archaeology and indigenous peoples: attitudes towards

Archaeology and Indigenous Peoples: Attitudes towards Power inAncient OaxacaJansen, M.E.R.G.N.; Bintliff, J.

CitationJansen, M. E. R. G. N. (2004). Archaeology and Indigenous Peoples: Attitudes towardsPower in Ancient Oaxaca, 235-252. Retrieved from https://hdl.handle.net/1887/16348 Version: Not Applicable (or Unknown)License: Leiden University Non-exclusive licenseDownloaded from: https://hdl.handle.net/1887/16348 Note: To cite this publication please use the final published version (if applicable).

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Archaeology and IndigenousPeoples: Attitudes TowardsPower in Ancient Oaxaca

Maarten Jansen1

More than a generation ago, Vine Deloriawrote a penetrating critique of ‘‘anthropolo-gists and other friends’’:

The fundamental thesis of the anthropolo-gist is that people are objects for observa-tion, people are then considered objects forexperimentation, for manipulation, andfor eventual extinction . . . The massivevolume of useless knowledge produced byanthropologists attempting to capture realIndians in a network of theories has contrib-uted substantially to the invisibility ofIndian people today. (Deloria 1969: ch. 4)

With these words the Lakota author in-vites anthropologists, as well as archaeolo-gists and other investigators of the world ofindigenous peoples, to reflect seriously ontheir work and to become conscious of theway we are embedded in a conflict-riddenreality of historical trauma and social injust-ice. Far from having a frustrating effect, suchsoul-searching should lead to a new andmore positive practice. The space of thischapter allows only for a summary and ex-emplary treatment of some aspects of thiscomplex matter. Making several huge leaps,passing over many discussions about coloni-alism and the relations between past and

present, I mainly want to indicate how inter-pretive archaeology can benefit and be bene-ficial by situating itself in the very heart ofthis problem and from changing its perspec-tive accordingly.

The Setting of InternationalStandards

Comparable to the classic anti-colonial andanti-racist writings of Frantz Fannon andAlbert Memmi, Deloria’s manifesto markedthe beginning of a new era in the struggle foremancipation by indigenous peoples of theAmericas. It was followed by the occupationof Wounded Knee and a series of actions at anational and international level, which de-nounced the continued existence of internalcolonialism, reinforced through new formsof economic and cultural domination by‘‘Western’’ states. First ignored and nottaken seriously, then despised and ridiculedby the very anthropologists and bureaucratsit attacked, Deloria’s radical protest againstcolonial substrates and Eurocentric perspec-tives was echoed and continued by otherindigenous activists (e.g., Perez Jimenez1989; Mamani Condori 1996; Churchill1998; Smith 1999). As many Native

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American movements organized themselvesin the 1970s and 1980s, political awarenessalso mounted among anthropologists,lawyers, priests, and other concerned citizensof ‘‘Western’’ countries. This created a con-text in which the issue could receive generaland serious attention.

Pitching their tepees in front of the Palaisdes Nations in Geneva, North AmericanIndians forced the international communitytoopen its doors. By1982 theUN(ECOSOC,the Commission of Human Rights) installedaWorking Group on Indigenous Populationsin order to review developments and to for-mulate standards. In a parallel process theInternational Labor Organization revised itsconvention 107 and drafted a new conven-tion 169 (1989), shifting from paternaliststrategies of integration and ‘‘assistentialism’’towards indigenous peoples, to a frameworkof respect, collaboration, and partnership.After a series of annual consultations withrepresentatives of indigenous movementsand other experts, the UN working groupproduced a Draft Declaration of the Rightsof Indigenous Peoples (E/CN.4/1995/2 andE/CN.4/Sub.2/1994/56). This remarkabledocument establishes key principles andguidelines for cultural policies and research:

Article 12. Indigenous peoples have the rightto practice and revitalize their cultural trad-itions and customs. This includes the right tomaintain, protect and develop the past,present and future manifestations of theircultures, such as archaeological and histor-ical sites, artefacts, designs, ceremonies,technologies and visual and performingarts and literature, as well as the right tothe restitution of cultural, intellectual, reli-gious and spiritual property taken withouttheir free and informed consent or in viola-tion of their laws, traditions and customs.Article 13. Indigenous peoples have the

right to manifest, practice, develop andteach their spiritual and religious traditions,customs and ceremonies; the right tomaintain, protect and have access in privacyto their religious and cultural sites; theright to use and control of ceremonial

objects; and the right to the repatriation ofhuman remains.

In the 1990s, postmodernism and postco-lonialism advanced in the work of literarycritics and social scientists (Loomba 1998).It is now widely recognized that anthropo-logy, as a product of the nineteenth century,was formed to serve the interests of (neo)co-lonial powers. Operating from a positivistand evolutionist perspective, its discoursecould be used to legitimize ‘‘Western’’ expan-sion scientifically as a civilizing effort. Thedistinction between the dominant Self andthe dominated Other was conceived andpresented in terms of ‘‘civilized, developed’’versus ‘‘primitive, underdeveloped,’’ orsimply – with an essentialist twist – of‘‘normal, active, superior’’ versus ‘‘strange,passive, inferior.’’ This political and intellec-tual legacy haunts anthropology. It is implicitin terms such as ‘‘myth’’ (a story which issacred or otherwise of special significancefor the Other, but in which the researcher,Self, does not believe) or ‘‘informant’’ (theOther, expert in his/her own culture, reducedto a mere object of study by Self as the morerational subject). Many anthropologists,however, participating in postcolonialthought, are now aware of the dangers ofEurocentrism and asymmetrical relation-ships in their research. Critiques like thoseformulated by Vine Deloria are – at leastintellectually – accepted as part of a neces-sary reflexivity and multivocality. Theoret-ical norms now seem well defined; puttingthem into practice, however, is quite a differ-ent matter:

Since the publication of Custer there hasbeen no concerted effort by the academiccommunity, or by anthros themselves, toopen the ranks of the discipline to AmericanIndians. (Deloria, in Biolsi and Zimmerman1998: 211)

Archaeology in the Anglo- and LatinAmerican nations is part of anthropology.The logic behind this connection is that

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both disciplines from the perspective of thedominant groups in those societies deal withthe Other, i.e., the colonized native peoples.A more idealistic motivation would be thedirect continuity of ancient cultural trad-itions in the present. This circumstancecreates special opportunities for archae-ology, as indigenous knowledge, experience,and views offer a wealth of valuable data andcrucial insights for understanding the arch-aeological record. One may actually experi-ence the past in a living environment.Ethnoarchaeology, especially the ‘‘continu-ous model’’ or the ‘‘direct historical ap-proach,’’ calls for collaboration between theinterested outsiders and the indigenousexperts. Structures and mentalities inheritedfrom colonialism, however, still form con-crete obstacles, the more so where archae-ologists are accustomed to see themselves asthe sole ‘‘owners’’ or ‘‘caretakers’’ of the past.The encounter with other voices and claimsoften provokes a shock.

The developments sketched briefly abovehave obliged archaeology to reconsider itsposition, especially in the US. The most com-mented upon event is without doubt thepassing of the Native American Grave Pro-tection and Repatriation Act (NAGPRA) bythe US Congress in 1990. Simultaneously,the World Archaeological Congress formu-lated some principles and rules, focusing onthe acknowledgment and protection of theindigenous cultural heritage, as well as onthe need to seek the informed consent andactive involvement of indigenous peoplesin research. Soon after, the Society of Ameri-can Archaeology elaborated its ethical stand-ards, focusing on concepts like stewardship,accountability, and the recognition of intel-lectual property.2 The question remains howmuch of this really transforms research prac-tice and its outcome.

Obviously it is quite a challenge to trans-late indigenous demands and internationalprotocols into concrete archaeological pro-jects. Political and ethical concerns are im-portant ingredients of our actual situation,but often difficult to accommodate in a trad-

itional research design. In fact, the claims of‘‘neutrality’’ and ‘‘objectivity’’ of scientificdiscourse tend to shut them out systematic-ally. Going against thismainstreammay evenbe detrimental to one’s career. Many authorsin this field, therefore, avoid connectingthe study of the culture and history ofindigenous peoples to an active engagementwith their problems in present-day reality.The consequence is often a scholarly mono-logue, which excludes the peoples con-cerned, silences their voices, and impedestheir possible contributions. Paradoxically,many intellectuals are focusing so much ontheir specific interests that they only movefurther away from the culture and peoplethey study.

Cultural Continuity in Mexico

In Middle and South American countries thesocial sciences have a tradition of sociopoli-tical criticism (Benavides 2001), but here toowe see little repercussion of the internationalstandards outlined above, and even less truepartnership. This is more noticeable as theindigenous population in this part of theworld is quite significant, both in quantity(in some regions an absolute majority) and incultural influence. Mexico is a particularlyinteresting case. Archaeologically and an-thropologically speaking, most of its terri-tory belongs to the large culture areaknown as Mesoamerica, of which theNahuas (Mexica or ‘‘Aztecs’’) and theMayas are the most emblematic peoples.Scores of Mesoamerican languages continueto be spoken throughout the country. On theone hand, the prehispanic civilizations arevalued as the root and pride of the nation;on the other hand, their present-day descend-ants in practice are victims of all kinds ofracist and other negative prejudices, so thatthey are treated as second rank citizens orstrangers in their own land (cf. Bartolome1997; Bonfil Batalla 1989). Their living con-ditions are often characterized by economicexploitation, marginalization, alcoholism,

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violence, and ethnicide, as well as by the lackof work, medical care, good schools, andother elementary facilities. Many peoplesimply have to migrate and leave theirregion. The typical future of indigenousgirls is to become a servant somewhere inthe city, often in circumstances that resembleslavery.

The double attitude of admiring themonu-ments and artefacts of the indigenous past,while discriminating against indigenouspeople in the present, has a correlate in thereluctance to consider cultural continuity asa relevant framework for studying Meso-america. On the popular level there is evena widespread belief that the prehispaniccivilizations cannot have been created bythe ancestors of ‘‘those Indians,’’ but musthave been the work of other peoples, comingfrom Egypt, Atlantis, or Outer Space! Amore scholarly version of the same view isthe opinion that the ancient culture was de-capitated: it had been developed by an eliteof wise priests, advanced astronomers, andrefined princes, who were all killed during orshortly after the Spanish conquest (1521).Contemporaneous indigenous peopleswould ‘‘merely’’ be the descendants of thepeasants and slaves, not deemed capable ofcarrying on the achievements of theirleaders. The Native American heritage isthus seen and treated as a dead culture, aview particularly promoted by archaeolo-gists. This disjunction may be observed inmany major exhibitions, which usuallyfocus on the sensational presentation of an-cient treasures, while limiting attention to‘‘cultural survivals’’ to some isolated andsecondary elements, such as motifs in folkart, or leaving them out altogether.3

Another, more sophisticated form of dis-junction is produced by emphasizing and ex-aggerating the cultural diversity of ancientMesoamerica, and so calling into questionthe very idea of a coherent cultural tradition.Indeed, there were many local differencesand, likewise, there were dramatic changesduring the colonial era, but in spite of allthat, we find a profound constant or ‘‘core’’

both in the archaeological cultures and in thecultural heritage of present-day indigenouspeoples of Mexico. This ‘‘core’’ may beunderstood from a Braudelian perspectiveas a long duration process (histoire structur-ale). It is not limited to ecological conditionsand other cyclical processes, but is especiallymanifest in daily life experience, cognition,and mentality.4 Archaeologists can onlyignore it at their own cost.

Characteristic of internal colonial struc-tures is the complete nationalization of ar-chaeological remains. Most research,preservation, and management are concen-trated in the Instituto Nacional de Antropo-logıa e Historia (INAH). Although some ofits investigators have indigenous roots, andmany have good relations with indigenouscommunities, the institution as such is notpursuing indigenous aims nor practicing anindigenous cultural policy.5 Instead, we seeancient shrines and holy places become tour-ist attractions, where nearly everything ispermitted except the continuation of thenative spiritual tradition. Similarly, cultimages, archaeological objects venerateduntil this very day, still may end up in amuseum, alienated from their devotees.

Changes are imminent, however. Despiteall the odds, more and more young NativeAmerican men and women follow profes-sional education and start to take a keeninterest in these questions. Furthermore theZapatista uprising at the beginning of 1994has pushed the plight of indigenous peoplesto the foreground, raising consciousness ofMexico’s internal contradictions in all seg-ments of society.

This is the context for research in Oaxaca,a mountainous state in southern Mexico,bordering on the Pacific Ocean, and a spe-cific culture area, centrally locatedwithin thewider context of Mesoamerica. It is a statewith a large indigenous population, the NuuSavi (Mixtec) and Beni Zaa (Zapotec) beingthe most numerous peoples. A crucial role inits archaeology is played by the site ofMonteAlban, an impressive acropolis near OaxacaCity, located in the heart of the so-called

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Central Valleys.6 Founded in the late Forma-tive or Preclassic period around 500 bc, itbecame a major capital and flourishedthroughout the Classic period (ca. ad 200 –ca. 800), at the end of which it was largelyabandoned. During the Postclassic (ca. ad900–1521) it held only a ceremonial func-tion, mainly as a site for elite burials andrelated cults. Throughout the state ofOaxaca there are many archaeological sites,the majority of which have not yet been ex-plored. After significant excavation projectsin the past decades, both on Monte Albanand other locations (such as Huamelulpanand Yucu Ita in the Nuu Savi region), atpresent the research coordinated by the Re-gional Center of INAH in Oaxaca Cityfocuses on non-destructive archaeology:identification and delimitation of zones,surveys, documentation, maintenance, con-servation, and protection. The Center func-tions as a broker or gatekeeper for projects offoreign institutions or individuals, whichalso tend to engage in surveys or, at themost, small-scale excavations. Generally,the collaboration of local communities andtheir authorities is sought explicitly, as with-out their permission any work would be im-possible.7 An interesting project is thefoundation of community museums.

All of this results in a complex interactionof different interests and perspectives, notwithout tensions. In some cases local com-munities, following a legitimate tradition ofdistrust, may be opposed to the idea of out-siders walking through their lands or excav-ating special places, acts which arouse thesuspicion of perpetrating some robbery ordamaging the cultural heritage. The naturalimpression is that at the end of the day thearchaeologists, and foreign intellectuals ingeneral, are much better off than the poorvillagers. Other communities precisely wel-come such interventions, however, and wanttheir monuments to be excavated and ex-posed in full splendor, as a boost to pride inlocal identity, to the level of education, and/or to the promotion of tourism. In all casesarchaeology is clearly expected to be inter-

active and to tell a story with a meaningfor the descendants and stewards of thispatrimony.

Which Story?

Narrative plays a prominent role in all inter-pretive archaeology, both in conceptualiza-tion and inmethod. Drawing attention to thesubjective and mythic nature of scientificdiscourses and to the circumstances underwhich knowledge is constructed, the post-modern perspective qualifies many discip-lines as forms of storytelling. Far fromdismissing archaeological work as cheap fic-tion, such a definition points towards theprofound social responsibilities, tasks, andproblems of research. Storytelling is a veryserious activity. It has been said, ‘‘If the stor-ies disappear, our people ceases to exist.’’8

Subjective experience and creativity are notbrought in as a justification for flights offantasy, but as a call for personal engage-ment. The Past and the Other are not objectsof free speculation, but have an independentexistence, which demands recognition andrespect. The archaeology of living culturesespecially has to open up to interculturalcommunication and active intersubjectivity,the more so where the process of colonialdomination profoundly determines the rela-tionships between the peoples concerned.This sets the stage for a story about sover-eignty, in the telling of which we all partici-pate. Linda Tuhiwai Smith clarifies:

The research agenda is conceptualized hereas constituting a program and set of ap-proaches that are situated within the decol-onization politics of the indigenous peoples’movement. The agenda is focused strategic-ally on the goal of self-determination of in-digenous peoples. Self-determination in aresearch agenda becomes something morethan a political goal. It becomes a goal ofsocial justice which is expressed throughand across a wide range of psychological,social, cultural and economic terrains. It

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necessarily involves the processes of trans-formation, of decolonization, of healing andof mobilization as peoples. (Smith 1999:115–16)

Self-determination, as a goal and a pointfor orientation in the studies of indigenouscultures, calls for a change in the attitudes,theories, and methods of archaeologists. Ifwe reflect on the story that archaeology hasbeen telling in Oaxaca, and for that matter inMesoamerica as a whole and in many otherregions, we notice that it has been to a largeextent a ‘‘biography of the state,’’ giving agreat deal of attention to the evolution ofsocial complexity. Comparing the discourseof traditional archaeology with that ofhuman rights, one cannot help but feel struckby the contrast in the evaluation of the state:in the former, it is hailed as the great hall-mark of civilization and progress, creatinglaw, social order, and efficiency; in the latter,it is denounced as one of the great dangers tofundamental human freedoms and as themain culprit in the violations of our commonrights.

When Sanders and Price (1968) intro-duced the evolutionary scheme of Elman Ser-vice and others (Band-Tribe-Chiefdom-State) to the archaeology of Mesoamerica,the idea of being able to trace such a devel-opment using the hard data of materialremains appealed to many and gave a newsense and direction to research and debates.Such a mission statement fitted the evolu-tionary perspective and conservative inter-ests of archaeology as a product of thenineteenth century. Moreover, the disciplinehad developed in intimate connection withthe state and its nationalist ideology. Con-crete projects were often organized and/orfinanced by a direct executive branch of thestate, generally through the mediation of anational institution which monitored all ac-tivity, granted permits, etc., and thereby wasable to put forward a nearly exclusive claimon the past and its remains. In other wordsmost archaeologists were and are directly orindirectly paid by the state.

The material bias of archaeology furtherprograms a tendency towards (neo)positiv-ism with a high appreciation for descriptiveand quantitative analysis. The formulationand testing of hypotheses derived from gen-eral principles of social evolution and behav-ior (the nomothetic approach) was ahallmark of the New Archaeology, whichhas had its influence on projects in Oaxacafrom the 1970s onwards. In such theories,economy and politics are intimately related.An admirable level of synthesis within thistradition, both of concrete fieldwork dataand of theoretical reflection, was reached inThe Cloud People (Flannery and Marcus1983), which still influences archaeologicalthinking and practice today. Catchmentareas, market systems, and long-distancetrade routes to extract elite goods and com-modities, became central concerns, as well asmilitary endeavors to protect these interestsand to establish law and order. The specialattention to war-related aspects may in partbe explained by the circumstance that arch-aeological practice from its origins had beenrather militarily structured and conceived;traditionally, it was (and to a large extentstill is) a world dominated by men, workingin planned expeditions, with research strat-egies, maps, trenches, camps, and a clearhierarchy of site supervisors.

With a focus on the state, one tends tointerpret the intellectual and aestheticachievements of the indigenous cultures asmanifestations of ideology. Precious objectswere thus studied as markers of status andindicators of elite exchange systems. Icono-graphy and writing were deemed to reflectpropaganda, in order to legitimate the pos-ition of the ruling class, while religion itselfwas also seen as manipulated to serve theinterests of power (Marcus 1992: 12–16).In connection with this framework, a re-gional perspective may be constructed usingworld systems theory (cf. Blanton et al.1999). Its emphasis on asymmetrical core–periphery relationships and exploitation asone of the main dynamics in society wasoriginally intended by Wallerstein as a

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critical view on the modern economy. Curi-ously, its introduction in archaeology tendsto have the opposite effect. The projection ofexploitative imperialist structures and theirlegitimating ideologies onto the past, maylead to a feeling that this condition is some-how normal, and so may justify and reaffirmthose structures in the present.

This body of theories certainly hasmade valuable contributions, making usaware of important processes in humansociety. On the other hand, it echoes theinterests in the thinking and practices of pre-sent-day ‘‘Western’’ national elites and isquite far removed from the experiences andconcerns of indigenous peoples, inheritorsof the past onto which these theories areprojected. In fact, one often gets the impres-sion that the construction of abstract modelsand hypotheses gets in the way of communi-cation and empathy with the people inquestion.

Present-day indigenous society may viewthe ‘‘biography of the state’’ as a ratherhollow topic, of limited interest. In creatinga communicative, multicultural discourse,new roads need to be explored. Establishedtheories and methods do not automaticallyhave to be discarded, but they must atleast be complemented. Other perspectiveshave to be accommodated. The focus ofresearch accordingly may shift from chron-ology and the use of resources to (forexample) the cultural landscape experiencedas a source of identity and power, a localewhere the community connects with nature,where the ancestors live, and where one’sumbilical cord has been buried; from theevolution of status hierarchy to socialdrama and the experience of communitas(cf. Turner 1990); from the politics of ex-ploitation and legitimation to the realm ofthe sacred and the moral. Where strati-graphic excavation is essential for the evolu-tionary perspective, it is conversation andinteraction, the talking to and working withpeople (not as ‘‘informants’’ but in collabor-ation and convivencia), which is the mainmethod for this approach.

Start with Learning the Language

Archaeology is not dealing with some ‘‘sur-vival groups’’ of possible interest as a sourceof information, but with active and creativepeoples, protagonists with a project for thefuture. A first step, therefore, is to recognizetheir proper names, instead of the namesgiven to them by others: Nuu Dzavui (now-adays pronounced as Nuu Savi) instead ofMixtecs, Beni Zaa instead of Zapotecs,Ngi-gua instead of Chocho-Popoloca, etc. Mostof the terms now widely used come fromNahuatl, the language of theMexica empire,which was used as a broker language by theSpaniards during the early phases of colon-ization. Thus Mixtec means ‘‘inhabitant ofthe land of the clouds,’’ but Nuu Dzavui hasa more profound sense as ‘‘People and Landof the Rain God,’’ referring to the unity ofland and people (nuu) and to the concept of acommunity formed by the devotion for andprotection of a common patron deity. Thesame applies to the toponyms in the region,which in later times were combined with thenames of Christian saints and historicalheroes of the Mexican republic. An exampleof such a stratigraphy is the place-nameChalcatongo de Hidalgo. The latter parthonors the initiator of Mexican independ-ence. It took the place of the patron’s nameSanta Marıa de la Natividad that had beenadded in the viceroyal era. Chalcatongo itselfis probably a corruption of the Nahuatltoponym Chalco Atenco, ‘‘Precious Placeon the Lake Shore,’’ referring to the existenceof a lake in the valley where the town islocated. Its name in Dzaha Dzavui (theMixtec language) is Nuu Ndeya, often trans-lated today as ‘‘Town of Abundance.’’ In thesixteenth century it still was Nuu Ndaya,‘‘Place of the Underworld,’’ probablynamed after the sacred cave where the pre-colonial rulers of the Nuu Dzavui city-stateswere centrally buried.

In order to be able to participate in thecircuit of cultural communication and to de-velop an incipient understanding of another

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meaningful universe, investigators have tostudy the native tongue. Names, concepts,convictions, sentiments – they are all formu-lated in a particular language. The same istrue for material culture, the traditionalfocus of archaeology: forms, functions,production technologies – all are describedand classified in that language. Surveys andexcavations, as well as the study of the an-cient chronicles, have to be combined withlistening carefully to the oral tradition re-lated to the landscape and with serious andcommitted participation in present-dayindigenous society in order to promoteawareness of its cultural dynamics, values,and challenges. Present-day traditions andconcepts inform intents of a postprocessual,contextual, cognitive, and hermeneuticarchaeology, which may surpass artefactfetishism by focusing on the immaterialaspects of the cultural heritage, particularlyon the messages registered in iconographyand writing. Metaphors and art are centralto this line of research. Carved stones, fig-urative ceramic vessels, frescoes, incisedbones, and particularly pictographic manu-scripts (codices) may be read as statementsand narratives. Here again the use of terms,phrases, and literary conventions in thenative language may be extremely relevantand revealing. The character of the protag-onists of the historical pictorial manuscripts,for example, was for a long time a matter ofdebate among scholars: were they deities,supernatural beings, or humans? Colonialglosses demonstrate that their titles wereiya, ‘‘Lord,’’ and iyadzehe, ‘‘Lady.’’ Today,these terms are used for Christian saints andspirits of nature, in some villages also forpriests and authorities. A contextual analysisclarifies that the protagonists of ancient dyn-astic history were considered human person-ages but with a special, divine status.Reading the codices in these terms (re)createsfor present-day Nuu Dzavui people the ex-perience of a ‘‘Sacred History,’’ similar to theholy scriptures of Christianity.9 And the pol-itical domain of those rulers – should we callit a chiefdom or a state? In Dzaha Dzavui

terms it was a yuvui tayu, ‘‘mat and throne,’’a seat of rulership for the royal couple. Sev-eral events have a very special significance inthe indigenous cosmovision. When we see ayoung warrior and a princess travel to aDeath Temple, the scene is easily identifiedas a visit to the Vehe Kihin, a cave wheredaring people go to ask the fear-inspiringspirits of the Underworld for special favors,success, wealth, or power. But in exchangethey have to hand over their soul. Such an actfunctions as a turning point in a dramaticnarrative, announcing its tragic outcome,and thereby uncovers the literary compos-ition of the historical source (cf. Jansen andPerez Jimenez 2000).

The focus on archaeological sites has to beextended to all features of the constructedand natural landscape that are significant inpeople’s worldview and experience.10 Thevillage Santiago Apoala is a good example.Its original name in Dzaha Dzavui is YutaTnoho (now Yutsa Tohon), taken from theriver that flows through the small plain inwhich the village is located. Tonal and nasal-ization differences account for differenttranslations of the toponym as ‘‘River thatPlucks or Pulls Out,’’ ‘‘River of the Lords,’’ or‘‘River of the Stories.’’ All meanings refer tothe root story of this place: it was on the bankof this river that the Sacred Mother Tree (aceiba) stood, from which the first lords andladies were ‘‘pulled out,’’ the founders of thedynasties that ruled the city-states of NuuDzavui. The village itself is clearly an ar-chaeological area, but what the historicalsources focus on is a series of points in thelandscape: the cave with a subterraneanlake and spring ‘‘at the head’’ of the valley,the waterfall where the river plunges over acliff ‘‘at the foot’’ of the valley, a high moun-taintop to the east, called the Mountain ofHeaven, where the First Mother and Fatherare reported to have lived, ‘‘in the year andon the day of darkness and obscurity, beforethere were days or years.’’ A precolonialpainting (Figure 13.1) represents this land-scape as the body of a feathered serpent, adivine being, the emblem of the main culture

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hero and a symbol of visionary experience inMesoamerica (Anders et al. 1992). An ar-chaeological study simply cannot hope todo justice to the ideological importance ofthis village if it does not take into account itsawe-inspiring natural surroundings, centralto a cosmovision and riddled with storiesabout the time of origins.

The same is true for a widely debatedproblem in Oaxacan archaeology: that ofthe rise of Monte Alban as the capital of aClassic Beni Zaa state. The location of thissite, on a mountain in the center of the three-lobed valley of Oaxaca, clearly defies thesuggestion that it was chosen for economicreasons: the acropolis is not particularlysuited for farming or for establishing amarket. Considering political motivationsand taking into account some later carvedstones that refer to conquests and captives,several scholars have proposed that MonteAlban was constructed as the ‘‘disembedded

capital’’ of a (military) alliance of valleytowns. Militarism at Monte Alban indeedmust have been an important ingredient increating a state organization. In fact one ofthe most remarkable buildings in the centralplaza has the form of an arrow and mayrepresent an arrow temple, dedicated to theDivine Force of Arms.11 Trying to under-stand the motivations for its foundation,however, we should be aware of the domin-ant role of religion inMesoamerican culture,in particular the devotion towards moun-taintops documented by historical sourcesand observable today. The mountain isalive, full of power. It holds the undergroundwater streams that feed the lands and thecommunity, as it contains the caves of originand the caves where the Rain God lives. It ishere that the first sunrays of morning hit andcreate a daily hierophany in the change fromdarkness to light – a central motif in Meso-american thinking. The rocky outcrops on

Figure 13.1 Codex Tonindeye (Nuttall), p. 36: the landscape of Yuta Tnoho (Apoala).

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slopes and mountaintops are often con-sidered the spiritual Owners (Nuhu orNdodzo in Dzaha Dzavui) of the landsaround. They are invoked at harvestingrituals. Religious specialists seek their helpin healing patients who suffer from ‘‘fright’’or traumatic shock. Such a place rapidly be-comes a focal point of pilgrimages from thesurrounding valleys and adjacent areas.Taking into account this worldview, weunderstand immediately the religious im-portance of Monte Alban as a prime motiv-ation for the construction of a ceremonialcenter there. The ubiquitous presence of theBeni Zaa rainstorm deity, Cocijo, molded onceramic vessels (‘‘urns’’) of the Classicperiod, suggests that the site was consideredto be his house, the source of all abun-dance.12 The sacred place was honored andformalized through the building of differenttemples and altars. The large processions sopopular in Mesoamerican cult determinedthe layout of courtyards and a huge centralplaza.

Experiencing the Other World

From an outsider perspective, with a criticalview to modern power-holders, one mightfocus on the manipulative pretensions ofthe elites, who may have used their successin war in combination with ideologicalclaims, ritual prominence, and the accumu-lation of esoteric knowledge, to establishlasting control over the non-elites (Joyceand Winter 1996). An empathetic look atcommunity life, or an insider’s perspective,problematizes the idea of a sharp elite–non-elite dichotomy, at least in the smallercity-states with their strong internal inter-dependence. The kings, queens, heads ofleading lineages, priests, merchants, war-lords, and artists formed quite a heteroge-neous group, with varying degrees ofeducation and intellectual capacity. Cer-tainly they distinguished themselves fromthe tributaries, those who worked the fields,but at the same time all shared one frame of

reference, one sphere of communication, one‘‘cognitive map,’’ one social and moral code.It would have been very difficult for an eliteto locate itself outside this shared worldviewfor the purpose of cynical manipulation.

To understand ancient mentality, weshould assimilate present-day Mesoameri-can cosmovision. One of its most relevantaspects is nahualism, the dream sensation oftransforming into a nahual, i.e., an alter ego(companion animal) in nature. This set ofexperiences explains the frequent representa-tions of humans with animal traits in preco-lonial iconography. Shamans use this state ofmind to speak with the ancestors and otherspirits. The symbol of their ecstatic vision isthe serpent. As visual expressions of liminal-ity, sculptured serpents enclose the templesas homes of the gods. Already in the icono-graphic corpus of the earliest civilization ofMesoamerica, that of the Olmecs, these ref-erences are present: rulers represented intheir nahual aspect with the traits of jaguarsand other fierce animals, a priest encircled bya vision serpent. Especially powerful nahualanimals are the plumed serpent, a meta-phoric designation of the whirlwind, andthe so-called fire serpent, which is a ball oflightning. The latter, with its characteristicupward curved snout, came to be used as theemblematic nahual, accompanying Mexicagods such as Huitzilopochtli, encircling thefamous Sun Stone. The Dominican monkstranslated the ancient Dzaha Dzavui titleyaha yahui, ‘‘Eagle, Fire Serpent,’’ as ‘‘necro-mancer,’’ i.e., shaman. Probably the heavilybeaked or snouted flying animals in ClassicOaxaca art represent this same concept.

On Stela 1 of the South Platform ofMonteAlban (Figure 13.2) we see a ruler in front ofa large inscription and a series of carved slabswith the representation of captives (Marcus1992: 325–8; Urcid 2001: 317). He is seatedon a cushion of jaguar skin on top of amountain with a mat design, i.e., on the‘‘mat and throne’’ of the community. Out-ward looking heads of nahual animals,flanking the mountain – supposedly MonteAlban itself – stress its divine power. The

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same value is given to the seated individualhimself, as the same nahual animal formspart of his headdress. Evidently we aredealing with an important ruler of MonteAlban, portrayed with his regalia andsymbols of charismatic power. His dress, ajaguar skin, is again a reference to this ruler’snahual. The staff in his hands is a commonattribute of rulers. In Postclassic pictorialmanuscripts the founders of dynasties carrysimilar staffs. Their configuration and con-text leave no doubt that we are dealing withthe precolonial antecedent of the staffs ofauthority, so important in all communitiestoday.

A related iconography is found on thecarved slabs from the Mixteca Baja area,belonging to the so-called Nuine style of theLate Classic Period (Rodrıguez Cano et al.1996/99). Some of them show jaguars seatedon mountains. In view of the above thesemay be interpreted as representations of thenames of rulers, connoting their nahualaspect. A confirmation is found in the feathercrowns some of these animals are wearing.A particularly interesting example is therepresentation of a feathered jaguar emittingspeech scrolls topped with flints, which havebeen interpreted as a ‘‘feather-crested tigeron place glyph utters twice the name of

Figure 13.2 Monte Alban, South Platform, Stela 1: the ruler seated on the mat and the throne, with hisstaff and nahual attributes (Caso and Bernal 1952).

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1 Flint or declares war in words as cutting asflint knives’’ (Paddock 1970: 187). Lookingat similar conventions in Postclassic codiceswe prefer a reading as a name: ‘‘Lord Jaguarsaying ‘knife,’ i.e., Who Threatens to Kill,’’‘‘Feathered Jaguar Gnashing his Teeth,’’ or‘‘Lord Growling or Roaring Jaguar.’’ Theknife may also represent the quality of‘‘sharp,’’ ‘‘brave,’’ or ‘‘much’’ (dzaa), a wordwhich in combination with the verb ‘‘tospeak’’ means ‘‘convincing,’’ ‘‘eloquent.’’This would result in the reading: ‘‘LordJaguar, who is an eloquent speaker’’ (Figure13.3). Other slabs portray a ‘‘FeatheredJaguar Holding a Mountain in its Paw,’’ i.e.,‘‘Lord Jaguar Ruler of the Mountain’’ and‘‘Feathered Jaguar Holding a Man in itsPaw,’’ i.e., ‘‘Lord Jaguar Ruler of the People’’or maybe ‘‘Lord Man-Eating Jaguar.’’ Theevent commemorated on these slabs musthave been an important one. Victories wereeternalized this way, but not the simple dec-laration of war. Probably the fact that thefeline is climbing a mountain or seated ontop is the significant action. As the mountain(yucu) is usually the nucleus of a toponym,we may read it here as ‘‘our place.’’ Actuallyit may be short for our ‘‘mountain andwater’’ (yucu nduta), a well-known Meso-american expression for our ‘‘community.’’Sometimes a pyramid is added, probably asan explicit reference to the town’s ceremo-nial center. As the seating is a convention forrulership, for taking control of the polity,

probably all these cases show an enthrone-ment statement.

The nahual transformation itself isdepicted on a Nuine ‘‘urn,’’ found in Tomb5 of Cerro de las Minas, Nuu Dzai (Huajua-pan), now in the Museo Regional of Oaxaca(Winter 1994: 34). The vessel is modeled inthe form of a man. The base on which he isseated contains a stepped fret motif which, aswe know from Postclassic codices, is to beread nuu, ‘‘town’’ (Figure 13.4). Being seatedon this glyphic sign, the man can be identi-fied as the ruler of the city-state. The gourdor small vessel he holds in his hands beforehis chest is decorated with a precious stone.The same object also occurs with priests inPostclassic codices, where it represents agourd (tecomate) that contains the hallu-cinogenic nicotiana rustica (piciete). Theanimal snout in the face of the ruler andthe wings on his arms, calling our attention

Figure 13.3 Yucu Ndaa Yee (Tequixtepec),Carved Stone 19: Lord ‘‘Roaring Jaguar’’ climbsthe throne in the year 6 L (Rodrıguez Cano et al.1966/99).

Figure 13.4 Ceramic urn from Tomb 5, Cerro delas Minas, Nuu Dzai (Huajuapan): the transform-ation of a ruler into a fire serpent.

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because of their sensational colors, indicatethat under the effects of an ecstatic ritual heis becoming awinged fire serpent (yahui) andentering the nahual world. The anthropo-morphized vessel itself may be considered a‘‘god pot,’’ which became alive during such aspecific ritual.13

We may use this vessel as the key to inter-pretawhole seriesofClassicurns fromMonteAlban and the valley of Oaxaca, which showvery similar scenes of seated humans trans-forming into powerful nahuales, even takingthe identity of divine ancestors or deities,themost importantofwhomis theubiquitousCocijo. Some of these figures also hold thosesmall gourds in their hands. One actually isthe typical old priest. In other cases a vesselfrom which vapors rise replaces the gourd.14

In one religious pictorial manuscript, knownas the Codex Borgia (Figure 13.5), we see acomparable scene of autosacrifice and thepreparation of the hallucinogenic priestlyointment: vapors rising from a vessel in thecenter of the pyramid take the form ofvision serpents, consisting of night andwind, the mysterious essence of the gods,and bring those standing in the corners ofthe room into ecstasy (cf. Jansen 1998). Ifwe are correct in our interpretation, theClassic ‘‘urns’’ are references to similar royalrituals involving vision quest and directcontact with the other world. Such activitieswerecrucialmoments in the livesof the rulers.Possibly these vessels accompanied theminto their graves as a commemoration oftheir vision and as a point of recognitionon their very last journey, which wouldbring them again face to face with the ances-tors and the gods.

Conclusion

ModernMestizo references to nahualism areoften fanciful, and stress the element of sus-pense and strange magic, as in werewolf andvampire stories. Looking at the social func-tion of those who have strong nahualestoday, we should not see such representa-

tions as expressing cruel dominance. Theevaluation of this phenomenon in traditionalindigenous communities is quite different: itis the moral force of the nahuales which isimportant here, their responsibility to safe-guard the village and to collaborate with thespirits of nature in order to bring water to thelands and make a good harvest possible.Nahuales usually are protectors of the com-munity, just as shamans do their work for thebenefit of the people, generally to heal.Sometimes a traditional healer will send hisnahual animal to accompany and protect thenahual animal of another person who is indistress or suffering illness. In this way theyare very similar to the Benandanti of six-teenth-century northern Italy, analyzed byCarlo Ginzburg (1966).

The nahual representations of rulers,therefore, seem to reiterate the religiousand moral nature of rulership, stressing thedevotion and ceremonial obligations ofthe lords and ladies as least as much – if notmore – than the aspect of conquest, coercion,and surveillance. Having themselves por-trayed as strong animals, the rulers empha-sized that they dedicated all their strengthand efforts to the well-being of the commu-nity. From a present-day standpoint one mayinterpret those statements as propagandaand ideological manipulation, but in theirown iconographical vocabulary the rulersstressed their efforts to protect their people,their moral obligation to perform sacrifice,also self-sacrifice, and express devotion tothe True Powers. That same moral discoursestill characterizes the traditional passingon of power to newly elected authoritiestoday. In the ceremony of handing over thestaff of office, much emphasis is put onthe sacred surroundings (invoking God andthe patron saint) as well as on morality: theauthority should guide the people as afather–mother, along a straight and correctroad.

Connecting the past with the presentdeepens our understanding of both. Studyingthe ancient manifestations of an ongoing cul-tural tradition offers unique insights into

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mentalities and values, but at the same timeimplies an encounter with the traumaticimpact of colonialism and the persistentstructure of social injustice. One of theconsequences of colonization in the Amer-

icas, just as elsewhere, has been the denialand destruction of local historiography andhistoric memory, at least to a large extent,converting the native nations into ‘‘peoplewithout history’’ (cf. Wolf 1982). Here

Figure 13.5 Codex Borgia, p. 29: the preparation of a hallucinogenic ointment in the Temple of theDeath Goddess Cihuacoatl.

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lies an important social responsibility andchallenge for archaeology. Developing apostcolonial perspective and emancipatorypractice, archaeologists can and should con-tribute to the dignifying and so to the em-powerment and continuity of the culturesthey study and love. On this road their inter-ests and those of the indigenous peoples gohand in hand:

If we were to talk of an Aymara philosophyof history, it would not be a vision of for-ward progress as a simple succession ofstages which develop by the process ofmoving from one to the next. The past isnot inert or dead, and it does not remain insome previous place. It is precisely by means

of the past that the hope of a free future canbe nourished, in which the past can be re-generated. It is this idea which makes usbelieve that an Indian archaeology, underour control and systematized according toour concepts of time and space, could per-haps form part of our enterprise of winningback our own history and freeing it from thecenturies of colonial subjugation. Archae-ology has been up until now a means ofdomination and colonial dispossession ofour identity. If it were to be taken back bythe Indians themselves it could provide uswith new tools to understand our historicaldevelopment, and so strengthen our presentdemands and our projects for the future.(Mamani Condori 1996: 644)

Notes

1 The reflections expressed in this chapter have come up in the context of research carried out

together with Gabina Aurora Perez Jimenez. Our work at the Faculty of Archaeology,

Leiden University, has received support from the Netherlands Organization for Scientific

Research (NWO). In recent years the collaboration of Laura van Broekhoven and Alex

Geurds has been crucial. Thanks are due to the director and staff of the regional centre of

INAHinOaxaca, especially toAlicia Barabas,Miguel Bartolome, andRaulMatadamas, for

their help, orientation, and positive input. Chatino archaeologist Ninfa Pacheco and Nuu

Savi archaeologist Ivan Rivera also contributed significantly to the development of these

ideas.

2 Biolsi and Zimmerman (1998) demonstrate the influence of Deloria’s work on anthropo-

logy and archaeology. For the ethical principles, see Lynott and Wylie (1995). From the

indigenous side, efforts were alsomade to find somemiddle ground, or asWhite Deer put it,

a mutually inclusive landscape (Swidler et al. 1997).

3 The absence of living people is quite common in museum contexts; but very different

concepts are manifest in, for example, the exposition of the National Museum of the

American Indian, New York (West et al. 1994) and in the museum of the Mashantucket

Pequot reservation. In the first case the presence of many indigenous experts who give

explanations on video and in the catalogue, emphasizes the living tradition. In the second

the large-scale reconstruction of a sixteenth-century Pequot village, with native voices on

the accompanying cassette guide, absorbs the visitor into indigenous life; the subsequent 3D

movie of the historical violent destruction of that community creates empathy with its

descendants.

4 Needless to say, the very concept of continuity also implies change.We should not think of it

as an anachronistic fossilization of society but, on the contrary, as a dynamic diachronic

relationship of the present with the past. Let us keep in mind that history, as remembered by

the people, has an accumulating and evaluating effect: collective memory stores the experi-

ences of the past, draws conclusions and installs behavioral norms (leading to what

Bourdieu calls the habitus). In this way a cultural tradition can remain true to its ‘‘core,’’

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its ‘‘profound identity,’’ in a subjective way, although over time its subsystems have

suffered major transformations.

5 Typically, this issue is not even hinted at in the otherwise so-critical review of the

development of Mexican archaeology by Vasquez Leon (1996).

6 An overview of the archaeology of Oaxaca is beyond the scope of this chapter. Important

reference works are Paddock (1970), Flannery and Marcus (1983), Dalton Palomo and

Loera y Chavez (1997), Blanton et al. (1999), and Robles Garcıa (2001).

7 A traumatic experience in the early 1960s was the excavation of tombs in Zaachila,

executed against the will of the town’s inhabitants, under military protection, resulting

in a lot of anger and a permanently disturbed relationship (see Jansen 1982).

8 See Sambeek et al. (1989). Cf. Tilley (1993: 13–15) and Last in Hodder and Shanks et al.

(1995: 141–57).

9 The names of the manuscripts themselves are testimonies of the colonial process of

alienation. For example, the book painted in the early viceroyal period on orders of

Lord 10 Grass ‘‘Spirit of the Earth’’ (iya Sicuane ‘‘Yoco Anuhu’’), ruler of Anute, the

‘‘Place of Sand’’ (now known as Magdalena Jaltepec), is now preserved in the Bodleian

Library in Oxford under the name ‘‘Codex Selden 3135 (A.2)’’ (cf. Jansen and Perez

Jimenez 2000).

10 The subjective experience of the ancient cultural landscape, as outlined by Shanks (1992)

and Tilley (1994), may sound highly speculative in the context of European prehistory,

but imposes itself as very real precisely in a situation of cultural continuity such as

Mesoamerica.

11 Such a cult is well demonstrated for the Postclassic in several pictorial manuscripts. The

directionality provided by the pointing arrow has often been interpreted in archaeoastro-

nomical terms, but without convincing results.

12 Monte Alban seems to have had the quality of the Mesoamerican Cave of Origin and

Mountain of Sustenance (known in Nahuatl as Chicomoztoc and Tonacatepec

respectively). See also Anders and Jansen (1994) as well as Jansen and Perez Jimenez

(2000).

13 For the representation of vision quest and ‘‘god pots’’ in Maya art, see Freidel et al. (1993:

247–51 and throughout).

14 Caso and Bernal (1952: figs. 16, 151, 159, 161, 241, 328, 363).

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Documents