Supplement to the Handbook of Middle American Indians, Volume 6: Ethnology 9780292753747

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SUPPLEMENT TO THE HANDBOOK OF MIDDLE AMERICAN INDIANS Volume 6 Ethnology

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SUPPLEMENT TO THE HANDBOOK OF MIDDLE AMERICAN INDIANS V I C TO R I A R E I F LE R B R I C K E R, General Editor V O LU M E S I X

ETHNOLOGY JOH N D. MONAGHAN, Volume Editor

With the Assistance of Barbara W. Edmonson

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U N I V E R S I T Y

O F

T E X A S

P R E S S ,

A U S T I N

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Copyright © 2000 by the University of Texas Press All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America First edition, 2000 Requests for permission to reproduce material from this work should be sent to Permissions, University of Texas Press, Box 7819, Austin, TX 78713-7819. . The paper used in this book meets the minimum requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (R1997) (Permanence of Paper).

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   -  Ethnology / John D. Monaghan, volume editor ; with the assistance of Barbara W. Edmonson. p. cm. — (Supplement to the Handbook of Middle American Indians ; v. 6) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0-292-70881-5 (alk. paper) 1. Indians of Central America. 2. Indians of Mexico. I. Monaghan, John. II. Edmonson, Barbara. III. Series. F1434 .E89 2000 972'.00497—dc21 99-056299

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

General Editor’s Preface Victoria Reifler Bricker 1. A Retrospective Look at the Ethnology Volumes of the Handbook of Middle American Indians John D. Monaghan

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I. Topical Syntheses 2. Mesoamerican Social Organization and Community after 1960 Eileen M. Mulhare

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3. Theology and History in the Study of Mesoamerican Religions John D. Monaghan

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4. Alternative Political Futures of Indigenous People in Mesoamerica Howard Campbell

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II. Regional Syntheses 5. Otomían and Purépechan Cultures of Central Mexico James W. Dow

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6. Contemporary Cultures of the Gulf Coast Alan R. Sandstrom

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7. Indigenous Peoples in Central and Western Mexico Catharine Good

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 8. Thirty Years of Oaxacan Ethnography John D. Monaghan and Jeffrey H. Cohen

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9. The Maya of Chiapas since 1965 Ulrich Köhler

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10. The Yucatec Maya Paul Sullivan

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11. Maya and Anthropologists in the Highlands of Guatemala since the 1960’s John M. Watanabe

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Bibliography

249

Index

329

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             ’       

This volume of the Supplement documents many of the changes that have taken place in the Indian communities of Middle America since the time of publication of The Handbook of Middle American Indians in 1964–1976. The Handbook made a distinction between ethnology and social anthropology, covering the former in volumes 7 and 8 and the latter in volume 6. The ethnology volumes of the Handbook were organized in terms of regions and contained baseline descriptions of the cultures of people speaking dialects of a single language, whereas the social anthropology volume focused on broad topics that were not limited to a single region or language and gave a sense of the cultural patterns that are generally characteristic of Middle America. In this Supplement, the distinction between regional synthesis and topical summary has been preserved, but not the organization of chapters by language. The emphasis on region rather than language group reflects not only the more limited space available for covering the ethnology and social anthropology of Middle America (one volume instead of three), but also a paradigm shift among ethnologists from the study of ‘‘tribes’’ and communities to larger units of analysis, including the region and nation and even the globe.

In this broader geographical and temporal frame of reference, a new set of thematic foci has come to occupy the center stage of ethnographic inquiry: ethnicity, political and cultural strife, cultural revitalization, environmental degradation, demography and migration, and tourism. Although these issues also have local manifestations, their significance is more obvious when considered in regional, national, and international contexts. Not all of these phenomena are of recent origin. Middle American Indians were migrating to cities and across international borders during the years covered by the original Handbook. They could be ignored or glossed over as long as the community was the focus of inquiry. Those who chose to remain in their villages were culturally more conservative than those who decided to leave in search of opportunities elsewhere and were therefore regarded as more appropriate subjects of study. However, the greatly accelerated pace and intensity of migration, fueled by rapid demographic growth, environmental degradation, and ethnic conflict, now make it impossible to view the community as the basic unit of analysis. The people who leave have a cultural and economic impact on those left behind that can no longer be discounted. vii

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 .  The people among whom I carried out my first ethnographic research in the 1960’s are now completely part of the modern technological world. One of my friends from that era complains about how much it costs to keep in touch by long-distance telephone with his son working as a migrant laborer in the Pacific Northwest (Evon Z. Vogt, personal communication,

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1997). And when I have a question about some ethnographic fact or need some information to complete a research project, I can elicit the answers almost instantly by telephone. Although this may not now be the norm for the anthropological study of Middle America, it was simply unheard of thirty years ago! V. R. B.

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1. A Retrospective Look at the Ethnology Volumes of the Handbook of Middle American Indians JOHN D. MONAGHAN

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   passed since the ethnology volumes of the Handbook of Middle American Indians appeared. By any measure they were a resounding success. The authors, who in the mid-1960’s were at various stages in their careers, are today recognized for the high-quality and in many cases pioneering ethnographic field studies they carried out. Their articles in the Handbook remain standard reference works, and the ethnology volumes were the first in the series to go out of print. A work such as the Handbook cannot help but reflect its times. The volumes were planned in what was the heyday of areal studies in the United States. Its lavish budget—funds were available to send the authors of chapters on little-known areas on ethnographic surveys— was the most visible sign of the academy’s concern with ‘‘the intensive study of areas’’ in the words of Robert Hall (1947:48), a concern that coincided with the cold war interest in the potential strategic importance of areal studies. The outline for the Handbook articles, reproduced by Evon Vogt in the introduction, is a no-nonsense summary of what was essential knowledge for early 1960’s anthropologists: cultural and linguistic distributions, subsistence systems, settlement patterns, technology, econ-

omy, social organization, religion and world view, aesthetic and recreation patterns, life cycle and annual cycle. The chapter outline was at once a theory of society, a plan for research, and the blueprint for a typical ethnographic monograph. Looking back over the ethnology and related social anthropology volumes one is instantly drawn to the photographs and drawings that accompany the articles. Although it has only been a generation, the photos make it seem like another world. Most of the people are wearing ethnic costumes, the houses are made of thatch or other locally available materials, and the occupations people are engaged in are distinctly rural. There are, it is true, places today where most people speak an indigenous language, farm for a living, and dress like the people depicted in the original Handbook photographs. But over the last thirty years the range of identities, occupations, and lifeways of Mesoamerican peoples has expanded, so that for the first time since the Colonial period being indigenous is not synonymous with being a member of a subsistence farming household. Shifting identities were recognized in the original Handbook (Nader 1969b:336–337; Weitlaner and Hoppe 1969:524), but few at that 1

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 .  time would have imagined that the people they worked among would become Nobel Prize winners, graduates of universities, leaders of political parties, exiles in refugee camps, or the gardeners of suburban lawns in the United States. The emergence of new groups has long been a stimulus to model building in the social sciences (the paradigm is of course Karl Marx and the working class), and, as the articles in this volume make clear, work on these new identities promises to be of future theoretical importance. If one were to name the thing that most distinguishes contemporary ethnography from that which was carried out prior to the original Handbook, it is the use of the past. Ethnographies of the earlier period routinely describe Colonial events and Preconquest sociopolitical arrangements, but then often ignore the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries—when changes almost as far reaching as those in the sixteenth century took place—thereby losing the opportunity to integrate history into the analysis and making it that much easier to see political struggle or economic unrest as secondary to enduring social and cultural patterns. When history does enter into the text, it is limited to providing information on diffusion, points of origin, or geographical dispersion. Today’s ethnographies, even those that do not use archival materials, are much more likely to frame their projects in terms of sequence and process, rather than structure and form. We have also become acutely aware that many areal ethnological categories, which often served as markers of cultural authenticity, are based on practices that are in many cases specialized developments, whose meanings and functions have changed, often dramatically, over time. As a consequence, apparently robust theoretical statements based on synchronic ethnographic research, when viewed in a historical perspective, today seem misguided or simplistic. Perhaps the most significant effect the turn toward history has had on Mesoamerican ethnology has to do with images of indigenous people. For too long anthropological (and historical) analysis tended to see Indians as people to whom things happened: they were conquered and, if far enough away from cities, 2

remained relatively unchanged for centuries. Since the publication of the original Handbook, our attention has been drawn to the many millennial movements that have occurred over the past centuries, which, even in those cases when the movement represented a largely conservative reaction to outside interference, show that history has been much more turbulent than initially believed. Close inspection of the historical record also reveals that indigenous people could be tenacious litigants, pursuing land claims in Spanish courts and often winning, even against the colonists themselves— something that makes them quite a bit more than passive survivors of a brutal conquest. Today the trend is to see indigenous people as active agents, negotiating, synthesizing, adopting, and resisting—a point which the dirty war in Guatemala and the revolt in Chiapas served to move from the realm of academic discourse to the front page of the morning newspaper. With thirty years of separation—and discussions of power/knowledge, Orientalism, ‘‘weapons of the weak,’’ and dependency (not to mention symbolic anthropology and textual critiques of ethnography) in between—it would be easy to point to shortcomings in the original Handbook and present today’s research as a significant improvement over what went on before (for reviews of Mesoamerican ethnology, see Chambers and Young 1979; Schwartz 1983; C. Smith and J. Boyer 1987; García Mora and Villalobos Salgado 1988). But given the nature of the current work, and the limited space set aside for this introductory chapter, it might be more productive to use contrasts with the Handbook to try to identify some of our own ethnological shortcomings and assumptions. For example, where are the contemporary studies of material culture that were once a standard topic of ethnographic inquiry, as illustrated in the lavishly detailed drawings in the original Handbook? Outside of examinations of folk arts, archaeologists seem to be the only ones carrying this work forward (e.g., Hayden 1987; Parsons and Parsons 1990; Smyth 1991; Robles García 1994). Moreover, the very premise on which the Handbook was based, that there is a place called ‘‘Mesoamerica’’—which

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         is in turn founded on the idea of a Precolumbian, indigenous civilization—is not the operational concept it once was for sociocultural anthropologists. It is true that the roots of areal classifications lie in nationalist projects, but it is also true that the concept of Mesoamerica is subversive of the states in the region, stressing the commonalties that transcend national borders, just as these borders, and the one further north, appear ever more arbitrary. More seriously, although the concept continues to organize scholarly interaction and focus comparative studies, its eclipse threatens to devalue certain kinds of specific knowledge that continue to be relevant. Anyone familiar with the literature will know that tacit citational boundaries now exist between anthropologists working in Guatemala and in Mexico, between those working in central and in southern Mexico, between those working in Oaxaca and in Chiapas, and so on. Granted, the experience of being a speaker of an indigenous language in Guatemala is distinct from that in Mexico, but peoples straddle borders and share so much in the way of history and contemporary experience that ignoring the literature on one side of a line drawn through a rain forest or across a mountain chain by a Colonial bureaucrat seems arbitrary, if not willfully ignorant. Another contrast between the original Handbook and today’s research is evident in Vogt’s Handbook outline, which exudes a confidence and sense of purpose that is often lacking today. This difference is, no doubt, related to larger questions stemming from the so-called death of objectivism in the social sciences, coupled with an awareness of the many wrong turns and glaring misinterpretations made in the past. But at least part of our insecurity is an outgrowth of the particular way Mesoamerican ethnography has defined its research program over the last thirty years. By the time the original Handbook appeared, it was widely accepted that anthropologists were studying peasants, people who were part of nation-states and a worldwide division of labor, and that local groups could not be accounted for solely in terms of themselves. Many of the authors of the articles in the original Handbook participated in the development

of ethnographic strategies designed to explore the role of larger economic and political processes in rural life. Coupled with the need for aggregate data as anthropology played an increasingly larger role in development and indigenista programs, this led to an areal interest in research models that would transcend the traditional community study (just as it was believed the community itself would soon be transcended by broader forms of relationships, such as class). As many of the reviews note, one expression of this was the outpouring of regionally focused projects, beginning in the late 1960’s. Such monographs may now contain structured interviews with government bureaucrats side by side with those with village elders; time series data on regional cash crop production and its effects on wage scales, as well as a catalog of local agricultural products; and censuses of coastal plantations or urban neighborhoods juxtaposed with a description of village households. While the study of Mesoamerican societies as components of structurally dynamic systems was meant to make up for the shortcomings of the traditional community study, it has become clear that it has not been able to do what it promised without giving up a great deal of what was appealing about the community study in the first place. Thus we have monographs that do an excellent job of portraying the forces which impinge upon rural areas, but once they turn to ‘‘on the ground’’ behavior they become opaque—the rich detail and finely drawn descriptions that we need to understand action are simply not there. The ideal, of course, is to do everything well (as in recent studies of migration, where the ethnographer is expected to work in rural villages, urban neighborhoods, and labor camps at the same time), but in practice we are left with choices that have made it impossible to keep up with the high standards of contextualization that now exist in anthropology (see Sandstrom, this volume). Although the dilemma is often framed by some sort of conceptual divide (e.g., political economy vs. symbols and meaning), its solution may be as much a matter of operationalization as of grand theory. As it now stands, the lone ethnographer 3

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 .  is simply spread too thin, and the product of team research is not easily integrated. Good ethnographies certainly abound, and there is no lack of good writers or committed fieldworkers, but given the task we have set ourselves, is it any wonder anthropology does not recognize any texts from Mesoamerica as canonical? Reading through the Handbook one also becomes aware of the new set of gatekeeping concepts (Appadurai 1986:357) we work with. Given the late-twentieth-century obsession with identity, the increasing bureaucratization of rural life, and the intense pluralism of Middle America, it is perhaps not too surprising that ethnicity is at the top of the list. The pervasiveness of this concept in writing and thinking about the area is such that even for those who concern themselves with indigenous intellectuals the emphasis is very much on the indigenous, as opposed to the intellectual, side of the equation. We might stop and ask ourselves if our first impulse would be to classify someone like Nikolay Rimsky-Korsakov as an ethnic artist, given his use of materials from his native Russia. Yet as Howard Campbell (1996) points out, ethnicity is the framework we use to understand intellectual movements in Mesoamerica. This is not to say that Rimsky-Korsakov cannot be seen as an ethnic intellectual; the issue is whether or not this move has limited our theorizing and comparative understanding. Moreover, for social scientists concerned with meaning in social life, it is surprising how dominant instrumental notions of ethnicity continue to be in our theorizing. If in earlier work indigenous people were passive and traditional, today they are highly active and possessed of an extracultural rationality. This is, of course, evident in work on economic matters as well as ethnicity, but also extends to areas as diverse as religion (where conversion is portrayed as a strategic move by interested parties). Even the terms we use—‘‘indigenous,’’ which connotes a freely chosen identity, versus the now-discouraged ‘‘Indian,’’ suggesting an outside and colonialist imposition—incorporate this difference. This is not to say that viewing indigenous people as active or rational agents has been unproductive, but one might ask if in the process we have 4

made indigenous people out to be extraordinarily prescient or heroic (the extreme was a presentation I heard on an indigenous group in El Salvador, where the author characterized their giving up of their language and distinctive customs as a form of resistance). The dominance of this rationalist interpretation is such that after reviewing the contemporary ethnography on indigenous societies a student of mine came to the jarring conclusion that Mesoamerican people are not sensuous! One can literally see our stereotypes at work in the photographic essays that portray people with grim and determined looks on their faces. Things would perhaps be different if psychological anthropology, which was particularly sensitive to the complexities of human motivation and which was an important subgenre of the Mesoamericanist field in the 1950’s and 1960’s, had left a more substantial legacy. Like the Mexican highway patrol cadets in the film El patrullero, who begin their daily training with the chant ‘‘Everyone is guilty,’’ all of us are defenseless when it comes to the way others are represented. But representation is not as much a monopoly as it once was. A casual inspection of the Bibliography will show that the majority of citations are in Spanish. Government institutions such as the Instituto Nacional Indigenista or the Instituto Nacional de Antropología e Historia, privately funded foundations such as Plumsock, and local cultural associations like those of Juchitán are now publishing the bulk of the ethnographic work on Middle American societies (for a discussion of publication outlets, see García Mora and Mejía Sánchez 1988). If it were not for the parochial requirements of hiring and promotion in North American universities, the percentage would probably be even higher. Along with this outpouring of works in Spanish has come the continued development of a Mexican anthropology, which tends to be critical, to carry out ethnographic research in joint projects, and to be designed for input into social planning and development issues (for discussions, see Hewett de Alcántara 1984; Arizpe S. 1988; García Mora 1988). Nonanthropologists, such as parish priests, have also published ethno-

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         graphic literature, as have scholars of indigenous background. In some regions the publications of this latter group now represent a substantial part of the corpus. It is worth pointing out, however, that except for their linguistic sensitivity and their use of personal experience these ethnographies have not been distinct from the kinds produced by nonindigenous ethnographers. The number of bilingual ethnographies or in some cases ethnographies written entirely in an indigenous language, which did not exist thirty years ago, is steadily rising. O   V The authors of the articles in this Supplement are anthropologists with long-term commitments to the areas in which they work. Although none have previously published reviews of the sort that appear here, their firsthand experiences and extensive knowledge of the literature provide fresh perspectives on the Mesoamerican material. There are two kinds of articles in the Supplement. The first are defined by region: Central Mexico (with the exception of Nahua speakers), the West Coast and Guerrero, the Gulf Coast (the chapters where Nahua ethnography is discussed), Greater Oaxaca, Chiapas, the Yucatan peninsula, and highland Guatemala. Limitations of space meant that these articles would have to be something between the introductory chapters and the ethnographic summaries of the original Handbook. While most correspond to recognizable sociogeographic divisions, their size and scope is also a function of the amount of ethnographic material the individual author had to review. Areas such as Chiapas, in which a great number of publications have appeared over the last thirty years, are relatively compact geographic regions, while others, such as the Gulf Coast, where publications are scanty and scattered, are more diffuse. Limitations of space have also meant that areas outside the traditional boundaries of Mesoamerica that were included in the original Handbook (namely northern Mexico) had to be omitted from the Supplement, although migrants to border cities from central and south-

ern Mexico are discussed. Vogt included northern Mexico because it had not been covered by Frederick Hodge in the 1907–1910 Handbook of American Indians North of Mexico, and in this way the Handbook of Middle American Indians could fill the gap between Hodge’s work and the 1946–1950 Handbook of South American Indians, edited by Julian Steward. The ethnology of northern Mexico has been the subject of volume 10 of the Smithsonian’s Handbook of North American Indians series (Sturtevant and Ortiz 1983), and the reader interested in such groups as the Cocopa, Mayo, Opata, Pima and Papago, Pame, Tarahumara, Tepehuan, and Yaqui is referred to this work. Some indigenous groups of southern Mesoamerica, such as the speakers of indigenous languages in El Salvador, who received only cursory mention in the original Handbook, have not been treated here (for information on El Salvador’s indigenous population, see Clará de Guevera 1975; Marroquín 1975; Chapin 1991). In developing the plan of the Supplement articles it was our intention to bring information in the original Handbook up to date. Thus each of the regionally focused articles contains data on the status of indigenous languages in the area, the numbers of speakers of each, and current demographic trends. The authors of the regional articles also discuss changes that have occurred in their respective areas since the 1960’s, in terms of both the history of indigenous peoples and the kinds of approaches anthropologists have taken. As in the original Handbook, the main intention of the articles is to summarize the work published over the last thirty years, with the goal of instructing and guiding the reader, although this has sometimes required the authors to advance novel ideas and make specialized arguments. In order to avoid the cookie-cutter feel of the original articles—the result of the preestablished outline—authors individually selected issues they regarded as important. Some examine debates surrounding key ethnological categories; quite a few ponder questions of identity; some speak to subgenres of ethnographic work; others tackle methodological issues; and some advocate specific policies. The result is 5

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 .  that each article, while dealing with some of the same topics, has its own thematic focus. When read together, they should provide an overview of significant issues and debates in the region. Following the lead of the archaeology volume of the Supplement to the Handbook (Bricker and Sabloff 1981), this volume also includes three topical chapters that cross-cut

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the regional articles. These chapters focus on themes of social organization, religion, and politicized ethnic movements. These themes receive less attention than other topics in the regional chapters because they are covered in a more integrated fashion in the first three chapters of this volume.

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2. Mesoamerican Social Organization and Community after 1960 EILEEN M. MULHARE

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   Mesoamerican 1 social organization is meant to supplement rather than replace several articles in an earlier volume of this series (Frank Cancian 1967; de la Fuente 1967; E. Hunt and J. Nash 1967; Ravicz 1967; Romney 1967; Wolf 1967).2 The first half reviews Mesoamericanists’ use of four key terms: community, ethnic group, Indian, and peasant. The remaining sections highlight post-1960 ethnographic research on household, marriage, and kinship; gender relations; social networks, including ritual kinship and political patronage; customary subdivisions such as barrios; cargo and fiesta systems; and stratification. Table 2-1 summarizes the main case studies utilized. During the decades under review, Mesoamericanists studied social organization from several perspectives: (1) as social groups whose individual members share specific, empirically discoverable behaviors and beliefs (e.g., Nutini 1968); (2) as relationships that produce and reproduce unequal access to wealth and power within the political economy (e.g., Stephen 1991); (3) as cultural constructions whose boundaries and attributes are symbolic and imaginary (e.g., Monaghan 1995); and (4) as the combined product of both political economy

and symbolic interaction (e.g., Warren 1978). These perspectives roughly correspond with the main paradigms in contemporary anthropology: (1) postpositivism or classical anthropology (e.g., Spiro 1992); (2) critical theory, including Marxian anthropology (e.g., Diamond 1979); (3) constructivism or symbolicinterpretive anthropology (V. Turner 1967; Geertz 1973); and (4) postmodernism, an effort to reconcile critical theory with constructivism (e.g., Clifford and Marcus 1986). Anthropologists have always disagreed on how to define and label the social phenomena they encounter in the field. The current paradigm disputes, however, involve not only definitions and labels but also fundamental disagreements about the nature of human knowledge, the rules of evidence, and the goals of scholarly inquiry (Guba and Lincoln 1994). This poses a dilemma for the reviewer, namely, how to introduce the discussion topics without advocating a particular definition or its associated paradigm. To do so, I present working definitions for analytical labels frequently mentioned in the essay. These working definitions, drawn primarily from the Mesoamerican literature, are not meant to be prescriptive. They are offered to facilitate discussion. Alternative definitions, 9

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 .  T 2-1. Selected Checklist of Communities Cited

Community or Region

Present/Former Indigenous Language

State or Department

Country

Toledo District Toledo District Chimaltenango Chiquimula Escuintla Guatemala Huehuetenango Huehuetenango Not identified San Marcos San Marcos Quetzaltenango Quetzaltenango El Quiché El Quiché Sacatepéquez

Belize Belize Guatemala Guatemala Guatemala Guatemala Guatemala Guatemala Guatemala Guatemala Guatemala Guatemala Guatemala Guatemala Guatemala Guatemala

Mopan Maya Q’eqchi’ Maya Kaqchikel Maya Ladino Poqomam Maya a Poqomam Maya Awakatek Maya Mam Maya Mam Maya Mam Maya b Mam Maya K’iche’ Maya K’iche’ Maya Ixil Maya K’iche’ Maya Kaqchikel Maya

Gregory  Wilk  Green * Kendall Maynard Reina 00 Brintnall b Watanabe 3 Bossen 7Hawkins 7W. Smith  Goldin and Metz  M. Nash 7 Stoll * Hill and Monaghan 7 Annis 7

Recent Source Cited

San Antonio Various communities ‘‘B’ecal,’’ ‘‘Ri bey’’ Esquipulas Palín Chinautla Aguacatan Chimaltenango ‘‘T’oj Nam’’ San Pedro Sacatepéquez Various communities Almolonga Cantel Nebaj Sacapulas San Antonio Aguas Calientes Panajachel San Andrés Semetabaj San Antonio Palópo San Pedro La Laguna Santiago Atitlán Momostenango San Miguel Totonicapán Amatenango Bachajón Cancuc Chenalhó Najá San Bartolomé de los Llanos San Juan Chamula San Pablo Chalchihuitlan Zinacantán Ameyaltepec Tlacoapa Xalpatláhuac Huejutla Region Santa Mónica Tulancingo Region El Nopal San Felipe del Progreso San Juan Atzingo

Sololá Sololá Sololá Sololá Sololá Totonicapán Totonicapán Chiapas Chiapas Chiapas Chiapas Chiapas Chiapas

Guatemala Guatemala Guatemala Guatemala Guatemala Guatemala Guatemala Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico

Kaqchikel Maya Kaqchikel Maya Kaqchikel Maya Tz’utujiil Maya Tz’utujiil Maya K’iche’ Maya K’iche’ Maya Tzeltal Maya Tzeltal Maya Tzeltal Maya Tzotzil Maya Lacandon Maya Tzotzil Maya

Hinshaw  Warren 7 Ehlers  L. Paul Carlsen 0 B. Tedlock 73 C. Smith >a J. Nash > Breton 7Guiteras-Holmes - Eber  McGee > Salovesh -

Chiapas Chiapas Chiapas Guerrero Guerrero Guerrero Hidalgo Hidalgo Hidalgo México México México

Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico

Tzotzil Maya Tzotzil Maya Tzotzil Maya Nahuatl Tlapanec Nahuatl Nahuatl c Sierra Otomí Otomí Mazahua Mazahua Matlatzinca

San Simón de la Laguna Temascalcingo Region Cherán

México México Michoacán

Mexico Mexico Mexico

Mazahua Mazahua/Otomí c Tarascan

Rosenbaum * Guiteras-Holmes  Frank Cancian 3 Good Eshelman 77 Oettinger 7> Dehouve 0 Schryer > Dow * Galinier 0 Iwanska 00 Margolies  Bushnell and Bushnell  Cortés Ruiz 3 DeWalt  Beals -0

10

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      1960 T 2-1. (continued ) Present/Former Indigenous Language

Community or Region

State or Department

Country

Cuanajo Ihuatzio ‘‘Naranja’’ Tzintzuntzan Anonymous village ‘‘Buena Vista’’ Eastern Morelos Region Hueyapan Tepoztlán Tlayacapan Cuicatec Region Ixtepeji Juchitán Mazaltepec Mazatec Sierra Region ‘‘San Andrés,’’ ‘‘La Paz’’ San Bartolo Soyaltepec ‘‘San Francisco’’ San Jerónimo Progreso

Michoacán Michoacán Michoacán Michoacán Morelos Morelos Morelos Morelos Morelos Morelos Oaxaca Oaxaca Oaxaca Oaxaca Oaxaca Oaxaca Oaxaca Oaxaca Oaxaca

Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico

Sierra Zapotec Isthmus Zapotec Valley Zapotec Mazatec Valley Zapotec Mixtec Chinantec a Mixtec

‘‘San Juan Evangelista’’ Santa María Milpa San Mateo del Mar ‘‘San Miguel’’ San Pedro Yolox Santiago Nuyoo Santiago Yaitepec Talea Teotitlán del Valle Tilantongo Tlahuitoltepec Various communities Zoogocho Chignautla Huitzilan de Serdán El Rosario Micaltepec San Andrés Cholula San Andrés Hueyapan San Juan Tlautla

Oaxaca Oaxaca Oaxaca Oaxaca Oaxaca Oaxaca Oaxaca Oaxaca Oaxaca Oaxaca Oaxaca Oaxaca Oaxaca Puebla Puebla Puebla Puebla Puebla Puebla

Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico

Isthmus Zapotec Valley Zapotec Huave Mixtec/Zapotec b Chinantec Mixtec Chatino Sierra Zapotec Valley Zapotec Mixtec Mixe Mixe Sierra Zapotec Sierra Nahuat Sierra Nahuat Mixtec a Nahuatl Sierra Nahuat a Nahuatl b

Santiago Yaonáhuac Sierra Norte de Puebla Teopixca Tlaxcalancingo Totimehuacán Zacatipan

Puebla Puebla Puebla Puebla Puebla Puebla

Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico

Sierra Nahuat Sierra Nahuat f Sierra Nahuat Nahuatl Nahuatl b Sierra Nahuat

Tarascan Tarascan Tarascan Tarascan b Mestizo Nahuatl b Nahuatl c Nahuatl d Nahuatl a Nahuatl b Cuicatec e

Recent Source Cited Acheson 3 Zantwijk 0 Friedrich  Brandes 77 Romanucci-Ross * J. Martin > Warman 7> Friedlander  Bock 7> Ingham 70 E. Hunt 0 Kearney 70b H. Campbell et al. * Dennis 7 Pearlman 7 Fry 3 Orellana S. * Browner 70a Nagengast and Kearney > Chiñas 3 Webster 7 Signorini  Mathews 7 Gwaltney > Monaghan  J. Greenberg 7 Nader > Stephen  Butterworth 03 Kuroda 7Lipp  Berg Slade 3 Taggart 3b Cederström 7 Olivera de Vázquez 0 Huber 7 Shadow and Rodríguez-Shadow 3 Taggart 3b Nutini and Isaac Chamoux 7a Olivera de Vázquez 0 Mulhare  Arizpe *

11

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 .  T 2-1. (continued )

Community or Region Tlaxcala-Puebla Valley Contla Nanacamilpa San Cosme Mazatecochco San Cosme Xalostoc ‘‘Amatlán’’ Chan Kom Ticul Various communities

State or Department Tlaxcala/Puebla Tlaxcala Tlaxcala Tlaxcala Tlaxcala Veracruz Yucatán Yucatán Four Departments

Country

Present/Former Indigenous Language

Recent Source Cited

Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico Mexico El Salvador

Nahuatl c Nahuatl Nahuatl b Nahuatl a Nahuatl b Nahuatl Yucatec Maya Yucatec Maya Nahuat b

Nutini and Isaac Nutini 07 Barrientos Lavín 3 Rothstein 73 R. Miller 7Sandstrom  Elmendorf 0 Thompson > Chapin 

a Bilingual population. b Now predominantly or entirely Spanish-monolingual. c Region includes Spanish-monolingual communities. d Partly bilingual population. e Region includes Mazatec-, Chinantec-, Mixtec-, and Spanish-speaking populations. f Region includes Otomí- and Totonac-speaking populations.

also drawn from the work of Mesoamericanists, are considered in the course of the essay.

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C Historically, social science definitions of community have vacillated between two poles, placing greater emphasis on either: (1) bonds of identity and the sentiment of belonging, derived from the Latin root word communitatem; or (2) residence within a bounded territory, recalling the self-governing districts of preindustrial Europe such as the French commune, the German Gemeinde, and the English borough (Williams 1985:75–76). A compromise definition describes community as a localized social group whose members acknowledge a common identity, share a mutuality of interests, and occupy a bounded territory where they conduct most of the activities they value as necessary and meaningful in their lives (Murdock 1949: 90; R. Taylor 1988:181; Bohannan 1992:101– 102, 104; see also Sandstrom 1991:150; Watanabe 1992:11–15). Given that the members of a social group seldom exhibit undivided interests, absolute unanimity, or complete localization, these attributes are all a matter of degree. 12

Some scholars avoid the concept of social group altogether and define community as a sense of belonging expressed and reinforced through action (see the discussions in Arensberg 1954, 1961; Stacey 1969; Effrat 1974; A. Cohen 1982; and Crane and Angrosino 1992:179–185). Eric Wolf (1967:300) defines functional integration as the coordination of social and cultural units and processes. Some authors include functional integration in their definition of community (e.g., Redfield 1941:15; E. Hunt and J. Nash 1967:253). Fredrik Barth (1967: 662) and others argue against this stipulation, to avoid the functionalist assumption that societies inherently resist change (see Leach 1962:133; Goodfellow 1968:62). Other authors use ‘‘community’’ to mean the residents of whichever locale the ethnographer chooses to study (e.g., Chambers and Young 1979:46; Massey et al. 1987:14–16). They are referring to a localized population but not necessarily a social group. The importance people attach to local relationships must be determined empirically rather than assumed (Schwartz 1983:357; Sheridan 1988:206n; see also Warren 1978; Oettinger 1980; C. Smith 1990c:18–21; Watanabe 1990a, 1992).

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      1960 The indigenous peoples of Mesoamerica today live in cities and suburbs as well as hamlets, villages, and towns. For historical reasons, their natal communities tend to be concentrated in rural and provincial areas (Martínez Peláez 1971; W. Taylor 1972; Chance 1978; Aguirre Beltrán 1979; MacLeod and Wasserstrom 1983; Wasserstrom 1983; Farriss 1984; C. Smith 1990b; Lockhart 1992). An indigenous community usually coincides with a territorialpolitical unit, either (1) a single settlement, often known locally as a pueblo, as in Mazaltepec (Valley Zapotec—Dennis 1987) and ‘‘Amatlán’’ (Nahua—Sandstrom 1991); or (2) a municipio, a legally recognized township consisting of multiple settlements, as in Sacapulas (K’iche’ Maya—Hill and Monaghan 1987) and Chignautla (Sierra Nahuat—Slade 1992). With some exceptions (e.g., J. Greenberg 1981), anthropologists have given little attention to why indigenous communities differ in scale. Some members of the community may reside elsewhere. In the case of El Rosario Micaltepec, literally half the community lives in Mexico City (Mixtec—Cederström 1989:153–154). Or the territory occupied by one community may contain a social enclave of nonmembers, in effect a separate community, as is true in Huitzilan de Serdán (Sierra Nahuat and Mestizo—Taggart 1972:133–134) and San Andrés Semetabaj (Kaqchikel and Ladino—Warren 1978:25). The community study has been the principal vehicle for ethnography ever since Robert Redfield (1930) borrowed the method from sociology and added his own modifications (Chambers and Young 1979:47; Kemper 1984:140). After 1950, Mesoamerican community studies shifted away from holistic description in favor of problem-oriented research.3 One result, as Norman Schwartz (1983:355) remarks, is that ‘‘we know or seem to know less ethnography than our predecessors.’’ Monographs no longer describe local social organization in detail unless that is the express purpose of the study (e.g., Nutini 1968; Hawkins 1984) or the chosen problem seems to demand it (e.g., Nader 1990; Sandstrom 1991). The lack of detailed information on the current organization of some groups poses serious obstacles to comparative research

(Chambers and Young 1979:56–57; Schwartz 1983:340–345). E G ‘‘Ethnic group’’ refers to a population that acknowledges a common identity based on perceived commonalities in origin and heritage and employs this identity as a principle of social organization, creating social boundaries that separate the group from other groups (Barth 1969:11, 13–15; Melville 1983:275; Stephen 1991:11–12). The criteria an ethnic group uses to define itself, its ‘‘myths of a common provenance’’ and ‘‘identifying markers,’’ are subjective and dynamic, changing over time through interaction with outsiders (R. Adams 1990: 152). A convenient synonym for ethnic group is Wolf ’s (1986:327) term ‘‘ethnikon.’’ Rodolfo Stavenhagen (1990) prefers ‘‘ethnie,’’ from the Spanish etnia. It can be difficult to distinguish ethnic identity from community identity in Mesoamerica due to the prevalence of what Richard Berg (1974:25) calls pueblismo, an intense identification with one’s home community as unique and innately superior to all others. This is a form of ‘‘local chauvinism’’ (Gibson 1967:194; Pitt-Rivers 1971:12) or ‘‘localocentrism’’ (Wolf 1957:5). When members of a community combine pueblismo with a belief in their own ethnic uniqueness and employ that premise in their relations with nonmembers, the result is microethnicity. Micro-ethnikons, each comprised of a single indigenous community, are a widespread phenomena in Guatemala (C. Smith 1990c:3; Watanabe 1990a:184; Warren 1992: 191), Chiapas (G. Collier 1978:440; J. Nash 1985:xvi–xvii), and Oaxaca (Whitecotton 1977: 199; Dennis 1987:19–22; Stephen 1991:19; Hirabayashi 1993:10–14, 113–115). Members can regard their community as unique and superior to all others without claiming they constitute a separate ethnic group. Pueblismo of this sort is found in contemporary rural Spain (Pitt-Rivers 1971:7–13, 31–33). The same pattern was observed in Tzintzuntzan (Foster 1948:274) and Tepoztlán (Lewis 1951: 49) a generation ago. In these Central Mexi13

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 .  can communities, Spanish had replaced (or was replacing) the indigenous language (Foster 1948:7; Lewis 1951:33–34; Ingham 1986:13; Schryer 1990:33–34). Some authors habitually equate linguistic classification (e.g., Nahua, Maya, Zapotec, etc.) with ethnic identity, but this is misleading (Dennis 1987:22). Most indigenous people attach little significance to their linguistic affiliation (e.g., de la Fuente 1960:233; Nader 1969b:331; Nagengast and Kearney 1990:72; Shadow and Rodríguez-Shadow 1992:65). For example, the Tlaxcaltecans are heirs to three different language legacies (Nahuatl, Otomí, and Pinome); many are now Spanish monolinguals, but they regard themselves as a single ethnikon (Gibson 1967:1; Nutini 1976b:24). Attempts to promote ethnic solidarity beyond the community level by invoking a shared linguistic heritage are still the exception and often involve urban-based intellectuals (e.g., Juchitán, Isthmus Zapotec—H. Campbell et al. 1993; Triqui, Mixe, Chatino—Stephen 1991: 16–17, 19; Q’eqchi’ and Mopan Maya, Belize —Wilk 1991:235–236; Wilk and Chapin 1992: 180; Guatemalan Maya—I. Otzoy and E. Sam 1990; Warren 1992; Fischer and Brown 1996a; see also the discussions in Díaz-Couder 1990; N. England 1991; and Pérez Hernández 1991).

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I ‘‘Indian’’ and ‘‘Mestizo/Ladino’’ refer to broad categories of social identity, ethnic labels, not ethnikons (Chambers and Young 1979:46; Hawkins 1983:322–324; C. Smith 1990c:3–6). ‘‘Indian’’ denotes self-identified indigenous people. ‘‘Mestizo’’ (most of Mexico, Belize) 4 and ‘‘Ladino’’ (Guatemala, Chiapas) indicate selfidentified non-Indians. The Spanish word indio (literally, Indian) has a pejorative connotation throughout Mesoamerica (Friedlander 1975: 71–79; Ingham 1986:13; R. Adams 1990:148; Chapin 1991:14; Sandstrom 1991:64). The neutral alternative, indígena (indigenous person), fails to convey the individual’s self-chosen ethnic identity. Persons classified by others as either indios or indígenas rarely apply these labels to themselves (Nagengast and Kear14

ney 1990:72; Schryer 1990:250–254; C. Smith 1990c:3; Sandstrom 1991:69; Stephen 1991: 271n). The social distinction between Indians and non-Indians shows no consistent correlation with specific phenotypes or cultural traits. Census officials use language preference as the basis for classification (Marino Flores 1967:20– 24), but this strategy does not square with social realities. For example, bilingual individuals can choose to be non-Indians in one social context and Indians in another (Pozas 1952). Some Spanish monolinguals consider themselves Indians because their principal occupation is agriculture (de la Fuente 1967:433). There are Indian communities whose members speak only Spanish (San Pedro Sacatepéquez— Hawkins 1990:86–87), and communities where the indigenous language predominates among Indians and non-Indians alike (Hueyapan, Morelos—Friedlander 1975:79–80; for additional discussion, see Pitt-Rivers 1990; Schryer 1990:60–64, 247–250; Sandstrom 1991:63–65; Stephen 1991:11–21; and Watanabe 1992: 53–58). These and other ethnographic examples contradict the predictions of acculturation theory. Scholars once envisioned Indian and Mestizo/ Ladino as extremes along a sociocultural continuum and assumed that change proceeds in the direction of mestizoization/ladinoization (Beals 1951; Pitt-Rivers and McQuown 1964; Caso 1971; Aguirre Beltrán 1979). This approach is a restatement of Redfield’s (1941, 1960) folk-urban continuum (see ‘‘Peasant,’’ below). Efforts to categorize populations according to stages of acculturation, using various criteria, continued until fairly recently (Guatemalan Maya—J. Early 1983a; Tlaxcala-Puebla Nahua—Nutini and Isaac 1974:375–427). P ‘‘Peasant’’ refers to rural cultivators who grow crops for both subsistence and market exchange (Leeds 1977:232–233; S. Cook and L. Binford 1990:12; Oxford Analytica 1991:20). Their landholdings are usually small, and their incomeproducing activities can include wage labor

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      1960 or household-based (petty) production of nonagricultural commodities (Frank Cancian 1989: 165–166; Plattner 1989:392; Roseberry 1989: 123). Cross-culturally and historically, peasants tend to occupy a disadvantaged position within the broader political economy (Frank Cancian 1989:127). In Mexico and Guatemala, the Spanish gloss for peasant is campesino, but this term can also mean anyone employed in agriculture or any rural person regardless of occupation (e.g., Warman 1980:1; Enge and Whiteford 1989:189n; Handy 1990:168–170; Bartra 1993: xi). The close association between Mesoamerican ethnology and theories of peasant society dates to Redfield (1930), the first anthropologist to classify agrarian Indians as peasants rather than tribal agriculturalists (Chambers and Young 1979:47; see also M. Nash 1967: 6–7; Keatinge 1973; Silverman 1979). Redfield’s (1941, 1960) functionalist model of the tradition-bound, egalitarian ‘‘little community’’ was naive and historically inaccurate, as was his evolutionist scheme of a folk-urban continuum (Lewis 1951:428–440; Goldkind 1965; Hawkins 1983).5 George Foster’s (1965, 1974) proposal that peasants share a conservative world view, the ‘‘Image of Limited Good,’’ proved difficult to corroborate (Bennett 1966; Foster 1966; Kaplan and Saler 1966; Acheson 1972, 1974; Gregory 1975; Frank Cancian 1989:138–142). Wolf’s (1955, 1957) distinction between ‘‘open’’ and ‘‘closed, corporate’’ peasant communities seemed to reconcile functionalism with political economy and history, until ethnohistorians and ethnographers began compiling counterexamples (J. Greenberg 1981:1–22; Wolf 1986; Sheridan 1988:xv–xxiv; Frank Cancian 1989: 134–137; Schryer 1990:27–49; C. Smith 1990c: 18–21;6 see also ‘‘Cargo and Fiesta Systems’’ and ‘‘Stratification,’’ below). Mesoamericanists are deeply divided on whether any concept of peasant sheds light on the social dynamics of rural communities (Chambers and Young 1979:46; S. Cook and L. Binford 1990:12–13; Schryer 1990:7– 8; C. Smith 1990c:24–26). The matter is complicated by ideological disputes concerning two interrelated global trends: the expansion

of market capitalism beyond urban-industrial centers and the increasing role of the (nonsocialist) nation-state in local affairs. Modernization theory, grounded in neoliberal economics, equates these trends with beneficial socioeconomic development (D. Lerner 1958; Rostow 1960; Eisenstadt 1963). Dependency theory (Frank 1967, 1969), grounded in the Marxian critique of political economy, equates these trends with internal colonialism (Stavenhagen 1969, 1970b) and an oppressive world system (Wallerstein 1974, 1979, 1980). Redfield (1950) and Foster (1988) adopt the modernization paradigm, treating change in peasant society as a unilinear process that replaces traditional technology, values, and institutions with modern ones. Wolf (1966) adopts the dependency paradigm, defining peasants as subordinated rural cultivators whose surplus product is appropriated by outside elites or the state.7 Both paradigms employ functionalistevolutionist explanations for social change, reflecting their intellectual origins in nineteenthcentury grand theory (Leeds 1977:231; Roseberry 1989:119–126; Wilk 1991:xix, 11–31; Cubitt 1995:32–54). Both ideological positions have had a profound influence on post-1960 Mesoamericanist research (e.g., Chambers and Young 1979:51–55; Corbett and Whiteford 1983; Stephen and Dow 1990a; Gubler and Hostettler 1995). One point of agreement is that Indian and rural populations are more involved in the nonagricultural economy than ever before (Chambers and Young 1979:46). From 1965 to 1989– 1991, the agricultural sector of the labor force dropped from 64 percent to 48 percent in Guatemala and plummeted from 49 percent to 22 percent in Mexico (Cubitt 1995:162). Moreover, some indigenous communities have relied mainly on petty commodity production, itinerant commerce, and seasonal wage labor since the nineteenth century or earlier (R. Whitecotton 1977:198–200; J. Rus and Wasserstrom 1980:469–472; C. Smith 1990c:19–20). Even in primarily agrarian communities, the social, economic, and political characteristics of rural cultivators today are far more diverse than the label ‘‘peasant’’ implies (Good Eshelman 1988; 15

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 .  Enge and Whiteford 1989:189n; Stephen 1991: 267n). The newest perspectives on rural society in Mesoamerica are skeptical of grand theory (e.g., S. Cook and L. Binford 1990; Nader 1990; Schryer 1990; C. Smith 1990b; Wilk 1991). Instead they combine ethnographic, ethnohistorical, and comparative data, taking into account not only the broader political economy but also variations in local history, ecology, demography, and cultural values that shape the course of social change. H, M,  K The most revealing studies of household organization acknowledge that the residence unit, the domestic group (the activity unit), and the system of cultural preferences and ideals are not identical (Wilk 1991:35–37; see also Robichaux 1997). As a unit of residence, the Mesoamerican household takes many forms. The most common are the nuclear family and the coresidential extended family (Nutini 1968:355). The latter can operate as a single domestic group, sharing a common treasury and granary/larder, or its component nuclear families can display varying degrees of autonomy, including separate budgets (Nutini 1968:206–208). Domestic group fission can be abrupt (Tz’utujiil— Gross and Kendall 1983:207–208) or proceed in stages (Sierra Nahuat—Taggart 1972, 1975a, 1975b). The cultural ideal holds that a person belongs to only one household at a time (e.g., Gross and Kendall 1983:206–207). In reality some people belong to two or more households at once, due to labor migration, polygynous unions, school attendance, and other arrangements (Nutini 1968:310–312; Wilk 1991:35). Households that rely solely on wage labor or petty commodity production, or combine cultivation with other pursuits, tend to have fewer members on average than strictly agrarian households and are more likely to consist of a single nuclear family (G. Collier 1975:76; Nutini and White 1977:368; Kolb 1985; S. Cook and L. Binford 1990:121; Barrientos Lavín 1992:277–278; Shadow and Rodríguez-Shadow 1992:71). Various factors can alter this pattern. 16

A prosperous business can support a multigenerational household (R. Miller 1984:295– 296). A lucrative crop such as coffee can allow a nuclear family household to concentrate on agriculture (Arizpe 1973). Labor migration can delay or reverse household fission. The male labor migrant may send his wife and children to live with his parents (Nutini and Murphy 1970). Grandparents and grandchildren may form a ‘‘skip-generation’’ household while both parents or the single mother live and work elsewhere (Barrientos Lavín 1992:280). Frances Rothstein (1982:39–43) finds that members of an extended family household do not necessarily cooperate in production and consumption or in social, political, and religious matters, even when they share a single treasury. Agrarian households seem to achieve the ideal of cooperation and solidarity more frequently than wage-earning households (L. Haviland and J. Haviland 1982:329; Rothstein 1982:41; Wilk 1983:110–111; Monaghan 1990b:759). The practice of arranged marriage is generally on the decline. Elopement was once the exception, favored by impoverished suitors and sweethearts facing parental opposition (Lewis 1951:406–407). Today the shrinking size of land inheritances and increased access to wage labor encourage young people to elope. In Zinacantán, arranged marriages dropped from 85 percent to 35 percent of all first unions from 1965 to 1985; the balance were elopements (J. Collier 1968, 1973; G. Collier 1989:436). In Tzintzuntzan from 1959 to 1965, only 15 percent of all first unions consisted of arranged marriages (Foster 1988:69–70). This trend is not universal, however. In Panajachel, elopements held steady at 20 percent in the 1960’s, despite a major restructuring of the local economy (Hinshaw 1975:146). In Chamula, arranged marriages remained the norm in the 1980’s, although men relied on wage labor to pay the associated costs (Rosenbaum 1993:90). Civil and church statutes permit only monogamous marriage, but enforcement mechanisms are weak. Polyandry is entirely absent (Salovesh 1983:191). Plural unions take two forms. Polygyny is the indigenous practice of maintaining two or more socially recognized

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      1960 wives, sometimes sisters, domiciled either in the same household or in separate households (Nutini 1968:304). Concubinage is the Mestizo/Ladino practice of keeping a paramour in a separate, usually clandestine household, known colloquially as the casa chica in Mexico (Nutini 1968:304) and the casita in Guatemala (Ehlers 1991:8). Polygynists comprise about 9 percent of all married men in Contla (Nahua— Nutini 1968:304–399), San Juan Atzingo (Matlatzinca—Bushnell and Bushnell 1971), and Najá (Lacandon—McGee 1990:25–26, 29), but such rates are exceptional. Polygyny is said to be common in ‘‘T’oj Nam’’ (Mam Maya— Bossen 1984:120–123) and Chamula (Tzotzil Maya—Rosenbaum 1993:55–59, 113–115), but statistics are lacking. Hugo Nutini (1968:362– 365) concludes that polygyny, where present at all, seldom constitutes more than 2 percent of the marriages in any given community. Indian men who adopt the practice of concubinage are mostly labor migrants and members of the new socioeconomic elite such as factory workers, affluent merchants, and professionals (Rothstein 1982:75; Hawkins 1984:251– 252; Ehlers 1991:8; Stephen 1991:115). John Hawkins (1984:252) estimates that one-third to one-half of new-elite Indian men in San Pedro Sacatepéquez maintain a second household for the benefit of a mistress. Kinship outside the context of household and marriage is a neglected subject in Mesoamerican studies (Nutini 1967:383, 1976a:4; E. Hunt 1976:101; Selby 1976:30; Chambers and Young 1979:57; Salovesh 1983:176). The reasons are complex. Most kinship systems in contemporary Mesoamerica are bilateral, or at least not unilineal. Nutini (1976a:24) and others argue that anthropology lacks an adequate framework to explain how such systems work on a practical level (see E. Hunt 1976:99; Salovesh 1983:182). Mesoamericanists’ efforts to address this issue directly are recent but promising (e.g., Robichaux 1995; Sandstrom 1997). Ethnographers studying kinship elsewhere have long favored symbolic or interpretive analyses (e.g., Schneider 1968, 1984; Strathern 1992). Examples in Mesoamerican studies are still few (e.g., Monaghan 1995:193–212). Peasant social

theorists such as Redfield, Wolf, and Foster deemphasized kinship in favor of other organizational principles (Salovesh 1983:181). Finally, since the 1970’s, kinship has ceased to be a separate field of inquiry in anthropology (Peletz 1995). It has been subsumed into the analysis of political economy, gender, symbolism, and other topics. There was a short-lived renaissance in Mesoamerican kinship studies in the 1960’s and 1970’s, confirming the significance of kinship in ‘‘the social structure of local groups, ruralurban migrations, patterns of deviance and the control of deviants, political interactions, economic interchange, ritual recruitment, and the adjudication of disputes . . .’’ (Salovesh 1983: 182–183). This period produced kinship research on the Cuicatec (R. Hunt, E. Hunt, and R. Weitlaner 1968; E. Hunt 1976), Huave (Diebold 1966), Huichol (Grimes and Grimes 1962), Mixe (Hoogshagen and Merrifield 1961), Mixtec (Ravicz 1965), Tarahumara (Kennedy 1966, 1970), Tequistlatec/Chontal (Landar 1960; P. Turner and D. Olmstead 1966; Waterhouse and Merrifield 1968; W. Haviland 1970), Tzeltal (J. Nash 1985), Tzotzil (Zimbalist 1966; Hopkins 1969; Vogt 1969; Salovesh 1974; G. Collier 1978), Northern Zapotec (Nader 1964), and Nahua (Nutini 1961, 1965, 1968; Nutini and Buchler 1965; J. Law 1969; Arizpe 1972b, 1973; Taggart 1972, 1975a, 1975b, 1976; Slade 1976; Dehouve 1978). After 1980, the number of kinship studies dwindled (Lacandon—Boremanse 1984; Tzeltal—Haehl 1980; A. Breton 1984; Mam—Hawkins 1984; Sierra Nahuat—Taggart 1983, 1986, 1992a, 1992b; Yucatec Maya— Lazos Chavero 1992). Nutini’s (1976a:25) assessment two decades ago still seems valid: ‘‘The fact is that anthropologists today are not writing very much on kinship, and whatever information can be obtained is usually part of wider studies . . .’’ G R Over the last two decades, Mesoamericanists have produced an extensive literature on the significance of gender in indigenous society. This vast subject can only be touched upon 17

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 .  here. Two general patterns of male/female relations have been reported. One pattern is hierarchical, according men unilateral power and authority in numerous matters, based on a gender ideology which views females as inferior and subordinate (Chinantec—Browner 1986a; Browner and Perdue 1988; Tzotzil, Zinacantán—J. Collier 1973; Devereaux 1987; Chamula—Rosenbaum 1993; Tz’utujiil—L. Paul 1974). The other pattern is characterized by economic interdependence, social autonomy, and mutual respect, grounded in an egalitarian gender ideology (Mam—Bossen 1984:312– 313; Isthmus Zapotec—Chiñas 1992; Yucatec —Elmendorf 1975; Poqomam—Maynard 1974; Mazatec—Pearlman 1981; Nahua, Tlaxcala— Rothstein 1983; Sierra Nahuat—Slade 1975; Valley Zapotec—Stephen 1991). Describing the latter pattern among the Isthmus Zapotec, Beverly Chiñas (1992:115) observes: ‘‘While the sexes are usually segregated, perform different tasks, wear distinct clothing, and behave differently, none of these differences is viewed as marking the essential inferiority of one sex in relation to the other’’ (for an alternative view, see Ruiz Campbell 1993). The two patterns are not necessarily mutually exclusive; complementarity can be an expression of hierarchy (e.g., Mixtec—Monaghan 1995:60; Tzotzil—Devereaux 1987:110). The economic, social, and ceremonial division of labor keeps indigenous men and women physically apart much of the time. Among the ideological grounds used to justify gender segregation are a cosmic order structured into male and female principles (e.g., Chamula— Gossen 1974:36–43; Rosenbaum 1993:65–87); the view that human sexuality is a potentially destructive force (e.g., Sierra Nahuat—Taggart 1992b:83); and/or avoidance of female ritual pollution, a supernatural contagion that can render men ill or impotent (e.g., Mixtec —Monaghan 1995:58–60, 145, 149; Kaqchikel—Hinshaw 1975:114; Poqomam—Maynard 1974:93–94; Tz’utujiil—L. Paul 1974:298; and Gross and Kendall 1983:210; Tzeltal, Tzotzil, and Tojolabal—Brian Stross, personal communication, 1996).8 18

Some authors attribute gender asymmetry to the spread of the market economy and/or the influence of non-Indian culture, but this presupposes that the indigenous pattern is egalitarian (Arizpe 1975a, 1975b; Pearlman 1981; Bossen 1983, 1984; Ehlers 1991; Rosenbaum 1993). Given the cultural diversity of Prehispanic Mesoamerica, the question merits further comparative and ethnohistorical study. (On gender hierarchy in Mestizo communities and the related ideology of machismo and marianismo, see Fromm and Maccoby 1970; Romanucci-Ross 1973; Stevens 1973a, 1973b; Ingham 1986:60–63; Foster 1988:130–132; and J. Martin 1990. On the cultural construction of masculinity in urban and rural Mexico, see Carrier 1995; Gutmann 1996; Taggart 1997; and Prieur 1998. For critical reviews of the machismo/marianismo literature, see Ehlers 1991: 1–5; Brusco 1995:77–82; and Gutmann 1996: 221–242.) S N: R K, R L, M A,  P P Many social relationships in Indian and rural society combine the expectation of mutual respeto (courtesy as a sign of respect) with a temporary or permanent obligation to exchange goods and services (J. Martin 1990:477; Stephen 1991:29–31; Slade 1992:82–84). Foster (1961, 1963) groups these exchange relations into symmetrical versus asymmetrical (patronclient) social dyads. Hugo Nutini and Douglas White (1977) argue that dyadic analysis overlooks the complex interconnections between a person’s social network and the networks of significant others, such as spouse, household, and kin. Compadrazgo (ritual coparenthood) is a relationship between two persons, couples, or groups that begins with the ceremonial or figurative sponsorship of a third entity, which can be a person, image, object, or event (Nutini and Bell 1980:54; Salovesh 1983:195). Compadrazgo serves to reinforce existing social ties

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      1960 and create new ones, especially in communities where kinship obligations are ill-defined and opportunities to form close relations with nonkin are few (Nutini and White 1977:381–383). The most complex compadrazgo systems yet reported are found in rural Tlaxcala (Nutini and Bell 1980; Nutini 1984). George Foster (1969a), John Ingham (1970), Stephen Gudeman (1971), Carl Kendall (1974), and Nicole Sault (1985b) analyze compadrazgo systems elsewhere. Indian and rural households rely on reciprocal, long-term, interest-free loans of cash, goods, and labor from kin, compadres, and neighbors to defray the costs of life-cycle ceremonies and religious office-holding. In Oaxaca, this practice is known variously as guelaguetza, galguéz, or xelguéz (Valley Zapotec—S. Cook 1982:107–116; Stephen 1991:32– 34), galaguetza (Chatino—J. Greenberg 1981: 200), and saa s’a (Mixtec—Monaghan 1990b: 760). Each household keeps an account book to track the associated debits and credits. The alternative among urban Mexicans is the tanda, a friendship-based, rotating savings and credit association (Vélez-Ibañez 1983; MansellCarstens 1996). Tanda participants contribute weekly to a common fund and take turns receiving the entire amount of the weekly collection. The practice is also found among rural Mexican wage workers (e.g., Mulhare 1986: 215–217). On the reciprocal exchange of agricultural labor, see Hugo Nutini (1968:190), James Taggart (1976), and Richard Wilk (1991: 186–187). Paisanazgo is a relationship based on loyalty to the same community, region, or nation (Hirabayashi 1993:11). Mixtec and Zapotec labor migrants rely on paisanazgo for help in finding jobs and adjusting to life away from home (Butterworth 1962, 1983; Orellana S. 1973; Cederström 1989; Nagengast and Kearney 1990:81–86; Hirabayashi 1993). Village and regional migrant associations provide mutual aid or raise money for projects that benefit the hometown. Oscar Lewis (1952), Robert Kemper (1977), and Martha Rees et al. (1991) discuss other social aspects of the labor-migrant experience.

Virtually any social network can be manipulated to serve political ends. A cacicazgo is a small association of individuals under one male leader, the cacique, who exerts partial, informal control over local or regional politics (Friedrich 1965:190).9 A network of kin and ritual kin forms the core of his supporters. A cacique uses favoritism, physical violence, and economic reprisals to develop a following of clients and enforce his will (Roniger 1987:82). In rural Mexico, struggles over land following agrarian reform have fostered rule by caciques or caciquismo (Siverts 1965a; Bartra 1975; Friedrich 1977, 1986; Halperin 1977; Laviada 1978; Boege 1979; Krotz et al. 1986; Carmack 1989; V. Lerner 1989; Schryer 1990). Caciquismo in Guatemala has attracted less scholarly interest (e.g., Martínez Peláez 1971; J. Nash 1985:235; Handy 1990:177; Watanabe 1992:57). On the broader subject of violence and dispute settlement involving Indian communities, consult recent work on Oaxaca (E. Hunt and R. Hunt 1969; Dennis 1987; J. Greenberg 1989; Nader 1990; Fry 1992), Chiapas (J. Nash 1967a; J. Collier 1973; Dorotinsky 1989; G. Collier and E. Quaratiello 1994), and Guatemala (Carmack 1988; Manz 1988; Stoll 1993; Carlsen 1996). C S The custom of segmenting the community into two or more subdivisions for ceremonial, political, and other purposes is fairly widespread in Mesoamerica (N. Thomas 1970–1971, 1979, 1988; Nutini 1976a:13–16; Mulhare 1996b). A customary subdivision is an institutionalized alliance of households that simultaneously serves as a formal unit of community organization (Mulhare 1996a:93). The subdivision may be known locally as a barrio, paraje, parcialidad or cantón, or (less commonly) as a calpul(li), chinamit(l), culibal, cuchteel, molom, molab, or aldea (E. Hunt and J. Nash 1967:256, 259– 261; Hill and Monaghan 1987:xix). In the past, Mesoamerican ethnology treated customary subdivisions as either local/territorial units (E. Hunt and J. Nash 1967) or quasi-kinship 19

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 .  units (Guiteras-Holmes 1952b:104–105). Either approach is an oversimplification. Depending on the community, the subdivision acquires its members through descent (Nutini 1961: 71; Villa Rojas 1969c:213), residence (Beals 1946:92; Foster 1988:32–33, 199–200), property ownership (Mulhare 1986:396), birthplace (Hill and Monaghan 1987:12), personal choice, or some combination of these criteria (Redfield 1928:287; Lewis 1960:50–53; Kearney 1986b: 22). In turn, the members as a group may be localized, semi-localized, or dispersed. Customary subdivision systems are found most frequently among the Highland Maya (Guiteras-Holmes 1947, 1951; Villa Rojas 1964; Vogt 1969; Hill and Monaghan 1987; Frank Cancian 1996), the Nahua of Central Mexico (Nutini 1961; Olivera de Vásquez 1967, 1976; Bock 1980), and Mestizo communities with a Nahua heritage (Ingham 1986; Mulhare 1995). The practice is less prevalent among the Zapotec (Whitecotton 1977:254; Kearney 1986b; Truex 1996), generally absent among the Lowland Maya (Wilk 1988:135–137), and absent or socially unimportant among the Purépecha, better known as the Tarascans (Beals 1969b: 768; Brandes 1988:14).

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C  F S The cargo system is a hierarchy of ranked, public offices (cargos) comprising a ‘‘ladder’’ of community service that individuals or couples ascend over time, acting as representatives of their households (Chance 1990:27, 40n). The civil-religious hierarchy, a cargo system that administers both civil matters and the public worship of Catholic saints, was the prevailing form of community government among Mesoamerican Indians in the early twentieth century (Chance 1990:29–30).10 Over the last seventy years, state intervention and grassroots reform movements have worked to separate civil offices from religious ones, as required by national law (e.g., Brintnall 1979b:100–101; Dow 1993: 126). Recent examples of active civil-religious hierarchies are few (e.g., Reina 1966; Gwaltney 1970; Signorini 1979; J. Greenberg 1981; Bar20

tolomé and Barabas 1982; B. Tedlock 1982; Lipp 1991). In some cases there is a weak connection between civil and religious organization (e.g., Dehouve 1976; Oettinger 1980; Kuroda 1984; J. Nash 1985). The majority of functioning cargo systems involve only religious offices (Chance 1990:30), structured into ranked cofradías (sodalities) or mayordomías (individual stewardships), each in charge of the sacred image and annual fiesta of a specific saint (e.g., Frank Cancian 1965; Zantwijk 1967; Nutini 1968; Webster 1989; Slade 1992). Cargo holders serve for a fixed term, without remuneration, and personally defray the costs of their official duties (DeWalt 1975: 90), sometimes through rather ingenious means (Crump 1989). The most expensive and prestigious cargos involve sponsoring public religious fiestas in the community’s annual ceremonial cycle (Frank Cancian 1965:81–83). All men who manage to complete all the posts in the hierarchy join the council of elders, the senior authority in appointing cargo holders (Schryer 1990:62–63; Wilk 1991:168). In the past, men who refused a cargo appointment could be jailed or face other reprisals (Mathews 1985: 289; Dow 1993:125). Women organize the ceremonial banquets necessary for a proper fiesta. This means that a man cannot rise in the system without the help of his wife (Gross and Kendall 1983:210; Mathews 1985:290).11 Manning Nash (1958:69) and Eric Wolf (1959:216–218) view cargo systems as mechanisms that level wealth differences within the community. Frank Cancian (1965:291) and Stephen Webster (1989:364) describe them as meritocracies that legitimize wealth differences while upholding the community’s egalitarian ideology. Marvin Harris (1964:30–32) and Judith Friedlander (1981:139) posit that cargo systems dissipate community resources by creating an artificial demand for goods and services sold by outsiders. Gonzalo Aguirre Beltrán (1979:38, 86) and James Dow (1977:221) counter that cargo systems conserve and redistribute community resources through proteinrich ceremonial banquets. James Greenberg (1981:153–159) concludes that the socioeco-

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      1960 nomic effect of cargo systems varies, depending on the number of cargo positions, the level of cargo expenses, and the size of the population. The ethnohistorical perspective introduced by John Chance and William Taylor (1985) has moved research in new directions, by refuting the earlier view that cargo systems are timeless carryovers from the sixteenth century. In communities with an agrarian or mixed economy, the demand for religious offices seems to increase as income levels rise, producing waiting lists and the addition of new saints cults (Mathews 1985:289–290; Frank Cancian 1986, 1990; Ingham 1986:93; Webster 1989:366–367; Schryer 1990:160–161; Mulhare 1995:131–132). But interest in religious offices is dwindling in prosperous commercial towns; the new route to social prestige is household-based fiestas marking life-cycle rituals with lavish displays of family wealth (Brandes 1988:54–55; Stephen 1991:181–183; Chiñas 1992:64–68). Less elaborate versions of the household fiesta complex are gaining importance in agrarian communities as well (e.g., Huber 1987). Popular support for cargo systems in general is declining (Chance 1990:32). The wealthiest households avoid or oppose cargo service (J. Greenberg 1981:199; R. Miller 1984:293; Ingham 1986:93–94), as do younger, more educated, salaried workers (Chiñas 1992:70) and the growing number of converts to Protestantism, orthodox Catholicism, and charismatic Catholicism (Hinshaw 1975:163–167; W. Smith 1977:97–101; Brintnall 1979b:117–148; Annis 1987; Goldin and Metz 1991:327; Dow 1993: 126–127; Green 1993:163–164; Eber 1995). To reduce the economic burden on individuals, cofradías and mayordomías are turning to public collections, fund-raising events, admission fees, and dues to finance their fiestas (DeWalt 1975:98–99; W. Smith 1977:145– 159; Brandes 1988:40–58; Chiñas 1992:61–64). Stanley Brandes (1981:223) suggests that unranked, voluntary fiesta organizations have coexisted with the cargo system for years. For example, see accounts of Otomí and Mazahua oratorio groups (Cortés Ruiz 1972; Dow 1974,

1996; Margolies 1975:127–133; Galinier 1976; DeWalt 1979:149–151). S Stratification is an appropriate topic with which to conclude this essay because the findings of post-1960 research challenge earlier basic assumptions about social change in Mesoamerica. Wolf (1955:456) once implied that Indians assimilate into non-Indian society and shed their ethnic separateness unless they belong to closed, corporate peasant communities. This scenario seems valid for some parts of the region (e.g., Tlaxcala–Puebla Valley—Nutini and Isaac 1974:400–405), but not for others. Contrary to Wolf ’s predictions, the structure of contemporary Indian communities ranges from minimally stratified, egalitarian villages approximating his closed, corporate peasant community to highly stratified urban centers with significant internal differences in wealth, occupation, education, and religion (e.g., Hawkins 1984; Annis 1987; Sandstrom 1991; Slade 1992; Watanabe 1992). Ethnohistorical and ethnographic research suggests that stratification, in itself, is less inimical to indigenous microethnicity than was previously supposed. The prevalence of closed, corporate organization in Postconquest Mexico and Guatemala has waxed and waned over the centuries (Handy 1990:164–165; Lutz and Lovell 1990:47–48; Schryer 1990:48–49, 318). Studies on agrarian reform and cargo systems, cited earlier, demonstrate that outwardly egalitarian institutions like those that characterize the closed, corporate peasant community do not necessarily produce an egalitarian community structure. Internal stratification, factionalism, and authoritarian rule by native leaders mark the history of many Indian communities (Martínez Peláez 1971; W. Taylor 1972; Wasserstrom 1983). A key question for Mesoamericanists, then, is what conditions encourage the persistence of microethnicity in the face of increasing community stratification. One set of factors in recent history has been the growth of tourism, 21

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 .  market demand for native crafts, and statesponsored programs to promote indigenous cultures (e.g., Chamoux 1981a; Friedlander 1986; C. Smith 1990a; Stephen 1991). But more remains to be understood concerning communities where the material benefits of Indian identity appear to be few (e.g., Hawkins 1984). Part of this research effort involves developing better analytical tools to measure stratification (see the thoughtful discussions of this subject in J. Greenberg 1981:183–187; S. Cook and L. Binford 1990:20–34; C. Smith 1990c:21–26; Stephen 1991:21–24; and Frank Cancian 1992: 198–200). N 1. The region of indigenous cultures known as Mesoamerica excludes most of northern Mexico and includes the rest of Mexico, Guatemala, Belize (Yucatec, Q’eqchi’, and Mopan Maya), and El Salvador (Nahuat), plus the eastern margins of Honduras, Nicaragua, and Costa Rica (Kirchhoff 1952:23; Weaver 1993:2). The last four countries are omitted from this review due to lack of pertinent data. Mac Chapin (1991) summarizes the scant information on the Nahuat of El Salvador. 2. This essay addresses social organization as the pattern of human relationships linking individuals and groups in a society. Historically, anthropologists defined social organization more narrowly to mean kinship (e.g., Murdock 1949). 3. See Erve Chambers and Philip Young’s (1979) review of Mesoamerican community studies. The holistic community study presents an encyclopedic description of the community (e.g., Redfield and Villa Rojas 1934; Vogt 1969). The problem-oriented community study tests a hypothesis or analyzes a specific issue using data from the community (e.g., Tax 1953; Annis 1987). The problem-oriented regional study uses data from multiple communities within a given geographic zone (e.g., W. Smith 1977; Schryer 1990). 4. In Yucatán, the local term for Indian is Mestizo; the non-Indian is known as a Catrín (Thompson 1970:359). In Belize, Spanish-speaking non-Indians call themselves Mestizos, but the English-speaking majority calls them ‘‘the Spanish’’ (Moberg 1992:19; Wilk and Chapin 1992:177). 5. Ethnohistorical research often disproves the purported antiquity of local traditions (Rothstein

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1988:365; Hill 1989:171), and tourism often leads to the commercialization of tradition (Friedlander 1986; Nagengast and Kearney 1990:63–69; Stephen 1991:17, 93, 252; I. Otzoy 1992:99, 110; García Canclini 1993:41–44). 6. The defining features of the closed, corporate peasant community are communal control over access to land; restrictive membership rules (e.g., community endogamy); and ceremonial or other practices that hinder the individual accumulation of wealth (Wolf 1957:2–3). The open peasant community is defined mainly by the absence of these characteristics (Wolf 1957:6–7). Dow (1973) faults Wolf for confusing two definitions of corporateness, a jural entity endowed with legal perpetuity versus a bounded (‘‘closed’’) social group. Wolf (1986:325) argues that the Spanish Colonial idea of a corporation combined both these qualities. Carol Smith (1990c: 21) defines community corporateness in indigenous Guatemala as political unity in the face of external threats. Thomas Sheridan (1988:xxiii) defines community corporateness in rural Mexico as communal control over land and other natural resources. 7. A. V. Chayanov (1966) assumes that peasant households seek only to reproduce themselves, not to produce a surplus. For counterarguments, see Frank Cancian (1989:142–145) and Scott Cook and Leigh Binford (1990:15–22). 8. In the Maya and Mixtec communities just cited: a man becomes ritually polluted through contact with menstrual fluids or if a woman steps over him; a man’s work implements become ritually polluted and ineffective if a woman handles or steps over them; handling women’s work implements ritually pollutes Maya men; and contact with female bodily fluids in general, including sexual intercourse, ritually pollutes Mixtec men. The significance of these findings for Mesoamerica as a whole is unclear. In Nahua cultures the sex act is seen as debilitating, rather than polluting, for men, and the concept of female ritual pollution appears to be absent (Schwaller 1996). It is common throughout Mesoamerica for men to avoid sexual intercourse before performing ceremonials. 9. In Colonial New Spain, Spaniards used the Caribbean-Arawak term cacique (feminine: cacica) to mean local Indian elites, not self-made political bosses (Schryer 1990:30n; Chance 1996:113). 10. Civil-religious hierarchies apparently became the norm in Mexico and Guatemala after Independence; the Colonial norm seems to have been communal sponsorship of public religious ceremonials and a separate system of civil offices (J. Rus and

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      1960 R. Wasserstrom 1980; Wasserstrom 1983; Chance and Taylor 1985). For a different interpretation, see Pedro Carrasco (1990). C. Thomas Brockmann (1987) and Richard Wilk (1991:xix, 168–169) describe the cargo system among Maya groups in Belize. 11. Some Indian and rural communities assign religious office jointly to husband and wife (Iwan-

ska 1966:178–179; Maynard 1974:94–95; Mathews 1985:290; Ingham 1986:92–93; Mulhare 1986:307; Stephen 1991:156–157; Chiñas 1992:64; Slade 1992: 134–135). Indian women tend to lack the political contacts, proficiency in Spanish conversation, and literacy skills needed to qualify for elected or appointed civil offices (Mathews 1985:296).

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3. Theology and History in the Study of Mesoamerican Religions JOHN D. MONAGHAN

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T

   two major developments in the area of religion since the publication of the original Handbook. The first has been the trend among anthropologists and others to treat Mesoamerican religions as theologies.1 Whereas earlier studies tended to focus on the diverse roots of religious elements at the expense of meaning, now one finds a concern with ‘‘axioms,’’ ‘‘principles,’’ ‘‘systems of interpretations,’’ or ‘‘operators,’’ often defined as a series of contrasts with orthodox and/or Spanish Christianity. Some have gone as far as to characterize Mesoamerican belief in terms of its controlling ideas (a particularly strong trend among Nahua scholars, which can be traced all the way back to Garibay 1970).2 The danger is that theory is substituted for theology (van der Loo 1988:49; see also Geertz 1973:125), and instead of making a sustained inquiry into the underpinnings of Mesoamerican religions we merely reproduce current intellectual fashions. A second important development has to do with the growing appreciation we have for the complex ways in which religion is historically produced. Unapologetically conjectural histories have been replaced by in-depth archival studies detailing the institutional contexts and 24

ideological frameworks within which Spanish and indigenous religious interaction occurred, and dichotomous models of religious change have given way to ones that recognize the process as complex, subtle, and ongoing. This is particularly important given the religious experimentation that has occurred over the last thirty years. About one-fourth of the people of Guatemala are now practicing Protestants, with most churches located in rural areas (Scotchmer 1993:505). In Mexico, speakers of indigenous languages are more than twice as likely to be Protestant as the population as a whole (10.4 percent versus 4.9 percent) (INEGI 1993c: 35).3 Partly as a response to the growing numbers of indigenous Protestants, the Catholic Church has renewed its efforts, and its activists play an important role in contemporary religious life. Accompanying these developments has been an increasing specialization. Thirty years ago, religion was usually dealt with in the odd chapter of a general ethnography. We now have many monographs on the topic, and nonspecialist reviewers, even those who work in the area, sometimes seem unable to grasp the significance of particular studies. Specialization has been accompanied by a growing professional-

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         ism, and, for the most part, it has been students of religion who have acquired proficiency in indigenous languages. This has led to the publication of a corpus of native language texts, which we now see as providing insights into belief, as well as linguistic examples (D. Tedlock 1986:79; examples include Bruce 1975; Taggart 1983; Köhler 1995; Lupo 1995). Some ethnographers have made the study of ancient religious texts part of their examination of religion (E. Hunt 1977; Bricker 1981; Jansen 1982; van der Loo 1987; Love 1994), which is more than simply ‘‘downstreaming,’’ since reference to these texts has allowed us to clarify the meaning of contemporary beliefs and practices (would anyone seriously interested in contemporary Christianity ignore Thomas Aquinas?). A focus on Christian theological texts has also shed light on popular forms of religiosity (e.g., Ingham 1986). As this may suggest, anthropologists no longer monopolize the discussion of religion. In addition to the sophisticated contributions by art historians, divinity scholars, historians, linguists, and others, the clergy, often taking the parish as a unit of analysis, have begun to produce accounts of the beliefs and practices of the peoples of Mesoamerica for the first time since the Colonial period.

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T It is sometimes asserted that Mesoamerican people lack an intellectual understanding of their religion. It is true that many do not radically separate faith and practice, but the moral elevation of the former over the latter, and the kinds of theological questions that it raises concerning individuality and spiritual allegiance, is something that emerged in Christian circles only in the nineteenth century (Asad 1988). Also, the concept of a religion, with a unifying orthodoxy and coherent creed, is characteristically articulated only when one group is attempting to validate its truths according to the terms of another. As a Kanjobal elder told Rosalva Hernández Castillo (1989:145): ‘‘[Before the coming of missionaries] there was no religion; it came to my village at the time people

began to wear shoes. Yet before it was better because people thought about God when they rose in the morning, when they saw the rain, when they sowed the milpa, since God was everywhere . . . always.’’ Indeed, Mesoamerican people have produced the most recognizably theological works in the sixteenth century, during their initial encounter with Christianity, and more recently, as they confront aggressive Catholic and Protestant movements. One can cite books such as those written by Antonio López M. from the Otomí village of San Pablito, where he explains the use of paper figures (Alan Sandstrom [1981] has transcribed and translated them into English) or the practitioners of costumbre in Momostenango who developed an oral ‘‘counter-catechism’’ for teaching their religious creed (B. Tedlock 1992:41–42). This does not mean that it is only in the context of a confrontation with outsiders that people address the question of human suffering or reflect on the nature of the gods. Nutini (1988:422), responding to skeptics who say sophisticated thinkers such as Carlos Castañeda’s Don Juan do not exist in Mesoamerica, remarks that ‘‘two or three of my best informants could be regarded as the equals of Don Juan in their ability to describe and explain esoteric and highly complex matters.’’ However, in many places, religious specialists are circumspect, even inarticulate, about what they believe (e.g., Sandstrom 1991:236). Anthropologists have therefore sought Mesoamerican understandings in myth, ritual, moral discourse, symbolic analysis, and philology. One term that summarizes the beliefs and teachings of Mesoamerican religion is Teotlism. Proposed by Jorge Klor de Alva (1979:7), this comes from the Nahuatl word teotl, which referred to the divine principle responsible for the nature of the cosmos. The use of a term from one very influential language for the traditions of an entire region brings with it complications (viz. nagual) and has the potential to reify and homogenize what was a diverse and uncentralized landscape of practices and beliefs (Klor de Alva himself was referring only to the Nahua peoples of the sixteenth century). The short review of Tzotzil Maya cosmology 25

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 .  by Weldon Lamb (1995), in which he details a surprising amount of variation among half a dozen or so nearby communities, is enough to give one pause, as are the many reports of unique ‘‘syncretisms,’’ which highlight the fact that different communities, even though they may be geographically close to one another, have had highly divergent histories. But besides a few stray observations (such as the idea that sixteenth-century Yucatec Maya assumed a more equable and manipulable relationship between themselves and their gods than the Aztec did—Clendinnen 1991:29), some suggestive articles (e.g., Goldin and Rosenbaum 1993), a few monographs (Bricker 1981; Báez-Jorge 1988; Rubio 1995), and the occasional collection of articles (Gossen 1986b; Dahlgren 1987, 1990, 1993; Gossen and León-Portilla 1993), comparative work on Mesoamerican religion is so thin that at this point it is more productive to concentrate on what is generally true about Mesoamerican theology than to focus on the variables which may account for differences. To return to the term teotl, what it expresses is the proposition that reality is a unified whole, with a single divine principle responsible for the nature of the cosmos. This monistic orientation (Nutini 1988:235; Burkhart 1989:36–37) would contrast with a thoroughgoing dualism, where reality is divided into fundamentally opposed entities (good and evil, heaven and hell, spirit and body, mind and matter), or pluralism, which would hold that no single system or view of reality can account for all the phenomena of life. The images Mesoamerican people use for this divine principle highlight its unitary nature. One set suggests that reality is indivisible. In Zinacantán, for example, there are the FatherMother gods, which evoke a unity that transcends gendered divisions (E. Hunt 1977:234; D. Tedlock 1983:268; see also Cordero Avendaño 1986:203). In Momostenango, it is Dios Mundo and Juyup Takaj, ‘Mountain-Plains,’ which means all cultivated and uncultivated lands (D. Tedlock 1983:265; G. Cook 1986:139), suggesting a unity in spatial metaphors. In addition to its indivisibility, Mesoamerican images of divinity attest to a unity of quality 26

in the sacred or the fundamental undifferentiated nature of things (see Sandstrom and Sandstrom 1986:276). In historic texts, Nahua often circumvent the dichotomy between signifier and signified, the object with its representation (Gruzinski 1989:21–22, 154–155). Throughout Mesoamerica, sacred ‘‘images’’ are gods (e.g., Ichon 1973:221; Dow 1986b:29): Jesus is corn, the rain god is the rain cloud, and the Devil is wind (and sometimes money). Finally, in the Mesoamerican sacred there are suggestions of a unity of things in time (Monaghan 1990a). In the Huasteca, time seems to be meaningless for the gods, in that one year for us is only one day for them (Alcorn 1984: 83–84). Practices also seem to be predicated upon an absence of change. The Otomí say the gods (antiguas) continue to count centavos as pesos, as people did in the past (Dow 1986b:52). The Nahua use ancient coins as offerings, even though the monetary value is miniscule (Lupo 1995:144–145); and among the Lacandon, god houses are always built in the style of the old Lacandon house, because the god house is literally a model of the god’s house. So even though people may make cement floors and use boards in their houses, the gods’ houses do not change (McGee 1990:55). Unlike the Judeo-Christian tradition, where God is a unique and transcendent divinity, in Mesoamerica the universe is not distinct from divinity. A good illustration is the Mesoamerican conception of the Earth. Earth is consistently described as a living thing (e.g., Carlson and Eachus 1977:38–41; J. Greenberg 1981:84; González Villanueva 1989:61; Sandstrom 1991:239–240) and is represented by the same images of indivisibility and continuity described earlier. The Q’eqchi’ term for Earth deities, tzuultaq’as, is made up of the words for mountain and valley—in other words, all landscape (Schackt 1984:18).4 The Mixe call it by the calendrical name ‘‘one world’’ (Lipp 1991: 31), a common expression in Guatemala, where it is often known by the Spanish word mundos (B. Tedlock 1982:41), as it is among some Nahua groups (Lupo 1995:261). This unity has been expressed in terms of the astronomical conception of a quadrilateral plane with four

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         sides, four intercardinal points, and a fifth point at the center (E. Hunt 1977:131); the Christian Trinity (Lupo 1995:261); the Thirteen Principal Tzuultaq’as (Schackt 1984:19–20); or paired male and female Earth or Mountain deities (Ichon 1973:146). The Earth manifests itself in many forms (Sandstrom and Sandstrom 1986: 276–277), which may include mountain tops, pyramids, and crosses (see Carlson and Eachus 1977:38–41; McArthur 1987:10–11). As this perhaps suggests, the physical earth does not exist apart from its being (e.g., J. Greenberg 1981:84; B. Tedlock 1982:41; Lipp 1991:31; Monaghan 1995:99; R. Wilson 1995:53). The landscape is thus represented by corporeal images, so that mountains are like heads, valleys are creviced backs, caves are mouths or wombs, rivers are veins, water is blood or sweat, swamps are hearts, trees are hair, rocks are bones (E. Hunt 1977:130; León-Portilla 1987:414; Lupo 1995: 246; Monaghan 1995:98; R. Wilson 1995:53– 54). If the Christian God created the universe apart from Himself, in Mesoamerica the universe emerges from the deity. Tzeltal say that ‘‘when the world appeared, so did god’’ (Maurer-Avalos 1984:96). In Santiago Chimaltenango, corn was said to be the hands and feet of the Earth deity (Wagley 1941:35), and Tepehua say all flora grew from the blood of God (Williams García 1970:4/12). The physical earth is ‘‘sacred Earth.’’ Given this conception of divinity, natural/ supernatural distinctions do not apply very well to Mesoamerica (Scotchmer 1986:202; Gruzinski 1989:50; Read 1994:46; Lupo 1995:56–57). Thus shamans and other religious practitioners see themselves as working within nature, not beyond it (Dow 1986b:7). At the same time, natural phenomena are functions of sacred processes, or, as they say in Zinacantán, ‘‘Nature is owned by the gods as a man might own a chicken or house’’ (Vogt 1976:206; see also Villa Rojas 1978:308).5 Consistent with a monistic orientation, the Mesoamerican concept of deity is best viewed as ‘‘pantheistic,’’ an idea that can be traced back at least to a 1910 paper by Hermann Beyer in which he argued that the 2,000 gods of the ancient Mexicans, rather than being an exagger-

ated polytheism, are so many manifestations of the One (Beyer 1965:398). Pantheism also contextualizes the curious merging and overlap of divine images. Because they are all manifestations of a single principle, boundaries are fluid, and holy images are only temporary expressions of the great unity (E. Hunt 1977:55– 56). This insight has enhanced our understanding of a number of religious phenomena, such as the paper figures made by Nahua, Otomí, and Tepehua peoples. The different images they cut as part of their curing and fertility exercises are an attempt to break the divine unity ‘‘into manageable segments in order to restore harmony and balance between humans and the powers in the universe’’ (Sandstrom and Sandstrom 1986: 277–278).6 The actual number of these figures is thus infinite (see also Ichon 1973:153; Schackt 1984:18–20). While there is emerging agreement as to a pantheistic orientation in Mesoamerican religions, it must be admitted that our understanding of the nature of its unity is rudimentary (Sandstrom and Sandstrom 1986:279– 280). The use of terms such as ‘‘godhead’’ or ‘‘divine principle,’’ while highlighting a monistic emphasis in Mesoamerican theology, does not tell us why the unity is sacred and not merely ontological. Some religious specialists do seem to act as technicians, manipulating an impersonal force with a distinct lack of reverence or veneration (see Lupo 1995:244). Although noting that the unity at the heart of Mesoamerican religious conceptions is ‘‘a profound mystery,’’ the Sandstroms suggest that it is the life principle itself, finding that Tepehua image of unity—a small human figure with its hands by its head—evokes a Shiva-like dance of life (Sandstrom and Sandstrom 1986:278– 279). Others characterize this principle as a mana-like power (Hvidtfeldt 1958). Richard Townsend, for example, argues that teo, which the Spanish translated variously as ‘god,’ ‘saint,’ and ‘demon,’ and which the Aztec used in association with deity impersonators, masks, effigies, and the names of nature deities, ‘‘is the vital force or power that the Aztecs regarded as charging to a greater or less degree the things of the world’’ (Townsend 1979:116). The Zapo27

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 .  tec word pee has similar resonances. It is animate power, characteristic of plants, animals, and humans, but also hills, the calendar, clouds, lightning, fire, and earthquakes (Marcus 1983, 1989). The Soul As in other non-theistic religions, the human soul is part of the life force (E. Hunt 1977:89). June Nash (1970:197–198) notes that the gods in Amatenango are called ch’ultatik. This is made up of the words tatik, ‘elder,’ ‘lord,’ or ‘father,’ and ch’ul, ‘soul,’ the same that is possessed by all living things. In Zinacantán, humans, animals, and manufactured items have this same soul (Vogt 1976:18–19). For the Otomí, the cognate concept appears to be zaki, which, as Dow (1986b:32) says, is a living animating force that operates beyond consciousness, and which Jacques Galinier (1990:163, 625– 626) calls ‘‘a partial materialization of the universe.’’ Among Nahuatl speakers, the yolotl, ‘heart,’ is the animating force and accounts for taste and smell and why we find certain things pleasurable (Sandstrom 1991:258–260; Lupo 1995:112). Recent work cautions against reading familiar dualisms into these conceptions. Louise Burkhart observes that yollotl is an abstraction of the verb ‘‘to come to life,’’ indicating that the provision of life force was a function of the heart itself and that the relationship between heart and soul is not simply one of container to contained (Burkhart 1989:125; see also León-Portilla 1956:396; Lupo 1995:112– 113). Thus the Chatino say a child is given life at birth because the gods place its heart in its body (J. Greenberg 1981:91–92; see also the drawings of soul loss in Monaghan 1995:162). The animating principle is usually seen to activate both body and mind (López Austin 1980:1: 187–188).7 There are limits to the kinds of things humans share a life principle with. Ruth Carlson and Francis Eachus (1977:44–47) note that there are three types of ‘‘spirits’’ distinguished by the Q’eqchi’: the shdiosil (possessed by sacred foods, harps, candles, incense, and the cross), the shwi:nqul (possessed by buildings, tools, 28

rivers, trees, mats, hammocks, fire, flutes, masks, firework frames, night/darkness, and sickness), and the shmuhel, from the word for shadow, which is believed by most to be solely possessed by humans, although some say it is characteristic of saints as well as certain animals (see also R. Wilson 1995:143–144). Distinctions are also drawn between human and animal souls as well as human and plant souls (J. Greenberg 1981:91–92; Lipp 1991:43–44), although these are often ones of degree (Sandstrom 1991:258–259). The problem, of course, is created by the attempt to encompass an entire religion within a single conceptual framework. While it is undeniable that religion in Mesoamerica has a monistic emphasis, it is not so thoroughgoing that it excludes other orientations. After all, at the same time that dualistic conceptions abound in Christianity (God and the Devil, good and evil, heaven and hell), it also has three persons in one god, the Trinity (Farriss 1984: 302). Dualistic distinctions can be readily found in Mesoamerican statements about the gods, the cosmos, the body, and morality (Ichon 1973: 234; D. Tedlock 1983; Dow 1986b; Galinier 1990:664–677, 680; Lipp 1991:27; M. Miller and K. Taube 1993:81). Yet even here one must be cautious. As Barbara Tedlock (1982:42, 145– 146) notes, in an observation about K’iche’ divinatory techniques that echoes Chuang Tzu’s and Nagarjuna’s critiques of dualistic thinking (Loy 1988:18–21), paired elements are often contemporaneous, complementary, and encompass one another, rather than being sequential, oppositional, and of an utterly distinct nature (see also D. Tedlock 1983). Similarly, the focus on collective forms of worship and the conceptual consubstantiality of soul with life force has tended to exclude individual approaches to the sacred (Dow 1986b: 151).8 In the Mixteca, prayer can be a highly personal act; the word the Mixtec use for it even translates as ‘speaking alone.’ Ethnographic, ethnohistoric, and epigraphic work has also demonstrated the importance of personal gods (Hill 1986; Houston and Stuart 1996), which Henry Nicholson labeled, using the old Spanish term for patron deity, ‘‘personal abogado’’

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         (Nicholson 1971:410).9 In the Otomí area, these are called antiguas, which are kept in oratories or god houses (Dow 1986b:29; see also N. Thomas 1967).10 Personal gods are important for religious specialists (e.g., Ichon 1973:222). Frank Lipp (1991:150) notes that Mixe curers obtain a niwambi, or abogado, by means of a formal ceremonial petition and ensuing dream or vision, where it may appear in a number of distinct forms. A similar connection between the adept and a god can be seen in the talking saints of Chiapas. The saint, which may have been found in a cave (and may be a rock as well as an image or portrait), is stored in a wooden chest on the owner’s altar (Vogt 1969: 365). Such saints have the ability to cure, giving their owners great power. In Zinacantán, talking saint cults are actively suppressed by authorities. In Larráinzar, however, religious leaders are owners of talking saints, and the institution supports the established power structure (Bricker 1981:171, citing a communication from Jane F. Collier). Individualist practices are by no means excluded from Mesoamerican religious life.

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Nonplurality and the Problem of Difference We are now wise enough to realize that religions do not operate with seamless and systematic regularity and that any depiction of ‘‘reality’’ will bring with it special problems, if not contradictions. For Mesoamerica, characterized by a theology that focuses on the essential oneness of nature and experience, an obvious problem is how to explain particularities. A Quiché man (cited in Earle 1986:170) resolved the issue by arguing that humans have two souls, one that carries a distinct identity and the other that is part of a universal life force. The first, ‘‘sinner,’’ is located in the front of the body and goes to the Mundo at death to become an ancestor. The second, ‘‘guardian,’’ is at the back of the body and, after atoning for the sins of life, undergoes a kind of reincarnation and loses its prior identity. Another problem Mesoamerican theologies seem to confront grows out of their concept of deity. If the sacred is infinite and formless, how

can it be objectified and worshiped? The danger is that the ‘‘all’’ shades into ‘‘nothing.’’ Eva Hunt (1977:187, 203) believed that the theoretically infinite distinctions are limited by conventions, which appear to have been established by Precolumbian theologians attempting to fix dogma and as a consequence of writing them down. The argument that the distribution of knowledge was such that it was only an intellectual elite that really understood the pantheistic nature of the Mesoamerican gods seems weak at best, given the pantheism of contemporary Mesoamerican people.11 It is perhaps for this reason that there is an area-wide focus on surfaces. Inga Clendinnen (1991:233–234) gives the example of Xipe Totec, the Aztec deity portrayed as a naked man enveloped by a flayed human skin. We are inclined to identify the god with the living man within, viewing the enshrouding skin as an external thing. But Xipe Totec is the dead, enveloping skin (see also Hvidtfeldt 1958:140; López Austin 1973:119). Focusing on Mesoamerican idioms, then, what makes a god a god is the ‘‘skin’’ (Galinier 1990:619), the ‘‘bark’’ (Galinier 1990:619), the ‘‘head’’ (Alcorn 1984: 71–72), the ‘‘face’’ (Monaghan 1995:99), or the ‘‘mask,’’ as Otomí say of their paper figures (which Galinier [1990:182] translates as ‘rostro viviente’). These surfaces might be wooden or stone images, but also places, such as caves (which, for the Q’eqchi’, are the faces of the tzuultaq’as [Schackt 1984:18; R. Wilson 1995: 73–74]), altars (El Guindi 1977), lakes, rocky outcroppings, and hilltops. Vogt (1976:205) explains that in Tzotzil ba means ‘face’ when applied to people or gods and means ‘top’ when referring to a mountain, so that ‘‘when shamans are praying on top of the sacred mountains they are face to face with the gods.’’ Alfredo López Austin (1973:105–142) points out how select individuals could partake of the divine force and become a faithful replica of the god—or as he called it, the man-god (ixiptla). Ixiptla is also bark or skin, conveying the notion that the mangod is a living envelope of the god (López Austin 1973:119; Gruzinski 1989:22).12 Another way the pantheistic problem appears to be addressed is through the postu29

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 .  lation of a weaker or partial monism, in the sense that there are several realms of being, with only one substance within each realm. In the Popol Vuh creation occurred not through the partition of an original unity, but from dualities that already existed (D. Tedlock 1983). Also, a number of observers speak of a series of elemental forces, such as Earth, Fire, Life, Sun, Rain, Thunder, and Water (León-Portilla 1956: 98; Dow 1974, 1986b:25; Hanks 1990:342; Lipp 1991:26–27; Boremanse 1993:331; Monaghan 1995:357). These seem to be basic forces of creation, associated with cosmic divisions, places, social categories, and processes, and represent a higher order of generality than images, places, and persons who may embody them (see Dow 1996:196). They thus have a theistic quality to them, and Janis Alcorn labels them godpowers (1984:71–72). Yet even here distinctions may not be absolute, so that Earth and Sky become synonymous with the unity of existence (Sandstrom and Sandstrom 1986:276– 277; Lupo 1995:265). Nor is it clear whether these forces are reducible to one another or whether they are opposed and reducible only to the ultimate and transcendent of which they are a part. In many cases they are encompassed by a unity only at a very abstract level (e.g., Lipp 1991:26–27), which is the subject of little metaphysical speculation.

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R Many of the terms we use to describe religious phenomena in Mesoamerica either presuppose a certain conception of divinity or else universalize phenomena to a level where the particularity of local theology is lost from view. The way is now open for a serious rethinking of some of these categories, many of which originated in nineteenth-century and evolutionary theories of religion.13 Barbara Tedlock’s (1982:47–53) discussion of the use of the terms ‘‘priest’’ and ‘‘shaman’’ for Mesoamerican religious specialists is one example. Another term overdue for critical reconsideration is ‘‘ritual.’’ E. E. EvansPritchard notwithstanding, too often what is labeled as ritual by Mesoamericanists is based on a judgment about where an action lies on 30

some scale of practicality or on which side of an empirical/supernatural, spontaneous/fixed dichotomy it falls. Furthermore, the theories of ritual applied by anthropologists in the 1970’s and 1980’s held it to be social symbolism, or political theater, or a projection of some other ‘‘fundamental’’ reality; ritual is always about something other than itself. While such a view is necessary if we are to avoid reproducing the self-representations of a particular tradition, by ignoring local constructions we run the danger of reproducing the self-representations of our own. A good example of the way in which close attention to local idioms can enhance our understanding comes from the ‘‘house building rituals’’ described in ethnographies of the Maya area. In addition to leveling the house site, digging holes for the house posts, nailing on crossbeams, and thatching the roof, these accounts describe how the Maya involved may kill a turkey and paint crosses on the wall with its blood and a mixture of cacao and liquor. They may also dig a hole in the center of the house and place the heart of a chicken or turkey in it (Cabarrús 1979:72: Pacheco 1992:77, 79). In the Tzeltal community of Amatenango, the owners slaughter a sheep by hanging it head down on the center post and slitting its throat. The blood then pours down the post into a hole opened in the floor. The head of the sheep may also be buried in the hole (J. Nash 1970:16–17). It is clear that in making these offerings the house is considered a living thing. As Vogt points out, the construction has a soul, it is endowed with life (Vogt 1976:52–55, 58–59; see also Nash’s [1970:12–18] description, where the post hole is identified as sch’ulel na, ‘the house’s soul’). The same is true for the Q’eqchi’ (Pacheco 1992:78) and, parenthetically, for the Nahua, where items are given to the calyolot, ‘heart of the house’ (Lupo 1995:153). Furthermore, instead of saying that the turkey or sheep is an offering made to the god of the house, like an Old Testament blood sacrifice, it would be more accurate to say that it is a meal, fed to the house (e.g., J. Nash 1970:16–17; Carlson and Eachus 1977:49–50; Pacheco 1992: 167).14 According to the Maya involved, if such

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         a meal were not served, either the house would not remain standing or its inhabitants would be harmed. In other words, the act of feeding a house is not simply ceremonial or expressive, but a necessary step in its construction and maintenance. Just as no one would expect a horse or cow to thrive without being fed, so no one could expect a house to last without being properly maintained.15 Given this perspective, it would be hard to call the act of feeding a house an impractical activity (E. Hunt 1977: 215).16 This does not mean we should reduce ritual to technical activities, since what these examples involve is a distinct vision of how life —or value—is managed, maintained, and increased. What they do show, however, is that labeling an act as ‘‘ritual’’ too often begs the question of what it means to the people who perform it. The continuities between the world of the gods and the world of humans further problematize the category of ritual. In many places organizations of the gods parallel human institutions (e.g., Carrasco 1979:12). The Lacandon say that each god’s family structure is like their own and that most male gods have wives and children (McGee 1990:70). Among the Otomí, Santa Catarina is an evil god who lives in churches and is associated with corrupt officials. The church where she lives is therefore like the municipality (Dow 1986b:87–88). Following from these conceptions, many of the forms for interacting with the gods parallel social conventions. In places where the gods are conceived of as organized into a civil-religious hierarchy, people petition them in the same way they do hierarchy officials (e.g., Vogt 1976: 204; G. Cook 1986:139; Lipp 1991:28). Similarly, the balche ceremony, which defines a basic framework for all Lacandon ritual, mirrors a ceremony in which the gods make offerings to their creator (McGee 1990:73, 82–83), and the Otomí bribe Santa Catarina to get out of trouble, just as they would bribe corrupt officials (Dow 1986b:87–86). Durkheimian interpretations (1995) aside, what is significant is that people see their interactions with the gods as being based not on human social conventions, but on the gods’ primordial interactions with

one another and with humans (Williams García 1970:4/11; G. Cook 1986:139; Boremanse 1989: 87). Moreover, their mutual engagement is intense, almost as if gods and humans were members of a single moral community (Read 1994: 46–47) or participants in a universal structure of relationships (Bartolomé and Barabas 1982: 105). Among the Lacandon, the gods actually appeared before humans during religious ceremonies, when they came in person to receive the ritual offerings of food and drink (Boremanse 1993:333). What this suggests is that the Mesoamerican notion of society includes sacred figures. To put this another way, if the universe was not created separately from the deity, but emerged out of it, then society does not exist apart from the gods. Recall also that many of the sculpted figures worshiped are not simple representations, but the living god. This means that even though an act may be modeled on some primordial event, the procession, the pilgrimage, or the offering is truly, to use Mesoamerican idioms, a ‘‘meeting,’’ a ‘‘visit,’’ or a ‘‘meal.’’ As Victoria Bricker (1981:180) observed in her discussion of Carnival in Chiapas, Maya do not distinguish between rite and event. A line between ritual and social convention, or between ceremony and moral act, is sometimes exceedingly difficult to draw (Monaghan 1995: 15–16). Combined with this is a view that places a premium on the act. June Nash (1970:104) describes, for example, how each official in the cargo changeover ceremony in Amatenango must receive a drink. However, those who are teetotalers will perform the action of drinking —raising the cup to their lips—while not actually imbibing. She concludes that ‘‘the play is the thing.’’ Similarly, Barbara Tedlock (1982:6, 174) argues that knowing does not take precedence over acting for K’iche’ daykeepers, and religious instruction involves the teaching of practices (using Pierre Bourdieu’s term to suggest a unity of consciousness, social being, and human activity) more than it does ideas. The focus seems to be on performance and punctiliousness and rather less on will and motivation (Klor de Alva 1993:184). In this light it is interesting that many of the 31

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 .  names for what have been identified as ceremonies are verbs or nouns of action. Nahua speakers refer to rituals as xochitlalia, ‘to put down flowers’ (Sandstrom 1991:279). Among the Lacandon, there is a ritual named ‘‘to call the gods’’ held in face of a misfortune such as crop failure and another called ‘‘to pay the gods,’’ which ethnographers translate as ‘thanksgiving rite’ (V. Davis 1978:252; McGee 1990:73; for additional examples, see Hernández Cuellar 1982:69, 74, 76; Love 1986:12–13; McArthur 1987; Boot 1988). Rituals thus seem to be more than symbolic communication, since they are described as instrumental acts. William Hanks (1990:339) concludes after examining the reesar discourse of Yucatecan h-men that its ‘‘dynamic’’ is to alter states of affairs. H-men actually translates as ‘maker’ or ‘he who does’ and in the Colonial period referred to secular occupations as well as religious roles (Love 1986:45–49).17 Based on the ethnographic materials it would also be a mistake to view such acts as opposed to anything spontaneous or creative (Monaghan 1995:307–312). They certainly do not constitute a fixed canon. Fieldworkers report considerable variation not only between practitioners of the rituals of particular traditions, but also between one performance and the next by the same practitioner (Alcorn 1984:197; Love 1986: 13; Boege 1988:212; Lipp 1991:82). This ‘‘variation’’ can be seen as a consequence of Mesoamerican pantheism. If the manifestations of the sacred are potentially infinite, then prayers and rituals that address these manifestations will themselves be similarly fluid and variable. Indeed, the Mixe say precisely this: the number of rituals has no end. Although Lipp (1991:82– 83) feels that this is an exaggeration, he does observe that Mixe rituals are very numerous (see also Boremanse 1979:46; Boege 1988:212). If ritual is defined as action that is impractical, symbolic, supernatural, and/or fixed and routine, then its theological status is doubtful. Ethnographers at least have not been able to come up with an indigenous term that uniquely encompasses the actions we want to label as ritual. Again, based on the idioms people use to name and describe ceremonies, we see that 32

instead of officiating at a rite, practicing a ritual, or performing a ceremony, officiants are ‘‘feeding’’ or ‘‘straightening’’ or ‘‘sweeping.’’ Among the Mixe, rituals are simply called ‘‘work.’’ Thus there is the work for quarrels, work of the mountain, work of the dead (Lipp 1991:82). Likewise, in Yucatec the term ‘‘work’’ applies equally well to what the shaman is doing in performance, what the farmer is doing in the fields, and what a woman does in cleaning a house (Hanks 1990:364).18 This suggests that our efforts at understanding Mesoamerican religious acts can best be spent not on cataloging rituals, but on trying to understand the forms and strategies of Mesoamerican religiosity. R Nahua people say one should approach the gods with tlatlepanitalistli, ‘a sense of propriety,’ or ‘‘a recognition of the place that humans have in relation to the rest of the world’’ (Sandstrom 1991:255). Among the Maya, one should submit to the gods and acknowledge one’s utter dependence (Carlson and Eachus 1977:58). For the Mixtec, approaching the gods requires that one be kukuekani, ‘remorseful and humble’ (Monaghan 1995:213). In Yucatec, the proper form is ok’oh’ool, ‘begging’ (literally ‘weep-will’), an archaic expression used exclusively in petitions (Hanks 1990:243). Throughout Mesoamerica, prayers are accompanied by humbling behavior, wailing, or gentle weeping.19 Alain Ichon (1973:230–231) explains that Totonac speakers do not feel that prayer has efficacy in itself (as in Catholicism) but that it is used simply to ‘‘wake up’’ the divinity, calling its attention, even, if necessary, bothering it (see also Colby and Colby 1981:51). The noise and extravagant displays that usually occur in fiestas are also ways of attracting the gods’ attention. This is the purpose of food offerings in Zinacantán; they make the gods content and willing to listen (Vogt 1976:50). One might suppose that an aim of religious practice would be to achieve some sort of ultimate state. However, in Mesoamerica, an ultimate state—or states, since there is no one

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         single afterlife—is beyond one’s control. This can be seen in the idea that where one ends up in the afterlife is determined by the manner of one’s death, not by the life one has led.20 It can also be seen in the notion that the immortal part of the self eventually loses its distinctiveness, becoming part of a general category of ancestors or dead souls, eliminating personal salvation as a goal or rationale for action (J. Nash 1970:288; Wasserstrom 1983:77; Farriss 1984:328–329; Nutini 1988:313, 340– 342). As Roberto Williams García (1970:3/9) observes for the Tepehua afterlife, ‘‘it is neither heaven nor hell, only the place of the dead.’’ What does seem to inform Mesoamerican religiosity is concern about the here and now. Thus in Amatenango, religious behavior has two major goals: maintaining prosperity through the annual cycle of fiestas for the saints and protecting the community through avoidance of offense and making offerings to the gods (J. Nash 1970:197). Because it is so centered on averting evil through appropriate observances, Klor de Alva (1993:183) labels Nahua religion ‘‘apotropaic,’’ and William Taylor (1994:171), rather less technically, calls the practices of indigenous peoples of Michoacán an ‘‘applied Christianity.’’

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Propriety, Purity, and Order For Mesoamericans, everyday activities—eating and drinking, excavating house sites, tilling fields—require one to act in a way that violates bodily balance and annoys, disrupts, and offends the gods (e.g., Mondloch 1982:118; Lipp 1991:31; Kuroda 1993:140), who are in turn described as touchy, sensitive to being slighted, and quick to punish.21 Such violations are punished in the here and now (Sandstrom 1991: 321–322), usually in the form of illness, which is viewed as meted out by the gods (Aguirre Beltrán 1963:38–44; Carlson and Eachus 1977:39, 42–43). Transgressions are not identified through a moral calculus of good and evil. For the Nahua, ‘‘sin’’ was not so much wickedness as irresponsibility. By failing to balance surrounding forces or by allowing one inclination to overcome

others, one placed oneself, and those nearby, in danger. It was ‘‘the act linking desire to survival, not the Christian notion of sin, [that] was the object Nahuas focused on to make moral agents of themselves’’ (Klor de Alva 1993:186).22 The contours of moral action, moreover, are shaped through interaction with the gods. Nutini (1988: 147) argues that rural Tlaxcalans do not consider sin a transgression but ‘‘the failure of an individual to comply with what is . . . expected of him in his relationship with the supernatural, or with his obligations to his fellow human beings . . .’’ Recognizable acts of cleansing were described in earlier ethnographic accounts (e.g., Wisdom 1940:317–319), but it is only since the publication of the original Handbook that we have become aware of the significant role played by purity and pollution in Mesoamerican moral discourse.23 Although individuals undergoing any sort of life transition must be cleansed (Galinier 1990:653), death is the most polluting of events, contaminating those who come into contact with the deceased.24 In addition to requiring a set of bathings, washing of hands, sweeping, and cleansings (Ingham 1986:168), those in contact with the deceased may be required to change clothes (Boremanse 1993:346), and the house may be abandoned for two or three days to avoid an encounter with the dead spirit (Lipp 1991:133). Because the items owned by the deceased are full of impurities, Totonac place them in the grave or out in the forest (Ichon 1973:188). Chatino prohibit the widow of a deceased man from speaking to anyone but the closest members of the family, so she sits silently by the hearth for nine days, and all the items she uses must be disposed of (J. Greenberg 1981:104; Bartolomé and Barabas 1982:124; Cordero Avendaño 1986:82). In many areas, the deceased’s close kin cannot touch the body (Nutini 1988: 137). The danger generally lasts nine days, the time that it takes the deceased to travel to the place of the dead. Galinier (1990:212) even classifies the Otomí novenario as a rite of affliction. Not surprisingly, pollution and its purification are closely identified with sickness and its cure (Aguirre Beltrán 1963:44). 33

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 .  Sexual activity is also polluting. In Mixtec, the sexual act is sa’a kuachi, which bilingual Mixtec translate as ‘sinning’ but which might be better rendered, following Paul Ricoeur (1969), as ‘staining oneself ’ (see also B. Tedlock 1982:146; Galinier 1990:649–651; R. Wilson 1995:112). Although in some places it seems that women are by nature polluting (J. Nash 1970:272), in most cases the sexual act causes pollution, not anything that is essential to females. Thus among the Totonac widows are considered pure because they no longer have sex (Ichon 1973: 251), and among the Tepehua those who die before they are sexually mature do not have to be purified in the afterworld (Williams García 1970:12). Constant, if unwitting, offense makes expiation a fundamental part of Mesoamerican religiosity. The state of being kukuekani in Mixtec also implies one is seeking forgiveness (Monaghan 1995:214), as does weeping in Zinacantán, which Vogt (1976:50) compares to a child who cries and begs to be pardoned. The worshiper must therefore take care to avoid doing things that are offensive to the gods and must perform exercises to rid himself or herself of the impurities acquired in daily life. Sexual activity, for example, is usually banned. Cargo holders in some communities should not have sex during their term of office (P. Turner 1972; Cordero Avendaño 1986:175). Because Mazatec shamans must not engage in sex for long periods (up to fifty-two days at a stretch), they remain largely celibate (Boege 1988:173).25 As in many places in the world, bathing is an important purification technique. All Chatino ritual begins with a bath in the Río Manteca, followed by thirteen days of sexual abstinence (J. Greenberg 1981:85). The Great Seeing cure in Zinacantán requires the bathing of the shaman, patient, and sacrificial chicken in ‘‘flower water’’ scented with plants that are believed to be cultivated by the ancestral gods (Vogt 1976: 71–75; see also Ichon 1973:182; V. Davis 1978: 122–124; Burkhart 1989:116; McGee 1990:53). In addition to bathing with water, one may also ‘‘bathe’’ in the smoke of incense.26 Sweeping is another purifying act and can be performed with candles, flowers, paper fig34

ures, and incense burners as well as a broom.27 Sweeping is associated with bathing (see Dow 1986b:95) and sexual abstinence (as implied in Bricker 1973:112–113). It is common for curers to begin by sweeping the patient’s body. In one Nahua community, curers are simply called ‘‘sweepers’’ (Hernández Cuellar 1982: 118), and Chatino Tequitlatos, the priestly cargo officials in charge of maintaining holy objects and leading worship, are called ‘‘brooms’’ (Cordero Avendaño 1986:175–176). The sweeping instrument can be used to convey the pollution away from the body and is sometimes itself disposed of after the cure (e.g., Ichon 1973; Ingham 1986:168). The idea that purification is like the sweeping of dirt from a floor underscores the sense in which it is an act of ordering as well as cleansing (Douglas 1966). Thus hokwi in Otomí means ‘‘fixing up, tidying and arranging’’ as well as ‘‘cleaning’’ (Dow 1986b:93; see also Alcorn 1984:99; Burkhart 1989:117).28 An illness indicates that one is not only unclean, but also in a state of disorder. Huastec speakers describe the victim of witchcraft with a term that can be translated as ‘‘disordered’’ or ‘‘disoriented’’ (Alcorn 1984:190; see also Knab 1979: 135). Twistedness is another idiom for this state (Klein 1990–1991:82). It is interesting that the Nahua word chosen by the Spanish for wickedness ‘‘denotes frenzy or raving madness—an uncontrolled, disorderly state of emotion’’ (Burkhart 1989:39).29 Many ‘‘rituals’’ described in the ethnographic literature are acts by which spaces are made orderly. These may include processions or circuits of boundaries (Vogt 1976:179–189), but also very explicit acts of sweeping. In her discussion of the Chamula Carnival, Bricker (1973: 112–113) notes that before performing the actors pray at the door of the church and then sweep the marketplace, churchyard, and road to Calvary Hill. Often such acts are designed to draw a boundary between what is ordered and what is not. Mixe change-of-office ceremonies consist of nine days of sexual abstinence, offerings, prayers, and a closing of the roads into the village, to keep out illness and evil (Carrasco 1966; Lipp 1991:141). Hanks (1990:364) ob-

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         serves that in Yucatec Maya villages the maintenance of any socially constituted space requires a cleaning by sweeping. As this perhaps implies, impropriety/pollution/disorder has an important spatial dimension. Places that are especially impure or disordered or likely to be the settings of impropriety are forests and wild areas, peripheries, and rocky outcroppings. Among the Colonial and Preconquest Nahua, these sites were populated by ‘‘lords of the dangerous places.’’ With the Spanish Conquest these spirits, along with other gods, were demonized (Ingham 1986: 181–182), and today dangerous places are often spoken of as the abode of figures who share characteristics with the Christian demon (e.g., Ichon 1973:440; Ruz 1982:63; Ingham 1986: 103–104). Yet even though the Devil’s association with dogs, whirlwinds, and bridges, as well as the market mentality, is also true of his counterpart in folk Europe (Ingham 1986:109), he is additionally identified with substances defined by Mesoamericans as dirty or polluting. Disorderly places are opposed to town centers (Alcorn 1984:117) and the house, which, with its square shape, four corners, and central hearth, is a paradigm of order and a model of the cosmos (Guiteras-Holmes 1961: 282, 286; Vogt 1976:11; Klein 1982; Lok 1987).30 Houses and cornfields are conceptually linked, so that agricultural fields are also ideals of order (Guiteras-Holmes 1961:282, 286; Vogt 1976: 58–59; J. Greenberg 1981:84; Hanks 1990:316). Acts of ordering space can be like the creation of a house. Thus when Huastec women dance in a circle around men, they become the posts of a house and sustain the world, with the men inside (Lomnitz-Adler 1992:208; see also Ochiai 1985:43). Similarly, purification can require a long stay inside a house, in combination with other austerities (García de León 1969). Time and space intersect in Mesoamerican notions of order and disorder. Disorderly and dangerous spaces, such as caves and barrancas, can, at fiesta time, become sacred spaces (Ingham 1986:105). Likewise, what is orderly space during the day can become disorderly and dangerous at night (Watanabe 1992:63). Hanks’ (1990:216) analysis of sites such as the home-

stead and milpa as phases in a single spatiotemporal system, rather than distinct kinds of space, can be applied here as well. In addition to ordering spaces, contact with the gods requires an ordering of social relations. For the Mixe, cip, ‘quarrel,’ is a major cause of illness and includes all forms of conflict. If a quarrel breaks out during a celebration, the participating gods become annoyed and may cause those involved to become ill (Lipp 1991: 44–45, 154–155; see also B. Tedlock 1992:62; R. Wilson 1995:68–69). Among the Chatino, the Tequitlatos or ‘‘human brooms’’ must not only abstain from sex during their period of service, but also avoid conflicts (Cordero Avendaño 1986:177). Generally, that which is physically polluting also disrupts the social order. Thus the dead who die in a ‘‘disorderly’’ way (often said to have died ‘‘outside the house’’) are represented in dance performances by devils, wild Indians, grasping rich people, and Mestizos (Ichon 1973:433, 435; Monaghan 1995:152– 165). As this suggests, outsiders are often identified as forces of disorder and pollution (Taggart 1983:67–68). Given the role social relations play in conceptions of health and illness, it is not perhaps surprising that an ailment provokes a search for social causes, often accompanied by a promise of payment to the offended deity (Boremanse 1993:336). This may involve public confessions (Ichon 1973:253). One priest complained about his Tzeltal parishioners, who confess only if they have suffered some misfortune (above all sickness) and only before local curers and principales. If they are found to have committed sin, the response is physical: generally a lashing. Otherwise, if they are in good health, they consider themselves not to have committed any sin (Maurer-Avalos 1984:107–108). Burkhart (1989: 98–101) reminds us that whereas Christians treated the relationship between physical and moral pollution as metaphor, Nahua treated it as metonym. Tlazolli, ‘pollution,’ included not only moral pollution, but also common dirt, so that transgressions actually dirtied the liver, and one might end up homeless and dressed in rags.31 In an example from the Mixteca, snakes appear when someone engages in illicit sex. 35

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 .  We should be careful not to see cleansing and purification only as a move from a state of evil or illness to one of goodness or health (e.g., Burkhart 1989:37–38, 187; Klor de Alva 1993: 184). On the one hand, Mesoamerican conceptions of pollution typically frame it as excess rather than fault. Thus, the ideal among the Chatino is that a person should be in between. Sexual acts, for example, should be counterbalanced by sexual abstinence (J. Greenberg 1981:99). Also, people in a state of pollution may simultaneously be described as ‘‘hot’’ or ‘‘cold,’’ indicating that notions of purity and pollution are cross-cut by hot-cold models of illness and disequilibrium. On the other hand, pollution is not always negative. For the Aztec, dirt did not necessarily mean immorality, but a kind of dangerous power, and priests specialized in manipulating it (Burkhart 1989:97–98), as do alféreces in Larráinzar, who avoid washing for a month prior to their feast (Ochiai 1985: 75).32 Mixtec even identify a class of remedies called tatan kini, ‘polluting medicine.’ These are things such as kerosene, mothballs, and excrement that when applied to one’s body dirty it, making the god that has grabbed one’s soul so revolted that it will release it (Monaghan 1995: 161).33 Nor are the gods, their shrines, or churches always conceived of as pure (Vogt 1976:206; Flanet 1977:108–109); purity would have robbed them of their power to disrupt and create (Burkhart 1989:124).34 This is why acts of cleansing often occur after a ceremony—it is contact with the gods that places one in danger (e.g., Ichon 1973:248–249; V. Davis 1978: 122–124; Alcorn 1984:200–201). The fact that the ultimate source of pollution is wind or aire makes it a kind of cosmic power (Burkhart 1989: 95; Monaghan 1995:137–166),35 and the process of purifying/ordering then involves the return of the disrupting force to a safe place (e.g., Hanks 1990:347–348).

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Debt and Merit The interaction between humans and the gods has often been characterized as reciprocal. Rituals, for example, are described as instances 36

of a continual round of exchanges that unite humans and the gods (e.g., Boege 1988:209– 210; Sandstrom 1991:312–313; Edmonson 1993: 83–84). On the one side, humans receive health, protection, and prosperity (Ichon 1973: 241; J. Greenberg 1981:122–123; Watanabe 1990b:134; Slade 1992:149). On the other side, the gods receive care and ceremonial attention (Burkhart 1989:142; Slade 1992:149), being fed candles, incense, flowers, and corn (Watanabe 1990b:134; R. Wilson 1995:106–107). Individuals and groups have reciprocal relationships, with the saints (Farriss 1984:331), of course, but also with mountains, which provide them with wealth and prosperity (Galinier 1990:562; R. Wilson 1995:76–77). It is often said that clouds issue from mountains, and mountains are associated with lightning, rain, and fertility (Ruz 1982:63–64; Grigsby 1986; Nutini 1988:229–230; Galinier 1990:555). Like saints, mountains are loci of identity, and communities are sometimes named after them (Farriss 1984:331; Salazar Peralta 1993:290; R. Wilson 1995:55).36 Mountains may also correspond to larger groupings. Among the Otomí, there are regional mountains, community mountains, and localized mountains (often paired as senior/ junior or male/female) (Galinier 1990:551– 552; see also Sandstrom 1991:241–244). Deified mountains may delimit ethnic boundaries (R. Wilson 1995:308–311) and in some places are spoken of as forming a protective wall (Hostnig and Vásquez Vicente 1994:165–166). The use of an idiom of exchange to define the relationship of humans to gods is an old one in anthropology. Marcel Mauss (1990), after all, saw in sacrifice the primitive origins of gift exchange, which in turn led to modern forms of contract. But the Mesoamerican material suggests there is much more to say. If one examines Mesoamerican idioms, humandivine interactions are consistently defined in alimentary terms.37 Items offered are human food, symbolic of human food, or special items, such as candles, that gods eat; Rosendo Hernández Cuellar (1982:53) simply calls them ‘‘comida ofrenda.’’ Thus Mazatec offerings of feathers symbolize chickens and eggs, and short lengths of hollow cane symbolize cups of atole

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         to drink. The idea seems to be that the offerings constitute a banquet (Boege 1988:193– 194; see also Kelly 1966:401; Ichon 1973:242– 243; V. Davis 1978:132). Furthermore, these items are associated with the human organism. Food made of corn represents human flesh in Lacandon offerings, and red dye represents blood (V. Davis 1978:149, 177; McGee 1990: 84–85). Among the Q’eqchi’, copal is identified with blood (R. Wilson 1995:72, 107). In Zinacantán, planting candles before saint and mountain shrines symbolizes an offering of a human life, since candles stand for people (Vogt 1976: 50).38 In many areas, the offering itself is discussed not just as an act of reciprocity, but specifically as a substitution—for a human life. Alessandro Lupo reports that chickens offered in Nahua curing ceremonies are called the iixpatca or ‘replacement’ for the human patient (Lupo 1995:168). The same is true of the Tzotzil, where the chicken is the shk’eshol, ‘representative,’ or slok’ol, ‘image,’ of the patient (Gossen 1986a:241–242; Köhler 1995:66; see also Love 1986:12). In Zinacantán, there is a spot called ‘‘the place of the substitute’’ for the sacrifice of chickens. In the Great Seeing cure, chickens are explicitly called substitutes or replacements (Vogt 1976:91). As in ancient times, the relationship between the person and his or her substitute is phrased in kinship terms (Gossen 1986a:241–242). In many origin accounts, humans were created to worship the gods (e.g., Boremanse 1993: 330). Indeed, the provision of food and devotional devices such as prayers, praises, music, and dance to the gods are usually classified as a kind of obligatory service, and there are close associations between ‘‘sacrifice’’ and cargo service (Ingham 1984; Slade 1992:28, 117; Monaghan 1995:247–255). Zinacantán cargo holders, for example, are called ‘‘substitutes.’’ Vogt (1976: 92) says it is because they substitute for ancestral gods who held these positions in ancient times, but also offers the following analogy: just as the chicken sacrifices its life for the patient, so cargo holders sacrifice for the sake of the gods and community. Eva Hunt (1977:89) concludes from data

such as these that creation placed humans in a phagohierarchy with the present race of humankind ‘‘one step below ancestors, cultural heroes, and gods, and above all other animals, in the ladder of power, merit, and perfection . . . While lower orders of animals ate one another and plants, and man ate all of them, the gods ate men to subsist.’’ Echoes of this can be seen in the Mixteca, where one woman compared humans to domestic fowl, waiting to be slaughtered and eaten by the gods (Monaghan 1995: 226).39 Using the term ‘‘reciprocity’’ here seems at best awkward. After all, what generally distinguishes the gods from humans is their power (e.g., González Villanueva 1989:34). The Mixtec term often translated as sacred, ií, in addition to being used for the gods, feast days, and offerings, is also used for things that are fragile and individuals with prickly personalities, suggesting danger and contingency rather than absolute sacredness. Similarly, teo, the root of the Nahuatl term teotl, can be rendered as ‘force’ or ‘potency’ (López Austin 1993:143–144, 148; Read 1994:45).40 If one fails to make offerings, one risks punishment (sickness or the ultimate sanction, death) (Boege 1988:209–210; McGee 1990:47; Slade 1992:28) by gods who are ‘‘dangerous,’’ ‘‘jealous,’’ ‘‘vindictive’’ (J. Nash 1970:324), and ‘‘tyrannical’’ (Galinier 1990:150; Ichon [1973:265] goes so far as to call the gods of the Totonac a ‘‘panteón opresor’’)—no connotations of equality or free association here. While the idea of a cosmic food chain may capture the power gods have over humans, it does not capture the symmetry that is also present: the gods may consume humans, but humans also consume the divine. Miguel LeónPortilla (1993:49–50) cites a Nahuatl text that shows that while the gods can be ‘‘Our Mother, Our Father,’’ because they act to provide for our existence, humans can also become ‘‘the mother and father’’ of the gods, by providing offerings (see also Colby and Colby 1981:231; Chevalier and Buckles 1995:226–227). Borrowing from discussions of sacrifice, one might move beyond reciprocity, by describing this relationship as a kind of communion (e.g., R. Wilson 1995: 75–76), which no doubt facilitated the identification of Christ with corn (Gruzinski 1989: 37

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 .  142). But instead of communion, reciprocity, or phagohierarchy, perhaps a better term for the relationship would be ‘‘covenant’’ (e.g., Carmagnani 1988; Nutini 1988:233, 428–429). A covenant is a deep and enduring pact, as opposed to the sometimes trivial and transitory bond created by a reciprocal exchange. It also connotes mutual obligation, as opposed to the one-sided and unidirectional notion of a phagohierarchy. Finally, a covenant involves a bestowal of grace or a great promise. In the ethnographic literature this promise often arises out of the fact that the living Earth is what provides for human life, but humans, in the course of tilling and weeding, do it great harm. When humans first attempted to clear the land, they were frustrated, often by the Earth causing trees to grow overnight in the fields. It was only when the two sides agreed to suffer and die for one another—the Earth as humans till it, and humans as we die and are consumed by the Earth—that agriculture, and civilized life, became possible.41 Again we see that it is a covenant of mutual obligation, phrased in an alimentary idiom (Carlson and Eachus 1977:39; Earle 1986:163), that allowed humans to do what they otherwise could not. Offerings and prayers generally refer to this covenant and are designed to call forth the outcomes which it promises (Monaghan 1995:222–232).42 The gift of agriculture and the enlargement of human life that flow from this are thus said in some areas to have been conditioned by sacrifice (Ingham 1984; Klein 1987:295–297; Read 1994:53).43 It should be emphasized that the acts of the first humans did not place them in a condition of sin, even though they caused the Earth to suffer. It was not their transgression that created the condition, but the agreement they entered into. This is often spoken of as a kind of existential encumbrance. For this reason K’iche’ feel they are born not with original sin, but with original debt. Even the root of their word for life (k’aslem) means ‘debt’ (Earle 1986:170, 172; see also Kampen 1981:13–14). Offerings of items to the gods, then, can be a prorogation of what is the ultimate reckoning—in effect a ‘‘replacement’’ (see Broda 1987; Clendinnen 1991:75; Lupo 1995:168). Furthermore, people are often 38

explicit that their offerings are no more than a token levy and in no way cancel out what is owed. The notion that the human situation is due not to ignorance, nor to original sin, but to a condition of unrepayable debt can perhaps also be seen in the idea that what is owed is transmitted from one generation to the next. Throughout Mesoamerica, it is held that one can inherit ‘‘sins’’ from one’s ancestors. This is the way Mam speakers explain persistent affliction (Wagley 1949:76; also Koizumi 1981; Watanabe 1992:190). Similarly, among the Mixe, poky, which Lipp says is something one accumulates through violations of taboos, such as having sex in a cornfield or arguing on holy days, does not disappear at death. Like a debt, it is transmitted bilaterally (Lipp 1991:154).44 Debt is only one dimension of the covenants between humans and the gods. León-Portilla (1993:42–46) points out that the Nahuatl word tlamacehua, ‘merit,’ appears with surprising regularity in religious texts. The paradigm for tlamacehua are the acts of self-sacrifice the gods performed when they gathered at Teotihuacán to reestablish the world. Through these acts they sought to deserve the creation of the Sun, Moon, and humankind. The term macehualtin, which León-Portilla (1993:43) translates as ‘that which is deserved by the god’s penance,’ thus became synonymous with human being. But if the gods merited the creation of humans, humans must deserve or empower themselves to obtain what they need to exist through the performance of tlamacehualiztli, the offering of blood and life to the gods (LeónPortilla 1993:42–46; Read 1998:203, 246–247). The idea of merit makes the covenantial relationship expansive, in that it allows it to be linked to all sorts of desired processes (see León-Portilla 1993:42–46 for examples).45 The Nahua blamed their high death rate during the sixteenth century on their failure to carry out penance and sacrifice (Burkhart 1989:148; see also Deiner 1978:98; Boremanse 1993:338).46 Relationships of debt and merit are sometimes particularized and personalized in an almost theistic way. It can happen, for example, that a Lacandon god who is not represented in a

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         temple will make its owner ill in order to have that person worship it (Boremanse 1993:333; see also E. Hunt 1977:171). People may have similar relationships with mountains, such as the Tezitlazcs or ‘‘weatherman’’ in Tlaxcala, who has a special relationship with La Malintzi and El Cuatlapanga, both of whom are associated with rain and fertility (Nutini 1988:227). The same is true of hunters, farmers, and individuals who want a quick route to wealth (e.g., Ruz 1982:64; Watanabe 1992:76). At death, people such as these are assimilated by the god (Earle 1986:168; Galinier 1990:553) and may serve as special intermediaries between the god and those still alive (Nutini 1988:232–233). By viewing humans and the gods as bound to one another in a covenant of debt and merit, we also retain the sense of inherent inequality suggested in the term ‘‘phagohierarchy.’’ Humans may eat the gods, but it is the gods who do most of the eating. In the ancient Near East, the making of a covenant was generally an act of power, granting rights in return for obedience and obligation. It is not surprising then that the alimentary idiom that informs Mesoamerican covenants is also broadly used to describe a stronger person dominating a weaker one (Taggart 1983:72; Monaghan 1995:225– 226). In some areas, the relationship between humans and the gods assumes the form of landlord and tenant, particularly in the case of Earth deities (Deiner 1978:108; G. Cook 1986:139; González Villanueva 1989:34; R. Wilson 1995: 76). We thus see offerings glossed as ‘‘payment’’ and, perhaps more to the point, ‘‘tribute’’ (Ichon 1973:241; Boege 1988:190–191; Lipp 1991:84– 85; Lupo 1995:169–170). Payments are for the use of the land and other resources (Vogt 1976: 56; Hanks 1990:361) since they belong to the gods (Ichon 1973:241; McGee 1990:xii). In other areas, the relationship assumes the form of that between high cargo officials and other members of the community (Hermitte 1964, 1970; Williams García 1970:9; E. Hunt 1977: 278; Lipp 1991:28). Older forms of ranking are superimposed on more recent ones, so that one sees traces of the old indigenous nobility— who in some areas continued to own landed estates into the second half of the nineteenth

century. In Otomí, both antiguas and saints are called zidãhmũ, translated as ‘revered great lord’ (Dow 1996:196; see also Schackt 1984:20– 23). It is true that the idea that sacred relationships are informed by debt and merit has been a basis for ideological constructions. Combined with the popular attention given to ecstatic practices and the extremes of violence reached by ancient sacrificers, this might leave the impression that Mesoamerican religions represent an extreme case of mystification. Yet at the same time they often express a deep skepticism about the idea of a Christian afterlife, ruled over by supernaturals of absolute perfection whose only concern is to uphold universal moral codes and right all wrongs. Religion in Mesoamerica, as in other places, may objectify dominant hierarchies, yet at the same time it presents real alternatives to them. R  H In his article on religion in the original Handbook, E. Michael Mendelson (1967) divided rituals into three types: purely pagan, Christopagan, and Christian. While he based ethnological categories on a process of syncretism and eventual acculturation, we now understand that religious change cannot be characterized simply in terms of two discrete traditions meeting and blending with one another.47 After examining the broad sweep of Colonial and nineteenth-century history in Yucatan, Nancy Farriss (1984:295) cautions that Spanish Catholicism and Mesoamerican religion represented richly complex multilayered systems that interacted at a variety of levels. There is thus the realization that the clergy were not consistent in what and how they presented Christianity (Burkhart 1989:187), that church evangelization strategies and emphasis on parts of doctrine varied considerably over time (e.g., Gruzinski 1989:98, 108–109), and that what was considered orthodox Christianity was by no means constant from one century to the next. This last factor could give rise to the ironic situation—by no means confined to the past— where practices that had originally been taught 39

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 .  by the church were defended by Mesoamerican people against the same church at a later time.48 Finally, there is a consensus—although it is not matched by much empirical research —that many groups participated in the development of Mesoamerican forms of religiosity, including poor Spanish workers and Africans from the Gulf coast in Veracruz, who themselves practiced unorthodox forms of Christianity (Ichon 1973:168).49 Absent from this discussion, which seems to assume that commonalities in religious expression are either from a shared Precolumbian heritage or the common influence of outside factors, is an ongoing dialog among Mesoamerican people themselves, although this is described ethnographically and can involve the crossing of political and linguistic boundaries (e.g., Cayetano 1982; Ruz 1982:223–225; W. Adams 1991; Sandstrom 1991:303; Watanabe 1992:210; Lupo 1995:66). This rich and complex history, coupled with a fuller understanding of colonialism and a waning commitment to a view of the world as made up of discrete, bounded cultures, has given questions about the origins of different beliefs and practices a backseat to questions about the organization of power, accommodation and resistance, local constructions of colonialist culture, the creation of new identities and expressions of local interests, and the strategic manipulation of religious practices, as well as their critique in the light of new choices. Although the result is still characterized in syncretistic images that leave the Indian as the dependent modifier (e.g., ‘‘Indian Christianity’’), the idea is that boundaries are, if not imponderables, then potentially distorting.50 As Serge Gruzinski (1989:100) explains, ‘‘the dividing line did not run between Christianity and indigenous paganism, but much more between what Indians considered to be in their sphere, their religious domain—confraternities and brotherhoods, holy images, churches, chapels, oratories, feasts, patron saints, springs, mountains, Prehispanic objects—and all the rest, whether Catholic or Indian.’’ Recent studies of the cargo system provide 40

a good example of how a sophisticated ethnohistory has enhanced our understanding of Mesoamerican belief and practice. The ‘‘classic’’ form of the cargo system (a ranked hierarchy of offices dedicated to civil and religious activities, usually involving costly fiesta sponsorships) had long been considered an ancient Mesoamerican institution, as basic to social and religious life as caste is to India or lineage to Africa. Communities lacking these organizations were believed to be undergoing transformative change, often referred to as ladinoization. Historical research has shown instead that the civil-religious hierarchies described by ethnographers did not emerge until relatively recently—in many cases as late as the nineteenth century (Wasserstrom 1978; J. Rus and R. Wasserstrom 1980; Chance and Taylor 1985). In its earliest version, the cargo system was composed of civil posts, drawn for the most part from the Spanish model of the cabildo, with the top offices occupied by members of the indigenous nobility and lower-ranking offices by commoners. Religious sodalities, or cofradías, became important later, in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, often because they could be used to shield communal property from rapacious Colonial officials (Farriss 1984). Historically, then, the key to understanding cofradías is their property management functions, something that was not apparent to modern ethnography, which developed in an era when collectively owned assets had eroded. The loss of these assets, coupled with a lessening and eventual effacement of status differences between nobles and commoners, led to a shift in financial responsibility for fiestas to households and the merger of civil and religious posts into a single hierarchy. Chance and Taylor (1985:22; Chance 1990) thus refer to the classic form of the cargo system (or as it sometimes has been called the ‘‘traditional’’ form) as the ‘‘modern’’ or ‘‘twentieth-century’’ version. In addition to showing that the ethnographic form of the cargo system is a temporally restricted development, recent work indicates that it was a specialized one, suggesting that we

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         have elevated certain cases to the status of a universal. Research shows that there were significant regional differences with regard to structural developments in the cargo system, the timing of change, and the precipitating factors that led to change. All this has made either/or debates about the functions of the cargo system, its articulation with the larger society, and its role in economic arrangements seem simplistic (Chance and Taylor 1985). Nor should the presence or absence of a cargo system be taken as an index of Indianness. Often the strength of a particular system has as much to do with the political interests of local caciques as it does with a socio-religious conservatism on the part of participants (Chamoux 1987). Following the old Weberian dictum (1964) that religion can be a force to bring about change, many historical studies, informed by the twin interests of recovering indigenous mentalités and understanding indigenous peoples as active agents in history, have focused on the long line of millennial movements that have challenged established regimes in Mesoamerica (e.g., Bricker 1981; Sullivan 1984; Gruzinski 1989; Bartolomé and Barabas 1990; Dürr 1991; Gosner 1992). This research has shown that authority of leaders is often legitimated in religious terms. This may include conceptions of power that have their origins in the sacred or cases where authority is derived from the leader’s position in a religious organization. Closely related to this is the mobilization of individuals through religious means. This may involve the definition of collective goals in religious terms or the organization of people in religious groups. Often such mobilization is coupled with indigenous forms of religiosity that articulate clear-cut notions of inclusion and exclusion. James Taggart (1983:108), for example, in comparing the mythology of two Nahua communities, finds that the one that most closely identifies Hispanics with the Devil is the one that contains in its center a core of Mestizos who dominate commercial and political life. Yet as Taggart (1983:145) points out, there exists a high level of identification with Mestizos and a receptivity to the religious per-

sonalities and ideology of Hispanics. Indeed, many of the religiously inspired movements do not repudiate Christian forms, but the control of Christianity by Hispanics (Bricker 1979).51 Conversion While ethnohistoric studies provide models for an examination of the contemporary situation, they usually start with an assumption that does not hold today: that the force for religious change comes primarily from the Catholic Church, whose institutions and practices are synonymous with colonialism. Change today must be seen as related to a diverse set of socioeconomic, political, and cultural processes. Furthermore, as Claudio LomnitzAdler (1992:217–218) observes, efforts at relating Prehispanic religion to Catholicism have expanded to include the often sociologically more significant ‘‘syncretism’’ that has occurred between state cults and symbols and local religion (see also Friedlander 1981:133–134, 140– 141) or between urban and rural society (see Galinier 1990:471–472; Monaghan 1995:335– 355), although this process still does not receive the attention it deserves. Studies that correlate religious reaffiliation with broad measures of socioeconomic and personal change seem less compelling than they once did. Even a cursory review of this literature shows that the list of reasons invoked for conversion encompasses virtually every personal, micro-, and macro-level change that has occurred in Mesoamerica over the last fifty years. While some of these developments may be causes in a necessary sense, one wonders —given the fact that massive economic and political changes occurred in the nineteenth and early twentieth century as well—if any of them is sufficient. Surely a factor like increasing prosperity can just as often cause ‘‘traditional’’ religion to floresce or—to borrow a term used by Nutini for the extreme elaboration of Todos Santos ofrendas in rural Tlaxcala—become ‘‘baroque’’ (Nutini 1988:207; for other examples, see Good Eshelman 1988; Schryer 1990:160–161). Such examples also suggest that 41

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 .  we should be suspicious of arguments that depict ‘‘traditional’’ beliefs and practices as inherently unable to provide a moral context for new lifeways. Rather than relate the emergence of new religious affiliations to broad (and vague) socioeconomic and personal changes, the ethnographic literature has tended to focus on how these changes are mediated by local conditions, group characteristics, and religious expectations (see W. Smith 1977; Falla 1978b; Scotchmer 1986, 1993; Annis 1987; Garma Navarro 1987; Juárez Cerdi 1989; Stoll 1993). In Guatemala, for example, state violence has played a role, since evangelicals were seen as allied with the military and membership was considered a way of demonstrating one’s allegiance to the state (e.g., Manz 1988; B. Tedlock 1992; Stoll 1993). The desire for prestige and personal power afforded by leadership positions within new denominations is also mentioned. Many ethnographic accounts document how the character and goals of a committed missionary or reform-minded priest can have an inordinate impact on local religious practices (e.g., Romer 1982:99; Juárez Cerdi 1989:189; Lipp 1991:51–52).52 Certainly missionary presence in rural areas of Mesoamerica, along with an unprecedented freedom of religious choice (see Reina and Schwartz 1974), distinguishes the current period from any other. Fortunately, sober depictions of missionary ideology, conversion techniques, and historical impacts are beginning to appear along with polemical screeds in the social science literature. Catholic personnel have attempted to counter other faiths by emphasizing religious instruction, including the teaching of orthodox interpretations of the Christian symbols that may exist in local cults. However, such efforts may be accompanied by a campaign against unorthodox beliefs and practices (Brintnall 1979b). It is clear that such activities have to be distinguished from the acceptance of what reformers have to offer, since success in the one does not necessarily lead to success in the other. Often the most effective forces in the campaign against nonorthodox practices are local activists, who develop programs that would probably 42

not occur to an outsider or which an outsider would not be allowed to implement (e.g., Hernández Cuellar 1982:99–104; Watanabe 1992: 202–205; Scotchmer 1993:512). The demonization of nonorthodox elements of belief continues to be employed by all groups. The way in which gender informs the process of conversion has not been a research focus, even though there can be marked differences in male and female participation (e.g., Scotchmer 1993:512). What in fact constitutes conversion, either in the mind of the analyst or for those involved, is not always made explicit. It is clear that conversion must be kept separate from reaffiliation. Local allegiances can prevent a change in religious affiliation, even though an ‘‘ideological’’ conversion has occurred, as in the Maya town of Zunil (Goldin and Metz 1991). At the other end of the spectrum, reaffiliation can mean little in terms of people’s daily religious practice, as in Chamula, where leaders decided to convert the whole community to the Mexican Orthodox Church after a dispute with the local Catholic regime (Earle 1990:127). As in the Colonial period, the fact that many local practices are not explicitly un-Christian has meant that missionaries and converts see nothing wrong in age-old beliefs and practices, such as the Maya Protestants in Yucatan who continue to participate in Chac celebrations (Jiménez Castillo 1993:224) or the Zoque Seventh Day Adventists who hold a belief in the coessential nature of human existence (Reyes Gómez 1988:357– 358). A changing attitude among church leaders may also encourage continuities. Although the religious model advocated by most missionaries is distinctly foreign (Falla 1978b:43; Warren 1978:94; R. Wilson 1995:200–201), and most churches continue to be controlled by nonindigenous people (Scotchmer 1993:505), at least some missionaries draw a distinction between the Western culture of Christianity and a more fundamental level of belief, or ‘‘God’s truth,’’ suggesting that, in their missionary zeal, leaders may make the mistake of overlooking or prohibiting local expressions of the latter if they are not expressed in familiar guises (e.g., Marzal 1994:18–22).

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         Although much more work needs to be done on what conversion means to the people involved—the role of language and translation in the dynamics of religious change, which has shed so much light on conversion in the Colonial period, is only just being examined for the contemporary peoples—it has become increasingly difficult to see it as a straightforward theological change from one type of religion to another. Ethnographic studies often document a reinterpretation of Christian ideas and institutions in terms of local culture and social relations (Koizumi 1981; Bastian 1983; Stoll 1990:85, 112–113; Watanabe 1992:212), and we see the same kind of opportunistic selectivity and creativity on the part of indigenous peoples as in the Colonial period (e.g., Falla 1978b:126; Boege 1988:214–215; Reyes Gómez 1988:170; Juárez Cerdi 1989: 193; Stephen and Dow 1990b:16; Boremanse 1993:332). Thus Carlos Garma Navarro (1987: 164–165) found that Totonac evangelical pastors have recast standard conversion stories in terms of shamanic calls. These pastors then claim the ability to cure, which is an important element in building a following. He calls the result an ‘‘Indian Protestantism.’’ On a more general level, Jean-Pierre Bastian feels that orthodox Protestant organizations will soon be in the same position vis-à-vis popular Latin American Protestantism as the Catholic Church is with popular Latin American Catholicism (Bastian 1993:53). He suggests that we conceive of these changes as a ‘‘redeployment’’ of popular forms of rural Catholicism, freed from priestly control (Bastian 1993:35). Framing the issue of conversion as a reconstrual of one creed in terms of another may itself be an oversimplification, presenting us with many of the same conceptual problems as syncretism. It is not uncommon, for example, for people to join and quit several different groups over the course of their lives (e.g., Hernández Castillo 1989:156), even returning to ‘‘costumbre’’ religion (B. Tedlock 1992:210), making the process seem more like a highly personal spiritual journey.53 Moreover, the flow of personnel among sects means that terms such as ‘‘Protestant,’’ ‘‘Catequista,’’ or ‘‘traditionalist’’

mask a great deal of diversity (Garma Navarro 1987:162–163; Bastian 1993:40–42; Watanabe 1996). Ethnographic work has also revealed some of the ways in which religious affiliation enters into the construction of groups and identities (Warren 1978; Earle 1990:132–133; Sandstrom 1991:361).54 Christian creeds express the communal values professed by Mesoamerican peoples (Stephen and Dow 1990b:2, 15–16; Goldin and Metz 1991:334), both aiding in the adoption of a Christian activist ideology (Stephen and Dow 1990b:16) and strengthening local religion (Kray n.d.). Many have also pointed out that conversion can be a strategic form of individual and/or group protest (e.g., Sexton 1978; Slade 1992:42). Among the Totonac, it was a way of rejecting political and economic arrangements that are controlled through local religion (Garma Navarro 1987). Such movements may thus provide an organizational basis for political mobilization and a creed that overtly challenges established hierarchies (e.g., Schryer 1990:185–186). The transformative promise of new faiths is often their main appeal (Stoll 1990), and the millennial character of some sects has been noted (Bastian 1993:54; Marroquín Z. 1994:218). Of course, religious doctrines have been used to promote causes from across the political spectrum. It seems clear from these data that our best option for understanding the diverse, fluid, and nuanced Christianity that has emerged over the past decades remains an ethnographic focus on localities (whose strength is the key to understanding any sort of process in Mesoamerica) coupled with a view that people can be active agents in the creation of meaning and selection of religious choices. However, the consequences of reaffiliation and conversion for local groups should not be overlooked. It may be that the emergence of different religious affiliations where none before existed gives rise to conflicts, especially in communities where religious activity is inseparable from civic activity (e.g., Earle 1990:125–127). The newly emergent religious minority may also find itself the target of discrimination, as in Larráinzar, where officials threatened a small, peaceful 43

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 .  Protestant group with expulsion, only a short time after these same leaders had driven out the Ladinos and expropriated Ladino property (Ochiai 1985:170). Newly introduced religions or breakaway sects may distribute along and intensify the lines of preexisting cleavages, such as ethnic lines (Scotchmer 1986:206; Garma Navarro 1987:114–115; Sandstrom 1991:361– 363), generational divisions (Falla 1978b:136; Garma Navarro 1987:114–116; Wilk 1991:170; R. Wilson 1995:203), political parties (Garma Navarro 1987:162–163; Slade 1992:42), economic blocs (Annis 1987; Ramírez Gómez 1995), or dependent settlements seeking to establish autonomy. Although the practice of promoting the fissioning of dependent hamlets from municipal centers is usually associated with coercive and manipulative evangelical sects, Catholic Church personnel have not been above employing this tactic when it is in their interests (Earle 1990:127; for an overview of religious conflict in Oaxaca, see Marroquín Z. 1994). The problem we face is that we have very little sense of what a longestablished, religiously pluralistic indigenous community would look like. Certainly a pluralism in religious practices and creeds need not always be associated with local conflict (e.g., Juárez Cerdi 1989; Watanabe 1992:216). While attention has been focused on the reasons for religious change and the ensuing decay of communal institutions in Mesoamerica, perhaps the most significant contemporary development lies in the new civic arrangements being forged in religiously heterodox communities. A I would like to thank Edward Abse, Victoria Bricker, Barbara Edmonson, Edward Fischer, Howard Harrod, Stephen Houston, and Evon Vogt for their comments and suggestions.

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N 1. The term ‘‘theology’’ is most often used to refer to the religious discourse of Christianity, Judaism, and Islam. But it can be used to indicate an

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intellectual interpretation of a religious tradition, whether or not it is theistic, and this is the sense in which it is employed here. 2. This gives Mesoamerican religions a status equal to those of other faiths. As Gary Gossen (1993a:1) reminds us, the spiritual ideas informing the religions of America at the time of the contact were as old as those of Islam, Judaism, and Christianity. 3. The distribution of indigenous Protestants is not uniform. They make up a particularly high proportion of the population in the southern Mexican states of Chiapas and Yucatan and are relatively low in the more central states of Tlaxcala, Guerrero, Puebla, and Oaxaca. But even within these regions important differences exist. 4. Although often spoken of as distinct entities, the Q’eqchi’ tzuultaq’as are the ‘‘particular expression of the universal sacred and are therefore ultimately indivisible from one another’’ (R. Wilson 1995:80). 5. This can also be seen in the widespread idea that the behavior of wild animals is controlled by the gods. 6. Recent discussions of paper figures include Williams García (1970:4/12–4/14), Bodil Christensen and Samuel Martí (1979), Dow (1986b:32–37, 77–79), Alan Sandstrom and Pamela Sandstrom (1986), and Galinier (1990:166–169, 171–175, 182– 188). Galinier (1990:187) also notes the basic similarities between paper figures among the Otomí and the ‘‘dolls’’ fashioned by Totonac speakers. 7. Although it is clear from this that reducing the human being to a two-part product of body and soul would distort Mesoamerican conceptions (Burkhart 1989:49), it would distort sixteenth-century Spanish ones as well. John Ingham (1986:169–170) notes that Europeans did not have a single concept of soul. There was the vital spirit in the heart, the natural spirit in the head, and the animal spirit in the liver. A generative spirit was sometimes said to be in the sex organs. The several spirits traveled about the body in the blood. While Mesoamericans clearly recognize different organs, bodily functions, and complex connections between these and other dimensions of human life, ethnographers have been somewhat reluctant to formally classify them as distinct and separate ‘‘souls’’ or ‘‘animating principles.’’ Rather, much more common is what one finds among the Lacandon, where the divine force, or pixan, takes on various aspects, depending on context. Thus it is manifest in blood and the pulse and can be used for the heart organ. It is also the word for ‘‘coessence’’ (Bore-

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         manse 1993:343–344), and lexicographers of Maya languages have translated pixan as ‘destiny.’ 8. One can also note here the bias toward intellectual/cognitive interpretations of religion, at the expense of the irrational and emotional (see, however, Gruzinski 1989). 9. Although much can be made out of the widespread use of the Spanish term for ‘‘attorney,’’ particularly the notion that attorneys function as mediators or spokespersons, this begs the question of what the term ‘‘attorney’’ means. Lupo (1995:231) points out that Nahua translate ‘‘attorney’’ as tepixque, ‘defender’ or ‘he who takes care of the people.’ Not only does this seem to make the object of worship something other than a mediator, but it also points to the fact that terms drawn from an indigenous lexicon (the tepixque was a Prehispanic official) refer to notions of deity that may be distinct from those given in Spanish translation. Thus Lipp (1991:150, 171) notes that although the Mixe ‘‘tutelary spirits,’’ commonly possessed by shaman-curers, are called niwambi (‘attorney, defender’) and can function as intermediaries, they are seen as bodily presentations of God. Watanabe (1990b:137) also points out that even though Maya regard saints as abogados who intercede before God, they do not look to them for divine grace; rather, the saints tend ‘‘to represent genuinely creative or protective powers.’’ 10. People who possess an antigua are called its owner or godparent. Antiguas differ from saints in that they miraculously appear. Later they may become associated with particular social groups as they are handed down from generation to generation in a family (Dow 1986b:29). Antiguas also have personal songs, food is placed on the altar for them, women who consume marijuana can speak to them, and paper cut-outs representing the zaki or soulforce of the antiguas are attached to their images. These things are not true of saints (Dow 1986b:25– 26). 11. This is again something that can be traced back to Beyer (1965), a conclusion he probably reached based on analogies with certain Hindu traditions. 12. Part/whole relationships also particularize deity. Recall that Earth is at once the land and all it produces—the sacred Earth, an elemental force of the universe—but it is delimited. Mountains in particular are referred to by specific names that designate their owners or guardians, who are also conceived of as actual personages as well. They are thus places, rather than all space (in Ixil they can be referred to as lugaar as well as wic and aanhel [Colby

and Colby 1981:306]). In some areas, mountains are said to have grown out of the body of the Earth (Galinier 1990:554; Monaghan 1995:98) so that just as the organs and limbs of a body are both distinct and united in a larger whole, so too are the gods. The landscape itself serves as a model for the particularity of the gods, as every god has a place and every place has a god. Hanks (1990:344, 389) tells us that for the Yucatec Maya every space has a yuumil or lord owner, to whom it belongs. This extends to the maximal expanse of the cosmos, whose lord is God the Father, Jesus Christ, and the legions of holy spirit winds with their cardinal positions and zones of guardianships (see also Sandstrom 1991:239, 241). Thus streams, rivers, lakes, large stones, swamps, cliffs, and indeed all features of the landscape may have their owner. These are often spoken of as doorways to the owner’s house and may be marked by crosses or other signs. 13. One example is the term ‘‘animism,’’ from which anthropologists appear to be moving away, not because it fails to reflect some of the reality of Mesoamerican belief and practice, but because it is used in such variable ways (e.g., for evolutionarily ‘‘primitive’’ religions, for the belief that certain places and things have special powers because they have souls, for the pantheistic concept of world soul). Moreover, specialists have moved away from speculations about origins, and most do not usually believe that the origin of religion can be attributed to a single cause (see, however, Cabarrús 1979:83; Pacheco 1992:164). 14. Nor is this limited to buildings. Musical instruments, dance masks, costumes, firework frames, bridges, hammocks, posts, and tools are also living things that must be fed if they are to remain in good working order (Carlson and Eachus 1977:56–58). 15. Even better would be to compare the house to a jaguar or some other ferocious beast. As Carlson and Eachus were told by a Q’eqchi’ man, ‘‘If it is not fed, the house will eat you. It wants its meat’’ (Carlson and Eachus 1977:50; see also Pacheco 1992:79). Like houses, other objects not fed will turn on their owners as if they were starved animals (Carlson and Eachus 1977:56–58). 16. Related to this is the idea that ritual has few practical effects. However, Dow (1974, 1977) and James Greenberg (1981) argue that the fiesta system functions to reduce risk. In Yaitepec, the fiesta system distributes about 11.3 percent of the annual per capita costs of food—about forty-one days’ worth for every man, woman, and child in the community. Moreover, it is during periods of stress in the agricultural cycle that the mayordomías distribute 96 per-

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 .  cent of the resources they give out (J. Greenberg 1981:152–153). 17. Clendinnen (1991:238) feels that Mexica ritual was not primarily instrumental, but aesthetic, expressive, and interrogative. Given the theological premises of Mesoamerican religions, it is not clear that these have to be opposed. 18. Categorically separating the ‘‘religious’’ from other spheres can be misleading (Hunt 1977:215; Earle 1986:167). 19. June Nash (1970:302) notes that after wailing, women often show normal composure. Clendinnen (1991:70–71) distinguishes between Aztec and Christian expressions of suffering. ‘‘[The former] is very much more active suffering and seeking, predicated on the notion of reciprocity, however asymmetrical . . . The supplicant strives to extort a response from the sacred powers by the extravagance and extremity of his suffering, by calling and crying upon them, or standing mute in an anguish of desire.’’ 20. Nutini (1988:69) notes a correspondence between the seven celebrations in the cult of the dead in Tlaxcala and the seven socially most significant ways of dying. Among the Totonac, those who drown go to the rain god, Aktsini, or San Juan Bautista, who uses them to excavate river channels (they should also be buried in the spot where their body was dragged from the water). Women who die in childbirth go into the sky as white clouds. Those who were homicide victims are taken by the Devil, and they become evil winds or animals (Ichon 1973:211). How one dies is ultimately a matter of one’s destiny, since it establishes one’s time to live (Ichon 1973: 208). Taggart notes how some Nahua have adapted this idea to the Hispanic notion that one’s ultimate fate depends on moral conduct in life. Sinners end up as slaves of the Devil, who lives in a cave in the forest (Taggart 1983:161–162). Another variation is the idea that individuals who lived improperly will suffer an improper death and then go to serve the Devil (Slade 1992:137). Other examples include León-Portilla (1956:220), Williams García (1970:10), Ichon (1973:208), Carrasco (1976:248), and Sandstrom (1991:321–322). 21. Didier Boremanse (1993:333) notes that for the Lacandon ‘‘the defining characteristic of the gods is irritability. The Indians say ‘they are angry with us’ or indeed, ‘they don’t like us’ ’’ (see also Carlson and Eachus 1977:39). Conversion allows one to escape from these relationships. 22. Nahuatl had no abstract word for good or evil. The terms that were used were employed in relatively concrete ways, not in the Christian sense of

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universal evaluative categories into which all phenomena could be placed (Burkhart 1989:38–39). 23. The pollution complex was one of the reasons that original sin had so little resonance for Mesoamericans. The necessities of life caused one to violate balance, so sin could not have been a freely willed choice (Burkhart 1989:115). 24. Violent death is highly polluting. In the case of homicides, the perpetrator is polluted as well, and most undergo special cleansings (e.g., Nutini 1988: 128–129). In some places suicide can pollute the entire community (Nutini 1988:130–132). Those who die violently are often buried in a special section of the graveyard reserved for them. Homicide victims may not return on Todos Santos, but on another day, such as the feast of San Lucas (Galinier 1990:219), or during Carnival, when they are given offerings (Williams García 1970:11). 25. Examples include James Greenberg (1981: 163–168), Barbara Tedlock (1982:61–62), Kazuyasu Ochiai (1985:75), Erik Boot (1988:33), Pedro González Villanueva (1989:107–108), R. Jon McGee (1990: 53), Frank Lipp (1991:154), and Richard Wilson (1995:68–69). Galinier (1990:649–651) lists the duration of sexual prohibitions for life crisis events and rituals. Among the Chatino, the ritual calendar requires the general population to observe 249 days of abstinence yearly. Segments of the population observe even longer periods (cargo officials are supposed to observe the entire 260-day ritual cycle). As a consequence, July, August, and October fall nine months after periods with few restrictions and consistently have high birth rates (J. Greenberg 1981: 162; see also González Villanueva 1989:107–108 for the Mixe). 26. Lacandon dip their hands into the flame and wave the smoke over themselves as if they were splashing water on their faces (McGee 1990:96). Pine bundles (Lipp 1991:142) and flowers (Nutini 1988:138) are also used. The spraying of mouthfuls of aguardiente onto a person may also purify (Alcorn 1984:200–201), as may drinking chicken blood (Vogt 1976:71–75). 27. Examples include Rafael Girard (1966:94), Dieter Dütting (1974:43), Alcorn (1984:238), Dow (1986b:95), Ingham (1986:168), Burkhart (1989:93), Hanks (1990:335), Lipp (1991:69), and Sandstrom (1991:302). 28. Among the Mexica, brooms were the female equivalent of swords (Burkhart 1989:121). Hanks (1990:347–348) reports that the Maya ‘‘fix earth ceremony,’’ where the shaman sweeps the domestic space to remove evil, is compared to a bullfight.

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         29. Practices designed to maintain order occur in the context of the idea that body and cosmos are made up of the same elemental forces. In many areas the body is one’s earth, breath and animacy one’s wind, vigor one’s heat (derived ultimately from the sun), and blood one’s water (e.g., Colby and Colby 1981:205; Hanks 1990:86–87). There is also a Taoistlike emphasis on bringing these forces into harmony and balance (e.g., López Austin 1980). 30. Ichon (1973:116–117) surmises that the house roof represents the sky (see also Galinier 1990:144– 149; Köhler 1995:89). 31. In contrast, Christianity held corruption to be the effect of sin. For Nahua, the fact that the act entailed contact with tlazolli justified the prohibition or restriction (Burkhart 1989:98–101). This perhaps explains why the manner in which a taboo is broken and the form in which it is punished are so closely associated for the Q’eqchi’ and why both the tabootransgressing act and the punishment are labeled awas (R. Wilson 1995:67; see also Boremanse 1993: 339). 32. Burkhart (1989:142) compares it to the Hindu practice of tapas, where austerities are undertaken to eliminate the results of sin, but also to gain power. 33. In one Nahua community, things that smell when burned are used. These include chicken feathers, paper, plastic, rags, and batteries, which are burned in a pot for the patient to breathe (Aranda Kilian 1993:148, 150). The Mexica carried this idea to an extreme: one way to avoid the ill effects of pollution caused by contact with someone who broke a taboo was to commit transgressions even worse than those of the offending party (Burkhart 1989: 121). Similarly, Ingham (1986:5–6) argues that moral struggle demands that men balance their expressions of spirituality with corresponding expressions of virility; such behavior may even lead them to mimic the forces of evil themselves. It is perhaps for this reason that the Otomí use the same term for the state of pollution and the action that eliminates it (Galinier 1990:529–531). 34. The disheveled hair that is a mark of pollution and disorder is a feature of certain gods (e.g., E. Hunt 1977:101–103; see also Monaghan 1995:142 for an illustration). 35. Nor is the Mesoamerican Devil purely evil. It can provide luck in the hunt and wealth, like the capricious Tezcatlipoca. 36. Like saints, mountains vary in character. In Tlaxcala, the paired mountains La Malintzi and Cuatlapanga are complementary opposites. La Malintzi is approachable, benevolent, and oversees the moral

order. ‘‘El Cuatlapanga is capricious, vengeful, and undependable, but capable of helping humans when shown proper respect’’ (Nutini 1988:230–231). 37. For discussion and examples, see Benjamin Colby and Lore Colby (1981:42), Hernández Cuellar (1982:49–53), Farriss (1984:340–341), Monaghan (1990a), Watanabe (1990b:134), Köhler (1995:73), and Lupo (1995:168). 38. The candles offered to the Earth Lord always include ones made from tallow, because he wants ‘‘meat with his tortilla’’ (Vogt 1976:56). 39. This can perhaps also be seen in Zinacantán, where human coessences are kept in corrals by the ancestral gods. Although Vogt (1976:86–87) provides a normative interpretation, Maya symbolism generally views wild animals and plants as the domestic animals and plants of the gods (Vogt 1976:71; for other Maya examples, see Colby and Colby 1981: 175–176, 308; Alcorn 1984:87; Hernández Castillo 1989:150–153), suggesting that human coessences are like so many cattle or sheep waiting for the slaughter. 40. The numerous and shifting ‘‘faces’’ of the Earth, mentioned briefly above, can be understood in this context. Ethnographic attention has been drawn to images such as the greedy Ladino (Vogt 1976:17), the store owner, the kapiador or loan shark (McArthur 1987:10–11), the plantation owner (J. Nash 1970:18), cowboys and ranchers (Köhler 1995:18), government officials (J. Nash 1970:18), and the Demon (Colby and Colby 1981:304), all of which can be read as an indigenous commentary on political economy and unequal exchange (Ingham 1986:108; Goldin and Rosenbaum 1993). Watanabe (1990b:142) also argues that mountain gods and Ladinos are associated because both exist beyond the boundaries of community and, like undomesticated foreigners, are indifferent to local sociality. While these are valid interpretations, it must be pointed out that faces of the Earth are not limited to figures that play a role in contemporary economic arrangements. They may be native lords, such as Moctezuma (Ichon 1973:146), who is a magician who built churches (Sandstrom 1991:240), and rain deities with Prehispanic imagery (Hunt 1977:133; Watanabe 1990b:141–142). Also, the ethnic Ladino ‘‘faces’’ of the Earth Lords are selective: they are usually not female; they are adults, not children; and they are usually rich Ladinos, not ones with more humble backgrounds. What these images seem to evoke is power in its rawest or ultimate form. Thus Earth deities are frequently associated with lightning (e.g., Vogt 1976:17). Moreover, even though they em-

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 .  body social categories such as plantation owner and government official, they are not constrained to act in a pernicious and exploitative way. They can be magnanimous as well as malicious (Watanabe 1990b:142; Köhler 1995:18–19). They can be prayed to for rain, for bounteous crops, and for luck in hunting (Colby and Colby 1981:308; Ruz 1982:64). Even in the many cases where Earth Lords and sacred mountains are associated with the Devil (e.g., Ruz 1982:63; Galinier 1990:353–355, 360–361), the Devil is a most powerful figure (Ingham 1986:109). The Devil is sometimes referred to by the same general term used for any ‘‘godpower’’ (Alcorn 1984:176; Monaghan 1995:136). In Santiago Nuyoo, the terms applied to the Devil are also applied to rich, powerful, and violent men. Nahua simply call the Devil chueitlacatl, ‘big man’ (Sandstrom 1991:251). In short, what we are dealing with are general images of power (and hierarchy; see E. Hunt 1977:122) irrespective of its moral applications. 41. Examples can be found in Carlson and Eachus (1977:39), Timothy Knab (1979:129–130, 133), Colby and Colby (1981:40), González Villanueva (1989:29, 133), Sandstrom (1991:239–240), Köhler (1995:15– 16), Lupo (1995), and Richard Wilson (1995:53–54); see also Monaghan (1990c) for historical texts. 42. Note that these covenants share features with the corporate vows made to saints in sixteenthcentury Spain, which were usually drawn up as an act of government, often in response to a natural disaster. The vow itself was to observe certain acts of devotion, generally on a saint’s day, in return for the saint’s intercession with God. These vows theoretically had to be fulfilled, even if hundreds of years had passed. Part of the vow might include a public feast that might be paid for by the town council, by the person who made the vow, or by contributions from citizens. This served to renew the contract with the protector. Towns could make more than one vow and thus accumulate different saints (Christian 1981:32– 33, 57–60). William Christian (1981) even compares Spanish vows to a corporate debt, a kind of interest on a loan that had to be paid in perpetuity. But unlike the covenants cited above, Spanish vows to the saints do not seem to constitute the kind of comprehensive statements about the existential conditions of humankind that we see in Mesoamerica: the origins of agriculture, why humans are different from animals, the purpose of sacrifice, why humans have to die. 43. There is also a sense of assimilation, as the body is absorbed by the Earth, the elemental substance from which it came (Colby and Colby 1981:

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205; Sandstrom 1991:241; see also the text in G. Cook 1986:145–146). 44. The idea that humans are inherently in a condition of debt is perhaps also manifest in accounts that explain the unfortunate state of humankind as due to actions of the ancestors. For example, in Amatenango, the spirit of money left the town because religious officials who were too drunk to do the job properly covered the church floor with green peso notes in place of pine needles. Ladinos then came and picked up the money, and as a consequence the indigenous population is impoverished (J. Nash 1970: 90–91, 326). Although there is a ‘‘fallen’’ quality to accounts such as these—that human free will opened a gap between the universe as it was intended to be and as it is now—the unfortunate consequences are not so much the product of human disobedience of God as a violation of relatively mundane norms and taboos. Moreover, these consequences involve not a loss of grace, but the loss of material goods and products. 45. The concept of macehua is linked to the idea of destiny (Read 1994:47, 56) both in a collective sense, in that it is the infusion of life that made humans what they are, and in an individual sense, in that it is because one has position and character (i.e., a destiny) that one can gain merit. 46. Nahua penitential practices share similarities with Christian ones. In both, there is an expression of humility and subservience to the gods. In both, there is an idea of a payment of debt owed for some favor. Yet despite these similarities, there are important differences. First, there is an absence of love in the Mesoamerican relationship, and the aim was not so much to subjugate the flesh as to manipulate the powers it possessed (see López Austin 1980:1:348). Although self-mortification (not only in the corporeal sense) is certainly part of contemporary acts of Mesoamerican devotion, it is important to note that, as for the Nahua of the sixteenth century, continued obeisance rather than contrition and guilt informs these acts (Burkhart 1989:145). Responsibility is standardized as cargos or burdens that individuals must shoulder, not spoken of in personal terms (Watanabe 1990b:137–138), and the acts have value in themselves, regardless of intentions. Nor is an amendment of behavior ultimately possible, since the transgressions one commits are a consequence of living. Although Clendinnen (1991:72) writes that the efficacy (of these penances) ‘‘did not have to do with the pathos of a reduced humanity appealing to an attentive deity . . . The aim was to awaken pride,’’

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         one might also add that in a relationship defined by debt and merit the gods do what humans do. If not sympathy, then perhaps these penances awaken an understanding born of a shared experience, a kind of acknowledgment of each other’s situation. This is certainly the case with the reverence Mixtec speakers express for corn, Earth, and Rain, who suffer so that people may obtain the things they need. Although Mixtec avoid causing undue suffering (shucked corncobs, for example, are deposited in an out-of-the-way place, where no one will step on them), there is no attempt to avoid it altogether by, for example, not eating corn. As unpleasant as it may be, the relationship is a given, and we all do pay our debt to nature (i.e., death). 47. Syncretism emerged out of a concept of culture that did not distinguish between material, social, and cognitive aspects of life, so that it was applied to anything from the fusion of religious symbols, such as saints and idols, to the participation of one group in the practices of another, to the reinterpretation of one tradition in terms of another. Coupled with ambiguities over what in fact constitutes fusion and how we would know if it occurred, syncretism turns out to be an extremely blunt instrument when applied to the study of religious change in Mesoamerica. Those who continue to use the term find they must qualify it in some way (e.g., Nutini’s concept of guided syncretism, where there is an active search for real or imagined convergences in the interacting religious traditions, or the making of ritual, liturgical, or doctrinal concessions for the sake of rapid conversion [Nutini 1976c:309–316, 1988:52]). Some use the term as a descriptive label, to highlight the diverse roots of a particular religious phenomenon, and others simply reject it altogether (Lipp 1991:24; Gossen 1993a). 48. A number of works explore the Iberian and broader European background to Colonial belief and practice, showing that at least part of what separates Mesoamerican beliefs from more orthodox Christian ones is that which separates earlier forms of European Christianity from recent ones (see Nutini 1988: 347; examples include Christian 1981; Ingham 1986; Burkhart 1989, 1996). 49. Just as acculturation studies have been broadened so that the entire context of the encounter came into focus (colonialism, the worldwide economic division of labor, racial ideologies) and were given a more specific focus (e.g., transfers of technology, resistance, boundary phenomena such as ethnicity),

much of what would broadly have been seen as a study of syncretism can be recognized in more specific discussions of religious change. 50. Many are uncomfortable with the kinds of conclusions syncretism forces one to draw about particular traditions (Lipp 1991:24). Just as the search for survivals of Prehispanic religion may lead to a view of Mesoamerican people as rigid and unchanging, so too those who are consumed with showing the European origin of different traits may lead to a view that Mesoamerican religion is derivative and unauthentic (van der Loo 1987:19). Indeed syncretism inevitably directs attention to questions of pedigree (D. Tedlock 1986:77). 51. Lomnitz-Adler (1992:217–219) echoes this finding. He observes that there exists an ideology of inclusion within the dominant state order in Huastecan religious practices, but that it also ignores, even actively excludes, local Mestizos (see also Galinier 1990:312). What develops then is not a rejection of the state, but an image of the state where indigenous people are the key participants in national history and state institutions (see also Monaghan 1995). 52. After all, anthropologists and historians have long held that ineffectiveness and neglect on the part of the church was a key factor in the dynamics of religion at certain periods. 53. The context of choice is all-important. Thus people began to become daykeepers in Guatemala after hundreds of catequistas were assassinated (B. Tedlock 1992:210). 54. Farriss, using a model proposed by Robin Horton, outlines a process of parochialization in Yucatan, where, as Maya elites were reduced to purely local and subordinate status, their horizons shrank to the size of their macehual subjects. This was reflected in the worship of saints, who gradually lost their status as surrogates for the Prehispanic deities (that had presided over large polities) and became the objects of community-based devotions (Farriss 1984:306, 309–314, 324–333). Watanabe (1990b:132) finds a contemporary manifestation of this in the Chimbal saints cult. In recent times, some detect a reversal of this process. Richard Wilson (1995:204) feels that conversion among the Q’eqchi’ is the necessary precondition for the development of a class-based identity. Yet Gossen (1993a: 14) sees the new evangelism creating an even greater splintering, favoring local religious autonomy and community goals over central authority.

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4. Alternative Political Futures of Indigenous People in Mesoamerica HOWARD CAMPBELL

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F

I

   after the Conquest, at the end of a millennium, Mesoamerican Indian peoples are still here. Not only that: their numbers are increasing, and many cultures are experiencing new life. Strong Indian political movements have emerged as communities redefine themselves and their positions within Mexico and Guatemala. Times have definitely changed since the last ethnology volume of the Handbook was published in 1969. In the 1980’s and 1990’s, Mesoamerican Indians appear on the front page of the New York Times, and a Guatemalan Maya woman, Rigoberta Menchú, travels the world as a Nobel laureate. Anthropologists’ interpretations of indigenous cultures have also changed. A descriptive, empirical approach shrouded in a language of objectivity and distance is no longer viable in a politicized, postmodern world. Indigenous peoples insist that their views be heard and form political movements that challenge unjust conditions, including an intellectual political economy that privileges anthropological studies over native peoples’ ideas (Perry 1996). Anthropologists’ response to the increas50

ing political vigor of Mesoamerican indigenous groups has taken several forms. One approach has been to view emerging Indian political organizations as ‘‘New Social Movements,’’ complex, multi-issue coalitions that emphasize identity-based politics (for the theoretical basis for this approach, see Laclau and Mouffe 1985; Eckstein 1989; Escobar and Alvarez 1992). Another, related approach, has produced multivocal studies, dialogs, or testimonials emphasizing indigenous voices that speak directly to world audiences with as little anthropological mediation as possible (Bernard and Salinas Pedraza 1989; Sullivan 1989; H. Campbell et al. 1993; Fischer and Brown 1996b). Other researchers, influenced by postmodernism, poststructuralism, and cultural studies, have sought to map out and analyze the discourses generated by (and about) indigenous intellectuals and cultural groups in order to understand the multiple, transnational, or hybrid identities and the cross-cutting politics of ethnicity, class, and gender (Nagengast and Kearney 1990; Kearney 1991; Warren 1992; García Canclini 1993). Still others—rooted in earlier but still viable paradigms—use feminist theory and/or Marxian political economy to understand the political histories and individual

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        lives of Latin American native peoples (Schryer 1990; C. Smith 1990b; Stephen 1991; H. Campbell 1994; J. Nash 1995b). Finally, indigenous intellectuals have emerged as interlocutors with anthropologists over how to understand the cultures and political struggles of their people (de la Cruz 1983; Menchú 1984; Montejo 1987; Cojtí Cuxil 1996). Although the writings of these individuals circulate within anthropological circles, this genre is distinct from that of the multivocal volumes noted above in that these publications are produced primarily by Mesoamerican peoples themselves, not by Western anthropologists. While each of the approaches mentioned varies in terms of its assumptions and explanatory models, they all call for a greater attention to indigenous peoples as active political agents and the creators of historically grounded political movements, cultural constructs, and discourses rather than essentialist robots reenacting a preestablished cultural script. Whereas earlier Handbook chapters could lay out neat typologies and trait lists of ‘‘indigenous’’ political systems, such as the civil-religious hierarchy, and describe how local social structures functioned to maintain an autochthonous way of life, current anthropologists must address the involvement of Mesoamerican peoples in global political, economic, and cultural networks (Fischer 1996b). The concept of the closed corporate community no longer provides the basic explanation for local cultural forms, and indigenous peoples as political actors can only be understood in terms of national and international as well as local political processes. Lastly, anthropologists can no longer claim to speak authoritatively and exclusively about the political concerns of native people, and our very theories and data themselves are the subject of political critiques by our native ‘‘informants’’ (Watanabe 1995b). Indeed the political panorama for Mesoamerican peoples has changed dramatically since the appearance of the last Handbook concerned with ethnology. This chapter discusses three key current political possibilities for indigenous peoples in Mesoamerica: ethnically based armed revolu-

tion, ethnic nationalism, and ethnic electoral politics. I view these alternatives as related and overlapping possibilities rather than distinct and separate political options. Using case studies from Chiapas, Guatemala, and Oaxaca the chapter examines the prospects and likely consequences of various political futures for Mesoamerican Indians. Special attention is directed to the role of Indian leaders and intellectuals in the political process. Is revolution still possible, or are the dangers of armed struggle too great? What are the pros and cons of ethnic nationalism for native peoples? Can ethnic political movements produce needed changes at the levels of community, state, and nation? What are the drawbacks of ethnic identity politics in the Mexican and Guatemalan contexts? The case studies I use to examine these questions are those of the Mayan Zapatistas of Chiapas, Mayan revivalists in Guatemala, and Zapotec COCEI (Coalición Obrera Campesina Estudiantil del Istmo) activists in Juchitán, Oaxaca. C On 1 January 1994 the Ejército Zapatista de Liberación Nacional (EZLN) shocked the world. No one, including anthropologists, expected an armed rebellion in Mexico. Conventional wisdom held that the decline of Eastern Bloc socialism and the end of the war in El Salvador heralded the demise of the era of armed struggle in Latin America. Marxism was dead and with it any hope of a revolution, proletarian or otherwise. After the Zapatista takeover of San Cristóbal and other surrounding towns, journalists and television crews from around the globe descended on Chiapas, and the EZLN became one of the most scrutinized political movements in Mexican history. Despite this enormous exposure, the EZLN’s hermeticism has at times obscured answers to a number of key questions about the organization. Why and how did the EZLN form? What exactly is the relationship between Subcomandante Marcos (and other non-Indians) and the Indian leadership of the EZLN? To what extent is the movement organized along 51

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  the social contours of indigenous culture? How many active members and dedicated followers does the movement actually have? Does the EZLN have a political future beyond that of the revolt and the subsequent mobilizations and meetings of the last few years? The roots of EZLN rebellion are complex and deep. At the most general level of analysis, the Zapatistas are a result of the extreme political and economic marginalization of Mayan peoples in Chiapas since the Conquest. Centuries of land loss, racist mistreatment, and economic exploitation of Chiapas indigenous peoples have provoked a series of historic revolts against Ladino rule (see Köhler, this volume). In recent years, the mostly Mayan peasants have been victimized by a number of political actors: the authoritarian PRI (Partido Revolucionario Institucional), the Mexican government (which has mishandled ejido land claims and expropriated thousands of farmers to form the Lacandón ecological reserve), rapacious ranchers and loggers, and right-wing goon squads. Economic pressures that led to the rebellion include the inequalities caused by PEMEX (Petróleos Mexicanos) oil booms and the debt crisis (G. Collier 1994b; N. Harvey 1994; J. Nash 1995b). The negative impact of neoliberal economic policies on peasant farmers, such as removal of price supports on corn, coffee, and other basic crops and the specter of unbridled competition allowed by the Free Trade Agreement, and reforms to Article 27 of the Mexican Constitution (removing protections for ejido land) are other economic factors that prompted rural unrest (Nations 1994; Nigh 1994). Demographic and environmental processes also contributed to an explosive situation in rural Chiapas. Population pressures, soil erosion, and environmental damage caused by the shift from extensive ‘‘traditional’’ growing techniques to intensive agriculture have put Indian farmers in desperate straits (G. Collier 1994b). These factors, combined with the lack of government institutions and a well-organized PRI in isolated, agricultural areas of eastern Chiapas, laid fertile ground for the Catholic and leftist activists that created the EZLN (Col52

lier 1994b). As Neil Harvey (1994:35) summarizes: ‘‘The rebellion in Chiapas is . . . a popular response to a series of rural reforms decided without the participation of representative campesino organizations. In short it is a rebellion against a new global strategy of accumulation and against Salinismo [the political program of former Mexican president Carlos Salinas de Gortari] as a political discourse.’’ Or as Subcomandante Marcos put it: ‘‘NAFTA is the death certificate for the indigenous people of Mexico’’ (quoted in Nations 1994:33). Unlike most Mesoamerican indigenous political movements of recent years, the EZLN engaged in and openly avowed armed struggle against the state. Reminiscent of an earlier era, the EZLN was led by a Leninist vanguard decked out in Che Guevara–like military garb. Subcomandante Marcos and other EZLN spokespersons espoused a pro-Indian, anticapitalist rhetoric and radical critique of the foundations of Mexican society and contemporary Western culture. The EZLN also remained separate from the established Left parties in Mexico and criticized them harshly for their own antidemocratic and authoritarian tendencies. And distinct from many previous guerrilla groups, the EZLN demonstrated tremendous sophistication in dealing with the world news media and modern communication systems (especially the Internet). The heavy fighting between the EZLN and the Mexican military lasted only twelve days, but, paraphrasing John Reed, these were indeed days that shook the world. Perhaps not since the days of the 1910 Revolution had violence in Mexico attracted such intense interest from world media. I was in Japan when the Zapatista uprising began, and I was amazed to see photographs of dead Chiapas Indians on the front pages of the Tokyo daily papers. For several months after the fighting, journalists besieged San Cristóbal de las Casas and covered the peace talks between the EZLN and the Mexican government. However, after the novelty of the rebellion wore off, world media attention shifted back to other conflict zones such as Bosnia and the Middle East. In the meantime, as peace negotiations dragged

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        on and the EZLN convoked various theatrical gatherings in the jungle, anthropologists and other researchers with longer attention spans began to unearth solid information about the EZLN’s origins and composition. We learned that, in spite of the northern provenance of several Zapatista leaders, the EZLN was firmly grounded in Chiapas community history and culture, particularly in the eastern portion of the state. Indigenous cultural bases of the EZLN included use of the Tzeltal language (and other native tongues) in political meetings and radio broadcasts; the influence of Mayan notions of reality, community, and cosmology in EZLN discourse; profound knowledge of the local land and physical environment; utilizing the proceeds from peasant agricultural production to buy weapons and food; wearing of Indian clothing; a millenarian view of political struggle; and the use of consensus decision-making processes in community assemblies to produce binding agreements known as acuerdos (although ultimate authority was held by Marcos and other EZLN officers) (EZLN 1994; Ross 1995; Tello Díaz 1995; Gossen 1996a). Yet, in spite of the Indianist rhetoric of the EZLN, the movement is for the most part not made up of the most ‘‘traditional’’ Maya and is class-based as well as being rooted in ethnicity (Frank Cancian and P. Brown 1994; Gossen 1994). In the eastern lowlands, where the EZLN has its greatest strength, much of the population consists of Mayan and other Indian refugees from other parts of Chiapas and Mexico generally. Many of these immigrants are Protestant rather than Catholic and are rapidly assuming ‘‘generic peasant identities’’ (G. Collier 1994b:15) or a new pan-Mayan solidarity instead of the closed corporate community identities of the past (Earle 1994; Gossen 1994). Contrary to public opinion, the EZLN did not suddenly appear but, in fact, had been training in the Lacandón jungle for years. John Ross (1995:19, 285) estimates that the Zapatista army consists of about 1,200 to 2,500 soldiers, almost all of whom are Tzotzil, Tzeltal, Tojolabal, Chol, Mam, and Zoque. The Mexican military calculates the EZLN’s strength at 12,800, which

may include local civilian supporters as well as active combatants (Ross 1995:285). Although the EZLN has been considered by many observers to be a quintessentially Indian movement, the writings of Carlos Tello Díaz, Ross, and others show that the main leaders of the FLN (Fuerzas de Liberación Nacional)—the vanguard that formed what would eventually become the EZLN—were outsiders, mostly white, middle-class intellectuals from northern Mexico, Mexico City, and elsewhere.1 However, Ross (1995:19) reports that there are only three Ladinos left in the EZLN officers corps. And indigenous people figure prominently among the middle-level cadre (e.g., EZLN officials Moisés, César, Alfredo, Ramona, and Yolanda). Marcos, the single most compelling Zapatista, became a worldwide folk hero. His trademark black ski mask, pipe, bandoleers, and good looks captivated the Mexican populace. And his quick wit and subtle putdowns of the president, the PRI, Televisa, and even himself struck a cord with the popular sentiments of millions of Mexicans. Time after time, Marcos’ clever, ironic letters and speeches mocked the pretensions and arrogance of Mexico’s political leaders, media personalities, and the military. His quirky, erudite prose and published interviews became part of Mexican political legend. Far more than previous Latin American guerrilla leaders, Marcos had an uncanny knack for manipulating modern communications technology such as television, radio, fax, computer (including holding elections via the Internet), and photography. Indeed, the subcomandante’s self-mockery, literary creations, and communicative powers have led some to consider him the first postmodern guerrillero. Marcos’ ability to work the media is one of the main reasons for the EZLN’s political and public opinion successes in Mexico and worldwide. But his virtual disappearance from the public eye for much of the spring and summer of 1998 has mystified observers. Furthermore, what is the significance of the fact that the maximum Zapatista is a nonIndian? Granted, Marcos is a political genius, but what do his talents have to do with the future of indigenous people? In my opinion, 53

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  intellectuals have been too quick to praise Marcos and unwilling to ask tough questions about his relationship to Chiapas Indians. In spite of Marcos’ brilliance, it is troubling that Indians are not the ultimate decision-makers within the EZLN (regardless of the Zapatistas’ official position on this subject). Furthermore, most of the EZLN’s main political statements appear to have been written personally by Marcos, whether or not they were signed by the CCRI (Comité Clandestino Revolucionario Indígena, the EZLN directorate). It is not enough for Marcos to take Indian compañeras as his partners and for Tzeltal Zapatistas to occasionally take the microphone at EZLN meetings with the government and media. Non-Indian leadership of an Indian movement, whatever its successes, is a reflection of the lack of indigenous empowerment, even among the Left (cf. Gossen 1996a). Unfortunately, Marcos’ charisma and intellectual skills have prevented the voices of indigenous Chiapanecos from reaching a larger audience, and his amazing talents have limited Indian self-determination in the movement. Tello Díaz notes that the EZLN is run in a very authoritarian fashion. One Chiapaneco he interviewed observed that ‘‘you can not participate . . . what he [Marcos] says is what is going to be done’’ (1995:122). Tello also reports that at least 22,000 local peasants lost their homes as a result of the Zapatista uprising and military counterattack. Moreover, not all Chiapas Indians are Zapatistas, and there have been Indian victims of the EZLN as well. Of course, large numbers of Indians fill the ranks of the Mexican military, some of whom died in the fighting with the EZLN. In addition, in typical leftist sectarian fashion, the EZLN has fought with ARIC (Asociación Rural de Interés Colectivo) and other indigenous grassroots movements. Furthermore, Marcos’ intransigence vis-à-vis Cuauhtémoc Cárdenas and the PRD (Partido de la Revolución Democrática) and his hesitation to take political advantage of his vast popularity in the spring and summer of 1994 limited the EZLN’s ability to influence political policies at the national level. Finally, the 54

Mexican government’s strategy of surrounding the EZLN militarily, spending large sums of money on pacifying development projects in Chiapas, and engaging the EZLN leaders in endless, drawn-out negotiations has to a large extent caused the Zapatistas to lose the political upper hand. Even the right-wing massacre of Zapatista sympathizers in Acteal, Chiapas, in December 1997 did not recapture the massive world interest the EZLN had previously enjoyed. The most recent setback to the Zapatista cause, as of 1999, was the resignation of Bishop Samuel Ruiz as a mediator between the EZLN and the government. In spite of these problems, no other movement of the 1990’s has so successfully articulated the political demands of Mesoamerican indigenous people. Thousands, perhaps millions, of Indians nation-wide are sympathetic to the EZLN and the challenge to the status quo it represents. Is the EZLN a political model for other Mesoamerican Indian peoples? This cannot be answered unequivocally until we know more about Indian involvement in the EZLN. It is clear, however, that Marcos’ overarching presence has prevented Mayan Zapatistas from having greater access to the world media that descended on Chiapas to report on the Zapatista struggle. But it is also evident that the EZLN—especially Marcos—had a huge impact on Mexican and world public opinion. Although the EZLN did not win the military war against the Mexican government, it may have won a symbolic war for the hearts and minds of Mexicans and many others across the globe. The Zapatistas’ visibility and external support (derived in part from public sympathies with downtrodden Mayan Indians—one of the best known native cultures in the Americas) have permitted the EZLN to negotiate with the government for improved conditions in Chiapas. The existence of the Zapatista army has also permitted other Chiapas indigenous peasant organizations and political movements to press their claims more successfully against the national and state governments. Furthermore, the EZLN has forced the issue of the politi-

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        cal and cultural rights of indigenous people onto the Mexican national stage to an unprecedented degree. The EZLN’s success may also encourage other Mesoamerican peoples to take up arms, as happened recently in Guerrero and Oaxaca with the EPR (Ejército Popular Revolucionario). Few native peoples, perhaps, feel that armed struggle against the Mexican state can produce ultimate victory and political revolution, but it may be an effective means for asserting demands and forcing social and economic change. The future challenge of the EZLN is to go from being a guerrilla army to becoming a social/political movement and thereby continue to struggle for the rights of indigenous Mexicans in the twenty-first century.

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G In Guatemala, many Mayan people no longer view revolution as a viable option. After thirtyfive years of genocidal war which claimed 150,000 lives, most Guatemalans do not think guerrilla insurrection can lead to major social change (Stoll 1993). Unlike Mexico, where the government and military have been forced by national and international public opinion and a more democratic political environment to restrain, to some degree, the use of violent force against indigenous people, in Guatemala the military and the Right are responsible for hundreds of massacres and tens of thousands of killings of indigenous people. For that reason, many Guatemalan Maya are avoiding openly political strategies and, instead, are seeking a new path in indigenous cultural revival and a cultural politics of difference (Cojtí Cuxil 1996). Mayan ethnic nationalism 2 has emerged as a major new force on the Guatemalan scene, in addition to Protestant evangelism (Bastos and Camus 1993; Raxche’ 1996). Although it is a nonviolent movement, Mayan nationalism is still a radical departure from the Guatemalan status quo and leftist orthodoxies. Ethnic nationalists are calling for a rebirth and revaluing of Mayan culture and a new role for native people within the governmental system

and civil society (Raxche’ 1996). Mayan nationalists hope to end the rampant discrimination suffered by indigenous Guatemalans and bring Indian leaders into the political system, teach Indian languages in the schools, and provide native customs and institutions with the resources previously allocated solely to Ladinos (Cojtí Cuxil 1996). Many Mayan nationalists have also been bitter critics of anthropology, which many view like the Catholic Church, Spanish language, and European beliefs as a Western imposition. Anthropologists, some claim, have distorted Indian history and emphasized the violence of precontact Mayan culture or invented stories about cannibalism that have defamed the Mayan people (Fischer and Brown 1996a; Sam Colop 1996). Other Mayan intellectuals ‘‘resent that they are unable to participate in a debate [about the interpretation of Mayan hieroglyphs] that in certain ways defines their own cultural heritage’’ (Sturm 1996:127). Promotion of contemporary Maya languages and the interpretation of ancient Maya glyphs and history are major concerns of Maya cultural activists. Yet the internationally recognized experts on these subjects are predominantly North American and European anthropologists and linguists whose interpretations and interests do not always coincide with those of Mayan intellectuals. As a consequence, ‘‘some Maya believe that epigraphic interpretations and other academic assertions have definite political consequences in their lives . . . the violent behavior attributed to the ancient Maya by epigraphers and archaeologists is juxtaposed against the Guatemalan army’s violent repression of living Maya. Present-day massacres are then minimized because international attention is directed by the media to the bloody ancient Maya and diverted away from the harsh realities of the present’’ (Sturm 1996:128). I was confronted with these issues when I interviewed a leader of the Asamblea del Pueblo Maya in Guatemala City in 1994. The Mayan leader told me that the Mayan people had been victimized by both the army and the guerrillas and misunderstood by Western an55

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  thropologists. He said that the only hope for indigenous people was an end to the Guatemalan civil war and the construction of a new pluralistic, multiethnic state based on respect for the cultural differences of the country’s diverse population. The leader also spoke at length about the corruption of Ladino society and the moral superiority of Mayan culture. He described a future Guatemalan nation based on Mayan customs, languages, and beliefs. He claimed that ancient Maya never engaged in human sacrifices, cannibalism, or racial wars as, he claimed, foreign social scientists have written. According to Carol Smith (1991), the Mayan nationalist movement emerged in the early 1970’s. It developed as an alternative to the Guatemalan Left (and Right) and emphasizes the cultural oppression of native Guatemalans. For ethnic nationalist intellectuals, racial and cultural discrimination are the root causes of Guatemalan Indians’ economic deprivation and lack of political power. Notes Smith (1991: 29): ‘‘Those who retain the symbols of their Maya identity—languages, community forms, clothing, religious practices—are not only excluded from positions of power and respect in the nation, but are derided for their backward ‘traditionalism,’ even by political progressives, whether Liberals in the nineteenth century or Marxists in the twentieth.’’ The movement seeks to overcome this colonialist situation and make Mayan technologies, agricultural practices, languages, notions of community, forms of social organization, and medicine the model for future development of Guatemalan society. Mayancentric leaders tend to favor essentialist definitions of ethnic identity rather than the constructionist interpretation currently in vogue among anthropologists (Warren 1992). Mayan intellectuals’ concerns over how they are represented are quite understandable given the racist history of Guatemala and the ways ‘‘Ladino elites . . . often cite the violence of precontact Maya society and the uncivilized nature of modern Indian culture as justifications of contemporary counterinsurgency campaigns directed against the Maya people’’ 56

(Fischer and Brown 1996a:3). Mayan ‘‘strategic essentialism’’ also stems from a desire to seek a pan-Mayan unity that emphasizes longterm cultural continuities and transcends local community and dialectal differences. By rooting Maya identity in the ancient past and certain fundamental characteristics thought to be true of Mayan people in all times and place, Mayan leaders strive for a united front against hostile Ladinos, European and North American outsiders, and other groups deemed a threat to Guatemalan indigenous peoples. Anthropologists would be wise to take these views very seriously instead of pooh-poohing them as ‘‘the invention of tradition,’’ ‘‘imagined community,’’ or mere constructions. What is at stake is the survival of Mayan peoples and cultures. Surely indigenous peoples have the right to define themselves however they may, regardless of current styles in anthropological theory. A main leader of the nationalists is Demetrio Cojtí Cuxil, a professor at the Universidad de San Carlos, who was trained in Europe and became the first Guatemalan Maya to obtain a doctorate. Cojtí has established a Mayan Studies program (the Seminario Permanente de Estudios Mayas) that is a locus for the production of indigenous scholarship and ethnic nationalist ideology. Cojtí has also been in contact with many foreign anthropologists who work in Guatemala and has published in the United States; one should not assume that espousal of an ethnic nationalist ideology presumes isolation from Western (or other) cultural influences. In fact, as Fischer (1996a:68) notes, the construction of a contemporary panMayan identity inevitably ‘‘involves the hybridization of Western and indigenous traditions.’’ Another venue for thinking about Mayan culture is the Center for Mesoamerican Regional Investigations (CIRMA), sponsored (ironically) by a private foundation. CIRMA is a major center for Guatemalan anthropology produced by and for Guatemalans and has been supportive of indigenous peoples’ rights. CIRMA has also been the site of important workshops on Mayan hieroglyphic writing and epigraphy, including the well-known meeting in 1987 (Schele and Grube 1996). These work-

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        shops gather prominent linguists and archaeologists from the United States and Mayan cultural activists and intellectuals. Mayan ethnic nationalist ideas are disseminated through books and articles, tapes, lectures, and conferences (A. Otzoy 1996; Sam Colop 1996). According to Carol Smith (1991), three types of Guatemalans participate in the nationalist movement: members of local nongovernmental organizations (many of which are funded by foreign agencies); communitybased professionals such as teachers, health promoters, and agronomists; and intellectuals. As is typical of such movements, peasants and workers—that is, the people most responsible for carrying on indigenous traditions as a lived reality—have little involvement. A key element of the nationalist program is preservation and promotion of Mayan languages.3 The Academy of Mayan Languages, a government organization which is also heavily promoted by U.S. and European linguists, was founded in 1986 and advocates the use of Guatemala’s twenty-one Mayan languages in the school system and the use of a single, unified alphabet (independent of Spanish orthography) for writing these languages. Other nationalist organizations include the Cakchiquel Center for Integral Development and the umbrella organization called the Council of Maya Organizations. These are nongovernmental organizations concerned with economic development, political autonomy, and cultural selfdetermination. Mayan women play an important role in some nationalist discourses because they are the primary bearers of ‘‘indigenous’’ clothing, one of the key symbols of Indian culture.4 Embroidered blouses, skirts, and belts woven by Guatemalan women are world famous for their quality and beauty. These items of clothing are also important in maintaining the sexual boundaries between Mayan and Ladino communities.5 In other words, women who wear native garb indicate, at least discursively, that they are part of ‘‘traditional’’ Maya communities and therefore supposedly off-limits to Ladino men. Although (clothing-marked) community identification and endogamy restrict in-

digenous women’s freedoms within the larger society, they do allow them considerable security in their hometowns (Smith 1995:740). Furthermore, the sexual lines that divide Ladinos and Maya reinforce the larger distinction between Ladino and Mayan nations, although this is a highly permeable boundary. The failure of Guatemalan revolutionaries to understand Mayan women’s dress codes and attitudes about sexuality was one of the main reasons for the leftist insurgents’ limited ability to appeal to indigenous people (C. Smith 1995). Unfortunately, the Guatemalan Left has a history of misunderstanding the ‘‘indigenous question.’’ For example, until 1994 the Left opposed Mayan territorial claims and desire for political autonomy (C. Smith 1991:32). Moreover, Severo Martínez Peláez, a leading Guatemalan leftist intellectual, has blamed Indians’ ‘‘divisive colonial culture’’ (i.e., endogamy, linguistic diversity, and distinctive clothing) for the backwardness of the country (C. Smith 1991:32– 33). Maya must put aside ethnic differences and shed their colonialist cultural baggage before they can be liberated through class struggle, according to Martínez Peláez. But as Menchú (1996:8) points out, ‘‘if the FDNG [Frente Democrático Nueva Guatemala, the new leftof-center political party; but by extension the Left generally] hopes to be successful, it will have to take up indigenous rights and identity in a much deeper way.’’ Another issue that has divided Maya and leftist revolutionaries, as well as provoked debate within the Mayan intellectual community, concerns the tensions between pan-Mayan solidarity efforts and the historical microspecificity of Mayan villages (R. Wilson 1995; A. Otzoy 1996). While leftist intellectuals have often viewed the extreme cultural pluralism of indigenous pueblos as a reactionary colonialist creation, others see the great ecological, linguistic, and cultural archipelago of Indian villages as a source of adaptive strength and resilience. Can local idiosyncrasies of custom, clothing, and language thrive along with an emergent, more generic pan-Mayan movement? Antonio Otzoy, a Mayan intellectual, says 57

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  they can. He points out that more than 150 Maya organizations united in the Coalition of Organizations of the Maya People of Guatemala in 1994 to voice their views on the indigenous rights accord being discussed by the government and the Guatemalan National Revolutionary Unity (URNG). Despite political differences, the 150 organizations were able to come to an agreement about many basic issues regarding native peoples’ rights. Maya have also entered the political arena as candidates of the FDNG, a new center-Left coalition. Unfortunately, most Maya did not vote in the 1995 and 1996 elections. And some government officials have denounced the Mayan organizations as ‘‘dangerous’’ and ‘‘subversive’’ or as fronts for the guerrillas. These libelous attacks endanger the lives of Mayan activists and have fostered a climate of hatred and reprisals. Already several Mayan members of the FDNG have been killed, presumably by the Right (A. Otzoy 1996:35). Yet the Mayan revitalization movement appears to be expanding rapidly. One must wonder, however, about the real political potential of a movement, segments of which are deeply rooted in romantic, millenarian, and separatist discourses.6 Several obstacles to Mayan nationalism include the growing urbanization of Guatemalan Indians,7 great differences that exist among Guatemala’s distinct Mayan ethno-linguistic groups, and the different agendas likely to emerge from AfroGuatemalans (and Asians, a growing minority), who may see little of value in pro-Indian ideologies. Moreover, where do Ladinos—a substantial portion of the Guatemalan population—fit into this scheme? Menchú (1996:9) neatly summarized the challenge presented by Guatemala’s cultural diversity: ‘‘We Guatemalans must have a vision that is more national, less sectoral, less sectarian. We need to begin to erase the boundaries that divide us.’’ Another issue has to do with technology and economic development. Can an ideology that often looks to the Indian past and glorifies corn farming and rural life come to grips with a society that is rapidly adopting new machines, urbanizing, emigrating to the United States, 58

and developing a maquiladora industry? After all, Rigoberta Menchú became a popular culture heroine because she was able to combine a rich Indian cultural background with a sophisticated ability to interact in Western, urban settings. A main concern, then, for Mayan nationalist intellectuals is how to negotiate the contradictions between autochthonous, rural culture and modern, urban Guatemala. Their key challenge is to help the pluralistic Mayan people as a whole (not just a small cadre of urban intellectuals) become a powerful political and cultural force while avoiding cooptation and repression (C. Smith 1991:33). J, O In Juchitán, Oaxaca, twenty-five years of grassroots mobilizations by Isthmus Zapotec people have produced a regional political organization, the Worker-Peasant-Student Coalition of the Isthmus of Tehuantepec (COCEI), that consistently wins local and state elections and shows few signs of weakening (H. Campbell 1994).8 Moreover, Senator Héctor Sánchez of the COCEI movement finished a strong second in the Oaxaca gubernatorial election in 1998. How has COCEI been so successful within PRI-dominated Mexico? What are the limitations of the movement? Is COCEI’s strategy a viable alternative for other indigenous Mesoamerican groups? COCEI began as a combative coalition of students, workers, and peasants in Juchitán in 1973. Its main tactics were strikes, demonstrations, sit-ins, building takeovers, and highway blockades. Movement leaders advocated a militant ethnic ideology grounded in a politicized view of local history (H. Campbell et al. 1993). Far more than other movements of this kind, COCEI also promoted a cultural revival concerned with the Zapotec language and local arts. Juchitán’s Casa de la Cultura became the center of a dynamic group of Zapotec artists, poets, and scholars who produced ethnicoriented books, paintings, and magazines that attracted national and international attention. Zapotec women were active in COCEI, and their image as matriarchs drew scores of femi-

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        nist intellectuals to Juchitán. COCEI and Juchitán’s notoriety within Left intellectual circles acted as a buffer against government repression of the Zapotec political movement. COCEI also benefited from a series of fortuitous historical circumstances, in particular the coincidence of a political opening at the national level with a period of tremendous momentum in the movement. In 1981, the Mexican government—aware of the large popular support for COCEI and relative weakness of the local PRI—chose Juchitán as an example of its supposed new emphasis on clean elections and respect for the vote. COCEI’s victory in Juchitán’s municipal elections became a symbol of political opposition in Mexico.9 For two years COCEI’s ‘‘People’s Government’’ (Ayuntamiento Popular) was a hotbed for Zapotec ethnic militance and leftist political initiatives. Coceísta peasants invaded fields held by large landowners, poor people squatted on urban land, workers went on strike, and the Zapotec leaders of COCEI held festive political demonstrations in front of the Juchitán City Hall. As a red flag with hammer and sickle insignia flew over the town, COCEI politicians wearing red bandannas, jeans, and huaraches paraded around the streets in beat-up pickup trucks promoting their organization. Marketwomen wore red huipiles and flowers, and proCOCEI murals and graffiti adorned the walls of downtown businesses and homes. In the early 1980’s, Juchitán looked like a miniature version of Cuba or Sandinista Nicaragua. The movement’s stature as a cause célèbre of radical activism grew in 1983 as a result of the Mexican government’s destruction of COCEI’s ‘‘People’s Government.’’ Mexican soldiers occupied Juchitán City Hall, and about one hundred COCEI activists were jailed, four of whom became prisoners of conscience for Amnesty International. Francisco Toledo, the famous Juchiteco painter, and other COCEIoriented artists and intellectuals spread the word throughout Mexico of the PRI/government’s repression of a popular Indian movement in Oaxaca. Mexico’s most famous dissident intellectuals, including Carlos Monsiváis and Elena Poniatowska, defended COCEI in the

media, and the movement’s legend grew. Similar to the mass media and pro-Zapatista intellectual invasion of Chiapas in 1994, Juchitán attracted the solidarity of activists, academics, and assorted radicals from Mexico and abroad. Because of this external support, its solid base among local peasants and workers, and a tight network of neighborhood committees, COCEI was able to weather the storm of repression and remain a strong electoral force in the Isthmus of Tehuantepec. Since the time of the People’s Government, COCEI has won the Juchitán mayoral election three times and frequently elected state and federal deputies. The Mexican government no longer views COCEI as a serious threat and has preferred to send large federal subsidies to Juchitán for public works projects rather than engage in constant conflict with radical Juchitecos. In turn, COCEI leaders have chosen to work within the Mexican political system. Although they now accept the rules of the Mexican political game, in Juchitán COCEI leaders have attempted to establish what Isthmus Zapotec writer and former Coceísta politician Manuel Matus refers to as ‘‘a new political culture,’’ that is, a politics steeped in local indigenous culture and one that addresses the needs of the peasantry and working classes. In addition to Juchitán, COCEI also is strong in numerous other Isthmus towns, including Xadani, Unión Hidalgo, San Blas Atempa, Ixtepec, Espinal, and Comitancillo. It is difficult to determine the exact strength of COCEI, but I would estimate that the movement has at least 50,000 supporters in Oaxaca and active members in all Isthmus Zapotec towns. Additionally, the largely pro-COCEI Zapotec cultural movement is firmly established within Mexico. The Zapotec journal Guchachi’ Reza is now more than twenty years old and has produced at least fifty-four issues of high-quality articles, poems, graphic arts, and other items concerned with Oaxacan history and culture. Toledo is now considered one of the foremost artists in Latin America, and numerous Juchiteco painters have won prizes and displayed their art in major galleries in Mexico and elsewhere. 59

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  The main problems of COCEI are no longer repression, fraudulent elections, and cultural marginalization. Instead the movement, to some degree, is suffering from a malaise brought on by its own success. For example, the reduced tensions and polarization of Juchitán society have lessened the imperative toward social activism that propelled COCEI’s founders. Contemporary Juchiteco youth have grown up with COCEI in City Hall. They do not perceive an urgent need for social and political change the way their parents did. The luster of COCEI’s radical romanticism has dimmed some as the movement becomes more comfortable with holding power. Furthermore, the COCEI leadership struck a deal with the Salinas regime (1988–1994) that brought large amounts of Solidarity public works money to Juchitán but also prompted charges of co-optation and selling-out. Critics of COCEI have attacked the authoritarianism of the leadership (especially COCEI’s three main leaders), supposed acts of corruption, sexist behaviors of the all-male directorate, and the movement’s lack of attention to environmental issues. There have also been conflicts between COCEI leaders and prominent figures in the Zapotec cultural movement. Yet COCEI remains a powerful political force in the Isthmus of Tehuantepec and Oaxaca state politics. Unique circumstances allowed COCEI to become a successful and seemingly permanent political presence in southern Mexico. But the movement’s localized ethnic orientation has prevented its growth outside Oaxaca and limited its strength to the Isthmus Zapotec region.10 A big test of COCEI’s power and influence came in the 1998 Oaxaca state elections, when a COCEI candidate competed for the governorship. Héctor Sánchez ran a strong campaign and finished with approximately 40 percent of the vote, a close second to the PRI candidate.11 Although COCEI’s political success has, up to now, been confined to one region of Oaxaca, the movement may serve as a model for other Indian organizations in its combination of political activism and cultural revivalism. Juchitán’s rich artistic and literary movement and COCEI’s focus on ethnic history and Zapotec 60

social organization have given the movement an identity and cultural base that have helped it resist attacks from the PRI/government and survive far longer than most contemporary Mexican social movements. C Throughout Mesoamerica, indigenous people are mobilizing to defend their political and cultural rights. Three options they are pursuing are ethnic-based revolution, ethnic nationalism, and ethnic-oriented electoral politics as illustrated by the cases of Mayan Zapatistas in Chiapas, Mayan nationalists in Guatemala, and Isthmus Zapotec Coceístas in Juchitán, Oaxaca. Each of these options—which at times overlap, rather than being entirely separate political paths—provides risks and potential rewards. And each of the cases has unfolded in different political contexts: in Guatemala, a viciously repressive regime has forced indigenous activists to emphasize ‘‘the cultural’’ and downplay radical political action; in the Juchitán case, the Mexican government has recently preferred political negotiation and tolerance of COCEI rather than military suppression, allowing Coceístas considerable room to develop their political and cultural alternative; in Chiapas, the Mexican government’s strategy has been a combination of repression and negotiation with the Zapatistas. The Zapatista uprising led to the deaths of hundreds of Chiapas native peoples and forced tens of thousands of villagers to flee their homes. Yet the EZLN revolutionary actions have brought world attention to the plight of Mesoamerican Indians and forced the Mexican government to provide dramatically new levels of resources to rural Chiapas. The EZLN has also caused the PRI to loosen its control over state politics and allowed the Left a much greater share of political power in the region. The EZLN struggle continues. The Zapatistas hold consciousness-raising gatherings in the jungle and engage in drawn-out negotiations with the government officials. As a result, the government will be obliged to provide more economic and social benefits to native Chiapa-

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        necos. The future of the EZLN is unclear; however, it appears that the Zapatistas are trying to convert themselves from a mobilized guerrilla army into a political and social movement. Regardless of whether the Zapatistas are able to persist as a movement after negotiations with the government end, the EZLN has made an indelible mark on the consciousness of Mexicans as a symbol of indigenous rebellion against injustice. The ethnic nationalist movement in Guatemala, unlike the Zapatistas, is a nonviolent endeavor with a much sharper focus on cultural revitalization issues. Moreover, whereas the EZLN is comprised of several groups of Maya and other Indians in specific regions of Chiapas, the Guatemalan ethnic resurgence is truly a national movement that is sweeping the country. While the heyday of the Zapatistas (the uprising and intense world attention it provoked in subsequent months) has already passed, Guatemalan ethnic nationalism appears to be on the rise. If the movement is able to successfully manage the tensions between pan-Mayan solidarity and micro-level ethnolinguistic specificity, it is likely to have a profound impact on Guatemalan national society. In contrast, the COCEI of Juchitán has never had national political aspirations. Instead, Coceístas have focused on controlling politics in the Isthmus of Tehuantepec and dedicated themselves to defending and promoting Isthmus Zapotec culture. COCEI localism has been both a strength and weakness for the movement. On the one hand, localism has provided an intense ethnic identity for the organization. On the other hand, it has limited COCEI’s power to one region. The movement’s next challenge is to take power at the state level. In any event, COCEI will be a powerful force in the Isthmus of Tehuantepec for many years to come. All three cases illustrate the creativity and determination of Mesoamerican peoples to defend their political rights and cultures. Rather than viewing revolution, nationalism, and electoral politics as opposed, mutually exclusive options, I see them as a gamut of overlapping possibilities available to Mesoamerican Indians

as they face the twenty-first century. If these cases are representative, there is much hope for a better life for Mesoamerican peoples in the future. N 1. It is not yet clear how non-Indian intellectuals were able to connect to an ‘‘Indian’’ movement in Chiapas in a way other non-indigenous Latin American revolutionaries (e.g., in Guatemala) have strived for, but seldom achieved. 2. There is also a transnational element in the pan-Maya movement. Some cultural activists call for the reunification of the Mayan world that includes parts of Guatemala, Mexico, Belize, El Salvador, and Honduras (Fischer 1996b). 3. One linguistic trend is the use of ancient Mayan names by present-day cultural activists. Another trend is the creation of new Maya words for technological items or other cultural elements recently introduced to Guatemala. These efforts, however, confront the growing endangerment of Mayan languages, as many indigenous Guatemalans adopt Spanish as their primary language (for more details on these issues, see Fischer and Brown 1996b). 4. Mayan males regularly wear ‘‘indigenous’’ clothing in only a small number of towns in contemporary Guatemala. Perhaps that is why some male Mayan cultural activists do not emphasize native clothing in their ideological statements (Fischer 1996b:74). 5. Historically, the distinctive designs of Mayan women’s blouses and skirts identified their home village (I. Otzoy 1996). However, in recent years Mayan women have begun wearing clothing from various different communities—a phenomenon some activists view positively as an indication of growing panMayan unity. 6. This is not to imply that work by Mayan intellectuals is less scholarly or reliable than research by outsiders. Furthermore, as Nora England (personal communication, 1996) informed me, a number of the top Mayan intellectuals have sophisticated, nuanced visions of Mayan history and the transformative potential of Mayan nationalist ideals in a plural society. In other words, there is diverse thinking about Mayan nationalism, only some of which is heavily romantic and separatist. 7. Urbanism, however, could also be viewed as a strong contributing factor to a growing sense of panMaya unity. The contact of different Mayan groups in Guatemala City has allowed Indian people from all

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  over the country to learn about each other and seek cultural commonalities rather than emphasize differences. 8. As of August 1996, COCEI had three Oaxaca state deputies and one federal senator. 9. COCEI formed an electoral alliance with the Mexican Communist Party in the 1981 elections in Juchitán. 10. Historically COCEI has mainly been successful in Isthmus Zapotec communities. However,

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the movement has made inroads into a number of towns which do not have an Isthmus Zapotec majority, such as Guevea de Humboldt (a Mixe town), San Francisco Pueblo Nuevo (a Huave town), Tuxtepec (mostly mestizo), and Huatulco (a mixed, tourist town). 11. The 40 percent figure is an unofficial estimate that appeared in the Mexican newspapers immediately after the election.

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5. Otomían and Purépechan Cultures of Central Mexico JAMES W. DOW

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   the Otomían and Purépechan (Tarascan) cultures was presented in the Otomí (Manrique C. 1969) and Tarascan (Beals 1969b) ethnology chapters in the original Handbook of Middle American Indians (herein referred to as the Handbook). The material in this new chapter updates, corrects, and refines these previous cultural descriptions and focuses on particular aspects of the overall culture that are now better understood. In volume and depth the material available on these two groups is now an order of magnitude greater than it was when the original Handbook was published. Moreover, the ethnographic research on the Otomían and Purépechan peoples since 1969 has been characterized by a new and cordial cooperation among Mexican, North American, and European investigators. Mexican institutions have provided publication outlets for much of the new ethnographic materials on these groups.1

I   O  P P The identification of native cultures in the Americas is usually based on language; however, it must be understood that native peoples also identify their own cultural groups by region and community (pueblo). In other words, people think of themselves not only as speakers of a particular native language, but also as people of a particular geographic region and, above all, as members of particular village communities. As classified by language, the Otomían ethnic groups are the Ñähñu (Otomí), Mazahua, Pamé, Matlatzinca, Chichimec-Jonaz, and Ocuilteca. Of these the most numerous are the Ñähñu and the Mazahua. The Purépecha speak the Tarascan language and now prefer the name ‘‘Purépecha’’ rather than ‘‘Tarascan’’ (de la Peña 1987:9n). Purépecha means ‘village people’ or ‘people of the countryside.’ Several spellings of the Otomí word for their linguistic/ethnic group have come into use. In IPA orthography the word for their language is FãFũ.2 The voiceless palatal nasal F is a difficult sound for a non-native speaker and has 65

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 .  been rendered variously in other spellings. The most common spelling seems to be Ñähñu, which is used in this chapter. Ñähñu the language contains many nasal sounds. Its lexeme FãFũ is derived from Fã, meaning ‘word’ or ‘speech’ and Fũ, meaning ‘nose.’ Thus FãFũ means ‘nasal word’ or ‘the nasal language.’ The Ñähñu people also sometimes call themselves Fũhu, meaning ‘we of the nasalized language.’ The word ‘‘Otomí’’ is an Aztec word that could be derived from otocac meaning ‘walk’ and mitl meaning ‘arrow,’ implying that the Ñähñu were simple bow-and-arrow bird hunters (Soustelle 1937), an incorrect notion perhaps resulting from Aztec prejudices.3 This negative connotation is rejected by Ñähñu intellectuals, who prefer the name FãFũ for the ethnic group (Martín Contreras, Gómez B., and Godínez S. 1986a:6; Bernard and Salinas Pedraza 1989:11). When non-Ñähñu are able to pronounce FãFũ and when it is spelled in a standard form, it should become the literate label for the ethnic/linguistic group. Most Central Mexican native peoples form part of the lower peasant stratum of society. The extraction of peasant surpluses by elites depends on the control of markets and increasingly on the control of industrial capital rather than on the control of land as it did in previous centuries. Peasants are subsistence farmers. The primary crops are maize, beans, and squash. People live in houses with one or two rooms. T 1990 P   O  P P  C M

Tseng 2000.5.5 13:00

Location The Otomían people live to the east, north, and west of the Valley of Mexico. The Purépechan people live further to the west in northeast Michoacán. Figure 5-1 shows their 1990 locations. Jacques Soustelle’s (1937) original Otomí map, which was used as the basis for the map in the first Handbook chapter on the Otomí (Manrique C. 1969), did not utilize demographic information collected after 1937. Figure 5-1 66

draws on data from the 1990 Mexican national census (INEGI 1990; Embriz 1993). Programs in bilingual education sponsored by the Secretaría de Educación Pública have created an infrastructure that now allows the gathering of detailed information on the native languages, and this new information has been incorporated into the recent Mexican national census. The census has also been enhanced by new computer processing techniques. H Ñ. The Highland Ñähñu are located in three separate concentrations shown in Figure 5-1. One group lives in and around the Valley of Mezquital in the state of Hidalgo, primarily in the municipios of Alfajayucan, Cardonal, Chilcuatla, Ixmiquilpan, Nicolás Flores, San Salvador, Santiago de Anaya, and Tasquillo. Another group of Highland Ñähñu is located in the state of Querétaro, primarily in the municipios of Amealco de Bonfil and Tolimán; and the third group is located in the State of Mexico, primarily in the municipios of Acambay, Morelos, and Temoaya. The environments occupied by the Highland Ñähñu are relatively dry. Rainfall agriculture is capable of producing only one crop of maize a year, if any at all. The most productive agricultural regions are irrigated, such as the southern Valley of Mezquital. S Ñ. The Sierra Ñähñu are located in eastern Hidalgo, primarily in the municipios of Huehuetla, Tenango de Doria, and San Bartolo Tutotepec; in northeastern Puebla, primarily in the municipios of Pahuatlán, Pantepec, Tlaxco, and Tlacuilotepec; and in northern Veracruz, primarily in the municipios of Coyutla, Huayacocotla, Ixhuatlán de Madero, Texcatepec, Tlachichilco, and Zontecomatlán. Figure 5-2 shows their location. This map is based on information obtained directly from teachers in the bilingual program of the Secretaría de Educación Pública in 1989 (Dow 1994). The blank area between Zacualpan and Tlachichilco is a region taken over by mestizo cattle ranchers and separates the Ñähñu of Texcatepec from those of Tutotepec. There is also a separate group of Sierra

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      

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F 5-1. The location of the non-Nahua people of Central Mexico.

Ñähñu in the village of Santa Ana Hueytlalpan south of the main area. This group lives in the Tulancingo Basin, a highland valley at 2160 m above sea level that is very different from the mountainous and tropical habitats occupied by the remainder of the Sierra Ñähñu. Nevertheless, the language and customs of the people of Santa Ana are closer to those of the other Sierra Ñähñu than they are to the language and customs of Highland Ñähñu. Santa Ana contained 3,023 Ñähñu speakers in 1990. The other Tulancingo Basin Ñähñu village of San Pedro noted by Soustelle (1937) is no longer linguistically Ñähñu. The remainder of the Sierra Ñähñu occupy a wide band of altitudes ranging from a high of 2550 m (Las Jarillas, Hidalgo) to a low of 160 m (Joya Chica, Veracruz). Thus, due to altitudeclimate variations, agriculture and material culture vary considerably among the Sierra Ñähñu. Although dialects of Sierra Ñähñu are mutually intelligible, different words may be used for the

same thing in various subregions. Kinship terms also vary. For example, ‘‘grandfather’’ is pγhta in San Lorenzo Achiotepec (Galinier 1987:185) but is ʃita in Tenango de Doria and Tutotepec (Dow 1974:77). M, P, M, C-J,  O. The Mazahua are located in the western part of the State of Mexico bordering the state of Michoacán south of the Ñähñu region. The major Mazahua municipios are Atlacomulco, El Oro, San Felipe del Progreso, and Temascalcingo. Practically all the Pamé live in the state of San Luis Potosí, where there is a large concentration in the municipio of Santa Catarina. The adult speakers of Matlatzinca in the 1990 census were located in the central part of the State of Mexico in the municipios of Temascaltepec and Zinacantepec and also in the Federal District. The Chichimec Jonaz are located in northeastern Guanajuato in the municipio of San Luis de la Paz and in 67

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 . 

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F 5-2. The location of the Sierra Otomí.

southeastern San Luis Potosí in the municipios of Santa Catarina and Tamasopo. The Ocuilteca are now a small population located in the State of Mexico to the southwest of the Federal District in the municipios of Ocuilán and Tianguistenco. 68

Demography The 1990 census populations of the Otomíans and Purépechans are shown in Table 5-1. The census counts only the speakers of the languages over five years of age. One should keep

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       in mind that these population figures do not show all the native people in these states because they do not include the Nahua speakers, the other major central Mexican group (see Good, this volume). The 1990 population figures show the effect of wage-labor migration. The sizable native population of Otomían and Purépechan people in the Federal District around Mexico City is there because people have been attracted by work opportunities. The 1990 census figures show that some Purépechans and Otomíans have moved to the state of Veracruz on a temporary basis to take advantage of work opportunities in coffee and citrus agriculture. However, there is also a sizable permanent population of around 13,000 Ñähñu in Veracruz.

pology have focused on the changing economic conditions in Central Mexico. The local economies have been affected by changes in global cash-crop prices and by shifts in the demands for peasant-produced handicrafts. The growing industrialization and urbanization of Mexico have created new opportunities for Indian wage labor. These changes have resulted from an acceleration of a change process that was already underway at the time the first Handbook chapters were written. Urbanization The largest urban center in Central Mexico is Mexico City, with a population of 15.05 million in 1990. The most populous urban area in the Otomían and Purépechan zones outside of Mexico City is Toluca in the State of Mexico, which registered a population of 819,900 in 1990. The Central Mexican natives have been affected by the explosive growth of Mexico City. The population of its metropolitan area increased by 64 percent between 1960 and 1970 and by 56 percent between 1970 and 1980.4

C C  T I  1960  1990 Types of Changes Recent studies in applied anthropology, economic anthropology, and development anthro-

T 5-1. 1990 Populations of Purépechan and Otomían People, Five Years Old and Above, in Central Mexico by State Purépechan

Tseng 2000.5.5 13:00

States (listed from west to east)

Purépecha

Chichimeca Jonaz (Northern Pame)

Colima Jalisco Michoacán Guanajuato Querétaro San Luis Potosí México Distrito Federal Morelos Hidalgo Tlaxcala Puebla Veracruz

*7 ,- 7,>77 3-0 0 *3 ,- ,-7  *>  0 >

 3 ,>-3  *>  * *  

Total

3,*

,-7

Otomían

Pame

Matlatzinca

Mazahua

 3

3 7

37 3-*,>> 3*> > -3 -,3,70- 73 0 03 0*

,*

,-

30,7-

 7 ,00  *



 ,3> 337 0

Ocuilteca

Ñähñu

 0-3 *    30

3 07 -* 70,33* ,700,- 3 ,** 77 ,077 ,70

33

37,*

3 

69

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 .  The growth rate slowed to 7.1 percent between 1980 and 1990, when smaller cities grew more rapidly than the metropolitan area. The growth of other urban areas in the Otomían and Purépechan zones accelerated later than in Mexico City and peaked between 1970 and 1980. Between 1970 and 1980 in the Purépechan area, Pátzcuaro grew by 90 percent, Paracho by 43 percent, and Zacapu by 24 percent. In the Ñähñu area during the same decade, Actopan grew by 47 percent, Tulancingo by 43 percent, and Ixmiquilpan, the major city in the Valley of Mezquital, by 140 percent. All of these urban growth rates tapered off in the 1980’s, when Pátzcuaro grew by 29 percent, Paracho by 7 percent, Zacapu by 8 percent, Ixmiquilpan by 95 percent, Actopan by 35 percent, and Tulancingo by 29 percent.5

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Migration As is true of other Native Mesoamerican people, Otomían and Purépechan speakers have increasingly migrated to make ends meet. Their easy access to Mexico City, as illustrated in the personal biographies of migrants (Price 1969), has played a key role in making migration an integral part of their lives. The burgeoning industries of the State of Mexico, such as the foodprocessing plants in Santa Clara on the northern outskirts of Mexico City, required new inputs of unskilled labor in the 1970’s and began to attract nearby Otomían and Purépechan people. Robert Kemper (1977:191) points out that between 1930 and 1940 only a handful of the people of Tzintzuntzan in the Purépechan area ventured outside Michoacán. In contrast, between 1960 and 1970, about 15 percent of all households had out-of-state migrants. Kemper’s study of Tzintzuntzan migrants to Mexico City in the early 1970’s showed that migration was becoming a stable strategy for augmenting income among the mestizoized Purépecha. Kemper’s (1987) summary of urbanization and economic change contains a bibliography of migration studies in the Purépechan area that includes Acuitzio de Canaje (Wiest 1979), Huecorio (Dinerman 1978), Pátzcuaro (Pietri and 70

Pietri 1976), and Tzintzuntzan (Kemper and Foster 1975). Migration has occurred not only within Mexico but also across the border in the United States. Alicia Chavira-Prado (1992) has studied the status of Purépechan women in migrant farmworker communities in southern Illinois. Among the undocumented U.S. families, women maintain important connections with health service agencies. Handicraft Markets The Otomían and Purépechan areas have both experienced a growth in the demand for their handmade crafts. The Highland Ñähñu produce embroidered bags, blouses, baskets, flowerpots, hats, and reed ornaments. The Sierra Ñähñu produce embroidered blouses, embroidered wall hangings, beaded jewelry, and bark paper. The Purépecha produce pottery (Hardin 1977; Engelbrecht 1987), wood products (Acheson 1970, 1982), and dresses. Marketing entrepreneurs and the Mexican government have encouraged local producers to produce for markets in the large cities and abroad. While vacationing in other parts of Mexico, tourists seek out native crafts relayed to them by a marketing network that covers the entire country. The local demand for the crafts changes with the styles that the tourists demand. O C The Otomían cultures are Ñähñu, Mazahua, Pamé, Ocuilteca, Chichimeca-Jonaz, and Matlatzinca. No speakers of Matlame were found in the 1990 census. The Chichimeca-Jonaz language can be regarded as a variant of Pamé. The Otomían languages form the Otopamean branch of the Otomanguean language family. It is generally agreed now that there are tones in some of the Otomían languages, but they are not the most critical elements of contrast.

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       New Views of Otomían Religion Since the publication of the earlier Handbook, much more has been learned about the religion of Otomían groups. Oratory cults now appear to be an important distinguishing feature of all the Otomían cultures. Soustelle found them among the Ñähñu in the State of Mexico in the 1930’s (Soustelle 1935), and they now have been studied among the Mazahua (Cortés Ruiz 1972) and Sierra Ñähñu (Dow 1974, 1996; Galinier 1976, 1990). However, oratory cults apparently have disappeared from the Mezquital area since the 1930’s. Oratories are small, well-constructed buildings housing religious images belonging to a family. Oratory rituals are maintained by the patrilineal descendants of the man who originally built the oratory. Worship of the images in an oratory involves a wider group of people than the worship of images on a family household altar; thus, the rituals unite families and neighborhoods and create local alliances (Dow 1996). The oratory rituals structure social relations at an intermediate group level between the nuclear family and the village as a whole. Oratory cults are distributed widely in the Otomían area. The Sierra Ñähñu oratory rituals can be without Christian elements, and there is no reason to believe that oratory rituals were established by the Spanish Catholic Church, although they often contain Christian elements such as a cross or an image of a Catholic saint. They are found among the Mazahua evangelized by the Franciscans on the western edge of the Otomían area and among Sierra Ñähñu evangelized by the Augustinians on the eastern edge. Often a cross is the central image of a larger oratory. The Sierra Ñähñu decorate their oratorio crosses with flowers and associate them with the Sun God.

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Ñähñu Language Several Ñähñu orthographies now exist. Jesús Salinas Pedraza and H. Russell Bernard (1978: vi) have invented an orthography that is compatible with a standard Spanish typewriter. The

latest Summer Institute of Linguistics (SIL) orthography is described in Summer Institute of Linguistics (1979) and is designed to show the tonal phonemes where necessary. The Dirección General de Educación Indígena has developed a third orthography that is compatible with conventional Spanish type (Martín Contreras and Gómez B. 1989). A new grammar for Mezquital Ñähñu is Donaciana Martín Contreras and Victorino Gómez B. (1989), and a new grammar for Sierra Ñähñu is Summer Institute of Linguistics (1979). The latter takes its name from an earlier missionary publication (Buelna 1893). H Ñ The Ñähñu of the Mezquital live mostly in the municipios of Alfajayucan, Cardonal, Chilcuatla, Ixmiquilpan, Nicolás Flores, San Salvador, Santiago de Anaya, and Tasquillo. The Ñähñuspeaking population of these eight municipios was 74,088 in 1990. The Valley of Mezquital was an important supply region for Mexico City in the Colonial period. The town of Ixmiquilpan lies at the center of the valley 70 km northwest of Pachuca and 120 km north of Mexico City. In the last century, the valley was ruled by large landowners whose haciendas produced cattle, wheat, and maize. After the Revolution, these estates were returned to the Ñähñu in the form of ejidos, which are now the principal form of landholding in the region. Commercial agriculture on newly irrigated lands has created ties to the national culture that have accelerated the replacement of Indian culture by national culture. Nevertheless, there is a growing ethnic consciousness and respect for traditional Indian ways in the valley. A Mezquital Ñähñu literature has developed, and its ethnographic writings have been encouraged by the North American anthropologist H. R. Bernard (Salinas Pedraza and Bernard 1978; Bernard 1985; Bernard and Salinas Pedraza 1989). Jesús Salinas Pedraza, a native Ñähñu speaker, has worked with Bernard to record and publish Mezquital folktales (Bernard and Salinas Pedraza 1976). They have re71

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 .  corded and then translated Mezquital Ñähñu ethnographic texts into English (Salinas Pedraza and Bernard 1978; Bernard and Salinas Pedraza 1989). A group of Ñähñu in the Mezquital have been publishing bilingual Ñähñu and Spanish texts outlining some of the features of Highland Ñähñu culture. This is a needed effort at preserving the older crafts and beliefs that may be lost to future generations. Of particular interest are the folktales that they have collected, such as ‘‘The Rabbit and the Coyote’’ (Martín Contreras, Gómez B., and Godínez S. 1986a). They have also produced Yä M’ui yä Ñähñu, a bilingual ethnography of life in the communities of Bondho and Tlacotlapilco (Martín Contreras, Gómez B., and Godínez S. 1986b). Informal cooperation between Washington State University, the Catholic University of America, and the University of Oregon took United States graduate students to the Valley of Mezquital to study Ñähñu culture between 1967 and 1971. Some of the results of these field schools have been published (Bernard 1969; Bernard and Kenny 1971; Kenny and Bernard 1973). Because of these developments and other work (Nolasco Armas 1966a, 1966b; Bernard 1969; Kenny and Bernard 1973; Finkler 1974; Tranfo 1974; Muñoz Cruz 1982; Vásquez Valdivia 1992) more is known about the culture of the Mezquital Ñähñu today than when the earlier Handbook chapter was written.

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Economy The Valley of Mezquital receives very little rain. Irrigation is necessary to produce good harvests of maize, beans, and squash. In the areas without irrigation, maguey is often the primary crop. The varieties of maguey grown include Agave endlichiana, A. gracilispina, and A. lechuguilla. The plant is tapped for its sweet sap, from which a traditional nutritious cactus beer (pulque) is made. The maguey is a secure crop that also provides seasoning, fibers, fences, and building material. Another dry land crop is a nopal cactus (Opuntia streptacantha) grown for its sweet fruit, the tuna. The Mezquital Ñähñu plow the rain-watered fields with a wooden plow and 72

horse. Red and black beans are planted with the maize in June, and the maize is harvested in November. Only one crop a year can be grown, and it can be stunted if rain is not sufficient. Squash and chickpeas are also grown on unirrigated lands. While irrigation systems in the Mezquital have existed since Precolumbian times, a new level of irrigation was introduced into the valley after the Revolution. Sponsored by the federal government, these works connected the Valley of Mezquital to sewage and drainage canals running northward from Mexico City toward the Tula River. The additional supply of water, coupled with the breakup of old estates and the redistribution of land in ejidos, increased the productivity of Ñähñu agriculture. This development has tended to involve communities in national politics, to strengthen the ejido system, and to increase population (Finkler 1974). Ñähñu with irrigated land may rent it to mestizo farmers who plant it with alfalfa and vegetables and then contract the natives as day laborers. Ñähñu in the villages with irrigated lands are thus well integrated as producers in the national economy. However, irrigation works have not reached all the Ñähñu people; nor did every area receive land in the agrarian reform. Villagers from areas that are not connected to the new irrigation network are the ones most likely to turn to wage labor to make ends meet. Men may work as day laborers and women as domestic servants in Mexico City and surrounding municipalities in the State of Mexico. There is also migration to the United States. Many go to Florida to work in agriculture. Since most long-term migrants are men, a higher percentage of femaleheaded households are found in these latter Ñähñu communities. Migrants tend to return to their home villages for the village fiestas. Kinship Ñähñu kinship terminology is bilateral. The Mezquital Ñähñu have adopted Spanish terms for aunts, uncles, and cousins. In Mezquital Ñähñu all male cousins are called primo, and all female cousins are called prima. Figure 5-

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       S Ñ

F 5-3. Kinship terms in Mezquital Otomí for male and female speakers (after Tranfo 1974).

3 shows the other Mezquital Ñähñu terms. The symbols in the parentheses indicate the sex of the speaker. Terms for siblings in Mezquital Ñähñu depend on the sex of the speaker, as they do in other dialects of the language. A man calls his brother xɯLada and his sister nxu. A woman calls her brother Mida and her sister xuɯLeM. Religion

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Catholicism is the predominant religion of the Mezquital Ñähñu. Catholic priests visit small pueblos to say Mass once a week. Besides the annual fiesta of the patron saint, villagers celebrate rituals of baptism, marriage, and the Day of the Dead. Civil-religious hierarchies have not been reported. Oratory buildings exist here and there, but most of the oratory celebrations appear to have been abandoned. Protestant groups compete for the religious allegiance of the people. The Iglesia Evangélica Independiente, a Pentecostal Protestant organization, has a large Ñähñu membership. It is an Indian church headquartered in Pachuca, the capital of the state of Hidalgo south of the Mezquital Valley. Not only is it influential among the Mezquital Ñähñu, but from the 1960’s to the 1990’s it was gaining converts among the Sierra Ñähñu.

In the early Colonial period, the land of the Sierra Ñähñu became an encomienda. Tutotepec, the major town of the region, was assigned to Alonso Giraldo, a trumpeter in the Conquest. Parts of the tribute were privately assigned as late as 1692 (Gerhard 1972:336). The scanty ethnohistorical data show a small, persistent Spanish presence during the Colonial period. In the eighteenth century, twentyone towns had achieved cabecera status. However, there were no haciendas in the territory at that time; generally, the taking of land occurred only after Independence and then on a small scale, because the mountains made the land unsuitable for commercial agriculture. It was an ideal refuge for Indians. Galinier (1990) has compiled many of the facts of Sierra Ñähñu ethnohistory in his book on Sierra Ñähñu religious symbolism. Economy Today the economy is based on subsistence farming. The main subsistence crops are maize, beans, chili peppers, tomates (tomatillos), and squashes. The crops vary with altitude. One seasonal crop of maize is grown above 1,500 m. Below that, two crops can be grown. Forests are exploited for timber and fuel. The economy has been affected in different ways by the national economy. In the higher elevations, Ñähñu raise cattle for plowing and investment. An Indian family with a typical small holding keeps only from one to ten head. NonIndian mestizo ranchers raise cattle for sale. A region of former Ñähñu territory around Zacualpan now is dominated by mestizo cattle ranchers. There are violent confrontations between Ñähñu and mestizo cattle ranchers over land in the region of Texcatepec, Veracruz. Below 1,500 m, maize farming can produce a small cash income; however, the more lucrative cash crops at these lower altitudes are coffee and sugarcane. Some successful coffee producers have acquired large landholdings, leading to new forms of inequality. However, poorer persons plant coffee as well, and it is a 73

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 .  general cash crop at the lower altitudes. An excessive dependency on coffee production damaged the Sierra Ñähñu economy in the late 1980’s and early 1990’s as the world prices fell. Sugarcane is pressed in animal-powered presses (trapiches) one stalk at a time and boiled to make raw sugar cakes (piloncillos) for sale. The sugar cakes are often sold to local distilleries producing aguardiente. In 1950, most of the Sierra Ñähñu communities could only be reached by foot or on horseback. By 1990, all the largest communities could be reached by vehicular roads, though many of these roads are treacherous and unimproved. There was still no bus service between Huehuetla and San Lorenzo in 1990. The economic effect of improved transportation has been to increase the coffee production and wage labor migration. The cultural impacts have been even greater. A system of rural schools has been developed, and children leave their home communities to pursue secondary and college courses of study. Ethnographic research since 1968 has provided information on the agriculture and economic activities of the Sierra Ñähñu (Dow 1975; Galinier 1979a, 1979b). Galinier’s (1979a) general ethnography of the Sierra Ñähñu, entitled N’yũhũ, has been translated into Spanish with the title Pueblos de la Sierra Madre (Galinier 1987). B P. At the time the first Handbook was published, ethnographers were interested in the Sierra Ñähñu primarily because they manufactured a bark paper like that used in Precolumbian books and rituals (Christensen 1942, 1952–1953, 1963, 1971; Lenz 1948). The Sierra Ñähñu were the only natives who still made it, and they used it exclusively in religious rituals. Research has continued on the bark paper and on the religious figures cut from it (Sandstrom 1978a, 1981). Besides the Ñähñu, Tepehua and Nahua shamans in the Sierra also cut paper figures for their rituals. Much of the continuing research on the Ñähñu paper figures has been with Alfonso García, the son of Bodil Christensen’s original informant, and with his 74

F 5-4. Kinship terms in Sierra Otomí for male and female speakers (Tenango de Doria dialect).

later collaborators who were entrepreneurs in setting up a bark paper industry in San Pablito, the only Sierra Ñähñu village to successfully commercialize the production of the paper for the handicrafts market. Paintings on the bark paper are the most common handicraft products; however, the painting is done by Nahua Indians far away in the state of Guerrero, who buy the paper from the Sierra Ñähñu (Good Eshelman 1981, 1988). Kinship Figure 5-4 shows the Sierra Ñähñu kin terms for both female and male speakers in the Tenango de Doria area. Kin terms are not the same among all the Sierra Ñähñu. For example, in the municipio of Tenango de Doria, ‘‘grandmother’’ is either su or zisu, in Tutotepec it is tNzisu, and in Texcatepec it is ula. Affinal and sibling terms usually recognize the sex of the speaker. Daughters and mother-in-laws use special terms of reference for each other because they form close relationships while sharing household work. Terms for brother and sister are extended to cousins and recognize the sex of the speaker. In Tenango, a woman calls her brother and male cousins ĩdã and her sister and female cousins xuhɯLε. A man calls his brothers and male cousins Myohγ and his sister

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       and female cousins Mkũ. The extended cousin terminology reflects the cooperation and solidarity between cousins. Land is held privately and is usually distributed by the owner before he or she dies. The tendency is to balance resources to meet the needs of the families of the younger generation. Daughters receive little or no land unless their families need land and extra land is available for them. Undistributed land passes to the widowed spouse. The most important cooperating groups are the male patrilineal descendants of a common male ancestor. Brothers and cousins often work pieces of the same inherited land. The recognition of the sex of the speaker in Sierra Ñähñu kinship terminology is a response to the division of labor in peasant agriculture and the patterns of like-sex cooperation in work. Postmarital residence is most often with the husband’s family. When the couple sets up a new household, it is usually near the house of the husband’s parents and close to the family land that his father gives him to work. The passing of land from a father to a son occurs when the son is married and starts to support a family, not later when the father dies. When a daughter receives land, the couple builds a house near her family so they can work her land. In these cases, the husband has no property rights to the land, which will be passed on from the mother to the children when they need it.

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Religion Oratory images are of Catholic saints or of native superhuman lords called antL i gɯLas. The saints and the antL i gɯLas are a single class of superhuman being called zidãhmũ (Dow 1974). The oratory ceremonies of the Catholic images are public and rival the ceremonies of the official village saints in political importance. The ceremonies for the antL i gɯLas are more spiritual and are performed in ways that hide them from the scrutiny of the Catholic priests (Dow 1996). Priests say Mass in the municipal capitals and visit outlying village churches only on special occasions, particularly on feast days of the church. In some of the larger villages, a cycle of fiestas sponsored by religious officials generates

a prestige hierarchy that supports a native government. In other villages, this system has been abandoned in favor of a Protestant religion that rejects this type of political hierarchy. Shamanism exists in many Sierra Ñähñu communities. The shaman, who can be male or female, acts as a curer and as a pastor of a religious following (Dow 1986a, 1986b). In his or her role as a curer, the shaman concentrates on diseases that are thought to have a supernatural origin: sorcery, attack by malevolent ‘‘airs,’’ and an assault on protective animal companion spirits (rogi) (Dow 1986c). Diseases that can be cured by modern medicine are treated with drugs or a visit to a biomedically trained physician. For curing ceremonies, the shaman cuts paper figures representing the soul force (zaki ) of the beings involved, the patient, malevolent beings, protective beings, etc. (Dow 1982, 1984). The curing ceremonies are based on an animistic system of belief still surviving among the Sierra Ñähñu. The animistic native belief system is also the basis of public ceremonies involving shamans who act as religious authorities rather than as curers. The public ceremonies are called costumbres and are all-night vigils with music and dancing to honor the zidãhmũ who are believed to be present. Flower decorations and paper cuttings are used on the altar. Important costumbres are held to activate the soul forces of agricultural seeds. Some villages maintain a special oratory in which the paper figures of the village seed soul forces are kept. The pantheon of higher superhuman beings mixes Catholic with native ideas and includes God, Our Sacred Father, Our Sacred Mother, the Sun (equal to Jesus Christ), Grandfather Fire, the Lady of Fresh Waters, and Lord of the Earth. R S. Little was known about Sierra Ñähñu religion at the time the original Handbook article was published, but several important works have appeared in the interim. These tend to have one of two interpretative foci: (1) an analysis of the political and economic functions of the religion and 75

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 .  (2) a symbolic cosmological analysis that seeks to understand Ñähñu thought. Dow (1977) has shown that the religion maintains a redistributive economic system that backs up a hierarchy of power in Ñähñu communities. This system is being abandoned in some places in favor of evangelical Protestantism (Dow 1993), which favors the accumulation and personal use of wealth rather than its redistribution. Galinier (1979a, 1979b, 1980, 1984, 1989, 1990) has undertaken an extensive interpretation of the symbolism in Sierra Ñähñu beliefs. Much of this has looked at images of the body and at corporeal functions. He argues that there is a duality between a Catholic upper half of the body and a sensual lower half governed by the Devil (Galinier 1984). Galinier’s monumental work on Sierra Ñähñu religion (1990) follows the lead of Alfredo López Austin (1988) to deal with body symbolism. It is descriptive and interpretive and is based on ethnography in San Pedro Tlachichilco, San Lorenzo Achiotepec, San Pablito, San Miguel, and Santa Ana Hueytlalpan. The descriptive content deals with the ethnohistory of the eastern Sierra, political religious organization, oratorio cults, household rituals, shamanism, deities, herbal treatments, funeral rites, pilgrimages to Catholic shrines, religious dances, native rituals (costumbres), native pilgrimages to La Laguna, and Carnival rituals. The interpretive content constructs a Sierra Ñähñu world view from an analysis of the symbolism of the rituals. This is quite extensive and involves concepts of space, time, numbers, color, the heavens, and the natural world. The body interpretation deals with skin, bones, blood, sperm, heart, and feet. Dow’s (1986b) study of shamanism deals with the practice of one Sierra Ñähñu shaman. It contains texts by the shaman translated into English and a description of the cultural contexts of the practices described in them. The theoretical component discusses the shaman’s work in relation to a universal theory of symbolic healing.

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M Identification Some historians say that the name ‘‘Mazahua’’ simply means ‘deer people,’ since mazatl signifies ‘deer’ in the Aztec language. Others say it derives from the group’s first leader, Mazatl Tecutli, or ‘Lord Deer,’ so Mazahua means ‘people of Lord Deer.’ Yet these terms do not exist in the Mazahua language. They call themselves teetho ñaatho jñaatho. Teetho means ‘real people,’ and ñaatho jñaatho means ‘those who speak the language.’ Three important community ethnographies now cover the Mazahua: Efraín Cortés Ruiz (1972) studied a community in the municipio of Donato Guerra in the western part of the State of Mexico bordering Michoacán; Alicja Iwanska (1971) investigated a town in the northern Valley of Toluca; and Barbara Margolies (1975) studied an important municipio, San Felipe de Progreso, in the northern Mazahua area northwest of Toluca. Margolies’ monograph includes a study of nineteenth-century and postrevolutionary problems of land reform. History The Mazahua were part of the Aztec empire. They lived in the western part of the empire between Tlacopan, conquered by the Aztec, and Michoacán, which remained unconquered. The frontier between the Tarascan kingdom in Michoacán and the Aztec domain was, and is still partly, occupied by a mixture of Mazahua, Ñähñu, Matlatzinca, and Purépechan Indians. Apparently the Mazahua remained in the same area throughout the Colonial period. Their culture was affected by the Spanish reorganization of government and by Spanish Catholicism, which placed them under the tutelage of the Franciscans. After the Independence of Mexico in 1810, the situation of the Mazahua did not improve. Many Mazahua were forced to work on large, land-grabbing haciendas. During and after the Juárez reforms, the remaining Mazahua communal lands were expropriated (Pérez Ruiz

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       1995). It was only after the Mexican Revolution of 1910 that land was returned to the Mazahua as ejidos. Economy Craft specialization is an important feature of the Central Mexican highland cultures. Like the Purépechan villages farther to the west, the Mazahua villages often specialize in a particular craft. Pottery is one of these, and Dick Papousek (1982) finds that Mazahua producers change their style of pottery to meet market demands. Thus they are not constrained by a conservative ‘‘Image of Limited Good’’ (Foster 1965) that would limit them to traditional designs. Iwanska (1971) has also painted a picture of Mazahua attitudes toward cultural change that is optimistic and forward looking. Her study of a Mazahua village, from a sociological view, challenges earlier concepts of peasant pessimism, including the ‘‘Image of Limited Good.’’

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Religion The Mazahua in the 1970’s maintained a fiesta system with two types of officials in charge of celebrations of village saints: (1) four ranked fiscales chosen for a year to oversee the other officials; and (2) two to four ranked mayordomos for each image (Cortés Ruiz 1972). The Mazahua maintain oratories for some of their images. The oratories are smaller than dwellings and better constructed. The most important religious object in an oratory is a cross set on the altar. There are two types of crosses: (1) the cruz blanca, the plain cross, and (2) the cruz rostro, the portrait cross. The portrait cross has a face, a primitive representation of Christ, painted at the intersection. The cross may be flanked by other religious images such as an image of Saint Peter or the Virgin of the Assumption. Two types of rituals are conducted in the oratory: (1) velación, in which a family head makes an offering to an image in the oratory to relieve sickness or solve another family problem; and (2) fiesta, a public gathering during which the owners and the godfather of an

image jointly celebrate the particular rituals of the image. The Mazahua say that the oratory crosses have a pact with the Devil so that, if the ceremonies are not held in the oratories, some evil will befall the people who care for them. The ceremonies are maintained by a group of inheritors. The core of this group is composed of male patrilineal descendants of the original male owner of the image. To this group are added married female descendants and their offspring. Because of the tendency toward bilaterality, families have a choice of which oratory cult they contribute to. An oratory cross needs to be changed when it goes bad and performs uncontrollable evil magic. When all the inheritors have agreed that a new cross is needed, a date for the fiesta is set. The old cross is taken to a carpenter for duplication and so becomes a new copy of the original sacred object. Godparents of the new cross are sought. They take the new cross to a Catholic priest in a town to have it blessed. Similarly, one of the other images in the oratory may be taken by its godparents for a Mass in the town. Cult members gather at the oratory for a feast and the ritual of arrival of the new cross. Education Along with other native people in Mexico, the Mazahua have benefited from the bilingual education program of the Secretaría de Educación Pública (Calvo and Donnadieu 1983). This program has increased literacy, given Indians a sense of their worth, and steered young people toward greater educational achievement. The incorporation of Mazahua cultural modes of learning into the elementary classroom has been studied by Ruth Paradise (1991, 1994a, 1994b). P Language Purépecha is the preferred ethnic name for the people previously referred to as Tarascan. The 77

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 .  Mesoamerican language family to which the language belongs is still uncertain. It is generally regarded as having its own separate family. Dialects are mutually intelligible. Most Purépecha can also speak Spanish. Cultural Geography There are four geographical regions in the Purépecha zone of northeast Michoacán: the Meseta Tarasca, which Ralph Beals (1969b) called the Sierra region; Lake Pátzcuaro; the Ciénaga de Zacapu; and the Cañada. The Smithsonian Tarascan Project, started by Beals (1969b:732) and providing much of the data for the earlier Handbook article, did not investigate the Cañada region located in the northern part of the Purépechan zone between the urban centers of Zamora and Zacapu. The major municipio in the Cañada is Chilchota, through which flows the Río Chilchota. It is an area with ancient settlements, steep river valleys, and an average temperature of 19.5° C. Recent ethnographic work in the Cañada has been published by Manuel Jiménez Castillo (1985) and Luis Ramírez Carrillo (1986).

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Economics The Purépechan region is noted for its village craft specialization and its extensive network of regional markets. This has drawn the attention of ethnographers, and an extensive literature on peasant economics has emerged. Anthropologists have studied furniture making and the economic consequences of firm size in Cuanajo (Acheson 1970, 1982, 1987) as well as economic development on the island of La Pacanda (Aparicio Q. 1972) and in the village of Chilchota in the Cañada (Ramírez Carrillo 1986). In addition, regional studies of craft specialization (Dinerman 1974), marketing (Durston 1976), pottery production (Engelbrecht 1987), and economic integration (Moone 1971) have been carried out. George Castile (1974) has restudied Cherán thirty years after the original study by Beals (1946) with an eye to describing the changes that have taken place since the 1940’s. 78

Most Purépecha are subsistence farmers, but they also produce barley, oats, fruits, cattle, horses, pigs, sheep, and goats for sale in the extensive regional market system (García López 1984:81). In the 1960’s and 1970’s, the growth of Mexico’s urban industrial areas increased the demand for products produced in rural areas, such as the Purépechan zone. Better roads in Michoacán increased the movement and marketing of peasant products. For example, in 1969 Michoacán had thirty times the number of automotive vehicles that it had in 1930 (Durston 1976:307). With new means of transportation came the possibility of developing the native handicraft industries for urban and tourist markets. Rural electrification increased productive efficiency, such as in the case of the woodworking shops, which began to employ electric tools (García López 1984). The economic prosperity caused by production for urban and tourist markets has not been without problems. New production requires new capital, which is not always available. Small shops competing with each other can inhibit the growth of more efficient larger industries (Acheson 1982, 1987). Tourist markets require distinct marketing strategies (Durston 1976:331). The craft-producing tradition in the Purépechan area continues to evolve, in some instances into small industries run by the Purépecha in the tradition of independent craft producers. The wood furniture industry in the town of Cuanajo near Pátzcuaro is a good example. The furniture industry has existed in Cuanajo since at least 1789. In the 1960’s, electrical power lines were extended to the town, and furniture making was enhanced by the availability of power tools (Acheson 1987). However, the small shops with a few workers did not evolve into large factories or specialty shops due to a shortage of skilled labor, the inability of an owner to supervise more than half a dozen workers (individuals with managerial skills prefer to open their own shops rather than work for others), and the lack of credit, which limited the number of power tools a shop could own. Together these economic factors maintain a craft-shop-oriented mode of production even when there is a potential for more efficient

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       mechanized production. Lucía García López (1984) reports a similar situation in Nahuatzen. In 1996, competition from cheap Asian imports was threatening the market for guitars in Paracho. The guitar makers there suffered from an unwillingness to organize into a cooperative (Knight-Ridder Financial News, 26 January 1996). Weaving has continued to decline but has not disappeared completely. Traditional blouses and dresses (huanengos) are being produced now for the tourist and national handicraft markets. They are popular among upper-middleclass Mexicans and foreign tourists. Social Organization Most of the new ethnography of the Purépecha confirms the basic Mesoamerican native peasant social structure described for the Purépecha Meseta region in the Handbook of 1969. However, unlike previously studied areas, Jiménez Castillo (1985:392) has observed that in the Cañada extended families are more numerous than nuclear families and that agrarian authorities exist alongside the traditional ayuntamiento there (Jiménez Castillo 1985). Through his work in Ihuatzio, Rudolf van Zantwijk (1967:9) develops a view of modern Purépechan social organization that is based on ethnohistorical data. The lineages he describes are collections of individuals with the same surname. Their main function is to regulate marriage through exogamy. These lineages correspond more closely to what are commonly called clans in anthropology, since descent in them is not formally traced to an apical ancestor. They do not appear to have any ceremonial or political functions and seem rather vacuous as real elements of social organization. The existence of van Zantwijk’s lineages is challenged by Guillermo de la Peña et al. (1987:36), who consider them to be figments of his imagination. The wapánekwechwa (plural of wapánekwa) is another unit of social organization discovered by van Zantwijk in Ihuatzio. Wapánekwa means ‘place where one puts wood on the fire’ or ‘place of offering.’ Wapánekwechwa are ceremonial subdivisions of the village and are

often called barrios by the local inhabitants. The wapánekwechwa divide Ihuatzio families into nine groups. Duties, such as cleaning and ritual preparations in the church and collective labor for the village, are assigned to the wapánekwechwa. Membership in a wapánekwa is inherited from the father; thus van Zantwijk views them as agglomerations of patrilineages. According to him, the modern wapánekwechwa evolved from calpulli-like kinship-residential organizations that lost their territorial aspects because of gradual shifting in the location of the village. Today the wapánekwechwa are like barrios without territory. Van Zantwijk (1967:219) has pointed out that many Purépechan communities exhibit elements of dual organization, such as two barrios or two opposing elements in ceremonial organizations. Ina Dinerman (1974) views Purépechan social organization as an adaptation to past and present economic conditions, such as the prerevolutionary hacienda and the present environment of wage-labor migration. She sees the nuclear family as tending to evolve into an extended patrilocal family. Extended family organization reproduces the craft specialities within largely endogamous communities. This form of social organization resists the disintegrating effects of the work patterns imposed by the economic system. George Foster (1965) presents a controversial theory to explain peasant behavior called the ‘‘Image of Limited Good.’’ His basic proposition is that people in peasant societies behave in a way that is consistent with a belief that all good things in life are limited and in short supply. The inspiration for this came from Foster’s fieldwork in the town of Tzintzuntzan in the Lake Pátzcuaro area. Most people consider Tzintzuntzan to be a mestizo town today because no one there speaks Tarascan. However, it was the capital of the Precolumbian Tarascan empire and is regarded by some as a place where Purépechan culture can be found (Brandes 1988:34). Although the ‘‘Image of Limited Good’’ has received considerable attention elsewhere, with few exceptions (e.g., Acheson 1972), students of Purépechan culture 79

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 .  have not used the concept. Even in Tzintzuntzan, Robert Kemper (1977:30) notes that contact with the outside is causing a disappearance of the closed defensive posture characterized by the ‘‘Image of the Limited Good.’’ A different description of Purépechan world view is developing from Purépechans defining their own ethnic character. Agustín Zavala (1988), who was born to a Purépecha family, sees the Purépecha as caught in a shift in values toward individualism and capitalism. From his point of view, traditional Purépechan values emphasize communal redistribution, generosity, and hospitality. Religious and Political Organization Van Zantwijk (1967) revealed an indigenous side to Purépechan religion that previously was categorized as primarily Catholic (Carrasco 1952; Beals 1969b:770). He reports that the inhabitants of Ihuatzio believe in a number of deities, only some of which have a Christian origin. Their creator god is Awándaeri ka Echéreri Kweráhperi (Creator of Heaven and Earth). Prominent gods are Tata Huriata, Father Sun (also seen as Jesus); Nana Kutsi, Mother Moon; Tata Hóskok’eri, Father Venus; Coyote; Wakúxecha, the Purépecha tribal god; and various saints represented by Catholic images. Pedro Carrasco (1970:5) notes that, even though van Zantwijk and he started with roughly the same ethnographic data, he concluded that the modern Purépecha practice a type of sixteenth- and seventeenth-century folk Catholicism, while van Zantwijk concluded that the religion is fundamentally Precolumbian. Their opposing categorizations are heavily dependent on their particular readings of Purépecha ethnohistory, an incomplete record that can be read in many ways. The controversy illustrates the danger of conducting interpretative social anthropology when conceptual premises, definitions, and methodologies are not clearly laid out. The best way out of this philosophical tangle is to recognize that modern ethnologists, along with the Purépechan people themselves, recognize their culture as a distinct modern native culture. Ipso facto, the religion of the Purépechan people 80

is a modern Native American religion. It has Christian elements taken from many periods of contact with Christians, including most recently Protestants, and it also has many indigenously developed antecedents, including Precolumbian ones. New ethnographic studies have shown that the political and religious systems of the Purépecha are more varied and complex than indicated in the previous Handbook. In some cases, performance in a religious cargo system results in political power; in other cases, it does not. The Purépecha religious ceremonies can be described as fiesta systems. Individuals sponsor public festivals and become the primary ritual actors. They may pay for the rituals themselves, or a community collection may pay for them. Civil officials make decisions affecting the community fiestas. Purépechan fiestas are rich in public performances by musicians and costumed dancers and show many Catholic influences. Research by Jiménez Castillo (1985) in the region reveals a political-religious system different from the one reported by Beals in the Handbook. In Huáncito in the Cañada, elected authorities deal with crimes, property rights, and public works. There is also an ayuntamiento and a cabildo. The former is a body of elders composed of people who have completed service in civil and religious posts. The latter is a governing body consisting of men who have completed important religious cargos. One can conclude that there is a limited civil-religious hierarchy operating in Huáncito. On the other hand, Castile (1974) reports that the kenji, the cabildo, and all remnants of civil-religious hierarchy have now disappeared from Cherán, the location from which Beals took most of his images of Purépechan culture. Even before Beals’ (1946, 1969b) research in Cherán, the civil-religious hierarchy there had been abandoned. Castile (1974:149) reports that in 1970 there were only two cofradías in Cherán and that they operated within the confines of the church under the direction of the priest. The number of mayordomías in Cherán has also been reduced. Cherán maintains a somewhat reduced ceremonial cycle that

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       T 5-2. Public Religious Festivals in Three Purépechan Towns Tzintzuntzan (Brandes 1988)

Ihuatzio (Zantwijk 1967)

Huáncito (Jiménez Castillo 1985)

Señor del Rescate

New Year Three Kings Virgin of Soledad Madre Mayor

San Sebastián (patron) Virgin of Sorrows Carnival Holy Week Señor de Ascensión Corpus Christi San José Obrero Day of the Cross

Carnival Holy Week

Day of the Cross

Virgin of Guadalupe Posadas

Day of the Cross Saint Anthony Warucha (fishermen) Santa Marta Assumption San Nicolás de Tolentino Saint Francis Virgin of Guadalupe rʌts’a

includes Corpus Christi, la Octava, the feast of the patron San Francisco, Carnival, the feast of Nuestro Padre Jesús in the Lenten season, Santo Reyes, and el Niño (Castile 1974:153). There is an extensive fiesta system in Ihuatzio (van Zantwijk 1967) and even in Tzintzuntzan (Brandes 1988), which I have noted is regarded by many as culturally mestizo. Table 5-2 lists the more recently studied fiestas of three towns, Tzintzuntzan, Ihuatzio, and Huáncito, and illustrates the complexity that still exists in the fiesta systems. The picture of politico-religious organization that is emerging from the more recent ethnography is one that places the Purépecha more in line with other Central Mexican native groups, such as the Ñähñu and the Nahua, with complex politico-religious formations. Under relentless subtle pressure by state and national authorities, some villages have eliminated ritually generated political authority from their local political systems, whereas others have not.

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N 1. Much of the publication has been due to the efforts of universities and institutes located in Mexico,

San Isidro Labrador Santa Ana Assumption Señor de Milagros Virgin of the Conception Virgin of Guadalupe Christmas Eve

such as the Instituto Nacional Indigenista, the Instituto Nacional de Antropología e Historia, the Centro de Investigaciones y Estudios Superiores en Antropología Social, the Instituto de Investigaciones Antropológicas of the Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, the Escuela Nacional de Antropología e Historia, the Colegio de Michoacán, and the Centro de Estudios Mexicanos y Centroamericanos. 2. Since standardized orthographies of the Otomían and Purépechan languages are still developing, this chapter follows the tradition of the Handbook and uses the International Phonetic Alphabet (IPA, revised version, Ladefoged 1990) for all spellings of native words that are not quoted from other printed works. The closest IPA symbol is used for the phonemes. 3. Rulers of a Late Classic predatory state, the Aztec were ethnocentric and looked down on other cultures. The Otomían and Purépechan cultures had been civilized for a millennium before the Aztec came to power; they were, and are, cultures with urban centers, hierarchical political systems, arts, writing, governance by a state, and complex politically significant religious systems. The first large urban center in Mesoamerica, Teotihuacán, was established at the beginning of the Classic period near the present Otomían area. Authorities are not sure whether or not an Otomían language was being spoken there at that time. These highly civilized traits set the Central Mexican cultures apart from the more

81

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 .  dispersed egalitarian tribes of far western and northern Mexico, and the Central Mexican cultures share civilized traits with the native cultures of Oaxaca and the Mayan area. 4. Mexican National Census data from the Instituto Nacional de Estadística, Geografía e Infor-

82

mática (INEGI), as compiled by the Consortium for International Earth Science Information Network (CIESIN), 2250 Pierce Road, University Center, Michigan 48710, USA; http://sedac.ciesin.org/; [email protected]. 5. Ibid.

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6. Contemporary Cultures of the Gulf Coast ALAN R. SANDSTROM

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T

   covers an enormous expanse of territory that runs along the Gulf of Mexico from the Texas border to the state of Campeche. For purposes of this ethnological essay, the focus is on six major contemporary Native American groups inhabiting this vast, complex region: Nahua, Huastec, Totonac, Tepehua, Zoque (Sierra) Popoluca, and the Chontal of Tabasco. The heart of the Gulf Coast is the state of Veracruz and associated lowland zones of Tabasco. Tamaulipas in the north is discussed only briefly. The state has only 8,509 speakers of Native American languages, most of whom are Nahua and Huastec who have migrated from other states to urban areas in Tamaulipas in search of employment. The state of Tabasco in the south has 47,967 indigenous speakers, over 80 percent of whom speak a language belonging to the Maya family (Jiménez Valdez 1992; West et al. 1969). Because the Maya are covered elsewhere in this volume, discussion of the Maya of Tabasco is limited to those speaking the Chontal language. Populations of indigenous peoples extending beyond Veracruz and Tabasco into the interior of Mexico are also indicated on the accompanying maps. Thus, indigenous inhabitants of the extreme eastern portions of the states of San

Luis Potosí, Querétaro, Hidalgo, and Puebla are discussed. Three exceptions are the cultures of the bordering states of Tlaxcala, Oaxaca, and Chiapas, which are treated elsewhere in this volume and, in any event, are not part of the Gulf Coast culture area. Table 6-1 lists for each Gulf Coast state and for Mexico as a whole the numbers of speakers (five years old and above) of the Native American languages treated here. Although some Otomí live within the boundaries of the Gulf Coast, their population center is in the highlands, and they are discussed separately (see Dow, this volume). The Zoque, based in Chiapas, and the Mixe, Zapotec, Chinantec, and Mazatec, centered in Oaxaca, all have peripheral populations in the southern Gulf Coast. These populations are mentioned only briefly. Population distributions of all groups discussed are shown in Figures 6-1 through 6-12. Shaded areas represent municipios where 199 or more speakers of the native language live, according to the 1990 Mexican national census. Population counts given on maps are for shaded areas only. These maps and the population figures reported in Table 6-1 should be taken as rough estimates of the distribution and numbers of Native American 83

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 .  T 6-1. Numbers of Speakers in 1990 (Five Years Old and Above) of the Most Populous Native American Languages Represented in the Gulf Coast Totals for

Hidalgo

Puebla

Chinantec   Chontal 0 *3 Huastec > 77 Mazatec 3 0, Mixe 33 03 Mixtec 33 7,3- Nahuatl 77,*> *03,00 Popoluca ,-* Tepehua 3,>> * Totonac 3> 70,77 Zapotec *> ,-0 Zoque *  Zoque Popoluca c n.s. n.s. Total speakers of all Native American languages e

*,7*7 >*,3

San Luis Querétaro Potosí Tabasco Tamaulipas Veracruz

Total Mexico a

> 3 0 3 0-33 >  - - 3 n.s.

3  07,**  3 33,0037 >3 > n.s.

 *>,-* 33 3  3*7 0>3  7 *** n.s.

0  ,777  3* 0 *,0>  3 -7 37* * n.s.

-,7  -7,7 7,** , *,0>7 3-, 3,>*3 ,-3 ,*> 33,* 3,> n.s.

>,>> *>,73 b 3>,* 07,*,30*70,7,,*37 *,37,>3 3>,70 ->*,- -*,0> 3,>>> d

3>,*>3

3>-,*37

-,0

7,>

7>,*7

7,>,077

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Source: XI censo general de población y vivienda, 1990 (INEGI 1990). a Including states not detailed in the table. b Numbers reflect two census categories, Chontal of Tabasco and Chontal; these figures have been added together for clarity. c Not specified in 1990 census. d Estimated by Báez-Jorge 1973. e Including languages not detailed in the table.

peoples, as they are based upon strictly linguistic rather than broader cultural criteria. The physical and ecological features of the Gulf Coast and their general relationships to settlement patterns have been treated by William Sanders (1952–1953, 1971; see also Siemens 1964; West et al. 1969; Harnapp 1972; Puig 1976, 1979; Stuart 1978; Ewell and Poleman 1979; Boege and Rodríguez 1992). The coastal plain lies between the shoreline and the Sierra Madre Oriental. This plain, more than 100 kilometers wide near the Texas border, narrows to a thin strip just north of the city of Veracruz and, like an elongated hourglass, broadens out again in southern Veracruz state and Tabasco. The mountains rise abruptly in the west to form an escarpment varying in height between 1,000 and 3,000 meters. Mexico’s Gulf Coast exhibits the greatest topographic and bio84

geographic variation in Middle America, with land forms ranging from sea level to the 5,747– meter (18,854–foot) summit of Pico de Orizaba on the Puebla-Veracruz border. Rainfall is equally variable. In general, Tamaulipas is the driest region, with rainfall between 400 and 1,200 mm per year. Most of the coastal plain of Veracruz and Tabasco experiences rainfall variations between 1,200 and 2,000 mm per year, with amounts reaching 4,000 mm in a few places. Temperatures are warm in the lower elevations where abundant streams and rivers flow. The arid terrain north of Tampico supports desert fauna and vegetation, while the regions south of this boundary mark the northernmost tropical forest in the New World. This luxuriant, species-rich zone forms a continuous band from just south of Tampico along the Gulf Coast all the way to Guatemala. The higher ele-

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      vations of the Sierra Madre Oriental to the west support coniferous forests and cold temperate species. S  G C C The diversity of ecological zones inhabited by Gulf Coast peoples, as well as differences in the languages they speak, should not cause the outside observer to overlook fundamental similarities in the cultures of this extensive region. Four factors help to account for this homogeneity. First, indigenous peoples of the Gulf Coast partake of a common Mesoamerican heritage of great antiquity. Processes of migration and diffusion have helped spread this common tradition among indigenous peoples of the region. Second, techno-productive activities are broadly similar among all groups. Third, most Gulf Coast peoples have been influenced by the same momentous historical events that have transformed Mesoamerica on repeated occasions over the past 2,000 years. Fourth, indigenous peoples almost everywhere are dominated socially, politically, and economically by mestizos who identify with Hispanic elites. In order to minimize repetition in the individual accounts that follow, I will first describe cultural features shared by all of the six main groups discussed. The first such feature is farming, the major productive activity of indigenous people of the region. Even those who migrate to urban areas often speak of farming as an ideal occupation. Family-run farms range in technology from slash-and-burn milpa horticulture using the steel machete and dibble to less-common animal-drawn plow agriculture. Farms seldom exceed a few hectares in size, and most are dedicated to producing the Native American triumvirate of corn, beans, and squash. Additional crops include varieties of chilies, tomatoes, tropical fruits, onions, tubers such as the camote, and herbs (Sandstrom 1991:119–127). People obtain a considerable proportion of food from fishing, hunting, and gathering of wild and semidomesticated plants (Mora et al. 1985). In their farming activities, individual households strive to grow surplus crops to sell at regional markets,

but they are often at a disadvantage because of competition with mechanized farms and agribusiness enterprises. Although indigenous farming activity is small in scale, it provides critical support to the developing agribusinessindustrial sectors of the Mexican national economy (Warman 1976:176; Stavenhagen 1978). A second feature shared by all groups is the need for families to supplement their income from farming by craft production and temporary wage labor. Although families are rarely self-sufficient, many engage in crafts such as pottery-making and the weaving of cloth, baskets, hats, or sleeping mats that supply their own needs. Supplemental craft work thus gives people a degree of independence from the mestizo-controlled market system, often providing surplus products to sell. In exceptional cases, these goods may bring in substantial income, but more often they represent a small but steady source of revenue. Young men commonly travel to local mestizo-owned ranches, nearby cities, the Mexican capital, or even the United States to search for temporary jobs. After a few months, they return to their villages with their earnings. Women without family support often migrate to cities to become domestic servants. Another shared feature is the basic outline of their kinship systems. People reckon descent bilaterally, but the custom of patrineolocal postmarital residence gives patrilineal relations added importance. The cultural ideal is for the nuclear family to occupy a single household. However, due to shortages of resources many newlyweds spend a period living with the groom’s parents, creating a temporary residential extended family. When resources become available, the couple often builds near the groom’s family, creating a nonresidential patrilocal extended family (Nutini 1967, 1968, 1976a; Arizpe S. 1972b, 1973; Taggart 1972, 1975a, 1975b; García Salazar 1975; Sandstrom 1996). Another commonality of indigenous life of the Gulf Coast involves community-wide elements of social organization. Each village features the faena or obligation of adult property holders or their proxies to donate one day a week of work for projects that bene85

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 .  fit the community as a whole (Gorbea Soto 1983). Many communities also support a civilreligious hierarchy, sometimes called the cargo system, in which individuals strive to occupy ranked positions of responsibility connected with the political and religious systems (Buchler 1967; Slade 1992). Smaller, more remote settlements tend to lack this civil-religious hierarchy (Sandstrom 1991:313–315). In addition, each village elects a number of local officials who are responsible for running community affairs and for managing external relations with municipal and state offices. Members of Gulf Coast indigenous communities practice a syncretic religion combining Native American beliefs with Spanish Catholicism. However, groups vary greatly in the degree to which they have incorporated Spanish Catholic elements into their traditional systems of beliefs and ritual practices (Segre 1987; Provost 1989). Members of some communities attend Mass, receive the sacraments, and interact frequently with priests. Native American elements in these communities may be restricted to folk beliefs in certain spirits or beings who may play tricks or cause disease. Other communities have little interaction with the official church and practice a largely Native American religion to which Christian elements have been added but not fully incorporated (Sandstrom 1991:229–322). The religious systems of Gulf Coast cultures, including myths, beliefs, rituals, and the pantheon of spirits, are remarkably similar to each other. Many people regard the sun as the creator deity and protector of humanity, and they associate it with civilization, corn, and Jesus Christ. The sun’s mother and father are Saint Joseph and the Virgin Mary. The human body is a key metaphor by which Gulf Coast peoples conceptualize their universe (López Austin 1988). For example, many people conceive of the earth as a gigantic body, equating flowing water with blood. The earth is a complex spirit presence with multiple manifestations. On the one hand, its fertility makes human life possible, but on the other, its interior contains the grim underworld inhabited by potentially dangerous spirits of the dead. 86

The fate of a person’s soul is determined not by how morally an individual lives but rather by the manner in which death occurs. Major ritual observances combine Native American and Christian elements and include Carnival, All Saints (Day of the Dead), planting and harvesting rituals, curings, New Year’s, and a winter solstice observance that begins and ends each year. One of the most significant developments in the last several decades among Native American peoples of the Gulf Coast is the relatively rapid increase in the rate of conversion to Protestantism. Even in remote areas, Protestant missionaries have made inroads on the most traditional communities. Whether they are Seventh Day Adventists, Pentacostals, or any number of small fundamentalist sects originating in the United States, the people call both the missionaries and their followers evangelistas (evangelists) or hermanos (brothers). Non-Protestants, regardless of participation in the official church, call themselves católicos (Catholics). It is difficult at this time to assess the impact of conversion on religious practices and beliefs except to say that many people are abandoning traditional Native American, Roman Catholic, and syncretized Native American– Catholic ritual observances. The catalysts of conversion can be found in the profound social, political, and economic changes accompanying industrialization and modernization. During the reign of the old colonialist social arrangements, which persisted in some areas until the middle of this century, Nahua and other Native American groups had two choices: retain their identity or enter the mestizo world. Protestantism offers a third option that avoids submission to the dominant Hispanic culture (Sandstrom 1991:358–364). A final common feature of Gulf Coast cultures is seen in the influence of the industrial sector of Mexico and the developed world on dress, house construction, and other aspects of life. The process of acculturation has been going on for centuries, but the penetration of modern market forces into even the most remote village has accelerated in the past twenty-five years. Tar-impregnated cardboard, tile, or corrugated iron roofing material

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      in place of traditional thatch is becoming commonplace in house construction throughout Middle America, and every community now boasts dwellings made from cement block (Cornejo Cabrera 1964; Lok 1987). In all indigenous communities, older styles of clothing are being replaced by factory-made, mestizo-style dress. It is often younger people who purchase this new or secondhand clothing in markets. One area of confusion for people not familiar with the social arrangements in Mesoamerica is the problem of distinguishing Native American populations from mestizos. This is not an easy distinction to make, and anthropologists have written much on the subject. The common features just described for indigenous communities and many of the additional characteristics discussed below often apply equally to Native American and mestizo communities. The leastreliable marker of a person’s status is physical appearance. Even the criterion of religious affiliation is sometimes difficult to apply, given the syncretic nature of Native American beliefs and the widespread conversion to Protestantism. In sum, many of the traits described below such as thatch-roofed house construction, presence of a sweatbath or house altar, shamanic curing, or ability to speak an indigenous language are not alone sufficient to distinguish Native Americans from mestizos. The two populations form a continuum without clear divisions, and labels such as Native American and mestizo do not adequately capture the complexity of this situation.

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T N Twenty-five years ago, William Madsen, in attempting to summarize what was known about the Nahua throughout Mexico, remarked how little information was available on members of this important group living in Veracruz. He called for more ethnographic research in the Gulf Coast, as well as in the contiguous states of San Luis Potosí, Hidalgo, and Puebla (1969: 602, 607). In the intervening period, the professional literature on the Gulf Coast Nahua has grown significantly. By the mid-1990’s, probably more had been published on the Nahua than on

any other group in this region. This is partly because the Nahua are the most populous of the Gulf Coast’s indigenous people. Although some publications are based upon limited periods of field research and describe restricted aspects of Nahua social life and customs, a clearer picture of Nahua history and culture is slowly emerging. Significant ethnographic works on Nahua kinship and social organization have been published by Lourdes Arizpe Schlosser (1972b, 1973), James Taggart (1972, 1975a, 1975b, 1976, 1983), and Marie-Noëlle Chamoux (1981a) dealing with the Sierra Norte de Puebla and by Alan Sandstrom (1991, 1995b) on the northern Veracruz lowlands. Progress in understanding Gulf Coast Nahua religious beliefs and practices is exemplified by the works of José de Jesús Montoya Briones (1971, 1975, 1981, and 1989), Luis Reyes García and Dieter Christensen (1976), Rosendo Hernández Cuellar (1982), Alan Sandstrom and Pamela Effrein Sandstrom (1986), Brad Huber (1987, 1990a, and 1990b), Italo Signorini and Alessandro Lupo (1989), Héctor Alvarez Santiago (1991), and Doren Slade (1992). Finally, there has been important work done on Gulf Coast Nahua production activities, political economy, and ethnicity, for example, by Daniel Early (1978), Frans Schryer (1980, 1987a, 1987b, 1990), María Cristina Suárez y Farías (1988), Alan Sandstrom (1991), and Jacques Chevalier and Daniel Buckles (1995).1 In the professional literature, members of this ethnic group are called the Nahua, and their language is called Nahuatl. These terms are recognized by members of the group, although rarely used by them in conversation. The Nahua generally refer to their language and sometimes their ethnic affiliation as ‘‘Mexicano,’’ a term with several connotations. Being the same word used by any Spanish-speaking Mexican to identify his or her nationality, ‘‘Mexicano’’ would appear to downplay identity as a Native American. But the word derives from the Mexica, the most famous of the historic Nahua, known more commonly as the Aztec. Use of the term ‘‘Mexicano’’ thus identifies the speaker as a descendant of the most illustrious and powerful Prehispanic civilization 87

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F 6-1. Municipios with 199 or more speakers of Nahuatl. Source: XI censo general de población vivienda, 1990 (INEGI 1990).

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      at the time of the Conquest. Another common term of self-reference is masehuali (or macehualli ), meaning ‘country dweller’ or ‘farmer.’ The Nahuatl language is divided into a number of largely mutually intelligible dialects. It belongs to the Uto-Aztecan family that includes such North American languages as Comanche, Ute, Paiute, and Hopi. The Northern group of dialects, called Nahuatl or Huastecan Nahuatl, is spoken in northern Veracruz, the Sierra Norte de Puebla, and the eastern portions of San Luis Potosí and Hidalgo. The Central group of dialects, also called Nahuatl, is spoken by populations that are contiguous with the Nahua of the Gulf Coast, as well as in Tlaxcala, the State of Mexico, Morelos, and Guerrero. The Eastern group, called Nahuat, is composed of ‘‘t’’ dialects spoken mainly in central and southern Veracruz, as well as eastern Puebla (Hasler 1975; Stiles 1976–1979; Kimball 1980; Beller and Beller 1984; Canger 1988; Lastra 1989; Kaufman 1994:39–40; and see Schumann 1985: 121–127 for a discussion of Nahuatl spoken in Tabasco). Older people and preschool-age children show a high degree of monolingualism in Nahuatl, but increasingly students and adults speak Spanish in addition to their native tongue. The census lists 1,197,328 speakers of Nahuatl in Mexico, including Nahuat and other dialects, making it the most widely spoken Native American language in Mesoamerica (Kaufman 1994:34). As shown in Figure 6-1, major population concentrations can be found in the central highlands and Gulf Coast regions. Two municipios in the state of Tamaulipas (not shown in Figure 6-1) have more than 199 Nahuatl speakers. These Nahua—recent migrants in search of employment—live in developing areas along the U.S. border. Concentrations of the Nahua shown in southern Tamaulipas are migrants to the city of Tampico. Few published works exist on these urban Nahua, and work on migrants is sorely lacking (but see Gutiérrez Mejía et al. 1990; Bravo M. 1992; Gutiérrez Mejía 1993; Eugenia Jurado and Camacho 1998). The single municipio in Tabasco with a significant number of Nahua may also be an area of migration, as people take

advantage of economic opportunities probably deriving from the oil industry in the region. The majority of people who continue to identify as Nahua depend upon farming for their subsistence. Virtually all Nahua communities face chronic land shortages that affect community life and can lead to violent conflict.2 Of all crops, corn (maize) has special symbolic meaning to most Nahua, and no meal is considered complete without a corn component, usually served in the form of tortillas. Corn plays a significant role in Nahua myths and religious observances, and most people feel that this important crop serves to link human beings with larger supernatural forces in the universe (Hernández Cristóbal et al. 1982; Ixmatlahua Montalvo et al. 1982; Rivera Aragón et al. 1982). The Nahua strive to grow surpluses of corn and beans for trade, but they also cultivate a number of specialty crops primarily to sell at regional markets. These crops include sugarcane (marketed after being processed into sugarloaf ), coffee (which thrives only at certain altitudes), fresh and dried chilies, and citrus fruits (Ruvalcaba Mercado 1998). Planting cash crops makes individual farmers vulnerable to sometimes disastrous price fluctuations in international commodities markets (D. Early 1978; Suárez y Farías 1988). Animals commonly raised on Nahua farms include turkeys, chickens, ducks, pigs, and, in wealthier households, cattle. Pigs and cattle often serve as stores of wealth for families because few Nahua have access to financial institutions. Although most families must find ways to supplement their farm incomes, employment opportunities are scarce and are often limited to clearing pasture land on neighboring ranches or temporary migration to cities (García López 1991). Nahua settlement types vary depending on a number of factors (see Aguilar-Robledo 1998). In the most remote rural settings or under pioneering circumstances, villages appear as small groups of houses scattered in random clusters. More settled villages and towns may be organized in a grid pattern on the traditional Spanish model. Larger settlements may contain non-Nahua Native American or mestizo 89

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 .  inhabitants. In these cases, the Nahua often occupy a barrio in the town or settle on one side of a dividing line of the sort that bisects settlements throughout Middle America. These moiety-like sections are named arriba (above) and abajo (below) in Spanish (N. Thomas 1970– 1971, 1988). People living in homogeneous Nahua communities also distinguish such ‘‘abovebelow’’ sections. Nahua houses are rectangular in plan, often with a single room, and commonly contain a raised fire table or fireplace for cooking and a few handmade furnishings such as a table, wooden benches and chairs, and wooden boxes for clothing. The floor is made of packed earth, and the walls are constructed of poles lashed to a frame. The high-peaked roof is generally thatched with one of several types of local plant material. Some families build a separate kitchen shed along the same design principles. Although all Nahua identify with their local communities to some extent and participate in community-wide activities, the primary focus of loyalty for most people is the kin group, which is characterized by mutual support and loyalty. However, competition over increasingly scarce land resources has caused serious rifts in the Nahua kin group, sometimes leading to factionalism and internecine violence (TorresTrueba 1969, 1973; Sandstrom 1991:182–188). Nahua family life is generally relaxed, with both husband and wife cooperating in the running of the household (see Hernández Alarcón 1998). Nahua fathers are renowned for the considerable care they lavish on children. In general, the Nahua value work, honesty, cleanliness, generosity, and a formal politeness in their social interactions. Guests are treated to a special seat of honor and are expected to dine with their hosts during their visit. Anthropological research among the contemporary Nahua has focused largely on religion, myth, and world view.3 The Nahua of northern Veracruz and the Sierra Norte de Puebla retain Native American traditions to a remarkable degree. Male and female shamans, typically called ‘‘persons of knowledge’’ (tlamatiquetl, sing.), officiate over public and private rituals devoted to a complex pantheon of spirit entities (Farfán Morales 1988; Sandstrom 1991: 90

233). A number even continue the ancient tradition of cutting sacred images out of paper as a central symbolic component of rituals (Sandstrom 1983, 1985, 1986, 1991:260–279; Sandstrom and Sandstrom 1986). Many Nahua share the belief that the cosmos is divided into four realms, each the home of a range of spirits associated with processes of nature. One realm is the earth’s surface where humans live out their lives. A second is the underworld, the destination of most souls of the dead. The sky is the domain of the life-giving sun. Finally, the water realm is the kingdom of a number of water spirits. The Nahua from northern Veracruz and other regions often draw connections between the human body and the cosmos, viewing, for example, the earth as a gigantic body whose flesh is soil, blood is water, and bones are rock. The sky is a huge anthropomorphic mirror with the feet lying in the east and head at the western horizon. When shamans in the Huasteca region of northern Veracruz cut paper images of the life forces of spirits, they invariably take the form of the human body. The Nahua conceive the human head, body, and feet to be modeled on the tassel, stalk, and roots of the corn plant (Sandstrom 1998). Like a person’s body, the corn plant is born, ages, and dies. As a life form sprouting from the earth, the corn spirit is Seven-Flower, a willful boy who is a culture hero in many Nahua myths (Leynes and Olguín 1993). A similar figure is found in the myths of neighboring Huastec (Alcorn 1984) and Totonac peoples (Ichon 1973). As the stalk matures, the corn spirit becomes an old woman clutching in her arms the precious ear in the form of a baby wrapped in leafy swaddling clothes. Disease for the Nahua has a number of causes (Sandstrom 1978a, 1983, 1989; Müllen and Ketelaar 1982; Reyes Antonio 1982; Signorini 1982; Cifuentes et al. 1989; Greco 1991, 1993; Vásquez Olmos and Juárez Hernández 1993). A sudden fright, the work of a sorcerer, or neglect in making proper offerings to powerful spirits called dueños (owners) who control natural forces or locales commonly brings illness. Of greater import are breaches of conduct such as lying, gossiping, cheating, stealing, or

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      losing one’s temper. These misbehaviors attract disease-causing wind spirits, the angry souls of people who died bad or violent deaths. Various diseases may be cured by an herbalist or Western medical specialist, but only a shaman can placate demanding spirit owners or extract malevolent winds once they have infected the body (Rodríguez López et al. 1998). The Nahua use rituals to establish an equilibrium in the always unstable relations between humans and the spiritual forces of the cosmos. In more acculturated communities, ritual occasions may involve attending Mass, participating in holy-day celebrations, accepting a position of responsibility in the civil-religious hierarchy, or praying before an altar in the church. In less acculturated communities, ritual occasions can last for days or even weeks and may involve the construction of elaborate altars, animal sacrifice, burning of aromatic copal incense, paper cutting, playing of sacred guitar and violin music, dancing with headdresses and masks, and feasting. Shamans hold communal rituals to celebrate the winter solstice, bring rain, ensure crop fertility, or hold souls of the dead at bay (Sandstrom and Sandstrom 1986; Ramos Castañeda et al. 1992; Ruvalcaba Mercado 1992b; Camacho and Eugenia Jurado 1998). They also conduct curing rituals to restore a frightened soul, counteract sorcery, or rid the patient of polluting diseasecausing spirits (Key 1965; Sandstrom 1978a). Most Nahua appear to view ritual, whether orchestrated by a priest in the context of the church or by a shaman in a rustic shrine deep in the forest, as a means of establishing balance and harmony in an inherently uncertain universe. Equally important, the Nahua generally view their religion as a focus of their identity as Nahua.

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T H In describing Huastec culture, Robert Laughlin (1969:299) noted how little anthropological research had been conducted on this important group. The French archaeologist and ethnologist Guy Stresser-Péan (1948, 1959, 1967, 1971) published a number of reports both on

the Huastec and on the region in which they dwell, but, until the late 1970’s, few others had conducted long-term fieldwork on this group. Laughlin (1969:298) undertook a brief ethnographic survey of the Huastec in 1963 and concluded that, based on dialect and cultural differences, they could be divided into the Potosino Huastec, who live in San Luis Potosí, and the Tantoyuca and Sierra Otontepec Huastec, both located in Veracruz. The Huastec language has two main dialects, Potosino, spoken in eastern San Luis Potosí, and Veracruzano, spoken in northern Veracruz. Although differing in details of pronunciation and grammar, the two dialects are mutually intelligible. Huastec belongs to the Maya family, a group of some thirty languages, all but one spoken in a geographically contiguous area of Yucatán, southern Mexico, Guatemala, and Belize. Huastec is the exception. In addition to being separated by more than 1,500 km from the nearest other members of the family, it is the most different, in both vocabulary and grammatical structure, from the others (see Ochoa Peralta 1984 on the Veracruzano dialect and B. Edmonson 1988 on Potosino). In 1984, Janis Alcorn published a thorough study of Potosino Huastec ethnobotany and included a lengthy section focusing on religion and world view that provides many ethnographic details as well. She contends that her information is generally correct for all three subgroups (Alcorn 1984:11; see also Alcorn and Edmonson 1995). Beginning in the 1980’s, the Mexican researcher Jesús Ruvalcaba Mercado published an impressive number of ethnographic studies of the Veracruz Huastec (1984a, 1984b, 1987, 1988, 1990, 1991a, 1991b, 1992b, 1994; see also Bonfil Batalla 1969; Avila Méndez 1993). Recently, Claudio Lomnitz-Adler (1992) compared the Huasteca Potosina and the state of Morelos as cultural regions (see also Lomnitz-Adler 1991). Most of the information presented here derives from Alcorn, Ruvalcaba Mercado, Lomnitz-Adler, and the more recent work of Stresser-Péan. The Huastec call themselves ‘‘Teenek,’’ from te’en inik, ‘laughing people,’ or tehe’inik, ‘righthere people’ (Alcorn and Edmonson 1995:300), 91

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F 6-2. Municipios with 199 or more speakers of Huastec. Source: XI censo general de población vivienda, 1990 (INEGI 1990).

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      and they are the most northern speakers of any Maya language (Barriga Puente 1998; Pérez del Angel 1998). The census lists 120,739 speakers of Huastec in Mexico. The name ‘‘Huastec’’ derives from cuextecatl, Nahuatl for the Teenek, and the derivative term ‘‘Huasteca’’ now designates the traditional homeland of the Teenek, a large region on the Gulf Coast incorporating portions of six states: Veracruz, San Luis Potosí, Hidalgo, Puebla, Querétaro, and Tamaulipas (G. Stresser-Péan 1979; De Gortari Krauss and Ruvalcaba Mercado 1990; Ruvalcaba Mercado 1993; Sandstrom 1995a; Ruvalcaba Mercado and Pérez Zevallos 1996; Pérez Zevallos 1998; Zaragoza Ocaña 1998). As Figure 6-2 shows, the distribution of contemporary Huastec speakers is concentrated in the states of Veracruz and San Luis Potosí. Two outlying population concentrations to the northeast and northwest are recent migrants to the urban centers of Tampico and the capital of San Luis Potosí (the latter not shown on Figure 6-2). The Huasteca has a reputation in Mexico as an undeveloped region that is both remote and lawless. It is a major cattle-ranching area with rich oil reserves and is renowned throughout Mexico and abroad for its distinctive huapango music (Aguilar-Robledo 1993a, 1993b; Bustos Valenzuela 1993). Most Huastec live in the strip of foothills of the Sierra Madre Oriental lying between 60 to 500 meters above sea level (Alcorn 1984:28). Slash-and-burn gardens provide corn, manioc, sweet potatoes, beans, and a number of additional crops grown for household consumption (Avila Uribe et al. 1991, 1993a, 1993b, 1998a, 1998b; Pérez del Angel 1993; Ochoa 1998; Ruvalcaba Mercado 1998). The major cash crop is sugarcane (sold as sugarloaf ), but families also grow coffee, zapupe (an agave used for fiber), and citrus fruits for the market (Alcorn 1984:47; Ruvalcaba Mercado 1984a, 1984b, 1987, 1991a, 1992b; Fernández Acosta 1991; Lomnitz-Adler 1992:155–159). The manufacture of sugarloaf is one of the few industries of the Huastec. Sugarcane is squeezed through a metal or wooden press called a trapiche, which is turned by a mule or horse. The juice is boiled to a thick syrup in copper cauldrons and poured into conical molds to cool. Two cones are

tied together and sold to mestizo brokers, who pay minimum prices for the product. Most Huastec sugar is destined for alcohol refineries in Guadalajara (Alcorn 1984:47–48; Velasco Bedrán 1998). Huastec family members often find temporary wage labor in agricultural fields near Tampico. Many families weave bags from zapupe or sombreros from the sabal palm as a source of income or manufacture items for sale from the royal palm (Valdés García 1993). Distinctive Huastec bags and hats can be found throughout the Huasteca, as well as in the adjacent Sierra Norte de Puebla and Totonacapan. The few additional crafts practiced by the Huastec, generally to supply local needs, include pottery making, the manufacture of ropes and tumplines, and the weaving of palm mats (Alcorn 1989). Lomnitz-Adler (1992:159) points out that Spanish policies of consolidating scattered populations into more easily managed nucleated communities were not consistently carried out in the Huasteca, resulting in the dispersed settlement patterns in evidence today (Lomnitz-Adler 1992:159; Aguilar-Robledo 1998; Escobar Ohmstede and Gutiérrez Rivas 1998).4 Alcorn (1984:44) describes the scattered-cluster layout of Huastec villages and notes that the Mexican government continues to promote nucleation with little apparent success. Most Huastec locate their single-roomed houses on the family’s agricultural land rather than in a village center. Like their Nahua neighbors to the south and west, the Huastec formerly took surnames based on their place of birth or current residence (Alcorn 1984:120). The names usually refer to a tree, plant, or geographic feature of the land and are passed from father to children. Examples of such names are Ithim Itse’ (Beard Creek), Bolchal (Ridge), Lem Ts’een (Butterfly Sierra), T’iiw Ts’een (Eagle Sierra), and Ik’ T’uhub (Wind Rock—a Colonial ruin). Although a few older people still retain their old-style names, this practice has nearly disappeared since the church decreed that the Huastec must adopt names according to Spanish custom. The Huastec are known for their round houses, a Preconquest style that can be docu93

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 .  mented archaeologically, although floor plans may be either round or rectangular. Walls are constructed from poles or irregular planks lashed to a frame and are usually unplastered. The house is built with an ample roof overhang that people use for storage and for shade, providing a porch-like area for entertaining guests. Huastec houses have a place reserved for the cooking fire and are sparsely furnished with handmade tables, chairs, stools, channeledblock seats, and perhaps a cradle suspended from the rafters. Sometimes there is a separate kitchen house. The dwelling is seen by the Huastec as a place of safety where one can retreat from the dangers of the world to the comfort and support of the family. Like their Nahua neighbors, the Huastec clear the area around the house of all vegetation to act as a buffer between the forest and the domestic living space (Ruvalcaba Mercado 1987). The Huastec rarely make use of the sweatbath. The kinship system of the contemporary Huastec of Tantoyuca, Veracruz, has been studied by Calixta Guiteras-Holmes (1948) and Cecil Brown (1971) (see also Ariel de Vidas 1993; Anzaldo Figueroa 1998). Barbara Edmonson (1988:736–738) has a list of kinship terms from the Potosino area. Alcorn (Alcorn and Edmonson 1995:303) reports that members of nuclear families form the core of each household even though other relatives may be living there as well. Although it is not clearly specified in the literature, there is likely a domestic cycle in which newly married couples practice patrineolocal residence, later forming nonresidential extended families (Ruvalcaba Mercado 1987). Lomnitz-Adler (1992:179) found postmarital residence to be virilocal, which would be consonant with this form of domestic cycle. Most marriages are monogamous, but both Laughlin (1969:306) and Alcorn (1984:136) report that polygyny is practiced. Alcorn also reports that married women may occasionally have live-in male lovers who do not, however, take on the status of second husbands. The Huastec inhabit a culturally defined space they call ‘‘Teenek Tsabaal,’’ meaning ‘Huastec Homeland.’ Mestizos may live in the 94

same territory, but they do not live in Teenek Tsabaal, that part of the universe where good people try to live in harmony with the natural and social worlds (Alcorn 1984:75). Local mestizo people, who are generally ignorant about their Huastec neighbors, look upon them with a combination of disdain and paternalism. They refer to themselves as gente de razón (people of reason) and to the Huastec as indios (Indians—a pejorative term in Mexican Spanish). This terminology was reported over a century ago by Antonio Cabrera (1876:87–93). Despite the efforts of local Huastec authorities, violence occasionally erupts in Huastec communities, usually over land disputes. Most communities feature a civil-religious hierarchy, but many people feel alienated from the Catholic Church and its representatives. Women are expected to be subservient to their husbands, but the latter have obligations to treat their wives fairly. Most Huastec value people who interact with a formal politeness and avoid aggressive displays. When Alcorn (1984:151) asked people to define success, the most frequently mentioned positive goals were health, freedom to work, food, respect, wisdom, family contentment, and desired goods. The earth is called the ‘‘Great Mother,’’ and she has power over all beings who live here. The most important earth spirits are the maam, who are associated with the cardinal directions and whose primary function is to deliver rain. People often link spirit entities with saints’ names, and many believe that each controls a specific realm of interest to humans. These personified forces of the world have three characteristics: they are both male and female, they originate from the earth and the celestial realms, and they are all-powerful and yet potentially under human control (Alcorn 1984:72). The Huastec have a rich body of myths that anthropologists have only begun to collect and analyze. A common theme throughout these myths holds that humans have been made to suffer because of their own willful behavior. Thipaak, the corn spirit and major culture hero, is the subject of many myths of the Huastec and appears to be similar to the corn spirit of their Nahua neighbors. Corn is the most sacred

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      plant and food substance, and no meal is considered complete without it (Fernández Acosta 1982; Santiago Antonia 1982). See also a lengthy paper containing five Huastec myths, with linguistic analysis, by Barbara W. Edmonson (2000). Disease etiology is complex in Huastec belief. People attribute the causes of disease to sorcerers, various spirits who feel neglected, people with a strong heart who overwhelm the patient with their power, a visit by a dead soul, wind spirits, a sudden fright, or socially inappropriate feelings or behaviors. Hill spirits may protect people from these and other dangers if proper offerings are made. Some diseases respond to herbal cures (Garín A. et al. 1993). Diseases of a spiritual nature can be diagnosed and cured by specialists who conduct rituals and plead on the patient’s behalf. These shamanic specialists are called ‘‘lawyers,’’ ‘‘those who heat’’ (the patient), or those who ‘‘command an art’’ (of curing) (Alcorn 1984:151, 235). Curing rituals are essentially cleansings in which the curer sweeps the patient or sucks out objects placed there by sorcerers. Curers may visit special caves or other sacred sites to make offerings and beg powerful spirits to relieve the patient’s symptoms. The Huastec value speech, particularly the speech of ritual specialists, for its power to control diseases and other forces of the world. An essential component of all rituals, including curings, is the offering of food, tobacco, alcohol, incense, and other valued items to designated spirit entities. The Huastec observe a large number of rituals, many in conjunction with traditional Catholic holy days. Additional observances include birth rituals, weddings, funerals, and blessings for the house, the well, and the sugarcane press. Many of the more traditional Native American rituals are increasingly being abandoned. The famous volador dance is still held on occasion in Huastec communities of San Luis Potosí (the dance is found more commonly among the Totonac), and it is associated with the Prehispanic calendar and requests for rain (Robles Reyes 1998; Ruvalcaba Mercado, personal communication, 1995). Alcorn (1984: 204–205) notes that pressures of accultura-

tion have given rise to revitalization movements among the Huastec that entail, for example, miraculous sightings of the culture hero Thipaak. Huastec culture is undergoing profound changes. The expansion of the oil industry in the Huastec homeland is disrupting social arrangements. Beginning in 1960, the Mexican government initiated a massive irrigation project in the Huasteca known as Pujal-Coy. Although the project has been slow in gaining momentum, it may eventually lead to the expropriation of 280,000 hectares of land, causing further regional disruption. It is difficult to predict what the consequences will be for the Huastec if this project is ever realized (Avila Méndez and Cervantes 1986; Rodríguez H. 1991; Aguilar-Robledo and Muñoz Rodríguez 1992; Lomnitz-Adler 1992:155–158; Baca del Moral 1993). Protestant conversion has also undoubtedly caused a crisis in Huastec religious beliefs and practice, although no study has yet been published on this important development in the region. In sum, much important research has been done on Huastec culture since Laughlin’s (1969) contribution. Without denying the critical importance of this excellent body of work, however, we still lack a long-term community study of this group. T T Directly south of the Huasteca lies a large region called the ‘‘Totonacapan,’’ extending from the Gulf Coast westward into the Sierra Norte de Puebla and continuing southward to Jalapa, Veracruz. This is the home territory of the Totonac, the first people in Mexico to come under Spanish domination. The Totonac city of Cempoala in Veracruz—now a ruin and tourist attraction—was the site of the first Christian chapel in New Spain (H. Harvey and I. Kelly 1969:640). Beginning in 1947, Isabel Kelly and student collaborators spent two fieldwork seasons in the lowland community of El Tajín (near the ruins of the same name), and one season in the highland village of San Marcos, Eloxochitlán. Kelly and her coauthor, Angel Palerm, published the initial volume of a planned two95

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F 6-3. Municipios with 199 or more speakers of Totonac. Source: XI censo general de población vivienda, 1990 (INEGI 1990).

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      volume set on El Tajín in 1952, providing us with the first systematic description of a lowland Totonac community. Regrettably, the second volume never appeared. Herbert Harvey and Kelly wrote an article for the Handbook (1969) in which they summarized what was known about contemporary Totonac culture based upon Kelly’s earlier research in both the highland and lowland communities, but lack of additional field studies by anthropologists in the interim prevented them from adding significantly to Kelly and Palerm’s original study. In 1969, the French ethnographer Alain Ichon published a detailed description of highland Totonac religion (translated to Spanish in 1973). A number of ethnographers have subsequently conducted studies among the Totonac. Pierre Durand (1972, 1974, 1975), for example, has written analyses of political economy of the highland Totonac community of Nanacatlán, and Pierre Beaucage (1973a, 1973b) has compared Totonac with Nahua communities (see also Roldán Quiñones 1990; Lammel 1993). More recently, Carlos Garma Navarro (1984, 1986, 1987; see also 1995) has published works examining Protestantism among the highland Totonac in Ixtepec. The name ‘‘Totonac’’ was in use during the sixteenth century, but its origin and meaning are uncertain. It may derive from the Totonac term for ‘‘three hearts’’ or ‘‘three centers’’ (Kelly and Palerm 1952:1). Totonac belongs to the Totonacan family of languages, of which Tepehua is the only other member. It is divided into a highland dialect spoken in Puebla and Veracruz, a lowland dialect spoken in Gulf Coast Veracruz, a Juárez dialect from Puebla, and the Misantla dialect spoken in Puebla and portions of Veracruz, although this last dialect is apparently disappearing (Kaufman 1994:37; Stresser-Péan, personal communication, 1995). The 207,876 speakers of Totonac are concentrated on the coastal plain of northern Veracruz and the mountainous region of the adjacent Sierra Norte de Puebla (see Fig. 6-3). This chapter focuses on the highland Totonac, who had been little studied at the time of H. Harvey and I. Kelly’s (1969) summary. As Figure 6-3 indicates, the southern section of the Totona-

capan, at one time dominated by the Totonac, has only one remaining municipio with more than 199 speakers of the language. An outlying concentration of the Totonac south of the main population concentration (not shown in Figure 6-3) reflects recent migrants to the city of Puebla. The two municipios in extreme southern Veracruz contain migrants who, in the late 1960’s, accepted governmental offers of land near Uxpanapa, Veracruz (Ewell and Poleman 1979). No studies have been published on this migrant group. The majority of highland Totonac villages lie between 300 and 620 meters above sea level (Ichon 1973:12). The terrain is mountainous and extremely broken, with numerous deep river valleys. Over the past several decades, cattle ranchers have struggled with the Totonac over access to land that they wished to convert to pasture. The high rainfall (between 1,800 and 2,000 mm per year) and tropical climate allow two harvests a year in many places. Corn is typically stored in a small shed built near the house. Gathering of wild or semi-domesticated plants is an important activity during times when crop foods are scarce and also supplies raw material for crafts and construction (see Martínez Alfaro 1987). Each household also owns a number of domesticated farm animals, most commonly turkeys, chickens, and pigs. During certain seasons, Totonac men and boys fish and trap water life from the many rivers in the region. Hunting is no longer practiced because of the scarcity of suitable game. Major cash crops include processed sugarcane, coffee, and oranges (Ruiz Lombardo 1991; for the coastal Totonac, see Chenaut 1987). Craft work serves local needs only and is not as a rule pursued to generate significant income. A few weavers have continued to practice their craft, the huacal or carrying net is manufactured and used in some communities, basketmakers produce carrying baskets for local use, pottery manufacture is directed to production of household wares, and woodworking is reduced to making bateas (basins) and spoons. Some lowland Totonac, however, supplement their incomes by selling the valuable vanilla bean as a cash crop on the international com97

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 .  modities market (Rain 1992; Del Rocío Aguilera Madero 1993; Reyes Costilla and González de la Vara 1993–1994; Torres Chávez 1993). Settlements tend to be scattered along ridges that descend in steep slopes on either side. Garma Navarro (1987:21–22) reports that in the highland Totonac community of Ixtepec, Puebla, houses are clustered around the church, which is situated on the highest point in the community. Ruvalcaba Mercado (personal communication, 1995) notes that some Totonac communities show marked concentrations of houses. Houses are rectangular in plan and built without windows in many locales. Older-style houses have walls constructed of reeds, planks, or adobe, with roofs thatched with leaves, grass, or palm. Furnishings include benches, small stools, a table, and some homemade chairs. Women cook on fireplaces located on the floor or on a raised mud-and-stone fire table. Finally, household members often build a temazcal or sweatbath nearby and are reported to use them frequently (see Kezdi Nagy 1988). Garma Navarro (1987:65–66) reports that land, the most valuable possession among the Totonac, is usually inherited only by the eldest male offspring. De facto primogeniture is undoubtedly an artifact of chronic land shortages and is common throughout the Gulf Coast. Parents expect daughters to gain access to land when they marry, while younger sons are forced to accumulate resources to purchase their own fields. Sometimes elderly parents distribute agricultural lands to all of their children, but even in these cases the eldest son usually receives the greatest share. Ichon (1973:21) found that although many highland Totonac can speak Nahuatl, the various Native American ethnic groups in the region do not as a rule live in mixed communities or neighborhoods (cf. Instituto Nacional Indigenista 1969). The one exception is that the Totonac and Tepehua do, in some cases, integrate their residences. Ichon notes that social, political, and economic factors have combined to undermine the civil-religious hierarchy and collective community rituals. Chief among these factors is the low economic posi98

tion of Totonac communities and the denial of Native American political authority by the mestizo hierarchy. The increase in Protestantism has also served to diminish the prominence of traditional ritual observances, although more contemporary observers have noted a recent resurgence and strengthening of communitywide rituals (RuvalcabaMercado, personal communication, 1995). Ritual kinship is important and usually links people of differing socioeconomic statuses (Castro 1974, 1986; Masferrer Kan et al. 1984; Garma Navarro 1987:69–80). Ichon’s (1973) detailed description of religious belief in five highland Totonac communities is a welcome addition to Gulf Coast ethnography (see also Williams García 1979; López Patiño and García Pérez 1982; Márquez Hernández et al. 1982; Montesinos et al. 1982; Castro 1986; and Castro de De la Rosa 1993– 1994). However, only the barest outline of this complex system can be included here. There are three categories of spirits for the Totonac: the gods, associated with heavenly bodies and the Catholic saints; secondary divinities such as earth, air, fire, and thunder; and owners or lords who control various locations on the earth and serve as intermediaries between humans and more powerful spirit entities (Ichon 1973: 102). The sun’s father is the deer spirit, representing untamed nature, while its mother is the Virgin of Guadalupe, protector of humans and bringer of fertility. San Juan is the generalized water spirit, aided by the mermaid-like sirena, thunder spirits, and owners of various springs and other bodies of surface water. The hearth spirit watches over the household, while stars serve as guardians in place of the sun during the night. In the east, where the sun rises, the gods spend their days around a great table laden with flowers and the finest presentations of food (see below for a similar belief among the Tepehua). Disease, in Totonac thought, is the result of natural causes, sorcerers, a sudden fright, a spirit angered by being neglected, wind spirits, or any disruption in the human-spirit balance (Ichon 1973; Chenaut 1990). Curers divine the cause of a disease through crystal gazing. They also make miniature wooden dolls for curing

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      rituals, perhaps to represent disease-causing spirits. The Totonac have a well-developed concept of symbolic pollution and its relationship to disease. Curing rituals are called ‘‘cleansings,’’ and they are of two types: one called ‘‘sweeping,’’ to remove internal pollution, and the other called ‘‘washing,’’ for external pollution. Public confession is also a part of Totonac curing rituals. In more acculturated Ixtepec, Garma Navarro (1987:135) reports that three types of traditional curers are found. Midwives aid in the birth process, curers diagnose disease and prescribe herbal remedies (see also Martínez Alfaro 1984), and witches (brujos) have the ability to spread or cure diseases caused by soul loss or spirit attack. Totonac rituals are complex, and Ichon found them difficult to interpret (1973:358; see also Masferrer Kan 1986a, 1986b). Each ritual occasion centers upon an offering, and these differ according to the identity of the primary spirit addressed. Offerings directed to more powerful spirits neutralize the potential harm that they might inflict on humans were they to feel neglected. Offerings to the less-powerful owners are essentially exchanges for valued services provided by these spirits. Ichon (1973:168) notes that certain beliefs and ritual elements among the Totonac may have been borrowed from Caribbean rituals via escaped slaves. He also reports that many elements of Totonac religion seem to derive more from the Popol Vuh of the Maya region than from the Aztec (Ichon 1973:137). Similar to other parts of the Gulf Coast, the Totonacapan is currently undergoing rapid and profound changes. In studying religious conversion among the Totonac, Garma Navarro found that Protestants were slightly better off economically than followers of traditional religion—nominal Catholics. He concludes that increases in conversions to Protestantism are linked to the penetration of capitalist market relations into the region (Garma Navarro 1987:132). For the new Totonac Protestants, the most important rituals are baptism and marriage. All other ritual occasions are deemphasized or rejected outright. Ritual kinship

is retained, but instead of linking people from different strata into a relationship of respect and mutual support, it now unites social equals. Ritual kin are no longer compadres or comadres who treat each other with formal politeness. They are now testigos (witnesses) or hermanos (brothers), whose only link is a common religion that rejects the older traditions as Devilworship (Garma Navarro 1987:104–105). But Garma Navarro (1987:158–160) also finds that miraculous conversions and curings in the new Totonac religion are fundamentally similar to religious practices and events that characterize the older one. Thus, Totonac conversion to Protestantism may not be the radical departure from Native American practices that it initially appears to be. T T The Tepehua, although closely allied to the Totonac, were not discussed by H. Harvey and I. Kelly (1969). The Mexican ethnographer Roberto Williams García (1963) published a study of the Tepehua communities of Pisaflores, municipio of Ixhuatlán de Madero, and Chintipán, municipio of Tlachichilco, both located in northern Veracruz. Williams García’s focus was on religion and ritual, and he later published two books on Tepehua myths (1970, 1972; see also Ceballos Rincón 1991), as well as articles dealing with religious topics (Williams García 1966b, 1967, 1975; see also Boilès 1967; Dow 1995). Tepehua belongs to the Totonacan family of languages and is divided into three dialects: Tlachichilco, spoken in Veracruz; HuehuetlaMecapalapa, spoken in Hidalgo; and Pisaflores, spoken in Puebla (Kaufman 1994:37). The Tepehua of the Gulf Coast should not be confused with the Tepehuan of northern Mexico, a different group whose members speak a UtoAztecan language. The 1990 Mexican census found 8,702 speakers of Tepehua concentrated, as shown on Figure 6-4, in the states of Veracruz and Hidalgo. No municipio in Puebla has a concentration of 199 or more speakers. The name ‘‘Tepehua’’ derives from the Nahuatl and means ‘owners of the hills.’ The people 99

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F 6-4. Municipios with 199 or more speakers of Tepehua. Source: XI censo general de población vivienda, 1990 (INEGI 1990).

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      call themselves kitnánkanmakalkamán, meaning ‘we who speak Tepehua,’ or the less-often used term hamasipi or hamasipiní’, also translated as ‘owners of the hills’ (Williams García 1963:47). The major cash crops are sugarcane (sugarloaf ), coffee, and, to a lesser extent, vanilla. Household members also gather food and raw materials from their tropical forest environment and fish on a seasonal basis. Hunting is no longer practiced. Williams García (1963:102) reports that the Tepehua have a varied and rich diet and that they are generally robust and healthy. Many households possess burros and mules used to carry corn, sugarloaf, and coffee to the market. More prosperous households are increasingly turning to cattle raising as a means to store and produce wealth. Crafts are pursued to satisfy household needs in Pisaflores and not as notable sources of income. In Chintipán, both pottery making and weaving had disappeared by the 1960’s. Although Williams García makes no mention of temporary wage labor, this undoubtedly is a strategy undertaken by household members to increase family income. Settlement type among the Tepehua varies according to local factors. In Pisaflores, the houses are scattered around a grassy rectangular central plaza. Residences in Chintipán, on the other hand, are strung out along the main trail that passes through the area. In Pisaflores, houses have rounded thatched roofs and rectangular plans with the floors made from packed earth. Houses are constructed of vertical-pole walls without windows, although increasingly people are building them from stone. The dwelling is usually a single room, with the kitchen either separated by a partition or, more commonly, located in an adjacent building. Each house is designed with a kind of porch in the front where guests are welcomed and where many of the family activities take place. The house serves essentially as a sleeping room, and most activities take place outdoors beneath the porch structure or in the cleared area surrounding the house. Many families build a stone sweatbath next to their dwelling. Tepehua houses are sparsely furnished, fol-

lowing the pattern seen throughout the Gulf Coast, as described above. In Chintipán, houses are similar in design but lack the rounded roof. In this community, the sweatbath is constructed of bent poles covered with banana leaves. The usual marital arrangement is monogamy, but Williams García (1963:120) mentions the existence of polygynous unions. He notes little cooperation among nuclear families within the non-residential extended family, however, and states that nuclear families rarely coordinate activities except in response to a crisis. Tepehua communities generally do not have welldeveloped civil-religious hierarchies. Similar to the other groups discussed in this chapter, the Tepehua have a belief that after the sun sets, star guardians take over its duties to protect people from harm. The Virgin Mary has multiple manifestations in Tepehua thought, but her most important function is to control human and crop fertility. Accompanying the Virgin in the sky realm are water spirits who travel with the clouds and carry rain to the fields. Seed spirits, generally thought to be the children of the water spirit, live upon the earth. Corn is preeminent among the seeds and is distinguished from the others by virtue of being the offspring of the deer. The water spirit—called San Juan Bautista in one important manifestation—is another figure linked to the health of seeds. Like their Totonac neighbors, the Tepehua have a belief that the most powerful spirits live at the point on the eastern horizon where the sun comes up. These spirits are assembled around an enormous table covered with bright flowers and the best food— an image possibly derived from depictions of the Last Supper. The Tepehua generally attribute disease, misfortune, and death to the actions of spirits. A person’s soul may be stolen by any spirit in the pantheon, or the person might be attacked by disease-causing wind spirits. In either case a curer is called in to conduct a ritual. The curer cuts images from paper or makes small, doll-like figures from shredded bark of the jonote de hule (genus Heliocarpus) to represent the offending spirits (see the discussion in Sandstrom and Sandstrom 1986:200–248). The curer arranges 101

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 .  these to form a display and dedicates the offerings by means of chanting. Williams García’s account of Tepehua culture hints at several changes that were occurring just prior to and during the period of fieldwork. Between visits to the field, Williams García (1963: 274) notes that people increased their dependence on manufactured items that must be purchased. A law passed in 1943 making military service compulsory forced many men to learn Spanish and adopt the Spanish naming system. Since that time, Tepehua-Spanish bilingualism has increased, and the traditional naming patterns have fallen into disuse. The school has also been instrumental in promoting the Spanish language and introducing Anglo-American and European perspectives to the Tepehua. The ideal personality configuration among the Tepehua is characterized by balance. Any expression of extreme emotion is discouraged as potentially harmful to the individual. Parents teach children that showing respect to others is a quality to strive for throughout their lives. Family loyalties are high, adultery rare, and the young seldom criticize the old. The people have a heightened sense of shame and avoid lewd comments or joking. The stress on balance and respect, however, does not prevent most Tepehua from possessing excellent senses of humor and a readiness to smile. Many Tepehua consume alcohol, but Williams García found that few were alcoholics, and people rarely displayed aggression when intoxicated. However, he found that the more acculturated the individual, the more an aggressive response was likely. He also reported that open talk of witchcraft in Tepehua communities is rare (1963: 253).

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T S P ‘‘Popoluca’’ is a Nahuatl-derived term meaning ‘unintelligible,’ applied by the Nahua to a number of peoples who spoke different languages and who belonged to ethnic groups distinct from their own. The name has become a source of some confusion in published works on Middle America. The Popoluca of the southern Gulf Coast should not be confused with 102

the several groups usually called Popoloca in Oaxaca and southern Puebla (see Beals 1969a: 319; Jäcklein 1974). Gulf Coast Popoluca live in Veracruz and belong to the Mixe-Zoquean language family (see Fig. 6-5). The people referred to as the Gulf Coast Popoluca actually speak four distinct languages, two closer to Mixe and two closer to Zoque. The most populous group is the Zoque Popoluca, who live in about twenty-five settlements near the town of Soteapan. This group is often called the Sierra Popoluca. A second Zoque-Popoluca dialect is spoken in the single town of Texistepec. The population of Zoque-Popoluca speakers has been estimated by the ethnographer Félix Báez-Jorge (1973) to be about 12,000. One dialect of Mixe Popoluca is spoken in the town of Sayula (Popoluca de Sayula), and another is spoken in the town of Oluta (Popoluca de Oluta) (Foster 1969b; Kaufman 1994:37). Mixe itself is spoken mainly in eastern Oaxaca, while Zoque speakers are concentrated in northwestern Chiapas (see Figs. 6-6 and 6-7; L. Campbell and T. Kaufman 1976; Lisbona Guillén 1995). Mixtec speakers also live scattered throughout southern Veracruz (see Fig. 6-8), but their population center lies in Oaxaca.5 In his summary of Mixe-Popoluca and ZoquePopoluca cultures, George Foster (1969b:456) noted that, at the time he wrote, both were poorly described. He had himself conducted a brief ethnographic study among the Zoque Popoluca of Soteapan (Sierra Popoluca) in the early 1940’s, and Calixta Guiteras-Holmes (1952a) published results of a brief study she conducted in the late 1940’s and early 1950’s among the Mixe Popoluca of Sayula. Subsequently, Báez-Jorge has published results of an ethnographic study among the Zoque Popoluca of Soteapan (1970, 1971, 1973, 1984). Guido Münch Galindo (1983a) has written an ethnological survey of the isthmus of Veracruz, including some descriptions of Nahua and Popoluca of the region and a brief summary of major religious beliefs (1983b). The focus of this chapter is the Zoque Popoluca of Soteapan, with additional studies noted in the discussion (see Popoluca 1995). The Zoque Popoluca of Soteapan call their

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      linguistic group ?anmáti in their own language, but commonly refer to themselves as ‘‘Popoluca.’’ Although some scholars consider ‘‘Popoluca’’ to be a derogatory designation, the term is retained here because the people themselves use it and because it has found a place in publications on these cultures. The Mexican census does not distinguish the Mixe from the Zoque Popoluca; thus Figure 6-5 shows the aggregated distribution of all four groups of this population (see Table 6-1). Detailed maps showing the locations of Texistepec, Sayula, Oluta, and Soteapan with their surrounding communities are found in Foster (1969b) and Münch Galindo (1983b). The Zoque Popoluca live for the most part in nucleated settlements, although Báez-Jorge (1973:47) noted a few dispersed communities. Dispersed settlements may result from local geographical conditions rather than custom. Most communities are located in mountainous terrain that rises 800 to 1,000 meters above sea level, but a few are located closer to the coast or in the transition zone between coastal plain and mountains. Villages are always located by an arroyo or other source of water. The main ZoquePopoluca town of Soteapan lies at 490 meters above sea level in a region that is characterized by heavy rainfall and a hot-humid climate. The Zoque Popoluca are farmers who live in somewhat self-sufficient villages although, like all Native Americans in the region, they are ultimately subordinate to political and economic forces originating at the urban and national levels (Báez-Jorge 1973:92–93). People living at higher altitudes in the mountains depend upon slash-and-burn horticulture, while those living in lowland areas may use an animal-drawn plow. Many Zoque-Popoluca communities compete for land resources with large commercial cattleraising operations. A few people grow cacao, although the major cash crops are rice, chilies, and coffee. Very few Zoque Popoluca grow sugarcane. Some villagers supplement their incomes by gathering a wild plant called barbasco (genus Dioscorea), in demand by pharmaceutical companies for use in the manufacture of synthetic hormones. They raise turkeys, chickens, and pigs as part of

their farming operations, and many people also own a few head of cattle. Animals may occasionally be eaten, especially during ritual celebrations, but for the most part they represent stores of wealth. People rarely engage in crafts such as pottery making, weaving, and basket making for profit. Báez-Jorge (1973:119–127) reports that commerce in the region is dominated by mestizos, the Nahua, and the Zapotec (see Figs. 6-1 and 6-9) who act as brokers between village and city. Based on photographs published by BáezJorge (1973) and statements by George Foster (personal communication, 1995), ZoquePopoluca houses are rectangular in floor plan, with either pole or plank walls. They have thatched roofs and a loft area inside the house reached by a notched log. The walls may be partially or completely covered with a coating of mud mixed with chopped straw. Women cook on a raised fire table constructed of planks, mud, and stones. The interior of the household has not been described recently, but from photographs it appears that handmade tables and chairs and other simple items are typical Zoque-Popoluca furnishings. The Zoque-Popoluca family is the basic unit of economic activity and social organization. Bride price is a common feature of marriages. The majority of marriages are monogamous, but Báez-Jorge (1973:173) found that fully 23.5 percent of Zoque-Popoluca marriages are polygynous. After children are born, the husband, if he possesses adequate resources, may take one or more additional wives. Thus in any Zoque-Popoluca community four basic family types are in evidence: nuclear, extended (usually patrilocal), polygynous, and polygynous extended (Báez-Jorge 1973:145). Children are ranked by age, with older ones having authority over younger ones. In the event of the father’s death, the children become the responsibility of the mother’s brother. There are no rules of endogamy or exogamy, and individuals sometimes marry members of other ethnic groups. Non-kinship social organization among the Zoque-Popoluca is similar to that described for other Gulf Coast groups. Ritual kinship (compadrazgo) is an important means by which indi103

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F 6-5. Municipios with 199 or more speakers of Popoluca. Source: XI censo general de población vivienda, 1990 (INEGI 1990).

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F 6-6. Municipios with 199 or more speakers of Mixe. Source: XI censo general de población vivienda, 1990 (INEGI 1990).

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F 6-7. Municipios with 199 or more speakers of Zoque.Source: XI censo general de población vivienda, 1990 (INEGI 1990).

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F 6-8. Municipios with 199 or more speakers of Mixtec. Source: XI censo general de población vivienda, 1990 (INEGI 1990).

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F 6-9. Municipios with 199 or more speakers of Zapotec. Source: XI censo general de población vivienda, 1990 (INEGI 1990).

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      viduals expand the pool of people with whom they share socially sanctioned expectations and obligations (Báez-Jorge 1984). Waltraud Hangert (1970) has written on the civil-religious hierarchy in Zoque-Popoluca communities that organizes both political life and the celebration of holy days. No detailed study of Zoque-Popoluca religion has been published. Münch Galindo (1983b:22) reports that Nahua and Popoluca belief and ritual systems are very similar and that, regardless of ethnic group, the cultures of the southern Gulf Coast form a single culture area. The seven major spirits in the pantheon are the sun, moon, earth, lightning, water, wind, and maize. Münch Galindo (1983b) reports that the people view the cosmos as consisting of three basic layers: an underworld, the surface of the earth, and a sky realm that is further divided into seven layers. The earth’s surface is in the shape of a rectangle. The east is associated with birth and fertility, a place where the water spirit resides in the form of a fire serpent (see Spero 1987). West is associated with death and witches and is ruled by a black spirit in the guise of a man or monkey. In the north lives the bone-white spirit of lightning who sends disease-causing wind spirits to afflict human beings. In the south lives the spirit of corn who represents the animating principle of the universe. The subterranean world is inhabited by chane, king of the earth and owner of the water, plants, animals, and other things of our world. El Chaneco, as he is also called, rules over lesser spirits called chaneques, dwarf-like creatures who are sent by their leader to live in their own cities and marry just like humans and who populate the hills, caves, and waterfalls of the region. Black chaneques are said to harm people, while white ones bring good fortune. The moon is linked to the Virgen del Carmen. The corn spirit, called homshuk, is seen as an aspect of the sun and serves as a culture hero in many myths. Several of the myths collected by Münch Galindo (1983b) are similar to those recorded among the Nahua, Tepehua, Totonac, and Huastec in the northern region of the Gulf Coast. Little has been published on Zoque-Popoluca disease concepts and curing

techniques. Münch Galindo (1983b:179ff.) reports that disease may be the result of natural or spirit-related causes, which commonly include sorcery, fright, accidents, snake and spider bites, evil eye, malos aires (diseasecausing wind spirits), and nahuales (transforming sorcerers). Major spirits may also capture a person’s soul, causing illness and eventual death if left untreated. Curing specialists fight disease and misfortune by dedicating offerings to the offending spirits. Curers also divine the cause of disease by interpreting their own dreams. The southern Gulf Coast has been subject to momentous change over the past several decades. The region has been the target of development plans by the Mexican government that entail forest clearing, land redistribution, electrification, road building, and irrigation projects. Much of this activity is linked to the oil industry and sulfur-mining operations. Peoples from other parts of Mexico (Totonac from northern Veracruz, Zapotec from Oaxaca, and mestizos from many different regions) have flooded into the area in search of economic opportunity. In addition, as discussed below, Chinantec and Mazatec peoples displaced by the Papaloapan dam project have been granted territory in the region. Beginning in the 1940’s, Protestant missionaries from the Summer Institute of Linguistics began proselytizing among the Zoque Popoluca and neighboring Nahuat speakers. They have made converts in many communities, further dividing local loyalties between traditional ‘‘Catholics’’ and Protestants (Bradley 1988:149). In addition, over the years the region has been subject to boomand-bust cycles caused by fluctuations in the national and international commodities markets in cacao, rubber, oil, coffee, chilies, beans, and other products. The Zoque Popoluca have been caught up in these and other socioeconomic and political disruptions (see Bradley 1988). T C  T This largest of the Native American groups in the state of Tabasco has been neglected in the ethnographic literature. While other contem109

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F 6-10. Municipios with 199 or more speakers of Chontal de Tabasco. Source: XI censo general de población vivienda, 1990 (INEGI 1990).

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      porary Maya groups have attracted much scholarly attention, the noted authority Alfonso Villa Rojas (1969a:230–234) devotes only four pages to the Chontal of Tabasco in his Handbook entry due to the near absence of published information on them. Teresa Mora Vázquez and Yólotl Gonzales (1981) indicated that, except for mentions in encyclopedias and general works, only a single article in the 1940’s by a North American missionary had been published on this important group. They called for a program of salvage ethnography to document the culture before it disappears. Since then, Carlos Incháustegui has written on the Chontal town of Vicente Guerrero (1987) and on the largely Chontal municipio of Centla (1985) as well as produced a pamphlet summarizing aspects of Chontal culture (1993; see also KnowlesBerry 1995). Julieta Campos published beautifully produced books of photographs of the Chontal and their environment (1988a, 1988b). Catalina Rodríguez Lazcano and Sergio Torres Quintero devoted many pages to Chontal basketry in a Museo Nacional de Antropología catalog (1992). Denise Fay Brown (n.d.) has provided an updated overview and extensive bibliography on this culture group, soon to be published. Other authors have emphasized changes in Tabasco in the region of the Chontal homeland brought about by development projects and the oil industry (see West et al. 1969; Barkin 1978; Higuera Bonfil 1985; Cadena Kima-Chang and Suárez Paniagua 1988; Arrieta Fernández 1994). The name ‘‘Chontal’’ is the source of much confusion. It derives from the Nahuatl chontalli, meaning ‘stranger’ or ‘foreigner,’ and the term was applied by the Aztec to a number of unrelated peoples in Oaxaca and Nicaragua. The Tabascan Chontal call themselves yoko yinik or yoko winik, meaning ‘true human beings’ (Schumann 1985:117). They are also called putun, meaning ‘carrier,’ a probable reference to their role as merchants at the time of the Spanish invasion (Cadena Kima-Chang and Suárez Paniagua 1988:111). Terrence Kaufman (1994:37) classifies their language as part of the Cholan subgroup of the western branch of the Maya family. The Chontal of Tabasco call their

language yokot’an, meaning ‘true word’ (Schumann 1985:118). It is provisionally divided into three dialects: Nacajuca and Centla, Tamulté de las Sabanas, and Macuspana (Schumann 1985: 120). Susan Knowles-Berry (1987:332; see also 1984) writes that 90 percent of the Chontal are bilingual in Spanish and that the language is falling into disuse. The Chontal of Tabasco occupy an area of the state called the Chontalpa that is roughly defined as the area between the Grijalva and the Seco or Tonalá rivers (West et al. 1969: 133; Arrieta Fernández 1994:19). The region is tropical, with high average rainfall, hot temperatures, and a rainforest ecosystem characterized by swampy, marshlike conditions and annual flooding. Until the 1950’s, with the completion of rail and all-weather roads, much of the area was cut off from land routes to the more developed parts of Mexico. As shown in Figure 6-10, the population of the Chontal concentrates in seven municipios. Table 6-1 shows that few of the people who identify themselves as Chontal live outside of this restricted area of Tabasco. The 1990 Mexican census lists two categories of people belonging to this group, the Chontal of Tabasco and, simply, Chontal. Because these refer to the same group in Tabasco, Table 6-1 combines population figures from the two census categories. Many Chontal may be reluctant to identify themselves as speakers of a Native American language, so the total figure of 30,582 probably underestimates the number of Gulf Coast Chontal speakers. Today many young male Chontal earn their living by working permanently or on a temporary basis for PEMEX, the national oil company, as laborers on commercial plantations or cattle ranches throughout the region, or in cities (Incháustegui 1987:138–147). Increasingly, young women are seeking wage labor in the city as domestics and workers in hotels, restaurants, and schools (Cadena Kima-Chang and Suárez Paniagua 1988:154). Probably the majority of people, however, continue to combine slash-and-burn milpa horticulture with fishing and the cultivation of commercial crops. These activities are often supplemented by income from weaving hats, bags, and sleep111

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 .  ing mats (petates). In addition to corn and beans, the Chontal grow rice, yucas (cassavas), camotes, bananas, coconuts for making copra, some sugarcane, a variety of tropical fruits, and cacao. In most areas two crops per year are planted, but in some regions a third, and even fourth, crop is feasible because farmers wrap seeds in moist leaves to accelerate sprouting and maturation of the crop (West et al. 1969:146). Periodic flooding brings nutrients to the soil and reduces the fallowing period in many areas. Farming technology is simple, and labor is mobilized to carry out the heaviest work in the fields through reciprocal exchange between households. Turkeys and ducks outnumber chickens in Chontal villages; people also raise pigs, and some wealthier people own cattle. Perhaps because of the climate and swampy conditions of the land, few people own horses and donkeys. In years past, the people gathered oysters that grew copiously in the network of waterways in northern Tabasco. In fact, until replaced by modern industrial techniques, a major home industry of the Chontal was the burning of oyster shells to produce lime. Spear or net fishing is an important activity of men and boys, and some Chontal families earn their primary income from selling their catches of a variety of tropical species (Incháustegui 1985:23–29). Fish and, to a lesser extent, hunted land animals and water turtles are a major component of the Chontal diet. The staple is corn and is usually served in the form of pozol, a hominy stew. Another regional dish is chorote, a corn gruel flavored with cacao. Tortillas, tamales, and atole are of secondary importance in the diet (West et al. 1969:148). It is customary for people to eat two meals per day. An important example of Chontal technology is the construction of dugout canoes. Before the 1950’s, these were the sole means of transportation in the region, and they continue to be used for fishing and for hauling cargo. The canoes are made from tropical hardwood that is impervious to water, and the best examples last from fifteen to twenty years. Chontal artisans make canoes by burning selected parts of huge 112

logs and scooping out the carbon and ashes (Incháustegui 1985:29–31). The Chontal often build their houses in nucleated villages, although it is probable that this settlement type is the result of Spanish policies. In some cases people situate their dwellings in small, widely scattered clusters among the marshes and waterways. So-called line villages, where houses are built in a straight line along stream levees, are probably aboriginal and are still found throughout the Chontalpa (West et al. 1969:140). The floor plan is rectangular with one or two rooms, and the house often has a separate kitchen shed and an attached garden. The walls are of cane, bamboo, or palmwood, and the structure may rest on a wooden plank foundation. The steeply pitched roof is designed to shed the copious rainfall of the region and may be thatched with any of a variety of materials. The floor is of tamped earth, and the building sometimes has a front and back door. See Incháustegui (1987: 229–250) for an extensive discussion of Chontal houses. The kinship system of the Chontal remains unstudied, but from the small amount of evidence available it appears to follow the typical patrineolocal pattern described above for other Gulf Coast groups. Incháustegui (1985:52–53) notes that women appear to have significant authority in the family. Apparently the extended family is rarely found among the contemporary Chontal. Instead, it is the nuclear family that is at the center of Chontal social life. According to census data, the average family has six children (Cadena Kima-Chang and Suárez Paniagua 1988:157–159). Information on Chontal religion and ritual is sparse. Many Chontal hold a belief in duendes (small spirits) that are associated with aspects of the natural world. These aspects include the sun, moon, sky, and rain. There are three basic forms of duendes: the whirlwind, negritos (little black ones), and juguetes de los duendes, sacred objects of Prehispanic origin found locally (Cadena Kima-Chang and Suárez Paniagua 1988:179). The duendes are described as tiny, nude, immortal, and wealthy,

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      with their feet pointing backward (Incháustegui 1987:274–277). Apparently, offerings are made to the duendes on various occasions by ritual specialists, but there is no published information on these specialists or on the nature of the offerings. Like other Gulf Coast peoples, the Chontal hold a belief that certain places or objects are ruled by dueños or owners (Incháustegui 1987:206). The Chontal also participate in a civil-religious hierarchy and observe the standard Mexican Catholic holidays such as Day of the Dead and Christmas as well as numerous saints’ days (Mora Vázquez and Gonzales 1981). Ritual music is supplied by groups of three musicians called tamborileros, who play flutes and drums. Masked dancers perform works deriving from the Spanish tradition (Cadena Kima-Chang and Suárez Paniagua 1988:182–191). Based on available information, it appears that Chontal religion is fundamentally similar to that found in other Gulf Coast cultures. Because of the tropical and watery environment of the Chontal and the near absence of public works, there is a high disease rate in the population (Incháustegui 1987:201–204; see also Salazar 1985). People distinguish between diseases sent by God and those sent by an offended duende or owner. Disease is transmitted in the form of bad airs or winds, but powerful spirits may also steal a person’s soul, leading to decline and eventual death. Ritual specialists use herbal cures as well as dedicate offerings to the angered spirits in an attempt to remove the cause of the affliction. Researchers report that fewer young people are participating in the religious life of the community as they increasingly seek employment in the mestizo sector. At the same time, religious conflicts are arising as Protestantism makes inroads among the Chontal. In Villa Vicente Guerrero, nearly 25 percent of the population has converted to one of a number of Protestant sects (Incháustegui 1987:287–294). The ethnographic information published on the Chontal is scattered and incomplete. Because no community study based on long-term research has been published, we do not have a

very profound picture of Chontal life. Much research focuses on the impact that economic development has had on the Native American elements of the culture. Researchers note that the culture is rapidly changing in response to development projects and the impact of the oil industry in the region. Fishing has almost ceased in many areas because the waters have been polluted by PEMEX (Incháustegui 1985:57– 58, 1987:99). The growing cattle industry has pushed people from their lands, forcing them to enter the lowest levels of the national economy. Elements of Chontal identity such as dress and religion have been systematically eliminated by local government decree (Cadena KimaChang and Suárez Paniagua 1988:173). Five basic changes are occurring among the Chontal: proletarianization, abandonment of traditional products, increased social differentiation in communities, adoption of new consumer patterns, and penetration of national institutions (Cadena Kima-Chang and Suárez Paniagua 1988:193–194). These authors (1988:10) note, however, that the Chontal are beginning to develop a strong consciousness of their own ethnic identity in an attempt to resist being dominated by the national society. P S   G C The current distributions of Native American populations on the Gulf Coast and in the mountainous regions to the west are the product of adjustments groups have made not only to environmental opportunities and constraints but also to historical processes, some of which originate deep in the Prehispanic past (Sanders 1978; Winfield Capitaine 1990; Molina Ludy 1992; see Coe and Diehl 1980; Herrera Casasús 1989; and Carroll 1991 for information on the impact of African slaves on the Gulf Coast). Important recent events affecting the distribution of peoples of the region include major governmental efforts to develop the Gulf Coast. Three government-initiated projects have disrupted the geographic distribution of contemporary indigenous peoples. All are watercontrol projects that involve the construction 113

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F 6-11. Municipios with 199 or more speakers of Mazatec. Source: XI censo general de población vivienda, 1990 (INEGI 1990).

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      of massive irrigation systems to support modern agriculture. Already mentioned is the PujalCoy dam project in San Luis Potosí. The Chontalpa water-control plan has been underway for several years in Tabasco, but the biggest and most ambitious development plan involves the Papaloapan River. The Papaloapan project was begun in 1947 and grew to be one of the largest development projects in Latin America (Poleman 1964). Along with the Chontalpa project, it was designed to incorporate Mexico’s last frontier—the tropical rainforests of the southern Gulf Coast—into the economic life of the country. Modeled on the Tennessee Valley Authority, the project involved, among other initiatives, the building of two major dams in Oaxaca designed to prevent periodic flooding downstream on the Gulf Coast. Additional aims were to generate hydroelectric power and, as mentioned, to allow for large-scale irrigation. The Alemán or Temazcal Dam completed in 1954 displaced 22,000 Mazatec people from their traditional homeland in northern Oaxaca, many of whom were resettled on the Gulf Coast (Siemens 1964; Boege 1988; see Fig. 6-11). The first stage of the relocation program was directed by Alfonso Villa Rojas (1955) and later by the Instituto Nacional Indigenista. The project has proven to be a disaster for the Mazatec people for a variety of reasons, including budgetary shortfalls, corruption among project and governmental officials, poor planning, the short lead time for relocation, resistance by local elites and the Mazatec alike, and the unpredictable nature of the tropical environment. The dislocated Mazatec have been split into several groups and placed in undesirable locations far from the infrastructural improvements promised by the project directors (Partridge et al. 1982). The government essentially took land from the Mazatec without due compensation. After many delays, the second dam, Cerro de Oro, was completed in 1989, displacing approximately 20,000 Chinantec from their northern Oaxaca home territory (see Fig. 6-12). Most of these people were moved to Uxpanapa, Veracruz, where they were expected to inhabit new towns, participate in cooperative farming production, and spontaneously mod-

ernize overnight. Directors of the Papaloapan project planned to heed the lessons learned in the Mazatec relocation, but they nonetheless eliminated input from social scientists. The Chinantec were consulted during several stages of the planned relocation, but they, too, were left out of many crucial decisions affecting their new lives. The cooperative farming program has not been successful, the introduced crops that were to bring prosperity have been largely abandoned, systems of credit and crop insurance have failed, and new housing has proved unpopular and impractical for the local climate. Most Chinantec do not appear happy with their new circumstances, and resistance to further intended changes is mounting.6 The Plan de Chontalpa in the state of Tabasco was officially begun as a formal development project supported by the Interamerican Development Bank in 1966, two years after the completion of the Raudales de Malpaso Dam (also called the Netzahualcóyotl Dam) (Barkin 1978:27). By the 1950’s, a rail line and an allweather road had been completed, linking by land the lowland tropical region of Tabasco with the rest of Mexico. In all, 91,000 hectares were opened for modern agricultural production (Arrieta Fernández 1994:19). This project did not directly displace the Chontal people, but, coupled with the massive oil exploration that accompanied these developments, it contributed to their loss of identity as Native Americans (Barkin 1978; Higuera Bonfil 1985; Incháustegui 1985, 1987; Cadena Kima-Chang and Suárez Paniagua 1988; Arrieta Fernández 1994). Apart from these projects, the past twentyfive years have witnessed massive internal migration of Gulf Coast indigenous populations. In addition to the displaced Mazatec and Chinantec, other groups have moved into southern Veracruz and Tabasco in search of economic opportunity. For example, the Totonac settled there to farm, and the Zapotec now control much of the mercantile activity in the region. In other parts of the Gulf Coast as well, there is movement from the country to the cities as indigenous people attempt to escape hopeless situations in their villages or, more posi115

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F 6-12. Municipios with 199 or more speakers of Chinantec. Source: XI censo general de población vivienda, 1990 (INEGI 1990).

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      tively, to seek greater economic opportunity in urban settlements. Tampico, Veracruz, San Luis Potosí, Minatitlán, Mexico City, and cities along the Texas border have attracted people from the villages in large numbers. Some of these migrants are temporary urban dwellers accumulating resources in anticipation of returning to their villages, while others have left the countryside for good. Ethnographic accounts of these migrants are scarce. There is a significant need for research on these highly mobile and dynamic indigenous peoples as they adjust to life at the margins of the city. E S  G C C Significant progress in the effort to document indigenous cultures of the Gulf Coast is evident since publication of the ethnology volumes of the Handbook. Much of the credit for this ethnographic work goes to Mexican scholars. Researchers and their students have worked in the field and in archives, producing an impressive and high-quality literature on Gulf Coast cultures. Thanks to their efforts over the last twenty-five years, the Gulf Coast is no longer an unexplored region on the anthropological map.7 It is heartening to witness the intensified research activity in the region by anthropologists and other scholars and to see their publications on indigenous cultures accumulate. It is also heartening to see that Native American people themselves are becoming trained anthropologists and linguists and have produced ethnographic accounts of their own cultures.8 Much, however, remains to be done. Ethnographic coverage of the region is spotty, restudies or investigations of the same group by multiple scholars are still a rarity, and there is a need to study groups that have been displaced, either because people have migrated in search of employment or because they have been relocated in the face of development projects (see Gutiérrez Mejía 1991, 1993). We also lack basic information on the effects of the 1992 modification of national land-reform programs. Studies on gender, class, and ethnicity, while on the

increase, are also rare (Schryer 1980, 1987a, 1987b, 1990; Ruvalcaba Mercado 1991b). Ethnographers have been redirected by critics of community studies since the late 1950’s to undertake regional studies or to focus on wider political-economic factors. This development is partly due to the influence of worldsystems approaches and the call to abandon assumptions that individual communities operate in isolation from national and international forces (e.g., Wolf 1956:1065). Other critics have insisted that ethnographers conduct narrowly focused, problem-oriented investigations, rejecting a broader, more holistic perspective on the individual community. These criticisms represent an attempt to correct earlier shortcomings, but unfortunately have led many modern researchers to shy away from long-term community studies altogether, and few are investing the time needed to produce valid, holistic research findings. Of the more than fifty recent book-length monographs cited in this chapter (including dissertations but not master’s theses), only five can be considered community studies. Two of these are unpublished dissertations (Provost 1975; Sandstrom 1975), and three have appeared in print (Williams García 1963; Chamoux 1981a; Sandstrom 1991). Because the Gulf Coast has been neglected by anthropologists until relatively recently, there are very few older community studies to serve as a baseline for work today. So we have a situation in the Gulf Coast that is the reverse of the state of affairs that prevailed in most areas of Mesoamerica prior to the late 1970’s: instead of having numerous community studies, portrayed as isolates and unintegrated by regional perspective, we have a regional focus with precious few community studies to integrate. Regional and narrowly focused problemoriented studies should not be construed as defective or misdirected in and of themselves. On the contrary, this work has significantly enriched our knowledge of the Gulf Coast region, and the book-length treatises that have been produced focus on critically important areas of social life. Yet holistic community studies should not be eliminated by this kind of re117

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 .  search, but complemented by it. Regional and narrowly focused monographs customarily present a section of general ethnographic information as background to the problem at hand. But too often key aspects of human experience are overlooked and the data are of insufficient depth, or else an abstract model is produced with data from a variety of places, so we are left in the dark about how a particular practice is actually integrated in a living community. Indepth and intimate studies of living groups are needed to understand the interplay of forces that shape and provide the dynamic of the Gulf Coast region. Only ethnographers, preferably working in coordinated teams, who are willing to spend many years being part of the communities they study can achieve both valid and reliable portrayals of the indigenous Gulf Coast cultures. Nearly 500 years have elapsed since Hernán Cortés and his soldiers landed on the Gulf Coast, and the descendants of the people who first greeted him are still there, many leading lives marginal to the Hispanic legacy that he bequeathed to Mexico. Far from being remnants of an earlier age or mindlessly traditional, these indigenous populations are testimony to the adaptability of Native American cultures in the face of devastating conditions of oppression. The cities are gone, but cultures such as the Nahua, Huastec, Totonac, Tepehua, ZoquePopoluca, and Chontal discussed here persist in small agricultural communities where some part of the rhythm of life continues as before. Flexible, bilateral kinship systems have allowed people to adjust family life to numerous social, political, and economic contingencies. A strong sense of ethnic identity is the creative response that many people have wielded in their struggle against Hispanic domination (see Avila Méndez 1991; Beaucage 1992). The religions are pantheistic, firmly rooted in Prehispanic philosophy and practice (Hunt 1977:55; Sandstrom and Sandstrom 1986). In pantheism, the universe itself is sacred, and the various deities are temporary focal points of ritual and prayer. Pantheistic religions have readily incorporated new ideas or even entire belief systems without changing their basic nature. It is this ability 118

to respond effectively to change without compromising the fundamental character of their cultures that has allowed Gulf Coast peoples to persist under remarkably challenging conditions. A I would like to thank James Dow, Barbara Edmonson, George Foster, Carlos Garma Navarro, Alfonso Gorbea Soto, David Grove, Robert Jeske, Lawrence Kuznar, John Monaghan, Hugo Nutini, Jesús Ruvalcaba Mercado, Pamela Effrein Sandstrom, and Guy StresserPéan for reading earlier drafts of this chapter. Pamela and Michael Sandstrom helped in compiling the census data. In addition, I want to express appreciation to Bobbi Shadle of the Learning Resource Center, Indiana University–Purdue University Fort Wayne (IPFW), who drew the maps. Thanks also go to Sally Holland, John Monaghan, and James Dow for assistance in assembling resources as well as to Cheryl Truesdell, Chris Smith, and the other staff members of Document Delivery Services of IPFW’s Helmke Library for their persistence and talent in obtaining source material. N 1. Numerous additional works testify to the importance of the Nahua in recent Gulf Coast ethnography (a sample that includes Williams García 1957, 1989; H. Law 1960; Reyes García 1960, 1976; Montoya Briones 1964, 1976, 1977a, 1977b, 1978; Espínola 1965; Montoya Briones and Moedano N. 1971; Arizpe S. 1972a; Nutini and Isaac 1974; Provost 1975; Sandstrom 1975, 1978a, 1982, 1989, 1995a, 1995b; García de León 1976; Taggart 1977, 1979, 1992a, 1995; Stuart 1978; Sandstrom and Provost 1979; Chamoux 1981b, 1992; Campos 1982; Dirección General de Culturas Populares 1982; Martínez Hernández 1982; Medellín Zenil 1982; Aguirre Beltrán 1986; Oliver Vega 1988; C. Stresser-Péan 1989; Briseño Guerrero 1990; Segre 1990; Dietiker-Amslër 1993; Morales Franco 1993; Vargas Ramírez 1994; and Sámano Rentería and Jiménez Juárez 1998). 2. A number of recent works have been published that treat the land crisis among peoples of the Gulf Coast (see Schryer 1976, 1979, 1980, 1986, 1987a,

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      1987b, 1990; De la Cruz Hernández 1982; Reyes Martínez 1982; Romualdo Hernández 1982; Avila Méndez and Cervantes 1986; Schryer et al. 1989; Matías Alonso 1990; Robles and Rebolledo 1990; Ruvalcaba Mercado 1990; Briseño Guerrero 1993, 1994; Neri Contreras 1993; and Rebolledo 1993). 3. A rich database is beginning to accumulate with the appearance of a number of recent publications (for example, Williams García 1966a; García de León 1969; Sandstrom 1975, 1985, 1986, 1992; Mönnich 1976; Montoya Briones 1977a, 1977b; Sandstrom and Provost 1977; Knab 1979, 1991; Medellín Zenil 1979; Buchler 1980; Provost 1981; Campos 1982; Stiles 1985; and Ruvalcaba Mercado 1992b). 4. Jesús Ruvalcaba Mercado (personal communication, 1995) believes that the dispersion of populations in the Huasteca results from the system of slavery imposed by Nuño de Guzmán in the sixteenth century and from the expropriation of Indian lands by Hispanic elites since the Conquest. 5. David Grove (personal communication, 1995) points out that the distribution of the contemporary Zoque Popoluca corresponds closely with the geographical extent of the Gulf Coast Olmec. John Justeson and Terrence Kaufman’s suggested partial translation of the epi-Olmec La Mojarra stele from southern Veracruz has led them to conclude that the writing was based upon a Zoquean language. This conclusion is highly controversial, however. The script on the stele dates to the second century, making it the oldest complete writing system in Middle America (Justeson and Kaufman 1993).

Archaeologists have provided considerable information on the Olmec (Formative) period, but little is known about the Classic and Postclassic periods in this region (see Coe and Diehl 1980). 6. The Papaloapan project and its effect on the Mazatec and Chinantec peoples have stirred much controversy in the professional economic development literature (see Poleman 1964; Barabas and Bartolomé 1973; McMahon 1973; Ewell and Poleman 1979; Partridge and Brown 1983, 1984; Bartolomé and Barabas 1984, 1990; Boege 1986; Dalton 1990; and Pardo 1990). 7. An excellent example of the potential of this region to surprise and reward researchers can be found in the recent discovery by Guy and Claude Stresser-Péan. While conducting ethnographic research in the Huauchinango-Xicotepec region in the early 1990’s, they came across a sixteenth-century codex carefully preserved by villagers who believed it to be a registry of land titles. This remarkable document, now published along with a detailed analysis by G. Stresser-Péan (1995), covers 102 years of history of the Acolhua, whose capital was ancient Texcoco. 8. An example of this initiative was the Programa de Formación Profesional de Etnolingüistas of the Instituto Nacional Indigenista and the Secretaría de Educación Pública. Several of the works consulted in writing this chapter were published as part of this program (for example, see De la Cruz Hernández 1982; Hernández Cuellar 1982; Martínez Hernández 1982; and Reyes Antonio 1982).

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7. Indigenous Peoples in Central and Western Mexico CATHARINE GOOD

T

   the present state of ethnological research on Nahua in Morelos and surrounding areas, Nahua and Tlapanec in Guerrero, and Huichol and Cora peoples in western Mexico. In reviewing the recent social anthropological literature about these indigenous groups, one is struck by the contrasts in how research in each area has developed and the relative lack of thematic unity among them. Ethnologists have approached their subjects with different theoretical orientations, problem definitions, and interpretive strategies. In addition, there are significant differences in the cultural traditions of each group, their historical experiences during the Colonial period, and their relationship to the dominant economy and national political structures in the twentieth century. Critical discussion of the scholarly literature with attention to these historical factors forms the core of this chapter and provides the necessary context for assessing the ethnological materials in each case.

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M E Morelos is one of the smallest states in Mexico, but it has received considerable scholarly atten120

tion because of its historical importance during the Mexican Revolution and excellent infrastructure, allowing easy access to most villages.1 Morelos state also attracts researchers because its proximity to Mexico City and delightful climate make it a popular location for vacation homes, including many owned by Mexican and foreign intellectuals. Ecological features have shaped historical events in the region, with important implications for the cultural development of native peoples. Ethnologists often divide Morelos according to altitude, distinguishing between the highlands (1,800–3,000 m) and lowlands (900–1,400 m). Its territory consists of two broad semitropical valleys running north–south, often called the tierra caliente or hotlands. Low mountains divide the western Valley of Cuernavaca from the eastern Valley of Cuautla, also known as the Plan de Amilpas, and higher mountains encircle Morelos, creating the tierra fría regions known as los altos or highlands, most pronounced to the north and east (see Fig. 7-1). The strongest presence of indigenous communities today is in the cooler, mountainous regions on the periphery. During the late Prehispanic period, this territory comprised two provinces: Cuauhnahuac

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       to the west, inhabited by the Tlahuica, a local Nahuatl-speaking group; and Huaxtepec to the north and east, occupied by Nahuatl-speaking Xochimilca based in the Valley of Mexico. At the time of the Spanish Conquest, both heavily populated provinces were subject to the Mexica, who extracted tribute goods, especially strategic supplies of corn, beans, huautli (amaranth), chía, and other foodstuffs produced with sophisticated irrigation techniques, and manufactured items such as cotton textiles, warrior costumes, and stone and metal ornaments. Our knowledge of Prehispanic territorial and ethnic distinctions is incomplete, but Druzo Maldonado Jiménez (1990) carefully analyzes the available ethnohistorical materials. At least during the fifteenth century, through the Colonial period, and today, Nahuatl speakers have been the only indigenous ethnic group. After the Conquest, Spaniards developed Morelos as an important center of the new Colonial economy because of its fertile soils, excellent climate for agriculture, abundant water and irrigation systems, and large, skilled native labor force. The indigenous political divisions, productive activities, and social institutions were quickly transformed during the first decades of European domination. Hernán Cortés held most of Morelos along with other properties in the Marquesado del Valle—the Mesoamerican lands and resources ceded by the Spanish Crown as a reward for his leadership in the Conquest of Mexico (García Martínez 1969; Riley 1973)—and he initiated a number of ambitious commercial enterprises. In Morelos, cattle ranching and especially sugarcane cultivation introduced in 1522 were the most important (Barrett 1977). From the early Colonial period to the twentieth century, the lives of indigenous and rural peoples in Morelos were dominated by the constant struggles against the individual or corporate owners of sugar haciendas who were intent on appropriating village land, water, and labor. Epidemics also decimated the large native population: of approximately 850,000 inhabitants at the time of Conquest, 134,500 remained in 1580, and only 29,000 indige-

nous people were living in Morelos by 1646 (von Mentz 1993:30–31). The demographic collapse, coupled with the loss of control over basic resources among lowland villages, severely curtailed the possibilities for social and cultural reproduction in native society. Hacienda expansion had a different effect on highland villages, where farmland was not suitable for sugarcane. They supplied firewood, corn, artisanal products, and temporary seasonal labor but were less directly integrated into the plantation enterprises. Cane cultivation intensified as a result of Liberal legislation in the 1850’s, converting Morelos into one of the principal centers of Mexico’s lavish plantation society during the Porfirian dictatorship of 1872–1910. The voracious consumption of village lands for sugar production caused the famous peasant uprising led by Emiliano Zapata during the Mexican Revolution of 1910–1919 (Womack 1969). Since that time, villages have suffered further transformations, initially through agrarian reform and government-sponsored agricultural schemes and, beginning in the 1960’s, through intense competition for land and water from growing urban centers, new industrial zones, and intense tourist development. Themes in Anthropological Research In sharp contrast to earlier approaches applied in Mesoamerican ethnology that presented synchronic views of isolated, homogenous rural villages, recent research in Morelos has focused on understanding how regional and national economic trends and political institutions act upon rural communities. The larger process has been variously conceptualized as modernization, the penetration of capitalist relations of production, or the expansion of the nationstate. If addressed at all, the ethnic question has been conceived of as the inexorable assimilation of native peoples into national culture. Contemporary Nahuatl-speaking villages, or those that were Nahuatl-speaking in the last two generations, are concentrated in the highland or submountainous regions to the west, north, and east.2 In 1990, of a total of 1,195,059 inhabitants, only 19,940 indigenous people were 121

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F 7-1. Morelos State with villages mentioned in the text.

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       reported in Morelos; this figure underrepresents the native population and does not include thousands of indigenous seasonal migrants from Guerrero and Oaxaca who come to Morelos as merchants in local markets, to sell crafts to tourists, and to perform agricultural work during the sugarcane harvest and in other cash crops. Nonetheless, census data accurately reflect the fact that the vast majority of Morelos’ population is now Spanish speaking. Recent evidence suggests that the switch from Nahuatl to Spanish, once assumed to be primarily a late-nineteenth- or twentiethcentury phenomenon, in some regions began early in the Colonial period (von Mentz 1988; L. Miguel Morayta Mendoza, personal communication, 1996). The important questions for future anthropological studies are why this shift occurred in each region or community and what it means for the cultural process. P S. The most significant body of social anthropological literature on Morelos came from a regional research project designed by Angel Palerm and Arturo Warman, then at the Universidad Iberoamericana in Mexico City.3 Warman directed fieldwork on specific topics carried out by a team of graduate students between 1972 and 1974 in selected villages in the eastern Plan de Amilpas.4 Their findings appeared in a three-volume series, Los campesinos de la tierra de Zapata (Alonso et al. 1974; Helguera et al. 1974; Azaola Garrido and Krotz 1976), and Warman (1976) published a synthetic work on the peasantry in eastern Morelos from the Preconquest period until the present. Several related books soon followed (Arias and Bazan 1979; Morayta Mendoza 1981; de la Peña 1981; Lomnitz-Adler 1982). Building on Wolf ’s (1966) theoretical formulation, Warman and his team focused on the asymmetrical economic and political relations linking peasants to the larger society. They defined all rural dwellers as peasants, regardless of ethnic affiliation, based on their subordinate position in Mexico’s hierarchical economic and political structure. Fieldworkers undertook detailed analyses of households as economic units that revealed the workings of nonmonetary re-

lations of subsistence and commercial production peculiar to peasants as a socioeconomic category. They also used a cultural ecology approach (Steward 1955) that emphasized environmental factors as decisive elements in peasant productive systems. The work of Warman and his students and of Guillermo de la Peña provided a sharp critique of the modernization theory that underlies government agrarian policy; programs carried out in the name of the Revolution ultimately extract wealth and further impoverish rural peoples. The careful documentation of Mexican state action during this period is especially valuable for foreign researchers who may not be aware of these issues. Through coordinated fieldwork emphasizing economic relations and the use of a regional approach, this research provided a solid account of technology and production strategies among peasants at the time. Morayta Mendoza’s (1981) study of Chalcatzingo shares these theoretical assumptions but provides richer ethnographic and historical data. After a brief overview of Prehispanic and Colonial settlement, he uses oral history to reconstruct the brutal reality of peasant life during the Porfirian dictatorship, when villagers lost all their farmland to the largest sugar hacienda in Morelos, Santa Clara de Montefalco. Forced to work as peons for the hacienda, villagers from Chalcatzingo and neighboring communities actively participated in the Zapatista armies between 1911 and 1920. The study concludes with a description of life after Chalcatzingo became a ‘‘beneficiary,’’ first of revolutionary land reforms, then of government agricultural policy during the 1960’s and 1970’s. By exploiting household labor and relying on remittances from migrants working at menial jobs in Cuautla and Cuernavaca, villagers managed to secure a meager subsistence as small producers of tomatoes, sorghum, peanuts, and corn. The striking parallels between their historical experience with sugar haciendas and their contemporary struggle to survive in a market economy dominated by a handful of powerful intermediaries are depressingly common. In a regional study of four municipalities in the northeastern highlands based on anthropo123

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  logical and archival sources, de la Peña (1981) documents the internal complexity of Morelos villages generated by changing patterns of land use and labor relations. The contemporary multiplicity of occupations in Tlayacapan and its neighbors dates from the early Colonial period, when different groups of artisans, merchants, muleteers, and small cottage industries coexisted within agricultural communities. Longstanding highland-lowland interactions, historical relations with sugar haciendas, and the policies of the postrevolutionary Mexican state produce and maintain this heterogeneity. De la Peña argues that villagers achieve unity at a community level through kinship ties and ceremonial life despite their internal stratification. It remains to be established whether this differentiation is a historical peculiarity of the highlands or, as is probably the case, a general feature of rural villages that Warman’s team, basing itself on a homogenizing concept of peasant, failed to explore. In western Morelos, Brigida von Mentz (1988) also found occupational diversity and ethnic affiliation to be significant variables in the late Colonial period and during the nineteenth century in Miacatlan and Mazatepec, suggesting that this was indeed a more general pattern. While the influential studies of villages carried out by Warman clearly reveal the extractive nature of the economic relations in the countryside, their strongly theorized approach precluded addressing culture, ethnic affiliation, and local forms of community identity as active elements in social relations and historical events. In the end most of these peasant economy studies decontextualize villagers and present culturally complex communities as rigidly structured and homogeneous. R P. Religion in Morelos is addressed in disparate and contradictory ways. Ingham’s (1986) account of Tlayacapan represents a markedly different approach from de la Peña’s (1981) sociological one. In a more contemporary version of earlier psychological studies that found negative individual selfconcepts among villagers in Morelos (Fromm 124

and Maccoby 1970; Romanucci-Ross 1973) and Guerrero (Golde and Kraemer 1973), Ingham emphasized the importance of religious ideas in collective identity. He concluded that Catholicism has fundamentally transformed native belief systems and argues that the Holy Family provides the symbolic model that villagers attempt to emulate in their social relations in the home and the community. This view is sharply contested by other researchers working in northern Morelos (L. Miguel Morayta Mendoza, Druzo Maldonado Jiménez, and Alejandro Robles, personal communications) who find that surprising continuity in selected aspects of Prehispanic cosmology can be documented in ritual life; other studies explore this through ceremonies related to the agricultural cycle (cf. Salazar Peralta 1987, 1990; Sierra Carrillo 1988). A different strategy was followed in a useful early work on the well-known cycle of Lenten religious-commercial fairs in Morelos. Guillermo Bonfil Batalla (1971) provided basic information on topics and problems he hoped future researchers would develop further,5 among them the spatial implications of the fairs, the provenience of participants and the wares offered for sale, changes over time in the forms of ritual expression, and the historical implications of this dynamic area of rural religious life. S  N-S V. Divergent visions of the same community studied during the same decade reveal the serious limitations encountered when empirical realities are more complex than the limited analytical models applied to them. Hueyapan in the foothills of the volcano Popocatepetl is the most studied community in Morelos where Nahuatl is currently spoken, but there are sharply contrasting interpretations among the authors that reflect the contrasting approaches described above. Sinecio López Méndez (1974) regards ethnic identity as a folkloric detail and stresses instead the importance of highland ecology and the structural constraints on peasants in the larger economy in determining Hueyapan’s historical experience. Friedlander (1975) focuses

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       on Indian identity as a central issue, but concludes that Nahuatl language and cultural expressions are a function of rural poverty with no relationship to Prehispanic society. She argues that ‘‘Indianness’’ is a form of forced identity imposed on Hueyapan’s people by the Mexican state, which manipulates the symbols of indigenous culture to legitimize itself. Friedlander fails to make the critical analytical distinction between official ideology and the internal processes that historically constituted a unique local social organization and culture. A third work (Alvarez Heydenreich 1987) describes indigenous medicine in Hueyapan without placing curative practices in a broader social or historical context, thereby providing interesting anecdotal data but little useful analysis. Alicia Barabas and Miguel Bartolomé (1981) have adopted a more productive approach in a short study of Tetelcingo. They begin with one clearly defined problem: how this village located in the heart of the lowland Morelos sugar-producing region maintained Nahuatl language and cultural identity while neighboring communities did not. They combine historical and ethnographic data to argue that ceremonial life specifically related to milpa agriculture is central to reproducing Nahuatl identity. Ritual dances, the sequential movement of different saints’ images, and the timing of the celebrations express key elements of the villagers’ historical struggle against the haciendas; they also reiterate and reproduce social and conceptual ties to their ancestral lands. Instead of treating fiestas sociologically, Bartolomé and Barabas examine how they become vehicles for expressing collective memory and local history. Future research could productively explore these issues in Tetelcingo or other communities. Despite the large number of anthropologists who have worked in Morelos, many communities where Nahuatl culture is very strong have not been studied (see Fig. 7-1). Nahuatl is still the primary language in the large villages of Cuentepec, Xoxocotla, and Apatlaco del Río, and until recently in Coatetelco, Alpu-

yeca, Ahuehuetzingo, and Cuauchichinola in western Morelos, yet none of them have been studied in depth by ethnographers. Nahuatlspeaking communities in northern Morelos— Coajomulco, Santa Catarina, San Juan Tlacotenco—along with others that were Nahuatl speaking into the 1960’s—Amatlán, Santo Domingo Ocotitlán, San Andrés de la Cal—await future researchers. In the northeast only Tlayacapan, Tepoztlán, and Hueyapan have been studied, leaving many others that were Nahuatlspeaking in the 1950’s and 1960’s to be explored: Totolapan, Nepopoalco, Tlanepantla, Atlatlahuacan, Yecapixtla, Tetelcingo, Tetela del Volcán. Fieldwork here should include the strong historical ties between northern Morelos and Nahuatl villages in the State of Mexico and the Federal District, among them Milpa Alta, Topilejo, Xochimilco, and Amecameca. Nahuatl is still spoken in the delegación of Milpa Alta (Horcasitas 1968; Lastra de Suárez and Horcasitas 1976; Karttunen 1991), and in recent years villagers there have aggressively reasserted their Nahuatl identity in fending off urban encroachment on community forest and farm lands (Gomezcésar 1995). Several peasant communities in the eastern Morelos lowlands that were Nahuatl-speaking until the last generation deserve serious attention because of their complex and active ceremonial lives and their history of asserting local political autonomy, especially Huazulco, Temoac, Tlacotepec, Amilcingo, Amayuca, and Zacualpan. They should be considered in conjunction with two groups of Nahuatl-speaking communities over the state line in Puebla: three economically successful pottery-producing villages in the municipality of San Marcos Acteopan and several Nahuatl-speaking neighbors of Hueyapan: Cuapaxco, Tepango, Ahuatelco, and Cohuecan. Methodologically, research that integrates historical data with ethnographic fieldwork in a comparative, regional approach would be most productive. Especially needed is an approach that directly links economic change with social organization, ceremonial life, and cosmology. An analysis of these factors can contribute greatly to an anthropologi125

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  cal understanding of the process of successful cultural reproduction in some cases and its disruption in others. Problems for Future Research In the middle and late twentieth century, Morelos has been the scene of major changes that require further scholarly attention. Urbanization, industrial development, and tourism have reduced community access to land and water. Religious controversies stemming from liberation theology promoted by Sergio Méndez Arceo, bishop of Morelos from 1953 to 1985, have been significant in some communities. Land reform and agricultural policies implemented by the revolutionary state have been documented in the research by Mexican anthropologists, but culturally more sensitive analyses could examine how close involvement of Morelos villagers with government programs affects other aspects of community life: kinship and other social ties, conceptions of labor and land, decisions about investment and uses of wealth, ideas of the person and community. This would offset the tendency to attribute excessive explanatory weight to the Mexican state as the determining factor in villagers’ lives and experiences. Greater attention is required to areas of resistance and how villagers assert themselves as historical subjects. There are many ways to do this, depending on the interests of the researcher. Barabas and Bartolomé (1981) focus on cultural process and document the importance of collective memory and local ideas of history transmitted through ritual in the struggle to maintain ethnic identity. Tepoztlán presents a particularly interesting example of resistance in more conventional terms that awaits detailed analysis. Despite its heavy dependence on tourism and a high concentration of resident outsiders, over time Tepoztlán has effectively organized in opposition to numerous projects promoted by powerful Mexican entrepreneurs and politicians, among them weekend housing developments, the construction of a rapid train to Mexico City, and a cable car between the village and Tepozteco mountain. In 1995, villagers 126

launched an extraordinary mobilization that eventually halted a golf club, corporate convention center, and luxury housing complex to be built on village lands and in a contiguous ecological corridor promoted by the governor as well as foreign corporate and individual Mexican investors. Similar movements successfully blocked the construction of a regional airport in Xoxocotla during the 1980’s, and villagers there, as in Tepoztlán, formally repudiated municipal authorities and elected their own leaders in 1995 in a concerted effort to return to indigenous forms of governance. Tlayacapan prevented the seizure of village water and the construction of housing developments during the 1970’s. Other examples of resistance to development can be found in Morelos, and even unsuccessful ones require further attention, especially because the most combative communities are located in areas where Nahuatl cultural traditions are strongest. This contradicts the clearly erroneous prevailing view in much of the peasant literature during the 1960’s and 1970’s that assumed indigenous identity was an obstacle to political mobilization. One unresolved but central issue for researchers in Morelos is the degree to which contemporary villagers still belong to a Nahuatl cultural tradition (Morayta Mendoza 1996). Scholars currently conducting research in Morelos do not assume that indigenous culture disappears with native language. There appears to be greater persistence of certain aspects of native social organization, values, and belief systems than once thought, even in Spanishspeaking communities that have acquired a veneer of modernity. From this perspective communities where Nahuatl is no longer spoken might be considered ‘‘indigenous’’ villages in cultural terms. Language is clearly a crucial component of cultural identity, but insightful ethnographic research has shown that ‘‘modernization’’ is definitely not a unitary process ultimately leading to cultural homogeneity. Linear models of culture change seen as the loss or acquisition of specific traits do not provide an adequate framework for understanding historical events. What is needed is a more robust culture concept, one that goes beyond a treat-

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       ment of culture as extraneous to the ‘‘real’’ economic and political structure of society and that enables researchers to place greater emphasis on the internal construction of community and local cultural identity as a historical process. G E In its ecology and history, as well as in its place in anthropological research in Mexico, Guerrero contrasts sharply with Morelos. The state is extremely arid, and periodic drought severely limits crop yields. Little irrigation can be practiced, with the exception of small plots in isolated river valleys. Much of the state’s rugged mountainous terrain is covered with dry tropical forest. Scientists have only recently recognized the remarkable biodiversity characterizing this ecosystem, with its high concentration of endemic species (Flores-Villela and Gerez 1989). Consistent with the correlation between ecological and cultural diversity in the American tropics, Guerrero has a significant concentration of indigenous people.6 According to the 1990 census, in which the native population is underrepresented, Guerrero’s 75 municipios had approximately 390,000 speakers of indigenous languages distributed as follows: 40 percent Nahuatl, 27 percent Mixtec, 22 percent Tlapanec, 7.5 percent Amuzgo, 3.5 percent other. The dry mountainous countryside of Guerrero discouraged European settlement, with the exception of isolated cattle ranches. Silver mining, with its labor and supply requirements (Dehouve 1994), and the Mexico City– Acapulco road, which was the principal conduit for Asian goods that arrived annually at Acapulco in December on the Spanish fleet from the Philippines between 1573 and 1813, had a greater impact on indigenous communities. The trade in Asian goods stimulated Indian muleteers to undertake varied commercial ventures throughout the state. In contrast to intensive agriculture developed in Morelos, where native land and labor were directly controlled, European enterprises in Guerrero permitted greater autonomy for indigenous peoples and had broad historical implications. For example,

the Mexican Revolution in Guerrero was dominated by cattle ranchers from Huitzuco and around Iguala (Jacobs 1982), rather than peasant armies, as in Morelos, that espoused more decidedly agrarian principles. Also, the inhospitable terrain, widely dispersed population centers, and isolation from Central Mexico have forestalled ‘‘modernization’’ and kept central government institutions weak. This has meant that most villages did not receive the mixed blessings of state-sponsored rural development programs. An important exception is the ‘‘sun and sand’’ tourism developed on the coast at Acapulco during the 1950’s and 1960’s and more recently at the Ixtapa-Zihuatenejo beach resort. Taxco, a picturesque Colonial town famous for its silver jewelry industry, is another important tourist destination. Much of the rest of Guerrero had no roads or electricity until the 1980’s, and even today the state is commonly considered an economic backwater. Contemporary regional subdivisions in Guerrero still reflect sixteenth-century political geography. (see Figs. 7-2 and 7-3). The long Pacific coastline is divided at Acapulco, the staging ground for Spanish trade with Asia and Peru throughout the Colonial period. The Costa Grande extends northwest and with its adjoining highlands roughly corresponds to the Mexica tributary province of Cihuatlan (Litvak 1971). Today the Costa Chica to the southeast is home to a significant black population (Aguirre Beltrán 1958; Good Eshelman 1995), as well as mestizos, Spaniards, and some Amuzgo; in 1519, it was divided between Yopitzinco and Tlapa. The northwestern interior or tierra caliente is populated primarily by Spanishspeaking peasants. Most indigenous peoples live in the remaining regions: Nahua in the Balsas River Valley (500–800 m above sea level) and in the northeastern mountains surrounding Taxco that formed the Mexica tributary provinces of Tlachco, Tlalcozautitlán, Quiauteopan, and Tepecoacuilco. Other Nahua are interspersed among Tlapanec, Mixtec, and Amuzgo in the extensive Montaña region (1000–3000 m) that was annexed as the Mexica province of Tlapa;7 Yopitzinco, probably inhabited by rebellious Tlapanec, remained independent. 127

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 

F 7-2. Contemporary regions of Guerrero State (after Dehouve 1994).

Colonial and nineteenth-century indigenous population movements further accentuated the multiethnic character of the Montaña.

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Research Traditions: Nahua and Tlapanec Surprisingly little anthropological fieldwork has been carried out in Guerrero, despite the size and importance of its indigenous population. Geographical isolation and difficult physical conditions in indigenous communities have discouraged researchers, as well as Guerrero’s notoriety for violence as one of the poorest states in Mexico, with a long history of resistance to central government control. A rural guerrilla movement in the 1960’s and early 1970’s was crushed by the army, and since then systematic political repression by police and paramilitary groups has continued. In 1996, a 128

new insurgent group declared its presence, resulting in the increased presence of the Mexican army in some areas. Bloody feuds between extended families, power struggles involving caciques or local bosses, and drug trafficking further complicate matters.8 Despite all these problems, my experience over twenty years has been positive and rewarding; future researchers can work in Guerrero if they carefully choose the field site and prudently conduct relations with local people. Several in-depth field studies have been conducted in Guerrero; but before discussing their findings, I should note some of the methodological and interpretive differences from the Morelos literature. Most of the ethnological research in Guerrero has been based on fieldwork in native languages with broad ethnographic concerns. Partly as a result, the construction and maintenance of

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F 7-3. Prehispanic provinces of Guerrero State (after Dehouve 1994).

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indigenous cultural identity through time has emerged as a unifying problem for ethnologists working in Guerrero. Although interactions between indigenous communities and the dominant society and economy have been a concern, events and processes at the local level are the primary focus, and native peoples are seen as active historical agents. Researchers have given as much attention to ceremonial life and social organization as to economics, ecology, and technology because of their central role in social and cultural reproduction. E. Until recently there has been little ethnohistorical work in Guerrero, but there is consensus on one point: history seen from the regional perspective over the long term—not just the last one hundred years —reveals marked continuity in indigenous re-

sponses to change. Several recent publications have enriched our understanding of this process in general and specific terms. Danièle Dehouve (1994) provides an overview of the indigenous history of Guerrero from the Prehispanic period until 1810, in a much needed general introduction.9 Another major ethnohistorical work by the same author on Nahua and Tlapanec in the Montaña contributes to the growing number of detailed regional histories in Mesoamerica (Dehouve 1990). Based on extensive ethnographic and archival research, she shows that one of the principal ways communities in the Montaña preserved autonomy and achieved modest prosperity in Colonial Mexico was by combining subsistence agriculture with commerce. Nahua and Tlapanec muleteers traveled between the Sierra and the coast to secure salt, wax, cloth, and Asian goods 129

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  in a dynamic regional trade network. Colonial rule afforded some opportunities to indigenous communities that were dismantled during the Porfirian economic expansion that created the conditions for extreme poverty characterizing the Montaña today. After 1870, Indian communities lost their irrigated agricultural lands and became dependent on credit from Spanish and mestizo merchants in Tlapa. Exploitative relationships intensified in this century, forcing villagers to survive by weaving palm hats and working as migrant laborers for miserable wages, often to pay off debts. In a companion volume, Dehouve (1995) published a collection of Nahuatl texts with a Spanish translation that constitutes an important source on indigenous concepts of space, territory, and history in the Montaña. N   U B. In the upper Balsas River Valley lies a single cultural region with at least 60,000 Nahuatl speakers (see Fig. 7-4).10 It can be divided into two groups of villages and hamlets, each centered around a large Nahuatl-speaking town that was once a Prehispanic regional capital: San Agustín Oapan and Tlalcozautitlán. Ethnographic differences as well as occasional conflicts and rivalries exist between communities, but continued integration is expressed in many ways: village and regional endogamy, shared compadrazgo ties, marked similarities in social organization, the existence of a distinctive personal and aesthetic style, enchained reciprocal exchanges accompanying marriages and fiestas, collective pilgrimages to shared religious shrines, and regional observance of agricultural rituals in an annual cycle. In a pattern similar to those reported in the Montaña, Nahua combined agriculture with muleteering and small trade to create an economic adaptation conducive to maintaining strong ethnic identity. During the nineteenth century and until 1940, villagers from the Balsas Valley were itinerant salt merchants who made annual trips with pack animals to the Costa Chica (Good Eshelman 1981, 1988, 1995). During the 1940’s and 1950’s, Nahua from the Balsas River Valley innovated on their shared artisanal and merchant traditions to gen130

erate new products and penetrate different markets. Since 1960, many of these villages have become famous for their colorful amate paintings sold to tourists; this art form began when Nahua in Ameyaltepec transferred motifs used in pottery decoration to barkcloth obtained from Otomí speakers. It quickly spread to Oapan, Xalitla, and other neighboring communities (Good Eshelman 1981, 1988, 1993). Nahua artisans subsequently added wooden masks, beaded jewelry, and elaborately painted carved animals to their wares. Elsewhere in the Balsas Valley, Nahua adopted a similar strategy of producing crafts for sale to tourists, especially hammocks in Copalillo and Tlalcozautitlán, woven palm items in Tlamacazapa, and pottery in Tuliman. Many aspects of this case are relevant for ethnological research in other indigenous regions. The complex and dynamic art forms facilitate the reproduction of local identity (Good Eshelman 1996b). In establishing trade networks throughout Mexico to directly market their wares and accumulate substantial wealth, Nahua relied on social relations and collectively held knowledge (Good Eshelman 1981, 1988, 1991, 1993). When native commercial strategies are embedded in social relations and cultural traditions, they prove to be flexible and readily adaptive. During the 1970’s and 1980’s, itinerant commerce with tourists strengthened native society by providing cash to finance increasingly lavish fiestas, the purchase of farmland and animals, and improved housing and diet. Nahua also invested in goods to circulate in reciprocal exchange partnerships, for use in agricultural ritual, and to offer to saints and the souls of the dead. The collective decision to use resources this way logically follows from local cosmology and provides insight into how cultural values influence economic activities. Nahua social life revolves around two concepts: tequitl or work as energy that circulates and ‘‘love’’ and ‘‘respect’’ for others expressed in the reciprocal give and take of labor and goods (Good Eshelman 1993, 1994a). Exchange fosters the flow of vital force or chicahualiztli, and this defines membership in households and the community and creates

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F 7-4. Nahua villages of the Upper Balsas River Valley.

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F 7-5. Balsas River Valley: dry season view, with Nahua villages of San Juan Tetelcingo and Tlamamacan in the distance (see Figure 7-4). Photo by author.

F 7-6. A woman from San Agustín Oapan making traditional-type pottery for local use or barter. Note the embroidered blouse favored by the senior generation. Photo by author.

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F 7-7. Throughout the Balsas Valley, Nahua use collective labor parties to roof new-style houses built with cash from craft sales. Photo by author.

F 7-8. Women work together at house roofings to prepare a festive meal of meat, beans, chile sauce, and tortillas; younger women in ‘‘contemporary’’ dress grind corn on stone metates. Photo by author.

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F 7-9. Families linked through reciprocal exchange networks bear gifts for a young bride joining her husband’s household in a procession through the village of Ameyaltepec. Photo by author.

F 7-10. Villagers conduct complex agricultural rituals that include elaborate food offerings placed on stone altars marking sacred places throughout the landscape. Ameyaltepec. Photo by author.

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F 7-11. Nahua merchant offering wooden masks and painted animal figures to tourists in Taxco, Guerrero. Photo by author.

F 7-12. View from a stone altar located on the highest peak in the Balsas region shows the rugged landscape, with dispersed plots cleared for corn farming. Photo by author.

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  social personhood. At the same time, exchange reproduces social organization and strengthens collective cultural identity. Continual overlapping exchanges of objects, work, and vital force occur between the living and the dead (Good Eshelman 1996c); individual households and the village; the ethnic group and the earth, saints, and other sacred beings. In the Nahua view, work and exchange continually recreate their communities as social entities through time, and ritual life occupies a central place in this process (Good Eshelman 1994b, 1996a). These concepts underlie Nahua strategies for using wealth from commerce and help explain their success as a cultural group. Recent developments present the villagers with new challenges. In the 1990’s, their access to buyers has been limited by policies throughout Mexico that restrict ambulatory selling in urban areas in an effort to stifle the burgeoning informal economy. Mexico’s current economic crisis devastated the middle class and destroyed domestic tourism, which accounted for nearly half the Nahua’s craft market; sales during 1995 and 1996 averaged about 30 percent of sales during the 1980’s, and some villagers have begun to migrate to the United States as braceros. In 1990, Nahua launched a highly effective regional political movement in opposition to a proposed hydroelectric dam on the Balsas River that would have flooded 18 villages and displaced over 30,000 villagers (Good Eshelman 1992, 1994a). Strident local opposition and the failure to obtain financial support from the multilateral development banks forced the government to suspend this project in 1992. If successful, current exploration for oil deposits in the Balsas Valley could have disruptive consequences for the native population. These projects emanating from an imposed development model beyond indigenous control represent the kinds of pressures in Mexico that force native peoples to continually readjust to new circumstances that offer them few benefits but threaten their cultural viability. N   M. In an earlier major ethnographic study of Nahuatl peoples in the Montaña region, Dehouve (1976) found that the 136

expansion of the Mexican state and increasing economic integration destroyed self-sufficiency and social cohesion in indigenous communities in this region as well. Historically Nahua from Xalpatlauhuac and neighboring hamlets in the multiethnic Montaña maintained their identity as migrant pastoralists moving large herds of sheep and goats and, to a lesser degree, cattle between the mountainous interior and the Costa Chica. Some were tied to the mobile haciendas that occupied much of the range land in the Montaña during the Porfirian period (Cervantes Delgado 1995). Other Nahua traveled from their homes to the coast as muleteers and merchants. These activities enabled them to secure a level of prosperity and reinforce cultural identity and solidarity. Expanding market relations gave rise to disruptive changes in the 1950’s and 1960’s. Herding declined, and although corn production continued to be culturally central, it was insufficient to support Xalpatlauhuac. Conflicts broke out over irrigated agricultural plots when the commercial production of mangos, limes, bananas, and other fruits increased their value to outside elites. Villagers now depend on income from weaving palm for hat manufacturers and from seasonal migration to harvest sugarcane in Morelos and commercial crops in northern Mexico. Xalpatlauhuac lies in the sphere of influence of Tlapa (see Fig. 7-13), a Prehispanic capital transformed into a center for regional domination during the Colonial period. In the twentieth century, as merchants, landowners, and moneylenders based there strengthened their hold over the hinterland, the political organization of Tlapa’s municipal government mirrored this growing economic inequality. Mestizo interests have created increasingly hierarchical structures throughout the Montaña that relegate Indians to the most subordinate positions in a process accelerated by the construction of the highway from Chilapa to Tlapa in 1965. In the 1970’s, Xalpatlauhuac’s social organization was still based on patrilineages that functioned as collective landholding units and on the familiar obligations of the cargo system. This was threatened by a small group of com-

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F 7-13. The Montaña region of Guerrero State with villages mentioned in the text.

137

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  mercial growers and traders from Xalpatlauhuac whose livelihood depended on forming close ties to mestizo merchants and government officials in Tlapa. Dehouve found that these relationships undermined local values and collective strategies for using wealth in their home community. This created a constant tension between the demands of community life and external forces that destructure villages in order to harness their resources for national and international economic interests. T   M. The original Handbook noted that the Tlapanec are one of the least studied groups in Mexico (Olmsted 1969:563–564). Since 1969, two excellent works have substantially expanded our historical (Dehouve 1990) and ethnographic knowledge (Oettinger 1980). Marion Oettinger conducted fieldwork in an area where Tlapanec had successfully adapted to change by using internal institutions to buffer the impact of external pressures. His research focused on exploring local conceptions of community in the municipio of Tlacoapa, comprised of a central town and nine rancherías. Most families have one residence in town for use on the weekly market day and during fiestas and another permanent home in a ranchería near agricultural lands where they keep their domestic animals. Tlacopeños make the obvious distinctions between themselves and mestizos, Nahua, and Mixtec with whom they share the Montaña region; Oettinger found that they also differentiate themselves from other Tlapanec on the basis of shared lands for cultivation. For Tlacoapa, the defense of communally held land through history has also been the struggle to maintain coherence as an ethnic group.11 While the Tlapanec do not actually seek to isolate themselves from national society, research revealed that they used key social institutions to minimize the disorganizing effects of contact, especially the civil religious hierarchy, the weekly market, and endogamic, matrilocal marriage, thought of as extended bride service. In the 1970’s, Tlacoapa was still largely selfsufficient, and villagers controlled adequate farmland in different ecological zones. The 138

notable absence of manufactured goods lessened the need for money, and barter dominated transactions in the growing Sunday market. Tlacopeños obtained cash for necessary purchases through the sale of cattle and other domestic animals. The village extended loans from funds held by different village saints not only to cargo holders—as in many parts of Mesoamerica—but to all community members, including the few Protestant families. Taken together, these strategies lessened collective dependence on commerce, wage labor, and the production of goods for the market. Oettinger (1980) followed Tlapanec immigrants in Mexico City; at the time of his fieldwork 36 percent of the families in Tlacoapa had a male or female member occupied there in menial jobs. This migration began during the Mexican Revolution, and Tlacopeños continue to live together in the same neighborhood. They formed two organizations to assist each other with small loans and in finding housing and jobs; they also provide urban infrastructure to village authorities and others temporarily in the city on official business. These organizations periodically send money for village projects in addition to funds sent by individuals to their families. Oettinger (1980) discovered that membership in urban organizations coincides with the limits of community defined as those who cultivate the same communal land in the village. Because they require continual service to the community, foster cooperation, and emphasize collective concerns over individual interest, migrant organizations diminish the impact of the urban values of individualism and competition on Tlacopeños. Notwithstanding the success of Tlacopeño adaptations at the time of fieldwork, Oettinger considered the eventual impact of nationalistic, individualistic values promoted among children in school and the construction of a road from Tlapa to Tlacoapa to be potentially disruptive to the community. C L. A final group of studies in Guerrero examines specific features of indigenous ritual life. Several papers describe agricultural ceremonies at the beginning of the rainy season, especially the famous tiger

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       fights in Zitlala and Acatlán (Suárez Jacome 1978; Olivera de Vásquez 1979) and rain offerings at Oztotempan (Sepúlveda 1973). Marcos Matías Alonso (1994) collected many of the articles published on agricultural ritual among Nahua, Tlapanec, and Mixtec in the Montaña in a useful reference work, although Janet LongSolís (1990, 1993) and Cruz Suárez Jacome (1978) were not included. Most of these authors assume continuity between Prehispanic religion and contemporary practices, but they do not explore this systematically. One study from the field of history of religions attempts to do this; Peter van der Loo (1987) uses his own Tlapanec field materials from Malinaltepec and the Mixe in Oaxaca to interpret Prehispanic codices. Van der Loo uses ethnographic data as a tool for historical reconstruction, but he addresses methodological problems of interest to ethnologists and ethnohistorians, especially the theoretical difficulties of arguing for continuity. The study of indigenous religion is not fully developed in Guerrero ethnography, but researchers have clearly transcended the conventional approaches in Mesoamerica that focus on the cargo system and treat religion sociologically. Most work lacks sufficient theoretical and methodological elaboration to analyze the cultural implications of historical continuity in belief systems or relate ritual practice to social or economic organization. But they have initiated an examination of indigenous cosmology that can eventually lead us to link belief systems and ritual life with indigenous historical agency.

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Future Research in Guerrero Unlike Morelos, where it is possible to mention specific communities that have been neglected, most indigenous regions of Guerrero lack even cursory ethnographic coverage. The anthropological approaches applied there, however, have created a useful foundation for future researchers to build upon. In all the Guerrero studies the departure from the earlier models of indigenous communities as isolated and conservative, or as passive objects of Colonial and modern regimes, has enabled ethnographers to see the importance of internal change for

the continued reproduction of ethnic identity. The detailed case studies (Dehouve 1976, 1990; Oettinger 1980; Good Eshelman 1988, 1993) independently demonstrated that the crucial variable for survival is the ability of indigenous peoples to mediate change through existing institutions and social relationships in a manner consistent with collective, historically transmitted values. The analytical problem confronting researchers is how to examine change in native society with greater precision, especially the kind of change that takes place, who controls it (Good Eshelman 1991, 1993), and how indigenous communities respond as active subjects. Another finding that deserves further investigation emerged from comparing the Tlapanec and Nahua in the Montaña and Nahua in the Balsas Valley. Integration into the larger economic structures was disruptive to collective life in Xalpatlauhuac because access to farmland was limited and money entered the community in small amounts through petty commodity production and wage labor under circumstances that undermined local institutions. The success of merchants in maintaining village integration in the Balsas Valley during the 1970’s and 1980’s was possible because all households had access to cash through the direct sale of artisanry in a rapidly expanding market and because collectively they used it in culturally conservative ways. I observed the breakdown of cooperative structures reported by Dehouve in Xalpatlauhuac in some nonmerchant villages in the Balsas Valley (Good Eshelman 1988:189–206); this occurred where sizable quantities of cash were available only to a small group, while most villagers were forced to rely on wage labor in very disadvantageous conditions. Households could minimize their dependence on market mechanisms and money in a self-protective way in Tlacoapa because they maintained an adequate agricultural resource base. The community provided access to cash for emergencies from collective resources belonging to the saints. At the same time, Tlapanec institutions were critical factors in buffering the impact of external values on migrants. These cases suggest that internal stratification and the propagation of individualistic be139

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  havior are produced by the scarcity—not abundance—of wealth. The impact of money on indigenous communities varies according to the specific features of the historical context in which it takes place. Social disintegration in indigenous communities is not the inevitable outcome of contact with the larger economy or society, although it might appear to be so because disadvantageous articulation with the larger economy is by far the dominant pattern today. This makes it difficult to recognize that indigenous peoples can, under favorable circumstances, relate successfully to a global economy in material terms and reproduce their own cultural identity. The continued documentation of exceptional historical and ethnographic examples can provide an empirical basis for designing culturally sensitive economic models in the future. Overall, a stronger comparative emphasis and a synthetic treatment of the experiences of different ethnic groups within the state of Guerrero would be useful. There is one relatively unexplored topic to mention here. In general, interethnic relations have not been taken as an ethnological problem in itself, yet Guerrero offers many opportunities to advance in this area. The Montaña is an excellent region to study relationships primarily between different indigenous peoples. The Costa Chica offers many possibilities for studying interactions among peoples of diverse origins: African, European, mestizo, and different indigenous groups.

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H  C P The territorial home of the closely related Huichol (Wixárika) and Cora (Naayariite) lies in the rugged mountains and deep ravines of the Sierra Madre Occidental in eastern Nayarit, northern Jalisco, and southern Durango and Zacatecas. The Chapalangana River bisects the Huichol heartland from north to south as it flows into the Río Santiago/Lerma, while the Jesús María and San Pedro Rivers divide the Cora territory to the west (see Fig. 7-14). Approximately 20,000 Huichol live in small, selfgoverning villages and settlements scattered 140

through the mountains, but with residents of coastal plantations, new rural settlements near Tepic, and sizable colonies in Tepic, Guadalajara, and Mexico City there are perhaps 30,000 total (Johannes Neurath, personal communication, 1996). According to the 1990 census, there are slightly more than 15,000 Cora, and the presence of neighboring groups in the Sierra—among them Tepehuanos del Sur and Mexicaneros—makes this a multiethnic region. Neyra Alvarado (1994) estimates that over 1,000 Nahuatl-speakers called Mexicaneros live in three villages: Santa Cruz de Acaponeta in Nayarit and San Agustín de Bonaventura and San Pedro Jicora in Durango. Today they are culturally quite similar to their Tepehuano and Cora neighbors and must be distinguished from descendants of Tlaxcaltecans resettled in the region at the end of the sixteenth century in a Spanish attempt to pacify the northern desert frontier. A much larger concentration of Nahuatl speakers of undetermined origin is found in southern Michoacán,12 and also in southern Jalisco. Population figures are approximate because all groups are highly mobile and this region, also known as the Gran Nayar, is relatively unstudied. New publications and work in progress by a group of younger scholars (Schaefer 1990; Jáuregui 1993; Neurath 1996, 1998, n.d.a, n.d.b; Schaefer and Furst 1996; Coyle 1997; Jáuregui, Neurath, and Gutiérrez n.d.; Jáuregui, Neurath, and Guzmán n.d.) promise to add substantially to our understanding in the near future. In the last thirty years, scholarly attention has focused almost exclusively on the Huichol, commonly considered more ‘‘traditional’’ than the Cora, although this is a questionable stereotype. Most contemporary research continues the tradition established by early European ethnographers of the Huichol and the Cora (Lumholtz 1900, 1902, 1904; K. Preuss 1912; Zingg 1938), who emphasized religion, art, and cosmology. The primary concern has been to link contemporary Huichol with aboriginal belief systems, and social and cultural change has been little emphasized until recently. There has been insufficient ethnohistorical analysis (Weigand 1992; Franz 1996; Furst 1996)

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      

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F 7-14. The Sierra of Nayarit: Huichol, Cora, Tepehuanos, and Nahua.

to establish the origins and historical relationships between the indigenous peoples in the Sierra Madre Occidental.13 Peter Furst (1996) concludes that the Huichol are descendants of a northern desert people, perhaps Guachichile, driven into the highlands during the

sixteenth-century Chichimec wars. Phil Weigand (1992) argues for an extended period of Huichol cultural development in the highlands in Prehispanic times. At the time of contact, most of the Huichol were dominated by the Cora; and, during the Colonial period if not 141

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F 7-15. The Huichol village of San Sebastián (Waut+a). A tukipa ceremonial center with a ‘‘great house’’ and surrounding shrines adjoin a plot to grow corn for ritual use in the right foreground. Photo by Arturo Gutiérrez.

before, the Huichol and the Cora were itinerant merchants trading sea salt, shells, and other coastal goods throughout the highlands (Neurath 1998). Full Colonial penetration of the Sierra only occurred after 1722, allowing local populations an extended period of autonomy in which they adopted European-introduced cattle, crops, money, trade goods, and some elements of Christianity on their own terms (Hinton 1972). This partially explains why the Huichol are considered one of Mexico’s indigenous groups least influenced by Western culture even today. In contrast, during the eighteenth century, the Cora suffered from concerted military campaigns against them, followed by active Jesuit missions (Neurath 1998). Weigand’s (1972, 1992) long-term research combined archaeological, ethnohistorical, and ethnographic materials to examine social organization, economic conditions, and historical processes. He carefully traces changes in settlement patterns, kinship, and ritual organiza142

tion over the last 100 years, noting the substantial regional ethnographic variation among Huichol and Cora. During the Colonial period, Huichol cattle herding became an important complement to corn farming, hunting, gathering, and fishing; cattle continue to be an important form of wealth today. Seasonal mobility along with dispersed settlement facilitates the exploitation of different ecological niches, and this extensive rather than intensive land use has forestalled land scarcity among Huichol (Fikes 1985; Johannes Neurath, personal communication, 1996). Interestingly the Huichol have expanded their territory within the Sierra in this century, generating conflicts with mestizo cattle ranchers and the Cora and Tepehuanos. Cosmology and Ritual The abundant materials on Huichol religion are diverse and complex, but all writers concur that the distinction between sacred and secu-

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       lar is nonexistent in Huichol cosmology and that extremely complicated cycles of myth are essential to understanding observed religious practice. This holds true for the Cora, but their practices have been little documented. The strong presence of apparently Prehispanic beliefs and rituals and especially the extensive use of peyote in ceremonial life popularized Huichol culture during the early 1970’s, when there was widespread interest in shamanism and hallucinogenic plants in Mexico (Fikes 1985; Weigand 1992). Furst (1972, 1978) and Barbara Myerhoff (1974) first attracted attention to the Huichol among English-speaking scholars in their work based heavily on a single urban-based informant (Fikes 1985), while in Mexico Fernando Benítez (1975) highlighted the Huichol in journalistic accounts of the native use of hallucinogens. Recent studies of religion rely on ethnographic fieldwork and attempt to relate Huichol ritual to social and economic life and to cultural history. Jesús Jáuregui (1993), Jáuregui, Neurath, and Gutiérrez (n.d.), and Jáuregui, Neurath, and Guzmán (n.d.) examine the rich cultural synthesis produced by the Huichol and Cora as they selectively adopted some Christian beliefs and practices. Weigand’s research influenced Fikes’ (1985) careful study of the relationship between Huichol ritual and local ecology, which documents how ceremonial practice regulated resource use in both agriculture and hunting in the highlands. Fikes argues that ritual systems are constitutive elements of Huichol identity, notwithstanding the diminishing importance of the subsistence strategies in which they are embedded. Neurath (1996, 1998, n.d.a, n.d.b) analyzes the previously unstudied social organization surrounding Huichol tukipa temple complexes and the cosmological significance underlying the wide geographic distribution of their ritual sites. Constant pilgrimages to dispersed sacred places during the annual ritual cycle reveal that Huichol myth is physically represented in widely differing landscapes. Of fundamental concern here are the contrasts between rainy and dry seasons and the sea and the desert. Through ritual the Huichol coordinate their

F 7-16. A religious official seated behind the ‘‘great house’’ (tuki ) at San Andrés (Tateikie), with oak wood cut to make sacred fires during the peyote festival (hikuli neixa). Photo by Arturo Gutiérrez.

traditional subsistence activities of hunting and agriculture with seasonal changes, the diurnal movements of the sun, and the human life cycle. In their view, human ritual guided by myth must accompany divine action to continually recreate the world as known to them today. Neurath presents the ethnographic data on myth and religion as a coherent cosmology fully integrated with the Huichol social system. This explains why fiestas and ritual are crucial for the reproduction of community and collective identity, especially given the frequent absence of members to work in cities and on the coast. Researchers have also gained access to Huichol cosmology through studying art, personal adornment, and artifacts produced as ritual paraphernalia (Furst 1968, 1978; Negrín 1975, 1977; Schaefer 1989). Anthony Shelton (1992) 143

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F 7-17. A high-ranking shaman in ritual attire blesses bulls for sacrifice. Cattle are an important form of wealth among the Huichol. Photo by Arturo Gutiérrez.

F 7-18. Huichol women prepare teguino (maize beer) for ceremonial use; the dried meat is from sacrificial bulls. Note the rural school buildings in the background. San Andrés (Tateikie). Photo by Arturo Gutiérrez.

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       economic institutions in the Gran Nayar has been examined only recently. Salomón Nahmad (1996) and Shelton (1992, 1996) describe how the Plan Huicot, a government-sponsored ‘‘integral development’’ project between 1970 and 1974, accelerated growing dependence on markets and money among both Huichol and Cora and stimulated the flow of wage laborers to tobacco, cotton, and citrus plantations on the coast of Nayarit. During the same period, the production of crafts for the tourist market— especially yarn paintings, ‘‘gods’ eyes,’’ woven bags, embroidery, and beadwork—intensified. In the 1990’s, the construction of the Aguamilpa Hydroelectric dam on the Santiago River forced the relocation of 1,000 Huichol, and the Mexican Constitution was modified to allow the privatization of ejido lands; the long-term effect of these developments remains to be seen. Future Research

F 7-19. Xiriki shrines honor the corn goddess and ancestors of bilateral kin groups; they are repositories of seed for planting, ritual paraphernalia, and sacred maize bundles. Note the deer tails, antlers, and stone disk with symbolic designs above the entrance. San Sebastián (Waut+a). Photo by Arturo Gutiérrez.

systematically documents symbolism in the ceremonial bowls and arrows associated with rain and agriculture as well as hunting and the desert. Yarn paintings and other art produced for tourists can be a source for understanding symbolism and myth (Negrín 1975, 1977), although increasing craft commercialization has been interpreted by some to undermine local values attached to ritual objects (Shelton 1992) and to lower the quality of textiles (Weigand 1992).

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‘‘Modernization’’ In contrast with ethnological research in Morelos, the impact of the national political and

All social anthropologists who have worked in the area remark on the exceptional tenacity of Huichol cultural practices and collective identity. Rather than viewing the Huichol as remarkably resistant to change, future students might devote more attention to exploring precisely how their social organization and belief systems respond to change in ways that facilitate cultural reproduction. Several examples are suggested in the literature reviewed here. The Huichol regularly migrate for extended periods to the coast and interior cities to work for wages and market their crafts. Ethnographers have observed that these so-called urban Huichol continue to speak their native language and maintain many features of social and ceremonial life, despite long-term residence outside the core area. Their historical experiences as itinerant merchants, their patterns of mobility for subsistence and ritual activities, and their traditionally decentralized forms of social organization undoubtedly account for their ability to maintain a strong collective identity in new contexts. Fieldwork documenting Huichol life in the cities and on the coast would yield useful insights into how they adapt to these new circumstances. This might be combined with 145

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F 7-20. Cora musicians play the ‘‘foot-drum dance’’ (danza de tarima) during a ceremony marking the change of ritual cargo holders in Jesús María. Photo by Arturo Gutiérrez.

careful attention to the economic and social significance of money earned from craft commercialization and wage labor. Innovative urban adaptations and access to sizable amounts of cash through marketing crafts were instrumental to Nahuatl strategies for maintaining local identity as described above for the Balsas Valley in Guerrero. Comparing the Huichol experience with other cases would reveal more about the relationship between different kinds of economic interactions and internal mechanisms for cultural reproduction. Further exploration of the role of art and visual imagery in objects produced for the market might reveal yet other kinds of innovation (Good Eshelman 1996b). Aesthetic production could have a role similar to some myths that provided a cultural idiom for interpreting the experience of colonization and elements of Christianity within a Huichol explanatory framework (Shelton 1986). Data on social and religious life from the Gran Nayar region are especially useful for developing a comparative perspective on histori146

cal processes linking different native peoples within greater Mesoamerica. Neurath analyzes material on Huichol ritual in relation to more widespread cosmological principles and ceremonial practices in the Prehispanic and Colonial periods as well as today. Located on the fringe of classic Mesoamerica, native peoples in the Gran Nayar region share some cultural traditions common to other central highlands groups while displaying features commonly associated with northern desert populations and Native American cultures in the southwestern United States. This is especially visible in hunting rituals, the deer-peyote complex in myth, the ritual importance of the desert, and the Huichol use of ceremonial centers with circular structures and arrows as important religious paraphernalia (Shelton 1992; Schaefer and Furst 1996). Further fieldwork could also focus on a related topic: the apparently ancient and very complex ceremonial cycles that link different indigenous groups in the Sierra (Johannes Neurath, personal commu-

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       american region. Along with Guerrero’s Montaña region, the Sierra Madre Occidental would be an excellent location for studying interactions among different indigenous groups in Mesoamerica. F T

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F 7-21. Traditional Huichol musicians during the peyote festival (hikuli neixa). Ritual attire includes embroidered designs and hawk and turkey feathers on hats used as insignia of peyote seekers. Photo by Arturo Gutiérrez.

nication, 1996). Long-standing historical interactions among Huichol, Cora, Tepehuanos, Mexicaneros, and related groups have produced marked similarities in social organization and ritual life; this makes it possible to conceptualize a multiethnic regional tradition that includes even some Spanish-speaking villagers. The common assumption that linguistic difference signals a distinctive culture does not hold up when confronted with the complex historical and contemporary realities of the Gran Nayar. While distinctions within and between language groups are important and should be systematically explored in careful fieldwork, the fact that historical processes generate linguistic heterogeneity while fostering cultural integration presents ethnologists with a problem that has broad implications for the entire Meso-

The continued reproduction of indigenous culture over five hundred years, despite tremendous pressures from changing political and economic regimes, is the product of historical processes within native societies. Ethnologists must refine the conceptual and analytical tools they employ to explore these events. The importance of reformulating the concept of culture and the conceptualization of culture change applied to native peoples in Mesoamerica has been discussed above. Further theoretical and methodological development is required to address the relationship between the nonmaterial aspects of social life and technology and the economy. Ethnic identities, cosmologies, and local values deserve equal explanatory weight as an integral part of the forces shaping social processes, along with the more familiar economic and political considerations. Ethnologists working in Morelos, Guerrero, and the Sierra Madre Occidental have consistently underscored the importance of rituals and fiestas as critical elements for maintaining indigenous cultural identity, yet exactly how and why this is so requires further exploration (Good Eshelman 1996a); more innovative strategies for studying religion and its relationship to other aspects of native society will be required in the future. The present review of the recent anthropological literature on these three very different areas highlights the importance of history in Mesoamerican studies. Ethnographers now regularly incorporate historical data into their analyses, but this cannot be limited to a view of history as a chronicle of the external pressures to which indigenous societies respond. It is necessary to explore history from the inside, as a process in which indigenous peoples figure as the active agents they have always been. At the same time, an ethnologically informed approach to history requires sensitivity to native 147

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 

F 7-22. Deep ravines cut through the Sierra of Nayarit. Chapalangana River Canyon near San Andrés (Tateikie). Photo by Arturo Gutiérrez.

constructions of time and causality and to indigenous concepts of their own historicity. This will enable researchers to integrate material life with cosmology and explore the underlying logic of collective action that produced the contemporary social world. After all, only as protagonists making creative use of native institutions to confront changes in different historical periods have some indigenous groups survived as culturally distinct peoples until today.

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A I would like to thank several ethnologists and ethnohistorians working in Mexico for their help in preparing this chapter. Druzo Maldonado and Miguel Morayta lent me materials on Morelos, and Samuel Villela shared a bibliography of sources on Guerrero. Johannes Neurath provided invaluable assistance with the section on the Huichol and Cora by locating key bibliographical sources, providing insight into how 148

research is developing in this region, and commenting on earlier drafts of this portion of the text. Arturo Gutiérrez and Johannes Neurath helped write the captions for the photographs of the Cora and Huichol that were generously provided by Arturo Gutiérrez from his personal photo archive. Alejandro Robles competently drew the maps for this article. While researching and writing this chapter I enjoyed support from CONACYT, Mexico’s Consejo Nacional para la Ciencia y Tecnología, in the form of a Cátedral Patrimonial appointment at the Escuela Nacional de Antropología e Historia (ENAH). I wish to thank my colleagues in the History and Ethnohistory Department of ENAH’s Graduate Division for their continued intellectual and personal support. The editor of this volume, John Monaghan, made valuable suggestions on an earlier version of this chapter. I am, of course, solely responsible for any errors or omissions.

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       N 1. Tepoztlán, one of the most famous anthropological communities in Mexico, is located in Morelos, first studied by Redfield (1930); a restudy by Oscar Lewis (1951) that arrived at very different conclusions created a well-known controversy in anthropology. Despite its popularity as a research site, many promising themes regarding indigenous history and culture in Morelos await future students. 2. A number of linguistic surveys in Morelos and surrounding areas of the Distrito Federal and the State of Mexico have located most of the Nahuatlspeaking populations in these regions (Lastra de Suárez and Horcasitas 1976, 1977, 1978, 1980; Guzmán Betancourt 1981; de la Torre Yarza 1987; Johansson 1989; Karttunen 1991). 3. Modeled after the famous Puerto Rico project headed by Julian Steward (1957), the Morelos project consisted in applying the same theoretical and methodological approach to all communities. 4. The studies included irrigated fruit orchards in Hueyapan; onion production in Jalostoc; rainfed milpa agriculture in San Gabriel Amacuitlapulco; community formation in Tenango, a village created by postrevolutionary land reform; political factions in Tepalcingo, a large municipal capital, and Villa de Ayala, a rural municipio; and political relations in Tetela del Volcán. 5. This could be complemented by realizing a study of similar cycles of fairs in eastern Morelos in the month preceding the Day of the Dead. 6. Other highly multiethnic states—Oaxaca, Chiapas, and Veracruz, along with Guerrero—are the most biologically diverse regions of Mexico (Flores-Villela and Gerez 1989). 7. This chapter focuses on the Nahua and the Tlapanec; the last two groups are treated in Chapter 8 of this volume.

8. Several well-publicized massacres of peasants in 1995 attracted international attention to the precarious status of human rights in Guerrero and other parts of Mexico. 9. Published in the new series Historia de los Pueblos Indígenas de México commissioned by the INI (Instituto Nacional Indigenista) and CIESAS (Centro de Investigaciones y Estudios Superiores en Antropología Social). 10. Aside from my own work, only topical articles have been published by other researchers (Golde and Kraemer 1973; Stromberg 1976; Stromberg, Torres, and Zaldívar 1982; Celestino 1984; Amith 1988; Audenet and Gouloubinoff 1993). 11. Most land in the region is communally held, although some is technically private property; as I found in the Balsas Valley region, in Tlacoapa there is a large gap between the formal legal status of land and local definitions and customary practices. 12. Argimiro Cortés Esteban (1996) finds 18,000 in Aquila Municipality and 4,000 in neighboring Chinicuila and Coahuayana Municipality. He suggests that these communities were formed during the twelfth century by populations left behind in the migrations of Nahuatl speakers that eventually led them to the Central Plateau. Neyra Alvarado (1994) argues that this is also the origin of the Mexicaneros. The historical origins of the different Nahuatlspeaking groups must also consider Colonial population movements and the fact that Nahuatl was the lingua franca in the Sierra during the Colonial period (Johannes Neurath, personal communication, 1996). All these cases require serious study by future students. 13. Most of the archival sources will soon be available in a series of volumes currently being published by the Centro de Estudios Mesoamericanos y Centroamericanos in Mexico. This will greatly facilitate the work of future scholars of ethnohistory.

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8. Thirty Years of Oaxacan Ethnography JOHN D. MONAGHAN AND JEFFREY H. COHEN

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O

I

   for having more speakers of indigenous languages than any other Mexican state (over one million people), and they make up an even higher proportion of its population than in Chiapas. Almost one-fifth of Mexico’s indigenous people, and almost a quarter of its indigenous monolingual population, live in Oaxaca (Table 8-1).1 Yet today speakers of indigenous languages make up a slightly lower percentage of Oaxaca’s population than they did in 1970, and indigenous languages are spoken in fewer places than they once were. In the original Handbook, most authors resisted representing Oaxaca’s ethnic/language divisions in spatial terms, since maps such as the one in Figure 8.2 can be so misleading. Not only does the frequency of indigenous language use vary within areas labeled as belonging to a single group, but even at the municipal level a variegated linguistic situation might exist, with the people of different barrios or hamlets speaking different languages. Moreover, government resettlement programs have moved indigenous populations far from their original homelands, so there are, for example, fairly 150

large populations of Mixtec speakers today in what was a Mixe area forty years ago.2 Sitting in Oaxaca City it is easy to imagine that everything revolves around the central valleys. Government institutions are concentrated in the city, and the major transportation arteries branch out of the valley into the adjacent regions. Maps of Oaxaca, even those produced by archaeologists, routinely place Oaxaca City at the center, while other areas are referred to as ‘‘hinterlands.’’ This can leave a false impression of the degree of centralization and integration of the region. For example, the hugely important coffee industry of the southern mountains, first developed in the late nineteenth century, shipped its product either out of Pacific ports or directly to Mexico City and Gulf ports, avoiding Oaxaca City completely (Murphy and Stepick 1991:32). The railroad built through the Cuicatec area has oriented populations in that zone toward Tehuacán and Puebla (E. Hunt 1972:169). Large parts of the Chinantla and Mazateca regions lie within the drainage system known as the Cuenca Papaloapan, which extends into Veracruz. Not only does this mean that indigenous populations in the region are ecologically and economically connected with the Gulf Coast, but since the development

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     T 8-1. Speakers of Indigenous Languages in the Greater Oaxaca Region

Language

Speakers over 5 Years Old in 1990 Census

Children under 5 Living in Households Where an Indigenous Language Is Spoken

Amuzgo 37,377 ,>00 Mixtec *70,77,>3 Chatino 37,7 0,3Trique -, *,*7> Chocho 3,* 3,0 Ixcatec (see text for discussion) Cuicatec 3,0 3,-0 Mazatec 07,**,373 Chinantec >,>77 33,03 Tequistlatec (see text for discussion) Zapotec ->*,- *,*> Mareño , 3,*0 Ayuuk ,30,07 Zoque -*,0> >,7*

Total **,*-0,0 *,3- 7,* ,*> ,33 ,00 *,-> -0,7 -,* 3, *,

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Source: Valdés (1995:84).

of the region has been in the hands of a powerful commission that transcends state boundaries, they are connected administratively as well. Many more examples could be cited, but the point is that people living in areas away from the valley often bypass Oaxaca City, maintaining direct economic, political, and social connections with other areas of Mexico. Over the last thirty years, the ethnographic coverage of some Oaxacan groups has improved markedly. Whereas the chapters on the Trique and Ayuuk (Mixe) in the original Handbook had to be written by individuals with little direct knowledge of them (Foster 1969b; Nader 1969a), each group is now represented by at least one monograph based on long-term field research. The ethnographic record for the Chatino, Mareño (Huave), and Mazatec has been enhanced by the publication of a number of monographs and problem-oriented social and linguistic studies. The Valley Zapotec continue to be a major focus of ethnographic research projects as well as important archaeological,

historical, and linguistic studies. Yet fieldwork has been spotty. For many groups, such as the Amuzgo, Chocho, Cuicatec, and Nahuat, the observations of ‘‘unfortunate gaps’’ in the coverage made by the authors of the original Handbook remain as true today as they were thirty years ago. There has even been a fall-off in the amount of work on some groups, such as the Cuicatec and Chinantec. At this point we should caution readers that classifying Oaxacan peoples based on linguistic affiliations can be misleading, since the genetic connections linguists draw often have little to do with sociopolitical or even cultural affiliations. The village or town is instead the basic social unit for most Oaxacan peoples. Oaxacan communities hold more communal land than communities anywhere else in Mexico, village endogamy remains high, and towns in Oaxaca enjoy a great deal of autonomy, even as state institutions assume an increasing role in everyday life. Each community, moreover, is the product of a particular past, where local ecological, sociocultural, economic, and political arrangements have refracted the forces of history in myriad ways, making settlements even within a stone’s throw of one another quite different places (Chance 1989:xiii). The village therefore legitimately remains a focus in ethnographic work, even if the subject is transnational migration or politicized ethnicity. In terms of ethnological coverage, what this means is that although groupings such as the Isthmus Zapotec might be considered well-covered, in reality work has been concentrated in just one place, Juchitán (see Fig. 8-1), and there are many Isthmus Zapotec-speaking towns that have received no attention at all. Another pattern in Oaxacan ethnology that the reader should keep in mind is that researchers working with a given group tend to concern themselves with a related set of topics and operate with a similar theoretical orientation. Within larger groupings, such as the Zapotec, this situation prevails in specific regions. Thus work on economic behavior centers on the Zapotec of the central valley, work on ethnicity and political action centers on the Isthmus Zapotec, and the Rincón Zapotec are 151

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F 8-1. The State of Oaxaca showing towns that are the subjects of community studies published between 1970 and 1996.

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     known through work on their legal practices and dispute resolution. This concentration is partly the result of a kind of ‘‘founder’s effect,’’ where researchers are linked through studentteacher relationships. But it is also due to the salience an issue has for a given area. The difficulty for reviewers summarizing work on Oaxaca lies in trying to relate what is generally known about this vast region while at the same conveying a sense of what is particular to groups and places. What we have decided to do is follow the original Handbook and order the ethnographic literature by linguistic affiliation, beginning in the west with Amuzgo speakers and working east to Zoque speakers. In each section we highlight themes that have dominated the discourse on individual groups and are important for understanding large cross-sections of indigenous Oaxaca (e.g., migration, the emergence of a rural professional class, cash cropping), drawing in material from other language groups where appropriate. Our intention is to give the reader a sense of the processes that have made indigenous Oaxaca what it is today, while reviewing the varied foci of ethnographic research and the issues that have been important to particular areas over the last thirty years. Yet for some groups the ethnographic record is so limited that their entry consists of little more than a bibliographic note. Finally, with regard to group designations, we have employed those used in the original Handbook with the exception of those that either have been resisted by the people they purport to designate or have been shown to be misleading. Most of the names used in the original Handbook are linguistic classifications (and derived from Nahuatl). Since people often have terms in their language for what they speak, some have proposed a series of ethnonyms based on local linguistic designations. We are sympathetic to this—up to a point. One problem is that village-based dialects of some languages form a rough continuum, with those spoken in towns far enough apart from one another being unintelligible, so people may not recognize the connections the languages they speak have with one another. Another is that people speaking one dialect of a language may

have a term for it that other speakers of the language find insulting (Jäcklein 1974:26). But the real problems begin once we move out of the linguistic sphere into the complex, slippery, and politically charged terrain of ethnicity. Here any attempt to equate language and identity is bound to create confusion. There are, after all, towns where people no longer speak an indigenous language, but whose people may identify themselves as being indigenous (e.g., Cuilapan), and there are towns, like Santa María Chimalapa, where the members of one linguistic community (the Zoque) consider the members of another (Zapotec speakers) ‘‘Ladinos.’’ The point to keep in mind is that in Oaxaca, as in other places, all sorts of factors in addition to language may enter into an ethnic identity, including place of birth, class position, education, employment, and/or ecological adaptation. Although in this review we continue to use language as a marker of indigenous identity, we do not exclude other possibilities; nor would it be desirable to essentialize something that is likely to be fluid and constantly subject to redefinition.3 O E G Our coverage of the ethnic groups of Oaxaca is organized geographically (see Fig. 8-2). We begin in the west with groups speaking Otomanguean languages (Amuzgo, Mixtec, Trique, Chatino, Chocho-Popoloca and Ixcatec, Cuicatec, Mazatec, Chinantec, and Zapotec). Then we move on to the east with people speaking Tequistlatec (a member of the TequistlatecJicaque family), followed by the Mareño (Huave) and two members of the Mixe-Zoque family (the Ayuuk [Mixe] and the Zoque). Amuzgo About 85 percent of the Amuzgo-speaking population lives in Guerrero, in the municipalities of Ometepec, Tlacoachistlahuaca, and Xochistlahuaca. The other 15 percent lives in Oaxaca, principally in the towns of Santa María Ipalapa and San Pedro Amuzgos. The rate of monolingualism is higher for Amuzgo speakers 153

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F 8-2. Ethnic groups of Oaxaca.

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     than for any other indigenous group in Mexico (INEGI 1993c:13). Ethnographic research among the Amuzgo has focused on classification and ethnosemantics. Amuzgo ethnobotany has been the subject of works by Fermín Tapia García (1978, 1980, 1985) and Modesta Cruz Hernández (1993). Susana Cuevas Suárez (1985) has published an ethnosemantic study of Amuzgo ornithology, which also contains information on faunal categories in general, cosmology, and socialization. Andrés Fernández Gatica (1987) has published a study on folklore, weaving, and history in San Pedro Amuzgos. Almost all the ethnographic fieldwork among the Amuzgo has been carried out in San Pedro Amuzgos (see Table 8-2). With the exception of a study of the agrarian history of Guerrero Amuzgo communities by Norberto Valdez (1998), information on the Guerrero Amuzgo remains as scarce as it was thirty years ago. The district capital of Ometepec, which serves as the main market town for Amuzgo communities in Guerrero, is the subject of what we call a ‘‘town monograph’’ (Manzano and Alanís 1996). These are works written by local authors, sometimes self-published, sometimes published by an influential patron (in the case of the Ometepec monograph, the governor of Guerrero, who was born in Ometepec), that describe local history, civic arrangements, folklore, customs, public works, and prominent families. The subjects of these books are usually central market towns with a significant nonindigenous population. While uncritical, they should not be ignored, and for some indigenous areas they are the only publications available.

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Mixtec Most Mixtec towns are located in western Oaxaca and eastern Guerrero, with a handful in southern Puebla. The Mixteca Alta in western Oaxaca is the area that has received the most attention. In contrast to speakers of Amuzgo, Mixtec speakers have been the subjects of several village-based ethnographies (see Table 8-2) as well as a number of specialized studies on religion (Jansen 1982), ethnolinguistics (Coronado

Suzán 1987), plant and land use (Katz 1990, 1991, 1992; Casas et al. 1994), crafts and craft production (Turok 1988; Velasco Rodríguez 1994), folklore (Solano González 1985; Alvarez Chávez 1997; Cruz Ortiz 1998), and town monographs (Mendoza Guerrero 1981; Méndez Aquino 1985). Deserving of special mention is the program in ethnolinguistics sponsored by the Secretaría de Educación Pública (SEP), the Instituto Nacional Indigenista (INI), and the Centro de Investigaciones y Estudios Superiores en Antropología Social (CIESAS), in which bilingual teachers from the seven largest language groups in the country (including Mixtec and Zapotec) undertook a program of study leading to the degree of licenciatura in ethnolinguistics. A total of fifty-three teachers from the entering class of 1979 obtained their degrees, six of whom are from the Mixteca. All of these individuals wrote theses on their home towns, which were published in 1982 (Caballero 1982; Caballero Morales 1982; Casiano Franco 1982; Cruz Bautista 1982; García Santiago 1982; Ortiz López 1982). The Mixteca Alta is the area that has received the most ethnographic attention, followed by the Mixteca de la Costa and the Oaxacan portion of the Mixteca Baja. Although a little over 20 percent of the Mixtec-speaking population lives in Guerrero, and Mixtec communities in this state exhibit high rates of monolingualism, they have been the subjects of very little published ethnographic work. The account by Robert Ravicz (1965), based on fieldwork carried out in 1955–1956, is the only published work on Mixtec settlements in northcentral Oaxaca. No ethnographic monographs have been published on the handful of Mixtecspeaking towns in Puebla.4 Over the last thirty years, migration has transformed the Mixteca, and particularly the Mixteca Baja. Of the seventy-five municipalities that make up the Oaxacan portion of the Mixteca Baja, forty-four actually had population decreases from 1950 to 1970, just as Mexico was experiencing the highest growth spurt in its history (Alcalá and Couturier 1994). Indeed, throughout Oaxaca rural people have been faced with a scarcity of arable lands and 155

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 .    .  T 8-2. Town-Based Ethnographies Published 1970–1995 Town, Political Status, Author and Year of Publication Amuzgo San Pedro Amuzgos (mun.) (Egli 73) Mixtec Mixteca Alta San Antonio Huitepec (mun.) (Caballero 73) (Caballero Morales 73) San Juan Mixtepec (mun.) (Cruz Bautista 73) (Guidi 3) Santiago Nuyoo (mun.) (Monaghan ) Santo Tomás Ocotepec (mun.) (Méndez y Mercado 7) Santiago Tilantongo (mun.) (Butterworth ) Santiago Yosondúa (mun.) (García Santiago 73) Mixteca de la Costa Santiago Jamiltepec (mun.) (Flanet ) Santiago Zacatepec (mun.) (Cordero Avendaño 3) San Pedro Jicayán (mun.) (González Ventura 3) Chatino San Miguel Panixtlahuaca (mun.) (Hernández Díaz 7) Santiago Yaitepec (mun.) (J. Greenberg 7) Trique a Chicahuaxtla (ag.) (Huerta Ríos 7) Copala (ag.) (García Alcarez *) (Parra Mora and Hernández Díaz -) Chocho-Popoloca San Felipe Otlaltepec (ag.) b (Jäcklein -) Mazatec San Pedro Ixcatlán (mun.) (McMahon *) San José Tenango (mun.)

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(Neiburg 77)

156

District

Period of Fieldwork

Putla

Zaachila Juxtlahuaca Tlaxiaco Tlaxiaco Nochixtlán Tlaxiaco Jamiltepec Putla Jamiltepec Juquila Juquila Putla Juxtlahuaca

native native native 7*– –0 0>–0 native -– 7–> native 7 *–0 0–3 3 early >’s 0–*

Tuxtepec Teotitlán del Camino

0–07 7>’s

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     T 7-3. (continued ) Town, Political Status, Author and Year of Publication Chinantec Usila (mun.) (Weitlaner and Castro *) San Pedro Yolox (mun.) (Gwaltney >) Zapotec Valley of Oaxaca San Francisco Lachigoló (mun.) (El Guindi and Hernández Jiménez 70) San Pedro Mitla (mun.) (Dürr 0) Santo Tomás Mazaltepec (mun.) (Selby -) Santo Tomás Mazaltepec (mun.) and San Andrés Zautla (mun.) (Dennis 0) (Dennis 7) Teotitlán del Valle (mun.) (Stephen ) Isthmus Juchitán de Zaragoza (mun.) (H. Campbell -) (Luis Orozco 73) (Royce ) Northern Zapotec Santa Catarina Ixtepeji (mun.) (Kearney 3) ‘‘Ralu’a and Lahoya’’ (Hirabayashi *) San Andrés Yaá (mun.) (Cruz Díaz 73) San Bartolomé Zoogocho (mun.) (Beltrán Morales 73) (Berg -) San Miguel Talea de Casto (mun.) and San Juan Juquila Vijanos (mun.) (Nader >)

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Tequistlatec c San Matías Petalcatepec (ag.) (P. Turner 3) Mareños San Mateo del Mar (mun.) (Signorini )

District Tuxtepec Ixtlán

Tlacolula Tlacolula Etla Etla Tlacolula Juchitán

Ixtlán Villa Alta Villa Alta Villa Alta

Villa Alta

Yautepec Tehuantepec

Period of Fieldwork

-*–* 0*–0-

0–7 –3 0–07 >– >–77-–7 7–* native 07, –3 0–3 – native native 00, 0,  –0>, 0*–0-, 0, , 77 –0 –

157

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 .    .  T 7-3. (continued ) Town, Political Status, Author and Year of Publication Ayuk or Mixe Totontepec de Morelos (mun.) (Romer 73) Zoque Rayón (mun.) (N. Thomas -a)

District Mixe

Period of Fieldwork

0–7 0-–0

Note: mun. = municipio; ag. = agencia. a Chicahuaxtla is an agencia of the municipality of Putla, and Copala an agencia of the municipality of Juxtlahuaca. b San Felipe Otlaltepec is in the municipality of Tepexi de Rodríguez, Puebla. c San Matías Petalcatepec is in the municipality of San Carlos Yautepec, Oaxaca.

a lack of alternative employment. Even at the time of the publication of the original Handbook, the number of indigenous households that had enough land to meet subsistence needs was small. In many towns today, only a minority can make ends meet through work on their own plots. In San Juan Mixtepec, Marcos Cruz Bautista (1982:78) reports that just 9 percent of the families have enough land to feed themselves (see also Ortiz Gabriel 1984). This situation has forced so many to migrate that by 1990 one-third of Oaxaca’s native-born indigenous population was living outside the state—a total of 443,000 persons (Nolasco 1992:71; see also Hulshof 1991; Corbett et al. 1992). Many factors enter into decisions to migrate, but all things being equal, migration rates in Oaxaca correlate inversely with agricultural productivity, so that those districts with the poorest lands have the highest migration rates: Silacayopan, Coixtlahuaca, Teposcolula, and Nochixtlán in the Mixteca Baja and Ixtlán in the Sierra Juárez. At the same time, the lowest rates of migration are from the southern coasts and mountains, where farmland is richer and relatively plentiful (Nolasco 1979). Much of this migration has been seasonal, being one strategy among several for meeting household subsistence needs and/or financing lumpy expenditures. Because of this, periodicities in the migrant flow are often a function of local agricultural cycles (García Santiago 1982:23; 158

Mora Vázquez 1982:122), something that employers can find frustrating (Bartolomé and Barabas 1982:213). Migration has also involved selected household members rather than entire families. Since many of the work opportunities available to migrants, such as fruit or vegetable picking, are only suitable for the young (Stuart and Kearney 1981:30), the bulk of migrants tend to be in their teens and twenties. In Nieves Ixpantepec, a Mixtec town in the Baja, people under twenty-four years of age made up 82 percent of the migrants (Mora Vázquez 1982:117). While migrants working in agriculture tend to be men, in some places the highest rate of migration can be found among young women, who are in demand as maids in urban areas (Romer 1982:79–80; see also Young 1978b:141–142; Mora Vázquez 1982:113). Marriage partners in some towns have become scarce (Butterworth 1975:206–207; Mora Vázquez 1982:113), and the long series of visits and exchanges between households contracting marriage has become impractical, with so many members scattered by migration (Romer 1982: 96–97). Domestic life has also been affected. The absence of young men and women in many households has deprived older people of the help they used to receive in household chores (Young 1978b:142). In the early part of the century, most Oaxacan migrants worked as agricultural laborers in Veracruz, Morelos, Puebla, and along the coast

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     of Oaxaca and Chiapas, often hired by labor contractors representing large plantations. While these places continue to attract agricultural workers from Oaxaca (see Alcalá and Couturier 1994:80), Baja California has become an important destination for migrants, who work in that region’s expanding agro-export sector. Mixtec speakers now make up the largest indigenous group in the state of Baja California del Norte and are so numerous that the Instituto Nacional Indigenista has been forced to establish a regional center south of Ensenada in the San Quintín Valley, with a bilingual education program for children. Everardo Garduño et al. (1989) provide a socioeconomic profile of the Mixtec in Baja California, including texts of interviews with migrants. The United States has been the destination for an ever growing number of Oaxaca’s migrants. Information on the bracero program reached even the most isolated Oaxacan towns, and many indigenous people participated (see Ornelas López 1984). By the late 1970’s, about one-fourth of the migrants from surveyed Mixteca Baja communities went to the United States, with almost all working as field hands (Stuart and Kearney 1981:9; Mora Vázquez 1982:122). Entire families may follow migrants as far as Mexican border towns, where they are supported by remittances and whatever work they can find. This enables migrants to make repeated entrances and exits from the United States without incurring the expense of returning to Oaxaca (Stuart and Kearney 1981:23–24). Wage migration has followed well-known patterns (see Massey, Goldring, and Durand 1994). Douglas Butterworth (1975) observed the initial phases of this process in the 1960’s, when he found that members of poorer households were more likely to migrate seasonally to work as field hands in Veracruz or temporarily as servants in Oaxaca City, while people from wealthier households were more likely to migrate permanently and to Mexico City (Butterworth 1975:177–178, 189). As time passed, most migrants began to head for large cities in Mexico and the United States. Eduardo García Santiago (1982:33) estimates that 90 percent of the young people migrating from Yosondúa

have urban centers as their destination. Butterworth also found that migration increased in direct proportion to a person’s ability to speak Spanish and that permanent migrants tended to be better educated, whereas most of those who stayed behind were illiterate (Butterworth 1975:189–191). If anything, improved educational opportunities—all municipalities now have at least a primary school and secondary schools are increasingly accessible—have reduced linguistic and educational barriers to migration. In many Mixtec towns, graduation from secondary school is followed by migration to Mexico City the next day. Migrants to urban areas tend to form enclaves, as established migrants accommodate others from their home community. Formally constituted Oaxacan migrant associations abound in Mexico City, border cities, and California (e.g., Mora Vázquez 1996). Carlos Orellana (1973:282), on the basis of material collected from the Mixteca Baja town of Soyaltepec, found that associations tend to appear among migrants from villages with a ‘‘strong tradition of communal activity systems’’ (e.g., tequio, cargo service), while those villages where communal systems are weak did not form such associations. Although kinship and community ties are important resources for indigenous migrants to urban areas (Romer 1982:83), migrants are also building networks based on more inclusive identities. Zapotec migrants leaving the Villa Alta district for Mexico City make paisanazgo—reciprocal links between those sharing regional roots—a basis for sociation, allowing them to create networks of support in the city based on a shared identity as Mountain Zapotec (Hirabayashi 1993). Similarly, communitybased Mixtec migrant associations in California and Mexican border cities began to affiliate during the 1980’s, forming broad ethnic fronts (Nagengast and Kearney 1990; Anguiano Tellez 1992). Michael Kearney (1996:178) feels this has to do with a growing recognition among labor camp workers of their common interests, combined with their stigmatization by Mestizos, Chicanos, and Anglos. Butterworth noted that there was so much 159

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 .    .  movement between Tilantongo and urban areas that it was often difficult to decide who was resident where. He also found that immigrants to urban areas provided funds for village public works, proposed candidates for office, voted in elections, returned to serve as officials, and remained involved in factional struggles (Butterworth 1975:105, 141, 197; see also Orellana S. 1973:282; Romer 1982:89–93; Méndez y Mercado 1985:197–200). Observations such as these have led to the conclusion that dividing migrants into seasonal, temporary, and permanent categories, or framing arguments about migration in terms of bipolar push-pull factors, can obscure complexities. Indeed, what often seems to happen in Oaxaca is that villages do not so much lose people as gain other components, so that individuals circulate in a network that connects home villages (where they work on small-holdings) to agro-industrial areas (where they work in large-scale commercial agriculture) to cities (where they may take advantage of services as well as work in urban occupations) (Kearney 1986a, 1996:178–182).5 It remains to be seen whether or in what ways such networks renew themselves beyond a first generation of migrants. The magnitude of migration has made many indigenous communities something other than what they were thirty years ago. It has forced people into new civic arrangements (regarding tequio, service, marriage, and so on), transformed domestic life, increased stratification, and created divisions between migrants and non-migrants. In San Juan Mixtepec, for example, migrants reject indigenous customs and refuse to use the Mixtec language in an effort to sustain an image of themselves as cosmopolitan individuals (Guidi 1992:135–165; see also Conway and Cohen 1998). Yet the resources derived from migration have improved standards of living and have sustained villages that would otherwise have been abandoned (Stuart and Kearney 1981:26–27; Cederström 1990), and in some places we can witness a creative elaboration of symbolic forms, as people seek to define community in the light of their new experiences and changing social realities (e.g., Monaghan 1995:335–355). 160

Trique The 1990 census counted 14,981 Trique (also spelled Triqui) speakers over the age of five years old. Yet the Trique population in the 1960’s was estimated as 20,000 (Nader 1969a: 404). The same source notes that at the turn of the century the number of Trique speakers was about 15,000. Taking an accurate population census in even the most favored circumstances can be difficult, but this is a major discrepancy, particularly given the high birth rates and culturally conservative nature of the Trique. One explanation for the low numbers today may have to do with migration, since Trique families live for extended periods in urban areas to market weaving and other products, and they may not be picked up in the census. Another explanation may have to do with the factional fighting that has occurred over the past decades, especially in Copala. León Parra Mora and Jorge Hernández Díaz (1994:222) estimate that 500–800 Trique have been killed, and hundreds more have fled to escape the violence (see also Millán Echeagaray 1982). As is true of many Oaxacan groups, Trique territory consists of two distinct environmental zones: a high, temperate to cold zone, whose main center is Chicahuaxtla, and a low tropical zone, whose main center is Copala. This is important because the people of each zone have had quite different historical experiences and maintain distinctive social and cultural patterns. Since the late 1960’s, three monographlength studies of the Trique have appeared which, taken together, cover the two zones (see Table 8-2). In addition, a short discussion of weaving in the highland community of Chicahuaxtla has been published by June Hiatt (1972), and Carmen Cordero Avendaño (1977) has examined authority and traditional norms. Specialized studies of Copalteco semantic classification, kinship, and folklore have been published by the linguist Barbara Hollenbach (e.g., 1969, 1973, 1988). César Huerta Ríos (1981) makes an argument for the existence in Chicahuaxtla of localized, endogamous clans with exogamous, landholding lineages within these clans. Because

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     descent only rarely plays such a dominant role in group formation in Mesoamerica, this is an important finding. Less convincing is his assertion that there exist noble and commoner strata, with the nobles being those closest to the main line of descent (but who trace descent bilaterally) and the commoners, who trace descent patrilineally, more distant from the main line. What is needed is a more extensive investigation of normative and statistical patterns of inheritance, as well as a fuller analysis of the ‘‘noble’’ and ‘‘commoner’’ divisions. Trique communities, like many other indigenous communities in Oaxaca, have been transformed over the past thirty years by the emergence of a rural professional class. These are teachers, most of whom are employed as bilingual educators or promotores. Over one thousand indigenous people were trained as bilingual educators at the Institute for Research and Social Integration of Oaxaca between 1969 and 1981, when political opponents forced its closure (Hernández Díaz 1996:44). They were placed in rural areas to staff the hundreds of primary schools being built in villages across the state. Because demand for teachers far exceeded supply, many others were hired simply based on their ability to read, write, and speak Spanish (summer coursework has been encouraged, and the level of education of entering bilingual teachers has increased; but see Hernández Díaz 1996:46). Teaching has been an important counterweight to permanent outmigration. In Ixpantepec Nieves, 17 percent of its people who are counted as migrants are actually bilingual teachers who divide their time between their natal community and workplaces elsewhere in the Mixteca (Mora Vázquez 1982: 116, 119). The position of indigenous teachers in the schools, their connection with a powerful union, their cosmopolitan outlook (they often maintain homes in the district capitals), and their steady (and during the 1970’s and early 1980’s relatively high) wages set them apart from other members of their communities. Although it is true that teachers from larger linguistic groups may be stationed far from their home communities, many have been able to ob-

tain posts in or near their native towns. Because they perform a variety of civic services, they have been excused from tequio and are usually exempt from serving in the lower ranks of the civil-religious hierarchy. They may thus enter town government at the highest levels and have often replaced elders as authority figures. Teachers have also become active in politics. To win control of town government in 1977, bilingual teachers of San Juan Copala built a faction based on traditional barrio connections and a strong relationship with the PRI. This faction has remained in power ever since and is accused of intimidating and assassinating rivals (Parra Mora and Hernández Díaz 1994:189–199). Although one must not attribute ideological homogeneity to bilingual teachers (many profess a strong interest in preserving local language and customs), it is nonetheless true that the institutions in which teachers were trained, informed as they were by modernist ideals of the escuela socialista (where the rural school would be a center of political and economic activism) and the indigenist creed of the INI, have given most teachers a view of themselves as agents of progressive change. In Huitepec, for example, it was the teachers—not evangelicals or the Catholic priest—who curtailed the fiesta system, arguing that mayordomías were a Colonial imposition that supported the continuing domination of indigenous groups (Caballero 1982; Caballero Morales 1982:62; see also Berg 1974:221; Hernández Díaz 1987: 67). Of all the programs initiated by the Mexican government since the publication of the original Handbook, bilingual education has allowed the greatest expansion of the state within communities like those of the Trique, and not solely in the realm of language. Chatino Prior to the original Handbook only one ethnographer had published work based on longterm fieldwork among the Chatino (see DeCicco 1969). Since that time, two of the nine municipalities with large numbers of Chatino speakers have been the subject of detailed ethnographies (see Table 8-2). Three additional 161

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 .    .  works based on ethnographic fieldwork take the entire Chatino region as their unit of analysis (Bartolomé and Barabas 1982; Cordero Avendaño 1986; and Hernández Díaz 1992). The first is organized as a conventional ethnography, discussing economics, sociopolitical organization, and religion. The second focuses on cosmology and ritual through an exegesis of prayers recorded in Chatino. The third is a series of essays dealing with politics, economy, and identity in the Chatino region. There is also a town monograph on the important coffee-producing center of Nopala (Pérez Sánchez 1997), which contains one large Chatino barrio. Major changes have come to the Chatino region as a result of the introduction of coffee in the late nineteenth century. Basilio Rojas, the Miahuatlán teacher/merchant who conducted the 1868 study identifying the southern highlands as prime coffee land, created one of the first coffee fincas in the Chatino area (Rojas 1964). Following this, Governor Esteban Esperón decreed that the state would subsidize the start-up costs for coffee cultivation, which, coupled with the implementation of Liberal Reform laws that permitted outsiders to take over the communal lands of indigenous communities, allowed numerous coffee fincas to be established in the eastern reaches of Chatino territory (Rodríguez Canto 1996:212–214). These fincas continue to exist, since abundant lands, relatively low populations, political patronage, and the importance of coffee as an export crop (Oaxaca is second only to Veracruz in coffee production [Rodríguez Canto 1996: 274]) allowed finqueros to survive the Agrarian Reform.6 Although it did not eliminate large coffee fincas, the Agrarian Reform did prevent finqueros from expanding their holdings when demand for coffee began to grow. This demand was met by indigenous farmers, who went from providing seasonal labor on the fincas to growing coffee themselves on small holdings. Such individuals now produce over 70 percent of the crop (Piñón Jiménez 1988:324–327). This process began in earnest on the southern coast and mountains in the 1940’s and 1950’s, affecting not only Chatino but Zapotec-, Trique-, and 162

Mixtec-speaking groups. Coffee is also grown in large quantities in the northern Sierras, in Mazatec-, Cuicatec-, Chinantec-, and Mixespeaking communities, although production is only about 10 percent of what it is in the southern mountains and coast (Piñón Jiménez 1988: 326). Key to the spread of coffee cultivation among indigenous farmers was the system of habilitación, where a coffee buyer or ‘‘financier’’ (habilitador) lends money to farmers, who repay the buyer with a specified amount of coffee at harvest time (Berg 1974:58–59; Young 1978b:136–137; Bartolomé and Barabas 1982: 201; J. Greenberg 1989:193). Often no actual cash is involved, since the habilitadores sell goods to coffee producers on credit.7 While many habilitadores are small-scale ambulatory merchants, commerce in coffee became more lucrative than producing it, and coffee merchants accumulated some of the largest fortunes in Oaxaca. In the 1950’s, these magnates took control of the state government and the official party and promoted the building of roads on the coast and in the southern mountains to facilitate export (Murphy and Stepick 1991:111–112).8 Throughout Oaxaca, the spread of coffee —trees once planted will continue to produce for up to forty years—led to the de facto privatization of communal forests and lands used for swidden horticulture. Privatization has been accompanied by the practice of renting lands, making access dependent on something other than kinship ties or community membership (Young 1978b:145; Huerta Ríos 1981; Neiburg 1988:87–88; J. Greenberg 1989:122). The commodification of land, along with increasing stratification and population pressures, has made land tenure an issue of serious concern. Mexico sanctions a variety of different kinds of claims to land, so it is not unusual that rights to land can be legitimately reckoned in contradictory ways. Since most indigenous people in Oaxaca continue to be agriculturalists, and since land tenure is a social relationship that enters into all aspects of rural life, land conflicts involve a variety of social sectors: barrios feuding over the distribution of

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     coffee lands, peasants and regional elites over rights to fincas, native peoples and recent immigrants over rights to communal lands, neighboring towns over border areas (see below), and individual families. On the coast and in the southern mountains, land disputes have contributed to an appalling level of violence—with murder rates among some of the highest recorded anywhere. In Yaitepec, the homicide rate stayed between 440 and 511 per 100,000 from the 1950’s through the 1970’s (with the average for the Chatino area being 300 homicides per 100,000). Since 95 percent of the homicides are men, a male in the area has a 30 percent chance of dying before reaching the age of fifty (Bartolomé and Barabas 1982:221; J. Greenberg 1989:xi–xii). Although it is clear that increasing stratification and the commodification of land are linked to a hike in murder rates, rates were high before the introduction of coffee (Bartolomé and Barabas 1982:222–223; Hernández Díaz 1987), and not all coffee-growing areas are beset by violence. John Paddock (1975) suggests that child-rearing practices play a role. Local understandings of recent changes and conventional ways of dealing with disputes also enter into the equation. For example, few people in the southern mountains attribute violence to emerging inequalities. Rather there is the tendency to blame conflict on the greed and envy of people who live outside the norms that govern community life. As a result witchcraft accusations have been chronic since the 1940’s, and suspected witches have been killed in great numbers (J. Greenberg 1989:202; see also Bartolomé and Barabas 1982:223). Furthermore, justice is considered to be a family rather than a civil matter, something that pushes conflicts between individuals into long-lasting blood feuds (Bartolomé and Barabas 1982:224). Officials are reluctant to intervene, since to act against a murder is to take sides. Once a blood feud begins, it ends only if one family manages to wipe out the men of the opposing family (J. Greenberg 1989:152, 250). Families decimated by violence are forced to migrate, either to nearby towns or out of the region altogether (Bartolomé and Barabas 1982:224).

Another factor in the violence is factionalism among the local elite, since their disputes tend to ramify as they involve supporters in their struggles (J. Greenberg 1989:194–195). Several authors note that the availability of firearms—paid for with coffee money—has made the conflictive situation more deadly, since the total number of incidents of violence has held steady, but the percentage of them ending in homicide has increased (J. Greenberg 1989: 152; Parra Mora and Hernández Díaz 1994: 121–126). Disputants may also attempt to involve state agencies through patronage connections, bribes, and other means. This may escalate the conflict, as was the case of the army unit stationed in Copala. Sent originally to protect the peace, it ended up taking sides in the fighting, even to the point of carrying out military assaults on hostile Trique barrios (Parra Mora and Hernández Díaz 1994). Ethnicity appears to play a role in the forms violence takes. In the town of Jamiltepec, Mixtec speakers are more likely to call out rivals and Mestizos more likely to hire pistoleros to assassinate enemies (Flanet 1977).9 James Greenberg (1989:213) observes that Mestizos are more likely than Chatino to turn to courts, the police, and the army to resolve disputes. This, he feels, has to do with the greater access Mestizo merchants and planters have to powerful patrons, which enables them to mobilize state institutions more effectively. Steadily rising coffee prices from the 1950’s through the 1980’s had other far-reaching effects. On a regional level, they restructured economic relationships, as non-coffeeproducing towns began to service coffee producing areas, by supplying seasonal laborers (e.g., Bartolomé and Barabas 1982; Monaghan 1995) or by specializing in long-distance transport and the supply of foodstuffs (Berg 1974; Young 1978b:137). Huerta Ríos (1981:91–95) argues that the influx of money from coffee cultivation, along with the spread of wage labor and the commodification of land, led to the decline of the practice of bride service among the Trique and to a transformation of bridewealth from a largely symbolic payment prior to the Second World War to substantial trans163

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 .    .  fers of cash, animals, and food. In other areas, such as the northern Sierras, increased coffee production correlates with a decline in labor exchange (Young 1978b:137; Neiburg 1988:93– 97). Coffee areas spared the brunt of the 1980’s crisis have seen their economies plunge into recession with the recent drop in coffee prices. Particularly hard hit have been medium-sized producers, who have had to pay wages to harvest their crop in excess of what they receive when they sell it. Coffee cooperatives have gone under, which has allowed habilitadores to expand operations. With no cash crop to substitute for coffee, many producers have turned to wage migration. Chocho-Popoloca and Ixcatec Beginning with the 1980 national census, Chocho speakers in Oaxaca and Popoloca speakers in southern Puebla have been counted together as Chocho, since the languages they speak are so closely related that by the norms of linguistic classification they can be considered dialectal variations of one another (see Jäcklein 1974: 61). While the number of Chocho speakers in southern Puebla held steady between 1980 and 1990 at about 9,700 (INEGI 1983:352, 1992: 26), those in Oaxaca declined by over one-third, to 1,202.10 Chocho towns in Tepexi de Rodríguez are represented by a community study (see Table 8-2) and an ethnohistory (Jäcklein 1978). A town monograph on San Miguel Tulancingo (Nieto Angel 1984) contains a description of marriage customs and artisan occupations. Ixcatec is spoken in Santa María Ixcatlán in the district of Coixtlahuaca. The 1990 census count of 1,220 speakers of Ixcatec (INEGI 1993b:54) is seriously in error. The historically small size of the Ixcatec-speaking population, early migration to urban centers, and the effectiveness of government campaign against illiteracy in the area in the 1940’s and 1950’s, which was often accompanied by efforts to eliminate indigenous languages, have combined to doom Ixcatec as a living language (Bartolomé and Barabas 1996:112–115). A recent linguistic survey by María Teresa Pardo Brügmann (1995: 100–101) identified only forty-seven speakers of 164

Ixcatec, while Bartolomé and Barabas (1996: 116) found only eighteen elderly speakers in Ixcatlán. Cuicatec The incredible variety of species and microenvironments in Oaxaca make it one of the richest biological regions in North America. As a consequence, human populations have made highly specific and ingenious adaptations to their surroundings, which have been documented in a number of detailed ecological studies, often carried out by archaeologists. For example, in the hilly region of northwest Oaxaca, an archaeologist first documented the important technique for the intensive cultivation of corn through controlled erosion and moisture conservation (Spores 1969; for an excellent review of traditional agricultural techniques, see Flannery 1983). In the arid Cuicatec zone, indigenous settlements have been located to take advantage of two distinct micro-environments: the rich soils deposited on alluvial fans at the confluence of narrow mountain rivers with the Río Grande and on small plateaus or on spurs alongside streams well above the river canyons. In the latter environment, people grow cold-weather crops above 2,000 meters. These two zones are linked by trade, with intervening areas, such as the huge Llano Español, largely devoid of human settlement. Contemporary speakers of Cuicatec are located in the more remote and agriculturally less-productive highlands. They descend to work as laborers in the Cañada, which produces cash crops such as sugarcane. There has been very little ethnographic research in the area since 1970 (Todd and Hunt 1995). Land boundaries in Oaxaca are often ambiguous, and because land rights have historically been vested in communities, disputes over frontiers can pit one town against another. In the Cuicatec area, disputes largely have to do with the control of water and alluvial lands and occur at times of population expansion (E. Hunt 1972:228–229). Also, new activities, such as the planting of coffee, may make historically un-

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     productive lands valuable, bringing settlements into competition.11 In the state as a whole, it is rare to find a rural community that does not have an ongoing dispute with one of its neighbors. Land titles, often going back to the sixteenth century and including maps painted in the native style, are treasured documents. Single disputes may last for generations—Philip Dennis (1987) provides a case study of one in the Valley of Oaxaca that began in 1694 and continued through the 1980’s—consuming a great deal of time and resources, as local authorities are forced to hire lawyers, travel to Oaxaca City and Mexico City, and pay bribes. Disputes can periodically escalate into violence. This frequently occurs at planting or harvest time, when one side tries to take control of disputed parcels by working them (e.g., E. Hunt 1972; Dennis 1987:3). In these disputes, called ‘‘wars’’ by local people, the object is often the total destruction of the enemy village, something which was occasionally achieved in the past (Kearney 1972). In areas where disputes are chronic, commerce and travel can be disrupted. Settlement patterns are also affected. Bordering towns may have their hamlets paired with one another, guarding access to strategic territory (Monaghan 1995:209).12 Bad feelings over land disputes make the trust needed for intercommunity cooperation difficult, and neighboring indigenous communities, even those speaking the same language, may portray each other with stereotypes as negatively powerful as those used for Mestizos and whites (e.g., Dennis 1987: 3–4). In many areas of Oaxaca, village life is defined by an active struggle with neighboring villages over territory and resources. Dennis (1987:163–178) suggests there are three reasons why so many land disputes resist final settlement. First, the right to lands is often defined in moral terms. This tends to make compromise difficult. Second, violence leads to feuding, and it is always hard to break a cycle of revenge killings. Finally, the state allows for numerous appeals, so that the different sides focus on outmaneuvering one another rather than negotiating a settlement. Indeed, it would be impossible to understand land disputes with-

out considering the role of the state. On the one hand, the state, while not able to eliminate inter-community feuding, does provide a check on the level of violence (during the Revolution, when the state was at its weakest, competing villages engaged in all-out struggles with one another). On the other hand, state policies can be the direct cause of violence. In the Tlaxiaco region, major disputes date from periods when the state sought to clarify or reform rights to land, which had the effect of bringing differences in interpretation of land boundaries to the fore (Monaghan 1995:272). Decisions to grant subordinate settlements independence have also touched off disputes in numerous cases. Mazatec A great deal of ethnographic attention has been paid to Mazatec religious specialists. An initial impetus for this was the work of Gordon Wasson on the use of hallucinogenic mushrooms to cure and divine, which made his main informant, María Sabina, an international cult figure. From an ethnographic perspective, his most important contribution is his 1974 book, which contains the text and a recording of a velada performed by María Sabina in 1958.13 She has been the subject of several biographical works (Estrada 1977; García Carrera 1986). The work by Alvaro Estrada, a Mazatec speaker from Huautla de Jiménez, also contains the texts of some velada chants, including a retranslation of a 1956 recording made by Wasson. His biography, with the revised translation, was translated into English by Henry Munn, who added many detailed and highly informative footnotes on the symbolism and meaning of the chants (Estrada 1981). A recent work by Estrada (1996) discusses the outsiders drawn to Huautla by the mystical reputation it acquired in the wake of Wasson’s publications. A series of texts generated in response to questions on cosmology, curing, plant use, and body concept by Mazatec speakers in the region has been produced by Carlos Incháustegui (1977, 1994). Eckart Boege has situated specialists such as María Sabina within a sociopolitical framework. 165

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 .    .  He notes that Mazatec ‘‘persons of knowledge’’ tend to be drawn from three groups: elders, third-gendered individuals (ha na), and widows or abandoned women (1988:171). He attributes the large number of ha na and widows who become persons of knowledge to a combination of sociological and symbolic factors: it is a role that gives individuals outside functioning domestic units a measure of power, and the ambiguous status of ha na and widows allows them to mediate categories such as human and divine (Boege 1988:172–174). Although it is not a common route to political leadership, persons of knowledge have the unique ability to relate political and social events to corporeal states, making them important moral arbiters (Boege 1988:168; see also Lipp 1991:168). Recently Benjamin Fineberg (1997) has argued that Mazatec persons of knowledge employ a discourse/practice that enacts the way power is perceived to operate in rural Mexico, so that many of the images evoked in the mushroom ceremonies, far from being ancient Precolumbian symbols, instead have to do with Mazatec interactions with government officials, wealthy merchants, and foreign tourists. Mazatec ethnography has also focused on the issue of political leadership. In some Mazatec communities—as is true of other indigenous communities in Oaxaca—key political decisions are in the hands of a council of elders, made up of men who have passed through the cargo system. The council is consulted by officials before any policies are announced, and in some places the council nominates office holders (e.g., J. Greenberg 1981; Neiburg 1988: 128–129). In San José Tenango, a Sierra Mazatec community, eldership is formally institutionalized, and elders are named by the head elder (Neiburg 1988:134). Head eldership also exists in some Chatino communities, in the form of the regidor viejo and fiscal. In times of crisis these men may take the place of the town president (Bartolomé and Barabas 1982:166). Elders are sometimes said to be ‘‘fathers’’ to the members of their community, and the community is compared to a house (Neiburg 1988: 133–135; Monaghan 1996). As is true of relatively unstratified societies around the world, 166

leadership is heavily dependent on rhetorical skills, and Mazatec elders are known for their beautiful and persuasive speech (Neiburg 1988:155–160). Such individuals also serve as marriage ambassadors, perform life crisis and agricultural rites, and oversee change-of-office ceremonies (e.g., Bartolomé and Barabas 1982: 166, 1994:140–141; Neiburg 1988:137–147). If cargo service is in part a spiritual training, then it makes sense to see the council of elders as a priesthood, constituted through that training. Although the council of elders may form an ‘‘extra-constitutional’’ body that allows indigenous people to carry out political activity outside the direct control of government institutions (J. Greenberg 1981; Neiburg 1988:261– 263), ethnographic studies have shown that we should not accept at face value the idea that elders embody the practices that make for communal solidarity. In San José Tenango, it was the elders who sold off communal lands (Neiburg 1988:218). Indeed, in Tenango loyalties are not to the council of elders, but to individual elders who build up a clientele largely through kinship, ritual kinship, and propinquity (Neiburg 1988:132, 230). Although Federico Neiburg (1988:231, 251) argues that Tenango’s elders do not exercise power over the factions that they represent, only ‘‘organizing’’ and giving voice to their interests, in other areas such individuals seek to focus collective interest on issues they directly benefit from. It is clear from this that we should not treat the councils of elders as if they were everywhere the same, which is a distinct tendency in Oaxacan ethnology. Placing them along a scale of authority and power shows significant differences. In contrast to Tenango, there are towns where the council of elders has historically been ad hoc, with elders called in largely to give a stamp of approval to policies already decided by others. There are also towns that, instead of a council, have one or a handful of strongmen, often referred to as caciques. Here elders, although respected for their service, have only slightly more input into the policy-making process than other non-caciques. Powerful councils of elders are increasingly rare. Where councils of elders exist, they usually

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     no longer appoint individuals to civil positions in the civil-religious hierarchy, and the scope of their decision-making is limited to religious matters (Flanet 1977:47; Cordero Avendaño 1992). One of the main reasons for this eclipse has to do with the expansion of the Mexican state in the 1960’s and 1970’s. In impoverished rural areas, the state is the major source of jobs, credits, and other forms of aid. Many elders simply did not have the tools to function effectively as brokers with those who control these resources or the knowledge necessary to make informed policy decisions (e.g., Bartolomé and Barabas 1990). Top civil posts have increasingly been filled by younger men (such as bilingual teachers), often by acclaim in an assembly of citizens or, since control of patronage of local offices has become a contentious issue, through elections with candidates of different political parties vying for office. Grassroots organizations, sometimes organized by women, have also begun to play a role in village politics. In some towns where elders continue to have key political roles, they function as factional leaders, who ally themselves with national political parties.14

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Chinantec Chinantec speakers stand out for their relatively high rate of population increase (INEGI 1995:9) and the large number who are affiliated with Protestant or Evangelical denominations. Nationally, 10.4 percent of the speakers of indigenous languages identify themselves as Protestant or Evangelical. The extremes range from 22.6 percent in Chiapas to 3.1 percent in Guerrero. In Oaxaca, 8.7 percent of speakers of indigenous languages identify themselves as Protestant or Evangelical, yet almost double the percentage of Chinantec do so (see Table 8-3). Of the two community studies that have appeared over the last thirty years (see Table 8-2), the one by John Gwaltney has an unusual focus. Gwaltney chose to do fieldwork in San Pedro Yolox in the early 1960’s because its population suffered from a high incidence of onchocerciasis. Onchocerciasis, which infects conjunctive and optical tissue, is spread by a biting fly, which

T 8-3. Percentage of Speakers of Indigenous Languages in Oaxaca Identifying Themselves as Protestant or Evangelical in 1990 Mixe Chinantec Tequistlatec Zoque Mareño Zapotec Mixtec Mazatec Cuicatec Trique Chocho Amuzgo Chatino

. . *.> 3. 3. .3 .3 . 0.3 0. . -. 3.

Source: INEGI (1993b:202).

is now under control. In the past, if the infection was not treated, it resulted in blindness. In Yolox, half the population was infected, and the disease had left many older people blind. While much of Gwaltney’s book contains the kind of material one would expect to find in a traditional community study, he also describes how Yoloxeños understood the disease, how they treated it, and how they coped with the resulting disability. Because the rugged terrain made travel difficult, the blind relied on child guides to get around. The children were not, however, considered ‘‘guides,’’ but rather said to ‘‘walk’’ with the blind, suggesting a more reciprocal relationship. Indeed, children avidly sought blind people to walk with, since it allowed them to accompany adults into settings from which they might otherwise be excluded. A major social consequence of the disease was thus the relationship that developed between older blind adults and children (Gwaltney 1970:113–114). Gwaltney participated in these relationships in a way that would not be possible for most, since he is himself blind, and walked daily with village children. Several other researches have been concerned with health issues in the Chinantec area. The major study of susto by Arthur Rubel, Carl O’Nell, and Rolando Collado (1984) draws 167

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 .    .  heavily on Chinantec materials gathered by Rubel. Carole Browner has carried out projects in a Chinantec village in the Ixtlán district, consistently focusing on how gender mediates a variety of health issues. In the course of a series of articles (e.g., Browner 1985, 1986a, 1986b, 1989), she also describes many facets of village social structure and economic life. The photographic essay by Roberto Weitlaner and Mercedes Olivera de Vásquez (1969) illustrates some of the curing techniques used by Chinantec and other indigenous peoples of the northern Sierras. Much of the recent ethnographic work published on Chinantec and neighboring Mazatec communities has focused on the consequences of government development efforts. In 1947, President Miguel Alemán authorized a project modeled on the Tennessee Valley Authority, called the Comisión del Papaloapan. It was designed to control flooding in the Veracruz lowlands, promote cattle raising and commercial agriculture, generate hydroelectric power, and provide lands for impoverished people from throughout Mexico. To do this, the commission constructed a number of dams, two of which (the Miguel Alemán over the Río Tonto and the Miguel de la Madrid or Cerro de Oro over the Río Santo Domingo) are located in the heart of lowland Mazatec and Chinantec territory. This meant that while most of the benefits of the project were to accrue to agro-exporters in lowland Veracruz (Alemán was a native of the area), the costs of these dams were to be borne by indigenous peoples of Oaxaca. Portions of all four of the lowland Mazatec municipalities (Ixcatlán, San José Independencia, Soyaltepec, and Jalapa de Díaz) were flooded, and approximately 22,000 people were forced out. The affected Chinantec communities were Ojitlán and Usila, causing the resettlement of some 26,000 people. At the time this represented almost one-fourth of the total Mazatecspeaking population and about one-third of the total Chinantec-speaking population. Mixeand Totonac-speaking populations were also affected. David McMahon (1973) worked in the Mazatec town of Ixcatlán, which had most of its 168

lands flooded and about half its population forced out. The town center is now a narrow peninsula jutting into the dam’s basin. María Ana Portal Ariosa (1986) discusses two resettled communities, Nuevo Patria and Las Margaritas. However, the work by Bartolomé and Barabas (1990) provides the most comprehensive view of the project. In contrast to McMahon, whose account is informed by the pro-development and indigenist anthropology of the 1960’s, Bartolomé and Barabas are highly critical, pointing out that such projects in the tropics usually do not live up to initial projections, and the overall benefits are greatly reduced when matched against the ecological problems they create. However, their severest criticism is reserved for the resettlement program. Chinantec and Mazatec were moved hundreds of kilometers away, in some cases out of Oaxaca and into Veracruz, into environments that were quite distinct from what the villagers were used to. Planners seem to have had little understanding of the region they were moving people into. They introduced crops and agricultural techniques that proved unsuitable in the new environment and initiated economic programs so poorly conceived that they soon collapsed. They created some resettlement zones, such as Uxpanapa, Veracruz, as collective ejidos, which entailed land tenure and working relationships that were not at all what the resettled populations were familiar with. In the process, communities were sometimes divided, indigenous people of different linguistic backgrounds were settled together, and poor farmers from elsewhere in Mexico who arrived searching for land were mixed with resettled populations. Although many of the indigenous people who were moved were monolingual, the fact that they were living in heterogeneous settlements, coupled with the distance separating them from their home communities, meant that they would turn increasingly to Spanish to communicate and that the use of indigenous languages would steadily decline. In response to the forced resettlement, a millennial movement developed in 1972, when El Ingeniero el Gran Dios, Jesus, and the Virgin of Guadalupe appeared to a curer and told

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     him the Cerro de Oro would rupture and the water inside the mountain would destroy the dam. When the prediction did not come to pass, the movement dissipated (Bartolomé and Barabas 1990:78–89). However, funding problems and the 1980’s debt crisis forced a halt in construction, and more than half the relocated population returned to their homes by the early 1980’s (Bartolomé and Barabas 1990: 182). After the work began again in 1984, indigenous leaders emerged—some were assassinated—and in 1986 one thousand Chinantec took over the dam installations. The federal government responded by declaring the Cerro de Oro dam a ‘‘national security’’ project, troops were sent, and it was eventually inaugurated by Carlos Salinas de Gortari in 1989. The explosive situation created by the Cerro de Oro project seems to have contributed to the decision by the Mexican government and the World Bank to back away from a similar project in the Río Balsas drainage in the 1990’s.

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Zapotec Zapotec speakers are the largest indigenous group in Oaxaca, forming a majority in 151 of the state’s 570 municipalities and a minority in another 69. While indigenous towns are seldom larger than a few thousand people, several Zapotec municipalities are small cities. Partly as a consequence of living in or around urban centers, Zapotec speakers are the most cosmopolitan of Oaxaca’s native people. They make up about a third of the indigenous population of Oaxaca, but are close to two-thirds of those with advanced degrees (5,299 of 8,576). This helps to contextualize the leading role Zapotec intellectuals play in the state’s artistic and political scene (see Howard Campbell, this volume). Yet, as Laura Nader (1969b:331) cautioned in the original Handbook, the term ‘‘Zapotec’’ can obscure a great deal of linguistic, sociocultural, economic, and ecological diversity. Indeed, ‘‘Zapotec,’’ like ‘‘Mixtec,’’ refers to a family of related languages. A Summer Institute of Linguistics survey identified no less than thirtyeight Zapotec dialects that fall below an intelligibility level of 70 percent with one another,

the minimum considered necessary for effective communication (S. England 1978). Most of the ethnographic work in Oaxaca over the last thirty years has been carried out in Zapotec-speaking areas. Zapotec towns in or near the Valley of Oaxaca have received a great deal of attention, and many significant studies of Isthmus Zapotec have appeared over the last thirty years. Somewhat less research has been carried out among the linguistically diverse northern Zapotec (see Table 8-2). Amazingly, no ethnographies have been published on the southern Zapotec. Researchers have examined a diverse range of topics: legal behavior and dispute resolution (Cordero Avendaño 1982; Parnell 1988; Nader 1990), political and ethnic organization (Royce 1975; Stephen 1991; H. Campbell 1994; Rubin 1997), learning, child development, and aging (Luis Orozco 1982; Fry 1987, 1992, 1993), religion (El Guindi and Hernández Jiménez 1986; J. Cohen 1993), migration (Hulshof 1991; Hirabayashi 1993), and village social relations (Selby 1974; Dürr 1996), to name a few. However, the ethnographic literature has been dominated by a concern with economic issues. While labor migration and cash cropping have been important vehicles for change throughout Oaxaca, the Zapotec in particular have been involved in the growth of commerce and the expansion of craft production. A number of works outline the development and functioning of markets in Oaxaca (Berg 1974; Beals 1975; S. Cook and M. Diskin 1976; DruckerBrown 1982). They also reveal the important links between local and global markets. Products produced outside the state are increasingly available even in remote communities. At the same time, new outlets have emerged for locally produced crafts, as artisan communities sell their goods to exporters and tourists. In the past, crafts produced in communities like Santa María Atzompa (Hendry 1992; Stolmaker 1996), Teotitlán del Valle (Stephen 1991), Santo Tomás Jalieza (Clements 1990), and Juchitán de Zaragoza (Scheinman 1991) were sold locally, at area markets, and carried by Zapotec merchants into the mountains for sale. Today only a small part of the total production is sold locally, 169

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 .    .  with the bulk going to tourists and exporters whose interest is in consuming indigenous goods made in ‘‘traditional’’ ways. Changes in demand, a saturated market, rising costs of raw material, and the control of marketing by intermediaries have limited the economic benefits to producers. However, craft production, particularly in the Valley of Oaxaca, can bring steady, if not high, income to rural households. This is in contrast to other areas of the state which rely exclusively on local demand, where many ‘‘traditional’’ crafts have been replaced by industrial products. As Scott Cook (1982, 1984) points out, the situation in central Oaxaca makes for an odd mixture of capitalist production strategies and older technologies. S. Cook (1984) and S. Cook and L. Binford (1990) further demonstrate in their general surveys of economic activity in the area that the capitalist imperative of local merchants, artisans, and entrepreneurs is not some aberration, existing beyond the boundaries of indigenous life, but is central to its structure. Rural people may produce a traditional craft, but they are also seeking market share in the hope of a more prosperous future (see also J. Cohen 1994). This view of the indigenous individual as a rational maximizer is the key assumption underlying much of the work on Zapotec gender and ethnicity as well as economics. Heavy involvement in the market has made class-like divisions particularly salient in Zapotec communities. This is demonstrated in the consumption of vehicles and expensive appliances and in changing house styles, including the use of cement in place of adobe and the addition of a second story (Sutro and Downing 1986). Another change is that money previously invested in communal events now is spent on private celebrations where people of similar economic standing are invited to commemorate elaborate family-focused rituals such as birthdays, baptisms, and other coming of age/rite of passage events (Stephen 1991). The key position women hold in the economic life of the Zapotec has led to important work on gender relations. Beverly Chiñas (1976) showed that the Isthmus would stagnate if it 170

were not for Zapotec viajeras (female itinerant merchants) moving goods from producers to markets. Because women are family caretakers and are no-wage laborers in craft-producing households, economic change impacts men and women differently. For example, as more men migrate, women’s roles as caretakers and providers increase, forcing them to work in effect a ‘‘double shift.’’ Also, as craft-making households accumulate resources and begin to employ others, men monopolize authority over production and the disposition of household resources (see Young 1978b; Aranda Bezaury 1988; S. Cook 1990; Stephen 1991). Villagebased ethnography has also revealed the active participation of women in contests over status and their key role in fiesta sponsorship (Chiñas 1973; Mathews 1985). Although the economic contributions of women are vital to the household and community, their authority in social and economic matters is limited. The diminished role religious cargos play in policy-making in most places today has led to a net loss of formal input into the political process on the part of women (Mathews 1985; Stephen 1991), just as women are developing interests that are opposed to those articulated as communal norms or public policy. In the Chinantec area, men learn to view the defense of community as just as important to being male as the defense of their own families and regularly place communal interests before those of their households. Women, on the other hand, often have less interest in seeing the traditional community endure (or at least its traditional political structure) and are more likely to place the interests of household members first. Thus women are more supportive of their children’s education than men, and women view their children’s migration to urban areas more favorably than their husbands, who may actively oppose such a move. Women are also more likely to support development projects involving health, education, and welfare of children (Browner 1986a). As this suggests, women use kinship ties—along with inter-household networks of exchange and fiesta sponsorship—as modalities for social maneuvering and have an interest in maintain-

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     ing and strengthening these ties. Such strategies have a developmental dimension as well. Nicole Sault (1985a), for example, notes that women seek to preserve their positions by becoming godmothers to many children to create networks of support that will replace declining familial ties as they age (see also Chiñas 1973; Berg 1976; Stephen 1991). Economic and ethnic variables may inflect gender and transform or reinforce inequalities, strategies, and identities. As the Chinantec example suggests, communal institutions enable indigenous people to resist inroads, but they may be built on the backs of some members of the community, who in turn may not be totally committed to preserving them. Although some work has been done on gender ideologies—the old view of Zapotec women as Amazons has been thoroughly debunked (O. Campbell 1993; H. Campbell 1994)—there has been little exploration of sexuality as a field of power. We know embarrassingly little about the construction of gendered difference (corporeal or otherwise), and even though the existence of third-gendered persons (like the Native North American berdache) has been documented (e.g., Chiñas 1985; Boege 1988), the implications for understanding Oaxacan societies remain to be explored.

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Tequistlatec The Tequistlatec are also known as the Chontal, a Nahuatl name meaning ‘foreigner.’ However, because this named confused them with the Chontal Maya, linguists have referred to the group as the Tequistlatec, after what was the largest of their settlements, Tequisistlán (which today has few speakers of the language). Marco Antonio Vásquez Dávila (1995), who has carried out fieldwork in the Tequistlatec Highlands, uses the indigenous term ‘‘Shuuala Xanuc’ ’’ in place of ‘‘Tequistlatec.’’ However, shuuala xanuc’ literally means ‘mountain people’ (P. Turner and S. Turner 1971:225), so it is not clear whether it embraces both highland and lowland Tequistlatec, who speak dialects of the language that are close to being unintelligible. The climate of the Tequistlatec region shifts

from wet, tropical cloud forests (reaching altitudes of 1,200–1,800 meters) to the dry coastal plain. Corn and other grains are planted in the highlands (the municipalities of Asunción Tlacolulita, San Carlos Yautepec, San Miguel Tenango, Santa María Quiegolani, and Santa María Ecatepec), while coastal communities (in the municipalities of Santiago Astatla and San Pedro Huamelula) also produce fruits and sugarcane. Fishing is important on the coast, but remains secondary to farming and is usually only carried out during lulls in the agricultural cycle (January and February, August to October) (Ruiz González 1981). Throughout the region, goat-raising is a source of income, and Tequistlatec work as shepherds for Mestizo merchants. Products from different ecozones are exchanged during fiestas (Vásquez Dávila 1995:118). Census data are inconsistent. Tequistlatec communities tend to be small and are located in an area where the basic unit of state government—the municipality—tends to be relatively large, embracing socially and ethnically distinct groups. Since census data are reported by municipality, the results can be confused, a situation aggravated by the absence of a commonly accepted label for the language people speak. In any event, Paul Turner (1972) estimated a population of nearly 7,500 people in the early 1970’s. According to María Teresa Ruiz González (1981), there were 10,128 speakers of Tequistlatec in 1970, while an internal INI document based on data collected in 1989 found at least 6,940 speakers in the highlands (Vásquez Dávila 1995:21–22). The 1990 census counted only 4,670 Tequistlatec speakers over five years old. Arnulfo Embriz (1993) notes that, with the exception of Magdalena Tequisistlán and San Pablo Coatlán (communities where Tequistlatec speakers are small minorities), every Tequistlatec village is experiencing strong out-migration, resulting in negative population growth. Tequistlatec men travel to Salina Cruz, Tehuantepec, Orizaba, and Coatzacoalcos to work in construction and industry. Others travel to nearby Merced del Portrero and Topiltepec to work on coffee plantations (Ruiz González 1981; Vásquez Dávila 1995:86). 171

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 .    .  T 8-4. Percentage of Indigenous Language–Speaking Population between Five and Fourteen Years of Age Trique Amuzgo Chinantec Chatino Mazatec Mixe Mixtec Cuicatec Zoque Mareño Chocho Zapotec Tequistlatec

*0.7 *0.3 **.0 *3.7 *3.*. 3.0 3.* 37. 3.* 3. 33.> .0

Source: INEGI (1993b:50–51).

It would be difficult to attribute the sharp drop in the numbers of Tequistlatec speakers in the census counts to migration alone. The key to a linguistic community’s strength has to do with whether or not its children are learning the language. For many years, schoolteachers prohibited children from using the language and told parents that Tequistlatec was a sign of backwardness, a message that many Tequistlatec speakers internalized (Bartolomé and Barabas 1996:205–206). As far back as the 1940’s, Viola Waterhouse (1949) observed that the Tequistlatec were teaching their children Spanish as a first language (see also P. Turner [1972:6], who notes that the lowland people are either bilingual or have lost the ability to speak the language). In the 1990 census, children between five and fourteen years of age made up 27.38 percent of the Mexican population. If one looks at speakers of indigenous languages in Oaxaca, one can see that five- to fourteen-year-olds approximate this percentage (Table 8-4). Of course, this can be skewed by differential fertility and death rates, migration, and regional differences, but two groups stand out for the relatively low proportion of children to adult speakers of the language—Tequistlatec (9.6 percent) and to a lesser degree Zapotec (22 percent). Indeed, these languages seem 172

increasingly the language of the old. While 6.7 percent of speakers of indigenous languages in Mexico are sixty-five years of age and older, the proportion is 12.8 percent for the Tequistlatec and 8.2 percent for the Zapotec. Mareño The Mareño live along the sandbars, barrier islands, and lagoons of the Pacific coastal plain of the Isthmus of Tehuantepec. They have long been known as the ‘‘Huave,’’ but it is a term (likely a Zapotec pejorative) not used by the Mareño themselves (Cheney 1976:10). Most identify themselves as members of their natal community or use the terms ‘‘Mareño’’ or ‘‘Montico,’’ evoking a whole way of life associated with the sea (Cheney 1976; Ramírez Castañeda 1987). The term mero ikooc, which contrasts with the people of the Isthmus (misiig) and foreigners (mole), also appears to be in use (Millán 1995:130). When the ethnolinguist A. Richard Diebold (1969) wrote his article on the Mareño for the original Handbook, there were no published accounts based on long-term ethnographic research. The situation has improved markedly over the last thirty years, with a concentration of work on San Mateo del Mar. The monograph by Charles Cheney (1976) is an extended discussion of the town’s cargo system. The community study by the late Italo Signorini (1979) includes chapters by Signorini and Luigi Tranfo (1979) on illness and curing, by Tranfo (1979) on the coessence, by Carla Rita (1979) on Mareño ideas surrounding conception and birth, and by Giorgio Cardona (1979) on classification. Lupo (1981) has written on cosmology, and Elisa Ramírez Castañeda (1987) on myth. Daniel Zizumbo Villarreal and Patricia Colunga García-Marín (1982) examine farming, land use, and subsistence practices. The survey of fishing communities on the coast of Oaxaca and Guerrero by Roberto Rodríguez and Imelda García (1985) contains a chapter on San Francisco del Mar Pueblo Viejo. More recently, Margarita Dalton and Guadalupe Musalem Merhy (1992) have examined the role of women in

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     Mareño society. The photographic essay by José Pintado and Pablo Ortiz Monasterio (1981) should also be noted. The largest Mareño municipality continues to be San Mateo del Mar (7,855 Mareño speakers). San Francisco del Mar (3,863 speakers) and San Dionisio del Mar (1,985 speakers) are the other large Mareño municipalities.15 Santa María del Mar, an agencia of Juchitán, is the fourth largest Mareño settlement. The largely Zapotec-speaking municipalities of Francisco Ixhuatán and San Blas Atempa both have a small Mareño enclave. Mareño are often in conflict with neighboring Zapotec-speaking towns over farmland (Millán 1995:136–137). However, some Mareño farmers have moved from San Mateo to San Francisco del Mar, where they founded an ejido (Ejido de Bienes Colectivos) with Zapotec farmers (Ramírez Castañeda 1987). Indeed, many Zapotec from larger communities in the Isthmus have moved into Mareño towns, where they serve as brokers, often control the school bureaucracy, and have introduced many techno-economic changes. Dalton and Musalem Merhy (1992) discuss the dominant role played by Zapotec market women from San Blas Atempa and Juchitán in the economic life of the Mareño. They also point out that over the last ten years Mareño women have begun to challenge Zapotec merchants’ hold on the area, entering the market as itinerant vendors, brokers, and market-stall owners. Some of these women sell the fish and agricultural items produced by their families. Others are moving into the sale of consumer goods and crafts. While Mareño continue to rely on the sea to make ends meet, many changes have occurred. In the past, Mareño fishing depended on family and extended kin-based inputs, and they tended to use homemade canoes and small crafts, staying within the relatively calm waters of the lagoons. Today fishing involves new technologies, such as bigger boats equipped with outboard motors, largely made possible through government credits granted to Mareño cooperatives that sell their catches in officially run markets. Mareño are now able to exploit

new species of fish, moving away from coastal waters and into the Pacific in search of larger catches. Individual fishermen find it difficult to compete against their better-financed and technologically more sophisticated rivals. The cooperatives however, cannot employ all who wish to join (Ramírez Castañeda 1987; Millán 1995:144). Both fishing cooperatives and individual fishermen have been severely impacted by the deterioration of the local ecosystem. The construction of the Benito Juárez dam, completed in 1961, drastically reduced the amount of fresh water entering the Mareño lagoons. With the drying up of estuaries, the lagoons shrank in size, and salinity increased, killing off native species. The nearby industrial and shipping center of Salina Cruz spilled pollutants into the Mareño lagoons, and the increasing number of fishermen working the lagoons as populations have risen further depleted fish and shrimp stocks. In 1971, the government inaugurated the ‘‘Huave Plan’’ to combat the poverty and stress brought on by environmental damage and economic changes (Cheney 1976; Ramírez Castañeda 1987). The plan began by building gravel roads and piping fresh water to San Mateo, Santa María, and San Francisco del Mar. Long-range goals include improvement of health care, home building projects, continued road improvements, and the construction of a resort. There is little evidence of projects aimed at protecting the local ecosystem. Throughout Oaxaca, environments have changed dramatically over the last thirty years (see González and Vásquez 1992). Geography and location have blessed the region with an exceptional biological diversity: an estimated 15,000 species of flora live in Oaxaca. Yet the rate of destruction of native ecosystems is one of the highest in Mexico (Consejo 1992:27–28). Of immediate concern for many indigenous groups is the loss of forests. Outside of the interior valleys, the Mixteca Baja, and the coastal savannah, Oaxaca is forested, and most indigenous communities in these areas—which is to say most groups—possess communal forests. The Chimapala area of the Zoque for example, 173

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 .    .  contains the largest remnant of the vast tropical forest that once stretched from the Isthmus of Tehuantepec into the Petén region of Guatemala. However, forests are being rapidly destroyed by politically well-connected lumber companies. Since most forests are on the communal lands of indigenous villages, deals are made to provide roads and other infrastructure for the lumber cut. Unfortunately, communities are not prepared for the level of work required to keep up roads in mountainous areas, and the other benefits provided—used trucks, shoddily built municipal buildings—are often transitory. Meanwhile huge tracts of forest are clear-cut, with no program for reforestation. Lumber companies have also established illegal mills, such as those that existed in the Chimalapas for years, thereby avoiding having to reimburse native people for the lumber they cut (Acevedo et al. 1993:232).

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Ayuuk Despite being divided into numerous landholding communities and located in distinct environmental zones, the people long known as the Mixe have a solid sense of shared identity (Nahmad Sittón 1989). They call themselves Ayuuk, a name meaning people ‘of the word,’ or people ‘of the flowery language,’ or people ‘who speak God’s language’ (Belmar 1902:xvii, 57; Lipp 1991; Ballesteros R. 1992:11; Reyes Gómez 1995:169). Ethnographic work in this area of Oaxaca has emphasized the religious dimension of indigenous life. Etsuko Kuroda (1984) discusses shrines and pilgrimages, while Barabas and Bartolomé (1984) analyze the Ayuuk narrative of a powerful heroking that underwrites a Messianic tradition in the region. The Salesian missionary Leopoldo Ballesteros R. and Mauro Rodríguez (1974), Anne Marie Bevlink (1979), and Salomón Nahmad Sitton (1965) provide general descriptions of Ayuuk society; Ballesteros R. (1992) also published a more specialized examination of Mixe religion. The Ayuuk linguist Daniel Martínez Pérez (1989) provides an exegesis of religious concepts. Frank Lipp (1991) describes the intricate Mixe calendars, which are orga174

nized around three sets of activities—subsistence, illness and misfortune, and religion. In the course of his analysis, he discusses rites of passage, medicine, and cosmology. Guido Münch Galindo (1996) has written a valuable history of the Mixe region, with an ethnographic section that examines curing, sacrifice, and fiestas, activities documented in the photographic essay by Nahmad Sittón and Nacho López (1981). In each of these works, the unit of analysis has been considerably larger than the community: the parish, the diocese, the Ayuuk highlands, or the entire Ayuuk region. Nahmad Sittón (1994) has edited a volume bringing together sources on Ayuuk ethnography and history. The CIESAS-sponsored Centro de Investigación Ayuuk, which is aimed at furthering anthropological work through collaborative projects between indigenous and outside researchers, has been the most active center in the state (Nahmad Sittón 1990). Zoque Most Zoque speakers live in the northwest part of the state of Chiapas, with a little over 11 percent (4,849) in Oaxaca, largely in the municipalities of Santa María and San Miguel Chimalapa.16 Bartolomé and Barabas (1994:135) estimate, however, that over 8,000 Oaxacans identify themselves as ethnically ‘‘Chima,’’ a designation based on place of origin, rather than linguistic competence. While ethnographic work has been not nearly as extensive as it has been for other groups in Chiapas, Zoque speakers are represented in the ethnographic record by several monographs based on long-term fieldwork and a number of specialized ethnographic and historical studies. In addition to village studies (see Table 8-2), the anthropologist and diplomat Félix Báez-Jorge (1975a, 1975b, 1976, 1983) has published articles on Zoque social organization, land tenure, cosmology, and gender relations based on fieldwork in the municipalities of Ocotepec and Chapultenango. Báez-Jorge, along with Amado Rivera Balderas and Pedro Arrieta Fernández (1985), critiqued the resettlement program implemented after the Chichonal vol-

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     cano eruption in 1982, which destroyed the municipality of Francisco León and drove thousands of Zoque from their homes. Amalia Niván Bolán (1995) discusses the ways relocation affected Zoque women. A work edited by Alfonso Villa Rojas (1975) contains chapters by Norman Thomas, Báez-Jorge, Francisco R. Córdoba O., and the ethnohistorian José M. Velasco Toro (whose chapter on the Colonial history of the region is about 40 percent of the work). Laureano Reyes Gómez (1988) has produced an insightful study of Zoque ethnomedicine, which includes a discussion of ideas about the body, drawn, for the most part, from information collected in Tapalapa. In the same volume, Susana Villasana Benítez (1988) describes the social characteristics of Tapalapa. A survey of the Zoque area based on several short periods of fieldwork has been published by Carlos Uriel del Carpio (1991). For the Oaxacan Zoque, a town monograph exists for Santa María Chimalapa (Muñoz Muñoz 1977). Norman Thomas (1974b) provides a good review of early linguistic and historical sources on the Zoque, which the bibliographic essay by Miguel Lisbona Guillén (1994) brings up to date. The Oaxacan Zoque are also the subject of articles by Bartolomé and Barabas (1994) and Amado Rivera Balderas (1976). In recent years, the Zoque-speaking communities in Oaxaca, and many of those in Chiapas, have been overwhelmed by immigrants. The Chimalapa municipalities are two of the most extensive in Oaxaca and are located in an area that had little human habitation. First, Zapotecspeaking people began to settle in the municipal centers during the Revolution. Known as avencindados or Ladinos, they became merchants (a rural niche they fill throughout the eastern half of Oaxaca). Later, Mestizo ranchers moved in, introducing cattle on the lands clearcut by lumber companies (Bartolomé and Barabas 1994:131). These groups, who affiliated with the PRI (Partido Revolucionario Institucional), displaced Zoque speakers in positions of authority. Most Zoque speakers now reside in isolated hamlets, not in the municipal centers (Acevedo et al. 1993:232, 234–235). In 1977, indigenous people did get the lumber com-

pany concessions in the region canceled (burning several of the mills in the process), and the Zoque of San Miguel Chimalapa, affiliated with the COCEI (Coalición Obrera Campesina Estudiantil del Istmo), managed to elect their candidate as municipal president. A similar movement in Santa María failed (Bartolomé and Barabas 1994:131–134). In Chiapas, most Zoque live on the slopes of the Sierra de Pantepec, which, in certain areas, was only sparsely populated. Since the publication of the original Handbook, more than 5,000 Tzotzil speakers from Chamula, Simojovel, San Juan el Bosque, Rincón Chamula, and Bochil have moved into the Zoque municipalities of Coapilla and Chicoasén, where they were granted ejidos. Since some of these ejidos are on lands already granted to Zoque as ejidos, conflicts have erupted. Tzotzil speakers have also established over a dozen settlements around the Netzahualcóyotl dam, in the Zoque municipalities of Ocozocuautla and Tecpatán, and are found in Pantepec, Rayón, Solosuchiapa, and Amatán (Uriel del Carpio 1991:90, 110–112). In the 1970’s, Tzotzil speakers began to cross the border into Oaxaca. In Santa María Chimalapa, historically the most isolated and conservative Zoque town in Oaxaca, close to 20 percent of the indigenous population now speaks Tzotzil (Embriz 1993). It is estimated that Tzotzil and Tzeltal speakers from Chiapas now occupy about 20 percent of the communal land in the Chimalapa area (Bartolomé and Barabas 1994: 131). The displacement of indigenous populations by outsiders is an important dynamic in many places in the greater Oaxaca region, in particular those dozens of indigenous municipalities with large extensions of land, but relatively low concentrations of populations, which are located along the Pacific Coast and in the Isthmus region. All are now experiencing massive immigration. For example, indigenous people from throughout Oaxaca have settled in the low-lying forests north and east of the main Ayuuk concentrations, in the Ayuuk municipalities of San Juan Cotzocón, San Juan Mazatlán, and San Juan Guichicovi, as well as Matías Romero and other nearby towns. This migra175

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 .    .  tion began in the 1950’s and has given these municipalities a linguistic heterogeneity unrivaled in Mexico. Many of the newly arrived groups founded individual settlements in the vast, uninhabited forests, thereby maintaining a level of discreteness. Some of these settlements maintain strong ties to their original communities. During a land dispute, the Mixtec speakers settled in Plan de San Luis, San Juan Guichicovi, were able to call up several hundred men from their home town in the Tlaxiaco district, who journeyed across the state to stay with them for a time as a show of force. As the Ayuuk case suggests, it is not simply a matter of indigenous people being despoiled by Mestizos, since those who move in are frequently indigenous people from overpopulated or land-starved areas. The process may begin with the taking in of a few refugees or the granting of land-use rights to a handful of impoverished people, who then attract more migrants. The opening of transportation routes facilitates the process. The road between Guerrero and Oaxaca made the movement of Guerrero populations into the indigenous municipalities along the coast a possibility, and the parts of eastern Oaxaca settled by Tzotzil speakers in the 1970’s have been accessible by road only from Chiapas. Government resettlement programs, as in the eastern Ayuuk municipalities, have also played a role. In many cases, given the amounts of land some indigenous municipalities possess, firm control over borders is not possible. Moreover, native populations in landrich municipalities often have little experience in defending claims and have usually been slow in obtaining the official grants legally endowing them with communal land (some municipalities along the coast still have not obtained them). Perhaps the saddest case is that of Santa María Zacatepec, which at the turn of the century was an indigenous Mixtec town. Today the indigenous population has been pushed out by Mestizos and Mixtec from the Mixteca Alta, who enclosed much of the land for pasturage. Most of the native population now lives on the periphery of the municipality, on marginal land. By 1970, they had stopped serving in many cargo offices and participating in communal institu176

tions, such as tequio (Cordero Avendaño 1992). As might be expected, violence related to land questions is high. C Images of Oaxaca as an Indian area abound in the capital of the state. The annual Guelegetza, a folkloric display of regional dances that draws thousands of visitors each summer, portrays indigenous people as the bearers of an ancient heritage. In front of the state’s medical school at the northern end of the capital is the fountain of the seven regions, which places Oaxaca City at the center of neat ethnic divisions, where the various rural peoples—Cuicatec, Mixtec, Zapotec, Mixe, and so forth—maintain their languages, costumes, and traditions, all filling their particular environmental and social niches. Perhaps the most diffuse image of indigenous Oaxaca is the figure of Benito Juárez, the man who overcame the disadvantages of his Zapotec childhood in the Sierra to become president of Mexico. His name now graces streets throughout the region as well as the major university, and even Oaxaca City itself is formally named Oaxaca de Juárez. Although somewhat contradictory, the understandings that inform these images were very much in force when the articles for the first Handbook were written: ethnographic work focused on documenting agricultural practices and ancient customs, while the indigenista and development paradigms predicted a shift by indigenous people to national norms of social comportment and economic behavior. One should not dismiss these approaches out of hand—it is true that some Mixe use a calendar with ancient roots, and the people of towns where Chocho was once spoken now speak only Spanish—but the history of the last thirty years has proven to be more complex than either ethnographic practice or anthropological theory was prepared for. Since the 1960’s, populations throughout the region have been thrust into new relationships with the state and global markets, the environment has deteriorated, resettlement has broken up established communities, and indigenous people have not always

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     chosen the unthreatening course of assimilation suggested by the image of Benito Juárez. As this review indicates, the consistent ethnographic response over the last thirty years has been to focus on the political and material implications of these developments, even when such issues have not been at the heart of anthropological theorizing more generally. N 1. These figures are based on the 1990 national census, which probably underestimates the size of Oaxaca’s indigenous population by a significant margin. Perhaps more than in any other place, the indigenous population of Oaxaca has been involved in migratory wage labor. However, the 1990 census counted temporary migrants at their location of migration rather than their home communities. Also, since children under five are not included as speakers of indigenous languages, the numbers are further underestimated. Ethnically at least, Oaxaca’s indigenous population should be at least 15 percent higher than the official estimate (see Table 8-1). 2. Nor should one forget that migration between locales in Oaxaca can be substantial. Most of the people living in San José Tenango (pop. 3,000), a lowland Mazatec town, for example, are actually from Huautla de Jiménez and other highland Mazatec towns (Neiburg 1988:214). 3. This does not deny (see Sandstrom, this volume) that any community that goes from being largely monolingual in an indigenous language to largely monolingual in Spanish has been massively changed. 4. Mixtec speakers are the dominant majority in the municipalities of Chigmecatitlán, San Jerónimo Yacatlán, Santa Catarina Tlaltempam, and Xayacatlán de Bravo; they make up a significant minority of the population of Zapotitlán, and there are small populations of Mixtec speakers in Petlacingo and Totoltepec de Guerrero. 5. A weakness in this kind of research is that it focuses on people who maintain contacts with their households or communities (e.g., Butterworth 1975: 179). While these may be the great majority of indigenous Oaxacan migrants, it is nevertheless true that there are significant numbers of migrants who abandon household and community. 6. J. Greenberg (1989:26) provides a map with the locations of fincas in the Juquila region. 7. The effects of the government coffee agency,

which began operations in 1973 and also extended credit to coffee producers, are discussed by Neiburg (1988:89–90) for the Mazateca. 8. Their candidate, Mayoral Heredia, was eventually removed from the governorship and replaced by someone more to the liking of the traditional Oaxaca City elite. 9. Pistoleros may come from Afro-Mexican seafront communities and may also work as vaqueros (Flanet 1977), or they may be individuals who have been forced to flee their home communities and have become paid assassins. 10. The only significant concentrations of Chocho-Popoloca speakers in Oaxaca are in the municipalities of San Juan Bautista Coixtlahuaca (in the community of Santa Catarina Ocotlán), San Miguel Tulancingo, and Santa María Natívitas of the district of Coixtlahuaca. Chocho speakers constitute a majority only in Natívitas, and children consistently learn the language only in Ocotlán (Pardo Brügmann 1995:101–102). 11. By the same token, competition may decline when older activities, such as goat herding, are dropped, making formerly valuable grazing areas of little productive value (see Spores 1984 for a discussion of the relationship between the introduction of livestock and land disputes during the Colonial period). 12. In the Mareño area, one section of San Mateo del Mar moved out of the municipal center to live in Huazantán del Río to prevent encroachment by the people of Tehuantepec on agricultural lands (Zizumbo Villarreal and Colunga García-Marín 1982: 186–187). In the Trique town of Copala, Parra Mora and Hernández Díaz (1994:73–80) view the dispersed settlement pattern of the Copaltecos (houses hidden behind thick walls of vegetation or tucked in barrancas and the barrios lacking any identifiable center) as a response to the threat of sneak attacks. 13. It was transcribed and translated into English and Spanish by George and Florence Cowan. Willard Rhodes also provided a musical notation of the performance and authored a separate chapter on music. A retrospective volume with chapters by colleagues and collaborators of Wasson (Riedlinger 1990) contains information on early fieldtrips to Oaxaca. 14. This was the case in Huautla de Jiménez, where there were two councils of elders in the 1980’s, one associated with the PRI and the other with the PPS (Partido Popular Socialista) (Neiburg 1988:167– 168). 15. When Diebold wrote his article on the Mareño for the Handbook, the people of San Francisco del

177

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 .    .  Mar were located on the narrow strip of land separating the lagoons from the sea. They had just begun to move across the lagoon and inland when drifting sand dunes threatened to bury the old town. Partly because the move meant that they would have to give up fishing, many decided to tough it out, even when the government saw itself obliged to force them to relocate in the late 1960’s (R. Rodríguez and I. García 1985:13). The result is that there are now two San

178

Franciscos: San Francisco del Mar Pueblo Nuevo and San Francisco del Mar el Viejo (the municipal seat moved to Pueblo Nuevo). Some Mareño in Pueblo Nuevo return to fish in Pueblo Viejo on a parttime basis, since the aridity of the soil in their new town makes farming difficult. 16. Zoque speakers in the Isthmus municipality of Asunción Ixtaltepec are recent migrants from Santa María Chimalapa (Bartolomé and Barabas 1994).

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9. The Maya of Chiapas since 1965 ULRICH KÖHLER

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A

I

   of anthropologists have worked in Chiapas over the last thirty years, far more than in any other region of Mesoamerica. As a result of their research, about half of the ethnographic literature on Mexican Indians published between 1965 and 1995 refers to this southernmost Mexican state. In view of the wide range of subjects covered, it is difficult to single out specific foci of research. Nevertheless, certain principal currents are discernible. One of these has been the attempt to understand the belief system and lifeways of Maya-speaking Indians, who—in comparison to those of other regions —seemed to be marginally acculturated. This interest in the archaic and untouched was not grounded on a simple obsession for the exotic, but rather conceived as a means to find additional clues for a better understanding of Precolumbian Mayan culture. This was a central point of interest during the early phase of the Harvard Chiapas Project directed by Evon Z. Vogt, which accounts for about one-fourth of the published ethnographic record on Chiapas, but also in the investigations of several independent researchers. Another focus was

on the indigenous concepts of their environment and lifeways. One of the centers of worldwide research in cognitive anthropology was in the highlands of Chiapas, especially among the Tzeltal. Several of these researchers had been brought into the area through the Manin-Nature Project of the University of Chicago, directed by the linguist Norman A. McQuown. A third emphasis was directed toward processes of change and strategies developed by the Indians in order to cope with those processes. And there have been vast changes indeed: different government programs to integrate the Indians into Mexican society, an improvement of infrastructure (roads, electricity, water), public works (among these the construction of three huge dams), the oil boom and subsequent mushrooming of private and public construction in Tuxtla Gutiérrez, the capital of the state. Many changes have also occurred in the religious sphere. Large numbers of Maya converted to Protestantism. This led to the expulsion of converted families from many communities, especially Chamula. These refugees formed new settlements with churches of their own (see Fig. 9-1) on the outskirts of San Cristóbal. On the other hand, the Catholic Church changed its policy. The new, more 179

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  dogmatic and aggressive policy toward Indians introduced by the current Catholic bishop provoked a strong reaction in Chamula, where the entire town converted from the official Roman Catholic Church to the Santa Iglesia Ortodoxa Católica Mexicana. The presentation begins with a general discussion of the indigenous population of Chiapas, followed by a review of work on the Tzotzil and Tzeltal of the central highlands, among whom the bulk of ethnographic research has been carried out. The Ch’ol, Tojolabal, and Lacandon are treated in separate sections. The settlement areas of the Tzotzil, Tzeltal, Ch’ol, and Zoque (treated by Monaghan and Cohen, this volume) are indicated on the map in Figure 9-2 (the area inhabited by recent indigenous migrants to the Lacandon forest is not shown). The ethnohistory of the Chiapanec, now extinct, has been solidly reconstructed by Carlos Navarrete (1966). Regarding the Mocho, Perla Petrich (1985) has published a monograph on food habits and a few articles on other subjects. Nowadays this Mayan language is spoken only by people older than sixty (L. Martin 1990:421). It would seem, therefore, that it will soon follow the fate of Chiapanec.

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P The Indian population of Chiapas, defined linguistically, has been markedly growing over the last decades (INEGI 1985:107). In 1995, the total number reached approximately 950,000. This figure and those for individual linguistic groups given below are derived from the 716,012 speakers counted in the census of 1990 (INEGI 1993a:5), with the addition of 17 percent for children under five not counted (which amounts to 13.14 percent of the total population and is a low estimate), and by assuming a moderate annual population increase of 2.5 percent. It has become obvious that the Indians of Chiapas are not only growing demographically: their political presence, both nationally and internationally, is also expanding. Native peoples are much more effective in defending their own interests (cf. Morquecho Escamilla 1992), and the 1994 uprising of the EZLN is 180

F 9-1. A Protestant church of Tzotzil Indians at the outskirts of San Cristóbal. Photo by Ulrich Köhler, 1995.

just one, albeit spectacular, example. Forms of restructuring ethnic identities in the wake of the Zapatista rebellion are treated in J. Nash (1995a). Carlos Helbig’s two volumes (1976) have greatly improved our knowledge of the geography of Chiapas. Vogt (1974) is an important contribution to aerial photography. Photographic documentation of other subjects includes Frank Cancian (1974) and Gertrude Duby de Blom (1982). Government policies, especially those that affect Indians, are critically assessed by Thomas Benjamin (1989) and George Collier and Elizabeth Quaratiello (1994). There are several important new publications, all produced in Chiapas. The Anuario of the Instituto Chiapaneco de Cultura, first published in 1990, has become a solid annual almanac of research. The Anuario of the Centro de Estudios Indígenas first appeared in 1986, and CIHMECH (Centro de Investigaciones Humanísticas de Mesoamérica y el Estado de Chiapas) has published articles on Chiapas and Mesoamerica since 1990. Takj Otskjilal . . . Nuestra Sabiduría, with contributions in all Indian languages of Chiapas and Spanish translations, was started in 1992 and is intended primarily as a medium of communication among the various indigenous groups.

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F 9-2. The central highlands and northern Chiapas (adapted from Köhler 1977:172).

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  T C H: T  T Major Trends of Change since the Mid-Sixties Beginning in 1950, the principal outside impact on the Indian communities came through the Instituto Nacional Indigenista (INI), which organized an integrated development program for about a decade and a half (Köhler 1969; Aguirre Beltrán et al. 1978). At the outset this policy embraced activities in the fields of education, road construction, agriculture, public health, and judicial assistance, but it was changed in the second half of the sixties, resulting in an almost complete shift toward the educational sector and the establishment of schools in nearly every hamlet. Some of the former activities of INI have now been taken over by other government agencies, such as the construction of roads and the connection of communities with the national electric network. The construction of three large hydroelectric plants in the nearby Grijalva Valley has made abundant electricity available for this program. Although modern medical service was and still is deficient in the Indian communities, and Tzotzil as well as Tzeltal speakers are not keen on accepting Western medicine, efforts in preventive medicine and programs to improve hygienic conditions have contributed to accelerated demographic growth. Over the last three decades, the population has multiplied, so that today the Tzotzil number about 300,000 and the Tzeltal about 340,000 (updated on the basis of INEGI 1993a:5). Another government program that has improved living conditions in the highland area has been the provision of drinking water, sometimes transported for distances in pipes, to most of the schools. In Chalchihuitán, an area where water is scarce, this has changed settlement patterns. While formerly the population lived scattered in the mountains, now a hamlet has been formed around each school. The most conspicuous government intervention in Indian communities has been the construction of new huge town halls, such as in Zinacantán (see Fig. 9-3), Amatenango, and Pantelhó. In other municipios, the existing 182

buildings were renovated and expanded. It may be of interest that most of these donations were made before the uprising of 1994, and not afterward, as a kind of apology. Again in the public field, from the mideighties onward, Casas de la Cultura were built with help of the state government in Indian municipios. These are used for exhibitions, folkloric performances, and the teaching of traditional arts and crafts. Parallel to these efforts at cultural revitalization was the publication of a great number of bilingual books by the Instituto Chiapaneco de Cultura (e.g., J. Arias 1985, n.d.; Hidalgo Pérez 1985; Pérez López and Ramírez Méndez 1985; Pérez López 1990; Gómez Ramírez 1991). Another change has been in house construction. The picturesque wattle-and-daub walls and roofs thatched with grass (highlands) or palm (lowlands) so common in the houses of the 1960’s have largely been replaced by adobe or cement-block walls and corrugated iron, cardboard, or tile roofs (cf. Breton 1979: 135ff.; Blake and Blake 1988; A. Brockmann and L. Raesfeld 1990; Breedlove and Laughlin 1993:535–544; Roß 1994b; Mündlein et al. 1997). Many of these changes are due to the exhaustion of the original materials, since house construction depended on the availability of local resources, and their forms usually corresponded to the micro-environment where they were built. Deforestation, for example, has often meant that the tree species best suited for house beams and supports are now extinct. But the new types of houses are frequently a status symbol, reflecting the owners’ improved economic standing. Such material signs of progress can conceal, however, a new poverty which has come over a great number of families as a result of the national economic crisis that began in 1982 and has been exacerbated by recent developments. These problems are vividly portrayed by Diane Rus (1988) in her biographical sketch of a Chamulan weaver. Growing populations meant that by the sixties most municipios in highland Chiapas suffered from land shortages, which, coupled with poor soils, forced many people to work out-

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F 9-3. The new town hall of Zinacantán. Photo by Ulrich Köhler, 1995.

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side the highland area, primarily on coffee plantations in the lowlands or in the Sierra Madre. This kind of labor migration was especially marked in Chamula, Mitontic, Oxchuc, and Tenejapa. Now even the communities that had sufficient land, like Chalchihuitán, have exhausted their reserves, with almost all of the forest transformed into agricultural plots. Consequently, members of these communities likewise will be forced to find other sources of income. The following strategies have been pursued by the Tzeltal and Tzotzil in coping with the economic challenges they face. 1. Emigration. This option was pursued by many Tzeltal, especially from the municipio of Oxchuc, who emigrated to the rainforest of the Selva Lacandona and established new colonies there. In this movement, which was mainly directed toward the lowlands of the municipios of Ocosingo, Altamirano, and Margaritas, Tzotzil, mainly from

Chamula and Larráinzar, also participated (cf. González-Ponciano 1991; Leyva Solano and Ascencio Franco 1991; Ascensio Franco and Levya Solano 1992; Collier and Quaratiello 1994:37–87). There is also a growing number of migrants to urban areas of Mexico and the United States (J. Rus and S. Guzmán López 1995). 2. Acquisition of Land from Ladinos. The most extensive land reform in Chiapas had been undertaken in the late thirties during the presidency of Lázaro Cárdenas and was directed primarily at Ladino plantations and ranches (Reyes Ramos 1992; J. Rus 1994; J. Arias n.d.). By the sixties, most of the land in the central highlands was in the hands of local Indians. The struggle continued, however, and culminated in the expulsion of the Ladinos from Larráinzar in 1974 (Roß 1997). The Ladino owners of holdings concentrated on the northern fringes of the highlands, descending to hot country, as in Pantelhó, Simojovel, and El Bosque, were able to re183

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  sist expropriation for some time. Even here, most remaining haciendas have been sold to Indians or expropriated for their benefit in the course of the eighties (Guzmán López and Rus 1990; P. Brown 1993). In 1994, in the wake of the armed upheaval of the EZLN and encouraged by the opposition party PRD, Indians have invaded minifundia (including ejido-land) possessed by Ladinos. Yet whatever the final outcome of these struggles, the amount of land involved is too small to meet current needs. Other strategies will be more important in the future. 3. Cultivation on Rented Land in the Lowlands. This has been practiced principally by Zinacantecos and to a lesser extent by Chamulas in the Grijalva Valley during the sixties and seventies. The Chamulas mainly worked as paid farmhands but a few of them, like the Zinacantecos, acted as small-scale entrepreneurs (cf. Frank Cancian 1972; G. Collier 1975). Once other options became available in the 1970’s and 1980’s, rental of lands in the lowlands became less attractive, and few are engaged in this activity today. 4. Work as Laborers in Construction. Construction jobs became available to Indians in the sixties, when two dams in the Grijalva Valley were built. Later, as a consequence of the exploitation of the rich oilfields in northern Chiapas, public and private construction boomed, offering well-paid employment in Tuxtla and even in Villahermosa. Although the number of jobs declined after 1982, this type of income continues to be of importance for Indian communities. 5. Transport Business. In various communities, but particularly in Zinacantán, Chamula, and Tenejapa, the operation of trucks and minibuses by local men has created new opportunities. In Zinacantán, the more successful entrepreneurs have become an important political faction (Frank Cancian 1992). The development in Tenejapa has been similar (Parra Vázquez 1993). 6. Intensifying Agriculture. Although making milpa remains a key activity for the Maya of Chiapas (see, for example, the study of Mitontic by Nigh [1976], which places milpa 184

farming within an ecological context), the traditional slash-and-burn horticulture used to produce subsistence crops has been replaced in several communities by cash cropping and the use of more intensive agricultural techniques. In the temperate country along the northern fringes of the central highlands, there has been an investment in coffee production. While owners have sometimes profited from high coffee prices, they have also suffered through lean times as a result of the collapse of coffee prices in the 1990’s. In the highland area, several Chamula hamlets now specialize in the intensive cultivation of vegetables for sale in San Cristóbal and Tuxtla. In a case study on a hamlet of Zinacantán, G. Collier (1990) documents the economic changes over the past decades which ultimately led to an intensification of agriculture in the vicinity of the settlement, based on the employment of fertilizer, insecticides, and herbicides. Similar studies on other communities of the region are needed to understand the specific problems each faces. Ornamental flowers, grown in hothouses in a few Zinacantán hamlets (see Fig. 9-4), are another important commercial crop. Norbert Roß (1994a) has investigated the dynamics of the flower industry, finding that a number of Zinacantecos now work as fulltime flower dealers. Trade in flowers is no longer limited to local production, but includes wholesale purchases in markets of Mexico City, as described by J. Haviland (1993). Other papers in the same publication (Breedlove and Laughlin 1993) contain rich information on traditional agricultural methods in Zinacantán. In his description of the agriculture of Santa Marta, Andreas Brockmann (1992) puts special emphasis on the cultivation of sugarcane, bananas, and coffee. For Pantelhó, coffee is also amply treated by Pete Brown (1993) and by Dietmar Wetzel, Jennifer Schmid, and Ixmukané Reyes (1997). It is important to note that each of the new agricultural specializations listed above depends heavily on fertilizer and pesti-

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F 9-4. Hothouses in Pat Osil, Zinacantán. Photo by Ulrich Köhler, 1995.

cides. Since the early eighties, governmentsupplied artificial fertilizers, as well as herbicides and pesticides, have also been used in maize production, especially in Zinacantán (G. Collier and E. Quaratiello 1994:101– 106) and in Chamula. It is remarkable that lush fields of maize now grow in what were almost barren areas along the road to Chenalhó that only provided meager pasture for sheep. While the use of some of these chemicals may have serious environmental consequences, their obvious short-term economic advantages cannot be denied. George Collier, Daniel Mountjoy, and Ronald Nigh (1994) for the first time have applied GIS (Geographical Information Systems) analysis to eco-environmental, economic, and political problems in Chiapas. 7. Arts and Crafts for Tourists. The increase in national and international tourism to Chiapas (cf. van den Berghe 1994) has generated a corresponding increase in the demand for local arts and crafts. The forms and styles of these crafts now respond to the tastes and demands of the tourist, as well as those of traditional consumers. This is clearly discernible in pottery, which is still produced in most

communities for domestic use (cf. Howry 1976), although on a declining scale, due to the competition with products made of metal or plastic. For example, in recent years, the famous globular water-carrying jar from Amatenango once used in Indian communities throughout the highland area is visibly on the retreat. In Amatenango, as described by J. Nash (1970, 1993), potters began to make up for the drop in local demand by producing for the tourist market. In the early seventies, abstract designs were largely replaced by flowers (see Fig. 9-5), introduced by some ‘‘development worker’’; ultimately, however, the former pattern seems to have recovered ground. At about the same time, potters began to create a series of clay figurines for sale to tourists. These were mostly animals, but the latest is a figurine of supkomitanto Marcos (see Fig. 9-6). Present pottery production is based to a large degree on bulk orders from Ladinos for high vases, ugly ‘‘naked’’ doves, and other vessels formerly not produced. Tourism has also had an impact on backstrap loom textile production. While traditional 185

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F 9-5. Women from Amatenango with ceramic vessels destined for Ladinos and tourists. Copyright Antonio Turok, 1979.

clothing is still important to Indian peoples, its use is declining. However, as in the case of pottery, tourism has to some extent replaced the traditional demand. Weavers in Chamula were especially quick to take advantage of new marketing opportunities and created a wide variety of new types of textiles for tourists (see Fig. 97). To a certain extent this orientation toward production for tourists was a response to the economic crisis of the eighties, when men found it increasingly difficult to find jobs in the cities or on plantations. The production of textiles by women was and is a strategy for supplementing household income (D. Rus 1988, 1990; Huse 1994; O’Brian 1994). In Zinacantán, men’s clothes underwent significant change. First, the traditional shorts were almost completely replaced by industrially manufactured trousers, and from the early seventies onward, the color of men’s shirts changed from pink to red. In a good illustration of how fashions may change in so-called 186

traditional costume, flowers of European style appeared in ever greater size and quantity on their clothes (see the frontispiece of Breedlove and Laughlin [1993:xiv]). Reportedly, the wife of an anthropologist unintentionally introduced these flowers around 1970, while teaching the method of cross stitching to one family. A catalog of Indian textiles was produced by Walter Morris (1979). Many of the artifacts now sold to tourists are manufactured by women, and the income gained usually contributes to the family budget. Tourism, however, declined drastically after the uprising of the EZLN in 1994, and those dependent upon the tourist trade have suffered as a result. The current popularity of Neozapatista soldier figurines (see Figs. 9-6 and 9-8) is but little reward. The economic strategies that have enabled the Tzotzil and Tzeltal to continue to live in their villages and hamlets, even in those cases where most of the income is earned outside

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F 9-6. A supkomitanto Marcos from Amatenango. Private collection, 14.5 cm high, bought in 1995.

the highland area, were facilitated by the development of a network of roads—mostly just simple dirt roads—that now link most hamlets to the outside world. While branch roads are rarely used, they still offer the great advantage of making possible the transport of heavy staple goods—like maize and beans—bought in the lowlands to the vicinity of individual dwellings.

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Research on the History and Ethnology of the Tzotzil and Tzeltal The history of interethnic relations in the highlands of Chiapas and the varying structures of oppression of the Indians are described and analyzed by Robert Wasserstrom (1983), Antonio García de León (1985), and Juan Viqueira and Mario Ruz (1995). The same gen-

eral subject is treated in the volume edited by Murdo MacLeod and Wasserstrom (1983), which pays special attention to Indian uprisings. Colonial and nineteenth-century uprisings are also the subject of the monumental work by Bricker (1981), which covers not only the various rebellions in Chiapas, but also those among other Mayan peoples. Her sources are historical records as well as recent oral traditions. A few further insights into rebellions in Chiapas are added by Prudencio Moscoso Pastrana (1992). There are four new monographs on the Tzeltal rebellion of 1712–1713. Eveline Dürr (1991) analyzes the rebellion in the theoretical context of a revitalization movement and for the first time demonstrates the close linkage to preceding minor movements among the Tzotzil. Kevin Gosner (1992) points to the special role of the military leaders in the phase of direct armed confrontation, which previously had not received sufficient attention. Viqueira (1993, 1997) focuses on the role of María Candelaria, the prophet of the movement. Memorias del Tercer Congreso Internacional de Mayistas (1998:771–798, 816–822), held in 1995, contains three articles dealing with aspects of this revolt. The other great rebellion which involved several communities, that of the Chamulas in 1867–1870, was the subject of an important study by Jan Rus (1983). He was able to demonstrate that the almost generally accepted version of Vicente Pineda (1888), published two decades after the event, contains fundamental distortions. His review of oral traditions (J. Rus 1989) adds valuable information. For an understanding of the subsequent phases of the movement, oral traditions document an important historical detail. As attested by several of twenty versions from five communities involved, the Tzotzil considered the fleeing Chamulan leaders foreign exploitative intruders and therefore requested Mexican authorities to send soldiers to expel the Chamulas from their communities (Köhler 1999b). One of the most notorious events of the Chamulan uprising reported by Pineda was the crucifixion of an Indian boy by the Chamulas, who were allegedly motivated by a desire to 187

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F 9-7. Textiles for tourists in the market of Chamula. All items shown have been adapted or created for non-Indian customers. Photo by Ulrich Köhler, 1995.

have a legitimate Indian Christ. Yet the oral histories published to date make no reference to this event. This coincides with the results of J. Rus, who did not find a single mention of a crucifixion in contemporary written sources. We have to conclude that the crucifixion was invented by Pineda with the aim of defaming the Indians by presenting them as brutish and savage. G. Carter Wilson’s (1972) novel A Green Tree and a Dry Tree also deals with this movement. It is based on extended ethnographic and archival research and has recently been reissued. El Pajarito, a Chamulan leader of an Indian movement at the outbreak of the Mexican Revolution in 1910, is the subject of a small monograph by Moscoso Pastrana (1972). Oral traditions on the turmoil of that period are to be found in Gossen (1974:273), Laughlin (1977), Bricker (1981:286–317), Anselmo Pérez Peréz and Mariano Gómez Méndez (1981), Jesús Hidalgo Pérez (1985:186ff.), and Köhler (1994:81–101). 188

The most recent armed revolt, the uprising of the Ejército Zapatista de Liberación Nacional (EZLN) on 1 January 1994, is treated by H. Campbell (this volume). It would seem important, however, to mention a few works which provide a good introduction to the subject. G. Collier and E. Quaratiello (1994) is a general work which explores the roots of the rebellion. Further important publications which discuss the conditions that gave birth to the movement are Taller de Análisis (1988) and N. Harvey (1994). García de León (1994) compiled a documentation of events and declarations during the first seven months after the outbreak. The newspapers Tiempo (San Cristóbal) and La Jornada (Mexico City) as well as the weekly Proceso (Mexico City) have reported extensively on the rebellion, and they continue to cover further developments of the conflict. A few collections of ethnographic essays have been published since the mid-sixties which contain, for the most part, new empirical information. The essays in the volume by Norman

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F 9-8. An army of Neozapatistas offered to tourists by a Chamula woman. Photo by Ulrich Köhler, 1995.

McQuown and Julian Pitt-Rivers (1970) are based upon original fieldwork or archival research. This is also true of the collected essays in two recent Festchrifts, one in honor of Evon Z. Vogt, edited by Bricker and Gossen (1989), and the other in honor of Alfonso Villa Rojas, edited by Víctor Esponda Jimeno et al. (1992). Esponda Jimeno (1993) is a good anthology of earlier contributions. Processes of change, especially those initiated by government agencies, are treated in Köhler (1969), Favre (1971), Aguirre Beltrán et al. (1978), Henning Siverts (1981), and G. Collier and E. Quaratiello (1994). Developments in education are described in Nancy Modiano (1973) and Rodrigo de la Torre Yarza (1994), and the role of teachers in local politics by Luz Pineda (1993). Regarding changes, the important study by Frank Cancian (1992) should be mentioned again. Although mainly dealing with Zinacantán, it contains a description of the processes and agents of change that is relevant to the entire region.

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Monographs on Particular Communities The bulk of the anthropological research carried out in Chiapas has been focused on just a few municipios, and many have been completely neglected. Because the Tzotzil have re-

ceived most of the attention, they are treated first. On the municipio of Zinacantán there is a classic holistic ethnography by Vogt (1969), which incorporates results of the fieldwork of other members of the Harvard Chiapas Project. An earlier volume edited by Vogt (1966) provides additional information on various aspects of the culture. Also helpful for researchers is the published bibliography of the works by project members up to 1977 (Vogt 1978) and a description of the process of investigation by the various scholars involved (Vogt 1994). Although this review cannot do justice to the extensive ethnographic record on Zinacantán, there are some topics which should be singled out for special mention. In the sphere of religion, the dissertation by John Early (1965) provides insight into the church and the cult of the saints. The religious cargo system has been described by Frank Cancian in his solid and also theoretically stimulating monograph (1965). Another monograph by Vogt (1976) contains a symbolic analysis of Zinacanteco rituals. In addition to cargo ceremonies, it treats ceremonies that are not part of a yearly cycle, such as house and field rituals and waterhole and lineage rituals, as well as curing rites. The volume by Horacio Fabrega and Daniel Silver (1973) also analyses Zinacanteco medicine and curing practices. In the field of mythology and lore, Sarah Blaffer (1972) published a book on the flying blackman, a notorious spook spoken of by people throughout the highlands of Chiapas. For her description and analysis, she used texts recorded by Robert M. Laughlin, who himself published three voluminous monographs on myths, tales, dreams, and sundries from Zinacantán (1976, 1977, 1980). Each of these contains the complete Tzotzil texts with English translation and comments. Access to the original texts is substantially facilitated by his two ‘‘Great Tzotzil Dictionaries’’ (1975 and 1988), as well as John Haviland’s useful grammar of the language (1981). The cultivation of maize on rented land in the lowlands, which was an important economic base for Zinacantecos in the sixties and early seventies, is amply described and ana189

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  lyzed by Frank Cancian (1972). The general economic conditions over the decades and the changing basis of subsistence are summarized in his most recent book (1992). While his focus is on the economic sphere and individual decision-making, G. Collier (1975) also includes the long-neglected ecological dimension in his analysis of agricultural activities in Zinacantán, Chamula, and other communities. Another approach to the environment appears in the fruitful interdisciplinary study of the ethnobotany of Zinacantán by Dennis Breedlove and Robert Laughlin (1993). Their results are also important for ethnomedicine, since a great number of the plants examined are used for therapeutic purposes. A number of monographs on Zinacantán focus on rules of social life. Based on a variety of empirical observations, Francesca Cancian (1975) abstracts a general framework of norms. Behavior is accepted or rejected through traditional social processes, which try to redress the transgression of such norms, a topic treated by Jane Collier (1973). Bringing a case to court is just the last step in the case of conflict resolution, and many problems are resolved through discourse, gossip, and the fear provoked by the prospect of becoming the target of verbal interchange. This important but understudied aspect of social life has been treated by J. Haviland (1977). Bricker (1973) has shown in her investigation on concepts of humor in Zinacantán that humor and ridicule are not limited to the informal give and take of everyday life, but play an important role in ritual performance, which makes humor very formal and public. For Chamula, the monograph by Ricardo Pozas (1959), which was reprinted in 1977, is still the only full ethnography on the community. Gossen (1974) has published a volume on categories of oral literature which includes an extended chapter on world view. His most recent book on Maya tales (Gossen 1996b) refers largely to Chamula. A bilingual collection of oral literature by Enrique Pérez López (1990) also contains chapters on family life and service in the cargo system and adds additional source material. The religious office holders in Chamula have been studied at length by Priscilla 190

Linn (1976), partly employing a structuralist approach. The cargo system of Chamula is also treated in studies by Eric Prokosch (1969) and Henri Favre (1971). Carnival, the biggest fiesta, is described by Mario Aguilar Penengos (1990) and vividly rendered in G. Carter Wilson’s ethnographic novel (1966). In the economic sphere, Diane Rus (1988, 1990) and Birgitta Huse (1994) have investigated textile production in the context of the new market for tourists and the changing economic roles of the women involved in it. Gender is the explicit subject of a monograph by Brenda Rosenbaum (1993). In the study by Thomas Crump (1976) on internal and external debt in selected Mexican communities, the situation in Chamula is treated as one example. For Chenalhó, the monograph by Calixta Guiteras-Holmes (1961) was followed by two studies by Jacinto Arias (1975, 1985), also focusing on religion and world view. Another investigation by J. Arias (n.d.) deals with the expropriation of hacienda landholdings during the thirties. His last two publications contain many texts in Tzotzil. Carol-Jean McGreevy’s ethnolinguistic study (1986) focuses on the uses of Tzotzil and Spanish within the Chenalhó speech community. The volume edited by Köhler (1990) is oriented principally toward material culture, but also considers the cargo system and contains a lengthy agricultural prayer in Tzotzil. In a recent contribution, Christine Eber (1995) examines the complex problem of women and drinking in this community. In the first ethnography on Santa Marta, a largely independent Tzotzil community within the municipio of Chenalhó, A. Brockmann (1992) puts special emphasis on agriculture, including ethnobotany, and the cargo system. Regarding Larráinzar, William Holland’s study (1963) on ethnomedicine and religion was followed by a brief ethnographic sketch by Francisco Córdoba Olivares, Gabriel García J., and Gilberth Salas Arce (1965). Although dealing with the ritual exchange of saints throughout Chiapas, the study by Kazuyasu Ochiai (1985) contains a detailed description of the exchanges and their overall place in the ritual life of Larráinzar. This is also the case with his

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F 9-9. An elder from San Pablo Chalchihuitán. Photo by Ulrich Köhler, 1970.

subsequent collection of essays (1989). Hidalgo Pérez (1985) presents oral traditions on this community and adds further ethnographic data. In his investigation of the expulsion of the Ladinos of Larráinzar in 1974, Roß (1997) relies on both written documents and oral history. For Chalchihuitán, the monograph by Ulrich Köhler (1977) focuses on the text of a symbolically rich prayer to cure an aggravated form of soul loss, which leads him to examine cosmology and religion. Enrique Pérez López and Sergio Ramírez Méndez (1985) add further ethnographic information. For Pantelhó, also located on the northern fringe of the central highlands, Pete Brown (1993) discusses land tenure in the context of the fierce interethnic struggles of the last centuries. In this community, atypical for the highland area, Ladinos maintained political control until the early to mid-eighties, when most of their landholdings

were transferred to Indians. An initial attempt at a more general ethnography of Pantelhó is contained in a book edited by Köhler (1997). The evolutionary ecology of milpa agriculture in Mitontic was examined in the dissertation of Ronald Nigh (1976). A study of agrarian conflicts in Simojovel and Huitiupán has been published by Ana Pérez Castro (1989) and one concerned only with Simojovel by Sonia Toledo Tello (1996). Regarding Venustiano Carranza in the south, Michael Salovesh (1972) has studied local politics and Virginia Molina (1976) the relation between the head village and its hinterland, focusing on factors that fostered or impeded urbanization. Segundo Morales Avedaño (1985) has published a historical synthesis on this municipio, and Marcelo Díaz de Salas’ fieldwork diary for 1960–1961, published in 1995, contains abundant ethnographic data. No monographs exist for the communities of Bochil, El Bosque, Huistán, Ixtapa, Jitotol, Magdalenas (within Chenalhó), Pueblo Nuevo Solistahuacán, Santiago (within Larráinzar), Soyaló, and the Indian communities within the municipio of San Cristóbal. The Man-in-Nature Project of the University of Chicago, carried out in the late 1950’s and early 1960’s, involved far fewer anthropologists than the Harvard Chiapas Project. The major fieldsite was the Tzeltal municipio of Tenejapa, and the resulting work tended to focus on culture and cognition. Published studies cover the domains of numeral classifiers (Berlin 1968), ethnobotany (Berlin, Breedlove, and Raven 1974), ethnozoology (Hunn 1977), and a formal analysis of the kinship system (Haehl 1980). Regarding the field of social organization, Andrés Medina Hernández (1991) published the results of the research he carried out in 1961. Kathleen Truman (1981) in her study of wealth, power, and prestige in Mesoamerican cargo systems dedicates a major section to Tenejapa, and Susanna Rostas (1987) describes religious practice in Tenejapa as an organized resistance to change. A bilingual collection of myths and stories from Tenejapa was published by Pedro Pérez Conde (1983). The ethnographic monograph by Alfonso Villa Rojas on Oxchuc, based upon fieldwork 191

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F 9-10. A woman from Cancuc selling greens from hand-knit net and plastic bag. Photo by Ulrich Köhler, 1994.

he carried out in the early forties, appeared in 1990. Henning Siverts (1965b) examined the social and political organization of the same community. Taking as his baseline the early field data of Villa Rojas, Robert Harman (1974) documents changes in curing and social organization over two and a half decades. The most recent contribution is the bilingual volume of Martín Gómez Ramírez (1991), which records oral traditions and discusses the cargo system, religious ceremonies, and daily life. On Cancuc, recently elevated to the administrative level of municipio, the early manuscript of Guiteras-Holmes (1992), based on fieldwork in 1944, has been published. Pedro Pitarch Ramón (1993) has also recently produced a dissertation that examines the various types of souls distinguished by the people of Cancuc. On the Tzeltal of Bachajón, Alain Breton (1979) first published a volume on habitat and social organization and later—with Aurore Becquelin-Monod as co-author—published an analysis of a lengthy therapeutic prayer (Breton 192

and Becquelin-Monod 1989). Marianna Slocum and Florencia Gerdel (1971) have compiled a Spanish-Tzeltal dictionary for Bachajón. Religious belief and practice has been the focus of a number of monographs on Tzeltal communities. Maurer (1984) investigated religious syncretism in Guaquitepec, which belongs to the municipio of Chilón. The general ethnography of J. Nash (1970) on Amatenango emphasizes religious life, and M. Esther Hermitte (1970) analyzes the interrelation between supernatural power and social control in Villa las Rosas. With regard to Chanal, Sergio Navarrete Pellicer (1988) has examined the uses of liquor in the social and ceremonial life of that community. On Copanaguastla, now extinct, Ruz (1985) has reconstructed the Colonial history from an anthropological perspective. No monograph has yet appeared on the Tzeltal of Aguacatenango, on Chilón proper, Ocosingo with its many communities, Sitalá, or Yajalón, nor on Tzeltal speakers living in the surrounding communities of Altamirano, Petalcingo, Pantelhó, or Simojovel. Social Organization A clear class structure has emerged in most municipios during the last decades. As shown by G. Collier (1990) and Frank Cancian (1992), the income earned by some Zinacantecos outside the municipio during the seventies and part of the eighties was invested in land, trucks, and other means of transportation or loaned out at high rates of interest, giving some community members access to amounts of capital many times greater than others. In municipios of the lower northern regions a similar process, based on coffee cultivation, occurred. In Chalchihuitán, Chenalhó, and Pantelhó, wellto-do Indian coffee growers are now set apart from Indians with little or no land who work for the former at salaries below the official minimal wage. The situation probably does not differ much in neighboring Tzeltal communities. Social organization and kinship have been the foci of several studies. For the Tzeltal, there are the monographs by A. Breton (1979) on Bachajón and Medina Hernández (1991) on

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Civil-Religious Hierarchy In the sixties, three principal types of cargo systems were found in Chiapas: those where civil and religious hierarchies were strictly separate, others where the two were interrelated, and still others intermediate in form. The extreme case of two unrelated systems was limited to Zinacantán and is described by Frank Cancian (1965). More typical was the integrated civil-religious hierarchy, such as in Chenalhó (Guiteras-Holmes 1961:10f., 77ff.), Larráinzar (Holland 1963:56–65), Tenejapa (Medina Hernández 1991:137ff., 175ff.), or Oxchuc (Siverts 1965b:129–163). Chamula was an intermediate case (Pozas 1959:133ff.). On a comparative basis, Prokosch (1969, 1973) has reconstructed the standard system of the Colonial period and traced the individual changes which have occurred in the different communities.

Ideally, all male members of a given community annually participated in filling the unremunerated offices in the hierarchy. Because the number of adult males exceeded the number of cargos available, this was impossible to achieve in most communities by the sixties. Chalchihuitán was able to maintain almost complete participation until about the middle of the seventies by acquiring new saints and instituting new feasts (Köhler 1982; see examples of feasts in Figs. 9-11 and 9-12). Shortly thereafter, the lowest offices, those of alvasil (auxiliary policemen and messengers), were abolished, and the hierarchy lost almost half of its positions. At present, only in the relatively small community of Santa Marta (ca. 1,000 inhabitants) is full participation practiced (A. Brockmann 1992). In the late sixties, the state government introduced a new kind of office, the agente rural, locally termed agente municipal, which transformed the original centralized municipal system into one of two levels. Now ordinary local problems are resolved by the agente, who even runs a small jail, and only special matters involving the entire municipio are dealt with in the head village. This new structure stimulated the centrifugal tendencies of major hamlets, as in Zinacantán (Frank Cancian 1992), since it established an unprecedented degree of local autonomy. But it also created new kinds of links between hamlets and the center. In Chalchihuitán, the agentes have even obtained an additional role: as a group they have almost completely replaced the former council of elders. Another important change occurred in the second half of the seventies when the state government began to provide funds to pay the holders of civil offices a monthly wage. This was not true of religious posts, whose incumbents do not receive wages. This development tends to undermine the interrelated civil-religious hierarchies, favoring the separation of civil and religious offices. Debate over the function of cargo systems and the role they play in ranking and stratifying community members has continued. The various theoretical positions are clearly outlined in 193

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F 9-11. Musicians and dancing religious office holders at a fiesta in Chalchihuitán. Photo by Ulrich Köhler, 1971.

Truman (1981:42–49). Their explanatory value has to be determined on a case by case basis. While cargo systems have been studied and analyzed in terms of their structure and economic function, the political dimension of cargo holding has received some recent attention. J. Rus (1994) discusses the impact of PRI and state government on local politics from the midthirties until the end of the sixties. G. Collier (1994a) demonstrates how this interference has continued during the eighties and early nineties, and Luz Pineda (1993) draws attention to the systematic abuse of power by indigenous 194

teachers who have ascended to the position of presidente municipal. Cosmology and Religion The original Handbook’s statement that ‘‘the world is generally conceived as a cube’’ (p. 175) needs further clarification. In Chalchihuitán and neighboring Chenalhó, the basic concept is that of three superimposed rectangular planes, of which the earth is the central one. This is encircled by the path of the sun god, whose orbit passes below the upper plane and just above

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F 9-12. A group of kapitan at Carnival in Chalchihuitán. Photo by Ulrich Köhler, 1971.

the lower one. This rectangular edifice of the universe is higher than wide and thus does not exactly resemble a cube. The space between the earth and the horizontal ‘‘roof ’’ on top is subdivided into nine horizontal layers in Chalchihuitán (Köhler 1977:105–112), into thirteen layers in Cancuc (Pitarch Ramón 1993:68), and alternatively into nine or thirteen in Chenalhó. These details regarding the construction of the heavens are transmitted principally in prayer texts (those on Chenalhó in possession of the author). There is no record of any subdivision between the earth and the plane below. This concept of the universe, as well as the idea of a cube, contrasts with the model of Holland (1963:70), according to which heavens and underworlds are arranged in the form of two opposing pyramids, one pointing toward zenith and the other toward nadir. Subsequent research has revealed, however, that Holland’s

widely cited model is not based on genuine empirical data collected among the Tzotzil (cf. Köhler 1977:103–120). His idea that each step of the pyramids represents one hour in the circular path of the sun is further refuted by the fact that there is no indigenous concept of hours of equal length among the Tzotzil (Köhler 1999a), nor among any other Indian group of Mesoamerica. Earlier research has revealed an intercardinal position of the earth’s corners, which seemingly symbolized solstitial points. Information from Chalchihuitán locates them precisely in that position (Köhler 1977:97f.). The idea of four or more pillars of the sky, often associated with the god Vaxakmen (a calendric name, meaning ‘8 Men’), is confirmed by data from additional communities. Regarding the image of the earth, it would seem important to underline that there are no cardinal points, but cardinal sides. East and west are defined as regions of the rising and setting sun, while north and south are the ‘‘sides of heaven,’’ as they are widely designated in Mayan languages. There is no agreement on the assignment of right and left to the northern and southern side. South to the right hand reflects an orientation toward the rising sun, while north to the right is keyed in relation to the daily orbit of the sun. Both concepts are encountered today. Of these only the former is in accordance with Precolumbian sources from Mesoamerica. Some aspects of Tzotzil cosmology are treated in a comparative study by Weldon Lamb (1995). In the northern Tzotzil and Tzeltal communities, the Earth is a powerful goddess. This was known for Chenalhó (Guiteras-Holmes 1961: 234) and subsequently has been confirmed for Chalchihuitán (Köhler 1977:18f.), Pantelhó (Köhler 1997:92f.), and Guaquitepec (Maurer 1983:115f.), but also for Chamula (Rosenbaum 1993:77) and Tenejapa (Medina Hernández 1991:128). In contrast to this female deity of the Earth, the ‘‘Earth Lords’’ of Zinacantán, Chamula, and Larráinzar are a syncretistic mixture of the omnipresent mountain gods and the Christian Devil. The mountain gods have the appearance of Ladinos or Europeans and are masters of rain, lightning, the principal crops, 195

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  and the wild animals which are hunted for meat. New data on this category of gods are available for Chalchihuitán (Köhler 1977:20f., 124–126), Cancuc (Pitarch Ramón 1993:63f., 73), Guaquitepec (Maurer 1983:114, 226), and Tenejapa (Medina Hernández 1991:134f.). In Pantelhó, the mountain gods have been quick to make use of new technologies, and the wealthier among them are now said to communicate with helicopters (Köhler 1997:150). One of their names is anjel or ajnel, derived from the Spanish word for ‘angel,’ but aside from etymology they have nothing in common with Christian angels. Ceremonies aiming at good crops are directed especially to the mountain gods, including their apparition in the guise of ‘‘Earth Lords.’’ In Zinacantán, a second class of mountain gods take the appearance of elderly Zinacantecos (Vogt 1969:298f.). Since one of the different meanings of their name, totilme’il, is ‘ancestor,’ they have been erroneously termed ‘‘ancestral gods’’ in the literature. Defining them as tutelary gods would seem to be more accurate. There is a similar concept among the Tzeltal of Amatenango (J. Nash 1970). One aspect of belief that has received special attention over the last thirty years is local concepts of the soul. It is broadly held that in addition to an inner soul, which normally is located within the body and passes to the other world after death, people have one or more outer souls in the form of animals or natural phenomena. Usually they are designated with the same name as the inner soul (i.e., ch’ulel), but in certain communities they are distinguished by a proper name, like chanul, vayijel, or lab. They all have the quality of an alter ego. That means when they die their human companion suffers the same fate, and vice versa. The multiple nature of these alter egos originally described for Larráinzar (Holland 1963: 104, 113) has also been shown to exist in other communities, such as Villa las Rosas (Hermitte 1970:47), Chalchihuitán (Köhler 1977: 129), and Cancuc (Pitarch Ramón 1993:136). In all these cases the maximum is thirteen, and death occurs only if the principal spirit companion is killed. In most cases the alter egos are wild animals, but some domestic species may also 196

be spirit companions. For the former, Gossen (1975:453) found that what is significant for the people of Chamula is that the mammals that are alter egos have five toes like humans (there are in addition wild bird and insect alter egos). Most of the mammals identified as alter egos are carnivorous. This is also the case in Chalchihuitán (Köhler 1977:129–133), where these animal species are termed jch’uleltik, ‘our souls,’ and distinguished from wild edible animals, the jve’eltik, ‘our food.’ The latter are principally two species of deer, peccaries, pacas, and armadillos, which live inside the mountains with the mountain gods, while the jch’uleltik roam freely about in the wilderness. A similar concept exists in Cancuc (Pitarch Ramón 1993: 73), where the lab do not include the animals protected by the mountain gods. Vogt (1969: 384f.) and Gossen (1975) describe the dwellings of the animal companions as corrals within particular mountains near Zinacantán and Chamula, which are protected by certain deities. This is similar to the description given by Holland (1963:110f.) for Larráinzar. On the other hand, in the northern communities of Chalchihuitán, Chenalhó, Pantelhó, and Cancuc, these animals live freely in the wilderness and are not subordinated to any kind of deity. Calendar, Time, Numbers, and Measures The ancient calendar, which divides the year into eighteen periods of twenty days and one of five days (Guiteras-Holmes 1961:32f.; Villa Rojas 1990:750–760), was the only one used by older people as late as 1970. Now the influence of the schools and mass media has caused people to switch to the Gregorian calendar, and it is difficult to find persons who know the entire sequence of the ancient calendar. It may be of interest that some individuals still use the indigenous calendar for determining the planting season for maize, but do not know any of the other phases of the year. As someone once observed, one need only look at a cornfield to know when weeding should be carried out or when the harvest should begin. While wristwatches can be found in almost every household, and Maya will

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     1965 reckon time by the clock, the indigenous subdivisions of daytime and nighttime (which do not consist of phases of equal length [Köhler 1999a]) continue to be employed. To determine the right moment to plant certain crops, castrate animals, fell trees for construction, and other activities, the lunar cycle is used (Köhler 1991). The lunar cycle of the Tzotzil (see also Breedlove and Laughlin 1993:504 and earlier works cited in Köhler 1991) is the most detailed cycle known to exist in all of presentday Mesoamerica. Myths also describe cycles of creation and destruction. Gossen (1974) reports four cycles for Chamula, but similar ideas are shared in other communities, with the exact number of cycles sometimes being higher or lower. Rumors of a coming apocalypse at the end of our millennium underline the practical importance of the ideas communicated in myths. Counting in the vigesimal system continues to be practiced, although several variations that mix vigesimal with the official decimal system occur. In most communities the maximum traditional count is bok’/bajk’, ‘four hundred,’ and multiples of it, but in Chalchihuitán and Pantelhó the count of pik, ‘eight thousand,’ persists. The latter is primarily used to count ears of maize at the time of harvest. When asked to name the sequence of pik, one informant laughingly stopped at vakpik, ‘six pik,’ and commented: ‘‘Nobody has a harvest higher than that.’’ Mixtures with Spanish words are almost inevitable in the case of prices expressed in the higher units of the official currency. There is no continuous pattern of combining the two systems. In the hundreds the corresponding number is added as a separate word (i.e., oxim’ syento, ‘300’)—while the word for thousand has become a numeral classifier (cf. Berlin 1968; i.e., oxmil, ‘3,000’). The subject of measures can only briefly be touched upon in this summary. Although a few scales are present in the villages, the bulk of merchandise in the markets continues to be offered by units, piles, or hollow measures. This is true even for Indian vendors in the daily market of San Cristóbal. As illustrated by Figure 9-

13, potatoes (bottom) and avocados (at the corner of the table) are offered in plastic buckets; the avocados as a smaller unit also in a semiglobular plastic bowl, maize and beans (on the left side of the table) in tin vessels of one liter, and salt (bottom left) and peanuts (in the middle of the table) in plastic bags. Breedlove and Laughlin (1993:560f.) give an excellent account of the wide range of volume measures. Ethnomedicine Attempts to describe the entire native system of curing include those of J. Nash (1967b) for Amatenango, Fabrega and Silver (1973) for Zinacantán, and Graciela Freyermuth Enciso (1993) on the entire area. The studies of Harman (1974) for Oxchuc, Holland (1963) for Larráinzar, and Duane Metzger and Gerald Williams (1963) for Tenejapa focus on the encounter of traditional and modern medicine. Vogt (1976) describes curing rituals in Zinacantán, while long therapeutic prayer texts are analyzed by Köhler (1977) and A. Breton and A. BecquelinMonod (1989) for Chalchihuitán and Bachajón, respectively. Additional prayer texts and information on indigenous medicine are contained in Pitarch Ramón (1993) for Cancuc and Köhler (1997:321–355) for Pantelhó. The Tzeltal ethnobotany of Brent Berlin, Dennis Breedlove, and Peter Raven (1974), the Tzotzil dictionary of Laughlin (1975), the Zinacantec ethnobotany of Breedlove and Laughlin (1993), and the introduction to the most frequently used medical plants of the Tzeltal and Tzotzil by Berlin et al. (1990) contain a host of pertinent information on plants used in curing. The volume by Moscoso Pastrana (1981) on Ladino folk medicine is important for comparative studies. Literature and Native Texts Tzotzil literature has been extensively treated by Gossen (1985) in his review in Supplement volume 3 of the Handbook. It would seem useful, however, to draw attention to the new material that has appeared since then and the growing corpus of Tzeltal literature. Carlo Antonio Castro (1965) published myths 197

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F 9-13. Hollow measures in the market of San Cristóbal. Photo by Ulrich Köhler, 1995.

and stories from different Tzeltal communities. John Burstein, Amber Past, and Robert Wasserstrom (1979) provide a collection of life histories from four Tzotzil communities, and André Aubry (1988) published texts collected from Tzotzil speakers. The Cuentos y relatos indígenas (1989–1994), the Relatos tzeltales y tzotziles (1994), and the fifteen volumes of Colección letras mayas contemporáneas, Chiapas (1996) contain stories collected in various communities of the highland area. Each of these publications contains original texts with translations. Due to space limitations, not all publications can be listed here, and the reader is referred to the Bibliography. The following works contain literature or texts, but do not refer to this 198

material in their titles: Petrich (1985), Köhler (1990, 1997), Pérez López (1990), A. Brockmann (1992), Breedlove and Laughlin (1993), Pitarch Ramón (1993), Rosenbaum (1993; in her case unfortunately only in English), and J. Rus and S. Guzmán López (1995). Interethnic Relations Relations between Indians and Ladinos have changed considerably over the last decades. Indians are much more self-confident now, and Ladinos practice less overt discrimination. Nevertheless, sharp divisions between the two groups persist. In the initial studies of the subordination of Indians by Ladinos carried

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     1965 out by Benjamin Colby and Pierre van den Berghe (1961a, 1961b) and Colby (1966), the focus was on cultural differences. Subsequently, Stavenhagen (1970a) placed this subordination in the context of class relations. Taking a political economy perspective, G. Collier (1975:6, 183ff.) examined interethnic relations as a consequence of the region’s marginality in the national economy and political structure, and Köhler (1980) interpreted inequality as a survival of Colonial structures, now almost devoid of their former material foundations. The contexts of interaction between Indians and Ladinos have greatly changed over the last decades. Whereas in the sixties a few Ladino ranches and plantations still existed in the highlands, and many more on the lower northern slopes, now almost the entire countryside has been abandoned by Ladinos. Also, longdistance itinerant trading by Ladinos, as described by Stuart Plattner (1969), is a thing of the past. Ladinos were expelled from Larráinzar in 1974, and although a substantial Ladino population continues to live in the head-village of several municipios, even here they seem to be in retreat. This is at least the impression gained in Chenalhó and Pantelhó. In the headvillage of Indian municipios, Ladinos lived mainly from commerce, whether as owners of stores or as brokers for Indian products. Their position as intermediaries has been considerably weakened by improved transport facilities, which are increasingly controlled by Indians, and by the establishment of new vendor cooperatives. As a result of these changes, the figures of Ladino landlord and Indian farmhand, still frequent at the time of the original Handbook’s publication, have almost disappeared. The rural Ladinos have retreated to headvillages and to San Cristóbal—and from there to Tuxtla and Mexico City. Indians have been following them. San Cristóbal in the early sixties was still a markedly Ladino town, but now has a substantial Indian population. The central plaza, in the sixties a promenade for young, marriageable Ladino women, was taken over in the seventies by young Indians of both sexes who were drawn to San Cristóbal for educational opportunities. Now the several thousand Tzotzil

expelled from Chamula, along with Indian immigrants from other communities, are a major presence in the town. New types of interaction in San Cristóbal, such as competition between Ladinos and Indians for good jobs, have not yet been investigated. If discrimination toward Indians continues, it would not be a great surprise if overt racial discrimination, hitherto superseded by cultural and social rejection, gains ground. T C’ The Ch’ol live in the northern mountains of Chiapas, principally the municipios of Sabanilla, Tila, Tumbalá, Salto de Agua, Palenque, and the northern part of Yajalón (see Fig. 9-2). During the last decades, a great many Ch’ol migrated to the Selva Lacandona. The exact number of Ch’ol speakers (in the literature often erroneously spelled Chol) is difficult to assess. For the second half of the seventies, García de León (1979:257) calculated 80,000, and according to my intercensal estimates they surpassed 150,000 in 1995. Toward the end of the nineteenth century, coffee plantations were established in Ch’ol territory. A large proportion of the owners were foreigners, principally North Americans and Germans who employed Ch’ol as field hands. From the early thirties onward, an increasing number of these plantations were affected by land reform. In the forties, when German holdings were expropriated, part of the land was transformed into ejidos for the benefit of the Indians. Archival records of Tumbalá for the years 1920–1946, recently published by José Alejos García and Elsa Ortega Peña (1990), give a good picture of the life and struggles of the Indians on the haciendas during the period between the two wars. While large landholdings of foreigners and Ladinos were broken up, some Ladinos kept considerable holdings. Also, as the Ch’ol acquired more land, in the form of both ejidos and private property, a new class of relatively rich Indians appeared. García de León (1979: 271) concluded that the Ch’ol settlements did not constitute communities based on common 199

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F 9-14. A Ch’ol healer from Tumbalá in his house. Photo by José Alejos García, 1985.

interests. Daily life was a constant struggle of poor Indians against Ladino merchants on the one hand and against rich Indians on the other. In a case study on one settlement Veronika Bennholdt-Thomsen (1982:66–129) illustrates the strategies for everyday survival. Although the current situation is less than ideal, the period of dominance by the huge plantations is remembered as a dark age. In his subtle analysis, based on oral discourse in Ch’ol, Alejos García (1994) has demonstrated how conversation about these past events has become an important element in social and ethnic identity of these Indians. The publication of oral literature in Ch’ol with English or Spanish translations has been a focus of research during the last decades. The collections of Arabelle Whittaker and Viola Warkentin (1965) and Alejos García (1988) mainly deal with subjects related to the supernatural and the mythical past, while those of 200

F 9-15. A Ch’ol girl from Tumbalá. Photo by José Alejos García, 1985.

Miguel Meneses López (1986) for Tumbalá and José Pérez Chacón (1993) for Tila include a variety of topics. More than simple narratives, these latter works are in part bilingual ethnographies, providing information on fiestas, religious offices, family life, and traditional medicine. These researchers show that cargo systems, similar to those of the Tzotzil and Tzeltal, also exist among the Ch’ol, but further research is needed. A. Breton (1988) describes the economic, social, and political situation in Tila and Tumbalá in the early eighteenth century. Access to the Ch’ol texts is facilitated by new linguistic material, such as the grammars by Klaus Helfrich (1972), John Attinasi (1973), and Fidel Torres Rosales and Augusto Gebhardt D. (1974), as well as the dictionaries by Otto Schumann (1973) and H. Wilbur Aulie and Evelyn Aulie (1978). A truly comprehensive dictionary

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     1965

F 9-16. Ch’ol women from El Limar. Photo by José Alejos García, 1985.

has yet to be published. The relation of Ch’ol to other Mayan languages of the Ch’olan branch is examined in García de León (1979).

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T T There is now a solid corpus of anthropological publications on the Tojolabal, almost unknown ethnographically at the time of the publication of the original Handbook volumes thirty years ago. This is primarily due to the efforts of Mario Humberto Ruz, who has published the four-volume ethnography Los legítimos hombres (1981–1986) and additional ethnographic and ethnohistorical works. Because a number of specialists contributed to three volumes of the ethnography, a wide range of subjects is covered, including linguistics (O. Schumann), physical anthropology (C. Serrano), and history (G. Lenkersdorf ). Other important introductions to the ethnography of the Tojolabal are those of M. Jill Brody and John Thomas (1988) and Carlos Lenkersdorf (1996). According to my intercensal estimates, the total number of Tojolabal amounted to approximately 50,000 individuals in 1995 (however, C. Lenkersdorf [1994:7] mentions 80,000). Tojolabal continue to live principally in the mu-

nicipios of Margaritas, Altamirano, Independencia, Comitán, and Trinitaria in eastern Chiapas. In part, their settlement area has shifted further to the east and to the lower slopes, forming new colonies in hitherto sparsely inhabited areas. Regarding two settlements situated at different elevations, Ruz (1981–1986:2:93–110) has described their agricultural activities in the annual cycle. Furthermore, there has been a shift toward the urban centers of Comitán and Margaritas. This increased after the rebellion of the EZLN, in which many Tojolabal had participated actively. In contrast to the Tzotzil and Tzeltal, and even the Ch’ol, the Tojolabal do not govern the county seats of their municipios, which Ladinos dominate physically as well as politically. Consequently, complex civil-religious hierarchies are absent. The Tojolabal had been serfs and sharecroppers on ranches and plantations for generations, which had made them even more dependent than the Ch’ol on wealthy landowners. Freed from serfdom after the Revolution and granted ejidos through the agrarian reform program, the Tojolabal continue to live principally in rural areas, with their settlements located in the centro poblacional of their respective ejidos. The elected chairman of the ejido, the presidente del comisariado ejidal, is normally the most important local authority. The agente municipal, the local representative of the municipal administration, usually plays only a minor role. Apart from these formal offices, particular individuals who are believed to control lightning, the rainbow, or certain other natural phenomena may have a powerful position in the village (Ruz 1981–1986:2:186–199). The determinants of political leadership in a Tojolabal community have been described by J. Thomas (1978). In contrast to what could have been anticipated and to what has actually occurred in other parts of Mexico, the continuous interaction with Ladinos in the plantation economy has not led to a profound cultural loss among the Tojolabal. Their society and culture have obviously been altered by the experience, but Tojolabal have not adopted Ladino ways. Perhaps due 201

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F 9-17. A Tojolabal girl from Las Margaritas. Photo by Thomas Kramps, 1993.

to the absence of a formal civil-religious hierarchy, with its overriding emphasis on communal service and the subordination of personal interests to the collective good, Tojolabal conceptions of the natural environment are rather idiosyncratic. While the Tzotzil and Tzeltal say rain usually originates from the mountain gods, individuals endowed with lightning as nagual are the principal rainmakers among the Tojolabal (Ruz 1981–1986:2:57). The absence of complex cargo systems and local fiesta cycles also seems to be one reason for the great importance of pilgrimages in Tojolabal ritual life (Ruz 1981– 1986:2:204, 223–232). Apart from syncretic Catholicism, various Protestant sects are encountered now among the Tojolabal. They have penetrated the area during the last decades, causing profound religious and social changes. The long experience on the haciendas has influenced Tojolabal concepts of space and time. While in oral traditions Comitán is still re202

membered as navel of the world, in everyday life one’s own settlement—having grown out of a former hacienda—is the principal point of reference. Diachronically, the shift from the period of baldío (serfdom) to free ejido communities is the main time marker (Ruz 1992a). Given the impact of the period of Ladino domination on the Tojolabal, two recent studies of this era are especially welcome. One is a description of the historical development of haciendas in the area of Comitán (Ruz 1992b), the other a collection of nine extended narratives in which the Indians recall their life and sufferings on the ranches and plantations (Gómez Hernández and Ruz 1992), which presents all texts in Tojolabal and Spanish. These publications complement the description of ethnic relations in the Comitán hinterlands at mid-century as contained in the novel Balún Canán by Rosario Castellanos (1957). Over the last decades various government institutions, in particular the Instituto Nacional Indigenista, have made efforts to provide a minimal infrastructure for the settlements of the Tojolabal. In her study on public education in the Tojolabal area, Gemma van der Haar (1993) has shown that the situation is especially problematic in remote villages in the jungle, where teachers are reluctant to go. Teachers employed in the area are partly Tojolabal, partly Tzeltal, Tzotzil, or even Ladinos. One unexpected finding was that Tojolabal teachers resented the newly introduced bilingual teaching method, even more than the Ladinos. Because a good knowledge of Spanish makes obtaining a government job possible, they interpreted the emphasis on literacy in Tojolabal as a step backward. The appearance of the voluminous dictionary by C. Lenkersdorf (1979, 1981) has facilitated the creation of classroom teaching materials in Tojolabal. This dictionary contains a wealth of ethnographic information as well. An introduction to Tojolabal by the same author (C. Lenkersdorf 1994), a grammar by Louanna Furbee-Losee (1976), and further linguistic research by Brody (1986) are important sources for an understanding of the Tojolabal language. The rich oral traditions of the Tojolabal can

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     1965 be appreciated in the most recent publications by Antonio Gómez Hernández, María Palazón, and Mario Humberto Ruz (1996) and C. Lenkersdorf (1996). T L The popular view of the Lacandon in urban Mexico, North America, and Europe is that they are a primitive, lost tribe, an image that is continuously reinforced by journalists, amateur anthropologists, and movie producers. In her thoughtful selection and analysis, Franziska Nyffenegger (1993) examines such popular reports and the specific stereotypes conveyed by them. These views, however, do not reflect the actual situation of the Lacandon, who have experienced profound changes over the last three decades. Lacandon communication with the outside world is no longer via mule trails or by small airplanes, but by trucks, buses, and cars on the newly built roads which link their settlements to both the coastal plain and the highlands of Chiapas. This not only facilitates the sale of their products, mainly artifacts for tourists sold in Palenque or San Cristóbal, but also opens a wide door for all kinds of influences from the outside, including television sets with modern parabolic antennas (see Fig. 9-18). Before the roads were built in the early seventies, the Lacandon had come into closer contact with other Indians, mainly Tzeltal and Ch’ol, who had migrated into the forest in order to establish agricultural colonies there. Due to the great number of colonists, this movement constituted a serious threat to both the Lacandon and the forest where they live. The rate of immigration, while continuing, has been reduced by the 1972 presidential grant of an extended forest reserve and of special rights for the Lacandon living within it. Recent developments in the Lacandon area, as well as Tzeltal and Ch’ol discourses on the environment, can be found in Lourdes Arizpe, Fernanda Paz, and Margarita Velázquez (1993). Important changes also occurred in the field of religion. Missionized by a Baptist sect, the members of Lacanjá had almost completely

F 9-18. House of a ‘‘modern’’ Lacandon family at Nahá. Copyright Franziska K. Nyffenegger, 1994.

adopted the Christian faith by 1957. During the seventies, Adventists made strong efforts to missionize the inhabitants of Metzabok, but finally accepted their failure and left. Thus Metzabok and Nahá remain the only Lacandon settlements where the old religion is still alive. This does not mean that all inhabitants practice it. Especially among the young, a kind of passive secularization seems to be the norm (Nyffenegger, personal communication, 1996). The number of Lacandon has increased to about 400 individuals. The hitherto noted problem of inbreeding seems to have become even more serious since the conversion of the inhabitants of one of the three settlements. During the seventies, the average rate of population increase of the three settlements was 3.58 percent per year (Nations 1979:298). Even if this high level has not been maintained, the number of Lacandon should continue to increase. Subsistence agriculture is no longer the dominant economic activity. James Nations and Ronald Nigh (1980:3) calculated that only 20 percent of the Lacandon were full-time agriculturalists. During the sixties and seventies, visits by tourists who traveled by plane or on horseback were quite frequent. Travelers 203

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F 9-19. A Lacandon from Nahá manufacturing arrows for tourists. Copyright Franziska K. Nyffenegger, 1994.

usually combined their visit to a Lacandon hamlet with a tour of nearby Maya ruins. Production and sale of artifacts, primarily arrows (see Fig. 9-19), collars of certain seeds, and clay and wooden animals have become a basic industry for the Lacandon. Lacandon men began to actively seek out tourists in the eighties, traveling outside the jungle to tourist destinations, especially Palenque. Some stay there for weeks at a time; a few even stay the major part of the year. Payments by the national lumber company for concessions also have been made to the Lacandon, but they are irregular and decreasing. The Lacandon have also been receiving aid through the government Procampo program for rural development during the last few years. Although the Protestant Lacandon have cut their hair and adopted Western dress, in Nahá and Metzabok men continue to wear their hair long and often dress in the traditional white tunic. Most women of the two hamlets have abandoned traditional dress (see Fig. 9-20). 204

This contrasts with the rule elsewhere among Indians of Mesoamerica. The reason for this unusual pattern among the Lacandon has to do with tourism. It is the men who do most of the selling of artifacts to tourists, and they know that their exotic appearance is their most effective marketing tool (Nyffenegger 1993:25, 21). Carlos Robles Uribe (1967) published a useful critical bibliography of publications then extant on the Lacandon. The Colonial history of the Selva Lacandona is treated by Jan de Vos (1980), and the subsequent period up to 1949 in another volume by the same author (de Vos 1988). Philip Baer and William Merrifield (1971) present a sketch of the history of the southern Lacandon between 1876 and 1968. General overviews of the Lacandon, with an emphasis on religion, can be found in the publications by Villa Rojas (1967, 1968) and McGee (1990). Roberto Bruce S., Carlos Robles U., and Enriqueta Ramos Chao (1971) give an overview of cosmology and the principal gods. This sub-

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     1965 discusses problems of economic development and the integration of the Lacandon into Mexican society. Nations (1975) has examined economic transformations among the Lacandon; in a subsequent study (Nations 1979), he analyzes population ecology. Roß (1999) describes and analyzes the perception of the environment by the Lacandon of Metzabok. Boremanse (1978) compares the social organization and kinship systems of northern and southern Lacandon. P   F

F 9-20. A Lacandon family from Nahá selling arrows at Palenque. Copyright Franziska K. Nyffenegger, 1994.

ject is treated again in a monograph on the myths told by Chan K’in (Bruce 1974), which contains all the texts in Lacandon with a literal and a free translation into Spanish. This key work was followed by two collections of myths and stories (Ma’ax and Rätsch 1984; Boremanse 1986). Although some of these texts are similar to the ones recorded by Bruce, and some were even told by the same narrator, these versions tend to be more extensive and provide additional material. Unfortunately, they offer only a translation into German and French, respectively. The ritual life of the northern Lacandon is treated in Virginia Davis (1978). Also dealing with religion are Bruce’s study (1975, 1979) on Lacandon dream symbolism and Christian Rätsch’s monograph (1985a) on spells and the perception of the environment. His book on the learning of spells (Rätsch 1985b) is a contribution to Lacandon ethnomedicine. Subsistence agriculture is described by Baer and Merrifield (1971) and analyzed from an evolutionary perspective by Nations and Nigh (1980). A general overview of traditional Lacandon technology is presented by Marie-Odile Marion Singer (1991), which contains many useful illustrations. Wilfried Westphal (1973)

Relations between Indians and Ladinos, which seemed to be improving in Chiapas during the last decades, have been strained anew by the EZLN uprising. Although most of the followers of that movement were colonists from the Lacandon Forest, a considerable number of highland Indians sympathize with the movement. For them, however, the rebellion cannot offer an agrarian solution to their economic and social problems. While in other regions of Chiapas and Mexico land is available for distribution to poor farmers, this is no longer the case for most of the central highlands of Chiapas, where the Tzotzil and Tzeltal already possess almost all the land. Land reform is simply not an answer to their problems. Technical improvements in agricultural production and potential increases in tourism present possibilities for economic growth, but this alone does not seem sufficient to meet the needs of a growing work force even if the rate of population growth were to drop radically. In my opinion, the establishment of light industry in the highlands would seem the logical consequence. For this, the last century’s industrialization of mountain areas in central Europe could serve as a model, such as in the French and Swiss Jura or in the Black Forest. That development was based on the production of watches as a cottage industry. For highland Chiapas, other products would have to be found, according to the needs of the market. They would have to be crafts which need assembly by hand, possibly in fine mechanics or the field of electronics. Apart from Mexico and the United States, 205

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  technical advice and capital investment could eventually come from East and Southeast Asia. One might ask why enterprises from that region should be interested in promoting industrial branches in Mexico which could develop into competition to their own products. The answer is NAFTA (the North American Free Trade Agreement). With a foothold in Mexico they would profit from the advantages of an enormous free trade zone which includes the United States and Canada. First candidates for the establishment of productive units would seem to be those villages of Chamula which have a long tradition in handicraft and/or settlements of exiled Chamulas at the outskirts of San Cristóbal. With regard to instruction and preparation, it is important to stress that proficiency in Spanish is no prerequisite for being a skilled worker. Too much Ladinoization could actually be to the detriment of highland Chiapas as a future industrial location, because it would probably be accompanied by a decline in the work ethic. After the many changes during the last decades, the question may be asked whether the Indian languages and ways of life have a chance to persist. Demographically all Indian groups of Chiapas are expanding, and—with the exception of Mocho—the mother tongue is usually passed on to the children. Schools, work in the Ladino world, and radio and television have been and continue to be prime motors of change. Although a great number of Indians have given up traditional local costume, distinctive lifeways persist.

206

Today there is also an intellectual dynamism in Chiapas that did not exist in the past. The success of a Tzotzil and Tzeltal theater group is a promising example. Furthermore, all Indian languages of Chiapas have become written languages. This is not solely the result of the work of anthropologists, but in greater part an achievement of Indians themselves, whether as members in a writers’ cooperative or as authors of volumes published by the Instituto Chiapaneco de Cultura and other government or private agencies. The crucial questions are now ‘‘Who reads these publications?’’ and ‘‘Will they be used in schools?’’ Literacy in the indigenous languages will depend largely on the Indian schoolteachers and their attitude toward their mother tongue, because pupils are likely to follow their example. Will Indian teachers use indigenous texts in schools, speak to each other in their mother tongue, and pass this on to their children? Presently, this is rather the exception than the rule. A George A. Collier has read the entire manuscript. José Alejos García has checked the section on the Ch’ol, Franziska K. Nyffenegger the section on the Lacandon, and Carlos and Gudrun Lenkersdorf as well as Mario H. Ruz the section on the Tojolabal. The author thanks them for their valuable comments.

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10. The Yucatec Maya PAUL SULLIVAN

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W

   Rojas wrote about the Maya of the Yucatan Peninsula (see Fig. 10-1) for the first edition of the Handbook of Middle American Indians (Villa Rojas 1969b), he displayed little doubt about just whom or what he was describing. Drawing upon ethnographic sources derived from fieldwork in the 1930’s and 1940’s, in most cases, Villa Rojas portrayed an aboriginal population that was unevenly acculturated, widely dispersed, and integrated to markedly varying degrees, though in only a handful of ways, into national and international economies. The most Indian of the Maya were those who spoke no Spanish, some 16 percent of the 322,000 Maya speakers on the peninsula (or some 8 percent of the total population of the peninsula) (Villa Rojas 1969b:248). That monolingual population was concentrated in central Quintana Roo, southeastern Yucatan, and the municipio of Hopelchen in Campeche. It was the first two regions mentioned that Villa Rojas knew best and that most informed his description of Maya culture. Acculturation and regional variation aside, Villa Rojas undertook to describe the surviving substrate of Maya culture which underlay the lifeways and life concerns of Maya all over the peninsula of Yuca-

tan. Slash-and-burn corn farming was central to the Maya culture Villa Rojas described, and around that axis revolved typically Maya forms of diet, house construction, technology, settlement patterns, religion, medical practices, and more. The Maya of Yucatan were Indians: they dressed like Indians, spoke like Indians, lived like Indians, and prayed like Indians, and Villa Rojas quite expertly described for Handbook readers what that entailed. Much has changed on the Yucatan Peninsula since Villa Rojas, the finest ethnographer of the Yucatec Maya, depicted the Maya in that way. The henequen industry once so central to Maya life and laboring in much of Yucatan has collapsed, and large mobilizations of disgruntled Maya workers and pensioners have transformed the Yucatecan political scene (see, for example, Villanueva Mukul 1985, 1993). Tourism has become a major industry on the peninsula with the development of Cancun and other Caribbean resorts, and Maya across much of the peninsula feel, for better or for worse, the impact of such rapid development. Unchecked demographic growth, rural-to-urban migration, deforestation, and the expansion of cattle raising have contributed both to straining the resources upon which Maya have long 207

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F 10-1. The Yucatan Peninsula.

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   T 10-1. Yucatec Maya Speakers over Five Years of Age Population >  yrs. Maya >  yrs. Maya as % of Total Population > 

Yucatan

Campeche

Quintana Roo

Total

,77,-** 3,7

-0,-3 >,3-

-3,707 3>,7-0

3,>,* >*,0

-*



3

*-

Source: XI censo general de población y vivienda, México (INEGI 1991a, 1991b, 1991c).

relied and to providing Maya with new sources of employment and business. While all this has happened, our historical, linguistic, and ethnographic knowledge of the Yucatec Maya has increased greatly, thanks to decades of research by dozens of scholars from various disciplines.1 In reviewing that accumulated body of knowledge, however, one is struck by how problematic, both for us and for them, has become the existence or relevance of a category of humankind called the Yucatec Maya. A close reading of the sources suggests that the elusiveness of the Yucatec Maya is not, in fact, a product only of our times, but of Villa Rojas’ time and before, though changes since his time have raised this issue more starkly. One of the most significant changes is that since the first edition of this Handbook appeared, and for the first time in history, Maya speakers have become a minority on the Yucatan Peninsula.

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P  T More people speak Yucatec Maya (704,000, counting, as the Mexican census did, only people over five years of age) than any other indigenous language in Mexico except for Nahuatl (1.2 million) (INEGI 1991a:19, 1991b:15, 1991c: 215). The concentration of speakers of indigenous languages in the states of the Yucatan Peninsula (Yucatec Maya being the overwhelmingly most common, but not the only indigenous language) is far higher than for the nation as a whole (national average, 7.2 percent) (L. King 1994:94–95, 96).2 The number of people who speak Yucatec Maya has risen markedly over the last forty years, from 322,000 to 704,000, not counting the 6,000 or so speakers of that

language in Belize (see Table 10-1; for the Belizean count, see Davidson 1987:10). That is more speakers of Yucatec Maya than at any time since the Conquest, and roughly as many as are believed to have resided in Yucatan in the years preceding the Conquest of the peninsula in the sixteenth century (Patch 1993:18, 22, 44). Among the three Mexican states of the peninsula, Yucatan, which contains 57 percent of the peninsular population, is home to a disproportionate number of the Yucatec Maya speakers— 72 percent. Monolingual speakers of Yucatec Maya are relatively few in number (62,000 or 8 percent). Though Yucatec Maya is still spoken by hundreds of thousands of people, and though it is still the language of home and community in large areas of the peninsula, it is decidedly in slow retreat. In 1950, half the population of the peninsula spoke Yucatec Maya. Today only 29 percent does (see Table 10-2). Even though the number of Yucatec Maya speakers increased by 119 percent, the total population of the peninsula increased by 259 percent. (The average annual rate of increase between 1950 and 1990 was therefore 3.24 percent.) Yucatec Maya is slowly drowning in the rising tide of peninsular demography. Meanwhile, in Belize the decline of Yucatec Maya has been even more precipitous. While 22 percent of the residents in the northern districts (where speakers of that language are concentrated) still spoke Yucatec Maya in the mid-1940’s, by 1970 less than 4 percent did (C. Brockmann 1977:249). That retreat of Yucatec Maya is not uniform. If one considers only the state of Yucatan—excluding Quintana Roo, whose population grew 1,729 percent since 1950, due to the devel209

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  T 10-2. Proportion of Population Speaking Yucatec Maya, 1950–1990 Total Population Yucatec-Maya Speaking >  % of Total Population

1950

1990

CHANGE

000,

3,*,->3

+3%

*3,

>*,0

+%

-7

3

Sources: Villa Rojas (1969b:248); XI censo general de población y vivienda, México (INEGI 1991a, 1991b, 1991c). Note: The figure for total population includes people of all ages, while the figure for number of speakers of Yucatec Maya includes only people over five years of age. When children under five resident in households in which the heads of the family speak Yucatec Maya are included, then the percentage of the total population speaking (or hearing) Yucatec Maya would be about 34 percent.

opment of tourist centers along the northeast coast, and Campeche, which grew 338 percent during the same period—then Yucatec Maya speakers as a percentage of total population declined by only 11 percentage points between 1950 and 1990. When one considers still smaller subunits of the peninsula—county-like, multisettlement municipios—one finds that most Maya speakers live in areas in which most people still speak Maya. Sixty-five percent of all speakers of Indian languages on the peninsula reside in municipios where 60 percent or more of the population speaks an Indian language. (For the state of Yucatan, the corresponding figure is 66 percent; for Campeche, 61 percent; and in Quintana Roo it is less than 50 percent, though the much larger size of municipios in Quintana Roo and the concentration of so much of that state’s population in only two municipios—those that include the tourist corridor Cancun-Tulum and the capital city of Chetumal—diminish the value of this comparison.) What is more, within single settlements researchers continue to find ethnic/linguistic segregation, with non-Maya tending to reside, work, and play in the small but more highly developed centers of towns, while the Yucatec Maya-speaking majorities live in the re210

maining sections of the settlement (see, for example, D. Brown 1993). (In the Corozal district of Belize, Koenig [1980:8] found that the maintenance of Yucatec Maya varied markedly from one village to the next.) So to be a linguistic minority on the Yucatan Peninsula is not yet to be confronted daily with linguistic difficulties or subordination in face-to-face dealings with neighbors, the local merchant, the local police, or other local authorities. Rather, for most Yucatec Maya speakers the minority status of their mother tongue becomes apparent only as they travel, deal with agents of state or federal governments, or turn on the television or read a newspaper. Press (1975:73) reported from Ticul in the early 1960’s that local, state, and national candidates for political office who made speeches in that town did so in both Spanish and Maya. Whether that is still the case in many communities of Yucatan is unknown. Still, such broad statistics about the status of Yucatec Maya understate, perhaps, the losses that the language is experiencing. Half of all Yucatec Maya speakers are under the age of thirty; half of that half are under the age of twenty. Yet it is precisely among the young that Yucatec Maya is losing ground most rapidly: 46 percent of the 40- to 44-year-olds on the peninsula speak an Indian language; only 23 percent of the 5–9-year-olds do. And, perhaps needless to say, a 9-year-old who does not speak Yucatec Maya will become a 25-year-old who does not speak the language and a 40-year old whose children do not speak the language. In this rough sense, Table 10-3 showing the breakdown of language capability by age group maps the likely future of the Yucatec Maya language. In areas of the peninsula where Yucatec Maya is still overwhelmingly used (say, municipios with 90 percent or more speakers of Indian languages), the impending losses are smaller, but still perceptible. Most researchers who have written about the Yucatec Maya and who have had anything to report concerning language and/or identity have worked in municipios where 80 percent or more of the people speak Yucatec Maya. Those studies were done in the Yucatecan municipios of Oxkutzcab (Lazos Chavero 1987;

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   T 10-3. Percent of Population That Speaks an Indian Language, by Age

Age – >–– 3>–33–3 *>–**–* ->–--–- > and older

All Peninsula

Muncipios with 90% or More Speakers of Indian Languages

3* 37 3 *3 ** -* -0 - 7

>   7 7 7 7   

Source: XI censo general de población y vivienda, México (INEGI 1991a, 1991b, 1991c). Note: There are 25 muncipios on the peninsula in which 90% or more of the residents speak an Indian language, and 11.5% of all speakers of Yucatec Maya live in such municipios.

Hanks 1990; Hervik 1992), Chan Kom (Re Cruz 1992), Chemax (D. Brown 1993), Sotuta (Boccara 1990), Hocaba (Holmes 1978), and Halacho (Gutiérrez Estévez 1992a, 1992b) and in the municipio of Felipe Carrillo Puerto in Quintana Roo (Smailus 1975; Bartolomé and Barabas 1977; Burns 1983; Sullivan 1984; Hostettler 1996). Many fewer studies reflect upon language and identity in municipios or communities where Yucatec Maya is well advanced to minority language status. Betty Faust’s (1988) study of Taj in the municipio that includes the capital city of Campeche is an important exception. Nine percent of the municipio population spoke Maya in 1990, while in the village of Taj itself only the elderly still spoke Maya and even then only in private ‘‘in order to avoid potential ridicule and stigma’’ (1988:1). Faust searched for survivals of Maya culture under conditions of such language loss, so she could provide an especially valuable glimpse at one possible future for the Maya population of the entire peninsula (see also Mossbrucker 1992). Even in areas where census figures suggest the Yucatec Maya language is still thriving, research on the ground provides contrary

evidence. In Hocaba (currently with 83 percent of its population able to speak Yucatec Maya), Barbara Holmes (1978:39–40) found that ‘‘Maya is fast becoming only the home language of the non-elite . . . Few children are brought up without a good grasp of the Spanish language, and everyone uses it on all public occasions and situations . . .’’ She also noted that the children of the non-Indian elite of Hocaba were the first generation since the Conquest to be raised without any working knowledge of the language of the subordinate Indians (1978:40). That was twenty years ago. Since Villa Rojas’ (1969b) review of ethnographic knowledge of the Yucatec Maya appeared, advances have been made in the linguistic study of the Yucatec Maya language and oral traditions. Ortwin Smailus (1975), Victoria Bricker (1981), Eleuterio Po’ot Yah and Bricker (1981), Mary Slusser (1982), Allan Burns (1983, 1992), William Hanks (1984, 1990, 1992), Paul Sullivan (1984, 1989), John Sosa (1985), Barbara Pfeiler (1988), Michel Boccara (1990), Mary Preuss (1991), Manuel Gutiérrez Estévez (1992a, 1992b), Lorena Martos (1994), Valentina Vapnarsky (1995), and Bricker, Po’ot Yah, and Ofelia Dzul de Po’ot (1998), to mention just a few recent contributors, have documented the myriad ways in which Maya speaking Yucatec Maya perceive, chart, and navigate a complex and ever changing world. A continued decline in the use of Yucatec Maya on the Yucatan Peninsula will necessarily entail a loss, perhaps not complete, of alternative ways of viewing the world, talking about the world, and acting in the world, beginning not the least with Maya’s own perceptions of themselves— who they are, who people different from them are, and what the historical and possible relations between themselves and the other have been and can be. E The rise and decline of an ancient Maya civilization is widely known beyond the borders of Yucatan, owing principally to the popularity of such archaeological sites as Uxmal, Chichen Itza, and Tulum. Visitors to such ruins, and any211

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  one who reads almost anything about the peninsula, will also learn that Maya people still live on the peninsula, in the towns and villages one passes traveling from international airports and urban hotels to the sites just mentioned or to the beaches of the Caribbean and Gulf Coast. More specialized visitors like anthropologists have been slow to grasp, however, that these Maya people about whom we write do not necessarily think of themselves as Maya or call themselves Maya, or Indian, or any other such term we are likely to have expected. Peter Hervik (1992) has criticized the tendency to use ‘‘the historical meaning of social categories [e.g., Maya] in contemporary settings’’—to suggest, by calling them ‘‘Maya,’’ that such people identify themselves with those who anciently wrote in hieroglyphics, built pyramids, and knew nothing of Christianity. Ethnographic literature, when it comments upon the matter at all, shows ethnic categorization and use of ethnic labels to be more complex. To add a bit to the confusion, ethnic terms common throughout Mexico may have special, even seemingly opposite, meaning on the Yucatan Peninsula, while Maya themselves may contradict our learned and progressive opinions concerning their past, asserting for example that the Spanish Conquest was ‘‘good’’ or their most celebrated rebellion, the War of the Castes, ‘‘bad’’ (Mossbrucker 1992). In his review of the state of knowledge about the Yucatec Maya, Villa Rojas (1969b) remained silent on the matter of ethnic identity and labeling. One sympathizes with him. Redfield did outline the problem in Chapter 3 of his classic The Folk Culture of Yucatan (1941). He reported that everywhere on the peninsula (in the 1930’s) people recognized the existence of two broad ethnic categories. There were the socially superior, urban, usually light-skinned people who had Spanish surnames and spoke Spanish as their first or only language; and there were the socially inferior, rural, darker-skinned people who spoke Yucatec Maya and who had Maya surnames (Redfield 1941:75). Once one considered, however, how each of these broad categories was labeled, the criteria that people articulated for assigning themselves or others to one category or another, and how the labels 212

(and the categories they implied) were used and were relevant in local and regional life, then the picture of ethnic labeling and ethnic relations on the peninsula became a vexing puzzle. Redfield (1941:78) had to conclude that each local ‘‘set of definitions of ethnic status groups may be regarded as a separate and independent system, expressive of and appropriate to the particular local society which it helps to define,’’ whether that local society be the capital city, a railroad town, a peasant village, or the isolated, so-called tribal, villages of Quintana Roo. That was not a satisfactory resolution of the problem posed by the seeming multiplicity of ethnic systems in a region that (from the point of view of outsiders) had two ethnic groups, considerable cultural and linguistic homogeneity, and broadly shared historical experience. Compelled to generalize about ethnicity, Redfield resorted to some semantic sleight-of-hand, labeling his two broad social categories dzul and indio. That was an insightful gesture. The first term is the Yucatec Maya word for those people other than themselves who conquered them centuries ago and who ruled over them for centuries afterward. The second term is one Spanish label for the Indian, a label that present-day accounts concur is pejorative. These terms are not, of course, opposites, nor are they terms drawn from a single semantic domain of a single language. They are elements of a partially shared semantic domain of languages-in-contact, and Redfield’s use of them (one term from each language) to label his two categories hints at the central problem of understanding ethnic categories in Yucatan—it all depends upon who is speaking, in what language they are speaking, to whom they are speaking, and in what local and historical context they are speaking, factors which researchers have not well documented when writing about ethnic identity on the Yucatan Peninsula. In any event, it seems from Redfield’s silence on this point that at the time he studied few people had occasion to call themselves (or be called) ‘‘Maya.’’ To the Colonial-era Maya scribes who wrote the esoteric almanacs known as the Books of Chilam Balam, it did make sense to call themselves Maya people—maya

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   winiko’ob. It was explicitly for the people indigenous to the land that they preserved vital historical, ritual, prophetic, medicinal, and astronomical knowledge or selected, translated, and interpreted the corresponding esoterica of the invader. Once the surviving Maya elite was exterminated or coopted, however, for the masses of Yucatec Maya speakers, the lexicon of hierarchy and subordination, not ethnicity, offered terms of greatest relevance, and the term for commoner, masewal (versus almehen, noble), apparently became the collective designator of choice (concerning the Colonial Yucatec Maya lexicon of social hierarchy, see Restall 1997). To this day, for people who speak Yucatec Maya, when speaking in that language the central, grand ethnicity-like social distinction is that between masewal and dzul. Yucatec Maya speakers all over the peninsula know these ancient terms (the former derives from Nahuatl) and apply them to refer to themselves and people not like themselves, respectively (Thompson 1974:93; Press 1975:74; Bartolomé and Barabas 1977; Burns 1983:10; Sosa 1985:56–68; Sullivan 1989; Boccara 1990:12– 13; Gutiérrez Estévez 1992b; D. Brown 1993: 83, 87, 133). Observers have learned or inferred that people who call themselves or others masewal are making social and ethnic distinctions not principally on the basis of physical appearance or putative genealogy (what we call race), but, rather, on the basis of language, dress, usual occupation, residence, wealth, and likely ways of interacting with other people who are masewal. Masewal speak Maya; their clothes are rustic and perhaps outmoded and include sandals rather than shoes; they engage seriously in the cultivation of corn when and where that is possible; they live in the kinds of settlements that everyone knows are the villages or towns of the masewal or in the masewal sections of larger towns; they are poor; and they are ‘‘normal’’ people, from whom one can expect the kind of treatment one expects from normal people. In addition, a darker-skinned, less European-looking person is more likely to be masewal than dzul, though a light-skinned person of obvious European descent can be masewal, if he or she is otherwise like all the others

who call themselves and are called masewal. Dzul, on the other hand, are the prototypical outsiders, the others, the ones who came from outside the peninsula, though any individual dzul might have been born on and lived his/her whole life on the peninsula. Dzul are city folk, fine dressers, fluent and at ease in Spanish, their mother tongue. They eat better food, have more possessions, and are well connected to the wider world beyond the village, town, or peninsula. They have Spanish surnames and think highly of their descent from European ancestors, the Spanish in particular. There are good dzul and bad dzul, but the category in most general terms conflates respect for their wealth, power, knowledge, and experience with criticism of their immorality and fear of their treachery. Dzul rule masewal, or at least they try to. Such are the general features of the distinctions between masewal and dzul which are made in Yucatec Maya and which ethnographers have highlighted. In central Quintana Roo, added to the above distinctions is the notion that masewal are people of the land of Quintana Roo, with the ethnic designator acquiring thus a territorial and historical component that appears absent from its usage in other parts of the peninsula and which is surely related to the long war that the masewal of Quintana Roo fought against reconquest by the dzul (the so-called War of the Castes, 1847–1901). With such dimensions added, the term masewal as commonly employed in Quintana Roo would not include people of Yucatan who call themselves masewal too, but who did not live in rebel territory during the War of the Castes and who do not worship the deities that rebel Maya descendants worship to this day. (They are instead called yucatecos, though still not dzul.) Outside of central Quintana Roo, researchers have found the distinction between masewal and dzul to be of varying character, strength, and relevance. Irwin Press (1975:74–75) reported that it was the cardinal social distinction around Ticul, that it was based upon surname (Maya vs. Spanish), ‘‘with additional overtones of life style,’’ and that it was ‘‘used as a general referent to the poor, Maya-speaking peas213

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  ant, regardless of surname,’’ though he also observed that ‘‘dzul and masehual have little meaning in terms of daily interaction . . .’’ in that area where a third of the population qualified as dzul. Studying in the same area of Yucatan a few years later, Richard Thompson (1974: 81, 91) found that the great majority of people seemed ‘‘unconcerned with race as an issue and do not recognize real or putative social differences between them,’’ though he acknowledged that ethnic inequality was a ‘‘quiet and ancient fact of community life, a subtly intrusive force that restrains group relations and influences attitudes and behavior in many small ways.’’ While masewal/dzul is the cardinal ethnic distinction made when speaking in Yucatec Maya, mestizo/catrín is the cardinal ethnic and social distinction made when speaking in Spanish. Numerous reports from various parts of the peninsula and from various decades make clear that the one set of terms is not a simple translation of the other and that the social categories designated by the one set cannot be neatly mapped by use of the other. These are categorical distinctions made in different languages (by people who speak the two languages) and they designate related, though not identical, social distinctions. To add a bit to the confusion, mestizo as used for these purposes in Yucatan has a meaning quite different from the well-known uses of the term elsewhere in Mexico. As with the distinction masewal/dzul, the distinction mestizo/catrín rests on language, surname (especially patronym), dress, occupation, education, orientation toward urban or rural life, and wealth. Dress and occupation and a ‘‘commitment to a way of life and specific values’’ which they reflect, however, appear most heavily weighted when using the latter set of terms (Press 1975:80), though to have a surname of Maya or Spanish origin also is important. When Press and Thompson did their studies around Ticul in the 1960’s, enough men and women still wore traditional clothing so that the adoption of urban modes of dress (especially shoes) could serve as a handy designator of catrín status and orientation to urban ways of life and values. Nowadays such urban dress is so 214

common that its value as a designator must be greatly diminished (or has been narrowed to a matter, specifically, of sandals vs. closed shoes [cf. Holmes 1978:39]). That still leaves occupation, however, as a major index of orientation and status. As Thompson (1974:59) noted: ‘‘Only mestizos make milpa and making milpa makes one a mestizo.’’ Thompson noted that only catrines then held high political office in the town, catrines were served ahead of mestizos in local stores, catrínonly dances were held, the local Lions Club was catrín only and excluded even quite wealthy local mestizos, and in the local cemetery catrín corpses and mestizo corpses were buried in different sections. Both Thompson and others have reflected upon the ambivalence that mestizos show concerning their status. They acknowledge they are the social inferiors of catrines and yet view the catrines as overly status conscious and as negligent concerning ‘‘proper and traditional rules of conduct and personal respect . . .’’ (Thompson 1974:85). Literature that discusses the masewal/dzul distinction does not indicate that someone considered masewal can become a dzul, though individual cases from the historical record (e.g., the Caste War) are suspected. Mestizos can become catrines, however. In his Ticul study Thompson (1974:26) found that three-quarters of all catrines were the children of mestizo parents. Such passing entails, for women, the perfecting of their Spanish and the adoption of city-style dress (i.e., getting rid of the huipiles and sandals); for men, it means also perfecting one’s Spanish, finding employment other than milpa work, perhaps a change in residence, and eventually a change in surname too, hispanicizing the Maya names that otherwise betray the secret of one’s ethnic origins. Holmes (1978: 46–47, 48–53) has a good discussion of passing, and Thompson (1974:13–21) provides some of the most vivid and extensive anecdotes available about the purposes, travails, and consequences of passing from mestizo to catrín status. Holmes (1978:269–274) also documents a ninety-year trend toward increased interethnic unions in a henequen region in decline (28 percent in 1970), with interethnic unions more common

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   in rural areas than in urban or semi-urban settings, though her data also suggested that the frequency of such unions could change markedly with shifts in the economic and political context. That masewal/dzul and mestizo/catrín do not label identical social categories is evident from the observation, for example, that Thompson made in Ticul. There, when speaking in Yucatec Maya, people asserted that both wealthy catrines and wealthy mestizos were, at the same time, dzul, and for people speaking Yucatec Maya from the vantage point of smaller rural settlements around Ticul, all catrines and mestizos who lived in city or town were dzul (Thompson 1974:93; cf. Rivera 1976:55). It seems from what Sosa (1985:58–59) reported from north of Valladolid that effectively monolingual speakers of Yucatec Maya there had partially merged the two semantic domains, referring to themselves as mestizos and the other as dzul, with the use of the term mestizo while speaking Maya apparently signaling awareness of less than pure Maya ancestry or Maya culture (Sosa [1985:63– 65] also reported that a person who otherwise qualifies as mestizo might be called dzul as an honorific). The Yucatecan-Spanish lexicon of ethnic and social distinctions—what those whom the masewal call dzul call them—is also complex and reflects the still changing historical and political context of social relations on the peninsula. Indio, indígena, ‘‘Maya,’’ campesino, and other terms that have been used over the last hundred years when speaking and writing about the indigenous population of the peninsula are not translations of any of the terms discussed above, but themselves elements of still other lexical domains of Spanish that cannot be explored here. Maya have seldom called themselves ‘‘Maya.’’ That is changing, however, as speakers of Yucatec Maya inevitably become more aware of the fact that others call them Maya and that being so labeled is not pejorative (it does not mean indio), as the label ‘‘Maya’’ harkens to their descent from a great civilization. While numerous researchers document that contemporary Maya disparage their own inadequacies as carriers of a great, ancient culture (no one

speaks the ‘‘pure’’ Maya language any more) (Thompson 1974:11; Press 1975:72; Burns 1983; Sosa 1985; Boccara 1990; Gutiérrez Estévez 1992a, 1992b), still others, like Hervik (1992), report the glimmerings of an ethnic renewal founded on conscious assertion of a culture called ‘‘Maya,’’ such as is occurring in the highlands of Guatemala, while Alicia Re Cruz (1996: 77) found one faction of Maya speakers in Chan Kom describing themselves, to the disadvantage of their local political and economic rivals, as ‘‘true Maya.’’ Much remains to be done to clarify the uses of ethnic/social designators on the Yucatan Peninsula and to sound their relevance today. It seemed to some writing in the late 1960’s that the distinction between mestizo and catrín was losing force or relevance, though a decade later Holmes (1978:40) could report that economic crisis in the state and the nation was exacerbating social relations and, presumably, reactivating these distinctions in local talk and life. Researchers need to more carefully document from what language and speech contexts they derive their data and what the immediate purposes and consequences of ethnic labeling appear to be. In addition, Re Cruz (1992:3), echoing Redfield, provides a useful starting point for future research: ‘‘. . . there is no ‘ethnic Maya identity,’ but different, often competing, ideological formulations’’ in each community. We now know that such competition at the local level among alternative means for labeling self and other transpires in awareness of not only regional and national, but also global, fields of intercultural interaction, especially in those areas of the peninsula that host international tourism or supply workers for the resorts and service industry (Castañeda 1991); further research should be directed toward documenting this process still seemingly in its infancy when compared to related developments in Guatemala (see, for example, Warren 1992, 1996; Adams 1994b). It seems likely that as Yucatec Maya–speaking people increasingly occupy political, economic, and cultural positions long closed to them, to continue calling themselves masewal will become anachronistic, and the maya winiko’ob of early Postcon215

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  quest scribes may finally gain currency. In some contexts, as in northern Belize, Maya may flee a burdensome ethnic label, abandon Yucatec Maya, and ally themselves with historic enemies, the ‘‘Spanish,’’ to advance their interests against still other ethnic Others (C. Brockmann 1977; Koenig 1980). Or Maya may shed their language but not the Indian label, designating themselves (now in their new language) as indio after all (Birdwell-Pheasant 1984:700). In any event, surely the bearers of Yucatec Maya culture will continue to thwart our foreign efforts to foresee the substance of their changing identities (cf. Mossbrucker 1992). P, R,  I Maya identity may be problematic, the use of the Yucatec Maya language may be in decline, and Maya may be living in ever more urban settings, but repeated studies from various corners of the peninsula confirm that cosmology, conceptualizations of space and time, curing beliefs and practices, and laboring upon the land and in the forest continue to be intimately connected and mutually reinforcing. All Maya men and women will declare that they inhabit a world suffused with the sacred (and sometimes with its opposite, evil) and that few human actions can or should fail to adjust to that ancient reality. In his outstanding and novel study of Yucatec Maya language and pragmatics, William Hanks (1990:388) convincingly observed that almost ‘‘every kind of space’’ about which Maya may speak ‘‘has a yùumil ‘lord, owner’ . . . to whom it belongs.’’ The complete roster of supernatural lords, owners, or guardians is long and probably variable on the peninsula (even among Maya shamans), though the general ranks have been repeatedly described with some consistency: guardians of heaven and of the four temples, rain spirits, earth guardians, and underworld spirits (Hanks 1984). Spirit classes are hierarchically ordered and arrayed along spatial, temporal, and directional dimensions in precise fashion, and the domain in which each spirit type or individual can act as well as the roles it can play for good or evil are well-bounded and limited (Hanks 216

1984; Goldap 1991; see also Love 1986:65–98 for an overview of typologies of Maya spirits and for an argument that number or singularity/plurality is also an important ordering dimension). The best-described arenas for Maya interaction with such spirits is the milpa or cornfield and the curing ceremony. (The rainencouraging ch’aá chaák and the harvest-time wàahil kòol, with their elaborate altar arrays of foods, candles, flowers, and crucifixes and their lengthy shamanic chants, have been quite fully described by Arzápalo [1980], Sosa [1985], Love [1986], Bredt-Kriszat et al. [1990], and Hanks [1990], among others.) Faust has characterized milpa labor itself as a kind of ritual, offering uniquely full data concerning the methodical way in which a cornfield-to-be is oriented along the axis of the sun’s diurnal movement, measured and marked along each of its boundaries and within its interior in a cardinal-directionsensitive sequence of steps, and planted in right-handed spirals beginning at the northeast corner and terminating at the exact center. This high regard for the spatial orderliness of the cultivated plot has no practical function, but instead reflects both Maya caution in dealing with the spirit owners of land, water, and wind and Maya efforts to bind and propitiate those element owners to guarantee a successful outcome to human endeavor (Faust 1988:280– 333; also Hanks 1990:352–80). Hanks’ demonstration of ways in which the arrangement of ritual offerings on the altars of agricultural ceremonies iconically reproduces significant spatial features of the cornfield itself is further evidence that agricultural laboring is suffused with ritual purpose and protections. A declining proportion of Yucatec Maya peoples participate in corn farming, which represents a decreasing proportion of the productive efforts of Maya agriculturalists. Irrigated orchard culture (Ewell 1984; Rosales González 1988) and truck gardening (Alonso Barrón 1979; Sullivan 1987), apiculture (Merrill Sands 1984; Ewell and Merrill-Sands 1987), hunting (L. Greenberg 1992; Jorgenson 1993), cattle raising (Climo 1978; Alonso Barrón 1979; Faust 1988; Hostettler 1996; Re Cruz 1996), sugar cul-

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   tivation (Jones 1969; Abrams 1973), hammock making (Littlefield 1976), pot making (Thompson 1974), shoemaking (Thompson 1974), hat making (Thompson 1974), huipil embroidering (Vallarta Vélez 1985), forest extractive activities (chicle, railroad ties) (Ponce Jiménez 1990; Konrad 1991, 1995; Barrera de Jorgenson 1993; Hostettler 1996), and wage laboring either for local agriculturalists or cattle ranchers or in urban and tourist centers (Alonso Barrón 1979; Y. Breton and M.-F. Labrecque 1981; Castañeda 1991; Richardson 1991) are some of the major alternative economic activities in which Maya have been heavily engaged over the last halfcentury. Thousands of Maya once labored on henequen plantations and in henequen ejidos, but the collapse of that industry has released impoverished Maya to scramble for other ways to make a living in nearby cities or by farming micro-fields (Baños Ramírez 1989; Paula de Teresa 1992; Villanueva Mukul 1993) or by migrating to the United States (Campos Solano 1985). Peter Ewell (1984) quite succinctly described the paradox of milpa agriculture on the Yucatan Peninsula. Traditional agriculture offers few opportunities for intensification whether with labor or capital, and the price of corn has deteriorated relative to that of other products that Maya need to acquire. Laboring in other endeavors, and migration to cities, in order to supplement declining returns from agriculture means that Maya cannot farm the extensions of available land that they once did. Yields have stagnated and always fluctuated significantly from one year to the next. Hence, it seems, more and more Maya are abandoning full-time milpa cultivation, population is concentrating in larger settlements, and land is lying unused in underpopulated areas of the peninsula. Elsa Alonso Barrón (1979:36–8) reported that with less time to spend in the fields, Maya in eastern Yucatan were reducing the diversity of their cultigens, frequently planting corn alone, when they planted anything at all. That said, corn farming as work and as ritual remains prominent in the minds of even those Maya for whom it long ago ceased to be a principal and viable activity. Othón Baños Ramírez

(1989:168–170) reported that Maya displaced from employment in henequen cultivation in a western Yucatecan municipio still planted corn even though they could only garner at best enough corn for two months of family consumption (cf. Richardson 1991:68). Burns (1983:202) reported that even urban Maya identified milpa-labor as something ‘‘truly Mayan,’’ and a shoemaker he met in Merida planned to retire to a rural milpa. Changes in agricultural production—whether the mechanization of tilling, irrigation, the production of non-corn crops, or the introduction and expansion of cattle ranching—appear not inconsistent with the survival of Maya agricultural ritual (Sosa 1985:332–342; Hanks 1990:361, 362; Kintz 1990:123–124). Re Cruz (1996) provided insight into the ideology of milpa among the Maya, describing how one faction in Chan Kom evoked the image (if not the reality) of corn farming to enhance their own prestige and political success to the detriment of the other faction (composed mainly of people who work in Cancun). So despite substantial changes in the productive regimes in which Maya are engaged, it seems likely that Maya ritual and cosmology once firmly rooted in slash-and-burn maize cultivation will continue to resonate with Maya on the Yucatan Peninsula. (For extensive lists of the forms in which corn is consumed, see Hope and Pereyra [1982:227–302] and Everton [1991:80–82].) S  C When people consider their identity and the identities of others, they consider the character of the community in which they live. In that regard, for example, Press (1975:87) found that ‘‘even the rich and Spanish-surnamed in the town readily agree that Pustunich can be absolutely characterized as Maya (‘ethnically’), milpero, poor, campesino, mestizo, Maya-speaking, and mazehual. Simply being from the village implies all.’’ In a different vein Denise Brown (1993:306–307) stressed the dual importance of the bounded settlement space shared with others (by virtue of which fact one shares with them the bond of éetca217

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  hal, ‘fellow villager’), on the one hand, and the widely dispersed loci of agricultural pursuits, on the other. The Maya of eastern Yucatan among whom she studied are born into what is ‘‘at once a dispersed rural, and a nucleated urban system,’’ and she amply demonstrated the importance to Maya of participating in both parts of this spatial system. When Villa Rojas (1969b:248) wrote for the Handbook, census figures indicated that 57 percent of the population of the peninsula lived in urban settlements with 2,500 or more inhabitants, and he observed that the shift from rural to urban residence was accelerating in Yucatan and Campeche, if not in Quintana Roo. In the henequen zone of Yucatan and northern Campeche, Maya lived in more compact towns surrounded by henequen fields and henequen estates, while outside of that zone Maya dispersed more widely in villages that typically had fifteen to twenty huts and milpas nearby. It was the way of life of the more dispersed, cornfarming and perhaps forest-dwelling Maya that Villa Rojas described for Handbook readers. That was life for a minority of Maya at the time, but arguably therein held fast the roots of Maya culture common everywhere on the peninsula. The trend toward less dispersed settlement has continued. In 1960, 43 percent of people on the peninsula lived in settlements with less than 2,500 inhabitants; in 1990, only 24 percent did. If one eliminates from the count the largest settlements—Merida, Cancun, Chetumal, Campeche—then as much as 27 percent of the Maya population resides in such small settlements. Population dispersal is greatest in the east, where, for example, in the municipio of Chemax (1,028 km2 ), 17,000 residents reside in 154 different localities, 26 percent of them in localities with less than 500 residents and 45 percent in localities with fewer than 2,500 inhabitants. In a henequen-zone municipio of comparable size (Maxcanu, 17,000 residents, 1,321 km2 ), only 8 percent reside in localities with less than 500 residents. In her study of settlement patterns in the municipio of Chemax, D. Brown (1993) provided the most detailed discussion available of settlement types and the processes of settlement for218

mation, abandonment, and resettlement. Relying upon local Maya classifications of settlement types she identified: (a) The rancho, consisting of one or two structures occupied by a single family or by close relatives, founded upon private property, or close to private property, which is seasonally or permanently occupied. Half of the settlements in the Chemax municipio were of this type. (b) The cahtal (with an average of 25 inhabitants), consisting of a somewhat larger number of structures grouped around a well or cenote, occupied by more distantly related or unrelated families who cultivate parcels in the immediate vicinity and who occupy the site on either seasonal or permanent bases. The cahtal has no central, public area, and houses are not surrounded by solar or house-lot boundary walls. (c) The chan cah, distinguished from the cahtal by its larger size and, more importantly, its well-defined central area around which a single circle or square of house lots, some walled, are arranged, with the rear of the house lots fading into the natural vegetation of the surrounding environment. The chan cah, with an average of 100 residents (and always fewer than 200), has a small singleentrance church, public school buildings, and perhaps a basketball court or baseball field, but no commercial outlets. (d) The cah, distinguished from the chan cah by the grid layout of its streets, by the walled house lots, by the clear definition of other public spaces, and by the fact that a main road passes through the settlement (rather than bypassing it, as was always the case with chan cah). Brown made the case that the spatial order of the cah reflects responses to the greater movement of people and goods to and through the settlement, as well, perhaps, as the aspirations of its residents to create the appearance (and later, reality) of greater urbanity. The cah may have locally named and recognized subdivisions, but no formal barrio organizations such as have been described for other parts of Meso-

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   america. The cah hosts a wider range of specialists and commercial establishments, and it is governed by a different kind of authority from the other above-mentioned settlements. In the smallest settlements, the authority of the eldest male resident is central; in somewhat larger settlements, a guardia system may be established in which male residents rotate as teams to do two-week stints watching over the settlement, performing minor public works, and running official errands. The larger, more heterogeneous cah adopt the Mexican municipal structure of governance, and insofar as people aspire for their settlement to become a unit within such a structure of governance, they spatially reorganize their settlement to look the part. This process was described in Redfield’s insightful study, A Village That Chose Progress (1950), and settlements in central Quintana Roo have followed that path since the time they were described by Villa Rojas (e.g., Hostettler 1996). (Restall’s [1997] exceptional work concerning the Colonial Maya cah should be consulted as well.) While census records suggest a shift from small to large settlements as the residential norm for Maya peoples on the peninsula, D. Brown (1993:132–133) found that between 1980 and 1990 the proportion of small to large settlements in the Chemax municipio remained unchanged. Furthermore, her examination of birth records for the municipio between 1910 and the present suggested continual movement out to smaller settlements during that period (1993:140). More study is needed to chart likely future trajectories for Maya settlement patterns. (See also Ryder’s [1977] excellent study of migration in part of Yucatan.) We do know that the implementation of the agrarian reform throughout the peninsula from early decades of this century through the 1970’s (in Quintana Roo) resulted in the demise of some settlements (whose land was absorbed in the grants given to larger nuclei of petitioners) and the preservation of others (resident hacienda workers receiving ejido rights to estate lands). We may also

surmise that urban migration and urban wage laboring, whether in Merida or in the tourist centers of the Caribbean coast, deplete smaller settlements of residents as Maya turn away from full-time corn farming. However, even in Chochola in the heart of henequen country and close to Merida, all residents still make some milpa (Baños Ramírez 1989:68–69). In any event, it seems safe to say that while many of the better-understood aspects of Maya culture are rooted in agriculture and small settlement living, the Maya are far advanced toward becoming an urban or semi-urban people, or a people with a foot perennially in both rural and urban settings, a transition or condition which generates tensions and inventions in both settings (see Re Cruz 1996). Earlier students of the Yucatec Maya like Villa Rojas and Redfield have been faulted for overlooking stratification, factional conflict, and political struggle within Maya communities (cf. Goldkind 1965, 1966; Halperin 1975); while no other single community has been as well studied and restudied as Chan Kom, Yucatan (the focus of the studies of Redfield and Villa Rojas that have been challenged), groundwork has been laid for more thorough investigation of stratification and conflict in such communities. Ueli Hostettler (1991, 1992, 1993, 1996) has done the most exhaustive research on economic stratification in a Maya community, in this case a village of some 500 people, mostly corn farmers, in central Quintana Roo. A thorough village census, in-depth interviews, and various approaches to wealth ranking served to break through the facade of village homogeneity to reveal interesting patterns of stratification in the present. Among the most interesting of those findings was the discovery that, though access to land is free through one’s membership in the agrarian ejido, rich households cleared and planted almost twice as much land in corn as did poor households, though acreage planted per household member was almost identical across wealth strata (Hostettler 1992:4–8). Wealthy and poor had almost the same daily caloric intake from maize, they spent about the same amount of time in milpa labor, and they owned roughly 219

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  equivalent possessions. What it meant to be rich in this Maya community, however, was to have a yearly net income from corn farming and other productive activities that was two to five times that of poor households. That extra net income was not spent on increasing possessions, but was kept available as an accumulating capital reserve or deployed in new productive investments, including, for example, new beehives, cattle, pigs, and, for some, trucks. The rich had two to three times as many pigs as the poor (Hostettler 1991:175–176) and engaged significantly more in honey production, intensive truck gardening, and retail or wholesale marketing, while the poor supplemented returns from maize farming with wage laboring and forest extractive activities including chicle gathering, hunting, and logging. As Alonso Barrón (1979:105–106) also found, significant sums earned from the sale of surplus corn fund the hiring of workers, which, in turn, allows for more extensive milpa cultivation by some households. Hostettler (1991:133ff.) found considerable intergenerational movement from one wealth stratum to the next. Key to stratification at any moment in time, however, appeared to be household composition: 78 percent of poor households were nuclear family households, while 48 percent of wealthy households were extended family households. Put another way, poor households had a higher ratio of dependents to active workers than did rich households, while rich households had more active workers per household (i.e., per production/ consumption unit) than did the poor. Over short spans of time, it seems, demography is destiny and the developmental cycle of the household is key to household fortunes (Hostettler 1991:124, 1993:64), though dependence upon local or urban wage laboring can also mean rapid and substantial shifts in income from one year to the next (Alonso Barrón 1979: 130–133). The region where Hostettler studied had been exposed to decades of commercial agriculture and extractive ventures promoted from outside, and stratification did imply difference in the ability of households to take advantage of 220

new opportunities or adjust to new economic circumstances. Yet insofar as household economies and stratification remained rooted in subsistence agriculture and household cycles, tendencies toward stratification did not produce class differentiation—substantial, long-term differences in life chances based upon control of land, labor, or capital. Moreover, such stratification as did develop did not clearly manifest itself in intracommunity political struggles, nor did it seem to threaten the viability of the community as a vessel for the intergenerational transmission of Maya culture. Conflicts there are among Maya in central Quintana Roo, but those conflicts seem to have less to do with competition for resources (e.g., land) than they do with the shifting ground of Maya governance and Maya-Mexican relations (cf. Sullivan 1989). Studies from a different part of the peninsula suggest, however, that economic stratification and political conflict are intimately related in at least some Maya communities. Chan Kom is the best studied in that regard; as mentioned above, where early students found a public united in vigorous effort to improve the community, later restudies detected exploitation of Maya by Maya, the use of political office for private and family gain, and long-term conflict over scarce resources such as land. Revisionists may have too readily seized upon the distinction between ‘‘poor’’ and ‘‘rich’’ which Maya make in speaking of themselves and ignored the links between household composition, domestic cycles, milpa farming, and capital accumulation that Hostettler has found. Yet where land and water are scarce, we have no reason to believe that Maya will not struggle with one another to get more than their share of the same. Re Cruz (1996) suggested, based upon her restudy of Chan Kom in the 1990’s, that what was locally discussed as a struggle between rich and poor, between people committed to the community and opportunists whose home and work lay elsewhere (i.e., migrants to Cancun), between the ‘‘real Maya’’ and turncoats, was, in fact, a competition between strikingly similar elite families and individuals for power and prestige within the village. From the studies mentioned and others, it

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   appears that intracommunity conflict has its roots in a variety of developments, including rural to urban migration, religious conversion, the introduction and expansion of cattle ranching (Halperin 1975; Faust 1988:112–125), opportunities for graft and other complex consequences of village-state-federal government relations, intergenerational tensions, and more. Further, the types and language of intracommunity struggle—what people say they are fighting about while they pursue their goals— take many forms. Conflict over the bestowal or withdrawal of ejido rights (Goldkind 1965, 1966; Raymond 1971; Halperin 1975), electoral competition between political parties, competitive staging of religious festivals (Re Cruz 1996), witchcraft accusations, and dangerous or mundane gossip (Sullivan 1989) are among the more typical findings of researchers since the days of Villa Rojas and Redfield. Even as the last major armed conflict on the peninsula pitting Maya against Maya transpired as a conflict between socialists and liberals in the 1920’s, some of the more serious recent conflicts have also been garbed as struggles between political parties for control of municipal offices (see D. Brown 1993:287–291). Important historical and ethnographic research remains to be done to clarify what links may exist between stratification, political and religious conflict, and intergenerational and gender relations on the Yucatan Peninsula. (See also Paula de Teresa’s [1992] study of such issues in the henequen zone.)

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H, G,  R Nuclear family households predominate in Maya communities on the peninsula. While the developmental cycle of a family may include a period of extended family household residence, and while there are distinct and commonly understood economic benefits to the pooling of resources and labor that extended family households can achieve (e.g., Hostettler 1996), the complicated patterns of authority and initiative which extended family households contain can engender severe conflicts within the household and provide an impetus to the establishment of independent households by a man and woman

(e.g., Holmes 1978:93–101). A shortage of house lots, or the high cost of house lots, especially in the older and densely settled communities of the old henequen zone, can nonetheless tip the balance in favor of extended family households (Press 1975:179), as can the chronic insecurity of income that affects much of the decaying henequen zone (Baños Ramírez 1989: 175–176). That may explain such extendedfamily residential units as those described by Hanks (1990:107–108), not in the henequen zone, in which the coresident nuclear families function economically independently. In some communities, a tendency to reside in the vicinity, if not actually on the house lot, of the male’s parents creates neighborhoods in which neighbors are related through the patriline (e.g., Holmes 1978:129–151; Hanks 1990:110), while the kin of married women are more widely spread throughout a community. But in most communities the allocation of house lots may require that new families establish themselves on the peripheries of settlements, regardless of the neighborhood of their paternal or maternal kin (Hostettler [1996] suggests that there are advantages to such peripheral residence, as new families seek house lots that permit more cultivation of useful trees). Donna Birdwell-Pheasant’s (1984, 1985) research in a Yucatec Maya community in northern Belize offers provocative evidence, however, in favor of analyzing the developmental cycle of Maya households in terms of the internal power careers of household members. Heads of families, fathers and mothers, strive to retain the ‘‘labor and loyalties’’ of their children, and that striving is continually evident in ‘‘the socialization of children, the organization and manipulation of resources and economic activities, and in marriage and residence arrangements’’ (Birdwell-Pheasant 1984:701, 707). As the young mature, they seek independent control of their own labor, production, and income, while seeking as well to retain the support of their parents and siblings (1984:709). As Birdwell-Pheasant succinctly charts, the interacting ascendancy and decline of all household members’ control over their own labor and the labor of others produces household histories 221

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  much more complicated than stock models of household cycles would predict. Studies continue to report a typical sexual division of labor which has men engaged in the principal tasks of agriculture, beekeeping, cattle raising, hunting, logging, chicle gathering, construction, and the representation of the household in public fora and public works, while women organize and execute the timeconsuming tasks of food preparation, laundry, childcare, fetching water, tending to domestic animals other than cattle, tending to small kitchen gardens on the house lot, and assisting males in lighter agricultural tasks including doubling of corn stalks or harvesting corn. Women may also be primarily responsible for bringing produce to market and making purchases for the household (Hanks 1990:111; Lazos Chavero 1995). As additional remunerative activities wax and wane, they may shift from one side to the other of the sexual division of labor or fall on both sides of that sexual divide. Both Elena Lazos Chavero (1995) and Jorge Pacheco Castro and José Lugo Pérez (1995) argue that Maya women participate in commercialized agriculture and that women are not relegated to the subsistence sector, as has commonly happened in other developing regions. Both men and women engage in artisan production—such as weaving, hammock netting, embroidering, pottery making, and hat making —though it appears that except for embroidering the division of labor in artisan production is not absolute, and men will learn techniques and move into (or out of ) a particular line of artisan production as such work becomes more or less lucrative (Thompson 1974:71; Holmes 1978:70). Migratory wage labor patterns are less clearly demarcated by gender. Both men and women travel to larger towns, Merida, Cancun, or other resort centers to work, though there is some evidence that women do so only until they are married (Richardson 1991:74; Re Cruz 1996:Chapter 6). Observers have variously emphasized that husbands have, as Holmes (1978:94) put it, ‘‘complete and final authority’’ within the house lot (see also Hanks 1990:104) and that husbands and wives consult and strive for consen222

sus on all important household matters (Holmes 1978:95; Hostettler 1992:42). Such conflicting images of domestic relations call for more study, though Birdwell-Pheasant and Holmes have prepared the ground well for such future inquiry. Birdwell-Pheasant (1984, 1985) demonstrated the need to examine separately and in their interactions the power careers (i.e., control over their own labor and that of others) of both men and women in households in Maya communities. Meanwhile, Holmes (1978:101ff.) noted, based upon her study of women and kinship in a henequen-zone community, that husbands rarely asserted their ‘‘exalted’’ authority over their wives and that they did so principally in matters related to the public appearance and public representation of the household. She also found that tensions between wives and husbands most often involved public conduct (e.g., indiscreet extramarital affairs that came powerfully to the attention of neighbors and townspeople). High value is placed upon decorum both in public and in private. In a similar vein, Hanks (1990:104) has highlighted the importance of respect paying to speakers of Yucatec Maya and has succinctly described the domestic and public status hierarchy that governs respectful talk—‘‘elder is superior to younger, and male is superior to female.’’ Observance of rules for respectful speech by no means restrains Yucatec Maya speakers from engaging in ‘‘humor, affection, and spontaneity in speech,’’ Hanks observed, and a lively life of talk binds husband and wife as surely as does the complementary work that men and women do in support of each other and their families (Hanks 1990:114, 119ff.), though reserve in sexual matters, both public and private, is quite marked (Holmes 1978:244–245). Breach of etiquette, especially public breaches, and behavior which jeopardizes the public status of men and women can, however, as Holmes detailed, occasion strife. Alcohol is a well-known contributor to domestic strife and to the abuse of women in Maya households. Holmes (1978:103) estimated that in the community that she studied a third of all males had ‘‘lost control over their drinking,’’ while another third were heavy social drink-

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   ers. While it is not known whether those seemingly high figures are valid for other parts of the peninsula, there is no denying that alcohol is a common factor in incidents of spousal abuse and contributes as well to the impoverishment of the Maya household. Recent research partially confirms the findings of Redfield and Villa Rojas that Maya men and women do not necessarily place high stress upon the emotional content of their domestic relationship. Mutual economic support is central, while men and women turn to other relationships to provide other satisfactions— men, to their male agnatic kinsmen and those with whom they cooperate in labor or politics; women, to their female agnatic kin, their neighbors, and their children (Holmes 1978; Richardson 1991). Some have found that the extradomestic networks of women as well as their control of some aspects of household production and expenditure (e.g., house-lot gardening and the raising of domestic fowl) provide women with a foundation for self-reliance, assertiveness, and optimism even given their publicly recognized and sanctioned subordination to husbands (Elmendorf 1976; Lazos Chavero 1995). The effect of agricultural and industrial development (some planned and sponsored specifically to improve the lot of Maya women) upon women’s roles, relationships, and rights has been a special focus of much Yucatecan research (Ramírez Carrillo 1995). Still, other researchers have found that the burdens of very labor-intensive domestic duties, early marriage

and high fertility, ignorance of the basic facts of sexual reproduction (since they cannot be talked about), lack of reliable and consistent access to contraceptives and family planning information, spousal abuse, limited schooling, limited access to medical care (in many areas), and isolation from kin weigh very heavily upon Maya women (Richardson 1991). Both images of the lot of the Maya woman may be accurate for particular times and places on the peninsula, and only further research can clarify this aspect of Maya life, which is so important to the future of Maya peoples on the peninsula. N 1. My thanks to Dr. Ueli Hostettler of the Institut für Ethnologie, Universität Bern, for bringing to my attention many published materials concerning Yucatecan research. 2. The 1990 census counted some 41,400 speakers of other indigenous languages resident in the states of Campeche, Yucatan, and Quintana Roo. They represented only some 0.02 percent of the total population of the peninsula. These other languages spoken represented a broad sample of other Mesoamerican languages, spoken by small numbers of migrants to various parts of the peninsula. Apart from Yucatec Maya, the only other indigenous languages spoken by sizable numbers of people on the peninsula at the time of the 1990 census were Kanjobal and Mam, spoken by some 10,500 Guatemalan refugees (most of whom have since returned to Guatemala) and Chol, spoken by some 5,000 residents of Campeche.

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11. Maya and Anthropologists in the Highlands of Guatemala since the 1960’s JOHN M. WATANABE

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T

I

   the anthropology of highland Guatemala since publication of the original Ethnology volumes of the Handbook of Middle American Indians. The first involves a theoretical shift in approaches to Maya communities and their local cultures: rather than treating them as largely self-contained microcosms, analysis has centered on Maya communities as integral parts of national and global political economies and on Maya cultures as ethnic identities constructed in counterpoint to a Ladino (Spanishspeaking, non-Indian)–controlled Guatemalan state. The second development pertains to the brutal counterinsurgency war of the 1980’s and the subsequent economic and political restructuring of rural Guatemala that devastated and divided Maya communities. Changing anthropological perspectives reflect developments since the 1960’s in dependency and world systems theory, neo-Marxist analysis, and symbolic rather than material or behavioral definitions of culture. Similarly, from the 1970’s onward, growing political violence and repression in Guatemala overshadowed previous concerns with Prehispanic cultural 224

survivals, the distinctive features of local community cultures, and Maya acculturation to Ladino ways. Instead, ethnographers focused increasingly on contemporary constraints in Maya life and livelihood, if not always on their political plight itself. This chapter traces these changes in the anthropology and the Maya of highland Guatemala during the last thirty years. I begin with the seemingly straightforward question of how many Maya live in Guatemala, then show why this depends on anthropological—and Guatemalan—debates over Maya ethnic identity, cultural change, and politics since the 1970’s. The second half of the chapter describes the salient features of Maya life that recent history and changing anthropological perspectives have revealed. W, W,  H M The rugged highlands north and west of Guatemala City still constitute the home of more than three out of four Maya in Guatemala (see Fig. 11-1). In the most densely Maya departments of Totonicapán, Sololá, El Quiché, and Alta Verapaz, Maya outnumber Ladinos better than nine to one. In the adjacent departments of Chimaltenango, Quezaltenango,

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          1960’

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F 11-1. Departmental and regional divisions of Guatemala.

and Huehuetenango, the range is from two to four Maya for every Ladino, while San Marcos, Suchitepéquez, Sacatepéquez, and Baja Verapaz are about half Maya. In contrast, Ladinos predominate east and south of Guatemala

City, although significant enclaves of Maya (34 percent) occupy Chiquimula and Jalapa (INE 1995). Maya continue to reside in all of Guatemala’s 330 municipios, but densities vary regionally from 5,000 or more Maya in 69 percent 225

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 . 

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F 11-2. Percentages of Maya population by municipio based on 1994 census figures (after R. Adams 1970: 159, adapted by Edward Chu).

of municipios in the western highlands to 87 percent of municipios in the east with less than 5,000 Maya (35 percent have less than 500); the Pacific coast remains intermediate (INE 1995; cf. J. Early 1983a:75–78; see Fig. 11-2). Regardless of numbers, Ladinos favor cities and towns over the countryside, temperate valleys and piedmonts over cooler uplands; Maya predominate in the more remote, less productive high226

land interiors. The relative distribution of Maya between east and west, lowland and highland, has persisted almost unchanged since the 1950 census, with proportions in the east continuing a slow decline (cf. J. Early 1983a:83; INE 1984, 1995). Historian Murdo MacLeod (1973: 230) traces the pattern to the late sixteenth century, when Spaniards began to establish haciendas in the lower, warmer lands east and south of

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          1960’ Guatemala City, to the detriment of Maya communities there (cf. Ghidinelli 1976). According to official censuses, the Indian population in Guatemala grew from 1.8 million in 1964 to 3.6 million in 1994 (DGE 1971; INE 1995). Because no definitive criteria distinguish Indians from non-Indians in Guatemala, census-takers have traditionally relied on their own estimations of ethnic identity, which at times have differed from local understandings. In comparing census figures with local birth and death records, which record and presumably reflect local ethnic categorizations more accurately, John Early (1982) argued that, in 1964, 17.2 percent of Maya had been misclassified or not counted, raising Maya totals from 1.8 to nearly 2.2 million, or 50.4 percent of Guatemala’s population. Similarly, the 1973 census may have underrepresented Maya by 15.7 percent, bringing Maya close to 2.7 million, or 48 percent of the national population. For 1980, J. Early (1983a:74) estimated 3.2 million Maya, a proportion of 47.3 percent, compared to official 1981 figures of 2.5 million and 41.9 percent (INE 1984; see Table 11-1). Despite suspected undercounting, when census-takers in 1994 explicitly asked about Indian identity, 3.6 million Maya resulted, or 42.7 percent of the national population. This led Richard Adams (1996) to suggest that Maya proportions in previous censuses may have been somewhat more representative than many Maya activists have argued (cf. Tzian 1994; Cojtí Cuxil 1995a), but the unqualified way the question was asked (‘‘Are you Indian?’’) ignored the subtleties of Guatemalan ethnic self-identification and undoubtedly skewed answers in indeterminate ways.1 The dwindling percentage of Maya even in Early’s revised figures reflects two factors— traditionally higher Maya mortality rates and, most significantly, continuing Maya acculturation to Ladino culture and language (J. Early 1982). In recent years, however, Maya mortality has declined, and continued high fertility associated with peasant household production, combined with falling Ladino fertility, particularly in the cities where the majority of Ladinos reside (cf. Méndez-Domínguez 1983, 1984), suggests that Maya growth may finally

T 11-1. The Maya Population in Guatemala, 1964–1994 Source 0- census Early revisions a * census Early revisions a 7 census Early est., 7> b - census c Tzian est., * d Lovell and Lutz est., - e

Indian Total Percent Population Population Maya ,7>7,3- -,37, 3,7,0 -,**,3>3,30>,>3- ,0>,33 3,07>,7 ,7,-* 3,*0,3* 0,>-,33 *,3*>,** 0,73,7*,-,0 7,*3,>0 0,7,30 >,>3,,>>>,>>>

—

-3.3 >.-*.7 -. -. -.* -3. 0.> —

a From J. Early (1982:31), based on recalculations

from birth and death records in municipal civil registries. b From J. Early (1983a:74), based on projections from birth and death records in municipal civil registries. c The 1994 census was the first to ask individuals directly whether they identified themselves as Indian; categorizations in earlier censuses relied on personal judgments by the census taker. See text and note 1 for discussion of the 1994 figures. d From Tzian (1994:51), based on official census projections and presumption of a constant Maya proportion of 61% of the national population, derived from averaging global estimates by others (Tzian 1994:41–42); his calculations are the highest cited here, but others have proposed Maya proportions of the national population of 70 or even 80% and more. e From Lovell and Lutz (1994:138), based on consideration of various estimates by others.

have matched or overtaken Ladino increase (cf. Díaz 1997:137–140). Similarly, acculturation— defined by census-takers and many anthropologists (cf. Tax 1941; J. Early 1982) as loss of Maya speech, dress, or custom—has often implied a corresponding decline in Maya identity. For Maya and Ladino alike, however, changing dress or even loss of language neither precludes continuing Maya self-identification nor forestalls Ladino discrimination against those they see as indios revestidos—ex-Indians in Ladino clothing (Brintnall 1979a). Indeed, despite declining national percentages of Maya, Maya identity has shown remarkable regional resil227

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 .  iency, especially in the western highlands between Guatemala City and Quezaltenango, and even among the Q’eqchi’ of Alta Verapaz, where coffee and cardamom production have usurped local lands. In these strongly Maya areas, municipios more than 90 percent Indian in the 1893 census retained almost identical Indian percentages in 1994 (R. Adams 1996). Debate continues over the proportion of Maya in Guatemala, from official census figures of just above 40 percent to some Maya estimates of 70 percent or more—or somewhere between 3.5 and 6 million as of mid-1990’s (see Table 111). Obviously, the accuracy of any figure depends on how one defines ‘‘Indian’’—by appearance, language, dress, residence, work, world view, or self-identity. Whatever the case, absolute growth of the Maya population is actually accelerating, if now increasingly concentrated in the western highlands (R. Adams 1991:183– 184).

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D  D Uncertainty over just how many Maya live in Guatemala goes to the heart of debates in the anthropology of highland Guatemala during the last thirty years. Given the cultural transformations wrought by roads, radios, revolutions, and repression, what does it mean to be Maya? Indeed, in the face of such acculturation, why remain Maya at all? Furthermore, who ultimately decides who or what is Maya—and to what end? These interconnected questions of cultural change, identity, and power relate to a sea-change in anthropological approaches to culture prompted in part by Vietnam War–era efforts to make the discipline more relevant by attending to the legacies of racism, colonialism, and imperialism (cf. Hymes 1969; Asad 1973) and by closer attention to the meanings people themselves create and convey through cultural symbols (cf. Geertz 1973). Rather than objectifying culture as essential traits that endure or erode, anthropologists have come to treat Maya cultures in Guatemala as strategic selfexpressions of Maya identity, motivated—and thus presumably more appropriately authenti228

cated—by Maya propensities and possibilities in the present rather than by Prehispanic primordialisms. Three interrelated themes dominate this recent work: the nature of Maya ethnicity and its relationship to cultural change, the place of Maya culture-cum-identity in Guatemalan political economy, and the ideological role of cultural practices and conventionalizations in Maya struggles for identity and autonomy within Guatemalan society. From Culture to Ethnicity In Ixil Country, Benjamin Colby and Pierre van den Berghe (1969) first sought to disentangle Maya ethnicity from specific cultural traits. They argued that the participation of individual ‘‘culture users’’ in overlapping as well as exclusive social networks and institutions produced the subjective perceptions that primarily differentiated Maya from Ladinos. Such patterns of interaction and orientation maintained ethnic distinctions regardless of acculturative changes in Ixil (or Ladino) culture. Although critical of this formulation as too static, Douglas Brintnall (1979b) found a similarly persistent Maya ethnicity in Aguacatán, Huehuetenango, despite the advent of Awakatek 2 cash-cropping in garlic, religious factionalism, and the subsequent demise of the town’s civil-religious cargo system. Kay Warren (1978 [new ed. 1989]) revealed the enduring ethnic ideologies in Maya myth, ritual, and religious conversion by comparing how the world views of Kaqchikel traditionalists and reformed Catholics in San Andrés Semetabaj portrayed and rejected Ladino domination. My own research in Santiago Chimaltenango (Watanabe 1992) analyzed the problematic nature of community as a historically derived yet continuously negotiated locus of Mam Maya identity. Similarly, Richard Wilson (1995) found Q’eqchi’ mountain spirits in Alta Verapaz to be highly motivated images of historical continuity yet also objects of appropriation by counterinsurgency forces and Maya activists alike. He concluded that, far from arbitrary constructions of the moment, the ongoing invention—or im-

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          1960’ position—of Q’eqchi’ tradition emerged from meaningful pasts and places that still had the power to shape the present. Together, these studies substantiated the ways in which Maya cultures could change or ‘‘modernize’’ yet Maya identities endure, whether through social networks, economic and political struggles, religious ideologies, or the knowing familiarity of local places. Richard Adams (1994a) most explicitly acknowledged this disjunction between Maya acculturation and identity in disclaiming his earlier model of ‘‘ladinization’’ as a linear progression from ‘‘traditional Indian’’ to ‘‘new Ladino.’’ He proposed instead an ongoing but non-assimilationist process of ‘‘coevolution’’ between modernizing Maya and Ladino societies driven by their mutual interdependence yet also mutually exclusive—if not openly antagonistic—ancestral origins and self-justifying ethnic projects. The reasons behind such persistent codependency, however, remained equivocal: for anthropologists, it could symbolize Maya separatism as well as subordination (cf. Warren 1978); for Guatemalans, it evoked the many contradictory meanings of ‘‘Indian’’ as a relative or absolute, inclusive or exclusive, positive or negative categorization (cf. Méndez-Domínguez 1972, 1975). Whatever its nature, Maya identity clearly required closer attention to the asymmetries, inequalities, and oppositions between Maya and Ladinos within Guatemalan society.

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Political Economy Studies of social stratification in Guatemala have commonly discounted Maya cultural distinctiveness in favor of political economy, but not always (cf. Noval 1992). Beginning in the 1960’s, Marxist (largely Guatemalan) scholars challenged the preoccupation of U.S. anthropologists with Maya culture, arguing that, far from being essential, such Indianness in fact represented Maya class subordination within Guatemalan society (cf. Flores Alvarado 1973). Historian Severo Martínez Peláez (1971) went so far as to reduce ‘‘Indians’’ to the wholesale creation of Colonial exploitation, while anthro-

pologist Carlos Guzmán Böckler (1986; Guzmán Böckler and Herbert 1970) acknowledged a genuine Maya culture rooted in their ancient cosmology and deep attachment to their land, yet one still predicated on resistance to Ladino domination (cf. Stavenhagen 1968). In contrast, Flavio Rojas Lima (1992) argued that Guatemala’s long-standing economic dependency on Maya labor and the Maya’s own growing cultural and political activism identified them as ‘‘the principal protagonists’’ of Guatemalan history and the culture of Guatemala as largely an Indian one. Addressing issues of underdevelopment rather than Marxist critiques, Richard Adams’ Crucifixion by Power (1970) sought to show how changing power relations within and outside Guatemala affected elite interests, ambitions, and associations, especially after U.S. intervention in 1954 further consolidated state and military control at the expense of social and economic reforms. In pursuing these perspectives ethnographically, W. R. Smith (1977) dismissed previous assessments of ritual cargo holding as the core of Maya community organization, arguing instead that in Mam municipios of San Marcos sponsorship of public fiestas represented at best a palliative of expending otherwise marginal economic surpluses for empty prestige, at worst a self-perpetuating ‘‘immiseration’’ imposed by Colonial schemes of divide and rule. Sheldon Annis (1987) also blamed colonialist depredations for the interlocking ‘‘milpa logic’’ of subsistence agriculture and the ‘‘cultural tax’’ of ritual cargo holding in San Antonio Aguas Calientes. For him, these patterns of Kaqchikel domestic production and ritual consumption had evolved to minimize the surpluses that Ladino authorities could extract from Maya, while also fostering household and community solidarity against a hostile Colonial order. Similarly, Rojas Lima (1988a) viewed ritual cargo holding in San Pedro Jocopilas as both a means of K’iche’ Maya cultural adaptation and an instrument of colonialist domination. Turning attention to Maya women, Laurel Bossen (1984) examined the effects of capitalist penetration on gender stratification in 229

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 .  four communities: from Maya village to coastal plantation, urban slum to middle-class suburb, Guatemalan women’s status declined as wage labor dependency increasingly marginalized their economic and reproductive contributions to the household, regardless of their ethnic or class standing. Similarly, Tracy Bachrach Ehlers’ (1990b) study of women’s economic strategies and changing roles in San Pedro Sacatepéquez showed that as households became integrated into the market economy women’s opportunities narrowed, leaving them ever more vulnerable to their husbands’ domination, abuse, and neglect. Just as capitalism subordinated Indian labor to Ladino capital, so it subjugated women of whatever ethnicity or class to men’s privileged access to and control over jobs, income, and markets. Increasingly skeptical that the Guatemalan ‘‘global context’’ could so conclusively dictate ‘‘local histories,’’ Carol Smith proposed in three important papers how pre-capitalist forms of Maya production may have decisively influenced capitalist development in western Guatemala: the differentiation of the region into a commercial core versus agricultural peripheries affirmed the heterogeneity—and thus agency—in Maya responses to the nineteenthcentury intrusion of coffee (C. Smith 1978); local Maya alternatives, and thus resistance, to migratory wage labor on coffee plantations helped to explain Guatemala’s ‘‘distorted’’ form of capitalism with its excessive political coercion and repression (C. Smith 1984b); and far from representing Indian ‘‘false consciousness,’’ Maya culture and ‘‘communities of interest’’ constituted a ‘‘language of class’’ through which Maya struggled against proletarianization by the Guatemalan state (C. Smith 1987). Rather than immediately assuming that culture, class, and power reflected a single, monolithic, ‘‘ultimately determinant’’ order, Smith took as problematic relations between Maya and Ladinos, labor and capital, communities and the state. While victimized by the larger order, Maya also resisted it, thus forging a world neither always as they imagined nor as others fully intended (cf. C. Smith 1990b). Such a relational approach to Guatemalan political 230

economy echoed approaches to Maya ethnicity, while more clearly disclosing the costs of such distinctiveness; it also drew attention to the ideological nature of the cultural forms that expressed these oppositions. Cultural Ideologies of Domination and Resistance More aware of Guatemalan political economy —and better trained in Maya languages—many ethnographers came to interpret both everyday and esoteric Maya cultural symbols as self-vindicating ideologies of ethnic continuity, autonomy, and resistance. Warren (1978) identified Maya’s own ideas of cultural continuity in costumbre, literally ‘custom,’ but in Guatemala the ritual practices first instituted by local ancestors. Such practices, however, involved not slavish conformity to ancestral dictates but ritual action in the spirit of ancestral precedents meant to achieve consensus in the present. Ethnographers found in such practices widely shared, apparently long-standing Maya concepts of time (B. Tedlock 1982), space (Watanabe 1983), and oral tradition (Shaw 1971; Fought 1972; Carmack and Morales Santos 1983; D. Tedlock 1985, 1993; Montejo 1991; Sexton 1992b); cosmological principles of life and regeneration (Carlsen and Prechtel 1991); and patterns of ritual and social organization (J. Early 1983b; Hill and Monaghan 1987; Prechtel and Carlsen 1988; Rojas Lima 1988a). Intimately associated with the daily and seasonal rounds of Maya maize cultivation (Earle 1986; Rojas Lima 1988b; Watanabe 1992), these generalized, and therefore highly stable, ‘‘routinized paradigms’’ (Carlsen and Prechtel 1991: 37–39) served to integrate the new—or the necessary—into the culturally established and conventionally immemorial. Rather than attributing these continuities to a timeless Maya culture or to sociological or psychological functions of group cohesion and security, ethnographers came to see in these enduring patterns self-interested cultural propositions—that is, Maya ideologies—about conquest and colonialism, Christian evangelization, and capitalist commoditization. Earlier

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          1960’ works had long noted, for instance, that the Maya earth lords associated with crops, fertility, and rain often appeared as rich Ladino plantation owners who spirited away Maya souls to work for them inside their mountains. Ricardo Falla (1971) argued that, rather than incidentally apt foils for Maya egalitarian community ideals, these figures embodied Maya critiques of the actual—if inevitable—despoilment of their communities by Ladino coffee planters. Similarly, Carlos Cabarrús (1979) saw in the tzuultaq’a mountain deities of the Q’eqchi’ images of Spanish and Ladino oppression—but also potential symbols of local interdependence and reciprocity (cf. R. Wilson 1995). Liliana Goldin and Brenda Rosenbaum (1993) further demonstrated that earth lord stories varied with regional differences in economic relations between Maya and Ladinos and warned against Ladino depredations accordingly. More generally, Maya religious syncretism suggested less a seamless fusion or simple congruence of cultural traits than a systematic reassortment of Catholic saints, Maya ancestors, and autochthonous earth lords that conventionalized Maya and Ladino as physically, morally, and politically distinct communities (Rojas Lima 1983; Watanabe 1990b). Inverting this Maya symbolization of opposition and autonomy, John Hawkins (1984) argued that far from representing distinct cultures, Maya and Ladino constituted ‘‘inverse status ideologies’’ within the same culture— that is, opposing categories within a single frame of reference in which ideas of Ladino dominance and interconnection dictated Indian marginality and isolation. Others found the meanings of Indian and Ladino equally opposed and intertwined but more contingently —and contentiously—rooted in racism, fear, and violence. Douglas Brintnall (1979a) defended earlier but disregarded views of the racist nature of Guatemalan ethnic relations by affirming that parentage—not language, dress, or tradition—ultimately opposed Indians and Ladinos as mutually antagonistic ‘‘social races.’’ In concert with this racism, Richard Adams (1989) identified a ‘‘conquest tradition’’ in Mesoamerica in which the dependence of conquer-

ors on the forced labor of the conquered perpetuated invidious ethno-political distinctions of Spaniard over Indian, master over servant. This contradictory denigration of the very producers of Colonial wealth and tribute only aggravated Spanish (and later Ladino) fears of native revolt, which in turn fed their preemptive, excessive violence whenever Maya taciturnity—itself instilled by recurrent terror— threatened to flare into rage. Not surprisingly, even during the 1980’s counterinsurgency, Michael Richards (1985) found that the military’s ‘‘cosmopolitan world view’’ reduced rural Maya to uncivilized drudges duped into subversion, or worse, to uncivilizable inferiors deserving extermination. For Maya widows, Linda Green (1994) traced the counterinsurgency’s ‘‘routinization of terror’’ as it internalized in its victims first a numbing silence then insidious doubts that such unspoken, unspeakable violations might be normal (cf. Warren 1993). In Guatemala, however, even Maya silence provokes Ladinos to imagine a Maya sullenness of remembered outrages that goads them to further violence inspired by ever mounting fear. Methodological Issues Broadly speaking, these inquiries into identity, economy, and ideology have attributed Maya cultural survival to their oppression, exploitation, and resistance or to their persistent world views, routines, and understandings. With notable exceptions (see R. Adams, J. Early, and C. Smith cited above), much of this work continues to rely on individual community studies (see Fig. 11-3). It also tends to concern either political economy or cultural symbols and meanings, with each approach largely taking for granted what the other seeks to demonstrate (Goldin [1987, 1992] has most consistently explored the interface between economy and ideology). Political economic approaches commonly privilege top-down, global to local dynamics, while symbolic analyses concentrate on the subtleties and persistence of local patterns of meaning. Ironically, the first threatens to reduce its sense of history to the confron231

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F 11-3. Ethnographic studies of Highland Guatemala Maya communities, before and since 1965. ‘‘Studies before ca. 1965’’ include those municipios identified in Figure 3 of M. Nash (1969:33) as having had ‘‘various aspects of the culture’’ studied; ‘‘studies since ca. 1965’’ include published monographs or otherwise significant studies, including some unpublished Ph.D. dissertations; ‘‘restudies’’ include research done before and after the 1960’s in the same municipio. The map makes no claim of exhaustive coverage but highlights those communities that have been the subject of substantial ethnographic description and analysis.

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          1960’ tation of incompatible social formations, the second to rendering Maya cultural understandings as increasingly ersatz formulations. Too strict attention to global predicaments and constructed meanings thus risks canonizing a new kind of ethnographic present predicated, not on timeless cultural patterns as in the past, but on histories or meanings of the moment and crisis advocacy (cf. Ehlers 1990a). To counter this new presentism, Richard Wilson (1993, 1995) has advocated closer attention to the way traditional images and practices, especially religious ones, continue to ‘‘anchor’’ Maya political economic strategies and cultural reformulations. While embracing Guatemalan history, politics, and economy, the recent anthropology of highland Guatemala still struggles to integrate and balance local and global perspectives, theoretically driven or politically committed case studies, and older ethnological concerns with cultural patterns and comparison. Specific restudies of Santa Eulalia (Davis 1997), Panajachel (Hinshaw 1975), San Pedro La Laguna (B. Paul 1968; Sexton 1978; Loucky 1979), Todos Santos (Bossen 1984), San Antonio Palopó (Ehlers 1991), Santiago Chimaltenango (Watanabe 1992), Cobán (R. Wilson 1995; cf. A. King 1974), Santiago Atitlán (Carlsen 1997; Tarn and Prechtel 1997), Jocotán (Metz 1995), and San Juan Chamelco (A. Adams 1998), along with multiple studies of single communities such as Aguacatán (McArthur 1977; Brintnall 1979b; Odell 1982), Cobán (Carlson and Eachus 1977; Cabarrús 1979; R. Wilson 1995), Momostenango (Carmack 1979, 1995; B. Tedlock 1982; D. Tedlock 1993), Nebaj (Colby and van den Berghe 1969; Colby and Colby 1981; Stoll 1993), San Juan Ostuncalco (Ebel 1969; Scotchmer 1991), San Pedro La Laguna (B. Paul 1968; Sexton 1978; Loucky 1979), San Pedro Sacatepéquez (W. Smith 1977; Hawkins 1984; Ehlers 1990b), and Santiago Atitlán (O’Brien 1976; J. Early 1982; Tarn and Prechtel 1986, 1990, 1997; Prechtel and Carlsen 1988; Carlsen and Prechtel 1991; Carlsen 1997), have so far proven more complementary than synthetic.

F P  P Scholarly concerns with Maya cultural change, identity, and politics reflect the volatile circumstances of contemporary Maya in highland Guatemala. If now more immediate and intense, however, the dialectic of Maya cultural disruption and revitalization began well before the Spanish Conquest and continued long after in concert with Colonial Guatemala’s political economy (MacLeod 1973; Wortman 1982; Kramer 1994), social and demographic history (Carmack 1979, 1981, 1995; Orellana 1984; Hill and Monaghan 1987; Lovell 1992; Lutz 1994), and evangelization by missionary friars (J. Early 1983b; van Oss 1986). Following Independence in 1821, three developments further transformed Maya life—the advent of commercial coffee production in western Guatemala and Alta Verapaz (Cambranes 1985; McCreery 1994; Piel 1995), the short-lived but telling agrarian and political reforms of the 1944–1954 Revolution (Handy 1994), and the endemic political violence resulting from the ‘‘liberation’’ and militarization of Guatemala after the U.S.abetted counterrevolution of 1954 (Black et al. 1984; McClintock 1985; C. Smith 1990d; Jonas 1991). The coming of coffee after 1860 to the temperate piedmonts of western Guatemala and Alta Verapaz dispossessed Maya communities of their lowland holdings and exploited highland Maya labor through forced conscription, debt peonage, and, later, vagrancy laws that obliged Maya without substantial land to work on the plantations for up to 150 days per year. Even in the highlands too cool for coffee, Maya lost customary fields and fallows to Ladinos who acquired them at state auction as legally untitled public lands, then rented parcels back to former Maya occupants in return for seasonal work on lowland plantations (Cambranes 1985; McCreery 1994; Piel 1995). Maya responded to these Ladino intrusions as more than passive victims. Contrary to popular images of unknowing Indians duped by land-grabbing Ladinos, highland Maya often sought—and won—municipal rather than pri233

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 .  vate titles to local lands (cf. McCreery 1994; Watanabe 1995a). Although Maya migrant workers had to subsidize beggarly plantation wages by supporting themselves the rest of the year on their own highland milpas, such selfsufficiency also meant growers had to coerce workers down to the plantations at harvest time each year. Such forced labor abused workers but also proved costly and inefficient; only in the 1930’s did population pressure compel landpoor Maya to begin migrating ‘‘voluntarily’’ to the plantations (Wagley 1941; McCreery 1994). Finally, the Ladino plantation economy stimulated the expansion of a rural marketing system in western Guatemala that Maya came to dominate (C. Smith 1975, 1977, 1978). While enriching Guatemala’s landed and commercial oligarchy (cf. Casaus Arzú 1992), the coffee economy internally stratified and regionally differentiated highland Maya communities, but it neither obliterated nor fully proletarianized them (C. Smith 1984b; McCreery 1994). The Revolution of 1944–1954 abolished forced labor, enfranchised Maya men and literate women, and encouraged popular participation in national political parties, labor organizations, and agrarian reform committees (Handy 1994). In restoring local elections, the Revolution widened schisms within Maya communities between rich and poor (Wasserstrom 1975), local elders and young reformers (Brintnall 1979b), Indians and Ladinos, town centers and hamlets (Handy 1994). Open factionalism supplanted the former ‘‘politics of consensus’’ orchestrated by town elders and age-graded ritual service in local civil-religious cargo systems (R. Adams 1957). Far from shattering some mythic homogeneity or solidarity, however, the Revolution offered Maya new opportunities and affiliations outside the community to pursue local, ethnic, and class interests that had been brewing since the coming of coffee (Wasserstrom 1975; Handy 1994). At the same time, communities splintered over local affairs, especially land and political control, not national ideologies. Indeed, the multiplicity of local factions, riven by crosscutting ties and shifting alliances of convenience, proved increasingly intractable—then 234

hostile—to national reforms if only because reformers failed to realize that, divided as they were, Maya still found their communities worth fighting over (Handy 1994; cf. Ebel 1969). Maya responses to the Agrarian Reform Law of 1952 clearly illustrated this: except along the upper Pacific piedmont and in Alta Verapaz, most Maya communities lay too far from private landholdings large enough to warrant expropriation and redistribution. Maya nonetheless used the reforms to claim community lands in their own or neighboring municipios, to secure rights to plots they already farmed, to break the economic power of local elites, or to recover lands lost to outsiders in decades (if not centuries) past (Handy 1994). However much Maya embraced—or rejected—revolutionary reforms, they did so largely within the contending commitments and attachments of their communities. Following the counterrevolution in 1954 orchestrated by the Central Intelligence Agency, the specter of communist subversion rationalized—and U.S. backing financed—the expansion of an increasingly repressive national security apparatus of military surveillance and enforcement that ushered the army to power and privilege in Guatemala (cf. Black et al. 1984; Schirmer 1998). In the Maya highlands, escalating political repression during the 1970’s against guerrilla insurgents and Maya initiatives in rural development and community self-sufficiency culminated in the army’s scorched earth campaign of 1982–1983. Assassinations, massacres, mandatory civil defense patrols, and resettlement in army-run ‘‘model villages’’ devastated Maya communities: hundreds of villages were destroyed, tens of thousands of Maya killed, and as many as a million Maya displaced (Sexton 1981, 1985, 1992a; Menchú 1984; Montejo 1987; Carmack 1988; Manz 1988; R. Wilson 1991, 1995; Melville and Lykes 1992; Perera 1993; Falla 1994; Carlsen 1997; Stoll 1999). While Maya supported the insurgency or fled army reprisals into guerrilla-controlled areas, many ultimately felt caught ‘‘between two fires’’ of army brutality and guerrilla bad faith and sought a wary, precarious neutrality (C. Smith 1991; Stoll 1993, 1999; cf. Hale 1997).

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          1960’ That Maya figured so prominently in this insurgency represented more than a spontaneous awakening of impoverished peasants brutalized by a terrorist state. Their politicization arose more fundamentally from the perceived challenge that modernizing Maya communities presented to a coffee plantation economy predicated on cheap Maya labor (C. Smith 1984b, 1990b; Davis 1988; Jonas 1991). Beginning in the 1950’s, foreign Catholic missionaries had entered rural Guatemala to bolster the church as a non-radical alternative to revolutionary change (Calder 1970). Although their liturgical reforms often bitterly divided Maya communities (cf. Falla 1978b; Warren 1978; Brintnall 1979b), during the 1960’s missionaries began sponsoring community development programs such as agricultural and savings cooperatives to broaden Maya economic opportunities and to promote new Maya community leaders (Falla 1978b; cf. Colby 1985; GarcíaRuiz 1992). Viewed as subversive by the oligarchy and state, Maya initiatives prompted violent repression, which in turn radicalized many Maya activists. Mission schools and scholarships also gave Maya unprecedented access to secondary and university education. Newly professionalized, largely urban Maya increasingly retained their Maya identity and by the mid-1980’s had begun nationally to advocate a pan-Maya culture, history, and social legitimacy to counter Ladino prejudice (Falla 1978a; A. Arias 1990; I. Otzoy and E. Sam 1990; Cojtí Cuxil 1991, 1994, 1995b; N. England 1991; Raxche’ 1992; Bastos and Camus 1993, 1995a; Watanabe 1995b; Fischer and Brown 1996b; Montejo 1997; I. Otzoy 1997; Warren 1998). Out of the greatest violence Maya have suffered since the Spanish Conquest, three overlapping, internally diverse Maya constituencies emerged. First, radicalized by counterinsurgency persecution, many local Maya activists from the 1970’s joined Guatemala’s Ladino revolutionary Left in so-called popular organizations concerned primarily with human rights and political and economic inequalities. Most notably of these, K’iche’ activist Rigoberta Menchú won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1992, but even she makes clear in her autobiography

(1984; cf. Menchú Tum 1993, 1998) that her revolutionary zeal arose less from ideology than from the dictates of Maya family, community, and the secrets of her ancestors (cf. Sommer 1991; Stoll 1999). Second, urban pan-Mayanist intellectuals constitute what has come to be called the Maya Movement, focused more on the politics of identity rather than of class. They seek to preserve Maya languages as the basis of Maya identity and secure rights as equal— but Maya—citizens of a multicultural, plurilingual, multinational Guatemala (cf. Cojtí Cuxil 1991, 1994, 1995b; Raxche’ 1992; Bastos and Camus 1993, 1995a; Solares 1993; Fischer and Brown 1996b; Montejo 1997; I. Otzoy 1997; Nelson 1998; Warren 1998). Despite contrasting strategies of armed insurrection against the state versus greater cultural autonomy from Ladino-dominated state institutions (C. Smith 1991; Hale 1994), both groups wish to transcend the battered localism of Maya culture and identity. At the same time, the success of these two constituencies depends not only on state forbearance but also on whether their formulations find acceptance among the third Maya constituency of local communities (cf. Watanabe 1995b): however ravaged by exploitation, disillusioned by revolution, and beset by terror and silence, most Maya still live in rural communities that meaningfully inform their engagements with each other and the changing world around them (Watanabe 1992; Stoll 1993; R. Wilson 1995). In eastern Guatemala, pan-Mayanist programs of language retention and literacy and bimonthly public discussions of Maya history and heritage have indeed awakened long-suppressed sentiments of ethnic pride and personal worth among the Ch’orti’ (Metz 1995, 1998), while in San Andrés Semetabaj, young Kaqchikel avidly copy cassettes of pan-Mayanist lectures on Maya cultural reaffirmation and Ladino racism (Warren 1992, 1998). C  T Developments in anthropological theory and Guatemalan history since the 1960’s directly reflect changing Maya circumstances in highland 235

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 .  Guatemala. In now turning to these changes, I focus on those aspects of highland Maya life that have changed the most since the 1960’s or that anthropological approaches have better revealed. These areas include language, dress, economic production, social relations (especially gender and the status of women), and religion. Language and Identity Politics Whatever their affiliations, language remains a salient marker of Maya identity. If the number of self-identified Indians in the 1994 census approximates speakers of Maya languages, more than 3 million Maya still speak the twenty Maya languages extant in Guatemala (see Table 11-2). Four languages have perhaps half a million or more speakers, with K’iche’ the largest at about one million. In contrast, three languages (Itzaj, Mopan, and Teko) face imminent extinction due to small and falling numbers; four others (Awakatek, Sakapultek, Sipakapense, and Uspantek) exist in only one municipio each and thus remain at risk (Oxlajuuj Keej Maya’ Ajtz’iib’ 1993). During the early 1980’s, perhaps half the 20,000 Akatek speakers in northern Huehuetenango fled to Mexico or the United States to escape political violence; and regardless of its large number of speakers, Poqomam consisted of three geographically isolated dialects, two clearly imperiled by their proximity to Guatemala City (Tujab 1987a). Despite such inroads, however, Maya languages retain much of their former geographic distributions (see Fig. 11-4), with greatest pressure coming in urban areas of the western highlands such as Quezaltenango and San Pedro Sacatepéquez, around Guatemala City, and in the eastern highlands where Maya presence has long waned (see Figs. 11-1, 11-2). Size and density clearly contribute to the resiliency of larger languages, but many smaller languages show proportionately strong absolute growth (R. Adams 1996): in 1994, the four largest languages still constituted about 78 percent of Maya speakers, the same as in the early 1970’s. Traditionally, most Maya speakers, especially women, have remained monolingual, although 236

bilingual Maya have always served as local brokers for Ladinos, who rarely speak anything but Spanish. Given increasing Maya exposure to— and need for—Spanish in work or schooling, however, all Maya languages, regardless of size, evidence language shift, that is, increasing numbers of Maya children who speak Spanish rather than the language of their parents. For perhaps the first time, many self-identified Maya may speak little or no Maya (Herrera 1990; R. Brown 1991; Oxlajuuj Keej Maya’ Ajtz’iib’ 1993; Garzon et al. 1998). Two factors encourage language shift rather than bilingualism: first, given the precedence Spanish holds in public, legal, and educational affairs, Maya parents often prefer that their children learn Spanish, if only to ‘‘defend themselves’’ better from Ladino machinations. Second, the intense localization of Maya languages means that even neighboring communities with the same language speak distinctively. In extreme cases, local linguistic chauvinism actually inhibits Maya speech where Maya choose to use Spanish rather than acknowledge neighboring dialects of the same language (Herrera 1990:35). Except for perhaps in Q’eqchi’, no mutually acknowledged prestige dialects exist to standardize local variations in speech, much less to serve as models for the pronunciation, spelling, and prescriptive grammars essential to writing and literacy (Herrera 1990). Without such standardization, Maya languages can never hope to compete with Spanish as public languages of record. Pan-Maya activists thus seek to promote the greater national use of Maya languages. Taking at face value the ‘‘recognition and respect for indigenous culture and languages’’ declared in the 1985 Constitution (Sam Colop 1988), they emphasize language standardization, literacy in Maya languages, and pluralist rather than assimilationist programs of bilingual education (cf. Fischer and Brown 1996b). Toward this end, in 1987 the Academy of Maya Languages, a Maya organization (Tujab 1987b; Nelson 1998), adopted what they deemed a ‘‘decolonialized,’’ non-assimilationist orthography for Maya languages that did not privilege the idiosyncrasies of Spanish spelling conventions; it standardized symbols for comparable sounds in the different

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          1960’ T 11-2. Estimated Numbers of Maya Speakers in Guatemala by Language, 1970–1994 Language

Estimated Number of Speakers ca. 1970 a 1981 b 1988 c 1994 b

K’iche’

>,>>>

*,>-3

7*,*>>

7,**0

3

Mam

*3,>>>

-*0,*3

070,>>>

3,>



Kaqchikel

3,>>>

->>,*>*

->,>>>

-*,*-

3

Q’eqchi’

3>,>>>

*>-,**

*0,>>>

>,77

3

Q’anjob’al Tz’utujiil Ixil Ch’orti’ Poqomchi’

-*,>>> -3,>>> -0,>>> *3,>>> 0,>>>

00,30 0*,0 *7,>3 ,0> -,330

3,>>> 7>,>>> ,>>> 3,>>> >,>>>

3, 73,** 03,-3 0*, ,

0 * 7 

Poqomam

-3,>>>

,07

*3,>>>

3,*



Popti’ (Jakaltek) Chuj Sakapultek Akatek d Awakatek Mopan Sipakapense Teko

3,>>> 3,>>> *,>>> 7,>>> *,>>> ,>>> *,>>> -,>>>

*>,0**,-3 ,0 3-,->* -,77 -, -,7-* -,3

*3,>>> 3,>>> 3,>>> 3>,>>> 0,>>> ,>>> *,>>> 3,>>

-, -7,*3-,>37,*>> 33,* >,3>7 7,>7 0,-*

0 *  3  *  3

3,>>> -,> 3,>>> 3,7 >> 0> *,>>> > ,07*,>> 3,->>,70 3,0,7>> *,**,>*

 0

Uspantek Itzaj TOTALS

No. of Municipios

Departments Alta Verapaz, Baja Verapaz, Huehuetenango, Quezaltenango, El Quiché, Retalhuleu, Sololá, Suchitepéquez, Totonicapán (incl. Achi) d Huehuetenango, Quezaltenango, San Marcos Baja Verapaz, Chimaltenango, Escuintla, Guatemala, Sacatepéquez, Sololá, Suchitepéquez Alta Verapaz, Izabal, El Petén, El Quiché Huehuetenango Sololá, Suchitepéquez El Quiché Chiquimula, Zacapa Alta Verapaz, Baja Verapaz, El Quiché Escuintla, Guatemala, Jalapa, Zacapa Huehuetenango Huehuetenango El Quiché Huehuetenango Huehuetenango El Petén San Marcos Huehuetenango (and in Mexico) El Quiché El Petén

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a From Kaufman (1976) based on estimates from 1964 census figures. b Since no census of Maya languages exists (Cojtí Cuxil 1995a), these estimates consist of population totals

from the 1981 and 1994 censuses (INE 1984, 1995) based on the number of individuals identified as ‘‘Indian’’ in those municipios where each language is generally acknowledged to be spoken; Kaufman (1976), Cojtí and López Raquec (1988), and R. Adams (1996) served to assign languages (or their approximate proportion) to municipios. Despite their apparent precision, these numbers must be taken with great caution for at least four reasons: (1) the accuracy of overall counts and especially ethnic categorizations in the censuses remains hotly debated on scholarly as well as political grounds; (2) not all Indians in a municipio necessarily speak the same language, and this holds especially true for the environs of Guatemala City, thus perhaps inflating figures for Poqomam; for the Pacific Coast, where coffee plantations draw migrants from all over the western highlands to ‘‘Mam’’ municipios in southern San Marcos and Quezaltenango and to ‘‘K’iche’ ’’ municipios in Retalhuleu and Suchitepéquez; and for the northern lowlands of Petén and Izabal, where the recent influx of Q’eqchi’, K’iche’, and Ch’orti’ immigrants into formerly Itzaj and Mopan municipios makes it

237

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 .  T 11-2. (continued ) impossible to ascertain relative numbers of speakers; (3) given these uncertainties, some 126,937 individuals identified as ‘‘Indian’’ in the 1981 census and 181,717 in the 1994 census (about 5% in each case) are not included in these figures (see note 1 in the text for probable undercounting in the 1994 census as a whole); (4) conversely, not all individuals identified as ‘‘Indian’’ by census takers necessarily speak a Maya language. Inconsistencies in numbers or trends indicate further uncertainties or specific historical anomalies: for instance, discrepancies between steady or downward trends in estimates (which tend to maximize Maya numbers) and growth in actual census counts for Mopan, Poqomchi’, and Poqomam municipios need explanation; conversely, low Ixil numbers in 1981 obviously reflect the counterinsurgency violence that devastated the area and made a complete census impossible. c From Cojtí and López Raquec (1988). They cite no source for the figures they give; in contrast to the total for their estimates reproduced here, on the front of their map they state, ‘‘The total of Maya speaking people in Guatemala exceeds 4,000,000’’; Oxlajuuj Keej Maya’ Ajtz’iib’ is of the opinion that ‘‘in the majority of cases, the numbers presented are low’’ (1993:10). I have chosen, however, not to include in the table higher figures cited by Tzian (1994:Table 7) because his estimates simply reflect statistical manipulation of census figures and population projections derived from averaging the global estimates of other researchers to arrive at a presumed constant of 61% for the Maya proportion of the national population and a fixed percentage of Maya totals for each Maya language (Tzian 1994:41–42, 45, 47–48). d According to Oxlajuuj Keej Maya’ Ajtz’iib’ (1993:22–23), linguistically Achi constitutes a dialect of K’iche’, despite political divisions going back to Precolonial times that to this day still prompt Achi speakers in Baja Verapaz to assert they speak a distinct language. Conversely, Akatek speakers in northern Huehuetenango say they speak Q’anjob’al, when linguistically their language reflects the same degree of difference from Q’anjob’al as Popti’ (formerly Jakaltek) does.

Maya languages; and it dispensed with special symbols or diacritical marks not found on standard typewriter keyboards. The most marked changes involved substituting 〈k〉 for the velar stop spelled 〈c〉 or 〈qu〉 in Spanish, and 〈q〉 (uvular stop) for 〈k〉; systematic recognition of glottalized consonants with a following apostrophe 〈’〉; similar use of the apostrophe after vowels for glottal stops; and recognition of long vowels through a doubling of the letter (cf. López Raquec 1989). Changes have been most notable in the new spellings for Maya language names (see Table 11-3). While Maya activists do not necessarily assume that speaking a Maya language defines being Maya, language represents an unequivocally Maya marker of identity as well as a distinctively Maya medium of thought and expression (Cojtí Cuxil 1991). Consequently, since the mid-1980’s, pan-Mayanists have established a multiplicity of organizations dedicated to linguistic and cultural reaffirmation (Bastos and Camus 1993, 1995a). In 1990, the Academy of Maya Languages became an officially funded, 238

autonomous government institution (cf. Tujab 1987b; López Raquec 1989:87–94; N. England 1991). Weaving and the Technology of Identity After language, traditional handwoven Maya dress remains the most obvious expression of Maya identity, especially for women. Weaving on Prehispanic-style backstrap looms represents perhaps the most intricate, as well as the most political, of Maya technologies. Each Maya municipio has (or once had) its own unique local garb; the quality, style, technique, and materials of a weaving might further specify place of residence within the municipio as well as the weaver’s age, social status, wealth, and even religious affiliation (cf. Pancake 1976; Annis 1987; Asturias de Barrios 1991; Altman and West 1992; Hendrickson 1995).3 Neither mutually exclusive nor immutable, however, local Maya dress evidences a long history of borrowing between communities, with dramatic shifts over time in local designs (Schevill 1993).

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          1960’

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F 11-4. Distribution of Maya languages in Guatemala (after Cojtí and López Raquec 1988; abbreviations are those used by N. England and S. Elliott 1990:xv).

239

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 .  T 11-3. Orthographic Changes in Maya Language Names Academy of Maya Languages Akatek Awakatek Ch’orti’ Chuj Itzaj Ixil Kaqchikel K’iche’ Mam Mopan Popti’ Poqomam Poqomchi’ Q’anjob’al Q’eqchi’ Sakapultek Sipakapense Teko Tz’utujiil Uspantek

Previous Spelling Acatec Aguacatec Chortí Chuj Itzá Ixil Cakchiquel Quiché Mam Mopán Jacaltec Pokomam Pokomchí Kanjobal Kekchí Sacapultec Sipacapense Teco, Tectiteco Tzutujil, Tzutuhil Uspantec

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Source: Oxlajuuj Keej Maya’ Ajtz’iib’ (1993:5, 21).

Also, younger, professional Maya women have taken to wearing items of clothing from other towns to signify their greater worldliness—and often wealth (Hendrickson 1991)—as well as to acknowledge their growing political awareness that ‘‘what is Maya is not alien to Maya’’ (I. Otzoy 1992:110–111). Of the over 200 locally distinct styles of women’s dress found in the 1960’s, a good number still persist, but Maya men have adopted Western clothing in all but perhaps ten towns —a gender difference going back to the Conquest. The woman’s huipil (sleeveless blouse) and corte (skirt) still closely resemble noble attire depicted on Prehispanic Maya monuments and pottery, but traditional men’s hats, shirts, pants, and woolen jackets or tunics all reflect Spanish peasant garb, perhaps from eighteenthcentury northern Spain; only men’s sashes, tzute (kerchiefs), and sandals suggest Prehispanic origins (Altman and West 1992). Even among contemporary urban Maya, women still show ‘‘greater bravery’’ than men by more often retaining their Maya dress despite discrimina240

tion; this ‘‘may reflect the stronger sense of cultural responsibility that Maya women feel for transmitting their values to future generations’’ (I. Otzoy 1992:103, 111–112). Maya weaving also entails broader cultural meanings. Tz’utujiil Maya in Santiago Atitlán liken the backstrap loom to a womb that nurtures and gives birth to the cloth that properly clothes the living as ‘‘replacements’’ for local ancestors (Prechtel and Carlsen 1988). Far from gender specific to women, however, backstrap weaving remains the province of both Maya women and men (Pancake 1993). Some Maya weavers speak of an aesthetic not of color and form but of ‘‘balancing opposites’’ within an integrated whole (Annis 1987:116; cf. Pancake 1988). Iconographically, other Maya may see in their weavings well-executed techniques (Schevill 1993:6–7) or render in them explicit cosmological representations of the world and their place in it (cf. Prechtel and Carlsen 1988). Barbara and Dennis Tedlock (1985) relate such patterns to a complex interplay of weaving with other Maya technologies—from planting fields and building houses to calendrical divination and story-telling. Culturally, proficiency in a multiplicity of techniques enables Maya to use the conventions of one medium to inform any other ‘‘virtually’’ through tacit analogies or unrealized expectations rather than ‘‘mechanically’’ through categorical cultural rules. Quite literally, Maya create their aesthetics (and their cultures) by constantly weaving and reweaving the material elements, symbolic forms, and tacit expectations that fill their daily lives (cf. Watanabe 1990b). Agriculture and Domestic Production After weaving, the most ubiquitous Maya technology remains subsistence maize agriculture, although few if any Maya still depend exclusively on growing maize for their livelihood. At over 3 percent per year, Guatemala has the fastest growing population in Latin America, as well as its most skewed land distribution (cf. Hough et al. 1982). Even before the counterinsurgency war of the 1980’s, a third of highland Maya households lacked the land to feed them-

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          1960’ selves, while another half could only make their meager plots sufficiently productive by using chemical fertilizers. Land shortages, however, have failed to alter the ‘‘high fertility logic’’ of extended family household production because Maya still rely on siblings, affines, and children for most of the economic cooperation and social reciprocity on which success—at times even survival—depends (cf. J. Early 1982). Growing Maya entry into cash-cropping and commodity production may actually encourage earlier marriage to secure labor exchanges between affines during peak labor periods and to enlarge family labor pools through earlier reproduction (Loucky 1979; Odell 1982), although some Maya deny they do this (Stoll 1993:248–252). Maya also continue to practice equal inheritance (at least among brothers) that further divides and redivides family holdings. Because of lack of capital and the ruggedness of much of their land, Maya maize farmers still use much the same technology as did past generations, working their fields with machetes and short-handled, broad-bladed hoes (cf. Earle 1986; Watanabe 1992). An average family of five requires between 2,000 and 3,000 pounds of shelled maize a year (cf. Falla 1972: 461; Annis 1987:38; Watanabe 1992:238n4). On their shrinking, overworked plots, most Maya can only produce this much by using chemical fertilizers. First introduced by Catholic missionaries in the mid-1960’s, fertilizers may initially double or triple milpa production to 3,000 or even 4,500 pounds per hectare (Falla 1972; Watanabe 1992:134–135). Better yields enable families to plant as little as 0.9 hectare a year, although they still need additional land because even fertilized fields must eventually be fallowed. Any greater self-sufficiency in land, however, only comes at the cost of increasing market dependency for the fertilizer itself and for earning the cash to buy it. For the one-third or more Maya households with less than a hectare of land, having to buy the maize they lack or rent the land to grow it has already irrevocably commodified subsistence. Carol Smith (1975, 1977, 1978) first noted that Maya seek the cash they need depending on their place within a regional ‘‘core’’ and ‘‘periph-

ery’’ in western Guatemala: in the ‘‘core’’ area of Totonicapán, Quezaltenango, Sololá, Chimaltenango, and southern El Quiché, Maya use their proximity to urban and plantation markets to engage in truck farming, textile production, tailoring, pottery-making, and other nonagricultural wage labor (cf. Reina and Hill 1978; C. Smith 1984a; Annis 1987; Goldin 1992). Conversely, the remoteness of the ‘‘periphery’’ of northern San Marcos, Huehuetenango, northern El Quiché, and Alta Verapaz relegates Maya there to seasonal wage labor on lowland coffee and cotton plantations, where a third to twothirds or more of households in these towns may send members for up to five or six months a year (W. Smith 1977; Watanabe 1992; Stoll 1993; R. Wilson 1995). If they have suitable land, Maya in the periphery may cash-crop locally in garlic (Brintnall 1979b), coffee (Watanabe 1992), or cardamom (R. Wilson 1995) rather than migrate to the plantations. Whatever their options, and however committed—or necessary—their market activities, Maya still prefer a ‘‘milpa logic’’ of production that seeks first to provision their households with maize by ‘‘optimizing input’’ rather than ‘‘maximizing output’’ (Annis 1987:34–38). This reflects not only the cultural value of self-sufficiency on their own (ideally ancestral) lands but also pragmatic hedging against volatile markets. Low returns and high selfexploitation, however, leave Maya everywhere vulnerable to hard times: the energy crisis of the 1970’s then inflation and stagnant or falling incomes put fertilizer and raw materials out of reach for many Maya farmers and artisans; the counterinsurgency war of the 1980’s disrupted landholdings, transport, and production; and dependency on full-time, unskilled wage labor outside their communities grew accordingly (C. Smith 1990d). Overpopulation, overworked lands, and political violence have made the ideal of self-sufficient localism increasingly impossible for more and more Maya (cf. Carlsen 1997). In the end, new technologies and trades in themselves help precipitate wider cultural changes: during the 1960’s, when Catholic missionaries combined religious conversion with 241

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 .  community development, Maya catechists came to associate chemical fertilizers with the potency of their new religion; even skeptics had to reconsider a larger world that until then had brought them mostly grief and ruin (Falla 1978b). Similarly, new work in cash-cropping, artisanry, and trade has accustomed Maya to greater material accumulation, individualism, competition, and self-advancement that in the realm of religion may make the unceasing personal struggle of Protestant salvation more compelling than the seasonal round of Catholiccum-agrarian ritual celebrations (Sexton 1978; Goldin and Metz 1991; Goldin 1992; cf. Wilson 1995; Carlsen 1997; Garrard-Burnett 1998). At the same time, even as market engagements transform Maya communities, Maya marketplaces continue to contrast locals and ‘‘foreigners’’ through the spatial arrangement of vendors and the dynamics of bartering (Goldin 1987; cf. Swetnam 1979).

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Gender Roles and Relations The heart of Maya social and economic life remains the extended family household with its generational interdependence and marked, but not inflexible, gendered division of labor (cf. L. Paul 1974; Bossen 1984; Hawkins 1984; Earle 1986; R. Wilson 1995). Maya men still grow maize, fetch firewood, and build houses and furnishings; women make tortillas, weave, and manage the children and household. Men’s work fluctuates in intensity, with greatest effort coming daily in the fields from morning to midafternoon and seasonally between March and August when they must clear, plant, and weed milpa. Women’s tasks remain more constant, if varied, from drawing water and kindling cookfires before sunrise to readying the sweatbath and warming final cups of maize gruel before bed. Men spend more time outside the house, but they often work alone or with a few kin or neighbors, while women gather daily at springs to wash clothes, bathe, and socialize. Neither sex lives more socially isolated than the other. Apart from subsistence activities, women often join men in wage labor, cash-cropping, and trade. Although they may earn less or have 242

to render their wages to fathers, husbands, or parents-in-law (Bossen 1984), Maya women still possess considerable autonomy (Morano 1995). At the very least, their primary responsibility for childcare may give them more ready access to their children’s labor. Among the more urbanized Mam Maya of San Pedro Sacatepéquez, for instance, ‘‘female family businesses’’ employ young daughters for domestic tasks to free mothers for income-generating work (Ehlers 1990b). Even in rural communities, women without men (or grown sons) to work milpa for them may eke out a living from petty commerce in local markets, whereas widowers with children often have little choice but to find a new wife (Bossen 1984). Despite such autonomy, lone female Maya entrepreneurs still tend to sell the riskiest, least profitable goods in the marketplace (Swetnam 1988), and their enterprises remain most vulnerable to cheap commercial imports (Ehlers 1990b). Rural Maya still commonly practice arranged marriages, since daily routines leave potential spouses few opportunities to socialize. The groom’s family normally initiates negotiations, formalizing the union with payment of a brideprice (said to compensate the bride’s family for raising her). First marriages frequently fail (often without return of marriage payments), but birth of a child tends to stabilize unions. New couples commonly reside with the husband’s parents, although brideservice also occurs in which the husband may live and work for a year or more (sometimes permanently) with his father-in-law in lieu of a brideprice. Wherever they reside, couples seek to establish an independent household as soon as possible through inheritance or by acquiring property of their own. Conversely, parents try to hold the joint household together to control the pooled efforts of sons and daughters-in-law (cf. Bossen 1984). Ideally, the father builds each married son a house near his own as the next son marries, and fathers, sons, and brothers often continue to cooperate economically even when they no longer work collectively. Because most Maya still marry within their communities, in-laws constitute an additional source of cooperation

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          1960’ and support. In-marrying spouses represent valued links to other households, just as ongoing contact with their natal families gives women protection and potential refuge from mistreatment. The Maya’s marked but complementary gendered division of labor, women’s access to cash incomes, and the continuing support of women’s natal families help Maya women counter—without necessarily overcoming— the patriarchal biases in Maya residence, inheritance, and authority. Domestic and Life Cycles and Social Stratification To a certain extent, the domestic cycle of the extended family household relativizes socioeconomic stratification in Maya communities. As Maya couples mature and inherit, they move from essentially landless, dependent junior status to (at least ideally) senior proprietorship of their own extended household. Even in commercial enterprises, differentiation between Maya owners and workers more closely reflects life-cycle rather than class stratification since young workers often set up independent shops once they master their craft (cf. C. Smith 1984a). More generally, closer attention to individual life-cycles and personal life histories has better revealed the dynamics and diversity of Maya social experience (Moore 1973, 1979; Sexton 1981, 1985, 1992a), generational tensions within the extended family household (Bossen 1984), age-graded conflicts in municipal civilreligious cargo systems (Brintnall 1979b), and the lives of Maya women (L. Paul 1974, 1975; Menchú 1984; Smith-Ayala 1991; Hooks 1993). Despite life-cycle trajectories, however, class stratification has grown in Maya communities as the gap between richer and poorer Maya widens. Land-poor households must turn increasingly to wage labor, while wealthier Maya now possess capital assets such as coffee groves, looms, trucks, buses, store inventories, and education well beyond the means of poorer Maya, no matter how enterprising. Nonetheless, further class stratification will depend on the ability of wealthier Maya to reproduce their position in the next generation—a task hin-

dered by their small absolute amounts of capital, shrunk further by split inheritance. Maya who can afford to may choose to educate some of their children as their legacy, but schooling means losing them to larger towns or cities where graduates must then compete for scarce salaried jobs or seek teaching posts wherever they can find them. Conversely, the utility of even marginal incomes may keep smaller Maya producers from ‘‘selling out’’ to richer neighbors. Indeed, poorer Maya in need of cash to buy maize or rent land often continue to diversify household production rather than capitulate entirely to wage labor dependency as long as they can find enterprises with low capital costs and ready markets; unfortunately, this also guarantees them the most intense competition and lowest returns (cf. C. Smith 1984a; Ehlers 1990b). For landless Maya who can no longer improvise a livelihood from local household production and migratory wage labor, Guatemala City remains a last resort. Migrants to the capital may well return home to marry or to invest acquired capital or skills, and many continue to support families they leave behind (cf. Demarest and Paul 1981). For families that relocate permanently, their Maya language and dress may fade over time, but they persist in ‘‘typically Indian’’ household-based, group strategies of domestic production predicated on self-employment, high self-exploitation, and pooling of resources (Bastos and Camus 1990, 1995b). Far from simply expressing ‘‘traditional values,’’ such strategies also reflect Maya lack of skills, Ladino discrimination, and inadequate urban opportunities that demand migrants create their own employment, often by offering services at prices low enough to stimulate a market for them. While urban Maya clearly leave old ways behind, ‘‘the capital becomes a place not to acquire new norms but to learn how to manipulate them’’ (Bastos and Camus 1990: 67; cf. Roberts 1973; Bossen 1984; Bastos and Camus 1995b). Despite the inexorable pressures (and impoverishment) of growing overpopulation, stratification, commodification, and proletarianization, those Maya, whether rich or poor, 243

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 .  innovator or traditionalist, who manage to remain in their communities retain a surprising tolerance of each other, with many Maya of whatever stripe expressing strong local identities through dress, language, or social affiliations (Annis 1987; Goldin and Metz 1991; Watanabe 1992; Stoll 1993). Religion and World View Like Maya livelihood, Maya religion and world view evince incongruous change and constancy. On one hand, Maya converts to orthodox Catholicism have banished traditionalists from many local churches (Falla 1978b; Warren 1978; Brintnall 1979b); sizable minorities (if not majorities) of evangelicals in Maya communities eschew the drinking, expense, and ‘‘idolatry’’ of costumbre and public celebrations for the saints (Hinshaw 1975; Annis 1987; Scotchmer 1989, 1993; Goldin and Metz 1991; A. Adams 1998); and flight or forced resettlement during the counterinsurgency war shattered Maya ritual relations with local mountain spirits of health and fertility (R. Wilson 1995). On the other hand, Maya world views reveal strong continuities, whether expressed in local beliefs and cultural premises (Hinshaw 1975), calendrical and divinatory practices (Colby and Colby 1981; B. Tedlock 1982), general cosmological principles (Carlsen and Prechtel 1991), or the ethics of local Maya identity (Warren 1978; Watanabe 1992). Maya world views persist in part through Maya languages themselves: in Mam, for example, verbal paradigms of motion, direction, and aspect tacitly orient social space, time, and movement to the sun’s path between the horizons (Watanabe 1983). A gendered cosmos of ‘‘Our Father Sun/Rain,’’ ‘‘Our Mother Earth/Water/Maize,’’ and ‘‘Our Grandmother Moon’’ identifies the human life-cycle of youth, maturity, and old age with the diurnal round of sunrise, noon, and sunset; with the sowing, ripening, and harvesting of maize; and with the annual oscillations between wet season and dry, vegetal growth and dormancy, high summer sun and southing winter sun. Human bodies constitute microcosms that further equate Maya 244

production and reproduction through the same complementary idioms of male and female, youth and age, hot and cold, fecundity and sterility (B. Tedlock 1982; Tarn and Prechtel 1986, 1990; Carlsen and Prechtel 1991; R. Wilson 1995; cf. D. Tedlock 1985). More than some timeless expression of Maya culture, this cosmology links space to time and life to place through quotidian Maya rounds of house and field, yard and spring, and the tasks performed at each (Earle 1986; Watanabe 1992). Maya life unfolds, not in mechanically repeating cycles, but in unique events recurrently patterned— but never fully ordained—by the twenty day lords of the Maya divinatory calendar (B. Tedlock 1982). Maya engage this cosmos through three interrelated sets of authoritative, immanent presences (cf. B. Tedlock 1982; G. Cook 1986; Watanabe 1990b): saints protect local communities and individuals, although seldom in concert with God (the distant Creator), Christ (a trickster–cum–culture hero often identified as ‘‘Our Father Sun’’), or the Virgin Mary (associated with the moon). Earth lords, or simply the sacred World (Mundo), watch over or ‘‘own’’ the land, plants, and animals. Maya ancestors grant the living their souls and the costumbre to remember the saints, earth lords, and themselves. These figures intervene in Maya affairs to punish transgressions, but usually some ritual neglect or offense against their persons rather than ‘‘sins’’ against divine providence. Neither wholly good nor evil—much less mutually exclusive—Catholic saints evoke the Maya ancestors who first venerated them, just as earth lords share the generative powers of ancestors but contrast their mountain shrines with saints in town churches and their guise as rich Ladinos with Maya ancestors (Watanabe 1990b). As incarnations of a dialectically interrelated whole, saint, ancestor, and earth lord enjoin Maya to sustain the ever transient ‘‘dawnings,’’ deaths, and rebirths of this world, not to seek eternal salvation in the next (Prechtel and Carlsen 1988). As such, Maya suffer less from ‘‘original sin’’ than from ‘‘ongoing debt’’ to the ancestors who begat them (Earle 1986:170) and to the earth

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          1960’ they must violate to feed themselves (Colby and Colby 1981:122–123). Undeniable yet irredeemable, this fated necessity prompts the living to burn copal incense and candles for the ancestors and the World to ‘‘seek pardon in the face of destiny so that we can eat, so that we can drink’’ (Colby and Colby 1981:126). Shaman-diviners guide this reciprocity of remembrance and atonement. Variously called ‘‘daykeepers’’ because of their calendrical expertise or ‘‘grandfathers’’ because of the respect accorded them, these practitioners use ‘‘lightning in the blood’’ and word-play on the twenty day names of the sacred calendar to divine their clients’ fate (B. Tedlock 1982; D. Tedlock 1993; cf. Colby and Colby 1981). They also mediate between the living by ‘‘making sense of other minds and intentions’’ in order to ‘‘unmask’’— but also reconcile—different individual wills within the community (Warren 1978, 1992). Finally, these elders seek to pass on what ritual knowledge they have acquired from their predecessors (however incomplete) so that they too will be remembered by those who come after (Colby and Colby 1981:142; cf. Warren 1992:194–195). Remembrance, obligation, and equanimity—not eternal salvation—mark the province of Maya souls (Watanabe 1992). Deeply embedded in Maya life and language, this world view remains as self-evident as the world it envisions, but plantation work, growing landlessness, ethnic politics, and war have forced upon Maya ever widening, more problematic destinies. Increasingly unable (or unwilling) simply to farm milpa, many Maya have abandoned the ethics of reciprocity and debt for the salvation proffered by Catholic missionaries since the 1940’s and by evangelical sects, which burgeoned during the 1970’s and 1980’s (cf. Carlsen 1997; Garrard-Burnett 1998). Some say that growing poverty pushes Maya to the new religions, if only to escape the excessive drinking and expenses of costumbre and cargo holding (cf. Annis 1987; Scotchmer 1993); others see new occupations and attitudes first paving the way for more self-conscious religious conversion (cf. Sexton 1978; Goldin and Metz 1991). Whatever the case, war and repression have hastened Maya evangelical rebirth and

charismatic Catholic conversion (cf. Scotchmer 1993:519–520; Stoll 1993; R. Wilson 1995). In many (if not most) Maya communities, orthodox catechists and evangelical preachers have supplanted diviners, ritual guides, and cargo holders in public religious life. At the same time, religious change remains deeply rooted in Maya communities. Maya catechists may reject the local, worldly focus of costumbre in favor of a universal Christian spirituality, but they often use their new religious identity to legitimize local calls for Maya equality and social justice in a Ladinodominated world. They may also stage traditional rituals as desacralized ‘‘cultural performances’’ to remind young Maya of their cultural heritage and identity (cf. Warren 1978, 1992). Maya evangelicals emphasize a more personal responsibility for loving Christ and resisting temptation by reading scripture, testifying publicly to their faith at services, and conforming to the moral strictures of their ‘‘brothers and sisters’’ in Christ. Their faith, however, continues to embrace God’s providence as much for ‘‘thisworldly’’ success as for ‘‘otherworldly’’ salvation (Stoll 1993:185); indeed, like good Weberian Calvinists, they often identify material gain as an outward sign of spiritual grace (Annis 1987). Similarly, the rampant sectarianism in evangelical churches stems in part from their volatile mix of personal righteousness and rigid group conformity, but such fissioning may also betoken an abiding localism in Maya faith. Indeed, many Maya Protestant churches prefer local autonomy from national Ladino hierarchies and use Maya-language Bibles in their services (Scotchmer 1989, 1993), while others proclaim themselves the revitalizing hope of new Maya communities (A. Adams 1998). By fostering self-reflection, conscious choice, literacy, and leadership, religious conversion has implanted in Maya communities a greater self-awareness, not just as Catholics or Protestants, peasants or proletarians, but as Maya no longer entirely obligated to ancestral dictates —or accepting of Ladino discrimination (cf. Colby 1985; García-Ruiz 1992; Scotchmer 1993; Stoll 1993; Garrard-Burnett 1998). 245

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 .  C The anthropology of highland Guatemala since the late 1960’s reflects more than changing theoretical views of an enduring Maya culture. Maya experience itself has radically changed, demanding new perspectives and priorities (cf. Nelson 1998; Warren 1998). Militarization, commodification, and evangelization now belie any easy romance—or tragedy—of Maya as timeless traditionalists, helpless victims, or repressed revolutionaries. No longer immured in highland villages, or even coastal plantations, Maya have become university students and professionals in Guatemala (Bastos and Camus 1993, 1995a; Fischer 1996b; Warren 1998); political refugees in Mexico (Manz 1988: 145–166; Salvado 1988); migrant workers in the vegetable fields, citrus groves, and golf courses of south Florida (Burns 1993); and urban immigrants in Texas (Hagan 1994), California (Vlach 1992), and elsewhere in the United States. Despite the allurements and entrapments of this vastly extended world, Maya continue to claim a Mayanness rooted (if no longer exclusively) in their ancestral attachments to community places, premises, and production (cf. Watanabe 1992). These claims, however, now find ironically diverse expression: urban, panMayanist intellectuals promote a self-empowering respect for the ecologically minded, timeless wisdom of Maya elders and ancestors, even as the ghostly flicker of cable televisions in rural Totonicapán attests to the remittances of K’iche’ migrants living in Houston, who also send home cash for new houses, land, schooling, and businesses; the latest appliances, trucks, and medicine—and at times their children to console lonely grandparents (Hagan 1994). Rather than simply proof of the globalized, self-imagined, ideologized pastiche that ‘‘culture’’ has become in certain scholarly circles, this irony reflects the paradoxical essentialism and opportunism that characterize any successful culture. Pan-Mayanists may echo the politics of the international solidarity and human rights groups that help fund their efforts, but their quest for an enduring essence of Mayanness remains no less significant or genuine: bridg246

ing as they do the politics and intellectualism of a global world and the languages, memories, and obligations of local places, their insights and arguments attest, not merely to an ‘‘invented tradition,’’ but to an ongoing, living tradition. Similarly, Maya with video cameras and blenders need be no less Maya than their Colonial ancestors who first donned Spanishstyle hats, jackets, and pants and took up the worship of Catholic saints that then became so distinctively (if never immutably) Maya. In the end, the question remains how best to understand what is ‘‘Maya’’ without succumbing to the static essentialism of a timeless Maya culture or an equally ahistorical presentism of continually emergent ‘‘imagined communities’’ or ‘‘invented traditions.’’ Finessing the misplaced romanticism of the first and the potential arbitrariness of the second may ultimately depend more on pragmatic rather than theoretical grounds of first identifying those individuals and groups who call themselves Maya (or perhaps indígena, natural, civilizado, capitalino—but not Ladino), then determining why they do so and what they intend by it by attending closely to how they use those images, practices, and institutions they—and others (Ladinos and anthropologists alike)—have come to recognize as ‘‘Maya.’’ However tautological this may sound, understanding contemporary cultural formulations necessarily entails knowing not merely how they have changed over time but, more precisely, how successive pasts have continued to inform succeeding presents and how ongoing presents have repeatedly appropriated their pasts. To do this, the anthropology of highland Guatemala must refine and redefine—indeed, recommit itself to integrating—culture history, political economy, and cross-cultural comparison. Familiarity with Maya languages and culture history (whether oral, textual, documentary, or archaeological) remains essential, not to validate some timeless Maya reality, but to understand the ‘‘cultural stuff’’ that Maya themselves continue to create, reclaim, rework, and reflect in their lives. Similarly, studies of Maya political economy must continue to weigh the impact of global exploitation and local resis-

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          1960’ tance on Maya power and production, while also addressing how these importunities—and opportunities—generalize (or not) into other domains of Maya culture and experience. Finally, cross-cultural comparisons with elsewhere in Mesoamerica, Latin America, and beyond must serve to elucidate the distinctive shape the Maya of highland Guatemala have given the generic (if again regionally variable) strictures of geography and ecology, colonialism and capitalism, bequeathed to them by circumstance and history. In all three regards, continuities and transformations in Maya culture must be examined against the diversity of Maya interests and actions across age, gender, and circumstances, cross-cut by the conventional understandings— however idiosyncratically received, relativized, or revitalized—that make this diversity recognizable, and thus intelligible, to other Maya. Neither arbitrary nor immutable, the truth of Maya cultures will be found in the ongoing changes that Maya make to remain themselves in a globalizing world beyond imagination or intent. A

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I would like to acknowledge the helpful comments of Richard N. Adams, Abigail E. Adams, Christa Little-Siebold, Brent Metz, and John Monaghan on an earlier draft of this chapter, although they in no way bear responsibility for the results. I would also like to thank Nora C. England for generous help concerning the current state of Maya languages; Richard N. Adams for census figures and timely reminders; Edward Fischer and Carol Hendrickson for essential references; Liliana Goldin for loan of useful sources; Christa Little-Siebold for a copy of the 1994 census form; and Patricia Carter and the Interlibrary Loan staff of Baker

Library, Dartmouth College, for unfailing help and good cheer in tracking down obscure references. Special thanks go to Edward Chu for his meticulous, indefatigable work on census materials, bibliographic sources, and Figure 11-2; and to Deborah Nichols and Aaron Watanabe for their warm support and forbearance. N 1. It should also be noted that the 1994 census occasioned controversy in Guatemala over questions of general undercounting, given an official total of some 8.3 million Guatemalans versus projections by the Instituto Nacional de Estadística (INE) itself of some 10.3 million for 1994. Scrutiny and criticism was obviously intensified by the political reapportionment of electoral districts that this census was supposed to determine. Politics aside, it would appear that underreporting clearly occurred in the capital as well as in many rural areas; in southern Huehuetenango, for example, underreporting may have run as high as 20 percent in some municipios. How this affected overall ethnic percentages remains unclear, but the absolute numbers should perhaps best be taken as minimums. 2. In this chapter I use the practical orthography officially adopted by the Academy of Maya Languages in 1987 to refer to the Maya language groups of Guatemala (see Table 11-3). Place names retain their customary spelling. For further discussion, see the section on ‘‘Language and Identity Politics.’’ 3. The Museo Ixchel del Traje Indígena in Guatemala City also publishes a monograph series that includes studies of Cobán (Dieseldorff 1984), Comalapa (Asturias de Barrios 1985), Sololá (Mayén de Castellanos 1986), Colotenango (Mejía de Rodas et al. 1987), Santa María de Jesús (Asturias de Barrios et al. 1989), and Zunil (Miralbés de Polanco et al. 1990). In addition to presenting detailed information on local textiles, these volumes often provide useful summaries of published ethnographies of these communities, as well as original information on local economic, ethnic, and cultural developments.

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CIESAS Centro de Investigaciones y Estudios Superiores en Antropología Social INAH Instituto Nacional de Antropología e Historia INI Instituto Nacional Indigenista SEP Secretaría de Educación Pública UNAM Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México A, I 1973 Cash Crop Farming and Social and Economic Change in a Yucatec Maya Community in Northern British Honduras. Ph.D. dissertation, Department of Social Relations, Harvard University. Ann Arbor, Mich.: University Microfilms (02-84873). A, M L, I A, M S M, D N, M N,  C M 1993 Etnografía y educación en el estado de Oaxaca. Colección Científica no. 268. Mexico City: INAH. A, J M 1970 Where Opportunity Knocked: Social and Economic Change in the Tarascan Pueblo of Cuanajo, Michoacán. Ph.D. dissertation, University of Rochester. Ann Arbor, Mich.: University Microfilms. 1972 Limited Good or Limited Goods?: Re-

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 Aulie, H. Wilbur, 200 Awakatek, 10, 228, 236, 237, 239, 240 Ayuuk. See Mixe Aztec, 26, 27, 29, 36, 46n17, 46n19, 46n28, 47n33, 66, 76, 81n3, 87–88, 99, 111, 121, 127 Bachajón, 10, 192, 197 Baer, Philip, 204, 205 Báez-Jorge, Félix, 102, 103, 174–175 Baja California del Norte, 159 Baja Verapaz, 225, 237, 238 Ballesteros R., Leopoldo, 174 Balsas River Valley, 127, 128, 130, 131, 132, 133, 134, 135, 136, 139, 146, 149n11, 169 Baños Ramírez, Othón, 217 Barabas, Alicia, 125, 126, 164, 168–169, 174, 175 barrios, 9, 19, 79, 90, 150, 161, 162–163, 177n12, 218–219 Barth, Fredrik, 12 Bartolomé, Miguel, 125, 126, 164, 168–169, 174, 175 Bastian, Jean-Pierre, 43 Beals, Ralph, 78, 80 Beaucage, Pierre, 97 Becquelin-Monod, Aurore, 192, 197 Belize, 10, 14, 22n1, 22n4, 23n10, 91, 209, 210, 216, 221 Benítez, Fernando, 143 Benito Juárez dam, 173 Benjamin, Thomas, 180 Bennholdt-Thomsen, Veronika, 200 Berg, Richard, 13 Berlin, Brent, 197 Bevlink, Anne Marie, 174 Birdwell-Pheasant, Donna, 221, 222 Blaffer, Sarah, 189 Boccara, Michel, 211 Bochil, 175, 191 Boege, Eckart, 165–166 Bonfil Batalla, Guillermo, 124 Books of Chilam Balam, 212–213 Boremanse, Didier, 46n21, 205 Bossen, Laurel, 229–230 Bourdieu, Pierre, 31 Brandes, Stanley, 21 Breedlove, Dennis, 190, 197, 198 Breton, Alain, 192, 197, 200 Bricker, Victoria, 31, 34, 187, 188, 189, 190, 211 Brintnall, Douglas, 228, 231 Brockman, Andreas, 184, 190, 198 Brody, M. Jill, 201, 202 Brown, Cecil, 94 Brown, Denise Fay, 111, 217, 218, 219 Brown, Pete, 184, 191 Browner, Carole, 168 Bruce S., Roberto, 204, 205 Buckles, Daniel, 87 Burkhart, Louise, 28, 35, 46n27, 47n32 Burns, Allan, 211, 217 Burstein, John, 198 Butterworth, Douglas, 159–160

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Cabarrús, Carlos, 231 Cabrera, Antonio, 94 caciques, 19, 22n9, 41, 128, 166 Campbell, Howard, 4 Campeche, 207, 208, 210, 211, 218, 223n2 Campos, Julieta, 111 Cañada, 78, 79, 80, 164 Cancian, Francesca, 190 Cancian, Frank, 20, 22n7, 180, 189, 190, 192, 193 Cancuc, 10, 192, 192, 195, 196, 197 Cancun, 210, 217, 218, 220, 222 Candelaria, María, 187 capitalism, 15, 18, 80, 99, 121, 170, 229–230 Cárdenas, Lázaro, 183 Cardona, Giorgio, 172 Cardonal, 66, 71 cargo systems, 9, 20–21, 22n10, 23n11, 31, 34, 37, 39, 40– 41, 45n16, 46n25, 75, 77, 80–81, 86, 91, 94, 98, 109, 113, 136, 137, 138, 139, 146, 159, 161, 166, 167, 170, 172, 176, 189, 190, 191, 192, 193–194, 200, 202, 228, 229, 234, 243, 245 Carlson, Ruth, 28, 45n15 Carnival, 31, 34, 46n24, 76, 81, 86, 190, 195 Carrasco, Pedro, 23n10, 80 Castellanos, Rosario, 202 Castile, George, 78, 80 catequistas, 43, 49n53 Catholic Church, 21, 24, 41, 42, 44, 49n52, 55, 71, 73, 75, 76, 93, 94, 124, 179–180, 235, 241–242, 244, 245 catrín vs. mestizo, 22n4, 214–215 Center for Mesoamerican Regional Investigations (CIRMA), 56–57 Central Mexico, 5, 13–14, 20, 65–81, 81n3. See also Otomí; Purépecha Centro de Estudios Indígenas, 180 Centro de Estudios Mesoamericanos y Centroamericanos, 149n13 Centro de Estudios Mexicanos y Centroamericanos, 81n1 Centro de Investigación Ayuuk, 174 Centro de Investigaciones Humanísticas de Mesoamérica y el Estado de Chiapas (CIHMECH), 180 Centro de Investigaciones y Estudios Superiores en Antropología Social (CIESAS), 81n1, 149n9, 155, 174, 180 Cerro de Oro dam, 115, 168–169 Chac, 42 Chalcatzingo, 123 Chalchihuitán, 182, 183, 191, 192, 193, 193, 194, 194, 195, 196, 197 Chamoux, Marie-Noëlle, 87 Chamula, 16, 17, 18, 34, 42, 175, 179, 180, 183, 184, 185, 186, 187–188, 188, 189, 190, 193, 195, 196, 197, 199, 206 Chanal, 192 Chance, John, 21, 40 Chan K’in, 205 Chan Kom, 12, 211, 215, 217, 219, 220 Chapultenango, 174

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 Chatino, 11, 14, 28, 33, 34, 35, 36, 46n25, 151, 153, 154, 156, 161–164, 165, 167, 172 Chemax, 211, 218, 219 Chenalhó, 10, 190, 191, 192, 193, 194, 195, 196, 199 Cheney, Charles, 172 Cherán, 10, 80 Chetumal, 210, 218 Chevalier, Jacques, 87 Chiapanec, 180 Chiapas, 3, 5, 10, 13, 14, 19, 29, 31, 44n3, 52, 83, 102, 149n6, 150, 159, 167, 174, 175–176, 179–206, 181. See also Ejército Zapatista de Liberación Nacional (EZLN) Chicahuaxtla, 160–161 Chichen Itza, 211 Chichimec-Jonaz, 65, 67–69, 70 Chichimec wars, 141 Chicoasén, 175 Chignautla, 11, 13 Chilchota, 78 Chilcuatla, 66, 71 Chilón, 192 Chimaltenango (Dept.), 10, 224–225, 237, 241 Chimapala, 173–174 Chinantec, 11, 18, 83, 84, 109, 115, 116, 119n6, 151, 153, 154, 157, 162, 167–169, 170, 171, 172 Chiñas, Beverly, 18, 170 Chintipán, 99, 101 Chiquimula (Dept.), 10, 225 Chocho-Popoloca, 151, 153, 154, 156, 164, 167, 172, 176, 177n10 Ch’ol, 180, 199–201, 200, 203 Chol, 53, 181, 223n2 Chontal, 17, 83–84, 109, 110, 111–113, 115 Ch’orti’, 235, 237, 239, 240 Christensen, Bodil, 74 Christensen, Dieter, 87 Christianity. See Catholic Church; Protestantism; Religion, Mesoamerican Chuang Tzu, 28 Chuj, 237, 239, 240 CIESAS. See Centro de Investigaciones y Estudios Superiores en Antropología Social (CIESAS) CIRMA (Center for Mesoamerican Regional Investigations), 56–57 Clendinnen, Inga, 26, 29, 46n17, 46n19, 48n46 Coajomulco, 125 Coalición Obrera Campesina Estudiantil del Istmo (COCEI), 58–60, 61, 62n9, 62n10, 175 Coapilla, 175 Coatetelco, 125 Coatzacoalcos, 171 Cobán, 233, 247n3 COCEI (Coalición Obrera Campesina Estudiantil del Istmo), 58–60, 61, 62n9, 62n10, 175 coffee, 162, 163, 164, 171–172, 177n7, 184, 192, 199, 225, 228, 230, 231, 233–234 cofradías, 20, 21, 40, 80 Cohuecan, 125

Coixtlahuaca, 158, 177n10 Cojtí Cuxil, Demetrio, 56, 237, 238 Colby, Benjamin, 48n41, 199, 228 Colegio de Michoacán, 81 Colima, 69 Collado, Rolando, 167–168 Collier, George, 180, 185, 188, 189, 190, 192, 194, 199 Collier, Jane, 190 Colonial period, 2, 21, 22n9, 22n10, 71, 73, 76, 93, 120, 121, 123, 124, 127, 129–130, 136, 141–142, 149n12, 193, 199, 204, 212–213, 219, 229, 231, 233; religion in, 32, 35, 39, 40, 41, 42, 43, 49n48, 49n54 Colunga García-Marín, Patricia, 172 Comisión del Paploapan, 168 Comitán, 201, 202 Comitancillo, 59 communities, 12–22, 22n6, 51, 124, 217–221; studies of, 3–4, 9–12, 13, 22n3, 117–118, 156–158, 231–233; subdivisions of, 19–20, 79, 89–90, 218–219 compadrazgo. See Ritual kinship CONACYT (Consejo Nacional para la Ciencia y Tecnología), 148 concubinage, 17 Conquest, Spanish, 73, 119n4, 121, 209, 212, 233 Consejo Nacional para la Ciencia y Tecnología (CONACYT), 148 Contla, 12, 17 Cook, Scott, 22n7, 170 Copala, 160, 177n12 Copalillo, 130 Copanaguastla, 192 Cora, 120, 140–148, 141 Cordero Avendaño, Carmen, 160 Córdoba Olivares, Francisco, 175, 190 Cortés, Hernán, 118, 121 Cortés Esteban, Argimiro, 149n12 Cortés Ruiz, Efraín, 76 costumbre, 25, 43, 75, 76, 230, 244, 245 Coyutla, 66 crafts, 16, 22, 70, 77, 78–79, 85, 93, 97, 101, 103, 111–112, 130, 132, 135, 139, 145, 146, 164, 169–170, 173, 185–186, 186, 188, 189, 192, 203, 204, 204, 205, 217, 222, 241, 243 Crump, Thomas, 190 Cruz Bautista, Marcos, 158 Cruz Hernández, Modesta, 155 Cuanajo, 11, 78 Cuapaxco, 125 Cuauchichinola, 125 Cuauhnahuac, 120–121 Cuautla, 123 Cuenca Paploapan, 150 Cuentepec, 125 Cuernavaca, 123 Cuevas Suárez, Susana, 155 Cuicatec, 11, 17, 151, 153, 154, 162, 164–165, 167, 172 Dalton, Margarita, 172–173 Davis, Virginia, 205

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 Dehouve, Danièle, 129–130, 136, 138, 139 Dennis, Philip, 165 Devil, the, 26, 35, 41, 46n20, 47n35, 48n40, 76, 77, 195 Díaz de Salas, Marcelo, 191 Diebold, A. Richard, 172, 177n15 Dinerman, Ina, 79 Dirección General de Educación Indígena, 71 disease. See Illness Donato Guerra, 76 Dow, James, 20, 22n6, 28, 45n16, 46n27, 76 Duby de Blom, Gertrude, 180 Durand, Pierre, 97 Durango, 140, 141 Durkheim, Émil, 31 Dürr, Eveline, 187 dzul, 212; vs. masewal, 213–214, 215 Eachus, Francis, 28, 45n15 Early, Daniel, 87 Early, John, 189, 227 earth, 86, 90, 194–195, 244–245; as deity, 26–27, 30, 38, 39, 45n12, 47n38, 47n40, 48n43, 49n46, 94, 195 Eber, Christine, 190 Edmonson, Barbara, 94, 95 Ehlers, Tracy Bachrach, 230 Ejército Popular Revolucionario (EPR), 55 Ejército Zapatista de Liberación Nacional (EZLN), 51–55, 60–61, 180, 184, 185, 186, 187, 188, 189, 201, 205 ejidos, 52, 71, 72, 77, 145, 168, 173, 175, 199, 201, 202, 217, 219, 221 El Bosque, 183, 191 El Cuatlapanga, 39, 47n36 El Ingeniero el Gran Dios, 168–169 El Oro, 67 Eloxochitlán, 95 El Pajarito, 188 El Quiché, 10, 224, 237, 241 El Rosario Micaltepec, 11, 13 El Salvador, 4, 5, 12, 22n1, 51 El Tajín, 95, 97 Embriz, Arnulfo, 171 ENAH (Escuela Nacional de Antropología e Historia), 81n1, 148 England, Nora, 61n6 EPR (Ejército Popular Revolucionario), 55 Escuela Nacional de Antropología e Historia (ENAH), 81n1, 148 Escuintla (Dept.), 10, 237 Esperón, Esteban, 162 Espinal, 59 Esponda Jimeno, Víctor, 189, 193 Estrada, Alvaro, 165 Estrada de González, Eloina, 165 ethnic identity, 1–2, 4, 5, 9, 12, 50, 53, 56, 65, 86, 87, 91, 113, 118, 124–125, 126–127, 129, 130, 136, 138, 139, 143, 145–146, 147, 153, 159, 163, 170, 180, 200, 211–216, 217–218, 224, 227–229, 235, 244, 246–247; and dress,

332

214, 238, 240; and linguistic classification, 14, 210–211, 236–238; microethnicity, 13–14, 21 ethnic nationalism, 51, 55–58, 60, 61 Ewell, Peter, 217 EZLN. See Ejército Zapatista de Liberación Nacional (EZLN) Fabrega, Horacio, 189, 197 Falla, Ricardo, 231 Farriss, Nancy, 39, 49n54 Faust, Betty, 211, 216 Favre, Henri, 189, 190 FDNG (Frente Democrático Nueva Guatemala), 57, 58 Felipe Carrillo Puerto, 211 Fernández Gatica, Andrés, 155 fincas, 162, 163, 177n6 Fischer, Edward, 44, 56 FLN (Fuerzas de Liberación Nacional), 53 Foster, George, 15, 17, 18, 77, 79–80, 102, 103 Francisco Ixhuatán, 173 Francisco León, 175 Frente Democrático Nueva Guatemala (FDNG), 57, 58 Freyermuth Enciso, Graciela, 197 Friedlander, Judith, 20, 124–125 Fuerzas de Liberación Nacional (FLN), 53 Furbee-Losee, Louanna, 202 Furst, Peter, 141 Galinier, Jacques, 28, 29, 33, 44n6, 46n25, 73, 74, 76 García, Alfonso, 74 García, Imelda, 172 García de León, Antonio, 187, 188, 199–200, 201 García J., Gabriel, 190 García López, Lucía, 79 García Santiago, Eduardo, 159 Garduño, Everardo, 159 Garibay Kintana, Angel María, 24 Garma Navarro, Carlos, 43, 97, 98, 99 Gebhardt D., Augusto, 200 gender, 42, 50, 61n4, 75, 166, 168, 171, 190, 193, 236, 240; gender relations, 9, 17–18, 20, 22n8, 23n11, 57, 90, 94, 112, 170, 174, 222–223, 229–230, 242–243 Gerdel, Florencia, 192 Goldin, Liliana, 231 Gómez B., Victorino, 71, 72 Gómez Hernández, Antonio, 203 Gómez Méndez, Mariano, 188 Gómez Ramírez, Martín, 192 Gonzales, Yólotl, 111 González Villanueva, Pedro, 46n25, 48n41 Gosner, Kevin, 187 Gossen, Gary, 44n2, 49n54, 188, 189, 190, 196, 197 Gran Nayar, 140–148, 141 Great Seeing cure, 34, 37 Green, Linda, 231 Greenberg, James, 20–21, 45n16, 46n25, 163, 177n6 Grijalva valley, 182, 184 Gruzinski, Serge, 40

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 Guachichiles, 141 Guanajuato, 67, 69 Guaquitepec, 192, 195 Guatemala, 2, 3, 5, 10, 13, 14–16, 19, 21, 22n1, 22n6, 22n10, 24, 26, 42, 49n53, 58, 91, 215, 223n2, 224– 247, 225, 226, 232, 234, 239; ethnic nationalism in, 51, 55–58, 60, 61, 61n2, 61n7; political left in, 57–58, 234–235 Guatemalan National Revolutionary Unity (URNG), 58 Guchachi’ Reza, 59 Gudeman, Stephen, 19 Guelegetza, 176 Guerrero, 5, 10, 44n3, 55, 74, 89, 120, 123, 127–140, 128, 129, 137, 146, 147, 149n8, 153, 155, 167, 172 Guiteras-Holmes, Calixta, 94, 102, 190, 192 Gulf Coast, 5, 83–119, 150–151. See also Chontal; Huastec; Nahua; Tepehua; Totonac; Zoque (Sierra) Popoluca Gutiérrez, Arturo, 143 Gutiérrez Estévez, Manuel, 211 Guzmán Böckler, Carlos, 143, 229 Guzmán López, Salvador, 198 Gwaltney, John, 167 habilitadores, 162, 164 Haehl, John, 193 Halacho, 211 Hall, Robert, 1 Handbook of Middle American Indians, 1–5, 24–25, 33, 50–51, 65, 66, 71, 72, 75, 78, 79, 80, 97, 111, 117, 138, 150, 151, 153, 158, 161, 169, 172, 175, 176, 177n15, 194, 197, 199, 207, 209, 218, 224 Hanks, William, 32, 34–35, 45n12, 46n27, 46n46, 211, 216, 221 Harman, Robert, 192, 197 Harris, Marvin, 20 Harvard Chiapas Project, 179, 189, 191 Harvey, Herbert, 97, 99 Harvey, Neil, 52, 188 Haviland, John, 184, 189, 190 Hawkins, John, 17, 231 Helbig, Carlos, 180 Helfrich, Klaus, 200 Hermitte, M. Esther, 192 Hernández Cuellar, Rosendo, 36, 87 Hernández Díaz, Jorge, 160, 177n12 Hervik, Peter, 212, 215 Hiatt, June, 160 Hidalgo, 10, 66, 67, 69, 73, 83, 84, 87, 89, 93, 99 Hidalgo Pérez, Jesús, 188, 191 Highland Maya, 5, 20, 224–247, 226, 232 Highland Ñähñu. See Ñähñu, Highland Hocaba, 211 Hodge, Frederick, 5 Holland, William, 190, 195, 196, 197 Hollenbach, Barbara, 160 Holmes, Barbara, 211, 214, 215, 222 Hopelchen, 207, 208 Hostettler, Ueli, 219, 220, 221

Huáncito, 80, 81 Huastec, 26, 34, 35, 49n51, 83–84, 90, 91, 92, 93–95, 109, 119n4 Huauchinango-Xicotepec, 119n7 Huautla de Jiménez, 165, 177n2, 177n14 Huave. See Mareño (Huave) Huaxtepec, 121 Huayacocotla, 66, 68 Huazulco, 125 Huber, Brad, 87 Huecorio, 70 Huehuetenango, 10, 225, 228, 236, 237, 238, 241, 247n1 Huehuetla, 66, 68 Huehuetla-Mecapalapa, 99 Huerta Ríos, César, 160, 163 Hueyapan, 11, 14, 124–125, 149n4 Huichol, 17, 120, 140–148, 141, 147 Huistán, 191 Huitepec, 161 Huitiupán, 191 Huitzuco, 127 Hunt, Eva, 29, 37 Huse, Birgitta, 190 Ichon, Alain, 32, 37, 47n30, 97, 98 identity. See Ethnic identity Iglesia Evangélica Independiente, 73 Iguala, 127 Ihuatzio, 11, 79, 80, 81 illness, 33, 34, 35–36, 37, 38–39, 75, 90–91, 95, 98–99, 101–102, 109, 113, 167–168, 172, 174, 197, 205 ‘‘Image of Limited Good,’’ 77, 79–80 Incháustegui, Carlos, 111, 112, 165 Independencia, 201 ‘‘Indian,’’ 9; vs. mestizo/ladino, 14 Indians, Mesoamerican. See Indigenous peoples indígena, 14, 215, 246 indigenous peoples, 1–2, 4, 19, 20, 21, 43, 50, 77; acculturation among, 14, 39, 49n49, 91, 95, 99, 102, 121, 176– 177, 179, 207, 224, 227–229; armed revolution among, 2, 51–55, 60–61; ethnic electoral politics among, 51, 58–60, 61; ethnic nationalism among, 51, 55–58, 60, 61, 61n2, 61n7; intellectuals among, 51, 55–56, 57–58, 61n6, 169, 235, 246; relations with Mestizos/Ladinos, 44, 47n40, 49n51, 52, 53, 56, 57, 58, 66, 72, 73, 85, 86, 94, 98, 103, 118, 130, 136, 138, 159, 171, 175, 176, 183– 184, 186, 191, 198–199, 200, 201, 202, 205, 206, 224, 228, 229, 230, 231, 233–235, 245; sexuality, 18, 22n8, 34, 35, 36, 46n25, 57, 171, 222, 223; women among, 57, 61n5, 70, 75, 94, 170–171, 172, 173, 186, 193, 204, 222– 223, 229–230, 236, 238, 239, 240, 242. See also Kinship; Languages, indigenous; Marriage/family; Religion, Mesoamerican indio, 14, 94, 212, 215, 216 Ingham, John, 19, 44n7, 46n27, 47n33, 124 INI (Instituto National Indigenista), 4, 81n1, 115, 119n8, 149n9, 155, 159, 161, 171, 182, 202 Institute for Research and Social Integration (Oaxaca), 161

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 Instituto Chiapaneco de Cultura, 180, 182, 206 Instituto Nacional de Antropología e Historia, 4, 81n1 Instituto Nacional Indigenista (INI), 4, 81n1, 115, 119n8, 149n9, 155, 159, 161, 171, 182, 202 International Phonetic Alphabet (IPA), 65, 81n2 Itzaj, 236, 237, 239, 240 Iwanska, Alicja, 76, 77 Ixcatec, 151, 153, 164 Ixcatlán, 168 Ixhuatlán de Madero, 66, 68, 99 Ixil, 10, 45n12, 228, 237, 238, 239, 240 Ixmiquilpan, 66, 70, 71 Ixtepec, 59, 97, 98, 99 Ixtlán, 158 Jalapa, 95, 225, 237 Jalapa de Díaz, 168 Jalisco, 69, 140, 141 Jamiltepec, 163 Jáuregui, Jésus, 143 Jiménez Castillo, Manuel, 78, 79, 80 Jitotol, 191 Jocotán, 233 Juárez, Benito, 76, 176, 177 Juchitán, 4, 11, 14, 58–60, 61, 151, 173 Juyup Takaj, 26

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Kanjobal, 25, 223n2 Kaqchikel, 10, 13, 18, 228, 229, 235, 237, 239, 240 Kaufman, Terrence, 111, 119n5, 237 Kearney, Michael, 159 Kelly, Isabel, 95, 97, 99 Kemper, Robert, 70, 80 Kendall, Carl, 19 K’iche’, 10, 13, 28, 31, 38, 229, 235, 236, 237, 238, 239, 240, 246 kinship, 9, 16–17, 67, 72–73, 74–75, 85, 87, 90, 94, 101, 103, 112, 118, 124, 126, 191, 192–193. See also Marriage/family Klor de Alva, Jorge, 25, 33 Knowles-Berry, Susan, 111 Köhler, Ulrich, 48n41, 188, 189, 190, 191, 197, 198, 199 Kuroda, Etsuko, 174 labor migration. See Wage labor Lacandon, 180; economic conditions, 203–204, 205; religion, 26, 31, 32, 37, 38–39, 44n7, 46n21, 46n26, 203, 204–205 Lacanjá, 203 Ladinos. See Mestizos/Ladinos La Malintzi, 39, 47n36 Lamb, Weldon, 26, 195 La Mojarra, 119n5 languages, indigenous, 5, 57, 61n3, 81n2, 126, 151, 172, 200–201, 206, 209–211, 223n2, 236–238, 239, 240, 244; classification by, 14, 65, 151, 153. See also specific languages

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Larráinzar, 29, 36, 43–44, 183, 190–191, 193, 195, 196, 197, 199 Laughlin, Robert, 91, 94, 188, 189, 190, 197, 198 Lazos Chavero, Elena, 222 Lenkersdorf, Carlos, 201, 202 León-Portilla, Miguel, 37, 38 Lewis, Oscar, 149n1 Linn, Priscilla, 190 Lipp, Frank, 29, 32, 38, 45n9, 46n25, 46n27, 174 Lisbona Guillén, Miguel, 175 Lomnitz-Adler, Claudio, 41, 49n51, 91, 93, 94 Long-Solís, Janet, 139 López Austin, Alfredo, 29, 76 López M., Antonio, 25 López Méndez, Sinecio, 124 López Raquec, Margarita, 237, 238 Lugo Pérez, José, 222 Lupo, Alessandro, 37, 45n9, 48n41, 87, 172 MacLeod, Murdo, 187, 226 Macuspana, 111 Madsen, William, 87 Magdalenas, 191 Magdalena Tequisistlán, 171 Maldonado Jiménez, Druzo, 121, 124 Malinaltepec, 139 Mam, 10, 18, 38, 53, 223n2, 228, 237, 239, 240, 242, 244 Marcos, Subcommandante, 51, 52, 53–54, 60–61, 185, 187 Mareño (Huave), 11, 17, 62n10, 151, 153, 154, 157, 167, 172–174, 177n12, 177n15 Margaritas, 183, 201, 202 Marion Singer, Marie-Odile, 205 marriage/family, 9, 16–17, 23n11, 75, 79, 85, 90, 94, 99, 101, 103, 112, 138, 160, 163–164, 190, 220, 221–223, 241, 242–243. See also Kinship Martín Contreras, Donaciana, 71, 72 Martínez Peláez, Severo, 57, 229 Martínez Pérez, Daniel, 174 Martos, Lorena, 211 Marxism, 2, 9, 15, 50, 51, 224, 229 masewal vs. dzul, 213–214, 215 Matías Alonso, Marcos, 139 Matías Romero, 175 Matlatzinca, 65, 67, 68–69, 70, 76 Matus, Manuel, 59 Maxcanu, 218 Maya, 10, 12, 212–213, 215; in Guatemala, 5, 20, 224–247, 226, 232. See also specific Maya groups Maya Movement, 235 maya winiko’ob, 212–213, 215–216 mayordomías, 20, 21, 45n16, 80, 161 Mazahua, 10, 65, 67, 68–69, 70, 71, 76–77, 115, 167 Mazatec, 11, 18, 34, 36, 151, 156, 165–167, 168, 172; economic conditions, 109, 119n6, 162, 177n2, 177n8; location, 83, 84, 114, 150, 153, 154 Mazatepec, 124 McGee, R. Jon, 46n25, 204

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 McMahon, David, 168 McQuown, Norman A., 179, 188–189 Medina Hernández, Andrés, 191, 192–193 Menchú, Rigoberta, 50, 57, 58, 235 Mendelson, E. Michael, 39 Méndez Arceo, Sergio, 126 Meneses López, Miguel, 200 Merced del Porterero, 171 Merida, 218, 219, 222 Merrifield, William, 204, 205 Mestizos/Ladinos, 13, 17, 18, 20, 62n10, 87, 109, 163, 226; ladino vs. ‘‘Indian,’’ 14; mestizo vs. catrín, 22n4, 214– 215; mestizo vs. ‘‘Indian,’’ 14; relations with indigenous peoples, 44, 47n40, 49n51, 52, 53, 56, 57, 58, 66, 72, 73, 85, 86, 94, 98, 103, 118, 130, 136, 138, 159, 171, 175, 176, 183–184, 186, 191, 198–199, 200, 201, 202, 205, 206, 224, 228, 229, 230, 231, 233–235, 245 Metzabok, 203, 204, 205 Metzger, Duane, 197 Mexicaneros, 140, 147, 149n12 Mexican Revolution, 77, 121, 123, 127, 165, 188, 201 Mexico, 3, 5, 10–12, 19, 21, 22n1, 22n6, 22n10, 24, 76; Constitution of, 52, 145; Federal District of, 67, 68, 69, 125, 149n2; government of, 59, 60, 93, 113, 115, 121, 123, 130, 136, 161, 167, 168–169, 173, 177n7, 178n15, 179, 180, 182, 189, 194, 204, 206. See also Central Mexico; Gulf Coast; and specific states México (state), 10, 66, 67, 68, 69, 71, 76, 89, 125, 149n2 Mexico City, 13, 69–70, 117, 140, 159, 184, 188, 199 Miacatlan, 124 Miahuatlán, 162 Michoacán, 10, 11, 33, 66, 67, 69, 70, 78, 140 Milpa Alta, 125 milpas, 35, 111, 125, 149n4, 184, 191, 207, 214, 216, 217, 219–220, 229, 234, 240–241 Minatitlán, 117 Misantla, 97 Mitontic, 183, 191 Mixe, 11, 14, 17, 62n10, 103, 139, 151, 154, 158, 162, 168, 172, 174, 175–176; location, 83, 84, 102, 105, 150, 153; religion, 26, 29, 32, 34, 35, 38, 45n9, 167 Mixtec, 11, 13, 17, 18, 22n8, 151, 156, 158–160, 162, 163, 172, 176; location, 84, 102, 107, 127, 150, 153, 154, 155, 160, 177n4; religion, 28, 32, 34, 35, 36, 37, 49n46, 139, 167 Mixteca Alta, 155, 156, 176 Mixteca Baja, 19, 155, 158, 159, 173 Mixteca de la Costa, 155, 156 Mocho, 180, 206 Molina, Virginia, 191 Momostenango, 10, 25, 26, 233 Monsiváis, Carlos, 59 Montaña region, 128, 129–130, 136–140, 137, 147 Montoya Briones, José de Jesús, 87 Mopan, 10, 14, 22n1, 236, 237, 238, 239, 240 Morales Avedaño, Segundo, 191 Mora Vásquez, Teresa, 111 Morayta Mendoza, L. Miguel, 123, 124

Morelos, 10, 66, 67, 69, 89, 91, 120–127, 122, 147, 158 Morris, Walter, 186 Moscoso Pastrana, Prudencio, 187, 188, 197 Mountjoy, Daniel, 185 Münch Galindo, Guido, 102, 103, 109, 174 Munn, Henry, 165 Musalem Merhy, Guadalupe, 172–173 Myerhoff, Barbara, 143 Naayariite. See Cora Nacajuca, 111 Nader, Laura, 169 Nahá, 203, 204, 205 Nahmad Sittón, Salomón, 145, 174 Ñähñu, Highland: economic conditions among, 66, 70, 71, 72; location, 66, 68–69, 71; religion, 71, 73, 81. See also Otomí Ñähñu (language), 65–66, 70, 71, 81n2. See also Otomí Ñähñu, Sierra: economic conditions among, 66, 70, 73– 74, 75, 76; location, 66–67, 68–69; religion, 71, 73, 74, 75–76, 81. See also Otomí Nahua, 5, 13, 14, 17, 18, 20, 22n8, 69, 87–91, 93, 94, 97, 103, 111n1, 120, 129; economic conditions among, 87, 89, 129–130, 130, 136, 139–140, 146, 149n11; location, 83–84, 88, 89, 121, 123, 127, 130, 131, 140, 141, 149n2; religion, 24, 26, 27, 30, 32, 33, 34, 35, 37, 38, 41, 45n9, 46n20, 47n31, 47n33, 48n40, 48n46, 74, 81, 87, 90, 109, 129, 130, 139; social organization, 87, 129, 130–131, 134, 136, 137, 139–140; studies on, 118n1, 124–126, 128–130 Nahuat, 11, 13, 16, 18, 22n1, 89, 151 Nahuatl, 10, 11, 12, 14, 25, 28, 37, 38, 46n22, 84, 87, 88, 93, 98, 111, 121, 125, 130, 140, 149n12, 153, 209, 213 Nahuatzan, 79 Najá, 10, 17 Nanacatlán, 97 Nana Kutsi, 80 Nash, June, 28, 31, 46n19, 180, 185, 192, 197 Nash, Manning, 20 Nations, James, 203, 205 Navarrete, Carlos, 180 Navarrete Pellicer, Sergio, 192 Nayarit, 140–148, 141 Nebaj, 10, 233 Neiburg, Federico, 166, 177n7 Nepopoalco, 125 Netzahualcóyotl Dam, 115, 175 Neurath, Johannes, 143, 146 New Guatemala Democratic Front (FDNG), 57, 58 Nicholson, Henry, 28–29 Nicolás Flores, 66, 71 Nieves Ixpantepec, 158, 161 Nigh, Ronald, 185, 191, 203, 205 Nochixtlán, 158 Nopala, 162 North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA), 52, 206 Nutini, Hugo, 17, 18, 25, 33, 41, 46n20, 49n47 Nyffenegger, Franziska, 203

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 Oaxaca, 3, 5, 11, 13, 19, 44, 44n3, 55, 82n3, 83, 102, 109, 115, 123, 139, 149n6, 150–177, 152, 154, 167, 169–170; agriculture in, 162, 163, 164–165, 169; Coalición Obrera Campesina Estudiantil del Istmo (COCEI) in, 58–60, 61, 62n9, 62n10; ethnology of, 150–152, 156–158; land disputes in, 162–163, 164–165 Oaxaca City, 150, 151, 159, 176 Ochiai, Kazuyasu, 46n25, 190 Ocosingo, 183, 192 Ocotepec, 174 Ocozocuautla, 175 Ocuilán, 68 Ocuilteca, 65, 67, 68–69, 70 Oettinger, Marion, 138 Olivera de Vásquez, Mercedes, 168 Oluta, 102, 103 Ometepec, 153, 155 O’Neill, Carl, 167–168 Orellana, Carlos, 159 Orizaba, 171 Ortega Peña, Elsa, 199 Ortiz Monasterio, Pablo, 173 Otomí, 10, 14, 65–77, 130; religion, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 31, 33, 34, 36, 39, 44n6, 47n33, 71, 74, 75–76, 81 Otzoy, Antonio, 57–58 Oxchuc, 183, 191–192, 193, 197 Oztotempan, 139 Pacheco Castro, Jorge, 222 Paddock, John, 163 Pahuatlán, 66 paisanazgo, 19, 159 Palazón, María, 203 Palenque, 199, 203, 204, 205 Palerm, Angel, 95, 97, 123 Pamé, 5, 65, 67–69, 70 Panajachel, 10, 16, 233 Pantelhó, 182, 183, 184, 191, 192, 195, 196, 197, 199 Pantepec, 66, 68, 175 Papaloapan dam, 109, 115, 119n6 Paracho, 70, 79 Pardo Brügmann, María Teresa, 164 Parra Mora, León, 160, 177n12 Partido de la Revolución Democrática (PRD), 54, 59, 60, 184, 194 Partido Popular Socialista (PPS), 177n14 Partido Revolucionario Institucional (PRI), 52, 59, 60, 161, 175, 177 Past, Amber, 198 Pátzcuaro, 70, 78 Paz, Fernanda, 203 peasants, 9, 14–16, 17, 22n6, 22n7, 66, 79–80, 123–124 PEMEX (Petróleos Mexicanos), 52, 111, 113 Peña, Guillermo de la, 79, 123, 124 Pérez Castro, Ana, 191 Pérez Chacón, José, 200 Pérez Lopéz, Enrique, 190, 191, 198 Pérez Peréz, Anselmo, 188

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Petlacingo, 177n4, 192 Petrich, Perla, 180, 198 Pfeiler, Barbara, 211 Pineda, Luz, 189, 194 Pineda, Vincente, 187–188 Pinome, 14 Pisaflores, 99 Pitarch Ramón, Pedro, 192, 197, 198 Pitt-Rivers, Julian, 189 Plan de Amilpas, 120, 123 Plan de San Luis, 176 Plan Huicot, 145 Plattner, Stuart, 199 Plumsock, 4 polygyny, 16–17, 94, 101, 103 Poniatowska, Elena, 59 Po’ot Yah, Eleuterio, 211 Popocatepetl, 124 Popoluca, 84, 102. See also Zoque (Sierra) Popoluca Popol Vuh, 30, 99 Popti’, 237, 238, 239, 240 Poqomam, 10, 18, 236, 237, 238, 239, 240 Poqomchi’, 237, 238, 239, 240 Portal Ariosa, María Ana, 168 Pozas Arcienega, Ricardo, 190 PRD (Partido de la Revolución Democrática), 54 Precolumbian period, 2–3, 29, 35, 40, 74, 80, 81n3, 179 Press, Irwin, 210, 213, 214, 217 Preuss, Mary, 211 PRI (Partido Revolucionario Institucional), 52, 59, 60, 161 Programa de Formación Profesional de Etnolingüistas, 119n8 Prokosch, Eric, 190, 193 Protestantism, 21, 24, 42, 43, 44, 44n3, 53, 55, 73, 75, 76, 80, 86, 87, 95, 97, 98, 99, 109, 113, 138, 167, 179, 202, 203, 204, 242, 244, 245 Puebla, 12, 14, 21, 44n3, 66, 67, 69, 83, 84, 98, 99, 102, 125, 150, 155, 158, 164; Sierra Norte de Puebla, 11, 87, 89, 93, 95, 97 Pueblo Nuevo Solistahuacán, 191 Pujal-Coy dam, 95, 115 Purépecha, 10, 11, 20, 70, 76, 77–81, 81n2; location, 66, 67, 68–69 Q’anjob’al, 237, 238, 239, 240 Q’eqchi’, 10, 14, 22n1, 228–229, 236, 237, 239, 240; religion, 26, 28, 29, 30, 37, 44n4, 45n15, 47n31, 49n54, 231 Quaratiello, Elizabeth, 180, 188, 189 Querétaro, 66, 67, 69, 83, 84, 93 Quezaltenango, 10, 224–225, 236, 237, 241 Quiauteopan, 127, 129 Quintana Roo, 207, 208, 209, 210, 211, 212, 213, 218, 219, 220, 223n2 Ramírez Carrillo, Luis, 78 Ramírez Castañeda, Elisa, 172 Ramírez Méndez, Sergio, 191

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 Ramos Chao, Enriqueta, 204 Raudales de Malpaso Dam, 115 Raven, Peter, 197 Ravicz, Robert, 155 Re Cruz, Alicia, 215, 220 Redfield, Robert, 13, 14, 15, 17, 149n1, 212, 215, 219, 223 religion, Mesoamerican, 24–44, 80, 86, 95, 101, 113, 118, 124, 142–143, 144, 167, 168–169, 194–196; vs. Christianity, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 30, 32, 33, 35, 37–38, 39–40, 41, 42–43, 44n1, 44n2, 44n7, 46n19, 46n20, 46n22, 47n31, 47n35, 48n42, 48n46, 49n48; conversion in, 4, 41–44, 49n54, 95, 99, 109, 113, 179, 180, 241– 242, 244, 245; death in, 32–33, 35, 39, 46n20, 46n24, 46n26, 48n42, 49n46, 86, 90, 91, 95, 101, 130, 136, 196; debt/merit in, 36–39, 48n44, 48n45, 48n46; deity in, 28–31, 37, 45n10, 46n21, 75, 80, 98, 196–197, 231, 244; the Devil in, 26, 35, 41, 46n20, 47n35, 48n40; mountains in, 29, 36, 39, 45n12, 47n36, 47n40; oratories, 21, 71, 73, 75, 76, 77; paper figures in, 25, 27, 29, 44n6, 74, 75, 90, 91, 101; purity/pollution in, 33–36, 46n24, 46n26, 47n33, 99; relations between humans and gods in, 32–39, 48n44, 48n46; saints in, 20, 29, 36, 39, 45n10, 47n36, 49n54, 75, 77, 80, 94, 98, 125, 136, 189, 193, 231, 244; syncretism in, 26, 39, 41, 43, 49n47, 49n49, 49n50, 86, 87, 192, 195, 202, 231; theology in, 24, 25– 30. See also Cargo systems; Catholic Church; Illness; Protestantism; Religious specialists; Rituals religious specialists, 27, 29, 30, 32, 34, 36, 46n28, 74, 75, 76, 90, 91, 95, 99, 101–102, 109, 113, 143, 165–166, 169, 216, 245 Reyes, Ixmukané, 184 Reyes García, Luis, 87 Richards, Michael, 231 Rincón Chumula, 175 Rincón Zapotec, 151–152 Rita, Carla, 172 ritual kinship, 9, 18–19, 98, 99, 103, 111, 130 rituals, 36, 45n16, 77, 91, 95, 98, 99, 112–113, 124, 125, 126, 130, 134, 138–139, 142–143, 144, 146–147, 147, 189, 190–191, 193, 216, 245; house rituals, 30–32, 45n15, 47n30, 95, 133, 189; oratory rituals, 71, 73, 75. See also Carnival; Costumbre Rivera Balderas, Amado, 174–175 Robles, Alejandro, 124 Robles Uribe, Carlos, 204 Rodríguez, Mauro, 174 Rodríguez, Roberto, 172 Rodríquez Lazcano, Catalina, 111 Rojas, Basilio, 162 Rojas Lima, Flavio, 229 Rosenbaum, Brenda, 190, 198, 231 Ross, John, 53 Roß, Norbert, 184, 191, 205 Rostas, Susanna, 191 Rothstein, Frances, 16 Rubel, Arthur, 167–168 Ruiz, Samuel, 54 Ruiz González, María Teresa, 171

Rus, Diane, 182, 190 Rus, Jan, 187, 188, 194, 198 Ruvalcaba Mercado, Jesús, 91, 98, 119n4 Ruz, Mario Humberto, 187, 192, 201, 203 Sabanilla, 199 Sabina, María, 165 Sacapulas, 10, 13 Sacatepéquez (Dept.), 10, 225, 237 Sakapultek, 236, 237, 239, 240 Salina Cruz, 171, 173 Salinas de Gortari, Carlos, 52, 60, 169 Salinas Pedraza, Jesús, 71–72 Salovesh, Michael, 191 Salto de Agua, 199 San Agustín de Bonaventura, 140 San Agustín Oapan, 130, 132 San Andrés (Tateikie), 143, 144 San Andrés de la Cal, 125 San Andrés Semetabaj, 10, 13, 228, 235 San Antonio Aguas Calientes, 10, 229 San Antonio Palopó, 233 San Bartolo Tutotepec, 66, 68 San Blas Atempa, 59, 173 San Carlos Yautepec, 171 Sánchez, Héctor, 58, 60 San Cristóbal, 51, 52, 179, 180, 181, 188, 191, 197, 198, 199, 203, 206 Sanders, William, 84 San Dionisio del Mar, 173 Sandstrom, Alan, 25, 27, 46n27, 48n41, 87 Sandstrom, Pamela Effrein, 27, 87 San Felipe del Progreso, 10, 67, 76 San Francisco del Mar Pueblo Nuevo, 62n10, 177n15 San Francisco del Mar Pueblo Viejo, 172, 173, 177n15 San José Independencia, 168 San José Tenango, 166, 177n2 San Juan Atzingo, 10, 17 San Juan Capala, 161 San Juan Chamelco, 233 San Juan Chamula, 10 San Juan Cotzocón, 175 San Juan el Bosque, 175 San Juan Guichicovi, 175, 176 San Juan Mazatlán, 175 San Juan Mixtepec, 158, 160 San Juan Ostuncalco, 233 San Juan Tlacotenco, 125 San Lorenzo Achiotepec, 67, 76 San Luis Potosí, 67–68, 69, 83, 84, 87, 89, 91, 93, 95, 115 San Marcos (Dept.), 10, 225, 229, 237 San Mateo del Mar, 172, 173, 177n12 San Miguel Chimalapa, 174, 175 San Miguel Tenango, 171 San Miguel Tononicapán, 10 San Miguel Tulancingo, 164, 177n10 San Pablito, 25, 74, 76 San Pablo Chalchihuitlan, 10, 191

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 San Pablo Coatlán, 171 San Pedro Amuzgos, 153, 155 San Pedro Huamelula, 171 San Pedro Jicora, 140 San Pedro Jocopilas, 229 San Pedro La Laguna, 10, 233 San Pedro Sacatepéquez, 10, 14, 17, 230, 233, 236, 242 San Pedro Tlachichilco, 76 San Pedro Yolox, 11, 167 San Quintín Valley, 159 San Salvador (Hidalgo), 66, 71 Santa Ana Hueytlalpan, 67, 76 Santa Catarina, 67, 68, 125 Santa Clara de Montefalco, 123 Santa Cruz de Acaponeta, 140 Santa Eulalia, 233 Santa Iglesia Ortodoxa Católica Mexicana, 180 Santa María Atzompa, 169 Santa María Chimalapa, 153, 173, 174, 175, 178n16 Santa María Ecatepec, 171 Santa María Ixcatlán, 164 Santa María Quiegolani, 171 Santa María Zacatepec, 176 Santa Marta, 184, 190, 193 Santiago (Larráinzar), 191 Santiago Astatla, 171 Santiago Atitlán, 10, 233, 240 Santiago Chimaltenango, 27, 228, 233 Santiago de Anaya, 66, 71 Santiago Nuyoo, 11, 48n40 Santo Domingo Ocotitlán, 125 Santo Tomás Jalieza, 169 Sault, Nicole, 19 Schmid, Jennifer, 184 Schryer, Frans, 87 Schumann, Otto, 200 Schwartz, Norman, 13 Seco River, 111 Secretaría de Educación Pública (SEP), 66, 77, 119n8, 155 Seminario Permanente de Estudios Mayas, 56 Seventh Day Adventists, 42, 86, 203 Shelton, Anthony, 143, 145 Sierra Madre Occidental, 140–142, 147 Sierra Ñähñu. See Ñähñu, Sierra Signorini, Italo, 87, 172 SIL (Summer Institute of Linguistics), 71, 109, 169 Silver, Daniel, 189, 197 Simojovel, 175, 183, 191, 192 Sipakapense, 236, 237, 239, 240 Sitalá, 192 Siverts, Henning, 189, 192 Slade, Doren, 87 Slocum, Marianna, 192 Slusser, Mary, 211 Smailus, Ortwin, 211 Smith, Carol, 22n6, 56, 57, 230, 241 Smith, Waldemar, 229 Smithsonian Tarascan Project, 78

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Sololá, 10, 224, 237, 241, 247n3 Solosuchiapa, 175 Sosa, John, 211, 215, 216 Soteapan, 103 Sotuta, 211 Soustelle, Jacques, 66, 67, 71 Soyaló, 191 Soyaltepec, 159, 168 Stavenhagen, Rodolfo, 199 Steward, Julian, 5, 149n3 stratification, social, 21–22, 124, 139–140, 193–194, 219– 220, 229–230, 234, 243–244; classes, 50, 53, 57, 153, 161, 170, 192, 199, 200, 220, 229, 230, 235, 243 Stresser-Péan, Guy, 91, 119n7 Suárez Jacome, Cruz, 139 Suárez y Farías, María Cristina, 87 Suchitepéquez, 225, 237 sugarcane, 74, 93, 97, 101 Sullivan, Paul, 211 Summer Institute of Linguistics (SIL), 71, 109, 169 Tabasco, 83, 84, 89, 109, 110, 115 Taggart, James, 41, 46n20, 87 Tamasopo, 68 Tamaulipas, 83, 84, 89, 93 Tampico, 84, 89, 93, 117 Tamulté de las Sabanas, 111 Tantoyuca, 91, 94 Tapalapa, 175 Tapia García, Fermín, 155 Tarahumara, 5, 17 Tarascans. See Purépecha Tasquillo, 66, 71 Taylor, William, 21, 33, 40 Tecpatán, 175 Tedlock, Barbara, 28, 30, 31, 46n25, 240 Tedlock, Dennis, 240 Tehuacán, 150 Tehuantepec, 58–60, 61, 171, 177n12 Teko, 236, 237, 239, 240 Tello Díaz, Carlos, 53, 54 Temascaltepec, 67 Temazcal/Alemán Dam, 115, 168 Temoac, 125 Temoaya, 66 Tenango de Doria, 66, 67, 68, 74 Tenejapa, 183, 184, 191, 193, 195, 197 teo, 27, 37 Teopixca, 11 Teotihuacán, 38, 81n3 Teotitlán del Valle, 11, 169 teotl, 25, 26, 37 Tepango, 125 Tepecoacuilco, 127, 129 Tepehua, 27, 32, 34, 74, 83–84, 97, 98, 99, 100, 101–102, 109 Tepehuanos, 5, 140, 141, 147 Tepexi de Rodríquez, 164

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 Tepoztlán, 11, 13, 125, 126, 149n1 tequio, 159, 160, 161, 176 Tequisistlán, 171 Tequistlatec, 17, 151, 153, 154, 157, 167, 171–172 Tequistlatec-Jicaque, 153 Tequitlatos, 34, 35 Tetela del Volcán, 125 Tetelcingo, 125 Texcatepec, 66, 68, 73, 74 Texistepec, 102, 103 Thipaak, 95 Thomas, John, 201 Thomas, Norman, 175 Thompson, Richard, 214, 215 Tianguistenco, 68 Ticul, 12, 210, 213, 214, 215 Tila, 199, 200 Tilantongo, 11, 160 Tlachco, 127, 129 Tlachichilco, 66, 68, 99 Tlacoachistlahuaca, 153 Tlacoapa, 10, 138, 139, 149n11 Tlacotepec, 125 Tlacotlapilco, 72 Tlacuilotepec, 66, 68 Tlahuica, 121 Tlalcozautitlán, 127, 129, 130 Tlamacazapa, 130 Tlamamacan, 132 Tlanepantla, 125 Tlapa, 127, 136, 138 Tlapanec, 10, 120, 127, 128–130, 138–139 Tlaxcala, 12, 14, 18, 19, 21, 69, 83, 89; religion in, 33, 39, 41, 44n3, 46n20, 47n36 Tlaxcaltecans, 14, 140 Tlaxco, 66 Tlaxiaco, 165 Tlayacapan, 11, 124, 125, 126 tlazolli, 35, 47n31 ‘‘T’oj Nam,’’ 10, 17 Tojolabal, 18, 53, 180, 201–203, 202 Toledo, Francisco, 59 Tolimán, 66 Toluca, 69, 76 Tonalá River, 111 Topilejo, 125 Topiltepec, 171 Torres Quintero, Sergio, 111 Torres Rosales, Fidel, 200 Torre Yarza, Rodrigo de la, 189 Totolapan, 125 Totonac, 83–84, 95, 96, 97–99, 109, 115, 168; religion, 32, 33, 34, 37, 43, 44n6, 46n20, 95, 98–99, 101, 109 Totonacapan (Mexico), 93 Totonicapán (Guatemala), 224, 237, 241, 246 tourism, 21–22, 22n5, 70, 78, 79, 121, 126, 127, 130, 135, 136, 145, 185–186, 186, 188, 190, 203–204, 205, 205, 207, 210, 215

Townsend, Richard, 27 Tranfo, Luigi, 172 Trinitaria, 201 Trique (Triqui), 14, 151, 153, 154, 156, 160–161, 162, 167, 172, 177n12 Truman, Kathleen, 101, 194 Tulancingo, 10, 70 Tulancingo Region, 10, 67 Tuliman, 130 Tulum, 210, 211 Tumbalá, 199, 200 Turner, Paul, 171 Tutotepec, 67, 73, 74 Tuxtla, 184, 199 Tuxtla Gutiérrez, 179 Tzeltal, 10, 17, 18, 27, 30, 35, 53, 54, 175, 179, 181, 182, 192–199, 201, 203, 205, 206; economic conditions, 182–187; religion, 192, 194–196, 202; research on, 180, 191–192; social organization, 191, 192–194, 200 Tzintzuntzan, 11, 13, 16, 70, 79–80, 81 Tzotzil, 10, 17, 18, 25–26, 29, 37, 53, 175–176, 180, 181, 182–191, 192–199, 201, 206; economic conditions, 182– 187, 189–190, 205; religion, 189, 190, 194–196, 202; research on, 180, 187–191; social organization, 192–194, 200 Tz’utujiil, 10, 16, 18, 237, 239, 240 tzuultaq’as, 26–27, 29, 44n4, 231 Unión Hidalgo, 59 United States, 58, 70, 72, 85, 86, 136, 159, 183, 205, 206, 217, 229, 233, 234, 246 Universidad de San Carlos, 56 Universidad Nacional Autónoma de Mexico, 81 University of Chicago, 179, 191 Uriel del Carpio, Carlos, 175 URNG (Guatemalan National Revolutionary Unity), 58 Uspantek, 236, 237, 239, 240 Uxmal, 211 Uxpanapa, 115, 168 Valley of Mexico, 66–70, 121 Valley of Mezquital, 66, 70, 71–73 van den Berghe, Pierre, 199, 228 van der Haar, Gemma, 202 van der Loo, Peter, 139 van Zantwick, Rudolf, 79, 80 Vapnarsky, Valentina, 211 Vásquez Dávila, Marco, 171 Velasco Toro, José M., 175 Velásquez, Margarita, 203 Veracruz (state), 12, 66, 67, 69, 73, 83, 84, 87, 89, 90, 91, 93, 94, 95, 97, 99, 102, 109, 115, 149n6, 150, 158, 159, 168 Vicente Guerrero, 111, 113 Villahermosa, 184 Villa las Rosas, 192, 196 Villa Rojas, Alfonso, 111, 115, 175, 189, 191–192, 204, 207, 211, 212, 218, 219, 223

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 Villasana Benítez, Susana, 175 Viqueira Albán, Juan, 187 Vogt, Evon Z., 1, 3, 5, 29, 30, 34, 37, 47n39, 179, 180, 189, 196, 197 Vos, Jan de, 204 wage labor, 16, 17, 19, 69, 70, 72, 74, 79, 83, 85, 89, 93, 97, 109, 111, 115, 123, 130, 136, 138, 139, 145, 146, 153, 155, 158–159, 163, 164, 170, 171, 177n1, 177n2, 177n5, 182– 183, 184, 215, 217, 219, 220, 222, 230, 234, 241, 242, 243, 246 Warkentin, Viola, 200 Warman, Arturo, 123, 124 Warren, Kay, 228, 230 Wasserstrom, Robert, 187, 198 Wasson, Gordon, 165, 177n13 Watanabe, John, 44n9, 47n40, 49n54 Waterhouse, Viola, 172 Webster, Stephen, 20 Weigand, Philip, 141–142 Weitlaner, Roberto, 168 Westphal, Wilfried, 205 Wetzel, Dietmar, 184 White, Douglas, 18 Whittaker, Arabelle, 200 Williams, Gerald, 197 Williams García, Roberto, 33, 99, 101, 102 Wilson, G. Carter, 188, 190 Wilson, Richard, 46n25, 48n41, 49n54, 228, 233 Wixárika. See Huichol Wolf, Eric, 12, 15, 17, 20, 21, 22n6, 123

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Xadani, 59 Xalpatláhuac, 10 Xalpatlauhuac, 136, 138, 139 Xochimilca, 121

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Xochimilco, 125 Xochistlahuaca, 153 Xoxocotla, 125, 126 Yaitepec, 163 Yajalón, 192, 199 Yecapixtla, 125 Yopitzinco, 127 Yosondúa, 159 Yucatán, 5, 12, 22n4, 42, 44n3, 49n54, 91, 208, 209–211, 223n2 Yucatec, 12, 18, 22n1, 26, 32, 35, 45n12, 207, 209–223 yùumil, 45n12, 216 Zacapu, 70 Zacatecas, 140, 141 Zacualpan, 66, 68, 125 zaki, 28, 45n10 Zapata, Emiliano, 121, 123 Zapotec, 19, 20, 27–28, 83, 84, 103, 108, 109, 115, 151–152, 153, 154, 159, 162, 167, 169–171, 172, 173, 175; Isthmus Zapotec, 11, 14, 18, 58–60, 61, 62n10, 151, 157, 169, 170; Northern Zapotec, 17, 157, 169; Valley Zapotec, 11, 13, 18, 151, 157, 169, 170 Zinacantán, 10, 16, 18, 182, 183, 184, 185, 186, 189, 190, 192, 193, 197; religion in, 26, 27, 29, 32, 34, 37, 47n39, 196 Zinacantepec, 67 Zitlala, 139 Zizumbo Villarreal, Daniel, 172 Zontecomatlán, 66 Zoque, 42, 53, 83, 84, 102, 104, 106, 151, 153, 154, 158, 167, 172, 173, 174–176, 178n16, 180 Zoque (Sierra) Popoluca, 83–84, 102–103, 104, 109, 119n5 Zunil, 42, 247n3