Abstract
In the mid-eighteenth century around the town of Andagua in the high Southern Peruvian Andes, local indigenous residents nearly incited a rebellion rejecting regional authorities from Arequipa with ancestor cults as a locus of resistance. Subsequently, colonial officials burned ancestral mummies, in attempts to eradicate Andean religious beliefs and practices. Through the use of multiple methods and an archaeological perspective, this article examines how residents became “rebels and idolaters.” Challenging the universal subject and recognizing how subjectivities are historical and particular, I review how identities emerge through the production of places, forming relationships with the landscape across time and space.
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In the mid-eighteenth century around the town of Andagua in the high Southern Peruvian Andes, a 600 page historical court case describes how Spanish officials burned ancestral mummies, calling them “infidels,” in attempts to eradicate Andean religious beliefs and practices. Setting the bodies aflame, the Spanish Corregidor General Joseph de Arana evoked the term “extirpation of idolatries” – a phrase not in use for more than 100 years in the Andes. The court case further involved contestations of tribute payments spurred by recent Bourbon reforms with Andean residents of Andagua asserting that such increased taxes impinged upon their rights as Spanish subjects, nearly inciting a rebellion (Salomon 1987; Takahashi 2012). What was at stake traversed religious and economic concerns, as ancestor veneration was an integral component of socio-political authority in the Andes. Thus, such beliefs and practices were profound arenas of contention for Spanish colonial officials (Gose 2008; Salomon 1995). On the other hand, ancestor veneration and mummy worshipping were critical features to Inka imperial expansion with shared pan-Andean cosmologies facilitating local populations’ incorporation under Inka auspices (Conrad and Demarest 1984; D’Altroy 2015). Chronicling the struggle over forms of authority and legitimacy, the historical record in Andagua brings into relief the (socio historical) limits of the universal subject (Smith 2004).
While occurring during a century of rebellions, the events in Andagua can be distinguished from the range of social movements that traversed the Andes (O’Phelan Godoy 2012; Serulnikov 2003, 2013; Stern 1987; Walker 2014). Rather, the events in Andagua are what anthropologist, Frank Salomon (1987), characterized as an example of an endogamous form of rebellion; as resistance to the state did not center on abstract categories of individual human rights or a call for a neo-Inka (or indigenous) state, but was anchored around ancestor cults. Local Andean residents in Andagua continued to reckon multiple points of origin for human descent, with segmentary kinship as an animating principle for social organization, cosmological order and authority. Beyond the destruction of the bodies of deceased inhabitants, the court case provides details and insight into a range of material culture and practices involving struggles over the production of places imbued with authority and meaning that exceeded particular colonial expectations. Yet at the same time, while providing seductive ethnographic clarity, the historical account is riddled with epistemological prejudices and its composition belies its disruptive and violent procedure (Abercrombie 1998; Salomon 1987; Takahashi 2012). Thus, with this striking historical record of the eighteenth century as a point of departure, this article illuminates the archaeological conditions of possibility for the late Spanish colonial Andes, exploring how local indigenous residents of Andagua became “rebels and idolaters.”
The Andagua Valley, also known as the “Valley of Volcanoes,” is a dynamic landscape composed of lava flows, volcanoes and anthropogenic features (e.g., terraces and canals) shaped by deep local human inhabitation that were subject to Inka and Spanish imperial reigns prior to the formation of the contemporary Peruvian state. The highland valley sits nestled among the major valleys of the Colca, Cotahuasi and Majes, and was the southwest area of the Inka Empire, known as Condesuyos, one of the four regions of Tawantinsuyu (D’Altroy 2015; Guaman Poma Guaman Poma 2008 [1615]). The extended valley corridor runs North–South from Orcopampa (above 4000 masl), through Andagua (ranging from 3000 to 4000 masl) and continuing several kilometers down valley to Ayo where it intersects with the Colca Valley (~2000 masl). Research in the Andagua Valley further explores the dynamic regional relationships across the Southern Peruvian Andes and continuing through the recent past (e.g., Masuda et al. 1985; Millones 1975). Using archaeological, historical and ethnographic methods, research in Andagua reconstructs local engagements with states in the longue-durée, tracing the complex trajectories along a continuum of interactions, thus productively challenging reductive (Western, modern) categorizations, such as domination/resistance, European/Indigenous, and prehistoric/historic along with myth/history and nature/culture (e.g., Oland et al. 2012; Salomon and Niño-Murcia 2011; Stern 1987).
This research involves the first systematic archaeological research in the Andagua valley, registering a suite of archaeological evidence (from regional survey, excavations, and aerial site mapping), as well as drawing from oral histories, historical documents, and archival research (Menaker and Huayta 2016, 2017; Ziolkowski and Belan Franco 2000). From 2015 through 2017, beginning with systematic full-coverage pedestrian regional survey (involving 5–50 m transects, covering 45km2), the Proyecto Arqueológico del Valle de Andagua (PAVA) documented and analyzed all archaeological sites and artifacts in the valley, extending from the earliest observable human presences through sites dating to the the mid-twentieth century. Research produced and comprehensively analyzed a collection of 17,000 artifacts, including ceramics, lithics and faunal remains (detailed site maps in post-processing). Based upon regional and intensive survey data, the project carried out excavation test units placed at several diagnostic archaeological sites, traversing pre-Hispanic (pre-Inka and Inka) to Spanish colonial and contemporary Peruvian Republic contexts (Menaker and Falcón Huayta 2016, 2017). While historical archaeology in the Andes is a burgeoning field, with this volume as a testament, few archaeological collections have been produced that document material culture sequences ranging from pre-Hispanic contexts through mid-late Spanish colonialism and continuing to the recent past (e.g., Jamieson 2001, 2010; Rice 1996, 1997, 2012; Traslavina et al. 2016; Van Buren 1993, 1996, 2010; Van Valkenburgh 2012; Weaver 2015). This work illuminates the challenges and opportunities for dialectically moving across archaeological, historical, and ethnographic modes of research and engagement to produce more inclusive and robust accounts of human experiences (e.g., Buchli and Lucas 2001; Dawdy 2011; Fabian 1983; Hall and Silliman 2006; Oland et al. 2012; Wernke 2003).
The valley offers a unique setting for the long-term, comparative study of how states and empires attempt to incorporate and transform local landscapes and cultural practices. Research demonstrates how these processes are incomplete and become entangled with local practices and the stubborn materiality of history (e.g., Stein 2005; Trouillot 1995). In this article, I first examine deeper pre-Hispanic histories, from early sedentism through pre-Inka, non-state occupational histories to Inka state presence in the valley evident in a range of archaeological evidence and oral histories. Subsequently I discuss the overlapping techniques and strategies of Spanish colonialism and evangelization to transform indigenous lives, exemplified by the program of reducciones and “extirpation of idolatry” and their effects on local inhabitants’ relationships with the landscape. Tracing archaeological, historical, and ethnographic lines of evidence we are able to glean patterns and register the practices, places of meaning and social relations that defined local inhabitants’ forms of identification and experiences throughout the past and significances for the present.
Bodies and Landscapes of Authority and Identity
Prompted by the volume’s themes of identity and status, research in Andagua offers an insightful opportunity to expand upon research that questions universal conceptions of identity based upon an essential subject (Smith 2004). While acknowledging the limits of identity, scholars have refined our understanding, emphasizing the process of identity formation and the embodied self. Accordingly, identity is produced through a web of meaning and authority, with the body as a nexus of categorization and self-understanding; it is thus performative, aesthetic and deeply affective (e.g., Cooper and Brubaker 2005; Fisher and O’Hara 2009; Orta 2004; Rodriguez-Alegría 2005; Smith 2003, 2004, 2011; Voss 2008a, 2008b). Identity is multi scalar as the embodied self is neither singular nor static, entangled in broader cultural, historical and fundamentally material processes (e.g., Lock and Farquhar 2007; Orta 2004; Richard 2012; Salomon 2015). While our social theories grapple with analyzing our imbricated relations amidst a world beyond the human; it could be said, the Andes have always been post-human (e.g., Dean 2010; Kohn 2013). In this way, Andean cultural-historical forms challenge anthropocentric, modern historical narratives; rather they intimate an enchanted world (Chakrabarty 2000; Salomon 1982). This research thus examines how subjects and identities come to form across time and space through the production of places assembling landscapes that give order to the world.
Archaeological research has emphasized the importance of attending to the historical practices and sociocultural milieu that shape how subjection and authorization are produced. Approaching sovereignty in practice – rather than as a universal, abstract order – allows for understanding the institutional and dynamic production of authority beyond state forms, such as kinship, and considering humans’ imbricated relations with non-human forces and the material landscape (e.g., Abrams 1977; Kosiba 2015; Kus and Raharijaona 1997; Smith 2011; Van Valkenburgh 2012). Subjects come to form through historical, material practices that make and assemble places, grounding human interactions in the landscape (Smith 2003, 2004, 2011). The spheres of practices encompassing ritual and labor, in particular, are archaeologically salient and socially transformative dimensions of human experience that make places and form the landscape. As a nexus of social power and production, rituals and labor are thus subject to local power relations as well as state and imperial efforts to incorporate and transform to legitimize particular social orders (e.g., Asad 1993; Chase 2018a, 2018b; Gose 1994; Insoll 2004). Examining ritual and labor in Andagua allows us to look at shifting forms of local and state power, which produced overlapping landscapes of history that are not reducible to anthropocentric, modern and written forms. In the Andes, the landscape was not a passive geographical object. It was a palimpsest of relationships and authorities, inhabited by capricious ancestors and forces that shape (mis)fortunes (e.g., Bray 2015; Mills 1997; Salomon and Urioste 1991).
In Andagua and the Southern Peruvian Andes, the Spanish were only the latest to claim universal sovereignty, following in the footsteps of the Inka. Despite differing cultural logics, Inka and Spanish imperial programs exemplify how states and empires are epistemic regimes that seek to create particular subjects through varying material and discursive techniques and strategies. As epistemic regimes, states and empires transform local landscapes and cultural practices to legitimize their social orders; dictating the proper relations of words and things, humans’ relations and experiences in the world (Alcock et al. 2001; Bauer 1991, 1996; Conrad and Demarest 1984; Hanks 2010; Keane 2007). As the setting to millennia of human occupation, cultural encounters and state projects, research in the Andes offers insight into the production and maintenance of contested places involving the struggle to determine the meaning and authority of things across time and space. Archaeological and anthropological research conducted in the Andagua valley reveal the tensions of states and empires evident in local settlement patterns, cultural practices and material culture, such as stone offerings, monoliths, and ceramic styles among other artifacts. The Inka sought to usurp local authorities through an idiom of kinship exemplified by a local oral history of Andagua invoking both the fertility and destruction of regional features and cosmological forces to produce the order of the landscape (Bauer 1996; D’Altroy 2015).
Identity and political authority in Andagua were defined by kinship and though local and historically emergent, it was not necessarily bound territorially (Goldstein 2015; Masuda et al. 1985). Kinship and identity were determined and expressed through reciprocity and obligation in the form of labor and food (Gose 1994; Spalding 1984; see also Quave et al. this volume). Kinship lineages are often termed ayllus with members descending from a hierarchy of features (wak’as) grounded in the landscape (e.g., Isbell 1997; Mantha 2009; Nielsen 2008). In the court case, the term ayllu does not appear, while the term linaje is used to describe familial relationships to the remains at Quisguarani (Salomon 1987; Takahashi 2012). Relatedly, Andean cosmologies were based upon segmentary forms of deities and power, “ramifying downward and across cosmic domains to regional and local beings and deities,” and articulated through a hierarchy of wak’as (Salomon 1987: 158). Hierarchically segmented – from broad regional features, such as the large volcanic peaks of Coropuna and mountains of Wachalanka surrounding Andagua, to local landscapes including caves, rock outcrops and springs, with local populations emerging out of pacarinas (origin places) – wak’as were fonts of life and loci of authority (Salomon 1991). Reckoning multiple origins for humanity, local Andean groups had different notions of cultural identification and political authority from Europeans. This contrasts to European Christian cosmologies and language ideologies, and is evident in the differences between the Inka and Spanish imperial projects (Durston 2007; Mannheim 1991).
Spanish and European colonial projects did not encounter a pristine landscape, but instead one shaped by generations of human life and social struggle. Confronting the contemporaneity of indigenous people with distinct histories and cultural logics was a central problem for European imperial projects – “history became a problem for the present” (Flores Galindo 2010: 66). Indeed, wak’as would gain the attention and considerable ire of Spanish colonial officials, evident in the campaigns of the extirpation of idolatry and production of texts outlining a variety of practices and beliefs, and the corresponding efforts to destroy them (Chase 2015, 2018b; Doyle 1988; Duviols 1986, 2003). This is exemplified in Cristóbal de Albornoz’s (1989 [1582]) Instruccion para descubrir todas las guacas del piru y sus camayos y haziendas, where he identifies and produces a taxonomy of wak’as, including several in the surrounding region of Condesuyos. Albornoz (1989 [1582]) describes a variety of wak’as – apachitas, pacariscas, uznos, primacias and mamas – serving as multiple sovereigns and actors that constituted the landscape. Subsequently, the investigation of wak’as has been an enduring interest and challenge for contemporary Andean scholars, with research in Andagua exploring the temporal and social emergences of wak’as (Bray 2015; Chase 2015; Salomon 1991; Salomon and Urioste 1991). The temporality of wak’as involves their “origins and ‘pastness’, historicity, tradition, time reckoning (e.g., calendrics), and genealogy” (Chase 2015: 76). Using multiple lines of evidence to investigate the particular wak’as that constitute the landscape of the Valley of Volcanoes, this research offers an emic understanding of local Andean forms of history, authority and social organization in the pre-Hispanic past as well as their enduring significances through the present.
Similar to other pan-Andean occupations, for instance, the pre-Hispanic settlements in Andagua Valley can be characterized “in material fact and cosmological understanding” as a type of wak’a, known as llactas (Chase 2015: 86). Llactas were not necessarily a “town” or “village” – but “the union of a localized wak’a (often an ancestor-deity), with its territory and with the group of people whom the wak’a favored” (Salomon 1991: 23). Another particular type of wak’a are wank’a, which as Carolyn Dean (2010: 44) describes in Culture of Stone, “were rocks that were understood to be the petrified owners of places, such as fields, valleys, and villages.” Wank’a (stone monoliths) are located at sites of pre-Inka and non-Inka occupations (but may have Inka presence) and often articulate with broader local and regional features, such as Wachalanka, as these stones are most likely indicative of local and regional Andean ideologies and practices – independent of Inka and state organization (Menaker, in prep.). Local wank’a were traces of ancestors and dense nodes of gravitational orbit anchoring local populations, producing a range of associated material assemblages, including painted discs (Chase 2015). These local forms of authority generated through regional, sociohistorical relations are evident in material culture and ritual practices such as the painted stone (and ceramic) discs and tablets placed throughout the surrounding landscape, including associated with wank’as. Considering pre-Hispanic archaeological histories of the region exemplifies the imperative to expand beyond the written record and eschew privileging modern ruptures to understand the pasts of local populations, how humans understand and make their place in the world through time.
Becoming Local and Inka Imperial Expansion in Andagua
The Valley exhibits deep human relations and occupations with recent archaeological research in the Andagua Valley investigating local and regional archaeological histories. Evidence exists for the earliest human colonists arriving to the highlands of Coropuna more than 10,000 years ago (Rademaker 2012; Tripcevich 2007). Though the extent of early human occupations during the Archaic period (12,500BP – 3,500BP) in the valley is unclear due to the challenges of identifying such sites (including ephemeral occupations and post-depositional effects) and the possible geological activity during the time (Aldenderfer 1993; Rademaker 2012). Based upon geological evidence, volcanic activity occurred in the Andagua Valley throughout the Holocene and as recent as the fifteenth century, during Inka imperial expansion (Delacour et al. 2007; Hoempler 1962). Broad regional relations were evident throughout the Andes, extending from early human occupations with obsidian exploitation and trade and continuing through early ceramic styles extending throughout the Southern Peruvian Andes and through to the regional ritual practices evident in the painted tablets and discs and other ceramic styles throughout the pre-Inka past (Aldenderfer 1993; Burger et al. 2000; Masuda et al. 1985; Tripcevich 2007). Archaeological evidence demonstrates the historical emergence of local autochthonous cultural practices of segmentary societies and regional developments in non-state contexts throughout the Southern Peruvian Andes (Arkush 2014).
Early pre-Hispanic settlement and cultural practices in the valley and the surrounding region, anchored by segmentary social organization, are manifest in a suite of archaeological evidence, including regional settlement patterns, agricultural intensification, agromortuary complexes and stone monoliths (wank’as) as well as a proliferation of material culture, in particular lithics and ceramics (Jennings 2002; Menaker, in prep; Wernke 2003). Our project identified several local settlements with a range of evidence, including the Soporo ceramic style, suggesting they were occupied throughout the deep pre-Hispanic past, as early as the Formative period (1500BCE – 500CE) (Jennings 2002; Menaker, in prep. Neira Avendaño 1998; Wernke 2003). The sites of Andagua Antiguo, Antaymarca (Lower and Upper), Paccareta, Pumajallo, and Soporo emerged as agglutinated structures with limited formal plans dedicated to cultivating the landscape in addition to continued resource exploitation, exchange and pastoralism (Fig. 1). Agricultural intensification, in particular, involved the management of water, with early agricultural fields (cross-channel terraces) dependent upon rainfall, and eventually intensified through irrigation and a range of terraces (cross-channel, bench, slope fields) and expanding with continued inhabitation (Brooks 1998; Murphy 2017; Wernke 2003). Such regional decentralization continued through to the Late Intermediate Period (1000–1400CE), with archaeological research revealing that no pre-Inka state exerted any significant effects in the valley, with the project finding no evidence of Huari or Tiwanaku state presence (Covey 2008; Menaker, in prep.; Menaker and Falcón Huayta 2016, 2017).
Regional Map of the Andagua Valley, with PAVA survey area and sites, features and places mentioned in the article. DEM source, Peruvian Ministry of the Environment
The painted stone and ceramic discs and tablets, in particular, were a ubiquitous pre-Inka regional practice exemplifying local populations’ relations with the surrounding landscape in non-state contexts (Fig 2). The collection recovered in Andagua offers one of the most expansive documentation of the regional cultural practice, revealing similarities and differences to other collections from around the region, though an extensive discussion on the uses and meanings of the painted tablets and discs is beyond this article (see Faron-Bartels 2011; Jennings 2002, 2003; Kauffmann-Doig 1992; Linares Málaga 1978, Linares 1988, 1990; Menaker, in prep.; Ravines 1970; Wernke 2003). The painted tablets and discs were found placed in a variety of ritual contexts that traverse natural and cultural designations, such as buried in terrace walls, associated with wank’as (stone monoliths) and located around other geological features (rock outcrops, caves, cliffs) in varying quantities from isolated finds to dozens and more than a hundred in several circumstances. The tablets and discs are painted with a range of geometric patterns and representative motifs, including anthropomorphic and zoomorphic figures (camelids, lizards), and with a variety of colors and pigments (red, yellow, green, blue, white and black). The pre-Inka occupations of Soporo, Paccareta and Andagua Antiguo, also had similar iconography painted on diagnostic features (such as wank’as) and architecture (Menaker, in prep.; Menaker and Falcón Huayta 2016, 2017).
a Stone monolith (wank’a), located at the southern edge of Andagua in a shape mimicking the hill in the background and with line of sight towards Antaymarca (painted stone discs and tablets were also recovered during excavations associated with the wank’a); b: Painted stone disc with anthropomorphic figure recovered by PAVA in the valley; c: Painted stone tablet with geometric motif recovered by PAVA. Photos by author
The stone and ceramic discs (and iconography) articulated place and power as markings of identity. Performing subjectivity and authority, local populations served a range of materials, including discs and tablets, as offerings to local resources and features understood as an ordered landscape of wak’as. A clear view of the continued uses and significances of painted tablets and discs under the Inka is still coming to form in the Andagua Valley, with limited discs found in distant Inka contexts and the 100 hectare area of Quisguarani notably absent of the artifacts. Dedicated to local regional authorities that challenged the universal authority of the Inka, it is possible that discs were marginalized and brought to bear in contexts independent of the wary Inka state gaze (Menaker in prep.). Historical, archaeological, and ethnographic research illuminates how the continued presence of stone tablets and discs would take on new meanings through a range of contexts continuing to the present; from their use as gifts to the ancestors, invocation during Christian prayer, and currently displayed as cultural heritage in the local municipal landscape.
Foundational archaeological evidence in dialogue with (ethno)historic and ethnographic sources illustrate how Inka imperial expansion (1400–1532CE) sought to incorporate and expand settlements in the valley. Spanish colonial and Andean historical accounts describe how the Inkas intensified local settlements and constructed new sites in the region, resettling populations to labor in administrative and ceremonial sites dedicated to sacred regional volcanoes and mountains, apus or wak’as, such as nearby Coropuna and Solimana (Albornoz 1989 [1582]; Cieza de León 1967 [1553]; Guaman Poma 2008 [1615]; Ziólkowski 2008). The Inka Empire shared and appropriated several pan-Andean ideologies and practices, with the Inka incorporating and usurping local and regional wak’as (authorities, see Hernandez and Osores, this volume). The Valley of Volcanoes presented a novel landscape to the Inka with the volcanic landscape of the Southern Peruvian Andes distinct from the Cuzco region, with the effects and tensions of empire and colonial encounters manifest in social memories and the material landscape (see also Reinhard and Ceruti 2010; Sillar et al. 2013).
In Andagua, a local mythohistory involves a battle waged between the regional volcanoes and features (wak’as and apus) serving Coropuna, such as Pucamauras, Los Mellizos (“The Twin Volcanoes”), Jenchaña, and Anojara, against the interloping Inka (see Fig. 1). The Inka, a non-local figure, was building a canal in the valley with supra-human strength and refused to acknowledge the authority of Coropuna (Julljuye 2004; Menaker, in prep.). Another central figure is Wachalanka, the daughter of Coropuna and a regional deity and mountain peak located at the eastern edge of the Andagua Valley in the Chila mountain range. Wachalanka becomes pregnant from standing over a place where the Inka urinated, giving birth to a son of the Inka, and then turns to stone. The fecundity of water and the significances of lithimorphosis are important themes among Andean narratives and ideologies (see also Chase 2018a; Dean 2010; Salomon and Urioste 1991). After finding out about his daughter’s pregnancy and concerned by the Inka’s intrusion and unwillingness to recognize his authority, Coropuna orders his servants to wage war against the Inka. Though the Inka escapes, the events of the battle along with the broader story, explain features of the valley including the volcanic landscape and final resting places of these protagonists (Julljuye 2004; Menaker, in prep.). This research looks beyond the dichotomy of myth and history and considers these stories not as mere allegory but offering historical insight into the pre-Hispanic past, allowing for a performative and inclusive enactment of history (Chase 2015; Rappaport and Cummins 2012; Salomon and Niño-Murcia 2011; Trouillot 1995; Urton 1990).
Archaeological evidence was documented throughout the valley exemplifying the strategies and effects of Inka state power, as the Inka sought to legitimize their rule in Andagua. This ranged from the continued occupation and expansion of pre-Inka sites with the presence of Inka artifacts associated with contemporaneous local non-Inka contexts, the production of new infrastructure, such as canals, terraces and architectural features indicating agricultural intensification, to the marginalization of local landscapes and cultural practices. The Inka departed from local ritual to practices prioritizing the formation and institutionalization of state and imperial practices, places and landscapes. In addition to the material culture and infrastructure, the names of places (toponyms), such as Sacsayhuaman and Guanacuare, point to Inka strategies and presence in the valley (Alconini and Covey 2018; Betanzos 2015 [1551]; Covey 2006; Hyslop 1990; Kosiba 2015; Meddens et al. 2014; Ziólkowski 2014). Stretching several kilometers, the major canal from the Andagua River that irrigates the main Andagua Valley, is named the “Mother Canal” (Canal Madre) as well as the Inka canal. Claims of order and history are marked and named in the landscape (today this main canal also powers the town through a local hydroelectric plant). Other pre-Inka and non-Inka sites, such as Paccareta, depend upon a separate canal partitioned from the Andagua River or use another water source for irrigation.
Archaeological research has revealed how the town of Andagua consists of multiple, overlapping occupations, distinguishing local pre-Inka and non-Inka practices from Inka contexts. The extensive occupational history of this area is evident in the presence of Soporo ceramics, painted stone and ceramic tablets and discs, stone monoliths (wank’as), and non-Inka and Inka ceramic styles and architecture. In Andagua, Inka imperial statecraft sought to re-orient local populations’ relations with the landscape, shifting from local wak’as and ritual locations in the southern edge of the contemporary town of Andagua, to emphasizing the volcanic flows of Ninamama and the broader valley with the placement of an ushnu (ceremonial platform), and which now has a chapel for the Virgen de Asunción set atop (see Fig. 3). Several kilometers across the valley to the east, Ninamama (“mother of fire” in Quechua), are a series of lava flows that make up the valley floor circumscribing the southeast of the terraced valley and blocking the flow of the Andagua River. Geologists have dated the latest volcanic activity in the valley, occurring with Ninamama, to 1451–1523CE, coinciding with Inka expansion and occupation in the valley (Delacour et al. 2007). Exemplified by the assemblage of places, imbued with authority and meaning, this local and emergent volcanic landscape was an important interface of history and power (Albornoz 1989 [1582]; Linares Malaga 1990: 224–228; Meddens et al. 2014).
Capilla de la Virgen de la Asunción (built on top of probable ushnu), Andagua. Photo taken by author in 2013 when the community was replacing the roof
The ushnu/chapel platform overlooks the southeastern section of the town, just off the main plaza in an area known as Andagua Antiguo (“Old Andagua”), and is defined by a series of steep ravines and terraced hillsides carved by a stream descending from Coropuna glacial melt and nearby springs. Paths lead down into the winding ravines composed of fields and corrals, several abandoned and occupied properties and structures scatter the area, and contrast with the grid pattern of the Spanish colonial reducción. In addition to its clear reference as “Old Andagua,” some of the greatest concentrations of pre-Hispanic artifacts were recovered here as well as abandoned Late Horizon structures and mortuary contexts, displaying a range of local Inka and non-Inka artifacts. The density and type of fineware, such as large arybalos and elaborate serving vessels, are indicative of ritual festivals and conspicuous consumption that mark place in the landscape and seek to establish authority (see Fig. 4) (Jennings et al. 2005).
a Late pre-Hispanic, local Inka plate recovered in Andagua Antiguo; b: fragment from probable arybalo of Imperial Inka style with camelid recovered near ushnu/chapel platform. c: Examples of Inka arybalo fineware recovered in the valley. Photos by author
In the eastern section of the valley below the peaks of Wachalanka, at the site of Pumajallo, the project documented evidence of pre-Inka (and non-Inka) occupation in addition to a subsequent Inka presence. The nearby site of Tauca is most likely a late pre-Hispanic occupation composed of multiple rectangular structures, mortuary structures (similar to structures at Soporo) and a range of material culture, with the presence of local styles as well as Inka artifacts. This surrounding area of the eastern valley and the site of Tauca exhibit significant agricultural intensification evident in a variety of fields, terraces and canals (Menaker and Falcón Huayta 2016; Menaker, in prep; Murphy 2017). We are reminded of Wachalanka’s fertility in the mythohistory. While building upon pre-Inka occupations, I suggest that the eastern valley can be historically understood as the wak’a offspring of Wachalanka and the interloping Inka, a socio-political manifestation of alliance building. Wak’a (and llactas) were ancestors and embodied corporate labor constitutive of the landscape (Menaker, in prep.; Salomon 1995). Similar to studies of the Colca Valley, archaeological evidence in Andagua suggests that agricultural production and population demographics were most likely near their peak during the late pre-Hispanic to the eve of Spanish invasion (Wernke 2010). Though, it should be noted that not all sites were necessarily occupied under the Inka, with varying state effects on local populations’ relations with the landscape. (see Fig. 4).
In the undulating valley north of the contemporary town of Andagua, an area broadly referred to as Quisguarani, is a massive extent of stone walls, multiple meters thick, composing large rectangular spaces covering more than 100 ha of space (see Fig. 5). Prior to research by PAVA, the area of Quisguarani had never been formally investigated. While Robert Shippee (1934: 112) and George Johnson captured the valley on film during their pioneering aerial expeditions in the early twentieth century, Shippee impressionistically speculated Andagua was once a “metropolis of some 10,000 people.” The large grid and apparent formalized plan further sets it apart from the regional settlement patterns characteristic of the valley, and strongly supports its organized construction through Inka state efforts (and no significant presence of local cultural practices, such as stone and ceramic discs). Beyond the formal grid, the site is composed of an extensively (abandoned) terraced landscape that conforms to the undulating volcanic valley floor. Despite the extent of the site archaeological evidence, including low surface artifact density and test-pit excavations, suggests limited occupational history.
Quisguarani, with its formalized grid plan and modified landscape, is visible in the northwest of the map, along with additional places mentioned in the text (including crosses) that are loci of history and authority and mark the landscape. Source ESRI Basemap
This research, along with growing evidence, shows how the Inka Empire was still in motion and even expanding at the time of Spanish colonialism, with material remains strewn across the Andes exemplifying incomplete or unused imperial projects (Chase 2015). In this way, archaeology is not so much dedicated to “reconstructing moments of fleeting completeness,” but the process of construction and abandonment as well as tracing the shifting meanings of material culture (Dawdy 2011: 773). Spanish colonialism not only articulated with the pre-Hispanic landscape, but caused a reeling and convulsing of Inka imperial institutions. At the same time, the pre-Hispanic past – manifest in local settlements, agricultural infrastructure, names of places, paths, social institutions and a range of cultural beliefs and practices – would endure as both perennially useful and problematic for Spanish colonial authorities.
Ritual Convergences and Post-Contact Landscapes
Colonial projects and how people experience history are limited and uneven processes (e.g., Liebmann and Murphy 2011; Silliman 2005; Trouillot 1995, 2003). In the Andes, the colonial project was far from certain during the time immediately following the Spanish invasion, as the Spanish and remaining Inka alliances battled to determine authority and meaning (Lamana 2008). Inka rule should not be conflated with local Andean identities and political groups as Spanish conquistadors encountered a heterogeneous landscape of cultural identities and political alliances. In these historically unprecedented moments, new forms of alliances emerged (Charles 2010; Lamana 2008). Early Spanish colonialism (approximately 1532–70) was termed the “primera evangelización” and characterized by improvisation and experimentation (Estenssoro 2003). Grounded in the Reconquista, Spanish colonialism was premised upon a moral superiority legitimizing their colonial authority and exploitation of labor and resources, with the expressed purpose to convert indigenous subjects into proper material subjects (Boyarin 2009; Gose 2008).
The encomienda system was an early Spanish colonial institution designed to apportion the “spoils of conquest,” as Spanish colonialism claimed jurisdiction over indigenous labor, lands, and goods while also charged with religious instruction (Spalding 1984: 124). Central to the maintenance of this early “plunder economy,” Spanish colonialism would build upon local and Inka imperial institutions, in particular the mit’a system, with labor as tribute to the state, often occurring in the forms of mining and other craft production (and which affected the community of Andagua). Adjudication of Spanish colonial authority through local indirect rule to more direct efforts and centralized authority were a contradictory matrix that oscillated through time (Garrett 2005; Julien 1991; Mumford 2012; Spalding 1984). During the early years of Spanish colonialism, the extent of local authority was still uncertain, and is exemplified by the bidding war among kurakas and encomenderos as they sought local authority (Mumford 2012). Despite entertaining such possibilities, a range of competing and often contradictory narratives emerged through Spanish colonialism, which are exemplified in the debate between Bartolomé de las Casas and Ginés de Sepúlveda (Mignolo 1995; Pagden 1982, 1995; White 1978). Yet, even as las Casas defended indigenous populations, he never believed local Andean populations could govern themselves (Lamana 2008).
While the historical record is sparse for Andagua during early Spanish colonialism compared to the neighboring Colca Valley, there is documentation that the “doctrina of Andagua” was granted as an encomienda to Nicolas de Almazan y Leon for two lifetimes and was succeeded by his son Fabian in the sixteenth century (Cook et al. 1975 [1582]: 234; Málaga Núñez Zeballos 1994: 154). Despite documentation of this encomienda, encomenderos often had little to no involvement on the ground. For example, the Spanish identified the abundance and infrastructure in the Colca Valley with the region being demarcated as the encomienda of Gonzalo Pizarro, however, it is doubtful that Pizarro even visited the Colca Valley (Wernke 2010). Rather it was religious officials who had principle relations with the local communities and which could vary regionally, with officials only visiting every few months, leaving residents “to make the found world their own” (Waude Kracke in Mills 1997: 253).
While it is difficult to identify the early Spanish colonial landscape and pre-reducción settlements, doctrinal settlements serve as archaeological and chronological indices that articulate the late pre-Hispanic landscape with subsequent Spanish colonialism (Van Valkenburgh 2012; Wernke 2013). This is evident in scattered doctrinal settlements constructed near pre-Hispanic occupations that were mapped onto the landscape creating “negotiated settlements” (Wernke 2013). At the “transconquest” site of Malata, that spans Inka and early Spanish colonial doctrinal occupation through the mid-sixteenth century, archaeological research has revealed the presence of European Nueva Cadiz glass beads associated with multiple contexts, including a possible local kuraka residence and burial disinterment creating heterogeneous assemblages (Menaker 2016; Wernke 2011, 2013). In Andagua we can see the fundamental tensions of colonial encounters and conversion involving analogy and erasure as colonial projects confront the immutability and variability of local practices and the material landscape (“resistance of culture”) (Durston 2007; Wernke 2007a, 2007b). While there are no abandoned sites that are diagnostic of early Spanish colonialism, there are several chapels that articulate with the pre-Hispanic and regional landscape that suggest early Spanish colonial projects. Local residents continued to inhabit pre-Hispanic settlements throughout the valley, with Andagua Antiguo as a significant late pre-Hispanic occupation at the time of the Spanish invasion that would become a locus of Spanish colonial authorities.
At the southwestern edge of the large site of Quisguarani and just north of the contemporary town of Andagua, there is a chapel dedicated to San Antonio de Padua, the patron saint of llama herders (llameros) and muleteers (arrieros) that the community identifies as of deep colonial antiquity. The chapel is small and with an open-air plaza, similar to other early Spanish colonial designs (Graham 2011). The present absence of the site of Quisguarani, as discussed, brings into sharp relief the unfolding historical process of local relations with expanding states and the transformation of imperial institutions that are mediated locally. Along with these shifting imperial institutions and the introduction of novel material culture, livestock and commercial lifeways, enduring and emerging regional networks and cultural practices would create new loci of tensions under Spanish colonialism (Kennedy and VanValkenburgh 2015).
To the southeast, at the eastern edge of the contemporary town of Andagua, another feature marks the tangled legacies of Inka and Spanish colonialism in the local landscape. A chapel for the Virgen de Asunción is located on top of a large platform structure (probable ushnu) that overlooks Andagua Antiguo and is oriented towards the large lava flows of Ninamama across the valley (see Fig. 3). Dedicated to the Virgin Mary, this is a principal chapel, central to contemporary religious festivals and rituals and also features prominently in local social memories. In Victor Julljuye’s (2004) historical account of the valley, he describes with great pride how Charles V, himself anointed this chapel for construction, marking the founding of the contemporary town of Andagua. Today the chapel sits across from the bullring which has become a defining feature of recent and contemporary ritual festivals (and identity) (see also Poole 1987).
After generations of Spanish civil wars and varying uncertainty extending through the Andes, the Toledan reforms of the 1570s mark a crystallization in the Spanish colonial project (see Norman, this volume). Though Toledo’s tenure was limited, it was marked by more formalized colonial efforts, institutions and policies, exemplified by the visita (colonial census), the corregidor de indios, and the program of reducciones, involving the forced resettlement of indigenous people into urbanized grid settlements (Mumford 2012: 64). The corregidor de indios was a new colonial position whose jurisdiction and direct authority was far more expansive than other colonial administrators, often including several repartimientos. In the case of the Andagua, this included nearly all of the territory of Condesuyus with the region’s corregidor based in Arequipa, a multiple day hike over the mountains (and with this distance of authority creating opportunities and tensions in Andagua throughout Spanish colonialism) (Julien 1991; Mumford 2012: 64; Salomon 1987).
The program of reducciones was inexorably tied to evangelization, as the urban grid settlements were considered the most appropriate means to convert indigenous subjects and to move them away from their local shrines and “idolatrous” practices, including ancestor veneration (Abercrombie 1998; Gose 2008; Hanks 2010; MacCormack 1991; Mumford 2012). The contemporary town of Andagua was constructed as a Spanish colonial reducción, with the forced resettlement of local people into nucleated settlements, centered around a plaza, church and municipal building. The program of reducciones was an attempt to reconfigure Andean space and time (serving as a “technique of amnesia”), and was a struggle over burials and subjectivities (Abercrombie 1998; Gose 2008; Norman this volume; Van Valkenburgh 2012, 2017). Rather than have the recently deceased placed in the pantheon and hierarchy of Andean wak’as that dotted the landscape, under Spanish colonial rule bodies were to be located in the church with the power of the cosmos located in the central plaza (Gose 2008; Ramos 2010).
The program of reducciones had varying consequences with many reducciones still occupied today, yet other reducciones were abandoned, often because they were unsustainable due to factors such as environmental conditions (Gade and Escobar 1982; Rice 2012; Van Buren 1993; Van Valkenburgh 2012; Wernke 2017). The historical record reveals a discordant cacophony of voices, allowing for malleable and contradictory interpretations, which on one hand claim the efficacy and success of Spanish colonial authority in the Andes, while others testify to the persistence and continued discoveries of “religious errors” and “idolatry” among Andean communities, along with the limits of Spanish colonial rule as Andean people avoided the colonial towns and remained in pre-Hispanic settlements, eluding tribute collectors and fleeing the gaze of colonial officials (e.g., Doyle 1988; Duviols 1986, 2003; Malaga 1989). In Andagua at the time of Toledo’s late sixteenth–century census, the visita documented “2,082 residents; 547 native tributaries (indios tributaries), 120 elderly or exempt tributaries (viejos e impedidos de tributo), 537 boys under seventeen (muchachos de diecisiete años abajo), and 1,078 women of all ages and states (mujeres de todos edades y estados)” (Cook et al. 1975 [1582]: 234). However, the documents do not mention where people lived or provide any further details of life in the valley, even listing the visita as “AndaguayChachas,” joining the separate region of Chachas with Andagua (Cook et al. 1975 [1582]: 234). Expanding beyond the historical record, archaeological research in the Andagua Valley presents foundational insight into local populations’ social practices during Spanish colonialism manifest in a range of features and material culture that marked and circulated the emergent historical landscape.
Though it is not specifically known when the reducción of Andagua was constructed, its continuous occupation and historical relationships with the surrounding landscape exemplifies the uneven Spanish colonial project as it continuously produced “negotiated settlements” (Wernke 2013). The reducción of Andagua was not built upon a tabula rasa and was constructed to the northwest of Andagua Antiguo and in between the space of the site of Quisguarani and chapel of San Antonio de Padua. The extent the reducción affected any previous pre-Hispanic structures is unclear, though residents mention how in building foundations for their properties throughout town they often recover pre-Hispanic and Inka artifacts. The plaza of the reducción practically articulates with Andagua Antiguo as the southeast edge of the plaza leads into the winding ravines and terraced fields of what would become Old Andagua. Local residents would continue to inhabit the pre-Hispanic occupation of Andagua Antiguo, while also occupying the Spanish colonial reducción.
The grid pattern of the reducción belies its heterogeneous landscape composed of residential structures and properties of varying ages, sizes and occupation statuses (abandoned, occupied and re-purposed) and multiple uses as corrals and agricultural fields. Through intensive survey and test-pit excavations, the project recovered a range of artifacts from pre-Hispanic and Inka artifacts to non-local post-contact ceramics majolica, botijas, and nineteenth-century transfer-print whiteware as well as regional green-glazed ceramics, decorated (painted slip) and undecorated earthenware that occur in a range of forms and styles (Fig. 6) (see e.g., Goggin 1960; Jamieson 2001; Weaver 2015). Green-glazed wares – covering a range of yellow, green to nearly black glazes on regional earthenware – are one of the most ubiquitous artifacts recovered, and occur in a variety of forms [pitchers (vasijas), bowls (cuencas), cups (tazas)], sizes, and styles (appliques). While they have been documented from early Spanish colonialism, the earliest dates of local production of green-glazed wares is unclear for the region (VanValkenburgh 2012). Glazed ceramics are mentioned in the eighteenth-century court case with their production in Cuzco (discussed below). Today the majority of green-glazed and earthenware ceramics are regionally produced in the nearby communities of Chapacoco and Chilcaymarca located north towards Orcopampa. Though a detailed inventory of artifacts is beyond the scope of this article, artifact distribution did not conform to a clear dichotomy of European/Indigenous space but reflects a heterogeneous assemblage of places and identities manifest in the landscape.
Post-contact Ceramics: a: green-glazed vasija (pitcher) with leaf applique; b: majolica plate found in the reducción of Andagua; c: Majolica fragment found on path between Soporo and Andagua; d: Large broken storage vessel (cantaro) used for storing chicha documented at the base of a terrace wall in the main valley. Photos by author
Majolica, exposed from wall fall, was recovered along the path from the plaza of the reducción to Andagua Antiguo, as well as, throughout the valley (see Fig. 6b, c). Descending further into Andagua Antiguo, in a patio of a contemporary residence sits a broken Inka arybalo with a zoomorphic applique next to green-glazed ceramics and other material culture used through the present. In Andagua Antiguo, several properties and structures are occupied through the present alongside late pre-Hispanic remains, while others were recently abandoned. Bull horns protrude from the exterior wall of one abandoned structure, strewn throughout the interior are large cooking and storage vessels (ollas and cantaros) smaller green-glazed pitchers (vasijas) and glass bottles, most likely used for the production and storage of chicha (and possibly aguardiente). While pre-Hispanic material culture and practices continued, there emerged a wide range of novel material culture. While this structure and its contents are nearly definitively post-contact, it is a challenge to distinguish Spanish colonial and Republican era ceramics with many of these artifacts used today or only recently abandoned. The valley has been made and remade through time and archaeological evidence offers a critical lens into humans’ relationships with the landscape and formations of identity.
The program of reducción was not bound to the site but, as mentioned, a universal endeavor that encompassed the entire regional landscape. The land beyond the reducción, composed of wak’as, llactas, and apus, was not a timeless mythical landscape but emergent through active social and historical realities that shaped local Andean cultural practices and beliefs. Spanish imperialism could not escape the local characteristics and histories of the people and landscape, which at the same time both legitimized and undermined it. Moving beyond the reducción, Spanish colonial efforts to convert the landscape and its residents are evident in the presence of crosses that scatter the valley and articulated with a range of features, including pre-Hispanic occupations, mortuary structures and paths. At the intersection of ritual and labor formed contested places and landscapes.
At the edge of the site of Andagua Antiguo, where a pre-Hispanic path descends east into the valley, a built platform extends from the path where a cross is located (Fig. 7, see also Fig. 5). The terraced valley and distinct toothed mountain silhouette of the Chila range, including Wachalanka, stands across the valley, as a backdrop to the cross. Nearly all the crosses documented in the valley are adorned facing town, rather than outwards towards the surrounding mountains. Literally and metaphorically these crosses serve as markers and borders incorporating indigenous people into both the Christian fold and Spanish empire. Though their antiquity are difficult to identify, they are important indices of how Spanish colonialism sought to transform the landscape and cultural practices, and reflect the dialectical relationships among Spanish colonial efforts and local populations (Chase 2015). In total, the project identified 14 crosses scattered throughout the valley. These included a cross overlooking Andagua and its cemetery in line with its urban grid pattern, a cross adjacent to a stone path located at the edge of the site of Quisguarani, another on top of one of the Twin Volcanoes (Los Mellizos) and others articulating with stone paths, contemporary roads, pre-Hispanic sites and mortuary features, such as Soporo, Paccareta, and Antaymarca (see Fig. 5). Broken regional ceramics and candles were often placed at the base of crosses, with stone discs documented at the base of the cross at Paccareta.
The cross of Chahui articulates with a stone path at the edge of Andagua Antiguo that leads into the terraced valley. During the course of the project, the cross was replaced with a concrete one
The archaeological evidence offers an important foil to historical claims of local populations returning to llactas to flee tribute and the Spanish colonial gaze, refining our understandings of the dynamic relations local populations had with the surrounding landscape (Mills 1997). Beyond the continued occupation of the pre-Hispanic site of Andagua Antiguo, articulating with the reducción, the pre-Hispanic settlements and proximate agricultural infrastructure of Soporo, Antaymarca (Upper and Lower), Paccareta, Pumajallo, Tauca and Quisguarani were marginalized or abandoned with little evidence of continuous, intensive inhabitation during Spanish colonialism. Late pre-Hispanic sites, such as Quisguarani and Tauca, exhibit post-contact presences, with post-contact regional ceramics and non-local botijas recovered during survey and excavations indicating their use as refuges for agro-pastoral practices (and continuing to the present). Throughout subsequent generations, there occurred a production of new inhabitations in the landscape and introduction of distinct material culture, including local populations’ incorporation of manufacturing methods and aesthetics (e.g., Kelloway et al. 2018; Kennedy and VanValkenburgh 2015; Menaker 2016; Van Valkenburgh et al. 2015; Wernke 2011). Today there are small annexes near the sites of Soporo and Pumajallo and agricultural fields surrounding Paccareta and Tauca were repurposed throughout the twentieth century, while several households have chosen to primarily live in fieldhouses located throughout the valley (and in some cases still retaining property in Andagua).
Despite the reducción program resettlement, archaeological evidence supports dynamic relations with the surrounding valley landscape and manifest in a complex patchwork embodying the history of agricultural construction, maintenance and abandonment across the valley. With agricultural fields far from the reducción still in use while terraces next to the contemporary town of Andagua can be abandoned, the distance from the reducción was only one factor in the abandonment or continued maintenance of fields (Murphy 2017). Terrace abandonment cannot be reduced to demographic collapse but include a range of factors that can lead to agricultural de-intensification (Wernke 2010). Moreover, it is difficult to chronologically identify when fields and terraces were abandoned, or rehabilitated; it might only take a couple generations to transform a field – either from abandonment or fallow to fertile field, or vice versa (Murphy 2017).
As local populations in the Andagua Valley shifted settlement patterns, the construction of stand-alone structures in agricultural fields mark one effect of Spanish colonialism and a post-reducción landscape. While there exist isolated pre-Hispanic structures, most likely Late Horizon Inka construction built in agricultural fields, there were not as many substantial field houses in the pre-Hispanic landscape of the Andagua Valley. The production of fieldhouses and local residents’ interactions with the surrounding landscape was an on-going process in the face of Spanish colonial projects (Fig. 8). The structures local residents have constructed in the surrounding fields vary in type and extent throughout the valley, from compounds of multiple gabled stone and mortar buildings (approx. 3-5 m x 7-12 m) to informal stone masonry (pirqa) structures and lean-tos that incorporate the local landscape and pre-Hispanic features. Local inhabitants use a variety of features to shield themselves from the environment, such as rock outcrops and pre-Hispanic agro-mortuary features, which have been repurposed to store materials to coordinate and carry out fieldwork. The field houses, refuges and agro-mortuary structures currently exist in a range of conditions, exemplifying varying historical abandonment and occupation. And in several cases, the field houses were only recently abandoned (within a generation). Sweatpants with spider webs lay sprawled next to stone tools, plastic and broken ceramics. The project did not document any contemporaneous inhabitation with ancestral remains; ancestors remain as present absences.
a Abandoned field house in the main valley of Andagua, with one of the Mellizo volcanoes in the background; b: Contemporary field house with thatched roof in the main valley. Photos by author
A range of post-contact artifacts are associated with the field houses and features located throughout the valley, though, it is difficult to necessarily distinguish Spanish colonial and Peruvian Republican contexts. Artifacts include green-glazed ware pitchers (vasijas) and cooking and storage vessels (ollas and cantaros), majolica, botijas, metal horseshoes, glass, many of which were used through recent past and present. They are used for storage and serving food and drinks, especially chicha. Fieldwork, and labor more generally, was, and often still is, organized in Andagua through kinship relations and in exchange for labor, people are provided with sustenance prepared and served in these vessels (see Fig. 6) (Gose 1994). These assemblages of fieldhouses, refuges and artifacts formed through rituals and labor make and re-make places in the landscape.
During Spanish colonialism, the Andagua region would continue as a critical crossroads for trade, though with muleteers (arrieros) in addition to llama herders (llameros) transporting wine, spirits, wools, dye and other commercial products (Julien 1991; Salomon 1987; Takahashi 2012). Majolica and botija fragments are found extending along pre-Hispanic stone paths that radiate throughout the valley and act as veins connecting and pulsing resources and shaping identities. One of these pre-Hispanic paths leads from Andagua Antiguo and disappears with the occupations of the reducción of Andagua reappearing at the northern edge of town, continuing north through the area of Quisguarani. The stone path fades and re-emerges for several kilometers north of Andagua and beyond the site of Quisguarani. Quisguarani would be mentioned in the eighteenth–century court case as the name of a cave with a ritual shrine (mochadero) housing the remains of Cuyagmama (“madre que da” – “mother that gives”). To whom Gregorio Taco was alleged to make offerings dedicated to ancestor veneration, stopping along the regional trade network of roads and beyond the reducción. While the archaeological record is uneven and coarse grained, the 600 page historical court case offers compelling ethnographic insight into the tensions of mid-late Spanish colonialism (Salomon 1987; Takahashi 2012).
A Snapshot of Spanish Colonial Andean Subjects and Landscapes
By the mid-eighteenth-century, Andean residents of Andagua were characterized as “haughty,” independent, and with a “reputation of housing innumerable witches” whose “black arts” stoked fear among “Hispanic” residents (Salomon 1987: 150–154). Despite Spanish colonial discourses of epistemological prejudices that marginalize indigenous societies with narrative tropes of drunkenness, superstition, and idolatry, such as flying witches and sorcery, it is possible to read against the grain in light of growing research in Andagua (e.g., Estenssoro 2003; Millones 1990; de la Puente Luna 2007; Stoler 2010). As mentioned, these visitas and court proceedings are exercises in state power that do not occur as neatly as they appear in historical form, and are a jarring, often violent, encounter with local communities, composed of multiple events and encounters (Abercrombie 1998). The court case for Andagua was no exception and unfolded throughout several years and involved a series of efforts from colonial officials to not only acquire tribute, but to destroy local Andean cultural practices, and most centrally re-assert authority and subjugation of local Andean communities. This research is indebted to the work of several (ethno)historians whom have studied the historical court case (especially Takahashi’s digital transcription) (Marsilli 2005; Marzal 1988; Salomon 1987; Takahashi 2012). The remainder of this article offers a brief summary of the court case with an archaeological perspective attending to how identities come to form through a web of meaning and authority emergent in the material production of assemblages, places, and landscapes (e.g., Foucault 1972; Cossin, this volume).
Historical studies of late Spanish colonialism and Bourbon reforms that strive to account for social relations and anticolonial expressions in the eighteenth–century Andes analyze the political and economic aspects of the extractive tribute economy as it was more strongly enforced and disruptive, reflecting a turn towards more direct and central colonial administrations (Fisher 2003; O’Phelan Godoy 2012). Others emphasize social geography, ideology and political culture and look at class and ethnic relations (Garrett 2005; Serulnikov 2003; Thomson 2003; Walker 2014). After more than 200 years of varied and indirect colonial rule, manifest in the “Republic of Indios,” a multiethnic and decentralized state, local Andagua residents became not just accepting, but willing colonial subjects. Yet, how local Andean residents understood and acted in the colonial panorama often challenged and exceeded Spanish colonial intentions and programs legitimizing the imperial project (Bhabha 1997; Serulnikov 2013; Thurner 1997). Andagua exemplifies how identity and authority are inseparable.
In 1751, spurred by recent Bourbon reforms, the Spanish colonial Corregidor of Condesuyus, General Joseph de Arana traveled to Andagua claiming years of unpaid tribute that was due to the crown. Soon after, assuming his meeting a success, Arana received news from the “interim cacique,” Carlos Tintaya, that “ex-cacique” Gregorio Taco, a reputed leader of idolatrous ancestor shrines, had renewed anti-tribute agitation (Salomon 1987; Takahashi 2012: 123 [1748–1755 f. 49v-50r]). The community was not monolithic nor did identities fissure across lines of Andean or Spanish, with the court case involving a range of actors and witnesses espousing competing interests and claims. Ancestor cults were not limited to Gregorio Taco, but involved several other lineages, including the Tintayas, with the locations of shrines identified throughout the valley and associated with volcanoes (and wak’as) such as Jenchaña (“Quenchaña”) (Takahashi 2012: 99 [1748–1755 f. 18r]). The local priests (curas doctrineros) in Andagua and nearby villages were not leading accusers in the “idolatry” cases claiming no knowledge of the idolatrous practices, rather lamenting the weakness of church and state control of the region (Salomon 1987: 152). Gregorio Taco was, at the same time, patron (mayordomo) of the Virgen de la Asunta (the chapel at the edge of town) and friends with the local parish priest, Joseph Delgado, who supposedly also assisted him when he sought refuge from Spanish colonial authorities (Salomon 1987; Takahashi 2012: 141 [1748–1755 f.69v]).
Charges were leveled against the former cacique Gregorio Taco. Caught in surprise when colonial officials attempted to arrest him, Gregorio Taco and his wife reportedly cried out in Aymara, although, the majority of residents spoke Spanish and Quechua, and continuing to the present, thus reflecting the complex mosaic of identities and interactions in the Andes. Subsequently, neighbors in support of the Tacos ran out into the streets exclaiming their anger at the Spanish soldiers, including throwing rocks from slings at them, and threatening with “ethnic hatred,” calling the soldiers “moors” (Salomon 1987: 151; Takahashi 2012: 86 [1748–1755, f. 8r]). While not an overt rebellion, informed by segmentary forms of authority overlapping with notions of a decentralized colonial authority (jural plurality), local residents rejected Spanish colonial authorities asserting that only the Viceroy could judge Taco. Axes of resistance were forged by Taco’s status as leader of the shrine and successful merchant, with Taco supposedly exercising awe and fear among the community (Salomon 1987; Takahashi 2012). In the anxious colonial panorama, a complex politics of difference and authority filled this encounter with confusion, ambivalence and violence. Spanish colonial authorities escaped, marking the beginning of a multi-year proceeding that encompassed the region from communities in the Upper Majes west of Coropuna, such as Chuquibamba, Pampacolca and Viraco and across the Andagua Valley, from Ocropampa to Chachas and Ayo (Takahashi 2012).
In the subsequent year, Spanish colonial officials carried out interviews with residents of the local community and across the region, creating a detailed record providing unparalleled ethnographic and historical detail into late colonial Andean life in the Andagua Valley. Yet their expressed purpose to learn about local Andean cultural practices in order to convert and destroy is manifest in the prejudiced historical record, which requires continued critical awareness. Facing the “dilemma of terminology” it is effective to make note how the term “mummy” does not appear in the historical court case, but has been widely used in historical analyses of it (Mills 1997; Takahashi 2012; see Heaney 2018 for historical discussion of the term). In the historical court case of Andagua, the remains are referred to as cadaver or cuerpo, sometimes accompanied by the words, difunto, gentil, or infidel (Salomon 1987; Takahashi 2012). The shrines were called mochadero, stemming from the polysemic term mochar (the Hispanicization of muchhani or muchhaycuni), which means to thank, revere, and adore and has been associated with wak’as elsewhere throughout the Andes – integral to the performance of subjectification and authorization (Salomon 1987; Takahashi 2012: 7; see also Kosiba 2015: 188).
The historical record leaves an uncertain account with varying interpretations of the specific (genealogical) relationships among residents and the human remains and their antiquity (Marsilli 2005; Takahashi 2012). Gregorio Taco at first claims no relation to the human remains and states that he accidently came across it while chasing after one of his caravan mules, and only made an offering that one time he first encountered the remains. After being subjected to torture at the hands of Spanish officials, he acknowledges his relationship with the remains stretches back nearly 20 years (Salomon 1987; Takahashi 2012). Ramon Sacasqui, a forastero, said he was brought into the “ancestor cult” nearly a dozen years before, since participating in additional ritual practices dedicated to the remains after Taco had taken pity on his suffering, also exemplifying how Taco’s “ancestor cult” was not only necessarily determined by genealogical descent (Salomon 1987; Takahashi 2012: 169 [1748–1755 f. 101r–102v]). Sacasqui recalled that when he first encountered the Tacos, in the hills outside of the town of Andagua, “they were going to see a saint” whose advice and blessings they sought before “taking care of work” – traveling on their regional journeys (Takahashi 2012: 97 [1748–1755 f. 15v-16r]). Beyond a narrow entrance inside the caves, the silent ancestors were seated and dressed in “uncus” (tunics) holding pitchers (limetas de losa) for chicha, wine, aguardiente, coca and surrounded by other “garbage” (“porqueria”), including the painted stone discs, serving as continued reciprocity for current and future health and livelihoods (Takahashi 2012: 90–97, 192 [1748–1755 f. 11r – 17r, 119r]).
Taco attributed his prosperity to his relationship with the deceased remains at his family’s (“linaje”) shrine (“mochadero”), saying that they “gave him wealth and happiness,” such as Cuyagmama, the “pious, caring mother that gives” (Takahashi 2012: 168–170, 192 [1748–1755 f. 101r–102v, 118v]). The deceased ancestors, present witnesses of the past, were links among people and the earth; as Salomon (1987: 159) states, “[mummies] are the progeny of earth and reside in the openings of the earth, but they are also the progenitors of living people and apical members of local society. Through their mediations sacrifices go to earth, and wealth comes out of earth.” Responsible for facilitating the flow of wealth from the earth to people and back again via the mediation of ancestors, Gregorio Taco’s role as a major shrine priest contributed to the antitribute activism. In Andagua, questions of life, wealth and power underpinned residents’ claims of resistance to state authorities from Arequipa (Salomon 1987: 162).
While there is varied speculation about the continued uses or disuse of the painted tablets and discs during Spanish colonialism, the historical record in Andagua provides invaluable evidence and insight into their continued uses and shifting significances of the “painted stones” (“piedras pintadas”) (Faron-Bartels 2011: 92–93; Jennings 2003; Takahashi 2012). In the court case, witnesses describe how the “gentiles” call the painted stones “mollo,” which not only means “circle” in Quechua but is a multivalent term that is suffused with ritual significances across the Andes (and has been used to refer to Spondylus shells and glass beads) (Blower 2000; Menaker 2011, 2016). The painted stone discs were described as part of a ritual, invoking the Lord’s Prayer, responsible for the celestial forces in the sky, with life and death consequences. A witness recounted the ritual performed by a curandero claiming,
the favor of luck in the star science of the sky... that make the stars fall towards the birth of the sun [ensuring] life and governing the pueblo of Andagua, [but he noted that] if the sun fails to rise, you will die... To lower the stars, the curandero would take out coca herb from a sack and some painted stones (piedras pintadas) of the gentilidad that are called mollo, supplicating and waving them while reciting the Lord’s Prayer (padrenuestro) (Takahashi 2012: 264 [1748–1755 f. 181r]).
Ritual practices in the Andagua Valley exemplify how life and death matter hybrid places and assemblages that are not reducible to abstract identities (e.g., Keane 2007).
The accounts refer to the presence of “losa” and “limetas de losa,” “cantaros,” “jarras” used for (chicha) offerings dedicated to the ancestral remains. The term losa is broadly refers to glazed and vitrified post-contact material culture (ranging from tin-enamel ware, porcelain, whiteware) and limeta references a form of pitcher, most likely referring to what the project identified as the green-glazed pitchers (vasijas or jarras) (Takahashi 2012). In the court case the limetas are identified from Cuzco, contrasting with their ubiquitous production in Chilcaymarca and Chapacoco; it is possible that the Spanish officials misidentified the provenience of the ceramics, nor does this preclude the possibility that there were areas of regional ceramic production in the valley crafting green-glazed ceramics during Spanish colonialism (Bingham 1915). Spanish colonial authorities made several efforts to raid properties of the Tacos and indigenous residents, resulting in varying consequences, revealing the limits and effects of state power as well as producing multiple inventories of materials (Salomon 1987; Takahashi 2012).
In October 1752, the Corregidor Arana sent a larger force of 150 armed men as well as local authorities from neighboring valleys “being necessary for the total discovery and destruction of the shrines as well as capture and punishment for the abominable crime of idolatry” (Takahashi 2012: 191 [1748–1755 f. 117r–118v]). To locate the caves and remains of Cuyagmama “in the place called Quisguarani,” along with several other shrines, “the force took along Carlos Tintaya and Ramon Sacasqui as prisoner-guides” (Salomon 1987: 155; Takahashi 2012: 191 [1748–1755 f. 117r – 118v]). The Corregidor requested that indigenous residents remove the bodies, but with “utmost repugnance, and even under the coercion of punishment, local indigenous residents refused to touch the remains,” thus the local “Hispanic” (“espanol”) population carried out the proceedings (Takahashi 2012: 191 [1748–1755 f. 118v]). After removing the remains, the Corregidor covered the caves with stones, made a sign of the cross and instructed his soldiers to place an actual cross. The colonial force paraded the human remains back to the plaza of Andagua whereupon the silent ancestors were ordered to be hanged for several days. The bodies and belongings were subsequently burned; the ashes deposited in a distant lake. The “spectacle” caused “grave consternation and melancholy” among the indigenous residents (Salomon 1987: 155–156; Takahashi 2012: 191–192 [1748–1755 f. 118r–120v]). Spanish colonial forces continued throughout the valley destroying ancestor shrines and pre-Hispanic structures.
Gregorio Taco was subsequently tortured and after multiple interviews he acknowledged that he had held shrine for nearly twenty years and that it was the “custom of the town that parents instruct their children of the obligation to make tributes and sacrifices... to the first owners of this kingdom” (Takahashi 2012: 206 [1748–1755 f. 134v]). Taco repeatedly rejected the allegations of his role in the local resistance and defended his reputation as an exemplary resident of the town. The years long proceedings had significant and enduring effects on Gregorio Taco and his family (and local residents), resulting in the destruction of belongings, torture, and more than a year in jail with his wife and children. It is further documented that residents were forced to pay the tribute demanded by the colonial state (Salomon 1987; Takahashi 2012). The court case, however, would eventually collapse, as charges of idolatry associated with tribute nonpayment crossed jurisdictional boundaries between church and state (Salomon 1987).
Almost one-hundred fifty years earlier during the early sixteenth century, in the wake of extirpation trials in the central Andes region of Huarochiri, Chase observed how “organized collective being in the world without wak’as seems to have been inconceivable, which is perhaps why the absence of wak’as (whether stolen, lost, captured, or destroyed) is recorded as causing such grief, anxiety, and unease.” (Chase 2015: 86). While Cuyagmama and the late Spanish colonial wak’as of Andagua were fundamentally historically (and materially) distinct from those in Huarochiri and pre-Hispanic wak’as, they were similarly generators of life (and wealth) and loci of authority (e.g., Bray 2015; Salomon and Urioste 1991). The destruction of the ancestral inhabitants by Spanish colonial forces reflects how on the one hand, Spanish colonial authorities could not apprehend a world with these bodies, assemblages and places, while on the other, indigenous residents grieved a world without them. Though, significant social movements would surge throughout the Andes less than thirty years later, exemplified by José Gabriel Condorcanqui taking the name of Tupac Amaru II, Andagua is not featured as a central locus of struggle in the historical record (Serulnikov 2003; Walker 2014).
Re-Making Places, Landscapes and the Limits of Universal Subjects
Through the use of multiple methods and an archaeological perspective, this article examined how local residents in the Andagua Valley became “rebels and idolaters.” Challenging the universal subject and recognizing how subjectivities are historical and particular, I have reviewed how identities emerge through the production of places, forming relationships with the landscape across time and space. This work brings into relief the subjugation and translatability of kinship histories, segmentary societies, into modern, universal abstract, homogeneous time (Benjamin 1968; Smith 2011). This research shows the archaeological conditions of possibility for Spanish colonialism and how local populations interacted with expanding states throughout the past. The implications made apparent through the course of this article are how the conditions of possibility for universal history are bound up in the violence of Spanish colonialism and Christian evangelization. Research in Andagua offers a comparative study of local populations and landscapes relations with states and empires showing how particular epochs of subjectivity are experienced, identified, and manifest in social memories and the material landscape. We cannot deny the earth and human flesh intrinsic to being in time and thus inseparable from particular yet universal existence. Research is on-going in Andagua with PAVA dedicated to long-term collaboration with the community.
In the process, dedicated to writing more inclusive histories, this project considers how local residents identify patterns of historical change and significance (Oland et al. 2012; Platt 1987). Though beyond the scope of this article, it is important to mention how in Andagua residents do not so much analytically prioritize Inka and Spanish era of imperial servitude but recognize more recent moments of struggle under the yokes of the Peruvian republic and the enduring legacies of colonialism and modern narratives perpetuating those structures, and coinciding with broader identifications of gamonalismo (de la Cadena 2015; Gose 1994; Menaker, in prep.; Poole 1987, 2004). In the Huarochiri-Tupicocha region in the central Andes, Frank Salomon has shown how local communities interpret the remains of past inhabitants, known as the “beautiful grandparents,” present in the surrounding landscape and exemplifying the generative potentials of colonialism and enduring post-colonial legacies (Salomon 2002).
More than 25 years ago, a young boy went running after loose sheep in the valley folds below Coropuna, an area named Anojara, one of the local wak’a who served Coropuna and battled the Inka. He came across a cave in the hillside where he found several human remains (mummies) and alerted the local community (of campesinos), which they collectively store today (separate from the local national municipality). While the region has been subject to non-local looting, the community takes an active role as stewards of the landscape and protecting their cultural heritage, including building a concrete wall at the entrance of the cave of Anojara. The remains are associated with a range of Late pre-Hispanic and Spanish colonial material culture, including Nueva Cadiz beads suggesting continuing relations with the ancestors during Spanish colonialism. The enduring human remains as well as their absence from social memories are further evidence of both the limited reach and efficacy of Spanish colonialism. The community primarily refers to the remains as las momias and occasionally referring to them as los abuelos. While claiming limited to no genealogical relationship to the previous inhabitants, residents are still affected by their relationships and (absent) presences, inspiring both fear and awe. Local residents walk around the valley often carrying quinoa and garlic as offerings to feed and appease those who came before, with the material landscape, and conditions for life (and death) a testament to their own lives.
Overlapping with systematic archaeological research, ethnographic collaboration involved walking with descendants of the Taco family to visit the caves of Cuyagmama and Anojara. First we climbed the stone steps leading to the chapel of San Antonio de Padua. After pausing in the open air plaza we walked through Quisguarani, weaving along pre-Hispanic stone paths and truck beaten dirt roads towards the possible cave that held Cuyagmama. There the Taco family paused tossing quinoa and garlic at the entrance of the cave, which is now overgrown with shrubs and remains inconspicuous. We documented a few small fragments of green-glazed ceramic bowl. Sitting among the rock outcrops, we rested, ate and drank, tossing our fruit peels at our feet. Making a place together, we listened to the Taco family tell us about their family histories and work involved in making Andagua. From there we continued onto the cave of Anojara where the community recovered the human remains. As the sun set we headed back to town following a stone path and intersecting contemporary dirt road, which continues farther to the pass of Coropuna and the Majes Valley. Along the way, I listened as Lucio Taco, descendant of Gregorio Taco, discussed Frank Salomon’s article and explained how the local community had built the road in the mid-twentieth century, notably with the absence of the Peruvian state.
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Acknowledgments
The research was by the National Science Foundation (NSF-DDRIG – SBE, BCS–1540610) and the Department of Anthropology at UT-Austin. Special thanks to Scotti Norman and Sarah Kennedy for organizing the SAA session and volume and reviewers’ comments on the drafts. This work is grateful to a range of additional people and institutions, including but not limited to, the University Nacional de San Agustín, Pontificia Universidad Católica del Peru, Ministry of Culture – Lima and Arequipa, Archbishop Archive of Arequipa, University of Texas-Austin, Zach Chase, Zev Cossin, Alan Covey, Maria Franklin, Victor Julljuye, Ali Lazaro, Blaise Murphy, Felix Palacios, Frank Salomon, Lucio Taco, Yukyko Takahashi, Steve Wernke. A deep thank you to co-director Victor Falcón Huayta, Kevin Ricci Jarra and all of the members of the Proyecto Arqueológico del Valle de Andagua. A sincere gratitude and indebtedness is owed to the community and municipality of Andagua, the Taco family, and my family. All errors are my own.
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Menaker, A. Becoming “Rebels” and “Idolaters” in the Valley of Volcanoes, Southern Peru. Int J Histor Archaeol 23, 915–946 (2019). https://doi.org/10.1007/s10761-018-0482-1
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DOI: https://doi.org/10.1007/s10761-018-0482-1