Social Landscapes and Community Identity: the Social Organisation of Space In the North-Central Andes

Chapter 10 Social landscapes and community identity: the social organisation of space in the north-central Andes Alexander Herrera Introduction The manifold and changing manner in which people have sought to ‘make their own’ the places they worked and inhabited provides a new and profitable perspective on social complexity. In this paper, I assess the different intersecting scales at which group identities were symbolically played out on the Andean landscape of northern Peru during later prehistory (c. AD 200–1570). Through the use of linguistic, historical and archaeological evidence, this study seeks to ascertain meaningful scales of social integration, mentalités in the Braudelian sense, which were materialised in ancient landscapes at particular temporal rhythms (Bintliff 1991; Iannone 2002; Knapp 1992). Teasing apart the temporal and spatial dimensions of social integration challenges established archaeological concepts, like ‘culture area’, ‘polity’ and ‘chiefdom’, in favour of a bottom-up approach to materialised social landscapes and community identities. Top-down, external approaches to social complexity – focussed on the evolution of political economies – compromise our understanding of the long term development of social identities. The assumption that a combination of elaborate material culture features, such as monumental architecture, fancy pottery, metalwork and stone sculpture, are indicators of internally consistent, spatially continuous and hierarchically ordered, ‘complex’ societies misses a key point: both ‘lumping’ and ‘splitting’ social diversity tend to reify a priori categorisation (Wynne-Jones and Kohring in this volume). Instead of re-treading the much critiqued ‘chiefdom’/ ‘archaic state’ debate (Wynne-Jones and Kohring loc cit.; Yoffee 2005) this study into social relations within and between social formations asks how collective identities are symbolically played out on the land at different temporal and spatial scales. In this chapter I focus on perceived ownership and claims to land as proxy indicators of social interactions in space. Property of land can be understood broadly as part of the complex web of relationships between people about places (sensu Hann 1998), which is embodied in social practice. Human claims on places are encoded not only in culture and oral histories, but are also embedded in the material culture that serves as a vehicle for social memory (Connerton 1989). The social organisation of space may thus be conceptualised as communication within and between groups of 162 Alexander Herrera Fig. 10.1. The research area, showing three neighbouring valleys. people across diverse landscapes, signifying multiple and overlapping scales of collective social identity. As such it is therefore possible to identify the mutually recognised variances between groups of people who accentuate these differences and how these in turn are mapped onto the material world (cf. Barth 1969; Jenkins 1996; Jones 1997). These negotiated, institutionalised and sometimes resisted sets of interscalar relationships concerning people and places produce particular social structures at different temporal and physical scales. These social structures are unequally affected by economic or political events, such as changes in climatic regimes or the expansion of the Inka Empire. To address the above issues I draw upon ongoing archaeological research along a 150km research transect that cuts orthogonally across the massive mountain ranges of the Cordillera Negra and Cordillera Blanca (Herrera 2005a; Lane 2005). These mountains can be seen to divide and unite distinct landscapes, each particular area offering multiple possibilities for human habitation and interaction. By contrasting early colonial documents, linguistic evidence, and the surface archaeology pertaining to the later Andean prehistoric period I consider the settlement history of the central Conchucos region of the Ancash highlands, which contains three discrete, neighbouring valleys: the coastal Nepeña Valley, the interandean portion of the Santa Valley, and the lower Yanamayo Valley of the central Conchucos region (Fig. 10.1). In these areas collective tombs (chullpa or machay) containing mummified human remains (mallki), ceremonial enclosures (kancha) and symbolically significant rock formations, lakes or mountains (waka, pacarina and apu) were mobilised strategically 10 Social landscapes and community identity 163 by people throughout later Andean prehistory to express economic and political claims to a sacred landscape. These claims ranged across different scales from the local to that of the ‘pan-Andean’ Inka Empire. Findings suggest that negotiations surrounding the allocation of water rights and the communal organisation of labour were mediated by mortuary practices at all scales. Decoding the longue durée of enduring and overlapping networks of human-landscape ‘kinship’, linking specific groups of people to particular places and bodies of water, emerges as an alternative approach to social complexity in the historical landscape of the Andes. People and places as seen through historic records How did people socialise space in the pre-Columbian Andes? In answer Thomas Abercrombie (1998, 13) recalls ‘(…)the ritual movements that helped to shape the boundaries of the social by linking social groups to narratively coded pasts associated with the landscape’. People do not only affect their habitat physically, through practices that alter the vegetation cover or surface of the earth, but also through practices related to the ascription of meaning, often coded as mythical narratives (Ucko 1989, xviii–xix). For the Andean region, indigenous notions and practices tying social relations to specific landscape features, such as rock outcrops, caves and crevices, springs, lakes and glaciers are well documented in the texts concerning the colonial campaigns to ‘extirpate idolatry’ (Albornoz 1967 [1582?]; Arriaga 1999 [1621]; Duviols 2003; Hernández Príncipe 1923 [1622]; Taylor 1987 [1608]). Ethnological studies have also shown the multiplicity of ways in which features of an animated landscape are imbued with meaning through modern social memory and practice (Abercrombie 1998; Allen 1988; Isbell 1978). The centrality of ancestor veneration in this process during prehistory is increasingly being recognised (De Leonardis and Lau 2004; Dulanto 2001; Hastorf 2003; Isbell 1997; Kaulicke 2000; Lau 2002). Yet symbolic behaviour is historically contingent and culturally specific, raising doubts about the appropriateness of ‘universal’ models of social organisation as a heuristic measure for assessing spatial practice. The study of symbolic behaviour therefore benefits from a direct historical approach (Marcus and Flannery 1994; Stahl 1994) that operates at multiple temporal and regional scales addressing cultural singularities without neglecting the broader regularities that appear when comparing specific temporal or spatial scales. Interpreting the meanings associated with the material vehicles of social memory ‘acting’ at different scales of social integration promises a nuanced, culturally sensitive approach to the tense, changing and invariably complex relationships between people and places. At the local level, claims to preferential access of patches of farmland or dry-season pasture adjoining a small farmstead might be materially signalled through purposive emplacement of ancestor tombs. At the opposite end of the scale, regionally paramount mortuary ceremonial centres may be understood as focal points for large numbers of people to articulate distinct social identities within a broader political or socio-economic framework. In this section I review and assess the structure and interrelations of sacred and 164 Alexander Herrera economic landscapes during the early colonial period. Since the historic record is strongly skewed towards the more powerful indigenous socio-political formations, I have sought to balance this view through recourse to archaeological research thus providing a more comprehensive picture of the extant political, economic and sacred landscapes. Political landscapes Indigenous rights of tenure and local territorial arrangements were of notoriously marginal concern to the Colonial administrators of the sixteenth century. The Crown imposed European-style property law as quickly as it could. Nevertheless, drawing on a wide range of early chronicler accounts, John Rowe (1946) constructed a seminal territorial map of the ‘tribes and provinces’ of the Inka Empire (Fig. 10.2). While the core areas inhabited by each of the named groups is consistent with colonial accounts of Inka ‘provinces’, the neat boundary lines suggest an underlying homogenous cultural territorial model at odds with the socio-economic arrangements practiced at this time in the highlands. Rowe’s map, therefore, is probably understood best as a general guide: a reconstruction of the colonisers’ interpretative consensus based on oral accounts, mainly by Inka officials in Cusco, about ‘their’ domains. Local conceptions of social space, as meaningful sets of people-landscape relations, are lost in a colonial device that reproduces colonial perspectives on territory (Edney 1997). The skew of the historic record towards large-scale socio-political formations and corporate groups, such as regional states, oracular shrines, ethnic federations and curacazgo polities, is clearly predicated on their co-existence and interaction with the Inka empire and, especially, the early colonial state. Important indigenous sociopolitical actors initially recognised in the north-central Andes include the Inka and Chimu states, the Inka ‘province’ or regional macroetnía of Huaylas, and the lesser ‘provinces’ or curacazgos of Pinco, Huari and Conchucos. The existence of smaller communities structured according to kinship, language, descent and attire, may be seen in the historic records to varying degrees, largely as part of legal proceedings, tax records or forced Christianisation campaigns. Concomitantly, indigenous histories recorded in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries provide a prime source to focus on the regional and local scales of social integration. These narratives are often quite precise in explaining people-landscape relations, imbuing the landscape with meanings that construe and ‘essentialise’ social difference, ‘explaining’ prerogatives as originating in ancestral time, and tying people to places and deities through the sharing of names. People of the same community tended to share among themselves the names of their main deities and waka shrines at which they worshipped. Yet, these histories are very often ignored. The limited impact of indigenous histories on archaeological research may partly be due to the inherent difficulties in understanding heavily coded, culturally specific narratives (but see: Carrión Cachot 1959; Tello 1923), a situation that is rapidly beginning to change as we learn to avoid the pitfalls of simplistic transpositions (e.g. Astuhuamán 2006; Bauer 1998; Farfán 2002; Hocquenghem 1993, 1999; Topic 1992, 1998). Therefore, in juxtaposition to the internally consistent, spatially continuous and 10 Social landscapes and community identity 165 Fig. 10.2. Tribes and provinces of the Inka empire, after Rowe (1946). hierarchically ordered imperial phenomenon often described in textbooks on the Inka – reminiscent of the late medieval Mediterranean polities against which indigenous American societies were inevitably contrasted in the sixteenth century (Giedelmann 166 Alexander Herrera Reyes, this volume) – Andean community mytho-histories recount the genesis of specific collectives as a process that invariably begins with the emergence of distinct people from specific, symbolically significant parts of the earth. Following on from Fredrick Barth (1969), María Rostworowski (1991) described the conceptual underpinnings of Andean ethnic identities in terms that stress situational contingency, as much as modularity and the specificity of territorial arrangements. At the scale of the largest, paramount regional groups, the macroetnía polities of the sixteenth century, commonly composed of a number of lesser curacazgos, Andean ethnic identities share four main constitutive traits that define their social boundaries. These are: 1) unity of origin and beliefs; 2) unity of language or dialect; 3) unity of dress; and 4) sociopolitical unity. The emerging archaeology of (paramount) social identities has tentatively begun to integrate such ethnohistoric insights with material culture patterning (Astuhuamán 2003; Topic 1992, 1998) without, as yet, delving fully into the implications of the different scales at which social structures crystallise. The budding archaeology of households has likewise begun to address the intermediate scales between ‘household’ and ‘polity’ (e.g. Goldstein 2000; Isbell 2000), yet preferring to address the challenging arena of nuclear domestic units and the structuring principles embedded therein. Sacred landscapes In dealing with Andean sacred landscapes it is necessary first to briefly summarise three constitutive elements integrated into these landscapes: pacarina, apu and mallki. Pacarina were the places, often caves or lakes, from whence people believed their ancestors had originated in mythical time, often as a result of founding ancestors’ action. For instance, in Huamachuco, Catequil dug up ‘his’ people at the mountain of Guacat (San Pedro 1992 [1560?]). Apu hilltops, often inaccessible glaciated peaks, were places where paramount tutelary deities resided, or the embodiment of the deity itself, from whence they regularly sent water (for irrigation) to ‘their’ people. Apu Pariacaca, located in the highlands east of Lima, had several wives and sons, some located as far north as Ecuador, probably as a result of Inka resettlement policies (Astuhuamán 2006). Finally, mallki bundles containing mummified human remains were the ancestors to specific mortuary communities. These communities are defined as economically autarchic communities held together by shared mortuary practices including the rights and obligations derived therefrom, which entailed control over resources held in common and access to specific collective tombs. Mallki may therefore be seen as a pivotal element of the sacred landscape which was particularly flexible and mobile. Historic sources indicate that high status mummy bundles were housed, more or less permanently, in formal collective mortuary structures but moved as part of ritual cycles, including warfare. An important archaeological implication towards understanding past sacred landscapes is to consider the emplacement of chullpa and machay collective tombs (amaa in the Ancash highlands) vis-à-vis apu mountain and pacarina dawning points as interrelated structuring elements of a social landscape held together by social practice. 10 Social landscapes and community identity 167 These three constitutive elements of Andean sacred landscapes (pacarina, apu and mallki) and waka (or shrines) were interrelated at multiple scales, as Frank Salomon (1991) has noted. People across a wide region such as the northern Andes of Peru, might share belief in Apu Catequil, whose paramount shrine has been located on Cerro Campana, near Huamachuco (Topic 1992, 1998), yet claim as their own one of the nine distinct pacarina associated with this cult (Albornoz 1968 [1567]). The vast majority of waka shrines and mallki mummies were worshipped at sub-regional and local level, in contrast. Disagreement and contradictions regarding the relative status of particular waka, pacarina and mallki, as well as deities, in historical records should not come as a surprise, as these views were heavily dependant upon the sociotemporal, and hence political, context of enunciation (MacCormack 1993; Salomon 1991; Tello 1929). Differing ideas surrounding the place of ‘residence’ of the soul after death forcefully impinge upon the politics of place symbolism. Peter Gose (1993) has suggested that some souls would return to its ancestral pacarina, whereas others, presumably those of people of special rank or status, would settle with or around the local apu. Collective tombs were built to facilitate access for veneration and consultation. Removal of bundles to participate in ritual pilgrimage or war strongly suggests that mummies were not considered inert but alive in some way. Inka practices surrounding the ‘paramount sacrifice’ or ‘Capac Hucha’ suggest the contradiction between life and death may only be apparent, possibly brought about by directed questioning of informants. The burial of sacrificed children on snow-capped hilltops, some dressed as if for a wedding (McEwan and Van de Guchte 1992), or kept in well-made underground ‘hideouts’ (Hernandez Principe 1923 [1622]), reinforces the idea of a conscious attempt to intentionally manipulate and restructure people-place symbolism through the emplacement of specific deceased. In the case of mountaintop Inka sacrifices this entailed the sons and daughters of local leaders linked to the Inka state. At a large-scale, the manner by which meaningful places in the landscape were held together in Prehispanic Andean practice is neatly exemplified by the ceque system, which organised the sacred landscape of Inka Cusco, linking groups of people through pilgrimage, offerings, ancestor veneration and other ritual practices. Over 320 hierarchically arranged waka shrines in the Cusco area, organised along 42 imaginary ceque lines, were linked by temporal rhythms of peregrination, feasting and offerings (as performed social memory), and inextricably tied to production through the agricultural calendar (Bauer 1998; Sherbondy 1986; Zuidema 1964). Similarly, in the conquered ‘provinces’ the Inka state sought to legitimise its presence through the appropriation of extant sacred geographies or meaningful places in these landscapes, especially those of specific natural features, ceremonial centres and necropolis. The rich ethnohistoric record for the central and northern Andes (Aibar Ozejo 1968 [1558]; Albornoz 1967 [1582?]; Hernandez Principe 1923 [1622]; Ortiz de Zuñiga [1562] 1972; San Pedro 1992 [1560?]; Taylor 1987 [1608]) amply illustrates the religious beliefs and ritual practices through which people inscribed meanings in landscapes during the early part of the sixteenth century. Coupled to insights into how conceptual linkages are established between people and places is the identification of the social actors relevant at local, regional and interregional scales, a populated landscape of 168 Alexander Herrera interspersed and intersecting collective agents: ethnic groups (macroetnia in the sense of Rostworowski (1991)), their component waranqa or ‘thousands’ as recognised by Inka and Spanish state officials (on the base of pre-existing social units), local kinshipterritorial units known locally as pachaca (ayllu in the southern Andes) and the complementary opposing moieties of all of the above, termed parcialidades. The conceptual link between these different layers of society and ideology, embedded in sacred landscapes and inextricably tied to the economic base, is summarily described by Peter Gose (1993, 500): ‘…the local level of the hierarchy of pacarina [dawning points of mythic origin] seemingly provided seed, while the maximal levels provided water, as part of a single, complete process, in which political segmentation was seen in terms of the metaphysics of agriculture.’ Economic landscapes Complex mosaics of land-holdings based on discontinuous land use – variously referred to as archipelago, discontinuous or sprinkled territoriality – are a practical and common strategy deployed by Andean agro-pastoralists (past and present) to minimise the risks associated with production at high altitudes (Murra 1972; Ramírez 1985; Rostworowski 1978). Scholars have repeatedly drawn attention to the regional variability of settlement strategies employed by Andean societies, however. One would therefore expect to see marked differences in social organisation between people inhabiting areas of fallow and irrigation farming, as well as between farmers and herders. The key concept being that different modes of production, and variable combinations thereof, support economically autarchic social units at widely differing scales depending on local circumstance (Herrera 2005a; Lane 2005). Therefore, in certain areas irrigation, fallow farming and herding may be closely integrated, making economic autarchy feasible at the level of a few dozen interdependent households, whereas in others hundreds or even one thousand or more households may need to cooperate to achieve the same aim. Attaining economic autarchy at community level is a matter of effectively timing and spacing communal cooperation (Murra 1972, Golte 1980). The importance of places is thus unlikely to remain immutable, as modes of production and associated technologies change through time. Incorporating this view of shifting economic landscapes to the Andean concepts of pacarina, apu and mallki suggests that powerful relations about places across social groups might have been signified materially at multiple scales. These were also probably repeatedly underlined through recurrent ritual practice with these three spheres interacting as part of an organic social totality, so that, at around the time of conquest sacred and economic landscapes were deeply intertwined. The durability of such interrelations between sacred and economic landscapes in practice may be understood from an appreciation of the allocation of water rights in the Cusco area; this allocation followed the order of shrines as prescribed by the ceques well into the colonial period (Sherbondy 1986). The importance of water rights has been reiterated by Rostworowski (1989) citing that access to water was more important than access to land in the pre-Columbian Andes. 10 Social landscapes and community identity 169 People, landscape and language Language is one of the most important and pervasive outward indicators of social identity. Quechua is the sole indigenous language spoken in the Ancash region today, but historical linguistic studies (Adelaar 1989, 2004; Cerrón-Palomino 1995; Torero 1989) indicate that three languages were spoken in different parts of the Ancash axis during the pre-Columbian past. Culle was spoken in the Marañón Valley at the eastern end, Quingnam on the coast at the western end, and Quechua in the highlands in between (Adelaar 2003, Map 4). Historic records and toponyms suggest a dynamic trajectory of overlapping language spread leading to a complex multi-lingual mosaic by the sixteenth century (Heggarty 2005). This three-fold linguistic division correlates broadly with the main ecological boundaries in the northern Andes, with maritime and inter-Andean lowland (Yunga) areas distinct from the high mountains. Since language and social identity are closely interlinked, the complexity of the sixteenth-century linguistic scenario enriches the discussions of the archaeological record, even if the difficulties inherent in pacing linguistic expansions preclude establishing any definitive linkages to political or military events. The archaeology of Andean social landscapes – a case-study from northern Peru To elucidate the social complexity inherent to the entangled relations between community identities and broader, extraneous political forces I first address the evidence for Pre-Inka social interaction at local and regional scale in the central Conchucos region (c.AD 200–1470). At these scales, I suggest that local identities provide a key counterbalance to attempts at political cooption through centripetal integration around landscape features linked to water management, be it through the mobilisation of labour for building irrigation systems for herding or farming, or by recourse to symbolic attempts to affect planetary water cycles, often monumental in scale. To unravel the multiple social identities embedded in the Andean landscape at broader scales I then address the raison d’être of the brief Inka presence in central Conchucos, a time span of approximately sixty years (c.AD 1470–1532). This analysis of linkages between economic, political and sacred landscapes is focused on social practice ‘on the ground’. Such an approach leads necessarily to a discussion of interscalar interaction between dissimilar social groups: local communities, groups of mitmaq colonists resettled into the region by the state, local ethnic groups or sociopolitical formations, and state officials. At what scales can these social identities be identified as distinct, and what may be said about their interrelation? In the final section, I discuss the implications of the historical landscape approach to social complexity outlined in this chapter. 170 Alexander Herrera The Pre-Inka Period (AD 200–1480) Identifying the structure of sacred landscapes provides a key complement to the traditional focus on economic landscape appropriation. This in turn aids the modelling of the social organisation of space in the pre-Columbian Andes. The unusually wellpreserved archaeological evidence from the central Conchucos region suggests that the unique concentration of mortuary and civic architecture surrounding the mountain of Turriqaqa archaeologically signals it as a major sacred mountain, apu or pacarina, that dates back to the first millennium BC. This example demonstrates that places at which ancestral identities were embodied through practice, enacted and negotiated in specially constructed spaces set within specific constellations of meaningful landscape points, may be recognised through the distribution of necropolis and ceremonial centres. Turriqaqa (4215m) is a large limestone formation with impressive escarpments on its northern and eastern face. Turriqaqa towers above the lower Yanamayo Valley and its confluence with the mighty Marañón River. Its tentative identification as a sacred mountain of regional importance is based on its dramatic features, setting and oral history (Herrera and Lane 2006), complemented by the survey of seven major archaeological sites in its immediate vicinity. Settlements On the summit of Turriqaqa are two hilltop settlements, principally occupied during the Late Intermediate Period (c.AD 1200–1476): Ichic Markajirka above the northern cliff-face and Hatun Markajirka, the larger and more heavily fortified hilltop, above the eastern cliff-face. The presence of heavily remodelled circular ceremonial kancha enclosures at the latter site, through to the present-day, suggests continuous occupation for well over 1000 years. The main focus of settlement only shifted upwards to Ichic and Hatun Markajirka between AD 1000 and 1300, however. The specific reasons remain unknown, but this shift mirrors a broader pattern of settlement nucleation in hilltop locations detected across the central Andes during the Late Intermediate Period, linked to a combination of social and environmental changes (Herrera 1998; Parsons et al. 2000; Seltzer and Hastorf 1990). Tombs and necropolis Embedded in the eastern vertical face of Turriqaqa stands the paramount regional necropolis of Gallarpana. This site includes approximately one hundred and fifty heavily looted machay mortuary structures; these are spread out in clusters over four levels of modified natural rock shelves covering just less than one kilometre in length. This vertical necropolis probably grew gradually, by accretion, beginning about 200 BC. It is significant that both the earliest and latest evidence of use is found in the topmost and least accessible levels as it demonstrates that people went to extraordinary lengths to house mallki mummy bundles in tombs viewing the Marañón Valley and abutting the mountain. 10 Social landscapes and community identity 171 All the tombs at Gallarpana are built into natural crevices so that bedrock provides the ‘roof’ and rear ‘wall’. On the one hand this facilitates a cool microenvironment well suited for conservation of mallki mummy bundles and their accoutrements. On the other hand, the direct proximity to rock and the presence of rock art suggest an emphatic statement on the symbolic linkages between the mountain and the dead. Furthermore the necropolis overlooks, and indeed blends into, the site of Warijirka where some thirty circular kancha enclosures of varying size fan out on the sloping valley-side terrace along the eastern edge of Turriqaqa. Two further, smaller necropolis at the base of the northern face, Pitakilla and Hatun Machay, watch over the prominent ridge-top site of Gotushjirka (3240m). The enduring aggregation of contemporary mortuary and civic architecture around Turriqaqa, as well as identical designs in rock art and pottery used in the kancha enclosures, discussed below, strongly suggests that the linkages between social identities and places were structured by mortuary practice. The mountain, the tombs embedded in it, and the ceremonial enclosures below form structurally interdependent loci in a complex cultural landscape with strong mortuary overtones. At Gallarpana two spatially distinct types of machay mortuary structures are found. The vast majority of tombs have a straight façade, often bearing traces of plaster and white, red and yellow paint. A distinct cluster of five tombs with a rounded exterior wall stands at the eastern end of the top-most level. It is not possible at present to unravel the temporal and social implications fully but it is a clear indication that tomb clustering was intentionally deployed, probably to materialise durable relationships between specific mortuary communities at local and regional scales. In the Callejón de Huaylas Valley, immediately to the West of this area, the construction of highly visible mortuary monuments can be said to have peaked, both in terms of size and number, during the Middle Horizon (AD 700–1200) (Bennett 1944; Lau 2001; Paredes et al. 2000; Ponte 2000). Many, if not most, above-ground chullpa tombs were in use for centuries, however, while below-ground machay tombs were certainly used, and probably also built, during the Middle Horizon in the neighbouring uplands of the Cordillera Negra further to the West. The transition between subterranean and above-ground collective mortuary structures is thus irreducible to a temporal sequence (cf. Bennett 1944; Lau 2002). Instead, it could be argued that it highlights a crucial change in mortuary practice: the perceived necessity to monumentalise ancestral relations more visibly in the landscape. Large areas painted in red are found above many machay tombs in the Cordillera Negra and Conchucos, significantly increasing their visibility (Fig. 10.3); this paint suggests a different response to a similar perceived necessity. In a pattern repeated elsewhere, mortuary structures tend to conglomerate mainly on one site. The close relationship between mortuary architecture and sources of water further suggests that the construction and positioning of necropolis was intended to express and ‘ancestralise’ claims over the water used for irrigation. The cluster of 26 tombs at Kunkash on the eastern slope of the Cordillera Negra, for instance, stands at the centre of the Acolló valley pocket, above the agricultural area and overlooking the full course of the Washka (Pueblo Libre) River. A further 8 chullpa are found further downslope near Huántar, the most extensive Middle Horizon 172 Alexander Herrera site in the Washka Valley. A similar trio of chullpa overlook the confluence of a major seasonal ravine that feeds into the Washka River. The visual impact on the landscape allows further differentiation of necropolis in two overlapping groups. The two largest necropolis encountered on the upper slopes of the Cordillera Blanca, Awkismarka and Collpacatac/ Pichakwachanan, are not visible from the main body of the Santa Valley, the scores of chullpa tombs line the steep upper slopes of the Huarca and Huandoy basins. In contrast, highly visible rows of chullpa stand aligned along prominent ridges at the mortuary sites of Oqtawaín, Huandoyqotu and Casca/Pata Pata. At these lineally arranged necropolis, the most prominent place in each respective row, either at the top or at the bottom, is taken up by a slightly larger tomb or by a pair of tombs sharing the same platform. They form distinct and durable groupings, Fig. 10.3. A machay tomb in the survey area. which are visually obtrusive. The large necropolis of Keushu, Cordillera Blanca, also has a serial arrangement of like-sized tombs along the ridge separating the basin of the seasonal lake from the valley. Yet an added feature is that of the two largest tombs facing each other across the landscape. Opposition of four collective tombs across an open plazalike space was also encountered at the upper edge of Awkismarka site, the paramount necropolis on the western Cordillera Blanca. In two instances, a pair of dolmen-like structures was found standing on either side of a large chullpa with multiple accesses, above and behind the entrance to underground galleries with lateral chambers. In front of the main tombs an open, rectangular space is enclosed by smaller chullpa standing on three sides, forming two opposing pairs. It is likely that the galleries and chullpa held human remains, offerings, and ritual paraphernalia, while the central open area was used as a stage for mortuary rituals. The dolmen-like structures probably housed anthropomorphic stone sculptures, such as are frequent in local museum collections in the area (Schaedel 1952). The singular clustering of tombs at Awkismarka is similar to that at Gallarpana in central Conchucos, suggesting that both locations were of comparable regional standing. In the Santa Valley, however, the distribution of paramount necropolis at the headwaters of the Ancash and Huandoy rivers and near the intakes of modern 10 Social landscapes and community identity 173 canal systems, suggests a closer link between tomb emplacement and the assertion of claims over irrigation water. Each of the three largest necropolis (Awkismarka, Collpacatac and Keushu) are directly associated with a major stream, fed by meltwater from the Wanduy glacier, a mountain that was probably conceived of as the apical pacarina or apu of an overarching macroetnia-type identity. The highly visible linear necropolis located further below the slopes of the Wanduy may exemplify the use of tombs as markers, not of territory but of scheduled rights over water for irrigation. In central Conchucos fallow faring agriculture predominates and the availability of water for irrigation is negligible in comparison. The abundance of fossil marine molluscs around Turriqaqa, and at Gotushjirka in particular, however, suggests potent symbolic linkages between water and the dead. Kancha enclosures Circular kancha enclosures represent a distinct type of civic architecture found across the northern Andes, with findings reported from the Ancash highlands in the South (Herrera 1998; 2003, 2005a; Terada 1979) to Santiago de Chuco (Pérez Calderón 1988, 1994) and Huamachuco (McCown 1945; John Topic pers. comm.) in the North. The two main types found in central Conchucos are located prominently, on hilltops or the valley-side edges of high slopes. The first type incorporates a central patio area surrounded by up to three long stairways or ramps leading to a central raised dais opposing the access (Fig. 10.4), clearly a non-inhabited space. A second type includes a central courtyard which may be square, surrounded by adjoining rooms. This arrangement suggests a very different use for the kancha, probably some sort of permanent occupation. At Quishuar, on the eastern slopes of the Cordillera Blanca, the transformation of earlier circular enclosures to the latter pattern probably dates to between AD 400 and 800. Test excavations in three kancha of the first (room-less) type at Gotushjirka showed contemporaneity with the tombs at the nearby necropolis of Pitakilla. Their construction was not begun earlier than c.AD 200, and they remained in use into the ninth century. Many exhibit long and complex occupation histories, however, in some cases until the Late Intermediate Period, and even into th present. Use, re-use and abandonment of individual enclosures may thus be linked to the endurance of the social memory of place and the social identities to which each enclosure was inextricably tied. Originally, circular kancha were probably built as theatres of social interaction, stages or settings for the Fig. 10.4. Isometric reconstruction of Kancha negotiation of reciprocal communenclosure with paired ramps leading to raised dais. 174 Alexander Herrera ity relations. The architecture indicates that much importance was given to ordering peoples´ movements, suggesting orchestrated rituals, or ceremonies linked to ancestor/ mountain veneration. They appear to have maintained this role under changing social conditions through their re-modelling into a different kind of buildings. The square kancha found on both slopes of the Cordillera Blanca bear similarities to those found at Honco Pampa, where their presence has been posited as evidence for the expansion of the Wari state (AD 700–1000) (Isbell 1989; Tschauner 1988, 2003) and would therefore be a ‘foreign’ innovation. The evidence for local north highland evolution and the duration of use of these structures, however, seem to suggest a more complex narrative than that of imperial imposition. Structuring space and place before the Inka The interdependence of enclosures, tombs and mountains is embedded in the architecture in many ways. Kancha enclosures may be understood as specially designed theatres for social interaction; monumental ceremonial spaces built to commune, negotiate intra- and inter-group relations, and re-enact the social order within a specific constellation of meaningful places. The crevices that open behind the raised stage at two of the largest circular kancha at Warijirka, near the centre of the site, are suggestive when considered against ethnographic and ethnohistoric data. Openings in the ground, such as caves, crevices and springs are considered dangerous places in Andean folklore, since they provide gateways that link the surface of the earth, the world of the living, to the netherworld of the dead. As mentioned above, however, pacarina dawning points are frequently characterised by such openings in the earth, raising the distinct possibility that the ceremonial centre at Warijirka represented the mythical pacarina place of origin of a social group comprising well over one hundred mortuary communities. The necropolis of Gallapana, which overlooks all the enclosures below, incorporates six times as many mortuary structures as single patio groups. This ratio could be taken to indicate that construction, maintenance and use of specific kancha was actually the collective effort of several mortuary communities. This combination of mortuary communities and kancha enclosures, referred to henceforth as ceremonial communities, may represent a category of social adscription at once broader than the individual mortuary community, yet narrower than the overarching social identity, a middle-sized grouping between the macroetnia and the single lineage based pachaca or ayllu. The clustering of necropolis and ceremonial centres around mountains such as Turriqaqa suggests that an animistic rendering of the ancestral mountain provided a meaningful and specific landscape focus for the overarching regional, possibly ethnic, identity. The social organisation of space in the highlands of northern Peru, before the coming of the Inkas, may, in summary, be seen as comprising three interrelated, yet qualitatively different, scales with varying trajectories. Concerns regarding the availability of water and construction of monuments to lay claim and materialise political standing vis-à-vis particular features of the sacred landscape were shared at all levels. The changing fortunes of mortuary and ceremonial communities and ethnic 10 Social landscapes and community identity 175 groups help explain the longer or shorter, and more or less intense use and re-use (or abandonment) of structurally similar tombs, enclosures and sites. The emerging picture of parallel cycles of ritual activities at all scales suggests a highly complex web of interrelated activities. Despite evidence for increasing control over ceremonial spaces in some areas, there is little indication of centralised control or leadership, especially at broader scales. This pattern of social landscapes structured around pivotal places may extend beyond the north-central highlands. In specific sections or pockets of certain coastal valleys, such as the environs of Limojirka mountain in the upper Nepeña Valley – and decades of severe looting notwithstanding – the conspicuous clustering of ceremonial sites and necropolis appears to correlate with the endurance of “old” pottery styles, centuries after they cease to be broadly used elsewhere, suggesting the existence of independent ceremonial centres characterised by a particular material culture. Central Conchucos and the upper Nepeña are also areas in which distinct languages were spoken at the time of contact, and possibly many centuries earlier. It is thus possible that oracular activities, tied closely to mortuary practice, were pivotal not only to the constitution of social landscapes but to the spread of languages itself. The imperial strategy in central Conchucos (AD 1480–1532) The distinctive Inka material signature of roads, tampu way stations, centres of administration and productive enclaves marks the manner in which the empire penetrated this region. Two Inka ‘highways’ cut through the central Conchucos, a portion of the main Cusco-Quito highland route and a secondary road that follows the narrow basin of the canyon-like Yanamayo Valley (Fig. 10.5). Initially it might seem that Inka settlements appear as corollaries to the road system interacting little with local economics (e.g. Espinoza Reyes 2002). This impression is false and is dictated rather by the discrete nature of Inka settlement, with many sites, especially larger ones, located in areas not settled previously; it is not a true reflection of their regional importance. For instance, a string of agricultural enclaves, storage facilities and civic-ceremonial centres lie dotted along the Yanamayo road, leading from the principal Cusco-Quito ‘highway’ eastward to the ferry port across the Marañón River at Pogtán (Herrera 2005b). The spatial distribution of these facilities in the lower Yanamayo Valley indicates that labour intensive irrigation agriculture in small yunga oases along the entrenched valley bottom, along with salt procurement at the saline spring of Yangon, were important activities pursued by Inka colonists. Crops grown in the warm valley floor probably included cotton, maize, squashes and other staples. Nearby, on the high puna steppes along the Cusco-Quito ‘highway’, Inka corrals at the tampu way stations of Maraycalla and Ingaragá (Herrera 1998) indicate herding of camelids. It would thus appear that intensification across the whole spectrum of agro-pastoral production was put in place to boost the ‘staple economy’ supporting the demands imposed by the imperial road network (cf. D’Altroy and Earle 1985). Land tenure litigation from 1572 studied by Miguel León Gómez (1994; 2003) indicates that the colonists resettled into this area during the Inka period included 176 Alexander Herrera Fig. 10.5. Inka settlement in Conchucos. three ethnically distinct groups of people from what are today Ecuador (Quitos and Cañares) and southern Peru (Condesuyos). The colonists resettled in the Repartimiento de Huari also included a group of specialists involved in the manufacture of fine cumbi cloth called pircaycamayos (León Gómez 2003, 462–463). The verbalised noun pirca-y, from the root of pir’ka a plant used to fix dyes, suggests that the crux of Inka colonisation in the lower Yanamayo Valley may well lie in the social organisation of textile production (cf. Murra 1962), a practice that probably linked local and foreign people settled in different areas of the same region. Cotton cloth fragments were found at the site of Gotushjirka, in southern central Conchucos, and date to the first centuries AD. Use of cotton in the region much predates this, however, going back to the late Preceramic / Late Archaic Period (c.2500 BC; cf. Grieder 1978). Soil samples and preliminary pollen analyses undertaken on samples from the Inka terraces at Yangón yielded evidence not inconsistent with the farming of cotton and pir’ka (Chepstow-Lusty pers. comm. 2004). The accumulated evidence suggests that Inka colonisation of the Yanamayo valley was aimed at integrating specialised processing with the production of fibres, and possibly dyes, in complementary ecological tiers. The animals herded at high altitude may have yielded some (or all) of the woollen fibre used by pircaycamayos to make cumbi cloth, whereas cotton – possibly along with pir’ka and other dyes – was probably 10 Social landscapes and community identity 177 grown on the valley floor. Cumbi production may well have been an exclusive Inka practice. This would render local participation in the Inka ‘wealth economy’ as limited and consequently reduced the possibility of interaction between Inka retainers and local communities, despite their spatial proximity. The regional distribution of Inka pottery in central Conchucos is sparse and its patterning is consistent with the traditional Inka state model of redistributing ceremonially ‘charged’ material culture and foods through local ‘chiefs’ in exchange for labour service (Morris and Thompson 1985). Two key questions on symbolic landscape appropriation remain wide open, however. First, how did the retainers of the Inka state seek to legitimate their (colonial) presence, beyond the threat – and historically attested use – of imperial military might (Patterson 1987; Rostworowski 1988)? Second, how was the appropriation of land and, above all, water negotiated in practice between ethnically distinct social actors (local and foreign) who, most probably, did not speak the same language? Inka colonists in the lower Yanamayo Valley appear to have sought to appropriate the local landscape through the incorporation of prominent outcrops of rock in the construction of civic architecture. According to Albornoz (1967 [1582?]) the resettled mitmaq colonists would have found similarities between the shape and layout of features in their homeland sacred landscape and those of their new place of residence (cf. Hyslop 1990, 107). At the salt-production enclave of Yangón, an Inka temple – the only such structure positively identified in the Ancash highlands to date – stands on a large and prominent rock located on a bend in the torrential lower Yanamayo River. A second, smaller conical rock outcrop stands on the northwest corner of the kancha enclosure at the centre of the Inka sector, abutted by the wall encircling the patio. Coupled with the up-valley orientation of the kancha rooms, which face the Cordillera Blanca towards the western horizon, its location suggests intentional alignment. This smaller outcrop may have served as a ceremonial platform or ushnu for astronomical observations and was possibly imbued with meaning through ancestral mythology. Structuring space and place under the Inka The archipelago of (Inka) colonial islands in the north-central highlands were placed strategically at the juncture of lesser curacazgos, thus punctuating the mixed tableau of regional social identities. In the Yanamayo Valley of central Conchucos, to the East of the Cordillera Blanca, colonisation appears to have been facilitated by an alliance with the Culle-speaking minority. Culle is known as the language of the cult of Catequil; one of the nine principal shrines of Catequil was Guarakayoc (Warakayuq) meaning ‘the one who wields the sling’ (San Pedro 1992 [1560?]; Albornoz 1967 [1582?]). Oral histories in central Conchucos recall the prominent mountaintop to the west of Piscobamba as Inkawarakayuqjirka, meaning ‘the mountaintop where the Inka wields his sling’. The Inka is reputed to have killed the chunchu, a term used by Quechua-speaking highlanders to refer – derogatorily – to lowland Amazonian peoples, at Chunchuwanunqa, ‘the place where the chunchu dies’. This rock, at the bottom of the lower Maribamba Valley, evokes the giant torso of a person lying face down in the river. Oral history thus raises the distinct possibility that an important point in the sacred landscape associated with the cult of Catequil stood in central 178 Alexander Herrera Conchucos. The spatial convergence of a pivotal point in the sacred landscape with the linguistic boundary between Quechua and Culle in this area (Herrera 2005a, 70– 73) tends to support the view that ethnic territories were structured by symbolic boundaries across central Conchucos during the sixteenth century. It is as yet impossible to tease apart the material identities of the regional macroetnía of Huaylas centred in the Santa Valley and that of its neighbours to the east of the Cordillera Blanca, the Pinco, Huari and Conchucos curacazgos on conventional archaeological evidence, much less that of lower order social units such as pachacas. Typically a sixteenth century pachaca was composed of between 50 and 500 dispersed households; an extended family that lived in the same area and shared in moiety organisation of complementary opposing parcialidades. Yet, such small communities based on common descent, were a widespread social institution and basic unit of Andean social reproduction, with well-defined jurisdictional boundaries upon discontinuous holdings. Ascertaining the material correlates of practices binding social actors at the pachaca or ayllu scale is crucial to address interaction in prehistory at all other higher scales (Lane, this volume). Determining the practices surrounding the actual negotiation of rights between colonists and local groups has proved more elusive than the unravelling of the claims asserted by the Inka state. The collective burial of five infants excavated on the prominent summit platform of Gotushjirka, which dominates the middle and lower Yanamayo Valley landscape, is significant in this regard due to the similarities with the ritual of human sacrifice known as capac hucha or capacocha. The priestly account by Hernández Príncipe, extirpator of idolatry (visitador de idolatrias) to the nearby province of Recuay in 1622 (1923 [1622]), states that offering certain capacocha infants was a means to ‘confederate friendship’ between different ethnic groups or between local level social segments, specifically between the Llactas (Wari) and Llachuases (Llacuazes) of the Ayllo de Hecos. Thus, while some children from the Recuay area were sent as capacocha to places as far as Quito, Cusco and Lake Titicaca (op. cit. 29), where they were probably sacrificed and buried according to the standardised Inka pattern (Benson 2001; McEwan and Van de Guchte 1992), others were buried locally in response to local circumstance, probably following local custom. Significantly Hernández Príncipe accuses relatives of capacocha children of having acted as ritual intermediaries, practicing offerings and communicating consultations from the waka. At Gotushjirka a few Inka sherds were recovered from intrusive pits nearby but no material culture was found in direct association with this offering, so it may pre-, or even post-date the short political pre-eminence of the Inka. This collective infant burial may well indicate the sealing of a pact between opposed and distinct social groups, as suggested by Hernández Príncipe. Also, the interpretation of the quintuple infant burial as a local capacocha offering, of a kind traditional to the northern Andes suggests the prominent place of mortuary ritual in symbolic landscape appropriation. The lack of secure material associations hinders resolving which and how many social groups were involved in this offering, either as ‘infant donors’, ‘officiants’ or ‘witnesses’. It may be helpful to consider, however, that five infant bodies were kept after death, probably at different locations and were carried to a dominant point in 10 Social landscapes and community identity 179 the local landscape precisely for deposition, possibly by the mortuary communities of the deceased. Conducted during daylight and accompanied by music such a ritual could have drawn attention towards Gotushjirka from a substantial portion of the Yanamayo and Marañyón valleys. The implications for understanding the negotiation of space during Inka times of the structure to social space outlined above are manifold. From an economic perspective the tendency to extend the agricultural frontier by making lands productive in previously marginal areas is only explained in part by the state´s capacity to organise much larger workforces. The importance of stronger symbolic claims over certain areas than others must also be recognised. The emerging picture is one of a highly fragmented social landscape, a complex patchwork of claims and counterclaims rooted in history. It therefore seems timely to address the practices surrounding the frequent, or near permanent, negotiations that this landscape almost certainly demanded. We may thereby know which matters – economic, political or religious in nature – were negotiated at which tomb, enclosure or ceremonial centre. Conclusions How did people socialise space in the pre-Columbian Andes, and what broader implications may we draw from deploying complexity as a heuristic device to address this question? Ethnohistoric insights into the economic and sacred landscapes of the contact period inform the local, regional and interregional distributions of necropolis and ceremonial centres across the north-central Andes of Peru, revealing a string of significant places at which people articulated, negotiated and maintained social identities over the long term. These enduring linkages established between people and places shaped their social identity and memory at the community level as much as at the scale of regional socio-political or ethnic formations. Scores of circular kancha enclosures and hundreds of collective tombs (above-ground chullpa or below ground machay) – often grouped in ceremonial centres and necropolis – materialise the long term history of social relations about place and space among and between communities of different scales. The social map emerging for the early sixteenth century also includes several language zones, areas in which multi-ethnic settlement occurred, and others where it probably did not. Different scales of social integration, with overlapping membership, may be tentatively identified for later Andean prehistory in the northern highlands. Structures such as canal intakes, collective tombs and kancha enclosures found at prominent natural junctures like mountaintops, lakes or high valley slopes served as stages for ancestor veneration and common feasting. Collective tombs provided a focal structure for distinct mortuary communities. Kancha patio-group enclosures provided prominently located and rigidly structured spaces or ‘stages’ for common feasting. Neighbourhood and parallel occupation sequences of these monumental structures suggest that enclosures were built to serve the interests of distinct ceremonial communities, each of which was probably an aggregate of closely allied mortuary communities. The recent nature of research on kancha enclosures hinders identification 180 Alexander Herrera of their underlying social structure and the temporality or ‘calendar’ of ritual events. I estimate that the ceremonial communities of northern Peru during most of later prehistory (c.200 BC–AD 800) were typically composed of no less than five, and no more than ten mortuary communities. The archaeological signature for the highest scale of social integration is found in the rings of necropolis and ceremonial centres surrounding sacred mountains. It is at the larger ceremonial centres, associated with substantial regional necropolis, that negotiations integrating mortuary and ceremonial communities into larger wholes probably took on a decidedly formal, structured and structuring character. Paramount necropolis and ceremonial centres linked clusters of similarly organised mortuary and ceremonial communities around a common pivotal point in the sacred landscape shared by a broader social group. To conclude we may sketch a picture of Andean social complexity as embedded in the history of deeply intertwined sacred and economic landscapes, held together by reciprocal relations about places, including sources of water, ultimately anchored in memory through the idiom of kinship. The social memory of temporally layered patterns of social interaction between dissimilar social formations may therefore be considered one of the particularities shaping Andean social complexity. The location of collective ceremonial architecture and tombs vis-à-vis specific rocks, mountains, lakes and other significant landscape features provides one means to approach how people materialise memory, generate and negotiate social identity and imbue the landscape with social order. Identifying significant ancient landscape junctures, such as tutelary apu mountain deities and pacarina dawning places of ethnic origin, provides a first step in ordering the different scales at which social identities may crystallise. The changing webs of relations about memory and place that these practices sustained at different scales are indeed complex, and much still remains to be studied. The longue durée of social relations between groups of culturally interdependent non-neighbours – such as the colonial macroetnia, waranqa, pachaca and moieties – may be queried as a highly flexible, heterarchical framework that drives socio-spatial organisation thus regulating inequality at all scales. In this context it would be promising to reorient and refine archaeological inquiry towards the loci of interaction themselves. Recent ethnography on contemporary patrimonial khipu (Salomon 2004) suggests the enduring strength of these iconic representations of space-time may lie in their a priori mapping of reciprocal ritual and labour obligations across a spatially and temporally demanding environment. Periodic negotiations that re-anchor social relations in space and time through ritual practice, attested for the present and the colonial past of the central Andes, provide a challenging contrast to models of static power relations which tend to foreshadow centralised decision-making and exclusionary, fixed territorial rights. Acknowledgements I wish to express my heartfelt gratitude to the editors, not only for their poignant and 10 Social landscapes and community identity 181 insightful editorial comments, but for their patience and encouragement. Kevin Lane provided valuable comments on form and content. This paper draws from doctoral research conducted under the supervision of Dr. Elizabeth DeMarrais, Prof. Graeme Barker and Prof. Colin Renfrew. I am indebted to the Arts and Humanities Research Board (AHRB), Girton College, Deutscher Akademischer Austauschdienst (DAAD), Isaac Newton Trust, Cambridge European Trust, Kurt Hahn Trust, Crowther Beynon Fund, Worts Travelling Scholar Fund, HM Chadwick Fund for their financial support towards fieldwork. Work in Peru was made possible through the help of staff at Museo Nacional de Arqueología, Antropología e Historia del Perú, Museo Regional de Ancash, Museo Regional Max Uhle, Museo de Historia Natural de Ranrahirca and Museo Regional de Caraz; the parishes of Moro, Pamparomás, San Luis, Yanama, Tomanga, Yauya and Chacas; and the municipality of San Nicolás de Apac. 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