipments of the household are only the house itself (rock and thatch), a q’oncha (clay hearth), maran and tonawa (stone slab and grinding rocker), mak’akuna and putukuna (cooking pots and eating bowls of fired clay), woven sleeping blankets and unshorn hides for beds, and several types of homemade tools, some with iron blades. Aside from the house, hearth, and grinding stone, some of these items are usually carried by the family in its cyclic rounds from the primary domicile to the several dispersed camping huts. All the items are made by the Q’eros themselves except the pottery, which is purchased with wool or cash in rare special trips to distant traditional fairs, and the iron axe, foot-plow, hoe and knife blades, which are purchased in one or another distant mestizo pueblo. Both of these highly valued items endure generations, the pottery usually passing from the elder mother of a household, and the tools from her spouse, on to its succeeding occupants. All adult males and most females possess a pair of the ubiquitous tire-tread sandals purchased from merchants or in regional markets; however, these are used primarily in traveling the rough trails, rarely being worn in other chores or in leisure, and endure for at least a few years. For a further appreciation of the material household, one must also recognize the things it conspicuously lacks; tables, beds; manufactured blankets, rope, clothing, and shoes; eating utensils, primus stoves and transistor radios, kerosene

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globe lanterns; combs, jewelry, mirrors, and soap. The rarity of scrap rags, paper, bottles, or cans is striking. All of the above items are ubiquitous in mestizo or peasant pueblos, and commonly found in even the poor cholo household. In the rare instances that some piece of manufactured clothing, shoes (I have seen only a few pairs of plastic ones), eating utensils, primus stoves (I have seen one) or kerosene lanterns, mirrors, combs, soap, bottles, or cans are possessed by the Q’eros, they are kept out of sight and in fact, rarely used. The only time I have seen western (manufactured) clothing or shoes worn was in fiesta, or fotbol (soccer) costume, or jest in private; that is to say, they appear only in situations licensed by acknowledged misti origin or atmosphere of burlesque, even ritual reversal.9 Occasional but dispensable household equipment in addition to the indispensable items listed above is limited to pottery urpu (large pots for the preparation of axa, the fermented maize ritual drink), q’ero (the carved wooden goblets from which axa is drunk, and after which the region is named), homemade wooden locks (apparently Incaic in design) or a modern padlock, a few metal pots, plates, and cups, a small can containing a wick as a kerosene lamp, scissors, needles, matches (but fire is frequently carried in embers), and candles (but camelid fat is burned by preference for ritual purposes, if it is available). In general, possession of several of these items denotes superior wealth, and they are frequently borrowed by poorer families lacking them. From this brief view of the typical Q’ero material household it is apparent that non-consumable needs dependent on outside sources of supply are few. Those which are so obtained tend to endure for very long periods of time, precluding necessity of their replacement perhaps through generations. When extraordinary items are purchased, it is usually in a profligate moment, and the rare use of even such items as mirrors, certainly of manufactured clothing or lanterns, entails regret and recriminations. Their display, unlike such conspicuousness in cholo and mestizo society, suggests to other Q’eros foolishness rather than opulence. [36] Commercial enterprise, a pervasive aspect of the mestizo and cholo economy, has been consistently rejected by the Q’eros. No resident of the community sells to another resident goods or services from a capital stock in organized fashion, calculated to yield profit.10 There is no tinta (tienda, or general store), cantina (bar), or other retail center, no matter how rudimentary; nor are there services such as barbering or carpentry, enterprises which are found on nearly every block in the developed mestizo pueblo.

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In fact, there are no salable stocks in Q’ero apart from momentary private surpluses (which might be subject to informal trade or loan), and no peddled services apart from the labor of some very poor Q’eros. The special skills of paqo (shamans) or illarichih (“one who causes dawn or first light,” i.e., a midwife) are sometimes available. However, although a waxch’a (“poor” or “orphan”) may let it be known that his labor services are available in general, the paqo and illarichih reserve their skills for special favors, usually tendered to kin, affines, or neighbors in return for mere recognition and hospitality. Routinely then, each family supplies all of its own needs through a very generalized and wide repertoire of skills sufficient to meet the practical necessities of subsistence and the ideal necessities of spiritual well-being. Adequate flexibility lies in recourse to kin, affines, and neighbors when family resources are momentarily insufficient. If asked why no such specialization has been undertaken by some family, a Q’ero simply answers “There is no time for such things,” or “We are too poor to do that.” Although apparently no Q’ero has yet indulged in business, some clearly have sufficient wealth and leisure to do it if they wish. But the adjacent native community of Kiku has furnished an example of the effects of such behavior. One resident was successful in beginning and maintaining a small retail enterprise in coca leaf, salt, and sugar. He considerably increased his wealth and ability to control the labor of the other families, and since became a virtual kuraqa (cacique or autocratic leader, often favored by outside authorities) of the village, monopolizing key political offices through relatives and mediating many dealings between the outside and the native community. In this way the beginning of a class stratification was formed in the community, and it has been economically and socially exposed to outside exploitation.11 In Q’ero the power and wealth remain distributed among several families, each of which retains the prestige and means to back its moral condemnation of another if the balance appears insecure or if its conventional use appears to be contravened. The rare visitors to the community who are not simply itinerant merchants seem to leave little indelible impression on the Q’eros. I have ascertained most of the visits since 1955 and guessed at those likely before that time. However, most of my information has come from individuals in Cuzco and Paucartambo, not from the Q’eros themselves. Among the Q’eros the visits even of the last 10 or 15 years are remembered only with difficulty, and are rarely the subject of conversation. Certain details, striking them as particularly strange or burlesque, may be recalled. One visitor

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is remembered only as an “eater of raw maize;” he was apparently so exhausted on his arrival that he ravenously ate the first food he saw. Q’ero, due to its notoriety as a particularly remote community “loyal to ancient customs,” has been the object of other extraordinary visits. Most notable was the scientific expedition organized by Dr. Oscar Nuñez del Prado of the University San Abad of Cuzco in 1955; eight specialists visited the community for two weeks, collecting a variety of materials on folklore, social organization, and geography. A filming expedition under the auspices of Limeños and apparently French and Swiss members, entered the region in about 1963 with a retinue of pack horses, equipment, and servants, remaining in the (usually deserted) ritual center village for perhaps over a month and visiting one valley-head hamlet several times in the making of a film with a folkloric theme. All that is usually recalled from this latter visit is the bare fact of the visit, and that water color kits were left as presents for all the children enrolled in school. Some more details are recalled regarding the scientific expedition of 1955, but this is likely due to the general concern and promise created by Dr. Nunez del Prado’s plans (realized in 1964) to motivate the government’s expropriation of the community from the hacienda regime and in behalf of the Q’eros themselves. Since that time there have been several brief visits: John Cohen, a researcher in weaving technique and folk music, short visits by Eduardo DeBary [from Hacienda Ccapana; see Fig.  1.2] in exploration and search of fine examples of Q’ero weaving, and apparently some hikers and explorers. Nothing seems to remain from these several visits except a vague memory and a few anecdotes revealing momentary wonder and speculation. My own visit was of course far more prolonged, and on a few occasions accompanied by my wife and two boys, the first people of this sort ever seen by most of the Q’eros. But aside from the variety of artifacts (mainly axes, sickles, and boys’ clothing) and a greater frequency and distribution of anecdotes, I wonder if my visit will not also soon be effectively forgotten. In some respects the social organization of Q’ero is more fully accommodated to outside influences, and perhaps verging upon peasantization. There is some limited production for the outside, and a degree of dependency upon outside sources for certain consumables. Furthermore, the introduction of some formal schooling and popular sports appears to be slowly initiating individual consciousnesses which are more liable to acceptance of the provincial mestizo customs, and which extend beyond the traditional native view of the world. However, none of these tendencies in

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Q’ero can yet be attributed with the force and influence that they bear in a marginal peasant community. They appear to remain merely accommodations, more or less integrated in the native social organization. [39] Production for outside consumption has been limited largely to tribute, or its modern functional equivalents in hacienda harvests and, now, payments to the state for title to the community land. This tributary economy has developed as an adjunct to the native economy and, as previously discussed, has had very little effect upon its key resources or even the distribution of land. Production labor and special supervisory roles are also dualized in accommodation of tribute requirements. A small surplus of time is eked from the already crowded agricultural cycle by devoting one or two days during each agricultural phase (Chap. 4) to the production of tribute, and a small surplus in family labor is created by detailing one male adult, on a rotational basis, to work during these days. Family labor resources are often overextended in Q’ero, and under conditions of special difficulty a smaller family is exempted from this requirement. Similarly, from the total community labor potential a small surplus pool was established among the adult males when under hacienda dominion. These individuals were charged on a rotational basis with care of the hacienda herds of cows, sheep, and pigs, the processing of potatoes by frost dehydration (in practice both tasks are usually delegated to women or children), or the transportation of the tribute on llamas to its recipient in Paucartambo or Cuzco. These latter two functions continue currently in satisfaction of tribute requirements to the state. In addition to the supervisory roles for the native subsistence strategy (heads of each family or senior brothers) three colonial native statuses were established to organize and coordinate the production of tribute: the mandon, kuntaror, and qollana. These statuses were apparently instituted under the hacienda regime, but perhaps had earlier native equivalents. The mandon was appointed by the landowner for periods of one to five years, and was charged with communication to and from his distant home, and coordination and supervision of the labors of tribute production, processing, and export. The kuntaror (Quechuization of Spanish contador, “accountant”) was similarly appointed, and charged with recording and insuring maintenance of the number of head in the hacienda herds and measures of crop tribute. (He did this until recently with kh’ipu, the aboriginal method of counting with knots on strings.) The qollana (“leader,” in the sense of exemplar) was charged with the organization of (and full expense of feeding and transporting) a special community “labor fiesta” for the benefit of the

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landowner during planting and harvest periods. The segregation of these roles from the leadership of the native subsistence strategy is apparent in the distaste with which most Q’eros viewed their service, and their exclusion from the varayoq (“those with staffs”), a series of service roles by which adult males traditionally achieve prestige in the community [Ch.7]. Although the service of qollana seemed to carry no such stigma, it was recognized as exploitive and discontinued immediately upon expropriation of the hacienda regime. On the other hand, the statuses of mandon and kuntaror have been continued, but their roles are now increasingly superfluous to the native leadership roles of the community. The role of mandon, paralleling the shift of the purpose of surplus labor and tribute production, has been redirected to the coordination of kofertifo (cooperativo) labor for repayment of the land title. However, the coordination of labor and assignment of responsibility for processing, transportation, and sale of the products are tasks being progressively dispersed among the native kamachikuh (“one who causes it to be done”) leadership roles of the community, which enjoy more established legitimacy. This native leadership has perceived that the production and marketing of this special purpose surplus is now compatible with community interests, and accepted it as an extension of their own roles. The role of kuntaror has been superimposed upon a new government status required by Q’ero’s new official position as an independent community. Kuntaror has become confused with kwirnaror (gobernador or teniente gobernador; local representative of the federal polity). The new federal status remains effectively empty because Q’ero has virtually no dealings with the provincial capital in this regard. The official native leadership has apparently always maintained pre-­ eminent jurisdiction in all community matters. This hierarchical group of four or five young and middle-aged men is selected annually by the family leaders of the community and receives official sanction in the provincial center. However, aside from this ceremony, the kamachikuh avoid virtually all dealings with the provincial representatives of federal and local government, delegating any such requirements to subordinates who act as “front men.” Their own allegiance, as well as their legitimacy, is actually based upon their relations with an informal group of elders who in turn have special access to a pantheon of extraordinary powers. The development of certain consumable dependencies on the outside has compromised economic autonomy, gradually encouraging the further growth of tastes satisfiable only through recourse to outside suppliers.

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However, the Q’eros exercise constraint and frugality in this regard, only part of which reflects their limited resources for such purchases. Stigma attaches to any apparent indulgence; for example, although sugar is an accepted private luxury, possession of trago (a cane sugar alcohol drink), candies, or cigarettes appears to exceed the bounds of propriety, especially if not shared immediately. Tiny caches of these items, like the non-­ consumable items of outside origin discussed previously, are kept out of sight if possessed at all. The domain of accepted consumables of outside origin is virtually limited to coca leaf and salt (the preponderance by far), and small amounts of bayeta (homespun wool material), sugar, biscuits, analine dyes (recently replacing many of the natural dyes used for weavings), kerosene (for wick lamps), and a variety of grains grown only in the qeshwa or lower valleys (wheat, barley, wheat flour, haba beans, quinua, peas, and rice). Coca leaf and salt, by far the larger part of the external necessities have probably been acquired from outside sources since far into precontact times, being ritual and dietary necessities unobtainable in the region of Q’ero. These two items are the basis of broad networks of traditional regional interdependence throughout the Andes, having been traded and employed as standards of exchange certainly since the precontact empires, and probably earlier; not even the broad ecological extension of the Q’eros has furnished basis for independence from this ancient aspect of the Andean trade network. Bayeta is received from traveling Qolla merchants on an annual basis, and pottery is replenished as necessary through rare visits to distant fairs specializing in ceramics. [42] The Q’eros could weave their own homespun bayeta from sheep wool and make their own pottery from clays available to them. They offer no explanation for never having done so, contending simply that they have always traded for these items. It is likely that these traditional trades perform a social rather than economic function, and are customs of interdependence of long standing. A similar traditional trade occurs annually between the Q’eros and the Ch’ilqa Qolla of Kanchis Province, natives who come to Q’ero at the time of the Q’ero corn harvest to trade for maize (the Ch’ilqa, like many indigenous groups, live on a high plateau and can raise no maize themselves). The Q’eros annually trade them a small part of their maize harvest for the items which the Ch’ilqa specialize in and carry for exchange: fresh and dried alpaca or llama meat (ch’arki) and wool. In that the Q’eros usually have plenty of meat and wool (they are herders too) but usually only a marginal supply of maize, the exchange is not economic but rather manifestly social, involving visits and gossip

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between runa of widely separated regions and an occasion looked forward to every year. Clearly there is precedence of long tradition for the gradually increasing trade between the Q’eros and the outside. Comerciantes (ambulant cholo merchants) frequently enter the region from outlying pueblos during the rainy season, peddling dependably saleable goods such as coca, salt, and sugar. These are exchanged for wool, or occasionally for money which the Q’ero receive from merchants specializing in the wholesaling of wool. The Q’eros even complain that because they are so isolated there are too few of these merchants, and that their goods are too few. Rumors abound in these peripheral pueblos about how the Q’eros crave the rudiments of material civilization, and an occasional merchant will venture to equip himself with wares beyond the Q’eros’ basic needs, even carrying in bread, kerosene, cigarettes, cane alcohol, pots, or hats. But I have frequently seen such well-equipped merchants turned away. In their conservatism and basic economic independence the Q’eros do not yet offer a market for even such marginal profits as these itinerant salesmen seek. Even the capital in wool and cash available to the Q’eros for a few months of the rainy season, when shearing of the alpacas and llamas is done, is largely already committed to the necessities of weaving clothing, repayment for labor from other Q’eros, and the purchase of coca and salt; usually only a limited surplus is free for purchase of additional items.12 Approximately half way along in the annual cycle, at the time of ripening of the crops cultivated in the lower zone of Q’ero and about the time that purchases from the wool surplus have been exhausted, small surpluses of corn and quantities of uchu (small hot peppers; Spanish: rocoto) furnish the Q’eros with supplementary capital for purchases from the outside. Also at this time dehydrated potatoes are being processed, and their occasional surplus is available for trade. During the dry season merchants’ visits are rare, and this produce along with the accumulation of surplus wool wask’a (braided ropes) is carried out of the region to any of several pueblos. There it is traded, usually with vendors who are familiar and without the mediation of cash, for coca leaf and salt, and small quantities of grains, sugar, bread, and other luxuries. Economic exchange with the outside through comerciantes, buying expeditions, and migrant labor is likely to increase, but slowly. Both motivation and potential surplus are generally lacking. For the Q’ero of average means, specialization in either herds of the upper zone or the crops of the lower zones (potatoes, maize, or peppers) simply means neglect of one

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zone or another, and he must expend any surplus gained in the one for recoup of losses in the other. Apparently none has tried this speculatively, but rather in an attempt to compensate for failure. A few families have temporarily suspended their effort in the maize zone in the hopes of increasing a poor or mediocre herd; the result has usually been increased expenditure in buying the maize necessary for participation in ritual, and in due time a return to the growing of maize. Only one family has entirely left off raising a herd of alpacas and llamas to specialize in the crops of the lower zone, but all surpluses in this case are expended in exchange for fertilizer, meat, transport for their crops, and purchase of his basic necessities; poverty has narrowed their options. Specialization in these cases has reduced the amount of flexible surplus available for trade with the outside. Even the wealthier Q’eros (relative to their own standards) have maintained the diversification of their efforts. In adjacent communities this is not consistently the case; a few very wealthy families in Kiku have foregone the effort to raise maize, and simply purchase it with a surplus of wool. But the Q’eros instead reinvest surplus wool and corn in broadening the base of their power and prestige through increase of their herd, purchase of labor assistance in their management of middle and lower altitude crops, support of ritual expenditures, and expansion of their families through strategic marriages (Chap. 5). [45] Although some of the flexible capital of the wealthier families is diverted toward consumption of outside goods, the primary economic motivation for involvement with the outside appears to be a moderate poverty. Usually this is a fairly stable situation, but in three cases this has resulted in desertion of the effort in the lower zone crops or in the alpaca herding enterprise, compensated by recourse to the outside for sale of migrant labor, purchase of goods outside or procurement from surpluses of other Q’eros, and various other strategies short of return to the traditional diversification of productive effort. Frequent employment outside usually results in further neglect of the continuous effort required in the native subsistence strategy, and leaves the individual no recourse but to involve himself more fully in the mestizo economy. In the few cases where this has occurred so far, the individual has been able to balance the criticism he receives for this “wandering” (puripurillay) and neglect of the subsistence tradition by gaining prestige through his relative sophistication in dealing with mestizo bureaucrats and merchants. These individuals have undertaken a role which is increasingly necessary for the community in its gradual involvement with the outside, and one or two of them have aroused community criticism.

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The main motivator of eventual involvement with the mestizo outside is the small primary school established in the community since 1958. At its inception the school was not accepted by the majority of the community and was located in one of the valleys of the basin. Since this time it has gained wider acceptance, and has been moved to the more convenient location of the ritual center. However, this acceptance continues to be ambivalent. Although about one-half of the children of school age are matriculated, the attendance rarely reaches one-half of those matriculated. Of the students who attend more or less regularly most leave school after a year. The teacher is more dedicated than most such mestizo teachers in native schools, remaining in the community most of the time and intervening in native affairs only when requested; nevertheless it is generally felt that she teaches “things of little consequence to us.” Although perhaps necessary for the eventual integration of the natives into mestizo dominated society, the matters in which the school drills its students are incompatible with the native cultural orientation. As in any other highland elementary school serving a primarily indigenous population, subjects given most attention are Spanish, appreciation of the national tradition, manners (essentially, deference to people of non-­ indio status), and catechism (Catholic folk oral ritual). With the exception of the last topic, serious practice of any of these effectively commits a native to the mestizo cultural orientation as a cholo and generally leads to exclusion or departure from the native community. This has not occurred in Q’ero because in fact very little of what is learned in school is retained, and virtually none of it is practiced. Spanish is of no practical use, evoking ridicule if used in the community and contemptuous denigration from cholos or mestizos if used outside the cultural region. Consequently, those who have left school retain a vocabulary of only a few words, and even proficient students are unable to understand or respond in simple Spanish conversation. With one exception, adolescents and young men who have experienced the school revert to native institutions with little trace of acculturation.13 Although they are able to sign their names and know that they are “Peruvian,” all remain effectively monolingual, illiterate, unaware of their nationality and unready to offer any outsider deference or obsequiousness. In the words of mestizos, including their teacher, they remain salvajes (savages) and amargos (embittered), which is to say they lack the rudiments of westernization and proper respect toward those who have this sophistication.

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The Q’eros must accept compromises in labor resources and traditional status relationships if they send their children to school. Adolescent boys and girls over six years of age are contributors to production, helpful in agriculture and important in herding and domestic duties, especially at peak phases of the subsistence strategy. In small families with particularly extended labor resources their assistance might be crucial. This factor accounts for the low rate of matriculation, and the sporadic attendance of matriculated students. Those Q’ero families who have decided that schooling is worth the sacrifice in labor resources have compromised by sending only children in excess of minimum labor needs to school. The family in such cases is usually not small and junior male siblings tend to be sent to school. Senior male siblings, although successors to their father’s status in authority, are assured of no inheritance, the preponderance of which goes to the youngest son. Each senior male sibling must labor with the father in the extension of cultivable lands which he may receive as surplus, or he must lay the groundwork for residence with his wife and such inheritance from his father-in-law. The basis for friction between siblings is obvious if the youngest attends school, where he not only can avoid contributions to family labor but also can acquire a new basis for prestige as “educated,” threatening the senior sibling’s traditional basis of authority. A further cause of compromise in labor requirements and traditional patterns of authority is the institution of fotbol (soccer), rising in popularity among the younger Q’eros since its inception at about the time the school was begun. The potential for conflict in this case is between the elders and middle-aged, who generally do not play, and the younger men of all ages below 25, most of whom play avidly. Although the sport is associated with school, where it was probably introduced to the Q’eros, devotion to it has also been learned from surrounding native communities. (There is probably in all of Peru no refuge too isolated for the arrival of this popular sport.) The Q’eros only recently established organized teams for competition among themselves, but soon began to compete with adjacent native communities, and most recently have had hopes of competing in the provincial capital. Indulgence in the sport is clearly a cause of wider social exchange and probably increased marriage with nearby native communities, as well as the basis for a nascent “national” consciousness. Through diffusion of new values from these less isolated communities this social exchange will be a potent avenue of acculturation in the future. In these first three short chapters I have reviewed very briefly some salient features of geography, history, and contemporary highland society

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which have determined Q’ero’s course of development. To examine a community even so relatively remote as Q’ero without due regard for such influences would be very short-sighted. The Q’eros themselves can be accused of no such myopia; their daily conversation is filled with references to both Inkari (“the beginning of the Incas”) and the kastayanu (“Castillians,” i.e., colonization under the Spanish Vice-Royalty), and to the qeshwa and misti who surround them in the contemporary plural society. [parts deleted] [Part I now] backs up to examine more closely the two most fundamental determinants of Q’ero’s social organization: the local ecosystem (Chaps. 2–4) and the native social system (Chaps. 5–7). [49]

Notes 1. The best introduction to the topic of Andean prehistory remains the Handbook of South American Indians, Volume 2, Other more recent works which will become central references include J.V. Murra (see Part I Bibliography). 2. Remote areas in the highlands are still numerous, and only a few Peruvian scholars have had the time, support, or interest to investigate them. Some appreciation of their extent and significance can be gleaned from interviews with itinerant merchants, but these individuals are especially susceptible to their preconceptions. John Ricker, a Canadian who has explored and mapped most of the remote regions of the Central Andean highlands in the last several years’ preparation of a mountaineering guide (to be published by the Canadian Alpine Club), has contributed invaluably to the development of my own comprehension of highland social organization. Ricker’s wide experience, capacity for careful observation, and continuing interest in ethnology have been very enlightening to me as well as to other Peruvianists. 3. The content of this myth is summarized by Oliver-Smith (see Part I Bibliography). It involves a supernaturally threatening figure (nak’ah or pishtako) who rather clearly symbolizes the exploitive role of the Qeshwa or their regional functional equivalents. Versions of the myth among more acculturated natives portray the pishtako as seeking human body fat for the lubrication of “machinery” on the coast of Peru or “church bells,” often under contract with the government or the church. In Q’ero, the misti or Qeshwa are seen as potentially nak’ah, but not a wirakocha (“white” or European), suggesting the precontact origin of this attitude toward threatening ethnic groups. On the other hand, the fact that the Q’eros do not believe the nak’ah ever comes to their region suggests that their fear of the mestizo has not been very highly developed.

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4. Luis Yabar Palacio, a son of the family which owned the Q’ero cultural region as an extensive hacienda since the middle l800s, has written a very informative and fascinating article on Q’ero which was also appreciated by Mishkin (see Part I Bibliography). Yabar considered Q’ero Llaqta, the ritual center of the Q’ero community, as the “capital” of the entire region composed of several such communities, the whole of which he termed an “ayllu.” The other communities of the cultural region, now politically and ritually independent of one another, he termed estancias or “farmsteads.” This might imply more political cohesion and centralized native authority at a former time. This possibility may also be supported by the fact that the office of alcalde (“mayor,” or highest locally elected official) is absent or not as fully developed in most other communities of the cultural region. 5. Apparently little remains of the several sources from which a history of the region might be reconstructed, although more persistent inquiry could surely uncover some. The last owner of Q’ero itself had died in 1964, living 90 kilometers distant in the provincial center, and his kindly but deaf widow appeared to know little about the operations of the hacienda or its antecedents. She reported that all documents pertaining to it had been stolen or lost, and that the extensive series of titles pertaining to it had passed into the hands of the government at the time of expropriation in 1963. It appears that none of the interested parties set these important documents aside for research; my several attempts to find them in the archives of Lima or Cuzco were fruitless, and authorities in a position to know suspected that they remained mislaid somewhere in the provincial center. There I was unable to gain access to court or civil records on two perfunctory attempts, but was allowed freely to consult the parochial records; these latter date back to about 1620, and would yield interesting evidence if subjected to extended examination. Besides the teacher (whose permanent residence was in the provincial center), the only persons reputed to know Q’ero firsthand were the descendants of a family said to once operate as overseers of these haciendas; investigation showed that they had merely been merchants who traversed the area, occasionally carrying messages to and from Q’ero, and knew little of the history or operations of the haciendas. Of the several sons who early in this century fell heir to the communities composing the region, the previous owner of Q’ero died in Lima only shortly before my arrival in Peru, and the only survivor was too ill to disturb. Luis Yabar, author of some fascinating published material on Q’ero (see Part I Bibliography) died as a young man in an auto accident in Lima with most of his important and perceptive knowledge about Q’ero culture remaining unwritten. His daughter, novelist Bette Yabar, is among

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the few survivors of this large family still familiar with the cultural region, and supplied me with some valuable information. 6. Some scant historical data, however, imply that the introduction of Christianity was loosely ordained, if involving direct contact at all. Parochial records for the province spanning the century 1679–1778 record only 36 matrimonies between “Q’eros” (Nunez del Prado; see Part I Bibliography). Organized Christianization and “extirpation of idolatry” had little influence early in the colonization period, but had gained considerable momentum in the century prior to this period. During this period and ever since, priests attempted to perpetuate the Church sacraments in remote areas by entering whenever convenient and performing matrimony or baptism upon as many native couples together as possible, much as the Incas did as well. These few marriages imply very rare visits in the span of a century. Presently, Q’eros almost never leave the region for matrimony, and priests may visit the ritual centers in the region only once in a decade or more to perform these sacraments. Adoption of some Christian symbols and mythology in the community of Q’ero has probably been primarily through indirect influence and over the duration of several centuries; it is of course, nevertheless penetrating. Early in the twentieth century one member of the Yabar family, said to be a priest, took up reclusive domicile in the Q’ero ritual center for some time and evidently died there. His stay is well remembered by the Q’eros, and probably had considerable influence on their acculturation. 7. Semantically, the Q’eros do not perceive their land as anyone’s but their own, although they have not had “title” to it until recently. Outside the community and generally throughout this area of Peru the hacienda plots held by natives in usufruct (in the view of the state) are termed mañay (“loan”) by the natives as well as the title holders. The term is not used in Q’ero, much to the amazement of natives living in the Qeshwa of surrounding regions. 8. Former owners’ estimates of annual harvest taken by the hacienda are confirmed by the natives, and current production of plots formerly allocated to the hacienda (and apparently not decreased since expropriation) appears to further substantiate these estimates. Judging by this evidence, annual hacienda harvests of tubers were apparently not much more in quantity than that harvested by one of the wealthier native families. (Quantities of dehydrated moraya may have been much greater, however.) The labor which the community in concert needs to expend annually for this production currently does not exceed one or two man-days per month per family. Even with the two-week terms of pongo (servant) duty in the hacienda house formerly exacted by the patron, herding and other duties rotated among

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the natives, and labor conscription to other haciendas, Nunez del Prado’s report that each Q’ero had to devote as much as 180 days each year to the hacienda seems very excessive. The natives, understandably seeking sympathy for their oppressed plight and support for their expropriation hopes, were probably prone to exaggerate. As will become apparent in discussion of the native subsistence strategy, a family could probably not subsist if more than 30–40 man-days were lost from their annual regimen. [25] 9. An exception to this is the battered, usually second- or third-hand felt hat worn by every adult male over his native knitted ch’ullu cap. (Prior to about 1940 the montera, a saucer-shaped colonial hat, was worn by men as well as women in this region.) The ch’ullu is knitted only by the male and worn by all males, but also by children of both sexes. It is removed only rarely, while sleeping or if overheated. The misti felt hat is usually worn on top of the ch’ullu when walking, otherwise it tends to be taken off and laid aside. Its general adoption among adult males is probably due to its greater efficacy in shedding the frequent rain (although the more battered ones surely don’t), but also probably because the sumpriru (Spanish sombrero: hat) is, like ownership of a horse, a symbol of respectable status officially denied the indios under the Colony, just as the montera is one of the definitive symbols of female native status throughout the Cuzco area, so are ch’ullu (with emphatically long ear flaps and tossles) indicators of male native status. 10. The only two exceptions are instructive: one Q’ero specializes in the manufacture of monteras (women’s hats) and another possesses a few wood working tools. However the woodworking tools are only used privately or loaned out rather than used in the performance of a public specialty, and the articles of clothing for sale are made by a crippled man who exchanges them directly for labor in his fields. 11. During one of my visits to Kiku, a cholo entrepreneur with several assistants entered the community, having walked in the 20 kilometers that separate it from the nearest truck route. His objective was to test the potential profitability of extracting timber from the lower reaches of the Kiku river (where the natives maintain their maize fields) for marketing in the lucrative outlets of Cuzco. He obtained tacit acceptance in the community, guides, and offers of labor and draft animals through the influence of the individual I have described, with whom he had developed a relationship on the basis of business dealings. 12. A calculation based upon the average Q’ero herd size and type, and the average value of wool whether sold to cholo dealers in the community or in distant pueblos (the latter is not much more, surprisingly) indicates that the average Q’ero family may harvest wool worth about 1000–1500 soles per year. (Because a minority are disproportionately wealthy, most

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families are probably limited to much less.) Even along with small sales of dehydrated potatoes, peppers, and woven goods, total average income in sales or exchange is probably no more than 2000 soles annually (about $46 US in 1970). This estimate was substantiated by a few Q’eros in their less guarded moments (they usually report much less or nothing), and by a neighboring hacendado familiar with the community. Figures on peasant income are rarely reported in the literature, but this can be contrasted to data offered by Matos Mar on peasants in a coastal Andean province, where the lowest class agricultural peones earn about 18,000 soles per year. 13. One young man went on to a few months of primary school in a distant pueblo community, and is the only one to have done this. Another boy attended the transitional school of a nearby hacienda, but ran away within a week, humiliated by the other boys who denigrated his native dress. The former young man now understands and (in private) uses some Spanish, and is generally more aware of the mestizo world through his experience, although his acculturation has gone no further than this. He is currently seen as arrogant; if he becomes accepted as a leader through the influence of his powerful father [Manwel Quispe Apasa], it will likely be due to his ability to employ his confidence in a front role for the community in dealings with the mestizo outside.

CHAPTER 2

Settlement Pattern

[For preview of each chapter in Part I, see Original Introduction to Part I (1972) in front matter] Although a few descriptions from hacendados, farmers, and the reports of Nuñez del Prado had somewhat prepared me for my first exploration of Q’ero, the experience was nevertheless a surprise. Q’ero Llaqta (“Q’ero place,” also known as Hatun Q’ero’ “big Q’ero”) is the central village toward which the naive outsider works his way, after crossing one of the several high passes separating the community from the surrounding region (see Figs. 1.2 and 1.3). Fortuitously my companion John Ricker and I had crossed one of the few passes which led, in the descent to Q’ero Llaqta, through one of the valley-head hamlets which are the actual homes of the inhabitants, but it was tiny and apparently unoccupied at the time. Further descent toward the montaña soon enveloped us in the fog which frequently sweeps up the valleys, and we wound blindly down gorges and through jumbled spectors of boulders in the dense and shifting mist. When the main village was finally located, high on a mountain flank above two converging gorges descending in cascades toward the montaña below, we did not realize we were in it until the array of low stone and thatch buildings materialized all around us in a momentary thinning of the mists. A tentative exploration through the quiet network of paths and small hand-­hewn plank doors locked with wooden latches showed the village to be deserted. With the valley far below and the mountains above all unseen

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 S. Webster, Returning to Q’ero, Palgrave Studies in Anthropology of Sustainability, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-04972-9_2

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in the mist, the silent houses and paths seemed to float around us. Finally we encountered one frightened woman and her dog, and after sitting down at a distance sufficient to reassure her, were able to find out that all the Q’eros were lomapi, in the high country down through which we had already traveled. [56] I had anticipated that this central village, the largest and most conveniently situated settlement in the several valleys occupied by the dispersed community, would be at least partly or periodically inhabited. But in fact it is nearly always deserted except for certain days of the annual cycle, when almost the entire community converges and meets for the celebration of a feast or a ritual. The houses here are much larger than those established as primary domiciles in the valley-heads, in order to accommodate the large groups entertained on such occasions. Aside from these short periods one or two transient Q’eros may occasionally “camp” in their houses in this village while enroute between the hamlets in the valley-­ heads above and their distant plots of tubers and maize. But they frequently remain in tiny family encampments only a few minutes’ walk outside the central village, finding its empty silence no more hospitable than the makeshift huts near their plots. Since the small elementary school was established in the central village the mestiza teacher and a handful of students are frequently present for a few days at a time through several months of the year, but this momentary activity is isolated in a few houses on the margin of the settlement. The usual silence and vacancy of the village is traditional, and a concomitant of the nature of the Q’eros’ ecological niche. The Q’eros themselves explain that the village is p’istallapah hununapahpis (“just for festivals and gatherings”) and otherwise occupied astanalla (“only as a temporary camp”) usually remaining ch’usaq ch’inpis (“empty, silent, and tranquil”). The village exists because Q’ero is a highly integrated social, ritual, and political community with public ceremonies to discharge on a cyclic basis. It is located where it is because the community is necessarily dispersed throughout its ecological niche, and it remains usually unoccupied due to the strategy of subsistence in that niche. In these fundamental respects it is comparable to the ritual center of the traditional Maya groups, who maintained similar settlement patterns for parallel reasons. The Q’ero ritual center is composed of 56 rock and thatch buildings, all but 5 of which are private houses called hatun llaqta wasi (“main settlement house”) or puxllay wasi (“entertainment house”) and utilized on requisite occasions by a kingroup which holds common rights to it

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(Fig. 7.1). These houses are larger than the usual native construction of the south Central Andes, measuring as large as ten by seven meters rectangularly, but constructed in the usual manner of walls of large stones chinked with mud, no windows and a small wooden door, and a thatch roof secured over a framework of poles the ridgeline of which descends in a semiconical “crow’s foot” arrangement to the shorter side walls of the rectangle. The walls are sometimes two meters high, considerably higher than the usual native house, and the doorway is ample although in more usual native construction it is so small that even the slightly built Quechua must stoop to enter the house. (I frequently had to enter the hamlet homes on my knees with shoulders inclined.) Compared to the average native settlement, the vaulted headroom and ample dimensions of these houses impart an impression of grandness and opulence. This is both intentional and a practical necessity for accommodation of festival groups. Although not completely uniform, most houses have a small clearing or front yard in the approach to the doorway, and are oriented with the long axis of their rectangular plan parallel to the incline of the gentle slope on which they are located. The doors are always centered in the long side of the rectangle, and very frequently face the direction of the sunrise.1 The sunrise occurs over the crest of a tremendous precipice called Anka Wachana (“incubator of the eagles”) which confronts the settlement from the opposite side of a deep gorge. Any visitor’s approach to an occupied house must circumspectly pass across a front yard visible from the doorway, in such case always left open for light. The same area serves as a pleasant retreat from the frigid dimness of the early morning household interior into the warm sunshine that is usual only in the first hours of morning. [59] The household interior is invariably a single room with dirt floor strewn with some ichu grass and pelts of alpaca and llamas, which serve as beds and seats. There are no raised beds or chairs in Q’ero, and the few hand-­ fashioned tables are used only on special ritual occasions. The wallside pata or bench of adobe or stone, used for sitting and sleeping in more acculturated native houses, is never encountered in Q’ero. An inclined rack for drying brush and sticks for fuel is constructed over the hearth, an adaptation uncommon outside Q’ero. The main furnishings are a q’onca (floor stove of dried clay) a maran and tonawa (flat stone slab and rocker grinding stone), and some roanka (clay pots) and a few old metal pans. In the ritual center the clay pots are large, used in festival meal preparation, and usually include one or more of the huge urpu (water jars) used in processing axa. the maize beer produced for ritual occasions. Although some

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food, harvests, or seed may be stored for short times in the houses of the ritual center, it is not left for long, due to the threat of theft by occasional outsiders in the unoccupied village. Some field tools, however, such as foot-plows, cultivators, and axes, may be stored here to avoid carrying them down from the hamlets for each use. The usual orientation of the rectangular floor plan parallel to the usual slight incline of the ground seems to be a custom that has developed in close association with the arrangement of the interior. The household is almost always functionally separated into a higher half for guests, conversation and drinking on ritual occasions, and stowage of some food and gear, and a lower half for cooking, eating, and sleeping of all family members, and segregation of the women and children on ritual occasions. The difference in level is rarely absent, usually a few inches, and sometimes as much as a foot, but one wall of the house is dug in if the ground slope is steeper than this. The floor plan separation is physically marked by no more than the position of the doorway, or perhaps the position of the grinding slab (often opposite the doorway), and sometimes a small lip in the hard earth floor. This upper and lower functional distinction in houseplan is also usual in the hamlets, where a moderate incline is usually the most level ground available. The Q’eros themselves seem unaware of the pattern. Some practical advantage may accrue from the lower position of the hearth, which promotes more efficient warming of the air and locates cooking, eating, and other family activity, all of which take place near the floor on this lower side, in a relatively smoke-free area. On the other hand, the coldest air in the house, late at night when the fire has expired, collects in this same family sleeping area. The apparent reason for development of this custom is the dignified segregation and vantage point afforded visitors (and on ritual occasions, all adult males in the household) by the upper half of the floor. On the other hand, smoke from the hearth tends to thicken in this area. The family houses of the ritual center are scattered without apparent plan across an inclined slope, divided by a shallow brook. The rather compact arrangement is interconnected by a network of vague or beaten paths between wild hedges of soft sawq’o bush and thorny but red-flowering llawlli, boulders and terraces, and the ruined walls of deserted houses. The slope ascends steeply to the rear of the village, where three tributary valleys cascade down in convergent directions from the several hamlets of the community and the peaks of the Ayakachi out of view behind the intervening mountain flanks and folds. To the front the alluvial slope drops

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rapidly from the village through a broad array of terraced fields and finally to the precipices of two converging gorges. These join at the foot of the alluvial fan (ch’ ullu—also the name of the knitted native [cap] shaped similarly like a delta) to form the turbulent and deep torrents of the Q’ero River, milky with the rock-flour of its glacial origins. From any point in the ritual center one can see, in a moment clear of mist, down the Q’ero River valley where it disappears into the humid air of the montaña a hundred kilometers distant and 10,000’ below. The Q’eros follow this river down about 25 kilometers to cultivate their subtropical crops, but no trail goes further. The river eventually disgorges from the tropical wilderness at a mission known by its name, and established to minister to the remnants of the Wachipayris, a tropical tribe. The five community buildings of the ritual center are the iklesya (Spanish: iglesia) or church, three hacienda buildings, and a new school-­ house built by the Q’eros but never used. The three hacienda structures were built to store the hacienda harvests and to shelter the patron in his occasional visits, but now serve as a small schoolroom and a house for the teacher. Only the church is located within the settlement margin, and constructed traditionally of stone, implying a more ancient origin, probably colonial. All these buildings, however, show their extraneous origin in an acculturated building design, employing gable-peaked eves (qawiña) rather than the conical crow’s feet at each end of the roof-beam (rump’u), walls of adobe brick (except the church), and in the case of the school-­ house and former hacienda shelter, windows in the walls. All roofs are nevertheless of thatch. The church is large and dark, with interior walls that have at one time been plastered with mud and whitened with lime, but the dirt floor is completely empty. The far dark end, opposite the colonial nave and doorway, shelters a rustic altar in colonial Catholic arrangement on which are placed the several bare wooden crucifixes and simple painted wooden icons which the natives probably accumulated in colonial times or during the hacienda regime. The hamlets which are the primary domiciles of the Q’eros are distributed in the upper reaches of the four main valleys which converge above or in the vicinity of the ritual center (see Figs. 1.2 and 1.3). The hamlets are usually simply called by name, but are also called wayq’o (“valley” or “gorge”).2 They are generally two to three hours’ walk or about ten kilometers from the ritual center, and situated about 800 vertical meters (2600’) higher. The main trails to the hamlets are very well-worn, but in places narrowly exposed to sheer precipices and often steep and strewn

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with rocks or running with water. Although the trails are usually restricted to one side of the valley by steep gorges, the rivers are occasionally crossed by insecure bridges of logs, brush, and earth. Outsiders and even the tough Andean ponies, unfamiliar with the rocky and wet terrain, find these trails very difficult to traverse; however, the natives travel them rapidly and continuously on foot with only their tire-tread sandals. Their ponies, although rarely mounted except for festivals, are capable of even galloping ascents and descents in what appear to be impossible conditions. The troops of llamas frequently driven along the trails move with a slow deliberation and stately grace that dramatizes the fineness of their attunement to the environment. [62] At about 4000 meters (13,000’) altitude the trails finally break out of the steep and rocky terrain onto the broad and rolling alpine inclines of the valley-heads. At this point the trails are frequently numerous and closely braided, and cut a foot or more into the porous soils, due to the frequent passage of llama troops which tend to move abreast in such open terrain. Although a few of the more prominent peaks may be glimpsed from lower in the tributary valleys, the full panorama of the Ayakachi crest is not visible until one gains this upper valley floor. On a clear day, this moment thrusts one across a threshold from the gallery of shadowy gorges into a tremendous expansion of the horizon. In two of the valleys [on the eastern side of the community] this climax is a splendid array of snowy peaks and glaciers, and cascades descending the rocky buttresses to the alpine pastures below [see Fig. 8.2]. This moment is noticed by the Q’eros too, who stop to sit and take coca leaf in silence, and if one of the community authorities bearing their conch trumpet is present, several blasts are blown in the direction of the valley-head and dominating peaks. Eight hamlets, the primary domiciles of the Q’eros, are sometimes visible in the broad rolling folds of the four main valley-heads. But from a distance the hamlets are easily overlooked, and some are hidden unless viewed from certain perspectives. Their location is determined by access to water for the inhabitants and pastures for the herds, availability of an expanse of reasonably level ground, and by the relationship between the flanking high passes which connect each valley to adjacent valleys. These valley-head homes, in distinction from those of the ritual center, are called tiyana wasi (“living houses”) or paqocha rikuh wasi (“alpaca-watching houses”). None of the hamlets is so compact an arrangement of houses as is the ritual center. Individual groups of houses, components of the hamlet, are closer together being associated with a single usually extended

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family. Several of these groups in turn are dispersed over a total area 1 to 800 meters in breadth, with 50 to a 100 meters usual between each family group. This dispersion is sometimes restricted by the closeness of steep terrain (Qolpa Pampa, T’antaña), but where there is ample room for expansion over gentle inclines, the tendency of the family house groups to remain conveniently close to one another demonstrates the gregariousness and social expectations which are the bases of the hamlet formation. The hamlets vary in size also with regard to the number of families included, which range from 4 to 12 organizations [domestic groups] usually extended by a generation of grandchildren, families of co-resident brothers or addition of sons-in-law. Besides these eight hamlets, in which about 70 of the 82 conjugal families of Q’ero live, there are 9 individual family homesteads isolated in different parts of the community. Some of the reasons for these exceptions to the usual settlement pattern will be discussed as compensatory strategies (Chap. 4). Family groups of houses (kuska wasi—“together houses”) whether within a hamlet or in separate homesteads, are arranged with no particular plan, usually within a few meters of one another. Only a very few houses share a common wall; the result appears to be an unusually long house with two entrances, but there is never an inside doorway as in more acculturated building styles. The assemblage of family houses is usually adjoined by one or more k’ancha, stone-walled corrals a meter or so in height and 5 to 30 meters in diameter. These are used at night for protection of the herds of alpaca and llama when danger of predators is suspected, and at other times for supervision or care. The assemblage of family houses and corrals may occasionally form a regular enclosure or sort of “patio,” used for weaving, spinning, and other chores in better light than the house interior yet somewhat sheltered from weather. However, in Q’ero this enclosure is fortuitous and unrecognized, being a planned part of only more acculturated house plans. The main house of a family group is that in which the senior conjugal family resides, and in which the cooking, eating, socializing, and sleeping take place. It is the center of most activity and called the wayk’una wasi (“cooked-meal house”) or occasionally hatun wasi (“main house”). Although as many as three closely related conjugal families may live in one such house, mature families (i.e., with children who can assist in herding) secondary to the senior one eventually move to a new location. If the relocation remains within the family group, an extra house is occupied or a new one is built. As economic independence increases, this household becomes a separate wayk’una wasi. The family

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group of houses is completed by one or more churana (“putting-places”) for each wayk’una wasi, storage houses which are identical in all respects to the other sort, except usually smaller, not usually lived in, and always kept closed.3 The houses of the hamlets are constructed similarly in all respects to those of the ritual center, except that they are usually smaller in all dimensions, about three to six meters rectangularly. They nevertheless tend to be larger than native domiciles in many other parts of the south Central Andes, perhaps due to a prevalence of extended family household organization in Q’ero. The inside of the wayk’una wasi has a larger assortment of cooking and eating utensils of family size, and a plentiful supply of pelts, sleeping blankets, old clothing, and rags strewn about, ready to protect the sitter or sleeper from the chill air. Some clothing, woven sacks and rope, and hanks of shorn wool, along with quarters of meat and cobs of seed-corn needing the preserving effects of the warmer smoky air, may be hung from the rafters of the wayk’una rather than stored in the churana. Headroom is scarce, but one usually sits down on the floor. In the corners or behind the door are bundles of unfinished weaving or spinning, and various tools, sandals, carrying-cloths, and flutes, all the paraphernalia one carries on the trail or in the pastures, and casts off upon returning home. One or two nooks in the wall or small shelves hold a few leaves of puna (a ritually “clean” plant of the high passes), some crucifixes fashioned from sticks, a few dusty scraps of paper, and a wick lamp. The maran has remnants of flour from the last grinding of dehydrated potatoes or corn for soup. One or two squat and rather pig-eyed dogs skulk at the doorway, repeatedly slink in to scavenge before being evicted by a punitive implosion of the lips (which sounds to westerners rather more like a blown kiss), and receive at the doorway a swill of meal-leavings which never includes more than the dregs and skins of boiled potatoes and bone fragments already polished by boiling, gnawing, and sucking. [66] The contents of the churana houses are rarely glimpsed by anyone but family members and intimates. They include the harvests of tubers and corn stored in shoulder-high granaries of split cane (t’aqe—from which the house is sometimes called a t’aqewasi) [cut in the monte], small caches of other subtropical crops such as peppers, squashes, and certain roots, whatever sacks, rope tools, and utensils not left in the wayk’una, and perhaps some coveted items of outside origin such as lanterns, rustic tack for mounting the horse, articles of manufactured clothing, a rustic drum or two, and parts of the costume regalia for fotbol and the wayri, a festival

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dance also of outside origin. Also probably hidden in the churana are some bundles with items of supernatural significance which I will discuss later, and in all likelihood other similar objects about which I remain ignorant. Filling the corners of this or a separate store-house are large mounds of ucha, alpaca and llama dung, gathered as dry pellets in the dry season and stored as a fuel more efficient and more at hand than brush or wood, which are not available in the upper zone of Q’ero. Dried blocks of the peaty sod of nearby moors, or the resinous scaled trunks of achupala cactus, are also occasionally stored as fuel by families whose supply of dung does not surpass their need for crop fertilizer. At the other extreme of the Q’ero settlement pattern, about 25 kilometers below the ritual center village, are the plots cleared for maize and other crops from the heavy subtropical overgrowth of the montaña at 2000 meters altitude (6500’). This zone is usually called monte (Spanish: bush or forest) by the Q’eros, but occasionally they refer to it as yanqa waqo (“unreasonable, irrational sanctum”) which aptly describes their general attitude toward all regions below the alpine and subalpine zones of their habitat. The trail from the ritual center descends rapidly down the gorge of the Q’ero River, winding up and around steep headwalls on stairs worn in jumbled rock, and crossing tributaries (and in three cases the main torrent itself) on bridges fashioned from logs bound with vines and sometimes supported precariously on boulders in midstream. Where the trail is forced to penetrate the progressively denser vegetation it frequently deteriorates to bogs and extended tunnels through which one must crawl, detained by creeper vines and scraped by cane leaves. Whereas the q’epina (streamlined back-packs of homespun tied about the shoulders of the Q’ero), passes easily through such a miasma, I and my framepack were frequently left behind. The route is marked for the Q’eros by the several river crossings and numerous rock outcroppings, some of which have traditional supernatural significance and serve as places for rest, snacks, and taking of coca leaf. The trip down from the ritual center, even heavily laden with tools and the rudimentary camping assemblage of food, blankets, and pots, requires only about six hours for the Q’eros; consequently many of them, even the elders and children, start in the early morning from their homes in the hamlets further above, only resting for a moment in the ritual center as they pass through. The return trip is longer and harder, requiring a total ascent of about 2200 meters (7000’), and a night is usually passed in the ritual center.

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The area of cultivation in the monte shifts slowly about every few years as the fertility of family plots is exhausted, but within the memory of the Q’eros has remained in a locality bounded by the confluence of the Q’ero and Kiku Rivers, a generally more open space of low hilly flanks and valleys (Fig. 1.2). The terrain is nevertheless difficult, with cornfields cultivated on slopes as steep as 45 degrees. In Puskero, the area currently cultivated by most of the Q’eros, camps are set up in open shelters and maintained by each family during the periods of cultivation. These shelters, constructed of logs, shafts of palm fiber, and leaf thatch, are scattered throughout the area, rarely within view of one another between the intervening slopes and thickets of overgrowth, and located where the family-plot can best be observed and defended from the ravages of predators. Throughout the intermediate zones of the settlement pattern, between the ritual center and the hamlets of the several valley-heads, are numerous astana (camps, or “moving places”) maintained or periodically reconstructed by the Q’ero families near their tuber plots. Significantly, the Q’eros also apply the term astana to the temporary households of the monte and even the ritual center, emphasizing their transient nature. The most extensive tuber cultivation areas are in the folds of benches between river gorges and the steep and rocky valley walls (e.g., Kurus Moqo, Oxo Pampa, Oxo Pata), and the long strips of river embankment which have developed in some localities (e.g., Washka Pampa, Palka Pampa, Wirakocha Pampa; Fig. 1.3). However, the network of tiny paths connecting the astanas to main trails also climb far up to the steep rocky soils immediately below valley walls. The buildings vary greatly in size and elaboration from mere huts of sticks bowed and bound together and thatched, to somewhat more ample stone and thatch shelters, to houses with plank doors that appear to differ in no way from the permanent domiciles of the hamlets. These astanas are utilized during the more prolonged phases of cultivation, and serve for temporary storage of seed, fertilizer, and harvest. Although they may be no farther than an hour or two from the wayk’una wasi of the home hamlet or the hatun llaqta wasi of the ritual center, the Q’eros prefer to build a rough shelter or maintain a building inherited along with the adjacent plot, and remain close to the site of their work. The place-names and directional terminology of the Q’ero reveal their own attitudes and orientation toward the habitat. Place-names are very numerous, reflecting an intimacy with details of the habitat that apparently extends to vague subdivisions of pastures, cultivation areas, trails, and living areas. Only a few important ones are noted in Fig. 1.3. The flavor of

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the place-names is often whimsical, anecdotal, picaresque, and endearing, belying aspects of native personality and humor which are not usually apparent to the mestizo or outsider.4 The encyclopedic inventory becomes familiar to children in proportion to their mobility throughout the community. Thorough knowledge of the local valley is established by age five or six, at which time the child is depended upon to conduct the family herds as he [or she] is directed and deliver messages as required. The routine conversation of adults continually reorients and focuses with reference to detailed place-name cues, a reflection of the extensive and diversified area of operations, i.e., the ecological niche of the community. [69] A special directional and relational terminology is similarly integral to ordinary conversation. At a semantic level this might reflect a world-view based upon the primitive fundamentals of mountainous terrain, where unbroken horizontality is the rare relationship. A relative scheme of up-­ down and in-out underlies all reference to locality. The vertical dimension through which the settlement pattern is distributed is denoted by wichay and uray (up and down, e.g., wichaypi: “up in…;” wichayman: “up toward…;” wichaymanta: “from above…”). Relative to one’s position in a hamlet, for example, the intermediate valley, the ritual center, the monte and any lower location would be “down,” and relative to any of these locations the hamlet would be “up.” When the vertical dimension of locality reference needs emphasis, it is supplemented by relational terms which presuppose it. Perhaps the most common of these are: uxu (inside in the sense of “down inside,” applying to any of the areas below the valley-­ heads, all of which become continually more restricted, and—especially to the Q’eros—oppressively enclosed monte); hawa (outside in the sense of “up outside,” applying to the entire system of diverging valleys above the ritual center, any of the particular valleys as they progressively expand above the gorges into the broad valley-heads, and finally to the outside world beyond the passes which form the upper circumference of the community); ch’impa (across, in the sense of a “facing slope” across a valley); pata (crest, in the sense of high but relatively level ground); hana (higher ground, in the sense of being “above”); and q’epa (behind, in the sense of behind intervening high ground). Such usages for example in regard to informal and vague divisions of Q’ero settlements, all of which have more or less higher and lower parts, are hawapatanchis and urapatanchis (“our upper outside crest” and “our lower inside crest”).5 [deleted part] In summary, the contemporary settlement pattern involves (l) dispersion of the primary domiciles in several pastoral hamlets

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located in the glacial headwaters of a system of converging valleys; (2) a shared village or ritual center only periodically occupied at the point of confluence of these tributaries, and (3) localities of cultivation and campsites throughout the intermediate zones as well as far on down the main river before it is finally engulfed in the subtropical rain forest (Fig. 1.2). The settlement pattern is extended from alpine herding zones down through zones of tuber cultivation and finally to a zone of maize production, and this diversified enterprise at least partly accounts for the general form of the pattern. However, a comparison to similar settlement patterns in the Q’ero cultural region can clarify the role of these and other determining factors. Appraisals of settlement pattern in the Andes have usually distinguished between nucleated and dispersed settlements, but rarely examine the relation between the two types or if they are part of a single integral system, and never note the existence of uninhabited “ritual centers.”6 [en 6 deleted, p. 71]. Settlement patterns of each community in the Q’ero cultural region are comparable to that of Q’ero itself, but with variations. All involve regular relations between dispersed and nucleated settlements, and most include a central but generally uninhabited village or ritual center. In all cases, the dispersion of the primary domiciles of each community is (observably and according to the explanations of the inhabitants) in response to the requisites of alpaca herding. These are, briefly, high and rather extensive pastures and continuous care; consequently most continuous occupation tends to be near the pastures, and settlement size in these areas is definitely limited by the extent and quality of pasture locally available (Chap. 4). The centralized settlement of each community functions as the locus of activities shared in common by the dispersed hamlets of the community, primarily festivals and renewals of political organization. [72] One would expect that such ritual centers would be established, like Q’ero Llaqta and Hatun Hapu at the most convenient confluence of communications between the dispersed hamlets of the community. This is not the case with Kiku, because a restricted valley without deep tributaries has precluded dispersion of hamlets, and a single village is established sufficiently high to serve as a base for both daily herding operations and tuber and maize cultivation. In this case there is in effect only one herding hamlet and a few homesteads, precluding the necessity of a centralized ritual center. However, the case of Totorani, adjacent to Q’ero on the west, suggests the importance of cultivation zones in determining the location of the ritual center in a dispersed community. Whereas the point most central and convenient to the three hamlets of Totorani is unoccupied, a

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ritual center is established further downriver in the vicinity of major localities of tuber cultivation, and midway to the zone of maize cultivation, as is the case with Q’ero Llaqta (Fig. 8.4). The convenience of the ritual center for occasional shelter and stowage of tools, harvests, fertilizer and seed seems to be attested in these cases. On the other hand, although Hapu’s ritual center is conveniently centralized to communication of its dispersed settlements and cultivation of major tuber zones, the zone of maize cultivation is in quite another direction; Hapu must share Kiku’s maize production zone because the soil conditions below the ritual center in their own valley are not suitable (see Fig. 3.3). It is likely that these factors together are necessary but insufficient explanation of the existence and location of the ritual center. Important historical factors may include (l) the necessity of some defensible retreat (prior to pacification of the region under the Inca or Spanish colonial regimes) central to the hamlets of the community, and (2) the local effects of the colonial programs of reduccion and congregacion civil, carried out to centralize dispersed native communities for more effective religious and civil control. As far as the Q’ero natives are concerned, their current ecological niche and associated settlement pattern remain just as it always has been. Within the memory of the oldest inhabitants, kay pacha illiriymantarah (“since even the beginning dawn of this world”), the primary domiciles have always been in the valley-heads near the herds, the ritual center has always been established where it currently is, and maize has always been cultivated and transported with great difficulty from the monte. No knowledge of exceptions to the pattern is reported by the last survivors in the owning families of the old hacienda regime. However, cases can be made either for the possibility that (l) the Q’ero settlement pattern was at one time more centralized, and that the population has since withdrawn to live primarily in the valley-heads or (2) Q’ero was at one time without a significant ritual center, and that Inca or Spanish colonial policies forced establishment of a more nucleated settlement. The extent of ruins in the vicinity of the present ritual center indicates a past period of activity and perhaps greater population, apparently in Incaic times or soon thereafter. Three large areas of the tripartite valley convergence are laboriously terraced (Fig.  1.3: Q’ero Llaqta Ch’ullu, Hatun Q’ero, and Pukara Moqo) with huge boulders built into retaining walls; although these are no longer maintained or irrigated they continue to be cultivated by rotation. Above each of these three areas there are

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ruined buttresses and protective enclosures of fortress retreats, built on steep ridges and summits with very restricted access. Between the terraces of Hatun Q’ero and the fortified retreat up the sharp ridgeline of Anka Wachana there are the remains of a community of approximately 25 foundations of compactly arranged houses and corrals. The small circular walls are of stonework more carefully constructed than contemporary houses, and represent an aboriginal type. It is likely that the present village of Q’ero Llaqta is constructed over such a site, because it is located in the same close association with the ruins of a fortified retreat, and the ruins of several apparent living houses of round-wall design survive in its upper reaches. One is spectacularly large (ten meters in diameter) compared to others of the same style, and has several interior trapezoidal niches and peripheral windows reminiscent of a much more sophisticated Incaic style. Although there is no complete agreement, the Q’eros tend to believe that their own ancestors, rather than the nawpa runa (“before-people” who inhabited the previous world), lived in the community across the valley at the foot of Anka Wachana; supporting this is the custom of calling that vicinity Hatun (“big”) Q’ero, an adjective reserved for the central village in other communities of the cultural region. Q’ero Llaqta may have been a contemporary village, or one established subsequent to the desertion, for some reason, of Hatun Q’ero. The influence of the Inca regime is further evidenced by vague remains of Inka ñan (broad foot-road; Fig. 1.2), a construction in the saddles of Pulaniy mountain, and massive boulder stairways crossing the sheer faces of valley walls above the Q’ero River, still the route the Q’eros use in their access to the monte. Although the dense vegetation and periodic landslides have long since obscured further evidence of the road, Q’ero folklore contends that the ruins of a large Inka Llaqta, or Incaic town, can be found at Papa Monton, two more difficult days into the selva below Puskero. Although the extent and elaboration of these ruins admit the possibility that the current ritual center originated in some control policy of the native population under the Inca regime, it may preclude the possibility that the Spanish Colonial policies of reduccion or congregacion civil may have been the origin of settlement in this locality. Furthermore, some components of the community celebrations of seasonal cycle and leadership renewal conducted in the central village suggest that the hamlets of Q’ero shared the ritual expression of a cohesive tradition before the influence of Spain. On the other hand, the possibility remains that the central locality was once, beyond the memory of its inhabitants, the zone of

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primary habitation, and that subsequently the population has withdrawn to live primarily in the upper hamlets.7 This withdrawal might have occurred through a shift of economic emphasis to the alpaca herds, or in retreat from hostile forces such as the labor and produce conscriptions of the Inca or Spanish regimes, the silver and gold mines of the Colonial era or the recent lead mines, or the nineteenth=century hacienda dominion. [75] [parts deleted] However, the possibility that a shift of major economic effort to alpaca herding required a transfer of primary domiciles to the vicinity of the high pastures is rendered unlikely by the current dominant role of the herds in the native economy, seasonal and life-cycle ritual, and system of social status. Such thorough integration in the native culture implies a herding emphasis of long standing. The ancient construction of fortified retreats above both Q’ero Llaqta and the ruins of Hatun Q’ero is difficult evidence to dismiss, but it is likely that the only resources vulnerable to hostile raids, and protected accordingly, were the relatively localized harvests of potatoes and maize, and their harvesters, tending to concentrate in this vicinity at certain times of the year. The dispersed herds and herding hamlets in the several broad and open valley-heads would have been much less vulnerable to surprise and attack. [part deleted] Finally, although the many house ruins in the ritual center may imply an historically recent decrease in community population, it implies no long-term disuse of the center. All but the poorest Q’ero families currently maintain or have access to a house here, and this requisite is considered crucial to the normal development of status in the community. Setting aside the above issues for further archaeological research, some of the major ecological implications of the Q’ero settlement pattern can now be examined. Insofar as this pattern appears relatively stable, it can be viewed in terms of the matrix of ecological relationships which integrate the human community and its natural environment. [78] The main determinant of the settlement pattern is its extension over three distinct altitudinal zones from which are derived the three key staples in the native economy: alpacas, Andean tubers (especially potatoes), and maize. The extremities of this extension are 4700 meters (15,400’) and 1800 meters (5,900’) respectively, and about 35 kilometers apart. The successively lower altitudinal levels of hamlets, camps, ritual center, and monte can be seen as a vertical matrix of the community niche (Fig. 2.1). The continuous care required by the herds of alpaca and llama dictates the location of the primary domiciles in the high pastures; on the other hand,

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Fig. 2.1  Settlement pattern, vertical and lateral matrices

the periodic attentions required by the cultivation of tubers and corn require that the Q’eros extend their activities into lower and distant zones so difficult to reach from these settlements that regular routes and

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rudimentary camps must be established and maintained in several additional locations. The eight herding hamlets, although located on a variety of terrain in four different valleys, vary in altitude only between 4000 and 4250 meters with a mean altitude of 4105 meters (13,500’). This reflects the consistency with which primary domiciles have been established with regard to pastures appropriate to the needs of the alpaca herds. These pastures in turn tend to be located at particular altitudes in soils of certain type, gradient, and distance from the permanent snow and ice of the Ayakachi summits, their primary source of water. The herding hamlets have been established along their lower extremities, where access to both pastures above and the broad zone of tuber production below are optimized. Local variation in the pasture conditions mentioned above, and other factors such as natural shelter, water for the community, and similar contingencies probably account for the small variation in the altitude of hamlet location. It appears that co-option of available sites by other hamlets is also a factor. The hamlets located at the extremes of altitude variation share their valleys with one or more other hamlets. In the intermediate zones of tuber production, the largest and most carefully maintained astanas or campsite huts similarly reflect a close association with particular altitudinal zones. The broad zones of tuber production extend through 800 meters (2600’) altitude, from the lower reaches of the pasture zone down to the benches of Hatun Q’ero, across from and below the ritual center. However, the most heavily cultivated localities are in the vicinity of the four main valley convergences (Erba Kunka/Qolpa K’uchu; Qolpa K’uchu/Qocha Moqo; Yawarkanca/Chuwa Chuwa; Q’olpa K’uchu/Chuwa Chuwa) and the benches and banks along the valleys between these points. Lower and upper parts of this branching pattern tend to have few permanent campsites, although tubers are cultivated, because the shelters of the ritual center or the hamlets are conveniently close. On the other hand, throughout the middle range of the broad tuber zones, at an altitudinal belt between 3350 and 3700 meters (11–12,000’) where tuber production is extensive and sustained but inconveniently distant from either the hamlets or the ritual center, most large astanas of the community are located. Some of the factors determining the location of the ritual center in the lower reaches of the tuber zones were considered in the previous discussion. It is apparent that major features of the settlement pattern are compromises between several related components of the ecosystem.

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Although three major trails descend and converge in the vicinity of Q’ero Llaqta, beyond this lowest point of Andean tuber cultivation the settlement pattern is very constricted by terrain and overgrowth to a single trail leading ultimately to a narrow zone of subtropical cultivation. Although it is possible in optimum conditions to successfully cultivate consumer crops of Andean corn as high as 3200 meters (10,500’), this is precluded in Q’ero by the steep and heavily vegetated valley walls below Hatun Q’ero. Here the river penetrates a narrow defile (Kuchi Santa— “pig tooth”) between huge subalpine masses on the east and west. Beginning at about 2700 meters (8900’) occasional small plots of corn cultivation have been established in the few restricted slopes and benches amenable to them, but the terrain does not open up until about 2100 meters (6900’), below which the great majority of cultivation plots have been established. This area is nevertheless a cul-de-sac, with soil conditions and dense vegetation precluding cultivation on its lower and outer margins. All cultivation areas of the Q’eros (and of Totorani, Kiku, and Hapu communities as well, insofar as detectable in aerial photographs) are restricted to the inner banks of a triangle formed by the converging Q’ero and Kiku Rivers. Whereas below this convergence the full density of the subtropical forest, soil changes, and the difficulty of crossing the river have virtually precluded cultivation, above it the river can be crossed and inside it the dense forest has not dominated the vegetation. The scattered huts and subtropical cultivation plots of the Q’eros are located in this relatively restricted zone, constrained by topography, altitude, and lack of appropriate soil. [81] The niche of the Q’eros is bound in an ecological matrix with prominent lateral as well as vertical relationships (Fig. 2.1). The upper one-third of the niche, about 1000 meters (3280’) in vertical relief and ten kilometers in length, is laterally divided into four major compartments (valleys) and several minor ones separated from one another by very high ridgelines.8 The interrelations in the lateral dimension of the ecosystem are between zone segments of analogous altitude, climate, and biotic characteristics. Consequently these determinants of the settlement pattern are not so important as they are in the vertical dimension. Topography and human community become more salient determinants of the ecosystem in lateral relations between compartments. Three passes (q’asa) of about equal altitude (mean: 4413 meters; l4,500’) cross the low points of the ridges which separate the four major compartments of Q’ero. A fourth, considerably higher, connects Q’ero

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with the adjacent compartment of Kiku. Apparently the radiating ridge crests to the north and west of the Ayakachi Range have focused the eroding drainage of its snow-fields at similar locations and rates in each case, because from any one of three of these passes, two others are nearly in plain view. The symmetry of the gross features of the environment at this altitude creates another phenomenon: the major hamlet of each valley of Q’ero is located almost directly beneath each pass. Owing to the regularity of the location of each pass, this is just at the point through which one would cross the intervening valley floor traveling from one pass to the next. The limits of the pasture zones in each valley-head are, like the passes themselves, a function of the proximity of the Ayakachi ice-fields, and both factors have evidently been important in influencing the location of the herding hamlets. It is likely that regional communication preceded the hamlets. Present movement of itinerant cholo merchants and native regional traders passes along the [north]eastern flanks of the Ayakachi in this high zone, traversing the long series of deep compartments and high passes. For example, movement from Cusipata on the west, to Kiku on the east (Fig.  1.3) invariably crosses through the high Q’ero passes rather than descend through Q’ero Llaqta, preferring the smoother more open puna paths and suffering even in the repeated ascents only an additional total climb of 240 meters more than would be encountered in the lower route. Similarly, movement of the Q’eros between hamlets of the several compartments, and even to lower parts of other compartments, almost invariably utilized the high passes in preference to the longer valley route. This is so even though the total eventual climb may be considerably more if more than one pass is crossed. In the days before settlement, choice of the open high route was probably motivated by the absence of trails in the rocky and brushy lower valleys. Presently, visiting among friends and relatives in adjacent valleys is clearly a key motive. The congruence of the ecosystem components of pass, pasture, and hamlet begins to fall out of symmetry at the periphery of the Q’ero community. This is primarily because the passes and valley-heads on the east are too close to the swelling masses of the Ayakachi crest, and those on the west are too far. The very high Wallataniy Q’asa crosses from the easternmost hamlet of Q’ero to the valley of Kiku, but at a point far above settlement and even above the pasture zone of this community [see Fig. 8.2]. The same situation obtains between Kiku and Hapu, which is at the foot of an even more northern extension of the Ayakachi. The drainage pattern

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and associated passes in the western part of Q’ero, lacking the dominant proximity of the Ayakachi, maintain similar altitudes but recede in a curve to the south. The optimum alpaca pastures in these compartments conform to a still tighter curve, adhering closely to the glacial groundwater that sustains them, and the herding hamlets tend to be somewhat below the most convenient access to these pastures. Finally, on the western margin of Q’ero, Pampa Q’asa and Walkayunka Q’asa open into the uninhabited valley-head of Cusipata. The greater height of the pass between Q’ero and Kiku and increasing distance of Cusipata from the glacial waters are reflected in the relationship between these communities. Marriage exogamy preponderates between the four valleys of the Q’ero basin, but the community itself is largely endogamous, intermarrying much less with the adjacent communities of the cultural enclave. Whereas the integrity of Q’ero is clear throughout its constituent valleys, a substantial decrease of economic as well as social ties reflects the ecological discontinuities apparent at the boundaries of the community.9 The convergence of the lateral compartments of the ecosystem in the lower reaches of the natural dendritic pattern is similarly reflected in community cohesion. That is to say, in its intermediate and lower zones the compartmentalization of Q’ero becomes binding in a social as well as topographic sense. Kiku’s compartment is an independent drainage which does not join with the Q’ero River until even below the zone of maize cultivation, and correspondingly the social organization of this community is largely independent from that of Q’ero. Similarly, the separate community of Hapu, on the eastern extremity of the cultural region, is segregated in the headwaters of a completely different Amazon basin valley system. On the other hand, within a descent of 4–500 meters every hamlet of Q’ero is tied to the valley mouth of an adjacent hamlet, in a tuber cultivation area which is shared in common. As the valleys converge, soil appropriate for cultivation becomes more extensive and fertile. Five locations in this intermediate valley zone are major tuber cultivation areas operated in concert in a system of rotation and fallow. Consequently during certain seasonal phases of each year virtually every Q’ero works in one of these localities in close association with the members of all other hamlets of the community. Joint utilization of these areas may have been a key factor in the precipitation of community integration among aboriginal valley-head hamlets. [84] The ritual center is established at the final point of convergence of all the compartments of the community ecosystem. Although one of the

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main trails traverses along the opposite valley wall below Q’ero Llaqta, and its users need not necessarily pass through the ritual center, all traffic below Hatun Q’ero is funneled through the single narrow declivity of Kuchi Santa (Fig. 1.2). Concourse of all the Q’eros through and below this point is frequent during the seasonal phases of plot preparation and cultivation in the monte. At the time of corn harvest most of the members of all Q’ero families are together in Puskero, separated only by the necessities of their tasks and intervening thickets of maize and brush. But communication with Kiku and Hapu, involved only some ten kilometers away in parallel phases of corn cultivation, is exceedingly difficult and rare. Lateral compression of topography in the intermediate and lower zones is echoed in the joint expression of community cohesion in tuber and corn cultivation and festivals in the ritual center. At the same time the community ecosystem of Q’ero is increasingly separated from those of adjacent analogous systems. [endnote 10 deleted, but its last part saved as a concluding paragraph:] The community integrity of Q’ero in its ecological setting is dramatized each year when a contingent of Q’eros, comprised mainly by one chosen kingroup but representing the community as a whole, undertake the pilgrimage to Quyllurit’i, a famous shrine on the southern side of the Ayakachi Range. The small group of devotees leaves the ritual center in the evening, and throughout the night traverses one or more of the valleys of Q’ero, being feasted in several houses and supplemented by additional pilgrims on their way to Q’ata Qocha or Okoruru Pass. On their way up through the community, and as they approach the mouth and valley-head of each valley, they pause to play successive salutes to the locality on conch[-shell] trumpets and cane flutes. A penultimate salute is played in the pass departing the final valley, and another, directed down toward all the valleys of the basin of Q’ero, and is played toward the ritual center far below before crossing the final crest of the community domain. In this way, the solidarity of one or more of the constituent valleys and the community as a whole, vis a vis the outside, appears to be celebrated. [Women in the party, dressed in their festival clothing, are ritually mounted on horses when this crest is crossed and their descent on the southern side of the Ayakachi Range is begun.] Similarly, the ritual solidarity of the Q’ero cultural region as a whole is dramatized in their behavior as they near the Qollorit’i shrine and gather about it with other “Q’eros” of the cultural enclave, segregating themselves from other native and non-native groups. [88]

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Notes 1. Tschopik reports that ch’ullpa (“tomb”—now applied by the Quechua to all old ruins) doorways almost invariably faced east. I neglected to inquire about so many things such as this. 2. The term ayllu is frequently used in Peru to refer in some way to a native community, and has occasioned a great deal of discussion among scholars. The term is rarely used in Q’ero, but when pressed for a definition the natives identify it with the valley-head hamlet, the wayq’o or valley itself (in which several hamlets may be located), the entire community of Q’ero in distinction from other native communities of the cultural region, or a kingroup, sometimes with agnatic inclinations. Yabar, in his discussion of Q’ero, uses the term in reference to the entire cultural region, calling each community within it an estancia (“farmstead”), and records in the provincial capital tend to use the term in this sense as well. The Q’ero kingroup will be analyzed in Chap. 6, but the term seems to have least applicability to this entity as far as the Q’eros are concerned. 3. Frequently, especially in the presence of outsiders, these buildings are called kusina and dipusitu, Spanish loan-words denoting kitchen and storage room respectively. The word cosina is not really appropriate in Q’ero, because the “cooked-meal house” is a great deal more than a kitchen in the sense of a meal-preparation room, being the center of all domestic group activity. Mestizo building styles segregate cooking from eating facilities, and women and children are similarly separated from men, even when eating. Although in Q’ero the family routinely carries out all these functions together, more acculturated native homes in other regions may have a separate “kitchen” following the mestizo custom. 4. Q’ero (the ritual center—a carved wooden goblet used for the ceremonial drinking of axa (maize beer)); Chuwa Chuwa (hamlet—“many vulvas”); Qocha Moqo (hamlet—“knee of the lake”); Yawarkancha (hamlet—“biscuit of blood and moraya”); Qolpa K’uchu (hamlet—“salt-peter corner”); Putu Mayo (hamlet and river—“axa drinking-gourd river”); T’antana (hamlet— “now an old rag”); Chawpi Pununa (hamlet—“middle sleeping-place”); Lawarqaniy (river—“my soup-taking”); Aka Mayo (river—“feces river”); Pulaniy (a major crest in the granitic complex east of Q’ero covered with barren grass that appears undulating and soft at a distance—“my mold”); Anka Wachana (the towering and shadowed cliff-face which confronts the ritual center—“eagle hatchery”); Marantoniy (river and cultivation locality—“my grinding slab and rocker stone”); Puskero (spindle); Wallqa Kunka (valley-head—“throat of the necklace”); Wallataniy (high pass—“my wallata” denoting a graceful wild variety of goose inhabiting the alpine pastures and thought to be the spirits of dead alpacas); Okoruru (pass—seed of the

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oka tuber); Uri Kunka (pass—throat of a fast-maturing variety of potato plant); Wamanripa (the major titular peak of the community, mantled in glaciers—a rosette curative herb of the highest altitudes); Qolqe Punku (a major titular peak—“silver door”); Qawiñayoh (highest peak of the Ayakachi—“gable-shaped”); Oxo Pampa (“muddy level area”); Isu Moqo (hill—“mangy knee”). 5. Frequently, Andean communities are more or less formally divided into sectors, and these are often dual (saya) and termed hanan and urin (upper and lower). There may be some evidence of regular exogamic marriage relations between these divisions, or the ideal of it, at least in the past. Outside of the purely relative directional terminology in Q’ero, there is no evidence of formal locational divisions, and the Q’eros seem to find ludicrous any suggestion of marriage patterns relative to such divisions were they to exist. 6. [endnote 7 deleted, p. 87]. 7. Although the Q’eros specifically deny any such effects on their settlement pattern, I have been assured by some of them that they would much prefer to live in the ritual center due to its more temperate climate, but are unable to do so because of the constant care required by their alpaca herds in the valley-heads. 8. “Compartment” is used synonymously with “valley” in this discussion, being a term which better reflects the lateral relations between ecologically analogous zones. 9. Totorani has no such striking incongruity with the ecosystem of Q’ero, occupying the western margin of the Chuwa Chuwa River. However, its social segregation from Q’ero is similarly less distinct.

CHAPTER 3

The Structure of the Community Niche

[For preview of each chapter in Part I, see Original Introduction to Part I (1972) in front matter] The general form of the Q’ero ecosystem as reflected in the settlement pattern, its possible antecedents, and some implications have been discussed. It remains to examine more closely the niche of the human community in terms of the specific characteristics and resources of each zone through which it is extended. [89] Associations in an ecosystem are analyzable as a chain, or web, of dependencies. Most biotic components are consumers with relation to some components, and producers for others; topographic, climatic, and soil conditions furnish sources and limitations of energy. A hierarchy of energy transfer, or trophic levels, is central to the system. In the case of the Q’eros, the human community occupies the most inclusive trophic level. Energy from this level recycles in the system, or, to some much smaller extent, is exchanged outside in relations with the highland mestizo society that could be loosely characterized as symbiotic [insofar as it is an “accommodated tribal community”]. Within the context of topography and settlement pattern, the operation of the Q’ero community niche in the local ecosystem may be further analyzed by attention to the trophic level with which it is most directly associated; its herds and crops. These are domestic populations in the niche, which is to say the association between them and the human population is symbiotic. Just as the community is © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 S. Webster, Returning to Q’ero, Palgrave Studies in Anthropology of Sustainability, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-04972-9_3

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dependent for sustenance on the herds and crops, these in turn are dependent on the technology of the community for protection, direction, and propagation despite the rigors of the natural environment. On the other hand, these domesticates are nevertheless closely dependent upon natural conditions in different altitudinal sectors of the ecosystem. More clearly than is usual for an ecosystem, each domesticate occupies a distinctive niche of its own with regard to the natural habitat. The intervention of the human community in each of the subsystems of its domesticates sustains their roles as dominant factors within the confines of their niche. Consequently, from the point of view of the more inclusive niche of the human community, the ecosystem is seriated or interzonal (Fig. 3.1). It is divided into natural ecological zones characterized by radically different altitudes, distinctive biota, and diverse conditions of topography, climate, and soil. Upon this series of natural zones, and necessarily in close congruence with it, are superimposed the several domestic resources from which the Q’eros primarily derive their subsistence. The most striking feature of the Q’ero niche is that it involves management of domesticates and other resources spanning such a wide diversity of zones. [90]

1   Pastoralism and Domestic Animals The Q’eros are best characterized as pastoralists because their alpaca and llama herds are a crucial resource in the community economic organization and a central focus in its social organization. As discussed in the preceding section, the herds are a prime determinant of the settlement pattern; the manifold additional effects in social organization and ritual will be considered in Chaps. 5–7.  Economically, alpacas (paqocha) and llama are a resource upon which most aspects of native subsistence are either directly or indirectly dependent. Virtually every family owns both alpaca and llama, with the total size of the herds ranging from ten to more than one hundred head, usually including about 25% llamas. These animals are the source of wool, food, hides and sinew, fertilizer, fuel, and burden transport for the Q’eros. These products are in turn resources for clothing, household, camp, and trail equipment, routine and ritual diet, exchange capital, cooking and warmth, and the logistics of managing the dispersed enterprises of the community niche. The wool is dyed, spun, and woven into unku (men’s tunic), common and dress ponchos and liqlla (female’s short cape), and ch’ullu (men’s cap), the whole of the native exterior dress. Alpaca wool is preferred for

3  THE STRUCTURE OF THE COMMUNITY NICHE 

Fig. 3.1  Major ecological zones (by location)

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clothing, but llama wool is also woven or braided into the large number of blankets, carrying cloths (kana), transport sacks and ropes important in household and trail equipment. A small seasonal surplus of wool, varying with the wealth of the family, is reserved for exchange capital to acquire some services and goods from other Q’eros, and the few but crucial staples acquired from outside the cultural region. The finer alpaca wool is preferred by the natives for clothing, and in transactions is worth about two to four times the exchange value of llama wool, partly accounting for the preponderance of alpacas in the herds. Other sustained products of the living animals are dung and transport of burdens, but apparently never milk nor blood, resources which have probably never been exploited in the Andean pastoral tradition.1 The dung of the alpaca and llama (ucha) is in small compact pellets and habitually deposited by the herds in certain restricted localities; consequently it can be swept up during the dry season and stored for cooking and house-heating fuel, and fertilizer for cultivation of the intermediate zones. An average Q’ero family gathers at least 25–50 bushels of dung for these purposes each year. Transport of loads is a capability of only the male llamas. However, this involves movement of large quantities of seed, fertilizer, and harvests, especially at crucial phases of the agricultural cycle, over the considerable distances and altitudes of the community niche.2 The hide of the slaughtered or dead animal may be shorn, but is frequently left on the hide; several luxuriant pelts furnish the bedding and seats of every household. Shorn hides are sewn into storage containers, or along with sinews serve as binding for tools and the framework of house roofs. Finally, cuts of the meat of the animal are roasted fresh, or more often, dried and smoked in the roof-beams of the household and added daily in small parts to soups and stews over a period of time. Blood, viscera, and heads are cooked immediately into especially enjoyed broths and stews; for special occasions blood is also mixed with ground ch’uñu or moraya, which is then fried or baked into biscuits (kespina; yawar kancha). Fat is saved for making such special biscuits, but is more often utilized for flavoring stews or frying and for burning as tallow in clay dishes for ritual offering or lighting. Bones are crushed for boiling. Usually nothing is left of the animal but these polished fragments, strewn about the floor and snatched away by the dogs. [93] The Q’eros call the tributary valleys of the basin, above about 3660 meters (the main upper junctions), wayq’o (valley or gorge) and loma (“open heights,” “alps”). Wayq’o refers to the relatively closed and rocky

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zones of the valleys between 3660–4100 meters, but also includes reference to the hamlets, which are situated in their upper margins. Loma refers to the valley-heads where they open up into broad and rolling alpine pastures above the wayq’o (Fig. 3.1 and Fig. 3.2). Flora varieties decrease rapidly upward in these zones, with low shrubs and herbs of the wayq’o giving way to grasses and dwarfed “cushion” and rosette plants adhering closely to the surface of the loma. The prime determinant of climate is the high altitude. Mist is common, originating nearly every day in the montaña to the north, and drifting rapidly up through the steep valleys of the region. Overcast and precipitation is usual between November and April, at which time the daily temperature range at 4100 meters is between 50°F and 60°F. Throughout the region the mean temperature normally lowers at about the rate of 1°F for each 100 feet of greater altitude. Snow sometimes occurs during this season, but rapidly disappears; sleet is more frequent. Between May and October precipitation is very infrequent, and the daily ascent of mist is usually broken by periods of bright sunshine. Daily variation of temperature is much greater in this season (30°F to 85°F at 4100 meters) due to the effect of altitude, solation, and atmospheric clarity (a passing cloud can cause the temperature to drop 20°F). Humidity throughout the year is higher in the wayq’o and loma compared to similar highland altitudes not on the ceja de la montaña, but it is not so high as humidity in the lower zones of the region, the qeshwa and monte. [95] Whereas the community is dependent upon the herds of alpacas and llamas, the herds are in turn dependent upon a particular natural habitat, as well as the care of their owners. Of the two herd animals, the alpacas are the more decisive ecological factor for the community because they constitute the majority of the herd and have much more specific habitat requirements than the llama. Whereas the llama is pastured in either the wayq’o or loma zones, the alpaca cannot be long sustained in good health apart from a particular habitat system which is primarily within the loma zone. The primary aspect of this highly specialized adaptation is dependence for proper diet on a type of alpine moor called waylla by the Q’eros. Factors of ground texture and ambient temperature and humidity are apparently also involved.3 The Q’eros say that the alpaca is lomata munasqa (“endeared to the loma”), needs it wiñanampah (“for growth, life”), allin wilmapah (“for good wool”), and kiru kutanampah (“for grinding down of the teeth”). It is said that in lower zones tullun unqoshanpis sacha sacha k’utuspan hinaspa wañurqapun (“he thins and sickens, brush and forest cut him, and so he surely dies”). It is also recognized that qarachiy (sarna,

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Fig. 3.2  Major ecological zones (by altitude)

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carachi), an epidermal infection caused by the scabies mite, becomes critical in the warmer temperatures of lower altitudes. Ichu qoro, interpreted by the Q’eros as a lung disease, is said to result from pasturing in certain ichu grasses of the lower zones. Besides moderating the effects of dermal parasites (mites and lice), the cooler ambient of the loma also insures that most precipitation will be dense or frozen in snow and sleet, more easily shed by the fine thick pelt of the alpaca. The pelt under such conditions tends to form a saturated outer layer sealing off several centimeters of intermediate dry insulation. The alpaca, far more than the llama, seems susceptible to bronchial and pulmonary diseases; the higher humidity characteristic of Q’ero below the loma, as well as the more penetrating precipitation at lower altitudes, is likely to promote such problems. Similarly, the horny two-toed foot of the alpaca is apparently more tender than that of the llama, requiring (and probably adapted to) the softer, damper soils of the loma. The dry and rocky soils of the wayq’o upon which the llama can subsist indefinitely, are known to cause the disease saquaype in alpacas. On the other hand, alpacas must pass the night or short periods on firm soil outside their pasture moors, or suffer a type of foot-rot from unrelieved dampness. Within the loma zone are waylla (Spanish: bofedales), unique high altitude moors composed of a pasture complex that is evidently necessary for sustained diet, healthy wool, and requisite dental wear of the alpaca. The adaptation of the alpaca has apparently so closely tied it to such pasture that its incisor teeth will grow to occlusion inefficient for mastication if the animal is unable to find it in sufficient quantity. The ecological niche peculiar to waylla pasture is in turn the primary determinant of the alpaca niche, and consequently a key factor in the niche of the Q’ero community. It is a lower trophic level on which the Q’eros are indirectly dependent in the local ecosystem. The Q’eros term the flora characteristic of the waylla moor q’ara pastu (“husk” or “skin pasture”) because it forms a tough, dense mass of even growth that adheres closely to the ground, thriving in colonies of smooth plates and raised hummucks. The primary constituents are two sorts of k’unkuna (fino k’unkuna—Distichia muscoides; urqo k’unkuna—Plantago rigida).4 These “cushion plants” are highly adapted to the barren and seasonally dry altitudes of the Andean puna by a plant structure that is almost entirely subsurface, exposing only tiny closely packed leaves to the light, and conserving moisture and the warmth of intense but brief periods of solar radiation in its peaty understructure.5 The waylla are Distichia moors restricted to the small, level compartments

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and gentle slopes between the folds of the loma expanses, where groundwater is closest to the surface. Near glaciers and permanent snow, as is the case with Q’ero, they are usually numerous in valley-heads where springs and seepage from the ridges of moraine are widespread. In the drier Andean regions of puna they are much more scattered and less permanent, being associated with springs and groundwater that have less dependable sources. [97] In the waylla of Q’ero, the most succulent kind of k’unkuna (Distichia muscoides) is restricted to the immediate locality of the numerous springs, tarns, and rivulets, and the other kind of k’unkuna (Plantago rigida) is extensive around the drier margins of such areas. Short ichu and k’achu grass (Stipa spp., Calamagrostis spp., Festuca spp.), and paja (Gramineae), and pako (Aciachns pulvinata) dominate the loma zone both above and below the waylla wherever there is insufficient groundwater. This plant succession clearly reflects increased tolerances of dryness. On the other hand, altitude is a secondary factor, because neither of the k’unkuna types are found even in appropriately damp localities below 3800 meters or above 4600 meters, and it extends to these limits only in protected compartments. Cold and desiccation are clearly the upper limiting factors (very few plants grow above 5000 meters even in the damp southeastern Cordillera), and in the lower extremities apparently the special adaptation of k’unkuna to exposure offers it no special advantage over a variety of grasses and herbs. On the [south-]western slopes of the Ayakachi, the Hacienda Ccapana has specialized its three main valley-heads according to pasture resources, with only those closest to the snowfields supporting waylla and consequently alpaca, and the northernmost, with little waylla, devoted exclusively to llamas. To the east of Q’ero, Kiku has very restricted localities of Distichia muscoides and only scattered Plantago rigida, and a relatively small population of alpaca; Hapu has virtually no waylla at all, scattered Plantago rigida, and only a very few alpaca sustained in a marginal state of health. These situations furnish further evidence that in areas where waylla are not present or dependable in sufficient quantity, alpaca cannot successfully be raised. However, proximity to the glaciers of the Ayakachi and requisite altitude are evidently not sufficient conditions for the development of waylla pasture. Both Kiku and Hapu are close to the glacier fields of the Ayakachi, and their terrain is dotted with numerous lakes and tarns, implying sufficient groundwater for sustenance of the waylla which are nonetheless rare. On the other [hand] Q’ero, with its numerous waylla, has very few lakes

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and tarns, and in fact in the valleys where lakes are closely associated (Aka Mayo, Marantoniy, Erba Kunka, Qomer Qocha), waylla are absent. A probable factor involved in these ecosystems of the Q’ero cultural region is geologic: whereas the four main drainages of Q’ero and those of Totorani are located in deep deposits of argillite slate, the several secondary valleys enumerated above, and all the valleys of Kiku and Hapu, are located in bedrock of diorite granite (Fig. 3.3). Apparently the waylla are dependent upon denser soil and subsurface groundwater associated with the compact decomposed argillite. It appears unable to develop in the porous sandy soils of decomposed diorite, where glacial water is either trapped in bedrock basins on the surface or lost in deep seepage through fissures or coarse moraine. The Q’eros recognize the etiology between soil type and texture and viability for herds: they say that Kiku has few and Hapu no alpacas due to yurah aqo allpa (white sandy soil, i.e., dioritic), and condemn their own sterile peripheral valleys with this soil type as soq’asqa (“cursed”) or ichukamalla (“just entirely grass”). [100] The forage requirements of the llama are considerably less specific, and the animal is tougher and less vulnerable to health problems. Llama components of the herds can be pastured extensively in the variety of sedges, herbs, and grasses of the wayq’o below the hamlets. They are even set out to forage for short periods in the lower qeshwa and monte when their owners are in these vicinities and soon in need of their transport services. Furthermore, the Q’eros contend that the llama can forage effectively even higher than the alpaca, in drier and exposed localities up to 4700 meters where the waylla gives way to dwarf ichu and other grasses. In the narrow zone between this limit and the permanent snow, only the smaller and fleet wikuña, a wild camelid (Vicugna vicugna), can forage successfully. The llamas nevertheless simply tend to be herded with the alpacas, because they fare as well in and on the peripheries of the waylla, and constitute a smaller and somewhat less important component of the herd. The various resources which the llama and alpaca represent to the Q’eros are co-extensive and equivalent with the exception of burden transport (which the alpaca cannot do) and production of valuable wool (which the llama cannot do, having wool not much more valuable than that of the sheep and about one-quarter the worth of white alpaca wool). Furthermore, among burden-bearing animals it is said that only the llama is sufficiently sure-footed and dependable to transport the harvest of maize from the monte to the hamlets several thousand feet above.

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Fig. 3.3  Regional substrates and concordance of waylla, maize, and lakes

These distinctive resources are both valuable to the Q’eros, but not quite equivalent, consequently somewhat more effort is usually devoted to increasing the alpaca herd. This is because alpaca herds produce a more

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valuable standard of exchange tradeable for the always insufficient staple goods or accepted luxuries of external origin, and goods and services from other Q’eros. The possession of a large alpaca herd is furthermore the most important criterion of high status. On the other hand, the transport capacity of the llama herd, although virtually indispensable in certain phases of the Q’ero ecosystem, can be usefully developed only up to a certain point (about ten llamas) beyond which the troop is larger than needed for efficient transport and easy management by the average family. As will be discussed later, some Q’ero families specialize in llamas for ecological reasons of a compensatory nature; still others have many more llamas than usual because they have developed advantageous exchange relations reciprocating the services of their excess llamas for labor or goods from families with an insufficient number of these animals for their own needs. One aspect of the network of ecological relations between the camelid herds, their pasture, and the lower tuber plots reflects a good example of interrelated trophic levels. The chain of relations is mediated by the community which manages each of these components. The waylla is converted, primarily by the larger alpaca herd, into conveniently localized concentrations of dung. This dung is annually gathered, dried, and then either burned in the houses as fuel or transported on the llamas to levels 1000–1500 meters lower, where it is spread as the necessary wanu (fertilizer) on the rotated tuber plots. After being cultivated into the soil, the wanu minerals are subsequently converted into vegetable material through photosynthesis, and part of this is harvested as starchy tubers. The efforts of the human community are interposed in this energy chain at several points for the sake of deriving the ultimate benefit of the cooking and heating fuel and the harvest. Part of the energy so derived or conserved is returned to the same series of relations in the form of effort required to sustain it. The care which the Q’eros devote to their herds is not usually intensive, but it is continual. Extra efforts are undertaken in disease curing and seasonally with regard to fertility, pregnancy, and vulnerable young. But it is the constant tending of the herd for protection against predation and straying which consumes a tremendous part of the family labor resources and effectively determines the nature of the settlement pattern. Essentially, the herd requires the pasture of a specific zone, and furthermore can be left unattended for no more than a few hours at a time. In a situation such as Q’ero where labor resources tend to be stretched to capacity, this chore

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is most efficiently allocated to women, children, or elders because their labor and travel potential is accepted to be somewhat less than that of mature men, who are primarily responsible for the periodic but heavier labor of the dispersed tuber and maize plots. It has apparently followed from this pragmatic division of labor that the primary domicile is established where the women and children most frequently remain, i.e., near the herds. The inefficient use of labor potential, enormous logistics problem, and household disruption which would be entailed by any other arrangement (e.g., primary domicile in the ritual center, women or children commuting to the herds above, or alternatively, women and children in primary charge of the fields and household established for this reason in the ritual center) strikes the Q’eros as an unworkable, even ludicrous, possibility. Furthermore when there is no immediate danger of predators, a woman, child, or elder in charge of the herd is able to return from the loma pastures to the hamlet household in the upper wayq’o for a few hours at a time, and prepare meals for the other members of the family who may be returning at the end of the day. In this way the idle hours tending the herd can often be put to double use, whereas other arrangements may not effectively permit this. [103] Early every morning the herd is driven from the vicinity of the hamlet corrals to the pastures of the loma above, and every dusk they are returned, always in the wary, deliberate, and stately tempo characteristic of llama and alpaca movements. Virtually constant tending of the dispersed herd during the day is necessary to avoid a high rate of attrition from predation, straying, and occasional theft by outsiders. Predators are puma (mountain lion), atuh (fox), and qontur (condor); all of these are especially threats to young animals, but the puma and even the fox are able to kill and drag away mature animals, and the puma can slaughter a small herd if given sufficient opportunity. To guard against these predators the herdsman controls strays, keeps most of the herd within sight, and shouts threats or utilizes a woven sling-shot (wark’u). Straying in bad weather, or leaving an animal behind in the loma at night, often results in death apparently from exposure and demoralization of the very gregarious animal. If the herd is not too dispersed, dominant males are sometimes able to protect the herd by initiating united escape or confrontation. At night the herd beds down in a compact group, not liable to stray, and in the immediate vicinity of the family house group where one or more dogs give adequate alarm if a puma (the only nocturnal hunter) or thief is detected. The corral is utilized and an outside watch established only if such a threat is suspected. This is the

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case when it becomes generally known throughout the community that a particular puma is prowling, or during the rainy season when both the puma and fox are apt to hunt in support of a den of cubs or pups in the qeshwa valley below. Small shelters are constructed overlooking the corrals for this purpose. In addition, flags of white material (napana—“salute”) are flown near the corrals. High rock cairns (saywa—“sentinel” or marker) are built in the surrounding passes or on high points of ground around the hamlet, and are felt to repel threatening predators or thieves. I was unable to be certain, but judging from ritual associations it is likely that these constructions are endowed with supernatural efficacy; it also appears that two sorts of supernatural being (ñawpa runa—“ancient men,” and kukuchi—“spirits” or “ghosts”) motivated by jealousy or revenge are considered threatening predators at night. The corrals are used primarily for fertility ritual, curing, breeding, birth, shearing, and slaughter. All of these activities are best done with the whole herd gathered, because it is very difficult to separate individual animals. The dispatched spirit of the slaughtered alpaca is also in this way more liable to strengthen those of his companions, or reincarnate in a gestating animal. Twice during the annual cycle each family undertakes a special ceremony devoted to the salutation of the alpacas and llamas in separate rituals termed p’alchasqa and ahata uxuchichis (further discussed in Chap. 5). These rituals involve an exhortation of the fertility of the animals, mediated by t’inkasqa (libations of maize beer, or alcohol purchased from itinerant merchants). These t’inkasqa are made upon k’uya, small stones with extraordinary powers which are conserved by most families in Q’ero and entreated in these rituals to affect the fertility of the herds. These rituals also center around a ch’ampa, a piece of natural sod cut from the pasture, upon which libations are also lavished. This may imply a special regard at these times for the Pacha Mama (“Earth Mother”) fertility deity. This is appropriate because both of these rituals are closely associated with the main harvests of Q’ero. The corrals themselves are attributed with sanctity, recognized during these rituals with scattered libations (chalasqa) on their enclosed ground, and apparently through the herd are associated with the family itself. Pulmonary diseases, often complications erupting in animals weakened by parasite infestation or digestive diseases account for a large part of the total herd attrition. For poor Q’ero families this sometimes equals birth rate, and in bad years may exceed it. Curing is carried out in the corrals on individual sick animals, or in the case of epidemic disease, on as many of

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the group as possible. None of the antibiotics and parasite purges used by some of the more sophisticated hacienda herding enterprises are available to the Q’eros, and most are not known to them. Native remedies include direct applications, fumes, and medicinal rubbing, and supplication to deities with the power to assist in a cure. Interestingly, almost all curing techniques applicable to llamas and alpacas are also applied to runa (people), but are generally thought to be ineffective with sheep and other animals of European origin. The folk diseases to which both camelids and runa are susceptible seem to be co-extensive. These continuities reflect the close ties between herders and herds usual in pastoralism. [105] Infusions of maych’a, a highly resinous and odoriferous dwarf shrub, and wiyq’untu, a flowering leafy herb, are given orally for the treatment of diseases interpreted to be pulmonary. Epidermal and ear parasites of the camelids are also treated with direct applications of these infusions, and occasionally natives with severe infestations of lice will use the same plant. Several other herbs with which I am not familiar are probably used in similar direct applications for treatment. In addition, fumes are used to cure internal ailments. This usually involves performing a k’intusqa; burning a mixture of specially selected coca leaves (k’intu), sugar, native grains, llama or alpaca tallow (untu), and perhaps other highly valued materials, in a clay bowl with hot coals, and dispersing the fumes throughout the air of the sickbed or corral. The fumes are directed at the left flank of the diseased person or animal, but are also offered with exhortations to certain deities identified with local hills and peaks (awki and apu, respectively). If favorably inclined, these deities will assist the cure. In the case of machu q’axa (“old man’s lightening”), the disease is soq’a (“curse” or “affliction”), a general malaise received from association with ch’ullpa (ancient ruins) or encounters with the ñawpa runa (“ancient people”) thought to inhabit them. The ñawpa runa are the malignant survivors of a previous world, and many afflictions of men and the herds are owed to their envy and malice. But fumes can also be directly effective: diseased sheep, at least, may be treated by application of smoke from a burning piece of rubber salvaged from an old sandal [see Fig. 8.3]. Many diseases are also treated with a lloq’esqa (“left-handed”), which consists in wrapping some parts of the body (person or camelid) with yarn which has been spun in a manner contrary to custom, applying the k’intusqa process, and disposing of the yarn in a nearby river. This kind of yarn may also be worn on ankles or wrists as a protective device against afflictions. Its contrary spun nature suggests an operation through ritual

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reversal; this interpretation may be supported by the prevalent conception that curing anything necessitates “reversing” or returning to a normal condition (kutikusqa). The qolpasqa cure involves rubbing the afflicted person or animal with a mixture including saltpeter (qolpa), and casting this into a river or sometimes burning it as part of a k’intusqa. The disease is apparently taken into the lloq’e yarn or the qolpa granules, and is then probably neutralized by the purificatory powers of the river; this water issues from the altitudes and is seen to be ritually pure in virtue of this. The Q’eros tend to lapse into reticence when asked to elaborate on such curing rituals. It seems that this is motivated at least in part by an obligation to remain piously secretive or risk the loss of the cooperation supplicated from the awki and apu. Both the alpacas and llamas rut with some regularity during the milder wet season months between January and April. Breeding may be supervised and assisted in the corral for increased efficacy, and for favoring the production of the much more valuable recessive white pelt in the offspring, but more usually mounting occurs at random in the pastures. 6 Impregnation is exhorted in the fertility ritual (p’alchay) conducted in early February, and coitus before this time may even be interrupted. Pregnant alpaca seems somewhat more vulnerable to infection or abortion, and substantial loss occurs at this time. Llama and alpaca gestation is ten to eleven months, with most births occurring in January and February, and all by April. Apparently because pregnancy and lactation may interfere with the estrus cycle, a pregnant female alpaca sometimes misses the succeeding rutting season and cannot produce more than one offspring every two years. Only under optimal conditions can she produce four or five young before her fertility declines. The young are especially delicate and liable to contract a fatal case of diarrhea or pneumonia soon after birth. Birth occurs throughout this region in a season which is somewhat milder but with almost constant rains at lower altitudes and frequent precipitation and dampness in the loma. The Q’eros shelter the birth in the corral when they are able, and sometimes will protect the young from mud and even sew a sweater of rags around its body. Special care is taken of young that are accounted the offspring of the k’uya, recognized by their apparent similarity to these stones. [107] Most family rituals of the Q’eros require the fresh slaughter of a llama or alpaca for the associated feast. Poorer families may suffice with a sheep but this is an acknowledgment of poverty and is usually avoided on ritual occasions. Slaughter of several animals is required of families in charge of

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community festivals, and the herds of poorer families are spared only because they usually are not assigned to these responsibilities until they are in a condition to carry them out without embarrassment. All but the poorest families usually have sufficient annual augmentation of their herds to enable them to slaughter and consume two or three animals a year, at least sheep, for routine consumption outside of ritual occasions. All those which die naturally are eaten as well; the Q’ero diet is clearly not protein-­deficient. Wealthy families kill more, even when they are without responsibility for community festivals; inclusion of plenty of meat in meals, and especially in hospitality, is a point of prestige. The slaughter is sometimes casual, but more often involves several members of the family, and is initiated by a t’inkasqa (libation) of maize beer or alcohol made to awki deities of the hills to the east. It invariably occurs in the morning, and the animal is sprawled with its head extended toward the ascending sun. The spinal cord is swiftly severed at the atlas, and the throat cut so that all the blood will be pumped from the carcass, into a held pot, by the still-beating heart. Often at this time some blood will be flicked with the finger toward awki in propitiation (yawar chalasqa). Apparently no such propitiation is deemed necessary for shearing, which is carried out rapidly and routinely with a steel blade sharpened on a rock, about once a year on healthy animals during the milder part of the wet season. Danger of exposure is thought to be lessened by leaving the chest of the china (female) and the stomach of the urqo (male) unshorn. Sheep sometimes constitute a component of the family herd but, unlike alpacas and llamas, are an optional resource. Most families have a few sheep, but only the wealthier have sufficient labor resources to maintain a sizeable herd, in only a few cases as many as one hundred head. Sheep have a higher reproduction rate than the camelids, and unlike the latter are valued in the outside market for their meat as well as wool. But the wool is of much less value than that of the alpaca and even the llama, and sale of sheep as meat through clever merchants to distant markets is not sufficiently profitable to off-set the disadvantages of the enterprise. Although sheep are less specific in their pasture requirements, they are less efficient in foraging and digesting, and fewer of them can be sustained on a given sector of loma than the even larger alpacas and llamas. Furthermore, they are more vulnerable to loma predators and liable to stray than the latter, and must be corralled each night regardless of season. Furthermore, during particularly cold and wet periods they must frequently be taken to the milder zones below the loma, away from the alpaca herds. Consequently a

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sheep herd, if a serious enterprise aimed at more than a mere variation of domestic diet, requires considerable additional labor resources even beyond those necessary to the traditional native herd. A further disadvantage is that sheep dung is much more difficult to gather and not so effective a fertilizer as the camelid dung. [109] Of the other European domesticated animals, only a few are maintained. Horses need little supervision and graze widely throughout the loma and wayq’o but their number is limited by the expense of their acquisition (they are worth three to five times more than alpacas or llamas) and the slowness of their reproduction in the difficult environment. Most families have one to four horses which serve occasionally to bear small burdens and in trading expeditions to distant mestizo pueblos. But they are more important as a sign of higher status and a mount for the dashing and splendid display of ritual costume during community ceremonies. Mules, frequently used around highland mestizo communities, are not found in Q’ero at all. Although they could bear a far greater burden than the llamas, they are even more expensive than horses and not much better on the rough trails of the qeshwa and wayq’o. Unlike the llamas, they are supposedly unable to transport the maize harvest across the dangerous bridges and precipitous trails of the monte. Some of the Q’ero families have a few cows which are butchered for special feasts during the community ceremonies, occasionally furnish small quantities of milk and cheese, or sometimes are sold to merchants for cash. They wander freely without supervision in the vicinity of the ritual center and Hatun Q’ero, number no more than 30 or 40 for the entire community, reproduce very poorly, and are rather frequently killed in falls. A few pigs are kept by some of the Q’ero families, foraging freely in the vicinity of the ritual center. However, this project not only requires some additional supervision; it also generates low esteem in the eyes of the Q’eros, because the animal is considered dirty and grotesque, and its meat is useless except for occasional sale to a merchant from the outside. Finally, one or two chickens are usually kept by each Q’ero family, housed in a small rock shelter near the primary domiciles, and furnishing occasional eggs for its duration with no upkeep other than foraging about the household and vicinity. They are apparently always purchased, rarely reproducing successfully in this environment. It is likely that the altitude and the usually cold and damp ambient also militate against raising the native household domesticate qowiy (guinea pig, also cuy), tried with limited success by only one or two families in the community.

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Besides the vicuña, other prominent wild animals of the remote upper altitudes include the wiskacha (Lagidium, spp.) an Andean chinchilla, and the wallata, a large white and black goose. Neither are hunted or trapped by the natives, who rather stand in awe of these mysterious dwellers of the uppermost altitudes (as they do of the condor) and compose flute songs about them. The wallata can be seen at a great distance as a white mark on the green expanses of the waylla, but cannot be approached closely, and is said to be the spirit of a dead white alpaca. There are several wild plant resources which are gathered at certain times of the year in the uppermost reaches of the loma and in the passes, and seem to be ritually integrated in the pastoral life of the Q’eros. P’alcha (Gentianella campanuliformis) bears profuse and wondrous red and yellow flowers close to the shale soils of passes as high as 4700 meters especially between January and March; the blooms are gathered in February for the family P’alchasqa ceremony, exhorting fertility of the alpacas. Puña (Culcitium spp.) grows long soft, furry leaves throughout the year between 4500 and 4700 meters, and is used continually to decorate hats and the rustic wooden shelves and crucifixes of households, as well as serving as a medicinal herb and, when p’alcha is unavailable, is used similarly to salute the herd animals. Wiyq’untuy (Gentianella sp.?) is a succulent herb of similar altitudes flowering in bright green leaves and yellowish blooms in October, when it is used for similar decoration of clothing. Like puña, it is thought to be a special offering to the deities, left at the crest of passes or in the household in bowls of axa, or simply loose in a corner. As previously mentioned, maych’a (unidentified rosette) as well as wiyq’untuy are used in infusions as a medicine for human and camelid illnesses. Wamanripa (Senecio tephroides), a leafy herb which grows under sheltering boulders as high as the snow-line, is used as a medicinal herb for humans and perhaps the camelids as well. Pupusa (unidentif.), a short grain-headed grass that grows higher than any other is gathered in small bits and kept in the bundle with the k’uya stones. Pupusa, tarwi (a native bean), and axa are considered to be the most proper foods for these stones. The k’uya [stones] themselves originate from the extraordinary forces of the high mountains, encountered exposed on some slope of the various revered summits, and are passed on from ancestors. All of the wild plants are considered sanctified or pure (limp’u or mana q’ellichu) by virtue of their origin in the highest altitudes and in close association with the mountains, snow, and clouds of mist and rain, all ritually chaste and unsullied in these remote regions. The pure water of the snow itself is considered a

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medicine effective in countering infections, and the graceful and ephemeral vicuña which subsists in these altitudes is appreciated as a symbol of their sanctity. The elaborate symbolism of these wild animals and plant resources, and their integration in the ritual of the Q’eros, suggest a long-­ established association between the natural habitat of this uppermost zone, the human community, and the herds. [112]

2   Wayq’o and Qeshwa Resources Below the alpine loma, the Q’ero ecosystem is stratified into two more natural zones with distinctive topography, altitude, climate, and biota (Figs. 3.1 and 3.2). The wayq’o extends from about 4100 meters down to the upper valley junctions at 3660 meters, through generally steep and rocky valley walls, compressing the tributaries into cascades and the trails into abrupt descents. A variety of ichu and other grasses, low herbs, and the spiny achupalla (Puya sp.) are the dominant natural flora of this zone. Above the rocky escarpments where the wayq’o merges with the loma, this gives way to the dwarf plants and grasses of the puna mat. Below 3660 meters the two converging valleys of the Chuwa Chuwa and Qolpa K’uchu broaden somewhat into wider and less precipitous riverbeds, banks, and higher benches, composed of accumulated glacial till and river deposits. These rocky soil beds are flanked by the steeply rising ridges of rock, gravel, or boulders which culminate in the high crests dividing the valleys of the community. This intermediate area is usually called the qeshwa (“braided” or “twisted”), connoting the greater amplitude of the valley compared to the wayq’o above, the more temperate climate, and the much higher and closed nature of the vegetation. This is composed primarily of shrubs and high herbs, often bearing colorful flowers (especially, Llawlli-­ Barnadesia sp.; K’antu—Cantua buxifolia). The term qeshwa is generally applied to the valley floor down to the vicinity of the ritual center (3350 meters) and beyond as far as Qamara (2650 meters), through which area the density of the vegetation increases steadily. The profuse and verdant flora of the ceja, especially ferns, sphagnum moss, and thickets of perennial bushes, begins at about 3200 meters, below which point the Q’ero River is once again restricted in a gorge between precipitous valley walls. This rapid transformation of vegetation from the xerophytes of the upper wayq’o to the chaparral, and finally the temperate rain-thicket of the qeshwa below, is in response to a steadily increasing mean temperature, precipitation, and humidity. Diurnal temperature range in the ritual center

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(3350 meters) is about 55–70°F during the wet season, and 45–80°F during the dry season. These climatic factors are in turn a function of the altitude and proximity to the upper Amazon basin. The heavy masses of humid jungle air gather during the night far below, depressed by the cold quiet air above in the alpine cordillera. They are visible at dawn lying tranquilly like a sea, perhaps 100 kilometers distant and 10,000 feet below, but very soon they begin to boil up, drawn into the vacuum left by the rapidly heated and rising air over the cordillera. The movement creates prevailing daily winds from the north. Sometime during the day these humid masses of air, now cool clouds, sweep up the valleys of the Q’ero region, spilling over crests and surging into corners, and during the long wet season bringing rain as well as mist. The heaviest humidity and precipitation, however, are forced out of the clouds in the monte and qeshwa by the rapidly decreasing temperature gradient of the higher altitudes. The wayq’o and loma are left only with misty dampness and the moderate precipitation which sustain its less exuberant vegetation and the perpetual snows of the Ayakachi. Coterminous except in the lower portion with the natural zones of wayq’o and qeshwa are the cultivated intermediate zones between 4100 and 3100 meters of altitude. Here the activities of the community sustain the niches in which are grown several dozen varieties of domesticated Andean tubers, and in very restricted quantity, perhaps two or three varieties of surface-bearing plants. The almost entirely subterranean nature of these Andean crops reflects the high altitude, particularly the fact that higher mean temperatures and smaller momentary variations in temperature range are conserved in the subsurface soils under these conditions. In a very few small plots, protected within ruined house foundations or unused corral walls, some of the Q’ero families may devote limited attention to the cultivation of tarwi (Lupinus mutabilis—a native legume tolerant of high altitudes), kaniwa (Chenopodium pallidieaule—[quinoa] a native seed crop), ayxira (Amaranth sp., also a tiny seed), and kulis (unidentified—a leafy herb eaten in soups).7 Small amounts of the first three grains are utilized primarily as offerings in curing and fertility ritual respectively, and these small local gardens appear to be established in an effort to avoid purchase of these requisites from outside the region. Wild resources in these zones include several natural dyes still used for basic tints in the weaving, derived from roots and blossoms (k’uchu k’uchu— dark green; chapi—magenta; cheqchiy—yellow); a wide variety of medicinal herbs; a wild spinach (nabo, a Spanish word, is used by the Q’eros)

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which grows profusely about the ritual center in November; achupalla (Puya sp.—a resinous xerophyte gathered for tinder and fuel); and kisu, a stinging nettle used to dispatch the spirits of the family dead. [114] Throughout the intermediate zones the tubers grow in a series of habitats to which they have become adapted through symbiosis with the human community here or elsewhere in the Andes. Again, the community itself is primarily not an occupant of these zones, but usually enters them only for the purpose of cultivation phases. In the localities of heaviest contemporary tuber production (Fig.  1.3: Q’ero Ch’ullu, Pukara Pampa, Hatun Q’ero) between about 3100 and 3300 meters, the cultivation regime was intensive at one time long ago, developing a system of terraced plots apparently supported by irrigation. This regime was probably established under the closer supervision and tribute system of the Inca, and fell into disuse during the colonial era and since, when native subsistence needs and direct effective control once again resumed dominant influence. The terraces are still heavily cultivated, but not as continuously as would be possible with irrigation and maintenance. Even with fertilization, soil exhaustion requires fallowing for at least three years after two or three years of use, and [where the soil is poorer] usually for five years after only one year of use. Unlike in the higher localities, constant cultivation is required to hold weeds at bay. As the efforts of the human community have diminished, the limitations of soil, gradient, and natural vegetation have apparently reclaimed much of the locality to its natural qeshwa habitat. Below 3100 meters the increasingly aggressive wild vegetation, liability to disease, and scarcity of arable soil have apparently always precluded further cultivation of the qeshwa. Above, in the intermediate valley banks and benches between 3300 and 3660 meters, no planned terracing has ever been done, but clearing of stones and ancient cycles of tilling have established a network of small plots, stone pilings, and bush hedges; the rocks and hedges serve naturally to control water drainage and soil erosion, and are occasionally altered to improve this function. Fertilization is practiced in these localities, but soil poverty generally requires fallowing for five years after just one season of cultivation. Above the main upper junctions at 3660 meters, the available benches of soil beds associated with the valley rapidly diminish. However, cultivation of other tuber crops is sustained on the shallow mantles of glacial till over-lying the steep wayq’o walls, wherever promising soil and moisture are available. On the uppermost margins of the wayq’o, where it merges with the loma, successful cultivation is continued as high as 4200 meters

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with altitude-tolerant varieties of bitter potato. Beyond this altitude success tends to be limited by excessive aridity, soil poverty, and cold, and the effort is motivated only by convenient proximity to the hamlets and ready availability of tillable soil. However, sparse returns on the labor expended render this area poqochata saqeypun (“proper[l]y left to the alpaca”). Ownership of specific localities in the upper wayq’o is apparently less welldefined, merging with the common community property of the loma pastures. Almost all traces of previous cultivation are obscured by the reclaiming vegetation of the puna mat within a few years, and if the former cultivator does not choose to renew his efforts on a plot after six or eight years, it can be planted by another. Reclaimable plots are much scarcer in the restricted localities of arable soil of the qeshwa and lower wayq’o. However, plots abandoned by diminishing or emigrant families (wixch’usqa—“thrown out”) are occasionally available, and rocky or steeper slopes (ranra, q’ata) can be laboriously cleared. Families without established claims or expanding in membership must undertake such labor insofar as they cannot acquire excess land from other families, but otherwise overextension of strained labor resources discourages such enterprise. [116] The crops of cultivated tubers in the intermediate zones are threatened by browsers, disease, and extremes of weather, as well as soil exhaustion and the restrictions of terrain, vegetation, and climate associated with altitude. Browsers are principally the luychu and taruka (two varieties of native Andean deer numerous in the region), but also the few horses and cows which are pastured in the vicinity of the cultivated zones threaten the plants. These animals are restricted from access during the season of tuber maturation by brush and branch gates constructed at strategic points along the trail where no easy detour is possible. Key bridges are also allowed to deteriorate so that no such hoofed animal will dare to cross them. A variety of blights, rots, and parasites can afflict the plants or tubers, and greatly decrease or even destroy the harvest. The native technology in protection of crops from these threats is highly developed in the Andes, but my knowledge of the methods involved remains superficial. However it is clear that the natives associate afflicted crops with improper habitat, rotation technique, storage, and seed selection; malevolent intervention of awkis and the curse of ñawpa runa, or the soq’asqa localities they have infected, are also considered culpable. Modern potato-growing technology has determined that crop rotation of four- or five-year cycles controls soil infestation of several fungi and nematodes. Likewise, careful seed

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selection from healthy-appearing tubers and plants, and storage of seed and harvest in dry and undisturbed conditions, can further prevent the spread of infections and rots borne by bacteria, viruses, and nematodes. The Q’eros restrict different varieties of tuber to certain minimum altitudes; this reflects the fact that strains with a high tolerance for cold and soil poverty often have a low resistance to rot diseases that are promoted by warmer mean temperatures and higher soil moisture content in the lower localities. The majority of their tuber crops are planted in a rotational scheme which leaves each plot fallow for about five years, and consequently many parasitic fungi and nematodes are eliminated from the soil. Seed for the succeeding crop is selected carefully from the smaller q’ali (“healthy”) tubers of apparently healthy plants. Storage of harvest in the drier altitudes, and care not to unnecessarily disturb the collection, reduces the liability to humid and dry rots, respectively. Finally, seed tubers selected for the succeeding crop are stored in layers of dry ichu grass, which limits the spread of overlooked infection and through ventilation inhibits the development of disease. It is possible that some variations of seed storage procedure, e.g., temporary caching in astana or the ritual center, may be a response to the different dormancy phase requirements of some tuber strains. Further techniques appear to operate against the afflictions of malevolent awki or the malignant soq’a curse. These afflictions are manifested through infection or outright destruction of the crop by hail storms, or the communication of diseases by other extremes of weather, especially lightening. The awki are consulted in divinatory rituals concerning proper procedures, and their good will and cooperation against the threat of soq’a are enlisted through exhortations and propitiatory offerings. Any Q’ero can propose a routine injunction with a k’intu p’ukukuy, which involves blowing through a few specially selected coca leaves and so offering them to interested deities. A special petition can be arranged with the assistance of a Q’ero specialist empowered by direct communication with these forces. Tarpuy and yapuy, the planting and sod-hilling of the tubers respectively, can be accompanied by an interment of a k’intu of coca leaves along with a selected seed or young plant; this procedure appears to address itself specifically to the Pacha Mama (“earth mother”), the soil’s benevolent power of fertility, although the Q’eros generally seem to be more preoccupied with the awki. A k’intusqa may be burned at the time of harvest to show gratitude and sustain the proper relations for future crops. Not all Q’eros perform these precautionary rituals, but the more

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careful do, and misfortune is explained in retrospect by such carelessness. A more elaborate propitiation is prepared by hiding, in a small covered cavity dug in the ground and preferably in a prominent place above the crops from where harm is most likely to come, several tiny pots of maize beer. This ch’uya punusqa (“resting of ripe maize beer”) is especially intended for propitiation of the dangerous awki Ch’ixchiy (hail) and Q’axa (lightning). Apparently it may be carried out voluntarily by an appropriately empowered individual (papa hamp’ih—“potato shaman”) in behalf of the community in general. A priest’s performance of an allpa misa, a folk Catholic Mass directed to the ritual cleansing of the fields, is also believed to be an effective precaution against any such threats. Finally, particularly severe and widespread crop afflictions may be interpreted as caused by the displeasure of an apu or major deity, or a grave moral transgression, and are atoned for by rectification of wrongs or the ascent of Wamanripa. This 5140-meter (16,850’) snow-crested peak is considered the dominant Apu of the region. A small delegation of Q’eros, led usually by the current year’s kamichikuh (leader or chief), makes this climb at such rare times of general crisis, and are said to supplicate a k’intusqa on the summit. [119] The variety of tubers cultivated throughout the intermediate zones reflects a spectrum of domesticate adaptations sustained by the Q’eros in order to fully exploit the potential of their diverse niche. 8 In the lower intermediate zone of the qeshwa between 3100 and 3400 meters the better soils and more temperate climate allow the cultivation of several dozen varieties of papa (Solanum tuberosum, most predominantly the strains termed maxtillu, qompis, kusi, and uri), and several varieties each of oca (Oxalis crenata), añu (Tropaeolum tuberosum), and ullucu (Ullucus tuberosus, also called by its Spanish name lisa). Maturation in this vicinity may be as rapid as six to seven months and yield is substantial considering the lack of modern fertilizers, seed, protective chemicals, and tools. Higher than this, up to and including the vicinity of the upper valley junctions at 3660 meters, production is progressively limited to fewer varieties of papa, and one or two of añu; oca and ullucu cannot be successfully cultivated. On the other hand, a few varieties of the bitter potato adapted to yet higher elevations (soqo, mandado: Solanum curtilobum?) are cultivated here if a specially processed product rather than a fresh tuber is desired. Generally, in the wayq’o. above 3700 meters only the bitter potato types can be cultivated. These types are processed for consumption only through frost dehydration preceded by leaching (producing moraya) and natural fermentation (producing ch’uñu). On the other hand, only the tough

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bitter varieties of potato can withstand the leaching process necessary to remove bitterness and prepare the pulp for freeze-drying.9 The variety of bitter potato cultivated in the wayq’o is wide, including prominently ruk’i, warmi ruk’i, and winku, strains of an aboriginal hybrid (probably Solanum juzepczukii) which has high tolerance for frost, cold, and poor soil, a maturation not too prolonged (about nine months), but a low yield. The intermediate cultivation zones of comestible and bitter tubers, then, are largely congruent with the stratified ecological zones of qeshwa and wayq’o. While the primary attributes of the natural zones are distinctive topography, climate, and wild biota, the correlative zones of cultivation reveal a series of several genera and numerous species and varieties of domesticated tuber crops with a spectrum of different niche requirements, maintained in efficient response to the continuum of habitats. The transition between qeshwa and wayq’o is reflected in a transition from the cultivation of comestible tubers of papa, oca. añu, and ullucu to the exclusive cultivation of a variety of bitter potatoes. These represent one or more distinct species of Solanum, tolerant of the more severe habitat and apparently intolerant of lower habitats, and requiring distinctive procedures of cultivation and processing [1972: 121].

3  Monte Resources The Q’eros apply the Spanish term monte (bush or forest) to the zone which merges with the lower margin of the qeshwa at about 2700 meters altitude. This natural zone spans the transition between here and the final domination of subtropical vegetation in the yunka (Spanish: montaña— subtropical forest) at about 1800 meters (refer to Figs.  3.1, 3.2). The cultivation of maize and some subtropical crops is carried on in the lower parts of the monte where terrain opens, but few Q’eros ever venture into the yunka below the convergence of the Q’ero and Kiku Rivers. The general description uxupi (“inside”) is still used, and probably sufficed to designate the monte before the adoption of the Spanish term. Andean maize was probably originally adapted to more temperate valley floors of the intermontane basin, but in Q’ero it must be cultivated in a lower zone which is fundamentally alien and unpleasant to the natives. The Q’eros are not concerned to make distinctions within it, and furthermore regard the monte and especially the yunka on its lower margins with horror, calling it sacha-sacha (“endless trees”), tuta (“darkness”), and yanqa waqo (“unreasonable, irrational sanctum”). The Q’eros fear an unknown multitude of

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spirits which dwell here, and abhor the mites and flies (ch’uspi) which afflict them in this zone, often causing welts which subsequently bleed from furious scratching. However, ulcers from these lacerations rarely develop, probably because the Q’eros do not remain in the subtropical zone for very long. The descent from the ritual center to Puskero, the current primary locality of cultivation, is tortuous and exhausting (Fig. 1.2). The last cultivable area in the intermediate zone is just outside the maximum practical altitude tolerance for Andean maize. Below the outlet of the Marant’oniy tributary the single trail is swallowed in the precipitous Kuchisanta declivity, and cultivation is precluded by severe topography. When the terrain again begins gradually to open at about 2700 meters altitude, the dense foliage of the monte replaces it to again engulf the trail. At this point the lush ferns and sphagnum of the lower qeshwa are supplemented, near the river bed, by thickets of arching ip’a cane, a variety of small trees and shrubs, and a twining begonia which produces one tongue-shaped pink petal through most of the year. At 2650 meters the trail confronts impassable buttresses on the eastern side of the river and crosses over the torrent on a narrow bridge of logs, vines, and brush which, on each side of its support by boulders in mid-current, springs tremulously beneath the feet of the traveler or llama troop. Immediately below this Chawpi Chaka (“middle bridge”) the Qamara tributary is crossed, and the trail plunges into a low canopied forest of broad-leafed trees, vines, and cane thickets. This vegetation represents the uppermost extension of the yunka on a distinct shale substrate restricted here to the western side of the river. [122] If one does not continue the descent of the trail at this point, but rather climbs upward into the tributary valleys on either side to the upper margin of the monte vegetation, stands of cedar trees are encountered which are the primary source of supply for the roof beams and poles used by the Q’eros in construction of their houses. These are of considerable value due to the labor necessary to extract them; in fact such poles are considered the only valuable component of a house, and claim may be made to them throughout successive generations. Natives living in the puna and high valleys of the qeshwa to the south and west outside the Q’ero region occasionally travel in more than a hundred kilometers to stay a short while with one or another Q’ero family, and extract a few cedar timbers from the monte, property of no one and unavailable in their own region. Other wild resources available to the Q’eros in this zone include thick varieties of cane used for ground loom braces, split and tied into circular fence storage

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bins, and hollowed and drilled for flutes, several of which are found in any house. These canes are occasionally gathered for small sales to adjacent communities of Cusipata, who have no ready access to this item. Certain broad leaves of the monte are used in the preparation of an important condiment. Although sawq’o leaves from the vicinity of the ritual center may also be used, the higher calcium content of certain broad leaves of the monte is favored for reduction to vegetable ashes which are mixed with water and formed into small balls termed llipta. When chewed with coca leaf this substance furnishes the calcium carbonate needed to liberate by catalysis the minute quantities of cocaine available in the leaf. A variety of medicinal and dye plants with which I gained no familiarity are also gathered in the monte. Below Qamara the trail winds through the foliage and along the flanks of steep river walls until about 650 meters lower and 10 kilometers distant, it recrosses the Q’ero River to Puskero and the vicinity of cultivation, at 2000 meters altitude. The terrain in this locality opens into lower hills and gentler flanks, anticipating the major junction below with the Kiku River, at about 1800 meters. Small stands of a short variety of palm tree and, on the western side of the river thick-trunked hardwood trees reaching a height of over 100 feet, are scattered throughout the monte vegetation. Here they represent the upper margins of the yunka vegetation, which dominates the growth below the river junction. The climate of the monte reflects the lower altitude and greater proximity to the upper Amazon basin, with uniformly moderate temperatures and high humidity. Heavy clouds forming throughout the year in the basin and montaña below move upward through the monte daily, depositing large amounts of precipitation in rain or mist as the temperature gradient drops. Whereas in the wet season the clouds and mist are generally unbroken throughout the day, in the dry season they usually pass above Puskero by early morning, leaving this area in bright sunshine. The upward surging clouds also pass, at successive intervals of two to four hours, the ritual center and the valley-head hamlets of Q’ero, and in the dry season similarly expend themselves and usually give way to unbroken sunshine in these alpine altitudes. Precipitation, extremely heavy in the montaña below, and decreasing only gradually upward in the monte and qeshwa is reflected in the decreasing gradient of vegetation density and height. [124] Secondarily, the vegetation appears to reflect a major change of soil substrate that occurs between the east and west banks of the Q’ero River (Fig. 3.3). The high complex of massive rocky and dry peaks which extends

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along the eastern border of Q’ero from Pulaniy and Anka Wachana to Maych’a Q’asa above Kiku is composed of a granite bedrock horst and its decomposed mantle of sandy dioritic soils, termed aqo allpa (“sand earth”) by the Qeros.10 On the other hand, all of the major Q’ero headwaters and the western bank of the Q’ero River through Totoraniy and apparently Markach’ea are formed on a substrate of shale and slate, largely ferruginous argyllite, and its decomposed soils. These distinct substrate associations are those which apparently give rise, respectively, to inadequate and adequate alpaca pasture in the loma zones of Q’ero and adjacent communities. In the monte zones of the communities of the Q’ero cultural region (at least those of Q’ero, Totoraniy, Kiku, and Hapu), the same geologic differentiation of soils seems to be the basis of fertility and impotency for the cultivation of corn. All cultivation plots of the Q’eros and Totorani, and all those of the Kiku drainage in aerial photos, are restricted to the inside banks of these two converging rivers which form the margins of the granite horst of Pulaniy; that is to say, all are formed in the sandy soils of granitic substrate. Hapu, on the other hand, is unable to raise maize in the lower reaches of its own drainage system, but must cross the intervening compartments to share the corn cultivation zone of Kiku (just as Totorani shared the maize zone of Q’ero before they ceased its cultivation altogether). The Hapu describe the impotent (for the purposes of maize) soils of their own monte as yana alpa (black soil). This same term is applied by the Q’eros to their best qeshwa soils for the production of Andean tuber crops, and apparently constitute the substrate most propitious for the formation of waylla, pastures important for their success with alpacas. On the basis of this evidence I suspect that the same granite massif which deprives Kiku and Hapu of waylla in their loma zones gives way again to a slate substrate on the east side of the lower Kiku River and the entire monte zone of Hapu. In these areas it may account for, as it does on the lower west bank of the Q’ero River, the impotency of soil for the purposes of maize cultivation. The Q’eros do not clear their maize plots by slash and burn (as is done generally throughout the Peruvian montaña and Amazon basin), although this would save them the enormous amount of labor expended in felling and dragging aside the trees and brush. According to the Q’eros, if this foliage is burned after drying, maize will not mature. This claim is important evidence in the determination of soil characteristics, because it indicates a marginal tolerance in the normal routine on the sandy granitic substrate. On the other hand, although burning of the slashed vegetation

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on the black slate soil outside the granitic area promotes cultivation of various subtropical crops, it does not alleviate the impotency of this soil for maize cultivation. One exceptional Q’ero penetrated the yunka to about 1500 meters altitude several years ago and determined this, experimenting with several montaña crops (coffee, coca, peanuts) as well as their traditional tuber and cucurbit crops of the monte. His failure with the montaña crops and the maize resulted in his eventual desertion of the effort, although his success with the other traditional crops was exceptional. On the basis of this evidence, I would speculate that the sandy granitic soils accommodate maize cultivation in virtue of a moderate level of acidity comparable to the Andean intermontane soils of its earlier adaptation. However, addition of mineral salts in the ash of the burning technique probably increases soil alkalinity beyond the narrow tolerance of this variety of maize. On the other hand, the acidity of the argillic slate soils is apparently too high to be moderated by the addition of ash, is consequently inhospitable to the Andean strains of corn, and may even have toxic levels of soluble minerals such as aluminum and iron, locally present to an extraordinary degree in this substrate. This kind of limitation must be expected, for example in the failure of the Q’eros’ effort to grow coca in the yunka, because this plant can otherwise be grown at altitudes up to 2150 meters. Within the confines of granitic soils outlined above, the niche amenable to maize cultivation is further restricted by the scarcity and shallowness of tillable pockets of soil. In the increasingly steep and rocky topography above the vicinity of Puskero these are so restricted that only a few small corn plots are attempted, the highest of which seems to be established at about 2700 meters. The soils in the vicinity of the river junction are less steep and shallow. Here the Q’eros practice a simple digging-stick horticulture, clearing the trees and heavy undergrowth, leaving detritus to decompose for fertilizer, planting in holes pried between stumps and boulders, and periodically, slashing back weeds until the crop is established. The soil, apparently due to a deficiency of minerals and not because of competition from weeds, becomes increasingly impotent after two or three years of cultivation, and must be fallowed for at least three years, left to the rapidly re-established overgrowth while a rested field is cultivated (Chap. 4). The Q’eros cultivate a strain of sara (maize or corn, Zea mays) peculiar to the uppermost regions of the montaña in the southeastern Andes, and known outside the Q’ero region as chaminko. This strain is highly prized for its flavor and special qualities for the making of axa,

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maize beer. The stalk is much taller (3–4 meters), cobs longer, and grains smaller than the strain cultivated in the intermontane valleys. The Q’eros distinguish several varieties in the strain they cultivate and apparently have never, within memory and recount, used any corn but their own for seed. This they collect at harvest by selecting the largest and most aesthetically pleasing ears from the healthiest plants, braiding their leaves to make groups of four ears, and carrying them to the hamlets above for drying and protection from mold and rot, hung in the roof beams of their houses. It is likely that besides having achieved some tolerance for slightly acid soils, the selective inbreeding of this strain has also favored the production of a flinty grain resistant to the rots promoted by the warm, humid, and frequently overcast climate of the monte. Interplanted between the rough rows of corn and around the family huts are several supplementary crops, all similarly native to the New World, some of which are now rather rare even in native cultivation elsewhere. Root crops of tropical provenience include apichu (Ipomoea batatas— sweet potato) and unkucha (Xanthosoma sagittifolium—a New World taro). Of more temperate provenience are achira (Canna edulis, a rhizome root crop); laxun (Polymuria sonchifolia also called yacon; a sweet pithy root with white watery flesh flecked with red, eaten raw); rakachu (Arraccacia xanthorrhiza, also called arrachacha; a root crop like yuca, which is a major staple in the Northern Andes); sapallu and lakawete, two varieties of curcubit squash; uchu (Capsicum pubescens. a bush growing hot pepper of extraordinary vitamin content); achuq (a fleshy green fruit borne on vines, unidentified); and a cape gooseberry or husk tomato (local name uncertain—Physalis peruviana).11 Whereas maize, a necessity in native ritual, is grown by almost every Q’ero family, the interplanted crops are grown optionally and in small quantities, for diversity in the diet, and consumed entirely by the family which grows it. Maturation of most occurs somewhat before the harvest of corn, so that they furnish a local food supply in the monte while guarding the corn from predators and while harvesting, and are carried up to the primary domiciles for special enjoyment at a time when the routine diet consists mainly of the dregs of last year’s potato harvests. Some Q’eros specialize somewhat in the production of sara or uchu aiming to produce a small surplus to be used in exchange with other Q’eros or with the outside. [128] Predation upon the corn by animals of the monte and yunka accounts for tremendous attrition of the crop and is the source of anxiety and disappointment for the Q’eros, who devote a large part of their available labor

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resources to its production. The predation in effect amounts to systematic parasitism, with most Q’eros assuming that 20 to 50% of the crop will be lost; if precautions are not thorough, all of it can be lost. Families unable to withstand the pressures of this parasitism withdraw from the monte and devote their efforts elsewhere. Threats or plans to do this are frequently made. But this involves at least the difficulty of procuring elsewhere the corn necessary for ritual, and the few Q’ero families in any one year who abandon the effort in the monte soon return to it, resigning themselves to the losses.12 The predators are loros, the small green parrot of the montaña; ch’allu, a large member of the raccoon family, and ukukumari (Tremarctos ornatus; the South American bear). With regard to the loros and ch’allu, at least, the Q’eros are convinced that a large population of them is sustained in the locality by the corn crop as it reaches maturity. The loros attack the plots by day in flocks, and in a short time can do a great deal of damage, tearing into the ears with their beaks and even flattening the tall stalks with their combined weight. The ch’allu also feeds in groups, but enters the corn more stealthily at night. He is a large enough animal to push the stalks to the ground. The less frequent ukukumari feeds alone by night or day but is much quieter and can remain unseen for some time in a mature thicket of corn. In the final two months before harvest the crop has to be guarded almost constantly, because a few days of neglect can mean its decimation. This is largely a responsibility of each family. Although some individuals try to care for the plot of their neighbor or kin as well, this is not usually effective because the visibility in dense thickets and uneven terrain is very limited. Most families have an observation platform constructed at a strategic point projecting out over the steep slope of their plot to facilitate observation day and night. Shouts are sounded to warn of a bear, flock of loros, or herd of ch’allu, and the people nearest the threat attack with shouts and clubs. (The Q’eros have neither firearms nor fireworks but wish they did for this purpose at least.) Occasionally a predator will be clubbed down, even at night. As in the cultivation of the temperate tubers, maintenance of the proper relations with the awkis, and perhaps with Pacha Mama, is an integral part of the maize cultivation technique. Furthermore, spirits unique to the monte must be dealt with, and occasionally a “monte Roal,” or paramount deity of this alien habitat, is mentioned. Matters for divination include fertile locations and propitious times of plot rotation, preparation, and planting; matters for propitiation are sufficient but not excessive sun and rain, and the threat of hail or wind storms. Insofar as I was able to

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ascertain, these purposes are served through frequent invocations with p’ukukusqa of coca leaves during labor, the offering of a k’ intusqa during planting carried out by each family, and nothing more until harvest time. Harvest is climaxed by the laborious transport of the maize (sara apay— “maize carry”) on the troop of male llamas from the monte to the hamlets, a process involving two days with a layover at the ritual center for each trip. (The transport of peppers, squash, and roots usually occurs separately, either before or after the sara apay.) The arrival of each family’s laden llamas to the ritual center has an air of restrained triumph, and the deposit of the maize in the family storehouse at the hamlet is even festive. Each family carries out the formal ritual of Axata Uxuchicis within a few weeks (Chap. 5). Often this cannot immediately be done due to the pressing chores of processing ch’uñu and moraya and planting the lowest tuber fields of the qeshwa; both of these tasks must be gotten underway even while the maize harvest is in process. [130]

Notes 1. [endnote deleted. 1972: 130–131]. 2. The transport usefulness of the llama is sufficiently important in this area of Peru so that it is worth about the same as an alpaca, although its wool is worth only about 25% as much. 3. Standard sources on the alpaca are Gardozo and Moro [see Part I Bibliography]; I also benefited by information from Eduardo DeBary of the Hacienda Ccapana, Quispicanchis, Cuzco Department. Most of the conclusions regarding pasture requirements have resulted from my own research. 4. For identification of the waylla flora I am indebted to Dr. P.D.L. Guilbride of the Instituto Veterinario de Investigaciones Tropicales y de Altura (University of San Marcos, Lima) and the Dr. Ramon Ferreyra of the Museo de Historia Natural, Lima. 5. Insofar as I was able to determine, Weberbauer [see Part I Bibliography] has written one of the few functional descriptions, technical or not, of the Andean cushion plant dwarf rushes. The well-delineated high altitude ecological community in which these plants grow appears to offer opportunity for interesting and original botanical research. 6. The Q’eros seem fully knowledgeable to carry out more sophisticated breeding control through segregation and selection of crosses, as is done in some hacienda herding enterprises. They take few measures of this sort, however, because they are unable to muster the greatly increased labor

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resources needed at each family level. This also, of course, is probably the fundamental reason why they suffer a greater herd attrition from disease, being unable to devote much special care to young and sick animals. 7. [endnote deleted. 1972: 131]. 8. Núñez del Prado, utilizing the data of the previous land-owner who was an amateur botanist, and required the Q’eros to supply him with samples of all the tubers known to them, has reported 88 varieties (15 bitter potatoes as well as 12 types of ruk’i, 53 comestible potatoes, 8 oca, 8 ullucu, and 3 añu). 9. Moraya is processed from certain varieties of bitter potato by soaking from several days to two weeks in the cold rivulets of the loma, and so leaching away the bitterness, leaving a bleached and starchy mass within the tough sack of tuber skin. This can be cooked and eaten in this state, but is usually spread out in corrals or depressions for two or three weeks where the night frost of the loma can settle upon it undisturbed by air movement (allin hap’ispa q’asapi—“well grasped by the frost”), but carefully covered with wet ichu grass each day so that the heat of the sun will not begin fermentation (“so that the sun cannot see it”). The product is ideally hard and white inside the shriveled skin, storable almost indefinitely, and can be reconstituted by soaking and steaming to a mealy dumpling-like consistency with a unique bland flavor. Ch’uñu is processed (with less labor expenditure) from certain other varieties of bitter potato, principally ruk’i, by leaching and spreading the small tubers out where the alternate frost and hot sun of the diurnal cycle in the loma can, by turns, desiccate and ferment the pulp. The process may be hastened by trampling the product beneath the bare feet, and final dehydration can be effected by exposing the ch’uñu only to the sun not the frost. The product is soaked and then steamed, boiled in stews, or ground into a flour which is added to soups, and imparts a fresh pungent flavor and crispy texture to the food. Oca is also frost-dehydrated to aya in a similar process, and produces a highly prized soup with a nutty flavor. (In 1977 my family had a standing joke: those of us who preferred moraya flatulated inoffensively, while those who preferred ch’uñu flatulated sourly and had to sleep apart from the others.) 10. [endnote deleted. 1972: 133]. 11. Warren Roberts, a U.C.L.A botanist with wide experience in Peru, assisted me in making many of these identifications on the basis of descriptions and native names only. 12. Approximate yields for the Q’eros—when reasonable success in achieved— I very roughly estimate to be about one arroba (25 lbs.) of unshelled maize per 20 sq. meters cultivated.

CHAPTER 4

Subsistence Strategy

[For preview of each chapter in Part I, see Original Introduction to Part I (1972) in front matter] The previous section discussed the structure of the Q’ero niche in terms of its natural zones and domesticated resources, and briefly described the technique employed by the Q’eros to respond to, control, and utilize each of the niche components. The result is only a fragmentary analysis, reflecting the seriated fragmentation of the ecosystem. But of course from the Q’eros’ point of view the system is coherent; their efforts follow a smooth and thoroughly familiar, if often harried, sequence of necessities given the conditions of their developed ecosystem. The integral coherence of the ecosystem as an ongoing process can be clarified by an examination of the various subsistence strategies operating in concert.1[en 1 deleted] Many of these strategies can be viewed as cyclic, operating in regular and repetitive patterns of mobility, timing, or exchange. Some irregular and interrupting patterns can be considered as compensatory strategies; these will be subsequently discussed. Finally, aspects of community demography which appear to be a function of compensatory strategies will be analyzed. [134]

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 S. Webster, Returning to Q’ero, Palgrave Studies in Anthropology of Sustainability, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-04972-9_4

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1   Cyclic Strategies The transhumant agriculture and sedentary pastoralism of the Q’eros involve several complex patterns of mobility and timing that must be carefully operated in concert. The strategy of operation pursues regular and repeated cycles that can be analyzed, for the sake of better understanding, into phase, tempo, and rhythm (Figs.  4.1 and 4.2). Crops and herds develop in an annual series of phases characteristic of each in its respective niche. Care and exploitation of each resource involve a tempo dove-tailing the movements and efforts required in each of the several series of phases, and transhumance is a concomitant of this tempo. A further cycle of transhumant mobility and timing is superimposed on this annual pattern of phase and tempo by the productive limitations of each ecological zone. Restoration of the agricultural niches involves a rotating rhythm of several years. Integral to this entire subsistence strategy are cycles of labor and transport management, and regular reciprocal and redistributive exchanges. [deleted part; 1972: 134] The annual phases of herd care and land preparation, insemination and planting, gestation and cultivation, and reproduction, shearing, and harvests are closely determined by the seasonal climatic cycle as well as differential altitude. Aside from the continuous effort required for herd care, shearing and supervision of birth and rutting make extra demands on labor resources during the wet temperate season (Fig. 4.1). These cycles are adaptations of the herders and the herded species, respectively; the strains of shearing and reproduction have been restricted to a season of more moderate temperature extremes and a habitat with less constant and penetrating precipitation than that characteristic of lower zones at this time of year. The Q’ero agricultural cycle similarly responds to the annual alternation of wet-temperate and cold-dry seasons. The prolonged cycle of phases in tuber cultivation must avoid the months of most aridity and frost danger, plant in earliest anticipation of the onset of the rainy season, and harvest well into the cold-dry season nine and even ten months later. The series of tuber crops in successive altitudinal niches develop in staggered phases which follow the gradually ascending increase of temperature and moisture in the onset of the wet-temperate season. Because the dry season is nevertheless somewhat humid, and ends earlier, both the planting and harvesting of tubers can begin somewhat earlier than in the more arid intermontane basins of comparable altitude in this area of southeastern Peru. Consequently some time is left for the management of a maize crop. [deleted part; 1972: 138]

Fig. 4.1  Subsistence strategy: annual phases and tempo of integration

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Fig. 4.2  Subsistence strategy: rhythm of perennial rotation (qeshwa and wayq’o)

The full cycle of phases, however, is complex (see Fig. 4.1). Preliminary preparation of the tuber plots for the following year is sometimes undertaken in wanuchay (spreading dung fertilizer) and kuskiy (turning sod with the foot-plow, also called barwichu, from Spanish barbecho) while harvest of the current year is still underway. This preparation aerates the soil, allows the fertilizer and sod to rot into nutrients, and exposes the hard clods to the decimating effects of the coming frosts. The few level plots are plowed without orderly lines (llunlluh), but sloping ground is plowed in regular furrowed patterns (wachuh) which control the distribution of rain water. In plots prepared by kuskiy the tuber seed is planted (tarpuy) toward the end of the dry-cold season and the young plants (mishka maway) are cultivated and hilled (hallmay), more intensively in the lower zone where the aggression of weeds is a threat. Maturation and harvest, like planting, progress in staggered phases up through the series of several tuber niches. The very earliest harvest is under optimum conditions near the ritual center, small, and largely of only ritual importance as first fruits. As the cycle of each niche develops, the corresponding phases are seen to proceed from the intermediate qeshwa up

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through the diverging valleys and finally into the extremities of the several wayq’o. An alternative cycle of tuber production dispenses with the preliminary plowing, simply planting in unbroken ground with the foot-plow used as a digging-stick to open a pocket in the sod (ch’ukiy). Then the appearance of the mishka maway is followed by yapuy, the turning of the sod from furrows on each side onto the flanks of the line of young plants along which dung fertilizer has been spread. Ch’ukiy and yapuy are more frequent in the upper zones than the lower, and little or no weeding or cultivation is necessary. This method is less productive due to inferior aeration and fertilization, but is often favored by the Q’ero. They contend that the method puts less strain on the soil (probably by the minimization of nutrient loss through leaching) and are clearly appreciative of the substantially decreased labor expenditure required. [140] The several phases of the cycle of maize and other subtropical crop productions begin with the felling of large timbers on the plot planned for next use. This is undertaken during and immediately after the maize harvest of the current year. The brush is then left to dry and the monte deserted during the planting and cultivation of the tuber crops in the intermediate zones. When the highest and latest bitter potato planting and yapuy is completed, the maize plots are cleared of the dried timber and heavy brush, which are dragged aside and burned in restricted piles. The underbrush is then slashed and left to decompose into fertilizer, and the maize and other subtropical crops are planted by digging-stick horticulture in the unbroken ground. The young plants are protected from the aggressive weeds by monthly slashing, and later the maturing fruits are guarded from predators until harvest. The first squashes and root crops mature in April, at which time some choqllu or young corn, as well as the sugary young stalks, are also eaten. Shucking (t’ipiy), drying the exposed ears, and transport of the harvest up to the hamlets (sara apay) progresses throughout July, and completes the monte cycle. The integration of these several phases in tuber and maize cycles with the continuous care and climactic phases of herding, along with a variety of lesser annual tasks of the family and community, involves a tremendous expenditure of labor. [deleted part; 1972:140] Absences from the primary domiciles of one to several family members may be for only a day, but more usually varies from several days to three or four weeks. During this time temporary households are established in the campsites of the lower or intermediate zones. Besides tools and rudimentary household equipment, provisions must be carried to the campsites sufficient for support

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throughout the anticipated period. This logistics problem is lessened in phases near harvest, when some of the local produce can be eaten. Transport of loads too large for the family groups or individuals, such as seed, fertilizer, and the harvests, requires deployment and coordination of the troop of male llamas with supervisory drivers. If either human or llama labor resources within the family are insufficient, exchange agreements with other families must be negotiated. This must be done is such a way that contemporary phases can nevertheless be carried out by both parties, but disadvantages are invariably involved. Communication and coordination between subgroups of the family are necessary to affect efficient redirection of efforts at crucial phases. This is carried out, not always effectively, through family members or another Q’ero traveling (usually also for labor transfer) between the separated campsites and households. Usually in ignorance of any calendar except the moon and stars, the harmony of interlocking cycles of phases is maintained by each family observing development of its crops and measuring its progress through that of others in the community. A generalized perspective of the tempo of phase integration can be abstracted from Fig. 4.1. Annually, development of the agricultural, horticultural, and herding cycles results in two active schedules in the intermediate zones alternated with two active schedules in the upper and lower zones. Attentions to crops in the intermediate zones are especially concentrated from August to November (planting and cultivation) and again from February to June (harvest). Efficient labor deployment through the several tuber niches is enabled by the successive cycles of seeding, maturation, and harvest appropriate to the successively higher altitudinal zones. Planting and cultivation rapidly, even frantically, progresses up through the several niches in a relatively short period between late July and early September (note diagonals in Fig. 4.1). The higher plantings must not be delayed or the family risks harvesting these slow maturing tubers too late for their necessary processing by leaching and frost-dehydration. Due to the longer maturation time needed by the higher tuber crops, the harvest phases are staggered through a longer period, but this is fortunate because the task is much more laborious and must be accompanied by whatever preliminary plowing the family hopes to accomplish for the next year’s crop. On the other hand, between the periods noted above, labor resources must be dispersed to tasks in both the upper and lower zones almost simultaneously. Between November and February shearing and reproductive phases of the herds coincide with maize plot preparation and planting;

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between June and August the processing of tubers by frost dehydration in the uppermost zone coincides with the harvest and transport of maize from the lower zone. These concurrent tasks are possible because they are slightly staggered in time, and because those in the loma and hamlet vicinity rarely require more than one adult from each family. But throughout the annual strategy, concentration of family labor resources in one zone is never complete, due to the constant care required by the herds in the loma. [deleted part; 1972:143] Labor resources are most painfully taxed by dispersion in the months of May and June, when the tuber harvest is in its climax in the upper intermediate zone, when ch’uñu and moraya must be processed in the loma during this short season of dependable frosts, and when the mature maize must be carefully guarded in the lower zone or be lost to predators. In this intersection of several production cycles the members of a family may not see one another for more than a few moments throughout several weeks; coordination is an exceedingly difficult task due to tenuous communication by hearsay, and poorer families with insufficient labor resources risk losses on all fronts. On the other hand, an unusual concentration of the majority of each family, and representatives of all the families of the community, is occasioned by the shucking, drying, and transport of the maize harvest in July. This task must be undertaken and completed with the utmost expedience in the short period between the final tuber harvest in the wayq’o and the first tuber planting in the qeshwa. The concentrated effort is possible only because it must sacrifice just one representative from each family for supervision of the herds and the frost-dehydration of tubers in the loma. Superimposed upon the annual tempo of phases sketched above are perennial rhythms of fallow rotation peculiar to each zone of the community (Fig. 4.2). Virtually all annual production is focused in one locality while others are restored in fallow by cooperative consent. [deleted part; 1972:143] Insofar as I was able to determine, the rotational cycle was most systematized in the qeshwa tuber production strategy, and least systematic in the pasture use of the loma. The several localities of appropriate pasture to which each hamlet has access are held in common by the families of that hamlet, each of which supposedly has rights to use of any that they wish at any time. The perpetual glacial seepage maintains certain expanses of pasture (i.e., the waylla) in steady production despite seasonal variations in climate, and perennial use apparently has no cyclic pattern. In practice however, daily claims made on a first arrival basis in each locality are

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respected, and over-grazed localities are allowed to recover. This is especially so during the dry season when peripheries of the perennial waylla reduce in growth rate. The result of this loose consensus is a system of several pasture circuits associated with each hamlet, over which the family herds are daily conducted in such a way that usually some localities are allowed to rest for a few weeks at a time. At the lower margins of the loma, throughout the mantles of shallow soil on the crests of each wayq’o, a somewhat more systematic rotation cycle is followed for cultivation of the several varieties of bitter ruk’i potatoes. The families of each wayq’o maintain claim to areas within which plots are fallowed for six to ten years after a season of use. The expanses of terrain with more or less recognized claim are consequently extensive for each family, and through the complications of inheritance and residence (discussed below) may not be limited to the valley of current domicile. [145] The more systematized cycle of rotation in the qeshwa is similar, and its elaboration has more thoroughly integrated the community on an intervalley basis (Fig.  4.2). In this more fertile zone the normal cycle has become equilibrated at six years, with one year’s crop being followed by five years of fallowing. Fallowing is supplemented insofar as necessary and possible by addition of wanu fertilizer. In this system the families of the community tend to harmonize their rhythm of rotation, and in any given year almost all members may be found working their plots in the same locality. The terrain involved is termed muyuy allpa (“rotation grounds”), and in any of the several localities the individual family plots are called wark’iy in general, chakra if being worked, purun if in fallow, and maway if growing a crop. In 1970 nearly the entire community was pursuing the phases of tuber production at Kurus Moqo or its immediate vicinity, and the perennial rotation is so regular that one can predict where they were or will be in any given year. The main movement throughout the six-year cycle is from (A) Kurus Moqo to (B) the same side but lower banks and benches of the Qolpa K’uchu River centered at Oxo Pampa, to (C) the granitic alluvial fans of Hatun Q’ero, the lowest arable terrain in the zone, to (D) the more fertile medial moraine soils of Q’ero Ch’ullu, in the immediate vicinity of the ritual center, to (E) dispersed along the entire narrow strip of sandy and rocky soils on the eastern side of the Qolpa K’uchu River, to (F) dispersed along the entire southern bank of the Chuwa Chuwa River. [deleted parts; 1972: 146–7] The form of this rotation system suggests an interesting genesis. As far as the Q’eros are concerned, the muyuy allpa remains just as it has always

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been and the dispersion of localities throughout the community is unremarkable. Their rotation in harmony seems to them only a matter of common sense, given that they generally like to be with one another, and the scattering of family plots throughout each locality is simply an implication of divided inheritance among several offspring.2 [en 2 deleted] Recurrences of intermarriage between valleys in any particular family history would result in claims to plots within each of the several qeshwa localities. Currently, individuals with claim to less than six plots throughout these locations attempt to acquire others through inheritance, marriage arrangements, reclaiming abandoned plots, or expending additional effort in clearing and fertilizing unfavorable terrain. Families with a surfeit of plots amalgamate them in the community cycle of rotation, or soon transfer surpluses through marriage. The development of harmony among the six locations is itself probably best explained by the ties of kinship left behind, along with the plots, in each successive translocation of residence and unrelinquished rights to land. Reciprocal assistance necessary in the annual phases of cultivation tends to be based on ties of kinship and affinity, and it is this pragmatic cohesion which probably best explains the coordinated cycle (see Chaps. 5 and 6). Q’ero Ch’ullu, with more fertile and level terrain than any other qeshwa locality, is itself subjected to an additional scheme of rotation within the wider rotation strategy. The Q’eros have found that two and even three annual crops can be extracted from this soil during the six-year regime, if fallow and some fertilization are continued during the balance of the cycle. But since this locality is one of the six comprising the wider rotational scheme, it must be cultivated in its entirety during one of the six years. Most of the Q’eros utilize its additional productive potential by cultivating a small garden of oca and ullucu each year on a different segment of their land in this locality, insuring that no segment is used more than two or three times during the six-year cycle. Evidently the segments of this internal rotation scheme have been dispersed through family histories and unrelinquished claims in a process parallel to the other qeshwa localities. The current result is a proliferation of small parcels of land distinguished by a mazeway of markers and agreements obscure to anyone not a Q’ero. Consequently, a family may in successive years cultivate parcels in opposite extremities of the locality, adjacent to neighbors who bear no known relationship, and once each six years unite a harvest from several parcels so widely separated. [149]

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An integral part of the regime in this locality, and similarly favorable sites nearby, has been the special care of small gardens, heavily fertilized and often enclosed in corrals of stone. Under these optimal conditions such plots (ñawpa maway—“early planting” or wisq’a chakra—“fenced plots”) are usually used to produce the earliest potato crop and may do so successively with only alternate years in fallow. These are the only plots on which herd animals may be kept during fallow periods, the common method of fertilization elsewhere in the Andes. Patches and ruined foundations in the immediate vicinity of the family house in Q’ero Llaqta are usually used in this manner, and a wealthy family may have claim to several such gardens. The tribute plots (asinta alpa “hacienda ground”) parallel in form and distribution those of the Q’eros themselves, and are operated in the same rotational cycle except where they have fallen into disuse since expropriation. In the qeshwa their total extent appears only somewhat greater than that of the average Q’ero family, and they are located on only average and sometimes even mediocre soils in each locality, many exceptionally fertile and level alluviums apparently remaining under control of wealthy native families. Furthermore, in several qeshwa localities the tribute plots are not unitary but instead segmented into sometimes widely separated fractions. [deleted part; 1972: 150] However, since expropriation, almost the entire emphasis of tribute effort has been shifted to the production of bitter varieties of potato processed into moraya, which enjoys a stable and lucrative position in the outside market. Meanwhile some of the lower qeshwa tribute plots have fallen into disuse, but each wayq’o maintains rather extensive localities devoted to this goal. In this zone the families of each valley are responsible for the production phases of the nearby tribute plots, operated in a local regime of rotation which is comparable to that undertaken by each family on its own local wayq’o plots for bitter potatoes. Because there are four such tribute areas distributed in the four major wayq’o, and because the entire tribute plot in the qeshwa locality currently under cultivation is devoted to varieties of bitter potato for processing, the annual production of moraya for tribute is several times more than that produced by the average Q’ero family. The perennial system of fallow rotation in the monte seems to have two concurrent cycles operated by each family in no developed harmony with other Q’eros. [deleted parts; 1972: 151] Every Q’ero family must devote some time each year to felling trees and heavy brush on a plot anticipated for future use, when yields on the circuit of plots currently in use indicate

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that despite regular fallowing, returns on labor invested are not expected and all potential for recovery of fertility is being destroyed. Both the longer and shorter rotation cycles in the past have been hampered by scarcity of axes and sickles, still in great demand among the Q’eros, who have been limited primarily to a crude brush hook made by lashing a strap of scrap steel in a slotted club. The few fortunate families with an axe have been able to clear more virgin land, and resort less frequently to old rotation localities.3 The result of the community regime so far has been to cycle slowly through the hills and flanks above the junction of the Kiku and Q’ero Rivers, never having more than a small irregular sector of it in the short rhythm of rotation, and managing to retain most of it from the encroachment of subtropical vegetation. The outlines of the wider rotation zone can be detected on the aerial photos of May 1963 (Fig. 1.2). From this evidence and the brief reports of Núñez del Prado and Escobar for 1955 it is apparent that within the most recent 15-year period the Q’eros have twice moved the emphasis of their cultivation. The natives further report a variety of named locations within the zone which are samashanrah uñayna (“now still resting for a long time”). [deleted parts; 1972: 152] Regular cycles of social exchange, just as management of labor and transport resources, are operations integral to the more general cycles of phase, tempo, and rhythm in the subsistence strategy. The festival cycle and the tributary cycle are exchanges of redistributive form which accommodate, respectively, a season of relative dearth in the native economy and an annual requirement imposed by the external economy. As previously described (Chap. 1), the Q’eros apparently accommodated a demand from the succession of external regimes for tribute in labor or produce. They achieved this by allocating small segments of time within their annual tempo and parcels of land within their perennial rotational scheme, and rotating the additional labor requirements among the members of each family and the community. The special purpose surplus eked out of the native economy in this way is under the purview of a native leader selected by the landowner or representative of the provincial government (subject to veto by the community), who supervises the centralization of efforts and finally of harvests and produce. This is delivered over once each year, in kind or converted into cash, to the representative of the external regime. This redistributive cycle is completed each year when in return for their tribute, the Q’eros receive renewal of legitimate status in the state, of their

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nominally usufruct claim on their lands, or of their contract or repurchase, depending on the form of the regime to which they have been subjected. Ritualization of aspects of this busy cycle is not lacking. The gathering of Q’eros at predetermined times and locations for one or two days in the months of key agricultural phases is accompanied by alternation of furious cooperative labor and somber pauses during which coca leaf is taken and food and conversation are exchanged. One such gathering of adult males during the ruk’i hasp’iy (bitter-potato harvest) in early June is also the occasion for the axllay (“choice”): the proposal, discussion, and selection of new official leadership each year (Fig.  4.1). While under hacienda dominion, the transport on llamas and arrival of the tribute harvest to the distant home of the patron was an occasion for ritual display of the fecundity and independent organizational power of the community. The family of the patron awaited this with undisguised wonder, as well as some condescension. [154] The annual festival cycle has family and community aspects, celebrated in the hamlets of each wayq’o and in the ritual center, respectively (see Fig. 4.1). Whereas the family feasts are carried out by each family concurrently at requisite times of the year, the four community feasts are each put in the charge of one to several karguyoh (“he who bears the cargo or burden”), selected anew at the conclusion of each festival for the responsibility of the succeeding year. For Chayampuy and Carnival these roles are fulfilled by the four to six varayoh, the officials elected to formal community leadership each year. In Paskwa a separate group of karguyoh, sometimes more numerous than the varayoh, discharge their obligation. These persons are held responsible for the production of a feast to be served and celebrated for the entire community in the coming year. Each karguyoh prepares for this by organizing a strategy in consultation with his kin and affines, and marshalling on call from them the necessary array of resources (primarily in food, labor, and entertainment) for the anticipated occasion [Chap. 7 elaborates on this system of leadership]. The community feasts each involve a tremendous gorge of food and maize beer over a period of two to five days in the ritual center. Of the three largest ones (Chayampuy, Carnival, and Paskwa), two occur only as the very earliest ñawpa waway are harvested, a small potato crop mainly of ritual significance as first fruits (Fig. 4.1). These feasts, and even that of Paskwa soon to follow, occur well before the main tuber harvest is under way, and all four of the community festivals occur before the maize harvest. This time of year culminates a period of generally increasing dearth

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for all families of the community, whose reserves from the previous year’s harvests have been progressively depleted. Complaints that the ocas are now exhausted commence in each family by October, and the depletion of each more recent harvest is lamented in the following months. Especially the depletion of the maize harvest is anticipated with concern, because it is both relatively small and a necessity for most ritual undertakings. Consequently, the prime motivation of each new karguyoh is to conserve his marshalled resources through the annual period of plenty, holding them in reserve for the discharge of this obligation at just the time when the scarce goods are most appreciated. He is assisted in this by his relatives, who likewise conserve for him portions of their resources when more abundant, and are subsequently repaid through participation in the bounty and prestige of the feast, or when a similar obligation falls due to them. The quantity of food withheld in this manner from the normal routine of exchange and consumption is considerable, because it is intended to feed the entire community to the point of satisfaction, lliw llaqtata haywasunchis (“we will fulfill (the wants of) the whole community”). Furthermore, if there are several karguyoh, it is pooled through the efforts of a group of families which together may constitute almost half the community. Although the part of the year through which most of the community festivals occur (January through March) is a period of increasing dearth, it also coincides with the agricultural phases requiring least intensive labor. The time and effort necessary for the festivals conflict only with the shearing and reproductive phases of the herds, matters which require attention of only a few persons from each family. Although the karguyoh are nominally responsible, each actually symbolizes his kin and affines, all of whom are held more or less to account for the quality of the festivities served up to the balance of the community. This is first apparent in the planning meetings of dispersed kin, each representing one or more families often in separate valleys, which are arranged several times throughout the year by the karguyoh. These gain momentum until, a few days prior to the feast, key members of each family involved move to the ritual center [see Fig. 7.1, festival houses]. Here they begin final preparation for the occasion. The climax feasts, of which there may be several during each festival, are a spectacle of symmetric serving and gorging, carried out across the yard of a house or the church, or the floor of a house, along which a length of banded cloth of llama wool has been spread for the deposit of mounds of cooked food. Behind this cloth are ranged and ranked all the adult and elder males of the community who

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are being hosted; before it, serving or scurrying back and forth to the area of the cooking pots, are all the adult and elder males who comprise the hosting families of the karguyoh. The hosts punctuate the serving with shrill cries of “Kayta!” (“Here!”), calling for replenishment, and the guests respond with rhymes of gratitude or disdain as they return their empty q’ero (wooden goblets for the maize beer) into the outstretched ponchos of their hosts. Scattered less formally through this bilateral symmetry are one or two groups of the women and younger people, who serve and consume according to which side they represent, but with much less ceremony. The host families themselves eat and drink to capacity, but only after their guests have been satisfied. The flow of goods and services in such an annual cycle is redistributive, first converging by way of commitments of kin and affines on a central role symbolic of them all, and subsequently distributed formally among one part of the community and informally among all of it. The pattern is congruent with the routine household economics of each family. It is duplicated on smaller scale in the ritual family feasts of P’alchasqa Ahata Uxuchichis. and Santus, when in each hamlet family wealth is marshalled and lavished upon guests as well as family members [Fig. 4.1]. In the community feasts, a new center of redistribution is assigned and organized each year with attention to a fair rotation of the burden, so that from the point of view of a perennial cycle, the pattern of exchange is reciprocating. This perennial reciprocation echoes, over an extended period of time, the exchange symbolized in the symmetric arrangement of hosts and hosted in each feast. [deleted part] This aspect of the community pattern is also duplicated each year in the family feasts, which tend to reciprocate between neighbors in the hamlets or relatives and friends in other valleys, and share ritual family redistributions in this way. This is most striking at Santus [“All-Saints”], when during one day several relatives and neighbors will exchange invitations, and then visit one another in turn. In each visit, furthermore, there is a reciprocation of cooked food from the host and appeals to his deceased ancestors by the guests in the host’s behalf. The symmetrical relationships of successive reciprocity in community feasts sustain such exchanges on an annual or perennial basis, just as invitations are returned on Santus. This is sometimes expressed in such terms as “I feed him now, but he will feed me another time.” Such reciprocity seems to be the focus of ritualization, as in the spectacle of serving and gorging in community feasts at the ritual center, and in the hamlet groups organized for Santus. Furthermore, the redistributive form to which the

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flow of goods and services tends to conform at any given point in the cycle is the theater of prestige competition, and rebalancing of reciprocal relationships [examined in Chaps. 6 and 7]. The center which marshals, controls, and redistributes the scarce goods is honored in proportion to its expenditure and style of dispensing it, which represent influence and resources appropriately paraded. This prestige devolves most directly upon the senior members of the family from which the karguyoh is named, but extends as well among the network of kin and affines.

2   Compensatory Strategies Problems arise more or less unpredictably in the perennial routine of every family, the fortunes of which vary greatly with the vicissitudes of illness and health, death and birth, predation, disease, blight, and fecundity, weather and the quality of relationships with supernatural powers, unanticipated expenses, demography, and a multitude of other factors. A sampling of the kinds of solutions often adopted by the Q’eros is discussed below, ranging from merely stop-gap measures to more radical attempts to recover subsistence needs. [159] Short-cut tactics to temporarily compensate for irregularities in the annual routine include telescoping or suspending phases of cultivation or herding. The alternate cycle of tuber cultivation termed ch’ukiy (“thrown” or “cast”) replaces the more optimum preparation of the plots prior to planting with a procedure that allows last-minute seeding in unprepared ground. This tactic is frequently used to reduce the time necessary to gain a harvest, required if the family has fallen behind in any phase of the annual cycle, and advantageous if such difficulties are anticipated. The harried series of tasks set for the months of May and June (most importantly harvest, processing or storage of the tuber crops, and guarding the ripening maize) must be terminated in time for the maize harvest, and this frequently necessitates leaving incomplete the fertilization and plowing optimum in preparation for the next tuber planting. If this is not completed prior to the frosts it is not done at all. Yet seeding cannot be foregone if a harvest is desired; and it cannot be delayed if the harvest is to come in sufficient time for processing in the frosts of the next year, and harvesting the following maize crop. In ch’ukiy the seed is hastily “cast” into the sod, as if in digging-stick horticulture, as soon as the new plants will not be threatened by frost. Within about a month the nascent field is plowed in the special manner termed yapuy, which combines in one process

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fertilization, aeration, hilling, and cultivation, although all four processes are left short of optimum. This alternate procedure is used mostly in the higher tuber plots, least likely to be plowed in preparation, least liable to the threat of weeds, and into which will be planted the hardier strains most able to produce a fair crop despite such summary care. Comparable to the compensatory tactic of ch’ukiy is the delay of maize plot rotation in the monte, saving the time usually expended in clearing new plots. The maize harvest declines rapidly, but does not cease entirely for a few years, furnishing a buffer for recovery. [160] Similarly, annual fertilization of fallow tuber plots may be foregone, or mere disease prevention techniques may be substituted for regular disease prevention in the care of the herd. A similar kind of interim neglect substitutes treatment for prevention in relationships with the extraordinary powers of awki and apu that affect the well-being of family, herds, and crops. Compensatory divination and entreaty are undertaken only as needed in response to developed problems, rather than the regular pious consultation and exhortation necessary to prevent the deterioration of such relationships and the emergence of problems. Losses or smaller returns are likely to accrue from any of these short-cuts, but this may be a sacrifice necessary to regain harmony with the annual subsistence cycle in other respects, and amends in the neglected routine can be made later. More radical short-cuts in the annual subsistence cycle include the temporary suspension of all efforts on one front, the produce of which is more or less dispensable for a short time. In this way a family may abandon the monte for a season or two, forego the planting of oca or ullucu, or neglect the breeding of their herd entirely, devoting their efforts to recovery in other quarters currently threatened, such as fertilization of their muyuy allpa. Assumed in such tactics is the sacrifice of ability to undertake feasts requiring maize beer, monotony of diet, or a decrease of the herd. But these hardships may be borne for a season or two with the assistance of relatives, until the family subsistence strategy is brought back into a more equilibrated cycle. However, if such stop-gap measures must be maintained for much longer than this, the family lapses into demise in the social organization of Q’ero (waxchakun—“makes itself an orphan”), becomes vassal to more powerful families, and may disappear (usp’aparin—“turn entirely to ashes”). [161] Another stop-gap measure taken in an effort to recover from a misfortune or poverty is the refusal of a community office which would require expenditures as a karguyoh. When refusals occur, this is the usual reason,

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and it is usually accepted. In the past when the entire community was suffering difficult times, due apparently to lost crops or severe predation, a few traditional feasts were canceled for lack of support, and never resumed. (On the other hand, at least one new feast has been instituted in response to a general community well-being [note Sta Kurus, in early May; overlooked in Fig. 4.1!]) If offered a community office when in moderate difficulties, the much more frequent tactic is to accept the obligation, and compensate for the ensuing strain on family resources by undertaking one or several of the short-cuts possible in the annual subsistence cycle. Karguyoh incumbents frequently abandon their efforts in the monte, even though their need for maize is far greater than normal. Temporarily at least, they become manan sarayohchu, “one who is characterized as having no maize.” The special ritual requirement of maize is arranged for by one’s kin and affines, and along with the rest of the debt incurred, repaid when able and as needed over a long period of time. The same tactics enable a family to withstand the drain on consumable and labor resources entailed in the crises of birth, illness, marriage, or death; if the family alone is not able to absorb the expenses, help is recruited from relatives. Families with few relatives have no such recourse and suffer economic and social demise. There are several indications that the niche potential of each valley, as a natural habitat for the hamlets and herds, has definite limits in the current ecosystem. Optimum pasture in each loma zone is dependable but restricted to definite localities, and recovers more slowly during the dry season. Some families respond to the increased pressure on locally available pasture by conducting all or a portion of their herd to alternate pastures [162] for a few weeks at this time. Some of the localities in Totorani serve as alternate pasture for those in the adjacent parts of Q’ero who can claim some right to use of it through relatives who are residents of that community. (No such claim is made in the more limited pastures of Kiku to the southeast, which are more distant and fully exploited by the residents.) The excellent upper pastures and waylla of Cusipata to the west are rarely utilized by the people of that hacienda, and furnish alternative pasture from which the Q’eros of Chuwa Chuwa hamlet have long benefited. However, with these exceptions, alternate pastures are usually located in secondary valleys within Q’ero that include no waylla but only ichu and k’achu grasses. Only llamas and sheep can be pastured in these localities for an extended time, and they remain without permanent habitation. Small, dry basins such as these are located in the folds of the high granitic

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complex east of Q’ero (Anchalea, Qawachaniy, Akamayo, Wallqa Kunka) and among the crests of the ridgelines which separate the main Q’ero valleys (Fig. 1.2). The tough llama and sheep can subsist on this pasture, and during the earliest rains may even thrive on the first tender shoots of grass, relieving the alpaca herd from competition for the scarce forage in their usual pasture nearer the hamlets. Although some of these alternate pastures may be visited daily from the hamlets, most require establishment of a temporary campsite. In either case, the family which resorts to this procedure must split its labor resources for supervision of both components of the herd. It appears that families with least long-established residence in a valley are first obliged to avail themselves of such inconvenient alternate pastures. This priority seems simply to be a logical extension of the “first come, first served” custom that casually controls daily use of local pasture sites. However, any privileged precedence is denied by all the local residents, and the tactic of alternative pasturing is rationalized as only family idiosyncrasy. Some relatively wealthy families who lack local seniority of residence do in fact regularly resort to inconvenient alternate pastures, and absorb the impracticality of splitting their labor. One such group of relatives leaves their combined llama troops under the care of one constituent family in Akamayo for extended periods of time, and cares for their alpacas, which remain in Qocha Moqo near waylla. Another wealthy family formerly in Lawarkancha, with limited longevity in this wayq’o, had to make arrangements with the Hacienda Ccapana to the south for temporary accommodation of its large alpaca herd in the ample waylla of this territory. [part deleted] Poorer families with weakened claim to pasture precedence, and insufficient labor resources to absorb the impracticality entailed by this compensatory strategy, face a complex dilemma. Poverty in Q’ero, according to the Q’eros themselves, indicated by few or no herd animals, especially alpaca, but also by a paucity of claims to cultivable land, limited bonds of kinship and affinity, and a small domestic group. A poor herd, if not regenerated, leads rapidly to impoverishment, dependency on others for the many derived resources, increased attrition to herd and family due to illness and mortality, unpropitious marriage bargains, and piecemeal sacrifice of land claims to affines (Chap. 5). A family in such a plight may continue the same local routine which had failed to stem its decline. But this is done on the sufferance of hamlet neighbors among whom the family may enjoy no residential priority, or among whom pasture precedence is soon

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effectively lost due to their subordination in dependency relationships. Although more firmly established neighbors will not usually press their advantage in such cases of helplessness, the gradual attrition of family resources continues. [deleted part; 1972: 164] The nine homesteads currently inhabited in various parts of the community each appear to represent a compensatory strategy (Fig. 1.3). Only two (Erba Kunka and Ch’uñuna K’uchu) occupy ecological niches comparable to that of the hamlets. These are located in two small tributary valleys that are soq’asqa (“cursed”) or sterile and dry from the point of view of most hamlet residents, but which offer small patches of waylla sufficient to support the alpaca herds of one or two small families in each case. A group of related Q’eros has occupied each of these homesteads for as long as can be remembered, and the peripheral location of Erba K’unka, at least, suggests that it may have first been occupied by native immigrants from Kiku or Hapu. Other natives from the cultural region of Q’ero are usually permitted to settle in the community if they request, but in the few instances that this has occurred they have usually settled in an isolated homestead, tacitly accepting inferior status although they are usually invited to build near one of the hamlets. The other immigrant homestead, in Wallqa K’unka (Fig. 1.2), was recently settled by an outcast from Kiku, and like the rest of the small valleys in the middle of the granitic massif, completely without waylla. To settle in such a locality is to forego all possibility of developing a healthy herd of alpaca, and improving on this basis one’s status in the community. A poor but fairly stable life-style may be maintained in such a location by raising llama and sheep, but evidently one’s ability to parley the resources of these animals alone into wealth and influence is extremely limited. The nearby valley of Akamayo is the site of a frequently inhabited camp of one family, but only llamas are kept in this sterile locality, while the family herd of alpaca are maintained in the home hamlet by relatives. Oxopata, Pawsipata, Ch’arka Pampa, and Machay Pampa are all permanent homesteads out of practical reach of the lomo waylla, and are occupied by small families which have within the last few generations accepted an inability to succeed in the herding enterprise of the hamlets. Liriyuh Pampa, like Machay Pampa in the adjacent valley, is a homestead occupied by an elder who has left the task of herding to his grown children. However, whereas Liriyuh Pampa is a retirement retreat in this sense, the children who grew up in Machay Pampa had to leave this homestead if they wished to prosper, and all did leave it.

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Homestead sites outside the hamlet zone have been established either in the comparatively sterile valleys of ichu and k’achu grass, or in campsites near the potato fields. This suggests that the compensatory strategy is not simply an acceptance of poverty, but an attempt to specialize in other aspects of herding or in cultivation. All these homesteads are in fact conveniently close to both cultivation localities and dry valley pockets adequate for grazing of sheep and llamas. In some cases it is clear that the families have concentrated their efforts on success in raising corn, sheep or llamas, or a few cows in the locality of the ritual center. Migrant labor in distant mestizo communities, undertaken erratically but repeatedly by four or five Q’eros, appears to be a compensatory strategy often associated with such homestead specialization. Two or three families specialize in llama herding, and attempt to capitalize on the demand for burden transport at peak cultivation phases by trading the use of portions of this herd for commodities and labor. In each of these cases it appears that migrant labor is also undertaken with some frequency, in virtue of the reduced labor requirements and increased flexibility of this specialization. However, the causal relationship is ambiguous; it could as well be the case (and this is the explanation offered) that migrant labor is a result of relative poverty owing to the absence of a substantial alpaca herd. [deleted parts; 1972: 166–7]

3   Demographic Processes and the Ecosystem Certain other aspects of community demography seem to reflect more widespread compensatory strategies, and demonstrate disequilibrium in a fluid population. Although I was able to derive some data from genealogies, fuller demographic figures were difficult to obtain. [part deleted] No dates are used, and lapse of time is not carefully attended. Infant dead are rapidly forgotten and the names of adult dead often will not be uttered. Most family members are absent at any given moment; some present may hide, and absences may be concealed. Because families with numerous descendants are reported or encountered more frequently, and those with few or none are often overlooked, no accurate birth rates are obtainable. Birth rate appears to be very high in some [168] families (seven or eight living children were reported in a few cases) but is probably balanced by an infant mortality rate of 40–60% that winnows most families down to two or three children who will themselves bear offspring; numerous families are reduced to childlessness.4 Death of older children and young adults

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appears to be very frequent; in 1969 there had been about ten cases of death of young married men within the last five years, affecting about 12% of the conjugal couples of the community. The hacienda regimes never concerned themselves with accurate censuses, but only with the number of families mature enough to be accountable for labor contribution. This number was about 60 between 1945 and 1960, but reports are likely to have concealed some members. Using a similar criterion but probably with less motivation to conceal, the Q’eros reported 69 such families to the Reforma Agraria in 1970 [two officials visited and, in typical misti fashion, were demanding and insulting]. My own census [later] in 1970, based on fairly complete genealogical data, tallies 376 inhabitants in 82 conjugal families, disposed in 52 domestic groups. In 1958 Núñez del Prado reported a careful census of population and herds in 1955, tallying 240 inhabitants in 66 conjugal families, disposed in 46 households. A 57% increase in total population seems unlikely in a scant 15 years, and the accuracy of the 1955 figures appears questionable on other grounds.5 However, most evidence indicates that there was at least some increase in population between 1955 and 1970. Other evidence indicates indirectly that there was some depopulation of the community prior to 1955; and repopulation subsequent to that time. At that time Núñez del Prado observed a high proportion of ruins and abandoned houses in the central village, and deduced that formerly the community had had a much denser population. The proportion of ruins in 1955 was about 47%, but by 1970 had decreased to 30%, with about l6% of the old foundations disappearing, and about 25% of them being rebuilt into new festival houses. [169] But settlement in this village, as a ritual center, does not reflect in any straight-forward way the population of the community. Houses are built or maintained for the performance of community obligations, and the acquisition or maintenance of status in the social organization. In 1970 several Q’eros of low status owned no llaqta wasi and had no clear access to one, and about 30% used a house which belonged to a relative. Furthermore, at least a part of the ruins simply represents the extinction of families once influential, and their eventual replacement by other families who built new festival houses but not on the foundations of ruins. In 1970 this was the case in several instances. [deleted part; 1972: 169] With these further considerations in mind, it is reasonable to assume that not more than a part of the 47% abandoned houses evident in 1955 were indicative of depopulation. On the other hand, the vigor of the

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present festival cycle, and its importance in the organization of status in the community, render it doubtful that any great demise of this cycle has occurred. Furthermore, judging from the eight reconstructions of festival houses since 1955 and information on other houses, the usual procedure if in need of a llaqta wasi is to purchase or inherit an old ruin and rebuild upon it, rather than build in a previously unoccupied plot. Consequently it seems apparent that at least a portion, perhaps one-half, of the ruins evident in 1955 indeed represents depopulation prior to that time, and an earlier community population [170] larger by perhaps as much as 25%. The relatively whole condition of most of the abandoned foundations indicates that the period of expansion was not too long in the past, and that the decline began perhaps no longer than 50 years ago. The rebuilding between 1955 and 1970 of eight new houses, each for at least a conjugal family and many for larger households, suggests a regeneration of the population since its low ebb in 1955 or before. This supports the previously considered evidence of population increase in recent decades. A partial explanation of the apparent depression prior to 1955 may lie in emigration. Reasonably accurate information on migration was available in my genealogies and these reflect very frequent re-establishments of residence. Such movement is integral to most family histories. Although much of the movement into and out of the community or its constituent valleys balances out within this century, some disparities are revealing. Figure 4.3 schematizes movement into (immigration) and out of (emigration) the community, and movement between the major valleys of the community (translocation [to distinguish it from migration]), since about the beginning of this century. Translocations are quite frequent, but outnumber moves into and out of the community by only 3:2, indicating a rather large number of migrations between the community and the outside in the last century. [That is, “outside” meaning among other Q’ero communities; Q’ero claim there has been no permanent migration between Hatun Q’ero and the misti “outside.”] Figure  4.4 breaks this movement down by approximate generations into rough decade components, further distinguished by the sex [gender] of the person who made the move. Judging from the most complete parts of the data (and extrapolating from my conclusions), the total number of individuals involved in migration in or out of the community in any given generation during this time may have been 25–40, or on the order of 16–29% of the adult population (about 7–12% of the total population).6 From the figures it can be deduced that at least during the last 60 years or so emigration has exceeded

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Fig. 4.3  Migration incidence and proportions (ca.1910–70)

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Fig. 4.4  Migration—sex [gender] and approximate decade

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immigration [between Q’ero and other communities of Q’ero cultural enclave] about 4:3, and that this is due largely to a period of peak emigration between about 1930 and 1950, when the ratio apparently increased to more than 2:1. More frequent emigration from the community might have been motivated by population pressure and the limited capacity of the community ecosystem. Emigration so motivated would be a compensatory strategy analogous to the establishment of isolated homesteads in the community, but considerably more radical, involving abandonment of resource rights in the community and usually acceptance of very low and dependent status in the new native community. This move is especially difficult for men, who comprise one-third of the immigrants and one-half of the emigrants. Escape from the hacienda regime may have also been a frequent motive, at least during the apparent peak of emigration. This peak coincides with the period when the last and most distasteful hacienda owner was occasionally tormenting the natives and even evicting a few of them by force of threat and unpredictable violence. Most of the movement at this time was apparently undertaken by males, who emigrated in the proportion of 6:2, probably indicating economic and social crises rather than routine marriage exchanges with adjacent native communities. A few male Q’eros now in the community report that they left the community during the regime of the yanqa asintayoh (“crazy hacienda owner”) to evade his torments, but subsequently returned. During the period 1900–1950, at least 12 males entered Q’ero, but apparently twice this number left the community. A disparity of only 15 adult males, lost to the normal population of the community, could account for the abandonment of those festival houses not otherwise accounted for in the previous discussion. On balance, I suspect that the fundamental motivation of the preponderant emigration climaxed between 1930 and 1950 was a saturation of the carrying capacity of the community ecosystem. This may have followed what is reputed in Q’ero folklore to have been a particularly beneficent and [174] productive era during one of the hacienda dominions of the early twentieth century.7 The consequent population pressure may have coincided with the oppressive regime which began in the early 1940s, encouraging emigration. [part deleted] The evidence for such processes is clearer with regard to each constituent valley [of the community] and translocation between them, discussed below. At least partly as a result of a definitely limited carrying capacity of the habitat in each major valley, a great deal of translocation between the

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hamlets of different valleys occurs. Such a move entails a far less radical adjustment for the family involved than either the establishment of an isolated homestead within the community or emigration out of the community. [part deleted] The compensatory strategy of translocation is nevertheless a long-range tactic rather than merely a shortcut [175] necessitated by temporary difficulties. Because such translocation is so frequent, the ecological and social implications for the community are profound. Every family in the community has some evidence of translocation in its history. Some of the more extensive translocations reveal the implications and suggest the variety of this process. According to their elders’ memory, one family originated in the valley of Qolpa K’uchu, but in the span of three generations has extended male members to Chuwa Chuwa, across two intervening valleys and on the opposite side of the community, and one member back again to Qolpa K’uchu, not too far from the old family home. Another family resided in Chuwa Chuwa at about the same time three generations ago, but has since lost all traces there, and all its survivors are scattered in Qolpa K’uchu. The possibility that these movements affected one another is intriguing. A third family originated, insofar as memory serves, in Chuwa Chuwa, but in three generations has moved across one intervening valley into Qocha Moqo valley and back again to the hamlet of Qolpa Pampa, leaving descendants in all three valleys and even one in Kiku, 30 kilometers further to the east. Another family originated from the east in Hapu and Kiku, settled in Qocha Moqo three generations ago, and has since distributed descendants to all the valleys of Q’ero but one. These particular patterns of translocation represent movements by males and are reflected in surnames; those traced by females over repeated generations are much more complex and dispersed, because the usual and normative form of marriage residence is patrilocal (settling with the husband’s family), and most marriages (65%) occur between Q’eros living in separate valleys. Men, however, undertake at least one-third of the translocations, also usually mediated by marriage exogamous to the valley in which they were born. Ostensible reasons offered by the Q’eros for their own or their ancestors’ moves are diverse, but tend to adhere to a few conventional categories. [176] In the case of women, virtually all translocations are mediated by marriage, and because patrilocality is the expected norm if no other considerations override it, sufficient reason is simply q’osapun (“she

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married”). In the case of men, the most frequent reason (36%) offered is also marriage (warmiyta tarispa—“while meeting a wife;” swigruywan tiyanpah—“to be one who lives with his wife’s father;” warmin pusapun— “his wife carried him there”). Further reasons given in this regard indicate that the man felt socially drawn to the people of his wife’s hamlet, and even expresses some contempt or enmity regarding relations in his original hamlet. Almost as frequent (34%) is a derogatory remark about the poor living conditions or habitat potential of the valley departed (t’inkulla wayq’o—“a small valley good only for a meeting-place;” manan kahtinchu uywa…—“when there are no herds…;” manan kahtinchu pampa…— “when there is no room…;” unqollaspa…—“just being sick…;” tawqanakunku…—“they are crowded together;” ch’usaq…—“it is deserted”). These locutions indicate failure with herds, crowded pastures and perhaps unwelcomeness (rarely expressed), relative sterility of habitat (“deserted”), and ill health in the valley formerly occupied. Additional reasons given involve enmity (l6%), frequently between the family involved and the former hacienda regime, and reported only by hearsay if between natives themselves. Finally, some reasons (14%) consider a family disruption, most frequently the death of the wife, as the cause for translocation. [part deleted] Marriage, particularly if it [177] involves the translocation of the male spouse, is an arrangement predicated on calculations of relative economic and social advantage (Chap. 5). Central in this calculation is the relative potential of the two valley habitats involved, along with social situations that may reflect conditions of the habitat. Consequently, reasons for marriage arrangement frequently mask considerations of demographic pressure and economic potential. If pressed, conventional reasoning expressed in terms of marriage is usually buttressed by reasons appealing to economic pragmatics. Similarly, translocation motivated by enmity is at least sometimes the precipitate of anxiety based on resource competition and contested claims to precedence in pasture access. The death of one’s wife frequently marks the crisis of a general decline in economic well-being. It is often interpreted as an omen of disfavor among prevailing local deities and still worse fortune to come if one remains in the locality. Relative ecosystem potential at any given time in each valley is primarily a function of appropriate pasture available and resident population and herd. Cultivation zones are of much less relevance because claims to them remain unchanged if translocation is within the community, or lapse in the higher localities where access is not competitive. I have emphasized that

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outside of slight seasonal alternations of over-all pasture capacity, the waylla available in each valley is sustained at a constant rate of pasture production by glacial groundwater, and the long-term maintenance of the alpaca herds is very largely dependent on this. I have also argued that the resident population in the hamlets of each valley is in turn primarily dependent upon the alpaca herds pastured there. If relative habitat potential of each valley is indeed a prevailing determinant of translocation between valleys of the community, then on the basis of these contentions [178] the demographic processes in each wayq’o would be expected to equilibrate generally in proportion to the pasture locally available. Moves would tend to be made out of valleys where the herding potential was saturated, and into valleys where it was not. Figure 4.5 depicts the relative proportion of pasture, herds, and population in each of the four major valleys of the community. I was able to estimate areas of the scattered and irregular waylla pasture from aerial photographs covering two valleys, but rough visual estimates have had to serve for the other two. Size of family herds is the most undependable information one can expect from the Q’eros, but my estimates for each valley are based on head-counts taken on repeated occasions in the early morning or late evening when the herds are concentrated in the vicinity of the hamlets.8 Total valley herd size is represented in Fig.  4.5 between minimum and maximum number, taking into consideration varying counts and temporarily absent families, and including llamas (usually in a proportion of about 1:3 with alpacas). Population is expressed in terms of both number of conjugal families and total census. The former measure is probably more relevant, because a household may have numerous children too young to contribute to the herding effort and consequently be unable to raise or maintain a large herd due to dispersion of labor resources. On the other hand a household with grown children, especially with spouses, usually can promote a relatively large herd in virtue of its labor flexibility. Correlation between the proportions of the four variables in each valley is substantial. The proportion of available [180] pasture in the two valleys accurately measured appears to somewhat exceed the proportion of herds feeding on it, but this disparity would be reduced if the estimates for the pasture of the other two valleys were deficient. This is likely to be the case, because my estimate was conservative regarding the waylla I located, and I probably missed many in the folds of the loma expanses. The proportion of population in each valley is also closely correlated with the proportion

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Fig. 4.5  Relative proportions of pasture, herd, and population by valley habitat

of herd there, although the disparities in this case are more difficult to reconcile. However, disparities evident in Fig. 4.3 tend to corroborate the disparities evident between population and herd size in Fig. 4.5. The herd proportions in Yawarkancha and Chuwa Chuwa valleys seem to be large

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compared to the populations in each of these valleys, and translocation data for each valley indicate a slightly preponderant movement in each case (4:3 in the former and 9:8 in the latter). On the other hand, in Qolpa K’uchu valley the proportion of population has apparently outstripped both the herd and the pasture available, and translocation data show a preponderant emigration by 2:1. In the case of Chuwa Chuwa, recent high child mortality and an apparently low birth rate have resulted in a misleadingly low population proportion. The relatively numerous conjugal families there furthermore avail themselves of a large area of pasture to which they have no legal claim, and this fact probably helps to explain both the high proportion of herd there and the restraint of movement into this hamlet. In Yawarkancha the figures may slightly exaggerate the facts, because at least one immigrant family arranged for the use of pastures in the hacienda to the south while it was settled there. The situation in Qocha Moqo appears to be closer to the expected equilibrium. [181] Although recent frequencies represent a generation only now making such decisions of translocation and migration, it appears from Fig. 4.4 that trends may be of long duration, or may have reversed within the last few decades. Cases sufficiently clear to speculate upon are Qolpa K’uchu, where the preponderance of movement out has apparently been sustained for most of this century, and Qocha Moqo, where the presently apparent equilibrium may be only the result of a preponderant movement in before 1930 and a preponderant movement out thereafter. Although a large part of the emigration out of the community in this century originated in Qolpa K’uchu, much of it also came from the other valleys, while Qolpa K’uchu apparently dispersed its burgeoning population over these valleys as well. Some of the reasons for these differences in valley demographic processes are attributable to processes in kinship and affinity, and will be discussed in Chap. 6. Although the disparities of translocation into and out of each valley habitat may be suggestive, it is nevertheless clear that the greater part of translocation balances out, with many movements out of a habitat probably being matched by movements into it. Several family histories clearly dovetail in this fashion. [deleted parts; 1972: 181–2] Wealth and good fortune are key subjects of native judgment, and reflect credit on the locality in which they are established. Although recent departure from a valley implies declining habitat potential to one family relatively well-off where it is, it signals an opportunity to another family to improve its lot. The next part of the study considers social organization in more detail, and it

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becomes apparent that some processes of family, kinship, and affinity are in harmony or disharmony according to their situation in the ecosystem of the Q’ero valleys. [183]

Notes 1. [en deleted; 1972: 134]. 2. [en deleted; 1972: 147]. 3. Axes and sickles are very much in demand among the Q’eros for use in their struggle with the monte. I would not have been able to acquire fine examples of their weaving without carrying these items in for trade, as reasonable amounts of cash could not tempt the natives to part with them. The implications of this demand for cutting tools are the basically optimistic attitude maintained by the Q’eros despite the difficulties of maize cultivation, and their intention to expand and accelerate the rotation system for the sake of better yields. On the basis of pessimistic verbal reports on maize yield and problems with predators, Nunez del Prado suspected that the Q’eros are on the verge of abandoning this effort. However, aerial photos taken in 1963 and the area cultivated in 1970 indicate no appreciable difference in extent, and almost the entire community participates in the effort currently. The Q’eros are prone to portray their situation pessimistically and oversimplified if asked general questions in a direct manner. 4. Escobar and Núñez del Prado contend that the Q’eros practice infanticide to limit their families to five members, deemed supportable on their meager resources. On this matter I have no direct information, but never encountered any evidence that would support this contention. On the other hand, many facts render it doubtful. I have seen parents (poor as well as prosperous) struggle to restore health to a sick infant with several older siblings, and grieve profoundly at its death. Assistance of children in the household and the harried subsistence strategy is of great value to the parents, and it is a commonplace that numerous progeny lead to prosperity whereas infertility leads to poverty and demise. Large families are the object of respect, and old couples beyond childbearing age lament their infertility no matter how many children they have had. The children of poor parents may frequently die from complications of malnutrition, but this could not reasonably be considered infanticide. In 1970 I witnessed an epidemic, apparently of influenza complicated by bronchitis, which killed 15 children and 2 adults in a few weeks. The Q’eros have clearly not yet overcome a vulnerability to such diseases. The occasionally reported 40–60% normal infant mortality rate probably leaves little reason to limit family size purposely.

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5. With no evident change in native economy and immigration, and only limited change evident in the tribute economy, it seems unlikely that the local population [184] might increase 57% in 15 years, and still less likely that any possible increase in birth rate could have so soon resulted in a 25% increase of conjugal families. Núñez del Prado’s figures are rendered somewhat questionable, moreover, by the contradictory report of his expedition colleague Escobar (211 inhabitants; 52 families), presumably drawn from the same data gathered at the same time. The census was taken only through consultation with native leaders and is likely to have been subject to their numerous if innocent oversights. 6. [revised endnote: My genealogies are fairly complete, but Q’ero memory of ancestor’s names is limited beyond grandparents, and young conjugal families usually remain part of the father’s or mother’s domestic group until their children can contribute enough work for the family to gain independence. (postscript 2021: I will be pleased to supply copies of these genealogies to interested Q’eros or their friends. My caution due to respect for their anonymity and privacy may now be outbalanced by their value to descendants)]. 7. [deleted; 1972: 184]. 8. The Q’eros characteristically report only a fraction of their herd, or of any given harvest. They even deny ownership of a herd which is bedded down near their house and tended by their children. Núñez del Prado’s figures for the Q’ero herd animals in 1955 are widely at variance with my own in 1970. His report tallies twice as many sheep, one-third more llamas, and less than one-half as many alpacas as mine. It is interesting that the disparity of our figures is roughly proportional to the value of the animals: sheep, worth less than half as much as alpacas, were apparently reported in exaggerated quantity, and alpacas, keystone of the native economy, appear to have been reported only in part. The reduction by one-half was similar to what I generally received in verbal reports of alpaca head.

CHAPTER 5

Family Organization and the Domestic Group

[For preview of each chapter in Part I, see Original Introduction to Part I (1972) in front matter]

1   Seasonal-Cycle Ritual in the Family [see 1969–70 photos: Figs. 8.1, 8.2, 8.3, 8.4] The Q’eros distinguish between seasonal rituals for the whole community and those carried out independently by each family. The distinction is sometimes phrased as llaqta puxllay (“village festival,” i.e., in the ritual center) and wayq’o or p”amilla puxllay (“family festival”), and the separate locations are assumed in the meaning. Both rituals are frequently recognized to serve the function of bringing the community together (hunuchikuyku—“causes us (exclusive plural) to reunite ourselves”), as families or as a whole. Both kinds of ritual promote extraordinary gatherings, because the community and the family are normally dispersed in the subsistence strategy, and even the pragmatic reunions necessitated for cultivation of the lower tuber crops and maize enable only fragmentary socializing between the scattered work groups. Furthermore, whereas the festivals in the ritual center are the scene of wide reunion among kin and affines [described in Chap. 4: 106–108; see Fig. 7.1], only the family rituals in the hamlets can be attended by the entire family without exception, because care of the herd can be concurrent and no member need be

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 S. Webster, Returning to Q’ero, Palgrave Studies in Anthropology of Sustainability, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-04972-9_5

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excluded for this purpose. Here the three ritual moments of the annual cycle display and reconfirm, for the family itself and for the other members of the hamlet, the constituency of the household. This is at no other time clearly visible to the onlooker. All three family rituals in the annual cycle are organized around exhortations, of fertility of the herd in two instances, and of safe and expedient conduct of the recently dead to the afterworld, in the last case (Fig. 4.1). These are P”alchasqa (alpacas’ fertility), Axata Uxuchichis (llamas’ fertility), and Santus or Almata Mañasqa (“All Saints” or “petitioning of the spirits”), [189] respectively. All of these rituals have become syncretized with celebrations of the Colonial and contemporary Catholic calendar, but predominant aspects are distinguishable which apparently have no antecedents in this exogenous influence. The structure of the Almata Mañasqa ritual will be considered in later contexts; the fertility rituals best adumbrate the family as a herding household. [correction: A fourth occasion is sometimes treated ritually: axllay (“choice”), consideration of new karguyoq for the coming year which may be undertaken during the cooperative bitter-potato harvest in early June, following the completion of the year’s community festivals (Chap. 4: 106; Fig. 4.1).] Both P”alchasqa and Axata Uxuchichis occur at crucial interfaces of the cultivation cycle, the former soon after the planting of maize and just before the harvest of Andean tubers begins, and the latter just after the maize harvest and before the planting of Andean tubers begins (Fig. 4.1). Concern with crop fertility is consequently an undercurrent in both rituals, with special regard to first fruits of the tubers in P”alchasqa and the completed maize harvest in Axata Uxuchichis. But the predominant symbolism in both, as well as the native explanations, is directly concerned with the family herd. P”alchasqa (“flowered,” denoting the casting of the lovely scarlet and yellow high-altitude p”alcha blossoms at the alpacas) is “our saluting of the alpacas” (paqochataqa napanakuyku). The ritual is woven with exhortations and ablutions made in behalf of the alpaca herd, and a special song named after the ritual. It precedes the onset of the rutting season, and copulation among the herd may even be interrupted if the ritual is not completed. It also coincides with the season of births in the herd and with the completion of the phases of shearing and the dyeing, spinning, and weaving of fresh new clothing from part of the wool. This intensive symbolism of renewal is continuous with the ritual initiated in the community feast of Chayampuy the previous week, in which the earliest harvest of potatoes and the rejuvenation of community leadership

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are celebrated. The implicit theme of renewal continues through Carnival, the community festival immediately succeeding P”alchasqa. [190] In the case of Axata Uxuchichis (“our causing to drink maize beer,” i.e., denoting the force-feeding of axa to the male llamas), the celebration of the maize harvest is completely integrated with the exhortation of llama fertility. The triumphant completion of the difficult transport of maize from the monte to the hamlets nearly 7000-ft above is perceived as a demonstration of the potency of the male llamas, and a special opportunity to promote the fertility of this part of the herd. This is done through exhortations and ablutions comparable to those of P”alchasqa, but involving a special song (machu llamata—“to the mature male llama”), decoration of the male llamas (orqota mutiaychachishanku—“the male is being made beautiful”), and sharing with them the ritual drink axa, fruit of their joint labors. Wiyk’intu, the large high-altitude gentian in bloom at this time of year, and the velvety p”una leaves, also gathered in the high passes, are cast affectionately at the llama herd, just as the p”alcha blossoms are used for the alpaca in the earlier ritual. The form of both herd fertility rituals is similar. Stages of preparation (allichay—“making right”), exhortation (variously k’intusqa—a burned offering; rimakuy—“talking”; watuy—“divining”), salutation (napanakuy), and a denouement (ch’akiypariychis—“our final drying out,” i.e., finishing the pots of maize beer and cooked food) proceed in sequence. The family gathers and makes the necessary arrangements; together establishes contact with the extraordinary powers, entreating their assistance; carries their procedures directly to the family herd; and finally returns to the household to celebrate and repeat key ablutions until no food or axa is left. The procedure is intended to re-establish rapport between the components of a triad comprised of family, herd, and a pantheon of extraordinary powers that affect the well-being of both. A failure to carry out the ritual properly can cause [191] the demise of the herd and ill health or death in the family. In P”alchasqa the basic form is sequential in the duration of a single day, and concurrent for all families, because it must immediately precede the descent of the family to the ritual center for the community festival of Carnival. Axata Uxuchichis is carried out any time between late July and October that is most convenient for the family [see Fig. 4.1]. Delays beyond the end of the maize harvest are frequent because the family is faced with the pressing necessities of tuber planting, transport of fertilizer and yapuy, and the cutting of heavy timber in the monte. When the ritual is finally begun, the stages of its development may extend

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intermittently over several days but nevertheless tend to conform to the same sequence. The preparatory stage is initiated by convergence of all household members on the house and corral complex of the senior male, who organizes the group for the ritual by informally assigning duties. His wife and other senior members are active in these preliminaries as well. P”alchasqa, because it is concurrent for all families of Q’ero, involves most clearly the household as a corporate group, gathered about central symbols of household solidarity. Axata Uxuchichis; on the other hand, because it need not occur on a certain day, may involve a variety of relatives and friends outside this circle and have already carried out or have yet to carry out a separate ritual in their own household. This is especially the case with wealthy Q’eros, who make a more public occasion of their Axata Uxuchichis. However, the corporate household is evident in both rituals, distinguished by a clear shared claim or interest in a herd jointly cared for, and in ritual components that are focused on the well-being of the herd at this time. These components are evident in the assemblage that accumulates during preparation in the middle of the floor of the senior house. This assemblage usually includes a waylla ch’ampa (a rectangle of sod cut from pasture nearby) [192], p”ukucha and walleqa of coca (skin and woven bags for holding coca leaves), pololu or q’ero (gourds or carved goblets for drinking axa), and toqana, palawata, or pinqollu (varieties of vertical cane flutes). Also in the assemblage for P”alchasqa is a cloth full of p”alcha blossoms gathered by the children in the high passes. In Ahata Uxuchichis this component is replaced by clumps of brightly dyed alpaca wool, puskero (spindles), and q’urunta (maize cobs), with which the pendants that decorate the male llamas’ ears are spun, braided, and wrapped until use. Blossoms and leaves of wiyk’untu and p”una may also be present. All of these items are located on a misa, a spread-out sack of woven llama wool with a banded pattern of alternate whites and browns. 1 The household gathers around these items and readies pendants or blossoms, prepares and cooks food, and chews coca leaf; meanwhile the maize beer, which has been prepared in a process involving several days, ferments in one or more large urpu pots. Exhortation follows by midmorning in P”alchasqa, but often a day or so later in Axata Uxuchichis, and is intended to convene the attentions of and lay petitions before several powers which affect the well-being of herd and family. Awki are local deities of varying power and personality identified with high ground in the vicinity, and whose attention is convened (as

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in curing, divining, and other rituals concerned with them) by the burning of a k’intusqa in the house. K”uya are spirit powers usually specifically concerned with the herd animals, embodied in small stones inherited from ancestors who encountered them on the high flanks of mountains. These are kept wrapped in an old cloth and concealed in the house or storage hut, and at climactic points in the ritual are taken out and placed on the verdant piece of sod. Special k’intusqa are burned for these spirit powers, composed of a ritually pure high-altitude grass and native grains (pupusa and tarwi) saved for this occasion. T’inka, libations of [193] axa or alcohol (sometimes called ch’uyay, denoting the use of settled axa), are also made directly on the stones or into small holes in their surface. T’inka are also made upon the portion of pasture sod, representing the bountiful alpine sustenance of the herd transposed to the profane and sullied earth of the house floor. At the end of the ritual the rectangular sod is returned to the pasture from which it was taken. Throughout these ablutions, carried out by the senior male, the attention of the entire household is fixed on the assemblage of symbols. Pauses and delays are frequent, and just as in the preparatory phase, adult household members gather casually about their coca bags for a hallpay, or social chew. The bags are normally carried in the waistband of each adult, but during the ritual their central location on the floor serves frequently to focus exchange by promoting general recesses and conversation. An extra walleqa of coca accompanies the other bags and is left for the awki throughout the ritual, by now convened with the family. The flutes are played singly and together, and the appropriate song is sung, usually by several female members in harmonious counterpoint. The music serves also to gain the attention and favor of the several powers invoked. Petitions regarding the future of the herd and the family accompany each k’ intusqa and t’inka, as well as the p”ukukuy, routine wafting and blowing of a select group of coca leaves before they are put in the mouth. Drinking of the mature axa proceeds, accompanied by libations on the waylla ch’ampa, and t’inka samasqa (“libation’s resting”), petitions spoken into the gourds or goblets emptied of the maize beer. In the napanakuy (salutation), the propitious forces are carried directly to the herd which is usually corralled for the occasion. Corralling is preferably on a high knoll, apparently identified with a local awki. In P”alchasqa the entire household approaches the herd slowly, t’akispa tukuspapis [194] (“while singing and dancing”), and gently throws the blossoms on the alpaca “so that their young may be as numerous and as lovely.” A k’intusqa

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is usually burned in the corral, and the smoke is wafted among the animals. In Ahata Uxuchichis, the male llamas are grasped and held in control while pendants are pierced through the ears and bottles of axa are emptied down the animal’s throat. The decoration and gorging with maize beer is extensive with the llamas termed kamichikuh (leader, or “the one who causes things to be done”), qollana (“exemplar”), and k”uya wiñah (“one grown by the k”uya stone”). Napanakuy may be repeated during the development of the ritual, and a few animals of nearby relatives in separate households may be grabbed and saluted similarly as those of the family herd. This is done, however, in a conscious spirit of mutual exchange and well-wishing, because herds and households are distinct and separate responsibility is clear. Finally, exhortation and salutation is relaxed, and the household indulges in ch’akiy pariychis, unrestrained eating and drinking until none of the preparations remain, a process that may involve two or three days more in the case of wealthy families. [part deleted; 1972:194] A review of the evidence and comparison with the scant data available on contemporary Andean herding ritual suggests that Q’ero has developed a distinctive regional expression of more widespread Andean patterns. Like other Andean patterns aboriginal components are closely syncretized with Catholic symbolism, but Q’ero appears to have retained a native emphasis.2

2   Structure and Variations in the Domestic Group The ritual moments described earlier best expose the constituency of a household, or domestic group, normally dispersed in the subsistence strategy. Pressing to discover clearer native terminology for family and kingroup, I was able only to reveal ambiguously plastic use of the word p”amilla (Familia—Spanish: “family”) and irritation at my dissatisfaction with this word, which is Quechua as far as the Q’eros are concerned. General terms employed in dictionaries or Andean ethnography such as ayllu (variously translated as family, kingroup, place, community, etc., cf. Chap. 2, endnote 3) and yawarmasi (“blood-sharer”) were either found strange or accepted with an alacrity that betrayed their inappropriateness. As far as I could determine, the only general native terms used were wasimasi (“house sharer” or “neighbor”), purihmasi (“walk-sharer” or “companion”), llaqtamasi (“place-sharer” or “citizen”), and other descriptives

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with such flexible meaning depending on context that they were not useful for analysis of the domestic group or kingroup. The term p”amilla [196] is also used loosely to apply to any group sharing ties of kinship or affinity, or to any individual with whom such bonds are shared, and is metaphorically extended to groups and individuals with whom one momentarily wishes to associate on such terms. [parts deleted; 1972: 196] These bonds of interdependence are of course manifold among members of the monogamous conjugal family, the basic unit of social organization in Q’ero. But a much more pivotal analytic grouping is a domestic group [emphases added] which usually involves one to several conjugal families in two or three generations, organized always by ties of kinship, affinity, or adoption. This domestic group is a household in the economic sense, but may operate out of several tiyana wasikuna (“living houses”). The houses included in the organization are usually close to one another, at most within a moment’s walk, and never in separate valleys. The domestic group is the basic working and subsistence group of the community, most apparent in the rituals discussed above. Its members normally share in the fulfillment of labor and food needs, and usually cook and eat together as well. Herding responsibilities are rotated within this group, and the parts [197] of a slaughter are shared among it; cultivation tasks are undertaken jointly, and harvests are divided among the same group. Whether in the hamlet or encamped elsewhere in the community, cooking tasks are rotated among members of the domestic group not occupied in priority labor, frequently but not always females, elders, or children. Eating of the main daily meals occurs together in the earliest hours before dawn or the latest hours before sleep. On these occasions all members of the domestic group not occupied elsewhere in the community encircle one hearth, usually that of the senior conjugal family. On the other hand, although the joint herd of the domestic group is pastured together by one of its members, it may be jurally divided into identifiable components belonging to constituent members. Similarly, the warq”iy (domestic group plots) cultivated jointly by the domestic group may be distinguished into separately owned components. These nominal rights to components of the herd and land of the domestic group may be held by individual members, male or female, but are more usually held by constituent conjugal families. [part deleted] Within the conjugal family, claim to the herd or land component is usually undivided. This still more intensive level of social and economic union

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may be reflected in household arrangements, which might include a separate domicile or storehouse. Although the subgroup will usually sleep separately if it has a separate domicile, separate cooking and eating there is rare. Furthermore, although the subgroup’s share of the joint harvest may be stored separately in its storehouse, its claim to this share is not exclusive of the rest of the domestic group, in virtue of the fact that it is the product of their joint effort in cultivation and transport. On the other hand, non-­ consumable property kept [198] in a separate storehouse of the subgroup, such as wool from its herd component, tools, or purchased items, may be exclusively owned by its members, and items such as weavings or other clothing and private purchases may be owned by individuals. The hamlet houses insofar as built or definitively inherited by the subgroup are also its exclusive property. A herd or land component socially recognized as separate and a separate domicile or storehouse are measures of limited social and economic independence within the domestic group. Primary claim to a feast house in the ritual center, however, is rarely maintained by any subgroup, but only by the domestic group itself. Distinguishing the domestic group from other such groups in the wider circle of relatives and non-relatives of the community is (l) jural sovereignty prior to any other grouping, in routine situations; (2) sharing of labor and food needs without special arrangement (such as in response to unusual difficulties or community feast); (3) commensality rather than patterns of visiting and hospitality; (4) independent ownership and management of separate herds; and (5) independent ownership and cultivation of separate warq”iy (domestic group plots). Domestic groups also usually maintain exclusive claim to separate feast houses in the ritual center, and in the hamlets there is frequently considerable distance between their domiciles and those of other domestic groups. The domestic group is the basic corporate group in terms of authority as well as property. The structure of authority is centralized in the role of the senior member of the domestic group (kamachikuh—“he who causes it to be done”), usually its elder male, whose jurisdiction includes all routine matters such as labor allocation and subsistence strategy, division of slaughter and harvest, marriage arrangements and residence of members, division and inheritance of joint property in herd, land, or houses, and fault and sanction [199]. Routine decision making is shared among all senior members of the domestic group (usually both spouses of its constituent conjugal families), but its leader is vested with paramount authority. Resolution of such routine matters is also considered no concern of

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other domestic groups of the wider circle of relatives, nor of the community political system. The central authority of the domestic group leader is based on numerous factors but includes superordinate ritual skills and responsibilities. These are manifested in routine divining and curing and in the family and community rituals. In the herd fertility celebrations the corporate property of the domestic group is symbolized in the ritual assemblage, in the central domicile and corral, and in the ablutions and exhortations executed in this setting, all under the direct control of its leader. The festival house in the ritual center is maintained by most domestic groups and in community rituals it is exclusively controlled by their leaders. The festival house symbolizes, to the community at large, the domestic group that operates it. [part deleted; 1972:199] Using these parameters of social, economic, and ritual interactions, I was able to discern approximately 52 domestic groups. Extrapolating from the data discussed in Chaps. 2, 3, and 4, the community population can be judged to vacillate, at least through the last several decades, between about 45 and 55 domestic groups. Of the 52 domestic groups which I accounted in 1970, 27 were ambiguous enough to consider as marginal cases, with evidence implying either a tendency toward fission (14) or toward coalescence with other such groups (13). [parts deleted, including Figure 5; 1972: 200–201] The most fundamental component of the domestic group structure is the conjugal bond. There were a total of 85 closed conjugal bonds (i.e., both spouses alive and cohabiting), distributed so that 23 domestic groups (44%) are extended families. In the opinion of the Q’eros, conjugal status is the prelude to adulthood and prerequisite to any degree of economic independence, and a developed family based upon it is necessary for social and economic development in the community. Divorce is exceedingly rare and apparently occurs only between young couples without children. The social and economic role of the spouse is so crucial to status development and maintenance that only a very few elders, mainly widows, remain unsuccessful or uninterested in remarriage. If an elder widow [202] or widower remains unmarried, this is tantamount to delegating a position of central authority in practical matters and becoming a dependent in the domestic group. Remarriage is virtually always between a widow and widower of comparable age and the few exceptions (3) are widows of previously unmarried men of low status, lowest in the cases of the older widows.3 Of the 85 closed conjugal bonds, at least 13 (15%) represent remarriage of a widow and widower. On the other hand, the mortality rate

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among spouses is sufficiently high to maintain a considerable proportion of unremarried widows (13) and even widowers (8). Several of these are young and in a transitory status. [parts deleted; 1972: 202] The proportion of domestic groups including more than one conjugal couple is substantial (44%) and warrants special attention.4 Furthermore, if open conjugal bonds (i.e., deceased or absent spouses, regardless of remarriage) are considered, about half of the 29 domestic groups with only one couple are extended in this sense. Only 12 of the 52 domestic groups in the community (23%) are completely unextended beyond a single basic conjugal bond. Of these 12 minimal domestic [203] groups, 9 are among the poorest and least influential families in the community.5 Four of the isolated homesteads earlier discussed are occupied by unextended families, and the balance are occupied by families extended only by an unmarried adult. On the other hand, all of the families accounted by the community as rich and influential are domestic groups extended by one or more conjugal couples. (One moderately wealthy family is extended by only a widow, but close cooperation between her and her father’s brother’s son effectively extends this domestic group in its subsistence strategy activities.) This high correlation between relative wealth and the multiplication of conjugal bonds in the domestic group is not in itself surprising, but its causes and effects are worth closer examination. [parts deleted; 1972: 203] The frequency of closed conjugal bonds is not evenly distributed throughout the community area with regard to domestic groups. [parts deleted] This disproportional distribution of conjugal bonds reflects the ecosystematic relationship between the demography, herds, and available pasture of each valley discussed in Chap. 4. The highest ratios of multiplication of the conjugal [204] bond in the domestic group appear in the valleys having the least fully exploited herd potentials. The valley with the most saturated herding potential, and a steady preponderance of emigration, has nearly the lowest ratio of conjugal bonds (Qolpa K’uchu, 1.47). The valley with the lowest overall ratio of conjugal bonds per domestic group (Qocha Moqo, 1.38) appeared to be closest to demographic equilibrium, but it was also noted that migration, although preponderantly inward during this century, has manifested a recent trend toward emigration. In the previous discussion (Chap. 4), an explanation of preponderant patterns of translocation implicated altering strategies of subsistence responding to relative herding potentials of the several valleys. Families

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resident in valleys judged to have currently favorable herding conditions emphasize this enterprise in their subsistence strategy, whereas those resident in valleys with saturated herding potential seek to relieve the attendant strains by moving to a more favorable location, or occasionally, shifting emphasis away from herding and accepting the consequent decline of economic and social status. A similar point of view motivates subordinate conjugal couples to remain operating in the domestic group with access to a favorable herding locality. Although autonomy and prestige in this situation are limited, the development and maintenance of herd and land portions allocated toward eventual inheritance is greatly facilitated. [parts deleted; 1972:205–6] Wealth and power based on economic success furthermore wield the advantage in marriage arrangements, whereby the domestic group tends to be augmented by spouses and occasionally by portions of land or herds which accompany spouses as allocated inheritance. Success with one’s herd and ample land are invariably concomitants according to the Q’eros. On the other hand, a fatefully dwindling herd, or the local strains on hamlet social relations which portend this problem, deters augmentation of the domestic group, encouraging departure rather than addition of new spouses. The dwindling herd increasingly [206] becomes a poor labor investment in a family with limited labor resources, just as a growing herd is increasingly a propitious investment. [parts deleted; 1972: 206–208] One further tendency with particularly important implications is apparent in the distribution and frequency of domestic group forms. In 50 instances including an elder generation couple there are 38 cases of exclusively virilocal residence [wife moves in with husband’s family] but 12 unambiguous cases including matrilocal marriage [husband moves in with wife’s family]. That is to say, at least 24% of the domestic groups include at least one marriage settled permanently in a residence originating from the wife’s side of the family and occupying or succeeding to the dominant role in the wife’s natal domestic group. This is in contrast to the 76% settled in a residence originating in the husband’s side of the family or built anew by him. This proportion of matrilocal residence increases to 30% in the subordinate generations of the domestic groups, and may be as high as 42% if ambiguous, alternate, and duplicate forms are considered. [209] Such matrilocal marriages will be examined in the last section. [several paragraphs, Fig. 6, and en 6 deleted;6 1972: 209–214]

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3  Domestic Group Development [part deleted] The life-cycle rituals of status elevation mark stages in the individual cycle of development that from a broader perspective are seen to be the elements in the developmental cycle of the domestic group. Attention to the stages of individual development in Q’ero serves as an occasion publicly to confirm the expectations of others toward a person, that is, the modification of his rights and obligations in an elevated status. This new status in turn reconstructs to some degree the domestic group of which he [or she] is a member. In Q’ero several stages from paqariy (birth, “beginning of new light”) to pusachanin (“his guiding,” of the spirit of the dead from this world) are more or less clearly marked. Paqariy initiates a transitional period of eight days, during which time the newborn is neither chichuna (pregnancy [or “unborn”]) nor fully a person, and pusachanin terminates a transitional period of eight days, during which time the recently dead is neither alive nor fully a spirit. The paqariy often catches the family off guard, with the consequence that some individuals are remembered to have been born somewhere astanapilla (“just in camp”) in the monte, potato fields, or even while traversing the high passes. In these circumstances, as well as in more routine births, the ritual moment is publicly marked by asking the assistance of a woman, preferably an elder with such skills developed, from outside the domestic group. Serving as a midwife during birth or immediately after, this person assists by massaging (qaquy) the body of the mother and the infant, and in return is given cooked food, coca leaf, or another gift. I once stayed with an old couple who had just lost their youngest child and an adopted [216] baby in an epidemic; the old lady returned from her hastily bidden services as a paqarichiq (“one who causes the beginning of new light”), her restrained sobs of the last several days interrupted by a beaming announcement: “Noqaqa q”arimuniy! (“I have produced a man,” i.e., a new male infant). A first birth in particular but subsequent births as well are socially an elevation of the status of the parents rather than the newborn, and in this sense mark the progressive entry of the couple into a role that is increasingly independent and mature. Ideally, the occasion is recognized by seclusion of the parents and newborn in the household for eight days, during which time their health is specially attended to, k’intusqa burned in exhortation, and a herd animal slaughtered for food. The dominant couple of the domestic group, usually the grandparents of the

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newborn, organize these ablutions, and in so overseeing this status elevation within a status elevation, actually attend their own as well. When the rituals of seclusion are organized, a respected individual is sought to become ritual father to the newborn. This subsequent ritual of status elevation, termed marq’ay (“carrying,” in the sense of bearing in the arms) or unuta churasqa (“putting of the water”), is done during or soon after the period of seclusion. The marq’ay involves naming the child, applying water to its body, and establishing a formal bond of ritual kinship that parallels that within the domestic group but extends outside it. Marq’ay is considered by the Q’eros to be distinct from the rite of bautiso (Spanish: baptism), which is seen rather vaguely as an analogous occasion involving no naming but an important sakramintu (Spanish: sacramento). This adopted ritual is usually carried out within a few years after birth (but often as long as 20 years later) when a priest is encountered. Ch’uxcha rutusqa (“mowing of the hair”), generally considered a precolonial custom, confirms the status of the child as a contributing member of [217] the domestic group. This ritual occurs to both sexes between about three and six years of age, by which time small household and herding duties are being undertaken. Prior to this ritual little distinction is made between sexes in either clothing or terminology; both wear wrapped skirts and knitted caps (among adults, exclusive items of female and male wear, respectively) and are referred to as wawa (if a sex distinction is required, churiy wawa “son-child” and ususiy wawa “daughter-child”). Subsequently, clothing and terminology (irqe—boy; p’asna—girl) distinguish the sexes, and the loose specialization of labor apparent among adults is developed. Both sexes learn the manifold techniques of herding, agriculture, household management, droving, and transporting, but some emphasis eventually develops on the heavier tasks for males and on the lighter tasks, especially herding and household, for females.7 The ch’uxcha rutusqa occasions the selection of a second (or, if baptism has been done, a third) set of ritual kin outside the domestic group, and in this way makes public the status elevation within the group. If the child is one of the earlier births of his parents (who consequently have not yet gained substantial independence from a larger domestic group), this ritual, like those previous, is primarily organized and initiated by the senior couple of the domestic group, usually the grandparents. However, because it functions to confirm the increasing economic influence of the parents in virtue of their growing family, it also usually signals the demise of the grandparents’ authority in such matters.

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The elevation of irqe or p’asna status to maqt’a or sipas (adolescent male and female, respectively) is marked by the menarche for the female and by the appropriate use of coca leaf by the male. The menarche of the female, so far as I am aware, is not ritually emphasized, but casually becomes general public knowledge. The ostensible reason for accepted use of coca by the young man is his ability to undertake most of the difficult [218] chores thought to require the strength and endurance of an adult male, beginning at about age 15. Like male puberty, this ability is not clearly marked physiologically, nor is the proper use of coca clearly marked socially. However, the adolescent Q’ero male appears to overcome self-consciousness and accepts coca leaf (p’ixchay) and chews it (hallp’ay or akulliy) casually by the time he is about 16 years old. At about this time the domestic group of the youth insures his service in one or more minor roles of the annual community festivals, as standard-bearer or dancer, specifically allocated to maqt’a approaching marriageability. Wealthy domestic groups may furthermore sponsor, nominally in behalf of a son even as young as 10 to 12 years old, a major cargo or expensive role in a community festival. This is an accepted method of asserting the boy’s imminent rise to influence and succession to leadership. An opulent display of pageant and plenty in either a minor or a major role for the boy reflects favorably on the influence of his domestic group. His official role is submerged in a spectacle of preparations and lavish hospitality, over which one or two ancient elders preside in calm dignity. By the time he is 18 or 20 a young man carries his own walleqa (woven coca bag) and produces it at the appropriate social moments. This bag has often been presented to him by a girl with whom he has developed a courting relationship based on elaborate flirting, innuendo, subterfuge, and the casual sexuality of adolescence. The young Q’ero deliberates over a long mental (or actual) list of potential mates, ranges widely in scouting while on ostensible errands, and agonizes through infatuated dreams between arranged meetings with his lover in private. [part deleted; 1972:219] As the maqt’a or sipas matures, social pressure mounts to find and settle with a spouse acceptable to all parties. Wayna and warmi are the terms applied to young males and females, respectively, in this status of mature readiness for marriage. Marriage (warmichakuy for males—“to establish oneself with a woman” or to take a wife; q”osapukuy for females—“to benefit oneself with a man”) is usually established in the early 20s for both spouses, sometimes earlier. The network of gossip and allegiances is extensive in a community

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where there are relatives and affines in every valley. When all parties are reasonably assured that the next step can be taken, the wayna approaches the domestic group of the warmi with a hurq’a (a gift the acceptance of which entails cooperation) of cooked food, a substantial amount of coca leaf, and a drink of axa or cane alcohol. If the results of this first formal move are favorable, arrangements are made for the parents of both to meet formally, in the house of one or the other. Although I was not able to witness or obtain many candid details regarding the form of this meeting, there is evidence that it is ritualized.8 [220] The meeting sometimes concludes short of agreement, and grudges are usually harbored as a result until the offense is absolved. If agreement is reached, the marriage becomes a social fact. Separation of the spouses thereafter is rare but termed ch’eqtay (“splitting in halves”) or wixch’unakuy (a mutual casting-off). Adultery (ayuy for the female—to deny the husband’s sexual rights or the child’s rights to nurse; wachuy for the male—“to plow” or “screw” outside the bounds of propriety) is possible and quite common but strongly stigmatized. Children born prior to this union are manan tatayohchu (“fatherless”) or t’inkulla wawan (“just-in-meeting child”), but apparently suffer little stigma beyond this. The arrangements which form the basis of the marriage agreement are extensive in their implications, because they importantly affect the development of both domestic groups in the alliance for some time to come. Matters of residence of the new couple, services to be rendered, and property to be eventually inherited must be settled to the satisfaction of both parties. Usually the wife is expected to live with her husband in his father’s domestic group, and both the new husband and wife are expected to extend services and labor generously to the parents of their spouse. Inheritance is normally divided among male offspring with the preponderance to the youngest, and brides are expected to benefit by property through their husbands. However, inheritance is said to be most justly allocated to the couple according to the respective capacity of the domestic groups involved. No immediate presentation of goods is usually made beyond the small gifts and hospitality initiating the transaction, but occasionally a few herd animals may be given by the parents of one spouse to the young couple. As far as the Q’eros are concerned, the formalities of the situation are as simple as this. However, the practical circumstances and implications are extensive. Central among these is the issue of residence for the new couple, because essentially this [221] means either the loss or addition of an adult member, and most of the ensuing offspring, to

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the domestic groups concerned. Usually the settlement of this issue involves promises of compensatory services, inheritance, or temporary residence arrangements. Normal guidelines of residence, inheritance, and service are very flexible in practice. Assuming for the sake of continuity that residence in the early stages of marriage is patrilocal (which it is in the majority of cases), the couple continues under the paramount authority of the husband’s father. Subsequent rituals of status elevation as a married couple continue for some time to be dictated by the leader of the domestic group, although the initiative of the young couple in all matters of the domestic group can now begin to develop. This new status begins to be consolidated with the birth of their first children, but the grandfather nevertheless undertakes and organizes the earliest rituals focusing this new series of status elevations. He also assures the availability of the young husband for warachakuy (“establishing oneself with a staff of office”), marking his entry into community politics.9 This occurs when the elected kamachikuh (community leader; alcalde—Spanish: “mayor”) appoints him to one of the three or four subordinate roles which directly serve his office and contribute to the organization and expenditure of Chayampuy and Carnival, two major community festivals. This service reflects directly upon the prestige and influence of his domestic group and until substantial economic independence has been developed, contributes primarily to the influence of its leader in the community [Chap. 7 elaborates on this]. By about the time an eldest resident son has children ready for the hair-­ cutting, the form of the domestic group has stabilized. [222] The procreative capacity of the elder parents has usually by this time ceased (but youngest and oldest siblings may occasionally be separated by as much as 25 or 30  years in Q’ero). If there are younger siblings in the domestic group, it may be incumbent upon the eldest (kuraq) son to begin preparations for separation into an independent domestic group. In public opinion and that of their domestic group, this is a move that they are capable of making in proportion to the capacity of their children to assist with the herd, and so liberate the parents for other tasks in a subsistence strategy. It is simply said that kuraq kaspa anchurichikun (“being the eldest, one begins to separate himself”) or kuraqa ñawpah (“the eldest goes on ahead”). The expectation and the motivation to realize this potentially independent status increase in proportion to the number of younger siblings remaining in residence, particularly male siblings. The assumption is that although most female siblings will marry into other domestic groups,

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most males will not, and the resources controlled by the original domestic group can be extended to support only a limited number of constituent conjugal families. This same principle also motivates the marrying out of male siblings matrilocally. Ideally, resident siblings marry, develop conjugal families, and finally remove themselves in strict order of seniority (kuraqmanta sulkaman—“from the eldest to the youngest”) according to the pressure upon these domestic group resources. The preponderance of the resources in this way eventually devolves upon the youngest son (chanako) at the death of his father. This ideally occurs at about the time that the chanako himself appends the young conjugal family of his oldest son or daughter to his nascent domestic group. An orderly departure of offspring and their conjugal families in this way is said to ensure both that the resources of the domestic group will not be overextended and that the progenitor elder couple will not remain deserted in their old age.[223] With an eye on these future developments insofar as reflected in resident offspring and their respective children, the leader of the domestic group, with increasing initiatives on the part of his kuraq churin (eldest son), begins to prepare for his independence. Insofar as there is a prospective surplus of resources available in herd, land, houses, or household equipment, portions may be designated as the inheritance of the kuraq or elder siblings. Some of such surplus may have been added to the estate of the domestic group along with the spouse of the kuraq, in which case this becomes his inheritance. Under the supervision of the father, the elder son begins the acquisition of additional land, generally through clearing but also through arrangements with kin or affines, insofar as needed to support his family. He also builds a separate living house and eventually a separate storage house, sometimes only somewhat removed from that of his parent domestic group, but often in a separate valley, again through arrangements with kin or affines. The successive establishment of these visible symbols of independence over a period of a few years and the gradually increasing frequency of their use in intensive cultivation, household, and storage of harvests serve as public notification of the structural changes within the original domestic group. These changes reflect credit on the leader of both the original domestic group, as procreative of a new domestic group, and the emergent domestic group. The head of the emerging domestic group is by now termed a q”ari (man) rather than a wayna. The process in general is termed runachakuy (“establishing oneself as a person”), with specific reference to the capacity of the children to care for the herd independently, a pivotal evolution in the family subsistence strategy.[224]

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Finally, the designated portion of the herd is separated and henceforth managed independently, and one or more k”uya stones are received from an elder, usually the leader of the original domestic group, for ritual in the propagation of this new herd. A new corporate group has been formed, and relative sovereignty (sapah kawsayqa “a separate existence,” or waq maki—“a separate hand”) is claimed by the new leader and, to a large extent, accepted by the community at large. However, the continuity of original authority and dependency is shown when support is required for unusual expenditures such as community service roles, or when an issue arises requiring the allocation of culpability between domestic groups. Until the new domestic group leader has served the paramount official role of community leadership (usually not until some ten years after initial independence), he remains a jural subordinate in the sense that he can press claims on other domestic groups only through a senior kinsman who has achieved this status. Furthermore, matters involving his own culpability remain to some degree the responsibility of his original domestic group leader, or in default of him, an elder brother. The specific ritual associated with the process of runachakuy is kasaray (Spanish casar, “to marry,” plus the inflection rqa, connoting some urgency), [is] matrimony conducted by a Catholic priest.10 Ideally, this ritual has come to signify the allocation of inheritance and the readiness for paramount political office. Practically, because matrimony can only be carried out on the rare opportunities that both priest and family are prepared and in the same place (at least 90 kilometers normally separates the Q’ero family and the priest with proper jurisdiction), the native process of runachakuy in fact proceeds independently. There are often young conjugal couples with no degree of independence established who have never [225] had the opportunity to undergo matrimony, and there are also independent domestic groups whose leader has gone far in the hierarchy of community offices but who lack this additional ritual. However, by the time a Q’ero is appointed to alcalde (“mayor”), which is a penultimate community service role, he either has managed to undertake matrimony or hastily manages to before assuming office. The subsequent period of adulthood is devoted to achieving, consolidating, or extending the power (qapah) and influence (yupaychah—“one who is established as counting”) of the domestic group. In the original domestic group this task is ultimately continued by the patriarch and his spouse, perhaps widowed and remarried, with the assistance of the chanako and his developing conjugal family. The chanako’s children become the

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resident hawalay (grandchildren) of the old couple, easing their aging as the chanako progressively succeeds to the active role of leader in the domestic group. The original domestic group estate in property and authority has been split, conserving both aspects with considerable integrity. The preponderance of the property devolves in ultimogeniture to the chanako, while the balance helps to establish the other siblings (primarily the males) in separate households. The chanako is often called qonchu puchu (“sediment leftover,” or “dregs”) by his elder brothers, who in this way joke about the declining potency of the old man’s semen but also reflect their dissatisfaction with residual roles in inheritance. The preponderance of legitimate authority, on the other hand, devolves in primogeniture upon the kuraq churin (eldest son). The kuraq in his seniority always retains this jural prerogative, and after him each sibling in order of seniority, regardless of sex [gender]. However, this ideal order of authority increasingly loses practical influence with the economic independence of the siblings from one [226] another. For the same reason female siblings are soonest precluded from the order, usually joining a separate domestic group with their husbands. The process of building power and influence is parallel in both the original group and in those seceded from it. Although the chanako may enjoy some advantage in virtue of his preponderant inheritance, his elder siblings are usually able to develop comparable economic stability in virtue of their earlier establishment of independence. This is in large part due to earlier maturation of their children, approximately in the order established by the birth (and marriage) sequence of the siblings. With maturation of his constituents comes the opportunity of each domestic group leader to benefit by their contribution to his subsistence strategy and supervise their successive rituals of status elevation, the strategy of their marriages, the induction of their children, and finally their entry in turn into the community at large. Meanwhile, the domestic group leader undertakes the expenses of community festivals and the major roles of community leadership. His ability to marshal the necessary resources, organize such occasions, and lead with assurance and wisdom are the foundation of his prestige. [deleted part; 1972: 227] An elder couple are no longer known as q”ari and warmi, but as machu and paya (“old man” and “old woman,” respectively). Paramount authority in matters of the subsistence strategy is gradually shifted to the next most senior conjugal couple of the domestic group, but the final decision regarding all less routine matters remains with the elder couple until mental alacrity is lost.

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In the event of death of either spouse, paramount authority and control of the corporate estate falls to the survivor, although this is rapidly lost to a senior subordinate if there is no remarriage. Even the elders of 60 or 70 years move with relative ease throughout the extremities of the community, so influence in most affairs wanes slowly. As direct influence in practical matters recedes, authority in ritual and political operations increases. Old men who have not lost their acumen generally can develop their reputation for influence with the extraordinary powers of the awki and apu and are called upon to intercede by divination, petition, or curing in special circumstances. The more prominent of them must always be sought out by the official leaders of the community for consultation on matters of community interest. All elders, whether of high prestige or humble accomplishments, are ritually deferred to in some manner in any public situation. Death is followed by penultimate and ultimate rituals of status elevation. The first involves burial and reflects the social and supernatural status of the deceased in the associated ceremony and location of interment. The second ritual is termed Pusachaynin (“his [/her] guiding”), or, in Spanish, ocho dias (“eight days”; Quechua: pusah p’unchay), and is probably influenced by this comparable Catholic ritual.11 The appeal made to ancestral spirits, however, is apparently an aboriginal aspect. This ritual will be discussed in the context of kinship and affinity in Chap. 6. [228] [deleted ten paragraphs and Fig. 6; 1972: 228–234] A less frequent but revealing mode of extending the domestic group is through various forms of adoption and fosterage. Virtually all such adoption involves kinship, but this ramifies throughout the community in any case. Analogous to the succession of the senior son to father’s role, the father’s accession to his son’s role may be precipitated by the son’s premature death. [deleted part] The partly orphaned children become uywasqa wawakuna (“raised children,” a term also applied to illegitimate or orphaned children if adopted) of the grandparents, to be brought up with their own children. Among their parents’ collaterals the children often come to bear full status as additional siblings. The adoption may be institutionalized even to the extent that subsequent remarriage of the widow may affect no change in this reorganization of statuses, and further generational distinctions become blurred. If the early death occurs after the young father’s achievement of independence in a separate domestic group, and there is no son able to succeed to his role, fosterage rather than adoption restores the domestic group. It is usually undertaken by a male

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collateral relative of the deceased. On the other hand, premature death of a mother in either of these situations is almost always [236] followed by rapid remarriage of the widower to a widow, who subsequently becomes jurally a mother to the children. [deleted several cases; 1972: 236–245]

4  Matrilocal Residence [part deleted] Matrilocal residence, conjugal extension of the domestic group when the husband takes up residence with his wife’s parents, results in about 29% or nearly one-third of the cases recorded in the 1970 census. The extensive implications of this minor marriage form have already been mentioned. In the discussion of migration and translocation, I noted the importance of marriage in general as an ostensible motive for such movement. More than one-third of these extensive movements within Q’ero are undertaken by men, usually in matrilocal marriage. The role of matrilocality in the proliferation of property and kinship throughout the community can be glimpsed in review of one representative case. One kingroup whose descendants are now dispersed through three valleys in the community traces both its ancestry and the oldest part of its property back to a grandfather of the contemporary elders. This ancestor was kuraq among several siblings and, being due no inheritance, married matrilocally in Chuwa Chuwa, probably prior to 1880. His wife evidently had no siblings, and received ample inheritance; this property in herd, land, houses, equipment, and ritual objects subsequently became the inheritance of the father of the contemporary elders, whose sole sibling, a sister, married out of the community. The offspring of this man, through marriage in Chuwa Chuwa to a woman [246] from Qocha Moqo (apparently without inheritance), were numerous. But several died without offspring, and the children of the eldest son returned to another community of the cultural region with his widow. The surviving oldest son (the contemporary senior elder) next moved to Qocha Moqo, and there (through the influence of his mother) married matrilocally to the youngest daughter of two, the only offspring of a family with considerable property. When the eldest daughter married patrilocally to Qolpa K’uchu this property was allocated as the inheritance of his wife, ultimately to devolve upon his children. Meanwhile, of his two younger siblings remaining in Chuwa Chuwa, one had died leaving two children with his widow in patrilocal residence, and the chanako had inherited the preponderance of his father’s (originally his father’s mother’s) property, with a portion of it going to

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this widow for her children. (The widow subsequently remarried into Yawarkancha, taking her children and these property rights with her.) The chanako is now an elder, and the preponderance of his property will apparently go to his son, with perhaps a portion of it designated for the children of an older daughter married patrilocally to a neighbor. Another daughter has married the chanako of a wealthy family in Qolpa Pampa. Meanwhile, the older brother of this elder had begot a large family in Qocha Moqo, and three sons had married patrilocally there while two daughters had married patrilocally into different families in Yawarkancha/Qolpa Pampa valley. Upon the death of his wife this senior elder allocated substantial portions of his wife’s property to his three older sons in Qocha Moqo, and moved out of the valley with his chanako, who was marrying the youngest daughter of a wealthy family in Qolpa Pampa (the same one into which his elder daughter and son, as well as his younger brother’s daughter, had married). This elder was living there in close cooperation with the domestic group from which three of his children’s spouses had come, with his chanako residing patrilocally. However, [247] his chanako was liable to receive some inheritance from his father-in-law, because his wife is his youngest child, because his elder brothers in Qocha Moqo (one of which was another son-in-law) already received most of his mother’s property, and because his father was technically without property (although astute!). This genealogical history is an unusual success story primarily because survivors of some groups of offspring were more prolific than usual. However, the interesting feature is that many of the contemporary descendants trace their property to one or more female ancestors and their origins to her residence, because two matrilocal marriages of the paternal line have been essentially without inheritance, but to a woman who has subsequently received all or most of her parents’ property. In such cases the role of the male progenitor is overshadowed in the memory of the Q’eros, having contributed only a more enduring name to his offspring. Many of the genealogical histories of the community have at least one such important matrilateral filiation in their development, and most have several matrilateral ancestors who have contributed a substantial part of ensuing estates, as well as a paqarina (“birthplace”). [deleted; 1972:247–249] The structure of a domestic group is changed substantially by the incorporation of a matrilocally residing husband. Although such reorganization is also entailed by the addition of a wife to a group, the adjustment of roles attendant to matrilocal residence is more radical because although the

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male role tends to be more influential economically and politically, the husband bears a subordinate status with regard to his in-laws. This status is especially pronounced when he lives among them. The consequent rearrangement of statuses in the group is ambivalent, ranging from instability and emergent autonomy to integration as a virtual son. Any inheritance widens the options of the matrilocally residing husband, and in such cases the male role of initiative and dominance tends to be asserted sooner against the restraints of deference toward his affines. Such assertion usually results in the establishment of an independent domestic group, but it can also result in increased integration among key male roles in the wife’s domestic group, and even eventual succession to a status comparable in all practical ways to that of chanako of the father-in-law. On the other hand, complete economic dependence on the wife’s parents, or lack of a forceful personality, can stabilize integration and prolong subordination. Waxcha residing matrilocally, because their options are extremely limited, cooperate closely with their affines. In the case of additional disabilities they may even perform many aspects of their wife’s usual household role, utterly subordinated to her parents and foregoing assertion of many aspects of the male role. In cases where the natal domestic group of the husband is influential and wealthy, and has contributed toward the new estate, considerable influence is retained by his father in the rituals of status elevation subsequent to his marriage. Warachakuy, early community festival roles, and the processes [251] of runachakuy may be supervised by the husband’s father, although often indirectly and ineffectively if a valley or two separates the two domestic groups. Eventually, in any case, and very soon if the matrilocal husband is from a family of limited means and influence, these rituals and their consequences for both the husband and his offspring come to be dominated by the wife’s parents as long as the husband remains under their influence. The role of the wife’s parents may in such cases come to approximate in practical and ritual respects that of his own parents were the son residing patrilocally. In cases of integration to this degree, the son-in-law tends to participate in the relative authority and precedence in inheritance of his wife among her siblings. The possibilities of this are foreseen, and the calculations are central in the determination of matrilocal residence just as is the husband’s correlative status among siblings in the natal household. However, the subordination of his role as q”atay (male affine or in-law) obtrudes on the residual status he may hold in virtue of his wife. The

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wife’s parents, and almost to an equivalent extent her siblings, are dweñu (Spanish: dueño “owner”), kamichikuh (“bosses”) or qatayniyoh (“one having a male affine”) in status with regard to the son-in-law, and this is especially evident if he is co-resident. [parts deleted] [The important relationship of q”atay as “wife-receivers” to their kakay as “wife-givers” will be examined in Chap. 6.] Finally, there are in matrilocal situations several interesting parallels to the structure of adoption previously discussed regarding patrilocal residence of the wife. The matrilocal father’s role in the supervision of his children’s life-cycle rituals tends to be preempted by his wife’s parents practically, just as it does in the patrilocal situation. This influence may be balanced or overridden by the husband’s parents if their status in the community is greater than that of the wife’s parents, but in any case the husband’s parents are usually disadvantaged by residence in another valley. The social expectations in the situation find their most unimpeded expression in illegitimacy, which is analogous to matrilocality but without a husband. Children born to an unmarried daughter are apparently uncommon, but in the five cases of which I was aware, the child was adopted by its maternal grandfather (in one case, by its mother’s husband) as an uywasqa churin (“raised son”) to be raised along with his other children. In all these cases, at least, the status of the adopted child as an uywasqa is remembered, but incorporation among the mother’s siblings (in the one case, among her legitimate children) is otherwise complete, with no apparent stigma arising from [253] illegitimacy.12 The maternal surname is used, and rights of inheritance among adoptive siblings appears unimpeded. Such rights may be realized even to the extent that one daughter’s illegitimate son, as the youngest among his adoptive siblings, became the chanako of his grandfather and fell heir to the preponderance of the domestic group estate including houses and ritual property. In this particular case the apparent genitor subsequently married the mother and raised a family, but the illegitimate son nevertheless remained the chanako of his maternal grandfather, even becoming known by a surname in which his grandfather’s name is patronym and his mother’s (grandfather’s daughter’s) name is his matronym (the reverse of the usual Spanish surname custom). In another case which has developed sufficiently to expose the full potential role of the illegitimate son, the adopted child was the son of an elder daughter and too old even among his mother’s siblings to become chanako of his grandfather. He married matrilocally and raised a successful

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family before being killed in the collapse of a bridge. His mother died without further offspring, and his grown children now deny that he was adopted at all, accounting him a sibling among survivors who are in fact his mother’s siblings. It is likely that many more cases of illegitimacy and adoption, obscured by such thorough incorporation in the domestic group, escaped my attention and are furthermore often ignored by the Q’eros themselves. [deleted parts; 1972: 254–256] Emerging repeatedly in the foregoing discussion of rules and statuses in permutations of the domestic group structure is the pre-eminence of residence in the determination of priorities in authority, inheritance, succession, and filiation. Although the predominance of patrilocal residence and the prominence of male leadership obscure the balanced nature of filiation and descent, evidence suggests that patrilateral filiation has little special priority in itself. Authority is clearly patrilateral only if residence is patrilocal, declines considerably when independent residence is established, and is strongly matrilateral in matrilocal residence. Inheritance and succession likewise are not fixed rules, but rather functions of residence; residence is decided with their maximization in mind, among other considerations. The influence of habitat potential on translocation of community residence was previously discussed, and its effect upon the distribution of co-resident conjugal bonds was also analyzed. The effects of the ecosystem can again be detected in the social organization of matrilocal residence, further clarifying the central importance of residence as partly an ecosystematic response. [part deleted; 1972: 257–258] An unequal distribution of matrilocal marriage through the four major valleys of the community implies that such ecosystematic calculations play an important part in the strategy of matrilocal husbands. The incidence of inter-valley matrilocal marriage declines as would be predicted from the relative herding potentials previously deduced. Chuwa Chuwa, with apparently the least fully exploited herding potential, has the highest incidence of matrilocal marriage (28%). Qolpa K’uchu, with apparently the most saturated herding potential, has the lowest incidence of inter-valley matrilocal marriage (15.5%). In between these extremes, and in accord with previous conclusions, Yawarkancha/Qolpa Pampa has 19% and Qocha Moqo 17% of the incidences of inter-valley matrilocal marriage. This low proportion of intra-valley matrilocal marriages (9 of 32) probably reflects preference toward patrilocal marriage where the domestic [259] groups are near one another and where no more advantageous access to pasture is to be gained. All but one of these cases occurs in Qolpa K’uchu

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and involves a move between the several dispersed hamlets of this valley. Of the eight cases of intra-valley matrilocal marriage in Qolpa K’uchu, six accord with the tendencies apparent in inter-valley marriage; that is, they have been contracted from less to more propitious herding habitats, also from lower to higher altitudes. The two exceptions married from T’antaña down into Putu Mayu and Chawpi Pununa, only somewhat below and not precluded from access to the same pastures. A poor elder residing near the bottom of this valley in the homestead of Machay Pampa, with very limited and difficult access to alpaca pastures, has been left by his three sons and two daughters with only one young daughter remaining. All moved in preference for more promising herding locations, some remarking that Machay Pampa was ch’usaq (“deserted”—i.e., an unpropitious living site). The preceding examination of family organization began with a description of key ritual moments in the seasonal cycle which reveal the constituency of the domestic group, proceeded to an analysis of the frequency and distribution of its variation, and concluded with a discussion of central processes in its development. This basic social structure is the locus of cycles of status elevation that in turn form the foundation of social and political organization of the Q’ero community. As the seasonal ritual moments express the ideal trinity of family, herd, and the extraordinary forces which supervene upon them, the life-cycle rituals of status elevation display and legitimize the development of the domestic [260] group. Community rituals actually intercalate the seasonal and status cycles, maintaining the hierarchy of community polity and prestige in a structure that is annually renewed and replenished. Some contingent situations in the development of the domestic group, and their pragmatic resolution, have been examined more closely to expose the interplay of alternative rules of status process, especially regarding residence, authority, inheritance, and succession. The centrifugal forces of social organization in the domestic group are focused most clearly on the processes of marriage, remarriage, lineal or collateral extension of kinship, and analogous permutations of adoption and fosterage. The institutions of chanako and kuraq roles among siblings, and matrilocal rather than patrilocal marriage, exemplify the cohesive influence of Q’ero society against the divisive forces of their ecosystem. These practices regularize the perpetuation of corporate estates in property and authority by dispersion of family members or integration of non-­ family members, according to the exigency of current circumstance. The institutions focus on the key male roles which overburden if in surfeit, and

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starve if insufficient, the domestic group resources. [deleted part; 1972: 260] Both the opposing rank order among siblings and the integration of male spouses among their wife’s kin entail uneasy structural postures in the domestic group, but flexibility and equity are optimized in an ecosystem of diversified and strictly limited resources.

Notes 1. [parts deleted; 1972: 192] This sort of cloth, although rustic and plain compared to the spectacular decorative weavings of the Q’eros, is used as a ground or table cover in almost all ritual situations (ritual meals or drinking of maize beer, sharing of coca, divining, curing, and such situations as described here). The term misa denotes “banded with two colors” and connotes alternation or opposition (as between players of a game), and it seems likely that some symbolism of supernatural interaction or tension is implicated. This same term is also the Quechuization of the Spanish term mesa (table) and identical with the Spanish term misa (priest’s mass). A common native term for their [shamans] is misayoq, a term which can be taken to mean a person having a “table,” but which originally probably denoted a person who operates (supernaturally) upon the banded misa cloth, perhaps facilitated by its symbolic properties. There are pampa misayoq as well as altu misayoq (“flat” or “ordinary” in contrast to “high” misayoq), and these may popularly be glossed as operating without and with “tables,” respectively. 2. [parts deleted; 1972: 194] The family rituals of P”alchasqa and Ahata Uxuchichis are integrated to some extent with the traditional feasts of the Colonial Church calendar Carnival and Santiago, respectively. The Q’eros frequently use the church calendric titles for their own family rituals, especially in the presence of outsiders. P”alchasqa is seen as a separate prelude to Carnival, a community festival carried out immediately thereafter in the ritual center, and Ahata Uxuchichis is seen as the Q’ero “Santiago,” although it may be carried out as late as two months after the church calendar date of July 25. In the latter case, there appears to be some conflict between the proper date of the celebration according to the church calendar and the appropriate time of native celebration. In Q’ero it is assumed that only the Kastyanu (Castellano) or misti do it on July 25, whereas all runa (“people,” i.e., natives) do Santiago at a later date. More acculturated natives may celebrate tardy Santiago, but tend to conceal this fact through shame or feel that apology is necessary. The Q’eros, on the other hand, find it curious that the ritual should be associated with a calendar date rather than the triumph of the male llamas and the conclusion of the maize harvest. The pre-eminent concern for the native herd animals, the focal

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symbolism of the pasture, ch’ampa, and the special ritual role of the k”uya stones have no parallels in other Andean ritual insofar as I am aware. [262]. 3. A myth recounted by Luis Yabar implies that during an era of oppression under the Incas, all young widows and widowers were considered malditos (Spanish: damned or cursed) and exiled to a settlement in the monte (and eventually to the lower jungle), where they became the present-day tropical tribe of Wachipayris. 4. [deleted; 1972:262]. 5. [deleted; 1972: 262]. 6. [deleted; 1972: 262]. 7. Apparently the only rigid division of labor recognized in Q’ero is between loom-weaving (usually restricted to females) and strip-weaving of men’s scarves and knitting of men’s caps (usually restricted to males). Both of these distinctions are for ritual purposes, as are most sex [gender]-role distinctions in Q’ero. Furthermore they seem to not be taken very seriously; some older men have been known to do loom-weaving, although probably not in the complex decorative technique perfected by most women; and some few women are known to have been specialists in dealing with extraordinary powers. [263]. 8. Núñez del Prado reports in some detail on the ritual of warmichakuy and is one of the first authorities to recognize it as a socially legitimate marriage. I am sure that some ritual is involved, but it appears to vary somewhat and this description may not represent a necessary form. Perhaps because the Q’eros know that mestizos denigrate the native marriage as merely concubinage, they will not readily discuss it. It seems clear that parents retain considerable influence: several Q’eros told me that marriage was “always” undertaken in accord with the parents’ preferences, and one recounted his patient persistence, winning his future father-in-law’s permission only at the latter’s death-bed, and in return for a promise to organize and bear the expense of his wake and burial. 9. [deleted; 1972:263]. 10. [deleted; 1972: 263]. 11. [deleted; 1972:263]. 12. Núñez del Prado reports that the child conceived before marriage (warmichakuy) is an object of great shame and usually killed by exposure after birth; if it survives it cannot live with its parents but is usually adopted by the paternal grandfather and remains partially without inheritance. [I knew of several cases that do not conform to this, and suspect Q’ero were playing to Catholic expectations.]

CHAPTER 6

Kinship and Affinity

[For preview of each chapter in Part I, see “Original Introduction to Part I (1972)” in front matter.] In the preceding chapter I discussed the domestic group as the fundamental corporate group of the community and the focus of various developments, especially marriage and dispersion of siblings. These activities are the foundation of an array of consanguineal and affinal ties which extend throughout the community and maintain the framework of its social organization. The Q’eros were often unready to reveal details of this important network to me, but my slowly accumulating knowledge gratified them as well as aroused anxiety. Increasingly it became apparent to me that most Q’eros could concur on a relationship with any other Q’ero whenever they found it appropriate. The relationship would be based on recent or distant consanguinity, current intermarriage of their kingroups, or the implicit assumption that future intermarriage might be mutually advantageous. Although less fully aware of such relationships than adults, children were less likely to guard their responses in the interest of anonymity. Queries about their possible relationship to other Q’eros of the community would sometimes reveal a conceptual framework of kinship and affinity that categorized in some conventional term anyone I was able to recall to their mind. This expansive system attenuated rapidly at the boundaries of the community, but potential connections probably extended into all surrounding native communities, based on the few intermarriages of the

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 S. Webster, Returning to Q’ero, Palgrave Studies in Anthropology of Sustainability, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-04972-9_6

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remembered past. Even Luychu, the native from the Hacienda Ccapana across the Ayakachi who accompanied me on several occasions, was soon able to find a family of Q’ero with whom he was related as a descendent of a distant “mother’s brother.” Within [266] several months I had been included in a few family rituals of status elevation, in this way becoming ritually a kumpari (compadre, “co-parent” or “co-sibling”) to several dozen Q’eros. The native system of kinship and affinity tends, however, to be opaque to the outsider. Even mestizos fluent in Quechua fail to grasp its principles and implications, although these are of daily practical concern to the Q’eros. Part of the inaccessibility of the native system is due to customary evasiveness and reticence, effective in preserving the diffuseness of the community and anonymity of its members. This behavior was probably also an effective response to the inquisitions of the Church, concerned since the seventeenth century with the rites of passage and ensuing form of social relationships, as well as the redirection of supernatural beliefs.1 Spanish glosses of native kin and affine categories have gained much currency in more acculturated native communities, probably facilitated by changes in the native behavioral as well as terminological system. In Q’ero and the other less acculturated communities of the cultural region, and probably in several comparable native regions of the South Central Andes, [267] native terminology and behavior are still apparent in native contexts. When the outsider becomes background or the object of boredom and indifference, he can witness the routine employment of native terms and the routine assumption of native roles. This behavior, however, is only translucent to a structure of kinship and affinity. The Q’eros apparently do not perceive or care to contemplate this system and deny, for the sake of avoiding elaboration, any generalization about it. I left the field with an impression that my understanding, slowly confirmed by observation, was nonetheless fragile and liable to disruption by a further discovery just around the corner. As in the preceding chapter on the domestic group, I ground the discussion of kinship and affinity in the description of appropriate ritual occasions. For the sake of clarity, the following discussions of kinship and affinity are separate, although these domains are closely interwoven. The ways in which the Q’eros perceive kinship and affinity to be integral functions of one another can become clear only as the discussion proceeds. The question of kinship and affinity has not often been dealt with in the study of Central Andean social organization. Where it has been approached

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it has been interpreted either as patrilineal or as bilateral, with little analysis or care in the justification of these labels. The Q’ero system of kinship is [268] bilateral or, to use the currently more widely accepted term, cognatic. My intention in this chapter is to analyze the principles of an apparently unusual sort of cognatic system and contribute to the increasing body of information on this still poorly understood subject in kinship studies. In the following discussions, I analyze the kingroup in Q’ero as a parallel kindred, cognatically structured by continued consanguinity among parallel collaterals [cousins, and children of cousins, of the same gender], and divergent consanguinity among cross collaterals [cousins of opposite gender]. The role of the sex [gender] of parents of these collateral kin is not entirely clear, but it is quite clear that both sexes [genders] transmit kinship, apparently equally. Kinship is reckoned cognatically [through both parents], not unilineally through one gender or another. The kingroup is, furthermore, defined jurally by a framework of affinal relationships, expressed in rights and obligations between two sorts of affinal statuses.

1   Ideal and Practical Patterns of Kinship Korpus (Spanish: Corpus Cristi) is annually celebrated in the ritual center of Q’ero through the conjunction of traditional pilgrimages to Quyllurit’i (“star-snow,” a peak on the opposite [269] side of the Ayakachi) and Qamara [Fig. 4.1]. These pilgrimages are undertaken in opposite directions by separate contingents of Q’eros, crossing the passes and occasionally the glaciers to the south toward Quyllurit’i, and descending the gorge of the Q’ero River north toward the monte to Qamara [Fig. 1.2]. The return of each contingent is carefully timed to occur at sunrise on Korpus in the ritual center, where karguyoh (“cargo-holders” or sponsors) assigned with responsibility for the community feast have prepared a reception of food, drink, dancing, and singing that continues for about three days and nights. [My wife Lois and our children were able to join me in Hatun Q’ero for this occasion in 1970, and upon our return in 1977 we joined the pilgrimage from Q’ero at Quyllurit’i and returned with them.] A week before this feast I happened upon one of these sponsors who was organizing with his assistants and marshaling his supplies for the coming occasion. The ritual center had been deserted with all doors closed

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earlier the same day, but by noon several families had appeared, most of them related in some way to the three sponsors sharing responsibility for the feast. One was seated on an alpaca pelt on the higher side of his feast house floor, facing a ring of six men seated at the hearth, doorway, and central floor of the large room, lit only by the open doorway and obscured periodically by the mist drifting by outside. My entry was followed by an uncomfortable silence that had clearly not been obtained before my appearance, but this was soon broken by jokes at my expense and finally normalcy seemed to return. A huge pile of freshly chopped branches was stacked in one corner for firewood, and a fresh slaughter of alpaca was hung in another for seasoning. Although it was not yet apparent to me, more than a dozen individuals, some dead and others not present, connected this group with ties of kinship or affinity. I recognized two of the sponsor’s younger brothers who were present, but others whom I knew appeared unrelated, and one was unfamiliar to me. Explanations of their relationship were in terms of wayqey and q’atay (“brother” and “brother-­ in-­law”) but were cursory, impatient, or difficult for me [270] to understand. All presently resumed conversation, which regarded arrangements, anticipated trips, and contributions in support of the sponsor, in a counterpoint of suggestion, offer, and acknowledgment. As particular agreements were reached the individuals pledging support departed one by one. Each bade good-bye to the sponsor with a conventionalized utterance urpiy, sonqoy, tatay (“my bird, my heart, my father”) in a pitched nasal falsetto, while the latter remained calmly seated in silent dignity.2 Subsequent examination of my genealogies showed that, besides the two younger brothers (both married with families), there were also present in the house the husbands of two sisters, the husband of a distant ipay (“aunt”—here a father’s father’s brother’s brother’s daughter), and this latter husband’s son by her. Outside, working with the wife of the sponsor by an adjacent house loaned from her dead uterine half-sister’s widower, (i.e., her q"atay, “brother-in-law”) was his son-in-law. Probable extenuating circumstances were that an elder brother of the husband of the distant ipay had married her sister. The grown son of this husband, also present, was furthermore about to embark upon a year’s service as kamachikuh (“leader”) for the community and was prudently laying the groundwork for reciprocation of assistance in the future. Although it was not apparent to me at the time, the terms wayqey (“male’s brother”) and q’atay (“brother-in-law”), used to describe the varied gathering, but only increasing my confusion, did summarize all the

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diverse bonds activated by the situation. But the resulting assemblage had two ambivalent aspects. From the point of view of relationships through marriage, all present (except his brothers) represented men whom the sponsor could call upon as husbands of sisters, daughters, or other female relatives of his kingroup. Even the widower’s wife had been the sponsor’s distant panay (male’s “sister”) through her father’s side. Significantly, perhaps, none [271] of these affines was related to the sponsor through a female of their family, but rather as (or through) males who had married females of the sponsor’s family [italics added]. The respect generally accorded the sponsor in agreements and leave-taking seemed to support an affinal interpretation, which admits a structural asymmetry not inherent in the aspect of kinship. It also explains the reserved but deferential behavior of the “step-uncle” and his son, who were both older than the sponsor and senior to him in the political system of the community. However, these differentials of status were equivocal and were never directly admitted by the Q’eros, who stick to a rhetoric of virtual equality among themselves. The assemblage could also be viewed from the perspective of kinship. In an effort to explain to me the kind of relationships represented, the Q’eros had dropped the term q’atay (“in-law”) and substituted the terms wayqey (“brother”) and primu (Spanish: “cousin”), implying that their native viewpoint includes a consanguineal connotation. An interpretation in terms of kinship may also be supported by native explanation: when asked whom they call upon for assistance and attendance at their feasts, the Q’eros respond, “famillallayku” (“just our family”—from Spanish familia). The community feasts toward which such plans are directed are a spectacle of activity and excitement and involve almost the entire community in the ritual center. Although I could not identify all the guests, most of those present at any given time in a festival house were either close relatives or affines of the domestic group in charge. As in most ritual occasions, women were separated from men and grouped together, although often singing in chorus to the fluting and dancing of the men. I was unable to recognize most women on sight even late in my research, but it was eventually apparent that spouses were frequently in different festival households. As far as the Q’eros were concerned [272], sufficient explanation was that the other spouse “liked it there,” but pursuing the question usually revealed that both spouses were with groups to whom they were related, often in a complementary manner which equably divided their attention and assistance among affinal relatives. No matter who the official

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sponsor is, the senior member of his domestic group actually presides over the festival household and all its guests. Consequently, the array of kin and affines potentially in attendance is extensive. Such occasions draw together the proliferated fragments of past domestic groups in a manner apparent in no other place or time of year. The residual hierarchy of obligations and authority between kin, obscured by the jural sovereignty of autonomous residence, is also revealed most clearly at such times. The presiding senior usually remains seated on the floor behind the small ritual table at the upper end of the house, senior visitors seating themselves on each side of him in order of their rank. All are served maize beer by junior kin and affines, who press this drink upon them in pairs of q’ero goblets and respectfully insist that their contents be entirely gulped down. Some rituals practiced by the Q’eros appear to delimit the array of kin and affines by their exclusion rather than inclusion. In a community where all other members can be categorized either as kin and affines or as unrelated people with whom one has no such useful relationship and who furthermore are prospective affines, the utility of such ritual is clear. Assistance in the organization of feasts and attendance at them is sometimes undertaken by mere wasi masi (“neighbors”) or sunqo masi (“heart-­ companions” or dear friends). On the other hand, individuals who are specifically unrelated are often sought as mañasqa (“loaned”), or arranged assistants, in the rituals of status elevation undertaken by the domestic group. This is [273] especially apparent at death, and also at birth, where the assistance of a paqarichiq outside the family may be sought. At death, the preparation of the corpse, divining, bearing of the bier, and burial are usually assigned to non-relatives formally entreated for assistance and ritually repaid with hospitality and cooked food to take back home. In these ritual moments routine status differentials appear to be suspended for the time being: whether or not of higher status, mañasqa perform as mere servants for the host, while the host observes and directs in quiet dignity. The suspension of normal status relationships may even be manifested, at this time of crisis, in ritual reversal. A dignified and ancient qapah (“powerful one”) humbly prepares food in the house of his host, while the host’s daughters sit idle, and his sons, although not yet of appropriate age, are offered coca leaf. The kingroup undertaking the ritual of status elevation is in this way symbolically unified in contraposition to non-relatives who attend them, without regard to profane status differentials of everyday relationship.

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The ritual moments sketched above offer little evidence to support a contention of patrilineal kinship organization. Rather it appears that the diffuse familla (Spanish: “family”) acknowledged by the Q’eros embraces matrilateral [kin], patrilateral kin, and affines as well. Although complicated by acculturation, the surname system affords some further insight into Q’ero kinship. This evidence tends to support the interpretation that it is a cognatic, not unilineal, system. Arriaga, writing in 1618 regarding the inquisition into native idolatry, was disturbed that the Quechua tended to give precedence to native rather than Christian names. The remarks imply that contemporary native surnames aboriginally sufficed for identification, perhaps without personal names. Christian personal names and Spanish surnames were simply [274] appended to the native names in the first processes of acculturation. Núñez del Prado surveyed parochial records of matrimonies between 1679 and 1778 and found that the Q’eros (or at least residents of the cultural region) of this time never used more than one surname, and in the majority of cases (58%) the surname used bore no relation to that of their parents. Since the eighteenth century the Q’eros have come to use the Hispanic surname system which mechanically perpetuates a patronym.3 In accord with the Hispanic system, the Q’eros presently carry two consecutive surnames, a patronym and matronym, preceded by one or more personal or baptismal names. Also in accord with the Hispanic tradition, the matronyms of both mother and father (their grandmothers’ patronyms) are dropped from surnames, with the consequence that only one ancestral patronym survives through generations, that is, the surname descends patrilineally. Although mestizos tend to assume the native loses track of his parents’ matronyms and his own as well, this is surely not the case, as even small children could accurately tell me their matronyms and even those of their parents and some grandparents (and furthermore occasionally be capable of misleading me with pretended matronyms). Ancestral matronyms tend to be forgotten by the adult Q’ero at a similar remove (two or three generations) both matrilaterally and patrilaterally, and with those passed on through female ancestors lost (ch’inkasqa—“sunken”) on average only a little sooner than those through male ancestors. [1972: 274–5] The prescriptions of exogamy and the incest taboo also outline an expansive array of cognatic kin as extensive matrilaterally as it is patrilaterally. The common maxim is ama sutiypura tiyanmanchu (“one must not cohabit with another of the same name”), but this implies any previous ancestral surnames as well as the one that devolves patrilineally. Marriage

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is prohibited, and sexual intercourse is considered incestuous, with any person deemed related through a common ancestor, no matter how distantly and no matter whether through males or females. The exhaustiveness of this incest taboo appears to reflect the native principles of kinship. Centuries of inquisition by the Colonial Church, concerned that the idolatrous practices of the natives were in part a result of incest, were probably misdirected by ignorance of the native system of kinship; the efforts were spent on an aboriginal system of exogamy considerably more puritanical than that [276] currently practiced by highland mestizos under official Church routine. The Q’eros are in full knowledge that the mestizos frequently marry close cousins without reprisal from their local priest, yet consider the practice immoral and even incomprehensible.4 In a cognatic system, as few as twenty generations can relate several million people consanguineally. Incredulous about the exhaustiveness of the taboo, I pointed out to one man that in such a small community it effectively precluded most other Q’eros as possible mates for any given person. He wryly responded that of course it was permissible to live with a distant relative if no one at all knew the relationship existed. In actual practice, few could remember ancestors, and even persons with the same surname could marry if they were from different localities and “known” to be unrelated. Given that the Q’eros’ memory of predecessors appears to obscure beyond five or six generations at most, this consideration admits some members of the community to a small class of potential spouses for any other member.5 As is generally the case in such systems, certain genealogical amnesia is also promoted by socially or economically insignificant marriages: Q’ero family histories tend to obscure where they involve mergers with propertyless families. Furthermore, certain structural principles, as well as the obscurity of time and low status, thin out the potential array of kin. These will be discussed after the more general characteristics of the Q’ero kindred are outlined. The “kindred” is a cognatic kingroup in which consanguinity is typically considered inconsequential, and marriage permissible, beyond relationship in the third or fourth degree, that is, mediated by a common ancestor three of four generations removed. In some ways the Q’ero kingroup [277] is similar to a kindred, but in important respects it is distinctive. Like the kindred, it is not a corporate group; the only truly corporate groupings in Q’ero are the domestic groups and the community itself. The Q’ero kingroup has no discrete membership in perpetuity because each marriage unites two kingroups and its offspring are related

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to both of them, but the members of each antecedent kingroup are not thereby all related consanguineally to each other. That is to say, the kingroup is ego-centered; some of the individuals which ego accounts as kin will not account other members of his kingroup their kin as well, but only their relatives by marriage (i.e., of ego’s mother and father). [Figures 7a, 7b, 8, and commentary on them have been deleted but are available in Webster 1977 or pp. 277–290 of the original dissertation.] The Q’eros do, of course, marry other Q’eros who are distant cognatic relatives; this cannot be avoided in a small community which is predominantly endogamous. The genealogical data which I was able to collect reveals at least 25% consanguineal marriages (24 out of 93), with 36% of these occurring at more than four generations’ remove, 44% occurring at three or four generations’ remove, 16% occurring at two or three generations’ remove, and only 4% occurring at two generations’ remove, and none more closely (fuller genealogical data would increase the proportion of consanguinity at four or more generation’s remove). However, in accord with the native perception of consanguinity which I have described, these technically consanguineal relatives are not seen to be kin at all by the Q’eros. Appropriate acknowledgment of deference and honor through the use of alternative or elaborated kin terms is usual among individuals junior in status, in reference as well as address. A series of alternative terms graphically portrays the reverence (often lightened with humor) owed grandparental generations. Machulay (“grandparent”) is neutral, perhaps with overtones of affection befitting the reciprocal haway, but living machula are more usually referred to and addressed as hatun (“grand”) tatay or hatun mamay, and if very old males, awkiy and even tatay machu awkiwiñay (“my ancient father, raised by the spirits”). The much more common awkiy appears to be the anomalous use of a term normally used to identify powerful local spirits, but it is likely to be a derivation from the more elaborate expression. This expression rhetorically identifies the grandfather or great-grandfather with these forces (as his adoptive parents!) and perhaps with the machu, who is an ancient male of an antediluvian (in this case, antesolarian) race of men [ñawpa runa] whose survivors are malignant and hidden in the current world (Núñez del Prado). Qoway seems to be used deferentially with reference or address to female grandparents, but unlike the neutral machulay [291] this term may connote affinity, and its honorific overtones may originate in this aspect of the relationship as well as in grandparenthood.

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The polarity of sullk’a and kuraq (junior and senior in age status, respectively) usually elaborates all kinship terms applied to siblings and parents’ siblings. This preoccupation reflects the rigid hierarchy of seniority established among siblings by birth order in the domestic group and carried over among siblings heading independent domestic groups. Among siblings, each is termed sullk’a or kuraq without regard to sex and often simply sullkay (“my junior”) and kuraqniy (“my senior”) without appending the sibling reference. Although these terms are frequent in reference, direct address may avoid any use of general kin terms, suggesting that formal deference or its expectation is restrained in confrontation if not with third parties. Among the parents’ siblings these terms are also usually applied, reflecting status relative to one’s own parent, and prefixed to tatay, mamay, ipay, or kakay. The distinction of seniority which is spontaneously made by a person regarding all of his parent’s siblings confirms the deference and authority which remains among them even when economically self-sufficient, despite the usual contention of equality each avows with regard to the other. These supplementary terms are also occasionally extended, along with parental terms, to affines of one’s parents, depending on their familiarity and perhaps on their relative importance in the community. I have heard them used reciprocally in reference even between two elders, one a widow and the other a parallel third cousin of the widow’s deceased husband. The durability of this polarity of status in the social organization is clearly apparent. Finally, generations may be honorifically overridden by the application of the grandparental term awkiy to very senior brothers of one’s father. This practice seems to be based on the distinction of the most senior brother among more than one as [292] sinchi kuraq (“very eldest”), and the contingent use of tatay to designate this person if he succeeds to the paramount leadership role of the domestic group upon his father’s early death. [1972: 292] There is also interesting evidence that male kinsmen on the mother’s side are viewed as unitary in some sense. In the Pusachaynin, the family ritual of status elevation following death, the ancestors of the deceased called upon to guide his spirit to the netherworld appear to be named in a regular order of priority. No particular order is said to be required, and in fact the ideal is simply to call the spirits of all the dead associated with the neighborhood of the valley. In practice, however, it is clear that only relatives are called upon, and these relatives may have lived and died in any location in the community. The longest list of ancestors that I was able to record was developed in prayer between a ritual specialist (a mañasqa, or

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entreated assistant) and his host during several hours of the night, and finally began to be repeated, more or less in the original order, throughout the night. In general, the entreaties to ancestral spirits worked from those at three or four generations remove to [294] those deceased more recently, apparently following an order of seniority which persists among the dead. But the most striking feature of the order was the precedence of matrilateral ancestors of the person being mourned. Although the spirits actually called upon tended generally to be males, those first prevailed upon were almost invariably patrilateral ancestors of the deceased’s mother, and those usually last prevailed upon were patrilateral ancestors of the deceased’s father; of these latter usually very few were named. Between these two classes of ancestors, patrilateral kinsmen of the deceased’s mother’s mother and of his father’s mother were called upon, with precedence usually given to the former. The fullest list was obtained in a household which had a background of matrilocal residence (the deceased’s father had settled matrilocally) and later confirmed in Santus when the deceased of the past year or two are mourned again annually. [Figs. 9 and 10 and commentary on them have been deleted but are available in Webster 1977 as well as 1972: 294–304. Endnotes 8–28 deleted but are available in 1972: 349–353.]

2   Patterns of Affinity The foregoing discussion of kinship began with the description of some ritual moments, and the same approach will be utilized here. The first example involved a karguyoh (feast sponsor) organizing several male relatives, all of whom (with the exception of his two younger brothers) were described [301] to me as q’atay. This term is now used only in the more remote regions of the South Central Andes, but most bilingual mestizos are familiar with it and translate it as yerno or cuñado (Spanish: “son-in-­ law” and “brother-in-law,” respectively). These are also the glosses offered for the term by the Q’eros when queried, but it is apparent that its denotative range in actual use is even wider. In the ritual situation previously described the term served to classify the husbands of two sisters and the husband of a daughter, but also the husband of a classificatory paternal aunt and his son and probably extended to the wife’s half-sister’s husband (her q’atay) as well. Although it was not apparent to me in this particular situation, comparable situations make it clear that the sponsor (or at least his father) would be kakay to each of these persons referred to as q’atayniy.

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The native term kaka is used rarely among more acculturated highland communities but is popularly glossed as tio (Spanish: “uncle” either maternal or paternal). More careful investigation reveals that kakay is applied only to mother’s brother (father’s brother is termed tatay) in the context of collateral relatives and to wife’s father as well; these denotations are confirmed in several dictionaries of Quechua. But the denotative extension of the term in Q’ero is much wider than this, and the domain throughout which it operates appears to be “affinal” in character, rather than “consanguineal” as might be supposed regarding the mother’s brother. In the previous discussion of this ritual moment it was remarked that all members of the gathering appeared to be considered kin, at least in the loose sense of “family” as it is used by the Q’eros. On the other hand, from the point of view of affinity or “in-laws,” all those present except the two brothers were affines and, interestingly enough, affines by virtue of having married a female member of the sponsor’s kingroup. The sponsor himself was the only person present who was an affine (to all the q’atay) in the sense [304] of having “given” a female member of his kingroup rather than having taken one. I also suggested that deferential behavior, as well as the supportive roles being pledged to the sponsor, appeared to place him in a superordinate position regarding all the others. In the case of two of those present, this was even regardless of his subordination to them in the formal political system of the community. As will become apparent in the following discussions, q’atay and kaka are both affinal class designations with very wide but complementary ranges among relatives. These two classes of relatives furthermore form the axes of asymmetric status relationships that constitute a jural periphery of the parallel kindred; this is its penumbra, as it were, where it overlaps with other cognatic kingroups. The pattern of affinal relationships evident in this preparation is also evident in the culmination of community feasts in the ritual center [see Fig. 7.1, festival houses]. But on these occasions it is obscured in a spectacle involving almost all the relatives of a domestic group and interpersonal ritual which blends belligerence and egalitarian rhetoric. I witnessed most of these occasions early in my fieldwork (they occur primarily in one season), and in any case they are situations when one can least expect serious responses from the Q’eros. But my hurried accounting of guests in each festival house later yielded revealing results. Aside from the array of kin present, most male guests were affinal relatives including father or brother of wife, of brother’s wife, or of son’s wife, and father or brother of

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sister’s husband or daughter’s husband, from either the perspective of the sponsor or that of his father. That is to say, some affines present were kin of females who had married a member of the hosting kingroup, and others had married a female of the hosting kingroup or were kin of someone who did. Although any of these relatives might prepare food or serve at one time and dance, play [305] their flutes, eat, drink, or sit and talk to another, juniors tended to do more of the former and seniors more of the latter activities. The rough accounting of guests later indicated that among affines those more senior tended to be related through their female kin (e.g., daughter-in-law’s father, wife’s father, father’s wife’s brother, or mother’s brother), whereas those more junior tended to be sons-in-law or sisters’ husbands. Although the latter category was not precluded from the more enjoyable aspects of the feast, it was clear that most of the services fell to them as well as the junior members of the hosting kingroup. It should be noted that the constituency of this latter group is congruent with that which was earlier evident pledging assistance to the sponsor in the organizational meeting. That is to say, they were all q’atay. On the other hand, the other component of affinal guests, those related through their female kin and indulging unrestrainedly in the feast, could all be designated kaka. The disproportion of juniors and seniors in these two classes of affines to the host kingroup is presumably a result of attendance elsewhere in the festival houses of other karguyoh. There, more senior q’atay of the first kingroup will be kaka in the context of another kingroup, (to whom their female kin have been married), and the more junior kaka of the given kingroup will be q’atay in the context of another kingroup (from whom they have obtained wives). Seniority in age and general social status put one in a position to indulge one’s superordinate status as a kaka, whereas youth leaves one little choice but to fulfill obligations in the subordinate status of q’atay. Provisional seniority in social status is also part of the sponsor’s role. It enabled the leader of the organizational meeting previously described to assume the role of kaka and convene his q’atay, two of whom were even senior to him in age and other social status. If this arrangement among affines was formally instituted in any way [306], it was never apparent to me except in behavior; both orders and services were carried out in an abiding rhetoric of equality, and a restrained interpersonal belligerence ritually manifested in feast occasions seemed to bear no apparent relation to the asymmetry of affinity. This affinal triad of “wife-givers” (kaka), “wife-receivers” (q’atay), and the cognatic kingroup sandwiched in between (as q’atay in regard to the

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first group and kaka in regard to the second) emerges most clearly in such ritual situations. Consonant with the rhetoric of equality characteristic of relationships which nevertheless manifest casual superordination and subordination, it is contended by the Q’eros that services between affines and prestations between parties to a marriage are practically balanced out. Any obvious inequality in services or inheritance is explained as only expressing the relative wealth or poverty of means of the two parties, affines or affines-­ to-­be. In behavioral patterns there is indeed a reciprocation of services; kaka are found working in assistance of q’atay, just as the Q’eros contend. But beneath the rhetoric of balanced reciprocity, just as beneath the studied exchange of deference between ritual co-parents, asymmetric status abides. A superordinate ritual kinsman is expected to suffer, and willingly suffers, numerous practical as well as ritual impositions, beginning with holding the squalling and urine-soaked infant through the prolonged baptism or laboriously shearing a child’s matted hair. But this is noblesse oblige, confirming his credit and his client’s indebtedness. The affinal relationship in Q’ero, and of course in many societies, is asymmetric in this same sense. In the rationalization of its practical balance, the Q’eros only appear to ignore the overriding fact that one of the parties has benefited by a wife and that the other party has released manifold jural rights over a female member. In matrilocal marriage this forfeiture of jural rights likewise generates a debt, but the practical circumstances of marriage themselves discharge it, although not definitively. It is likely, in fact, that the overt moral ideal of balanced reciprocity between affines leaves unrelieved the debtor-creditor relationship initiated in marriage. Without a formal requirement of bride-service or payment, the Q’eros face a difficult [309] indenture in return for their wives, all the more uncancellable in its informality. The asymmetry is apparent in the preponderance of services actually performed for kaka, particularly in the ritual situations already described. As noted earlier, in the discussion of the structural instabilities entailed by the matrilocal marriage, the father-in-law and even his sons (i.e., kakay of the son-in-law) may characterize themselves as dwenyoh (Spanish: dueño, “owner”), kamachikuh (“he who causes things to be done”) or q"atayniyoh (“one having a q’atay”) with regard to the resident son-in-law. These terms are also heard in reference to sons-in-law not resident matrilocally. Q’atay are observed crossing between the valleys and descending the gorges of the Q’ero basin, with their destination being their fathers-in-­ law’s plots or households, much more frequently than the wife or males of her family are seen assisting the q’atay or his family. The superordinate

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status of kaka furthermore appears to be transitive in its entailments. One grandfather not only benefited from the services of his son-in-law, but also was attended by his daughter’s child, even though the child lived with his father (the old man’s q’atay) in a distant valley of the community, and even though the daughter had died. Another Q’ero was responsible for the care of an orphan and was able to claim a few of his services in return because the orphan was his kakay. This responsibility may befall a q’atay even so remote that his kakay is his wife’s mother’s mother’s brother’s youngest son (roughly: the descendant of the kaka of a kaka of a kaka). It appears, however, that the asymmetry of status is exhausted for all practical purposes by the time that the kaka becomes a “mother’s brother” (rather than a wife’s father or wife’s brother), and in this sense becomes a consanguineal relative in the cognatic system. [Figure 11 and accompanying commentary comparing other Andean and Spanish kinship terminological systems have been deleted here; 1972: 310–333] The cognatic kingroup outlined in this way by peripheral affines has a continuity of no more than one or two generations before the configuration of its affinal alliances shifts substantially. It also lacks perpetuity insofar as affinal relatives in one generation become kin in subsequent generations (just as some kin eventually become non-kin). But for the duration of two or three generations, say, forty to seventy-five years, the kingroup proceeds with substantial coherence and continuity within a flanking framework of relatives who are more or less clearly affines, bound in joint statuses with reciprocal rights and obligations.

3  Ecosystematic Processes in Kingroup and Marriage In the foregoing discussion of the social organization of Q’ero, the convergence of ecosystem and social system has been more closely examined in several contexts: (l) translocation [1972: 174–182], (2) the conjugal extension of domestic groups and its relationship with translocation [1972: 203–206], and (3) structure and development in the sibling group [1972: 230–234; 247–259]. In the first regard, I argued that the relative proportions of pasture, herd, and population in each valley and the incidences of and reasons for migration, were interdependent phenomena: translocation between the main valleys of the Q’ero basin responds to the relative herding potential of valley habitats, as well as to various social exigencies. In

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the second regard, I outlined the correspondence between extended forms of the domestic group and relative wealth and demonstrated the general correlation of conjugal extensions in the domestic group and the herding potential of each valley habitat and, in one case, sub-habitats. The role of translocation through marriage, either patrilocal or matrilocal, in the development of these patterns of conjugal extension was implicated as a strategy undertaken by parties to the marriage in response to the perceived relative potential of their habitats, among other considerations. Finally, in the third regard, I analyzed the organization of roles and their development in the sibling group as a functional balance of power which prevents the decimation of the domestic group estate in resources and authority but facilitates the dispersion of family members or the integration of non-­ family members according to the capacity of this estate. As part of this latter process, patterns of matrilocal residence most clearly demonstrate an ecosystematic strategy which responds to the relative herding potential of valley habitats and sub-habitats in the community. [Figure 12 and its commentary have been deleted below, 1972: 334–345; its conclusions are published and available in Webster 1977.] The likelihood of this sort of cycle in ecosystem, kinship, and affinity was suggested to me by the structure of predominant sibling groups in each valley habitat. When my familiarity with the community had developed sufficiently, I became aware that each valley in the community was dominantly influenced by one or more large kingroups in the process of florescence or demise. Valleys were described, by other Q’eros living within them or in other valleys, as Apasakama (“entirely Apasas”), Machaqa hunt’ata (“chuck-full of Machaqas”), and Paucarkunasqa (“‘done’ by the Paucars”). Although patronyms are used to conveniently characterize these local groups, most of them incorporate sisters and their husbands as part of the cooperative cognatic kingroup, at least in their initial stages of development. The current key kingroups in the main valleys furthermore appeared to represent different stages in a developmental tendency. The Paucars were a large family with several married sons living patrilocally under an old patriarch, consolidating influence which was just beginning to hold sway in one valley. Three separate and smaller groups of brothers in another valley had established independent households but remained within the same habitat, in effect vying for influence through maintenance of cooperation among siblings and the expansion of their families. A third valley was dominated by the Machaqa kingroup, which had been founded by an immigrant ancestor about the turn of the century. The family had

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since proliferated throughout this habitat and was beginning to establish itself through matrilocal residence in each of the other valleys as well. The final valley had apparently been saturated by Apasas for more than a generation, had a steady high rate of emigration, and was now almost exclusively exogamous. These predominant kingroup structures in each valley appear to represent serial stages in a general developmental process. This interpretation [338] is supported by peripheral kingroup forms in each valley in stages of (l) cohesion, (2) maturation, (3) saturation, or (4) dispersal. In Chuwa Chuwa, two distantly related domestic groups representing nine of the twenty-four conjugal families in the valley tended to cohere, each retaining all mature sons and their developing families. In one case the widowed mother had remarried a wealthy widower in the same valley, increasing the potential estate of these sons. In the other a son-in-law had also settled nearby in the valley under the effective influence of his father-­ in-­law. But it was clear from other family histories that only within the last generation almost all the offspring of three large antecedent domestic groups had been dispersed to other valleys of the community, leaving but a sole successor in each case. Each of these now had a few sons on the verge of marriage, and their future development appeared to promise cohesion. In Yawarkancha/Kolpa Pampa, more dispersed kingroup forms based on prior cohesion were more fully matured. Three domestic groups were built around two or three brothers, although in two cases adult siblings had died and in the other case the father had died. All male and some female siblings in these groups had maintained or returned to permanent residence in the valley and were in the process of developing separate domestic groups but maintaining close ties of interdependence within the kingroup. One group of two brothers and a brother-in-law and their families were succeeding to the role of their father, who, along with his brother (since deceased), had established himself as one of the wealthiest domestic groups in the community. Sentiments between the three kingroups tended to be disdainful[ly] cautious [339] and there was no intermarriage among them. Although it was not currently the wealthiest, the kingroup undebilitated by death among its siblings appeared to be enjoying the most good fortune with its herd and tended to espouse the brightest prospects for its future. Competition was not, however, overt among these kingroups, although their independent efforts in consolidation and cooperation amounted effectively to this. It was clear, on the other hand, that this

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expansion of cohesive kingroups was occurring in a vacuum left by the demise of two previous kingroups, which one or two generations in the past had, rather than remaining resident and consolidating, entirely dispersed their progeny into other valleys without leaving any local descendants at all. The situation in Qocha Moqo was dominated by the descendants of one domestic group which had produced several sons a generation before, all of who had established separate residences in the same valley and raised children who themselves had developed families. Although the first generation was apparently entirely patrilocal and virilocal, many of these second-­generation families were matrilocal or uxorilocal. Other residence options, on the other hand, seemed equivocal between saturation and dispersion. Saturation appeared to be developing and dispersal imminent. Several other grandchildren had married into or moved to other valleys, with their motives being spouses and more promising herding conditions. One other kingroup had produced four sons, three of whom had married and settled with their maturing families in this same valley; but the death of the father’s wife and one of the sons had precipitated the translocation of part of this kingroup to another valley. Two of these brothers remained in close cooperation, perhaps contesting the future control of the valley by the earlier proliferation of the first kingroup. Similarly reflecting an ambivalent view of the habitat potential, one influential elder with several sons had arranged a matrilocal [340] marriage for his eldest son with another large domestic group in the most promising upper sector of Qolpa K’uchu valley, but had thereafter acquired a co-resident son-in-law from the same kingroup because he “needed help.” Family histories also reflect the much earlier florescence of a few other kingroups in this valley, probably two or three generations before the immigration of the family whose descendants now dominate the valley. Qolpa K’uchu appears to be in a particularly prolonged phase of saturation and dispersal. A prolific ancestral triad of brothers (and some sisters, apparently, now forgotten), now known almost mythically as awki, remained in this valley and are the grandfathers and great-grandfathers of the majority of its present inhabitants. Consanguinity has progressed to the point that almost all the young residents must seek their spouses elsewhere, and translocation out of the valley appears to have been prevalent since the early part of this century. Two other kingroups appear to have gone through a parallel but less prolific florescence at about the same early time and now are each represented by only one or two descendant families

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in the valley. Family histories indicate that three other kingroups underwent a similarly early expansion, but are now left with only a few matrilateral descendants in the same habitat. The edge in expansion seems to have passed to three small kingroups originating in matrilocal marriages into the valley, but these remain poor and marriages of their rather numerous offspring have tended to also reside matrilocally in the same valley. These may, however, form the potential nucleus for some future proliferation of new consanguinity in the habitat. It should be noted that predominant kingroup developments in Chuwa Chuwa and Lawarkancha/Qolpa Pampa (cohesion and maturation) are concurrent with the herding habitats that most other evidence indicates to be presently most promising; on the other hand kingroup developments characteristic of Qocha Moqo and Qolpa K’uchu (saturation and dispersal) are concurrent with the herding habitats which most other evidence has indicated to be marginal or pressed to capacity. [341] In overview, a cohesive proliferation of local kinship appears to be encouraged in a promising herding habitat, and the dispersion of its descendants to other valleys (predominantly within the community) is precipitated by the consequent eventual disproportion of the population to herds and pasture. Consolidation is manifested in the more frequent extension of the domestic group through multiplication of conjugal bonds and matrilocal marriage, and saturation and dispersion is accompanied by decreasing frequency of these forms. This cycle in cognatic kinship is accompanied by a cycle in affinity whereby (l) exogamy through marriage into the habitat supports the earlier phases of consolidation, (2) a prevalent endogamy through alliances with valley neighbors compensates for the difficulties of competition in an increasingly unpromising habitat, and (3) exogamy through marriage out of the valley responds to eventual saturation of the herding potential and the expansion of consanguinity to include most inhabitants of the valley. These processes apparently operate in cycle and can deplete the population of a valley sufficiently to renew its promise of herding potential, at least from the point of view of concurrently [346] less promising localities in the community.

Notes 1. [1972: 347]. 2. This is a conventionalized greeting and [salutation] used throughout the cultural region of Q’ero, and I have not encountered it elsewhere. It is used

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toward elders of any sex on any occasion, even often toward one’s own parents. It is also used when there is no such differential in age, or even occasionally by seniors addressing juniors, but this occurs only when the younger person has considerably more social status or when he is offering hospitality or special assistance. Even when a younger person confronts an elder of lower social status, he typically defers to him in this manner with a gracious air of noblesse oblige. 3. Most of the surnames now used in Q’ero are of native origin, and those which are not are so conventionalized in Quechua that it is difficult for an outsider not thoroughly familiar with Hispanic surnames to recognize their origin. All personal names, on the other hand, are Hispanic and originated in the colonial program of Christianization through baptismal names; these also have often been Quechuized beyond recognition, except by bilingual mestizos familiar with the conventional equivalents. [349] 4. Cousin marriage, even of the first degree, is in fact very frequently undertaken with official dispensation in smaller mestizo towns, and many more proceed in the ignorance of the parish priest. This is not surprising in any small solidary community with a high rate of endogamy; what is surprising is that it is a moral issue among the mestizos, particularly in their denigration of the native. In fact, the native’s routine avoidance of “incestuous” marriages in this regard, even in tiny communities, is an admirable example for even the most idealistic and dogmatic Church canons, as will become apparent in later discussions of affinity in Q’ero, the Q’eros’ awareness of the misti’s infidelity to his own standard can even be characterized as smug ethnocentrism. I will never forget the cool gaze of contempt and disdain from one elder Q’ero when, in an attempt to encourage admission of some preferential rule of cross-cousin marriage, I assured him that it was sometimes practiced in my own country. 5. I was once given cause to doubt my conclusion that kinship recollection was limited at this extent when a very analytic elder, apparently bored with my insistence and probably challenged by my apparent knowledge of many of his relatives, divulged a maze way of ancestors in a torrent of descriptions receding more than five generations into the past. However, closer examination showed that he was probably unsure of the nature of his relationship to most of them, and his oldest son was unaware of any relationship at all and was incredulous when I later recounted them to him. [Endnotes 8–28 deleted but are available in 1972: 349–353.]

CHAPTER 7

Social Ranking, Hierarchy, and Leadership [1974]

[For preview of each chapter in Part I, see Original Introduction to Part I (1972) in front matter] [This concluding chapter of Part I is composed of selected parts of my 1974 article ‘Factors of Social Rank in a Native Quechua Community’ (see Chap. 8 references). In addition to not being widely available, this article (and two later ones) was published using the pseudonym ‘Ch’eqec’ in deference to the Q’eros’ own evasiveness or preference for anonymity. I adopted this pseudonym from the title of Betty Yabar’s 1971 novel Testimonio sobre Cheqec, her account of close friendship between the daughter of a former Q’ero hacienda owner and Q’eros who took turns serving their home in Paucartambo. In addition to restoring here the real name of the community (Q’ero, now called ‘Hatun Q’ero’), I have inserted occasional comments such as this one, always marked in square brackets.] General role attributes of sex, age, kinship, and affinity define fundamental status rank for everyone in [Hatun] Q’ero. Females are ritually profane compared to males, and this is reflected in ceremonies and some manufacturing tasks, although the loose division of labor between domestic and heavy labor tasks is not carefully followed and mature women are influential in all practical affairs. Age has prior jural authority in most situations, even if the elder is female (e.g., a surviving widow or elder sister), until the elder voluntarily cedes this position to more able kinsmen. Respect for elders, no matter what their status in other respects, is routine: greetings of younger to older people are highly stylized, and young adults offer their choicest © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 S. Webster, Returning to Q’ero, Palgrave Studies in Anthropology of Sustainability, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-04972-9_7

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morsels to elders, especially in ritual occasions. Among kinsmen, a hierarchy of authority and respect is defined by primogeniture, regardless of sex, and may be taken into account among descendants even after several generations. However, independence of domestic groups is jealously guarded and, once settled in separate households, kuraq (senior sibling or descendants) are consulted by their sulka (junior sibling or descendants) primarily in matters of ritual or resolution of disputes. Although jural authority devolves in primogeniture [first-born child], wealth tends to be inherited in ultimogeniture [last-born son], because younger male offspring receive more of the domestic group property. The chanako, the youngest son (occasionally son-in-law), receives the great preponderance of wealth. The result of divergence between authority and property in the kin group is considerable status mobility, because ideally both are necessary for higher status. Like kinship, affinal status defines rank between individuals in certain groups in appropriate occasions. The Q’eros contend that marriage entails only balanced rights and obligations between affines, but in practical exchange it is clear that kaka (wife-givers) maintain an advantage over q”atay (wife-receivers) in prestations, labor exchange, support in feasts, hospitality, and other services. These asymmetric status networks may even be activated between distantly related affines, or after generations have passed. The dispatch of the deceased’s soul to the afterworld involves an appeal for guidance to ancestors, especially those who stood in the wifegiver relationship, apparently seen to continue in their role as patrons even in hanaq pacha (the ‘upper world’). However, the frequent exchange of wives between kin groups often neutralizes these status differences, and the prohibition of marriage between recognized kin prevents the development of stable affinal status differences. Nevertheless, in most social situations, some individuals present will owe respect to others in virtue of the wifereceiving status of their kin group, regardless of the other roles involved. In Q’ero, several situations adumbrate a hierarchy of persons which appears to be ideally extendable to all adult male members of the community should the situation be so inclusive. One of the clearest is the seating order of guests at a feast. At the large community feasts in the ritual center, as many as half of the adult males of the community are seated on the ground behind a long banded bolt of llama wool sacking rolled out like a table cloth, while the other half, acting as hosts, rush back and forth from their nearby kin groups serving food and maize beer to the guests [Fig. 7.1 and its legend are drawn from my 1969–70 fieldnotes NB 2: 12b, NB1: 23b, and genealogies, neither previously published]. The

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F P

N U

G B

V A'

H church B'

school

C W'

C'

W

D'

X X'

O

I

A

Y D Z E'

S

O '

J

F ' E

Fig. 7.1  Festival houses (puxllay wasi) and owners, Q’ero Llaqta ritual center. (Legend: House leaders: A: Alberto Sunqu Apasa; A’: Francisco Ordonez Champi, Luis Perez?; B: Kayloru Lonasqu Puloris; B’: Simona Samata Espinosa; C: Domingo Paucar Salas; C’: Benito Waman (?); D: Hisku Machaqa Samata; D’: Manwel Chura Kurus; E: Manwel Quispe Apasa; E’: Simon Quispe Quispe; F; Luis Ordonez Apasa; F’: Paskwal Samata; G: Hisku Apasa Puloris; H: Domingo Quispe Perez; I: Manwel y Martin Machaqa Samata; J: Juan Paucar (and Santos Puloris?); K: Santos Machaqa Apasa; L: Lazaru Quispe Puloris; M: Paulo Machaqa Waman; N: Toribio Quispe Perez; O: Antes Machaqa Samata; O’: Esteban Puloris (?); P: Ilario Quispe Apasa (?); P’: Donysu Apasa Quispe, Santiago Machaqa Samata; Q: Domingo Hakeywa; R: Santos Paucar Macaqa, Asencio Quispe Puloris; S: Felix Machaqa Apasa; T: Filipa? Francisca Ordonez Apasa; U: Ausencio Sunqu? Quispe Puloris?, Agustin Quispe Puloris? V: Juan Quispe Perez; W: Wilnawil Quispe Apasa; W’: (?); X: Marianu Samata; X’: Rosas Puloris Mendoza; Y: Marcosa Apasa Samata, Santos Puloris Quispe; Z: Agustin Quispe Puloris? Asencio Sunqo Quispe?)

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kamachikuhkuna (‘those who cause it to be done’) or varayoq (‘those with staffs-­of-­office’), the annually elected leaders of the community, sit [on the ground] at the middle of the cloth, usually at a small hand-made table about chest height [see Figs. 10.1 and 10.2]. The alcalde (‘mayor’) and his regidor (first assistant), to his right, sit on the guests’ side while the three or four aguaciles (secondary assistants) attend them on the hosting side, all with their staffs-of-office held before them. To the right of the regidor sits the capillayoq (‘chapel caretaker’), an old man who acts as ritual advisor of the alcalde and usually accompanies him in ceremonies; to the left of the alcalde usually sits the mandon, an elder elected to office for several years at a time who has practical duties and powers similar to that of the alcalde, but without the ritual significance. On each side of these official leaders sit the rest of the adult male guests in a descending order of rank ostensibly based on decreasing age. The order of seating at such times is taken seriously: new arrivals are followed by expectant hesitations and deferential shifting of positions, although insofar as I have witnessed this appears to be done in casual consensus. However, criteria of rank other than age are revealed: some seated elders still neglect to defer to some who are obviously older, or some who are older sit somewhat outside with no apparent expectation of deference. Because the rank order is split on both sides of the varayoq, there is opportunity to avoid offense or embarrassment. I have also seen elders of high status haughtily choose to sit outside this alignment altogether. Similar ranked seating occurs in smaller scale in other situations. During the three-day feasts in the ceremonial center hosts will receive and serve guests in their feast house, and these visitors seat themselves in similar order along the upper end of the single room, facing the hearth, hosts and the women in the lower end. The highest ranked sits centered, usually behind a tiny table, and others range themselves appropriately on each side of him. Casual guests to the primary domiciles in the herding hamlets also often seat themselves in this manner. The same occurs in ‘rest stops’ during processions around the center marking one or two festivals of the year, and in annual pilgrimages made to ceremonial sites in the region, arrivals from the hamlets to some of the feasts in the ceremonial center are timed to occur at approximately the same time, with most domestic groups in their finest ponchos grandly entering the village together, their male leader often mounted and galloping into the plaza in front of the chapel to dismount in a flurry, pay his respects to the icons within, and confront the alcalde. The timing and style of such arrivals and the elaborateness of the harangue which the new-comer delivers to the alcalde and the hosts appear

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to reflect an acknowledged order of prestige or power among community members. [The harangue nevertheless attests to the community ideal of social equality.] A similar order is reflected in the burial sites of the deceased. Children, some women, and waxcha (the very poor; ‘orphans’) are buried in cemeteries above the rivulets in the vicinity of the herding hamlets. Those of intermediate status are buried in one of two sites in the intermediate altitudes below the community. The qapah (‘powerful’) are buried in the ritual center either in a cemetery just outside it or in the chapel plaza. An order of power appears to be reflected in burial sites within the center itself: those within the plaza are usually of highest status in some respect such as wealth or prestige, and some who are feared for their contacts with spirits and deities are buried under the dirt floor of the chapel itself. [A few skulls are displayed in a crevice at the nearby entrance to the ritual center that are said to be from these latter burials.] Differences of esteem or influence are also reflected in the frequency with which certain elders are consulted by the official leaders of the community, all of whom are middle-aged. Similarly, certain elders are favored as sponsors or compadres for baptism, marriage, or assumption of office, and when younger men are chosen for such responsibilities it is considered an indication of their rising influence. The Q’eros would usually deny differences of wealth, esteem, or power among themselves if my questions were phrased abstractly, but discreetly admit such differences with specific regard to certain individuals. This candor was given full scope by a sorting task using polaroid snapshots of adult males of the community. [Often accompanied by Luychu and helped by his interpretations in Spanish,] I consulted separately several men of the community, asking them to sort a sample of twenty-five photos in accord with several possible ranking criteria. I assured them that details of this information were only for my own private use in coming to understand the community and that both they and the subjects would remain nameless to anyone aside from myself. Some individuals nevertheless had sufficient reason to suspect my motives and refuse cooperation. Those who made the assessment were usually able to recognize the persons in the photos unassisted (sometimes needing the aid of a younger family member more familiar with the two-dimensional mode of perception required) and proceeded with alacrity to sort them in detail. Glosses of the criteria queried were (1) relative wealth and poverty, (2) esteem or relative prestige, (3) actual service in cargos, the public offices of the community, (4) cultural brokership, or ability to deal with mestizos in community transactions with the ‘outside’, and (5) relative power in shamanistic skills.

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The sample of photographs represented only my impression of an array of adult males of diverse statuses within the community and was further limited by opportunities to take these photographs, with permission, among its very mobile inhabitants in difficult terrain and weather. For criteria 1, 2, and 3, all subjects in the sample were assigned a rank order, or assigned to several small groups which were ranked relative to one another. However, only some of the sample could be ranked in accordance with criteria 4 and 5, which were special skills. Information on criteria 1, 2, and 3 was from three or four individuals and manifested enough consistency regarding rank order of subjects to demonstrate that the question tapped a real system of social evaluation and that there was significant consensus regarding these rankings. I had opportunity to query criteria 4 and 5 with only one or two individuals, but, along with opinions I heard in general conversations, I think these can nevertheless be cautiously used for comparison. The sorting tasks served to focus my conversation with the Q’eros on concrete examples and spontaneous evaluations of them; the sample hierarchies derived are a helpful framework for analysis of the institutions which have created them, and the stimulation of further questions not at first apparent to me. In the remainder of [this chapter], I will discuss in more detail the questions posed and their indigenous meaning, relevant aspects of social organization, consensus of ranking responses and deviations from it, and significant correlations between the rank orders.

1   Wealth Wealth is a key determinant of status, although it is often not the decisive factor. Among the most common personal descriptions used in Q’ero are waxcha and qapah, literally denoting ‘orphan’ and ‘potentate’, respectively, but always implying material poverty and wealth. The first sorting task was to order the photos from the most qapah to the most waxcha of the persons in the sample. In Q’ero, the poor are generally without many kin or have only small families with no children mature enough to assist in herding, the key economic enterprise. Like widows and widowers, waxcha are seen as poor primarily because they are bereft of family; one cannot prosper without a complete family including mature children. Also like widows and widowers waxcha are somewhat stigmatized due to their misfortune and its consequences, all of which indicate that they are out of favor with the awki, extraordinary spirit powers which reside in [hills or buttresses of] the locality and affect the well-being of household, herd, and crop. The waxcha are also termed kuyaq (‘pitied’), indicating an

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attitude of compassion as well as disdain toward them. The term qapah, on the other hand, connotes nobility as well as wealth and power and implies favor among the awki. The qapah are also sometimes termed atih (‘one who is able, triumphant’), implying that power is a natural concomitant of wealth. The term qapah also seems to involve a presumption of rectitude, although wealth per se is stigmatized if not balanced by achievement in prestigious undertakings, as I will discuss later. [As explained in previous chapters,] wealth in Q’ero is reckoned by the size of one’s herd of alpacas and llamas, although it is axiomatic that the rich or qapah have plenty of fertile land as well. The poor, on the other hand, are described as manan uywayohchu (‘one without a herd’), implying lack of wool for basic exchange as well as [fleece skins for beds and seats,] blankets, sacks, cordage, and fine textiles used for outer clothing, lack of beasts of burden (llamas) necessary for the cultivation regime, lack of dung necessary for fertilizer and fuel, limitation to a diet poor in proteins, and unable to offer appropriate fiesta rituals. The sinchi waxcha (‘very poor’), without either alpaca or llama, suffer all of these disadvantages and usually accept lowest status in the community by establishing their homesteads in the intermediate altitudes below access to the high pastures required by alpacas, or by attaching themselves as subordinates to a qapah family. Families without access to the high alpaca pastures or with limited labor resources can nevertheless raise llamas (and sheep), because these herd animals have more tolerant forage requirements and can be allowed to wander more freely in the lower altitudes. The primary debility involved in this case is that llama wool has only about one-quarter the exchange value of alpaca wool and cannot be used for respectable outer garments. The moderately poor, on the other hand, have access to alpaca pastures and concentrate their efforts on these animals, but through lack of sufficient labor resources forego the llama herd, which is more intractable and must sometimes be herded separately. The debility involved in this case is the lack of wool appropriate to cordage and blankets and the necessity to exchange labor for the loan of a llama herd during phases of the cultivation regime which require transport of potato seed, fertilizer, or harvests. Relative disparity of wealth between domestic groups develops asymmetric status relationships through patterns of exchange as well as those of marriage alliance. Several different modes of exchange are institutionalized in Q’ero, some connoting status difference and others status equality between parties to the transaction. Such exchange relationships are complex and highly structured and worthy of more study than I gave them. However, insofar as I was able to generalize upon my data, ayniy (‘reciprocated loan’),

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rantiy (‘purchase’), mañay (‘to ask for or supplicate’; here, roughly, ‘lease’), and mink’ay (compensated labor or work-bee) are important and seem to bear complementary relationships to one another. Ayniy and rantiy are symmetrical exchanges: ayniy involves goods, cash, services, or labor eventually to be repaid in like form, and rantiy involves goods repaid immediately with an agreed equivalent in other goods, cash, or some standard of exchange such as coca leaf, wool, or salt. Mañay and mink’ay, on the other hand, are asymmetric exchanges involving labor of the subordinate party which is traded for goods, cash, or usufruct privileges from the dominant party, typically the wealthier of the two. Labor for another, if not reciprocated by labor, carries strong connotations of subordination and servitude in the Andes, whether equitably exchanged or not. In mañay the subordinate offers his labor in exchange for needed items (i.e., solicits or ‘supplicates’), usually over a prolonged period of time, whereas in mink’ay the dominant party recruits labor for a specific short-­ term task. When the mink’ay is a festive work-bee, food and entertainment is furnished with a definite air of noblesse oblige. In Q’ero the construction or roofing of a house usually occasions such a mink’ay except among the poorer families, and several helpers might be involved if the owner is wealthy and wishes to display his resources. However, mink’ay may simply involve herding, cultivation, or other tasks such as shearing or spinning, repaid in wool, coca leaf, food, or cash. Several of the qapah domestic groups employ, on a regular basis, one or more of the waxcha in this fashion. An interesting form of mink’ay is carried out on certain ritual occasions by hosts, even if relatively poor, in order to symbolically enhance their dignity by the attendance of ‘servants’ (yanachaq). At seasonal feasts, funeral wakes, first haircutting of children, and other such occasions a few kin or neighbors are solicited to assist in food preparation and serving. A ritual specialist may also be asked to officiate in chanted petitions and divination. These assistants may even be of higher rank than their hosts, but nevertheless perform their menial services assiduously as would yanachaq and thereby emphasize the symbolically raised status of the host as celebrator of the rite of passage. Their services are generously repaid in the cooked food of the ritual meal, much of which is taken back to their homes. The ancestral spirits which are petitioned at the funeral wake to guide the deceased are also reciprocated in this fashion for their assistance. Both they and the other assistants may be termed mañasqa (‘solicited’), expressing the supplicatory role of the host in request of favors which, in the ritual context, symbolically demean his guests.

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The paradigm of the mañay relationship is that of patron-peon, in which a landowner allows a landless person (the supplicant) use subsistence plots in exchange for some of his labor and its products. In this part of Peru, the subsistence plots granted in usufruct are themselves termed mañay, although this term is not used in Q’eros, where outside dominion over community lands was never fully recognized. This form of landbonded peasant labor was probably common in Incaic times and continues in a minor form termed arimsay, where a land-poor individual may exchange his labor for use of a few furrows of another who possesses surplus land. Another form of mañay is used by the wealthy with large herds of llama, part of which they are able to lease in seasons of peak need to other Q’eros who lack llamas to transport their seed, fertilizer, or harvests. The services of ten llamas for a day must be repaid with one day’s labor by the borrower. A further form of mañay, often termed ayniy to de-­ emphasize the difference of status implied, is the loan of food staples to be repaid mosoq wiñaymanta (‘from the new harvest’). This exchange implies basic insufficiency of one party’s subsistence goods and surplus of the other’s, and hence dependency, and the repayment is actually in terms of labor expended on the mortgaged crop. In summary, then, asymmetry manifest in many marriage alliances and economic exchanges publicly confirms differences in social rank, mainly relative wealth and poorness, between the parties involved. These relative status differences are sufficiently well-known throughout the community so that three or four informed members independently ordered the sample of twenty-five other members from wealthiest to poorest, with an average disparity in ranking order of only 4.5 ranks. This average disparity is reduced to 2.9 ranks if some major deviations are discounted for the following reasons: (1) In four cases relative wealth was ambiguous because the subject was either aged and in the process of retirement, ceding all his property to his offspring, or incompletely in control of a recently deceased parent’s property, or forgoing traditional sources of wealth for outside employment. (2) In one case the subject was the informant’ s half-brother, neighbor, and benefactor, and his reported wealth was consequently minimized to protect it. (3) In one case the daughter of the subject had recently deserted her husband’s father (the informant), then her husband died; the subject’s wealth might have been minimized out of indignation. (4) In one case the subject was kakay (‘wife-giver’) to the informant (properly, his deceased senior kakay’s only son), and so his poverty was probably minimized as shameful. (5) In two cases, the same informant as in (3) and

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(4) appeared to overestimate the poorness of the subject in correlation with his high estimation of their respect in the community, perhaps with a view to protecting them. Whether or not these deviations are counted, the degree of consensus is strong, indicating both that important differences in economic status exist and that they are well-known. This justifies my method of averaging the opinions of all informants into one mean rank order for relative wealth and poverty.

2   Prestige Aside from qapah and waxcha, several other personal descriptions were clearly important in the assessment of status of other community members by the Q’eros. Most of these regarded leadership ability and personality, and can best be summed up in the word yupachasqa (‘made countable’). The terms most typically used as synonyms in discussion were kuraq respetayoh (‘highly respected’); kamachikuh (‘one who causes things to be done’); kallpayoh (‘forceful’ or influential) and manchachiq (‘awesome’), but these have connotations of extraordinary powers to be discussed later; sumah runa (‘beautiful person’), unu runa (literally, ‘water-person’, calm, undisturbed), or merely runa, all connoting maturity, assurance, tranquility, and independence; allin rimah (‘good speaker’, i.e., an orator of calm forcefulness); and manan pampa rimahchu (‘one whose words are not cheap, careless’). This domain of social status seems best glossed as prestige or esteem. It bears no obvious relation to wealth, and the Q’eros clearly consider it a distinct criterion of social rank. The rank orders sorted by four Q’eros for relative prestige did not reflect so strong a consensus as did those for relative wealth. This is probably partly attributable to the far less empirical bases for assessment: features of personality and qualities of social behavior are more liable to difference of opinion than number and type of herd, marriage alliances, and patterns of exchange. Furthermore, there is also evidence that faction oppositions and personal antipathies or loyalties affected some assessments. Nevertheless, the average disparity in ranking order among twenty-­ five persons was 5.9 positions, indicating a tendency toward consensus, and this is reduced to 4.4 if major deviations are discounted for the following reasons: (1) In three cases, the assessments appear affected by a conflict between two factions involving several domestic groups competing for dominance in a valley where herding potential was still promising but declining; one of these families had been forced to move to another valley

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dominated by a closely allied affine. (2) Another case involved antipathy between neighbors in a single valley; this case and the previous ones resulted in extremely low prestige rankings of the subject compared to those of the three other assessors, apparently more impartial. (3) Two cases involved subjects of very controversial status: one was a respected representative to mestizo agencies, but was suspected of profiting illicitly from his position; another was controversial for reasons which I was not able to determine. (4) In three cases the assessment of rank was far higher than those made by others, all of which were low; in two of these cases the subject was kakay to the assessor, a senior male of the wife-giving kin group, and such respect is normative; in the other case the subject was a neighbor probably in the process of becoming the sponsor of the assessor among the awki, extraordinary powers of the locality. Comparison of the average rank order for relative prestige with that for relative wealth reveals that the variation between these two domains of social status is about as wide as the discrepancy between opinions regarding prestige. The average difference between rank in wealth and rank in prestige for persons in the sample of twenty-five is 5.4 positions, although the range of variation is 0–19. This indicates that wealth and prestige are related, directly or indirectly, and also suggests that the relationship is highly variable. The wide variation of correlation between the two indicates that one cannot simply be inferred from the other and that neither one can be assumed to dominate the status ranking of the community. After an examination of modes of achievement in the cargo system of Q’ero, I will discuss cultural brokership and shamanism, two further activities which are also factors in prestige but less closely related to wealth.

3   Cargos [see Fig. 7.1 and 1969–70 photos: Figs. 10.1, 10.2, 10.3, 10.4] Each year in Q’ero fifteen to twenty karguyoh (‘one who has the cargo, burden, or public responsibility’) are appointed by the incumbent alcalde [‘mayor’]. These include the varayoq (‘those who carry the vara’ or staff of office), [comprised of himself,] his first assistant (regidor), and three or four aguaciles (lieutenants or attendants), and several additional karguyoh: one or more for each of the community feasts of Paskwa (Easter), Kurus (Santa Cruz), and Korpus (Corpus Christi, [including pilgrimages to Quyllurit’i and Qamara]). Finally, the alcalde appoints his own successor, who thereby takes on the cargo for Chayampuy and Carnival [festivals] the

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following year [see Fig.  4.1]. These appointments are made among the young [(but married)] and middle-aged men of the community in consultation with the more influential elders, who assure that through these cargos an appropriate succession of leadership is developed. The alcalde, supported by the rest of the varayoq, constitutes the jural leadership of the community and in ceremonies symbolizes its integrity, presiding over all major gatherings, organizing community tasks, judging and settling disputes, policing, and making what other decisions may be necessary. The varayoq, especially the alcalde, is also [personally] responsible for the organization and expenses of two large community fiestas: Chayampuy, marking their assumption of office and celebration of ‘first fruits’ in the potato harvests, and Carnivales, marking the renewal of the alpaca herds’ fertility and symbolic renewal of the community through new leadership and new clothing of finely woven alpaca [and vicuña] wool textiles. The other karguyoq are similarly responsible for the expense and organization of the other community feasts later in the year. If only one hutun mayordomo (‘big steward’) is appointed for Paskwa, it is a relatively wealthy family who accrues a great deal of prestige through this undertaking; however, several appointees often share the responsibility. The other feasts are somewhat less splendid and are consequently assigned to younger men proportionally less advanced through the cargos. Ideally, these lesser feast cargos and the assistant varayoh cargos are undertaken by younger married men, with rests of three or four years in between to recoup resources, and the cargos of hatun mayordomo and alcalde (preferably in this order) are undertaken eight to twelve years later by men in their early forties. Two additional cargos, not involving responsibility for feasts or expense other than time [spent] in duties, are served by older men who have passed all or most of the others: the mandon, instituted in the nineteenth century to act as foreman for the hacienda regime (expropriated in 1964) and now traditionally empowered second only to the alcalde to organize community tasks and settle disputes; and the capillayoh or fiscal, the elder who serves as ritual advisor to the alcalde. In addition, there are a personero and teniente gobernador, offices required as part of the national administrative hierarchy and of little consequence to the natives. Because these last offices involve no feasting and little expense, only the mandon typically may accrue additional prestige from his service, which may extend for several years and grants sufficient power to exercise considerable leadership if one is so disposed. However, it is generally an unpopular cargo because it gives no

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opportunity to display one’s resources and generosity, and because it is associated, since the hacienda regime, with the giving and taking of orders and a consequent inclination to generate dissent. The varayoh offices, probably instituted under colonial rule in the sixteenth century, were intended similarly to serve the Crown government, but in Q’ero have since become virtually absorbed in the traditional system of native leadership. In this case, the varayoh may be similar to some aboriginal organization which functioned symbolically to represent the corporate community to other communities and to the deities, and to groom young men for leadership. The development of one’s cargo career and the bounty and style of the feasts sponsored was one of the explicit references used by assessors in the sorting task regarding relative prestige. The cargos are an opportunity for development of prestige in two respects: the ability to marshal resources on a large scale and lavish them generously on the community and the ability to organize and lead other community members effectively. A spectacular feast requires quantities of food and labor and entertainment by flutists, singers, and dancers. The new kargoyoh are named a full year in advance, as the preceding year’s Chayampuy feast is concluded, and must begin organization and the securing of pledges of assistance from their kin and affines. One of the most important sources of support are the sponsor’s q”atay, people who have received wives from his kin group and are consequently subordinate and indebted. Most of the feasts occur just before potato and maize harvests, when the last year’s storages are nearing depletion, and require the cooperation of the sponsor and his supporters in marshaling reserves of these staples. When the steaming piles of tubers, maize beer, and freshly slaughtered alpaca and llama are produced at this time of year, they are doubly appreciated. The elders of the sponsor’s kin group preside over the feast with great dignity and pride and are the primary beneficiaries of the prestige which rebounds from the effort. It is usually they who initiated, through consultation with the alcalde, the appointment of their younger kinsman as a karguyoq, pointing out that he was ready and able and that his time had come. Some especially qapah elders arrange for their adolescent son’s nominal sponsorship of an important feast, so capping their own career and initiating that of their successor, all to their credit. Although the ostensive criterion of seating order at feasts is relative age, the order in which elders have completed the cargo of alcalde actually over-rides this if there is a discrepancy. There is order, because there is some effort made to offer the varayoh cargos to those next oldest who

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have not yet served them (and ages are known primarily in such relative terms). Furthermore, among kinsmen the order of birth is approximately adhered to in the accession to public office, and strictly so among siblings. This rule reflects the importance of seniority and authority among close kinsmen, not to be contradicted in the system of community leadership unless incompetence or recalcitrance requires an exception. Under the old hacienda regime, an attempt of the owner to force service out of sibling order resulted in a minor rebellion and the departure from the community of the brothers involved. The obligation to accept the cargos wachullamanta (‘in accord with good order’) is strong. However, the cargos are sometimes refused by Q’eros who plead poverty or insufficient time to recuperate since their last one, or ambitious young leaders instigate such a default, and consequently in many instances the formal political order of seniority outstrips that of age. One finds obviously older Cheqec sitting in positions outside their contemporaries, and some old waxcha or rebels who never did complete the cargo of alcalde unobtrusively sit outside the ranks at the feasting table, or do not attend such ceremonies. The order of prestige so established functions in other political domains. For instance, in consultation with the elders the alcalde defers to those who are most highly ranked, and community decisions made by other Q’eros in absence of the alcalde also defer to one another in accord with this order. Disputes can be taken to the alcalde for settlement only by those who have themselves passed this cargo; consequently most disputes soon reach the upper ranks of the status hierarchy for settlement, usually among kinsmen. Junior kinsmen usually approach their seniors with such problems, and the seniors, loath to let the matter become a public issue, dictate the settlement to their kin group, or arbitrate it with elders of other kin groups as their colleagues. The group of high-ranking elders in this way actually runs the community by casual consensus and deference among themselves [reflecting the ideal of social equality]. The varayoh and mandon operate merely as the responsible agents of the elders’ influence and as a buffer against unwanted involvements, especially with ‘the outside’, mestizos and representatives of the government. Contrary to the reports of Yabar and Núñez del Prado, there has never been a formal organization of yuyahkuna (‘those who remember’, wisemen); the only leadership organization is the community-wide rank order of statuses itself, blending into youth or mediocrity on the one hand and senility on the other.

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4   Cultural Brokers Besides cargos and the political system that they engender, another important factor in prestige is cultural brokership. The cultural broker is adept at mediating across an ethnic boundary and may make a business of this entrepreneurial role. In Q’ero they are few, because the purih (‘walker’; one who journeys to mestizo pueblos or haciendas to labor for cash or goods) is still highly stigmatized, and the ability to speak some Spanish and manage interaction with misti (mestizos) is not accounted of much worth for more than a few community members. There were no more than five to seven individuals in the community who were accounted enterados (‘informed’, i.e., regarding mestizo matters). These are also described as allin rimah hawaman (‘good speakers to the outside’) and hawaruna parlankichispah (‘for our talking with “outside” people’). Although the most effective of these are highly respected for their ability, they are also liable to be distrusted in proportion to their skill, because it ipso facto involves deviance from many community values and grants inordinate influence in some community affairs. One Q’ero who was most depended upon for information and advice and whose ability in Spanish and mestizo matters was widest gained increasing influence until finally he was charged with profiteering and became the object of considerable gossip. Subsequently, he was careful not to wear misti clothing while in the community and avoided such pretenses which emphasized his status as a cultural broker. [It was this person with whom I arranged a meeting in Cuzco in 1969 and (with his reassurance by Professor Núñez del Prado of the National University San Abad of Cuzco) gained acceptance into Q’ero. However, although this person did pass me over to his friend Manwel Quispe Apasa (an altomisayoq shaman) who rented me his puxllay wasi, he was apparently careful that his own role as mediator did not become known in the community.] The stigma which befalls the broker’s abilities and affectations if indulged without moderation arise from [suspicion or] disdain of the misti culture, not any sense of inferiority or impropriety. When some regional agency of the national government requires that Q’ero assign a representative to an office or concern which is not clearly in the interest of the community, the people often appoint a person who is manifestly incompetent and of low status among them. This individual is respected for discharging the unpleasant duty, but effectively functions as a mute and pliant buffer protecting the community from intrusions of the mestizo outside.

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This strategy ensures that final decisions are made by elders and leaders that remain relatively obscure and unfettered. [I once had the pleasure of acting as such a buffer, rejecting for the community an implicit demand from the Paucartambo school district that the Q’ero school children perform at a competition in costumed dancing (surely resulting in derisive paternalism of them as traditional indios). When my intervention was announced by the teacher to a group of Q’ero men, they each came up and embraced me with what for me was an entirely unfamiliar display of obsequity—clearly in response to the overbearing presence of the teacher’s arrogant mestizo husband.] Certain community issues arise from such outside influences, and the alignment of the community members into factions with regard to these issues also has an important effect upon their status. Some current issues had to be taken into consideration in analysis of the sample hierarchies derived from the sorting tasks. One of the earliest issues which still bears its mark on individual status ranks was the establishment of a formal primary school in the community. In the early 1950s two young men, one to continue aggressively in the initiation of some other progressive causes, sought against the wishes of the hacienda landowner to recruit a mestiza teacher and establish a tiny school in the community. Although this project enjoyed favor for a while, support gradually declined. Currently, most of the few regular attenders are from poor families, because only these are willing to gamble the loss of crucial labor resources against the slim possibility that this education will make some beneficial difference in the future status of their young. The others have learned that what is taught is nearly useless to them and, if taken seriously, demeaning as well. One of the instigators in this abortive effort went on about 1960 to become involved in a labor syndicate of the district center and, being one of the first enterados of the community, won considerable respect and a following which openly challenged the unreasonable dictates of the hacienda landowner. However, by this time another young leader was becoming aware of different options available to the community in this regard and, under the leadership of Professor Oscar Núñez del Prado, was eventually successful in coercing the Peruvian government into expropriating the land for the Q’eros in 1964. This occasion developed into a major issue that was said to have split the entire community into two factions, one favoring the proposed expropriation hopefully leading to independence, and the other favoring continuation of the familiar hacienda regime mediated by the new protection

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offered by the labor syndicate. The leader of this latter faction, the original syndicato, found himself promoting the conservative cause, accused of favoring the hacienda regime, being a misti munah (‘mestizo-lover’), and aligned with most of the machulakuna (‘old men’, elders) of the community. In turn, the progressive faction favoring expropriation was said to be gullibly exposing itself to what would prove to be just another exploitive subterfuge at the hands of the misti and government, perhaps more oppressive than the hacienda regime which had been successfully held at bay for decades. The expropriation was carried through and proved to be far less onerous than the hacienda regime. [Since then, the Q’eros have devoted the production of the former hacienda plots to repayments on the government’s loan.] Some influential elders shifted their allegiance away from the hacienda regime, but others lost respect in the eyes of the community and their judgment is still often doubted, among these the original syndicate leader. On the other hand, the leader of the faction supporting expropriation became the culture-broker who was later suspected of profiting from his dealings. To any outsider the Q’eros are united in their denial of opposed factions among them. But these are an integral part of their political system, and many continue to complicate the vicissitudes of relative status. My opinion is that pressures between saturated and promising herding habitats are one of the prime causes of antipathies, and these in turn become aligned into factions on the occasion of issues less close to home.

5  Shamanism Before a final consideration of the effects of these factors upon the status of individual Q’eros, the manner in which shamanism affects the hierarchy of prestige must be discussed. I mentioned earlier that the location of burial reflects the hierarchy of power in the community and that some who are buried inside the chapel compound or even in the floor of the chapel are feared for the influence they wield through contacts with certain spirits and deities. These extraordinary powers are generally termed awki, identified with promontories and other landmarks; apu, identified with the high glaciated peaks; and k”uya, identified with stone amulets representing herd animals. Each of these is specifically named, associated with particular powers, and able to affect the well-being of the domestic group or the entire community through health, herds, or crops. Most domestic groups have k”uya as heirlooms, encountered by some ancestor

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on a lonely mountainside and associated with awki or apu of that locality, and most are able to attempt divination or influence of the will of these beings through appropriate ritual properly performed. However, only the paqo and misayoq are able to do this reliably. These individuals acquire their skills directly from the extraordinary powers concerned in the form of thunder or the rays of the sun, which afflict them in some lonely and remote journey in the high mountains. Although most are men, some women and youths are known to be so gifted. Both paqo and misayoq are able to invoke at will the attentions of awki and apu that have become their familiars, and cure (hamp’ih; akullih) and divine (watuh) through their mediation. Paqo accomplish this by reading the casting of coca leaves (cocata qawah, ‘watcher of the coca’) or other signs, but misayoq employ direct communication with the extraordinary powers. The misayoq communicate in séances, carried out in private and accompanied by other natives or trusted intimates (I was never able to witness one), with an arrangement of special propitiatory items laid out on llama wool cloth of banded dark and light stripes. I suspect the root of the term misayoq makes reference to such an alteration of colors or opposition in competition (misa), in this case perhaps symbolizing the interplay of forces which the ritual invokes. The more powerful misayoq are described with superlatives: kallpayoq (‘forceful’), awkiwan parlay iskaypuranku (‘they chat with the awki’), awkikunata servinkun (‘they serve the awki’). Altu (‘high’, apparently from Spanish alto) misayoq differ from pampa (‘ordinary’) misayoq in the degree of their power, and perhaps the former undergoes possession or trance in the séance. To outsiders, Q’eros usually deny the existence of such individuals in their community (although nearby communities are said to have them) and invariably deny any personal ability in such skills. However, there are nevertheless a few in Q’ero whom all candidly agree are misayoh and several others who are generally regarded to be paqo, although the distinction between paqo and people with ordinary abilities to cure and divine seems unclear. Misayoq are active in curing and divination for trusted outsiders as well as relatives and friends, but paqo are said to use their lesser skills primarily for intimates and the health and fertility of their herds. It is often contended that all the qapah are paqo for the well-being of their herds, and unusual wealth is fair evidence of this skill. However, of the five wealthiest men in the community, two had no reputation even as paqo. Furthermore there were several generally agreed to have some ability as paqo who were very poor, and one or two such persons were altu misayoq. It is clear that

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special influence among the awki and apu does not necessarily guarantee prosperity and that one might prosper without this advantage. Repute as a paqo or misayoq engenders either esteem or fear and distrust. Contacts with extraordinary powers are often associated with dominance behavior radically contrary to the norm epitomized by the unu runa (‘water-person’). The latter maintains a bearing of tranquil dignity and consideration after gaging consensus. Quite to the contrary, the manan qasi runachu (‘unquiet person’) is renowned for unpredictable and independent behavior and bursts of rage or bellicosity. An ‘unquiet person’ known to be a shaman may command respect as a leader, or fear may outweigh esteem and he may be despised. One paqo is usually depended upon by the community as papa hamp’ih (‘potato-doctor’) to protect the tuber crops from malignant awki which control lightning, frost, and hail. At his accession ceremony, the alcalde offers a k’intusqa (burning of a symbolic mixture including selected coca leaves) to the awki and apu in behalf of the community. In times of subsistence crisis, he must also climb Wamanripa, a 16,900-ft peak, titular apu of the community to make a similar propitiation [see Fig. 1.3]. If such efforts are successful, he gains or enhances his reputation as a paqo. Some misayoq enjoy the greatest esteem and trust despite their awesome powers. Others, however, are suspected of selfish or hostile use of their powers and are consequently disliked and feared, and may eventually be ostracized from the community. One such individual was caste out of an adjacent community, but out of sympathy was allowed to settle in Q’ero. However, he soon became distrusted in his new community due to his reclusive behavior. Paqo or misayoq with such reputations come to be known as layqa (‘witch’ or ‘sorcerer’) and are suspected of thievery [suwah], and sometimes their malignance is blamed for decline of the health or the herd of those they consider enemies. With the modes of achievement in cargos, cultural brokership, and shamanism clarified, I am in a position further to analyze the relationship between prestige and wealth. These three enterprises appear to be factors bearing on prestige, with different degrees of covariation with wealth. Of the sample of twenty-five, ten of those with better cargo careers than half the sample were also among the wealthier half, while only five were among the poorer half. Those with poorer cargo careers in the sample were also among the poorer half, while only three were among the wealthier half. Although same poor may excel in cargos and some wealthy may perform poorly, these are evidently exceptions to the rule that cargo

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performance tends to vary directly with wealth. Cultural brokership, on the other hand, may be inversely related to wealth: three of the brokers are in the wealthier half of the sample and four are in the poorer half, but two of the best brokers are very poor and the two wealthiest are the poorest brokers. As mentioned above, shamanism appears to have no clear relationship to wealth, although the Q’eros often contend that the wealthy are paqo. Of the ten most highly reputed misayoq or paqo in the community, five are in the poorer half (two very poor), and five are in the wealthier half of the sample (three very wealthy). More detailed rank order correlations are not warranted due to my lack of multiple assessments in some of these criteria, but I think these brief comparisons are suggestive. In Q’ero there are several instances of domestic groups that have amassed inordinate wealth but neglected maintaining esteem among others of the community. Some have eventually been forced by accusations of meanness or sorcery to impoverish themselves in order to rebuild their prestige. One qapah of a nearby community was said to have killed and buried his entire herd, without shearing or butchering, in response to such accusations. This defiant act gained him undying prestige, even among succeeding generations, although it also made him a pauper. Several other cases are interesting because wealth, prestige, and cargo performance were all at variance with one another, and additional factors must be considered for satisfactory explanation. One individual was moderately well-off, but his exceedingly generous cargo performance had been supplemented by solid community leadership as an unu runa (‘tranquil person’), as well as repute as the fifth most effective enterado or cultural broker. Another, one of the poorest in the sample, had nevertheless performed generously in the cargo system and was furthermore considered the third most effective enterado and the third most powerful misayoq in the community. His powers of shamanism were manifestly benevolent: his prestige was ranked nearly as highly as the former individual, although in wealth and cargo performance he was considerably inferior to him. The third individual in this situation appeared to enjoy prestige in excess of his excellent cargo performance. Several other individuals enjoyed relatively high prestige despite notoriously poor performances in the cargos relative to their means. Three of these were quite wealthy, and the cargos of two of them were so niggardly as to constitute a rejection of the system. One, the second richest man in the community, was also its most powerful altu misayoq. Apparently in virtue of his awesome ‘unquiet’ personality and benevolent influence

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through extraordinary powers which were his familiars, his prestige was fair despite a miserable cargo career. The two final individuals suffered extremely low prestige because they were reputed to employ their extraordinary powers malignantly and were suspected to be layqa (‘sorcerers’) as well as purih, needlessly frequent travelers to the outside. One was a paqo whose rather generous cargos despite poverty had failed to raise him from the least respected position in the community. The other was the second most powerful altu misayoq whose fearful influence and mediocre cargo performance had resulted in a similarly very low rank in prestige. This old man, perhaps due to the power of another shaman of the community, had recently lost his two eldest sons to disease despite all his curing efforts, leaving him with two orphaned families but little sympathy from most of the community. He was not, however, without his supporters. [In this final chapter of Part I] I have outlined the general role attributes of sex, age, kinship, and affinity which form the foundations of social rank in the community of Q’ero and have described the situations and occasions which indicated to me that important additional factors operated in the establishment of a community hierarchy. Based upon data derived from several sorting tasks which tested suspected factors in this hierarchy, I have deduced average rank orders of a sample of community members for both relative wealth and relative prestige, considering consensus and possible reasons for discrepancies. Wealth was analyzed in terms of indigenous expressions, ecological implications, affinal alliance, and patterns of economic exchange. Prestige was analyzed in terms of indigenous expressions, cargos and leadership, cultural brokership and factional issues, and shamanism. Finally, correlations between rank orders of wealth and prestige, supplemented by comparable data on cargos, brokership, and shamanism, suggested that each of these criteria function as factors in the determination of social rank, some precedent over others depending on individual circumstance. * * *

Summary of Part I (1972), Chapters 1–7

This study is an analysis of basic aspects of social organization in a native Andean community. The analysis has had to take extensive account of the ecosystem of which this social organization is an integral part. Preliminary considerations regarded the wider ecosystem of prehistory, history, and the south Central Andean highlands, in which the cultural region of Q’ero has been sustained as an ethnic enclave. Subsequently, adaptation to the local environment of the Q’ero basin was examined as an interzonal ecosystem based on highly diversified techniques in sedentary pastoralism and transhumant agriculture. Finally, continued analysis of the social system focused on the organization of the domestic group, kinship, affinity, [and social status], some aspects of which are seen to accommodate the divisive demands of the ecosystem. [In Chap. 1] the surrounding ecosystem in time and space was examined briefly in terms of the geographical setting and prehistory, the colonial era and hacienda dominion, and the role of Q’ero as an accommodated tribal community in the plural society of the south Central Andes. It was suggested that the cultural region of Q’ero developed from an aboriginal tribal mosaic but remained an ethnic enclave, being marginal through to contemporary times in terms of both communications and economy of the surrounding area. Its own economic and political integrity, on the

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 S. Webster, Returning to Q’ero, Palgrave Studies in Anthropology of Sustainability, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-04972-9

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other hand, has tended to be maintained due to its self-sufficient position spanning several diverse ecological zones from which it can derive most subsistence necessities. The possibility of greater political consolidation among the several communities of the [Q’ero] cultural region under precontact or early colonial regimes was considered, but the contemporary social integrity of each constituent community was emphasized. Exploitative influences of the colonial era, and reciprocal accommodations on the part of the native community, were considered with special reference to the hacienda dominion of the last century or so. In this regard it was argued that these influences have been expressed primarily in terms of labor conscription, as under the Incas, and that the exploitative regime imposed upon Q’ero has had to compromise in several ways for the sake of marginal profitability, leaving the native economy little affected. Q’eros’ contemporary role in the social organization of the area was then analyzed from the point of view of relationships in a plural society, in which context the community operates as a segment of accommodated tribal society not significantly peasantized. Particular aspects of the native economy and its accommodations of outside influences were examined to support this point of view. A subsistence economy independent of outside sources of supply for most staples, austerity in consumption of non-­ traditional goods, restricted intercourse with the outside through migration and marriage, eschewal of commercial enterprise, and virtual political autonomy are primary indicators of the community’s position outside the peasant networks of the area. On the other hand, an adjunct tributary economy required by the community’s de jure status as subordinate to outside regimes, developing consumption dependencies and trade relationships, tentative specializations in homestead agriculture or migrant labor, and the initial effects of a local primary school, are clear indicators of imminent social change. In [Chaps. 2–4] the local ecosystem was examined in terms of the settlement pattern, key components of each major ecological zone, and the interzonal strategy of subsistence entailed in the annual and perennial routine. The settlement pattern was analyzed from the perspective of the vertical and lateral topographic matrices in which are distributed primary domiciles in hamlets, camps in cultivation sites, and a ritual center strategically centralized. Likely antecedents to this pattern were discussed in terms of comparable settlement patterns in other communities of the cultural region, and [356] it was concluded that this disposition and the associated ecosystem were probably well-established even in the colonial era.

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Important components of each major ecological zone spanned by the community were examined with attention to the techniques of pastoralism, Andean tuber agriculture, and maize horticulture in their distinct topographic, altitudinal, climatic, edaphic, and biotic niches. Particular aspects of the adaptive pattern analyzed in some detail were the waylla pasture niche crucial to successful alpaca husbandry, the seriation of the intermediate altitudes and corresponding spectrum of tuber crops, the influence of substrate on the production of alpacas and maize, and the importance of maintaining propitious relations with extraordinary powers. The subsistence strategy which manages these various dispersed resources was examined in terms of cyclic strategies, compensatory strategies, and demographic processes. The Q’eros’ mobile routine in ecosystem management was analyzed as a series of closely timed cycles based on annual climatic and perennial soil changes. These cycles are worked out in a tempo integrating phases in the several production regimes, and the coordination of several rotation rhythms. The feast cycle in community ritual was interpreted in this context as a redistributive mechanism in the cyclic strategy. Consideration of compensatory strategies, smoothing irregularities in the cyclic routines, included description of short-cuts employed in herding or cultivation, the utilization of alternative pastures, and the retreat to homesteads and other sorts of compromising specialization. Demographic processes of this century were considered with regard to the data available on migration, and it was concluded that evidence of past decreases and recent increases in community population suggest some oscillation around optimum ecosystem capacity. Frequent and patterned translocation among the valley habitat components of the community was concluded to respond to relative herding potential as well [357] as social factors, and this process is manifested in relative balance or disproportion of available pasture, herd density, and resident population in each valley habitat. [Chapters 5–7] of the study focused on basic aspects of the social organization which required analysis in the first regard as social system, secondarily manifesting dispositions which could be significantly interpreted as adaptations to the ecosystem. The primary objective of this part of the study was to devote extended examination, in the light afforded by a comprehension of the community ecosystem, to domains of social organization which remain superficially understood in the Andes. Family organization in the domestic group, kinship systematics, and patterns of affinity were distinguished analytically as parts of the integral social whole.

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Examination of the domestic group proceeded on the perspective gained in description of seasonal-cycle herding rituals. These rituals are carried out to maintain propitious relationships between the domestic group, its herd, and the pantheon of extraordinary powers which affect the well-being of both. The corporate structure of the domestic group was discussed, and on the basis of frequencies and distribution of components of domestic group form, the conjugal bond, lineal and collateral extensions, and matrilocality were preliminarily analyzed. The conjugal bond emerged as the focus of domestic group structure, its multiplication central in development and positively correlated with both higher status in the community and more promising habitat in the ecosystem. A developmental model was abstracted from domestic group structure to guide subsequent analysis of normative and alternative processes in the domestic group cycle. Examination of life-cycle rituals of status elevation in the domestic group served to outline its normative development. Closer analysis of structural processes in authority, succession, inheritance, and residence was undertaken with special regard for alternative [358] forms of the domestic group in collateral extension, adoption, and matrilocality. Higher frequency of the latter form was found to correspond closely to greater habitat herding potential. Sibling group statuses structured by opposing priorities in inheritance and authority, and the sub rosa rule of matrilocal residence, were seen to function as accommodations to the fragmented and limited components of the ecosystem. These mechanisms promoted the perpetuation of corporate estates in property and authority with minimum decimation and debility, and facilitate with minimum jural impediments the redistribution of persons to fill role vacancies in other domestic groups. These alternative processes in the domestic group revealed the flexibility of filiation, reflected in priorities of authority, succession, and inheritance, all of which are predominantly influenced by residence. Examination of kinship and affinity was initiated with descriptions of ritual moments in Q’ero which best outline patterns of relationship in this domain. The kingroup was described as a jural entity corporate only on special occasions such as community rituals, political faction, and resolution of conflicts. It was structured by cognation and systematic discriminations among collaterals on the basis of same-sex or cross-sex into what may best be termed a “parallel kindred.” Patterns of marriage between remote consanguineal relatives tended to support this interpretation. Kinship terminology was analyzed from this perspective, with special regard to

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locutions distinguishing among siblings and cousins, and among parents and their collaterals. Alternative terminology reflecting situational suppression of divergent consanguinity, honor of grandparents, seniority among siblings, and rank order of residual authority among parents and their siblings, were also discussed. An apparent inclination toward unilineality in the terminological system and patrilateral filiation in behavior was investigated, but it was concluded on the strength of obvious cognatic dispositions in organization [359] and jural structure, and in the absence of clear evidence to the contrary, that the system cannot be characterized as patrilineal. Evidence provided by ancestral orientations apparent in funeral wakes suggested that patrilateral cohesion was in part a function of affinal relationships rather than kinship. In summary of the analysis of Q’ero kinship, the applicability of some principles of kinship semantics recently proposed for explanation of several South American systems was assessed; in particular, the rule of parallel transmission of kin-class status was concluded to probably operate importantly in the parallel kindred, but more certainly among affinal relatives. In affinal patterns of relationship, wife-giving and wife-receiving status classifications were determined to order pervasive asymmetric status structures based on transfer of some jural rights pertaining to women. These asymmetric structures were manifested in subsequent imbalances of reciprocal services. Patterned equivocations in Spanish glosses, and matrilateral ancestral orientations evident in funeral wakes, were found to support this interpretation. Parallel transmission of affinal class status was demonstrated at least among males of the reciprocal affinal classes, and the continuity of male kinsmen in a framework of affines was examined as a partial explanation of patrilateral salience in the cognatic kingroup. Extensions of affinal terminology were examined to adduce focal types in each polysemic class, and these were seen to likewise reflect the asymmetric structure of statuses delineating kingroups. Alternate terminology and sister exchange were interpreted as modes of suppression of status asymmetry; same-sex sibling exchange and some prevalent forms of remote consanguineal marriage, on the other hand, were concluded to tend toward compounding affinal asymmetry in a manner analogous to that evident in appeals made to ancestors in the funeral wake. Finally, in summary of the social organization of kinship [360] and affinity, a critique was undertaken of related analyses by Lounsbury, Zuidema, and Murdock. Concluding the analysis of kinship and affinity in Chap. 6, ecosystematic processes in translocation and domestic group development were

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reviewed, and seen to operate as constituents of broader cycles of kingroup cohesion, maturation, saturation, and dispersion in each valley of the community. Most evidence suggested that these cycles in turn operated ecosystematically, through alternating strategies of valley habitat exogamy and endogamy, in the community-wide process of kinship and affinity. [A summary of the final Chap. 7 of Part I on social rank and leadership in Q’ero, which has been added to the original chapters of the dissertation, was offered in the last paragraph of that chapter.]

Selected Bibliography

Burchard, R. E. 1971 “Coca and Food Exchange in Andean Peru: How to Change One Sack of Potatoes into Eight,” paper read at the 70th meeting of the American Anthropological Association. Cohen, John 1960 “Mountain Music of Peru,” annotation of Ethnic Folkways Library record FE 4539, New York. ———. 1957. “Q’eros: a Study in Survival,” Natural History LXVI 482–93. Custred, Glynn. 1971. “Ritual and Control among the Peasants of Chumbivilcas, Peru,” paper read at the 70th annual meeting of the American Anthropological Association. Escobar M., Gabriel. Organizacion Social y Cultural del Sur del Peru. Mexico, D. F.: Institute Indigenista Interamericano. Escobar M., Mario. “Reconocimiento Geografico de Q'ero,” Revista Universitaria 115. Flores O., Jorge A. 1968. Los Pastores de Paratia. Serie Antropologia Social 10. Mexico, D. F.: Instituto Indigenista Interamericano. Lanning, E. P. 1967 Peru before the Incas. Prentice Hall. Lynch, T.  F. 1971. “Preceramic Transhumance in the Callejon de Huaylas, Peru,” American Antiquity 36:2: 139–48.

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 S. Webster, Returning to Q’ero, Palgrave Studies in Anthropology of Sustainability, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-04972-9

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Matos Mar, Jose, et al. 1964. “La Propriedad en la Isla de Taquile,” in Estudios Sobre la Cultural Actual del Peru. Lima: Universidad Nacional Mayor de San Marcos. ———. 1969. Dominacion y Cambios en el Peru Rural. Lima: Instituto Estudios Peruanos. Mayer, Enrique. 1976 “Un Carnero por un Saco de Papas: Aspectos de Trueque en la Zona de Chaupiwaranga, Pasco,” in preparation. 39th International Congress of Americanists. Mishkin, B. 1946 “The Contemporary Quechua,” in Steward (l946) Vol. 2:411–470. Moro, Manuel. 1964. Los Alpacas. Lima. Murdock, G.  P. 1960 “Cognitive Forms of Social Organization,” in Social Structure in Southeast Asia, Viking Fund Publications in Anthropology No. 29:1–14. Murra, John V. 1962. “Cloth and Its Functions in the Inca State,” American Anthropologist 64:710–28. ———. 1965 “Herds and Herders in the Inca State,” in Leeds, A. and Vayda, Man, Culture, and Animals. American Association for the Advancement of Science Publication #78. ———. 1970. “Current Research and Prospects in Andean Ethnohistory,” Latin American Research Review V: l: 3–36. ———. n.d. Reciprocity and Redistribution in Andean Civilizations. Aldine (in preparation). Nachtigall, Horst. 1966a Indianische Fischer, Feldbauer, and Viehzuchter. Berlin: Beitrage zur Peruanischen Volkerkunde. ———.1966b “Ofrendes de Llamas en la Vida Ceremonial de los Pastores de la Puna de Moquegua, Peru…” Actas y Memorias 36th Congreso Internacional de Americanistas, Seville 1964. Núñez del Prado, Juan V.  I970. “El Mundo Sobrenatural de los Quechuas del Sur del Peru a traves de la Comunidad de Qotobamba,” Dpt. de Antropologia, Universidad de Cuzco. Núñez del Prado, Oscar. 1958. “El Hombre y su Familia: Su Matrimonio y Organisacion Social-Politico en Q*ero,” Revista Universitaria No. 114, Cuzco. ———. 1968 “Una Cultura corao Respuesta de Adaptacion al Medio Andino,” Actas y Memorias 37th Congpreso Internacional de Americanistas, Buenos Aires 1966. Oliver-Smith, A. 1969. “The Pishtaco—Institutionalized. Fear in Highland Peru,” Journal of American Folklore 82 (326): 363–68.

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Ricker, John. n.d. A Mountaineering Guide to the Peruvian Andes. Canadian Alpine Club (in preparation). Steward, Julian, ed. 1946–1959 Handbook 0f South American Indians. Vols. 1–7. Smithsonian Institution Bureau of American Ethnology Bulletin 143, Government Printing Office (Cooper Square). Tschopik Jr., Harry. 1946 “The Aymara,” in Steward (1946) Vol. 2:501–73. Weberbauer, A. 1936 “Phytogeography of the Peruvian Andes,” in McBride, J.  F., Flora of Peru, Field Museum of Natural History Vol. 13 Pt. 1. Webster, S. S. 1970. “The Contemporary Quechua Indigenous Culture of Highland Peru: an Annotated Bibliography,” Behavior Science Notes Vol. 5:2: 71–96, Vol. 5:3: 213–47. ———. 1970. “Social Organization of the Accommodated Tribal Society in Highland Peru,” paper read at the 70th annual meeting of the American Anthropological Association. ———. 1971. “An Indigenous Quechua Community in Exploitation of Multiple Ecological Zones”. Actas y Memorias del 39th Congreso Internacional de Americanistas. Lima, Peru. Vol. 3: 174–183. Yabar, de Zuñiga, Betty. 1971. Testimonio sobre Cheqec. Lima: Editorial Universitaria. Yabar Palacio, Luis. 1922. “El Ayllu de Qqeros—Paucartambo,” Revista Universitaria 11:38:2–26. ———. 1923. “‘Los Malditos: el Pueblo de los Viudos y los ’Wachipayris,'” Mas Alla... Ano II:6: 47–50. Zuidema, R. T. 1964. The Ceque System of Cuzco: The Social Organization of the Capital of the Inca. Leiden: E. J, Brill. ———. 1966. “El Ayllu Peruano,” Actas y Memories 36th Congreso Internacional de Americanistas, Seville 1964. ———. I972. “The Inca Kinship System: A New Theoretical View,” abstract of paper to be presented at the 1972 meeting of the American Anthropological Association, Toronto.

PART II

Returning to Q’ero—Sustaining Indigeneity in an Andean Ecosystem 1969–2020

Restoring History to Hatun Q’ero1 Social anthropology has gone through a revolution since my research and reports on (Hatun) Q’ero 1969–1981. Whereas the historical context of what the scholarly discipline took to be other cultures had largely been disregarded in ethnographies until the 1980s, since then it has come to be recognised or even emphasised as ethnohistory. Ethnohistory restores a historical context to what has too often been assumed to be “another” culture somehow “outside” history. I take Eric Wolf’s classic Europe and the People without History (1982) as my turning point. Most of my accounts of (Hatun) Q’ero assumed the long-established ahistorical structural-­ functionalist point of view, but I was occasionally aware of the emerging contradiction, especially in my 1981 account (Webster 1981). Here in the present account (Part II), I hope to restore a significant ethnohistorical context to Hatun Q’ero that can contribute to possible futures as well as clarify the past several decades. Appropriately, Cuzqueño mentors and colleagues in social anthropology are pivotal in my re-conceptualisation: Professors Oscar Núñez del Prado, Jorge Flores Ochoa, and Juan Núñez del Prado, the son of Oscar, who has survived both his father and Jorge Flores Ochoa. Professor Oscar Please see Preface (2022) (in frontmatter) for a general explanation of this volume including the relationship between Part I (written 1972–1977) and Part II (written 2020–2022). The frontmatter is freely available on-line, and includes the original 1972 Preface and Introduction to Part I as well as the Preface (2022).

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Núñez del Prado worked since 1955 to restore Hatun Q’eros’ control over their land and labour as well as to document their traditional culture; Professor Jorge Flores insightfully posed their ecological relationship to the city of Cuzco as their “fourth ecological floor” in the 1980s; and since the 1990s Professor Juan Núñez del Prado has encouraged the development of their shamanist skills in maintaining a sustainable social and ecological environment globally as well as locally. As mentioned in the Preface (2022) to this volume, I have found only two other scholars who have carried out extended ethnographic research in the community of Hatun Q’ero and published on it since I and my family were there in 1969–70 and 1977: Holly Wissler (2009) and Geremia Cometti (2015). A third scholar, Guillermo Salas Carreño (2012), has done such research in nearby Hapu (Japu), another of the five communities of what has come to be called the “Q’ero Nation”, as part of a comprehensive ethnography of Cuzco and the nearby Quyllurit’i pilgrimage. Jorge Flores Ochoa and Juan Núñez del Prado edited a collection of essays on Q’ero including translated versions of two of my publications (1983; re-published in 2005); although some of the other contributors had briefly visited Q’ero in Oscar Núñez del Prado’s expedition of 1955 or later, I believe none had undertaken extended participant observation in (Hatun) Q’ero such as mine, Wissler’s, and Cometti’s. Marisol de la Cadena (2015) undertook such research on shamanism in Cuzco and the Hacienda Lauramarca, which is located in the Ausangate valley just to the east of the Q’ero Nation (and happened to be where I obtained my horse in 1969 for my research in Q’ero; Fig.  8.1). Wissler’s research was inspired by the much earlier films and articles by John Cohen, whom I and my family met in Cuzco on our own return to Q’ero in 1977. Cohen’s spectacular 1979–80 films on Q’ero music and weaving contributed to the popular image of the community and have inspired occasional brief expeditions by Europeans and even Asians for filming and recording of their unique crafts. However, given the rapidly rising notoriety of Q’ero (and especially Hatun Q’ero) even in the 1950s and especially since the 1980s, I was surprised that there were only two or three others who carried out ethnographic research and publication on the community since the 1970s. The research that was finally undertaken was, furthermore, several decades later than my own, and all relatively recent: Wissler’s publications are based primarily on her research between 2005 and 2011, Salas’s on his research between 2006 and 2012, and Cometti’s on his research between 2011 and 2017. This surprising gap in research on (Hatun) Q’ero between

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the 1970s and 2005 might be partly explained by the turmoil throughout Peru in the Agrarian Reform of the 1970s and 1980s and the following insurgency of the Shining Path revolutionaries and violent confrontations between them, the army or police, and local peasants in the 1980s and 1990s. However, the province of Paucartambo in which the community of Hatun Q’ero is located was not profoundly transformed by the Agrarian Reform (and Hatun Q’ero had already been liberated from hacienda control by 1964), and the Cuzco region was not directly involved in the worst violence of the following insurgency and repression. Consequently, the apparent absence of further research in Q’ero even in those tumultuous decades is, again, surprising. Nevertheless, thanks especially to Holly Wissler, Geremia Cometti, and Guillermo Salas, there is sufficient scholarly research-based publication to assess the main historical changes—over nearly 50 years—in the increasingly famous community of Hatun Q’ero since my own reports between 1970 and 1981. In ethnohistorical terms, this lapse of time potentially reveals significant environmental as well as social and cultural changes, even in a supposedly “remote” or “traditional” community. Indeed, I am relieved to say that contrary to the ahistorical assumptions of social anthropology in those days, in the 1970s I did comment on Q’ero history and, as I will argue again here, recognised that such changes had always been underway there, even for millennia. The decades-long gap in ethnographic publication on Hatun Q’ero may also be partly explained by the ironic fact that in 1972 I and my family emigrated from the USA to New Zealand, and soon after 1981 I and my few publications on Q’ero had faded from the Andeanist scene. If it had not been for Enrique Mayer (2002, 2009), whom I met in Lima at the 1970 International Conference of Americanists, and who with Ralph Bolton saw my 1977 article on Q’ero kinship through to publication (and translation into Spanish by 1980), fewer of my reports would have seen the light of day. Moreover, three of my six published reports (1974, 1980, and 1981) used the pseudonym “Ch’eqec” to obscure the identity of the Hatun Q’ero community.2 By 1974 I had decided to do this in my publications out of respect for the Q’eros’ persistent suspicion of outsiders and evasion of individual, family, residential, and even community identification as well as the most ordinary questions regarding their social, economic, or political situation. Perhaps partly as a result of this pseudonym and my increasing dedication to ethnography of the Māori as well as the passage of two or three decades, few of my published as well as

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unpublished reports were drawn on by the three scholars who later published on Hatun Q’ero or the Q’ero Nation. Wissler is the only one who used my microfilmed but unpublished 1972 dissertation, by far the most extensive of my reports (Part I of this volume). Again, I probably have John Cohen to thank for alerting her to my earlier research. My dissertation also included detailed geographic maps and ecological and seasonal diagrams that might have been very useful in the research as well as publications of the others. Wissler’s dissertation also noted my 1973 article on pastoralism in Q’ero, my 1980 article on ethnicity in the southern Peruvian Andes, and my 1981 article on divergent interpretations of Q’ero’s cultural history, even though these last two articles used the pseudonym “Ch’eqec” instead of Q’ero. However, her dissertation dealt mainly with music and dance and similarly remains unpublished, and her continuing research has been devoted primarily to documentary filming and active participation with the Q’eros. Cometti used only my 1973 article on Q’ero pastoralism and an earlier 1971 article on the multiple ecological zones in Q’ero, drawing on versions of them as edited by Jorge Flores Ochoa and Juan Núñez del Prados’ second (2005) edition of Q’ero, El último Ayllu Inka. Cometti’s map of the Q’ero region could have benefitted from Wissler’s (which was apparently adapted from mine), but he drew on neither dissertation. Salas’s detailed accounts of Hapu, the Q’ero Nation, and the Quyllurit’i pilgrimage apparently drew on none of my published or unpublished reports. Thus, as well as my unpublished dissertation, my 1974 publication on social status and ranking in “Ch’eqec” (parts of which are included above as Chap. 7 of Part I) and my publication on kinship and affinity in Q’ero (Webster 1977), although both had appeared in Spanish by 1980, apparently remained in the same Andean (or trans-Pacific) obscurity into which I had fallen by 1981. A final reason that I can think of for the obscurity of my reports on Q’ero is that they all built enthusiastically upon the perhaps over-worked themes of Andeanism (“lo Andino”) and ecosystematic “verticality,” and the old-fashioned ethnographic preoccupation with kinship and terminological “systems,” both influential scholarly approaches in the 1960s and 1970s (Ferreira et  al. 2020: 22, 29, 31–32). Both these preoccupations tended to align with the anthropological romanticism of “other” cultures and lead us to overlook the wider social and historical processes that are integral to any culture, however exotic. I was fortunate that Professor of Sociology Pierre van den Berghe, also at the University of Washington in Seattle where I was working on my dissertation, initiated his study of the

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Cuzco region the year I returned from Q’ero and challenged my culturalist assumptions with what were for me new sociological perspectives on social class, ethnicity, and plural society (van den Berghe 1974; Webster 1980). I was relieved in my recent re-study of my materials to find that my 1981 article “Interpretation of an Andean social and economic formation” had broken into the new hermeneutic or interpretive theoretical paradigm of ethnography. It even did this in a way that foresaw my dawning interest in critical theory and “western” Marxism, which by the 1990s had begun to take shape in my ethnohistorical research with the Māori in New Zealand. As mentioned in the 1972 Preface to my dissertation (reproduced in the frontmatter of this volume), I had been drawn to the high Andes by undergraduate studies in ecology in the USA and subsequent mountaineering adventures in Italy, Mexico, the US Marine Corps, the Colorado Rockies, and Washington Cascade ranges. There in Q’ero I soon realised that my naive anthropological plans to study the ethical grounds of their conflict resolution would be stultified by their tireless skills of evasion. On the other hand, simply by living with them, I was learning alot about the kinship organisation of their community as well as their mountain ecosystem. By the time we emigrated to New Zealand in 1972, my Andean commitment to mountains and kinship followed me, and we were soon settled with the Tūhoe Māori of the Urewera mountains pursuing parallel research interests. By the 1990s the focus on ethnohistory, colonisation, and indigenous resistance that was taking shape in my 1981 article of Q’ero was taking fuller shape in my research with the Māori (Webster 1975, 1998a, b, 2020a, b). I was gratified to find that my 1972 dissertation, and earlier as well as later publications on Q’ero, had not presented them entirely as a “people without history” (Wolf 1982). My 1981 article had developed the sense of “indigenous” resistance that increasingly frustrated my field research in Q’ero, whipping me between indignation, demoralisation, and euphoria the more familiar I became with each family in the community. My final notebooks reveal my anger when confronted by individual Q’ero who, from my naive point of view, I had tried unassumingly to treat as genuine equals through months of face-to-face exchange in my broken Quechua with token gifts of cigarettes, coca, candy, or offerings from my own sad pot of potatoes. I was cushioned from this frustration by academic distance I could take in my writings and, increasingly, a more historical view of the unique predicament of my hosts as a long-colonised yet defiantly independent people. In my final article on Q’ero, and increasingly in my research with the Māori, it is this dawning awareness of the depth of

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specific histories that has guided me, hoping to help but neither hinder nor patronise and to take their side the best I could. As the reader of my “return to Q’ero” will see as this Part II proceeds, my academic detachment while “taking their side” has tried to move with the current issues of my discipline. Trying to move as smartly as has colonial or modern deployment of power itself (i.e., fortunate to be only a few steps behind), since the 1970s I have shifted my own form of resistance from hermeneutics to the avant garde critique of modernism; from there to the counter-hegemonic deployment of kin-based power; from there to the de-fetishisation of commodities; and from there to the sustainability of an indigenous culture in the face of its extraction as fetishised commodities. But where, in terms of such theoretical issues, have other ethnographers of the Q’ero Nation gone? This steady radicalisation of my social theory had a chance to actually “return to Q’ero” escorted by Wissler and perhaps even John Cohen a decade ago, but I failed to pursue our enthusiastic plan. Holly even promised to arrange horses for us. Now, although I might still be able to handle the altitude and rigour for a few days, my ethnohistorical “armchair” return to Q’ero in the present volume probably has to serve as best as it can. John Cohen, more elder than I, has passed on to yet another world (urpichaychis, sunqochaychis, dear John!).

Notes 1. A q’ero is a large cup carved from wood, traditionally used for drinking axa (home-made maize beer) and associated with Inca ritual, so this name probably contributed to the romantic appeal of this community. As described here in Part I (my 1972 dissertation), what I called the ethnic enclave of  Q’ero was  composed of  several different communities that had a  long colonial history as  one or more encomiendas or haciendas extending for  nearly 100 kilometres from  Paucartambo to  Marcapata on the northern flank of the Ayakachi sub-range of the Cordillera Vilcanota range (Fig.  1.1). What has come to  be  distinguished as  “Hatun Q’ero” (“big” or “great” Q’ero) is located in the middle of the other Q’ero communities and most distant from both the main roads running from Cuzco through Paucartambo and  Marcapata to  the  tropical lowlands of  Peru. As I showed in Figure 1.3 and described in 1972, the ritual centre of “Hatun Q’ero” was  simply called “Q’ero Llaqta” (Q’ero “place”) by the  Q’eros themselves, whereas the  ancient ruins north across the  Q’ero River at  the  foot of  the  steep Pulaniy and  Anka Wachana ridges was  identified as “Hatun Q’ero”.

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2. I am indebted to Betty Yabar, whose 1971 novel about Q’ero, and hacienda household servants from Q’ero whom she had known when growing up in Paucartambo, is entitled Testimonio sobre Cheqec. Bette Yabar is a grand-­ daughter of one of the nineteenth-century owners of the hacienda that had earlier included all the Q’ero communities. Some of her predecessors published articles on Q’ero as early and 1922 that are discussed by subsequent researchers as well as in my 1972 dissertation (see Part I bibliography).

References van den Berghe, Pierre. 1974. “Introduction” to Class and Ethnicity in Peru. Special edition of International Journal of Comparative Sociology, XV 3–4. de la Cadena, Marisol. 2015. Earth Beings : Ecologies of Practice Across Andean Worlds. Duke University Press, 2015. Cometti, Geremia. 2015. Lorsque Le Brouillard a Cessé de Nous Ècouter; Changement Climatique et Migrations chez les Q’eros des Andes Péruviennes. Peter Lang SA, Editions scientifiques internationales, Berne. Ferreira, Francisco and Isbell, Billie Jean (eds). 2020. A Return to the Village: Community Ethnographies and the Study of Andean Culture in Retrospective. University of London Press. Salas Carreño, Guillermo. 2012. Negotiating Evangelicalism and New Age Tourism through Quechua Ontologies in Cuzco, Peru. A dissertation submitted in partial fulfilment of the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy (Anthropology) in The University of Michigan. Mayer, Enrique. 2002. The Articulated Peasant: Household Economies in the Andes. Boulder: Westview Press. Mayer, Enrique. 2009. Ugly Stories of the Peruvian Agrarian Reform. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Webster, Steven. 1975. “Cognatic descent groups and the contemporary Maori; a preliminary reassessment”, in Journal of the Polynesian Society 84:2:121–158. Webster, Steven. 1977. “Kinship and affinity in a native Quechua community”, in Bolton, R. and E. Mayer (eds) Andean Kinship and Marriage, special publication of the American Anthropological Association No. 7 (1977). Webster, Steven. 1981. “Interpretation of an Andean Social and Economic Formation” in Man (N.S.) 16, 616–33. Webster, Steven. 1998a. “Maori Hapuu as a Whole Way of Struggle; 1840s–50s before the Land Wars” in Oceania, 69 (1) 4–35. University of Sydney, Sydney, Australia. Webster, Steven. 1998b. Patrons of Maori Culture: Power, Theory, and Ideology in the Maori Renaissance. The University of Otago Press, Dunedin, New Zealand. 275 pages.

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Webster, Steven. 2020a. A Separate Authority (He Mana Motuhake). Volume I: Establishing the Tūhoe Māori Sanctuary in New Zealand, 1894–1915. Palgrave Macmillan. Webster, Steven. 2020b. A Separate Authority (He Mana Motuhake). Volume II: The Crown’s Betrayal of the Tūhoe Māori Sanctuary in New Zealand, 1915–1926. Palgrave Macmillan. Wissler, Holly. 2009. From Grief and Joy We Sing: Social and Cosmic Regenerative Processes in the Songs of Q’Eros, Peru. Phd dissertation, Florida State University Libraries. Wolf, Eric. 1982. Europe and the People without History. University of California Press.

CHAPTER 8

The Wider Ecosystem of Hatun Q’ero

Figs. 8.1, 8.2, 8.3, 8.4

1   Some Theoretical Directions for Returning to Q’ero For the sake of maintaining a fuller sense of the history spanned, I have here presented my 1972 dissertation on (Hatun) Q’ero as the preceding Part I much as it was originally microfilmed by University Microfilms of Ann Arbor, Michigan. As described in the Preface (2022), I have abridged it only by deleting some sections, figures, and endnotes that were tediously methodological even in my day and citations that were soon outdated. In the place of these deletions, I have added as a final “Chap. 7” the most significant parts of my 1974 article on social ranking and leadership in Q’ero, which had to be excluded from my already over-long dissertation but was published two years later under my pseudonym for Q’ero (Webster 1974). Unfortunately, the reader still has to bear with my sometimes pretentious self-assurance, vocabulary, or melodrama (probably what Professor Murdock of the Human Relations Area Files, who was kind enough to examine my dissertation, described as “egregious” albeit typical doctoral-candidate overstatements). This and the following chapters hope to develop a retrospective view of ethnohistorical changes in Hatun Q’ero since the 1970s based primarily © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 S. Webster, Returning to Q’ero, Palgrave Studies in Anthropology of Sustainability, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-04972-9_8

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Fig. 8.1  Atuh Saruh, me, and Luychu (1970)

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Fig. 8.2  Qawiñayoq (5350 metres), looking SE across Ayakachi Range from Wallataniy Q’asa (1970)

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Fig. 8.3  Chuwa Chuwa: Manwel Quispe Apasa curing sheep, with Polonia Yapura Quispe and children Micolas and Asunta (1970)

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Fig. 8.4  Totoraniy ritual centre, looking across Chuwa Chuwa Mayo (1969)

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on the information available in Cometti’s, Wissler’s, and Salas’s publications, sometimes informed by my recent correspondence with them and their always supportive responses. In broadest terms, while my 1970s approach was focused on the ecological niche of Hatun Q’ero in terms of its economic and social organisation, Wissler’s 2009 approach is focused on analysis of the music, dance, and ritual tradition of Hatun Q’ero, Salas’s 2012 approach is focused on the politics of Hapu and the Q’ero Nation in the wider historical context of the Cuzco region, and Cometti’s 2015 approach is focused on the perceptions and interpretations of the Q’eros with regard to their weather or climate. Significantly, while Q’ero ritual, shamanism, and its relation to apu (mountain peaks), awki (hills or promontories), pacha mama (“mother earth”), or such “place-beings” or “earth-beings” were relatively peripheral to my focus on the Hatun Q’ero ecosystem, the role of these practices and what I called “extraordinary powers” are increasingly important in Wissler’s, Salas’s, and Cometti’s ethnographic approaches. Although this shift of attention since my day probably responds to the increasingly iconic role of Q’ero indigeneity as authentic descendants of the Incas since this was publicised by Nuñez del Prado’s expedition in 1955, this populist enthusiasm is not uncritically accepted by any of these three ethnographers. However, there is a related theoretical difference that emerges in their research which diverges from mine: while I implicitly worked within the anthropological paradigm of structural-functionalism that predominated in my time, they worked within the later anthropological paradigm of semiology, especially central to Salas’s and Cometti’s approaches to ritual and shamanism.1 Insofar as the semiological paradigm drew on the hermeneutic or interpretive theory behind my 1981 article on Q’ero, there is that continuity between our theoretical approaches. But the most significant theoretical difference between my own approach and Salas’s as well as Cometti’s is a postmodernist theory of ontology that has emerged in anthropology since the 1990s. The theoretical paradigm within which I worked (and continue to defend) assumes an objectively continuous ontology behind the often subjectively divergent ideologies as well as epistemologies through which both the Q’eros and I (and the Māori) nevertheless understand the single world in which we all live. I contend that regardless of great cultural and historical differences between societies, this single common ontological foundation of understanding continues regardless of all forms of confusion or disagreement and indeed remains the basis on which they can be resolved (with due concern for divergent

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ideologies). On the other hand, Wissler’s, Salas’s, and Cometti’s approaches to what they call Q’ero or Andean “cosmology”, “cosmopolitics”, or “political ontology” are influenced by what has come to be called “the ontological turn” in ethnography (Peter Gose in Ferreira et al. 2020: 118-121; Webster 2019b). In Cometti’s case, his method of eliciting Q’eros’ perceptions and interpretations of climate change while carefully avoiding leading questions that assume a “naturalistic” objectivity or epistemology constrains if not compromises his semiological approach. Salas’s concern with political economy as well as “political ontology” is precarious, but often draws his semiological approach into important ethnohistorical insights dealing with the wider social context as well as the meanings of exchanges. As I will discuss in the Conclusion, Salas’s theoretical position is flexible enough to directly consider Taussig’s analysis of Andean devils or deities in terms of commodity fetishism, even addressing its roots in Marxist theory (2017: 139-40). Wissler’s approach to Q’ero cosmology tends to remain in the ethnographic tradition that takes radically different beliefs and practices in stride as cultural relativity. Her use of the word “cosmology” to describe Q’ero ritual and shamanism is not much different from my own description of it in terms of awki, apu, and other “extraordinary powers”. Like me, but with more grace, she sometimes allows herself to dramatise descriptions of it. Salas and Cometti take the ontological turn further by explicitly exploring the extent to which we must further understand that the Q’eros actually live, as well as think and act, at least partly, in an ontologically different world or cosmos than the one “we” (of the post-Enlightenment world) tend to assume we all live in. The model of Evans-Pritchard’s careful understanding in 1937 of witchcraft, oracles, and magic among the Azande no longer suffices in pursuit of the ontological turn in ethnography. The semiological approach that is explicit in Salas’s analysis and implicit in Cometti’s, by prioritising social and cultural differences in terms of meanings over material or political-economic forces, facilitates the ontological turn. Separate worlds are easier to conceptualise in terms of meanings freed from their material conditions (which, of course, include ideological effects). If I understand it correctly, the postmodernist philosophy of the 1990s upon which the ontological turn draws (e.g., Latour or Descola) challenges what it presents as the fundamental dichotomy assumed between nature and human society or culture by modernism since the Enlightenment.

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But quite to the contrary of this supposed dualist ideology, my studies of ecology since the 1950s have found that certainly this discipline, if not many other sciences, assumes the integral unity of nature and society. Indeed, my 1970s account of Q’ero demonstrated such an integral unity in a spectacularly difficult environment. On the other hand, it must be admitted that such an integral unity of nature and society can lead to its mutual destruction. From this point of view, modernity might learn alot from the cosmopolitics of Q’ero as well as many other societies that are experiencing a global crisis in climate change. Hopefully, this is the promise of such “ontological” approaches as Cometti’s, Salas’s, and de la Cadena’s. I will return to this issue in the Conclusion. Regardless of these divergences in our research focus and theoretical paradigms, Wissler’s, Salas’s, and Cometti’s accounts furnish substantial ground for me to examine ethnohistorical changes in Hatun Q’ero since the 1970s. As will be explained below, I will again approach the community from the outside and work my way back into its innermost recesses, moving from its mountains and glaciers down into its subtropical gardens and back up through the inner workings of Q’ero well-being. I will conclude that the ecological as well as social and cultural sustainability of Hatun Q’ero is precarious but hopeful. In addition to articles previously cited, my own theoretical position with regard to Q’ero and southern Peru was laid out in other essays published between 1970 and 1983 (Webster 1972, 1973, 1980a, b, 1983a, b). I have chosen this approach in my “return to Q’ero” because it converges with my analysis and conclusions regarding the ethnohistory of the Tūhoe and other Māori in New Zealand (Webster 2016, 2017, 2019a, 2021). Although the history of colonisation in Peru is radically different from that in New Zealand, indigenous peoples continue to be colonised or exploited in similar ways in both countries. The ethnohistory of their forms of resistance also bears similarities, currently in terms of global indigeneity movements and neoliberal governance responses. Regardless of the appearance of insularity in both cases, this history must be understood in terms of the political economy of colonisation in settler colonies. Influence or control over the Q’ero ecosystem, Q’ero indigeneity, and Q’ero shamanism can be best understood in terms of commodity production, commodification, and commodity fetishism. I hope to show that resistance to these and other forms of control has been sustained by the Hatun Q’ero community in the face of profound ethnohistorical changes and that it can continue to be.

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2   The “Fourth Ecological Level” of Hatun Q’ero Before examining the ethnohistorical changes in Hatun Q’ero’s adaptation to the local environment (Chaps. 2–4), I will reconsider Chap. 1, “The South Central Highlands and the Q’ero Cultural Region: and Ethnic Enclave”. Jorge Flores Ochoa’s early insight that the regional urban centre of Cuzco actually formed a “fourth ecological level” to Hatun Q’ero’s three internal levels had encouraged a fuller understanding of this community’s wider ethnohistorical context (Flores Ochoa and Juan Núñez del Prado, eds. 2005: 423, cited by Cometti 2015: 117). My pursuit of his insight here also honours Professor Flores, who died in 2021. My articles in 1980 and 1981 were an analysis of this history of Hatun Q’ero (under the pseudonym “Ch’eqec”) augmented by our second visit in 1977. These accounts were also better attuned to different interpretations of domination and subservience in the Andes due to intervening publications (van den Berghe 1974; 1977; Godelier 1977). Discovering Guillermo Salas Carreño’s 2012 dissertation “Negotiating Evangelicalism and New Age Tourism through Quechua Ontologies in Cuzco, Peru” helped me catch up with changes in theoretical approach as well as local and national Peruvian history that I had missed since the 1970s. Salas is a Cuzqueño who, following Peruvians Enrique Mayer and Marisol de la Cadena, had brought ground-breaking studies of the Peruvian Andes personally into the US academic scene. Salas’s brief description of the entire Q’ero region including its geography (Salas 2012: 186-188) is actually more comprehensive than either Wissler’s or Cometti’s more focused accounts which, as will be seen, are thin geographically. Salas’s extended account of Hapu, one of the more assimilated communities of what had by 2005 come to be called the Q’ero Nation, introduced me to the major influences of tourism and evangelism throughout the Cuzco region. The historical context of national political and ideological changes in which he placed his study enables me to better understand what I had more naively described as an “ethnic enclave” in southern Peru, distinguishing Q’ero as a “native”, “indigenous”, or even “tribal” community compromised only superficially or “accommodated” to the hacienda regimes that had dominated the region since the nineteenth century (Chap. 1). My 1980 and 1981 articles on “Ch’eqec” argued this romantic Andeanism vision more carefully against Pierre van de Berghe’s insistence that the Cuzco region had to be understood in

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terms of social class domination in which exploitation of the ethnic differences between mestizo, cholo, and indio was historically entrenched in a plural society. It is this social hierarchy in Cuzco and its region that Salas examines so penetratingly. Especially in the southern Peruvian highlands, the historical tensions of this exploitive hierarchy became dangerously precarious under the military government’s naive Agrarian Reform policy and subsequent Shining Path movement 1960s–1990s.2 Salas’s accounts of the annual regional pilgrimage to the Quyllurit’i shrine, which along with Q’ero shamanism and Macchu Picchu had become a focus of “New Age tourism” centred in the Cuzco region, describes political intrigues and confrontations between this region and the state elite in Lima. After outlining the historical background of the southern Peruvian Andes in Chap. 1, I described the settlement pattern and subsistence strategies throughout the three major ecological zones of the Hatun Q’ero basin in Chaps. 2 through 4. Actually, as though foreseeing Flores’s insight, I went so far as to characterise Chap. 1 as a brief examination of “the encompassing ecosystem of the south Central Andes” in the first sentence of Sect. 2 in the “Original Introduction to Part I (1972)” in the frontmatter of this volume. Notably, as though anticipating the much later ontological or semiological approach abjuring a false distinction between nature and society, I asserted the inseparability of social organisation and the natural environment from the outset in first paragraphs of both Sects. 1 and 2 in this Introduction. Ironically, it could be argued that the entire Andeanist ethnographic corpus stands as a counter-example to the ontological turn’s reliance on a post-Enlightenment dogma separating nature and society. Following Murra’s influential conception of Andean “verticality”, I distinguished four “domesticated” zones as they were described by the Q’eros (loma, wayq’o, qeshwa, and monte), along with the altitudes in metres at various points between them, and correlations with the ecologist Weberbauer’s descriptions of them (Part I, Chap. 3; Figs. 3.1, 3.2). Although Cometti furnishes no diagram, he supports Flores’s “provocative” suggestion that Cuzco constituted an additional (“fourth”) ecological level in the wider Q’ero ecosystem, at least since emigration from Q’ero increased in the 1990s (Cometti 2015: 40, 74, 85, 117; 2020: 39-40). Actually, a closer understanding of the Hatun Q’ero ecosystem would require that Cuzco be seen as a “fifth ecological level” (or even a “seventh”) and long before the 1990s. Whereas I distinguished loma from wayq’o zones as the prime locations for alpaca herding and bitter potato cultivation, respectively, Cometti merges these two zones as the puna (or

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loma) ecological level. I drew my distinction because the Q’eros live in or near the alpaca herding zone and focus family festivals on the herds, while distinguishing the “bitter” varieties of potatoes as requiring special processing as well as being more durable. When cultivating the bitter potatoes, they actually often set up temporary camps so they don’t have to return from the wayq’o to their permanent homes in the loma. Similarly, I emphasised that the Q’eros pursued an atypical form of transhumance, based on their agricultural rather than their pastoral cycles. Cometti does not emphasise this distinction but does insightfully point out that their form of “transhumance” included Cuzco as their fourth ecological level (2015: 73, 117). Especially in view of Salas’s and Cometti’s focus on shamanism and the tourism industry of this “fourth ecological level”, I should point out that my Figure 3.2 also included two further levels that the Q’eros emphasised and which fascinated me: the uppermost level of q’asa (“mountain pass” or “notch”) and rit’i (snow) and the lowest level of yunka (“lowlands”) or yanqa wako (“irrational sanctum”; also “foolishness”). In dramatic contrast to the latter, the Q’eros characterised the uppermost level as limp’u (“pure”). They furthermore attributed illness as well as irrationality to the lowest level and health to the uppermost level. They were fearful of catching diseases while tending their maize and other crops in the monte (I was cautioned to not sit on the ground there because it can lead to sterility of one’s testicles!) and withdraw back up to their hamlets for the sake of regaining health (despite frequent deaths from bronchial diseases). They considered the wild animals of the yunka who invaded their crops (ranging from parrots to bear) to be “dirty”, whereas those of the q’asa and rit’i (especially vicuña and wallata, the wild camelid and goose) were considered “pure” like snow or ice and propitious omens. My brief experience in Hapu confirmed that they too understood the altitudes and lowlands in these ways. As Salas and Cometti report, representatives of pilgrims from all over the Cuzco region who annually climb up the glacier above Quyllurit’i cathedral. seek to bring a block of ice back with them as a sacred token of their pilgrimage (Salas 2012: 288, 312, 317-318; Cometti 2015: 164). However many levels of their integral ecological, social, and cultural community system the Hatun Q’eros distinguished or still distinguish, they would readily admit Jorge Flores Ochoa’s insight that urban Cuzco and its region has always constituted a crucial additional level. Again, I want to thank Professor Flores for his early, frank, and indeed

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“provocative” insight, gently questioning, as was his scholarly way, the rising fame of Q’ero as authentic representatives of the Incas. I will begin my own “return to Q’ero” from this “fourth” or encompassing ecological level but, with appropriate obeisance to their titular apu, take as my starting point the Ayakachi peaks and glaciers that dominate all of the Q’ero Nation.3 Maps, Peaks, and Glaciers of the Ayakachi Range The Ayakachi (“salted corpse”) Range with its several peaks and extensive glaciers lies between the Q’ero Nation and main communication and commercial routes of the Cuzco region. The ceja de la montaña (“eyebrow of the sub-tropical jungle”) along this eastern flank of the Andes is still more isolated and unsettled. My 1972 dissertation included many detailed maps and illustrations of the Hatun Q’ero area that would have been helpful to Cometti and Salas as well as Wissler, most of which are included here in Part I.  In 1969 I was fortunate to have already had a decade’s experience in mountaineering as well as mapping in military service, so was able to gather appropriate data and draw up topographically and even geologically detailed illustrations. I drew my maps of the Q’ero basin and Ayakachi Range using 1963 aerial photos obtained in Lima through a Canadian mountaineering friend John Ricker, who was mapping the Peruvian Andes to record summit names in Quechua to displace their colonial Spanish names. Figures  1.2 and 3.3 in Part I include the Kiku as well as Q’ero Rivers and extend north to maize fields in the monte of both; Figure  1.3 is limited to the Q’ero upper basin in larger scale, showing details more clearly. My drawings were to approximate scale and designated true north and its magnetic declination (in Figure 1.2). Details included the northwestern end of the Ayakachi glacier field and its main peaks; main ridgelines and passes between them; lakes, rivers, and streams; falls and bridges; all the main hamlets of the four main valleys; the ritual centre (Q’ero Llaqta; the original “Hatun Q’ero” is across the main river junction to the north); and some other locations in Kiku as well as Q’ero. Most of these details are marked with their local names (as used in the 1970s) and altitudes. The altitudes that Cometti reports between his three ecological levels are 100–200 metres lower than those I recorded, probably reflecting differences in our altimeter instruments. Without survey stations, all altitudes in such a region can only be

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approximate. However, my altimeter was often checked against Ricker’s while he was with me exploring or climbing in Q’ero and the Ayakachi Range. As reported in Figure 1.3, I recorded the summit of Qolqe Punku as 5120 metres, having climbed it with Ricker. Later, I also climbed Wamanripa with Luychu (“valley deer”), a cholo companion from the Hacienda Ccapana (where I kept my horse while I was in Cuzco), and recorded its summit to be 5140 metres.4 Apparently relying on information from the INC or Instituto Nacional de la Cultura 5, Cometti reports the summit altitude of Wamanripa to be 5640 metres and that it is also called “Jollecunca” (2015: 59). This may be a misidentification insofar as it is 500 metres higher than my measurement when on its summit. I suspect the INC had confused Wamanripa with nearby Qolqe Punku, which can be differently spelled but is actually 20 metres lower than Wamanripa (Fig. 1.3). Significantly, the Q’ero were surprised when I told them that Wamanripa was actually a little higher than Qolqe Punku, even though Wamanripa was their paramount apu. It is the peak with which their shamans communicate and were said to climb in herding or harvest crises. Their mis-impression that Qolqe Punku was higher was probably because it was closer to the centre of the Ayakachi Range and was much more heavily glaciated than Wamanripa. In any case, the 500-metre higher altitude attributed to Wamanripa is certainly mistaken, insofar as this would make it higher than the highest part of the Ayakachi Range (Qolqe Punku II, about 5500 metres) almost nine kilometres southeast of Wamanripa. Cometti furnishes three spectacular photos of the northwest extension of the Ayakachi Range at least two of which show Wamanripa peak, all taken in 2011 (2015: 61, Photo 3; 2015: 121, Photo 10, and 2019: 217, Fig. 2, respectively). From memory as well as my maps, I can confirm his identification of Wamanripa in these photos and add that two of the three photos also show a peak that I would identify as Qolqe Punku a few kilometres to the left/southeast of Wamanripa. By comparison with my Figures  1.2 and 1.3, drawn from 1963 aerial photos, Cometti’s photos enable me to offer very rough estimates of the extent of glacier and snow loss due to global climate change by 2011. The INC report also furnished two excellent photos of Wamanripa, one of which is identified as taken from Totorani (INC 2005: 1, 48). Although they were taken at least six or seven years earlier than Cometti’s, a comparison of these photos might show enough of the Ayakachi Range to draw some conclusions regarding glacial recession since 1963.

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Cometti offers no account of the actual or observable extent of glacial or snow coverage on the Ayakachi range during his visits 2011–2017. He apparently relied instead on government and scientific information that 60% of the “ice cover” on the Vilcanota Range (of which the Ayakachi is a separate northwestern extension or sub-range) had been lost between 1985 and 2010 and that the Qori Kalis glacial tongue had receded ten times faster between 1991 and 2005 than it had between 1968 and 1978 (2015: 18-20). However, the climatic situations of these two locations might be substantially different from the Ayakachi glaciers above Q’ero. Although the Ayakachi Range is often simply assumed to be an extension of the Vilcanota Range, it lies at its northwestern end separated from it (and its highest peak Ausangate, 6354 metres) by about 30 kilometres. A major valley lies between them along which federal highway 30C runs east, connecting the small city of Urcos and the Cuzco region with the ceja de la montaña and the subtropical urban centre of Quince Mil. Two or three large towns including Ocongate and Marcapata and their surrounding villages are located between these two ranges. The Qori Kalis glacier is on Queccaya peak, which is apparently far to the south of the Vilcanota Range, and only 530 metres higher than Wamanripa, perhaps subject to quite different local climatic conditions. The notion of “ice cover” is furthermore too vague for objective estimates: there are several sorts of glacial cover between base layers and ephemeral snow that ordinarily vary widely in normal seasonal loss and gain. Cometti’s research focus was not the actual extent of the Ayakachi peaks and glaciers overlooking Q’ero, but rather the Q’eros’ own perception and interpretation of changes in their climate. He was furthermore careful to not ask leading questions that would impose a presumably scientific point of view on the Q’eros’ own understanding of their environment. This methodology is admirably anthropological. Nevertheless, one would suppose that comparison of his observations of the visible extent of Ayakachi glaciers with other records, if not with those of my dissertation, would have facilitated a similarly neutral comparison with their perceptions or interpretations of the state of the Ayakachi glaciers. My own published reports emphasised that glacial run-off was crucial to the khunkuna cushion-plants and waylla moors upon which the Hatun Q’ero alpaca herds depended—and thus the Q’eros’ entire settlement pattern and subsistence regime. If my memory still serves me, Cometti’s Photo 3 of Wamanripa in conjunction with Photo 10 (which is unidentified) appears to show most of

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the glaciated part of the Ayakachi Range that is shown in my Figure 1.3, extending northwest from Qolqe Punku almost to Wamanripa (respectively, at the left and right extremes of Cometti’s Photo 10). Comparison with the photo displayed as Figure 2, p.217 of his 2019 article, suggests that Wamanripa is just outside the right (northwestern) side of his Photo 10. The snowy peak at the far right of Photo 10 might be the eastern side of Wamanripa, but it is more likely a smaller more distant peak just south of Wamanripa that loops into the Hacienda Ccapana (see Fig.  1.3) and Wamanripa is just outside Photo 10 and much closer, with scant snow on its northeast face as shown in Cometti’s Photo 3. I am ashamed to say that I have lost any record of where I took the spectacular 1970 photo displayed at the head of this chapter (Fig. 10.2). However, my initial memory and close comparison of it with my Figure 1.3 suggests it was taken from Wallataniy Q’asa looking SE, and the imposing double-summited peak rising on the other side of this pass is Qawiñayoq and its glaciers and cornices (This book’s cover image shows the same peak.). This identification is supported by qawiña, which in Quechua describes a gabled roof-type like these cornices. The sharp icy arete (steep conical summit) in the distance to the east might be part of “Qolqe Punku II” summits and glaciers, probably at the centre of the Ayakachi Range (Ricker, pers. cmu). Another photo, a selfie I took high in the Hapu loma in 1970, shows a similarly striking arete behind me. If these surmises are accurate, Figure 10.2 complements Cometti’s 2011 photos of the northwest extension of the Ayakachi Range from Qolqe Punku (I) to Wamanripa, while my 1970 photo shows the extension of the range from Qawiñayoq peak in the opposite (southeast) direction, deep into the Ayakachi glacial fields. Although Qawiñayoq is only 230 metres higher than Qolqe Punku (I), we attempted but failed to climb it due to much steeper ice only 1–200 metres below its summit. Setting the puzzle of my unidentified 1970 photos aside, Cometti’s Photo 10 is confirmed by his Photo 3 and offers evidence of the state of the Ayakachi glaciers above Hatun Q’ero in 2011. Photo 10 appears to have been taken from Charka Pata (where Cometti was hosted) looking up the Qolpa Kuchu valley, and Photo 3 (guided by Cometti’s description of their encampment accompanying the photo) might have been taken in the vicinity of the tarn (small glacial lake) between Hatun Q’asa and Wamanripa as shown in my Figure 1.3. The photo displayed as Figure 2, p.217 of his 2019 article, shows the same northwestern extension of the Ayakachi Range as Photo 10, but appears to have been taken from a high ridgeline further to the northwest, probably between Qocha Moqo and

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Chuwa Chuwa Rivers. Taken from this perspective closer to Wamanripa’s northwest face, this titular apu of Hatun Q’ero appears much more impressive. The two photos furnished in the 2005 INC report apparently view Wamanripa’s northwest side from still closer locations, probably taken from hamlets in the upper Chuwa Chuwa and Yawarkanchis/Wañuna Pampa valley heads. INC’s Photo 8 (INC 2005: 48, identified as Totorani, probably opposite the Q’ero hamlet of Chuwa Chuwa) displays Wamanripa’s double-peaked west face with very little snow and ice on it and probably Pampa Q’asa pass leading off to the right to Paucartambo (see Figs. 1.3 and 1.1). However, the view is towards the northeast, so the entire Ayakachi Range and its glaciers are hidden behind Wamanripa. INC’s cover-photo (INC 2005: 1) is unidentified but displays the northern half of Wamanripa rising close above several scattered tiyay wasi of a hamlet, probably Wañuna Pampa (the valley that Wissler calls Ch’allmachimpana). Again, the view is northeast across the relatively snowless upper Hatun Q’ero valleys and passes towards Wallataniy Q’asa and Kiku. Unfortunately, from this still relatively low location (4180 metres), the peaks and glaciers of the entire Ayakachi Range still remain hidden behind Wamanripa. However, the limited snow or ice-fields on Wamanripa’s northwest face compared to what was there in 1963 (my Fig.  1.3) show that a great deal had been lost by 2005. Nevertheless, Cometti’s 2011 photos of the Ayakachi Range from locations in the Q’ero valleys further to the east show that the glacial and snow cover, although much less extensive than it was in 1963, is still substantial. The difference between glacier and snow is not distinguishable on either the 1963 aerial photos or Cometti’s photos, but the coverage remains extensive despite the indisputable evidence of global climate warming. Cometti’s Photo 3 of Wamanripa, furthermore, notes that it was taken in May, which is only the beginning of the dry/cold season and well past the end of the wet/temperate season in Q’ero (see Fig. 6.1), so the extent of coverage remaining might be even more significant if, for instance, the heavier rains were snow at this altitude and it had been retained rather than lost. Another important source that may have been available to Cometti for his consideration of climate change in Q’ero is the Google natural features map of southern Peru dated 2020 that I found on the Internet.6 As shown on this map, the Vilcanota Range is located northwest of Lake Titicaca, two-thirds of the way to Cuzco, and the Ayakachi Range is 25–30

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kilometres further northwest of the Vilcanota Range. The main highway running between Cuzco, Sicuani, and Lake Titicaca has the branch highway 30C (Interoceanica Sur) running east from Urcos between the Vilcanota and Ayakachi Ranges to Puerto Maldonado in the montaña. I am amazed at the detail the 2020 Google shows when magically zoomed into the Ayakachi Range, and (with the guidance of my Figures 1.2, 1.3, and 3.3) even further details of the ridgelines, valleys, and passes of the Hapu and Kiku as well as the Hatun Q’ero river basins.7 I was especially struck by the steep dark arrow-straight up-turned geological shelf that runs closely parallel to the Ayakachi Range immediately to its northeast, realising that this buttress also formed the series of four passes that connect the four river heads of Hatun Q’ero with the Kiku River valley to the southeast (Fig. 1.3). Even the different substrates and associated lakes or tarns rather than waylla moors can be identified, confirming geological details of my Figure  3.3. Most of the Ayakachi glaciers lie still further southeast, culminating in the series of peaks Ricker calls “Qolqe Punku II”, only 100 metres higher than Qawiñayoq and perhaps visible with the arete on the left side of my photo of Qawiñayoq (Fig.  10.2 and the cover image). After close comparison of the glacier- and snow-covered northwestern portion of the Ayakachi Range shown in my Figure 1.3 with the same area shown on the 2020 Google map, and each of these with Cometti’s Photos 3 and 10, I am fairly confident that the large but separate mass of ice or snow furthest to the northwest on the 2020 map is Wamanripa. Moving southeast from there on the 2020 map, one finds four other relatively large and increasingly conjoined masses of ice or snow before the much greater and continuous extension of it that forms more than 80% of the glaciers and snow remaining on the Ayakachi Range. By my reckoning, Qolqe Punku (I) is the fourth and by far the largest of these relatively separate masses of ice and snow 4–5 kilometres southeast of Wamanripa, and Qawiñayoq (Fig.  8.2) is probably nearer the centre of the largest extent of glacier and snow 2–3 kilometres southeast of Qolqe Punku. As shown in my Figure  1.3, Qolqe Punku (I) rises at the head of Qolpa K’uchu River, and Qawiñayoq rises at the head of Kiku River (and Ricker’s Qolqe Punku II is the crest of the Ayakachi still further to the southeast). If my reckoning above is correct, one finds that the label marking the location of Qolqe Punku on Google’s 2020 map is probably where Ricker located Qolqe Punku II and visible in the distance on the left side of my photo of Qawiñayoq (Fig. 8.2). Ironically, while Wamanripa is ignored in the Google map, the minor summit of Minasniyoq (“my mineral mines”)

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is recognised and probably located more or less correctly (in Cometti’s Photo 10 it probably lies midway between Wamanripa and Qolqe Punku “I”). The disregard of Wamanripa seems to fly in the face of the Q’ero Nation’s notoriety but, as will be seen later, may reflect Hatun Q’eros’ increasing reluctance to name it to outside interests. Another significant inconsistency is that while Salas reports that the famous Quyllurit’i annual pilgrimage is held below a glacier on the southern side of “Qolqe Punku” (2020: 11; 2017: 143), Cometti reports that this pilgrimage is held at the foot of the glacier on the southern side of Sinakara peak (2015: 34 fn36; also de la Cadena 2010: 338). The 2020 Google map locates Sinakara (Cinajara) on a smaller glaciated sub-range extending like an elbow southwest of the main glacial massif of the Ayakachi. The long glacial tongue and valley moraines extending south from Sinakara peak dramatically displays the radical extent of glacial melt in recent times. Even the cathedral housing the shrine at which the Quyllurit’i pilgrimage gathers at the time of Corpus Christi in late May can be seen (and zoomed in on) further down this valley. Further information on the area of the Quyllurit’i pilgrimage can clarify the situation on the southwest side of the Ayakachi Range, opposite the Q’ero Nation but part of its “fourth ecological level”. Salas recently sent me his article due to be published in May 2021 that includes a spectacular historical series of photos displaying the dramatic recession of the Quyllurit’i glacier since 1933 (Salas n.d.). On the basis of my examination of these photos along with the 2020 Google map, I have concluded that Sinakara is the sharp peak (arete) at the left side of all three photos in Image 2 and the 2008 and 2016 photos in Image 1, and the origin of all three glaciers shown in Image 2, the middle one of which is the glacier celebrated in the famous Quyllurit’i pilgrimage. The unusual sharpness of the 2008 photo in Image 1, along with the less clear 2016 photo, shows what I conclude is the highest part of the main Ayakachi glacier field about four kilometres further north-northwest and beyond the intervening crest of the Sinakara sub-range. This distant and heavily glaciated massif may be the peak of Qawiñayoq itself (obscured in all the other photos and mis-­ identified as Qolqe Punku on the 2020 Google map); if so, Wallataniy Q’asa is just beyond it further to the north, with the headwaters of both Qolpa K’uchu Mayo and Kiku Mayo originating from its glaciers and flowing north (Fig. 1.3). Ricker, in recent correspondence regarding Salas’s collection of photos, cautions that a particular mountain peak is often identified with different

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names by locals living on different sides (or even the same side) of the peak, and in the 1970s, he recorded such different names for several peaks of the Ayakachi. His experience with this problem throughout the Peruvian Andes during his mountaineering research in the 1960–70s probably remains unequalled even among professional geographers. With regard to the Quyllurit’i pilgrimage sanctuary, he had recorded the peak from which its glacier comes as also called Quyllurit’i, neither Sinakara nor Qolqe Punku. Contrary to my conclusion above, he is doubtful that Qawiñayoq could be seen from the lower altitude of Salas’s photos and furthermore had recorded this highest crest of the Ayakachi as “Qolqe Punku II”, as I mentioned above (he added that it is a common name among Andean peaks). It would be an ironic example of differing names given the same mountain summit or apu in the Andes if it turned out that the distant massif I see in the photo is Ricker’s Qolqe Punku II (rather than Qawiñayoq), because then both Salas and the 2020 Google map would be confirmed: given Salas’s extensive experience of the Quyllurit’i pilgrimage, he and his informants there may see Sinakara and its glaciers as simply a southern extension of the more distant Qolqe Punku II, the crest peaks and glaciers of the whole Ayakachi Range, looking grandly down on them at the Quyllurit’i pilgrimage. Without any maps aside from Ricker’s aerial photos in the 1970s, I myself remained confused about locations on this southern side of the Ayakachi Range. It is likely that local runa had different names for the same peak than those names used by the Q’eros. In 1970 along with my cholo friend Luychu I joined the Hatun Q’ero contingent of dancers on their way from their ritual centre up to Qolpa K’uchu for a night and then accompanied them over the pass to the west of Wamanripa (Fig.  1.3). They sounded their conch-shell trumpets back towards the Q’ero hamlets at every rise until the final pass and then continued down to the herding hamlet of Ancasi in the hacienda Ccapana lands south of the Ayakachi Range for a second night. From there Luychu and I hurriedly returned the next morning to the Hatun Q’ero ritual centre in order to observe their Korpus festival while their Quyllurit’i contingent continued on to the pilgrimage. In 1977 when I returned from New Zealand with my family, Lois’ and my two boys were older and together we back-packed in from the Ocongate-Marcapata road (see Fig. 1.1) to join the Hatun Q’ero contingent for their final night camping at their traditional location on a ridge overlooking the Quyllurit’i shrine and the crowds of pilgrims below.

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The next morning we followed the Q’ero contingent back on their triumphant return to their ritual centre for the conclusion of their Korpus festival. I took note that the Q’eros put their leading women on their horses for their departure, because in 1970 I had been surprised to see the women rather than the men mount up on their dance-group’s way to the pilgrimage, just as they crossed the last pass leaving the Q’ero community (Webster n.d.-a (1969-70), NB2: 54). I suspect this was for ritual display of their finery or for other ritual reasons I did not understand, because I had never seen women mounted even in Hatun Q’ero festivals. However, I again failed to enquire further about this: moving more slowly than the Q’eros’ triumphant departure from Quyllurit’i in 1977, we fell behind and had to camp overnight by ourselves in one of the passes south of the Ayakachi Range. Thanks to my brief excursion with them in 1970 to this southern side of the range, we were nevertheless able to find our way back through the passes to Qocha Moqo the next day, but too late and exhausted to join the Korpus festival reunion of the whole community in Q’ero Llaqta. What can be concluded from this information regarding the effects of climate change on the Ayakachi glaciers? My comparison of the glacier and snow cover in my Figure 1.3 with the cover shown on that portion of the Ayakachi Range in the 2020 map suggests a loss of no more than 40% between 1963 and 2020, far short of the 60% average loss in the Vilcanota between 1985 and 2010 reported to Cometti by the government scientists. The 2020 map even appears to show more rather than less glacial or at least snow cover in this western part of the Ayakachi than Cometti’s 2011 photos, but this may be merely a seasonal difference. In any case, the patches of waylla moors crucial to alpaca herding in Q’ero are observable on the 2020 map and appear to be far fewer but more extensive in some places than those depicted in my Figure 5.3 in the upper reaches of Qolpa K’uchu. Unfortunately, the patching or overlap of maps apparently done by Google obscures the other three Q’ero valley heads to the west, but the same larger but fewer green patches can still be observed. One of the few spontaneous comments regarding the glaciers that was offered by Q’eros to Cometti associated increased melting of the glaciers with the increasing difficulty of grazing the family herd in the rainy season (2015: 70). This implies to me that the waylla moors were vulnerable or even flooded due to saturation of their deep peaty subsoil which absorbs and retains the glacial waters. Thus the continuing capacity of the waylla pasture to serve this key resource of the Q’ero ecosystem through the following cold/dry season may not have been declining as rapidly as Cometti

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was led to believe. The widening range of temperatures and rainfall reported by the government for the Vilcanota Range may have even had the effect of slowing retreat of the snow and glacial cover in the Ayakachi Range. Concluding his investigation of the Q’eros’ own spontaneous opinions regarding change in their climate, Cometti reports that although they were unanimous that the glaciers had receded, they emphasised unusual extremes of rain and frost because they were much more aware of things “directly affecting daily life” (2015: 142) and relatively unaware of the much more gradual nature of glacial changes. However, my research into the unusual plants of the waylla bogs and moors at 38–4700 metres in Q’ero, and their paramount importance to the alpaca herds as well as the families who owned them, leads me to suspect that the Q’eros were intentionally drawing Cometti’s attention away from this crucial aspect of their environment. Their emphasis instead on extremes of rain and frost rather than changing glacier and snow coverage may have arisen from their age-­ old practice of drawing what sympathy they could from the mestizo’s disdainful ignorance while evading details most crucial to their own independence and survival. As I will discuss later, these evasive skills, alternating in other contexts with Q’ero assertiveness and even defiance, were described by Wissler, Salas, and Cometti as well as an important aspect of my own experience with the Q’eros nearly 50 years earlier. Moreover, in the 1970s their struggle to control ordinary environmental changes was already long-established in a wide array of what I called “compensatory strategies” in all their cultivation as well as herding routines in response to continually shifting demographic as well as pasture, altitude, weather, and soil limitations of their ecosystem, and these routine struggles already included their dealings with awki, apu, k”uya, and other “extraordinary powers” (see Chap. 4). Nevertheless, there is little doubt that the information supplied regarding Hatun Q’ero by Wissler and Salas as well as Cometti reflects degradation of components of their ecosystem due to global climate change. Although their information for Cometti on alpaca herding and its ecological prerequisites is suspiciously thin, their testimony on maize and tuber production, secondary but equally important for their subsistence, is stronger evidence that both have been damaged by climate change. Keeping in mind the Q’eros’ long-established ecosystematic compensation strategies as well as their traditional tactics of evasion or emphasis

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upon the difficulties of their way of life in order to hold hacienda or other mestizo exploitation at bay, the extent of routine as well as the extraordinary changes on the Hatun Q’ero way of life can be further compared with the situation I described in the 1970s. Pursuing the insight that Cuzco formed a “fourth ecological floor” for the Q’eros to deal with, changes of access to and from different valleys and hamlets of Hatun Q’ero and the rest of the Cuzco region must first be examined. How “remote” or isolated were the people of Hatun Q’ero from the rest of the world? To what extent had the Ayakachi Range actually penned them in on the ceja de la montaña, their alpine “eyebrow of the jungle”? What changes of mutual access between the community and the wider region had happened since the 1970s? Mobility: Routes, Footpaths, and Roadways Because the Hatun Q’ero community straddles more than nine hamlets in four major valleys that converge at or above their ritual centre, mobility within the community needs to be considered along with mobility between it, other communities of the Q’ero Nation, and the wider region of Cuzco. I distinguished this internal form of migration as “translocation”. The importance of translocation between the four main valleys of Hatun Q’ero is marked geographically by the location of their main hamlets 2–300 metres immediately below the three main passes (q’asa) between these valleys: Isu Q’asa at 4360 metres, Minas Q’asa at 4420 metres, and Hatun Q’asa at 4460 metres altitude (Fig.  1.3). Mobility directly between the hamlets of each valley is therefore less arduous than descending to the junction of their rivers and then ascending to the adjacent valley head. The importance of translocation between valleys of the community is also dramatised annually by the T’inkuy (“meet-up”) conclusion of the Carnival festival when the youths of adjacent valleys meet in the pass to dance and have fun (Wissler 2009: 51-2, 62). As well as coinciding with births in the camelid herd and earliest potato harvests in Hatun Q’ero, the Chayampuy, Carnivales, and T’inkuy festival complex is thus symbolic in several ways of universal “first fruits” rituals (Fig.  4.1). T’inkuy is also symbolic of the importance of translocation for potential marriages and change of residence between the valleys of the community. I examined this in Chaps. 5 and 6 of Part I, developing my argument in Chap. 4 that this reflected the relative promise of alpaca herding between the valleys.

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Emphasising this crucial factor of the camelid herd and the glacially-­ watered waylla marshes upon which the alpacas were dependent in each valley of Hatun Q’ero, I sought to demonstrate that the translocation of Q’eros between these valleys (but within the Hatun Q’ero community) was continual but stable in response to the potential productivity of herding in each valley (Part I, Chap. 4, section 3, especially pp. 120–124 and Fig. 4.5). My analysis of the role of waylla marshes was backed up by comparison of geological substrates, estimates of the relative size of waylla marshes based on aerial photos in the case of two of the four valleys, and my personal head-counts of camelid and sheep herds controlled by each domestic group in each valley. I also pointed out that the herd numbers reported to Núñez del Prado in 1955 varied widely from mine 15 years later, probably because the numbers reported to him by the Q’ero were simply accepted as factual although they were adept at misleading such queries. Significantly, their report of relative numbers of alpacas, llamas, or sheep was in inverse proportion to the different market value of each animal, as well as the relative numbers of each that I had counted. As well as translocation between its several valleys, analysis of data from my census and genealogies spanning three to four generations, augmented by evidence of changes in the number of puxllay wasi (“festival houses”) in the ritual centre, was the primary basis for my conclusions regarding migration into or out of the entire community of Hatun Q’ero (Fig. 4.3). Marriage in the community of Hatun Q’ero was 78% endogamous, but the other 22% were reported to have married only into or out of other Q’ero communities and, purportedly, none at all into or out of the entire ethnic enclave. Of course, this claim of complete ethnic endogamy within what was to become the Q’ero Nation might have simply expressed the stigmatisation of purih “walkers” as idle wanderers and marriage out of the Hatun Q’ero community (some Q’eros even described the latter as termination or “death” of descendants). Given the three- to four-generation depth of my genealogies, I was able to break down the numbers of persons migrating between the community of Hatun Q’ero and other communities of the ethnic enclave into decades between 1910 and 1970 (Fig. 4.4). The results showed a slight preponderance of immigration into Hatun Q’ero until the 1930s and a doubling of emigration out of it in the 1940–50s. Although it did not occur to me in the 1970s, insofar as Hatun Q’ero probably had a much higher proportion of waylla than any of the other Q’ero communities (due to the combination of glacier and substrate differences), this may indicate an adverse

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climate change after the 1930s effecting the glaciers, rainfall, or drought and thus the alpaca herding potential of Hatun Q’ero. The span of photos of the Quyllurit’i glaciers from 1933 to 2016 gathered by Salas (2021) substantiates this possibility. However, I instead suggested that these migration reversals may have been responses to the export boom of the alpaca wool market 1910–1920 and its depression thereafter. The Q’eros fondly recall the early decades of that century as a “Golden Age”, suggesting their benefit from the export boom (Webster 1981: 626). Pursuing the implications of Hatun Q’ero’s “fourth ecological level”, what changes had occurred in roads or other access between Hatun Q’ero, the ethnic enclave of the Q’ero Nation, and the wider Cuzco region since the 1970s? Wissler’s useful Map 2.1 (2009: 22) shows the relative location of the seven Q’ero communities five of which (including Hatun Q’ero) had recently been designated as the Q’ero Nation. Her map includes the provincial centre of Paucartambo and Cuzco city to the west, Ocongate to the south, Marcapata to the southeast, and the main highways between the city and these towns (also see my Fig. 1.1). However, the boundaries and rivers demarking the different Q’ero communities are indistinct and, aside from the major rivers and the tarns of Kiku and Hapu, the only detail shown is a “projected road system” running along the mountainous ceja de la montana between Paucartambo and the Ocongate-Marcapata road, apparently planned to cross all of the Q’ero Nation communities except Hapu. Her accompanying Map 2.2 (2009: 23) outlines the community of Hatun Q’ero in somewhat more detail including its main river pattern, and the location of its main settlements, but no other details such as topography, ridgelines, passes, altitudes, glaciers, roads, or paths. Comparison with my Figure 1.3 suggests that the road shown on her Map 2.1 was “projected” to be built from Marcachea south of the Willatuniy buttress, run down the Chuwa Chuwa River to Totorani (Fig. 10.4) and the Hatun Q’ero ritual centre at 3350 metres altitude, then up the Q’ero and Qolpa K’uchu rivers, cross the Wallataniy Q’asa (pass) at 4620 metres altitude, skirting the northern edges of the Ayakachi glacier field, until it reaches the Ocongate-Marcapata road. (Actually, the planned route appears to turn back up into the high passes well before it reaches the ritual centre.) Along with my Figures  1.2 and 1.3, Cometti’s photos of Wamanripa and Qolqe Punco vividly show that all this terrain is extremely rugged high-altitude mountain passes and wayq’o (precipitous gullies)

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repeatedly climbing or descending over a thousand metres. One must suppose the road planners had little idea of what they were up against. The only map that Cometti furnishes of the Q’ero region shows outlines of the five communities of the Q’ero Nation and includes the approximate location of nine of the “annexes” (the ambiguous official term; I called them “hamlets”) of Hatun Q’ero (2015: 36, Map 2). However, unlike his photos, his map shows no rivers, ridgelines, valleys, mountains, passes, or glaciers. Salas’s map of the region (2012: 177) is similar to Cometti’s, although his includes more detail of rivers and main highway locations. Without most of these basic features in either Salas’s or Cometti’s maps, even the actual location of the annexes or hamlets of Hatun Q’ero remains ambiguous. (The location of Charka Pata on Cometti’s map is consistent with its location on my map, but suggests it was misplaced on Wissler’s map.) Cometti’s map includes but does not explain a dotted line running east (probably from Paucartambo) that apparently passes along the northern side of the Ayakachi Range crossing the upper reaches of the communities and turns north to run down a river between Kiku and Hapu in the direction of Quince Mil in the selva (jungle). If this was a planned roadway, it would have had to traverse even more difficult terrain than the projected roadway shown on Wissler’s map. Reports by the National Institute of Culture (INC) in 2005 and 2007 furnish somewhat better information on the actual roads and paths between Cuzco and the Q’ero Nation at that time. By 2007 there were two main routes, both apparently paved, one from Cuzco through Paucartambo as far as Kallakancha (total 136 kilometres) and another from Cuzco through Urcos and Ocongate as far as Chectacucho/Coline (total 196 kilometres) (INC 2007: 8; or see my Fig.  1.1). The section from Paucartambo to Kallakancha was a 26-kilometre “carriageway” (probably unpaved) used commercially on Sundays. From Kallakancha, “bridle paths” or “footpaths” extended between all the Q’ero Nations, the shortest of which was through Pampa Q’asa (abra or ‘pass’; see lower left corner of my Figure 1.3; 4450 metres altitude) and approximately 75 kilometres as far as Hapu (apparently through the passes between valley heads, which are named with altitudes in my Figure  1.3). Chectacucho and Coline, on the other route between Cuzco and the Q’ero Nation, used most by the Q’eros who live in Kiku or Hapu, were apparently located closer to the southeastern end of the Ayakachi Range and probably also unpaved “carriageways” from the new Interoceanic Highway between Urcos and the montaña. I am not familiar with Chectacucho or

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Coline, but while all the other routes between them were “bridle paths” or footpaths, the 17-kilometre route between Chectacucho and Kiku was probably an unpaved road constructed by the Kiku community with the help of a Danish priest Father Peter who lived in that community for long periods of time until he died in 2011 (Salas 2012: 254-255). Cometti’s discussion of increasing access between Hatun Q’ero and mestizo towns and Cuzco furnishes some further details on the actual construction and location of roads by 2014 (2015: 50-52). Comparison with Wissler’s and Salas’s accounts and maps suggests that neither the road proposed on Wissler’s map nor the dotted line route appearing on Cometti’s map were actually built. Instead, it appears that a less difficult compromise was under construction from Paucartambo and Marcachea (following Wissler’s map or my Fig. 1.1, the western-most Q’ero Nation community) that would eventually forego the ambitious descent, climbs, and rugged traverse planned north of the Ayakachi Range and its glacier field, instead crossing south of the range. There the new road was probably intended to meet the branch road that Cometti describes as having reached Ancasi from Rit’iqasa on the road running from Ocongate to Marcapata (neither Ancasi nor Rit’iqasa are shown on these maps, but Ancasi is a village located just south of the Ayakachi Range on the Q’eros’ route to Quyllurit’i pilgrimage). This compromise route was probably decided and planned by the federal government, which would also finance the cost. Following Salas’s account of regional and state politics, I suspect that the federal decision regarding this road route was over-riding earlier but much less realistic plans originating in the Cuzco region to support the rapidly expanding tourist industry, including “New Age” shamanism emanating especially from Q’ero. If the federal government had stepped in, this was indeed a major development in Hatun Q’ero’s “fourth ecological level”. As will be discussed later, federal intervention intended to support the Q’ero Nation by the president’s wife and later the National Institute of Culture, beginning in 2004–2005, may have prompted this development. (As to whether such development was for the better or the worse for Hatun Q’ero, that is yet another question.) Cometti remarks that by 2014 the “road” from Paucartambo across Pampa Q’asa had been extended as far as Choa Choa and Cochamocco (2015: 52; Chewa Chewa and Qocha Moqo on my Fig. 1.3) and that in November 2014, during his last visit to Hatun Q’ero, he noticed new concrete latrines outside most of the family houses in Choa Choa. (In my time, dogs or a few chickens appeared to adequately take care of this

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problem.) I surmise that the road Cometti describes crossed the Urukunka Q’asa and Pampa Q’asa shown in my Figure 1.3, but did not descend the 300 metres to either Chuwa Chuwa or Qocha Moqo hamlets, instead crossing back west of Wamanripa peak through Hatun Kurus or Okaruru passes (from which these hamlets, or at least their upper valley, can be seen). From there the planned route could be more easily constructed to continue south of the Ayakachi Range and glacier field to meet the road already built from Ocongate and Rit’iqasa to Ancasi. Ironically, this compromise route for the proposed road would probably be the route long used by Hatun Q’eros themselves, including their annual dancers’ contingent on its ritual way to and from the regional pilgrimage at Quyllurit’i which, as described above, I joined in 1970 with Luychu and again with my whole family in 1977. Surprisingly, another brief comment later in Cometti’s account implies that by May 2011 the hamlets of Qolpa K’uchu valley had been regularly using minibus transportation between Ancasi and Ocongate and had even successfully negotiated lower rates for this service (2015: 110). This easternmost valley of Hatun Q’ero is the most “isolated” from either Paucartambo or Ocongate and would probably have required a 20-kilometre walk west around Wamanripa apu to get to or from Ancasi and this roadhead bus-service east to Ocongate. Although by that time Ayakachi glacial retreat might have opened a shorter route west of Minasniyoq (see my Fig.  1.3), Cometti’s photos suggest that would still have involved steep ascents and descents across ice as well as snow. Correspondence between Holly Wissler and John Cohen supplied to me by Wissler describes the advance of a “road” across the community of Hatun Q’ero by October 2015 (when she took the elderly Cohen to visit his old friends in the community!): [W]e took a road all the way [from Paucartambo] into Ch’allmachimpana (formerly Wañuna Pampa). That is, the road now not only arrives Q’eros but it is penetrating each valley, winding up over passes to drop down in the next valley. It is a shock, bringing lots of changes (like aluminium roofs everywhere and the govt. building outhouses in every home!). But the Q’eros are happy to have it [personal corresp with Wissler, 15 November 2016].

I suspect that this surprising development was accomplished by the province of Cuzco in an effort to encourage Hatun Q’ero’s increasing role in the tourist industry. Even if this was a vehicular road rather than a

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bridle-­path, and continued across the two or three intervening 4400-­ metre passes to Qolpa K’uchu (Munay T’ika) valley across the 4600-metre Wallataniy Q’asa to Kiku, such a road would virtually serve only Hatun Q’ero. In order to get around the eastern end of the glaciers and peaks of the Ayakachi Range, the 17-kilometre road built from Kiku to Chectacucho still faced the remaining 196 kilometres by way of Ocongate and Urcos to Cuzco. It appears, then, that even by the end of 2015 most of the Hatun Q’ero community remained accessible to and from roadheads only through several hours of walking or horseback in steep terrain on footpaths or bridle paths. Nevertheless, it is clear that long treks on foot, sometimes with llamas carrying materials to barter, had already been routine for some Q’eros, perhaps for centuries. Similarly, runa from other ethnic enclaves had long been visiting Q’ero in traditional bartering expeditions, and at least by the 1970s such expeditions were routine for cholo comerciantes (“traders”) visiting Q’ero on foot from elsewhere in the Cuzco region (see two or three of such visitors in Figure 10.1 during the 1970 Paskwa festival, identifiable by their shoes and long trousers). The slow but steady advance of roads by 2016 may have also made Hatun Q’ero more accessible by tourist and commercial interests from Cuzco and the wider region, as well as vice versa. Hatun Q’ero as Both Remote and Cosmopolitan The “fourth ecological level” of Hatun Q’ero had probably long been an equivocal or ambivalent consideration among non-Q’eros. Salas and Cometti were careful to make clear their respectful scepticism regarding the romanticised image of the Q’eros as the last descendants of the Incas. Nevertheless, the closely associated assumption regarding the remoteness especially of Hatun Q’ero continues to influence their accounts. But even 50 years earlier, contrary details in my own records should remind us that Hatun Q’ero has probably never been remote or isolated. There had always been a “fourth ecological level” to their community, and it had probably extended well beyond the region of Cuzco. Long-distance trading by llama train was traditional throughout the Andean puna, and other runa (“ordinary” or “native” peoples) were regular traders visiting among other runa communities such as Q’ero along the eastern ceja de la montaña. What I described in my 1980 article as the ethnic enclave of the several “Ch’eqec” (i.e., Q’ero) communities was seen by the Q’eros as

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only one of several other ethnic enclaves extending from southern Peru into northern Bolivia (Fig. 1.1), all distinguished as runa from the misti (cholo and mestizo) communities that had developed among them since earliest colonisation, usually exploitatively. The Qolla runa and Ch’ilka runa communities south of Q’ero from as far as Lake Titicaca were wellknown traders who were said to regularly visit Q’ero, the Qolla to trade bayeta (“home-spun wool”) and charki (smoke-dried camelid meat) for the famous Q’ero maize, and the Ch’ilka to extract cedar poles from the ridges above Puskero (Part I, Chap. 1: 8; Chap. 3: 16). Furthermore, I was told by the eminent Andean historian Thomas Zuidema that the Q’eros themselves were sometimes known as itinerant merchants in colonial times (Webster 1980: 138; fn 1). In 1969 I noticed that one of the stone tiyay wasi (permanent homes) in the hamlets of both Chuwa Chuwa and Lawarkancha was boldly white-­ washed in the manner that characterises homes in cholo and mestizo villages (Webster n.d.-a (1969-70), NB 1:48). The new concrete latrines that Cometti noticed in Chuwa Chuwa 45 years later did not necessarily mark a display Q’ero aspirations for mestizo acceptance, let alone assimilation into mestizo society. I would suggest that this contradiction between remoteness and cosmopolitanism in the midst of Q’ero culture reflects the historical depth of the double lives that they have led for centuries between oppression as indios, illusory options to become mestizos, and defiant independence as Q’ero runa. I best addressed this ambivalent understanding of the Q’ero community in terms of my last publication on “Ch’eqec” (Webster 1981). Although the Q’ero have probably never been as “remote” from highland society as their popular image implies, the new roads have undoubtedly brought them into closer routine contact. In 1969–70 it took me at least ten hours on horseback to reach the ritual centre of Hatun Q’ero from the nearest roadhead or two days back-packing on foot from either Paucartambo or the Hacienda Ccapana near Ocongate. Despite the confusion and delay of plans for road construction since 2005, and similar reliance on occasional public transport, Wissler or Cometti were apparently able to reach Hatun Q’ero or Qolpa K’ucho on foot or horse from the nearest roadhead in about four hours. Although in the 1970s the Hatun Q’eros tended to stigmatise those who travelled frequently to the towns or Cuzco as purih (“walker”, migrant labourer, or trader; Part I, Chap. 1: 8ff, 20–21, 27; Chap. 7: 189, 195), a few nevertheless did so regularly on official business for the community or private purchases, some were widely involved in trading or barter of alpaca or llama wool with

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other sometimes distant herding communities, and a few were said to have become wealthy in these enterprises. In the 1960–70s some were known to specialise in the acquisition and breeding of white alpacas, as had the Hacienda Ccapana (on the southern side of the Ayakachi Range). White alpacas are recessive genetically, but their wool was much more valuable on the market as well as favoured by the Q’eros in the 1970s for dying in the bright commercial analine colours of their well-known textiles, also a long-standing resource for their bartering. Wissler reports that the Hatun Q’eros bred alpacas and llamas for sale on the hoof as a source of income for the community at least since the 1960s, when they started to pay off the federal loan arranged to expropriate the hacienda that had owned their lands (2009:113). My own earliest contacts with the Q’eros in 1969 exemplify an apparent contradiction between their actual cosmopolitanism and the remoteness or defiant withdrawal of their community. As mentioned in my 1972 Preface (Original Preface to Part I (1972): xi–xii), my first visit to the community in 1969 found only apparently vacant hamlets. I was later able to arrange a meeting with some Q’eros who were trading alpacas in the nearby Hacienda Ccapana, but my request to visit them in Hatun Q’ero was simply met by a unanimous refusal. In a still later back-backing trek through their hamlets I managed to track down Toribeo Quispe Perez, the community’s personero or representative in dealings with the misti, in one of the high passes, and invited him to visit us in Cuzco.8 A few days later Toribeo came to Cuzco with (if I remember correctly) Domingo Apasa and had lunch with us at our flat, after which we found Professor Oscar Nuñez del Prado (whom they trusted as campaigner since 1955 to arrange the 1964 expropriation of their land from the hacienda owner) and he reassured them that my research in Q’ero posed no threat to them. After that, I was finally allowed to rent and move into Manwel Quispe Apasa’s puxllay wasi (“fiesta house”) in the Q’ero ritual centre. However, it turned out that neither Toribeo Quispe (no acknowledged relation to Manwel) nor Domingo Apasa told anyone else of our meeting in Cuzco and support from the professor. I did not find out about this until I was about to return to the USA more than a year later (Webster n.d.-a (1969-70), NB 6: 6). They had apparently avoided wider community knowledge of their role as mediators for me, probably because it would lead to distrust of their motives as purih, frequenters to Cuzco. I suspect that I had probably gained tentative acceptance in the community only because Manwel Quispe was already reputed to be one of the more

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respected (but also feared) paqo or misayoq (“shaman”) of the community (Fig. 8.3 shows him with his family). According to contemporary commentaries on Q’ero shamanism, he later became one of the more famous altomisayoq of the Cuzco region. As described in my 1972 Preface, although I soon decided to focus on kinship and ecosystem as the least sensitive and most mundane aspects of their lives, throughout the following months many Q’eros evaded direct answers and even co-operated in misleading me into a search for the members of a fictitious family. During the last month before my departure, although a warm and trusting relationship had developed with many families, a few individuals continued to confront me directly, demanding that I leave pieces of my cooking or lighting equipment with them, give them more axes or sickles in exchange for their weavings, and even donate thousands in cash to the community in exchange for what I had gained in knowledge about them, fluency in their language, or teaching jobs I would thereby qualify for in my country (Webster n.d.-a (1969-70), NB 5: 30-31, 34; NB 6: 23-24, 37). In the case of Manwel Quispe, our landlord and reputed paqo or misayoq, this even came to the point of physical threats regarding an axe that I had traded him in exchange for a weaving. Some of the same individuals raised similar demands when I and my family returned to Q’ero in 1977. One young man whom I remembered as hostile to my enquiries in 1969–70 visited us in our hut and, after enjoying our family hospitality and a cup of sweetened tea, boldly demanded cash payments to each Q’ero family that had hosted me during our 1969–70 research. When in response I protested that “you are a good people and do not really expect that”, he baldly asserted “No, we Q’eros are a mean and hard people; anyone will tell you that!” (Webster n.d.-b (1977), Book 5: 9-10). Although we did not know it, his assertion had been exemplified a few weeks earlier in 1977 when we were staying in Qocha Moqo hamlet where Esteban Puloris and his wife Marcosa Apasa had kindly put us up in their barren deposito. We had finally convinced two young men, relatives of the highly respected leader Juan Quispe Perez, to take a horse out to Ocongate and bring our bag of family food supplies back in to us. Months later when we had left Hatun Q’ero and were staying in Cuzco, we contacted the Danish church workers in Ocongate with whom we had left our bag of provisions and found out that they had added a block of their special cheese to our bag as a surprise gift. It then became clear that the young men had removed from the bag both the cheese and the personal letter

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from our friend, leaving us none the wiser (upon their return, one of them had furthermore boldly demanded more pay for their service). The Danish churchmen (who were part of the contingent working with Father Peter in Kiku) were sadly shaken by what they saw as the young men’s dishonesty, having heard that the Q’eros were honourable people. I myself was only beginning to learn that the Hatun Q’ero are indeed an honourable people, but centuries of confrontation with colonial regimes had taught them to be “a mean and hard people”, strictly honourable in defence of their own community. These confrontations might be best understood as a reaction by some Q’eros to trust that had developed between me and most others in 1969–70. Such distrust may have been much like the factionalism that had developed in the 1950–60s in Hatun Q’ero with regard to schooling of their children and alliance with labour syndicates (Part I, Chap. 7: 190–191) or the jealousies regarding the demand for shamanist services in 2011 that I will discuss later. The trust or indulgence I managed to win among most Q’eros by 1970 was itself probably a compromise on their part, accepting what they could only see as my utterly strange behaviour as at least completely unlike that typical of misti (mestizos or cholos). For my part, I rather naively hewed by the standard anthropological method of participant observation, assuming or seeking equality and respect in all personal relations and avoiding all commercial implications (e.g., relying on gift exchange or barter rather than cash payment), always carrying my own back-packs or horse equipment, and accepting sincere beliefs without prejudice. Because I was often in one or another of the hamlets pursuing research, I often was allowed to sleep with a family in the corner of their tiyay wasi reserved for visitors and reciprocated with gifts of coca, candy, or cigarettes (all unusual treats in those days). The Q’eros’ playful identification of me as a wiracocha reflected the ambivalence of their trust, insofar as this word could be taken to mean ñak’aq (stealer of human fat, sometimes even for industrial purposes; Salas 2012: 228; Burman 2018) as well as “white man” or foreigner. On the other hand, while runa women were said to be terrified of wiracocha, I found Hatun Q’ero women, young as well as old, assertive and often intimidating as well as openly amused by me and was careful to always be respectful towards them. It is significant that Wissler, Salas, and Cometti each describes similar experiences with Q’eros over 30 years later, apparently independently of each other’s reports as well as mine. Wissler describes her personal distress in needing to negotiate acceptance of even her presence as well as research

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with some Q’eros jealous of the trust between her and more long-­ established friends among them (2009: 14-16). I see the assertiveness and passion of the Q’ero music and dance tradition which she so inspiringly describes as integral with their demand that she continually legitimise her participant observation with them (2009: e.g., 105, 155-8, 183-5). Forty years earlier I had also noted “interpersonal ritual which blends belligerence and egalitarian rhetoric” and “restrained interpersonal belligerence ritually manifested in feast occasions” (Part I, Chap. 6: 166–167). Wissler also describes the role of whipping in dance routines as symbols of aggressive control over herding, horses, or persons (2009: 158, 183-184). Salas describes instances of such assertiveness among Hapu women as well as men in confrontation with tourist stinginess or misti contempt for indios yet adulation of their supposedly Incaic kustumri or customs (2012: 203-4, 206, 337). Cometti describes a similar confrontation in 2011 between his host family and representatives of Qolpa K’ucho valley (called Munay T’ika) into which he fell due to his host’s misunderstanding that he was a “New Age” tourist seeking shamanist teachings rather than an academic researcher (2015: 85-95). I will return later to Cometti’s account, but this confrontation clearly implies that tensions or jealousies between individual Q’ero entrepreneurs and the wider community of Hatun Q’ero were being addressed through a community assembly. Salas describes similar tensions that he encountered during his research in Hapu at the eastern end of the Q’ero Nation that suggest they were beginning to confront such dilemmas with tourists even though their reputations as keepers of shamanism and other kustunri (“custom” or authentic culture) could not compete with Hatun Q’ero (2012: e.g., 3, 25, 174, 384-5). Salas’s descriptions of the resulting conflicts suggest that Hapu Q’eros had not established the norms for intramural negotiation between private entrepreneurs and the wider community shown in Cometti’s Qolpa K’ucho/ Munay T’ika example. Cometti’s report of the same Munay T’ika assembly’s successful negotiation for lower rates on the minibus to Ocongate suggests a surprisingly effective level of extramural negotiation had developed in Hatun Q’ero. This might imply the development of some effective “union”-like resistance to the divisive effects of individual Q’ero enterprise, whether in marketing shamanist, textile, or other cultural skills, soothing jealousies, and drawing out commercial exchange-value rightfully belonging to the wider Q’ero community. As will be discussed later,

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further evidence of this sort of community policy had emerged by 2007 in the INC research mentioned earlier. My understanding of these implications may sound like Q’ero has suddenly “modernised” as part of highland mestizo society, but I see the historical situation quite differently. The apparent ambivalence between Q’ero cosmopolitanism and Q’ero withdrawal or “remoteness” is quite literally their adaptation to a “fourth ecological level” they have been dealing with more or less successfully for many generations. The ambivalence between a wiracocha who is seen both as an ordinary foreigner and a ñak’aq surreptitiously extracting the fat from their bodies is not merely ironic. The Hatun Q’ero community has been sustained against more mundane extractive processes under a series of colonial regimes for centuries. Although the way in which they expressed it was changing, they indeed were and still are “a mean and hard people” in defence of their own community. I will return to argue this issue later. However, in the following chapters I want to focus on specific changes in several aspects of the Hatun Q’ero community since 1970 that can now be more clearly understood from the point of view of its fourth ecological level in the wider history of the Cuzco region. * * *

Notes 1. Guillermo Salas distinguishes his theoretical position as semiotics rather than semiology, drawing on Pierce rather than Saussure. He argues that while semiology is biased towards classical structuralism, semiotics enables political-economic analysis (personal communication, 19 October 2021). In response, I defended my critique of Salas’s theoretical position in terms of Tim Ingold’s doubts about this distinction and pointed out that Salas’s political-economic analysis is nevertheless drawn into a political ontology of what he describes as “multiple realities or worlds” (Salas 2012: 7-8). 2. Although I would not come to fully appreciate the importance of his analysis until now, I was fortunate to be able to argue with van den Berghe, who was a professor of Sociology at the University of Washington when I was completing my dissertation. His incisive analysis of highland Peruvian society and the Reforma Agraria of the 1970s foresaw the agonies later documented by Mayer (2009): “Unless the ethnic factor is taken into account, Cuzco’s great leap forward into the twentieth century may well turn out to

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be a throwback to the ‘socialist empire’ of the fifteenth century” (van den Berghe and G. Primov 1977: 263-264). As I mentioned in my 1981 article, I myself had witnessed the threatening arrogance of the Reforma Agraria bureaucrats, typical of mestizos, in their visit to Q’ero in 1970 (Webster 1981:625). 3. In his 1960–70s research of the Peruvian cordillera, John Ricker found that while early maps identified this western adjunct of the Vilcanota Range as the “Ayakachi”, the runa in the vicinity often called it Mama Rit’i (“mother snow/ice”; pers. cmu.). 4. Luychu spoke Spanish well enough (better than I!) to help me with my conversations in Quechua with the Q’eros and was able to accompany me on occasions later in my research. He was already known by some Q’eros and was appreciated because he avoided asserting superiority over them as would a mestizo. He furthermore shared in their understanding of extraordinary forces, including mountain peaks seen as apu: although he readily joined me in climbing Wamanripa, he told me a story about a predecessor of his who had attempted this years earlier, but encountered and awoke a strange being asleep there, and heard its screams for kilometres as he fled back down the mountain. Tragically, although only in his 30s, Luychu had died in an epidemic by the time I and my family returned to Q’ero in 1977. 5. INC: Instituto Nacional de Cultura (National Institute of Culture). This federal agency was located at the Universidad Nacional Mayor de San Marcos in Lima. As will be discussed later, it was redesignated the Ministry of Culture in about 2010. 6. https://www.google.com/maps/@-­13.5619913,-­71.2608729,28281m/ data=!3m1!1e3?hl=en-­US. Also: https://www.google.com/maps/place/Quince+Mil+08185,+Per u/@-­13.5312767,-­71.4180688,129390m/data=!3m1!1e3!4m5!3m4!1s 0x916f945d5e7b17db:0xc3009653d9758a5b!8m2!3d-­13.229251!4d-­70. 7533264?hl=en-­US (both accessed 2021). 7. To present this Google map in the vicinity of Q’ero, two photos were apparently patched together at a line running north-south from a point between Qolqe Punku and Minasniyoh peaks through Palka Pampa at the point where Qolpa K’uchu River and Qocha Moqo River meet. At very high zoom scale, the map to the east of this line is much clearer than that to the west. Either this imperfection or my own misalignment of the 1963 aerial photos may have resulted in a slightly greater or less angle between Q’ero River and Chuwa Chuwa River, and consequently a wider or narrower embankment on which Q’ero Llaqta (Hatun Q’ero ritual centre) and Q’ero Chullu (the cultivation area between it and the main river junction) are situated.

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8. As with the community pseudonym “Ch’eqec”, also in respect for the Q’eros’ preference for anonymity, I used no real names in either my unpublished 1972 dissertation or any of my subsequent articles. In this retrospective ethnohistory, I will use some real names because, given the passage of two to three generations, their descendants may appreciate my experiences with their predecessors.

References van den Berghe, Pierre. 1974. “Introduction” to Class and Ethnicity in Peru. Special edition of International Journal of Comparative Sociology, XV 3-4. van den Berghe, Pierre and George Primov. 1977. Inequality in the Peruvian Andes: Class and Ethnicity in Cuzco. University of Missouri Press. Burman, Anders. 2018. “Are anthropologists monsters? An Andean dystopian critique of extractivist ethnography and Anglophone-centric anthropology.” HAU: Journal of Ethnographic Theory 8 (1/2): 48–64. de la Cadena, Marisol. 2010. ‘Indigenous Cosmopolitics in the Andes: Conceptual Reflections beyond “Politics”.’ Cultural Anthropology , May 2010, Vol. 25, No. 2, pp. 334-370 Cometti, Geremia. 2015. Lorsque Le Brouillard a Cessé de Nous Ècouter; Changement Climatique et Migrations chez les Q’eros des Andes Péruviennes. Peter Lang SA, Editions scientifiques internationales, Berne. Cometti, Geremia. 2019. “Non humain, trop non humain ?” pp. 211-228 in Au Seuil de la Forêt; Hommage á Philippe Descola L’ Anthropologue de la Nature (eds. G. Cometti et al). Tautem - [email protected]. Cometti, Geremia. 2020. “A Cosmopolitical Ethnography of a Changing Climate among the Q’ero of the Peruvian Andes.” Anthropos 115:2020: 37 - 52. Ferreira, Francisco and Isbell, Billie Jean (eds). 2020. A Return to the Village: Community Ethnographies and the Study of Andean Culture in Retrospective. University of London Press. Flores Ochoa J., Nuñez del Prado J. (eds.). 2005. Q’ero, el último ayllu inka [1983]. Lima: Instituto Nacional de Cultura, Universidad Nacional Mayor de San Marcos. Godelier, M. 1977. Perspectives in Marxist anthropology. Cambridge University Press. INC.  Instituto Nacional de Cultura. 2005. “Diagnostico Integral de las Comunidades de la Nacion Q’ero”. Direccion Regional de Cultura - Cusco. INC. Instituto Nacional de Cultura. 2007. “Plan Integral de Etnodesarrollo para las Comunidades de la Nacion Q’ero, 2008-2017”. Paucartambo. Direccion Regional de Cultura - Cusco, Proyecto Q’ero. Octobre 2007. Mayer, Enrique. 2009. Ugly Stories of the Peruvian Agrarian Reform. Durham, NC: Duke University Press.

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Salas Carreño, Guillermo. 2012. Negotiating Evangelicalism and New Age Tourism through Quechua Ontologies in Cuzco, Peru. A dissertation submitted in partial fulfilment of the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy (Anthropology) in The University of Michigan. Salas Carreño, Guillermo. 2017. “Mining and the living materiality of mountains in Andean societies.” Journal of Material Culture, Vol. 22(2) 133–150 Salas Carreño, Guillermo. 2020. “Indexicality and the Indigenization of Politics: Dancer–Pilgrims Protesting Mining Concessions in the Andes.” The Journal of Latin American and Caribbean Anthropology. Vol. 25, No. 1, pp. 7–27. Salas Carreño, Guillermo. 2021. “Climate Change, Moral Meteorology and Local Measures at Quyllurit’i, a High Andean Shrine” David Haberman (ed.), Understanding Climate Change through Religious Lifeworlds. Indiana University Press. Webster, Steven. 1972. The Social Organization of a Native Andean Community. In partial fulfillment of Ph.D candidacy, Dept of Anthropology, University of Washington. Microfilmed by University Microfilms, A XEROX Company, Ann Arbor, Michigan, 366pp. Webster, Steven. 1973.”Native pastoralism in the South Central Andes”, in Ethnology 12:115-133 (April). Webster, Steven. 1974. “Factors affecting social rank in a native Quechua community” in Bolton, R. and S.  Foreman (eds) Conflictos e integracion en los Andes, pp. 1-33. Webster, Steven. 1980a. “Parentesco y matrimonio en una comunidad nativa Quechua” in Mayer, E. and R. Bolton (eds.), Parentesco y matrimonio en los Andes. Lima: Pontificia Universidad Catolica del Peru.[translation of Webster 1977; re-publication in Spanish forthcoming, 2021] Webster, Steven. 1980b. “Ethnicity in the Southern Peruvian Highlands”, in Preston, D. (ed) Environment, Society and rural change in Latin America. Wiley, London 1980. Webster, Steven. 1981. “Interpretation of an Andean Social and Economic Formation” in Man (N.S.) 16, 616-33. Webster, Steven. 1983a. “Una comunidad quechua indígena en la explotación de múltiples zonas ecológicas ”, in Flores Ochoa J., Nuñez del Prado J. (ed.), Q’ero, el último ayllu inka. Lima: Instituto Nacional de Cultura, Universidad Nacional Mayor de San Marcos, pp. 103-11 Webster, Steven. 1983b. “El pastoreo en Q’ero”, in Flores Ochoa J., Nuñez del Prado J. (eds.), Q’ero, el último ayllu inka. Lima: Instituto Nacional de Cultura, Universidad NacionalMayor de San Marcos, p. 129-154. Webster, Steven. 2016. “Maori Indigeneity and Commodity Fetishism”, Sites (new series) vol 13 no 2: 1-18. Webster, Steven. 2017. “Māori Kinship and Power: Ngāi Tūhoe 1894–1912”, Journal of the Polynesian Society 126(2): 145-180.

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Webster, Steven. 2019a. “Ōhāua te Rangi and Reconciliation in Te Urewera, 1913–1983.” Journal of the Polynesian Society, 2019, 128 (2): 191–224. Webster, Steven. 2019b. “Māori indigeneity and the ontological turn in ethnography” . Sites, N.S. Vol 16 No. 2: 11-36. Webster, Steven. 2021. “Whakamoana-ed (set adrift)? Tūhoe Māori confront commodification, 1894  - 1926.” Journal of the Polynesian Society, 130 (4): 327–350. https://doi.org/10.15286/jps.130.4.327-­350 Webster, Steven. n.d.-a (1969-70). NB 1-6. Field Notebooks from Q’ero. Also genealogies, with xerox copies A-1,2 through E1-2. (postscript 2021: I will be pleased to supply copies of the genealogies to interested Q’eros or their friends!) Webster, Steven. n.d.-b (1977). “Books” 2-5. (untitled typescript of personal ethnographic account of our 1977 return visit to Q’ero; ca. 60  pp double-spaced) Wissler, Holly. 2009. From Grief and Joy We Sing: Social and Cosmic Regenerative Processes in the Songs of Q’Eros, Peru. Phd dissertation, Florida State University Libraries.

CHAPTER 9

Ethnohistorical Changes in Hatun Q’ero

Working “from the outside in”, the following sections of Chaps. 9 and 10 continue to compare Hatun Q’ero as I saw it in the 1970s with Wissler’s and Cometti’s accounts of it in 2009–2015. Guillermo Salas’s penetrating account of Hapu, Cuzco, and national politics will remain my wider touchstone of the community’s “fourth ecological level”. My focus will first be on emigration out of the Hatun Q’ero community; then on changes in population and family size in the community; then on the advent in the community of external agencies and tourism; then on mining interests. Shifting further into the heart of the community, the following sections focus on apparent changes in their subsistence base: herding, maize cultivation, and potato cultivation. Finally in Chap. 10, I will similarly examine apparent changes in community well-being, first in terms of wealth, poverty, and mortality, then in terms of changes in their festivals, and, finally, changes in the ways prestige and leadership are ranked in Hatun Q’ero.

1   Emigration from Hatun Q’ero What was the situation of emigration from Hatun Q’ero in my time? Relying on the version of my 1971 article on Hatun Q’ero republished in Flores et  al. (2005: 103–116), Cometti reports that I had claimed that “no one had ever left Q’ero and that only a few residents left the

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 S. Webster, Returning to Q’ero, Palgrave Studies in Anthropology of Sustainability, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-04972-9_9

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community sporadically to work in haciendas near Q’ero” (2015: 105).1 What I had said in that early article was that “No [Hatun] Q’eros within memory has moved permanently to any commercial centre, and the few who have moved out have settled in adjacent indigenous communities”. In this and other early articles (Webster 1971, 1973: 180, 1977; none of which used the pseudonym “Ch’eqec”) I argued that these adjacent indigenous communities comprised a distinctive “ethnic enclave” (much later to be recognised as the Q’ero Nation). As was reviewed in the previous chapter, I had also elaborated on this in my dissertation, specifying that according to the limited genealogical memories of the Q’eros, 48 individuals had moved out of Hatun Q’ero (into other Q’ero communities) between 1910 and 1970, while 35 from other Q’ero communities had moved into one or another valley of Hatun Q’ero. Compared to a total Hatun Q’ero population of 376 persons in 52 domestic groups composed in 82 nuclear families in 1970, these small proportions of extramural migration reflect what I argued (and reviewed above) was a balanced cycle of intramural mobility in response to the limited potential of waylla and alpaca pasture in each valley of Hatun Q’ero relative to its resident population. However, in 1970 the migration situation in the other Q’ero communities of the ethnic enclave might have been very different. In July, returning to Hatun Q’ero after climbing Qolqe Punku (and attempting but failing to climb Qawiñayoq) with the Canadian John Ricker, I counted about 50 roofed buildings in the empty ritual centre of the Kiku community just east of Hatun Q’ero (Webster n.d. (1969–70), NB 3: 52–3). I assumed that these were the puxllay wasi and depositos in use only for festivals and storage while the Kiku people lived in scattered hamlets as determined by their herding routine, as was the case for Hatun Q’ero (where there were 34 such buildings in their ritual centre). However, a few months later trekking out of Hatun Q’ero to Ocongate, I briefly stayed in the Q’ero community of Hapu (at the eastern end of the ethnic enclave) and found that the ritual centre of Hatun Hapu appeared to have been long-­ deserted (Webster n.d. (1969–70), NB 6: 50b). Only 15 of the 40 buildings even had roofs on them, and many of these had been left unlocked and were in disarray. The only explanation of the Hapu person I was staying with was that the owners had died. Unfortunately, in neither Kiku nor Hapu did I enquire regarding the population in their scattered hamlets. In 1972, I owed the decline to “loss of control of some high pastures” but did not substantiate this (Part I, Chap. 1, section 3). In recent

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correspondence, Guillermo Salas responded that he had never been told anything about this situation, adding that in 2007 most of the houses in Hatun Hapu were empty but closed and cared for, as was normal in Q’ero ritual centres. Had the population of Hapu been radically reduced by emigration prior to 1970 and then for some reason rebounded by 2007? How might this situation be related to that in the community of Kiku, where the population was apparently large and perhaps growing in 1970, as well as Hatun Q’ero where it was apparently growing slightly since 1910 but stable? Cometti was first alerted to some implications of climate change in Q’ero by a representative of the Cuzco NGO “ANDES” (Asociación para la Naturaleza y el Desarrollo Sostenible; “Association for Sustainable Natural Environment and Development”). This specialist had worked with the Q’eros 2004–2008, emphasised their reliance on the Ayakachi glaciers, and attributed the migration of 30% of the Q’eros to Cuzco and other cities to the loss of glaciers through climate change and the resulting damage to their potato crops as well as their herds (Cometti 2015: 23). As I suggested in Chap. 8, Cometti’s subsequent research may have been guided more by Q’eros’ emphasis on changes in rain and temperature rather than recession of the glaciers because they were traditionally evasive of their reliance on alpaca herding and the glacially fed waylla moors. However, his detailed research on migration shows emigrants were a much smaller proportion of the Q’ero communities and that their motives were more varied. Cometti’s investigations of migration in 2011 conclude that while there were about 375 families living in the five communities of the Q’ero Nation (147 families or 40% in Hatun Q’ero, a surprise for me), there were about 71–81 families from all five communities living in Cuzco or the towns of Paucartambo and Ocongate, with a few as far as Lima or other locations (2015: 106). Although he did not attempt a precise census of what he emphasises was a mobile population, his cautious estimate implies that the ANDES report that 30% of Q’eros had emigrated from the Q’ero Nation by 2008 was greatly exaggerated. (As does Cometti, the ANDES report on emigration from “Q’ero” presumably referred to the whole Q’ero Nation rather than Hatun Q’ero alone.) Unlike Cometti, the ANDES representative may have been relying on Q’ero informants in Cuzco and accepting their dramatic estimates at face-value. However, Cometti’s estimate does show that about 17% had emigrated more or less permanently to Cuzco or other mestizo towns by 2011, which is a striking

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exodus even if it were primarily from the more acculturated communities of the Q’ero Nation than Hatun Q’ero. But focusing on the motives of only a selection of possible individual emigrants from the Hatun Q’ero community, Cometti reported that 11 persons still lived in the community but had their “next migration … planned”; 16 persons “do not want to migrate”; and 14 persons “have already migrated” (2015: 106). Although the ambiguity between individuals and families remains, given that 40% of the families of the Q’ero Nation communities were living in Hatun Q’ero, the proportion of committed emigrants from there appears to be even smaller than the 17% emigrants from Q’ero Nation as a whole. Again, the earlier report of the INC (Instituto Nacional de la Cultura) furnishes important although limited information augmenting Cometti’s analysis. The exaggeration of the ANDES report is also indicated by the official report of the Cuzco branch of the INC (National Institute of Culture in Lima) in 2005 that only 18 persons had emigrated permanently from the Q’ero Nation at that time (Cometti 2015: 106). Cometti points out that this was the total reported by the other four Q’ero communities and that data from Hatun Q’ero was not included, but I think it is revealing that the INC noted this was because of “the dispersion of its annexes [hamlets] and the suspicion that the inhabitants have against offering information” (INC 2005: 30 fn13). I also noticed that the INC’s data on the wild animals (e.g., puma, condor, wallata, vicuña, bears) reported in each Q’ero community included no reports at all from Hatun Q’ero, but extensive reports from the other Q’ero Nation communities (INC 2005: 22–24). Many of the wild animals named are revered as “domesticated” representatives of the apu, awke, or pacha mama to which Q’ero shamans offer their rituals and festivals. For instance, the wallata or Andean goose is revered as the reborn spirit of an alpaca slaughtered in the correct manner, head towards the rising sun (Part I, Chap. 2 en5; ch3: 72–79). How might the Hatun Q’ero reluctance to offer information regarding permanent emigrants be related to their reverence towards these animals? My own efforts to participate in shamanistic rituals in Hatun Q’ero in 1970 failed in the face of elaborate evasiveness that may have been “protective” in the sense of shielding them from derision as primitive or superstitious, but had their motives changed significantly by 2005? This “suspicion” or caution regarding what the Hatun Q’eros may have seen as their vulnerabilities in 2005 is consistent with my much earlier experiences as well as Wissler’s, Salas’s, and Cometti’s own experience in his 2011 introduction to the community, mentioned in the previous chapter. Did

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the display of plaintive difficulties, obsequity, or defiant assertiveness that I had confronted in 1969–70, and Wissler showed was intrinsic to their music and dance in 2009, take the shape of this evasive “suspicion” noted by the INC in 2005? Is there a pattern here? A closer look at Cometti’s account of his 2011 introduction to Hatun Q’ero might help to answer this question. Guillermo, a former Hatun Q’ero resident who lived in Cuzco as a practicing shaman, took him into Qolpa K’uchu to stay at his former family home in Charka Pata (see my Fig. 1.3). Apparently the local Hatun Q’eros became suspicious that Guillermo had brought Cometti in to display the community to him as his private tourist client, and an assembly of community representatives had to be called together at Munay T’ika (“Machay Pampa” in my Fig. 1.3) to deliberate on whether or not to allow Cometti to stay as well as interview other Q’eros (2015: 89–94; also 52–53, 103–104). These tensions were apparently eased by discussions, and widespread trust towards Cometti probably began to build when soon after the assembly meeting he enthusiastically joined the local soccer team and played with them against other teams while travelling through Kiku and Hapu. This was “participant observation” in the best anthropological fieldwork tradition. Cometti’s description of Guillermo’s behaviour, his brother Santos, and the Munay T’ika “assembly” maintains his methodological detachment but clearly implies the interplay of serious jealousies between Hatun Q’ero factions and also their effective negotiation and settlement of them. As I pointed out in the previous chapter, this settlement was immediately followed by the announcement to the assembly that lower rates had been negotiated with a minibus service to the town of Ocongate. In conjunction with the shame caste upon Guillermo’s presumption to bring his private enterprise from Cuzco into the community, that might suggest community solidarity in defence of their joint control over the market potential of their shamanist, textile, and other cultural skills in Cuzco. Hatun Q’eros’ apparent evasiveness of the INC’s 2005 questions regarding migration as well as revered wild animals in the altitudes suggests that such solidarity regarding control of their cultural values was already being mobilised several years earlier. Further details of the 2005 INC report suggest that while marketing of shamanist skills by permanent emigrants to Cuzco from any of the Q’ero Nation communities was stigmatised in this way, the sale of such skills by temporary migrants in Cuzco was readily accepted, even among Hatun Q’eros. While all five Q’ero communities reported that some undertook

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temporary emigration to offer their ritual services (shamanistic rituals) especially in Cuzco in the month of August, none of the four communities that responded to the question regarding permanent emigration admitted this motive, instead reporting only that they had emigrated for “work” or “education” of their children (INC 2005: 28–30). That Q’eros of all five communities drew the line in this way, distinguishing between acceptable and unacceptable sellers of shamanist skills on the basis of where they lived on a permanent basis, suggests that the community solidarity in reserving their special skills also extended somewhat into the other four communities. By the time of Cometti’s research six years later, the stigma upon those who had emigrated permanently to Cuzco to sell shaman skills was apparently being put in the derisive terms of “thinking only about money” while neglecting the community’s traditional ritual and festival supplications to the apu, pacha mama, and awki of the region, thus alienating and angering them (2015: 114–117, 149–50, 209–212). It appears that by 2011 “money” and individual enterprise had come to personify the threats that the Q’eros saw they had to deal with if they were to retain community control over their skills and customs. One can see continuities between the long-standing community strategy of evasiveness, plaintive obsequity, or defiant assertiveness experienced by myself, Wissler, and Salas and the defence of community solidarity and control over their traditional customs suggested above. Probably especially among the Hatun Q’eros, their long-established awareness of the market value of their weavings had been extended by their growing reputation as the last of the Incas to other skills such as their singing and dancing tradition and, especially since the 1990s boom in the Cuzco tourist industry, their skills as shamans. Salas’s account of Cuzco political history makes it clear that the market for these skills was established among some of Cuzco’s middle-class mestizo and even Lima’s elite society before it was taken up in the national tourist industry and extended overseas (Salas 2012: 11–12, 29, 34–54). Hatun Q’ero appreciation of the exploitive regional if not global forces they were up against in these aspects of their “fourth ecological level” had probably steadily increased. While the old tradition of pleading the extreme difficulty, indeed the heroism, of their way of life reinforced their community solidarity, the old tradition of being “a mean and hard people” reinforced their confrontation with the market forces of the tourist industry. Their emphasis upon the role of their traditional relationship with apu, pacha mama, and awki and the subversion of this relationship by their neglect of authentic community rituals both

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enjoined maintenance of community solidarity against these threats and increased the wider appreciation or even potential market value of their shamanist skills. I suggest that this same evasive or confrontational strategy explains their emphasis upon the general adversities of temperature and rainfall extremes in their conversations with Cometti, effectively obscuring the key role of the glaciers, waylla moors, and alpaca herding in sustaining their way of life. Similarly to their silence in the INC report regarding the high-altitude animals that represented the apu, their silence regarding the Ayakachi glaciers and their role in caring for the herds of the Hatun Q’ero protected the practical value as well as sanctity of those purer levels of their ecosystem. This understanding of their motives tends to be confirmed by further examination of their dealings with their fourth ecological floor.

2   Community Population While some reports of emigration from Hatun Q’ero appear to have been exaggerated, it is clear that the total population of this community has increased dramatically since 1970. Cometti himself offers no numbers of Hatun Q’ero residents, families, or their migrations, preferring to focus on discussions with individual members of the community rather than pursue quantitative analysis (2015: 106). However, he does briefly compare reports by other investigators between 1955 (Professor O. Nunez del Prado’s expedition) and 2004–5 (2015: 104, citing INC). I have augmented Cometti’s data on Hatun Q’ero by adding my own report for 1970, a 1922 report by the hacienda owner, a report by Wissler in 2009, and by calculating the resulting average number of persons per Hatun Q’ero family: Year 1922 1955 1970 1984 2004–5 2006

Hatun Q’ero:

# of families 40 52 82 94 147 120

# of persons ? 211 376 500 882 ?

Average family size ? 4.05 4.58 5.32 6.00 ?

The INC reported that the population of each of the other four Q’ero Nation communities was less than half that of Hatun Q’ero in 2004–5:

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376 in Markachea, 345 in Kiku, 308 in Hapu, and 228 in Totorani (INC 2005: 27). Cometti points out that “These data show us a demographic increase within the community of Hatun Q’ero which, in 2004–2005, accounted for nearly 40% of the population of Nación Q’ero” (2015: 104). Even without inclusion of my 1970 data between 1955 and 1984, this seems an understatement not only of the increasing population but also the apparent burst in average family size from four to more than five persons in less than two generations. I have questioned the reliability of some of these reports because they ignore the distinction between “families” and domestic groups (important among all ‘peasant’ cultures but crucial in the Hatun Q’ero ecosystem). In 1970 I had found that the 82 nuclear families were organised into 52 domestic groups. However, the consistency shown by calculations of “family” (i.e., “nuclear family”) size is reassuring that reports of the total number of individual persons in the community is relatively reliable. Interestingly, Wissler’s report for 2006, only one or two years after Cometti’s data from the INC but apparently reducing the number of families by nearly 20%, was given to her by the secretary of the Hatun Q’ero “Directive Committee”, an official community representative required by the federal law establishing comunidades indigenas (“indigenous communities”) (Wissler 2009: 147fn4; Salas 2012: 181–183). The Hatun Q’ero secretary may have been reporting the number of domestic groups rather than nuclear families, insofar as the former are far more important, especially in maize cultivation. If this accounts for the disparity, and the proportion of domestic groups to families I reported in 1970 is considered, the number reported to Wissler for 2006 is not far out of proportion to Cometti’s data on the previous year. If the other figures are fairly reliable, the population of the Hatun Q’ero community appears to have increased by 78% between 1955 and 1970, by 33% between 1970 and 1984, yet again by 76% between 1984 and 2005! In 1970 I was aware of the surprising increase: as described above, this as well as the balance of intramural migration between the four main valleys over several generations convinced me that the potential for further alpaca herding on the waylla moors of Hatun Q’ero was probably saturated. That the rate of population increase was apparently more than halved in the next 14 years is consistent with my conclusion. But this leaves the apparent fact that it almost doubled again between 1984 and 2004 all the more surprising and certainly requires further explanation. While Cometti noted this “demographic increase … within the community of Hatun Q’ero …

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accounted for nearly 40% of the population of Nación Q’ero”, his methodological focus remained on their own expressed plans and reasons for emigration out of the community to other locations in the Cuzco region. Consequently, considering the Hatun Q’eros emphasis on the increasing difficulties of their life resulting from weather extremes, we are left to ask not only why the population continued to increase so dramatically, but also why so many remained in the Hatun Q’ero community compared to the other Q’ero communities. The INC’s 2004–5 census furthermore shows that the increase was fairly proportional across all four valleys of the Hatun Q’ero community but disproportional to the smaller increase in the four other Q’ero Nation communities, and radically disproportional to small average increases in all but one other community in the entire province of Paucartambo (INC 2005: 25–28). Significantly, the exception among other districts of the province was Kallacancha, the rapidly expanding market town half-way between the provincial capital of Paucartambo and Hatun Q’ero mentioned in the previous chapter (INC 2005: 61). Closer examination of my 1969–70 data enables further comparisons of the population changes in each of the four main river valleys of Hatun Q’ero. On the basis of my Fig. 4.5 showing the relative proportions of pasture, herd, and population, I calculated the approximate number of persons living in the hamlets of each valley in 1970 (from west to east in my Fig. 1.3): Chuwa Chuwa Mayo (“river”): Yawarkancha/Kolpa Pampa/Wañuna Pampa: Qochamoqo Mayo Qolpa K’uchu Mayo

81 60 90 137

Making adjustments to the different valley, hamlet, or “annex” names used by the INC report, Wissler, and Cometti (e.g., Challmachimpana for what had been known as Yawarkancha, etc., in 1970, and including Munay T’ika, Charkapata, and perhaps Irwaconcha in what had together been known as Qolpa K’ucho Mayo in my day), between 1970 and 2005 the approximate population in each main valley had increased as follows: Chuwa Chuwa Mayo (“river”): Yawarkancha/Kolpa Pampa/Wañuna Pampa: Qochamoqo Mayo Qolpa K’uchu Mayo

81to 156 (92.6% increase) 60 to 102 (70% increase) 90 to 216 (140% increase) 137 to 342 (149.6% increase)

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The eight to ten small families that lived in the qeshwa level along Hatun Q’ero Mayo between Hatun Q’ero and Ch’arka Pampa or Tiraniy Pampa in 1970 (but known as Hatun Rumiyoc by Wissler and the others’ time) appear to have also increased in total population from about 20 to perhaps 66 persons. Insofar as these qeshwa homesteads had been characterised as waxcha or soq’asqa (“impoverished” or “cursed”) in my day, this tripling of the population in these locations compounds the question of why this increase had happened. From the above calculations it appears that the average increase of Hatun Q’ero population in all four of its main valleys between 1970 and 2005 was just over 113% in 35 years. For comparison, the average annual population increase estimated for all five districts in the province of Paucartambo was only 1.6% per year between 1994 and 2000, ranging from 1.16% (in the district of Paucartambo itself, in which Markachea and Totorani as well as Hatun Q’ero are located) to 2.93% in Cay Cay district (INC 2005: 25). If the average annual increase for the Paucartambo province were to be sustained for the six years between 1994 and 2000, this would have been a total population increase in the province of 9.6%. If this average annual increase for the province were to be sustained for 35 years, the total population increase of the province would be 56%, or less than half the average increase of the Hatun Q’ero population in the same time. Even this rough comparison makes it clear that the large and steady increases throughout the hamlets of Hatun Q’ero 1970–2005 require explanation. The 2005 INC report was apparently concerned only with the current demography of the Q’ero Nation and appears to have been unaware of the preceding population boom as well as its apparently uneven distribution between its five communities. The 2007 report did mention in passing that there was less fallowing of cultivation plots “due to population growth” and misuse of natural resources “due to demographic pressure” (2007: 16, 17), but nowhere elaborates on this, nor does it appear to have examined any sources on Q’ero for such information, past or present. Such a population increase regardless of the outpouring of Q’eros’ discontent with the increasing adversities of the local climate reported in detail by Cometti requires an explanation. The apparent fact that emigration from the Q’ero Nation communities was not as extensive as was supposed makes this situation all the more paradoxical. Indeed, it has raised further questions: for instance, if, as I argued at length, the central role of alpaca and llama herding posed population limits in each valley 1910–1970,

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what had changed? Had something taken the place of this resource in support of the growing population since the 1980s? Why was there no such increase apparent in other Q’ero Nation communities by 2005? The apparent depopulation in Hapu but not Kiku that I observed in their ritual centres in 1970 may have to remain unexplained compared to these much more obvious questions.

3   External Agencies and Tourism What other important changes appear to have occurred in the Hatun Q’ero community since the 1970s? To continue this approach from the point of view of its “fourth ecological floor”, what external agents or agencies had become an influence in the community? In what ways had the boom in the Cuzco tourist industry especially since the 1990s affected the community? Wissler was herself a leader of mountaineering tours in southern Peru for 20 years before beginning her research in Hatun Q’ero, but does not elaborate on tourism beyond her focus on the music and dance traditions of the community (2009: v, 13–14). Salas’s descriptions of tourism are comprehensive on the wider Cuzco region, and especially on the Quyllurit’i pilgrimage, and focusses on Hapu in terms of evangelism as well as tourism (2012: 172–398, 2019, 2020a, 2020b). However, recognising the major differences between the Hapu and Hatun Q’ero communities, he does not presume to raise details regarding the latter. Salas as well as Cometti report the rapid increase of tourism in the Cuzco region in the 1990s following the final military suppression of the virtual civil war with the Marxist “Shining Path” uprising 1980–1991 (Cometti 2015: 25; Salas 2012: 47). Highland peasant villages in southern Peru had often been caught between these two forces, but most of the violence (including over 70,000 deaths) was centred in Ayacucho province to the west and did not directly affect the Cuzco region (Theidon 2012). The nation-wide notoriety of the Q’ero communities and rising political influence of indigeneity movements by 2004 was reinforced by the intervention of President Toledo’s wife Eliane Karp, a Stanford-trained anthropologist who resolved to deliver a large donation to the sufferers of unusually cold weather and snow in Q’ero (Cometti 2015: 37–38). The scandal that the donation got no further than the three Q’ero communities closest to Paucartambo and lower in altitude (K’allakancha, Ccachupata, and Pucara) finally resulted in their exclusion from official

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national recognition of the other five Q’ero communities, further to the west and more exposed to the altitudes of the Ayakachi Range, as the “Q’ero Nation” (Marcachea, Totorani, Hatun Q’ero, Kiku, and Hapu). This official recognition shamed the three excluded communities as no longer following true Q’ero kustumri (traditional “customs”) as the descendants of the Incas. President Toledo’s wife also visited Munay T’ika in Qolpa K’uchu valley, and had plans to have a road built into Q’ero, but “this proposal gave rise to a number of conflicts within the community” (Cometti 2015: 38 fn39; this might be the road shown on Cometti’s map, discussed above in Chap. 8). Cometti reviews the tourism statistics reflecting the rapid expansion since 2005 of “mystical tourism” centred in Cuzco, extending the long-­ established popularity of visits to the Macchu Picchu ruins to Amazonian as well as Andean shamans operating in Cuzco itself, the former but not the latter offering the psychotropic drug ayahuasca (2015: 53–56; 62–67). Salas calls this commercialisation of shamanist skills “New Age” shamanism (2012: 239). The shamans of Hatun Q’ero (variously termed paqo, hampiq (“curer”), maych’a or watuq (“diviner”) as well as pampamisayoq or altomisayoq) are the most prestigious, even globally. Cometti reports that “in August, most shamans of this community spend a month in Cuzco to conduct ceremonies with locals and tourists”. This happens because August 1st is widely considered to be the awakening of Paccha Mama and fertility of the earth (Cometti 2015: 169–170). I reported that in Hatun Q’ero, this occasion is celebrated in the family festival of Ahata Uxuchichis (“Santiago”) marking the completion of the maize harvest and triumphant salutation of the male llamas that have carried it up to the hamlets (Part I, Chaps. 3 and 5; Fig. 4.1). Q’ero were also very busy with planting of potatoes at this time, also involving shamans as papa hampiq, so one must suppose that these excursions to Cuzco further stretched their resources. Although Cometti does not mention what number of Hatun Q’eros this may involve, he emphasises that they also accompany tour groups to Macchu Picchu or Lake Titicaca in Bolivia, as well as frequently travelling to Europe or the USA.  Permanent emigration had gradually increased so that services of the only two altomisayoq were devoted to “running after money” in Cuzco instead of organising them “for the prosperity of their community” (Cometti 2015: 223). Cometti also reports that many other individuals from Hatun Q’ero regularly visit Cuzco to pursue other enterprises for several days or weeks, especially selling their famous Q’ero weavings in ponchos, likllas (mantas,

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or females’ shoulder-capes), or ch’ullus (peaked knitted caps with triangular ear-flaps) or working as construction labourers (2015: 107). He does not estimate how many Hatun Q’eros were doing this in 2011, but during the time of my research in 1969–70 a few were regularly visiting Cuzco for small purchases or community business. Q’ero weavings had already become famous by the 1960s, and many were made in Hatun Q’ero to barter or sell to cholo comerciantes (“merchants”) who visited the community and then brought them to Cuzco for retailers to sell. The Q’eros were known for the special weaving technique called doble cara (“double faced”) which resulted in full figures on both sides of the textile and for their previous use of local natural dyestuffs (already replaced in my day by their purchase of the brighter and more varied commercial aniline dyes). I myself bartered for several ponchos and likllas with axes or sickles I had carried in for this purpose, aware of their value for maize cultivation in the monte. Already by the 1970s John Cohen’s films and recordings of Q’ero music and weavings had displayed their artistry internationally (Wissler 2009: 31, 66fns12, 13, 158, 252). However, so far as I knew, none of the paqo or misayoq shamans of Hatun Q’ero plied their skills in Cuzco. Surprisingly, development of New Age or mystical tourism in Cuzco appears to have resulted in few actual tourist visits to any of the Q’ero Nations by 2015. Cometti reports that although private tourist and government agencies contested alternative plans for developing mystical tourism in the Hatun Q’ero community, fewer than 100 tourists a year actually visited any of the Q’ero Nation communities in 2010 (2015: 54–56). Nevertheless, he considers tourism to be one of the most important factors in the future of Hatun Q’ero (2015: 227–228). While the plans of some agencies avoided adverse social or environmental impacts, others proposed “luxury tourism” housed in lodges built in the community for that purpose, as opposed to “home-stay” tourism that would offer Q’eros only token cash income. Meanwhile, the few tourists who actually visit the Q’ero communities come with guides, cooks, and care-takers for their horses, and usually sleep in tents, thus offering little benefit and potential abuses for the community. Although his description of the Munay T’ika assembly upon the occasion of his first visit in 2011 suggests that the Hatun Q’ero community was concerned to control how tourism was brought there, no further details are supplied regarding such tours, their effect on other Hatun Q’ero valleys, or wider community efforts to control them.

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According to the INC reports, by 2005 the growing tourist industry and iconic role of the Q’ero Nation as the last of the Incas had resulted in the local involvement of several other sorts of government and private corporate agencies in Hatun Q’ero (INC 2005: 55–58). Of these several sorts of external agencies, private as well as public schooling is probably one of the more important. Wissler’s report on the operation of the government primary school that was established in the Hatun Q’ero ritual centre suggests that it had not changed much since the 1970s (our two children had briefly attended during their visits in 1969–70). By Wissler’s time it still involved only one teacher on a part-time basis for all six grades and was attended by only 10–20 children who would descend from the hamlets and stay for a few nights in the puxllay wasi of the few parents who could spare their assistance in ongoing herding or cultivation tasks (2009: 25–26, fn17). Wissler reports that some parents lived in or closer to the ritual centre so that their children could attend, and I suspect that this change reflected the effort of poorer families who (as in the 1970s) had given up alpaca herding in hope that their children could benefit from more exposure to Spanish and misti cultural norms. Unlike in my day, their conscious strategy may have been to facilitate temporary or even permanent emigration. More significantly, Wissler goes on to briefly report that already by 2000 a large new primary school had been established by the private enterprise Puma Peru in Munay T’ika that had a surprisingly large regular attendance of about 60 students (2009: 25–26 fn17). By 2008 another small government primary school had been established in Chewa Chewa attended by about 20 students, and by 2009 another such primary school was being built in Qocha Moqo. These facts throw some light on the largest increase in population in the community by 2005 (nearly 150% in Qolpa K’uchu valley, where Munay T’ika is located) and the similar increases in the other valleys. Although these large increases had been occurring since 1984, especially the developments in Munay T’ika established in 2000 by the Puma Peru enterprise may have responded to as well as prompted them. That Qolpa K’uchu valley probably remained the most isolated in the community raises the further question of why Puma Peru chose to build its school there, as well as why its population growth was the highest. The Peruvian president’s wife Eliane Karp’s visit to Munay T’ika in 2004–5 may bear on these questions, but is not pursued by Wissler, Cometti, or Salas.

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The INC’s 2005 report makes it clear that by that time alot more was going on in Hatun Q’ero than is examined in either Wissler’s or Cometti’s later reports. It appears that the community’s “fourth ecological level” had moved in locally. I suggest that already by 2000 the reciprocal effects of tourism, private and government enterprise, schooling, the disproportionate increases in population, and the popular reputation of the Q’ero communities had concerted the attention of all parties nationally. By 2004, prompted by the United Nation’s declaration of the “International Decade of Indigenous Communities” 1994–2004, the national office of the INC in Lima conducted a census and published its diagnostic summary of the Q’ero Nation communities (INC 2005: 6–8). The explicit intention of the INC’s intervention was to stem the assimilation of authentic Q’ero customs into the dominant society of the state and to instead implement “development plans according to the Q’eros’ own desires, values, and goals” (INC 2005: 6–8; Wissler 2009: 35–36, fns 30–33). Throughout 2005–6 Wissler attended a series of meetings organised by the INC and hosted by its Cuzco branch. Her brief but revealing account merits repetition here: During 2005–2006 the INC and the Paucartambo Municipality hosted regular meetings that were open to any entity working in Q’eros, along with the five Q’eros communities’ directive committees and any Q’eros people who wished to attend. These meetings were open platform discussions, with presentations by organizations and individuals about their current and future projects in Q’eros, followed by immediate feedback from the Q’eros, in order to determine the ten-year plan of ethnodevelopment. For equality, the location of the meetings rotated among Cusco, Paucartambo, and the five Q’eros communities, and presentations were either in Quechua, or immediately translated into Quechua. Some of the entities that attended were Peru’s Ministry of Health, and the following NGOs: PRONAMACHCS (Programa Nacional de Manejo de Cuencas Hidrográficas y Conservación de Suelos [water cleanliness, conservation, and reforestation projects]); PERCSA (Proyecto Especial Regional Camelidos Sudamericanos: llama, alpaca, and vicuña herd management projects); ACCA (Asociación para la Conservación de la Cuenca Amazónica: land and cultural conservation projects); and Heifer International Foundation (cameloid and potato production projects). (Wissler 2009: 36 fn33)

Still other agencies reported by the INC to be involved in the five communities of the Q’ero Nation by 2005 were Puma Peru (education and

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sanitation), ANDES (Asociación para la Naturaleza y el Desarrollo Sostenible (“Association for Natural and Sustainable Development” in support of indigenous communities)), CEDAC (ethno-development and eco-tourism); KRYON (Italian sponsorship of education); CONACS (technical advice on vicuñas and weaving); and INC itself (ethno-­ development) (INC 2005: 55–58). Although ostensibly devoted to “education and sanitation”, by 2011 PUMAPERU was also operating tours to Europe featuring a Q’ero shaman living in Hapu but operating out of their office in Cuzco (Salas 2012: 172–173; Urpichay Events. http:// www.pumaperu.org/puma_expeditions/). One must ask if any of the other external agencies operating in Hatun Q’ero had additional interests in marketing the community’s traditional skills. In addition to these sorts of agencies, Cometti as well as Salas emphasised the conflicting influence of religious interests among the Q’ero communities since the 1990s, including the Catholic church’s characteristically mestizo disdain of such traditional customs, European Jesuit priests’ support of them in conjunction with such projects and road-building and electrification (in Kiku), and evangelical or pentecostal churches’ concerted repression of Q’ero customs, including the community leadership system of varayoq (see my Figs. 10.1 and 10.2; Salas 2012: 21–29, 252–265; Cometti 2015: 96–103, 140–145, 210–214). Although I was unaware of any evangelical or pentecostal influences in the 1970s, progressive forms of Catholicism were beginning to have effects even in Hatun Q’ero. Since the decline and expropriation of the Q’ero haciendas 1950–60s, it had become increasingly difficult for Hatun Q’eros to obtain the sacraments of baptism or marriage that had been routinely sponsored by their hacienda land-lords for decades. In 1969–70 my wife Lois and I were in the Hatun Q’ero ritual centre when a progressive Jesuit priest visited from Spain, held a requiem mass, and performed a group-marriage of several young couples. Although the marriages were performed in front of the church, to the amazement of the Q’eros he had the ancient roofless chapel on Qora Marka (the hill overlooking Q’ero Llaqta) readied for the mass and the alter turned to face the people, as was the new practice (Webster n.d. (1969–70), NB 2: 24ff). As mentioned in Chap. 8, during our return visit with our two boys in 1977 we were hosted in Ocongate by Danish workers helping a progressive Jesuit priest. Unfortunately, I do not remember whether he was the well-known Father Peter Hansen who in the 1980–90s organised road and hydraulic projects in Kiku and lived there for three years (Salas 2012: 254–5, 257).

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A fuller sense of the history of conflicting interests that probably lay behind INC’s meetings was the break-up of the nascent “Q’ero Nation” by 2006 mentioned above. Salas reports President Toledo’s inauguration at Machu Picchu in 2001, Toledo’s wife Elaine Karp’s visit to Q’ero and resulting conflicts between Q’ero communities in 2004, and the role of Hatun Q’ero shaman in a reception for the Dalai Lama in Cuzco in 2006; together these occasions illustrate the interplay between the rising national interest in Q’ero indigeneity, Cuzco’s own interests in it defended against the national government’s neoliberal priorities in the 1990s, and the divergent interests of the Q’ero communities themselves (Salas 2012: 119–20, 180–189, 214–5). However sincerely supportive of the Q’ero Nation the INC report and extensive project was intended to be, the dominant influence of neoliberal economic policies in Peru since the 1990s leads one to suspect that the insinuation of commercial interests, at least in textiles, clothing styles, the tourist industry, and mining, lay behind the influence of many government as well as non-profit or private agencies, some already established in the Q’ero communities. One would hope that the interests of the religious agencies would ease any resulting conflicts but, as Salas described in Hapu, some may have exacerbated them instead. These national and even global issues bearing on the Cuzco region reflect the rising influence of indigeneity and anti- or post-colonial movements world-wide by 2000. The INC report was a response to the United Nation’s declaration of the “International Decade of Indigenous Communities” 1994–2004. These issues might be seen to have come to another climax in April 2011, leading Cometti to postpone his first visit to Hatun Q’ero. The Genographic Project of National Geographic had arranged a visit to the Q’ero Nation to take DNA samples “to establish whether or not the Q’eros were the real last descendants of the Incas” (Cometti 2015: 24, fn29).2 This plan was aborted and a press release signed jointly by the Cuzco organisation ANDES and the president of the Hatun Q’ero community responded that “The Q’ero Nation knows that its history, its past, present, and future, is our Inca culture, and we don’t need research called genetics to know who we are. We are Incas, always have been and always will be.” Assuming the “president” of Hatun Q’ero was the president of its Directive Board, and that the Hatun Q’ero traditional varayoq leaders (“staff-bearers”; my Figs. 10.1, 10.2) as well as the community’s relatively new General Assembly agreed with this president, the Hatun Q’ero people were probably left wondering about the conflict between “research called genetics” and the president’s bold claim.

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Similarly, already in 1969 soon after I was settled in Hatun Q’ero, several of them knew that the USA had landed on the moon, and at least one asked me quite seriously if I (being from the USA) could bring them some rocks from the moon. While misti would see their response differently, in many ways I had yet to learn the Q’ero community was both cosmopolitan and “remote”. Wissler’s brief comment on the INC programme raises another important implication: potential conflict between traditional authorities in the Q’ero communities and new authorities deriving from their formal or legal status as comunidades campesinas or “peasant communities”: All eight communities of the group had received their titles as separate communities in the 1970s and 1980s, the same time many Andean communities received legal community status after the agrarian reforms of the previous decade. This creation of separate community status contributed to the decline of communal reciprocal relations among the original Q’eros ayllu groups and instead encouraged individual community-protection and competition. The formation of La Nación Q’eros is a modern-day response to this social disintegration, in an effort to revive and encourage communal solidarity. (Wissler 2009: 35, fns31, 32)

Her example of the resulting conflict was the formal titles awarded to Kiku and Hapu in 1986–7, which led to Kiku charging “a per-person fee” for Hapu’s cultivation of maize in the lower altitudes of the Kiku River that had traditionally been shared between them (see Kiku Mayo in my Figs. 1.2 and 3.3 in Part I; the difference of geological substrates between which the river runs was probably the reason all the maize plots were on Kiku’s side of the formalised boundary). The INC’s own understanding of the potential conflict between the new statutory authorities and the traditional varayoq of the Q’ero communities was more optimistic than Wissler’s: One can nevertheless appreciate the coexistence of the two forms of organisation, the traditional [varayoq] and the formal required by the State, which can complement one another without major difficulty. The interaction between these two forms of organisation is able to manifest the capacity of adaptation of the Q’eros and the manner in which they continue to incorporate new forms of organisation conserving and recreating their ancestral organisation. (INC 2005: 53; [my translation and brackets])

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Salas traces the history of indigenismo (“indigenism”) and the statutory recognition of comunidades indigenas (“indigenous communities”) and comunidades campesinas (“peasant communities”) in Peru since the 1920s (2012: 90–94, 177 fn4). This is important background for better understanding the ambiguities between traditional and statutory authority that may have emerged in the Q’ero Nation. The earlier Peruvian indigeneity movements of the 1920–30s resulted in a legal status of comunidades indigenas that left haciendas in oppressive colonial control over their indios. On the other hand, the Agrarian Reform instituted by the national military regime 1969–1975, and influenced by a social class perspective of earlier Marxist movements rather than ethnic distinctions, changed their legal status to “peasant” communities rather than “indigenous” communities and effectively dismantled what was left of the old hacienda regimes, whether they presided over mestizo peasants or runa (“indios”) as in the case of Hatun Q’ero. Since their recognition as comunidades campesinas, the new statutory authorities of the Q’ero communities have been formally composed of a Junta Directiva (“Directive Board” of president, vice-president, secretary, treasurer, etc.) and the General Assembly which meets monthly and holds power over the Directive Board (Salas 2012: 251–252, fn17). My research in Hatun Q’ero was concurrent with this Agrarian Reform, but the liberation from its hacienda regime had already been accomplished under Professor Oscar Nuñez del Prado’s leadership 1955–1964. Although instituted nationally in 1969, these new offices had not yet been established in Hatun Q’ero in 1969–70, nor did I encounter any sign of them during our return to the community in 1977. As mentioned in Chap. 8 (endnote 3), in 1970 two of their mestizo representatives stayed with me for one night during their brief visit to Hatun Q’ero, and I had to dissociate myself the best I could from their arrogant behaviour in the community meeting they convened. Salas’s account of the associated changes in community authority, like that of the INC, is aware of the potential conflict between the traditional system of varayoq and the new system, but explicitly rejects the assertion of another commentator that the traditional system is “parallel to and independent from” the statutory system: The new structure of authorities belonging to the Junta Directiva was included within the previously existing system of posts functioning in the community. The [varayoq] staff bearers continued to exist focusing their

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roles in the carnival festivities and organizing communal works. Meanwhile, the Junta Directiva represented the community in front of all the external agents, among them the institutions of the state such as the National Institute of Culture, the Ministry of Agriculture or NGOs. These authorities also assumed the responsibilities of maintaining the community records and documents. Through conversations with people I can say that any male was expected to assume at least a couple if not all the posts of the staff bearer [varayoq] system as well as several positions in the Junta Directiva in order to arrive at a status of a respected kuraq, elder. (Salas 2012: 251; my emphases and brackets)

As was seen above in Chap. 7 of Part I, Salas’s understanding of the hierarchy of leadership and role of the varayoq in such communities suggests this had not changed significantly in Hatun Q’ero since 1970. It even appears likely that the enterado roles of mandon and personero that I had described, although originating under hacienda control, may have continued to serve as “buffers” in the form of the Junta Directiva insulating the real leaders of Hatun Q’ero from intrusive authority. In any case, if the variety of “external agents” that were already involved in the Q’ero communities, whether government, non-profit, private, or religious, were to be at odds on an issue with the varayoq or the kuraq elders who had gained key leadership positions, conflicts such as that reported by Wissler would arise. If either the Directive Board or General Assembly representing a given community or annex/hamlet sided with the external agent, this conflict could develop intramurally in the community. If this conflict were exposed to statutory national authority, the solidarity of the community would be vulnerable and could be riven.

4  Mining Modern industrial mining began to boom in the 1990s throughout the highlands along with tourism in the Cuzco region. Industrial mining in Peru had been established since earliest colonisation under Spain but has been accelerated by transnational corporations since the national mobilisation of neoliberal governance in Peru. This began under Fujimori’s administration in the 1990s, was renewed in 2006 under the Garcia administration and, more carefully playing the politics of indigeneity movements, the following Humala administration in 2011 (Salas 2012: 104, 398–400). As mentioned earlier, Salas traces the rising confrontations between the Lima

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and Cuzco regions in terms of aggressive neoliberal economics pressed by the former and resisted by the latter, often in terms of new indigeneity movements arising in the Cuzco tourist industry. Cometti’s account of mining in the vicinity of the Q’ero Nation raises the emergence of conflicting interests among Q’eros as well as the private and federal interests involved (2015: 56–58). Again, his main source of information was the federal agency INC (National Institute of Culture). He reports that although there was no active mining in the communities of the Q’ero Nation in 2015, managers of mining companies had visited the Q’ero communities of Kiku, Hapu, and Totorani (on each side of Hatun Q’ero), urging them to allow their prospectors and consider approval of their offers. He also mentions that there was some evidence of illegal prospecting and blasting for gold. The ritual centre of the Q’ero community of Totorani is on the opposite bank of the Chuwa Chuwa River only a short distance upstream from the ritual centre of Hatun Q’ero (see my Figs. 1.3, 8.4). Two of the Totorani hamlets had developed opposing views regarding mining. Tandañapata, occupied by seven families and located about 10 km west of the Totorani ritual centre, refused to receive representatives of mining companies, while Ccoluyoc, occupied by 17 families and located across the river downstream of Chuwa Chuwa hamlet of Hatun Q’ero, accepted their visits (Cometti 2015: 36, Map 2; INC 2005: 27). One result of this stand-off within the Totorani community was that Tandañapata residents refused to attend community meetings at the ritual centre, and the visits of mining managers benefitted from their absence. All this was happening just across the river from Hatun Q’ero, where the hamlets of Chuwa Chuwa and Yawarkancha/Qolpa Pampa are considerably intermarried with the Totorani hamlets. Although federal law requires consultation and 100% approval by indigenous communities that might be affected by nearby mines, successive administrations have been lobbied by the rapid expansion and influence of transnational private mining interests exploiting neoliberal reforms, local mining representatives are quick to act while the law is difficult to implement, and since 2011 President Humala maintained a studied ambiguity regarding what sort of indigenous communities are covered by the law. Mining was not, of course, a new thing to the Q’eros. On top of their entire colonial history, sometime in the early 1900s a mine had actually been established and worked in Hatun Q’ero in the vicinity of the pass between Yawarkancha/Qolpa Pampa and Qocha Moqo (see Minas Q’asa pass; Fig. 1.3). I recognise the background of the spectacular cover-photo

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on Puna, Qheswa, and Yunga (Flores and Fries 1989) as the steep slopes of waste scree from the mine in Minas Q’asa. The foreground shows four Q’ero men ploughing the slope opposite the mine waste with the chaki takla (“foot-ploughs”) and dressed in their traditional ch’ullu (woven cap) and unqu (sleeveless shirt). I neglected to enquire about the history of this mine, and apparently neither did Cometti. I did hear that decades earlier the Hatun Q’ero notable Manwel Chura Kurus had hidden out in what I assumed to be this mine for several years after his escape from prison for murder of a comerciante, both of which allegations Manwel coolly denied to me (Webster n.d. (1969–70), NB 5: 40; see Fig.  9.1, where he sits repairing a costal (“sack”) outside his home in Yawarkancha valley). He was also said to be the wealthiest person in the community, and I will return to his situation later. By 2006–7 the confrontations of national mining policy with increasingly influential indigeneity movements had reached a pitch in Cuzco that Hatun Q’eros would certainly have known about and perhaps joined. In 2010 Marisol de la Cadena, whose account of Indigenous Mestizos (2000) insightfully examined the ambiguities of runa indigeneity and misti mestizo ethnicity in Cuzco, described an extraordinary protest march by peasants and runa of the Ausangate region in the central plaza of Cuzco that might have been joined by resident Hatun Q’eros (de la Cadena 2010: 338). The negotiations that were demanded by the protest march were finally successful in cancellation of plans intended to industrially mine Sinakara, the glaciated peak in the Ayakachi Range that stands over the Sanctuary of Quyllurit’i, discussed above in Chap. 8. De la Cadena blurs the important geographical distinction between Ausangate, the highest peak in the Vilcanota Range, and Sinakara, a minor peak of the Ayakachi Range that rises 20 kilometres to the northwest of Ausangate, separated from it by the major Urcos-Ocongate-Marcapata highway and the valley through which it runs. Nevertheless, Ausangate is recognised by everyone in the Cuzco region as the highest and most dominant mountain peak and is equally revered by those in annual pilgrimage to Quyllurit’i as Sinakara peak and glacier above the shrine. De la Cadena emphasises that Nazario Turpo, the son of the famous shaman Mariano Turpo, told her that the protest was needed to avoid the anger of the Apu Ausangate: “Ausangate would not allow the mine in Sinakara, a mountain over which it presided. Ausangate would get mad, could even kill people. To prevent that killing, the mine should not happen” (de la Cadena 2010: 339).

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Fig. 9.1  Qolpa Pampa: Manwel Chura Kurus (1970)

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Marisol de la Cadena also published an historical account of “cosmopolitical” conflicts led by Mariano Turpo, father of Nazario and a shaman leader of the nearby runa community of Lauramarca who guided confrontations with the hacienda that owned Lauramarca lands until it was finally expropriated (de la Cadena 2015). It is perhaps significant that Wissler’s arriero (“horse wrangler”, also her guide, cook, and translator) on her many early trips into Hatun Q’ero was a Mario Turpo, originally from the same Ocongate area (2009: 14), and perhaps a relative of Mariano and his son Nazario. The community of Lauramarca is located east of the Ayakachi Range and just west Ausangate peak, and in 1969 had been the hacienda where I had purchased Atuh saruh (“steps on foxes”), the aged but strong horse I rode crossing between the hamlets, passes, and ritual centre of Hatun Q’ero (Fig. 8.1; he was also liable to break through the misleadingly hard k”unkuna “cushion plants” surface of the waylla bogs, so I had to avoid them when on horseback). Atuh saruh was also twice turned loose by mischievous Q’eros to flee back to his new home at the Hacienda Ccapana, and they enjoyed describing how I had to carry my own saddle when walking back out the 20 kilometres to recover him. Salas published an article in 2017 on mining enterprises in Cuzco and Ancash regions and mentioned the protest that erupted in defence of the Quyllurit’i Sanctuary area against the mining of the apu overlooking it (2017: 143–144). As I discussed in Chap. 8, there is considerable confusion regarding the names used by local runa as well as mestizos and even geographers regarding the Ayakachi peaks. Salas identifies the Quyllurit’i site as overlooked by Qolqe Punku peak rather than Sinakara peak, where it is located according to both de la Cadena and Cometti (these two peaks are several kilometres apart). Because Salas had attended the pilgrimage for many years and published extensively as well as insightfully on it, his apparent mis-identification supports my suspicion (and John Ricker’s evidence) that the Ayakachi peaks are often known by different names depending on which side of the Ayakachi Range the local runa live. If this suspicion is correct, it might call into question the geographic accuracy we assume is claimed by Q’eros and other runa in their reciprocal relations with specific apu, as well as the intercession of their shamans in this regard. How might this apparent ambiguity be approached from the point of view of ethnographic ontology or “cosmopolitics” explored to varying extents by Salas and Cometti as well as de la Cadena? Closer historical attention to what cosmopolitical researchers have called Andean “earth-beings” or “place-beings” may reveal further such

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ambiguities. In 1969–70 the Hatun Q’ero tended to be more concerned with awki (local hills or outcroppings) than apu, the more distant glaciated peaks (the role of awki is described briefly in Part I, Chaps. 3, 4, 5, 6, and 7)). Awki were often also identified with local ch’ullpas (“tomb” or ancient ruins), said to be the hide-outs of ñawpa machu (“ancients”, spirits of an antisolarian world). The two or three human skulls displayed in a crevice near the entry to the Q’ero Llaqta ritual centre were said by some Q’eros to be those of ñawpa machu (Webster n.d. (1969–70), NB 6: 11, 21b). These different “extraordinary powers” (as I described them) were distinguished from one another and taken more or less for granted (apparently awki was also an honorific applied affectionately to old men). In the accounts of both Wissler and Cometti, the focus of contemporary Hatun Q’eros appears to have shifted from awki towards much more distant apu and generalised pacha mama than was the case in the 1970s. Is this particular change a result of changes in their practical relationship with the “fourth ecological level” of their community, changes in ethnographic approach, changes in the Q’eros’ epistemology, or changes in Andean ontology? The rising threat of international mining interests since the 1990s, and mobilisation of protests in Cuzco, may have been a factor in the shift of Q’ero attention from awki to apu. Peter Gose has argued provocatively but convincingly that the role of mountains or apu in Andean ritual and cosmology has historically replaced the earlier role of ancestral mummies in the Inca or other pre-European religions due to the early colonial “extirpation of idolatry” under Spain, breakdown of indirect rule through the Inca aristocracy, and cultural synthesis with Catholicism (Gose 2018). Perhaps ironically reflecting mestizo rather than runa “ontology”, the teacher’s husband in Q’ero Llaqta had told me the skulls in the crevise were those of Q’ero brujos (“witches”) buried face down in the church so they would not wander and eat alpacas. In any case, the spontaneous focus of Hatun Q’eros in the 1970s more on local awki, ch’ullpa, and ñawpa machu than the distant apu of the Ayakachi Range may suggest that until the concourse of their paqo and misayoq shamans with apu became more famous, their interests had more common historical ground with Incaic mummies than mountain peaks.

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5   Herding Whether or not I was correct in my conclusions that alpaca herding is the keystone of the Hatun Q’ero ecosystem, we must consider specifically what changes in this regard have occurred since the 1970s. Wissler reported that “the average Q’eros family herd totals somewhere between fifty to one-hundred llamas and alpacas” and that “each family takes an average of twenty llamas down to the monte for carrying the corn harvest” (2009: 115–16, fn12). She does not elaborate further on alpacas and their proportion relative to llamas or sheep, focusing primarily on the central role of llamas in Q’ero ritual, music, and dance as well as maize production. Guillermo Salas reported that the average family in Hapu has about 20 llamas (including about 10 males), 20 sheep, and 3 or 4 cows, but no alpacas; only 4 Hapu families had any alpacas at all, and the wealthiest family had 40 male llamas, almost 20 alpacas, and 30 cows (2012: 369, fn19). The scarcity of alpacas in Hapu was probably partly due to the rarity of the waylla bog pasture upon which they can thrive, as shown for Kiku in my Fig. 3.3. Similarly, the reliance on male llamas in Hapu suggests their important role in transport outside as well as inside this community probably increased since Hapu had lost its access to maize fields still available to Kiku. Cometti reports only on the herds pastured in Munay T’ika (his term for the hamlets of Qolpa K’ucho valley, 2015: 38, fn40) but compares their proportions to those I described for all of Hatun Q’ero in my 1973 article (Flores et  al., eds, 2005: 129–154; Webster 1973: 121). I had reported that “The family herd averages about 50 head, but ranges between none and 300 depending on the wealth of the family. Reflecting their greater importance, alpacas outnumber llamas about 3:1; sheep are usually fewer than llamas, but some families with abundant labor resources can afford to have many more.” Cometti concludes that the families of Munay T’ika today owned on average about 70 animals (between 30–40 alpacas, 20–25 llamas and 20 sheep). Compared to Webster’s statistics, the average per family has increased by 20. The number of alpacas is no longer a ratio of three to a llama, but rather four to three. The family that owned more animals had a little over 200; the one who had the least had only 10. (2015: 76; my translation)3

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So at least in Qolpa K’uchu valley, despite the reported deterioration of the weather and pasture, the proportion of alpacas as well as llamas being successfully raised by each family had apparently increased somewhat. Wissler’s estimate of average herd size also suggested it had increased somewhat since my time. But furthermore, as I described in the preceding section on population changes, by 2005 the number of persons living in this valley had apparently increased from about 137 to about 342, almost 150%. If, as the INC figures indicated for 2005, the average family size in Hatun Q’ero was almost 6 persons, there may have been at least 57 families in the valley in 2015. If these many families owned Cometti’s average of 30–40 alpacas each, there might have been 1700–2200 alpacas pastured in Qolpa K’uchu valley alone. This possibility challenges my own conclusion that by 1970 the alpaca and llama pasturing potential of this valley had been outstripped by its population (Part I, Chap. 4: , Fig. 4.5), as well as Cometti’s conclusion that “the change in the rain regime, among other factors, poses a strong threat to alpaca herds and llamas” (2015: 219). We must also ask how the Hatun Q’eros’ explained this increase in the size of their herds as well as their local population if the weather and pastures had deteriorated as much as they claimed. On the other hand, Cometti’s data also suggests either increasing impoverishment or radically changed herding strategies among a third of the Hatun Q’ero families. He reports that “about a third of families [throughout Hatun Q’ero] do not own alpacas or sheep” at all (2015: 78; my brackets). I had reported that in 1970 some temporary alternative pastures were sometimes available for alpacas, and only seven small and waxcha (“poor”) families lived in the qeshwa zone with no access to the waylla pastures and thus no alpaca (Part I, Chap. 4), describing such alternatives as routine compensation strategies. Even at that time, “four or five” individuals from these families regularly emigrated temporarily to Cuzco to augment family resources. Consequently, it appears that while the average family herd in the Munay T’ika (Qolpa K’uchu) valley had increased from 50 to 70 animals since my time, and that the high proportion of alpacas had decreased only slightly, by 2015 the proportion of families throughout Hatun Q’ero with no alpacas at all had tripled from less than 10% (7 of 82 nuclear families in 1970) to more than 30% in the community. However, the steady large increase in population in all the valleys of the community at least until 2005 suggests that this increase in the proportion of families without alpaca may have been more a matter of

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choice than poverty, perhaps reflecting further opportunities to specialise successfully in other resources (including temporary emigration to Cuzco for labour or enterprises). As I noted above in my discussion of the Ayakachi glacier fields looking over the valleys of Hatun Q’ero, the 2020 Google map shows that the waylla moors had apparently decreased in number but enlarged in size, certainly in Qolpa K’uchu valley and probably in the other three as well. Among the few times that alpaca pasture was explicitly considered by Cometti’s hosts in Charka Pata, it was claimed that by the end of the dry season in August or September “there is then no more pasture for the alpacas and llamas”, but also that “during the rainy season it was more and more difficult to graze animals” due to the melting of the glaciers (Cometti 2015: 52, 70). The apparently increased size of the fewer waylla moors between 1963 and 2020 may have been the reason for the difficulty of alpaca grazing if they were flooded or saturated in the rainy season but raises doubts that there was no more pasture for llamas as well as alpacas in dry season. Cometti’s first visit was in May at the beginning of the dry season, and his photo of Charka Pata, overlooking Munay T’ika buildings below, shows there was still plenty of water cascading down the adjacent creek as well as the Qolpa K’ucho River (2015: 71, Photo 5). The surrounding wayq’o grasslands appear reasonably green, but the alpaca herds from Charka Pata would have been taken up to the loma zone several hundred metres higher. According to my maps, there are large tarns (glacial lakes, more typical of Kiku than Hatun Q’ero) to the southeast that are out of view behind the photographer and may well have had sufficient waylla pasture to support the alpaca (Part 1, my Figs. 1.3, 3.1, 3.3). The apparently larger families might have included more children available to bring the herds up to the loma and guard them from predators. Cometti’s May 2011 photo can also be compared with Wissler’s photo of the Qolpa Pampa/Yawarkancha River (Chalmachimpana) valley in the dry season (May to September) as well as the wet season (October to April) (Wissler 2009: 27, Figs. 2.1 and 2.3; Part A, Fig. 1.3). The comparison displays the seasonal difference—as well as the local alpaca and llama herd and Okaruru Q’asa above, the awesome cliffs of Saqsawaman peak, and numerous lakes below (I don’t think these were there in the 1969–70 wet season!). Along with Wissler’s report implying that the average size of family herds throughout Hatun Q’ero had even increased slightly since my time, Cometti’s data on the herds in the Qolpa K’uchu valley supports my

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suggestion that the Hatun Q’eros’ apparent disregard of glaciers, waylla, and alpaca herds, and emphasis instead on rain and temperature changes, was characteristic of their long-established defensive tactic of stressing the difficulties of their way of life while evading attention to what was actually most crucial for sustaining it. Such evasiveness is also consistent with their apparent refusal to respond to questions regarding shaman practices and the wild animals associated with apu reported by the INC six years earlier, discussed above. Despite undoubted deterioration of the ecosystem due to global climate change, and desertion of alpaca herding among a third of the families, the alpaca and llama herds had apparently been sustained at comparable levels among a population that had increased almost 150% in Qolpa K’uchu and nearly as much in all three of the other valleys. Herding strategies throughout the community had certainly changed in response but may reveal new forms of what I called “compensatory strategies” still based on alpaca as the keystone of their ecosystem. Probably much as in my day, translocation in intermarriage between valleys and other established compensatory strategies in response to changing pasture potentials continues to rebalance the resources of the community. Later in his account, Cometti even reports that “Indeed, for some time now, Q’eros build houses higher up, looking for better pastures for their animals” (2015: 222). Perhaps some Hatun Q’ero were also successfully specialising in the breeding of white alpacas, as had the nearby Hacienda Ccapana by the 1960s (as well as being more readily dyed, the white alpaca pelts were highly valued in Cuzco to make fleecy rugs for the tourist markets). The one-third of the families who had no alpacas at all had apparently tripled in 35 years and, as had the poorer families in my day, probably moved to the lower qeshwa valley and specialised in other resources such as llama or sheep herding, potatoes, or maize. While the increasing population suggests they were not necessarily poorer, the increasing value of Q’ero weavings as well as the alpaca wool itself that was obvious in the 1970s was probably given up. Nevertheless, they may have been able to continue participation in alpaca wool production through barter with their neighbours and dying, spinning, weaving, and even marketing it for them. Such increasing specialisation between Hatun Q’ero families supported by bartering between them might have been promoted by the external agencies as well as the increased marketing opportunities. The large steady increase in Hatun Q’ero population and family size since the 1980s may also suggest immigration into the community, most likely from other communities of the Q’ero Nation. According to the

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INC’s data in 2005, the population increase in the other communities was not nearly as large, resulting in 40% of the total population in Q’ero Nation. While between 1910 and 1970 only about 35 persons had immigrated in from other Q’ero communities, about 48 had emigrated out into other Q’ero communities. This situation had apparently been reversed as well as greatly accelerated since then. Even if the deterioration of weather emphasised to Cometti was exaggerated by the Hatun Q’ero to distract from their continuing reliance on alpaca herding, the objective limitations of the Hatun Q’ero ecosystem as well as a 40% decrease in the Ayakachi glaciers resulting from global climate change presses the question: what additional resources could have encouraged such an immigration from other Q’ero Nation communities as well as the resident population growth in Hatun Q’ero? The most likely source of such necessary additional resources is increased income from Hatun Q’ero’s fourth ecological floor, either in barter, trade, and wages from Cuzco and its region or the corporate, national, and provincial agencies represented inside the community. The advance of roads, roofing, and latrines noted by Wissler in 2015 as well as the growth of schools and especially the Munay T’ika valley, along with the regularity of temporary emigration to Cuzco, signals the potential of additional resources. Hatun Q’ero was probably benefitting in these exchanges due to their rising reputation as the most authentic Inca indigenies of the Andes, whether as shamans, weavers, musicians, or common labourers. In any case, the increase in family size as well as population growth confirms the actual emergence of these new resources within the community. Although permanent emigrants may have been returning some additional resources to the community in the form of shared support among the wider domestic group if not remittances in cash or goods, it is clear this had become increasingly contentious. Perhaps the community had come to see its joint resources as needing to be protected from the illusive threat of “money” as well as by maintaining their traditional relationship with apu and awki.

6  Maize What changes are reported to have occurred in key crops of the Hatun Q’ero ecosystem since the 1970s? Although potatoes, augmented by other native highland tubers, were by far the bulk and nutrition of the Q’ero diet in the 1970s, sara (maize or “corn”) was a crucial crop prized by

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Q’ero for bartering and making axa/aqha (maize beer, made by fermenting sprouted maize in huge pottery urns) for rituals and festivals as well as a seasonal addition to family meals. The Q’ero variety of maize, called chaminko, was traditionally sought by Qolla in exchange for their bayeta (“homespun” sheep wool fabric) and charkiy (dried meat or “jerky”) and was prized in Cuzco because of its flavour, texture, and smaller grain (Part I, Chaps. 1 and 3), so it could be used in barter with comerciantes (“merchants”) visiting Hatun Q’ero (Fig. 10.1 of the 1970 Paskwa festival shows two or three visiting comerciantes sitting behind the varayoq and elders, one eying me and the camara). Wissler’s rich descriptions of the family festivals of Phallchay and Aqhata Uxyuchichis in the valley head hamlets emphasise the importance of the Hatun Q’ero maize crop for making aqha, for promoting the fertility of the female llamas of the family herd, and for the transport of the corn harvest up from the monte by male llamas of the family herd (2009: 19–20, 60ff, 118ff, 145, 163, 189; 222). Her account of the value of aqha for ritual drunkenness is compellingly woven into her analysis of the festival music. Although she reports that “each family takes an average of twenty llamas down to the monte for carrying the corn harvest” (2009: 116, fn12), she adds that “nowadays significantly fewer families cultivate corn, whereas in the past the majority did. Only forty-nine of the one hundred and twenty families in Q’eros descended in 2006” according to the “secretary of the directive committee at the time” (2009: 147fn4). She adds that because aqha continues to be a crucial component of community as well as family rituals, this decline of corn cultivation in the monte had led many Q’eros to purchase the necessary sprouted corn. (In my day, Q’ero would soak the maize and sprout it by spreading it under their bedding, and grind it by chewing it, thus expediting its fermentation with saliva.) In recent email correspondence, Wissler furthermore informed me that for many years since 2010 almost all Hatun Q’eros had given up their efforts to cultivate maize but that more recently a compadre had told her in 2019 that some had resumed their efforts in the monte (Wissler, personal correspondence 11 August 2020). Cometti, who continued his fieldtrips to Hatun Q’ero from 2011 through 2017, similarly reported in 2020 that “due to the poor harvests of recent years and the fact that the heavy rain has ruined the path leading to the places where maize is cultivated, most of them now give up cultivating this kind of crop” (2020: 40fn5, 41). But one informant had put the situation less drastically: “Me, I continue to grow corn in the ceja de selva.

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But the production is really low…, some Q’eros have abandoned the cultivation of corn” (2015: 144). Cometti emphasises that whereas rain in Hatun Q’ero was reported by Oscar Núñez del Prado in 1955 to be continual in the dry as well as the wet season, his Hatun Q’ero hosts reported that at least since the 1990s there had been much heavier rains in the wet season but much less rain in the dry season, along with much more sun in daytime and stronger frosts at night, even freezing the ground (2020: 41). His hosts were unanimous that due to these factors, productivity of both their potatoes and corn as well as herds had been drastically diminished. The temporary emigration of most shamans to Cuzco for the whole month of August to offer their services to locals and tourists, reported by Cometti and discussed above, might also have been a major drain on the family labour resources needed to maintain a maize plot. The harvest of these plots occurred at this time and had to be transported by llama troops the 2000 metres up to the hamlets, after which the underbrush had to be cleared from the plots for the following year (see my Fig. 4.1). Ideally also in early August, the family festival of Axata Uxyuchichis or Santiago had to be organised in the hamlets to properly reciprocate the apu, awki, and llamas for a successful crop. The resulting community shortage in shamans’ services as well as labour was probably a major factor in the resentment expressed to Cometti regarding other Q’eros “running after money” in Cuzco as well as attributing the deteriorating weather to the retribution of offended apu and awki. Perhaps reflecting this resentment and conflict within the community, this seasonal conflict between shaman services and the maize harvest was muted in the Hatun Q’ero 2004–5 responses to the INC project and was apparently not emphasised to Cometti. Nevertheless, I can immediately empathise with the Q’eros’ emphasis on difficulties of the trail down to the maize plots, especially upon hearing that the rain had ruined “the path”. In mid-June of 1970 I had descended with them in occasional drizzle to observe their preparations for the maize harvest (Part I, Chap. 3; Figs. 1.2, 4.1). My hosts had made it clear that I should leave my horse behind, as no horse had ever made the trip before. Even as a keen mountaineer in good shape, I was finally exhausted by the exposure and vertigo traversing above the sheer cliffs on what the Q’eros called the Inka ñan (“Inca road”; Fig. 1.2), crossing the torrents of the Q’ero River on bridges made by binding 2–3 logs with vines over chasms 10 metres deep, and crawling with my frame-pack through subtropical forest paths reduced to tunnels by dense foliage. While it took me 6 hours to descend about 15 kilometres and 1310 metres of altitude from Q’ero

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Llaqta to Puskero, there I met Q’eros who had already descended twice that distance and 2190 metres of altitude from their valley hamlets by leaving a bit earlier the same day. After a few nights sharing their rough lean-to shelters I was able to make the return trip in nine hours, but Q’eros do that with their entire troupe of male llamas loaded with the maize harvest. Although llamas can carry a carga (“load”) of only 25–30 kilograms (a burro can carry twice that) only llamas are confident and nimble enough to cross those bridges of logs bound with vines. I once gained some admiration carrying a fearful Q’ero child over such a bridge that had just been rebuilt by a crew of Q’eros, but later learned of deaths by injury or drowning caused by their collapse or falls from them. I have only recently learned from Holly Wissler that these tragic Q’ero bridge-deaths later came to include my friend Pawiyan Quispe (Fig. 9.3), elder brother of our landlord Manwel Quispe Apasa in 1969–70 (Fig. 10.3) who was later to become the most famous altomisayoq of the entire Cuzco region.4 Pawiyan’s wife and grandchildren are shown in Fig. 9.2, and I think I recognise husband and wife in Fig. 10.3, Pawiyan mid-way under the ceremonial Easter arko, exchanging excited smiles with others pretending to struggle to raise the mass of weavings lashed on the beam, and Dominga off to the right in her montera hat, perhaps observing the varayoq feast on the embankment overlooking this spectacle (Figs. 10.1, 10.2). Although Cometti describes their zone of maize cultivation as yunga, extending from 2400 metres down to 1400 metres, in 1970 I found that the Hatun Q’eros were cultivating maize and other subtropical crops only in the very restricted area of Puskero and Isu Moqo at the lower limit of the monte (2010 metres altitude; Figs. 1.2, 3.2). I myself mistakenly marked the boundary between the monte and yunka in Fig. 3.2 as “2650”  metres—actually the altitude of Chawpi Chaqa bridge and Qamara; the boundary between monte and yunka should instead be marked as 2010  metres. The Q’eros had been going down to Puskero “inkarimanta” (“ever since the time of Inkari”—a traditional Inca progenitor) but, in fear of the yunka or yanqa wako (“irrational sanctum”), only one person had ever gone further (a few generations earlier, in an attempt to raise other subtropical crops that failed). Isu Moqo was only a few hundred metres over a little hill from Puskero, but I was told no-one was cultivating there, so foolishly did not go to investigate it. In the 1963 aerial photos Isu Moqo was shown as cleared like Puskero, as were the

Fig. 9.2  Wañuna Pampa: Dominga Chura Quispe with grandchildren (1970)

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Fig. 9.3  Wañuna Pampa: Pawiyan Quispe Apasa (1970)

maize cultivation areas maintained by the Kiku and Hapu people further up the Kiku River (see Fig. 1.2). Similarly, I was told that “occasional small plots” of maize were cultivated on very restricted benches higher in

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the monte (Part I, Chap. 2), but I did not see any. I was guided around Puskero by my hosts and could see that even there the maize patches (chakra) had been cleared only with heavy labour by prying out boulders and dragging the slashed overgrowth aside. The Q’eros had found that the typical slash-and-burn subtropical technique decreased the already limited fertility of the soil, which after one or two seasons also needed to be left fallow for at least two years (by which time overgrowth was two metres high). Moreover, most maize patches were on steep ground, some pitched at 45 degrees. I sketched 20 such maize chakra in Puskero and recorded the names of 16 persons who currently held claim to them (Webster n.d. (1969–70), NB 3: 3–7). I assumed that each patch was cultivated by one of Hatun Q’ero’s 52 domestic groups (as was the case in all their potato and other cultivation areas, as well as their herding), but evidently failed to enquire where the other 32–36 domestic groups got their maize for eating, making axa for their festivals, or bartering. As one Q’ero put it to me: “manan kahtincu sara, manan atinchu puxllay ruwan” (“if you don’t have maize, you can’t make a festival”). Nor did I attempt to identify and count the costales (banded sacks woven from llama wool) full of maize drying on-­ the-­cob that a few weeks later I saw emerging triumphantly from the monte onto Q’ero Ch’ullu (Fig. 1.3, just below Q’ero Llaqta ritual centre) on the backs of the decorated llama troupes followed by their drovers (Wissler’s account of their trek up from the monte is vivid). All this was in preparation for “Santiago” or Ahata Uxyuchichis, mentioned above. Nevertheless, much as they were to emphasise to Wissler and Cometti years later, in 1969–70 many Q’ero told me that they intended to abandon the exhausting efforts needed to sustain their maize cultivations because it required too much compromise of the other demands of their ecosystem, especially herding and potato cultivation. I had noted they had also announced this same resolution to Oscar Núñez del Prado in 1955 but that my aerial photos showed there had been little or no decrease in the extent of maize cultivation at least since 1963. Significantly, I had commented that “The Q’eros are prone to portray their situation pessimistically” (Part I, Chap. 4: en3). The Q’eros had also described the climate extremes of their ecosystem to me in terms that were similar to those recorded by Cometti 45 years later: heavy rain in the wet season, decreasing gradually as the cloud masses swept up from the Amazon yunqa wako past their maize patches in the monte, potato fields in the qeshwa and wayq’o, and herds in the loma, each in two-to-four-hour intervals (e.g.,

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Part I, Chap. 3). I had even added that “in the dry season [these clouds] similarly expend themselves and usually give way to unbroken sunshine in these alpine altitudes” where the frosts at night were needed to dehydrate their bitter potatoes into chuñu or moraya. The difficulties of “the path” down to the maize patches had also been similarly explained to me in terms of heavy rains and resulting “dense vegetation and periodic landslides [that] have long since obscured further evidence of the [Inca] road” (Part I, Chap. 2). Now in the face of Wissler’s and Cometti’s reports years later that Hatun Q’eros are giving up their efforts to maintain maize cultivations, I continue to think there are good reasons to be sceptical regarding their traditionally expressed pessimism. Their descriptions to me of what I called their compensatory strategies in the face of environmental difficulties were often expressed in such terms. Even Wissler’s report that currently very few Hatun Q’ero families continue to grow maize in the monte may have only meant that others had given it up temporarily while concerting their efforts in other resources, including the probably expanded marketing of them. If my count of domestic groups with maize patches in Puskero was not widely misguided by my hosts there, more than two-­ thirds of the Q’ero domestic groups had similarly “given it up” in 1969. Yet as far as I was aware, all Q’eros families participated in the many festivals in 1970, and maize beer was always in plentiful supply. Wissler’s report from the secretary of the Hatun Q’ero Directive Committee that only 49 of 120 families had cultivated maize in 2006 even implies that there was a major increase in the proportion actually cultivating it compared to 1970. If a similar proportion of domestic groups continued to cultivate maize in Puskero as had done so in 1970 (30%), through intramural barter arrangements they might be able to supply half the community population with its festival needs while the other half purchased supplies for these needs in nearby markets with their gains from their increased sales or bartering of their shamanism, weavings, or labour there. Insofar as the population of Hatun Q’ero had more than doubled between 1970 and 2005, while the difficulty of cultivating maize had indeed probably increased due to climate change, it is not surprising that “most of them now give up cultivating this kind of crop”. Another possible explanation might be the specialisation of some Hatun Q’ero domestic groups in maize cultivation and bartering with their harvest (and even for llamas to carry it) to regain their consequent losses in herding and potato production. The precedent for sales, purchases, and

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bartering in Cuzco had already been set in 1970 by three heads of family, although these were more or less stigmatised at that time as puripurilly (“just wanderers”) (Part I, Chaps. 1 and 7). Several relatively poor families attempted to specialise in one or a few crops while giving up herding in order to avoid over-extension of their labour resources, while wealthy families could use surplus herd or maize production to barter for yet further control over community resources. Already by 1970 at least two cases of specialised production had been established in Hatun Q’ero: one family was reputed to craft colonial Spanish monteras, the disc-shaped hats traditionally worn by Q’ero women (Fig.  9.2), and another family practised wood-working with a treasured set of steel tools, probably the source of some of the amazingly crafted wooden locks with wooden keys on the doors of Hatun Q’ero houses or storage huts (Part I, Chap. 1: en2). However, in both cases, these crafts were not sold but rather bartered for other goods or services from other Q’ero domestic groups. Similarly in exchanges with me, the Q’eros were much more interested in trade goods I could carry in for them than in cash. I was far too naive regarding the importance of this bartering aspect of the Q’ero ecosystem. Enrique Mayer’s vivid analysis of “the articulated peasant” in the Peruvian Andes (2002) described in detail how elaborate social systems of bartering enabled campesinos as well as runa to extend the solidarity of their kin-based production and exchange without sacrificing their control over scarce resources by joining in the commercial enterprises dominated by misti. As I described, by the 1970s Q’eros were aware that “getting something from the Qeshwa [mestizos] always involves a loss in the bargain” and, conversely, any member of their community who appeared to be “involving himself in social exchanges that are apt to assume the trappings of a business” was subject to suspicion and moral judgements (Part I, Chap. 1: section 3). Especially given this obvious but easily overlooked bartering aspect of their ecosystem, might it be that the Hatun Q’eros are nearly as cagey about reporting anything to do with their maize harvests as they are about reporting anything to do with their alpaca and llama herding? Might it be that the Hatun Q’ero have always claimed they are about to give up these efforts? They have long relied on this evasive or protective front of pessimism and defeat to conceal the otherwise vulnerable basis of hard-­fought mastery over their ecosystem. Might an elaborate system of bartering for maize as well as all other goods and services such as that described by

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Mayer have been going on extra- as well as intramurally, behind the scenes yet in front of Wissler’s and Cometti’s eyes as well as mine? Although such difficulties, and evasion, complaints, or defiance regarding them, may have increased, the Hatun Q’eros have been dealing with them at least for decades. They have, after all, always been cosmopolitan as well as “remote”.

Notes 1. My translation (with assistance of the Internet) of “soulignait que personne n’avait jamais quitté Q’ero et que seuls quelques résidents quittaient la communauté de façon très sporadique pour travailler dans des haciendas proches de Q’ero.” 2. ANDES, Asociación para la Naturaleza y el Desarrollo Sostenible (“Association for Nature and Sustainable Development”). Established in 1995, website: https://andes.org.pe/. Cometti’s reference (2015): https://sacredland.org/qeros-­r esist-­d na-­s ampling-­b ut-­l arger-­t hreat­looms/. 3. This quotation is identical to that which appears in Cometti (2015: 76), but with Cometti’s permission I have quoted it from his 2014 dissertation (where it appears on page 124) because Peter Lang, publisher of his 2015 volume, refused permission to quote it under the standard copyright exclusion for brief academic purposes. 4. By the time I left Q’ero in 1970, I had learned that these two brothers did not get on well with each other. My cholo friend Luychu, who sometimes was able to accompany me in Hatun Q’ero, also felt personal hostility towards Manwel and his wife and would not go near their tiyay wasi in Chuwa Chuwa. On my return to Hatun Q’ero with my family in 1977 we sadly learned that Luychu had also died, although still only in his 30s, probably from a bronchial infection (Figs. 10.1, 10.3).

References Cometti, Geremia. 2015. Lorsque Le Brouillard a Cessé de Nous Ècouter; Changement Climatique et Migrations chez les Q’eros des Andes Péruviennes. Peter Lang SA, Editions scientifiques internationales, Berne. ———. 2020. “A Cosmopolitical Ethnography of a Changing Climate among the Q’ero of the Peruvian Andes.” Anthropos 115:2020: 37–52. de la Cadena, Marisol. 2000. Indigenous Mestizos: The Politics of Race and Culture in Cuzco, Peru 1919–1991. Durham, NC: Duke University Press.

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———. 2010. ‘Indigenous Cosmopolitics in the Andes: Conceptual Reflections beyond “Politics”.’ Cultural Anthropology, May 2010, Vol. 25, No. 2, pp. 334–370 ———.—2015. Earth Beings: Ecologies of Practice Across Andean Worlds. Duke University Press, 2015. Flores Ochoa, J. A., and A. M. Fries. 1989. Puna, qheswa, yunga: el hombre y su medio en Q’ero. Colecciones andinas. Lima: Fondo Editorial del Banco Central de Reserva del Perú. Flores Ochoa, J. A. and Nuñez del Prado J. (eds.). 2005. Q’ero, el último ayllu inka [1983]. Lima: Instituto Nacional de Cultura, Universidad Nacional Mayor de San Marcos. Gose, Peter. 2018. “Mountains and Pachakutis: Ontology, Politics, Temporality”, in J.  Jennings and E.  Swenson (eds), Powerful Places in the Ancient Andes, pp. 55–90. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. INC.  Instituto Nacional de Cultura. 2005. “Diagnostico Integral de las Comunidades de la Nacion Q’ero”. Direccion Regional de Cultura – Cusco. INC, Cusco. 2007. Plan Integral de Etnodesarrollo para las Comunidades de la Nacion Q’ero, 2008–2017, Paucartambo. Facilidores: INC CUSCO – PROYECTO Q’ERO, MUNICIPALIDAD PROVINCIAL DE PAUCARTAMBO SUB REGION AUCARTAMBO [sic]. Cusco, Octubre del 2007. Mayer, Enrique. 2002. The Articulated Peasant: Household Economies in the Andes. Boulder: Westview Press. Salas Carreño, Guillermo. 2012. Negotiating Evangelicalism and New Age Tourism through Quechua Ontologies in Cuzco, Peru. A dissertation submitted in partial fulfilment of the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy (Anthropology) in The University of Michigan. ———. 2017. “Mining and the living materiality of mountains in Andean societies.” Journal of Material Culture, Vol. 22(2) 133–150. ———. 2019. Lugares Parientes: Comida, Cohabitacion y Mundos Andinos. Lima: Pontifica Universidad Catolica del Peru, Fondo Editorial. ———. 2020a. “Indexicality and the Indigenization of Politics: Dancer–Pilgrims Protesting Mining Concessions in the Andes.” The Journal of Latin American and Caribbean Anthropology. Vol. 25, No. 1, pp. 7–27. ———. 2020b. “Intangible heritage and the indigenization of politics in the Peruvian Andes: the dispute over the political party appropriation of the pablito/ukuku dancer”. Latin American and Caribbean Ethnic Studies, DOI: https://doi.org/10.1080/17442222.2020.1796316. Theidon, Kimberly (2012). Intimate Enemies: Violence and Reconciliation in Peru. University of Pennsylvania Press. Webster, Steven. n.d. (1969–70). NB 1–6. Field Notebooks from Q’ero. Also genealogies, with xerox copies A-1,2 through E1-2.

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———. 1971 “Social Organization of the Accommodated Tribal Society in Highland Peru,” paper read at the 70th annual meeting of the American Anthropological Association. ———. 1973. “Native pastoralism in the South Central Andes”, in Ethnology 12:115–133 (April). ———. 1977. “Kinship and affinity in a native Quechua community”, in Bolton, R. and E. Mayer (eds) Andean Kinship and Marriage, special publication of the American Anthropological Association No. 7 (1977). Translated and published in 1980: “Parentesco y matrimonio en una comunidad nativa Quechua” in Mayer, E. and R. Bolton (eds.), Parentesco y matrimonio en los Andes. Lima: Pontificia Universidad Catolica del Peru.[re-publication in Spanish forthcoming] Wissler, Holly. 2009. From Grief and Joy We Sing: Social and Cosmic Regenerative Processes in the Songs of Q’Eros, Peru. Phd dissertation, Florida State University Libraries.

CHAPTER 10

Indigeneity and Resistance in Hatun Q’ero

1   Potatoes and Potato Skins Wissler reports that unlike many other Andean communities, the Hatun Q’eros have no songs about planting or harvesting potatoes, but only about their herd animals and maize (and the one or two songs about maize are said to be fading from memory; 2009: 112). This peculiarity may reflect the special or even sacramental role of herding and maize in contrast to the mundane role of potatoes, perhaps even profaned as the medium of tribute to colonial masters. Nevertheless, their manner and dress when cultivating potatoes in 1969–1970 (as displayed on the cover photo of Flores et al. 1989) was almost studiedly proud and “traditional”. A similarly spectacular example I witnessed was the coopertivo (or faena) I will describe later with regard to relative wealth or poverty of land-holding among Hatun Q’eros. Cometti was concerned with the Q’eros’ reports of increasing rain and temperature extremes on the wide variety of potatoes they raise. One of their fullest commentaries he recorded from a Hatun Q’ero was as follows: It has become more and more difficult to cultivate here in Q’ero. The cultivation of potatoes is affected by rancha [a potato disease that leads to poor preservation and rotting]. It’s raining too much, there’s a lot of hail and frost does not help. During the harvest of potatoes, many of them are

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already spoiled. In the past, the production of the native potato was much better. However, potato production is barely sufficient to survive. Other times, the potatoes were numerous, larger and above all more floury. Today it has become more difficult to cultivate chuñu and muraya [varieties of ‘bitter’ potatoes that are fermented and/or dehydrated in the dry-cold season] because the frost has changed and the potatoes are damaged more easily. Even in taste, our potatoes and corn used to be better. (2015: 144; my brackets and translation)1

My own research had focussed on potato cultivation along with other wayq’o and qeshwa resources, the cyclic and compensatory strategies applied to it as well as herding and maize cultivation, and the processes of family, domestic group, kinship, and marriage reflecting these processes (Part I: Chaps. 3, 4, and 6; Figs. 4.2, 4.3, 4.4). In reviewing my old fieldnotes, I encountered evidence that in 1970 the Q’eros were confronting such threats to their potato and other tuber cultivations in traditional ways. One morning while climbing up the embankment above Manwel Quispe’s puxllay wasi in the Q’ero Llaqta ritual centre to enjoy the view across the valley towards Anka Wachana’s (“birthplace of the hawks”) strikingly sheer and dark precipice and the montaña in the distance, I noticed a small piece of turf had been recently disturbed (Fig. 1.3). It was close to the ruins of the ch’ullpa (“tomb”) on Pukara Moqo, said to be a soq’asqa (“cursed”) location. This ch’ullpa was located just above Qora Marka (the roofless ruins of the old Catholic chapel above the ritual centre where the visiting Jesuit priest had given the requiem mass described earlier). Lifting the turf aside, I found that a little glass jar had been buried beneath it. I suspected that it had a ritual purpose, so carefully put it all back the way it was without opening the jar. Later I asked a Q’ero about it, and he told me that it was a ch’uya puñyu, a supplication to protect potato crops against hail and other threats, and that it had probably been buried there by the community’s papa churah (“potato-caretaker”) who actually lived in Totorani but performed these tasks for Hatun Q’ero as well (Webster (1969–1970) NB 2: 32b–33; NB 4:37; NB 6: 29, 29, 37b). A similar role for protection of potato processing as well as the crop was described in some detail to Cometti as an arariwa who, furthermore, was assisted by pampamisayoq and even altomisayoq (ordinary and extraordinary shamans). However, the same person claimed “today we no longer have arariwa. Nobody cares about it anymore” (2015: 147).

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A significant continuity over the intervening 40–50 years is brought to light by similar incidents both Cometti and I experienced regarding potatoes. I have always remembered being teased by Q’ero for not peeling my potatoes before cooking them, and eating skins-and-all those they cooked for me, but had forgotten a specific incident recorded in my notebooks until I read Cometti’s account of a similar incident. He focussed on this incident in his 2015 book because it illustrated, as well as his introduction to the intricacies of Q’ero shamanist practices, the difficulties of his introduction to Hatun Q’ero and the ambivalent role of his host as a Hatun Q’ero shaman living in Cuzco (2015: 83, 120, 79). In the middle of their preparing a dinner together in Charka Pata, his host Guillermo expressed shock at finding Cometti mixing together raw with cooked potato peels while cleaning up in their hut. Guillermo indignantly asked Cometti if he “sleeps with the dead” and proceeded to carefully separate raw from cooked peels before placing them out in the yard of their hut. His host then took this occasion to explain to Cometti that “‘the skins we cooked have lost their spirit, while the others still have their animu [‘soul’ or ‘spirit’]. For this reason, it is forbidden to mix them up. You just told me you don’t lie in the same bed with that of a dead man, right?’” Cometti’s account gives the impression that he was being impatiently chastised like a child as well as confronted by the shocking comparison to sleeping with a corpse. One might also notice that the metaphorical accusation of “sleeping with the dead” reflected a rather sophisticated manipulation of crosscultural differences: Guillermo may well have been turning the sort of derisive insult mestizos typically throw at “indios” against Cometti, treating him like an ignorant misti. He furthermore seemed to reverse this typical mistizo display of contempt with studied boldness. Reviewing my old field notes a few months ago, I encountered a significantly similar situation that had happened to me in early 1970 while staying overnight in Chuwa Chuwa with what I described as “a wonderful old guy” Domingo Hakeywa Quispe (Webster (1969–1970) NB 1: 50b). He, like most other Q’eros, had distrusted my motives in asking for genealogical details but had understood and accepted my explanation of my research and thereafter was often wonderfully open and trusting with me. One night, when he saw me eating boiled potatoes skins-and-all, he hesitantly advised me that such a practice was “manan allincu…” (‘not good’), chuckling gently (Webster (1969–1970) NB 1: 51b). I had been aware that Q’eros used a knife to peel some of the many varieties of potatoes before boiling them, while boiling others with their skins but peeling them

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with their finger-nails before eating them. My own idiosyncrasy with most vegetables, but especially with potatoes (which I have always loved), is to eat them skins-and-all, and I had not hesitated to continue to do this when staying with them in their homes. Domingo’s response reflected the degree of trust he had extended to me, and perhaps his confidence that my response would not humiliate him as would that of a misti confronted by such advice from an insolent “indio”. My notes do not reveal if I gave any response to his gentle warning but do show that I was already interested in such customs at this time (because I had noted that another person had refused to tell me the names of his dead predecessors “because the names of the dead shouldn’t go on paper”) (Webster (1969–1970) NB 1: 51b). Later that evening Domingo did elaborate on his advice to not eat certain potato skins by explaining that peeled potato skins are “lutusqa kuchiowan” (“put in mourning by the knife” used to peel them). Nevertheless, I apparently did not pursue Domingo’s further advice, and I don’t think I ever fully came to appreciate that the Q’eros’ treatment of potato skins might be motivated by something quite different from my own eating habits. However, I had already read Cometti’s dramatic report when I re-examined my old field notes and, in addition to being reminded of the cultural or “cosmological” implications, was immediately aware of the very different manner in which our Q’ero hosts made us aware of it. I do remember naively saving the ragged tops of the few tins of food I brought in to encourage them to scrape off the skin and waste less potato by using the can tops rather than blunt knives with raw potatoes or their finger-nails with cooked potatoes. I persisted in my habitual display of food waste-avoidance while they laughed at my recommendations and ignored the ragged can tops (but sought the tin cans for storage of special items in rock nooks inside their tiyay wasi—special items like k”uya, tiny stone images of llama used in k’intusqa prestations to the awki that cared for their flocks). Later, when I came to realise that their dogs relied on potato peels—cooked or raw—for their food, I accepted what I took to be their “wasteful” way of peeling of potatoes. Although I feel most Q’eros came to accept me as far more egalitarian and respectful of their customs than misti, I have to admit that my disregard of their advice regarding potato peels may have been taken as not much different. (If peeling potato skins puts potatoes in mourning, what might they have thought of my enthusiasm to eat the skins?) Re-reading Wissler’s dissertation, I was surprised again to find a close parallel with Cometti’s experience. She recounts that while she was

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hosting Hatun Q’ero compadres (ritual kinsmen) at her apartment in Cuzco and chewing coca leaves and drinking cane alcohol with them, My compadre Juan Quispe Calzina sternly berated me, “Comadre, you are not making enough offerings of coca and alcohol to Pacha Mama and the Apu. This is not good, they could become angry.” For Pacha Mama I needed to literally pour some of my drink on the ground before I myself drank, so that She could also drink; and for the Apu I should have blown on my leaves, sending the energy of the coca in the direction of the Apu. Not only was he indicating that the earth around me was alive, but that it had a personality, that my actions had repercussions, and there was a relationship I needed to uphold (see “Reciprocity [Ayni]” below). (2009: 44–45; my italics and brackets)

Wissler also cites two other anthropologists who had similar experiences with regard to potatoes or other vegetables. I think there are important implications in Cometti’s, Wissler’s, and my experiences with Q’eros. Perhaps first of all, my experience shows that their attitudes towards such things as potatoes as well as names of the dead (or at least those names on paper or in writing) were probably an ordinary custom simply taken for granted among them as kustumri (‘custom’) in 1969–1970, even 15 years after they had been publicly recognised as the last descendants of the Incas. However, I want to stress that despite similarities, Wissler’s as well as Cometti’s experience 35–45 years later was quite different. Not only was their unawareness of the custom confronted with some indignation, Wissler was “sternly berated” and Cometti was accused of “sleeping with the dead”. The misti tactic of disdainful derision appears to have been turned against them with Q’ero assertiveness and even indignation and perhaps with some manipulative duplicity as well. As I pointed out earlier, both Wissler and Cometti expressed their stress or discomfort in the face of this assertiveness, indeed as sincerely candid ethnography must do. Wissler was clearly concerned that jealousy between compadres or comadres (ritual co-parents) would cause troubles among her dear friends. Furthermore, in addition to revealing divergent assumptions regarding Cometti as an unfamiliar outsider among Q’ero, his experience also revealed serious levels of distrust between Q’eros themselves that needed settlement by a community meeting in Munay T’ika. It was especially significant that this was followed by contrition on the part of his host Guillermo, an entrepreneurial shaman who had pressed his services

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upon Cometti assuming he was a New Age tourist. Decades earlier I had felt similar discomfort in the face of occasional Q’ero bullying as well as assertiveness, even being reminded publicly that “we are a hard people … anyone will tell you that!” In calmer moments I had realised that this as well as their playful teasing of me meant I had been accepted as an equal rather than a potential threat or humiliation. Now I can better understand, and sympathise, that some of them may have turned an age-old survival strategy into a marketing skill. Between Núñez del Prado’s research in 1955 and mine in 1970, Hatun Q’eros awareness and confidence in such customs may have developed to a point where they might be broached without risk of its dismissal, in trust to a naive outsider like me who was strange but obviously not a derisive misti. Although it did not change my eating habits, I had deeply appreciated Domingo Hakeywa’s trusting candour. Yet his risk was precarious, and other Q’eros would more usually remain non-committal or, if queried, fall back on their practised defensive tactics of evasion, a play for sympathy, or a defiant show of independence. However, 40 years later, for better or for worse, I suggest that these customs had developed in commercial contexts to the point where exploitation of them, by either external entrepreneurs or Q’eros themselves, could compromise their potential value in a global market as well as in the Cuzco tourist industry where people could “only think about money”. After all, given their fourth ecological floor, Q’ero had long been cosmopolitan as well as remote. Considering that Hatun Q’ero had been experiencing the influence of corporate or private as well as government agencies inside their community at least since 2000, it may not be going too far to suggest that the 2011 Munay T’ika assembly to resolve Guillermo’s hosting of Cometti reflected the rise of a kind of community protectionism in defence of the market value of their special skills.

2   Well-being What changes can be identified since the 1970s with regard to the general well-being of the Hatun Q’eros people? Considering the rapid expansion of their family size as well as population that has been reported, what can now be said about their relative wealth, poverty, and mortality? Assuming that their festivals and other rituals are still an indicator of their well-being, what changes have occurred in their festivals since the 1970s? How has prestige and leadership in the community been affected, and what effects has that had on community well-being?

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Wealth, Poverty, and Mortality The major expansion of population in the community has probably had a significant relationship to any changes of relative wealth or poverty, especially insofar as the proportion of families without any alpaca at all has increased from about 10% in 1970 to over 30% by 2015. As discussed in the previous chapter, this may not imply that all these families were waxcha (“poor”) and living in locations considered to be soq’asqa or “cursed” as was the case in 1970, because the community had clearly found additional resources and these families may have extended their compensation strategies, including bartering with the new resources for a share of those they had lost. Nevertheless, their transition from the traditional norm of alpaca herding would almost certainly have involved relative impoverishment. This in turn would probably have had a significant effect on health and mortality. Meanwhile, the expanding population probably included an increase of relative wealth, perhaps among a similar proportion of the community. Although Wissler and Cometti attempt no generalisations about wealth or poverty in Hatun Q’ero, both comment on deaths and mortality and furnish considerable information on the festivals. As well as relative wealth and poverty in the 1970s, I described festivals in Chap. 7 above. At that time, festivals were the traditional form of redistribution as well as display of relative wealth. Significantly (and perhaps ironically), one of the nine impoverished and virtually ch’usaq (“deserted”) locations in 1970 was later to become the location of Munay T’ika and Charka Pata where Cometti was first hosted in 2011. In 1970 this area had been called Machay Pampa and was located on the Qolpa K’uchu River just below Ch’arka Pata (Fig. 1.3). Only one impoverished widower lived in Machay Pampa, cared for by a daughter while his three sons and two other daughters had all moved to more promising locations. Moreover, only a few small families lived in Charka Pata on the nearby bench to the southeast about 300 metres higher in altitude but with such limited access to adequate pasture that they were giving up alpaca herding (Part I, Chaps. 4 and 5). By 2000, Machay Pampa apparently became the location of the large primary school settlement of Munay T’ika where the ‘assembly’ was held in 2011 to resolve the dilemma raised by Guillermo’s hosting of Cometti. As mentioned above with regard to other external agencies, the

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establishment of Munay T’ika school had been sponsored in this location since 2000 by the PumaPeru NGO or corporation, with an attendance of 60 students by 2009.2 Already underway at least by 2005, there was a major expansion of homesteads in this previously “deserted” and perhaps soq’asqa area. As I discussed above with regard to apparent changes in herding, Cometti reported 29 families in the Charka Pata area by 2015, more than the total families in several other hamlets closer to the valley head pastures. Cometti also reported that 12 families lived in “Irwaconca, a small village near Charka Pata” (2015: 83); I suspect Irwaconca was called Erba Kunka in my day, which was among the 9 of 52 domestic group homesteads considered to be waxcha or soq’asqa. As can be seen in Fig. 3.3, due mainly to the different geological substrates of Kiku from Hatun Q’ero, both these homesteads had better access to tarns or lakes than the waylla bogs in the upper valley heads of Hatun Q’ero. Like the apparent decrease in number but increase in size of these waylla bogs between 1963 and 2020 that I discussed earlier, this raises the possibility that the quality of alpaca pasture had not deteriorated as radically as decreasing glacial and snow cover implies. Nevertheless, the disproportionately large local increase in population as well as alpacas was more likely due to the school and commercial development of Munay T’ika by NGOs than such changes in the ecosystem. The causes and range of relative wealth as well as poverty more generally in Hatun Q’ero in 1969–1970 were most fully described above in Chap. 7 of Part I. Several cooperative and knowledgeable Hatun Q’ero males sorted 25 photos of leading men in the community with considerable consensus regarding disparities in their wealth and poverty. Most of this information had to be left out of my 1972 dissertation, and even in my 1974 article (Chap. 7) I had overlooked the significance of a privileged “oligarchy” mentioned in my 1981 article but more fully described below. A community labour project on tuber plots formerly controlled by the hacienda, termed mink’a under the Inca and faena under Spanish colonisation, had been continued in Q’ero since its expropriation in 1964 under the more neutral term coopertivo in order to market its produce and pay off the government loan compensating the hacienda owners. In 1970 I attended such a community work project that had been organised on two of the six qeshwa tuber rotation zones of Hatun Q’ero marked ‘A’ and ‘D’ on Fig. 4.2, and managed to get a list of the domestic groups that were not represented by one of their members contributing labour to the communal work project (Webster (1969–1970) NB 5:

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34–37; 1981: 622–625). Although my notes were rough, of the 52 domestic groups in the community at that time, about 24 apparently did not need to show up for the community coopertivo because they had paid their share of 6000 s/o (‘soles de oro’) in advance, often by sales from their larger alpaca herds. Furthermore, I learned that many of these same domestic groups held “double plots” of mañay, subsistence plots granted in usufruct by hacienda owners in return for control over their labour. These had been gained by them or their predecessors from the hacendado as more reliable workers, as well as through successful marriage strategies or other exchanges with poorer Q’ero families over the years. During the negotiations for expropriation 1955–1964, a faction of Hatun Q’ero asinta munah (“hacienda lovers”) that may have benefitted in this way had broken from the usually solidary ranks of the community, with Yawarkancha/Qolpa Pampa and Qocha Moqo valleys opposing Chewa Chewa’s and Qolpa K’ucho valleys’ support of the expropriation plan. In 1969 Professor Oscar Núñez del Prado had even expressed his concern to me that a native (runa) oligarchy may have been arising at that time. Examination of a related ritual or social gathering that is mentioned only twice in my 1972 dissertation but remains obscure may add further historical depth to this problem of unredistributed wealth between Hatun Q’ero families. Although I did not witness it, a gathering termed axllay (“choice” or choosing) was said to occur in early June, that is, soon after the conclusion of all the community festivals including Korpus, during which candidates for all the following year’s karguyoq appointments were considered (Part I, Chap. 4; Fig. 4.1). This axllay gathering or ritual was said to happen during harvest of bitter potatoes in the upper wayq’o and lower loma zones, apparently during the faena or coopertivo devoted to contribution to the hacendado or government mortgage. Although my discovery of the large proportion of Q’eros whose wealth enabled them to pay off their family labour obligation in advance occurred in October when the coopertivo prepared and planted these bitter-potato plots rather than their harvest in June, such an annual community deliberation might invite rising confrontation between relatively wealthy and relatively poor Hatun Q’ero families. Such axllay may have been traditionally instituted to reconcile such tensions through kargu appointments that would redistribute inequalities of wealth between Q’ero domestic groups. On the other hand, situations such as syndicates or schooling in the 1960s, arising in the “fourth ecological level” of the community, could always escalate confrontation

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instead. The supporters of continued hacienda ownership in the 1960s had probably been threatened by a plan to form alpaca-herding cooperatives, inspired by the socialist ideals of the national Reforma Agraria imposed by a left-wing military administration. This internal form of inequality in Hatun Q’ero may have thus been historically parallel to that developed in peasant communities between a conservative mestizo elite and an increasingly impoverished periphery of peasants and cholos (van den Berghe and Primov 1977: 264; Webster 1981: 625). It may have been this sort of precarious social hierarchy that was turned violently in on itself in the 1970–1980s, first by the Reforma Agraria and then by the military confrontation with the communist Sendero Luminoso movement (Mayer 2009; Theidon 2012). If, as I suggested in Chap. 8, Hatun Q’ero and the other Q’ero communities were insulated by their prior expropriation from the worst of these national confrontations, we must nevertheless ask how might such significant differences in relative wealth or poverty in Hatun Q’ero have affected, or been affected by, the apparently large and steady increase in population by 2004? What role might those community members who held significantly more land than others, and thus more access to resources, have been playing with external agents as well as the relatively land-poor members of the community? Had the general well-being of the community implied by the population growth been evenly distributed and, if so, how? Before pursuing these questions, Wissler and Cometti have some comments on births and deaths in Hatun Q’ero that can be compared with my information in the 1970s for further consideration of relative wealth and poverty. I reported that two of the anthropologists in Oscar Núñez del Prado’s 1955 expedition contended that Q’eros practiced infanticide to limit their families to five members due to their meagre resources (Part I, Chap. 4: en4). I argued to the contrary that whether wealthy or poor, all Q’eros strove for larger domestic groups in order to manage their ecosystem and struggled to bring ill children back to health. They probably suffered an infant mortality rate of 40–60% regardless of high birth-rates, not unusual among a poor peasantry. In 1969 about ten young married men had died in the previous five years, with profound effects on the domestic groups involved (Part I, Chap. 4). In addition to being in the community during some deaths of children, I was able to identify 15 children and 2 adults who died in just 2 weeks during an apparent epidemic, including 8 persons in 3 families of Qolpa K’ucho valley alone (probably influenza

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complicated by bronchitis, thought to have begun in Chuwa Chuwa; Webster (1969–1970) NB 6: 40b). Such diseases were probably aggravated by the Q’eros’ preference to bring or keep their sick members in the damp and cold atmosphere in the higher altitude of their herding hamlets because they believed the closer they were to the llimp”u (cleanliness or purity) of the glaciated peaks, and the further from the q”elli (dirtiness) of the yanqa wako (“irrational”) yunka (jungle), the sooner they would get well. By 1977 when we returned from New Zealand to Hatun Q’ero, I learned from our host family Esteban Puloris in Qocha Moqo that the Chura family in Qolpa Pampa, with whom they were closely intermarried, had been decimated by several deaths sometime after the Puloris families themselves had lost several of their members. In 1969–1970 I had frequently stayed overnight with the leading elder of the Chura family, Manwel Chura Kurus (Fig. 9.1). He was known to be the richest person in Q’ero, owning 300 alpacas, 50 llamas, 100 sheep, 4–5 horses, and a few cows, regardless of his purih travel habits—probably trading to increase his herd (Webster (1969–1970) NB 6: 13–14; (1977) Book 4: 10–12 and Book 5: 11–12). This elder was probably among those of the Chura family who had died. I considered searching for his elder niece Dominga to express my sympathy and find out details of the other deaths, but perhaps it was just as well I did not because, as mentioned above, I have found out only recently that her husband Pawiyan Quispe Apasa was among those who had died, falling from a bridge near Puskero and drowning in the Q’ero River (Figs. 9.2, 9.3). Our host in Qocha Moqo in 1977 had probably not informed me about Pawiyan’s tragic death because he sympathised with my disgust with the aggressive demands that the paqo or altomisayoq (“shaman”) Manwel Quispe Apasa (our host and younger brother of Pawiyan) had made on me and knew that I was aware of the enmity between these two brothers. In 1969–1970 it had been this Manwel Quispe who allowed me and my family to live in his large puxllay wasi in the ritual centre for a nominal monthly payment of cash. I have no memory or record of re-­encountering him during our stay in 1977, and we may have avoided him. It may have also been significant that, when in 1977 I and my family finally left Hatun Q’ero to back-pack out the 40 kilometres to Paucartambo, we encountered the eldest son of the deceased Manwel Chura, perhaps the sole survivor and heir, returning triumphantly in full traditional Q’ero regalia astride his grand horse from a festival in that town, appearing for all the

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world like a rich hacendado reclaiming his fiefdom (Webster (1977) Book 5: 16–17; 1981: 627, 630). I described above how, after finding the ch’uya punyu supplication to protect potato crops buried near the chullpa above Q’ero Llaqta, I had been told it had probably been buried by a papa chusaq from Totorani who also helped Hatun Q’ero. Coincidentally, I later learned that Marcelo Chura was a leading papa chusaq, hampiq, or akulliq (curer of potato diseases) for Totorani (Fig. 8.4) as well as Hatun Q’ero. Had deaths and resulting succession to unusual family wealth affected his reputation in shamanism? Unfortunately, Marcelo had not been among the 25 men whose photos were sorted in 1970 with regard to these criteria. Wissler witnessed several occasions when the mourning of recent deaths erupted in what she compassionately describes as “grief-singing” (2009: 198). On one such occasion the young spouses of a family’s teen-age son and daughter had both died within a few weeks of each other, and the child born of the young widow a few days later also died within a few months (2009: 127–8). Wissler concludes that the animal fertility rituals of P”allchay and Machu Fistay (Axata Uxyuchichis) often precipitate this mourning music because alpaca and llama are seen as the caretakers of their owners just as these parents are the caretakers of their children (2009: 145). The kiyu, a large Andean condor, like the puma is said to be an omen of death, and in 2005 one was said to have been seen near the family house of the altomisayoq Manuel Quispe in Chewa Chewa hamlet a few days before he died (Wissler 2009: 68). The efforts of the INC (National Institute of Culture) to encourage etnodesarollo (ethnic development) of the Q’ero Nation 2005–2017 have been mentioned previously and will be more fully discussed later in this chapter. Parts of their two reports are a possible source of information on Hatun Q’ero well-being (INC 2005, 2007). Their initial diagnostic report included a comment regarding demography of the Q’ero communities that appears to mention the average birth-rate as well as child mortality among them (INC 2005: 25). It briefly expressed concern and the need for further research on infant mortality in the Q’ero Nation, noting in passing that Q’ero families had an average of six children (INC 2005: 24; “…cada familia llega a tener un promedio de 6 hijos…”). But if this meant the average birth-rate among Q’ero Nation families was six children, this would imply that the average family size in the Hatun Q’ero community of six persons that I laid out in Chap. 9 (deduced by dividing the INC report of 882 persons by their report of 147 families; 2005: 27) had

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already suffered an average infant mortality rate of two children per family.3 This 33% mortality rate of their children is reasonable: it can be as high as 40–60% among poor peasantry, and Cometti reports that “Q’eros told me that every family loses an average of between one and two children” (2015: 88). He added that there is no national healthcare in the Q’ero Nation, and even immunisation campaigns rarely reach it. He was also told that infant mortality is very high, especially between December and February due to unusual “intense cold” as well as the heavy rain and humidity more characteristic of this wet season. He noticed that a family who had lost a member in the current year wears only their ordinary clothing during a fiesta rather than their newly woven colourful capes and ponchos expected of others, but was told that because infant mortality is so frequent this mark of mourning is not necessary when it is a baby that has died (2015: 164–165). Whatever the facts on infant mortality, what can explain the Hatun Q’ero population increase of 33% by 1984 and 76% more by 2004? In view of this paradoxical fact, the Q’eros’ report to Cometti that every family loses an average of one or two of their children, especially in view of epidemics like those I reported and the continuing absence of provincial health services, may actually mark a major health improvement compared to the 1970s. The apparent increase in average family size in Hatun Q’ero from 4.58 to 6 by 2005 may even have compensated for this grievous loss. Nevertheless, even if this rise in child survival could explain the population increase, what explains this phenomenon itself, especially in the deteriorating environment and consequent miseries emphasised by Cometti’s informants? Again, it appears that regardless of these increasing difficulties, the Hatun Q’ero community had been successful in exploiting additional resources drawn from their “fourth ecological level” in the Cuzco region while sustaining most of the traditional community resources that enabled them to do that. Festivals As I described in Chap. 7 of Part I above, the annual festivals and associated rituals traditionally celebrated are a display of the relative wealth or prestige of their sponsors and their domestic groups, and thus the general well-being of the community (Figs. 10.1, 10.2, 10.3, and 10.4; Chaps. 4, 5, 6, and 7). Wissler’s accounts confirm the same implications (2009:

Fig. 10.1  Paskwa festival in Q’ero Llaqta ritual centre: varayoq and elders; vara staffs in foreground; visiting merchants, unku dancer, looking on

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Fig. 10.2  Paskwa festival in Q’ero Llaqta ritual centre: varayoq with elders: capillayoq, regidor, alcalde, mandon at table; aguaciles attending

Fig. 10.3  Q’ero Llaqta in Paskwa festival: weavings raised on arko by men; looking north down Q’ero Mayo towards Inka ñan road and Puskero

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Fig. 10.4  Q’ero Llaqta in Paskwa festival: women watching raising of arko with their weavings

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59–84; 109–182). I described the annual festival cycle of Hatun Q’ero primarily in terms of food and labour resources, leadership responsibilities, and support from kin and affines. During 1969–1970 I attended all five of the community festivals held in the ritual centre (Chayampuy, Carnival, Paskwa, Santa Kurus, and Korpus—the latter of which includes concurrent pilgrimages to Quyllurit’i and Qamara), and three of the four family festivals held in the valley head hamlets (Palchasqa, Axllay, Ahata Uxuchichis, and Santus). My wife Lois and our three- and five-year old boys were with me in Hatun Q’ero for Paskwa (‘Pascua’, Easter), and Lois accompanied me for the Korpus festival while we left our children in the care of our flat-mates in Cuzco for a few days. Our cholo friend Luychu also accompanied us in this expedition, and he and I hastily returned from half-way along in their Quyllurit’i pilgrimage on the other side of the Ayakachi Range to join the concurrent Hatun Q’ero pilgrimage to Qamara for a night, half the way down into the subtropical monte to Puskero (see Fig. 1.2). As described earlier, when I and my family returned from New Zealand in 1977, we joined the Hatun Q’ero dancers at the Quyllurit’i pilgrimage, but fell behind in their traverse on the southern side of the Ayakachi glaciers and missed the festival in Q’ero Llaqta where the two pilgrimage groups triumphantly met for the climax of the Korpus festival. In Fig. 4.1 I listed both these community and family festivals according to the months of their occurrence during the annual round of herding, cultivation, and other tasks at the four levels of the community ecosystem (considering wayq’o and loma as separate levels). I overlooked noting Santa Kurus in Fig.  4.1 (where it should be inserted in early May) and Quyllurit’i and Qamara pilgrimages should also be noted there as held in conjunction with Korpus. Santa Kurus might have been a newly restored community festival and was celebrated in Q’ero Llaqta with night processions and dancing at Pukara Moqo just above the ritual centre as well as at the cathedral (Webster (1969–1970) NB 2: 31b–33). I was excited to be included and often seated beside the regidor, but overlooked describing it in the dissertation itself as well as noting it in Fig. 4.1. I reported that although the number of community festivals was said to have decreased since the early century (which was seen as a time of plentiful resources), at least one new festival had been added in the current year. I was told that Korpus had been ch’inkasqa (“lost” or “sunken”) for the previous three to four years, so apparently either Santa Kurus or Korpus was the “new” addition. Significantly, I also reported that “in the past when the entire community

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was suffering difficult times, due apparently to lost crops or severe predation [in their maize plots], a few traditional feasts were cancelled for lack of support, and never resumed” (Part I, Chap. 4). Wissler briefly lists and describes seven of the same festivals as occurred in my time (2009: 222). She distinguishes an eighth festival that I had assumed was a part of Carnival/Puxllay (Tinkuy “meet-up”, the meeting of youths in the passes separating each valley at the conclusion of Carnival; 2009: 51–52, 62) and a ninth festival that I had understood as part of Korpus (the pilgrimage circuit of their costumed dance and musical group to Quyllurit’i preceding Korpus). Her list does not include the community festival Santa Kurus, perhaps because it had been dropped, nor the pilgrimage down to Qamara at the same time as the pilgrimage to Quyllurit’i, nor the family gathering for Axllay, which may have been simply considered a harvest faena. Wissler’s long-term familiarity with the Q’eros implies that the annual celebration of most of these celebrations had not changed since the 1970s and (given her focus on festival music, dance, and song) that she had probably attended all or most of them between 2004 and 2009. Cometti’s information on which Hatun Q’ero festivals were celebrated during his research between 2011 and 2015 is also ambiguous. Only six years after Wissler’s 2009 report, he mentions all these same festivals except Tinkuy, Kurus, Qamara, Axllay, and Santos, but implies that the major festivals of Easter (Paskwa) and Quyllur Rit’i had been “lost” insofar as the varayoq no longer organised these festivals and that “only” that of Carnival had been continued (2015: 45). If this was indeed the case, it is a major change. Even if the kargu of these two major festivals was nevertheless taken up by volunteers without the authority of the varayoq behind them, Kurus and Qamara festivals may have been overlooked because they were assumed (by Cometti or the Q’eros themselves) to be part of Quyllurit’i, rather than Quyllurit’i and Qamara being part of Kurus festival, as it was in my time. Tinkuy, Axllay, and Santos may have been similarly overlooked because they are family festivals in the hamlets rather than community festivals in the ritual centre. Cometti apparently considers the Chayampuy festival to be part of the Carnival festival, because in the same context he describes Chayampuy as the passing of authority from the varayoq of one year on to their successors for the next year and presents a photo showing part of this ceremony in February 2012 (2015: 45–46).

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Could it be that Cometti and perhaps Wissler were simply accepting at face-value the Q’eros’ claim that their neglect or cancellation of traditional festivals—these grandest of petitions to the apu and other place-beings of their cosmology—was a cause of their increasing difficulties? A more likely implication of these ambiguities is that the number of fiestas had always been adjusted by the Hatun Q’ero community leaders according to the resources available to the community in a given year. The normal suspension of some fiestas may have been exaggerated as the loss of most or all of them to dramatise the extent to which the community was disregarding its obligatory reciprocations with the apu, awki, and pacha mama, but also to sustain the rising market value of these rituals globally as well as in Cuzco and its region. If this were the case, the Hatun Q’ero tradition of evasion through displays of suffering or indignation had become even more sophisticated than in my time. On the other hand, insofar as the increasing population and relations with corporate and government agencies is related to increasing wealth in the community, suspension of any fiestas implies a decline in redistribution of that wealth, rising inequality of relative wealth or poverty, and resources devoted to other ends (such as “running after money”), as well as neglect of the rituals of reciprocity with apu, awki, and pacha mama. The decline of festivals and the possible abdication of the varayoq’s traditional responsibility to assign and oversee all the festival responsibilities would have serious implications for the wider solidarity of the community. Prestige and Leadership However large or small the decline of the number of family fiestas in the hamlets as well as community fiestas in the ritual centre, this has important bearing on the traditional varayoq (“staff-bearers”) offices of the community (Figs. 10.1, 10.2; Chap. 7). In the 1970s it was clear that the prestige and leadership of the community was won, displayed, and sustained primarily by the system of varayoq offices. To what extent had this been continued as the population expanded, new resources were found in Cuzco and its region, and the formal national offices of a General Assembly and Directive Board became established in the community? As I mentioned earlier, these new offices had not yet been established in Hatun Q’ero by the time of our return visit in 1977. In my 1974 essay on status ranking among 25 leading men of the community, I described in detail how relative prestige was closely related to

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wealth (Chap. 7). These two aspects of Hatun Q’ero well-being were related especially through their system of 15–20 traditional kargus (from cargo, “responsibility”; literally “load” or “burden”), including the festivals and the varayoq as traditional supervisors of all these undertakings and their annual rotation among domestic groups of the community. The photo-sorting method I used with several kuraq (“elder”) individuals was also extended to any reputation the 25 leading men may have had as “cultural brokers” (dealing with misti communities) or as shamans (paqo or misayoq), although the results in these terms were not always clearly related to wealth or prestige. Wissler describes the festivals but attempts no generalisations regarding the resulting status ranking or relative prestige. Cometti does briefly describe the political system of the Q’ero Nation in terms of the Directors (Junta Directiva) and Assemblies planned in all comunidades campesinas by legislation in 1969 as well as the traditional system of varayoq and kargus rotated annually (2015: 44–48; 195–196). Drawing on other Andeanist sources and exchange or gift theory, Cometti explains that the varayoq system “confers social recognition” through redistribution of “accumulated goods” to “ensure the prosperity and social and symbolic sustainability of the group”, but also can lead to “social exclusion” of an individual who fails to accomplish these goals. Cometti also comments that the Q’eros find the addition of the new federal roles of directors and assemblies to the old roles of varayoq to be confusing, but grant alot of importance to the “charismatic role” of the varayoq alcalde (“mayor”) that apparently results (2015: 47). He later expands on the Andean custom of ayni (“reciprocity”) in Hatun Q’ero as extending from the kargu system more generally into all social relationships, including those with apu and paccha mama (2015: 195–208). Although Cometti does not pursue it, his exploration of the asymmetry or domination as well as symmetry of ayni relationships imply the sort of status ranking I described in Hatun Q’ero prestige and leadership. Similarly, Wissler’s analysis of symbolism in the rituals accompanied by music and dance displays in detail the central role of ayni as the reciprocity of dualisms that are probably implicit in the interplay of wealth, prestige, and leadership in Hatun Q’ero (2009: 42–59; Chaps. 4–8). As an example of ayni, Cometti describes his host Guillermo’s domestic group as exchanging support between Cuzco, where he works as a paqu shaman and his wife sells weavings while both keep their families’ children in school there (2015: 196). Meanwhile, their brothers and sisters take

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care of their cultivations and herds in Hatun Q’ero. Although Cometti reviews exchange theory and emphasises the asymmetrical form of reciprocity characteristic of ayni particularly with regard to the dramatic imbalances of reciprocity with apu or paccha mama emphasised by the Q’eros, he apparently did not examine such asymmetry or imbalances as it might emerge in Guillermo’s or other domestic groups. Santos, Guillermo’s brother-in-law with whom Cometti stayed in Charka Pata, as resident in the community rather than Cuzco, was probably caught in the middle of the confrontation when Guillermo brought Cometti into the community as his client and probably had to continue to deal with it when Guillermo returned to his home in Cuzco. Insofar as Santos was Guillermo’s kakay (“wife-giving” domestic group) and Guillermo his q”atay (“wife-receiving” domestic group), this asymmetrical aspect of their reciprocity (in favour of the kakay family) would probably have aggravated the relationship between these two domestic groups (Part I, Chaps. 6 and 7). Cometti’s photo of a Chayampuy ritual displays some additional information that bears on the likely number of festivals actually being planned in 2012 as well as the varayoq and other kargus. It shows a Chayampuy group in February of 2012 entering the open door of what I would identify as the portico of the old rock-and-thatch chapel in the middle of the Hatun Q’ero ritual centre (2015: 46, Photo 2). My guess is that the group is going to bring out the same ancient but revered wooden crosses that in 1970 were paraded under the arko to celebrate the year’s weavings during Paskwa festival (Fig. 10.3; the roof thatch of the chapel is just visible at the left side of my 1970 photo). Cometti describes the new cargo-holders as dressed “in red” and sounding large sea-shell trumpets or pututu, while the previous cargo-holders are dressed in their “classic brown poncho” and play their qena flutes. In the darkening evening mist or fog shrouding his photo, I count about seven in puxllay p’acha “festival clothes” (the traditionally designed ponchos for which the Q’ero ethnic enclave has been famous at least since the 1950s), and I count about four in their plain work-ponchos, standing aside as the new karguyoq enter the chapel door. One striking change appears to me: three “Sargentos or apiris are young Q’eros who accompany them in music”, stand back somewhat as the other decorated new cargo-holders enter the chapel. These three are apparently also new cargo-holders and are probably the aguaciles who assist the alcalde and his regidor by representing them in each valley and together comprise the varayoq. But these “sargentos” are dressed in full-­ length white capes with peaked white hats—something I had never seen

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nor heard about and which now singles them out from the rest of the varayoq in some way that remains unexplained in either Wissler’s or Cometti’s accounts. In the 1970s, because the aguaciles were all beginning their cargo careers together, they were known as wawamasi (“companions in childhood”), which may be sufficient explanation for their dramatically different costumes. If they are members of the new varayoq in 2012, this increases the total number of cargo-holders in Cometti’s photo to 10 or 11. Insofar as the varayoq number no more than six, this implies that four or five additional cargo-holders were being recognised as responsible for the following year’s festivals—far from the radical loss of festivals reported to Cometti by the Hatun Q’eros. Insofar as the Hatun Q’ero attributed the deterioration of weather to the displeasure of their apu, awki, and paccha mama for neglect of their festivals and other rituals, this evidence also implies that Hatun Q’ero was honouring these earth-beings more fully than many claimed. Regardless of the pessimistic reports recorded by Cometti, these implications also confirm his assessment that although Hatun Q’ero found the new statutory leadership roles of the Junta Directiva confusing, the charismatic leadership of the varayoq continued to hold sway in the community. As I described earlier, his assessment is further supported by Salas’s confidence that such “directors”, like the varayoq, achieve their position of leadership only through the community’s traditional system of cargos. On the other hand, it is clear that this leadership was increasingly confronted by new sources of possible conflict. Fights between factions demanding a school, continuation of their arrangement with the hacienda, alignment with a labour syndicate, or expropriation by the government may have settled since the 1960–1970s. Nevertheless, resentments or divergent opinions might emerge regarding increasingly unequal access to land or other resources, corrupted enterados or junta directiva members, or unpredictable shamans, as well as neglect of customary rituals with the apu or chasing money in private enterprises. Given the major changes since the 1970s in Hatun Q’ero population as well as its relation to the “fourth ecological level” of Cuzco and the region, the traditional leadership of the varayoq and the kuraqkuna elders will indeed be important for resolving disputes. The most likely point for their ranks to break rather than close against an external threat would be disagreement between them and the new statutory offices. In this way, manipulation by other

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corporate or government representatives in the community or influential outsiders could more easily deploy the old colonial tactic of divide and rule. In the brief epilogue of his 2015 book, Cometti considers tourism but especially mining as the most likely threats to the future collective solidarity of Hatun Q’ero (2015: 227–229). While tourism essentialises their customs by “staging” their indigeneity or autochthony, mining representatives use devious methods to insinuate themselves, even posing as tourists, into the confidence of the most vulnerable communities, especially the modernisation hopes of their youth. He concludes that in the face of climate change “only an inter-ontological analysis taking into account autochthonous cosmologies … can give us a more complete picture of reality” (2015: 229; my translation). There is no doubt that most Hatun Q’ero shamans, even those who had moved permanently to Cuzco and appeared to only chase after money in New Age tourism, were dealing with realities in regarding the importance of maintaining traditional rituals of reciprocity with apu and awki. Cometti’s extensive verbatim accounts of their commentaries are convincing of their sincerity (e.g., 2015: 149–59, 171–6, 209–211). Nevertheless, their reality cannot be considered an “autochthonous cosmology” insofar as Hatun Q’ero had been dealing with their “fourth ecological floor” for centuries of successive Andean empires, and thus their whole ecosystem had been steadily changing in often unpredictable but significant ways. However radical the difference between this world and their “other” world might appear to be, they had long been both remote and cosmopolitan, enmeshed for better or worse in a single world. Nicolas, probably one of the most travelled and worldly of Hatun Q’ero’s pampamisayoqs, described their struggle to regain community solidarity and maintain the vestiges of their ancestral shamans’ skills. His explanation that this was needed in order to confront the increasing crisis of “climate change” with a global “collective will” was a clear echo of global environmentalist movements (2015: 209–210). His concern for the “justice” of this global cause was also aware that his own role, as a permanent emigrant to Cuzco and necessarily “interested in money,” made it unlikely that Hatun Q’ero shamanism “could do it on [its] own” without the help of a widening collectivity devoted to respectful reciprocity with the planet and its various “earth-beings”. This depth of awareness and commitment, no matter its manipulative or corrupt inclinations, cannot be trivialised as a shamanic form of New Age enthusiasms.

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I myself would resort to the potato-skin analogy. Probably in Professor Oscar Núñez del Prado’s day as well as my own in the 1970s, the symbolic role of the lowly potato and its skin served gently to remind naive but respectful outsiders of the need to maintain good relations between all cosmological beings, presumably human or not. By the 1970s Hatun Q’ero had long since learned to accommodate their way of life to exploitive colonial regimes through balanced tactics of defiant independence and evasive servility. However, by the time of Wissler’s, Salas’s, and Cometti’s research decades later, the community had come to see their ‘fourth ecological floor’ as more deeply ambiguous. Indeed, ever since the 1970s their world was also being transformed by neoliberal economics on a global scale, coming to bear even on the faces of the mountains around them in the form of mining interests. Meanwhile, the potato-skin analogy had come to express Hatun Q’ero determination, as “a mean and hard people”, to exploit as well as maintain control over the new global resources, crises, and resolutions they confronted. The comparison with protectionism in global as well as local markets may not be merely analogical.

3  The Ten-Year Plan of the National Institute of Culture The effort of the INC (National Institute of Culture) to intervene among other external agencies in Hatun Q’ero has been discussed in previous sections with regard to roads, emigration, and birth-rates. As described in Chap. 9, the INC report in 2005 was a belated but explicit response to the United Nation’s declaration of the “International Decade of Indigenous Communities” 1994–2004. From this point of view, the INC is one of the more global aspects of Hatun Q’ero’s fourth ecological floor.4 A closer look at the INC’s effort may clarify the specific way in which indigeneity movements globally as well as in Peru were emerging in Hatun Q’ero. In the earlier discussion of external agencies and tourism effecting Hatun Q’ero, I suggested that already by 2000 the reciprocal effects of these agencies, the rapidly rising population of Hatun Q’ero, and its reputation as the surviving descendants of the Incas had gained national attention. By 2005 the INC had investigated and distributed a bold initial plan to stem the assimilation of authentic Q’ero customs into the dominant society of the state and to instead implement “development plans

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according to the Q’eros’ own desires, values, and goals” (INC 2005: 6–8). Although the INC was itself an “external agency”, it held these agencies accountable for romanticising Q’ero poverty and isolation as exotic and thereby “distorting their cultural practices, especially their expressions of Andean spirituality” (INC 2005: 2). The 2004–2005 research and report was prepared by the Cuzco branch of the INC and coordinated by Professor Florentino Champi Ccasa, a graduate of University San Abad of Cuzco and docent of the Andean University of Cuzco by 2019. At least through the former university, he would have known Professor of Anthropology Oscar Núñez del Prado, who had pressed government until Q’ero was finally expropriated, and his son Juan Núñez del Prado, who had become a leader of so-called New Age or mystical shamanism centred in Cuzco. Indeed, in the early 1990s, it was Oscar Núñez del Prado who was director of the INC’s Cuzco branch (Salas 2012: 102–103). In 2007 the INC distributed its Integral Plan for Ethno-development for the Communities of the Q’ero Nation 2008–2017, Paucartambo (INC 2007; I had seen only the 2005 report, but Guillermo Salas was able to supply me with an apparently complete draft of the 2007 plan). In this second report, the progressive (if perhaps naive) intentions of the INC’s plan were disappointingly presented in very generalised and even bureaucratic terms, largely repeating the raw gross data presented in the earlier admittedly diagnostic report of 2005, and more in terms of its hopes and ideals than an elaboration of its data. Surprisingly as well as disappointingly, Wissler’s participation in the INC’s sincere efforts 2005–2006 and recommendations to develop the spectacular Q’eros musical tradition was ignored in the INC’s enumeration of other aspects of Q’ero customs to be supported (INC 2007: Part 1.1, p. 5). The 2007 report was also prepared by the Cuzco branch of the INC, foresaw an ambitious ten-year plan of ethno-development in the same general terms as the 2005 report, was half the length of the 2005 report (35 rather than 76 pages), and appears to have no author. One gets the definite impression that national support for the plan had been withdrawn and only its ideals continued, and there are apparently no subsequent reports. It so happened that in 2006 President Toledo, whose wife Elaine Karp had probably supported the plan, was replaced by President Garcia, who restored the neoliberal economic policies of the Fujimori administration of the 1990s and was hostile towards indigeneity movements (Salas 2012: 398–400). I suspect that as well as being defunded by the new

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national administration, the INC plan had encountered increasing resistance from the other external agents it was attempting to control and apparently also from within the Q’ero Nation itself. The priority given by the 2007 report to “Cultural and Archeological manifestations” in the INC’s “strategic analysis” of several other aspects of Q’ero Nation communities is significant (2007: 12). The general INC long-term vision remains that “[t]he communities of the Q’ero Nation as of 2018 [sic], are a regional reference as a prototype of indigenous communities of Peru, which have managed to strategically combine tradition with modernity, privileging culture as a factor in their development” (INC 2007: 21). The national organisation’s indigeneity goals appear to have been limited to the “region”—by which is meant the Cuzco region—perhaps to minimise confrontation with the Garcia administration. Besides “cultural and archeological manifestations”, the other aspects of the Q’ero Nation, in the order they were listed in the report, are (2007: 12–19): health and education; communal infrastructure; community, metropolitan, and institutional organisation; economic and productive activities; and natural, archaeological, and biodiverse resources. The report organised its strategic analysis into columns headed “Strengths”, “Weaknesses”, “Opportunities”, and “Threats”, citing “FODA” and “Peru21”. 5 The report’s first priority “Cultural and Archeological Manifestations” was concerned much more with cultural than archaeological manifestations. However, its brief comments are revealing, or at least suggestive, of what was going on in Hatun Q’ero as well as national politics in 2007. In this way, they also expand our understanding of the wider context in which Cometti as well as Wissler were undertaking their research. I will summarise below each of the four columns in this section of the report: 1. The column on “strengths” listed the Q’ero Nations’ distinctive culture; their knowledge of Andean spiritualism guided by a hierarchy of specialists; their practice of fiestas syncretising popular Catholicism and Andeanism; their transmission of oral tradition through generations; their practice of a unique dance, music, and song tradition; their singular clothing style; and their “knowledge of the holistic and Andean cosmovision, as a permanent and reciprocal relationship with the elements of nature.” 2. The column on “weaknesses” listed the younger generation’s steady loss of cultural practices; decreasing respect for qhawaq (“diviners”), hampeq (“curers”), altomisa pampamisa (the two levels of shaman-

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ism); disdain of religious fiestas and the Quyllurit’i pilgrimage by some religious groups; undermining Andean spirituality by some Q’eros who already consider the culture as merely a commercial object; devaluation of cultural practices due to their relationship with external agents in recent years; and steady loss of skills and use of traditional clothing. 3. The column on “opportunities” listed international declarations supporting non-material cultures; INC programmes considering culture as a factor in development; INC’s Q’ero Project in ethno-­ development; increasing presence of foreign and national visitors interested in experiential and mystical tourist activities; positive valuation of Q’eros by the national and international community as one of the last bastions of Inca culture; interest by students and investigators to understand Q’ero cultural practices. 4. The column on “threats” listed the fewest manifestations, including mythification of the Q’ero culture in the external world by studies and external agents; increasing presence of external agents (traffickers of Andean spirituality, false priests, curious fans of it) who promote distortion of the practice of spirituality; presence of preachers from religious congregations who are against Andean cultural practices; and absence of a cultural policy by the State at its different levels. Whereas the list of “weaknesses” was focused on problems intramural to the Q’ero Nation that the INC concluded were facing its plans for ethno-development, the strikingly frank list of “threats” was focused on problems for their plan arising from external agents influencing the Q’ero Nation. Although an obvious criticism might be that the INC was avoiding consideration of the fact that it too was one of those external agents, it may be significant that the last threat listed implies that the Peruvian state was failing to adequately support the INC efforts. I agree that the ethno-development plan can itself be criticised as a more benign or even subversive form of mythification, traffickers, false priests, or patronising preachers. Nevertheless, a sympathetic reading especially of the 2005 as well as the 2007 report enabled me to better understand why these reports may sincerely consider themselves above their own criticisms. I will cautiously defend their approach later, but some evidence in the report itself does suggest that Hatun Q’ero leaders saw the INC plan as a similar threat and refused cooperation with them, at least in

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certain domains. In Chap. 9, following Cometti I pointed out that Hatun Q’ero had not responded to the INC’s 2005 query regarding sacred high-­ altitude animals as well as permanent emigrants to Cuzco. Similarly, in the 2007 INC report, while all four of the other Q’ero Nation communities named up to eight of their principle “orographic” features (elevated peaks that were considered “APUS” or titular guardians of their communities), Hatun Q’ero apparently declined to respond at all (2007: 9). This is certainly significant, at least because Hatun Q’ero was widely assumed to be far more traditional or authentic in this regard than most of the other Q’ero communities. Yet the 2007 INC report does not explain or even mention their obvious silence. It may also be significant that Wamanripa, the titular apu of Hatun Q’ero, since 1955 readily reported to most other investigators including myself, is named only by Hapu (with an alternative spelling ‘Huamanlipa’) while being ignored by all three of the other communities including Totorani, which is as visually dominated by this peak as is Hatun Q’ero. Also somewhat strangely, Hapu, at the opposite end of the Ayakachi Range, is actually the most distant of the Q’ero Nation communities from this peak and unable to see it, yet presumed to name it among their apu and awki. Another surprise is that while none of the other well-known heavily glaciated peaks of the Ayakachi Range that visually dominate most of the Q’ero communities (Qawiñayoq and Qolqe Punku I as well as II; see Figs. 1.3, 8.2) were named by any of the five communities, all but Hatun Q’ero named several “elevated” locations as “apus” (eight for Hapu, seven for Marcachea, five for Totorani, two for Kiku). This suggests that with the exception of Hapu’s “Huamanlipa”, all the other 21 “apu” are what were called awki in the 1970s, local hills, buttresses, or ch’ullpa (ancient ruins) more significant to certain hamlets than others. By Wissler’s time, she found that the words “Apu Sitima” were used instead of “awki” in reference to hights “in the immediate valley region” (2009: 117–118), perhaps suggesting a relative promotion of awki status since my time. I recognised none of other 21 names reported by the other four Q’ero Nations but, admittedly, had neglected to enquire or record the names of most of the local awki recognised in Hatun Q’ero (and neglected to investigate which of the many geographic features I recorded in Fig. 1.3 were also considered awki). As discussed in Chap. 8 with regard to Ayakachi peaks and glaciers, the identification of the same peak by different names when seen from different perspectives reported by geographer John Ricker in the Ayakachi as

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well as throughout the Andes may explain why neither Qolqe Punku nor Qawiñayoq (nor “Qolqe Punku II”) were named by any of the four Q’ero Nations that responded. However, neither were any of the several other names of major Ayakachi peaks recorded by Ricker named by them. In any case, the complete silence of Hatun Q’ero on either apu, awki, or other “orographic features” stands out loudly in this data as needing explanation. Hatun Q’ero leaders or informants to INC also appear to have been unresponsive to its investigation of what community or inter-community organisations may have been established to pursue any of several other forms of development in leadership, health, agriculture, and vicuña breeding (INC 2007: 10). In this case Hatun Q’ero did not stand out alone: their Totorani neighbours similarly named only 6 of 14 possible organisations (Hatun Q’ero named 8, while the other three Q’ero communities named 10–11 such organisations). Hatun Q’ero did respond positively that the community had a Directive Board and Consejo menor (“minor Council”; apparently the bureaucratic term used for the traditional varayoq; INC 2005: 53). They also admitted having rondas campesinas (security patrols); a Mother’s Club; a “Glass of Milk” committee (to promote children’s health through drinking cows’ milk)6; a male parents’ committee in support of children’s education; a committee promoting school children’s dining room; and a committee developing irrigation. However, Hatun Q’ero apparently offered no response to INC queries about whether any of the following agencies were represented in their community: a teniente gobernador (a role established under hacienda regimes for reporting to the hacendado, continued in my day as a representative to urban centres requiring familiarity with mestizo routines); a vicuña breeding committee; any committees devoted to potable water, electrification, health, or agriculture; a supervisor of health practices; or a committee supervising an established irrigation system. If these omissions in the report were intentional or even systematic on the part of Hatun Q’ero leaders, what might be some implications? Was the INC being stone-walled? During the 2004–2006 meetings described by Wissler, the INC plan was developed in a circuit of consultations extended from Paucartambo throughout the Q’ero Nation. Even if Hatun Q’ero motives were not that they saw the INC ten-year plan as threatening as those the report attributed to other external agents (as mythifiers, traffickers, false priests, or patronising preachers), the community or their spokespersons may have decided that it was best to stay as uncommitted as possible. Most clearly with regard to their awki as well as their apu, they

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had decided to keep even their names to themselves. The apparent absence of a vicuña breeding committee may be similarly revealing, as was Hatun Q’ero silence about other “pure” or revered high-altitude animals in the 2005 INC report. Wissler, Cometti, and Salas report that the vicuña are among the several native high-altitude animals that are said by the Q’eros to be the representatives or domesticates of the apu and are thus seen as omens and treated with careful respect. Already by the 1960s the vicuña wool textiles spun and woven by the Hatun Q’eros, especially the challinas (“cravat”, long soft men’s scarves woven by the men rather than the women) were sought among collectors as well as in the Cuzco markets. The vicuña is said to be undomesticatable and was nationally protected from being hunted, but the Q’eros described to me how they organised annual round-ups in the highest canyons of the loma, sheared the animals, and let them go free again for the next year (they probably also carried out ritual propitiations to appropriate awki or apu, but I failed to ask about that). This practice was apparently now being encouraged by external agencies with the aim of helping the wild animals breed more productively. The agencies promoting this may have also promoted the commercialisation of Q’ero weavings in conjunction with the tourist industry in Cuzco and more widely in Peru. By 2007 several of the NGOs or private corporations represented in the Q’ero Nation were training the weavers to use natural dyes in their textiles, encouraging their reversion to skills they had deserted by the 1960s in preference to the brighter analine dyes purchased in Cuzco (INC 2007: 11, 16). Although the Hatun Q’eros’ appeared to have no such organisation devoted to vicuña breeding, their silence could have been intended to protect their relation with the apu, pacha mama, and awki, or to protect their control over the weaving resource—or both. Similar intentions may have been behind their silence with regard to the apu and awki they recognised: to protect their daily reliance on good relationships with these unpredictable beings or to protect their knowledge about them from being commercialised and probably devalued in the tourist industry—or for both reasons. But if the Hatun Q’eros, like the INC itself, did not see the INC plan as threatening their interests in the naive or presumptuous ways of mythifiers, traffickers, false priests, or preachers, why did they remain suspicious? I suggest that they would recognise in the plan the subtle paternalist form of patronage through which hacendado land-owners had successfully extracted their cooperation for centuries. In the 1960s the faction of “hacienda lovers” who resisted expropriation had felt more comfortable

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with this degree of relative control over their owners. Although by 2004 the modern corporate forms of philanthropy, humanitarianism, or ethical rectitude were probably relatively new to them, it is not surprising that they could recognise colonial similarities in the INC plan. They may have even been aware that they were dealing with national rather than local corporate policy that could be reversed from mere paternalism to systematic neoliberal exploitation in the 2006 election. As recounted earlier with regard to potential conflicts between the traditional varayoq leadership and the new statutory authorities, while Wissler saw them as often conflicting, and the INC saw them as complementing one another “without major difficulty”, Salas asserted that “any male was expected to assume at least a couple if not all the posts of the staff bearer [varayoq] system as well as several positions in the Junta Directiva in order to arrive at a status of a respected kuraq, elder” (Salas 2012: 251; my emphases and brackets). If what the 2007 INC report described as the “minor Council” was what the 2005 report termed the varayoq, this certainly implied the subordination of this traditional group of leaders to the statutory Directive Council. Moreover, Salas’s interpretation raised (but did not elaborate on) a contradiction implicit in the supposed subordination of the new authorities along with the varayoq to the hierarchy of kuraq or elders: while the varayoq focused on their roles in fiestas and organising community work projects, the new authorities represented the community before external authorities and maintained the official records. Given the official national as well as regional status of the new authorities, this division of labour had clearly paternalistic implications for the traditional system of kuraq as well as the varayoq. Salas is inclined to see the interests of the INC as promoting rather than neutrally encouraging what it saw as authentic Q’ero customs and sees this as an example of the contradictory “logic of narratives of modernity” urging both “modernisation” and “tradition” which holds Q’ero and other runa in a double bind (Salas 2012: 181): Most of these friends of the Q’ero deeply mistrust the others who also claim to help them; and suspicion or open accusations quickly arise about befriending the Q’ero in order to take advantage of them. … Beyond the usual claims about not wanting to keep the Q’ero frozen in time or to make decisions in their name, what this mistrust reveals is a deep, while probably involuntary, paternalism. The mistrust can only be explained because it is assumed that the Q’ero might not be capable enough of distinguishing

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between their actual good friends and those who only want to take advantage of them. The Q’ero would then need someone to do this work for them. (Salas 2012: 186)

Indeed, the INC reported that some Q’ero were equivocal or cynical due to the paternalistic attitude of government and other agents promoting welfare dependency (2007: 14–15). Given the security of the increasing access to resources needed to explain their disproportionately large population growth, as well as their long experience manipulating the subtleties of contemporary as well as hacendado paternalism, Hatun Q’ero probably decided to maintain its options with regard to the INC plan as well as that of other external agencies. Since the 1970s their established suspicions of commerce with mestizo society as an “accommodated tribal community” (Part I, Chap. 1) had also confronted the global reach of neoliberal economics in the form of national policies as well as indigeniety movements protesting them, especially in the Cuzco region. Who could say what opportunities might emerge for them to play the market of modern as well as traditional paternalism? The silence of the community on certain issues raised by the INC at least suggests a consensus had been formed between kuraq, varayoq, and the Directive Board and the community had closed its ranks in a form of market protectionism.

Notes 1. This quotation is identical to that which appears in Cometti (2015: 144), but with Cometti’s permission I have quoted it from his 2014 dissertation (where it appears on page 174) because Peter Lang, publisher of his 2015 volume, refused permission to quote it under the standard copyright exclusion for brief academic purposes. 2. My brief search of websites for PUMAPeru turned up Peruvian companies dealing in clothing and even mining, promoted by philanthropic programmes, but these may have been different “Puma” companies. One must nevertheless wonder how the Q’eros perceived the puma icon of the NGO, insofar as this animal is a major predator upon their herds as well as an omen of their own impending death (Chap. 3: 6–7; NB3: 33b). 3. The INC’s 2005 report of “6 children” per family may have simply been a mistake confusing children with persons per family: if one divides the total number of persons in all eight Q’ero communities (3788) by the number of families (628), the result happens to be 6.03 persons per family (2005: 27).

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Unfortunately, the final INC report has no data at all on infant birth-rate or mortality, reporting only that “Intensification of the presence of respiratory illnesses due to the climatic changes and problems of malnutrition” (INC 2007: 13/34). 4. Ironically, the INC had been established nationally in the 1970s under the reformist military regime that instituted the Agrarian Reform and the new directorship and assembly roles of communidades campesinas that had emerged in Hatun Q’ero by the time of Wissler’s research. Pierre Losson traces the absorbsion of the INC into the Ministry of Culture in 2011, arguing that neither have effectively supported the potentials of “cultural industries” in Peru (Lossen 2013). 5. FODA (SWOT in English) is apparently an acronym for these four steps in a strategy for change popularised by Juan Jose Garrido, an economist and journalist from Lima (later the editor of the Peruvian journal Commercio) and graduate of Rutgers University in the USA. His strategy for developing the nation, “A SWOT for Peru”, updated in 2017, is outlined in the following website (accessed 21 Feb 2021): https://peru21.pe/opinion/la-­ opinion-­del-­director-­juan-­jose-­garrido/foda-­peru-­384054-­noticia/. 6. As described in my dissertation (Chap. 3: 2; en1 cites further sources), llamas and alpacas were not milked, but I did occasionally see elders offered a cup of cow’s milk as a token of respect; it is likely that Andean peoples are among those major populations that typically lose their tolerance of breast milk’s sugar lactase after weaning and may react to drinking milk by developing indigestion.

References Cometti, Geremia. 2015. Lorsque brouillard a cessé de nous écouter; Changement climatique et migrations chez les Q’eros des Andes péruviennes. Bern: Peter Lang. Flores Ochoa, Jorge and Ana Maria Fries. 1989. Puna, Qheshwa, Yunga. El hombre y su medio en Q’ero. Preparacion de texto de autores del Q’ero, el ultimo ayllu inka (1983). Banco Central de Reserva del Peru, Fondo Editorial. Lima, Peru, 1989. INC. Instituto Nacional de Cultura. 2005. Diagnostico Integral de las Comunidades de la Nacion Q’ero. Direccion Regional de Cultura—Cusco. ———. 2007. Plan Integral de Etnodesarrollo para las Comunidades de la Nacion Q’ero, 2008–2017. Paucartambo. Direccion Regional de Cultura—Cusco, Proyecto Q’ero. Octobre 2007. cLellan Lossen, Pierre. 2013. The creation of a Ministry of Culture: Towards the definition and implementation of a comprehensive cultural policy in Peru. International Journal of Cultural Policy, Vol. 19, No. 1, 20–39.

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Mayer, Enrique. 2009. Ugly Stories of the Peruvian Agrarian Reform. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Salas Carreño, Guillermo. 2012. Negotiating Evangelicalism and New Age Tourism through Quechua Ontologies in Cuzco, Peru. Phd dissertation, University of Michigan. Theidon, Kimberly 2012. Intimate Enemies: Violence and Reconciliation in Peru. University of Pennsylvania Press. van den Berghe, Pierre and G. Primov. 1977. Inequality in the Peruvian Andes: Class and Ethnicity in Cuzco. University of Missouri Press. Webster, Steven. 1969–1970. NB 1–6. Field Notebooks from Q’ero. Also genealogies, with xerox copies A-1,2 through E1-2. ———. 1977. ‘Books’ 2–5. (Untitled typescript of personal ethnographic account of our 1977 return visit to Q’ero; ca. 60 pp double-spaced). ———. 1981. Interpretation of an Andean Social and Economic Formation. In Man (N.S.) 16, 616–33. (Q’ero under the pseudonym ‘Ch’eqec’). Wissler, Holly. 2009. From Grief and Joy We Sing; Social and Cosmic Regenerative Processes in the Songs of Q’eros, Peru. PhD Dissertation, Florida State University.

CHAPTER 11

Conclusions

Part II, my armchair ‘return’ to Q’ero in an attempt to recover its ethnohistory since the 1970s (described in Part I), has arrived at some tentative conclusions. After a survey of the ‘wider ecosystem of Hatun Q’ero in terms of theoretical as well as geographic approaches to the community in Chap. 8, in Chap. 9 I examined specific changes since the 1970s with regard to the relationship between its traditional resources and its surprising population growth. Examination of major aspects of Hatun Q’ero well-being in Chap. 10 has led me to focus on how their unique form of indigeneity has been reshaped by their changing confrontation with commerce and political-economic policies as well as earlier forms of colonisation.

1   Capitalism and Shamanism as Opposed Forms of Commodity Fetishism In his epilogue, Cometti suggests that threats to the future of Hatun Q’ero take the form of essentialising or idealising their autochthonous customs through tourism or offering to modernise them through mining. This conclusion echos Salas’s insight that Q’eros, like all runa, are caught semiologically in the double bind between traditional mestizo or ‘modern’ commercial domination of them (Salas 2012: 55-73; 112-128). Salas’

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 S. Webster, Returning to Q’ero, Palgrave Studies in Anthropology of Sustainability, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-04972-9_11

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position on this issue will be discussed below. But if we take ‘modernisation’ as also an essentialisation parallel to the idealisation of Q’ero customs through tourism, can both forms of essentialisation be seen to be commodity fetishisms? While neoliberal globalisation naturalises free enterprise and commercial exploitation (as if it were an irresistible force of nature), might New Age tourism be seen to naturalise shamanist cosmology as a cure or antidote for it? Can this perspective open up our understanding of what has been going on in Hatun Q’ero? Indigeneity movements, including those in Peru, have become increasingly influential globally in their struggles to regain some control over their own history. In these concluding sections, I will argue that Michael Taussig’s old suggestion that Andean deities or demons are forms of commodity fetishism, if more carefully reconsidered, remains the best way to understand the Hatun Q’ero community and its future. There is evidence that Hatun Q’ero still controls its present situation, and indications that it can continue to do so. In his more recent essay on Andean “earth-beings” that I mentioned above in the context of mining in the Q’ero Nation, Salas considers the relevance of Michael Taussig’s The Devil and Commodity Fetishism in South America (2010; 1st edition 1980). He appreciates Taussig’s comparison of two extremes in the wide range of this fetishism: while miners subjected to wage-earning in Bolivia placate the malevolent devil-like tio (‘uncle’) images, agricultural peasants whose work remains immersed in the morality of gift-exchange in Peru deal with the less threatening images and rituals of reciprocity with apu (Salas 2017: 139-140). He also appreciates Taussig’s further distinction that miners “who grew up in a social world organized by gift exchange, still unfamiliar with commodity fetishism, experience their place in mining production and capitalist exchange as unnatural and evil.” But he nevertheless dismisses Taussig’s diverse compendium of such examples as exaggerating the miner/agriculturalist distinction between tio and apu, and overlooking the long history “in which Andean peoples’ labour and production have been exchanged for wages and commodities without being associated with devil-like fetishisms.” With regard to Taussig’s understanding of Marx’s concept of commodity fetishism, Salas furthermore suggests Marx’s later addition of land ownership to his original focus on labour and capital was overlooked by Taussig. Then, on this slim basis, Salas appears simply to assert the conclusion that one assumes he set out to prove:

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Rather than commodity fetishism, it is a problem of the ownership of natural resources (the actual earth-beings) that is at stake in the ways in which Bolivian tin miners related to the tío. Andean perspectives differ from Marx’s in so far as earth-beings, rather than humans, are the ultimate landlords of all that we understand as natural resources. Hence, in Andean worlds [sic]... (Salas 2017: 140; my emphasis).

I would agree that “ownership”, especially of land, is crucial, but that is why Marx based his analysis of capitalism on labour, production, and the fetishism of commodities. At this point, Salas’s usually careful navigation between semiology, ‘political ontology’, and social history is simply set aside to assert an ontological distinction between “worlds”. As I mentioned earlier, Peter Gose has convincingly argued that the current Andean cosmology of apu historically replaced the earlier role of ancestral mummies in Inca ritual (Gose 2008, 2018). Was that yet another world? Similarly to his circumvention of Taussig’s thesis, Salas makes no mention of this historical relativisation of Andean apu in his appreciation of other aspects of Gose’s discussion of ñawpa machu (‘ancients’, spirits of a previous world) (Salas 2017: 218-219 fn 27). Nor can Tim Ingold’s critique of semiology be ignored, especially from the point of view of ecosystems and ecological niches upon which my 1970s approach to Hatun Q’ero was based (Ingold 2019). Even the flexible semiological ground that Salas stakes out on Latour’s theory (2012: 8-10) and Cometti stakes out on Descola’s theory (2015: 123-137) cannot avoid considering the illusory naturalisation that is central to Marx’s analysis of commodity fetishism. The global advent of neoliberalism since the 1970s and the popular assumption that commodities and markets are simply a force of nature is universalising the illusions of commodity fetishism. Although this ideological force may be the culmination of the modernist effort to divide nature from culture, it must be confronted in the same world it is so busy remaking.1 Salas appears not only to dismiss Taussig’s analysis, but also to misunderstand Marx’s conception of commodity fetishism. The world in which social labour creates a commodity and the world in which capitalism extracts profit or surplus value from that same labour are indeed the same world, but are largely hidden from each other by the illusions of commodity fetishism. This illusive ambivalence is precisely what Taussig as well as Marx were referring to as the fetishism of commodities. Ricardo had identified the source of capitalist profit by distinguishing between the

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use-value of the commodity established in immediate social contexts and the exchange-value of the commodity established in market networks. Crucially, Marx went on to identify the illusion upon which the capitalist’s surplus value depended by distinguishing a further dualism in labour itself: between the specific qualitative character of ordinary work or social labour that creates these use-values, and the abstractly quantitative labour-power that creates these exchange-values. Drawing sardonically on the contractual arrangements early European merchants learned to make with West African peoples’ use of fetishes, Marx called these illusory effects of capitalism the fetishism of commodities (Marx in McLellan (ed.) 1977: 398; 435-443; Graeber 2005). Taussig’s introductory account of Marx’s conception is comprehensive and lucid. In the fetishism of commodities, ... social relations between persons become disguised as the social relations between things.... In the case of labor the transmutation in status and meaning that occurs with this shift in paradigm is [crucial]....What the capitalist acquires in buying the commodity of labor power as an exchange-value is the right to deploy the use-value of labor as the intelligent and creative capacity of human beings to produce more use-values than those that are reconverted into commodities as the wage. This is Marx’s formulation, and it is important that we clearly understand the two planes on which his argument works....the hidden mechanism that ensures the creation of surplus out of a situation that appears as nothing more than the fair exchange of equivalents is the movement back and forth of labor as an exchange-value and labor as a use-value. We tend to lose sight of this....The commoditization process conceals the fact that within the matrix of capitalist institutions, labor as use-value is the source of profit. By the purchase of the commodity of labor power [sic], the capitalist incorporates [ordinary] labor as a use-­ value into the lifeless constituents of the commodities produced. “Living labour must seize upon these things and rouse them from their death-sleep, change them from mere possible use-values into real and effective ones” (Marx, 1967, i: 183). (Taussig 2010 (1980): 26-27; my brackets and emphasis).

Taussig examined the history of devil-like fetishes in peasant and proletariat communities of the Andes, contrasting those based primarily on social gift-exchange (ayni) with those based primarily on commodification of their labour and production. His analysis of the fetish symbolism involved ranges, respectively, from traditional social reciprocity in agricultural or herding communities (Q’ero reciprocity with their apu is one of

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his examples, citing Núñez de Prado’s 1968 report; 2010: 184-185) to miserably exploited labour in industrial mining communities. However, his conclusion emphasises the insight afforded peasant as well as proletariat labourers, by their different forms of fetish symbolism, into the extent of their exploitation under the capitalist form of commodity fetishism and opportunity to organise forums and even rebellion against it (2010: 226-228). Citing Georg Lukács’ refinement of Marx’s theory in the 1920s, Taussig emphasises the “enormous difference between the situation in which the commodity has become the universal structuring principle and the situation in which the commodity exists as but one form among many that regulate the metabolism of human society”.2 Might the involvement of Hatun Q’ero in their ‘fourth ecological level’ have afforded them increasing insight into the potential for their resistance against the fetishisation of their apu, shamans, textiles, or music as commodities in the rising tourist industry? The neoliberal policies mobilised nationally since the 1990s, and resulting confrontations with indigeneity movements in Cuzco, would have accelerated such awareness in Hatun Q’ero. Might the forums of their varayoq or General Assembly have even come upon the possibility that they could manipulate the industry’s fetishes to their own advantage? The romantic image of the Q’eros as authentic Incas included their role as shamans by the 1970s but, so far as I was aware, neither the Hatun Q’eros nor the tourist industry had yet picked up commercially on this special skill. Salas’s account of shamanist services in Cuzco makes it clear that some mestizos in the city had long been hiring paqo for advice on agriculture and other problems, but “the demand for Q’ero people as paqu” (shamans) did not grow until “the emergence of New Age tourism in Cuzco and increased in the mid to late ninties” (Salas 2012: 212). However, John Cohen’s films as well as my own experience in the 1970s make it clear that their unique textiles were beginning to be marketed much earlier. Because of their rising fame, it is furthermore likely that the use-value of these textiles was being transformed by commodity fetishism, perhaps by Hatun Q’ero entrepreneurs as well as the marketplace. As I mentioned earlier, by the 1970s the Q’ero had already adopted the bright colours of analine chemical dyes available in the Cuzco market and were no longer using the natural dyes obtainable in the monte or through trade with other runa. The fame of Q’ero textiles lay in the intricate skills of weaving doble cara (‘double-faced’) so that the same unspoiled images appeared on both sides of the textile.

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It may be a significant irony that by 2005 external agencies including the INC were retraining them in the use of natural dyes, probably to restore their presumably Incan authenticity. If the Q’eros had been taken in by the commodity fetishism of bright colours in the 1960s, might this ‘retraining’ in the market appeal of their old natural dyes confirm their gathering insights regarding possible uses of their shamans’ relationship with apu that would increase their control in the tourist industry? These Hatun Q’ero weavings and the alpaca and vicuña fleece from which the Q’ero women (and occasionally men) spin and weave them offer a concrete illustration of what Taussig describes as “the hidden mechanism that ensures the creation of surplus out of a situation that appears as nothing more than the fair exchange of equivalents [in] the movement back and forth of labor as an exchange-value and labor as a use-­value”. The “two planes” of Marx’s conception of commodity fetishism enable us to glimpse the extraction of surplus value from the use-value of ordinary social labour that has been reduced to an abstract exchange-­ value of labour-power by the market, but continues to move “back and forth” to offer yet more ordinary, daily, menial use-values to be transformed into capital in the hands of others. This “back and forth” can be glimpsed as it was in 1970 in my photos of the celebration of such weavings during Paskwa festival by Hatun Q’ero men (Fig. 10.3) and women (Fig. 10.4). About 30 middle-aged men triumphantly raise the arko (‘archway’ of timbers lashed together) upon which the year’s best weavings are lashed, while several nearby teenagers and children and three women watch the ceremony. The weavings are hung and tied along the top beam of this archway for display, and so that their patron saints can be paraded underneath the arko to bless these weavings. These saints are personified in the tattered wooden crosses kept inside the nearby old once-adobied stone cathedral. Figure  10.3 of the men raising the arko is complemented in Figure 10.4 by a group of ten women, the weavers of most of these textiles, including some grey-haired elders and others with their younger child slung securely in a cloth hung on their back or held in their arms so they too could look on, all standing closely together and smiling or laughing with proud dignity while they watch their men pretending to struggle to raise the weight of the arko with dozens of huge forked poles reserved for this ceremony. All these poles and those lashed into the archway would have been cut, trimmed, and carried up from the subtropical monte and reserved for this annual purpose. The use-value of all the labours of all their predecessors in all

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these various labours literally join this gathering in such moments. You can see it in their eyes. These are the festival moments dedicated to the awki overlooking each hamlet in each valley head, and the apu of the Ayakachi range overlooking them all. These are the moments the increasing neglect of which Cometti was told, was the cause of the rising anger of the awki and apu, break-­ down of their ayni relationship with them, and the increasing inability of their shamans to control the deteriorating weather. Even “the fog had stopped listening to us.” The fabulous textiles are grandly segregated into types on the arko: there are dozens of challina (mens’ cravats), usually woven of vicuña wool shorn in their annual round-ups, lashed first on the beam but hanging a meter or so below with their more colourful wool tassels hanging from their ends. Although the photo is in the black-and-white high-speed film that worked better at high altitude, my mind’s eye appreciates the rich natural tan colour of the wild vicuña dominating the slim unobtrusive colours of stripes the length of the challina, while its long reverse-spun tassels are the bright red offered by commercial dies. Then, pleated and lashed on top of the challinas, is the year’s best llikllas (women’s’ mantles) with the special iconic designs that already notoriously identified them as authentic Q’ero weavings, woven of alpaca wool and dyed much more colourfully with the commercial dyes, especially in bright reds along with pinks, whites, yellows, and blacks. Lastly is an assortment of ch’uspa, bags for carrying coca leaves, made from parts (often the throats) of llama or alpaca skins as well as woven from yarn, which are ceremoniously passed around for sharing a hallpa (‘chew’), doing a k’intu p”ukukuy (blowing on coca leaves arranged in a fan), or making a ph”allcha or ch’allu (‘offering’ or ‘propitiation’) of coca leaves or other food-stuffs to the awki or apu. I also recall noticing that men did some or all of the spinning and weaving of vicuña wool into challinas, especially those who were too old to help in the heavy labour demands of the domestic group. Men as well as women might sit outside their tiyay wasi in the hamlets in the sunshine, spinning, surrounded by their unqu (sleeveless shirts) and polleras (broad pleated homespun colonial skirts) spread out in that sunshine so that the lice would come to their surface as they might while grooming each other’s hair, and thus be picked off and cracked dramatically between the fingernails. These are the ordinary daily labours dedicated to the nearby awki and distant apu with each k’intu p”ukukuy of coca leaves, ensuring their

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continued protection of the alpaca and llama herds and thus their herds’ continued protection of their owners. As Wissler joined in and described so vividly, domestic as well as community festivals were also a public display of the “deployment of kin-based power” drawn from generations and ready to confront impending forces of the society around them (Wolf 1999; I will expand on this notion later). Now that I think about it, I can sense the generations of ordinary, daily ‘use-values’ that constituted this profoundly social labour giving life to each of these weavings, sustained through affinal alliances and wise management of the limitations of their diverse ecosystem. Meanwhile, all around them in their ‘fourth ecological level’, was the rising challenge to retain this vitality against advancing commercial opportunities to convert these use-values into the illusory exchange-value of abstract labour ‘power’ producing commodities to feed the market - which then reinvests the resulting hidden surplus value in global commerce. There it would lay as ‘dead labour’, hopefully awaiting its resurrection in the next generation. Perhaps like the fog over which they had also lost control, it would again rise up from the Amazon below but this time stand ready to do their bidding. Here and now, under my hesitant feet is the remains of the old alpaca skin and fleece rug that we bought in the market in Cuzco a half-century ago. It was relatively cheap because each tiny piece was sewn pains-­takingly to another by the fine machine stitching of the hundreds of small remnants left over from full and fleecy alpaca skins that were made into the more expensive rugs for the tourist market. While whole white alpaca skins from which a single large rectangle was cut were sewn together for those more expensive rugs, each of these remnants was painstakingly sewn together into a more humble rectangle for these cheaper rugs, finally adding the grand margins also pieced together from rich brown alpaca skin and fleece remnants. Although these skins often came from runa herders in the highlands like the Q’ero, the sweat-shop seamstresses who made these rugs were probably cholas living in the towns and cities, servile or defiant by turns. Now their careful labours lie in tatters from our childrens’ happy antics in this still airy fleece. But if I pause and remember, I can recognise their labours and our children can fondly remember their antics, and it all lies ready to rise again in behalf of our hosts in Hatun Q’ero. The reader must appreciate that my recourse to Michael Taussig’s thesis is not a trivialisation of Hatun Q’ero cosmology as fetishes in the European sense as the useful fantasies of primitives. Quite to the contrary, as had

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Marx in 1867, Taussig has turned this old prejudice back on its source. The fetishes he examines are those that enable the wide ethnic variety of ‘peasants’ (ranging in the Cuzco region from runa, campesinos, cholos, and misti) to symbolise the dominant social classes and the capitalist economy in ways they can continue to live with if not confront. A vivid example of such a fetish in the Cuzco tourist industry is the dollar bill: near the conclusion of his 2015 work Cometti displays two photos of contemporary despachos (‘offerings’ to apu, pachamama, or awki) that include a copy of a US$100 bill and candy models of a car and a house which is laid out on a lliklla I recognise to have distinctive Q’ero motifs of inti, ‘suns’ (2015: 212-214, photos 15, 16; also see Salas 2012: 212, Fig. 5.7) . Following his informants, Cometti attributes the addition of these symbols of modernity to traditional supplications by the younger generation of Q’ero shamans who are adjusting the authentic practice to appeal to the expectations of their urban customers. Cometti does not pursue the implications of commodity fetishism, but 35 years earlier Taussig had described parallel rituals practiced by Columbian peasants as “el bautizo del billete” (‘the baptism of the bill’) whereby the monetary token of money gains magical powers to increase itself as well as to steal further cash (2010 (1980): 126ff). If one understands that these ‘fetishes’ speak for their specific historical social contexts, it would not be stretching Cometti’s as well as Taussig’s examples to see them as entrepreneurial fetishes in confrontation with corporate capitalist fetishes, the dollar-bill or candy car and house appropriately raising the ante in the local power-play. Is there a more current critique of commodity fetishism or capitalist commodification that can further clarify its confrontation with - or emergence in  - Hatun Q’ero cosmopolitics? Alf Hornborg’s works offer the most promise, comprehensively examining key aspects of advanced capitalism with reference to contemporary critics from diverse disciplines. The recent collection of his essays Global Magic (2016) presents his unorthodox Marxist critique of capitalism focusing on the reification or naturalisation of money, technology, and artifacts that systematically obscure the exploitive or extractive social processes that constitute them (2016: 94-96, 107-111). Hornborg nevertheless hesitates to describe this modern ‘magic’ as commodity fetishism because modern mystification of such artifacts appears decidedly more neutral and less charged with moral agency than pre-modern fetishes seen as ‘animism’, ‘superstition’, or ‘spiritualism’. It is the very neutralisation of technology, money, and consumption as ‘natural’ that conceals the real implications of their operation in modern

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capitalist society. Although appreciative of insights of the ontological turn in ethnography to understand fetishes in more objective cosmological terms, Hornborg concludes that “[u]nfortunately, appeals to the virtues of animism are not likely to turn the tables on capitalism” (2016: 111). Hornborg’s acceptance of this surprisingly old-fashioned modernist dualism between animist and capitalist worldviews, and easy dismissal of the former as ‘primitive’, is reflected in his opening (and only) comment on Taussig’s classic work: When Michael Taussig (1980) reports how nonmodern people in Colombia resort to magical rites such as baptizing money in an effort to increase their income, he illustrates the irony of applying an inadequate kind of magic to an artifact which is itself magical, but the secret control of which is beyond their reach (Hornborg 2016: 6).

Although Taussig’s (and many other social anthropologists since Eric Wolf) study of the historically shifting array of relationships between indigenies, peasants, industrial labour pools, reverted peasantries, pre-­ proletarians, proletariat, reverted bourgeois, precariat, and capitalist sectors of modern society in different regions of South America had long since set such dualisms aside, Hornborg’s analysis continues to fall back on the ahistorical dichotomy between ‘pre-’ or ‘non-modern’ societies and modern societies. It is disappointing that the dramatic baptism of the dollar- or soles-bill discussed above that spans the 35 years between Taussig’s and Cometti’s otherwise divergent analyses of South American cosmologies is dismissed by Hornborg, yet it is this same artifact of money that becomes a focal point for his own penetrating social anthropological critique of capitalism. However, in his more recent book Nature, Society, and Justice in the Anthropocene (2019), Hornborg reviews current literature on Marx’s conception of commodity fetishism and more carefully reconsiders its possible role in modern capitalism. He grants that “our modern preoccupation with money and crucially also with technological progress can be understood as fetishism, in the sense that relations between people assume the appearance of relations between things” (2019: 150), but again concludes that such illusions cannot explain the panoply of material forces that support capitalism. I think that a comparison of this fuller consideration with Taussig’s position reveals why Hornborg himself was not able to see ‘non-’ or ‘pre-modern’ forms of fetishism as “likely to turn the tables on capitalism”.

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It is well that Hornborg’s recent study is centred on Marx’s conception of labour, and specifically the role of “use-value” in the extraction of surplus value upon which capitalism is built (2019: 152-162). My understanding of Marx’s commentary on the fetishism of commodities aligns well with Hornborg’s previous understanding in 1992, but he later came to see use-value, along with fetishism, as merely semiological or cultural and thus unable to explain the global illusions that materially maintain capitalism (2019: 156 fn3). Hornborg’s summary of his earlier understanding and that of most Marxist approaches was that Marx’s strategy was to “penetrate the ideological veil of market prices by arguing that, even though capitalists purchased labor power at its correct exchange-value (equivalent to its costs of subsistence), such a transaction implied exploitation of workers...” (Hornborg 2019: 152). The exploitive potential of such transactions lay in the fact that “the use-value of labor power in production can yield exchange values in excess of wages.” However, in his more recent studies Hornborg concluded that while Marx’s assumption was that market exchange of labour and wages appeared to be equal, “its exploitative implications were inherent in the distinction between the exchange-value and the use-value of labor power” (my emphasis). Apparently relying on colleagues’ reminders that “the use-value of labor power in production can yield exchange-values in excess of wages” was not seen by Marx as an unequal exchange, he goes on to claim that seeing fetishism as the source of this illusion of an equal exchange “is mere semantics” and far too weak an explanation of the exploitation obviously involved (2019: 152-153).3 But what is missing from Hornborg’s account here, and his following detailed consideration of other efforts to reconceptualise the role of “use-­ value” in the extraction of surplus value, is the two-fold nature of labour as well as its value in capitalism. This, indeed, was Marx’s unique challenge to mainstream economic theory, paralleling Ricardo’s two-fold conception of value in terms of use-value and exchange-value as I described above. Neither Hornborg nor his current commentary on these other Marxists mention this crucial distinction between specific, qualitative uncommodified labour (that is, ordinary ‘work’ in its specific social and historical context) and the quantitative abstraction labour-power, usually mentioning only “labor power” (unhyphenated) and thus conflating Marx’s crucial distinction. Hornborg argues that because workers appear to be paid a fair wage in return for the sale of their commodified labour-­ power in the market terms of its exchange-value, any notion of the

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use-­value of labour power is inadequate to explain the source of the surplus value gained by capitalism. This argument appears to merely beg the question. Marx’s point was precisely that this surplus is extracted from the use-value of the worker’s continuing (specific, unabstracted, and qualitative) labour while being paid only its illusory exchange-value as an abstract quantity of labour-­ power, and that this process is hidden by the fetishism of commodities. Similar to his dismissal of Taussig’s reliance on “animism”, Hornborg’s disregard of the two-fold nature of labour that Marx coupled to Ricardo’s two-fold nature of value appears to be motivated by his general dismissal of theories of “value” as able to hold up against the material force of capitalist economics: “This is not a trivial quibble, because labor or energy theories of value are very unlikely ever to be taken seriously by the mainstream economists who continue to shape the dominant discourse on the relation between ecology and economy” (2019: 8). However, unlike Ricardo, the key issue for Marx was not the two-fold nature of value, but the two-fold nature of labour. By putting this in terms of Ricardo’s distinction between use-value and exchange-value, and exposing the fetishism of commodities in the relation between the two, Marx was able to undermine a fundamental assumption of 19th-century capitalist economics. The conflation of the uncommodified use-value of labour with the commodified exchange-value of labour-power also enables Hornborg to argue that Marx’s notion of labour overlooks the manifest importance of land and other natural resources in the surplus value accumulated under capitalism. To the contrary, the use-value of any kind of workers’ (‘pre-­ modern’, ‘non-modern’, or modern) ordinary labour that becomes embodied in their kin-groups, their lands, their animals and crops, the natural (or ecosystematic) resources that they gather, or the articles they manufacture, continues to live through the following generations in the form that labour has given its products. The advent of capitalism only appears to transform that ordinary labour into abstract labour-power through the fetishism of commodities, trading it on the market at the resulting exchange-value for other commodities while appropriating the difference, including the surplus value that capitalism needs to survive and expand. The use-value of any kind of workers’ ordinary labour thus obscured by capitalism in fetishised commodities nevertheless survives and becomes what Marx called disembodied “dead labour”, whether in the kin-groups and descendants of those workers, their lands, their herds, or their

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manufactured articles. But the shifting illusion that persons are commodities and commodities are persons does not lie quietly. Under the right conditions, the ordinary labour of those buried use-values awaits its rebirth. Might it be possible that Hatun Q’ero’s control over a New Age form of their shamanism can confront the commodity fetishism of capitalism and furnish some of those conditions? I will explore this possibility below in conclusion of Part II, Returning to Q’ero. However, this perspective also suggests a deeper understanding of Hatun Q’eros’ repeated emphasis to Cometti that the deterioration of the weather was due to the anger of their apu and awki at their neglect of rituals and pursuit of money instead. This emphasis on the gathering anger of the apu suggests that it can be understood as comparable to the “devil” or the more threatening forms of fetish appearing to the more proletarianised workers in plantations or mines as a symbol of their exploitation. Perhaps the Hatun Q’ero community was on the cusp of the shift that Taussig’s range of examples showed between a peasant society more or less comfortable with illusions of balanced reciprocity and wage-workers becoming increasingly aware of their helplessness in the face of the panoply of capitalist power. The balance point of ayni or reciprocal exchange between the Hatun Q’eros and their apu had become increasingly asymmetrical. It would not be surprising if the image of their increasing involvement at least since the 1990s with the national as well as Cuzco’s tourist industry was taking the shape of diabolically angry apu. From this point of view, the rising alarm that Cometti witnessed in Hatun Q’ero can be more fully understood - and perhaps turned to its own benefit.

2  Manwel Quispe Consults with Wamanripa I can imagine that sometime in 1990, Manwel Quispe Apasa, my strange landlord in Hatun Q’ero 1969-70 whom we had not encountered when I returned with my family in 1977, was asked by Professor Oscar Núñez del Prado to visit him in Cuzco. I imagine that in the wake of the 1980s uprisings of the Marxist ‘Shining Path’ the Professor sensed that the future of Hatun Q’ero had come to a crucial turning-point. He had heard from Q’ero purih who visited his home in Cuzco that Manwel Quispe’s fame as an altomisayoq was spreading beyond the other Q’ero communities and throughout the Cuzco region. Some said that he had been struck again by lightning when he wandered off during the Hatun Q’eros annual corralling of vicuña above the moors, others said he had started smoking

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marijuana obtained from a comerciante.4 The professor arranged for his son Juan and Professor Jorge Flores Ochoa, both teaching at the National University San Abad in Cuzco, to join them when Manwel appeared. I imagine that it was a solemn occasion, and that Manwel was not surprised when they asked him to speak with the appropriate Apu and ask it for advice regarding the future of his community. I imagine that after some routine chewing, k’intu p”ukukuy, and dispachos of coca leaves together, Manwel lay down on the sofa with the Apu Wamanripa and fell into a trance, as altomisayoq are said to do. They would then have asked Manwel to ask Wamanripa what would be best for the future of the community of Hatun Q’ero, and Manwel would have tossed and turned and mumbled as he and Wamanripa discussed the matter. I imagine that Wamanripa’s reply, relayed to the three professors by Manwel when he regained normal awareness, was that the four of them must work closely together to insist that national as well as city authorities do as they are told by the community leaders of Hatun Q’ero, who in turn would keep Wamanripa posted on developments. Before Manwel departed, the professors asked him to include a small medal in a further dispacho to Wamanripa, and this was done. I suspect this was this medal that was soon presented to the mayor of Cuzco by Professor Oscar Núñez del Prado acting as the director of Cuzco’s branch of the INC, informing him that ‘“the spiritual and magnetic forces that were located before in the Himalayas” have been concentrated in Machu Picchu... [and] that the medal attached to the letter was consecrated by a kuraq akulliq [‘senior chewer of coca’], a title that he claimed referred to the highest hierarchy of Quechua religious specialists’ (Salas 2012: 102). Thus the Mayor’s subsequent campaign was inspired to announce a pachakuti, a ‘radical turn of the times’ that would restore the Cuzco region from “the worse times of the Peruvian tragedy...to the best times of hope and rebirth of Pachakuti”.

3  Hatun Q’ero shamanism as a Workers’ Self-Directed Enterprise However torn the Hatun Q’ero community may be between its Incaic and its proletarian characteristics, what are the current prospects for its future? Whether or not it is accepted that the present generation can resurrect the use-value of their previous generations’ labours appropriated by capitalism, what options may be open for them?

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Although this future is precarious, it is not happening between two different worlds. Cometti’s epilogue takes the threats of tourism and mining to the Hatun Q’ero way of life seriously, but nevertheless concludes that the two worlds are sufficiently different to require an “inter-ontological analysis” (2015: 227-229). Marisol de la Cadena goes further in ‘the ontological turn’ to propose a way to cosmovivir: “The creativity of divergence...enables analyses that complicate the separation between the modern and the non-modern and at the same time are able to highlight radical differences...” (de la Cadena 2015: 283). Given the decades if not centuries of Hatun Qero’s close dealings with their ‘fourth ecological level’ in the Andes, I think that we have to understand the specificities of a common history in one world in more practical terms. On the other hand, if kept within the bounds of that common history, “the creativity of divergence” does offer promise. With a certain neo-Marxist seriousness in regard to the fetishism of commodities and capitalism, David Graeber’s work pursues a paradoxical relationship between creativity and politics that I urged with regard to Māori in similar circumstances (Graeber 2015; Webster 2019). As mentioned in Chap. 10, his sort of creative politics can open a path for the more practical “deployment of kin-based power” to retain some control in the quiet power-struggles characteristic of neoliberal capitalism, especially in confrontation with indigeneity movements (Wolf 1999; Webster 2016, 2017). In the face of a global crisis in climate change, and in support of Cometti’s contribution to the effort to deal with it, I also want to take more seriously the so-called New Age shamanism in which Hatun Q’ero is necessarily involved. After all, part of this indigenous community’s global appeal arises from this crisis in climate change. Might New Age shamanism be as much a solution to the climate crisis as it hopes to be for other crises, national or local, marital or personal, drugs or health? The Q’eros’ reciprocal relationship with mountains, hills, and rocks, and the wild plants and animals that serve these earth- or place-beings in their reciprocation with humans and their domesticated plants and animals, is a ready model for the better care of the planet and it’s environment we are all enjoined to undertake. Innumerable social movements such as the Gaia hypothesis since the 1970s have been poised to merge with Q’ero shamanism as well as New Age environmentalism, and are now faced by the gathering climate crisis. Although Cometti’s research method was careful to not beg the question that this crisis presses upon the world, and to not put such words in the mouths of his informants, it is unlikely that some

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Q’eros, perhaps those working as shamans in Cuzco, had not become aware of the parallel between their relation to apu, awki, and pacha mama and popular concerns regarding the global climate crisis. The parallel was close enough to be straddled by Hatun Q’ero shamans committed to their community as well as those “who only seek after money”. I would argue that Hatun Q’ero’s best hope for the future lies somewhere between the syndicalism that it experienced in the 1960s and the statutory General Assembly established as a communidad campesina and invoked on the occasion of Cometti’s first visit in 2011. Involvement of some community leaders in a labour syndicate by the 1960s suggests that by 2011 their awareness of confrontations between labour and capitalist corporations was already decades deep. A similar potential for community solidarity is suggested by the rapidity with which an assembly met in Munay T’ika in 2011 to resolve the question whether control over their cultural assets should be retained by the community or fall to private, NGO, corporate, or government interests. As I described above in the section on external agents (Ch. 9), a similar community solidarity may have been behind the Hatun Q’ero president’s and the environmentalist organisation ANDES’s joint refusal of National Geographic’s plan to test their Inca authenticity through DNA sampling. On the other hand, the influence of the ANDES agency as an NGO, nationally as well as in the Cuzco region, may have actually controlled or led this initiative, acting as patron for the Hatun Q’ero community through the president of its statutory Directive Board. As well as the INC and ANDES, Cuzco and indeed the Peruvian nation also had a market interest if not a sincere cosmological one in Hatun Q’ero shamanism. Any of these external agencies, like permanent emigrants to Cuzco, might be thinking “only about money”. But what was happening within the community behind these confrontations? As well as community leadership, these examples raise the key issue of the Hatun Q’ero deployment of kin-based power. I described the importance of a network of ritual services between kaka seen as ‘wifegivers’ and q”atay seen as ‘wife-receivers’ in linking domestic groups across valleys of the community (Part I, Chs. 6 and 7). Q’eros claimed equality and symmetrical reciprocity in these affinal alliances, and further marriages with other domestic groups tended to obscure this asymmetrical relationship. Nevertheless, especially in ritual occasions such as festivals and funeral wakes, q”atay as wife-receivers were expected to contribute and serve the needs of kakay as wife-givers much more than the reverse. Although descent was not usually traced further than three or four

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generations, this loose and largely ritual network of affinal alliances enabled an array of kin-persons to be marshalled for support of varayoq in cargos and fiestas, especially by influential men, their wives, and their domestic groups. In my later research with Māori, whose kin-groups are focussed on particular ancestors and thus more readily marshalled in support for such occasions, I came to realise the historical importance of kin-group solidarity of indigenous communities in resisting or even co-opting the potentially oppressive power of the colonial government or its settlers. Still later, as mentioned in previous chapters, I belatedly realised the importance of Eric Wolf’s analysis for conceptualising the deployment of kin-based power in such confrontations (Webster 1998, 2002, 2016, 2017). Political mobilisations of indigenous communities usually take the shape of kin-­ based deployment of power. Whereas indigeneity movements have increasingly shaken up most other settler societies since the break-up of the old colonial empires in the 1970s, perhaps due to the earlier republican movements in the Andes they have had progressive and reactionary effects in Peru for at least a century (de la Cadena 2000; Salas 2012: 80-112). From the point of view of the radical oppression of highland Peru’s runa and mestizo peasant majority, Salas critically documents the manifold reactionary results of Peru’s history of indigeneity movements in the Cuzco region and its confrontations with Lima’s elite and national governments.5 The romantic stereotype of idyllic peasant reciprocity should have been laid to rest by Eric Wolf’s analysis of the way peasant communities often serve as a labour reserve for the capitalist society in which they subsist (Wolf 1966). Such reserves have continued to work in many societies for centuries only because peasants have learned how to fall back on reciprocity and barter to survive when their labours are not needed. Michael Painter’s research in a highland peasant community about 200 kilometres southeast of Q’ero documented the small but steady transfer of surplus labour power from peasants with less to those with more land in the community and, through them, via regional commerciantes to urban centres by which time it could be readily identified as enterprise capital (Painter 1991). While the peasant community itself saw this as ayni, or balanced recipricity between social equals, I suggest that during the 1990s this ideology was becoming central to the tourist industry of Cuzco in the form of the moral cosmology of Q’ero shamanism, more effectively obscuring the exploitation of labour from such communities. More recently, Cecilie Ødegaard describes contrabandistas (‘smugglers’) and “accumulation by

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diversion” of industrial mining supplies in Cuzco Department (Ødegaard 2019: 119-140). Similarly, her evidence convincingly shows that covert reciprocity between several levels of Andean social organisation siphons off capitalist accumulation of profits from the mining companies. Although in this case the labour drawn from the kin-based deployment of resources in peasant or runa communities appears to benefit small entrepreneurs, like that of privately-operating shamans of Hatun Q’ero resented by their wider community, this surplus in turn might be seen to feed the global capitalist economy while maintaining a precarious status quo socially. If the deployment of kin-based power in the indigeneity movement of Hatun Q’ero shamanism has been confronted by such capitalist extractions by both its emigrants and the external agencies with which it deals, what might be the best way for it to maintain if not regain control of these resources? The previously described mediations by a labour syndicate in the 1960s and the General Assembly in 2011 suggest the model offered by the Marxist scholar Richard Wolff in his handbook Democracy at Work; a Cure for Capitalism (2012). Wolff laid out the essentials of what he called WSDEs or “workers’ self-directed enterprises”. He sees these small or large enterprises as building-blocks that are democratically owned and organised by the workers themselves within the surrounding economy as it exists in any contemporary state organisation, capitalist or socialist. He compares and contrasts the WSDE model with various existing examples of communes or collective enterprises in terms of their relative strengths and weaknesses. The indispensable characteristics that maintain a WSDE’s relative independence from the global capitalist economy is its ownership and management by the producing workers themselves of their work, its production process and products, its distribution, and all the surplus value that it produces. He emphasises the ways in which WSDEs can be established within the given legislation of a state or, as its influence expands, through negotiation and compromise with national or privately-owned institutions and changes of the legislation upon which they are based. Reading between the lines, one can see that Wolff’s WSDEs use the shibboleths of private ownership and private enterprise to democratically subvert the mirage of democracy advanced capitalism has created through commodity fetishism. Might WSDEs even turn some of these fetishes to their own use? Could a WSDE straddle the contradictions and stresses between Hatun Q’ero and the centre of the tourist industry in Cuzco? For instance, might the democratically-organised owner-workers of Q’ero Nation shamanism

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extend its non-owner-worker levels of management through a plan such as the INC’s, its well-meaning paternalism appropriately modified to support it nationally as an increasingly influential as well as independent indigeneity movement? Wolff’s WSDEs are run by two different kinds of worker-­ directors: those whose work actually produces the surplus values required to run and expand the enterprise as worker-owners, and ‘enablers’, those non-owner workers who specialise in maintaining and developing the conditions that enable the owner-workers to produce their surpluses, shares in which they distribute to the enablers to sustain their functions (Wolff 2012: 128-130). Wolff admits that the key consideration to maintaining democratic procedures and ownership is the relationship between these two different types of worker-directors, those who own the enterprise and those who manage but do not own it. Happening upon Marx’s account of the 1871 Paris Commune as a “self-working and self-governing commune”, I realised that this was probably the model upon which Richard Wolff based his hopeful handbook for the formation of WSDEs. The precarious balance between worker-owners and managerial “enablers” who democratically help to direct the enterprise but own no part of it inverts the normal hierarchy that supports capitalism. But Marx’s point was that rebellions such as Paris Commune were not the revolution that would bring an end to capitalism, but rather a public demonstration of what can happen if alienated labour is liberated: “...the Commune is not the social movement of the working class and, therefore, a general regeneration of mankind, but the organized means of action...It represents the liberation of ‘labour’, that is, the fundamental and natural condition of individual and social life...” obscured in the fetishised abstraction of labour-power as an exchange value on the market (Marx quoted in McLellan (ed.) 1977: 556-557). In his Grundrisse Marx had traced, through overlapping forms of slavery, feudalism, and capitalism, this subtle transformation from a practical local action to consolidation of a political movement throughout an entire social class (Marx quoted in McLellan (ed.) 1973: 83-85). Somewhere else Marx characterised this as the working class’s transition from a “consciousness in itself” to a “consciousness for itself”. Wolff proposes WSDEs as an “organised means of action” that can cautiously guide this transition, but in full awareness that premature hopes can be crushed by reactionary capitalist panic as bloodily as was the 1871 Paris Commune. Salas’s analysis, as a Cuzqueño insider, of the rise of the iconic role of Hatun Q’ero in the political economy of indigeneity and tourism in Cuzco

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since the 1980s poses the stark challenge (2012: 95-110). As raised in my speculative opening paragraphs above, it turns out that behind the swings between earlier Marxist indigeneity movements, national neoliberal policy, and new indigeneity movements in the tourist industry of Cuzco and its region, the steady influence of Professor Oscar Núñez del Prado and his son Juan, his successor as Professor of Anthropology at the National University of San Abad of Cuzco, guided the millenarian shape shamanism took in the industry. It is a sweet irony that the Núñez del Prados were allied with Américo Yábar, “a mystic and descendant of the family that owned the former hacienda Q’ero” (2012: 105), who was certainly a cousin of Bette Yabar, author of the classic 1971 novel Testimonio sobre Cheqec from which I drew the pseudonym for Hatun Q’ero in several of my articles. As I pointed out earlier with regard to Salas’s doubts about the role of the INC’s 10-year plan, it is clear that he is critical of the Núñez del Prados’ central role in the paternalistic coupling of ahistorical indigenous authenticity and mysticism with modernisation that holds Q’eros and other runa in a double bind. He reports influential commentaries by the father Oscar, acting as regional director of the INC, as well as his son Juan in the 1990s that unrestrainedly dramatise the mysticism of Q’ero shamanism (2012: 102-103), and commentaries by New Age writers from the U.S.A. and Europe who idolise the role of Juan as a charismatic scholar and leader of Andean shamanism. My brief internet search brought up innumerable commentaries as well as films. A “Global Paqo School” with its headquarters in Hawaii offers “Sunday sami services with Q’ero paqo youth” (sami, ‘venerate’) and enrolment in year-long training sessions “designed to help foster the Q’ero Youth interest in their ancestral traditions... as well as earn income”.6 Surprisingly, the faculty of the school includes twelve persons (six women and six men), eleven of whom are from Hatun Q’ero community (and nine of these are from the valley in which Munay T’ika was established by 2000). Five are from Kolpa Kuchu (Qolpa K’ucho, probably its upper valley), four are from Charqapata (Charka Pata, in Qolpa K’ucho valley above Munay T’ika), two are from Qocha Moqo, and one is from the Ausangate area east of the Q’ero Nation. As well as such supportive schools and movements, there are also numerous popular attacks or dismissals available on-line and some indignant scholarly collections including that of Jacques Galinier and Antoinette Molinies’ The Neo-Indians; A Religion for the Third Millennium (2013), which appears to uncritically extend a justifiable criticism of the

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ontological turn in ethnography to any such form of post-colonial defense of indigeneity. Against this array of adulation or indignation, and even counter to Salas’s cautious scholarly doubts, I nevertheless wish to defend the influential role of the Núñez del Prados, partly because in 1969 the father sponsored my reluctant acceptance by some influential Hatun Q’ero enterados. Oscar’s son Juan Núñez del Prado, in a brief autobiographical as well as millenarian and even confessional account published on the internet in 2006, describes how he had turned against his Catholic upbringing to declare himself an atheist between the ages of 18 and 31. Then in 1976 (the year before I returned to Hatun Q’ero from New Zealand with my family), due “to a deep personal crisis”, he returned to Catholicism via its Pentecostal branch movement. Juan’s 2006 soliloquy begins like this: “I give myself license to write the following as I believe that this text can contribute with certain knowledge originating from a peculiar discovery that can be of a lot of help to guide the politics of inter-­ religious relations in a more understanding and constructive direction especially now that these have come to be so important worldwide.”7 Following this candid introduction to what he calls a “transcendental anthropology” Juan lays out a broadly ecumenical hierarchy of ‘priests’ guiding a succession of pachakutis (‘world-renewals’), the final ones of which are global and yet to come. As would a humble prophet, he concludes this homily with his personal priest’s hesitant rebuttal of it. I must admit that I am charmed by the gentle, genuine, and self-­ effacing sincerity of Juan Núñez del Prado’s “transcendental anthropology”. Among Hatun Q’eros, I think he would be respected as an unu runa, a quietly wise person (Part I, Ch. 7). Perhaps I am inclined to accept this ‘New Age’ movement because, appearing to be such a dramatic inversion of the Q’eros’ reputation as “a mean and hard people,” it represents the other side of the potential WSDE that could be formed with the community of Hatun Q’ero. While the owner-workers must remain hard, the non-owner management or ‘enablers’ can soften the cynics as well as appeal to the moderates. Indeed, the famous Hatun Q’ero altomisayoq Manwel Quispe, perhaps Juan and his fathers’ interlocutor to Wamanripa as suggested above, was a manan qasi runachu, an ‘unquiet’ person. I find this reversal of the stereotyped role of capitalist oppressor and ‘pre-­ capitalist’ victim reassuring of a better global future for the community of Hatun Q’ero. As well as appealing to the more innocent of New Age followers, it may also reassure those who recognise voracious capitalism

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behind the climate crisis and find a way to tame it. If the community of Hatun Q’ero can continue to sustain its integrity, and close its ranks against subversion, this could be its best future. Marx’s ironic play on Hegel’s ode that history happens twice might yet be paused: Whereas Marx’s warning was that if the first time was a tragedy, reliving it a second time would be a farce, perhaps this shamanic revolution could lead toward the better outcome that Marx hoped for. The increasingly shaky ground of capitalist extremism may now be ready for the widespread transition from a variety of ‘consciousnesses-in-themselves’ to a unified ‘consciousness-for-itself’ of generations of alienated or even “dead labour”. The lead in this transition might be taken by the community of Hatun Q’ero, realising that what they see as the mounting anger of their apu in retribution for their pursuit of money is instead a warning about the seductive if not diabolical threats of capitalism. The rising tide of the climate crisis reflects the collapsing glaciers of capitalism, even in Q’ero. The fog that they had told Cometti would no longer listen to them might lift again as it always had, revealing the vista of the distant yanqa wako (‘irrational sanctum’) of the Amazon jungle to be the global fetishism of commodities. As Juan Núñez del Prado had foreseen, more than one pachakuti (‘world-renewal’) might be required. * * *

Notes 1. My appreciation of Gose and critique of Salas at this point may have fallen between their two theortical chairs. My western Marxist position may not sit well with either of them: although I requested endorsements of this volume from both of them, sincerely expressing my admiration of their excellent works, Salas graciously declined and Gose did not reply. 2. Unaware of Taussig’s work until recently, in the 1980s I was coincidentally inspired by Lukács and proposed a new understanding of the role of Walter Benjamin (whom Taussig quotes at the outset of his 1980 work) on the Frankfurt School’s approach to commodity fetishism. Much later, I traced some of the results of the commodity fetishism illusion with regard to Māori indigeneity movements in New Zealand (Webster 1990, 2016, 2019, 2021). However, my current ‘return to Q’ero’ and the emergence of Hatun Q’ero shamanism in the tourist industry has now awakened me to the pos-

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sibility that Māori indigeneity movements might similarly deploy counter-­ fetishes against commodity fetishisation of their culture. 3. I would have quoted Hornborg in full here but, extraordinarily, Cambridge University Press refused my request for copyright exclusion on the fair-use grounds of brief academic purposes. 4. In 1970 before leaving for the U.S.A, unable to get Manwel Quispe to show me, explain, or even admit his practices as a paqo, but in a final effort to regain a gesture of friendship or trust from him, I asked him to smoke a joint of marijuana with me. Eying the unfamiliar leaves suspiciously, he asked me what it was. I explained the effects of inhaling the smoke as a slight disorientation, followed by bemusement with nearby objects, enchantment with the splendour of natural landscapes, giggling at silly things, sudden hunger, some flashes of paranoia, and so on. He immediately refused, responding that he was always ready to try anything he understood, but did not want anything to do with something so strange to him. Manwel was feared as well as admired by other Q’eros, and strongly disliked by my dear friend Luychu, who would not even enter his house. I must admit that I departed from this last encounter with a smug but naive sense of satisfaction. 5. As I write (August 2021), the succession of autocratic neoliberal regimes since President Fujimori’s staged crushing of the Shining Path movement may have have been peacefully overturned by a highland majority supporting a populist president. Fujimori’s daughter Keiko lost her re-election by a narrow final vote count, even though two months earlier the Peruvian military had reported a massacre of 14 persons in “a remote jungle hamlet” and leaflets that had reportedly been left by a splinter group of the Shining Path threatening anyone who voted for her. Her opponent’s party Perú Libre had also been accused of including MPs “with links to Shining Path and the rival rebel group MRTA (Tupac Amaru Revolutionary Army) which both battled the state in a conflict that killed more than 69,000 in the 1980s and 90s.” https://www.theguardian.com/world/2021/may/24/peru-­s hining-­ path-­jungle-­massacre (accessed 31July 2021) 6. The year-long training sessions run by the school include “Waqariquy—the power practice of calling or invoking Sacred Nature”; “Misha...gathering and alliance of our twelve Nature Beings and power places within the sacred geography of our home”; “Hampiy, the healing forces of Nature”, and “Qaway, seeing like a Q’ero” (https://www.elizabethbjenkins.com/programs-­1/global-­paqo-­school?fbclid=IwAR1TYrUpQJinmgYAjuBtK7NTk TVhRpilC4jw4cFRpJaFBBijXaNiTzx 1) (accessed 8 March 2021). Salas cites the head of this school’s earlier work (2012: 105-6; Jenkins, Elizabeth B. 1998. Journey to Q’eros: Golden Cradle of the Inka. Naalehu: Pu’umaka’a Press). Jenkins also published Jenkins, E. B. (1997) Initiation: A woman’s spiritual adventure in the heart of the Andes (New York, NY:

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G. P. Putnam’s Sons) and Jenkins, E. (2013). The fourth level: nature and wisdom teachings of the Inka (Naalehu: Pu’umaka’a Press). 7. (Núñez del Prado, Juan. 2006. https://www.ineen.org/wp-­content/ uploads/2012/04/An-­Andean-­transcendental-­Anthropology-­Juan-­N-­d-­P-­ for-­website.pdf (accessed 23 July 2020).

References Cometti, Geremia. 2015. Lorsque brouillard a cessé de nous écouter; Changement climatique et migrations chez les Q’eros des Andes péruviennes . Bern: Peter Lang. de la Cadena, Marisol. 2000. Indigenous Mestizos: The Politics of Race and Culture in Cuzco, Peru 1919-1991. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. de la Cadena, Marisol. 2015. Earth Beings: Ecologies of Practice Across Andean Worlds (Durham, NC: Duke University Press). Galinier, Jacques and Molinie, Antoinette (2013). The Neo-Indians; A Religion for the Third Millennium. Boulder, University Press of Colorado (translation of 2006, Paris: Odile Jacob). Gose, Peter. 2008. Invaders as Ancestors: On the Intercultural Making and Unmaking of Spanish Colonialism in the Andes. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Gose, Peter. 2018. “Mountains and Pachakutis: Ontology, Politics, Temporality”, in J.  Jennings and E.  Swenson (eds), Powerful Places in the Ancient Andes, pp. 55-90. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. Graeber, David. 2005. “Fetishism as social creativity or, Fetishes are gods in the process of construction”. Anthropological Theory Vol 5 (4): 407–438 Graeber, David. 2015. ‘Radical alterity is just another way of saying “reality”; A reply to Eduardo Viveiros de Castro.’ Hau: Journal of Ethnographic Theory 5 (2): 1–41. Hornborg, Alf. 2016. Global Magic. Palgrave Macmillan. Hornborg, Alf. 2019. Nature, Society, and Justice in the Anthropocene. Cambridge University Press. Ingold, Tim. 2019. “Confessions of a semiophobe,” in G. Cometti et al (eds) Au Seuil de la Forêt; Hommage á Philippe Descola L’ Anthropologue de la Nature. Tautem - [email protected]. pp. 471-484. Jenkins, Elizabeth B. 1997. Initiation: A woman’s spiritual adventure in the heart of the Andes. New York, NY: G. P. Putnam’s Sons. Jenkins, Elizabeth B. 1998. Journey to Q’eros: Golden Cradle of the Inka. Naalehu: Pu’umaka’a Press. Jenkins, Elizabeth B. 2013. The fourth level: nature and wisdom teachings of the Inka (Naalehu: Pu’umaka’a Press). McLellan, David. 1973. Marx’s Grundrisse. Paladin. McLellan, David. 1977. Karl Marx; selected writings. Oxford University Press.

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Ødegaard, Cecilie Vidal. 2019. “Translating Wealth in a Globalised Extractivist Economy: Contrabandistas and Accumulation by Diversion,” in C.  Vindal Ødegaard, J. J. Rivera Andía (eds.), Indigenous Life Projects and Extractivism, Approaches to Social Inequality and Difference. Palgrave Macmillan. pp. 119-140. Painter, Michael. 1991. “Re-creating Peasant Economy in Southern Peru” in Roseberry, William and J.O’Brien (eds.) Golden Ages, Dark Ages; Imagining the Past in Anthropology and History. University of California Press, 1991. Salas Carreño, Guillermo. 2012. Negotiating Evangelicalism and New Age Tourism through Quechua Ontologies in Cuzco, Peru. PhD dissertation, University of Michigan. Salas Carreño, Guillermo. 2017. “Mining and the living materiality of mountains in Andean societies.” Journal of Material Culture, Vol. 22(2) 133–150 Taussig, Michael. 2010. The Devil and Commodity Fetishism in South America. (1st edition 1980). University of North Carolina Press. Webster, Steven. 1990. “The Historical Materialist Critique of Surrealism and Postmodernist Ethnographic Forms” in M.  Manganaro (ed.) Modernist Anthropology: From Fieldwork to Text, pp. 266-99. Princeton University Press. Webster, Steven. 1998. “Maori Hapuu as a Whole Way of Struggle; 1840s-50s before the Land Wars” in Oceania, 69 (1) 4-35. University of Sydney, Sydney, Australia. Webster, Steven. 2002. “Maori retribalization and Treaty Rights to the New Zealand Fisheries” in The Contemporary Pacific, 14 (2):341-376. University of Hawaii. Webster, Steven. 2016. “Maori Indigeneity and Commodity Fetishism”, Sites (new series) vol 13 no 2: 1-18. Webster, Steven. 2017. “Māori Kinship and Power: Ngāi Tūhoe 1894–1912”, Journal of the Polynesian Society 126(2): 145-180. Webster, Steven. 2019. “Māori indigeneity and the ontological turn in ethnography”. Sites, N.S. Vol 16 No. 2: 11-36. Webster, Steven. 2021. “Whakamoana-ed (set adrift)? Tūhoe Māori confront commodification, 1894-1926.” Journal of the Polynesian Society, 130 (4): 327–350 https://doi.org/10.15286/jps.130.4.327-­350. Wolf, Eric. 1966. Peasants. Prentice - Hall. Wolf, Eric. 1999. Envisioning Power; Ideologies of Dominance and Crisis. University of California Press. Wolff, Richard. 2012. Democracy at Work: a Cure for Capitalism. Haymarket Books, Chicago.



A Summary of Parts I and II

As explained in the Preface (2022) of this volume Returning to Q’ero, it is an effort to bring together a detailed social and ecological description of a high Andean community as it was in the 1960–1970s with much more recent ethnographic accounts of this same community 40–50 years later. Chapters 1–7 (Part I) presented most parts of my unpublished dissertation (Webster 1972) augmented by some parts of a 1974 article later published under its pseudonym ‘Ch’eqec’ and difficult to access. Only two other scholars had done ethnographic research in Hatun Q’ero since the 1970s, and my 1972 and 1974 reports had remained in obscurity due to their relative inaccessibility and my disappearance from the Andeanist scene by 1981. Meanwhile, this community had become iconic, even globally, as the surviving centre of Incaic shamanism and associated crafts. While my research and reports on (Hatun) Q’ero responded primarily to the earlier Andeanist interest in community ecosystems, both of the other ethnographies on Hatun Q’ero were undertaken much later and responded in different ways to the new Andeanist interest in these crafts. Consequently, Part I merits publication because it is the only ethnographic account of Hatun Q’ero focused on its integral ecological and social system. Some of its maps and figures are also more detailed and accurate than any published before or since. I have furthermore been able to include in this volume a selection of black-and-white photos I took in 1969–1970 that

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capture specific ethnographic situations I described, most of which have appeared nowhere else since then. Perhaps more importantly, the publication here of these parts of my unpublished ethnographic reports as Part I also serves as an historical base-line for Part II of this volume (Chaps. 8, 9, 10, and the Conclusion), which attempts to document changes in Hatun Q’ero since the 1970s. My ‘return to Q’ero’ via this ‘armchair’ ethnohistory has relied primarily on the other two ethnographic works on this same highland community, backed by my attempt to catch up with Andean studies through other major publications since then, especially those focusing on the southern Peruvian highlands. I furthermore hope that the book can eventually restore these earlier dimensions to the contemporary generations of the Q’ero Nation (if translated into Quechua as well as Spanish!), and add depth to its global reputation as the most indigenous form of an Andean cosmos intended to heal and sustain the ecosystem of the planet and the human population that is irrevocably part of it. The original Preface and Introduction of my 1972 dissertation are included in the frontmatter of the book to be freely available to readers who want to preview Part I. The Preface is a candid and personal account revealing the comedy as well as difficulty of fieldwork with the Q’ero people, and the Introduction previews Chaps. 1–7 in detail emphasising the community as an integral ecosystem of social, biotic, and abiotic components. The original summary of my 1972 dissertation is included at the end of Part I above, and serves well enough as a review of the first seven chapters. In a nutshell, the original dissertation sought to describe in detail the integral social and economic ecosystem of a small and remote indigenous Andean community that straddled several altitudinal zones between 2000 and 5000 meters in dramatic Andean ‘verticality’. Chapter 1 presented a brief geographic and historical background; Chaps. 2–4 presented a detailed analysis of the ecological fundamentals of the human community; finally, Chaps. 5–7 backed up to analyse the social concomitants of the community as a closely integrated ecological whole. Although there was limited detail on their shamanism, textiles, or musical tradition, the social concomitants of the ecosystem were detailed in terms of the festivals and other ritual and symbolic contexts where these aspects of the community were dramatically displayed. Below I will conclude my armchair ‘Return to Q’ero’ with a summary of Part II.

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Chapter 8 began with an overview of this history and the divergent theoretical directions that the three or four relevant ethnographies span, and concluded with my argument that the Q’ero people, especially those of Hatun Q’ero, have always been cosmopolitan regardless of their reputation as geographically isolated, climatically exposed at remote altitudes, and socially withdrawn. First, following Guillermo Salas and Geremia Cometti, I expanded on the provocative view of Jorge Flores Ochoa that Cuzco and its region have always been a ‘fourth ecological level’ in the supposedly three-level ecosystem of Hatun Q’ero. Although the three interior levels of the community spanned from the 4700-metre loma where they live and herd their alpacas beneath the Ayakachi glaciers down to the 2000-metre subtropical monte or ceja where they raise their maize, the Q’eros and the wider Cuzco region had always been interrelated. Then I examined the available maps for a better understanding of the peaks, glaciers, and snowfields of the Ayakachi sub-range of the Vilcanota Range. These mountain features are ecologically the most crucial part of Hatun Q’eros’ waylla moors and loma homesteads due to the reliance of their alpaca herds on this uniquely Andean form of pasture. Nevertheless, the Ayakachi peaks, glaciers, passes, and valley heads tended to be overlooked by Wissler as well as Cometti and, with regard to Hapu, Salas. Perhaps these later ethnographers had been drawn into the ideological divide between nature and culture that their postmodernist semiological approaches sought to overcome, while many of my earlier generation had not yet encountered it. Although I did not see the high-altitude Andean animals and flowers cavorting below the Ayakachi glaciers as a different world, I was enchanted to be in the same world with them. Concluding Chap. 8 of Part II, I reviewed the essentials of Hatun Q’ero mobility as it was in my day, primarily between the four main valleys of their community, and attempted to reconstruct, from the few details available but sketchy even in these three contemporary ethnographies, the location of existing and planned roadways or footpaths more closely approaching the community by 2015. In conclusion of this section, I elaborated on the implications of Cometti’s as well as Salas’s ethnographies and Jorge Flores’ insight regarding Cuzco as Hatun Q’ero’s fourth ecological level by emphasising the paradox that even these most notoriously isolated Q’eros have always been both cosmopolitan and remote as their own way of surviving centuries of successive colonisations by strangers.

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Chapter 9 of Part II attempted to identify the significant changes in Hatun Q’ero since the 1970s in terms of their ecology and economy, moving (figuratively) from the outside into its innermost recesses, from way to understand global climate change (Cometti’s research concern) to changing weather conditions as purported by the Hatun Q’ero themselves, to their complex herding regime in the altitudes, and finally to their cultivation of maize and other crops as far down towards the yanqa wako (‘irrational sanctum’) of the Amazon jungle as they have traditionally gone. Interestingly, the Quechua directional words that were used in Hatun Q’ero to distinguish this ‘inside’ from the ‘outer’ sides of their ecosystem were more literal than figurative. The sections on the Ayakachi Range, emigration, and population established the surprising but apparently overlooked demographic fact of disproportionately high increases in the Hatun Q’ero population compared to other communities in the province and even relative to the four other Q’ero communities of the Q’ero Nation. Cometti’s data established that emigration out of the Q’ero Nation was not as high as supposed, and instead revealed the steady increase of Hatun Q’ero population and even average family size since the 1980s that continued to remain in the community or, indeed, even immigrated into it from the other Q’ero communities. Although Cometti did not examine its implications, this data appeared to contradict the Q’eros’ complaints to him that the increasing precipitation and temperature ranges, aggravated by their neglect of the traditional rituals necessary to placate the apu and awki who controlled their ecosystem, made it increasingly difficult to live in the Q’ero Nation communities. The next two sections of Chap. 9 examined the array of external agencies that had appeared in Hatun Q’ero since the 1970s or with which the community had come to deal in Cuzco and its region. The development of tourism especially since 1990 was a major factor, but private as well as public primary schools had greatly increased in number and student attendance since 1970 and were being located in the valley hamlets rather than the ritual centre. By 2020 numerous private as well as public agencies devoted to improving their well-being in terms of textile production, health, and education were represented within the community and had even become a major influence especially in Qolpa K’uchu, its most remote valley. As of 2010, insofar as no more than 100 tourists per year had actually visited the Q’ero communities, it appeared that most commercial

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exhibition of Q’ero traditions occurred elsewhere in the region, organised by emigrant Q’eros or the representatives of these agencies that operated in the Q’ero communities. Although healthcare was encouraged in terms of sanitation and diet, there appeared to be little improvement of actual treatment or access to national health services. Evangelist as well as Catholic church representatives pressing divergent policies with regard to their traditional customs and especially shamanism had resulted in serious confrontation between their followers in some of the other Q’ero communities. Mining interests promising assistance in return for prospecting and development had also caused conflict within some communities but, as with religious proselytising, Hatun Q’ero had apparently not been seriously effected. In all these cases of external agencies, the questions arose as to their role in the steadily increasing population and family size in Hatun Q’ero, and the degree of control the community had been able to retain over their popularly valued shamanist skills, unique weavings, and song and dance traditions. It was in the context of these external agencies, tourism, and mining interests that the important national as well as regional role of indigeneity movements and corresponding shifts in public policy became apparent to me. Even though Guillermo Salas did not attempt research in Hatun Q’ero himself, his comprehensive studies of the Cuzco region enabled me to better understand these political economic aspects of the ‘fourth ecological level’ in this Q’ero community. Between Salas’s analysis, Wissler’s intensive participation, and her and Cometti’s reports, I was able to point out some implications with regard to the traditional and new statutory organisations of leadership and prestige in the community. With that perspective added to Chap. 7 of Part I, I was able to examine the effort of the National Institute of Culture to establish a long-term plan of development intended to give precedence to the preferences of the Hatun Q’eros themselves. The final two sections of Chap. 9 focused on changes in alpaca herding and maize production, respectively the ecological and ritual keystones of Hatun Q’ero society and located at the opposite altitudinal extremes of the community. Regardless of the adverse effect of weather changes on herding as well as crops emphasised by Hatun Q’eros to Cometti, comparison of my herd counts in 1969–1970 with the estimates reported by Wissler and Cometti suggested that alpaca herding continued to be relatively successful and perhaps even improved for the majority of the population which, furthermore, had been increasing. The proportion of families

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ceasing entirely to raise alpacas had also increased from less than 10% in my day to a third of the much larger population in Cometti’s time, and the much higher proportion of families living in the lower qeshwa valley of Hatun Q’ero probably reflected this change. As was the case in my day, residence too low to tend an alpaca herd in the high loma pastures was probably compensated for by specialisation in crops and perhaps llama as well as sheep herding and bartering these resources for participation in the processing of alpaca wool into textiles. Again, the increased population and family size suggests that opportunities for marketing of alpaca wool and textiles as well as labouring jobs and shamanism skills had substantially increased the resources available to the community, whether through external agencies operating in Hatun Q’ero itself or directly in the markets of Cuzco and its region. Similarly with regard to the radical decline or disappearance of maize cultivation reported to Wissler as well as Cometti, the fact that this had been predicted by the Q’eros to Núñez del Prado in 1955 as well as to me in 1970 was grounds to be sceptical of the Hatun Q’eros’ traditionally pessimistic appeals to outsiders. The apparently full production in Puskero and ritual use in fiestas that I witnessed in 1970 had been sustained through the maize cultivations of less than 20 of the 52 domestic groups. As with herding, the increasing population and family size of the community suggested that internal and external bartering, reinforced by increasing access to external resources through their production of shamanist skills as well as textiles and the tourist value of their music, dance, and other customs, had compensated for their purportedly increasing difficulties with deteriorating weather conditions. Furthermore, examination of these fundamental changes since the 1970s suggested that the Hatun Q’ero defensive tactic of shifting between obsequity and defiance had been modified by them into a marketing strategy that could switch between protectionism and entrepreneurial opportunism. This pragmatic adaptation can also be seen in terms of the relationship of ayni or reciprocal exchange between themselves and the apu, awki, and pacha mama that watched over their lives: the give-and-­ take integral to their moral cosmology had to become increasingly prepared to confront the predatory powers of neoliberal policy globally as well as nationally. Hatun Q’eros’ rising alarm regarding the increasingly adverse weather conditions documented by Cometti might best be understood as their appreciation that the increasingly threatening attitude of

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their apu patrons was directed at wider and more global transgressions than their own. Chapter 10 of Part II examined three more diffuse aspects of Hatun Q’ero’s well-being before exploring in more theoretical terms this emergent implication of the fundamental changes in the Hatun Q’ero community. The first section, on potato cultivation, followed herding and maize cultivation as the most basic resources in the Hatun Q’ero ecosystem, and indeed potatoes continue to constitute the great bulk of their everyday food. However, I had stumbled upon a significant similarity in the way my attitude towards potato-skins in 1969, and Cometti’s over 40 years later, had been treated by Hatun Q’ero observers of our behaviour. In both cases Cometti and I had been tutored to the effect that the different ways potato-skins are treated display an intimate relationship between all things animate and inanimate. Thus the lowly potato is a dramatic example of the Andean cosmology, watched over and dominated by apu and awki, themselves far more than the mere geographic promontories they appear to be. My experience in 1970 was evidence that this traditional cosmology was long-established if not Incaic. However, I argued that the radically different manner in which Cometti was harshly ‘tutored’ regarding potato-skins compared to my much earlier but closely similar experience of hesitant gentle advice reflected the commercialisation of this humble symbolism. Wissler’s experiences of similarly disciplinary tutelage from Hatun Q’ero’ friends reinforced my interpretation. Hatun Q’ero had apparently adapted its age-old tactic of obsequity and defiance to commercial opportunism and protection of their cosmology against its devaluation. Comparison of reports on Hatun Q’ero’ well-being in terms of wealth, poverty, and mortality, annual festivals, and prestige and leadership since the 1970s tended to support this explanation of the paradox between disproportionate population growth and the Q’eros’ professed decline of both ecological and ritual resources of the community. This was exemplified by Munay T’ika, which was a ch’usaq (‘deserted’ or ‘forsaken'’ location in the 1970s but had apparently become a centre of the population boom and even successful alpaca herding by Cometti’s time. Wide inequalities in potato plots and related wealth or poverty had been established under hacienda ownership and continued after the expropriation so that in the 1970s some domestic groups were able to pay off their share of the government loan in cash while others had to continue to contribute labour on what had become cooperative community plots. The high rate of

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young adult as well as infant mortality from bronchial infections that I reported in the 1970s apparently continued but, despite the virtual absence of national healthcare in the communities, average conjugal family size apparently increased from four in my day to almost six in 2005. Wissler’s and Cometti’s reports on the annual round of festivals in Hatun Q’ero suggested many fewer were celebrated than in my day due to increasing difficulty of access to the maize cultivation zone, declining productivity of crops as well as herding, and thus the resources needed to organise festivals. According to Cometti’s informants, these difficulties in turn were aggravated by the Hatun Q’eros’ increasing neglect of appropriate propitiation rituals and respect towards the apu and awki that supported their well-being. My comparison of the evidence suggested that some of the annual festivals had always been suspended or restored depending on leadership initiative and wealth available to their domestic groups, but also that their decline was exaggerated to dramatise their cosmological implications and maintain or even increase the commercial value of these traditions in the community’s dealings with external agents and the Cuzco tourist industry. My concluding examination of changes in prestige and leadership since the 1970s suggested that the traditional hierarchy of these ranked statuses in the Hatun Q’eros community had been complicated by the addition of the new statutory offices to those of the traditional varayoq and the ritual cargos associated with them. I concluded that expansion of the community population and reliance on additional resources in Cuzco and its region were likely to have put new as well as old leadership in more precarious positions relative to factions arising in the community. On the other hand, evidence of closing ranks among Hatun Q’eros emerged in the 2007 report of the INC in which they remained silent regarding several issues while the other communities of the Q’ero Nation were much more forthcoming. The most significant revelation was their apparent refusal to name any promontories that were considered apu or awki, or to admit their support of vicuña breeding. Although the approach of the INC was sincerely supportive, long-term, and respectful of their independence, it appeared likely that the Hatun Q’ero community had decided to avoid sharing details regarding the practices and products of Q’ero shamanism and to promote their value by protecting them from competition or interventions outside their own control. ‘Conclusions’, the final chapter of Part II, explored the usefulness of Marx’s theory of commodity fetishism to better understand both the

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practices and values the Hatun Q’eros seek to protect and their identification of the threats to these practices and values. I examined Michael Taussig’s application of Marx’s conception of commodity fetishism to varied forms of symbolic recognition of or resistance to capitalism among South American peasants and miners, and Guillermo Salas’s and especially Alf Hornborg’s doubts about its applicability. I argued that Hornborg fails to appreciate the importance of Taussig’s classic analysis because his own ground-breaking Marxist analyses of capitalism overlooked the two-fold nature of labour through which Marx turned Ricardo’s distinction between use-value and exchange-value against capitalism itself. Misled by his conflation of ordinary labour and labour-power, Hornborg argues that Marx’s focus on the value of labour led him to ignore the real material forces of land and other natural resources as the source of surplus value secretly garnered by capitalism behind the illusions of money, technology, and artefacts. I argued to the contrary that Taussig focused as did Marx on the use-value of labour in the ordinary sense of work, hidden by commodity fetishism behind its market exchange-value as abstract labour-­ power. In this way ordinary indigenous or peasant labour in the work of kingroups, their animals, crops, natural resources and manufactures as well as their land, just as in their employment as miners, is hidden by their fetishisation as commodities. In this illusory form the actual continuing use-value of their work remains hidden and unpaid for by the market exchange-value of their work treated abstractly as a quantity of labour-­ power, re-emerging instead as the surplus value invisibly appropriated by capitalism to maintain control over them as well as expand globally. As did Marx’s analogy to the early European use of African fetishes as trade contracts, Taussig showed how peasant as well as proletariat workers encountering capitalism in different ways symbolised their understanding, whether in horror or fascination, in ways that enabled them to deal with their exploiters, protect themselves, or even turn fetishised commodities against their patrons or employers. Cometti’s documentation of Hatun Q’ero’s rising alarm regarding the weather might best be understood in terms of Taussig’s documentation of peasants’ or miners’ rising recognition of the threats of capitalism. In this way Hatun Q’ero can be seen to deploy the commodification of their shamanism, apu, and awki to maintain or regain control of their labour, on their own terms, from its commodified form in bartered as well as waged labour, textiles, or shamanist services. Thus their market strategies can be seen to turn commodity fetishism against itself as well as deploy a form of protectionism.

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In conclusion, following Eric Wolf, I argued that the fundamental source of these efforts as well as their ordinary labour was the Hatun Q’ero kin-based deployment of power in their traditional ecosystem, here focused upon deployment in its ‘fourth ecological level’. Pointing to their own precedents in past labour syndicates and their contemporary General Assembly, I recommended Richard Wolff’s idea of WSDEs, workers’ self-­ directed enterprises, as a way to democratically organise the exclusive ownership and management of their cosmological, shamanist, textile, music, and other products of their own labours. Together these two kinds of workers organise democratically and compose a board of worker-­ directors. Perhaps as hopefully as Wolff, I recommended that the Hatun Q’eros combine to form a WSDE with their original mentors Oscar and Juan Núñez del Prados’ relatively gentle but global marketing of their form of shamanism, utilising the Q’eros’ own notoriously ‘mean and hard’ but practised manner to expand and maintain exclusive control of the resulting enterprise. I pointed out that the ‘New Age’ appeal or what Juan Núñez del Prado called ‘transcendental anthropology’ of their shamanist practices may critically reinforce other environmentalist movements struggling to regain control of the global climate crisis.

References Webster, Steven Sebastian. 1972. The Social Organization of a Native Andean Community. University of Washington Ph.D. 1972 Anthropology; University Microfilms, A XEROX Company, Ann Arbor, Michigan.

Index1

A Access, see Mobility Accommodated tribal community, ix, xxxi, xxxii, xxxv, xxxvii, 16–32, 58n2, 61, 119, 327 Adoption, 34n6, 85, 133, 146, 150–152 Affinal relatives, affines (‘in-laws’), 155, 157, 159, 166–169 Agrarian Reform, 209, 217–224, 270, 271, 328n4 Ahata uxuchichis (ritual), 73, 130, 132, 153n2, 264, 284, 288, 312 Alcalde (S.), 13, 33n4, 144, 178, 185–188, 193, 309, 316 ‘mayor,’ 13, 33n4, 142, 144, 178, 185 See also Varayoq (Q.) Alliance, 141, 169, 173, 181, 183, 184, 195, 338, 346, 347 See also Kinship; Marriage

Alpaca, xxxvi, 14, 20, 42, 48, 51, 53, 56, 59n7, 62, 64–78, 82, 92n2, 92n3, 112–114, 122, 128–131, 181, 186, 218–238, 254–256, 259, 277–281, 301–303, 336–338, 361–363 Altumisayoq (Q.), 189, 239–245, 264, 285, 296, 305, 306, 343, 344, 351 See also Shamanism Andeanism (lo Andino, S.), 210, 216–223, 321 ANDES (S.) Association for Sustainable Natural Environment and Development, 255 Cuzco, 255 Anonymity, see Evasive manner or tactics

 Note: Page numbers followed by ‘n’ refer to notes.

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368 

INDEX

Apu (Q.) alpine ‘summit,’ xxii extraordinary power, 110, 146, 191, 192, 228–235, 277 ‘peak,’ xxii, 84, 191, 193, 220–233, 277, 323, 324 Assertiveness, see Evasive manner or tactics Astana (Q.), 46, 53, 83 temporary ‘camp,’ 38 Atuh Saruh (Q.), xii, 210–216, 276 ‘steps-on-foxes,’ 276 Ausangate, 208, 222–228, 274, 276, 350 Awki (Q.) as ancient ruins, 74, 277, 323 buttress, 323 as elder, 146 extraordinary power, 146, 191, 209–220, 277 local hill, 74, 277, 323 old man, 74 outcropping, 277 Axa, aqha (Q.), 22, 39, 58n4, 78, 89, 129–132, 141, 212n1, 283 maize beer, 39, 58n4, 90, 129, 131, 212n1, 283 See also Ahata uxuchichis Axllay ritual, 106, 128, 303 Ayakachi range (Mama Rit’i, (Q.), v, xi, 4, 11, 42, 53, 55, 57, 68, 217, 226–242, 264, 274, 276, 277, 312, 323, 360 Ayllu (Q.) kin-group, 132 See also Hamlet Ayniy (Q.), 181, 182, 362 ‘reciprocal exchange,’ 362 See also Barter; Exchange

B Barter, 238–246, 265, 281–283, 289, 290, 347 See also Exchange, Ayniy Birth (paqariy, Q.) of alpaca, 73 of person, 138 Bofedales (S.), 67 ‘moors,’ 67 See also Waylla (Q.) Bridge (chaka, Q.), 86, 151, 285, 305 Bullying, see Evasive manner or tactics C Cairn (saywa, Q.), iv, 73 Camelids, xxxvi, 3, 22, 69, 71, 74, 76–78, 230–243, 248n3–225, 249n9–236 Cane (ip”a, Q.), 86 Capitalism, 331–343, 345, 348, 349, 351, 352, 365 Cargo (S.), 179, 185, 315, 364 cargo career, 193 Carnival festival, 230–236, 313 Castellaño (S.), 19 ‘Spanish,’ 19 Ccapana, xii, xvin2, 24, 68, 92n3, 112, 156, 221–229, 238–244, 276, 281 Ch’ampa (Q.), 73, 154n2 ‘sod,’ 73 Chanako (Q.), 143–145, 148–150, 152, 176 youngest child, 148 Chawpi Puñuna hamlet, 58n4, 152 Chayampuy festival, 106, 128, 142, 185–187, 236, 312, 316 Ch’eqec, v, 175, 209, 210, 216–223, 237–243, 238–250n8, 254, 357

 INDEX 

Chickens, 77, 236–240 Cholo (S.), 16–18, 22, 28, 30, 35n11, 35n12, 55, 216–233, 237–246, 291n4, 304, 312, 339 acculturated Indian, 18 Ch’uñu (Q.), 6, 64, 84, 92, 93n9, 101 frost dehydrated fermented bitter potato, 84 Chuwa Chuwa hamlet, valley, river (Choa Choa, Chewa Chewa), 53, 58n4, 79, 102, 111, 120, 123, 147, 151, 171, 173, 218, 243, 249n7, 261, 291n4, 297 Ch’uya (Q.), 131 ‘offering,’ 83 Climate, climate change, 65, 101, 220–238, 255, 262, 281, 282, 288, 289, 318, 366 Coca (S.) leaf, 23, 27, 28, 42, 45, 106, 130, 138, 140, 141, 160, 182 Cohen, John, 24, 208, 210, 212, 236–241, 265, 335 Colonisation, 211, 215–222, 237–243, 272, 302, 331, 359 Comerciante (S.) merchant, 28, 265, 283 Cometti, Geremia, xix, 208–247, 247n1–220, 248n1–220, 248n4–229, 253, 255–269, 276–285, 295–302, 307, 313–319, 331, 333, 337, 339, 343, 359–365 Commerce, xxxii, 4, 6, 327, 331, 338 Commercialism, see Mestizo (S.), Misti, (Q.); Purih (Q.); Evasive manner or tactics, opportunism Commodity, 20, 248n2–222, 331–343, 353n2 Commodity fetishism, 214–221, 248n2–222, 331–343, 348, 352n2, 364, 365

369

Communication, xxii, xxxii, 4, 6, 11, 25, 48, 49, 55, 57, 83, 100, 101, 192, 214–248n1, 220–226 Community, v, 4, 37, 61–92, 95, 127, 155, 176, 208, 253, 296, 332, 357 Compensation, see Strategies, ecological Comunidad campesina (S.), 271, 315 ‘peasant community,’ 270, 271 See also Leadership, traditional or statutory roles Conjugal family, 43, 116, 133, 143, 144, 364 conjugal bond, 133 Cooperative (coopertivo, faena, S.), ix, 26, 101, 106, 128, 170, 302, 304, 363 Cordillera (S.), xxxi, 3, 4, 6, 7, 68, 80, 220–249n3 Corn, see Axa, aqha (Q.); Maize (corn Q.); Sara (Q.) Corporate (social) structure, 152 See also Domestic groups; Kinship, kin-group Cosmology, 214–221, 277, 314, 332, 333, 338, 347, 362, 363 See also Ontology Cosmopolitan, 242–248, 237–241, 270, 291, 300, 318, 359 Cows, 14, 25, 77, 82, 114, 278, 305, 324 Crops rotation of, 82 tropical, 41 Cultural broker (enterado (S.), 189–191, 315 ‘informed,’ 189 See also Purih (Q.) Cultural region, xxxi–xxxiii, 20, 21, 30, 33n4, 34n5, 48, 50, 57, 58n2, 64, 69, 88, 113, 147, 156, 161, 173n2, 215–223

370 

INDEX

Culture, xv, xx, 3, 8, 11, 15–18, 189–191, 207, 247, 322 Curing, healing (hamp’ih, Q.), 73, 75, 80, 131, 135, 146, 153n1, 192, 195, 264, 306, 321 Cuzco (Cusco, Qosco), 4, 207–210, 220, 223, 253, 255–258, 263–269, 272–274, 276, 277, 284, 307, 320, 321, 335, 359–362 Cycles festival, feast, 105, 106, 116, 312 life-cycle, 138, 150, 152 seasonal, xxxvii, 50, 96, 152 subsistence, 110, 111 See also Strategies, ecological D De la Cadena, Marisol, 208, 214–223, 225–232, 274, 276, 345, 347 Death, 114, 115, 121, 125n4, 129, 146, 147, 160, 164, 225, 237, 263, 285, 327n2 See also Mortality DeBary family, xvin2 Defiance, see Evasive manner or tactics Demography, 95, 109, 114, 136, 262, 306 Directive Board, 269, 271, 272, 324, 327 See also General Assembly Disease, 67, 71, 73–75, 81–83, 93n6, 109, 110, 195, 295 Disputes, 186, 188, 317 See also Factions Dogs, 38, 44, 64, 72, 236–240, 298 Domestic group adoption, 133, 146, 151 authority, 134, 135, 142, 145, 151, 152, 170, 176 extension, 147, 152, 169, 170, 173 filiation, 151

independence, 134, 135, 139, 143–146, 176 inheritance, 134, 137, 141–143, 151, 152 residence, 134, 137, 141, 151, 152, 172 succession, 149, 151, 152 See also Conjugal family; Matrilocal residence; Marriage Dung, see Fertilizer (wanu (Q.) E Ecological level (or floor, zone) fourth ecological level, 248n2–223–248, 253, 258, 267, 277, 303, 307, 317, 335, 338, 345, 359, 361, 366 interzonal ecosystem, 62 See also Verticality Ecosystem, ecological niche, vi, xxxii–xxxviii, 53–57, 61, 62, 69–71, 79, 95, 111, 114–125, 151–153, 169, 170, 197–200, 220, 224, 357–360 Endogamy, 12, 20, 173, 174n4, 231–237 See also Marriage Ethnicity (ethnic groups, ethnic enclave), 8, 32n3, 210, 211, 274 Ethno-development (etnodesarollo, S.), 268, 322 See also National Institute of Culture (INC) Ethnohistory, v, 207, 211, 215–222, 238–250n8, 331, 358 Evangelism, 216–223, 263 Evasive manner or tactics anonymity, 156 assertiveness, 228–235 bullying, 300 defiance, 291 manipulative, 318

 INDEX 

obsequity, 257, 258, 363 opportunism, 363 pessimism, 290 reticence, 156 suspiciousness, 257 Exchange, 6, 11, 20, 27, 28, 64, 71, 90, 105, 108, 132, 181–184, 245–247, 283, 315, 316, 334 See also Ayniy, (Q.); Barter External agencies, 253, 263–272, 281, 301, 319, 320, 325, 327, 336, 346, 348, 360–362 Extraordinary powers, 247–220, 73, 129, 146, 154n7, 184, 185, 191–193, 195, 209–246, 277 See also Awki(Q.); Apu(Q.); Pacha mama(Q.); Roal; Ñawpa runa(Q.) F Factions, 184, 190, 191, 257, 317, 325, 364 See also Disputes Fallow, 83, 101–104, 110, 288 See also Crops Family, see Conjugal family; Domestic group Feast, see Festival (fiesta (S.) Females, women, 20, 21, 35n9, 62, 75, 76, 120, 131, 133, 139–142, 145, 148, 154n7, 159, 161–163, 166–168, 171, 175, 265, 283 See also Gender (male and female); Sex Fertilizer (wanu (Q.) dung, 45, 64, 98, 99 Festival (fiesta (S.) community festival, 76, 106, 107, 128, 129, 140, 142, 145, 149, 153n2, 303, 312, 313, 338

371

family festival, 127, 219–225, 264, 283, 284, 312, 313 feast, 75, 106, 107, 166, 178 Festival house (Q.), 107, 115, 116, 119, 135, 159, 166, 167, 177, 231–237 puxllay wasi or llaqta wasi, 177, 231–237 Fetishism, 214–221, 248n2–222, 331–343, 345, 348, 352, 352n2, 364, 365 See also Commodity fetishism Fieldwork participant observation, xxxi, 240–247 social anthropological research, vi, 257 Fiesta (S.), (fista Q.), see Festival (fiesta (S.)) Fleece, 181, 336, 338 Flores Ochoa, Jorge, 207, 208, 210, 216–223, 344, 359 Fosterage, see Adoption Fourth ecological level, see Ecological level (or floor, zone) Funeral, funeral wake, see Pusachaynin (Q.) G Gender (male and female), 116, 118, 139, 145, 154n7, 157, 164, 174n2 Genealogy, xiv General Assembly, 271, 272, 314, 335, 346, 348, 366 See also Directive Board Glacier (Q.), xxxii, 157, 214–226, 226–236, 231–242, 255, 259, 274, 280–282, 312, 323, 352, 359, 4, 42, 59n4, 68 rit’i (snow), 219–225

372 

INDEX

Gongora, Edmundo, xviin4 Gose, Peter, 214–221, 277, 333, 352n1 H Hacienda, asinta (Q.), 14, 104 Hamlet, xxii, xxxviii, 37–56, 106, 108, 111–113, 119–124, 127–129, 179, 261, 262, 273, 283–285, 305, 337 See also Ayllu (Q.); Annexo (S.) Hapu (a community of Q’ero Nation), 11, 12, 20, 48, 49, 54–57, 68, 69, 88, 113, 120, 208, 210, 220, 223, 225, 229, 239, 247, 253–257, 260, 263, 323 Health, 65, 68, 69, 109, 121, 125n4, 129, 138, 191–193, 225, 267, 301, 304, 307, 321, 324, 345, 360, 361 See also Well-being Herding, xxxvi, 48, 51, 114, 128, 132, 133, 173, 179, 200, 234, 259, 260, 278–282, 290, 295, 302, 360–364 herding potential, 122, 136, 137, 151, 169, 170, 238 See also Rituals Hermeneutics, 212 History, v, 15, 31, 33n5, 103, 120, 148, 207–212, 212n1, 215–223, 240–248, 247n1–215, 258, 269, 271, 273, 274, 332–334, 345, 347, 352, 359 See also Ethnohistory Hornborg, Alf, 339–342, 353n3, 365 Horses, xii, xv, 24, 35n9, 44, 57, 77, 82, 208, 212, 221–234, 238–247, 265, 276, 284, 305 Household, 21, 22, 128–134 See also Domestic group

I Ichu (Q.), 68, 79, 83, 93n9, 111, 114 tundra grass, 39, 67, 69 Illegitimacy, 150, 151 See also Marriage INC (Instituto Nacional de Cultura, S.), see National Institute of Culture Incest taboo, 162 See also Marriage Indigeneity indigeneity movements, 215–222, 263, 271–274, 319, 320, 332, 335, 345, 347–350, 352n2, 353n2, 361 indigenismo (S.), 271 Indio (S.), xv, 16–18, 30, 35n9, 190, 238–247, 271, 297, 298 ‘Indian,’ 17 See also Runa(Q.) Inequality, 304, 314 See also Wealth; Poverty Inheritance, 31, 102, 103, 134, 137, 141–145, 147–152, 154n12, 168 See also Domestic groups K Kakay (wife’s brother or father, wife-giver), 150, 169, 183, 316, 346 Kamachikuh (Q.), 26, 134, 142, 158, 168 ‘powerful’ or influential, 184 See also Leaders; Varayoq (Q.) Kargu (Q.), 303, 313, 315 See also Cargo (S.) Karp, Eliane, 263, 266, 269, 320 Kiku (a community of Q’ero Nation), 11, 12, 23, 29, 35n11, 48, 54–57, 68, 69, 88, 111, 113,

 INDEX 

240–242, 254, 255, 260, 268, 323 Kin-based power, 212, 338, 345–348 Kindred, parallel kindred, 157, 162, 166 Kinship, kin-group, xxxvii, 103, 112, 124, 125, 133, 139, 146, 147, 152, 155–173, 175, 176, 195, 209–211, 239–245, 296 See also Wife-giving and wife-­ receiving kin groups (kakay, q”atay) K’intu(Q.) k’intu p”ukukuy ‘wafted offering,’ 83 offering, 83 Korpus (Corpus Christi) festival, 157, 185, 226–234, 303, 312, 313 Kukuchi (Q.) ‘ghost,’ xv, 73 ‘spirit,’ 73 See also Alma (S.) Kuraq (Q.) elder sibling, 143 senior, 164 Kurus (Sta. Cruz) festival, 111, 185 Kuskiy(Q.) barbecho (S.), 98 L Labour, 239–246, 280, 284, 288–290, 302, 303, 312, 317, 326, 332–338, 340–344, 346–349, 363, 365, 366 See also Labour-power Labour-power, 334, 336, 341, 342, 349, 365 Lauramarca, 208, 276 Layqa (Q.) ‘witch’ or ‘sorcerer,’ 193, 195 Leadership

373

as buffers, 17, 186, 188, 195, 272, 300, 314–319, 361, 363, 364 traditional or statutory roles, 317, 326 See also Varayoq (Q.) Libation (Q.) chalasqa, 73 ch’uyay, 131 t’inkasqa, 73, 76 Lice, 67, 74, 337 Life-cycle rituals (rites of passage), 138, 150, 152 Llama, xi, xxxvi, 3, 14, 25, 27, 42, 62, 64, 65, 69–72, 75–77, 92, 92n2, 100, 106, 107, 112–114, 122, 126n8, 128–130, 132, 181, 183, 242, 278–281, 283–285, 288, 328n6 llama troop, 42, 86, 112, 284 Llipta (Q.), 87 ash chewed with coca, 87 Loma, 64, 65, 67, 68, 72, 75–82, 88, 93n9, 101, 102, 111, 122, 217–229, 280, 288, 303, 312, 325, 359, 362 See also Waylla (Q.) Luychu (Q.), xviin4, xix, 82, 156, 179, 216, 227, 233, 241, 249n4, 291n4, 312, 353n4 valley deer, xviin4, 221–227 M Madre de Dios River, 4 Maize (corn Q.), 27, 89, 282 sara, chaminko, 89, 90 Mañay (Q.) ‘loan,’ 34n7 mañasqa, 160 Manwel Quispe, see Quispe Apasa, Manwel (Manuel)

374 

INDEX

Māori, v, 209, 211, 214–222, 345, 347, 352n2, 353n2 Maps, v, xxi, 210, 220–240, 220–249n3, 224–249n7, 226–236, 235–232, 241–240, 264, 280, 357, 359, 6 Marcapata, 212n1, 222–240 Marriage, xxxi, xxxvii, 12, 20, 31, 56, 119–121, 137, 140–145, 147–152, 154n8, 154n12, 161–163, 168, 176, 230–237, 268 See also Affinal relatives, alliance (‘in-laws’) Marx, Marxism, 211, 332–336, 339–342, 349, 352, 364, 365 Matrilocal residence, 147–153, 165, 170, 171 See also Herding, herding potential Mayer, Enrique, xxxv, 209, 216–223, 217–248n2, 290, 291, 304 Mestizo (Q.) misti, xviin4, 8, 11 Mestizo(S.) racially ‘mixed,’ 16 Migration emigration, 116, 136 immigration, 116, 119 temporary emigrant labour, 256 translocation, 116, 124, 147, 169 Mining, 253, 269, 272–277, 318, 319, 327n2, 331, 332, 335, 345, 348, 361 Mining interests, 253, 273, 277, 319, 361 Misa (Q.) colour-banded sacking, 153n1 ‘table,’ 153n1 See also Ritual; Shamanism; Misayoq(Q.) Misayoq (Q.), see Shamanism; Paqo (Q.); Pampamisayoq (Q.); Altumisayoq (Q.)

Mobility access, 3, 4, 6, 7, 14, 42, 236–240 footpaths, 236, 239–242, 259 roadways, xii, 50, 233, 236–242, 359 routes, 4, 50, 55, 236–241 See also Migration, translocation Montaña (S.), xi, 4, 8, 37, 41, 45, 65, 85, 87–89 subtropical forest, 6 Monte (Q.), see Montaña (S.) Moor (bofedal, S.), 67 See also Waylla (Q.) Moraya (Q.), 34n8, 64, 84, 92, 93n9, 101, 104, 289 frost dehydrated bitter potato, 93n9, 289 Mortality, 112, 114, 124, 125n4, 135, 253, 300–307, 364 See also Death Munay T’ika, see Qolpa K’uchu valley, river Murra, John., xxxv, xxxvi, 217–224 Music dancing, 131, 157, 159, 190, 258, 312 flutes, 131 singing, 131, 157, 159, 258 N Nak’ah (Q.), 32n3 ‘butcherer,’ 11 National Institute of Culture (NIC, INC (S)), 227–230, 239, 240, 249n5, 256–259, 266–273, 279, 282, 319–331 Native, native community, see Accommodated tribal community Ñawpa runa (Q.), 50, 73, 74, 82, 163 antisolarian people, 163

 INDEX 

Neoliberal government, 269 New Age, 236–247, 264, 265, 300, 318, 320, 332, 335, 343, 345, 350, 351 See also Shamanism Niche, see Ecosystem Núñez del Prado, Oscar, Juan, xi, xii, xix, xxxvi, 23, 24, 33n6, 34n8, 37, 93n8, 105, 115, 125n4, 126n5, 126n8, 154n8, 154n12, 161, 163, 188–190, 207, 208, 223, 237, 244, 284, 288, 303, 350–352 O Obsequity, see Evasive manner or tactics Ocongate, 222–228, 232–247, 254, 255, 257, 268, 276 Ontology, 214–221, 276, 277 P P”alcha (Q.), 128–130 P”alchasqa ritual, 128–131, 153n2 Pacha mama (Q.), 91, 248n1–220, 256, 258, 277, 299, 314, 325, 346, 362 ‘Mother Earth,’ 73, 83 Pampamisayoq (Q.), 296, 318 See also Shamanism, Altumisayoq (Q.) Paqo (Q.), xxxiv, 23, 192–195, 239–245, 264, 265, 277, 305, 315, 350, 353n4 ‘diviner’ or ‘curer,’ 264 See also Shamanism Parallel kindred, see Kinship, kin-group Paskwa (Pascua, Easter) festival, 106, 185, 186, 237–242, 283, 308–313, 316, 336

375

Passes (alpine, q’asa Q.), xii, xxxviii, 37, 42, 45, 47, 54–56, 73, 78, 129, 130, 230–236 Pastoralism, xxxv, xxxvi, 62–79, 96, 210 Paternalism, 190, 326, 327, 349 Patrilocal residence, 147, 150, 151 Paucartambo, 4, 10–15, 175, 190, 208, 209, 212n1, 213n2, 239–241, 261–263, 267, 324 Peak (mountain summit), 225–233 See also Apu (Q.) Peasant, x, xi, xxxiii, xxxv, 17, 19–21, 24, 35n12, 183, 260, 263, 270, 271, 290, 304, 334, 335, 365 peasant society, x, 343 See also Comunidad campesina (S.) Pelt, 39, 44, 64, 67, 75, 158, 281 Pepper (hot), 28, 90 uchu (Q.), 28 Pessimism, see Evasive manner or tactics Petition, see Awki (Q.); Apu (Q.) Pigs, 14, 25, 77 Pilgrimage, 57, 157, 208, 210, 224, 225, 232–234, 240, 241, 263, 313 Plots (agricultural Q.) chakra, 102 wark”iy, 102 See also Tribute Plow (Q.) barbecho, 98 Plural society., 32, 216–224 Population, xxxii, xxxv, 11, 13–15, 49–51, 114–124, 126n5, 135, 169, 173, 199, 253–255, 259–263, 266, 267, 279–282, 289, 301, 302, 304, 307, 314, 317, 360–364

376 

INDEX

Potatoes, 90, 104, 106, 181, 186, 187, 193, 236, 255, 289, 306 bitter potatoes, 84, 85, 93n8, 104, 225, 289 papa (S.), 84 potato-skins, 295–300 See also Ch’uñu (Q.); Moraya (Q.) Poverty, 17, 28, 29, 75, 81–83, 110, 112, 114, 125n4, 168, 179–184, 188, 195, 280, 295, 320 See also waxcha Predation, 71, 72, 91, 313 Predators, 46, 72–76, 90, 280 Prestige, 16, 23, 25, 29, 31, 76, 107–109, 137, 142–146, 152, 179, 184–189, 191, 193–195, 300, 307, 314–319, 361, 363, 364 Protectionism, see Evasive manner or tactics Puna, xxxvi, 3, 6–8, 44, 55, 67, 68, 78, 79, 82, 86, 218–224, 237–242, 274 Purih (Q.) trader, 238–243 walker, 21, 189, 231–243 wanderer, 231–237 See also Commerce; Cultural broker Pusachaynin (Q.), 138, 146, 201 funeral wake, 346 guiding, 138, 176 See also Santus (All Saints) ritual Puskero, 46, 50, 57, 58n4, 86, 87, 89, 130, 237–243, 285, 288, 289, 305, 310, 312, 362 Putu Mayo hamlet, 58n4 Q Qamara pilgrimage, 312 Q’ara (Q.) ‘husk’ or ‘skin,’ 67 See also Waylla (Q.)

Q’asa (Q.), see Passes (alpine, Q.) Q”atay (Q.) ‘brother-in-law,’ 158 wife-receiver, 150, 167, 176, 346 Q’ero Llaqta (ritual centre), xii, xxxviii, 29, 31, 32n4, 34, 38, 40–58, 92, 98, 106–108, 115, 127, 134, 135, 157, 166, 178, 179, 212n1, 219, 226, 233, 234, 243, 244, 254, 266, 268, 273, 308–312 Q’ero Nation, v, vi, xix, 208–210, 212, 220, 223, 226, 232, 236–240, 254–257, 259–273, 281, 282, 306, 307, 315, 321–325, 364 Qeshwa (Q.), 8, 10, 11, 14, 19, 32n3, 79–88, 92, 98, 101–104, 262, 279, 281, 288, 290, 296, 362 Qocha Moqo hamlet river, 224–249n7 valley, 120, 303 Qolpa K’uchu valley, river, 102, 124, 172, 224–247, 257, 261, 264–266, 278–280, 282, 299–302, 346, 350, 363 See also Munay T’ika Qolpa Pampa hamlet, 43, 120, 148, 151, 173, 273, 275, 280, 303, 305 Quechua, ix, xiii, xxi, 3, 11, 12, 17, 39, 58n1, 132, 146, 156, 161, 166, 174n3, 211, 221–229, 222–249n4, 267, 344 Quispe Apasa, Manwel (Manuel), 36n13, 189, 212–218, 238–245, 285, 287, 296, 305, 343, 344, 353n4 Quyllurit’i (pilgrimage), 157, 185, 208, 210, 224, 225, 232–234, 238–241, 263, 274, 276, 322 See also Pilgrimage

 INDEX 

R Rank, see Social rank Reciprocity, see Ayniy (Q.); Barter Redistribution, 108, 301, 314, 315 See also Ayniy(Q.); Cargo(S.); Exchange; Festival (fiesta (S.)) Reforma Agraria (S.), xi, 115, 217–248n2 agrarian reform, 217–224 Research fieldwork, v social anthropology, 207 See also Ethnohistory Reticence, see Evasive manner or tactics Ricker, John, 32n2, 37, 220–249n3, 221–233, 254, 276, 323, 324 Ritual centre, see Q’ero Llaqta (ritual centre) Rituals, xxxvii, xxxviii, 11, 12, 16, 19–23, 27–30, 39, 40, 50, 51, 57, 62, 64, 73–80, 84, 90–92, 98, 106, 108, 127–132, 135–139, 144–146, 152, 154n7–8, 153n1–n2, 156–161, 164–168, 176–179, 182, 186, 192, 212n1, 220, 221, 234, 247, 258, 277, 283, 296, 361–364 See also Festival (fiesta (S.)); Awki (Q.); Apu (Q.); Life-cycle rituals (rites of passage) Roads, see Mobility Roal, 91 Runa, 8, 11, 16, 28, 74, 326 runachakuy (Q ‘person’), 144 S Salas Carreño, Guillermo, 208, 216–223, 320, 326, 327 Santiago, see Ahata Uxuchichis

377

Santus (All Saints) ritual, xiv, 108, 128, 165, 312 Sara (Q.), see Maize (corn Q.) School, 19, 24, 30, 31, 36n13, 38, 190, 266, 282, 301, 302, 315, 317, 324, 350, 360 Seasonal cycle, see Cycles Selva (S.), 50 ‘jungle,’ 4 sub-tropical jungle, 234–239 Semiology, 209–220, 214–248n1, 209–248n1, 333 Sex, see Gender (male and female) Shamanism, 191–195, 208–225, 236–247, 248n1–220, 264, 289, 306, 318, 320–322, 331–352 See also Paqo (Q.); Pampamisayoq (Q.); Altumisayoq (Q.) Sheep, 14, 25, 27, 69, 74–76, 111, 114, 126n8, 181, 231–237, 278, 279, 283, 362 Shining Path (Sendero Luminoso (S.), 217–224, 263, 343 revolutionary movement, 209 Shining Path (Sendero Luminoso(S.), 353n5 Sibling group, 170 See also Domestic group, Kinship, kin-group Slaughter, 72, 73, 76, 133, 134 Social class, 16, 211, 216–224, 271, 339, 349 Social rank, 183, 184, 195 status, 175 Social system, 32, 169, 290, 357 Soq’asqa (Q.), 82, 262, 302 ‘cursed,’ 69, 113, 296, 301 Statutory offices, 364 See also Comunidad campesina, (S.), Directive Board, General Assembly

378 

INDEX

Strategies, ecological compensatory, 43, 95, 109–114, 119, 120, 228–235, 281, 289, 296 cyclic, 96–109 fallowing, 102 subsistence, 19, 20, 25, 26, 29, 31, 35n8, 105 See also Evasive manner or tactics Structural-functionalism (social structure), 209–220 Substrate argillite, 69 diorite, 69 See also Waylla (Q.); Tarn (alpine lake); Loma; Monte (Q.); Maize (corn Q.) Succession, 140, 146, 149, 151, 152, 186, 306, 351, 353n5 See also Domestic group Sulka (Q.) junior, 164 younger sibling, 142 Suspicion, see Evasive manner or tactics Sustainability, 212, 215–222 See also Strategies, ecological Symbiotic, 61

Tourism, 216–225, 253, 263–272, 318, 319, 331, 332, 335, 345, 349, 361 Transcendental anthropology, see Núñez del Prado, Oscar, Juan Transhumance, xxxv, xxxvi, xxxviii, 96, 219–225 See also Herding Translocation, xxxviii, 103, 116, 119–122, 124, 136, 147, 151, 169, 172, 230–237, 249n9–236, 281 See also Migration Transport, xii, 19, 29, 62, 64, 69, 71, 77, 92, 92n2, 96, 99–101, 105, 106, 114, 129, 134, 181, 183, 238–243, 278 See also Llama, llama troop; Sara (Q.) Tribal society, xxxiii, 19 Tribute, 7, 13–15, 25, 26, 81, 104–106, 126n5, 295 See also Hacienda, asinta(Q.) Tubers (papa, oca, añu, ullucu (Q.), 85 tropical root crops, 44

T T”antaña hamlet, 43, 58n4, 152 Tarn (alpine lake), 68, 69, 224–238, 280, 302 See also Substrate Taussig, Michael, 214–221, 332–336, 338–340, 342, 343, 352n2, 365 Textiles, 181, 186, 244, 257, 269, 325, 335–337, 358, 362, 365 See also Weavings T’inkasqa (Q.), see Libation (Q.) T’inkuy ritual, 230–236, 249n9–236 Totorani ritual centre, see Mining interests

V Value exchange-value, 240–247, 334, 336, 338, 341, 342, 365 use-value, 334–336, 338, 341–344, 365 Van den Berghe, Pierre, 210, 211, 216–223, 217–248n2, 217–249n2, 304 Varayoq (Q.), ‘those with staffs-of-­ office,’ 25, 177, 178, 185, 186, 268–272, 283, 285, 308–311, 313–317, 324, 326, 364

 INDEX 

See also Leadership; Kamachikuh (Q.) Verticality, xxxv, 217–224, 358 See also Ecological level (or floor, zone) Vicuña (wikuña, Q.), 69, 78, 79, 186, 225, 256, 267, 324, 325, 364 Vilcanota Range, 212n1, 222–235, 274, 359 W Wamanripa (titular apu, Hatun Q’ero), 59n4, 323 See also Ayakachi range (Mama Rit’i, (Q.) Wañuna pampa hamlet, 223–230, 236–241, 287 Waq maki (Q.) independent, 144 ‘a separate hand,’ 144 See also Domestic groups Waylla (Q.), 67–69, 78, 88, 101, 102, 111–113, 122, 227–237, 254, 255, 260 See also Moor (bofedal, S.); K’unkuna; Loma; Q”ara(Q.) Wayq’o (Q.) ‘gully,’ 233–238 Wealth, 16, 19, 22, 23, 64, 108, 113, 124, 136, 137, 168, 170, 176, 179–185, 192–195, 253, 278, 295, 364 See also Poverty; Prestige; Social rank, status Weavings, 11, 24, 26, 28, 43, 44, 80, 125n3, 128, 134, 153n1, 154n7, 208, 245, 258, 264, 265, 268, 281, 285, 289, 310, 311, 315, 316, 361

379

See also Textiles Well-being, 23, 110, 121, 129, 130, 180, 191, 192, 215–222, 253, 300–319, 331, 360, 363, 364 Wife-giving and wife-receiving kin groups (kakay, q”atay), 185, 316 Wild animals, 78, 79, 248n3–225, 256, 257, 281, 325 Wissler, Holly, v, xix, xxi, 208, 209, 212, 226, 235, 241, 243, 244, 246, 247, 257, 259, 260, 263, 266, 267, 277, 282, 283, 285, 288, 295, 299, 359 Wolf, Eric, 18, 207, 211, 338, 340, 345, 347, 366 Wolff, Richard, 348, 349, 366 Wool alpaca, 62, 64, 69, 130, 181, 232–238, 281, 337, 362 llama, 64, 107, 130, 176, 181, 192, 238–243, 288 sheep, 27, 283 See also Vicuña (Q.) Workers’ Self-Directed Enterprise (WSDE), 344–352, 366 Y Yabar, Betty, 33n5, 175, 213n2, 350 Yabar, Luis, 7, 14, 15, 33n4, 33n5, 34n6, 58n2, 154n3 Yanqa wako (Q.), 305 ‘irrational sanctum,’ 219–225, 285, 352, 360 Yawarkanchis hamlet, 223–230 Yunka (Q.) sub-tropical jungle, 305